by Mel Odom
Nothing in anything he’d read offered a hint of that. In fact, he didn’t know why Craugh had come to Greydawn Moors and been so interested. Though looking back on the situation, neither Craugh nor Cap’n Farok was the type to just go searching for the truth of a battle that took place during the Cataclysm on a whim.
So what weren’t they telling him? The thought rolled uncertainly in Wick’s mind. He didn’t like thinking like that, but the truth of it stared him in the face. But even as he felt anger over being used, he knew that Cap’n Farok—and probably Craugh—wouldn’t have gambled his life without good reason.
That could only mean that the danger he was walking into was even greater than he feared. Wick almost felt sick with anxiety, but curiosity drove him as well.
He stumbled tiredly down the street, knowing he had to have someplace to rest. Thankfully, there’d been no sign of pursuit from either the goblinkin or the Razor’s Kiss.
A man with a sword stood on a porch in front of a tavern. “Greetings, stranger.”
“Greetings,” Wick said, bringing the donkey to a stop. Alysta popped her head out of the pack of supplies she’d been riding in. Wick hadn’t seen her for hours and guessed that she’d been sleeping.
“What brings you to our village?”
Wick wondered if the place even had a name. Some of them were so small they didn’t.
“I’m just passing through,” Wick answered. “But I’d like a night’s lodging if I could.”
The man shook his head. “We don’t have lodging here. Even this tavern’s just for drinking and eating. Most that travel this road never stop here.” He looked around. “There’s a few who take in lodgers.” Stepping out into the snow-covered street, he pointed out the houses. “Give ’em a try. Tell ’em Enil sent you.”
“I will,” Wick replied. “Thank you.” He moved through the street, leaning into the harsh wind and the swirling snow.
The first two houses didn’t even answer his knocks. The third offered lodging, but apologized, saying there was no room for the animals.
Back out in the street, Wick spotted another building that held a leather harness and an apron, advertising the shopkeeper was a leatherworker. Without a written language, shops did the best that they could to advertise what they were.
The detail on the apron, made large enough to nearly cover the expanse of leather, caught his eye. It was a rose caught in the thorny embrace of a vine. He remembered exactly where he had seen such a design: on the leather bag Quarrel had carried.
The leatherworker’s shop had been one of the places the man at the tavern had pointed out.
Drawn by his curiosity, Wick went to the shop and rapped on the door. He felt encouraged because a lot of light came from inside.
A man in his middle years opened the door. “Yes?” He was lean and composed, dressed in a leather apron and a dark shirt and trousers. His face was hollow and tired.
“Enil said you might have a bed for the night,” Wick said. “I can pay.”
The man looked at the donkey and at the cat, who had her head poked up through the supply bag. “For the animals as well?”
“Please.”
The leatherworker suggested a price that was fair and Wick agreed. The man said, “There’s a small shed in the back. The donkey can stay there. The cat can come inside.”
“Thank you,” Wick said.
“I’ll show you.” The man pulled on a heavy coat. “I’m Karbor, by the way.”
Wick introduced himself, again claiming to be a glassblower. Together, they took the donkey around back to the small shed and saw to his needs, then returned to the house next to the modest shop.
10
The Leather-Maker’s Tale
Inside the house, Wick helped Karbor in the kitchen, setting out dishes for a small but scrumptious repast.
“I apologize for the meagerness of the meal,” Karbor said. “I’ve not had company for a while, and I’ve been somewhat distracted of late.”
“The meal looks good,” Wick replied. “It’s been days since I’ve eaten this well.” He hadn’t gotten to eat in the Tavern of Schemes, and there’d been no decent meal since he’d left One-Eyed Peggie. The renderer’s oatmeal had been just enough to keep his stomach from meeting his backbone.
Dishes held venison, sweet potatoes, fresh-baked sourdough bread, and a canned vegetable medley with a pepper seasoning particular to the south.
“One of my affordable vices,” Karbor grinned as he poured the glass jar of vegetables into a small kettle to heat in the fireplace. “I do like exotic flavors. Up here, usually it’s potatoes or other root crops, things that the farmers can get this cold earth to give up in ready numbers. I have to warn you, though, if you’re not used to peppers, they can burn.”
“I love peppers,” Wick assured him. The fragrance of the peppers opened his nose and made his stomach rumble.
“Then you’ve been beyond Wharf Rat’s Warren.” Karbor put out a dish of honey butter.
“Several times,” Wick agreed.
In minutes, everything had been heated and they set to at the small table. Wick ate with more than his usual appetite, devouring sourdough bread, cheese, venison, vegetables (which were even hotter than he expected), and sweet potatoes.
“You eat bigger than you look,” Karbor observed. He dangled a piece of venison out for Alysta, who took it with proper disdain.
Embarrassed, Wick apologized. “I’ll pay extra. I hadn’t meant to. But, as I said, it’s been a long time since I sat down to a meal like this.”
Karbor waved the offer away. “It was just conversation. These are the winter months up here, and I’m not used to having company. During this time, I generally do a few commissioned pieces and put back others for sale in the spring when the traders start their regular trips back and forth across the mountain.”
Curious as always, Wick talked to Karbor about the goings-on of the community. It was hard acting like he was knowledgeable about the area while at the same time trying to get an idea of what might have drawn the Razor’s Kiss up into the mountains.
To cover his inadequacies, and because he didn’t like silence at the dinner table without a book in his hand, Wick summoned up some of the old legends he knew about the northlands and spun them out in great detail. Most of them were about cursed pirates, shipwrecks bearing lost fortunes, and monsters that tore men to pieces high in the mountains. And a dragon or two. Dragons always made for some of the best stories.
“Are you sure you’re a glassblower?” Karbor asked during a break while they retired to the fireplace to smoke their pipes.
“What do you mean?” Wick asked, at once worried that he’d somehow given himself away.
“You could be a storyteller.” Karbor puffed on his pipe and stared into the flames. “You have a knack for weaving a tale.”
“Thank you,” Wick said. “You’re too kind.”
“No,” Karbor said. “I know a good taleweaver when I hear one, and you’re better than any I’ve ever heard.” He puffed for a moment. “I only wish that my daughter were here to hear you. She always loved a good story.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Had,” Karbor said quietly. “I lost her.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It was only a few months ago. She wasn’t my daughter by blood, but I raised her from the time she was eleven years old. She’s seventeen now. Her name was Rose.” Karbor took down a piece of leather from over the fireplace. “She was gifted in leatherwork, though it wasn’t her calling. She crafted the design I’ve been using for the last few years.” He tapped the rose wreathed in the thorny vine. Smiling at the memory, he traced the imprint. “She did this as a lark. I chose to use it to mark our work. Not many do that, you know. Because the goblinkin see such a mark as writing.”
“I know,” Wick said.
“She was a precious child,” Karbor said as he put the leather piece back on the mantle. “But sad. I never coul
d get her past the melancholy that plagued her as a child.”
“Why was she sad?” Wick asked, before he realized that he might be prying. He couldn’t bear to leave a tale untold.
Karbor packed his pipe and got it going again. “Her parents, my good friends in younger and more profitable years, were killed by goblinkin. Rose barely got away. When I found out what had happened, I went down the Shattered Coast to see to her. She had no other family, so I brought her back here to live with me.”
“The goblinkin overran her village?” Wick asked. That wasn’t an unusual tale. Goblinkin ferocity had been building across the mainland as the tribes turned outward to work out their aggressions instead of fighting with each other as they had in the past.
“No.” Karbor’s voice was soft. “As it turned out, the goblinkin were searching for her family.”
“Why?”
“Because they are the present descendants of Captain Dulaun, the hero of—”
“The Battle of Fell’s Keep during the Cataclysm,” Wick said. Although the large meal had made him sleepy, he was once more awake.
Karbor glanced at him with concern.
“I collect tales,” Wick said. “The Battle of Fell’s Keep is one that remains on everyone’s mind.”
“It does.” Karbor nodded. “Many people—humans and elves—distrust the dwarves due to Master Blacksmith Oskarr’s betrayal of those brave defenders.”
Master Oskarr didn’t betray anyone! Wick curbed his response with difficulty. “Your daughter was Captain Dulaun’s descendant?”
Karbor nodded. “She was. On her mother’s side. I didn’t know it at the time. Rose told me that later. Her ancestor wielded the sword Seaspray in a thousand battles, and he lost his life there at the Battle of Fell’s Keep.”
“And the sword fell into goblinkin hands,” Wick said, remembering.
“Yes, and during the last thousand years, it was lost in time. No one knew where it was. But there was someone who believed he knew.” Karbor puffed on his pipe. “In fact, he felt certain Seaspray was somewhere in this area.”
Wick’s heart quickened. “In Wharf Rat’s Warren?”
“No, but somewhere nearby.” Karbor waved to the north. “A dozen empires and kingdoms have risen and fallen in the mountains. One of them, I don’t know which, was supposed to have found Seaspray.”
“Was the sword found?”
Karbor shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sounded tired and old.
Wick felt sorry for the man then. Karbor was in the winter of his years, alone and without family. No one should have to die like that, he thought. Then Wick realized that he had a chance of doing exactly that while on the task Craugh had set for him.
Unless, of course, he was able to learn enough to save himself.
“They came here to find my daughter,” Karbor said.
“Who came here?” Wick asked, fighting the fatigue that filled him.
“The goblinkin. Under the direction of a despicable man named Gujhar.” Karbor scowled. “I was next door. In the shop where the hides are cured. I heard the sounds of a fight and ran outside. By that time the goblinkin already had Rose.” Tears showed in his eyes and his hand trembled as he held his pipe. “She fought them. With tooth and nail, she fought them. I swear, you’ve never seen a girl who could fight so well. Her mother was a warrior, trained in swordcraft and hand-to-hand arts. A child was chosen in each generation to train so.”
“Why?”
“In the event that Seaspray was recovered.”
“Who trained your daughter?”
“Her mother, for a time. But even here she felt the need for more training. There’s man in the village, a blind man who was once part of a king’s bodyguard, that trained Rose in hand-to-hand techniques. And not far from here, I know another man who was once a sellsword. I bartered for lessons for her because she wanted so badly to learn.”
“You don’t know what happened to her?”
Karbor shook his head. “I went down to Wharf Rat’s Warren and tried to spy on the goblinkin ship. I nearly got killed for my trouble.” His voice broke. “But I learned enough to know not to hold out any hope for Rose.”
“While I was in Wharf Rat’s Warren,” Wick said, “I saw a man who carried a small bag with the rose emblem on it.”
“A bag?” Interest flickered in Karbor’s wet eyes.
“Yes.” Wick looked around the room. “You make a lot of leather goods—gloves, blacksmith’s aprons, and harness—but I don’t see any bags or backpacks.”
“I don’t make them,” Karbor said. “The communities I sell to are all working people. They don’t have enough wealth for excesses. A leather bag when a cloth one would do is excessive.”
“So you didn’t make that one? I saw the emblem with my own eyes.”
“I made one,” Karbor said. “But only one. For Rose.” His voice thickened. “Tell me the man’s name. I’d like very much to talk to him if I’m ever given the chance.”
“Quarrel,” Wick answered.
“Was he human?”
Wick nodded.
“Part of Gujhar’s group, no doubt.”
“I don’t think so,” Wick said. “Why would Gujhar want your daughter?”
“Because Seaspray is ensorcelled,” Karbor replied. “The magic inside the sword can’t be wakened without one of the true heirs holding it. Only Dulaun’s family can evoke that.”
“Why would the goblinkin want her or the sword?”
“I don’t know. According to the legend Rose told me, all three of the weapons—Master Oskarr’s battle-axe Boneslicer, Captain Dulaun’s sword Seaspray, and the elven warder Sokadir’s mighty bow, Deathwhisper—were used to strengthen the wards protecting the defenders there at the Battle of Fell’s Keep.”
“How?”
“By tapping into the magic within them.”
That was the first time Wick had heard such a story. He sat up a little straighter. “Rose told you this?”
Karbor nodded. “She did. Her mother told her the story, though her mother never mentioned it to me. Only a handful of the defenders at that battle knew about that.”
After a time, Karbor excused himself and went off to bed. He made up a pallet in front of the fireplace for Wick.
Despite a full stomach and not much rest, Wick found his mind was too busy to allow him to drift off to sleep. His thoughts kept chasing themselves inside his head. Instead, he’d taken out his journal and his writing tools and set about putting down the events of the day. The work went quickly by the firelight, even though he knew he would have to revisit it at a later date.
Still restless, he turned to the books he’d taken from Wraith. The journal detailed Captain Gujhar’s progress in his search for Boneslicer and Seaspray, and even mentioned that Deathwhisper was rumored lost somewhere deep within what had been Silverleaves Glen. There was even a series of maps detailing the elven city of Cloud Heights and the environs as they had been and as they currently stood.
One of Captain Gujhar’s notes said: I have been told (Wick noted that never once did Wraith’s shipsmaster acknowledge who might have told him) that anyone with two of the weapons in hand will be guided to the third. With the successful location of Boneslicer, all I need is Seaspray to find Deathwhisper. The men among the Razor’s Kiss that I’ve been dealing with swear they know where Dulaun’s sword is. We will see.
“You should get to sleep,” Alysta said softly.
Blinking, Wick looked over at the cat. She hadn’t spoken while Karbor was around, which was understandable, but she’d seemed aloof and lost in her own thoughts even after the man had gone to bed. He wondered if he’d done something to upset her and was afraid to ask.
“I will,” Wick said. “I usually stay up far later than this at the Vault of All Known Knowledge.”
“Not,” the cat insisted, “after you escaped goblinkin earlier in the day, and after spending the night trying to stay warm in a snowdrift.”
Wick studi
ed the cat. “Are you worried about me?”
The cat glanced away. “No. But I’m not going to be blamed for your failure to escape early in the morning in case the goblinkin come here looking for you.”
Wick didn’t truly think that was likely, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. The cat’s demeanor intrigued him. “You’re worried about something.”
Without another word, she rolled over and faced the other way, soaking up the heat of the fireplace.
For a while, Wick read but didn’t learn much. Words escaped him and twisted inside his normally agile mind. After a bit, he put away his journal and writing kit, then hid the books as well. He made himself as comfortable as he could on the pallet, turned so that his back was turned to the flames. After a moment, he was warm and toasty, and he dropped right off to sleep.
In the morning, Wick set off again into the teeth of the blustering winds. Karbor added to his provisions, and he thanked Wick for his generous payment.
“There is one favor I would ask of you as you travel this road,” Karbor said.
“If I can,” Wick answered.
“If you hear any news of my daughter, if you hear any news of Rose, I ask only that you trouble yourself enough to let me know what you find out.”
Wick nodded. “I will.”
Then he set off, once more leading the donkey because Dawdal wouldn’t allow him to ride.
Three miles up into the mountains, the trail Wick followed split out into a Y. He stood there for a time, not knowing which way to go. The cold pinched his face and his feet longed for a fire to be propped next to.
There was no clue as to which direction the Razor’s Kiss thieves had gone.
Alysta roused herself, obviously put on notice by the halt of the donkey. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t know which way to go,” Wick replied. He walked back and forth in front of the two roads, trying in vain to find evidence on which to base an answer.
“That’s why I came,” Alysta said. She put her dainty nose into the wind. “To the left.”
Wick looked to the left. That fork led more deeply into the mountains. On the face of things, there wasn’t a better place to hide a magical sword than more deeply into the mountains. Still, the right fork might take them to an area where hiding such a thing was even easier.
