D&D - Mystara - Penhaligon Trilogy 02

by The Dragon's Tomb - Heinrich, D. J (v1. 1)

“It was the day they put me on the ship,” Jo said slowly, her eyes glazing over. “Mother kissed me good-bye, and all the while the baby screamed. She kept fussing with him, and so I turned to my father.” Jos thoughts retreated back in time, and she saw her six-year-old self once more on a wharf.

  “Why do I have to go ahead of you and Mama, Papa?” Jo asked her father.

  A man with flaming red hair, a full moustache, and merry eyes knelt beside her. He wore a leather apron over his grimy clothes, and his bare arms smelled of burned hair and molten metal. Her father worked at a foundry, and Jo had grown accustomed to the way he smelled. In fact, she little recognized him the day after his monthly ritual bath. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek, then sat back on his heels. It was the first time she had ever seen her fathers eyes dim, and Jo saw tears welling up there.

  “That’s a long story, Jo dear,” he said, “and you’re too young to really worry about that. We’ll . . . we’ll be with you soon. I promise. I do.” Jo felt the same awful way she did when her mother sent her out at night searching for her father. Jo would find the man in some filthy gutter, a bottle nearby and his pockets empty.

  “Papa,” Jo said as she touched her father’s tousled hair, “are we out of money again? How can we afford to send me on ahead?”

  Her father glanced at the ground and murmured, “Ships don’t cost money, dear. People ride them for free.” Jo bit her lower lip. Papa’s lying again, she thought.

  Her father tucked her flyaway hair back into Jo’s two braids and then said with a smile, “You have your blink- dog’s tail, don’t you now?” Jo solemnly nodded and patted the bulging pouch at her waist where she kept her most treasured possession.

  “Good,” her father said. “Use it when you need to escape bullies or what have you, but don’t let anyone see you use it. Those same bullies will try to take it away from you.

  Jo nodded again. “When are you and Mama joining me, Papa?” she asked. A little tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Oh, soon, Jo dear, soon! I promise! I really do!” her father said and pulled her into his arms. “Now, I want you to be a good girl and mind the steward. He knows where to take you when you get to the city. All right, Jo dear?” Her father took her chin in his thumb and finger and gave it a little shake. Jo smiled bleakly.

  The ship’s steward called, “Last board! Last board! Boaaard up!”

  Jo’s father gave her one last swift hug, then stood and turned to his wife. He took the squalling baby from her. Jo hugged her mother fiercely, treasuring the touch and warmth of her broad, clean arms, which always smelled of bread. Jo’s mother said nothing, though tears trickled down her freckled cheeks and wet a few stray strands of her chestnut hair. Her mother gave her one last kiss, then took the baby from her husband’s arms. She looked down at her daughter.

  “Mama?” Jo asked, not understanding why her mother wouldn’t say anything.

  Her mother busied herself with the baby. “Not now, Johauna,” she said. “Baby’s crying.”

  “Can I hold him good-bye?” Jo asked.

  The mother clung to her infant and savagely shook her head. “No, Johauna! It’s time for you to go.” She pointed toward the ship. “Now, go on! Go on!” Jo backed away, not understanding why her mother suddenly seemed so hurtful.

  Behind them two sailors began pulling the boarding plank, and Jos father carried Jo toward the ship. One sailor groused at the delay, but the other extended his hand toward Jo and helped her board. He even wiped away a tear before putting her on deck.

  “Good-bye, Jo dear!” her father shouted and waved. Beside him, her mother waved, too, though the gesture was reluctant. She turned away soon. Jo heard the baby squalling his good-bye to a sister he probably would never know he had.

  The plank clattered as it landed on the ship’s deck, and then, slowly, the ship began pulling away from the dock. Jo stood by the railing, clutching the salt-hardened wood with her small hands, until her father and mother disappeared.

  Jo’s thoughts returned to the present, and she looked at the castellan. “I was only six,” she whispered. “The steward sent me to this place with hundreds of other children, but there wasn’t room for me. They turned me away. At first I thought it was a home for children until their parents came for them. But it wasn’t an orphanage. It was a sweat shop. People had sold them so many children that they were turning the extras away.”

  Jo scratched her forehead. “My parents, of course, never came for me. Every day I went to the docks, and they never came for me. All I had left to remind me of them was my blink-dog’s tail. How my father got the tail, I’ll never know. Now . . . now I don’t even have that. Flinn used my blink-dog’s tail in his fight with Verdilith, but I couldn’t find it after the battle.” She paused and added, “I like to think the tail helped him live long enough for me to see him before he died.”

  “Jo dear . . began the castellan.

  Jo looked at the aging knight and then slowly smiled. “My father called me that,” she said haltingly, “and I never remembered that until now. Perhaps there are some good memories to my past after all.” She smiled, though her lips trembled a little.

  “You’re a very special young woman, Johauna Menhir,” Sir Graybow said earnestly after a pause. “Its time a few people recognized that, and tonight at the ceremony they will.” The castellan paused again, then picked up a nearby goblet and fidgeted with it. Jo knew the man well enough by now to understand he was nervous. She waited patiendy.

  “I . . . I’ve been thinking, Jo,” the castellan began, “about our position here at the castle.”

  Jo felt immediate alarm. Have I done something wrong? she thought. Am I breaking some rule of etiquette? “Is . . . something the matter?” she asked cautiously.

  Sir Graybow set down the cup. “Only something that I feel can be easily remedied, if you agree.”

  “Agree?” Jo asked. “To what?”

  “I’d like to make you my heir, Johauna,” the castellan said clearly, his eyes on Jo’s face.

  Jo expelled her breath, only just realizing that she’d been holding it. “I . . . see,” she said, then nodded slowly. “Elowyn and Fritha were your only kin?” she asked as kindly as she could.

  The wrinkles around the castellan’s eyes deepened. He said quietly enough, “Yes, they were. As I said, you remind me of Elowyn. I have no heir, and you have no kin of your own that you know of. We are knight and squire and—I think—friends, too.” The castellan’s smile was sad though not bitter.

  Jo nodded slowly, her eyes unable to leave Sir Graybow’s face. “Yes,” she said softly, “yes. If you want me as your heir, I would gladly accept.”

  The castellan gave her a brief hug and then backed away, saying, “Good. That’s settled. I’ll make the announcement at tonight’s ceremony.” He smiled again at Jo, and this time, his expression held no sadness. “I’m very proud of you, Jo, and I’m more pleased than I can say that you’re willing to adopt me.”

  Jo colored a little at the praise. After living for six years with an alcoholic father and thirteen years on the streets of Specularum, Jo had little practice in accepting praise. Unable to say anything, she looked about the room. “I hope Braddoc arrives in time to see the squires and knights initiated,” she said, deliberately changing the subject.

  Sir Graybow laughed, a chuckle much like a bark. “What you mean to say, young lady, is that you hope the good dwarf sees you initiated in the order!” The older knight smiled at Jo s sudden discomfiture. He smiled at her a moment longer, then added, “I’m sorry Karleah and Dayin won’t be here tonight.”

  Jo looked down at her hands. She’d received a message from Karleah yesterday to that effect. “Yes, well,” Jo said slowly, “Karleah’s very close to discovering why she’s lost her powers. And I understand her concern. . . .” Of course, I thought I was a concern of hers, too, Jo thought, then tried to push her disappointment aside.

  Somewhere in the tower a bell sounded, rin
ging the three-bell stroke for assembly. The people will be starting to gather in the great hall for tonight’s ceremony, Jo thought. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned her bright eyes to the castellan.

  Sir Graybow stood and said, “Hold on a moment, Jo. I have something for you.” He entered the kitchen.

  Jo stood and picked up Wyrmblight. The sigils seemed to glow in the evening light, though Jo fancied it could be simply a reflection from the candle sconces that Jo had lighted at sunset. She held the blade before her and whispered, “Oh, Flinn. Why aren’t you here with me? What is my moment of triumph without you?” Her eyes smarted.

  Wyrmblight warmed to the touch, and Jo felt a measure of comfort. Have faith whispered through her mind.

  The castellan returned, bearing a burgundy-colored sword sheath in finely tooled leather. He held it out to Jo, who set Wyrmblight aside.

  “What’s this?” she asked as she eyed the peculiar arrangement of belts.

  “It’s a harness rig for a great sword,” Sir Graybow responded. “Here, let me.” He picked up one part of the harness, which Jo saw served as a belt. It was wider than her palm and studded with grommets. The castellan fastened it at her waist, making sure it rested snugly against her. A second similar construction looped over her shoulder and under the opposite arm. From both dangled leather straps and silver snaps and buckles. Sir Graybow took Wyrmblight and silently began fastening the blade in place.

  Jo looked over her shoulder closely. Wyrmblight was too long to actually sheathe, for no one could quickly withdraw a great sword from a case. But the leather straps of this harness were so designed, Jo saw, that a single pull would undo them. It obviously takes much longer to buckle the sword into the harness, Jo thought as the castellan finally finished.

  “There,” Sir Graybow said. “A proper harness for a proper sword—” he smiled at Jo, the many wrinkles around his eyes crinkling “—for a proper squire,”

  Jo practiced bending and kneeling, checking the balance of the hanging sword. The harness held Wyrmblight securely in place, the tip of the sword about a foot off the floor. She wouldn’t be able to sit with the sword strapped in place, but she doubted she’d have much opportunity of that until after the ceremony. She touched the rich burgundy leather and the silver appointments reverently.

  “Thank you, Sir Graybow,” she said simply. “The harness is beautiful.” She looked fondly at the man standing before her. “It will be a relief to have Wyrmblight with me, properly sheathed, tonight. It’s irksome not having my hands free.”

  The castellan nodded, a pleased expression on his face. He put his hand on Jo’s arm and turned toward the stairwell. “Come, Jo,” Sir Graybow said gravely. “It’s time for your initiation as a squire in the Order of the Three Suns.” He smiled at the young woman.

  Jo’s answering smile was solemn, for her thoughts had turned inward. If Flinn cannot be with me now in my shining moment, she thought, at least his sword and his mentor can. And when the time comes, when I am ready to take on Verdilith, I will find that wyrm and slay him. I will avenge Flinn’s death. Jo nodded to herself, seeing only then the concerned expression in the castellan’s eyes.

  Braddoc Briarblood eyed the man in front of him, then kicked his calf with the sharp tip of his boiled-leather boot. The man yowled and turned around, searching for the perpetrator. You’re looking a little too high, mister, Braddoc thought maliciously as he stepped around the man. He wiggled his way between two more humans and breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the upper balustrade’s railing. The balcony overlooked the interior of the castle’s great hall.

  At last! Braddoc thought. I didn’t think I’d ever make it in time. He put his battle-axe and knapsack between his feet. The dwarf leaned over the stone balcony and peered into the crowd of people below. The great hall of the Castle of the Three Suns was filled with people, though not as packed as the hall had been during the open council last winter when Braddoc, Jo, Karleah, and Dayin had seen Flinn confront his accusers.

  The dwarf’s trip had proven uneventful. His home was still secure, though a pair of raccoons had moved inside the house. After leaving his home, Braddoc had circled back past the dragon’s lair and found no sign of Verdilith there, though of course he hadn’t been able to get inside the lair. Still, the castellan’s report seemed true. Verdilith was gone.

  The last task Braddoc had set himself was the most difficult, for he had visited the site of Flinn’s funeral pyre. There the dwarf had scattered the few remaining ashes and said his own good-byes to Flinn. Then he had begun a methodical, diligent search for the one gift he wanted most to give Johauna: her blink-dog’s tail. Braddoc checked his pocket for the bristly fur and again thanked the Immortals that he’d been successful.

  All in all, the trip had been most productive and uneventful—until he’d stabled his pony at the castle not half an hour ago. As he had turned from his mount, a large, black crow had fluttered in the stable entrance and dropped a parchment in his hands. The crow had squawked and flapped away before Braddoc could even feel surprised. Remembering the peculiar bird, the dwarf pulled the parchment out again and smoothed it against the stone railing in front of him.

  Braddoc—

  Dayin and I cannot attend the initiation ceremony; I am close to discovering what has stolen my magic and hope to recover my spells before I return to the castle. The timing is crucial. Even so, I ivish I could attend the ceremony, if not for Johaunafs vanity, for her safety. Vve sent Harrier, my messenger, to deliver a warning to you: Be ever vigilant at the initiation ceremony. I have dreamed of Jo coming to harm that night, and hope this missive reaches you in time to avert it or somehow ease it.

  Tell Jo we will see her soon.

  Karleah Kunzay

  “Old witch,” Braddoc muttered into his beard. “What’s ‘harm’ supposed to look like? I wish you’d been a little more specific.”

  Braddoc folded the note and stuffed it in his belt. Squinting, he looked out into the great hall, searching for anything or anyone that seemed remotely unusual. His eyes ran along the clean architectural lines of the ribbed vault above, searching for a dark spot or irregular shape that might be hiding a lurking assassin. He saw no such sign, only soot trails from a time when the castle had used torches. Braddoc harrumphed. Four immense chandeliers hung from the vault, attached to it with ornate, wrought-iron housings. Each chandelier carried a dozen sconces, all elaborately chased with touches of gold and silver. Magical light poured forth from the tops and bottoms of the sconces, casting gaunt shadows over the vault. The dwarf smiled grimly. Those massive chandeliers could easily conceal some crossbow-toting villain. Though he strained his eyes to make out such a form, he could see none. The fixtures swayed slowly, silently in gentle eddies of air from the vault.

  “Have to keep my eye on those.”

  Next, his attention turned to the seven other balconies overlooking the great hall below, three on his side of the hall, and four on the other. They were crowded with eager peasants and merchants—the riffraff like himself. Given the density of the throng, an attack could easily come from any one of the balconies.

  “’Scuse, please,” grunted a burly blacksmith, shoving Braddoc into the stone rail and crushing him against it as he pushed by. As soon as the mans large stomach stopped pressing against him, the dwarf whirled angrily about, hand on the dagger in his belt. The blacksmith was gone. Bristling, Braddoc stared into the churning crowd around him to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but the man had disappeared as though he had never been.

  “Bloated idiot,” Braddoc mumbled, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing at a line of black grease on his shoulder. “Filthy, bloated idiot.” He pulled the kerchief away, staring irritably at the two spots that now marred it. One spot was black and grimy like grease. The other was red as blood. “Bad omen,” Braddoc noted, the breath in his bruised lungs catching short. Trying to shake off the chill that washed over him, he turned his attention to the great hall below.

>   The floor was a vast mosaic of interlocking tiles that formed some grand design Braddoc couldn’t make out. The surface of the pattern was obscured by the people, sitting in thick rows on the floor. The lines of them extended from one wall to the other, like a furrowed garden of villagers. Young pages ushered more peasants into the already packed hall, gesturing for them to tighten the existing rows. The pages, little more than children themselves, also tirelessly cleared the red-velvet aisle in the center of the hall.

  “Could be any one of’em,” Braddoc muttered, eyeing the crowd. His hand slipped a second time to his pocket, checking for the blink-dog’s tail. His fingers wrapped around the beaded handle, and he peered once again at the swaying chandeliers, the burgeoning balconies, the crowded floor below. ... “I just hope this thing wTorks.”

  Noise swelled at the front of the hall. Suddenly a dozen or more people, including Baroness Penhaligon and Sir Graybow, filed into a cordoned area where the council table sat. Long and rectangular—imposing even at this distance—the table rested on a low dais and was attended on ' the far side by high-backed chairs. Only pages, squires, knights, and nobility were allowed beyond the ropes that marked the cordoned area.

  “Let’s hope this starts it,” Braddoc said to himself. He was tired of waiting, especially since he had hurried straight to the hall, with trail dust still clinging to him.

  Baroness Penhaligon waited for the castellan to pull out her seat, then sat down. The council members stood by their respective chairs and waited. The crowd, none too quiet a moment before, grew noisier still. A man behind Braddoc pressed forward, practically leaning over the dwarf. Braddoc jerked his elbow back and connected with the man’s thigh. The human said, “Ooofl” but backed away peaceably. Oh, to be back in Rockhome! Braddoc sighed, feeling nostalgic for the short folk of his dwarven homeland.

  Arteris raised her hand. A dozen trumpeters, six to either side of the dais, stepped forward and blared out the call for silence.