by Renee Wildes
He shivered but shook his head. “Quark’s the leader because he’s the strongest. None dare challenge him. We never used to be afraid of him, but he’s become meaner over the past moon cycle.”
When the nightmares started hitting their nets harder, when the magic of the faeries failed…
“When did he find the staff?”
Mog stared at her with a haunted expression. “On one of his raids. He brought it back, and since then, everyone does what he says. ’Tis cold. It burns.”
She nodded, all too well recalling that horrific icy shattering in her mind. “What if I were to tell you Benilo and I were here to stop him?”
His look reflected cautious hope and traces of fear. “He’s too strong.”
“Heyla, now—look what we’ve done so far,” she chided him. “Quark’s but one person. That staff isn’t his. If we take it away from him, he’s the same as the rest of us.”
“Mother believes you can help.”
Thank the Mother of All that even amidst the warmongering goblins dwelt those who wished for peace. No surprise it started with the females, the mothers who hoped for a brighter future for their children. Pryseis vowed to do everything she could to make that dream come true.
“Mog, isn’t it wonderful to be able to talk like this?”
He nodded. “I wish we could talk on the other side. It drives Mother mad, all the pointing and gesturing.”
“Mayhaps we can.”
His face lit with fierce hope. He looked more like Dax in that moment than ever. “How?”
It was worth a try. “Mog, do you trust me? When I say I’d never hurt you, that I’m here to help you, do you believe me with all your heart?”
“Yes. You made all this possible.” He nodded. “I think you can make anything possible.”
Well, that might be stretching things a bit. But his wholehearted trust and faith were all she needed. “Mog, I think you can teach me your language. ’Tis all right there in your mind. If you relax, close your eyes and think of me, I think you can put it right in my brain. I’ll leave the door open so you won’t have to knock too hard.”
The image of him knocking on a real door made him laugh, but he appeared a bit worried. “Will it hurt?”
“Nay,” she assured him. “I’d never hurt you, Mog. It might tickle a bit.” Pryseis reached out with tickling fingers and found a spot under his arm that made him squirm and howl with glee. “Kind of like that.”
Pryseis relaxed and lowered her mental shields. She felt his mind reach for hers, and she drew him into her. A brush of warmth like when a butterfly landed on her finger, a barely there tickle of awareness. His own shields were nonexistent. No wonder he had been hit so hard by the darkness. He had no way to block it out. She could help him with that, but first things first.
She pulled a cacophony of images, words and phrases from him, a deep, guttural sound with a gritty feel to it, like sand. It merged with her own language, an uneasy shadow in her mind. Some of the sounds…she wasn’t sure she could twist her way through some of the pronunciations, but it was more than she’d had afore.
She met Mog’s worried gaze. “Are you all right?” he asked. Relief lit his face when she nodded.
“I am fine,” she replied aloud. When his jaw dropped, she kenned it had worked. She’d answered in his own language—and just spit a little. It was like gargling sand. She almost wanted a drink of water to wash the sounds down. “Are you ready to return?”
He nodded and took her hand. There was a curious wrenching, and Pryseis opened her eyes. They were back under the blanket with Benilo.
Mog rolled over to face her, grinned and wriggled out from under the covers. “I’ll go get Mother and Aunt Jem.”
“All right,” she agreed.
Benilo stared. “It worked. That was in goblin.”
“I ken.” She wiped a drop of saliva from her lower lip. “My mouth doesn’t want to work the right way. Can you ken what he said?”
He nodded. “Through you, but you shall have to do the speaking.”
She grimaced. “How long were we gone?”
“Mayhaps four or five candle marks.” He looked somber. “I have my suspicions as to what is causing the illness, but you shall not like it—and neither shall they.”
Pryseis reached out and lay her hand on his cheek. “What is it?”
Chapter Nine
Dax stared upward at the cave entrance, pictured Pryseis standing at the edge in the rain, letting the misting droplets soak into her skin and hair. She loved the sun and the wind and the rain. And now she was underground, Mother kenned where, doing Mother kenned what. She thought him dead. Probably blamed herself.
Brannan puffed up behind him. “Is that where they attacked?”
Dax nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Echoes of the fierce melting pain wracked his body and stole his breath. He clenched his jaw. It was just an illusion, a memory.
But it could happen again.
“Heyla.” Brannan gripped his arm, hard enough to yank Dax back to the present. “The poison is gone. Benilo healed you. It is in the past.”
“And the future.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Impressive resolve from a youth who looked as if he’d like naught better than to lie down and take a nap. Dax started up the rock face, choosing and testing jagged hand- and footholds. He wished he had his weapons. Assaulting a goblin camp and rescuing two people unarmed seemed a hopeless task. He’d been trained in unarmed killing, but it was up close work. Poison tipped arrows were distance weapons. Not great odds.
He entered the space where they’d camped, stared at the cold remnants of the fire. New Moon’s feathers glistened from her perch on one of the half-burnt sticks of wood. He pictured Pryseis curled up behind the flames, a tear sliding down her cheek at what the short-sighted faerie council had done. She’d be critically short on energy now. He was too young to remember Shallan, but he’d heard the stories of her collapse and they were horrific to think about. Was there anything an elven spirit healer could do to help Pryseis, or would they arrive too late to do anything but return her body for burning?
Brannan moved past him to study the back wall. “This is where they came through?”
Dax nodded, running a hand down a discernable seam in the cool rock wall. He’d missed it the first time, and that error had almost proved fatal. Now that he kenned where it was, there was no mistaking the hidden doorway.
Brannan too followed the lines. “Is the trigger just on that side, or on this side too?”
At least the elf recovered fast, if his smoother speech was any indication.
“I’d think both.” Dax kept examining the wall. It was here somewhere.
Brannan rummaged in his pack, pulling out an assortment of long knives and daggers. “Here. I ken they disarmed you afore you crossed the barrier. You shall need these where we go, so I brought them along.” He also removed a curved pry bar. “Just in case.”
Dax stared at the weapons with genuine shock. An elf arming a troll? Now there was trust. He rearmed in silence.
“I found the catch—only thing metal amidst all the stone.” Brannan scanned the wall. “The release has to be close. Mayhaps…here.” He pressed. Naught happened. “Or here.” A sharp click and the wall swung open. Wide enough to allow the passage of goblins. Wide enough to allow the passage of one slender faerie—if she exhaled and they shoved hard enough.
Nowhere near enough for an elf or a troll. Hence the bar.
“What about light?” Brannan asked as he and Dax used bar and muscle to widen the entrance.
Dax shook his head. “The walls glow enough to see by. Green mold makes its own light.”
Brannan’s face lit. “Fascinating.” He popped through the entryway to see for himself.
Fascinating? Mold? Brannan needed to leave his dwelling more often. Dax shook his head and followed; New Moon did not. He caught the impression she guarded their way back. From what? Dax waite
d to adjust to the dimness. Brannan touched the glowing wall, took out a scraper to free some of the mold. The removed portion went dark. Dax grinned as Brannan’s shoulders sagged.
At least the elf had the presence of mind to stay silent. Sound carried far in the tunnels. No sense announcing their approach to the enemy. Dax squatted down to scan the floor. Lots of footprints, bare goblin feet. Too trampled to discern the shape of a faerie boot. Wait. He focused harder. There it was—the slight depression of a familiar heel, on the edge of the worn path. Pryseis had struggled, stepped back to catch her balance.
Time to go. Dax led the way, Brannan a few steps behind.
It was tight quarters. His neck prickled at the presence of an enemy elf in his wake, in his blind spot. He ignored it. Brannan wasn’t the enemy. Pryseis’ goblin abductors were. His stomach rumbled. He ignored that too. They wound their way down, deeper through the tunnels. Gradually he became aware of the heavy, too-rapid breathing behind him. Dax stopped and turned.
Brannan’s pale, sweaty face said it all.
“It it the darkness or the closeness of the rock?” Dax asked.
“Both, I think.” Brannan shuddered, straightened his shoulders. “We must do this. I shall be fine.”
“Were you aware of this affliction afore now, or is this a new discovery?”
“Afore. It is naught.”
Sweet Mother, the youth was brave. Dax gave a curt nod and resumed the lead. The sooner they completed their mission and returned to the outside, the better off they’d be.
They came to a juncture in the tunnel. Impossible to tell which way was correct—tracks went both directions. Dax turned to Brannan, who held up a hand and mouthed “Wait.” He watched the elf place a hand against the rock wall and close his eyes. Moments later, he opened them, a shock of green, and pointed left. How he discerned the correct direction, Dax could but guess, but it was all he had to go on.
They went left.
The scene repeated itself a half-dozen times. Somehow Brannan was tracking them, Pryseis and Benilo. How, Dax had no idea. But it felt like the elf kenned what he was doing. Sudden voices from up ahead, guttural and goblin, froze them in their tracks. The enemy approached. Three distinct voices. Dax listened hard.
“Hurry up,” one whined in a scratchy voice. “I want to get home afore they drink up all the wine.”
“They won’t even mith uth.” A lisping voice.
“Quark will, if we don’t hurry. We need to retrieve the case and get back.” The third voice was deeper, younger. More commanding.
Dax froze. He kenned that voice. A goblin sub-commander named Grigg. The one who’d called the retreat at Enoka Pass—the one who’d left the trolls to die. His blood boiled. Brannan had nowhere to hide. He turned to warn him and froze. Brannan had disappeared. Rock wall, mud and mold were all he saw. What the—?
The goblins rounded the corner, and time stopped as everyone froze. Dax recovered first and drew a long knife. Grigg tracked the motion, and he laughed—a wheezing, braying sound. “An elven war trophy from Enoka Pass, troll? Stole it off the prince ye killed, didja? Well, we all got something from that day.” He fingered his belt. Braided white horse hair.
Dax growled. Good thing Brannan didn’t ken goblin. “I’m on my way to talk to Quark. I have information on Crystal Mountain he’ll find of interest.”
“Guarding sheep getting old, troll?” Grigg taunted.
“We mutht go,” Lisping Voice urged. “We’re running out of time.”
“Follow the tunnels to the right,” Grigg stated. “Quark’s clan resides in the first encampment room. Or turn back now. I don’t think he’ll be too happy to see you, troll.”
“Oh, I think he shall.” Dax bared his sharpened tusks. “Some information is worth the risk.”
Grigg shrugged. “’Tis your funeral, troll.”
“I hate troll meat,” Scratchy Voice whined. “Too tough and stringy.”
Dax forced himself not to react. They were just baiting him…weren’t they? He moved around the goblins, careful not to leave his back exposed, and noted they did the same. As they disappeared around the bend, he relaxed. Where was Brannan?
A shadow separated from the wall. Brannan, in plain sight. How had he managed the disappearing-elf trick? Dax took one look at the rigid planes of the healer’s face, the icy fury in his blazing green eyes, and cursed.
Brannan clearly understood goblin.
Benilo rubbed his face and blinked at the four identical expressions of…expectation. Hope. Pryseis spoke first. “What have you found out?”
The harsh goblin syllables sounded odd coming from her mouth. She struggled to form the sounds, which sounded like she gargled sand, and he saw her wipe away a bit of saliva. But the goblins understood her, ignoring what had to be a terrible accent.
“I am certain it is a mold, probably the spores,” he confessed. “I wish to examine the green and yellow molds on the walls, but they shall have to release the chains in order for me to reach.”
Jem shook her head when Pryseis translated. “I dare not,” she relayed through Pryseis. “If Tik or I release you, our lives would be forfeit. To them,” she indicated the other goblins outside the tent, “you are the enemy.”
“But we’re here to help,” Pryseis said.
Mog’s expression was torn. “I believe them,” he told his mother and aunt. “We can keep Pryseis chained up. Benilo won’t leave without her.”
“I shall not leave with things the way there are, regardless,” Benilo argued. “I am a healer. I came to help Pryseis with Mog. I shall stay because I believe there is a way to help everyone else.”
Mog’s mother Tik whispered in Jem’s ear. They cast sharp glances his way.
“Pryseis stays chained.” Jem’s tone brooked no argument.
Pryseis nodded. “Agreed.”
“You don’t leave the tent area,” Jem added. “Stay back here, away from the others.”
“Fine.” Benilo held out his ankle, and Jem fumbled with the catch until it released. He caught a twinge of envy from Pryseis. “Soon enough, beauty,” he reassured her. “Patience. Once the problem of their health is solved, they shall be more inclined to see reason.”
“Do you think you can find it?” Pryseis’ heart beat faster with rising hope. He heard it in his own ears.
Benilo gritted his teeth. “Finding it is not the issue, but if I am correct, it means the very thing they use for lighting is what is poisoning their minds. How do you destroy the poison but not the light?”
Pryseis froze. “I hope you’re wrong.”
So did he, but he did not think so. There just was naught else down here. The goblins were not taking something deliberately, which meant it had to be incidental, environmental. Something unique to this encampment, or all the goblins would be mad. He moved closer to the back wall. The green mold was universal, it was throughout the caverns…but the yellow… He held a hand out to the wall, extended his senses to get a sense of its properties. The yellow was much brighter than the green, which is why it had been encouraged to flourish. He still got a feeling it avoided the hot spring. Something in the water was harmful to it. Odd, since mold usually did better in a damp environment.
“Pryseis? I need some of that water from the hot spring.”
At her request, Mog brought a steaming bucket.
Benilo locked on to the spores, then examined the lad when he came close. The spores were within the child. He wagered it inhabited every breathing creature in the chamber. He dipped his fingers in the water to anchor himself with the one thing the mold avoided and lowered his shields to feel the full effect of the spores. With any luck, naught would happen.
At first, he did not notice any change, but then it started. Outrage at what the sorcerer had done to an innocent child, fury at how the sorcerer misused the staff, crushing sorrow at how the faeries had turned their backs on Pryseis. Pryseis… Her beauty, her passion… He gasped at the sudden impulse to throw her to the ground
and bury himself in her wet heat. His entire body tightened, burned.
Nay, that was the water. He plunged his entire arm in the bucket. The pain tore his mind back to the present, and he locked his shields, focusing the fire and water to burn away the spores invading his body. His gaze met Pryseis’ and he saw his own grimness mirrored on her face.
“Get rid of it,” she begged.
He burned it from her body, also. “But reinfection is a given,” he warned, “until the source is gone.” Benilo tossed some of the water on the mold, watched it shrink and dim. He still did not ken if it was from the heat, the minerals or something even less tangible—just that it repelled the mold. “Call the others.”
The tent filled with goblins—everyone still present. Their faces reflected skepticism as Pryseis translated what Benilo had found. Jem proved to be their greatest ally in this. “Think about it,” she cajoled. “The one thing unique to us is the brighter light, and we’re the only ones who suffer the problem.”
“But to destroy our light source!” an old male protested.
“Ren, we still have the green,” Tik stated.
“I don’t want to go back to the dark,” Mog whined.
“There are other sources of light.” Benilo tried to reassure them. “There are burnable substances like wood and oils.”
“We’re a long way from the surface,” Ren protested. “Long way to haul wood. And how would we get the oil?”
“Steal it,” another sneered.
“Trade for it,” Pryseis suggested. “You trade with each other. Why not other races?”
“We’re raiders, not merchants.”
“Worry about that when the time comes, when you are all gathered together and can make a group decision,” Benilo advised. “For now, the problem at hand is what to do about the sickness—unless you think killing each other in fits of rage is normal?”
Mog flinched. His lips trembled. “He was my father. Uncle Tark killed my father.”
Jem’s mate had killed Tik’s mate? Brothers, mates of sisters. Kin. Benilo’s heart ached for the boy, the needless death. “When did the yellow first show up?”
