by Ember Lane
The tall, thin, alien-looking apparition floated toward us. I say floated because it was much like a child’s vision of a ghost. "Bethe" had a large copper head—a great, bald dome, wide eyes, two holes for a nose, and a tiny mouth. She had a copper cloak on that hovered a foot or so off the floor, and had a pad in her hands.
“Yes Lincoln,” she said, her voice raspy.
“What buildings do I need to upgrade the tavern to level 3?”
“The tavern?” Bethe queried. “Hardly a priority. We...well, Jack needs a better workshop—quite urgently. The mines are slowly leveling, as are the quarries, and the farms are bringing in a surplus of food. I don’t think the tavern is a priority, Lincoln. The wall...I thought our priority was the wall.”
“Thank you,” said Lincoln, appearing a little dismissive. “There you have it. We probably could level it up—possibly. The trouble is, we’re kind of veering off the rules as we haven’t got a keep. I refuse to stain this idyllic place with a big, stout, stone castle—it would just ruin it.”
“So, you don’t know?”
“Doesn’t matter anyway—I don’t have the gold to just go leveling stuff up for no reason.”
“I have gold,” Shylan shouted back.
Lincoln smiled then winked at me. “Then we should talk,” he said, and he downed his beer and got up. “You coming, Alexa?”
I pushed myself up as he jumped down off the stoop. I got the distinct feeling that Lincoln was up to something: hiding something. We headed for the feasting hall. Shylan and Lincoln were in feverish negotiations before I’d even taken a seat, and so I sat and slurped on not-so-nice ale.
“So, you have a group of dwarves waiting to quarry stone and mine iron but can’t afford to pay them,” Shylan stated.
“Correct,” said Lincoln. “And research, I need gold for that.”
“And a small tribe of wood elves are happy to supply you wood, but you can’t persuade them to stay in this…” Shylan looked around. “What do you call it?”
“Joan’s Creek.”
“This, Joan’s Creek.”
“They want a vine village up in the trees—can’t spare the workers until I get more cottages.”
“Tree village…” Cronis muttered.
“And you think, and I stress think, that you need to upgrade this hall and complete a wall of some kind to upgrade your workshop which will allow you to upgrade your tavern to level 2,” Shylan mused.
“That’s about the sum of it. I’ll get there in the end, just take a month or so.”
“But the dwarves would mine and quarry for gold, and the elves would chop wood, for tree houses.”
“A simplification, but essentially correct,” agreed Lincoln.
“And you can’t speed this up because…”
“Bethe,” Lincoln said and yawned. “Bethe will explain all the figures—I just like building.”
“We’ve no gold,” said a close-by, hovering Bethe. “No wood to build the carts to trade at our market and no trade equals no gold.”
Lincoln clicked his fingers. “And no gold means no dwarves, no bribing and no speed-ups. It’s a pickle, no doubt about that.”
“But I have gold,” Shylan offered. He looked at Cronis. “We have gold.”
“Plenty of it,” Cronis concurred.
Lincoln held his hands up. “I won’t hear of it—you’re guests here, and our problems are our own. True, it is my fault that the script dragged you here, and I will make it up to you by treating you to a hearty meal and endless ale, and I’ll put you up for the night in our newest cottage. All I beg for in return is for you to use your wizarding brains and figure out how to turn the script off.”
“But—” Shylan stuttered.
“Second-rate ale,” Cronis grumbled. “Good, but not as good as…” He flicked a longing glance at the tavern.
“There must be a way.” Shylan drummed his fingers on the long table.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Lincoln. “If you come up with one, you can instruct Bethe yourself. I give you full permission. Bethe, you may stay here with the wizards and see if you can solve their dilemma. I, on the other hand, must show Alexa here my little side project.” Lincoln got up, tapped the table and cleared his throat. “Horrible position to be in, not being able to offer your guests a decent stay, but it is what it is. Alexa?” He held out his hand, and I got up. Somehow I knew he wanted to leave the wizards alone with Bethe.
Once outside, we walked down past the line of cottages and toward the lake. As soon as we were by its shore, we turned and strolled along a small path. The water glistened in the now bright moonlight, and I gasped as I saw that bold moon perched on the western ridge, looking as large as life.
“When I first came here,” Lincoln said, softly. “I slept out on this bank and just looked at the moon, and I knew, knew this was the place for me. Joan would have fallen in love with it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and grabbed his hand.
He heartily laughed. “What for? I’m lying in a composite box on a ship hurtling through space to God-knows-where, and all the while I’m here; there’s no feeling sorry for me or anyone. Pog should have spawned in this place. But no, Alexa, Joan would have loved it, and you should use it as your base. I think it was meant to be.”
“Like me meeting up with the wizards.”
“Like that,” he whispered.
The path itself, in fact everything about the place, was magical. Clusters of bulrushes lined the banks, spilling into its little bays, and beside us, small, crooked trees sheltering waist-high clumps of berry-laden bushes topped burrow-ridden, grassy knolls. Then, tucked back, I spied a wooden cabin.
It had its own little inlet lapping up to a small wooden jetty. A planked walkway curved up to it, and railings edged its stoop. Its pitched roof was seeded with bright green moss, and its walls blended in with the surrounding bank, trees, and rushes.
“It’s beautiful,” I gasped.
“I had five in mind. Was even going to build one for Pog, that Brandon bloke, and the moody girl, but so far I’ve just got the one up. It does me.” He walked up the path and sat on the stoop’s planked floor. “Haven’t had time to fit it out yet—just a bed and a few blankets—but you’re welcome to stay here tonight.”
“What about everyone else?” I asked.
He shrugged as he lit his pipe. “Oh, I’m fairly sure the wizards will be busy enough. And the other two? Well, they'd entertained themselves before we all invaded their world, so they’ll survive the night without us.”
I sat beside him. “You got any ale here?”
“Always got ale,” he replied, and jumped up. “Ale, meat, and some bread—how about that?”
It sounded perfect, and it was. We talked and talked. We talked of the old world, of Joan and how lonely he’d been since her passing, of Earth—our broken Earth—and how sad we really were to leave it. But we couldn’t stay melancholy for long, and we soon swapped adventures. I told him of the dwarven king, and he told me of a troll he’d encountered. I talked of Castle Zybond, and he of being captured by a band of roaming gnomes. Mostly though, I marveled at how he’d built this place to be what it already was, and he joked, “You should see it in the morning!” I wondered at that.
We chatted away until the sky was a shimmering black, and the mountain no more than a slightly deeper shade, and I must have started to doze. I remember him getting me a straw-filled pillow, and a thick blanket, as I begged to stay on that stoop forever. And I remember him saying the morning would be a great morning, and I remember him telling me it was all a trick of the ale, and I remember dozing off with a smile on my face that first night in Joan’s Creek.
5
Joan’s Creek
I awoke as the fiery sun nudged over the eastern ridge, and I heard it right away. It was the sound of industry; hammering, sawing, yelled instructions, and satisfied cries. It floated to me along the banks of the idyllic lake I’d slept beside. Sitting up, I looked acro
ss the inviting, still water, then on impulse, stripped and jumped in. I swam out into its center, the ice-cold water shocking my body awake and clearing my head. Looking toward the village, I saw it was indeed a hive of activity.
It appeared every copper worker, every human, mantilee, dwarf, and elf were already striving away, and I assumed Lincoln was in the thick of it. So when the smell of cooking meat wafted over to me, I glanced back to Lincoln’s cabin to see him on the stoop, waving and hanging a blanket on its railing. He wasn’t alone. Lurking behind him, in the shadows, was the elf I’d seen following us the night before. I didn’t swim back right away. It wasn’t because of the elf, but because I just wanted to soak up the land of Joan’s Creek. I just wanted to be a part of it, alone there, for a moment.
The daunting mountain rose tall at the lake’s head and looked like it shot up from its banks, but I knew it to be farther away than that. It was at odds with the red of the ridges that spread away from it, and was mostly gray and black in color. In contrast to the newness of the ridges, it had the look of an ancient crag, as though it had guarded the land for an age. I felt the call of some strange power coming from it, tugging at me. I wondered if Cronis was right, and whether this new place was the result of Poleyna cracking the earth, whether that was what I felt.
I wondered about her. Who was this woman that had done so much damage to this land, and still seemed to be held in such high regard? It just didn’t add up. Yet even given that, and not knowing anything about her, I was curiously drawn to her side—I cannot explain why. It was almost like she was watching over me. Not for the first time, I knew I needed to read The Auguries. I knew I needed to understand. Not for the first time, I wondered about Sakina’s quest.
The master is now the slave, his command now his prisoner. Free the gambler, end his torment and confront one of five.
The more I thought of it, the further away the solution seemed to be. It just made no sense. Yet Flip had been blasé about it and told me, “Quests are like lovers, the more you ignore them, the more attention they’ll pay you. It will want to be won, so let it come to you, and don’t go chasing after it, else you’ll end up lost.”
I liked Flip a lot, but he could talk some rubbish when he wanted to. On the surface, his words were less use than the quest’s own.
Lincoln called me from his stoop, the elf woman at his side, and so I swam back. I grabbed the blanket he’d hung out for me, wrapped it around, and went inside. They were sitting on the floor by his stone hearth, and he served up slabs of smoking meat, a crust of the softest bread, and a mug of warmed milk.
“This is Glenwyth,” Lincoln said, nervously.
She glanced up at me, and I saw her enchanting, violet eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What for?”
“Last night, I thought…”
And then it dawned on me that Lincoln and her were more than just friends. “Oh, I…” I stammered, now beyond awkward.
“It’s just that…”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I said.
“Thank you,” Glenwyth muttered.
“It’s this place,” Lincoln said. “I never meant to betray Joan.”
Awkward was an understatement now. “No,” I said. “And you’re not. Listen, it’s all just because I’m from Earth, from our old home. Live your life, Lincoln. I know that’s what Joan would have told you.”
“Yes,” he said, but I could see he carried a hefty burden filled with his guilt.
“So,” I said, taking a mouthful of the meat. “They start early—the builders.”
He grunted. “They’ve been going all night. The wizards have a hand in it—they want that tavern leveled, and I don’t think they’ll stop until it’s done.” And he laughed at that.
“They’re building your village for you?”
He grinned and wagged his finger at me. “Never underestimate true motivation. Building a village is a balance—it takes an age—unless you cheat.”
“Cheat?”
“Eat up, eat up,” he said, “and then get dressed, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”
“On the way?”
“Gonna take me a little walk upriver. I haven’t had the time to explore much of late, and I can’t go into the village—I’d have to refuse their help. Bethe will look after everything, and Glenwyth will make sure it’s all going to plan in Sanct…” He smiled. “Elsewhere.”
“Are you not coming with us?”
Glenwyth met my gaze again. “I must go and make peace with Forgarth. My time has come.”
She said no more, and I assumed the meaning of her words was meant for Lincoln and not me. So I gobbled down my breakfast, went outside, and dressed on the stoop. It was a perfect morning, just perfect—especially away from the awkwardness of inside—and I took a great breath of air, leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the lake. It was truly tempting just to rest here a while and forget such things as quests and demons and those like ShadowDancer. Lincoln called me from the bank, and I saw he had two horses in hand and ready to go. Glenwyth was walking away. That feeling that something more was going on in this place ran through me again.
By midmorning, we’d reached the first scattered foothills at the mountain’s base, and now it looked truly daunting. It reared defiantly, almost taunting us to venture up, but we had a ways to go before we’d start to climb.
“Goats,” said Lincoln. “The slopes, the ridges, they’re packed with goats. I’ve a mind to catch a few more and start breeding them. Keep the grass short and the dwarves in milk. They love their milk, the dwarves—who’d have thought it.”
“What kind of dwarves are they?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?” Lincoln drew his mount to a halt and braced his sides, stretching his back as if it was stiff.
“The dwarves I knew didn’t like the sun.”
“Some don’t,” he said, “what humans always forget is that other species are as diverse as they are. Mountain dwarves: now I hear they don’t like the sun, but the stonecutters, well, they quarry in the open, quarry in the dark—it doesn’t bother them. Elves,” he said, “take them. There’s wood elves, dale elves, cliff elves. There are elves that live in a jungle canopy, and I’ve heard there are elves that live in the desert. Just because you’ve met one type, don’t expect the next to be the same.” He sighed. “Don’t assume, Alexa, not in this land. Approach everything with an open mind.”
We carried on threading our way through the foothills, and by lunch we had made the base of the great mountain. Lincoln sniffed around until he found a suitable rocky outcrop, and then he brought out a sack. From it, he took some bread, meat, and a stoppered flask of ale. “Spillwhistle,” he said, and winked. “If only she knew what was going on now.”
“The script isn’t faulty,” I muttered, and rested back, taking a bite out of my heel of bread.
Lincoln laughed. “Nope,” he said.
“But it is a powerful spell—it must be to have trapped them.”
He cocked his head one way then the other. “Meh, I haven’t a clue. I just bet the mouse, that was all.”
“So, everything you told me was a lie?”
“Not so much. I did meet a strange man, and I did sell my plot of land, and I did bump into a mousish-humanish ceratog called Spillwhistle, but she didn’t sell me a magicish map, or a faulty hero-hunting script.”
“So, what happened?”
Lincoln laughed. “We sparred, the way you do in shops, and we made a bet.”
“A bet?”
“I bet her that if I she imbued the script with a specific pull—one that would attract only the most powerful of wizards or sorceress’s, that I’d be able to get a wizard or sorceress to build me a level 2 tavern.”
“You bet Spillwhistle?”
Lincoln grinned ruefully. “Well, I knew that wherever I built, I’d get to that point where I’d be kinda stuck—where I’d be ready to upgrade a lumber yard, but wouldn’
t have the labor—where I couldn’t get the labor because I needed bigger cottages, and where I couldn’t get bigger cottages because I hadn’t got any lumber. That kind of scenario happens all the time. Interestingly, it was all of that, but because this place is so isolated, my real problem is gold for research.”
“Sounds…frustrating.”
“Aye, but their gold solves most things. Most important though, only magic can truly protect a place like this. A castle, well, that will attract war to your doorstep. So, I wagered Spillwhistle that I could do it, that I could trap a wizard and persuade him to build me a tavern. That was before I realized how savage this world might become. Now I know I need both.” He winked at me. “Now I’ll get two wizards.”
“What if you failed?”
“The script would have changed. It would have forced me to go to Brokenford and work for her forever.”
I whistled at that. “That’s some wager.”
Lincoln smiled. “I’ll bet you that, provided Bethe’s followed all my instructions, I’ll have a level 3 tavern, a nice newly upgraded workshop, a great big feasting hall, a half-dozen more cottages, and a town hall full of gold. Despite what anyone says, money talks in these worlds. Those upgrades, Alexa, mean that I can increase my mining, quarrying, farming, and wood production. It means I’ll be able to start trading with the local towns.”
“But won’t you lose all this?” I asked, sweeping my arms around.
He shook his head. “My town, and I’ll only tolerate whom I want here. There’s only two ways in, and I’ll have those guarded before this place becomes common knowledge. Besides, I haven’t shown you everything yet.”
Then it struck me. “Spillwhistle? What did she stand to lose?”
Lincoln got up and put his foot on the rock. “Now Spillwhistle, she underestimated the power of grain. When she asked me how I was going to do it, I told her the exact plan—it was the only way I could get her to select the correct script I needed. After all, I’ve got no magic. But as we stood there talking, I could see she couldn’t quite understand how good an ale could be. So, her part of the bargain? She must come and setup shop here. All I need is for someone to deliver the script back to her, and she’ll be forced to comply.”
