The Secrets of Starellion- the Court of Lincoln Hart

by Ember Lane

  He marched across his court, the Court of Lincoln Hart, looking up at his now-meager-looking throne and swiftly skirted its dais. Automatically bowing to the God With No Name, he chuckled at how small his old court was when compared to his new, magnificent throne and its powerful, draping banner. Finequill’s offices were situated behind through the antechamber to the dais’s side, and so Lincoln marched through and shoved Finequill’s door open without knocking.

  The ceratog wasn’t at his desk, but a door behind was ajar, and so Lincoln walked through and into a narrow corridor, another door at its end. Teasing it open, Lincoln peered through its small gap. He saw a quaint garden, a neatly trimmed lawn, fresh-planted borders, and inwardly cursed the mouse. The damn ceratog had taken an extra inch as usual. A trail of steppingstones led to a small cottage, and Lincoln guessed the cottage belonged to Finequill.

  “Who else gets a cute cottage with its own little garden!” Lincoln cried, now seething. Marching across the lawn, he knocked on the cottage’s door which creaked open revealing a large room with a set of upward stairs in front of him. A stone hearth was to one side, and Finequill crouched over the very still body of Mrs. Finequill. A spilled mug lay by her outstretched paw. Finequill looked around. “Poison,” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks, matting his damp cheek fur. “I think it was meant for me.” And then Finequill keeled over.

  Lincoln just stood there paralyzed by the unexpected scene.

  “Echo! Morningstar!” Lincoln shouted, snapping out of his shocked stupor, darting to Finequill’s side. His eyes were closed, his teeth chattering. “F…” he whispered. “F…” But his head lolled to one side. Echo glided into the room.

  “Healing potion, I need a healing potion!” Lincoln screamed. Morningstar flew in and flew straight back out, soon returning with a dark-green vial. Biting its stopper off, Lincoln forced the ceratog’s teeth open and poured the potion down his throat. Finequill spluttered but never opened his eyes. Spillwhistle burst through the door, shoving Lincoln out the way.

  “Did you?” She snarled at Lincoln, then putting her ear to his chest. “His heart’s still beating.” She lifted him up and carried him up the stairs. “Water; bring me water.”

  Echo floated out. Lincoln shuffled over. Mrs. Finequill was clearly dead. Lincoln carefully picked up her spilled mug, looking inside and seeing a small trace of wine. Scanning the room, he saw a jug on a small table beside the cottage’s front door, and nestled under a window. Lincoln pushed himself up and went over to it. A sudden movement outside drew his gaze. Just a blur, a man with black hair and a scruffy beard: there one minute, gone the next, Lincoln bolted for the door but soon found himself standing on a deserted trail. One way led to the lake, the other toward the main road.

  “What the hell?” he screamed. “Fawkes!”

  25

  Dink

  “There’s no way I can go!” Lincoln erupted, launching himself up and stabbing a finger at the fire pit, scouring the feasting hall with his raging eyes, daring any to argue with him.

  “They’ll never be a good time,” Flip pointed out, tucking into his breakfast, hardly concerned at all.

  “But Finequill…”

  “Spillwhistle is tending to her brother. She doesn’t think he’ll pull out of it anytime soon.” Alliase’s voice was mellow, calming. Her hand reached out, trying to gently coax Lincoln back down. “She counters the poison, but it hides in his body. You got there just in time.”

  “Fawkes! Fawkes is here. It all makes sense,” Lincoln said, his tone withering to a resigned pitch. “He was in on the scam; he saw the value of the map. I’ll bet he’s been hunting for this place ever since we kicked his ass back at Hunter’s Lodge.” Lincoln spun around and glared at Swift. “Have we found him yet?”

  Swift wriggled uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny. “He’s not in Sanctuary. From what you describe he stealthed away. We’re looking for a rogue that doesn’t want to be found, if indeed he’s still in the area, and if indeed it was him. What was Mrs. Finequill or Finequill about to reveal that necessitated her murder?”

  “A plot hatched long ago with Spillwhistle,” Lincoln said ominously.

  “Then, why is the shopkeeper still standing?” Jin asked, walking in. “One day into the job, and I have a murder on my hands. Have we even got a dungeon that’s not inhabited by a demon or goblin or stray graveling? Or should I just hang the culprit from the One Tree?

  Elleren slapped him. “Why poison? Surely a rogue would just go all…stabby, stabby?”

  Lincoln knew they had a point. Why would Fawkes kill Finequill and not Spillwhistle? Plus, poison and rogues, well… It just didn’t add up. “Portal, what about the portal? How can I leave when the army of Ruse could come marching through the portal at any time?” Lincoln’s brain was ranging all around.

  “Thadius is looking into it and is infinitely more qualified to do so than you, and Bailey has his men stationed in the room at all times with Belzarra close by. Plus, they have a backup plan if all else fails,” Flip said, as if he was laying a trap.

  “Backup plan?” Something about Flip’s manner made him wary. He gritted his teeth. “What backup plan?”

  Flip smiled triumphantly. “They’ll lock the door.”

  Allaise sniggered, but then reached out again. “What else could you do?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked, at a loss. “The city build, what…” Nope, he knew Morningstar, Echo, and Bethe had it all under control. The folks were coming from Hunter’s Lodge with a daily regularity—the apachalants then escorted them to Sanctuary—it was all running smoothly—barring Fawkes. “Well, what happens if Muscat marches, or Reynard, or, or?”

  Flip laughed. “Wars just don’t happen overnight. He’d have to go to his banners; they’d have to answer their call. The port lords have their hands tied watching Sutech Charm’s ships, and Bryce is about to have his head chopped off if he’s not careful. There’s a storm coming, that’s for sure, but you’ve got time—don’t waste it stewing here.”

  Lincoln deflated, the fight going out of him. He knew they were right, but something didn’t add up. What was the point of trying to kill Finequill when a coin or ten would sway his allegiance? He sensed he had to solve it, but he also sensed that distancing himself from it may well help.

  Jin and Swift were already deep in conversation plotting a course of action. He knew he had to trust them, else he’d be forever tethered to this place. Tearing a small lump of bread off the closest loaf, he pulled his bowl of broth close. No, he’d be forever preventing them doing their jobs if he remained. “So be it,” he said finally, and dipped his head to his bowl, cutting off any ensuing remarks.

  The truth was, he didn’t really want to go. Well, he did because he wanted to see the land, see what was so important that Flip wanted to drag him halfway down the length of Irydia to see it, but then again, he didn’t. He couldn’t make up his mind if he was being indecisive or not.

  “So, when do we leave?”

  Before Flip could answer, Grimble came in and slapped a small stone tablet on the table. “Griselda’s note,” he announced. “We can be on our way. Ozmic is taking down the dried crawfish. I’ve the smoked crawfish in my sack. So, we all set?”

  “Smoked…” Lincoln stared at Allaise, hoping for some kind of help.

  “We’ll have the esteem in place by the time you get back. With three settlements, you’re almost bound to level up a few times while you’re away, and that’s without any scrapes you get into.” She smiled and nudged him. “And you’ve got your acrobat skill. You can show us some moves in the arena when you get back.”

  Lincoln knew when he was beaten.

  He finished up his plate and pulled Allaise up with him. “My place in twenty,” he told Grimble and Flip. “Make that forty, I’ve got to see Jack—he’s got a ring or two for me.” Lincoln looked down at the slate, instantly understanding the dwarven script. He nodded, walked toward the feasting hall�
�s doors, then stopped in his tracks.

  “Four, it says four. Why are we asking passage for four?”

  “The shaman’s coming,” Grimble answered, “and trust me, there was no dissuading him. He says you’re his life’s work.”

  “Along with tracking down a load of stone monsters that just want to crush you,” Lincoln pointed out.

  The dwarf shrugged. “It’s good to have a hobby.”

  Rolling his eyes, Lincoln left. Zenith was sitting cross-legged on the grass with Belzarra. They appeared to be meditating. Lincoln walked a wide circle to Jack’s workshop—he couldn’t handle mystics at the moment. Once inside, Jack looked up from his shade-swamped desk, put his quill in his pot and sat back.

  “Robert,” he said, like a lofty schoolteacher. “Robert is now distracted. That Alexa Drey friend of yours put it in his head that he could be both a crafter and a smithy. Now he’s half here, half there, and mostly nowhere.”

  “I’m sure it will work out,” Lincoln said, but Jack’s returning look told Lincoln that the crafter doubted it. “Did you do my rings?”

  Jack sighed. “I did, and I started on your dead man’s…”

  “Coat—dead man’s coat.”

  Scratching his head, Jack skewed his expression. “Why do you call it that?”

  “I borrowed it from a tavern—Allaise’s old one. Its owner was probably dead… Does it matter?”

  “No. Anyway, I was working on the coat when Robert had an idea for it and off he dragged it. So, Lamerell knows what kind of mess it’ll be in—and boots too. I was making you some hiking boots and…”

  “Robert took them.” Lincoln shrugged. He could always pick a new coat up, but his current boots left a lot to be desired. “Rings?”

  Jack pushed three forward. “As you asked—worked all night. One to replace the elf ring, another for an extra +15 to vitality, and another for +10 strength.” He pushed a fourth ring forward. “A +5 on agility—all I had time for—couldn’t pack any more in. Should help with the...” Jack coughed. “Acrobatics?”

  Why does everyone think it’s so useless?

  He slipped the rings on, thanked Jack and breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was out the door. “One strange man,” he whispered to Allaise, who said nothing, but steered him toward the forge.

  Robert ran outside as they neared. He skidded to a halt, waved them his way, and vanished back inside. Lincoln ducked through the forge’s hide flap. Unlike the workshop, he loved the forge, its smell, its raw power, and its heat. Thumptwist was leaning back against his stone workbench, a mug in his hand. Robert was beaming, holding up a pair of boots.

  “Plus fifteen percent damage defense. Not bad, eh? Infused them with scarletite and then me and Thumptwist added the armor plates.”

  Lincoln looked at his new, metallic boots. Shrugging, he took his old ones off and pulled them on. “Nice fit,” he said, pleasantly surprised. “Decent movement too. Plus fifteen—bonus.”

  “That’s not the best part either. Show him, Thumptwist.” Robert beamed, clearly over the moon at Lincoln’s reaction.

  The dwarf pushed himself off the workbench and ambled over to the forge. He pulled out Lincoln’s dead man’s coat. “Fully modified,” he said, and tossed it at Lincoln. “Hidden properties too.”

  Lincoln caught it easily. It now had oversized scarletite, shoulder pads, scareltite bands on its sleeves, two scarletite strips running down its back, two more falling from under the shoulders all the way down its length, yet it was still lightweight and pliable. “How?”

  “Robert found a way to meld the metal with the leather—rather than strands, whole pieces. Then we worked on it and found another peculiarity.”

  “What?”

  “Both the boots and the coat are…heat resistant.”

  “Heat resistant?”

  “Like, red-hot coals resistant,” Robert said, proudly.

  Lincoln put his armored coat on. It felt badass. It felt great.

  “Plus twenty-five percent damage defense. We haven’t got a stat for the heat side, but hey, it can’t hurt,” Thumptwist said. “Plus, I have modified your sword—used the last of the scarletite to beef it up a little, and I’ve etched some protections in for your trip deep-down. Upgraded your scabbard too.” He lifted his prize up; its scabbard alone was now a work of art. His sword looked twice the weapon it had been only last night when he’d dropped it off for sharpening. Thumptwist held it up on his open palms. “For you,” he whispered.

  Lincoln took it, lost for words. He grabbed its hilt and drew out its blade. It was now rune-etched from top to bottom, glowing lava red in the light of the forge. He swung it. It diced the very air itself with a whip-like sound. He said nothing, could say nothing, nothing to cover the magnitude of his thanks. He knew the worth of the newly forged sword.

  Bowing his head, he backed out of the forge, grabbed Allaise’s hand and marched away. Lincoln was too close to tears to stop. He felt touched, moved, like he was betraying them, all of them, by leaving, by abandoning them.

  “The right people will only come by knowing you,” Allaise assured him.

  They’d been over it before. Lincoln knew he needed allies. He just had to remember Bailey’s reaction to his name-dropping to know that having important people on his side could mean the difference between winning and losing. The trouble was, it didn’t make it any easier.

  “Meh!” he said. “What have I got to offer? I’ll roll up with armored boots, sword, dead man’s coat, two dwarves, a prince, and…” He threw back his head and laughed. “A previously deceased man who just happens to be a shaman, a people of legend who don’t exist anymore. I feel, once more, that my companions will sell it.”

  Allaise tucked her arm in his. “As usual, you underestimate your own charisma.”

  “That is because I don’t have any of it,” he muttered. “Couldn’t have that attribute—not enough room.”

  “You have enough natural charisma for ten,” Allaise told him, as Belzarra and Zenith approached.

  “Take good care of my favorite shaman,” Belzarra told Lincoln. “Remember, he’s missed a lot of the recent history. What he heard was tilted toward a goblin’s point of view, so take care he doesn’t lay waste to the dwarven cities.” She shoved the shaman away. “Take care of him, and bring him back in one piece.” Belzarra pulled her collar up, tossed her long, fiery hair back and walked away. “I’ve got the taste for shaman now.”

  “The witch is insatiable,” Zenith said, tugging at his ponytail and falling in beside him but not elaborating any further.

  Lincoln felt instantly at ease in the man’s presence. No need for pleasantries, false conversations or small talk; silence appeared just fine with Zenith. Flip, Grimble, and Ozmic were waiting for them by Lincoln’s cabin and after a swift goodbye, Lincoln left Allaise standing on his deck, looking out over the lake, and his heart already wanted the journey to be over.

  They marched up into the foothills. “Tell me,” Zenith said. “Tell me about Krakus. How is he alive?”

  Lincoln told him the tale. It was a tale that took them up through the vales, up the ravines, and on to the dirty scree of the mountains, before it was fully told. They climbed past the low cave that he had explored on his third or fourth day in Joan’s Creek. They passed the hole that Alexa or Quazede had blasted in the mountain’s side, and they roamed around the back of the strangely high mountain—his mountain.

  “So this Alexa Drey climbed down one of the demon’s vents, found the trap, worked it out, then rescued Krakus?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then helped heal him by using the sacred tree of Lamerell?”

  “Which vanished the moment she left the valley, yes.”

  “So, the tree was only there for her? Does she command them?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “They responded to her request. Told me it was going to settle here, but it didn’t.”

  “Ha! Don’t bet on it. It would have scattered its seed in the air.
The jaspur would have to grow from new if it wished to be there permanently. It is their way.”

  “Strangest tree I’ve ever come across. Got a whole bunch of them on one of my islands,” Flip butted in. “Odd things. Some days I can almost see them shivering. It’s like they’re there for some kind of punishment—like they were bad trees once. Weird things.”

  Lincoln laughed. He knew exactly what Flip was talking about. “Tell me about it. A tree that talks!”

  Zenith looked confused. “Don’t they all?”

  “Oh god,” Lincoln muttered. “Don’t say that. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that they scream when they get cut up.” Lincoln paled at the thought.

  “Scream? No, at least not how you’d think.” Zenith looked up at the mountain. “So this is Quazede’s mountain. All those years, and so close to him. Those years confined in stone taught me a lesson. Demons should never be bound to a dungeon. They should be destroyed.”

  Lincoln patted his shoulder. “Alexa thought differently, and it nearly killed her, but she came away thinking they had some part to play in what was to come. She just didn’t know what.”

  “Maybe.” Zenith shrugged and trod on, climbing up to where Grimble, Flip, and Ozmic now waited. They were facing a sheer, rocky cliff, and as Lincoln drew alongside them, nothing changed. It was a plain rock face.

  “Everyone got good levels of night vision?” Ozmic asked.

  Lincoln inspected his stat sheet. “Five,” he said. “Any good?”

  “It’s a start,” Ozmic told him, in little more than a derisive scoff. He bent down, appeared to select a random stone, reached toward the cliff and slotted it into some unseen crevice.

  Lincoln blinked.

  As if by magic, a set of doors appeared—intricately carved, gray-stone doors, set within a gothic-shaped arch of smoothly chiseled stone etched with countless runes. Studying the doors, Lincoln realized he could read and understand the runes, but they made little sense to him as if they were jumbled up. “Why doesn’t it make sense?” he asked.