by Mel Odom
Wick couldn’t help it. Instinct forced him to duck. The cat missed him with three of her paws but managed to hook him with her left foreleg. Her claws dug into his hair and his scalp.
Yelping in pain, Wick was distracted from the sudden stop waiting at the end of the hawser. The cat clung to him, digging all of her claws in deeply enough to draw blood. From the corner of his eye, Wick saw the piling ahead just before he slammed into it.
For a moment, he thought he’d knocked himself out. He’d knocked the wind out of his lungs and his senses spun dizzily inside his battered skull. Ice and water lapped at the piling below his feet. From where he hung, he had a clear view of Wraith’s prow. The ship’s figurehead had been carved into the shape of a monstrous looking thing rising from the ocean. Wraiths took many shapes, Wick knew, but there was no doubting what that one was.
“Are you going to hang there all day?” the cat demanded.
No, Wick thought. I’m going to hang here and listen to my heart stop. He felt certain that was going to happen. Then he managed to take a breath as his lungs finally started working again. Unfortunately, that started an onslaught of pain.
The cat leaped from the top of Wick’s head to the dock. At her urging, he managed to heave himself up and lay gasping on the dock.
Onboard Wraith, Captain Gujhar called out to the goblinkin. Some of them grabbed bows. Arrows thudded into the dock as Wick climbed with renewed enthusiasm. Keeping his head covered with his hands, he ran down the dock amid cargo handlers who dove for cover.
“Avast there, ye blasted goblinkin!” a tall human yelled. Then he reached for his own bow and nocked an arrow. A heartbeat later, he seated the shaft in the chest of a goblinkin who squalled in mortal agony.
“This way,” the cat called.
Wick ran blindly, trusting the feline even though he didn’t want to. He turned to the right at the end of the dock, scattering a gathering of seagulls that took flight from the fish heads and entrails left by the morning fishermen. By that time, a proper fight had started between the goblinkin and the human sailors along the dock. In the next minute he was gone, lost among the twisting alley of Wharf Rat’s Warren.
9
Seaspray
Heart pounding and lungs burning, Wick couldn’t go on anymore. He halted in the last alley they’d come to and leaned against the wall.
“Come on,” Alysta said. She stood ahead of him, looking as cool and composed as if she’d just wakened from a nap.
Wick shook his head. “I can’t go on any farther.” He sucked in air, believing he was about to die.
“All right then,” the cat said reluctantly, “rest. I’ll go make certain we’re not being followed.” She ran to the front of the alley and peered out. Her tail twitched behind her, keeping perfect time.
Still trembling from the close call, not willing to believe that he was actually going to make good his escape, Wick held his arms up for a moment to let his lungs fill more easily. Then, before he knew it, he took the ship’s log from the knotted pillowcase. His eyes moved restlessly across the pages, scanning information. As always, he got lost in the words almost at once.
“What are you doing?”
Wick ignored the cat and kept reading. “Getting information.”
“What information?”
“About the people on that ship. Wraith.”
“They want to kill us.”
“Yes.”
“There’s not a whole lot more to know.”
“Actually,” Wick said, licking his thumb and turning the page, “there is. The man who hired the Razor’s Kiss thieves here isn’t just after Boneslicer and Seaspray. He’s also after—”
“Deathwhisper.”
Wick frowned. “You knew.”
The cat turned over a paw, then sat and wrapped her tail around her feet. “Honestly, I can’t believe you know so little.”
“Craugh didn’t tell me anything other than to come here. And that someone would be here to help me.”
“Didn’t you study the stories of the Battle of Fell’s Keep?”
“I did,” Wick said.
“Then you should have known what the people we’re up against were after.”
Wick suddenly realized what those prizes were. “Boneslicer, Seaspray, and Deathwhisper.”
“Magical weapons are a rarity in this world,” the cat confirmed. “Nothing like them has been made since the Cataclysm.”
“I know,” Wick said.
“And they were all present during the retreat from Teldane’s Bounty. That was one of the reasons the defenders were able to hold out as long as they were.” Sadness touched the cat’s gray eyes. “If they hadn’t been betrayed, maybe more of them would have escaped being overrun.”
“How do you know about the Battle of Fell’s Keep?”
The cat stood. “We need to be moving. You’ve got your breath back.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find Seaspray.” The cat started off.
“No,” Wick said.
“No?” Alysta turned, and despite the fact that she was a cat, irritation showed in every line of her body.
“We can’t go on alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“We’re already nearly a day behind, thanks to your capture.”
“I didn’t get captured on purpose. But we should stay here. Craugh, Cap’n Farok, and Hallekk will be here soon.”
“Do you think it’s wise for One-Eyed Peggie to drop anchor in the harbor at Wharf Rat’s Warren?”
Actually, now that he thought about it (in other terms than simply of his rescue), Wick thought maybe One-Eyed Peggie putting in to port at the city wasn’t a good idea. She’d be set upon at once by several of the pirates who traveled to the city of thieves, murderers, assassins, thieves, etc.
“No,” he sighed.
“Good, because I don’t think Craugh would believe it was safe, either. You might wait there for a long time.” Alysta got underway again. “Our time would be better spent finding Seaspray.”
Reluctantly, Wick put the ship’s log away and fell in behind the cat.
“You sold my donkey?” Wick stared at the livery boy in disbelief. Alysta had told him his captors had used the donkey to bring him back to town. They’d left it at the livery.
Cautiously, the livery boy stepped back. Bruises showed on his face where the Razor’s Kiss thieves had hit him the previous night. It looked like he had a few new additions, so maybe his father hadn’t necessarily believed his story about the stolen horses. “I told you when you left it here yesterday that if my da came in an’ it wasn’t paid for, he’d sell it. Those men didn’t pay for it. So, he did.”
“To whom?” the cat asked.
The livery boy hesitated. “To the … renderer.”
“You knew he wasn’t a normal donkey,” Alysta protested.
Sullen, the boy said, “Let the donkey tell the renderer that, then. I tried to tell my da it could talk.” He touched a painful looking bruise on his forehead. “I got clouted extra hard for that one, let me tell you.”
“When did the renderer pick up the donkey?” Wick asked. He couldn’t help thinking about the dreadful fate that awaited the donkey. In a few days, what was left of him could be made into pretty decent glue. People need glue, Wick thought. It has to come from somewhere.
“This morning,” the boy answered. “He always picks up unclaimed livestock in the mornings.”
“How quickly does he … does he … ?” Wick couldn’t go on thinking about it.
“Is he already dead?” Alysta asked.
Pensive, obviously a little afraid of Wick even though the little Librarian was smaller than he was, the boy lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “I don’t know.”
“Where can I find the renderer’s place?” Wick asked.
The livery boy gave him directions and Wick left quickly.
Outside, Wick hurried after the cat. The goblinkin searched through the city even now. If the boy k
new that, if he went to the goblinkin, they would have time to intercept them.
“He won’t tell,” Alysta said.
Wick kept pace. “What makes you so certain?”
“He’s afraid of the goblinkin, and of his father,” the cat said. “He was even afraid of us.”
Wick tried to believe that. He just hoped that the donkey wasn’t sitting in little pots of glue already.
The renderer kept a small shop outside of town, not far from the trail that led up into the mountains. The little stone shack leaned against a hill of snow and ice, looking like it might blow over at any moment. Only a short distance away, a ramshackle barn bracketed by trees looked bowed under the weight of the snow on the slanted roof. A few horses and two donkeys stood listless in the corral out front. Gray breath plumed from their nostrils.
Seeing the animals there, knowing the fate that awaited them, Wick felt a pang of sorrow for them. Concentrate on what you need to do, he told himself. It’s the same as one of the chickens that end up in a pot, or a fattening pig.
He trudged through the snow on his bare feet, which he—by some miracle—could still feel. The cat rode his shoulders, no longer able to break through the high drifts. Wick glanced hopefully at the steady stream of smoke pouring from the chimney against the slate-gray sky. Surely it would be warm inside.
A trail existed between the corral and the shop, and to the well out back, but there was no other. Wick made his way to the uneven porch and pulled himself up. Drifts covered the porch and the two rocking chairs that sat there.
Gathering his courage, Wick knocked on the door.
“Who is it then?” a voice called from inside.
“Wick of … of Meek’s Crossing,” the little Librarian said. Meek’s Crossing was a small town outside Wharf Rat’s Warren.
“What do you want?” the voice demanded.
“There’s been a mistake,” Wick said. “A terrible mistake.” The stink from the corral hit him then, thick and cloying in the cold wintry air.
The cat leapt from Wick’s shoulders to a window sill. She peered inside and her breath frosted the glass.
“I ain’t made no mistakes. And I’ll club the man that says I made one. When I make glue or paste, it’s good. It’ll hold anything you’re of a mind to put together. That’s my guarantee.”
“There’s no mistake about your work, sir,” Wick said. “The livery boy made a mistake. He wasn’t supposed to—”
The door opened suddenly and a shaggy old man stood there in patched-over clothing. His gray beard hung to his waist and looked wild and unkempt. Under an ill-made fur cap, he was bald. His pale, runny eyes didn’t look in the same direction.
“You’ve come about the donkey, then,” the man said. He extended his hand.
Almost overcome by the strong chemical smell coming from inside the shop, Wick didn’t know what to do. He shook the man’s hand. Heavily callused and covered in patches of glue that held horse’s hair and other disagreeable things, the man’s hand spoke of cruel strength.
“I, uh,” Wick said, trying to figure out what was happening, “uh, I have. About the donkey.”
The man grinned and the effort looked slapped on and forced. “Well then, it’s good to see you. He said you might be coming by for him.”
“He did?” Wick was astonished. “He told you that?”
The man nodded. “He did. I’m Rankle. Come on in.”
Trepidation stirred within Wick. He didn’t trust the renderer.
“Wick,” the donkey called from inside. “It’s all right. Come on inside.”
Hesitantly, Wick followed the man inside the home. Shelves lined the walls and tables took over the open space in the center. Pots and bottles filled the tables and shelves. The chemical stink was even stronger inside the room, but it was warm.
The donkey sat on his haunches near the fireplace. He looked comfortable and rested, not like the other poor beasts out in the corral.
Alysta walked into the room with Wick.
“Is that your cat?” Rankle asked.
Wick waited for Alysta to answer, but she didn’t. Obviously she didn’t care to let the renderer know she spoke.
“Yes,” Wick said.
Rankle scratched his beard and looked at Alysta longingly. “Are you particularly attached to it? Out here, with winter on us so fierce, it’s just another mouth to feed. I could make you a good deal on it. Can always use cat guts for strings and such. And there ain’t nothing quite as delicate as cat glue.”
“Uh,” Wick stuttered, at a loss.
Alysta hissed at him and flicked her tail disdainfully.
“The cat is mine,” the donkey said, looking back over his shoulder.
“Yours, is it?” Rankle asked. He smiled and turned back to the donkey. “Well, Prince Dawdal, I wouldn’t harm a hair on your cat’s head.”
“Prince?” Wick looked at the donkey.
The donkey nodded. He flattened his lips and grinned. “Yes. Prince.”
Wick hadn’t even known the creature had a name. He couldn’t be a prince. Could he?
Rankle waved to a chair in front of the fire. “Sit. Be comfortable. Would you like something to drink? To eat?”
Still dazed, Wick said, “Yes. Very much.” Rankle pushed him into motion and the little Librarian walked to the chair and sat.
The donkey had a deep bucket of some kind of oat mash in front of him. Bits of apples and carrots showed in the mixture.
“Want some?” the donkey, Dawdal—maybe even Prince Dawdal—asked.
“No,” Wick said. “Thank you.” Even as hungry as he was, the bucket’s contents didn’t look appetizing.
“I’ve got oatmeal,” Rankle said.
Minutes later, Wick sat with a bowl of warm oatmeal as the heat in the fireplace burned away the wintry chill he’d carried in with him.
“Prince Dawdal told me the whole story,” Rankle said.
“He did?” Wick asked, anxious to hear the tale himself.
“Of course, at the beginning I didn’t know he was a prince,” the renderer said. “I got him this morning and was going to slit his throat out in the barn. Then he started talking.” He shook his head. “In all my days, I never heard an animal talk.” He lowered his voice. “You ask me, it’s kind of unnerving the first time.”
Wick silently agreed.
“Anyway, he told me about the curse,” Rankle continued.
“About the curse?” Wick asked. He spooned up oatmeal, grateful for the simple meal. Rankle had also put out a loaf of bread and chokeberry jelly. The bread tasted fresh and the jelly had a sugary tang.
“The curse Wizard Hardak put on him,” Rankle said.
“The one that turned me into a donkey,” Dawdal said. “I told Rankle about how my father, the king, had put you in charge of finding me.”
“On account of no one would suspect a halfer,” Rankle said. He leveled a forefinger at Wick and grinned. “Clever plan, that one.”
“Right,” Wick said. “Clever.” But he was wondering where the donkey got his imagination. During the days they’d shared together earlier, the creature had shown no sign of intelligence.
“I also told him about the treasure,” the donkey said.
“You told him about the treasure?” Wick asked.
The donkey nodded solemnly. “I told him we were trying to find it because it had a cure for the curse that keeps me a donkey. I also promised Rankle a portion of it for sparing my life.” He paused and looked at the renderer with sorrowful eyes. “It was the least I could do for his generosity.”
“Yes,” Wick agreed. “It was.”
Only a short time later, once more fortified with supplies, Wick set out with the donkey and the cat. Rankle stood on his uneven porch, waved at them, and wished them well.
“Remember your promise, Prince Dawdal,” Rankle called after them.
“I will,” the donkey replied. Then he swiveled to face forward again and muttered, “When pigs fly.”
<
br /> Given what he’d seen the last two days with talking animals, Wick wasn’t so certain that he wouldn’t see that before his journeys were over.
“You’re not really a prince, are you?” Wick asked.
The donkey looked at him. “What do you think?”
Wick gave the question serious thought. At the moment he wasn’t getting to ride the donkey and was being forced to lead him. Perhaps appealing to the donkey’s ego would get him up out of the snow.
“I think you are,” Wick answered.
“Idiot,” the cat snarled.
The donkey brayed with laughter. “You’re not riding me. Those days are over.”
As he trudged through the snow, Wick missed those days. Why couldn’t Craugh have arranged for someone who would actually help him? Only the thought of tracking down Boneslicer for Bulokk drove him on. That and the certain knowledge that toads couldn’t turn pages in a book or write with a quill and ink without a great deal of difficulty.
They headed into the mountains, once more taking up the trail.
Near nightfall, they reached one of the small outlying villages on the way down the mountains to Wharf Rat’s Warren. No more than a dozen small structures jammed together with fifty or so houses scattered behind them, the village framed the road as it twisted to the east.
Candlelight burned soft yellow against a few windows. Only a few people were about on the street. They gazed curiously at the small group that wandered into their town.
Wick felt uncomfortable under the weight of the stares. During the last few hours of breaking through the new-fallen snow and staring through the flakes that continued to fall, he’d thought of nothing but the three magical weapons that had been at the Battle of Fell’s Keep. He couldn’t help wondering why Captain Gujhar was looking for them. Of course, the captain was working for someone else, but he’d purposefully not mentioned his employer.
What was it about the three weapons, though? Wick wondered. Why were they so important after a thousand years?
