by Mel Odom
“Have you seen your brother?” Craugh asked.
“Not in years. Certainly not since the last time I saw you.” Larrosh paused a moment. “And the seasons haven’t even changed since that last parting.”
“No.”
Interest showed on the elven prince’s face then. “Have you learned anything new?”
“Perhaps. I think I know a way to find Sokadir.”
“How?”
Craugh walked to Quarrel. “This is Quarrel, descendant of Captain Dulaun, fallen hero of the Battle of Fell’s Keep.” He tapped her sword, which instantly lit up in a cool azure color. “And this is Seaspray.”
Surprise tightened Larrosh’s eyes. “You found Dulaun’s sword.”
Quarrel wrapped her hand around the grip. “It’s my sword now,” she stated evenly.
Larrosh smiled. “I see.”
“This,” Craugh said, walking to Bulokk, “is Bulokk, of the Cinder Clouds Islands dwarves, decendant of Master Blacksmith Oskarr.” The wizard touched the battle-axe in the dwarf’s hands, causing it to glow with a soft golden radiance.
“Boneslicer,” Larrosh breathed, but it was so quiet in the sprawl that his voice carried to Wick’s ears, and probably everyone else’s in the party. “All you need is Deathwhisper to have all the weapons that were bound at the Battle of Fell’s Keep.”
“I think,” Craugh said in a slow, steady voice, “that I can find Sokadir. What do you think?” Although he kept his voice quiet and even, there was no masking the challenge in his words.
For a moment, Wick got the impression—though he didn’t know from where—that Larrosh might order the elves to descend on them in vengeful fury. Then the elven prince smiled. “You have my permission to cross Laceleaves Glen to search for my brother. When you find him, let him know that he doesn’t have to be rootless. I—and his people—are here should he choose to return to us.”
They camped outside the elven sprawl. Lago had enough supplies to fix a good meal, but the warriors threw lots for hunting parties in the morning. Larrosh had also afforded them hunting privileges, provided they didn’t waste anything.
Wick sat at the campfire and worked in his journal. Although full night had descended and he could no longer see the elven dwellings, he still saw some of the light, and he remembered clearly what he had seen. He worked in quill and ink, tightening up the drawings he’d made earlier. He sat apart from the others, watching them as they talked.
Without warning, a soft voice sounded in his ear. “So you’re a wizard, halfer?”
Snapping the journal closed, though putting blotting paper in so he wouldn’t smear the lines, Wick looked around and rose to his feet. “Who’s there?”
Cobner jumped to his feet and drew his battle-axe. “Who’s where, little warrior? What do you see?”
Wick backed away. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Something was there. He wasn’t imagining things.
The voice laughed, again from behind him.
When he turned this time, Wick thought he saw a blur of movement. Instinctively, he reached for it, to make sure it was really there. His fingers brushed through smooth silk.
“You’re very fast, dweller,” the voice whispered again. “But I’ve never met a halfer wizard before.”
“I’m no wizard,” Wick said, circling, trying to track the voice.
“Then what are you?”
“I hear a voice,” Cobner growled. “Someone’s there.” He hefted the battle-axe. Most of the others were on their feet now, all of them baring weapons.
“Prince Larrosh,” Craugh called, “I’ll ask you to reveal yourself now.”
Incredibly, the elven prince’s head appeared in midair, as if it had been struck off his shoulders and somehow suspended there. He smiled. “A little trick. I meant no harm. Just a lesson in how dangerous these woods can be.”
We already knew that, Wick thought irritably.
Larrosh pulled at the cloak he wore. The garment was invisible, but Wick knew from the way he gradually came into view that it was a cloak. He turned the cloak inside out, revealing the dark blue inner lining.
“A gift,” he said, “from someone I knew a long time ago.”
Up close, Wick saw that the elven prince’s eyes were different colors. One was light purple and the other dark brown. Since the elves preferred perfection, it was a wonder that he was prince. Then Wick remembered that Larrosh was only holding that position for his brother, till Sokadir returned or had another child to carry on the bloodline.
“I haven’t seen one of Harrag’s cloaks of invisibility in a long time,” Craugh commented. “It must be quite the collector’s item.” Only then did Wick notice the flurry of green embers swirling around the end of the wizard’s staff. Wick took a step back from the elven prince.
“I got it from a collector,” Larrosh said, “in a trade.” He cut his gaze back to Wick. “I’m something of a wizard myself.”
“Really?” Wick asked.
“Not as good as Qardak, my nephew,” Larrosh admitted, “but I learned a lot.”
“Qardak was the one who bound the weapons at the Battle of Fell’s Keep,” Wick said.
“Yes.”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“At the end,” Larrosh agreed. Sadness tightened his mouth. “I arrived with reinforcements, but by then it was too little and far too late. The rout had begun.” He flicked his glance over to Quarrel. “I saw your ancestor die. It was a very sad thing, a very beautiful thing.”
“And you did nothing?” Quarrel asked, her face pale in the mixture of firelight and moonslight.
“There was nothing,” Larrosh said softly, “to be done. You could not imagine the chaos that the battlefield turned into. The Unity defenders fell sick and the goblinkin overran their positions like they were made of paper.” He paused. “Those men fell, weak as they were, but they sold their lives ever so dearly. They were, and are, heroes.”
“What about my ancestor?” Bulokk asked. “Did you see him?”
“I did. When I saw him, he was headed away from the battle.”
“Liar!” Bulokk shoved himself to his feet and lifted Boneslicer from the ground.
Instantly, Hallekk and Cobner stepped in front of the Cinder Clouds Islands dwarf and blocked him.
Larrosh seemed amused, not at all threatened.
“Bulokk,” Craugh commanded, “sit down. Now. We are guests in this place.”
Bulokk glared at the elven prince. After a moment, he broke eye contact and stalked away.
“Touchy,” Larrosh said. “Even after a thousand years.”
Cobner turned to face the elven prince. His scarred face was devoid of emotion. “Master Oskarr wasn’t the only one to quit that battlefield without losing his life.”
Larrosh smiled but took no offense. “It was, at the time, the only thing to be done.”
“The thing Bulokk disagrees with,” Hallekk said, “is his ancestor bein’ responsible for betrayin’ those men in that place.”
“If you ask me,” Larrosh said, “whoever set that sickness loose that night did everyone a favor. If that line hadn’t buckled, every one of those men would have stayed there and died. Would that truly have been any better?”
“In the eyes of some,” Cobner said, “yes.”
“Not in my eyes.” Larrosh looked out into the darkness. “It was everything we could do to get my brother to quit the battlefield. We finally had to render him unconscious before we could get him away.”
“He left two sons there,” Wick said.
Larrosh regarded him, then nodded. “He did.” He shifted his attention back to Craugh. “I thought perhaps to while away some time here tonight, to trade a magic trick or two, but I’m afraid the atmosphere isn’t ripe for that.” He shook his head. “Even after a thousand years, what happened at that battle lives on in us. It’s a shame.” He smiled wanly. “So I’ll bid you good luck on the morrow and take my leave.”
Wick watched the elven prince leave, draping his magic cloak back over him and disappearing into the night. What, the little Librarian wondered, had that been about?
14
Sokadir
“Do you know where he is?” Wick asked as he gazed at the gem in Craugh’s hand.
“I do,” the wizard answered. “We’re very close now.” He put the gem back inside his clothing and resettled his peaked hat on his head to shade his eyes from the sun.
Standing on yet another one of the foothills that ran along the Broken Forge Mountains, Wick gazed around at the Forest of Fangs and Shadows. It was near midday, so the shadows were in somewhat of a retreat, but the fangs still prowled the brush, ready to attack.
“By the Old Ones,” Cobner groused, emerging from the brush ahead of them, “there are some things a body needs to do in peace, and all manner of monsters and creatures just needs to leave him be.” The dwarf was fastening his trousers and wearing spider silk across his head and shoulders.
Despite the tension that ran deeply in the group, most of the dwarves laughed and added insult to injury by teasing Cobner unmercifully.
“Mayhap them spiders object to bein’ fumigated,” Hallekk roared, slapping his knee. “After all, it’s their home ye’re a-takin’ a—”
“How much do you remember from your reading about Qardak?” Craugh asked Wick.
The little Librarian assembled his thoughts and checked his notes in his journal. “Qardak was Sokadir’s eldest child. There were only the two boys, born relatively close together, which is an event in elven families.”
Craugh took out his pipe, packed it with pipeweed, and smoked. “Two sons, yes. And only the one learned wizardry?”
“I found nothing to suggest that the other did,” Wick agreed.
“Sokadir didn’t much care for wizardry. So where did Qardak learn his skills?”
“I don’t know.”
Craugh scratched at his beard as they walked. “Then there is the matter of the bow parts that went missing from Master Oskarr’s forge. How do you suppose that happened?”
Wick thought about that and came up with the only two solutions it could be. “Either someone in Master Oskarr’s forge took them, or someone from outside took them.”
“Oskarr’s notes don’t mention any of his forge help disappearing at that time?”
“No. By process of elimination, someone went there to steal it.”
Craugh sucked on his pipe and smiled. “Meaning whoever it was knew the parts were there.”
“There’s another possibility,” Wick said as it struck him.
“Oh?”
“Someone went there looking for the vidrenium.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because Dulaun went back to the Silver Seas and began fighting Lord Kharrion and the goblinkin. His sword—was like no other. It might have been recognized by Lord Kharrion.”
“But it wasn’t given to Lord Kharrion,” Craugh pointed out. “Instead, those reinforcement parts ended up with Sokadir.”
“The parts were intended for an elven weapon,” Wick said. “Maybe the magic was only meant for elves.”
“Then, following our chain of logic, whoever stole those parts from Master Oskarr’s forge—”
“Was an elf,” Wick said softly.
“Not only was an elf,” Craugh said, “but an elf who knew what vidrenium was. Interesting conundrum, isn’t it?”
Wick worked that through his mind for a time. “It would be good,” he said at last, “to know where Qardak learned his wizardry.”
For two more days, they walked through the forest, changing directions as Craugh bade them, and he changed those directions only because the markings on his enchanted gem changed.
Finally, on the evening of the third day as they sat to dinner and tried not to think about how far they were from everything they knew, Craugh looked up into the trees and called out, “Sokadir.”
Startled, Wick looked up from his journal and stared into the trees behind them. There, just barely against Jhurjan the Swift and Bold, he saw the barest hint of a silhouette against the branches.
Craugh stood but held his hands out to his sides. “You know me, Sokadir.”
For a long moment, only the night sounded. Everyone in camp held their breath.
“You know I don’t mean you any harm, Sokadir,” Craugh said.
“I know you’re a fool, wizard, to come looking for me so far from home.” The voice was low and melodic. There was no sound of threat, surprise, or fear in the words.
“Yet, here I am.” Craugh grinned up at the night. “It’s been a thousand years. Don’t you think we should settle this thing now?”
In the distance, a bear snuffled. Overhead, an owl rode the wind.
“I don’t wish to speak to you,” Sokadir said. “I’m more of a mind to put a shaft in your eye.”
Cobner and Hallek reached for their weapons. Sonne’s hands were filled with throwing knives. Quarrel already had an arrow to her bowstring.
“For over two days,” Sokadir continued, “you’ve dogged my trail, my every move, through some wizard’s trick that you’ve learned since last time you came here looking for me. I’ve told you before that I don’t like wizardry. I’ve good reason to hate it.”
Holding up a hand, Craugh motioned for them to relax. “I just want to talk.”
“So talk.”
“A thousand years ago, you fought in the Battle of Fell’s Keep,” Craugh said.
“Ancient history. Nothing of importance happened there.”
“How dare you!” Quarrel exploded. “My ancestor gave his life there to protect the people that fled Teldane’s Bounty before Lord Kharrion and the goblinkin.”
“Who are you?”
“I am called Quarrel, and I am the descendant of Captain Dulaun.”
“By the Old Ones, is that his sword? Is that Seaspray?”
“It is,” she declared proudly. “We found it and recovered it. Just as Boneslicer was found.”
“Boneslicer is here, too?” Awe and something else was in the elf’s voice. Wick’s ears pricked up sharply.
Bulokk held up the great battle-axe. It glowed golden. Above, Sokadir was illuminated as Deathwhisper gleamed silver in his hands. His pale hair seemed to burn like white fire, and his pale purple eyes glittered like jewels.
“Do you know what you have done, Craugh?” Sokadir demanded. “Do you know what you have done?”
Fear, Wick decided. There was fear in Sokadir’s voice. That put the little Librarian ill at ease at once. Why would Sokadir feel vulnerable here in the forest that had been his home for over a thousand years?
“I’ve reunited the three weapons that allowed the escape at the Battle of Fell’s Keep,” Craugh said. “And I’ve come for the true story of what happened there, Sokadir.”
“That story is best forgotten.”
“It can’t be. It never will be,” Craugh said. “It’s a specter that looms over the fragile peace of the races. The goblinkin are rising again, and their numbers are increasing. Instead of fighting among themselves, humans, dwarves, and elves should once more unite to hold our lands and protect our familes from the goblinkin.”
“Families! Faugh! What do you know of families, Craugh? Do you even remember your own mother and father? Brothers or sisters? Can you?”
Wick sneaked a look at Craugh, wondering how the wizard would answer.
“The Battle of Fell’s Keep casts a pall over the races,” Craugh said. “Each seeks to find fault with the other. There is no trust. Mayhap laying this matter to rest still won’t help, but I feel it must be tried.”
“We were betrayed, Craugh. By one of our own!”
“Don’t ye say it were Master Oskarr!” Bulokk threatened. “I’ll climb that tree if I have to, an’ chop ye right out of it!”
For a moment, all was quiet. Then Sokadir spoke again. “No, it wasn’t Oskarr. He shed his blood in that battle, and he would have shed it
all—if he hadn’t been needed to guide the survivors out of there and get us all to safety.” He fell silent. “I’m coming down.”
“Come ahead,” Craugh said. “You’ll be with friends.”
Sokadir dropped like a falling leaf, sliding from side to side. Then he was on the ground, as silently as the owl that glided over his head. As he strode toward the main campfire, a huge brown bear fell into step behind him. He carried Deathwhisper, still glowing silver, in his hand, but there was no arrow nocked to string.
Bulokk and Quarrel held their weapons out, and everyone drew close, staring at them.
“Magic weapons,” Sokadir said in disgust. “Boneslicer, the axe that could cleave any metal with the force of an earthquake. Seaspray, the sword that could summon waves. Deathwhisper, the bow that could strike with the force of a storm.” He shook his head. “All of this power from some magical metal wizards and alchemists and blacksmiths forged in Dream.”
“I see you didn’t bother throwing your own weapon away the first chance you got,” Cobner observed unkindly.
“I couldn’t,” Sokadir said. “I found out what they were truly made for.”
“Lord Kharrion hid himself under another name in Dream,” Sokadir said as he sat in front of the campfire.
“We figured that out,” Wick said. “But how did you know?”
“My son,” the elven warder stated quietly. “Qardak. He’d always had an interest in wizardly things. When he was young, he ran away with my brother.”
“Larrosh?” Wick asked, finding that interesting but not totally unexpected.
“Yes. My brother has always had a calling for wizard’s work as well. From the time he was very young, Larrosh tried to find his way among wizards.”
“He was second born,” Craugh said softly. “He knew the crown was yours when your father passed away.”
Sokadir smiled a little sadly. “But these past thousand years, it’s been his instead. Strange, the paths life takes us down, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Craugh agreed.
“If the vidrenium wasn’t made to create magic weapons,” Wick asked, “what was it made for?”
