Alexa Drey- Hero Hunting

by Ember Lane

  Its ruddy rock rose up on either side, tall, imposing, but a welcome change from the trees. Flip was ahead of me now, with Star behind and Cronis trailing after, grumbling as usual.

  “This is all very recent,” Flip said. “And carved as though a De’Vulk had a paw in it.”

  I saw what he meant. Everything was oddly symmetrical. The steps were each the same size, the walls, sheer and exactly vertical.

  “De’Vulk?” Cronis grunted. “There haven’t been any De’Vulk in Irydia since Canelo James fell. De’Vulk, no, look elsewhere for your answer.”

  We carried on up, one step after the next, until at around midday, Shylan stopped, and Flip drew aside him.

  “Well, well well,” Shylan said. “What have we here?”

  I stood on tiptoes, but could see nothing. Star tried to draw aside me and peek, but Flip and Shylan blocked the way. I passed her my horse’s reins, and took out my grasping powder, plunging my fingers in and then scrambling up the fissure’s side.

  “Just where are you going?” I heard Cronis cry, but took no note and carried on up. Soon reaching the rock’s top, I spun around and sat on its apex. Though I might not be able to hunt, Grog sure taught me how to climb. Looking out, I gasped at what I saw.

  A circular glade beckoned me. I saw rolling grasslands, vibrant, emerald forests, and a sapphire river that spilled from a great snowcapped mountain. The red ridge radiated out from that mountain like a pair of cradling arms. It was breathtaking. It was beautiful. Trailing smoke rose from its center, and at first I worried that it might be smoke from a split in the land’s crust. The shape of the place so resembled a dormant volcano. But then I spied a dark blot under it, and the regimented shades that told of farms and fields. “Joan’s Creek,” I muttered to myself, and I suddenly had a strange feeling that I’d heard that name before.

  Shylan and the others had started along the downward steps, Star looking up at me as she tried to control both horses. I skipped down the rock face and soon took back his reins.

  “I’ve got a funny feeling about this,” I whispered to her, but said no more.

  It was late afternoon before we spilled out of the split in the ridge. A path meandered away toward the farms, hedged by a spread of tall grass, a welcome change after the press of the forest before. We let the horses loose to graze and all sat around in a circle.

  “Now I’m here, at least my lurching compulsion has somewhat abated,” Shylan muttered.

  “Mine too,” Cronis added.

  I furrowed my brow. They both seemed far too tranquil. I felt it too though, like this bowl of land was peace itself, like I could lie out under its sun and just relax.

  “So, what happens next?” I asked, lazily.

  “Next?” Shylan took out his pipe. “Next, we go to this Joan’s settlement, tear the script from her tavern’s wall, refuse her service—or him for that matter—and grind his bones to dust.” He lit his pipe with a flick of his fingers.

  “Slowly,” Cronis added. “We grind slowly. Then maybe we relocate our tower here. It feels…nice…yes, that’s the word…nice.”

  “What if you actually want to be the place’s hero?”

  Shylan guffawed. Cronis joined him.

  “My dear, we are genuine heroes of the land. True heroes, who would represent a towering castle like Zybond. A monument like Castle Kyrie would qualify for our services. Even Shyantium itself if it were not bogged down and mired in the politics of madness. A place like this, for us, really?”

  “So, why aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t we what?”

  “Heroes of Zybond, or any of the other places? Where were you when Starellion was sacked by the demon and Darwainic fell?”

  Silence.

  “I think the wizards are having trouble conjuring,” Flip said.

  Shylan drew himself up.

  “And just what should we be conjuring?”

  “Excuses,” Flip said, and jumped up. “Now, by my estimates we’ve got a couple of hours riding to this Joan’s Creek, so we really should be on our way. We wouldn’t want to keep the tree elves waiting. My guess is that their string fingers will be getting tired. Oh, and if you haven’t spied them, oh great and heroic wizard, you should.”

  “Tree elves?” Shylan asked. “Why would tree elves concern me?”

  “Where?” I asked.

  Flip pointed around at the ridge, the grassland, and a stand of trees to our north. “There, there, and there,” he told me. “And you should look, mighty one, because their alignment is quite interesting.”

  Shylan stood, sheltered his eyes with his flattened hand and said, “House Mandrake? They’re aligned with House Mandrake? How? There is no House Mandrake.”

  Cronis jumped up. “Well,” he muttered. “There is now. Someone must have started it without you.”

  “You can’t just start a house like Mandrake. This needs getting to the bottom of. This is unacceptable. Those tree elves need a talking to.”

  “Maybe all tree elves are House Mandrake?” I offered. Their scowls told me how stupid I was being.

  “House Mandrake should be my house. If anyone is going to start that house, it should have been me!” Shylan cried. “I shall truly grind his bones to dust now!”

  “Let me get this straight,” Star said. “The leader of the house you were going to found is going to have his bones ground to dust, because he—”

  “Or she,” Cronis pointed out

  “Or she, founded it first.”

  Shylan rose slowly. “Just his bones, not all of him.”

  “Or her bones,” Cronis pointed out. “Joan’s a woman’s name, and I’d be careful too. A house signifies order, signifies a capable defense.”

  “Oh for pity's sake,” Shylan cried. “It’s not like they’re attacking us.”

  An arrow sailed past his ear. Shylan ducked, just a little late.

  “I suggest we stop threatening the settlement, its leader—male or female—and keep quiet until we unravel this mess,” Flip said, mounted his horse and waved in the general direction that the arrow had come in. “See,” he said. “No one’s shooting at me.”

  I scanned around, and once I’d seen an elf, more became clear. Star had sidled up to me. “I’m not surprised, the sign was far too welcoming. If I had a place like this, the last thing I’d do is put a sign up and tell every bandit and desperado.”

  Nodding, I jumped back on my horse, and we rode toward the settlement. Whoever this Joan was, she needed to wise up. I’d seen ShadowDancer, up close, and I knew what he was capable of. The troop of elves kept apace with us, but neither closed in nor let us out of sight. I cast my perception out. Most of the them ranged from level 6 to 15. All were set as hostile, and all were aligned to House Mandrake. What had we walked into?

  Dusk had settled when we arrived outside the settlement. I was tired; I was hungry, and I’d just about had enough. A dwarf greeted us, a beast of a dwarf with long, black hair, a thick, old beard, and a pale slot for a face.

  “Ho travelers! That’s as far as yea go fer now. State yer business, so I can judge yer.”

  Shylan rode right up to him and leaned forward. “Might you be the one that pinned a hero-hunting script to your tavern’s wall?”

  The dwarf tousled his hair. “Nope,” he eventually said. “I might not be.”

  Shylan shifted around a little as if unsettled.

  “Well, someone did and it has drawn us here against our will.”

  “What’s a hero-hunting script?” the dwarf asked.

  Shylan looked around at us, clearly agitated, then focused his attention back on the dwarf.

  “It’s a piece of paper.”

  The dwarf nodded sagely.

  “Well?” the wizard asked.

  “Nope, I never did that, and even if I did, I couldn’t have pinned it to my tavern.”

  “Why?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “I haven’t got a tavern.”

  Shylan rung his hair. “Do you know
who has and who did?” he asked, through gritted teeth.

  The dwarf scratched his hairy chin. “Yes.”

  “Who!” Shylan bellowed.

  “Lincoln,” the dwarf said, simply.

  My heart leapt into my mouth, and for the briefest of moments I sat there stunned, but then I spurred my horse on, swerving past the dwarf and bellowing "Lincoln!” at the top of my voice.

  The village was huge by comparison to Thickwick. I sped past at least a dozen cottages lining the shores of a great lake, and I flew past a smithy, a workshop, what looked like a town hall, a feasting hall, then drew to a halt outside a buzzing tavern, scattering people in my wake.

  “Lincoln!” I shouted again, like a madwoman, like a woman possessed. Could it be true? Could it be Lincoln, my Lincoln; the Lincoln from the Grav Buster? I saw him running toward me, his mop of floppy, gray hair still tumbling around his eyes. His hulking frame had filled out, and he looked…happy, so happy, that I very nearly broke down there and then.

  “Alexa?” he shouted back, then squinted at me. “Is that you?”

  “Lincoln,” I said, my eyes glazed with tears. I jumped off my horse, nerves suddenly getting the better of me. It dawned on me that we didn’t really know each other that well; that we’d only met briefly before the Grav Buster took us to the ship. It dawned on me that he might not want to see me, that he might be playing his own game.

  But then he brushed his hair back and smiled. And I smiled too, and we started inching closer together as if we were both nervous, and then we crossed some imaginary line, and we both started running and were soon in each other’s arms. The emotion was too much for me, and I sobbed and sobbed, so glad to be in his strong arms.

  “You’ve been busy,” I said, but my voice sounded odd, jerky, and unsure.

  “And you’ve changed…your hair?” He held me for a while, then pushed me away until his arms were stretched, his hands on my shoulders. “Still despise games?”

  “I…”

  He grinned.

  “It’s not like a game.” My words were barely a whisper.

  “No, no its not,” he said.

  “It’s so…real. I never expected to…”

  “Feel,” he said. “No, I’ve played a few—”

  “Excuse me.” Shylan’s voice rang out behind me, a twist of sarcasm laced in it.

  Lincoln looked over my shoulder. “Who’s he?”

  I glanced behind myself. “His name’s Shylan. He was drawn here by your summons.”

  Lincoln furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “Oh dear,” he said, and walked toward the wizard. “Lincoln,” he said, offering his hand to the wizard.

  Shylan dismounted and stood before him, ignoring his outstretched palm. “Are you responsible for—”

  “Forcing us to come here,” Cronis added, drawing aside Shylan.

  “Ah…” said Lincoln, holding up his hands and making to explain, but appearing to think better of it. “About that, could we discuss it over an ale?”

  Shylan drew a great breath and leaned toward Cronis. “What say you? Turn his bones to dust or drink an ale?”

  Cronis scratched his stubble-ridden chin. “Ale and then turn his bones to dust,” he said, and nodded hard. “Ale first.”

  “Agreed. Lincoln, we will drink your ale, and then if your explanation isn’t acceptable, we’ll probably turn your bones to dust then.”

  Lincoln glanced at me and winked. “We’ll see,” he said, then turned to Flip and Star. “Lincoln,” he muttered, offering his hand to both. Once shook, he took mine and we headed toward one of the big buildings, my perception told me it was their feasting hall.

  “They wont really turn me to dust, will they?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “They weren’t happy about being summoned,” I replied.

  “Damn mouse,” he cursed.

  “Mouse?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I wonder where Joan is,” Shylan mused, trailing behind us.

  The village was quite the hive of activity. We couldn’t walk more than a dozen steps without someone saying “evening” or patting Lincoln on the shoulder. There was no doubt in my mind that this place revolved around him. I noticed an elf—definitely an elf—shadowing us, sending me dirty looks. She was holding back, but I could tell she just wanted to grab Lincoln and pull him away from me.

  We walked along red gravel paths that branched off to the cottages, or were lined with benches, or led to tables, to fire pits. A strange copper-colored being floated along near Lincoln, and all around, other copper-colored robots were digging, building, raking, or carving.

  “What the hell are they?” I asked.

  “Ah, them,” Lincoln said. “They’re bots. Every cottage I build I get twenty. They just don’t stop working, either. Sometimes it’s the darnest thing just to keep them occupied. How do you think I got all this done?” He spread his arms wide. I took the opportunity to grab one, latching on to it and bringing it close. The shadowing elf scowled at me.

  A big cheer went up, startling me, and I saw a crowd gathered around a partly built cottage, a final crosstimber was being pulled into place—another roof nearing completion. All around there were humans, dwarves, elves, mantilees, some tiny folk with gossamer wings, and a gnome-like fellow wearing green felt. While I’d been nurtured, drip-fed attributes and skills, and protected by powerful folk of the land, Lincoln had grabbed hold of this land and forged his will on it.

  “I’m astounded,” I muttered. “You’ve done so much.”

  “Joan’s legacy,” he replied. “More folk are seeking sanctuary here every day.”

  I wanted to ask him a thousand things, all beginning with “How,” but instead I asked, “Where from? Are you summoning them all?”

  “That again?” Lincoln said, and a shiver ran down his spine. “Damn mouse.”

  “Mouse?” I asked, but he changed the subject and asked if I’d seen Pog, or Brandon, or the rude girl. I told him no.

  “I’d hoped to find Pog. Finequill said he’d been given to a family in the hills.”

  “Finequill?”

  “Another mouse,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me.” Shylan’s voice rang out again. “Aren’t we going the wrong way? Isn’t that the tavern over there?”

  Lincoln looked the wizard up and down.

  “That, indeed, it is,” he replied. “But this is the feasting hall.” He pointed toward a large barn-like building we were walking to. “We can drink ales there,” he added.

  Shylan rushed forward, blocking our way. “But I want to drink in the tavern. That’s how this is supposed to play out. You post a vacancy on the tavern wall; we come, drink in that tavern, turn you down and leave. That’s how it’s always worked, so that’s how it works now.” He stamped his feet.

  “Ah well,” Lincoln muttered, looking at the ground, kicking his feet. “It’s like this.” He raised his head and met Shylan’s stare. “The tavern is only level 1.” He smiled a halfhearted smile. “And it’s full.” Lincoln raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t ask me how. I bought the hero-hunting script from a mouse-type-humanish person called Spillwhistle, and I think it’s faulty.”

  “Faulty?” Shylan asked and then just stared at Lincoln.

  “Is there ale in the feasting hall?” Cronis asked.

  “Of course,” Lincoln said. “It’s a feasting hall. Wouldn’t be much of a feasting hall without an ale or two, would it? In fact, I’d go so far as to say, it’s got everything the tavern has…it’s just not a tavern.”

  “Why don’t we have a drink there, while we sort it all out,” Flip said, and so we all filed in.

  It was no more than a large wooden hut with a roaring, central fire pit and four, fifty-foot-long tables. A spitted pig was turning over the fire, great globs of fat dripping into its embers, spitting and cracking. Two of the tables were full, waves of conversation flowing out to us. Their chatter faded briefly as we were appraised and
then seemingly dismissed as new arrivals. We sat near the fire, and Lincoln served us ale.

  “You, sir,” Shylan said, “have a lot of explaining to do.” He drank a hefty gulp of his ale and then just stopped, as if some other thought had hit him. He took another, a tentative sip, and then he began to nod his head.

  Cronis took a slurp of his, and he too stopped and looked around in seeming wonder. His arms reached out and grabbed a full jug of ale from the table’s center. “Mine!” he barked. “Mine-all-mine-all-mine.” He looked around like a madman.

  “There’s plenty more,” Lincoln said, and he reached out and pulled another couple of jugs from the adjacent table. “So, returning to my problem…our problem.”

  “Indeed,” Shylan said, though he appeared to have mellowed a bit.

  “The script: I got it from a little magic shop in Brokenford, along with a magicish map.”

  “Magicish?” I asked.

  “Well, it was a map, and it led me here, but as soon as I’d found the place, it crumbled to dust. That’s why I think it and the hero-hunting script were faulty from the start.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Shylan said, and sipped some more of his ale before appearing to completely lose his train of thought.

  “I think what the good wizard was about to say,” Flip said, jumping in, “is…” And he took a sip of his ale. “Well, this is rather nice.”

  “What did this Spillwhistle say when she sold you the script?” I asked.

  “Well, it was my...” Lincoln counted out his fingers. “It was my second, yes, second day in the land,” he explained. “I’d gotten my beginner’s pack sorted out, and rearranged and allotted all my attribute points. I’d leveled up once…or maybe twice, and sold my starter plot of land to Fawkes. I’d met Ozmic, and Grimble—he welcomed you to this place, and Aezal—I’d met him too. Second day, yes, that was when I went into Spillwhiste’s magic shop.”

  A few things didn’t add up for me, like his beginner’s pack and rearranging his points. I’d started with 2 attributes and 2 points—1 in stamina and 1 in vitality, there wasn’t a lot of rearranging to be done. I decided Lincoln was in enough trouble as it was without bringing up his weird start…unless it was mine that was weird.