Kale elbowed his sister in the ribs. She clicked her teeth. “What?”
“Lay off, huh?”
Delilah leaned toward her brother, her voice a hissing whisper. “It’s a stupid name!”
“No stupider than ‘Twilight Dungeon.’ Who lives in a dungeon? You live in a place like that, and you’re asking for people to start trouble!” Kale had years to think about it. Drak-Anor was a much more respectable name. It even meant “Home of the Draks.” He liked to think he and Delilah contributed to Sarvesh’s suggestion of that name.
Delilah huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, scowling at Kale. “Yeah, well, you’re not wrong about that, but you’re still wrong!” She huffed again, pulling her grimoire from her pack.
Smiling, Kale slapped her knee and then shifted in his seat to gaze at Almeria. As the wagon bounced along the road, Kali’s voice droned on, regaling Edric and Pancras with stories about Honeywater.
* * *
Gisella adjusted her grip on her spear as she pushed her prisoner forward. Like most Watchfolk, she possessed a sword, an heirloom from her father, but she preferred to keep her quarry at length. He stumbled, but he remained upright, defiant. With the butt of her spear, she whacked him on the back of his knees, causing him to fall prone. In the Court of Wizardry, defiance was not tolerated from any prisoners when facing the archmage. Gisella sighed. Archmage. What a pompous git. The court’s guards stood at attention, hands resting on their swords, ready to leap into action if the prisoner showed any signs of aggression.
The Archmage, Vilkan Icebreaker, The Manless, was a hulking man of great girth and vicious temperament. He tugged at his beard as he stood, and then he swept the wrinkled folds of his gold-trimmed blue robe to the side with a wide motion of his arms. The high wizards of the court looked on as he descended the steps, their masked faces concealing their contempt. Only the body language of those clothed in colored robes belied their silent approval. Their attitude was a matter of great debate among the lesser peoples of the court. Many said their disapproval was for The Manless himself, though Gisella believed they were disdainful of all who were not high wizards, but especially of The Manless since he ascended to the position of archmage and was not himself a high wizard.
Politics of court did not concern Gisella, however. As one of the court’s slayers, she was tasked with glorious purpose: to track down and bring to justice those branded renegades by the court, such as the man she brought before them today. Alik Ironstaff was a mewling worm in the best of times, in her opinion. Nevertheless, seeing him receive his due and likely being the one to carry out his punishment brought no pleasure.
Alik prostrated himself before Archmage Vilkan. “Great merciful one, I beg you. This”—he cast a glance over his shoulder at Gisella—“this golden harpy has accused me unjustly. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Nothing? Ha!” The archmage grabbed Alik by his throat and lifted the man to his feet. “Who do you think sent her after you? The slayers do nothing without my leave. Especially the Golden Slayer.”
Gisella observed in stony silence. Oh, what you do not know, Manless.
“I am—innocent—” Alik’s protest turned into a choking cough as the archmage tightened his grip.
He threw the squirming man to the floor. “Innocent? Not one among us is innocent. And you”—he thrust his pudgy finger into Alik’s face—“you left my sister with a child. A child who killed her from within!”
Alik splayed his hands on the floor, spreading his arms as far as his shackles would allow. “It is no crime to love!”
Gisella’s eyes flicked toward the archmage and then down at Alik. She was not aware of Alik’s exact crime until this moment, though it made little difference to her. She was bound to obey the court’s edicts, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter.
For now.
Archmage Vilkan eyed Gisella and drew his finger across his throat. He spun, the hem of his robe sweeping over Alik’s prone form. Frowning, Gisella stepped forward. She lunged and thrust her spear into Alik’s back, twisting it as she pushed forward, stopping only when she felt the tip of her spear hit the stone floor. Alik cried out and squirmed, but she held fast, planting her boot on his backside for support. She yanked, and, with a spray of blood, pulled the broad tip out. He twitched for a moment on the floor. Then he lay still.
Taking his seat, the archmage regarded his dour-faced comrades and then nodded at Gisella. “Reliable as always. Have you anything to add to the proceedings?”
Always the same. “Nothing, Archmage. If there is nothing else, I have other business to which I must attend.”
Archmage Vilkan’s face twisted into a scowl. “Yes, of course. There is nothing further today, then. I may have something for you tomorrow.” He gestured for the guards to dispose of Alik.
Gisella wasted no time exiting the court. When she was beyond the chamber doors, she removed her helmet and tucked it under her arm. She rested her spear in the crook of the same arm as she loosened her hair, allowing her golden tresses freedom to fall around her shoulders. A fellow slayer, Grímar Blackthorne eyed her, fingering the moon pendant around his neck.
“Always a pleasure to see the Golden Slayer release her treasured locks.”
Grímar, Gisella, and Archmage Vilkan were all Watchfolk: hardy people from the frozen lands beyond the Iron Gate Mountains to the south of Muncifer, which comprised the Four Watches. Gisella considered Grímar a friend and comrade, however, unlike Archmage Vilkan.
“Vilkan was in a poor state of mind today. Your doing?” She took up her spear and continued her walk. Grímar fell in step beside her. They crossed the courtyard toward a small, half-timbered building. Smoke drifted up from its dual chimneys. The Blood Oak stretched its bare arms across the courtyard, winter having stolen its leaves. Soon, it would be alive with new foliage, shading the courtyard with its building-spanning canopy.
“I had nothing to do with it.”
She bumped into him as they walked. “I find that hard to believe.”
They turned into the compound’s tavern. After ordering tankards of mead from the barman, they found an unoccupied long table. Grímar smacked his lips after a long draft and seated himself. “There are dark rumors flying. Have you heard?”
There were always rumors. They were always dark. They always portended doom and destruction. Folk in Muncifer seemed to have little to gossip about except the Court of Wizardry and their superstitions.
“I try to pay them little mind. What is it this time? An army of giants about to descend from the mountains to pillage Muncifer? A dragon, perhaps? Like the one spotted up north near, where was it? Ironslag?”
“Ironkrag.” Grímar laughed. “No, though I have heard the one about the giants. Unrest in the cemeteries up north. Mad Magda says a shadow reaches from the mountains to Vlorey, the shadow of the Lich Queen’s withered old hand.”
Gisella stopped, mead sloshing against her lips. She peered over the rim of her tankard at Grímar. He continued, heedless of her reaction. “Can you imagine? The Lich Queen? Again? These folks are as cracked as the land around here.”
History told of the Lich Queen’s ultimate defeat decades ago, and of the Witch Queen’s defeat a decade or more before that, even. The Witch Queen died, and from her tomb arose the Lich Queen. She was utterly destroyed, and from her ashes, nothing could rise. Or so the stories said. Gisella knew better than to trust stories, no matter how popular they were, when it came to the affairs of wizards.
She set down her tankard. “A new world tree in the Dragon Spine Mountains. More different types of fae folk emerging into the world, dragons, too. The healing of the world has well and truly begun. I could believe almost anything.”
Grímar waved over a servant and ordered a plate of sausages. “But the Lich Queen? Again? How many times must someone die before they’re truly dead?”
Gisella picked up her tankard and drained the sweet mead before replying, “Some people don’t have
the sense to stay dead, you know.”
* * *
After a day and a half of bouncing along on a hard wooden bench at the mercy of Edric’s driving, Delilah decided she’d walk all the way to Muncifer if need be. She feared her backside might never be the same again and winced as the wagon bounced and dropped as it crossed from the road onto the stone bridge that led to Honeywater.
On the other side of the bridge, as they made their way to Honeywater’s market square, human guards wearing the livery of Almeria’s royal guard flagged down the wagon, grabbing the horses’ reins as Edric brought the team to a halt.
“What’s your business here, travelers?” The guard, a tall, lanky human with a weathered face and scraggly beard, peered at the draks in the back of the wagon.
Kali poked her head up between Pancras and Edric. “I’m a Firescale from this village. We’re heading south and need to trade for supplies.”
“All right. No funny business, though. We’re watching.”
Edric maneuvered the team and wagon toward the location indicated by the guard. As soon as the wagon stopped, Delilah scrambled out and planted her feet in the grass. She resisted the urge to fall to her knees and kiss the land.
“I guess Princess Valene is serious about fixing this town, huh?” Kale hopped down next to his sister.
“Looks that way.” Kali climbed out of the wagon. “I figured she’d send a few guards to clear out the slavers and then leave us alone. But, royal guards?”
Yeah, yeah, the princess is great, the princess is grand. Delilah wondered where the princess’s grace was when she was dangling by her wrists in the palace dungeon. She grunted and hobbled her way around the wagon to Pancras, who worked with Edric to secure the horses.
“Are you hurt?” Pancras tossed the lead rope to Edric and knelt down to examine Delilah.
“My butt hurts! I’m not riding to Muncifer in the back of that wagon, Pancras. I’ll walk.”
Pancras chuckled and stood. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We should be able to trade this wagon for more suitable mounts.” He pointed across the square. “It looks like there are some stables over there.”
Edric finished securing the horses and joined Pancras and Delilah. “The wagon would be good for the open road, but if I’m remembering right, the road isn’t the quickest way to get to Muncifer from here.”
“That’s my recollection as well. The road skirts the plains and passes by the western edge of the Abbar Moors. It should be faster if we travel cross-country. It’s certainly more direct.”
“If more direct means we get there faster, I’m all for that.” Delilah rubbed her bottom through her cloak. She feared the ache from hours of bouncing on unyielding wood would never abate.
Pancras placed his hand on Delilah’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take Edric and Kale and find us accommodations for the night? Kali and I will figure out what to do with these horses. We’ll meet back here shortly.”
“Fine.” She gestured for Edric to follow her and walked to the back of the wagon. Kale and Kali spoke in hushed voices, standing closer than Delilah thought was necessary. “Break it up, you two. Kale, we need to go find lodging for the night. Pancras wants to take Kali and trade in these horses.”
Kali nodded and nuzzled Kale. “There should be an inn or two down the road.” She pointed toward the far end of the market before she jogged away to catch up with Pancras.
The sun hung low in the sky. Long shadows cast by the surrounding buildings stretched across the market like dark, ethereal fingers. Delilah pulled her cloak around her as she led Kale and Edric through the scant crowds. A few vendors vied for their attention, but most ignored them and closed their stalls for the evening.
In contrast to the other inns, shops, and taverns they encountered on their journey, almost every building in this town was drak sized. Most were built from rough-hewn stone, and gentle curves featured prominently on most of the older structures. The hard edges and tall, squared-off doorways of some of the larger buildings marked which ones were built and used by former slavers. She followed the road to the far end of the market. The sign above the edifice that stood near the intersection of the market square and the street proclaimed itself to be Hag’s End. From the sounds emanating from within, it was a tavern or inn.
“Looks like the right kind of place.” Edric pushed the door open. “I don’t reckon the minotaur’ll fit, though.”
Delilah followed Edric and her brother into the tavern. “Maybe they have a back door.” The air within was filled with the aroma of roasting meat. The din of a dozen conversations paused for a brief moment as the patrons took stock of the newcomers, but it resumed as Delilah shut the door. When her eyes adjusted to the lower levels of light in the tavern, she noted there was no bar, but there were plenty of empty tables.
A dwarf waddled up to them, his wiry, black beard braided and parted to make way for his prodigious gut. He offered a smile and a raised hand to Edric. “Welcome to Hag’s End, my friends. I can tell you’re not Firescales. Just arrived?”
Edric clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “I need ale. Good ale.”
Delilah ignored Edric. “Do you have rooms? We’re four, plus a minotaur.”
The dwarf showed Edric and the drak twins to a table. “If the minotaur doesn’t mind sleeping in what those human slavers were using, we can accommodate you. There’s a door for the longshanks around the side. You draks want anything?”
“Mead!” Kale scooted his chair in as he scanned the room. The tavern was packed with draks, most of whose scales were a similar burnt orange color as Kali’s.
Delilah waved a hand in her brother’s direction. “What he’s having. Got any food? Whatever you’re roasting smells good.”
“Coming right up!” The rotund dwarf waddled toward the back of the dining room.
“Oh hey, shouldn’t we wait for Pancras?” Kale reached over and grabbed his sister’s arm.
Edric patted his stomach. “He can catch up. That meat they’re cookin’ is callin’ me name!”
Delilah tapped the butt of her staff on the floor. Azure tendrils swirled around the skull atop her staff as she summoned arcane energy. “Ageliofedros.” A glowing, fuzzy blue boggin appeared on the table, formed from the strands of aether around her.
“Find Pancras and tell him we’re at Hag’s End, at the far end of the city market. We got rooms, and we’re eating.”
The boggin yipped and hopped off the table, darted under tables, and ran straight through the door, leaving a tenuous, fading azure trail in its wake. Delilah realized the entire room had fallen silent, and the assembled draks gawked at her. She heard their hushed whispers.
“They have stripes!”
“Did you see that? Magic!”
“Paz said striped draks were with Kali. The ones that freed the slaves!”
Delilah’s eyes flicked and met her brother’s. “Uh-oh.”
* * *
With Kali’s assistance, trading the wagon and horses for more suitable mounts proved to be a quick and easy transaction. The owner of the livery, Chana, was more than happy to acquire a wagon and two draft horses.
For himself, Pancras chose a horse more suited to carrying a rider. Because of his stature, he ended up with a muscular blue roan steed that once belonged to the slavers. It was a magnificent creature, standing nearly as tall as he at the withers, and was called Stormheart according to Chana. The drak threw in a riding saddle, as well. For Kale, Delilah, and Kali, Chana had three nailtooth lizards from the Western Wastes. Green-scaled bipeds, the nailtooths had long, muscular tails and strong, clawed feet suited to running. Finally, for Edric, Pancras found a dun-colored pony. Inclusive of tack and saddle bags for all, Pancras paid only twenty silver talons out of pocket.
“We did well.” Kali rubbed the neck of her lizard. It hissed and snapped at the air. “We should be able to move overland much quicker with these than in that wagon.”
“Do you know this place they’re
at? Hag’s End?” Pancras grabbed his pack from the wagon and double checked to make sure all their belongings had been unloaded before heading across the market with Kali.
“Sure, but I doubt it’s the same as I remember it. The slavers drove most of us from our homes and businesses. The last time I was there, to call it a den of thieves and murderers would be charitable. I can’t imagine the slavers let that stay.”
She led Pancras through the now-closed market square to Hag’s End. The sign above the door hung level with the minotaur’s chin. He coughed and eyed Kali.
The drak shrugged. “I’m sure they checked for a larger door. They must have, right?”
The aroma of roasting meat wafted into the street as a pair of orange draks exited the building. Pancras ducked his head and peeked inside. “They probably forgot.” A mass of draks crowded around one table, oblivious to the minotaur sticking his head in through the door. They seemed to be celebrating.
Kali pulled on Pancras’s arm to move him out of the way. She clapped her hands as she entered the tavern. “Hey, you lot! I’m back. What’s going on here?”
A few of the draks turned to regard Kali. They seemed to recognize her, but through the cacophonous roar of a dozen drak voices shouting at one, Pancras couldn’t understand what they said to her. She gestured for Pancras to go around to the alley alongside the building.
Pancras located a human-sized door on the alley side of the building. He still had to duck, but he entered with minimal discomfort. Inside, however, was a different matter. Pancras towered over all the patrons and tables, including the one at which Kale, Delilah, and Edric were seated. Kali had dispersed the crowd and joined the dwarf and drak twins by the time Pancras arrived, seating herself next to Edric.
“I don’t suppose there’s a bigger table?”
Kale drank from a tankard and then wiped his mouth with his arm. “I don’t think there are any, but there’s a room big enough for you.”
Pancras moved one of the chairs to the side with his leg and sat on the floor. His legs barely fit beneath the table. “Have you paid yet? Perhaps after we eat, we can find accommodations that are more… spacious?”
Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2) Page 4
