“Like Magog made the goggins?”
“Nothing like, girlie,” said Gertie with an affronted huff. “Monsters are made from the divine spark, same as all right creatures. Magog’s abominations reflect his madness. Broken things they are, full of rage and hate, like their maker.”
“What happened to the dragons?”
Gertie frowned over a particularly bad knot. “No one knows for sure. There haven’t been dragons in Tandara since Xan died. Killed in the Great Cataclysm, some say, or they left for other shores. Course, there are plenty of the lesser types in the mountains and swamps, your lindworms and mountain worms and such. And then there are the mere dragons.”
“Mere dragons?” Raine hunched her shoulders but, nevertheless, sounded curious.
“Glonoff’s special pets.” Gertie smoothed the section of hair she was working on, and moved to another. “Overgrown lizards he’s bred to have a liking for human flesh, the murderous brute. There’s also a goggin called a nahgog, a true abomination with a human’s head on a mountain worm’s body, but the Great Dragons are all gone.”
“I see,” Raine said. “Um . . . so . . . how would a person go about finding this Udom?”
“Thinking of going after Tiny, are you?”
“He’s my friend. I miss him.”
“That’s the last thing Tiny would want. Udom’s a harsh place. There are things there with no liking for humans . . . except as a meal.”
“I still want to know where it is. If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask Captain Braxx.”
“Stubborn. Very well, pet. If you must know, Udom lies beyond the northeast boundary of Finlara. The Far Hold, some call it.”
“Mauric’s from Finlara. Maybe he can take me to Udom.”
“No, he won’t, not if he wants you to live.”
Gertie glanced over at the warrior. Since boarding the barge, Mauric had acted like a dog with a bone where Raine was concerned. At the moment, he sat cross legged on the deck honing his sword for the benefit of Braxx’s men, pausing occasionally to check the sharpness of his blade. The message was loud and clear: Raine was off limits.
“Besides,” Gertie said, “you wouldn’t want him to break his vow.”
“What vow?”
“Three thousand years ago, Finn, the first Rowan, swore a blood oath to protect the Kronlings, he and his people. The Finlars still consider themselves bound by that oath.”
“Three thousand years is a long time to keep a promise.”
“Yes, it is, which should tell you a great deal about Finlars. If you go wandering around Udom and some hungry Kronling tries to take a bite out of you, Mauric is sure to take exception. You may not have noticed, but he’s protective of you.”
“So?”
“So, if he kills a Kronling without justification—which he won’t have, ’cause you’ve no business being in Udom in the first place—then he’ll be foresworn, and the penalty for that is death.”
“That’s crazy,” Raine said.
Mauric stopped sharpening his sword. “Tell her the story of Finn, mor. Perhaps then she’ll understand.”
“Finn? Bah,” a deckhand said. “You’re in Durngaria, warrior, not Finlara. Tell her the story of Durn. Now there’s a fine tale.”
“Durn . . .” Mauric rubbed his jaw in thought. “I can’t seem to place the name.”
“Can’t place—” The bargeman was incensed. “Durn’s the garffin founder of Durngaria, he is.”
“Stop teasing him, Mauric,” Gertie said. “The tale of Durn it is.” She tugged on her whiskers. “Hmm, it’s been a while since I’ve told that one. Where to begin . . .”
Chapter 25
A Dog’s Tale
“Durn, Durn, Durn.” The barge hands took up the chant, and it echoed up and down the river.
“Shut yer yaps, you lot,” Braxx said. “Have it your way, then, and listen, but when the tale’s done, it’s back to work, and no slacking.”
The crew dropped what they were doing and gathered around Gertie. Mauric rose and sat down next to Raine. Eyeing the sword in the warrior’s lap, the men took the hint and sat well apart from them.
Chaz padded over to the tiller. “I’ll help you steer, Captain.”
“That’s kind of you, boy, but there’s no need. You might as well listen to the story with the rest of them loafers.”
“I can hear fine from here.”
“All right, guppy, but you’ll do as I say. Understood?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” said Chaz.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Braxx scowled at Gertie. “Get on with the garffin story. There’s work to be done.”
Gertie raised her brows at this, but turned and addressed her audience. “The tale begins with the death of Xan, slain by his twin brother, Magog.”
“Why?” asked Raine.
“Why what?” said Gertie, annoyed at being interrupted.
“Why did Magog kill Xan?”
“Oh.” Gertie shrugged. “Who can say . . . jealousy, perhaps? Xan was well-loved, whereas Magog was hard to love before he went insane. No matter the reason, Xan’s murder thrust the world into chaos. Dark days, those were, for men and gods. Gar, another of the gods, lost his beloved hound Na’ima when she wandered out of Mandoora—”
“Man who?” Raine asked.
“The home of the gods,” said Gertie. “As I was saying, Na’ima left Mandoora to hunt and did not return. Gar was desolate. He moved the stars around, lifted the mountains from their roots, and shook the rivers out of their beds in search of her, to no avail. Some say his pursuit took him down into Skelf—that’s the underworld—and over the moons into Nagrabroda— paradise—but Na’ima was nowhere to be found. At last, he gave up and returned to the Hall of the Gods. Upon his arrival, he discovered that Andor, his remaining hound, had grieved to death in his absence.
“Gar wept, and so great was his sorrow that he flooded the world. The other gods tried to reason with him, but Gar was inconsolable and, for a time, it seemed all of Tandara would perish in the waters.
“One day, a man named Durn appeared at the gates of Mandoora demanding an audience with Gar. As you might expect, the gods paid little heed to such effrontery, but Durn was not to be dissuaded. He stood outside the gates and shouted Gar’s name until the grieving god’s ire was roused.
“Angered by the intrusion, Gar went to deal with the upstart, and the other gods followed, curious to see what would happen. All but Magog, who’d already lapsed into madness.
“Gar roared and raised his god stone to smite the intruder. ‘Who dares disturb my mourning?’
“Durn stepped forward. Lean and dark he was, and tough as an arrow of ash. Such was the quality of calm steadiness about the man that Gar stilled his hand.
“‘I am called Durn, Great One. Cease your weeping, I beg you, lest all of Tandara drown in the bitter flow.’
“‘Let the world fill with tears and the heavens, too, ‘til the stars are doused in the drink,’ Gar said. ‘I care not now that my beloved hounds are gone.’
“‘Weep no more, Great One,’ Durn said. ‘I cannot return Andor to you, but I am a hunter of some skill. I will find your beloved Na’ima.’
“‘Bah,’ said Gar. ‘I have turned the bowl of heaven upside down with no luck. Think you a puny mortal can do better?’
“‘I can find a grain of rice in the sands of the ocean, Lord Gar. I will find your hound or die in the attempt.’
“Gar’s despair lightened. ‘Do this, and you may name your reward.’
“Durn’s face creased in the ghost of a smile. ‘At the moment, Lord Gar, what I desire most is a dry place to sleep.’
“For the first time since Na’ima’s disappearance, Gar laughed. ‘Then I will stem my tears for the moment, but I warn you, Durn. Fail me, and I will drown the world.’
&nb
sp; “Durn was being modest when he claimed some skill at finding things. Durn was a seeker, the first and mightiest of his kind. Leaving the Hall of the Gods, Durn returned to Tandara and waited for the water to subside. When dry land emerged, he set out, scanning the mountains and forests for signs of Na’ima. At length, he wandered into the grasslands, a vast, endless plain that stretched for thousands of leagues. There, he found her. Alas, he was too late, for the hound lay dying. Heavy with pups when she lost her way, Na’ima had given birth in the grasslands. Dragging the sod over her like a blanket—remember, Na’ima was no ordinary hound—she fashioned a den for her young.
“The pups were scarcely weaned when a pack of rock wolves caught their scent and came for them. Cautioning her pups to remain inside, Na’ima left the den to face the pack alone. For days, she fought them, until she’d slain the last rock wolf. Indeed, Durn heard the noise of the battle from afar and thought it thunder, until he beheld the carnage. Picking his way through the stinking sea of carcasses and carrion birds, he came upon the hound. Mortally wounded, Na’ima had died in front of her lair, guarding her pups in death as she had in life.
“‘Too late,’ Durn cried, falling to his knees beside her. ‘I am too late, and the world is lost.’
“A whine disturbed his anguish, and then another and another. Durn stilled, listening. The sounds came from deep inside Na’ima’s burrow. The pups lived, but what to do? Gar’s hounds were the size of war horses, and Na’ima’s offspring would be large and fearsome, and their hunger sharp. He would be torn to pieces should he venture inside their den.
“And, then, Durn had an idea. Kneeling beside Na’ima, he laid his hands on the dead hound. ‘Forgive me, mother. What I am about to do is for the sake of your pups.’
“Taking out his knife, Durn skinned Na’ima and donned her pelt. Then he crawled inside the tunnel. The belly of the hill was dark, save for four pairs of eyes shining in the blackness like live coals. A pup growled, sending a chill of fear down Durn’s spine. He paused, too terrified to go on. The eyes moved closer, and soft breath washed over him. Tugging Na’ima’s pelt tighter, he waited. Another sniff, followed by a nudge.
“The pups whimpered. ‘Mother, is that you? Your scent is the same and, yet, it is not.’
“To Durn’s amazement, he could understand what the pups were saying. More astonishing, when he answered them, his words were in the language of the hounds.
“‘I am not your mother,’ he said. ‘Your mother is gone. I am charged with your care in her stead.’
“‘Not the Mother? Not the Mother?’ the pups whined.
“‘Not the Mother,’ Durn told them.
“‘Not the mother, we are hungry,’ said one of the pups.
“‘Then you must eat,’ Durn said. ‘Abide here. Not the Mother will bring you meat.’
“Durn left the den and killed four deer in short order, and brought them back to feed the pups. Thereafter, Durn raised Na’ima’s pups as his own, teaching them to hunt and the ways of the pack. Two years passed in this fashion while the pups grew, becoming savage predators under Durn’s guidance. Their devotion to Nar, as they called him—Nar being short for Not the Mother—was fierce and complete.
“The day came when the hounds were strong enough to make the long journey to Mandoora, and Durn and his pack set out. After many adventures—we’ve no time for them today—they arrived at the home of the gods. There, they found the gates guarded by a terrible three-headed monster, a gift to Gar from Kron, his brother, in hopes that a new pet would ease Gar’s suffering, for the god still mourned the loss of his beloved hounds. Repulsed by the hideous creature, yet loath to reject his brother’s gift, Gar had placed the monster at the gates to discourage visitors.
“The Hound of Mandoora, as the monster was known, attacked Durn and the young hounds when they approached. The hounds were swift and strong, and avoided the creature’s jaws with ease. So, too, was Durn, but he counted not on the creature’s barbed tail. The spike struck him in the chest. Mortally injured, he fell and the Hound closed in for the kill. With a snarl of defiance, a bitch named Befal threw her body over Durn, protecting him. Her brothers and sister rushed to her aid, harrying the monster until it abandoned Befal and the fallen Seeker.
The gods heard the commotion and came out. Gar beheld the pack and was overjoyed, for the hounds were the image of Andor and Na’ima. To his dismay, however, they paid him no heed. The pack had concern only for Nar. Forming a protective circle around him, they cleaned the gaping wound in his chest with their tongues. Their spittle had restorative powers and Durn’s hurts were healed.
“He sat up. Panting with anxiety, the hounds sniffed him. ‘Nar is well?’
“Durn smiled and stroked their fur, his heart overflowing with affection. ‘Nar is fine, thanks to you.’
“He turned at a strangled sound and beheld Gar gazing upon the hounds, stricken. Rising, Durn went to the god and bowed low.
“‘Lord Gar, I bring you tidings of the bitch, Na’ima.’
“Kneeling, Durn laid the dog pelt at Gar’s feet and quickly told the god of Na’ima’s fearsome battle with the rock wolves, of her death and her bravery, and of the sacrifice she’d made for her young. Quaking with fear lest Gar take offense, he related how he’d skinned the hound and donned her pelt, become Nar to the pups and raising them.
“When he’d finished, Durn got to his feet, his heart heavy. The hounds were his children, but the time had come to bid them farewell.
“He motioned and the hounds trotted to his side. ‘And so I bring you these fine whelps, great Lord, the offspring of your cherished hounds. May they ease your suffering and give you joy.’
“To the pack, he said, ‘This is Gar, beloved by your mother and father. You will stay with him.’
“Filled with sorrow at the parting, Durn walked away.
“The hounds followed. ‘Do not leave us, Nar,’ they yowled.
“‘I must, for you belong to Gar,’ Durn said, though his heart was burdened by sadness. ‘Stay with him, and you will not grow old, never know hunger, cold, or want.’
“The hounds howled. So mournful was the sound, that the gods covered their ears.
“‘What is eternity without the joy of the hunt, the feel of the wind on our muzzles, or the sun on our backs?’ the pack replied. ‘We want to run the plains with you and curl at your side at night. Take us with you, Nar. Do not divide the pack.’
“Gar knew that he had lost his beloved hounds again, this time to a foe stronger than death.
“He turned away. ‘You have their love and loyalty. Take them and go, before I change my mind. I would not have them grieve themselves to death as Andor did for Na’ima.’
“Durn was overjoyed, but he hesitated. ‘Thank you, Great One, but I would not gain mine own happiness at the expense of the world.’
“‘Fear not. I will weep no more. I will find solace in knowing that Na’ima’s and Andor’s young roam the grasslands.’
“And so Durn left Mandoora with the hounds and returned to the plains that were their home. The next summer, Durn journeyed once more to the Hall of the Gods. Keeping a safe distance from the Hound—now stoutly chained—he shouted at the gates.
“Gar strode out, looking thinner and more careworn than the year before. ‘How fare the hounds, Seeker? Do they flourish in the meads?”
“‘Aye, Lord Gar,’ Durn said. ‘Befal and Hez had a fine litter of pups this spring.’ He motioned and a dog and a bitch crept from behind their parents. ‘Their names are Jaabir and Aliz. Night and day, they pester me for stories of Na’ima and Andor. I have told them all I know, but their curiosity remains unappeased. Perhaps they could abide here awhile and weary you with their questions? If that is agreeable.’
“Gar’s eyes gleamed. ‘I should like that very much.’
“That year, Jaabir and Aliz remained with Gar, bringi
ng him comfort. The following spring, Durn returned and found them content.
“‘They have decided to stay with me.’ Gar held out Na’ima’s pelt. ‘Take it, and may Na’ima’s strength and courage be yours whenever you don her skin.’
“To this day, Jaabir and Aliz reside with Gar in Mandoora, as eternal as the god himself. In time, Durn took a wife and they had children. The hounds stayed with them and they also multiplied. Thus, the nation of Durngaria was founded and Gar took them as his people. To this day, Durn’s descendants, the Durngesi tribesmen, keep faith with the pack. One among each generation of Durngesi is chosen to be the Nar, and wears the sacred pelt of Na’ima.”
Gertie put the finishing touches on Raine’s hair and stretched. “And that’s the story of Durn.”
Braxx gave the tiller to one of his men. Patting Chaz on the head, he stomped over. “A fine tale, Madam Troll, and well told. Ain’t been to the plains, myself. Dock born and bred. Is it true the Durngesi talk to their hounds?”
“Yes, and the Nar assumes the shape of a hound at will.”
Braxx chuckled. “What a load of bilge water.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Mauric helped Raine to her feet, and held his hand out to Gertie. “I’m sure the captain meant no offense, Glogathgorag.”
Gertie swatted his hand away and sprang to her feet.
“Glogathgorag?” Braxx paled. “I thought your name was Gertie.”
“So, it is,” Gertie said. “Gertie is a nickname.”
“If you’re Glogathgorag, then that means you’re . . .” Braxx’s eyes bulged. “You’re. . .”
“Old,” Mauric said helpfully. “Really, really old.”
Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Braxx wiped his brow. “The Old One herself on my barge. Wait until I tell the lads.”
“That’s enough of that.” Gertie looked around. “I’m hungry. What is there to eat on this tub?” Stomping over to the cook kettle, she sampled the contents and spat. “Kron, that’s disgusting. Who’s responsible for this offal?”
A Meddle of Wizards Page 21
