by Mel Odom
The dream had been an enjoyable time spent in slumber. In fact, he was already thinking of how he’d like to render a second, fresher version of the tale with color illustrations.
Opening his eyes, something he wasn’t always able to do while held captive in a dream, Wick stared at the low ceiling overhead and the end of the hammock he was lying in.
“No!” he croaked.
Panicked, he tried to turn over in the hammock to take in the small room and promptly fell out onto the hardwood floor. His head slammed into the solid surface. Stars spun behind his eyes. That was further proof he wasn’t dreaming: He never hit bottom when he fell in his dreams.
The impact ignited a headache that seemed on the verge of shattering his skull. A nasty, bitter taste filled his mouth. That definitely wasn’t normal. Suspicion darkened his thoughts.
Moaning a little with the effort, Wick levered himself up and stumbled to the porthole. He peered out at the curling waves of plum-colored ocean.
I’m on the Blood-Soaked Sea! he thought in disbelief. I’ve been shanghaied! Again!
3
“We Have a Mission for You, Librarian Lamplighter”
Angry and hurting, Wick headed for the door. Then he noticed the small hammock hanging above the one he’d fallen out of. Inside the hammock, Critter slept with its wings flared out to its sides.
Remembering how Critter had unmercifully awakened him the first time he’d been taken aboard One-Eyed Peggie, Wick yelled, “Wake up, ye goldbrickin’ feather duster!” and gave the small hammock a spin, looping it over and over from its ties.
The rhowdor spun in the hammock, then fell out and tumbled toward the ground. Critter fluttered and landed on its bottom on the floor with its legs flared out. For a moment, its head bobbed like a yo-yo on a string. It blinked its eye quickly, then focused on Wick with a narrowed, baleful gaze.
“Why ye sawed-off sorry excuse fer a pirate!” Critter exploded. It kicked its claws and got its legs under it. “Ye slimesuckin’ bilge rat! Ye’re gonna pay fer that, ye are!” It came at Wick, barely weaving as its sticklike legs churned.
Still, Wick moved quickly and let himself out the door. He closed it behind him just in time to hear a satisfying thud! that warmed his heart and alleviated some of the misery he felt.
Critter cursed Wick thoroughly through the door and kicked it.
Ignoring the rhowdor, knowing the bird couldn’t open the door and trusting that it would be some time before Critter could fly through the porthole, Wick turned his attention to the ship’s deck. If waking up in a hammock in the same room as Critter wasn’t proof enough, all the familiar faces of the crew told him immediately he was on One-Eyed Peggie.
They all called out to him in greeting, but most of them were moving slowly after shore leave. Sail filled the ’yards and popped in the strong breeze. The sun hung high in the eastern sky, and he noticed they were headed toward it. The mainland lay in that direction, but he judged that they were headed too far south to be making for the Shattered Coast. Somewhere south of there then, but he hadn’t yet been in that direction.
Why? Wick wondered. But he knew asking himself that question wouldn’t do any good. So he went looking for Hallekk, going up the stairs to the stern castle.
The big first mate was on the stern deck, just as Wick thought he would be. Surprisingly, Cap’n Farok was there as well. Even Craugh stood there with them, brimmed hat shadowing his eyes as he gazed out to sea.
That can’t be good, Wick thought, but his anger grew inside him. He strode over to them and they all looked at him.
“A fair mornin’ to ye, Librarian,” Cap’n Farok greeted in his creaky voice.
Cap’n Farok was the oldest dwarf Wick had ever seen outside of an illustration in one of the books in Hralbomm’s Wing in the vault. Almost a head shorter than Hallekk, Farok had silvery gray hair so aged that it was turning alabaster. The years had robbed his face of its firmness, so wrinkled that it looked like it had been hollowed out and was falling in on itself. He wore a fine suit and a decorated hat that set him apart from his crew.
Some of Wick’s anger evaporated at seeing the old ship’s captain. Farok’s health hadn’t been good for the last few years. Much of the time he was bedridden. On occasion, he’d talked of stepping down from his post and letting Hallekk take over as captain, but his crew had refused. Everyone knew that the only family Farok had was aboard One-Eyed Peggie. If he returned to Greydawn Moors, or any other place, for that matter, he’d only die among strangers.
“A fair morning to you, too, Cap’n,” Wick said respectfully. “I—”
“I’spect ye got questions,” Farok interrupted.
“Aye, I do. Also, I need to ask you to turn around and take me back to Greydawn Moors. I’ve work to do at the Vault of All Known Knowledge. I don’t know whose grand idea it was to kidnap me—” Here he glared at Craugh and Hallekk, both of whom he knew well enough to trust that they wouldn’t turn him into a toad or beat him to a pulp respectively. Although the kidnapping had been a total surprise. “—but someone here deserves a swift—”
Farok held up a quavering hand. “It were me idea, Librarian.”
Over Farok’s shoulder, Craugh and Hallekk grinned at Wick and raised their eyebrows, waiting to see how he was going to finish the threat he’d started.
“—chance to let me know what’s going on,” Wick fumbled. He couldn’t believe Farok had given the order to take him from Greydawn Moors. They traveled well aboard the ship when Wick was about tracking books down on the mainland, often playing chess and talking over nautical stories—which were a treasure trove for Wick because he took notes in his journals, but both of them knew he wasn’t exactly pirate material.
“Over the mornin’ meal then,” Farok agreed. “I’spect ye’ve got an appetite?”
Wick’s stomach rumbled for all to hear.
“Well then,” Farok said, laughing, “that’s answer enough.” He turned to the first mate. “Hallekk, the table if ye please. We’ll be after takin’ our meal here on the stern deck.”
Hallekk went to the stern railing and bawled out the orders.
“An’ when we finish the morning meal,” Farok went on, “then we’ll talk about why ye’re here.”
In short order, ship’s crew brought out the captain’s table and covered it with food. The sea was calm enough for them to eat, and being outside in the open was better than being closed up in the captain’s cramped quarters or sharing mess with the crew down in the galley.
“Tuck in, Librarian, tuck in,” Farok invited as he shoved a napkin down the front of his blouse. “We’ve just come from shore leave, an’ them good people of Greydawn Moors has been mightily generous.”
Hallekk passed plates around.
They were fired pottery, robin’s-egg blue with gold-leaf trim showing beautifully rendered images of fantastic forest beasts. The luster of the plates was so shiny Wick could see himself in it.
“Oh my,” he gasped. “Have you seen this?”
Farok leaned over and peered at the plate. “What is it? Did Slops not get them plates clean again? I’ve already had a talk to him about that.”
“No. The plates are fine. But it’s the plates themselves.” Wick turned the plate to face the dwarven captain. “Do you know what they are?”
“Why, they’s plates,” Farok said.
“I believe Wick is referring to the fact that these plates are Delothian warder plates.” Craugh sawed through a plump sausage with a knife, then forked up a chunk and popped it into his mouth.
Wick gazed at the wizard in disbelief. “You knew that?”
“Yes. I’m not uneducated.”
“But you’re eating off them!”
“That’s what they were made for.” Craugh sectioned a firepear and forked a bit of it as well. “To be eaten off of.”
“But not by a bunch of dwarven pirates!” Wick was suddenly aware of how quiet the stern deck had gotten. Had the wind died down? He tried
to recover. “Dwarven pirates who are actually heroes in disguise.” There. That sounds better, doesn’t it?
Hallekk looked grudgingly at his plate, then a little ashamed. “I ain’t fit to be eatin’ off this plate, is that what ye’re a-sayin’?”
“No,” Wick replied, feeling bad and wishing he had a way out of the hole he’d dug for himself. “What I’m saying is that these plates have a unique history.” He turned the plate in his hands, finding the beginning of the story rendered there in the images. “This tale is about Noosif, the beaver companion of Warder Riantap, who was a great champion and cared for the Cealoch River from the Sparkling Falls to the Moons-kissed Deltalands where the Haidon lumberjack settlement lived.”
Leaning close to his plate, scraping away a piece of egg from the edge, Hallekk said, “This one’s about an eagle.”
“That’s probably an owl,” Wick said automatically. “The Band of Fur, Feather, and Fin didn’t include an eagle. There were twelve animals in all, creatures of the Delothian warders—humans, not elves—who fought the Mad Empress Maligna during the Zenoffran Troll War.”
“I weren’t aware there were any trolls in Zenoffra,” Hallekk said.
“There weren’t,” Wick agreed, “after the Delothian warders finished with them. Until that time, the Mad Empress had employed them to build engines of destruction in the Skytrees Forest. Then the Haidon lumberjacks were able to move in and start harvesting trees for the ships made down in Cogsdale, where so many cargo ships were built. That war was important to the human sailors because it gave them resources to build fleets of trading and war vessels.” He shrugged. “Of course, they immediately started competitions for trade goods and sank many of those ships.”
“Are ye a-gonna eat, Librarian?” Farok asked. “While it’s still hot? Would ye rather have another plate if that one doesn’t suit ye?”
Wick sighed. None of them understood. “These were built for the Delothian warders, to commemorate their victory over the Mad Empress. Most of them died or lost their animal companions. They’re works of art.”
Craugh scooped up a big spoonful of hash browns fried with sweet onions, and plopped it into the center of the plate Wick held. “And today they hold food provided by generous hosts.” His eyebrows arched in mild rebuke over his green eyes.
Giving up, Wick quickly filled his plate with sausages, fresh baked biscuits, firepears, corn pancakes that he covered in sweet sparkleberry syrup and tart limemelon wedges.
“Well,” Hallekk said, eyeing Wick’s burgeoning plate, “one thing ye got to say for them potters what made these plates: They certainly made big ones. Ye ought to be grateful ’bout that.”
Wick was, but he ate carefully and didn’t drag his fork over the plate.
After the table and the remnants were packed away, Farok and Craugh filled their pipes and lounged in their chairs to smoke. Hallekk went to see to his rounds.
One-Eyed Peggie continued to slice through the Blood-Soaked Sea. The eternal fogs, kept in place through the magical glamours that protected Greydawn Moors, ghosted across the deck and limited vision in all directions. But the sun felt warm.
“Awwwwwwrrrrrrrkkkkk!” Critter moaned below. The rhowdor sounded as if it were dying.
For a moment, Wick felt sorry for the bird. But not too much. Critter would live; it just wouldn’t enjoy the experience for a while.
“Awwwwwrrrrrrrrkkkkk!” Critter cried again. A moment later, it stumbled across the deck. Its pinkish horned face looked decidedly green. Its brilliant tail feathers, now tangled and some of them broken, trailed on the deck after it.
Struggling mightily, the rhowdor climbed the side, hooked its claws in under the top rail, and hung its head over. It used its wings to steady itself, then heaved again and again, sounding like it was strangling.
Mercilessly, the crew guffawed and hurled insults at the poor bird, making fun of his condition. “That’ll teach ye to drink that rotgut, ye bone-headed bird!” someone yelled.
“Just keep throwin’ up,” someone else said. “When ye see yer claws an’ tail feathers comin’ up, ye’ll know ye’re almost done.”
Critter tried to hurl an insult back, but ended up hurling over the side halfway through. Trapped with no way to respond, the bird had no choice but to take every scathing insult the crew could think of. And they could think of a lot because they spent a lot of time at sea with nothing to do.
Wick chuckled at the rhowdor’s plight in spite of his mood. No one aboard the ship would see any true harm come to the rhowdor, but the bird was not well liked by anyone.
“I’d come to Greydawn Moors on another matter,” Craugh said, “when I found you lecturing in Paunsel’s.”
“I wasn’t lecturing,” Wick said. “I was merely trying to forestall a brawl. If I’d had any sense, I’d have left out the back way.”
“It’s probably a good thing you didn’t. Tempers seemed high last night.” Craugh puffed on his pipe.
“What other matter brought you to Greydawn Moors?” Unable to simply sit and listen, used to having his hands busy all day, Wick reached down into his rucksack and took out one of the journals he kept on hand. A brief check inside assured him that it was blank.
He had a habit of carrying several different journals with him at all times because his attention constantly jumped from subject to subject. Grandmagister Frollo faulted him for that on a regular basis. Wick just had a hard time staying still—unless he had a truly good book in his hands. Thankfully, the Taurak Bleiyz book was in the rucksack as well, though he didn’t know when he would ever get the dweller hero across the spiderweb above the Rushing River.
“The Cryptkeeper of Houngal,” Craugh said.
Wick glanced sharply at the wizard. “I thought the Cryptkeeper was a myth.”
Craugh puffed solemnly on his pipe. “I’d hoped.” Something dark and dreadful flickered in his eyes. “But I think I met it.”
“Where?” Unbidden, Wick’s hands removed a stick of charcoal from the rolled leather pouch that held his writing utensils. Quickly, he sketched out the tall, lean frame of the Cryptkeeper, shrouding the crocodile’s skull he reportedly wore in the hood of a tattered cloak.
“Near Moiturl,” Craugh answered. “There are ruins there—”
“Tumbledown City,” Wick said, nodding, watching with growing interest as the Cryptkeeper took shape on the blank page. “It wasn’t always called Tumbledown City. From the geographic references I’ve been able to piece together, Tumbledown City was once a human settlement called Arrod. It was a meeting place for the humans of Northern Javisham.”
“Correct,” Craugh said, looking more than slightly impressed. “Truly, Second Level Librarian Wick, your knowledge of the world before the Cataclysm sometimes astounds me.”
“You have to remember that all the books I read are pre-Cataclysm,” Wick said. “But I listen to the travelers’ tales down at the Yondering Docks, and I can sometimes put today’s places with what they were all those years ago. During that time, Arrod was a large town—for a human settlement, which wasn’t common given that humans tend to wander—and the center of three different trade routes.” He started to name them, but Craugh held up his hand in irritation.
I guess, at the moment, he isn’t prepared to be astounded anymore, Wick thought.
“We need to talk about why you’re aboard One-Eyed Peggie,” Craugh said.
“What happened to the Cryptkeeper of Houngar?” Wick asked. He hated mysteries. Well, truth to tell, he actually enjoyed them. But not if they weren’t properly finished.
“All those years ago? Or when I met him?”
“Both.”
“All those years ago, he was a graveyard attendant who stole from the dead. As a result, he was cursed to eternally guard the dead but he couldn’t leave the graveyard.”
“And if he did?”
“He turned to dust.”
“Oh. So you lured him away from the graveyard.”
“No,” Craugh s
aid, frowning, “I turned him into a toad. When I left, he was hopping around the crypt. If he didn’t hop away from the graveyard, he’s still there.” He smiled a little. “It’s a rather fascinating experiment, actually, to see if my spell or the curse gives out first.”
“You turned him into a toad. Haven’t you ever thought about turning those who vex you into … I don’t know, something else?”
“No,” Craugh said flatly. “It works. Why fix it?”
“It’s not very creative.”
Craugh shifted irritably in his seat and came close to glaring. “Do you think I stole you away from Greydawn Moors to critique my choice of transformations?”
Wick was suddenly aware that he was out on thin ice. “Uh … noooo?”
“I did not.”
Then, before he could stop himself, Wick said, “I thought Cap’n Farok made the decision to shanghai me.”
Craugh’s face colored darkly with anger.
“I did,” Farok said. “After Craugh put the sleeping powder in yer drink an’ Hallekk carried ye back to the ship.”
“You?” Wick exploded. “Put sleeping powder in my drink?”
“You wouldn’t have agreed to come if I’d asked,” Craugh said.
“Of course not!” Wick couldn’t believe it. The wizard had betrayed him in the past, but nothing like—Then he stopped himself. Actually, this is exactly like that time in Cormorthal. He groaned. He couldn’t believe he’d been made the fool. Again.
“I made the decision for ye,” Farok said. “So if ’n yer after a-placin’ blame, let it be on me head.”
Wick gazed at the captain’s rheumy old eyes. Even though he struggled valiantly to hang onto his anger, he couldn’t. Farok had never betrayed him, never once deserted him to deal with razor-tusked melanoths in a dead-end alley, never abandoned him to explain the theft of an ensorcelled skull in a temple of Thurdamon the Cursed, never—well, all things considered, there was a lot Craugh had to answer for over the years.
