The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1)

by Dorian Hart

  “I’m with you,” said Aravia. She looked around at the others, and knew exactly what she should say. “Like Ernie said, we should do this for Mrs. Horn. But also because it’s right.”

  Ernie nodded. “For Mrs. Horn.”

  Morningstar showed a grim smile. “I don’t have a choice. The Ellish church has ordered me to stay.”

  Aravia looked expectantly at Grey Wolf and Dranko.

  “Fine,” said Grey Wolf, looking none too happy. “Fine. I’ll stick with it. Probably never get another job anyway.”

  “And you, Dranko?” asked Abernathy.

  Dranko ran his lips over his tusks. His tongue was a coal gray color. “If we can do something about the Black Circle, root them out, then Praska will be able to come back to the church.” He showed a tusky grin. “Also, where else am I going to find a magic box that produces free wine? Yeah, I’m still in.”

  Tor turned to the wizard. “Then Mister Abernathy, tell us what you want us to do.”

  “What I want you to do is find the Crosser’s Maze.”

  Aravia held up her hand when Dranko opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll remember it,” she told him. “Abernathy, what’s the Crosser’s Maze?” A strange curiosity filled her, a need to know more that was almost fierce.

  “A legendary magical device whose function is to seal up rifts between worlds. If the stories are true—and some of my colleagues are convinced they are—we could permanently seal the portal to Naradawk’s prison world. It would solve all of our problems.”

  A smile leapt to Tor’s face. “We’ll get it for you! Where is it? What does it look like?”

  “We’re working on it,” said Abernathy. “There are some complications with acquiring it that some of the other archmagi are still puzzling over. But for the moment let’s not worry about that. I’m going to set you to dealing with our shorter-term problems.”

  Why? Why was he setting aside the Maze? Surely she could help with those “complications.” The surge of curiosity within her was almost frightening—but Abernathy was talking again.

  “Dranko, this should please you. I want all of you to go to Sand’s Edge and find out what the Black Circle is digging up out in the desert. It would not surprise me in the slightest if the Sharshun have located one of the Eyes of Moirel. See if that’s the case. If it is, get it back for us. Hopefully the timing should work out afterward for visiting the Seven Mirrors on Flashing Day. It troubles me greatly to know the Sharshun are abroad again, and given their obsession with the Mirrors and the Eyes, there’s a good chance they have some plan in the works. Sadly, what I most lack right now is intelligence, and you can—”

  The ruby on the chain around Abernathy’s neck flared to crimson life.

  “Bother,” he said. “Go to the desert, immediately. Find out what the Black Circle is up to. Good luck!”

  Aravia called out, too late. “But Pewter, and your spellbooks…!”

  Abernathy winked out.

  Damn.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WAS DIFFICULT for Ernest Carabend Roundhill to set aside his sorrow, but he did his level best. Always in his mind were Mrs. Horn’s final words, so he tried hard to look at things in a positive light. He reminded himself that his time with Horn’s Company was exhilarating, providing all sorts of new experiences and opportunities for self-discovery.

  He had discovered that for all of Old Bowleg’s competent instruction, there was always something new for Tor or Grey Wolf to teach him during their now-daily sparring sessions.

  He had discovered that after a week of walking, his legs and feet toughened such that a ten-hour day of hiking barely caused him discomfort.

  He had discovered new campfire cooking techniques, new words from Aravia to describe magic and its mysterious workings, and even more new words from Dranko that Tor suggested he not use around his parents.

  And if you had asked Ernie four days ago, he’d have said a ship voyage sounded wonderfully exciting. He’d never even seen a map that showed beyond the borders of Harkran, and he had only a vague notion that Nahalm was another island duchy somewhere to the south.

  But what Ernie was discovering right now was that he had little love for sailing ships, and less for the tumultuous rebellion they fueled in his guts. He stumbled across the deck on landlubber’s legs and heaved his breakfast into the ocean. Tor was at his side quickly with a water-skin. “I was hoping you’d be used to sea travel by now,” said his tall friend, and Ernie appreciated the sympathy, though he was already wondering if there might be a way for them to return to Tal Hae afterward on foot, via some stretch of land previously overlooked by the kingdom’s cartographers.

  When Brechen’s Brow—a merchant ship whose captain had been willing to take on seven unusual but financially sufficient passengers—finally put into harbor, Ernie dashed down the gangplank and kissed the ground.

  “Aravia,” he said. “Before we leave, I beg you, learn some teleport magic. I don’t think my stomach can handle a return voyage.”

  “Oh, how I wish I could,” answered the wizardess.

  * * *

  Sand’s Edge, Aravia told him, was named for its proximity to a vast desert with the ominous name of the Mouth of Nahalm. The city was a sprawling mess, its white clay buildings arranged in haphazard fashion, with narrow dirt roads winding snake-like through the jumble. The air was hot and achingly dry, though this was ameliorated by public wells every fifty yards beside the busier streets.

  As they meandered westward along the city’s looping avenues, following Grey Wolf (who seemed to have an idea where he was headed), Ernie couldn’t stop staring at the ragged children who rattled their cups at him. Where were their parents? And what was that sour, gritty smell, so unlike anything he had encountered in White Ferry?

  “Don’t do it,” Dranko warned him when he reached for his coin pouch. “Once word spreads that you’re a sucker, every wide-eyed waif for a dozen blocks will be on you like fleas on a dog, begging and pleading until you’ve given away everything but your hair. Not to mention it’ll mark you as a target for however many pickpockets are watching us right now, which by my count is at least five.”

  “But we can afford it!” Ernie protested. “These people are suffering!”

  “Do yourself a favor,” Dranko answered. “Don’t make eye contact, and if you have to indulge your sense of charity, do it on the way out of town.”

  Dranko’s cynicism was appalling, but Ernie felt like a hayseed and followed his advice. Wanting to take his mind off his surroundings, he jogged forward until he was walking next to Grey Wolf at the head of the group. “Where are we going, exactly?” he asked.

  Grey Wolf didn’t break stride as he answered. “Dranko’s friend said the ‘secret project’ we’re looking for is in the desert near the city. I want to take a look at the famous Mouth of Nahalm myself. I spent some time talking with the captain of our ship about Sand’s Edge. Just west of the city limits is a line of tall cliffs, which he described as being like the side of an enormous cook-pot. The Mouth of Nahalm is down in the pot, a desert at the bottom of a steep-sided crater. I figure if we stand on the edge and look out, maybe we’ll see some activity out there, and if not, the project may have a base of operations set up at the edge of town. Either way, if whatever’s going on is employing dozens of people, we just have to find some of them.”

  Thank goodness they had Grey Wolf to take charge of things! He never seemed scared or worried.

  It took nearly an hour for them to reach the city limits of Sand’s Edge and walk the hundred additional yards to the edge of the Mouth of Nahalm. That final stretch of land was uninhabited and uncultivated, as if the townsfolk were worried that the Mouth of Nahalm—or something in it—might devour anyone who came too close.

  There was no fence, no hedge, no barrier at all to prevent someone from falling from the cliffside into the desert. Ernie crept as close as he dared and peered down. It was a twenty-foot drop to the sands below.

 
Dranko came up to stand next to him. “I bet you could just jump in. Want to see who sinks in the furthest?”

  Ernie blanched. “No thanks.”

  Dranko fished a torch out of his pack and tossed it over the edge. It spun end over end as it fell, and Ernie expected it would land on the surface of the sand or maybe sink half-way into it. But the desert swallowed up the entire thing as surely as the sea would have done. The sand was more akin to dust.

  “Yeesh,” said Dranko. “I guess when local crime bosses need to get rid of bodies, they have a pretty easy time of it.”

  “Will you cut that out?” Ernie demanded. “It’s bad enough imagining we may have to go out there ourselves.”

  Tor squinted into the setting sun. “Is that an island? I think it’s an island!”

  Ernie looked toward the horizon, across the flat sands of the Mouth of Nahalm. There was something looming out there, like a great steep-sided hill rising up out of the desert, though it was impossible to gauge its size or distance.

  “It’s one of the Wandering Islands,” said Grey Wolf. “The captain told me there are dozens, drifting around in the sand. No one knows much about them, and they’re all uninhabited.”

  “It’s likely that Praska’s secret project is on one of them,” said Aravia.

  Ernie stared down at where Dranko’s torch wasn’t. “But we can’t just walk out into the desert. For one thing, we’d sink. For another, it could take weeks or months of wandering about before we found the right island. And that’s assuming Aravia’s guess is true!”

  Grey Wolf spit down into the dust. “It’s already getting dark. Tomorrow we’ll split up and hit the streets, see what we can discover. Dranko, these punishers from your church, Mokad and his friends, how worried should we be about them finding out we’re here to spy on them?”

  “Pretty worried, I guess,” said Dranko. “Mokad is a cruel bastard. I wouldn’t have thought he’d want to go causing trouble outside the church, but if he’s willing to embezzle hundreds of crescents to fund a bunch of evil cultists, he wouldn’t bat an eye about dumping our bodies in the sandbox if it came to it.”

  “Then we’ll just have to be discreet. Nobody mention the Black Circle directly. Just say you’ve heard rumors about something going on out there in the desert, and see if anyone knows what you’re talking about. Find out everything you can without doing anything stupid.”

  Grey Wolf looked right at Tor as he said this, but his friend didn’t seem to notice he was being singled out. Ernie envied Tor. How much better to be oblivious but confident, than a coward who worried about every last thing.

  * * *

  With their funds running low, they opted to forgo even the cheap guesthouses in the seedier parts of Sand’s Edge. They filled their water skins before camping out on the barren strip between the city and the desert.

  In the morning, Ernie prepared himself for several hours of fruitless wandering, sure to be made worse by the need to be circumspect about what he was asking about. It was already uncomfortably hot by the time they finished breakfast, and the sun shone down unhindered by cloud or haze. He pitied Morningstar, who kept her hood up and sleeves down despite the temperature. Before fifteen minutes had gone by, Ernie needed to stop and refill his water skin at a roadside well.

  As he stood in a short line waiting his turn, his gaze fell upon a placard nailed to a door on the far side of the street. He couldn’t read the smaller print, but the word “dig” was clear enough. After replenishing his water he scurried over for a closer look.

  STRONG MEN WANTED

  to serve as miners, diggers, and haulers for an

  ARCHAEOLOGICAL DIG.

  GOOD PAY for HARD WORK

  on the Wandering Islands of the Mouth of Nahalm

  TRAVEL KITS provided

  Ernie could hardly believe his luck. He recalled Grey Wolf’s admonition—find out everything he could without doing anything foolish. A voice in his head suggested he turn right around and come back later with the others, but then he thought about what Tor would do, and the respect he would earn when he came back with good information. He pushed open the door, summoned up what courage he had, and stepped into a spacious high-ceilinged room. It was mostly empty; near the back was a long table, and off to the side were wooden shelves stacked with large cloth-wrapped bundles. Three disreputable-looking men sat in chairs behind the table and talked in low voices, while a fourth man, skinny and stoop-shouldered, and with a shock of curly red hair, inspected the bundles.

  “I’m…er…I’m here to inquire about working on your project,” said Ernie.

  The men behind the table stopped talking and watched him approach. All three were broad-shouldered and thick-necked. The biggest of the bunch, a flat-nosed brute with a jutting chin, graced him with a smile—not a nice smile—while another snickered and whispered something to the third.

  “Check the sign again, boy,” said the flat-nosed man. “Strong men are what we need, not children. Come back in five years when you’ve put some muscle on those bones.” The other two laughed, and all three resumed their conversation as if he had already gone.

  They were probably right, but Ernie fought down an instinct to walk out with his tail between his legs. Instead he raised both his chin and his voice. “I’m stronger than I look. What exactly is involved, and how do I prove I can do it?”

  The men stopped talking again, and Flat-nose stood up. He was much taller than Ernie, and a sword was sheathed at his belt. He gave Ernie a look of amused indulgence, then gestured to a row of barrels set against the wall opposite the shelves.

  “Let’s see you pick those up, boy. Start with the smallest. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Ernie strode with purpose to the barrels, inwardly pleading with Pikon that he not make a fool of himself. He squatted in front of the smallest barrel, wrapped his arms around it, and stood up. From the sloshing sound and the shifting weight, he guessed it was about a quarter full of water, but he stood up without great difficulty. A childhood spent hauling bags of flour for his parents had prepared him well for this test.

  Seeing the skeptical looks he hoisted the barrel up onto one shoulder. “You want it on the table?” he asked. He was trying his hardest to act how Grey Wolf or Tor would. Confidence!

  “No, no,” laughed Flat-nose. “Just put it down. You were right; you’re stronger than you look. Try the third one.”

  Ernie set down the barrel as gently as he could and moved to the third. This one was larger, and the primary difficulty would be getting his arms around it sufficiently far. But he assumed a straight-backed lifting position, stretched his shoulders, and with some difficulty heaved it up to chest level. He held it there for several seconds. He could feel his face redden and his muscles burn but was unwilling to drop it.

  “Okay, boy, you can set it down, gently if you please. Don’t want to smash it now, do we?”

  Ernie found this part the hardest, and the wide barrel nearly slipped from his arms. While his back protested, he managed to place the barrel down in a more or less controlled fashion. Then he tried his best not to pant from the exertion.

  “Well?” he asked.

  This time one of the other two men spoke, a bald brute with a dagger tattooed on the side of his head. “Stronger than you look and strong enough are two different things, kid. No dice.”

  “I’m also an excellent cook!” Ernie said, hoping this might be relevant.

  “Cooks they got,” said Flat-nose. “We appreciate you coming in, but now you’re just wasting your time and ours. You can show yourself out.”

  Ernie’s heart sank. How would Dranko handle this? He surely wouldn’t walk out empty handed. He gulped down the lump of anxiety rising in his throat.

  “Are there any other digs going on out in the desert that might be hiring?”

  “Doubtful,” said the bald man. “But also not our business. The harbormaster hires day-laborers; why don’t you try down there?”

  “Good
idea.” Ernie turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, but can you tell me why they’re called ‘wandering islands?’ I’m from out of town.”

  “’Cause they move, obviously,” said Flat-nose. “The islands out there aren’t anchored to anything, so they just drift around in the sand.”

  “Then when you hire men who are strong enough, how do they find the right one?”

  The men looked at one another. Was he coming across as too inquisitive?

  “The islands move real slow,” said the bald man with the tattoo. “You got a reason for all these questions?”

  “Er, yes, I do. I may not be what you’re looking for, but I have some friends also looking for work, and they’re bigger and stronger than me. I want to tell them enough to make them interested. They’ll also want to know who’s sponsoring your dig, and what’s the pay.”

  “A private investor wants to dig up some old junk on one of the islands,” said Flat-nose. “As for pay, it’s ten silver talons a day, but the foremen might decide to dock you if they feel you’re not pulling your weight. Payment at the end of each day, out at the site.”

  “And how far out is the place, anyway?”

  The third man spoke for the first time. “Boy, if we decide to hire on one of your friends, we’ll tell them what they need to know. But since you’re not going, none of this is your business. We’ve answered enough of your questions. Now scram.”

  There was something disturbing about him, the sharpness of his gaze, the oily disdain in his voice. Ernie hustled out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TOR DASHED TO their agreed-upon rendezvous, and while he hadn’t learned anything specifically relevant about a secret project out in the sands, he had scrounged up some information about the desert itself and also found a street vendor selling candied dates, a particular favorite of his, so the morning hadn’t been a total loss, and everyone else would be pleased that he had bought a date for each person in Horn’s Company, and surely someone had had more luck regarding their actual mission.