The Cradle of the Gods (The Soulstone Prophecy Book 1)

by Thomas Quinn Miller

  Hargas had gone and found Torber, and his younger brother Seth, as soon as he had gotten off duty. He knew both of them loved a good fight and had more reason than most for disliking the plainsmen. Their father had died in one of their raids into the Drops many years back.

  The three now sat at their regular bench throwing dice. Torber still hadn't anted up that steel blade of his, but the night was young.

  Torber was swirling the bones around in the leather cup. Hargas kept glancing at the closed door leading to the back wondering when the plainsmen was going to show his face. He hardly noticed when Torber slammed the cup down and hollered. He had yet another match. That was the third one in a row. By Daomur's beard the fool had found his luck tonight.

  “Ante up, I'm going for four,” Torber said. He reached over and scooped up the dice.

  “I'll take that wager,” Hargas said, pushing four more stone arrowheads and some nice fletchings he had made earlier that morning into the already considerable pile.

  Seth squinted at the ante and looked at his remaining pile. He only had a bow string and a stone knife left.

  Hargas glared at him. “Well?”

  “Naw, his luck is too good. I'm outta this one,” Seth said. He leaned back and made a show of fishing the last dregs out of his mug. If he was waiting for Hargas to buy the next round, he was sadly mistaken.

  “Looks like you and me, Harg. Seems only fair luck is on my side since you promised me a brawl that never happened,” Torber said.

  Hargas motioned towards Torber's belt. “Then put your blade in if luck is with you, braggart!”

  Torber defensively reached down to touch his prize possession and shook his head. “Pots not big enough for a metal blade, Hargas. It's going to take more than what you got on ya.”

  Hargas shook his head and spat on the floor. Nothing was working out right today. Stinking plainsmen, Hargas thought.

  Just then, the Plainsman walked out of the rear door.

  Torber slammed the cup down, lifting it slowly just as the plainsmen passed behind him. Hargas saw the fourth match. It was time to make his own luck.

  He reached out under the table with his foot and shoved against the top of the bench Seth and Torber relaxed on. The bench tipped back taking the surprised men with it. Torber swung his arms wildly trying to catch his balance, failed, and tumbled back into the barbarian, who deftly caught him before he could fully fall, but not before Torber's flailing legs upset the table, spilling its contents.

  “Oi!” Torber yelled at Hargas, the tumbling dice, and the barbarian with equal outrage.

  Seth was not as fortunate as Torber and didn't have anyone to break his fall. He tumbled to the floor.

  Now we're getting somewhere Hargas thought. He jumped up on his bench and dove across the table. “Damn savage! Get your hands off my friend!”

  Two Elks had just wanted some more of the dark drink. The little daughter had retired early and he had spent the better part of the evening sitting on a barrel in front of her door. Her father poked his head into the storeroom numerous times to make sure he remained on the right side of her door.

  Two Elks shook his head. What did he think was going to happen? He was her shieldwarden. He was sworn to protect her. He thought of her more as a younger sister than anything else. Even if he had wanted to take her to his tent, he would have to make the proper offerings to her father first and get the blessings from the tribal mothers.

  Two Elks would never admit to himself the laughing and drinking out in the common room had piqued his curiosity. He was just going out there to refill his mug and then return to his duty.

  He saw the fat one shove the bench as he passed. He tried to catch both of the falling men, but only managed to catch the one. He didn't understand what the scrawny one he had caught was yelling about, but it didn't really matter. The fat one was coming over the table at him.

  Gaidel had tried to tell him the differences between their people's ways. He knew these men wanted to challenge him. He was fine with that, welcomed it even. He didn't have the gifts he would have to offer their women for their loss, so he knew he shouldn't kill them. It was a mark on his honor to allow them to live, but he had to accompany the little daughter to these dwarf pet's festival and he was sure she wouldn't understand.

  The punch that caught the fat one in the face landed soundly. Two Elks was surprised that was all it took to drop him. The one he was holding up with the other hand reached back and grabbed at him. He shrugged and let go. As soon as the skinny cradler lost his balance again he forgot about trying to grab Two Elks and fell to the floor. The ugly one with the crooked teeth who had fallen with the bench was starting to rise.

  Two Elks reached down and grabbed them both by their hair. It was greasy and his fingers almost slipped through. He tightened his grip and heaved them up. He gave them a good shake and then brought their heads together soundly. Not enough to kill them, but enough to end this quickly. He released his grip and the two crumpled in a heap.

  The inn was silent. Two Elks looked for the next attack, but saw only stunned expressions. Was the challenge over? None of his tribe's seasonal camps were near the Drops, but if this was all the fight the cradlers had in them it was no wonder the other tribes' young males went against them for sport. Gaidel's father stood near the central hearth. He hastily closed his open mouth when Two Elks met his gaze.

  Two Elks reached down and picked up his mug. Walking over to the innkeeper, he held it out.

  “More dark drink, Father of Daughter Gaidel. If it please you,” he said.

  He thought he had said it correctly and with proper respect. The man took the cup and filled it. All without saying a word. Two Elks took the cup and nodded his thanks. He walked through the quiet room, stepping over the three unconscious challengers. None of the patrons had yet to move as he closed the storeroom door.

  Crazy cradlers.

  12

  Between a Rock and a Dark Place

  Ghile grazed his father's flock in the lowest fields of Upper Vale under the protective shadow of the Horn. He tied his woolen coat around his waist and enjoyed the occasional warmer breezes that held the promise of the summer to come.

  Life in Last Hamlet had returned to normal after the celebration and carried on much as it always had. Ghile already missed his Uncle Toren who had returned to his patrols in the wilds surrounding the Cradle. He was probably already in the middle of his next great adventure. Ghile stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

  He watched one of the ewes drift away from the flock and called for Ast and Cuz to round her up. He would do it himself, but his arms were still tired from helping his mother and the other women sort the fleeces this morning. He didn't want to admit he was just being lazy.

  The two Valehounds yawned, ignored him, and continued to lounge in the thick grass. He wasn't the only one being lazy. “Thanks for the help you two,” he said. Ghile headed off the sheep and used the blunt end of his spear to marshal her back towards the others. Once he had her back with the others he returned to leaning on his spear and looked about the Vale.

  The Horn dominated the view and he followed the paths that crisscrossed its surface and the darker areas that marked caves. Uncle Toren told him some went deep into the mountain. The people of the Cradle avoided the Horn. There were too many dangers that could befall the curious. Not even the mountain goats common to Upper Vale ventured on its pockmarked stones. It was said that humans had once lived in those caves and the ruins at the Horn's southern base. The tumble of worked stones the locals just referred to as the “Ruins” was even more shunned than the Horn itself.

  The ruins were older than anyone really knew and since all humans had been told the histories and their race's subsequent fall from the grace of the gods, anything that would remind them of that time was best avoided. Only the dwarfs were allowed to work the stone and build with it now. Most knew the humans of the past had practiced the art, but after the Great Purge, humans were forbid
den many things to prevent them from making the same mistakes, stonework among them.

  So, Ghile was surprised to see someone near the ruins. He wondered who would be foolish enough to venture near them. The man had a swaggering gait and long dark hair. Ghile shook his head when he recognized Riff. He watched Riff scout along the stones, then, seeming to find the entrance he wanted, disappear into its depths.

  Ghile continued to stare after Riff. He was far enough away that he doubted Riff had seen him, if it even was him. Maybe this was where Riff found the metals he worked. But like anyplace not frequented by humans or patrolled by the fangs there was no telling what might have made its home in there. It would take more than the lure of metals to inspire Ghile to venture into those black tunnels.

  Ghile imagined what he would do if they never heard from Riff again. He saw himself standing before his father's hearth telling the story of how the ruins had swallowed the young apprentice, his clansmen listening, eyes wide and mouths agape.

  Something thudded onto the ground near Ghile, surprising him, and making him yelp. He turned to the sound of guffawing, face already reddening from embarrassment.

  “Did you see him jump, Gar?” Bralf said, already searching for another stone.

  “Ast!, Cuz! Watch'em,” Ghile shouted. He had seen the two hounds rise up menacingly when his father had given them the same command.

  They simply stared at him with blank expressions.

  Stubborn hounds.

  “Watch them!” Gar mimicked in a high voice. This set Bralf into more fits of laughter.

  What were they doing down here? Probably dodging their responsibilities if Ghile didn't miss his guess.

  “Looks like your dogs pay you as much heed as everyone else, Weed.” Gar had a way of drawing out the word 'weed' in a way that grated along the inside of Ghile's ears.

  With that Gar closed one eye, took aim, and let fly. Ghile saw the rock zipping towards him and tried to jump aside. But, as always, his body did not respond to his commands fast enough and he barely turned to avoid catching the stone in his chest, instead thudding painfully against his shoulder.

  He stumbled from the white hot pain of the blow as much as from the awkward position he found himself in and fell solidly to the ground.

  Ghile remembered when Adon had protected him from the likes of Gar and Bralf. But, since his culling they had made it their sole purpose in life to torture the Clan Leader's last remaining clumsy son. Ghile thought of threatening to tell his father, but bit back the words. No matter what happened he would not use his father for protection.

  He took a deep breath and decided to take a stand. The boys continued laughing. The sound of Bralf saying, “Here, try this one,” changed Ghile's mind and set him into motion. He scrambled to his feet and fled. He heard the whistling of the rock slicing the air right before it struck him just above his ankle. Again he went down in a tumble of arms and legs accompanied by more laughing.

  Riff! Riff would help him and teach them a lesson. He scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could towards the ruins.

  “Run, weed!” Gar called behind him.

  Ghile chanced a quick turn and saw they were in fast pursuit. Stones thudded near him as he ran in sharp angles trying to present a harder target. He ran as fast as he could, trying to avoid the jagged stones that jutted out of the thick grass.

  The Ruins loomed larger at his approach and he tried to remember which of the many openings Riff had entered. Ghile didn't want to go in. Maybe taking the beating he was sure to get at the hands of Gar and Bralf would be better than what he might encounter in those dark passages? A rock barely missed his head. There was nothing for it now. He plunged into the nearest tunnel and was swallowed by darkness.

  13

  The Ruins

  “Riff!” Ghile called again.

  He called down another black tunnel that branched off the main corridor, then listened for a response.

  Nothing.

  He took a deep breath and darted to the next beam of light filtering through one of the many cracks in the ceiling. He pressed himself against the worn stone wall when he was near the light, but stayed just to the side of it. The darkness pushed in on him and made it difficult to breathe, but he had made the mistake to seek solace in the first shaft of light he had seen. The bruises on his shins and arms still stung from everything he had run into or tripped over until his eyes had adjusted again.

  He would have been content to just hide near the doorway he had originally dove through, but Gar and Bralf had only been deterred by the ruins for a moment before following. Ghile warned them that the sorcerer's apprentice was here with him, but they ignored him; Gar promising him a worse beating for fleeing into the desolate place. He had no choice but to flee further in.

  “Riff, where are you?” Ghile called down the next tunnel as loud as he dared. He thought he had lost Gar and Bralf, but didn't want to take any chances.

  His feet kicked up dust where the ground was dry between the cracks in the ceiling, where rivulets of water seeped down into pools of mud. His fingers traced the straight indentations between the worked stones, feeling the moss and bracken that clung to life between them.

  He saw another shaft of light ahead. The corridor opened into an angled room. The light stabbed in through the ceiling revealing three more tunnels leading off in opposite directions.

  Ghile forced a swallow and took a moment to catch his breath. Where to go now? He was already hopelessly lost. Maybe he would hear Riff and it would help him decide which tunnel to take. He held his breath and listened. Only silence greeted him. Well, at least he didn't hear Gar and Bralf. They had hopefully given up and went to find someone else to torment.

  He slid down along the wall and pulled his knees close to his chest wrapping them with his arms. He was in a fine mess now. He thought about the flock he had left grazing on the hillside. He hoped Ast and Cuz would take his absence as reason enough to mind the flock, but doubted it.

  Ghile sat there for a short while listening to the wind blow outside and watched the dust motes float in and out of the light. If he didn't get out of here soon, the sun would go down and the light with it. The idea of being lost in the ruins in the dark caused his throat to start closing again. He took in deep steadying breaths.

  A sudden glint on the ground caught his eye. His fear forgotten, he moved his head back and forth till he saw the flash again. There it was. Since entering, he had seen nothing in the stone tunnels and rooms. He slid forward for a closer look.

  He brushed the crusted dirt back from where he had seen the glint. A hard surface resisted his probing fingers. Peering at it closely he realized it wasn't stone. It was smooth and worked. Metal? He began clearing more dirt away. After a short time he had a circular outline uncovered. He tried to pry it loose. One side of the ring reluctantly came up with a high pitched squeak. It was a handle. A metal handle? Only dwarves could afford to use metal to make anything as mundane as a handle. But these were not dwarven ruins. These were from before the gods had punished man. Had his people once been so rich as to have handles made of metal like the dwarves? Maybe this was why Riff had come here?

  So, sorcerers had their ways, did they?

  Ghile wiped his hands on his tunic and got a better grip on the handle. Taking a deep breath he gave a measured pull. He was excited when he felt the handle give, but was shocked to see a large square portion of the floor come up with it.

  The square stone fell back to the floor as Ghile let go. He could make out the outline of the square on the floor. He got another firm grasp on the handle and pulled. The stone panel resisted at first, but then came up and all the way over.

  The shaft of light that had revealed the first glint of the handle now streamed into the opening invitingly dancing down a set of stairs. He cautiously inched forward and peered into what looked like a small room. He counted a dozen steps. The light shining in from above allowed Ghile to make out debris that looked like the remains o
f an old table and benches that had given under the weight of years. He didn't know if it was greed or curiosity that lent him the strength to venture slowly down the stairs. There was probably more metal down there.

  At the base of the stairs Ghile's hunt for metal was forgotten when he saw the silhouette of a man standing just out of the light. Ghile yelped and turned to flee up the stairs. He felt his foot settle halfway between the first and second step before slipping out from under him. He fell hard against the steps and spun onto his back to see what the man was going to do. The man had not moved. In fact he was perfectly still. Ghile massaged the pain in his hands, not daring to take his eyes off the still figure, he didn't even blink.

  The figure stood frozen. Ghile wished he had an everflame torch. The light was not enough to make out details. He cautiously approached the figure, letting his eyes adjust. It was only a statue of a man. He had seen dwarf statues before, but never a statue of a human. The man stood tall and straight, his head tilted slightly up giving him a conceited air.

  It was then that Ghile noted the circular design on the man. A series of mounds formed a strange spiral shape in the middle of his chest. Ghile reached tentatively and began to run his fingers along the pattern. When his fingers brushed the first mound they held fast. Ghile tried pulling his hand back, but his fingers wouldn't come loose. Quickly, he braced his other hand against the statues chest to give him leverage when it too stuck fast.

  Ghile panicked.

  He began trying to shake himself free, but the statue was unmovable. He could feel his hands getting warmer. What was happening? Had he stumbled upon a statue of an ancient sorcerer and a trap he had left to punish thieves? Was this a burial tomb? He began to scream for help. He didn't care who heard him now. He would thank his ancestors if Gar and Bralf appeared in the portal above him, laughing at his misfortune.

  “Riff! Help me!”

  His hands were hot. He heard a low hum, like in the hives the beekeeper kept. The humming was coming from the statue. The statue began to glow from within. Every part of Ghile told him to flee, to get as far away from this place as he could. The statue was glowing too bright to look at and the hum now thundered in his ears. He screamed until his voice gave out.