by Barb Hendee
Chane almost reached for his own sword, anticipating an attack. And if possible, he chilled slightly at this particular opponent.
“Master,” Ore-Locks said, turning quickly. “No matter what else he may be, he is no liar. And he was there to help in retrieving the orb.”
Still, Cinder-Shard fixed only on Chane.
“And in the end, the orb is still my charge,” Ore-Locks added.
At that, Cinder-Shard’s gaze shifted to the youngest stonewalker.
“I know all of us, with you, are jointly responsible for the orb,” Ore-Locks went on, “but I am its inheritor, so named by its all-eater guardians.”
Chane remained watchful but remembered what had happened. In Bäalâle Seatt, the forgotten resting place of this orb, there had been all-eaters—dragons.
They had guarded the orb through generations since the seatt’s fall at the end the Great War. One of Ore-Locks’s ancestors, and brother of Feather-Tongue now among the Bäynæ, had been the one to collapse the seatt with the aid of those dragons’ ancestor. That act had blocked the Enemy’s forces from using Bäalâle as a way to easily flood into the north.
The few who escaped the cataclysm, including Feather-Tongue, did not know this truth.
They knew only that one of their own—assumed a “fallen” stonewalker—had seemingly aided the Enemy.
Feather-Tongue’s brother, Byûnduní, “Deep-Root,” was forgotten. In his place, only the false legend of Thallûhearag, the “Lord of Slaughter,” was remembered by the dwarves. And Deep-Root was now among the Lhärgnæ, or “Fallen Ones,” who were the malevolent counterpart to the dwarves’ Bäynæ.
Ore-Locks and his family were the descendants of both brothers.
Chane grew uncomfortable as well as fearful. Though the connection of Ore-Locks’s family to Thallûhearag was known by very few, they had still lived for generations in a poor state devoid of honor among their people. The orb of Earth was perhaps the only, smallest evidence of the truth for one day to come . . . which Chane now needed to take away.
Ore-Locks spoke quietly. “Master, I vouch for Chane Andraso’s word and honor. Please hear him out.”
Cinder-Shard did not answer at first. His dark eyes lowered to rest for a moment on Chap. Then he spun, headed for the exit, and barked only one word.
“Follow!”
• • •
Chap felt swept along on a journey that he did not fully understand. Through Wynn, he did know some of the story of finding the orb of Earth. It appeared that the aftermath was more complicated. And it wasn’t until after a short but harrowing lift ride ended with a swift walk through the peak’s top settlement that his puzzlement became irritation.
Why were they going up in order to go down into some “underworld”?
The four of them finally entered an empty but immense open-air theater, and Cinder-Shard had not said a word along the way.
The elder stonewalker turned at the first side passage.
They made their way down corridors behind the theater’s stage, turning at intersections, descending ramps and stairs, and twisting and winding so much that Chap worried he would never find his way out. They finally rounded a corner that aimed straight at a deep archway blocked by tall iron doors . . . without handles.
Chap saw no other opening along the corridor to where it ended in a left turn.
He peered around one side of Ore-Locks, studying the iron doors. He did not see even a keyhole or empty brackets for a bar. How would the stonewalkers open these?
Master Cinder-Shard barely paused and then walked through the stone wall beside the arch.
Chap hunched and retreated with a snarl. Chane did not react at all, but Chap was once again becoming fed up with surprises.
“Wait a moment,” Chane said without even looking down.
Standing frozen and lost—and angry again—Chap heard grinding from somewhere. The iron doors split along their center seam, and they were thicker than any Chap had encountered. In sliding away into the walls of the arch, they revealed a second set, which also split and slid, and then a third set.
It was a bit much for even Chap’s paranoia, and as the last set separated . . .
Master Cinder-Shard stood on the other side, no less dour than before.
The aging master had passed through the wall and somehow opened the doors from the other side. It appeared “stonewalker” had a very literal meaning, and Chane must have already known by his apparent disinterest in the sight. Wynn might have been considerate enough to mention this.
Upon entering the next room, Chap wondered how the triple doors were controlled from within. All he noticed was a three-by-four grid of what appeared to be square iron rods on a ledge. Behind this were small round and possibly metal vertical struts inside an opening in the inner wall.
Master Cinder-Shard strode toward the chamber’s center, leaving no chance for further inquiry. And any such questions vanished from Chap’s thoughts.
Embedded in the chamber floor’s center was a perfectly round mirror big enough to hold a wagon. But that mirror was made of metal . . . white metal, rather than glass. How did the stonewalkers, let alone any dwarves, know and use the white metal of the Chein’âs, who made Anmaglâhk weapons and tools?
More and more questions mounted, with no chance to seek answers to any of them.
There was another hair-thin seam dividing that great disk in the floor. No bars, locks, latches, or handles of any kind could be seen.
Chap almost invaded Cinder-Shard’s thoughts and memories to learn more. He held back for fear of disrupting the elder stonewalker’s reluctant agreement so far. But he would certainly question Chane at length later.
“Ore-Locks . . . ring!” Cinder-Shard barked.
Chap’s ears pricked up, but before he could wonder, Ore-Locks crossed the chamber to grip a rope and unwind it from an iron tie-mount on the wall. He heaved on it with all his weight, and the chamber resonated with one deep tone, as from a bell.
Ore-Locks released the rope, and a now-familiar grinding grew in the chamber.
Chap crept to the white metal portal’s edge. His ears flattened, and he backed away as the floor portal’s center hairline split. Its halves slid smoothly away beneath the chamber’s floor, and then a stone platform rose to fill the opening. It stopped at floor level.
Cinder-Shard, Ore-Locks, and Chane stepped onto the platform. Chap watched them and gave a low growl.
“Chap,” Chane said.
Still growling, Chap inched forward—he was sick of these dwarven contraptions—literally sick. Touching the platform with his paw, he tested it and then stepped on it.
He clenched all over, waiting for the inevitable. Two breaths later, the platform began to drop, slowly at first and then picking up enough speed. He could feel his fur lightly rustled by rushing air.
He felt as if he were falling down the perfectly round shaft, and he could not help closing his eyes. That did not help his stomach, and the sense of falling went on and on.
A sudden lurch almost made him vomit. Fortunately, he had not eaten yet. The platform began to slow—and slow—until he cracked one eye open. He quickly shut it again on seeing the shaft’s stone wall passing upward. And the sudden thump of hitting bottom was worse.
He heard two heavy steps of boots and still could not open his eyes. He would have faced feral vampires in a bloodbath rather than another night like this one.
“Chap?” Chane rasped.
When Chap finally opened his eyes, Ore-Locks had paused in a stone passage ahead to look back. Cinder-Shard strode onward, and Chane still stood waiting on the lift.
Chap wobbled out into the passage and heard Chane follow as Ore-Locks headed onward. Worse, from what Chap saw, they would have to take that lift out again soon. Much of the night had to be gone by now.
Down the way, the passage s
plit in three directions. Ahead, it appeared to lead into a cavern with a low ceiling. Phosphorescence flooded out of there, providing some light, and they must be deep below the mountain for that to occur. In spite of his sickness, Chap’s curiosity was piqued.
Cinder-Shard stopped short of the cavern opening ahead.
Peering toward the greenish phosphorescent glow, Chap tried to see into that cavern. He made out stalactites and stalagmites joined together in concave, lumpy columns. However, Cinder-Shard stepped in front of him like a wall and looked beyond him. Chap glanced back along the dark one’s gaze at Chane.
“This is as far as you go,” Cinder-Shard warned. “Now . . . why are you after the anchor of Earth?”
It puzzled Chap that the master of stonewalkers knew and used the term “anchor” rather than “orb.”
After a pause, Chane began to explain their reasons for coming. He spoke of retrieving the orb of Spirit, how he learned that Water and Fire had been hidden in the northern wastes, and then traveled to the Suman Empire for the recovery of Air. He told them of rumors of the Ancient Enemy’s servants gathering in the great desert’s east. And finally, he warned that this last could be a forewarning of the Ancient Enemy’s reawakening.
The orbs were needed as the only possible protection for the world—the only weapon against their creator.
Chane did not mention that he and Chap had already recovered Water and Fire from the wastes.
Master Cinder-Shard listened in silence.
“The orb of Earth is now needed,” Chane finished. “Without it to complete the five, there is no potential weapon to use against the Enemy.”
There was one other detail that Chane had not mentioned.
None of them actually knew how to use the orbs as yet.
When Chap looked up, Ore-Locks was watching his master’s face intently, but Cinder-Shard still had not spoken.
Ore-Locks became visibly anxious. “Master, I—”
“I will guard the anchor on this journey,” Cinder-Shard cut in. “You will remain here.”
“No,” Ore-Locks answered, and this one word echoed off the stone walls.
Cinder-Shard turned his coal black eyes on his subordinate. “You have wandered enough for a lifetime.”
“I will be the one to go,” Ore-Locks insisted.
Cinder-Shard’s expression shifted to fury. “It is enough that you left to follow the misbegotten little human sage who brought that thing”—he pointed to Chane—“out into the realm. This is too important . . . too dangerous . . . for your recklessness.”
Ore-Locks stalled. Perhaps he had never argued with his superior before, though he had gone behind the elders’ backs in some things, Chap knew.
“I was entrusted with the orb at Bäalâle Seatt.” The young stonewalker’s voice carried an edge. “I am its sole keeper, its inheritor, and without Chane, that might not have happened. Do not think you can usurp me in this, in disregard of the all-eaters . . . Master.”
Chap had not even considered the possibility of a stonewalker accompanying them, and he did not care for the idea now.
Cinder-Shard appeared about to retort when Chane interrupted.
“Ore-Locks speaks the truth, and as much as I respect you, Master Cinder-Shard, this is ultimately his decision, and I will follow his wishes.”
“I will not be countered!” Cinder-Shard barked. “Not by something like you.”
Chap sensed a crisis building. What if Cinder-Shard refused to release the orb? Could Ore-Locks get to it himself? Or was it hidden where only Cinder-Shard knew?
There could be no chance of losing it now, and Chap locked his eyes on the dark, grizzled dwarf. He was uncertain if memory-words would even work with a stonewalker, but he had to try. Cinder-Shard’s contention with Ore-Locks had already evoked conscious memories of past arguments.
—Give the anchor . . . to Ore-Locks . . . and . . . send him . . . with us—
The master stonewalker jerked out one blade in a back step, but he eyed Chane. Chap heard Chane draw a blade as well. Ore-Locks immediately stepped between them, blocking Chap’s sight line to the elder stonewalker.
“Enough!” Ore-Locks shouted, unaware of the cause. “Both of you, put your blades away. Chane . . . now!”
Chap glanced back once with a snarl and a huff for “yes.”
Chane glanced down once, eyes narrowing in suspicion—then widening in realization. He slipped his shorter blade back into its sheath.
Chap pushed around Ore-Locks’s legs before the young stonewalker realized. He focused on Cinder-Shard with another snarl and clack of teeth.
—Look . . . down . . . not . . . to Chane—
Cinder-Shard did so, and his brow furrowed with confusion.
—I am majay-hì . . . and . . . more— . . . —I . . . protect . . . the anchors—
He paused to let the realization sink in as to who actually spoke.
Cinder-Shard’s confusion melted into visible shock.
—Give . . . the anchor of Earth . . . to Chane . . . and send Ore-Locks . . . with us—
Cinder-Shard still stood his ground with blade in hand, and his scowl returned. He slowly looked from Chap to Chane. Shock plus doubt returned when he met Chap’s eyes once more.
“You travel with him?” He pointed the dagger toward Chane. “Knowing what he is?”
—He is . . . useful . . . and . . . another guardian . . . for . . . the anchors—
Cinder-Shard’s frown deepened again. He finally looked up and waved Ore-Locks out of his way. With hesitation, he slipped the broad-based dagger back into its sheath.
“This majay-hì somehow speaks in thoughts, in voices, from my past,” he said directly to Chane, though Chane said nothing. “He expects me to do as suggested, and he claims that he protects the anchors . . . as in more than one.”
Yes, Chap had made that slip in desperation and anger, and he still saw it as necessary. Both sides here needed a show of trust to end this conflict, and he had chosen to be the first. How could stonewalkers trust them—trust him—if he did not trust in them?
Chap huffed once at Chane to confirm Cinder-Shard’s words.
With a slow nod, Chane turned to Ore-Locks. “We have already traveled to the wastes and recovered the orbs of Water and Fire. We have hidden them nearby and will carry them south . . . with yours.”
“Here?” Cinder-Shard demanded, as if nearing patience’s end. “Where?”
“At the mouth of the old tunnel that once led to the prince’s cell.”
Cinder-Shard’s gaze wandered in an expression of open panic.
“You must let me do this, Master,” Ore-Locks said.
Long moments of silence followed.
“How will you travel?” Cinder-Shard finally demanded of Chane.
“First by sea, though we have yet to find outbound passage,” Chane answered cautiously. “We only need to go as far as Soráno, and then by land.”
The master stonewalker hesitated again, and then spoke directly to Ore-Locks. “The Kestrel is in the harbor. I will make certain the captain gives you passage.”
Ore-Locks released a sigh of relief, and Cinder-Shard leaned down toward Chap with a wrinkled brow.
“Considering the topic at hand,” he said, “I can only guess sending the two of you together is another twisted jest by Chuillyon.”
Chap had no idea what that meant, and when he looked to Chane, the undead’s jaw clenched. Whoever this Chuillyon might be, Chane knew of him or her.
“Take these two out the aqueduct tunnel,” Cinder-Shard instructed Ore-Locks. “Retrieve their anchors and take them to the ship. I will have dealt with the captain by then . . . and I will arrange to have the anchor of Earth stowed in cargo.”
Before Chap could even wonder how the master stonewalker could accomplish all of this so quick
ly, Ore-Locks heaved another sigh of relief.
“Yes, Master,” he said, “and thank you.”
Chap did not care to leave this place without the third orb. But so far, regardless of a temper and a quite sensible hatred of the undead, it seemed unlikely that the master stonewalker would break his word.
“Give me the chest,” Cinder-Shard commanded.
Chane did so, along with the third lock and key.
What mattered most to Chap was that he had succeeded here—even though Chane’s presence had been both a help and a hindrance. And the other problems, such as passage, had been solved. There was one more minor relief as well.
Chap would not face another cursed lift or tram to leave this place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Magiere trekked through another desert dawn and deeper into the foothills, which had grown higher the closer she traveled toward the main Sky-Cutter Range. She had only Ghassan and Brot’an for company. Wynn and Leesil had remained in camp with the orbs.
“We should turn back,” Ghassan said, glancing toward the eastern, lightening sky.
“A little farther,” Magiere countered, pressing on in the lead.
She felt torn at going back after having found nothing again. Finding anything to support Ghassan’s belief in the Enemy’s reawakening seemed slimmer and slimmer by the day.
She’d lost count of the nights since they’d found the bodies, or parts of the bodies, and there was no way of truly knowing what had happened to those people. The nights now repeated the same choice: who scouted and who stayed behind. Any who went out had to cover as much new ground as possible before returning at dawn . . . to collapse in exhaustion. They had already moved camp, always eastward, numerous times to expand the search.
Along the way, more time was lost in finding wells and stealing water for both themselves and the camels. Food stores held up but were dwindling. Everyone was tired of jerked goat meat, cracked flatbread, and dried-up figs.
Magiere never said so aloud, but she wondered if any of this would amount to anything. Leesil said less and withdrew more each day, and she couldn’t offer him a word about when all this would end.
