by J. C. Staudt
“You know what’s out there, then?”
“Not precisely.”
“Then you’d have no idea whether you could hold your own, would you?”
“That’s why we need you. To warn us of dangers.”
“For dangers like these, mere warnings are seldom sufficient.”
“Come now,” said Norne, “it can’t be so terrible. Can it?”
Rochlathan lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you think I live all the way up here?”
“We were told you’re the best tracker for leagues around,” said Maaltred.
Norne touched his arm. “There now, Brother Maaltred. You can see the man’s of no inclination to help us. Must be his reputation exceeds his ability. Best we leave him be as he wishes. Not to worry, I’m sure we’ll find someone more qualified.”
“More qualified?” Rochlathan grunted a laugh. “In a town of fishermen and sailors? Whoever told you I’m the best, they were right. You’re not like to find better—here or elsewhere.”
“It makes no matter how good you are, does it? You’ve refused to help us.”
Roke eyed Sullimas’s coin purse, still on the ground at his feet. “How much silver does it pay?”
“You think precious little of us, for men about the king’s business,” said Sullimas. “You’ll find no silver in that purse.”
Roke gave him a curious frown. He slipped a finger over the arrow, then knelt and spread the purse open. His eyes widened. “Gold,” he whispered.
“The king offers good coin to those who serve his cause.”
Or so he claims, Maaltred thought.
Roke eased. “Say I were up to the task. What then?”
“Then,” said Norne, “we’d inquire as to whether you had any friends with similar skills.”
“I’ve told you I’m the best.”
Norne gestured toward the shortbow in Roke’s hands. “I was thinking more along the lines of those sorts of skills.”
Roke stood with a grunt, leaving the purse where it lay. “You mean to slay some great beast, is that it? A dragon, perhaps? I imagine the Dathiri King fancies his gaming pawns carved of rare ivory. And you’d have my friends and me tramping through the hinterlands in search of such a creature. Well, sirs, it’s true everyone has their price, but there’s no amount of gold I’d trade my life for. Thank you, but I must refuse.”
“You misconstrue our intent,” said Sullimas. “Our errand is nothing of the sort you’ve abstracted. Should we find ourselves beset upon by some beast of the wilds, then yes, we would be paying you for your protection. Seek one out, though? Nay.”
“What’s your aim, then?”
“A person.”
“That’s easy. People are always the simplest to find. Most can’t take two steps into a forest without dropping more proof than a mare in season. Who is he, some old hermit of your faith, guarding the long-lost secrets of spiritual insight?”
“A mite worse, as it happens. He’s a fugitive. A traitor to the crown.”
Roke shook his head and laughed. “And the king sends three holy men to find him? If Olyvard is truly so daft, I’ll be king one day.”
“I’ll thank you to show some respect. He may not be your king, but he is ours.”
“Feel free to respect him all you like, then. I’ve little enough patience for mine own Feldyrn King, what with the tenuous grip he maintains over this kingdom.”
“Olyvard has ever held your Feldyrn King in the highest regard.”
Roke scowled. “I don’t care how our kings feel about each other. I want to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“If you’ll help us round up a few other individuals, all will be explained.”
“How much gold are you willing to part with? I may have a few friends who could be convinced to come along.”
“They’ll be paid equitable shares. As our guide, you’ll earn the largest.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Right, then. I’ll take you to them. If you’ll give me a moment to gather my effects. I hadn’t planned on going out today.” Roke stuffed the coin purse into his belt and went inside.
“What do you think of him?” Norne asked.
“Rather excitable fellow. If he’s as good as the innkeep claims, Yannui’s fortune smiles upon us.”
“And you, Brother Maaltred?”
Maaltred didn’t know what to think of the woodsman. “I agree, though I pray his skill outshines his temper.”
“You know these solitary types. They’re all a bit mad, aren’t they? Lonesome backwoods shanty. Days on end spent without human interaction. It’s a recipe for delusion.”
“Delusional or no, the man’s a firebrand.”
“Then he’ll have no trouble warming up to us, eh?” Norne said with a chuckle.
Sullimas sighed. “We shall hope not.”
Rochlathan emerged wearing a hooded longcoat and a short sword on his belt. Over his shoulder he carried his shortbow, two quivers of arrows, a patchwork leather satchel, and three full bladders of water. “Ready as she goes, gentlemen.”
“My, he’s changed his tune,” Maaltred whispered.
Norne smirked. “So would you, given the proper wage.”
Maaltred turned down the path toward Cliffside Harbor.
“Where are you off to?” asked Roke.
“Back to town.”
Roke shook his head and pointed in the opposite direction. “We’re headed north.”
“We’d planned to buy a few provisions before we left Cliffside Harbor.”
“Buy them in Mistpointe. It’s only half a day’s walk.”
“Half a day? I’m freezing. I need something warm to wear.”
“I haven’t a cloak to lend you, I’m afraid. Still, there’s no going back to Cliffside Harbor. Unless you want to climb all the way down the bluffside and back up again. We could go round, of course, but that’s another two leagues out of our way. Easier we head straight on.”
“Are you sure we have to?”
Roke gave a quick nod. “Certain. Yes.”
Maaltred looked to Sullimas for rescue, but found none.
“Do as he says.”
Norne noticed Maaltred’s dour look and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Come and walk next to me. I’ll stand on the outside to block the wind.”
The vicar’s unimposing frame did little to prevent Maaltred’s discomfort. He spent the whole journey in a shiver, wishing he’d never left the Hart’s Wharf. Dusk found them on a winding trail overlooking the rocky promontory on which Mistpointe stood jutting into the sea, stone buildings crowding up its slopes like spectators in a tourney stand. Rochlathan led them into town and through the cobbled streets snaking up the hillside, stopping now and then to shake a hand or clasp a shoulder.
He knocked on the door of a tall rowhouse capped with red clay roof tiles, whereupon a thin blonde woman in a maroon doublet opened up. They spoke briefly; the woman vanished inside and emerged a few minutes later with a rapier belted to her hip. Roke repeated this process thrice more on his way up the street, and Maaltred soon found himself surrounded by a roguish troupe consisting of the blonde woman, a broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless leather jerkin, a littlefolk woman in green robes, and a burly dwarf with braided silver hair who smelled strongly of ale.
Roke said nothing more until they arrived at a grand monastery near the top of the rise, a long building of white stone and red clay roofing with a high bell tower and a domed narthex over the entrance. He led them inside past a grand sanctuary where monks sat cross-legged on embroidered pillows, and they entered a small chamber wherein stood a long trestle table with benches on either side. Roke bid them sit down, then signaled them not to speak before leaving the room himself.
There was a long, awkward silence as the three priests and the four strangers sat waiting for Rochlathan to return. The room was so quiet Maaltred could hear himself breathing. Then the door opened, and Roke entered followed by a short orc-kind in a frilled brown habit
with a rope belt. Long incisors flanked a flat nose, and his pointed ears were hemmed by a ring of short dark hair. He sat on an empty section of bench and folded his hands in his lap.
Roke cleared his throat and began circling the table. “For those of you who don’t know Lysul, this is he.”
The monk looked around amiably.
“I must speak on his behalf today, for he is unable to do so himself. He’s sworn to silence.”
“For how long?” Maaltred asked.
“I don’t know. He can’t tell me.”
“Ah, the old vow of silence,” said Norne. “I considered taking one myself. Can’t see as it would’ve worked out.”
“Neither can I,” Sullimas agreed.
“Before we begin,” said Roke, “let’s dispense with the introductions.”
He proceeded to go round the table, introducing each attendee to the others. Sorgan was the blonde woman he’d summoned first, at the tall rowhouse. Her long foldover gloves and tight leggings gave her a beguiling look, Maaltred decided. Clepha was the littlefolk woman, a red-haired elder who wore green robes with daggered sleeves and a silver circlet bearing an emerald at the center. The big man in the sleeveless leather jerkin was called Eremund, and the silver-haired dwarf was called something Maaltred couldn’t pronounce.
“Khorigalmünod,” said Roke, “though you may call him Khor, if you prefer.”
“Khor suits me just fine,” said the dwarf, who Maaltred noticed was on the shorter side, even for one of his kind.
“Right. Now let’s get down to business. We’re all here for one reason. To aid these three clergymen in their hunt for a lone outlaw fled into the wilds. Their king has ordered them to retrieve the traitor, but they’ve found themselves unmanned by the prospect of venturing out alone.”
“Aye, and who wouldn’t be?” said little Clepha. “The wilds is a place I never go unless I’m fomented to.”
“I should enjoy a little fomenting, forthwith,” said Khor. “Have we a flagon of holy mead available in which to drown our woes?”
“Consider this the only fomentation either of you will receive,” said Roke. “Gold. These fine churchly fellows are offering a pretty sum in exchange for our help. A share for each of us who agrees.”
“I’ll go,” Sorgan volunteered. “I’m in need of the funds.”
“If she’s going, count me in,” said Eremund. He tossed a big arm around Sorgan and pulled her close. “This woman is to be the mother of my children.”
“How wonderful,” Clepha exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Salutations to you both.”
Sorgan elbowed Eremund in the ribs and shoved him off the bench. When the big man made to rise, she threw a leg round his neck and spun, pinning him to the floor. “This is the closest you’ll ever come to what’s beneath these breeches,” she promised, squeezing his head between her thighs.
Eremund spoke, his words muffled behind the back of Sorgan’s knee. “How can a man deny a woman so fierce?”
“Because he must, or he’s like to earn himself a broken neck.” Sorgan jabbed him in the back for good measure.
“Enough, you two,” said Roke, abashed. “If we’re going to bring this off, we must act as one.”
“What good’s a tavern brawl without a tavern?” said Khor. “I told you we should’ve gone to the Jester for a nip.”
“The Jovial Jester is a depraved hole where the scum of this town go to fritter away their lives with drink and lechery,” said Clepha.
Khor gave her a snaggle-toothed smile. “That’s why I like it.”
The littlefolk woman gave Roke an exasperated look. “I thought you said these were cultured people we were dealing with.”
“They are. They are, I assure you. Our three priestly friends are of the utmost refinement. My apologies for Khor. You must forgive him his peculiarities.”
“I am, after all, a Pickfist,” Khor added.
“Are you ashamed of your family name?” asked Clepha.
“Couldn’t be prouder of it. We Pickfists are a magnanimous sort, if quaint.”
Clepha turned a weary eye on Roke. “How much are you paying me to tolerate this buffoon?”
Roke opened the coin purse and gave it a shake. Sorgan let up on Eremund, and the two came over for a look.
“Well, you’ve got my attention,” said Clepha.
Roke looked at the dwarf. “How about you, Khor? Will you join us?”
“Decisions make my eyes itch,” said Khor, blinking. “Yet I reckon I’m game. The gold will put me in pints for a fortnight.”
“We’re all agreed, then.”
Eremund hiked a thumb at Lysul, the silent orcish monk. “What’s he in here for, anyhow?”
“Lysul is the arbiter of this meeting.”
Eremund frowned. “How can he arbitrate if he can’t speak?”
“Clearly you’ve never gotten on a monk’s bad side.”
“Nor his good one, for all I can tell.”
Lysul smiled vapidly, as though he were deaf as well as mute.
“Why are we here instead of at the tavern?” Khor wanted to know.
“I thought it might make the priests feel at home to be in a holy place,” Roke explained.
“We appreciate the gesture,” said Sullimas, “but we are no strangers to taverns and public houses. We would prefer to be treated no differently than your other companions.”
“As you say. Yet I’m certain Lysul can arrange a room for you here, if you like.”
Sullimas gave Lysul a pleasant nod. “That would be most agreeable.”
Later, when the three priests were settled in the meager bedchamber provided by the residents of the monastery, Maaltred decided he would be remiss not to express his reservations about the new hirelings. “These folk make me uneasy. They’re wild. Disorderly.”
“Who better to escort us into the wilds?” said Norne.
“A fair point. For my part, at least, I like them not.”
“I’ve a feeling they like us even less.”
Sullimas grew attentive. “What gives you that idea?”
Norne shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
“Do you foresee them playing us false?”
“I haven’t foreseen anything.”
“That’s a small comfort. Short of starting over with a new guide and new mercenaries, I don’t see as we have any other option. Once Deepsail falls, the king will want us on our way home. Keep a close watch on your instincts, Brother Norne. The goddess shan’t mislead us.”
Chapter 7
Unusual things were happening, and Alynor couldn’t help but feel they were signs of something pernicious. First a big brown wolverine lumbered into the hamlet one evening and tore open the door to the root cellar, then proceeded to eat half the winter stores before Jeebo caught the animal and chased it away with his scimitar. Two days later, a squirrel scampered down the trunk of the silban tree Ryssa and Vyleigh were playing beneath and bit Ryssa on the leg. Jeebo’s falcons, including some he’d been training for years, refused to return to his glove when he released them.
There were other signs, too. Fields of grass growing taller by half a fathom overnight. Blankets of thick clouds blotting out the sun for days at a time. Heavy winds and violent storms threatening to lay their small dwellings to ruin.
Alynor didn’t want to believe these events were linked. Doing so would bring credence to her fears, pointing her toward a future she was convinced could only bring catastrophe. For a time she tried to persuade herself they were merely a string of coincidences. Her worries were coloring her assumptions, she concluded. Yet as the days passed, her sense that something had gone terribly awry became harder to ignore.
Ryssa and Vyleigh were playing beside the cottage when Jeebo stamped over from his falcons’ mews one afternoon a week later. His knock was fast and heavy. As soon as Alynor opened the door she noted the lines of stress drawn on his face. “Hello, Jeebo. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve seen something.”
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Alynor stepped aside to let him enter. “What’ve you seen?”
“I’ve always been able to look clearly through their eyes.”
“Your birds, you mean.”
Jeebo nodded absently. “Today, there’s something I can’t explain. A presence. And it’s drawing closer.”
“A presence,” Alynor repeated.
“An emptiness, more like. It’s there, and yet… it isn’t.”
“Has this never happened before?”
“Never,” Jeebo said, pacing the floor. “First the animals, then the greenery and the weather. Now, my vision. Something’s amiss, Alynor. Haven’t you noticed the vines in the south pasture?”
“I haven’t been there lately.”
“They’re strangling the trees.”
“Are they deathcreepers?”
Jeebo shook his head. “They’re normal vines. Yet they climb and constrict as if compelled by some malicious will.”
It alarmed Alynor to hear him speak like this. “What sort of will do you suppose it could be?”
“I could not say. Should Darion return soon, we’ll all be the better for it.”
“I expect him any day now.”
Jeebo glanced out the window. “It’s going to rain again. Yesternight’s storm kept me up until dawn.”
“The children and I were frightened as well. They’ve been better today, but I’ve kept them close nonetheless. Westhane is the brave one of the bunch, as ever. He—” She stopped, realizing she hadn’t seen her son in several hours. “Have you seen Westhane around?”
“No, not since breakfast.”
Alynor rushed outside. She interrupted the girls as they were playing pretend with their cloth-and-straw poppets. “Where’s your brother?”
Vyleigh shrugged.
Ryssa pointed toward the stables. “He’s going on a hunt, like Draithon and Father.”
“Gods.” Alynor wanted to scold Ryssa for failing to notify her the moment Westhane mentioned riding off into the wilds by himself. Her children knew better. Instead she ran for the training pen with her frock bunched in her hands. Jeebo followed on her heels. She managed to vault sideways over the fence, cross the sandy ring, and shove open the stable doors without tripping on her skirts.
