by Barb Hendee
Ghassan, in the lead, stopped. Everyone else slowed in coming up next to him. And they were close enough, the crystal’s light . . .
Wynn put her other hand over her mouth.
The legs weren’t attached to anything.
The sand was dark around their ragged stumps, as if those legs that been torn off rather than cut with a weapon or even bitten through by some unimaginably large predator.
Leesil rushed ahead and around the hill’s nearer side.
“Wynn, you stay there!” he called before vanishing from sight.
Over the recent years, Wynn had seen more bodies than she could count. Something about this sight struck her cold, and she didn’t move. Then Brot’an tossed the camels’ leads to the domin and headed off after Leesil. At that, Magiere went as well. Ghassan remained with Wynn, and her mind flashed back to waking up after her collapse.
She was not going to be treated differently on this journey. Before Ghassan could stop her, she trotted off after the others, and he made no protest. When she glanced back, he had abandoned the camels to follow her . . . around the hillside.
She stopped.
Magiere, Leesil, and Brot’an were crouched at different places in an area about thirty paces wide between the first hill and a higher one farther toward the range. Brot’an showed no emotion, as usual. Leesil looked stricken and Magiere wary.
Wynn counted six arms and three torsos scattered about among what looked like pieces of goats.
Leesil rose slowly, drawing both winged punching blades, and upon spotting Wynn . . .
“I told you to wait!”
She approached slowly, though her eyes were pulled to the sight of one torso with the head still attached. Bile rose into her mouth.
“They’re dried . . . and weathered,” she said quietly. “They have been here at least a day, maybe several.”
Leesil, still angry, looked down at the half body. “Yes.”
Wynn tried to feel nothing as she studied the scant blood-soaked sand. “There isn’t enough blood. This body . . . part of it . . . must have been moved from elsewhere.”
“The same with the other pieces,” Brot’an said flatly, still crouched off to the right over another torn leg.
Magiere paced an arc around Wynn as she took in the whole scene, and Ghassan stepped forward to stand over a torso. No one spoke for a moment, and Magiere’s face was unreadable . . . disturbing for all lack of emotion. But at least she had not given in to her other half.
Everything had possibly changed now, if any of this had been done by the undead. And yet no vampire or wraith would have fed this way.
But there was something out here.
“We must bury them before they attract scavengers or predators,” Ghassan said.
Wynn looked to him, but he only studied the hills toward the range’s peaks. He was right, though she couldn’t bring herself to respond.
“Three people alone is odd,” he added. “Few live out here, only nomads, and they travel in large groups, as always.”
Again, Wynn had no response.
“It appears we have come far enough,” Brot’an said, rising. “We should set up a longer-term camp and begin scouting.”
Yes, that was why they had come so far—to scout for a migration or gathering of the Enemy’s servants. But why here?
She looked around and saw nothing. Perhaps there was something, some hidden place, deeper into the foothills.
“Two of us should always remain at the camp,” she said, “to guard . . .”
She didn’t want to say “the orbs.” Not here, so close to . . . whatever.
“Three can scout,” she added, “while two guard our possessions, and we should set the camp someplace where we can see anything that is coming.”
Such calm planning while standing among dismembered remains struck her as surreal. Yet, this was what their existence had become.
“Out of the taller hills but still hidden,” Magiere said.
Wynn looked up and nodded. When Magiere turned to walk out of this place, Wynn followed, though the others lingered behind. When both women rounded the first hill, and the camels were in sight, Magiere slowed, shifting closer to whisper.
“One of us—you, me, or Leesil—must be among the two who always stay behind.”
Wynn blinked, then nodded slowly, though she didn’t look back to see if Brot’an or Ghassan had followed as yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Evening settled over the little port below Chemarré, “Sea-Side,” the western settlement of Dhredze Seatt, home of the dwarven people across the bay from Calm Seatt, Malourné.
Chane descended the whaling vessel’s ramp, carrying the chest for the orb of Water with Chap close behind him. Two sailors followed, one struggling with the chest for the orb of Fire and the other hauling the third empty chest and Chane’s two packs. All four made their way down the dock to the waterfront, where the sailors relinquished their loads and returned to the ship.
With no business at the seatt, the whaling captain had stopped only for his two passengers. Of the three other ships in port, two were stout dwarven vessels with names painted in Dwarvish, while the third was a three-masted, Numan merchant vessel called the Kestrel.
The small port below the sheer mountainside had not changed since the last time Chane had seen it. Other than a few small warehouses, the buildings were squat, sparse, and deeply weathered, and there was only one inn. The shoreline beyond could never be called a beach; even in calm wind, small waves pounded and sprayed the jagged rocks.
At the sound of snuffling, Chane looked down.
Chap raised his head, his eyes peering up—and up—the cliffs. From down here, close to the base of the peninsula’s peak, it was impossible to see much, especially at night.
“We will take a rolling lift up,” Chane said. “Then you will see the outer . . . lesser part of Chemarré.”
Glancing down at the three chests, he felt at a loss. There was still a long journey to their final destination. While some called Dhredze Seatt kingdomlike or the “city” of the dwarves, each of its settlements with its many underlevels could easily rival any small to medium city throughout the Numan lands. Dhredze Seatt was the last known living place of the Rughìr’thai’âch or Rughìr, the “Earth-born” or the dwarves.
Chap stepped in, nosed one of the chests, and looked up as if to say, “How?”
Chane’s thoughts raced for how to carry all three chests where they were going . . . to the mountain’s far side in Cheku’ûn, or “Sea-Side.” Even that would not be the last stop, and hiring bearers for every leg of the journey was not wise. Eventually someone would be curious about a man with this much luggage traveling alone with a dog.
Dropping to one knee, he faced Chap. “We have to hide the orbs here.”
At first, Chap did not react, and then he snarled and huffed twice for “no.”
Chane bit back a sharp retort and tried to explain himself. “After the lift, we must take a tram through the mountain, arriving in a station deep behind the largest market cavern in the whole seatt. Then we make our way outside and up to the temple of Bedzâ’kenge—‘Feather-Tongue’—in the Bay-Side settlement. That is where we seek Mallet, head shirvêsh of the temple, who knows me and is my contact with Ore-Locks in the underworld of stonewalkers.”
Chap had ceased snarling but still glowered at him.
“I cannot carry all of this myself, nor do I think we should hire help. The dwarves are a curious people. But there is a safe place here near the port. Only stonewalkers know of it besides Wynn and me . . . and she would agree with me.”
Chap’s left jowl curled at that last comment.
“We can move more quickly this way,” Chane rushed on, “and have fewer concerns. When we again take to the sea, sailing south to Soráno, the chests will be close at hand aboar
d a ship, but we must hide them for now.”
Chap was silent and still for a long moment, then turned his head and tilted his nose toward Chane’s first pack. Chane retrieved the talking hide and rolled it out, and Chap began pawing it.
Where?
“I will show you. It is where Wynn, Shade, and I first breached the underworld.” At another rumble from Chap, he added, “It is not easy to find for those who do not know it exists. I swear the orbs will be safe.”
When Chap did not argue or respond, Chane slung both packs over his shoulders. He stacked the chests with the orbs of Fire and Water and attempted to heft them both. At first he struggled to even stand.
Together, they were almost too heavy even for him. Once standing, he could barely see over the top chest but thought he could at least get far enough down shore to be out of sight of the port.
“Leave the empty chest here. It will be easy enough to carry with us.”
Without waiting for agreement, Chane made his way through the port to the shoreline.
Salt water crashing on the rocks soon enough sprayed his boots and then his pants as he carefully worked his way north, blindly but carefully traversing the uneven rocks underfoot. He did not—could not—look back to see how Chap fared. Instead, he looked for the familiar landmark: a long rock backbone hiding an inlet below the mountain’s sheer side.
Finally, he spotted it.
Setting down the chests, he slipped and dropped hard on one knee. After a moment to clench away the pain, he pivoted to see a not quite thoroughly soaked majay-hì.
“Wait here with the orbs,” he said.
At best, Chap might have sighed, though the surf’s noise drowned this out.
Chane needed to make certain the tunnel was still there. For all he knew, the stonewalkers might have sealed it after it had been breached by an undead, a precocious sage, and a black majay-hì. After climbing up the rock backbone and down its other side, he reached into his pocket for the cold-lamp crystal Wynn had given him. When he rubbed it against his cloak, the friction ignited its soft glow, illuminating the inlet’s overhang but not the dark space beyond it.
He worked his way along the cliff wall and under the overhang. Nothing he did now could be seen from the shore. Soon, he found the round opening at the back of the overhang, no more than a shadow in the rock until he stepped directly in front of it. He had to duck to step inside.
The curved floor inside was smoother than the inlet’s bottom, for the tunnel was fully round like a great stone pipe piercing the mountain’s base. It had been excavated long ago, and algae and remains of other dried growths spread halfway up its curved sides.
He could stand upright, though his head brushed the tunnel’s top, and the path widened farther in until he could touch either side with outstretched hands. The gradual incline increased imperceptibly, until he no longer walked in shallow water, and then he saw a grate—or rather a gate.
Vertical bars filled the tunnel from top to bottom, their frame mounted in the circumference by massive rivets. The last time he came here, he had bent several bars to gain access; now those were straightened with no sign they had ever been otherwise. Regardless of safeguards restored, all that mattered was that the tunnel’s mouth had not been sealed and the chests could be placed high enough to remain above the high tide.
Chane returned to the shore and found Chap still waiting . . . and still glowering.
“It is as I remembered, except for some repairs,” Chane said. “We can store the orbs within the tunnel, out of sight, as no one comes here.”
Though he sounded confident, something else troubled him. The tunnel had originally served as a passage to the locked chamber of a half-mad prince, both protected and imprisoned by the stonewalkers.
Now though, the stonewalkers had no reason to come out to the tunnel’s mouth. Chane pushed these concerns from his thoughts.
“Wait a little longer, and I will show you,” he said to Chap.
Holding the cold crystal in his teeth, he hefted the chest with the orb of Fire and returned to the tunnel’s first gate. There he placed the chest and hurried back to Chap for the chest containing the orb of Water.
“Come,” he said.
Chap followed, and by the time they reached the gate, the dog was fully soaked. He approached the bars, cocking his head in sniffing, and even bit on one, as if to test it. Then he peered between the bars up the tunnel.
As Chane set down the second chest, he found Chap watching him and rumbling softly—clearly not liking this arrangement.
“If you have thought of something better,” Chane replied, “then say so.”
He already knew the answer.
Chap huffed twice for “no.”
“You could stay here and guard them yourself . . . while I go on alone.”
Chap only growled.
Chane turned back to leave the tunnel. He had taken only three steps when he heard the matching click of Chap’s clawed strides.
• • •
Chap followed Chane back down the rocky shore to the port. His instincts tried to pull him around to go back after the orbs, not that he could have without Chane. And he was not letting that undead go after the third without him.
It took little time to reach the port now that Chane was unburdened. The vampire stopped long enough to retrieve the third chest and then continued through the port to the far end. He turned a corner inland, and as Chap followed, Chane was already climbing a ramp up to a gate.
As Chap approached, a wild-haired dwarf in a knee-length, black-furred vest strutted out of a nearby booth. In truth, Chap had little experience with dwarves. Contrary to tales on the eastern continent, they were not diminutive. Though shorter than humans, they look almost twice as wide. This full, black-bearded one’s head reached the middle of Chane’s chest.
He appeared undaunted by the tall, pale human before him and grunted in Numanese, “How far?”
“To the top,” Chane answered.
Confused, Chap looked upward, for he saw no other choices in the dark. He did not like facing the unknown in any dealings with Chane, who seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
The vampire set down the chest, pulled out a faded pouch, and opened it. He removed two large, thick rounds of iron with holes in the center. There might have been some form of engraving or stamp on them, but Chane dropped the pieces into the attendant’s broad hand.
The attendant’s bushy eyebrows lifted. He quickly stowed the coins in a pocket Chap hadn’t seen in the thickly furred vest and then stepped rather lively to the “lift” gate and pulled it open. Chane picked up the empty chest again, balancing it on his left shoulder in order to keep his right hand free.
“Nonstop to the top, sir,” the dwarf said with a quick bow of his head.
Chap’s ears pricked. He did not see how bits of iron warranted such a change of demeanor, let alone bypassing any supposed stops on the way up.
“Thank you,” Chane replied, stepping to the lift’s gate, turning around, and waiting as he eyed Chap without emotion.
Chap’s irritation got the better of him again. No, he would never admit openly that Chane was . . . useful. He stepped up under the gaze of the attendant and onto a thick wooden platform framed by huge wheels. And as soon as he was on the floor’s thick timbers, he heard the gate shut . . .
“Brace yourself,” Chane rasped as he grabbed hold of the rear railing with his free hand.
The lift lurched upward, and Chap quickly spread all fours. He did not wonder how the attendant had signaled whatever machinery above raised the lift. He wanted to snarl at Chane for not warning him better as the lift gained speed—and more speed—and crags and gashes of the mountain rushed by.
After that, all that Chap could do, besides brace himself, was try to swallow his stomach back down . . . again and again. He wanted to clos
e his eyes but dared not as he needed to see what was happening around him. A loud racket rose louder and louder under the platform from the immense wheels on the lift’s two sides.
He barely noticed any of the small settlements bypassed along the way. The vibrations alone threatened to empty his stomach and . . . and something else he had not lost control of since he was a puppy.
“Not far now,” Chane rasped.
The last thing Chap wanted was assurances from that thing.
The lift finally approached the top and began to slow, but at the roll over the lip of the mountain shelf, the lift suddenly rocked.
Chap lost control.
When the tram finally stopped, Chane was staring at him. The undead cleared his throat uncomfortably while looking away and then hurried to open the front gate himself as a rotund attendant arrived.
Chap just stood there, shaking in sickness . . . and shame.
He shook off each back foot with every step as he left a puddle behind.
The rotund and somewhat grimy lift master snarled at him, “You filthy mongrel.”
Chap hung his head and hunched his shoulders. He wobbled down the ramp, still trying to shake off his rear paws, and did not look back toward what the lift master would have to clean up.
Chane stood ahead on the immense landing of Chemarré, looking the other way toward a large opening into the mountain. All around them, the roads appeared to flow in steep runs between sharp turns. All ways were bordered by various buildings of stone built with thin-line fitted blocks or carved from the mountain’s native rock.
Chap hesitantly looked around the landing and spotted the lift’s crank house and a huge enclosed turnstile driven by mules. He did not see how the lift had achieved such speed, and he looked again to the enormous open arch in the mountainside.
Orange-yellow light glowed from within.
“We’re at Chemarré’s way station,” Chane said, heading for the arch.
