“Ulma,” Logan cried out, torn between the instinctive urge to rush to the dwarf’s aid and his equally instinctive fear of the fire.
The burning dwarf, without so much as a cough, came to a halt a few paces beyond the barn’s threshold and planted her hands on her hips. Her clothing – two leather smocks over a linen shirt, thick gauntlet-gloves, and steel-capped boots – blazed, the light reflecting in the lenses of the heavy, brass-rimmed goggles she had strapped over her eyes.
“Logan,” she said. “Well, this was unexpected.”
“You… you’re on fire,” Logan stammered, trying to work out whether his presence or the flames were what Ulma hadn’t been expecting.
“Am I?” she asked, raising one hand and looking at the flames dancing across her glove. “Oh.”
She reached into one of the numerous pockets decorating the front of her smock and fished out a small vial of clear liquid, which she proceeded to smash over her head. There was a hissing sound, and the flames died out rapidly, searing down to her boots. One remained alight, and Ulma stomped it in the dirt irritably until it was extinguished.
“Take a note will you, Durik,” she asked without otherwise acknowledging the orc, turning to look at the burning barn. “I need to brew up a bigger batch of maltholite before I try this one again.”
“You’re… you’re unharmed,” Logan said, aware that he sounded like an idiot. “The fire didn’t burn you.”
“Obviously,” Ulma said, turning back to him. “It isn’t a fire as you would understand it, rogue. I brewed these flames very specifically. Two-fifths colix, two-fifths pyrium, one-fifth human urine, or a suitable substitute. A strand of maiden’s hair, of any species – my own, in this case – and an ounce of witch’s root, freshly chopped. Shake vigorously and…” She extended her arm to encompass the sight of the burning barn.
“But why?” Logan asked. “If it doesn’t consume, what does the flame do?”
“I didn’t say it didn’t consume,” Ulma said irritably. “I said it wasn’t a fire as you would understand it, a fact you’ve now kindly demonstrated. It sears away enchantments. Magics. Any curse or spell, anything crafted by sorcerous means or any creature so bound, will be susceptible to these flames. It is, in essence, an artificial reconstruction of the magi-reducto incantation. And very difficult to do, I might add. I’ve been trying to perfect it in that damned barn for the last two days.”
She lifted her goggles, revealing a snub-nosed, pretty face framed by golden braids. She had hardly aged at all in the decades since Logan had last seen her, but then again, she was a dwarf – she was middle-aged at most.
“So you’re still practicing your wild tricks,” he said, looking past her at the barn. “I’m amazed you haven’t blown yourself to bits.”
“I have,” Ulma said. “At least in part.”
She tapped her left boot against her right calf, the metal toes striking hollow. “A pinch too much infernum in a shatter mix. A mistake I won’t be making again.”
“Well, it seems you’ve had ample time to perfect your art out here. Did Baroness Adelynn hire you to find her missing daughter as well, or was it just to concoct insane potions for her?”
Ulma glowered up at Logan. “I offered to ride ahead while Durik waited for you, because I didn’t think you would come at all. And believe it or not, I’ve already started making inquiries. There are all sorts of rumors flying around. Things you wouldn’t believe. And speaking of disbelief, where’s my quicksilver?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan said, foolishly. He suddenly very much regretted swiping the quicksilver elixir she’d spent so long crafting, even if it had been years ago. Ulma rolled her eyes and punched him in the gut.
“I’ve been waiting twenty years to do that,” she said as Logan bent double, wheezing and in pain. “That’s for stealing it. I’d give you another, but I’m not in the habit of beating old men.”
“Rich old man,” Logan managed to correct her as he slowly recovered. “Thanks to that quicksilver.” Despite himself, he grinned. Ulma scowled, but any further blow was interrupted by a horrific wailing sound.
“Sweet mother’s stew,” came a scream from behind Logan. The innkeeper was standing in the front yard, mouth open and jowls wobbling as she stared with undisguised horror at the purple flames engulfing her barn. “What have you done?”
“The barn is fine,” Ulma said, waving her hands. “Leave it to burn out, and it’ll be good as new come the morning. Unless you happen to have been casting magical incantations over it recently.”
The innkeeper made unintelligible, spluttering noises as Ulma disappeared around the back of the inn and returned with a stocky pony. The creature appeared as unfazed by the nearby flames as she was. Logan dreaded to think what chemical madness the poor beast had witnessed in Ulma’s service.
The innkeeper, red-faced, began to scream something far too furious and garbled for Logan to understand. He edged past her, keeping on the other side of Durik, and made for the horses.
“Thank you for your time,” Durik said to the innkeeper, offering a short bow as she screamed in his face. By that point Logan was already dragging himself up into Ishbel’s saddle.
“I think we should go,” he said to Lady Damhán.
“I wondered how long it would be before you managed to come up with something actually intelligent,” Ulma said as she fell in with Durik in front of him.
Logan huffed. For a second, struggling to cope with both Ulma’s ire and her alchemical concoctions, it had been just like old times. And not in a particularly good way.
“To Fallowhearth,” Damhán said brusquely over the innkeeper’s screams.
They rode.
Chapter Four
In his decades of travel across the length and breadth of the Land of Steel, the Paths had never taken Durik to Fallowhearth. He had been beyond it – he had visited Thelgrim, the Dulder Deeps and had fished the Feldrath Rift, as well as spending five summers living and hunting in an ice cave among the titan-peaks beyond Hadranhold, deep in the Dunwarrs. He had been to the Howling Giant Hills and the lands of central Forthyn as well, seen the rocs soaring and heard the crags resound with their piercing cries. He had even once tracked leonx through the southern reaches of distant, fey Aymhelin. Upper Forthyn though, and Fallowhearth in particular, had slipped by him.
The party came upon the town from the south-west, where a rare tract of tillable land led from Fallowhearth’s outskirts to the wild, dark bounds of northern Blind Muir Forest. The houses were timber and thatch, human-built and poor, huddled along muddy tracks and interspersed with small vegetable patches and livestock yards. It was a sight Durik found far preferable to Highmont’s claustrophobic, busy streets or, Kurnos forbid, the great cities further west.
The town – if town was the right word – was dominated by a small citadel sited on its northern edge. It had clearly been built by human stonemasons, but bore evidence of the architecture of the dwarf holds of the nearby Dunwarrs, with a squat, thick stone keep and an adjoining wall circling its north-eastern corner. Baroness Adelynn’s standard and the half-roc pennant of the local warden flew from its highest turret, caught in a cold wind coming down off the mountains beyond.
The party rode along the main street towards the castle’s gate. The town was quiet. A few people, clad mostly in thick woolen pelts, watched them pass from their yards, and Durik saw several banging shut the window boards of their small homes. It was a sight the orc had witnessed a thousand times on his travels – the desire of normal people, in the face of strangers or of authority, to be left alone. It was an attitude he commiserated with.
They arrived before the keep’s gate, a barbed portcullis set before two high, heavy oaken doors, studded with black iron. It remained closed, though Durik sensed movements on the ramparts above. A voice called down.
“Who
goes there?”
“Lady Damhán, of Highmont,” Damhán answered. “I come here on the baroness’s business. Send for Seneschal Abelard.”
The sentry didn’t respond, but after a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence there came the creak of a locking bar being raised and the clank of the lifting mechanism as the portcullis was hauled slowly up. The doors beyond parted, and a trio of figures strode out – two liveried men-at-arms, flanking a heavy-set man with a bald head and a goatee. He was wearing a blue woolen tunic and hose and with a gray felt bagged hat, folded to one side. Durik noticed a small, golden roc pinned to his breast. It looked as though he’d been drawn away from his luncheon – his goatee was spattered with soup.
“My Lady Damhán,” the man said, bowing. “This is an unexpected honor.”
“It is,” Damhán agreed. “I have come here at the request of Baroness Adelynn. We are to investigate the disappearance of Lady Kathryn. While doing so, I carry the baroness’s full authority.”
“‘We’, my lady?” the man asked, casting a pointed glance at Durik, Ulma and Logan.
“They are here to assist with the search,” Damhán said. “I will introduce them once our horses have been fed and watered, and once you have shown us to the accommodation you are to provide us within the keep. Followed by luncheon.”
The man hesitated only briefly before bowing again. “Of course, my lady. Right away.”
A smaller door in the flank of the encircling wall opened for a woman in the horsehair cap of a stable mistress, accompanied by half a dozen young hands. They took the group’s horses as they dismounted.
“Well, this is wonderfully rural,” Logan said tartly, handing Ishbel’s reins to one of the stable girls. “I wonder if the locals here even speak the common tongue?”
“‘Mostly,” Ulma said, deliberately ignoring the sarcasm. “From what I’ve heard it’s a dialect. Some influences from the northern clans.”
“I almost thought they were the northern clans,” Logan said, casting a glance at one of the fur-clad youths leading the horses away. Durik prodded him and nodded – Lady Damhán was already following the man who had greeted them into the keep, accompanied by Kloin. They did likewise.
• • •
Fallowhearth castle was altogether different from Highmont’s. Durik found himself in what felt like a suffocatingly low, dark hall, its stone floor spread with heavy pelts. A feasting table carved from northern pine had been laid out with simple wooden bowls and eating irons, while a sallow-faced serving boy was attempting to stoke up a huge fireplace. The hearth was set beneath a stone carving depicting a half-roc carrying a judging stave, the traditional symbol used by the heirs of Forthyn. Hunting trophies lined the walls – the heads of bears, stags, wild tuskers and orids gazed down blankly on the party as they sat at the table. All bar Durik. He paced the length of the hall, looking at each one in turn, pondering their fate. How had the hunts that had ended their lives played out? Had they died a noble death, fighting to the last, or had they given in as the hounds tore at them? Did the one who slew them take note when he sat in this hall, remembering their final moments with pride? Or were their last desperate, bloody breaths forgotten? Durik did not presume to judge. He leaned close to a tusker’s horned head, assessing its age. How many decades had this old beast looked down up its conquerors?
“Don’t touch the trophies,” said the man who had welcomed them to the citadel. His name was Abelard, and he was the seneschal of Fallowhearth castle. He held it in the name of Baroness Adelynn and, until a month before, Lady Kathryn, acting as the local warden and overseeing the town. To Durik, he seemed like a man grown weary of his lot in life. A strong body was steadily running to fat, the face fleshy and unhealthy, the eyes tainted with bitterness. Durik sat down between Logan and Ulma without responding to him.
Abelard had been in the process of apologizing to Damhán. “It is rustic, my lady,” he continued. “But I am afraid that is the nature of things here in Upper Forthyn. Fallowhearth is not Highmont.”
“Evidently,” Durik heard Logan mutter under his breath. As much as he had privately rejoiced at seeing his old friend again, he really had forgotten how eternally snide the rogue was. He’d barely stopped complaining since they’d left Highmont.
“Comfort is not our concern, seneschal,” Damhán said. She was seated at the head of the table, flanked by Abelard and Kloin. As the fire in the hearth behind her slowly rose, it framed her high-backed chair, casting her aged features in hard, flickering lines. “We are here for the sole purpose of locating the baroness’s daughter and ensuring her safety.”
“Of course,” Abelard said. “I can assure both you and the baroness that I have had search parties scouring the countryside for weeks. My own men, local hunters and even volunteers from the town.”
“You have put a price on her safe recovery?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Whatever it is, triple it. Make it known to the people that Baroness Adelynn’s personal representative is here. Anyone who steps forward with information will be handsomely rewarded.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The hall’s doors groaned open, and a small parade of serving maids entered, carrying platters which they deposited across the table – fish pie, mutton stew and rough gritbread. Durik took a slice of the former and a half loaf, which he began to slowly chew without carving. Ulma filled her bowl with stew, while Logan took a helping of everything. Durik saw Kloin glance at him with disgust. The feeling was mutual, but Durik knew well enough to keep his thoughts towards the captain private. Wise creatures never gave their hunter the satisfaction of seeing their pain. Durik was sure Kurnos would send the captain a reckoning.
“These three will assist your search,” Lady Damhán said, nodding towards them. “Their names are Logan Lashley, Pathfinder Durik and Ulma Grimstone.”
“We are honored to have them,” Abelard said with obvious distaste.
“I hired them personally,” Damhán pressed. “You will assist them at all times. That is the baroness’s will.”
“Yes, my lady,” Abelard said, his expression guarded as he met Durik’s gaze. “If you are indeed to lead the search, then might I ask where you intend to begin?”
Logan was too busy digging into his food to respond. Ulma spoke before Durik.
“I have been making acquaintances at a roadside inn just outside the town. There are all manner of rumors circulating. Perhaps you can address a few of them before we start looking for the real leads?”
Abelard shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “There are always rumors, Lady Dunwarr. It is the nature of a frontier town such as this.”
“So, talk of the clans attacking and raiding outlying villages is normal?”
“If that is the case, Baroness Adelynn must be informed,” Damhán said sharply. “There has not been conflict between the clans and Forthyn for generations. They might live differently to others, but they still owe their allegiances to the baronies. If that has changed, it will have far-reaching consequences.”
“I have seen nothing to suggest there have been any attacks,” Abelard said, holding up a placatory hand. “But the common folk are certainly unsettled. The migrations have been far greater than usual this year. The harvest is not long in, and it may be threatened.”
“If only that was the sole story doing the rounds,” Ulma said. “I’ve heard other tales about what has supposedly become of Lady Kathryn.”
“Nothing certain,” Abelard said, starting to sound annoyed. “Nothing we could act upon.”
“What about the gravedigger?”
Abelard glared at Ulma, and Damhán glared at Abelard.
“What gravedigger?” she asked him, her tone icy. Abelard kept looking at Ulma as he answered.
“The day after Lady Kathryn disappeared, the town’s tomb-keeper claimed to have seen her
in the cemetery of the Shrine of Nordros. But his story hardly makes any sense. He is little more than a simpleton.”
“You’ve questioned him thoroughly?”
“Yes,” Abelard said. Durik got the impression he was lying. That could prove to be a problem if it persisted. He wondered why.
“Where was the Lady Kathryn last seen?” he asked the seneschal.
“In her chambers, on the night of her disappearance,” Abelard said brusquely, as though the question was barely worth answering.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. One of the servants. You’d have to ask the matron, Mildred. She’s in charge of them.”
“I’ll do that,” Durik said. “But I would like to see her chambers as well.”
“Now?” Abelard asked incredulously.
“Has the room been sealed since she went missing?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Durik looked hard at the seneschal, considering once more whether he was telling the truth. Clearly the current master of Fallowhearth had hardly covered himself in glory since Lady Kathryn’s disappearance. Eventually Durik spoke again.
“The room may still contain valuable evidence of what happened to her that night. I wish to search it. Immediately.”
Logan shot Durik a hurt look, his mouth still full of food, but the orc ignored him. Abelard nodded and rose, chair scraping back across the floor.
“Follow me.”
Chapter Five
Kathryn’s personal chambers were located in the highest turret of the keep. A claustrophobic spiral staircase of cold stone led Durik up to a landing sealed off by a timber door. Abelard opened it with a heavy set of keys he wore on his belt. Durik followed him into the circular room beyond and made way for the others to crowd in behind him – Logan and Ulma, as well as Damhán and a towering, tree trunk-thick woman Abelard had introduced as Matron Mildred, the castle’s chief servant.
The Doom of Fallowhearth Page 5
