Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2)

by Hans Cummings

  Pancras did not usually spend much time in taverns, but he found the drone of conversation and aroma of roasting meat wafting from the kitchens comforting after enduring so many uncomfortable weeks on the road. Edric and Qaliah seemed in better spirits once the ale and mead arrived and were soon trading jibes and tall tales again.

  Gisella quaffed a mug of mead. “We’ll spend a few days here. Wash off the grime of the road, see if there’s any news from Cliffport, and relax a bit before striking out again.”

  “How far is Cliffport?” Pancras sipped from his mug. The mead had a floral nose with a hint of spice on the finish.

  “Three days, northeast. We’ll cut across the hills until the river doubles back. Then we’ll follow it to the end.”

  “Three more days on the road and then the high seas!” Qaliah raised her mug and laughed. Edric blanched and drained his mug before motioning to a server for a refill.

  Pancras felt a flutter of anxiety about boarding a ship to sail up the coast. Edric’s pale face betrayed his apprehension about the matter. Pancras wasn’t afraid of water, per se, but his knowledge of ships and being on the water was limited to what he heard from stories. I hope I do not spend the entire voyage ill.

  “Harvest will be upon us by the time we arrive in Vlorey. Perhaps even the start of winter.” Gisella leaned back to allow the server to place the roast she ordered on the table. Its skin was golden brown and cracked, and it was surrounded by a variety of roasted vegetables. The aroma of juicy, smoked meat and savory spices made Pancras’s stomach grumble in anticipation.

  “I’ve heard the high seas are fraught with dangers: sea serpents, sea devils, whirlpools, and pirates.” Qaliah’s eyes sparkled, and the upturned corners of her mouth caused the corners of her eyes to wrinkle.

  Pancras’s stomach fluttered again. “Then we shall implore the gods for an uneventful voyage.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I’m with the minotaur on this one.” Edric stabbed a potato with his fork and bit into it. “Maybe I’ll just stay here. I’ve already seen more dwarves around here than I have the last several months combined.”

  Not for the first time, Pancras found himself defending his desire for boredom. “Adventure? Desperation, discomfort, and danger? I never look forward to that. The trip here from Muncifer was adventure enough for me, thank you.”

  Gisella pointed at Qaliah with her knife. “And no fraternizing with the sailors. If any of them feel slighted or wronged, we’re going to be trapped with them for better or for worse.”

  The fiendling sneered and wrinkled her nose. “Fine.” She furrowed her brow and looked over at the dwarf. “You have to come with us. How are we to pass the time?”

  “You’re smart. Figure it out. You ain’t getting me on the ocean.”

  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Gisella sliced a hunk of roast for herself.

  Of that, Pancras was certain. Whatever they decided, he hoped it would involve keeping a safe, low profile during the ocean voyage.

  * * *

  By the time Delilah returned to the Arcane University from Grimstone Keep, darkness had fallen over the city. Her mind reeled from all that Archduke Fyodar and the minotaur wizard Theros revealed to her. She cursed herself for somehow becoming involved in another dispute between the ruler and those who would be rulers.

  “You’ve done it again, Deli-girl.” Delilah paid no heed to passersby who regarded the drak talking to herself with both concern and bemusement. “In over your head, in between two rocks about to smash together.”

  “Damn it!” She kicked a loose cobblestone and sent it skipping across the street. The guards at the Arcane University gates nodded in acknowledgement as she passed between them. Despite hunger gnawing at her stomach, Delilah returned to her quarters and opened up her grimoire. She had neglected her personal studies in favor of jumping through hoops for everyone else, so to calm her mind, the drak sorceress decided to indulge in a selfish pursuit.

  Weeks and weeks of practice amidst the other students of the university enabled her to tune out the others in the area. As a result, coaxing the grimoire to come alive for her once more took less time than she expected. The familiar scenes of Gil-Li the Graven annihilating armies on a devastated battlefield, filled her mind.

  Tendrils of aether swirled around Gil-Li like a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of rainbow serpents. The tattoos etched into her scales flared, and fire burst from her body. The flames grew in intensity, swirling until they formed a humanoid shape. Gil-Li pointed toward her enemies, and the furious fire creature dove into the fray, igniting those near it and incinerating those it touched.

  The scene shifted. Gil-Li stood at an endless expanse of shore. Waves crashed against the rocks, and Delilah tasted the salt spray of the ocean. Gil-Li’s tattoos glowed with arcane energy, shining like a beacon in the night. Ships rocked on the surf in the distance.

  Creatures rose up from the water at Gil-Li’s bidding and rode the ebb current. The creatures pummeled the ships, their watery fists as battering rams against wooden hulls. When they were finished, the ships sank, claimed by the sea, and the creatures dissolved, becoming one with the water from which they were formed.

  Delilah’s mind raced. She’d seen Gil-Li’s creature of earth before. Now, she witnessed creatures of fire and water. It nagged at her. Only one element, air, remained. The scene dissolved, scattering like a sand sculpture in a tempest. The drak sorceress heard a snapping noise in front of her, but she saw nothing that would have caused such a noise.

  “Delilah!”

  The drak sorceress’s eyes snapped open. Katka stood beside her, clicking her fingers in the drak’s face.

  “Wake up!”

  Delilah slammed her book shut. “I wasn’t asleep! I was concentrating!”

  “Oh.” Katka stepped back, her face reddening. “I’m sorry.”

  Delilah’s ire faded. The young woman couldn’t have known.

  “I’ve never seen someone reading with their eyes closed before.”

  “This is an arcane grimoire.” Delilah traced the pattern on the cover with a clawed finger. “You don’t really read it as much as you open yourself up to it and experience it.”

  She returned the book to her pack. “Anyway, I was just trying to take my mind off some things. The archduke and the archmage have me stuck in the middle of their power plays, and all I want to do is learn some magic and go home.”

  Delilah pulled the pack onto her lap and wrapped her arms around it. She rested her head on top of the pack, sighing. Not for the first time, she considered fleeing with Kale and Kali. When the challenge was a pack of oroqs charging the city gate, Delilah was prepared and able to act; however, when it involved navigating a political swamp, she feared she would stumble into a sinkhole that would suck her down to oblivion.

  “Anyway, what do you need?”

  “Master Galina is looking for you.” Katka glanced over at a group of initiates who burst into laughter. “Since your Novice Trials are three days from now, she wants to make sure you’re not wasting her time.”

  Delilah clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes. Katka picked her fingernails and shrugged. “Those were her words.”

  The drak hopped off the bed. “So much for my free time.” She clapped Katka on the shoulder as she passed and sought out Master Galina in the practice yard. She hoped to spend the next three days deep in her grimoire. At the very least, she expected demands from other wizards to lessen until her test. Once the archmage apprentices me, I bet they’ll all leave me alone.

  Chapter 18

  A few days’ layover in Curton provided the perfect opportunity for Pancras to search for a suitable weapon. The morning star he found in the fort was adequate, but it was made for a human. A more suitable weapon would be one designed for a minotaur’s height and reach.

  Most of the smiths in town forged weapons from iron imported from dwarven mines in the mountains south of the city and showcas
ed their wares in stalls in the marketplace. The ringing of hammers on metal mixed with the drone of conversation as Pancras and Gisella walked the cobblestone streets of Curton. The drying mud caking the cobbles diminished the farther from the gates they trudged. Curton was a city of mostly humans, though he spotted more than a few dwarves and draks. He seemed to be the only minotaur, however. To his surprise, his appearance rated only a few cursory glances. The people of Curton seemed to be all about minding their own business.

  “Have you decided yet what kind of weapon you seek?” Gisella examined a broadsword while the smith prattled on about the virtues of his dwarven steel.

  “I’m getting too old to learn fancy sword play”—Pancras lifted the morning star he brought for comparison—“so something like this, but better built for minotaurs would be ideal.”

  “Nothing like that here.” The smith shook his head as he glanced at Pancras. “Piotr likes to make ugly weapons. His shop is behind the sausage tent.”

  Pancras thanked the smith and left him to his other customers.

  “Do you think Edric is serious about staying behind here?” Pancras clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. He towered over most of the people in Curton, a distinct advantage when navigating the crowded market.

  “He’s made his dislike of water clear. Come to think of it, I have never heard of a dwarven sailor.” Gisella pointed to the sausage tent.

  It was hard to miss a large tent where ropes of cured meat dangled like curtains. Clanging, which emanated from the building behind the sausage tent, indicated the presence of another smithy.

  “Go on ahead; I’m going to see if there are any cured meats to tide us over until we arrive in Vlorey.” Gisella entered the sausage-maker’s tent, leaving Pancras alone to shop for his weapon.

  The smith working behind the sausage tent was a mountain of a man. Muscles like knotted rope flexed as he hammered away at a glowing bar of iron. Sweat poured down his brow, soaking into bushy eyebrows, which matched a salt-and-pepper beard that would do the mightiest dwarf proud. The odor of perspiration mixed with brimstone made Pancras’s eyes water.

  He glanced up when Pancras cleared his throat. His brow furrowed, and his eyebrows came together like two fuzzy caterpillars kissing in the middle of his forehead. “Whatchoo wont?”

  Pancras wasn’t sure what exactly the smith said; his words were quick and slurred together.

  The minotaur held up his morning star. “Are you Piotr? I’m looking for something like this, but more suited to my size.”

  “I got what you see.” The smith gestured to the racks on the walls and resumed his hammering.

  Were he in Drak-Anor, Pancras would commission a weapon, but forging one from scratch would take weeks, more time than they could afford to spend in Curton. Piotr’s swords were broad-bladed and seemed more suited to chopping than for light-footed swordplay. His axe heads were equally broad and covered with ornate etching and fretwork. There was an artistry to the brutality of his weapon designs, and Pancras wondered if he’d been trained by a dwarf.

  Next to the rack of swords and axes stood a rack of hammers. They weren’t weapons, per se, rather than they were the types of hammers used by builders and crafters. Above them, on a display set off from the other tools, was a spike-backed hammer with a head as large as four sledgehammer heads put together. The face was knobby, and the entire weapon appeared to be forged from a single piece of red-tinted steel. Pancras felt a longing well in his heart, a sensation he recognized as coming not from within, but from his connection with Aita.

  He reached up and grasped the weapon, lifting it from its mount. It was heavy but felt balanced in his hand. The haft was long enough for him to wield with two hands, yet as he gave it a practice swing, one hand would suffice if need be. Unfamiliar runes were carved into the head of the weapon. They appeared to be related to dwarven runes but were of a dialect with which Pancras was unfamiliar.

  “How much for this one?”

  Piotr glanced up from the blade he formed from a bar of iron and grunted. “Shatterskull. Figures. Not for sale.”

  “Shatterskull.” The name could not be more perfect. Pancras would not be deterred by the first refusal. Many merchants intending to haggle would refuse a sale on the first attempt as a matter of course.

  “If it is not for sale, why is it with these other weapons? You indicated these were what you had for sale.” Shatterskull felt at home in Pancras’s hand.

  Piotr slammed down his hammer on the blade he was working. “Not for sale to you, minotaur.”

  Pancras understood. It wasn’t a sentimental attachment to the weapon; rather, it was a racism issue. He was not to be deterred. “It’s a gift. For a friend.”

  “Ha!” Piotr plunged the glowing steel into the forge and worked the bellows. “Many fine axes here. Pick one of those instead. Make you good deal.”

  Pancras would not argue the merits of Piotr’s fine axes. “Shatterskull calls to me.”

  “Shatterskull needs someone worthy. Someone with a just cause.” Piotr wiped his hands on his apron and left the half-formed blade to heat in the forge. He walked over to Pancras and reached out to grab the maul from the minotaur’s grasp.

  Emerald lighting played over Shatterskull’s head when the smith touched it. Pancras felt the power of Aita flow into the weapon, transforming the runic carvings into the relief of a red skull. Piotr gasped and recoiled, releasing Shatterskull. The weapon’s head reverted to its original appearance.

  “Sorcery!” Piotr took up his smith’s hammer and held it above his head, poised to strike. “You’ll not ensorcell me. Guards! Guards!”

  “Aita has made her will known.” Pancras regarded Shatterskull in wonder, heedless of Piotr’s will. He felt her power infusing the weapon, knowing it pleased her. He heard shouts of alarm from the marketplace outside, but he was too engrossed in the sensation of power coursing through his body to pay it any mind.

  Piotr’s beard quivered as he stood shouting for the guards. The power coursing through the maul faded. Pancras was reluctant to part with Shatterskull, so he stood there, shoulders slumped, and waited.

  Gisella arrived from the sausage tent at the same time as a dark-skinned woman in gleaming plate armor. Her hair was pulled back in tight braids, and she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword as she regarded the standoff between the smith and the minotaur with pursed lips and scowling eyes.

  “What is going on here?” The woman spoke like a native of the area, though her skin color told of more northerly origins.

  “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes!” Gisella’s tone was between exasperation and amusement. She hefted a sack full of dried sausages over her shoulder.

  “Lady Aveline! This minotaur put a spell on me! He seeks to rob me!” Piotr pointed an accusing finger at Pancras, even as he continued to hold his hammer in an attack-ready position. Pancras marveled over how steady his arm remained for the duration.

  Lady Aveline closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning toward Pancras. “In public, no less? A bold move. Foolish, but bold.”

  Pancras licked his lips. “I did no such thing. I am a Bonelord of Aita, and my goddess made her will known when this man refused to sell me this weapon. I am more than happy to provide fair compensation for his craftsmanship.” He raised Shatterskull for her examination.

  “A bonelord? Really?” Lady Aveline raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t break Pancras’s gaze. She was about the same height as Gisella and wore her armor the way a noblewoman at court wore a gown. The clasp of her blue cloak bore the seal of the City Watch of Curton.

  “Mi’lady?” Gisella bowed her head. “I travel with this minotaur and can vouch for his status.”

  “And she consorts with robbers!” Piotr’s voice rose an octave.

  “Quiet, Piotr.” Lady Aveline rubbed the bridge of her nose with a gloved finger. “Who are you? Both of you.”

  “Gisella Jorgandottir, the Golden Slayer, from the
Arcane University in Muncifer.” Gisella placed her free arm across her chest and bowed.

  “Pancras, Bonelord of Aita, First Wizard of Drak-Anor.” Pancras tilted his head toward Lady Aveline.

  “A wizard-cum-bonelord and a slayer.” Lady Aveline dropped her hand to her side and sighed. “Why were you trying to enchant poor Piotr?”

  “I wasn’t.” Pancras stared at Shatterskull. No matter how much he concentrated on the maul, he couldn’t make it transform again.

  “Piotr, tell me what happened.”

  “I told him he couldn’t buy it, and he used his foul magic on me.” The smith lowered his hammer at last, but backed away from Pancras.

  “I need more details than that, Piotr. What sort of magic did he use on you?”

  “The maul”—Piotr gestured with his smith’s hammer—”He gave it a face! A terrible face… He means to devour my soul with it!” The smith again raised his hammer to strike. Lady Aveline stepped over and snatched it from him as she pushed the smith backward with her other hand.

  “I do not know what gods you venerate, or even if you believe they can show their will in such direct ways.” Pancras rubbed his right horn as he spoke. “The skull our good smith saw was a sign from Aita. I will gladly compensate the smith for this weapon. Fine craftsmanship deserves payment.”

  Lady Aveline flared her nostrils and pursed her lips. “Why are the least popular gods always the biggest showoffs?”

  Pancras blinked. “What?”

  “Piotr, think for a moment.” She placed her hand on the smith’s shoulder. “If this minotaur truly is a Bonelord of Aita, and the Princess of the Underworld gave a sign, don’t you think you should avail yourself of this opportunity?”

  Gisella nudged Pancras, and leaned in close, and lowered her voice. “You might have some work to do here.”

  Pancras didn’t understand her insinuation. Bonelords sought out and destroyed rampaging undead and death cults. Sometimes they were called upon to help the suffering cross over, but he knew nothing about smithing.