The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  Meralda, finished with the sickness, feared to sit up straight, feared to face the three. She didn’t know what they would do, though she had heard of a village woman who had become pregnant through rape. That woman had not been held to blame.

  A comforting hand gripped her shoulder and eased her out of the chair. Priscilla hugged Meralda close and whispered softly into her ear that it would be all right.

  “What am I to do?” Lord Feringal stuttered, hardly able to speak through the bile in his throat. His tone made Meralda think that he might banish her from the castle, from his life, then and there.

  Steward Temigast moved to support the young man. “This is not without precedence, my lord,” the old man explained. “Even in your own kingdom.” All three stared at the steward.

  “There is no betrayal here, of course,” Temigast went on. “Except that Meralda did not immediately tell us. For that, you may punish her as you see fit, though I pray you will be generous toward the frightened girl.”

  Feringal looked at Meralda hard, but he nodded just a bit.

  “As for the child,” Temigast went on, “it must be announced openly and soon. It will be made clear and binding that this child will not be heir to your throne.”

  “I will slay the babe as it is born!” Lord Feringal said with a growl. Meralda wailed, as did Priscilla, to Meralda’s absolute surprise.

  “My lord,” said Steward Temigast. Feringal punched his fists against the sides of his legs in utter frustration. Meralda noted his every movement then, and recognized that his claim of murder was pure bluster.

  Steward Temigast just shook his head and walked over to pat Lord Feringal’s shoulder. “Better to give the babe to another,” he said. “Let it be gone from your sight and from your lives.”

  Feringal stared questioningly at his wife.

  “I’m not wanting it,” Meralda answered that look with an honest answer. “I’m not wanting to think at all of that night, er, time.” She bit her lip as she finished, hoping that her slip of the tongue had not been detected.

  To her relief and continued surprise it was Priscilla who stayed close to her, who escorted her to her room. Even when they were out of earshot of Temigast and Lord Feringal, the older woman’s gentle demeanor did not waver in the least.

  “I cannot guess your pain,” Priscilla said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  Priscilla patted her cheek. “It must have been too painful,” she offered, “but you did nothing wrong. My brother was still your first lover, the first man to whom you gave yourself willingly, and a husband can ask no more than that.”

  Meralda swallowed the guilt she felt, swallowed it and pushed it aside with the justification that Feringal was, indeed, her first true lover, the first man she’d lain with who had honest feelings for her.

  “Perhaps we will come to some agreement when the child is born,” Priscilla said unexpectedly.

  Meralda looked at her strangely, not quite catching on.

  “I was thinking that perhaps it would be better if I found another place to live,” Priscilla explained. “Or took a wing of the castle for myself, perhaps, and made it my own.”

  Meralda squinted in puzzlement, then it hit her. She was so shocked that her previous peasant dialect came rushing back. “Ye’re thinking o’ taking the babe for yerself,” she blurted.

  “Perhaps, if we could agree,” Priscilla said hesitantly.

  Meralda had no idea of how to respond but suspected she wouldn’t know until after the child was born. Would she be able to have the baby anywhere near her? Or would she find that she could not part with an infant that was hers, after all?

  No, she decided, not that. She would not, could not, keep the child, however she might feel after its birth.

  “We plan too far ahead,” Priscilla remarked as if reading Meralda’s mind. “For now we must make sure you eat well. You are my brother’s wife now and will give him heirs to the throne of Auckney. We must keep you healthy until then.”

  Meralda could hardly believe the words, the genuine concern. She had never expected this level of success with her plan, which only made her feel even more guilty about it all.

  And so it went for several days, with Meralda believing that things were on a steady course. There were a few rough spots, particularly in the bedroom, where she had to constantly assuage her husband’s pride, insisting that the barbarian who had savaged her had given her no pleasure at all. She even went to the extent of claiming that she was practically unconscious throughout the ordeal and wasn’t even sure it had happened until she came to realize that she was with child.

  Then one day, Meralda encountered an unexpected problem with her plan.

  “Highwaymen do not travel far,” she heard Lord Feringal tell Temigast as she joined the two in the drawing room.

  “Certainly the scoundrels are nowhere near Auckney,” the steward replied.

  “Close enough,” Feringal insisted. “The merchant Galway has a powerful wizard for hire.”

  “Even wizards must know what to look for,” Temigast remarked.

  “I don’t remember his face,” Meralda blurted, hurrying to join them.

  “But Liam Woodgate does,” said Feringal, wearing the smug smile of one who intended to find his revenge.

  Meralda worked very hard to not appear distressed.

  he little creature scrambled over the rocks, descending the steep slope as if death itself were chasing it. With an outraged Wulfgar close behind, roaring in pain from his reopened shoulder wound, the goblin would’ve had better odds against death.

  The trail ended at a fifteen-foot drop, but the goblin’s run didn’t end there as it leaped with hardly a thought. Landing with a thump and a rather sorry attempt at a roll, it got back up, bloody but still moving.

  Wulfgar didn’t follow. He couldn’t afford to take himself so far from the cave entrance where Morik was still battling. The barbarian skidded to a stop and searched about for a rock. Snatching one up, he heaved it at the fleeing goblin. He missed, the goblin too far away, but satisfied that it wouldn’t return, Wulfgar turned and sprinted back to the cave.

  Long before he arrived there, though, he saw that the battle had ended. Morik was perched on a rock at the base of a jagged spur of stones, huffing and puffing. “The little rats run fast,” Morik remarked.

  Wulfgar nodded and fell into a sitting position on the ground. They had gone out to scout the pass earlier. Upon returning, they’d found a dozen goblins determined to take the cave home as their own. Twelve against two—the goblins hadn’t had a chance.

  Only one of the goblins was dead, one Wulfgar had caught first by the throat and squeezed. The others had been sent running to the four winds, and both men knew that none of the cowardly creatures would return for a long, long time.

  “I did get its purse, if not its heart,” Morik remarked holding up a little leather bag. He blew into his empty hand for luck—and also because the mountain wind whistled chilly that day—then emptied the bag, his eyes wide. Wulfgar, too, leaned in eagerly. A pair of silver pieces, several copper, and three shiny stones—not gemstones, just stones—tumbled out.

  “Our luck that we did not encounter a merchant on the path,” Wulfgar muttered sarcastically, “for this is a richer haul by far.”

  Morik flung the meager treasure to the ground. “We still have plenty of gold from the raid on the coach in the west,” he remarked.

  “So nice to hear you admit it,” came an unexpected voice from above. The pair looked up the rocky spur to see a man in flowing blue robes and holding a tall oaken staff staring down at them. “I would hate to believe I’d found the wrong thieves, after all.”

  “A wizard,” Morik muttered with disgust, tensing. “I hate wizards.”

  The robed man lifted his staff and began chanting. Wulfgar moved quicker, skidding down to scoop a fair-sized stone, then coming up fast and launching it. His aim proved perfect. The rock crashed against the wizard�
�s chest, though it harmlessly bounced away. If the man even noticed it, he showed no sign.

  “I hate wizards!” Morik yelled again, diving out of the way. Wulfgar started to move, but he was too late, for the lightning bolt firing from the staff clipped him and sent him flying.

  Up came Wulfgar, rolling and cursing, a rock in each hand. “How many hits can you take?” he cried to the wizard, letting fly one that narrowly missed. The second one went spinning into the obviously amused wizard’s blocking arm and bounced away as surely as if it had hit solid stone.

  “Does everybody in all of Faerûn have access to a wizard?” Morik cried, picking his trail from cover to cover as he tried to ascend the spur. Morik believed he could get away from, outwit, or outfight— particularly with Wulfgar beside him—any bounty hunter or warrior lord in the area. However, wizards were an entirely different manner, as he had learned so many painful times before, most recently in his capture on the streets of Luskan.

  “How many can you take?” Wulfgar yelled again, hurling another stone that also missed its mark.

  “One !” the wizard replied. “I can take but one.”

  “Then hit him!” Morik yelled to Wulfgar, misunderstanding. The wizard was not talking about taking hits on his magical stoneskin, but about taking prisoners. Even as Morik cried out, the robed man pointed at Wulfgar with his free hand. A black tendril shot from his extended fingers, snaking down the spur at tremendous speed to wrap around Wulfgar, binding him fast to the mage.

  “I’ll not leave the other unscathed!” the wizard cried to no one present. He clenched his fist, his ring sparkled, and he stamped his staff on the stone. A blinding light, a puff of smoke, and Wulfgar and the mage were gone amid a thunderous rumble along the spur.

  “Wizards,” Morik spat with utter contempt, just before the spur, with Morik halfway up it, collapsed.

  He was in the audience hall of a castle. The incessant black tendril continued to wrap him stubbornly in its grip, looping his torso several times, trying to pin his powerful arms. Wulfgar punched at it, but it was a pliable thing, and it merely bent under the blows, absorbing all the energy. He grabbed at the tendril, tried to twist and tear it, but even as his hands worked one area, the long end of the tendril, released from the wizard’s hand, looped his legs and tripped him up, bringing him crashing to the hard floor. Wulfgar rolled and squirmed and wriggled to no avail. He was caught.

  The barbarian used his arms to keep the thing from wrapping his neck, and when he was at last sure that it could not harm him, he turned his attention more fully to the area around him. There stood the wizard before a pair of chairs, wherein sat a man in his mid-twenties and a younger, undeniably beautiful woman—a woman Wulfgar recognized all too well.

  Beside them stood an old man, and in a chair to the side sat a plump woman of perhaps forty winters. Wulfgar also noted that several soldiers lined the room, grim-faced and well-armed.

  “As I promised,” the wizard said, bowing before the man on the throne. “Now, if you please, there is the small matter of my payment.”

  “You will find the gold awaiting you in the quarters I provided,” the man replied. “I never doubted you, good sir. Your merchant mentor Galway recommended you most highly.”

  The wizard bowed again. “Are my services further required?” he asked.

  “How long will it last?” the man asked, indicating the tendril holding Wulfgar.

  “A long time,” the wizard promised. “Long enough for you to question and condemn him, certainly, then to drag him down to your dungeon or kill him where he lies.”

  “Then you may go. Will you dine with us this night?”

  “I fear that I have pressing business at the Hosttower,” the wizard replied. “Well met, Lord Feringal.” He bowed again and walked out, chuckling as he passed the prone barbarian.

  To everyone’s surprise, Wulfgar growled and grabbed the tendril in both hands and tore it apart. He had just managed to gain his feet, many voices screaming around him, when a dozen soldiers descended, pounding him with mailed fists and heavy clubs. Still fighting against the tendril, Wulfgar managed to free his hand for one punch, sending a soldier flying, and to grab another by the neck and slam him facedown on the floor. Wulfgar went down, dazed and battered. As the wizard magically dispelled the remnants of the tendril, the barbarian’s arms were brought behind him and looped with heavy chains.

  “If it were just me and you, wizard, would you have anything left with which to stop me?” the stubborn barbarian growled.

  “I would have killed you out in the mountains,” snapped the mage, obviously embarrassed by the failure of his magic.

  Wulfgar launched a ball of spit that struck the man in the face. “How many can you take?” he asked.

  The enraged wizard began waggling his fingers, but before he could get far Wulfgar plowed through the ring of soldiers and shoulder-slammed the man, sending him flying away. The barbarian was subdued again almost immediately, but the shaken wizard climbed up from the floor and skittered out of the room.

  “Impressive display,” Lord Feringal said sarcastically, scowling. “Am I to applaud you before I castrate you?”

  That got Wulfgar’s attention. He started to respond, but a guard slugged him to keep him quiet.

  Lord Feringal looked to the young woman seated beside him. “Is this the man?” he asked, venom in every word.

  Wulfgar stared hard at the woman, at the woman he had stopped Morik from harming on the road, at the woman he had released unscathed. He saw something there in her rich, green eyes, some emotion he could not quite fathom. Sorrow, perhaps? Certainly not anger.

  “I … don’t think so,” the woman said and looked away.

  Lord Feringal’s eyes widened, indeed. The old man standing beside him gasped openly, as did the other woman.

  “Look again, Meralda,” Feringal commanded sharply. “Is it him?”

  No answer, and Wulfgar could clearly see the pain in the woman’s eyes.

  “Answer me!” the lord of Auckney demanded.

  “No!” the woman cried, refusing to meet any gaze.

  “Fetch Liam,” Lord Feringal yelled. Behind Wulfgar, a soldier rushed out of the room, returning a moment later with an old gnome.

  “Oh, be sure it is,” the gnome said, coming around to stare Wulfgar right in the eye. “You thinking I won’t know you?” he asked. “You got me good, with your little rat friend distracting my eyes and you swinging down. I know you, thieving dog, for I seen you afore you hit me!” He turned to Lord Feringal. “Aye,” he said. “He’s the one.”

  Feringal eyed the woman beside him for a long, long time. “You are certain?” he asked Liam, his eyes still on the woman.

  “I’ve not been bested often, my lord,” Liam replied. “You’ve named me as the finest fighter in Auckney, which’s why you entrusted me with your lady. I failed you, and I’m not taking that lightly. He’s the one, I say, and oh, but what I’d pay you to let me fight him fairly.”

  He turned back and glared into Wulfgar’s eyes. Wulfgar matched that stare, and though he had no doubt he could snap this gnome in half with hardly an effort, he said nothing. Wulfgar couldn’t escape the fact that he had wronged the diminutive fellow.

  “Have you anything to say for yourself?” Lord Feringal asked Wulfgar. Before the barbarian could begin to reply, the young lord rushed forward, brushing Liam aside to stand very close. “I have a dungeon for you,” he whispered harshly. “A dark place, filled with the waste and bones of the previous occupants. Filled with rats and biting spiders. Yes, fool, I have a place for you to rot until I decide the time has come to kill you most horribly.”

  Wulfgar knew the procedure well by this point in his life and merely heaved a heavy sigh. He was promptly dragged away.

  In the corner of the audience hall, Steward Temigast watched it all very carefully, shifting his gaze from Wulfgar to Meralda and back again. He noted Priscilla, sitting quietly, no doubt taking it all in, as well.
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  He noted the venom on Priscilla’s face as she regarded Meralda. She was thinking that the woman had enjoyed being ravished by the barbarian, Temigast realized. She was thinking that, perhaps, it hadn’t really been a rape.

  Given the size of the man, Temigast couldn’t agree with that assessment.

  The cell was everything Lord Feringal had promised, a wretched, dark, damp place filled with the awful stench of death. Wulfgar couldn’t see a thing, not his own hand if he held it an inch in front of his face. He scrabbled around in the mud and worse, pushing past sharp bones in a futile attempt to find some piece of dry ground upon which he might sit. And all the while he slapped at the spiders and other crawling things that scurried in to learn what new meal had been delivered to them.

  To most, this dungeon would have seemed worse than Luskan’s prison tunnels, mostly because of its purest sense of emptiness and solitude, but Wulfgar feared neither rats nor spiders. His terrors ran much deeper than that. Here in the dark he found he was somewhat able to fend off those horrors.

  And so the day passed. Sometime during the next one, the barbarian awoke to torchlight and the sound of a guard slipping a plate of rotten food through the small slit in the half-barred, half-metal hatch that sealed the filthy burrow cell from the wet tunnels beyond. Wulfgar started to eat but spat it out, thinking he might be better off trying to catch and skin a rat.

  That second day a turmoil of emotions found the barbarian. Mostly he was angry at all the world. Perhaps he deserved punishment for his highwayman activities—he could accept responsibility for that—but this went beyond justice concerning his actions on the road with Lord Feringal’s coach.

  Also, Wulfgar was angry at himself. Perhaps Morik had been right all along. Perhaps he did not have the heart for this life. A true highwayman would have let the gnome die or at least finished him quickly. A true highwayman would have taken his pleasures with the woman, then dragged her along either to be sold as a slave or kept as a slave of his own.

  Wulfgar laughed aloud. Yes, indeed, Morik had been right. Wulfgar hadn’t the heart for any of it. Now here he was, the wretch of wretches, a failure at the lowest level of civilized society, a fool too incompetent to even be a proper highwayman.