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Copyright ©2002 Robert Beers

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Writers Exchange E-Publishing
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THE PROMISED ONES—BOOK 1 THE WELLS END CHRONICLES
Copyright 2002 Robert Beers
Writers Exchange E-Publishing
PO Box 372
ATHERTON QLD 4883
AUSTRALIA
Cover design by: Robert Beers
Distributed Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing
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ISBN 1 876962 1 920741 17 8
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental.

Chapter One
The warrior knew he was dying. That arrow in his side had borne poison, most likely the blood of a Garloc, painted onto the head. The condition of the wound said as much. The skin around it was black and weeping. Besides that, his vision had begun to cloud.
He tried to raise his head, but the effort was agonizing; lights swam before his eyes, and he fell back, gasping.
A pale hand parted the flap to the tent, and his aide peered in. “My Lord, are you in pain?” The man held a cup of tisane laced with Opatia juice. It would kill the pain and more. Besides, what was a lethal addiction to a man already dead?
“No, Moulton.” The warrior waved the drink away. He wanted to be lucid for his spirit journey, pain not withstanding. “Bring me some parchment and a quill.” A cough racked his body, sending pain shooting through his side.
The little man put the cup down, and wrung his hands nervously. “But ... Sire. We have no quills, and no ink to fill them. We're still on the battlefield.”
“Then just bring me the parchment, fool. I'll supply the ink myself. Go!”
As his aide scurried out of the tent, King Labad lay back and closed his eyes. It was still there. He prayed to Bardoc for time enough to put words to what he saw. The future of his world depended on it, as did those who would come. His sword and bow lay on the ground alongside the cot. Per his instructions, the Dwarves until needed would care for them.
Moulton reentered the tent, two leaves of parchment clutched in his hand. The hand trembled as he placed them on the King's chest. “I have the parchment, Sire, and ... and I could find no quill.”
“Thank you, Moulton. Please leave me now.”
“Yes, your majesty.” He turned to leave.
“Moulton.” Labad's voice was a whisper.
“Sire?”
“I want to thank you for your service to me, but there is one thing more I require from you.”
“Of course, my King.”
“Let no one enter the tent until the Dwarves come. This will be your last act as my subject. As a reward, you may have the lands East of Bern. I trust you'll find them adequate for your needs?”
“Of course, your Majesty. Thank you, Sire.” Moulton ducked his head in a series of obsequious bows.
“Good. Go now.” He coughed again, as his aide backed from the tent.
Labad was alone. He heard Moulton instructing the guards. A bit of a whittle that one, but a good man, nonetheless. He drew in as deep a breath as his weakened body would allow, and forced himself to sit up. The pain nearly drove him under, but he held his body upright by using a small shaping, breathing deeply and slowly, waiting for the muzziness to pass. His jeweled dagger, a gift from his wife, lay strapped to his thigh. Its blood grooves would make it a serviceable pen. He pulled it, and held the blade poised over the exposed flesh where his wound lay festering. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the point into the wound. Yellow-green pus poured out, accompanied by the smell of decay. Working the point in deeper, he twisted it while holding back the scream that welled up in his throat. When the tears left his eyes, he saw the red blood washing the last of the corruption away and, he slid the parchment into position. He dipped the tip of the dagger and began to write, dipping it again and again until the prophecy was recorded.
Labad signed his name and title with the crest rudely sketched below, and then he lay back and sighed, releasing the shaping. It was done. The pain began to diminish, and he felt light, as if he were floating. A flavor of oranges lay on his tongue, and then the thought came. “So, this is death.”
The storyteller finished his tale and reached to pick up his cup. He smiled at the sighs of contentment coming from his audience. You could always count on the village children to give a proper reading of one's skills. They only stayed if you weren't boring. Of course, the story of Labad's prophecy was usually good for a meal or two from their parents. He felt especially proud of the way the different voices came out this time.
“Bravo. Bravo.” The applause came from a handsome woman on the outside edge of the crowd. He noticed her shift showed signs of wear as well as a number of cleverly sewn patches here and there where the material had been salvaged. Poor, he surmised. Poor, but too proud to stoop to begging. Poor, but clean in spite of it. She more than likely bathed in one of the many creeks that ran through the area.
He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of her appreciation. “Thank you madam. It is always an honor to have touched the heart of one as beautiful as yourself with my simple words.” She smiled and flushed under his praise.
The woman gathered the two children standing next to her to her side as she turned and walked away from the shade of the beech tree. It commanded the center of the town's market square. Sometime in years long past, a bench was built around the old tree. The storyteller leaned back against the trunk and smiled again at the village folk gathered in front of him. “Now, what would you like to hear next?”
Charity looked up at the woman walking next to her. “Thank you for letting us listen Aunt Doreen.”
“Yes, thanks a lot. I especially liked the part about the battle.”
“You would Adam.” Charity interjected. “You spend enough time fighting Darzin and his friends.”
“Hush now.” Doreen put a hand in front of Adam's mouth before he could answer his sister back. “I'll be hearing no arguments from you two. Especially not after such a fine story.”
The twins subsided reluctantly. The truth was, they liked arguing back and forth. Outside of playing in the old forest behind their Aunt and Uncle's cottage it was their favorite pastime.
Doreen began humming an old melody as they walked. The twins recognized it as the one she sang when she was feeling particularly happy. Charity joined in humming the harmony part bringing a pleased look from her Aunt and a raised eyebrow from her brother.
A mud ball spattered against Charity's shift accompanied by howls of jeering laughter.
“Darzin!” Adam whirled to face the direction the mud ball came from. “I know that laugh. He's in for it now.” He balled his fists and began walking towards a heavyset youngster with blond hair and pimples who was dancing back and forth on his toes while pointing at them. A number of boys of varying sizes were gathered behind Darzin also enjoying the joke. As the mayor's son he held a certain status among the village youth and used it to his advantage. Adam and Charity, like their Aunt and Uncle, refused to act the way people of their economic station were supposed to, thus making them natural targets to bullies like Darzin.
“Adam! Stop right there. Don't you stoop to their level.” His Aunt put a hand on his shoulder, halting his journey toward mayhem.
Charity looked at the ruin the mud ball made of her shift. Even though it was made of flour sacks, the small blue flowers in the field of white made it her favorite. Tears started to flow.
Darzin saw the result of his work and laughed all the harder. “Haaaa. Look at that. I made the little bitch cry I did. Wassa matter hunny bun? Did yer rags git all messy?”
Doreen gripped Adam's shoulder harder. “Pay no attention to him Adam. It's only words they can't bruise you. Be bigger than they are.”
“But...”
“No.”
The next mud ball hit Doreen in the back. “He's all yours Adam.”
“You let him do what?” The man shouting at Doreen stood over six feet tall, had thinning hair with a touch of gray and deep blue eyes which at the moment looked anything but friendly.
“I already told you Bal. I lost my temper. That little monster ruined my only good shift, not to mention Charity's as well. You don't know how sorry I am.”
“I'm sorry too Uncle Bal.” Charity looked up at her Uncle trying to look like she meant it. It had felt so good to finally see Adam get his own back, the bully got what was coming to him.
“Adam?” Bal looked down at his nephew.
He got a stubborn look in return.
“Adam!”
“All right! I'm sorry too, I guess.”
“You don't sound it.” His Uncle muttered.
“Please Bal. He, I mean, we were provoked.” Doreen brushed at the dried mud on her shift as it lay in her lap. “This is going to take a lot of washing.”
“Don't try to change the subject Doreen. As much as he's a disgusting little beast, Darzin is still the Lord Mayor's son. You letting Adam bloody his nose may have bought us a lot of trouble. We don't need that and you know it. You also know why.”
“I think I broke it.”
“What?” Bal turned unbelieving eyes on his nephew.
Adam shrugged. “I think I broke it. I heard something crunch on that last punch.”
“Oh that's just lovely!” Bal threw his hands up into the air. We're going to have to move, again.”
“That's ok. I don't like it here anyway.”
“Charity!”
“Neither do I.” Adam looked up at his uncle, ready for the worst.
Doreen looked at Bal. “I suppose my feelings make it unanimous.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, at the very least I'm going to have to talk to the Mayor about this. I don't want him sending the watch after us and I'd better stop by the butcher's, he owes me wages for most of this month. I've a feeling we're going to need them.”
Charity stood and walked over to the single window in the cottage. “I am going to miss the forest.”
* * * * “I don't care if you are sorry. That hooligan nephew of yours broke my boy's nose!” The Lord Mayor's normally florid face was beet red as he shouted at Bal. “He could have killed him! That boy should be locked away like the wild animal he is.”
“And Darzin's hurling mud balls at Charity and Doreen bears no weight in this?” Bal tried to keep his voice level in spite of the Mayors rage.
“You leave my boy out of this! He's the victim here. That slut you're married to and that little tramp have no bearing in this at all!”
Bal's voice was deceptively quiet. “What did you just call them?”
The Mayor caught the look in the tall man's face and knew he'd overstepped dangerously. He backpedaled rapidly. “N ... now Bal. You know my temper sometimes gets the best of me. I didn't mean to be insulting. You may be poor, but I know you're a man of letters and far too intelligent to resort to violence where reason can prevail.”
“Then you had better start reasoning with me soon Lord Mayor. I feel my letters slipping a bit.”
“I ... see.” The Mayor swallowed and looked at Bal once more. He seemed to loom taller than before and those shoulders did look awfully broad. “Uh ... well ... boys will be boys I suppose.” He worked at making his voice light and brisk. “Just the results of highjinks getting a little out of hand, shall we say? I mean, no one was really permanently injured, were they?”
“Not as far as I can tell.” Bal concurred, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps they wouldn't have to leave after all. “Why don't we just leave it at that?”
“Yes, yes. For the best, really. For the best. Well, I must be moving on to other matters.” The mayor checked his vest watch. “The village won't wait on my inattention long you know. A Mayor's work is never done.” The Lord Mayor's tone became more jovial as he felt himself edging back from the precipice.
Bal smiled dryly. “I'm sure. Good day to you Mayor.”
“Good day. Good day.”
“Blustery sort of fellow, isn't he?”
“Huh?” Bal looked down from the steps of the Mayor's office to see the storyteller looking up at him. “What are you talking about old father?”
The old man chuckled lightly as he reached up and scratched at his beard. “Old, I may be. But I'm neither frail nor deaf. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that the Lord Mayor's voice I heard not too long ago bellowing something about hooligan's and sluts? Wasn't it your nephew who was involved in a bit of a dust up with a certain fat man's son just this afternoon?”
Bal took the last of the steps to the street. “You have me at a disadvantage old father. You seem to know more of me than I know of you.”
The storyteller extended a hand. “A name is a good place to start. I've worn a number of them through the years, depending upon the occasion. On this one you may call me Naught.”
“It means Nothing. A strange name to go by.” Bal reached out and took the old man's hand. “Bal.”
“Yes, I know. Husband to Doreen and adoptive parent to twin brother and sister, Adam and Charity, though they call you Uncle.”
Bal felt his stomach tighten. This old man knew too much about he and his family. “Why?” He asked.
“A great deal of meaning in such a small word.” The old man who called himself Nought said, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to ask why I'm here, or why do I know you and your family's names?”
“The answer to both would be good.” Bal answered. “Along with the answer as to why this amount of interest in a man as poor as I.”
“Of course. Of course.” Nought bobbed his head in agreement. “Will you walk with me? It's a lovely afternoon, and I'd rather not spend it parked in front of the Mayor's steps, if you don't mind.”
The old man turned and began walking down the village street in the direction towards the cottage Bal and his family stayed in. A number of the village folk who'd listened to his stories hailed him as they passed by. Bal noticed the genuine pleasure the greetings gave the old fellow, and revised his opinion slightly, though a core of suspicion remained.
They'd walked nearly to the edge of the village before either spoke. It was Nought who broke the silence. First, by clearing his throat, then, “You needn't worry Bal. I'm not the one you're worrying about, nor am I one of his agents.”
“Then how...?”
The old man hummed in thought for a second. “Umm, maybe it's best I don't go into that too deeply as yet. What I can tell you, though, is that the one who placed those two lovely children in your care once called me friend.”
Bal's eyes widened. “Then you would be...”
“Not another word!” Nought snapped. “You've no idea who, or what may be listening. Those children are far too important, and you know it. This meeting is risky enough as it is.”
“I said much the same, not too long ago.” Bal replied, half to himself. “Very well, storyteller. Nought you wish to be, and Nought you'll remain, as far as I'm concerned, but you've answered both my questions.”
The old man nodded. “Good. Now tell me. Why did you teach them to read, knowing what trouble such a skill would bring them? You can barely afford the rent on your cottage, much less buy them books.”
Bal turned and looked the storyteller in the eye. “That's why we chose Beri. The school here is free to whoever chooses to go, young or old. A man, or woman, can learn to read and write, free of tariff. Besides, can you think of a more remote place? The people here don't even believe in Dwarves.”
“All very noble, I'm sure.” Nought grunted sourly. “So you raise a pair of children who fit their economic status about as well as an Eagle fits a chicken yard.”
“And Doreen and I do?” Bal bristled. “I'm no charlatan, and neither is she. What would it look like with them speaking as we do, yet illiterate? Then you'd have no eagle in the yard, but a goose.”
“Or a pair of them,at least.” Nought clapped Bal on the shoulder. “No, there's no fault in what you've done. In fact, it may be for the best.”
Bal's eyes widened. “A premonition?”
Nought shook his head, causing the long white hair under his floppy hat to swing about. “No, merely hope. An educated guess, if you will. Even in this world, a bright mind and a willing heart may grow to accomplish greatness, or, at the very least, a modicum of success. They appear to be good children, by any means.”
“They're more than that. They stand head and shoulders above the best this village has to offer. I think that has a part in the trouble they've had with some of the children here.”
“Envy grows a bitter crop at best, Bal, and if they face the road I think they will...” The old man let his voice trail off, but Bal finished the statement in his head, and swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
“What do they know of the world outside of their little village?” Nought asked casually, as they passed the stable master's shop.
“Almost nothing, I must confess. We've never spoken of our lives outside the village or of the Empire.” Bal shrugged. “We thought it best to concentrate on teaching them how to read and write, as well as some mathematics. Well, that and woodcraft, as well. Doreen and I won't live forever.”
“As far as I can tell, no one has yet, friend Bal,” The storyteller added sagely.
They walked the rest of the way to the cottage, lost in their own thoughts. The place where Bal and Doreen chose to raise their adopted niece and nephew stood at the edge of a small wood on the eastern side of the village of Beri. The cottage was described to them as cozy, which meant it was cramped, but the rent was right. The thatched roof had leaked when they first moved in, but Bal managed to patch them all with pitch, sweat and a few choice words he had learned in his earlier days. Doreen made sure it was kept scrubbed clean, and in spite of their poverty, Bal's skills at woodcraft made sure there was food for the table.
The scent of baking sweetroot met Bal and the storyteller as they turned into the path leading to the cottage. Nought breathed deeply of the aroma, pulling the mix of caramel and spice deep into his lungs. “Ahhhhhh, but that smells good.”
“You're welcome to share our table. There's always room for one more.”
“Even if there really isn't, hmm?” The storyteller replied.
“The creek behind the cottage usually has fish in it. A nice trout goes well with sweetroot. We've never gone hungry, nor have those we've taken in,” Bal said, with a touch of pride.
Nought sniffed the air once more. “I'm sure you haven't. I'm sure you haven't.” He smacked his lips in anticipation.
“The storyteller's here! Aunt Doreen. The storyteller's here!” The twins came running from around the backside of the whitewashed cottage.
Nought noticed they'd changed from their previous outfits to ones of rough woven burlap. The girl would have to be talked to. She was too well advanced in her puberty to be wearing such a loose weave. At least the boy had a decent breechcloth wrapped around him, and he was wearing a thong around his neck, with a small bag tied to it. Their feet were bare and stained green from the grass around the cottage. To the casual eye, they'd look to be simple country folk. Better and better.
Doreen came out of the door centered in the front of the cottage, wiping her hands on a piece of sacking. “Storyteller. You honor us.”
“We've an extra mouth for supper, Doreen.” Bal announced as he stepped inside the cottage. “I'll be down at the creek.”
The twins’ eyes grew large. “You're staying for supper? Here? With us?”
The old man chuckled. “Don't act so surprised. I'd walk twice the distance to have such an attentive audience. My stories are no fun at all if I've no one to share them with.”
* * * * Nought pushed himself away from the rough-hewn table. “Ahhh, yes. I don't believe I could eat another bite. That was simply amazing, Doreen. Who knew the humble trout could aspire to such gustatory heights?”
Doreen blushed under the compliment. “It wasn't all my doing, sire Nought. Bal caught them, and the children did the cleaning...”
“Don't be so modest my dear. Accept your due when it's offered. Folk get little enough of it in this world. You prepared a masterpiece, and I'm proud to say so.”
“Thank you, sire Nought.” Doreen's blush deepened.
“It was good, Aunt Doreen.” Charity affirmed the storyteller's praise.
“Real good.” Adam agreed, with his mouth full of sweetroot.
Bal stood up, taking his empty plate with him. “As my nephew, who insists on talking with his mouth full, said, real good, honey. You outdid yourself.”
Nought reached across the table, and picked up the pitcher of tisane. He poured a measure into the earthenware mug. “And you brew a fine tisane, as well. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was dining in one of the finer establishments of the bustling city of Beri.”
Doreen laughed behind her hands.
“You're a shameless flirt, storyteller, and you know it. But I thank you for brightening our home.” Bal took his plate over to a small sideboard with a shallow wooden basin sitting on it; He placed the plate into the basin. “Adam. Take the bucket to the creek, we've some dishes to wash.”
“What?”
“You know the rules. She cooked, we wash.”
“Yes, Uncle Bal.” Adam picked up the bucket, and trudged out of the cottage.
“Adam. Wait up.” Charity got up from her place at the table, and ran out after her brother. She caught up with him at the creek.
“Aren't you excited? We've got the storyteller all to ourselves. The best storyteller in the whole world!”
Adam didn't answer.
“Adam! Did you hear me?” Adam!”
“Shh!”
“Don't you shh me! You're not Uncle Bal, even if you are five minutes older you can't mmmpphhh!” Adam's hand over her mouth cut off what else she was going to say.
“Shh.” He whispered, “Listen. Don't you hear it?” He took his hand away from her mouth
“Hear what?” She whispered back.
Adam pointed across the creek into the deep of the wood. “Out there.” He kept his voice at a barely audible level. “I've never heard anything like it. It sends chills right through me, and it sounds big.”
Charity listened, trying to catch what her brother was hearing and she wished she hadn't. On the very edge of her hearing, was a snuffling, grunting sound. The pitch was bass deep, with an edge to it that grated along her nerves. Adam was right in his feeling. Whatever was making that sound was big ... and hunting.
“I wonder what it is? Could it be some kind of pig?” Charity breathed her question into Adam's ear.
“Never heard a pig sound like that.”
Charity saw the eyes first. “Adam!” She shrieked. “Look!”
He looked in the direction she pointed. A pair of glowing red spots was looking at them from out of a hulking black shape just across the creek.
Adam could feel his knees going weak. He grabbed his sister by the arm. “Come on. We're getting out of here.”
They turned to run back to the cottage, and slammed into two more of the things. The last thing Adam could remember thinking was that they smelled like one of the stray dogs in the village when they got wet.
* * * * “Ogren. It had to be Ogren.” Nought ran a hand over the trampled soil at the creek's edge.
“How many?” Bal held Doreen to him. He could feel the moisture of her tears against his shoulder.
“Are they dead?” She choked out the question.
The storyteller looked up and shook his head. “I don't think so. If the Ogren were going to kill them, we'd have found sure signs of it. Blood, at least, or a body part or two.”
“Nooo!” Doreen shrieked out.
“Nought!” Bal objected.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I tend to be a little too clinical, sometimes. It comes from storytelling, you know. What I was trying to say was, I believe the twins were taken alive, probably captive, and the poor things are probably scared witless. What concerns me is that He used Ogren to do it ... strange.” Nought rubbed a bit of the soil between his thumb and forefinger.
“How many?” Bal repeated his question.
“Eh? Oh, yes, you asked that earlier, didn't you? Three ... I think. Yes, three for sure. I think the sorcerer's involved in this. Ogren never cross the spine unless they're driven.”
“You have to find them. You have to.” Doreen pleaded with the storyteller.
“I'm going with you.” Bal looked grim.
Nought looked over his shoulder at Bal. “No, you won't. You and Doreen are going to pack up what belongings you have, and you are going to move as far away from here as you can. I would suggest Southpointe as an example. Gilgafed sent those Ogren. I'm sure of it now, and he never does anything in halfway measures. More will be coming after you, if I don't miss my guess, and unless you have a company of the watch to call on, you don't want to be here when they arrive.”
The mention of the sorcerer's name did not have the desired effect on Doreen. “But the children, Adam and Charity, what about them?”
“They're out of your hands, now!” Nought snapped. “What do I have to do to get you to think?”
Bal took his wife by the arm. “Come on, Doreen. It's up to him, now.”
Her eyes were huge. “You mean he's...?”
“That's exactly what I mean.”
“But he's dead!”
“Tell that to him. Let's go.”
The storyteller went back to his examination of the trampled ground. “Ogren.” He thought. “What is that fool Gilgafed playing at?” The beasts were temperamental at best, nearly as bad as Garlocs. He began to wonder if Bal and Doreen's keeping the twins ignorant of the world they were born into was wise, after all.
Nought looked over his shoulder, making sure Bal and his wife were well away. He then reached out a hand, and held it over the area where the Ogren sign was most prominent. The air under the palm of his hand began to glow. Beneath the hand, areas of the soil picked up the glow, forming the shapes of clearly defined hoof prints along with the bare footprints of two young humans. From the looks of things, the struggle was brief, and only three sets of prints left the area of the creek heading east. They were all hoofed.
He stood and straightened his robe. “If you've hurt them, Gilgafed, there won't be enough left of you to keep in a specimen jar.”
Sounds coming from the cottage told him Bal and Doreen were doing as they were told. They would be gone well before morning. Southpointe would do well by them. He made a mental note to make sure their economic status was considerably higher there than it had been in Beri, and then he snapped his fingers. A staff appeared in his right hand, ornately carved, with a wolf's head at the top. Softly whistling an ancient melody in a minor key, he began following the line of glowing prints, as they led him eastward into the Dwarflands.

Chapter Two
Charity woke to bouncing ... and the smell of wet dog. That snuffling, grunting sound was louder. In fact, it was right next to her. As her head cleared further, she realized she was being carried on someone's shoulder. She turned her head to look, and remembered why she was being carried.
The Ogren carrying Charity ignored her attempts to break free, as well as her shrieking into its goat-like ears. The heavy horns curling at the sides of its head protected its eyes from attack. But when she tried biting the ear next to her mouth, the Ogren rapped her on the head, knocking her back into unconsciousness.
The one carrying Adam's limp form turned and barked a question at its companion. A grunt answered him, and the Ogren continued on their way through the dark wood, and into the downs bordering the Dwarflands.
* * * * Pestilence, also known as the Fire Island, sits just over sixty miles off the eastern coast of the Verkuyl peninsula. A long-extinct volcano, it has been the home of Gilgafed the Sorcerer, for millennia. There, he bred his armies of Ogren, Golem and Trolls, along with other nameless creatures, waiting for the day when he would be able to take back the power that the philosopher King had wrested from him.
Now, it appeared that fortune had finally smiled, after long centuries of disdain. Unless he was terribly mistaken, he had finally found the last remaining scions of the house of Labad. A few of his Ogren were even now carrying them to his loving embrace.
The sorcerer reached out and pulled a velvet cord hanging next to the thickly padded chair he presently occupied. Scant minutes later a bedraggled-looking little man with a big nose, sparse mouse-brown hair and a nervous habit of dry-washing his hands appeared at the chamber door.
“You summoned me, master?”
“Ah, Cobain. You made good time. Yes, I did summon you. That's what the tinkly little bells mean when I ring them. You know where I keep my special brandies, do you not?”
Cobain knew, and inwardly he winced. Delivering one of the small casks meant a trip into the very bowels of the mountain, and then the long, long climb back to Gilgafed's chambers here at the top. “Yes ... Master. I know of them.”
Gilgafed chuckled and held out a coin-sized disk of vellum. “Bring me the two casks with those dates. The one I choose not to broach, you can return to its rest.”
“Yes, master. Thank you, master.” The servant took the disk and read the dates on it in resignation. Two trips to the catacombs. At least the master was in a good mood; perhaps he wouldn't be whipped if he dawdled a bit.
The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, and placed his feet onto the polished ebony desk before him. Now for the planning. After he had those two brats in his clutches, he could see about ending the life of that meddling Wizard with his tendency to butt in at usually the most inopportune time.
He laced his fingers together behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “What to do ... What to do.”
* * * * Nought followed the glowing prints of the Ogren across the downs east of Beri and into the Dwarflands. The beasts were maintaining a swift pace; swift enough that he was gaining little ground, if any, on the party.
“I think I'm going to need some help.” He mused. “The Dwarfs have no love of Gilgafed or his Ogren. Perhaps they won't like the idea of them trespassing.” He chuckled. “No, they won't like it at all.”
He stopped and reached into his tunic, pulling out an ornate, hand-sized mirror, which he placed onto the rock-strewn ground. He knelt in front of the mirror, and said a single word. “Show.”
The surface of the glass distorted, and then began to swirl in a counterclockwise motion. Flashes of scenery flickered through the distortion, and then steadied into a face looking back at the storyteller.
“Wizard. What means this?” The voice was deep with a gravel-like quality, but there was also a gruff friendliness in its tone. “I have business to attend to.”
“Rest assured, Galtru, this is no social call.”
“I assumed that, from the hideous hat you're wearing. Are you out scaring children with those foul tales you call stories, again?” The dwarf worked a finger into one of his ears and examined the result. “What disreputable name are you using this century, Milward? Bifflbug? Frustensketch? Nought?”
“Be nice,” he murmured, “a party of three Ogren are crossing your lands.”
“What is that to us?” Galtru shrugged. “As long as they cross them completely and keep to themselves, we care not.”
“They have a pair of captives I have a particular interest in; you may, as well, if I'm not mistaken.” The Wizard suggested.
The Dwarf looked unimpressed. “Unless they're the progeny of Labad himself, I've better things to occupy my time with, Wizard. Good journey.” He began to turn away from the point of the scry.
“What an amazing thing!” Milward, dropping the persona of Nought like a bad habit, exclaimed. “Right, the first time. Are you sure you're not a Seer?”
Galtru turned back to face the Wizard, with a scowl creasing his brow. “What are you saying, old one? Is senility finally creeping into that ale-sodden mind of yours? Speak plainly, for once. I'm a Dwarf, not a Dragon. I don't care for riddles.”
The Wizard nodded. “Very well, Galtru. Plain speaking, as you ask. Gilgafed finally succeeded in finding the scions of the house of Labad. It's his progeny tucked under the arms of those Ogren trotting across your lands. I followed them through the downs, but I fear I'm gaining no ground.”
“You could ride a horse.” The Dwarf said quietly.
“And you could marry a Garloc. What will it be, Galtru? Will you aid me, or not? The sun is beginning to rise. They're going to start looking for a place to hide.”
“Keep your temper, Wizard. No, the Dwarves will not shirk their responsibility. We've guarded Labad's heritage for over a millennia, we're not going to fail in our task because of a few clumsy Ogren that managed to stumble across your charges.” Galtru's smile was bleak.
Milward bowed his head to the Dwarf's image in the glass. “I am obliged to you, Galtru. I leave the details to you. One other thing before I go.”
“Ask, Milward. I may, or may not answer.” The Dwarf's expression revealed nothing.
“This heritage you've been guarding, what is it?”
“That is our concern, Wizard. You do your part, we'll do ours.”
The Wizard ended the scry. “Damn obstinate Dwarves. They'd sooner roast alive than reveal a secret.”
He picked up the glass and placed it back into his tunic. The rising sun cast long shadows into the grassy hills west of him. A calling bird greeted the dawn with its hooting cry. Shading his eyes against the sun's light, Milward gazed in the direction the kidnappers trail led. He almost felt sorry for the Ogren. Almost.
* * * * “Stop poking me.” Adam cried out sleepily. The nightmares had finally gone away, and he wanted to stay asleep as long as possible.
The poke came again, and by reflex he lashed out with a foot by reflex. The barking grunt of pain that answered his kick pulled him fully awake.
A creature out of one of the stories they used to hear in the village writhed on the ground in front of him. Two others like it stared at him in the dim light. They were big. Much bigger than Uncle Bal. Their faces looked like a goat's, but they had tusks like that of a boar. Their broad chests were covered with rudely sewn hides, and their loins were hidden behind knee britches sewn together just as haphazardly. Horns curled like those of a ram sprouted from each side of the forehead, and curled back into a coil above the floppy, goat-like ears. The feet appeared to be split-hoofed and heavy. Thick curly hair covered what skin he could see, and the stink coming from them told him where the wet dog smell originated.
In spite of the injury he'd done to their companion, the other two creatures seemed indisposed to intervene. Adam tried to get a bearing on where he was and what was going on.
It looked like he was in a cave of some sort. The dim light ‘s source came from behind the two beasts before him. Underneath him, the floor of the cave was sandy and dry, but he could hear a faint sound of water dripping.
“Ohhhh.”
The soft moan sounded like his sister. “Charity. Charity!”
One of the beasts, the one on the left, barked at him as he raised his voice, so he tried again, speaking more softly, “Charity.”
“Ohhhh. Adam? That you? Where are we? Where's the storyteller?”
The beast on the floor of the cave continued to writhe back and forth. The sound of its groans faded into whimpers, and yet, the other two still ignored its distress.
Adam tried to make out Charity in the dim light. Her voice seemed to come from a patch of darkness behind and to the left of the two beasts remaining standing. “Charity. Wave your hand. I can't see where you are.”
“Here I am. Over here. See me?” A shape moved in the darkness where he thought her voice was coming from.
“Ok. I see you. You ok?”
The beast standing closest to Charity moved before she could answer, and picked her up by the back of her burlap shift. She screamed as she was lifted into the air.
“Hey!” Adam moved without thinking of the size of his opponent, and found himself batted back against the wall of the cave he woke up against. His head swam, and lights danced before his eyes.
Whumpp! “Oooofff!” Charity landed beside him. Apparently, their captors felt it was ok to talk to each other, just not too loudly.
“You ok?” Adam repeated his question, this time in a whisper.
“Yeah, I guess. What are those things?” Charity nodded her head at the two Ogren standing before them. “Why did they take us?”
“I don't know. All I've got are questions, and no answers.”
“Adam, I'm scared.” Charity pulled herself against her brother's arm.
“Me, too, Charity. Me, too.”
* * * * The Dwarf peered over the outcropping into the cavern mouth below his ledge. As Galtru had said, the human children were within sight of the boundaries of Dwillkillion. They sat below his vantage point at a depth of about four ax lengths, and there were three Ogren guarding them, though one of them appeared to be suffering from a stomach ailment of some kind. That is, unless the children were made of sterner stuff than they appeared ... He looked more closely and nodded, grunting to himself in satisfaction.
One of the Ogren barked a question at their captives, asking if they wished to be fed. Apparently the beasts were under orders to deliver them alive and in good health. Better and better. This gave them a few hours to plan and prepare. If these were the children of the prophecy, it would not do well to have them die while being rescued.
Another bark. Ogren were not patient. If the children didn't understand they were being spoken to, there was every chance the beast doing the asking would simply throw them a piece of carrion, and then ignore them until nightfall.
He pulled back from the ledge, and silently made his way back into the passages carved into the living rock by his ancestors in ages past. What he had seen needed to be passed on. Once he got into a main branch, he was able to pick up speed. A couple of more hours at a brisk jog would take him back to where Galtru and the others waited.
Other Dwarves nodded at him as he passed them by, but no words were spoken in greeting. A running Dwarf is not to be distracted, period.
By the time his internal clock read mid-morning, he was broaching the outskirts of Dwillkillion. Those of his folk in the passages who saw him stepped aside to allow him room to pass. A couple of times he had to step to the side, himself, to give way to another messenger en route the opposite direction.
Half an hour later he was in the great cavern, and had to slow his progress due to the number of Dwarf folk out and about. The noise of their voices filled the immense space, along with the background sound of the numerous waterfalls that emptied into the black lake below.
Dozens of narrow bridges crisscrossed back and forth within Dwillkillion's expanse, some of them, nearly a mile across, bridged the widest parts of the cavern. The one he chose was comparatively short, only a dozen or so yards long. Galtru's rooms faced the interior of the cavern several doors over to the right from where the bridge met the wall.
The senior Dwarf was pacing back and forth in the front room when the messenger came in. He looked up at the entrance and stopped, facing the runner with his hands clasped behind his back. “Report. How many?”
“Three, one slightly injured. They hide in the cave above the shallow lake.”
“The scions?”
“Twins, whole, the boy appears to be wearing the amulet.”
Galtru's eyebrows shot up. “So? Then it begins.”
“It begins.” The messenger repeated and turned to leave. He paused, and then turned back to face the older Dwarf.
“You wish something.” Galtru made it a statement rather than a question.
“Yes.” The reply came out slowly.
“What is it, Knurl?”
“The human children ... They are the promise. Are they not?”
Galtru shook his head. “Too early to tell. Being of the blood and being the promise are different things. If the boy does wear the amulet, that is one thing in their favor. That they share the same egg is another, but there are more signs to be fulfilled. Time will tell, young Knurl. You can be sure of that. First, we must deal with the Ogren.”
Knurl's grin was anything but friendly.
* * * * Because of the Ogren's obvious intent to do them no real harm, Adam and Charity found themselves drifting off to sleep in snatches of drowsiness that brought no rest at all. The food, if it could be called that, thrown at them by their captors consisted of bits of rancid flesh clinging to bones that looked greenish in the dim light. When they refused to eat it, the beast offering it to them added the bones to its own meal.
The one Adam had kicked in the privates recovered eventually from the experience, but it kept a wide berth between itself and the boy's feet.
On occasion, one of the party would duck outside the cave, and then return a minute or so later. Charity thought that they were checking the time by looking at the sun. On one of those times, two of the beasts left the cave, and the one remaining appeared to be slumbering.
She nudged Adam in the side with an elbow. “Hsst. Adam.” She whispered into his ear while keeping an eye on their lone captor.
“Mmmpphh? Huh? What is it?” Adam jerked out of his doze with a start.
“There's only one of them in here now, and it's not paying attention. Let's sneak away.” Charity tugged lightly at the sleeve of his burlap tunic.
“Where to? The others are probably right outside. They'd grab us as quick as a meal if we tried sneaking past ‘em.” Adam whispered back.
“What about further back into the cave?” Charity nodded her head in that direction.
“Is there anywhere to go, further back? What if those things lose their tempers? I don't want to be their next snack.” Adam snuck a look at the Ogren across the cave from them. Its chin rested on the broad chest as it snored softly.
“Well, I think it's worth a try, at least. We couldn't be any worse off than we are now.” Charity tugged at her brother's arm. “Let's go now, while we have a chance.”
Adam leaned into the direction of the tug, and followed his sister back into the cave. The dozing Ogren snorted once, nearly scaring the water out of both of them, and then subsided.
“That was close.” Adam eased out as he caught his breath.
They worked their way further back into the recesses of the cave where the shadows deepened from dusk gray into midnight black, just as the other two Ogren came back in.
Charity stifled a shriek, but even that small sound reached the beasts’ sensitive ears, and they swiveled to face the twins location, barking out a series of sounds that sounded like they meant, “Stop! City watch!”
At the others’ call the third member of the Ogren party woke with a start and bounded upright sniffing the air in alarm. Something above caught its attention, and it sniffed again. The yellow-irised eye widened, and it cried out to the other two, but by then it was too late. The cave became filled with Dwarves bristling with sharp-edged weaponry.
Adam and Charity were grabbed by Dwarves, and pulled further into the cave depths. Charity shrieked, and Adam cried out, striking at the ones who held them, trying to break free, but the grip of the Dwarves equaled the Ogren in power, even though the little folk only stood knee high to the beasts in height.
To the twins, the next few moments became a blur of disorientation. They were transferred from Dwarf to Dwarf as the folk of the caverns placed them further from the scene of battle. One Dwarf pushed first Adam, and then his sister, into a recess next to a small waterfall. An unpleasant sharpness tinted the mossy smell of the air, like old powdered stone.
Charity clung to her brother as she tried vainly to see through the gloom. She could hear the sounds of battle, with the harsh cries of the Dwarves mixing with the barking growls of the Ogren. Whoever had shoved them into the darkness now seemed to be leaving them alone. Her stomach churned as she fought to keep the panic from overtaking her. She hoped she wasn't going to sick up. That would be just too embarrassing on top of everything else.
“Adam.” She tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she spoke his name.
“I'm here.” He patted her shoulder.
A whack on the arm was his reward. “Hey! That hurt.”
“It should have. I know you're there, lummox. I just wanted your attention.”
“Ok, you've got it.”
A long gurgling scream cut through the blackness. The twins tightened their grip on each other reflexively, and stepped back into nothingness.
* * * * Gilgafed watched the butchering of his Ogren in helpless fury. Damn those interfering Dwarves. He should have expended more energy during the magik war, and wiped the last of the miserable little things from the face of the world when he had the backing and the power to do so. Years of planning and preparation, whole hogsheads of blood, and weeks at a time spent in sleepless toil to find the skrudding brats, and now it was all for nothing.
The scry shifted its focus from the lopsided battle and the sea of iron helms to ... blackness.
“What is this?” He tapped the ornate frame that held the glass. “Reveal them to me. Now!”
The glass remained black, and then it shattered, as the sorcerer's fist smashed into the middle of the inky surface.
“Cobain!” He held his lacerated knuckles to his mouth. “Cobain! Where are you, you worthless piece of offal? If you don't show that horrid little face of yours in the next few ... Ah, there you are. Get over here, now!”
“You called, my mas ... Master! Your hand! Here, let me tend it for you!” Gilgafed's servant pulled a towel from his belt, and rushed to the sorcerer's side, attempting to staunch the bleeding.
He was rudely pushed away for his trouble. “Leave it! I can fend for myself. Give me that towel!” Gilgafed ripped the other end of the towel from Cobain's hand. “Bring me another scryglass, and Bardoc help you if you're not here within the non.”
Cobain swallowed, his large Adams apple bobbing with the motion. “Yes ma ... master. Right away, master. I'm going now, master.” He bolted from the chamber, nearly stumbling in his haste.
Gilgafed turned back to look at the ruin his fist had made of the scryglass. As he bent to pick up the pieces, his mind turned over the problem of the twins. Perhaps he needn't have to see them to deal with the problem they represented. Maybe one of the wyrms ... yes ... One of the wyrms would do nicely.
“Cobain!”
* * * * Under the Sorcerer's prodding, the Fire Wyrm woke from its long sleep, hungry and cranky. It took only a small portion of the power to send it in the right direction. Satisfied, Gilgafed ended the scry, causing the glass to become an ordinary mirror again. Pouring a goblet of blood red wine, he settled into his chair, and sipped. Perhaps dinner should be brought early; one might as well eat along with one's scaly friend.
* * * * The ground fell away beneath Adam, and then he was in water. Its icy chill shocked him, and he took some in with a breath. He clawed his way back to the surface, choking and gasping, just in time to get most of the splash from Charity. A ledge of rock lay before him, and he reached for it in desperation, not realizing at the time that he could see.
Out of the water, he looked wildly around for Charity, calling her name. She answered behind him. Spinning around, he saw her climb onto the ledge, spitting water and shivering.
“Where are we? What is this place?” Charity hugged herself, her teeth chattering with the cold.
“It looks like one of the caves Uncle Bal used to tell us about, but he never told any stories about them having glowing walls.” Adam walked over to a stalagmite that topped him by a good foot or more. The surface of it was coated with lichen that gave off a blue-green glow. The overall effect was like being under deep water, and still able to breathe. He had no idea where he and Charity were, and no idea how to begin to find out.
A sound came out of the background, causing the short hairs on the back of Adam's neck to stand up. “Charity, do you hear that?”
“Hear what? Water dripping?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Charity listened. She heard the sound of dripping water, but that was a continuous background noise in the cavern. Behind that ... there was a faint hissing. Her gut tightened, and a nameless dread filled her heart. That sound ... She turned in the direction it came from, and her breath caught in her throat. A monster out of nightmare towered over them. The hissing came from its mouth, which gaped open, showing multiple rows of needle teeth. Frothing slime dripped from the mouth, and added its own hiss as it struck the water. The monster's breath smelled of sulfur and something worse.
Adam was rooted in place like a mouse facing a snake. His feet would not obey his commands to run. The thing rose above him, its head at least the size of a large calf. Tendrils writhing like eels grew out of its cheeks behind a growth at the end of the jaw, curved like a knife. The long neck was segmented with armor-like plates topped and winged with more of the blades; One set of three for each segment. Its huge glowing eyes fixed on them as it reared back, swaying.
The head reached forward, jaws distended, ready to engulf its prey, and Adam knew he was about to be eaten. A blow to his side shocked him out of his paralysis as he heard the monster's jaws click shut.
Charity helped him to his feet. Her tackle had knocked him aside, causing the strike to miss. “Come on, Adam. Run!”
He ran, keeping pace with his sister. Fear lent wings to their feet, and terror gave them stamina. They reached a passage too small for their pursuer to enter, and ducked into it. The Wyrm's scream of frustration echoed off the cavern walls around them.
* * * * Charity's side hurt, and her lungs burned. Her toes hit a rock, and she stumbled, catching herself on an outcropping to avoid landing on the rocky floor. She called out to Adam. “Wait.”
He slowed and stopped, then turned and came back to her. “You OK?” He knelt down to help her up.
The tears began, and she sobbed. “No, I'm not OK. That dreadful thing is back there, you almost got eaten by it, and we're lost, and we'll never see Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal again, and I want to go home!” The last came out in a wail as she buried her face into Adam's tunic.
He didn't know what to do. Fighting for Charity's honor was one thing, but this!? Charity had cried before, especially after some of Darzin's more vicious teasing, but he still had no idea how to deal with a crying girl, and no adult was around to help make things better. So Adam did what he could, and just held onto her while she cried.
The sobs continued on for a considerable time while Charity cried out her grief and fear. Adam held her, and tried to think of something to do to make his twin feel better. Eventually the sobbing slowed, and then came to a stop. He unwrapped Charity's arms from his neck, and leaned back to look into her eyes. “Are you OK now? Can we go on?”
Charity sniffed, “I'm OK.” She stood up. “Let's go.” They had no planned direction in mind. She just wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and that thing in the pool.
A smaller branching of the cavern opened off to their left. Its interior was bathed in darkness, but a glow at its far end showed more of the light-producing lichen. Charity ducked her head, and crawled through, with Adam close behind.
Charity exited the narrow tunnel, and stood up. This cavern was a little brighter than the one with the pool. The lichen glowed yellow-white giving their skin the look of a man dying from too much drink. The ceiling arched far above, and bore the weight of scores of stalactites, some of them extending to meet their mate rising from the floor.
“Adam. Look over there.” Where Charity pointed, an even brighter patch of light reflected off the cavern wall. Its sourcewas hidden behind a limestone pillar that joined ceiling to floor.
Her twin looked at it suspiciously. Once burned ... He strained his ears, but could hear nothing. Charity was moving toward the pillar, so he quickened his steps to catch up, trying to avoid the miniature points that littered the cavern floor. He caught up with her as she peered around the pillar.
“Oh, Adam. It's beautiful.”
His gasp said he agreed. They looked upon a wonder and a treasure beyond all dreams of avarice. Stretched out before them lay an Emerald geode easily twice the height of a tall man. The deep green crystals ranged in size from a finger to over a span across. Initially, the glare seemed blinding, but it soon became bearable as their eyes readjusted from the dimness of the caverns. A spot of bright blue from the geode's ceiling explained the reason for the light; they were looking at sky.
“If we could get up there, we could get out.” Adam pointed at the patch of blue.
Charity looked where he pointed, and shook her head. “If. Problem is, we can't fly.”
Adam sighed. “Yeah.” He looked around the floor of the geode to see if there were any loose crystals. He found a few tucked into the join of two of the larger ones, and pulled them out one by one, carefully avoiding the sharp edges on either side.
He held one of them up into the light. Its length matched his little finger. One of the jewels could probably purchase the butcher's shop where Uncle Bal worked, and all the meat within it, and he held three of them in his hands.
He looked at Charity, and shrugged. “In case we get out of here.”
* * * * Gilgafed shook his head, but the feeling grew stronger. It niggled at him like a bug crawling under his silks. He pushed the platter away, and stood up. The pleasures of the flesh would have to wait; his mind was involved elsewhere now.
A curving flight of stone steps joined his bedroom to the scrying chamber. He took them two at a time, commanding the image to appear even as he entered the small room. The shaping flowed over the glass, warping it into a bridge between dimensions. It was a matter of mere will to center upon the disturbance. The mists swirled clockwise, then reversed direction and parted to reveal the children picking their way through his geode. A bubble of irritation formed in his belly. So, his Wyrm had failed him. He sent another shaping along the Scrypath, this one with even more urgency, along with a promise of what would happen if he were disappointed again.
* * * * The twins, by dint of shear good fortune, made it through the geode without cutting their feet, though their sandals would need some attention later if they were to hold together. The cavern they entered spread higher and wider than the one before. It lacked the many stalagmites and stalactites of the previous cavern, but boasted a number of huge pillars with roots deep into ceiling and floor. The cavern extended off to their left, and branched with both avenues vanishing into shadow. They stood on a low plateau within the expanse. Another plateau of similar size covered the opposite wall. Between them lay a valley with a small stream running its length. The stream disappeared under a path that followed along the cavern's right hand wall, and formed into steps leading up to the opposite plateau. The steps looked like they'd been carved rather than shaped by nature.
They walked over to the edge to see where the path began, and a horrendous stench rising up from the valley floor met them. They fell back, choking and gagging.
Charity had never smelled anything so foul. Not even when Uncle Bal accidentally kicked over the chamber pot after his bout of dysentery, and that had been bad. Aunt Doreen had to scrub the floor with lye while she and Adam rinsed it with water drawn up from the creek.
Adam shook her by the shoulder while he held his other hand over his nose. He pointed across the valley. She saw nothing of particular interest. She tried to breathe as little as possible, and shook her head at him. He pointed again, pumping his arm for emphasis. Charity looked again, and she saw it. Just beyond the end of the stairs, a small patch of blue shone like a beautiful jewel in the wall of the cavern. She looked at Adam, and let out her breath in a whoosh. “How are we going to get over there?”
“Walk, I guess.”
“I can't do it. I'll sick up, I know I will.”
“I don't think we have any choice.”
“It smells horrible, can't you see what it is?”
Adam turned away from the plateau edge and took in a deep breath. Holding it in, he walked back to the edge and looked over. He turned a sudden white, and emptied his stomach, which caused Charity to do the same.
They lay there for some time, just gasping. Charity looked at Adam. He was pale and sweating. “What ... did ... you ... see?”
Adam looked like he would vomit again. Charity hoped not. She had nothing else to bring up but bile. He turned to look at her. His eyes looked haunted. “I think it belongs to that Dragon we ran away from. It looks like his chamber pot.”
“But there's no such thing as Dragons.”
Adam gulped, and he pointed behind her. “Tell that to him.”
Charity turned, and a small scream escaped from her. The beast was rounding the corner of one of the cavern's branches, hissing like steam being vented at the hot springs.
“The pit take that Dragon and his chamber pot. We're getting out of here.” Charity took hold of Adam's hand, and jumped over the plateau's edge, pulling Adam with her. The dung heap cushioned their fall wetly as they rolled and slid, squelching to the cavern floor.
Fear drove the stench from their minds as they scrambled away from the edge of the heap and ran along the path toward the steps leading to the patch of blue. They could hear the hiss of the Dragon closing in behind them.
The patch of blue showed clearly now, it lay at the end of a small tunnel cut into the cavern wall. The walls of the tunnel glistened with moisture. Charity thought she could hear birdsong coming through the opening, while the thump of the Dragon's feet grew louder behind her. She saw Adam dive headfirst into the tunnel, and dove in after him. The moss lining the tunnel made for a slippery ride downward towards the light.
Behind her the Dragon roared. The sound was deafening inside the tube. She heard a splash, and then she was in daylight and falling. A gout of searing flame erupted from out of the tube, scorching the air above her, and then she hit water.
* * * * The Sorcerer threw his goblet against the mirror, smashing the glass, ending the shaping, and spattering red wine across the priceless tapestry next to the frame. He ignored the loss, as well as the wine dripping onto the ivory inlay of the floor. “Cobain!” His servant would take care of the mess. Blast that Wyrm to the pit and beyond. What he'd done to it had satisfied his temper, slightly, but now he was going to have to hatch and train another of the stinking things. It would be nearly a day or more before he could shape that strongly again, and so he had to rely on more mundane solutions to his problem.
A thought struck him, and he reached out to pull a velvet cord rich with silver embroidery. Trolls should do the job.
He felt better already.
* * * * The water felt cool, and smelled of fresh herbs. Adam kept himself crouched low, so only his eyes and nose showed above the surface. His gaze stayed locked onto the opening in the cliff wall. A tendril of smoke wafted up from a scorch mark at its top edge.
Charity swam over and joined him behind the cattails. “It's been long enough, I think we're safe.”
“Are you sure?”
Charity stood up. The water came up to her hips. She sniffed herself. “Sure enough to take the time to scrub this gunk off of me.”
Adam rose out of the water, and sniffed himself. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “I see what you mean.”
They saw a cluster of what Aunt Doreen called soap bush growing along the edge of the creek. They tore some of the leaves away, and rubbed them against their skin and clothes. Bubbles and a sweet fragrance formed under the scrubbing, breaking up the slime clinging to them, and washing it away in the current.
It took a while, but finally they were clean, and they climbed out of the creek and took stock of their surroundings. The creek they'd landed in ran along the base of a cliff that rose vertically, ending in a slight overhang several yards above them. Cattails grew thickly in clumps on the side away from the rock, and a forest of mixed trees stood well away from the creek, with a narrow field of tall grasses and wildflowers before it. Songbirds mixed their melodies into a choral as butterflies sampled the wildflowers.
“I wish Aunt Doreen could see this.” Charity walked through the grasses, stooping now and again to smell a flower.
Adam patted himself down, and gave a small cry of triumph. “Ha! They're still here.” He held up one of the Emeralds. “See.”
Charity looked at the green stone. “I see.” She said softly.
“What's wrong?”
A tear traced a path down her cheek. “I don't believe we'll ever see our village again. I think we've been magiked like one of the stories Uncle Bal used to tell us at bedtime.”
Adam put the Emerald away, and wiped a trickle of water away from his eyes. “No, we're not. This is probably just the other side of our forest. All we need to do is find the sun, and then we can tell which direction to go.” He smiled. “We might even find ourselves home in time for supper.”
She gave him a small pout. “Now you've made me remember how hungry I am.”
Adam puffed up his chest, feeling every inch the older brother. “Don't worry, we'll find something to eat in the forest. Berries, at the very least.”
* * * * The trolljin helper saw them enter the wood from the pasture, and followed them, leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree. It's long, scaled tail helped to balance the leaps through the treetops. The creature had no real thoughts as to why it must follow the boy and girl, only a desire to fulfill the purpose. So it kept them in sight, trusting in its mottled green and brown coloration to shield it from prying eyes.
The boy and girl rummaged through the bushes, and brushed fallen leaves aside near the trunks of the trees. They appeared to be looking for something. When the boy called the girl over to a Redberry bush heavy with fruit, the trolljin saw it was food they looked for. It had no use for fruit, but it knew what hunger was.
A raven landed in a branch next to it, and began to preen. The bird had only time for a short squawk before its neck was broken and the head was torn from the body. Raven was not a favorite meat but it would serve for a meal before completing the task the troll had set before it.
* * * * “These look like Red Huckleberries, but they taste different.” Adam popped another of the bright red berries into his mouth.
“They're food, that's good enough.” Charity chewed another handful. The berries were sweeter than the huckleberries near their cottage. She reached out to pluck some more, and then pulled back her hand. “I'm getting tired of these; let's go see if we can find something different.”
Adam had not tired of the red berries. Huckleberries, even very sweet ones like these were one of his favorite treats, but he didn't want Charity breaking into tears again, so he stripped a branch of its fruit, and pushed the lot into his mouth. “OK,” he mumbled around the mouthful, “Let's go.”
For someone with a little woodsman's knowledge, the forest offered up a buffet of choices. A wide variety of fruit and nut trees grew within sight of the path. Under fallen leaves and attached to the trunks of trees sprouted a number of edible mushrooms. Wild potato and Sunchoke could be found with just a little digging, and Sweet Pea vines seemed to be everywhere where a patch of sunlight shone.
The twins were fortunate to have had the early training Uncle Bal had given them in woodcraft, for along with the edibles, the forest offered the unwary snacker several unpleasant ways to die.
Charity crunched a wild potato while they walked. “I don't think I've ever eaten so much in my life.”
“I don't think so, either.” Adam let loose with a loud belch.
“Scuz you.”
“Sorry. The path forks up ahead. Which one do we take?”
Charity bounced a forefinger back and forth. “Eenie, meanie ... The one on the right?”
“Suits me.”
They took the chosen fork, and nearly collided with a strange little man coming the opposite direction, and carrying a parcel on his back.
He was very short, only coming up to their waist, but had shoulders at least twice as broad as Adam's. A bushy, orange-red beard brushed his knees, and the long hair of his head hung down his back in two thick braids. The muscles on his arms matched those that corded his legs, and he wore a stained mail shirt over a tightly knitted wool tunic. The tunic was belted at the waist with a thickly studded leather strap. The tunic's hem fell below the dwarf's knees into a kind of kilt, and his feet were bare of any covering, but horny with callus.
The Dwarf stopped short, and scowled at the twins, looking them up and down. Then he blew through his mustaches and pulled the parcel off his back. He thrust it towards them as he said in a gruff, strangely accented voice. “You're the ones. Take this.”
Adam took the parcel automatically, not knowing what to say. The little man abruptly turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Charity gaped. “Wha...? Who ... What was that all about?”
Adam knelt and began unwrapping the parcel. It was of fine linen, yellowed with age, and bound with twine. Charity knelt to help with the untying. Inside the parcel lay a sword within a belted scabbard beautifully worked with gold and Emeralds. Next to the scabbard lay a longbow of carved Yew, with enameled tips and a quiver filled with arrows. The arrows were finished with burgundy fletchings and ivory nocks.
A second parcel of linen lay folded within the first. As Adam pulled the sword from the scabbard, Charity unfolded the parcel. Her gasp drew Adam's attention from the sword.
“Clothes. Real clothes.” Charity held up a tunic of fine white linen.
“Look at this. Boots!”
“Feel how soft they are.”
“Trousers! They look new!”
Each of them chose an appropriate bush for cover, stripped out of their rags, and quickly put on the clothing. They spent a good long while looking at themselves and at each other in their new outfits, assuring each other that the King and Queen themselves never wore finer.
The clothing was actually of the kind worn by working class people of middle means. It consisted of a good, long-wearing tunic, jackets and trousers of a heavier material woven to take the wear and tear of daily life. There were also tall boots with a fold-over cuff of softened leather, and with a heel and sole of hardened leather, and a hooded woolen cloak, large and heavy enough to use as a blanket on the open road.
Adam discovered an amulet on a chain with a small note attached. The note said simply for the boy's stone. He took the strapped pouch off, and slipped the chain over his head. In the center of the amulet was an opening approximating the size and shape of his rock, so he tried placing his rock into the opening, round face first. There was a click, and the stone became firmly joined as the centerpiece of the amulet. A brief flash of brilliance washed across the polished surface of the stone and was gone.
“Charity. Did you see that?”
“No. I was trying to read this note.” She held up a parchment that looked to be written upon with brown ink. “I can read the other one because it's like the letters Aunt Doreen taught us, but this one has writing of a type I've never seen before.”
“What other one?”
She held up a smaller parchment. It was written in the same hand as the larger, but Charity was right, these letters he could read. They said:
I write this assuming the Dwarves have fulfilled their obligation, yet to be done, to me. I write this also knowing my death is sure, as sure as this breath I take. You are of my kin though you know me not. Nor could you ever, for the mists of centuries separate us, and my bones are now dust...
* * * * The trolljin crouched low on the branch, gathering its legs beneath it for the leap. Its tail twitched, cat-like, and it sprang, claws extended, reaching.
* * * * A creature resembling a cross between a cat and a lizard bred with a monkey slammed into Adam, knocking him to the ground. Leaping from his back, it grabbed the scabbard from the parcel, and dashed toward the bushes, trailing the prize after it. Charity stepped into its path and grabbed at the scabbard. The Trolljin struck back at her with a snarl, and then all Adam could see was a churning whirl of the creature and his sister blended into a hissing, spitting, screaming scrum.
The sword and scabbard lay where the creature had dropped it, the belt folded beneath. Adam picked them up and measured his target, waiting for the right moment. The moment came, and he swung, catching the creature alongside the skull. It gave a hissing yowl of pain, and fell onto its side, whimpering.
Adam braced himself, holding the scabbard like a club. Charity got to her feet checking for scratches. The creature looked at Adam with hatred glaring out of its yellow eyes. It looked to be gathering itself for another charge, so he took a step towards it as he pulled the sword from the scabbard. The thing started back in fear, turned and vanished into the brush.
* * * * Gilgafed watched the trolljin run from the boy. Why did they choose one of their pets to do the job? His rage at the stupidity of trolls pounded in his temples, and he berated himself for choosing to allow his temper get the best of him earlier. Now he had no power to eliminate this threat personally, at least not until his rest was complete. He cut off the shaping with a twist of his mind, and turned back to his studies. There was something he'd read concerning the Shadow Realms...
* * * * ...I have watched your lives. They have disturbed my rest for many seasons. I cannot tell you how to walk the paths destiny has set before you, for both tragedy and triumph await you. Yet I can, through my faithful Dwarves, give you tools to aid your way. I know you will be man and woman ... in time. My sword is the man's, my bow, for the woman. I caution you to obey me in this completely, though your feelings will guide you. Test them, you will see the truth in what I write.
I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can. May the creator guide your steps within the balance. Let the rule of three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. Keep safe the vision I have penned, the wolves and the Winglord will show you its truth.
I am, Labad, Lord of the known lands, Philosopher King.
Adam gently rolled the small parchment inside the larger one, and tucked them into the inside pocket of his cloak, and closed the seal. “You're right, you know.”
Charity looked up from inspecting her scratches. “About what?”
“About us being magiked. That thing that tried to steal this,” He held up the sword. “It's not in our world; Dragons and Dwarves are only in the stories Uncle Bal told us.” He pulled one of the Emeralds out of his belt pouch. “Where we found these is not a part of our world. And this,” He patted his cloak where he put the parchments. “Tells us it was all planned by a King who claims he's our ancestor.”
“Prophesied, not planned.”
“Doesn't matter. We're still here.” Adam looked stubborn.
Charity counted to five, and eased her temper down. She didn't want to get into an argument with Adam over a choice of which word was correct. She decided to change the subject. “Can I hold the sword?”
“Why? The note said it was for me.” Adam felt a surge of protectiveness well up concerning the weapon.
“It also said for us to test our feelings about them. I want to see what he meant by that.” She held out her hand, and smiled. “I'll give it back.”
After a brief hesitation, he held the sword out to her hilt first. She took it and handed it back immediately, shivering. “Ewww. I never want to touch it again. It made me feel ... all crawly.”
“I guess the King knew what he was talking about.” Adam resheathed the sword.
“Here, try the bow.” Charity held it out to him.
Adam recoiled. “No, thank you.” Just the thought of handling the bow had become repulsive.
Charity gave in to a mischievous notion, and began chasing he twin around the area with the bow held like a rapier. They continued like this until they both fell down laughing and puffing, the earlier moodiness forgotten.
* * * * The shadows in the forest began to lengthen, signaling the coming of sundown. The twins walked along the path, looking for a sheltered place to curl up for the night. The path bent to the right in a long, lazy curve. To the left side of the path, the ground began to curve upwards to form a knoll. A grouping of large boulders settled against the leeward side of the knoll backed up by a Blueberry patch that promised a fine breakfast in the morning. One of the boulders leaning against its brothers created a nice space for a pair of tired walkers to bed down in.
Adam pulled the edge of his cloak over his shoulder, and snuggled into its folds. “Good night, sis.”
“G'night, big brother. Sweet dreams.” Her voice faded away into soft snores.
Adam lay there listening to the sounds of Charity's sleeping, with the nocturnal creatures of the forest adding their own background harmonies. He drifted off with Charity's sweet dreams echoing in his mind.
In the morning, the blueberries proved to be as sweet as they looked. Charity reached up for a branch loaded with some as large as a copper, and stopped. “Adam. Do you hear that?”
He finished chewing a mouthful of berries, and swallowed. “No.”
Charity cocked her head. “There's something coming through the trees, over there.” She pointed to the Southeast.
Adam held still and listened. There was something. He heard the snapping and cracking of branches breaking. A premonition of danger came over him, and increased as the sounds grew louder. He turned and ran back to the rocks, gesturing to Charity to follow. He ducked back into their sleeping hole, pulling Charity in with him. They lay flat, and waited to see what would come out of the wood.
From their vantagepoint on the knoll, the twins could see the tops of many of the trees, with a good view in the direction of the sound. Adam swept his eyes back and forth, the feeling of doom growing stronger with each passing minute. “There!” He breathed a whisper to Charity.
She looked in the direction he indicated. The tops of the trees were shaking back and forth as if something was pushing through them. A sudden flash of orange caught Charity's eye. She turned her head, and whispered in Adam's ear. “Did you see anything?”
Adam didn't answer. He just pointed.
Charity turned her head back, and stifled a gasp. Two huge creatures pushed the tops of the trees edging the path aside, and stepped out onto it. Their skin was mottled like the thing that had tried to steal Adam's sword, but with a sickly orange, olive green and chartreuse combination that made her think of the results after sicking up a carrot stew. One had a face finished off with a beak like that of a Nuthatch, if a Nuthatch also had teeth. The other one had a snout like a pig with large upward curving tusks. They seemed to be looking for something, uprooting smaller trees and bushes to see what was behind them, and splashing around with their huge clawed hands in the small creek that ran near the path.
Adam's feeling of fear coalesced into a dread that spread through his belly like cold fire. He saw the things turn towards the knoll, and begin to walk up it. His vision blurred as he was struck by a sudden flash of pain that shot through his head. Charity nudged him in the side. “Adam. They're going away.”
* * * * “Damn them!!” His fist flew towards the scrying glass but stopped short of smashing it. He had to control himself. His strength was now back enough to enable him to take care of this problem, and then deal with the Trolls about their stupidity. Their hides would make for colorful upholstery in his sitting room.
The sorcerer built the shaping slowly, layer by layer until the power tingled on the surface of his skin. He moved the focus of the scry from the point where the Trolls were, back to where the twins lay, and released the power.
* * * * “Ow!” Adam rolled over and felt his chest.
“What happened?” Charity turned away from watching where the huge creatures had disappeared into the wood, to see the cause of Adam's outcry.
“Something bit me.” He rubbed the area, and then opened his tunic. The pain came from his chest behind where the amulet lay. He moved it, and found a small burn mark the size of his father's rock.
* * * * “Aiiiieeeee!” Gilgafed felt as if he were on fire. He could smell the scent of his flesh cooking, and a sound like that of bacon frying filled his ears. Somehow, one of those brats had sent the shaping back at him redoubled. With the last of his power, he cut the link, and collapsed.
“Cobain. Cobain!” He would live and he would heal, but there would be scars, deep, deep scars. A quick death was no longer an option where they were concerned. Once he had them. Oh, yes, once the brats were in his hands ... years, no, decades ... they would scream for decades before his revenge was satisfied.

Chapter Three
They saw no more creatures that day other than the normal wildlife one would usually see in the deep wood. The burn on Adam's chest healed at an amazing rate, which caused Charity to bring up the topic of magik once more. They took the time to examine their individual bequeaths from the Philosopher King. The weapons continued to be strictly matched to only the twin they were designated for, but for that one they seemed to be balanced perfectly. In addition, Charity had never held a bow before, but she somehow knew the proper stringing technique. The only sword Adam had ever wielded was a branch used in mock battles with the boys of the village. The sword he now held was a man's weapon, sized and balanced for a warrior the size and strength of a man his uncle's size, but in his hand it was as light and supple as one of those branches back in the village.
It took them three days and nights to reach the Inn. The path emptied onto a low cliff overlooking a clearing filled with grasses, wildflowers and a large Inn backed up against the forest wall. The Inn stood three stories tall, with four dormer windows along the front. A stable attached to the near side showed hay through its open doors. Someone busy grooming a horse stood just inside the stable doorway. A woman carrying a small basket walked towards the front door, where a rough looking man lounged against the wall. The sign over the door had no letters, just a painting of a Boar's head over a foaming tankard.
Adam and Charity followed the path as it zigzagged down to the clearing. The man glared at them as they walked up to the door, and then turned and walked away in the direction of the stable. Adam pushed open the door, and they stood there, transfixed.
A cacophony of noise poured out of the open door. Sounds of goblets, tankards, plates and cutlery clattering together mixed with voices in various stages of yelling, shouting or cursing. A coarse voice, heavy with a country accent, called out. “In or out, younglings. Don't keep lettin’ the wind in.”
They stepped inside, and Charity hastily shut the door.
The owner of the voice jostled his way through the crowd, and waddled over to greet them. “Now then. That be better. What do you two be needin’ this fine summer's day?”
He was the fattest man they had ever seen besides the Mayor, a little below average height and nearly as broad as he was tall. His beard showed traces of the red his hair must have been, when he had it, for his head was a bald as a hen's egg. Laugh and smile lines crisscrossed his face as he stood there, hands on hips, waiting for their answer.
Charity looked at Adam, he shrugged. She looked back at the Innkeeper, and smiled shyly. “Do you have a bath, and a room for the evening?”
The Innkeeper chuckled, causing waves to move across the expanse of his belly. “That be what I do, youngling. Iffn you be crossin’ my palm with a silver.”
Adam dug into his belt pouch, and pulled out the smallest of the Emeralds. He held it up before the Innkeeper. “Will this pay for anything?”
The Innkeepers eyes went wide, and he puffed out a low whistle. “M ... m ... may I be holdin’ that sparkler for a minim, lad?”
Adam dropped the Emerald into his hand.
“Oh ... laddie buck.” The Innkeeper shook his head in wonder. “This here be worth me Inn and the land beneath her, iffn you were sellin’ this in the markets of Grisham, and maybe even more, maybe, if you were sellin’ it in the far south. They be likin’ sparklies a heap down there.”
Charity shifted her weight to one foot, leaning on her unstrung bow. “What will it buy us here?”
The Innkeeper looked pained. “Och, missy. I be wishin’ I could be takin’ this, but I be havin’ no coin enough to make change, even iffn you be stayin’ here for two moons, I can't.”
An idea jumped onto Adam with both feet, and danced around in his head. “How about if we make a deal where you get the sparkler, and weHe looked at Adam with a slight suspicion in his eyes, and leaned forward. “What you be meanin’ enough, laddie?”
Adam looked at Charity, winked and then looked back at the Innkeeper. “You say this stone is worth your Inn and the ground it stands on, correct?”
“I don't think I be likin’ where you be walking, lad.”
Adam shook his head. “No, no. That's not what I'm thinking. I don't want to buy your Inn. I just want to rent room and board for whenever my sister and I come through here, that, and six golds, twelve silvers and twenty-four coppers. What do you say to that?”
The Innkeeper rubbed the back of his head, and grunted. “Well now, I be thinking I like the sound of two gold, five silver and ten copper meself.”
“Make that four golds, eight silvers and fifteen coppers, and you have a deal.”
The Innkeeper spat in his palm, and held out his hand. “Done.”
Adam repeated the gesture. “And done.”
A bellowing laugh exploded from the Innkeeper's chest. “By Labad, I like you laddie buck. You've the mark of good haggleman. Chauncey!”
A skinny little man with a huge nose shuffled over to them. “Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir?”
“Now, Chauncey, I've told ye time and again, I be no sir. So don't be callin’ me that, OK?”
“Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir. I'll remember.”
The Innkeeper sighed heavily, and looked toward the ceiling as if beseeching the heavens. “Find Quincey, and get me, me small chest from him. You know the one.”
“Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir,”
Chauncey returned with a small, ironbound, archtop chest. Bustlebun opened it using a small brass key, and counted out the agreed upon coins. He handed the coins to Adam, and placed the Emerald gently into the chest. He did not give the chest back to Chauncey, but patted the lid and beamed at the twins. “Now then, what'll you two be havin'? I've a nice bit of venison on roast, or if you're of a mind, cook keeps a fine stew on the simmer.”
Charity's mouth watered at the mention of the meat. “Roast, if you please.”
Adam closed the flap on his belt pouch. “I'll have the same, thank you.”
Bustlebun's face nearly vanished in a broad grin. “And polite, too. Bless me buns iffn you two aren't a breath of fresh air.” He turned his head, and bellowed. “Chauncey!”
Chauncey appeared at Bustlebun's elbow. His mouth opened, and Bustlebun held up a hand. “Naw. I'll be hearin’ no more sirs, today. You get these two a table spot, a healthy helpin’ of the roast, with fixings and...” He looked at the twins. “What'll you two be wantin’ to drink now?”
Adam looked around the tables. Most of the patrons seemed to be drinking from large tankards. The smell of hops was prominent. “Do you have something besides Ale?”
Bustlebun chuckled again. The boy had made him wealthy beyond his dreams. He was in a fine mood. “Why, there be wine, tisane, berry juice and small beer. I like not the small beer.” He leaned forward and whispered the last.
The twins both chose the berry juice. The food came served on two large stoneware platters. Each platter held three thick slabs of roast venison with a peppery gravy poured over them. A small loaf of crusty brown bread, sweet with nuts and honey, lay alongside the meat. A small serving of boiled vegetables finished the plate. A waitress brought them two fired clay mugs and a pitcher of deep red berry juice.
Charity sliced a chunk of meat, and raised it to her mouth followed by a bite of the bread. The gravy was spicy with pepper, and complemented the venison. She looked at Adam. A spot of gravy was smeared along the left side of his chin. She pointed to the spot. “You saving that for later?”
“What?”
“You've got gravy on your chin.”
Adam wiped away the spot.
Charity drank some of the juice, and sliced another chunk of meat. “What gave you the idea of using the Emerald?”
Adam tried some of the boiled vegetables. Cook had used butter and herbs as a sauce. “It just came to me, and it seemed the right thing to do. You remember that part of the letter that said he'd left us clothes and coin?”
She nodded, chewing on bread and meat.
Adam followed the vegetables with a mouthful of berry juice. “Well,” He tore off a chunk of bread, and swirled it in the gravy. “We got the clothes, but other than what Mr. Bustlebun gave us, I haven't seen any of the coins promised in the letter.”
The sound of voices raised in anger rose over the background babble in the crowded room.
“So you figured if we sold one of the jewels...”
“Right. So now we've got a room whenever we need it along with food,” He wiped up the last of the gravy. “And some money in the bargain.”
A half-full tankard flew across their table, and through the window behind them. A body followed close behind, enlarging the hole in the window. Someone yelled, “FIGHT!", and then pandemonium broke out.
Shocked and startled, the twins ducked under the table as a barrage of tankards and bottles flew overhead. Several shattered against the table and a mix of ale and wine began puddling on the floor.
The sounds of weapons clashing and men cursing filled the air.
Charity screamed and flinched back from a sword blade that gouged the floor scant inches from her hands. A bootheel caught Adam in the thigh, shoving him into Charity.
“We've got to get out of here.” Adam rubbed his thigh.
Charity inched back a little further under the table as a bottle shattered against the floor. “I'm right behind you. This is insane, what set these people off?”
“I don't know, and I don't care. Look! There's an opening, let's go.” Adam crept out from under the table, keeping an eye open for any stray projectiles winging his way. Charity kept close behind him until a knot of three brawlers ploughed into them.
“Adam!” Charity shrieked, as the fight swept her away.
He turned around to see where Charity was calling from, slipped on a loose bottle, and wound up on the floor, flat on his back looking up at a short, bald-headed man wearing an evil grin. The little fellow's smile showed rotting teeth through a five-day growth of beard as he aimed a double-headed ax right at Adam's midsection.
In a blind panic, Charity fumbled around on the floor, and found her bow. She crawled over to an empty spot near one of the support pillars in the inn's common room, and looked across it, trying to find where Adam might be, but it was hard to see due to the shifting nature of the ongoing scrum. Leaping onto a nearby table, she looked once more, and finally spotted him lying on the floor near the front door. An ugly little man was preparing to cut him with an ax. Charity didn't think about what she did next, but strung her bow with one smooth motion, nocked an arrow, and released it. A second arrow followed the first in a single heartbeat. They caught the axe wielder in both upraised arms, and pinned him to the wall as his weapon fell impotently to the floor.
* * * * Chauncey and Quincey rested their elbows on the bar, watching the fight. Bottles shattered against the cupboard behind them, and tankards bounced off the bar. A body sailed out of the melee, and landed onto the bar top, a belt knife protruded out of its back. Quincey pushed it off the bar phlegmatically, and then he took the proffered bottle of brandy from Chauncey, pulling a long slug of the potent brew. He set the bottle down, and wiped his mustache with the back of his sleeve. “I tell yer, Chauncey. It's a sad bizness, it is.”
Chauncey tippled from the bottle. “What's that, Quincey?”
“Yer just don't see the good brawls no more.”
“So true, Quincey. So true.”
* * * * “You know how to use that sword, sprout?” A hulking figure with red muttonchops and full mustache blocked Adam's way.
“I ... I don't want to fight you.” Adam tried to back away, but an overturned table blocked his escape. The thought of the axe still had him shaking.
“Good. That'll make this playtime all the easier.” The redhead drew his sword; a plain infantryman's blade suited for killing, and nothing else.
He took a cut at Adam, an overhead blow intended to split the opponent down the middle. As if in a dream, Adam's sword was in his right hand blocking the blow, his blade angled perfectly to reduce the shock and cause the opponent's edge to slide away, leaving an opening for a counterstroke.
The redhead was good. He pulled his stroke as it hit Adam's blade, so he wouldn't be left with a huge hole in his defense. Adam's return shifted in mid-flight, and cut over and above the other's sword, forcing it down and to the side. This created an opening, which Adam exploited in a lunge that buried his blade into the redhead's lower left side.
* * * * Thanks to his power, the burns were finally healed, and the scarring slight, though it meant little to him, as he'd long since ceased caring about his appearance. What displeased him more so than the disfiguring was that he'd been left with a slight limp. It was an implication of weakness, and it fed the fires of the sorcerer's hatred until he had to find release.
Gilgafed made his way to the Scrying chamber, and released the shaping. Nothing happened. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he built up the power. This could not happen! His powers were at their peak, no one in this world had greater, he had proven it through the extinction of his enemies. The fat from their bodies had lit his meals for an entire year. Their unborn had filled his larder and filled his belly. Their daughter's daughters still filled his fortress as slaves these centuries later. What was wrong? ...Could it be the old Wizard...? He threw the thought away with a shudder, and refused to consider the implication.
The sorcerer sent the shaping again. Again, nothing. No image of the brats would come. The prophecy had to be averted. He clenched his fist and raised it, and then trembling, drew it back down.
Could it be...? He formed another shaping, and set it against the glass. The mists swirled, and then settled into a rough shape that slowly coalesced into the figure of a man. Yes, he knew now what the problem was.
“You summoned me, my master?” The figure in the glass was darkly handsome with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His brow was high with a thin band of gold encircling it. His smile, rather than pleasant, was leering and self-indulgent.
Gilgafed considered his choices. Revenge, to be fully realized, must take years in the processing, but he wanted it now. If he followed his desires, there would be little time for subtleties. Should he..? No, it had to be done now. His decision made, he turned his attention back to the one in the glass. “Yes, Cloutier, I did. You have been able to indulge yourself because of my power for years, and now I have a little task for you. Knowing your tastes, I believe you'll enjoy it.”
* * * * Bustlebun stood in the open doorway to their room, shaking his head in amazement. “Bless my buns, but I never be seeing anything like what you two did.”
“You, missy.” He pointed a sausage-thick finger at Charity. “I not be a believer in witchcraft, but by Bardoc's bristlin’ beard, I know not what else to call the way you handled that bow of yourn.
“And you, laddie buck. Wieldin’ that blade like Labad hisself. Unnatural it be. Unnatural.”
Charity looked up from her inspection of the feather bed. “Do you wish us to leave, Mr. Bustlebun?” She said wistfully. She'd never felt anything as soft as that mattress.
The Innkeeper's eyes widened in shock. “Why, I be suggesting no such thing, by Labad, no! You two may have scared half me custom away this night, but mark me word, there'll be twice that tomorrow.” He shook his finger at her. “And all of em waggin’ their tongues about the two young warriors at Bustlebun's.”
He leaned back and looked at them, a broad smile on his face. “You have a good sleep, now, younglings. There be a fine breakfast for you on the marrow.” He turned and left, the melody he whistled fading as he continued down the hall.
The room contained, along with the large featherbed, an oil lamp on a stand and a bureau with four drawers on the wall next to the door. The top of the bureau held a wash basin, two pitchers of water and two thick cloths. A cake of strong smelling soap sat on a small dish next to the basin. Underneath the bed was stored an ornate chamber pot complete with lid. After storing their gear, the twins spent several minutes moving around the room, looking and touching. Such finery had seemed a world away from them in the village. Now here they were in the middle of it, and it was theirs to use!
Charity sat on the bed, and bounced on it. She giggled. Adam grabbed her and pushed her even more firmly down on her next bounce. She squealed and pulled his hair. Soon they were in a wrestling match, bouncing all over the bed.
They fell off the bed, and landed on the floor to the accompaniment of two inquisitive barks. They looked up to see two very large, black and tan mastiffs looking down at them with their ears cocked, and their heads tilted to the side.
Bustlebun came into the room, puffing. “Skip, Donger.” the two dogs looked at him, their tails wagging.
“Ah, there you be, my fine hearties. Come along, now. Don't be botherin’ the guests.”
He looked at the twins, a frown of concern wrinkling his forehead. “My apologies, younglings. They heard your play, and wanted to join in. I'll be takin’ em back downstairs now.”
Adam got up off the floor. “Don't bother, Mr. Bustlebun. Charity and I both like dogs, and if they want to play with us, we'd love to have them.”
Bustlebun beamed. “Well, now. That be wonderful. I be much too busy with runnin’ the Inn and all to give them the attention they deserve. You hear that, me boys? You've got yourself some playmates.”
The mastiffs barked joyfully, and leaped into the twins, licking their faces thoroughly. Adam and Charity fell to the floor once more, and laughing, gave the dogs a good play until all of them were panting for breath.
* * * * Cloutier, Earl of Berggren, tied his cravat with care. One should not consider matters of state while dressed improperly. He stepped back and admired his image in the full-length mirror. It cost him a small fortune to have had it made that is, until he had a few of his guards retrieve his payment as back taxes. Too bad the glazier decided to object. What was his poor widow going to do now? His chuckle echoed off the walls of his dressing room, a spacious area at least twenty yards long by slightly less that wide. A wardrobe covered most of the north wall filled with tunics, coats and cloaks of fine and rare fabrics and furs. Beneath the hanging garments stood rank upon rank of expensive boots and shoes. Cloutier's most prized pair graced his feet as he gazed at his image in naked admiration. They were made with the tanned foreskins of adolescent boys, sewn with care to create a subtle pattern, and finished off with an elaborate tapestry in gold and silver thread. Yes, the outfit would do nicely for starting a war.
* * * * They had potatoes for breakfast. Cook served them fried to a golden brown with onions, garlic and herbs. The platter was heaped with them, and they helped themselves to as many as they liked, washing them down with mouthfuls of hot tisane laced with lemon.
Bustlebun paused by their table, carrying a large pot of the steaming, fruity brew. “I wants to thank you two again for givin’ the lads such a fine playtime last night. They slept like a couple of newborn pups.”
Charity chewed and swallowed a spoonful of breakfast. “You don't have to thank us, Mr. Bustlebun. We enjoyed it as much as they did.”
“And gracious, too.” He looked at them out of one eye, a sly smile lifting a cheek. “You be not royalty in disguise, do you?”
Adam put down his mug. “No, sir, we're not. May I ask a question?”
“Why, sure, Lad. Ask away.” He put the pot down, and folded his arms.
“We don't know our way around here. We need to find a small village at the edge of the forest. It's only got a couple of streets and a small market in the center, but it's clean.”
He nodded, his chin meeting his chest. “Uh huh, uh huh. I do be knowing the place. It be a fair walk, but the path takes you to it. You follow the path, you be OK.”
They thanked Bustlebun, and finished their breakfast. He surprised them at the door with a sack of provisions for the road. “Now, you be welcome back here any time.” He said. “Of course, you already be payin’ for it.” He finished with a belly laugh that caused him to shake in all directions at once.
The path began just beyond the Southern end of the Inn, and the deep forest closed in upon it as if wishing to hide a cherished possession. Full stomachs and a pleasant day made the hours pass quickly, and they decided to break for lunch alongside a small waterfall with a patch of sunlight playing in the spray.
Adam opened the sack, wincing at the memory of having worn its like not so long ago. Inside, he found four wrapped loaves of the cook's crusty bread, a half dozen waxed cheeses, a number of individual packages of roasted nuts and dried fruit, as well as four sealed flasks of Berry Juice.
They lunched on bread and cheese while dangling their feet in the cool water. Charity giggled as small fish nibbled tentatively at her toes.
A badger waddled out of the brush to get a drink. It eyed the twins suspiciously, and growled while it lapped the water. They wisely left it alone, and packed up the leftovers of their lunch. The ground sloped gently upwards for a long way into a downs thickly forested with trees wearing a silvery bark that gave off a pepper-like scent when rubbed.
After the downs, they crested a brief rise in the land, and then followed the path through a series of switchbacks down to a stream at the slope's base. Jumping the stream proved easy, and they kept to the path as it curved around a small hillock encrusted with a bramble thicket, and walked right into the middle of a group of Dwarves preparing camp for the night. Eight bearded and plaited heads turned to look at them, as they stood there, unsure of what to do.
One Dwarf, with his beard and hair completely white, grunted and waved them over to the log he was sitting on.
They made their way through the busy Dwarves, and sat down on the log. The old Dwarf was tending the campfire underneath a black iron pot suspended by a tripod. A savory aroma of simmering stew came from under the lid of the pot.
Their host ignored them for a while, as did the other Dwarves. He finished tending the fire, and lifted the lid of the pot, sniffed and grunted again, waving a hand over the stew, and then placed the lid back onto the pot.
The twins watched the Dwarves at work with huge eyes while they sat on the log. One Dwarf, with complete nonchalance, lifted his tunic and urinated on several small sticks laid in front of him. A strong acrid odor drifted past the two watching youths.
“Did you see that?” Adam leaned to the side to whisper into Charity's ear.
She nodded mutely, too shocked to say anything.
Another Dwarf was carefully digging several shallow trenches in a circular pattern as if they were the spokes of a wheel. Behind the one digging came a dwarf who laid a stone, the size and shape of a flat loaf of bread, into the outer end of each trench. The rest of the Dwarves were tuning musical instruments. One resembled a gitar, but it had too many strings. Another looked like a baby's harp, and there were two that looked like pan flutes, but with the tubes stacked deep as well as wide.
The Dwarf whohad urinated on the sticks picked them up and sniffed them. He nodded his approval, and then he stuck each one of the sticks, point down, into the soil at the end of each trench. When the last one was in the ground, the musicians struck a chord, and the Dwarves, excluding the one with the white hair, gathered in a circle with the musicians, and began to sing, their eyes pointed at the ground.
The words came out in a slow, ponderous melody, heavy with minor chords. The message in the song was filled with references to Mother Earth, the womb of the soil, Bardoc and the rule of three. The white-haired Dwarf hummed along with them, keeping time by slapping his left hand against his knee.
When the singing stopped, the musicians struck a last minor chord and put their instruments aside. The White-haired one, whom the twins surmised was the leader of the group, tested the stew once more. He motioned to the other Dwarves, and they all gathered around the cook fire, some pulling up large stones as seats.
The gitar player stood up and crossed his arms in front of his chest, and began chanting in a low gravely voice, “After the Dragons we come. Born of dust and born of stone. After the Wolves we come. Born of dust and born of stone. Bardoc gave us life, and Bardoc gave us wisdom. After Bardoc we come.”
The other Dwarves answered. “We come.”
The chant continued. “Fathers and sons, come and gone. This was the way since our beginning. Then he came, and broke the peace. War was on the land.”
The other Dwarves answered. “War was on the land.”
“The Philosopher King was born in the West against the Circle Sea. He grew strong and wise, and none could stand against him in battle. He threw down the Evil One, Gilgafed, and banished him to the isle of flame, Pestilence. There, his black power waned.”
“There his black power waned.”
“Peace was on the land once more, and Dwillkillion prospered. From Firth to Longpointe, we labored and grew.”
“We labored and grew.”
“Labad kept his word, and the Dwarves were left alone. No man, Elf, Garloc or Troll bothered or crossed our lands. The peace of a thousand moons.”
“The peace of a thousand moons.”
“Then the Evil one rose up from his prison of flame with power terrible. War was on the land once more. Labad came forth, bright as the sun, but the powers were matched, and neither side could prevail. Thus, the land was sundered.”
“The land was sundered.”
“The Dragons came to Labad's plea, for a vision was upon his mind. The rule of three.”
“The rule of three.”
“Ask the Dwarves, he was told, for their memories are of the stone.”
“Their memories are of the stone.”
“We came in honor to the Philosopher King. For, in surety, he kept his word. We kept safe his pledge and his treasure for those who would come. The word of the Dwarves is true.”
"The word of the Dwarves is true."
The gitar player sat back down at the last refrain as the white-haired Dwarf stood. The old Dwarf swept his gaze across the others, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are the wombs prepared and laid with stone?” His voice was surprisingly strong and vibrant for one of such obvious advanced age.
The other Dwarves answered in unison. “Aye.”
“Are the wards wetted and placed for each?”
“Aye.”
“Is the song sung, and the history revealed?”
“Aye.”
He uncrossed his arms, sat down and lifted the lid off the pot of stew. “The wombs prepared. The stones are laid. The wards wet, and the song is sung. With the history fresh on our lips, we share our food as one.”
He stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, and tasted the stew. He nodded and raised the spoon over his head, and shouted, “Labad!”
The others shouted “Labad!” in answer,r and the formal atmosphere left the camp. The Dwarves helped themselves to the stew, and sat down, dipping into their bowls with chunks of black bread, eating, smacking their lips, and talking amongst themselves.
The old Dwarf turned to Adam, and held his hand over his heart. “Urbus. I am chieftain of this band. That one is Garven,” He indicated the gitar player. “Next to him, Belgris and Faltur. Those two are Mergan and Durl.” He pointed to the two across from the twins. “And over there are Twill and Knurl.” The two Dwarves indicated raised their dipping bread, and grunted, their mouths full. The one named Knurl added a wink with his salute.
Urbus took his hand off his heart, and picked up his bowl of stew. “I have told mine and theirs.” He waved his bread at the other Dwarves. “Custom dictates you tell me yours.”
Adam put his hand over his heart in imitation of the Dwarf. “I am Adam, and this is my sister Charity. We thank you for your hospitality.”
Urbus leaned back and looked down his large nose at Adam. “Courtesy, from a young human in these times, surprising. Hospitality is given, young Adam, and Charity.” He nodded to her. “You may share my fire and food, though Dwarf fare may not meet your palate as it does ours.” He chuckled. “It will be interesting to see your expressions when you taste our stew.”
The Dwarf named Durl handed a bowl to each of the twins, along with a good-sized piece of the black bread. Urbus sat there watching while they looked at the stew.
“Go on. Eat. It's good.” The Dwarf named Twill demonstrated by dipping his bread into his bowl, and taking a healthy bite.
Charity lifted her bowl and dipped the bread in. The stew smelled delicious, savory and spicy with an unusual overtone she couldn't place. She took a small bite of the dipped bread. It tasted as good as it smelled, and then the spice hit her. It seemed as though someone had set a fire into her mouth and throat. Her eyes bugged, and, gasping, she began groping for a drink to cool her mouth.
Urbus and the other Dwarfs laughed uproariously, slapping their knees and clapping their hands. The joke was a good one.
Charity downed nearly half a flask of berry juice, and paused, pulling in deep breaths to clear the last of the burn.
“Good, yes?” Twill roared out another huge laugh while dipping himself another bowlful of stew.
Charity gathered herself to let the Dwarves have an earful of her outrage when a thought struck her. Why give them the satisfaction? There was evidence in both their silly chant and in the way they deferred to Adam that Dwarves ran a society where females were secondary. Well, she was going to give them an example of feminine strength even if it took the last layer of skin in her mouth and throat. She smiled at Twill, and said, “Yes, it is good.” And then she dipped her bread deeply, and helped herself to a big bite, chewing and swallowing.
The Dwarves looked at her closely, waiting for the eruption. It didn't come. Charity leaned against Adam, and whispered. “The stuff is hotter than Uncle Bal's spicy beans. They want to see us choke on it. Let's show them something different.”
Adam nodded and dipped his bread. He looked at Charity. She winked. He nodded slightly, and took a bite. She was right. The stew was hotter than his Uncle's beans, much hotter. It took an act of his will to not reach for the juice. He looked at Urbus as he dipped the bread again. “My sister's right, it is good. May I have the recipe?” He took another bite of the bread.
The Dwarves sat frozen in place; their bread paused over their bowls. Urbus looked like he might be choking, then a chuckle came bubbling up out of him, and exploded into peals of roaring laughter. The other Dwarves joined in, appreciating the joke being on them.
Urbus slapped Adam on the back, nearly dislodging the bowl of stew from his hands. “Bless my beard. You make me think you may have some Dwarf in you. Labad chose well, by Bardoc, he did.”
He raised a goblet, and called out to the other Dwarves. “Drink their health, my Dwarves, they be worthy of the calling.”
The Dwarves joined in, and toasted the twins. Adam and Charity discovered that after the first few mouthfuls, the heat of the stew diminished, and it was actually quite flavorful. The bread was sweet with honey, and heavy with rye and molasses. It accented the spiciness of the stew perfectly.
Adam finished the last of his stew, and gave the bowl to the Dwarf who was cleaning up. He sipped some berry juice, and caught Urbus’ attention. “What did you mean by worthy of the calling?”
The background sounds of the camp stopped, as the other Dwarves ceased what they were doing to listen to Urbus’ answer. Adam feared he'd asked something wrong. He looked around to see if he and Charity were in trouble. A wave of relief flowed through him when all he saw were expectant faces. It seemed Dwarves loved stories even more than practical jokes.
Urbus cleared his throat. A sigh rippled through the Dwarves. “I was a young Dwarf when the call came. Labad, the Philosopher King, chose me to be the one to keep safe the legacy for those who would come. We Dwarves are a long-lived people. Not as long as Dragons, mind you.”
The others Dwarves grunted or muttered in agreement.
“But long-lived, nonetheless. So few of us live, now.” A shadow crossed his face. “The magik war killed so many, so many. Our mates bear few children these days, but the Dwarves remain faithful.”
The others muttered their assent.
“Labad's aide himself gave me the legacy with his own hands, and I honored the call.”
There was more muttering and grunting and nodding of heads.
“The Evil One sent his minions against me and my own as we bore the legacy back to Dwillkillion, but we prevailed. The mate who bore me four score children was taken by trolls attempting to steal the legacy. Many of my sons and daughters died in her defense,” He sighed. “...but we prevailed. The call has been honored, and now it has been passed on.” He leveled a rock-steady finger at the twins. “To you. You bear Labad's legacy, given to you by one of my own grandchildren, his courtesy, and,” he winked, “his taste for dwarfish cuisine.”
The Dwarves broke out in laughter again.
Adam held up a hand. “But, what is the call. What do we do with it?”
Urbus sat back and laid his forefinger alongside his nose. “Ah well, there lies the quandary. The call is what you make of it. Beyond the basics, the paths are too numerous to consider. I cannot carry your burden for you, young human, that is yours to do. Labad did give two legacies from one.” The Dwarves muttered in agreement. “It could be you both have a separate task to do.” He sighed heavily. “I understand the frustration. All I can say is, you will not have to find your destiny, it will find you. When you feel the need to do what feels right, do it.”
He sat there, silently regarding them. Charity felt a little uneasy under the scrutiny, like when Aunt would check to make sure she'd washed everywhere. “Do you mean like during the fight back at the Inn?”
That got the Dwarves attention. She heard the word fight bantered back and forth, and felt them move in close to hear the anticipated story. She looked around at the group, and swallowed. It was like being one of the storytellers that would come through the village now and then. “Well,” She began, “Adam and I were eating our dinner in Bustlebun's Inn when this huge fight started...” She told them as much as she could remember of that night from her viewpoint, finishing up with, “...and I didn't think about how to use the bow, I just knew. It was like I'd used it my whole life.” The Dwarves sighed in appreciation of a good tale. Urbus sat there, rubbing his chin through his beard, and nodding his head. He speared Adam with a glance, “Do you have a similar tale, lad?”
Adam told them his side of the fight story, including his instinctive use of the sword.
Urbus held out a hand. “Give me the sword for a moment.”
Adam looked at him, and nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Here it is.” A collective gasp came from the Dwarves as Urbus held it up to the light of the cook fire. A fine tracery of heraldic figures worked into the metal of the blade wavered in the flickering light. Adam could hear murmurs of, “...Labad ... the sword itself ... so young to carry...”
Urbus held it to his eye, hilt first, gauging the blade. He gave it back to Adam. “I remember it well. Keep it in honor, young human, and it will keep you.”
He turned to Charity, and clasped his hands in his lap. “Soon to be a woman. I like your insight, young human female. Yes, the legacy is very much like your fight in the Inn. Your part of it, anyway. Labad's Bow, and the sword,” He nodded to Adam. “Are shaped to infuse their owner with all of the Philosopher King's ... the only word that describes what I want to say is in ancient Dwarfik. It is Shabasch. It means Spirit Power, literally, but it implies much more. The experiences contained within the wisdom of ages of use, of trial and error, completion of the task at hand, condensed and given to one worthy in a moment of time. That is what it means, and that is why you experienced what you did. The Spirit Shaping within the weapons transferred Labad's Shabasch to you, for the bow,” He pointed to Charity. “And for the sword.” He pointed to Adam.
He yawned. “The night is growing old, and so am I. Good journey, young humans. Labad chose well. In this Dwarf's opinion.”
Charity looked at Adam. She had a lot more questions for the old Dwarf, about the Dragons, for instance, but didn't want to offend him by being a pest. Adam looked back at her, and shrugged as if to say. What can I do?” She watched the Dwarves prepare their beds. They used no blanket or pillow, but simply laid themselves down into one of the trenches with their head resting on the rock at the stick end of the trench.
One of the Dwarves, Knurl, she thought, raised his head and said, “Sleep within our circle, you will be safe. Good journey.”
The other Dwarves chorused, “Good journey.”
The morning dawned with white puffs of cloud partly obscuring the sun. Adam woke to the smell of fresh baked biscuits and bacon. “Oh, that smells great. Thank you so...” The Dwarves were gone. Their sleeping trenches had been neatly filled in, and the ward sticks tossed into the brush. Charity lay curled up in her cloak, still sound asleep. The early risers in the bird kingdom were busy greeting the day, and a small creek added its silver song to that of the birds.
“Is that bacon I smell?” Charity raised her head, shielding her eyes from the sunbeam that played across where she lay.
“And biscuit,s too.” Adam handed her a biscuit with bacon sandwiched inside of it, along with a cup of hot tisane.
Charity looked around as she took the sandwich and the tisane. “Where are the Dwarves?”
“They're gone. They must have left some time before dawn, but they fixed us breakfast and more.” Adam pointed to the two sacks leaning against the log that Urbus had sat on with him and Charity.
The sacks contained more travel supplies in one, and the other held a pot and a tripod for camp cooking along with a flint, steel and tinder. “We don't have to have cold suppers when we're in the wild, at least.” Adam rummaged through the sacks while Charity munched another bacon sandwich.
“I wish there was some way to thank them.” Charity finished her second sandwich, and washed it down with more of the fragrant tisane. Adam retied the tops of the sacks. “I don't think they would want any. They were just helping us fulfill our part in the call.” He emphasized the last word.
“Damn.” Charity muttered the epithet under her breath.
“Pardon?” Adam looked up from gathering the last of the bacon onto a biscuit.
“Sorry. I wanted to ask Urbus some more questions about what he said last night. Other than that fight at the Inn, and what he said about that Shabasch thing, he really said nothing.”
“I think if it doesn't have something directly to do with them, the Dwarves aren't interested in it.”
“Unless it's a joke.”
Adam swallowed a bite of bacon and biscuit and smiled. “True. I'd like to know more about this Labad, myself. Why us? That's another question. I think we were magiked here on purpose, and I think this Labad had more to do with it than this letter.” He patted his cloak where the parchments rested.
“Do you think what Urbus said about the bow and sword was true, then? That they magiked us, as well?” Charity stood and fingered her bow.
Adam rubbed biscuit crumbs off his hands. “Well, you saw what I did. I'd be dead now if it weren't true; sooner, where you and that bow are concerned. More evidence. That's all it is. More evidence.”
Charity stood there while Adam gathered his things. It had to be true, and that village they were trying to find would most likely not be the one they called home.
Adam slung the sacks the Dwarves left over his shoulder. “We may as well get going. Those song birds aren't going to answer any of our questions.”
The path curved to the Southwest and angled slightly downhill, moving towards a glen filled with small creeks and runnels. Patches of wetland appeared with cattails hosting Redwing Blackbirds that scolded the twins as they passed. The sounds of frogs took over the sounds of songbirds, and several splashes told on a pond dweller choosing discretion over valor.
The wetlands gave way to forest again as the path began to rise. A number of stone bridges spanned the creeks. Some held small sandstone plaques inset with the creek's name. Troll Creek, Helmson Creek and Mad Creek were a few of the names they saw. They spent two nights camping along the path. Adam practiced with the flint and steel, becoming a little better at starting a fire, though it still took a good long while for him to get a flame of any size going.
On the third morning since leaving the Dwarf camp, they came over a small wooded hill, and looked down on another creek spanned by a stone bridge. A young man stood on the bridge with a sack in his hand. He leaned over the railing, and dropped the sack into the water, then he turned toward them as they approached the bridge. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He looked Charity up and down, stopping to linger on the beginning swell of her breasts.
Adam stepped between the man and Charity. He smiled warmly in spite of the tightening in his gut. “We're trying to find a village at the edge of the forest. We were told this path would take us there. Do you live around here? Can you tell us how far we have to go?”
A sneer was his answer. The fellow placed a hand on Adam's chest, and pushed. Adam went sprawling onto his back. “I'm not interested in your questions, sprout. It's her I've a mind to give a try to.”
Charity screamed as he grabbed her about the waist, and forced his face against her. Adam surged to his feet, and jumped onto the bully's back. “Get away from her!”
The fellow released Charity, and flipped Adam over his shoulder. He laughed. “Sprout, you're no more trouble than that sack of kittens I just threw into the creek.” He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth, and advanced on Adam, who was on his hands and knees. “Once I finish with you, your sister will make a fine dessert.”
A roaring filled Adam's ears, and it seemed as if something other than him, was controlling his body. He spun over and drove his feet into the leering face as it bent over him and then Adam was smashing his fists into that face as he straddled its body. Punching again and again, wanting to see if he could make it completely flat. A voice was calling his name, and then hands were pulling him away from the enemy.
“Adam. Adam!” Charity pulled him away from the limp body of the bully. “You've beaten him. You can stop.”
Adam blinked his eyes, focusing on the face of his sister. Then he remembered the kittens the lout had mentioned and ran to the creek bank. He jumped into the creek, but had to come up for air a couple of times before finding the sack.
Charity took it from his outstretched hand as he staggered from the creek. Inside the sack they found eight sodden little bodies. They all appeared to be lifeless. Adam hoped the same held true for the cretin who dropped them into the water.
Charity was crying and gently shaking the kittens, trying to get them to wake up. Adam wiped the water away from his eyes, and sat down next to her. “It's too late, Charity. I didn't get there quick enough.” She continued to try.
Adam left her and walked over to where the bully lay. A bloody froth on his lips popped and fizzled as he breathed. He was considering making sure the fellow never woke up again when he heard Charity call out. “She's alive!”
One of the kittens had survived, a black female with the toes of her right front paw colored a milky white. Charity hugged the kitten to her breast, and cooed over it. Adam looked on, with tears running down his cheek, and a wide smile on his face. They left the bully where he lay.
The kitten took to Charity right away, treating her as if she were a mother figure. Charity reciprocated by carrying the little thing in a sling that she had contrived out of cloth she sliced away from a spare tunic. She crumbled cheese, and feed her charge pieces of it, which the kitten gobbled as quickly as they could be given.
Watching the two of them play together after settling down for the evening, Adam was struck again with the feeling of being pulled by destiny. Charity bonding with the kitten was supposed to happen. It was yet another piece of the puzzle.
The food Bustlebun and the Dwarves had given them was nearly gone by the seventh night on the path, and the number of springs and creeks less than before. They made sure that they kept the flasks that once held berry juice full of what water could be found, and they also kept a close eye out for any fruit or nut bearing tree that could add to their meager store of food.
Charity worried about the kitten. “What are we going to do? There's no dried meat or cheese left to feed her, and she's certainly not going to want any fruit or nuts.”
Adam reached out and rubbed the kitten's head. The little black female responded by pressing into his caress, and purring. Her front paw with the white toes stretched and contracted in pleasure. He looked at Charity. “You feel like hunting?”
Charity slapped her forehead. “Of course! With this magiked bow, I should be able to bring down anything I see.” She looked down at the kitten as it rode in its accustomed place in the sling. “Don't you worry, little one, dinner will be here soon.”
But dinner didn't come soon. A forest that had shown an abundance of game and other wildlife now seemed barren of anything except a few dragonflies and a wasp or two. Adam and Charity ranged further and further from the path, and still they found nothing in the way of game. Eventually it grew too dark to do anything else but bed down for the night.
Adam woke to the feel of something wet tickling the side of his face. He opened his eyes. “Bloody hell.” It was raining, one of those half-hearted rains that manage to get everything wet in spite of being unsure of the job.
He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, and wriggled over to where Charity and the kitten lay cocooned inside her cloak. He shook her by the shoulder gently. “Charity. Get up.”
She answered with an indefinable murmur followed with, “Go ‘way.”
He shook her again. “Come on, Charity. It's raining. We have to get under cover before we catch the chills.”
Charity poked her head out from under her cloak. “Wha...? Oh, it's raining. Adam, we have to get under cover. We could catch the chills.”
Adam bit back his reply, and waited while she gathered herself together. The kitten stuck her head out of the sling, and hissed at the rain. Adam agreed with her.
They trudged through the intermittent drizzle and rain, feeling totally miserable. The low clouds and mist increased the darkness of the forest, and caused them to trip and stub their toes several times. They attempted to shelter under the branches of trees a number of times, but the water dripping through the leaves was nearly as bad as being under no shelter at all.
They had reached the point of tears from frustration when Charity saw the light. “Adam. Look! Through the trees. No, over there to the left.”
“Where? Oh, I see it now. Let's go.”
Their spirits lifted, they picked up the pace, and soon found themselves before a cottage, but a cottage unlike any they'd seen in the village. The door had to be almost twice the height of a normal one. The thatched roof was near as tall as the steeple of the village church.
They made their way to the front door, being careful to mind the extra high steps leading to the porch. Adam knocked on the door, and stepped back. The knocking ring at the top of the door stood about three feet over Adam's head.
They waited, and when no one answered, he tried knocking again. After the second knock, a face filled the circular window in the top of the door. When it saw them, a smile lit up the broad face, and the door was pulled open.
A giantess filled the doorway. She had to be at least nine feet tall and half that wide. The twins had to crane their necks to see her face. She placed her hands on broad hips, and beamed down at the twins. “Why, it's a pair of sopping poppets at me doorway. Come in, come in, me poppets, and be warm and dry.”
Adam and Charity hesitated, and she threw back her head, and laughed. “Oh, come now, me dears. Big I may be, but I'll watch me step. You'll find food, bed an’ more besides, in here.” She bent down and winked at them out of a huge blue eye. “'Sides. It's better'n sleepin’ in the wet. Is that not so?”
Charity swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.” The giantess reminded her of the miller's wife in their village back home, only more so, about four more so's. She found her words quite swept away by it all.
“Good, good.” The giantess gathered them into the cottage's light and warmth while pouring a flood of small talk into each and every second's breath.
She continued chattering at them nonstop while she helped them out of their wet clothes, and wrapped them in voluminous thick nightshirts that draped across the floor, and she continued the chatter while she placed two overwhelming platters of food before them.
“I won't be able to eat all that.” Adam whispered to Charity.
“Eat what you can.” She whispered back. “Doesn't she remind you of someone?”
“I think so...” He watched the huge woman as she bustled about the cottage.
“Mrs. Feddelstone. The miller's wife. Remember her? She used to chase us and set her dogs after us for picking up loose grain?”
“Oh, yeah...” Adam tucked into his platter with a will.
The kitten crawled out from within its sling, and walked over to the food. The giantess clapped her hands. “A wee kitty after me food. Well, help yourself, little one. There's plenty to spare and more.”
The food was hot and delicately seasoned. Piles of fluffy potato pancakes, savory sausages, smoked fish of a sort they were unfamiliar with, but that the kitten could not get enough of, and heaps of root vegetables buried in hand-churned sweet butter made up the fare.
Adam and Charity ate and ate until they were full to the point of bursting and completely satiated. The giantess looked at them from behind a quilt she was working on as they pushed the platters away. “Ah, now, that's better, isn't it, my poppets? Let's get you into bed now, warm and snug, my dears, warm and snug.”
She turned back the covers of a bed large enough to sleep six, and patted the mattress.
“Here you go, my poppets, a nice warm bed for you both, and your wee black kitten there.” The object of her point burped through a loud purr.
“It's so big.” The overstuffed mattress stared back at them, the top of it several inches higher than their heads.
“Not to worry, me dear ones. You're not the first to have that wee bit of trouble. Here's a nice step stool me husband put up for that very thing.” She pulled a stepladder out from under the bed, and set it up next to their side.
The mattress was deep, soft and enfolding, and they soon found themselves drifting into blissful sleep. The kitten curled against the side of Charity's head, and grunted while still purring, its belly round and tight.
As he was falling asleep, Adam thought he saw another giant, a male, come into the cottage, and hand a sack to the giantess, and then sniff them and nod, but it could have been a dream.
* * * * She finished up putting the children to bed and tucked them in. They were so gentle and helpless. It felt good doing for them, almost like having children of her own.
The door opened, and her husband came in from the rain. “How was the gatherin', me dear?” She asked him, as she cleared the last platter from the table.
He grunted in answer and handed her his sack while dipping a mug into a nearby barrel of dark ale. The sack contained the usual collection of farm animals and pets, their necks wrung.
She took it from her husband, and pointed to the bed. “I've a surprise for you, dear, a pair of tender young poppets and their wee kitten.”
He sniffed them and nodded. As he passed her, he kissed her on the cheek. “Aye, you're right, lassie, they'll make a fine stew.”
Charity woke to find herself naked and tied down to a hard, flat surface. The bodies of various animals hung head down from the ceiling high above her. Some of them were the kind usually kept as family pets.
“My kitten.” She struggled against the bonds, but they held fast.
“Naw, yer kitten's not there, lassie, nobbut a mouthful, if that, on her. I left her sleepin'.” The giant came into the room, stropping a large knife against a steel. It looked large enough to be a short sword. “But you two will be makin’ a fine stew, just like I told me missus.” He tested the edge of the knife with his thumb.
Charity shrieked at the sight of the knife, and thrashed against the ropes that held her down.
Adam woke to screams in the dark. Charity was in danger. He tried to get up, but something held him in place. She continued to scream, and he became desperate to get to her. Pain tore through his head like that time with the trolls, along with the feeling of being displaced from reality.
A loud curse in a basso voice came from outside the small room he was in. He tried to sit up again, and found he could, for whatever had been holding him was gone. He stood up and stumbled against the door, his feet still asleep from being so tightly bound. The door moved as he hit it. Whoever had tossed him into ... this closet ... had forgoten to lock it afterwards. He was stamping his feet to get feeling back in them when Charity screamed again.
Adam pushed the closet door open, and found his view blocked by a barrel, standing just outside the opening. There was enough room for him to squeeze between the door's edge and the barrel, so he started through. That was when he noticed his condition, naked as a jaybird. The disconnected feeling washed over him once again, but this time it went almost as quickly as it came.
The rope holding Charity dissolved into a flurry of small pieces and dust, and she rolled away from the knife as it thwacked into the cutting table. The giant shouted a frustrated curse, and tried once more to cut her as she rolled off to the floor.
She landed on her feet, still screaming, but now she was angry. How dare he try to butcher her like a rabbit! The floor held litter, most of it small items like potatoes, little hard apples and even some stones. She stooped and grabbed a stone. The giant roared satisfyingly with pain as it bounced off his cheek. Filled with a need for vengeance, Charity stooped again.
Where were his clothes? His sword? Adam felt as naked as he looked. At least his rock was still around his neck. He edged around the barrel, and was greeted with a view of Charity's bare backside as she pelted the giant with whatever was close at hand.
He saw his clothes. They lay piled next to Charity's behind the giant. A series of shelves rode the wall to the ceiling. Charity's quiver, her bow and her sword in its scabbard lay on the shelf next to the floor.
He had to get past the giant while Charity had him distracted, and from the looks of things, her pile of ammunition was getting low. He hissed at her under his breath. “Charity.”
She turned her head, and saw him. “Adam,” she shrieked. “Don't look at me. I'm naked.”
As if we haven't seen each other that way before. The thought flew through Adam's head, and then left, dismissed. “So am I, but we've got a bigger problem. Our clothes and weapons are on the other side of that.” Adam pointed at the giant bobbing and weaving as it tried to duck Charity's missiles. “Can you keep his attention a little longer?”
“I'll try. He's as slow as an ox. You just keep your eyes on our clothes.” She threw another rock.
The rock bounced off the giant's nose. When he yelped and held his offended member with both hands, Adam slipped around the cutting table, and ducked into the corner where the clothing lay. There was a hiss as he reached for his tunic. The kitten crouched behind the pile, her ears were flat against the side of her head, and she watched the giant with hate in her yellow eyes.
When Adam pulled the sword from the scabbard, it felt good in his hand, as if it belonged there. He turned to attack the giant from behind just in time to see Charity knocked down from a backhanded blow that caught her on the left side and shoulder. She yelped like a dog struck by a horse cart.
Something rocketed over Adam as he crouched, using his upper back like a springboard. It was the kitten, and she landed on the giant, and clawed her way up to his head. The giant screamed as the kitten tore at his eyes. Adam took the opportunity to try a slash at the monster. The tip of the sword scored a long gash across the belt line drawing blood. A blind swing caught Adam a glancing blow from one of the giant's flailing hands. He went down feeling like he'd been struck with a club, seeing spots. The ringing in his ears pushed all the other sounds into the background, and he felt like he might sick up.
“Adam!” Charity's yell caused him to look up just in time to drop back to the floor. The sword took over, like it had in Bustlebun's Inn. Parrying the Giant's knife blow off to the side. He'd swung at Adam with such force that the deflected blade buried itself six inches into the butcherblock table.
As his opponent tried vainly to remove his knife from the block while fending off the mostly harmless attack by the kitten, Adam staggered back onto his feet. His head felt woozy, and sometimes there were two of what should only be one when he tried to focus on something.
Charity huddled against a flour sack, and felt her side, it was going to bruise, she knew it. The pain had begun, and she worked at not sobbing. Crying now would be the death of both of them.
“Gerofff! Geroff now, Yer damned mit!” The giant finally swept the kitten off his head, and turned to take down his other tormentor.
The sword pulled his hand toward the floor, and he dropped with it, feeling the wind of the giant's hand as it passed over him.
The monster snarled. “Stand still, blarst ye. Ya damned weeny deevil!”
Adam dodged another swing as he ducked around the chopping block one more time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pottery jug that should make a nice mess of shards sharp enough to slow the giant down. It was just plain luck that both he and Charity were able to move faster than their hungry host.
He swung the sword at the jug, and strong-smelling oil gushed out onto the plank wood floor of the pantry. Adam had to do a bit of fancy stepping to avoid the flood.
The giant wasn't as fortunate. A heel came down just as the oil slick spread across the floor, and both feet went out from under him. He fell backwards, totally out of control. A loud crack sounded through the pantry as his head connected with the edge of the chopping block. A shudder passed through the huge body, and then he lay still.
Charity limped out of her dark corner, cradling the kitten in her arms. “Is ... is he dead?”
Adam shrugged and turned back to where the clothes lay, and scooped up Charity's. He threw them at her. “Get dressed quickly before the other one shows up.” The wooziness was going, but his head still hurt like the pit.
The giantess opened the door as Adam closed the buckle on his sword belt. He stepped back into the shadows, pulling Charity with him, hoping they'd be hidden from her sight.
Their ex-hostess saw the giant lying in the oil. In the dim light, it looked like blood. Her scream was almost deafening in the close quarters. “My husband! My husband! You little monsters, you've killed him!”
Adam pulled Charity down behind a stand of potato sacks; in the poor lighting of the room they should be hidden enough for right now.
She tore the butcher knife out of the cutting table with maniacal strength, and started poking its blade into the shadows. “I'll kill you, you little bastards. I'll kill you and chop you into bait, I will. Into bait.” She sobbed hysterically as she hunted the killers of her husband.
The knife jabbed into the corner away from where the twins were hiding. A banshee howl answered the jab, followed by a black blur launching itself out of the shadow at the face of its tormentor. The giantess screeched and put her hands up to shield her face, dropping the knife as she did so.
With one more hiss, the kitten ran out the door the giantess had entered. Adam and Charity followed close behind.
The front door was closed, and Adam couldn't reach the latch at the top, even by jumping.
Charity could feel the bruising on her side heating up with the running. “Adam. We've got to get out of here.”
“I know. I know.”
They could hear the giantess coming out of the storeroom. Adam turned to look as he pushed Charity into the side room where the bed was kept. She had the knife back in her hand, waving it as she cursed them for being murderous little monsters.
“The Jakes.” Adam called to Charity, as he pushed her further from the enraged giantess.
“Oh, no! Not again!” Charity wailed and balked at Adam's push.
“We don't have any choice. Can you hold on to your bow and the kitten?” Charity had the kitten cradled in one of her arms. It hissed, screamed and yowled at the giantess as she chased them. The Jakes were behind a curtain in the back corner of the Bedroom, away from the fireplace. The curtain hid the sight, but not the smell. Made for giants, it should allow the twins to slip right through.
They made a circuit of the room that temporarily stuck their antagonist on the wrong side of the bed as they squeezed past the headboard and the wall. Adam pushed aside the curtain that hid the jakes from sight. The stool with the hole in it leading to the outside was fastened to the plank floor with stout pegs. He climbed up onto it as Charity came around the curtain still holding the kitten, stepped into the hole and fell.
Charity's “Oh Deity!” caught up with him as he hit bottom.

Chapter Four
Ethan swallowed more of the hard cider. Yes, he was decided. The time was long past for his desertion. He'd had his fill of Silgert, a filthy little town stuck on the far edge of nowhere. He'd sure as the pit had his fill of Vedder and his venomous sermons. He shook the flask, the slosh telling him there were only a couple of swallows left. Enough to drink to the end of his career as a watchman for the Baron of Spu.
* * * * It was taking too long. Damn the pigeons and all who trained them, damn that brat for blocking his scry. How it had been done by one as raw and untrained as that one was, he'd never know, in fact he didn't want to know. All he wanted was to hear from Cloutier about the progress of those two so he could plan his revenge. He looked in the mirror. Now, undisturbed by shaping, it was merely beveled and silvered glass, but it revealed the truth, nonetheless. He traced the scars on his cheek with his fingertips. They would pay. Oh, yes. They would pay.
* * * * After the third day on the path, the smell of their landing into the pile below the Jakes went away. Either that, or their sense of smell gave up and went away. That was Charity's explanation. She nearly hit him when he suggested the rapid healing of her bruises was the application of that particular ointment.
Signs of game began to show in the forest again, and Charity's bow added meat to their diet. Adam's skills at fire making continued to show the need for more practice, and it was a hungry couple of travelers who finally dug into the roast rabbit.
“Mmm, this is good.” Adam tore a bite out of his rabbit.
“Uncle used to say hunger is the best sauce.” Charity tossed a bit to the kitten who snatched it out of the air, and gobbled it down. “Ow.” She rubbed her arm.
“Still hurts to move, huh?”
“Your Uncle was a wise man.” The twins started at the voice. Charity dropped her rabbit and snatched up her bow. Adam used his free hand to grasp the hilt of his sword.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. May I come into the light?” The figure of an old man came forward into the flickering gleam of the campfire. His hair was white, long and blended into the beard covering his chest. He wore robes, rather than tunic and trousers, and a wide belt thick with pockets circled his waist. A staff was held in his right hand, the top showed an intricate design of leaves and berries beneath a carved wolf head.
Adam stood up, his hand still on the sword, and motioned to the fire with the hand that held the rabbit. “Please, share our fire.”
The old man came into the camp, and crouched down before the fire. He held his hands out, warming them. His eyes were a light blue in color, and laugh lines creased his face. He looked at them each in turn. “Thank you for your hospitality to an old man. May I know your names?”
Adam looked at Charity. Their recent experiences had taught them caution. He turned back to the old man. “Tell us yours, first, please, as well as where you come from.”
The old man chuckled and said, as if to himself. “The stranger should declare himself first, eh?” Then to Adam. “Very well, young man. You may call me Milward.” He bowed his head to both twins. “As to where I come from, that question begs many answers for one as old as I. If you mean, where did I come from to reach this fire? Well, my home is just over there.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I smelled your fire, and came to see who my new neighbors were.”
Adam nodded, considering what the old man said. He sat back on the stump, put down the rabbit, and bowed his head to the old man. “My name is Adam.”
Charity bowed. “I'm Charity, his twin sister. Will you share our supper?”
Adam looked at the remains of his rabbit, and sighed.
Milward laughed at Adam's expression. “No, thank you, young lady. I'm not as hungry as that. At my age, one prefers good company to good food.” He leaned towards Adam. “You may finish you supper in good conscience, my lad. I'm quite full.” Adam's look of guilt caused him to laugh again.
Charity found herself taking to the old man. Rather than being threatening, he seemed friendly and inviting. He gave off a sense of being family, and he smelled nice, like Aunt's herb garden during harvest time. She wondered if it would be too presumptuous to ask if they could stay the night in his cave. Seeing the stars at night was fun for a while, but not when they rained on you.
Adam finished off the rabbit, and licked his fingers for dessert. “We're trying to find a village at the edge of the forest. We were told this path would take us there. You see, we're lost, the village could be our home.”
The old man sniffed. “From what I've seen of you, there's little chance of that.”
Charity gathered up the bones to bury them after giving the kitten the last of the scraps. “What do you mean by that?”
Milward smiled and leaned back on his elbow. “Your courtesy is my first clue. The folk of that village would sooner chew their tongues for supper than offer a stranger their scraps, much less an equal share of two scrawny rabbits.”
Charity muttered, “It was late, and they were all I could shoot before dark.”
Adam looked at Charity. “Another piece of evidence.”
Milward smiled to himself, and sniffed the night air. “It's going to rain soon. I had best get back to my nice, dry cave before these old bones get damp.” He stood up. “It was nice meeting you. Good night. Unless...” He turned back to face them. “You'd like to join me...”
Milward was correct. His home was close by, merely half a mile, if that. It was built into a long dead cave, within one of the hills to the north of the forest path. A door covered the opening, painted in a combination of bright colors after the fashion of the northern regions. No other adornment graced the entrance. Inside was a different matter entirely; Milward's cave was decorated and furnished for the purpose of living comfortably. A wide fireplace promised old bones plenty of warmth on cold days, and a deep larder insured a full belly. One entire wall was lined with shelf after shelf of books and scrolls. Cushioned chairs placed throughout promised a welcome spot for a lazy afternoon's reading. Boxes of vellums and parchments were stacked ceiling high next to a massive reading desk covered in the drippings of a century's worth of candles.
Milward's foyer held places for their cloaks to hang and the weapons to lie. The thick bar placed across the stout door once shut made sure of a secure stay.
Underfoot, thick carpets gave their feet a welcome release from the hard ground. Dozens of lamps with smokeless oil brightened the interior, and the warm glow of the oaken panels said home, rather than cavern.
The twins stood transfixed within the foyer, gaping at the richness before them. Bustlebun's Inn now seemed rather shabby in comparison.
“Come in, come in, and be warmed by my fire. Summer is leaving, fall is upon us, and it will be cool tonight.” Milward removed his outer robe, and entered the living room of his home.
A table set with supper for three was waiting for them, and he indicated it with a wave of his hand. “I believe you will find my cooking to be adequate, unless you're all filled up on charred rabbit...”
The food at Milward's table was plain but plentiful. There were three different cheeses, a variety of fresh fruits, warm baked bread which filled the area with it's yeasty aroma, chops and stew, as well as pint after pint of crisp cider to wash it all down. After supper and after their respective hurts and bruises were seen to, the twins, along with the kitten, were bedded down in a spare bedroom off the back hall of Milward's home.
Milward closed the door on his guests, satisfied that the sounds he heard were those of sleep. So these were the two, he mused. It was always interesting to see a prophecy unfold, but to involve lives so close to their beginning ... He was glad he was not involved in the choosing. At least the gentle glamour he used on them worked well enough. He hadn't felt like chasing a couple of active youngsters through the woods all night long.
A noise outside drew him to the door. It was a woodchuck. The fat little creature stood on its haunches, and chattered at the old man. He nodded and thanked the messenger by giving her a treat from one of his pouches. He closed the door and leaned against it, deep in thought. So, this was how it was to be. Well he'd best not dawdle. He strode down the hallway leading straight back from the living room to the door at the very end. Inside was a room filled with casks, pots, jars and boxes full of herbs, both dry and growing, bits and pieces of insects, amphibians and reptiles, as well as strange and wonderful oils, ointments and powders. The air within the room greeted the old Wizard with its heady mixture of odors. Worktables sat cluttered with tasks and experiments in various stages of completion, and an ornately framed mirror graced one wall bare of anything else but the twin oil lamps bracketing it. Milward stood before the mirror, and his countenance changed. The kindly old man became something dangerous, deadly. His eyes burned with a cold fire, and his brows were knitted together in anger. “Show him to me.” He snapped.
The mirror's surface began to swirl with multicolored mists. A figure appeared, first as a silhouette, and then as Gilgafed himself. A fork with a steaming morsel of food was paused halfway to his mouth. “You!”
“Ah, Gilgafed. At repast, as usual.” Milward leaned closer to the mirror, and peered at the Sorcerer's cheek. “Have you been playing with fire again?”
“What do you want, Wizard? I have better things to do than bandy words with a doddering, old fool.” Gilgafed slammed his fork back onto the table.
“Did I spoil your appetite, old boy? I'm terribly sorry.”
“Just speak your peace, and go!” Gilgafed glared at the Wizard, then looked away.
A dangerous smile played across Milward's face. “I called you to give you a small prophecy, Gilgy, old boy.” Milward held up a hand. “Oh, settle down. I know you don't like being called that. That is precisely why I do it. You're seeking two young humans, a boy and a girl? Ah, I see I'm right, and yes, I do know where they are. They are under my protection, hence the prophecy.” His expression changed to one of pure malice. “If anything happens to them, and I find you had the smallest of hands in their fate, I will castrate you, and feed your testicles to you as an entree. Am I understood in this matter?”
Gilgafed nodded his face devoid of expression.
“Good. Oh, and by the way. I am fully capable of doing just that. Think about it when you wonder where I got the strength to do something. Hmmm?” Milward cut the connection, and the mirror became just a mirror again.
He closed the door to his workroom, and went to check on the children. They and the kitten were sleeping deeply and peacefully.
It was time sit and think. The Wizard settled into his favorite chair before the fire, and poured himself a goblet of fortified wine. He warmed the aged liquor with his hands as he stared into the dancing flames. From what he knew of the prophecy of Labad, most of it based on incomplete texts and conjecture, his guests were in for a number of hard years, and he could not be there for them. Ah, well, maybe the scare he put into Gilgafed would grant them the time needed. He sipped the brandy and savored the smoky burn of it passing down his throat. They would stay with him for a while. At the very least, he could show them some things about this world that would help. He sipped again. Yes, that was the very least he could do.
Charity woke to the sound of purring. There was a small weight on her chest. She reached up and felt the kitten nestled between her breasts. It stretched and yawned as she petted it, the purrs growing louder.
Adam lay snoring in fits and starts on his side of the bed; she wondered why the kitten's purring woke her instead of the snores.
The door opened, and Milward poked his head around the edge of the door. “Good morning.”
Charity stifled a yawn. “Good morning.” The kitten arched her back in a stretch, and yawned again. It leapt off the bed, and began rubbing Milward's ankles.
The wizard looked down at the attention. “I see someone is ready for breakfast.”
“Did I hear someone say breakfast?” Adam raised his head off the pillow.
Charity hit him with her pillow. “Typical. You're always hungry.”
“So what? I'm a growing boy.” He hit her back.
Adam received a pillow across the face. “Growing out, you mean.”
It deteriorated from there. Milward looked at the kitten. “We'll let them get some of this extra energy out of their systems. Come with me, little one,” He clicked his tongue, and she raised her tail in a crook as she followed him. “I have something for you I think you'll enjoy.”
Breakfast was similar to supper. Simple, yet substantial, with mounds of hot porridge, link upon link of spicy sausages, gallons of rich cream and yellow butter, and more of the delicious, freshly baked bread. All of it finished off with steaming fruity tisane.
Milward spooned up some porridge, and looked across the table at his guests. “Let me hear them.”
Adam put down the sausage he was working on. “What?”
“Your questions. I'm sure you have at least a few floating around in those active minds of yours.” He swallowed his porridge. “Come on, let's have them.
“I have one.” Charity spread some butter onto a slice of bread.
“Yes...” Milward drew her out.
“Those pouches you wear. What are they for?”
He looked down at his waist. The wide belt with its many flapped pouches was there, as always; it had become an old friend after so many years. He fingered it as he looked back at the girl. “This? This is my friend and companion, my memory and my treasure keeper.”
Adam looked up from his sausage and bread. “What do you mean by that?”
Milward smiled at him. “Herb lore. One of my passions is what the forest and the things that grow in it have to teach me. You know, to me it is always like a treasure hunt. I never know what surprise awaits me underneath the next old log or the next rock. Nature has wonders we've yet to learn, and most of what we know is just scratching below the surface.
“I keep some of what I've found in these pouches. In others are some old friends I've known about for years.”
Adam sipped some Tisane, “for example..?
Milward dipped into one of the pouches, and pulled out a corked vial filled with a white powder. “This comes from boiling Willit bark, and collecting the steam, and then letting it dry to this powder.”
Charity looked closely at the vial. “What does it do?”
The wizard shook it, causing the powder to billow within the vial. “It stops most muscle pain, headache, and those aches that some of us older folks get in our joints now and then, plus some others.”
“Can you show us more?” Charity leaned forward on the table.
Milward pulled out some leaves that looked like they had come from a wildflower. “This is Phedri. Have you ever caught the drips that become the chills if not doctored?”
They nodded their heads.
“You crush the leaves of this plant, and steep them in boiling water. Allow it to cool a bit, and then drink it all. You can sweeten it with honey if you wish, in about one half of an hour later the drips will stop, a marvelous plant!”
The lessons in herb lore carried on for several hours. The twins soaked up the teaching like sponges, asking question after question, and Milward reveled in it. He showed them the oil squeezed out of Cancra seed that helped to keep the skin from scarring when healing from a cut, and the Alu, that when sliced, seeped a gel that caused the skin to heal quickly. He showed them other wonders found in plants, mushrooms, and in certain molds that did things more akin to magik than medicine. He would not, under any circumstance, answer their questions when they strayed into the realm of poisons and like potions, in spite of their pleas to do so. That world was for much later, he told them, and that was that. They also talked at length concerning their place in the world, and what they should do to ensure it.
As the discussion in herb lore wound down, Adam looked wistfully into the distance and sighed, “I can't wait to get back and tell Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal about what we've learned.”
Milward shook his head sadly. “That may not be possible.”
“What?”
“Please, I want to go home!”
The effect of Milward's words was as upsetting as he was afraid it would be. He took in a long breath and spoke again, “I didn't say it was impossible, merely that it may not be possible. Tell me about your village, but I think I can already guess it's a long ways from here.”
They told him, including the tale of their capture and the journey through the caverns. Charity added to the narrative her belief they'd been magiked to another world.
Milward nodded through it all, grunting in places, and chuckling when they described their first taste of Dwarfish cooking. Charity didn't mention the power of her bow and Adam, for reasons he was unsure of kept silent about his sword.
He was about to tell about the letters when Milward broke in. “I've heard enough. You two have had an eventful journey, I must say. No, I don't believe you've been transported to another world, your village is about a thousand or more miles that way,” he pointed behnd them, “on the other side of the Circle Sea. It's a journey I wouldn't advise either of you undertaking right now.”
“Why not?” Adam demanded, “We did ok, so far.”
“Luck is a condiment best used sparingly, my lad. Remember those beasts you told me about, the ones that carried your sister and you into the caverns? They are called Ogren and it is a sure bet they weren't alone.”
Charity gasped and brought her hands to her mouth. Adam looked grim. “Our Aunt and Uncle...”
“Don't be thinking the worst, now.” Milward cautioned him. “There is every chance they are still alive.” And in Southpoint by now, he finished to himself. “Why don't you stay with me a while, at least through the winter. It gets cold and lonely around here sometimes, and I would like the company. You could learn even more, and if you wish, continue your journey in the spring when the weather is must more hospitable.”
“The ... Ogren, you called them?” Charity asked.
Milward gave her an understanding smile. “Oh, they'd be long gone by then. They're beasts at heart and only stay on a given task if driven to do so. What about my offer, will you stay?”
Adam looked at Charity; she nodded. After a bit he did also, and then turned to face Milward, “we'll stay.”
They stayed with Milward through the fall and winter learning much about herb lore, and expanding on what Uncle Bal had already taught them concerning wood craft. One day, when rains were light, he took them into the deep wood to test their knowledge. The downpour the evening before had left the air smelling crisp and clean. Subtle hints of citrus and an earthy smell of rich soil hovered in the background.
“Now then, Adam. What can you tell me of that fern growing out of that Alder to your left?”
The fern in question sprouted from a tree covered in moss, and long dead. Small, translucent green, spearhead-shaped leaves grew along the shaft at right angles from each other, and in progressively smaller sizes up to the fiddlehead tip. Tiny orange spots showed on the underside of each leaf.
Adam stepped across the small creek, and fingered one of the leaves of the fern. He brought his hand up to his nose, and sniffed. “Blood Fern, if my nose doesn't lie.”
“And what can it be used for, Charity?”
She placed her hands behind her back, and stared off into space. “Blood Fern, good for cleansing ailments of the blood such as those caused by poor food and too much drink.” She turned and beamed a smile at Milward. “Did I get it right?”
“Letter perfect, my dear.”
She wrinkled her nose at Adam.
He frowned slightly, and then turned his attention back to the fern.
Milward crossed the creek, passed Adam, and walked into a small clearing where the ground was half bog. “Perhaps you would care to point out some interesting specimens to me. This bit of ground may reveal a secret or two.”
They joined the old man in the clearing and began to examine the ground. Adam could hear snatches of the lessons they'd been given through the long winter nights flowing in and out of his head.
“I found something.” Charity called out from a spot on the far edge of the bog.
Milward looked up from examining a brilliant purple beetle with a ludicrously large snout. “Well, now. First prize goes to the young lady in heather green. What did you find?”
She pointed to a grayish green plant with thick leaves that grew close to the ground. Small bulbs of the same color were attached to it by coiling tendrils that sprouted similar coils of their own. Some of the twisting growth held blades of grass fast, ensuring a solid anchor in the unstable ground. “A Bladderleaf. I'm sure of it.”
“You are, are you?” Milward smiled. “Perhaps your brother can tell us what this little beauty is good for.” He gave Adam an appraising look.
Adam had begun to feel somewhat inadequate. Charity soaked up Milward's lessons like a sponge, whereas he had to struggle to remember half of what the old Wizard taught them.
“Uh ... wounds, I think.”
Charity giggled.
Milward turned back to her, and raised a forefinger. “Ah ahh. No teasing and no laughing at each other. We all have our different strengths. It's obvious where yours lie, young lady, and you've a right to be pleased with your progress.”
“Your brother's learning a lot. He already knows more about herb and plant lore than nine tenths of the men in this world, so ease up on him a bit. Just because you're better at something than someone else is never a reason for teasing. Doing that only makes you smaller than they are, understand?”
“Yes, sire Milward.” Charity's voice revealed her contrition.
The old man turned to look at Adam. “You were saying something about wounds? What I told her, by the way, was for both of your ears.”
Adam swallowed his smile. “Yes, sire Milward. Uh ... Those little bulbs on the Bladderleaf can suck the poison out of a wound, or a snakebite ... I think.”
“Good. Very good. What about this small thing? He bent over and plucked a tiny blue-green herb from the host of plants growing in the rich soil. The leaves were teardrop in shape, clustered in groups of three on each stem. “Can either of you tell me this small plant's name and it's uses?”
Adam shook his head. “No ... I've no idea. Charity?”
She shook hers, as well. “No, What is it?”
Milward held the herb up to his nose, and sniffed it. It had a pleasant peppery scent. He then held it out, and turned it back and forth, a slow smile spreading in his whiskers. “I have absolutely no idea. This one is entirely new to me.”
“Let's give it a name.” Adam suggested.
“What would we call it? Milleaf? Wardwort?” Charity looked over Adam's shoulder at the plant in Milward's hand.
“That would be a bit premature.” The old man said quietly. “Why don't you two tell me what we know of it so far?”
“It's green.” Adam ventured.
“The leaves look like little teardrops.” Charity added. “And I think it looks more blue-green from here.”
“I see tiny little hairs on the stem,” Said Adam. “and it has a spicy smell. It smells good, like it could be used in cooking.”
“If it isn't poisonous. I don't see any places where bugs have chewed on it.” Charity looked more closely at the plant in Milward's hand.
A light rain began to fall, and a chill breeze rose with the change. The old man placed the herb into one of the pouches on his belt, and patted it after closing the flap. “Why don't we leave this weather to the outside, and go see what else our little leafy friend can tell us in the laboratory? Ok?”
Adam and Charity were more than willing to do so. Both of them had forgotten to bring a hood, or a hat.
One bright morning at breakfast, Milward looked up from his cup of tisane. “This is the morning. The last of the snow is gone from the forest floor, and the frost no longer forms during the night.”
Adam shifted in his new tunic. Both he and Charity had outgrown the clothes they found in the parcel with the weapons. Charity was looking more woman than girl now, and he had begun to notice a fine growth of hair upon his chin. Milward had prepared them for this day, they were going to travel south to the village on the edge of the wood and try to get their bearings from there, but it was still hard. The cave now felt like home, and the old man like a father.
Charity put down her spoon, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. Milward reached across the table, and wiped it away with the side of a forefinger. “Now, now. No tears, my dear. We'll meet again. You two have you own journey to make, as I have mine. When I've done what I need to do, I'll find you; you can count on that. Remember, we've talked about this day, and I've done what I can to prepare both of you for what is to come.”
She sniffed. “But I'll miss you so much.”
He took her hand. “I know you will, dear, but that will pass, as all sorrows do.”
Adam looked down at the tabletop and ran a fingertip along the pattern of the woodgrain. “We've been gone from home an awful long time. What about Uncle Bal and Aunt Doreen?”
“I'm sure they miss you very much.” Milward shrugged, “I did some checking during the winter. They did survive, but with you and your sister gone, they left the village. You're on your own now, at least until they can be found.”
Charity threw herself into the old man's embrace, and he hugged her back, patting her shoulder with a gentle hand.
“Remember my teachings, that's all I ask.” Emotion thickened Milward's voice.
Adam swallowed his own waterworks. “We will; I promise.”
Milward leaned back, holding his cup. “Good.” He sipped from the cup. “Good.”

Chapter Five
Silgert lay at the edge of the forest with a vast pasture stretching to the South below it. A dim line of trees drew a black shadow at the far edge of the pasture. To the East, in the distance, mountains scraped the edge of the sky. From the very first the twins had an uneasy feeling about Silgert, and began to understand Milward's derision of it. Men, women and even children looked at them either furtively with fear, or searchingly with suspicion. One woman spat the word hussy at Charity as she walked past them. Of the three Inns they tried, two were closed with the windows boarded up. The one that was open nearly turned them away until Adam got the Innkeeper's attention with a gold.
The Innkeeper muttered more to himself than to them as he accepted the payment. “I'm takin’ me life in me hands, I am. Town don't like strangers or them what takes ‘em in, they don't. Be touched in head, that be it. Gold, though, never seen a gold, for a room not worth two cop, touched that be it, Touched...”
He showed them to the room, and went away still muttering and fingering the gold coin. The twins stowed their pack against one of the walls. The Innkeeper was correct. The room wasn't worth a gold, by any means. The lone table held a chipped water basin, and wobbled alarmingly. The bed sagged worse than a spavined nag, and creaked when sat on. There was no chamber pot in the room, and neither of them had seen any sign of a jakes on the way up.
Adam got up from the bed after testing it. “I'm going down there, and get my coin back. That Innkeeper is a thief.”
“You better not.”
“Why?”
Charity sat on the bed, wincing at the creak. “I don't think it would take much for the people in this place to become a mob aimed at us. Did you see the looks we were getting as we walked through town?”
“I noticed. I don't think the people in this village like us.”
Charity smirked. “You noticed, huh?”
“Now who's being snide? Yeah, I noticed. I was afraid I'd have to pull the sword more than once. I wonder what caused this town to be so suspicious?”
“I'd like to know why they don't clean up the place. It stinks.” Charity wrinkled her nose in demonstration.
Adam sniffed the air. “Probably comes from the same root, as Milward would say. I don't like this place, Charity. Let's do what we need to do, and get out of here.”
“What is it we need to do, again?” Charity prompted her twin with a raised eyebrow.
Adam leaned back and mimicked the tone Milward adopted when lecturing. “You need to get to know the people in the world apart from the little village where you grew up. This can only be done by seeing the world at large, and the people in it at work, at play and at worship, if they are so inclined to do so.”
Charity laughed. “You sound just like him, and he holds his hands like that, too.”
Adam laughed, as well. “I've had lots of practice. I figured on taking a little tour of this dump, learning what Milward said we should and getting out of here. I don't think I even want to spend the night.”
Charity got up from the bed and reached under it, feeling for the now-grown cat. “Sounds good to me. Come on you ... got her. OK, let's go.”
The Innkeeper stared at them as they left the Inn. His unblinking gaze was nearly as bad as his muttering. Outside of the Inn, the street was empty of people, and so was the next.
Adam sidestepped to avoid a pile of dung in the street. “Where are all the people? This street was full, not an hour ago.”
Charity craned her neck to look through a dust-covered window. “This shop's empty, too. They're not in the street, and they're not in the shops; maybe they're all in church?”
“Wouldn't want to be in any church this place supports.” Adam muttered.
Charity's sharp ears caught her brother's undertone. “Well, I can't think of any other place they'd be, can you?”
Adam nodded. “Only one way to find out. Shall we go to church?”
It took them a good while to find where the townsfolk had gone. The best and last clue was when Charity noticed a trend in the grime covering the streets. There appeared to be depressions and smears, almost footprints, heading in a northwesterly direction. The number of them increased as they came to a cobblestone street. They followed the prints, and soon saw others from the cross streets merging into the flow. A building stood at the far end of the street, sparkling clean, which caused it to stand out from the rest of the town, looking like a diamond on a dirt pile. The footprints led straight up to its doors.
A large oak grew in the shade on the north side of the church. Climbing it gave the twins a view into the interior, and kept them out of sight from the townsfolk who filled it. A man dressed in brilliant white robes was speaking to the congregation.
“I remember that fellow.” Adam whispered at Charity. “He was talking with a small group of men as we came into town. I didn't like the look he gave us at all.”
Charity edged closer to the window. “I can hear what he's saying, now. Put your ear against the wall like this.”
Adam followed his sister's example, and the voice of the man in white came to him clearly.
“Strangers are always a danger.” The speaker's resonant voice came to their ears. “Can you tell how they may act? Can you? Of course not. They are an unknown, and the unknown may contain evi,l and therefore must be avoided at all costs. If you cannot avoid it, you must destroy it.”
He thrust his arm at a woman sitting in the front pew. “Do you know what your neighbor does at night?” She shook her head. “Then how do you know she is right with the Creator? You cannot. That is why it is imperative we must watch each other, watch for any sign of contamination. Watch for weakness in resolve, and you will be blessed. Watch for any crack that the Evil One can slither through. It will be there.”
* * * * He had them now. He could see the eyes shifting left and right. It had to be like this. He had to raise an army to win his war. Since that day, nearly five years ago now, when he was visited by a messenger of the Creator, and told of his special mission, his goal, nay, his obsession had been to eradicate all influences of evil. Magik and the users of it, those who were trying to subvert mankind to the obviously lesser races and, of course, the Dragons. Some claimed they no longer existed. That only proved they were dupes of the Dragons, themselves. They existed, and he would be the instrument of their destruction, along with all the other tools of Evil.
This village was just the start; once he had these fools eating out of his hands, he would move on to bigger and better breeding grounds.
The Priest brought both hands up as a signal for his congregation to rise. “Trust no one.” He intoned. “Until you learn from me what to watch for, you can never be sure of that one across from you,” He turned to the side, and looked at the people over his shoulder. “Maybe even your neighbor is plotting against you. Go now. Be vigilant. Be right.”
* * * * “What a load of frog droppings.” Adam repeated one of Milward's favorite sayings.
“You can say that again.” Charity watched the congregation begin to filter toward the door. The cat balanced herself between Charity's shoulder and a branch.
“What a load of ... ow!”
“You deserved it. We better get out of this tree before these kind people see two ‘strangers’ peeking in on their meeting.”
They jumped the couple of feet to the grass, and moved quickly to the rear of the church as the first of the congregation left through the front doors.
Charity peeked around the corner. “Do you think we've learned what we needed to?” The cat jumped into Charity's arms and took her accustomed place in her sling.
Adam dusted off his knees. “That and more, I believe. Let's go back to the Inn, get our stuff, and go. Camping under the stars looks real good to me, right now.”
They cut across to the fourth street west of the Church, and then headed back towards the Inn. People were back out on the streets, and gave them the same suspicious looks as before.
“It's happening again.” Charity hissed to Adam, as they passed a small grouping of women standing outside a cloth monger's shop.
“I know. The Blacksmith watched me like he expected me to snitch a horseshoe as I walked by. Let's keep moving, maybe they won't attack if we don't stay in one place.”
They turned aside to avoid a large knot of townsfolk ahead of them. A small girl sat alone, huddled against an alley that divided two rundown shops with apartments in the second story. She was crying, with her head buried in her knees.
Charity knelt beside her. “What's wrong?”
The little girl looked up, but not directly at her. Charity saw eyes that would never see. The pupils were muddy swirls of color with no iris. She turned her head back and forth. “Who's there?”
“You don't know us. We're strangers here.”
The little girl stiffened.
Adam knelt beside Charity. “Why did you tell her that? Now she's afraid of us.”
The little girl turned her head toward Adam's voice. “I'm not afraid.”
Charity stuck her tongue out at Adam, and turned back to the girl. “Why were you crying?”
The little girl sniffed. “I'm lonely. No one will play with me because I can't see, and Brother Vedder says I'm being punished, but I don't know what I did.” She started to sob.
Adam's outrage at the town began to boil. He wanted to do something to show them where they were wrong, but he felt directionless. Milward had warned both he and Charity to not strike out blindly when attempting to solve a problem. Here, he felt like he was a drop of water trying to extinguish an inferno. His anger warred with his compassion toward the little girl. “Can we do anything to help you?” He put his hand onto her arm.
She didn't pull away. “Can you make me see?”
Charity was about to let the little girl down lightly when she saw Adam's face. He had gone pale, nearly white, and sweat was dripping from him. The amulet holding his lucky rock glowed through the material of his tunic. The little girl gave a soft cry of pain, and pulled her arm free of Adam's hand. She put her hands to her face, and cried again. The cat meowed and pulled further into her sling.
Charity hissed at Adam. “What did you do? There's people in the street there; they're going to think we attacked one of their children.”
Adam rubbed his forehead. “I didn't do anything. I got a headache all of a sudden. Maybe I squeezed her arm too tight.”
“I can see you.” The little girl looked at them through beautifully clear, blue-green eyes.
“Adam...” Charity felt her stomach beginning to tighten.
“Thank you, mister.” The little girl focused her gaze on Adam.
“I know, Charity.” Adam's skin was crawling; the feeling of destiny was bearing down on him again.
“What are you doing to my daughter?!” A plain, rather dumpy woman bustled over to them in a flurry of petticoats. A gangly man with a large nose, no chin and a turkey neck followed close behind her.
Charity stood up to face them. “We were just talking to her; she was lonely.”
The woman bristled. “She's supposed to be lonely! Brother Vedder says ... iiieee!” The woman screamed. “Her eyes!”
The man looked at his daughter. She looked back.
“Witchcraft!” He yelled at the top of his lungs. “Minions of Evil!” He and his wife began shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. The little girl watched her two new friends run down the street, away from the forming mob.
Townsfolk gathered to see what all the shouting was about. The girl's parents showed them their daughter's restored sight, and they also picked up the cry of evil being done to their poor little girl. The mob began its deadly march toward the Inn, where the two objects of its wrath were believed to be staying.
Adam and Charity ran past the Innkeeper without a word, and up the stairs to their room.
Charity hefted the linked bags Milward had given her, and slung them over the shoulder opposite her bow. “I've got these, how about you?”
Adam shouldered his backpack with the bedrolls. “All set, let's get out of here.”
They hit the stairs at full speed,and knocked aside the Innkeeper and a rough looking man who was following him up to the room. As they pushed through the front door of the Inn, they could hear the Innkeeper shouting, “Thief! Thief!” at the top of his lungs. The tough tried to chase after them, but he was no match for younger, faster legs.
Adam looked over his shoulder as they ran out of the town. A mob had reached the Inn carrying torches and various sharp tools as weapons, led by the parents of the little girl.
They ran for nearly a league past the outskirts of the town, checking to see if the mob was still following. As they were passing a Birch grove, Adam slowed to a walk. “I think we've left them behind. Can you hear anything behind us?” Shouts of “Witch", “Sorcerer” and “Magik Worker” had followed them as they left the town.
Charity cocked her head, listening. “Nothing. We may be safe, but I'd like to keep walking for a while, just to be sure. Bad as those people are, I wouldn't feel right putting arrows into them.”
Adam reset his sword into the scabbard by pulling it partly out, and letting it fall back into place. The metal sang. “I don't know. Brother Vedder sounded like a fine candidate to me.”
Charity tickled the cat under her chin. The eyes closed, and loud purrs came. “On that point, I agree, but I wouldn't feel right about the rest. They're Vedder's victims just as much as that little girl. Which reminds me ... what happened back there?”
Adam shook his head. “I don't know. I got this shooting pain through my head, and then I became dizzy for a moment. It passed almost as quickly as it came. When I could see again ... I saw the eyes.”
“Yes, the eyes.” Charity looked at Adam levelly. “You do know it was you, don't you?”
Adam looked back at her, bafflement running across his face. “I'm ... not ... sure. I hope not, and yet I want to think I did. I'd like to be able to do that; heal people, I mean. It would be good to correct some of nature's mistakes.”
“Your amulet glowed the same time you turned pale. You're magik, Adam, whether or not you want to be.”
Adam looked down where the amulet hung on its chain. He fingered it through his tunic thoughtfully, and then looked back at Charity with a wan smile. “I guess I'll have to learn to live with it, then, won't I?”
Charity looked at her twin brother for a long moment, and then said with a completely straight face, “I guess so.”
They turned back to the path and continued on their route away from the town of Silgert. The dark line on the horizon in front of them soon formed into individual trees. Pasture grasses on either side of the path held wild flowers offering their promises to both butterflies and small birds that hovered in front of the blossoms like honeybees. In the last league before entering the forest, the path rose slightly, and the tops of partially buried rocks poked through the ground.
They were passing a group of boulders being pushed aside by a number of large black oaks when Adam stopped and began looking around.
“What is it?” Charity asked Adam.
“I hear someone snoring.”
“You've got to be kid ... wait, I hear it, too. Over there.” She pointed to one of the larger oaks. A booted foot showed just beyond the trunk of the tree.
Adam levered himself up and over the space between two of the boulders, and edged around the tree's rough trunk. A man lay sleeping, with his head back and his mouth open. Snores popped and bubbled from him. He cradled a stoneware jug between his arm and his left side. A sword in a well-worn scabbard was strapped to his hip. His hair was long, brown and worn in the style of the western military, pulled back and tied with a leather thong. He would have been clean-shaven except for a day's growth of beard that showed touches of gray. Charity thought his face looked pleasant in spite of the beard. His clothes showed a mixture of brown and olive green with worn areas at the knees. Leather edging protected the bottom of his jacket.
“What do you think he is?” Charity sat down on a convenient rock.
Adam sniffed the opening of the jug. “Drunk, I'd say. This smells like the hard cider that they used to put up back home. Remember when we snuck into the Vintner's shed?”
Charity let out a snort of muffled laughter. She and Adam had been sick for the whole of the next day, and to make it worse, Uncle Bal got the giggles every time he saw them. It was a lesson they never forgot.
The memory brought out the laughter in Adam, too. The vision of the Vintner's face when he had discovered them both drunk on the floor nearly doubled him over.
“Pipe down, will you? Can't you let a man sleep?” The voice stopped their merriment. The man with the jug looked at them from under the hand with which he shaded his eyes. “Who in the pit are you?”
“I'm Adam.”
“Charity.”
He groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, and pushed up onto his hands and knees. Then he sat back onto his haunches, and rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. “Oh, my head. What time is it, anyway?” He held up a hand to prevent their reply. “No, don't tell me, it doesn't matter. You come from Silgert?”
They nodded.
“Run away or run off?”
“I beg your pardon?” Charity leaned forward on her rock.
“Look, miss.” He shielded his eyes again. “Damn, it's bright. No one leaves that dump unless they're running away or they're being run off. The only people who stay there are the fools who deserve each other. I'm running away, myself. Had a little party last night celebrating my freedom. Ethan's the name.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“We'll see about that.” He wiped his mouth. “Have you got anything on you to drink?”
Adam handed him a flask of water. He spat it out after taking a sip. “Pffauugh! Are you trying to poison me? I said something to drink, not water.”
“You want more of what made you sick?” Charity couldn't believe the request.
He chuckled, and then groaned and rubbed his temples again. “Hair of the dog, you know? It'll take the edge off this headache.”
Adam rummaged around in his pack, and pulled out a small bag. He took a vial out of the bag, and poured a small amount of white powder out of it into a cup he took out of the pack, as well. Then he added some of the water, and stirred it with his finger. Adam waited for a few seconds and then handed it to the man. “Here, drink this. It may taste a little bitter, but it will help you lose the headache.”
Ethan looked at the cup warily, as if it held some dire poison. “You want me to drink this?”
Adam repacked his bag. “Unless you want to keep your headache. I learned this from a herb master, and it works, believe me.”
The man's hand trembled slightly as he drew the cup closer to his mouth, and then another spasm went through his scalp. He gripped the cup tightly, and drained it in one. “The kid was right, it's as bitter as Cascara,” he thought. He could feel his mouth puckering, and he reached for the flask of water to clear the taste out of his mouth. “Ugghh. That was foul! What was in that, lizard guts?”
“No, Willit Bark powder, good for just about any ache you've got including the one brought on by too much drink.”
The man drank more of the water. “So, how long?”
“How long for what?”
“How long until I feel better?”
Charity looked at the sun as it passed behind a small cloud. “Should be soon, now. You've heard our names, what was yours again?”
He stood up from his crouch, and wiped his right hand on his thigh. Then held it out to Adam. “Ethan, like I said. My name's Ethan.” He shook Adam's hand and bowed to Charity. “I used to be the Baron's Watchman in Silgert. Had my fill of the place, especially Vedder.”
“The preacher?”
“Ah, you've met him huh?”
“Charity grimaced. “Only from a distance, and that was close enough. The man is a monster building a village of monsters.”
Ethan straightened his tunic; Adam noticed the man's unconscious check of his sword's readiness. “Yes, you've met him. He's the prime reason I deserted my post.”
“You're a deserter?” Adam fell back a step.
“Don't be so quick to judge, boy.” Ethan's reply was heated, but his hand kept away from the hilt of his sword. “What time did you spend in Silgert, two, maybe three days?”
“One, sort of.”
“That long?” He loosed a bitter laugh. “Try spending three long summers there, and then judge my decision. Maybe then I'll listen; right now I couldn't give a flick.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Adam a wry look. “Right on the money, boy. That potion of yours worked. You could make a fortune selling that stuff in Dunwattle.”
Charity pushed the cat's head back into its sling. “Is it far from here, this Dunwattle?”
Ethan looked at her. It's on the Southern end of this forest. The path takes you to the eastern edge of town and the Wildflower Inn.” He smiled in memory. “Home of the best ale in the western lands, and some of the friendliest barmaids in the whole of the Barony.”
“Barony?”
He looked at them out of the corner of his eye. “Did you two just fall out of a hole? The Barony of Spu. You're standing on its soil, now. You've probably been walking on it for the past fortnight.”
Adam stepped forward. “Look, we're strangers here, and we don't know our way around. We've never heard of Dunwattle, or Spu for that matter.”
Ethan looked at them again, holding them for a number of long seconds with his gaze. “Sister, eh? Strangers, you say?” He reached down and picked up the bedroll he'd been using as a pillow, and began striding up the path into the forest. “Well, come on, then. If I'm to guide you to Dunwattle, we may as well get going.” There was no sign of his checking to see if they'd follow.
“Adam, we didn't ask him to guide us.” Charity put her bags back over her shoulder.
“I know.” Adam reshouldered his pack. “I think this is his way of saying thank you. We may as well catch up with him.” He started walking at a speed that ate up the distance between them and Ethan. Charity followed, adjusting her bags as she walked.
They set up camp with a good amount of daylight left. Ethan said that there was no use in them rushing their pace, as the town would still be there a day later, just as it would a day earlier. He leaned back against an old Alder tree as the twins finished laying out their bedrolls. “That's quite a sword you've got on your hip, lad, know how to use it?”
Adam felt a cold wave wash over him. His memory flashed back to the night in Bustlebun's Inn. The red headed man had asked him the same thing. He heard again the surprised grunt of pain as his blade slipped into the man's side. Shaking the memory off, he smiled at Ethan. “A little.”
Ethan straightened up and drew his sword in one smooth motion. He poised himself in en garde, and motioned to Adam with the tip of his sword. “We've got daylight left. Let's see what you've got.”
Adam shook his head no. “I don't want to hurt you.”
“I doubt you'll even come close to touching me. Come on, it'll be better than just sitting around and waiting for the moon.”
“Are you sure?” Adam looked to Charity. She had her hand on her bow, watching Ethan.
Ethan followed his gaze, and nodded to Charity. “Relax, little lady, I don't want to hurt the boy. This land is a dangerous place, and I just might be able to teach him something about protecting himself, and you.”
Charity looked at Adam, and took her hand off her bow. She nodded at him, and he stepped into the cleared area across from Ethan.
“OK, who knows, it might be fun.” He drew his sword, and the silver ring of it filled the campsite.
Ethan whistled. “Where did you get that blade, lad? That's a Royal's weapon, if I don't miss my guess.”
Adam moved the sword through a series of swoops and swirls. The tip of it sang as it parted the air. “It was given to me as an inheritance, as for the other I can't say.”
“Or won't say, eh?” Ethan came back en garde, . “Let's see what you have, my prince.”
Adam decided against answering Ethan's jibe, and let the feeling of the sword flow into him. He was at least a hand taller than he had been back at Bustlebun's, and nearly a stone heavier, and yet the blade still felt as superbly balanced in his hand as it had before.
Ethan tapped the tip of his sword against Adam's, testing him. He had to admit it; the lad had guts. There was no flinch away from his taps; the blade he held was as steady as stone. Ethan pulled back slightly, lifted the tip of his sword a touch, and moved in for a disarm trick he'd learned years ago. The lad surprised him by reversing the spin of his blade, blocking the trick, and causing Ethan to have to parry a rapid riposte. He moved off the parry, and countered in high position. The counter blocked, his blade slid down and away out of the control area. Thrust and parry and counter thrust continued, each passage turning faster and faster until the blades flickered like lightning.
Ethan knew he had to pull some old tricks out of his hat, or the boy would wear him down. He ducked a swipe that parted some of the hairs on his head, and used the duck to continue his drop to the ground, than swung his blade like a scythe, but the kid brought his knees up and the blow passed harmlessly beneath him. This left Ethan open to an overhead blow that would have split him like goose for dinner if he hadn't tucked and rolled through the blow. He finished the roll, and sprang up in a spin that caught Adam facing the wrong way.
“Gottcha.” Ethan tapped the tip of his sword against his opponent's backside.
Adam dropped the sword to his side, and slumped his shoulders in defeat. “You got me. I'd like to learn that trick.”
Ethan panted, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Kid, I'll be glad to teach you all the tricks I know.” He panted again. “If it doesn't kill me first. Who taught you? They had to be a Blademaster, and I know of only two living today.”
Adam shuffled his feet. “I ... uh, I kind of taught myself.”
Ethan snapped a look at Charity over his shoulder. “Is he having fun at my expense?”
Charity shook her head no. “We don't know any blademasters.”
“Not Bilardi? Not Morgan?”
“No one. We just use what we were given.”
He looked back at Adam. “This is true?”
Adam sheathed his sword. “Yes, all of it.”
Ethan looked back at Charity. “And you handle a blade as well as he does?”
Charity laughed. “No, I wouldn't even know which end to hold. I use this.” She held up her bow. “I don't really know why, but I can feel where the arrow needs to go. I haven't missed, yet.”
Ethan shook his head in mock disgust. “Naturals. A couple of flickin’ naturals.” He saw the expression on their faces, and quickly held up a hand to forestall any misunderstanding. “Don't take me wrong, please. I'm not mocking you.”
Adam sat down next to Charity. and began whittling tinder into a pile for the fire, using a knife Milward had given him. “What are you doing then, praising us?”
Ethan's chuckle was rueful. “In a way, that's exactly what I'm doing.” He looked up sharply at Adam. “How old are you, boy? Sixteen summers?”
“About.”
He shook his head again. “And you don't even realized what you just did, do you? Laddie, there are only two swordsmen in the known lands that can beat me in a fair match, all other things being equal.”
“But you beat me.”
“Because I know more than you do, lad, not because I'm better. I'll wager that by the time you've reached your maturity, not even Morgan or Bilardi would be willing to draw on you, if you live that long.”
Charity looked up from playing with the cat. “What do you mean?”
He sighed and sat down, leaning his back against the Alder tree. “I told you. This world is a dangerous place for someone like me, much less a couple of youngsters barely into legal age.” He leaned forward, his eyes showing white all around. “Trolls, giants, Dragons, not to mention the occasional highwayman could be lurking behind the next tree. Have you ever seen a troll? Their heads brush the treetops, and they munch on rocks like candy.”
He continued on, warming to his tale. The twins decided not to tell him of their experiences, so as to not spoil the moment. Ethan had the way of the minstrel about him, with his voice rising and falling to match the character of the story. He spoke until the moon rose high in the evening sky, and the shadows of night birds passed in front of its pale light. Finally, his story slowed, and he paused to stretch and yawn. “Well,” He yawned hugely and smacked his lips. “I'm going to curl up for the night. I suggest you do, as well. We've a long hike in front of us, and the deep forest has few spots suitable for camping.”
Adam and Charity climbed into their bedrolls. Neither of them felt the tiniest bit sleepy. Charity held her blanket open so the cat could snuggle in against her. “Adam?”
“Yes?” The blanket muffled his voice.
“The magik scares me. You could have killed Ethan. Do you know that?”
“I was trying not to hurt him, Charity.”
“That's what I mean. What has happened to us, Adam? I could follow the path of a fly, and knock it out of the air with an arrow if I wanted to. We're not normal any more, are we?”
Adam took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Charity, do you feel like treating anyone the way we were treated back in the village?”
“No.” Her voice was small.
“Neither do I. I think we're both going to be OK. Goodnight, Charity.”
“Goodnight, Adam.”
* * * * At dawn they attacked. The favorite sons of Spu and Avern were known to ride their mounts together along the eastern shore of Firth Lake during the late summer mornings when the air held the crisp promise of turning leaves. Dozens of men garbed in black from their toes to their eyes appeared in the high grass on either side of the lakefront trail. The Baron's son drew his rapier, and struck. One of the attackers died, but too many were there to take his place. The heir to the Avernese throne had no time at all, for six of the black-clad figures pulled him from his saddle, their arms rising and falling as the blows rained down. In a matter of minutes, the trail was empty save for a few red stains discoloring the hard-packed soil.
* * * * The pack waited while he sniffed the trail. The scent told him much more than mere sight would. The history of all who had passed for many sleeps lay here. Some of the scent trails were like colors, and lay upon each other as layers in a painting. His old friend the Wizard had passed this place during the last sleep. A wave of nostalgia moved through him. He would visit the Wizard. Not many of the two legs were worth visiting, and none of them worth eating. The Wizard filled his mind like a good meal, and he missed that.
The Alpha Wolf turned from the walking path that centuries of feet had worn into the rock and soil back to the pack that waited for him in the trees. The wolves used the trails only as message boards; they could travel just as quickly through the trees and have the added security of their cover, as well. The Wizard's scent trail told him his friend was journeying to the high ground, and that in a very little while, just a few sleeps; the pack would catch up with him. He rubbed noses with his mate, and suffered the excesses of the cubs as they greeted his return into the wood. The pack as a whole raised the cubs, though their feeding was their mother's duty.
“Come,” He told her in the language of the wolves. “We go to meet our friend Two Legs.”
* * * * Milward hiked briskly along the forest path that eventually would lead him to the pass below Black Ben Mountain. He was looking forward to visiting the clerics of Bardoc at Ulsta. The town lay on the high prairie beyond the northern end of the Longwood. They claimed to have one of the oldest copies of Labad's prophecy, possibly even older than the one in the Library of Grisham. Possibly, but he did not have the months it would take to get to Grisham. If he read the signs right, the first great trial of the two was building to a climax, and he needed to be there to play his part. He plucked a wild plum from a branch as he hiked, and munched it as he thought on the future. At the very least, it was going to be an exciting time.
* * * * Adam woke to the smell of breakfast. “Again?” He thought. “One of these mornings I'm going to be the first one up, and have breakfast waiting for them.”
“Top of the morning, lad.” Ethan handed him a biscuit and a cup of steaming Tisane.
Charity poked her head out of her covers. “It's cool this morning.”
Ethan looked up. “Early fog. It usually comes in later in the year. Most of the summer mornings start this way. It's because of the cold waters of the Circle Sea, and then there's Firth Lake, South of us. It's as deep as the pit, and cold, as well. Sometimes the fog lays upon it so thickly that you'd swear Bardoc himself was preparing a mattress for his night's sleep.”
Adam chewed the last of his biscuit. “What's the plan for today? How far do we have to go?”
Ethan speared a biscuit out of the pan and pulled it off the tip of his knife. “I figure we're about one half the way to Dunwattle. If we push our pace, we should be able to make the Inn there before the moon is up.”
Adam looked at Charity. She was gathering her gear as she munched breakfast. “Then we had best get an early start. I'll get my stuff.”
The quick pace helped an uneventful morning pass quickly. The forest south of Silgert looked much the same as the forest they passed through on the way to that town. The path for much of the way followed a very slight curve to the Southwest with an easy downhill grade. Ethan had told the truth when he said there would be few places suitable for camping in the deep forest. Underbrush grew thick, and in many places brambles offered early berries but no room to sit and eat them. They rested in a widening of the path where it passed through a grove of Mulberry trees. Some of the pollen caused Ethan's nose to itch, and after he sneezed a couple of times he suggested they “get out of the flickin’ place, and move on.”
Near the middle of the afternoon they came upon a gulch that cut through the path, causing them to have to climb down into it, and wade through muddy water with more mud waiting for them in the climb back up to the path on the other side.
The cat complained loudly as Charity placed her onto the shelf above her, near the top of the gulch. Charity looked up at her. “Oh settle down, my feet are much worse off than yours are.” She looked back at Adam and Ethan as they wadded out of the water. “Lovely route you've chosen here. Do you think we could find one with a bit more mud next time so we can finish the job on our clothes?”
“Come on, Charity. It's not my fault or Ethan's that this gulch is here, and we can't control the weather.” Adam couldn't avoid the look Charity gave him. It spoke volumes concerning her view of what the future held.
“Well said, lad.” Ethan pulled his left boot free of the mud. It came with a sucking pop. “The baths at the Wildflower are well known for their ability to cause mud to vanish.” He grinned at Charity. “Besides, missy, some lads like a little wet dirt on a girl.”
She sniffed and turned back to climb out of the gulch. The cat stretched herself against Charity's leg, asking to be put back up where she belonged.
They looked at themselves after Ethan finished his climb out of the gulch. They were all muddy to the knees, Ethan to about a hand below. Mud streaked their tunics where they'd rubbed against the bank during their climb. Ethan brushed at his trousers. “It's a good thing the day is warm; this should wear off, for the most part.”
Charity gave him a level stare.” We'll see about that.” She said with a voice as flat as her eyes.
The moon was showing its leading edge over the mountains in the east as they came out of the forest. They could see Dunwattle's lights beyond the cornfield that grew to the forest edge. The path spread into a road that would allow two carts and oxen to pass each other. The lights of the farmers’ cottages shone along the edge of the field. A few of the farm workers looked at the trio curiously as they crossed the last league from the forest to the town.
From the first, Dunwattle proved to be a different kind of town from Silgert. The Wildflower Inn welcomed them, with its door wide open to the evening air. The happy sound of people having a good time rolled over them as they entered the Inn.
“Well, bless my beard, here's some folks new to town. Welcome to the Wildflower Inn, good people. What can old Jully do for you?”
Adam looked at the Innkeeper, thinking that there must be a mold somewhere where Innkeepers were cast. Jully could have worn Bustlebun's clothing, and upon closer inspection, he very well may have been doing just that. He had the same florid complexion and the same well-fed look as their old friend. Though obviously a number of years younger, Jully also had the same genial personality Bustlebun used to grace his own place of business.
Ethan brushed some more of the dried mud off his tunic. “Right now, Innkeeper, I think three hot baths would suit us better than three cold ales.”
Jully looked more closely at his new guests. His eyes widened as he noticed their state. “Willard!” He bellowed.
A boy a few years Adam's junior appeared. “Yes, Da?”
“Pour three tubs full of the heated bath water.” He looked at the trio one more time. “Use two rooms; we've a lady to consider.”

Chapter Six
Charity sank into the heated water with a sigh of contentment. It felt wonderful to just lie back and float in the steaming bath. A bar of cake soap floated around her toes, and the cat took tentative swipes at it as it passed beneath her perch on the thick edge of the tub.
She allowed herself to sink under the water to wet her hair, and then she surfaced and grabbed the bar of soap. It lathered quickly into a mass of suds and bubbles that she worked deep into her hair. The first rinse came out tan. “I knew I was looking like a pig.” She thought.
She lathered up again, and rinsed until the water came away clear. The cat took great joy in chasing the bubbles as they tried to escape the confines of the tub. She was working on her second overall lather when she noticed something red floating in the water.
Willard had his hands full. Da barely gave him enough time to catch a nibble as he passed through the kitchen, much less time to catch his breath. Now he was wearing himself out hauling buckets of water to and from the heater to the tubs, and to and from the well to the heater for the three new ones. He liked the looks of the girl, even though she was older than he was. He was about to knock on the door to the girl's bath when he heard the scream.
He dropped the bucket spilling hot water over his shoes. “Are you ok, miss? Shall I come in?”
“No!” The word came out in a frantic shriek. “No, no thank you.” Her voice leveled out. “I'm all right. I thought I saw a spider.”
“I've got more hot water.” He hoped the spider wasn't a big one. He was fearful scared of spiders.” I'll set it down outside the door".
“Thank you, Willard.” Charity looked at her bath water with a mixture of resignation and disgust. She was bleeding. Back when it first started, Aunt Doreen had said to her that she was a woman, officially. She became a member of a club that offered her the privileges of conceiving and bearing children along with periods of temper and cramps that had, on occasion, driven Uncle Bal to the woods for the night. She also remembered Aunt Doreen telling her that those periods could come on unexpectedly, and probably during the most inconvenient time. Aunt also said babies functioned in much the same way.
She climbed out of the tub and looked at herself. With silent apologies to Jully, she sat down to begin tearing the towel into strips. The cat peaked out from the hiding place it had fled to when she screamed.
“Sorry, little one, but you're lucky you will never have to go through this.” Charity continued to tear the strips, and then paused. Aunt Doreen had said it was one of the punishments the Creator had put on women to remind them of their place in the world. Why, then, did she feel lucky?
She retrieved the bucket from outside the door after wrapping one of the towels around herself. She noticed her breasts had grown larger again. Changes, so many changes in her life. Her brother was taller, and his voice deeper. They were both being pushed somewhere by this magik; where would it all end?
* * * * Ethan drained the last of his third ale. He set the cup down with a thump, and leaned back, releasing his breath with a belch and a sigh. “Ah. That is good. How's the stew?”
Adam and Charity looked up, their mouths full. Ethan signaled for another ale, “I'll take that as a ‘good'.”
Adam swallowed his mouthful. “Aren't you going to have any?”
“No, I'm drinking my dinner tonight.”
Charity gestured with her spoon. “What about tomorrow's headache?”
“I know what you're thinking, Ethan the drunk, huh? Don't worry about that, I'm merely celebrating the next phase of my death.”
“You're dying?” Adam and Charity dropped their spoons as one.
“Of course, I'm dying. See these?” He lifted some of the gray hairs that mixed in with his brown. “You don't have any because you're still living, still growing. There are only two ways to be in this life. You're either living or dying. I may continue to die for the next fifty years. It can be a slow process, dying.”
“I don't understand.” Charity pushed the rest of her stew aside.
Ethan picked up his cup of ale, and looked at it. “This ale was living while it brewed. Its flavors grew, and it developed the bubbles that create the foam that gives it character. You,” he pointed at the twins, “are still growing, just like I said earlier. Living things grow; am I correct?”
They nodded.
“Of course, I am.” He sipped some ale. “Dying things don't grow. They slowly wither, like a flower that drops its petals. This,” he held up the gray hair again. “Is the way we wither, along with these.” He traced the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. “I'm withering, just like any other flower in the garden. I, however, plan on making something worthwhile of my death. The ale is just a way of helping me think.”
“Have you thought of anything?” Charity asked, as she folded her arms under her on the tabletop.
“Maybe this town needs a good watchman.” Adam wiped out his stew bowl with a hunk of bread.
Ethan put his ale down with a look of disgust. “I've had my fill of that sort of work. I've been considering carpentry.” He glared at Adam's snicker. “I didn't tell you, laddie buck, so I'll forgive the laughter at my expense, but I was trained as a carpenter's apprentice long before I ever picked up a sword. My master was more than just a house framer, too; he taught me how to make furniture, spinning wheels and other useful items. It's honest work, and I've been missing it.”
“Where would you look?” Charity used to watch Aunt spin wool into yarn with a spindle Uncle had carved for her.
Ethan finished off his fourth ale. His eyes were beginning to glaze a bit. “Dunwattle's at least twice the size of Silgert. There's bound to be a need for someone who can work with wood in more ways than just building a fire with it. I'll find out where the woodworkers and carpenters hang out, and see who needs help. That's my plan, what about you two?”
They looked at each other, and then at Ethan. “Uh ... we don't have any plans.” Charity looked guilty.
Adam looked like he was rubbing one toe in the dust. “We've just been taking it one day at a time.”
Ethan roared with laughter. He laughed until his shoulders shook, and tears were coming out of his eyes. He pounded the table top with the flat of his hand. “I thought ... I thought...” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “I thought I was the reckless one, and you ... you are stepping out into this world just taking each day as it comes?”
They looked uncomfortable and stubborn at the same time. Adam leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “We've done well, so far.”
“Sure you have, lad.” Ethan still chuckled. “You've had Bardoc's own luck. You've run into sweet fellows like that lovely giant couple and me. How did that go again?”
“You've made your point.” Adam grumbled, remembering Milward telling him that it hurt a lot less to admit it when you were wrong right away than later. “What should we do?”
“Get jobs.”
Charity looked worried. “Jobs? We have no skills, how can we find jobs?”
Ethan looked at her. “Are you serious? There are wealthy traders and several Lords I know of who would give you piles of gold to lease your skill with a bow, not to mention this lad here and his sword.” He sniffed. “Skills! Pffagh! You've more skills in your little fingers than the entire Western Watch has to a man.”
Adam looked thoughtful. “I think we should try something with a little less notoriety in it, for a while. We need to learn more about where we are. I think if we become celebrities that part will be harder to do.”
“What will we do, then?” Charity shifted her gaze back and forth between Adam and Ethan.
Adam picked up his glass of juice. “We could apprentice ourselves to some worthy Craft master. We may be a little old to be junior apprentices, but I know I can do a lot more than an eight year old boy can.”
“I once thought I would like to learn how to sew like Aunt did for us and Uncle, even though she only had rags and sacks to work with. I remember some of what she tried to show me.” Charity mused. “You could work for a butcher, Adam. Remember when you used to help Uncle prepare the game he brought home?”
“But it was just rabbits and other small game. I know nothing about cows and such.”
Ethan stood up from the table. He swayed a little, and then caught himself by grabbing the edge of the table. “You two work it out between you. I'm going to bed.” He looked around the Inn's common room. “Looks like most everyone else has the same idea, maybe you should sleep on it.” He turned and headed toward the stairs to the bedrooms, listing slightly to the side as he walked.
Charity turned to Adam. “It is late. Maybe we should sleep on it.”
Adam stifled a yawn. “I suppose so. Have we really been as reckless as Ethan says?”
She stood up and stretched. “I think we've been as lucky as he says. Reckless? I'm not sure. How much of this is destiny, as the Dwarves said, and how much is us just not being prepared for being dropped into a world other than the one we were born into?” She shook her head. “I don't know, Adam. I do believe we should take our time here. Dunwattle is much nicer than Silgert, that's for sure.”
He laughed. “True. Silgert made our village seem like a little slice of paradise.” He yawned again. “I'm going to follow Ethan's advice, and sleep on it. Goodnight, Charity.”
“Goodnight, Adam.”
Ethan was gone when they made their way down to the common room the next morning. Jully had Willard serve them their breakfast while he supervised the brewing of the next batch of Ale. “That friend of yours could make me a rich man if I could find a dozen more like him. Man drinks a bushel full, he does. Near emptied one of my casks all by hisself.”
The breakfast Willard set before them was simple, but plentiful, as seemed to be the way in most Inns. A heaping bowl of thick porridge was supplemented by steaming fat sausages that popped when the knife was stuck into them. A pitcher of cream sat nearby to be poured over the porridge, and butter and honey were at hand to complete the meal.
They both had wakened with appetites, and they dug into the meal eagerly. For several minutes only the sounds of chewing and swallowing came from their table.
“Some hot tisane, miss?” Willard stood by her side of the table, holding a steaming pot by its wire-wrapped handle.
Charity slid her mug towards him. “Yes, thank you,”
Adam slid his across the table as well. “I'll have some too, thanks.”
“Will you be staying long?” Willard sounded hopeful. Adam thought to himself that the boy looked smitten with Charity.
She smiled at Willard, and the flush went up past his ears. “We're not sure yet, Willard. My brother and I need to look for jobs.”
“Jobs, ya say?” A grizzled bear of a man spoke up from a table next to one of the front windows.
Adam and Charity turned toward the voice. The man motioned them over. He was in the process of devouring a huge breakfast of biscuits and sausage smothered in some kind of savory smelling gravy. He indicated with a wave of a hand covered in graying hair where they should sit. “I heard you talking. Sorry for eavesdropping; it's a hobby of mine that keeps me content in my old age. What's this about you two looking for jobs?”
Adam took the lead with a glance at his sister. “Just what you heard, I guess. We're new to the town, and we decided that if we're going to stay here, we might as well have jobs. We're going to go out into the town this morning, and start looking.”
“Well, you can stop looking.” He pushed a biscuit into his mouth and chewed.
“What do you mean?” Adam was afraid they were about to be run out of this town, too. The man looked tough enough to do it on his own.
The chewer swallowed his biscuit, and speared a sausage with gravy on it. “I mean,” He worked a morsel loose from his teeth with a forefinger. “You've found ‘em if you want ‘em.”
Charity took a step towards the man. “You have jobs for us?”
He smiled, showing large white square teeth, and stuck out a hand that engulfed Charity's. “Hersh, the Butcher, at your service, missy.” He looked at Adam. “And yours, as well, young man, if I may be so bold.”
“Why us? And why now?” Adam's developing sense of caution was poking him in the ribs.
Hersh nodded while he fished for another sausage. “Sensible question, lad, sensible question. Why you?” He held up a finger as thick as one of the sausages. “You're available, and you seem willing. Why now?” He held up another finger, a match for the first. “My oldest boy and his sister have set out on their own to seek their own fortune. All I've left me is my youngest, Ornette. He's a good lad, mind you. But he can't pull the weight by himself, so I ask you,” He mopped up some gravy with a biscuit. “Will you take the jobs?”
Charity pursed her lips, thinking. She looked at Hersh, and crossed her arms. “May I ask what the jobs are?”
Hersh threw his head back and laughed, his body shook. “Two sensible questions. You must be brother and sister. I thought so when I looked at you. Two peas in a pod, I said to myself, two peas in a pod.” He continued to chuckle.
“About my sister's question.” Adam held up a hand. “We mean no disrespect but we've run into some folks in the past that have given us cause to be wary.”
“Very well, lad.” Hersh stopped his chuckling. and leaned his forearms onto the table, which creaked in protest. “You ask around. Folks'll tell you old Hersh is an honest man who butchers honest meat. The work is long and hard, but rewarding, and you get to meet nearly everyone in town.”
“What about your wife?” Charity asked. “Doesn't she help you?”
“Widower. The fever took her nearly twelve winters back. Ornette was just a toddler, then. His brother and sister near raised him on their own so's I could run the shop. Could be why they left. Never had much chance for play back then, what with all that going on.” He sighed and levered himself up from the table. He towered over the twins, and his bulk was almost three of them together. “You make your decision. If you decide in my favor, I'll be in the shop. Anyone in town can point your way.” He dropped a couple of coins on the table, and left.
Jully had Willard show them the way to Hersh's shop. Willard nearly stumbled in his eagerness to get out of the Inn. He led them through the town, proud as a Pouter Pigeon to be their tour guide.
“Over there is Old man Falstaff's. Ain't no one better at Silversmithin'.
“That place be Mistress Wermott's. It be no place for the likes of us. Da said a man can get the drops there. Whatever they be. I don't want to find out.”
“We be turnin’ left here next to the Millery. Hi, Mr. Sandalwood. He be one of Da's best friends. Da buys his Barley there.”
“Down there be the Sorrows. We be going the opposite way. Folks what wind up there be needing a heap o’ help, that's for sure. Some of Da's friends be sending food an’ such sometimes ‘cause of the sickness an’ fever, you know.”
“There be Mr. Hersh's shop. I can always tell when he be working in the back ‘cause of the smell, like he is now.”
Adam and Charity decided Willard must have developed a partial immunity to the odor that hit them when they turned that last corner. It carried a muskiness not unlike that of an irritated Skunk, but with a sweetish overtone that somehow made the smell even more obnoxious than mere skunk alone.
Charity gasped and held her hand over her nose and mouth. “Is it always like this?”
Willard shrugged. “Naw, Mr. Hersh, he only renders once a week or so. He says he don't want it sittn’ around like, and stinkin’ up the place.”
Adam held down a gag. “That's very considerate of him.”
“He's a very considerate man, is Mr. Hersh.” Willard missed the irony entirely.
Charity started toward the steps leading into the Butcher Shop. Adam caught her by the tunic. “You're not going in there?”
She turned to him. “Of course I am. You remember what you said about feeling things? About when something felt right?” He nodded once, slowly. “Well, this is one of those times. You can stay out here if you want; I'm going in.” She tugged loose of his hold, and went up the steps and into the door.
Adam stood there at the base of the steps for a moment. Willard saw him bow his head, and then throw up his hands as if in resignation, and then take them two at a time.
Willard stood watching the door for a few minutes waiting to see if anything more exciting was going to happen. When the door remained dully quiet, he sighed and then headed back to the Inn, kicking a round stone ahead of him.
A pleasant-looking, heavyset young man looked up as the door to the shop opened. He turned his head, and called out. “Pa. Those two you said might show are here.”
Hersh appeared, filling the doorway to the rear of the shop with his bulk. He beamed an ear-to-ear smile at the twins. “So! You decided to give old Hersh a try, eh? Well, don't just be standing there like stumps; let me show you my place.”
The smell inside was considerably less obnoxious than what had hit them outside. They made their way around the front counter, which held a variety of meats cut into different sized slabs and sections depending upon whether it was fish, fowl, game or livestock. Hersh introduced the young man as his youngest son, Ornette, and then led them back into the workroom of his butcher shop. Ornette's eyes followed Charity as she passed him. He continued to look in her direction until she turned a corner and passed out of his line of sight. He stayed that way for a few seconds, and then returned to his task of wiping down the counter, with a small grin playing across his face.
“What do you think of my shop? Nice, eh?” Hersh indicated his possession with a broad swipe of his hand. The workroom was quite large, with a high ceiling that held a heavy beam. Connected to the beam was a very sturdy-looking pulley system that sported a thick rope. Attached to the rope hung a series of hooks. A few of the hooks supported carcasses of oxen. At the end of the pulley, a heavy door stood ajar. A cold fog rolled out of the gap between the door and its frame. A massive cutting table took up the center of the room. Part of an ox carcass lay on the table, with a pile of packages wrapped in wax paper stacked next to it. Open barrels lined the long wall to the left of the door. In some of them was an assortment of bones, in others lay scrapes and chunks of fat for rendering.
“It's ... very nice, Mr. Hersh.” Charity looked around her. Adam busied himself looking at the knives on the cutting table.
“Just Hersh, missy. I be a simple butcher not a lord.”
“That's what Bustlebun used to say, remember Charity?” Adam tested the edge of a cleaver, and then picked up a nearby stone. He began stroking the edge of the cleaver with it, using long smooth movements of his arm to push the stone.
Hersh watched Adam out of the corner of his eye while he explained to Charity the reason for the barrels. When he finished, he turned and looked at Adam, resting his hands on his hips. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Who taught you to use a stone, laddie?”
“Lately it seems I get asked that question whenever I do something in front of someone.” Adam put down the stone and the cleaver.
“You sharpen blades a lot, eh?” Hersh smiled.
Adam shook his head, “No, That's not what I mean.”
Charity broke in. “What he means is that we've had people ask us questions about where we learned to do something before. The last time wasn't too long ago.”
Hersh's smile dimmed. “Hey, now, I mean nothing by asking. I just be asking. You use that stone like you know what you're doing. Whoever taught you did the job right.”
Adam looked up at Hersh. “That's part of it. Nobody taught me. I just knew.”
Hersh's eyes widened. “You just knew? By Bardoc, that be amazing.” He tossed a joint of oxen onto the table in front of Adam. “Show me what you do with this.”
After Adam finished with the joint, Hersh stood there shaking his head. “You may know blades, lad, but you need someone to show you the way around a joint that be for sure.”
“I'm sorry I ruined it, Hersh.”
“It's all right, lad. We just turn it into stew meat, that's all. Something funny, missy?” Hersh turned at Charity's muffled snickering.
She took her hand away from her mouth. “After seeing him be so sure of himself for all this time...” She giggled again “You don't know what...” She covered her mouth and turned away, her shoulders shaking as she laughed.
Adam stood over the ruined joint, and glowered at his sister. “Do you want to have a go?” He held up the butcher knife.
Hersh took the knife away from him, and laid it back onto the cutting table. “Naw, laddie. She be learning another job if she wants it. The one my daughter had before she left. You practice on that other joint. Come,” He headed to a door on the back wall of the work area.” I'll show you my sausage maker.”
Charity felt misgivings brewing in her stomach as Hersh led her out of the workroom to an outbuilding separated by a small courtyard from the main shop.
Inside, the building was unremarkable. It had a counter that lined one wall with a deep sink at its near end. The other wall contained a strange device that had a crank handle sticking out its side like that one would see at the top of a well. The device had a funnel top and a round middle. A nozzle poked out of the middle perpendicular from the handle. Beneath the nozzle sat a large bowl. It gleamed as if freshly cleaned. A box sat on the counter behind the device. Hersh strode over to it, and reached into the box.
“This be my sausage maker, missy. Watch this.” He pulled some meat out of the box. It had been diced into small chunks, and was coated with strong-smelling herbs and spices. He filled the funnel with some of the meat. From a small pail behind the box with the meat, he pulled a glistening translucent tube, shook off the water, and fit one end of it onto the nozzle. As he turned the crank, the tube began to fill with the finely minced meat mixture. He continued to turn the handle until the mixture no longer came out of the nozzle.
“Now we make the links.” He moved the stuffed tube to the counter, and laid it out in a line next to a roll of string. He pulled a length of string off the roll, and tied off one end of the tube. He repeated the process at the other end, and then tied a loop tightly around the tube at a point roughly six inches down the length.
He turned and handed the string to Charity. “Here, you make some.”
Charity took the string, and tied off more links trying to equal the size of the one Hersh made. When she was done, there was a link sausage lying on the counter ready for boiling.
Hersh inspected the links, looking at the knots in the ties closely. He set the links back down onto the counter, and grunted. “You've a deft hand, missy. My daughter had one, too. Want me to show you how we mix the meat?”
“I think I did better with the second joint. I took my time, and I also took a close look at some of the cuts up front. At least Hersh didn't yell at me, all he did was pat me on the shoulder, and say, ‘Better, lad, better. Not good, but better.” Adam sat on the edge of one of the beds in their room.
Charity leaned back in her chair. “I had it a little better than that. All I had to do with the meat was chop it into little chunks, and mix in the spices. The problem was in mixing the spices; they had to be done just right, otherwise they wouldn't have been Hersh's sausages.”
“At least he seems patient.” Adam lay back on the bed, and yawned. “I wish I could feel the cuts the way I can the edge of a blade. Do you smell something?”
Charity wrinkled her nose. “No” she said quickly. “It must be leftovers from the rendering. I've got to use the jakes. I'll be back soon.”
“G'night.” His breathing began to slow.
* * * * Cloutier balanced the savory morsel on a wedge of toast, and conveyed it to his mouth. The cook had done well. The kidneys were perfect, warmed through but still quite rare, so that the flavor of the urine wasn't eliminated entirely from the complex. A buxom maid leaned forward, exposing a generous expanse of breast, and poured him some more tea. He sipped the bitter brew, and sighed. What did the peasantry see in that horrid tisane?
He picked up the small crystal bell to his left, and rang it once. The staff had learned to respond upon the first ring. If one did not, the second ring was the last thing they ever heard.
His manservant, Youch, appeared at the door. “Yes, Milord?”
“Are our, shall we say, guests? Resting comfortably as per my instructions?” Cloutier sipped some more tea, smiling inwardly at Youch's shudder. The lower classes superstitiously believed tea to cause impotence.
“Yes, Milord. They are in separate areas of the dungeon. They each believe they are prisoners of the other's city. The torture is proceeding as you deemed.”
Cloutier speared another kidney. “Good, good. Allow them to enjoy our hospitality for the winter, and then deposit them unconscious outside of their own city gates.” He placed the kidney on another toast wedge. “And Youch.”
“Milord?”
“They had best be alive enough to tell their stories, or you know...”
Youch shuddered again, but this time it wasn't over his Lord's choice of beverage.
Cloutier chewed the kidney and toast reflectively. The master would be pleased. Soon, the two he spoke of would find themselves caught in a war between Spu and Avern, cities that had been friends for centuries. Delicious.
* * * * Milward opened the ancient volume with care. As gentle as he was, a small crack still appeared in the tender vellum upon which the prophecy was inscribed. A gasp came from the cleric standing at his elbow.
“Oh, pipe down. It's not ruined.” Milward snapped. The cleric swallowed any further exclamations. One did not upset a cranky wizard unless one had an affinity for lily pads.
Milward studied the crabbed script. He cursed inwardly the obsessiveness clerics had towards exacting authenticity. Legend claimed Labad wrote his prophecy in his own blood using a dagger. The copier must have used a similar instrument; some of the letters were nearly indecipherable. He rubbed his eyes, and began reading the prophecy again from the top.
“The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them, but yet they persevere.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One, to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow, and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Foe of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill fathe,r but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
Milward closed the volume with trembling hands. He'd forgotten how terrifying Labad's vision was. It was all well and good for an academic discussion over brandy when all that was being discussed was a view of a possibility. This was happening now, and he needed to be with the twins now. His gut twisted with anxiety and he brushed past the cleric in his haste to get back to the road. This was no time for a leisurely stroll through the woods, he had to use the quickest method possible, and that meant that he needed a lot of room for what he intended to do.
The Clerics watched the Wizard scuttle out of their Monastery without a word being said on either side. Milward had too much on his mind, and the Clerics wanted to keep their diet free of flies.
Milward walked away from the Monastery until he had a good half league between himself and its door. Holding his arms out at his side, he began turning in a counterclockwise direction. A close observer would have seen small static discharges sparking off his eyebrows and his hair. He built up the speed of his turn until he was merely a blur. The static discharges increased with the speed of his spin until they resembled lightning strikes. Huge slabs of earth were blown apart as the bolts grounded into the soil. A vortex formed over the blur that was the wizard, and then, abruptly, he shot up into it and vanished. A clap of thunder boomed out from where the vortex had been, and rolled over the open field, disturbing napping wildlife and scaring the Clerics back into the Monastery.
* * * * The wolf pack watched the Wizard's departure from a knoll that extended out beyond an Alder grove above the field where he'd worked his shaping.
The Alpha wolf turned to his mate.” Our friend couldn't wait for us. We will go to the wood across from this place. The young will grow fat there.” Wolves, unlike men never bothered themselves with wondering why. Wolves never looked back.
She sniffed the air. The two-legs departure left a stink. “Do the three agree?”
He looked at his mate contritely. “We shall find out, my mate. Come.”
* * * * Cloutier considered his guests. “Are you quite sure they'll live?”
Youch swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked at the prisoners Cloutier called his guests. The winter had been less than kind on both of them. They looked to be more skeleton than man, and open sores in their skin festered, attracting flies. They were unconscious now, being fed a potion of tisane laced with Foxweed juice. They would be out for several hours, yet. If they died before being able to relate what they believed to their respective cities ... He shook off the horrifying mind picture, and turned to his Lord the Earl of Berggren.
“Be assured, milord, they will live to start your war. I have arranged for them to be ministered to on the journey and by separate physics outside of each city to ensure they do so. The physics will corroborate each tale. A nice touch, I believe, milord?”
Cloutier fingered the loose skin on one of his guest's arms, being careful to avoid touching the sores. He dropped the arm, and wiped his hand on a silken cloth. “Satisfactory, Youch. Most satisfactory.”
* * * * “Where did you find him?” The Baron wiped his hands on a clean cloth.
“Just outside the city gate, milord.” The guard held the cup of water so the injured man could drink.
The subject of the Baron's question was drinking greedily at the water. He was the eldest son of one of Spu's more prominent families. His parents had nearly driven the Baron insane with their constant pleas for aid when he'd turned up missing. Now that he'd been found outside the city gate, emaciated, dehydrated and covered with half-healed wounds and weeping sores, the Baron intended to find who to repay for this insult to his city.
* * * * “Find out where he's been.” The Duke snapped at the Physics tending his cousin. The early watch had discovered the boy as they opened the gates for morning freight to enter Avern's market square.
“That will take some time, milord.” The older of the two tending the boy said cautiously. “At least until the fever breaks, and he is no longer delirious.”
“Hmmm.” The Duke was not pleased, but he knew better than to push the Physics too hard. “Patience is a virtue for those born with it", he thought. “Well, let me know when he begins to come out of it, not after.” He emphasized the word begins.
“Yes, milord.”
“Whoever is responsible for this is going to learn that some of us haven't forgotten the old way of exacting our revenge.” The Duke thought, as he stalked back to his office. A small stack of papers demanded attention, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of quartering, impaling, and other forms of artistic expression.
* * * * “That's it, lad. You may have made stewmeat out of that first joint, but by Labad you've learned quick. That's a deft touch you have, or my name isn't Hersh.”
Adam wiped the sweat away from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Hersh had continuously tossed him joints and sections of ox, swine, mutton, and various game animals all day, testing him on the different cuts one could make out of them. His tunic was soaked through with sweat, and his hands ached from gripping the knives and the bone saw. A cloth was wrapped around his left hand where a slip with one of the razor sharp fillet knives had removed a slice of knuckle. In spite of his discomfort, he did feel a swell of pride at his accomplishment. Whatever force, or destiny, was driving him seemed to also affect his ability with blades in Hersh's world as well as Ethan's. Each hunk of meat Hersh tossed in front of him seemed to be just another step up until he could almost see where the blade needed to go, where the saw needed to be laid.
He picked up a rag and wiped the knife he was holding clean, then slid it onto the block. “Thank you, Hersh. You're a good teacher, that's all.”
“Don't try to compliment my brother, Hersh. He's lousy at accepting praise.” Charity came into the workroom drying her hands. She had proved a quick study on the art of sausage making, and Hersh felt confident enough in her ability to follow his recipes that he had devoted most of his time to teaching Adam.
“Aye, that I be finding out, lass.” Hersh clapped Adam on the back with enough force to stagger him. “But he's a good lad, in spite of that fault.”
Adam's blush was apparent as he turned to wash his hands and put away the knives, cleaver and saw.
Charity tittered and took Hersh by the arm. “Shall we depart from the blushing prince, milord? Methinks he desires privacy anon.”
“Huh?” Then Hersh caught on. “By all means, my lady, let us heigh away, post haste.”
They left Adam glowering next to the sink, and paraded from the workroom arm in arm.
* * * * Ornette sat next to Willard, and tossed a meat scrap to the cat who caught it on the fly with her claws. Her tummy was decidedly rounder than when they first arrived in Dunwattle two weeks earlier. He picked another out of the bowl, and flipped it to the cat with his thumb. “I dunno, Willie, she don't seem to get the hint. Not that she ain't nice to me an’ all, but even when I brung her flowers, all I got was a ‘thank you, Ornette, they're very nice.’ This courtin’ stuff's hard.”
Willard had no idea of what to say to his friend. Ornette was a year older, and far wiser in the ways of the world than he was. The lady in question, Charity, was, in his mind, far, far above his station. That Ornette even considered that he had a chance was achievement worthy of huzzahs in itself. He tried to compose an answer that would sound wise and worldly. “Well, Orn, You know I was the one whut brung her th’ hot water when she come into town.”
“I know, Willie.” Willard had only told that story on a daily basis for the past two weeks.
“Well, when she come out of th’ bath, I near saw her figgin, I did.”
“I know, Willie.” Ornette tossed another scrap to the cat.
“An’ she patted my cheek, she did.”
“I know, Willie.”
Well ... I be thinkin’ that maybe she might be, I'm only thinkin’ mind you, lookin’ fer a hero type ... maybe. You think?”
Ornette considered his friend's suggestion. Much as he hated to admit it, Willie could have struck near the truth of the matter. Bardoc knows, he was no hero, not like her brother. He'd seen the size of the sword Adam wore when they first came into the shop. He also had no desire to arouse the wrath of the one who wielded that blade.
He placed his hand on Willard's shoulder. “I reckon so, Willie.”
* * * * Milward fumed, something was keeping him trapped within the vortex. The shaping had been blocked from completion. He traced the pattern of it in his mind's eye, inspecting the work as minutely as possible. Golden strokes mixed with silver, as was normal with this type of shaping. He turned his attention to the pattern below him, and found something that shouldn't be there, red strokes mixed in with the silver and gold as if someone had come behind him, and added to the painting. A name came to mind: Gilgafed.
After promising the Sorcerer a very nasty surprise once he freed himself from his impromptu prison, Milward had to admit it was ingenious. This shaping would hold him to the end of creation and beyond unless he managed to find the correct way to erase the red. Use the wrong technique, and it would collapse upon him, leaving nothing but a small greasy spot on the ether.
He focused his attention on Gilgafed's work, and began the slow process of tracing its path. He thought to himself. “One good thing. At least I can't get hungry here.”
* * * * “Well?” The Baron snapped his inquiry at the shaking functionary as the man entered his chambers.
“Avern, milord.”
“What?!” The Baron's shout blew the messenger back a step. “Avern? There has to be a mistake. Spu and Avern have been at peace since they were trading villages on an unnamed lake. He was riding with the son of Avern on that very lake when he disappeared!”
“There is no mistake, milord. He is most insistent on it, and his parents are demanding you declare war.”
The Baron considered his options. At best, he could only stall the enraged parents. Their money controlled the council, and the council controlled the collection of taxes that paid the bulk of Spu's soldier's salaries.
“Alverd!”
His aide came running."Yes, milord.” Alverd puffed.
“Get me a messenger. He's to take a note to Avern, it will be ready within the hour.”
* * * * “Spu!? You are absolutely sure he said, Spu?” The Duke was flabbergasted. “Take me to him. At once!”
The Duke bent over his cousin. The boy's lips were still split from his dehydration, and his eyes wouldn't focus, but he looked a little better. Thank Bardoc for that. “Speak to me, boy. Who did this to you?”
His cousin's eyes tried to track onto his face, and then closed. “My eyes won't work right.” He whispered.
The Duke held his hand and patted it. “They'll come back, boy. Give it time. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
“They ... they said they ... were from Spu. Said they were repaying us for violating the trade agreement.”
“Spu...” The name escaped from the Duke's lips like a slow curse. There had been peace between the two cities as long as they'd existed. Avern was faithful to the trade agreement. Had always been. Now it was time for something new.
* * * * “Gilgafed must have been practicing,” Milward thought, as he traced the path of the foreign shaping within his own. The red stroke fought him as he worked it, fading in and out of vision at random. “Yes, he must have been burning the midnight wretch.” Chuckling at his joke, he continued to trace the slippery stroke, matching his will against that of his enemy, picking at it cautiously but with a firmness of purpose. He had to be there for the twins, he had to be. According to the prophecy, unless he was badly mistaken, war was coming.
* * * * Charity mixed the herbs and spices into the bowl of meat. A bead of sweat dangled from the end of her nose, and then released and fell into the mixture. High summer was upon them. It was now over a year since they'd fallen into this world. She thought about all the changes she and her brother had gone through since that time he stood there telling her how he'd defended her honor. Too many to count. She'd walked out of the woods a girl, and now here she was making sausages and entering into womanhood.
Ornette came into the sausage hut carrying a box of cleaned entrails. “Da asked me to bring you these, Charity.”
“Thank you, Ornette.” Charity paused in her mixing to wipe her face with a dry cloth. At least the boy had stopped calling her Miss Charity, though he was still looking at her with mooneyes every time she caught his gaze. She was considering asking Adam to have a talk with him; that is, if Adam didn't terminally blush with the effort.
Ornette stood there a moment as if he had something he wanted to say, and then turned and left the hut.
Charity fastened the end of one of the cleaned swine intestines to the nozzle of the sausage maker, and began feeding the meat and spice mixture by turning the crank. When the translucent tube was filled, she moved it to the counter, and began tying off links as Hersh had shown her months ago.
Adam came in, wiping his face with one of the cloths he seemed to always have on him these days. “Are you about done? Hersh says we're having dinner at the Inn tonight.” He leaned over and sniffed her.” And, I think you should wash a bit before we go, don't you? You don't want him mistaking you for one of the hogs.”
He ducked the thrown intestine, and called out to her over his shoulder as he headed back to the main house. “I'll wait for you on the porch. By the way, Hersh wants us to bring our weapons, don't ask me why; he wouldn't tell me.”
“Our weapons?” She wondered. “Why would Hersh want us to bring our weapons? She hadn't picked up her bow in weeks. It felt rather good not to have the awkward weight of the quiver on her back. She looked in the direction of Adam's departure for a moment, and then turned to clean up from her sausage making before she went to take her bath.
The Inn was crowded when they arrived. Charity's bath had felt good enough that she had lingered a bit, and an impatient Adam had to pound on the door to rouse her.
Hersh waved them over to his table, and they wove their way through the crowd. Several people in the crowd called out to them, and a few of the younger women dimpled at Adam, whereas all of the younger men followed Charity's passage with an appraising look. Ornette shifted in his seat smugly as Charity sat next to him. He studiously avoided noting the fact that it was the only one left after Adam sat down.
A serving girl brought them drinks. Charity looked up as she was leaving. “Uh, I didn't want ale.”
Hersh motioned to her with his right hand. “Shh, missy. Leave it. I'll drink it for you. She'll be back.”
Charity looked at the foaming goblet. “But I didn't want it.”
Adam sipped his. He'd acquired a taste for the nut-brown beverage over the weeks he'd spent with Hersh learning his trade. The big man liked to spend his lunches talking about the butcher's life while he downed prodigious amounts of sausages and ale. Adam discovered one was usually more than enough for him, and he'd developed a technique of nursing it along, enjoying the bittersweet flavor. “What's the occasion, Hersh?”
The big Butcher leaned forward. The table creaked as it adjusted to the load. “Rumors, lad, and I be hoping that's all they be, too.”
Charity moved Ornette's hand back to his own lap. “Rumors of what?”
Hersh drained his ale and picked up Charity's.” War, lassie, war, and I be sayin’ no more just now. Wait till our Lord Mayor speaks his peace.” He downed half the ale in the goblet, and set it down with a thunk.
A dandy leaned on the table, and spoke to Hersh in a slurred stage whisper.” Hersh, old man, they're saying Avern is marshaling all of the Dairylands even to Southpoint. Hundreds of thousands of Lancers, and they're threatening to burn Dunwattle to the ground!”
Hersh leaned over and took the dandy by his ruffled shirt. “Belcon, you place too much faith in those drunken friends of yours, and you're drunk now. I'll be hearin’ no more rumorin’ comin’ from you this night, or I'll be workin’ on a new sausage recipe. Are you understandin’ me, Belcon?”
The dandy nodded vigorously, suddenly sober.
In spite of the seriousness of the occasion, Adam and Charity could not help smiling at Hersh's admonition to the dandy. Ornette sat there, wide-eyed.
“Avern is the city on the southern shore of Firth Lake, isn't it?” Adam had been trying to learn about the geography of the lands about them, though most of the folk in Dunwattle knew nothing of the lands beyond the two major cities of Spu and Avern. Some of them, like Belcon, had traveled throughout the Dairylands, even as far as Southpoint, thousands of leagues to the southern tip of the Western lands.
“Aye, lad, it is, and even if Belcon's ramblings had a grain of truth to them, we'd not be seein’ any lancers until late harvest, if even then.”
“Look. There's the Mayor.” Charity pointed to the landing where the stairs to the upstairs rooms made their ninety-degree turn.
The Lord Mayor was a red-faced man of an age with Hersh and Jully the Innkeeper. His surcoat was made of a wine-colored velvet that showed patches of wear at the elbows. His plus fours were of a fine make, but slightly dusty along with his buckle down shoes. The Lord Mayor did not appear to be a man who shirked a bit of labor when it was necessary. The size of his paunch showed he gave the same consideration to his supper table, as well. His florid face sported bushy orangeish eyebrows and mutton chop whiskers that were losing the battle to the creeping white hairs of middle age.
He rested a hand on the banister, and struck a pose that said, I'm not here just for show folks, give an ear. “People of Dunwattle. I've news that all of us must pay heed to.”
A voice from the back of the room called out. “We knows that Harry, skip th’ polytick an’ just tell us plain. We ain't afeared ta fight iffn’ we's gots to.”
The Lord Mayor relaxed from his pose and put both hands on his hips. “I know that voice. Keep to your pigs, Sammmel Gruen, and I'll keep to what the Baron's father put me here to do.”
“Besides eatin’ Hersh's sausages?” There was general laughter at that. The Mayor's penchant for the savory links was well known.
The Mayor reddened and called for quiet. Hersh stood and echoed the demand. The room stilled, and Hersh sat down and motioned for Harry to proceed.
The Mayor cleared his throat. “I have heard grave news, friends” A shabbily dressed man next to Ornette opened his mouth, but shut it at a glare from Hersh. “As some of you may have heard, there are rumors of war circulating.” Murmurs of agreement. “I have the sad duty to inform you that the rumors are founded in fact.” A gasp washed across the room, and then everyone began speaking at once.
He raised his hands for silence, and the clamor wound down like a balloon slowly losing its air. “Last week a messenger went south to Spu with the usual packet of scrolls, papers and some coin for banking. He arrived back here yesterday with terrible news.”
“What news?”
The Mayor favored the interruption with a frown. “As I was saying, Terrible news. The Duke of Avern has declared war upon Spu, and murdered the Envoy the Baron sent him.”
Another gasp but no clamor followed this news. “This happened two weeks ago, which leaves us little time to prepare for what may happen to our town.”
Hersh spoke to the twins in an undertone. “This is what I feared, which is why I asked you to bring your weapons. There is every chance we be seeing Avern's scout parties in Dunwattle this very night.”
“I thought Spu and Avern were friends.” Adam leaned in so he could speak to Hersh without disturbing those who were listening to the Mayor's plans for the defense of the town.
“Aye, they have been, for as long as anyone can remember.” Hersh reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Hush, now. Let's see what Mayor Harry has to say.”
The Mayor had moved into the positioning of key members of the community to defensive placements around the town. “...Now old Thom, you'll be best on the church tower with that eye sight of yours to see if trouble's coming our way. Fredl, if you can set up along Doggin's wall, I think...”
Adam took hold of Hersh's arm. “I think Charity and I should go back to the shop, and see if we can do something there.”
Hersh looked to Charity to see if she felt the same. She nodded. He blew out his cheeks in a gusty sigh. “Very well, then, it's a good thought, lad, go to it. You go with them, Ornette.”
“But Da...”
“None of that! Get going.”
The Mayor's voice continued behind them as they left the Inn."...Now Elizabetta, like it or not, we'll be needing a lot of bandages. If you can gather some of the ladies and...”
* * * * “Ahhh, here we go.” Milward found the working end of the red stroke.
“Oh ... blast him to the pit, and give him a double case of the stones.” He cursed Gilgafed under his breath as he found the knot at the end. It was complex in the extreme. Gilgafed had painted it closed after sculpting a trap within its many folds. Milward knew he could get out eventually, he had too many centuries of experience, but would he get out in time?
* * * * “Pour me another, will you, Cobain?” Gilgafed held his crystal goblet out to his servant. He could feel the wizard's frustration as he tried to break out of his trap. It was a stroke of good fortune that he had happened to be scrying as the wizard shaped the traveling. He had never worked so quickly before, and just now was recovering the energy lost in his spell, a hasty, but very nasty, effective block to the end of the traveling vortex that held a lovely little boobytrap within its thread. He maintained a link with his shaping so he could enjoy his old adversary's frustration.
Cobain filled his master's goblet with more of the blood red wine he favored, and waited. Gilgafed sniffed the wine and held the crystal goblet up to the light, and then drank. “Adequate, Cobain, adequate. Leave me, now, I have some contemplation that needs to be seen to.”
Cobain bowed out from his master's presence. Gilgafed sat in his chair, his fingers lightly tracing the scars that crept across his cheek.
* * * * Cloutier leaned over his bed, and gently patted the cheek of the maiden that lay across his bed. She did not respond to the pats. Cloutier sighed, and left the bed to go over to where his clothes lay. His master's power allowed him free reign within his tastes. Too bad they led to so many disappointments.
He pulled a silken cord next to the armoire, and then began dressing.
His manservant showed up as he was settling the gold circlet onto his brow. “Ah, there you are, Youch. What news of my little war?”
“None since the last pigeon, Milord.”
Cloutier adjusted his cravat.” Very well. Have my luncheon prepared. I'll have the baby asparagus, suckling swine and new potatoes. Oh, and Youch?”
“Milord?”
He pointed to the maiden in his bed. “Find me another one, will you? That one is broken.”
* * * * Charity finished inspecting the last of her arrows, and placed it into the quiver with the others. She looked at her brother. He was running his thumb along the edge of his sword. “Adam?”
“Uh hmmm?”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
He put the sword down and looked at his sister. Sometimes her ability with the bow caused him to forget that she was still a very young woman. “I really don't know. I'm hoping this is all a scare that doesn't come to pass, but I'm afraid we're going to find ourselves involved in the middle of a war.”
Charity hugged herself and looked into the distance. “I am, too.”

Chapter Seven
He had hoped to leave the villages alone, but orders to the contrary had been issued. The greased harnesses on their horses barely whispered as he and his patrol made their way into Dunwattle from the southwest. They'd crossed the Firth River at the ford two days earlier. If there had been no interruptions, the other patrol should be approaching from the southeast along the edge of the forest. The orders were specific. Try to spare as many as possible. Women and children were to be left alone except in cases where you had to defend yourself. At least they were being humane about it, if you could ever call war humane. He was thinking about his wife and children back in Avern when the arrow took him in the chest.
* * * * “Avernese!” The call went out from the Church tower where Old Thom kept watch. He was nocking another arrow to his bowstring as he yelled. The patrol fanned out and drew their swords. They held the round shield typical of Avern's military over their chests, steering their horses with their knees. Some of the men of Dunwattle came out to meet them, and were cut down in short order, as is often the case when shopkeepers battle experienced warriors.
Fredl hushed the men with him as they crouched behind Doggin's wall, dry stonework that ran along the eastern edge of Dunwattle, dividing the town from the farmland. He looked over the wall one more time. He thought he saw something twinkle in the moonlight. He was thinking he was wrong when the lance passed through him from behind.
* * * * “Adam! Soldiers!” Charity gathered up her quiver, and pushed the cat back into the shop as she ran in after it. Adam drew the shutters closed as the horsemen rode past. They had decided that the area around the sausage shed would be the safest during the night because of the deep shadows in and around that part of the shop. He felt his rock become warm, the first it had happened since before they stayed with Milward. He felt it with his fingers through his tunic, and then followed Charity as she herded Ornette out of the shop and into the courtyard. The boy was crying, and Charity was having a time keeping his voice down as he blubbered.
A glow appeared over the northeastern wall of the courtyard. Ornette cried out. “They've set the Church on fire! Those godless bastards!”
“Hush!” Charity shook him with her free hand. “Do you want them to hear you?” He hushed.
“Too late, Charity. They're here.” Adam drew his sword as a group of the invaders came out into the courtyard. One held a torch. Adam felt the arrow pass his head. It took the torch holder in the hand that held it.
“Aaarrggh!”
“Get them!” They charged across the courtyard. Adam tried to count them as they came. He reached a half dozen by the time he was engaged.
He parried an overhand cut by the one in front, and then had to jump back quickly to avoid a thrust by the one just behind him. He heard another scream as Charity's arrows found their target, and ducked a sweeping blow that came from behind and to his left. He had three of them after him and no idea of what to do first. He was merely reacting and trying to stay unskewered. The rock grew warmer, and the soldiers attacking him seemed to slow down. He saw an opening and passed the sword through the neck of the one to his left. Another duck and a roll such as the one Ethan showed him put him behind the other two. A broad swing of the blade caught them as they turned, and removed their heads from their shoulders.
Charity saw Adam decapitate the two soldiers as she pulled another arrow from her quiver. Ornette was in hysterics and a complete whittle when it came to being of help in this situation. The four soldiers who were left approached her warily after seeing what her arrows could do. Three of their number lay flat out on the ground, and a fourth was on the step of the workroom his hand pinned to the wall.
“Give it up, lady. There's nowhere to go, and we'd rather not have to kill you.” The one speaking was a little older than the others, and had a series of diagonal slashes running down the left sleeve of his tunic.
“Worry about yourselves.”
They all whirled towards the voice, and saw a young man in green and brown with a very deadly looking saber dripping blood. There was only the two of them to their four, so why did they feel outnumbered?
The older soldier lowered his sword, and sighed. “Look, son, I've nothing against you personally. I might even like you if I had a chance to get to know you, but I've got my orders, and you two either have to come with us, or defend yourselves.”
Charity lowered the aim of her bow and called out to the soldier. “Why? Why are you doing this? This town has done nothing to cause this.”
“You may be right, young lady. You may be right, but that doesn't change my orders.”
Adam shifted his stance. “So why don't you just leave, we'll go into the forest, and no one will be the wiser.” His smile was a death's mask. “And ... you get to live.”
The older soldier swallowed, and said sadly. “I'm sorry, son, but I can't do that.”
The sound of fighting drowned out the rest of what the soldier said, and then the fence gave way as a horse fell against it. A large knot of townsfolk, Avernese soldiers and men wearing another uniform surged through the breach in the fence. The melee pushed into the space between Adam, Charity and the Avernese soldiers. Adam soon found himself embroiled in a fight for his life as the crowd of combatants enveloped them.
“Adam!”
He heard Charity call his name. A whiskered face rose up before him swinging a blade, and he cut it down without a thought.
“Charity!” He tried to reach her. He could hear Ornette's wails. He'd probably survive, that kind usually did.
More of the crowd pushed between them. He could see Charity struggling to reach him, but being pushed back by shear weight of numbers. A lot of blades and lances were being waved aloft, but there wasn't room enough to swing one in combat so a few of the members of the crowd began using their fists, and then the knives came out.
“This way, lad.” A large hand grabbed Adam by the collar and hauled him backward out of the crowd.
“Hersh!” Adam twisted out of the Butcher's grip. “I've got to get to Charity. She's in danger!”
“Look out into that, lad!” Hersh's normally jovial voice was harsh with anxiety. “Do you really think you could get to her? My boy's out there. Don't you think I'd jump into that if I thought I could save him?” All we can do is wait and see if the Baron's men win the day.”
Adam stood in the doorway to Hersh's workroom. He could no longer tell where Charity was, and he could feel a frightening emptiness welling up in his gut as his impotence to help her became realized. No one seemed to be gaining ground in the battle. It surged back and forth before them like a pot on the boil. One especially aggressive Avernese made the mistake of charging Hersh and Adam. He met the Creator with a very surprised look on his face.
Hersh wiped the blood off his knife with one of the rags from his counter. “Come with me, lad. I think I see a way to the back.”
* * * * He had a hold on the end, finally. Now all he needed to do was pull his counterstroke in the right direction. There we go...
Gilgafed felt a tugging in the back of his mind. The wizard was erasing his trap! It couldn't be! He frantically formed a shaping, and sent it along the path of his control for the trap. It rebounded as if hitting a dense wall. He sent it again redoubled, and reeled back, gasping in pain as it backlashed along his nerves. He fell to the floor of his chamber, writhing. What was that old Wizard doing? How did he come to have such power?
* * * * “Around here, lad.” Hersh led Adam along an alley between the Butcher's courtyard and the Mayor's warehouse. It was a narrow, manmade canyon of ancient brick and stone with a wooden gate, at the end. They pushed through the gate and stepped out onto an open field thick with knee high grasses.
“There's the spot.” Hersh pointed to an old olive tree that grew against the back corner of his sausage shed. “I've a false door there. It's really part of the wall that comes off easy, never thought I'd have a need for it.”
The Butcher walked quickly around the tree, and swore softly. “Balls.”
Adam quickened his steps to see what was the trouble. A hole in the wall of the sausage shed greeted him. The false door lay in the grasses of the field. A night cricket hopped across it, and was grabbed as a quick meal by a passing lizard.
Hersh shook his head as he examined the back of his shed. “Someone's been here before us.” He pointed out the obvious.
Sounds of the melee in the courtyard filtered out through the shed. Adam could hear someone whimpering inside. He recognized the voice. “Hersh, Ornette's in the shed.”
The Butcher rushed past Adam and into the darkness. He found his son huddled in the corner behind the sausage maker.
Ornette saw his father, and threw his arms around Hersh's neck. “Da! Oh Da! Charity's gone! They took her away.”
Adam spun Ornette out of his father's arms, and held him by both shoulders. “Who took her? Where!? Tell me!”
“Soldiers. I don't know. They were so big, I was so scared, I couldn't ... couldn't...”
“There laddie, there, there. Not your fault ... did what you could.” Hersh comforted his son, as Adam rushed out of the shed calling for Charity.
Dawn was long past, and the victorious townsfolk and Spuian Guardsmen had rounded up the last of the Avernese soldiers by the time Adam stumbled back into Hersh's shop.
He slumped down into a chair in Hersh's living quarters. “I searched everywhere I could, no footprints, no tracks. I found nothing, not even the cat, and it wouldn't let her out of its sight.”
“I should have tried harder to get to her, but it wouldn't come. It helped that little girl, why not Charity.”
Hersh couldn't know Adam was speaking of his developing powers and his amulet. He handed the boy a cup of hot tisane. Adam sipped it automatically.
“You did what you could, lad. Rest up; we'll try again later.” He led Adam to his bed, and put the sword and its belt in the corner. As he closed the door, he heard “Why didn't it work? Why didn't...”

Chapter Eight
Charity fought against the Avernese soldier's grip, but he was too strong. She still had her bow, but the position he held her in gave her no opportunity to bring it to play. She was being dragged toward the forest, as far as she could tell. The moon had gone behind a cloud, deepening the night's gloom.
“Stop struggling, you little vixen, or it'll go rougher with you.” The voice was harsh, and his breath stank of ale. He fondled her breast with the hand that crossed over her arm. “Ah, a nice size you are, and firm, too. I'll bet you're ready, you are.”
Charity tried to scream as she increased her struggles. A blow to the top of her head stunned her. When she regained her wits, she was among the trees of the forest, lying on her back against the roots of a large tree. The soldier's silhouette blotted out a portion of the distant glow of the burning church. He appeared to be fumbling with something near his waist.
“Oh, you're going to enjoy this, girl. I know I will.” The moon came out from behind the cloud, and revealed the soldier's intentions. She shrank back against the bole of the tree, and he approached her. “Come on, girlie, you know you want it, you're lustin’ fer it, you're just whores at heart, you all are.”
The memory of Adam telling her what Darzin had said about her flooded into her. Rage overtook her fear, and she lashed out with her boot at the most prominent target available. Her heel took the soldier right where he lived.
His screams of agony echoed throughout the trees. He rolled on the ground, groaning and cursing all at once. His outbursts spiraled down, and then he lunged to his feet with a snarl, brandishing a long knife. “You rutting bitch! I'll gut you like a trout I will. I'll ... ulp!”
Charity stared at him along the length of a clothyard shaft. “You'll what, you bastard? Tell me what you planned to do. Go on, tell me. The only thing that's keeping me from sending this arrow through your heart right now is ... Deity! I don't know what it is. I think I'll just take you back to my brother, and let him decide what to do with you.”
“Your brother?” The laugh was short, sharp and evil. “The demon with the sword? You'll take me back to a corpse you will. We've taken the town, you little bitch. If I don't take you, the others will.” The second laugh was a leer. “I don't mind sloppy seconds ... Aaauuggh!”
The arrow passed through his heart, and buried itself in a tree twenty feet behind him. Blood vomited out of his mouth as he fell to the forest floor, twitched once, and then lay still.
“Adam.” Charity sobbed, and then she thought of the cat, and Adam diving into the water to save it. Scenes of their travels in the world passed before her like paintings in a gallery. She saw him defend her over and over again and then she fell to the ground, sobbing. She cried and cried and cried, letting her heart break with the depth of her loss. She wished she could die and be with him. She wished she'd been there to save him, to save the cat. She cried until exhaustion overtook her, and she passed into sleep against the tree, the body of the soldier next to her feet.
She woke with the sun, calling for her brother. The soldier's corpse brought it all back to her, and the tears came again. She stumbled away from the body, scooped up the bow, and ran deeper into the woods. Her sobs drowned out the faint calls of the villagers as they searched for her.
Grief and despair drove her on until exhaustion once again claimed her, and the woods offered their leaves as a bower.
Now into the foothills far to the east of Dunwattle, Charity picked ripe Thimbleberries until she had a small handful that she could nibble on while she walked. She wanted to be as far away from Dunwattle as she could be. The mountaintops she saw in the east were hidden behind clouds. Her tears had dried now, but she had spent the last two days weeping off and on. The thought of losing Adam and the kitten still caused deep feelings of loss and sorrow to well up, but not to the point of bringing on the sobs of the previous days.
Her best guess placed the mountains at least another day away. She busied herself by both walking until she could no longer put one foot in front of the other, and by inspecting her remaining arrows. She had eleven left from her baker's two dozen, and one of them was well out of true.
She looked at the clouds again and thought of the mountains. There was a chill in the air last night. It would be bad if the first snows caught her in the heights.
Either she had fortune walking with her, or Bardoc himself held back the storms, for Charity made the pass without trial. Hunger became her main problem as she descended the eastern slope. No trees grew in the rocky soil, and what vegetation there was grew sparsely at best.
By the time she reached the Long Wood, she was famished. A bramble patch left purple stains on her fingers and mouth and little satisfaction in her stomach, but at least the fare would keep her going for a bit.
She'd entered the Long Wood at a narrows, and thus her passage through the wood lasted only a few hours, bringing her into the farmlands west of Berggren just before sundown. Again famished, the sight of the cornfield on the other side caused her mouth to water, and she closed the distance at a run.
The corn proved itself to be sweet beyond her wildest dreams, and she gorged herself into a sleepy stupor. She fell asleep with the third cob still in her hands.
A cock crowed, and Charity stirred listlessly. Morning had come far too early to suit her, and the tall corn did little to block the sun's rays. Grabbing the corner of her cloak, she pulled it over her eyes, and drifted back into her dream.
Ethan yelled at the barmaid to bring him another flagon, and to be quicker with it than the last one. The wine didn't help his bad temper, nor the feeling of loneliness. Dunwattle had proved a waste, and the folk of Bantering were nice enough, he supposed, but no one had need of an experienced woodcrafter. Bantering earned most of its wealth from the sea, and the shops and homes in the village were built of the local stone, and mortared with the local clay. Oh, they were willing to let him tinker a bit for them here and there, but what they really wanted were his watchman skills. Well, they're going to have to put up with a drunken watchman, he thought, as he drained the last of the flagon.
He turned and raised the empty to catch the barmaid's attention. “Bring me another.” He turned back to the table, and said to himself. “I've got some dying to catch up on.”
* * * * “Hoy lassie, wakey, wakey.” Something was shaking her. She opened her eyes to see a thin, homely face peering back at her. The prominent nose stood out on a face that could have used a lot more chin, and about half the amount of ear. Stringy brown hair slunk out of a battered knit hat, and his smile showed teeth that had needed care for a number of years.
“Wh ... who are you?”
“'Ear now, Neely. Give the lass a mo', that's a good lad.” The other voice was fruity and jovial. Charity turned her head to see its source. What she saw was the polar opposite of the first one. His head was as round as a pumpkin, and so was his nose. Rather than needing more chin he had at least two extra. An old cloth hat that had a sad, limp pheasant feather stuck in one side of its band perched on his head. His tunic was plain, but serviceable, colored in oxblood and tan, and his massive forearms showed an alarming amount of reddish hair.
The one to wake her gave Charity a half bow, his hand over his heart. “Neely, at your service, my lady. This large rascal is my friend and companion, Flynn.”
Flynn knuckled his brow at Charity. “How do, miss.”
Charity pulled her cloak away from her shoulders and sat up, her right hand resting near the knife she had taken from her would-be rapist. “Charmed, I'm sure. Why did you wake me?”
Neely noticed her hand. “Naow, missy, we ain't lookin’ fer no trouble. Flynn an’ me are peaceful types, we are. Aren't we, Flynn.”
Flynn nodded, using all his chins. “Aye, that's a fack, that is. Why, Neely an me never even hurt any o’ the’ shopkeepers we robbed ... ow!” Neely stuck his elbow into Flynn's ample belly.
Charity stood up. The two thieves saw the bow in her left hand. Neely backed away, holding up his hands as a shield, “n..n..now, missy. Don't go doin’ nothing rash, now. We means you no harm, an’ that's Bardoc's truth, it is.”
“I'll need a little more proof than that, I think.” Charity drew an arrow and smoothly nocked it while watching them. She saw their eyes widen to nearly popping.
Flynn dropped to his knees and began blubbering. “Oh, spare me, Milady. I promises to never thieve agin. I'll write me mum each day, an ... an I'll put flowers on me Da's grave, I will, an'...an’ I'll serves you, yes I will, an’ you don't have to pay me a mite, you don't. Not a mite.”
Neely looked at his companion for a few seconds, and then he dropped to his knees, as well. “What he says, miss, uh Milady. Iffn you needs a couple of good mates ta be yer helpers an’ such, it's me an’ Flynn, it is.”
Charity lowered her bow. She noticed their eyes following it. She decided to give them a lesson in trustworthiness. “Are you any good with those knives of yours?”
They looked at their knives. They were both longer than the average hunter, but not quite a short sword's length.
Flynn shook his head, causing another chin quake. “Aye, Milady, but Neely's better hittin’ th’ target than meself.”
Charity coolly appraised Neely. He felt a chill in his gut. “Oh, really ... You see that ear on that cornstalk over there?” She pointed to a stalk that stood higher than the others, about a dozen yards down the row.
“Aye ... I see it.” He kept one eye on Charity's bow.
“Do you think you could hit it with your knife?”
He stroked his chin, intrigued. “Well, now ... I don't rightly know, missy. I knows I could give it good scare.”
Charity noticed that his use of Milady had changed to missy. “Let's see how close you come then.”
Neely nodded and drew his knife. He flipped it, and caught it by the blade like an expert. He straightened his arm, sighted along the blade, and then threw in one swift motion. The first arrow caught the knife and carried it another thirty yards down the row. The second arrow severed the ear from the stalk, and the third speared it in the middle halfway to the ground.
Neely stood there, imitating a feeding carp, and Flynn dropped to the ground again, holding his clasped hands in front of him. “Pleeease don't kill me, Milady. I'll be good. I promises I will. An’ so will Neely.” The last came out in a rush.
Neely darted a glance at Flynn, and then stared at Charity. He looked down the row at where his knife lay, then walked to get it and then came back to Charity. He dropped to one knee and held the knife out to her; his back was mast straight. “Milady, I never seen a bow shot like that, an’ I been in th’ army as a bowman an’ tracker meself.” He took a deep breath. “I ain't much ta look at, I knows, but iffn you needs a blade at yer back, Milady...”
Charity took the offered knife, and looked at it. There was a deep scratch on the guard where her arrow had caught it, but it seemed to be in good shape otherwise, Adam, her breath caught at the memory, had known more about such things. She placed the knife back in Neely's hands. “I accept your service and that of your friend's, and I promise that I will defend your lives with my bow as much as you will mine with your blades.” Neely began to rise, but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “One more thing.”
They both chorused. “Yes, Milady.”
“That's just it. My name is Charity, not Milady. I would like it if you both called me by my name. Two fine Innkeepers taught me that, and you would do them honor if you followed that teaching.”
Neely stood. “I will, miss ... uh Charity. I will.”
Flynn was wiping his eyes.” She's more of a lady standin’ in this here cornfield than th’ one's in the wossname ... perpatett.”
“I think you mean parapet.” Charity said.
“An’ smart, too.”
Neely rolled his eyes. Charity smothered a giggle. She walked down the row to retrieve her arrows. Her two new companions followed her.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that? Iffn you don't mind me askin'.” Neely asked out of the side of his mouth.
“I sort of just picked it up, really.” She added at the look on his face. “I guess you could say I was born into it.”
Flynn poked Neely in the small of his back. “A natural, Neely, just like in th’ prophecy!”
Neely didn't answer, but Charity saw the added respect in their eyes. She checked her arrows, and then placed them back into the quiver. “You still haven't answered my question.”
“I don't rightly remember the’ question.” Neely scratched his head under his hat.
“About why you woke me up.”
Neely looked embarrassed.” Well ... uh ... you see, uh, we...”
“You were intending on robbing me, weren't you?”
“Not really. We ... uh ... we just...”
“We was near ta beggin', miss ... uh, Charity, we was. Ain't no one mindful of givin’ Neely an’ me jobs, so we was fixin’ on askin’ if you'd ... uh..."Flynn's voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Charity broke out in a peal of laughter. “You were going to beg from me?”
Neely quickened his steps to get in front of Charity. “But, your clothes are of such fine workmanship ... we thought...”
“The clothes were given to me by a friend, and I have only a few coins that were given to me by my brother, plus the ones I earned making sausage.”
Flynn and Neely stopped short. “You made sausage?”
Flynn swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “You remember sausage, don't you, Neely? Poppin’ on the fire an’ catchin’ the fat on a slice of brown bread...”
Neely's voice became dreamy. “Liver sausage ... pepper sausage ... innards sausage ... blood sausage ... my favorite part is when you first stick the knife in...”
“Mmmm.” Flynn licked his lips. He came out of his reverie enough to ask Charity. “Where do you plan on travelin’ to, Miss Charity?”
Charity blinked at the change of subject, then she pointed towards the mountains behind them.” I came over those. I'm looking for some place where I can get a fresh start.”
Flynn and Neely looked thoughtful for a moment. Flynn lifted a finger.” There's Berggren.”
* * * * Gilgafed kept his gaze on the vase. It had been a month now. A month! Since that never to be sufficiently damned Wizard had erased his block on that traveling vortex, and still his power hadn't increased to the point where he could light a small faggot. “Is it warming?”
His servant, Cobain touched the vase, “A little.” He glanced nervously at his master. “Perhaps you should rest a bit, Milord.”
Gilgafed tore his gaze away from the vase, and leaned back in his chair. He pounded the arm of the chair in frustration. “Pfaugh! I've rested enough for one half my age. Bring me wine, and then we'll try again.”
He let his perception wander as Cobain rushed to get the wine. Though he was now crippled, his senses were still active enough to explore the world. He passed by the Witch and her hut near the fens. That budding Sorcerer in Grisham showed promise, but would be no factor, where he was concerned, for years yet.
Of the two brats who troubled him, he could sense the girl more acutely than the boy. There was a change in her. He could not put a finger on exactly what it was. It was something to think about, and then see if it could be used. The boy worried him, still. Since that moment of backlash, his perceptions had slipped away from the boy as if he was trying to catch hold of a greased shoat.
He considered the girl again. She seemed to be moving in the direction of Berggren; perhaps a note to Cloutier would be in order. The idea touched his fancy. Cloutier would be ideal in dealing with one like her. Yes, indeed.

Chapter Nine
“So, this is Berggren.” Charity looked at the houses on either side of the street. Most of them were two and three story wooden buildings with balcony windows and high, peaked thatched roofs. Beneath their feet, the street was tightly cobbled with rounded stones. Here and there splashes of pigeon droppings showed which houses the birds liked for their roost.
“Aye, miss. ‘Tis a full city, it is.” Flynn's eyes were wide as he caught all the sites he could in the bustling streets. The morning was still young when they made their way through the city's gates. The sleepy guards waved them through without asking if they had anything to declare.
“It's the largest city in this area East of the mountains.” Neely snagged an apple from a cart as they passed it while the vendor was bending over a pack. “Iffn a fresh start is available, it's here.”
“Specially iffn the one lookin’ kin do whut you kin, m'lady.” Flynn looked at her with open admiration.
Charity kept a tight grip on her bow. The street was crowded with carts, horses and crowds of people. She cried out as her foot was trod on by a large man hauling a large sack of what smelled like potatoes on his back.
“Sorry, miss.” The man muttered as he passed them.
“Just watch where ye be treadin’ man.” Neely growled to the man's back.
Charity was just as glad to see him keep going. The fellow was easily twice Neely's size.
They turned a corner, and passed into a street of shops. Smells of cooking filled the morning air, and Charity felt her mouth beginning to water. Her stomach rumbled.
“I'd like to find some breakfast.” She said to her companions.
“There's a likely spot, miss.” Flynn pointed to a storefront with a sign hung over the door carrying a picture of a mug and a loaf of bread.
Charity pushed her way through the crowded street, and opened the door beneath the sign. The smell of fresh baked bread washed over her, and she smelled sausages!
Flynn and Neely followed on her heels.
“Smell that, Flynn?”
“Aye, I do, Neely. Pork bangers, them is.”
“So you'll be wantin’ breakfast, then?” The owner of the voice threw all of Charity's preconceptions of shop owners and Innkeepers out the window. He was so thin as to be cadaverous; his wife, or so she supposed the woman next to him to be, was equally thin. He wore an off-white apron covered with old stains. In his left hand he held a pitcher, his right hand clutched a damp cloth.
“Yes, please.” Charity reached into her belt pouch, and pulled out a silver. The woman snatched it out of her hand, and silently pointed them to the table under the window.
The man set the pitcher and three cups down onto the table. “Hot tisane for three. We have Bangers an’ chips, Fried tomato an’ egg, scones an’ fried bread.”
Flynn looked across the room where a large potbellied man was tucking into a huge plate of sausages, potatoes and fried bread. “Kin I have whut he's havin'?
Neely turned his head in the direction Flynn was pointing. “Looks good. Bring me one, too.”
“That be two coppers extra.”
Her companions looked at Charity. She sighed and dug out the coppers. The man made them disappear.
Charity poured herself a cup of tisane. “I'd like egg and tomato with some scones, please.”
The man nodded and yelled the order over his shoulder. “Two biggun's, break an egg an’ kill a luv apple! Scones on the way, miss.” He nodded to Charity, and then turned to refill the other diner's cup with more tisane.
“Town's busier than I recall.” Neely sipped his tisane.
“Folk runnin’ from the war ‘cross the mountains, I expect.” Flynn picked up a cup, and poured himself a helping.
At Flynn's mention of the war, Charity found her memory journeying back to the last time she had seen Adam. She shook the memory off, and forced herself to return to the present. The street outside was becoming busier. A yellow dog followed a cart pulled by oxen, with a small boy holding a switch walking alongside. The oxen did what oxen do, causing a horseman behind them to curse loudly and swerve his mount to the side. Charity tittered at the sight.
“Somethin’ funny, miss?” Neely looked up from his cup.
Charity told him about the oxen and the horse.
He threw back his head. and laughed. Flynn joined in the joke.
“Here's yer breakfast.” The man plopped down Flynn and Neely's platters. They were piled high with sausages and fried potatoes. A half dozen slices of fried bread ringed the pile. The smell of sage mixed with that of crisped pork floated up from the plates. Flynn wiped the drool from his mouth, and dug in like a starving man.
“Hsst!” Neely dug an elbow into Flynn's side.
“What?” Flynn mumbled around a mouthful of sausage and chips.
“She hasn't been served yet. Where are your manners?” Neely waved a thumb in Charity's direction.
Charity gave Neely a smile that melted his heart. “I'm all right, Neely. You go ahead and eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Mine should be here soon enough.”
Neely eyed his platter longingly.” You're sure, miss?”
“I'm sure. Go ahead, eat.”
Neely tore into his food with fervor equal to Flynn's. Travel biscuits may be sustaining, but they can't compare to freshly fried sausage.
“Here you are, miss.” A plate with two eggs and three slices of fried tomato slid in front of her, followed by a plate with scones and clotted cream.
“Thank you.” She moved her bow so it leaned against the wall, and picked up a scone. It was still warm. She spooned some of the cream onto it, and ate. The flavor of the scone was wonderful. She cut some egg and added a bit of tomato to the slice, and conveyed it to her mouth. “Mmmm.”
Flynn and Neely looked up and nodded agreement.
She signaled to the man, and he came over. “You want something, miss?”
“I just want to tell you how good the food is, and to thank you for it.”
His face nearly cracked a smile. He gave her a half bow. “Thank you, miss. I'll be sure to tell the missus. She don't hear that much in this town.”
Flynn and Neely saluted him with their knives, and mumbled their thanks with full mouths.
The pot-bellied man finished his food, and stood up to leave. He slapped a silver and a copper onto his table, and walked to the door. He looked at Charity and her companions for a long moment, and then left the eatery.
“What was that all about?” Neely nudged Flynn with his elbow.
“Dunno.” Flynn mopped up some of the savory fat with a piece of fried bread. “Gave us the fish eye, though, didn't he?”
“What are you going on about?” Charity picked up the last scone and cream.
Flynn poked his piece of bread in the direction of the door “That fellow with the pillow belly who just left. He was givin’ us the fish eye, he was.”
“Don't like it.” Neely muttered. “Could mean trouble.”
“Like robbin’ us, you mean?” Flynn finished his bread, and washed it down with the last of the tisane.
“Maybe worse. Remember the press gangs of Firth, ten years back?”
Flynn rubbed his wrist. Neely's mention of the press gangs of Firth brought back painful memories. “I think we'd better go, Neely.”
Neely looked at Charity. She nodded. “Right. We're off, then.” He popped a last chip into his mouth, and closed his eyes for a second as he chewed it. “Wish we weren't.”
Charity picked up her bow and quiver.” If we're going to go, let's go.”
Neely opened the door, and peeked to either side.
“See anything?” Flynn was right behind him.
“Naw. Must've been nerves.” Neely looked back at Charity. “Sorry, miss.”
“It's OK, Neely. We may as well see the rest of the city, anyway.”
“Right you are.” Neely pushed the door fully open, and stepped out and to the side.
Flynn and Charity followed. Some of the morning clouds had been swept away by a stiff breeze that blew back their hair.
“Stay where you are.” The voice had the ring of one used to command.
They looked up to see a man wearing rich-looking garments, astride a gleaming white horse. To either side of him stood men at arms wearing chain mail, hoods and surcoats as well, carrying halberds and pikes. They out-numbered them by over four to one. The figure on the horse leaned forward and smiled. Charity did not like the look of that smile. It belonged to a man of indeterminate age, darkly handsome with thick, wavy black hair, high prominent cheekbones and full lips. He was dressed in black silk trimmed with burgundy and forest green. A rapier with an elaborate golden basket hilt lay strapped to his left side. A dagger with an ivory handle capped with gold balanced it on his right.
He groomed an eyebrow with his fingertips. “My name is Lord Cloutier. I am the Earl of this city, and I wish to know your business here, if any.”
“Blimey. He's going to hang us, Neely. We been found out.”
“Shut up.” Neely whispered to Flynn out of the side of his mouth.
Charity stepped forward. “I'm called Charity. My companions are Flynn and Neely. We're refugees of the war across the mountains. We've useful skills, and would like to be given a chance to prove our worth.”
“I'll bet she has useful skills.” The stage whisper was spoken in a coarse voice within the ranks of guardsmen. A leering snicker washed through them.
Cloutier waved them silent. “And what skills might those be?” Another snicker from the rank.
Charity felt the flush warming her face, and damned herself for giving in to the teasing. “I am a trained Butcher's helper.”
“Bet I know what she helped ‘im with.” Snicker.
“Silence!” Cloutier roared the command without turning his head. The faces of the rank went white. He focused his gaze on Charity. The look was predatory. “How old are you?”
She swallowed in spite of her determination not to show fear. “Sixteen summers, my lord.”
Cloutier leaned back in his saddle. “Sixteen summers? That many?”
Charity knew he was teasing, and felt powerless to stop it. Flynn and Neely were obviously petrified. “I'm good at what I do, my lord.”
“I'm sure you are.” Cloutier allowed the rank to snicker at his innuendo. “What sort of assistance did you give this Butcher, eh?”
“I made sausages, my lord.”
“Sausages?” Cloutier's voice rose in mock amazement. “Such a skill!” He turned to the rank, and spread his arms wide. “Behold! She makes sausages!” The rank broke out in derisive laughter. Cloutier smiled his cruel smile again, and leaned forward, resting his right arm on the pommel of the saddle. “And pray tell me, my lady. What do your two stalwart companions do?”
Charity stole a look at Flynn and Neely. Their faces were death masks.
Cloutier's patience was just shy of being nonexistent. “Tell me!”
His roar broke Flynn and Neely out of their trace. Flynn stepped forward and knuckled his brow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m'lord. I be Flynn o’ Northlake, Sire. Me da apprenticed me to a Cooper, ‘e did. I kin make a good barrel, I kin, m'lord.”
“Barrel maker, eh? What about you, fellow?” Cloutier pointed at Neely.
Neely tore his hat off his head, and worried it with his hands. Charity could see sweat bead his brow. He swallowed and stepped forward a half step. “Neely, milord. Grisham is where I hail from. I be a soldier of fortune an’ tracker, iffn’ you need one, sire.”
Cloutier leaned back again, and appraised them for a moment. He rubbed his chin. The signet ring on his hand glinted in the light. “A Cooper, a Soldier of Fortune and a Sausage Maker. Such riches my poor city doesn't deserve.” The rank sniggered.
He leaned forward again. Charity thought, “Can't this man keep still for a moment? He's like a Wobbledy Bob.”
“I really should have you locked away for the vagrants you are.” Cloutier dismissed them with a wave of his hand and the tone of his voice. “But, I am feeling generous this morning. I will offer the two of you,” He jabbed a finger at Flynn and Neely. “One hundred golds each if you will turn this doxie of yours over to my gentle hands.”
Charity felt a wave of ice grip her heart. The memory of the Avernese soldier flooded forward, and she reeled under its impact. She knew that no matter what happened, she would not allow this Lord, in her mind the word became a curse, to take her without blood being shed.
Flynn and Neely were thunderstruck. A hundred golds! Why, a man could retire on such wealth. Each of them had a vision of wine, women and song run through him, and then a vision of their mistress in the clutches of the Lord who sat before them pushed it aside.
Neely put his hat back onto his head and straightened his stance. “I'm sorry, my lord, but she ain't mine to sell.”
Flynn knuckled his brow again, and glanced at Charity. “And so say I, m'lord. Sorry.”
Charity's right hand reached for an arrow, as she hid the movement behind Flynn's bulk.
“I'm sorry, too, my good man.” Cloutier's predatory smile belied the text of his words. He nodded to the rank, and they began to advance with their halberds at point.
Flynn and Neely drew their knives, and placed themselves between Charity and the guardsmen. A halberd was thrust at Neely's face. He ducked and forced the point of it to the side with the broad side of his knife. Flynn trapped one beneath his left arm, and using his right hand lifted the guardsman holding it off the ground, and slammed him against the shop wall.
“Take them now, you fools!” Cloutier yelled at them as he attempted to steady his horse in the melee.
Charity nocked an arrow, and scanned the crowd. The last thing she wanted to do was skewer an innocent onlooker, and a considerable number of people had gathered to see this latest bit of street theater.
An apple was thrown in their direction from the crowd. It spattered against the wall next to Neely. He was bleeding from a couple of cuts, and beginning to look tired, but his knife continued to weave a curtain of steel between himself and the rank. Flynn had lost his knife due to a bad cut from a halberd, and had to make do with his hands and his strength of arm, which was considerable. He reached out over the halberds being waved in his face, and grabbed the two guardsmen by their collars, cracking their heads together. The sound was like that of a melon being dropped from a balcony.
A guardsman caught Neely in the pit of his stomach with the butt of his pike. He doubled over and began to retch. Bile and half-digested sausages spattered onto the cobblestones. Another guardsman raised his halberd to finish the job. Charity's arrow passed through his left eye.
Flynn called out to Charity. “Push up behind me, miss. I'll try to clear a path for ye.” He turned his head to make sure she heard him, and the flat side of a halberd caught him alongside the skull, dropping him like a stone.
Charity was grabbed from both sides. Rough hands attempted several indignities, while others disarmed her. She screamed and thrashed about, catching one of the rank in his belly with the toe of her boot. Another of them would probably need several days before he could talk again.
“Hold the bitch steady, now.” A guardsman whose arms were covered in thick black hair raised his pike like a spear. Charity saw her death approaching. At least I'll see Adam soon, She thought.
“Hold that pike, or you'll lose your head!” Cloutier's command whipped across the rank.
The hairy guardsman lowered his weapon. “You're a lucky one, whore.” He spat the word. “That was me brother you killed. Once the Earl finishes with you, you're my meat, I promises you. Remember that!”
Cloutier turned his horse in a half circle, and surveyed the damage. Seven of his guardsmen lay still, and three others kneeled, groaning. Perhaps the two with the chit were worth something after all. His gaze stopped on the guardsman with the arrow in his socket. No wonder his master was worried about her. To be such a marksman at only sixteen summers ... Ah, well. He had his orders.
He pulled his rapier and pointed to Flynn and Neely with it. “Take them to the gaol and have their wounds seen to. Take the doxie to my Palace, and give her over to Morgan's care. Be sure he gets her weapon, as well. If I find any of you have taken liberties, I will have myself a new pair of boots, am I clear in this?” The paleness of the surviving guardsmen told him all he needed to know.
He looked down at Charity. She glared back. “I see you have a lot of fire, milady. We'll have to make sure it stays there until you are ready. Take her away.”
Charity struggled in the grasp of her guards. “I hate you.” She screamed at Cloutier. “I hate you.”
He smiled and groomed an eyebrow as she was dragged away. “Two years is a long time.” He mused to himself. “I can hardly wait.”
* * * * “Oooo. My ‘ead feels like it was horse stomped.” Flynn groaned and pulled himself to his feet using the bars of the cell.
“At least you still have your breakfast inside you.” Neely reclined on one of the two cots that graced the cell floor.
Flynn looked over at his friend. Both of his hands and arm were bandaged. He felt his head gingerly. Another bandage was wound around his head and his right forearm.” Aye. I guess we should be glad we're still breathin'. You OK, Neely?”
Neely placed a hand on his stomach.” I've been better, Flynn. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I was captured by them wimmin outlaws in the Longwood?”
Flynn's eyes brightened at the prospect of one of Neely's stories. “Can't say you have, Neely. What ‘appened?”
“Well, now...” Neely settled into his tale, forgetting the pain in his belly. “Their leader, Aphrodite was her name, if I recall. She had a powerful need ta have a baby. I remember her jugs, she coulda nursed a village, I reckon. Well, she was gonna have me skinned along with the rest o’ me group. That is, until she saw the size o’ me other leg, iffn’ you catch me drift.”
Flynn chuckled. “That I do, Neely, That I do.”
“Well, being a gentleman at heart...”
* * * * The morning sun pierced Ethan's eyelids like a hot blade. He flopped his arm over his face, and tried to fall back to sleep. From past experience he knew what awaited him if he awoke fully after a night of drink.
“Mama. He moved.” A little girl's voice? Ethan used his other hand to gingerly feel around where he lay. He remembered ... a goat and ... some hay ... and a nice jug of fortified wine and ... a chicken? What he felt was none of those. Where was the hay? The mud? The goat droppings? He felt clean linen over ticking under him.
He cracked an eye, and pulled his arm up to his forehead.
“He moved again, mama!”
Ethan was greeted by two huge hazel eyes in a cherubic face framed with a mass of curly chestnut hair.
“Hi, man.” The face spoke. The voice matched the face.
“Hi.” His voice sounded like it was coming from the grave.
“His breath stinks, mama!”
“Hush, Sari. Move aside now.” A calico skirt filled his vision, and a cool cloth blocked it entirely. “This should help your head feel better.” The voice was a woman's, low and soft with a throaty quality that he found soothing.
“Thank you.” He moved his arm so his hand pressed the coolness into his forehead. “Why?”
Her soft laugh was self-deprecating. “I have a habit of picking up strays, and nursing them back to health. You looked to be in need of picking up.”
“You could have left me. One night with the goats and the chickens wasn't going to hurt me.”
“You don't know...?” Her breath caught, and she stopped her sentence.
Ethan, now alarmed, tried to sit up, and gasped with the pain and lay back. He'd felt it before. He'd been stabbed, deeply. The memory joined the others. Boots ... and a blade, and then darkness. “My pouch?”
“You had none when I found you.” She replaced the cloth with a deft hand.
“Are you a physic? Who sewed me up?” He tried to see more of his surroundings.
“Hush, you'll tear the stitching.” She stilled him with a hand to his upper chest. He saw her fingers from beneath the cloth. Slender, but strong looking. The glint of hard calluses said she'd spent most of her life working.
“I milked the goat, mama.” Another child's voice, a little older than the first one; two summers, maybe.
“Thank you, Circumstance. Go see how Jonas is doing. There's a good boy.”
“Yes, mama.” The boy sounded so serious. Ethan wondered how he played.
“You have three?” He grunted as she checked the wound.
“I'm sorry. It must be painful, but I see no infection. Yes, I have three children.” She finished retying his bandage, and he felt her stand up.
“Jonas, Circumstance and ... Sari?”
He heard her soft laugh again, “Your memory, at least, is not damaged.”
Laughing hurt.
* * * * Charity screamed and threw another vase at the wall. It shattered nicely, but did nothing to soothe her temper.
“That vase was over a thousand years old, milady, and I believe it cost your Lord over a thousand golds to purchase.”
“Good!” Charity turned and hissed her reply at the taciturn man leaning against the wall. He'd said his name was Morgan, and he was her guardian. He was good looking, she supposed, for a man with a salt and pepper beard, age lines and a hook nose. His voice was strangely accented to her ears. And he was not much larger than Adam had been. He was considerably smaller than Flynn and Neely, but Charity felt he was much more dangerous. He moved with a cat-like grace and efficiency she'd never seen before. His lack of response to her temper tantrum somehow made her even angrier. She picked up a silver chalice, and sent it spinning at his head. He sidestepped the projectile, and caught it on the fly in one smooth motion.
“This is even older than the vase, and is one of my favorites,” he said, as he placed in onto a shelf near him. “I'd prefer to keep it in good shape, if you don't mind. I'd also like it if you'd consider me your friend. I really am here to help you, you know.”
Charity glared at him. “Then let me go!”
“I'm sorry. I can't do that. As I've told you before.”
Charity screamed again in frustration and rage, and threw herself onto the huge bed, and began sobbing as if her heart were broken.
She felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. “Please, Milady. Let me be your friend. Ask anything else of me, and I will gladly do it.”
She spun around on the bed, and threw a punch at him that would have stunned a larger man if it had connected. He shifted to the side just enough to cause her fist to pass by his head. He caught her wrist with his hand, and gently laid her hand back onto her lap.
Charity looked into his eyes, and tried to find anger in them. All she saw was a calm, placid kindness and deep self-assurance. The wall of her rage broke, and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing out her grief.
Morgan held his charge gently and let her cry. He would hold her like this as long as she needed him. This was his job and not even the pit could turn him from it.
* * * * The blizzard's winds shrieked in their fury, driving the swirling snow with the force of an ice-bladed sledgehammer. Gilgafed stood at the entrance of his cave, and savored the storm. When he finally came back to power, he would insure that the entire world had storms such as this.
“Master?”
He turned to see his servant, Cobain scuttling towards him. The bandy-legged little fellow was bundled against the cold within a heavily furred cloak, and his breath created clouds in the freezing air. “What is it, Cobain?”
“Your repast awaits, Master.” Cobain's teeth chattered despite his heavy cloak. He was beginning to lose feeling in the tip of his nose.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Cobain. You may go, but first collect six of those icicles for me. There's a good fellow.”
Cobain looked in the direction his master pointed, and his heart sank. The icicles indicated were suspended from a ledge that bore the full fury of the storm.
“Well, go on. Be quick, now. I wish them to cool my wine.” His master's tone became petulant, and Cobain knew he had no chance but to obey. He sighed and wrapped a fold of the cloak around so it covered his mouth and hid one of his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he ventured out into the blizzard.
“Good man.” Gilgafed called. “Bring them to me as soon as you can. I'll be at my dinner.” He turned and walked back into the cave.
* * * * “Hard work, this.” Flynn wiped his brow. He was sweating in spite of the chill in the air. Flurries of flakes swirled about and settled onto the pile of wood they were chopping for the kitchens.
“Reminds me of a time back when I was fresh from th’ monk's school.” Neely grunted as he swung the ax.
“Oh?”
“Aye.” Neely placed another piece of wood onto the block. “I'd snuck out the’ back way. Never did take much to schoolin', ya know.”
Flynn chuckled and stacked the wood. “Aye, I know.”
“Well, I was gettin mighty hungry by the’ time I found th’ farm. I talked th’ farmer into lettin’ me chop wood for me supper. ‘Bout halfway through the cord his daughter come out with a jug o’ lemin squash.”
“I see.”
“Ah, yer gettin’ ahead o’ me, bucko. Seems her daddy had to check on a problem in th’ fields, so she'd come to check on me. Seein’ it was summer an’ all, I had me shirt off. She was admirin’ the view, so to speak.” He swung the ax, and Flynn gathered the pieces.
“Since it was such a hot day, she decided to offer me a dip in th’ creek. We wound up takin’ a dip together.”
Flynn's laughter echoed across the yard.
“Oh, aye, me first one it was. Always liked choppin’ wood after that.” He swung the ax again.
* * * * “It took you long enough! My wine was getting insufferably warm” Gilgafed greeted his shivering servant with a glare.
His teeth chattering uncontrollably, Cobain fitted the icicles into the chaser that held the wine bottle. From the look of the wax around the cork, it was one of the old ones.
“Ahhh. That's better. This vintage needs to be properly chilled to enhance the subtleties of the snails.”
Cobain looked at his master's dinner. The chilling bottle of wine lay in its chaser next to a plate of snails. The snails moved. Cobain felt his gorge beginning to rise. A small bowl of scented water at the boil was in front of the plate of snails, center on. Lemon and a few sprigs of herbs lay on a small plate next to a stack of sour bread toast and a bowl of lightly steaming drawn butter.
Gilgafed picked up one of the snails with a set of silver tongs, and dipped it in the hot water. Bubbles rose to the surface and broke, releasing glistening green concentric circles. He placed the herbs in the water, and then removed the snail after about a minute. Holding it upside down with the tongs he squeezed a few drops of lemon into the shell, and then brought it down sharply onto the table. Using a toothpick from a silver holder, he then stabbed the quivering snail flesh, dipped it into the butter, and popped the morsel into his mouth. His eyes closed as he savored the flavor and texture while he chewed. He then opened his eyes, and reached for the bottle of wine. His gaze caught Cobain as he worked the wax away from the cork. The Sorcerer paused to place another snail into the water. “Cobain. You're still here? These are simply marvelous. You must try one.”
The Sorcerer's servant could contain himself no longer. Slapping his hand over his mouth, he ran from his master's presence, his complexion a decided green in color.
Gilgafed smiled to himself as he worked the ancient cork out of the bottle.
* * * * Cloutier tapped the hen's egg with the small silver knife made for just that purpose. The eggshell cracked along the path of his tapping, and he deftly lifted the top section away from the base. The stench that reached his nostrils caused them to wrinkle in disgust. He placed the top section carefully back onto the eggshell.
“Youch!”
His manservant opened the door to his chamber. “Milord?”
Cloutier pushed the spoiled egg away from his place setting. “This is rotten. Find out from the kitchens where these eggs were acquired, and have the farm kindled.”
“Burn the farm, Milord?”
“And everyone within it. Now leave me. I wish to compose myself.”
* * * * Charity heard the knock at her chamber door. She tried to ignore it as she attempted to put an edge on the piece of slating she'd worked away from the backside of the bureau. The knocking came again, this time a little louder.
“Please, Milady. I'd prefer not to have to force the door.” It was Morgan's voice.
She sighed and tucked the half sharpened slating under her mattress and then crossed the room to the door. “Go away.”
“I cannot, Milady, my duty is to you.” Morgan's calm voice again frustrated her.
She made her voice imperious. “I wish to be alone. Come back tomorrow.”
She thought she heard muffled laughter from the other side of the door. She repeated her command. “I said, you may come back tomorrow.”
“I have something which may interest you.” Morgan answered after a short while. “More than that wooden knife you've been working on.”
Damn the man. She thought. How did he know? She opened the latch. “Very well. You may enter.”
He opened the door, and came through, walking in that fluid way she'd come to recognize. How did a man of such obviously advanced years move like that?
Charity turned and stalked over to one of a pair of wing-backed chairs that flanked the central high window in her chamber. She sat down and placed her hands in her lap as she regarded her caretaker. “And just what do you have that may interest me?” She tried to pitch her voice so as to be as insulting as possible.
Morgan did not even blink. “A way to fill your days with something more enriching than staring at the window, Milady. If you please, may I demonstrate?”
Charity tried to hide the interest she felt. “You may.”
Morgan seemed to relax at that. “Good.” He pointed to a solid-looking brass sculpture of a hunting dog sitting on the table next to Charity's right elbow. “If you would be so good as to throw that at me as hard as you can.”
Charity gaped at him, unmoving.
Morgan stood where was, his face impassive, but she thought she saw a glint in his eye. Toy with her, would he? Her temper flared, and her hand moved in a blur. The statue flew unerringly at the center of Morgan's face, and then he wasn't there, and the statue was placed gently on the mantle next to where he stood.
“You are fast, Milady, much faster than the other ladies at court. Faster even than most of the men I've trained.” He turned and fingered the sculpture. “And I must say ... far more accurate.”
Charity watched him, saying nothing.
Morgan paced back and forth in front of her. He reminded her of Adam when he was working out a problem. “I'm sure you're wondering how I avoided being hit. I assure you, right now, nearly anyone else would either be unconscious or in pain.”
“Ok. I'll ask. How did you do it?” Charity relaxed and sat back into the chair.
“Training, Milady. There is a method of training both the body and the mind so that the individual becomes the weapon, rather than just the one wielding the blade.”
“That really doesn't answer my question.” Charity snorted.
Morgan nodded. “It is really much easier to demonstrate than describe.”
Charity stood up. “So, demonstrate.”
Morgan moved so he faced her. “Very well. Hold your hands like so.” He positioned her hands until they suited him. He then grunted in satisfaction, and pushed at one of her feet with the toe of his boot. “Now change your stance so you are balanced, like so.”
Stepping back a couple of spaces, he looked her up and down. Then he closed the gap between them again, and readjusted her pose and stance. He stepped back and examined her once more.
“I hope you like what you see.” Charity said coldly. “What do I do now?”
Morgan copied her stance and told her. “Strike me.”
She lashed out with a straight right that was neatly diverted to the side by a blocking forearm.
“Again.”
Charity threw another punch in Morgan's direction, and it was blocked in the same fashion as the first one.
“Again.”
She'd had enough of being blocked, so she kicked him in the shin.
He yelped in surprise, and grabbed at the offended limb, and then he moved. Charity found herself upside down, and held in such a way that any attempt to escape caused pain.
“You cheated.” His voice remained clam. She wondered how he did that.
“I improvised.”
Morgan began to chuckle, and then he laughed. He released her out of the hold, and continued to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks.
Charity rubbed her wrists as she glared at him. He looked at her and broke out in more laughter.
“What's so funny? Stop that!” She shouted at him.
He sat up and forced himself to settle the laughter. “You.” He replied around chuckles. “You. Held against your will by a Lord you can know nothing about. Guarded by a stranger of whom you know only his name, and yet, instead of acting as any other maiden would, you kick me in the shin, and I let you do it!” He began laughing again.
Charity saw nothing funny in what he said, but his laughter was becoming contagious, and a smile started to twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Morgan saw the smile and pointed at her. “Aha! I knew there was a smile in you! I just had to draw it out.”
She put a hand to her mouth as if to hide the evidence, and then lowered it. “Very well. You saw a smile, but I couldn't help it, with you laughing like a loon. What was that thing you did after I kicked you?”
He stood and held out a hand. She took it, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “Ok,” He placed his right hand over her left with his fingers spread. “What I did was...”
* * * * The rooster woke him. Ethan opened his eyes to the dim light that proceeded dawn. He felt the thick bandage that wrapped his midsection. If he pushed on the part that covered his wound hard enough, he could feel a bit of pain, but only then. She did good work, this widow woman. He owed her his life. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that knowledge. Maybe after he was healed enough, he'd see what he could do to repay her.
* * * * “Again, Milady.”
Charity threw the punch, and blocked Morgan's return. The months of practice had built hard muscle on her, and speeded up her reflexes to the point where she was nearly as quick as Morgan himself.
Cloutier's infrequent visits seemed to be only for the purpose of assuring him his prize was still within reach. Other than that, he seemed to show no interest in her whatsoever, so she took advantage of every opportunity to learn as much as she could from Morgan. But, even as early as today, she'd learned that speed and strength alone cannot equal technique and experience.
She'd caught Morgan hard enough to make him flinch during a fast, complicated exchange that involved all four limbs, including the elbows and knees. When she tried to take advantage of it by tying him up in the same hold he'd used on her all those months ago, he reversed her position, and she found herself back in it once more.
“Again.”
She threw the punch again, and again he blocked the return, but this time he didn't end it there. She found herself blocking an even faster blow, so she altered her pattern, and then Morgan was on defense. Charity dropped and swept a kick across at knee height. Morgan drew his feet to his chest, just in time and threw a palm strike at her head while she recovered, but Charity had been waiting for him. He found himself being pulled in the direction of his punch, and off balance, to boot. Tucking his head to avoid having his nose crushed, he couldn't avoid what came next; the completed roll left his arm in a bone breaker of a lock, with a young woman's hand poised to rupture his throat.
* * * * Plop! The peeled potato dropped into the water to join its fellows.
“Pass me ‘nother spud, Flynn.” Neely held his hand out, as he stared at the water.
Flynn reached into the pile, and placed the potato into Neely's hand. “'ere ya go, Neely. These is fine lookin’ spuds, these is.”
Neely grunted and peeled.
Flynn pulled another potato out of the pile, and began peeling it. “I likes spuds. Good eatin', they's is.” Plop!
Neely grunted again. “Hmmppf. Knew a man once. Ate so many spuds it near ruined him mixin’ it with the ladies.”
“Oh, c'mon!”
“It did, I tell'ee. Ever look close at ‘em? Put two together. Kinda look like yer plums in th’ bag, don't they?”
Flynn held up two potatoes together. “Well I'll be...”
“I tell yer, anything that looks that much like ... well, yer just gotta be careful that's all.”
Plop!
“Tell me about th’ man, Neely.” Flynn picked up another potato, and handed it to his friend.
Neely paused in his peeling, and leaned back against the stone wall of the prison kitchen. “This man, he had a terrible love of spuds, couldn't get enough of ‘em. Just like ‘e couldn't get enough o’ th’ ladies. Once, when he was lucky at Jack Th’ Spot, he took his winnin's to Hattie's Hoar House in Coverdale, and spent the whole night with four of her lovelies.”
“No! Four?”
“Yup. Four. Well, after that night, he spent th’ rest on a breakfast of spuds. Gorged hisself, he did. Th’ next day he got th’ stones so bad, he couldn't wear pants for a month. Shocked ever old lady in th’ village. Potatoes or nookie, me lad, ya gotta chose one or th’ other. Mix ‘em, ya got trouble. Remember that.”
“I will, Neely. I will.” Plop!

Chapter Ten
The Elven village was small; it stank, and she hated having to live there, but the child was going to come too soon for her to travel. She was half certain the villagers were involved in her husband's death. He had been far different from the others. He stood tall and strong, and he wasn't afraid to show his affection toward her, regardless of the stricture against an Elven male doing so to any woman, much less a human one.
A contraction racked her body, and she screamed through her gritted teeth. It felt like it went on for hours, and when the pain passed she lay back, exhausted and breathing heavily. She could hear the village women outside, chattering in their insipid little voices. They wouldn't help her, even if they wanted to. They were afraid of the men, and she had to admit she was, as well.
Another contraction hit her, and the urge to push became too strong to ignore. Her legs spread by instinct, and a wave of fiery pain washed up from below.
Her scream echoed through the village, but none of the women of the village looked up. A child raised its head, and received a smack on the back for its curiosity. A couple of the Elven men looked up at the scream, and then nodded to each other.
One more scream, and the child came forth in a rush. She forced herself to sit up and tend to it. It was a boy, and her tears flowed. A boy, his father would have been so pleased. His coloring looked good, but he didn't cry. Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled him to her breast, fearing he was stillborn. When he began to suckle, she nearly collapsed with relief.
Another contraction came, but this one was small, nearly painless, and she realized the afterbirth was passing. She had to separate her child from the afterbirth. An old nurse had told her when she was growing; the baby had to have the birth cord cut as soon as possible to prevent the dark one from entering the child. She had no idea whether or not the old nurse had the right of it, but she didn't want to take any chances. He was all she had now, but there was no knife. She had nothing to cut the cord. Small panic crept in on her, and she gritted her teeth in fear for her baby. Her teeth, those she had, and all of them, too. Maybe she couldn't cut her baby's cord, but she could bite through it.
She bent her head to meet the cord she held in her free hand, and bit as hard as she could. The taste of blood almost gagged her, but she continued to chew until the cord parted and her baby was free.
Allowing herself the brief luxury of feeling her baby feed, she lay back and rested. In the morning she would begin to prepare for travel.
“Filthy human whore!” The Elf woman threw the clot of feces, but her aim was bad, and it only hit the side of the hut. She ducked back into the darkness, and tried to hold back the tears. They were not going to allow her to leave peacefully. Damn their Elven bigotry. She'd done nothing to them except fall in love and marry an Elf man. To them, that was crime enough.
She'd recognized the two males drinking across the street. They'd been rivals of her husband's. One of them had even propositioned her when her husband had been off hunting. The memory of the expression of shock on his face made her smile, even now. That a mere woman, more a tool or toy than a person, would refuse him ... she tried to steel herself for the gauntlet she must run, as she clutched her newborn to her breast.
The women of the village were gathering; the sounds of their voices irritated her even more as she poised herself to run.
Ducking her head, she dashed out the hut's door. The sewage running through the middle of the Village Street splashed against her legs, and the stones in the mud bruised her feet, but she continued to run. The Elven women cursed and screamed at her as they threw rocks, sticks and feces, but she continued to run. She covered her baby's head, and bent her body to protect him from the villager's blows and missiles. Sharp pains struck her legs and side, and the wetness of her blood warmed her skin, but still she ran.
She continued to run even when she passed the outskirts of the village and the range of Elven women's rocks. Her breath burned in her lungs, and her body ached all over. Blood ran into her eyes, and she wiped it away with a hand as she ran. The thought of never hearing an Elf woman's voice again gave wings to her feet as she ran and ran and ran.
The pine needles cushioned her feet, and the covering of the trees made her feel safe enough to slow down to a walk. Soon, ferns began to cover the forest floor. In a moment of giddy freedom, she looked up to see the blue sky showing through the treetops, and didn't see the gully hidden in the ferns. She fell, twisting so as to land beneath her baby. The sharp pain told her she'd broken an ankle, and a sob escaped her throat.
The raindrops woke her. She looked down to see her baby sleeping. He looked so beautiful, neither like his father nor like her, but beautiful in his own special way. She looked to either side for a way out of the rain. Off to her right, a hollow log extended over the edge of the gully. She sat up and tried to stand. The agony that shot through her ankle reminded her of the break. Her hiss of pain failed to wake her baby, and when her eyes stopped watering, she looked around to see if there was something in the gully she could use for a crutch. She saw nothing except a few dried fronds and some small dead pine branches. So, she would have to drag herself to the log. The throbbing in her ankle settled down to the point where it blended in with the feel of the wounds she'd taken running the Elven gauntlet. It was time to start.
Her baby stirred as she shifted him to her other arm, and then she wriggled herself onto her side so the injured ankle was supported by her other leg, and started to drag herself, holding her baby, up the slope of the gully.
The climb felt like it took hours, and by the time she made it to the log, she was trembling, both with shock and fatigue. A dampness told her she'd begun to bleed. She lay down within the log with her baby, and tried to rest. He stirred again, and she moved him so her nipple was at his mouth. Instinct took over, and he began to suckle. A wave of contentment swept through her, and she stroked the fine black hair on the back of his head as she smiled down at her treasure. She felt like she could lie there forever.
* * * * The huntsman followed his target as it leapt through the pines. His hands held the drawn bow and its arrow steady, as he tracked the stag. There was a brief moment where the trees cleared, and he released the arrow. The stag dropped with the arrow through its heart.
“Got you.” He said to himself. “Ellona loves venison. This one should keep her happily cooking for a month or two.”
He shouldered his bow, and began picking his way through the bracken to get to the downed stag.
He reached it in short order, and retrieved the arrow. Dressing the beast took him a good two hours or more, but he didn't like the idea of the meat possibly souring on the long trip back to Ellona and the children.
“What's that?” A movement off to his left caught his eye, as he tied the heart, liver, kidneys and sweetmeats into the hide he brought for that purpose. “Who's there?”
There was no answer, but he was too experienced in the ways of the wood to discount his senses. If it was an animal waiting for an easy meal, or one of those thieving Elves, he'd deal with it directly. There was no sense in letting them ride his back during the journey home.
He stepped cautiously through the ferns. They had a nasty habit of hiding creeks and gullies. His caution proved correct, because he soon found himself at the edge of a steep one. A hollow pine log lay on the other side, its ragged end jutting into the gully. He couldn't quite see what was in the log, so he worked his way through the gully and to the other side. His nose told him part of the tale, but he was not prepared to find a living baby at his dead mother's breast.
The morning air still held its predawn chill, and he wondered why the baby wasn't at least fussing. Babies cried all the time, didn't they?
“Come here, little one.” He reached into the log, and gently lifted the child off the woman's corpse. The babe looked back at him out of large ebony eyes. He was struck by the intelligence he saw there.
“Well, lad. It looks like you're coming home with me. It was a lucky circumstance I found you, so that'll be your name, Circumstance.”
* * * * “What are you working on, Ethan?” Sari and Jonas stood by him watching him whittle.
Ethan held up the wooden disc that he was in the process of smoothing so the children could see it.” A spindle, see?”
“What's a spindle?” Sari peered closely at the disk.
“Yeah, what's a spintle?” Jonas echoed his older sister.
Ethan smiled at the mispronunciation.” A spindle is used to spin wool or cotton into yarn so it can be woven or knitted.”
“What's spin?”
“What's knitted?”
“Ellona.” Ethan called to the cottage from the bench in front of the hut he built during the late spring and summer.
She came out of the back door of the cottage, wiping her hands on a homespun towel.
“Children,” she called,” Stop bothering Ethan. It's time for chores now, anyway.”
“Aww, ma...”
“I wanna play whiff, Ethan.” Jonas started to fuss.
“Hush, now.” Ethan soothed him from the back porch. “We can play later. I'll show you how to spin some wool into yarn.”
Jonas clapped his hands, and ran off to catch up with his sister at the cottage door. Ellona kissed them into the cottage, and walked the short distance over to Ethan.
“I'm sorry they were bothering you. I really should keep a better watch over them.” She sat down on the bench.
Ethan snicked off another shaving of wood from the disc, and held it up for measure. “They're no bother, Ellona. I enjoy their company.”
“Is that why you built your hut here?”
He started digging out a centered hole in the disc with the point of his knife. “That, and other reasons.”
He could hear her smile. “Jonas said you were making a spintle, and you were going to let him spin it. Is that what you're doing, carving a toy for the children?”
“No, I'm making this spindle...for you.”
Ellona's eyes widened. “For me? Whatever for? I've no time for playthings.”
“This isn't a plaything.” He finished digging out the hole on the other side of the disc, and began working on smoothing the hole through. “It's a tool used to turn wool or cotton into thread or yarn. You can sell that to the shops in Bantering, if I don't miss my guess.”
“How...? But ... I know nothing about that. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
Ethan pointed to a slender rod on the ground near the bench.” I'll show you how. Pass me that rod, will you?”
He took the rod from Ellona's hand, and twisted it into the disc until about two inches of rod showed through the other side. He then cut a notch that angled upwards near the long end of the rod.
“Ok. Now, where's that tuft?” He bent over to look under the bench.
“Tuft?” Ellona said. “Tuft of what?”
“Wool. I wheedled some out of one of the ranchers near the western side of the forest. I need it to test the spindle.”
Ellona stood up to help him look.
Ethan laughed. “Don't move. I found it.”
“Oh? Where was it?”
“It's sticking to your backside. Shall I get it?”
“NO! Uhh ... I mean, I'll get it myself. If that's all right.” She arched an eyebrow at him.
Ethan gave her a rakish grin, and held out his free hand. She picked the tuft of wool off of her bottom, and dropped it into his hand.
“Thank you.” He said. “Now, watch how I do this.”
Ellona nodded her head. In spite of her misgivings, she found what he was doing fascinating.
Ethan pulled a small amount of wool from the tuft, and rolled it against his thigh until he had a short piece of woolen thread a little over a foot in length. He tied one end of the thread to the short end of the rod that passed through the disc, and looped the middle around the notch in the far end. This left him with about three or more inches of thread extending beyond the end of the rod.
“This,” Ethan pointed to the disc, “is the whorl. The rod is the spindle, and you spin wool into yarn like this.” He pulled some more wool from the tuft, and gently secured some of it to the thread.
“You spin it like this.” He held the top of the spindle between his thumb and forefinger, and spun it like a top. He let it drop as he held onto the wool.
“Oh ... my...” Ellona exclaimed. “Look at that.”
Ethan lifted the spinning spindle as he played out the wool, attenuating the forming yarn. “It's as easy as it looks.”
“How did you learn such a thing?” Ellona looked at him with huge eyes.
He shrugged. “I grew up among farmers and ranchers down in the Wool Coast. I learned it as a way of family life.” He wound the spun yarn onto the spindle behind the whorl.
Ellona held out her hands. “May I try it?”
“That's why I made it. Here, give it a go.” He put the spindle into her hands, and handed her a small amount of wool.
She held the spindle, and looked at him. “How do I do it again?”
“Like this.” He guided her hands into the right position, and then told her, “Ok, spin it.”
“It's working! I'm making wool!” She cried out in her excitement, and then, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he said, through his chuckles, “that's exactly what I told my mother when she first taught me. I'm going to tell you what she said to me that day. You're making yarn, sheep make wool.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, and then she blushed furiously, covering her mouth with her free hand. “What was I ... did I say ... oh Deity! I'm so embarrassed.”
Ethan stopped laughing. “Don't you think that. Don't you ever think that. You're a fine woman, Ellona and you've proven that you're the worth of anyone in that town down there.” He pointed towards Bantering.
Ellona looked at him. “Why, Ethan! One would think you were beginning to really care for me.”
It was Ethan's turn to blush.
* * * * “...And that one gives the best red.”
Ellona recoiled at the sight of the little bug Ethan held in his hand. “But it's a bug!”
“Can I see, mama?” Jonas peeked over the edge of Ethan's hand. “Oooo, buuug.”
Circumstance pulled him away. “Come over here, Jonas, and you can play with Sari and me.”
Ethan watched Ellona's adopted son lead his youngest sibling across the room. “That's a good boy you've got there.”
Ellona looked at Circumstance and smiled affectionately. “Yes, he is. I worry about him sometimes, he's so somber.”
Ethan kept an eye on the boy as he showed Ellona which plants, and insects gave the best colors in dying wool and yarn. Was it his imagination, or did the boy's ears look slightly pointed?

Chapter Eleven
Morgan slapped the chamber floor twice. The signal of surrender. Charity released him, and stood up.
Morgan raised himself up onto one elbow, and massaged his wrist. “You've been practicing without me.” He said wryly.
“You're not angry?” Charity was a little surprised at his easy acceptance of defeat.
He stood up and brushed himself off. “Why would the teacher be angry when the student surpasses his expectations?”
Charity allowed herself a little smile. “I did do rather well, didn't I?”
“You did splendidly, my dear student. You've learned what I could teach faster than I would have thought possible. I'm quite happy having to slap the floor.” He gave her a half bow, and left the room.
Cloutier was standing on his terrace overlooking the city of Berggren when Morgan found him.
“And how is my ... guest faring in our care, Captain?”
“She is ... adapting well, my Lord. She will be a woman any man would be proud to have at his side.”
Cloutier turned and looked at Morgan with an upraised eyebrow. “I detect a note of affection in you, Captain. Your loyalties would not be changing, would they?”
“Of course not, my Lord.” Morgan said stiffly.
“I would hope not, Captain.” Cloutier replied with equal stiffness. “I have plans for that young woman. She is ripening nicely, and I plan to be the one to harvest her fruit.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The Earl spun on his heel, and looked back out over the city. The sun was beginning to set, and the city buildings were painted with the colors of the sunset. He motioned to Morgan. “See the colors? This is my favorite part of the day. The buildings look like they're coated with blood. Delicious.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Cloutier turned again, and looked the Captain up and down. “Captain, in all the years I've known you, you haven't once committed an act contrary to the law.”
“No, my Lord.”
“I've always found that to be a little disappointing.”
“I am sorry to be a disappointment, my Lord. Do you have any further need of me?” Morgan kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Cloutier turned away from him, and waved him away with a languid hand. “No, not at this time. Go away. I wish to enjoy this sunset.”
Charity looked up from her book at Morgan's knock. She'd learned to recognize his particular single rap on the wood of the door. “Come in, Morgan. I'm only reading.”
He pushed open the door, and entered the chamber.
Charity could see something had upset him. “What's wrong?”
“I've something to tell you, my Lady. You may not like it.”
Charity got to her feet. “I don't like it already. Go ahead, tell me.”
“The Earl has plans for you. He means to take you at the moment you fully enter womanhood.” Morgan's face was set in stone.
Charity felt the beginnings of fear grow in her belly. She strode across the room and faced Morgan. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, my Lady. It is his right within the law.”
“What!?” Charity's scream made him flinch. “HE has his WAY with ME, and you're just going to stand there and do Nothing?”
Morgan stood beneath her verbal barrage, ramrod straight as if on review. “I cannot circumvent the law, my Lady, it is there for a purpose. I came here to tell you because I thought you should know, and you could prepare yourself.”
Charity began hitting him as she screamed. “Prepare myself? How? Perfume? Powder? Maybe I should have you bring in a trollop or two to teach me a few tricks?” She drew blood with her last blow, and then she collapsed onto the settee, and started to cry.
“I am sorry, my Lady.” Morgan still stood where he was, blood trickling from his nose. “I meant prepare in another sense.”
“What sense was that?” Charity replied through her sobs.
“Stand to your feet!” Morgan rapped out the command in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
Charity stood to her feet before she realized what she was doing.
“Guard yourself!” Morgan shifted into an attack stance, and sent a series of lightening swift strikes her way.
Charity parried the blows as quickly as they came. There was no time to think about what to do. She moved through pure instinct. High, low and then back to high. This continued for nearly a full half minute, and then Morgan stepped back, placed his hands on his hips, and nodded in satisfaction. “That sense, my Lady.” He turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Charity stood where he'd left her. “That sense.” She repeated the words slowly as a dangerous look came into her eyes.
* * * * “You don't have to do this.”
Ethan sat on the cottage porch of the woman he'd come to know as Ellona. He was putting the finishing touches on a Yew bow, and small flecks of wood drifted to the ground under the touch of the small knife he wielded. The woman's children, Sari, Jonas and Circumstance, sat or knelt around him as he worked.
He looked up at her voice. “Yes, I do. I'm not comfortable being in someone's debt.”
“You needed help. I gave it. That doesn't mean you're in debt to me.” Her voice was reproachful.
Ethan finished his work on the bow, and tossed the knife into a small block of wood a couple of yards away. The children ooo'd. “Maybe not to you, Ellona, but it does to me. A life debt isn't something I can just forget.”
He stood up and tested the flex of the bow, bracing one of the arms against the inside of his boot. It seemed to satisfy him, and he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a bowstring made of several strands of a long, sturdy fiber with the ends looped and the center wrapped tightly. He fit the string to the bow with two sure movements, and then pulled it back to his ear.
“It seems a good bow.” Ellona stood on the porch, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.
Ethan grunted in agreement. “It should do the job. Now, we unstring it, and see to the arrows.”
A pile of shafts, made of small branches whittled to an even thickness lay on the porch near Ethan's feet. Next to the shafts, an old pottery bowl sat, full of feathers. Next to the feathers lay a small pile of odds and ends of scrap metal.
Ethan sat back down and picked up one of the shafts and one of the feathers. He held one end of the shaft, and lined the feather against it lengthwise. Grunting his satisfaction with it, he then trimmed the feather with the knife. Then he picked up a length of hemp fiber, and tied the feather in place with two snug loops. Picking up two more feathers, he repeated the trimming and secured them to the shaft as well. Carefully, he began wrapping another length of fiber around the feathers, making sure to cover only the quill portion at the base and at the top. Taking the small knife, he added a notch into the end of the shaft, and then picked up another to begin the process all over again.
When he'd finished putting fletchings onto all the shafts, he picked up one of the metal scraps. “Where did you get these?” He said to Ellona.
“My husband used to collect them. He would save them up, and sell the collection to the blacksmith in Bantering.”
“Where is he now?”
“He died ... a fever two summer's ago. I've never thrown anything of his away.” Her voice caught.
Ethan felt as if he were suddenly intruding. He turned away from Ellona to hide his embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”
“You had no way of knowing unless I told you.” She wiped a corner of an eye with a fingertip. “I'm glad some of his things are being put to use,”
Ethan fingered the scrap he held. “I'll try to make a good use of them.”
The boy called Circumstance picked up one of the scraps, and held it out for Ethan to take. “This one will work.” His voice was high; higher than it should have been for a boy his age.
Ethan took the scrap. “Thank you, Circumstance.” The name sounded odd on his tongue, he looked at Ellona in question, she nodded.
“Run along now, children, Ethan doesn't need to be bothered while he finishes his work.”
“Ah, ma...”
“There's nuthin’ to do...”
“Yes, mama.” Circumstance gathered his siblings and led them back to the cottage.
There is something different about the boy, Ethan thought. He balanced the scrap Circumstance had given him in his hand. He held it up for Ellona to see. “The boy has a good eye.”
“He always has. It's a knack of his.”
“He's not yours, is he.” A statement, not a question.
“No.” Ellona sat and hugged herself. “Russal brought him home after a hunting trip. It must be nearly ten years now. He was just a baby then, and we had no children of our own.”
“Russal was your husband?” Ethan began shaping the scrap with a file he'd found in the small shop behind her cottage.
“Yes. We were married almost thirteen years.” She looked around at the cottage and the grounds. “He was a good husband and a good provider. It's been hard, but we've managed.”
“How did he find the baby?”
“He wouldn't say, not entirely. It was happy chance that he found him at all.”
“Oh?”
“He found the baby in a hollow log. He just happened to glance that way. Circumstance was cold and hungry, but he wasn't crying. He hasn't cried as long as I've known him.”
“Hmm.” Ethan finished filing on the scrap of metal. He reached down and picked up one of the fletched shafts. Using the small knife again, he split the end of the shaft to a depth of two fingers. He then worked the flange end of the shaped metal into the split, and held it up to see.
“It looks deadly.” Ellona commented.
“I hope it is. Game doesn't throw itself into the cook pot just on the asking.” Ethan began winding hemp fiber around the split so the crude arrowhead would remain in place during flight.
He finished the winding, and examined the finished arrow. “Well ... it looks all right. Only eleven more to go.”
Ellona got up to leave the porch. “I'll start making some hot food.”
Ethan looked up at her. He noticed the way the sun caught the highlights in her hair. “I should be finished about then. Thanks.”
Ellona walked into the cottage, and Ethan heard the sounds of pots and pans being rattled. Soon the smell of cooking filled the air, and Ethan realized he was hungrier than he'd thought. Anticipation moved him, and he bent to his task with a will.
Ellona's a fine woman. He thought. I wonder what she could do with a haunch of venison?
* * * * Cloutier balanced the oyster onto the edge of the slice of toasted rye bread, and conveyed it to his mouth. He closed his eyes in pleasure as he began to chew. Marvelous. The balance of flavors was just right. Some said that raw oysters were poison, but he knew better than that. An old witch passed onto him some of her secrets before he'd had her skinned, and what raw oysters could do for a man's ... performance was one of them.
He picked up a small silver bell, and rang it once. Moments later, Youch appeared.
“Milord?”
Cloutier speared another oyster, inwardly relishing his servant's involuntary shudder of revulsion. “Fetch Morgan, and bring him to me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Youch scuttled back out the door.
The Earl of Berggren swallowed his oyster on toast, and then poured a measure of a light green wine into a carved crystal goblet. The sweet astringency of the wine fitted perfectly with the finish of the oyster and rye. He was examining the color of the wine in the goblet when Morgan entered his chamber.
“Morgan, so good of you to show. I hope I'm not taking you away from something important?” He added a trace of sarcasm to the question.
“Nothing I cannot put off untill later, my Lord.”
“Good. Good.” Cloutier got up from his table, and walked around it to stand, facing Morgan. “I wish you to bring our nubile young guest to my chambers this evening. Have her suitably prepared; we will consummate our union this night.”
“No, my Lord.”
Cloutier reared back his head, thunderstruck at the refusal. “No? What answer is this?”
Morgan stood at attention; his eyes fixed straight ahead. “The only one I can honestly give, my Lord.”
“The only one you can honestly give?” Cloutier began pacing back and forth, the volume of his voice rising as he spoke. “The only honest answer you can give? Of course. Morgan, the straight arrow. Morgan the unmovable. Morgan the pure. The most incorrupt officer of the court. The loyal military lapdog of the house of Berggren.”
“My loyalty is unquestioned, my Lord. If you only ask of me another...”
“I don't want another!” Cloutier whirled to scream the interruption into Morgan's face. “Was your loyalty unquestionable when you bedded the Countess those three and a half decades ago?”
“My Lord ... I...”
Cloutier's laugh was bitter and sarcastic. “Of course it wasn't. The Duke was away, at war, and she needed comforting. The years of loneliness would have driven her mad ... but for Morgan's comforting hand...” He pressed his face up to Morgan's, nose to nose. “...or other body parts.” He hissed.
“Did you know, Morgan,” Cloutier's pacing took him past his table where he scooped up a knife. He toyed with it as he paced and talked. “She bore your bastard. She tried to keep its genesis from the other members of the family, as she tried to keep your identity secret. Children can be especially cruel.” He looked at Morgan out of the corner of his eye. “Did you know that? They can be cruel with an inventiveness that passes all genius. Pity none of them live today.”
He paced over to where he stood in front of Morgan again. “Have you anything to say to that, my dear Captain? Have you anything to say about the poor bastard you left to the gentle ministrations of a court full of sadistic little gets?” His voice rose to a shriek.
“My Lord, I am sorry ... but, uggghh!”
“Goodbye ... father.” Cloutier twisted the knife he'd driven into Morgan's heart a couple of times, and then pushed the body off of it.
He looked at his father's body, with his head tilted to one side as he wiped the blade clean with a linen napkin.” I suppose this means I'll have to summon her to my chamber myself. Youch!”
* * * * “Nnooooo!” Charity's despairing wail echoed through her chamber as the servant left. She threw herself onto her bed, and cried. She wanted to kill herself, and join Morgan and Adam. First she had lost her brother, and now she had lost the only man she'd cared about since her brother was taken away from her. The world was too cruel for her to stay in it.
She bounded off the bed, and began searching for something she could use for her suicide. She found no sharp or pointed objects that she could use on herself. Morgan had been very thorough in that regard.
The thought of his name brought another cry to her throat. She looked around the chamber wildly. The window! Of course. The wall beneath had no handholds for climbing, so it was left unbarred. They never thought she would be so foolish as to throw herself from it. Morgan, Adam, she thought. Here I come.
“No.” The voice whispered. “You cannot kill yourself.”
She stopped halfway into the window. “What? Who's there?” There was no answer, but the interruption had broken her self-destructive grief. She stepped down from the windowsill, and walked back over to sit down on her bed.
The voice was right. She really couldn't kill herself, but she was sure she could kill that slimy son of a bitch of an Earl. At the very least, she was sure she could give it a damn good try.
* * * * Milward ran his hand over the scryglass as the image faded. “Bardoc bless you, child. You've courage enough for us all.”
* * * * Cloutier stood under the rain bath, luxuriating in the warm fall of the water over his body. It was times like this when he enjoyed most the power of his office. He plucked a bottle of scented soap-oil off the ledge, and began rubbing it into his skin. Small bubbles rose into a citrus-scented froth as he rubbed and thought about his evening to come. The anticipation of it caused him to break into humming an old melody he learned as a child. Yes, it was good to have the blessings of the Sorcerer.
“Milord?” Youch called from his place outside the rain bath.
“I wasn't speaking to you, Youch. Nothing has changed.”
“Must you do this again, Milord?”
“Again, Youch? How often must I instruct you in the pleasures of the flesh? There is so much more available to the one who ... experiments. Yes ... a perfect word for the description. Experiments. Taste, smell, sight, touch, how much of them do you use, Youch? Bah! You're just like all the rest of the sheep. Go, get the girl, and have her prepared for me. If there is one spot of sweat, or one hair out of place, I'll be dining on your sweetbreads.”
Youch left at a run.
* * * * Charity paced back and forth in her chamber. Morgan had given her the skills and the training to defend herself against the Earl, but it would do her no good if enough guards got involved. Given enough numbers, even the best of fighters can be overwhelmed ... and killed. There had to be a way ... there had to be.
She knew practically nothing about ... it. The closest she'd ever come to the situation was her brief encounter with the Avernese soldier who had tried to rape her. She remembered how frightened she'd been. How could she deal with what Cloutier had planned for her? There had to be a way.
She half-remembered something Morgan had said ... something about drawing your opponent in, allowing them to believe they were winning. This belief usually caused an opening that could be exploited. How to do it, that was the question.
* * * * Plop! A peeled potato dropped into the pot of water.
“Potatoes again, Flynn. I bloody well hate peelin’ bloody potatoes.” Neely griped as he reached into the bag next to him to pick out another potato.
“Shhh.” Flynn put a finger to his pursed lips. “I can't hear what's goin’ on up there.” He pointed to the window alcove two stories above him.
They had their backs against the Palace wall in a small courtyard that backed up against the kitchens. Flynn was the one who had found out that the alcove above led to the Earl's bedroom.
Neely looked up at the alcove. “Don't see why we even try. Can't hear a bleedin’ thing. Haven't heard a bleedin thing since we first set up here a week ago.”
“Heard the shoutin last week.” Plop! Flynn reached for another potato.
“So what.” Plop! Neely reached into his potato bag. “Just ‘is grace shoutin’ at some poor goober named Captain somebody. No moanin.’ No groanin.’ No nothin.'” Plop!
“Ya think he'll take Miss Charity, Neely? Th’ pot boy tol’ me he heard th’ cook say th’ chamber maid tol’ her he would tonight.”
“Well, I'm not surprised.” Plop!
“Neely!”
“Oh, I'm not sayin’ I'd be doin’ her. No, Flynn, you put that thought right away. I'm just sayin’ I'm not surprised. Th’ Earl's a mighty lusty man, he is. A mighty lusty man. Now, you give man like that an opportunity to be th’ first one ... well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what can happen.”
“What is that, Neely?” Plop!
“You don't know? You never heard...? Well...” Nelly leaned back and gestured with his peeler. “What's th’ worst fear a virgin has about her first time? Not bein’ good'nuf, of course.”
“You sure about that?”
“Stands to reason, Flynn. Stands to reason. Now you take a lusty man like his Grace th’ Earl, there,” He pointed up to the alcove. “He ain't gonna stop at just one turn o’ th’ wheel, now, is he? Once ya gets past th’ first time, a virgin wakes up, doesn't she? She's ready for another two or three at least. Hard to stop once she's warmed up, a virgin is.” Plop!
“So, you think we'll hear somethin'?” Flynn worked a bit of peel off his peeler.
“Won't hear a bloody thing.” Plop!
* * * * “Please, Milady.” The chambermaid clutched the towel between trembling hands. “You must bathe. It's my head if you don't.”
Charity looked at the girl. She couldn't have been much older than Charity had been when they brought her here, maybe a year or two younger. She was barely beginning to show topside. Of course, her mother could have been one of those women with small breasts, more boyish than womanish. The Mayor's wife back in the village, Darzin's mother, had been like that, but this girl didn't have the sour, puckered expression Darzin's mother always wore.
She held out her hand to take the towel. As much as she wanted to act contrary to the Earl's wishes, she couldn't bring herself to be the cause of this girl's death.
“Oh, thank you, Milady. Thank you.” The chambermaid gushed as Charity lowered herself into the bath.
“You're welcome.” Charity grumped, making the mannerism sound like a complaint.
“Oh, please, Milady. You don't know how He is. You just make things worse on yourself if you fight Him. I think he likes the punishing.” She shuddered.
What the chambermaid said sparked an idea within Charity. She thought about it as she lathered herself. Morgan had told her about drawing an opponent in ... how could you do that with someone like the Earl? He was simply the Avernese rapist with an Ermine collar. She had to consider this.
“You are most comely, Milady.” The chambermaid broke into her reverie while she added heated water to the bath.
“What?”
“Your shape. I wish I had such ... pillows.” She blushed slightly at her directness.
Charity looked at the girl. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen summers, Milady.”
“Thirteen.” So her guess was right. The girl was a few years younger than she was. And already used by the Earl, if she didn't miss the meaning of what she'd been told; alive, most likely, because she hadn't struggled when she was taken.
Charity worked some lather into her hair. “Give yourself some time. They grow.”
“Yes, Milady.”
The knock on her chamber door cause Charity's hands to fumble while fitting the last tie on her bodice. “It's time.” She thought.
She looked at herself in the floor-length mirror. The gown she'd been given to wear must have cost as much as the Lord Mayor's house back home. The skirt and bodice were of the finest white silk, with a trim of small perfect pearls. The bodice was laced abominably tight, and cut distressingly low. Her breasts looked like two escapees nearly succeeding at the job.
The knock came again, along with, “are you ready miss?” The voice was male, and tentative.
She crossed the room, and pulled open the door. There were two of them, both young, maybe a few years older than her, and both were nervous.
The smaller guard's eyes widened at the sight of Charity's exposed bosom. He stammered a bit as he began to speak. “I ... it's time, miss.”
Charity closed the door behind her. She'd determined to not let them see a shred of nervousness or fear. Early on, during their tours through the palace's hallways, Morgan had pointed out the Earl's rooms to her. She began walking that way, ahead of the two guards, her head held high.
Cloutier's private chambers were three floors and several hallways away from where she'd been housed. Charity spent the walk replaying the points of her plan over again, the guards keeping pace with her at a few steps behind.
The chambermaid who had helped her with her bath had proven helpful in making her aware of what was to come. She had personal knowledge of what the Earl liked to have done to him. She shared this knowledge with Charity in shocking detail. It very nearly drove her off of her plan entirely. At first she gagged inwardly at the thought of doing such a thing, deciding that it just may be better to die rather than submit to the Earl's obscene desires. But, as the time for her trial approached, her resolve stiffened and then solidified into a deadly calm, and now she made her way to Cloutier's chambers with a will.
The two guards had escorted a number of young women along the route. Some were dragged, wailing in despair, to their tryst with the Earl. This was the first time they'd ever had to work to keep up with one. Charity could hear their whispered conversation as they walked the palace hallways.
“Cor, Reilly. This'un's a cold bitch, she is.”
“I hear you, Giff. Not a twitch. Not one bloomin’ twitch.”
“You think she really wants it?”
“Don't know, why don't you ask her?”
“Why don't you?
“You crazy? She's His nibs’ property! One squeal, an’ we're dog meat.”
“What about all those we had to knock on th’ head and drag there?”
“Yer a damn fool, Giff. We was told to knock ‘em in the’ head, and you should remember that. This'uns a prize doxie, an’ we're damn lucky she's wantin’ a go there, and that's a fact.”
“I suppose yer right, Reilly.”
Charity was glad her hair covered her ears, so that the two guardsmen couldn't see how red they'd become.
They reached the double doors that led into Cloutier's private chambers, and the smaller of the two guards knocked, once.
An imperiously indolent voice called from inside the doors. “You may enter.”
The guards pushed the doors open.
Cloutier lounged against an embroidered couch shimmering with gold thread on burgundy velvet. He waved a negligent hand at the guards while sipping from a goblet of wine. “Leave her there, and leave us alone.”
Charity stood in the center of the chamber foyer; the highly polished tile reflected the flicker of the candles in their sconces. The click of the closing doors sounded to her like the ring of doom.
Cloutier rose from the couch in a smooth single movement. She barely repressed the shudder that tried to overwhelm her as he laid his hands on her shoulders, and then ran them over her bosom.
“Sssssp.” He inhaled wantonly. “You don't know how long I've waited for this evening, my dear girl. Let me look at you.”
He grabbed onto her bodice, and ripped it away from her. The ruined fabric fell into a rumpled pile around her ankles. She stiffened in anger.
The Earl, nearly overcome with lust, mistook her body's reaction. “Oh you're a hot one, aren't you?” He panted.
He dropped his hand, bruising her with his thumb and forefinger. Her sharp intake of breath was mistaken, as well, and he fumbled rapidly with his laces. “Yesss, you are. Don't worry, my lusty one. I'll soon fill the emptiness within you.” His voice was hoarse with passion.
Cloutier dropped his hose, and Charity nearly screamed. She tried to focus on her plan, as she did what the chambermaid had told her she should do. The Earl moaned with pleasure.
She dropped to the floor, and swallowed a bubble of bile that tried to rise in her throat. What she had to do next was the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but she had to do it for Morgan.
Cloutier tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He began to groan loudly, and then he began to scream.
* * * * Giff and Reilly stood at their posts on either side of the double doors listening to the sounds coming from the other side.
“Hear that, Giff?”
“Aye, Reilly. We said she was a hot'un.”
“That we did, Giff. That we did.”
They both knew they were lying.
Their eyes widened when the moans turned to high-pitched womanish screams, but they did nothing. This wasn't the first time they had heard such coming from behind those doors. The screams rose in pitch, until they were nearly beyond the range of hearing, and then they ended in a burbling gurgle. Giff and Reilly looked at each other, and then they each found something else to occupy their eye's attentions.
They were shocked back to the present by the doors bursting open, and a nude woman with blood on her mouth running past them, and down the hall. The last thing Giff remembered seeing before rushing into the Earl's chambers was a vision of bouncing sandy hair and a tight pink bum.
“Oh, Deity.” Reilly put his hand to his mouth, and then emptied his stomach as he fell to his knees.
“Bardoc's beard!” Giff had a slightly stronger stomach, and managed to hold his gorge down, barely.
Cloutier, Lord Earl of Berggren, lay before him in a pool of blood, his head at an impossible angle, and his manhood stuffed into his mouth. He was quite dead.
Reilly finished his business, and shakily climbed to his feet.
Giff helped him up the rest of the way. “What're we gonna do, Reilly? Go after her?”
Reilly wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You can if you want, Giff. Me, I'm headed into town and gettin’ drunk. As drunk as I can. I never seen nothin’ here, an’ if you've got a brain in that skull o’ yours, neither did you.”
Giff looked at what used to be his employer, and nodded. Then he spat into the blood, and turned on his heel. “First round's on me.”

Chapter Twelve
Charity pushed open the door at the bottom of the servant's stair that led to the kitchens. By using back ways and some of the hidden passages Morgan had revealed to her, she'd managed to avoid being seen by all except one unfortunate over-zealous armsman. When he awoke, it would be several desperate escaped prisoners who overcame him, rather than one naked slip of a girl.
The hour of the day should mean an easy passage through the kitchens, as most of the kitchen help would be asleep. The bakers weren't supposed to begin their day for a few hours yet, and they woke up the roosters.
She eased the door shut behind her, and tiptoed around the baking island. She missed seeing the leg sticking out beyond the end of the island, and fell, sprawling, towards the flagstones of the kitchen floor.
She tucked her head, and rolled on one shoulder to come up facing whoever had tripped her. She stayed there, crouched and poised on the balls of her feet, and then flew into them.
“Flynn! Neely! You're alive. You're alive!” She buried herself into their embrace, and began to cry with release.
Flynn's meaty hand patted her on the back. “There, there, miss Charity. It's all right now.”
Neely, for some reason he was forever at a loss to explain, kept his eyes averted from what his friend was holding. He was never embarrassed, the very idea shocked him, but there it was.
He coughed. “Uh, Charity. We needs to be goin'. I mean, you coulda just now roused the whole kitchen, if you catch my meanin'.”
Flynn held on to Charity, like a bear protecting his young. “Aww, Neely, give the girl a break, you know as well as me what she's been through.”
Charity pulled out of Flynn's embrace, and looked at them, wide-eyed. “You know? How? I mean, how could you?”
Flynn chuckled deep in his chest. “The whole castle knew, miss Charity. Neely an’ me, we peeled spuds under the Earl's window to check on you.”
Neely broke in when he saw he her eyes widen further and a flush creep into her cheeks. “We figgered it was you at work when the screams started up, so we did a bit of detecting, as it were.”
He reached behind himself, and pulled out a bundle, and handed it to her.
“My clothes! My bow and quiver! How ... where did you get them?”
Neely grinned from ear to ear. “Truth be known, I've had me hand in a couple o’ thevin's now and then, you know? Well. I just put me talents to work. Let's leave it now, and could ya do an old tracker an’ thief a favor?”
Charity looked up from her inspection of the bundle. “What? Oh, of course I will.”
“Could you put some o’ those clothes on, lass? I mean, you're a fine lookin’ specimen an’ all, but I think I prefer seein’ ya with coverin's.”
Charity hurried into her clothes, blushing furiously while trying to ignore Flynn's comments of agreement with Neely on how fine a specimen of womanhood she'd truly become.
Either the balance of the kitchen staff were sound sleepers, or they'd chosen not to investigate the sound of her greeting Flynn and Neely. This made for an easy path out of the kitchens into the small yard that connected the stables with the Palace wall.
Neely cracked the door that led to the yard, and peered out with one eye. He pulled back a bit, and said over his shoulder. “Cloudy night. Couldn't ask for a better chance than this.”
“Awfully quiet.” Flynn muttered. “I'd have expected the Earl to have roused the whole castle by now.”
“You needn't worry about the Earl,” Charity said, with a tone of finality that raised Neely's brows.
He looked at Flynn, and raised an unspoken question. Flynn answered with a silent don't ask me.
“Well, come along, then.” Neely led them into the small yard and along the wall where the shadows were the deepest. The moon obliged them by staying behind the clouds and adding to the gloom.
The door to the stables was unguarded as expected, but it was barred, on their side. Flynn lifted the bar out of its blocks, and Neely pulled open the door. A smell of hay, manure and horses wafted into the yard.
Charity edged around Neely, and tiptoed into the stables. A family of mice scurried out her way into deep hay. A few of the horses wuffed in their stalls as the three escapees moved past them.
A pile of tack lay slung over a railing across from the stalls. Charity stopped and fingered one of the blankets.
Neely fidgeted and hissed at her. “Come on, miss, we've got to get a move on.”
Charity looked at him with an arched brow. “Wouldn't we move faster with horses?”
Flynn and Neely froze in their tracks. A broad smile spread across Flynn's face.
“There's a thought. Why didn't we think o’ that, Neely? What with all these horses here an’ all?”
Neely glared at the horses from beneath his brows. “Because I can't ride.” He muttered under his breath.
“What do you mean, you can't ride?” Charity hissed back at him. “All you do is climb onto their back and let them walk. Anyone can do that.”
“Well, I can't.” Neely turned away from her.
“I forgot, Miss Charity.” Flynn rubbed the back of his head.
“Flynn!” Neely cautioned him in a whisper.
Flynn ignored his friend's admonition. “You see, Neely's afraid of horses, ‘e is.”
“Oh, come on. Horses?” Charity smirked.
The tone of her question touched a sore spot in Neely, and he barked at her. “A man's got to be afraid of something!”
“Huh? Wuzzat? Who's there?” A sleepy voice drifted out of what they had thought was an empty stall.
“Now you've done it. You woke up the stableboy.” Flynn pushed Neely on his shoulder as he whispered the accusation.
Neely pushed Flynn back. “So what! I'm not crawlin’ on top of no bleedin’ horse.”
“Ohhh, deity! Barbarians in the stables.”
They all turned at the voice. It belonged to a boy a couple of years away from his teens, and he was staring at them with a look that spoke volumes. He was certain he'd be killed, kidnapped, raped and plundered, in that order.
Flynn took a step toward him, and he squealed and back-peddled back into his stall. A couple of the horses shifted in their stalls uneasy with the disturbance.
“Easy, sonny. I ain't gonna hurt you none.” Flynn eased towards him, but he only scrabbled further back into the stall.
“Ease off, Flynn. All you're doin’ is scaring the kid more.” Neely pulled Flynn back out of the stall, and turned to Charity.
“I think your touch is needed here, Charity.” Neely jerked a thumb at the stall.
Charity moved around Neely, and stepped into the stall. The stableboy edged back against the fall wall of the stall. As Charity knelt down in front of him, the moon came out from behind a cloud and cast a beam across her face.
“I ... I know you. Y ... you were with Sire Morgan.”
Charity's smile hid the pain of that name. “Yes, I was.”
“I used to watch as you walked around the yard. You were so pretty in that dress.” A tentative smile crawled across his face. “What are you doing in the stables? Do you want some horses?”
Charity reached out and patted the stable boy's knee. “Why, thank you. Yes, I'd like three horses, if you can spare them.”
The stableboy climbed to his feet, and walked out of the stall to look closely at Flynn and Neely. “You're not barbarians.” He said it almost accusingly.
Flynn and Neely looked down at the boy.
“No. They're not barbarians. They're my friends.”
The stableboy gave Flynn and Neely another look that told them what he thought about Charity's choice of friends, and then he crossed behind Charity to the tack on the railing.
He picked up three of the blankets, and turned to face Charity. “What horses would you like, Milady?”
Charity looked up and down the line. She had no idea what made the difference between a good horse and a bad one. “Tell you what. I'll let you pick them out for me, ok?”
The stableboy beamed at being placed in such a position of trust.
He grabbed three halters, and rushed down to the end of the stable. “Thank you, Milady. I'll get them for you right now, Milady.”
“Our Charity's made an impression on the young lad,” Neely remarked to Flynn.
“That she has,” Flynn chuckled, all thought of the earlier quarrel forgotten. “That she has.”
Charity whirled on them. “Oh, do be still.”
Flynn nudged Neely with an elbow. They'd both seen the look of pleasure in her eyes.
The stableboy did quick work, and with a practiced eye, he picked out a horse suited for each of the would-be riders.
For Charity he chose a dapple-gray mare with an intelligent look in her eye. “She's a real lady herself, um ... Milady,” he said as he handed Charity the reins.
“Thank you ... what can you tell me about the other two?” She looked at Flynn and Neely with their horses.
He pointed to the draft horse next to Flynn. “He's the strongest one in the stable, Milady. Even that one won't wear him down.” He pointed at Flynn.
“And the other one?” Charity pointed to the buckskin that Neely stood nervously next to.
“That's old Wilbut. You won't find an easier soul in the stable. A baby could sleep on Wilbut's back, she could.”
“A gentle horse, is she?” Charity looked at Neely.
“Oh, aye, Milady. Gentle as the day is long. Born that way, from what I hears. Old Malt, the stable master? He allus gives Wilbut to the Nervous Nellys, he does.”
“I see.” Said Charity. “Will that satisfy you, Nelly, I mean, Neely?
Flynn's chuckle threatened to become a belly laugh.
Neely growled. “One thing I'm not, is a Nervous Nelly. If Flynn can ride that great gray beast, I can ride this one.”
“Good.” Charity turned to the stableboy. “You've been most helpful. How can I ever thank you?”
“Aww, you needn't do that Milady. It was me pleasure.”
“Will, I think I should, anyway.” Charity reached into the purse she had when Cloutier took her prisoner in front of the restaurant. To her amazement, the coins were still there. She flipped a silver to the stableboy.
He caught it, and flipped it back at her.
Charity caught the silver, surprised at the boy's rejection of the coin. “Can't you use the money?”
“Oh, aye, that I can, but, if I go flashing a silver, they'll either take it from me, or accuse me of thevin'. A silver's too much for a stableboy, Milady.”
Charity dug into the purse, and pulled out a half dozen coppers. “Here.” She poured the coppers into his hand. “Don't toss those back at me, because I'll let them hit the floor. You hide what you think is too much, and save it for later. No one is going to accuse a stableboy of stealing a copper now, are they?”
He smiled shyly at her. “No, Milady. I guess not.”
They led the horses out of the stable, and mounted up. Neely had to try a couple of times, but Wilbut stood patiently there while his rider fought his fear and climbed into the saddle.
The stableboy waved goodbye as they rode into the city of Berggren, the horses’ shod hooves clopping against the cobblestones.
A shadow detached itself from the alley between two houses, and followed them on silent feet.
The city's windows were, by and large, dark and silent. A very few had lights behind their curtains, but no faces filled the windows to see the three riders pass. The streets were empty just outside the Palace wall except for a few stray dogs and two very drunk Palace guards trying to hold themselves up by clinging to each other. The song they were singing was very inconsiderate to royalty.
Berggren's street twisted like a vine as they descended from the palace hill into the city below.
When they reached the level below the Palace, Charity leaned towards Neely, and asked, “How are you doing?”
“Just fine, miss. Just fine.” Neely looked about as tense as a man could be without exploding.
Flynn eased his mount up next to Charity on her left side. “Might be good to take his mind off the horse, Miss Charity.” He whispered in her ear.
She nodded and leaned toward Neely again. “What happened to you two after the fight in front of the restaurant? I lost all track of you.”
Neely's mouth quirked in a little smile. “Well, now, miss. Flynn an’ me, we was knocked about some in that fracas. I expect you saw that bit of it.”
Charity nodded her head in the affirmative.
Neely saw the nod. “Thought you did. Well, we woke up in a cell. Been in worse, at least this one had friendly rats. Didn't stay there long, the gaoler, he saw right quick Flynn an’ me was men of quality, an’ give us jobs in th’ kitchen. We was in charge of, uh ... well it was somethin’ important, I can tell you that.”
Charity turned to Flynn. “Was it really that important?”
Flynn nodded vigorous agreement. “Aye, Miss Charity, Folks don't like their spuds peeled poorly. Me an’ Neely was the best spud peelers they ever seen. We was told that.”
Charity turned back to Neely. “Spud peelers?” She laughed.
Neely puffed out his chest. “Like he said, miss. We was the best they ever seen. Told us so, they did.”
“How did you get into the Palace?”
Neely rubbed the side of his nose. “Well ... me an’ Flynn like our grub, you see, an’ I think it got a mite expensive keepin’ us there.”
Charity let out a silvery laugh. “Are you telling me you two ate the gaol out of house and home?”
Flynn grinned shyly, and scratched a grizzled cheek. “I reckon he is at that, Miss Charity.”
“Marvelous. And for that they put you in the Palace? Why not just on the street?”
“They said we had to work off th’ bill for our keep. Flynn an’ me got a cot in the helps quarters and a spot in the kitchens.”
“Let me guess. Spuds?”
“Like he said, Miss Charity. We was the best they ever saw.”
Charity finished the last half of the sentence with Neely, and then turned to Flynn.
“How did you know I was in the Palace?”
Flynn took the question. “We saw you, miss. Walkin’ with the Captain. You was across the courtyard, hanging’ on his arm. It was so good to know you wasn't killed. Me an’ Neely, that's when we put our heads together to try an’ keep an eye on you.”
“How? How could you do that? There were guards everywhere.”
“They'll let a man peel spuds nearly anywhere, iffn’ he's not in th’ way.” Neely looked a new man on the horse now.
Charity felt an inner glow at the accomplishment. “So, you just moved around, peeling potatoes, until you found the right window to camp under?”
Flynn nodded. “Aye, miss. That's what we did.”
“And the Earl's rooms? You said the whole Castle knew?”
Neely coughed. “You tickle a chambermaid or two, you can learn a lot about the inner goings on. In a castle, I mean.”
Charity looked at Flynn. “You, too, Flynn?”
Flynn shifted his bulk in the saddle. “Now, miss Charity. What chambermaid would want to play slap an’ tickle with a lump like ol’ Flynn?”
Charity reached out to touch him in sympathy.
“Me. I learned it from the cooks.” He chuckled.
The touch became a slap. “Flynn!”
Flynn rubbed his arm. “What was all that screamin’ about, miss Charity?”
Charity flushed. “You don't want to know that.”
Neely really wanted to know, now. “Hey, now. I told you about peelin’ all them spuds. The least you can do is tell us about a few screams. Uh ... it wasn't you doin’ the screamin', was it?”
Charity couldn't help smiling at the memory. “No, it wasn't me.”
“Who was it then?” Neely pressed for an answer.
“You really want to know?”
Flynn clicked his tongue, urging his horse to keep up with the others. “I'd like to know too, Miss Charity.”
Charity sighed. “Ok. Don't say I didn't warn you.” She then told Flynn and Neely about her being taken to Cloutier's chambers, and his ripping her gown from her shoulders.
“Bloody swine.” Neely muttered. “I'd like to get my hands on him. I'd tear his manhood off and feed it to him raw.”
Charity's smile was hidden in shadow. “Then you'll like this next part.”
She continued her tale, taking them through the Earl's fondling of her, and her desperate anger at what he was planning, to do to her. She told them of her own plan, and how difficult it was to bring herself to do it. When she got to the execution of that plan, Flynn and Neely reacted strongly.
“Oooowwww! With your teeth?”
“Bardoc save us all! Uuuugghh! I'm not gonna sleep for weeks after this. Stuffed it in his mouth!? How could you, girl?”
Charity suspected the only thing that kept them from crossing their legs was the saddles. “You just said, Neely, that you'd like to do that very thing to him. I heard you, and Flynn heard you. What's the difference?”
Neely looked at her. Even in the moonlight she could see how pale he was. “I ... just ... said it. You ... you ... oh, I can't say it. I can't. You tell her, Flynn.”
Charity turned to Flynn. “Flynn?”
Flynn wiped his mouth. For some reason he felt very vulnerable just then. “Things ... like that are just said, Miss Charity. You never actually do them.”
“Are you saying I should have let him get away with all he's done?” Charity was beginning to feel a little angry at this lack of support.
“No ... I'm sure he had it coming, miss.” Flynn temporized. “It's just ... you know, knowin' it was done ... You know...”
Neely began to chuckle. “Bet it was a bit of a surprise, though.”
Flynn joined in, “A lady whose bite is worse than her bark?”
Charity stopped the coming gales of laughter with a sharp whispered, “Hsssh! You want to bring the entire guard down on us?”
Flynn and Neely swallowed their chuckles as they looked over their shoulders. Flynn turned to look at Charity. “So, how d'we get past them guards at the gate then?
“Come on, Flynn!” Neely hissed the imperative around the corner where he'd flattened himself against the wall.
A cloudy night sky helped by providing the gloom they needed to get past the gate guards. The guardhouse was a tollbooth-sized structure set against the city wall. One of the two guards leaned against the outside of the house, a rollup smoldering between his lips, and both hands stuffed into his trousers. He occasionally looked to either side, but his primary interest seemed to be what was in his pants.
Flynn sidled around the corner to Neely's side. “Miss Charity's got the horses held steady. They seem to like her.”
Neely growled. He still preferred walking to riding horseback. “I can only see one guard. Where've you been?”
Flynn sounded smug. “Puttin’ th’ other one to sleep.”
“Oh.” Neely's nerves wouldn't let him feel grateful. “All right, then, let's do this one.”
He detached himself from the wall, and turned the corner, allowing his body to fall into a casual saunter as he crossed the guard's line of vision.
“Halt! Stand and be recognized!”
Neely turned to face the guard. “Huh? What'choo mean, recognized? Do I know you?”
The guard took his hand away from the pike that leaned against the guardhouse. A drunk, and well into the bottle if he didn't miss his guess. “On your way, citizen. Bed is where you belong, though your head may not like ... urk!”
Flynn eased the throttled guard into the guardhouse while Neely lifted the bar out of its brackets and eased open the gate.
“You go get Charity. I'll keep watch.” Neely whispered to Flynn. His feet itched to be out of Berggren and back onto open road.
Flynn kept to the shadows, and made his way back to where Charity held the horses. She was moving back and forth between the three, keeping them soothed with gentle words and a soft hand.
“The gate's free, Miss Charity. We can get goin’ now.”
She rubbed one last nose, and handed the reins of Flynn's horse to him. “Good. I can't wait to be free of this place.”
“The memories'll fade with time, Miss Charity.” Flynn gave her a puppy dog look.
She patted his cheek. “I know they will, Flynn. Thanks for caring.”
They walked the horses out of the closed alley, and down the street to where Neely stood fidgeting.
“Come on!” He hissed. “Come on! They could be on us at any moment.”
Charity looked back at the castle sitting on the hill. Its windows were dark. “We would have been overrun already, Neely, I think the guards were as pleased to see Cloutier's end as I was.”
She mounted her horse, and nudged him into a slow walk through the gate. “Are you coming?”
Neely cursed his fortunes silently, and climbed back onto his patient mount.
Flynn came alongside of him and smiled broadly. “It's good to be back on the’ road again, ain't it Neely?”
Neely muttered his opinion of that and other things under his breath as he let the horse follow its mates out the city gate, and into the lands beyond.
After they passed through the gates, a shadow detached itself from the guardhouse and followed them at a distance, keeping pace with Neely's plodding horse.

Chapter Thirteen
“That's a good-looking skein, Ellona.” Ethan held the yarn in his hand. “You learned the trick of plying quickly, faster than I did, in fact.”
“That's only because you were a little boy, and little boys get distracted easily.” She worked the drop spindle as she talked, being careful to spin it in the opposite direction the yarn had been originally spun to insure a proper ply.
She looked at the basket with its skeins of plied yarn. “Are you sure these will sell in Bantering?”
Ethan looked at the yarn again. It was that soft cream color unbleached natural wool takes on when washed without having the lanolin stripped from it. He was sure they would sell. His mother could spin a tighter, more even yarn, but she didn't market in Bantering. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “These'll sell.”
* * * * “How long are we going to keep riding?” Neely felt as if his teeth were going to be jarred loose from his gums, and his behind had long settled into one giant painful pile.
Charity sat her mare as if she were born to the saddle. Her obvious pleasure of being on horseback did not help Neely's disposition.
Flynn reached forward and patted his Clydesdale's neck. “I dunno, Neely. I kinda like it, though. I never had me own horse before.”
“Well, I hope we find a stopping place soon. Me bum is about to fall off, an’ I'll be eatin’ mush for the rest of me life iffn we keep on like this.” Neely rubbed the backside in question.
“All right.” Charity turned in the saddle toward her two companions. “How about that place. Will it do?”
That place was a grouping of thatched roof buildings including a large barn built into the wooded hillside. A creek ran behind the smaller buildings and powered a water wheel that turned a shaft running into the one closest to the creek. It occupied a choice piece of land backed by the trees of the long wood.
Neely gazed at the grouping with adoration. “It's just lovely. Come on, horse, we's going to part company for a bit.” He clucked his tongue and dug in his heels, urging his mount to pick up the pace.
Charity and Flynn fell in behind him, and in a very short order they were having their mounts cared for by the barn's stableboy.
“You say this is a Wayfarer House?” Charity stood next to the boy as he rubbed her mount down with a wisp of straw. She'd removed her bow from the back of the saddle, and had it slung over her back.
He was about the age that Hersh's boy, Ornette, had been when she and Adam had moved into the Butcher's household in Dunwattle. A bloom of freckles lay across his nose and cheeks just like Ornette's, but his hair was dark, and he had none of the former's bulk.
He worked his way around her horse, and started rubbing the other side. The mare grunted in pleasure. “Aye , Milady. That be the callin'. This be the main road ‘tween Berggren an’ Grisham, plus the lands to the south. Lots o’ travelers come by here goin’ both ways. His nibs’ Da did the buildin'. A man o’ vision, he were. A man o’ vision.”
“What does a Wayfarer House do, besides put folk up for the night?”
The boy stopped rubbing, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “Well, now, I think outfittin’ be the main thing, Milady. That an’ the smithin'.”
Flynn and Neely coming back into the stable interrupted Charity's next question. Flynn's eyes were huge.
“You gotta see it, Miss Charity. The place is tops full! Everything we could need for the road, and more. And the prices! The man only wants a copper for a ten-pound bag of wheat flour. He's practically givin’ the stuff away.”
Neely was pleased but less effusive. “He's got an impressive place, that's for sure. I ain't never seen so much dry goods all together in one place. Man must be doing a landslide business.”
“He's got over a dozen folk workin” for him full time, at least.” Flynn interjected.
“Oh ‘is Nibs’ got more'n that on the crew, to be sure,” the stableboy said, while he finished up Charity's mare. “Why don'tcha go inside an’ see fer yerself?”
Charity held her hand out and her mount nuzzled it. She smiled at the show of affection. “I think I will.”
She looked at Neely. “What do you think we'll need for the road?”
He counted on his fingers while they walked out of the stable and into the yard separating it from the main building. “Hmmm. Flour for biscuits. Tin of jam. Yeast cake would be good along with some leavenin’ powder. Dried meat, for sure. Tisane mixin's, couple pounds'll do, some salt, cheese for slicin', the yellow'd be best...”
Neely's shopping list continued as they walked across the yard and onto the porch that lined the front of the main building, a three-story structure with several dormer windows poking through the heavily tarred thatch. A couple of the windows had faces in them, watching the trio make their way across the yard.
Charity stopped inside the door and gasped. In her estimation, both Flynn and Neely had understated the amount of goods the outfitting shop held. Items for purchase sat stacked upon row after row of shelves with a walking space wide enough to allow two people to pass between the rows. There were twelve rows with small signs; each had a simple picture painted upon them depicting the type of goods underneath, nailed to posts set upright along the center of the row.
Articles of clothing hung on pegs set into the walls between the multi-paned windows, and a long counter, set against the interior wall stood in front of another row of shelves lined with dozens of small boxes bearing tiny labels.
Next to the counter a triple wide doorway, minus the doors, opened onto a typical Inn's gathering room. A number of travelers were at table, either eating lunch or drinking. A staircase started upwards just beyond the opening. A small counter and desk, occupied the floor next to the foot of the stair. An older woman sat at the desk watching the folk in the gathering room.
A man with white hair and a dark gray beard wearing an aged, stained shop apron came up to where Charity stood. “How can we service you, milady?”
Charity ignored Flynn and Neely's snickers at the unintended double entendre, and answered demurely. “We have need of supplies for the trail. Can you help us?” She was well aware of the idiocy of the question.
The old man, to his credit, didn't even blink. “Of course, milady. We will be happy to aide you and your worthy companions in any way that our humble establishment can be of service to do so. Please, come inside.”
He stepped aside, allowing Charity to pass him. Flynn and Neely broke away and began exploring the largesse of the shelves.
“Flynn. Neely.” She called to them.
“You need us, Miss Charity?” Flynn arrived first, being a couple of aisles closer than Neely who'd been eyeing the clothing hung against the wall.
“Yes I do.” She waited the few seconds it took Neely to arrive.
“We need a list,” she said, when he joined them. “You were putting one together outside, Neely. I think it would be good to lay it all out to the old man, and be sure we can afford it before we start pulling things off the shelves.”
She noticed Flynn's face. “What are you smiling at?”
His grin grew broader. “You're gonna make someone a good wife, Miss Charity. By Bardoc, you are.”
The old man helped Neely with the contents of the list, adding fodder for the horses and trail medications.
Flynn added a request for pots and pans made of tin that could nest together for ease of packing. The old man nodded and added the items to his tally.
Charity requested thick woolen bedrolls and a bottle of cedar oil to keep the bugs out.
Neely objected to the cedar oil. “Aww, come on, miss. The camp'll smell like a bleedin’ drawin’ room, it will.”
Charity raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you enjoy sharing your bed with partners who draw blood when they bite?” She smiled, showing small, sharp, teeth.
Neely paled and nodded to the old man. “Add the oil. A pint's worth.”
Charity leaned over the counter to see the list in the old man's hand, and felt her heart sink. It was much more extensive than she had imagined, and she feared they'd not have enough coin to pay for half of it, much less the whole thing.
She sneaked a peek into the coin pouch built into her belt. As she feared, there was little left there. Two golds, the silver the stableboy in Berggren had returned, and a half dozen coppers. She sent up a silent prayer it would be enough.
The old man broke in on her thoughts. “I said ... will you be needing arrows for that bow, milady?”
“Huh? Oh, oh yes. I suppose I will.” She said weakly. She began to wonder if the Wayfarer House had need of a sausage maker.
He turned and walked over to a cupboard with two man-high doors in its face.
Neely whispered to Flynn. “I clean forgot about weapons. What was I thinkin'?”
Flynn whispered back. “We's becomin’ domestic, I guess.” He shrugged, giving the appearance of a minor earthquake in action.
The old man returned with a handful of arrows. Each of them bore a different fletching and head. He laid them out onto the countertop, and spread his hands over the collection.
“Do any of these suit your purposes, milady?”
Charity found herself automatically examining each arrow critically, for weight, balance and accuracy of line. The old man grunted in appreciation as she discarded one after another in the collection. Finally, she had two left from the original grouping.
She looked up at the old man. “May I see the rest of each of these? And can I test them in actual flight?”
He nodded, a small smile creasing his face. “For one who appears to know the craft as well as you do, milady, it will be a pleasure.”
He held out his hand. “I am called Howell. This is my establishment. Both sets of shafts are my own handiwork.”
She took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Howell. I'm called Charity. This is Neely, and the large one there is Flynn.” She inclined her head toward them.
Howell dipped his in a nodded bow. “Well met, gentle sirs.”
He looked back to Charity. “There is a small range out back. Shall we go there?”
She smiled and nodded.
Flynn leaned over and nudged Neely in the arm. “This is going to be good.”
Neely wasn't as sure. “Don't know. Been a long time since that day we first saw her shoot. Knowin’ what a good arrow looks like is one thing. Being able to shoot it without practicin’ is another.”
Flynn was shocked at his friend's near blasphemy. “Neely! That's Miss Charity. Of course she'll do it.”
Neely grunted. “We'll see, Flynn. I surely hope so, but we'll see.”
Howell showed Charity the archery range, laid out in the yard behind the main house. A large cloth target was tied to a straw backing woven into a circle that sat on a framework of crossed logs at the end of the range. Sticks hammered into the ground marked off the various distances for shooting. He and Charity stood at the mark for thirty paces.
He handed Charity one of the arrows from the bundle he held. “This is a fair distance for a lady to be shooting, milady. Are you sure you do not wish to begin at a closer range?”
She took the arrow from him, and nocked it to the bow. “I'm sure.”
She drew the arrow back, sighted along the shaft, and released it in one smooth movement.
“Well shot.” Howell murmured, as the arrow cut the cross mark in the center of the target.
Charity bounced the bow in her hand. “I'd like to try a couple at further range if it's ok with you, Howell.”
The old man ducked his head in a bow. “As you wish, milady.”
Flynn and Neely stood at the back of the main house, and watched as Charity and Howell made their way to the sixty pace line.
Flynn chuckled in his throat. “Told yer so, Neely. She ain't lost a thing.”
Neely sighed. “Aye. You're right in that, Flynn. Seems unnatural to be that sharp and that young all at the same time. We're in for some kind of adventuring, my friend. I'll tell ya that.”
Howell handed Charity another arrow. She shook her head at the choice.
“No. I'd like to try one of those with the speckled fletching, if you don't mind.”
Howell made the change, and handed her the new arrow. “Why the change, milady?”
“Oh, I just want to try something.” She sent the arrow into the upper right quadrant of the target.
Howell shook his head, clucking his tongue. “It's a bit far for a lady to be shooting. Maybe we should...”
Charity held out her hand. “May I have two more, please?”
Howell started to protest, but then handed her the arrows. Sometimes it was best to allow the young to learn by their own mistakes.
Charity held one shaft in her bow hand while she drew back the other to her ear. She released the first one, and then the second was in the air right behind the first.
Howell open his mouth. “What are you...? Oh, I see...”
Charity turned and held out her hand again. “May I have one of the others now, please?”
He handed her one of the arrows with the pure white fletching without comment.
Charity drew the shaft to her cheek, and released it in the same smooth motion she'd used earlier. The shaft buried its head dead center in the target, splitting the previous arrow shot at thirty paces down the middle like a piece of kindling. The other three arrows surrounded the center in a perfect triangle, head down.
Flynn and Neely broke into thunderous applause.
Howell gave Charity a deep bow. “Milady Charity. If you would do me the honor of accepting both sets of arrows, I would like to give them to you at no charge, in appreciation of the show of mastery you've just gifted me with.”
Her smile was answer enough for Howell.
Back in the interior of the Wayfarer House, Charity's elation over her archery exhibition vanished like mist when she saw the supplies list once again.
“We'll never be able to pay for all this, I just know it.” She looked at her coins again, two golds, one silver and six coppers. The count hadn't changed from the first time she checked the pouch.
She looked at Flynn and Neely. Their faces told her nothing other than they were very excited about getting the supplies. She looked at Howell, and inwardly gritted her teeth. “Give us the tally will you please, Mr. Howell?”
A stylus appeared in his hand as if by magic. “At once, Milady.”
The tip of the stylus wove a tight trail back and forth over the list as Howell's lips mouthed a silent compilation. Charity could feel a nervous sweat form on her palms and the small of her back.
“Hmmm.” Howell let out the sound in a long, drawn out fashion.
“Yes? Yes?” Charity could not bear the suspense.
Howell looked up at her, the tip of the stylus at his lips. “Three gold, a silver and four be my best price, and you'll not find better ‘tween here and Grisham.”
Her heart sank. Nearly three and quarter golds. What her purse contained wasn't nearly enough. She could feel her hands chapping in anticipation of the drudgery to come in order to pay for everything.
Neely nudged her shoulder with a finger. “Go on, pay the man.”
She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I don't have that much money!” She whispered fiercely.
Flynn leaned over Neely's shoulder. “Whut?”
“I said, I don't have that much money. I can't pay the bill!” Charity kept her voice to a whisper, mostly out of fear. She dreaded telling Howell they'd wasted his time. He was probably going to take back all those beautifully fletched arrows.
Flynn elbowed Neely. “Go on. Tell ‘er.”
Neely looked sullen. “But that's our...”
Flynn scowled; the teddy bear became a Grizzly. “Tell ‘er.”
Neely looked embarrassed. “Uh ... miss Charity. Umm. Milady. We ... uh ... we have the extra.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
Neely found himself engulfed by a pair of very feminine arms, and his face covered with kisses. He gently disentangled himself from Charity, and coughed to hide his blush. “Uh ... yeah. Well ... glad to help, Miss Charity. The right thing ta do, you know. Gotta look out for each other.”
He reached a thumb and forefinger behind his wide belt, and pulled out three golds. He slapped them down onto the counter in front of Howell.
“I'll expect th’ packin’ to be done for us, you know.”
Howell inclined his head in a bow. “Of course. That is included in the service.”
He snapped his fingers, and a couple of young men detached themselves from the aisles and began putting together the items on the shopping list.
Howell stepped out from behind the counter, and indicated the adjoining room. “May I interest you in a late lunch while your supplies are being prepared for travel?”
The lunch was plentiful, if plain. Cold roast meats and wedges of white and yellow cheese were available along with thick slabs of a yeasty smelling nut brown-bread. A small bowl filled with creamy yellow butter sat next to one of a dark reddish colored honey with other, spicier, condiments such as mustard, piccalilli and horseradish. Jugs of clear water touched with lemon finished off the meal.
Charity dipped a slice of rolled meat into the horseradish, and tried a small bite of the combination. “Ummm. Try this sauce, Flynn. It's nice and spicy.”
Flynn shook his head. “No thanks, Miss Charity. Too hot fer me. You must have some Dwarf in ya to eat that stuff.”
He would wonder for a long time why that brought such a peal of laughter from her.
They ate their fill, and then left sire Howell to his overseeing of the Wayfarer House and the packing of their supplies.
The stableboy met them at the door to the large barn.
“Yer all packed up folks. I put th’ heavy stuff on the big'un there.” He pointed to Flynn's Clydesdale. It had two large canvas packs slung across its rump just behind the saddle.
Neely's Buckskin held two packs about half the size of the two on Flynn's horse, and Charity's Dapple held one large pack and two large quivers full of arrows.
Charity turned to the stableboy. “This isn't right.”
Alarm showed in his eyes. “Whatcha mean, mum? It's all there, I swear it!”
Charity shook her head. “That's not what I mean at all. These arrows,” She pointed to the quivers. “I was given only half that many. You'll have to take some of them back.”
“I can't do that, milady.” The stableboy shook his head no.
“You have to. I won't take something that doesn't belong to me.”
Neely rolled his eyes.
The stableboy remained firm. “Sorry, milady. Ya have ta take ‘em. Milord Howell said so. I ain't goin’ ‘gainst ‘im, no matter what ya do.”
Charity blinked. “Excuse me? You said Howell had something to do with this?”
The stableboy nodded his head rapidly. “Oh, aye, milady. He told me to put th’ arrows into th’ quivs, an’ I done just that.”
Charity put her hands on her hips. “Well, I'll be...”
Flynn chuckled. “Looks like Howell liked your shootin’ better'n you thought he did, Miss Charity.”
Neely barked out a laugh. “Our princess has herself another conquest, Flynn. Soon she'll have the whole county payin’ court with flowers and sweets.”
Charity slapped him on his shoulder. “Get off it. Howell's a sweet old man who did us a favor. I'm sure he had his own reasons for what he did.”
Her glare stopped Neely's next retort. “And I'm sure they're perfectly honorable.”
She mounted the Dapple Gray and rode out of the barn, her ears burning a bright red as Flynn and Neely's muffled chuckles followed her.
They turned onto the road and headed south. A small black shape detached itself from the shadow of the barn and followed them, flitting from bush to bush, keeping just out of sight. One of its paws shone white in the sun.
* * * * “No, Jonas,” Ethan sighed, as he answered the question of were they almost there one more time. “It's a couple more miles, yet. We'll be ready for lunch when we get to town. Here.” He tossed him an apple. “Chew on this.”
“Maybe it'll stop the questions for a bit.” He thought.
They were on the road to Bantering, a medium-sized town on the northern edge of the forest southeast of Ellona's cottage. They had a pleasant walk ahead of them. The day was warm without being sticky, and the rainy season was another month away. The main road to Bantering ran along the edge of the forest, so they had to walk through the downs. Heather and other wild flowers were in abundance and being tended to by bees and butterflies. Ethan had his hands full for the first half-hour keeping the children, Jonas and Sari primarily, in sight while they chased their chosen butterfly. Circumstance, true to form, stayed at Ethan's heels all the way to town.
“Well?” Ethan leaned forward as the cloth monger examined the skeins.
“Hmmph hmmm ... good tightness ... could be softer. Yes, could be softer.” The merchant peered up at Ethan through eyes rimmed with fat. “I can't give you top grade price.”
“I know that, fat man.” Ethan growled. He didn't like being worked around, and this one was no artist at it. “But what you're looking at there is still better than second grade, and you know it.”
He held up a hand as the merchant opened his mouth. “I know what I'm talking about, fat man. I grew up on the Wool Coast. Ever hear of a little town called Swaledale?”
The merchant gasped. “Swaledale? W..w..who hasn't? The finest wool in the country comes from there. Royalty wears only Swale Tweed.”
“My mother and father own a ranch that weaves Swale Tweed from the wool they produce.” Ethan's grin was pure ice. “I want a copper for each skein.”
“What? Are you trying to ruin me? A quarter, and that's my final offer.” The merchant's jowls quivered in indignation.
“You're trying to rob me. I'll let you steal it for three bits, and not a sliver less.” Ethan sneered.
The merchant slapped down a small bag that clinked when it hit the counter. “A half-copper each, and not a sliver more!”
Ethan spit in his palm, and stuck it out toward the merchant. “Done!”
“You're very good.”
“Huh?” Ethan turned to look down at Circumstance. “What did you say?”
The boy kept his eyes on the path as they walked. “You're very good. You wanted that merchant to offer you a half-copper each, and you led him right to it.”
Ethan stopped in his tracks, and looked down at the boy. Circumstance was full of surprises. “Just when you think you've got a handle on the boy...” He thought.
“You pegged me, Circumstance. Do you always watch people so closely?”
“No, but you're going to be staying with mama. I thought it would be good to know about you.”
Ethan was struck dumb. He'd never thought about it that way. Each day just seemed to flow into the next, kind of like when he was drinking. Sure, Ellona was a fine woman. Fine woman. Why did he just repeat that?
He looked down at Circumstance again. It looked like he wasn't the only one who bore watching.
“You got what?” Ellona stood on the porch as the news of their successful market trip was shouted to her in four voices.
Ethan stepped up onto the porch as the children ran into the cottage. “We sold them all! A half-copper per skein, and fat Gerkin bought them.”
“Oh, Ethan, That's wonderful!” Ellona gave Ethan his second shock of the day when she threw her arms around his neck, and landed a kiss full on his lips.
“Uh ... yeah. Sure. Glad I could help.”
Her laughter just added to his blush.
* * * * “You sure he's dead, Bel?”
“Sure as I'm standing here.”
The tanner looked across his friend's shoulder at the church house, and made the sign of Bardoc by tracing a triangle, point up, on his chest.
“Parish's without a priest, Durhan. What're we gonna do?”
Durhan shook his head. “Bad sign, dying like that. Right in the middle of a funeral.”
“He was old, Durhan. Been here as long as I can remember.”
“True.”
“So what are we gonna do? We're the Parish elders.”
“Guess we gotta send for a new one. Looks like Bantering gets itself a new Priest.”
* * * * “C'mon, Flynn! Move those big feet o’ yourn.” Neely did not look over his shoulder, preferring instead to concentrate on putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.
“I'm comin'. I'm comin'.” The big man lumbered behind Neely. His breath huffed and whooshed, leaving small puffs of steam in the moonlit darkness.
Flynn looked back and gave a small yelp as he redoubled his efforts. They were almost upon him. Their hisses sounding like a steam pipe with a bad leak.
He looked forward, and relief washed over him like a warm bath. The wall! It was just a few steps away. A couple of more feet, and he would be safe from these hissing monsters.
Neely vaulted the wall without slowing down, and continued to run. “Hurry up, Flynn! Run, man. Run!”
Flynn reached the wall just as he felt a sharp pain on the back of his thigh. The pain pushed him forward, and he hit the top of the wall with his palms, and pulled himself over by shear strength of fear-born will alone.
He landed on the other side and rolled back to his feet. “Neely!” His stage whisper carried in the darkness. “Where are ya, man?”
“Over here, behind the oak.”
Flynn found his friend with his back against the said tree. His chest heaved as he drew in deep breaths. “Ohhh, I'm totally fagged. Couldn't run another yard if the keeper of the pit hisself was on me heels.”
Neely grabbed him by the arm. “Well, you can walk anyway, can't ya? Charity'll be waitin’ fer us, an’ we have to tell her there'll be no fresh chicken for th’ pot tonight. Gonna be field rations agin.”
Flynn rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I hope she isn't too upset.”
“Geese!?” Charity was nearly doubled over with laughter. You got chased by geese? Oh, what brave foragers you two are.”
“They was big geese, Miss Charity, an’ they bit hard.” Flynn rubbed his insulted thigh.
“Shoulda whacked their heads off an’ brung them fer th’ pot.” Neely muttered into his cup of hot tisane. “Great nasty gray things like that. Farmer oughta put up a notice. Oughta be a law agin that sorta bird.”
“Yeah.” Flynn agreed with his friend's grumping. “A law.”
“Oh, settle down, you two.” Charity tried to soothe them, but her snickers and giggles around her words did little to ease their discomfort.
Eeeaowww!? The sound whipped their heads around, and Charity's laughter died in her throat. She reached for her bow as Flynn and Neely eased their hands toward the pommels of their knives.
The source of the growled query stepped into the light of the campfire, and Charity squealed, her excitement driving her voice to a girlish high pitch. “It's my cat!”
“That ain't no cat, milady, that's a beast, an’ a big one, at that.” Flynn's hand stayed near his knife. His thigh still ached where the goose had bitten him, and he had little trust in a cat that was closer in size to a medium-sized dog.
“You sure you know it, Charity?” Neely stood up slowly into a fighting crouch, his knife in his hand.
She looked at them both, and pursed her lips in disgust. “Of course I know it! Adam and I rescued her from drowning when she was this little.” She indicated the size with her thumb and forefinger.
Flynn peered more closely at the cat. “What's that it's got with it?”
Neely sheathed his knife. “Looks like a couple o’ Conies.”
Flynn looked at Charity. “It brung us dinner?”
Charity crossed the campsite to where the cat stood. Sure enough, two rabbits, their throats torn out, lay at the cat's feet. The toes of the right foot confirmed Charity's claim. They gleamed white in the firelight.
She reached out with her right hand toward the cat, and it drew back as if unsure of her.
She kept her hand out and clicked her tongue gently. “It's me lady, Charity, remember? Did you bring those rabbits for us? What a good girl you are. Come on, my lady. Oh, I've missed you so. It's me, Charity.”
The cat stretched forward and sniffed Charity's hand, and then licked it with her rough pink tongue.
Charity looked over her shoulder at Flynn and Neely. “She remembers me!”
As if in answer to Charity's cry, the cat meowed in a loud pbleert! and jumped into her middle, knocking her backwards onto the ground.
Flynn and Neely started forward, intent on violence, but they pulled up short when Charity erupted into a peal of laughter and giggles.
The cat was purring loud enough to be heard outside the campsite, and butting her head against Charity's chin. Her front paws alternately kneaded the forest floor and Charity's heavy cloak.
“Ok, ok! I'm glad to see you, too.” Charity pushed the cat off her chest, and sat up.
The purrs continued as the cat arched her back luxuriously against Charity in a march that circled her entirely. As greetings go, this one rated high in extravagance and enthusiasm.
“Labad's ghost, but she like's you, Miss Charity!” Flynn goggled at the scene.
“Blimey! I'll say!” Neely sat back down and stirred the embers in the campfire.
He looked up at Charity again. “You wanna toss me those Conies?”
Neely held the rabbit leg with his thumbs and forefingers, and bit into it with ill-disguised relish. “Mmm.”
“Good, huh?” Flynn, busy nibbling off the last of his portion, looked across the fire at Neely.
The rumble of the cat's purr added a steady background sound to the crackle of the fire.
“Damn straight it is. Nothing better than keepin’ a full belly an’ your plums warm, I always say.” Neely bit another huge chunk out of the leg.
“Mighty good luck, that cat of yours showed up, Miss Charity.” Flynn looked over to where she was petting their new traveling companion.
Charity looked up at him. “I don't think luck had any part in it. I think she was waiting for me all the time I was in the palace. I wonder why she didn't come in to be with me?”
“ Prolly knew it would be too dicey.” Neely mumbled around a mouthful of rabbit. “Better'n a dog.”
“Near as big as one, anyhow.” Flynn cast an eye on the cat.
She was nestled against Charity's left leg, her paws gently kneading the ground in front of her as Charity ran a hand down her back.
Charity looked up at her friends again, and leaned forward, resting an elbow on her knee. “So, where do we go from here? Any ideas?”
Neely tossed the bones of his dinner into the fire. The cat watched them fall with faint interest; her belly was already full.
“Ain't goin’ back to Berggren, that's for sure.”
Charity's smile was ironic. “Tell me another. Flynn.” She focused her gaze on the large fellow. “How about you? Any idea where we might go that's fairly safe for people like us? I also want to find a place that may have a way to earn an honest living.”
Neely winced at the emphasis on honest.
Flynn scratched the back of his head, and then examined a well-chewed thumbnail. “Well now ... There's Grisham. I hear there's plenty work there.”
“Can't go to Grisham.” Neely spat into the fire.
“Why not?” Charity picked up the cat, grunting a bit with the effort, and placed her in her lap.
Neely looked a little embarrassed. He muttered something under his breath.
“What? I couldn't hear you.” Charity leaned further forward.
Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. “C'mon, man. Ain't nuthin’ to be ashamed of.”
“All right. All right.” Neely scowled at them from beneath his brows. “Grisham's out ‘cause there's a small matter of me not wantin’ my neck to get stretched. Ok!?”
Charity and Flynn just looked at him, saying nothing. The cat began to wash herself.
Neely picked up a stick and began pushing the tip of it around in the coals of the fire. “You're gonna make me tell it all, ain't'cha?”
They both nodded.
Neely threw the stick into the fire, sending a cloud of sparks crackling and flaring into the air. “Bound to come out sooner or later.” He muttered.
“Ain't somethin’ I'm proud of, mind you.” He sent a sharp glance their way. “But a man gets hungry, y'know?”
Flynn's timely belch brought a dark look from Neely.
Charity tittered, and then smoothed her face. “We're sorry, Neely, but I think we'd both really like to know your tale. It's not like there's much entertainment going on in these woods right now.”
Neely looked at them for a moment longer, and then his shoulders sagged. “All right. Here's the tale, for what it's worth. You know I was once a soldier of fortune and a tracker?”
They nodded that they did so.
“Well, a number of years ago. This was before you an’ me hooked up, Flynn. I had me a position guarding th’ goods a merchant shipped ‘tween Grisham an’ Ort. He sent ‘em down th’ highway, y'see. Long smooth road, easy on th’ horses, an’ a seat for me on th’ cart.”
“That fat little man made hisself a pack of gold on those runs, an’ on occasion he tossed a taste of it me way.”
“What was he shipping?” Charity stroked the cat's ears. She responded by increasing the volume of her purr.
“Ah! Therein lies th’ rub of me tale.” Neely poured himself a mug of tisane.
“He wouldn't tell me. Said it wasn't my job to know what I was guardin'. It were just my job to see it safe to market, and then to see his gold safe to him.
“Now, I'm not sayin’ there wasn't th’ odd scrap here an’ there. I've a few scars that would call me liar iffn’ I did. There's some rough country ‘tween Grisham an’ Ort an’ rough fellows interested in easy gold, only they found out Neely's charge weren't so easy.”
“Now I know yer thinkin', what's all this have to do with old Neely's neck being stretched? Well I'll get to that part soon enough.” He sipped some of the tisane, its fruity aroma floated through the small campsite, and blended with the wood and spice scent of the trees around them.
“Curiosity'll kill a man sooner'n his balls will, I can tell you that. I never shoulda peeked under that tarp. That's what started it all. That an’ me big mouth.”
“It was one of the foggiest days I seen since comin’ to Grisham. I remember th’ tide was low, too. You could taste th’ stink of the shallows as well as smell it. Like fish an’ kelp rottin’ together. Th’ fat merchant, I can't remember his name, he was real twitchy about this one shipment. Wouldn't tell me so, kept claimin’ things was just fine, but you can see when a man not used to lyin’ is.
“That kept buggin’ me for days as th’ caravan headed south on th’ highway. Th’ fog seemed to be followin’ us. You couldn't see past yer arm stretched out in front of you, so it was slow goin', indeed.”
“I got this itchin’ to see what was under that canvas cover, an’ it got worse as th’ days went on.”
“We was only makin’ ‘bout half th’ speed as th’ other trips, an’ I knew th’ supplies weren't going to last out th’ trip. I also got an idea on how's I could get th’ time to take a peek under that cover.”
“What was the idea?” The cat had decided to curl up for a snooze, and Charity had moved over to sit next to Flynn.
“I'm comin’ right on to it, Charity.” Neely pulled a splinter off one of the sticks for the fire, and began picking his teeth with it while he talked.
“I was a tracker, remember? I chatted up th’ pusher for th’ caravan, and convinced him to stop long enough to do some huntin', for extra rations, y'know?”
“Well, th’ pusher was a man who liked his meat. Always complained about th’ salted stuff out of th’ barrels, didn't blame him. I think it's pure crap, meself.”
“He took to th’ idea of a hunt right away, and th’ rest of th’ caravan fell right in with him. I led them out into th’ fog until I found a set of tracks fresh enough that even th’ dredge boys could bag ‘em one, an’ then I did a quick double back while they all looked th’ other way.”
“Th’ canvas was tied down pretty tight. Of course, it had to be to keep any shiftin’ goin’ on with th’ load. I worked th’ knot for a while, gettin’ nowhere. Begun to fear they'd be back before I got a chance to see what th’ fat merchant was so twitchy about.”
“Th’ knot finally begun to come loose, an’ I got th’ corner untied. When I folded it back, all I saw under th’ canvas was a cart load of little boxes. They had tops on ‘em that fit inside th’ lid with four nails holdin’ ‘em shut. Th’ blade on me knife was thin enough to slip under th’ head of the nails an’ work ‘em loose.”
“I tell you I was sweatin’ even in the chill of the fog when I worked that last nail loose. I pulled up th’ lid, and saw the shine of yellow gold.”
“Gold?” Flynn and Charity said the word as one.
“Ortian Gold Marks. Th’ full size wheels.”
Flynn whistled. Charity had no idea what Neely was talking about, but they sounded pricey.
“I shook a couple more of th’ boxes. They was heavy, an’ they rattled. Th’ whole cart was filled with th’ coins. I grabbed a few of ‘em from th’ open box an’ put ‘em in my pouch.”
“No wonder the merchant was twitchy.” Flynn whispered, as if someone might be in the woods listening.
“That's what I figured, ‘cept I was wrong.”
“What was the reason then?” Charity leaned forward.
“They wasn't gold Marks.”
“What was they?” Flynn leaned forward like Charity.
“What they was is the first half of the reason I can't show my face in Grisham. Somethin’ in the way th’ marks sounded niggled at me while I put things back th’ way I found ‘em. When I was done, I took th’ ones I grabbed out of my pouch, and shook ‘em in my hand. They didn't sound right.”
“Fakes?” Charity suggested.
Neely placed a forefinger alongside his nose. “Give th’ little lady th’ prize. I scraped one of ‘em with my blade. Under th’ gold was pure lead. I figured th’ fat little merchant got hisself mixed up with someone interested in makin’ a killin’ passin’ th’ fakes, an’ leavin’ us in th’ caravan holdin’ th’ bag if we's got caught.”
“The bloody swine!” Flynn muttered.
“Yeah.” Neely agreed. “Only I was wrong. What was goin’ on was worse than passin’ fake marks, but I didn't find out till we got to Ort.”
“I found th’ rest of the caravan, an’ finished th’ hunt with ‘em. Th’ fog cleared up a couple of days later, an’ we made good time after that.”
“Th’ pusher got us to th’ warehouse outside of Ort we was supposed to be at, an’ I made up an excuse to take a walk, if you catch my meanin'.”
Charity and Flynn nodded understanding.
“Well, th’ pusher couldn't know my bladder wasn't full, an’ I didn't want my neck goin’ under a headsman's ax. They don't hang ya in Ort.”
“When I found th’ Guard Sergeant, I pulled out th’ fake Marks, an’ told him there was a whole cart load waitin’ a few warehouses over. I still had th’ one with the gold scraped off, it didn't take much convincing.”
“But why can't you go back to Grisham? All that took place in Ort.” Charity looked confused.
Neely tossed the sliver he'd been using as a toothpick into the fire. “I think it was th’ pusher. He acted as surprised as the rest of ‘em, and he talked a good story. It got him off without losing his head, but only iffn he stayed out of Ort from then on. He was givin’ me some pretty black looks on th’ way back, but he never went further than that. Th’ man couldn't use a blade to butter his bread. Friends of mine got word to me th’ Duke put out a standing order for me hanging’ if I ever showed my face in Grisham again. It had to be him behind th’ merchant. I heard tell th’ poor little fellow kicked quite a bit before he died.”
“That's why he was so twitchy.” Flynn declared, smiling as if he'd solved the puzzle.
“So, if they weren't just passing fake money, then what was going on?” Charity asked.
“Oh, yeah. I didn't tell you that part, did I?.” Neely poured the rest of his tisane onto the ground.
“Turns out th’ Duke has some kinda grudge against Ort. Somethin’ to do concernin’ his old man. Th’ fake Marks were supposed to go toward ruinin’ Ort's economy. Seems I upset his plans a bit. Ort put up a checkpoint on th’ highway before we left. We had to pass through it, and go through th’ same searchin’ of the wagons th’ ones comin’ in had to.”
“I wound up leaving Grisham a couple of days after we got back. Ran across Flynn on my way to Mossett. Never got there, did we?” He winked at his old friend.
Flynn nodded again, sending a quiver through his chins. “Wound up in Berggren's army, we did. That was back in the days of th’ old Earl, miss Charity.”
She gave Flynn a sad smile. “No need to explain. I really am ok with it now.”
“Well, then,” she changed the subject, and looked to both Flynn and Neely. “We're back to the question, where do we go from here?”
Flynn scratched an armpit. “Seems Grisham's no good, and I don't think Berggren's any choice, either.”
Neely looked up from staring into the coals of the fire. “How ‘bout Ort?”
Flynn looked at his old friend. “Yeah ... you been there. ‘Course, it was a time ago...”
“Don't matter none,” Neely replied. “From what I'd been hearin’ while we was restin’ between spuds, it's still quite th’ place. Lots o’ work, and no one goes hungry, less'n they wants to. Iffn a man's got a good eye an’ a strong arm, there's more'n enough work for ‘em.”
“Sounds good to me,” Charity said, as she stood to find her bedroll. “Ort it is.”

Chapter Fourteen
Ethan scraped another shaving off the piece of dried oak with his finishing knife. Four days now, and the pieces of the wheel were almost done. All he had to do was insert the spokes, and glue the three arcs together. Ellona had bravely rendered the hides he collected into what would become the glue, with a bit of boiling water.
She had taken to spinning like a fish to water. Her deft hands seemed to instinctively know when to attenuate the yarn when plying, and the additional income had enabled him to purchase a few used tools. This spinning wheel would be the first piece to come out from their use.
If asked, he would not have been able to say exactly when they'd become a couple. It just seemed to happen naturally, like night merging into day.
Ellona sat on the willow branch chair he had put together a couple of weeks ago, spinning one of the bags of dyed wool batts. The color was a pleasant forest green made from a particular toadstool they'd found growing in the wood behind the cottage. Other bags lay next to her filled with batts of yellow, blue and red wool.
She looked at Ethan as he worked a spoke into its hole by gently twisting it back and forth. “It looks beautiful, Ethan. Are you sure all this work is necessary? The children and I seem to be doing quite well using the spindles.” She now had a collection of eight.
Ethan grunted as he set the spoke. “It'll be necessary, all right. You're going to need a production wheel soon, especially if Bantering's new priest follows through on his promise to order the yarn for his robe.”
Ellona nodded as she reached for another batt of the green. “I'm not sure I like the look of him.” She and the children had run across the town's new priest on their last trip into Bantering.
Ethan grunted again. “His gold spends as well as the next man's. If you want it, I'll deal with him, and leave you out of it.”
“It's not that. I just didn't like the way he looked at Circumstance. He kept staring at him, and frowning.”
A chill hit Ethan's gut. Ellona might not have noticed, mothers can have their blind spots, but the boy had Elf blood in him. He'd swear by Bardoc's word on it.
He picked up another spoke. “Did he say anything about him?”
Ellona creased her brow with a small frown. “No, that's the part I liked least. He invited us to join the church, and then frowned at Circumstance again just before he left.”
“Why spin for him, then?” Ethan set the spoke, and picked up the last one.
Ellona smiled at him. “As you said. His gold shines just as brightly as the next man's.” She added some more wool to her spinning.
“But,” She added. “I'd rather not go to his church, if you don't mind.”
Ethan nodded. “You know, now that you've brought it up, there is something about Vedder ... Damn my memory I know it has to do with the past, but with my drinking and all...” He looked Ellona in the eye. “We'll just have to watch what happens in the village closely. If it comes to it, we may have to move, quickly. Ok?”
Her eyes met his. “Ok.”
* * * * Vedder held one of the skeins of brightly colored yarn in his hand. Without meaning to do so, he was weighing it in his hand to assure full weight of what he paid for, as he considered what he'd just seen.
“Mussoli?” He murmured to his alterman, as he watched the woman and her children walk away.
“Yes?” Mussoli put the last of the skeins he had into the basket. It would take his wife a good month to weave the heavy cloth they would make, even working around the clock, but it was for the church.
“Did you notice the older boy?” Vedder bounced the yarn in his hand. He hated paying for things, it made him feel as if he was being cheated somehow.
“Circumstance? No, not really. He seems to be a good boy. Always polite, always does what his mother asks of him.” Mussoli wished he had a couple of Circumstances instead of the brood of little Garlocs Bardoc had gifted him with.
“Something about him...” Vedder turn to Mussoli, and handed him the last skein. “What do you know of his parentage, his father?” Far too much intelligence and self-assurance in that man, a sinner for sure.
Mussoli scratched his thinning scalp. “Don't know about the father, Brother Vedder. I never met him.”
Vedder stared, aghast at the blatant falsehood. “How can you say that sire, Mussoli? You talked to the man yesterday at the Blacksmith's while he was picking up the tools he designed.”
Mussoli stayed calm under the outburst. “You mean Ethan, Brother Vedder? He's not the father of any of them. Ellona lost her man near to seven years ago now, to a fever. Tragic that. Ethan coming along like he did saved them all. Ellona wouldn't admit it, but she was wearing out. I'm sure of it.”
Vedder considered this. The man, Ethan, wasn't the father. Most likely, they hadn't sanctified their union, either. He could deal with that later. His immediate concern was this boy, Circumstance.
He began walking back toward the church. “What have you heard about this boy Circumstance's father? Keep nothing back, Mussoli, it is for the good of the Church.”
Mussoli thought back. It had been a long time, nearly eleven years now. Strange how Ellona's man died almost to the day he ... brought the baby home.
“I remember.” He told the priest. “Her husband brought a baby back out of the wild. He'd gone hunting. Found a nice big buck up by the Circle Sea, southeast of Leward. Had a rack this big.” He measured with his arms outstretched.
Vedder could not have cared any less for how big the rack was, or if there had even been a buck, but the location, that was another matter. “Where did he find the child?”
“The northern edge of the forest just off the Circle Sea, if I remember rightly.”
“That's Elf territory, isn't it?
Mussoli shook his head. “Oh, no, Brother Vedder. They picked up and left, over five years ago. Some say they headed back over the mountains. I can't say for sure where they went myself.”
Vedder didn't care. He had his evidence and the boy was already tried and convicted. Elf. If not Elf, then Half-Elf at least. The people had to be warned of the potential danger this child represented. The mixing of the races ... he shuddered inwardly at the filthiness of the thought.
As he walked back to the church he began piecing together his sermon. He should have it ready for the congregation by the next meeting day.
* * * * “The mixing of the races is against the very will of Bardoc himself!” Vedder pounded the pulpit as he emphasized the point of his message to the congregation.
“The Elven race, though much, much older than mankind, has never reached the heights of reason and sophistication we have.”
Actually, Elves had not been in the world as long as humans, but Vedder never let the facts get in the way of a good sermon.
He changed his voice from a trumpet to a wheedle. “Which of you, in your dealings with Elves, has ever heard them invoke the name of Bardoc? Which of you hasn't heard of the drunken orgies they frequent, even to the point of using their own children in their abominable rituals?”
The congregation nodded. They'd never seen an Elf, but they'd all heard stories.
He had them now. It was time to set the hook. “What would you say if I told you this community was facing the potential danger of becoming infected with those Elven practices and rituals?”
Vedder had no idea what Elves really did, but it sounded good.
His voice became oily. “What would you say if I told you there were those in our community harboring the seed of that infection?”
A beefy man with a reddish complexion stood at the back of the church, and shouted. “Burn ‘em out!”
Inwardly Vedder smiled as he raised his hand. “Now, now, Brother Dhomil. Let's not jump to action. We are a peaceful community of gracious souls.” He spread his hands wide to either side of the pulpit. “We don't burn our neighbors out. What a thing to say. We must first judge the situation.”
He gazed at them lovingly. “I know you wish to ask, ‘And how do we judge the situation?'”
Now to tease the fish a little. “Vigilant is what we should be. This is how we judge: Bardoc's will demands such. Did he not say, keep watch?” The verse was horribly out of context,but these people never read the holy books so he was safe.
He leaned over the pulpit, and pointed to the congregation at large. “Watch. Be vigilant. Look for the signs of infection, and when it is proven,” he paused for emphasis, “Then you must decide what to do. Bardoc has given you free will for a purpose. Do you think that purpose was to allow human blood to be mixed with the lesser races?”
“No!” The congregation shouted back.
Vedder smiled. “There are times when the best love is the hard love. There are times when to best love a neighbor is to send them home. Home to be with our loving Deity. If they will not repent ... that is the only thing to do.”
He looked across the congregation filling the hall. He saw their rapt expressions. They were his, to do as he willed.
His expression saddened. “I understand our dear sister has not repented of her actions in taking in this terrible danger to our peaceful, pure community. She still harbors this half-Elf ... thing. Who knows what it may do if it is allowed to wander our streets free to carry out any unnatural desire that may cross its fancy? Who knows which of your daughters this thing may rape and impregnate? It is said that most Elf women die in childbirth, killed by the very life they carry in their sick little wombs.”
This was a blatant lie. No one actually knew anything about Elven birthing practices. The rituals were guarded behind a thick veil of racial secrecy.
Some of the women were weeping and clinging to their husbands. The hook was set, and the fish was on the line. Vedder straightened and gave a small move as a pre-arranged signal.
The ruddy faced man on the back stood again. “I say, burn ‘em out. Burn ‘em out now!”
Vedder raised his hands, and stepped away from the pulpit. “As you say, brother Dhomil. I accede to the people's will.”
* * * * Ethan slammed open the door to the cottage. “Ellona!” He yelled. “Ellona!”
“I'm here.” Her voice came from the back porch.
Ethan stumbled over a chair as he raced through the cottage to the back door.
“Are you hurt?” Ellona saw him rubbing his shin.
“No time for that,” He gasped. “Gather up the children and what you can carry. We're getting the flick out of here.”
Ellona's eyes widened at Ethan's curse, but the expression on his face convinced her to begin packing.
“Children.” She called them to her. Sari and Jonas came from the bedroom rubbing their eyes, and yawning.
She picked up a canvas bag, and began stuffing food and cooking utensils into it. Ethan pulled out his packs, and started filling them with his tools.
“Why are you packing, mommy?” Sari peered into the bag as Ellona put a much-loved hand-thrown ceramic pitcher into it.
“We have to go away tonight, honey.” Ellona ruffled Sari's hair. “Now, you and Jonas need to get dressed as fast as you can, ok?”
Circumstance came into the room, already dressed. He collected the younger children, and herded them into the bedroom “Come on,” he said. “We'll make a game of it.”
Ellona's eyes followed Circumstance into the room. “Is he the reason?”
Ethan looked up from arranging the items in his pack. “I'm afraid so. Vedder's got himself a nice little mob put together, complete with torches. I passed them on the way here. I figure we've got no more than an hour.”
Ellona swept the cottage interior with her gaze. So many years filled with so many memories, and in a few moments it would all be gone because of one man's hatred.
She saw Ethan had finished his packing and was collecting his knife, bow and sword. She walked over to the bedroom door, and saw Circumstance solemnly helping Jonas and Sari play their packing game. He was making sure they took warm clothes and extra stockings.
Ethan rolled up some blankets and tied the roll onto his larger pack. “I think this is all we can handle, Ellona. How are the kids coming?”
“They're just finishing up now.” She tied the last thing on the other bag and draped her heavy wool cloak about her shoulders.
Ethan looked out the front window. A line of flickering lights was cresting the rise in the meadow south of the cottage.
He turned and gathered the children from the bedroom while settling his packs onto his back. “Let's get going. The mob is only a few minutes away, now.”
Ellona picked up her bags. “I'm going to miss this place. So much of my life is here.”
Ethan followed Ellona and the children out the back door. He was going to miss the place, as well. For the first time he could remember he had begun to feel at home here. Vedder was going to have a lot of things to answer for.
“Head straight into the forest.” He called out to them as ran over to the chicken coop. “I'll catch up with you.”
Ethan had seen mobs before, and well knew their mentality. There would be those in it who, frustrated at not having their chosen victims at hand, would kill or destroy what they could. The least he could do was give the chickens a chance.
He could hear the mob approaching. Some of the voices were louder, encouraging the others. “Vedder's paid bullies,” he thought, as he pulled the door off the coop. The chickens clucked and rustled in their sleep.
“Sorry about this, girls, but it's for your own good.” He spoke to them quietly, as he kicked the back out of the coop. A few of the hens fluttered to the ground in alarm, while most of them looked up at him in outrage. They would scatter into the trees when the mob arrived.
He looked over his shoulder as he headed across the property behind the cottage. The mob was closer, almost to the lone oak that they used as the front yard boundary. The moon wasn't out yet, and he used the darkness to cover his dash to the forest where Ellona and the children waited.
Ellona gave a small gasp of alarm as Ethan pushed through the huckleberry bushes into the small clearing where she and the children hid, then she recognized him.
“Ethan!”
“Shhh. Down. All of you. We need to get further into the forest. They'll search the fringe, I'm sure of it.” He pointed into the gloom behind Ellona and the children.
“Circumstance. You keep an eye on Sari and Jonas. I don't want to have to chase them in a moment of panic.”
“Ellona. We're going to have to both lead and follow. Can you break a trail?” He looked at her intensely, searching for signs of weakness or panic.
She surprised him by showing none. “Come, children. Follow me.” She turned and began working her way through the brush with the children close behind her. Ethan trailed Circumstance, keeping both an eye and an ear out for anything that would tell him of the mob coming their way.
Ethan need not have worried about that part of it. Upon finding the cottage empty, they began destroying anything breakable. One of them tipped a lamp onto the floor. Its oil took fire from the wick, and the flames spread across the floor, licking at the dry wood.
They watched the flickering light of the burning cottage as they crouched behind the underbrush, and Ellona began to cry.
Ethan reached out to comfort her. “I know it's hard to see it burn, but I'll build you another cottage in a place where there are no Vedders.”
Ellona clung to him as she sobbed. “It isn't the cottage. It's that beautiful spinning wheel you made for me.”
He looked down at her. “I can always build another wheel. I could never build another you.”
She looked up into his eyes. She saw no anger there. All she saw was adoration.
Ethan stood and took her by the hand. “It looks like that will satisfy them. Come on. We can make a few miles more before we'll have to sleep. I think we'll travel East this time, over the mountains.”
“I'm tired, Mommy.” Jonas dug his heels into the rocky soil of the path.
They had begun this stage of their journey Eastward at dawn. It was now only an hour or two untill midday, and the two youngest, Jonas and Sari, were beginning to show signs of fatigue.
Ethan smiled to himself at a wandering thought that passed through his mind. Give a child a couple of good friends and a few toys, and the play will go on till nightfall. Give them a few miles of trail, and they're worn out in less than half the time.
He slowed a bit, and scooped Jonas into his arms. “Can't stop now, little man. We'll never get there if we don't put one foot in front of the other. Here, you can ride me for a while.” He put Jonas behind his neck, with the boy's feet dangling onto his chest.
“Weeee. Giddyap!” Jonas tried using Ethan's hair as reins.
“No, no, Jonas. You don't pull Ethan's hair.” Ellona put a restraining hand on the boy.
“Mommy, I wanna ride Ethan, too.” Sari tugged at her mother's skirt.
Ellona smiled down at her daughter. “I'm sorry, dear heart, but Ethan can only carry one of you at a time. Maybe later.”
“Oh, poo.” Sari pouted, and a small tear glistened in the corner of her eye.
Circumstance stepped forward from his place at the rear, and picked up Sari.
“Weeee!”
“Circumstance! No! You'll hurt yourself.” Ellona reached out to stop him.
“No, I won't. She's light. Lighter than Jonas.” He calmly placed his little sister onto his shoulders, and continued to walk.
Ellona touched Ethan's arm.
He turned to look at her as he continued to walk. “You're worried about Circumstance.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded.
He looked back to see the boy carrying his stepsister. Circumstance was smiling broadly, showing his pointed canines. He didn't look to be staggered at all by his little sister's weight.
He turned back to Ellona. “Don't be. He's having fun. It's one of the few times I've seen him smile.”
She turned her head. “He is, isn't he?”
They walked along together for a while in silence, listening to the sounds of the wood and the Firth River running alongside it.
Ellona sighed.
Ethan glanced at her. “What is it?”
She gave him a small smile. “I was thinking about the future. About where we're going to live. What I'm going to do. What the children are going to do. Things like that.”
“All good reasons for a sigh.” He nodded in agreement. “As far as the children are concerned, I wouldn't presume to tell you not to worry. You're their mother. It's natural.”
“As far as what you're going to do, I'd like you to consider doing more spinning. You like it, and you're good at it, almost as good as my mother, and she's known as one of the best of the Wool Coast. Where we're going to live is another matter. One of the Wandering Folk came through Bantering a couple of weeks ago. He passed along the usual news about world events in their typical crazy quilt fashion.
“One of the items struck me. The Earl of the town where I first became a watchman died suddenly, leaving no heir. That means Berggren could become a nice place again, and I like the idea of the mountains being between us and that priest.”
* * * * Charity reined in her horse before the gully. The small creek running through it had had centuries to do its work. The gully walls were far too steep for the horses, and the gap between them was too wide to jump.
Flynn and Neely pulled up beside her. Flynn's draft horse pawed the ground, and wuffed through its nose.
“He's eager to be on.” Charity looked over at the big man. Astride that horse, he appeared to be of normal size.
“Aye, miss Charity, that he is. I ‘spect this is more fun than pullin’ a cheese cart day in an’ day out.”
Neely leaned forward in his saddle a squinted at the gully. “How in th’ bloody pit are we gonna get th’ horses over that bleedin’ thing?”
Charity turned in her saddle, and looked toward the forest that ran alongside their path. It had been their constant companion for days now, ever since the Wayfarer House. Neely called it the Long Wood. It was supposed to grow from Black Ben Mountain all the way to the headwaters of the Ort River, nearly thirty-five hundred miles to the south.
The gully appeared to narrow as it approached the forest. She turned her horse, and started to walk alongside the gully.
“'Ere now!” Neely called out to her. “Where you goin'?”
“To find a narrows, of course,” she called back. “Where else would I be going?”
“But, but there's ... oh damn!” Neely jerked his horse around, and followed her. “C'mon, Flynn. We'd better keep up. The way this trip is goin', we'll be sharing our supper with a pack of wolves next.”
“Flynn eased his huge horse around and followed Neely. “Oh good. I likes wolves.”
Neely muttered unmentionables under his breath as he followed Charity.
The gully continued to narrow as they followed its path into The Long Wood. The exposed ground below the long grasses at the gully's edge showed more and more rock mixed into the soil. The ground was just a little bit tougher for the water to cut into.
Tree roots started to show through the soil of the bank, and they found their path curving away from the gully as the trees grew thicker along its edge.
“We're being forced deeper into th’ wood.” Neely looked over his shoulder at Flynn. “There's wolves this far in.”
“We'll be ok, Neely.” Flynn pushed a branch away from his face. “We're makin’ a lot of noise. I imagine any wolves'd be scared away long before we'd see ‘em.”
Charity had to rein hard to the right to skirt a thick copse of Alders. The sun created a patchwork of light and shadow as it fell through the leaves. Frogs croaked at the horses as they passed by the Alders and moved into the Cottonwoods and Oaks.
A family gathering of sparrows exploded out of the trees, and caused the cat to look up and mnaaack at them as they flew by overhead.
Flynn laughed. “Hwaammphh! She wants ‘em to come down an’ play, she does.”
“Shhhh!” Neely looked around at the forest around them as if expecting shadowy gray forms to come hurtling at them from out of the green.
Charity looked back at Neely, and shook her head at his case of nerves. She'd always liked the forest. This one reminded her of the one backside of Aunt and Uncle's place.
“Down this way.” She turned her horse left, and followed a widening between the trees back towards the creek.
The Cottonwoods and Oaks soon gave way again to Alders and the croaking of frogs. Daffodils, and Skunk Cabbage with its distinctive sour smell, appeared and became more numerous. The horses’ hooves now left small depressions that filled with water as they passed.
“Our creek's become a swamp, fellows.” Charity called out to them from her position on point.
“Hope it's a shallow one.” Neely looked down at the black water with apprehension. Small bubbles rose up and popped on the turgid surface, releasing the scent of decay.
Small amphibious eyes watched them as they worked their way through the swampy ground. The croaks of the frogs quieted as they approached, and began again behind them like they were passing through a curtain of sound.
Flynn took advantage of the widening of the space, and moved his horse alongside of Neely's. “Well, we knows where the creek comes from.”
“That's a fact.” Neely replied. “Gotta be a bunch of smallish springs here ‘bouts. Bet this swamp goes on a ways, too.”
“Seems shallow enough.” Flynn considered the water.
Neely clicked his tongue at his horse. As much as he disliked admitting it, he was finding horseback more and more enjoyable.
“Dry land ahead!” Charity's call echoed around the swamp, silencing the frogs. A hooting birdcall sounded in the treetops ahead of them.
“Blue Fisher.” Neely said. “Probably after the frogs.” He nudged his horse's flanks with his heels to catch up with Charity.
Flynn kept with him, and they soon saw what Charity had called out about. A spot of dry land rose up above the waters of the swamp. Daffodils grew in clumps along its curve, and bundles of sword grass ringed the sides. A few of the grasses sported elaborate seed fronds. Some of them were being used as a handy perch for sweet-songed Redwings.
Charity reined her horse to a stop, and climbed down. She massaged her bottom as she looked around the patch of dry ground. The surface of the knoll was covered in a mix of short grasses, fragrant ground hugging herbs and wild flowers.
The horses took advantage of the rest, and began cropping the ground cover, jerking mouthfuls of the sweet mixture away from the soil with sharp twists of their heads.
Flynn and Neely followed Charity's example, and unhorsed, allowing their mounts to nose about the knoll for select morsels.
“Nice bit of ground here.” Neely plucked a small blossom from a wildflower, and sniffed it.
“Aye, it is.” Flynn deposited his bulk onto the soft ground with an audible thud.
Charity saw something in the soil, and motioned Flynn and Neely over to where she knelt. The cat was sniffing the spot, and puffing slightly. A ridge ran the length of her back, and her tail was larger again by half.
Neely knelt by Charity, and took a look at what the trouble was. “I told ya. I told ya both. There's wolves about!”
“Can you tell how long ago they were here?” Charity ran her hand down the cat's back, trying to soothe her.
Neely peered more closely at the tracks. There was a line of them leading to the East. The edge of the forest could be seen from where they knelt, with the horizon showing the rolling lands beyond.
“Strange.” Neely murmured.
“What?” Charity asked. Flynn looked to both of them, expecting another story.
“These tracks say th’ wolves headed east, out of th’ forest. Wolves don't do that Miss Charity. They live here, in Th’ Long Wood and up north in Wolfwood. They don't move out into th’ plains. Passin’ strange, it is.”
“Do they say how long ago this happened?” Charity did not like the idea of a Wolf Pack visiting her while she slept.
Neely studied the tracks again. “Ummm, ‘bout three, maybe four days ago. There was six ... no, seven cubs with ‘em, an’ a pregnant bitch.”
Charity looked at Neely with new respect. “You got all that?”
Flynn chuckled. “Said he was a tracker, he did. Didn't say how good, though. Neely's a natcheral at it. Reads the ground like a book, he does.”
“I'd say so.” She looked up at the sky. “Looks like we've about another three or four hours of daylight. I'd like to get out of this swamp, if we can, and put a few more miles under these horses before we camp.”
Neely groaned to his feet. Now that he'd a chance to be out of the saddle for a bit, his bottom had decided to start complaining about the abuse.
“Aye, miss. Might as well, but me bum's gonna be callin’ me names from here on out.
Flynn suggested a few.
Neely's ears burned a bright red under Charity's giggles and Flynn's guffaws as they splashed their way out of the swamp.

Chapter Fifteen
“It's so big.” Ellona's eyes grew huge as she tried to take in all of Berggren at once.
They arrived at the city gates on market day, and the streets were crowded with carts, stalls and wagons filled with goods coming into the market.
People thronged the Market Square and the streets feeding into it. The shouts of merchants and crafts folk competed for the ear of passers by.
The air was filled with the smells of cooking and spices as well as that of droppings left by the draft animals.
The combined clamor of the merchants, crafts folk, shoppers and animals was nearly deafening.
Jonas tugged at Ellona's skirts. “It's noisy, mommy.”
Sari chimed in. “Yeah, too noisy. Too crowded, too.”
She looked up at Ethan. “I wanna go home.”
Ethan knelt to look into Sari's face. “We are home, dear. This is our new home. Give it some time, and I'm sure you'll like it here.”
“It's too noisy. I want my old home.”
“Ethan! By Bardoc's beard, it is you. Ethan, my boy, you've come home!”
Ethan stood at the sound of his name, and turned to see an old man, slender, with sparse white hair and a short, full beard pushing his way through the crowd towards him.
“Sammel! It that you? Still alive after all these years?” A wide grin split Ethan's face, and he pushed forward to meet his old friend.
“Ha hah!” Sammel gripped Ethan's shoulders in joy. “Yes, it's me, you rapscallion. I'm much too ornery and far too rich to die. You should have known that.”
Ellona stood beside Ethan with the children gathered around her. “Is he a friend of yours, Ethan?”
“Ellona!” Ethan took her by the arm. “I want you to meet Sammel, an old, old friend of mine. He was the first one to treat me kindly after I received my Watchman commission.”
“That's because you were the only one not involved in some form of extortion, my boy.” Sammel took Ellona's hand, and bowed over it.
“So pleased to meet Ethan's beautiful lady. And of course, his children.”
Ellona blushed under the compliment, and chose not to correct the kindly old man.
“Who's he, mommy?” Jonas peered at Sammel from behind his mother's skirt.
“A friend of Ethan's, dear heart.” Ellona patted Jonas’ hand.
“He's ooold.”
Sammel threw back his head in a laugh. “Oh, he's a sharp one, he is. Of course I'm old, my dear. I've earned every one of these white hairs.” He pointed to his head. “Those that are left, anyway.”
He turned back to Ethan. “Where are you staying?”
Ethan shook his head. “We don't know yet. We've only been in the city for a little while, yet. Do you know of anything?”
Sammel beamed, creating a road map of creases in his face. “Such a question. Do I know of anything? You just follow me; I have a little place a few streets from here, over on Shilling street. You may remember the neighborhood, Ethan. It was part of the outer fringe of your watch territory at one time.”
Ethan frowned. “If I recall, that was not a good place to live, much less walk through.”
Ellona took hold of Ethan's arm. “Ethan ... the children.”
Sammel held up his hand. “No need to worry, dear lady. Things have changed greatly since Ethan left us. It has been nearly twenty years, Ethan. Those old storefronts and shops have been converted to homes and crafters studios. The thieves and bullyboys are long since gone. I had a small part to play in that, if I do say so myself.” He puffed out his chest at the last sentence.
The frown did not leave Ethan's face. “I don't know, Sammel. A neighborhood like that cleaned up ... doesn't seem possible.”
“I didn't say it was easy, Ethan.” Sammel's expression turned grave. “It took a lot of blood, and a number of good men died in the process.” He grimaced with the memory.
“You stormed the neighborhood?” Ethan was incredulous.
Sammel looked embarrassed. “Somebody had to.”
Ethan laughed out loud. “Sammel. You're a wonder! You should be the Mayor.”
Sammel held up his hands as if warding off a threat. “Oh, no. I want no part of that quagmire. I have enough troubles of my own without adding politics to the mix.”
Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. “I remember you being a wise man. I'm glad to see you haven't changed.”
“Who, me?” Sammel feigned innocent naïveté with wide blue eyes.
He clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. “Well, now. How about you folks follow me to your new home?”
Ellona looked at Ethan. “We haven't said we'd move in, yet, but we will look at it.”
“Good, good.” Sammel turned and began to part the crowd around them. “Come on, make way. Make way. Coming through here. Thank you.”
The crowds thinned rapidly once they were out of the main square. They followed Sammel along a street he called Candlewick lane. The cobblestones were tightly set with a few patches of moss showing green and amber at the joins.
He kept up a running commentary as they made their way along the streets, pointing out items and places of interest with an infective enthusiasm.
“Over there's Willum's Alehouse. Best pasties in this sector of town, bitter's a bit thin, though.
“That's where old lady Nanatette makes dresses. Pretty good still, for someone who's nearly old enough to be my mother.
“Remember this place, Ethan? Apperby's Toy Shoppe? You used to spend an hour or more, there every day.”
“I was just making sure he was safe, that's all.”
“Sure you were. I hear he had the old man teach him how to carve and work wood. Always interested in something new, Ethan was.”
With Sammel as tour guide, the walk to Shilling Street flew by, seemingly in no time at all.
Ethan looked at a neighborhood he remembered as being a place where good people just did not go, and the rats grew large enough to chase dogs.
Sammel was right. The place had changed. The buildings and storefronts were clean and whitewashed. Open shutters contrasted brightly against the clean walls, and flower boxes promised a riot of color when their buds finally burst, and the children! Children were playing openly in a street that used to display their broken bodies as a warning sign to interlopers. Their squeals of laughter echoed like bells in the open street.
Ellona stopped short and pointed. “Ethan! Look! She's spinning.”
The woman she pointed to was sitting in front of an open door, treading on a spinning wheel of ancient design. The wheel itself sat above a three-legged bench that tilted slightly forward. The gray wool she was spinning lay in a basket near her feet, next to a sleepy-looking dog with floppy ears and short reddish-brown hair. The creak of her wheel blended in with the shouts and laughs of the playing children.
“Her name is Nicoll. She sits here every day, when it isn't raining. She's quite a spinner, sells every skein she makes.”
“I know one even better.”
“Ethan!” Ellona shushed him.
“Look, mommy, spindling.” Sari noticed Nicoll at work.
“Spinning.” Jonas corrected his sister.
The dog noticed the attention being paid his owner, and wuffed at the children.
“Quiet, Red. No one is bothering you.” The woman spoke to the dog without taking her eyes off of her work.
“Afternoon, Nicoll. How're the children?” Sammel tipped an imaginary hat in greeting.
“Why, hello, Sammel. It's so good to see you. What brings you by the neighborhood?” She looked up and smiled at him while her feet and hands continued to work.
“I've an old friend and his family with me. They're moving into my old place.” He looked at Ethan and Ellona, with Sari and Jonas clinging to her skirts. “At least, I hope they are.”
The wheel stopped and Nicoll stood, brushing bits of wool off her skirts. She held out her hand to Ellona. “Well met, I'm called Nicoll, as this old gossip must have told you. I think I overheard your children recognize what I was doing. Do you spin?”
Ellona nodded. “Ethan taught me. He's originally from the Wool Coast.”
“Do you have a wheel?” Nicoll instantly regretted the question when she saw the sadness enter Ellona's eyes.
“She will again, soon.” Ethan stepped forward and held out his hand to Nicoll. “I'm called Ethan. This is Jonas, and the shy one there,” he pointed to where Sari was peeking out from behind her mother. “Is Sari.”
“And this strapping young fellow is called Circumstance.”
Nicoll rose several levels in Ethan's estimation when she made no sign of noticing Circumstance's obvious Elven heritage.
She nodded her head once in greeting. “Well met, Circumstance. Welcome to Berggren.” He nodded back, gravely.
“My name is Jonas, an’ this is Sari.” Jonas pulled his younger sister from behind her mother's skirts.
“Well met, Jonas. Well met, Sari. What do you think of my town?”
“This is your town? The whole place?” Jonas and Sari chorused their energetic reply.
Ellona rescued Nicoll. “We've bothered Nicoll enough for now, children. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Nicoll. I hope we can spin together someday.”
Nicoll smiled back. “As do I.”
Sammel beamed. “What did I tell you, Ethan? Transformed!”
Ethan looked around at the neighborhood. If the buildings were any judge of the people living in them, then this was a good place to get a new start.
He turned to look at the old man. “All right, Sammel, show us our new home.”
* * * * Flynn looked behind himself, and saw the line of trees fading into the distance. “We've come a fair piece already.”
Neely kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of his horse. “I'm just glad to be out of that swamp.” He scratched a forearm where some midges had gotten a quick supper.
It was the fifth day since they had worked their way around the creek and through the swamp. The mire's southern end was mostly stagnant water, home to clouds of hungry midges, mosquitoes and a pervasive stench like that of something long dead. The flying pests found Charity, Flynn and Neely welcome fare, indeed, and the bites itched terribly.
Charity turned in her saddle, and saw Neely scratching. “They'll heal faster if you don't scratch, you know.”
Neely scratched a little harder. “I know. I know.”
Flynn's stomach entered the conversation with a loud rumble.
Neely turned his head just enough to catch his friend out of the corner of his eye. “You tryin’ to tell us somethin'?”
“I agree.” Charity laughed. “It's long past time for lunch.”
The cat seconded with a meow from her now familiar perch on the top of Charity's saddlebags.
Neely nodded. “All right, then. How about that spot over there?” He pointed to an elongated glen nestled into the flank of a rolling rise in the landscape to their right. Oak, Madrone and fragrant Oilwoods crowded against the back wall of the rise in a horseshoe shape. Soft grasses and wild alfalfa mixed in with blue cornflower provided forage for the horses.
The Oilwood's pungent aroma swept across their path on a stray breeze; Charity sniffed the air. “Ummm. I love that smell.”
Neely hurried his horse forward with a nudge of his heels. “So do I, Charity, but for different reasons. Them Oilwood leaves'll help with this itch.”
Charity stuck her heels into her Dapple Grey's flanks, and surged forward to pass by Neely. “You're right. I should have remembered that.”
She hit the ground running as soon as her horse was inside the glen. One of the Oilwood trees bore branches that drooped enough for her to tear away some of the leaves. The pungent resinous smell of the leaves welled up as she crushed them and began smearing the oils over her arms and face where the insects of the swamp had bitten her. The relief was almost instantaneous.
“Ohhhh.” Neely sighed, as he treated his bites. “That feels near as good as hittin’ the hay with Molly McFadden, maybe better.”
Flynn reined in his draft animal, and patted her on the rump as he dismounted. The action of the Oilwood leaves against the bites that covered his face brought a huge smile of relief, and he sat down in the tall grass with a thump. “Oh, yeahhhhh.”
“Feels good, don't it?” Neely sat down across from Flynn. Their horse walked across the glen, noses in the tall grass, grazing.
“Stand and deliver!” The harsh command shocked them to their feet. Flynn and Neely's long knives appeared in their fists. Charity saw with chagrin that her bow was out of reach, still fitted into its wrap on the saddlebag.
The owner of the voice stepped out from behind one of the Oilwoods, a baker's dozen of toughs appeared with him, each of them armed with a variety of edged weapons.
The chief highwayman matched Neely in height and build, but his nose had been flattened for him sometime years earlier, and allowed to heal unset. His deep brown eyes swept across them from beneath heavily ridged brows that sprouted hair resembling black wool. He smiled at the show of knives, revealing chipped and stained teeth.
“A weed chewer.” Thought Neely. “Probably buzzing even now. Dangerous.”
The highwayman gestured with his sword. As tattered and worn as his outfit was, the sword's edge glittered with the sign of competent care. “Ah, ahh, lads. Methinks the little lady there would rather see your guts stay where they are. Drop yer stickers, an’ we'll have usselves a little talk.”
Neely looked at Flynn, and nodded. Fourteen to three was stiff odds at best. They dropped their knives into the grass.
He looked back at the highwayman, and crossed his arms, feeling the smaller knife hidden beneath his vest. “All right, let's talk. What's your business here, if we didn't know already.”
The highwayman scratched the black wool on his head, dislodging a number of vermin. He laughed sarcastically as he looked back at his band. “His lordship wants ta know what our business is, lads. Shall we tell ‘im?”
The band hooted and howled at the joke. He spat into the grass, and sneered at his three victims. “We wants whatever it is you got, bucko.”
Charity stepped forward, her mind whirling with Morgan's lessons and the results of over a year's worth of practice. “But we have nothing besides what you see; our few supplies, weapons and clothes. If you're hungry, we'll be glad to share what we can, but you can't leave us with nothing!”
He sneered again, spitting before he answered. “Like I said, me fine bitch. What you gots, we wants. Start strippin’ or start dyin'.”
Charity shifted her stance, taking on a loose-jointed look. Neely saw her change, and thought, “Oh damn. Here we go.”
He whispered to Flynn. “Get ready. She's gonna do it.”
Flynn didn't answer, but a subtle shift of his bulk said he was ready.
The highwayman saw the change in Charity and Flynn, and readjusted the grip on his sword. “So, it's gonna be the hard way, eh? Fine with me. Ok, lads, take ‘em out!”
The four thieves closest to Charity rushed her as one. She stepped in to meet the one slightly in front of the others, and did something with her hands. He yelped in pain, and landed on his side in front of where his fellows’ feet were going to be. Two of the thieves became tangled in with their companion, and landed across him. The remaining member of the foursome was a bit more agile, and hurdled the obstruction, only to be met by a hard heel in the solar plexus. He landed on his butt, vainly trying to breathe.
Flynn gathered two of the group in a bear hug, and squeezed. They dropped to the ground, groaning.
A third thief came against him more warily, weaving the blade of his battered glaive in a snake-like motion. Numbers four and five fanned out in a flanking maneuver, their short curved swords held low.
Neely dove under a thrown blade, and retrieved his long knife while throwing the one hidden in his vest with a flick of his left hand. The blade sank hilt-deep into the throat of the knife thrower. The impaled thief's scream gurgled around the knife while he weakly attempted to reach its handle. His reaching hands trembled in place for a long moment, and then, as if in slow motion, the thief fell backwards onto the grass.
One of the band, with long dwarf-like braids hanging down his back, went after Charity's Dapple Gray. The mare shied and skipped backwards, striking outward with her forelegs. Another thief joined the one with braids, and tried to reach for the reins. She rewarded him for his trouble with a hoof to the knee. The other one heard bone crack.
Three of them encircled Charity, feinting in and out, swiping and jabbing at her with the points of their knives. She turned with them, keeping her front to the one closest to her at the time. One of them, a redhead with thickly matted hair and sallow skin, pushed his jab, trying to get inside her reach. He succeeded, and she wrapped her hand around the wrist, twisting it the wrong way against the joint. Charity then removed the knife as her left foot connected against the cheekbone of the one sliding in against her blind side. He tumbled to the ground, senseless.
She spun on her right foot, and faced the two left standing with the knife in her hand. “You want some more of this?”
They backed slowly out of her reach. The redhead massaged his wrist and looked for reinforcements. The other one turned and looked for easier prey.
Their leader was practically dancing in his fury. “Take them, you fools! It's only the three of them, and only one real man among them. What does it take to handle a fat man and a girl?”
Flynn's four opponents closed in on him like terriers worrying a mastiff. The one with the glaive swept its blade in a fast arc, aiming at his chest. Flynn threw up his knife to block it, but the thief quickly reversed direction, and caught the big man a glancing blow with the spike end of his weapon.
The thief flanking Flynn's right side darted in as he flinched to avoid greater damage from the glaive's spike. He pulled back his arm to stab Flynn in the back, and his body followed that arm into the grass, a knife protruding from his chest.
Neely yelled at Flynn. “Keep yer bloody eyes open, thickhead. Don't be such a whittle, an’ you'll live longer!”
Flynn waved his thanks, and backhanded another of the flankers with it while he was distracted by Neely's yell. The angle the thief's head lay said he wouldn't be thieving much in the future.
Neely ran straight at two of the band while they were trying to decide who to attack, and clotheslined one of them. The other ducked and whirled to face him, knife held loosely and low. This one had the look of an experienced fighter.
The bandleader looked at the fight around him. The odds were becoming too even. That demon of a horse had killed or knocked out two more of his men, leaving him with just three beside himself. His best knife man was facing the skinny one, and Finn the Red had the girl. The fat one was facing down Rubert and his glaive, but he didn't hold much hope for Rubert. The fellow was too quick to take chances for his own good.
Charity crouched as she kept her eyes on those of the redhead. The eyes usually moved a split second before the body did. If you watched closely, they told you what was coming.
The redhead feinted right then left, then struck left again, expecting his quarry to have fallen into the trap of the rhythm but she wasn't there, and his wrist was trapped again in that devil's hold of hers. His second blade was taken from him.
“Arrrggghhh!” He felt the bones in the joint give way as he tried to force his way out of the bitch's grip.
“It's your own fault you know.” She told him as she forced him to his knees. “It wouldn't have broken if you had just gone with it and sat down like you were supposed to.”
The words came out of his mouth through teeth clenched against the agony. “A slip of a girl ... how can you...?”
Charity brought her knee up sharply to the point of his chin, ending both what he was going to ask and his consciousness, together.
She spun on her other heel to face the one who had started it all.
The highwayman snarled at her. “Come on, bitch! I'll split yer from twat to chin, by the pit, I will!” He spat out a bit more of the brown wad he was chewing.
Charity shook her head. “No, you won't, and I'm not going to waste my time fussing with you.”
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Neely and his opponent were dancing closer and closer to where she and the bandleader stood.
Their movements seemed choreographed. Slash and parry, bob and weave. Thin lines of red stood out starkly against the white of Neely's blouse where the dance had come too close. His opponent's left arm hung useless at his side, testimony to the reach of Neely's long arms.
The tracker ducked beneath a backhand swipe of the other's knife, and then arched backwards to avoid being disemboweled by a sudden change of direction. His heel slipped on a pile of horse droppings, sending him into the grass, off-balance, and flat on his back. The knife squirted from his hand, and landed out of his reach.
“Hah!” The thief gloated. “Gotcha now, slick!”
He tossed the knife back and forth from hand to hand as he sidled around Neely, looking for an opening.
“Gut ‘im, Lengen. Leave ‘im fer the crows.” His leader called out.
“Hear that, Slick?” Lengen snickered through his matted beard. “Doogin wants ya gutted. Let's see iffn we kin do that, eh?”
The thief darted in at Neely, his knife sweeping at the tracker's midsection.
Neely twisted to the side as he threw his fist at the thief's jaw in a desperate roundhouse. He connected just as the tip of the blade cut a furrow across his ribcage, drawing out a hiss of pain.
The thief's head rocked with the blow, and he fell off to Neely's left side, rolling away from the elbow that followed.
He climbed to his hands and knees, only to fall a last time to a straight-legged kick from Charity.
“That was a foul blow!” The highwayman yelled. “You gave ‘im no chance. No chance at all!”
“I didn't intend to.” Charity stepped around Neely and ran the few steps it took to get to her horse. She pulled out her bow and strung it, nocking an arrow and immediately aiming it at the highwayman.
“Ok. Call off your men who're left, or I send this shaft right through your eye.”
Doogin flicked his eyes left and right, gauging his chances of making it to cover. The answer didn't please him.
He seemed to shrink in size, like a tomcat loosing its puff. His sword fell into the grass. “Rubert!” He called out to the fellow fighting Flynn. “Leave off. Leave off, I say!”
The thief backed away from Flynn. and lowered his glaive. They were both breathing heavily. Flynn sounded like a bellows as he puffed and blowed.
Charity nodded. “Good. Now, the three of you get together so I don't have to keep turning my head. Get up, Neely.”
He climbed to his feet, and stood, swaying slightly in the aftermath of the fighting.
Charity saw the bloodstain spreading through the fabric of his blouse, and raised the arrow to point. “If he dies...”
Doogin held his hands up as if they would shield him from the arrow. “Deity! No, lady. Please. I don't want to die.”
Neely held his hand over his ribs as he trudged across the glen to his horse. The old gelding hadn't moved an inch during the fighting.
He looked at Charity as he passed her. “I'll be all right, Charity. Flynn'll bind me up. Th’ fixin's are in my bags here.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bundle of cloth and a jar of ointment. Flynn hurried over and helped him off with his vest and blouse.
Charity watched Flynn's ministrations to Neely for a while, keeping a close eye on the Highwayman and the standing survivors of his gang. When it looked as if Neely was going to be all right as he had said, she lowered her bow and indicated to Doogin with a point of her chin the rest of the band that lay in the grass.
“Ok, you three start covering your dead so the wild animals can't get to them. When those who aren't dead come to, they can help you.”
The redhead glared at her as he cradled his wrist with his good hand. “What about me? Me hand's broke, I can't do nothin.”
“You can pick up stuff with your other hand, can't you? I still have this arrow nocked.” She lifted the half-drawn bow slightly. “And you're not one of my favorite people.”
Finn the Red scrambled to join Doogin and Rubert in picking up stones and sticks for their dead companions’ burial mounds.
Flynn finished with his binding of Neely's wounds, and they searched through the grass, picking up what weapons they could find. Flynn appropriated the glaive for his own use, ignoring the glare sent his way by Rubert.
Doogin objected when he saw them stuffing the purloined weapons into their horses’ saddlebags. “Ere now! You can't go off an’ leave us helpless. It ain't charitable.”
Neely smirked. “And what you was gonna do to us was? Least we's leavin’ you alive.”
Charity put her foot into her saddle's left stirrup, and swung herself into position. Her mare stamped the soft ground, eager to be off. “I'm going to keep watch every now and then to make sure you boys are keeping to yourselves, and not following us. And just so you do, I want you to keep an eye on that acorn across the glen.”
She pulled out her bow, restrung it and drew an arrow to her ear.
The silence that greeted the dropping of the acorn was audible.
Doogin scratched himself behind an ear, and swallowed. “Uh ... me an’ the boys ... we'll be goin’ north.”
* * * * Neely brushed the dirt off of his hands as he walked back to his horse. “Nope, not a track. Lessen you call an old bug hole a track.”
Flynn muttered to himself as Neely remounted. “Coulda sworn it were a track.”
Charity, Flynn and Neely were east of the slopes leading to Dragonglade. The last of the Long Wood was just a dark line on the northern horizon. The shadows of the mountains crept toward them as the sun began to dip below the jagged peaks to their west.
Charity reached forward and patted the neck of her Dapple Gray mare as the horse bent her head to crop the dark green grass.
“Well, I guess we should be satisfied we're well clear of the outlaws.” She spoke half to herself. “We haven't seen any tracks of men or horses for the past hundred miles or more.”
Neely reined his horse back into line with Charity and Flynn. “Doesn't hurt to keep an eye out, just in case.”
Charity urged her mount onward with a click of her tongue. “I suppose you're right. I'd rather not have to take on four-to-one odds again any time soon.”
“You're pretty good at it, Miss Charity.” Flynn pulled an apple out of his right-hand saddlebag and took a bite out of it.
She hid her smile with a yawn. “Doesn't mean I want to do it on a daily basis.”
Charity then turned in the saddle to look at Neely. “Do you know anything of the land between here and Ort?”
He shook his head. “Not a blessed thing. Spent my time on the East side of Cloudhook. The headwaters of the Ort are supposed to be in this part of the country,” He looked around at the deepening shadows. “Somewhere...”
“There's a river with the same name as a city?” Charity asked.
“It's the way they do things.” Neely shrugged. “You come across a good name, makes sense to put it on as many things as it fits. Logical, really.”
Charity thought, “Confusing, really.”
Flynn mumbled something. Charity barely caught the word river in what he said.
She reined the mare in, allowing Flynn's draft horse to catch up. “What was that? Something about a river?”
Flynn looked down as his left hand toyed with the pommel on the saddle. “I wuz just thinkin', that's all.”
“Thinking? About what?”
“You'd just think I wuz bein’ silly.”
Charity reached up and touched Flynn on his huge arm. “No, I won't. And you know that.”
The big man's face twitched with a small, brief smile. “I wuz just talkin’ to meself, wonderin’ like, y'know, about the river? I ain't never seen a real river. Oh, I seen lots ‘n lots o’ creeks an’ streams, mind you. But a river. They say th’ Ort's gots places where you can't see th’ other side, it's so wide.
“Anyway, that's what I wuz talkin’ to meself about. Nuthin’ much, really.”
Charity patted his arm where she'd touched it. “I think it's sweet. This has to be a real adventure for you. I'm glad.”
The cat took the closeness of the two horses as an opportunity to jump up to a higher vantage point. She arched her back as she rubbed against Flynn, her tail held like a furry flagpole.
Charity giggled. “It looks like she's decided you're her new friend.”
Neely snorted from his position to the rear of them. “If we're quite through foolin’ around here, I'd like to find a good campsite before th’ bloody moon comes out.”
“He's right on that, Miss Charity.” Flynn squinted at the line of red light on the mountaintops. “It's gettin’ dark, fast. I'd druther not have to do my wood gatherin’ all in th’ dark.”
The cat echoed Flynn's sentiments with a meow.
Charity nodded and stood in the stirrups as she tried to check the landscape ahead of them.
“How about up there?” She pointed to a rise in the land that was a bowshot to their southwest. “That looks like a small stand of trees, which means we'll have wood for a fire, at least.”
Neely squinted as he tried to see the spot Charity was pointing out to them. “Y'say there's trees up there? Where? Can't see a bloody thing in this gloom.”
“She's got the younger eyes, Neely. They's probably trees where she says they is. C'mon, ol’ boy.” He kicked his heels gently into the draft horse's flanks, and started into a brisk walk up the slope behind Charity.
Neely pulled Wilbut into line behind Flynn's horse and they followed Charity and her younger eyes up to the trees and to their camp for the night.
Charity guided her horse through the maze of boulders and dead trees down the slope toward the flat below, with one hand on the halter and the other reaching for whatever handhold was handy. The Dapple Gray mare followed her docilely, trusting in Charity's ability to know the best path to the grass below. The cat rode in her accustomed place behind the saddle, watching their progress with interest.
“Them's gotta be the headwaters, I'll bet.” Flynn was in line behind Charity, his large draft horse's dinner plate hooves finding the loose foundation underfoot more secure than those of his smaller cousins.
Neely clicked his tongue, and rubbed Wilbut's muzzle, reassuring the older horse as they trailed Flynn. “Good. The horses'll need th’ fresh water, an’ I'm ‘bout parched meself. Haven't seen a spring for the past two days. Where in th’ pit is all th’ blinkin’ water?”
Flynn pointed to the headwaters. “There.”
Neely hoped his large friend could feel his glare. “Har de har har.”
“Well, it is.”
Charity started to slip in loose shale, and caught herself on the corpse of an old Madrone that jutted from between two cow-sized boulders colored a dusty pink with streaks of mud gray shooting through them. “You two better pay more attention to the trail. I don't want to have both of you in my lap. It's really loose here. Hush, girl. There's a good lass.” She soothed the mare as some more of the shale went skittering down the slope.
Neely called out from his spot in the rear, “Ease up there, Charity, we're doin’ no good this way. See those big stones off to your left?”
Charity shaded her eyes with the palm of her hand, and looked where Neely indicated. “I see them.”
“Looks like a switch back to me, from up here. May take us a bit more time than this straight downhill shot we're doin', but at least we'll get there in one piece.”
Charity looked over her shoulder at Flynn. “What do you think, Flynn? It's three of us here.”
He rubbed the salt and rust stubble on his chin. “Well, now, Miss Charity. I'm not sayin’ I'd druther have Neely leadin’ us instead of you, I wants you to know that.”
She nodded her understanding.
Flynn's chest heaved with a sigh. “Neely's th’ best of the three of us when it comes ta trackin'. Iffn he sees a switchback, you can bet money it's there. I don't much fancy me landin’ in your lap, meself not that it isn't a fine lookin’ lap, mind you.”
Charity's laughter was infectious, and lightened the mood of their climb down to the headwaters of the Ort River.
Neely's guess proved correct in both matters. The series of switchbacks he found allowed them to lead the horses with much less of a chance of a fall. But it lengthened the time of the descent to the point that it was well into the afternoon by the time they came out onto the flat.
The mighty Ort's headwaters, as with most major rivers, were something of an understatement compared to what they became several miles downstream. The flat where they began was the northern tip of a series of valleys that extended hundreds of leagues to the south, ending at the miles wide mouth of the Ort River where it met the Southern sea below the city of the same name.
Charity could see at least a dozen small springs flowing out from under the hill of rubble they'd descended. She pointed to a spot where several of them had cut tiny canyons into the soft earth of the flat. “There's where all the water's been hiding, Neely. It's under that pile of rock and driftwood we were on.”
“Aye.” He turned and looked up to where they'd begun their climb down. “Wonder what caused all this to pile up here? Looks like some giant cleaned his yard, an’ this is th’ trash heap.”
Charity watched her mare drink from one of the streams. The cat was across from the mare, lapping up some of the water with flicks of her quick pink tongue. She glanced back at the debris hill. “I can't answer that one. You're right, though. It does look unnatural, almost as if a giant shovel scooped out all the litter from around us, and piled it all there.” She pointed at the hill, and then began filling her water bags.
“Bet it wuz th’ magik war whut done it.” Flynn squatted to fill his own bags. “I'd sure liked ta have seen that.”
“Enough of that!” Neely busied himself checking the cinches on his tack. “Magik makes my skin crawl. Unnatural, it is. Man shouldn't mess around with such stuff. Them wizards an’ sorcerers murdered whole cities. It's all from straight outta th’ Pit, nohow.”
Charity's eyebrows climbed into her scalp line. “Oh?”
Flynn chuckled. “Yer foot's in it now, Neely.”
Charity demurely secured the cork in her last bag as she walked over to Neely. When she was close enough to stand toe to toe with him, she looked up into his face, and smiled. “Are you telling me that my brother, my twin brother was a creature straight out of the Pit?” Her voice was soft and gently modulated, but each word drove into Neely's gut like a hammer blow.
He tried to smile, but the effort was a sickly one at best. “Uh ... miss Charity. ‘Bout your brother...”
Charity smiled back at him. Her expression promised mayhem. “What about my brother?”
Neely backed away. “Nuthin'. I meant nuthin’ by it, Charity. I mean that. My grandad, he tol’ me stories ‘bout th’ magik war an’ whut was done to th’ folk back then. Gave me nightmares, they did. I'm sure your brother's as good a man as you're a woman. Whether he does magik or not.”
Flynn clapped his hands. “Good answer, Neely. Good answer. You kin skin ‘im now, Miss Charity.”
Neely's glare shot knives at Flynn.
Charity put her hands behind her back, and nodded at Flynn. “Thank you, Flynn, but I think Neely looks much better in his skin than out of it.”
She looked back at Neely. “Your apology is accepted, and you can be sure that if you ever had met my brother, you'd have found he's worth every bit of respect you could show him. Now, shall we be on our way?”
The three of them climbed back into their saddles. Charity scooped up the cat and placed her back onto the saddlebags, and they started the horses walking along the Ort as it made its way into the Southlands. The flat was more than wide enough, so they rode side by side. Flynn was on the outside, Neely in the middle, and Charity rode next to the bank.
The river grew wider and deeper as the miles eased into the background. Soon cattails and rushes began to appear as a buffer between the banks and the slow moving water.
“Looks like I'll be cuttin’ myself a willow branch soon.” Flynn remarked. “A nice bit of fire roasted fish would go down proper.”
Charity eased her mare closer to the bank so she could see over the rushes. “Yes, I think I'd like that. It'd make a nice change from biscuits and stew.”
“I'll keep with th’ stew an’ biscuits, thank you.” Neely said.
Charity turned in her saddle. “What's the matter? Don't you like fish?”
He shuddered. “Can't stand ‘em. Won't eat ‘em.”
Flynn laughed. “Don't even try it, Miss Charity. Long as I've known ‘im, he's been this way. Won't even try a nice bit of fry an’ chips.”
Neely shuddered again. “Eeuugghh.”
Charity turned back to face the direction they were riding. “Looks like a good time for another one of your stories, Neely.”
Both Flynn and Charity could feel the face Neely made.
Flynn chuckled again. “May as well tell it, Neely. She's gonna dig it outta you, one way or another.”
Neely flicked his horse's reins irritatedly. “Man can't keep one little secret with you two,” he muttered, “All right, here it is, but it's the last one. You hear?”
Charity said. “If that's the way you want it. But, didn't you feel better after telling us about your adventure with the Grisham merchant?”
Flynn chimed in. “She's right on that one, Neely. You did feel better.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He rubbed the back of his neck, in thought. A fish broke the surface of the water as it took in a skipper bug for supper.
“Ok, back when I was just a lad. Skinned knees an’ all. Me an’ my friends liked to hang around th’ docks an’ watch th’ boats an’ ships come in an’ out of port. I'll tell you. We saw some of th’ most outlandish folk. Saw one old salt with a for-real peg leg. Carved outta ivory or bone, had scrimshaw all over it.
“Well one day we saw one of th’ biggest ships ever to come into port. Had three decks, an’ two of ‘em for th’ oars. Up on top, th’ forecastle looked big enough to use for a barn, an’ it had dragon wings carved into its sides.”
“Why? Did you ever find out?” Charity loved stories, and this one already captivated her.
“Nope. Never did. Got my suspicions, though.” Neely shook his head, then nodded.
“Me an’ th’ boys, we was real curious about this here ship. When the soldiers come off it, well, it just made th’ wonderin’ worse.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, I'll tell ya Charity. These fellers had skin th’ color of a chestnut, and hair like silver thread comin’ out from under their helmets. Those helmets had wings on ‘em, just like th’ wings carved into the forecastle, and you shoulda seen th’ jools.”
“Jewels?” Charity and Flynn spoke the word in unison.
“Oh, yeah. They was stuck into th’ ship, here an’ there, you know, random-like. Least ways, I couldn't see a pattern. Them fellers in th’ ship, they mighta said different, iffin we coulda understood ‘em.”
“Why couldn't you understand them? Everyone I've met, wherever I've gone, they all spoke the same language. Only the accents have been different. Are you sure it wasn't just a strange accent, and it made them difficult to understand?” Charity turned in the saddle to ask the question.
“Not with words like gundzptx or whatever it was, Sounded like they was sneezin’ instead of talkin'.”
“Anyway, we was sittin’ there, hidin’ behind these barrels, watchin th’ soldiers an’ lookin’ at all those jools stuck into that big boat, when one o’ me buds gets it into his head we should wait for dark an’ sneak on board. You know, go after some o’ them jools.”
“What's this got to do with you not likin’ fish?” Flynn queried.
“I'm gettin’ there. I'm gettin’ there. We decided to choose who got to go first by drawin’ lots. Guess who got th’ short one?”
“You?” Charity asked.
“Me. After we was through with th’ choosin, another feller come down outta th’ forecastle an’ onto th’ dock. He was as dark as th’ others, but where they was near as tall as Flynn here, but half as wide...”
Flynn chuckled good-naturedly at the rib.
“This guy was half as tall and near twice as wide. I swear, he looked wider than he was tall. Never seen such a fat man, haven't since. Well, he starts jabberin’ at th’ soldiers in that same sneezy talk, an’ then they all take up an’ follow him on down th’ dock to where th’ warehouses was. Leavin’ that lovely gangplank wide open for the explorin'.”
“I took me a good look around to see if any of those fellers off th’ ship was watchin. They wasn't, so I scampered real quick across to th’ gangplank an’ up into th’ ship. I figured I could wiggle out a couple of those jools outta their sockets, and get back to me buds before anyone was th’ wiser.”
His sigh was audible to both Charity and Flynn. “Boy, was I wrong. I was workin’ me blade into th’ socket of a ruby ‘bout th’ size of a hen's egg when I got picked up by th’ scruff o’ me neck. It was one of those big soldiers. He spun me around in his hand, an’ jabbered somethin’ at me. I didn't know what he was sayin', so I kept me mouth shut. I guess it was th’ wrong thing to do, ‘cause he shook me like a dog shakes a mouse, and said whatever it was all over again.”
“I think he might have gone on doin’ that ‘till he broke my neck, but before he could, another of those fat guys come outta th’ forecastle. He jabbered at th’ soldier a bit, an’ then he turned to look up at me, my feet was still a couple of feet offa th’ floor.”
“Is what Suldam Gessit says true? Were you attempting to purloin one of the Sacred Eyes of Tettwain? He talked to me usin’ real talk.”
“You coulda knocked me over with a feather. I sure wasn't expectin’ th’ little fat guy to be speakin’ in plain talk. I looked back at him, an’ all I could think of sayin was,
“Let me go. I wanna go home.”
“Th’ little fat guy just smiled at me. I noticed his hair was done up like that of some o’ th’ fancy women I'd see hanging’ around th’ show halls, an’ comin’ outta those big black carriages with matched horse teams. His mustache was done up with little gold beads, an’ it hung down below his chins.”
“He turned back to th’ guy holdin’ me, th’ guy must've been strong as a troll ‘cause his arm never even trembled, an’ jabbered some more at him. The guy jabbered back.”
“He turned back to me, an’ said,’ Suldam Gessit says you must be punished for your crime'. I agree. Even though you are young, what you attempted to do was against our law and the will of Tettuwain. If you were an adult, you would loose a hand and both your eyes for such an offense.”
“What? They were going to cut off a hand and blind you?” Charity couldn't believe her ears.
“They was strange folk, miss Charity, with strange ways. I never did learn where they was from. Not sure I want to find out. Some lessons you never unlearn.”
“Anyway, as you can see, they didn't cut me hand off or gouge out my eyes. No, what they did was stuff me into a barrel of fish.”
“What?”
“Ho ho. So that's where it comes from.” Flynn laughed out loud.
“You wouldn't've thought it so funny if it was you havin’ to breathe an’ taste raw fish goin’ bad for three days.”
“Three days!?”
“That's right, miss Charity. Three days. No water, little enough air and no food, lessen I wanted to eat raw fish.”
She rewarded that thought with a face.
“I could hear th’ soldiers outside th’ barrel jabberin’ at each other in that funny sounding’ tongue o’ theirs. I'm sure they heard me yellin’ an’ cry'n through th’ holes in the barrel, but none of it did no good. I fell asleep in there, twice. When I woke up th’ second time, I heard no jabberin’ so I started yellin’ an’ screamin’ for all I was worth. It took a while, but someone finally popped th’ lid offa that barrel. I can't remember much of what the guy looked like or who he was, but I'm damn sure he'll never forget me. I crawled outta that barrel, and slapped a hug fulla dead fish guts onto him. I've made it my business to keep as far as I could from a fish dinner ever since then.”
“Did you ever see that ship or those soldiers again?” Charity nudged her horse around a clump of sword grass.
Neely scratched the darkening stubble on his cheek. “No. Never did, but I did some askin’ around over th’ years. Most of what folk've told me smacks of legend at best. Th’ majority of ‘em say th’ land west of Angbar is where they come from. I remember askin’ an’ old codger on th’ dock ‘bout this Tettuwain. He made a warden’ sign an’ slammed th’ door on me. I never did learn much about those folk, but I can tell you this, there's gonna be trouble with ‘em. I can't say when, but it's gonna happen.”
* * * * Flynn took his hands off the reins, and stretched, yawning hugely. “Eaaaaaa. It's gettin’ dim, and I'm ‘bout beat. How's about we start peelin’ our eyes for a place to set for th’ night?”
“You just want to get out that willow pole you put together.” Neely growled at him from his spot in the line.
Flynn eyed the widening river with contemplation. “It does look like a good spot...”
“Oh, give me a bleedin’ break!” Neely exclaimed. “If you like eatin’ th’ disgustin’ things so much, why don't you just build a bloody raft, and join them in their flickin’ world.”
Charity pulled back on her reins and halted her mare. “You know, that's a good idea.” She ran her free hand down the cat's back, who rewarded her with a loud purr.
“What?” Neely's stomach felt suddenly hollow.
“Building a raft. That's a very good idea, Neely. I'm glad you thought of it.”
“What?” Neely couldn't believe his ears. He began silently kicking himself in his mind.
“I'll say it is, Miss Charity.” Flynn pointed off to their right. “Them trees over there got's real straight trunks, and they's not too big around, neither.”
Charity looked where Flynn pointed. A thick stand of Alder grew on the backside of a rise in the bank about fifty yards from the river's edge.
She pulled her horse around and started toward the rise. “Looks good enough for me. Shall we make camp?”
Neely swung the axe with enough force to drive the deeply curved blade halfway through the Alder trunk.
“Me an’ my bloody big mouth.” He muttered to himself as he worked the blade back and forth, easing it out of the cut to swing again, opening a large notch. “Should learn to keep it shut is what I should do.”
Flynn grunted as he swung his own axe. “Ease over, Neely. Raftin's fun.”
Chunnkk! Neely's axe swung again. Like Flynn's, it was one of the weapons captured from the thief's band. “I know that. What's eatin’ me is havin’ to be eatin’ fish. Just th’ thought of it puts me right back in that barrel.” Chunnkk!
Flynn and Neely chopped, and Charity trimmed the logs. When they collected a good-sized pile, they tied them into a skid, with Neely's directions, which Flynn's draft horse easily dragged down to the river's edge.
The cat watched the proceedings from her chosen perch at the edge of the Alders. Work of this sort was strictly for humans.
“Think that's enough?” Flynn flipped the reins back over his horse's saddle as he walked back to the skid.
“We won't know till we put ‘em in th’ water. We'll be building some of th’ raft in th’ river, I think.” Neely wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“You've built rafts before? The way you feel about fishing?” Charity worked at untying the knots holding the Alder logs.
Neely's mouth twitched. “Raftin’ isn't fishin', Charity. Sometimes it's easier an’ faster to move freight down th’ river than humpin’ a bunch of oxen cross country. I've built my share of ‘em.”
Charity looked back at the pile of logs. “How do we start, then?”
“Like this, grab th’ other end of this one, here.” Neely walked around to the end of the pile and selected one of the thicker logs.
Flynn stepped and took Charity's end of the log. “This'un's a mite too big, Miss Charity. I'll take it for ya.”
Charity stood there while they positioned the log perpendicular to the rest of the pile. “Well, I'm not going to just watch you guys work while I do nothing. There's got to be something I can do.”
Neely looked at the pile, and then back where they did the cutting and trimming. “Tell you what. We're going to be needin’ a mess of dowels for this job. You, with your deft hands, should be good at that. Grab a batch of twigs ‘bout this thick,” He measured three quarters of an inch with his thumb and forefinger. “And trim ‘em clean, then cut ‘em so they're all ‘bout a foot long. When you've got that done, Flynn an’ me should be ready to start burnin’ th’ holes.”
Charity looked back at the campfire. It was a good fifty yards from where they were working. “Then I probably should get a work fire going here first, then start on making the dowels.”
Flynn nodded and smiled as he lifted his end of the next log. “There's a lass with a head on her shoulders, eh Neely?”
“Right you are, Flynn.” Neely grunted as he picked up his end. “Right you are.”
The two men laid the logs side by side until they had a foundation wide enough for the horses to stand on, with enough room for another horse on either side. This made for a platform approximately twenty feet square.
“Now we start layin’ th’ cross pieces, an’ this is where those dowels'll come in handy. I don't fancy a raft that starts comin’ apart on me in mid river.” Neely rummaged through the pile selecting logs that were about half the thickness of the previous layer.
He looked over at Charity. “How's that fire comin?”
“Almost got it.” Charity struck her flint with the back edge of her knife, sending a white-hot spark into the small pile of tinder she had built inside a ring of stones. A tendril of smoke rose snake-like from the tinder, and she blew on it gently until a tiny flame flared up from the pile. Quickly, she added a few small dry twigs, and then a few more after they caught. In short order, she had a respectable blaze going.
Flynn grunted in approval at the work fire burning merrily a few feet away from where they were building the raft. “She's gonna make someone a fine missus someday. You can mark me word on that one.”
Neely chuckled as he picked up his end of one of the thinner logs. “Well, it sure ain't gonna be you, Flynn.”
Flynn blushed furiously.
She cleared her throat, and stood up from the fire. “Ok, how do we use the dowels?”
Neely looked back at the fire, and then bent to pick up a small branch about as thick as his finger. “I'll show ya.”
He put the stick into the fire and held it there until the end began to glow red. Then he placed the burning end against one of the smaller logs approximately six inches from its end.
“This gives us a good-sized starting point,” he said, as the smoke began to curl up from the log.
Charity placed her hands on her hips. “A starting point for what?”
Flynn chuckled to himself. “I think I knows. He's settin’ himself up to do a bit o’ drill burnin'.”
“Drill burning?” Charity looked and sounded puzzled.
Flynn used his hands to demonstrate with gestures. “It's kinda like starting a fire by rubbin’ th’ end of a stick against another one by using a small bow, ‘cept instead of startin’ a fire, we wants to burn a hole through th’ log.”
Neely was nearly done making the bow. He wrapped the other end of the leather thong securely around the remaining end of the Alder branch, and then looped the thong once around the stick he used to burn the pilot hole.
Charity followed Neely's preparations closely. “Oh, I see ... Flynn and I could do this too, couldn't we?”
Neely had begun his drilling. “Sure could. Cut our time in half, it might. Should be doin’ this with an auger, but since we don't have one...”
Charity and Flynn bent to making their own bow drills with a will.
It took the three of them nearly two and a half days to burn holes through all the logs, and by the time the last one was finished, they all felt as though their arms would fall off.
Flynn dropped his stick and bow. “Crikey. Me arm's feel like Granny's pudddin', all lumpy an’ runny. I got no strength left at all.”
Charity sat where she stopped, and rubbed her own arms. “Mine feel like they're burning in their own fat. I say we buy an auger the next town we come to. I don't know about you, Neely, but I don't want to have to go through all that again just to build a raft.”
Neely pulled his arm across his brow, wiping away more sweat. “I'm with you there, lass. Problem is, we're only half way done. We still got's to put th’ thing together.”
“Oh ... yeah.” Charity looked at the framework of holed logs with a sinking feeling. She felt completely worn through, and didn't want to have to do more work. Then she steeled herself, and sat upright from her slump. “What's next, then?”
Neely groaned as he stood. “Uhhhh, my back's gonna be gripin’ at me for this.” He walked over to a pile of trimmings, and pulled out from it several finger-thick branches.
He walked to where Charity and Flynn still sat. “We never did get them dowels done. Remember?”
Charity slapped her forehead. “Ohhh, drat! I got so caught up in the drilling I forgot all about making the dowels for the holes.”
She paused for a breath, and then said, “That's what the dowels are for, isn't it? They're going to be used to hold the logs together, aren't they?”
Neely dropped the branches in front of her and Flynn. “Aye, that's what they're for. Now we gotta make ‘em.”
Charity picked up one of the branches, and began trimming the small branches away from what would become the dowel. Flynn and Neely did the same. They worked steadily, cutting, trimming and smoothing for a couple of hours until a good-sized pile of trimmed lengths lay at their feet.
Neely picked up one of the dowels, and motioned for Flynn to join him. They lined up the hole burnt through the smaller log with that of the one underneath, and then Neely pushed the dowel into the hole. Flynn picked up a length of Alder that was thick enough for a good cudgel, and pounded the dowel the rest of the way through.
Charity followed the job with interest. “And that's why we had to burn all those holes in the smaller logs.”
Neely nodded. “That's why. Doesn't do any good iffn they float away in th’ water. That crisscross has to be tight, an’ we don't have no nails with us, nor no blacksmith close by to make ‘em. Them dowels'll swell when they gets wet. Be a tighter bond than nails, anyhow.”
Flynn nodded as he picked a couple more dowels. “That's a fact, that is. Good thinkin', Neely.”
Neely grunted. “Naw. Just experience.”
Another couple of hours was spent hammering dowels into place. By the time that task was done, it was time for supper, rest and a good night's sleep.
The three of them, exhausted by the exertion of the day's labors, were barely aware of their heads touching the rolled blankets that served as pillows. Charity was joined by a black shadow that burrowed its way into her bedroll, and vibrated her with quiet purrs until she dropped completely under.
Morning arrived as if it was unsure of the appointment. Heavy clouds obscured the rising sun, and a mist coated everything with a fine layer of dampness.
“Mmmppff! Hey! What happened to th’ sun? Where's th’ morning?” Flynn poked his head out from beneath his bedroll, and squinted at the clouds and fog.
“I think it's still sleepin'” Neely lifted his forearm off of his eyes.
Charity crawled out from underneath her bedroll, and over to the ring of stones where the campfire had burned the night before. The cat peeked out from underneath Charity's bedroll, and complained loudly about the conditions.
Charity looked back at her, and nodded. “I know, but I can't do anything about it.” The cat's face disappeared back within the blankets.
Charity picked up a stick and began stirring the ashes. “I'll see if there's any life left in these coals. I'm not going to tackle that raft today without a nice hot cup of tisane to get me going.”
Flynn yawned hugely and smacked his lips. “Neely's already headed that way. For a fellow who says he hates somethin’ so much, he sure puts ‘is heart into th’ job.”
Charity stirred the ashes, looking for a coal or two she could bring to life. “I don't think he hates fishing or rafting all that much, really, Flynn. I think he just likes to find a way to be contrary. Kind of like you looking for the good in things.”
Flynn rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You may be right on that one, Miss Charity. Long as I've know ‘im it's been that way. He'll fuss over somethin', but iffn it's really th’ right thing to do, Neely does it.”
Charity blew on a surviving coal. “That's the impression I got.”
She added bits of tinder and twigs to the flare of a glowing coal until the campfire was blazing again. Then she rigged a tripod for the tisane pot.
“Breakfast'll be in a few minutes.” She told Flynn. “Why don't you see if Neely wants some before we tackle that raft again?”
Neely did indeed want breakfast, and ate all that was offered, along with several cups of steaming tisane. He snuck a number of tidbits the cat's way when he thought no one was looking.
“Uuurrrppp! Sorry.” Flynn smiled behind the hand covering his mouth. “That was nice an’ fillin', wasn't it, Neely?”
“Huh?” Neely looked up from wiping up the last of the bacon grease from his travel plate with the last of his biscuit.
“I said...” Flynn finished of his tisane as he stood. “That was nice an’ fillin'.”
“Yup.” Neely replied around a mouthful of biscuit. “Now, let's finish that raft.”
They cut and trimmed a third layer of logs to serve as the floor of the raft by the time midday arrived. After the midday meal, Neely had them peeling strips of bark to use as thongs to tie the floor to the base of the raft.
“Mind you, now.” Neely gestured with his knife. “Only take a few strips from each tree, and don't girdle ‘em, so they'll have a chance to heal. I don't want to kill a tree just for a bit of bark.”
The work of collecting the bark warmed them up to the point where the chill damp of the day didn't really affect them.
As per Neely's instructions, they worked their way through the Alder stand, taking only one strip of bark from each tree. The job took them until dusk to complete. When they were finished, the collected pile of bark strips sat almost two feet high.
“We gotta make sure these strips don't dry out overnight, so we better spread ‘em out, an’ let this weather do its job.”
They woke in the morning, groused about the continued lousy weather, breakfasted and began attaching the raft's floor with the softened bark strips. The cat had decided staying under covers all day, in spite of the damp weather, was boring, and busied herself examining each tie as if insuring its quality.
Charity looked up from tying one of the strips in a crossover pattern that bound the log she was on and the one beneath it tightly together. “Before we started this raft, Neely, you said we'd probably be working on it in the water. Are we still going to be doing that? I mean, it's looking pretty complete now as it is.”
Neely straightened from his crouch. “Might. Might not. It all depends on how she floats when she's in the water. “Specially when we've got th’ weight on. Y'know, th’ horses an’ such?”
“I see. And if it sinks?” Charity raised an eyebrow.
“We start over, I guess.” Neely shrugged.
Flynn reached for another strip of Alder bark. “Or ... we could keep adding layers until it floats.”
Neely reached for his last strip of bark. “Well, we're almost done here. Might as well see what happens. We're gonna need that beast o’ yourn, Flynn.”
Flynn got up from his place on the raft. “I'll get th’ rope ... an’ the’ horse.”
Flynn's draft animal was hitched to the completed raft, and Flynn guided him into the shallows of the river. Neely stepped onto the raft as it entered the water. “It floats!” He called out.
“We did it! We did it!” Charity jumped up and down at the river's edge.
“All right, Neely!” Flynn yelled his congratulations.
“Yeah, yeah.” Neely waved the jubilation away. “It holds me, all right. Let's see if it holds th’ horses an’ th’ packs afore we celebrate. Ok?”
Flynn pulled his horse around, and brought the raft as close as possible into the bank without grounding it. Neely jumped off the raft, and collected the poles he'd cut earlier, and brought them back to the raft. Charity began gathering up the packs, and repacking the loose camping gear, followed closely by the cat.
Her Dapple Gray mare carried the collected packs to the riverbank without complaint, and Flynn tossed them to Neely from the shore.
“It looks like it's holding the weight ok.” Charity observed, as Flynn tossed the last pack onto the raft where Neely caught it.
He walked over to the edge, and bent down to examine the water line. “Lookin’ good, all right. Th’ horses'll be th’ real test. Shall we bring ‘em on?”
They decided that Wilbut would be the first. He was the easiest tempered, as well as the most experienced of the three horses. If he took to the raft well, the other two should be coaxed on board that much easier.
“That's it, Neely. He's goin’ on. He's goin’ on.” Flynn steadied the raft from one of the corners with a pole as Neely led his horse onto the floating platform.
“How's she floatin’ now?” Charity was so excited that she slipped into Flynn and Neely's patois.
“Still lookin’ good.” Neely knelt down to examine the water line once again.
“Good.” Charity took a hold of her mare's reins. The cat leapt onto the packs tied onto the back the saddle. “She'll go on next, and then Flynn's horse. If we don't get wet, we should be good to go.”
Neely nodded. “Sounds good to me. If that beast don't sink us, nothin’ will.”
Flynn ignored the barb. “You bring ‘er on, Miss Charity. I'll steady things from this side.”
Neely held Wilbut's reins while Charity led her mare onto the raft. The horse wuffed as the raft dipped slightly under her weight, but she continued forward and walked across the platform to stand next to Neely's horse.
“Ok, Flynn. Let's see if that beast of yourn'll fit.” Neely took the pole from Flynn to steady the raft.
Flynn's horse transferred over to the raft as if he was merely stepping into a comfortable stall. The raft sank slightly under the added weight, but the water line remained below the top layer of logs.
“Looks like we have a raft,” Neely said, to accompanying cheers.
Charity comforted her mare by offering her a small apple from the pack. She looked at Flynn and Neely. “Shall we see what's down this river?”

Chapter Sixteen
Vedder, Priest and spiritual conscience of the village of Bantering, clicked his tongue as he urged on the twin mules pulling his cart.
Avern would be just over the next rise. He congratulated himself on thinking of the cart. He'd almost forgotten about the downs between the forest and the lakeside city.
His mind traveled ahead of the cart as he thought about his older brother, Rolston. He would be so proud of his younger brother's accomplishments, if it were not for the nature of them. Rolston, according to his letters, had built a successful business collecting night soil, aging it, and then reselling it as fertilizer to the farmers in the Dairy Lands south of Avern.
“Bardoc's ways are mysterious, indeed.” He thought. “Who would ever think the stuff in the bottom of cesspits could be turned into gold?”
Avern came into view; its log walls starkly brown against the verdant green of the downs. Firth Lake gleamed a brilliant blue to the north of the city.
The mule team merged into the traffic traveling along the main North-South road. Vedder noticed with distaste the number of elf breeds and dwarves mixed into the flow.
He shook his head at the blatant lack of morality of this city, allowing such ... creatures to move about freely was against the very will of Bardoc.
Vedder twitched the reins against the mule team's backs, trying for more speed out of the plodding beasts.
There was a queue at the city gate. Because of the war with Spu a couple of years ago, the vigilance of the cities had been raised. Anyone entering, or leaving their confines was questioned. In some cases a search would be performed. In a very few cases they would find something, hence the atmosphere between Avern and its neighbors remained tense.
Vedder found no fault with the security or the searches. He had nothing to hide, and would welcome the opportunity to prove his worthiness. The only thing that bothered him was seeing some of the lesser races being treated as though they were as good as he.
“No, Gunther, I'm tellin ya. It were a dragon. I saw it flyin’ past th’ clouds, plain as th’ nose on me face. I swear it, on Bardoc's bristlin’ beard.”
“I don't give a skrud ‘bout Bardoc's beard, an’ I ain't seen nuthin’ plainer'n yer nose, Dolbutt. There ain't no sech thing as dragons; I ain't never seen one. ‘Splain that, iffn yer will.”
The heavily country accented conversation caught Vedder's ear. Did he hear the word dragons mixed within that slop the two bumpkins called speech? He pulled on the reins, slowing the mules, and cocked his ear towards the two who were speaking.
“Yer ain't seen no dragons, ‘cause yer ain't never been further from yourn farm than yer fields, an’ yer knows that good'n well, Gunther. Tell me iffn it ain't so.”
“Yer got's me there an’ that's a fack. But skrud me iffn I'm gonna believe in no dragon. Whatta yer wants me ta do, stay awake all night? Naw Dolbutt, they ain'ts none, ‘cause I says they ain'ts none.”
“Yer a close-minded man, Gunther. They is dragons. I saw ‘em as I was passin’ through th’ mountains above th’ Bastard River. Iffn yer had th’ gumption to go there, yer'd see ‘em too.”
“Oh, no, Dolbutt. Yer ain't gettin’ me with that'un. Yer knows I got crops comin’ in. Naw. You go watch yer bleedin’ dragons, an’ I'll tend to me crops. Good day to ya, Dolbutt. I'm gettin’ back to me missus, an’ me nice farm where there ain't no skruddin’ dragons.”
Vedder missed Dolbutt's farewell to Gunther due to an argument that broke out between an elderly couple and one of the gate guards over the contents of the woman's parcel.
He was considering the subject matter of Gunther and Dolbutt's talk when another voice broke in on his thoughts.
“Oy! Priest! You awake up there?” The guard tapped the seat of the cart with the tip of his spear.
Vedder looked down his nose at the guard standing to the right of his cart. “Of course I'm awake. My mind was elsewhere. Is there something you need of me?”
The guard peered into the cart's bed. Vedder was traveling light. The empty bed looked back at the guard. “You got anything to declare?”
If there was one thing Vedder understood above all others, it was the bureaucratic mind. Here, he was on familiar ground. He reached under the cart's seat and pulled out a wickerwork basket. “All I have with me, guard Sergeant, is my lunch. You're welcome to inspect it, if you wish.”
“Might as well.” The Sergeant sighed. “Best to keep with the rules.” He looked at the priest with a humorous glint in his eye. “You never know, you could be smuggling Spuian mercenaries in there.”
Vedder smiled back even as he shivered inwardly at the crassness of the guard sergeant's joke, and opened the basket. “As you can see, Sergeant, there are no mercenaries hidden within my lunch.”
“Very good, priest, You can go now. Welcome to Avern.” The guard waved him along, already turning his attention to the next one in line.
Inside Avern's gates, Vedder turned the cart a hard right to follow the line of the city wall. Rolston's home and office occupied one of the homogenous wood frame buildings along the backside of a street appropriately named Skunkwood lane.
Vedder's brother met the cart as it pulled up in front of his door. One of his employees, a grizzled oldster with a permanent tremor, took care of the team as the priest stepped to the ground.
“Brother! Good to see you after all these years. You're looking prosperous and well.” Rolston hopped down off his porch and held out his arms to greet his younger sibling.
“Brother!” Vedder greeted Rolston in kind. “How does one go about killing a dragon?”
* * * * Charity stretched her arms out and opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The cat, nestled snugly in Charity's lap, copied her mistress’ action.
They were rafting in the upper reaches of the Ort River where the water flowed wide and slow. The horses, partially due to the stability of the raft and its slow drift in the river's current, had settled enough that their riders no longer felt compelled to watch their every living moment onboard.
She was content to just lie back against the packs and enjoy the warm fall sunshine. Flynn, on the other hand, thought this was a perfect time to try to infect Neely with the same love of fishing he had.
The big man was sitting on the edge of the raft across from the horses with his bare feet dangling into the river. One of the willow poles he'd made rested in his hands and the line trailed off behind them in the water.
He reached up with a hand and scratched his cheek. The scritch, scritch sounded loud in the stillness of the morning. “Come on, Neely. Give it a try, you may like it, if you give it a chance.”
“I ain't fishin'. You know why.” Neely sat with his back against the other side of the packs Charity used as a rest.
Flynn shrugged and turned his attention back to his pole. “Well, iffin you change your mind...”
Neely's derisive snort expressed the chances of that being very, very small.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! I got one!” Flynn surged to his feet with his willow pole bent nearly double.
In spite of his intentions to the contrary, Neely got excited over Flynn's catch. He got up from his spot against the packs and joined Flynn at his side. “You got a big'un there, Flynn.”
The big man hauled back on the pole as he fought to keep the thrashing fish on his line. “Sure do. Look at that! You see the flash of pink on its side? That's a salmon, that is. Even you'd like a fresh salmon steak, Neely. Even you.”
“Don't bet on it, Flynn.” Neely muttered, and then “Ease off there. Don't pull so hard, you'll lose ‘im.”
Flynn looked over at Charity and smiled. Then he turned his attention back to the salmon. “I got ‘im, Neely. Ohhh, he's a strong'un, he is.”
Neely edged closer to Flynn, his eyes glued to the king-sized fish on the end of the line. “Ok, give ‘im a little slack now. Good, good. All right. Draw ‘im in, Flynn, draw ‘im in.”
“You wanna take over for me, Neely?” Flynn asked, with a half smile.
Neely shook his head, but his eyes stayed on the fish.
Flynn put the pole in his friend's hands. “You take over for me, Neely. Me arms was gettin’ tired, an’ we don't wanna lose th’ prize, do we?”
Neely grabbed a hold of the pole. “Oh, skrud. Give me th’ bleedin’ thing. Come ‘ere, me pretty. I got you now.”
He worked the willow pole back and forth, bringing the fighting salmon in toward the raft, and then allowing it spare room to run. After a time, the struggles of the fish slowed as it began to tire.
Flynn leaned back against the packs and crossed his arms over his paunch. “You doin’ ok, Neely? Need any help?”
“No. No, I've got it.”
Charity had watched Flynn's seduction of Neely into the world of fishing. She noticed the fanatical gleam in Neely's eyes when he answered Flynn's inquiry. She then leaned over until her chin rested on Flynn's shoulder blade. “You beast. You baited him into it, didn't you?”
Flynn chuckled. “I did, didn't I. Seems to be enjoyin’ himself though.”
“I got ‘im.” Neely called out. “Look at ‘im. Isn't he a beauty?”
He held up the exhausted salmon by its tail. The hooked mouth opened and closed as it tried to breathe out of the water.
Charity looked at the salmon, and then at Neely. The sense of triumph he was feeling radiated out of his expression. “He sure is, but I thought you said you didn't want anything to do with fish or fishing?”
Flynn chuckled deeply in his chest, as Neely, abashed, blushed crimson. “Awww, now. Don't go teasin’ ‘im, Miss Charity. Takes a big man to admit it when he's been wrong. I'd say Neely, here, just done a heap of admittin'.”
Later, after Flynn's masterful preparation, Neely had to also admit he liked salmon steak.
Charity watched the moon rise in the east as Neely maneuvered the raft into a still eddy against the shore. Thick green grasses flowed from the shoreline into the black shadow of the mountain range to the West.
“Looks like a good spot to pasture the horses, as well as camp for the night. Whadda you think?” Neely pushed the pole he held into the soft mud of the river bottom to help keep the raft steady until it could be staked and tied fast.
Flynn took hold of the reins of his horse and began the task of leading them from the raft onto shore.
Charity looked up from stroking the cat curled upon her lap. “Looks good to me. How about you?” She looked down at the cat who looked up at her, and burped salmon-flavored breath through an open-mouthed purr.
* * * * “You really are serious, aren't you?” Rolston looked across the table at his brother, the priest. “About hunting and killing dragons, I mean.”
Vedder sipped from his mug of cider and wrinkled his brow in thought. “Absolutely. It is the will of Bardoc. Evil must be driven from our land. Surely you remember the church teachings?”
Rolston lifted his mug of stout. “Most of them. I don't recall one of them mentioning dragons though, for either good or ill.”
Vedder smirked in that superior way Rolston had learned to overlook while they were growing up. “I shouldn't be surprised that you hadn't. One needs to be anointed by Bardoc's spirit before one can delve the deeper mysteries of his word. Dragons are evil because of the form they take. They take on the appearance of evil because they are evil. It's simple as that.”
“Circular logic.” Rolston downed a healthy portion of stout.
“Only to those unenlightened.” Vedder's smirk reappeared as he sipped more of his tisane. “Really, Rolston, it's better if you leave the theological questions to those of us best suited to answer them.”
Rolston put his mug down and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve, ignoring his younger brother's glare at the lack of manners. “Yes, well, I suppose that's the way religious matters are handled now-a-days. You know me, I've always been more interested in things a tad closer to the ground.”
Vedder laughed out loud, causing heads to turn in the meeting room. “Seems to me you've lowered your point of view somewhat since then.”
Rolston laughed with him. “What can I say? My life is crap.” He raised his mug and drank.
After he finished drinking he set the empty mug back onto the table and looked at his younger brother quizzically. “You really serious about this dragon business, then?”
“Of course I am.” The food arrived just then as Vedder finished his cider. “Another, please,” he asked, holding the mug to indicate what he wanted.
Lunch was a couple of thick chops cooked in pastry, fried potatoes sprinkled with parsley and steamed greens garnished with diced red onions. Dark brown crusty bread with slices of creamy yellow cheese finished the serving.
A comely serving girl brought Vedder his refill of cider. As she poured, she smiled at Rolston. “Why, hello, Rol. More stout for you?”
He looked up at the girl. She had thick curly red hair that fell below her shoulder blades, large brown eyes with flecks of gold in a heart shaped face, white even teeth and a bosom guaranteed to provide adventure.
“Why, thank you, Elssyn. That'd be nice.” Rolston handed her his mug.
Vedder looked up from his plate and saw his brother watching the waitress work her way back to the bar. “You like that type?”
Rolston turned back to face his brother and picked up a crust of bread. “What do you mean, that type?”
“You know,” Vedder sneered. “Curvy, busty ... wiggly.” He made the last word sound dirty. “Women of that type only lead the unwary down the path of destruction.”
“Oh, I don't know. Could be a fun trip.”
“Rolston!”
Vedder's older brother chuckled and held up a hand. “Peace, brother. So, you're serious about dragons being evil and it being your duty to go out, hunt them down and kill them.”
Vedder sampled some of his chop. It was delicious. “I am. I feel it's my calling.”
“All right.” Rolston cut into his chop and added a bit of potato to the morsel. “I know someone who might be able to help you in that.”
Lord Souter, the Earl of Avern was, to Vedder's judgmental eye, grossly overweight, slovenly mannered, and ... he stank. “Why is it?” He thought to himself. “That fat people cannot control their body odor?”
“So,” The Earl leaned back in his ornately carved chair as it creaked in protest. “Rolston has a priest for a brother.”
Rolston stood, leaning against a back wall of the Earl's private chamber while Vedder sat. “Yes, and I love him, regardless.”
Souter opened his mouth in a broad, fruity laugh. “Bwaahahahahaha, Rolston! You are a rascal. I think that's why I like you so much.”
Vedder's smile was sickly. “Eh, heh. Yes, my Lord. My brother has always been the droll one of the family.”
The Earl wiped tears away from his eyes with a linen cloth. “Well, at least one of the family is worth having around. He says you have a quest you need some help in fulfilling. What is it?”
Vedder told him. Near the end of the tale, the fires of fanaticism caught and The Earl could see it in the priest's eyes.
“Hmmm. Yes. Dragons, you say? Um Hmmm.” He steepled his hands and looked at Vedder over them. “Rolston, please help yourself to a brandy and get one for your brother as ... no? Oh yes, you're a priest, aren't you?
“Dragons ... Let me think on this for a moment.”
Rolston stepped over to the Earl's well-stocked sideboard and selected a black bottle with a soft satin sheen to its finish. He held it up to the light. “Mossett brown? Excellent year, as well. You're doing very well with your properties, Lord Souter.”
The Earl acknowledged Rolston's praise with a limp wave of his hand.
Vedder's brother walked across the room and whispered in his ear. “He doesn't believe in dragons, or anything else for that matter, but he does owe me a favor or two. You'll get your help.”
The priest nodded, keeping his gaze upon the Earl.
Souter lifted a finger while keeping the others steepled. “Pour me a goblet of that lovely elixir, will you, Rolston? Ah, good man.
“As to you, my dear priest. Thank you, Rolston.” He sipped noisily from the crystal goblet. “As I was saying, as for you priest. Your brother is right. I don't believe in dragons.” He began to chuckle from deep in his belly. “Nor in anything else,” he added. “Oh, don't look so surprised, Rolston. You know I have excellent hearing.”
He sipped again. “Ahhhh, yes. Excellent vintage, indeed.”
“Now as to your problem with these so-called dragons.”
“So-called!?” Vedder raised his voice in protest.
“Lower your hackles brother. Let him finish.” Rolston admonished his younger sibling.
Souter raised his goblet in salute. “Thank you, Rolston, but there is no need for your involvement. What would a religious man be without strong beliefs?” He sipped and then opened his eyes wide. “Why, he'd be me!” The Earl let loose with another of his fruity laughs.
When the laughs settled into chuckles, and the chuckles into silence, he looked back at Vedder and pointed a finger at him. “Now, as I was saying, these so-called dragons of yours seem to be a simple problem to solve. I'll loan you one of the companies of my city guard for a month. Take them, find your dragons, kill the dragons, and come back. Seems simple, to me, at least.”
“Solves one of your problems too, my Lord Earl,” Rolston said, as he finished his brandy.
“Oh?” Souter said with raised eyebrows. “And what would that be?”
“You pay off one of those weighty favors you owe me.” Rolston smiled.
Souter smiled back and raised his goblet in another salute.
* * * * Neely hummed along with the choral voices of the crickets and frogs as they sang to their prospective mates under cover of the night sky. Charity and Flynn were sleeping along with the horses. The cat sat next to Neely, watching his fishing line for potential action.
“Gonna get us a big'un. Night's when they bites th’ best,” he whispered to the cat as he gently bobbed the line up and down, simulating the action of a bug swimming.
The cat shifted on her feet and watched the action of the line. Then, for no apparent reason, she looked in the direction the raft was floating and meowed. She meowed again and walked to the front of the raft, her tail swishing back and forth in agitation.
“Whatcho got there girl?” Neely abandoned his pole and stepped around the horses to the place where the cat paced back and forth. She was becoming more and more anxious as the minutes passed. And then he heard it.
“Oh, Deity. Oh, skrud. We're in for it now.” A faint roaring sound came to Neely's ears. Rapids. Possibly deep ones with waterfalls mixed in. They were too far off to see by the moonlight, which was small comfort to him.
He shook Charity and Flynn awake. “C'mon. C'mon. Up, you gotta get up. Now!”
“Huh? Wuzzat?”
“Neely! What's wrong?” Flynn and Charity surged to their feet still groggy.
“Rapids!”
The single word, spoken harshly, drove the rest of the sleep from them. The cat meowed loudly at Charity, insisting that she do something about this. The horses wuffed, tossing their heads and stamping, they felt it too.
“Great Bardoc preserve us all. Look at that!” Flynn pointed downstream ahead of the raft. Moonlight limned white off of a boil of froth, scant yards ahead of where they lay.
“Grab a pole, Flynn. Charity, untie the horses. Move, girl!” Neely pulled one of the steering poles out of its holder and crouched at the ready.
“Untie the horses? But ... they could drown.” Charity looked at Neely, unsure of what she heard.
Neely felt he had no time to argue. “Horses swim better'n people, an’ they can't tip the raft over iffn they're not tied to it. Better for them, an’ us. You ready, Flynn?” He called out, as Charity leapt to get the horses tethers loosed.
“Don't wanna be, but I am.” Flynn's voice came from the other side of the raft to the right of the horses.
Neely glanced at Charity. “Make sure those packs are secure, Charity. They'll go flyin’ iffn they ain't tied down.”
“Here it comes.” Flynn yelled out.
The horses’ screams mixed in with those of Charity and the cat as the front of the raft fell out from underneath them. Neely just barely kept his feet underneath him, but Flynn met the raft with his backside as it slammed back into the Ort below the short falls.
Charity clung to the lashings that held the packs to the raft. The cat yowled in banshee voice all twenty of her claws dug deeply into the canvas of the packs.
Wilbut, Neely's mount, slipped to his fore elbows and would have tumbled off the heaving floor of the raft if Flynn's draft horse had not been between him and the edge. Charity's mare spread her legs for additional support and voiced her displeasure at the top of her lungs.
Flynn scrambled back to his feet, grabbing his pole just as it was bouncing into the rage of the rapids.
The volume of sound was tremendous. They had to scream to be understood.
“Just try to keep us off th’ rocks.” Neely yelled out, as he and Flynn manned their poles on either side of the raft.
It hurtled down the river, lurching and jumping like a drunken toad. They were all drenched to the skin. The cat looked like she'd been half drowned. Flynn and Neely exerted themselves, using the poles to push the raft past the larger rocks. Grinding sounds came from underneath as the bottom framework scraped and bounced off the smaller ones below.
No one spoke; even the animals now kept silent as their once peaceful floating platform lurched, bounced and twisted its way through the maze of rapids. Spray washed across its passengers constantly, and Flynn and Neely had to take care in bracing themselves as the floor of the raft grew slick with the water sweeping over it.
A large black boulder loomed up out of the shadows. It split the river in twain. The roar of high falls came from the left side.
Charity cried out in terror, as did the horses. The cat hissed.
Neely screamed to Flynn. “Push, man! Pole us to the right! If you love life, do it now!”
Charity clung to the packs, unable to do anything but wail her fear to the winds. The cat cried with her. The mare nuzzled the back of her hair in an attempt to comfort her.
“Harder, Flynn! She's not movin’ enough!” Neely strained at his pole, striving to edge the raft into the right hand flow of the rapids.
Flynn didn't answer, but bent all his massive strength into the task of saving their lives.
The raft moved to the right, but Neely saw it was not enough. They were going over the falls unless something was done, and done now. He looked over at Flynn and at Charity, his smile bleak. “You keep an eye on her, Flynn. She's somethin’ special.” He stepped off the raft and into the water. with his right hand gripping the outermost log of the raft at the front.
“Neely!” Charity's scream tore the heart right out of him, but he could do nothing about that now.
His boots scraped and tore at the rocks lining the river bottom, but the extra leverage of his position allowed Neely to push the left front corner of the raft just enough so that it caught the right hand current. He could feel the left current pulling him, and he reached out desperately for the pole Flynn held out to him.
“C'mon, Neely, grab it!” Flynn called out over the roar of the falls.
“I ca-” The rest of Neely's words vanished in a white mist of noise and water as the raft tipped into the right hand channel and away from the sure death of the falls.
* * * * Vedder turned in the saddle to watch the double line of uniformed men marching behind him. “I knew this day would come,” he thought to himself. “A man of my quality can remain in obscurity only so long.”
The Earl of Avern, Lord Souter, was a man of his word, even if he was an unrepentant slob. The twenty guardsmen behind him were proof of that. They were a quiet bunch, which suited him just as well. He needed strong arms and steady hands, not conversationalists.
They were into their second day of the march, moving south along the western slopes of the spine, and Vedder could not have been more content. Bardoc would be smiling upon him now, and soon he would send his god the gift of the dragon's destruction.
* * * * Charity woke to a rough tongue rasping the tip of her nose, and a claw-tipped paw tapping at her eyelid. She groaned and rolled halfway over, throwing an arm across her face to block out the sun. Then she remembered and bolted upright. She could hear the faint roar of the falls in the distance up river. They must have clung to bits of the raft in spite of all that the rapids threw at them. She thought of the horses. The poor horses.
“Neely!” She turned around and around searching for her companions. “Flynn!”
There was no answer. She heard a sound to her right, up the bank from the river. She spun, crouched and ready to do battle. The mare whinnied softly at her and tossed her head, sending the long hair of her mane flying.
Charity ran to her horse and threw both arms around the mare's neck. “You're alive. You're alive. Oh, I'm so glad.” She hugged harder and the mare nuzzled Charity in return.
“Let's go see if we can find Flynn and Neely, girl.” Charity took hold of the mane and swung herself onto the mare's back. The horse tossed her head once more and then moved off at an easy trot toward the beach and the bend in the river beyond the tall grasses.
The cat ran ahead of the horse, leaping from rock to log amongst the debris scattered along the river's edge. A lot of it was what used to be the raft they worked so hard at building.
Charity saw one of the packs and dismounted. The oiled canvas was ripped in a few places, but otherwise it was in serviceable condition. The glint of tin showed through one of the rents. “Flynn's pots and pans.” She stood and craned her neck, looking for a sign of the big man.
The cat meowed, calling Charity's attention to where she stood atop a large pile of the alder logs that used to be the base of the raft. Some of them showed where the dowels holding the logs together had snapped.
“Flynn! Neely!” Still no answer.
The cat meowed again. Charity tried skirting the pile but the bank to the left of it was too steep and finished in a grassy ledge nearly twice a man's height above her. To the right was the river so she remounted the mare and they waded through the shallow waters around the debris. More of the packs appeared on the other side. A couple of them, further down the beach appeared to be totally intact.
A susurrus of sound drew Charity's attention to a series of sandy mounds topped with grasses like dark green tufts of spiky hair. She nudged the mare with her heels and they worked their way across the sand to the mounds. The sound became clearer and coalesced into soft, bubbly snores. She recognized the sound.
“Flynn!” She was off the horse in an instant and at the big man's side. He groaned and grumbled as she tried to wake him. “Urrglmmff! Lemme sleep. C'mon!”
“Flynn! Up! It's me, Charity! You've got to get up!”
He opened one eye and held a hand up to shield it from the sun. “Miss Charity. That you?”
“Of course it's me, you big oaf.” She threw herself into his embrace. “I thought you were dead!”
He hugged her back. “Takes more'n a bit of rapids to kill an ol’ lug like me. Hey, don't cry. Miss Charity. We made it.” He patted her back as she sobbed into his shoulder.
Charity cried out her relief for a while until she was able to control herself and pull away, allowing Flynn to stand.
He looked over the area where she'd found him. Sandy hummocks topped with clumps of the spiky grass formed a wide crescent of broad beach along the river. A couple more of the packs lay on the beach just inside the line of the water.
“My bow! My quiver!” Charity's squeal whipped Flynn's head around. He saw Charity sprint up to one of the packs at the river's edge and stoop to collect her possessions. She waved the bow and quiver over her head as if they were hard won trophies. The quiver, miraculously, still held a couple of arrows.
Flynn pulled the other packs from the water's edge and went through them. “Most of th’ stuff's still in pretty good shape, considerin',” he said. “Sure could use th’ horses. Did you see th’ others when you found that mare of yourn?”
“No.” Charity shook her head. “And I didn't find her. She found me.”
She walked back to the mare, looping the strap of the quiver over her neck and shoulder as she walked. “I'm going to go further down stream for a ways. Could you go up stream toward the falls? We've got to find out if Neely made it or not.”
Flynn nodded. “Right you are, Miss Charity. I'm on it.” Inwardly he didn't feel much hope for his old friend. Those falls felt, and sounded, awfully high.
He turned and began the slow process of picking his way along the riverbank, looking for any sign of the tracker's body. He shook his head as the word body crossed his mind and he worked at pushing it away. Neely was a tough old dog and a survivor, to boot. If anyone could've made it, he was one of ‘em.
As he proceeded upriver, the material of the bank changed from sand and grasses to rocks and more of the woody debris. In one place an entire tree, complete with roots, lay lodged against large pink boulders. Part of Flynn mentioned to the rest of him that it looked like a good place to drop a hook.
The sound of the falls increased, as did the rockiness of the river's edge. He inched his way around a bend in the river where the bank was nearly vertical to the tree line and forced him to steady himself with his left hand along the top edge of the overhang. The falls came into view right after he rounded a house-sized rock slick with moss to a point a foot above the water line. The roar of the falling water had become deafening when he came across Neely's body. The tracker lay slumped face down half in and half out of the water.
“Neely. Oh, you poor sod.” Flynn looked over the rocks, trying to find a way to get to his friend's body. “Look what your kind act did to you, Charity an’ me, we're safe enough, but what're we gonna do without you, old friend? What're we gonna do without you?” Fat tears ran down his cheeks as he bent over Neely's body.
“One thing you can do is stop blubberin’ over me corpse an’ get me outta this water. Both of me legs is broke.” Neely's voice was slightly muffled because of the way he was lodged into the rocks, but it was his voice. Flynn had never heard anything more beautiful.
“Neely! You're alive. You ain't dead!”
“Of course, I'm alive, you big goob. It'll take more'n a bit of a fall onto some rocks to kill me. Now, get me outta here. I can't feel me legs,” Neely yelled.
Flynn reached down and took Neely by the armpits. “Hold on, Neely. I'll getcha out. If your legs is broke, it could hurt some, though.” He cautioned the tracker.
“Just do th’ bloody thing, Flynn. I'm freezin’ here.”
“Ok, Neely. Here goes.” Flynn bunched his shoulders and lifted.
“Aaaaggghhh!” Neely's scream cut across the background roar of the falls as his massive friend pulled him out of the water. He gritted his teeth as his broken legs bounced across the rocks while he was dragged up to the grassy area above the bank.
“There ya go, ol’ bud. High ‘n dry.” Flynn lay Neely gently onto the ground with his back against the bole of a large pine. “I gottcha on the sunny side so's you'll warm up.”
Neely managed a sickly grin. “Thanks. What about Charity?”
“Came through just fine. She's the one who found me.”
“Figures.” Neely waved his friend off. “Go get her. See if you can find the pack what has the doctorin’ stuff in it. These legs o'mine need settin'.”
Flynn took off down river the way he came. As he passed the area where Charity had awakened, he heard a whinny. He turned in the direction of the sound and saw Wilbut, Neely's old horse, and his mount, a beautifully marked Clydesdale, looking at him from a rise above the bank. It looked like a nice place to set up a camp with its flat ground, sheltering pines and a nice thick layer of soft leaves and grass.
He turned, jogged up the bank, and stood facing the two horses. “Boy, am I glad to see you two. And so will be Neely.” He hugged the draft horse and rubbed Wilbut's soft nose. “Looks like we all made it.”
Then he noticed the scrapes and cuts on the shoulders and flanks of the two horses. “Banged up some, I guess this'll need lookin’ after. But we all made it, thank Bardoc. I gotta go get Miss Charity, but I'll be back. You boys stay here, ok?”
He bent and plucked some tufts of green grass that he held for the horses to take. “Yes sir. We'll all be back.”
He met Charity where she had first found him. She was on horseback and her head was down. She looked up at his approach. “I went as far as I could, Flynn. I couldn't find him.”
Flynn's smile was as broad as his stomach. “S'ok, Miss Charity. I did. He's banged up some, so are the horses, but we's all alive.”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then threw herself off the mare and into his arms. “Alive? Oh, Flynn, we're all alive! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She broke into fresh tears.
Flynn patted her back, not really sure of what to do. When Charity subsided, he took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I found us a good spot for a camp. My horse an’ Wilbut's there now. Neely's a bit banged up, both his legs is broke.”
Charity gasped at that, and covered her mouth with her hands.
“No, no, no. Miss Charity. Neely's gonna be all right. We needs to find the pack with the fixin's for wounds an’ such, so's we can set the breaks. He ain't bleedin’ none. I made sure of that.”
They found Neely where Flynn hadleft him with his back against the pine. The sun had moved some and a bit more of his lap was in shadow. Flynn noted his friend looked paler than he had before, and his face was drawn.
Charity wasted no time in digging into the medical supplies. She opened two small packages and mixed a few pinches of the white powders together. She reached out and felt Neely's pulse at his throat the way the old wizard had shown her, a world ago it now seemed.
“Flynn?”
“Yes, miss Charity?”
“I need some clean water, as quick as you can get it.”
The big man ran to the bank with a salvaged water bag in his hand. He clamored over the rocks and disappeared from Charity and her patient's sight.
“Gonna put this ol’ dog outta his misery, eh?” Neely's voice was weak and tight with pain.
“Don't say that.” Charity kept her eyes focused on Neely's. “You're going to be just fine. Flynn and I are going to make sure of that.”
She hitched herself backwards, and took a gentle hold onto Neely's left boot. “Don't hold it in,” she said. “Tell me if this hurts.”
Neely nodded his head, and Charity pulled on the boot, lightly, as if easing out a newborn.
“Eeeerrraarrrggghhh! Stop! For deity's sake. Stop!” Neely's back arched in agony, and he fell back against the pine, gasping.
“What happened? Why'd he scream?” Flynn ran back to where Neely lay, the full water bag swinging in his right hand.
Tears of empathy coursed down Charity's cheeks. “I checked his boots. They're bad breaks, all right. You got the water?”
Flynn held out the bag. “Right here.”
“Glad to see ... you ... got something ... right.” Neely ground out the jest between gasps.
Charity held up a tin cup before Flynn. “Fill this about half way.”
He did so, and she poured the powder mixture into the water, mixing it with the tip of her knife. She held it out to Neely when it was fully dissolved. “Drink it all, in spite of the taste.”
Neely drank. His face twisted with the bitterness of the solution, but he drank it all, as Charity had insisted. When finished he threw the cup to the side.
“Euuucchhh! But that's awful. Why can't potions ever taste good? What's this going to do to me anyway?”
Flynn retrieved the cup and put it back into the open pack. “Bet it's for the pain, ain't it?”
Charity nodded. “That and something else.”
Flynn looked supremely please with himself. “Toldja.” And then his expression changed to one of puzzlement. “What else?”
Neely stifled a huge yawn. “Yeah, what else?”
Charity looked at him with a knowing smile. “How's the pain?”
Another yawn split Neely's face. “Aaaaoouu. Eeaaaooww. Sorry ‘bout that. Pain's goin’ away ... I think. Yeah, reminds me of the time I got in a storeroom with these two scullery maids. It's really bett....sssnnnnxxxx.” His voice dissolved away into snores.
“Sleeping potion's the other one.” Charity patted the snoring Neely on the cheek. “Now we can set those legs. Flynn, we're going to need some wood for splints.”
Flynn looked at Charity as he gathered pine branches suitable for the task. “How come you know all this stuff? I mean, no offence, Miss Charity, but you ain't old enuf.”
She searched through the branches, selecting those best for splints as she answered Flynn. “My brother and I stayed with this old wizard for a while. He knew about a lot more than just magik. He liked to go on long walks through the forest sampling and discovering what mother nature had to offer for those with their eyes open enough to see. That's how he put it. Adam and I went on a lot of those walks with him, during that winter, when the weather was mild enough. He taught us a lot about what plants are good for certain medicines and which ones to watch out for as being poisonous, along with other things. Adam and I have always had good memories. We don't forget much. Didn't, I mean.”
Flynn cut lengths of canvas cloth to tie the splints. “What do ye mean, didn't?”
Charity didn't look up. “My brother was killed, remember? In that war between Spu and Avern just before you two found me in that cornfield.”
Flynn nodded his head. “Yeah, I remember. You scared the piss outta us with that bow of yours. I remember that, too.”
Charity looked up at him and grinned. “I did, didn't I? Ok, now we've got to set these legs.”
She lay both hands onto Neely's right leg and nodded at Flynn. “Get around so you can pull this leg from the heel and toe. Do it real slow, and quietly. I need to listen as well as feel.”
Flynn did as he was told. Charity held up a hand when she heard the soft click of Neely's bones realigning. “Hold it there, now. Steady. Don't move at all. Good.”
Charity placed a splint on either side of the leg, centered at a point where she believed the break to be, and then slipped one of the canvas strips under them and the leg, and then tied it snugly. She repeated the process with two more of the strips and then checked all three of them when done. Then they did the other leg.
“Ok Flynn. You can let loose of him, but slowly. It's going to be a while before he'll even be able to use crutches.”
“How we gonna get ‘im outta here?” The big man scratched the back of his head. It sounded like sandpaper being used.
Charity looked at Neely and then at Flynn, “Think you can put him over your shoulder without banging his legs?”
Flynn considered his friend. “Oh, I can lift him, all right. Flingin’ him over me shoulder without hurtin’ his legs is the problem.”
“How about if you pick him up and I control his feet? Maybe I can keep them from slapping against you.” Charity pantomimed her idea with her hands.
“Sounds good to me.” Flynn bent and took the sleeping Neely by his left arm and his right armpit. As he straightened, the tracker came with him, and Flynn helped the motion along with the strength of his huge arms. Charity watched closely as Neely was lifted, and stepped in to control the swing of the legs.
“I think that'll do it.” Charity stepped back and surveyed Flynn and his burden. “We may as well start walking.”
Flynn kept his eyes on the ground while they made their way back to the site where he found the horses. Flynn kept Neely draped over his shoulder while Charity built a bower out of branches and one of the blankets.
“You ‘bout done, Miss Charity? My shoulder's startin’ to go to sleep.”
“Just about done ... there. You can put him down now, Flynn. Easy ... easy ... good. He ought to be comfortable there.” Charity gave the bower a critical eye.
“How long's he gonna have to stay like that?” Flynn massaged his shoulder.
“Normally, at least a month, but Milward taught me how to mix a potion that'll cut it to one week.” Charity pulled at her lower lip as she watched Neely slumber in the bower.
“Milward?”
“That was the old wizard's name. Milward. A cranky old man sometimes, but I sure enjoyed the time we spent together. I wonder how things are going with him these days?”

Chapter Seventeen
Shealauch swooped and glided from thermal to thermal in an ecstasy of flight. It felt good to leave the confines of the caverns and ride the free air up here, where the air was thin and chill. Dragons were meant to fly. That's why the creator gave them wings.
He dipped his right shoulder and turned into a snap-spin that dropped his altitude by over five hundred feet. At the bottom of the drop, he opened his wings with a crack of leather and began another climb.
Part of him felt sorrow for the adult Dragons and their interminable studies that kept them from this joy. Dragons were more than philosophers and scientists. All they had to do was spend some time up in the glorious clouds and they'd understand that. His friend Drinaugh understood. He was off somewhere having an adventure with that human friend of his. The thought of humans put his mind onto another track. Humans. He wondered about them. They did so much, and all in a life span no longer than that of a mayfly, as far as dragons were concerned. He'd never met a human and had only seen a couple of them at a distance; Drinaugh's friend, of course, and that white-haired wizard the Winglord mixed with on occasion. He decided it might be nice to actually meet some humans himself. Maybe, when he was older, he would go off on an adventure like Drinaugh, and see some.
Shealauch banked out of the thermal he was riding and swooped into a long shallow dive that took him below the clouds. There appeared to be a line of specks moving on the ground below. He transferred his vision to the telescopic; humans, a whole bunch of humans, on a course toward Dragonglade, by the look of it. He banked into another dive to get a closer look at what could turn out to be a very interesting adventure.
* * * * “No talking!” Vedder spoke the command over his shoulder, exercising just enough volume to be heard without having to shout. There was a style to being in command and one did not obtain that style shouting in the vulgar way of the unenlightened.
“We're near the place I was told about.” Vedder continued with his instructions to his loaned cohort. “I want you to be both silent and vigilant. The minions of the evil one could be anywhere.”
“Oy. Oy, guvor!” One of the guardsmen loaned to him by the Earl of Avern raised his hand.
Vedder sighed inwardly. Hopefully these buffoons’ questions would show greater intelligence than their vocabulary. “What is it?”
“Wot do these here ... minyuns look like? How we gonna know whut we's lookin’ at iffn we sees one? They look anyfing like dragons?”
Bardoc save me from the military mind. Vedder lifted a silent prayer to his God while doing a relaxation meditation before he answered.
“Minions, my dear fellow, is only a figure of speech that means follower. The dragons are minions, or, if you will, followers of the Evil One. I want you to keep a watch for dragons.”
“Wot fer?” The guard looked puzzled. “I ain't never heard nofing ‘bout dragons bein’ these here minyuns, like you calls ‘em, milord. Wot makes you so sure?”
Vedder ground his teeth in frustration with the guard's blind ignorance. If the man was so thick he couldn't see a simple fundamental truth ... He counted to three under his breath and tried one more time with something he felt even this simpleton would be able to follow. “They are, because I say they are, and your Lord placed you under my command. That's what for.”
The guard looked relieved. This he could understand. “Oh. Why din't yer say so in the first place, milord? Cooda saved a lot o’ bother.”
“Oy! Cooeee! Inna sky!” The guard sergeant pointed upwards with his sword.
* * * * Shealauch spread his wings to their full thirty-foot span, and pulled out of the dive to look more closely at the subjects of his interest. It was a small party of humans, a few of them on an equine, and the rest on foot. Twenty of those on foot had what looked like sticks in their hands. Some of the sticks were bent, with a string tied to each end.
* * * * “It's a bleedin’ dragon!” The guard who questioned Vedder exclaimed.
Vedder looked up at Shealauch hovering overhead. He'd no idea they would be as large as this. He was going to need more men. The priest turned and looked at the cohort, their mouths hanging open as they gaped at the dragon above them.
“Shoot!” He shouted. “Kill it before it destroys you all with its flame!”
The guards responded to Vedder's command as one, and a flight of fifteen arrows arced upwards toward the hovering Shealauch.
The young Dragon's curiosity changed abruptly to pain as one of the arrows pierced his tail and another his left hind foot. The powerful wings beat down rapidly as he climbed above the reach of the second flight. He looked down at the suddenly fearsome things below him with bewilderment, and then turned back towards Dragonglade and his mother as a third flight of arrows were sent in his direction.
“You fools!” Vedder turned on the guards. “You missed it! You should have taken time to aim. If you can aim at all.”
The cohort stayed silent under the priest's tongue lashing, but a few of them expressed their opinion of his temper by the looks on their faces. Vedder ignored the looks. Let them think of him what they wish, as long as they did what they were told.
He turned his back to the guard sergeant and issued another order. “Send one of the men back to Avern. We are going to need more and better fighters.”
“At once, milord.” The sergeant replied. “But it won't do no good.”
Vedder turned back to face the sergeant. “What?” He modulated the tone of his voice to sound as menacingly officious as possible.
“Said it won't do no good ... milord.” The sergeant made the appellation more of an insult than a title. “Lord Souter, he give you us. That, an’ no more. You have me send a man back. The only thing'll happen is we're short another man, an’ the Earl gets hisself another laugh at your expense ... milord.”
The sergeant's words bit deeper than intended. The priest remembered vividly his encounter with the obese Earl, and how the disgusting fellow had laughed at him. Apparently, word of that exchange had been circulated for the city guard's entertainment. His gut twisted with the thought. The butt of jokes, was he?
Vedder leaned forward and thrust his prominent nose into the guard sergeant's face. “Very well, then, we'll not share any of the gold with them. Not a single flake.”
The glint in the sergeant's widening eyes told Vedder he'd chosen the right tack.
“Yes, you heard me right, sergeant. Gold, mountains of it for the taking. I'm sure you heard the legends when you were a child. I'm sure you thought dragons were built of the same gossamer stuff as those stories of their treasure heaps. You've seen a dragon. Shall we go get its gold?”
The sergeant rubbed his chin. “You've got a point there, milord. Big bugger...” He mused. “Never woulda thought it.”
“Gold, sergeant.”
“I heard ya, milord. I heard ya.” The sergeant's face showed the struggle going on inside of the man.
“Dragon's gold. Mountains of it.”
Vedder saw the subtle change in the sergeant's expression and knew he had him. “Why don't you turn around, sergeant, and tell the men. Perhaps it will improve their aim.”
The sergeant did so and the men responded as Vedder had hoped. To a man, they raised their weapons into the air and shouted, stamping their feet in time to the shout. “Gold, gold, gold.”
Vedder's response was not the one the sergeant expected. There was no posturing or speech making. The priest simply turned in the saddle and waved the cohort onward. The sergeant followed along behind, with his corporals on either side, and the balance of the men walking behind the horses.
A grizzled veteran with the look of one who'd worn Sergeant stripes, and had them taken away several times, stepped over a fresh horse apple with the agility of long years of practice. He whispered to his companion in the formation out of the side of his mouth, his eyes staying fixed firmly on the back of the guard in front of him. “Oy, Vern. Whotcho think o’ this here gold bizness?”
Vern's eyes, like the veteran's, never shifted from their forward gaze. “Nice for us, iffn it's true. I hears dragon's got more gold than Souter's gots chins.”
“Whatcha think about our lord priest?”
Vern considered. “Strikes me as a bit of a twit, that one. What about you?”
The veteran stuck his tongue into his cheek, and then replied. “Cain't say as I agree with that, Vern. I think e's summat different.”
“And what would that be?”
“I'd say e's a twat.”
* * * * “C'mon!” The burly Ortian Sergeant bellowed, his pitch dropping at the end of the command. “Get yer arses into motion. We won't git nowhere playin’ at bein’ rocks, now. Move it, move it, move it!”
The Ortian army was finally on the march, much too slowly to suit General Jarl-Tysyn, but at least they were covering ground. The towers of Ort, the seat of the southern Empire, had just vanished over the horizon. That placed their final camp objective at least a seven, if not a ten-day away. Plenty of time for the Duke of Grisham to marshal his forces and make a fight of it, unless the man was a total fool. Jarl-Tysyn had a few dealings with the fellow. Crazy, was the assessment, but no fool. They were going to have a fight on their hands, and unfortunately that meant conscripts had to be taken.
Stringers were sent out along either side of the Ort River, traveling northward in a skirmish line sure to flush out anyone unfortunate enough to be eligible. They had picked up three score since the first morning, mostly farm kids with a few of the farm holders mixed in. The General worked at keeping his thoughts away from those wives and mothers who would never see their husbands or sons again.
“Grandle! Whatcho playin’ at? This ain't no tea soshull, an’ you ain't no gen'mun. Git yer arse outta that ditch an’ on the road afore I climb down there an’ kick yer balls up ‘tween yer ears! Twern! What the pit is that? Some kinda country dance? It ain't marchin', that's fer skrud sure. One two. One two. Good. Now keep that rhythm goin', or the point o’ my blade'll be yer teacher. Awright! We're gonna sing a bit to keep you slugs in time...”
The sergeants kept it up as the army worked its way northward, absorbing conscripts here and there as it flowed along, like a miles-wide single-celled animal with the sole aim of devouring everything along the way that suited its purpose.
A company of engineers had been sent ahead to begin the preparations for what would eventually become a small city; military in its society, culture and law, but a city nonetheless, complete with shops, restaurants, stables, pubs, a hospital and, of course, those parts that all cities eventually develop to cater to the darker side of humanity.
Much to the Ortian underworld's dismay, Alford, Emperor of the Southern forces, had decreed that prostitution would be allowed only if those women involved were there because they wanted to be. Pimps were given leeway to try to do things the old-fashioned way if they wished; the only punishment was public castration, performed by those women they victimized. Painkillers were optional, at the woman's discretion. Very few pimps took Alford up on his offer. Apparently there was at least one thing a pimp wouldn't do for money.
Upon arriving at Cloudhook's base, the Ortian engineers set to their tasks with a will. Teams of oxen crisscrossed the acreage planned for the encampment, grading the ground into a flat expanse that would soon blossom into thousands and thousands of sandy brown tents. Following after the Oxen, a team of engineers put together their planning office from timbers and lattice pre-cut for just that purpose.
Further to the south, a skirmish line of conscript “recruiters” continued their northward sweep, though much more porous than when they first started out. Their encounters were becoming much fewer and farther between.
* * * * Neely balanced gingerly on the two crutches, putting barely enough weight on his legs to keep himself from tipping over.
“You ain't gonna get far on those things, iffin you don't move yer feet,” Flynn called out from his side of the campfire where he and the cat were sharing the last bits of the trout he'd roasted for breakfast.
“I'll get there. Gimme some time to get used to the idea, all right?” Neely looked down at the splints that bound the lower halves of his legs. Both Charity and Flynn made sure they were as tight as possible each day since they were first put on.
Charity placed another piece of wood on the fire from the stack she sat next to. A longer, much larger stack stood yards away, next to the shelter she and Flynn had built for their stay while Neely recovered from his injury. “The bones should be healed enough by now to take the weight. You really should try walking on them. Do you need some more Willit?”
Neely made a grimace at the mention of the bitter white powder used as a general painkiller. “Ecch, no. If I have to drink any more of that brew, my mouth'll leave my face in protest.”
“Well, get on with it, then. This is a nice place, an’ all, but I'd just as soon be on me way, given me druthers.” Flynn waved a bit of trout in Neely's direction. The cat reached out and up and snagged a fragment of the treat as Flynn was bringing it back toward his mouth. He looked down in surprise, and then dropped the rest of it as she looked up in expectation.
Neely looked at his friend with an unappreciative glare. “S'easy for you to say. Yer not th’ one with th’ splints on his legs.”
Flynn picked out some of the last of the trout from the skeleton on the stick he held, and flicked to the cat, which plucked the bit out of the air. “Try doin’ it that direction. Th’ grass is softer.” He pointed off to Neely's left, away from the campfire.
“Come on, Neely. You can do it. I know you can.” Charity gave the tracker an encouraging smile.
“Ok. Ok. Here goes ... I don't know what.” He put a little more of his weight onto the crutches and swung out with his right leg coming down onto the soft grass. He tensed a bit and then relaxed, allowing some of his weight to be supported by the leg. To his surprise, and delight, the limb held.
“Attaboy, Neely. Yer doin’ it.” Flynn called out.
“Way to go.” Charity added.
Encouraged by not falling flat on his face as he thought he would, Neely swung his left leg out and repeated the motion. That leg held, as well. In very short order, he was stumping around the campsite on the crutches as pleased as a three-year old with his first hobbyhorse.
“I'm walkin'! I'm walkin!” He yelled out as he went by Charity and Neely for the second time.
“I knew you could do it!” Charity stood up and clapped her hands. The tracker grinned back at her as he began another circuit of the camp.
Flynn's draft horse wuffed, and the cat growled low in her throat as she looked southward into the trees beyond the perimeter of the clearing.
“Somethin's comin'.” Flynn stood up and drew his long knife.
Neely stumped back to the log they used as a bench before the fire and picked up the yew bow he had carved while convalescing. Charity bent and picked up the bow left to her by Labad, the last Emperor of the United Kingdoms, and fitted an arrow to it.
Several men on foot came into the firelight. Most of them were obviously military by the look of their uniforms. A few, in the back of the group, looked like prisoners. One of the military types, separated slightly from the group by a few yards, looked to be in slightly better shape than the others, this, in spite of being several years older. Charity thought he looked about the same age as Ethan had looked when she and Adam found him sleeping off a drunk outside the Village of Silgert. He walked over to the edge of the fire and looked at each of them in turn for a moment.
“Congratulations, the Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment.”
His only answer was a trio of laconic stares.
“I said,” the Ortian Sergeant placed his hands on his hips and raised his voice to command level. “The Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment!”
Flynn sheathed his long knife and walked over to the tisane pot hanging above the fire. He made a show of pouring himself a cup and then sipping from it. “What?” He sipped again as the sergeant's face grew red. “D'you mean by our enlistment?”
A few of the soldiers snickered. It wasn't a nice sound.
The sergeant stalked over to Flynn and slapped the cup out of his hand. “It means you an’ your skruddin’ friends here are now privates of the glorious Ortian military corps, an’ under this sergeant's gentle care. Iffin you don't fall in line, right now, yer gonna do so without the benefit of plums t'slow yer fat lazy arse down! Unnerstand!?” He finished the last as a full-throated shout and with his chest pressed against Flynn's belly.
Charity stood with her bow half-drawn. “Sergeant?”
He whirled at her call, his eyes widening at the sight of the bow. He didn't like the way she held it. She looked too skrudin’ competent.
Charity gave him a slow, broad smile. “I have no plums to worry about, but I'd love to discuss the matter with you, at length.” She pulled back on the bowstring, the arrow aimed directly at his heart. “Shall we talk?”
One of the soldiers off in the shadows made a move toward Charity on her blind side, but Neely whacked him up along the skull with the upper arm of his yew bow. The soldier dropped to the clearing floor, senseless.
A spearman moved into position to cast his weapon into Neely's back and then jumped back with a curse as an arrow drove it right out of his hand.
“Feisty, are ye? Well I ... ulp!” The sergeant found himself looking at another broadhead, this one aimed at his face instead of his middle.
Charity's voice sounded chillingly calm. “Now, sergeant. Tell your men to stand down right now, or you, my dear sergeant, will never enjoy another breakfast again.”
“I'd listen to her sergeant,” Flynn interjected. “Me an’ Neely here, from what I sees of your crew, could take yer men by usselves, an’ him with two broke legs. Miss Charity, there,” He pointed at her with his refilled cup of tisane, “She can take both of us at th’ same time.”
He gave the sergeant a lazy smile. “Now, does you wanna reconsider yer offer ‘bout our ‘listment, or does ya wanna go home tied to th’ back of a horse?”
The Ortian sergeant thought about his options. There wasn't but two he could see before him. One was him, having a go at that girl with the bow. Two was ... it seemed there was only one that'd leave him his manhood. He looked at the girl again. That broadhead did seem awfully steady.
Neely sniggered, imitating the sound the Ortian soldiers made earlier. “Interestin’ choice, isn't it? On the one hand, you get's ta keep what stones ya got, but ya don't live to enjoy them. On th’ other...” He left the rest of the thought hanging.
“Which eye should I take?” Charity asked. “The right? Or the left?”
The sergeant decided living was the better part of valor. After all, he wasn't an officer. “Stand down, men. No need for anyone to get kilt over a bit of fluff an’ two roustabouts.”
“But sarge...” One of the soldiers who'd sniggered earlier objected.
“I said, stand down!” The sergeant's shout caused a horse to snort with alarm, but the men put their weapons down.
Flynn relaxed and sat down on the log before the fire. “That's better. Come on over here, sarge.” He patted the log next to him. “Have a sit-down and a sip. There's a lad.”
Charity sat down at the same time as the sergeant, putting Flynn between them. Neely put his back to the tree closest to the fire and slid into a comfortable position. He kept his bow strung. Some of the morning birds picked up their song in the treetops.
“'Ere ya go, gov.” Flynn held a cup out to the sergeant. “Ave a nice cuppa an’ tell us what all this enlistment nonsense is about.”
“I'd like to know about it, as well.” Charity leaned forward and poured a cup of tisane for herself.
“Aye. I suppose you would, at that.” The sergeant took the proffered cup from Flynn and sipped.” Not bad,” he said, and then he gave Charity an appraising stare. “You really as good as he says?”
Charity just smiled.

Chapter Eighteen
“It's no use, lad. We've looked for a solid week. If she's still alive, she's not anywhere around Dunwattle or even the wood. We even went as far as the old wizard's place, nothing.”
Adam didn't answer the Butcher. He concentrated on his packing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hersh stood in the door to Adam's room.
Adam turned at the question. Hersh could see the dark circles under his eyes. “I don't want to, I have to. I have to find her,” His voice caught. “...Or her body. I can't ask you and the rest of the town to sacrifice from the time you need to rebuild.” Avern's soldiers had torched several of the town's buildings including the Church.
Hersh's eyes shifted in the direction of the gutted Church. “Aye, lad, yer right at that. Wise beyond the years, you seem, or at least gracious to an old man and his town.”
“It's just something I've got to do, that's all.” Adam returned to his packing. “I do want to thank you for the supplies, Hersh. It wasn't necessary.”
There was a catch in the Butcher's voice. “Yes, yes, lad, it was.” He turned and left Adam to finish his packing.
Hersh and Ornette met him at the door to the shop. Ornette was sniffling. Adam wondered what kind of man the boy would make if his feelings were kept that close to the surface.
“You take good care of yourself, lad. There's a home here waitin’ for you when you want it.” The Butcher's voice was thick with emotion.
Adam swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I'll...”
“Adam!” Willard came running up to the Butcher's porch. “My Da told me. I wanted to give you this.” He held something made of leather thongs in his hand.
Adam held it up after Willard handed it to him. “A sling?”
“Yep.” Willard beamed. “Made myself, I did. Help you get supper in the wild, it will. All you need is to practice, on the road like, I mean.”
Adam looked at the sling again. “Thank you, Willard. I'll be sure to make use of it.” Willard swelled like a Pouter Pigeon under the praise.
He stuffed the sling into his belt and shouldered the supply pack. Either he was growing again, or he had failed to pack as much as he needed, because the pack felt nowhere near as heavy as the one he had carried from Milward's in the spring.
He turned and shook the Butcher's hand. “Thank you for everything, Hersh, I really mean it.”
The Butcher dabbed his eye. So, Ornette was his father's son. “I know, lad. I know you do.”
He shook hands with the blubbering Ornette, clapped Willard on the shoulder, and set off down the street toward the forest path. Some of the townsfolk who saw him pass by shouted his name and waved. He waved back but kept walking; he could feel the forest drawing him.
The fields outside of Dunwattle were empty of farm hands, “they're probably involved in the rebuilding,” he thought, as he made his way past them.
He planned to walk straight through to Milward's cave, if at all possible. Without being able to put a finger on the reason why, he felt the old man could help him better than anyone else in his search.
* * * * Milward pulled his counterstroke over the red thread gently but steadily, and chuckled to himself as he felt the knot unravel. Gilgafed must be filling his drawers right now. He'd had some of his earlier shapings erased when he was studying Wizardry as a youth, and the feeling was not pleasant, especially ones he'd had to maintain with a loose connection. He chuckled again, shapings such as this one in particular.
* * * * “Master! What is wrong?” Cobain came running at Gilgafed's scream. His master lay on the floor of his chamber. The usual olive complexion was deathly white, and a stain darkened the carpet where he lay.
The cords in Gilgafed's neck stood out like cables as he struggled to speak. He motioned with a twitching hand for Cobain to come closer. “That demon damned Wizard, bring me the Aleth.”
Cobain sped off to get the elixir as Gilgafed strove to control the spasms that racked his body. The backlash from Milward's erasure of his shaping sent every muscle in his body into agonizing seizure, including the involuntary ones. His heart beat like timpani; his stomach, his bladder and his bowels emptied their contents explosively.
Cobain returned with the Aleth, and held his master's head as still as possible while he poised the vial over the Sorcerer's mouth. His master had taught him about the drug. Aleth was a potent antispasmodic that needs only to hit the soft tissues of the mouth to be absorbed into the body. A small amount will suffice in almost all cases.
Gilgafed opened his mouth with a supreme effort of will, and Cobain tapped two drops of the elixir onto his tongue. The Sorcerer's body stiffened and then his back arched in one final, massive spasm. He screamed his throat raw and then fell back in Cobain's arms.
He looked up into his servant's eyes and laughed bitterly. “Damn ... that ... Wizard.”
* * * * Adam's path to Milward's cave followed no set direction. He veered widely from the forest path to both sides in the chance he might come across any sign of Charity's passing. The first day he came up cold, finding nothing. Midway through the morning of the second, he spotted a scrap of burgundy cloth that could have come from Charity's cloak or tunic. There was a small patch of ground where it looked like a struggle had occurred, but his woodsman skills were not enough to be able to tell when or by what. He followed the trail of disturbed ground and broken twigs to the best of his ability. The spoor led through thickets that tugged at his hair and brambles that tore at his skin. He followed it up a dry creek bed where it eventually led to ... a packrat's nest.
He sat there and stared at the nest and then slapped himself on the forehead. “What a gnomic droob! I should have listened to my gut. It told me this was a wrong turning, and I took it anyway.”
He continued with several more minutes of self-recrimination, and then reshouldered his pack and turned back in the direction of the path. At least he should be able to sleep in a bed tonight. Milward's cave, to best of his memory, was only a few more hours of walking away.
“At last!” The thought flew unbidden through Adam's mind. He'd forgotten that they'd walked mostly downhill after leaving the cozy comfort of the Old man's home. He was nearly fagged by the time he crested the last rise, and looked upon the creek and the glade that fronted the cave. He really didn't care at that moment if Milward was home or not, all he really wanted to do was cool his feet in the creek.
“Ooohhh...” It felt so good. The water was cool, and the tiny fish nibbling at his toes tickled nicely. He lay back and closed his eyes; Milward had to be coming home eventually.
Shawooom!! The explosion jerked Adam awake. He looked up to see the old man falling out of a hole in the sky.
“You can get off me now, thank you.” Adam squeaked. The old man was heavier than he looked. Milward had landed, one foot to each side of Adam's chest, and his, to Adam's thought, bony bottom into the pit of Adam's stomach.
The Wizard looked down, “Adam! Good to see you, boy!” and then he realized where he was. “Oops, sorry about that, lad. Here, let me help you up.” He stood and reached down for Adam's hand.
“Thank you.” Adam took the proffered hand and was pulled to his feet. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
Adam shook his head. “Oh, no, you don't.”
Milward peered at him out of his beard. “I don't? What don't I?”
“Uncle used to do that to me when he thought I was too little to know about something. He'd make believe I hadn't seen what I thought I saw. Most of the time, especially when I was very little, it worked.” He put one of his hands on Milward's shoulder. “I'm not going to allow that tactic to work now. I'm no child, Milward. I've killed men with my own hands. I've been forced to become an adult, sooner than some would have liked maybe, but there it is, and I insist on being treated like one.”
The wizard stared at Adam for a long time, hunched over like some wading bird. Then he blew out his whiskers and straightened his back. “You're right, lad, right as rain. It was a foolish impulse and I should have told you back when you and your sister first appeared in my wood. What you saw was a shaping.” He emphasized the word.
“Shaping?”
“Yes, shaping. Don't repeat every word I say as a question, and I may enlighten you before the year's end.” Milward held up a hand. “And don't apologize, just let me get through this.”
“Now,” He rubbed his hands together “There is magik in this world that can be used, shaped, as it were, like you would a painting or a sculpture.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
Milward raised his eyes skyward, beseeching the heavens. “Have you an imagination?”
“What kind of a question is that?” Adam was getting a little irritated. Milward had yet to answer his original question.
“A fairly reasonable question, I would think.” Milward huffed. “In order for you to understand my answer to your question, you need to understand the basis of the answer.”
“Ok...” Adam crossed his arms and waited.
The wizard looked at him for a moment. “Hmmm ... well, I'll assume you have an imagination. Any decent artist, as you probably know, must have a decent imagination. It is exactly the same in shaping the magik of this world.” He used his hands to illustrate the point. “What you saw was a traveling vortex. I shaped it here,” He pointed to his head, “with my imagination first, and brought it into being here.” He rubbed his belly. “It's one thing to have a good mind, but shaping, like art, is empty without the feeling that gives it form.”
“I ... see ... no, I don't.” Adam's brow wrinkled in concentration.
Milward sighed. He took Adam by the arm and began walking up the bank to his door. “We'll try again later. I think if I show you what I mean, you'll get a better handle on it.”
“Milward.”
“Yes, lad?”
“Are you a wizard? Charity and I always thought you were.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I'm The Wizard.”
“Will you tell me now what you meant by saying you're the Wizard?” Adam poured a mug of ale from the brown crockery pitcher Milward had on his table.
The old man had steadfastly refused to talk any further concerning magik or the title of The Wizard until food had been prepared and served. Adam spent a frustratingly long hour or so until dinner was declared ready.
Milward accepted the mug and sipped from it before he spoke. “Ahhh ... that takes the edge off. I meant just what I said. I'm The Wizard, not a. There are three kinds of practitioners of magik, Adam. Wizards, of which I am the last surviving one, Sorcerers, such as Gilgafed, and witches. I'm not sure that there are any witches left, the magik war killed so many...” His voice drifted off.
“There was a magik war?” Adam tore a huge bite out of his slice of roast venison.
“Oh, yes. It nearly devastated the entire world. It began between a Sorcerer and a Wizard, and then others joined in to aid their side of the battle. It went on for centuries until all that was left were Gilgafed and me. The few petty sorcerers besides him were beneath notice. I don't know of the witches...” That far away note entered his voice once more.
“So that's what you meant by the Wizard.” Adam poured himself some ale.
“Yes...” Milward's eyebrows lifted at Adam's choice of drink.
“How long ago did the war end?”
“Not long ago, only a few centuries.”
Adam's eyebrows imitated Milward's. “A few centuries?”
“What did I say about repeating my words back as a question? I only say what I mean, lad.”
Adam nearly said sorry, when he remembered what Milward had said about apologizing all the time. He shut his mouth and nodded.
“Good. Now to answer your next question, very few people are born with the gift of using magik, and nearly as few of those can be taught. A very, very rare few have the inborn ability of using it as naturally as breathing. You can see why even a span of time as long as centuries has spawned no Wizards as of yet. Sorcerers and Witches, possibly. You'll learn of the differences later, after you've mastered at least the rudiments of your own gift.”
“I have a gift?”
Milward threw back his head and let go with gales of laughter. “Gift? My boy, your gift has the potential to tear the moon out of its orbit. I could see it in you when you stayed with me before...” His voice trailed off as he realized the pain of the subject he was approaching.
“Before Charity and I went to live in Dunwattle.” Adam finished for him.
“I'm sorry, Adam. It was a foolish mistake on my part. I did not intend to dredge up unpleasant memories.”
Adam's smile was brittle. “Don't apologize. I have no intention of letting go of those memories, and I also intend to find her, wherever she's been taken.” Adam looked up at Milward sharply. “How did you ... I never said a thing about Charity after you fell on me.”
Milward looked back at him gravely. “There is an ancient prophecy. It speaks of two, brother and sister, who come into our world. As in all prophecies, it is both specific and vague. It is very specific about the two being separated in a war. When I saw just you, and when you made no mention of your sister, I believed the worst, that the separation had happened.”
“I see.” Adam sipped some more of the ale. “How ... what made it possible for you to tell, about me, I mean?”
The Wizard leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “It's a bit difficult to describe. It's like recognizing a smell by its color, or a taste by its sound.”
“That's more than a little confusing.” Adam finished his meat.
“Maybe I should show you.” Milward lifted his right hand and pointed the forefinger at his empty plate on the table in front of him. He began rotating his forefinger like he was stirring an imaginary drink.
Adam felt a sensation he was at a loss to describe. There was a pressure on the back of his mind, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up and ... in his mind's eye he felt ... spinning.
The plate beneath Milward's finger began to turn. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster until its motion was a blur, and the sound of its passage became a hum. The plate began to rise in the air until it hovered at eye level to Adam and the Wizard. Adam felt it rise in the same place he'd felt the spinning. The wizard was right, the sensation was impossible to put a finger on, but it was definitely there.
The plate slowed its rotation and settled back to the table. Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “That was it?”
Milward nodded. “That was it, if you felt it. The sensation is different for each individual gifted, even Sorcerers and Witches have a form of it. I believe it has something to do with the ability to shape the magik. You cannot sculpt something you cannot feel, nor could you paint something you cannot see. Not with any accuracy, at least.”
Adam mimicked the finger twirl that Milward had done. “How do I...” He felt a pressure build in his head.
“No!” The Wizard grabbed his hand and stopped the motion. The pressure went away.
Adam looked up. “Why did you do that? I felt something.”
Milward nodded vigorously. “I know. So did I, you were about to destroy this room.” He looked around. “I have a lot of memories here, I'd rather not lose them just yet.” He turned back to Adam. “I think it best we practice on the road, and leave off shaping indoors until you learn some control.”
Adam blinked. “On the road?”
“Of course.” Milward poured himself some more ale. “You didn't think I'd let you search for your sister by yourself, did you? Let's get some sleep, lad, the morning will come early.”

Chapter Nineteen
“Those, Adam, are Garlocs.” Milward and Adam huddled behind several large boulders in the mountain pass. They were in the Western slopes of The Spine, about a league South of the Great Wood. This was the third day since they had left the old Wizard's home. The previous two days, Milward had filled Adam's head with example after example of what it meant to be a Wizard. He still would not allow Adam to practice, using the excuse that he wasn't quite ready to converse with his maker face-to-face yet.
They had begun to work their way through a series of narrow passes that would eventually bring them to the Eastern high plateaus overlooking The Long Wood. Milward was the one to hear the sounds first, and he was equally quick in dragging Adam with him behind the boulders.
Below them, a group of creatures were gathered around the carcass of a mountain goat, tearing out chunks of meat, skin and organs and stuffing them into their oversized mouths as quickly as they could. Occasionally one would bump into another, and a short snarling quarrel broke out. Sometimes blood would be drawn. Its color looked strange to Adam, and when it hit the ground, it bubbled and steamed, sending a whiff of an acrid scent toward their hiding place.
“That blood is a deadly poison that even my magik can't counteract, so please, Adam, don't let it get on you. During the wars, assassins would tip darts with Garloc blood. They only had to scratch their target to be sure of earning the commission.”
“They look like something crossed with a lizard.” Adam turned away from the Garloc feast and hunkered down against the boulder.
“I'm not sure of that, but legend has them being the offspring of arcane experiments deep in the past.” Milward scootched himself down next to Adam. He chuckled lightly. “They do look like someone crossed a lizard with a Gnome, though, don't they?”
Adam turned to peer over the top of the boulder again. “Nasty tempered things.”
“These actually appear to be in a good mood. It's probably the goat meat. They usually don't get that much all at once.” Milward patted his pockets for a snack.
“Are they just vicious animals, then? They stand upright, kind of like we do.”
“Those are the two things a traveler should never assume about Garlocs. One, that they are just a vicious animal, and two, that they are like men. They have their own culture, their own societal hierarchy, and their own religion, of a sort.”
Adam sat back down next to Milward. “Those things have a religion?”
Milward shrugged. “As I said, of a sort. They worship; it's as close an approximation to what they actually do that I can come up with, this mythical source that will one day give them all the food they can eat, forever.”
“What about their culture?”
Milward smiled. “It's a little looser than their religion, I'm afraid. The law of the hungriest prevails, and Garlocs are always hungry. They have more than one stomach, you see. Their society is slightly matriarchal, as the females are a little larger and stronger than the males. It is certainly not based on any maternal instinct. The young are abandoned at birth, and left to fend for themselves, which, I believe, is the cause for their diet.”
Adam looked at Milward. “What is their diet?”
“Whatever fits into their mouths.”
“I think I'd like to be a little further away from them, if it's all right with you.”
“I knew you were a smart lad from the moment I met you.” Milward eased himself up to check on the feeding Garloc group. They had reduced the goat to mostly bones and were working on those. When they were done, the only sign of what had happened here would be a few stains.
He turned and sat back down. “They're almost done. They're down to the bones now.”
“They eat the bones too?”
“As I said. Anything they can fit into their mouths.”
Adam heard a rustle. He looked up to see an even larger group of Garlocs looking down on them from the bank above their hiding place. “Uh ... Milward?”
The Wizard looked up at Adam's whispered exclamation. He slowly reached out and carefully grasped his staff, a black length of iron hard wood with a carved wolf's head at its end. “Adam.” He whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Remember when I stopped you from duplicating my levitation shaping because you would have destroyed the room we were in?”
“Ye ... s.”
“I think now would be a good time to try it again. Right under that grouping in fact.”
Adam looked closely at the Garlocs. The group stood there looking at them. Some of the Garlocs licked their lipless mouths with green tongues and grinned, showing a lot of sharply pointed teeth. One of the Garlocs stood about half a head taller than the others. It turned its head to each side and snarled twice.
Adam whispered to Milward. “That sounded like it was telling the others something.”
“Yes, they have a language. Most of the words have to do with food and eating. How is your shaping coming?”
Adam could feel the first beginnings of pressure at the back of his skull. “I think it's getting there; my head is starting to hurt.”
“Good. We may have very little time left.”
The larger Garloc snarled at the others again and they fell back a step. Seemingly satisfied, it turned back to looking at Adam and Milward and uttered a string of guttural syllables that ended in a high note of question.
“What did it say?” Adam could feel the pressure in his head beginning to pound.
“It wants to know if we're the other's food.” Milward gathered his feet under him. “I think the big one is a senior female. They can be territorial. You ready?”
Adam's head was pounding like a drum now. “Yes. Let's do it.”
The Wizard lifted his staff and streamers of crackling energy erupted from it, transfixing the large female and two of the others on either side of her. “Release your shaping. Now!” Milward screamed at Adam over the thunderous snapping of the staff's discharge.
Adam released the pressure he felt inside him and the ground around them exploded outward. Boulders the size of horses flew through the air, landing hundreds of yards away. Bits and pieces of Garloc rained down, as Milward raised a hasty shield to keep the poisonous bloody flesh from hitting them.
Milward held the shield until he was sure all of the debris had fallen. He looked at the moat-like rent Adam's shaping had torn out of the earth. It encircled them completely and the bank that the female Garloc and her tribe had stood upon was now gone, along with the boulders he and Adam had hidden behind. The moat had to be at least twenty yards deep. Wisps of steam curled up from the bottom.
He combed his free hand through his hair. “I knew you were strong, lad, but ... balls! Adam! Are you hurt? Did any of their blood touch you?”
Adam was staggering and clutching his side. He turned toward Milward. His face had gone white and sweat ran down his cheeks. “M ... my side.”
“Let me see.” Milward gently lifted Adam's hand away from his side. The hand was smeared with blood, and the tear in his tunic was wet, a dark stain spread beyond its edges.
“This may hurt, lad, but I have to make sure.” He undid the frogs on the tunic front, and then pulled the shirt tail out of the trousers as gently as he could. Adam hissed with pain. “Easy, lad, easy.”
He lifted the shirt away from Adam's wound and examined it closely with a small shaping, and watched the results.
“What ... are ... you ... doing?” Adam's voice was tight with pain.
“Wait a bit.” The wizard's voice was muffled. “Ah. Good.” He straightened and wiped his hand on his robe. “It looks like you were struck by a stone from that explosion you caused. Not a chunk of Garloc, as I feared.”
“Lucky me.” Adam grunted.
“You don't know how lucky!” Milward snapped. “Don't you remember what I told you about their blood? Blowing up an entire tribe. Balls, boy! What were you thinking?”
“I didn't want to be eaten.”
“He didn't want to be eaten!” Milward addressed the universe. “You need to be taught ... what's this?” He stooped to pick up a folded parchment.
“That's mine.” Adam took it from Milward's hand. “...and Charity's.” He looked at the parchment. He'd carried it all this way and hadn't really thought about it much. Like his rock, it was a part of his routine. Get dressed, slip the parchment into his shirt, make sure the amulet is secure on his neck, greet the day.
He handed it back to Milward. “No, you should see it. Charity and I really didn't understand much of it.”
Milward unfolded the parchment and his eyes widened slightly, but he made no sound. Adam saw his lips move, and then, “...I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can...” He looked at Adam, “Do you realize whom this is from?”
“The signature says he was a king.”
“Not a king, Adam.” Milward's tone softened. “The King. Labad ruled the land for a thousand years as their King, their teacher and their guide into civilization. He was the one the Dragons trusted enough to come to his call during the magik war. It was Labad who saved the Dwarves from extinction, and he was chief in the council that planned and succeeded in driving the Sorcerer Gilgafed into exile. His vision, his prophecy, is the central theme in the studies of nearly every culture in the land. Some have spent their lives searching for it. The earliest copies are valued as treasures equal to that of chests of gold, and I stand here now ... holding the one, the original, penned by Labad himself.”
Adam pushed his hand against the wound in his side. Whatever Milward had done helped, but it was still sore, and he could feel it bleeding.
“...All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands.”
“I couldn't read it very well. Labad must have had terrible penmanship.” Adam looked over Milward's shoulder at the parchment.
“Some believe it was the writing instrument rather than his penmanship.” Milward's voice was small.
“What?”
“It's nothing. How's your side lad?”
“It's still bleeding.”
“Hmm. Must be deeper than it looked. I'll prepare a poultice of Alum and Willit. That should help the bleeding and the soreness, for a while at least, but I think you're going to need some sewing done on you.”
“Milward.”
“Yes, lad?”
“I'm sorry. I tried to control it better, but I didn't know what to do. All I could feel was this pressure. I didn't know what was going to happen.”
The wizard stopped his preparations and looked up at Adam. “No, no need to apologize. If there's any of that to be done, it should be me doing it. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Of course you didn't know what was going to happen. You'd never done it before.” He bent his head and continued mixing the poultice.
Adam could smell the sharpness of the Alum. “Did the others have that problem. When they were learning, I mean?”
Milward choked back a laugh and it came out as a cough. “No, usually they started at a smaller scale.” Like a pebble to your mountain, he thought.
“Oh.” Adam looked down as Milward applied the poultice. “That helps. Thanks.”
“All part of the calling, my boy.” Milward said briskly. He brushed his hands against one another, whisking away the Alum and Willit residue and picked up his staff. “Shall we continue our journey?” He held out the parchment to Adam.
Adam took only the letter leaving the prophecy in the Wizard's hand.
Milward looked at his hand. “I don't understand.”
Adam tucked the letter back inside his shirt. “Labad wrote the letter to Charity and me personally, but he wrote the prophecy for everyone. I think you should keep it. I'm sure it means a lot more to you than it does to me.”
Milward stood still, looking at the prophecy of Labad in his hand. The boy had given it to him as if he were giving a friend a toy they'd admired. The import of the moment swelled over him like a wave of destiny, and he felt another piece of the prophecy fall into place. He turned his gaze to Adam. “I ... don't know what to say but ... thank you, Adam. You have given me the greatest treasure I could receive.”
Adam felt his side. The wound was numb, and he could feel the Alum tightening the wound, slowing the bleeding. He readjusted his pack and began to step forward, then stopped.
“What's wrong?” Milward sounded worried.
Adam laughed bitterly. “I forgot something. How do we get across?” He waved at the expanse encircling them.
Milward looked in the direction of Adam's gesture. “Yes, I suppose that could present a problem.”
The moat created by Adam's shaping went down over sixty feet, and was far too wide to be jumped.
“A problem, that is, to anyone but me.” He motioned to Adam with his free hand. “Stand back a little, if you can please. Thank you.” The wizard raised his arms and held them straight, away from his side. “Try to feel what I do, lad. This is an example of control and direction in a shaping. Close your eyes and try to picture what you feel in your mind.”
Adam closed his eyes and tried to do as Milward asked. At first his mind jumped around, with random thoughts and images paying brief visits, and then moving on. He forced himself to settle down and consciously quieted his mind.
He began to notice a pressure, but this one was outside his head. He worked to bring it into focus and as its presence became stronger he sensed a direction. The pressure was in front of him on the ground and it was extending away from his feet. He opened his eyes while trying to keep a hold of what he sensed in his mind. He saw Milward with his arms stretched out to either side. Small energy discharges crackled through his hair and around his staff. At his feet was a glowing sheet of ... something. It stretched out in front of him, reaching for the other side of the moat. Adam could feel its growth as it closed in on the opposite side of the trench.
“You feel it, Adam?” Milward's voice showed the strain he was under.
“I do. It's like a pressure I feel outside my body.”
“Eh? Well, everyone's different. At least they were back when there were more of us.” He lowered his arms and stepped to the side. “After you, my boy.”
Adam stepping onto the glowing sheet and tested it to see if it would hold his weight.
Milward urged him on. “I don't make bridges that break. Get along, now.”
Adam put his full weight onto the sheet. It was as rigid as stone. He readjusted his pack once more and crossed over to the other side. The wizard followed.
“Now, pay close attention.” Milward turned to face his bridge. “I'm going to remove the shaping, but I'm going to do it slowly so you can follow the process. Remember that feeling of pressure.”
Adam nodded and reached out of himself with his mind. The feeling of pressure was there along with a sense of shape. It was as if he could see a faint outline in his head; the edges of it glowed.
Milward said, “Now...” And he felt the pressure reverse, like a push becoming a pull. The outline in his head began to shorten and then it was gone.
Adam shook his head as if waking out of a trance. He looked down and Milward's bridge was gone. He looked into Milward's eyes. They twinkled with self-satisfaction. “It was as if you sucked it back into yourself.”
“I did.” The wizard put his arm around Adam's shoulders. “One of the things you need to understand about Wizardry, my boy, is that the magik you use comes from within you just as much as it does from without.”
“I'm not sure I follow you.”
Milward nodded and stooped to pick up a rock. “This pebble. Do you know what it is made of?”
“No...”
Milward looked at the pebble and then he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “Frankly, neither do I, but what holds together, whatever this little rock is made up of, is magik. As a Wizard, you have the ability to tap into that magik, amplify it and join it with your own. That is the power behind the shapings you choose to do.”
“So ... you pulled the magik of the bridge back into you ... t o save power?”
“Marvelous deduction my boy! That is exactly why I did it that way. Creating a shaping uses power. If you create one that uses too much power, it can weaken you substantially even if you are able to draw some of the magik back. If you create a shaping that cannot be drawn back, such as the one you did back there, and it uses too much of your magik ... it could kill you.”
“Then why don't I feel tired?”
Because you are so flicking strong. Milward did not give voice to the thought as he walked alongside Adam. He passed off the question lightly. “Just as everyone has their own way of sensing magik in use, they also have their own levels of strength. You didn't exceed yours, that's all.”
“Oh. Did you know this King Labad?”
“Not personally. I did sit on the council that he called to overthrow Gilgafed, but I was one of the junior members.”
“Were you the Wizard who began the fight with Gilgafed?”
“No, I hadn't been born then. And no, I don't know which Wizard helped start the magik war. As far as Labad, I know he was born a commoner in the West, had a rather uneventful childhood, and discovered his gift, as most do, near the end of his adolescence.”
“Like me.”
“Like you. Now, as to how he became King...”
* * * * The Alpha Wolf sniffed the air. Winter was approaching; it was time to take the pack to the grotto.
* * * * “...and that is how Labad became King of the entire land.” Milward finished his tale just as they came to the lip of a grotto. It was encircled on three sides by the sheer cliffs of the eastern plateau. A narrow passage, only as wide as two carts driving side by side, was the way out to the wide plains of the eastern lands. The path ended at the drop off.
Adam looked into the grotto as he digested the Wizard's tale. According to Milward, King Labad could have commanded the cliffs to form a staircase and they would have. He thought there was most likely an element of exaggeration in what Milward had been telling him over the hours of their journey from where they escaped the Garloc cook pot to here, but he felt too kindly toward the old Wizard to tell him so.
He tested the lip of the cliff with his toe. A small cascade of dirt and pebbles tumbled into the grotto a hundred feet or more below. “How do we get down there from here?”
Milward didn't answer, he stood there leaning on his staff and looking at Adam with a grumpy expression.
Adam looked back at him. “What?”
Milward said, “Well?”
“Huh?”
“Frog droppings! Do I have to drag it out of you?”
“Drag what out of me?” Adam was completely perplexed. Milward's mood could change on a whim. This was a side he and Charity hadn't seen the time they stayed with him.
“I suppose I do.” The Wizard muttered to himself. “What did you think of my tale?”
Adam blinked. “Oh, that!” He considered his choice of words. In many ways Milward had a touchy vanity and Adam wanted to avoid another blowup like what happened after his explosive shaping. “There's a lot to think on there ... I'd like to have some time to mull it over. King Labad did so much that I'd have a difficult time imagining half of it. I do have to say you told it well, though. A lot better than the storytellers that used to come around our village.”
“Hmmph.” Milward looked at him through his eyebrows for a second, wondering if the lad really didn't know it was he in his guise of Nought, and then his expression cleared. “I imagine I did, at that. Now, as to how we get down there from here, I believe there is a way. Over there, if I remember correctly.” He pointed to a large Pine off to Adam's left, and continued talking they walked over to the tree. “You should find a narrow stair cut into the cliff face; it's quite steep as I recall.”
“I found it.” Adam called from behind the tree. “You're right, it's steep. Are you sure you can make it down?”
“Don't worry about me, lad.” Milward walked over to where Adam stood and looked down the stair. It twisted back upon itself, as he remembered, and was more of a ladder than stair in its steepness.
“There's a lot more life in these old bones than you may think. Are you sure you can make it?”
Adam shifted his backpack and looked at the climb waiting for him. It was very steep. “I guess there's only one way to be sure.”
Milward affixed his staff into its holder on his back. “I'll be right behind you, my boy.”
Adam stepped onto the ledge that led into the stair and began his descent. He found it easier to go down backwards like climbing down a ladder, except this ladder was made of stone, and had a switch back every fifteen feet or so. Milward waited until Adam was a good half dozen steps below him and then started down. He chose to face outward as he descended. Adam had to admit he'd been wrong again about the old Wizard. Milward appeared to be handling the stair better than he was. He was even whistling a tune as they climbed down to the grotto floor. It had a minor key with a unique octave shift that gave it a jaunty feel. Adam felt his spirits lift as they descended with the tune in the background. He also found himself using the beat of the music as timing for his steps. Before he realized it, they were in the grotto, looking back up at the cliffs.
Milward stood next to him, leaning again on his staff. “They are high, aren't they?”
“Do they have a name?”
“No. This is Wolf territory. The wolves have no names for anything except when they use one for our benefit. They know who they are and where they are. For them, that's enough.”
Adam looked around warily. “There are wolves here?”
Milward looked disgusted. “Oh, settle down! Wolves are peaceful and simple. On the whole, they are a matter of fact, straightforward people, and highly intelligent, in their own way. You've more danger from your neighbor's bad-tempered dog.”
“Intelligent? But you said first they were simple.”
Milward settled onto his staff, a pose Adam had come to learn meant, I'm going to lecture you, so you'd better listen. “You misunderstood the term. Simple, in the way I said it, means to be without guile. Wolves will never lie to you, and they will never break their word, in fact, there is no word in the wolf language for a lie.”
“Uh, excuse me. Wolves have a language?”
“Of course they do. What do you think I've been talking about?”
Adam smirked. “Sometimes I'm not entirely sure.”
“Don't be snide. I said wolves have a language and I'm going to teach it to you. Don't interrupt me; I've a lot to do, and too little time to do it in. Sit down there.” Milward indicated a fallen pine that had long ago lost its branches and nearly all of its bark.
Adam shrugged off his pack and sat down on the log.
Milward stood in front of him and bent over to take hold of his head. “Now, look into my eyes.” His tone of voice said he would not take no for an answer. “Good. Don't try to follow what I say, just listen. And don't lose contact with my eyes.”
For Adam, the rest of the world grayed away. Milward began to talk to him, but the words sounded strange. He could feel the pressure of a shaping, but it seemed to be all around the grotto, and diffuse in nature like a wispy fog. His head began to spin, and he desperately wanted to blink, but he pushed the desire away and kept his eyes on Milward's. The wizard's voice droned on and on and on.
“There. That should do it young pup.” Milward took his hands away from Adam's head.
“I be no pup, gray muzzle.”
“Oh? You be ready for the hunt then?”
“Show me the path of blood, pack leader. I... What am I saying?” Adam stepped back and shook his head. It ... felt full ... of something ... and there was a whopper of a headache forming up, as well.
Milward smiled. “That was Wolfen. It's my name for the language. Search your new knowledge. Tell me if you can find a name for the tongue in there.”
Adam sifted through the new knowledge in his skull, and then went through it once more. Not only could he not find a name for language, he couldn't find what he would really consider a name for anything.
“Can't find one, can you?”
Adam shook his head. The headache was getting worse and his stomach was beginning to get queasy.
“Oh, by the way, you're going to feel a little sick for a while.”
Adam could feel the sweat breaking out. Alternating waves of hot and cold washed through him. “You did this? Why?”
“I'm sorry, my boy. It's an unfortunate side effect of the teaching.” Milward dug around in his pouches while Adam proceeded to be violently ill.
Adam looked up after he finished vomiting. “Unfortunate ... side ...effeeuuugggccchhh?!”
Milward continued rummaging in his pouches. “Yes, Hit me hard a couple of times during my first century, but a Wizard's got to learn ... ah! Here we are.” He held up a leaf. It had a sawtooth edge to it and smelled pungently spicy when he held it under Adam's nose. “Chew this. It will help the heaves.”
Adam took the leaf and chewed it. It tasted of resins and spice, not at all unpleasant. Another spasm cramped his stomach and he shook with chills. He almost wished the fever would return. “Wh ... wh ... when will it work?”
Milward looked into his eyes again and grunted as if he'd seen what he expected. “Hmm, yes ... how's your head, now, Adam?”
Adam noticed the Wizard used his name instead of lad, or my boy. “It hurts.”
Milward grunted again and pulled a vial of white powder out of his pouch, poured some of the powder into a small cup. He then mixed a couple pinches of a light green powder into it and filled the cup with water from his flask. He held the cup away from his body and drew his other hand over and away from the cup like he was picking cotton. Steam came out of the cup, following his hand. “Here, drink this.”
The fever started up again, along with the sweating. Adam took the steaming cup in both hands to keep it from slipping loose.
Milward watched him drink it. “Willit and Phedri. It will help the headache and...”
Whhhhaaaacchhhooooo!
“...the sneezing. You hit my robe.”
“Ib soddy.”
“This was my best robe.”
“I sab Ib soddy.”
“I spent a lot of coin on this robe.”
Whhaachooo!
“The barmaids at the Inn said it looked right proper on me.”
Whhaacchhooo!
“It'll never come clean, I just know it.”
“A clobb.”
“Pardon?”
“I neeb a clobb!”
“Oh, you need a cloth.”
Adam nodded and touched the tip of his nose.
Milward muttered, “You're being snide again...” And handed Adam a cloth for his nose.
Whhoonnnkk!
“You may keep the cloth, my boy. How's the headache now?”
Adam rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “A little better.”
“How about the nausea?”
“It's gone! The leaf worked. In fact, I'm feeling hungry.” Adam looked up at Milward.
The Wizard turned his head at a faint sound. “That's good, because lunch has just arrived.”
* * * * The Alpha wolf stood under the Pine tree and looked across the clearing at his friend. He appeared much the same as last time, except he now had a cub of his own.
His mate and two other members of the pack stepped down from the slight rise and walked over to where the two legs and his cub stood. They dropped the rabbits they carried at the two legs’ feet and returned to their place behind the pack leader.
* * * * Milward put a hand on Adam's near shoulder. “Just keep quiet and listen.”
Adam watched as Milward approached the wolf pack. The Wizard knelt in front of the large wolf standing slightly in front of the rest and held out his hands palm up just under the wolf's muzzle. “It has been long since our last meal together, my old friend.”
The wolf sniffed Milward's hands. “I smell you, friend two legs. It has been long. Many hunts have gone by since our last meal together. I have two new cubs.” The wolf added with a touch of pride in his voice.
“So you have.” Milward said with pleasure. The wolf's mouth hung open in his kind's way of grinning.
“May I greet them?” Milward reached a hand toward the cubs. They retreated a little ways behind their mother.
The mother of the cubs nuzzled them forward and admonished them gently to mind their manners. “Our cubs, friend two legs.”
“I smell you, young wolves. May you soon join in the hunt.”
One of the cubs, the male, looked back at his mother. “Is he pack, mother?”
The father laughed a wolf laugh. “He is as much a wolf as a two legs can be cub. This is the two legs you have told stories of.”
The cub looked at Milward with something akin to awe. “You are that two legs?”
Milward stood. “Yes, cub. I am that two legs.”
The cub moved backwards until he was next to his sister and they had a whispered conversation with many glances in the Wizard's direction.
Milward indicated Adam with a turn of his head. “I have a cub myself.”
The male wolf looked in Adam's direction. “Do you now have a mate?”
Milward shook his head. “No. He is foundling.”
The male wolf hung his head. His mate nuzzled him in the rough fur of his neck. “Sadness. The cub is lucky you found him. Can he hunt?”
Milward looked back at Adam. “He has much to learn and much to do, but he can hunt. He may one day become the pack's greatest friend.”
* * * * Adam felt the snowflake land on his nose. He looked up into the gray sky. The clouds had been there for nearly a week, and now, finally, it was beginning to snow.
“Winter is finally here my boy.” Milward approached him with one of the wolves right behind him.
“I smell you, bright eye.” The wolf greeted Adam. Bright eye was what they chose to call him, despite the fact that wolves tended to avoid naming things.
“I smell you, wolf friend.” Adam returned the greeting. This wolf had been the Omega wolf when he and Milward first met the pack in the grotto. The Omega wolf was the lowest ranking member of a pack. The last to share in the fruit of the hunt and the butt of any other wolf's bad temper with no recourse allowed. He and Adam had become friends at first sight and consequently the wolf's ranking had skyrocketed due to Adam's association with the Wizard. This left the pack without an Omega wolf, which caused some consternation among the wolves for a while until the typical lupine fatalism settled in and the matter was forgotten. “What news of the hunt?”
The wolf opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “We have a stag, bright eye and four rabbits. The rule of three does its work.”
Adam turned to Milward. “There it is again, this rule of three. What does it mean?”
Milward turned to the wolf. “Bright eye needs to learn of the rule of three. I will be speaking to him for a time in the language of two legs.”
The wolf looked at Adam, then back at Milward. “I will rest, then. Good hunting, two legs. Good hunting, bright eye.”
“Good hunting, wolf.”
Adam opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “Good hunting, wolf friend.”
The wolf turned and walked back into the pines of the grotto, vanishing within the trees.
Adam said to Milward. “They never look back.”
The wizard leaned on his staff. “Why should they, they've already been there.”
“Good point.”
Milward chuckled.
Adam looked at him.” What was funny?”
“You. You're becoming more wolf than boy. I shouldn't be surprised to see you joining in one of the hunts soon.”
“I hope so. But I think I need to learn more before they'll let me.”
Milward looked at Adam in amazement. The lad really meant it! Well, there was nothing for it but to begin the teaching. He motioned for Adam to sit. “The rule of three,” He began. “Is the root philosophy of nearly all the peoples of this world. It will take you your lifetime to begin to understand its ramifications entirely, but at least we can get you started on the basics.
“The rule of three deals with the three forces or elements found in nature: Water, earth and air. To the wolf, the rule of three guides the hunt. As the three elements work together, so does the pack.” He knelt and sketched in the gathering snow on the grotto floor. His breath showed in the cooling air as puffs of steam. “As the earth is the foundation, the main body of the hunt moves in a line, thusly. Water moves and flows, and so do the outlying pack members, like this. Air is all around us. With it we live, without it, we die. Likewise with the pack; with food, they live. Without it they die.”
“That's it? I thought it was something much deeper, more profound.” Adam looked at Milward's sketches in the snow. “Why didn't Uncle Bal and Aunt Doreen tell us about this?”
“As to your Aunt and Uncle, they were most likely following orders and keeping you from standing out too much against the background you were being raised in. The folk of that part of the world have little use for philosophy.
“As for the rule being profound, it is.” The wizard straightened and leaned again on his staff. “As I told you, that was just the basics. If you wish to delve deeper into the philosophy, you need to first open your eyes to the world around you. See how nature works within itself; the Rule of Three is found within that working.” He stooped and picked up a pebble. “Remember when I asked you what held the stuff of a pebble together?”
“Yes. And I remember you telling me you didn't know.”
Milward nodded. “Yes, yes, I did. And I still don't. But that doesn't mean I couldn't find out! Observation, that is the foundation upon which all knowledge rests. Never be stupid or stubborn enough to disbelieve what your senses tell you is true. Even if it's contrary to what you already believe. And by your senses, I mean more than just your eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin. You, as a wizard have senses beyond the ordinary five, and you need to learn to trust them as much, not more than the others.”
“Why?”
“Because they can lie to you just like the others.”
“Then how can I know what is true?”
“You check one against the other. Also, you must learn to develop a sense of when you're being lied to. It usually takes a while for both a wizard and an ordinary man to learn the difference. It did for me.” But it will probably take you less than a fortnight. He thought.
“I see. Then ... the path of blood the wolves speak about, it is also based on the rule of three?”
“I suppose. I suppose. It's a concept that has mostly eluded me.” Milward fingered his staff. “I believe one has to be a wolf to fully understand it.”
“I think it has to do with smells.” Adam murmured.
“What?” Milward looked at Adam sharply.
“I said, I think it has to do with smells. The wolves talk of smells like they're paintings in the air that show the history of what passed before. I think the path of blood is like that. It's a way of teaching the smells of the hunt to the young wolves.”
Milward rubbed his chin. “Could be ... by Bardoc's bristling beard, I believe you're right! My boy, you've just taught your teacher a lesson, and opened his eyes to the solution of a nagging concern.”
“What is it?”
Milward pulled out the parchment Adam had given him and raised his head. The howl he let loose was a reasonable facsimile of a wolf's.
In answer to Milward's howl, the pack appeared at the edge of the trees. The Alpha wolf walked up to the Wizard. “I smell you friend two legs, but I smell no danger. Why do you call?”
Milward held the parchment out before the wolf. “Can you show me the path of blood on this parchment, friend wolf?”
The wolf sniffed the parchment and then curled his lips back as he savored the scent hidden in the writing. “The blood of a man, friend two legs. A man of ancient, noble birth, sick from the poison of the bad ones.” The wolf looked Milward in the eyes. “What is this old blood to you, my friend? Will it help you in your hunt?”
Milward folded the parchment gently and put it back inside his robe. “Yes, it will my friend. I thank you.”
The wolf grinned a wolf grin and then looked at Adam. “This one is nearly ready for the hunt. Isn't he?” He kept his gaze on Adam for a moment and then turned and walked back into the forest.
Milward looked back at Adam, who shrugged. He chuckled and put his arm around his young pupil's shoulders. “Come on. Let's go back to the hut. It's getting cold.”

Chapter Twenty
“The cold ends, the new life comes.” The wolf walked up to stand at Adam's side, enjoying the scent of the flowers growing in the grotto.
“I smell you, packmate.” Adam dropped his hand to receive a lick from his four-legged friend.
“You will be leaving soon with the old one.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I will miss our hunts together.” The wolf's tail wagged at the memory.
“As will I.” Adam had become adept at following a spoor and at flushing out game for his hunting partner. “The rule of three is a good teacher.”
“When one is wolf enough to learn.” The word Adam translated as wolf actually meant The One's That Hunt. “Good hunting, my friend.”
“Good hunting.” Adam felt a thickness in his throat. The wolf turned and soon vanished in the pines.
He heard a rustle to his left and turned to see who or what was approaching. The mass of white hair pushing through the brush told him it was Milward.
He pushed his way past the Huckleberry bush and left the trees to stand next to Adam. “Aren't the flowers bright this morning?”
Adam stood there, waiting.
Milward rested both of his hands on the top of his staff and sniffed the air. “Smells like a good day to travel.”
“I suppose so.”
“What's bothering you, boy?” Milward look at him sharply.
“I can't help feeling we should have left earlier, and I also wish I could stay.”
“Ah, conflicted.” Milward shifted his hold on his staff and looked across the grotto. Some yellow and white butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. He lowered his chin to his chest as if in thought, and then nodded.
“Adam.”
“Yeah?”
“I've something to confess and I want you to try to understand my reasoning for what I've done.” He shifted as though uncomfortable.
Adam felt the familiar chill again. “Ok, go ahead.”
“I know why you feel we should have left earlier. You want to be looking for your sister. The bond between twins can be even stronger than that between a man and his wife.” He paused.
“Go on.”
“I ... know she is alive.”
“So do I, Milward.”
“No. I actually do know she is alive.”
Adam whirled to face the Wizard. “How!? And why keep it from me? Do you know where she is?”
Milward waved a hand. “All perfectly reasonable and understandable questions. As to how, I placed a small shaping on each of you when you first stayed with me. If either of you were to be gravely injured, in danger, or killed, I would know of it. You are both very special to me, you know.
“As to why I kept it from you, I have no good explanation. I wanted you to find out how to create the bond yourself, but primarily I'd forgotten about it; it had become as much a part of me as my aches in the morning.”
“As to where she is? She's in the world, I can tell you that, but I cannot be any more specific.”
“Why?”
“I just can't!” Milward slammed the point of his staff into the ground. “I can't. And I don't know why!”
Adam was nonplused. His anger at Milward suddenly had nowhere to go. The Wizard seemed more upset about his inability to locate Charity than Adam was upset about his being left out of the loop. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly embarrassed at being witness to Milward's admission of weakness. He busied himself at checking his pack and sword.
Milward composed himself with difficulty and placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. “We'd best be going, lad.”
“Milward?”
“Yes, Adam?”
“I understand.” He didn't see Milward's smile.
“How far is this Whistle Bridge?” Adam helped Milward up the incline. The weeks of travel were beginning to weary him, and he was anxious to reach the goal.
“Not far.” Milward puffed. The climb had been long and somewhat slippery. “It crosses a chasm deemed by some to be endless in its depth. I don't agree with them.”
“You don't?” Adam reached for the next handhold.
“No, I don't. Everything created has its end as well as its obvious beginning.” Milward held out his hand. “Help me up, lad. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.”
Adam helped him up to the next ledge of the incline. “How far to this chasm, then?”
Milward rubbed dried mud off his robe as he thought. “Ummm, if this is the last rise ... we should see the ravine leading to it by morning.”
“Where do we camp?” Adam looked around them. They stood on a flat section of a path that would have given a goat pause. Steep walls rose on either side of them with nary a hand or toehold to be seen. Spring was still new, so ice glinted here and there in areas where the sun didn't reach. Along the path before them the ground was strewn with pebbles and rocks. Sleeping would be uncomfortable, at best.
Milward rubbed his chin. “If I recall correctly, and I usually do, there's a widening with a nice grassy glen with a few trees there for shelter if it rains. We should be comfortable enough for the night.”
“Good. I hate sleeping wet.”
“Me too, lad; me too.”
The Wizard recalled correctly. The path wound terribly for a while, but it eventually emptied onto a sylvan glen with soft green grass, wildflowers, a small grouping of pines and a brook that filled the glen with its silver song.
“See there, my boy. I told you so.”
Adam left Milward to his gloating and walked over to the brook. He refilled the water skins and then lay down to drink deeply.
“Leave some for me, lad. Drink any more and you'll cause a drought.” The wizard sat on a pine log that had conveniently fallen a number of seasons long gone.
Adam brought the water skins over and sat down on the log. His feet hurt, but there was still the matter of setting up camp.
Milward noticed Adam's look as he sat down. He reached out an arm and halted the boy's attempt to rise again. “Leave the work to me lad. Take this as an opportunity to learn something more about being a Wizard.”
Adam felt the pressure again, building up outside of him. This time, however, it was in several places at once and it moved. One part zipped into the trees, while another group roamed about the glen gathering rocks, which were placed into a circle. When the last rock fell into place, the part that went into the trees came back with a large bundle of sticks and broken dead branches and dropped them outside the circle.
The pressure cut off and Adam looked at Milward. The Wizard face glistened with sweat though the day still had some of the old chill of winter. He looked back at Adam. “Did you follow that?”
“You're sweating.”
“Of course I am!” Milward snapped. “A multiple shaping is one of the hardest to do. Especially if you work to maintain its smoothness.”
“What do you mean, smoothness?” Adam rummaged in his pack and pulled out a cloth that he gave to the Wizard.
Milward wiped his brow with the cloth and then put it into a pocket. “See the rocks which make up the fire circle?” He pointed to them.
“Yes.”
“Look at them closely. What, if anything, do you see of significance in them?”
Adam studied the rocks. As far as he could tell they were just rocks. He shrugged his shoulders. “Other than them being in a circle, nothing.”
Milward snorted. “Look again.”
Adam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. There was something the Wizard wanted him to see in the rocks, he was sure of it. Should he try a shaping to himself to figure it out? No, he'd probably wind up destroying the campsite, and besides, Milward would know as soon as he started. He stared at the rocks, straining to see what would be there that Milward wanted him to find. Was it color? They were all a melange of gray, pink and brown. Shape? The shape varied little from the usual rounded lump. Size? Well, the size varied..."I see it!”
Milward leaned back. “You do, do you?”
“It's the size. You lined them up according to size.”
Milward smiled and touched a forefinger to his nose. “Right you are. I could have just had them drop in a circle willy-nilly but I wanted you to see what can be done with a little control. You have strength, Adam. More than I've seen in any other Wizard, including what I saw during the magic war, but you lack control. That could make you as dangerous to yourself as you are to your enemy.”
“Is this why we're traveling this direction?”
“Partly. I thought it would be good for us to visit the Winglord.”
“The Winglord? Who's he?”
“He's not a man, if that's what you mean.” Milward lit the fire with a snap of his fingers. Adam felt the sudden rush of power.
“What is he, then, another Wolf?”
“No, a Dragon.”
“A Dragon?!” Adam surged to his feet. “Charity and I were nearly fried by a Dragon in the caves, and you're taking me to see one?”
Milward looked closely at him. “You never mentioned this before.”
Adam told him about the Dragon they met in the caverns and their narrow escape through the cave wall into the creek.
Milward rubbed his chin in thought. “Can you remember enough about this fire breather to describe it to me?”
“I think I can. It had to be at least twice the height of a tall horse at the shoulder. It walked on all fours, had spines running down the length of its back and ... oh, yes, it had things coming out from behind each jaw like eels.”
“Like eels.”
“Uh huh. Oh, and when its saliva hit the water, it hissed like water hitting a hot stove.”
“I see. Do you remember seeing wings on this Dragon?”
Adam ran back over his memory of being chased through the caverns by the Dragon. He tried to picture its back. “No. No wings.”
The old Wizard seemed to relax. “My boy. I'm glad to tell you that what you and your sister ran from was not a Dragon.”
“Not a ... but it breathed fire. Its head was as big as ... as a calf, at least!”
“Yes, I imagine so. The fire was one of the reasons I asked you to describe the creature.”
“Not ... a... Dragon.” Adam repeated the statement, trying to get a handle on the concept.
“As I said,” Milward replied slowly as if teaching a slow learner. “Not a Dragon. I've never had the opportunity to see one of the creatures you described, thank the creator, but I've read about them during my studies back before the war. They are called Firewyrms. A real Dragon has wings. What you saw doesn't fly, but it does breathe fire. Well, it doesn't really breathe it, according to the old records. They are supposed to have a sort of second stomach that creates a gas they can expel at high pressure. The saliva you mentioned causes the gas to burst into flame as it leaves the mouth, hence the so-called fire breathing you saw.”
“Do the flying dragons breathe fire?”
“I don't think so ... never heard of one doing it. I'm sure Mashglach would have mentioned it sometime...” His voice trailed off in thought.
“Whose Mashglach?”
“The Winglord, of course. Didn't I tell you his name earlier? No? Well ... Mashglach is the chief of the Dragons, the Winglord. They are the Oldest and wisest creatures living. I don't think anyone knows their origins; they're shrouded in the past like so many of our beginnings.”
“Are they dangerous? The Dragons?”
“Oh, of course. As would be any creature as large or as strong. But if you mean, are they dangerous to you or I, then I would have to say no. Mashglach and his people are my friends. Of course I've had a few centuries to get to know them. Give it time and they'll be your friends as well.”
Adam tossed a small stick into the fire. “Ok. I'll give it a try.”
Milward looked at Adam in a studying way. He found himself doing that more and more. He really didn't know what to do with the boy. On one hand, he was scared pissless with the sheer volume of power the lad could bring into a shaping, and on the other, he was dying to see what he could do with it. “Yes, I suppose you will.”
Adam got up and walked over to his pack. He opened the top and began pulling out supplies for supper. Some dried meat and a few herbs and spices packed in small individual skins, two small cheeses covered in wax and a bag of dried vegetables.
Milward watched his preparations. “Stew?”
Adam looked up from measuring out a dark green herb. “Yes. We've got the time and I think we'd both prefer it to eating the stuff cold and dry.”
Milward grinned and smacked his lips. “On the money, lad. I'll get the water.”
* * * * Gilgafed tested the barrier. It gave slightly with a rippling effect as if he'd dipped his finger into a still pond. More of the power was applied, and it gave further. “Soon,” he thought. “Very, very soon.”
* * * * From their camp, Adam and Milward followed the trail as it passed over the eastern plateaus. Near midday, the ground rose into an area of high downs covered with bracken and heather. Bright yellow butterflies danced in the lavender scented air, ignoring the passage of the old Wizard and his charge in favor of the nectar the flowers offered.
Beyond the heather the downs rose sharply in a rise of moss-covered stone. They topped the rise and looked down into a rent in the earth. On either side of the ravine entrance, the ground rose slightly and then fell away as the table of two sheer plateaus.
Milward pointed to the opening. “There it is. The beginning of the ravine that leads to Whistle Bridge.”
“Why is it called that?” Adam peered into the ravine. The sunlight only reached so far. The heart of it looked to be black as night.
“You'll hear the reason yourself when we get to it. The wind creates a whistling sound as it passes over the span.”
Adam looked thoughtful. “Who built the bridge?”
“So many questions.” Milward stopped Adam's apology with an upraised hand. “It's all right, I don't mind, really. I was the same way as a youth. Drove my parents and teachers to distraction, I imagine.” He patted his pouch belt. “Whistle Bridge wasn't built, as far as anyone can tell. If it was, it was before recorded history. Some say the wind carved the bridge out of the naked stone itself. Some say it was first water, and then wind. Some say the Dragons themselves made it back when they had their cities.”
“Their cities?”
Milward set off down the path toward the ravine with Adam slightly behind him. “Yes, I said cities.” His tone of voice betrayed mild annoyance. “Dragonkind is far, far older than mankind. Legend has it that one city still exists in the far north at the outer fringes of the frozen wastes. Chrysostom, I believe it is called. Some ancient texts say the Dragons even had ships that sailed to the stars.”
“Did they?”
“Can't say. Mashglach won't speak of it. I think something about the subject embarrasses him. Just understand this, Adam. When you meet Mashglach, you're meeting a being that was alive nearly ten thousand years before you were born. Their concept of time is different from ours. Most of what mankind does is beneath their notice, like the Mayfly is to us.”
“How did you become friends, then?”
Milward smiled at the memory, though Adam didn't see it. “I think it was because I kept turning up. Wizards live longer than other people, you see. Around my fourth century, they began to notice I was the same little man they'd been bothered by the previous century. After that, it was just a matter of communication.”
Adam noticed it was becoming dark. He looked up. The opening that was the top of the ravine glinted far above them. He reached forward and tapped on Milward's shoulder. “I can't see where I'm going. Maybe we should walk a little more carefully.”
“Not to worry, lad. There's nothing much between us and the bridge except the occasional pebble.”
“What's that I hear?” Adam's hand gripped Milward's shoulder this time, stopping him.
“Eh? I hear nothing, boy. We're too far away to hear the wind in the chasm.”
“I hear something. Listen.”
Milward strained his ears. There was something. The boy had better ears than he did, obviously. Being young had its points. It was a chittering, just on the edge of hearing. It put the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
“Do you know what it is?”
He could feel Adam turning to put his back to his as the silken hiss of the sword leaving its scabbard told its own tale. The lad has good defensive instincts, at least, he thought. “No, I've never heard anything like it. Jars the nerves, doesn't it?”
“It puts mine right on edge.” Adam agreed. “It's getting louder.”
“I hear it.” Milward raised his staff. It began to glow and a crackling nimbus of octarine purple infused the staff, lighting the area where he and Adam stood, along with a radius of about two yards.
“It seems to be coming from everywhere. It ... it sounds evil.”
* * * * “I have you now.” Gilgafed watched the old Wizard in the scry glass. It had taken nearly all his available power, but if he didn't miss his guess, the brat was with the old fool, even though something hid him from the scry. What he had summoned would deal with them both, the old Wizard's new strength and the security of the world be damned.
The single door to his chamber opened tentatively. He whirled to see Cobain with a silver service tray and a bottle of wine.
Gilgafed leveled a shaking finger at his servant. “How dare you!? Get out! Get out, and don't come in unless you are summoned.”
Cobain shuffled backwards out the door, and shut it.
The Sorcerer grunted and turned back to his glass. He did not want to miss a second of this triumph and his thorn's removal.
* * * * The light from Milward's staff threw the shadows of the ravine into a sharp, purple-edged focus. They could see things moving in them. The sound grew louder, and a scent, equally as disturbing as the sound, reached their nostrils.
Adam's lip curled in disgust, and he growled in his throat.
“Steady, lad, don't go wolf on me. We've no idea of what we face here.” Milward cautioned him.
The sound was all around the edge of the light, now. Adam's sword wove an intricate pattern. “You don't know what these things are?”
“I've only a vague suspicion, Adam, and I am hoping by Bardoc's beard that it's wrong.” Milward raised the hand not holding the staff.
Adam felt the now familiar pressure of a shaping. A glow began coalescing around the Wizard's hand similar to that around the staff. Small arcs and streamers of energy leapt and spat from his fingertips. Adam felt the pressure increase and then let go. A blue white bar of fire shot from Milward's hand and transfixed ... a something. He had no name for what he saw, only that he wished he never saw anything like it again.
Its coloring was dead black, like the ash found on a cook stove pipe. The head had no ears and no nose, only a gash that opened and closed continuously. The mouth dribbled, and a semi-thick drool spattered against the ravine wall it clung to. It had two arms that extended from a torso with no shoulders and short curly fur resembling an advanced growth of mold. Six legs extended from the end of the torso like those of a Black Widow. The hands and feet were alike, with two digits each ending in a hooked claw. There were no sexual organs visible. Its eyes glowed with a sickly green illumination under the blaze of Milward's fire.
It scuttled out of the shaped bolt and back into the shadows. The chittering came from the movement as its joints rubbed against each other.
“Balls!” Milward spat the expletive.
“You know what these things are?” Adam swung the sword up to block a swipe by one of the creatures. Sparks flew where blade met claw.
“They're called Chivvin, if I'm any judge of legend. They're not supposed to be here.” Another bolt leapt from his hand.
“You mean this ravine?” Adam leaned back to avoid a lightening slash.
“No! I mean this world.” Another bolt of fire lit the ravine. A metallic smell followed it. “These shapings should be destroying them. They only look like insects. They're from someplace other than our reality. But my power only sends them back into the shadows.”
Something began tapping on the door of Adam's mind. “Where do the legends say they come from?”
“The writings speak of them coming from the other side.” Milward sent forth his shaping again, but the brilliance of the bolt was markedly less than the ones before.
“The other side of what?”
“Dreams. These are the creatures of nightmare. They can only ... Bardoc's Beard! I'll fry his filthy stinking guts!”
“What?”
“They had to be summoned. There's no other way for them to come through. It's that Sorcerer's doing. That fool doesn't know what he's playing with. I'll flay his hide from his bones. I'll light his balls on fire and feed them to him whole. I'll...”
“Light!” The door to Adam's mind opened. He half turned to share his idea with Milward, and had to duck as one of the Chivvin leapt at him. From his knees, he swung upward at the juncture of head and torso. It felt as if he'd struck an anvil. A loud CHINK and a shower of sparks followed the strike, and the Chivvin flew over Milward in two pieces. The torso landed on its back, and the legs clawed at the air like a beetle flipped onto its back.
“Aaarrgghh!” Milward cried out and began dancing around. The head had latched onto the toe of his right boot, and the jaws worked, trying to chew through the tough leather. He pointed his staff at the head and sent it rolling into the darkness with a surge of energy.
He backed up against Adam and raised his voice to be heard above the increased chattering of the Chivvin. “You said something. What was it?”
“Light. It's the light that scares them. I'd bet my sword on it.”
Milward shook his head. “You may be right. I should have thought of it before, but now I'm nearly knackered. I doubt I could float a pebble.”
“What can we do, then?” Adam parried slashes from a group of Chivvin clinging to the ravine wall above him.
“You'll have to do it, lad. We'll have to chance it.”
“What do I do?”
“As you build your shaping, think of sunlight, pure, white, sunlight. Remember how it looks, how it feels, and put those memories into the power, and direct the shape of it to where you want it to go.” The Wizard looked around them. “In this case, I'd say everywhere.”
Adam concentrated as Milward had instructed. He thought of light, pure and blinding white, filling the ravine as he built the shaping. The pressure of the power grew and he opened his eyes prior to releasing it. There was a glow coming from his skin and his clothing. Small sparkles, like diamond dust, danced and skipped through the air.
The Chivvin closest to them edged back from the glow, their chittering now loud enough to cause pain. Adam had to shout to make himself heard. “Close your eyes!”
He released the shaping at the same time he closed his.
Irritation caused by the glow forming around the targets caused the Chivvin to back away. It grew brighter, and the irritation became pain. They increased their cry in defense, but the pain grew and then blossomed into agony. Blinding white radiance enveloped them and they began to break apart; smaller bits crumbling into even smaller bits that then floated away into the all-consuming light until they were gone.
“You can open your eyes now, lad.”
Adam opened his eyes. It must have worked. Milward didn't use that tone of voice unless he was well pleased about something. Adam saw no Chivvin left in the ravine. It had worked.
* * * * Cobain answered his master's summons. He found Gilgafed roaring drunk, lying in a pool of ancient, very expensive wine, and surrounded by a number of empty bottles.
His master waved him over with the loose-limbed movement of the very, very drunk.
“Ah, Cobain! He did it again. The brat destroyed them, even ... even my sh, shumminmumums ... summons failed. A toast!” He raised an almost empty glass. “A toast to failure.’ Hic’ A delicashee I've not tasted for nearly a ... a... a thousand yearsh.” He up-ended the glass and slurped loudly. He then brought the glass up close to his face. “Drained. Jush like me.” His eyes rolled back, and he began to snore.
Cobain looked down at the slumbering sorcerer. A glint off to the side caught his eye. He bent to see what it was and found shards of glass. It was then he noticed the mirror Gilgafed used for scrying. Its frame was empty, the backing cracked, and what remained of the beveled mirror glass scattered across the floor.
He looked back at his master. The Sorcerer lay in a drunken stupor, snoring and hugging his empty bottle. Completely helpless, he would know nothing for days. Cobain bent and picked up a shard of glass and looked at his master. Then he bent once more and began picking up the rest.
* * * * Milward leaned on his staff. It had worked. The boy was learning fast. Far, far faster than he had when he was apprenticing. The battle had completely worn him out, but his pride wouldn't allow him to ask Adam for help in walking.
“May I help?”
He turned to see Adam holding out his arm for him to take as if he were an invalid. Straightening his back, he strode off down the ravine, heels clicking against the stone. “No, thank you, boy. We've delayed here long enough.”
Adam followed the old Wizard shaking his head. He knew Milward was nearly drained, he could feel it. His perceptions were growing. If he strained them a bit, he could feel small snatches of shapings being worked. He didn't have the subtlety to be able to tell how far off or where they were, but it was a beginning.
The path continued downward at a steady rate, and the shadows grew deeper until Adam asked Milward. “Do you think I should try your torch trick? I can't see my hand in front of my nose.”
He heard the Wizard grunt. “First, it's not a trick. It's a shaping. Remember that. Ill-informed boobs call the things we do tricks. Secondly, additional practice wouldn't hurt, would it?”
“No, sir.” Adam began to glow, and the walls of the ravine came into focus. He felt a considerable relief in seeing the bare rock empty of Chivvin.
“You've got a good quality light there, lad, but does it have to be you all over? How about just a hand?”
Adam concentrated, trying to move the light to his right hand. “I can't get it to move. Sorry.”
Milward sighed. “Ah, well. I guess this will have to do. Mind you, it is a lot better than stubbing your toe in the dark.”
The ravine narrowed until there was just enough room for them to squeeze through with their packs. Milward had to unbuckle his beloved pocket belt with its many pouches and sling it over his shoulder.
He grumbled about Gilgafed while they made their way through what Milward called the narrows. “Egotistical idiot! What does he think he's playing at, a children's game? Didn't he realize what ... damn and blast him to perdition. Chivvin! What in the pit was he thinking?” And so on.
Adam listened to Milward's monologue with interest. The old Wizard had a marvelous grasp of language, and exercised his gift with paramount skill in describing the Sorcerer's many faults and failings.
At one point the narrows became too tight to traverse without inching up the wall and bracing the feet against one side and the back against the other and then covering the distance sideways like a crab.
They were able to get through the narrows without too many scrapes and bruises, but Adam developed a good strawberry on his right elbow, and Milward caught the back of his head against a protruding stone somewhere in the middle of the climb.
The Wizard felt the back of his head as they moved into a more comfortable area of the path. “Damn. It's gong to leave a knot. Of that, I'm sure.”
Adam felt his elbow gingerly. “Do we have enough water to make poultices?”
“No, and it's a good few hours before we reach Dragonglade.”
“I guess we'll just have to suffer through, then. Is your strength coming back?” Adam looked at Milward out of the corner of his eye.
“A little bit ... but after such a...” He stopped and gave Adam a suspicious look, then he headed on down the widening path, muttering about boys who are far too sharp for their own good.
The path's downward slope increased after a while and the ravine widened to a distance of yards instead of feet. The walls curved inward high above their heads, giving them the feeling of being in a massive hallway. The air grew moist and cooler as the sound of water rose up in the background.
A patch of light came into focus and Adam turned off the glow. He wondered why he felt none of the drain as Milward had, but that thought was swept away by what he saw as they entered the light.
“Behold, Adam, Whistle Bridge.”
Adam stood there, awestruck. What Milward had told him on the way was inadequate to prepare him for what he saw. The bridge was merely the centerpiece of a magnificent tableau as it stretched into the distance over the gorge that lay before them. An impossibly high waterfall lit by the sun fell from the gorge's cliff to the left of where they stood. Bushes and small trees stubbornly clung to the cliffs, sprouting from cracks and outcrops that jutted into the mist. White birds flew in and out of the mist, some of them skimming the waterfall itself. An incredible rainbow spread its arch between the bridge and the waterfall. The sounds of the falls, the birds and the breeze whistling across the bridge blended into an ethereal harmony. He could hear the small patter of drips of condensed mist hitting the stone, and the air had a sharp, washed scent like spring cleaning on a grand scale.
“Quite a sight isn't it?” Milward eased himself over to Adam's side.
“I ... never dreamed anything like this even existed.” Adam breathed.
“Well, it does, and has for tens of thousands of years. Some say it was here even before man came to be.”
The old wizard pointed to the waterfall. “No one knows how far it falls. The chasm underneath the gorge falls away from the cataract and gives it no wall to fall against.”
“What are those birds doing?” Adam pointed to them as they skimmed the falls.
“Fishing.”
“What?”
Milward smiled. “I know it sounds strange, but that is exactly what they're doing. They live off the small fish who come over the edge into the falls itself.”
“Amazing.” Adam stepped onto the bridge for a better angle to view the gorge.
Milward followed him onto the bridge. Whistle bridge was only wide enough for two to walk it side by side and he passed Adam carefully. “Heights don't bother you, lad?”
Adam bent to look over the edge of the bridge, resting his hands on his knees. A jewel lit fog hundreds of yards below obscured his view of the actual depth. “They don't seem to. Why?”
He didn't see the Wizard shudder as he bent over the drop. “Oh, no reason. Just asking.”
Adam straightened and shaded his eyes as he tried to see across the gorge to the other side of the bridge. “The other side's a long ways off. How long till we get to Dragonglade from here?”
Milward looked up at the light coming into the top of the gorge. “I had hoped we'd be there before summer's done. That's when the gate is shut.”
“Gate? What gate?”
* * * * The sun rose in the east. The colors played across the Alpha Wolf's muzzle as he watched the day being born.
His mate came up beside him and sniffed the early morning air. The plain below them was filled with wildflowers and the sounds of birdsong greeting the rising sun. “You think of the old one's packmate.”
He turned and greeted her. “I smell you, my mate. Yes, I think of the young two legs. He learned quickly the way of the hunt and I feel as if a packmate of ours is journeying away from us for the first time.”
“I, too, miss him, but he will do well.”
The Alpha Wolf's mouth hung open in a wolf smile. “He will.”
* * * * “This is the gate.” Milward rested a hand on Adam's shoulder as he pointed to the gate in question.
“Gate!?” Adam exclaimed. “This isn't a gate. It's a bloody edifice.”
He had his neck craned back so he could see the top of the gate. The dim light of the cavern made gauging the height of it difficult, but it had to be sixty feet if it was an inch. The designs worked into the metal of the gate were otherworldly to his eyes. They had a definite symmetry and balance, one side was a mirror image of the other, but the intricacy of the patterns was as complex as clockwork.
Milward sensed his young charge's bafflement. “Yes, I was struck much the same as you are now, the first time I saw them. I must have spent nearly a fortnight trying to trace the pattern. Used up every sheet of paper I had with me, if I recall. To this day, I don't know much about their history, maybe Mashglach will consent to tell it to you.”
“Why me if not to you? You're their friend.” Adam turned to look at the Wizard.
“You can never tell about Dragons, my boy. They have entirely different reasons for doing things than you or I or anyone else might, for that matter. Just because I'm considered a friend doesn't mean I'm considered a confidant.”
“This is another one of those times where I'm not sure I understand you.”
“Never mind. Once you meet the Dragons, you'll have a better understanding of what I'm talking about.”
Adam walked up to the gate. The metal shone a dull yellow. “Gold? Are these gates ... gold?”
Milward was looking in one of the pouches on his belt. “Hmm? Oh, yes. They're gold, and some other metal to give them strength. If they were solid gold, they'd collapse of their own weight. Now, where was that ... ah!”
Adam came over to see what the Wizard was pleased about finding.
“The key. I knew I had it somewhere. You don't use something for about a hundred years, and it gets hard to find for, some reason.”
“Uh huh, yeah.” Adam looked at the key the Wizard was holding. It was, if anything, remarkable in its plainness. It appeared to be made of simple brass with no engraving to be seen on either side. One end was a simple open loop and the other held the teeth of a standard door key. “This little thing opens that gate?”
“Seems a bit lopsided, doesn't it?” Milward chuckled, as he walked over to the joining of the two gate halves and turned the key in the lock.
A snick sounded and the gate doors began to swing inward in a silent, stately fashion.
The open gate revealed an intimidatingly large hallway lit by unseen lamps giving a soft natural light. The ceiling curved into an arch along its entire length with decorations and moldings of a size that give Adam the impression he was a mouse entering a giant's home. Inset into the ceiling arch about a hundred feet above them were highly detailed frescos of what appeared to be a timeline of Dragon history. One showed a large number of Dragons building something, using logs as rollers, with some of the workers pulling on ropes as others pushed the huge stone blocks.
“These paintings show the Dragons with hands.” Adam pointed one out to the Wizard.
“Of course. What did you expect, hooves? I told you about their legendary city, remember?”
“Oh, yes ... What is that thing?” Adam indicated a portion of a fresco that showed a three-sided platform of some kind floating in the air above a gathering of Dragons waving large, feathered fronds decorated with some of the same highly complex designs that covered the gate.
“I've never really been sure. This is one of those things Mashglach keeps silent about. It could be the craft they used to sail to the stars, but there is no method of moving the craft that I can see. It could be one of their legends. You'll notice it's hovering over the crowd there. It could be one of their ancient explorers getting a send-off.”
Adam wasn't convinced of the legend theory. All the other frescos showed events that had to be part of a living history instead of legend. Why would the Dragons have placed something fictional within a factual timeline?
They passed under more frescos that showed elaborate feasts and ceremonies. Scenes of tragedy and triumph where nature's immense destructive power was overcome and a flattened city rebuilt.
Adam noticed something missing from the history. There were no scenes of battle. He considered asking Milward why, but didn't want another lecture about missing the obvious, so he tried to piece an answer together from the frescos. An idea was beginning to formulate when they came to an interior door. The top of the door, though not as high as the gate, was still four times as high as a man on horseback. There was a knob and a latch, but unless Milward had a way of levitating himself, as Adam suspected he did, the knob could not be reached to turn it.
“Over here, Adam.”
Adam turned from his inspection of the door to see why Milward called him.
“We go in through here.” Milward showed him a keyhole similar to the one in the gate set into the lower right corner of the main door.
“They certainly are accommodating,” Adam remarked, as they passed through the smaller door.
“And why would we not be, young human? We are DRAGONS, after all.”
The voice was inhumanly deep to Adam's ears, resonant and full of subsonics, but with a quality that said welcome. He found he liked the voice and it fit the speaker like a well-tailored suit of clothes.
The Dragon door warden bent down to look at each of them closely. “Ah, it's that young Wizard. And you've brought a friend! Welcome. Welcome to Dragonglade.”

Chapter Twenty-One
Adam sat on the garden bench under the branches of a flowering Cherry tree. Across the plaza, Milward huddled deep in conversation with three immense Dragons, one of who wore a medallion encrusted with white and red gems around its edge. The center of it looked to be a firestone more than a span in diameter. Dragons’ coloring was different from what he'd expected. It seemed as if they'd been dusted with a fine coating of diamond that lay over their scales as minute prisms. A cloud passing over the park-like setting caused a dimming, as if an internal light had been extinguished. Orange and red, brown and yellow, and blue and green were the predominant colors, but each one had them in their own unique patterns.
The wings were incredible. They lay along a Dragon's back like cloaks, and the huge pectoral muscles that drove them gave the Dragons a rather chesty appearance, though at an average height of sixty feet when standing on their hind legs, the proportions fit.
Their tails were carried off the ground as a balance. No fins or series of ridges ran down the spine like those of the Firewyrm, though there was a change in the color pattern similar to the stripes in a tabby cat.
He found Dragon faces to be pleasing and very expressive. They had a somewhat horsy appearance, if a horse had a mouth that could smile like a man's. He had no notion of what Dragons ate, but from what he could see of their teeth they were probably vegetarian, for the teeth were blocky, like those of a cow.
Their forelegs had hands that could easily double as feet, and a few Dragons passed him walking on all fours. The six toes were as long as fingers, and had opposing digits on either side. Their claws were rounded, nothing like the set of daggers the Firewyrm sported back in the caverns, and the palms were long and narrow like the base of a foot.
He heard the word Garloc mentioned and saw the Dragon's heads nod. “Milward must be telling them of the journey to get here,” he thought.
The old Wizard made a gesture where he threw his arms wide as if describing an explosion, and the Dragon heads turned to look in Adam's direction. “Uh oh,” he thought. “What did he tell them about me?”
The Dragon with the medallion turned and started to walk over to where Adam sat. Milward followed by jogging alongside, hitching up the skirt of his robe in one hand.
Adam stood to his feet and stepped out from under the Cherry tree as Milward and the Dragon approached. He leaned forward and whispered into the Wizard's ear. “What did you tell them about me? Did you tell them about me blowing up the Garloc's?”
“He did, young Adam.” The Dragon spoke. His voice was deeper even than the one that met them at the door. “Though we sorrow at the loss of life, we rejoice at your triumph of survival.”
“You heard that?” Adam looked up at the Dragon. Its eyes were a rich, reddish brown, with golden flecks scattered around the edge of the iris.
The Dragon nodded solemnly. “Accept my apologies for listening in. It was inconsiderate, but I must confess, you have raised my interest, and I've not found anything of man interesting since I first noticed my young Wizard friend these few centuries ago.”
Milward raised his eyebrows at Adam, beaming like a proud father at the county fair.
“You find me interesting? Why?” Adam felt very insignificant in the shadow of the huge Dragon. The idea that such a creature would find him interesting was more than a little disturbing.
“The way you dealt with the problem of the Chivvin. I find your choice of solution ingenious. Other men, and most Wizards, would have used violence, and died. You used light, an element of life. Why?”
Adam thought about his meeting with the Chivvin and tried to bring up the reason why. He knew he reacted mostly by gut instinct. They were frantically trying to keep alive at the time, and it had just come to him, so he did it.
The Dragon waited for his answer with the patience of one whose life spanned thousands of years.
Adam noticed Milward was starting to fidget, so he tried to put his feeling into words. “I saw them being pushed back by the lightening Milward was casting from his staff. But I also saw it wasn't just the ones the lightening was striking, it was also those light from the flashes shone on. I thought that maybe a brighter light would move them back far enough for us to escape, so I made one.”
He waited for the Dragon to respond to his answer. He tried to give the same impression of patience the Dragon had given him.
The Dragon looked at Milward. “He has courtesy as well as reasoning. Your King chose well.”
Milward looked insufferably proud. “I thought so, too. In spite of his continual questions.”
“Ah,” Replied the Dragon. “Reminds me of someone I used to endure not so long ago.”
Milward winced.
“So,” Adam thought. “They have a sense of humor.”
“I smell magik.” The Dragon's rumble brought Adam out of his reverie.
The Winglord, Adam figured this Dragon had to the one, swung his snout around until it centered onto Adam's chest.
Adam found himself being the central object of a Dragon nose. He wasn't comfortable with it.
Mashglach sniffed deeply, and then he focused his gaze upon Adam and pointed with a forelimb. “What is on your chest, child?”
Adam looked down to where the Dragon pointed. “Just my rock. It's kind of an heirloom.”
“Let me see it.” The Dragon held out a front foot, palm up. Adam could have climbed onto it.
He took hold of the chain the amulet was attached to, and pulled it over his head. He placed the amulet into Mashglach's palm and waited. “What's going to happen now?”
“I thought there was something special about that stone,” Milward mused to himself.
“You have good instincts, Wizard,” the Dragon murmured. “Niamh. Your aid, if you please.”
The fattest Dragon Adam had ever seen since arriving in Dragonglade waddled over to where they stood.
Milward leaned over to Adam and whispered, “before you say anything, she's pregnant; near the end of it. She only has another twenty years to go.”
“Twenty years!?” Adam blurted out the exclamation before he could stop himself.
“We do not rush things, as mankind does,” Mashglach said, without looking up from his study of the amulet. He held it in his palm and carefully turned it over with the tip of a claw.
The Dragon called Niamh reached The Winglord's side and peered over his shoulder. “A magic talisman, interesting. Have we ascertained its strength?”
“Not yet.” Mashglach held up the amulet between two claw tips. “It smells ancient to me, what say you?”
Niamh arched her neck to sniff the amulet. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Not the gems ... no. Stone only ... the smell ... familiar...”
Her eyes opened with a click and she turned quickly, dropping her head so that she could look Adam in the eye. “Your name, child, and your lineage, if you please?”
“Huh?”
* * * * McCabe was a sneak thief and proud of it. His small stature helped him in climbing through windows and drains. He spent hours without number, perfecting his climbing techniques, for Grisham was a city of tall buildings, and if one intended on making his life's work robbing the well-to-do, one needed to be able to climb.
The poor and working class had to make do with single story huts and cottages. They were child's play to break into, but doing so was a waste of time. Besides, the poor made for scant play after the robbery. Their tolerance for pain was far too high to suit him.
McCabe was also a sadomasochist. He'd discovered his enjoyment in inflicting pain when still a toddler. There are some that say there is no such thing as a bad boy. The fools never met McCabe. They'd also never met someone whom enjoyed receiving it as much as he did. Over the years, he'd learned to discipline his self-pleasuring activities in order to remain alive and still able to function. He still limped slightly because of a night years ago when he discovered what he could do with his left knee and an ice pick.
He also liked children. They screamed so beautifully.
* * * * All cities have their areas where nice people do not go. Some call that place the Shades, the Mission District, Deadman's Alley and other names descriptive of the sort of existence experienced there.
Grisham had a reputation of being the richest port city on the eastern sea, and it was well deserved. Marble palaces graced the slopes above the sea, and the mansions of those whose wealth plied the sea lanes lined the bluffs along the shore. There were those who said Grisham's streets flowed with gold, and for some this was true, but as with all great cities, Grisham had its darker, seamier side.
Welcome to the Lowers. Beyond the hills of the wealthy lay a valley with a creek running down its middle. The creek carried the waste of the wealthy away from their noses as it supplied drinking water to the poor.
Welcome to the Lowers, a maze of twisted alleyways and spaces between rows of rock, mud and thatch huts that passed for streets of a sort. Here, the poorest of the poor lived, not thrived. Rats feeding upon smaller rats. No one kept pets in the Lowers; their neighbors ate them. Nor did the Watch venture within its boundaries, unless it was in force and in armor. The only safety there lay in being so poor and so wretched that others in the Lowers felt you had nothing worth stealing.
McCabe was born there, but he had only stayed as long as it took to develop his skills as a thief, and McCabe was a good thief. He was good enough that if he put his mind to it, he could have earned enough to purchase his own house, but his hobby kept getting in the way.
Tonight his hobby was a young girl, a child really. If she had lived it would have been at least another five years before her first blood. Her screams brought no response, except McCabe's pleasure. No one came to see who or what was torturing her. He would, on occasion, do his hunting in the lowers for that very reason.
McCabe looked down at the twisted body beneath him as he worked to bring his breathing back to normal. An urge came over him and he obeyed it. No one looked to see who laughed so loudly as he left the alley. They had their own problems.
* * * * The Great Library perched on the rough point of land across the strait of Grisham from the city itself. It clung like a giant growth of fungus to the rocks above the strait; its many additions adding to the illusion. A series of steps carved into the living rock wound their way to a single pier below. There, the occasional boat docked to unload a researcher, a member of the literary cast, or the rare Sorcerer in search of hidden treasure within the stacks.
The Librarian lived for his books. It mattered not who wrote them, they were his. He loved the musty smell of the stacks, and could easily lose an entire day sorting and cataloging the scrolls, vellums and books that made up his collection. Some of the writings in his collection were so well known to him that they seemed to have acquired personalities of their own. One was the collected works of Labad, the Philosopher King. A few of the vellums within the folio were impossibly rare originals, but his prize possession was a second-generation copy of Labad's prophecy. No one knew where the original was, or if it even existed.
He had a staff, of sorts, an ancient crone and a lame boy who someone once taught to read. The crone he allowed to stay in a small room tucked into the outer wall of the library in exchange for cooking and the occasional dusting of the stacks. The lame boy was to become his replacement when he eventually passed on, but before that day came, the boy had to memorize the contents of the library and where everything was stored. That involved getting to know the whereabouts of over a million pieces of literature and reference, including a working knowledge of what they were about. It was a daunting task, unless your master had a touch of the wizard within him.
The librarian sat in his personal chamber reading a letter from an old friend. It told him the friend hoped to visit next spring with his new apprentice, as well as something he would find of great interest. He was wished well, and then the letter wrapped up with some items of personal small talk that infrequent letter writers use to try to fill the page.
He set the missive back onto the side table and picked up his cup of hot Tisane. “Well, Milward.” He thought as he sipped. “What is it you aren't telling me?”
* * * * “You heard me, child. Your name and your lineage, surely you know that.” The Dragoness held Adam with her gaze as she voiced her question.
“My apologies, Niamh, but the boy is an orphan. His lineage is unknown to him, and he was named by an Aunt and Uncle outside of the Royal line.”
“Hmmm.” Niamh's mouth curved into a frown of deep thought. “The Philosopher covered himself well, for a human.”
She reached behind herself and plucked the amulet from Mashglach's palm. She held it in front of Adam; Milward hid a smile. The size disparity was beyond ludicrous.
“Where did you come by the stone in this trinket, child? I must know.”
Adam's mind reeled. The phrase Milward used, Royal line, had a portent he didn't like the sound of, and Niamh's interest in his rock brought back the feeling that forces outside of his control were guiding his life.
“I don't know where it came from. I've always had it. Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal said I had it with me when they found us.”
“Us?” Niamh pounced on the word. “You have a sibling?”
“My twin sister.”
“Yes!” The Dragoness’ shout blew Adam backward onto the grass surrounding the cherry tree.
“It begins, Wing Lord! It begins!” Niamh was practically dancing. Milward skipped back a few yards to be sure one of those huge feet didn't inadvertently land on him.
Mashglach looked at Adam closely as he climbed back to his feet. Fortunately, the grass was soft. “As I suspected, Niamh. The child has the scent of ancient blood, but what he does with it is his affair, not ours.”
Niamh looked at the Winglord. “I know our law, Winglord. Yet, I can still hope, can I not? I carry my child, the only one I will ever carry because of what was done to us ages past. Is it so wrong to desire to see the change come in our lifetime?” Her wings flexed with the passion of her speech.
“It is not wrong, Mother-To-Be.” Mashglach used the description as a title. “To desire our world healed is never a wrong thing. Please forgive my unclear speech. I rejoice with you in seeing the promised one's arrival. Dragonkind will aide him ... within the law.”
Adam could contain himself no longer. They were obviously speaking about him, and again he understood only every other word. “Excuse me.”
The two Dragons turned towards him. There was a large pink granite boulder set as an ornament into the lawn. He walked to it, and climbed to the top.
“I feel less tiny here.” He explained. “I have a few questions.”
Milward grimaced, “I knew it.”
Mashglach looked down at the Wizard. “Like, and yet unlike.”
The gentle rebuke was ignored.
The Dragon nodded to Adam. “Speak your questions, child.”
“Ok,” Adam had considered how to phrase what he wanted to know but now his brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton. “Uh ... you seem real interested in my rock. I think I'd like to know why first. It has something to do with my shaping powers, doesn't it?”
Niamh's expression showed more deep thinking. “Mmmm ... a part. It has a part in them. Though no more than any other Wizard's staff has.”
Adam looked at Milward accusingly. “You knew this?”
The old Wizard shrugged his shoulders and looked guilty. “I ... suspected it.”
“And you didn't tell me? I could have been killed...” He counted on his fingers, “At least four times, maybe more and you kept that a secret?”
Milward's temper flared. “Don't you take that tone with me. I only suspected what that stone was, and I certainly didn't want to confirm it, with you more of a danger to yourself as a Wizard than not.”
Adam yelled back. “Then you should have told me that, along with telling me about my rock. Maybe I could have used it to keep Charity from being taken. I should have at least been allowed to make my own decision about it.”
They were nose to nose. Adam had jumped down off the boulder to face Milward, and they appeared to be almost at the point of blows when a huge pair of hands reached in and forced them apart.
“The peace will not be broken. Wizard.” Mashglach turned his eye onto Milward. “You know enough of our law not to have done this. It was your fear that caused you to act, not your wisdom.”
Adam saw Milward shrink within himself as if he was a bladder someone had stuck a pin into.
The old Wizard looked up at Adam. He hadn't realized until now that he'd grown taller than Milward.
“I suppose I owe you an apology, lad. Mashglach is right. I was afraid of spoiling the prophecy's fulfillment, as if I could actually affect the course of such an event. You're correct, you did have a right to know, and I should have told you.”
He turned and walked away from Adam and the Dragons, his head bowed. He leaned on his staff as if needing the support. Adam anger changed, and he suddenly felt thoroughly rotten, as though he'd just finished kicking a dog. He started to go to Milward when the Dragon's hand stopped him.
“Give him his time, young Wizard. He needs to consider his path, as well as his part in this story.”
“Why'd you call me young Wizard instead of child?”
A Dragon eye dipped down level with his. “Because that is what you are now. Not human, not Dragon ... Wizard. Niamh's witness established what was suspected.”
“That's why he brought me here?”
“The old Wizard?” Mashglach's voice was a bass rumble that vibrated the ground beneath Adam's feet. “Yes, your instincts are right. We've known him for just these few centuries, but know this, young Wizard.” His volume raised slightly. “He is a man of strong conviction and honesty. His pride is both his weakness and his strength, and what he does, he does so because he absolutely believes it is the right thing to do.”
“Like keeping me in the dark.”
“Just so.” Mashglach reared up to his full height. “Ask your other question.”
“It's about the blood.”
Mashglach nodded, his forelegs crossed on his chest. “Ah, you wish to know my meaning when I spoke of you having the scent of ancient blood.”
“Yeah.”
The Winglord rested his head against his chest in thought, with his forelegs beneath his chin. “I had the good fortune to know the Philosopher King. I had come into the full of my Dragonright the millennium before. He had the wisdom to see the need for unity among the peoples; we aided in that as much as we could within our law. A noble Wizard. The best of his kind, his passing saddened me, and I nearly broke our law by joining in the storming of Pestilence.”
“Milward mentioned that when he told me about the magik war. He said the Dragons joining in ending it.”
“He erred in that. The war continues, but allow me to finish the answer to your question. A Dragon can smell magik, for it is built of the essence of our world and those who work it. And it leaves some of that essence behind. Your amulet stone, for example, carries the scent of the Philosopher's shaping.”
“Are you saying my blood smells of magik?”
Mashglach smiled a Dragonish smile. “You are a Wizard, are you not? It is not a sickness, it is what you are, and the scent of your blood is the same as what I smelled when I met Labad, the human's Philosopher King.”
Adam's brain was still reeling from the shock the Winglord had given it, when he settled into the apartment that the Dragons had assigned him. They wouldn't come right out and say it, but it seemed they thought he was a descendant of Labad, the one-time Emperor of the western lands.
“Are you settled in, young human?”
Adam turned at the voice. It wasn't as deep as the other Dragon voices he'd been hearing. Nor was the Dragon sticking its head into his room as large. He judged this Dragon to be less than half the size of Niamh or Mashglach, maybe no more than twenty feet when upright.
“The room's not too big, is it? I've heard you humans like your living spaces a little on the cramped side.” The Dragonet turned its head this way and that on its long neck as it examined Adam's apartment.
Adam sat onto the bed. His feet didn't hit the floor. Like the room, it was oversized. The Dragon craftsmen probably had a time of it building what to them would be miniature models and doll's houses.
“It's good enough for me. I've almost gotten used to sleeping on the ground.”
The Dragonet's eyes widened. “Tell me about the outdoors, please? Was it exciting? Did you see lots of interesting things?”
Adam smiled at his visitor's eagerness. “I'd be glad to, but I'd like to get something to eat first.”
“Oh, I can show where to get some food. You can talk to me on the way. I've never met a real human before, not to talk with anyway.”
The words bubbled out of the young Dragon's mouth in a steady torrent. Adam thought he understood how Milward felt sometimes.
The Dragonet led him down the hallway outside the door to his room. Doors like the one to his room lined the hall in both directions. They were all closed. The same arched ceiling as he saw leading from Whistle Bridge lay overhead with its series of frescos.
His guide saw him looking at the ceiling. “Oh, that is our memory painting. We have it on every hall in Dragonglade.”
“It's very well done. Did the same artist do them all?”
“Oh, no. Each painting was done to remember that moment in our history. I hear a new one may be painted soon.”
Adam wondered what soon meant to Dragons.
They continued on down the hall, with the Dragonet asking Adam questions about humans. His curiosity seemed boundless, and each answer prompted a new question. Some brought an exclamation of disbelief and a question for clarification.
“No! Seriously? You actually eat other living creatures?” The subject had moved onto diet and the types of food Adam liked.
“No, I don't. That would be cruel, the animal is killed first, then cooked, then eaten.” Adam realized he'd never thought much about that part of his diet.
“Eeewwww.” The childish sound from such a large creature caused a laugh that brought out questions about what humans found funny. Adam tried to explain the reason why he did so just then.
“Ah, I think I understand.” The Dragonet mused. “Dissimilarity and contrast, creating an assumed absurdity, thus invoking the laugh reflex.”
“Huh?” His guide sounded like Uncle Bal mimicking one of the instructors at university.
The Dragonet continued on unabated. “My teacher gave a lecture on that only a few decades ago. It was fascinating, but it is much more interesting to experience the real thing. Don't you agree?” The head swiveled around on the long neck to gaze at him while they walked. They came to a branch in the hallway and turned right.
“Here we are.” The Dragonet gestured with a forelimb. “The eating place.”
Adam beheld the largest room he'd ever seen in his life, and it was full of Dragons lying down to feed. Some were lying across from another diner, separated by, to only another Dragon, a small table heavily weighted down with fruits and salads. Highly decorated partitions divided the room into cozy individual areas where diners could eat and converse in private.
He saw no servers such as were found in the Pubs and Inns. Where did they get their food?
“You'll find no killed living creatures here.” Adam's Dragonet host to the eating place craned his neck as he looked over the room for an open space.
“Was that a joke?” Adam looked up at his host.
“It was. It was.” The Dragonet bounced a little in glee at Adam's question. “Statement of the obvious as irony. Oh, humor is such fun.”
“Before we fall over laughing, can you show me where we get our food?” Adam's stomach rumbled quietly.
The Dragonet cocked his head at the sound of Adam's stomach. “Oh, you are hungry, aren't you? Come, let's go this way.”
He led Adam in a twisting course through the partitions, past a number of fruit-bearing trees and berry bushes in neat pots lined with glossy ceramic tiles. Imbedded into the ceiling overhead, crystalline panes directed the afternoon's sunlight to the plants below.
On the back side of the interior orchard was spread a Dragon-sized vegetarian buffet with a variety of salads, fruits and some pale yellow bits in interesting shapes glistening with some kind of herb-flavored clear sauce. Plates sized for Dragon proportions along with smaller of a size Adam could handle lay stacked at the beginning of the spread.
His host reached into a bowl filled with the yellow bits, and lifted one out with a thumb and forefinger. “Here, try this, I think you'll find it delicious.”
Adam cautiously took a bite of the stuff and chewed. The flavor was strange, but pleasing. It had an astringent sharpness laid over a background of herbs. The texture was similar to that of the crust of an egg and cheese pudding, slightly chewy but not overly so.
He nodded to the Dragonet. “It's very nice. Can I have more?”
Adam was loaded down with a plate of the food. The Dragonet called it Pfasla. A loaf of sweet smelling bread, a large tumbler of a citrus-scented water, and a few strange looking orange fruits full of little spiky points rounded out his meal.
“Where do I sit?” Adam looked around for a table that wasn't occupied, but he couldn't see over the partitions.
“Ah ... over there.” The Dragonet led him to an empty table near the edge of the room.
The tabletop came up to Adam's chin, and he saw nothing nearby that could be used as a chair or stool. The Dragonet settled down onto his haunches and elbows, and proceeded to eat.
He looked up at Adam. “You're not eating. Is something wrong with the food?”
“No, it's the table. I'm not exactly Dragon-sized.”
“Oh. Oh, my apologies. I became so comfortable with your company that I forgot all about you being human.” The Dragonet reached across the table and lifted Adam onto its top.
“There.” He said with satisfaction. “You can lie down there and eat with me.”
“I eat better if I sit up while I do it.” Adam reached for some of the Pfasla.
“Really? Dragons use sitting for teaching and learning and sometimes for painting. What do humans use lying down for?”
“Usually for resting or sleeping.” Adam broke open the loaf of bread and tried it with some of the Pfasla. The bread was as sweet as it smelled, and mixed deliciously with the sour/herb flavor of the Pfasla.
He washed the food down with some of the water. “What's your name?”
The Dragonet paused with a handful of salad halfway to its mouth. “You wish to exchange namesign with me?” He sounded surprised and delighted all at once. “You will treat me as an adult? Oh, this is glorious!” He stuffed the salad into his mouth and chewed vigorously.
Adam thought. “Well, I suppose it's up to me to do it first.” He sat up straight on the tabletop and placed his hand over his chest. “Maybe this is formal enough for Dragon etiquette.” He thought.
“I am called Adam. Human, Wizard and swordsman, at your service.” He finished with a half bow from the seated position.
The Dragonet swallowed his mouthful of salad and sat up onto his haunches. He duplicated Adam's hand-over-the-heart pose and reclined his head in a Dragon bow. “Drinaugh, at your service and your family's.”
Drinaugh's face split in a wide Dragon grin after his response, and then his eyes widened as his stared at Adam. “Wizard? Did you say Wizard? Like the white-haired human the elders talk to? That sort of Wizard?”
“No, not really. The white-haired human is my Teacher in how to be a Wizard. I'm ... a little clumsy with my shapings.” Adam drank some more of the water. It had an aftertaste of sweet lemons and oranges.
“Oh?” Drinaugh picked up one of the melon-sized fruits and popped it into his mouth. It made a popping sound when he bit down. “In what way?”
Adam grimaced at the memory of the Garlocs. “I guess my powers are kind of strong, and I haven't mastered the technique of how to not put too much into the shaping.”
“Hmmm.” Drinaugh considered this. “So, what does a Wizard do? What makes a Human a Wizard?”
“I'm still figuring out what a Wizard does. I've learned a few things about what a Wizard can do.”
“Oh? What sort of things?” Drinaugh picked up another fruit.
“I haven't done much,” Adam shrugged. “I'm still learning. I've made some rocks explode, and I lit our way in a couple of dark places.”
“Um hmm. Um hmm. And what makes you able to do this ... shaping? Is it different from making rocks explode?”
Adam smothered another laugh by drinking some more water. “No, actually, shaping is part of making rocks explode, light being made for dark places, and a host of other things. You see, what a Wizard does is called shaping. Shaping the forces to do what the Wizard wants done.”
“Oh. Silly me.” Drinaugh giggled and reached for another fruit. There was quite a pile of them on his plate. “Please forgive my misunderstanding.” He chewed the fruit and worked on some more of his salad.
Adam busied himself lowering the amount of Pfasla on his plate.
Drinaugh raised his head again and looked at Adam. “Adam.” He said the name as if tasting it on his tongue.
“Yes?”
“What makes you a Wizard?” Drinaugh's tone had a note of longing in it.
“Well...” Adam tried to remember the essence of what Milward had told him all those months ago. “It seems I was born with it, Drinaugh. It seems everyone who becomes a Wizard is born with it, and if it is going to show, it does so when they begin entering adulthood.”
“Puberty.” Drinaugh's lips smacked as he chewed a fruit.
“Pardon?”
“Puberty, the start of adulthood. The change of life, where the child's body begins to metamorphose into that of an adult.”
“Is that what Dragons call it?” Adam used some of the bread to mop up the last of the Pfasla sauce. “I've never heard the word before.”
“I understand that both Humans and Dragons call it that. How can you be a Wizard and not know such a thing?” Drinaugh changed from fruit back to salad.
“I told you. I'm still learning how to be a Wizard. I don't know if you can tell, but I'm still growing. I won't be a fully grown man for a few years, yet.” He washed down the bread with some water.
“Really? Oh this is wonderful news!”
Adam didn't see what was so wonderful about it.
“This means we have a lot in common. I'm still growing, too. Is there anything you'd like to know about Dragons? I could tell you so much. Go ahead, ask me a question.”
Adam sipped some more water. “Something I've heard from all the Dragons on occasion. They mention the law. What is the law?”
“Oooo, such a question.” Drinaugh's eyes closed for a moment then opened. “The Winglord should be the one to answer such a question, but I'll try. I'm still learning how to be a Dragon myself, you know.”
“Isn't that something you're born as?”
“Oh, no. Being a Dragon means understanding and living Dragon law. Without that I would be nothing more than ... an intelligent beast.”
Adam said nothing; his mouth was full.
“The law teaches us how to interact within Dragon society. We are more a family than a community. Each Dragon cares for the welfare of the other the way a family is supposed to.”
Drinaugh indicated the eating place with a wave of his hand. “Take this place, for example. I have heard that humans must pay for their food unless they are capable of growing it themselves. Is this true?”
Adam thought about that. He nodded, “In most cases I'd have to say yes, unless that person wanted to live completely off the land, they'd have to pay for some of the makings, at least.”
“Not here.”
“Ummm?” Adam's mouth was full again.
“No one pays for food here. In fact, the human system of exchange would be against Dragon law.” Drinaugh looked smugly pleased.
Adam drank the last of his water. “Then how do you get any work done if no one gets paid?”
“Ah, That's one of the things that makes Dragon law so special. The Rule of Three states that there is the body, the mind and the spirit.”
Adam heard the wolves in the back of his head speaking of the hunt and the elements of nature. The Dragons obviously had a different view.
Drinaugh continued. “If those three are kept in harmony, then the individual, as well as the society they are a part of, is satisfied.”
“What does that have to do with no one getting paid?” Adam worked at the rind on a fruit.
“Why, everything, of course.” Drinaugh picked up another fruit and toyed with it with his claw tips. “No Dragon is expected to do a task they are not suited for.”
Adam shrugged. “So? That seems pretty ordinary to me. The alternative would be stupid.”
“There is more to it than just that, of course. It has to do with what you are suited to do in here.” He tapped his chest. “And in here.” He tapped his head.
Adam had a feeling he heard this part before, and he told the Dragonet so.
Drinaugh smiled. “See, I knew we had much in common. What it means to Dragons is that as I grow, I will show what I am best suited for by what I am best at, and by what I most enjoy doing.”
“You mean your talent?”
“Exactly.” Drinaugh flipped the fruit into his mouth. “According to the law, a Dragon's talent is to be supported and encouraged by the society as a whole. When that Dragon becomes an adult member of society, it is ready to add that talent to all the others being used for the good of the whole. And here is the most important part. The work is done because he or she loves doing it, not because they have to.”
“What do you want to do, Drinaugh?”
“I don't know yet.” The Dragonet mused. “I do hope it is something terribly exciting and interesting.”
“Ah, young Drinaugh. I see you found one of our human visitors.” The new Dragon voice came from behind Adam.
Drinaugh looked up. “Venerable Chabaad! Please, lie down and share our meal.”
Adam turned to see the one Drinaugh was speaking to. He was the first old-looking Dragon he'd seen. The diamond dust sparkle he'd seen on the others was almost gone, and the coloration of the old Dragon's hide showed white around the muzzle. The usual well-fleshed appearance of the other Dragons was replaced in this ancient specimen with thinness bordering on the cadaverous.
The old Dragon shook his head at Drinaugh's invitation. “Thank you for the kind gesture, young Drinaugh, but I have dined quite sufficiently already. Have you begun to satisfy your curiosity about humans?”
Drinaugh looked at Adam. “Oh, I'm just getting started, venerable Chabaad.”
* * * * Milward sat on his bed and thought. He was not the type for self-flagellation, but he did tend to be introspective if he caught himself acting, as he called it, sheep-headed. As he looked at it, he'd been acting sheep-headed since the day he met the twins. It had to be a problem of age. He was into his twelfth century, and they hadn't even seen their second decade, so of course he had to know better what they should and shouldn't know about their path, right? Wrong. Mashglach had seen so, and, as nicely as a Dragon could, had pinned him to the board like he was a bug specimen already dried and labeled.
Well, there was no way around it. He had to make it up to the lad. They had far too much to go through before their path together was finished. There would be no use in the journey being complicated by having this sort of thing between them.
His long talks with the Winglord had done nothing except solidify some of his fears. The Dragons smelled something in the ether that made them very nervous, and what could make a Dragon nervous turned his bowels to water. He had a feeling Gilgafed was wrapped up in this somehow, just like he had a feeling the twisted Sorcerer was involved in Labad's untimely death before the storming of Pestilence.
He had to do some more research. Perhaps the librarian would be able to help. The note should have reached his old friend by now, even with post delivery as haphazard as it was, and Adam still needed to become acquainted with those incredible powers of his.
There was a soft rap! On the door, followed by a Dragon snout pushing through the opening.
“The Eating Place is serving, Wizard. Will you be joining us?”
Milward snapped out of his reverie. “What? Oh, yes. Quite. I'll be right along.”
He followed the trio of adult Dragons along the spacious hallway to the Eating Place.
The trio consisting of Mashglach, Niamh and Harlig, the master instructor in Artisan Studies as well as the most sensitive Dragon to the winds of prophecy, chose a table near the door. As they were settling in, Niamh pointed with a motion of her head to the tables behind Milward.
“I see your young companion has already found a friend among our people.”
“Eh?” Milward turned and saw Adam sitting on the table he shared with Drinaugh. “So, he has, and with the ingenuity of youth, he has discovered a more comfortable way of dining here than levitation.”
“He may be more bendable than you are, Wizard,” Harlig said, after swallowing a large helping of Pfasla.
Milward swelled slightly with indignation. “I assure you, noble Harlig, that I am as limber as I was six centuries ago, and I shall prove it.”
He missed the amused glances the Dragons gave each other while he was climbing onto the table.
“Isn't that young Drinaugh with the Wizard's student?” Mashglach dug into a complicated-looking salad that smelled to Milward of hot spices.
Harlig looked over to the table. “It is, Winglord.”
“How are his studies in Elaboration Mechanics coming along?”
Harlig ruminated a bit while he chewed. Then he swallowed and washed the Pfasla down with a large beaker of a clear green juice. “Could be better, Winglord. I fear the young Dragon's talents lie in another field.”
“Such as?”
“He has an insatiable curiosity about humans and other peoples of this world. He will learn the basics of our law, but beyond that...” Harlig shrugged. “I believe we are seeing the birth of the first Dragon Ambassador since the time of your great gransire.”
Milward looked up from his plate. “Another sign, Harlig?”
Mashglach flicked an imaginary speck off a pale yellow summer squash. “We may see more. Many more, before this time is done.”
Niamh looked up at a sound. “They approach.”
Adam and Drinaugh were finishing up their meal when Adam saw Milward come into the room with the three senior Dragons. He hadn't seen the old Wizard for several weeks since that day they had quarreled in front of the Winglord.
He caught Drinaugh's attention with a wave of his hand. “I want to introduce you to someone.” He thought that would be a good excuse to enable him to approach Milward and apologize.
Drinaugh thought the introduction was a wonderful idea. “What fun! You do know his is a name of renown among Dragonkind?”
“No.” Adam thought. “He hadn't known.” Milward had, in fact, gone out of his way to underplay his relationship with the Dragons.
They were all watching as he and Drinaugh made their way to the senior Dragon's table. Adam felt their scrutiny, and a subtle pressure that told him someone was using a shaping.
“Young Drinaugh. How do you find your new experience with humans?” Harlig, ever the teacher, broke the silence.
Drinaugh's usual exuberance was little dimmed by the presence of the three. “Oh, I am learning so much. Did you know...”
He proceeded to relate to Harlig, Niamh and Mashglach all that he and Adam had spoken about over the last few weeks. Adam expected to see the Dragon's eyes glaze over in patient boredom, but they seemed to be genuinely interested in Drinaugh's tale.
“What did I tell you?” Harlig turned to Milward and the other two Dragons. “The next Ambassador.”
Drinaugh began jumping up and down, causing Adam to scuttle out of the way. Drinaugh was small only by Dragon standards.
“Ambassador? Me? Oh marvelous, wonderful and fantastic all at once. I'm to be an Ambassador. Did you hear that, Adam? I'm to be an Amba...”
He turned and looked at the Dragons. “What's an Ambassador?”
* * * * “...And that's why Drinaugh and I came over to your table.” Adam finished up his apology to Milward.
“Well, that smoothed things over nicely.” The Wizard thought to himself.
“It's nice to hear a young man willing to apologize to his elders.” He beamed a smile at Adam.
“I thought it was only right, since you apologized to me after The Winglord chided you. Besides, they told me how miserable you've been.” Adam kept pace with Milward as they walked back toward that part of Dragonglade where their rooms were to be found.
“Did they?” Milward frowned. “Well ... harrumpf, I suppose ... being a compassionate people, Dragons would obviously be very sensitive to such things.” He waved a hand in emphasis.
“Did you use a small shaping back when Drinaugh and I were coming over to your table?” Adam asked suddenly.
That startled the Wizard. He stopped and looked at Adam. “What? No, of course not. Why do you ask me that?”
“Because I felt one back there, just as we came up to the table.”
“Well, it certainly wasn't my doing.”
“Do Dragons use shaping? Can they use magik beyond being able to smell it?”
Milward stopped and thought, his forefinger against his upper lip. “Come to think of it, as far as I know, no.”
* * * * Drinaugh wiped a tear from his eye, as he watched Adam put the last of his things into his pack. “I wish you didn't have to leave us so soon, Adam.”
“Milward says we have to leave now if we're going to miss the snows before the next stop.”
“We could fly you there. I know I could carry you.” Drinaugh wrung his hands as he pleaded his case.
Adam closed up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. “I'm sure you could, friend Drinaugh. But I've got to take the long way there. I need the time to get to know how to be a Wizard, just like you're learning how to be a Dragon. It's something I've got to do. Can you understand that?”
The Dragonet wiped away another tear. “Just because I understand something doesn't mean I have to like it.”
Adam smiled, and put a hand on his friend's knee. “No, it certainly doesn't.”
Milward leaned into the open door to what was Adam's room. “You ready, lad? The day's nearly gone already.”
“I'm coming.” Adam hugged Drinaugh's thigh, receiving a gentle pat on the back in return.
The way out of Dragonglade that Milward chose was actually an old drainage tunnel put in when the Dragons first settled into the ancient crater. They had also put in a moat that circled the inner wall. The drainage tubes kept the moat from overflowing during winter and the rainy season.
There was little chance of rain right now, and the gentle downward slope added to the ease of Adam and Milward's walk to the eastern face of the mountains.
The inside of the tunnel was high enough to allow a full-sized Dragon to check it without stooping, and it was lit with a cool soft light that came from discs inset into the midline of the ceiling.
After walking for several minutes. Adam looked over his shoulder and saw that the entrance had vanished into the distance behind them.
“Milward?” Adam broke the silence.
“Yes, lad?”
“Something's nagging at me. It's been nagging me ever since I felt it back in the Eating Place.”
“Ah. You're still on about that shaping you felt, aren't you?” The Wizard nodded his head as he spoke.
“That's the one.” Adam admitted. “One of the things is, I felt it, and you didn't.”
“Probably another indication of strength.” Milward thought. “What's the other thing?”
“You remember you said you'd never heard of a Dragon using magik in a shaping?”
“Something along that line, yes.”
“What if it's just because it's something they wanted to keep secret? What if they really can use it? I remember something Mashglach told me when he let me ask my questions. He said the Magik War wasn't over. If the Dragons can do shapings ... why haven't they done something about it?”
Milward turned to face Adam. “He really said that? The war isn't over?” The Wizard rubbed his chin. “Well, you've seen Dragons up close now, so you know how cryptic they can be. You should also know why they won't do anything about it. Killing something is abhorrent to any Dragon. All life is precious to them, even that of the creatures of shadow. Bardoc knows why.” He adjusted his grasp on his staff.
“I didn't tell you this earlier, and I suppose I owe you another apology for that.” He grimaced. “Near the end ... what I thought was the end of the Magik War, the sorcerers weakened the barrier between the worlds, allowing some of the inhabitants of that world enter ours. Chivvin and Twills made it through before Labad and a few handpicked Wizards closed the breach. For a time there, we thought all was lost. The Twills alone killed thousands. An Embassy was sent to the Dragons to plea for aide in the fight. Both the Winglord and the Dragon Ambassador at that time refused on the grounds of Dragon law. Dragons must not kill. They were very sorry for our losses, but there was nothing they could do. Later on, when the last Twill killed the old Ambassador, all they did was grieve. The Winglord came close, I'll tell you that. He came very close to breaking their law, then.”
He sighed massively. “But in the end he didn't. It took over a hundred men to kill the last Twill, and while we were so occupied, an assassin's arrow found Labad.”
“You haven't forgiven him, have you?” Adam watched the old Wizard's face.
Milward's brow furrowed at the memory. “Forgive? Lad, it would be like trying to forgive the sky for the bolt of lightening that destroyed your house. No, forgiveness isn't something I can occupy my mind with. Mashglach was only following the path set for him, and he was incapable of veering from it. If he had, he would not have been a Dragon.”
He turned to look at Adam again. “What he said about the war not being over, that troubles me. They were nervous, and that means something terrible is brewing.”

Chapter Twenty-Two
Cobain dropped the cup of wine as the scream cut through the air.
He was on his feet in an instant. It had come from the Sorcerer's chamber. Months had passed since that day he found his master drunk and despairing. He ran through the halls of Pestilence with concern gripping his heart. Another scream, louder then the first, added to his speed.
As he burst through the door, another scream rent the air. This time it came from his throat. Gilgafed was in the grip of a ... a thing, its shape, amorphous and writhing. The black mass of it changed shape and density continuously in a stomach-churning way. Waves of inhuman lust poured out of it and enveloped Cobain. A lust for life, all life, to be consumed within its blackness washed through his mind and sent him reeling backwards against a shelf.
Gilgafed screamed again as he fought against the creature's grip. “Cobain! Help me!”
The Sorcerer's servant reached out and snatched a jar off the shelf. He threw it at the thing as hard as he could, but the jar passed through its substance as if through thick fog, splashing against the wall. Some of the droplets spattered back into the blackness, missing Gilgafed by scant inches.
It screeched, a hissing, grating sound that hurt the ears, and then it pulled in upon itself until all that was left was a small black blot whizzing about the room.
“The blood.” Gilgafed croaked from his position on the floor. “It's Garloc. Wave the blood at it ... our only chance.”
Cobain understood. He bent and picked up a dead torch, dipping the end of it into the Garloc blood, hissing and spitting on the flagstones of the floor.
The blot dove at Gilgafed, but swerved away before Cobain could hit it with his makeshift weapon. The end of the torch began to smoke under the corrosion of the Garloc blood.
Cobain stepped over his master, waving the torch back and forth, giving the blot no avenue back to its prey.
Gilgafed, regaining some of his strength, summoned enough power to send a shaping into the darkness. Another hissing scream filled the chamber.
The blot dove at the Sorcerer once more, only to be rebuffed again. It hovered before them for a moment, and then flew into the wall and disappeared through it, leaving a small stain and a stink of decay.
Gilgafed lay there on the floor of his study, staring at the wall, and then he began to laugh with an edginess that bordered on hysteria.
Cobain tried to help the Sorcerer up, but Gilgafed threw him off.
“Master. What happened? What was that thing?”
Gilgafed continued to laugh as he got to his feet and staggered over to a sidebar filled with various bottles of wine. He pulled the cork from one and drank from the bottle.
“Master?” Cobain tried again.
“A seeker,” Gilgafed said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You, my loyal Cobain, are looking at one who has set the stage for the end of the world.” He gave his servant a sweeping bow. “You are looking at one who was arrogant enough to think he could control the creatures of shadow.”
He drank deeply from the bottle. “I have opened a door to nightmare, Cobain. A seeker came out. Chivvin and Twill cannot even begin to compare to what it is capable of. The door is open, and not even Milward's brat will be able to close it.” He spat out the last part with a vengeance.
Cobain felt his knees go weak. The torch dropped out of his nerveless hands. “Master. What have you done?”
* * * * The blood hurt. This sensation was new. It had never felt pain before. In fact, it had never felt anything prior to its release. The shadow realm was a place of numbness, of non-being. Those of its kind who dwelt near enough to the barrier could sense the life on the other side. Many desired to taste of it, but the barrier was there, and frustration was the rule of the day; until now.
High above Pestilence it flew, extending its senses to the new world around it. The glut of life it sensed was overwhelming. A host had to be found so it could feed. There was also another need, that of revenge, but that could wait until it had fed and grown. The one who let it into this world would learn soon enough the folly of resisting.
The Seeker began its search while it tasted the pain, savoring it.
* * * * “The snow is getting worse, Milward.” Adam ploughed ahead while shielding his face with a forearm.
“I know, lad. I'm afraid we left too late to miss the onset of winter in these elevations.” Milward followed in Adam's wake. “At least Access isn't too far now.”
“Access is the name of the place we'll be staying?” Adam puffed with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other in the heavy snow.
Milward held fast to his staff to prevent his slipping on the steep slope. “That's correct. Access is a small mining village on the upward flanks of this mountain.”
Adam searched his memory. “Cloudhook, right?”
“You're learning, my boy.” Milward patted Adam on the back, dislodging a small flurry of flakes.
Adam slipped on some buried ice, and had to throw himself forward to keep from ending up as a man-sized snowball back at the bottom of the slope. He spat snow out of his mouth and rolled over to look at Milward. “Tell me again why we can't use a shaping to go there.”
Milward extended a hand to help Adam to his feet. “One more time. If my suspicions are anywhere near close to the truth we daren't try a major shaping because it would attract attention.”
“...And that attention would be from any creatures of the Shadow Realm that have been let into this world through a weakening of the barrier between the worlds.” Adam looked at Milward, and said, “You see, I was listening.”
He turned around and continued his trudge up the slope. The wind was beginning to slacken, but the air was still full of flakes, and his breath left puffs of steam in the chill air. “But I think we could at least use a small one to warm us up. My feet feel like blocks of ice, and I can't feel my toes anymore.”
Milward shook his head in resignation. “Ok, a small one only. Try to follow what I do now. It may be of help to you in the future.”
Adam felt the pressure of a shaping form up. He reached out with that part of him Milward called his Wizard sense, and attempted to follow the feel of what was happening. The shaping wrapped itself around him like a blanket, and he began to feel warm. A groan of pleasure accompanied the relief it brought to his poor feet.
Milward smiled. “Feels good, eh?”
“Oh, yes. I never knew being warm could ever feel so good.”
“Excellent. The rest of the way should be much more comfortable now.”
Access lay tucked against a bluff in a small high valley protected against the wind. Tall pines ringed the slopes around it, adding to the feeling of seclusion. Their boughs were heavy with snow.
They could see smoke rising from chimneys as they crested the ridge and looked down upon the village.
“It looks like a picture someone should paint and hang over their fireplace,” Adam said, as he readjusted his pack for the trek downhill.
“Yes, it is a pretty place.” Milward agreed. “It will be even prettier when we get inside, and I can turn off this shaping.
The Wizard's comment gave Adam pause. From Milward's tone the act of maintaining their warmth was causing a physical strain. This was another thing to remember about this thing called magik.
They picked their way down the zigzag path leading into the village. The snow wasn't as heavy in the valley and the path proved easier.
On the outskirts of the village, they came across a large man dressed in furs, with a team of wolf-like dogs hitched to a small wagon with skis under it instead of wheels.
“Well met, travelers.” His voice boomed out from behind a thick brush of red beard. “Where do ye be hailing from?”
Milward stopped and leaned on his staff. “West of the mountains, north of Firth Lake, friend. We are in need of food and lodging. Can you direct us?”
The man scratched at his beard with a mittened hand. “Food and lodging, eh? Well, now, you don't look like you eat much, Father, but this lad, here,” He pointed the mitten at Adam. “Looks like he could do serious damage to a pantry.”
Milward looked at Adam. “You're probably right, friend, but he eats no more than his due.” He straightened. “As do I. Is there a Hostel or Boarder that comes to your mind?”
The man laughed, causing a couple of his dogs to bark and wag their tails. “Well and merry met again. I like a man who can think on his feet. Eight houses down and two over you'll find a large house with the sign of a stag's head painted on it. That's the Inn. Speak to Westcott, he'll put you up.”
Milward stuck out a hand, and the man grasped it firmly. “Thank you, sire, we are most grateful. May I have your name?”
“No, you may not, but I'll share its knowledge with ye.” He barked out another huge laugh and slapped Milward on the shoulder.
The wizard staggered a little under the friendly blow, but managed to return the humor with a broad smile. “I see you're a man who likes a joke. Sire, I will gladly share knowledge of your name with you, and offer mine as tender. You may call me Milward.”
Adam was not prepared for the reaction Milward's name would have on the huge man. He fell to his knees in the snow and held his hands clasped before him in a pleading gesture.
“Spare me, mighty one, I knew not who I was joking with. I am a poor man, my Lord, but what I own is yours, if you but spare me and my family's lives.”
Milward looked disgusted. “Oh, get up, man. Bardoc's beard! I am so sick of this sort of thing.”
The man stayed on his knees.
Milward put one hand on his hip and looked at the man. He blew out his mustaches and gestured with his staff. “If you don't get off your knees right now, I will turn you into a rabbit for your dogs to chase.”
“Master! No! Please, spare me.” The man shot upright and stared at Milward with terrified eyes.
“What's your name, fellow?” Milward said resignedly.
“Nowsek, my Lord. I am the Mayor of this poor place, but all that we have is yours, if you please, my Lord.”
Milward pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Nowsek, my good man, all I want of your poor village is a hot meal and a warm bed for me and my companion, and I plan on paying for every single item we use or consume. You and your folk are going to learn that I am far more of a friend than a danger, if I have to beat the knowledge into you. Now, go away. Do what you were going to do. I'm too tired to try to teach you that right now. Go. Go.” He waved Nowsek away with his staff.
Nowsek, Mayor of Access, turned and grabbed the handles of his sled, calling the dogs to attention. With a click and a whistle they were off, their driver urging them to greater speed, as if the very Pit itself were on their heels.
Adam watched the retreating sled. “Would you really have turned him into a rabbit?”
Milward snorted. “Of course not! Transmutation is tricky business at best. Remember the pebbles?”
Adam thought back. “Uh ... yeah.”
“As complex as that pebble's makeup was, a rabbit is even more so, by many, many fold.”
He looked up at Adam sharply. “Can you build a rabbit? Can you describe each and every function of each and every organ, and how it does what it does?”
“Of course not. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
“Neither would I, and I've studied them for several hundred years. Come on, I want a supper that's been cooked inside, and one that contains some meat.”
Adam said with a smile. “I'd think I'd like some rabbit.”
Milward laughed all the way to the Inn.
Access's Inn was like others in the world. Its first floor held a great room for meeting, eating and carousing. The kitchen was set into the back, along with the living quarters for the Innkeeper and his family. A deep basement, reached by stairs behind the bar, held the brewery and the wine and root cellars.
A young girl came up to them as they entered the front door of the Inn. “Good evening, sires, my name is Ani. Do you need rooms?”
Milward walked over to the guest desk where a large book lay open with a quill and ink well before it. “That and some dinner, my dear. What is the fare this evening?”
Ani didn't even blink. “Venison roast and rabbit stew, sire.” She looked at Adam. “Will that be two for dinner?”
Adam graced her with a smile. “Yes, please.”
Ani returned the smile shyly. He was even better looking than the Blacksmith's son was. “Yes, sire. I'll tell cook right away.” She ran off into the great room and through the kitchen door.
Adam finished brushing off the last of the snow and walked over to Milward's side. “Why is she calling you sire?”
Milward finished signing their names into the book. A number of the lines had x's or thumbprints in place of names. “It's not a title of royalty. It's just this community's way of saying ‘mister'. You'll find it fairly common in a number of places.”
“Well met, sires.” The man behind the voice did not fit what Adam had come to expect the Innkeeper's mold to be. Rather than being large, fleshy and ruddy of complexion, this fellow was slightly shorter than he was, had a dark olive complexion, salt and pepper hair, and appeared to be a few meals shy of starvation.
He came out of the great room wiping his hands on his apron. “Well met. I'm called Westcott. Welcome to my humble Inn. Ani says you and your handsome young man, here,” he winked at Adam, “Desire to share our dinner with us.”
“If you please, sire Westcott.” Milward reclined his head in a bow. “What is the price for two dinners with drinks? Mind you, neither of us is a Lord.”
Westcott's smile was thin. “It matters not, good traveler. Lord or Peasant, all pay the same in Access. A copper for dinner, a half for drink.”
“They charge less in the city,” Milward demurred.
Westcott's smile broadened. “Then you may go back to the city for dinner.”
Milward dropped the coins into Westcott's hand. “Droll. Very droll. I hope your cheese is as sharp as your wit, and your ale as smooth.”
Westcott bowed them into the great room. “You will find my wit poor fare in comparison, sires. Poor fare, indeed.”
He showed them to a table, and then left for the kitchen, claiming disaster if he was away for too long. The great room was uncrowded, with only two other tables holding diners, who nodded at their entrance, and a couple of old men smoking pipes in a corner while they played a games of cards.
Adam removed his pack and sword, stowing them alongside the table. “A copper and a half for dinner and drink? That's at least twice what it's worth, if not more.”
Milward sat with him, leaning his staff with its wolf head against the table. “The Innkeeper claims the food is worth the price, we'll find out if he's telling the truth, soon enough.”
The food arrived in quantity and in short order. Westcott proved to be a man of his word. It was all delicious.
Adam looked up from his stew as Milward finished his slice of venison. “You must have been hungry. That's your third helping.”
Milward mumbled something around a mouthful of baked potato.
“What's that? I couldn't understand you.”
“I said.” The Wizard washed the potato down with a mouthful of Westcott's nut brown ale. “It's the result of holding that shaping for so long. Keeping us warm used only a little energy to generate it. Keeping it going for mile after mile, while hiking through the snow, mind you, nearly drained me dry. I wouldn't be able to move a salt cellar right now.”
Adam followed the example and sipped some more of his ale. “But I thought you said a Wizard draws power from the world around him, as well as within. Couldn't you use the power from outside to maintain the shaping?”
Milward shook his head. “You'd think it would work that way, wouldn't you? Unfortunately it doesn't.”
“Why?” Adam sipped some more ale.
“That, I can't tell you.” Milward spooned up some more potato, dripping with butter. “It just doesn't work that way. You try holding a shaping for an extended period of time, and you'll find yourself becoming more and more fatigued, as well as ravenously hungry.” He smiled. “That's why I'm making a pig of myself.”
Westcott approached their table. “Well, good travelers. How do you find my fare? Is it worth what you paid for it?”
Milward made a show of patting imaginary sauce from his mustaches and beard, as Adam sipped his ale. “Innkeeper,” he said, as he patted, “Your kitchen could have graced the court of Labad himself. That venison must have been born for the table, for this was its greatest triumph.”
Westcott beamed under the praise. Adam thought Milward was putting it on a bit thick. The food had been good, to be sure, but he had as good in Dunwattle, and also at Bustlebun's.
The front door of the Inn crashed open and every head turned to see Nowsek, his face streaked with dirt and blood. His mittens were gone and blood was on his hands. “The mine.” He gasped.
* * * * The latch gave way under McCabe's deft touch. It was almost too easy, “The Duke should have spent more on security.” He thought. “Grisham is a dangerous place to live.”
He lifted the window carefully, listening for any sign of a give-away squeak that could bring guards at the run. His luck stayed with him and the hinges remained silent.
The room he stepped into held enough trinkets to allow him to indulge in his hobby for years. His mouth watered at the thought.
He began moving about the room, picking and choosing among the jewelry and art objects for those most valuable, and still of a size easy to carry down the drainpipe. A sound from outside the room's only door stopped his hand halfway to a matching set of earrings, a necklace and bracelet set with diamonds and blood red rubies. Someone was scratching at the door. Time to leave.
McCabe tiptoed to the window and eased himself out of it backward, feeling for the pipe support with his foot. He found it after an anxious bit of waving around, and started down the pipe.
“A shortened visit.” He thought. “But what I have should do for a while.”
“Visitors usually arrive through the front door.” The voice had an oily quality, redolent with self-indulgence. McCabe liked its sound.
He turned smoothly and saw the guards that ringed him. His heart quickened in anticipation of a beating.
A goateed man dressed in silks and furs stood behind the guards, his enormous paunch straining the silk to its limit. He held out a gloved hand toward the thief. “I'll take my jewelry back now, please. If you resist, I'll have you tortured before killing you, If you give it back now, I'll just have you killed. Please resist.”
McCabe resisted. To his credit, three of the nine guards died under his hands, and two others would curse his name whenever the weather changed. The rest would remember a battered face that smiled more broadly with each blow until the eyes glazed over, and the body collapsed.
He woke to pain, delicious pain. McCabe was tied into a device that could tear the limbs from their sockets if tightened sufficiently enough. He was being stretched, nude, on a rack. He'd always wanted to try that.
“Ah, you're awake. You fought well for such a little man. Three of my guards you killed. You're going to have to pay for that, you know.” The man with the paunch came down the curving stairs into the dungeon where McCabe was being held.
He smiled at his visitor. The pain was making him giddy. “I know.”
The man walked around the rack until he faced McCabe's feet. “You stole from me. No one does that, and you shall live to know why.”
“Oh?”
The man scowled. “Impertinence will only make the pain worse sooner. I promise you.”
“Good.”
His captor moved around the rack and leaned over him. “All right, you fool! You will learn a hard lesson. I am Duke Bilardi of the royal house of Grisham. Remember my name and title, for you'll want to scream it when you beg for mercy.”
The Duke turned away from him, and pulled a small lever set into the stone wall. In a few minutes, a large man wearing a stained tunic with heavily muscled arms walked through one of the archways that led out of the dungeon.
The Duke presented him to McCabe with a wave of his left hand. “This is Dunn. He will be your playmate.”
McCabe took him at his word.
* * * * “What is the matter, Dunn?” Bilardi did not bother to look up from his meal.
“Beggin’ yer pardon Milord but this feller in the’ dungeon, he ain't normal, Milord.”
Bilardi still did not look up. He reached for his wine goblet. “What do you mean, not normal?”
“I think ‘e likes it, Milord.”
The Duke looked up; a forkful of spiced noodles inches away from his mouth. “Likes what?”
Dunn looked embarrassed. “Wot I do, Milord. ‘E likes it. I ‘wack ‘im wit da ‘ot irons, an’ all ‘e does is smile. An’ you shoulda seen wot ‘e did when I started on ‘is privates.” Dunn's eyes grew wide. “It just ain't natcheral, Milord.”
Bilardi sat back in his chair, his meal forgotten. “No screams? Not even a whimper?”
Dunn shook his head, the greasy curls swaying with the movement. “No, Milord. ‘E did grunt once, just before ‘e ... well, it were disgustin’ Milord. Just plain disgustin'!”
Duke Bilardi threw down his napkin, and rose from the table. “We shall see about this. Come with me, Dunn.”
The giant torturer followed his employer through the Castle hallways and down the curving stair that led to the dungeon. McCabe lay as he'd been left, a pincer attached to his scrotum, and a beatific smile on his face.
Bilardi crossed the foot of the rack, and moved to stand along McCabe's left side. He folded his arms over his paunch and nodded at Dunn. “Show me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Dunn picked a long-handled iron out of the brazier that smoldered next to a wall hung with the tools of his trade. Most of them wore encrusted bits as telltales to their use. Waves of intense heat fluttered in the air of the dungeon as he moved it to a spot on his subject's inner thigh.
McCabe's breath quickened as he saw the iron pass over his body.
Bilardi exclaimed, “Deity! The man's getting...!”
The iron hissed as it met tender flesh, and the smell of it filled the air. McCabe moaned and then screamed in release.
Bilardi fell back against the wall. “Did you see that? He just...”
Dunn nodded, his face a pasty white. “I know, Milord. It ain't the first time. I told yer. He ain't natcheral.”
He leaned over the gasping McCabe, and yelled into his face, “you ain't natcheral, you pervert! Yer should be ashamed of yerself!”
Bilardi pulled out a linen kerchief and wiped his face. He felt out of his element entirely. What can you do to a man who does that because of pain? Then another thought intruded. What could you do with such a man?
* * * * Circumstance sat on the stoop leading into the house his mother and Ethan got from the nice old man, Sammel.
“What do you think of your new home, Circumstance?” Ethan stood in the doorway behind him.
“It's nice enough, I guess.” Circumstance looked up at Ethan's approach. “I miss the forest.”
Ethan knelt down next to the boy. He could hear Sari and Jonas playing with some of the neighborhood children. Youngsters didn't worry about where you were from; they just wanted a playmate. “I miss it, too, but we were given little choice. It's easier to start over if you have friends to help you.”
Circumstance nodded. “I know.”
The level of maturity the boy showed again struck Ethan. Did his being part Elf have something to do with it? Elves only lived about half as long as humans did. They moved into adulthood faster. An Elf lad of about Circumstance's age would already be fathering children, but Circumstance had a human half. This made him really neither Elf nor Human, but a blend of both.
Circumstance broke into Ethan's thoughts with a question. “Ethan. Do you ever get the feeling there's something you need to do, but you don't know what it is?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have that feeling. There's something I need to do, but I don't know what. I've been asking myself, but I don't get any answers.” Circumstance rested his chin on his forearms crossed across his knees.
Ethan turned his hands palm out. “I don't know, son, it could just be the change coming on you. You're turning from a boy into a man. That can cause some mighty strange feelings to go through you. It did for me.”
Circumstance shook his head up and down. “Maybe.” “But I don't think that's it.” He thought.
Ethan stood up and brushed off the knee that had been on the floor. “Tell you what. You let me know if something comes to you, and I'll see what I can do to help. Pact?”
Circumstance nodded. “Pact.”
“Good. Now I've got to get back to that new wheel, or Ellona's going to wear herself out on those spindles I made her. Don't forget to get yourself some lunch.” Ethan turned to go.
“I won't.” Circumstance replied. “It's to the East and South of here.” He thought. “But what is it?”
Ethan picked up the finishing rasp and put it to the Flyer he was working on.
Nearly done.” He thought to himself, “And it looks even better than the first one.”
Sammel had been kind enough to lend Ethan some of the wood for the new wheel in exchange for the use of his services. The amount of businesses his old friend had fingers into was surprising. Before, he'd just been a friendly face and someone to help occasionally as a Watchman, and now ... well, it was obvious Sammel had a lot more ambition than he did. Taking care of Ellona and the children was fulfilling enough.
Ellona came into the workroom with a smile across her flushed face. “She's been running.” Ethan noticed.
“They want to buy my yarn.” She cried.
Ethan felt proud and pleased all at once. “Who?” He asked.
“The weaver's shop and that place on Tweed Road where they do the knitting. They both said they'll take all I can make. They compared it to what they haul in from the Wool Coast. Oh, Ethan, I'm so happy.” She threw her arms around him and squeezed.
“You should be.” He said as he looked down into her eyes, returning the hug. “You deserve every bit of happiness that comes your way.”
She leaned her head against his chest and hugged him even tighter. For Ethan, that was answer enough.
* * * * The Librarian opened the ancient chest with reverence. The dust of ages covered it, but even that he treasured. Labad himself may have run his finger through that dust. He refused to allow his housekeeper to clean it. It had been with him for over a hundred years, but the chest came to him locked and without a key. Then, wonder of wonders, a key had been found by his young assistant in a long forgotten room hidden in the far back wall of the library.
The hinges creaked with age. “Just like me,” he thought, as he lifted the lid. The smell of ages wafted out of the interior. He looked inside to see a single roll of parchment and more dust, but nothing else.
His hand trembled as he reached in to lift out the parchment. It bore the seal of the Dwarf family that tradition held to be the caretakers of the Philosopher King's legacy. It could be the original itself, the vision he wrote in his own blood.
He cracked the seal with great care, fearful that the old adhesion might tear the parchment itself. As he unrolled the ancient parchment hope faded, but only slightly. The writing on the parchment was only a copy of Labad's prophecy, but it was an original copy, faithfully made by an attendant Dwarf, probably with the original right next to it.
He held his new treasure with ginger hands as he called for his assistant. “Felsten!”
It would take the boy time to get there, so the Librarian settled down in the dust to look over his prize.
* * * * “The mine.” Nowsek collapsed into the arms of Westcott and his daughter.
Adam rose to go see he if could help, but Milward put a hand on his arm to stay him. “We can hear from here just fine, lad. Let's see what develops.”
Adam sat back down and waited with the Wizard. One of the old men playing cards at the time ran out the door as soon as Nowsek said, “the mine.”
A woman burst through the door and fell to her knees next to Nowsek. “Petron,” The name came out in an anguished whisper. “Is he...?”
He reached up and stroked her cheek. “Maibell...”
Milward arose from the table and joined the group around the exhausted Nowsek. The Mayor of Access's eyes widened in recognition when the Wizard bent over him.
Maibell was becoming hysterical. She grabbed Nowsek's shoulders and shook him. “Husband! Our Petron! Is he dead? Our Petron!”
Westcott pulled her away, and handed her over to his wife, Sheriwyn, who comforted the sobbing woman.
Milward reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a pod that he cracked under Nowsek's nose.
The Mayor inhaled and then broke into a fit of coughing.
Milward patted him on the back. “It'll be all right, sire Nowsek. The Angeimyn pod will give you your strength and your senses back in short order. Can you tell us what happened?”
Nowsek shook his head. “Wfff! Oh, my head is clearing. You know your stuff, Wiz ... umph.”
When Milward took his hand away from the Mayor's mouth, Maibell was sobbing in the background. “Enough of that, Nowsek. What can you tell us about the mine?”
Adam had finished his ale, and now stood behind Milward.
“A cave-in. I don't know how far back it goes. I tried to dig a way in, but the rocks are too large. I couldn't shift ‘em. I ... failed.”
“You weren't going to a disaster when we first met you. Were you going to the mine to work it? Do you know how it's built? What about the type of rock around it?” Milward peppered him with questions.
Nowsek accepted the brandy Westcott held out for him. He talked as he sipped. “I had supplies for the miners in my sled. Food and drink for their dinner break.” His eyes shifted to where his wife sat crying into Sheriwyn's shoulder. “Our boy, Petron, works ... worked there...” His voice trailed off.
Milward patted the Mayor's shoulder. “Don't think like that, sire Nowsek. There's always hope.”
“What do you mean? How can you...? Oh, I see. Sire, if you do this, you will have my eternal gratitude, and that of the village, as well.” Nowsek grabbed Milward's hand.
The Wizard shook off the Mayor's grasp and stood up. “Never mind that! Show us the mine.”
Nowsek surged to his feet. “At once, sires. At once.”
Westcott reached behind a counter and pulled out a heavy coat. “I'm going with you.”
They stepped out onto the front porch of the Inn and into a crowd of people gathered holding picks, shovels and other digging tools.
Milward murmured to Westcott, “looks like you're not the only one.”
Adam leaned forward and spoke quietly in Milward's ear, “what are you going to do? You said you were too weak to even do a small shaping.”
Milward whispered back, “I'm not going to do anything. You are.”
In answer to Adam's blank look, he said, “think of it as some long overdue practice.”
The mine sat perched on the top of one of the rocky slopes to the north of the village, a good two-mile hike up-slope. Tailings from the mine spread down the face of the slope in an ever-expanding wave.
Single logs, hand milled into timbers roughly two feet square, formed the entrance to the mine. A pile of dirt and gravel, intermixed with huge stones filling it, told the tale of the disaster that Nowsek had spoken about.
The men of the village rushed forward and began digging at the stuff of the cave-in, but the size of the stones hindered them. Most were far too large to shift, even with more than two men working on each one. Their breath showed as puffs of steam in the air.
Some of the women of the village lent a hand in the digging, with the rest huddled in a group, lending support to those whose sons or husbands lay trapped in the mine.
Milward sidled over to Nowsek, who was struggling with two other men to roll away one of the boulders. “Tell them to step away from the opening.” He spoke for Nowsek's ear alone.
The Mayor nodded once and bellowed to the other diggers. “Step back! Back I say!”
The would-be rescuers stopped their digging and looked at the Mayor. His wife pushed through the crowd and latched onto his coat front. “Why are you stopping? Our Petron is in there! You have to get him out! Get him out now!”
Milward reached into the middle of Nowsek and his wife and pushed them apart. The effrontery of the act shocked Maibell into silence.
The Wizard nodded. “That's better. Now, if you'll just step back a bit more, we'll get this rescue done up proper.”
Maibell recovered from her shock and screamed at him, “how are you going to do it, old man? With Wizardry?”
Milward's calm expression and her husband's white face gave Maibell her answer. She shrank back against Nowsek, her face a mask of terror. “Please.” She drew the word out as a long, terrified sob. “Spare us, oh mighty one. I meant no disrespect. We're poor people.”
She reached out to clutch at Milward's robes, but he pulled back with an expression of distaste on his face. “Oh, get hold of yourself, woman! I am not a sorcerer; I'm a Wizard. I'm The Wizard, Milward, and if you people will be patient for a little while, my young friend and I will open a way for your people to get out.” He pointed at the mine entrance for emphasis. “Do you want them out, or not?” His voice rang across the face of the mountain.
The crowd did not answer but, to a man, they all stepped back from where they stood by a couple of paces.
“Good, very good.” He reached over and drew Adam to him. “Now's your turn, lad. Remember the bridge I made back then after you blew up the Garlocs?”
Adam nodded. How could he forget it, with Milward reminding him of it every chance he got?
Milward rubbed his hands together briskly. “Good. I want you to picture a straw thin tube with that same stiffness. Have you got it?”
Adam nodded and reached out with the power. He felt the pressure of the shaping build in the back of his skull.
“Right. Now insert the tube into the center of the cave-in. Try to feel for the end of the collapse as you push it through. You want it to extend beyond both sides. But not too quickly, now.” Milward cautioned. “You don't want to run through any of the folk we're trying to rescue.”
Adam reached out with his senses as he pushed the magik stuff of the tube through the rubble blocking up the mine. “I'm through,” he called out to Milward. “It went through pretty easily.”
The Wizard grunted. “A good sign. Hopefully, it means the collapse is only within the length of the entrance itself. If they were working inside the mine proper, they should all be ok.”
“Get off me, woman!” Milward tried to disentangle himself from the thankful embrace of Nowsek's wife.
“You still have the tube held in place?” Milward said, as he handed Maibell back to Nowsek.
Adam could feel a small strain building with the pressure of the shaping. “It's still there.”
“You're doing fine, lad, now begin expanding it, slowly now, just like when you pushed it in. We don't want to collapse the rest of the mine on top of them.”
Adam willed the tube to expand. He could feel it forcing the stuff of the cave-in back into the walls and ceiling of the mine. The strain increased.
Behind him someone yelled, “Bardoc save us all! Look at that! The mouth is opening!”
Milward murmured in his ear, “pay no attention to them, Adam. You're doing just fine. Nice and easy now, nice and easy.”
Adam concentrated on pushing the material back. He was beginning to understand what Milward had been talking about when he spoke of the price of shaping. The strain and pressure continued to build as he eased the opening into the mine wider and wider. He tried pulling in more power from the land around him to compensate.
“Good lad. You're doing well.” Milward encouraged him.
A man's head emerged from the gloom inside the tube. A woman screamed. “Tyndale! Oh thank Bardoc.”
A younger voice called out at the same time. “Father!”
Another head followed the first one, and then another, with voices from the crowd yelling their names. “Rober. Thayil. Hergin. The names went on as Adam held the tube open. He was beginning to sweat, even though the air was freezing.
Finally, the heads stopped appearing, and he looked at Milward.
The Wizard shook his head. “Can you keep it open a little longer? Just to make sure?”
“I'll try, but it's getting harder to hold it.” A bead of sweat ran into his eye.
Nowsek and his wife held each other, their faces masks showing and grief mingled as one. Finally, another head appeared and merged into the shape of a man bent over and looking behind himself. As he emerged from the tube, the people could see he was dragging another miner.
“Petron!” Maibell ran across the space between the crowd and the entrance, and enveloped her son into her ample bosom while smothering him with kisses.
Milward was at the boy's side instantly. “Are there any more of you in there? Come, boy. Answer quickly! Are there?”
Petron struggled out of his mother's embrace. There was a scratch on his forehead and blood on his chin. “No, sire. Me an’ Duggin were the last.”
Milward deflated with a sigh. “Thank Bardoc for that. You can release the shaping, Adam. They're all out.”
Adam did so, and slowly collapsed face down into the snow.

Chapter Twenty-Three
The Seeker skimmed over the surface of the northern plains, tasting with its senses the small lives that floated over the creeks and streams. It passed over some larger lives that interested it briefly, but not enough to cause it to inhabit them.
Food was taken by absorbing some of them that came across its path while it sniffed the ether and drifted in a winding, roughly Southern direction along the shores of Northlake. Its power allowed it to do so on a subsistence level, only. The true feast would come when it found its host.
* * * * Circumstance wrapped the bricks of cheese carefully in the scraps of cloth he'd collected over the past week. The cheese made up the last of the supplies he had for his journey.
The restlessness he'd been feeling had grown into a driving need to travel. He hadn't yet learned exactly where he needed to go, but he did know it was to the South and to the East.
He'd decided not to tell his Mother or Ethan about his leaving. Mother would cry and Ethan would be understanding, and in the end, he would be forced to put off what he had to do now.
“Whatcha doing, Circ?” Jonas stood in the pantry door, his tattered blanket trailing in his right hand.
Circumstance finished wrapping the brick of cheese. With that one, he had two of each color, white and yellow. He preferred the sharp tang of the white, but he didn't want to leave the house bare of one over the other.
He looked at his little brother. “I'm taking a trip, Jonas.”
Jonas’ eyes lit up. “Kin I go, too?”
The question brought him a sad smile. “No, I'm sorry, but it's something I have to do by myself.”
“It's ‘portant, huh?” Jonas’ question was half statement of fact.
“Yes, yes, it is.” Circumstance hefted the backpack and slipped his arm through the straps. Ethan's teachings about the wild and its ways scrolled through his memory. They would all be carefully gone over as he journeyed. He hoped to be proven worthy of the time his surrogate father had spent with him.
“An’ I can't go.” Jonas looked somber as he struggled to grasp the adult concept.
Circumstance knelt and put a hand to each of Jonas’ shoulders. “I need you to look after your sister for me.” He knew the request was a trite one, but it worked on his little brother as he expected.
Jonas puffed out his chest and nodded his head, silently promising to do his best with his new responsibilities.
“Good.” Circumstance looked out the window in the front room of the row house. The crescent moon was climbing above the rooftops. “I've got to go now. You head back to bed and get some sleep.”
“Bye, bye Circ,” Jonas said, as his older brother eased himself out the front door and closed it quietly behind him.
“Circumstance. Time to wake up.” Ellona knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer, so she knocked again. “He must be sleeping deeply.” She thought.
“Come on, sleepy head. Rise and shine.” There was still no answer, so she eased open the door. She didn't want to startle the boy awake.
“Ethan!” He started awake at her anguished scream, and then ran down the hallway in the direction it came from.
He found Ellona frantically searching through Circumstance's room; a part of his mind registered that the boy's bed was made.
She looked up as he entered the room. “He's gone! I've looked everywhere. I thought he was just sleeping in, but he's gone!”
Ethan crossed the room in two strides and took her in his arms. She clung to him desperately, digging her nails into his shoulders.
“I've looked everywhere. Some of his clothes are gone, and so is his pack.” She sobbed out her fear into his chest.
“He said it was ‘portant.”
They turned and saw Jonas in his nightshirt, standing in the hallway.
Ethan dropped to his knees and looked Jonas in the eyes. “Did he say where he was going? Try to remember now, Jonas, it is very important that you remember.”
Jonas screwed up his face as he thought. “Circ said it was ‘portant.”
“What was important?” Ethan pressed gently for details.
“What he hadda do.” Jonas elaborated with a tone of satisfaction.
Ellona half sobbed in exasperation, and Ethan let out his breath in a slow three-count. This was going to be like searching for diamonds in a coal mine, but he had to find out where Circumstance was going. The boy had mentioned feeling that there was something he had to do. Now he was off somewhere, trying to do it.
“Listen carefully to me, Jonas.” Ethan worked to keep his voice calm. “Did he say what it was he had to do?”
Jonas screwed up his face again and chewed on the end of his thumb. “No.” The answer took a time coming out. He followed it closely with. “But he said I hadda do somethin’ for him.”
“What was it, Jonas?” Ellona crouched down next to Ethan. Her insides felt as if a part of her had been ripped away.
Jonas’ face split in a wide grin of brotherly pride. “He said I hadda take care of Sari for him.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Ethan tried for something to give him an edge in his search.
“No, sorry,” Jonas yawned hugely. “Kin I have some breakfast?”
Ellona's sigh spoke volumes.
Ethan squeezed her arm and stood. “Sure you can. Come with me to the kitchen.”
He looked at Ellona as Jonas ran to get ready for his breakfast. “I'll find him, you can be sure of that.”
Ellona smiled a sad slow smile. “I know.”
* * * * Circumstance balanced himself against the trunk of the tall pine as he shaded his eyes against the rising sun. Cloudhook stood as a triangular silhouette on a horizon outlined in fire. The voice inside him told him he still had many days of walking before he made it to the mountain. It was the same voice he'd begun hearing when the villagers had burned his mother's cottage.
He had his direction now, so he turned on the branch and climbed back down. His pack lay in the tree, stuffed firmly into a v-shaped crook. He lifted the pack out of the crook and held it in one hand, as he hung from the branch with the other. The drop was not too far, so he wasn't afraid of breaking something when he hit the ground.
Once out of the tree, he set himself toward Cloudhook and began walking.
The inner voice lectured him on what he saw as he walked. This plant was good to eat. That one was not. This tree's bark would ease the pain of a burn. That one held fibers long enough to use as fishing line or a bowstring in a pinch, and so on. He'd long since ceased wondering where it came from, and the unease he'd first felt diminished with each mile closed between he and the mountain.
Over the past week, Circumstance discovered he knew how to rig a gig for trapping fish and a snare for small game. His father and Ethan had both taught him many things, but those were not among them.
The cold nights did not bother him as much as he thought they would. His elven part seemed to embrace the coolness like an old friend.
His path began to climb and the pines grew thicker. Soon he was walking on a deep cushion of needles. The air held the sharp, musty scent of aged pine. A number of the mushrooms folk called Gnome's Footstools poked their golden brown tops through the floor covering. He stopped long enough to pick several of them. They would cook up nicely with a few wild potatoes and some fish.
The rise in the land crested after a quarter mile and then it fell away sharply. Circumstance checked the ground to either side of where he stood. The one to the right looked to be the easiest for climbing, and the valley below the rise appeared idyllic. A slow-moving stream ran its length, with the majority of the valley land to the north of the stream. Broad-leafed trees grew along the water, and he could see ripples where fish sampled bugs that came too close to the surface.
The pines behind him held a quiet within, as if nature considered their stand to be a sanctuary for solemn meditation, whereas the valley Circumstance descended into was nature at full volume. Songbirds sang their melodies over the drone of the cicadas in the trees and competed with the pipes and croaks of the frogs in the stream.
He decided the day was shaping up to be a nice one for a walk, and the last of the morning's fog was already burning off when he chose a fishing spot. Shallow rapids fed its bubbles into a calm eddy lined with cattails and rushes. An excellent spot for a nice fat trout, his inner voice told him. All he needed was a few of the bugs flying over the stream, and something he could carve into a spear.
An orb weaver with a bright yellow and black body had her web stretched between two of the cattails. A number of mayflies were stuck to it. He helped himself to a few while her attention was occupied with wrapping up some of the others for a later meal.
He bowed to the owner of the web after taking his bait. “Thank you, my lady. I will try to return the favor, if ever I can.”
The spider continued to work on her pantry and ignored Circumstance's good manners.
Finding something suitable as a fishing spear proved to be more work than finding bait. None of the broadleaf trees were the type that grew straight limbs, including their saplings. He was beginning to think he would have to try his hand at setting a trap in the rapids, when the cattails caught his eye. Some of their reeds were quite large, nearly man-high. Perhaps all he had to do was carve a spearhead, instead of an entire spear.
Strapped to his thigh was a small, but very sharp, knife. Ethan's lessons in woodworking would serve him well right now. He waded into the stream and cut a reed as thick as a large man's thumb, and long enough to more than serve his purpose. The day was warming up, so he would dry well enough. He selected a piece of windfall whose shape suggested enough of a point and finished it off with the knife.
The last few inches of the point were carved into a plug that would fit into the end of the reed. A half dozen blades of the tall water grass functioned as the wrapping that secured the point to the reed. A few casts into the soft ground proved the spear's worthiness.
So, he had the tools for fishing. Now, if the fish would only cooperate.
* * * * “He's been by here. I'm sure of it.” Ethan ran his finger along the depression he read as one of Circumstance's boot prints. The boy walked like an Elf, toe first, but without the crouch the full bloods preferred.
This was a lucky find. Circumstance had an uncanny ability to disguise his tracks, and he seemed to do it without effort, as if it was second nature. Ethan had spent a frustrating two days seeking some sign of Circumstance's trail. The footprint under his finger was a welcome change in the pattern.
The boy was smart. He had to give him that. Circumstance left early enough in the morning that even the dairy farmers were still sleeping. No one had seen him walk out of Berggren, not even the dogs.
He stood up and walked slowly, head low, following the footsteps. Sometimes he had to look carefully, as Circumstance's feet found rocks, pieces of bark, patches of springy grass or anything else capable of hiding a footprint. The prints followed a track leading to the southeast, mostly south. There wasn't much between Berggren and that direction other than Cloudhook and its few small villages. Or ... he could possibly be heading toward Grisham. But the track would have to be more easterly. At least, it would be, if the boy were going there.
Ethan straightened and made a decision. He would mark this place in his memory and then push on in the direction of Cloudhook. If he found no tracks after a couple more days he'd return and start following these again, even if they turned out to not be made by Circumstance. He didn't think he'd be back this way again.
* * * * Adam woke to soft hands caressing his cheek. Without thinking about it, he leaned into the caress and groaned with comfort.
“He's awake.” The voice was feminine and softly contralto. Adam wondered if she looked like her voice.
He opened his eyes to see a heart-shaped face framed with shoulder-length red hair. The eyes were large, deep green and adorned with long, lush lashes.
She saw him looking at her and smiled, revealing small perfect teeth. “Good morning,” she said, blushing slightly.
“Good morning,” he said, and then he remembered. “The mine! Did everyone get out ok?”
She pushed him back into bed with a small hand and another smile. He found he didn't have the strength to resist, but he felt terribly hungry.
As if anticipating his feeling, she turned and reached to the side of the bed, returning with a bowl of a savory smelling stew that she held before him. It made his mouth water.
“Everyone is just fine. Dunstle will be having headaches for a while until his skull knits, but the Lord Wizard says he should recover completely after a season.”
She spooned out some of the stew and placed it into his open mouth. “What you did was wonderful. My father is alive because of it.”
“Muuff Wabf fee?”
“What?”
Adam swallowed and tried again. “Who was he? Which one?”
She blushed slightly again, and spooned up some more stew. “Tyndale, the first one to come out. You remember, don't you? The white-haired gentleman?”
Adam nodded as he chewed. It figured, if he read these people right, the eldest miner would have been the first to be sent through to safety, there being no children in the mine.
“Ah! You're finally awake. How are you feeling, my boy?” Milward came into the room with his staff in his hand. His beard was freshly brushed, and the smell of sweet herbs entered the room with him.
Adam looked up at the Wizard and swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Hi, Milward. Right now, I feel hungry. Like I haven't eaten for days, weeks.”
Milward chuckled deep in his beard. “That's to be expected. You've been sleeping for three days, and this is the dinner hour of the third, so let's make that three and a half days.”
Adam tried to rise out of bed, but the girl placed a hand on his chest and wouldn't let him rise. He gave it up as a bad idea and fell back into the mattress.
Milward continued to chuckle. “Don't worry, lad. The village will do quite nicely without you, thank you very much. Thaylli, here, insisted on being your nurse, and I've of a mind to agree with her, so you may as well lay back and enjoy your convalescence. I would, if I were in your shoes.”
Adam had to agree the old Wizard had the right of it. He felt nearly ready to fall back to sleep after finishing the stew, and Thaylli was very easy on the eyes. There were plenty of faces he would rather not have in front of him instead of hers. He relaxed and settled into the pillow. “I suppose you're right.”
Milward huffed. “Of course I am.”
Thaylli wiped a corner of Adam's mouth with a cloth she had at hand. “The Lord Wizard is wise, you should listen to him.”
Milward glanced in her direction. “Young woman. How many times must I tell you ... Auuuggghh! I give up.” He threw his hands into the air. “I give up! These people, Adam, after thinking I was no better than a common Sorcerer, now insist on treating me as some sort of minor deity. It is becoming quite insufferable.”
Adam managed a weak smile. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier. He stifled a yawn. “If you don't mind, I think I'm going to fall asleep on you, but before I do, could you tell me how the miners fared? Did they all get out?”
Milward looked at the boy gravely, and nodded. “You saved them all, lad, and they and their families will be forever grateful for the deed. Now,” he said brusquely, “Let this part of Access,” He patted Thaylli on the shoulder. “Show her gratitude and nurse you back to strength. There's a good lad.”
Milward turned and left the room, a one-Wizard parade.
Adam looked into Thaylli's eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
Her blush was fetching, but she rallied and fluffed each side of his pillow briskly. “You rest now and call me when you wake. I'll be right outside the door.” She stood and turned to leave.
Adam's last thought before sleep overcame him was that she was awfully shapely for a girl.
He woke hungry again and was about to ask Thaylli if she could fetch him a sandwich and a pint, when he realized she was not in the room with him. Milward was there, along with two other village folk. The Wizard's face was unreadable, but the other two had the same look that Thaylli had given Milward when he visited him last.
“Your color is better, Adam. I imagine you feel you could finish off a roast pig at a sitting, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I'd settle for a sandwich or two, and a pint.”
The older man of the two looked familiar to Adam. He stepped forward and pulled his floppy hat from his head. “You'll soon have that and anything else you wish, my Lord Wizard. You have enriched our poor village beyond all imaginings.”
Adam looked stunned. “Huh? Lord...? Milward, what are they talking about?”
The other man was several decades younger than the first, and much larger, nearly as burly as Nowsek but his hair was black, rather than Nowsek's rusty red. He put his hand on the older man's shoulder and spoke softly to him. “Come, Paulo, I'm sure the Wizard's have more important things to talk about than what happened at the mine.”
Paulo turned at the interruption. “Huh? Oh ... yes, quite.” He bowed to Milward and to Adam. “Sires.” He backed out of the room.
Milward's face remained unreadable.
Adam shifted in the bed. He was beginning to feel restless and even hungrier. “What did he mean; enriched? And what was that drivel about Lord Wizard? I'm no more a Lord than you are, probably less so.”
Milward thought, “Probably more so, if my guess is right.” He leaned on his staff. “Well...” He scratched his long nose. “There was a side effect I hadn't considered when I had you shape that tunnel into the mine.”
Adam didn't like the sound of that, but the villagers didn't seem angry with him, quite the opposite, in fact. “What happened?”
Milward looked at him with his head tilted. “What do you know about physics?”
“Huh?”
A sigh. “I might have guessed. It's good thing you're going to live a Wizard's lifetime, lad. You have a lot to learn. Do you know what happens to coal when it is put under tremendous heat and pressure all at once?”
“No.” The answer was cautious.
Milward leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “It turns into diamond! You, without meaning to, I am sure, have given the village of Access the only coal mine in the entire world with a diamond-lined entrance. The thing couldn't collapse now if we set another mountain on top of it.”
Adam felt a little green around the gills, “Diamond?” He said weakly.
“That's what I said. This village will want for nothing from now on, if they can keep their new wealth's origin a secret.”
“I made diamonds?”
Milward frowned. “You keep repeating yourself, and I'll have to examine you for early senility.”
Adam shook off the vision of a diamond tunnel and brought himself back to the present. “Sorry. It's a lot to swallow all at once. What is it with this Lord Wizard title they called me?”
“At least I don't have to be the only one having to put up with that. The people of this village, along with most of the small towns and villages in the East, have a somewhat skewed view of the world of magik. The East was hit the hardest during the war, and was, in fact, ruled by Sorcery for a couple of hundred years. Their historical picture of a wielder of magik is a bit different from what the West has known.
“My name became linked as one of the mighty during those centuries. I suppose it has been passed down to this day as a name to be feared.” He sighed. “I'd have preferred a warm fire and a hot bowl of stew.”
The mention of stew reminded Adam of his stomach and its demanding nature at the moment. He brought Milward out of his reverie. “Speaking of stew...” His stomach rumbled on cue.
“What? Oh, oh, yes. You must be starving.” The Wizard rose from his perch on the foot of Adam's bed and pulled open the door to the bedroom. “Food! Bring food now!”
The staff obeyed Milward's bellowed order with alacrity. Soon, Adam found himself facing a platter overflowing with sliced meats, steaming potatoes and crisp vegetables covered with a tangy white dressing that smelled of aged cheese.
Milward left while Adam was focused solely on eating. When he came up for air he noticed Thaylli. She was leaning against the wall of his room, wearing an amused half-smile.
He swallowed and reached for the mug of cider that had been brought in with the platter. “How long have you been there?”
Her smile broadened. “Long enough to see you down enough food to feed both of my brothers, and you're only half their size.”
“I was hungry.” He pleaded his case.
She suddenly sobered. “I imagine so. The Lord Wizard says you lifted the entire top of the mountain all by yourself, and you would have to eat a lot to recover your strength.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “How can you be so strong? You're nowhere near the size of my brothers, and they couldn't shift one of those stones working together.”
He swallowed some more cider. “I really don't know why. I suppose it has something to do with the Wizard powers I'm developing.”
Thaylli blinked. “Developing? You did that? And your powers are just developing?”
Adam looked at her strangely, saying nothing.
“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”
He blinked. “Oh, nothing. It's just for a moment there you reminded me of Milward.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, thank you very much. That's the best compliment I've had all day.”
His grimaced. “Sorry. What I meant by that was that Milward looks at me sometimes with the very same expression you just used. Especially when we talk about what I'm supposed to be learning.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm. An apprentice Wizard with the strength of a master Mage, and you wonder why he looks at you funny.”
Adam's mouth twitched in a wry grin. “I see your point.”
He levered himself up onto his elbows and lifted the now-empty tray onto the side table. “Do you think it would be okay if I got up and walked some? I'm getting sick of just laying around.”
Thaylli moved from the foot of the bed around to Adam's side. “That's why I'm here. The Lord Wizard says you need to get your blood moving again. Your days of sloth are over.”
Adam took Thaylli's hand and allowed her to help him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, taking care to make sure the nightshirt did not rise to an embarrassing level.
He put his feet on the floor and transferred weight to his legs gingerly. They seemed solid enough, and he stood upright with a sigh. “Ahhh. That feels good.”
Thaylli eyed him critically. “Yes ... I imagine it does. I'll let you get dressed, unless you think you need some help...”
“No! No, I'll be all right.” Adam reached for his trousers that hung over the back of the chair next to the window.
She moved to the door. “Very well. I'll be right outside the door if you need me.” She closed the door.
Adam rushed into his clothes. The thought of her opening the door at an inopportune moment lent wings to his movements. She was an interesting contrast to the others he'd met. They treated him as if he were a not quite tamed jungle animal liable to rip their throats out at any moment. Thaylli, on the other hand, seemed to be less interested in what he could do than in how he did. She was certainly easy to look at, he thought. They could have given me a nurse with the face of a wild boar and a disposition to match.
A knock sounded on the door. “Are you all right?” Thaylli's voice came from the other side.
Adam worked at the frogs on his jacket. “Almost done. You can open the door if you want.”
She opened the door. Behind her, in the hallway, stood a young man half again taller than Adam and muscled like a gladiator. Thaylli saw his glance and turned to indicate the young giant. “This is Moen, he's one of my brothers. I asked him to come along with us for your walk.”
Moen looked like he would gladly be anywhere else.
Adam was beginning to get a picture of Thaylli. Her mother probably ran the household with an iron hand wrapped in velvet and most likely raised Thaylli to do the same. He was Thaylli's accepted charge, and she was going to have someone help him, regardless of how they felt about being in the presence of a Wizard.
Adam held out his hand to Moen. “Hello. I'm called Adam. I'm pleased to have you along.”
Moen looked at the hand as if it could turn into a viper at any moment.
Thaylli buried an elbow into his side. To his credit he merely grunted. “Oh, come on, Moen. He's not going to turn you to a statue or some such. Take his hand.”
Moen swallowed and took Adam's hand. His grip was strong and sure, in spite of his obvious nervousness. “Well met, sire Adam. Thaylli says you are the reason our Da is alive this day; I thank you for that.”
“I'm just glad I could help. Milward guided me through it. He's really the one responsible, I just followed his instructions.”
Moen grunted. “A humble Wizard? This is a season of wonders, Thaylli. I begin to see the wisdom of your choice.”
Adam wasn't sure he liked the portents in that statement, but held his tongue. “Can we go outside? I'd like to have some open air above me. All of a sudden, I'm feeling like a caged animal.”
Moen threw back his head and barked out a laugh.
Thaylli threw him a quick glare that Adam missed. She took Adam's arm and led him down the hallway. The great room of the Inn was filled with villagers. Most of the men had a tankard in their hand, and some of the women, as well. Milward was deep in conversation with Westcott, Nowsek and Tyndale, Thaylli's father. Everyone looked up when he and Thaylli hit the top of the stairs.
Milward rose to his feet. “Finally! I was beginning to think you'd taken on the trait of the Bear and decided to hibernate the winter away.”
Nervous laughter tittered through the room. Westcott pushed his way though the crowd to meet them at the foot of the stairs. “We have a custom in our village, sire Adam. When one performs a service to our community, such as what you have done, those who have benefited from the deed honor them with gifts of thanks. Since the entire village has done so...” He spread his hands.
Milward sidled up to Adam's side, and spoke to him out of the corner of his mouth, sotto voice, “Just accept it all as it comes, lad, it's the best thing you can do now. Be your natural humble self later.”
The next hour or so became a blur to Adam, as each of the villagers came up to him in turn. Thaylli and Moen stood behind him. Milward kept his place off to the side, again beaming like a proud parent.
Each of the villagers had something to present him. For some, it was an article of knitwear. For others, a carving made with loving detail. Some presented him with a baked pie or a cured ham. No one left without placing something at his feet, and all of them looked as though they were in the presence of royalty. Near the end of it, he had a building desire to climb the stairs back to his room and bolt the door. The attention made him extremely uncomfortable, and he did not feel worthy of it at all.
He told Thaylli so, after the crowd had dispersed and the great room was nearly empty.
Moen grunted. It seemed to be his favorite expression. “Better and better. I am coming to like you, sire Wizard Adam.”
Thaylli glared at Moen.
Adam looked at the pile of gifts. They filled the floor and two tables next to where he stood. “Where am I going to put all this stuff? There's no possible way I can fit it into the room.”
Thaylli picked up one of the pies. “I'm sure sire Westcott will gladly store the food for you.”
Adam looked at Westcott. “Will you?”
Westcott looked at the pile. He seemed to be counting. “Oh, I'm sure we can work something out.”
“Sire Westcott!” Thaylli was outraged.
He held a forestalling hand up between the girl and himself. “Just having a bit of fun, lass. Nowsek himself would string me up by my figgin if I so much as charged our young hero a copper twit for the deed. Maibell hasn't let Petron out of her sight since he came out of that mine, and she makes sure to let her husband know who opened it up. Daily, from what he tells me.”
He looked at Adam, his usual sardonic expression gone. “You've done a great service for this town, young man, and I thank you for that. Those were both my friends and family in there, but what I want to thank you for even more than that is the way you carried yourself just now. A lot of folk in your position would take these gifts as their just due. If I read you right, you're more embarrassed than anything else, eh?”
Adam nodded.
Westcott nodded in return. “Thought so. That's why you deserve it and they don't.”
Thaylli tugged at Adam's arm. “Time for your walk. Come with us, Moen.”
Milward turned to Westcott as they left the room. “I'll have another of those nut brown ales, if you've any left.”
Westcott pulled the handle behind the bar. “I've some left, Wizard. Mind if I join you?”
Milward picked up a nibblet from a tray on the counter and chewed it. “Not at all, innkeeper. Not at all.”
They picked up their mugs, and nodded to each other in a silent toast, and then drained half the mug in a long pull.
Milward wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve. “Ahhh. That is a worthy brew, Innkeeper.”
Westcott nodded his acceptance of Milward's compliment. “What do you think of our Thaylli taking on your apprentice, Wizard? Is her decision a wise one?”
Milward looked at Westcott over the rim of his mug. “You mean, by that the tale of Wizards being bachelors by nature?”
“I do.”
“You're very well read for an Innkeeper in Access, my friend.”
Westcott smiled. “I was born in Grisham. Access is my adopted home. I've never regretted it.”
The front door to the Inn opened, letting in a man and a woman along with a flurry of snow.
Westcott looked up at the sound. “I'd better put another kettle on. You were answering my question?”
Milward sipped some more ale. “I don't think we can judge Adam by the histories. He a nexus, not a participant.”
Westcott's eyes widened. “The prophecies?”
Milward turned to look out the window. The snow was falling harder. “He's the spoon, my friend. It's us who will be stirred.”
* * * * The Librarian held the parchment open in the light of the room's only window. Dust danced in the sunbeam that shone onto the smudged brownish letters.
“Felsten.” He called for his assistant again as his ancient eyes passed over the familiar lines of the prophecy. He reached the bottom and found something he'd read niggling at the back of his mind. He started at the top and proceeded through the prophecy again, one slow line at a time, and there it was.
“...Guide to Eleven Chance, master of warriors, Ducal doom. Through these you will know her.”
The line... Ducal doom...should he alert Bilardi? Bardoc knows, the man did little enough to provide for eternity, that is, unless flames were involved.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see their cause. “Ah, Felsten. Come here, boy, I've something to show you.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
Gilgafed woke with a start. The dream fled from his memory, leaving only the disturbing feeling that he was threatened from something ... from the south.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant as he pulled on his robe. The fool was probably still sleeping.
He remembered the Seeker's touch. It sat upon him like a sickness that only time and the full restoration of his power would remedy.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant again. If that idiot was sleeping when he couldn't...
“Master?” Cobain stumbled into Gilgafed's bedroom, still pulling on a slipper, as predicted.
Gilgafed felt a small mollification at his successful surmise. He let his servant's tardiness off with a scowl. “Ready my scrying chamber; something is happening, and I mean to know what and where.”
Cobain turned on his heel and scuttled back into the hallway.
He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it while he allowed his mind to consider what had awakened him. Dreams could sometimes be prophetic, had this one been such?
The thought threw him into action and he stalked the hallways of his palace to the Scrying chamber. Cobain was lighting the final candle as Gilgafed entered the room.
“The chamber is ready, Master.”
Gilgafed nodded to his servant and stood before the mirror. He sent a twisting tendril of power into the silvered surface, and the mists appeared.
He cast his perceptions into the mists, spreading them as widely as possible. The small lives of common folk appeared as brief flashes of light that flickered and faded as he passed them by. He ignored them as inconsequential, and continued his search, sending the shaping ever wider.
Near the end of his range, the shaping passed over the city of Grisham and brushed past ... something. He worked at narrowing the search passing through the Lowers, over the merchant quarter and the docks to ... the Castle.
He began forcing the power of his shaping to clarify what he was sensing, but all he could do was ascertain that whatever had disturbed his sleep lay within Grisham's castle walls.
He ended the shaping with a twist of his mind, and began another.
“Milord Sorcerer. It has been a long time.” The voice was female, but with a flat quality that destroyed the libido before it was born.
“Indeed it has, but I have a use for you now.”
The mists swirled. “As you wish, Milord. What would you have me do?”
* * * * “Cold one tonight.” The portly guard's breath puffed in the afternoon air. He was wishing he'd worn the second under-tunic like his wife had suggested. The heavy gloves kept his fingers from freezing, but the wind cut like blades against his chest.
“You've got the right of it, Merril.” His partner stamped his feet to warm them while keeping his hands tucked into his armpits. “Makes a witche's tit seem balmy.”
Merril looked down the road from their station alongside Grisham's main entry gate and straightened. He nudged his partner with the butt of his halberd, “'Ere, Dunkin. What'chu make o’ that?”
Dunkin opened his eyes and looked in the direction of Merril's pointed thumb. “Damnfino,” he muttered. “Never seen th’ like. Should we stop ‘em?”
Merril shrugged and hitched up his sagging winter hose. “Why th’ flick not? Day's been a complete balls up, so far.”
He slouched his way over to a position that put him directly in front of the partially open double-doored gate and held up his hand. “'Old up there, now.”
The rider slowed its mount with apparently no command being issued.
Merril stayed where he stood. He'd never seen such a large dog. Its head was the size of a steer's, in fact; the whole flickin’ thing was at least as large as a steer, maybe even an ox. The rider was slim, possibly female, but it was hard to tell with all those furs. She, possibly, was dressed head to toe in black, both cloth and fur. The cloth portion was a flat, dead black without sheen or richness. The fur, in contrast, looked like it was dipped in black glass. Waves of glisten flowed across the garments with each passing breeze.
“Oy!” Dunkin stepped into the gateway next to Merril. “E said stop, now that don't mean continue on but slower. It means stop.” He brought his halberd into a guard position; point up.
The rider stopped, again without any command being obvious to the two guards.
Merril felt it first. It began as an overall unease, and built into a creeping fear that danger was present, everywhere.
Dunkin began to sweat in spite of the cold. He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. “Merril. Whut's goin’ on ‘ere? Whut's ‘appenin'?”
The fear built until it became a level of terror the two guards were powerless to ignore. Merril's bowels let go, and he collapsed, gibbering against the side of the gate as his fingers scrabbled at the wood.
Dunkin threw his halberd away, and fled, wailing, into the city, causing a number of its inhabitants to look apprehensively in the direction he ran from.
Years later, he would still be unable to approach the gate. Merril never regained his sanity.
The rider nodded once, and the great dog walked at a leisurely pace into the city of Grisham.
* * * * The vellum fell from the Librarian's fingers as he clutched his chest.
“Master!” His apprentice rushed to his side. The boy's face was a mask of raw concern.
The old man waved his apprentice away. “No. It's all right, Felsten. Whatever it was, it wasn't my heart.”
“What did you feel?” Felsten wrung his hands. He dearly loved the old man.
The Librarian looked at his apprentice. The rheumy eyes went wide. “Fear. Raw, terrifying fear.”
“Of what?” Felsten looked around. All he saw was the now-familiar stacks of books and scrolls.
The Librarian rubbed his forehead with the tips of the fingers of his left hand. “I don't know, Felsten, but I aim to find out. Bring me that box of scrolls. No, not those, the old ones; yes, those.”
He took the box of scrolls from his apprentice and began digging through them. They were of varying ages, from ancient to nearly prehistoric. He had a vague memory of reading in one of the old scrolls about that type of fear. Something was telling him it was imperative he find that scroll again.
* * * * Adam knocked on the stout wooden door.
“Come in, Adam.” Milward's voice came through the door.
Adam had ceased long ago to be surprised at the Wizard's ability to know who was knocking at his door.
He opened the door onto what looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind in a library. “What happened here? And how do I get into the room without stepping on something?”
Milward looked up at him. The Wizard was wearing those little windows in front of his eyes again. He called them spec-tables or something close to it.
“What are you looking for?” He picked up one of the scraps of parchment. Small bits of its edge fluttered to the floor.
“I'll take that. Thank you.” Milward reached up and plucked the parchment from Adam's hand.
“What I am looking for is a mystery wrapped within the runes of the past. But I'm afraid it won't be found in this village's poor library.
“Westcott added a few of the copies he had of the old prophecies, but they gave me nothing new to what I've already read.”
“Can you tell me more than that?” Adam edged around the pile to the other side of the bed where there was room to sit.
The Wizard sighed and sat back on his haunches. “It's something that's been bothering me since that day in the Narrows.”
“The Chivvin?”
“Close guess, lad, but not on the mark. The how of the Chivvin, that is what has been niggling at me since we came across them. They weren't supposed to be there. Bardoc's beard! They weren't supposed to be in our dimension! Gilgafed may have done something we're all going to regret and I have to find out what can be done about it.”
He looked up at Adam, concern written all over his face. “The only place that will have the information I'm looking for is the Library at Grisham.”
Adam leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms. “When do we go?”
“That's it?” Milward was astonished. He'd been young once, and still remembered his first romantic pairing.
“That's it.”
“No stamping your feet insisting you'll die without being near her? That you can still smell the musk of her hair in the gallery of your mind?”
Adam looked at Milward and arched an eyebrow. “What in the pit are you babbling about?”
Milward arched an eyebrow in return. “Have I been hallucinating these past weeks, or have you been keeping very close company with a certain young woman? Much to the heartbreak and chagrin of all the other single young women of Access, mind you.”
Adam shrugged. “She'll understand. This is much more important than holding hands.”
Milward's eyebrow climbed into his scalp line. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“You're going to do what!?”
Adam was completely unprepared for her outraged response to what he thought was a reasonable, well thought out, logical decision.
She paced the floor of the Inn's great room in front of him and gestured into the air with her hands as she spoke. “You're going off with that old fossil into Bardoc knows what sort of danger and you thought I'd understand?!!” The last word came out in a full-throated shout.
“Well, I thought...”
Thaylli planted herself right under Adam's nose and looked up into his face. “No, you didn't. If you had been thinking, you would have talked to me about this foolishness before you said yes. Did you think about how I would feel waking up and finding out from someone else that you'd gone? Did you think I would have understood your reasons for making up my mind for me?”
She abruptly turned on her heel and gave her back to him. “Go, then! If that's all you've come to care for me. Go and become the world's hero. Apparently that's your destiny.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Adam had absolutely no idea how to react. Emotions ran through him in a variety of different streams. He chose the closest one.
“Thaylli, I'm sorry. It was very stupid of me to not ask how you'd feel about this.” He couldn't see the small smile of triumph that bloomed on her face as he spoke.
She turned, but not before making her expression severe. “Well, I'm glad to see there's some sense in that man-thick skull of yours. Now, all you have to do is go tell that old Wizard about your decision to stay here. I'm sure some men of the village will be able to keep him safe on his journey.”
“Thaylli.”
“Yes, Adam?”
“I didn't say I was staying here.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What?!”
“I said, I didn't say I was staying here. All I said was that I should have considered your feelings before I told Milward yes.”
She couldn't believe her ears. “You mean you're going with that old fool?”
“I have to. I feel my destiny is wrapped up in it, and he's not an old fool.”
The sharpness of his tone stung her. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, it's just ... just ... ooooh, men!” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Adam looked around the room. The other people in the Inn's great room were pointedly focusing on their plates, cups and tankards, all of them except Westcott, who was drying a tankard and grinning broadly.
“Something's funny?” Adam walked over to the counter where Westcott stood.
“Oh, yes. The memory of a youth nearly forgotten.”
“You've been through this?” Adam thought he saw a straw to grasp at.
Westcott placed the now dry tankard with others of its kind on the shelf and picked up another. “Oh, yes. Believe it or not, my young Wizard, your experience in this matter is not unique.”
“How did it happen with you? How did you solve it?” Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar.
Westcott looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Solve it? You don't solve dealing with women, boy. You survive it.”
Adam looked puzzled. “I don't understand.”
Westcott sighed and put down the tankard he was polishing. “How many women have you been with, boy?”
“Huh?”
Westcott snorted. “I'll take that as an admission of novicehood. Look, Adam,” He leaned forward onto the bar. “Women have been playing men like an angler plays a fish since the beginning of time. They are the chief prizes in the grand hunt, and they allow us to chase them until they catch us. You, my poor innocent ox,” he pointed at Adam with a forefinger, “Have been tagged and harnessed. The only thing that remains is the hitching.”
“Huh?”
Westcott smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It's OK, lad. Give it a few years, you'll understand eventually. Every man does.”
Adam's mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Can I have an ale?”
He found Milward in the midst of packing. The parchments and vellums that had been spread around before were gone.
The old Wizard looked up at his entrance and peered at him closely. “Hmmm, no bruises, no lacerations. You appear to be in decent health. It went better than I thought it would.”
Adam grimaced. “She accused me of not caring, shouted at me, and called you an old fool.”
Milward's eyebrows did their climbing act. “She did, did she?” He chuckled for a moment. “Well, maybe she is right, at that. Only an old fool would be doing this sort of thing. What do you suppose that makes you?”
Adam scowled. “I don't care what it makes me, it's something I've got to do. Besides, I've still got to learn how to use these powers of mine. I don't think Thaylli could teach me how to do that.”
Milward looked at him for a long moment. “No ... no, in that you're correct. At least as far as shaping is concerned.” He thought the last to himself.
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well now, enough of that. How is your packing going?”
“I haven't started. Are we leaving today?” Adam suddenly felt things were moving much too quickly to suit him. Thaylli's importance had shifted a number of positions to the fore.
Milward looked up at Adam's tone, and then smiled. “No, not today. Nowsek wants to give us a send-off ceremony. Politicians love pomp and circumstance, and we may as well accommodate him anyway, it won't hurt us.”
“How much time do I ... uh, we have?”
The Wizard laughed and stood upright. He placed both hands on Adam's shoulders, and looked at him with a smile on his face. “You will have plenty of time for billing and cooing before we leave. Nowsek has to plan his ceremony. I still have a few things I want to get straight prior to leaving, and besides, the pass is still closed with snow.”
He turned and began fiddling with his pack again. “Run along, now. I'm sure your young lady will be happy to know she still has a few more days to set her hook.”
Adam left Milward with the thought that the Wizard was spending far too much time with Westcott across the Knights and Hounds game board, if it had gotten to the point where they were using the same euphemisms to describe his relationship with Thaylli.
Milward was right, however. Thaylli was delighted they weren't leaving Access immediately. She still pouted over knowing that he would eventually have to leave the village, but she did it so prettily that he couldn't bring himself to mind it when she did.
He still felt uneasy around her brothers, especially Merillat, the oldest. The big man would stare at him silently, as if measuring him for worthiness, and finding it wanting. Moen was all right, he guessed, but the fellow had a tendency to hover in a protective manner that left Adam feeling suffocated. Monier, the youngest, was a few years behind Thaylli in age, and he had an annoying habit of using Adam as the butt of the occasional practical joke. That evening when he found his boots filled with ox dung, he had nearly torn it, and he still wondered if using shaping to clean his boots hadn't been breaking some rule. Monier seemed to think so.
Milward continued to spend his evenings hunched over Knights and Hounds across from the Innkeeper, Westcott. They appeared to spend much of the time in conversation rather than game play, at least as far as Adam could tell. He was usually too involved in the by-play of Thaylli and her friends to hear what they spoke about, but the occasional glance in his direction was telling.
Eventually the news came that the pass was clear, and he and Milward gathered the last of their supplies into the packs as they prepared themselves for the first leg of their journey to Grisham.
Adam closed the lacing on his pack and straightened his back. His muscles complained loudly at being in one position for too long, and he listened to them by lying down on the bed that had been his during the long winter months.
Milward poked his head in the door and nodded as if confirming a guess. “Ahh, all packed, I see.”
Adam didn't move from where he was lying. It felt too comfortable. “All packed,” he replied. “How far away is Grisham?”
Milward leaned a shoulder against the door jam. “Oh, if I had to guess, I'd say about one thousand, two hundred and fifty-six miles. Or three hundred and sixty-six leagues.”
“That sounds like more than just a guess.” Adam sat up on the bed.
Milward looked smugly pleased with himself. “Of course it is. I've been there more than a few times in my day. One of my best friends lives there. He's the Librarian.”
Adam lay back. It felt much more comfortable than sitting up, and he wanted to lock the memory of the soft mattress in his mind as he thought about all those future nights on hard ground.
He remembered Milward telling him about the Library at Grisham. “Oh, yes. He's the one who has all those old prophecies you want to look at.”
Milward inclined his head. “All that and more. He is the one individual in the known world outside of Dragonglade that has all of the recorded history, prophecy and knowledge ever written down at his fingertips.
“For a scholar, or shall we say, a Wizard? Hmm? He is a very good person to have on your side.”
Sheriwyn appeared at Milward's side. She had a cloth tied over her hair, which told them she'd been cleaning rooms again. Ani was most likely elbow-deep in a bucket, helping her mother scrubbing floors.
She tapped Milward on the shoulder. “Sire Wizard? Sire Nowsek is below, wishing to see you prior to the ceremony.”
He turned to her. “Thank you, Sheriwyn. You may tell sire Nowsek we'll be down presently.”
She gave him a half curtsey, and left.
Milward straightened up from his slouch against the door jam. “Well, we had best get ready to face our public. I'll go down and see what Nowsek wants to talk to me about. You may as well stay comfortable until it's time for this ceremony.”
Adam lay there on the bed, letting his thoughts drift while he dozed. Pictures scrolled across the back of his mind in no particular sequence. Charity playing with the kitten. The giant and his cleaver. The Chivvin evaporating into dust. Thaylli's face wove among the pictures like a connecting link.
Westcott's voice roused him out of sleep. “They're waiting for you downstairs, lad. Time to let someone else use the bed.”
Adam yawned hugely and stretched out his arms. “How long was I sleeping?”
“Not long. Only a few hours.” Westcott smiled thinly.
Adam bolted out of the bed. “A few hours?! I've got to get down there. Milward hates to be kept waiting.”
Westcott put a restraining hand on Adam's arm. “Ease up there, Adam. The old Wizard's the one who told us to let you sleep, and you've plenty of time to make your entrance.”
He rubbed his eyes and looked at Westcott. “But you said they were waiting for me downstairs.”
The Innkeeper gave a small laugh. “I didn't mean the whole village, lad. I'm just talking about those folks who've come to think of you as their friend during your stay here. There's a good lad, get along now. I'll see to the room.”
Adam strapped on the sword, and picked up his pack, and slung it over his shoulder. His mind was still a bit woozy with sleep, and he stumbled a couple of times on his way down the hallway.
Westcott was true to his word. The lower hall was not packed, as he had feared, but some of the faces that looked up at him as he started down the stairs were a surprise.
Milward was there, of course, talking with Nowsek, Maibell and Petron. Thaylli stood with her mother and father. One of the surprises was Merillat, and the other was Moen. He'd seemed to be more of a guard than a friend.
The small gathering was filled out with the younger miners from those he'd rescued. The others were still too much in awe of how they were saved, and of the diamond-lined entrance created as a side effect of the shaping.
Thaylli met him at the foot of the stairs and took him by the arm. “The whole village is going to be here and it's all for you. Isn't that wonderful?”
Adam looked around the room, picturing it filled with village folk expecting him to say something profound. “Yes, wonderful.”
Milward detached himself from Nowsek and his family, and worked his way over to Adam and Thaylli. “Well, my boy. I suppose this must all be very exciting for you. Your moment in the sun, as it were.”
Adam leaned over and whispered to the Wizard. “Honestly, Milward, it all makes me rather uncomfortable. I'm not a speech maker, I'm really not anything.”
“Oh, you're much more than that, Adam. Much more than that.” The old Wizard whispered back as he patted Adam's shoulder.
“Well!” He said loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Our special guest has arrived, and before the rest of the village gets here I propose we do what we gathered here to do.”
“Hear, hear.” Nowsek remarked in approval. An echo of it circulated through the room.
Petron separated himself from his mother and father and crossed the floor to stand in front of Adam.
He cleared his throat, he looked nervous.
“I hope he isn't going to sick up all over me.” Adam thought.
“Ummm. I want to thank you for saving my life.” Petron began.
“You already did. A couple of months ago, if I remember rightly.” Adam smiled at him.
Petron returned the smile with a nervous twitch of his mouth. “Not the way I'm supposed to. We have our traditions. One is, if you save someone from dying, you become a part of their family. The one saved has to perform a service for his new brother. That's you.”
Adam felt his head beginning to swim. This was not what he was expecting.
Petron held out his hand. It held a small stone of very ordinary appearance. “This is the first stone of your cottage.”
He looked from the stone to Petron's plain, honest face. “I don't own a cottage.”
“You do now, laddie.” Nowsek pushed his way through to Petron's side and clapped his son on the shoulder. “My boy here, and the other miners'll have one waitin’ for you when you return from this adventure of yours.”
Adam was flabbergasted. Adopted and a cottage? He looked to Milward. “M ... Milward? What's going on here?”
The old Wizard was beaming. “The fruits of your labor, my boy.” He leaned closer. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“But I didn't do anything. You told me what to do. What if it all went wrong?”
Milward wasn't given a chance to reply, as the rest of the village came in through the doors and the farewell celebration got underway in earnest.
Adam found himself on the receiving end of back slaps and crushing handshakes from the men, and well-cushioned hugs accompanied by wet cheek kisses from the women. One of the younger women lingered a bit long on the hug, and her kiss missed his cheek completely, landing full on his mouth, prompting a cry of protest from Thaylli.
“Hold on! None of that!” She pushed herself between Adam and the enthusiastic young woman.
Adam stepped back, gasping. His recent handful gave him a broad smile and wiggled her way back into the crowd.
Thaylli watched her go and fumed with her hands on her hips. “Saichele.” She made the name a curse. “If the world were made of men only, she'd still be unsatisfied.”
“Friend of yours?” Adam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Thaylli didn't turn around. She gave every indication of mimicking a mother bear guarding her cub. “Not hardly. She warned me this would happen. She said she'd get a good taste of you, and blast her to the pit if she didn't.”
“You shouldn't let it bother you. It's no big thing and besides she was just being grateful.”
Thaylli spun around. “No big thing!? Some woman engulfs you, buries her breasts into your chest, she practically has her tongue down your throat, and it's no big thing?”
Some of the crowd had discovered a source of entertainment other than Westcott's ale, and were eagerly awaiting Adam's response.
He shrugged. “Why should it be a big thing? I don't have any feelings for her. If she wants to be rude like that, it's her problem, not yours.”
Thaylli stood there with her mouth open. Boys did not act that way. “You thought she was being rude?”
“Yeah, didn't you?”
“You didn't notice the amount of bosom she was showing, or her wiggle?”
Adam crossed his arms. “Thaylli. I'm not blind, I just don't want to be with her, I want to be with you.”
The applause from the crowd brought blushes out both of them.
She looked at Adam through her eyelashes. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Adam, on impulse, leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips. The crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers and applause that brought out another bright blush from Thaylli. A tiny smile played across her face.
Nowsek raised his voice and hands to quiet the crowd and bring their attention to focus on him. “Now, now. We've said our peace, and have given our gifts.”
“And enjoyed Westcott's good ale!” Someone from the crowd yelled out.
Nowsek joined in the laughter. “Yes, yes. Sire Westcott is sure to have a banner week, based on this day alone.”
“But, we gathered here to express our feelings of gratitude to our new brother and his mentor. It is time for them to take their leave of us, and time for us to wish them good journeying. Sire Wizard?”
Milward detached himself from the bar, but kept the tankard in his hand. “Well, some would say it is good for Wizards not to involve themselves in the affairs of others. It has been said so in the past and in many cases practiced so to the letter. I would venture to say our interference in this place has become a welcome thing. It has gained us new friends, and has enabled us to learn much about each other, and, in spite of what some would say, this is a good thing.
“You have been given a gift, nay, two gifts through the actions of this young man who just happens to be an apprentice Wizard. One of them is beyond price. That is the gift of life he gave to your sons, husbands and fathers by opening the way to the mine. The second, if husbanded properly and its knowledge guarded judiciously, is the wealth of diamonds left behind as an after effect of Adam's shaping. Used wisely, Access may never know privation again.”
“A third gift, you have given us. That is the gift of your open hearts and your open minds. Charity and generosity are all well and good, but they soon curdle if held within a closed mind. I have enjoyed many an evening watching the snow fall, while deep in debate with some of you, and for that gift, I thank you.”
He raised his tankard. “To the people of Access! My thanks and my gratitude.” He drained the tankard to the accompaniment of yells of celebration and several breathtaking slaps on the back from some of the burlier residents.
Nowsek raised his hands again and bellowed for silence. When the clamor died down, he turned and pointed at Adam. “And now, a word from the young man we've all come to accept as one of our own.”
Adam's mind went blank. The few words he'd been rehearsing to himself vanished like mist in the sun.
The crowd filling the Inn looked at him expectantly and he had nothing to say to them.
“Uh hmmm.” He cleared his throat trying to find his speech, but it kept out of sight, hiding behind corners in his memory.
Finally he gave in to the reality of not having anything speech-worthy to say, and told the crowd so. “I'm sorry, but I'm not a speaker like Milward. I don't have anything profound or wise to tell you. All I can do is thank you for your hospitality and the kindness you've shown to two strangers this winter.”
His eyes began to water, and a catch started up in his voice. “The ... cottage you've promised to build is, to me, riches beyond counting, and I can't begin to thank you all enough. I feel like I'm leaving family, not just friends behind. Thank you.”
Westcott elbowed Milward from behind. “That was nothing to say? He wrapped them around his little finger with those few words. Look!” Tears were in several eyes.
Milward nodded. “Like I said, Westcott, a nexus. Labad was such, and armies flocked to his call. How does it feel to know you're seeing history unfold before you?”
Westcott ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know, Wizard. Uncomfortable, I think ... yes, that's the one. Uncomfortable.”
“An honest and fair assessment, Innkeeper.” Milward shook Westcott's hand. “I shall miss our games of Knights and Hounds, especially on those long nights under the stars.”
Westcott returned Milward's grip. “And I shall miss beating you.”
Milward smiled. “Thirteen out of thirty games, if I recall. Not a majority, but good competition nonetheless.”
He looked over to where Adam was involved in deep discussion with Thaylli. The hulking figure of Moen hovered behind them. “All that aside, it's time for me to collect my apprentice and be off. It will be well into nightfall by the time we reach the shelter hut at the foot of the mountain.”
Westcott let him go, picked up another tankard and began polishing it. Yes, it was very uncomfortable being aware of history in the making.
Thaylli clung to Adam and wept into his shoulder. “You're never coming back. I just know it.”
He tried to soothe her. “I'll be back. I promise.”
“No, no, no. You're going to die out there. There's bandits and Garlocs and...”
He stopped her wail with a finger against her lips. “No, I won't. Look.” He held out his other hand. A small glowing ball of bright blue fire appeared and danced above his open palm.
Her expression changed to one of astonishment. “Ohhhh, Adam, it's beautiful. How'd you... ? Oh.”
Her looked into her eyes. “Yes, magik. Do you think someone who could do this would be an easy target for bandits or Garlocs? Do you think someone who could open up a collapsed mine entrance and turn it into hard diamond couldn't take care of himself?”
She lowered her eyes. “I ... I forgot. You look so normal!” The last came out in a blurt that was nearly an accusation.
His smile was rueful. “I know. It's the way I was born, I'm sorry.”
Thaylli hugged him impulsively. “I love you! Please come back to me!?”
He returned her hug and stroked her long hair. “I will. I promise. I will.”
Milward's voice cut into their reverie. “Adam! Come on, lad. It's time to leave.”
Thaylli let him go reluctantly. Moen crushed his shoulder with his grip and gave him a nod goodbye. Tyndale called him son as if the union was already a fact, and Aisbell planted a wet kiss onto his cheek. Nowsek held the door for them, and the next thing he knew they were on the path again, and Access was receding into the distance behind them.
He turned as he and Milward reached the top of the ridge overlooking the village.
Milward stopped with him. “Looks different, doesn't it?”
Adam nodded. “Uh huh. Now it looks like home.”

Chapter Twenty-Five
“Candles! Nice clean candles!”
“Bern is an easy city to live in, if you are young, strong and male.” The thought walked its way through the old woman's mind once more as she pushed her single wheel cart through the city streets.
“Candles! Nice, clean candles. A copper for three!” Her harsh voice croaked hollowly in the chill morning air.
No one answered her. She was too early for those who would buy her wares, as she always was. It would be a few hours yet before anyone approached her.
A shadow passed overhead. She felt a chill strike her bones, deeper than the dead of winter. Fear gripped her, and she looked around for its source.
She saw nothing out of the ordinary, The same streets she'd rolled her cart over hundreds times remained unchanged, and the shops and houses looked the same as the day before.
The chill feeling increased as it began to settle around her heart. Her stomach ached and a burning started in the back of her throat. A wave of nausea hit her like a sledgehammer blow to her belly, and she cried out in pain. The agony dropped her to her knees just as her vision began to narrow. She tried to struggle back to her feet, but her legs would no longer obey her and her hands tingled. Her vision blacked out entirely and she felt herself falling. Her last thought was of her candles.
The seeker left Bern with the taste of the old woman's fear and pain lingering on its senses. It was beginning to like the sensation and wished to taste some more. There was also that drawing to the south. The impulse was stronger now.
Somehow moving ahead of the wind, the Seeker pushed on Southward, following the spoor.
* * * * Ccccrrraaaccckkkkk!! “Ooooo.” Jonas and Sari exclaimed their appreciation of the fireworks display nature was giving them as they sat on the front porch with Ellona, watching the late summer storm roll in from the mountains.
Bbbboooommmmm! Thunder from an earlier strike further away reverberated across the rooftops of Berggren.
“This is fun, Mommy.” Jonas looked up at his mother as he leaned into her side.
She looked down at her son and hugged him to her as she smiled at him in return. “Yes, it is. Isn't it?”
Flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning illuminated the bottoms of the storm clouds, followed by an almost continuous bass rumble of thunder.
Cccrraaaakkk! Another jagged fork of lightning traced a pathway to the earth against the gray-black sky to the West of them. A short time later, the thunder came booming in, washing over them in waves.
“How far away was that one, Mommy?” Sari looked up at her mother.
Ellona rubbed the long, tawny hair of her daughter's head. “That was about five miles away. Remember what I taught you? When you see the lightning, start counting the beats. It's one beat for each mile.”
“Ok, mommy.” Sari settled back against her mother's skirts to watch the storm.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Jonas?”
“Is it raining on Ethan?”
Ellona watched the storm. It was over the mountains. The sky to the South and the East of Berggren was clear, and a large, butter-yellow moon was rising over the sea of roofs and chimneys that spread out before her eyes.
She thought of Ethan and of all the times he'd shown her how to do things in the woods she'd never dreamed were possible. Whatever the weather was doing to the land around him, he would have a way of dealing with it.
She looked down into Jonas’ large brown eyes. “No, dear one. It isn't raining on Ethan.”
* * * * A thick covering of clouds hid The Mountain's peak. The wind that swept down from the heights was winter chill in spite of it only being early fall. Cloudhook stood high enough to make its own weather. There were those, mostly in the more isolated regions of the land, who said the mountain was a living thing. Ethan usually smiled at those who told such stories. His feeling was, if Cloudhook was a living thing, then it was as contrary as a woman coming upon her time.
The boy's tracks climbed the mountain. Ethan wondered what Circumstance could be thinking. This was no country for a lad, even if he was half elf.
He shook his head as he began to climb the steep trail. He'd been lucky by guessing right and taking a chance that Cloudhook was the boy's destination. There was no guarantee Circumstance would have taken the angle he chose. For that matter, there was no guarantee he'd have kept on in the same direction Ethan thought he would when that first set of tracks had been stumbled upon.
Bardoc, luck, or whoever looks on fools with favor had been kind to him.
The climb eased as the path began to level out into one of the many switchbacks that inched their way up the Mountain's flanks. He pulled out his gloves and put them on as he walked. The air grew colder. The clouds now looked heavy enough to be carrying snow.
“Snow.” He thought ruefully. “Before the feast days. There's a sign for the priests and their prophecies. Wonder what they'd make of that?”
Small pines, twisted into tortuous shapes clung to the poor soil on the rocky slope. He used them to help him in his climb up to the next level area.
His eye caught sight of a footprint in the leaf and sand litter on the plateau floor as he pulled himself up over the rocks that ridged its edge. It was near to the same size as the boy's boot print, but it showed four toes with talons instead of a foot sheathed in sturdy leather.
“Bardoc preserve him.” Ethan breathed. “The lad's being stalked by Garlocs.”
He followed the tracks, but with far more care than before. Garlocs could hear a meal breathing half a bowshot away if the wind was right.
It looked to be a small foraging clique, according to the trail sign. Circumstance's prints led around the plateau and along a ridge that would lead him up to the high valleys. The Garloc tracks stayed right in line with the boy's.
At the top of the ridge, Ethan narrowly missed putting his foot into a pile of Garloc droppings. The stone beneath the mass still smoked where the corrosive feces ate into it. He puffed out his breath in sigh of relief. The stuff would have eaten right through his boot, fresh as it was. Funny how, once it settled down and aged, it would make a fine, strong fertilizer.
He stepped over the pile and continued on. The land dipped away into a shallow valley filled with hardwoods mixed with pine and thick with underbrush. Now the trail was fresher and blindingly clear. Garlocs always left a swath of trampled grass and broken twigs in their wake.
The valley narrowed to a point as it rose to meet the next. Ethan decided to cut to the far right and pass the Garlocs and their prey, if he could. It meant running, uphill, and he did not want to attract the beast's attention. He had no doubts as to his ability to kill them each in turn, but all it took was one scratch.
Again, fortune was in his favor. The valley floor rose slightly as he made his way over to its right side. The leaf litter grew sparse, allowing him to place his feet onto quieter ground. He quickened his pace until he was up to a steady jog, dodging to the side on occasion in order to pass by bushes or branches protruding beyond the edge of the wood.
He heard the guttural, growling chatter of the Garlocs as he passed their portion of the valley.
“Bardoc, please let Circumstance be well ahead of them.” He sent up a quick prayer as he ran. A part of him in the far back reaches of his mind chuckled at the prayer, finding humor in how often men who think themselves unreligious suddenly feel differently when their spine is against the wall.
It was becoming harder to keep from panting, so he slowed his pace, contrary to those emotions which clamored for him to run faster.
The valley was beginning to narrow sharply, and he slowed his pace further, eyes half on the ground, searching for signs that Circumstance had passed this way.
The wind was behind him, which was another good stroke of fortune. It meant he could move a bit more freely in his search. The end of the valley came into a stair-like arrangement of stones climbing up to form a pass into the next. Most of the ground around the base of the stones was rock, and it gave few clues as to who or what came through there.
“Where is that flickin’ boy?” Ethan ran his hand through his hair as he searched the ground. He'd have to hide soon. He could hear the Garlocs now, and the trees wouldn't hide his presence long.
“Ethan.” The whispered call whipped him around, as relief washed over him strong enough to weaken his knees.
“Circumstance.” The boy peered at him from over the edge of the larger stones at the top of the pass. “Get back, son. There's Garlocs coming this way.”
“I know.” Circumstance maintained his whisper. “Come up here. I found something that might help.”
Ethan scrambled up the stone stair. Circumstance had pulled back from the edge, and was running into the wood that covered that valley. He turned and beckoned Ethan to follow.
He caught up with the boy as Circumstance was passing the first line of trees. “What are you doing out here, lad? There's things in the wild worse than those Garlocs.”
Circumstance held a finger to his lips and pointed into the trees.
Ethan looked over his shoulder. The Garlocs hadn't made the pass yet. Thank Bardoc for small favors. He nodded once, and followed the half-elf boy deeper into the wood.
Circumstance stopped at a bush that grew into a ball-like shape with silvery green, thinly curled, leaves. He stripped off a handful and began rubbing them over his face arms and hands.
He nodded to them with his chin, indicating to Ethan that he should do the same.
Ethan could smell the resin from the leaves as it mixed with Circumstance's sweat and body oils. His nose curled in reaction. The stench would hide them from the Garlocs, all right. Not even they went after skunk.
He looked at the boy and grinned at him even as he held his nose. Deity, but he stank. How did the lad learn this trick? Was it some kind of elven racial memory?
The guttural croaking of Garloc speech broke in on Ethan's thoughts, and he pulled Circumstance behind the skunk leaf bush with him.
It was a foraging clique of three. Their mottled hides sprouted hair like a discouraged lawn and they used their fatty tails to brush through the leaf litter, flushing out small prey. One of the three, the largest, stooped to grab a ground squirrel as it bolted from under a bark hideaway. A muffled squeak, and the little creature became a tidbit. The other two glanced the lucky one's way and then continued their search for food. Sharing was not a word in the Garloc vocabulary.
The group passed within ten yards of Circumstance and Ethan's bush just as the wind shifted. The two smaller ones caught the scent first, and stopped their searching, mewling and pawing at their noses.
“It must be worse for them than it is for us.” Ethan thought. He heard Circumstance chuckle under his breath as he watched the results of his plan unfold.
He looked down at the boy. The leaf juice stains were darkening into an olive green blotchiness, which added camouflage to the covering of the scent. This plant would be a good one to remember.
Circumstance felt Ethan's eyes on him and he returned the look. Ethan smiled and gave the boy a thumbs up signal, which Circumstance returned along with the smile.
All three of the Garlocs were showing distress from the stench wafting off of the two travelers behind the bush. Ethan could see tears coming from their eyes, and saliva dripping from their mouths.
Eventually the idea should filter into their tiny little brains that if they moved away, the smell would diminish. All he and the boy had to do was sit it out and stink.
* * * * McCabe dreamed. This one was both pleasurable and exciting. He dreamt he was entertaining children, an entire classroom full, young ones, just past the age of diapering. His suite was decorated with just the right amount of hanging hooks and braziers for his irons.
It was a good dream. Oh, yes, a good dream, indeed.
“All right, you. Get up. Gods! He's done it again. Bring the bucket and sponge, Lifetile, he needs another cleanin'.”
The guard glared down at the groggy McCabe. “Listen, you. I'm sick of havin’ ta clean up yer stinkin’ hide. You do this again, an’ I'll put me fist down yer gob so far I'll be able ta yank yer balls off from th’ inside.”
McCabe smiled up at the guard.
The guard dismissed him with a wave. “Aww! Yer a total whittle. Useless. I don't see whut the’ Duke sees in you. Lifetile! Get yer lazy arse over here!”
Lifetile hurried as quickly as he could, dragging both the heavy bucket and a lame leg. His matted black hair hung into his eyes, and he smelled strongly of dirt and sweat.
The other guard, frustrated and angry at McCabe's mess, met him halfway, and tore the bucket out of Lifetile's hand. “Gimme that.”
He stomped his way back to McCabe's cell, muttering, “Damn lazy mute ... don't know why I even bother, some days. Doesn't do half whut you ask of him ... can't do the other.”
McCabe submitted to the scrubbing with indifference. He was trying to recapture his dream. It wouldn't come back. By the time the guard was done, his mood had soured from indifference to a sullen anger. If they weren't going to play,and they wouldn't let him go back to his dream, then he had little use for them. The guard had no idea how much he owed to the shackles that pinned McCabe's hands to the cell wall.
Lifetile slouched into the cell with a bundle under his good arm. He handed the bundle to the guard along with a note.
The guard scanned the note and looked at McCabe. “Well, it looks as if his nibs has decided ta have a little talk with yer pleasant self.”
McCabe didn't answer him.
The guard shrugged. It was out of his hands now, so he could not have cared less what McCabe thought of him.
Three armsmen with their swords drawn came down the stairs that curved along the dungeon wall. The one with a pair of chevrons sewn on to his surcoat walked up to the cell and indicated McCabe with his chin. “The pervert ready?”
“He's ready.”
This change raised McCabe's level of interest. These guards were going to take him somewhere. Maybe he was going to be allowed to play with his friend who wore the black hood once again. He decided to not kill the guards, or even the ill-tempered one, at least for now. Maybe tomorrow would bring something new.
The armsman with the chevrons braced himself, and held his sword ready. “Ok, let him loose.”
McCabe allowed the guard to release the shackles unmolested, and stood away from the cell wall for the first time in several days. He bounced on his feet, testing the spring in his legs.
The guard, untrusting of the armsman's ability to keep him safe, backed out of the cell, and stood well away from its door. He fingered his truncheon nervously.
“Come on, you. The Duke wants you for something.” The armsman took McCabe by his arm and guided him out of the cell.
McCabe looked up at the man. He topped him by a head and a half. “What does he want me for?”
The armsman kept his eyes to himself. “His Grace didn't deign to tell me. You'll have to find out when we get there.”
“Fall in, you two.” He ordered the other armsmen standing at attention outside the cell as he took the bundle out of the guard's hands.
They fell into place behind McCabe, and he was escorted out of the dungeon and into the castle proper of Bilardi, the fourteenth Duke of Grisham.
The dungeon guard looked at Lifetile and released his breath in a whoosh. “Can't tell if yer knows it, but you an’ me just squeaked through.”
Lifetile knew.
The armsman trio led McCabe through the castle hallways and up two flights of stairs until they reached the door to the west tower. A small archtop door inset into the interior Castle wall lay to their left. The Sergeant pointed to it as he thrust the bundle into McCabe's arms.
“Go in there and scrub the stink off of you. When you're done, put on these clothes. We'll wait out here.”
McCabe took the bundle and passed through the door. He found himself in a room just slightly larger than the tub it held. The tub was filled with clear tepid water. He found the temperature disappointing.
A cloth and a towel lay on a shelf attached to the wall, along with a large bar of lye soap.
He took the soap from the shelf and began scrubbing the accumulated grime that a week's stay in a dungeon cell left on his body. He had to admit it felt better being clean. It became a bit more intriguing what the Duke wanted him for besides the slight disappointment he wouldn't be playing with the torturer again.
After a final rinsing, he climbed out of the tub and toweled off. His fingers had to suffice as a comb for his hair.
The new clothes surprised him. The quality was beyond good, and he ran the fabric between his fingers to feel its softness. Silk, if he was any judge, of the highest quality. The color was a black deep enough to be startling. Soft ankle boots of black suede and a belt of the same material finished his ensemble.
The armsmen were waiting for him, as they said they would be. Men who kept their word were boringly predictable.
The sergeant inspected him as if he were on parade. “Acceptable. Follow me,” he said as he turned into the stairwell of the tower.
Intrigued, McCabe followed him up the stairs. They spiraled up the inside of the tower wall with a small landing every twelve feet. The Armsman Sergeant passed each of them in turn until they reached the final landing at the top of the tower.
The door to the top room stood open. Bilardi sat behind a small ornate desk, his huge belly making a convenient resting-place for his hands.
He straightened in the chair when McCabe made the landing. “Ah! My guest has arrived. Come in, come in. Have a dainty.” He indicated a plate of sweetmeats nestled on a silver tray.
McCabe reached out and plucked one of the sweetmeats from the tray, and popped it into his mouth.
Bilardi grinned at him. “Good?”
McCabe chewed the sweetmeat. “Not bad. A bit too sweet, but not bad. Could use a light dry wine as a follow up.”
Bilardi reached behind his chair and lifted a bottle and a glass off of the wall unit that lay there. “A man of exacting taste, I see. Try this. It should mix nicely with the sweetmeat.”
McCabe poured himself a half glassful, and sipped. He nodded at Bilardi. “Nicely, indeed.”
He sat down in the chair across from the desk and leaned back in it. “You aren't going to let me play any more in your dungeon, are you?”
Bilardi's face grew slightly paler. “Yes ... I've never seen anything like that before in my life. How did you do that?”
McCabe sipped more of the wine. It was a pale green in color. “Do what?”
“You know.” Bilardi gestured aimlessly with his hands. “That ... thing you did when he used the hot poker on you.”
“Oh, that.” McCabe smiled at the memory. He wished he'd thought of that technique before. “I suppose I'm a little different from other people, that's all.”
Bilardi gaped. “A little!? You acted as if the pain was your lover.”
McCabe's smiled broadened. “She is.”
“You call pain ... she?” Bilardi reached for a sweetmeat.
“Of course.” McCabe nodded. “Women are the source of all pain. I learned that as a child, and I've seen nothing since then that would cause me to change my opinion.”
Bilardi sipped some of the wine. “Do you feel about women as you do pain, then? Do you love women?”
McCabe looked thoughtful and then he shook his head. “No ... I don't love women, I love me.” He tapped his chest. “Women are useful, they make for an interesting plaything, but they're not as much fun as children.”
“Children?” Bilardi put his glass on the desk.
“Their screams. They're so much more primal, so much more ... real.” McCabe shuddered with the pleasure of the memory.
Bilardi swallowed his revulsion. This man was perverted beyond his comprehension, but he suited his purpose perfectly.
He picked up his wineglass, and peered at McCabe over the rim. “I have a proposition for you.”
* * * * “Pass me another handful of that Soapweed, will you?” Ethan reached out a hand toward Circumstance while he scrubbed furiously at his face and throat with the other.
The boy's idea of using the Skunkbush, Ethan's coined name for the plant, worked like a charm. The Garlocs discovered the benefit of moving rapidly away from the source of the stink, and did so, with alacrity.
Circumstance paused in his own scrubbing to reach over and strip a soapweed branch of its small leaves and flowers.
Ethan took the handful, and rubbed it between his hands, raising a froth of sweet citrus-smelling lather that cut through the Skunkbush scum, removing both the stain and the smell.
“Ohhhh, that feels better.” Ethan moved from his face to his hair. The water in the creek was cold, coming off the mountain as it did. “How did you know about that plant, Circumstance? Was it some racial memory from your Elf half?”
Circumstance splashed water onto his face before answering. “No,” He said. His expression became thoughtful. “I don't think so ... it's something else.”
Ethan stood up. “Well ... you can tell me about while we walk. I think I remember a mining village near this part of the mountain. I'd like to see if we can reach it before dark.”
Circumstance finished rinsing off. “I know where it is. It's that way.” He pointed to the Southeast.
Ethan paused in pulling on his trousers and looked at the boy. He was right. There was something else going on here besides possible racial memory. He shook his head and continued dressing. Whatever it was, it wasn't hurting the lad. In fact, he seemed healthier, less distracted than he had in Berggren.
The creek where they washed off the residue of the Skunkbush flowed through a swale tucked against the Northeast flanks of Cloudhook. The springs feeding the creek fell in a tinkling waterfall down a rugged cliff face. To the right of the cliff, a goat path worked its way upward in a long, slow curve to a ridge thick with pine trees.
They climbed the path, using their hands when necessary, and followed the ridge upwards through the pines.
The pine forest was quiet. Ethan thought it a good place to ask his questions.
He stooped to pick up a fallen branch, and used it as a staff while they walked. “Why are you doing this, Circumstance? You have to know your mother is terribly worried, don't you?”
“Of course I do, but I have to do this. Remember when I told you about that feeling I had?” Circumstance turned his head to look at Ethan.
He nodded. “I remember. I also remember telling you it might just be the change coming upon you.”
Circumstance turned his eyes to the forest floor. “I know. I didn't think so then, and I still don't. Some things have happened since that day that make me sure of it, now.”
Ethan thought of the Skunkbush, and of how Circumstance hid his tracks without even trying. He looked down at the pine needles on the ground. The boy was doing it, even now. “What sort of things?”
Circumstance sidestepped a tall toadstool with a blood red cap. “I know how to do stuff that my dad, you, or mom never told me how to do. I built a fish trap the right way the first time, and I know no one ever showed me how to do that.
“I know which plants and berries are good for eating, medicine or other things. I know, some of them you showed me, but all the others just popped into my head. The change can't do that, can it?”
Ethan had to agree with him. “No. It can't do that.”
“I also remember you telling me we had a pact. You said if I thought of anything to let you know and you'd help me. Do we still have a pact?” Circumstance looked at Ethan, weighing him.
Ethan tipped the scales in his favor. “I don't break my word, son. Not even if it costs me money to keep it. We will always have our pact, as long as I live. You want my help with something?”
They reached the top of the ridge and looked down into a long shallow valley lined with pines. Smoke rose into the late afternoon air from chimneys within the village they saw tucked into the far Eastern end.
Circumstance sat down upon a large stone thrusting itself through the berm. “There's something I have to do. I'm sure of it, now. Part of it is that I have to be someplace in that direction.” He pointed to the Southeast.
“So, that village is just a stopping point.” Ethan murmured.
“I won't be coming home.” Circumstance kicked his heels against the rock. “Probably, not ever.”
Ethan nodded. “I see. Want to tell me what you think it is you have to do?”
The boy continued to kick his heels. “I don't know. I just know it's important, really important.”
* * * * Thaylli eased up the window to her room. The cold night air flowed in, and spread across the floor. She could hear her father's snores mingling with those of her brothers. A slight smell of flatulence mingled with that of the pines outside.
She paused to listen for the sound of anyone stirring outside her door. Good. They were still all fast asleep.
Her bag went out the window first and she crawled out after it. The drop to the ground outside was very short, and she made it without turning an ankle.
“Bardoc must be with me.” She thought as she shouldered her bag, and began walking down the path that would take her out of the village, and towards the Wayfarer Hut where Adam and the old Wizard had stayed before beginning their journey towards Grisham.
She patted the water bag tied to her hip as she walked, and thought about what she would do when she caught up with Adam.
Clouds scudded past the moon high in the night sky, hiding a faint black shadow that floated along with them.
* * * * Mashglach looked up at the young Dragon's approach. The disturbance irritated him somewhat, but he pushed his temper back with force of will. Something was wrong. He felt it as well as the rest of Dragonglade.
“What is it, Drinaugh?” His tone was sharper than he intended and it caused the young Dragon to tremble in apprehension.
“I b..beg your pardon, honorable Mashglach. I can come back later, if you wish.” He turned as if to leave.
Mashglach's wings twitched in a massive sigh. “No, stay. It's a poor Dragon who cannot give some time to the young. What do you wish of me?”
Drinaugh dry-washed his hands. It was clear to Mashglach that whatever the youngster wanted, it was very important to him. He settled back on his haunches and closed the book of prophecy he'd been studying.
“Uh ... I wish ... I wish ... toleaveDragongladeandtravelEasttofind myhumanfriend Adamandtoseeifheiswell.” The last came out all in a rush as if it were spoken as one word.
Mashglach hid his smile within himself. He'd had a feeling this was going to happen. It was hinted at in the prophecies, in the very one he'd been studying, as a matter of fact. The return of Labad's reign was to have a Dragon involved in it, and it appeared Drinaugh was going to be the one. He almost wished he were six thousand years younger. Almost.
He leaned forward and asked the question again, being very careful to keep his voice level. “What do you wish of me?”
Drinaugh swallowed. “Iwishto ... I mean, I wish to go find Adam, my human friend? You know, the one who came with the Wizard?”
Mashglach nodded. “I know who you speak of, young Drinaugh. What I do not know is why you wish this. Dragonkind has been content to remain in Dragonglade and devote ourselves to our studies. It has been this way for millennia. Why do you wish to change this?” Mashglach was well aware of Drinaugh's discovery of his talent, but he wanted to hear how the youngster would respond to the question.
The young Dragon's eyes glowed with the intensity of his emotions. “I ... have to. It's my talent, you see, and he's my friend. I can help him, I'm sure I can.”
Drinaugh looked at Mashglach for a moment and then burst out with. “Dragons are so boring!”
Mashglach could not help the smile. “May I point out the obvious, young Drinaugh, that you happen to be a Dragon?”
“I ... didn't mean to say that.” Drinaugh looked as if he wished he could crawl into himself and close the opening after him.
Mashglach stood and stretched his wings out. The popping sound of joints and sinews realigning filled the study of the Winglord.
“Of course you did. If you hadn't, it would not have been uttered. That is part of your talent, you cannot discriminate, and those around you instinctively feel that.
“The truth is as much a part of you as it is in all Dragons. You just happen to carry it at the surface of your personality. Never lose that, Drinaugh. It would be a tragedy to do so. You are going to need it as you undertake your quest.”
It took nearly all of Drinaugh's self control not to embrace the Winglord.
Mashglach's gaze stayed upon the doorway long after Drinaugh left. Finally, a sigh passed through him, and he turned back to his book. “Good fortune, young Dragon. May Bardoc bless you, and us as well.” He added silently.
* * * * Ethan and Circumstance walked into the shallow valley just as the sun dropped below the horizon. The pines were releasing their scent into the early evening air, and the valley was thick with the smell of resin, wood smoke and cooking.
A small party of miners intercepted them, coming down from the upper slopes of the mountain. The oldest tipped his hat to the two travelers.
“Good evenin’ to ye. Your faces be new to me. Just travelin’ through?”
Ethan looked at the man. He had the appearance of one who'd spent most of his life mining. He was big enough for a couple of regular-sized fellows with arms the size of Ethan's thighs, and he smiled at Ethan and Circumstance through a bristling beard that reached to his chest under which a tartan shirt strained to hold back the bulk beneath it.
Circumstance replied to the miner's question. “We're just up from the eastern side of the mountains to the west, Sire Miner.”
“The boy tells the truth, we're from Berggren. Is there an inn in the village with food and a bed?” Ethan spoke while the two parties walked toward the village.
Another of the miners pointed to the right hand side of the broad street running through the center of the village. “Aye. Sire Westcott's place'll have what ye be needin.” Look for the sign of a Stag's head. That'll be the inn.”
“Thank you, sires.” Ethan placed a hand over his heart, and gave a quick bow of his head, which the oldest of the miners returned. “We will remember your kindness.”
“Given in charity, sire traveler. No remembrance is necessary,” The large miner replied. “Good eve to ye. We part company here.”
“Good eve.” Ethan waved at them and Circumstance hastened to join him, as the miners’ path curved off to the left into a cluster of cozy-looking cottages.
Circumstance looked up at Ethan as they continued on into the village. “That sounded like a ritual.”
“What did?”
Circumstance placed his hand over his heart and then gave a fair imitation of Ethan's baritone. “Thank you, sires, we will remember your kindness.”
“Oh, that.” Ethan grinned. “That's exactly what it was. Someone started that ages ago as a way to keep people from hacking each other to pieces over small differences. Could be very disruptive to a family outing.”
“And the ritual gave them enough space to not have to defend their honor.” Circumstance finished the thought.
Ethan had stopped being surprised at the boy's insights. He pointed to a sign hanging from an iron holder on the side of a two-story building with four dormer windows in the top story. “There's the inn. Let's see what they have for supper, Ok?”
“Ok.”
The Innkeeper hailed the two travelers as they came in through his door. He placed the tankards burdening his arms onto the table before him, where they were quickly snatched up by his thirsty patrons.
“Welcome. Welcome travelers, to the Stag's head Inn. I'm Westcott, the owner of this humble establishment. How can I be of service?”
Ethan sat at the table indicated. Circumstance chose the chair across from him. “Two large helpings of whatever that is we smell coming from your kitchen, sire Westcott, and if you could trouble yourself to bring me one of those tankards I'd be eternally grateful.”
Circumstance raised a hand. “I'd like some berry juice, if you have any, please?”
Westcott said to Circumstance. “Black or Red? I'll see which we have fresh pressed.”
As he passed Ethan, he murmured. “Well mannered lad you've got there.”
The half-elven boy looked around the interior of the inn while they waited for their food to arrive. A number of the round top tables were filled with village folk eating and drinking, talking and drinking, or just drinking.
“Gonna be a cold one this winter, Merillat.” A man with one of those beards that only covered the upper lip and chin spoke to a husky looking fellow hunched over a tankard across from him. “Hope yer sis gets it into her head to come back home afore then.”
The one called Merillat took a pull from his tankard and then set it back onto the table with a clunk. “She'd better. Runnin’ off like that. Fool girl, actin’ like she's without a thought in her head. Ma an’ Da beside themselves with worry. I tell ya, Petron, yer lucky ya don't have one. Sisters're nothin’ but trouble.”
A surge of guilt washed over Circumstance, and he hastily switched his attention to another table. This one held two young couples who were in a considerably better mood than the brooding fellow before.
“You should have seen it, Decora.” The other young woman leaned forward, exposing a generous supply of bosom. “He just stood there, statue-like, and stared at the cave-in. For a moment nothing happened, and then it started to open, like a fall in reverse, real slow like.”
“First time I ever saw magik,” the lighter colored of the two young men spoke, as he reached for his drink. “Not sure I ever want to see it again, shivered my figgin, it did.”
“That's ‘cause you weren't on the inside ‘spectin’ to die, Helm,” the darker of the two spoke after putting his tankard down.
Circumstance's juice was placed before him and ignored in favor of the conversation going on next to him.
Ethan quickly drained half his ale and listened as well with a more passing interest.
The young man called Helm looked suitably contrite upon being chided by the other. “Sorry there, Rob. Didn't mean nothin’ by it. Saichele was there. She knows I helped with the diggin'.”
The one called Decora reached over and hugged Rober. “Well, I'm glad Adam was there, magik or no.”
Ethan set his ale down, and stood. “Excuse me, did you just say the name, Adam?”
Rober looked up at Ethan, measuring him. “Aye,” He said slowly, keeping an arm around Decora's shoulder. “That she did. And what would your business be with the man?”
Ethan heard the implied threat behind the young man's tone, and whispered to Circumstance out of the side of his mouth. “Listen closely, This is one of those ritual times we talked about.”
He held out both his hands, palm up, and spoke to Rober and his friends as a group. “My intentions are peaceful, sires, ladies. I knew someone called Adam a few years ago. He was traveling with his sister, west of the spine. We traveled together, I taught him use of his sword. The sword was more remarkable in appearance than most, it looked to be a lord's blade.”
Saichele gasped. “I remember that! Oh, he looked so handsome with it strapped to his thigh.”
Helm gave her a long look that spoke jealous volumes. “I saw it, too,” he muttered. “Thought it were pretty showy for man to be wearin'.”
Rober was still a bit suspicious. “Adam. I remember him as a big man, over six foot with thick black hair.”
Ethan dropped his hands. “I apologize. The Adam I knew was a young man of average height, sandy hair and brown eyes.”
“Was his hair thick and wavy with those gorgeous highlights like our Adam's?”
Ethan thought Rober was going to have his hands full with this one. From the look of him, he knew it, too.
Decora squeezed Rober's arm. “That's him! He knew him.”
“Aye, That he did. I'll give him that.” Rober patted Decora's hand as it lay on his arm.
“Sit, traveler.” He waved at Ethan's chair. “Drink your ale, and ask us your questions. Your Adam is ours, and I'm one of the many in this village that owe him their life.”
The food arrived, heaping platters of steaming hot stew with thick crusts of still-warm bread that smelled of butter and yeast. Ethan and Circumstance dug in with a will, and Ethan asked his questions in-between mouthfuls. Circumstance listened, and as he did, that sense of purpose built within him.
Ethan asked Rober about their life debt to Adam and heard the story of the miraculous mine rescue. Rober dutifully left out the creation of the diamond lining to the mine and was quick to prevent Saichele or Decora from adding it to the conversation.
“I saw none of that in the lad when I knew him,” Ethan mused, after Rober finished telling of his rescue from the mine. “Of course, he showed a lot of wizardry with the sword.” His eyes took on a far away look as his memory took him back to that day outside of Silgert and that first lesson in swordsmanship.
“Oooo, tell us about it.” Decora and Saichele chorused.
Another tankard plunked down next to Ethan's arm. “Thought you might need this,” Westcott said, as he swiped a cloth across the condensation on the table. “These girls'll dry a man's throat to dust, with their love of tales.”
Circumstance looked up at Westcott's approach and turned his attention back to the stew, the bread and the conversation.
Ethan swallowed a healthy portion of the ale. It was good stuff, bittersweet with the nut-like flavor of roasted malt and fresh hops. “I'd just woken up from a week long drunk. Adam and his sister were sitting on a log talking; their voices woke me up. I have to admit I was less than polite at the time.”
The two men, having suffered through hangovers before, nodded their heads in understanding.
“Adam gave me some medication that took the headache away, and soon I felt good enough to find out some things about them, who they were, where they were coming from. The usual questions.”
He received some grunts of assent from his audience.
“Tell us about the sword fight.” Decora urged.
“I'm getting there,” Ethan reassured his listeners. “I offered to guide them through the forest into Dunwattle. They'd been chased out of a vile little pit called Silgert.”
“Silgert.” Hem mused. “I heard of Silgert. Wasn't none of it good.”
“Then whoever told you about the place spoke the truth.” Ethan picked up his tankard. “I picked up my pack, and started walking into the forest, headed south. They followed, and we talked some more. I wanted to take it slow. Only a fool rushes through the woods.”
More grunts of assent.
Ethan sipped some more ale. “Ahhh, that's good. I set camp a few miles into the forest in a clearing with close water and some fruit trees mixed in with the rest. It's there I decided to see what the boy could do with that fancy sword of his.
“I've got to tell you something about myself to set the stage for what happened. I made my living with the blade for quite a few years. Got real good at it. You know the names Morgan and Bilardi?”
For a moment all he got was a quartet of blank stares. Then a light of recognition blossomed in Rober's eyes. “Swordmasters!”
Ethan nodded. “Yes. Both of them, the best in the world. I'm the third. My name's Ethan.”
He saw Rober gulp as he remembered the earlier implied threat when Ethan first asked about Adam. Helm settled back into his chair with a grin.
“Well, that sets the stage for the sword fight.” He finished off the last of his ale.
Oooo's of appreciation came from the girls.
“I thought the boy would be an easy pushover, but he surprised me. I don't know how large he's grown by now, but then he was about three-quarters my size, maybe a bit more. I was sure I could push past any guard he put up.” He smiled. “I was wrong. I wound up fencing with a swordsman as good as myself, only younger and faster. Fortunately, I had experience on my side, as well as a few tricks only I knew about. Damn near got myself skewered on one, but the second one worked. I tapped him on his backside. That trick probably wouldn't work now.”
Saichele giggled.
Ethan graced her with a scowl. “Go ahead, laugh. It wasn't funny at the time. The kid nearly scared the life out of me. Made me feel like an old man.”
She looked unrepentant.
“Well, that's about it.” Ethan leaned back in his chair. “I taught him a few more tricks during our stops on the way to Dunwattle, picked ‘em up after the first run through. Never saw anything like it. Last time I saw he and his sister was at the inn in Dunwattle. You ever see her shoot that bow of her's?”
Helm shook his head. “We never heard of a sister till now.”
Ethan's eyebrows rose in unison. “Oh?”
“S'truth.” Rober put his now empty tankard onto the table. “Was just him and the old man, the wizard he come into town with.”
Ethan's eyebrows climbed even higher. “Oh?” he said again.
“He scared me,” Decora said, hugging herself. “He had creepy eyes.”
“Naw,” Helm said. “He just looked intense, like the way Wizards do. My da, he's seen people what do magik before, and they looked the same way.”
“What was this Wizard's name?” Ethan leaned forward onto the table.
Circumstance, finished with his stew, sipped his juice and listened. Something inside awoke with the mention of the wizard.
Rober leaned forward and looked into Ethan's eyes. “He called himself Milward.”
Ethan's brows could not climb any higher. “The legend? He lives?”
Helm snorted. “Rob said, called himself Milward. Didn't say we all believed it. Some of the elders, they did, though. Man living over a thousand years. C'mon, it's a bit hard to take.”
Saichele leaned forward until her chin was resting on her arms on the tabletop. “I believed him,” she said dreamily.
Helm snorted. “You believe every guy who says he loves you.”
Decora rushed to Saichele's defense. “Helm!”
The busty girl held her friend off with an upraised hand. “It's all right. They mean it. Every time.”
Ethan could see why. The girl had a gift and knew how to use it. “Why did you believe him, Saichele?”
She looked at Ethan through thick black lashes. “Because Adam did.”

Chapter Twenty-Six
Alford the 23rd, Emperor of the Southern Lands, scion of the House of Labad tossed the small handful of breadcrumbs onto the manicured lawn of his aviary. His action was rewarded with the arrival of dozens of brightly colored birds. Several of them boasted heads of an iridescent teal blue on a bright yellow body with wings containing soft golden yellow ovals in a field of dark green. Others in the crowd of bobbing heads and tails were smaller and plainer, but still colorful in their own right.
In the trees of the aviary, birdsong trilled and warbled through the leaf heavy branches. Two Whitecrests perched above their nest and preened their yard long curved tail feathers. The larger of the two, the female lifted her head and called. The song, high, sweet and melodic, caused Alford to look up and smile.
Another song answered that of the Whitecrest. It started as a low tenor and rose to finish in an achingly beautiful contralto. The melody brought to Alford's mind images of high mountains towering over wide rivers and the wind causing ripples in oceans of golden grain.
As always, when the Talegallu sang, he found tears coming to his eyes. He dabbed at them with a lightly scented kerchief, and dipped his hand into the bag of breadcrumbs.
The Emperor's aviary stood at a height of four stories, about half as tall as the golden dome of his palace. Its walls were of panes of glass, handset into individual frames, making the aviary an eight-sided spot of brilliance when the sun struck it.
The grounds around the aviary were park-like in their setting, with marble walkways laid in gentle curves throughout. A flowerbed surrounded the structure giving ample attraction to bees, butterflies and hummingbirds.
Alford leaned back against the wrought iron bench he sat on, and let his eyes wander through the glass wall of the aviary. He saw his secretary, Cremer, hurrying along the walkway towards the double doors that formed the entrance to his private retreat.
He allowed himself to release a small sigh of resignation, and stood up as he emptied the last of the breadcrumbs onto the lawn. It was time to go back to work.
* * * * Adam tried to concentrate on the small stone hovering before him.
“Now add another one,” Milward said, from his perch upon the stump a few feet off the path. A grove of Aspens bracketed the path. Songbirds flitted through the tops of the trees and added their song to that of the wind passing through the leaves.
Adam exerted another finger of pressure and lifted one more of the stones, bringing it to a point level with the first one.
“Good. Now keep them perfectly steady while we talk.”
“Talk about what?”
Milward snorted. “Anything. I want you to be able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. A Wizard has to be able to ... call it ... dividing his mind into compartments with each compartment working on or maintaining a separate task.”
“That's impossible.”
“No, it's quite possible. I've done it myself several thousand times as I recall, and you can, too.”
Adam was forced to consider the possibility. While Milward was talking, his attention had been pulled away from the stones, or so he thought. A part of him must have kept them hovering in place during the distraction.
He looked away from the stones toward the old Wizard. “Tell me again why we didn't take the horses they offered us at the Wayfarer hut down slope from Access?”
“I already told you.” Milward kept a steady eye on the stones. “Pick up another.”
A third stone joined the first two. “Tell me again.”
Milward's sigh was just short of exasperation. “Very well. It's simple. I don't like horses. I prefer walking. If I absolutely have to get somewhere faster than walking, I'll translocate myself there.”
Adam smiled. “Like you did when Gilgafed trapped you?”
“Don't be snide. Add another one.” Four stones now hovered in a line before Adam.
“So, why don't you like horses?”
Milward grimaced. “You're not going to let up, are you?”
Adam tired of just keeping the stones in a straight line, and decided to have them play a complicated game of hopscotch. “No. Tell me about the horses.”
“Oh, very well. It happened when I was about your age. I'd just begun to learn that I was different from the other boys in my village. New Wizards were about as rare then as they are now.”
“What does that have to do with horses?”
“I'm getting to that. There was a farmer at the far end of the village who kept a few of the beasts. He allowed my friends and I to ride the gentler ones from time to time. I was all arms and legs then and hadn't quite gotten used to the changes of growing into my teens. I was, in a word, clumsy.
“I never should have climbed on that horse. I had a feeling I shouldn't do it, but my friends were insistent.
“I'll leave the mundane part of the ride unsaid, and move along to where the trouble started.”
“Sometimes, with the more powerful Wizards, your developing powers work a shaping without you consciously doing anything.”
“That happened to me.” Adam reversed the direction of the stone ballet.
Milward looked at him sharply. “It did? What was it? You destroyed a village? Leveled a mountain? By the way, add another stone.”
The four stones in the ballet became five. Adam looked back at the Wizard. “No, I healed a blind girl.”
Milward shook his head. “Yes, I suppose you would. Nice pattern, by the way.”
He leaned back on the stump and looked up at the Aspen leaves overhead. “My introduction to the ways of power wasn't quite so philanthropic. I was busy trying to stay upright on the nag I'd been given, when, for a reason unknown to me at the time, the beast reared and threw me into the bramble patch it was passing just then. Don't smile, it took several stitches to close some of the gashes I received.”
“Did you find out what caused the horse to throw you?” Adam now had the stones following each other in a mobius loop.
“Yes, eventually. One of my friends saw bright blue-white sparks jump from me to the horse from the region of my posterior. Don't laugh! You don't know how long it took me to lose the nickname they gave me after that, and no, I'm not going to tell you. You can use your imagination.”
“So ... riding horses just brings back too many bad memories?”
“You are remarkably perceptive for a young man. That's it exactly. I would rather walk from here to Ort, than ride another horse.
“Add another stone now.”
Adam now had six stones dancing in the air in front of him.
Milward nodded his approval. “Good control. Now double the amount.”
Six more stones rose off the path from various areas of the path and winged their way towards the original six.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” The six original stones dropped to the glade floor as the second six pelted Adam like horizontal hail.
He looked at Milward. Bruises were blooming on his face and arms. “What happened? I had them under control. I know I did!”
The old Wizard stood and leaned on his staff. “The contrary appears to be obvious. Actually, what happened is control overload. You had more than enough power to lift another six stones, but the additional compartmentalization needed to control them wasn't there. Too much, too soon. I see you can feel the results.”
Adam rubbed his cheek. “Yeah, I can. Do you have some Willit Bark in those pouches of yours? These bruises hurt like the pit.”
* * * * Ethan finished buckling on his swordbelt as he took the stairs down into the main room of the inn. The bed he used last night was comfortable enough, but it wasn't his, and Ellona wasn't in it.
Only two of the chairs in the room were occupied. One held an old gaffer nursing a cup of hot tisane, the other, Circumstance. Somehow the boy had managed to get up and leave the room without disturbing him.
Circumstance was busy digging into a dish piled high with sausages, potatoes and eggs. The smell started Ethan's mouth watering.
He pulled out the chair opposite the one Circumstance was using and sat down. “Uh, where'd you get that, lad?”
The boy's mouth was full, so he pointed to the oaken door set into the back wall of the room.
“The kitchen must be back there.” Ethan said to himself.
“Do we dish up ourselves?”
Circumstance shook his head no and bit into another one of the sausages, adding a bit of egg right behind it.
Ethan stepped away from the table and walked over to the door. The smell of cooking came from under it. He swallowed the saliva building up in his mouth and pushed through.
“Good morning! Take it you want some breakfast. You with that beautiful boy sitting out there?” A woman with her hair bundled up in a cloth tied in the back called out to him as he came into the kitchen. She was busy stirring up a mix of potato wedges and link sausages. Ethan could hear to pop and sizzle of the eggs in the pan next to the one she worked.
She threw him a greeting consisting of a brief flash of white teeth. “I'm Sheriwyn, Westcott's woman. Grab yourself one of those plates over there.” She pointed at a stack of dishes on the long counter to the right of the sink with her spoon. “...and I'll fix you right up. Tisane's over there.” The spoon pointed to Ethan's left. A covered black kettle with heavy white stoneware mugs gathered around sat on another, shorter counter. A dipping ladle hung on a peg to the right of the kettle.
Ethan's stomach rumbled. He hoped the sound of stirring and popping grease covered the noise. Sheriwyn heaped his plate with sausage, egg and potatoes.
She looked into Ethan's face with a smile that had motherhood written all over it. “You tuck into that bit. Let me know if you want seconds. Run along, now.”
“Thank you, ma'am.” Ethan murmured. “It looks and smells delicious.”
“Oh, go on with you.” She waved him out of the kitchen gruffly, but her grin said she appreciated the courtesy.
Ethan rejoined Circumstance at the table. The old gaffer was gone from the room. His cup sat alone on the table he'd been using. “What time did you get up?” He stuck his fork into a chunk of potato and bit into it. The flavor equaled the promise of the smell.
“Mmmm. Oh, this is good.” He chewed, swallowed and speared another potato chunk along with a sausage.
“Um hmmm.” Circumstance mopped up the last of the grease on his plate with his last piece of potato while he chewed.
Ethan finished his second mouthful and paused with his fork poised over his plate. “What's bothering you, lad? Something's on your mind. Mind telling me what it is?”
“Not sure you'd understand.” Circumstance sounded tentative rather than sulky.
Ethan had to swallow before he answered. That woman in the kitchen could cook. Westcott was a lucky man. “Try me.”
Circumstance looked up into Ethan's eyes. “I think I now know what it is I have to do.”
“And what's that?” Ethan placed a combination of potato and egg into his mouth.
“I have to find the Wizard Milward and his apprentice.”
“The one they were talking about last night.” Ethan remembered he forgot to get some tisane to wash down the food. “You want something to drink? I'm getting a mug.”
“Circumstance nodded. “Yes, please. I have to do this, Ethan.”
“I'll talk to you about it when I get back.” Ethan walked across the room and through the door that led into the kitchen. He returned back through the door, bearing two mugs with wisps of steam wafting over their rims.
“Here you go.” He set one of the mugs in front of Circumstance. “Now, tell me more about what this is you have to do.”
Circumstance sipped the tisane. “It was when those people were talking about the rescue at the mine and this man named Adam who did the magik.”
“Go on,” Ethan said.
“I got this feeling,” Circumstance traced a random design in the condensation ring left from his mug sitting on the tabletop. “When they talked about the magik. I got it stronger when they talked about the Wizard Milward. I don't know what it is I have to do, but I do know it has to do with them.”
Ethan looked at Circumstance for a long moment and then dropped his gaze to the tisane in his mug. “You feel pretty strong about this, don't you?”
He got a smile for his trouble. “Strong enough to leave home in the middle of the night, I imagine.”
He got a laugh from Ethan in return. “Yes, you did that, didn't you? Led me on a merry chase, as well.” He paused to sip some more tisane. “Did pretty well in the wild, too.” he said, half to himself.
Circumstance leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “So I should continue to do well as I look for the Wizard. Don't you think?”
Ethan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don't know ... it's a big world out there, and there's a lot of dangers.”
“Like ... Garlocs?” Circumstance raised an eyebrow.
“Yes ... like Garlocs. I have to tell you, it is strange how you knew about that Skunkbush.”
Circumstance said nothing in return. He felt his case had been made and he knew what he had to do. Up to a point.
Ethan looked down at the table for a very long moment and when he raised his eyes back to the boy's, his expression was unreadable.
“You're going to let me go.” Circumstance said it as a statement of fact.
“Yes. I suppose I am.” Ethan toyed with his mug. “I don't know yet what I'm going to tell your mother, but I'll figure something out by the time I'm back in Berggren.”
“Would ... would you go with me for one more day? I know it'll mean a longer trip back, but...”
“But you're feeling lonely already, aren't you?” Ethan's smile held understanding.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Circumstance replied. “There's a difference, knowing what you have to do, and actually doing it. The idea of starting, with you being here, I mean, it's not like leaving when everyone's asleep.”
Ethan finished his tisane. “Homesick?”
“A little.”
Ethan reached across the table and squeezed the boy's shoulder. “It'll be all right, lad. Of course I'll go with you. You know I will.”
* * * * “How do the bruises feel now?” Milward marched along the path a little behind and slightly to the right of Adam.
Adam rubbed his cheek where one of the stones had struck him. “Most of the ache is gone, thanks.”
The Aspen trees gave way to Oaks and Cottonwoods. They were nearing the feet of Cloud Hook. Behind them, the flanks of the mountain climbed into the blue sky, the midday sun glinted off the eternal ice on its peaks. The path had become a series of switchbacks, and Adam and Milward had to lean slightly back to compensate for the steepness of the grade. The air smelled of wood and herbs and. something else.
“Do you smell that?” Adam asked Milward, as they were working their way through the switchbacks.
“Smell what?” His wizard's staff tap tapped as he kept himself steady on the steep path. “The woods? The wildflowers? Yesterday's rain?”
“No, cooking. There's a faint smell of cooking. Bad cooking.” Adam's nose wrinkled as a stronger whiff passed by. “Real bad cooking.”
Milward sniffed the air, and then began to cough. “Houwggh! Ouwghh! Oh, that's foul. Worse than Dwarf stew, even.”
“Could it be more Garlocs?” Adam's eyes did a rapid side-to-side dance as he checked to see if they were in any immediate danger. He disagreed with the Wizard's statement. He rather liked Dwarf stew.
Milward held a cloth over his nose. “No, Garlocs don't even understand the concept of fire, much less how to use it for cooking. This stuff smells bad enough to be elfish cooking, but we're too far south for Elves.”
“Elves?” Adam turned toward Milward in surprise. “Aunt and Uncle used to tell us stories about Elves. I remember them telling us about their great beauty and wisdom. They never said anything about the cooking.”
Milward looked at Adam with disbelief on his face. “Elves with beauty and wisdom are a combination I've never heard of. Your Aunt and Uncle must've had a fine imagination, that's all I can say. Those were stories, lad. This is reality.”
“They're not like that? They're not older and wiser than humans?”
Milward snorted, blowing out his moustaches. “Not exactly. Elves are a younger race than Humans and far less developed. They are, on average, about the size of an early teen. The women are smaller and finer boned than the men and they have a tendency to walk in a half crouch, as if they're skulking.
“What do they look like? I mean, how are they different from you and I?” Adam asked.
“Other than size, you mean?” Milward asked.
Adam nodded. “Uh huh.”
The old Wizard scratched an itch on his left shoulder. “Well, now, their hair is uniformly black, as well as their eyes. Elfish skin is darker than most humans, except for some of the far southern clans. It's usually more of an olive tone instead of our pale tan.”
“Their features are much sharper than that of a human. The nose is usually very small and pointed, as well as the chin and teeth. Their ears are large, and lie flat against the skull. They have pointed tips, making them an Elf's most distinguished feature.”
“What about their voices? Aunt and Uncle used to tell Charity and I about the beautiful singing Elves would do.”
“Not these Elves, Adam.” Milward shook his head. “You would find their voices whiny and nasal, at best.”
“Well, if that smell actually is Elvish cooking, I think I'm going to find out shortly.” Adam waved at the air in front of his face.
The odor became stronger as they walked down the path. At the end of the switchbacks the path widened and leveled out. The wind shifted, and the smell became almost palpable.
“Uuugghhh! It smells like sour vegetables mixed with rotten eggs.”
Milward nodded. “Sounds like the Elfish diet, all right.”
“They like rotten food?”
“From what I hear.” Milward spat out an excess of saliva. “I've been told by some of the wandering folk who trade with them that they prefer it that way. They say it has more taste than fresh.”
“Yuk!”
Milward patted Adam on the shoulder. “I quite agree.”
His patting changed to a grip of iron that halted Adam in his tracks. “They've a Shaper with them,” he muttered.
“A Wizard!?” Adam rubbed the spot where Milward's fingers had dug in.
Milward shook his head. “No, a Shaper.” He emphasized the word. “Wizards, such as you and I, can shape all the various types and forms of the world's energies. A Shaper has the ability to only work with one form or another. Such as fire, earth, water and the like.”
“Can you tell what kind this one is?” Adam crouched down next to the old Wizard.
A thicket of Huckleberry bushes blocked their view of the Elf campsite. The sound of voices was faintly audible, and Adam caught a word or two. Milward proved accurate in his description of how they sounded. It was whiny, with a harsh edge that he found disturbing, irritating and completely disagreeable.
Milward raised himself up to try to peer over the thicket. He returned to his crouch with a shake of his head. “I can't see to be sure, but it feels like a Fire Shaper.”
“It?” Adam's eyebrows raised in question.
Milward shrugged. “It's the best pronoun that fits. A Shaper gives themselves over entirely to their talent. They loose all sexual identity. A Fire Shaper's heat will cause a subtle distortion in the air around them. It's pretty easy to tell if you're looking for it.”
Adam parted a portion of the thicket in front of him. Faint forms moved on the other side, seen through the thinning of the leaf pattern. “How could you tell a shaper was with them? I still can't sense anything.”
“Experience, my boy. It's that simple. Experience I had hoped you'd never have to go through, and maybe not, if Bardoc grants us any luck.”
Milward gripped his staff and used it to help himself to a standing position. “I think it's best we detour around these folk. Follow me.”
He chose a path that led through several Cottonwoods that grew alongside a small creek choked with grasses and a vine that bore small yellow flowers.
He pointed at the vine as they passed by it. “Mind the vine. If you crush its leaves, you'll take a Dragon's lifetime trying to get its scent off you.”
Adam halted his foot before it could come down on a thick bundle of the leaves in question. “Thanks for the warning,” he whispered.
Milward didn't answer, but continued to push through the undergrowth.
Adam's attention was taken momentarily by a patch of Morels growing at the base of a large Oak that encroached upon the Cottonwoods’ territory.
He bent to pick some of the delicacies when a harsh voice called out. “Strangers!”
The Elves had found them. Milward's chosen path led them right into a party making its way back to the camp.
They soon found themselves bracketed by several Elves with short swords. The weapons’ edges were wavy with hammer marks, crude, but still effective for the killing.
Milward was in front of Adam. He whispered over his shoulder. “Don't do anything to startle them, and keep your power hidden, if at all possible.”
“No talking!” The command was followed by a whack with the flat of a blade against the Wizard's thigh. Milward cried out in pain.
Adam reacted without thought. The power built within him, and erupted in a rush, sending the blade wielder flying backwards through the trees like a thrown stone.
The old Wizard hissed at Adam. “Now you've torn it! Look! Here comes their Shaper.”
Adam looked to where Milward pointed. The Elf running in their direction looked like the others. Crude, roughly woven robes and a dirty breechcloth was the basic costume, except this Elf carried a staff covered with carvings, and the air shimmered around its body, creating a halo of distortion.
The phalanx of Elves parted to allow their Shaper to step through. It looked at Adam and Milward, as well as to either side in a searching gesture. Its gaze swept past Adam one more time, and then snapped back to him alone.
“You. You're the one.” The voice, like that of the others, was harsh and nasal.
Adam looked back at the Shaper. Lank black hair brushed its shoulders, divided by the extended points of its long ears. The eyebrows arched upwards, giving its face a feral expression, which was augmented by pointed teeth, bared in a humorless smile. Its skin was the olive color Milward had him about. The old Wizard never mentioned the acne.
He forced himself to relax, to act nonchalant in the face of the Shaper's accusation. “What are you talking about? The one ... what?”
“I smell your magik, Human. It covers this clearing.” The Elf's arm swept around, indicating the mentioned area. “We will see who has the most power, you and I. Human or Elf.” It finished the statement by tapping its right thumb against its chest.
“No! You can't! He has no experience! Look how young he is.” Milward tried to step between Adam and the Shaper. It took four Elves to drag the old Wizard away.
Adam looked at the struggling Wizard. “Can't you use your magik? Translocate us out of here, or fight them off?”
Milward shook his head. “There's too many of them to fight. We could take care of maybe half their number, but I can't be sure a blade wouldn't get through. I'm not going to risk your hide on a mass fight if I can help it. Translocation is out of the question. You don't know how to do it, and it's something a Wizard can only do for himself. I'm sorry.”
He looked down at the Elves that held his arms. “You can let go now.”
“Is that what you want me to do then? Fight a duel!?” Adam stared at Milward in disbelief.
“I'm sorry, my boy, but it's the only way we have a chance to get out of this without you being killed. If you win, the rest of the Elves will let us go in peace.”
“And if I don't?”
“I'll do my best to heal your injuries.”
“Thank you, so very much.”
“Enough talk!” The Elf Fire Shaper snapped. “Come, young Wizard, show me your strength. If you have any.” It braced itself, the staff held out with both hands gripping the ends.
Milward called out. “Please, show some mercy. He's young. He hasn't had the practice you have.”
“Well then, old father,” the Fire Shaper sneered, “He will get some. Even if it is a last lesson.”
“No!” Milward's surge forward was smothered by the several Elves who bore him to the ground.
Adam looked back at the Fire Shaper. The distortion halo expanded, and he could feel a wash of heat with it.
“I don't want to fight you,” he said, even as he crouched and began to feel the pressure of the power building within him.
“No matter, Human.” The Shaper called back as its smile broadened. “I want to fight you.”
The blast of superheated air from the shaper's staff turned the trees behind Adam into torches, and singed the back of his hair as he dropped to the ground and rolled under its path. His release of the power was off, and it ploughed into the ground before the shaper, sending earth and rock into it with explosive force.
The shaper's scream scraped across Adam's nerves like nails on a blackboard.
“You did it, Adam! You did it!” Milward shook off the Elves holding his arms, and rushed over to help Adam back to his feet.
The Elves stood where they had been when the short-lived duel started. Not one of the party made a move to help their fallen comrade. It lay on the clearing floor, writhing in agony, most of its legs below the knee shredded to the bone.
Milward walked over to where the Shaper lay, and looked down at it impassively. “Will you give the lad quarter now?”
The Shaper whimpered incoherently as its hands groped to find a way to stop the pain.
Milward grunted. “I'll take that as a ‘yes'. Come on, Adam. We can leave now.”
“No.” Adam finished brushing the last of the forest litter off his clothes.
“No!?” Milward stared at his young protégé, aghast. “This ... thing forced a duel on you only because it was so sure of its own victory. It would have cooked you to death, you know, without any thought of mercy, and you want to stay here? Why?”
“It needs help.” Adam said simply.
“After what it tried to do to you?” Milward couldn't believe his ears.
“No, because of what it tried to do to me. If we leave without trying to help, we'll be acting as it did. I wouldn't want to go to sleep with that on my mind.”
Milward sighed in resignation. “Yes, I suppose you're right. Let's see what we can do. You know it can't expect any help from that lot.” He pointed to the Elves, who were making their way back to their cookpot.
Adam stood over the Shaper. It was now unconscious and in shock, mercifully out of pain. He built the power slowly, conscious of a flow coming from outside that felt different from what he used in rescuing the miners.
He tried to visualize the Shaper's legs as they had looked before the duel, but he had only a faint recollection, and gave up on the idea, choosing instead to let the power work through his emotions with his mind functioning only as guide.
He released the pressure at the point where it had become intolerable, and let it flow into the body of the Shaper.
The Elf awoke out of shock and screamed as if its lungs would burst. The sound became unbearable and Adam had to put his hands over his ears. He tried to halt the flow of power, but it wouldn't stop. The screams increased in volume and intensity as its body began to glow.
The forest fire the Shaper's attack had started suddenly died as if blown out like a candle.
The glow around the Shaper intensified to the point where Adam had to take one hand off an ear to shield his eyes, and still the power flowed.
He began to feel weak and his knees started to buckle.
“Adam!” Milward shouted into his open ear. “Stop it! You're killing yourself!”
“I can't!” Adam gasped. “It won't turn off! Help me, Milward. Turn it off!” He could feel his life force draining, fear clutched his heart with an iron hand.
“Blast me for a Gnomic headed droob! I knew this was going to happen.” Milward concentrated, and held his staff between Adam and the ball of blazing light that had become the Shaper. A twitch of his head showed the force of will he exerted, as a barrier of blue radiance slammed down around Adam. The flows of power stopped and Adam felt strength return to his limbs.
As fast as the barrier appeared, it was gone, along with the light around the Shaper.
The Elf sat up slowly and felt for its legs, now whole. It looked at Adam in wonder and fear. “Why?” The word came out in a whispered hiss.
Adam looked at the Shaper. “You needed help.”
The vanquished Shaper nodded and then dropped its head. It seemed to be looking for something as it patted its body, searching. Abruptly, it clenched its eyes and threw back its head. “My power!” It wailed. “You took my power!”
It continued to cry, sobbing out its grief in inarticulate screams.
Adam stared at it, not believing or understanding what he was hearing, but knowing it was true. “I didn't mean to. You were dying, I wanted to help you.”
“You should have let me die!” The ex-Shaper spat at him, tears welled up in its eyes. “What good am I now, filthy human?!” The word came out as a curse. “You stole my power. What good am I now?” The Elf dissolved into grief. “What good am I now?”
Milward placed a gentle hand on Adam's shoulder. “Come on, Adam. We'd best leave while we can. Their awe of you will last long enough, I think, for us to be beyond their finding. But only if we leave now. Besides, my nose is reminding me why we wanted to avoid this spot in the first place.”
Adam allowed himself to be led away, his mind awhirl with thoughts and emotions, sick at heart at what had become of his desire to help the Elf.
He remembered little of the next few hours, until Milward finally stopped them to make camp for the night several miles away from the base of Cloudhook.
“What happened, lad? Do you remember what you were thinking when you tried to heal that Shaper?” Milward sipped from the cup of tisane he held as he tended the coals of the fire.
“Not all of it, no. I do remember trying to visualize what the Elf's legs looked like before ... I did what I did.”
“You did what you had to do. Remember that, Adam. There was nothing else for it.” Milward admonished him gently.
“I guess so. Anyway, I couldn't bring his legs into focus, and so I thought I just use what I was feeling, you know, my desire to heal it? And then I just let the power go.” Adam threw up both hands to either side of his face in emphasis.
“Hmm. I thought that was what happened.” Milward nodded, as he took another sip of tisane.
“You did? Then why did you ask me?” Adam pulled his robe tighter around himself. The night was becoming chill.
“I wanted to be sure, that's why. What you did, young man, was the most dangerous thing a Wizard could do; allow his emotions to rule his power. Many, too many, have died because they did the very same thing, and they did not have someone like me there to help rescue them from their own folly.
“You allowed the power flow to become so great that you had none in reserve to stop it. It takes power to start a shaping and it takes power to control it. You, my brave, thoughtful, heroic but oh, so foolish, young Wizard, lost that control.”
Adam looked up at Milward sheepishly. “Like the stones, huh.” He rubbed his cheek.
The old Wizard reared back his head and howled with laughter. “Yes. Like the stones.”
* * * * Bilardi walked over to the alcove that led to his private balcony. He stood against the edge and looked down upon the city of Grisham. Even after all these long years, the sight still gave him pause. He loved its stark beauty, and breathed deeply of the wood fired smoke of its air.
His palace's location upon the central hill in Grisham, in addition to the height of his private tower, gave him the best view in the city. There was one blot upon his personal panorama, however. Nestled within a choice bit of Grisham's land, and directly in the Duke's line of sight, lay the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned residence and offices of the Ambassador of Ort.
The Emperor of Ort had humiliated Bilardi's father over sixty-seven years ago, but to the present Duke the wounds were as fresh as if the deed had been done to him yesterday.
He had a plan for the Ambassador. The man McCabe would play a part in it. The Ambassador's brother, the Emperor, would be forced into a position where he would have no choice but to declare war upon Grisham. Bilardi had no doubt as to the eventual outcome of that war.
McCabe's likes and desires repulsed him, but they also made up a large part of what made the little pervert perfect for the plan.
The Ambassador had two daughters upon whom he doted. McCabe's self-assured, confident manner and his dark good looks would go a long way towards using at least one of them as a weapon against the father.
Yes, McCabe was perfect, and he loved the irony of the idea. He would attract, become close to, seduce and then murder one of the young ladies.
Bilardi picked up his cognac and sipped it while he gazed upon his city. Yes, McCabe was perfect, as perfect as if he, Bilardi had made him to order himself.
His gaze swept across the city once more, coming to rest upon the Ortian Embassy. A cold smile spread across his face. Perfect.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Children stopped to stare as the great dog and its rider passed by on the cobblestoned streets. The rider seemed to be looking for something without really looking. Its head would turn from side to side every few yards or so without focusing on any of the people or buildings.
Those few souls hearty enough to approach the dog would immediately retreat when the rider turned its head toward them. All crowds, regardless of their depth, parted like reeds before a boat to allow the dog to pass. Many in the crowds changed their chosen path to take them away from the rider and the dog. A few began making plans to move out of Grisham entirely.
The Envoy extended her senses as widely as possible. Her master would not allow her failure to find this disturbance of his to go unpunished, and she was beginning to think that whatever he'd sensed was no longer in Grisham.
The dog carried its rider into another street and she reached out again.
There! A faint glimmer of ... something. Her best description for it, if pressed for one, would have been potential, potential for great evil. The type of evil that cares nothing as to whether or not what it does is right or wrong, it does so because it likes what it is doing.
For the first time in many years, doubt entered her.
* * * * Ethan and Circumstance left Westcott's Inn about an hour after sunrise. The air felt crisp and cool with hints of the approaching winter. Blue Jays in the pines complained at their passing and then flew on to roost in the next stand to do it all over again.
“Those birds are obnoxious.” Ethan looked up as a dislodged cone narrowly missed his shoulder.
“We're invading their territory.” Circumstance looked up at a branch where a pair of Jays perched, scolding them.
Ethan snorted. “I'm aware of that. That type of bird ruined many a picnic my family tried to have when I was growing up. I'm afraid I still hold something of a grudge. Let's get out of their back yard.”
They quickened the pace and soon passed beyond the border of that part of the wood the Blue Jays considered their own. They followed the curve of the mountain until they reached the southern face. Circumstance took the lead and Ethan allowed him to do so. Soon, the angle of the sun had them walking in shadow and the cool of the day became a chill.
Ethan called a halt to their walk and slipped the pack off of his back. “I'm going to have to put on something warmer. It feels like we'll be having an early winter.”
Circumstance glanced up at what sky could be seen through the overlapping branches of the pines. “I suppose so.”
The forest floor beneath them was thick with layers of fallen needles and their footfalls gave only a soft crinkling sound to show people were passing through the wood. It had graced the sides of Cloudhook Mountain for millennia. The moist climate of the Mountain's southern flank proved a perfect habitat for mosses that added their own decoration to the forest. Long streamers like green beards draped from branches gnarled by centuries of growth, and rounded mounds of deep green spread across the floor like carpeting.
Ethan noted a wealth of mushrooms sprouting in various areas through the wood. Ideas for a meal came to mind. “I'm getting a bit hungry. How about stopping for some lunch?”
Circumstance looked around the area where they stood. One of the things about an old pine forest is that the large trees are very selfish. They share their space with no one else. Consequentially, there was a lot of open space under the interlocking branches of the wood. A fallen giant, long stripped of its branches in decades past, lay in a diagonal to the right of them about ten yards away. Needles piled high against the sides of the log. Several wood ear mushrooms grew in small clusters close to the ground.
Ethan walked over to the log and picked a few of the Wood ears. He held them up before Circumstance. “Fancy a mushroom medley for lunch?”
The boy's smile was answer enough.
They cleared an area about twenty feet wide. A small cook fire is harmless only if the precautions to keep it from becoming a big one are taken. Ethan used his belt knife to dig a shallow pit for the fire, while Circumstance gathered kindling and larger branches of breakable size.
Once the pit was dug, Ethan stacked some of the branches into a pyramid shape with an opening for the placement of tinder, which would be some of the dry needles off the forest floor.
He put together a small bow with a green branch and a piece of thong. Wrapping it around a straight piece of deadfall, he then set the combination in place over a piece of bark dry enough to be used as tinder in its own right. Using the bow, he began spinning the wand back and forth while holding the tip against the piece of bark. Eventually, the friction would develop enough heat to ignite the bark. The only question was how long.
Circumstance squatted next to Ethan and watched him work at getting the fire going. “How long before we eat?”
Ethan grunted softly as he worked the bow back and forth. “Hard to tell. Could be a couple of minutes. Could be a while. You've got to learn patience if you're going to be living in the wild.”
“I see.” The boy extended a hand toward the firewood and it erupted into flame.
Ethan jumped back from the fire with a shout. “What the flick?!”
He turned to face Circumstance. “You did that. How?”
His answer was a shake of the head. “I don't know how. I just did it.”
“You ever do it before?”
Circumstance shook his head again. He seemed as startled over the display of power as Ethan was.
Ethan tried another tact. “How did it feel? Was it another one of those urges you talked about?”
Circumstance looked puzzled and somewhat overwhelmed all at the same time. “Kind of like that ... I guess. I don't know, not for sure.”
A part of Ethan stuck to the practical and he fed the fire while the other part of him explored the deepening mystery that was Circumstance. “Try to describe it,” he urged.
The boy pursed his lips in thought. “Uh ... it was like I had to do it. You were taking so long getting the fire started and I was getting hungry for some of those roasted mushrooms you suggested. Something in me told me all I had to do to start the fire was reach out and make it burn.”
“Um hmm.” Ethan nodded. “Clear as mud,” he thought. If this lad was growing into a wizard, he'd have little need for a worn out swordsman tagging along.
“I still don't know how I did it.” Circumstance looked at his hand with puzzlement in his eye.
Ethan put another piece of branch onto the fire and shrugged. Just another piece added to the puzzle. “That's a question you'll have to answer for yourself, lad. The fire's ready. You made sure of that. Shall we get to those mushrooms?”
* * * * Drinaugh woke on the second day of his journey to find himself surrounded by wolves. The pack was a large one, with several pups standing close by their mothers.
One wolf, obviously the pack leader, stepped cautiously forward, away from the ring of his packmates, and sniffed the young Dragon.
Drinaugh's experience with wolves was limited only to study and theory in Dragonglade. That, and his size removed any reason to fear the pack that stood before him.
“Hello.” He said in the language of wolves. “I'm called Drinaugh. Who are you?”
The pack leader sniffed the young Dragon. “I smell you, Drinaugh. Are you one of those that rule the sky? The old legends tell of your type. You do not smell like a cub eater.”
Drinaugh huffed. “Of course not! I'm a Dragon. Dragons do not eat other animals.”
The pack leader opened his mouth in a Wolf grin. He left his thoughts concerning plant eaters unsaid.
“A young one.” He considered. “What brings a cub of your type to our woods, young sky lord?”
“I search,” began Drinaugh, and then he changed his emphasis. “I must find ... my two-legged friend.”
The pack, as one, stepped in closer. The Alpha Wolf's eyes glinted. He sat on his haunches and cocked his head at Drinaugh. “Tell me about your friend two legs.”
Drinaugh was glad to tell the wolf about Adam. “He is the first two legs I ever met. He is also a Wizard. We have shared food together many times. He taught me much.”
The wolf turned back toward the pack and looked at the young Dragon over his shoulder. “We know this two legs. He is one of our pack. We will go with you, and see him ourselves.”
“How do you know him?” Drinaugh asked. “And how can a human Wizard be a member of a wolf pack?”
The pack leader did not turn to look at Drinaugh, but his answer came to the Dragon's ears. “He has learned the way of the hunt, and has followed the path of blood. He is both wolf and human. He is our friend, too. He is Bright Eye.”
Drinaugh stood and shook off the last of the logy feeling from his night's sleep. The only drawback he could see from accepting the Wolf's offer of assistance was that wolves couldn't fly. It looked like he'd was going to be doing a lot of walking from here on out.
* * * * Thaylli had no idea her pack, which had seemed so light when she left the outskirts of her village and walked down the mountain to the Wayfarer Hut, could have somehow trebled its weight without her adding anything to it.
Also, the wild, once a place of wonder to her on her camping trips with her father and brothers, had now become a sinister abode of dark shadows and suspicious forms.
Her feet hurt as she trudged along the path and her water was almost gone. That knowledge made her even thirstier. She lifted the nearly flaccid bag and shook it. The sound was discouraging.
Behind her, Cloudhook's peak gleamed pink in the light of the setting sun. She had to find a safe place to camp for the night, and she also had to find water.
Emotions tore at her with opposing force. Part of her wished she could give up and return to her nice warm bed in her safe little village. She imagined she could smell her mother's cooking, and she could hear the little tune mum would hum as she cooked supper to the calls of the night birds.
The other part of her said she couldn't go back now. It would be too embarrassing, besides that little tramp Saichele would be there, smirking at her whenever she turned around. Momma would look hurt, and Poppa would yell and turn red in the face.
“Ohhhhh, bother you, Adam! Why did you have to go off and make me go through all this trouble?” The wilderness didn't answer back.
The sky grew darker and she jumped, letting out a small scream when a Lunar Moth fluttered past her ear.
The ground leveled out into a plateau for a space. The tops of some trees showed at its end. She quickened her pace, heedless of the complaints her feet sent her. She did not want to be caught in the open when full night fell.
She almost sobbed with relief when she heard the sound of running water. The face of the plateau slanted downward at a comfortable angle, so she was able to make it to the bottom without taking a tumble.
The trees welcomed her into their grouping with silent regard and she sank to the needle coated ground thankfully. Rushing to the protection of the grove had exhausted her, and she fell back against her pack, using it as a pillow. The water bag could be filled in the morning. Sleep soon overcame her and she had no knowledge of the various small animals that visited her in the night.
* * * * “Those mushrooms sure were good.”
“You said that yesterday. A lot.” Ethan looked down at Circumstance as they worked their way out onto a ledge that led to a long flat plateau on the eastern side of Cloudhook's southern flank. The lip of the plateau stood a mere hundred feet above a plain that extended eastward from the mountain as far as the eye could see.
Circumstance hugged the side of the mountain as he edged his way onto a wider part of the ledge. The plateau sat just another yard to his right. “Well. It's true, isn't it?” he said, with the implacable logic of the young.
“Yes,” Ethan sighed. “I suppose so. Are you telling me you want some more?” He edged past the same narrow spot the boy had traversed and onto the wider section.
“No, I guess not. I just like the memory, I suppose.” Circumstance stood on the plateau and held his hand out to Ethan. “Here. Let me help you.”
Ethan took the boy's hand. “Thanks. I'm not too proud to accept help where it's warranted. Deity, but that's a narrow path. Why'd we have to go that way? Another one of your feelings?”
“Yes,” was Circumstance's answer, as he turned and began walking toward the lip of the plateau.
Ethan followed the half-elven boy to the edge of the plateau and looked out at the plain beyond. “There's something going on down there.”
“Yes.”
“This what your feeling's pointing to?” Ethan rubbed some of the ache from clinging to the rock face out of his palms.
Circumstance sat down and dangled his feet over the edge. “I got a strong one about finding somebody down there. I didn't get it until I saw the men.” He pointed at the tiny figures on the plain below them.
“Uh hmm.” Ethan grunted. He knew an army camp being set up when he saw one. The question he wanted answered was whose was it, and what was it doing here. The City-States hadn't put together a force larger than a few hundred men in over a hundred years. Aside from a few skirmishes like the one between Spu and Avern a few years ago, the land had been peaceful. A knot of worry started up in the back of his mind.
He turned and walked back toward a stand of Beech and Alder that grew against the shelter of the mountainside. “We may as well make camp here in the trees. We'll get some protection if it rains, at least. If you still want to, we can check out what's going on down there tomorrow.”
“Ok.” The boy stood and sent one last longing look at the activity below him. The tug felt stronger now. He had to be down there. Everything depended on it. Somehow he knew that, as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. Would Ethan understand? He could feel his adopted father's concern. Then the thought struck him. He'd called Ethan his adopted father! It had always been just Ethan before. Maybe it was because he had the feeling he'd never see him or his mother again.
“You coming?” Ethan's voice came out of the trees. Circumstance could smell smoke. Ethan had gotten a fire going sooner this time. Maybe there were some mushrooms to be found in the trees.
The sounds of voices shouting roused them at dawn. Bits of red sky showed through the mixed Alder and Beech leaves overhead. Ethan raised himself onto an elbow and looked in the direction of the plateau's edge. “It sounds as if they're on our back porch,” he grumbled.
“I'm going to go look at them.” Circumstance stood and pulled his bedroll blanket around his shoulders. The thick wool was a good barrier against the early morning's chill.
Ethan stood with the boy, still wrapped in his bedroll. “Let's not rush into things. Those fellows we saw yesterday had the look of an army about them. We don't know whose army they are. We may not want to know.”
“I'm only going to look.” The boy pushed his way through the trees and out onto the plateau flat. Once out of the trees, the sounds coming from below were much clearer. It did sound as if they were doing things right at the base of where they were camped.
At the plateau's lip, he saw a city of sandy brown tents spread out to the horizon in all directions. The area covered had to be larger than two Berggrens. Men were everywhere. The shouting was coming from the base of the plateau where a hut stood. A man with a red sash across his chest was yelling into a cone-shaped thing at a bunch of other men working at removing things from the backs of large freight wagons with ox teams hitched to their fronts.
“They're from the south,” Ethan said, from behind him.
Circumstance looked up at him. “How can you tell?” He asked.
“The oxen. If this is the beginning of an army base, as I suspect, then they have to be from the south. All the northern cities use mules for their freight teams.”
“Why?”
Ethan smiled down at the half-elf boy. “Don't know. It never crossed my mind to find out the reason, but mark me; the difference is there. You can be sure these folk are Southern.”
“Oh.” Circumstance turned back to watching the supervising engineer call out his directions to the teamsters unloading the freight. “Are they dangerous?”
Ethan knelt beside the boy. “That's the real question, isn't it? I don't know. I've heard stories ... some about how the South's the last bit of the real Labadian Empire left, with all it's culture, learning and the like still intact. The others whisper about human sacrifice to pagan gods, and even worse things. Those men down there,” he nodded at the bustling camp below. “They don't look like baby killers to me.”
He stood back up and looked down at Circumstance. “I promised you it'd be your decision. Decide.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sobret Cremer, secretary, seneschal and one time childhood caregiver to Alford the twenty-third, Emperor of the Southern lands, balanced the golden chafing dish upon his fingertips as he swept into the royal dining alcove with his liege's mid-morning repast.
“Your lunch, My Lord.”
Alford looked up at Cremer's lined face framed by the mane of white hair that he kept pulled back and held with a silver clasp. The clasp had been a gift from Alford when the heir to the throne was but a child.
“You know my name, Cremer. Why don't you use it?” Alford took the dish from his old friend.
“It would not be proper, My Lord.” Cremer's tone spoke volumes on the subject of court propriety.
Alford scowled, but it was not at the taste of his lunch. The chops were done perfectly, enhanced to a turn with the sautéed mushrooms and slivered carrots. The smell was delicious.
“I don't care about what's proper. You practically raised me, dammit! Besides, who's going to see you bend a little in this place?” The alcove was on the third floor of the palace, just below the edge of the dome, and in an area that was nearly deserted at midday. Golden light bathed the dining table, filtering through a layer of lace curtains swaying across the beveled glass of the panes.
Cremer remained unbent. “I was your father's friend, My Lord, and I was proud to be so. All the days I knew him, I never called him by his first name. It wasn't proper. As fond as I am of you, in spite of the number of times I changed your nappies, my Lord, it would not be proper now.”
Alford retreated under his secretary's onslaught of court manners. “Very well, very well. I give. You can go now, and leave me to my meager repast.”
Cremer turned and left the Emperor to his lunch. The term meager repast formed on his lips in a silent statement of irony.
Alford's placesetting gleamed in the rich golden hue of the metal it was made from. The chafing dish that held the chops matched the set in color and in price. The crystal goblet that held his wine was worth the price of the average cottage in Access; the bottle of wine, their land.
He cut another bite off one of the chops and washed it down with a sip of the wine. As was typical of the man, the superlative flavor of the dish was wasted on him. Other than its ability to fill him up, he cared little for what went into its preparation.
Alford was bored. The Empire essentially ran itself, and had done so as long as he could remember. His father had a bit of excitement several years before he was born, when the late Duke of Grisham tried to involve himself in some palace intrigue. Alford's father had exposed the scheme during a summit meeting with a number of visiting dignitaries. The man never recovered from the embarrassment.
He sighed deeply and cut another bite of chop. Why couldn't something exciting happen in his life?
* * * * Hypatia gazed across the table with half-lidded eyes at the most fascinating man she'd met since her father had dragged her to this dreary place. She had begun to despair of having any fun at all in Grisham. Most of the men her father placed her in front of were either old enough to be her father, or so foppishly affected as to be ludicrous.
One of the surest forms of non-surgical castration was giggling at the clumsy advances of a would-be suitor. She had seen it happen many times since moving here. One evening in particular, Father's harvest Ball, if she remembered aright, she was sure she could hear the sorry little things hitting the ballroom floor like rain. Old men and boys. Not one of them was worth the time it took her to put on her perfume.
McCabe, on the other hand, was neither an old man nor a boy. He moved with a cat-like grace that made her thighs itch. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, and what he said sent warm shivers all the way down her spine.
“No, I am quite sure you are the most beautiful woman in Grisham.” McCabe sipped from his wineglass. “I've seen the others, and the comparison really isn't fair.”
“You've seen all the women in Grisham?” She emphasized the word all. He waved a hand dismissively. “Those of the court, of course. The peasants don't matter.”
Hypatia giggled. His sense of humor was so worldly. During their conversation, he'd told her of some of the places he'd been to, Verkuyl; where duels are nearly a way of saying hello. Longpointe, where the fishermen bring in lobsters almost half the size of their boats, and Angbar, the magik island, where his life had been lost and gained back again.
All she had ever seen in her eighteen years were the courts of Ort and Grisham. Her fertile mind drew pictures for her of his heroism as he told his stories.
She decided to take the great leap and fortified herself with a long sip of wine. “Do you ... do you think we might be able to meet somewhere ... more private?”
McCabe leaned his elbows on the table, being careful not to smudge the sable velvet of his evening coat. His smile was calculated to be both sincere and seductive. “Why, whatever do you mean, my dear?”
Her eyelids dropped even further, and she looked at him through her long black lashes. “I would suppose a man such as you would have no trouble guessing my meaning.”
His smile broadened. “A man ... such as me?”
Hypatia blushed with the brazenness of her thoughts. Was it the wine? Or was it McCabe's presence?
She felt a hand touch her knee and then travel up her leg.
McCabe nodded at her as his hand was placed back onto the table. “I believe we understand each other.” She hadn't flinched at his touch. A very good sign.
Her answering smile was only a shade off feral. By Labad, she was a brazen one.
“Yes.” She said. “I believe we do.”
* * * * “There are the gates of Grisham, my boy. All in all, I'd say we've made good time.” Milward leaned on his staff and looked at the city spread below them.
Grisham sat on a series of three low hills below the highland where Adam and Milward stood. The city overlooked a narrow throat of water that led into a bay large enough to be an inland sea. The tops of the city's buildings were being stroked by wisps of the retreating morning's fog.
A grouping of buildings sat upon the highest of Grisham's hills surrounded by a thick parapet adorned wall.
Adam pointed to the grouping. “Is that the library? It's huge!”
Milward smiled to himself. The idea of Grisham's Ducal family housing the library was a fine bit of high humor. “No, that's the Ducal Enclave. The center structure with the towers? That's the palace. The others around it are barracks, warehouses, workshops and so on.”
“Why do they have such a thick wall?”
“The city started on that hill, oh ... about six thousand years ago. The wall was proof against roving bands of bandits and the occasional pirate ship that docked at the village growing on the headland.”
“The villagers were composed mostly of retired sailors, fishermen and those whose shops catered to the whims and desires of the men coming off the boats.”
Adam looked back at the way they'd come. He didn't consider six weeks of walking to be making good time, as Milward called it. He would have preferred a horse, but the time spent practicing had been well worth it. He could now control a couple of dozen stones while carrying on a conversation with the old Wizard.
Looking back at Grisham, he asked, “what about the city on the hill? Who lived there?”
Milward shook his head. “I don't know. The records say next to nothing on that subject. The folk of the village were the ones that prospered. Vice always has a market and they learned that lesson well. Be careful inside those gates, Adam. Grisham will bleed you dry, if you let it. Anything a man can think of can be had there, plus a few things men didn't. It is a rowdy, licentious, murderous city, and damn proud of it.”
Adam shifted his stance and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. “I can take care of myself.”
The old Wizard looked at him, resting his chin upon the hands on his staff. “I suppose you can, physically, but Grisham goes after a man's soul. How prepared are you to defend that?”
Adam blinked. He had no answer for Milward's query. Since his last successful practice on the road to Grisham, his confidence level had been high. He even believed he could handle multiple opponents with relative ease with either magik or sword. The safety of his soul had never entered into the picture.
“Not a simple question, is it?” Milward grinned at him.
Adam shook his head ruefully. “No, it isn't. How am I supposed to protect something about me I can't even see?”
Milward held up a forefinger. “Ah, therein lies a question only Bardoc can answer. But so far, he hasn't returned any of my messages. Seriously though, being yourself and doing what you know to be right, in spite of whomever you offend doing so, this is the best course you can take. Knowing what I now know of you, those who would be offended by an action you believe is right are no friends of yours in the first place.”
Adam stood silently for a long moment, and then he readjusted his pack. “Well, I suppose the only thing to do is make our way through Grisham, and keep our eyes and ears open.”
Milward snorted. As much as he loved the Library, he distrusted the city that sat across it even more.
They turned from the edge of the down slope, and stepped back onto the path that led down to Labad's Highway and on into Grisham.
The Highway stretched from Grisham in the north to Orbis in the south, with Ort being the central hub. From the chasm bridge spanning the Ort river, an eastern arm extended to the university city of Labad. Its paving stones were made of massive slabs of speckled granite with mica flecks scattered through the matrix that glinted when struck by the morning sun.
Even after more than a thousand years of abuse by cart wheels, hooves, sun, wind, hail and rain, the slabs held, still joined together so precisely that few blades of grass found room to grow between them. Milward's staff tapped out a rhythm that followed them as they walked the last mile to the city gates. From just beyond the point where they entered the highway, they walked a gauntlet of stall-based businesses whose owners implored, screamed and pleaded for the two travelers to stop and sample their wares or service.
“Who are all these people?” Adam asked, as he pushed aside a vender of fetishes who had tried to block their way as they approached the open city gates.
Milward sent another overeager merchant back to his stall with a glare. “Entrepreneurs who either can't or won't pay the taxes and license fees necessary to own a shop inside the city's walls. They actually do a rather brisk business, because the city's laws are only enforced inside.”
Adam looked around at the grouping of stalls that lined the highway. They were uniformly haphazard in their construction, thrown together with whatever materials could be found at hand.
He shook his head, disappointing the comely harlot that had beckoned at him. “So they get potential customers both coming and going.”
“That they do. Come, we need to present ourselves to the gate guards.” Milward drew him on with a hand at his elbow.
The guards saw their approach and straightened out of their at-ease slouch.
Milward stopped before the taller of the two, and began to introduce himself when he was struck with an agonizing wave of nausea and angina. He gasped with the pain and fell forward, clutching at his heart. The headache began as he hit the ground. That was when he groaned and vomited over the guard's boots.
Adam dropped to the old Wizard's side and looked up at the guards. They stood there helplessly. Neither of them had any training or experience to deal with a dying old man.
He fumbled through the writhing Wizard's pouches, shouting at the guards as he searched. “Bring me water and something to cradle his head, now!”
The young lord's tone brooked no disobedience. The guards pushed through the gathered crowd to fetch the items.
Milward vomited again, but all that came up was bile and phlegm. The “Ooh!” from the crowd sounded disappointed.
Adam found what he was looking for, and cradled Milward's head. “Don't worry. It's going to be all right, I've got them getting water for the potion.”
Milward tried to understand what was being said to him through the waves of nausea and pain. The blood pounded in his ears, making it difficult to hear words. “What ... potion...?”
Adam looked at the vials. “Aleth and Willit. AH! Here's the water.”
The two guards forced their way back through the crowd to where Adam knelt with Milward. The shorter of the two handed him a small bucket of water. The other held a gray, lumpy pillow.
“Got ‘em from th’ barracks ... m'lord.” The shorter said around a tired looking dog end.
Adam took the water and motioned to the taller guard. “Good. Put the pillow behind his head while I mix the potion.”
The shorter one made a sign as if warding off evil. “Potion m'lord?”
Adam didn't have time for superstition. “Medicine, then. Herbs that will make him feel better. Get me a cup. Now!”
His bellow spurred the fellow into action and he ran to find a cup.
Adam looked down at Milward. The old Wizard was pasty white with pain and his tongue, stuck between his teeth, was gray. Spasms passed through his body as another groan was released. The veins in his temples stood out like twine pasted onto the skin.
The guard reappeared with a battered tin cup. “It all we got, m'lord.” His hand shook as he offered it to Adam.
Adam took the cup. “It'll do.” He dipped the cup into the bucket. The water was clean, at least. He opened the two vials and poured their contents into the cup. The crowd closed in to see what he was doing.
He sensed the pressure from the crowd and something else as well. It felt dirty ... and dangerous, and it was above them, high in the sky.
“Make them back away.” He said out to the guards and pointed to the crowd. They began to do so, with ruthless efficiency. This, at least, was something they knew how to do.
Adam brought the cup up to Milward's lips and tipped some of the potion in. Milward swallowed a bit of the bitter mixture and lay back.
The Aleth started working on the spasms immediately, and Milward managed to pull Adam closer to him with a shaking hand. “More,” he whispered when Adam's ear came close.
He brought the cup to the old Wizard's lips again and poured the remainder of the potion down his throat.
Milward choked and made a face at the foul, bitter taste. “Faughhh! That's awful. But it seems to be doing the trick on most of it.”
“What happened to you?” Adam put the cup onto the stone of the gateway entrance.
Milward held his head in his hands. “I'm not rightly sure. One moment I was getting ready to introduce us and find an appropriate inn for our lodging tonight, and the next...” He indicated his prone position with a cross wave of his hands. “Well ... you know.” He winced as another wave of pain washed through his head.
Adam felt that presence again, and looked up, but saw nothing but fleecy puffs of cloud in a blue sky. He turned back to Milward. “We've got to get you to a bed.”
He called out to the guards as he helped Milward to his feet. “The closest inn, a good one. Where is it?”
The short one left off pummeling a beggar with his staff, and pointed to a cobblestoned street that curved its way up a hill. Steps lined the street, acting as sort of a sidewalk. The buildings along its path looked to be well cared for, with most of them having two or three stories, the top two of which poked out over the street. The roofs were primarily thatch, but a few showed the glow of red tile where the sun struck them.
“Yonder up Mulligan row, past where Turnberry crosses it. That be where Granny Bullton's place lie. She keeps a good table, she does, an’ th’ best brown ale this side o’ th’ Palace. She'll do yer Da right by her.”
Adam pressed a coin into the guard's hand. “Thank you, I'm obliged to your kindness.”
The guard looked down at the coin, and his eyes bulged when he saw the buttery yellow of its color. “Anytime, yer grace!” he called, as Adam led Milward in the direction of the inn. “Anytime at all!”
Adam called back, “I'll remember that. Split it with your friend.”
The shorter guard, chagrined, looked at the taller one, who smiled back at him, holding out his hand.
Milward was able, with the help of his staff and Adam, to make his way, albeit slowly, up the steps of Mulligan Row.
Unlike the way approaching the city gates, Mulligan's row was composed mainly of crafters more interested in fulfilling their commissions than in pulling unwilling shoppers off the street. A few peddlers asked politely if they were interested in seeing the latest and greatest of something, but the sight of Milward's ashen face caused the requests to be half-hearted, at best.
They passed a bakery just before the intersection of Mulligan and Turnberry that filled the street with the scent of fresh loaves in the oven. A few urchins had their noses pressed to the front window, hungrily coveting the goods on the other side.
Adam saw the sign of the inn extending out over the sidewalk. Its oval shape was enclosed in a wrought iron frame ornamented with curling flourishes. It sported a painting of a rampant stag superimposed over a flagon of ale. The amount of fading in the paint spoke of the sign's age.
A careworn old man held the door for Adam and then began trudging up Turnberry after closing it. A woman, even older, bustled out from behind a counter at their entrance.
She held her hands to her cheeks at the sight of Milward. “Oh, mercy me! What's happened to the poor dear?”
Milward weakly waved the innkeeper away. “Get away, old woman. I'm not as frail as all that, yet. Just show me to a bed and I'll mend nicely.”
The old woman, Granny Bullton, fluttered around them, as Adam helped Milward up the stairs to the second floor. Their rooms, as she'd said, were the third and fourth ones on the right, down the hall. The window coverings were clean cotton prints that matched the thick comforters on the beds.
Milward sank into his with a sigh of relief, and Adam gave him another draught of the Aleth and Willit potion. He then left him to his rest.
Granny Bullton met Adam outside Millward's door; her arms were loaded with towels and linens. “Oh! Hello. How is that dear old gentleman doing? Is he going to get better? I've brought some things for him.”
Adam held up a hand. “He's resting right now. I gave him a potion that will help him sleep, so the towels and things should probably wait till later.”
The old woman nodded. “I'll put these aside till they're needed. Is there anything I can do for you, young man?”
He smiled at her. “I hear you've got the best brown ale this side of the Palace.”
* * * * The stacks smelled of musty parchment, old leathers and dust, and the Librarian breathed deeply of the old familiar scents. Passages of remembered books flitted through his memory like old friends. In many ways, they were his friends. No book or parchment had ever broken its word to him, nor attempted to use him for its own gain. They never complained if he dedicated his evenings toward one and not the other, and when he felt the need for their companionship, they were always there.
His hunt through the ancient prophecies had been fruitless, so now he'd turned to the Library's collection of legends and fables.
“Here's the others, master.” Felsten staggered into the reading alcove, his head and torso hidden behind the pile of books and folios he held in his arms. His lame leg scraped on the tiles of the floor as he worked his way to the old man.
The librarian turned and hurried to help his apprentice before the stack of precious writings tumbled out of his arms.
“Felsten, Felsten.” He admonished him gently. “You should have taken another trip, at least.”
“I kin handle it ... master.” Felsten panted.
The Librarian noted wryly the amount of quiver in Felsten's arms. He guided the boy over to a long side table where several rolled and tied parchments lay. He swept them to one side and helped Felsten settle his burden onto the table.
“Ah ... there we are.” The Librarian ran his hands over the mixed bag of writings. Long buried memories bubbled to the surface as he caught sight of old familiar titles. Labad and the City of Gold. Bardoc creates the Circle Sea. The Witches of Angbar. And so many others.
Felsten picked up a particularly dusty folio with a tooled leather binding. The edges of the binding were tattered with age and long use. The title worked in gold leaf, showed faintly through the dust, Visions of Darkness. “Whut are you hopin’ to find, master?”
The Librarian did not turn around. He knew if he saw what he was looking for, he'd know it. “I'm not quite sure. I know it's either a folio, a scroll or a collection of parchments tied together. Gave me frightful dreams. Of course, I was much younger then. Nearly as young as you.”
Felsten looked at the folio. “Wuz it called Visions of Darkness?”
His master spun around with the agility of a man half his age. “You found it! Felsten, you're a wonder! Here, let's have a look.”
He snatched the volume from Felsten's hands and opened it on the table. The oversized pages crackled as he lifted the cover sheet with care.
“Yes, yes, this is the one. No doubt about it. Not a scroll, as I first thought. Oh, you should go through this folio sometime, Felsten. Such nightmares it gave me as a young man. Good days those were, good days.”
Felsten vowed silently to himself to avoid taking the folio as bedtime reading material at all costs.
The librarian mumbled the words as he read. “...Jeffan walked through the crypt ... tardiness led him to ignore ... The Krell waited in the shadows...”
He turned the page and then another. “No, not this one. Hmmm ... Let's see...Beyond the veil ... Susallia pushed through the gossamer webbing ... the fear following at her heels.”
He turned pages again. Dust, smelling of great age, billowed into the air of the room. A sunbeam turned some of the motes into dancing fairies.
“I believe we're getting closer, Felsten. I do believe we are ... Listen to this one. It reads less like a narrative than the others.”
“Thin grew the separation between the worlds. The Elven Sorcerer probed the dimensional fabric with his mind. He tasted it with his spirit, and grew drunk upon its terror.
“I have the power to control the phantoms of nightmare.” He thought to himself. “Through their unworldly strength, I will add to my own. Even Bardoc himself will bow to me.”
"The light of the moon brings to the surface the eccentric and the unique. It aides the traveler in its seeking. The Sorcerer knew this, the blood of innocents fed his fell knowledge, and in his folly he brought the destroye,r and through his folly destruction came in its wake.”
The librarian nodded his head in discovery. “This is the one, Felsten. Legends, I called these. Fables. Stories to scare young boys. Little did I know they were prophetic. Listen to this...”
"The Sorcerer made war with the Human King, creating fell beasts to swell his host. Children torn from their mothers’ living wombs for sacrifice brought the darkness closer until the beasts’ blood became death itself, and the King fell on the field of valor."
The librarian pointed at the page. “Yes ... this is it, Felsten. Part of it anyway. This part right here, about the fear.”
“In the time of the promise.” Whatever that means. “The Sorcerer split the veil in his folly and his pride. He sent forth fear as his embassy to cause the promise to fail, but brought forth the Destroyer instead.”
Felsten looked at the page. “The writer talks about this Destroyer two times. See, here ... and here.”
“Very good, Felsten. I'll make a librarian and a scholar out of you, yet.”
The apprentice beamed under the praise as he looked at the page. “I wonder who this Sorcerer fellow is. Says here he's an Elf.”
He looked at the Librarian. “Elves is real?”
* * * * The Alpha Wolf sniffed the air as he stood in the shadow of the young Dragon. “The pack is nervous. They do not like being out of the forest.”
Drinaugh looked across the expanse of grass prairie that stretched before them. The solitary mountain the humans called Cloudhook soared into the sky in the distance to the Southeast. The afternoon sun glinted off the glaciers lining its peak
To the North of the mountain, dark patches on the prairie coalesced into clumps of trees as he focused on them with the telescopic part of his vision.
“There are trees out there. Small forests, you could call them. We can travel from forest to forest. The pack can still sleep within the trees.”
The Alpha Wolf looked at the Dragon. “My muzzle is not as gray as it looks, sky lord. I smell the trees. The pack will survive.”
* * * * Thaylli woke to her third morning in the wild, shivering. Dew covered the outside of her woolen cloak. The sound of it dripping from the leaves above her was what woke her. She was just as glad to be awake. Her dreams had not been pleasant.
“Adam, where are you?” She rubbed the moisture from her eyes. “Oh, that's right. You're off heading for the big city, if you're not there already.”
Adam didn't answer. She didn't expect him to, but she'd decided to talk to him anyway, especially when she felt lonely. She'd been feeling lonely since that first night when she fell asleep using her pack as a pillow.
Breakfast was cold. Her attempt at cooking the day before had turned out to be disastrous. The bacon burned to a cinder, and the tisane came out weak enough that it may as well have been water alone.
She re-stuffed her pack and fit her arms through the straps with a feeling of stubborn determination. She was going to find Adam, even if it meant being miserable every stupid step of the way.
The terrain from where she'd camped rose steadily up a short rise, and then down again into another glen. She was in the downs to the northeast of Cloudhook. She remembered her Father talking about them. If she followed a slightly southern route, she should wind up in pine forest with a gentle downslope, and eventually come to Labad's highway. Maybe there she could catch a ride to Grisham with one of the merchant caravans.
The path she chose curved around one of the low, lopsided hills that made up the downs. Its surface was thick with yellow-flowered Cassia and Acacia bushes that took advantage of the spaces between the sparse tan oaks.
In spite of her homesickness and feeling that somehow Adam was to blame for her present troubles, she found herself enjoying the hike. The yellow flowers were fragrant, and butterflies competed with hummingbirds for the best nectar, giving her an entertaining diversion for the walk.
She was so engrossed in one of the competitions she didn't see the little man until she walked full into him.
“Hey now!” He pushed her back firmly, but gently, off of his toes.
She looked down at him. He was a full head shorter than her, but almost twice as broad. His hair was reddish-brown, and hung down his back in long braids. His beard and mustache blended together into a mass that covered his belly, and a pair of stout legs extended from beneath a colorful kilt held up with a broad leather belt.
She pointed to him. “You're a dwarf!” She said it almost accusingly.
He looked up at her with bright blue eyes. “Aye.” He said. “That I be. A Dwarf, and proud of it. What be you, besides a toe-trodder?”
Thaylli blinked at the Dwarf's calm, matter of fact disposition. “Uh ... I be, I mean, I'm Thaylli ... a human. Who are you, besides a dwarf, I mean?”
“Coraghessan.” He thumped his chest with a fist, and stepped to her side, as he looked her up and down. “Your pack. It's all wrong.”
Thaylli craned her neck to look at her pack. “What's wrong with it?”
Coraghessan shook his head and blew between his teeth. His breath smelled of bay leaves. “Too much to tell you here. Follow me.”
He turned on his heel and started back in the direction he came from. Thaylli stood there a moment and watched the dwarf until he vanished around the curve of the hill, then she took hold of one of the straps on her pack, and hurried after him.
“Hold up! I'm coming.” The pack banged against her back, seeming to count out the phrase, “the Dwarf is right. The Dwarf is Right. The Dwarf...”
She pushed her imagination away and concentrated in keeping up with Coraghessan. For someone with such short legs, he could walk very fast, and he never looked back to see if she was behind him. Thaylli thought it somehow rude.
The dwarf blazed a trail that had Thaylli pushing through Acacia and thick stands of thornless muskberry vine.
When she pushed aside the last Acacia branch she found herself looking at a trio of dwarfs, including the one who'd introduced himself as Coraghessan.
The one sitting to the left of Coraghessan thumped his chest. “Basho.”
The one on Coraghessan's right thumped his chest. “Graaff.”
The three Dwarves looked at Thaylli as if expecting something from her. She did the only thing she could think of. “Thaylli,” she said, thumping her chest.
The dwarves on either side of Coraghessan nodded in approval and said something in a language she didn't understand.
“W ... wh ... what did they say?” She looked to the dwarf who led her to the campsite.
Instead of answering her question, Coraghessan turned to each of the others in turn, and asked them something in the same language. They nodded and answered him with a single, “Jhi.”
Thaylli looked at the three Dwarves. “Does that mean ... yes?”
Coraghessan scratched after a roving itch in his beard. “It can. In this case it means they don't object to their words being known to a young human female foolhardy enough to travel the wild without knowing how to survive there.”
She felt the flush rising up her throat and into her face. Knowing the dwarves could see her overt show of embarrassment added chagrin to her shame.
She swallowed the retort that welled up and forced herself to settle down with a slow count backward from five.
The dwarves continued to look at her stoically, waiting for her response. She swallowed again. “Very well. I suppose I deserved that, but there always has to be a first time for everything, doesn't there? Well, this is my first time, and I think it's for a good reason. I also think you wouldn't have had me follow you here, Coraghessan, unless you were going to help me somehow.”
She took her pack off and sat down on it, returning the dwarves stare.
Coraghessan looked at each of his fellow dwarves and asked them something in that language again. They nodded, and this time when they looked at her, they smiled.
He nodded as well and stood up. “They agree with me that there is more to you than Garloc meat. You will stay with us and learn the ways of the wild. Enough to make your journey safer, at least. That is all we have time for, now.”
The dwarf's brusque manner got to Thaylli. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Of course there's more to me than Garloc meat! And just what gives you the right to tell me what I'm going to do? I don't have to stay here, you know.”
The dwarves shocked her by laughing instead of becoming angry with her. They roared out their response, slapping each other on the backs, and wiping the tears that streamed down their cheeks.
Thaylli sat there, dumbfounded, her mouth hanging open. After a bit, the dwarves laughter proved contagious, and she found herself smiling at first, and then joining in with them wholeheartedly.
Coraghessan's howls reduced to chuckles, and he wiped the last of the tears from his eyes with both hands.
“Good. Very good. There is rock in your limbs, almost like a dwarf female, you are. You will do well. That is, if you wish to learn.”
She felt the sincerity in his words. They would let her walk, if she chose to. She nodded her acceptance.
The Dwarf reached out and clapped her firmly on her upper arm. “Good. We begin now.”
Thaylli's indoctrination into the ways of survival began with the Dwarves going through her pack. They repacked it for her while telling her the why and the wherefore of what went where. A number of the items she'd thought utterly necessary, they dismissed altogether. A very few of the items she thought a little useful, they proclaimed mandatory in travel. She felt humbled and not a little frightened at what might have happened to her when they were done with the lesson.
She was made to unpack and repack her bag until the Dwarves were sure she had committed it to memory
They then led her into a shallow wash that ran through a depression in the downs a few yards behind the campsite. There they showed her how to identify medicinal plants and berries, as well as the green tops of tubers she could eat raw for a crisp refreshing meal during a march, roasted with game or in a stew with the other trail vegetables they pointed out to her.
The Dwarves led her out of the wash and then had her venture back into it to gather samples of what she'd been shown. She had to make the trip four times until she got them all right.
When dusk arrived, Thaylli sank gratefully onto the pallet she built under their guidance gratefully. She was so tired she could feel her skin trembling, and she felt as if she were floating. She could hear the voices of the dwarves chanting something about Labad and war. One of them was playing something on a pipe in a minor key, the chant followed the timing of the pipe's melody, and she fell asleep without tasting the stew they'd prepared for her.
* * * * McCabe smiled. Hypatia's “some place more private” was one of the lesser-used bedrooms in the Ortian Embassy. The curvy bitch had quite a sense of adventure. It was a shame he couldn't drag his assignment out a little longer; the end was always much sweeter when the game was savored slowly.
“Do you like it?” She swung herself around one of the bedposts on the foot of the oversized four-poster.
He began undoing the frogs on his black silk blouse. “Yes. Yes, I do. And I'm not just including the bed in that.”
Hypatia laughed and swung around the bedpost one more time.
McCabe pulled off his blouse as she swung herself back onto the floor. She met him halfway to the bed, and ran her right hand upwards into his hair, drawing his face towards hers.
He responded by crushing her to his chest and grinding his mouth against her lips. She fumbled with the ties at his waist, jerking at the cords.
She gasped as his hands explored further. “Take me.” She breathed in his ear. “Take me now.”
He did. Hypatia responded by digging her nails into his back, drawing blood. McCabe nearly lost his sense of purpose with the pleasure her nails gave him.
He could feel her building up for another one. The slow down after the first had been too brief. Now was the time.
He held her to him, and flipped her over so he was on top. His hands moved up to her cheek, and she pressed it into his palm. Her breathing quickened, and she smiled up at him.
He moved his hands to her throat and tightened his grip.
Her eyes widened, and she tried to scream, but the fingers on her throat tightened, crushing her larynx. McCabe leaned forward, putting all his weight into the girl's throat, and then he kissed her as she died. Now for some fun.
Later, when he was through, he left her body there on the bed, and the door open. In a few days, the sweet odor of decaying flesh would attract someone's attention, and they would find Bilardi's calling card sewn onto the flesh of her belly, as per the Duke's orders. McCabe, at his worst, never had the brazenness to do that before.
His smile became laughter as he left the Embassy through the back door, the one Hypatia had told him about.
* * * * “It's three coppers, an’ not a groat more.” The peasant woman was heavy set; graying and her breath stank of onions, the same onions Adam was trying to buy for his stew, but three coppers a pound was akin to theft from what he'd seen as he toured the marketplace.
He told her so. “That's twice as high as what the other farmers are charging.”
She spat the saliva buildup from her chew. The juices from the weed made her eyes red-veined. “That's ‘cause mine are twice as good, an’ everbuddy knows so. Three coppers. I don't bargain.”
Adam sent a small shaping, into her, asking her body if it was lying. She showed no sign of feeling the shaping and she was being truthful, or at least she believed she was.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a silver. “I'll take a pound.”
The coin was snatched from his fingers with lightening speed. “Ahh, good lad. You be makin’ a wise decision, you do. Them's the best onions this side of the mountains. You'll find that out, you just wait an’ see.”
Adam took the wrapped parcel of onions and his change and stepped back into the organized chaos of the marketplace.
Grisham's marketplace was not a single entity. The place Adam was shopping in was one of the smaller installations, away from the mass insanity of the press inside the city gates.
“Hey, Guv! Fancy a sausage?” The heavily accented voice called out to Adam as he strolled through the crush of stalls and carts. A knot of giggling and screaming children pushed past him, involved in some sort of game that had to rely on how many toes they could trod on in a given minute.
Adam turned to look at the fellow holding up a steaming sausage impaled on a wooden skewer. “You said something?”
The fellow squinted at him through dirty round spectacles. Bland, frizzy mouse brown hair peeked out from underneath a floppy knit hat that looked older than Milward. The grayish, greasy sausages grilling on the brazier did not smell, or look, appetizing. Adam tried not to breathe in too deeply.
Knit hat poked the sausage he was holding under Adam's nose. “Sure did, Guv. Have a sausage. Only a copper, an’ a real bargain at that. I should sell ‘em for a silver, at least, but me ol’ mom would come back an’ haunt me iffn I did somethin’ so dishonest. C'mon. Buy a sausage. Make me poor ol’ mum proud.”
Adam recoiled from the rancid odor that assaulted him. “Not on your life! What do you put in those things, anyway? It smells like burnt hair.”
The sausage vendor had the poor grace to look offended. “Burnt ‘air? Burnt ‘air? I'll ‘ave you know I use only th’ finest selected meat an’ spices in these ‘ere sausages.”
Adam held his mouth over his nose. “Selected from what? The finest rats?” He backed away from the stall.
“Oh, yeah, ‘at's right. Insult th’ ‘onest sausage seller an’ walk off. Go ahead. ‘Oo needs ya? Get outta ‘ere!” The merchant shooed Adam away with a wave of his merchandise.
He checked his purchases as he walked away from the vendor, through the market, and back into the city streets. The open netting of the shopping bag made it an easy task. Onions, carrots, and celery occupied the top of the bag, and bunched clippings of fresh herbs, long loaves of fresh baked crusty bread, a waxed package of yellow butter, and an even dozen golden brown potatoes made up the rest. All he needed was the meat, and the stew could be put together.
The time spent working in Hersh's shop had taught him a lot about grading meat. From what he'd seen in the market, nearly all the cuts offered there wouldn't make graduation. There was a butcher shop a couple of streets downhill from the inn, and the butcher was a fan of Granny Bullton's ale. He'd been at the bar when Adam discovered the guard's estimation of granny's brown ale to be accurate.
He greeted Adam with a wave and a grin as the bell over the door signaled his entrance. “Hey there! Gonna make that stew after all, eh?”
Adam's answering smile was tired. The walk had been mostly uphill, and he'd had to face down potential cutpurses on two separate occasions. “I suppose so. Milward could use the nourishment, and although Granny Bullton may be a good brewmaster, she's no cook.”
The butcher laughed as he drew one of his knives across a steel. “Don't I know it! She turned one of my best roasts into charcoal.”
He leaned across the counter. “I think she uses the same recipe for everything. Even her wheat cakes taste like beer.”
That brought a laugh out of Adam. “You're probably right. I'll take a couple pounds of stew meat. Small chunks, please.”
The butcher pursed his lips as he looked across his stock. “Beef, venison or mutton?”
Adam considered the old Wizard's tastes. “Beef.”
The butcher nodded. “Good choice. Venison's pricey, and the mutton's strong enough to walk out of the pot on its own.”
He pulled a well-marbled haunch out of the cupboard, and began dicing it into bite-sized chunks of stew meat. Adam watched the deft handling of the large butcher knife with a sense of nostalgia. He and Charity had been happy then.
He shook off the feeling. There was no sense in dwelling on a past that wasn't going to be revisited, at least not any time soon.
“That'll be a half silver.” The butcher plopped the bundle of stew meat onto the counter.
Adam handed him the five coppers plus one more. “Thanks. The extra's for you and your missus, and for me not having to use the stuff down the hill.”
The butcher pocketed the coin, and nodded his head. “Aye. If they keep on going as they are, Grisham won't have a rat to its name. I swear, if they could get away with it, they'd serve Garloc.”
That got another laugh from Adam. He felt considerably better than when he had entered the butcher shop. The man's gregariousness was catching. He found himself whistling a tune as he walked the two blocks to the inn.
Milward woke as Adam entered the bedroom. Granny Bullton came in and left a supply of fresh cloths for his forehead before going into her basement brewery. A lingering smell of hops and yeast lay in the room from her visit.
“So, you've made it back in one piece,” the Wizard grumped, as he reached for the water pitcher and poured himself a glassful.
“You must be feeling better,” Adam remarked, as he unbuckled his sword belt. “That's the first sour word you've said to me in most of a week.”
Milward's eyebrows climbed into his scalp line. “Really? I must have been stricken harder than I thought. No one takes you seriously when you get to be my age unless you crab a bit. Remember that.” He drank the water in one long swallow.
“I've got a stew started.” Adam took the empty glass and placed it back onto the nightstand.
Milward looked at him suspiciously. “That old crone hasn't had her hands into it, has she?”
Adam smiled as he shook his head no. “I made sure of it. She was a little disappointed at not being able to help out. I think she's sweet on you.”
Milward looked alarmed. “Bardoc preserve me. We've got to get out of here as soon as possible.”
He started to pull back the quilts, but Adam restrained him with a small laugh. “Don't worry about it. I've already told her you were a confirmed vagabond bachelor. She was even more disappointed to hear that one than about the stew.”
Milward sank back into the mattress with a profound sigh. “Oh, thank you, dear boy. You don't know how large a favor I owe you for that one.”
Adam grunted. “I'll collect later. Can you tell me more about what happened back at the gate house?”
Milward thought about the seizure. It had felt like an attack, but he was sure Gilgafed didn't have the reach; not from Pestilence. But, there were entities ... he drove the thought from his mind and refocused on Adam.
“Ummm. Not really. It was most likely a reaction to some of my own cooking out in the wild. I really should pay more attention to such things.”
Adam crossed his arms. “If I remember correctly, I was the one who prepared that morning's breakfast. And I don't recall hearing any complaints.”
“See!?” The old Wizard pointed a finger at Adam's nose. “I told you your cooking would one day be the death of me! Look at what you did.” He spread his arms, indicating where he lay.
“If that's what happened,” Adam kept his arms crossed as he leaned back against the bedroom wall. “Then you ate something I didn't, otherwise I'd be in bed the same as you.”
Milward gathered the covers around himself and settled deeper into his mattress. “Well, I'm not going to argue with you about it.”
Adam snorted a short laugh. “That's a change.”
“Go. See to your stew, if you're going to be that way. I want to get some more sleep.” The old Wizard pulled the covers over his eyes as he turned on his side.
He could hear the click of the latch as Adam closed the door. "He is a good lad.” Milward thought. “He doesn't deserve what's coming.”
“Please, Bardoc.” He prayed. “Let it not be a seeker.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cobain pushed the door open with his rear as he worked at balancing his master's lunch on the silver tray. The sorcerer's appetite was finally coming back to something resembling a normal level since that horrible day he released the Seeker into the world.
“Finally.” Gilgafed's voice cut across the room, disturbing his reflections. “Did you have to give birth to the shoat, as well as cook it?”
The Sorcerer sat at his favorite dining spot, drumming the fingers of his right hand, pinky to thumb and back again. He was hungry, and impatient. He hadn't felt hunger, real hunger, for the first time in weeks. Ever since ... he shuddered at the thought. The problem, he'd learned, with the shadow creatures was, you couldn't trust them. They'd just as soon take the one who summoned them as the target they'd been brought over to deal with.
Cobain laid the covered platter onto the table with a practiced flourish. “Your repast, Master.”
He swept the cover upwards to reveal a suckling pig, roasted whole, in a honey glaze with the heart, kidneys and sweetbreads laid around it, interspersed with apples and potatoes.
Gilgafed looked at the feast, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He picked up his knife and cut into the crisp golden skin of the shoat. It crackled, and sweet fat welled up as the blade sliced off a thick serving.
“Ummm.” He closed his eyes in rapture as he chewed the succulent flesh. “I am forced to admit, Cobain, the wait was worth it.”
Cobain was surprised at the unlooked for compliment. “W ... why thank you, Master. I am gratified.”
The Sorcerer gulped at his wine and waved off his servant's reply. “Think nothing of it. I'm hungry enough, the hooves would taste good. In fact, I may eat them, anyway.” He sliced off another section and shoved it into his mouth.
Cobain watched his master eat and nodded to himself. He should probably follow the sorcerer's advice and think nothing of the compliment. It was safer that way.
He swallowed and asked his question. “Have you heard anything from the envoy, Master?”
There was a slurping sound as Gilgafed gulped more of his wine. Cobain winced. The vintage was hundreds of years old, and as rare as a flawless ruby. The sorcerer was treating it like spring water.
Gilgafed wiped his mouth with back of his hand as he put down the empty goblet. “Nothing yet. Not that I expected to hear anything so soon. Grisham is a giant haystack, and I've sent her to find one particular needle. Really, Cobain, you should learn to practice patience, like I do.”
Cobain set his face into a mask of resigned tolerance. “I will endeavor to do so, Master.”
* * * * The great dog sniffed the corner of the building with interest. In spite of its size and its immunity to its rider's power, it was, of course, still a dog. The envoy hissed a command and it forwent the inspection of the neighborhood message board, and turned back into the center of the City Street.
The envoy could feel she was getting closer to finding what the sorcerer had sent her to find. That feeling of evil was becoming stronger, and in fact, it had developed an additional nuance, almost ... a flavor, as if it were particularly pleased with something it had recently accomplished.
The rabble inhabiting Grisham continued to be repulsed by her power, which was just as well. There had been times in the past when her power was used to kill. Fear would stop a man's heart as surely as a blade, and it had done so, many times. She preferred not to have to do so again.
The buildings around them were looking better, the streets wider, and the people better dressed. “This must be one of the moneyed neighborhoods,” she thought.
They turned another corner, this one of no interest at all to the dog. The street opened into a wide, park-like setting, with an expensive looking mansion set in the middle of it. The evil wasn't here, but it had been. Recently. The trail led ... that way.
Guards came running her way, carrying ornate, but serviceable looking spears and halberds. She turned her head, and watched them come. Some of them were made of sterner stuff than the others, they actually came to within a spear length of the dog before their bowels turned to water. In the back of her mind, the question arose again. “Why don't they ever think of using a bow?”
When the last of the guards lay on the grass gibbering in terror, she turned her head and directed the dog to continue the search. She had the trail; now it was just a matter of time.
* * * * McCabe's right hand held the gold coins over his outstretched left palm, and dropped them, one after another, into it. He relished the rich, tinkling sound they made as they rearranged their stack on his palm.
The Duke had been generous, more than he thought the pot-bellied old man would have been.
“They should have discovered the little bitch's body by now,” he mused to himself, as he clinked his coins in his hand. A smile that was less than kind spread across his face as he walked the street in the neighborhood he'd chosen to live in. It was upper class and indulgent, a perfect playground for one with McCabe's tastes.
A couple of women coming home from shopping shied when they saw his expression and crossed the street. Their steps quickened as his laughter followed them. A few shutters opened to see the cause of the sound, more closed because of it.
* * * * The Envoy's skin began to tingle. Her target was very, very near. The great dog sensed it, as well, and a low rumble formed in its throat. Alongside the excitement of the hunt lay apprehension. This target was not their usual prey. The sense of evil was nearly palpable. She, who gave fear, now felt it. She increased her projection as a precaution. The people who had stayed in the street to gawk at the great dog vanished from it as if swept aside by an invisible broom.
“Only a few more moments, now,” she thought to herself. “Maybe this turning, or the next.”
The dog's rumble became a growl and then a bark. The envoy looked up the previously empty street to see a slender, dark-complexioned man of less than average height walking towards them. He wore black; silk blouse, leather belt and twill pants that tucked into calf-high shiny black boots. The smile his face wore as he approached her and the dog was anything but pleasant.
She feared this man. The emotion was alien to her, and it gave wings to the tightness that flew to her heart.
The shaping hit McCabe with all the force the envoy could muster. Men had died under less, their insides rupturing under the weight of the terror that struck them. McCabe merely smiled as his hand toyed with the pommel of his dagger.
* * * * Thaylli's temper had been better. Her feet struck the ground as if it were to blame for her present mood. She knew the real reasons for how she felt. Her mouth still burned a bit from that foul stew the dwarves had left for her breakfast, and they hadn't even had the good graces to be there when she awoke.
To top it off, she could feel the pressure of her time coming on. No, today was not a good day.
She had to admit that the advice and the lessons of the dwarves were serving her well. She now had a sturdy staff, and it did help in her walking, especially when the uphill grade was steep. She took some small satisfaction by maintaining her foul mood in spite of that.
The weather was also cooperating in keeping her out of sorts. A storm had rattled the highlands behind her last night. The edges of it left a dampness that clung to the greenery around her, and soaked her skirts through to her skin.
“Oooo ... bother you, Adam. You're going to pay for this when I finally catch up with you.” She raised her staff and whacked the top off of an innocent thistle as she passed it. A small part of her rose up to protest the meanness of the act, but she pushed it back as she thought about all the things she was going to say to Adam concerning his thoughtlessness in running off and leaving her like he did. That she had agreed with his choice bore no weight at all in the argument.
She dug the staff into the damp ground and used it to help her climb the slope. This one was stepper than the rest, and the tall grasses gave off a fragrant sweet alfalfa smell as she passed through them.
Her mood took a sudden swing to the better as she looked down the other side of the ridge she had just climbed. A gleaming white ribbon curved away to the north and to the south, maybe five or six miles from where she stood.
Labad's legendary highway, the rest of her journey would be much easier.
* * * * They watched the solitary female from their vantagepoint in the pines.
“She is without pack or mate, sky lord.” The Alpha Wolf said to Drinaugh.
One of the pups whined and was quickly shushed by his mother. The Alpha Wolf noted the disturbance with a twitch of his ears. The cub would be spoken to later.
Drinaugh flexed his wings as he shifted his shoulders. He ached to take to the sky again, but that would be rude to the wolves, as well as cause him to lose track of Adam's scent.
He sniffed the air as the wind shifted. “Our human friend has been with this one. His scent is on her.”
The wolf sniffed the breeze. He curled his upper lip as he musthed. “Your nose does you great credit, sky lord. I smell the short ones and where she has walked, nothing more. When was she with our pack mate?”
The young Dragon sniffed again. “It has been a long time. Maybe as much as a season, but it is his scent.”
The alpha wolf opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “I smell you, dragon. The wolves will honor your nose in our songs.”
Drinaugh gave him the Dragon equivalent of a blush. “The honor is mine, pack leader. I am grateful, but ... how shall we approach our friend's female?”
“The day is near its ending,” the wolf said, while watching Thaylli walk down the hill. “We will greet her in the morning. If she is the she of our pack mate, she will know who we are.”
* * * * Adam readjusted the sack full of apples in his arms as he climbed the stairs to the floor where he and Milward stayed. The apples had been a good find. Their green striped, reddish skins hid a solid white sweet flesh with a nice, tart aftertaste.
“Hey, old man.” He called out as he nudged the door to Milward's room with the toe of his boot. “I've got some apples here you'll want to ... Milward!”
Adam dropped the apples and rushed to the old wizard's side. Milward was bathed in sweat and his teeth were chattering. His skin held the color of the grave and each shuddering breath came past his lips in an agonized groan.
“Milward!” Adam tried to get the wizard's attention. “What can I do?”
Milward's eyes shifted to Adam's face for a brief instant and then they began to roll back as his breathing slowed.
“No!” Adam took hold of the old Wizard's shoulders and shook him. “Stay with me, old man. I won't let you die! I won't!”
The shaping surged out of him as if it had a mind of it's own, and enveloped Milward in a nimbus of crackling gold and blue light. Adam could feel himself weakening as the energy was drained from him.
Suddenly, with a crack of thunder, the nimbus left Milward's body, and shot out of the room through the ceiling. The only trace of its passing was the fading thunder.
“Adam.” The old wizard looked up into his young apprentice's worried eyes. “Why are you holding my shoulders like that? I would have woken eventually.”
The look on Adam's face got to him. “What happened, lad? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Adam didn't know where to begin. He started and stopped his explanation a couple of times before he spoke. “Well, uh ... I came in here with some fresh apples for you. You were having some kind of seizure ... You started to die, and then this ... shaping ... comes from out of nowhere. It turns you into a glowing mummy, starts draining me of power, and then ... it leaves!
“You wake up and act as if nothing happened. Look at you. You look better than you did when we left Dragonglade.”
Milward didn't hear the last few words of Adam's rehash. A verse from the prophecy of Labad came flooding into his mind. “Through his power the destroyer is born...”
“It begins,” he said, half to himself.
“It begins?” Adam echoed. “What begins?”
* * * * The Seeker found the object of its interest in the street below it. The mind held twists within that took different paths from the other tiny minds around it. It stood before a creature of power. The Seeker was brushed by part of that power as it dipped low in the air, considering how to join with the one it desired. The taste of it was delicious.
* * * * McCabe was wondering what to do with this female who gave him such interesting sensations, when she and her dog were struck by a writhing mass of golden light intertwined with blue lightening.
The power of the shaping obliterated the envoy and her mount, expelling an eruption of life energy that tore into McCabe, knocking him to the ground.
The people that came to their doors and windows to see what was happening misunderstood the screams coming from the little fellow dressed all in black, they weren't of pain, they were of ecstasy. Wave upon wave of pleasure overcame him as the life of the envoy and her great dog flooded every fiber of his being.
* * * * The Seeker chose its moment and meshed its essence with that of the shaping, as it flowed into McCabe, and mixed its being with his. The wash of sensation overwhelmed it, and it used McCabe's voice as its own to scream out its entrance into the world of men.
Grisham heard screams echo across the city, screams given voice by lungs no longer merely human. Housewives pulled their window shutters closed, and ordinarily fearless men looked to the skies to find the source of their sudden apprehension.
The being that used to be McCabe lay on the cobblestones, the after-euphoria nearly as overwhelming as the beginning. Townsfolk watching him from their doorsteps refused to venture any closer. That decision saved their lives.
* * * * The mists of the scrying swirled and pulsed with mixing colors, but they wouldn't clear.
“Nnnnggghhhh!” Gilgafed strained his power to its limits in an effort to break through the mists to his envoy in Grisham. Sweat broke out upon his brow, and his fingernails bit into his palms, drawing blood.
“Master. Please. Your hands, they're bleeding,” Cobain pleaded with the sorcerer from his place against the wall.
“Aaagghh!” He broke the scry with an abrupt wave of his hand across the face of the glass.
“Why won't they clear?” The question was not directed toward his servant.
“Could it be the mirror itself, Master?” Cobain tried to staunch the blood dripping from the Sorcerer's palms.
“Of course not. Get away from me, fool!” Gilgafed thrust his servant back against the wall of the chamber.
He wiped one bloody palm against the other as he paced back and forth in front of the glass hung on the wall. “This is a piece of silvered glass, nothing more. Scrying comes from here.” He slapped his chest with his hand, twice.
“Something is happening out there.” He pointed in the direction of Grisham. “Something involving that little bitch of a sorceress. Could it be... IT?”
Cobain blanched. “You mean the ... Seeker?”
“Don't mention it by name!” Gilgafed whirled to face his servant. “Do you want to bring it back here!?”
Cobain cringed back against the wall. “Master! No!”
Gilgafed dismissed his servant's fear with a wave of his hand. “Oh, hold your water. One brief speaking won't bring it, just don't do it again.”
He turned again to face the mirror. “What is going on down there?”
* * * * “What was that?” Duke Bilardi turned his head at the sound that disturbed his morning meal.
“Sounded like screaming, Milord.” The liveried servant craned his neck to peer out the tower window.
“Oh.” The Duke's fork paused in its journey to his mouth. The morsel of rare sweetmeat glistened on the tines. “Close the shutters, will you?” The fork resumed its journey.
* * * * The librarian's finger stopped at the word “known,” as something from outside disturbed his reading. He marked the position in his memory, and put the parchment down long enough to light another candle. There was something he was supposed to do...
Felsten pushed open the door to the reading chamber with his backside, and entered, carrying a silver tray loaded down with breakfast and a pitcher of steaming tisane.
He set the tray down next to the librarian's desk, and began pouring a mug full of the beverage. “Will you have some, master?”
The librarian looked up at Felsten, and then at the tray as if suddenly remembering what time of day it was. “What? Oh, oh yes, certainly, Felsten. Thank you.”
* * * * The howls woke Drinaugh from a dream about flying. It was not one of the nice ones. He was trying to escape a darkness that flowed over the landscape like burnt treacle, and it kept grabbing his tail and slowing his flight. The waking was almost a relief by comparison.
“Huh? Wha...? What's all the noise about?” In his groggy state, he failed to ask the question in wolf, and he also stood up, exposing himself to the sleeping girl on the other side of the large boulder that separated them.
* * * * Thaylli woke to wolves howling. Her dreams had not been much nicer than what she woke to. Dark, gibbering things, had been chasing her, and no matter how hard she tried, she only moved as if she were stuck in molasses, and the things kept coming closer and closer.
She sat up with a start and looked around her, half expecting to see the things surrounding her in her bedroll, but all she saw was the mist laying heavily over the lowlands below, and the pale ribbon of Labad's highway glinting where the morning sun struck it.
She rose to begin gathering her things, when the howls came again. She whirled to face the sound, and found herself confronted with the bulk of Drinaugh. He was only half grown as dragons go, but to a mountain girl who's never fully believed in their existence, he was more than large enough.
A small squeak escaped through her half-open lips and then she fainted dead away.

Chapter Thirty
“How long has she been dead?” Nikkas, brother to the Ortian Emperor, Ambassador to Grisham, and father of the dead girl, put the question to the ranking sergeant of his guards.
Hypatia's body lay where McCabe had left it, sprawled across the four-poster bed with her crushed neck at an unnatural angle, and the Duke of Grisham's greeting card sewn into her belly. The smell was what had finally brought someone into the room prior to the regular biweekly check. The chambermaid who alerted the guards was still in hysterics and being tended to by the cook.
“By the smell, Lord Nikkas, four ... maybe five days.” The Sergeant gave no outward sign of being affected by the sight of the body or the smell. His short-cropped gray hair, broken nose and the fine tracery of old scars where his skin showed, told those with the experience to read the signs, that he'd seen deaths like this, and worse, before.
“I want whoever is responsible for this, Sergeant. Remove that flicking card, now!” The Ambassador spoke through clenched teeth. He'd known his eldest daughter was bored to tears with Grisham's lack of sophistication, and he suspected she may have been venturing into promiscuity as a result. This ... tragedy was partially due to his inattention.
The need for revenge filled him with a fury only blood would wash away. He held the calling card between thumb and forefinger. “Duke Bilardi, eh?”
He spun on his heel and stalked from the room. The sergeant followed him, to his right side and a pace behind. “Use your best men, Sergeant. Find out for me if Bilardi is truly behind this. Knowing the man, I wouldn't be surprised if he were. If he is, there won't be a stone in this city left standing, and the only thing living in Grisham will be the rats.”
* * * * “Sire! Sire! Sire!” Alford turned in his feeding of the birds to see his aide, Cremer, rush into the aviary waving a roll of starched silk. The birds exploded into a white and pink cloud of feathers that dispersed into the branches of the trees overhead. Several of them voiced their displeasure at the interruption, and a number of them showed their opinion of Cremer by targeting him as their garderobe.
Cremer slid to a stop in front of his Emperor and stood there, covered in bird droppings and panting. Obviously the man had run all the way from the message loft where the homing pigeons landed.
Alford reached out and wiped a smear of dropping off of his aide's cheek. “Cremer,” he clicked his tongue in mild reproof. “What is the meaning for all this? You've quite literally scared the crap out of my birds, and you look totally blown, as well. Sit down, man, before you do yourself an injury.”
Cremer held the roll of silk out to Alford. “Please, My Lord.”
The Emperor looked at the roll of silk underneath his nose. “Really, Cremer. What's this all about?” Then he noticed the color of the roll, black with a red seal. The seal was broken. Of course, Cremer read it before bringing it to him as he always did. Something terrible had happened. Something involving the royal family.
He unrolled the silk. The white lead ink glared against the black sheen of the silk.
As Alford read the nine terse lines written by his brother, the blood drained from his face. He looked up at Cremer, and death was in his eyes.
“Is this thing so? Could this have happened?”
Cremer didn't answer, but the bleakness in his eyes told Alford what his aide believed.
“I ... see...” The silk missive crumpled as the Emperor's hand clenched into a fist.
Without another word he spun and ran out of the aviary, startling the birds that had resettled to feed. Cremer heard him calling for the seer the empire employed. He sighed. He'd already spoken to the enchanter. War was in the wind.
* * * * Thaylli woke from a horrible dream. She'd been dreaming about being surrounded by howling wolves and being chased by a dragon. The dragon had been the worst.
She rubbed her eyes as she sat up. The air smelled queer, in a musky animal sort of way. She finished rubbing, and opened her eyes to see herself ringed by gray and black muzzles.
Her scream startled the wolves into backing away from her, and then she looked up from them directly into the concerned features of Drinaugh, the dragon.
Thaylli screamed one more time, and then fainted, again.
The Alpha Wolf stepped forward and sniffed her. He snorted and backed away again, settling down onto his haunches. “Why would our friend bright eye choose this one for a mate? She makes too much noise, and she is more timid than a newborn cub.”
His mate moved up beside him, and looked at Thaylli as she swooned on the grass before them. “Perhaps it is because she is a good breeder.”
Her mate looked at her. “How can one tell without seeing her cubs?”
“That is for him to decide, is it not?” She replied levelly.
Drinaugh leaned over the wolves and sniffed Thaylli carefully. She wasn't injured, as far as he could tell. Nothing in her scent gave any indication of her being in ill health, but there was something...
He straightened and declared to the wolves. “It appears that is a question our friend still has to have answered. They've not mated yet. She is a virgin.”
The female wolf looked at Thaylli's still form and licked her cheek. “The poor thing.”
* * * * “Are you sure you're all right?” Adam watched Milward, as the old wizard fussed over the things he was packing to take to the library.
“Of course I am. Don't hover. You're acting like I'm a child, and I haven't been one of those for nearly twelve centuries.”
Adam hung his head for a moment, but he didn't uncross his arms. “I'm sorry. It's just that I'm worried. You almost died. If that shaping hadn't come out of me...”
“Then I'd be dead.” Milward snapped. “And you wouldn't have...” He cut off what he was going to say. There wasn't proof yet that that part of the prophecy had come to pass. Maybe Adam wasn't the he it spoke about, but he had very little hope of that being the case.
“I wouldn't have what?” Adam dropped his hands to his hips, his left resting on the pommel of the sword's hilt.
“Never mind that.” Milward secured the straps on the small pack he'd purchased for the trip across the straight to the library. “I'm all packed; let's get going; it's a good long walk to the docks.”
Granny Bullton met them at the foot of the stairs and fussed over Milward, much to his dismay.
“Och, you poor old man. How're you doin', me dear? Are ye recovering’ from yer spell ok? I've a nice drop of ale brewing for ye, sweetened with honey. You just let me know, an’ I'll have it drawn for ye in a flash.”
Milward tried vainly to disentangle himself from her concerned hands. “Old woman! Leave me be! I'm doing just fine, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I'd be much more thankful if you'd attend to your brewing, and let me tend to me.”
Adam stepped between Milward and Granny Bullton before Milward's bad temper ruined their chances of being welcomed back at the inn. “We really are thankful for everything you've done for us, Granny, but we've got to rush to a very important meeting across the straight.”
Her eyes went wide. “The library? Oh, my goodness. I didn't know I had Lord's stayin’ here.” She attempted a clumsy curtsy.
Adam stopped the gesture in midst. “We're not lord's, Granny. And I'd appreciate you not spreading anything like that around, ok?”
He released her and she bobbed her head in a series of quick bows. “Yes, milord. Thank you, milord. I will, milord.”
“Now you've done it!” Milward hissed at Adam, as they made their way out of the Inn and into the busy morning street. “That old biddy is going to spread all over Grisham she's got a young Lord and his grandfather staying with her. We'll be swamped with retainers and invitations, not to mention the huge target Grisham's female gentry are going to paste on you, my boy. I hope you're prepared to explain that to Thaylli.”
Inwardly, Adam blanched. He hadn't thought of Thaylli, not for a number of days. Things had just been so busy lately. With Milward's reminder, her face and voice came flooding into his memory, along with the sweet fragrance that seemed to follow her everywhere.
His smile at the old wizard was less than genuine, “Oh, I'm sure she'll keep her word. You heard her say she'd wouldn't spread that sort of thing around, didn't you?”
Milward grimaced. “Oh, of course,” he said sarcastically. “I'm sure gossiping is the last thing on her mind. Mind the oxen, they're leaving a reminder behind.”
Adam stepped to the side of a merchant's cart where the draft animals, their tails cocked, were doing what oxen do.
Due to the hilly nature of Grisham's demesne, Adam and Milward's path to the docks was a circuitous one. Milward's knowledge of some of the seedier parts of the city state was nearly encyclopedic, and he kept up a running commentary on the history of the neighborhoods, shop enclaves, and the several red lantern districts that ringed the outer perimeter of the city, just inside the yards-thick wall.
The wharf and its environs began their northward run approximately a half-mile inside the mouth of the straight, and continued along the Grisham side for over twelve miles. Its collection of piers, docks, ship builders, warehouses, fisheries competed with the ubiquitous taverns and pubs that catered to the men, and women, that came off the ships for space on the crowded wharf.
The dock Milward was headed to lay near the far southern end of the wharf, and slightly apart from the rest. Three covered piers extended over the turgid waters of the straight. Each of them housed a moderately-sized sailboat. Two of the boats were secured to the pier with oiled ropes, and their sails tightly furled. Three old men, two of them smoking pipes of weed, were sitting in the third. They appeared to be deep in conversation over some matter. One of them gestured with his pipe as he spoke.
They looked up as Adam and Milward walked down the steps of the ladder. The wizard's staff tapped loudly onto the wood of the steps as they descended.
The old man without a pipe stood as they approached and slapped his hands together. “Good morrow, m'lords. Will ye be needin’ a ferry?”
“That is exactly what we need, my good fellow. We wish to go across to the library, post haste.” Milward indicated the direction they wished to go with the point of his staff.
“The library, eh?” The old man rubbed his chin with a hand covered by a fingerless glove of knitted gray wool. “You be scholars then, eh? Never mind. Ol’ Rawn'll get ye there quick and safe, don't you worry.”
Milward snorted. “I wasn't worried in the first place. I know your work, Rawn, and I know of your boat. That's why I'm letting you ferry us over.”
Adam had been busy looking over the boat the old men were sitting in, while Milward dickered with Rawn. He knew nothing about boats, but his senses told him that this craft was the better of the three moored at the dock. It seemed ... more tightly put together than the other two, and, as far as he was concerned, if he was going across those waters, he wanted the best he could get underneath his feet.
“Done!” Rawn stuck his hand out to Milward, and the wizard took it as they closed their agreement.
“Come on lad, let's get going.” Milward spoke to Adam, as he stepped down into the boat.
Adam followed the Wizard, and found a spot to sit down in the rear of the craft, but the old man made him stand back up. “Sorry, boy, but that's me place, lessen you know how to guide her ‘cross to the books.”
“Books?” Adam stood and made way for Rawn to take his place at the tiller.
“That's what some of the locals call the library. It's sort of a pet name.” Milward rested his hands upon the butt of his staff, as the breeze began to fill the sail, easing the small craft out into the waters of the straight.
The ride became rougher as the boat cleared the wharf area and sailed into the channel itself. The ridge the library sat upon was a dark smear upon the horizon, and Adam began to wonder if they would ever get there, as he discovered his stomach wasn't suited to sailing.
“Are you feeling all right?” Milward asked him. The wizard's body shifted easily with the motion of the boat.
“He's turnin’ green.” Rawn smiled at them from his spot at the tiller. “The side's right there lad, if you need it.”
“I'll ... be fine.” Adam managed to get out before letting go with a huge belch.
“Sure ya will, lad. Sure ya will,” Rawn chuckled, as he steered them into a tacking maneuver.
Adam felt a partial sense of pride over having kept his breakfast down, as Rawn pulled his boat alongside the Library's dock. It sat nestled into a protected cove at the base of an imposing cliff. He could smell the combination of salt and seaweed from the rocks on either side of the dock. Seagulls cried above them, and pelicans squabbled among themselves on their cliff side aeries.
“There's a lot of birds here,” he said to Milward, as they climbed out of the boat and onto the dock.
The wizard looked around himself, as if noticing where they were all of a sudden. “Yes. Yes, there are. But we're not here sightseeing right now. Come on. It's a long climb up to the top.”
Adam looked at Milward quizzically. “Are you sure you're fully recovered? You seem ... distracted.”
“What? Oh, don't worry about me, my boy. I am quite fully recovered, as you put it, from whatever it was. I'm just thinking about the Prophecy, that's all.” And about the part you're going to play in it, he added silently.
The wizard readjusted his grip on his staff, and began the climb up the stair that led to the library above. The steps were carved into the living rock of the cliffs below the library, and followed a curving track that twisted back upon itself once before edging along the cliff face to a final steep climb to a gatehouse.
By the time Adam and Milward reached the gatehouse, they were panting and wiping off beads of sweat from their brows. There was no guard, and the door opened easily with just a push.
“Where are the guards?” Adam asked, as he pulled his sleeve across his forehead.
“There aren't any. There haven't been guards here for, oh, it must be three or four hundred years, now.” The wizard's laugh was slightly bitter. “Eh. You would think it would be different. If they only knew the vast store of riches these walls contained. But to them, they're just ... books, and you don't see many gaffers willing to pull a pint in exchange for a book.”
“I'm not sure I follow.” Adam cocked his head at Milward's rumination.
“You don't? Eh, no, you probably don't. But you will, lad, in the years to come, if you survive them. The taste of the hunt for knowledge will teach you the true value of what's in this library. Men can forget, and some societies can even actively unlearn the wisdom of their past, and fall back into the darkness they clawed their way out of, but that wisdom, once written down, is saved for the future. A book never forgets. A scroll or a parchment will teach the reader just as thoroughly today as it did a thousand years ago. All that student has to do is begin reading it, and class is in session.” Milward's eyes lit with the fervor of the eternal student speaking about his first love.
Adam nodded at the old wizard. “I think I'm beginning to follow, now.”
Milward looked at him searchingly for a moment. “Good,” he said. “Good. Come now, we don't want to keep them waiting.” He hurried on up the walk through the gatehouse, and onto the wide palisade that climbed up to the library proper
“This looks even larger than the palace,” Adam remarked, as the dome-capped walls of the library came into full view.
“It is,” Milward replied, as he pointed toward the library with his staff. “It covers almost half again the surface area of the Ducal Palace. You'll notice that the building stones come in different sizes for different areas? That's because it was built over several generations, during the reigns of several different rulers. The first was Labad himself, when Grisham was a part of the unified empire.”
“I see,” Adam said, as he visualized the construction of the library in his mind's eye. “And different rulers had different ideas about how they wanted it to look?”
“That explains a lot of what you see around us, doesn't it?” Milward smiled. The blocks of stone that made up the walls they walked by were carved out of a black marble streaked with a pale green. The tower they approached, in contrast to the wall, was built of granite that boasted white and black specks. Over all, the effect it gave Adam was that of a building that couldn't make up it's mind.
The librarian met them at the main entrance to the library. The massive pillars bracketing the portal to his private world of knowledge emphasized his small stature.
“Milward! You old reprobate. You've come to visit me at last. How long has it been?” The librarian gripped his friend's hands in greeting.
“A few years, but I've been busy, my old friend, and it is a long journey from my home, as you well know.” Milward returned the librarian's grip of friendship.
“Busy, he says.” The little old man looked at Adam with bright blue-gray eyes that showed no sign of the age displayed by the rest of his body. “Most likely holed up in that cozy little cave of his, investigating the secrets of some defenseless root or berry.”
“How well you know me.” Milward replied, not bothering to dispute the good-natured accusation.
Adam couldn't help smiling at the scene of two old friends meeting after a long absence.
“And who is your strapping young companion, Wizard?” The librarian kept his gaze on Adam while he asked the question.
“He is partially the reason why I'm here, old friend.” Milward replied, putting one hand on Adam's shoulder. “This is Adam, one of the two promised in Labad's prophecy. You'll notice the sword at his hip?”
Rather than reacting in surprise as Adam expected, the librarian merely nodded and murmured. “So. It has begun. And I live to see it.”
He looked up at the two of them and said, in a louder tone of voice. “You must be thinking me a horrible host, keeping you standing out here on the stoop. Come in. Come in. Felsten!” He called out the name in a surprisingly loud voice.
“My apprentice will be here shortly to take your things. Come inside.” He led them up the short flight of steps and into the foyer of the library.
Adam stopped as they entered the foyer, and then stood there, transfixed. The ceiling above him ended in a multi-colored translucent dome high enough to accommodate a large dragon. Thick pillars four yards thick of opalescent stone bracketed the four points of a mosaic compass laid into the floor. Inside the compass, a map of the world, set with tiny colored chips of tile, looked back at him. He found Cloudhook Mountain, and traced his journey back to the southern edge of the great forest, and then up to its northern border, where he and Charity began their adventures.
“Quite impressive, isn't it?” The librarian's statement pulled him out of his reverie.
Adam blinked and then focused in on the librarian's face with its tracery of deep lines. “It is very impressive. It must have taken years to complete.”
“Almost a century and a third, from what the histories tell me. Sometimes I find myself getting lost within the trails I make for myself here.” The librarian looked down at the map with a wistful expression.
“Is it very accurate?” Adam asked.
“Is it accurate? What a question.” Milward stepped onto the mosaic and gently tapped a spot on the map. “Labad himself commissioned the laying of these tiles. Mashglach himself drew the plans. I believe you would consider him a source for accuracy in map making, would you not?”
Adam looked at the map again with elevated respect, beyond what had been there for its beauty alone. “The Winglord designed this?”
Milward smiled. “He did, indeed. During the time of Labad, there was trade between mankind and Dragons such as had not been for many centuries prior to his reign. It was an enlightened time.”
He indicated the library with a wave of his arm. “There are histories here which speak of it in great detail. You may find one of them useful in answering your questions.”
His smile faded and he shook his head. “Sometimes ... sometimes, I wish I had the power to return to those days.”
The librarian noticed the change. “What troubles you, my friend? Why the sudden morose nostalgia?”
Milward rubbed his eyebrows with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “As you said. It has begun. I think ... the destroyer has come into the world, in fact, I am sure of it.”
They continued to speak as the librarian led them past the foyer into the library itself. Adam saw acres of books and manuscripts, rolled parchments and vellums stacked neatly into row after row of dark wooden shelves. The air within the library smelled of deep age tinged with musk and lemon oil.
Milward continued to tell his old friend about his concern. “Gilgafed has released a Seeker from the shadow realm. Before that, it was Chivvin.”
“Blessed Bardoc, no!” The librarian staggered back in shock at Milward's revelation. “How is it you still live?”
“I told you. He's one of the promised ones. Where the sword proved useless against the Chivvin, his instincts did not.”
Adam felt uncomfortably like a class assignment that was being presented for grading. His memories leapt to those times Aunt and Uncle made he and Charity attend the village school, and everyone turned to look at them in their rags.
“Magik? The young man used a shaping on a creature of shadow? And it worked?” The librarian peppered Milward with his excited questions.
“Yes, yes, and yes.” The wizard gestured with his left hand, while his right kept the staff tapping the tiles of the library floor as they walked. “He noticed the Chivvin avoided the sunlight and kept to the shadows. The shaping created sunlight. Simple, ordinary sunlight. It broke them apart like water hitting soft sand. The rest of that day's journey proved quite uneventful.”
The librarian nodded, absorbing and cataloging the story just like one of his manuscripts. “Uh hmm. Uh Hmm. But you say the destroyer is abroad? I know that term ... I read something about it ... Oh, yes, the folio, Visions of Darkness. Yes...”
He looked up a Milward sharply. “Gilgafed is the Elven Sorcerer? Of course! He'd have to be, wouldn't he?”
Milward took his old friend by the arm. “Have you this folio at hand?”
“Oh, yes, certainly. It's back in my study, through that door over there, and up a few flights of stairs. I also have something else you might be interested in seeing, Milward. It's a true treasure.”
Milward smiled inwardly. “I have something to show you myself.”
“Really? How nice.” The librarian hurried forward with surprising speed for one so old. “Where's that boy gotten himself? Felsten!”

Chapter Thirty-One
Cremer found Alford in the tower where the pigeons were kept. He cleared his throat.
“What is it, Cremer?” Alford's voice was a low growl.
“Is ... is it, true Milord? Is... she dead?” The Emperor's Aide's voice trembled.
Alford's tone dropped to a whisper. “I knew her, Cremer. I watched her grow into a young lady. She was headstrong and willful. At times, even aggravating, but she was my niece. My flesh, my blood!”
“The ... Seer?” Cremer asked, dreading the answer. Hoping against hope there could be some chance the message was wrong.
The Emperor turned to face his aide. With shock, Cremer saw that Alford had been crying. The haggard look in his eyes also said he'd not slept for a number of days.
“She confirmed Hypatia's death and the manner of it. I kept her at it until I was sure. Just finished, in fact. Sent her home, think she'll sleep for a week.” Alford chuckled at the end of his statement. There was no humor in his laugh.
“I never thought Bilardi actually hated me that much.” He turned back to look out the arched cupola that opened to the city below. “To go to such lengths,” he murmured. “I will kill him, Cremer. I will gut him like the pig he is, and watch his eyes as his spirit falls into the pit itself.”
“He will deserve it, Milord.” Cremer nodded. He'd known the girl himself.
“She was most explicit.” Alford continued, speaking over Cremer as if he wasn't there. “I tried to have her hunt the bastard down, but she couldn't, or wouldn't. Maybe it was her exhaustion. I don't know.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Something frightened her, so I sent her home.”
He turned again and looked at Cremer. “Fetch Jarl-Tysyn and bring him to my suite. I'm leaving for there, now, and I don't want to wait long, so bring him to me regardless of his state. I don't care if he's eating or with his wife.”
Alford left the tower and Cremer followed him. At the level where members of the court lived, he turned aside to take the left hallway. Jarl-Tysyn's apartment lay at the far end in the southwestern corner of the palace.
Cremer tapped on the door to the bath diffidently. The General was a man with a temper, who little liked being disturbed, especially when he was enjoying one of his rare private moments.
There was no answer, but he could hear water splashing. He knocked louder.
“Go away!” A string of profanity followed the demand.
Cremer knocked again. “I'm terribly sorry General, but the Emperor told me to fetch you. He is in his suite.”
“I said go ... what was that?” More splashing, and then the door was yanked open.
Cremer found himself facing a man equal to his own age and height, but powerfully built, with close-cropped white hair, ice blue eyes, a slash of a mouth underneath a beak of a nose and a towel gripped in one callused hand. Water dripped from the point of his nose and pooled at his large feet.
“Cremer.” The General's tone told the Emperor's aide just what the military man thought of Imperial functionaries. It wasn't much. “What in Bardoc's balls are you babbling about?”
Cremer, a religious man, winced at the epithet. “Pardon the interruption, milord, but the Emperor commanded me to bring you to him, immediately.”
“What is so bleeding urgent that it can't wait until I finish my bath?” The General's shout nearly blew Cremer's hair back.
Cremer told him.
Jarl-Tysyn stood there looking at Cremer for a moment, and then he whispered. “Gods.” And ran off, clad only in the towel.
The only thing faster than a released bolt from a crossbow is rumor. Jarl-Tysyn gave birth to several in his near-naked headlong dash to the Emperor's chambers that afternoon. One of the longest lived, and the one that the palace staff circulated with the most enjoyment, concerned Alford the 23rd greeting a dripping wet Jarl-Tysyn, clad only in a towel, at the door to his suite. A subplot spread among the guard staff pondered the reasons why the Emperor showed no concern at the sight of the unclad General. Wiser heads persuaded the others to not mention it in the General's presence.
* * * * “He's awake, my Lord Duke.”
McCabe heard the coarse voice, and recognized it as that of the guard who'd kept watch over him in the Duke's dungeon before ... before what? New sensations ran through him on butterfly feet. Voices, other than those of the two small lives, why did he think of them that way? On either side of the...
Ah! He was chained. Chained on that lovely slab the Duke had been so kind to provide him with on his earlier visit. He decided to reward the Duke for his kindness by not draining him. Draining him? Where did that come from? The other voices were speaking to him, but not in words ... feelings. Yes, that was it. Feelings, primal, strong lustful feelings. McCabe began exploring, testing and ... tasting the new rooms that he found within himself.
He found that he knew he could leave his chains anytime he desired, but he was content not to do so. There was so much to discover, and he liked the feel of the harsh, cold granite against his naked flesh. He found it restful and stimulating at the same time.
The small lives of the Duke and his guard were buzzing around him like midges. He chose to ignore them; they had little importance where he was concerned just now. A few of the voices wanted them, wanted to taste their fear, drink their despair, but McCabe forbore. They would have their uses. Later.
Later. A part of him told the voices. You may have them later, once they've served their purpose.
“I knows he hears us, milord. He's just not answering, that's all.” The guard wrung his cloth cap in sweaty hands. The pervert may be the one infuriating the Duke, but there was every chance he would be the one to bear his master's wrath.
Bilardi could not have been more frustrated. He knew torture on McCabe would only produce embarrassing results. Slapping him to get his attention, the same thing. How in the pit...?
“McCabe! You answer me, you disgusting pervert! You will answer me! I command you!” The Duke bellowed into his prisoner's ear to no effect. The man just lay there, staring at the ceiling. “Answer me!!” His voice grew hoarse with the effort.
“What can we do, milord? Iffn I prod ‘im he'll just ... you know.” The guard indicated his meaning with gestures that vaguely conveyed the message.
“Do you think I don't know that?” Bilardi rounded on the guard with his fist half raised. The guard flinched away, but the blow didn't fall.
“A dozen good men, plus one who'll never be good for anything but a door stop. How? How did he kill them?” The Duke spoke facing McCabe, but the questions were more to himself.
He turned back to the guard. “Did they find no mark on them at all?”
The guard shrugged. “You can look at ‘em yourself, milord. I got Lifetile keepin’ watch over the bodies in the first tunnel back over there.” He pointed over his shoulder to a pair of heavily studded oak doors set into the stones of the prison wall.
The Duke looked in the direction the guard pointed and shook his head. “No, I'll take your word for it.” He wanted nothing to do with that hulking mute.
Bilardi drew his attention back to McCabe. The little pervert had that same insipid smile on his face as he had last time. Something was going on and he didn't like it. “Thirteen men. How could this runt take out thirteen men?”
The guard didn't catch the Duke's mutter. “Milord?”
Bilardi came out of his reverie with a shake of his head. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Keep an eye on him. Use that...” He pointed in the direction of the studded doors. “...thing if you have to. Send word to me if anything happens. Anything at all.”
The Duke left, almost running up the stone steps.
The guard watched Bilardi hurry out of his dungeon then turned to look at his prisoner.
McCabe giggled softly, the first sound he'd uttered since being brought back to the palace. The guard wiped the sweat off his face with a piece of rag pulled from a pocket. “What in the pit have I gotten meself into?”
* * * * “She stirs.” The Alpha Wolf's mate spoke quietly to Drinaugh.
The young dragon peered over the boulder outcrop he and the wolf pack hid behind to watch the human female as she came out of her swoon.
Thaylli opened her eyes, and saw small fluffy clouds scudding across a bright blue sky. The shadow falling along her body told her she'd slept well into the afternoon.
“What a lazybones I'm being.” She spoke to herself out loud. “And what a terrible dream. Dragons and wolves. It must be this life in the wild. I never dreamed about them in my bed back home.”
“She thinks she dreamed us.” Drinaugh told the wolves in a dragon whisper. “She speaks of her home.”
Thaylli heard Drinaugh's whisper as a low-voiced growl, and felt panic beginning to blossom in the pit of her stomach. “Who's there?” Her voice quavered. “I warn you. I've got a knife and a boy friend who can turn you into a toad!”
“We won't hurt you, young lady.” Drinaugh tried to pitch his voice high enough to sound reassuring to the human female. “We are friends of your fiancé... uh, the boy friend you mentioned. We would very much appreciate it if you would not faint again, please. It is very worrying.”
Some of Thaylli's panic diminished in the indignation she felt over being accused of fainting. “I do not faint!” She declared. “I'm not a child! I'm almost seventeen summers old.”
“Please?” The voice sounded like someone trying to imitate a child.
“I don't faint.” She said stubbornly.
“Well, whatever you care to call it, we cannot talk to you or introduce ourselves when you ... fall asleep, like that.” The voice insisted. “Please don't do it again?”
Thaylli stood and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Of course I won't. I don't, I mean.”
“Ok, we're coming out from behind the rocks now...”
Thaylli stepped back and then moved forward, mad at herself for her sudden alarm. “No, I'm coming around.”
“Very well, but remember, you promised not to faint.”
The insistence that she not ... do that, increased her temper and her indignation. She was going to give that ... whoever it was, a good piece of her mind.
She stepped around the outcropping and in spite of her resolution to the contrary, she nearly fainted again. A small scream escaped her lips and the world swam around her. A monster out of nightmare crouched before her surrounded by a pack of slavering wolves.
With an effort she managed to push the coming blackness away and remain standing, but the monster was coming toward her!
Thaylli tried to shield herself with her hands as she backed away. “No! K ... keep away from me! D ... don't hurt me!”
The monster spoke, using the voice she'd heard on the other side of the boulders. “I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Drinaugh. I'm a dragon.” He raised up to his full height and pointed at his chest with one of his right thumbs. “I'm one of Adam's best friends.”
Thaylli was not prepared for just how large Drinaugh was, and his size, coupled with his nearness alarmed her. She began to back away again. “P ... please. Don't eat me.”
The last thing she was prepared for was laughter. The dragon was laughing, at her! Fear became pushed away by a larger amount of indignant embarrassment. “You're laughing at me! Stop laughing at me!” She stamped her foot. Part of her noticed the wolves had not moved an inch since she had first seen them.
The dragon's laughter settled into chuckles and then it spoke again. This time, the voice was a full octave lower. “I'm laughing at the assumption rather than at you. The very idea of me eating you. I mean, really! Everyone knows dragons are vegetarians. Everyone.”
* * * * The single light shone in the palace tower. Voices came from within, too far above the street below to be heard clearly.
Within the chamber, Jarl-Tysyn poured over a map of the northern lands around Grisham. A tightly rolled stick of weed jutted from between his teeth, and four members of his staff gathered around the map-laden table with him.
“Last time I was sent to the Embassy in Grisham, I had a good chance to look at the city walls.” Lancer Captain Ferrgyn traced the line of the walls with a middle finger.
“What do you think? Can they be breached?” Jarl-Tysyn took the weed stick out of his mouth and spat.
LC Ferrgyn shook his head no. “Too thick. Some parts are so deep they've got rooms in them. You could send a dozen balustrades against them for a year and you'd just be wasting your time. No, what we have to do is force the gates, preferably, from the inside.”
Jarl-Tysyn shifted his eyes to Ferrgyn's immediate superior, Major Gyst-Bersyn. “What about you, Major? You've done embassy duty. Do you feel the same?”
The Major looked at the map and pursed his lips. “Captain's got a point. I've been on those walls. Some parts are wide enough to house rooms. They run carts along the tops of them. Supplies for the guard points.”
“What about allies? Will Grisham stand alone, or do we have to take on the whole of the northlands?” The General looked back at the map.
LC Ferrgyn pointed to the lands north and to the west of Grisham. “There's possibilities of conscripts coming from as far north as Ulsta, and maybe from as far west as Berggren, possibly even north of the Dairy Lands.”
Jarl-Tysyn nodded his head. “Uh hmm. And us? What about our allies?”
The General's second in command, Sept-Colonel Fergus stepped forward to the table. “We have call upon over two millions. More, if we can pull from west of the spine.”
Gyst-Bersyn agreed. “Give us a few months to gather the armies and we should have what is needed to render Grisham to ashes.”
Jarl-Tysyn looked at the map again and then pulled another one over it. The map showed the Spine, the central range of mountains that split the continent in two, lengthwise.
He stabbed his finger onto the lone mountain east of the spine. “Cloudhook. Here is where our armies will gather.”
* * * * Felsten met the librarian and his guests at the entrance to the room containing the main stacks.
Adam thought nothing else he saw in the library could awe him as much as the foyer did. He was wrong, and admitted it to himself freely.
The main stacks of the Library were housed beneath the central dome. As he looked up at the vast inner curve of the dome from the floor over a hundred feet below its apex, a golden, opalescent sky looked back.
The room's walls curved to match the circumference of the dome, and no potential storage space was wasted within the room. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and ladders rode iron tracks set into the granite of the walls. Above the ladders, ancient hardwood balconies lined the wall with landings arranged to receive the climber.
Milward looked around the room and grunted in his beard. “Impressive, as always.”
The librarian raised his head from the small bit of ancient parchment Felsten had given him at Milward's statement. “Huh? Oh, yes, yes. I suppose it is.”
“How long has it been since you looked up, old friend?” Milward gently chided the librarian.
The old man smiled. “When you see what I've got to show you, you'll know why my eyes have been elsewhere than on pretty ceilings, Wizard.”
He handed the bit of parchment back to his apprentice. “I know, Felsten. It looks promising, but it is only a fragment of a recipe for Shepherd's Pie, and not a particularly good one, at that.”
Adam felt he could emphasize with the librarian's assistant. Milward could be just as condescending when teaching magik.
The librarian led them through the maze of stacks until they reached a point beneath the very center of the Dome. A small reading desk nearly buried in books, parchments and scrolls sat next to a single podium bearing the weight of a massive volume bound in Cave Dragon hide and Platinum.
Milward pointed to the volume. “Is that what I think it is?”
The librarian beamed like a proud parent showing off a favorite son. “It is, Labad's Book of Vision, the collected writings of the Philosopher King. Made so it could be added to in later days as an ever-growing tome of wisdom. Felsten and I found something to add to it just a few months ago, as a matter of fact.”
Milward raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
His old friend beamed from ear to ear. “Oh, yes. Felsten? If you would be so good as to open the Book of Vision to our new treasure?”
The librarian's apprentice looked at his master and his guests.
The librarian urged him on. “Go on, go on. No need to be intimidated, now. Open the book, there's a good lad.”
Felsten walked over to the volume and released the latch from the catch.
Milward noticed the boy had been well trained in the care of ancient bindings. Instead of just automatically flipping to the asked for page, which had to be at the end of the book, Felsten opened in sections, carefully turning small groupings of pages until he reached the desired place in the volume. The wizard pursed his lower lip and nodded appreciatively.
The apprentice turned to face the librarian. “Here it is, master.”
“Ah, good. Thank you, Felsten.” The old man stepped in beside his apprentice and beckoned to Milward. “Look at this. Would you believe we found it in an old chest?”
The old wizard moved in to take the place Felsten had occupied next to the librarian.
Adam walked over to stand next to the librarian's apprentice. “Is he always like this? About books, I mean?”
Felsten was startled that the young Lord would talk to someone as common as himself. “You're speaking to me, milord?”
Adam copied Milward's trick with the eyebrow. “Of course, I'm speaking to you. Is there anyone behind you?”
To his credit, Felsten didn't look. “But I'm a commoner, a mere librarian's apprentice, an assistant, at most. People of your type, you don't do with the likes of me.”
“First off,” Adam pulled down a finger with the other hand. “I'll hear no more of this milord tripe from you. You call me by my name, Adam. Second,” he pulled down another finger. “You are working in the greatest collection of knowledge this world has. That's what Milward calls it, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. You,” he pointed a forefinger at Felsten's chest. “Are about as far from being common as you can get without being royalty.”
Felsten was dumbfounded. “By ... but that's what you are, if I take the meaning of the prophecies aright. Don't you know?”
Adam shushed the boy. “Hssst. Don't say anything like that again. I don't feel like royalty, and I don't want to be royalty.”
“But...”
“I mean it.” Adam hissed. “I've heard the prophecy, in fact I've read it. There's a lot of things in there that could mean a lot of different things, if you catch my meaning. This,” he shifted the sword in its scabbard, “Is pretty convincing, especially after using it, but...” He let his breath out in a soft sigh.
“Just do me this favor, ok?” Adam patted Felsten on the shoulder.
The boy felt as if he was being knighted. He swallowed. He was looking at the next Emperor, he was sure of it. “As you wish, milo ... Adam.”
Adam smiled and nodded at Felsten. “Good. Now, what about my question?”
The apprentice blinked. “Question?”
“About your master, and ... the books?” Adam indicated Milward and the librarian huddled over Labad's book.
“Oh ... yes.” Felsten craned his neck to see his master and the old wizard. “Quite batty about them, he is. I expect I'll be the same when I'm his age. I've already some which are favorites.”
Adam envied the boy. Aunt and Uncle had taught both he and Charity to read at an early age, but books had never been much of a feature while they were growing up. The family was just too poor to afford them.
He turned to look at Milward and the librarian along with Felsten. The old man was showing off his treasure to the wizard.
“See this line? ...Guide to Eleven Chance, master of warriors, Ducal doom... it has to have something to do with what's been going on over in the city. The prophecy is coming to pass before our very eyes!”
Milward looked closely at the parchment leaf containing the copy of the prophecy. There were a couple of lines that didn't appear quite right in comparison to the original, similar to the ones he saw in the monastery near Ulsta.
He turned his head to look the librarian in the eye. “Are you sure it's accurate?”
The librarian reacted like a mother bear defending her cub. “How can you even ask such a thing? This is, at the very least, a second edition copy, if not a first! Labad could only have been gone a few years when this was penned. It might even have been copied upon the very battlefield itself!”
Milward smiled as he reached into the pouch that held the parchment Adam had given him. “I understand the possibility, but you must remember how Labad wrote his prophecy, and under what conditions. The legend is very clear on how it was done, and I've recently received a confirmation to that belief.”
“It is difficult at best to read the words. A dagger does not make the best of writing instruments, and blood flows better inside a body than off of steel.”
“I know all that.” The Librarian blustered. “What I want is...”
Milward interrupted his friend with an upraised hand. “For example, the ancient symbol that reads as persevere becomes prevail with a very slight change. The same applies to the symbols for foe as well as those designating landed titles such as Duke, Earl or Baron.”
The librarian stared at the wizard for a long moment and then his eyes widened. “Of course! Why, that means Labad could have been seeing something entirely different than what the clerics have been saying he saw all these hundreds of years. I'll have to begin researching this immediately.”
“Felsten!” He yelled out for his apprentice as if the boy were a full room away.
“I think he wants you.” Adam said dryly.
“Milward, my old friend,” the librarian turned and placed a trembling hand upon the Wizard's arm. “You are a scholar of vast repute, I could greatly use your help in this regard. Think of all the directions this could take us in!” His face creased in a mischievous smile. “Think of the consternation of the clerics.”
He looked back at the copy on the podium. “Ah, if only we had the original and we could compare and be sure.”
Milward laughed softly, half to himself as he pulled the parchment out of his pouch.” Ah, but we do, my old friend. We do.”
* * * * The rat nosed its way into the central dungeon chamber through the space between the bars across the drain. Bits of slime and fungus coated the sleek hair of its hide as it squeezed into the room.
The whiskers along the rat's snout quivered as it ran along the dungeon wall. There were new scents here since its last visit, possibly of something useable as food.
It turned from the wall and followed the scent trail to the granite block located in the center of the dungeon chamber. Dark streaks ran down the sides of the block. They smelled of salt and blood. The rat licked them eagerly. A meal was just above it!
Rats, especially large ones such as this, are marvelous jumpers and climbers. A bound put it onto the top of the granite block and next to the man it knew would be there. Instinctive caution pulled it back, but when the man didn't move, the rat crept forward in small stages, sniffing at the tantalizing aromas coming from the body.
It reached a place that looked good for nibbling. Five, pale, sausage-looking things, small enough so it could lean over them and sniff out the most flavorful spots lay before it.
The rat opened its mouth and licked a place on the second finger over from the block's edge. It licked again, and died.
McCabe absorbed the life of the rat as idly as a man in a pub nibbles on a crisp. He could feel the surge of the small life flow through his system. A small exhilaration quivered his body, and the hair on his arms and legs stood on end.
He'd lain there, enjoying the painful bite of the cold stone against his naked skin, testing his newfound abilities for nearly a month. The time to leave was approaching.
The Duke's dungeon keepers had him shackled to the granite block in such a fashion that he could only move his head from side to side, and lift his hands from the wrist alone. It mattered little. He found the cramps and spasms an enjoyable diversion.
The only keeper he'd seen since that day the Duke railed at him to answer his foolish questions was the huge mute; the one they called Lifetile. For some reason, the voices didn't like the mute. They wouldn't say why, but they continued to clamor for food, pushing at the essence of the being that McCabe and the Seeker had become when it joined with him. They wanted to gorge upon the life essences they sensed through the conduit he gave them as a window into the world of men. He pushed them back once more, preferring to wait and learn about what he had become. There was an eternity of time ahead to enjoy the tastes of the lives he would take in satisfying the hunger.
McCabe sensed the second rat as it forced its way into the chamber through the bars over the drain. Another snack had arrived.
* * * * “I think we should go down there.” Circumstance looked over the edge of the plateau at the tent city snuggled up against the southern flank of Cloudhook Mountain. A week had passed since Ethan put the choice into his hands.
Ethan shrugged his shoulders, and then tested the fit of his sword in its scabbard. “As I said, it's your decision. Let's go, then. There's the path.” He pointed to his right, where the remains of an old game trail snaked away from the plateau and down the mountainside.
The trip down proved uneventful, however some of the men working in the camp saw their approach, and a welcoming committee was dispatched to meet them when they reached the bottom.
“Hold up there, strangers.” Ethan noted the southern accent in the man's voice. “State your business here, if you please.”
Well, Ethan thought. The fellow was courteous, at least. “We've a matter that needs the attention of whoever's in charge of this camp.”
The southerner rested his palm on the knife at his side while he looked Ethan and Circumstance up and down. Apparently he didn't see anything worthy of raising an alarm about. He turned halfway to his right and pointed at a tent slightly larger than the others around it. The grouping sat about a bowshot away from where they stood. “That one in the middle? There's where you'll find the Chief Engineer. Guess he'd be the one to talk to.”
“We're much obliged, sire...?”
“Colling-Faler. Engineer, third. No need to be thanking me. You don't look like a hoard of Grishamites to me, so I've no worries about sending you on to the Chief.” The engineer waved them along as he turned and began walking back to his own tasks.
“Nice man,” Circumstance remarked, as they wound their way through the tents toward the one pointed out as their destination.
Ethan nodded. “Seemed that way. Say it's a point in the favor of the Southerners not being the monsters some have said they are.”
Circumstance looked back in the direction of engineer Colling-Faler as he vanished into the maze of tents and other bodies to the south. “He's a Southerner?”
“Sounded like it. Did you notice how he pronounced the word middle?”
“Uh huh. It sounded more like maddle.”
“That's how the Southern accent works. If he's not Southern now, he was at one time. Keep alert, now. We're at the Chief Engineer's quarters.” Ethan pointed at the tent with a nod of his head.
“Hey!” The voice came from one of the tents further down the row. “Who're you? And what are you doing there?” A Southerner, this one in a uniform of sorts came running towards them. “Intruders! Awake the camp! Intruders!”
Men erupted from the tents at the call. Cries of who? What? And where? Came from all directions around them. Ethan and Circumstance, wisely, didn't run. They stood in front of the Chief Engineer's tent, as they became surrounded by a horde of men in various stages of dress and wakefulness.
Engineers must not be early risers, thought Ethan. Some of these fellows look like they jumped right out of their cots.
“I said,” puffed the one who'd called the camp to alert as he ran up to them. “Who are you, and what are you doing here? This is a secure operation. Strangers are not allowed.” He looked more closely at Circumstance. “Especially strangers who are obviously not Ortian.”
A small smile twitched the corner of Ethan's mouth. “Do we really look so dangerous,” He turned to look at the crowd about them. “That it takes all your men to subdue one man and a small boy?”
The man sputtered a bit as his face reddened slightly. “Well ... uh...” And then he straightened, swelling his thin chest. Ethan thought that even Circumstance could have taken him. He looked like a Nervous Nelly. “There are rules to observe, and proper channels to follow, sirra. You can't just waltz in here as if you're the Emperor himself!”
“You tell ‘im, Gaspic,” a voice called out of the crowd. “A brute like you'll have no problem handling a pair of monsters like these two are.”
Gaspic's face reddened further with the laughter that followed the taunt. “You shut your face, Javik-Ster! You wouldn't know what procedure was if it stood on your foot!”
He turned back to face Ethan, still breathing a bit heavily. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”
“We want to see the Chief Engineer. This is his tent, isn't it?” Circumstance spoke up, no fear at all in his voice. A few murmurs of approval wafted out of the crowd.
“Oh, it's the Chief Engineer you want, is it?” Gaspic rounded on the boy.
Ethan had the man's measure now. He wasn't a Nervous Nelly. He was a bully. Someone probably placed a little responsibility into the fellow's hands and he used it like a club against those below him.
Circumstance didn't flinch away as Gaspic thrust his face into his. “Yes, it is.”
Gaspic straightened and folded his pipestem arms. “Well, you can't see him.”
“But we were told to. That's why we're here.”
Ethan decided to let the boy take the lead and watch how things played out. It was obvious the crowd wasn't hostile, merely interested in seeing how things went themselves. It also seemed a few of them, at least, were not on the officious Gaspic's side.
The boy's answer appeared to rattle the man. “Wha ... who ... no one has the authority to do that! Not without going through my office first! Who told you that?!” He reached out to grab Circumstance by the shoulders, but all he got was air as the boy smoothly stepped aside. More laughter came out of the crowd.
Gaspic seemed to want another try at grabbing Circumstance, but he controlled himself and merely glared instead. “Who told you to see the Chief Engineer?”
“Engineer Third Colling-Faler. He told us. He was a nice man.” Circumstance added the last as an indication of what he thought of Gaspic.
“Colling-Faler?” Gaspic reared back, aghast. “Wh ... why the man's barely a third! He's just out of academy!”
“An’ more of a man than you'll ever be, Gas-puke!” The shout from the crowd was followed by raucous laughter, more than before.
Gaspic glared at the crowd, furious, but unwilling to move against such odds. He'd take care of them through subtler means.
Circumstance spoke up over the laughter. “I liked the Engineer third. He could teach you manners.”
“Oh, he could, could he?” Gaspic's anger and frustration took hold, and he lunged at the boy with murder in his eyes. His chin met Ethan's fist with a meaty smack, and he wound up snoring softly, face down in the trampled verge of the camp floor.
The cheers coming from the crowd told Ethan he need fear no reprisal for his defense of the boy. “Well struck! Serves the bugger right! One punch! You see that? One punch!” And so on.
“What's all this about?” An older man, with a fringe of red hair encircling his bald head, looked out of the tent Colling-Faler had earlier pointed them towards.
“He laid out Gas-puke wi’ one punch. That's what.” A tall rangy fellow with the look more of a day laborer than an engineer spoke up from behind Ethan and Circumstance.
The chief of this crowd, or so Ethan supposed he was, looked down at the foot of his tent and sighed. “Can't say as I'm surprised. And that's Gaspic, as you well know, Durston-Kres.”
He stepped out of the tent, straightened, and then cracked his back as he stretched. “All right. Tell me how it happened.”
To Ethan's ears, he sounded like a patient father sorting out a neighborhood scuffle between children, instead of the head of a semi-military outfit who's had one of his men assaulted.
The one the Chief called Durston-Kres raised his hand, and pointed at Ethan and the boy with the other. “We all heard Gaspu ... Gaspic yellin’ the camp was bein’ invaded. Well, I gets outta my tent an’ all I sees is these two. One guy an’ his boy. Don't look like invaders to me, they don't.”
The Chief Engineer looked at Ethan and Circumstance and then at the prostrate Gaspic. “I take it the boy wasn't the one who did this?” He jerked a thumb at the body near his feet.
“No, sire engineer. It was me. He attacked the boy, just because he didn't like what the lad said. I stopped him.”
“Yeah. With one punch!” The clarification came from out of the middle of the crowd.
“He wouldn't have hurt me.” Circumstance said to Ethan and the engineer.
“I couldn't take that chance, son.” Ethan looked down at Circumstance.
“You the boy's father?” The Chief Engineer moved his eyes from Circumstance to Ethan.
“Adopted,” Ethan murmured.
“I see.” The engineer folded his arms over his chest. Ethan noted the man's arms held muscle, and the stomach was still flat in spite of the age of the body. “Why are the two of you in my camp? As you can see, we're no army, but this is a military operation. Some of us,” He looked down at Gaspic, who was beginning to stir. “Tend to take it more seriously than others.”
Ethan looked around at the crowd. Some of the men were still in their smallclothes, but they appeared to be hanging on every word. He shrugged. “I'd prefer to tell you with less of an audience listening in.”
A chorus of complaint came out of the crowd. “Oh, come on chief!” “Bloody hell!” “Just when it was gettin” good.”
The Chief Engineer stepped aside and held the tent flap open for them. He called out to the men in the crowd, as Ethan and Circumstance ducked into the tent. “All right, entertainment's over. Try to get at least half of your workload done today, ok? Surprise me.”
Inside the tent, the Ortian engineer motioned for Ethan and Circumstance to sit in two of the wooden chairs set up before a plank wood desk on the left side of the tent. He sat down on the edge of a cot pushed against the right side.
“Ok.” He rubbed the eyebrow over his left eye. “Tell me why you're here.”
Ethan looked at the boy. “Circumstance?”
“I have something I have to do. I don't know what it is yet, but part of it is waiting here for someone.” Circumstance looked at the engineer soberly while he spoke.
The engineer stared at the boy for a moment, and then turned his head to face Ethan. “And you go along with this?” His tone indicated disbelief.
Ethan spread his hands. “I know it sounds like a pile of meadow muffins, but he's proven to me there's something going on. It could be that part of his heritage, which isn't human; I can't say for sure what it is, but whatever it is, is real. We wouldn't be here otherwise.”
The tent flap parted, and Gaspic, sporting a bloody mouth, stumbled in. “Intruders! We're under attack! We must rally the camp! We ... you!”
He stood there with his eyes wide, staring at Ethan and Circumstance, and then he turned to face the Chief Engineer, holding himself rigidly at attention. “My Lord. I demand that these ... persons, be put under arrest and held for public trial.”
The engineer's glance at Ethan contained an embarassed apology. “Why?”
Gaspic sputtered. “Why? Why? Why, because he,” he pointed a trembling forefinger at Ethan. “Assaulted me, that's why. And that one,” the finger moved to center on Circumstance. “Grievously insulted an officer of the Ortian military corps. That's why.”
The engineer turned back to face Ethan. “Did you really do all that?” He asked mildly.
Ethan looked at Gaspic. “Essentially. He's left out a thing or two.”
“And what would that be?”
“One of your people directed us to your tent. We asked permission first before our ... invasion. The insult was the lad expressing his opinion concerning the difference between the one who directed us, and this fellow here.” He waved a hand in Gaspic's direction.
“My Lord! I most strongly object! These fellows must be treated as the criminals they are!” He touched the corner of his mouth, and then held his finger out to show the Chief Engineer. “Look at the result of his pummeling me.”
“I didn't know one punch was considered a pummeling in the Ortian Empire.” Ethan remarked dryly.
“Ethan hit him when he tried to attack me,” Circumstance stated matter-of-factly. “It wasn't necessary, but he didn't know that.” Meaning Ethan.
“One punch?” The engineer looked at Ethan with new respect.
“My Lord! Surely you're not...” Gaspic raised his voice.
“Oh, pipe down!” The engineer barked.
Gaspic backed down, biting off the rest of what he was going to say.
The Chief Engineer leveled a finger at the fellow. “I don't want to hear another word from you on this matter. Now turn around, leave my tent, and do the job you're supposed to do. Make sure those lazy oafs who call themselves engineers get their work done. We're nearly a five-day behind schedule as it is.”
He looked at Ethan and Circumstance, and then back at Gaspic. “You're still here?”
“No, my Lord, I mean, yes my Lord. I mean...”
“Just go!” The engineer's shout spurred Gaspic into action. He left, almost tripping in his haste.
The engineer grimaced. “What a completely aggravating little man. If he wasn't such an efficient administrator...”
Ethan smiled. “As to what we were saying ... he called you... My Lord?”
The engineer mirrored Ethan's smile. “An accident of birth. The Emperor is a third cousin. I prefer being called by my name, Lemmic-Pries. The title is for the court.”
“I'm Ethan, this is Circumstance. Now, about why we're here...”
“Before we were so rudely interrupted.” Lemmic-Pries interjected with a grin. “By all means, go on with what you were saying.”
A sigh gusted out of Ethan. “The root of it is, the boy feels he must stay here, with you, to fulfill whatever this pull of destiny that's on him. I'm not sure I like it all that much, but I've given him my word to back him in his decision, and he's made it.”
The Chief Engineer nodded once. “I take it you're a man who values his word? No, don't answer, I don't need to hear it. Before I say anything on what you've told me, and it's a cartload, you can be sure of that, I want to ask the lad here a question of my own.”
“Ask him.” Ethan shrugged.
Lemmic-Pries raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” He leaned forward and looked at Circumstance intently. “You said his defending you wasn't necessary.” He pointed at Ethan. “Why?”
A head poked into the tent. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Chief, but we needs to requisition more planks.”
Lemmic-Pries’ forehead creased in a frown. “Why are you bothering me with it? Tell Gaspic.”
The head coughed. “Well, uh, y'see Chief. Ever since this here fellow laid ‘im out, he's been right short with everyone. A real bugger, in fact.”
The Chief Engineer bowed his head and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I should have seen this coming. We're never going to finish in time.”
“I can help.” Circumstance spoke up.
This earned him a sad smile. “I appreciate the offer, lad, but I really don't see how you could.”
“I could help carry messages. Your main problem is, you don't have enough people to get all the information to where it needs to go on time. I'm real fast, and I don't get lost.” Circumstance twitched his shoulders in a half-shrug as he finished.
Lemmic-Pries discovered his mouth was open and shut it. He got up, walked over to the tent flap and opened it. He called out to a passing member of his company. “Have the cook send me over tea, and a plate of biscuits and honey.”
He turned around and stared at Circumstance for a moment and then he sat back down on his cot. “How, in Bardoc's name, could you know that?”
“Now you know just how I felt when I tracked him down. He did the same thing to me a few times. I tell you, Lemmic-Pries, there's more to this kid than good manners.” Ethan leaned back in his chair.
“I'm coming to see that.” The engineer slapped his hands onto his knees and stood up. “I also see a couple of potential problems. One is Gaspic. You two have made quite an enemy of him, and he is a very vindictive man.”
“He won't bother me.” Circumstance said quietly.
“Yes, you mentioned something like that before, didn't you?” Lemmic-Pries raised the eyebrow again. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“Yes.” Ethan echoed. “How?”
Circumstance shrugged. “I'm very fast.”
“I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at, boy.” The engineer frowned.
Circumstance stood up, arms held akimbo. “Try to hit me.” He said to Lemmic-Pries.
The engineer shook his head. “No, lad. I'm not going to do that. I'll injure you.”
“You won't touch me.” Circumstance shifted his stance slightly. “Just like Gaspic wouldn't have.”
Lemmic-Pries cocked an eye at Ethan, who threw up his hands in defeat. “Go ahead. Do as he asks. I'm coming to regret my promise. Go ahead, try to hit him.”
This time both eyebrows went up. The engineer shifted his own stance and balled his fist. “Very well...” He swung and his fist blurred, but the boy wasn't there to be hit.
“Try again.” Circumstance said.
He did, with the same result. Ethan thought it wasn't so much that the boy was amazingly quick, but he seemed to know just where to be at the right time to avoid being struck.
“Try again.”
Lemmic-Pries shook his head. “No. No need. You've convinced me. I'd almost like to see Gaspic make a go at him,” he said, half to himself. “The fool would wear himself to a frazzle swinging at air.”
Ethan smiled broadly. “I think I'd like to see that myself. So Circumstance will be allowed to stay with you, then?”
“I think so.” Lemmic-Pries nodded. “To satisfy my own curiosity, at least. No, I think he'll prove useful, and he'll be safe from the conscriptors.”
“Conscriptors? What are the conscriptors?” Circumstance asked, looking at the sour expression on Ethan's face.
“A bad memory.” Ethan replied.
The Chief Engineer crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded. “To us, it's a sad reality of war. No one can keep an army large enough on payroll to prosecute a war during peacetime, so they send out teams of conscriptors to forcibly enlist the manpower needed for the war. Not too many escape their net.”
He focused his eye on Ethan. “You need to be going soon, otherwise you may be staying here for much longer than you intended.”
Ethan nodded. “I suppose you're right, at that. Circumstance and I said our good-byes a couple of days ago.” He stuck his hand out for the engineer to take. “I want to thank you for your kindness, Lemmic-Pries. I won't forget it.”
As the engineer reached out to take Ethan's hand, one of the company of engineers came in through the tent flap. He was dressed as a cook, complete with the white floppy hat, and held a silver serving tray in his hands. “Your tea and biscuits, my lord.” He set it down on the cot, and left the tent.
“Tea? You drink that stuff?” Ethan exclaimed. “You're not concerned about what it does to a man's....” He glanced at Circumstance. “...uh ... manliness?”
Lemmic-Pries poured himself a cup and sipped from it. He smiled at Ethan's wince. “I'm aware of the tales, but that's all they are, old wives tales, because they didn't like the idea of something new brought in from foreign lands. It's shipped in from the lands of the Maraggar. I've grown to like the taste, myself. It has a nutty, enlivening flavor I prefer over the fruitiness of tisane. It may help you to wake up in the morning, but that's all it will do.”
He held the cup out to Ethan. “Try some.”
Ethan recoiled. “No thanks. I'll stick with tisane, thank you.”
“The habits of a lifetime. I know.” The engineer held his hand out and Ethan took it. “Have a good journey back home, Ethan. Rest assured, your lad'll be safe with us.”
“You sure of this, Circumstance?” Ethan looked at the boy, who nodded. “All right. Then I'll be going. I'm sure Ellona must be holding supper for me.” He smiled briefly and left the tent.
Lemmic-Pries looked over at Circumstance, and handed him a biscuit with honey. “Well now, lad, what shall we do first?”

Chapter Thirty-Two
“Pour me another.” Bilardi, Duke of the City-State of Grisham, held out his crystal and ruby goblet for another measure of the red wine he favored for its strength and texture.
“Now, fool! Not when I'm in my dottage. Now!”
The wine steward rushed to fulfill his lord's request. Slowness in meeting Duke Bilardi's demands had killed more than one servant in times past.
“He's been like this all day. Woke up in a foul mood, and it's gotten worse,” one of the servers said to a busboy standing in the wing of the Duke's dining chamber.
“I know,” the busboy's voice quavered with his fright. “I'm dreadin’ havin’ to go in there agin.”
The steward looked over his shoulder at the Duke. Bilardi was guzzling the wine as rapidly as he could. Some of it spilled past the rim of the goblet and ran down his cheeks. “I overheard one of the guards sayin’ he's got somthin’ locked away below that's givin’ him the fits. Some say it's a demon that can't be kilt.”
“I don't care what it is. Anything's better than havin’ to face him when he's like that.” The busboy winced as a plate, thrown by the Duke, shattered against the wall to his right.
“You! Get you lazy arse in here and clear this bilge away. Where's my wine?!”
The wine steward started and slunk back into the chamber.
“About bloody time.” The Duke growled at the hapless steward. “Fill it.” He held out his empty goblet.
The steward lifted the bottle, but his hand shook, and he slopped some of the wine onto Bilardi's embroidered cuff. The Duke dropped the goblet with a curse as he surged to his feet. “Damn you to the pit, witless idiot! Look what you've done! Ruined! Ruined!”
The wine steward cringed, and vainly attempted to undo what he had done by patting at his lord's shirt cuff with the towel from his shoulder, but the Duke would have none of it.
Driven to a wrath near madness, he pulled his rapier from its sheath on the bench and drove it through the steward's heart. Blood gushed from the man's mouth, and the hole in his chest as he fell, and was kicked off the razor-edged blade by a thrust from Bilardi's boot.
The duke spat on the body of the steward while it was still twitching. “Gnomic headed skrud!”
He looked at the body of the former wine steward for a moment and then speared the quaking busboy with an eye. “You! You're the new steward! Bring me a bottle, any bottle.” The rest of what he would have uttered stayed unsaid as the newly appointed steward sprinted from the room.
Bilardi turned his back on the door to his dining chamber and cleared his table of its contents with a sweep of his hand. “Wuest!” He bellowed his personal secretary's name at the top of his lungs. “Wuest. Where are you? Damn your hide! Wuest! Wuest!”
“Milord?” Bilardi's secretary and aide de camp stuck his head into the chamber's door. “I came as fast as I cou ... Milord Duke! What has happened? Are you injured?”
The room was strewn with the debris of Bilardi's temper, as well as the cooling body of the ex-wine steward.
The Duke sniffed, mollified by the placating concern shown to him by his secretary and the release the destruction had given to his rage. “Thank you, Wuest, but I am quite all right. Have someone clear this mess away, will you?”
Wuest turned to carry out his Lord's command when he was called back. “Oh, yes, Wuest?”
“Yes, Milord?”
“Any news from the Ortian Embassy?”
“No, Milord. Should I watch for something?” Wuest caught the sight of one of the busboys running toward them down the hall with a wine bottle in his hand.
Bilardi gave his secretary a short nod of his head. “Anything of a diplomatic nature is to be brought to my attention at once, regardless of what I'm involved in.”
The busboy passed Wuest with a hurried, “Pardon, pardon.”
Wuest ignored the busboy handing the Duke his bottle with the long practice of years. He turned again to carry out his task. “As you wish, Milord.”
Bilardi dismissed the busboy, now wine steward, and removed the cork himself. He was rather pleased with the decisiveness of the thrust he used to kill one who had spilled wine on him. As firm and sure as it was back in the days when he achieved his sword master ranking.
He patted his paunch. The years had not been kind to his figure. A bit of self-indulgence now and then will do that to a man, he supposed. “Damn those Ortians. Why won't they take the bait?”
* * * * Cobain pushed open the door to his master's meditation chamber in the very peak of Pestilence with his rear as he balanced the heavy, covered serving tray in his hands.
The sorcerer was wont to retreat to this high spot during times of trouble or stress, or when fasting. He'd been spending the majority of his time in the chamber recently, gazing out of the floor to ceiling crystalline window, since that day he released the Seeker into the world.
“Your repast, master.” Cobain set the covered tray onto a table with elaborately fluted legs ending in clawed feet, each of them grasping an opal sphere.
Gilgafed turned from the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Excellent.”
He looked a second time at the table. “Where's the wine I requested?”
Cobain hurried to the door. “Just outside, master. I had to make two trips.”
“Perhaps I should do something about that.” The Sorcerer mused. “How would you like a second set of arms?”
Cobain blanched. “Master, no!”
Gilgafed laughed. “Oh, settle down, Cobain. I'm just having some fun with you. You're ugly enough with one pair alone.”
“Eh heh. Thank you, master. Very droll. Very droll, indeed.” Cobain set up the wine service alongside the serving tray, and took his accustomed place along the edge of the chamber.
Gilgafed lifted the cover off the tray and breathed in the savory aroma deeply. “Ahhhh yesss. This is what I've been needing.”
“I hope it is to your liking, master,” Cobain said from his place along the wall.
The entree’ portion of the meal lay in the center of the tray, ringed by an assortment of grilled tubers and vegetables. A garnish of herbs finished the dish.
The sorcerer pinched a small piece off of the golden brown entree’ and placed it into his mouth. He chewed with relish. “It is always to my liking, Cobain. You know how much I adore roast fetus.”
* * * * “And I say we send our armies up into Grisham now!” Jarl-Tysyn slammed his fist onto the marble of the conference table. “What they did to Hypatia was an act of war, not to mention being against every tenet of Ortian law.”
“In this discussion, General, what was done to my niece is secondary to the fact that Ortian law, as you are so fond of saying, demands that a formal declaration of war be sent first.” Alford leaned forward and favored Jarl-Tysyn with his best glare.
The General glared back at his Emperor for several seconds, and then threw up his hands in exasperation. “Aaaarrrggghhh!”
Alford straightened and picked up the sheet of embossed parchment that lay before him. “I know how you feel, Jarl-Tysyn. I would like nothing more than to send in a team of night stalkers, and burn the Duke's palace to the ground, and then sift the ashes, but I can't.” He held up the parchment. “This has to be delivered into the Duke of Grisham's hands before we can release one arrow. What kind of Emperor would I be if I descended to my enemies’ level?
The General turned back to face Alford. “But, Sire...”
“You know I'm right, Jarl-Tysyn. You know I am.” Alford placed the parchment back onto the table. “Now, according to our law, I must have your witness to my affixing the Imperial Seal to this declaration. When that's done, we can get down to the business of planning just how we're going to hand Duke Bilardi his balls on a platter.”
Jarl-Tysyn turned his left hand toward his eyes, and looked at the massive signet ring adorning his fourth finger for a moment, and then a wide smile split his homely face. “Yes, yes! Scrood the bastard for a mongrel, Yes!”
He slammed the face of the signet ring into the soft wax applied to the bottom right corner of the parchment, and then pulled it away, leaving an impression of the military branch of Ortian authority next to that of the Royal house.
Alford took the parchment again and held it before him. “Now, to send this north. I will need your swiftest rider, General. Be sure he has coins enough to exchange mounts at the way stations along the highway.”
“Pigeon'd be faster, your Majesty.” The General pulled at his lower lip.
“Pigeons can also be eaten by any number of hawks or eagles. A rider willing to lose a few nights sleep is slower, but far surer. We can use the time it takes this...” He rustled the declaration in his hand. “...to reach its destination on planning and strategy.”
Jarl-Tysyn nodded his chin on his chest as he thought. “Aye, probably for the best. Better to be sure.”
He looked back into his Emperor's face with a small smile curling the left side of his mouth. “I wonder what that paunchy fool in Grisham's going to do when he reads it?”
* * * * Thaylli walked alongside the dragon with her thoughts awhirl. She still wasn't completely convinced, even though Drinaugh, that was what the dragon said his name was, steadily insisted dragons did not eat meat. After all, it was traveling with a pack of wolves!
The wolves made her nervous. Why wasn't Adam here to protect her? The thought of Adam's thoughtlessness raised her temper enough that her nerves vanished.
“Our friend's cubless she is timid.” The Alpha Wolf said to his mate as they padded along the highway just behind Thaylli.
“Yet she walks with the pack, my mate, in spite of her fear,” the she wolf replied. “I think better of our packmate's choice than I did before.”
One of the pack behind them, the onetime Beta Wolf whom Adam befriended, spoke up. “We are watched.”
The Alpha Wolf and his mate stopped, causing the rest of the pack to do so. They sniffed the air.
“Two-legs, hiding in the trees.” The Alpha Wolf's mate pointed her nose toward a copse of Beech trees at the top of a knoll to the left of the highway.
“I smell them.”
“Dragon!” The Alpha Wolf called to Drinaugh, as he and Thaylli continued along the highway, apparently oblivious to the wolves stopping behind them.
Drinaugh halted and turned to look at the wolf pack. Thaylli stopped with him, thankful of the chance to rest her feet. The stone slabs of the highway proved to be much harder on her feet than the soft loam of the woods and plains she'd walked on her journey from Access.
Drinaugh lowered his head to a level with the wolves. “Why do you call me?”
“We have a pack of two legs watching us from those trees, there.” The Alpha Wolf's nose indicated the copse on the knoll.
Drinaugh looked in the direction the wolf pointed and nodded his head. “Oh, that. They're not the first to watch us from hiding. Two others did so yesterday and a large group did the day before.”
The Alpha wolf opened his mouth in a laugh. “So, they are hunters afraid to face their prey.”
Drinaugh chuckled, “perhaps they aren't used to seeing a pack with dragon in it.”
Thaylli looked up at the dragon. “Why'd you laugh? What's going on?”
* * * * “I don't know about this, Brill.” The older bandit tugged on the ear with the missing lobe.
“Why not, Fretin? Look at ‘er. Ripe as the day's long. She'd bring a pretty penny. The four of us could spook ‘er dogs, no worries.” Brill fingered the edge of his long knife.
“I dunno, Brill. Them's don't look like no dog I ever seen, and what about that thing?” Fretin pointed to Drinaugh's bulk in the middle of the pack.
“That's a dragon, iffn I don't miss me guess.” Drynn, a bandit with barely enough teeth to chew his food, lisped. He scratched at the greasy mat of hair on top of his head. Dandruff flew.
Brill turned to the last of the foursome. “Whatta you think, Ruggels? Do we, or don't we?”
Ruggels peered over the bush they were crouched behind, and then parted a portion of it to gain another angle. He nodded, made noise in his throat, and then closed the bush back up.
“Well?” Brill scratched himself, dislodging a family of lice at dinner.
Ruggels took the twig he was chewing on out of his mouth and spat. “Them's wolves, and that's a dragon. I ain't going up ‘gainst no wolves and no dragons, nohow.” He stood his lanky form to its full six foot plus and walked back into the woods.
“Y'all best do the same, iffn y'all wanna see the morrow.”
The others rose and followed Ruggels. Brill parted the bush one last time, and undressed Thaylli once more with his eyes. “Yer right, Ruggels,” he thought. “It's a bleedin’ shame, but yer right.”
* * * * “Ow!” Thaylli stopped to hold her right foot in her hands as she hopped on her left to keep from falling over.
Drinaugh looked down at her in concern. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”
She looked up at the dragon. His expression showed nothing but genuine concern for her welfare. At that point, all her fears about dragons vanished, and affection began to take their place.
She leaned against the soft hide of Drinaugh's thigh. “My feet. They're all swollen and bruised. Every step is painful.”
“Oh you poor thing. Here, climb up onto my back. As small as you are, I won't even feel your weight.” Drinaugh turned and pointed at a spot above his shoulders between two of the blunt ridges that ran from neck to tail.
“Can I?” Thaylli clapped her hands in joy like a little girl getting to ride her first pony.
Drinaugh smiled. “Of course, you can. I invited you, didn't I?”
He leaned over and placed his hands on either side of Thaylli. “Here. Hold still now.”
Thaylli squealed as the dragon gently lifted her up and placed her onto his back. The ridges in front of, and behind her, fit as nicely as any saddle.
The young dragon cocked an eye in her direction and asked, “are you comfortable?”
“This is so high!” Thaylli laughed, and then she hugged Drinaugh's neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
She didn't see the dragon's smile. “My first successful diplomatic conquest,” he thought.
* * * * “I ... am ... holding the last words Labad wrote in his own hand.” The librarian's hand trembled as he held the parchment given him by Milward. “How ... how did you come by such a treasure? All scholars and clerics the world over thought this lost. Lost forever.” He turned his head to look back at the wizard. “How?”
Milward pointed a finger of the hand draped over the top of his staff at Adam. “From him.”
The librarian looked at Adam as if he were seeing a statue that had just come to life. “Him? This ... youth, had possession of the Prophecy of Labad?” The librarian's voice rose in pitch and volume as he went on. “Are you telling me this ... this... sprout was walking around with the most precious, prized treasure of knowledge in the world as casually as ... as ... as if he were carrying a shopping list?”
“Youth? Sprout?” Adam looked to Milward for support.
“Ease up, old friend.” Milward lay a soothing hand onto the librarian's shoulder. “The Dwarves gave it to him and his sister, along with the rest of Labad's legacy. According to the letter, he is one half of the promise.”
The Librarian ‘s eyes bounced back and forth between Milward and Adam. “Letter? What letter?”
“Show him the letter, Adam.” Milward turned back to look at the Book of Vision.
Adam reached into his pouch and pulled out the letter that accompanied the prophecy. “Here, but it could be talking about anybody.” He handed it to the librarian.
The old man placed the parchment containing the prophecy onto the reading desk with extreme care, and then unfolded the letter. He ran his fingers along the swirls of the cursive text as he read.
I write this assuming the dwarves have fulfilled their obligation, yet to be done, to me. I write this also knowing my death is sure, as sure as the breath I take. You are of my kin though you know me not. Nor could you ever, for the mists of centuries separate us and my bones are now dust.
I have watched your lives. They have disturbed my rest for many seasons. I cannot tell you how to walk the paths destiny has set before you for both tragedy and triumph await you. Yet I can, through my faithful dwarves, give you tools to aide your way. I know you will be man and woman ... in time. My sword is the man's, my bow, for the woman. I caution you to obey me in this completely, though your feelings will guide you. Test them, you will see the truth in what I write.
I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can. May the creator guide your steps within the balance. Let the rule of three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. Keep safe the vision I have penned, the wolves and the Winglord will show you its truth.
I am
Labad, Lord of the known lands, Philosopher King.
The librarian set the letter down with a sigh.
Milward leaned on his staff and nodded in sympathy. “It is profound, being witness to history. You'd best retrieve your letter, Adam. That's proof of your legacy.”
Adam leaned across the librarian, collected the letter, refolded it and placed it back into his pouch. “It could be talking about someone else,” he said hopefully.
Milward patted him on the shoulder as he went past. “You just keep telling yourself that, my lad.” He chuckled.
Adam saw Felsten looking at him with huge eyes. “Well, it could.”
The librarian turned and bowed his head at Adam. “Forgive me, your majesty, for calling you a youth and a sprout. They were merely expressions of surprise and anger.”
“I am not your majesty! I'm not your ... anything. I ... don't know what I am, but I sure don't feel like anyone's Emperor.”
“You're not.” Milward snorted. “At least, not yet.”
The old Wizard held up a hand to forestall Adam's protest. “I think now is a good time to look at the prophecy. Tell me, old man, do you want to read what Labad really said? Are you open for a little compare and contrast?”
The librarian's eyes lit up like a new bride's. “Here, let me lay the two next to each other. Felsten!”
“Here, master.” Felsten stepped out from behind Milward.
“Oh, there you are. Where've you been hiding? Hold this flat for me. Careful, now, it's the real thing. Legend has it, Labad himself wrote it using his dagger and his own blood.” The librarian ignored Felsten's grimace.
“Ok, old friend. Here is where the past comes back to life. You are right, by the way.” Milward said in an aside. “Those symbols are Labad's blood. The dragons confirmed it.”
The librarian looked a bit more closely at Labad's prophecy. “Indeed. Yes, you can see where it clotted within the fibers of the parchment. Hmmm, Yes, it reads as so;
"The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them but yet they prevail.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Friend of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill father but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
The librarian straightened and rubbed his chin. “There are differences. Major differences. They change the entire tone of the prophecy.”
“Oh?” Milward leaned over the reading desk with a smile. “Where?”
“Here, for one.” The old man traced a line underneath the symbol for prevail in Labad's prophecy. “In my copy it's translated as persevere, and...”
The Librarian looked at Milward with a wry expression. “You knew about this already, didn't you? This is the reason for those pointed questions of yours earlier, isn't it? You've already read the prophecy and compared it to other copies.”
“You have me at the point, old friend. Yes, I've already committed the true prophecy to memory, as well as compared it to the copy held by the clerics in Ulsta. Your copy is an exact duplicate of theirs.”
Felsten moved over to stand next to Adam. “They're gonna be at this for hours, your majesty.”
Adam hissed in a fierce whisper. “Don't call me that!”
“But ... the letter. The prophecy.”
“We don't know for certain they mean me ... or my sister. I'm not going to step into boots that big unless there's no other choice.” Adam looked away from Felsten to where Milward and the librarian huddled over the prophecy and its copy.
“I'd always wondered why Aunt and Uncle knew so much, but lived like the poorest of peasants. I'm starting to understand why,” Adam mused to himself.
“What was that, Milord?” Felsten asked.
Adam turned back with his mouth open to admonish the apprentice, but stopped before uttering it. “I guess Milord will have to do. It's probably too much to expect just plain Adam out of you.”
Felsten nodded. “I just wouldn't feel right about it, Milord.” He smiled. “I've got a drop of good ale on tap, and a bit of stew on the simmer, if you'd care to join me.”
Adam's stomach growled.
Felsten smiled at the sound. “Shall I take that as a yes, Milord?”
The old woman set a steaming bowl of stew along with a small loaf of dark bread in front of Adam. She favored Felsten with a small smile from the side of her mouth. “You kin git yer own, sprout.”
Felsten rose from the plank top table in the kitchen and went about the business of dishing himself a helping of bread and stew.
Adam tore a chunk of bread off of the loaf and dipped it into the stew. He looked at the old woman over the dripping piece of bread. “Aren't you going to join us?”
The old woman started from her watching Felsten in his task. “Wha...? Who, me sit with a Lord at table? Naw, I think not, Milord. I'd be so nervous I'd git no food down me throat. It'd land in me lap, most likely. No thank'ee, Milord. I'll be happier at me own place an’ in me own place, iffn ye catch me meanin'.”
Adam took a bite of the bread and stew mixture. It was thick and tasty with a peppery accent. He nodded in understanding of the old woman's feelings. “Yes, I believe I do catch your meaning. I won't insist on something that would make you uncomfortable. By all means, do what you think best.”
“Thank'ee, Milord. I'm much obliged.” She bowed away, walking backwards for a few steps.
Felsten took his place across from Adam at the table just as Adam tore another chunk off the bread with a bit more vigor than was necessary. “What's wrong, Milord? Is the stew not to your liking?”
Adam dipped the bread into the stew. “No, that's not it.”
“Was it Lisbeth? Did she say something to insult you? I'm so sorry, Milord. She's old and set in her ways. She meant nothing by it. I'll...”
Adam stopped Felsten's tirade of worry by stuffing a piece of bread into the boy's mouth. “Here. Eat, don't talk. The only thing that's bothering me is all this, ‘yes, Milord', ‘no, Milord', ‘if you please, Milord'. Don't you people realize that all this makes me more than a little uneasy?
“I was raised poor, along with my twin sister, Charity. The only titles we ever heard were those that the other kids of the village made up to insult us. We bloodied a few noses along the way, until they learned to treat us with at least a grudging respect.
“Please try to understand, Felsten. This sword, as much as I find it useful, scares the bowels right out of me. It's very strong evidence, this,” he waved in the air with his left hand, “...prophesy may be what Milward says it is. I'm not prepared for that to be true right now. Not at all.
“None of this would be happening at all if we hadn't gone out to that creek.”
Felsten thought it wise to not ask about this creek. If the new emperor wanted to be treated ... well, unemperor-like, it certainly wasn't his place to say otherwise.
He finished chewing the bread Adam had stuffed into his mouth, and swallowed. “What would you have me do...” He halted before saying the word Milord.
Adam dipped his bread again, smiling a little at the apparent swallowed word. “That's a good start.”
He bit into the bread, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “I'd like to know about some stuff, but I'd also prefer to hear it from someone closer to my age. You look like you'd fit that description better than the librarian or Lisbeth.
“You could also get that drop of good Ale you promised me.”
Felsten jumped to his feet. “Oh! Oh, forgive me, Milord. I forgot. I forgot. I'll get it right now. Oh, I'm such a gnomic.”
Adam smiled wryly to himself as Felsten rushed from the kitchen. It was going to take a lot of work, but he'd get the boy to treat him less formally, so help him, he would.
Felsten returned with two foaming tankards and set them onto the table between them. He waited for Adam to choose which one to take and then picked up the one remaining.
He drank deeply and set the tankard back down, sighing and smacking his lips. “Ahhhh. That's a fine one, that is. Now, what questions do you want to be askin’ me, Milord?”
Inwardly, Adam sighed. It looked like the best he was going to get. At least the boy wasn't groveling and kissing his hand.
He sipped some of the ale. Felsten was right. It was good. Medium bodied with a nutty sweetness. “There are some questions. The first one is about something that Labad put into the note he wrote to my sister and me. The Dragons and the wolves also talked about it.”
Felsten's eyes widened at Adam's casual reference to speaking with dragons and wolves.
Adam continued. “Labad said, Let the Rule of Three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. I know what the Dragons and wolves had to say about it, but I haven't heard a single person say a thing. Not even that priest in Silgert.”
“You talk to Dragons and wolves?”
Adam shrugged. “I didn't have much choice. Milward took me to see them. Before he introduced me to the wolves, he performed a shaping, that's magik, that allowed me to speak with them. It gave me a headache. A bad headache, along with some other delightful symptoms.”
“But you talked to Dragons and wolves.”
Adam hid his smile behind another sip of the ale. “Let's try to get past that, ok? What can you tell me about this Rule of Three?”
Felsten scratched the back of his head. “Don't know much, Milord. Not being a cleric an’ all.”
“Just tell me what you know of it,” Adam pressed.
“I'll try, Milord.” Felsten wet his throat. “Best as I recall the Rule of Three, from the church teachin's I heard, talks about the way of Bardoc, the way of man an’ the way of nature an’ how they all fit together.”
“Go on.” Adam sipped some more Ale after taking another bite of bread and stew.
“Don't know much more ‘bout it, milord.” Felsten said apologetically. “I heard some talk about how man needs to see Bardoc movin’ in the clouds an’ the rain an’ the sun an’ all. Most, it seemed to be a lot of common sense mixed into religious talk.”
“How so?” Adam finished his helping of stew. He wondered if there was any more.
Felsten was becoming comfortable talking with this young Lord, despite the fact he may be the rightful Emperor. “Well ... it makes sense, don't it, Milord? I mean ... Bardoc makes the world an’ man an’ nature an all ... I mean, it kinda fits together, don't it? I mean, you don't see your wolves thievin’ from the bears. Do you? An you sure don't have no chickens or foxes fightin’ no wars gainst each other, do you? Seems common enough sense to me. Kinda why I like being apprentice in this place. Ain't no wars nor thievin’ going on.”
Adam figured Felsten was pretty close to the mark in his estimation of the basis for the teaching, but what Labad meant in his letter could something entirely different.
He drained the last of his ale and stood up. “I suppose Milward and your master are going to be at it until dawn.”
Felsten grinned. “You got that right, Milord. He loves it when he gets a chance to argue over the old writings. Come with me. I'll show you where you can doss down for the night.”
“Thanks.” Adam separated himself from the table's bench. “Would you know of any books or parchments on Labad? If he's my ancestor, I should probably get to know more about him.”
“Should be one or two lyin’ around here, Milord.” Felsten laughed. “I mean, this is a library.”

Chapter Thirty-Three
“I can see the city walls.” Thaylli called out from her perch high upon Drinaugh's neck.
“Well, I certainly hope the people inside those walls will be more interested in talking than the ones we've come across so far,” Drinaugh grumped. You'd think they'd never heard of Dragons before; and he wasn't even fully grown. What would they have done if Mashglach settled down amongst them?
At the approach of the young Dragon and his wolf pack, the highway cleared of traffic as if swept by a giant broom. They passed abandoned carts and stalls. Many of then tipped with their goods scattered across the verge alongside the highway.
“The pack is nervous.” The Alpha wolf came up alongside the Dragon's right flank. “It is good your presence keeps the two legs away.”
Drinaugh looked at the wolf. “Yes, I suppose so, but how are we going to find my friend, your packmate, in all of that,” He pointed at the distant city. “If we can't ask questions?”
“The way the wolves have always known,” the wolf replied. “The way of the hunt, the scent of the prey, the path of blood. Our noses will tell us if he is there in the pack of the two legs.”
“What are you talking about?” Thaylli called down. “I can't understand all that growling and barking.”
Drinaugh cocked an eye upward at the young woman on his neck. “The wolves say they can find Adam by using their noses.”
“Well, tell them to start looking. I mean, sniffing.” Thaylli patted the soft hide beneath her.
“You don't tell wolves to do anything.” Drinaugh admonished gently. “You ask, and hope they're willing. If not, you just do it yourself.”
“Oh.” Thaylli's reply was contrite. “Will they please try to find Adam? I really miss him a lot.”
Drinaugh did so.
“Tell the female we will find her mate,” the Alpha Wolf's mate growled. One of the pack members, a female with husky-like markings ran ahead along the highway, and soon vanished in the distance.
A merchant caravan approached the group from the south until Drinaugh turned his head to see the source of what his sensitive dragon hearing picked up. The oxen pulling the lead wagon caught a whiff of the combined scent of wolf and dragon, and refused to take one step further. The wagon driver snapped the reins a few times, and then looked up to see the dragon towering over the wolf pack.
“They're backing up,” Drinaugh said, disappointment shadowing his voice.
“They're afraid. They've never seen a dragon before.” Thaylli watched the frantic efforts of the wagon drivers as they tried to get their teams off the road and turned around.
“But I thought everyone knew about dragons. Everyone.” Drinaugh wailed plaintively.
“I didn't.” Thaylli reminded him. “But I do now and I'm glad.” She hugged the back of the young dragon's neck.
“Thank you,” Drinaugh murmured.
“Our packmate returns,” the Alpha Wolf stated. A gray shape appeared out of the haze between the city walls and where they stood.
Thaylli leaned out from her seat between Drinaugh's neck ridges to watch the wolf approach. The female came in at a dead run, and slowed only a few paces from the rest of the pack. She sat before the Alpha Wolf, her tongue lolling as she panted.
“Speak of what you found,” the Alpha Wolf said, in a low growl. “Does bright eyes dwell in their place?”
“His scent is there, pack leader,” the panting female replied. “And the two-legged gray muzzle is still with him.”
“What did they say?” Thaylli asked Drinaugh
He told her.
She dug her heels into the side of his neck as if he were a horse. “Come on, let's go. Let's go now.”
Drinaugh swiveled his head on his long neck until he looked at Thaylli face to face. “I think we should wait.”
“What!?” She was incredulous. She couldn't believe her ears.
The Alpha Wolf's mate asked the panting female, “what of the two legs in that pack? How did they treat you?”
The female closed her mouth and took on a serious expression. “I could smell their fear. Some of them looked my way with their long teeth showing. The pack could have trouble in that place.”
“You speak wisdom.” The Alpha Wolf licked the side of the female's cheek in a gesture of reward. She opened her mouth in pleasure.
The Alpha Wolf continued, “the pack will wait and watch outside the boundary the two legs made for their pack's safety. It is better if we know more of this place before the hunt for our pack mate continues.”
Thaylli leaned forward and spoke quietly at Drinaugh's ear. “You don't have to tell me. I understood that clear enough. We're not going in, are we?”
“It's for the best right now, Thaylli,” the young dragon replied. “There is a genuine concern as to the possible safety of the pack. Humans can be dangerous and unpredictable. That is, that's what the older Dragon's have told us younger ones. The wolves say we're going to wait outside the city walls for a while to watch and learn before we go in.”
“Oh ... poo!”
Drinaugh, deep down, agreed with Thaylli's sentiment.
* * * * The Ortian messenger reined in his horse and dismounted at the foot of the first flight of steps leading to the Ducal Palace. His mount's chest heaved as it tried to recover from the exertion of its day long run.
“Every time I've been here I've thought Grisham a filthy place. It has yet to change my mind.” The messenger eyes darted left and right as he mounted the steps to the first landing.
He would have to pass three checkpoints before being granted permission into the palace itself. Each would ask him the same question in the same dead, uninterested tone of voice.
“Bureaucrats, every one of them,” he thought. Collectively, you couldn't find enough initiative in all of them to wipe their own bums without a palace directive, filed in triplicate.
He shook his head. Nothing to do but get it over with and then get out of here. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could be on his way home.
“Halt and declare,” the first check point guard intoned, proving the accuracy of the messenger's prophetic skills.
He stopped the required three paces before the guard, catching the steady flow of functionaries and palace leeches out of the corner of his eye. Then he opened the leather pouch, pulled out the roll of bleached parchment with his right hand, and held it out for the guard to take.
“Sealed and warranted?” The guard didn't even look at the message.
“Aye, by the Emperor's own hand,” the messenger gave the required response. Title would have been the only change, depending upon the author of the missive.
“Enter and proceed.” The guard waved him on. If the man were any stiffer, he'd be a statue.
He stepped around the guard post and took the steps of the second landing with the same deliberate tread he'd taken the first.
Twenty steps to the first guard position. Twenty more to the second. Grisham's city planners had no more initiative than any of the other bureaucracies rotting within their seat of power.
“Halt and declare.” Again, the same monotone command.
He repeated the carefully choreographed pattern of opening the pouch and held the message out at arms length. This guard, like the first, gave no indication he even saw the roll of parchment with its dated Imperial seal.
“Sealed and warranted?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like the last time.” This was getting monotonous.
“Sealed and warranted?”
Nothing would happen until he stayed with the pattern. He kept the sigh hidden inside himself, it wouldn't have been appreciated anyway. “Aye, by the Emperor's own hand.”
“Enter and proceed.”
Just one more checkpoint to go and he could leave this stinking hole. Twenty more steps and the final check point. Grisham's rulers had to be obsessed with threes. Everything in triplicate.
“Halt and declare.”
He kept his temper under control and went through the scripted motions of the ritual. The “enter and proceed” order fell upon his ears with welcome relief. Now he could get to the end of this dreary business.
Three wide steps of rose-colored marble led to the verandah fronting the main entrance to Grisham's Ducal palace. Three doors showed their faces to the outside worl set into thick granite frames flush with the stone blocks of the palace wall itself. The door to the far right was where friends and family of those residing with the palace entered their satin and fur-lined world. The door to the far left was for workers and servants, and led to a much less opulent existence. The one in the middle was his to use, as his message was for the eyes of the Duke alone, even though a servant would most likely be taking it.
Inside the foyer, a guard officer sat behind the high teakwood desk, situated prominently before the middle door.
“State your business and destination.” At least this one had a more flexible script.
“Messenger from the Empire of Ort, with a sealed parchment for the Duke's eyes, only.”
An oversized book was turned around and a dipped quill handed to the messenger. “Sign or make your mark here.”
Ignoring the veiled insult concerning his potential illiteracy, the messenger signed his name and title in the next available space, and handed the quill back to the guard officer.
The officer was of a more thorough strain than his subordinates were on the steps outside. He actually looked to see if there was a signature or a mark in the book. He saw the signature and grunted.
The messenger smiled inwardly. The officer was probably just literate enough to tell the difference between the two. Score one for Ort.
The guard officer gave a high sign to a page waiting in the wings. When the page approached, he nodded toward the Ortian messenger. “Sealed parchment for the Duke. Take it to him directly.” He handed the page a medallion that the boy hung around his neck. This protected him from being pulled aside for any other business while he was thus occupied.
The messenger reached into his pouch and pulled out the parchment, handing it to the boy. He knew it would reach the Duke unmolested. A few object lessons hung upon the palace walls insured the honesty of those left behind.
His job done, he turned on his heel and left the Ducal palace foyer. In another fortnight he would be home. Then he could rest.
* * * * The page ran up the flights of stairs until he reached the floor the Duke's apartments were on. The door wardens saw the medallion he wore and opened the double doors as he approached.
“Second one this week, Gupp,” the one on the left remarked.
“Cause they knows I'm fast, Sire Dorrin. Tell yer sis I'll be there fer supper after shift.” The page ran on into the Duke's quarters.
He'd been there often enough over the two years of his duty that the splendor no longer got to him. He managed to keep his eyes straight as he stood at attention while waiting for his lord and master to notice him. Sometimes the Duke liked to test the patience of his pages. Those who failed the test got sent to service Magister Mallien, the High Priest. He had a fondness for young boys that approached legendary status. Gupp was determined to keep his virginity, that is, unless Dorrin's sister proved willing.
To Gupp's relief, his lordship was more interested in the content of the message than in Gupp's ability to keep his backside inviolate. “Hand me that parchment, boy, and then get out of here.”
Gupp hightailed it out of Bilardi's apartments as if the pit itself were on his heels.
The Duke watched him go while fingering the seal on the message. It was from the Emperor himself. This was an occasion calling for wine. “Wuest,” he called for his aide de camp.
The little man with the rat-like face peered around the corner from his desk alcove where he tended to the Duke's papers. “Milord?”
Bilardi tapped the Ortian imperial seal with the heavy signet on his right ring finger. “Bring me a bottle of the Thirty-four vintage.” The command was given in a preoccupied tone.
Wuest's eyes bugged, but he knew better than to question any command, or request, given by his Duke. “At once, milord.”
Bilardi could have walked the few paces to the wine closet himself, but he was of the mind that was what servants were for. Wuest returned with the bottle. A film of fine dust covered it with a soft gray powder.
“Open it and leave it, Wuest, and a glass, thank you.” Bilardi worked the seal with a thumbnail, loosening it with care. When it separated from the parchment, he unrolled it and weighted the corners with lead discs made for that purpose.
He picked up the bottle of wine and poured a glassful as he began the read the declaration of war from the Ortian Empire. He finished the first paragraph and drained the glass in a swallow. A chuckle of supreme satisfaction and triumph welled up as he poured another glassful. He finished the second paragraph at the same time he finished his second drink.
A stray thought said it was near criminal to treat such a fine vintage like cheap swill. He brushed it aside as he poured again.
When he reached the part where the Emperor said that the war would be prosecuted until the Duke's head graced the highest flagpole on his own palace tower, he started to laugh out loud. The chuckles increased until they became full-throated howls of maniacal glee.
In the dungeons below, McCabe heard the echoes of Bilardi's madness. The voices inside him laughed along with the Duke. McCabe listened to them, heard their plans for the future, and smiled in the darkness.
* * * * “The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them but yet they prevail.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Friend of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill father but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
The Librarian looked up from the ancient parchment and stared at Milward. “I still have difficulty believing I'm looking at the original, and yet, here it is, in my very own hands.”
“It is yours to keep, as well, my old friend. It will be far safer in your care, than in mine.” Milward's fingers tapped against the haft of his staff.
The librarian stumbled a bit as what he just heard took hold. “You cannot be serious! Me? You're giving Labad's vision to me?”
“I can't think of anyone else to give it to.” Milward said. “Your reaction proves the correctness of my feeling in this matter.”
The librarian rubbed the parchment between his thumb and forefinger as he mulled over the Wizard's words. “Then I must give you something of equal value in return. My real name.”
Milward gave no outward sign to the librarian's statement, but a stillness settled over the room they were in. It seemed as though the books and writings in the stacks themselves waited for what would be coming next.
“It is the only thing I have that comes close to the treasure you've entrusted to me.” The librarian kept his eyes on the parchment.
Milward remained silent.
“It will give you, as a Wizard, an avenue for great power over me, if you so choose,” the librarian continued.
“I will keep it as I've kept my own.” Milward said softly.
The librarian looked up at him and a brief smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I've no doubt of that, my old friend. I've no doubt of that at all.”
Milward waited, resting both hands on his staff as he sat in the chair opposite the librarian.
The old man cleared his throat. “Alten Baldricsson was the name my father gave me.” He smiled again. “It's been a long time since those words passed my lips. They sound almost foreign in my ears.”
“I've known you for a few centuries ... Alten. It's been at least that long.” Milward took an ornately carved pipe out of his tunic and fiddled with it. “You could have told me what you just did at any time during those past years. Why now? The prophecy,” he pointed a finger at the parchment in Alten's hand. “...Is just an excuse, you know very well what else the knowledge of your real name does where I'm concerned.”
“Oh, I'm very aware of the protection aspect, Milward. Call it... pride, if you will, that kept me from doing it sooner. I don't like the feeling of having to depend upon the kindness of others, but as you can see, I'm not the vibrant young scholar you used to know back then.” The librarian settled deeper into his chair.
“I know that ... Alten.” Milward said the librarian's name as if tasting it for palatability. “Age eventually gets to us all, even Dragons. You have a premonition?”
“It's not that definite; more of a vague feeling of unease about the future. Perhaps I'm just being paranoid.” Alten mused.
“You're not the type.” Milward tamped some Bacweed into his pipe. “I've learned to trust my feelings over the years. It's not too late for you to do the same.” He squinted at the bowl of the pipe as fragrant smoke began billowing out of it.
“That's very reassuring.” Alten's tone indicated he meant just the opposite of what he said. He reached into a drawer built into the side table next to his chair and pulled out a pipe every bit as ornate as the one Milward held. “Have you got any more of that Bac?”

Chapter Thirty-Four
“Read it back to me.” Bilardi leaned back into the soft velvet of his oversized chair as he placed his feet, one ankle crossed over the other, onto the polished ebony of his desk. He poured himself another measure of the fortified wine he'd been drinking since sunrise.
Wuest, his aide de camp, held the vellum in his hands as if it were a dangerous insect about to bite him. “Are you sure you want to do this, milord?”
The Duke sipped his wine. He had reached that stage of drunkenness where mellow met the edge of sobriety. “Read it, Wuest. Your station in life doesn't allow you the luxury of questioning the motivation of your betters. What I choose to do is my business, not yours.”
The aide cleared his throat. He could feel a lump building right along with the one in his belly. “Ahem ... Bilardi, Lord of Grisham and its environs, to Alford, pretender to the throne of Ort;
“We have received your attempt at writing an intelligent declaration. Know you that the great city-state of Grisham in its long and glorious history has never known defeat in battle, much less with a rabble such as you would gather unto your skirts.
Know you also that it is a poor excuse for a man who cannot protect his own family, even if they are a slutty bitch that lays with anything hanging between two legs.
You have impugned Grisham's honor, and that is a grievous insult that will not stand. Know you that we will meet you upon the field of honor, even though you have none."
Wuest finished his reading, and waited for the Duke to respond, but Bilardi remained silent. What he did do was lean forward, resting his elbows on the desktop with his forefingers steepled in front of the goblet he still held.
After about five minutes, Wuest cleared his throat around the ever-growing lump. “Milord...?”
Bilardi did not move. His eyes stared at some point in time beyond where he and his aide stood. “I have one more task for you today, Wuest.” The Duke's voice was soft, and silkily deadly. “I want you to go see the poisoners. I want you to have them concoct a potion for me. One that can be added to a drink, say a small glass of wine. It cannot change either the nose or the taste of the wine, regardless of how much is used. It must kill suddenly, but not in seconds, minutes, or even a day. It must kill after ten days. No more, no less. Make sure of this, Wuest.” He finished his wine and placed the goblet onto the desk.
Wuest knew then that he was facing a madman. He felt sick, but he also knew Bilardi would react adversely to his carpet being ruined. “May ... I ask why you wish such a thing made, Milord?”
“For the reaction, Wuest. That, and nothing more. What do you think the Ortian court will be feeling after they see our messenger vomit his guts onto their nicely polished floor?” Bilardi reached out and poured himself another goblet of the strong wine and sipped. “Grisham needs this war, Wuest. We have become comfortable and decadent. War changes that. Yes ... it does, indeed.” He began to chuckle.
Wuest left as the Duke waved him away. He heard the chuckles change into the peals of mad laughter he'd come to recognize over the past days. He made plans to visit his local right after he delivered the Duke's command to the alchemists. The ones Bilardi liked to call his poisoners.
* * * * “He's mad, I tell you; starkers. Totally, raving, starkers.” Wuest drained half of his ale in one go and picked up the pitcher sitting in the middle of the pub table.
“What else is new?” said Hodder, a life long friend. All elbows and knees with his six foot three scarecrow frame topped by a wild thatch of red hair, sat back in the booth and followed Wuest's example by tipping half of his own mug down his throat. The prominent Adams apple bobbed as the ale went past. “The last six Dukes've been starkers. You knows that. S'part of the heritage. Grisham wouldn't be Grisham without it.”
“Avin may be straight on this one though, Hodder.” Avin was Wuest's circle name. The one friends used. Stroughten, Wuest's other companion at the pub booth, was as ordinary in his appearance as Hodder was striking. Bland, medium brown eyes looked out of a medium face framed by medium brown hair. Stroughten's body was of medium height and built upon medium lines. The only unordinary thing about him was the fact that he was so unordinarally ordinary. He balanced Hodder's uniqueness quite nicely.
Stroughten reached for the pitcher, and refilled his mug, emptying the pitcher. He signaled for another before continuing his thought. “Gettin’ married to your favorite horse, or havin’ the moon arrested for keepin’ you up at night is fittin’ with the standards of our loving Duke's ancestors. Startin’ a bloody war with the Southern Empire because you're a bit bored is another thing alltogether.”
“Ok, so he's blooming starkers. There isn't a skrud's worth of difference we three can do about it, cept drink ale and complain.” Hodder followed his statement by giving an example of the drinking part.
Wuest took the pitcher a serving maid had placed in their midst and poured some of the ale into his mug. Some of it spilled over onto the tabletop. “I don't know what else to do. Knowing it's going to happen and being powerless to stop it...”
“I hear the sea air's good for a man's health.” Stroughten remarked dreamily.
“What?” Wuest's voice was beginning to slur with the amount he'd drunk.
“Yes...” Hodder picked up on his friend's tack. “A nice voyage would do us well, I think. Somewhere warm for the winter.”
Neither Wuest nor his booth companions noticed the look that crossed the serving maid's face as she listened in on their conversation. By the time the Duke's aide and his friends were snug in their separate beds, word of the coming war with the southern Empire was sweeping through the neighborhoods of Grisham like wildfire.
* * * * Back in Bilardi's dungeon, McCabe felt the stirring as the world prepared for war. The voices inside of him quieted, as they, too, felt it, using his senses as their access into this world. He could sense the emotions of fear and worry spreading through the city as neighbor told neighbor about the ravening hoards of southern barbarians marching their way. He pushed with a small part of his/their will and extended the reach of his perception. Outside of the city, the emotions he liked the taste of best diminished. Word of war hadn't reached there yet, but there was something. A mind of power, raw and undeveloped, lay sleeping within reach of the gates, and another, no power there, no, but it was linked to something. He extended further. The sheer power of what he touched nearly overwhelmed him, and his questing senses recoiled lest he be discovered too soon. Those two held a combined power that could destroy what he'd become.
Another rat leapt onto his slab and died as it licked his hand.
A little more exertion extended his perception's radius even further, but he was careful to keep away from the area east of where he lay. To the west of him, he felt little of interest save a small spark of potential near Cloudhook. To the south, he could feel the Ortian army as it flowed north, and he paused to savor the raw fear of those conscripted along the way. The north proved uninteresting, and so he extended the radius to the furthest limit of his/their power. A name came to his mind ... Gilgafed. A bubble of nostalgia rose up within him. Part of him knew that name. Another part remembered the blood of a Garloc being used against him and wished revenge. The voices rose up again, wanting to feed on the power they sensed in that name. McCabe felt their hunger and echoed it. Unlike the other to the east, this would add to his ... essence. His store of power would increase, the whole becoming far greater than the parts. He would become this world's God. He liked that idea.
A small portion of his power was directed into the shackles that bound him to the slab and they crumbled to powder.
No one was in the dungeon to see him sit up. Fear had long since overridden the Duke's orders to keep a watch on his prisoner. McCabe looked at his wrists. They showed no sign of having been shackled for weeks in rusty iron, neither did his ankles. He wiggled his toes. He would get some boots before he headed north.
He fingered the tattered black silk of his shirt, and new clothing. The Duke would have something for him to wear; besides, a host should be thanked for his hospitality.
Dark-loving insects ran from him as he mounted the steps leading out of the dungeon.
* * * * Cobain rushed down the hallway with a knot twisting the inside of his gut. His master's shrieks had pulled him out of a wonderful dream, the substance of which faded even as he ran.
“Master!” He cried, as he pushed through the door leading to the Sorcerer's chambers. “Master! What troubles you?”
Gilgafed lay in a fetal position, screaming as if his liver were being torn out of him while he watched. His voice was so hoarse that his servant could barely make out the words. “He's coming! I felt him touch me! He's coming!” This was repeated over and over.
Cobain tried to reach him, to comfort his master, but a barrier prevented him from getting any closer than about a foot away.
“Who's coming? Master! Who's coming?”
Cobain was suddenly gripped in the crushing grasp of giant, unseen hands. The sorcerer's voice came from everywhere in the chamber. “The Destroyer. He lives, and I felt his touch. He hungers for me, my power, and my life, and nothing will stop him from taking it all!”
Gilgafed's servant struggled against the mystical force that held him to no avail. “Master! Please! You're hurting me!”
“Send out my Golems. All of them. He must not get through. My life. Your life. The world's life depends on it.”
The sound of Gilgafed's voice echoed throughout Pestilence. The bats living in the caverns erupted out of the cave mouths as if the volcano had come back to life. They exploded into the early morning sky, creating a writhing dark cloud that circled the mountain, and sent several members of the fishing village at its flanks to their knees in prayer for Bardoc to save them from the evil one whose omen they'd just seen.
The last echo of the sorcerer's voice faded away, as did the force gripping Cobain. He fell to the marble floor of Gilgafed's chamber, and scrabbled backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. The Golems! Only a threat of the direst consequences would cause his master to issue such an order. Not for the first time he considered leaving Pestilence for more peaceful pastures, but threw the thought away as soon as it surfaced. He'd never get any further than the beach. One only needed to go there to see why. The sand of the beach was made up of bits of human bone.
* * * * “Foggy.” Adam pulled the collar of his coat up so that it sheltered his neck. “And cold.”
“The weather's apparent to us all.” Milward remarked. “No need to state the obvious.”
Adam turned and caught the edge of the Wizard's scowl before it hid behind his beard. “Something bothering you, Milward? You've been cranky all day.”
The old Wizard patted his tunic inside of his robe. “I've told you before. I don't get cranky, or grumpy, or crabby. Damn and blast! Where's that skrudding pipe?”
“Of course.” Adam replied dryly. “I should have remembered that.”
“Ah ha! There it is!” Milward pulled out his errant pipe and proceeded to stuff its bowl with some of the fragrant Bac he pulled out of a belt pouch.
“That's better,” he stated, as he puffed his pipe to life. “Shall we get on down to the dock? I'm sure Rawn must be getting impatient waiting for us.”
Adam looked askance at Milward. “The old man? The one who ferried us over here to the library? But ... how can you tell? Was there a schedule? You certainly can't see the dock from up here.” He craned his neck to see above the rocks lining the cliff face at the library's southwestern border.
The Wizard puffed his pipe. “No, I sensed him. You could, too, if you just worked at it a bit. Go on, try.”
Adam worked the inner change that brought on the pressure he'd come to recognize as the power building within him. He started small, trying to expand his awareness of the things close by around him. It was as if a play opened in his mind, and he was sitting in a place that allowed him to swoop in close to each character as he chose. He saw the field mouse in its burrow under the rock next to Milward's left boot heel. Further out, there was a family of gulls below the lip of the cliff tending to their clutch of eggs, and further out from that...
“I see him. He's sitting in his boat ... smoking. Just like you are. It's almost like I can reach out and touch him.” Adam extended his right hand slowly.
“Don't do that!” Milward slapped Adam's hand down and the vision evaporated like a popped soap bubble.
“Why'd you do that?” Adam was more than a little irritated. He was having the most fun he'd had since coming to the library. And that included the time he'd spent researching the life of Labad.
“Because you would have given old Rawn a heart attack, at the very least, touching him, when he knows very well he's alone in his boat.” The Wizard pantomimed a ghostly hand reaching out and touching an unsuspecting shoulder.
Adam's eyes grew huge. “You mean, it was real? I was really there? I could touch him? Wow.”
“Yes, wow.” Milward echoed Adam's exclamation with a very small fraction of the enthusiasm.
“Can all Wizards, I mean, could all Wizards do that?” Adam followed Milward as they made their way down the switch back steps to the dock.
Milward's staff tapped the stone of the steps as they descended. “Only the most powerful. Most could only sense the area around them for a few feet. Good for finding lost keys and not much else. The very powerful, the few, such as Labad ... and myself during my younger days, could in essence be in two places at one time, but it was, and still is,” He fixed Adam with a warning glare over his shoulder. “A most dangerous thing to do. The unwary Wizard who attempts to manipulate things in the vision can become ... trapped ... yes, that's a good word for it. Trapped between the two realities.”
Adam could see his shudder from behind. Milward must know of someone that had happened to.
“Did they die?” He asked carefully.
“One can only hope.” The old Wizard replied. “Magik is a tool, Adam, that can be used to gently sculpt the fibers of dandelion fluff,or to bludgeon an enemy into paste. Technique and the skill of the practitioner are what make the difference, and the gentler skill is the harder to learn. Unlike other arts, a slip with this tool can be fatal to both the painting and the painter.”
“I'm coming to understand that,” Adam said, as he stepped onto the wood of the dock. He could smell the acrid aroma of Rawn's pipe coming from the boat moored at the foot of the dock. He felt a sense of accomplishment with the affirmation of what he'd seen with his magik on the cliff top.
“See?” Milward said, as they walked down the dock. “He's already loosening the ropes. Not a patient man, our Rawn.”
“I'll have ‘er loose in a jiffy, wizard.” Rawn's pipe puffed out billows of smoke, as he flipped the last coil off the piling.
Adam coughed as a cloud of Bac smoke rolled over him. “Thanks, but you needn't rush on our account.”
Milward climbed into the boat, and moved to a seat just starboard of the tiller. “Don't listen to the lad, Rawn, we're here, so let's be on our way.”
Rawn stood stiffly at attention and made an exaggerated seaman's salute. “Yes, Milord Wizard. At once, Milord Wizard. Shall I order room service, Milord Wizard?”
Adam nearly stepped into the straight instead of the boat, he was laughing so hard. Milward impaled Rawn with a fixed glare. “Do you have a sudden appetite for lily pads and flies, Rawn?”
The old sailor gave Milward an impertinent grin. “Do you know how to sail a boat?”
Milward blew out his mustaches with a “Hmmmphh!” And sat back with his arms crossed. Adam's chuckles received another glare.
The trip back to Grisham was as smooth as the trip from there had been rough. Adam was just as glad for the change. Last time, he'd nearly embarrassed himself by sicking up all over Rawn's boat. Only a strong resolve and several deep breaths prevented what he would have considered a personal tragedy from taking place. Milward rode the entire trip over, wrapped in a wall of sulky silence. Something was eating at the old Wizard, and Adam was at a loss as to how to pull him out of it.
If Rawn noticed the difference in his passengers from the first time they had ridden with him, he gave no sign indicating so. The old sailor puffed away on his reeking pipe, and hummed a merry, off-key tune. Gulls followed the boat in its tack from the library to its home slip at the southern end of Grisham's wharf. Every now and then, one of them would skim the surface of the straight just a couple of inches off the water, and then dip their bill in to snatch out a small silvery fish. Adam watched them for much of the passage, fascinated.
The wharf above Rawn's dock was a beehive of activity. People rushed everywhere, many of them carrying what looked to be their life's possessions. Several men, along with some women and children, were standing at the foot of a gangplank arguing with two burly ship's guards, demanding that they be allowed on board. One of the men was waving what looked to be a fat purse. It clanked with the highpitched sound of silver. The guards appeared ready to stand there all day.
Milward got out of the boat first, still silent. He looked deep in thought. Adam followed him, as Rawn steadied the boat with one hand on the edge of the dock.
“What's all this about, Rawn?” Adam stepped back, narrowly avoiding being run over by a fat matron running past with two squalling girls in tow.
“It's the bloody war. S'got everyone's knickers in a twist. Bunch o’ nonsense, iffn ya ask me.” Rawn looked at the bowl of his pipe, and then tapped the dottle into the waters of the straight.
“War?” Adam stopped dead in his tracks and turned to stare at the old sailor. “What war?”
Rawn spat into the water from where he stood on the dock. “That's right, ain't it? You an’ the Wizard there been outta touch over there in that library, ain'tcha? Seems our Duke got hisself inna dustup with the southern Emperor. Seems they's a milliyun o’ them soljers o’ theirs on th’ march ta turn Grisham into one big bonfire.”
“But ... that's horrible!”
“Iffn it's true.” More spittle flew from Rawn's mouth to the strait. “Sonny, when you git ta be as old as me, you'll learn more people'll sell their houses over a rumor, than they will on anythin’ else. Don't you go gettin’ yer knickers inna twist, too. Ask yer agin’ friend, there. He'll tell ya. S’ probably all over summat somebody said over a drink'er two, nothin’ more.”
“Is that true, Milward?” Adam tapped the old Wizard on the shoulder. A couple leading a pack mule rushed past, the mule braying its complaint at being made to go faster than it wanted to.
“Huh? Who's jostling me? Oh, it's you, Adam. What's the question?” Milward's eyes looked out of focus, like the eyes of a poppy addict.
Another knot of people pushed against them. A few tried to climb into Rawn's boat. He beat them back with a coil of rope. “I gotta git outta here, lad, afore summat happens, an’ I lose me lively'ood. Good luck ta yer's. Back! Git yerselves back, ya bleedin’ twits! Go find another boat. Back!”
He flashed a knife big enough to be called a small sword and uncoiled his line from the piling with the other hand. Some of the people on the dock yelled and cursed at him as the sailboat drifted away from the pier, but the knife prevented them from taking further action.
Adam led Milward away from the pier and into the wharf area proper. The crowds grew closer, and there seemed to be no pattern to their activity other than a general movement toward the port and the ships at anchor there.
“Watch where you're putting those big feet of yours!” The old Wizard admonished a man with long, braided hair, and beads woven into his beard that had swerved into him. The crush grew tighter as they worked their way to the intersection that would take the to the market square.
“If one more bumpkin steps on my toes, I swear, I'll send a lightning bolt right up his bottom,” Milward grumped, “What's causing all of this anyway?” The crowd noise was so loud he had to shout for Adam to hear him.
“That's what I wanted to ask you about,” Adam shouted back, as they pushed through into the cross street that led into the square.
The crowd thinned abruptly along with the accompanying noise. Adam looked toward the square and saw why. A troop of Grisham soldiers swept through the square and into the side streets. Several carts pulling prison cages held a number of occupants. Some of them looked pretty wretched.
Milward turned from looking back at another one who'd come close to trodding on his already abused toes and saw the soldiers. He grabbed Adam by the arm. “Press gang. It's begun already.”
“When we get back to the inn, you and I are going to have a talk.” Adam glanced at the Wizard.
“You don't understand, boy.” Milward turned and faced Adam. “Those brutes are a press gang. Their job is to round up every single man, or child able to lift a sword. They are going to see you as an ideal candidate.”
The gang worked their way across the square and split off into smaller groups. One of the groups appeared at the opposite end of the street they were on, effectively cutting off any hope of retreat for those unfortunates still there.
“Can you use a shaping to get us out of this?” Adam watched the gang members as they worked. Some of them merely clubbed their acquisitions into submission and dropped them to be picked up later. “I'd do it, but I don't want to hurt anyone.”
Milward shook his head. “I'm sorry, lad, I can't. Something touched me back at the library.”
“What?” Adam's question stopped abruptly, as someone roughly grabbed his arm and spun him around to face a soldier with a brutish, unshaven face, bad teeth and even badder breath.
He leered at Adam as he hefted his truncheon. “Yea, you'll do for a warm body. C'mon wif me, me lad, or do I gets ta whack yer one?”
Adam surprised the guard by turning into his grasp and then out of it; the King's sword appearing in his hand as if by magik.
The press gang member stepped back away from Adam, dropped his truncheon, and drew his own sword, a military issue single edge saber. “Oy! Oy!” He yelled. “We got usselves a feisty one!”
Several of the other members of the press gang dropped their pursuit of future members of Grisham's military in answer to the guard's call. In short order, Adam found himself facing six drawn swords.
* * * * Thaylli stood in front of the young dragon, with her hands on her hips, and a determined expression on her face. “I'm going in. I'm going in right now, with or without you.”
Drinaugh pinched the bridge of his snout between his eyes. This young human was giving him a headache with her inability to see reason.
The Alpha wolf looked up at the dragon. “Give the human female whatever it is she wants. Her continual whining is beginning to make the pack nervous."
“But she wants to go into the city.” Drinaugh replied. “And it sounds and smells dangerous.”
“So, go with her,” the wolf suggested. “No human will pick a fight with a dragon, and the pack will be spared her complaints.”
“But...” Drinaugh's muzzle switched back and forth between the adamant Thaylli and the wolf.
“Go.”
Drinaugh sighed, and Thaylli allowed a smile of triumph cross her face. The Dragon looked back down at her and pointed at the back of his neck with one of the thumbs on his right hand. “Ok, climb up onto my back. I'll take you into the city.”
* * * * Jerrold leaned on his halberd and listened to the clamor coming from inside the city on the other side of the gate. “No one allowed in or out?” He called over to his partner in the outside duty.
“Them's the orders.” His partner spat a bit of the weed he was chewing off to the side. “No one in or out. No matter what.”
“The Sarge say why?” Jerrold shifted his weight to the other foot.
“Naw.” Another spit. “Just said to keep an eye out, an’ skewer anythin’ that tries ta climb the wall.”
Jerrold considered. “I ain't never skewered anythin’ afore.”
His partner spat again. “Ain't nuthin’ to it, ya just shove.” He demonstrated with his halberd. “Want some chew?” A bag was held out for Jerrold to see.
Jerrold shook his head. “No thanks. Makes me see things that ain't there.”
His partner was impressed. “No kiddin'? All's I ever gits issa nice buzz. What kinna things ya see?” Sput!
“There's a woman ridin’ a dragon!”
“Wow. Wish I could see stuff like that. Like I said, all's I ever gits issa nice...”
“There's a ... flickin'...woman ... ridin’ a flickin’ dragon! Right ... flickin'... there!”
The weed chewer looked up and his eyes bugged. He took out his stash and looked at the bag. “Good stuff.” He murmured.
* * * * Thaylli looked past Drinaugh's neck at the high double gate that led into the city of Grisham. “They're closed. Why are they closed?”
The Dragon cocked his head to listen. “There's a commotion inside the gates. Perhaps they're closed because of fighting going on inside. Maybe we should go back.”
“Oh, no, you don't!” Thaylli thumped the back of Drinaugh's head. “You promised you'd go into the city with me. You're big enough, open the gates!”
The young Dragon's face showed the conflict going on inside him. “But ... the danger.”
Thaylli raised up and pointed at the gates. “Go on, push ‘em open.” She leaned forward and whispered into his left ear opening. “You want to see how Adam is doing as much as I do. We can't do it if we stay outside of the city.”
Drinaugh tried another argument. “The guards. What if they try to stop us from entering?”
“Ignore them. They can't hurt you. Come on, Drinaugh. You're a Dragon. Do you really think they're going to try anything other than running away?” Thaylli thumped the back of the Dragon's head again.
“I really wish you wouldn't do that,” he admonished her. “How about if I ask the guards to let us in before I break their gates. Is that ok?”
Thaylli sat back against the neck ridge she used as a saddle. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Drinaugh noticed the pout in her voice, but ignored it as he started forward. The excitement he felt earlier about being the first Dragon ambassador to mankind had vanished as soon as Grisham's walls came into view. Now, striding forward to confront the guards protecting the city gates, all he really wanted to do was take to the skies, and wing his way back home to Dragonglade as quickly as the power of flight could get him there.
* * * * Jerrold couldn't believe his eyes. A Dragon! A bloody, flickin’ huge Dragon. With wings yet, and a lass wearing a shape a man dreams about, on it's back, walkin’ right at him!
“Soddle. You seein’ this?” He called across the road in front of the gates to his partner on the other side. “You seein’ the Dragon?”
“Oh, yeah, Jerrold. This weed's better'n I thought it was.” Soddle said dreamily.
“It's flickin’ real, you twit!” Jerrold hissed back. “Think about it. I ... don't ... chew!”
“S'what I'm talkin’ about. You ain't chewin', and yer'll still seein’ it. S'gotta be really good stuff.” Soddle pushed another wad into his mouth.
The Dragon was only a few yards away, now. Jerrold took one look at his totally inadequate halberd and ran off. Soddle was on his own, the poor twit.
Soddle watched the dragon with the maid on its back walk his way. “This was skrudin’ great! Wait'll the boys back at the guardhouse hear about this. Maybe then they'll try some of his stuff.” He made a quick note to himself to remember where hehad picked this batch. Skruddin’ great.
“Uh ... uh, excuse me.”
“It talked, too! Oh, yeah, definitely need to remember where that patch of weed was.”
One guard had turned and run. That left the other with the glazed eyes as the only one to speak to. Drinaugh tried again. “Uh ... I said, excuse me. Hello?”
The young dragon rotated his head so he faced Thaylli. “His eyes are open, but I don't think anyone is home.”
Thaylli looked down at the guard. He had that same look as some of the miners after a long night at Westcott's bar in the inn. “Try again,” she said. “At least he isn't running away.”
Drinaugh sighed, “very well. But I don't think it will do any good.”
He looked down at Soddle. “Ummm ... can you hear me, man? Can you understand what I'm saying?”
Soddle looked into the dragon's eyes, scant feet away from him. “Wow...”
“It's no good, Thaylli. Something's wrong with his brain. He just stares at me with this silly smile on his face.” Drinaugh shrugged his wings.
“Oooooo!” Thaylli beat a tattoo of frustration against the ridges on the dragon's neck before her. “And he's just inside there. I can feel it!”
“Oy! Dragon! Coeeee. Draaaagon!” The guard was jumping up and down, waving his hands over his head. “Draaagon!”
Drinaugh lowered his head until his eyes were level with Soddle's bloodshot orbs. “Yes?”
Soddle peered at him closely, screwing up his face in a quizzical manner as he cocked his head to one side. “You fer real, er am I seein’ things?”
Thaylli leaned out over the dragon's neck, exposing quite a lot of cleavage for Soddle's appreciation. “Of course, you're seeing things. You think a woman riding a dragon would be real?”
Soddle thought about that for a moment. “Yeah ... I see yer point. Man, this is good stuff.” He held out the bag toward the dragon and the maid. “Want a chew?”
In spite of his youth, Drinaugh wasn't slow on the uptake. “No, thank you. Apparitions can't chew. You should know that, you know.”
“Oh yeah...” Soddle looked embarrassed. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that. Wasn't thinkin'. It's the weed, you know, makes ya see things.” He paused. “Iffn it's good stuff.”
“It must be good, then.” Thaylli leaned over a bit more. Soddle's attention became riveted on something other than the Dragon. “Would you mind doing us a favor?” She wiggled a bit to set the hook.
“Whadda a pair of ... huh?” Soddle blinked, as the question registered. “Uh ... yeah. Sure, sure. Whatcho want me ta do?”
Drinaugh raised back up to a normal stance and pointed at Grisham's gates. “If you would be so good as to open the gates for us, we'd be very grateful.”
Thaylli gave Soddle her broadest smile. “Very grateful.”
Soddle couldn't turn around fast enough. He hammered at the gate. “Oy! Hervy! Oy! Come on, open ‘er up! There's a lad! Hervy! Come on, now!”
A peephole opened up in the center of the right gate and a brown eye looked out. “Whoozat? Oh, s'you, Soddle. Still chewin', I see. Whatch hammerin’ onna gate for? Ain't shift changin time.”
“Gotta maid with a nice pair a...” He swallowed. “...an’ a dragon, wants ta come in. Be a sport, an’ open the gates, ok?”
Hervy sniggered. “Right. An’ I got's a date with the Duke's mistress after me shift. You knows the rule. Long's they got's the pressers out an about, no one in or out. You knows that.”
Soddle looked back at Thaylli perched on Drinaugh's neck. She smiled and wiggled at him. “Ah, c'mon, Hervy. Be a mate. This is Soddle yer talkin’ to. Open ‘er up.”
“You an’ me ain't mates, Soddle. ‘At's another of yer weed dreams. Bugger off.” The peephole closed.
“Well? Are you going to let us in?” Drinaugh asked.
“Are they going to open for us?” Thaylli's question rode in on top of the Dragon's.
Soddle turned away from the gate with a face like a thundercloud. “Buggerim. Buggerim. Bugger the skrudin sod. Not mates, ‘e says, eh? I'll show ‘im.” He looked up at Drinaugh and Thaylli. “You want in? Go in. Be my guests.” He was too mad to notice the sobriety his anger had brought on, and the fact that he was still seeing a maid riding a Dragon. “Give my regards to that bugger, Hervy.”
“But ... the gates are closed. Locked. If I push them open, I'll be breaking them. Is that what you want?” Drinaugh pressed his concern on the guard.
“Awe, bust the’ soddin’ things, fer all I care. Not mates, ‘e says. After all the’ stouts he's drunk on me silver. Th’ soddin’ prat. I'll mate ‘im...” Soddle wasn't paying attention any more. He stalked off, lost in his own outrage.
“You heard him. Let's go.” Thaylli dug her heels into Drinaugh's soft hide.
He rotated his head and looked full in her face. “If you please? I am not a beast of burden, you know.”
Thaylli had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry. I forgot, but can we go? You heard the guard. It's his fault if the gates get broken.”
Drinaugh watched the still outraged Soddle wander off, waving an arm as he lambasted the absent Hervy. He was still wrestling with his emotions, but the part of him wanting to see how his human friend was doing was taking the high ground. “Hold on, then.”
Thaylli put her arms onto either side of the Dragon's neck as Drinaugh walked forward and pushed. The sharp sound of snapping timbers mixed with the screech of warping metal as the bar locking Grisham's gates was put under pressure it was never intended to withstand.
The gates swung inward, and the first Dragon in over a thousand years of Grisham's history strode into the city. This particular Dragon bore a human rider, which, unknown even to Drinaugh, was an historical first.

Chapter Thirty-Five
Dragonglade in the fall presented itself in a riot of color and smell. The dragons had long ago mastered the art of horticulture, and the glade, which acted as their town square, represented the crowning achievement of that art.
Shealauch's sensitive nostrils picked up the sweet floral scent wafting out of his home, as he struggled to come in safely from his flight away from the men who'd attacked him. Spots and lights swam before his eyes, and red blood dropped away from his pierced foot and tail. He felt weak and dizzy as he backwinged onto the grass outside the entrance where his mother Timidi kept her apartments. The injured foot would not support its share of the young Dragon's weight, and he collapsed onto the grass with a cry of pain.
Shealauch's outcry was heard by several of the Dragons out enjoying the peacefulness of the mid-morning air. The first to reach him was Harlig with Niamh, who could still move more quickly than most of the others, despite her pregnancy.
Close behind them came another knot of Dragonglade's residents, along with the injured youth's mother, who pushed her way through the Dragons encircling the moaning Shealauch.
“What happened? My baby! Wha...? What are those things sticking in him? He's bleeding!”
Timidi knelt down next to her son and cradled the foot with the arrow in it. “This is a man's thing!” She cried out to the other Dragons. “Why is a man's thing piercing my child?”
Chabaad peered over her shoulder, using his telescopic vision to focus in on the object of Timidi's outrage. “That's an arrow!” He stood erect and shouted to the rest of the Dragons around the glade. “They've shot Shealauch with arrows!”
Harlig muttered loud enough for the Dragons encircling Shealauch to hear. “I knew there would be trouble, allowing that fool Drinaugh to venture forth into the human world. They hate what they cannot understand.”
Niamh scorched him with a look. “You know nothing of the kind. Your statement shows the falsity of your words by their very own context. Do you know the mind of every Dragon? No? Then how can you claim to know the mind of every human?”
“You defend the ones who tried to kill my Shealauch?!” Timidi reared back, hissing in fury. Several other Dragons joined her in argument against those more of a mind with Niamh. In an instant the glade was filled with the deafening sound of Dragons shouting at one another at the top of their lungs.
A family of black bears living on the slopes above the caldera that formed Dragonglade sat up, listened for a second, and then decided to leave the area in search of more peaceful places. Flocks of birds fled to the skies, and some of the sharper hearing Avernese soldiers marching behind Vedder cocked their ears, straining to hear what sounded to them like distant thunder.
Chabaad called for the ones who did this to be hunted down and punished. Harlig's shout rose above his, saying they should be slain as the animals they obviously are.
“Silence!!!” The glade settled into shocked silence, as the Dragons looked up to see the Winglord glaring down at them from an elevated porch built into landscape of the parkland. Rose bushes framed the tips of his half-extended wings. His posture told all within the glade the extent of his anger. “What ... is ... the ... meaning of this ... this undragonlike tumult?” He raked the heat of his gaze across the crowd gathered around Shealauch.
No Dragon answered him.
“Well?” Mashglach focused his attention on Timidi.
“They've pierced my child with ... arrows, Winglord.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Remove them!” Mashglach's tone indicated disbelief in that it hadn't been done immediately.
Timidi covered Shealauch partially with her wings. “That will hurt him more.”
Niamh knelt back down next to Timidi. “Let me try. I believe I can be of aide to him. These hands do have a few centuries of experience as a surgeon in them.”
“Winglord?” Timidi looked up at Mashglach.
“Let the surgeon care for your son, Timidi. She'll ease his pain, not worsen it. You should know that.” The Chief Dragon's voice was gentle.
“But I...” Shealauch's mother looked at Mashglach and Niamh in turn.
Niamh ducked her head close to Timidi's. “Please.”
The mother Dragon pulled back her wings, exposing Shealauch's wounds to the rest of the gathering. A collective gasp rose up from the crowd, and a few of the murmurs concerning revenge and justice followed close behind.
“Silence, please. Let the surgeon perform her task.” Mashglach rumbled.
Quiet re-entered the glade, as Niamh probed Shealauch's wounds.
“Uuunggghhh!”
“Sorry, child. But I needed to know if infection had set in. You are fortunate you bled so much. The wounds have been flushed clean.”
She looked at a Dragon whose hide bore a subtle leopard's spot pattern. “Hurry. Bring me the Sandalwood box with the camellia engraving in the lid. Fly part of the way, if you must.”
Niamh turned back to her patient. “Try to work on a relaxation exercise. Freniagh will be back with something to take the pain away and to help you heal faster.”
“I ... I hope it's soon,” Shealauch put on a smile, but it didn't fit right.
Harlig called up to Mashglach while they waited for Freniagh to return with the surgeon's box. “What are we going to do about this, Winglord?”
“The law isn't specific, here. We are going to have to consider our actions. The Winglauch will have to be convened.” Mashglach scratched an eye ridge with one of his left thumbs. “I would have hoped for a brighter reason than this.”
Murmurs arose again. This time, the term Winglauch was bandied about.
The glade became silent again when Freniagh settled onto the grass with Niamh's box tucked into the crook of an arm. The crowd parted, giving him a path to the surgeon and her patient.
Niamh opened the box by pressing three of the camellia petals in the inlay in sequence. It opened with a soft click and she removed an opalescent bottle that seemed to contain small swirling lights.
“Wha ... what's that?” Shealauch raised his head at the sight of the bottle. “It's beautiful.”
“Something to help you feel better.” Niamh gently pushed the young Dragon's head back onto the grass, and then opened the bottle. A scent of citrus rose mixed with an indefinable bitter sweetness billowed out of the bottle. Those closest to Niamh and her work breathed in the scent, and felt immediately lighter in heart. She pushed Shealauch's head back down once more with her left hand, and poured three drops of the glistening fluid into each wound where the arrow shafts rose out of the Dragon's hide.
“Oooooooo, that feels good.” Shealauch moaned with relief as the fluid washed the pain away.
“That's nice, dear.” Niamh tested the level of pain by wiggling the arrows. Her patient didn't react, so things were good, so far.
She used the thumbs and fingers of her left hand to stretch the hide on either side of the wound in Shealauch's foot. Using her right hand, she gripped the shaft firmly. “Hold very still now, Shealauch. Try that relaxation exercise now. You mustn't move a muscle.”
“Ok.”
Niamh focused her eyes until the arrow's point of entry filled her field of vision. She had to pull back the arrow exactly along the path it entered. The barbed head already had done enough damage; there was no need to compound it.
For a human arrow, it was uncommonly large. Niamh had seen others before. To her Dragon size, they had appeared to be more like a knitting needle. This, to a human, would be a small spear with fletchings.
“Is it out yet?” Shealauch asked, as he hummed the relaxation mantra.
“Almost. Be patient, and be still.” She eased the broad head out of the wound and purplish-red blood flowed after it.
A concerted gasp came out of the crowd of dragons as the barbed broadhead came out of Shealauch's foot. The gasp cut off with Niamh's raised hand.
“Be silent! There is still another to deal with.” She moved sideways until the young Dragon's abused tail lay before her. She repeated the slight wiggle on the arrow's shaft to be certain the fluid's pain killing properties continued to work. Shealauch still gave no indication she'd done anything. “Good. Now to remove the ugly thing.”
Niamh spread the flesh on either side of the wound as before and began backing the arrow out. Because of the differences between foot and tail this one was in deeper than the other and took a little longer to remove,also, this time, there was a lot more blood.
“Unnnnhh! Sorry,” Shealauch moaned quietly.
“Don't apologize.” Niamh held up the offending arrow and discarded it next to the other. “The Lortis is wearing off, it's not your fault.”
“Freniagh. Give me the small green bottle with the blue stopper,” she said, as she poured a drop of the Lortis into each wound.
“Thank you.” Shealauch sighed with the relief.
Freniagh dug out the requested bottle and handed it to Niamh, its glaze an opaque bilious green. “Not near as pretty as the first one, surgeon,” he said, as she took it out of his hand.
She nodded. “The beauty's not in the bottle's looks, but what it contains.”
“Like some people.” Freniagh nodded back.
“Exactly.” Niamh unstopped the bottle and tapped one oily drop into each of the two wounds. “This should feel a bit chill.”
Shealauch shuddered as the drops were applied. “Chill!?” It feels as if I'm being doused in ice.”
Niamh smiled, along with several of the other Dragons gathered around her patient. “Good. That means the Comfret is doing its job.”
“What does it do?” Shealauch tried to watch without raising his head.
“In your case, it has two tasks. The first, and most important, is to counteract any poison or infection that may have been born upon the arrowhead.”
“Poison!?” The young Dragon raised his head in alarm.
This time Niamh did not push him back down. “No need to be alarmed. That part of it is only a precaution. If there had indeed been poison, you would not have been able to fly back to here. No, infection is more of a worry than poison. How does it feel now?”
Shealauch's eyes showed he was looking inward. “Warmer, a bit.”
Niamh looked at the wounds. The flow of blood had stopped, and they were beginning to close, as expected. “Well, it looks as if my patient is going to survive.”
Murmurs of appreciation came from the crowd.
She turned her head to find Timidi. “He'll be fine, now. You should feed him to help him restore his strength. The Comfret uses the body's resources to speed the healing.”
Timidi gathered her son into her arms and helped him to his feet. “Thank you, Niamh. Thank you.”
Chabaad spoke up from where he stood in the crowd. “You mentioned Winglauch, Winglord. Is one being called? This ... action against one of our own demands some form of action on our part.”
Mashglach gazed back at Chabaad levelly. “I did indeed say the Winglauch should be convened. You heard well.” He raised his voice. “We will meet in the great hall as soon as possible. Spread the word. This is a matter for all dragons. Young and old.”

Chapter Thirty-Six
McCabe pushed on the door at the top of the dungeon stairs. The palace proper lay on the other side, but the door wouldn't budge. He extended his perception into the door and the space around it. A bar with heavy chains secured it from being opened, so he did to them what was done to the shackles holding him to the slab. The life of the metal had a bitter salty taste to it, and was unsatisfying but, the door opened. He stepped across the small pile of corrosion into the palace itself. Now, where would his Excellency the Duke be?
He walked down the hallway, his senses tasting the ether for signs of life. A couple of chambermaids came out of a room pushing a cart of cleaning equipment and linens before them. The younger one glanced his way and screamed. She gathered her skirts about her and ran, but the other one stayed, brandishing a mop as if it would serve as a weapon.
“You get back. I'm warning you, whoever you are. I've thrashed bigger ones than you.” She was a husky woman, and of middle age.
McCabe thought she would have been intriguing to toy with, but he had other things on his mind.
He continued to walk towards her, the lazy smile on his face appearing as an evil leer because of his untrimmed beard.
The maid yelled. “Stay back, I tell you. Back!” She raised the mop and swung it sideways in a roundhouse blow. It connected with the side of McCabe's head full on the temple. An ordinary man would have died from the blow. It knocked him against the corridor wall by the force of it, and he stayed there for a moment, relishing the waves of pain that radiated from the healing bones of his crushed skull.
He looked at the maid and smiled broadly. “That was nice. Shall we do it again?”
She stared at him with bulging eyes. He noticed they were a cool light blue in color, then pushed himself away from the wall, and continued to move toward her. She hefted the mop as if to use it again, and then threw it at him, using the distraction to get away. She didn't scream, but saved her breath for running.
McCabe batted the mop aside and watched the woman run. He let her go, not feeling a need to feed just now. His senses reached out and tasted the palace grounds. “Where are you Duke? Ah, there. The tower room. No, he's coming down the steps.”
He passed a floor to ceiling hall mirror and glanced at it. The apparition looking back at him explained why the maids had run. His hair hung in twisted mats past his shoulders, and his eyes looked out from a face hidden in a tangled bush of dead black beard. What exposed skin there was showed smears of dirt and sweat that looked like some horrible disease. Though he didn't feel hungry, he looked thin enough to be a walking corpse. The ruined black silk of his former clothes hung on him like he was a hall tree instead of a man. He began to chuckle. Of course, he wasn't a man, not any more.
He fingered the beard as he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd have to do something about his appearance before he left the palace.
Several maids and a few liveried servants got the fright of their lives as he moved through the living areas of the palace, looking for something to wear that suited him. He found chests and armoires full of clothing, but either the color was wrong or it was the fabric. What he wanted was another outfit of black silk and polished black leather as he had before.
Finally, a closet filled with footwear yielded a pair of boots twin to the ones he'd worn prior to being brought back to the dungeon.
A trio of guards confronted him as he stamped the last boot on. “C'mon, you. Back to the cells, an’ no one gets hurt.”
McCabe let a giggle escape his throat. “No one gets hurt? They didn't know who they were talking to, did they?”
He stamped his feet one more time, checking the fit of the boots. He was a bit disappointed. They didn't pinch at all.
“You deaf as well as ugly? Back to the cells. Now!” The guard ordering him carried a truncheon with a metal ball on the end. The other two had halberds held at the ready.
McCabe scratched his left side with his right hand. “I heard you. No thanks, it's boring down there.” He took a step in the guard's direction. “I'd rather play with you.”
“He's gone right round the bend.” One of the halberd bearers shifted the long-handled weapon in his hands.
“Totally starkers,” agreed the other. “Bein’ in the pits'll do that. Lookit his beard, e's been down there a summer's worth, at least.”
“Drop the chatter, you two, and take him. He's only one fellow and a skinny runt, at that,” the one with the truncheon commanded.
“You!” He pointed the weapon at McCabe. “On the floor, now!”
“On the floor, now. On the floor, now.” McCabe mimicked the guard's command, as he continued to advance upon them. “Your problem is that you have no imagination.” He reached out and brushed the back of the hand that held the truncheon. The guard dropped lifeless to the parquet floor. “You're only good for a light snack.”
“D'ju see that?” One of the halberd bearers ejaculated, taking a step backwards.
“I ain't blind,” the other one said. He dropped his halberd and ran. The other guard followed close on his heels.
McCabe didn't bother to watch them go, but walked out of the room and into the one across the hall in search of shirt, belt and trousers to go with his new boots.
He could sense the Duke getting closer. His partner in murder was only two floors above him now. He searched through the drawers and closets in the room with frantic haste, tossing the rejects to the side or over his shoulder. He didn't want to meet the Duke dressed in rags.
The third closet produced a suitable black silk shirt, and the fourth chest of drawers yielded a pair of pants. He sensed the Duke entering the hall that this set of rooms was on, as he fit the last frog into its loop. Good. Just in time for the reunion. A hair cut and beard trim would have to be taken care of later.
He opened the door leading to the hallway and stepped out of the room. A silhouette stood at the far end of the hall, outlined by the light coming from the skylights in the foyer beyond. The girth of the belly portion told him the outline belonged to the Duke.
“You!” The Duke's shout was slurred and thick with the sound of one long gone to the bottle. “Get back to the cells, damn you!”
“I own you,” he hissed. “And I'll be damned if I'll let you leave.” The sound of the Duke's saber leaving the scabbard was like silk tearing. “Back to the cells, now, or I'll gut you like a trout.”
McCabe and the Duke advanced on each other until the point of the Duke's saber pressed into the black silk of McCabe's new shirt.
McCabe looked down at the sword point. It pressed into his new shirt at a point about two inches below his sternum. The voices gave him an idea.
Duke Bilardi snarled. “This is your last chance, animal. I don't know who let you loose, but you're going back to where you belong. Chained to a slab in my dungeon.”
“No, I don't think so.” McCabe looked into the Duke's eyes and walked forward, impaling himself upon the blade.
“No! You can't! You ... can't be doing this.” Bilardi saw waves of ecstasy pass through McCabe's expression as he pushed himself onto the sword, forcing his body along its length until the hilt touched the silk of his shirt.
The former thief gasped through the wonderful feel of the agony he was experiencing. “Oh ... yes ... I... can.”
Bilardi let go of the sword hilt and backed away. His mouth worked like a gold fish out of its bowl. When McCabe grasped the hilt and began pulling the blade from his body, the Duke turned and ran screaming from the hallway.
McCabe pulled the sword from his middle and examined the blade. Interesting, there was no blood. There should have been blood. He tested the edge and found it to be razor sharp. It would do for cutting his hair and beard.
He held a matted lock away from his head and sawed at it with the sword. The lock fell away and he started on another. It took him nearly half and hour to cut the mess back to the length he preferred. The beard took less time and still looked a bit ragged when finished. He walked back to the large mirror and examined the results. Satisfactory, for now, he would have to find someone to finish it with style, later.
Smiling at the thought, he passed through the foyer and into the mid-morning sun.
* * * * The press gang closed in on Adam. The one who called to the others was slightly in front and to the side. “Ok, me boyo. Drop yer fancy pigsticker an’ come quietly. Ain't no one good'nuf ta face down six blades by hisself.”
Adam crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, allowing the spirit in the blade to move his hand. He felt his grip shift slightly as he gave over to its feel.
One of the press gang tried a feint. The King's sword dipped and slapped it aside without apparent effort.
“E's got a wrist. ‘E ‘as.” The guard remarked to the others.
“Let's whut ‘e can do agin’ three o’ us at oncet,” grinned a whippet-thin fellow with blonde hair pulled back into a tail. He held his blade steady and then began scribing a series of figure eights and cycles with its tip.
“Don't talk much, do he?” the one with the bristling chin chortled. “Wassa matter, lad? Cat got'cher tongue? No worries, yer don't need to be a talker, just a dyer.” He stretched forward in a lightning lunge intended to disembowel his opponent.
As fast as the guard's lunge was, Adam's wrist moved even faster. His sword shot forward in a blurred riposte, corkscrewing around the other's, and tearing it out of his hand. He side-stepped to the left, repeated the move with the guard on that side, and then spun around in time to parry an overhand slash from the one on the right. The return blow whistled through empty space as he ducked beneath it, and buried the tip of the sword into the guard's armpit.
“Adam! To your left!” Milward called out while he drove the breath out of a guard that had less than neighborly intentions coming in from the street behind them.
He raised his staff at another who was following. “Six on one is more than enough odds. You can enjoy the show from there, or you can be a newt. Your choice. You do know a Wizard when you see one, don't you?”
The guard looked Milward up and down, and refocused on the ornately carved staff. His eyes bulged, and he gulped before bringing his gaze back to the Wizard's stern face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milord Wizard. I, I din't know. Iffn ye'll be excusin’ me, I ... I'll be goin’ now, Milord.” He ducked a bow, and tugged a forelock as he backed away.
Milward harumphed and turned back to see how Adam was faring.
One of the guards in the press gang was holding his wrist like it was broken. Two others lay on the cobblestones, one in a spreading pool of red. The guard who'd originally started the fracas was being hard pressed to defend himself under a whirlwind attack, and he called out frantically to the remaining two press gang members. “Don't just stand there gapin', help me!”
The remaining two pushed in and attempted to stab past Adam's guard, but they soon found themselves in the same fix as their compatriot.
The one on the right missed the repeat in his pattern first, and got a pink in the nerve running up his bicep for his trouble, that temporarily paralyzed his hand. The saber dropped from his lifeless fingers and clattered onto the cobblestones. He backed out too fast for his feet, and landed onto the street, scrabbling away like a crab.
The one on the left continued the fight for another few passes, then he too backed out. “Sorry, Giff.”
Giff threw him a black look and redoubled his effort. At least a half dozen spots on his blouse showed red where Adam's point had gotten through.
“You don't have to do this, you know.” Milward leaned against the brick wall of one of the shops, as he stuffed his pipe. A tiny spark appeared above the bowl and lit the Bac. “Don't you think it would be much healthier,” he paused to puff out a smoke ring that formed into a passable sculpture of a foaming tankard. “to find the nearest pub, and conscript a pint or two? You can take your friends there,” He pointed to the other press gang members still living, with his pipe. “With you. Right after you unlock the cage, of course.”
“I can't.” The guard panted. “The Duke'll ‘ave me head.” Another spot of red bloomed on his blouse.
“I won't tell if you won't.” Adam's sword whipped past Giff's guard and sliced through the belt holding his scabbard. The fellow had to do some fancy dancing to avoid tripping over the belt as it fell to the street.
Another blur of metal, and a portion of an earlobe was sliced away.
“The boy's more than a match for you. We all know it, you included. Dying for this...” Milward shook his head in disgust. “It's stupid, at best.”
Giff ran through a couple of more passes, but it was obvious the Wizard's words had had an effect. His heart just wasn't in it anymore. “Awright. Awright! You win, blast you. The kid's a demon wif a blade, anyway.” He threw his saber away and slid to a sitting position against the wall where Milward was leaning.
He looked up at Adam through the sweat pouring down his face. “How'd you get so damn good, anyway? You'd be match fer Bilardi fer sure.” The fight over, he acted like a lot of professional military men. Adam was no longer an enemy, but a compatriot with similar interests.
Adam looked at him. “The Duke?”
“Naw. ‘Is son. The old man's good. I ain't sayin’ ‘e isn't. Used ta be a swordmaster, ‘e did. But age an’ a lotta good food...” He let the rest of the sentence be assumed by the listeners.
“Then who are you talking about?” Milward tamped out his pipe against the bricks of the wall.
The guard looked to the left and right. The crowd, seeing the battle was over, began to filter back into the streets, those not clamoring at the docks for a boat out of the area. He looked back at Adam and Milward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Duke's son, named after hisself, pure poison wif a blade.”
Milward stood off from the wall. “Well, he's Grisham royalty, what would you expect? A man of letters? No, I think it's best we ... What is that?”
The sound of snapping timbers and tortured metal brought all their heads whipping around in the direction of the southern gate.
“Southerners! We're being attacked already!” Several in the crowd took up the cry, and what crowd there had been in the gate market square vanished like mist in a summer sun, except for those few soldiers who sense of duty was stronger than their sense of survival.
Milward snorted. “Can't be Southerners, Northerns or Island Folk. No siege engine built has the power to do that. Come on, Adam. This may prove interesting, from a distance, of course.” He added, as a point of caution.
Adam followed the wizard out of the side street and into the Gate Market Square. People who been pleading earlier with the gate guards to let them outside were now pushing past him in an effort to get as far away from whatever was coming through those gates. Foremost in the crowd was Hervy, the inner gate guard.
What ever it was, it was exerting incredible force. The huge gates were bulging inwards, causing timbers to snap, sending splinters and pins whizzing across the Market Square. Some shot out with enough force to embed into the sides of a cart or stall several yards away. The remaining guards took their cue and hightailed it out of there.
Milward took Adam by the arm. “Ready your power, my boy. We don't know what's causing this, but the odds are, it isn't friendly.”
“Can't you sense what it is?” Adam tried reaching out, but all he got was a sense of confusion.
“Not enough time, lad. Besides, I'm a bit knackered from the fight back there.”
“I'm ready.” Adam watched the heavy iron bar that stretched across the twin halves of the gate bend inwards. The screeching sound came from it.
The power had come up almost without thought, and he held it ready, like the waters of a dam. He could see a shape now partially revealed within the ever-widening crack between the doors of the gate. A niggling began in the backside of his memory. He knew that shape.
“Milward...”
He got no further. The gates burst inward with a resounding crash, and the left gate door rebounded against the city wall hard enough to tear itself off its hinges. It slowly toppled over and slapped against the hard packed clay of the Market Square. Through the ruined gates strode Drinaugh, with a radiant Thaylli riding high on his shoulders. Behind the Dragon, the Alpha Wolf looked into the two legs’ den and sniffed. He smelled the fear of the city along with the scents of what man used for his food, and the individual smells of those who'd passed though over time. None of the scents told of danger to the pack. The wolf reflected on the usefulness of having a sky lord with the pack, and sniffed again. Winding its way through the maze of smells intermixing within the Market Square was the scent of their packmate. He gave a very unwolflike bark and bounded through the gate opening on Drinaugh's heels. The pack followed, with their tails wagging.
Thaylli clung to the Dragon's neck as the city gates burst inward. “Can you see him?” She yelled out against the noise.
Drinaugh shook his head, forgetting he had a rider up there. “Not yet, but I smell him.
“Oops. Sorry,” to Thaylli's scream, as she was tossed back and forth by his headshake.
She thumped the top of his head with her fists. “Don't do that again!”
“I said I was sorry.” The dragon said reproachfully. “You didn't have to ... there he is! Adam!”
Drinaugh roared out his friend's name, and took off across the Market Square in a straight line toward the spot where Adam and Milward stood. In his haste, he forgot about the results of what happens when several tons of dragon impact upon the vending carts of produce merchants and the like. The stalls, carts and displays in the Dragon's path toppled and crumbled as if they were made out of so much tissue. Displays of spring melons were squashed into fragrant smears. Penned livestock decided they'd had enough, broke through their enclosures, and stampeded out of the square into the streets that fed into it from the north, west and east. Two mobile chicken coops unloosed from their oxen porters earlier in the morning went toppling to the ground, disgorging their feathered contents. A number of Grisham's poorer families had chicken dinners that night, and a few of the more enterprising ones developed tidy little egg businesses over the following months.
The young Dragon pushed through the last of the stalls and thundered to a stop in front of Adam and Milward. “Adam! I've found you at last! Oh, you don't know how much I've missed our fun conversations. How have you've been? I've found some new friends. I met a pack of wolves who say they know you, and I've...”
“Adam!”
Adam looked just in time to prepare himself for the feminine bundle hurtling towards him. Thaylli threw herself into his arms and buried him in kisses and small cries of joy.
Drinaugh looked down at his two human friends and smiled. The pack with the Alpha wolf and his mate in the lead picked their way through the debris left behind by the dragon's passage. They circled Drinaugh and settled to their haunches in a rough grouping to the left of Adam and Thaylli.
Milward walked over to where the Alpha wolf sat. “I smell you, my friend. Was the hunting good?”
“The hunt is always good, friend two legs,” the wolf replied, and then pointed his muzzle at the billing and cooing Adam and Thaylli. “But not as good as the hunt of our packmate's she.”
The Alpha wolf's mate watched as the couple got reacquainted. “A very good hunt, indeed,” she said, with a wag of her tail.
Adam disentangled himself from Thaylli's embrace and looked up at his Dragon friend. “What are you doing here? Why are Thaylli and the wolves with you, especially now?” He indicated the square with a wave of his hand. “It may not look like it right now, but this place is in an uproar.”
Drinaugh looked slightly embarrassed. “I just wanted to see if you were ok.” His tone of voice made him sound like a child confessing to stealing cookies too soon before dinner.
“I imagine that's the reason they're all here.” Milward said dryly.
The Alpha wolf's mate uttered a series of growls that brought out a chuckle from the wizard and a blush on Adam.
Thaylli looked at the red creeping up to his ears. “What was it? What did she say?”
“I'd rather not say,” Adam replied, as Milward's chuckles grew into outright laughter.
“What did she say?” Thaylli demanded, looking around at the others. “What did she say?”
“She said,” Drinaugh's voice sounded a bit strangled. “That he should go ahead and get it over with, mate with you now, settle down, and raise a litter of puppies.”
“I don't know why you're so red in the face, Adam,” Milward said, between gales of laughter. “You know wolves are a very practical people.”
End of Well's End, volume one.

The Wells End Chronicles Glossary
Phonetic pronunciation in parentheses
Town Names:
Silgert, (sell-gurt)
Dunwattle, (dun-watt-all)
Old Firth, (ol-furth)
Bustle, (bus-all)
Bantering, (ban-tur-ring)
Hetfield, (het-fell-d)
Access, (ak-ses)
Northlake, (north-lek)
Firth, (furth)
Longpointe, (long-point)
Ulsta, (ool-stuh)
Targy, (tar-gee)
Meyer, (my-err)
Beri, (burr-ee)
Marino, (marr-ee-no)
Swaledale, (sway-all-day-all)
Wenslydale, (whens-lee-day-all)
Bern, (burn)
Lamsa, (laam-sa)
Farrar, (far-ar)
Swete, (sweat)
Wycliffe, (weh-cliff)
Hickie, (hick-ee)
Coverdale, (cover-day-all)
City Names:
Spu, (spew)
Avern, (awe-vern)
Leward, (lou-ard)
Mossett, (moss-it)
Orbis, (oor-bus)
Berggren, (burr-grin)
Grisham (gris-shum)—Ancient trading center that grew into the largest city-state in the world. Also site of the great library,
Labad (la-baad)—philosopher's city and university named after Labad the genius of the 7th century, deified by Alford the 7th,
Southpoint, (just like it's spelled)
Bren, (breen)
Ort (oo-ert)—seat of the Southern Empire,
Verkuyl (verr-cue-yewl)—Ruined Elven capital)(leads some to believe the Elvish race is older than common belief holds,
Chrysostom (cris-sauce-towm)—Ancient dragon birthplace
Places:
Old Oak Forest,
Hillside Wood,
Echo Cavern,
The Grotto,
Dragonglade,
The Geode,
The Narrows,
Whistle Bridge,
The Great Library at Grisham,
The Sea Pass,
Labad's Bridge,
Labad's Highway,
North Lake,
Pestilence (Gilgafed's Island),
The Great Wood,
The Long Wood,
Angbar, (aang-bare)
The Great Swamp,
Wildflower Inn,
Willum's Alehouse
The Wayfarer House,
Dwillkillion (de-will-kill-yun)—Home of the Dwarfs
The Well of Sorrows—A supposedly bottomless well in the heart of Angbar thought to be the entrance into the Shadow realm
Rivers and Creeks:
Ort River,
The Mossett (mows-et) River,
Little Ort River,
Milk River,
Elfheart River,
Bastard River,
Black River,
Custom Creek,
Bones Creek,
Troll Creek,
Helmson (helms-un) Creek,
Deer Creek,
Mad Creek
Mountains:
Cloudhook,
Black Ben,
Angbar—island of witches, location of the Well of Sorrows,
Losthope Peak
The Spine—Central mountain range running the length of the continent
Peoples of the world:
Human,
Elf,
Dragon,
Dwarf,
The Wandering Folk,
Wolves,
Maraggar (maa-raa-gar)—dark skinned people with silver hair
The Suldam (sool-dahm) are Maraggar fighters.
The Pfaldam (fahl-dahm) the Maraggar administrators.
Tettuwain (tit-two-ween) is the Maraggar's deity
Human's names:
Bal (bahl)—Adam and Charity's Uncle
Doreen (door-reen)—Adam and Charity's Aunt
Travers (trah-virs)—Ortian patrol Sargent,
Hooper (hoop-er)—Trading States’ soldier that captures Ethan,
Mundy (moon-dee)—lieutenant in Grisham city guard,
Milward (mell-word)—the retired wizard,
Nought: (not)—Milward's storyteller identity in first of new beginning
Darzin (derr-zen)—Lord Mayor's son whose nose Adam bloodies,
Dunn (done)—Duke Bilardi's torturer,
Rolston (roll-stone)—Vedder's brother,
Elssyn (El-see-in)—serving girl in Rolston's favorite pub
Lord Bilardi (bell-ar-dee)—Duke of Grisham, Swordmaster,
Captain Bilardi—Swordmaster, Captain of Grisham City guard
Cloutier (clu-tee-ay)—Villainous Earl of Berggren,
Youch (you-ch)—Cloutier's manservant,
Gerkin (grr-ken)—fat fabric monger in Bantering
Bel (bell)—Church elder in Bantering
Durhan (derr-hawn)—Church elder in Bantering
Old man Falstaff (fall-staw-f)—Silversmith in Dunwattle
Mistress Wermott (worm-ot)—Madam in Dunwattle,
Mr.Sandalwood—miller in Dunwattle
Ornette (or-net)—Hersh the butcher's son,
Hersh (like it's spelled)—Butcher in Dunwattle,
Alverd (all-ver-d)—Baron of Spu's aide
Belcon (bell-con)—Dandy in Dunwattle
Jully (jewel-lee)—Innkeeper in Dunwattle
Harry—Lord Mayor of Dunwattle
Sammmel Gruen—Pig farmer in Dunwattle
Willard—son of the Innkeeper in Dunwattle, Ornette's friend
Flynn and Neely the thieves—Flynn: a Cooper, Neely: Soldier of Fortune and a Tracker,
Thayil (thay-ell)—trapped miner,
Rober (row-bear)—Trapped miner,
Petron (pea-trone)—trapped miner Nowsek's son
Nowsekk (know-sick)—Mayor of Access,
Maibell (may-bell)—Nowsek's wife
Cobain (koe-bane)—Gilgafed's servant,
Morgan—ethical Captain of Cloutier's guard who trains Charity in unarmed combat,
Vedder (ved-derr)—priest,
Mussoli (moose-oly)—Vedder's aide in Bantering,
Chilton (chill-ton)—baker,
Ethan (ee-thun)—soldier with hangover,
McCabe (mac-cabe)—becomes joined with a seeker. Sadomasochist,
Jovovich, (jo-vo-vitch)
Rosenman. (rose-en-mawn)
Howell (howl)—owner of the Wayfarer House,
Mallien (mal-yeen)—High Priest & a pedophile.
Sarai (sair-eye) and Jonas (joan-aws)—Circumstance's siblings,
Thaylli (thay-yee)—Adam's eventual wife,
Tyndale (tin-doll)—Thaylli's father,
Aisbell (aes-bell)—Thaylli's mother,
Merillat (mer-I-yatt)—Thaylli's eldest brother,
Moen (moan)—next oldest,
Monier (moan-yer)—Younger,
Alford (all-ferd)—Emperor of the Southern Lands,
Nicoll (nye-cole)—Spinning woman in Berggren,
Cremer, Sobret (creh-mer, soh-bret)—Alford's aide,
Moulton (mole-ton)—Aide to Philosopher King,
Hodder (hod-der)& “Leum"(loom) Stroughton (straw-ton)—Wuest's friends at court in Grisham,
Souter (soo-ter),—Earl of Avern
Wuest (woost) “Avin"—Duke of Grisham's aide de camp,
Westcott (west-caught)—innkeeper in Access,
Sheriwyn (sheri-win)—Westcott's wife,
Ani (ann-knee)—The Westcotts’ daughter,
Schmidt (sh-mitt)—Grocer in Adam and Charity's town,
Bustlebun (bus-ell-bun)—Innkeeper in wood,
Jully (jewel-lee)—Innkeeper in Dunwattle,
Willard (Jully's son),
Willum (well-umm) the Red—Outlaw band leader,
Felsten (fell-es-ton)—Librarian's assistant,
Lifetile (life-tull)—Mute Dungeon guard in Grisham,
Greenstone (greens-ton),—Soldier who abuses Circumstance in Cloudhook camp
Dolbutt—farmer outside of Avern
Gunther—farmer outside of Avern
Merril (mer-all) and Dinkin (din-ken)—Grisham gate guards,
Saichele (say-chell)—flirtatious woman in Access,
Decora (di-cora)— young woman in Westcott's Inn
Hypatia (hi-pat-chia)—Ortian Ambassador's eldest daughter,
Nikkas (ny-cass)—Ortian Ambassador and brother of Emperor,
Rawn (ron)—old ferryman in Grisham,
Gessit (guess-sit)—Suldam that captures young Neely,
Brill (bree-ell)—Bandit
Fretin (free-tin)—Bandit
Drynn (drin)—Bandit
Ruggels (rug-gills)—Bandit
Sept-Colonel Fergus (fir-gus)
Lancer Captain Ferrgyn (fear-gin)
Major Gyst-Bersyn (gist-beers-in)
General Jarl-Tysyn (yarl-s-eye-sin)—chief over Ort's armies
Lisbeth (liz-beth)—old woman, cook, housekeeper in Library at Grisham
Lemmic-Pries (lem-mik-prize)—Chief Ortian Engineer at Cloudhook base
Colling-Faler (cole-ling-fall-ler)—Engineer third
Gaspic (ghas-pik)—Lemmic-Pries’ administrator
Durston-Kres (ders-stone-krez)—Ortian engineer
Soddle (saw-dil)—Grisham gate guard
Hervy (here-vie)—Grisham gate guard
Jerrold (jair-awld)—Grisham gate guard
Giff (g{as in get}if) -Grisham press gang leader
Granny Bullton (bowl-ton)—Innkeeper in Grisham where Adam and Milward stay
Travers (trah-verz)—Ortian press gang sergeant
Gupp (goop)—page in Grisham castle
Dorrin (duer-rin)—Door warden in Grisham castle
Magister Mallien (maul-yeen)—the High Priest in Grisham cathedral with a fondness for young boys
Sammel—Ethan's old friend in Berggren
Alten (all-ton) Baldricsson (ball-dricks-son)—Librarian of the Great Library at Grisham
Bright eye—The wolves name for Adam
Aerny (air-knee)—Avernese soldier, one of Vedder's loaned squad
Wullim (wool-limb)—Avernese soldier, one of Vedder's loaned squad
Nestia (nest-chia)—Chambermaid in Grisham Castle
Lisbeth (liz-beth)—Dishwasher in Grisham Castle
Grisabele (griz-a-bell)—Chambermaid ordered skinned alive by Duke Bilardi
Kittlyn (lit-tel-lin)—Waitress in Grisham
Big Keri (curry)—top heavy woman in one of Neely's tales
Dagbare (daag-bare)—Crone in charge of Gilgafed's kennels
Friella (free-al-ya)—Pregnant woman in kennels
Errold (ear-old)—Grisham City repair chief
Mordun (more-done)—Construction Supervisor in Grisham
Corporal McKenit (mac-ken-it)—old lookout at Grisham military barracks
Yeric (your-ick)—Supply Sergeant in Grisham barracks, likes to drink
Murt (mert)—Ortian trooper beaten soundly by Charity for abusing her cat
Derrl-Gynic (deer-el-gin-ick)—Ortian trooper who bet on Charity
Corporal Cobb (cob)—Trading States’ soldier who guards Ethan during march to Grisham
Jessup (gess-up)—Grisham noncom in conscript washdown
Lowwol (low-whole)—Grisham noncom in conscript washdown
Dwarf names:
Urbus (err-bus)—Chieftain leader of Garven,
Garven, (gar-vin)
Belgris, (bell-gris)
Faltur, (fall-terr)
Mergan, (mer-gun)
Durl. (der-all)
Twill, (just like it's spelled)
Knurl), (ner-all)
Basho, (bash-ho)
Bakker, (back-ker)
Kurkka, (kirk-kah)
Luggi, (lug-gee)
Galtru (gal-true),—Senior Dwarf in Dwillkillion
Graaff, (grah-fh)
Coraghessan, (cora-geese-son)
Zasloff, (zas-loff)
Muntz, (monts)
Druffo, (droo-foe)
Spratt, Fineal (fin-neel), Finear (fin-eer), Fnost (fin-ost)—4 brothers, Spratt is the youngest
Dragon names:
Shealauch (she-lock)—Male Dragon who tries to find Drinaugh on his quest,
Chabaad, (sha-bod)
Harlig, (harl-lig)
Mashglach (mosh-glock)—The Wing Lord,
Temidi (tim-midi)—female, mother of Shealauch,
Niamh (nee-ah-ma)—friendly female, pregnant, in her third trimester, her 80th year
Drinaugh (dree-nock)—Young male whom Adam befriends
Oscglach (aws-glock)—very ancient Dragon
Naublouch (naw-block)—Dragon who died tragically in the past before the magik wars
Elven Names:
Circumstance (cer-come-stance)—half-elf orphan,
Elien, (ill-leen)
Angenen, (ann-gin-nen)
Begonen, (be-gone-nen)
Telexen, (tel-lex-in)
Stenen, (sten-nen)
Xenen, (zen-nen)—all men
Alstire, (alls-tire)
Guinire, (gwy-in-ire)
Flavire, (flay-vire)
Swevire, (swee-vire)
Lwonire, (el-wan-ire)—women
Pets’ Names:
Skip, and Donger—Bustlebun's mastiffs
Diseases:
Ghooies, (goo-eez)
Chills,
Drips,
The patch.
Stones—“They gets hard and painful, like yer haulin’ a pair of rocks down there.",
Swellneck,
Firethroat,
The Sweats,
Curses:
Deity,
Gnomic, (no-mick)—Being thick-headed or grossly stupid.
Flick,
Balls,
The pit take you all,
A complete balls up,
Bardoc's Beard
Bardoc's Balls
Skrud
Dragon Curses:
Great Gakh (gock)
Hide and tail
Medicines and Poisons:
Aleth (al-lith)—antispasmodic,
Willit Bark Powder—for pain,
Phedri (fed-dree)—stops the drips,
Cancra Seed Oil—prevents healing skin from scarring,
Alu gel—helps cuts heal faster,
Opatia (o-pat-chia)—Addictive painkiller
Angeimyn pod (angi-my-in)—For fainting
Blood Fern—cleanses the blood
Bladderleaf—sucks the poison out of wounds
Lortis (lore-tis)—Pain killing fluid used by Dragon's surgeon
Comfret (comm-fritt)—oily liquid that speeds healing by accessing the body's own resources
Creatures of the dark:
Chivvin—insect-like, hunt in packs. Killed with pure daylight only,
Twill—Like a millipede that has clawed arms and a mouth on every segment
Seekers—life force vampires that need a host willing to allow them in before they can effect their power over the living,
Krell—balls of stinking fur that are one-half mouth filled with teeth able to chew through steel
Dreamstalker—Feeds on the fear caused by projected nightmares
Luusticles (loose-tic-cleez), Father of Darkness—chief entity in the Shadow Realm
Other Creatures:
Trolls—giant creatures of various appearances. Very few in number. Infrequently encountered
Trollick—tree-dwelling creature. Used by Trolls as a hunter
Ogren—race of creatures bred by Gilgafed to be his army. Large, with ram-like horns and a pugnacious temper. Very dangerous when encountered in the wild
Golem—creatures of living rock. Normally keep to the extreme depths of the earth. Brought to serve in Pestillence by Gilgafed during the magik war.
Gnome—small furry biped with a tendency to poke their noses into anything due to their extreme curiosity. Ususally causes them to get into trouble hence the term “Gnomic”
Fire Wyrm or Cave Dragon—fire breathing wingless reptile. Lives in underground caverns
Garlocs—A hunting group is called a tongue
Tools:
Birdcage Distaff,
Spinning wheel
Spindle
Loom
Clothing:
Kinsale Cloak,
Lace-neck shirt,
Doublet.
Trou's,
Tunic,
Breeches,
Boots,
Riding Cloak,
Plain Cloak,
Plus-fours,
Surcoat,
Kirttle,
Shift,
Breechlout
Plants and Trees:
Muskberry Vine,
Cassia,
Acacia,
Soapweed,
Huckleberry, (Red and Black)
Thimbleberry,
muskberry vine
Skunk Bush
Beech
Ash
Oak
Madrone
BlueBerry
Alder
Bitterleaf
Sweetroot
Oilwood
Liummin
Foods:
Pfasla,(foz-la)—A baked pasta-like dish of the Dragons
Baked Sweetroot
Tisane
Tea
Scrumpy—a fry-up made from whatever happens to be available at the time
Limmin juice
Animals and birds:
Whitecrest (bird)
Talegallu (bird)
Redwing (bird)
Wolves

About The Author
I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. In fact, many of the landscapes I describe in The Promised Ones can be found there. I attended Humboldt State University as an art student and for a number of years maintained an active studio in Eureka California, a small port city in the heart of the redwoods. My wife and I currently live in the Southwest where I work as a computer graphics expert. In my spare time I play guitar, paint and, of course, write.
The Wells End Chronicles, of which The Promised Ones is only the first book, grew out of a graphic novel I was asked to create. When the outline alone reached 45 pages I knew it was time to just start typing.
Two writers in the sci-fi/fantasy field who have earned my undying respect and admiration have given me a lot of support and a couple of quotes on what they thought of the first book.
“A rip-roaring action adventure that never stops” L.E.M. “He avoids clichés, but when one has to be included he punches it in the nose.” J.LeV

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Copyright ©2002 Robert Beers

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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THE PROMISED ONES—BOOK 1 THE WELLS END CHRONICLES
Copyright 2002 Robert Beers
Writers Exchange E-Publishing
PO Box 372
ATHERTON QLD 4883
AUSTRALIA
Cover design by: Robert Beers
Distributed Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing
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ISBN 1 876962 1 920741 17 8
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental.

Chapter One
The warrior knew he was dying. That arrow in his side had borne poison, most likely the blood of a Garloc, painted onto the head. The condition of the wound said as much. The skin around it was black and weeping. Besides that, his vision had begun to cloud.
He tried to raise his head, but the effort was agonizing; lights swam before his eyes, and he fell back, gasping.
A pale hand parted the flap to the tent, and his aide peered in. “My Lord, are you in pain?” The man held a cup of tisane laced with Opatia juice. It would kill the pain and more. Besides, what was a lethal addiction to a man already dead?
“No, Moulton.” The warrior waved the drink away. He wanted to be lucid for his spirit journey, pain not withstanding. “Bring me some parchment and a quill.” A cough racked his body, sending pain shooting through his side.
The little man put the cup down, and wrung his hands nervously. “But ... Sire. We have no quills, and no ink to fill them. We're still on the battlefield.”
“Then just bring me the parchment, fool. I'll supply the ink myself. Go!”
As his aide scurried out of the tent, King Labad lay back and closed his eyes. It was still there. He prayed to Bardoc for time enough to put words to what he saw. The future of his world depended on it, as did those who would come. His sword and bow lay on the ground alongside the cot. Per his instructions, the Dwarves until needed would care for them.
Moulton reentered the tent, two leaves of parchment clutched in his hand. The hand trembled as he placed them on the King's chest. “I have the parchment, Sire, and ... and I could find no quill.”
“Thank you, Moulton. Please leave me now.”
“Yes, your majesty.” He turned to leave.
“Moulton.” Labad's voice was a whisper.
“Sire?”
“I want to thank you for your service to me, but there is one thing more I require from you.”
“Of course, my King.”
“Let no one enter the tent until the Dwarves come. This will be your last act as my subject. As a reward, you may have the lands East of Bern. I trust you'll find them adequate for your needs?”
“Of course, your Majesty. Thank you, Sire.” Moulton ducked his head in a series of obsequious bows.
“Good. Go now.” He coughed again, as his aide backed from the tent.
Labad was alone. He heard Moulton instructing the guards. A bit of a whittle that one, but a good man, nonetheless. He drew in as deep a breath as his weakened body would allow, and forced himself to sit up. The pain nearly drove him under, but he held his body upright by using a small shaping, breathing deeply and slowly, waiting for the muzziness to pass. His jeweled dagger, a gift from his wife, lay strapped to his thigh. Its blood grooves would make it a serviceable pen. He pulled it, and held the blade poised over the exposed flesh where his wound lay festering. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the point into the wound. Yellow-green pus poured out, accompanied by the smell of decay. Working the point in deeper, he twisted it while holding back the scream that welled up in his throat. When the tears left his eyes, he saw the red blood washing the last of the corruption away and, he slid the parchment into position. He dipped the tip of the dagger and began to write, dipping it again and again until the prophecy was recorded.
Labad signed his name and title with the crest rudely sketched below, and then he lay back and sighed, releasing the shaping. It was done. The pain began to diminish, and he felt light, as if he were floating. A flavor of oranges lay on his tongue, and then the thought came. “So, this is death.”
The storyteller finished his tale and reached to pick up his cup. He smiled at the sighs of contentment coming from his audience. You could always count on the village children to give a proper reading of one's skills. They only stayed if you weren't boring. Of course, the story of Labad's prophecy was usually good for a meal or two from their parents. He felt especially proud of the way the different voices came out this time.
“Bravo. Bravo.” The applause came from a handsome woman on the outside edge of the crowd. He noticed her shift showed signs of wear as well as a number of cleverly sewn patches here and there where the material had been salvaged. Poor, he surmised. Poor, but too proud to stoop to begging. Poor, but clean in spite of it. She more than likely bathed in one of the many creeks that ran through the area.
He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of her appreciation. “Thank you madam. It is always an honor to have touched the heart of one as beautiful as yourself with my simple words.” She smiled and flushed under his praise.
The woman gathered the two children standing next to her to her side as she turned and walked away from the shade of the beech tree. It commanded the center of the town's market square. Sometime in years long past, a bench was built around the old tree. The storyteller leaned back against the trunk and smiled again at the village folk gathered in front of him. “Now, what would you like to hear next?”
Charity looked up at the woman walking next to her. “Thank you for letting us listen Aunt Doreen.”
“Yes, thanks a lot. I especially liked the part about the battle.”
“You would Adam.” Charity interjected. “You spend enough time fighting Darzin and his friends.”
“Hush now.” Doreen put a hand in front of Adam's mouth before he could answer his sister back. “I'll be hearing no arguments from you two. Especially not after such a fine story.”
The twins subsided reluctantly. The truth was, they liked arguing back and forth. Outside of playing in the old forest behind their Aunt and Uncle's cottage it was their favorite pastime.
Doreen began humming an old melody as they walked. The twins recognized it as the one she sang when she was feeling particularly happy. Charity joined in humming the harmony part bringing a pleased look from her Aunt and a raised eyebrow from her brother.
A mud ball spattered against Charity's shift accompanied by howls of jeering laughter.
“Darzin!” Adam whirled to face the direction the mud ball came from. “I know that laugh. He's in for it now.” He balled his fists and began walking towards a heavyset youngster with blond hair and pimples who was dancing back and forth on his toes while pointing at them. A number of boys of varying sizes were gathered behind Darzin also enjoying the joke. As the mayor's son he held a certain status among the village youth and used it to his advantage. Adam and Charity, like their Aunt and Uncle, refused to act the way people of their economic station were supposed to, thus making them natural targets to bullies like Darzin.
“Adam! Stop right there. Don't you stoop to their level.” His Aunt put a hand on his shoulder, halting his journey toward mayhem.
Charity looked at the ruin the mud ball made of her shift. Even though it was made of flour sacks, the small blue flowers in the field of white made it her favorite. Tears started to flow.
Darzin saw the result of his work and laughed all the harder. “Haaaa. Look at that. I made the little bitch cry I did. Wassa matter hunny bun? Did yer rags git all messy?”
Doreen gripped Adam's shoulder harder. “Pay no attention to him Adam. It's only words they can't bruise you. Be bigger than they are.”
“But...”
“No.”
The next mud ball hit Doreen in the back. “He's all yours Adam.”
“You let him do what?” The man shouting at Doreen stood over six feet tall, had thinning hair with a touch of gray and deep blue eyes which at the moment looked anything but friendly.
“I already told you Bal. I lost my temper. That little monster ruined my only good shift, not to mention Charity's as well. You don't know how sorry I am.”
“I'm sorry too Uncle Bal.” Charity looked up at her Uncle trying to look like she meant it. It had felt so good to finally see Adam get his own back, the bully got what was coming to him.
“Adam?” Bal looked down at his nephew.
He got a stubborn look in return.
“Adam!”
“All right! I'm sorry too, I guess.”
“You don't sound it.” His Uncle muttered.
“Please Bal. He, I mean, we were provoked.” Doreen brushed at the dried mud on her shift as it lay in her lap. “This is going to take a lot of washing.”
“Don't try to change the subject Doreen. As much as he's a disgusting little beast, Darzin is still the Lord Mayor's son. You letting Adam bloody his nose may have bought us a lot of trouble. We don't need that and you know it. You also know why.”
“I think I broke it.”
“What?” Bal turned unbelieving eyes on his nephew.
Adam shrugged. “I think I broke it. I heard something crunch on that last punch.”
“Oh that's just lovely!” Bal threw his hands up into the air. We're going to have to move, again.”
“That's ok. I don't like it here anyway.”
“Charity!”
“Neither do I.” Adam looked up at his uncle, ready for the worst.
Doreen looked at Bal. “I suppose my feelings make it unanimous.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, at the very least I'm going to have to talk to the Mayor about this. I don't want him sending the watch after us and I'd better stop by the butcher's, he owes me wages for most of this month. I've a feeling we're going to need them.”
Charity stood and walked over to the single window in the cottage. “I am going to miss the forest.”
* * * * “I don't care if you are sorry. That hooligan nephew of yours broke my boy's nose!” The Lord Mayor's normally florid face was beet red as he shouted at Bal. “He could have killed him! That boy should be locked away like the wild animal he is.”
“And Darzin's hurling mud balls at Charity and Doreen bears no weight in this?” Bal tried to keep his voice level in spite of the Mayors rage.
“You leave my boy out of this! He's the victim here. That slut you're married to and that little tramp have no bearing in this at all!”
Bal's voice was deceptively quiet. “What did you just call them?”
The Mayor caught the look in the tall man's face and knew he'd overstepped dangerously. He backpedaled rapidly. “N ... now Bal. You know my temper sometimes gets the best of me. I didn't mean to be insulting. You may be poor, but I know you're a man of letters and far too intelligent to resort to violence where reason can prevail.”
“Then you had better start reasoning with me soon Lord Mayor. I feel my letters slipping a bit.”
“I ... see.” The Mayor swallowed and looked at Bal once more. He seemed to loom taller than before and those shoulders did look awfully broad. “Uh ... well ... boys will be boys I suppose.” He worked at making his voice light and brisk. “Just the results of highjinks getting a little out of hand, shall we say? I mean, no one was really permanently injured, were they?”
“Not as far as I can tell.” Bal concurred, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps they wouldn't have to leave after all. “Why don't we just leave it at that?”
“Yes, yes. For the best, really. For the best. Well, I must be moving on to other matters.” The mayor checked his vest watch. “The village won't wait on my inattention long you know. A Mayor's work is never done.” The Lord Mayor's tone became more jovial as he felt himself edging back from the precipice.
Bal smiled dryly. “I'm sure. Good day to you Mayor.”
“Good day. Good day.”
“Blustery sort of fellow, isn't he?”
“Huh?” Bal looked down from the steps of the Mayor's office to see the storyteller looking up at him. “What are you talking about old father?”
The old man chuckled lightly as he reached up and scratched at his beard. “Old, I may be. But I'm neither frail nor deaf. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that the Lord Mayor's voice I heard not too long ago bellowing something about hooligan's and sluts? Wasn't it your nephew who was involved in a bit of a dust up with a certain fat man's son just this afternoon?”
Bal took the last of the steps to the street. “You have me at a disadvantage old father. You seem to know more of me than I know of you.”
The storyteller extended a hand. “A name is a good place to start. I've worn a number of them through the years, depending upon the occasion. On this one you may call me Naught.”
“It means Nothing. A strange name to go by.” Bal reached out and took the old man's hand. “Bal.”
“Yes, I know. Husband to Doreen and adoptive parent to twin brother and sister, Adam and Charity, though they call you Uncle.”
Bal felt his stomach tighten. This old man knew too much about he and his family. “Why?” He asked.
“A great deal of meaning in such a small word.” The old man who called himself Nought said, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to ask why I'm here, or why do I know you and your family's names?”
“The answer to both would be good.” Bal answered. “Along with the answer as to why this amount of interest in a man as poor as I.”
“Of course. Of course.” Nought bobbed his head in agreement. “Will you walk with me? It's a lovely afternoon, and I'd rather not spend it parked in front of the Mayor's steps, if you don't mind.”
The old man turned and began walking down the village street in the direction towards the cottage Bal and his family stayed in. A number of the village folk who'd listened to his stories hailed him as they passed by. Bal noticed the genuine pleasure the greetings gave the old fellow, and revised his opinion slightly, though a core of suspicion remained.
They'd walked nearly to the edge of the village before either spoke. It was Nought who broke the silence. First, by clearing his throat, then, “You needn't worry Bal. I'm not the one you're worrying about, nor am I one of his agents.”
“Then how...?”
The old man hummed in thought for a second. “Umm, maybe it's best I don't go into that too deeply as yet. What I can tell you, though, is that the one who placed those two lovely children in your care once called me friend.”
Bal's eyes widened. “Then you would be...”
“Not another word!” Nought snapped. “You've no idea who, or what may be listening. Those children are far too important, and you know it. This meeting is risky enough as it is.”
“I said much the same, not too long ago.” Bal replied, half to himself. “Very well, storyteller. Nought you wish to be, and Nought you'll remain, as far as I'm concerned, but you've answered both my questions.”
The old man nodded. “Good. Now tell me. Why did you teach them to read, knowing what trouble such a skill would bring them? You can barely afford the rent on your cottage, much less buy them books.”
Bal turned and looked the storyteller in the eye. “That's why we chose Beri. The school here is free to whoever chooses to go, young or old. A man, or woman, can learn to read and write, free of tariff. Besides, can you think of a more remote place? The people here don't even believe in Dwarves.”
“All very noble, I'm sure.” Nought grunted sourly. “So you raise a pair of children who fit their economic status about as well as an Eagle fits a chicken yard.”
“And Doreen and I do?” Bal bristled. “I'm no charlatan, and neither is she. What would it look like with them speaking as we do, yet illiterate? Then you'd have no eagle in the yard, but a goose.”
“Or a pair of them,at least.” Nought clapped Bal on the shoulder. “No, there's no fault in what you've done. In fact, it may be for the best.”
Bal's eyes widened. “A premonition?”
Nought shook his head, causing the long white hair under his floppy hat to swing about. “No, merely hope. An educated guess, if you will. Even in this world, a bright mind and a willing heart may grow to accomplish greatness, or, at the very least, a modicum of success. They appear to be good children, by any means.”
“They're more than that. They stand head and shoulders above the best this village has to offer. I think that has a part in the trouble they've had with some of the children here.”
“Envy grows a bitter crop at best, Bal, and if they face the road I think they will...” The old man let his voice trail off, but Bal finished the statement in his head, and swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
“What do they know of the world outside of their little village?” Nought asked casually, as they passed the stable master's shop.
“Almost nothing, I must confess. We've never spoken of our lives outside the village or of the Empire.” Bal shrugged. “We thought it best to concentrate on teaching them how to read and write, as well as some mathematics. Well, that and woodcraft, as well. Doreen and I won't live forever.”
“As far as I can tell, no one has yet, friend Bal,” The storyteller added sagely.
They walked the rest of the way to the cottage, lost in their own thoughts. The place where Bal and Doreen chose to raise their adopted niece and nephew stood at the edge of a small wood on the eastern side of the village of Beri. The cottage was described to them as cozy, which meant it was cramped, but the rent was right. The thatched roof had leaked when they first moved in, but Bal managed to patch them all with pitch, sweat and a few choice words he had learned in his earlier days. Doreen made sure it was kept scrubbed clean, and in spite of their poverty, Bal's skills at woodcraft made sure there was food for the table.
The scent of baking sweetroot met Bal and the storyteller as they turned into the path leading to the cottage. Nought breathed deeply of the aroma, pulling the mix of caramel and spice deep into his lungs. “Ahhhhhh, but that smells good.”
“You're welcome to share our table. There's always room for one more.”
“Even if there really isn't, hmm?” The storyteller replied.
“The creek behind the cottage usually has fish in it. A nice trout goes well with sweetroot. We've never gone hungry, nor have those we've taken in,” Bal said, with a touch of pride.
Nought sniffed the air once more. “I'm sure you haven't. I'm sure you haven't.” He smacked his lips in anticipation.
“The storyteller's here! Aunt Doreen. The storyteller's here!” The twins came running from around the backside of the whitewashed cottage.
Nought noticed they'd changed from their previous outfits to ones of rough woven burlap. The girl would have to be talked to. She was too well advanced in her puberty to be wearing such a loose weave. At least the boy had a decent breechcloth wrapped around him, and he was wearing a thong around his neck, with a small bag tied to it. Their feet were bare and stained green from the grass around the cottage. To the casual eye, they'd look to be simple country folk. Better and better.
Doreen came out of the door centered in the front of the cottage, wiping her hands on a piece of sacking. “Storyteller. You honor us.”
“We've an extra mouth for supper, Doreen.” Bal announced as he stepped inside the cottage. “I'll be down at the creek.”
The twins’ eyes grew large. “You're staying for supper? Here? With us?”
The old man chuckled. “Don't act so surprised. I'd walk twice the distance to have such an attentive audience. My stories are no fun at all if I've no one to share them with.”
* * * * Nought pushed himself away from the rough-hewn table. “Ahhh, yes. I don't believe I could eat another bite. That was simply amazing, Doreen. Who knew the humble trout could aspire to such gustatory heights?”
Doreen blushed under the compliment. “It wasn't all my doing, sire Nought. Bal caught them, and the children did the cleaning...”
“Don't be so modest my dear. Accept your due when it's offered. Folk get little enough of it in this world. You prepared a masterpiece, and I'm proud to say so.”
“Thank you, sire Nought.” Doreen's blush deepened.
“It was good, Aunt Doreen.” Charity affirmed the storyteller's praise.
“Real good.” Adam agreed, with his mouth full of sweetroot.
Bal stood up, taking his empty plate with him. “As my nephew, who insists on talking with his mouth full, said, real good, honey. You outdid yourself.”
Nought reached across the table, and picked up the pitcher of tisane. He poured a measure into the earthenware mug. “And you brew a fine tisane, as well. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was dining in one of the finer establishments of the bustling city of Beri.”
Doreen laughed behind her hands.
“You're a shameless flirt, storyteller, and you know it. But I thank you for brightening our home.” Bal took his plate over to a small sideboard with a shallow wooden basin sitting on it; He placed the plate into the basin. “Adam. Take the bucket to the creek, we've some dishes to wash.”
“What?”
“You know the rules. She cooked, we wash.”
“Yes, Uncle Bal.” Adam picked up the bucket, and trudged out of the cottage.
“Adam. Wait up.” Charity got up from her place at the table, and ran out after her brother. She caught up with him at the creek.
“Aren't you excited? We've got the storyteller all to ourselves. The best storyteller in the whole world!”
Adam didn't answer.
“Adam! Did you hear me?” Adam!”
“Shh!”
“Don't you shh me! You're not Uncle Bal, even if you are five minutes older you can't mmmpphhh!” Adam's hand over her mouth cut off what else she was going to say.
“Shh.” He whispered, “Listen. Don't you hear it?” He took his hand away from her mouth
“Hear what?” She whispered back.
Adam pointed across the creek into the deep of the wood. “Out there.” He kept his voice at a barely audible level. “I've never heard anything like it. It sends chills right through me, and it sounds big.”
Charity listened, trying to catch what her brother was hearing and she wished she hadn't. On the very edge of her hearing, was a snuffling, grunting sound. The pitch was bass deep, with an edge to it that grated along her nerves. Adam was right in his feeling. Whatever was making that sound was big ... and hunting.
“I wonder what it is? Could it be some kind of pig?” Charity breathed her question into Adam's ear.
“Never heard a pig sound like that.”
Charity saw the eyes first. “Adam!” She shrieked. “Look!”
He looked in the direction she pointed. A pair of glowing red spots was looking at them from out of a hulking black shape just across the creek.
Adam could feel his knees going weak. He grabbed his sister by the arm. “Come on. We're getting out of here.”
They turned to run back to the cottage, and slammed into two more of the things. The last thing Adam could remember thinking was that they smelled like one of the stray dogs in the village when they got wet.
* * * * “Ogren. It had to be Ogren.” Nought ran a hand over the trampled soil at the creek's edge.
“How many?” Bal held Doreen to him. He could feel the moisture of her tears against his shoulder.
“Are they dead?” She choked out the question.
The storyteller looked up and shook his head. “I don't think so. If the Ogren were going to kill them, we'd have found sure signs of it. Blood, at least, or a body part or two.”
“Nooo!” Doreen shrieked out.
“Nought!” Bal objected.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I tend to be a little too clinical, sometimes. It comes from storytelling, you know. What I was trying to say was, I believe the twins were taken alive, probably captive, and the poor things are probably scared witless. What concerns me is that He used Ogren to do it ... strange.” Nought rubbed a bit of the soil between his thumb and forefinger.
“How many?” Bal repeated his question.
“Eh? Oh, yes, you asked that earlier, didn't you? Three ... I think. Yes, three for sure. I think the sorcerer's involved in this. Ogren never cross the spine unless they're driven.”
“You have to find them. You have to.” Doreen pleaded with the storyteller.
“I'm going with you.” Bal looked grim.
Nought looked over his shoulder at Bal. “No, you won't. You and Doreen are going to pack up what belongings you have, and you are going to move as far away from here as you can. I would suggest Southpointe as an example. Gilgafed sent those Ogren. I'm sure of it now, and he never does anything in halfway measures. More will be coming after you, if I don't miss my guess, and unless you have a company of the watch to call on, you don't want to be here when they arrive.”
The mention of the sorcerer's name did not have the desired effect on Doreen. “But the children, Adam and Charity, what about them?”
“They're out of your hands, now!” Nought snapped. “What do I have to do to get you to think?”
Bal took his wife by the arm. “Come on, Doreen. It's up to him, now.”
Her eyes were huge. “You mean he's...?”
“That's exactly what I mean.”
“But he's dead!”
“Tell that to him. Let's go.”
The storyteller went back to his examination of the trampled ground. “Ogren.” He thought. “What is that fool Gilgafed playing at?” The beasts were temperamental at best, nearly as bad as Garlocs. He began to wonder if Bal and Doreen's keeping the twins ignorant of the world they were born into was wise, after all.
Nought looked over his shoulder, making sure Bal and his wife were well away. He then reached out a hand, and held it over the area where the Ogren sign was most prominent. The air under the palm of his hand began to glow. Beneath the hand, areas of the soil picked up the glow, forming the shapes of clearly defined hoof prints along with the bare footprints of two young humans. From the looks of things, the struggle was brief, and only three sets of prints left the area of the creek heading east. They were all hoofed.
He stood and straightened his robe. “If you've hurt them, Gilgafed, there won't be enough left of you to keep in a specimen jar.”
Sounds coming from the cottage told him Bal and Doreen were doing as they were told. They would be gone well before morning. Southpointe would do well by them. He made a mental note to make sure their economic status was considerably higher there than it had been in Beri, and then he snapped his fingers. A staff appeared in his right hand, ornately carved, with a wolf's head at the top. Softly whistling an ancient melody in a minor key, he began following the line of glowing prints, as they led him eastward into the Dwarflands.

Chapter Two
Charity woke to bouncing ... and the smell of wet dog. That snuffling, grunting sound was louder. In fact, it was right next to her. As her head cleared further, she realized she was being carried on someone's shoulder. She turned her head to look, and remembered why she was being carried.
The Ogren carrying Charity ignored her attempts to break free, as well as her shrieking into its goat-like ears. The heavy horns curling at the sides of its head protected its eyes from attack. But when she tried biting the ear next to her mouth, the Ogren rapped her on the head, knocking her back into unconsciousness.
The one carrying Adam's limp form turned and barked a question at its companion. A grunt answered him, and the Ogren continued on their way through the dark wood, and into the downs bordering the Dwarflands.
* * * * Pestilence, also known as the Fire Island, sits just over sixty miles off the eastern coast of the Verkuyl peninsula. A long-extinct volcano, it has been the home of Gilgafed the Sorcerer, for millennia. There, he bred his armies of Ogren, Golem and Trolls, along with other nameless creatures, waiting for the day when he would be able to take back the power that the philosopher King had wrested from him.
Now, it appeared that fortune had finally smiled, after long centuries of disdain. Unless he was terribly mistaken, he had finally found the last remaining scions of the house of Labad. A few of his Ogren were even now carrying them to his loving embrace.
The sorcerer reached out and pulled a velvet cord hanging next to the thickly padded chair he presently occupied. Scant minutes later a bedraggled-looking little man with a big nose, sparse mouse-brown hair and a nervous habit of dry-washing his hands appeared at the chamber door.
“You summoned me, master?”
“Ah, Cobain. You made good time. Yes, I did summon you. That's what the tinkly little bells mean when I ring them. You know where I keep my special brandies, do you not?”
Cobain knew, and inwardly he winced. Delivering one of the small casks meant a trip into the very bowels of the mountain, and then the long, long climb back to Gilgafed's chambers here at the top. “Yes ... Master. I know of them.”
Gilgafed chuckled and held out a coin-sized disk of vellum. “Bring me the two casks with those dates. The one I choose not to broach, you can return to its rest.”
“Yes, master. Thank you, master.” The servant took the disk and read the dates on it in resignation. Two trips to the catacombs. At least the master was in a good mood; perhaps he wouldn't be whipped if he dawdled a bit.
The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, and placed his feet onto the polished ebony desk before him. Now for the planning. After he had those two brats in his clutches, he could see about ending the life of that meddling Wizard with his tendency to butt in at usually the most inopportune time.
He laced his fingers together behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “What to do ... What to do.”
* * * * Nought followed the glowing prints of the Ogren across the downs east of Beri and into the Dwarflands. The beasts were maintaining a swift pace; swift enough that he was gaining little ground, if any, on the party.
“I think I'm going to need some help.” He mused. “The Dwarfs have no love of Gilgafed or his Ogren. Perhaps they won't like the idea of them trespassing.” He chuckled. “No, they won't like it at all.”
He stopped and reached into his tunic, pulling out an ornate, hand-sized mirror, which he placed onto the rock-strewn ground. He knelt in front of the mirror, and said a single word. “Show.”
The surface of the glass distorted, and then began to swirl in a counterclockwise motion. Flashes of scenery flickered through the distortion, and then steadied into a face looking back at the storyteller.
“Wizard. What means this?” The voice was deep with a gravel-like quality, but there was also a gruff friendliness in its tone. “I have business to attend to.”
“Rest assured, Galtru, this is no social call.”
“I assumed that, from the hideous hat you're wearing. Are you out scaring children with those foul tales you call stories, again?” The dwarf worked a finger into one of his ears and examined the result. “What disreputable name are you using this century, Milward? Bifflbug? Frustensketch? Nought?”
“Be nice,” he murmured, “a party of three Ogren are crossing your lands.”
“What is that to us?” Galtru shrugged. “As long as they cross them completely and keep to themselves, we care not.”
“They have a pair of captives I have a particular interest in; you may, as well, if I'm not mistaken.” The Wizard suggested.
The Dwarf looked unimpressed. “Unless they're the progeny of Labad himself, I've better things to occupy my time with, Wizard. Good journey.” He began to turn away from the point of the scry.
“What an amazing thing!” Milward, dropping the persona of Nought like a bad habit, exclaimed. “Right, the first time. Are you sure you're not a Seer?”
Galtru turned back to face the Wizard, with a scowl creasing his brow. “What are you saying, old one? Is senility finally creeping into that ale-sodden mind of yours? Speak plainly, for once. I'm a Dwarf, not a Dragon. I don't care for riddles.”
The Wizard nodded. “Very well, Galtru. Plain speaking, as you ask. Gilgafed finally succeeded in finding the scions of the house of Labad. It's his progeny tucked under the arms of those Ogren trotting across your lands. I followed them through the downs, but I fear I'm gaining no ground.”
“You could ride a horse.” The Dwarf said quietly.
“And you could marry a Garloc. What will it be, Galtru? Will you aid me, or not? The sun is beginning to rise. They're going to start looking for a place to hide.”
“Keep your temper, Wizard. No, the Dwarves will not shirk their responsibility. We've guarded Labad's heritage for over a millennia, we're not going to fail in our task because of a few clumsy Ogren that managed to stumble across your charges.” Galtru's smile was bleak.
Milward bowed his head to the Dwarf's image in the glass. “I am obliged to you, Galtru. I leave the details to you. One other thing before I go.”
“Ask, Milward. I may, or may not answer.” The Dwarf's expression revealed nothing.
“This heritage you've been guarding, what is it?”
“That is our concern, Wizard. You do your part, we'll do ours.”
The Wizard ended the scry. “Damn obstinate Dwarves. They'd sooner roast alive than reveal a secret.”
He picked up the glass and placed it back into his tunic. The rising sun cast long shadows into the grassy hills west of him. A calling bird greeted the dawn with its hooting cry. Shading his eyes against the sun's light, Milward gazed in the direction the kidnappers trail led. He almost felt sorry for the Ogren. Almost.
* * * * “Stop poking me.” Adam cried out sleepily. The nightmares had finally gone away, and he wanted to stay asleep as long as possible.
The poke came again, and by reflex he lashed out with a foot by reflex. The barking grunt of pain that answered his kick pulled him fully awake.
A creature out of one of the stories they used to hear in the village writhed on the ground in front of him. Two others like it stared at him in the dim light. They were big. Much bigger than Uncle Bal. Their faces looked like a goat's, but they had tusks like that of a boar. Their broad chests were covered with rudely sewn hides, and their loins were hidden behind knee britches sewn together just as haphazardly. Horns curled like those of a ram sprouted from each side of the forehead, and curled back into a coil above the floppy, goat-like ears. The feet appeared to be split-hoofed and heavy. Thick curly hair covered what skin he could see, and the stink coming from them told him where the wet dog smell originated.
In spite of the injury he'd done to their companion, the other two creatures seemed indisposed to intervene. Adam tried to get a bearing on where he was and what was going on.
It looked like he was in a cave of some sort. The dim light ‘s source came from behind the two beasts before him. Underneath him, the floor of the cave was sandy and dry, but he could hear a faint sound of water dripping.
“Ohhhh.”
The soft moan sounded like his sister. “Charity. Charity!”
One of the beasts, the one on the left, barked at him as he raised his voice, so he tried again, speaking more softly, “Charity.”
“Ohhhh. Adam? That you? Where are we? Where's the storyteller?”
The beast on the floor of the cave continued to writhe back and forth. The sound of its groans faded into whimpers, and yet, the other two still ignored its distress.
Adam tried to make out Charity in the dim light. Her voice seemed to come from a patch of darkness behind and to the left of the two beasts remaining standing. “Charity. Wave your hand. I can't see where you are.”
“Here I am. Over here. See me?” A shape moved in the darkness where he thought her voice was coming from.
“Ok. I see you. You ok?”
The beast standing closest to Charity moved before she could answer, and picked her up by the back of her burlap shift. She screamed as she was lifted into the air.
“Hey!” Adam moved without thinking of the size of his opponent, and found himself batted back against the wall of the cave he woke up against. His head swam, and lights danced before his eyes.
Whumpp! “Oooofff!” Charity landed beside him. Apparently, their captors felt it was ok to talk to each other, just not too loudly.
“You ok?” Adam repeated his question, this time in a whisper.
“Yeah, I guess. What are those things?” Charity nodded her head at the two Ogren standing before them. “Why did they take us?”
“I don't know. All I've got are questions, and no answers.”
“Adam, I'm scared.” Charity pulled herself against her brother's arm.
“Me, too, Charity. Me, too.”
* * * * The Dwarf peered over the outcropping into the cavern mouth below his ledge. As Galtru had said, the human children were within sight of the boundaries of Dwillkillion. They sat below his vantage point at a depth of about four ax lengths, and there were three Ogren guarding them, though one of them appeared to be suffering from a stomach ailment of some kind. That is, unless the children were made of sterner stuff than they appeared ... He looked more closely and nodded, grunting to himself in satisfaction.
One of the Ogren barked a question at their captives, asking if they wished to be fed. Apparently the beasts were under orders to deliver them alive and in good health. Better and better. This gave them a few hours to plan and prepare. If these were the children of the prophecy, it would not do well to have them die while being rescued.
Another bark. Ogren were not patient. If the children didn't understand they were being spoken to, there was every chance the beast doing the asking would simply throw them a piece of carrion, and then ignore them until nightfall.
He pulled back from the ledge, and silently made his way back into the passages carved into the living rock by his ancestors in ages past. What he had seen needed to be passed on. Once he got into a main branch, he was able to pick up speed. A couple of more hours at a brisk jog would take him back to where Galtru and the others waited.
Other Dwarves nodded at him as he passed them by, but no words were spoken in greeting. A running Dwarf is not to be distracted, period.
By the time his internal clock read mid-morning, he was broaching the outskirts of Dwillkillion. Those of his folk in the passages who saw him stepped aside to allow him room to pass. A couple of times he had to step to the side, himself, to give way to another messenger en route the opposite direction.
Half an hour later he was in the great cavern, and had to slow his progress due to the number of Dwarf folk out and about. The noise of their voices filled the immense space, along with the background sound of the numerous waterfalls that emptied into the black lake below.
Dozens of narrow bridges crisscrossed back and forth within Dwillkillion's expanse, some of them, nearly a mile across, bridged the widest parts of the cavern. The one he chose was comparatively short, only a dozen or so yards long. Galtru's rooms faced the interior of the cavern several doors over to the right from where the bridge met the wall.
The senior Dwarf was pacing back and forth in the front room when the messenger came in. He looked up at the entrance and stopped, facing the runner with his hands clasped behind his back. “Report. How many?”
“Three, one slightly injured. They hide in the cave above the shallow lake.”
“The scions?”
“Twins, whole, the boy appears to be wearing the amulet.”
Galtru's eyebrows shot up. “So? Then it begins.”
“It begins.” The messenger repeated and turned to leave. He paused, and then turned back to face the older Dwarf.
“You wish something.” Galtru made it a statement rather than a question.
“Yes.” The reply came out slowly.
“What is it, Knurl?”
“The human children ... They are the promise. Are they not?”
Galtru shook his head. “Too early to tell. Being of the blood and being the promise are different things. If the boy does wear the amulet, that is one thing in their favor. That they share the same egg is another, but there are more signs to be fulfilled. Time will tell, young Knurl. You can be sure of that. First, we must deal with the Ogren.”
Knurl's grin was anything but friendly.
* * * * Because of the Ogren's obvious intent to do them no real harm, Adam and Charity found themselves drifting off to sleep in snatches of drowsiness that brought no rest at all. The food, if it could be called that, thrown at them by their captors consisted of bits of rancid flesh clinging to bones that looked greenish in the dim light. When they refused to eat it, the beast offering it to them added the bones to its own meal.
The one Adam had kicked in the privates recovered eventually from the experience, but it kept a wide berth between itself and the boy's feet.
On occasion, one of the party would duck outside the cave, and then return a minute or so later. Charity thought that they were checking the time by looking at the sun. On one of those times, two of the beasts left the cave, and the one remaining appeared to be slumbering.
She nudged Adam in the side with an elbow. “Hsst. Adam.” She whispered into his ear while keeping an eye on their lone captor.
“Mmmpphh? Huh? What is it?” Adam jerked out of his doze with a start.
“There's only one of them in here now, and it's not paying attention. Let's sneak away.” Charity tugged lightly at the sleeve of his burlap tunic.
“Where to? The others are probably right outside. They'd grab us as quick as a meal if we tried sneaking past ‘em.” Adam whispered back.
“What about further back into the cave?” Charity nodded her head in that direction.
“Is there anywhere to go, further back? What if those things lose their tempers? I don't want to be their next snack.” Adam snuck a look at the Ogren across the cave from them. Its chin rested on the broad chest as it snored softly.
“Well, I think it's worth a try, at least. We couldn't be any worse off than we are now.” Charity tugged at her brother's arm. “Let's go now, while we have a chance.”
Adam leaned into the direction of the tug, and followed his sister back into the cave. The dozing Ogren snorted once, nearly scaring the water out of both of them, and then subsided.
“That was close.” Adam eased out as he caught his breath.
They worked their way further back into the recesses of the cave where the shadows deepened from dusk gray into midnight black, just as the other two Ogren came back in.
Charity stifled a shriek, but even that small sound reached the beasts’ sensitive ears, and they swiveled to face the twins location, barking out a series of sounds that sounded like they meant, “Stop! City watch!”
At the others’ call the third member of the Ogren party woke with a start and bounded upright sniffing the air in alarm. Something above caught its attention, and it sniffed again. The yellow-irised eye widened, and it cried out to the other two, but by then it was too late. The cave became filled with Dwarves bristling with sharp-edged weaponry.
Adam and Charity were grabbed by Dwarves, and pulled further into the cave depths. Charity shrieked, and Adam cried out, striking at the ones who held them, trying to break free, but the grip of the Dwarves equaled the Ogren in power, even though the little folk only stood knee high to the beasts in height.
To the twins, the next few moments became a blur of disorientation. They were transferred from Dwarf to Dwarf as the folk of the caverns placed them further from the scene of battle. One Dwarf pushed first Adam, and then his sister, into a recess next to a small waterfall. An unpleasant sharpness tinted the mossy smell of the air, like old powdered stone.
Charity clung to her brother as she tried vainly to see through the gloom. She could hear the sounds of battle, with the harsh cries of the Dwarves mixing with the barking growls of the Ogren. Whoever had shoved them into the darkness now seemed to be leaving them alone. Her stomach churned as she fought to keep the panic from overtaking her. She hoped she wasn't going to sick up. That would be just too embarrassing on top of everything else.
“Adam.” She tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she spoke his name.
“I'm here.” He patted her shoulder.
A whack on the arm was his reward. “Hey! That hurt.”
“It should have. I know you're there, lummox. I just wanted your attention.”
“Ok, you've got it.”
A long gurgling scream cut through the blackness. The twins tightened their grip on each other reflexively, and stepped back into nothingness.
* * * * Gilgafed watched the butchering of his Ogren in helpless fury. Damn those interfering Dwarves. He should have expended more energy during the magik war, and wiped the last of the miserable little things from the face of the world when he had the backing and the power to do so. Years of planning and preparation, whole hogsheads of blood, and weeks at a time spent in sleepless toil to find the skrudding brats, and now it was all for nothing.
The scry shifted its focus from the lopsided battle and the sea of iron helms to ... blackness.
“What is this?” He tapped the ornate frame that held the glass. “Reveal them to me. Now!”
The glass remained black, and then it shattered, as the sorcerer's fist smashed into the middle of the inky surface.
“Cobain!” He held his lacerated knuckles to his mouth. “Cobain! Where are you, you worthless piece of offal? If you don't show that horrid little face of yours in the next few ... Ah, there you are. Get over here, now!”
“You called, my mas ... Master! Your hand! Here, let me tend it for you!” Gilgafed's servant pulled a towel from his belt, and rushed to the sorcerer's side, attempting to staunch the bleeding.
He was rudely pushed away for his trouble. “Leave it! I can fend for myself. Give me that towel!” Gilgafed ripped the other end of the towel from Cobain's hand. “Bring me another scryglass, and Bardoc help you if you're not here within the non.”
Cobain swallowed, his large Adams apple bobbing with the motion. “Yes ma ... master. Right away, master. I'm going now, master.” He bolted from the chamber, nearly stumbling in his haste.
Gilgafed turned back to look at the ruin his fist had made of the scryglass. As he bent to pick up the pieces, his mind turned over the problem of the twins. Perhaps he needn't have to see them to deal with the problem they represented. Maybe one of the wyrms ... yes ... One of the wyrms would do nicely.
“Cobain!”
* * * * Under the Sorcerer's prodding, the Fire Wyrm woke from its long sleep, hungry and cranky. It took only a small portion of the power to send it in the right direction. Satisfied, Gilgafed ended the scry, causing the glass to become an ordinary mirror again. Pouring a goblet of blood red wine, he settled into his chair, and sipped. Perhaps dinner should be brought early; one might as well eat along with one's scaly friend.
* * * * The ground fell away beneath Adam, and then he was in water. Its icy chill shocked him, and he took some in with a breath. He clawed his way back to the surface, choking and gasping, just in time to get most of the splash from Charity. A ledge of rock lay before him, and he reached for it in desperation, not realizing at the time that he could see.
Out of the water, he looked wildly around for Charity, calling her name. She answered behind him. Spinning around, he saw her climb onto the ledge, spitting water and shivering.
“Where are we? What is this place?” Charity hugged herself, her teeth chattering with the cold.
“It looks like one of the caves Uncle Bal used to tell us about, but he never told any stories about them having glowing walls.” Adam walked over to a stalagmite that topped him by a good foot or more. The surface of it was coated with lichen that gave off a blue-green glow. The overall effect was like being under deep water, and still able to breathe. He had no idea where he and Charity were, and no idea how to begin to find out.
A sound came out of the background, causing the short hairs on the back of Adam's neck to stand up. “Charity, do you hear that?”
“Hear what? Water dripping?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Charity listened. She heard the sound of dripping water, but that was a continuous background noise in the cavern. Behind that ... there was a faint hissing. Her gut tightened, and a nameless dread filled her heart. That sound ... She turned in the direction it came from, and her breath caught in her throat. A monster out of nightmare towered over them. The hissing came from its mouth, which gaped open, showing multiple rows of needle teeth. Frothing slime dripped from the mouth, and added its own hiss as it struck the water. The monster's breath smelled of sulfur and something worse.
Adam was rooted in place like a mouse facing a snake. His feet would not obey his commands to run. The thing rose above him, its head at least the size of a large calf. Tendrils writhing like eels grew out of its cheeks behind a growth at the end of the jaw, curved like a knife. The long neck was segmented with armor-like plates topped and winged with more of the blades; One set of three for each segment. Its huge glowing eyes fixed on them as it reared back, swaying.
The head reached forward, jaws distended, ready to engulf its prey, and Adam knew he was about to be eaten. A blow to his side shocked him out of his paralysis as he heard the monster's jaws click shut.
Charity helped him to his feet. Her tackle had knocked him aside, causing the strike to miss. “Come on, Adam. Run!”
He ran, keeping pace with his sister. Fear lent wings to their feet, and terror gave them stamina. They reached a passage too small for their pursuer to enter, and ducked into it. The Wyrm's scream of frustration echoed off the cavern walls around them.
* * * * Charity's side hurt, and her lungs burned. Her toes hit a rock, and she stumbled, catching herself on an outcropping to avoid landing on the rocky floor. She called out to Adam. “Wait.”
He slowed and stopped, then turned and came back to her. “You OK?” He knelt down to help her up.
The tears began, and she sobbed. “No, I'm not OK. That dreadful thing is back there, you almost got eaten by it, and we're lost, and we'll never see Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal again, and I want to go home!” The last came out in a wail as she buried her face into Adam's tunic.
He didn't know what to do. Fighting for Charity's honor was one thing, but this!? Charity had cried before, especially after some of Darzin's more vicious teasing, but he still had no idea how to deal with a crying girl, and no adult was around to help make things better. So Adam did what he could, and just held onto her while she cried.
The sobs continued on for a considerable time while Charity cried out her grief and fear. Adam held her, and tried to think of something to do to make his twin feel better. Eventually the sobbing slowed, and then came to a stop. He unwrapped Charity's arms from his neck, and leaned back to look into her eyes. “Are you OK now? Can we go on?”
Charity sniffed, “I'm OK.” She stood up. “Let's go.” They had no planned direction in mind. She just wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and that thing in the pool.
A smaller branching of the cavern opened off to their left. Its interior was bathed in darkness, but a glow at its far end showed more of the light-producing lichen. Charity ducked her head, and crawled through, with Adam close behind.
Charity exited the narrow tunnel, and stood up. This cavern was a little brighter than the one with the pool. The lichen glowed yellow-white giving their skin the look of a man dying from too much drink. The ceiling arched far above, and bore the weight of scores of stalactites, some of them extending to meet their mate rising from the floor.
“Adam. Look over there.” Where Charity pointed, an even brighter patch of light reflected off the cavern wall. Its sourcewas hidden behind a limestone pillar that joined ceiling to floor.
Her twin looked at it suspiciously. Once burned ... He strained his ears, but could hear nothing. Charity was moving toward the pillar, so he quickened his steps to catch up, trying to avoid the miniature points that littered the cavern floor. He caught up with her as she peered around the pillar.
“Oh, Adam. It's beautiful.”
His gasp said he agreed. They looked upon a wonder and a treasure beyond all dreams of avarice. Stretched out before them lay an Emerald geode easily twice the height of a tall man. The deep green crystals ranged in size from a finger to over a span across. Initially, the glare seemed blinding, but it soon became bearable as their eyes readjusted from the dimness of the caverns. A spot of bright blue from the geode's ceiling explained the reason for the light; they were looking at sky.
“If we could get up there, we could get out.” Adam pointed at the patch of blue.
Charity looked where he pointed, and shook her head. “If. Problem is, we can't fly.”
Adam sighed. “Yeah.” He looked around the floor of the geode to see if there were any loose crystals. He found a few tucked into the join of two of the larger ones, and pulled them out one by one, carefully avoiding the sharp edges on either side.
He held one of them up into the light. Its length matched his little finger. One of the jewels could probably purchase the butcher's shop where Uncle Bal worked, and all the meat within it, and he held three of them in his hands.
He looked at Charity, and shrugged. “In case we get out of here.”
* * * * Gilgafed shook his head, but the feeling grew stronger. It niggled at him like a bug crawling under his silks. He pushed the platter away, and stood up. The pleasures of the flesh would have to wait; his mind was involved elsewhere now.
A curving flight of stone steps joined his bedroom to the scrying chamber. He took them two at a time, commanding the image to appear even as he entered the small room. The shaping flowed over the glass, warping it into a bridge between dimensions. It was a matter of mere will to center upon the disturbance. The mists swirled clockwise, then reversed direction and parted to reveal the children picking their way through his geode. A bubble of irritation formed in his belly. So, his Wyrm had failed him. He sent another shaping along the Scrypath, this one with even more urgency, along with a promise of what would happen if he were disappointed again.
* * * * The twins, by dint of shear good fortune, made it through the geode without cutting their feet, though their sandals would need some attention later if they were to hold together. The cavern they entered spread higher and wider than the one before. It lacked the many stalagmites and stalactites of the previous cavern, but boasted a number of huge pillars with roots deep into ceiling and floor. The cavern extended off to their left, and branched with both avenues vanishing into shadow. They stood on a low plateau within the expanse. Another plateau of similar size covered the opposite wall. Between them lay a valley with a small stream running its length. The stream disappeared under a path that followed along the cavern's right hand wall, and formed into steps leading up to the opposite plateau. The steps looked like they'd been carved rather than shaped by nature.
They walked over to the edge to see where the path began, and a horrendous stench rising up from the valley floor met them. They fell back, choking and gagging.
Charity had never smelled anything so foul. Not even when Uncle Bal accidentally kicked over the chamber pot after his bout of dysentery, and that had been bad. Aunt Doreen had to scrub the floor with lye while she and Adam rinsed it with water drawn up from the creek.
Adam shook her by the shoulder while he held his other hand over his nose. He pointed across the valley. She saw nothing of particular interest. She tried to breathe as little as possible, and shook her head at him. He pointed again, pumping his arm for emphasis. Charity looked again, and she saw it. Just beyond the end of the stairs, a small patch of blue shone like a beautiful jewel in the wall of the cavern. She looked at Adam, and let out her breath in a whoosh. “How are we going to get over there?”
“Walk, I guess.”
“I can't do it. I'll sick up, I know I will.”
“I don't think we have any choice.”
“It smells horrible, can't you see what it is?”
Adam turned away from the plateau edge and took in a deep breath. Holding it in, he walked back to the edge and looked over. He turned a sudden white, and emptied his stomach, which caused Charity to do the same.
They lay there for some time, just gasping. Charity looked at Adam. He was pale and sweating. “What ... did ... you ... see?”
Adam looked like he would vomit again. Charity hoped not. She had nothing else to bring up but bile. He turned to look at her. His eyes looked haunted. “I think it belongs to that Dragon we ran away from. It looks like his chamber pot.”
“But there's no such thing as Dragons.”
Adam gulped, and he pointed behind her. “Tell that to him.”
Charity turned, and a small scream escaped from her. The beast was rounding the corner of one of the cavern's branches, hissing like steam being vented at the hot springs.
“The pit take that Dragon and his chamber pot. We're getting out of here.” Charity took hold of Adam's hand, and jumped over the plateau's edge, pulling Adam with her. The dung heap cushioned their fall wetly as they rolled and slid, squelching to the cavern floor.
Fear drove the stench from their minds as they scrambled away from the edge of the heap and ran along the path toward the steps leading to the patch of blue. They could hear the hiss of the Dragon closing in behind them.
The patch of blue showed clearly now, it lay at the end of a small tunnel cut into the cavern wall. The walls of the tunnel glistened with moisture. Charity thought she could hear birdsong coming through the opening, while the thump of the Dragon's feet grew louder behind her. She saw Adam dive headfirst into the tunnel, and dove in after him. The moss lining the tunnel made for a slippery ride downward towards the light.
Behind her the Dragon roared. The sound was deafening inside the tube. She heard a splash, and then she was in daylight and falling. A gout of searing flame erupted from out of the tube, scorching the air above her, and then she hit water.
* * * * The Sorcerer threw his goblet against the mirror, smashing the glass, ending the shaping, and spattering red wine across the priceless tapestry next to the frame. He ignored the loss, as well as the wine dripping onto the ivory inlay of the floor. “Cobain!” His servant would take care of the mess. Blast that Wyrm to the pit and beyond. What he'd done to it had satisfied his temper, slightly, but now he was going to have to hatch and train another of the stinking things. It would be nearly a day or more before he could shape that strongly again, and so he had to rely on more mundane solutions to his problem.
A thought struck him, and he reached out to pull a velvet cord rich with silver embroidery. Trolls should do the job.
He felt better already.
* * * * The water felt cool, and smelled of fresh herbs. Adam kept himself crouched low, so only his eyes and nose showed above the surface. His gaze stayed locked onto the opening in the cliff wall. A tendril of smoke wafted up from a scorch mark at its top edge.
Charity swam over and joined him behind the cattails. “It's been long enough, I think we're safe.”
“Are you sure?”
Charity stood up. The water came up to her hips. She sniffed herself. “Sure enough to take the time to scrub this gunk off of me.”
Adam rose out of the water, and sniffed himself. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “I see what you mean.”
They saw a cluster of what Aunt Doreen called soap bush growing along the edge of the creek. They tore some of the leaves away, and rubbed them against their skin and clothes. Bubbles and a sweet fragrance formed under the scrubbing, breaking up the slime clinging to them, and washing it away in the current.
It took a while, but finally they were clean, and they climbed out of the creek and took stock of their surroundings. The creek they'd landed in ran along the base of a cliff that rose vertically, ending in a slight overhang several yards above them. Cattails grew thickly in clumps on the side away from the rock, and a forest of mixed trees stood well away from the creek, with a narrow field of tall grasses and wildflowers before it. Songbirds mixed their melodies into a choral as butterflies sampled the wildflowers.
“I wish Aunt Doreen could see this.” Charity walked through the grasses, stooping now and again to smell a flower.
Adam patted himself down, and gave a small cry of triumph. “Ha! They're still here.” He held up one of the Emeralds. “See.”
Charity looked at the green stone. “I see.” She said softly.
“What's wrong?”
A tear traced a path down her cheek. “I don't believe we'll ever see our village again. I think we've been magiked like one of the stories Uncle Bal used to tell us at bedtime.”
Adam put the Emerald away, and wiped a trickle of water away from his eyes. “No, we're not. This is probably just the other side of our forest. All we need to do is find the sun, and then we can tell which direction to go.” He smiled. “We might even find ourselves home in time for supper.”
She gave him a small pout. “Now you've made me remember how hungry I am.”
Adam puffed up his chest, feeling every inch the older brother. “Don't worry, we'll find something to eat in the forest. Berries, at the very least.”
* * * * The trolljin helper saw them enter the wood from the pasture, and followed them, leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree. It's long, scaled tail helped to balance the leaps through the treetops. The creature had no real thoughts as to why it must follow the boy and girl, only a desire to fulfill the purpose. So it kept them in sight, trusting in its mottled green and brown coloration to shield it from prying eyes.
The boy and girl rummaged through the bushes, and brushed fallen leaves aside near the trunks of the trees. They appeared to be looking for something. When the boy called the girl over to a Redberry bush heavy with fruit, the trolljin saw it was food they looked for. It had no use for fruit, but it knew what hunger was.
A raven landed in a branch next to it, and began to preen. The bird had only time for a short squawk before its neck was broken and the head was torn from the body. Raven was not a favorite meat but it would serve for a meal before completing the task the troll had set before it.
* * * * “These look like Red Huckleberries, but they taste different.” Adam popped another of the bright red berries into his mouth.
“They're food, that's good enough.” Charity chewed another handful. The berries were sweeter than the huckleberries near their cottage. She reached out to pluck some more, and then pulled back her hand. “I'm getting tired of these; let's go see if we can find something different.”
Adam had not tired of the red berries. Huckleberries, even very sweet ones like these were one of his favorite treats, but he didn't want Charity breaking into tears again, so he stripped a branch of its fruit, and pushed the lot into his mouth. “OK,” he mumbled around the mouthful, “Let's go.”
For someone with a little woodsman's knowledge, the forest offered up a buffet of choices. A wide variety of fruit and nut trees grew within sight of the path. Under fallen leaves and attached to the trunks of trees sprouted a number of edible mushrooms. Wild potato and Sunchoke could be found with just a little digging, and Sweet Pea vines seemed to be everywhere where a patch of sunlight shone.
The twins were fortunate to have had the early training Uncle Bal had given them in woodcraft, for along with the edibles, the forest offered the unwary snacker several unpleasant ways to die.
Charity crunched a wild potato while they walked. “I don't think I've ever eaten so much in my life.”
“I don't think so, either.” Adam let loose with a loud belch.
“Scuz you.”
“Sorry. The path forks up ahead. Which one do we take?”
Charity bounced a forefinger back and forth. “Eenie, meanie ... The one on the right?”
“Suits me.”
They took the chosen fork, and nearly collided with a strange little man coming the opposite direction, and carrying a parcel on his back.
He was very short, only coming up to their waist, but had shoulders at least twice as broad as Adam's. A bushy, orange-red beard brushed his knees, and the long hair of his head hung down his back in two thick braids. The muscles on his arms matched those that corded his legs, and he wore a stained mail shirt over a tightly knitted wool tunic. The tunic was belted at the waist with a thickly studded leather strap. The tunic's hem fell below the dwarf's knees into a kind of kilt, and his feet were bare of any covering, but horny with callus.
The Dwarf stopped short, and scowled at the twins, looking them up and down. Then he blew through his mustaches and pulled the parcel off his back. He thrust it towards them as he said in a gruff, strangely accented voice. “You're the ones. Take this.”
Adam took the parcel automatically, not knowing what to say. The little man abruptly turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Charity gaped. “Wha...? Who ... What was that all about?”
Adam knelt and began unwrapping the parcel. It was of fine linen, yellowed with age, and bound with twine. Charity knelt to help with the untying. Inside the parcel lay a sword within a belted scabbard beautifully worked with gold and Emeralds. Next to the scabbard lay a longbow of carved Yew, with enameled tips and a quiver filled with arrows. The arrows were finished with burgundy fletchings and ivory nocks.
A second parcel of linen lay folded within the first. As Adam pulled the sword from the scabbard, Charity unfolded the parcel. Her gasp drew Adam's attention from the sword.
“Clothes. Real clothes.” Charity held up a tunic of fine white linen.
“Look at this. Boots!”
“Feel how soft they are.”
“Trousers! They look new!”
Each of them chose an appropriate bush for cover, stripped out of their rags, and quickly put on the clothing. They spent a good long while looking at themselves and at each other in their new outfits, assuring each other that the King and Queen themselves never wore finer.
The clothing was actually of the kind worn by working class people of middle means. It consisted of a good, long-wearing tunic, jackets and trousers of a heavier material woven to take the wear and tear of daily life. There were also tall boots with a fold-over cuff of softened leather, and with a heel and sole of hardened leather, and a hooded woolen cloak, large and heavy enough to use as a blanket on the open road.
Adam discovered an amulet on a chain with a small note attached. The note said simply for the boy's stone. He took the strapped pouch off, and slipped the chain over his head. In the center of the amulet was an opening approximating the size and shape of his rock, so he tried placing his rock into the opening, round face first. There was a click, and the stone became firmly joined as the centerpiece of the amulet. A brief flash of brilliance washed across the polished surface of the stone and was gone.
“Charity. Did you see that?”
“No. I was trying to read this note.” She held up a parchment that looked to be written upon with brown ink. “I can read the other one because it's like the letters Aunt Doreen taught us, but this one has writing of a type I've never seen before.”
“What other one?”
She held up a smaller parchment. It was written in the same hand as the larger, but Charity was right, these letters he could read. They said:
I write this assuming the Dwarves have fulfilled their obligation, yet to be done, to me. I write this also knowing my death is sure, as sure as this breath I take. You are of my kin though you know me not. Nor could you ever, for the mists of centuries separate us, and my bones are now dust...
* * * * The trolljin crouched low on the branch, gathering its legs beneath it for the leap. Its tail twitched, cat-like, and it sprang, claws extended, reaching.
* * * * A creature resembling a cross between a cat and a lizard bred with a monkey slammed into Adam, knocking him to the ground. Leaping from his back, it grabbed the scabbard from the parcel, and dashed toward the bushes, trailing the prize after it. Charity stepped into its path and grabbed at the scabbard. The Trolljin struck back at her with a snarl, and then all Adam could see was a churning whirl of the creature and his sister blended into a hissing, spitting, screaming scrum.
The sword and scabbard lay where the creature had dropped it, the belt folded beneath. Adam picked them up and measured his target, waiting for the right moment. The moment came, and he swung, catching the creature alongside the skull. It gave a hissing yowl of pain, and fell onto its side, whimpering.
Adam braced himself, holding the scabbard like a club. Charity got to her feet checking for scratches. The creature looked at Adam with hatred glaring out of its yellow eyes. It looked to be gathering itself for another charge, so he took a step towards it as he pulled the sword from the scabbard. The thing started back in fear, turned and vanished into the brush.
* * * * Gilgafed watched the trolljin run from the boy. Why did they choose one of their pets to do the job? His rage at the stupidity of trolls pounded in his temples, and he berated himself for choosing to allow his temper get the best of him earlier. Now he had no power to eliminate this threat personally, at least not until his rest was complete. He cut off the shaping with a twist of his mind, and turned back to his studies. There was something he'd read concerning the Shadow Realms...
* * * * ...I have watched your lives. They have disturbed my rest for many seasons. I cannot tell you how to walk the paths destiny has set before you, for both tragedy and triumph await you. Yet I can, through my faithful Dwarves, give you tools to aid your way. I know you will be man and woman ... in time. My sword is the man's, my bow, for the woman. I caution you to obey me in this completely, though your feelings will guide you. Test them, you will see the truth in what I write.
I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can. May the creator guide your steps within the balance. Let the rule of three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. Keep safe the vision I have penned, the wolves and the Winglord will show you its truth.
I am, Labad, Lord of the known lands, Philosopher King.
Adam gently rolled the small parchment inside the larger one, and tucked them into the inside pocket of his cloak, and closed the seal. “You're right, you know.”
Charity looked up from inspecting her scratches. “About what?”
“About us being magiked. That thing that tried to steal this,” He held up the sword. “It's not in our world; Dragons and Dwarves are only in the stories Uncle Bal told us.” He pulled one of the Emeralds out of his belt pouch. “Where we found these is not a part of our world. And this,” He patted his cloak where he put the parchments. “Tells us it was all planned by a King who claims he's our ancestor.”
“Prophesied, not planned.”
“Doesn't matter. We're still here.” Adam looked stubborn.
Charity counted to five, and eased her temper down. She didn't want to get into an argument with Adam over a choice of which word was correct. She decided to change the subject. “Can I hold the sword?”
“Why? The note said it was for me.” Adam felt a surge of protectiveness well up concerning the weapon.
“It also said for us to test our feelings about them. I want to see what he meant by that.” She held out her hand, and smiled. “I'll give it back.”
After a brief hesitation, he held the sword out to her hilt first. She took it and handed it back immediately, shivering. “Ewww. I never want to touch it again. It made me feel ... all crawly.”
“I guess the King knew what he was talking about.” Adam resheathed the sword.
“Here, try the bow.” Charity held it out to him.
Adam recoiled. “No, thank you.” Just the thought of handling the bow had become repulsive.
Charity gave in to a mischievous notion, and began chasing he twin around the area with the bow held like a rapier. They continued like this until they both fell down laughing and puffing, the earlier moodiness forgotten.
* * * * The shadows in the forest began to lengthen, signaling the coming of sundown. The twins walked along the path, looking for a sheltered place to curl up for the night. The path bent to the right in a long, lazy curve. To the left side of the path, the ground began to curve upwards to form a knoll. A grouping of large boulders settled against the leeward side of the knoll backed up by a Blueberry patch that promised a fine breakfast in the morning. One of the boulders leaning against its brothers created a nice space for a pair of tired walkers to bed down in.
Adam pulled the edge of his cloak over his shoulder, and snuggled into its folds. “Good night, sis.”
“G'night, big brother. Sweet dreams.” Her voice faded away into soft snores.
Adam lay there listening to the sounds of Charity's sleeping, with the nocturnal creatures of the forest adding their own background harmonies. He drifted off with Charity's sweet dreams echoing in his mind.
In the morning, the blueberries proved to be as sweet as they looked. Charity reached up for a branch loaded with some as large as a copper, and stopped. “Adam. Do you hear that?”
He finished chewing a mouthful of berries, and swallowed. “No.”
Charity cocked her head. “There's something coming through the trees, over there.” She pointed to the Southeast.
Adam held still and listened. There was something. He heard the snapping and cracking of branches breaking. A premonition of danger came over him, and increased as the sounds grew louder. He turned and ran back to the rocks, gesturing to Charity to follow. He ducked back into their sleeping hole, pulling Charity in with him. They lay flat, and waited to see what would come out of the wood.
From their vantagepoint on the knoll, the twins could see the tops of many of the trees, with a good view in the direction of the sound. Adam swept his eyes back and forth, the feeling of doom growing stronger with each passing minute. “There!” He breathed a whisper to Charity.
She looked in the direction he indicated. The tops of the trees were shaking back and forth as if something was pushing through them. A sudden flash of orange caught Charity's eye. She turned her head, and whispered in Adam's ear. “Did you see anything?”
Adam didn't answer. He just pointed.
Charity turned her head back, and stifled a gasp. Two huge creatures pushed the tops of the trees edging the path aside, and stepped out onto it. Their skin was mottled like the thing that had tried to steal Adam's sword, but with a sickly orange, olive green and chartreuse combination that made her think of the results after sicking up a carrot stew. One had a face finished off with a beak like that of a Nuthatch, if a Nuthatch also had teeth. The other one had a snout like a pig with large upward curving tusks. They seemed to be looking for something, uprooting smaller trees and bushes to see what was behind them, and splashing around with their huge clawed hands in the small creek that ran near the path.
Adam's feeling of fear coalesced into a dread that spread through his belly like cold fire. He saw the things turn towards the knoll, and begin to walk up it. His vision blurred as he was struck by a sudden flash of pain that shot through his head. Charity nudged him in the side. “Adam. They're going away.”
* * * * “Damn them!!” His fist flew towards the scrying glass but stopped short of smashing it. He had to control himself. His strength was now back enough to enable him to take care of this problem, and then deal with the Trolls about their stupidity. Their hides would make for colorful upholstery in his sitting room.
The sorcerer built the shaping slowly, layer by layer until the power tingled on the surface of his skin. He moved the focus of the scry from the point where the Trolls were, back to where the twins lay, and released the power.
* * * * “Ow!” Adam rolled over and felt his chest.
“What happened?” Charity turned away from watching where the huge creatures had disappeared into the wood, to see the cause of Adam's outcry.
“Something bit me.” He rubbed the area, and then opened his tunic. The pain came from his chest behind where the amulet lay. He moved it, and found a small burn mark the size of his father's rock.
* * * * “Aiiiieeeee!” Gilgafed felt as if he were on fire. He could smell the scent of his flesh cooking, and a sound like that of bacon frying filled his ears. Somehow, one of those brats had sent the shaping back at him redoubled. With the last of his power, he cut the link, and collapsed.
“Cobain. Cobain!” He would live and he would heal, but there would be scars, deep, deep scars. A quick death was no longer an option where they were concerned. Once he had them. Oh, yes, once the brats were in his hands ... years, no, decades ... they would scream for decades before his revenge was satisfied.

Chapter Three
They saw no more creatures that day other than the normal wildlife one would usually see in the deep wood. The burn on Adam's chest healed at an amazing rate, which caused Charity to bring up the topic of magik once more. They took the time to examine their individual bequeaths from the Philosopher King. The weapons continued to be strictly matched to only the twin they were designated for, but for that one they seemed to be balanced perfectly. In addition, Charity had never held a bow before, but she somehow knew the proper stringing technique. The only sword Adam had ever wielded was a branch used in mock battles with the boys of the village. The sword he now held was a man's weapon, sized and balanced for a warrior the size and strength of a man his uncle's size, but in his hand it was as light and supple as one of those branches back in the village.
It took them three days and nights to reach the Inn. The path emptied onto a low cliff overlooking a clearing filled with grasses, wildflowers and a large Inn backed up against the forest wall. The Inn stood three stories tall, with four dormer windows along the front. A stable attached to the near side showed hay through its open doors. Someone busy grooming a horse stood just inside the stable doorway. A woman carrying a small basket walked towards the front door, where a rough looking man lounged against the wall. The sign over the door had no letters, just a painting of a Boar's head over a foaming tankard.
Adam and Charity followed the path as it zigzagged down to the clearing. The man glared at them as they walked up to the door, and then turned and walked away in the direction of the stable. Adam pushed open the door, and they stood there, transfixed.
A cacophony of noise poured out of the open door. Sounds of goblets, tankards, plates and cutlery clattering together mixed with voices in various stages of yelling, shouting or cursing. A coarse voice, heavy with a country accent, called out. “In or out, younglings. Don't keep lettin’ the wind in.”
They stepped inside, and Charity hastily shut the door.
The owner of the voice jostled his way through the crowd, and waddled over to greet them. “Now then. That be better. What do you two be needin’ this fine summer's day?”
He was the fattest man they had ever seen besides the Mayor, a little below average height and nearly as broad as he was tall. His beard showed traces of the red his hair must have been, when he had it, for his head was a bald as a hen's egg. Laugh and smile lines crisscrossed his face as he stood there, hands on hips, waiting for their answer.
Charity looked at Adam, he shrugged. She looked back at the Innkeeper, and smiled shyly. “Do you have a bath, and a room for the evening?”
The Innkeeper chuckled, causing waves to move across the expanse of his belly. “That be what I do, youngling. Iffn you be crossin’ my palm with a silver.”
Adam dug into his belt pouch, and pulled out the smallest of the Emeralds. He held it up before the Innkeeper. “Will this pay for anything?”
The Innkeepers eyes went wide, and he puffed out a low whistle. “M ... m ... may I be holdin’ that sparkler for a minim, lad?”
Adam dropped the Emerald into his hand.
“Oh ... laddie buck.” The Innkeeper shook his head in wonder. “This here be worth me Inn and the land beneath her, iffn you were sellin’ this in the markets of Grisham, and maybe even more, maybe, if you were sellin’ it in the far south. They be likin’ sparklies a heap down there.”
Charity shifted her weight to one foot, leaning on her unstrung bow. “What will it buy us here?”
The Innkeeper looked pained. “Och, missy. I be wishin’ I could be takin’ this, but I be havin’ no coin enough to make change, even iffn you be stayin’ here for two moons, I can't.”
An idea jumped onto Adam with both feet, and danced around in his head. “How about if we make a deal where you get the sparkler, and weHe looked at Adam with a slight suspicion in his eyes, and leaned forward. “What you be meanin’ enough, laddie?”
Adam looked at Charity, winked and then looked back at the Innkeeper. “You say this stone is worth your Inn and the ground it stands on, correct?”
“I don't think I be likin’ where you be walking, lad.”
Adam shook his head. “No, no. That's not what I'm thinking. I don't want to buy your Inn. I just want to rent room and board for whenever my sister and I come through here, that, and six golds, twelve silvers and twenty-four coppers. What do you say to that?”
The Innkeeper rubbed the back of his head, and grunted. “Well now, I be thinking I like the sound of two gold, five silver and ten copper meself.”
“Make that four golds, eight silvers and fifteen coppers, and you have a deal.”
The Innkeeper spat in his palm, and held out his hand. “Done.”
Adam repeated the gesture. “And done.”
A bellowing laugh exploded from the Innkeeper's chest. “By Labad, I like you laddie buck. You've the mark of good haggleman. Chauncey!”
A skinny little man with a huge nose shuffled over to them. “Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir?”
“Now, Chauncey, I've told ye time and again, I be no sir. So don't be callin’ me that, OK?”
“Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir. I'll remember.”
The Innkeeper sighed heavily, and looked toward the ceiling as if beseeching the heavens. “Find Quincey, and get me, me small chest from him. You know the one.”
“Yes, Mr. Bustlebun, sir,”
Chauncey returned with a small, ironbound, archtop chest. Bustlebun opened it using a small brass key, and counted out the agreed upon coins. He handed the coins to Adam, and placed the Emerald gently into the chest. He did not give the chest back to Chauncey, but patted the lid and beamed at the twins. “Now then, what'll you two be havin'? I've a nice bit of venison on roast, or if you're of a mind, cook keeps a fine stew on the simmer.”
Charity's mouth watered at the mention of the meat. “Roast, if you please.”
Adam closed the flap on his belt pouch. “I'll have the same, thank you.”
Bustlebun's face nearly vanished in a broad grin. “And polite, too. Bless me buns iffn you two aren't a breath of fresh air.” He turned his head, and bellowed. “Chauncey!”
Chauncey appeared at Bustlebun's elbow. His mouth opened, and Bustlebun held up a hand. “Naw. I'll be hearin’ no more sirs, today. You get these two a table spot, a healthy helpin’ of the roast, with fixings and...” He looked at the twins. “What'll you two be wantin’ to drink now?”
Adam looked around the tables. Most of the patrons seemed to be drinking from large tankards. The smell of hops was prominent. “Do you have something besides Ale?”
Bustlebun chuckled again. The boy had made him wealthy beyond his dreams. He was in a fine mood. “Why, there be wine, tisane, berry juice and small beer. I like not the small beer.” He leaned forward and whispered the last.
The twins both chose the berry juice. The food came served on two large stoneware platters. Each platter held three thick slabs of roast venison with a peppery gravy poured over them. A small loaf of crusty brown bread, sweet with nuts and honey, lay alongside the meat. A small serving of boiled vegetables finished the plate. A waitress brought them two fired clay mugs and a pitcher of deep red berry juice.
Charity sliced a chunk of meat, and raised it to her mouth followed by a bite of the bread. The gravy was spicy with pepper, and complemented the venison. She looked at Adam. A spot of gravy was smeared along the left side of his chin. She pointed to the spot. “You saving that for later?”
“What?”
“You've got gravy on your chin.”
Adam wiped away the spot.
Charity drank some of the juice, and sliced another chunk of meat. “What gave you the idea of using the Emerald?”
Adam tried some of the boiled vegetables. Cook had used butter and herbs as a sauce. “It just came to me, and it seemed the right thing to do. You remember that part of the letter that said he'd left us clothes and coin?”
She nodded, chewing on bread and meat.
Adam followed the vegetables with a mouthful of berry juice. “Well,” He tore off a chunk of bread, and swirled it in the gravy. “We got the clothes, but other than what Mr. Bustlebun gave us, I haven't seen any of the coins promised in the letter.”
The sound of voices raised in anger rose over the background babble in the crowded room.
“So you figured if we sold one of the jewels...”
“Right. So now we've got a room whenever we need it along with food,” He wiped up the last of the gravy. “And some money in the bargain.”
A half-full tankard flew across their table, and through the window behind them. A body followed close behind, enlarging the hole in the window. Someone yelled, “FIGHT!", and then pandemonium broke out.
Shocked and startled, the twins ducked under the table as a barrage of tankards and bottles flew overhead. Several shattered against the table and a mix of ale and wine began puddling on the floor.
The sounds of weapons clashing and men cursing filled the air.
Charity screamed and flinched back from a sword blade that gouged the floor scant inches from her hands. A bootheel caught Adam in the thigh, shoving him into Charity.
“We've got to get out of here.” Adam rubbed his thigh.
Charity inched back a little further under the table as a bottle shattered against the floor. “I'm right behind you. This is insane, what set these people off?”
“I don't know, and I don't care. Look! There's an opening, let's go.” Adam crept out from under the table, keeping an eye open for any stray projectiles winging his way. Charity kept close behind him until a knot of three brawlers ploughed into them.
“Adam!” Charity shrieked, as the fight swept her away.
He turned around to see where Charity was calling from, slipped on a loose bottle, and wound up on the floor, flat on his back looking up at a short, bald-headed man wearing an evil grin. The little fellow's smile showed rotting teeth through a five-day growth of beard as he aimed a double-headed ax right at Adam's midsection.
In a blind panic, Charity fumbled around on the floor, and found her bow. She crawled over to an empty spot near one of the support pillars in the inn's common room, and looked across it, trying to find where Adam might be, but it was hard to see due to the shifting nature of the ongoing scrum. Leaping onto a nearby table, she looked once more, and finally spotted him lying on the floor near the front door. An ugly little man was preparing to cut him with an ax. Charity didn't think about what she did next, but strung her bow with one smooth motion, nocked an arrow, and released it. A second arrow followed the first in a single heartbeat. They caught the axe wielder in both upraised arms, and pinned him to the wall as his weapon fell impotently to the floor.
* * * * Chauncey and Quincey rested their elbows on the bar, watching the fight. Bottles shattered against the cupboard behind them, and tankards bounced off the bar. A body sailed out of the melee, and landed onto the bar top, a belt knife protruded out of its back. Quincey pushed it off the bar phlegmatically, and then he took the proffered bottle of brandy from Chauncey, pulling a long slug of the potent brew. He set the bottle down, and wiped his mustache with the back of his sleeve. “I tell yer, Chauncey. It's a sad bizness, it is.”
Chauncey tippled from the bottle. “What's that, Quincey?”
“Yer just don't see the good brawls no more.”
“So true, Quincey. So true.”
* * * * “You know how to use that sword, sprout?” A hulking figure with red muttonchops and full mustache blocked Adam's way.
“I ... I don't want to fight you.” Adam tried to back away, but an overturned table blocked his escape. The thought of the axe still had him shaking.
“Good. That'll make this playtime all the easier.” The redhead drew his sword; a plain infantryman's blade suited for killing, and nothing else.
He took a cut at Adam, an overhead blow intended to split the opponent down the middle. As if in a dream, Adam's sword was in his right hand blocking the blow, his blade angled perfectly to reduce the shock and cause the opponent's edge to slide away, leaving an opening for a counterstroke.
The redhead was good. He pulled his stroke as it hit Adam's blade, so he wouldn't be left with a huge hole in his defense. Adam's return shifted in mid-flight, and cut over and above the other's sword, forcing it down and to the side. This created an opening, which Adam exploited in a lunge that buried his blade into the redhead's lower left side.
* * * * Thanks to his power, the burns were finally healed, and the scarring slight, though it meant little to him, as he'd long since ceased caring about his appearance. What displeased him more so than the disfiguring was that he'd been left with a slight limp. It was an implication of weakness, and it fed the fires of the sorcerer's hatred until he had to find release.
Gilgafed made his way to the Scrying chamber, and released the shaping. Nothing happened. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he built up the power. This could not happen! His powers were at their peak, no one in this world had greater, he had proven it through the extinction of his enemies. The fat from their bodies had lit his meals for an entire year. Their unborn had filled his larder and filled his belly. Their daughter's daughters still filled his fortress as slaves these centuries later. What was wrong? ...Could it be the old Wizard...? He threw the thought away with a shudder, and refused to consider the implication.
The sorcerer sent the shaping again. Again, nothing. No image of the brats would come. The prophecy had to be averted. He clenched his fist and raised it, and then trembling, drew it back down.
Could it be...? He formed another shaping, and set it against the glass. The mists swirled, and then settled into a rough shape that slowly coalesced into the figure of a man. Yes, he knew now what the problem was.
“You summoned me, my master?” The figure in the glass was darkly handsome with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His brow was high with a thin band of gold encircling it. His smile, rather than pleasant, was leering and self-indulgent.
Gilgafed considered his choices. Revenge, to be fully realized, must take years in the processing, but he wanted it now. If he followed his desires, there would be little time for subtleties. Should he..? No, it had to be done now. His decision made, he turned his attention back to the one in the glass. “Yes, Cloutier, I did. You have been able to indulge yourself because of my power for years, and now I have a little task for you. Knowing your tastes, I believe you'll enjoy it.”
* * * * Bustlebun stood in the open doorway to their room, shaking his head in amazement. “Bless my buns, but I never be seeing anything like what you two did.”
“You, missy.” He pointed a sausage-thick finger at Charity. “I not be a believer in witchcraft, but by Bardoc's bristlin’ beard, I know not what else to call the way you handled that bow of yourn.
“And you, laddie buck. Wieldin’ that blade like Labad hisself. Unnatural it be. Unnatural.”
Charity looked up from her inspection of the feather bed. “Do you wish us to leave, Mr. Bustlebun?” She said wistfully. She'd never felt anything as soft as that mattress.
The Innkeeper's eyes widened in shock. “Why, I be suggesting no such thing, by Labad, no! You two may have scared half me custom away this night, but mark me word, there'll be twice that tomorrow.” He shook his finger at her. “And all of em waggin’ their tongues about the two young warriors at Bustlebun's.”
He leaned back and looked at them, a broad smile on his face. “You have a good sleep, now, younglings. There be a fine breakfast for you on the marrow.” He turned and left, the melody he whistled fading as he continued down the hall.
The room contained, along with the large featherbed, an oil lamp on a stand and a bureau with four drawers on the wall next to the door. The top of the bureau held a wash basin, two pitchers of water and two thick cloths. A cake of strong smelling soap sat on a small dish next to the basin. Underneath the bed was stored an ornate chamber pot complete with lid. After storing their gear, the twins spent several minutes moving around the room, looking and touching. Such finery had seemed a world away from them in the village. Now here they were in the middle of it, and it was theirs to use!
Charity sat on the bed, and bounced on it. She giggled. Adam grabbed her and pushed her even more firmly down on her next bounce. She squealed and pulled his hair. Soon they were in a wrestling match, bouncing all over the bed.
They fell off the bed, and landed on the floor to the accompaniment of two inquisitive barks. They looked up to see two very large, black and tan mastiffs looking down at them with their ears cocked, and their heads tilted to the side.
Bustlebun came into the room, puffing. “Skip, Donger.” the two dogs looked at him, their tails wagging.
“Ah, there you be, my fine hearties. Come along, now. Don't be botherin’ the guests.”
He looked at the twins, a frown of concern wrinkling his forehead. “My apologies, younglings. They heard your play, and wanted to join in. I'll be takin’ em back downstairs now.”
Adam got up off the floor. “Don't bother, Mr. Bustlebun. Charity and I both like dogs, and if they want to play with us, we'd love to have them.”
Bustlebun beamed. “Well, now. That be wonderful. I be much too busy with runnin’ the Inn and all to give them the attention they deserve. You hear that, me boys? You've got yourself some playmates.”
The mastiffs barked joyfully, and leaped into the twins, licking their faces thoroughly. Adam and Charity fell to the floor once more, and laughing, gave the dogs a good play until all of them were panting for breath.
* * * * Cloutier, Earl of Berggren, tied his cravat with care. One should not consider matters of state while dressed improperly. He stepped back and admired his image in the full-length mirror. It cost him a small fortune to have had it made that is, until he had a few of his guards retrieve his payment as back taxes. Too bad the glazier decided to object. What was his poor widow going to do now? His chuckle echoed off the walls of his dressing room, a spacious area at least twenty yards long by slightly less that wide. A wardrobe covered most of the north wall filled with tunics, coats and cloaks of fine and rare fabrics and furs. Beneath the hanging garments stood rank upon rank of expensive boots and shoes. Cloutier's most prized pair graced his feet as he gazed at his image in naked admiration. They were made with the tanned foreskins of adolescent boys, sewn with care to create a subtle pattern, and finished off with an elaborate tapestry in gold and silver thread. Yes, the outfit would do nicely for starting a war.
* * * * They had potatoes for breakfast. Cook served them fried to a golden brown with onions, garlic and herbs. The platter was heaped with them, and they helped themselves to as many as they liked, washing them down with mouthfuls of hot tisane laced with lemon.
Bustlebun paused by their table, carrying a large pot of the steaming, fruity brew. “I wants to thank you two again for givin’ the lads such a fine playtime last night. They slept like a couple of newborn pups.”
Charity chewed and swallowed a spoonful of breakfast. “You don't have to thank us, Mr. Bustlebun. We enjoyed it as much as they did.”
“And gracious, too.” He looked at them out of one eye, a sly smile lifting a cheek. “You be not royalty in disguise, do you?”
Adam put down his mug. “No, sir, we're not. May I ask a question?”
“Why, sure, Lad. Ask away.” He put the pot down, and folded his arms.
“We don't know our way around here. We need to find a small village at the edge of the forest. It's only got a couple of streets and a small market in the center, but it's clean.”
He nodded, his chin meeting his chest. “Uh huh, uh huh. I do be knowing the place. It be a fair walk, but the path takes you to it. You follow the path, you be OK.”
They thanked Bustlebun, and finished their breakfast. He surprised them at the door with a sack of provisions for the road. “Now, you be welcome back here any time.” He said. “Of course, you already be payin’ for it.” He finished with a belly laugh that caused him to shake in all directions at once.
The path began just beyond the Southern end of the Inn, and the deep forest closed in upon it as if wishing to hide a cherished possession. Full stomachs and a pleasant day made the hours pass quickly, and they decided to break for lunch alongside a small waterfall with a patch of sunlight playing in the spray.
Adam opened the sack, wincing at the memory of having worn its like not so long ago. Inside, he found four wrapped loaves of the cook's crusty bread, a half dozen waxed cheeses, a number of individual packages of roasted nuts and dried fruit, as well as four sealed flasks of Berry Juice.
They lunched on bread and cheese while dangling their feet in the cool water. Charity giggled as small fish nibbled tentatively at her toes.
A badger waddled out of the brush to get a drink. It eyed the twins suspiciously, and growled while it lapped the water. They wisely left it alone, and packed up the leftovers of their lunch. The ground sloped gently upwards for a long way into a downs thickly forested with trees wearing a silvery bark that gave off a pepper-like scent when rubbed.
After the downs, they crested a brief rise in the land, and then followed the path through a series of switchbacks down to a stream at the slope's base. Jumping the stream proved easy, and they kept to the path as it curved around a small hillock encrusted with a bramble thicket, and walked right into the middle of a group of Dwarves preparing camp for the night. Eight bearded and plaited heads turned to look at them, as they stood there, unsure of what to do.
One Dwarf, with his beard and hair completely white, grunted and waved them over to the log he was sitting on.
They made their way through the busy Dwarves, and sat down on the log. The old Dwarf was tending the campfire underneath a black iron pot suspended by a tripod. A savory aroma of simmering stew came from under the lid of the pot.
Their host ignored them for a while, as did the other Dwarves. He finished tending the fire, and lifted the lid of the pot, sniffed and grunted again, waving a hand over the stew, and then placed the lid back onto the pot.
The twins watched the Dwarves at work with huge eyes while they sat on the log. One Dwarf, with complete nonchalance, lifted his tunic and urinated on several small sticks laid in front of him. A strong acrid odor drifted past the two watching youths.
“Did you see that?” Adam leaned to the side to whisper into Charity's ear.
She nodded mutely, too shocked to say anything.
Another Dwarf was carefully digging several shallow trenches in a circular pattern as if they were the spokes of a wheel. Behind the one digging came a dwarf who laid a stone, the size and shape of a flat loaf of bread, into the outer end of each trench. The rest of the Dwarves were tuning musical instruments. One resembled a gitar, but it had too many strings. Another looked like a baby's harp, and there were two that looked like pan flutes, but with the tubes stacked deep as well as wide.
The Dwarf whohad urinated on the sticks picked them up and sniffed them. He nodded his approval, and then he stuck each one of the sticks, point down, into the soil at the end of each trench. When the last one was in the ground, the musicians struck a chord, and the Dwarves, excluding the one with the white hair, gathered in a circle with the musicians, and began to sing, their eyes pointed at the ground.
The words came out in a slow, ponderous melody, heavy with minor chords. The message in the song was filled with references to Mother Earth, the womb of the soil, Bardoc and the rule of three. The white-haired Dwarf hummed along with them, keeping time by slapping his left hand against his knee.
When the singing stopped, the musicians struck a last minor chord and put their instruments aside. The White-haired one, whom the twins surmised was the leader of the group, tested the stew once more. He motioned to the other Dwarves, and they all gathered around the cook fire, some pulling up large stones as seats.
The gitar player stood up and crossed his arms in front of his chest, and began chanting in a low gravely voice, “After the Dragons we come. Born of dust and born of stone. After the Wolves we come. Born of dust and born of stone. Bardoc gave us life, and Bardoc gave us wisdom. After Bardoc we come.”
The other Dwarves answered. “We come.”
The chant continued. “Fathers and sons, come and gone. This was the way since our beginning. Then he came, and broke the peace. War was on the land.”
The other Dwarves answered. “War was on the land.”
“The Philosopher King was born in the West against the Circle Sea. He grew strong and wise, and none could stand against him in battle. He threw down the Evil One, Gilgafed, and banished him to the isle of flame, Pestilence. There, his black power waned.”
“There his black power waned.”
“Peace was on the land once more, and Dwillkillion prospered. From Firth to Longpointe, we labored and grew.”
“We labored and grew.”
“Labad kept his word, and the Dwarves were left alone. No man, Elf, Garloc or Troll bothered or crossed our lands. The peace of a thousand moons.”
“The peace of a thousand moons.”
“Then the Evil one rose up from his prison of flame with power terrible. War was on the land once more. Labad came forth, bright as the sun, but the powers were matched, and neither side could prevail. Thus, the land was sundered.”
“The land was sundered.”
“The Dragons came to Labad's plea, for a vision was upon his mind. The rule of three.”
“The rule of three.”
“Ask the Dwarves, he was told, for their memories are of the stone.”
“Their memories are of the stone.”
“We came in honor to the Philosopher King. For, in surety, he kept his word. We kept safe his pledge and his treasure for those who would come. The word of the Dwarves is true.”
"The word of the Dwarves is true."
The gitar player sat back down at the last refrain as the white-haired Dwarf stood. The old Dwarf swept his gaze across the others, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are the wombs prepared and laid with stone?” His voice was surprisingly strong and vibrant for one of such obvious advanced age.
The other Dwarves answered in unison. “Aye.”
“Are the wards wetted and placed for each?”
“Aye.”
“Is the song sung, and the history revealed?”
“Aye.”
He uncrossed his arms, sat down and lifted the lid off the pot of stew. “The wombs prepared. The stones are laid. The wards wet, and the song is sung. With the history fresh on our lips, we share our food as one.”
He stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, and tasted the stew. He nodded and raised the spoon over his head, and shouted, “Labad!”
The others shouted “Labad!” in answer,r and the formal atmosphere left the camp. The Dwarves helped themselves to the stew, and sat down, dipping into their bowls with chunks of black bread, eating, smacking their lips, and talking amongst themselves.
The old Dwarf turned to Adam, and held his hand over his heart. “Urbus. I am chieftain of this band. That one is Garven,” He indicated the gitar player. “Next to him, Belgris and Faltur. Those two are Mergan and Durl.” He pointed to the two across from the twins. “And over there are Twill and Knurl.” The two Dwarves indicated raised their dipping bread, and grunted, their mouths full. The one named Knurl added a wink with his salute.
Urbus took his hand off his heart, and picked up his bowl of stew. “I have told mine and theirs.” He waved his bread at the other Dwarves. “Custom dictates you tell me yours.”
Adam put his hand over his heart in imitation of the Dwarf. “I am Adam, and this is my sister Charity. We thank you for your hospitality.”
Urbus leaned back and looked down his large nose at Adam. “Courtesy, from a young human in these times, surprising. Hospitality is given, young Adam, and Charity.” He nodded to her. “You may share my fire and food, though Dwarf fare may not meet your palate as it does ours.” He chuckled. “It will be interesting to see your expressions when you taste our stew.”
The Dwarf named Durl handed a bowl to each of the twins, along with a good-sized piece of the black bread. Urbus sat there watching while they looked at the stew.
“Go on. Eat. It's good.” The Dwarf named Twill demonstrated by dipping his bread into his bowl, and taking a healthy bite.
Charity lifted her bowl and dipped the bread in. The stew smelled delicious, savory and spicy with an unusual overtone she couldn't place. She took a small bite of the dipped bread. It tasted as good as it smelled, and then the spice hit her. It seemed as though someone had set a fire into her mouth and throat. Her eyes bugged, and, gasping, she began groping for a drink to cool her mouth.
Urbus and the other Dwarfs laughed uproariously, slapping their knees and clapping their hands. The joke was a good one.
Charity downed nearly half a flask of berry juice, and paused, pulling in deep breaths to clear the last of the burn.
“Good, yes?” Twill roared out another huge laugh while dipping himself another bowlful of stew.
Charity gathered herself to let the Dwarves have an earful of her outrage when a thought struck her. Why give them the satisfaction? There was evidence in both their silly chant and in the way they deferred to Adam that Dwarves ran a society where females were secondary. Well, she was going to give them an example of feminine strength even if it took the last layer of skin in her mouth and throat. She smiled at Twill, and said, “Yes, it is good.” And then she dipped her bread deeply, and helped herself to a big bite, chewing and swallowing.
The Dwarves looked at her closely, waiting for the eruption. It didn't come. Charity leaned against Adam, and whispered. “The stuff is hotter than Uncle Bal's spicy beans. They want to see us choke on it. Let's show them something different.”
Adam nodded and dipped his bread. He looked at Charity. She winked. He nodded slightly, and took a bite. She was right. The stew was hotter than his Uncle's beans, much hotter. It took an act of his will to not reach for the juice. He looked at Urbus as he dipped the bread again. “My sister's right, it is good. May I have the recipe?” He took another bite of the bread.
The Dwarves sat frozen in place; their bread paused over their bowls. Urbus looked like he might be choking, then a chuckle came bubbling up out of him, and exploded into peals of roaring laughter. The other Dwarves joined in, appreciating the joke being on them.
Urbus slapped Adam on the back, nearly dislodging the bowl of stew from his hands. “Bless my beard. You make me think you may have some Dwarf in you. Labad chose well, by Bardoc, he did.”
He raised a goblet, and called out to the other Dwarves. “Drink their health, my Dwarves, they be worthy of the calling.”
The Dwarves joined in, and toasted the twins. Adam and Charity discovered that after the first few mouthfuls, the heat of the stew diminished, and it was actually quite flavorful. The bread was sweet with honey, and heavy with rye and molasses. It accented the spiciness of the stew perfectly.
Adam finished the last of his stew, and gave the bowl to the Dwarf who was cleaning up. He sipped some berry juice, and caught Urbus’ attention. “What did you mean by worthy of the calling?”
The background sounds of the camp stopped, as the other Dwarves ceased what they were doing to listen to Urbus’ answer. Adam feared he'd asked something wrong. He looked around to see if he and Charity were in trouble. A wave of relief flowed through him when all he saw were expectant faces. It seemed Dwarves loved stories even more than practical jokes.
Urbus cleared his throat. A sigh rippled through the Dwarves. “I was a young Dwarf when the call came. Labad, the Philosopher King, chose me to be the one to keep safe the legacy for those who would come. We Dwarves are a long-lived people. Not as long as Dragons, mind you.”
The others Dwarves grunted or muttered in agreement.
“But long-lived, nonetheless. So few of us live, now.” A shadow crossed his face. “The magik war killed so many, so many. Our mates bear few children these days, but the Dwarves remain faithful.”
The others muttered their assent.
“Labad's aide himself gave me the legacy with his own hands, and I honored the call.”
There was more muttering and grunting and nodding of heads.
“The Evil One sent his minions against me and my own as we bore the legacy back to Dwillkillion, but we prevailed. The mate who bore me four score children was taken by trolls attempting to steal the legacy. Many of my sons and daughters died in her defense,” He sighed. “...but we prevailed. The call has been honored, and now it has been passed on.” He leveled a rock-steady finger at the twins. “To you. You bear Labad's legacy, given to you by one of my own grandchildren, his courtesy, and,” he winked, “his taste for dwarfish cuisine.”
The Dwarves broke out in laughter again.
Adam held up a hand. “But, what is the call. What do we do with it?”
Urbus sat back and laid his forefinger alongside his nose. “Ah well, there lies the quandary. The call is what you make of it. Beyond the basics, the paths are too numerous to consider. I cannot carry your burden for you, young human, that is yours to do. Labad did give two legacies from one.” The Dwarves muttered in agreement. “It could be you both have a separate task to do.” He sighed heavily. “I understand the frustration. All I can say is, you will not have to find your destiny, it will find you. When you feel the need to do what feels right, do it.”
He sat there, silently regarding them. Charity felt a little uneasy under the scrutiny, like when Aunt would check to make sure she'd washed everywhere. “Do you mean like during the fight back at the Inn?”
That got the Dwarves attention. She heard the word fight bantered back and forth, and felt them move in close to hear the anticipated story. She looked around at the group, and swallowed. It was like being one of the storytellers that would come through the village now and then. “Well,” She began, “Adam and I were eating our dinner in Bustlebun's Inn when this huge fight started...” She told them as much as she could remember of that night from her viewpoint, finishing up with, “...and I didn't think about how to use the bow, I just knew. It was like I'd used it my whole life.” The Dwarves sighed in appreciation of a good tale. Urbus sat there, rubbing his chin through his beard, and nodding his head. He speared Adam with a glance, “Do you have a similar tale, lad?”
Adam told them his side of the fight story, including his instinctive use of the sword.
Urbus held out a hand. “Give me the sword for a moment.”
Adam looked at him, and nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Here it is.” A collective gasp came from the Dwarves as Urbus held it up to the light of the cook fire. A fine tracery of heraldic figures worked into the metal of the blade wavered in the flickering light. Adam could hear murmurs of, “...Labad ... the sword itself ... so young to carry...”
Urbus held it to his eye, hilt first, gauging the blade. He gave it back to Adam. “I remember it well. Keep it in honor, young human, and it will keep you.”
He turned to Charity, and clasped his hands in his lap. “Soon to be a woman. I like your insight, young human female. Yes, the legacy is very much like your fight in the Inn. Your part of it, anyway. Labad's Bow, and the sword,” He nodded to Adam. “Are shaped to infuse their owner with all of the Philosopher King's ... the only word that describes what I want to say is in ancient Dwarfik. It is Shabasch. It means Spirit Power, literally, but it implies much more. The experiences contained within the wisdom of ages of use, of trial and error, completion of the task at hand, condensed and given to one worthy in a moment of time. That is what it means, and that is why you experienced what you did. The Spirit Shaping within the weapons transferred Labad's Shabasch to you, for the bow,” He pointed to Charity. “And for the sword.” He pointed to Adam.
He yawned. “The night is growing old, and so am I. Good journey, young humans. Labad chose well. In this Dwarf's opinion.”
Charity looked at Adam. She had a lot more questions for the old Dwarf, about the Dragons, for instance, but didn't want to offend him by being a pest. Adam looked back at her, and shrugged as if to say. What can I do?” She watched the Dwarves prepare their beds. They used no blanket or pillow, but simply laid themselves down into one of the trenches with their head resting on the rock at the stick end of the trench.
One of the Dwarves, Knurl, she thought, raised his head and said, “Sleep within our circle, you will be safe. Good journey.”
The other Dwarves chorused, “Good journey.”
The morning dawned with white puffs of cloud partly obscuring the sun. Adam woke to the smell of fresh baked biscuits and bacon. “Oh, that smells great. Thank you so...” The Dwarves were gone. Their sleeping trenches had been neatly filled in, and the ward sticks tossed into the brush. Charity lay curled up in her cloak, still sound asleep. The early risers in the bird kingdom were busy greeting the day, and a small creek added its silver song to that of the birds.
“Is that bacon I smell?” Charity raised her head, shielding her eyes from the sunbeam that played across where she lay.
“And biscuit,s too.” Adam handed her a biscuit with bacon sandwiched inside of it, along with a cup of hot tisane.
Charity looked around as she took the sandwich and the tisane. “Where are the Dwarves?”
“They're gone. They must have left some time before dawn, but they fixed us breakfast and more.” Adam pointed to the two sacks leaning against the log that Urbus had sat on with him and Charity.
The sacks contained more travel supplies in one, and the other held a pot and a tripod for camp cooking along with a flint, steel and tinder. “We don't have to have cold suppers when we're in the wild, at least.” Adam rummaged through the sacks while Charity munched another bacon sandwich.
“I wish there was some way to thank them.” Charity finished her second sandwich, and washed it down with more of the fragrant tisane. Adam retied the tops of the sacks. “I don't think they would want any. They were just helping us fulfill our part in the call.” He emphasized the last word.
“Damn.” Charity muttered the epithet under her breath.
“Pardon?” Adam looked up from gathering the last of the bacon onto a biscuit.
“Sorry. I wanted to ask Urbus some more questions about what he said last night. Other than that fight at the Inn, and what he said about that Shabasch thing, he really said nothing.”
“I think if it doesn't have something directly to do with them, the Dwarves aren't interested in it.”
“Unless it's a joke.”
Adam swallowed a bite of bacon and biscuit and smiled. “True. I'd like to know more about this Labad, myself. Why us? That's another question. I think we were magiked here on purpose, and I think this Labad had more to do with it than this letter.” He patted his cloak where the parchments rested.
“Do you think what Urbus said about the bow and sword was true, then? That they magiked us, as well?” Charity stood and fingered her bow.
Adam rubbed biscuit crumbs off his hands. “Well, you saw what I did. I'd be dead now if it weren't true; sooner, where you and that bow are concerned. More evidence. That's all it is. More evidence.”
Charity stood there while Adam gathered his things. It had to be true, and that village they were trying to find would most likely not be the one they called home.
Adam slung the sacks the Dwarves left over his shoulder. “We may as well get going. Those song birds aren't going to answer any of our questions.”
The path curved to the Southwest and angled slightly downhill, moving towards a glen filled with small creeks and runnels. Patches of wetland appeared with cattails hosting Redwing Blackbirds that scolded the twins as they passed. The sounds of frogs took over the sounds of songbirds, and several splashes told on a pond dweller choosing discretion over valor.
The wetlands gave way to forest again as the path began to rise. A number of stone bridges spanned the creeks. Some held small sandstone plaques inset with the creek's name. Troll Creek, Helmson Creek and Mad Creek were a few of the names they saw. They spent two nights camping along the path. Adam practiced with the flint and steel, becoming a little better at starting a fire, though it still took a good long while for him to get a flame of any size going.
On the third morning since leaving the Dwarf camp, they came over a small wooded hill, and looked down on another creek spanned by a stone bridge. A young man stood on the bridge with a sack in his hand. He leaned over the railing, and dropped the sack into the water, then he turned toward them as they approached the bridge. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He looked Charity up and down, stopping to linger on the beginning swell of her breasts.
Adam stepped between the man and Charity. He smiled warmly in spite of the tightening in his gut. “We're trying to find a village at the edge of the forest. We were told this path would take us there. Do you live around here? Can you tell us how far we have to go?”
A sneer was his answer. The fellow placed a hand on Adam's chest, and pushed. Adam went sprawling onto his back. “I'm not interested in your questions, sprout. It's her I've a mind to give a try to.”
Charity screamed as he grabbed her about the waist, and forced his face against her. Adam surged to his feet, and jumped onto the bully's back. “Get away from her!”
The fellow released Charity, and flipped Adam over his shoulder. He laughed. “Sprout, you're no more trouble than that sack of kittens I just threw into the creek.” He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth, and advanced on Adam, who was on his hands and knees. “Once I finish with you, your sister will make a fine dessert.”
A roaring filled Adam's ears, and it seemed as if something other than him, was controlling his body. He spun over and drove his feet into the leering face as it bent over him and then Adam was smashing his fists into that face as he straddled its body. Punching again and again, wanting to see if he could make it completely flat. A voice was calling his name, and then hands were pulling him away from the enemy.
“Adam. Adam!” Charity pulled him away from the limp body of the bully. “You've beaten him. You can stop.”
Adam blinked his eyes, focusing on the face of his sister. Then he remembered the kittens the lout had mentioned and ran to the creek bank. He jumped into the creek, but had to come up for air a couple of times before finding the sack.
Charity took it from his outstretched hand as he staggered from the creek. Inside the sack they found eight sodden little bodies. They all appeared to be lifeless. Adam hoped the same held true for the cretin who dropped them into the water.
Charity was crying and gently shaking the kittens, trying to get them to wake up. Adam wiped the water away from his eyes, and sat down next to her. “It's too late, Charity. I didn't get there quick enough.” She continued to try.
Adam left her and walked over to where the bully lay. A bloody froth on his lips popped and fizzled as he breathed. He was considering making sure the fellow never woke up again when he heard Charity call out. “She's alive!”
One of the kittens had survived, a black female with the toes of her right front paw colored a milky white. Charity hugged the kitten to her breast, and cooed over it. Adam looked on, with tears running down his cheek, and a wide smile on his face. They left the bully where he lay.
The kitten took to Charity right away, treating her as if she were a mother figure. Charity reciprocated by carrying the little thing in a sling that she had contrived out of cloth she sliced away from a spare tunic. She crumbled cheese, and feed her charge pieces of it, which the kitten gobbled as quickly as they could be given.
Watching the two of them play together after settling down for the evening, Adam was struck again with the feeling of being pulled by destiny. Charity bonding with the kitten was supposed to happen. It was yet another piece of the puzzle.
The food Bustlebun and the Dwarves had given them was nearly gone by the seventh night on the path, and the number of springs and creeks less than before. They made sure that they kept the flasks that once held berry juice full of what water could be found, and they also kept a close eye out for any fruit or nut bearing tree that could add to their meager store of food.
Charity worried about the kitten. “What are we going to do? There's no dried meat or cheese left to feed her, and she's certainly not going to want any fruit or nuts.”
Adam reached out and rubbed the kitten's head. The little black female responded by pressing into his caress, and purring. Her front paw with the white toes stretched and contracted in pleasure. He looked at Charity. “You feel like hunting?”
Charity slapped her forehead. “Of course! With this magiked bow, I should be able to bring down anything I see.” She looked down at the kitten as it rode in its accustomed place in the sling. “Don't you worry, little one, dinner will be here soon.”
But dinner didn't come soon. A forest that had shown an abundance of game and other wildlife now seemed barren of anything except a few dragonflies and a wasp or two. Adam and Charity ranged further and further from the path, and still they found nothing in the way of game. Eventually it grew too dark to do anything else but bed down for the night.
Adam woke to the feel of something wet tickling the side of his face. He opened his eyes. “Bloody hell.” It was raining, one of those half-hearted rains that manage to get everything wet in spite of being unsure of the job.
He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, and wriggled over to where Charity and the kitten lay cocooned inside her cloak. He shook her by the shoulder gently. “Charity. Get up.”
She answered with an indefinable murmur followed with, “Go ‘way.”
He shook her again. “Come on, Charity. It's raining. We have to get under cover before we catch the chills.”
Charity poked her head out from under her cloak. “Wha...? Oh, it's raining. Adam, we have to get under cover. We could catch the chills.”
Adam bit back his reply, and waited while she gathered herself together. The kitten stuck her head out of the sling, and hissed at the rain. Adam agreed with her.
They trudged through the intermittent drizzle and rain, feeling totally miserable. The low clouds and mist increased the darkness of the forest, and caused them to trip and stub their toes several times. They attempted to shelter under the branches of trees a number of times, but the water dripping through the leaves was nearly as bad as being under no shelter at all.
They had reached the point of tears from frustration when Charity saw the light. “Adam. Look! Through the trees. No, over there to the left.”
“Where? Oh, I see it now. Let's go.”
Their spirits lifted, they picked up the pace, and soon found themselves before a cottage, but a cottage unlike any they'd seen in the village. The door had to be almost twice the height of a normal one. The thatched roof was near as tall as the steeple of the village church.
They made their way to the front door, being careful to mind the extra high steps leading to the porch. Adam knocked on the door, and stepped back. The knocking ring at the top of the door stood about three feet over Adam's head.
They waited, and when no one answered, he tried knocking again. After the second knock, a face filled the circular window in the top of the door. When it saw them, a smile lit up the broad face, and the door was pulled open.
A giantess filled the doorway. She had to be at least nine feet tall and half that wide. The twins had to crane their necks to see her face. She placed her hands on broad hips, and beamed down at the twins. “Why, it's a pair of sopping poppets at me doorway. Come in, come in, me poppets, and be warm and dry.”
Adam and Charity hesitated, and she threw back her head, and laughed. “Oh, come now, me dears. Big I may be, but I'll watch me step. You'll find food, bed an’ more besides, in here.” She bent down and winked at them out of a huge blue eye. “'Sides. It's better'n sleepin’ in the wet. Is that not so?”
Charity swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.” The giantess reminded her of the miller's wife in their village back home, only more so, about four more so's. She found her words quite swept away by it all.
“Good, good.” The giantess gathered them into the cottage's light and warmth while pouring a flood of small talk into each and every second's breath.
She continued chattering at them nonstop while she helped them out of their wet clothes, and wrapped them in voluminous thick nightshirts that draped across the floor, and she continued the chatter while she placed two overwhelming platters of food before them.
“I won't be able to eat all that.” Adam whispered to Charity.
“Eat what you can.” She whispered back. “Doesn't she remind you of someone?”
“I think so...” He watched the huge woman as she bustled about the cottage.
“Mrs. Feddelstone. The miller's wife. Remember her? She used to chase us and set her dogs after us for picking up loose grain?”
“Oh, yeah...” Adam tucked into his platter with a will.
The kitten crawled out from within its sling, and walked over to the food. The giantess clapped her hands. “A wee kitty after me food. Well, help yourself, little one. There's plenty to spare and more.”
The food was hot and delicately seasoned. Piles of fluffy potato pancakes, savory sausages, smoked fish of a sort they were unfamiliar with, but that the kitten could not get enough of, and heaps of root vegetables buried in hand-churned sweet butter made up the fare.
Adam and Charity ate and ate until they were full to the point of bursting and completely satiated. The giantess looked at them from behind a quilt she was working on as they pushed the platters away. “Ah, now, that's better, isn't it, my poppets? Let's get you into bed now, warm and snug, my dears, warm and snug.”
She turned back the covers of a bed large enough to sleep six, and patted the mattress.
“Here you go, my poppets, a nice warm bed for you both, and your wee black kitten there.” The object of her point burped through a loud purr.
“It's so big.” The overstuffed mattress stared back at them, the top of it several inches higher than their heads.
“Not to worry, me dear ones. You're not the first to have that wee bit of trouble. Here's a nice step stool me husband put up for that very thing.” She pulled a stepladder out from under the bed, and set it up next to their side.
The mattress was deep, soft and enfolding, and they soon found themselves drifting into blissful sleep. The kitten curled against the side of Charity's head, and grunted while still purring, its belly round and tight.
As he was falling asleep, Adam thought he saw another giant, a male, come into the cottage, and hand a sack to the giantess, and then sniff them and nod, but it could have been a dream.
* * * * She finished up putting the children to bed and tucked them in. They were so gentle and helpless. It felt good doing for them, almost like having children of her own.
The door opened, and her husband came in from the rain. “How was the gatherin', me dear?” She asked him, as she cleared the last platter from the table.
He grunted in answer and handed her his sack while dipping a mug into a nearby barrel of dark ale. The sack contained the usual collection of farm animals and pets, their necks wrung.
She took it from her husband, and pointed to the bed. “I've a surprise for you, dear, a pair of tender young poppets and their wee kitten.”
He sniffed them and nodded. As he passed her, he kissed her on the cheek. “Aye, you're right, lassie, they'll make a fine stew.”
Charity woke to find herself naked and tied down to a hard, flat surface. The bodies of various animals hung head down from the ceiling high above her. Some of them were the kind usually kept as family pets.
“My kitten.” She struggled against the bonds, but they held fast.
“Naw, yer kitten's not there, lassie, nobbut a mouthful, if that, on her. I left her sleepin'.” The giant came into the room, stropping a large knife against a steel. It looked large enough to be a short sword. “But you two will be makin’ a fine stew, just like I told me missus.” He tested the edge of the knife with his thumb.
Charity shrieked at the sight of the knife, and thrashed against the ropes that held her down.
Adam woke to screams in the dark. Charity was in danger. He tried to get up, but something held him in place. She continued to scream, and he became desperate to get to her. Pain tore through his head like that time with the trolls, along with the feeling of being displaced from reality.
A loud curse in a basso voice came from outside the small room he was in. He tried to sit up again, and found he could, for whatever had been holding him was gone. He stood up and stumbled against the door, his feet still asleep from being so tightly bound. The door moved as he hit it. Whoever had tossed him into ... this closet ... had forgoten to lock it afterwards. He was stamping his feet to get feeling back in them when Charity screamed again.
Adam pushed the closet door open, and found his view blocked by a barrel, standing just outside the opening. There was enough room for him to squeeze between the door's edge and the barrel, so he started through. That was when he noticed his condition, naked as a jaybird. The disconnected feeling washed over him once again, but this time it went almost as quickly as it came.
The rope holding Charity dissolved into a flurry of small pieces and dust, and she rolled away from the knife as it thwacked into the cutting table. The giant shouted a frustrated curse, and tried once more to cut her as she rolled off to the floor.
She landed on her feet, still screaming, but now she was angry. How dare he try to butcher her like a rabbit! The floor held litter, most of it small items like potatoes, little hard apples and even some stones. She stooped and grabbed a stone. The giant roared satisfyingly with pain as it bounced off his cheek. Filled with a need for vengeance, Charity stooped again.
Where were his clothes? His sword? Adam felt as naked as he looked. At least his rock was still around his neck. He edged around the barrel, and was greeted with a view of Charity's bare backside as she pelted the giant with whatever was close at hand.
He saw his clothes. They lay piled next to Charity's behind the giant. A series of shelves rode the wall to the ceiling. Charity's quiver, her bow and her sword in its scabbard lay on the shelf next to the floor.
He had to get past the giant while Charity had him distracted, and from the looks of things, her pile of ammunition was getting low. He hissed at her under his breath. “Charity.”
She turned her head, and saw him. “Adam,” she shrieked. “Don't look at me. I'm naked.”
As if we haven't seen each other that way before. The thought flew through Adam's head, and then left, dismissed. “So am I, but we've got a bigger problem. Our clothes and weapons are on the other side of that.” Adam pointed at the giant bobbing and weaving as it tried to duck Charity's missiles. “Can you keep his attention a little longer?”
“I'll try. He's as slow as an ox. You just keep your eyes on our clothes.” She threw another rock.
The rock bounced off the giant's nose. When he yelped and held his offended member with both hands, Adam slipped around the cutting table, and ducked into the corner where the clothing lay. There was a hiss as he reached for his tunic. The kitten crouched behind the pile, her ears were flat against the side of her head, and she watched the giant with hate in her yellow eyes.
When Adam pulled the sword from the scabbard, it felt good in his hand, as if it belonged there. He turned to attack the giant from behind just in time to see Charity knocked down from a backhanded blow that caught her on the left side and shoulder. She yelped like a dog struck by a horse cart.
Something rocketed over Adam as he crouched, using his upper back like a springboard. It was the kitten, and she landed on the giant, and clawed her way up to his head. The giant screamed as the kitten tore at his eyes. Adam took the opportunity to try a slash at the monster. The tip of the sword scored a long gash across the belt line drawing blood. A blind swing caught Adam a glancing blow from one of the giant's flailing hands. He went down feeling like he'd been struck with a club, seeing spots. The ringing in his ears pushed all the other sounds into the background, and he felt like he might sick up.
“Adam!” Charity's yell caused him to look up just in time to drop back to the floor. The sword took over, like it had in Bustlebun's Inn. Parrying the Giant's knife blow off to the side. He'd swung at Adam with such force that the deflected blade buried itself six inches into the butcherblock table.
As his opponent tried vainly to remove his knife from the block while fending off the mostly harmless attack by the kitten, Adam staggered back onto his feet. His head felt woozy, and sometimes there were two of what should only be one when he tried to focus on something.
Charity huddled against a flour sack, and felt her side, it was going to bruise, she knew it. The pain had begun, and she worked at not sobbing. Crying now would be the death of both of them.
“Gerofff! Geroff now, Yer damned mit!” The giant finally swept the kitten off his head, and turned to take down his other tormentor.
The sword pulled his hand toward the floor, and he dropped with it, feeling the wind of the giant's hand as it passed over him.
The monster snarled. “Stand still, blarst ye. Ya damned weeny deevil!”
Adam dodged another swing as he ducked around the chopping block one more time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pottery jug that should make a nice mess of shards sharp enough to slow the giant down. It was just plain luck that both he and Charity were able to move faster than their hungry host.
He swung the sword at the jug, and strong-smelling oil gushed out onto the plank wood floor of the pantry. Adam had to do a bit of fancy stepping to avoid the flood.
The giant wasn't as fortunate. A heel came down just as the oil slick spread across the floor, and both feet went out from under him. He fell backwards, totally out of control. A loud crack sounded through the pantry as his head connected with the edge of the chopping block. A shudder passed through the huge body, and then he lay still.
Charity limped out of her dark corner, cradling the kitten in her arms. “Is ... is he dead?”
Adam shrugged and turned back to where the clothes lay, and scooped up Charity's. He threw them at her. “Get dressed quickly before the other one shows up.” The wooziness was going, but his head still hurt like the pit.
The giantess opened the door as Adam closed the buckle on his sword belt. He stepped back into the shadows, pulling Charity with him, hoping they'd be hidden from her sight.
Their ex-hostess saw the giant lying in the oil. In the dim light, it looked like blood. Her scream was almost deafening in the close quarters. “My husband! My husband! You little monsters, you've killed him!”
Adam pulled Charity down behind a stand of potato sacks; in the poor lighting of the room they should be hidden enough for right now.
She tore the butcher knife out of the cutting table with maniacal strength, and started poking its blade into the shadows. “I'll kill you, you little bastards. I'll kill you and chop you into bait, I will. Into bait.” She sobbed hysterically as she hunted the killers of her husband.
The knife jabbed into the corner away from where the twins were hiding. A banshee howl answered the jab, followed by a black blur launching itself out of the shadow at the face of its tormentor. The giantess screeched and put her hands up to shield her face, dropping the knife as she did so.
With one more hiss, the kitten ran out the door the giantess had entered. Adam and Charity followed close behind.
The front door was closed, and Adam couldn't reach the latch at the top, even by jumping.
Charity could feel the bruising on her side heating up with the running. “Adam. We've got to get out of here.”
“I know. I know.”
They could hear the giantess coming out of the storeroom. Adam turned to look as he pushed Charity into the side room where the bed was kept. She had the knife back in her hand, waving it as she cursed them for being murderous little monsters.
“The Jakes.” Adam called to Charity, as he pushed her further from the enraged giantess.
“Oh, no! Not again!” Charity wailed and balked at Adam's push.
“We don't have any choice. Can you hold on to your bow and the kitten?” Charity had the kitten cradled in one of her arms. It hissed, screamed and yowled at the giantess as she chased them. The Jakes were behind a curtain in the back corner of the Bedroom, away from the fireplace. The curtain hid the sight, but not the smell. Made for giants, it should allow the twins to slip right through.
They made a circuit of the room that temporarily stuck their antagonist on the wrong side of the bed as they squeezed past the headboard and the wall. Adam pushed aside the curtain that hid the jakes from sight. The stool with the hole in it leading to the outside was fastened to the plank floor with stout pegs. He climbed up onto it as Charity came around the curtain still holding the kitten, stepped into the hole and fell.
Charity's “Oh Deity!” caught up with him as he hit bottom.

Chapter Four
Ethan swallowed more of the hard cider. Yes, he was decided. The time was long past for his desertion. He'd had his fill of Silgert, a filthy little town stuck on the far edge of nowhere. He'd sure as the pit had his fill of Vedder and his venomous sermons. He shook the flask, the slosh telling him there were only a couple of swallows left. Enough to drink to the end of his career as a watchman for the Baron of Spu.
* * * * It was taking too long. Damn the pigeons and all who trained them, damn that brat for blocking his scry. How it had been done by one as raw and untrained as that one was, he'd never know, in fact he didn't want to know. All he wanted was to hear from Cloutier about the progress of those two so he could plan his revenge. He looked in the mirror. Now, undisturbed by shaping, it was merely beveled and silvered glass, but it revealed the truth, nonetheless. He traced the scars on his cheek with his fingertips. They would pay. Oh, yes. They would pay.
* * * * After the third day on the path, the smell of their landing into the pile below the Jakes went away. Either that, or their sense of smell gave up and went away. That was Charity's explanation. She nearly hit him when he suggested the rapid healing of her bruises was the application of that particular ointment.
Signs of game began to show in the forest again, and Charity's bow added meat to their diet. Adam's skills at fire making continued to show the need for more practice, and it was a hungry couple of travelers who finally dug into the roast rabbit.
“Mmm, this is good.” Adam tore a bite out of his rabbit.
“Uncle used to say hunger is the best sauce.” Charity tossed a bit to the kitten who snatched it out of the air, and gobbled it down. “Ow.” She rubbed her arm.
“Still hurts to move, huh?”
“Your Uncle was a wise man.” The twins started at the voice. Charity dropped her rabbit and snatched up her bow. Adam used his free hand to grasp the hilt of his sword.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. May I come into the light?” The figure of an old man came forward into the flickering gleam of the campfire. His hair was white, long and blended into the beard covering his chest. He wore robes, rather than tunic and trousers, and a wide belt thick with pockets circled his waist. A staff was held in his right hand, the top showed an intricate design of leaves and berries beneath a carved wolf head.
Adam stood up, his hand still on the sword, and motioned to the fire with the hand that held the rabbit. “Please, share our fire.”
The old man came into the camp, and crouched down before the fire. He held his hands out, warming them. His eyes were a light blue in color, and laugh lines creased his face. He looked at them each in turn. “Thank you for your hospitality to an old man. May I know your names?”
Adam looked at Charity. Their recent experiences had taught them caution. He turned back to the old man. “Tell us yours, first, please, as well as where you come from.”
The old man chuckled and said, as if to himself. “The stranger should declare himself first, eh?” Then to Adam. “Very well, young man. You may call me Milward.” He bowed his head to both twins. “As to where I come from, that question begs many answers for one as old as I. If you mean, where did I come from to reach this fire? Well, my home is just over there.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I smelled your fire, and came to see who my new neighbors were.”
Adam nodded, considering what the old man said. He sat back on the stump, put down the rabbit, and bowed his head to the old man. “My name is Adam.”
Charity bowed. “I'm Charity, his twin sister. Will you share our supper?”
Adam looked at the remains of his rabbit, and sighed.
Milward laughed at Adam's expression. “No, thank you, young lady. I'm not as hungry as that. At my age, one prefers good company to good food.” He leaned towards Adam. “You may finish you supper in good conscience, my lad. I'm quite full.” Adam's look of guilt caused him to laugh again.
Charity found herself taking to the old man. Rather than being threatening, he seemed friendly and inviting. He gave off a sense of being family, and he smelled nice, like Aunt's herb garden during harvest time. She wondered if it would be too presumptuous to ask if they could stay the night in his cave. Seeing the stars at night was fun for a while, but not when they rained on you.
Adam finished off the rabbit, and licked his fingers for dessert. “We're trying to find a village at the edge of the forest. We were told this path would take us there. You see, we're lost, the village could be our home.”
The old man sniffed. “From what I've seen of you, there's little chance of that.”
Charity gathered up the bones to bury them after giving the kitten the last of the scraps. “What do you mean by that?”
Milward smiled and leaned back on his elbow. “Your courtesy is my first clue. The folk of that village would sooner chew their tongues for supper than offer a stranger their scraps, much less an equal share of two scrawny rabbits.”
Charity muttered, “It was late, and they were all I could shoot before dark.”
Adam looked at Charity. “Another piece of evidence.”
Milward smiled to himself, and sniffed the night air. “It's going to rain soon. I had best get back to my nice, dry cave before these old bones get damp.” He stood up. “It was nice meeting you. Good night. Unless...” He turned back to face them. “You'd like to join me...”
Milward was correct. His home was close by, merely half a mile, if that. It was built into a long dead cave, within one of the hills to the north of the forest path. A door covered the opening, painted in a combination of bright colors after the fashion of the northern regions. No other adornment graced the entrance. Inside was a different matter entirely; Milward's cave was decorated and furnished for the purpose of living comfortably. A wide fireplace promised old bones plenty of warmth on cold days, and a deep larder insured a full belly. One entire wall was lined with shelf after shelf of books and scrolls. Cushioned chairs placed throughout promised a welcome spot for a lazy afternoon's reading. Boxes of vellums and parchments were stacked ceiling high next to a massive reading desk covered in the drippings of a century's worth of candles.
Milward's foyer held places for their cloaks to hang and the weapons to lie. The thick bar placed across the stout door once shut made sure of a secure stay.
Underfoot, thick carpets gave their feet a welcome release from the hard ground. Dozens of lamps with smokeless oil brightened the interior, and the warm glow of the oaken panels said home, rather than cavern.
The twins stood transfixed within the foyer, gaping at the richness before them. Bustlebun's Inn now seemed rather shabby in comparison.
“Come in, come in, and be warmed by my fire. Summer is leaving, fall is upon us, and it will be cool tonight.” Milward removed his outer robe, and entered the living room of his home.
A table set with supper for three was waiting for them, and he indicated it with a wave of his hand. “I believe you will find my cooking to be adequate, unless you're all filled up on charred rabbit...”
The food at Milward's table was plain but plentiful. There were three different cheeses, a variety of fresh fruits, warm baked bread which filled the area with it's yeasty aroma, chops and stew, as well as pint after pint of crisp cider to wash it all down. After supper and after their respective hurts and bruises were seen to, the twins, along with the kitten, were bedded down in a spare bedroom off the back hall of Milward's home.
Milward closed the door on his guests, satisfied that the sounds he heard were those of sleep. So these were the two, he mused. It was always interesting to see a prophecy unfold, but to involve lives so close to their beginning ... He was glad he was not involved in the choosing. At least the gentle glamour he used on them worked well enough. He hadn't felt like chasing a couple of active youngsters through the woods all night long.
A noise outside drew him to the door. It was a woodchuck. The fat little creature stood on its haunches, and chattered at the old man. He nodded and thanked the messenger by giving her a treat from one of his pouches. He closed the door and leaned against it, deep in thought. So, this was how it was to be. Well he'd best not dawdle. He strode down the hallway leading straight back from the living room to the door at the very end. Inside was a room filled with casks, pots, jars and boxes full of herbs, both dry and growing, bits and pieces of insects, amphibians and reptiles, as well as strange and wonderful oils, ointments and powders. The air within the room greeted the old Wizard with its heady mixture of odors. Worktables sat cluttered with tasks and experiments in various stages of completion, and an ornately framed mirror graced one wall bare of anything else but the twin oil lamps bracketing it. Milward stood before the mirror, and his countenance changed. The kindly old man became something dangerous, deadly. His eyes burned with a cold fire, and his brows were knitted together in anger. “Show him to me.” He snapped.
The mirror's surface began to swirl with multicolored mists. A figure appeared, first as a silhouette, and then as Gilgafed himself. A fork with a steaming morsel of food was paused halfway to his mouth. “You!”
“Ah, Gilgafed. At repast, as usual.” Milward leaned closer to the mirror, and peered at the Sorcerer's cheek. “Have you been playing with fire again?”
“What do you want, Wizard? I have better things to do than bandy words with a doddering, old fool.” Gilgafed slammed his fork back onto the table.
“Did I spoil your appetite, old boy? I'm terribly sorry.”
“Just speak your peace, and go!” Gilgafed glared at the Wizard, then looked away.
A dangerous smile played across Milward's face. “I called you to give you a small prophecy, Gilgy, old boy.” Milward held up a hand. “Oh, settle down. I know you don't like being called that. That is precisely why I do it. You're seeking two young humans, a boy and a girl? Ah, I see I'm right, and yes, I do know where they are. They are under my protection, hence the prophecy.” His expression changed to one of pure malice. “If anything happens to them, and I find you had the smallest of hands in their fate, I will castrate you, and feed your testicles to you as an entree. Am I understood in this matter?”
Gilgafed nodded his face devoid of expression.
“Good. Oh, and by the way. I am fully capable of doing just that. Think about it when you wonder where I got the strength to do something. Hmmm?” Milward cut the connection, and the mirror became just a mirror again.
He closed the door to his workroom, and went to check on the children. They and the kitten were sleeping deeply and peacefully.
It was time sit and think. The Wizard settled into his favorite chair before the fire, and poured himself a goblet of fortified wine. He warmed the aged liquor with his hands as he stared into the dancing flames. From what he knew of the prophecy of Labad, most of it based on incomplete texts and conjecture, his guests were in for a number of hard years, and he could not be there for them. Ah, well, maybe the scare he put into Gilgafed would grant them the time needed. He sipped the brandy and savored the smoky burn of it passing down his throat. They would stay with him for a while. At the very least, he could show them some things about this world that would help. He sipped again. Yes, that was the very least he could do.
Charity woke to the sound of purring. There was a small weight on her chest. She reached up and felt the kitten nestled between her breasts. It stretched and yawned as she petted it, the purrs growing louder.
Adam lay snoring in fits and starts on his side of the bed; she wondered why the kitten's purring woke her instead of the snores.
The door opened, and Milward poked his head around the edge of the door. “Good morning.”
Charity stifled a yawn. “Good morning.” The kitten arched her back in a stretch, and yawned again. It leapt off the bed, and began rubbing Milward's ankles.
The wizard looked down at the attention. “I see someone is ready for breakfast.”
“Did I hear someone say breakfast?” Adam raised his head off the pillow.
Charity hit him with her pillow. “Typical. You're always hungry.”
“So what? I'm a growing boy.” He hit her back.
Adam received a pillow across the face. “Growing out, you mean.”
It deteriorated from there. Milward looked at the kitten. “We'll let them get some of this extra energy out of their systems. Come with me, little one,” He clicked his tongue, and she raised her tail in a crook as she followed him. “I have something for you I think you'll enjoy.”
Breakfast was similar to supper. Simple, yet substantial, with mounds of hot porridge, link upon link of spicy sausages, gallons of rich cream and yellow butter, and more of the delicious, freshly baked bread. All of it finished off with steaming fruity tisane.
Milward spooned up some porridge, and looked across the table at his guests. “Let me hear them.”
Adam put down the sausage he was working on. “What?”
“Your questions. I'm sure you have at least a few floating around in those active minds of yours.” He swallowed his porridge. “Come on, let's have them.
“I have one.” Charity spread some butter onto a slice of bread.
“Yes...” Milward drew her out.
“Those pouches you wear. What are they for?”
He looked down at his waist. The wide belt with its many flapped pouches was there, as always; it had become an old friend after so many years. He fingered it as he looked back at the girl. “This? This is my friend and companion, my memory and my treasure keeper.”
Adam looked up from his sausage and bread. “What do you mean by that?”
Milward smiled at him. “Herb lore. One of my passions is what the forest and the things that grow in it have to teach me. You know, to me it is always like a treasure hunt. I never know what surprise awaits me underneath the next old log or the next rock. Nature has wonders we've yet to learn, and most of what we know is just scratching below the surface.
“I keep some of what I've found in these pouches. In others are some old friends I've known about for years.”
Adam sipped some Tisane, “for example..?
Milward dipped into one of the pouches, and pulled out a corked vial filled with a white powder. “This comes from boiling Willit bark, and collecting the steam, and then letting it dry to this powder.”
Charity looked closely at the vial. “What does it do?”
The wizard shook it, causing the powder to billow within the vial. “It stops most muscle pain, headache, and those aches that some of us older folks get in our joints now and then, plus some others.”
“Can you show us more?” Charity leaned forward on the table.
Milward pulled out some leaves that looked like they had come from a wildflower. “This is Phedri. Have you ever caught the drips that become the chills if not doctored?”
They nodded their heads.
“You crush the leaves of this plant, and steep them in boiling water. Allow it to cool a bit, and then drink it all. You can sweeten it with honey if you wish, in about one half of an hour later the drips will stop, a marvelous plant!”
The lessons in herb lore carried on for several hours. The twins soaked up the teaching like sponges, asking question after question, and Milward reveled in it. He showed them the oil squeezed out of Cancra seed that helped to keep the skin from scarring when healing from a cut, and the Alu, that when sliced, seeped a gel that caused the skin to heal quickly. He showed them other wonders found in plants, mushrooms, and in certain molds that did things more akin to magik than medicine. He would not, under any circumstance, answer their questions when they strayed into the realm of poisons and like potions, in spite of their pleas to do so. That world was for much later, he told them, and that was that. They also talked at length concerning their place in the world, and what they should do to ensure it.
As the discussion in herb lore wound down, Adam looked wistfully into the distance and sighed, “I can't wait to get back and tell Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal about what we've learned.”
Milward shook his head sadly. “That may not be possible.”
“What?”
“Please, I want to go home!”
The effect of Milward's words was as upsetting as he was afraid it would be. He took in a long breath and spoke again, “I didn't say it was impossible, merely that it may not be possible. Tell me about your village, but I think I can already guess it's a long ways from here.”
They told him, including the tale of their capture and the journey through the caverns. Charity added to the narrative her belief they'd been magiked to another world.
Milward nodded through it all, grunting in places, and chuckling when they described their first taste of Dwarfish cooking. Charity didn't mention the power of her bow and Adam, for reasons he was unsure of kept silent about his sword.
He was about to tell about the letters when Milward broke in. “I've heard enough. You two have had an eventful journey, I must say. No, I don't believe you've been transported to another world, your village is about a thousand or more miles that way,” he pointed behnd them, “on the other side of the Circle Sea. It's a journey I wouldn't advise either of you undertaking right now.”
“Why not?” Adam demanded, “We did ok, so far.”
“Luck is a condiment best used sparingly, my lad. Remember those beasts you told me about, the ones that carried your sister and you into the caverns? They are called Ogren and it is a sure bet they weren't alone.”
Charity gasped and brought her hands to her mouth. Adam looked grim. “Our Aunt and Uncle...”
“Don't be thinking the worst, now.” Milward cautioned him. “There is every chance they are still alive.” And in Southpoint by now, he finished to himself. “Why don't you stay with me a while, at least through the winter. It gets cold and lonely around here sometimes, and I would like the company. You could learn even more, and if you wish, continue your journey in the spring when the weather is must more hospitable.”
“The ... Ogren, you called them?” Charity asked.
Milward gave her an understanding smile. “Oh, they'd be long gone by then. They're beasts at heart and only stay on a given task if driven to do so. What about my offer, will you stay?”
Adam looked at Charity; she nodded. After a bit he did also, and then turned to face Milward, “we'll stay.”
They stayed with Milward through the fall and winter learning much about herb lore, and expanding on what Uncle Bal had already taught them concerning wood craft. One day, when rains were light, he took them into the deep wood to test their knowledge. The downpour the evening before had left the air smelling crisp and clean. Subtle hints of citrus and an earthy smell of rich soil hovered in the background.
“Now then, Adam. What can you tell me of that fern growing out of that Alder to your left?”
The fern in question sprouted from a tree covered in moss, and long dead. Small, translucent green, spearhead-shaped leaves grew along the shaft at right angles from each other, and in progressively smaller sizes up to the fiddlehead tip. Tiny orange spots showed on the underside of each leaf.
Adam stepped across the small creek, and fingered one of the leaves of the fern. He brought his hand up to his nose, and sniffed. “Blood Fern, if my nose doesn't lie.”
“And what can it be used for, Charity?”
She placed her hands behind her back, and stared off into space. “Blood Fern, good for cleansing ailments of the blood such as those caused by poor food and too much drink.” She turned and beamed a smile at Milward. “Did I get it right?”
“Letter perfect, my dear.”
She wrinkled her nose at Adam.
He frowned slightly, and then turned his attention back to the fern.
Milward crossed the creek, passed Adam, and walked into a small clearing where the ground was half bog. “Perhaps you would care to point out some interesting specimens to me. This bit of ground may reveal a secret or two.”
They joined the old man in the clearing and began to examine the ground. Adam could hear snatches of the lessons they'd been given through the long winter nights flowing in and out of his head.
“I found something.” Charity called out from a spot on the far edge of the bog.
Milward looked up from examining a brilliant purple beetle with a ludicrously large snout. “Well, now. First prize goes to the young lady in heather green. What did you find?”
She pointed to a grayish green plant with thick leaves that grew close to the ground. Small bulbs of the same color were attached to it by coiling tendrils that sprouted similar coils of their own. Some of the twisting growth held blades of grass fast, ensuring a solid anchor in the unstable ground. “A Bladderleaf. I'm sure of it.”
“You are, are you?” Milward smiled. “Perhaps your brother can tell us what this little beauty is good for.” He gave Adam an appraising look.
Adam had begun to feel somewhat inadequate. Charity soaked up Milward's lessons like a sponge, whereas he had to struggle to remember half of what the old Wizard taught them.
“Uh ... wounds, I think.”
Charity giggled.
Milward turned back to her, and raised a forefinger. “Ah ahh. No teasing and no laughing at each other. We all have our different strengths. It's obvious where yours lie, young lady, and you've a right to be pleased with your progress.”
“Your brother's learning a lot. He already knows more about herb and plant lore than nine tenths of the men in this world, so ease up on him a bit. Just because you're better at something than someone else is never a reason for teasing. Doing that only makes you smaller than they are, understand?”
“Yes, sire Milward.” Charity's voice revealed her contrition.
The old man turned to look at Adam. “You were saying something about wounds? What I told her, by the way, was for both of your ears.”
Adam swallowed his smile. “Yes, sire Milward. Uh ... Those little bulbs on the Bladderleaf can suck the poison out of a wound, or a snakebite ... I think.”
“Good. Very good. What about this small thing? He bent over and plucked a tiny blue-green herb from the host of plants growing in the rich soil. The leaves were teardrop in shape, clustered in groups of three on each stem. “Can either of you tell me this small plant's name and it's uses?”
Adam shook his head. “No ... I've no idea. Charity?”
She shook hers, as well. “No, What is it?”
Milward held the herb up to his nose, and sniffed it. It had a pleasant peppery scent. He then held it out, and turned it back and forth, a slow smile spreading in his whiskers. “I have absolutely no idea. This one is entirely new to me.”
“Let's give it a name.” Adam suggested.
“What would we call it? Milleaf? Wardwort?” Charity looked over Adam's shoulder at the plant in Milward's hand.
“That would be a bit premature.” The old man said quietly. “Why don't you two tell me what we know of it so far?”
“It's green.” Adam ventured.
“The leaves look like little teardrops.” Charity added. “And I think it looks more blue-green from here.”
“I see tiny little hairs on the stem,” Said Adam. “and it has a spicy smell. It smells good, like it could be used in cooking.”
“If it isn't poisonous. I don't see any places where bugs have chewed on it.” Charity looked more closely at the plant in Milward's hand.
A light rain began to fall, and a chill breeze rose with the change. The old man placed the herb into one of the pouches on his belt, and patted it after closing the flap. “Why don't we leave this weather to the outside, and go see what else our little leafy friend can tell us in the laboratory? Ok?”
Adam and Charity were more than willing to do so. Both of them had forgotten to bring a hood, or a hat.
One bright morning at breakfast, Milward looked up from his cup of tisane. “This is the morning. The last of the snow is gone from the forest floor, and the frost no longer forms during the night.”
Adam shifted in his new tunic. Both he and Charity had outgrown the clothes they found in the parcel with the weapons. Charity was looking more woman than girl now, and he had begun to notice a fine growth of hair upon his chin. Milward had prepared them for this day, they were going to travel south to the village on the edge of the wood and try to get their bearings from there, but it was still hard. The cave now felt like home, and the old man like a father.
Charity put down her spoon, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. Milward reached across the table, and wiped it away with the side of a forefinger. “Now, now. No tears, my dear. We'll meet again. You two have you own journey to make, as I have mine. When I've done what I need to do, I'll find you; you can count on that. Remember, we've talked about this day, and I've done what I can to prepare both of you for what is to come.”
She sniffed. “But I'll miss you so much.”
He took her hand. “I know you will, dear, but that will pass, as all sorrows do.”
Adam looked down at the tabletop and ran a fingertip along the pattern of the woodgrain. “We've been gone from home an awful long time. What about Uncle Bal and Aunt Doreen?”
“I'm sure they miss you very much.” Milward shrugged, “I did some checking during the winter. They did survive, but with you and your sister gone, they left the village. You're on your own now, at least until they can be found.”
Charity threw herself into the old man's embrace, and he hugged her back, patting her shoulder with a gentle hand.
“Remember my teachings, that's all I ask.” Emotion thickened Milward's voice.
Adam swallowed his own waterworks. “We will; I promise.”
Milward leaned back, holding his cup. “Good.” He sipped from the cup. “Good.”

Chapter Five
Silgert lay at the edge of the forest with a vast pasture stretching to the South below it. A dim line of trees drew a black shadow at the far edge of the pasture. To the East, in the distance, mountains scraped the edge of the sky. From the very first the twins had an uneasy feeling about Silgert, and began to understand Milward's derision of it. Men, women and even children looked at them either furtively with fear, or searchingly with suspicion. One woman spat the word hussy at Charity as she walked past them. Of the three Inns they tried, two were closed with the windows boarded up. The one that was open nearly turned them away until Adam got the Innkeeper's attention with a gold.
The Innkeeper muttered more to himself than to them as he accepted the payment. “I'm takin’ me life in me hands, I am. Town don't like strangers or them what takes ‘em in, they don't. Be touched in head, that be it. Gold, though, never seen a gold, for a room not worth two cop, touched that be it, Touched...”
He showed them to the room, and went away still muttering and fingering the gold coin. The twins stowed their pack against one of the walls. The Innkeeper was correct. The room wasn't worth a gold, by any means. The lone table held a chipped water basin, and wobbled alarmingly. The bed sagged worse than a spavined nag, and creaked when sat on. There was no chamber pot in the room, and neither of them had seen any sign of a jakes on the way up.
Adam got up from the bed after testing it. “I'm going down there, and get my coin back. That Innkeeper is a thief.”
“You better not.”
“Why?”
Charity sat on the bed, wincing at the creak. “I don't think it would take much for the people in this place to become a mob aimed at us. Did you see the looks we were getting as we walked through town?”
“I noticed. I don't think the people in this village like us.”
Charity smirked. “You noticed, huh?”
“Now who's being snide? Yeah, I noticed. I was afraid I'd have to pull the sword more than once. I wonder what caused this town to be so suspicious?”
“I'd like to know why they don't clean up the place. It stinks.” Charity wrinkled her nose in demonstration.
Adam sniffed the air. “Probably comes from the same root, as Milward would say. I don't like this place, Charity. Let's do what we need to do, and get out of here.”
“What is it we need to do, again?” Charity prompted her twin with a raised eyebrow.
Adam leaned back and mimicked the tone Milward adopted when lecturing. “You need to get to know the people in the world apart from the little village where you grew up. This can only be done by seeing the world at large, and the people in it at work, at play and at worship, if they are so inclined to do so.”
Charity laughed. “You sound just like him, and he holds his hands like that, too.”
Adam laughed, as well. “I've had lots of practice. I figured on taking a little tour of this dump, learning what Milward said we should and getting out of here. I don't think I even want to spend the night.”
Charity got up from the bed and reached under it, feeling for the now-grown cat. “Sounds good to me. Come on you ... got her. OK, let's go.”
The Innkeeper stared at them as they left the Inn. His unblinking gaze was nearly as bad as his muttering. Outside of the Inn, the street was empty of people, and so was the next.
Adam sidestepped to avoid a pile of dung in the street. “Where are all the people? This street was full, not an hour ago.”
Charity craned her neck to look through a dust-covered window. “This shop's empty, too. They're not in the street, and they're not in the shops; maybe they're all in church?”
“Wouldn't want to be in any church this place supports.” Adam muttered.
Charity's sharp ears caught her brother's undertone. “Well, I can't think of any other place they'd be, can you?”
Adam nodded. “Only one way to find out. Shall we go to church?”
It took them a good while to find where the townsfolk had gone. The best and last clue was when Charity noticed a trend in the grime covering the streets. There appeared to be depressions and smears, almost footprints, heading in a northwesterly direction. The number of them increased as they came to a cobblestone street. They followed the prints, and soon saw others from the cross streets merging into the flow. A building stood at the far end of the street, sparkling clean, which caused it to stand out from the rest of the town, looking like a diamond on a dirt pile. The footprints led straight up to its doors.
A large oak grew in the shade on the north side of the church. Climbing it gave the twins a view into the interior, and kept them out of sight from the townsfolk who filled it. A man dressed in brilliant white robes was speaking to the congregation.
“I remember that fellow.” Adam whispered at Charity. “He was talking with a small group of men as we came into town. I didn't like the look he gave us at all.”
Charity edged closer to the window. “I can hear what he's saying, now. Put your ear against the wall like this.”
Adam followed his sister's example, and the voice of the man in white came to him clearly.
“Strangers are always a danger.” The speaker's resonant voice came to their ears. “Can you tell how they may act? Can you? Of course not. They are an unknown, and the unknown may contain evi,l and therefore must be avoided at all costs. If you cannot avoid it, you must destroy it.”
He thrust his arm at a woman sitting in the front pew. “Do you know what your neighbor does at night?” She shook her head. “Then how do you know she is right with the Creator? You cannot. That is why it is imperative we must watch each other, watch for any sign of contamination. Watch for weakness in resolve, and you will be blessed. Watch for any crack that the Evil One can slither through. It will be there.”
* * * * He had them now. He could see the eyes shifting left and right. It had to be like this. He had to raise an army to win his war. Since that day, nearly five years ago now, when he was visited by a messenger of the Creator, and told of his special mission, his goal, nay, his obsession had been to eradicate all influences of evil. Magik and the users of it, those who were trying to subvert mankind to the obviously lesser races and, of course, the Dragons. Some claimed they no longer existed. That only proved they were dupes of the Dragons, themselves. They existed, and he would be the instrument of their destruction, along with all the other tools of Evil.
This village was just the start; once he had these fools eating out of his hands, he would move on to bigger and better breeding grounds.
The Priest brought both hands up as a signal for his congregation to rise. “Trust no one.” He intoned. “Until you learn from me what to watch for, you can never be sure of that one across from you,” He turned to the side, and looked at the people over his shoulder. “Maybe even your neighbor is plotting against you. Go now. Be vigilant. Be right.”
* * * * “What a load of frog droppings.” Adam repeated one of Milward's favorite sayings.
“You can say that again.” Charity watched the congregation begin to filter toward the door. The cat balanced herself between Charity's shoulder and a branch.
“What a load of ... ow!”
“You deserved it. We better get out of this tree before these kind people see two ‘strangers’ peeking in on their meeting.”
They jumped the couple of feet to the grass, and moved quickly to the rear of the church as the first of the congregation left through the front doors.
Charity peeked around the corner. “Do you think we've learned what we needed to?” The cat jumped into Charity's arms and took her accustomed place in her sling.
Adam dusted off his knees. “That and more, I believe. Let's go back to the Inn, get our stuff, and go. Camping under the stars looks real good to me, right now.”
They cut across to the fourth street west of the Church, and then headed back towards the Inn. People were back out on the streets, and gave them the same suspicious looks as before.
“It's happening again.” Charity hissed to Adam, as they passed a small grouping of women standing outside a cloth monger's shop.
“I know. The Blacksmith watched me like he expected me to snitch a horseshoe as I walked by. Let's keep moving, maybe they won't attack if we don't stay in one place.”
They turned aside to avoid a large knot of townsfolk ahead of them. A small girl sat alone, huddled against an alley that divided two rundown shops with apartments in the second story. She was crying, with her head buried in her knees.
Charity knelt beside her. “What's wrong?”
The little girl looked up, but not directly at her. Charity saw eyes that would never see. The pupils were muddy swirls of color with no iris. She turned her head back and forth. “Who's there?”
“You don't know us. We're strangers here.”
The little girl stiffened.
Adam knelt beside Charity. “Why did you tell her that? Now she's afraid of us.”
The little girl turned her head toward Adam's voice. “I'm not afraid.”
Charity stuck her tongue out at Adam, and turned back to the girl. “Why were you crying?”
The little girl sniffed. “I'm lonely. No one will play with me because I can't see, and Brother Vedder says I'm being punished, but I don't know what I did.” She started to sob.
Adam's outrage at the town began to boil. He wanted to do something to show them where they were wrong, but he felt directionless. Milward had warned both he and Charity to not strike out blindly when attempting to solve a problem. Here, he felt like he was a drop of water trying to extinguish an inferno. His anger warred with his compassion toward the little girl. “Can we do anything to help you?” He put his hand onto her arm.
She didn't pull away. “Can you make me see?”
Charity was about to let the little girl down lightly when she saw Adam's face. He had gone pale, nearly white, and sweat was dripping from him. The amulet holding his lucky rock glowed through the material of his tunic. The little girl gave a soft cry of pain, and pulled her arm free of Adam's hand. She put her hands to her face, and cried again. The cat meowed and pulled further into her sling.
Charity hissed at Adam. “What did you do? There's people in the street there; they're going to think we attacked one of their children.”
Adam rubbed his forehead. “I didn't do anything. I got a headache all of a sudden. Maybe I squeezed her arm too tight.”
“I can see you.” The little girl looked at them through beautifully clear, blue-green eyes.
“Adam...” Charity felt her stomach beginning to tighten.
“Thank you, mister.” The little girl focused her gaze on Adam.
“I know, Charity.” Adam's skin was crawling; the feeling of destiny was bearing down on him again.
“What are you doing to my daughter?!” A plain, rather dumpy woman bustled over to them in a flurry of petticoats. A gangly man with a large nose, no chin and a turkey neck followed close behind her.
Charity stood up to face them. “We were just talking to her; she was lonely.”
The woman bristled. “She's supposed to be lonely! Brother Vedder says ... iiieee!” The woman screamed. “Her eyes!”
The man looked at his daughter. She looked back.
“Witchcraft!” He yelled at the top of his lungs. “Minions of Evil!” He and his wife began shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. The little girl watched her two new friends run down the street, away from the forming mob.
Townsfolk gathered to see what all the shouting was about. The girl's parents showed them their daughter's restored sight, and they also picked up the cry of evil being done to their poor little girl. The mob began its deadly march toward the Inn, where the two objects of its wrath were believed to be staying.
Adam and Charity ran past the Innkeeper without a word, and up the stairs to their room.
Charity hefted the linked bags Milward had given her, and slung them over the shoulder opposite her bow. “I've got these, how about you?”
Adam shouldered his backpack with the bedrolls. “All set, let's get out of here.”
They hit the stairs at full speed,and knocked aside the Innkeeper and a rough looking man who was following him up to the room. As they pushed through the front door of the Inn, they could hear the Innkeeper shouting, “Thief! Thief!” at the top of his lungs. The tough tried to chase after them, but he was no match for younger, faster legs.
Adam looked over his shoulder as they ran out of the town. A mob had reached the Inn carrying torches and various sharp tools as weapons, led by the parents of the little girl.
They ran for nearly a league past the outskirts of the town, checking to see if the mob was still following. As they were passing a Birch grove, Adam slowed to a walk. “I think we've left them behind. Can you hear anything behind us?” Shouts of “Witch", “Sorcerer” and “Magik Worker” had followed them as they left the town.
Charity cocked her head, listening. “Nothing. We may be safe, but I'd like to keep walking for a while, just to be sure. Bad as those people are, I wouldn't feel right putting arrows into them.”
Adam reset his sword into the scabbard by pulling it partly out, and letting it fall back into place. The metal sang. “I don't know. Brother Vedder sounded like a fine candidate to me.”
Charity tickled the cat under her chin. The eyes closed, and loud purrs came. “On that point, I agree, but I wouldn't feel right about the rest. They're Vedder's victims just as much as that little girl. Which reminds me ... what happened back there?”
Adam shook his head. “I don't know. I got this shooting pain through my head, and then I became dizzy for a moment. It passed almost as quickly as it came. When I could see again ... I saw the eyes.”
“Yes, the eyes.” Charity looked at Adam levelly. “You do know it was you, don't you?”
Adam looked back at her, bafflement running across his face. “I'm ... not ... sure. I hope not, and yet I want to think I did. I'd like to be able to do that; heal people, I mean. It would be good to correct some of nature's mistakes.”
“Your amulet glowed the same time you turned pale. You're magik, Adam, whether or not you want to be.”
Adam looked down where the amulet hung on its chain. He fingered it through his tunic thoughtfully, and then looked back at Charity with a wan smile. “I guess I'll have to learn to live with it, then, won't I?”
Charity looked at her twin brother for a long moment, and then said with a completely straight face, “I guess so.”
They turned back to the path and continued on their route away from the town of Silgert. The dark line on the horizon in front of them soon formed into individual trees. Pasture grasses on either side of the path held wild flowers offering their promises to both butterflies and small birds that hovered in front of the blossoms like honeybees. In the last league before entering the forest, the path rose slightly, and the tops of partially buried rocks poked through the ground.
They were passing a group of boulders being pushed aside by a number of large black oaks when Adam stopped and began looking around.
“What is it?” Charity asked Adam.
“I hear someone snoring.”
“You've got to be kid ... wait, I hear it, too. Over there.” She pointed to one of the larger oaks. A booted foot showed just beyond the trunk of the tree.
Adam levered himself up and over the space between two of the boulders, and edged around the tree's rough trunk. A man lay sleeping, with his head back and his mouth open. Snores popped and bubbled from him. He cradled a stoneware jug between his arm and his left side. A sword in a well-worn scabbard was strapped to his hip. His hair was long, brown and worn in the style of the western military, pulled back and tied with a leather thong. He would have been clean-shaven except for a day's growth of beard that showed touches of gray. Charity thought his face looked pleasant in spite of the beard. His clothes showed a mixture of brown and olive green with worn areas at the knees. Leather edging protected the bottom of his jacket.
“What do you think he is?” Charity sat down on a convenient rock.
Adam sniffed the opening of the jug. “Drunk, I'd say. This smells like the hard cider that they used to put up back home. Remember when we snuck into the Vintner's shed?”
Charity let out a snort of muffled laughter. She and Adam had been sick for the whole of the next day, and to make it worse, Uncle Bal got the giggles every time he saw them. It was a lesson they never forgot.
The memory brought out the laughter in Adam, too. The vision of the Vintner's face when he had discovered them both drunk on the floor nearly doubled him over.
“Pipe down, will you? Can't you let a man sleep?” The voice stopped their merriment. The man with the jug looked at them from under the hand with which he shaded his eyes. “Who in the pit are you?”
“I'm Adam.”
“Charity.”
He groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, and pushed up onto his hands and knees. Then he sat back onto his haunches, and rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. “Oh, my head. What time is it, anyway?” He held up a hand to prevent their reply. “No, don't tell me, it doesn't matter. You come from Silgert?”
They nodded.
“Run away or run off?”
“I beg your pardon?” Charity leaned forward on her rock.
“Look, miss.” He shielded his eyes again. “Damn, it's bright. No one leaves that dump unless they're running away or they're being run off. The only people who stay there are the fools who deserve each other. I'm running away, myself. Had a little party last night celebrating my freedom. Ethan's the name.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“We'll see about that.” He wiped his mouth. “Have you got anything on you to drink?”
Adam handed him a flask of water. He spat it out after taking a sip. “Pffauugh! Are you trying to poison me? I said something to drink, not water.”
“You want more of what made you sick?” Charity couldn't believe the request.
He chuckled, and then groaned and rubbed his temples again. “Hair of the dog, you know? It'll take the edge off this headache.”
Adam rummaged around in his pack, and pulled out a small bag. He took a vial out of the bag, and poured a small amount of white powder out of it into a cup he took out of the pack, as well. Then he added some of the water, and stirred it with his finger. Adam waited for a few seconds and then handed it to the man. “Here, drink this. It may taste a little bitter, but it will help you lose the headache.”
Ethan looked at the cup warily, as if it held some dire poison. “You want me to drink this?”
Adam repacked his bag. “Unless you want to keep your headache. I learned this from a herb master, and it works, believe me.”
The man's hand trembled slightly as he drew the cup closer to his mouth, and then another spasm went through his scalp. He gripped the cup tightly, and drained it in one. “The kid was right, it's as bitter as Cascara,” he thought. He could feel his mouth puckering, and he reached for the flask of water to clear the taste out of his mouth. “Ugghh. That was foul! What was in that, lizard guts?”
“No, Willit Bark powder, good for just about any ache you've got including the one brought on by too much drink.”
The man drank more of the water. “So, how long?”
“How long for what?”
“How long until I feel better?”
Charity looked at the sun as it passed behind a small cloud. “Should be soon, now. You've heard our names, what was yours again?”
He stood up from his crouch, and wiped his right hand on his thigh. Then held it out to Adam. “Ethan, like I said. My name's Ethan.” He shook Adam's hand and bowed to Charity. “I used to be the Baron's Watchman in Silgert. Had my fill of the place, especially Vedder.”
“The preacher?”
“Ah, you've met him huh?”
“Charity grimaced. “Only from a distance, and that was close enough. The man is a monster building a village of monsters.”
Ethan straightened his tunic; Adam noticed the man's unconscious check of his sword's readiness. “Yes, you've met him. He's the prime reason I deserted my post.”
“You're a deserter?” Adam fell back a step.
“Don't be so quick to judge, boy.” Ethan's reply was heated, but his hand kept away from the hilt of his sword. “What time did you spend in Silgert, two, maybe three days?”
“One, sort of.”
“That long?” He loosed a bitter laugh. “Try spending three long summers there, and then judge my decision. Maybe then I'll listen; right now I couldn't give a flick.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Adam a wry look. “Right on the money, boy. That potion of yours worked. You could make a fortune selling that stuff in Dunwattle.”
Charity pushed the cat's head back into its sling. “Is it far from here, this Dunwattle?”
Ethan looked at her. It's on the Southern end of this forest. The path takes you to the eastern edge of town and the Wildflower Inn.” He smiled in memory. “Home of the best ale in the western lands, and some of the friendliest barmaids in the whole of the Barony.”
“Barony?”
He looked at them out of the corner of his eye. “Did you two just fall out of a hole? The Barony of Spu. You're standing on its soil, now. You've probably been walking on it for the past fortnight.”
Adam stepped forward. “Look, we're strangers here, and we don't know our way around. We've never heard of Dunwattle, or Spu for that matter.”
Ethan looked at them again, holding them for a number of long seconds with his gaze. “Sister, eh? Strangers, you say?” He reached down and picked up the bedroll he'd been using as a pillow, and began striding up the path into the forest. “Well, come on, then. If I'm to guide you to Dunwattle, we may as well get going.” There was no sign of his checking to see if they'd follow.
“Adam, we didn't ask him to guide us.” Charity put her bags back over her shoulder.
“I know.” Adam reshouldered his pack. “I think this is his way of saying thank you. We may as well catch up with him.” He started walking at a speed that ate up the distance between them and Ethan. Charity followed, adjusting her bags as she walked.
They set up camp with a good amount of daylight left. Ethan said that there was no use in them rushing their pace, as the town would still be there a day later, just as it would a day earlier. He leaned back against an old Alder tree as the twins finished laying out their bedrolls. “That's quite a sword you've got on your hip, lad, know how to use it?”
Adam felt a cold wave wash over him. His memory flashed back to the night in Bustlebun's Inn. The red headed man had asked him the same thing. He heard again the surprised grunt of pain as his blade slipped into the man's side. Shaking the memory off, he smiled at Ethan. “A little.”
Ethan straightened up and drew his sword in one smooth motion. He poised himself in en garde, and motioned to Adam with the tip of his sword. “We've got daylight left. Let's see what you've got.”
Adam shook his head no. “I don't want to hurt you.”
“I doubt you'll even come close to touching me. Come on, it'll be better than just sitting around and waiting for the moon.”
“Are you sure?” Adam looked to Charity. She had her hand on her bow, watching Ethan.
Ethan followed his gaze, and nodded to Charity. “Relax, little lady, I don't want to hurt the boy. This land is a dangerous place, and I just might be able to teach him something about protecting himself, and you.”
Charity looked at Adam, and took her hand off her bow. She nodded at him, and he stepped into the cleared area across from Ethan.
“OK, who knows, it might be fun.” He drew his sword, and the silver ring of it filled the campsite.
Ethan whistled. “Where did you get that blade, lad? That's a Royal's weapon, if I don't miss my guess.”
Adam moved the sword through a series of swoops and swirls. The tip of it sang as it parted the air. “It was given to me as an inheritance, as for the other I can't say.”
“Or won't say, eh?” Ethan came back en garde, . “Let's see what you have, my prince.”
Adam decided against answering Ethan's jibe, and let the feeling of the sword flow into him. He was at least a hand taller than he had been back at Bustlebun's, and nearly a stone heavier, and yet the blade still felt as superbly balanced in his hand as it had before.
Ethan tapped the tip of his sword against Adam's, testing him. He had to admit it; the lad had guts. There was no flinch away from his taps; the blade he held was as steady as stone. Ethan pulled back slightly, lifted the tip of his sword a touch, and moved in for a disarm trick he'd learned years ago. The lad surprised him by reversing the spin of his blade, blocking the trick, and causing Ethan to have to parry a rapid riposte. He moved off the parry, and countered in high position. The counter blocked, his blade slid down and away out of the control area. Thrust and parry and counter thrust continued, each passage turning faster and faster until the blades flickered like lightning.
Ethan knew he had to pull some old tricks out of his hat, or the boy would wear him down. He ducked a swipe that parted some of the hairs on his head, and used the duck to continue his drop to the ground, than swung his blade like a scythe, but the kid brought his knees up and the blow passed harmlessly beneath him. This left Ethan open to an overhead blow that would have split him like goose for dinner if he hadn't tucked and rolled through the blow. He finished the roll, and sprang up in a spin that caught Adam facing the wrong way.
“Gottcha.” Ethan tapped the tip of his sword against his opponent's backside.
Adam dropped the sword to his side, and slumped his shoulders in defeat. “You got me. I'd like to learn that trick.”
Ethan panted, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Kid, I'll be glad to teach you all the tricks I know.” He panted again. “If it doesn't kill me first. Who taught you? They had to be a Blademaster, and I know of only two living today.”
Adam shuffled his feet. “I ... uh, I kind of taught myself.”
Ethan snapped a look at Charity over his shoulder. “Is he having fun at my expense?”
Charity shook her head no. “We don't know any blademasters.”
“Not Bilardi? Not Morgan?”
“No one. We just use what we were given.”
He looked back at Adam. “This is true?”
Adam sheathed his sword. “Yes, all of it.”
Ethan looked back at Charity. “And you handle a blade as well as he does?”
Charity laughed. “No, I wouldn't even know which end to hold. I use this.” She held up her bow. “I don't really know why, but I can feel where the arrow needs to go. I haven't missed, yet.”
Ethan shook his head in mock disgust. “Naturals. A couple of flickin’ naturals.” He saw the expression on their faces, and quickly held up a hand to forestall any misunderstanding. “Don't take me wrong, please. I'm not mocking you.”
Adam sat down next to Charity. and began whittling tinder into a pile for the fire, using a knife Milward had given him. “What are you doing then, praising us?”
Ethan's chuckle was rueful. “In a way, that's exactly what I'm doing.” He looked up sharply at Adam. “How old are you, boy? Sixteen summers?”
“About.”
He shook his head again. “And you don't even realized what you just did, do you? Laddie, there are only two swordsmen in the known lands that can beat me in a fair match, all other things being equal.”
“But you beat me.”
“Because I know more than you do, lad, not because I'm better. I'll wager that by the time you've reached your maturity, not even Morgan or Bilardi would be willing to draw on you, if you live that long.”
Charity looked up from playing with the cat. “What do you mean?”
He sighed and sat down, leaning his back against the Alder tree. “I told you. This world is a dangerous place for someone like me, much less a couple of youngsters barely into legal age.” He leaned forward, his eyes showing white all around. “Trolls, giants, Dragons, not to mention the occasional highwayman could be lurking behind the next tree. Have you ever seen a troll? Their heads brush the treetops, and they munch on rocks like candy.”
He continued on, warming to his tale. The twins decided not to tell him of their experiences, so as to not spoil the moment. Ethan had the way of the minstrel about him, with his voice rising and falling to match the character of the story. He spoke until the moon rose high in the evening sky, and the shadows of night birds passed in front of its pale light. Finally, his story slowed, and he paused to stretch and yawn. “Well,” He yawned hugely and smacked his lips. “I'm going to curl up for the night. I suggest you do, as well. We've a long hike in front of us, and the deep forest has few spots suitable for camping.”
Adam and Charity climbed into their bedrolls. Neither of them felt the tiniest bit sleepy. Charity held her blanket open so the cat could snuggle in against her. “Adam?”
“Yes?” The blanket muffled his voice.
“The magik scares me. You could have killed Ethan. Do you know that?”
“I was trying not to hurt him, Charity.”
“That's what I mean. What has happened to us, Adam? I could follow the path of a fly, and knock it out of the air with an arrow if I wanted to. We're not normal any more, are we?”
Adam took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Charity, do you feel like treating anyone the way we were treated back in the village?”
“No.” Her voice was small.
“Neither do I. I think we're both going to be OK. Goodnight, Charity.”
“Goodnight, Adam.”
* * * * At dawn they attacked. The favorite sons of Spu and Avern were known to ride their mounts together along the eastern shore of Firth Lake during the late summer mornings when the air held the crisp promise of turning leaves. Dozens of men garbed in black from their toes to their eyes appeared in the high grass on either side of the lakefront trail. The Baron's son drew his rapier, and struck. One of the attackers died, but too many were there to take his place. The heir to the Avernese throne had no time at all, for six of the black-clad figures pulled him from his saddle, their arms rising and falling as the blows rained down. In a matter of minutes, the trail was empty save for a few red stains discoloring the hard-packed soil.
* * * * The pack waited while he sniffed the trail. The scent told him much more than mere sight would. The history of all who had passed for many sleeps lay here. Some of the scent trails were like colors, and lay upon each other as layers in a painting. His old friend the Wizard had passed this place during the last sleep. A wave of nostalgia moved through him. He would visit the Wizard. Not many of the two legs were worth visiting, and none of them worth eating. The Wizard filled his mind like a good meal, and he missed that.
The Alpha Wolf turned from the walking path that centuries of feet had worn into the rock and soil back to the pack that waited for him in the trees. The wolves used the trails only as message boards; they could travel just as quickly through the trees and have the added security of their cover, as well. The Wizard's scent trail told him his friend was journeying to the high ground, and that in a very little while, just a few sleeps; the pack would catch up with him. He rubbed noses with his mate, and suffered the excesses of the cubs as they greeted his return into the wood. The pack as a whole raised the cubs, though their feeding was their mother's duty.
“Come,” He told her in the language of the wolves. “We go to meet our friend Two Legs.”
* * * * Milward hiked briskly along the forest path that eventually would lead him to the pass below Black Ben Mountain. He was looking forward to visiting the clerics of Bardoc at Ulsta. The town lay on the high prairie beyond the northern end of the Longwood. They claimed to have one of the oldest copies of Labad's prophecy, possibly even older than the one in the Library of Grisham. Possibly, but he did not have the months it would take to get to Grisham. If he read the signs right, the first great trial of the two was building to a climax, and he needed to be there to play his part. He plucked a wild plum from a branch as he hiked, and munched it as he thought on the future. At the very least, it was going to be an exciting time.
* * * * Adam woke to the smell of breakfast. “Again?” He thought. “One of these mornings I'm going to be the first one up, and have breakfast waiting for them.”
“Top of the morning, lad.” Ethan handed him a biscuit and a cup of steaming Tisane.
Charity poked her head out of her covers. “It's cool this morning.”
Ethan looked up. “Early fog. It usually comes in later in the year. Most of the summer mornings start this way. It's because of the cold waters of the Circle Sea, and then there's Firth Lake, South of us. It's as deep as the pit, and cold, as well. Sometimes the fog lays upon it so thickly that you'd swear Bardoc himself was preparing a mattress for his night's sleep.”
Adam chewed the last of his biscuit. “What's the plan for today? How far do we have to go?”
Ethan speared a biscuit out of the pan and pulled it off the tip of his knife. “I figure we're about one half the way to Dunwattle. If we push our pace, we should be able to make the Inn there before the moon is up.”
Adam looked at Charity. She was gathering her gear as she munched breakfast. “Then we had best get an early start. I'll get my stuff.”
The quick pace helped an uneventful morning pass quickly. The forest south of Silgert looked much the same as the forest they passed through on the way to that town. The path for much of the way followed a very slight curve to the Southwest with an easy downhill grade. Ethan had told the truth when he said there would be few places suitable for camping in the deep forest. Underbrush grew thick, and in many places brambles offered early berries but no room to sit and eat them. They rested in a widening of the path where it passed through a grove of Mulberry trees. Some of the pollen caused Ethan's nose to itch, and after he sneezed a couple of times he suggested they “get out of the flickin’ place, and move on.”
Near the middle of the afternoon they came upon a gulch that cut through the path, causing them to have to climb down into it, and wade through muddy water with more mud waiting for them in the climb back up to the path on the other side.
The cat complained loudly as Charity placed her onto the shelf above her, near the top of the gulch. Charity looked up at her. “Oh settle down, my feet are much worse off than yours are.” She looked back at Adam and Ethan as they wadded out of the water. “Lovely route you've chosen here. Do you think we could find one with a bit more mud next time so we can finish the job on our clothes?”
“Come on, Charity. It's not my fault or Ethan's that this gulch is here, and we can't control the weather.” Adam couldn't avoid the look Charity gave him. It spoke volumes concerning her view of what the future held.
“Well said, lad.” Ethan pulled his left boot free of the mud. It came with a sucking pop. “The baths at the Wildflower are well known for their ability to cause mud to vanish.” He grinned at Charity. “Besides, missy, some lads like a little wet dirt on a girl.”
She sniffed and turned back to climb out of the gulch. The cat stretched herself against Charity's leg, asking to be put back up where she belonged.
They looked at themselves after Ethan finished his climb out of the gulch. They were all muddy to the knees, Ethan to about a hand below. Mud streaked their tunics where they'd rubbed against the bank during their climb. Ethan brushed at his trousers. “It's a good thing the day is warm; this should wear off, for the most part.”
Charity gave him a level stare.” We'll see about that.” She said with a voice as flat as her eyes.
The moon was showing its leading edge over the mountains in the east as they came out of the forest. They could see Dunwattle's lights beyond the cornfield that grew to the forest edge. The path spread into a road that would allow two carts and oxen to pass each other. The lights of the farmers’ cottages shone along the edge of the field. A few of the farm workers looked at the trio curiously as they crossed the last league from the forest to the town.
From the first, Dunwattle proved to be a different kind of town from Silgert. The Wildflower Inn welcomed them, with its door wide open to the evening air. The happy sound of people having a good time rolled over them as they entered the Inn.
“Well, bless my beard, here's some folks new to town. Welcome to the Wildflower Inn, good people. What can old Jully do for you?”
Adam looked at the Innkeeper, thinking that there must be a mold somewhere where Innkeepers were cast. Jully could have worn Bustlebun's clothing, and upon closer inspection, he very well may have been doing just that. He had the same florid complexion and the same well-fed look as their old friend. Though obviously a number of years younger, Jully also had the same genial personality Bustlebun used to grace his own place of business.
Ethan brushed some more of the dried mud off his tunic. “Right now, Innkeeper, I think three hot baths would suit us better than three cold ales.”
Jully looked more closely at his new guests. His eyes widened as he noticed their state. “Willard!” He bellowed.
A boy a few years Adam's junior appeared. “Yes, Da?”
“Pour three tubs full of the heated bath water.” He looked at the trio one more time. “Use two rooms; we've a lady to consider.”

Chapter Six
Charity sank into the heated water with a sigh of contentment. It felt wonderful to just lie back and float in the steaming bath. A bar of cake soap floated around her toes, and the cat took tentative swipes at it as it passed beneath her perch on the thick edge of the tub.
She allowed herself to sink under the water to wet her hair, and then she surfaced and grabbed the bar of soap. It lathered quickly into a mass of suds and bubbles that she worked deep into her hair. The first rinse came out tan. “I knew I was looking like a pig.” She thought.
She lathered up again, and rinsed until the water came away clear. The cat took great joy in chasing the bubbles as they tried to escape the confines of the tub. She was working on her second overall lather when she noticed something red floating in the water.
Willard had his hands full. Da barely gave him enough time to catch a nibble as he passed through the kitchen, much less time to catch his breath. Now he was wearing himself out hauling buckets of water to and from the heater to the tubs, and to and from the well to the heater for the three new ones. He liked the looks of the girl, even though she was older than he was. He was about to knock on the door to the girl's bath when he heard the scream.
He dropped the bucket spilling hot water over his shoes. “Are you ok, miss? Shall I come in?”
“No!” The word came out in a frantic shriek. “No, no thank you.” Her voice leveled out. “I'm all right. I thought I saw a spider.”
“I've got more hot water.” He hoped the spider wasn't a big one. He was fearful scared of spiders.” I'll set it down outside the door".
“Thank you, Willard.” Charity looked at her bath water with a mixture of resignation and disgust. She was bleeding. Back when it first started, Aunt Doreen had said to her that she was a woman, officially. She became a member of a club that offered her the privileges of conceiving and bearing children along with periods of temper and cramps that had, on occasion, driven Uncle Bal to the woods for the night. She also remembered Aunt Doreen telling her that those periods could come on unexpectedly, and probably during the most inconvenient time. Aunt also said babies functioned in much the same way.
She climbed out of the tub and looked at herself. With silent apologies to Jully, she sat down to begin tearing the towel into strips. The cat peaked out from the hiding place it had fled to when she screamed.
“Sorry, little one, but you're lucky you will never have to go through this.” Charity continued to tear the strips, and then paused. Aunt Doreen had said it was one of the punishments the Creator had put on women to remind them of their place in the world. Why, then, did she feel lucky?
She retrieved the bucket from outside the door after wrapping one of the towels around herself. She noticed her breasts had grown larger again. Changes, so many changes in her life. Her brother was taller, and his voice deeper. They were both being pushed somewhere by this magik; where would it all end?
* * * * Ethan drained the last of his third ale. He set the cup down with a thump, and leaned back, releasing his breath with a belch and a sigh. “Ah. That is good. How's the stew?”
Adam and Charity looked up, their mouths full. Ethan signaled for another ale, “I'll take that as a ‘good'.”
Adam swallowed his mouthful. “Aren't you going to have any?”
“No, I'm drinking my dinner tonight.”
Charity gestured with her spoon. “What about tomorrow's headache?”
“I know what you're thinking, Ethan the drunk, huh? Don't worry about that, I'm merely celebrating the next phase of my death.”
“You're dying?” Adam and Charity dropped their spoons as one.
“Of course, I'm dying. See these?” He lifted some of the gray hairs that mixed in with his brown. “You don't have any because you're still living, still growing. There are only two ways to be in this life. You're either living or dying. I may continue to die for the next fifty years. It can be a slow process, dying.”
“I don't understand.” Charity pushed the rest of her stew aside.
Ethan picked up his cup of ale, and looked at it. “This ale was living while it brewed. Its flavors grew, and it developed the bubbles that create the foam that gives it character. You,” he pointed at the twins, “are still growing, just like I said earlier. Living things grow; am I correct?”
They nodded.
“Of course, I am.” He sipped some ale. “Dying things don't grow. They slowly wither, like a flower that drops its petals. This,” he held up the gray hair again. “Is the way we wither, along with these.” He traced the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. “I'm withering, just like any other flower in the garden. I, however, plan on making something worthwhile of my death. The ale is just a way of helping me think.”
“Have you thought of anything?” Charity asked, as she folded her arms under her on the tabletop.
“Maybe this town needs a good watchman.” Adam wiped out his stew bowl with a hunk of bread.
Ethan put his ale down with a look of disgust. “I've had my fill of that sort of work. I've been considering carpentry.” He glared at Adam's snicker. “I didn't tell you, laddie buck, so I'll forgive the laughter at my expense, but I was trained as a carpenter's apprentice long before I ever picked up a sword. My master was more than just a house framer, too; he taught me how to make furniture, spinning wheels and other useful items. It's honest work, and I've been missing it.”
“Where would you look?” Charity used to watch Aunt spin wool into yarn with a spindle Uncle had carved for her.
Ethan finished off his fourth ale. His eyes were beginning to glaze a bit. “Dunwattle's at least twice the size of Silgert. There's bound to be a need for someone who can work with wood in more ways than just building a fire with it. I'll find out where the woodworkers and carpenters hang out, and see who needs help. That's my plan, what about you two?”
They looked at each other, and then at Ethan. “Uh ... we don't have any plans.” Charity looked guilty.
Adam looked like he was rubbing one toe in the dust. “We've just been taking it one day at a time.”
Ethan roared with laughter. He laughed until his shoulders shook, and tears were coming out of his eyes. He pounded the table top with the flat of his hand. “I thought ... I thought...” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “I thought I was the reckless one, and you ... you are stepping out into this world just taking each day as it comes?”
They looked uncomfortable and stubborn at the same time. Adam leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “We've done well, so far.”
“Sure you have, lad.” Ethan still chuckled. “You've had Bardoc's own luck. You've run into sweet fellows like that lovely giant couple and me. How did that go again?”
“You've made your point.” Adam grumbled, remembering Milward telling him that it hurt a lot less to admit it when you were wrong right away than later. “What should we do?”
“Get jobs.”
Charity looked worried. “Jobs? We have no skills, how can we find jobs?”
Ethan looked at her. “Are you serious? There are wealthy traders and several Lords I know of who would give you piles of gold to lease your skill with a bow, not to mention this lad here and his sword.” He sniffed. “Skills! Pffagh! You've more skills in your little fingers than the entire Western Watch has to a man.”
Adam looked thoughtful. “I think we should try something with a little less notoriety in it, for a while. We need to learn more about where we are. I think if we become celebrities that part will be harder to do.”
“What will we do, then?” Charity shifted her gaze back and forth between Adam and Ethan.
Adam picked up his glass of juice. “We could apprentice ourselves to some worthy Craft master. We may be a little old to be junior apprentices, but I know I can do a lot more than an eight year old boy can.”
“I once thought I would like to learn how to sew like Aunt did for us and Uncle, even though she only had rags and sacks to work with. I remember some of what she tried to show me.” Charity mused. “You could work for a butcher, Adam. Remember when you used to help Uncle prepare the game he brought home?”
“But it was just rabbits and other small game. I know nothing about cows and such.”
Ethan stood up from the table. He swayed a little, and then caught himself by grabbing the edge of the table. “You two work it out between you. I'm going to bed.” He looked around the Inn's common room. “Looks like most everyone else has the same idea, maybe you should sleep on it.” He turned and headed toward the stairs to the bedrooms, listing slightly to the side as he walked.
Charity turned to Adam. “It is late. Maybe we should sleep on it.”
Adam stifled a yawn. “I suppose so. Have we really been as reckless as Ethan says?”
She stood up and stretched. “I think we've been as lucky as he says. Reckless? I'm not sure. How much of this is destiny, as the Dwarves said, and how much is us just not being prepared for being dropped into a world other than the one we were born into?” She shook her head. “I don't know, Adam. I do believe we should take our time here. Dunwattle is much nicer than Silgert, that's for sure.”
He laughed. “True. Silgert made our village seem like a little slice of paradise.” He yawned again. “I'm going to follow Ethan's advice, and sleep on it. Goodnight, Charity.”
“Goodnight, Adam.”
Ethan was gone when they made their way down to the common room the next morning. Jully had Willard serve them their breakfast while he supervised the brewing of the next batch of Ale. “That friend of yours could make me a rich man if I could find a dozen more like him. Man drinks a bushel full, he does. Near emptied one of my casks all by hisself.”
The breakfast Willard set before them was simple, but plentiful, as seemed to be the way in most Inns. A heaping bowl of thick porridge was supplemented by steaming fat sausages that popped when the knife was stuck into them. A pitcher of cream sat nearby to be poured over the porridge, and butter and honey were at hand to complete the meal.
They both had wakened with appetites, and they dug into the meal eagerly. For several minutes only the sounds of chewing and swallowing came from their table.
“Some hot tisane, miss?” Willard stood by her side of the table, holding a steaming pot by its wire-wrapped handle.
Charity slid her mug towards him. “Yes, thank you,”
Adam slid his across the table as well. “I'll have some too, thanks.”
“Will you be staying long?” Willard sounded hopeful. Adam thought to himself that the boy looked smitten with Charity.
She smiled at Willard, and the flush went up past his ears. “We're not sure yet, Willard. My brother and I need to look for jobs.”
“Jobs, ya say?” A grizzled bear of a man spoke up from a table next to one of the front windows.
Adam and Charity turned toward the voice. The man motioned them over. He was in the process of devouring a huge breakfast of biscuits and sausage smothered in some kind of savory smelling gravy. He indicated with a wave of a hand covered in graying hair where they should sit. “I heard you talking. Sorry for eavesdropping; it's a hobby of mine that keeps me content in my old age. What's this about you two looking for jobs?”
Adam took the lead with a glance at his sister. “Just what you heard, I guess. We're new to the town, and we decided that if we're going to stay here, we might as well have jobs. We're going to go out into the town this morning, and start looking.”
“Well, you can stop looking.” He pushed a biscuit into his mouth and chewed.
“What do you mean?” Adam was afraid they were about to be run out of this town, too. The man looked tough enough to do it on his own.
The chewer swallowed his biscuit, and speared a sausage with gravy on it. “I mean,” He worked a morsel loose from his teeth with a forefinger. “You've found ‘em if you want ‘em.”
Charity took a step towards the man. “You have jobs for us?”
He smiled, showing large white square teeth, and stuck out a hand that engulfed Charity's. “Hersh, the Butcher, at your service, missy.” He looked at Adam. “And yours, as well, young man, if I may be so bold.”
“Why us? And why now?” Adam's developing sense of caution was poking him in the ribs.
Hersh nodded while he fished for another sausage. “Sensible question, lad, sensible question. Why you?” He held up a finger as thick as one of the sausages. “You're available, and you seem willing. Why now?” He held up another finger, a match for the first. “My oldest boy and his sister have set out on their own to seek their own fortune. All I've left me is my youngest, Ornette. He's a good lad, mind you. But he can't pull the weight by himself, so I ask you,” He mopped up some gravy with a biscuit. “Will you take the jobs?”
Charity pursed her lips, thinking. She looked at Hersh, and crossed her arms. “May I ask what the jobs are?”
Hersh threw his head back and laughed, his body shook. “Two sensible questions. You must be brother and sister. I thought so when I looked at you. Two peas in a pod, I said to myself, two peas in a pod.” He continued to chuckle.
“About my sister's question.” Adam held up a hand. “We mean no disrespect but we've run into some folks in the past that have given us cause to be wary.”
“Very well, lad.” Hersh stopped his chuckling. and leaned his forearms onto the table, which creaked in protest. “You ask around. Folks'll tell you old Hersh is an honest man who butchers honest meat. The work is long and hard, but rewarding, and you get to meet nearly everyone in town.”
“What about your wife?” Charity asked. “Doesn't she help you?”
“Widower. The fever took her nearly twelve winters back. Ornette was just a toddler, then. His brother and sister near raised him on their own so's I could run the shop. Could be why they left. Never had much chance for play back then, what with all that going on.” He sighed and levered himself up from the table. He towered over the twins, and his bulk was almost three of them together. “You make your decision. If you decide in my favor, I'll be in the shop. Anyone in town can point your way.” He dropped a couple of coins on the table, and left.
Jully had Willard show them the way to Hersh's shop. Willard nearly stumbled in his eagerness to get out of the Inn. He led them through the town, proud as a Pouter Pigeon to be their tour guide.
“Over there is Old man Falstaff's. Ain't no one better at Silversmithin'.
“That place be Mistress Wermott's. It be no place for the likes of us. Da said a man can get the drops there. Whatever they be. I don't want to find out.”
“We be turnin’ left here next to the Millery. Hi, Mr. Sandalwood. He be one of Da's best friends. Da buys his Barley there.”
“Down there be the Sorrows. We be going the opposite way. Folks what wind up there be needing a heap o’ help, that's for sure. Some of Da's friends be sending food an’ such sometimes ‘cause of the sickness an’ fever, you know.”
“There be Mr. Hersh's shop. I can always tell when he be working in the back ‘cause of the smell, like he is now.”
Adam and Charity decided Willard must have developed a partial immunity to the odor that hit them when they turned that last corner. It carried a muskiness not unlike that of an irritated Skunk, but with a sweetish overtone that somehow made the smell even more obnoxious than mere skunk alone.
Charity gasped and held her hand over her nose and mouth. “Is it always like this?”
Willard shrugged. “Naw, Mr. Hersh, he only renders once a week or so. He says he don't want it sittn’ around like, and stinkin’ up the place.”
Adam held down a gag. “That's very considerate of him.”
“He's a very considerate man, is Mr. Hersh.” Willard missed the irony entirely.
Charity started toward the steps leading into the Butcher Shop. Adam caught her by the tunic. “You're not going in there?”
She turned to him. “Of course I am. You remember what you said about feeling things? About when something felt right?” He nodded once, slowly. “Well, this is one of those times. You can stay out here if you want; I'm going in.” She tugged loose of his hold, and went up the steps and into the door.
Adam stood there at the base of the steps for a moment. Willard saw him bow his head, and then throw up his hands as if in resignation, and then take them two at a time.
Willard stood watching the door for a few minutes waiting to see if anything more exciting was going to happen. When the door remained dully quiet, he sighed and then headed back to the Inn, kicking a round stone ahead of him.
A pleasant-looking, heavyset young man looked up as the door to the shop opened. He turned his head, and called out. “Pa. Those two you said might show are here.”
Hersh appeared, filling the doorway to the rear of the shop with his bulk. He beamed an ear-to-ear smile at the twins. “So! You decided to give old Hersh a try, eh? Well, don't just be standing there like stumps; let me show you my place.”
The smell inside was considerably less obnoxious than what had hit them outside. They made their way around the front counter, which held a variety of meats cut into different sized slabs and sections depending upon whether it was fish, fowl, game or livestock. Hersh introduced the young man as his youngest son, Ornette, and then led them back into the workroom of his butcher shop. Ornette's eyes followed Charity as she passed him. He continued to look in her direction until she turned a corner and passed out of his line of sight. He stayed that way for a few seconds, and then returned to his task of wiping down the counter, with a small grin playing across his face.
“What do you think of my shop? Nice, eh?” Hersh indicated his possession with a broad swipe of his hand. The workroom was quite large, with a high ceiling that held a heavy beam. Connected to the beam was a very sturdy-looking pulley system that sported a thick rope. Attached to the rope hung a series of hooks. A few of the hooks supported carcasses of oxen. At the end of the pulley, a heavy door stood ajar. A cold fog rolled out of the gap between the door and its frame. A massive cutting table took up the center of the room. Part of an ox carcass lay on the table, with a pile of packages wrapped in wax paper stacked next to it. Open barrels lined the long wall to the left of the door. In some of them was an assortment of bones, in others lay scrapes and chunks of fat for rendering.
“It's ... very nice, Mr. Hersh.” Charity looked around her. Adam busied himself looking at the knives on the cutting table.
“Just Hersh, missy. I be a simple butcher not a lord.”
“That's what Bustlebun used to say, remember Charity?” Adam tested the edge of a cleaver, and then picked up a nearby stone. He began stroking the edge of the cleaver with it, using long smooth movements of his arm to push the stone.
Hersh watched Adam out of the corner of his eye while he explained to Charity the reason for the barrels. When he finished, he turned and looked at Adam, resting his hands on his hips. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Who taught you to use a stone, laddie?”
“Lately it seems I get asked that question whenever I do something in front of someone.” Adam put down the stone and the cleaver.
“You sharpen blades a lot, eh?” Hersh smiled.
Adam shook his head, “No, That's not what I mean.”
Charity broke in. “What he means is that we've had people ask us questions about where we learned to do something before. The last time wasn't too long ago.”
Hersh's smile dimmed. “Hey, now, I mean nothing by asking. I just be asking. You use that stone like you know what you're doing. Whoever taught you did the job right.”
Adam looked up at Hersh. “That's part of it. Nobody taught me. I just knew.”
Hersh's eyes widened. “You just knew? By Bardoc, that be amazing.” He tossed a joint of oxen onto the table in front of Adam. “Show me what you do with this.”
After Adam finished with the joint, Hersh stood there shaking his head. “You may know blades, lad, but you need someone to show you the way around a joint that be for sure.”
“I'm sorry I ruined it, Hersh.”
“It's all right, lad. We just turn it into stew meat, that's all. Something funny, missy?” Hersh turned at Charity's muffled snickering.
She took her hand away from her mouth. “After seeing him be so sure of himself for all this time...” She giggled again “You don't know what...” She covered her mouth and turned away, her shoulders shaking as she laughed.
Adam stood over the ruined joint, and glowered at his sister. “Do you want to have a go?” He held up the butcher knife.
Hersh took the knife away from him, and laid it back onto the cutting table. “Naw, laddie. She be learning another job if she wants it. The one my daughter had before she left. You practice on that other joint. Come,” He headed to a door on the back wall of the work area.” I'll show you my sausage maker.”
Charity felt misgivings brewing in her stomach as Hersh led her out of the workroom to an outbuilding separated by a small courtyard from the main shop.
Inside, the building was unremarkable. It had a counter that lined one wall with a deep sink at its near end. The other wall contained a strange device that had a crank handle sticking out its side like that one would see at the top of a well. The device had a funnel top and a round middle. A nozzle poked out of the middle perpendicular from the handle. Beneath the nozzle sat a large bowl. It gleamed as if freshly cleaned. A box sat on the counter behind the device. Hersh strode over to it, and reached into the box.
“This be my sausage maker, missy. Watch this.” He pulled some meat out of the box. It had been diced into small chunks, and was coated with strong-smelling herbs and spices. He filled the funnel with some of the meat. From a small pail behind the box with the meat, he pulled a glistening translucent tube, shook off the water, and fit one end of it onto the nozzle. As he turned the crank, the tube began to fill with the finely minced meat mixture. He continued to turn the handle until the mixture no longer came out of the nozzle.
“Now we make the links.” He moved the stuffed tube to the counter, and laid it out in a line next to a roll of string. He pulled a length of string off the roll, and tied off one end of the tube. He repeated the process at the other end, and then tied a loop tightly around the tube at a point roughly six inches down the length.
He turned and handed the string to Charity. “Here, you make some.”
Charity took the string, and tied off more links trying to equal the size of the one Hersh made. When she was done, there was a link sausage lying on the counter ready for boiling.
Hersh inspected the links, looking at the knots in the ties closely. He set the links back down onto the counter, and grunted. “You've a deft hand, missy. My daughter had one, too. Want me to show you how we mix the meat?”
“I think I did better with the second joint. I took my time, and I also took a close look at some of the cuts up front. At least Hersh didn't yell at me, all he did was pat me on the shoulder, and say, ‘Better, lad, better. Not good, but better.” Adam sat on the edge of one of the beds in their room.
Charity leaned back in her chair. “I had it a little better than that. All I had to do with the meat was chop it into little chunks, and mix in the spices. The problem was in mixing the spices; they had to be done just right, otherwise they wouldn't have been Hersh's sausages.”
“At least he seems patient.” Adam lay back on the bed, and yawned. “I wish I could feel the cuts the way I can the edge of a blade. Do you smell something?”
Charity wrinkled her nose. “No” she said quickly. “It must be leftovers from the rendering. I've got to use the jakes. I'll be back soon.”
“G'night.” His breathing began to slow.
* * * * Cloutier balanced the savory morsel on a wedge of toast, and conveyed it to his mouth. The cook had done well. The kidneys were perfect, warmed through but still quite rare, so that the flavor of the urine wasn't eliminated entirely from the complex. A buxom maid leaned forward, exposing a generous expanse of breast, and poured him some more tea. He sipped the bitter brew, and sighed. What did the peasantry see in that horrid tisane?
He picked up the small crystal bell to his left, and rang it once. The staff had learned to respond upon the first ring. If one did not, the second ring was the last thing they ever heard.
His manservant, Youch, appeared at the door. “Yes, Milord?”
“Are our, shall we say, guests? Resting comfortably as per my instructions?” Cloutier sipped some more tea, smiling inwardly at Youch's shudder. The lower classes superstitiously believed tea to cause impotence.
“Yes, Milord. They are in separate areas of the dungeon. They each believe they are prisoners of the other's city. The torture is proceeding as you deemed.”
Cloutier speared another kidney. “Good, good. Allow them to enjoy our hospitality for the winter, and then deposit them unconscious outside of their own city gates.” He placed the kidney on another toast wedge. “And Youch.”
“Milord?”
“They had best be alive enough to tell their stories, or you know...”
Youch shuddered again, but this time it wasn't over his Lord's choice of beverage.
Cloutier chewed the kidney and toast reflectively. The master would be pleased. Soon, the two he spoke of would find themselves caught in a war between Spu and Avern, cities that had been friends for centuries. Delicious.
* * * * Milward opened the ancient volume with care. As gentle as he was, a small crack still appeared in the tender vellum upon which the prophecy was inscribed. A gasp came from the cleric standing at his elbow.
“Oh, pipe down. It's not ruined.” Milward snapped. The cleric swallowed any further exclamations. One did not upset a cranky wizard unless one had an affinity for lily pads.
Milward studied the crabbed script. He cursed inwardly the obsessiveness clerics had towards exacting authenticity. Legend claimed Labad wrote his prophecy in his own blood using a dagger. The copier must have used a similar instrument; some of the letters were nearly indecipherable. He rubbed his eyes, and began reading the prophecy again from the top.
“The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them, but yet they persevere.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One, to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow, and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Foe of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill fathe,r but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
Milward closed the volume with trembling hands. He'd forgotten how terrifying Labad's vision was. It was all well and good for an academic discussion over brandy when all that was being discussed was a view of a possibility. This was happening now, and he needed to be with the twins now. His gut twisted with anxiety and he brushed past the cleric in his haste to get back to the road. This was no time for a leisurely stroll through the woods, he had to use the quickest method possible, and that meant that he needed a lot of room for what he intended to do.
The Clerics watched the Wizard scuttle out of their Monastery without a word being said on either side. Milward had too much on his mind, and the Clerics wanted to keep their diet free of flies.
Milward walked away from the Monastery until he had a good half league between himself and its door. Holding his arms out at his side, he began turning in a counterclockwise direction. A close observer would have seen small static discharges sparking off his eyebrows and his hair. He built up the speed of his turn until he was merely a blur. The static discharges increased with the speed of his spin until they resembled lightning strikes. Huge slabs of earth were blown apart as the bolts grounded into the soil. A vortex formed over the blur that was the wizard, and then, abruptly, he shot up into it and vanished. A clap of thunder boomed out from where the vortex had been, and rolled over the open field, disturbing napping wildlife and scaring the Clerics back into the Monastery.
* * * * The wolf pack watched the Wizard's departure from a knoll that extended out beyond an Alder grove above the field where he'd worked his shaping.
The Alpha wolf turned to his mate.” Our friend couldn't wait for us. We will go to the wood across from this place. The young will grow fat there.” Wolves, unlike men never bothered themselves with wondering why. Wolves never looked back.
She sniffed the air. The two-legs departure left a stink. “Do the three agree?”
He looked at his mate contritely. “We shall find out, my mate. Come.”
* * * * Cloutier considered his guests. “Are you quite sure they'll live?”
Youch swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked at the prisoners Cloutier called his guests. The winter had been less than kind on both of them. They looked to be more skeleton than man, and open sores in their skin festered, attracting flies. They were unconscious now, being fed a potion of tisane laced with Foxweed juice. They would be out for several hours, yet. If they died before being able to relate what they believed to their respective cities ... He shook off the horrifying mind picture, and turned to his Lord the Earl of Berggren.
“Be assured, milord, they will live to start your war. I have arranged for them to be ministered to on the journey and by separate physics outside of each city to ensure they do so. The physics will corroborate each tale. A nice touch, I believe, milord?”
Cloutier fingered the loose skin on one of his guest's arms, being careful to avoid touching the sores. He dropped the arm, and wiped his hand on a silken cloth. “Satisfactory, Youch. Most satisfactory.”
* * * * “Where did you find him?” The Baron wiped his hands on a clean cloth.
“Just outside the city gate, milord.” The guard held the cup of water so the injured man could drink.
The subject of the Baron's question was drinking greedily at the water. He was the eldest son of one of Spu's more prominent families. His parents had nearly driven the Baron insane with their constant pleas for aid when he'd turned up missing. Now that he'd been found outside the city gate, emaciated, dehydrated and covered with half-healed wounds and weeping sores, the Baron intended to find who to repay for this insult to his city.
* * * * “Find out where he's been.” The Duke snapped at the Physics tending his cousin. The early watch had discovered the boy as they opened the gates for morning freight to enter Avern's market square.
“That will take some time, milord.” The older of the two tending the boy said cautiously. “At least until the fever breaks, and he is no longer delirious.”
“Hmmm.” The Duke was not pleased, but he knew better than to push the Physics too hard. “Patience is a virtue for those born with it", he thought. “Well, let me know when he begins to come out of it, not after.” He emphasized the word begins.
“Yes, milord.”
“Whoever is responsible for this is going to learn that some of us haven't forgotten the old way of exacting our revenge.” The Duke thought, as he stalked back to his office. A small stack of papers demanded attention, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of quartering, impaling, and other forms of artistic expression.
* * * * “That's it, lad. You may have made stewmeat out of that first joint, but by Labad you've learned quick. That's a deft touch you have, or my name isn't Hersh.”
Adam wiped the sweat away from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Hersh had continuously tossed him joints and sections of ox, swine, mutton, and various game animals all day, testing him on the different cuts one could make out of them. His tunic was soaked through with sweat, and his hands ached from gripping the knives and the bone saw. A cloth was wrapped around his left hand where a slip with one of the razor sharp fillet knives had removed a slice of knuckle. In spite of his discomfort, he did feel a swell of pride at his accomplishment. Whatever force, or destiny, was driving him seemed to also affect his ability with blades in Hersh's world as well as Ethan's. Each hunk of meat Hersh tossed in front of him seemed to be just another step up until he could almost see where the blade needed to go, where the saw needed to be laid.
He picked up a rag and wiped the knife he was holding clean, then slid it onto the block. “Thank you, Hersh. You're a good teacher, that's all.”
“Don't try to compliment my brother, Hersh. He's lousy at accepting praise.” Charity came into the workroom drying her hands. She had proved a quick study on the art of sausage making, and Hersh felt confident enough in her ability to follow his recipes that he had devoted most of his time to teaching Adam.
“Aye, that I be finding out, lass.” Hersh clapped Adam on the back with enough force to stagger him. “But he's a good lad, in spite of that fault.”
Adam's blush was apparent as he turned to wash his hands and put away the knives, cleaver and saw.
Charity tittered and took Hersh by the arm. “Shall we depart from the blushing prince, milord? Methinks he desires privacy anon.”
“Huh?” Then Hersh caught on. “By all means, my lady, let us heigh away, post haste.”
They left Adam glowering next to the sink, and paraded from the workroom arm in arm.
* * * * Ornette sat next to Willard, and tossed a meat scrap to the cat who caught it on the fly with her claws. Her tummy was decidedly rounder than when they first arrived in Dunwattle two weeks earlier. He picked another out of the bowl, and flipped it to the cat with his thumb. “I dunno, Willie, she don't seem to get the hint. Not that she ain't nice to me an’ all, but even when I brung her flowers, all I got was a ‘thank you, Ornette, they're very nice.’ This courtin’ stuff's hard.”
Willard had no idea of what to say to his friend. Ornette was a year older, and far wiser in the ways of the world than he was. The lady in question, Charity, was, in his mind, far, far above his station. That Ornette even considered that he had a chance was achievement worthy of huzzahs in itself. He tried to compose an answer that would sound wise and worldly. “Well, Orn, You know I was the one whut brung her th’ hot water when she come into town.”
“I know, Willie.” Willard had only told that story on a daily basis for the past two weeks.
“Well, when she come out of th’ bath, I near saw her figgin, I did.”
“I know, Willie.” Ornette tossed another scrap to the cat.
“An’ she patted my cheek, she did.”
“I know, Willie.”
Well ... I be thinkin’ that maybe she might be, I'm only thinkin’ mind you, lookin’ fer a hero type ... maybe. You think?”
Ornette considered his friend's suggestion. Much as he hated to admit it, Willie could have struck near the truth of the matter. Bardoc knows, he was no hero, not like her brother. He'd seen the size of the sword Adam wore when they first came into the shop. He also had no desire to arouse the wrath of the one who wielded that blade.
He placed his hand on Willard's shoulder. “I reckon so, Willie.”
* * * * Milward fumed, something was keeping him trapped within the vortex. The shaping had been blocked from completion. He traced the pattern of it in his mind's eye, inspecting the work as minutely as possible. Golden strokes mixed with silver, as was normal with this type of shaping. He turned his attention to the pattern below him, and found something that shouldn't be there, red strokes mixed in with the silver and gold as if someone had come behind him, and added to the painting. A name came to mind: Gilgafed.
After promising the Sorcerer a very nasty surprise once he freed himself from his impromptu prison, Milward had to admit it was ingenious. This shaping would hold him to the end of creation and beyond unless he managed to find the correct way to erase the red. Use the wrong technique, and it would collapse upon him, leaving nothing but a small greasy spot on the ether.
He focused his attention on Gilgafed's work, and began the slow process of tracing its path. He thought to himself. “One good thing. At least I can't get hungry here.”
* * * * “Well?” The Baron snapped his inquiry at the shaking functionary as the man entered his chambers.
“Avern, milord.”
“What?!” The Baron's shout blew the messenger back a step. “Avern? There has to be a mistake. Spu and Avern have been at peace since they were trading villages on an unnamed lake. He was riding with the son of Avern on that very lake when he disappeared!”
“There is no mistake, milord. He is most insistent on it, and his parents are demanding you declare war.”
The Baron considered his options. At best, he could only stall the enraged parents. Their money controlled the council, and the council controlled the collection of taxes that paid the bulk of Spu's soldier's salaries.
“Alverd!”
His aide came running."Yes, milord.” Alverd puffed.
“Get me a messenger. He's to take a note to Avern, it will be ready within the hour.”
* * * * “Spu!? You are absolutely sure he said, Spu?” The Duke was flabbergasted. “Take me to him. At once!”
The Duke bent over his cousin. The boy's lips were still split from his dehydration, and his eyes wouldn't focus, but he looked a little better. Thank Bardoc for that. “Speak to me, boy. Who did this to you?”
His cousin's eyes tried to track onto his face, and then closed. “My eyes won't work right.” He whispered.
The Duke held his hand and patted it. “They'll come back, boy. Give it time. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
“They ... they said they ... were from Spu. Said they were repaying us for violating the trade agreement.”
“Spu...” The name escaped from the Duke's lips like a slow curse. There had been peace between the two cities as long as they'd existed. Avern was faithful to the trade agreement. Had always been. Now it was time for something new.
* * * * “Gilgafed must have been practicing,” Milward thought, as he traced the path of the foreign shaping within his own. The red stroke fought him as he worked it, fading in and out of vision at random. “Yes, he must have been burning the midnight wretch.” Chuckling at his joke, he continued to trace the slippery stroke, matching his will against that of his enemy, picking at it cautiously but with a firmness of purpose. He had to be there for the twins, he had to be. According to the prophecy, unless he was badly mistaken, war was coming.
* * * * Charity mixed the herbs and spices into the bowl of meat. A bead of sweat dangled from the end of her nose, and then released and fell into the mixture. High summer was upon them. It was now over a year since they'd fallen into this world. She thought about all the changes she and her brother had gone through since that time he stood there telling her how he'd defended her honor. Too many to count. She'd walked out of the woods a girl, and now here she was making sausages and entering into womanhood.
Ornette came into the sausage hut carrying a box of cleaned entrails. “Da asked me to bring you these, Charity.”
“Thank you, Ornette.” Charity paused in her mixing to wipe her face with a dry cloth. At least the boy had stopped calling her Miss Charity, though he was still looking at her with mooneyes every time she caught his gaze. She was considering asking Adam to have a talk with him; that is, if Adam didn't terminally blush with the effort.
Ornette stood there a moment as if he had something he wanted to say, and then turned and left the hut.
Charity fastened the end of one of the cleaned swine intestines to the nozzle of the sausage maker, and began feeding the meat and spice mixture by turning the crank. When the translucent tube was filled, she moved it to the counter, and began tying off links as Hersh had shown her months ago.
Adam came in, wiping his face with one of the cloths he seemed to always have on him these days. “Are you about done? Hersh says we're having dinner at the Inn tonight.” He leaned over and sniffed her.” And, I think you should wash a bit before we go, don't you? You don't want him mistaking you for one of the hogs.”
He ducked the thrown intestine, and called out to her over his shoulder as he headed back to the main house. “I'll wait for you on the porch. By the way, Hersh wants us to bring our weapons, don't ask me why; he wouldn't tell me.”
“Our weapons?” She wondered. “Why would Hersh want us to bring our weapons? She hadn't picked up her bow in weeks. It felt rather good not to have the awkward weight of the quiver on her back. She looked in the direction of Adam's departure for a moment, and then turned to clean up from her sausage making before she went to take her bath.
The Inn was crowded when they arrived. Charity's bath had felt good enough that she had lingered a bit, and an impatient Adam had to pound on the door to rouse her.
Hersh waved them over to his table, and they wove their way through the crowd. Several people in the crowd called out to them, and a few of the younger women dimpled at Adam, whereas all of the younger men followed Charity's passage with an appraising look. Ornette shifted in his seat smugly as Charity sat next to him. He studiously avoided noting the fact that it was the only one left after Adam sat down.
A serving girl brought them drinks. Charity looked up as she was leaving. “Uh, I didn't want ale.”
Hersh motioned to her with his right hand. “Shh, missy. Leave it. I'll drink it for you. She'll be back.”
Charity looked at the foaming goblet. “But I didn't want it.”
Adam sipped his. He'd acquired a taste for the nut-brown beverage over the weeks he'd spent with Hersh learning his trade. The big man liked to spend his lunches talking about the butcher's life while he downed prodigious amounts of sausages and ale. Adam discovered one was usually more than enough for him, and he'd developed a technique of nursing it along, enjoying the bittersweet flavor. “What's the occasion, Hersh?”
The big Butcher leaned forward. The table creaked as it adjusted to the load. “Rumors, lad, and I be hoping that's all they be, too.”
Charity moved Ornette's hand back to his own lap. “Rumors of what?”
Hersh drained his ale and picked up Charity's.” War, lassie, war, and I be sayin’ no more just now. Wait till our Lord Mayor speaks his peace.” He downed half the ale in the goblet, and set it down with a thunk.
A dandy leaned on the table, and spoke to Hersh in a slurred stage whisper.” Hersh, old man, they're saying Avern is marshaling all of the Dairylands even to Southpoint. Hundreds of thousands of Lancers, and they're threatening to burn Dunwattle to the ground!”
Hersh leaned over and took the dandy by his ruffled shirt. “Belcon, you place too much faith in those drunken friends of yours, and you're drunk now. I'll be hearin’ no more rumorin’ comin’ from you this night, or I'll be workin’ on a new sausage recipe. Are you understandin’ me, Belcon?”
The dandy nodded vigorously, suddenly sober.
In spite of the seriousness of the occasion, Adam and Charity could not help smiling at Hersh's admonition to the dandy. Ornette sat there, wide-eyed.
“Avern is the city on the southern shore of Firth Lake, isn't it?” Adam had been trying to learn about the geography of the lands about them, though most of the folk in Dunwattle knew nothing of the lands beyond the two major cities of Spu and Avern. Some of them, like Belcon, had traveled throughout the Dairylands, even as far as Southpoint, thousands of leagues to the southern tip of the Western lands.
“Aye, lad, it is, and even if Belcon's ramblings had a grain of truth to them, we'd not be seein’ any lancers until late harvest, if even then.”
“Look. There's the Mayor.” Charity pointed to the landing where the stairs to the upstairs rooms made their ninety-degree turn.
The Lord Mayor was a red-faced man of an age with Hersh and Jully the Innkeeper. His surcoat was made of a wine-colored velvet that showed patches of wear at the elbows. His plus fours were of a fine make, but slightly dusty along with his buckle down shoes. The Lord Mayor did not appear to be a man who shirked a bit of labor when it was necessary. The size of his paunch showed he gave the same consideration to his supper table, as well. His florid face sported bushy orangeish eyebrows and mutton chop whiskers that were losing the battle to the creeping white hairs of middle age.
He rested a hand on the banister, and struck a pose that said, I'm not here just for show folks, give an ear. “People of Dunwattle. I've news that all of us must pay heed to.”
A voice from the back of the room called out. “We knows that Harry, skip th’ polytick an’ just tell us plain. We ain't afeared ta fight iffn’ we's gots to.”
The Lord Mayor relaxed from his pose and put both hands on his hips. “I know that voice. Keep to your pigs, Sammmel Gruen, and I'll keep to what the Baron's father put me here to do.”
“Besides eatin’ Hersh's sausages?” There was general laughter at that. The Mayor's penchant for the savory links was well known.
The Mayor reddened and called for quiet. Hersh stood and echoed the demand. The room stilled, and Hersh sat down and motioned for Harry to proceed.
The Mayor cleared his throat. “I have heard grave news, friends” A shabbily dressed man next to Ornette opened his mouth, but shut it at a glare from Hersh. “As some of you may have heard, there are rumors of war circulating.” Murmurs of agreement. “I have the sad duty to inform you that the rumors are founded in fact.” A gasp washed across the room, and then everyone began speaking at once.
He raised his hands for silence, and the clamor wound down like a balloon slowly losing its air. “Last week a messenger went south to Spu with the usual packet of scrolls, papers and some coin for banking. He arrived back here yesterday with terrible news.”
“What news?”
The Mayor favored the interruption with a frown. “As I was saying, Terrible news. The Duke of Avern has declared war upon Spu, and murdered the Envoy the Baron sent him.”
Another gasp but no clamor followed this news. “This happened two weeks ago, which leaves us little time to prepare for what may happen to our town.”
Hersh spoke to the twins in an undertone. “This is what I feared, which is why I asked you to bring your weapons. There is every chance we be seeing Avern's scout parties in Dunwattle this very night.”
“I thought Spu and Avern were friends.” Adam leaned in so he could speak to Hersh without disturbing those who were listening to the Mayor's plans for the defense of the town.
“Aye, they have been, for as long as anyone can remember.” Hersh reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Hush, now. Let's see what Mayor Harry has to say.”
The Mayor had moved into the positioning of key members of the community to defensive placements around the town. “...Now old Thom, you'll be best on the church tower with that eye sight of yours to see if trouble's coming our way. Fredl, if you can set up along Doggin's wall, I think...”
Adam took hold of Hersh's arm. “I think Charity and I should go back to the shop, and see if we can do something there.”
Hersh looked to Charity to see if she felt the same. She nodded. He blew out his cheeks in a gusty sigh. “Very well, then, it's a good thought, lad, go to it. You go with them, Ornette.”
“But Da...”
“None of that! Get going.”
The Mayor's voice continued behind them as they left the Inn."...Now Elizabetta, like it or not, we'll be needing a lot of bandages. If you can gather some of the ladies and...”
* * * * “Ahhh, here we go.” Milward found the working end of the red stroke.
“Oh ... blast him to the pit, and give him a double case of the stones.” He cursed Gilgafed under his breath as he found the knot at the end. It was complex in the extreme. Gilgafed had painted it closed after sculpting a trap within its many folds. Milward knew he could get out eventually, he had too many centuries of experience, but would he get out in time?
* * * * “Pour me another, will you, Cobain?” Gilgafed held his crystal goblet out to his servant. He could feel the wizard's frustration as he tried to break out of his trap. It was a stroke of good fortune that he had happened to be scrying as the wizard shaped the traveling. He had never worked so quickly before, and just now was recovering the energy lost in his spell, a hasty, but very nasty, effective block to the end of the traveling vortex that held a lovely little boobytrap within its thread. He maintained a link with his shaping so he could enjoy his old adversary's frustration.
Cobain filled his master's goblet with more of the blood red wine he favored, and waited. Gilgafed sniffed the wine and held the crystal goblet up to the light, and then drank. “Adequate, Cobain, adequate. Leave me, now, I have some contemplation that needs to be seen to.”
Cobain bowed out from his master's presence. Gilgafed sat in his chair, his fingers lightly tracing the scars that crept across his cheek.
* * * * Cloutier leaned over his bed, and gently patted the cheek of the maiden that lay across his bed. She did not respond to the pats. Cloutier sighed, and left the bed to go over to where his clothes lay. His master's power allowed him free reign within his tastes. Too bad they led to so many disappointments.
He pulled a silken cord next to the armoire, and then began dressing.
His manservant showed up as he was settling the gold circlet onto his brow. “Ah, there you are, Youch. What news of my little war?”
“None since the last pigeon, Milord.”
Cloutier adjusted his cravat.” Very well. Have my luncheon prepared. I'll have the baby asparagus, suckling swine and new potatoes. Oh, and Youch?”
“Milord?”
He pointed to the maiden in his bed. “Find me another one, will you? That one is broken.”
* * * * Charity finished inspecting the last of her arrows, and placed it into the quiver with the others. She looked at her brother. He was running his thumb along the edge of his sword. “Adam?”
“Uh hmmm?”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
He put the sword down and looked at his sister. Sometimes her ability with the bow caused him to forget that she was still a very young woman. “I really don't know. I'm hoping this is all a scare that doesn't come to pass, but I'm afraid we're going to find ourselves involved in the middle of a war.”
Charity hugged herself and looked into the distance. “I am, too.”

Chapter Seven
He had hoped to leave the villages alone, but orders to the contrary had been issued. The greased harnesses on their horses barely whispered as he and his patrol made their way into Dunwattle from the southwest. They'd crossed the Firth River at the ford two days earlier. If there had been no interruptions, the other patrol should be approaching from the southeast along the edge of the forest. The orders were specific. Try to spare as many as possible. Women and children were to be left alone except in cases where you had to defend yourself. At least they were being humane about it, if you could ever call war humane. He was thinking about his wife and children back in Avern when the arrow took him in the chest.
* * * * “Avernese!” The call went out from the Church tower where Old Thom kept watch. He was nocking another arrow to his bowstring as he yelled. The patrol fanned out and drew their swords. They held the round shield typical of Avern's military over their chests, steering their horses with their knees. Some of the men of Dunwattle came out to meet them, and were cut down in short order, as is often the case when shopkeepers battle experienced warriors.
Fredl hushed the men with him as they crouched behind Doggin's wall, dry stonework that ran along the eastern edge of Dunwattle, dividing the town from the farmland. He looked over the wall one more time. He thought he saw something twinkle in the moonlight. He was thinking he was wrong when the lance passed through him from behind.
* * * * “Adam! Soldiers!” Charity gathered up her quiver, and pushed the cat back into the shop as she ran in after it. Adam drew the shutters closed as the horsemen rode past. They had decided that the area around the sausage shed would be the safest during the night because of the deep shadows in and around that part of the shop. He felt his rock become warm, the first it had happened since before they stayed with Milward. He felt it with his fingers through his tunic, and then followed Charity as she herded Ornette out of the shop and into the courtyard. The boy was crying, and Charity was having a time keeping his voice down as he blubbered.
A glow appeared over the northeastern wall of the courtyard. Ornette cried out. “They've set the Church on fire! Those godless bastards!”
“Hush!” Charity shook him with her free hand. “Do you want them to hear you?” He hushed.
“Too late, Charity. They're here.” Adam drew his sword as a group of the invaders came out into the courtyard. One held a torch. Adam felt the arrow pass his head. It took the torch holder in the hand that held it.
“Aaarrggh!”
“Get them!” They charged across the courtyard. Adam tried to count them as they came. He reached a half dozen by the time he was engaged.
He parried an overhand cut by the one in front, and then had to jump back quickly to avoid a thrust by the one just behind him. He heard another scream as Charity's arrows found their target, and ducked a sweeping blow that came from behind and to his left. He had three of them after him and no idea of what to do first. He was merely reacting and trying to stay unskewered. The rock grew warmer, and the soldiers attacking him seemed to slow down. He saw an opening and passed the sword through the neck of the one to his left. Another duck and a roll such as the one Ethan showed him put him behind the other two. A broad swing of the blade caught them as they turned, and removed their heads from their shoulders.
Charity saw Adam decapitate the two soldiers as she pulled another arrow from her quiver. Ornette was in hysterics and a complete whittle when it came to being of help in this situation. The four soldiers who were left approached her warily after seeing what her arrows could do. Three of their number lay flat out on the ground, and a fourth was on the step of the workroom his hand pinned to the wall.
“Give it up, lady. There's nowhere to go, and we'd rather not have to kill you.” The one speaking was a little older than the others, and had a series of diagonal slashes running down the left sleeve of his tunic.
“Worry about yourselves.”
They all whirled towards the voice, and saw a young man in green and brown with a very deadly looking saber dripping blood. There was only the two of them to their four, so why did they feel outnumbered?
The older soldier lowered his sword, and sighed. “Look, son, I've nothing against you personally. I might even like you if I had a chance to get to know you, but I've got my orders, and you two either have to come with us, or defend yourselves.”
Charity lowered the aim of her bow and called out to the soldier. “Why? Why are you doing this? This town has done nothing to cause this.”
“You may be right, young lady. You may be right, but that doesn't change my orders.”
Adam shifted his stance. “So why don't you just leave, we'll go into the forest, and no one will be the wiser.” His smile was a death's mask. “And ... you get to live.”
The older soldier swallowed, and said sadly. “I'm sorry, son, but I can't do that.”
The sound of fighting drowned out the rest of what the soldier said, and then the fence gave way as a horse fell against it. A large knot of townsfolk, Avernese soldiers and men wearing another uniform surged through the breach in the fence. The melee pushed into the space between Adam, Charity and the Avernese soldiers. Adam soon found himself embroiled in a fight for his life as the crowd of combatants enveloped them.
“Adam!”
He heard Charity call his name. A whiskered face rose up before him swinging a blade, and he cut it down without a thought.
“Charity!” He tried to reach her. He could hear Ornette's wails. He'd probably survive, that kind usually did.
More of the crowd pushed between them. He could see Charity struggling to reach him, but being pushed back by shear weight of numbers. A lot of blades and lances were being waved aloft, but there wasn't room enough to swing one in combat so a few of the members of the crowd began using their fists, and then the knives came out.
“This way, lad.” A large hand grabbed Adam by the collar and hauled him backward out of the crowd.
“Hersh!” Adam twisted out of the Butcher's grip. “I've got to get to Charity. She's in danger!”
“Look out into that, lad!” Hersh's normally jovial voice was harsh with anxiety. “Do you really think you could get to her? My boy's out there. Don't you think I'd jump into that if I thought I could save him?” All we can do is wait and see if the Baron's men win the day.”
Adam stood in the doorway to Hersh's workroom. He could no longer tell where Charity was, and he could feel a frightening emptiness welling up in his gut as his impotence to help her became realized. No one seemed to be gaining ground in the battle. It surged back and forth before them like a pot on the boil. One especially aggressive Avernese made the mistake of charging Hersh and Adam. He met the Creator with a very surprised look on his face.
Hersh wiped the blood off his knife with one of the rags from his counter. “Come with me, lad. I think I see a way to the back.”
* * * * He had a hold on the end, finally. Now all he needed to do was pull his counterstroke in the right direction. There we go...
Gilgafed felt a tugging in the back of his mind. The wizard was erasing his trap! It couldn't be! He frantically formed a shaping, and sent it along the path of his control for the trap. It rebounded as if hitting a dense wall. He sent it again redoubled, and reeled back, gasping in pain as it backlashed along his nerves. He fell to the floor of his chamber, writhing. What was that old Wizard doing? How did he come to have such power?
* * * * “Around here, lad.” Hersh led Adam along an alley between the Butcher's courtyard and the Mayor's warehouse. It was a narrow, manmade canyon of ancient brick and stone with a wooden gate, at the end. They pushed through the gate and stepped out onto an open field thick with knee high grasses.
“There's the spot.” Hersh pointed to an old olive tree that grew against the back corner of his sausage shed. “I've a false door there. It's really part of the wall that comes off easy, never thought I'd have a need for it.”
The Butcher walked quickly around the tree, and swore softly. “Balls.”
Adam quickened his steps to see what was the trouble. A hole in the wall of the sausage shed greeted him. The false door lay in the grasses of the field. A night cricket hopped across it, and was grabbed as a quick meal by a passing lizard.
Hersh shook his head as he examined the back of his shed. “Someone's been here before us.” He pointed out the obvious.
Sounds of the melee in the courtyard filtered out through the shed. Adam could hear someone whimpering inside. He recognized the voice. “Hersh, Ornette's in the shed.”
The Butcher rushed past Adam and into the darkness. He found his son huddled in the corner behind the sausage maker.
Ornette saw his father, and threw his arms around Hersh's neck. “Da! Oh Da! Charity's gone! They took her away.”
Adam spun Ornette out of his father's arms, and held him by both shoulders. “Who took her? Where!? Tell me!”
“Soldiers. I don't know. They were so big, I was so scared, I couldn't ... couldn't...”
“There laddie, there, there. Not your fault ... did what you could.” Hersh comforted his son, as Adam rushed out of the shed calling for Charity.
Dawn was long past, and the victorious townsfolk and Spuian Guardsmen had rounded up the last of the Avernese soldiers by the time Adam stumbled back into Hersh's shop.
He slumped down into a chair in Hersh's living quarters. “I searched everywhere I could, no footprints, no tracks. I found nothing, not even the cat, and it wouldn't let her out of its sight.”
“I should have tried harder to get to her, but it wouldn't come. It helped that little girl, why not Charity.”
Hersh couldn't know Adam was speaking of his developing powers and his amulet. He handed the boy a cup of hot tisane. Adam sipped it automatically.
“You did what you could, lad. Rest up; we'll try again later.” He led Adam to his bed, and put the sword and its belt in the corner. As he closed the door, he heard “Why didn't it work? Why didn't...”

Chapter Eight
Charity fought against the Avernese soldier's grip, but he was too strong. She still had her bow, but the position he held her in gave her no opportunity to bring it to play. She was being dragged toward the forest, as far as she could tell. The moon had gone behind a cloud, deepening the night's gloom.
“Stop struggling, you little vixen, or it'll go rougher with you.” The voice was harsh, and his breath stank of ale. He fondled her breast with the hand that crossed over her arm. “Ah, a nice size you are, and firm, too. I'll bet you're ready, you are.”
Charity tried to scream as she increased her struggles. A blow to the top of her head stunned her. When she regained her wits, she was among the trees of the forest, lying on her back against the roots of a large tree. The soldier's silhouette blotted out a portion of the distant glow of the burning church. He appeared to be fumbling with something near his waist.
“Oh, you're going to enjoy this, girl. I know I will.” The moon came out from behind the cloud, and revealed the soldier's intentions. She shrank back against the bole of the tree, and he approached her. “Come on, girlie, you know you want it, you're lustin’ fer it, you're just whores at heart, you all are.”
The memory of Adam telling her what Darzin had said about her flooded into her. Rage overtook her fear, and she lashed out with her boot at the most prominent target available. Her heel took the soldier right where he lived.
His screams of agony echoed throughout the trees. He rolled on the ground, groaning and cursing all at once. His outbursts spiraled down, and then he lunged to his feet with a snarl, brandishing a long knife. “You rutting bitch! I'll gut you like a trout I will. I'll ... ulp!”
Charity stared at him along the length of a clothyard shaft. “You'll what, you bastard? Tell me what you planned to do. Go on, tell me. The only thing that's keeping me from sending this arrow through your heart right now is ... Deity! I don't know what it is. I think I'll just take you back to my brother, and let him decide what to do with you.”
“Your brother?” The laugh was short, sharp and evil. “The demon with the sword? You'll take me back to a corpse you will. We've taken the town, you little bitch. If I don't take you, the others will.” The second laugh was a leer. “I don't mind sloppy seconds ... Aaauuggh!”
The arrow passed through his heart, and buried itself in a tree twenty feet behind him. Blood vomited out of his mouth as he fell to the forest floor, twitched once, and then lay still.
“Adam.” Charity sobbed, and then she thought of the cat, and Adam diving into the water to save it. Scenes of their travels in the world passed before her like paintings in a gallery. She saw him defend her over and over again and then she fell to the ground, sobbing. She cried and cried and cried, letting her heart break with the depth of her loss. She wished she could die and be with him. She wished she'd been there to save him, to save the cat. She cried until exhaustion overtook her, and she passed into sleep against the tree, the body of the soldier next to her feet.
She woke with the sun, calling for her brother. The soldier's corpse brought it all back to her, and the tears came again. She stumbled away from the body, scooped up the bow, and ran deeper into the woods. Her sobs drowned out the faint calls of the villagers as they searched for her.
Grief and despair drove her on until exhaustion once again claimed her, and the woods offered their leaves as a bower.
Now into the foothills far to the east of Dunwattle, Charity picked ripe Thimbleberries until she had a small handful that she could nibble on while she walked. She wanted to be as far away from Dunwattle as she could be. The mountaintops she saw in the east were hidden behind clouds. Her tears had dried now, but she had spent the last two days weeping off and on. The thought of losing Adam and the kitten still caused deep feelings of loss and sorrow to well up, but not to the point of bringing on the sobs of the previous days.
Her best guess placed the mountains at least another day away. She busied herself by both walking until she could no longer put one foot in front of the other, and by inspecting her remaining arrows. She had eleven left from her baker's two dozen, and one of them was well out of true.
She looked at the clouds again and thought of the mountains. There was a chill in the air last night. It would be bad if the first snows caught her in the heights.
Either she had fortune walking with her, or Bardoc himself held back the storms, for Charity made the pass without trial. Hunger became her main problem as she descended the eastern slope. No trees grew in the rocky soil, and what vegetation there was grew sparsely at best.
By the time she reached the Long Wood, she was famished. A bramble patch left purple stains on her fingers and mouth and little satisfaction in her stomach, but at least the fare would keep her going for a bit.
She'd entered the Long Wood at a narrows, and thus her passage through the wood lasted only a few hours, bringing her into the farmlands west of Berggren just before sundown. Again famished, the sight of the cornfield on the other side caused her mouth to water, and she closed the distance at a run.
The corn proved itself to be sweet beyond her wildest dreams, and she gorged herself into a sleepy stupor. She fell asleep with the third cob still in her hands.
A cock crowed, and Charity stirred listlessly. Morning had come far too early to suit her, and the tall corn did little to block the sun's rays. Grabbing the corner of her cloak, she pulled it over her eyes, and drifted back into her dream.
Ethan yelled at the barmaid to bring him another flagon, and to be quicker with it than the last one. The wine didn't help his bad temper, nor the feeling of loneliness. Dunwattle had proved a waste, and the folk of Bantering were nice enough, he supposed, but no one had need of an experienced woodcrafter. Bantering earned most of its wealth from the sea, and the shops and homes in the village were built of the local stone, and mortared with the local clay. Oh, they were willing to let him tinker a bit for them here and there, but what they really wanted were his watchman skills. Well, they're going to have to put up with a drunken watchman, he thought, as he drained the last of the flagon.
He turned and raised the empty to catch the barmaid's attention. “Bring me another.” He turned back to the table, and said to himself. “I've got some dying to catch up on.”
* * * * “Hoy lassie, wakey, wakey.” Something was shaking her. She opened her eyes to see a thin, homely face peering back at her. The prominent nose stood out on a face that could have used a lot more chin, and about half the amount of ear. Stringy brown hair slunk out of a battered knit hat, and his smile showed teeth that had needed care for a number of years.
“Wh ... who are you?”
“'Ear now, Neely. Give the lass a mo', that's a good lad.” The other voice was fruity and jovial. Charity turned her head to see its source. What she saw was the polar opposite of the first one. His head was as round as a pumpkin, and so was his nose. Rather than needing more chin he had at least two extra. An old cloth hat that had a sad, limp pheasant feather stuck in one side of its band perched on his head. His tunic was plain, but serviceable, colored in oxblood and tan, and his massive forearms showed an alarming amount of reddish hair.
The one to wake her gave Charity a half bow, his hand over his heart. “Neely, at your service, my lady. This large rascal is my friend and companion, Flynn.”
Flynn knuckled his brow at Charity. “How do, miss.”
Charity pulled her cloak away from her shoulders and sat up, her right hand resting near the knife she had taken from her would-be rapist. “Charmed, I'm sure. Why did you wake me?”
Neely noticed her hand. “Naow, missy, we ain't lookin’ fer no trouble. Flynn an’ me are peaceful types, we are. Aren't we, Flynn.”
Flynn nodded, using all his chins. “Aye, that's a fack, that is. Why, Neely an me never even hurt any o’ the’ shopkeepers we robbed ... ow!” Neely stuck his elbow into Flynn's ample belly.
Charity stood up. The two thieves saw the bow in her left hand. Neely backed away, holding up his hands as a shield, “n..n..now, missy. Don't go doin’ nothing rash, now. We means you no harm, an’ that's Bardoc's truth, it is.”
“I'll need a little more proof than that, I think.” Charity drew an arrow and smoothly nocked it while watching them. She saw their eyes widen to nearly popping.
Flynn dropped to his knees and began blubbering. “Oh, spare me, Milady. I promises to never thieve agin. I'll write me mum each day, an ... an I'll put flowers on me Da's grave, I will, an'...an’ I'll serves you, yes I will, an’ you don't have to pay me a mite, you don't. Not a mite.”
Neely looked at his companion for a few seconds, and then he dropped to his knees, as well. “What he says, miss, uh Milady. Iffn you needs a couple of good mates ta be yer helpers an’ such, it's me an’ Flynn, it is.”
Charity lowered her bow. She noticed their eyes following it. She decided to give them a lesson in trustworthiness. “Are you any good with those knives of yours?”
They looked at their knives. They were both longer than the average hunter, but not quite a short sword's length.
Flynn shook his head, causing another chin quake. “Aye, Milady, but Neely's better hittin’ th’ target than meself.”
Charity coolly appraised Neely. He felt a chill in his gut. “Oh, really ... You see that ear on that cornstalk over there?” She pointed to a stalk that stood higher than the others, about a dozen yards down the row.
“Aye ... I see it.” He kept one eye on Charity's bow.
“Do you think you could hit it with your knife?”
He stroked his chin, intrigued. “Well, now ... I don't rightly know, missy. I knows I could give it good scare.”
Charity noticed that his use of Milady had changed to missy. “Let's see how close you come then.”
Neely nodded and drew his knife. He flipped it, and caught it by the blade like an expert. He straightened his arm, sighted along the blade, and then threw in one swift motion. The first arrow caught the knife and carried it another thirty yards down the row. The second arrow severed the ear from the stalk, and the third speared it in the middle halfway to the ground.
Neely stood there, imitating a feeding carp, and Flynn dropped to the ground again, holding his clasped hands in front of him. “Pleeease don't kill me, Milady. I'll be good. I promises I will. An’ so will Neely.” The last came out in a rush.
Neely darted a glance at Flynn, and then stared at Charity. He looked down the row at where his knife lay, then walked to get it and then came back to Charity. He dropped to one knee and held the knife out to her; his back was mast straight. “Milady, I never seen a bow shot like that, an’ I been in th’ army as a bowman an’ tracker meself.” He took a deep breath. “I ain't much ta look at, I knows, but iffn you needs a blade at yer back, Milady...”
Charity took the offered knife, and looked at it. There was a deep scratch on the guard where her arrow had caught it, but it seemed to be in good shape otherwise, Adam, her breath caught at the memory, had known more about such things. She placed the knife back in Neely's hands. “I accept your service and that of your friend's, and I promise that I will defend your lives with my bow as much as you will mine with your blades.” Neely began to rise, but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “One more thing.”
They both chorused. “Yes, Milady.”
“That's just it. My name is Charity, not Milady. I would like it if you both called me by my name. Two fine Innkeepers taught me that, and you would do them honor if you followed that teaching.”
Neely stood. “I will, miss ... uh Charity. I will.”
Flynn was wiping his eyes.” She's more of a lady standin’ in this here cornfield than th’ one's in the wossname ... perpatett.”
“I think you mean parapet.” Charity said.
“An’ smart, too.”
Neely rolled his eyes. Charity smothered a giggle. She walked down the row to retrieve her arrows. Her two new companions followed her.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that? Iffn you don't mind me askin'.” Neely asked out of the side of his mouth.
“I sort of just picked it up, really.” She added at the look on his face. “I guess you could say I was born into it.”
Flynn poked Neely in the small of his back. “A natural, Neely, just like in th’ prophecy!”
Neely didn't answer, but Charity saw the added respect in their eyes. She checked her arrows, and then placed them back into the quiver. “You still haven't answered my question.”
“I don't rightly remember the’ question.” Neely scratched his head under his hat.
“About why you woke me up.”
Neely looked embarrassed.” Well ... uh ... you see, uh, we...”
“You were intending on robbing me, weren't you?”
“Not really. We ... uh ... we just...”
“We was near ta beggin', miss ... uh, Charity, we was. Ain't no one mindful of givin’ Neely an’ me jobs, so we was fixin’ on askin’ if you'd ... uh..."Flynn's voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Charity broke out in a peal of laughter. “You were going to beg from me?”
Neely quickened his steps to get in front of Charity. “But, your clothes are of such fine workmanship ... we thought...”
“The clothes were given to me by a friend, and I have only a few coins that were given to me by my brother, plus the ones I earned making sausage.”
Flynn and Neely stopped short. “You made sausage?”
Flynn swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “You remember sausage, don't you, Neely? Poppin’ on the fire an’ catchin’ the fat on a slice of brown bread...”
Neely's voice became dreamy. “Liver sausage ... pepper sausage ... innards sausage ... blood sausage ... my favorite part is when you first stick the knife in...”
“Mmmm.” Flynn licked his lips. He came out of his reverie enough to ask Charity. “Where do you plan on travelin’ to, Miss Charity?”
Charity blinked at the change of subject, then she pointed towards the mountains behind them.” I came over those. I'm looking for some place where I can get a fresh start.”
Flynn and Neely looked thoughtful for a moment. Flynn lifted a finger.” There's Berggren.”
* * * * Gilgafed kept his gaze on the vase. It had been a month now. A month! Since that never to be sufficiently damned Wizard had erased his block on that traveling vortex, and still his power hadn't increased to the point where he could light a small faggot. “Is it warming?”
His servant, Cobain touched the vase, “A little.” He glanced nervously at his master. “Perhaps you should rest a bit, Milord.”
Gilgafed tore his gaze away from the vase, and leaned back in his chair. He pounded the arm of the chair in frustration. “Pfaugh! I've rested enough for one half my age. Bring me wine, and then we'll try again.”
He let his perception wander as Cobain rushed to get the wine. Though he was now crippled, his senses were still active enough to explore the world. He passed by the Witch and her hut near the fens. That budding Sorcerer in Grisham showed promise, but would be no factor, where he was concerned, for years yet.
Of the two brats who troubled him, he could sense the girl more acutely than the boy. There was a change in her. He could not put a finger on exactly what it was. It was something to think about, and then see if it could be used. The boy worried him, still. Since that moment of backlash, his perceptions had slipped away from the boy as if he was trying to catch hold of a greased shoat.
He considered the girl again. She seemed to be moving in the direction of Berggren; perhaps a note to Cloutier would be in order. The idea touched his fancy. Cloutier would be ideal in dealing with one like her. Yes, indeed.

Chapter Nine
“So, this is Berggren.” Charity looked at the houses on either side of the street. Most of them were two and three story wooden buildings with balcony windows and high, peaked thatched roofs. Beneath their feet, the street was tightly cobbled with rounded stones. Here and there splashes of pigeon droppings showed which houses the birds liked for their roost.
“Aye, miss. ‘Tis a full city, it is.” Flynn's eyes were wide as he caught all the sites he could in the bustling streets. The morning was still young when they made their way through the city's gates. The sleepy guards waved them through without asking if they had anything to declare.
“It's the largest city in this area East of the mountains.” Neely snagged an apple from a cart as they passed it while the vendor was bending over a pack. “Iffn a fresh start is available, it's here.”
“Specially iffn the one lookin’ kin do whut you kin, m'lady.” Flynn looked at her with open admiration.
Charity kept a tight grip on her bow. The street was crowded with carts, horses and crowds of people. She cried out as her foot was trod on by a large man hauling a large sack of what smelled like potatoes on his back.
“Sorry, miss.” The man muttered as he passed them.
“Just watch where ye be treadin’ man.” Neely growled to the man's back.
Charity was just as glad to see him keep going. The fellow was easily twice Neely's size.
They turned a corner, and passed into a street of shops. Smells of cooking filled the morning air, and Charity felt her mouth beginning to water. Her stomach rumbled.
“I'd like to find some breakfast.” She said to her companions.
“There's a likely spot, miss.” Flynn pointed to a storefront with a sign hung over the door carrying a picture of a mug and a loaf of bread.
Charity pushed her way through the crowded street, and opened the door beneath the sign. The smell of fresh baked bread washed over her, and she smelled sausages!
Flynn and Neely followed on her heels.
“Smell that, Flynn?”
“Aye, I do, Neely. Pork bangers, them is.”
“So you'll be wantin’ breakfast, then?” The owner of the voice threw all of Charity's preconceptions of shop owners and Innkeepers out the window. He was so thin as to be cadaverous; his wife, or so she supposed the woman next to him to be, was equally thin. He wore an off-white apron covered with old stains. In his left hand he held a pitcher, his right hand clutched a damp cloth.
“Yes, please.” Charity reached into her belt pouch, and pulled out a silver. The woman snatched it out of her hand, and silently pointed them to the table under the window.
The man set the pitcher and three cups down onto the table. “Hot tisane for three. We have Bangers an’ chips, Fried tomato an’ egg, scones an’ fried bread.”
Flynn looked across the room where a large potbellied man was tucking into a huge plate of sausages, potatoes and fried bread. “Kin I have whut he's havin'?
Neely turned his head in the direction Flynn was pointing. “Looks good. Bring me one, too.”
“That be two coppers extra.”
Her companions looked at Charity. She sighed and dug out the coppers. The man made them disappear.
Charity poured herself a cup of tisane. “I'd like egg and tomato with some scones, please.”
The man nodded and yelled the order over his shoulder. “Two biggun's, break an egg an’ kill a luv apple! Scones on the way, miss.” He nodded to Charity, and then turned to refill the other diner's cup with more tisane.
“Town's busier than I recall.” Neely sipped his tisane.
“Folk runnin’ from the war ‘cross the mountains, I expect.” Flynn picked up a cup, and poured himself a helping.
At Flynn's mention of the war, Charity found her memory journeying back to the last time she had seen Adam. She shook the memory off, and forced herself to return to the present. The street outside was becoming busier. A yellow dog followed a cart pulled by oxen, with a small boy holding a switch walking alongside. The oxen did what oxen do, causing a horseman behind them to curse loudly and swerve his mount to the side. Charity tittered at the sight.
“Somethin’ funny, miss?” Neely looked up from his cup.
Charity told him about the oxen and the horse.
He threw back his head. and laughed. Flynn joined in the joke.
“Here's yer breakfast.” The man plopped down Flynn and Neely's platters. They were piled high with sausages and fried potatoes. A half dozen slices of fried bread ringed the pile. The smell of sage mixed with that of crisped pork floated up from the plates. Flynn wiped the drool from his mouth, and dug in like a starving man.
“Hsst!” Neely dug an elbow into Flynn's side.
“What?” Flynn mumbled around a mouthful of sausage and chips.
“She hasn't been served yet. Where are your manners?” Neely waved a thumb in Charity's direction.
Charity gave Neely a smile that melted his heart. “I'm all right, Neely. You go ahead and eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Mine should be here soon enough.”
Neely eyed his platter longingly.” You're sure, miss?”
“I'm sure. Go ahead, eat.”
Neely tore into his food with fervor equal to Flynn's. Travel biscuits may be sustaining, but they can't compare to freshly fried sausage.
“Here you are, miss.” A plate with two eggs and three slices of fried tomato slid in front of her, followed by a plate with scones and clotted cream.
“Thank you.” She moved her bow so it leaned against the wall, and picked up a scone. It was still warm. She spooned some of the cream onto it, and ate. The flavor of the scone was wonderful. She cut some egg and added a bit of tomato to the slice, and conveyed it to her mouth. “Mmmm.”
Flynn and Neely looked up and nodded agreement.
She signaled to the man, and he came over. “You want something, miss?”
“I just want to tell you how good the food is, and to thank you for it.”
His face nearly cracked a smile. He gave her a half bow. “Thank you, miss. I'll be sure to tell the missus. She don't hear that much in this town.”
Flynn and Neely saluted him with their knives, and mumbled their thanks with full mouths.
The pot-bellied man finished his food, and stood up to leave. He slapped a silver and a copper onto his table, and walked to the door. He looked at Charity and her companions for a long moment, and then left the eatery.
“What was that all about?” Neely nudged Flynn with his elbow.
“Dunno.” Flynn mopped up some of the savory fat with a piece of fried bread. “Gave us the fish eye, though, didn't he?”
“What are you going on about?” Charity picked up the last scone and cream.
Flynn poked his piece of bread in the direction of the door “That fellow with the pillow belly who just left. He was givin’ us the fish eye, he was.”
“Don't like it.” Neely muttered. “Could mean trouble.”
“Like robbin’ us, you mean?” Flynn finished his bread, and washed it down with the last of the tisane.
“Maybe worse. Remember the press gangs of Firth, ten years back?”
Flynn rubbed his wrist. Neely's mention of the press gangs of Firth brought back painful memories. “I think we'd better go, Neely.”
Neely looked at Charity. She nodded. “Right. We're off, then.” He popped a last chip into his mouth, and closed his eyes for a second as he chewed it. “Wish we weren't.”
Charity picked up her bow and quiver.” If we're going to go, let's go.”
Neely opened the door, and peeked to either side.
“See anything?” Flynn was right behind him.
“Naw. Must've been nerves.” Neely looked back at Charity. “Sorry, miss.”
“It's OK, Neely. We may as well see the rest of the city, anyway.”
“Right you are.” Neely pushed the door fully open, and stepped out and to the side.
Flynn and Charity followed. Some of the morning clouds had been swept away by a stiff breeze that blew back their hair.
“Stay where you are.” The voice had the ring of one used to command.
They looked up to see a man wearing rich-looking garments, astride a gleaming white horse. To either side of him stood men at arms wearing chain mail, hoods and surcoats as well, carrying halberds and pikes. They out-numbered them by over four to one. The figure on the horse leaned forward and smiled. Charity did not like the look of that smile. It belonged to a man of indeterminate age, darkly handsome with thick, wavy black hair, high prominent cheekbones and full lips. He was dressed in black silk trimmed with burgundy and forest green. A rapier with an elaborate golden basket hilt lay strapped to his left side. A dagger with an ivory handle capped with gold balanced it on his right.
He groomed an eyebrow with his fingertips. “My name is Lord Cloutier. I am the Earl of this city, and I wish to know your business here, if any.”
“Blimey. He's going to hang us, Neely. We been found out.”
“Shut up.” Neely whispered to Flynn out of the side of his mouth.
Charity stepped forward. “I'm called Charity. My companions are Flynn and Neely. We're refugees of the war across the mountains. We've useful skills, and would like to be given a chance to prove our worth.”
“I'll bet she has useful skills.” The stage whisper was spoken in a coarse voice within the ranks of guardsmen. A leering snicker washed through them.
Cloutier waved them silent. “And what skills might those be?” Another snicker from the rank.
Charity felt the flush warming her face, and damned herself for giving in to the teasing. “I am a trained Butcher's helper.”
“Bet I know what she helped ‘im with.” Snicker.
“Silence!” Cloutier roared the command without turning his head. The faces of the rank went white. He focused his gaze on Charity. The look was predatory. “How old are you?”
She swallowed in spite of her determination not to show fear. “Sixteen summers, my lord.”
Cloutier leaned back in his saddle. “Sixteen summers? That many?”
Charity knew he was teasing, and felt powerless to stop it. Flynn and Neely were obviously petrified. “I'm good at what I do, my lord.”
“I'm sure you are.” Cloutier allowed the rank to snicker at his innuendo. “What sort of assistance did you give this Butcher, eh?”
“I made sausages, my lord.”
“Sausages?” Cloutier's voice rose in mock amazement. “Such a skill!” He turned to the rank, and spread his arms wide. “Behold! She makes sausages!” The rank broke out in derisive laughter. Cloutier smiled his cruel smile again, and leaned forward, resting his right arm on the pommel of the saddle. “And pray tell me, my lady. What do your two stalwart companions do?”
Charity stole a look at Flynn and Neely. Their faces were death masks.
Cloutier's patience was just shy of being nonexistent. “Tell me!”
His roar broke Flynn and Neely out of their trace. Flynn stepped forward and knuckled his brow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m'lord. I be Flynn o’ Northlake, Sire. Me da apprenticed me to a Cooper, ‘e did. I kin make a good barrel, I kin, m'lord.”
“Barrel maker, eh? What about you, fellow?” Cloutier pointed at Neely.
Neely tore his hat off his head, and worried it with his hands. Charity could see sweat bead his brow. He swallowed and stepped forward a half step. “Neely, milord. Grisham is where I hail from. I be a soldier of fortune an’ tracker, iffn’ you need one, sire.”
Cloutier leaned back again, and appraised them for a moment. He rubbed his chin. The signet ring on his hand glinted in the light. “A Cooper, a Soldier of Fortune and a Sausage Maker. Such riches my poor city doesn't deserve.” The rank sniggered.
He leaned forward again. Charity thought, “Can't this man keep still for a moment? He's like a Wobbledy Bob.”
“I really should have you locked away for the vagrants you are.” Cloutier dismissed them with a wave of his hand and the tone of his voice. “But, I am feeling generous this morning. I will offer the two of you,” He jabbed a finger at Flynn and Neely. “One hundred golds each if you will turn this doxie of yours over to my gentle hands.”
Charity felt a wave of ice grip her heart. The memory of the Avernese soldier flooded forward, and she reeled under its impact. She knew that no matter what happened, she would not allow this Lord, in her mind the word became a curse, to take her without blood being shed.
Flynn and Neely were thunderstruck. A hundred golds! Why, a man could retire on such wealth. Each of them had a vision of wine, women and song run through him, and then a vision of their mistress in the clutches of the Lord who sat before them pushed it aside.
Neely put his hat back onto his head and straightened his stance. “I'm sorry, my lord, but she ain't mine to sell.”
Flynn knuckled his brow again, and glanced at Charity. “And so say I, m'lord. Sorry.”
Charity's right hand reached for an arrow, as she hid the movement behind Flynn's bulk.
“I'm sorry, too, my good man.” Cloutier's predatory smile belied the text of his words. He nodded to the rank, and they began to advance with their halberds at point.
Flynn and Neely drew their knives, and placed themselves between Charity and the guardsmen. A halberd was thrust at Neely's face. He ducked and forced the point of it to the side with the broad side of his knife. Flynn trapped one beneath his left arm, and using his right hand lifted the guardsman holding it off the ground, and slammed him against the shop wall.
“Take them now, you fools!” Cloutier yelled at them as he attempted to steady his horse in the melee.
Charity nocked an arrow, and scanned the crowd. The last thing she wanted to do was skewer an innocent onlooker, and a considerable number of people had gathered to see this latest bit of street theater.
An apple was thrown in their direction from the crowd. It spattered against the wall next to Neely. He was bleeding from a couple of cuts, and beginning to look tired, but his knife continued to weave a curtain of steel between himself and the rank. Flynn had lost his knife due to a bad cut from a halberd, and had to make do with his hands and his strength of arm, which was considerable. He reached out over the halberds being waved in his face, and grabbed the two guardsmen by their collars, cracking their heads together. The sound was like that of a melon being dropped from a balcony.
A guardsman caught Neely in the pit of his stomach with the butt of his pike. He doubled over and began to retch. Bile and half-digested sausages spattered onto the cobblestones. Another guardsman raised his halberd to finish the job. Charity's arrow passed through his left eye.
Flynn called out to Charity. “Push up behind me, miss. I'll try to clear a path for ye.” He turned his head to make sure she heard him, and the flat side of a halberd caught him alongside the skull, dropping him like a stone.
Charity was grabbed from both sides. Rough hands attempted several indignities, while others disarmed her. She screamed and thrashed about, catching one of the rank in his belly with the toe of her boot. Another of them would probably need several days before he could talk again.
“Hold the bitch steady, now.” A guardsman whose arms were covered in thick black hair raised his pike like a spear. Charity saw her death approaching. At least I'll see Adam soon, She thought.
“Hold that pike, or you'll lose your head!” Cloutier's command whipped across the rank.
The hairy guardsman lowered his weapon. “You're a lucky one, whore.” He spat the word. “That was me brother you killed. Once the Earl finishes with you, you're my meat, I promises you. Remember that!”
Cloutier turned his horse in a half circle, and surveyed the damage. Seven of his guardsmen lay still, and three others kneeled, groaning. Perhaps the two with the chit were worth something after all. His gaze stopped on the guardsman with the arrow in his socket. No wonder his master was worried about her. To be such a marksman at only sixteen summers ... Ah, well. He had his orders.
He pulled his rapier and pointed to Flynn and Neely with it. “Take them to the gaol and have their wounds seen to. Take the doxie to my Palace, and give her over to Morgan's care. Be sure he gets her weapon, as well. If I find any of you have taken liberties, I will have myself a new pair of boots, am I clear in this?” The paleness of the surviving guardsmen told him all he needed to know.
He looked down at Charity. She glared back. “I see you have a lot of fire, milady. We'll have to make sure it stays there until you are ready. Take her away.”
Charity struggled in the grasp of her guards. “I hate you.” She screamed at Cloutier. “I hate you.”
He smiled and groomed an eyebrow as she was dragged away. “Two years is a long time.” He mused to himself. “I can hardly wait.”
* * * * “Oooo. My ‘ead feels like it was horse stomped.” Flynn groaned and pulled himself to his feet using the bars of the cell.
“At least you still have your breakfast inside you.” Neely reclined on one of the two cots that graced the cell floor.
Flynn looked over at his friend. Both of his hands and arm were bandaged. He felt his head gingerly. Another bandage was wound around his head and his right forearm.” Aye. I guess we should be glad we're still breathin'. You OK, Neely?”
Neely placed a hand on his stomach.” I've been better, Flynn. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I was captured by them wimmin outlaws in the Longwood?”
Flynn's eyes brightened at the prospect of one of Neely's stories. “Can't say you have, Neely. What ‘appened?”
“Well, now...” Neely settled into his tale, forgetting the pain in his belly. “Their leader, Aphrodite was her name, if I recall. She had a powerful need ta have a baby. I remember her jugs, she coulda nursed a village, I reckon. Well, she was gonna have me skinned along with the rest o’ me group. That is, until she saw the size o’ me other leg, iffn’ you catch me drift.”
Flynn chuckled. “That I do, Neely, That I do.”
“Well, being a gentleman at heart...”
* * * * The morning sun pierced Ethan's eyelids like a hot blade. He flopped his arm over his face, and tried to fall back to sleep. From past experience he knew what awaited him if he awoke fully after a night of drink.
“Mama. He moved.” A little girl's voice? Ethan used his other hand to gingerly feel around where he lay. He remembered ... a goat and ... some hay ... and a nice jug of fortified wine and ... a chicken? What he felt was none of those. Where was the hay? The mud? The goat droppings? He felt clean linen over ticking under him.
He cracked an eye, and pulled his arm up to his forehead.
“He moved again, mama!”
Ethan was greeted by two huge hazel eyes in a cherubic face framed with a mass of curly chestnut hair.
“Hi, man.” The face spoke. The voice matched the face.
“Hi.” His voice sounded like it was coming from the grave.
“His breath stinks, mama!”
“Hush, Sari. Move aside now.” A calico skirt filled his vision, and a cool cloth blocked it entirely. “This should help your head feel better.” The voice was a woman's, low and soft with a throaty quality that he found soothing.
“Thank you.” He moved his arm so his hand pressed the coolness into his forehead. “Why?”
Her soft laugh was self-deprecating. “I have a habit of picking up strays, and nursing them back to health. You looked to be in need of picking up.”
“You could have left me. One night with the goats and the chickens wasn't going to hurt me.”
“You don't know...?” Her breath caught, and she stopped her sentence.
Ethan, now alarmed, tried to sit up, and gasped with the pain and lay back. He'd felt it before. He'd been stabbed, deeply. The memory joined the others. Boots ... and a blade, and then darkness. “My pouch?”
“You had none when I found you.” She replaced the cloth with a deft hand.
“Are you a physic? Who sewed me up?” He tried to see more of his surroundings.
“Hush, you'll tear the stitching.” She stilled him with a hand to his upper chest. He saw her fingers from beneath the cloth. Slender, but strong looking. The glint of hard calluses said she'd spent most of her life working.
“I milked the goat, mama.” Another child's voice, a little older than the first one; two summers, maybe.
“Thank you, Circumstance. Go see how Jonas is doing. There's a good boy.”
“Yes, mama.” The boy sounded so serious. Ethan wondered how he played.
“You have three?” He grunted as she checked the wound.
“I'm sorry. It must be painful, but I see no infection. Yes, I have three children.” She finished retying his bandage, and he felt her stand up.
“Jonas, Circumstance and ... Sari?”
He heard her soft laugh again, “Your memory, at least, is not damaged.”
Laughing hurt.
* * * * Charity screamed and threw another vase at the wall. It shattered nicely, but did nothing to soothe her temper.
“That vase was over a thousand years old, milady, and I believe it cost your Lord over a thousand golds to purchase.”
“Good!” Charity turned and hissed her reply at the taciturn man leaning against the wall. He'd said his name was Morgan, and he was her guardian. He was good looking, she supposed, for a man with a salt and pepper beard, age lines and a hook nose. His voice was strangely accented to her ears. And he was not much larger than Adam had been. He was considerably smaller than Flynn and Neely, but Charity felt he was much more dangerous. He moved with a cat-like grace and efficiency she'd never seen before. His lack of response to her temper tantrum somehow made her even angrier. She picked up a silver chalice, and sent it spinning at his head. He sidestepped the projectile, and caught it on the fly in one smooth motion.
“This is even older than the vase, and is one of my favorites,” he said, as he placed in onto a shelf near him. “I'd prefer to keep it in good shape, if you don't mind. I'd also like it if you'd consider me your friend. I really am here to help you, you know.”
Charity glared at him. “Then let me go!”
“I'm sorry. I can't do that. As I've told you before.”
Charity screamed again in frustration and rage, and threw herself onto the huge bed, and began sobbing as if her heart were broken.
She felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. “Please, Milady. Let me be your friend. Ask anything else of me, and I will gladly do it.”
She spun around on the bed, and threw a punch at him that would have stunned a larger man if it had connected. He shifted to the side just enough to cause her fist to pass by his head. He caught her wrist with his hand, and gently laid her hand back onto her lap.
Charity looked into his eyes, and tried to find anger in them. All she saw was a calm, placid kindness and deep self-assurance. The wall of her rage broke, and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing out her grief.
Morgan held his charge gently and let her cry. He would hold her like this as long as she needed him. This was his job and not even the pit could turn him from it.
* * * * The blizzard's winds shrieked in their fury, driving the swirling snow with the force of an ice-bladed sledgehammer. Gilgafed stood at the entrance of his cave, and savored the storm. When he finally came back to power, he would insure that the entire world had storms such as this.
“Master?”
He turned to see his servant, Cobain scuttling towards him. The bandy-legged little fellow was bundled against the cold within a heavily furred cloak, and his breath created clouds in the freezing air. “What is it, Cobain?”
“Your repast awaits, Master.” Cobain's teeth chattered despite his heavy cloak. He was beginning to lose feeling in the tip of his nose.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Cobain. You may go, but first collect six of those icicles for me. There's a good fellow.”
Cobain looked in the direction his master pointed, and his heart sank. The icicles indicated were suspended from a ledge that bore the full fury of the storm.
“Well, go on. Be quick, now. I wish them to cool my wine.” His master's tone became petulant, and Cobain knew he had no chance but to obey. He sighed and wrapped a fold of the cloak around so it covered his mouth and hid one of his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he ventured out into the blizzard.
“Good man.” Gilgafed called. “Bring them to me as soon as you can. I'll be at my dinner.” He turned and walked back into the cave.
* * * * “Hard work, this.” Flynn wiped his brow. He was sweating in spite of the chill in the air. Flurries of flakes swirled about and settled onto the pile of wood they were chopping for the kitchens.
“Reminds me of a time back when I was fresh from th’ monk's school.” Neely grunted as he swung the ax.
“Oh?”
“Aye.” Neely placed another piece of wood onto the block. “I'd snuck out the’ back way. Never did take much to schoolin', ya know.”
Flynn chuckled and stacked the wood. “Aye, I know.”
“Well, I was gettin mighty hungry by the’ time I found th’ farm. I talked th’ farmer into lettin’ me chop wood for me supper. ‘Bout halfway through the cord his daughter come out with a jug o’ lemin squash.”
“I see.”
“Ah, yer gettin’ ahead o’ me, bucko. Seems her daddy had to check on a problem in th’ fields, so she'd come to check on me. Seein’ it was summer an’ all, I had me shirt off. She was admirin’ the view, so to speak.” He swung the ax, and Flynn gathered the pieces.
“Since it was such a hot day, she decided to offer me a dip in th’ creek. We wound up takin’ a dip together.”
Flynn's laughter echoed across the yard.
“Oh, aye, me first one it was. Always liked choppin’ wood after that.” He swung the ax again.
* * * * “It took you long enough! My wine was getting insufferably warm” Gilgafed greeted his shivering servant with a glare.
His teeth chattering uncontrollably, Cobain fitted the icicles into the chaser that held the wine bottle. From the look of the wax around the cork, it was one of the old ones.
“Ahhh. That's better. This vintage needs to be properly chilled to enhance the subtleties of the snails.”
Cobain looked at his master's dinner. The chilling bottle of wine lay in its chaser next to a plate of snails. The snails moved. Cobain felt his gorge beginning to rise. A small bowl of scented water at the boil was in front of the plate of snails, center on. Lemon and a few sprigs of herbs lay on a small plate next to a stack of sour bread toast and a bowl of lightly steaming drawn butter.
Gilgafed picked up one of the snails with a set of silver tongs, and dipped it in the hot water. Bubbles rose to the surface and broke, releasing glistening green concentric circles. He placed the herbs in the water, and then removed the snail after about a minute. Holding it upside down with the tongs he squeezed a few drops of lemon into the shell, and then brought it down sharply onto the table. Using a toothpick from a silver holder, he then stabbed the quivering snail flesh, dipped it into the butter, and popped the morsel into his mouth. His eyes closed as he savored the flavor and texture while he chewed. He then opened his eyes, and reached for the bottle of wine. His gaze caught Cobain as he worked the wax away from the cork. The Sorcerer paused to place another snail into the water. “Cobain. You're still here? These are simply marvelous. You must try one.”
The Sorcerer's servant could contain himself no longer. Slapping his hand over his mouth, he ran from his master's presence, his complexion a decided green in color.
Gilgafed smiled to himself as he worked the ancient cork out of the bottle.
* * * * Cloutier tapped the hen's egg with the small silver knife made for just that purpose. The eggshell cracked along the path of his tapping, and he deftly lifted the top section away from the base. The stench that reached his nostrils caused them to wrinkle in disgust. He placed the top section carefully back onto the eggshell.
“Youch!”
His manservant opened the door to his chamber. “Milord?”
Cloutier pushed the spoiled egg away from his place setting. “This is rotten. Find out from the kitchens where these eggs were acquired, and have the farm kindled.”
“Burn the farm, Milord?”
“And everyone within it. Now leave me. I wish to compose myself.”
* * * * Charity heard the knock at her chamber door. She tried to ignore it as she attempted to put an edge on the piece of slating she'd worked away from the backside of the bureau. The knocking came again, this time a little louder.
“Please, Milady. I'd prefer not to have to force the door.” It was Morgan's voice.
She sighed and tucked the half sharpened slating under her mattress and then crossed the room to the door. “Go away.”
“I cannot, Milady, my duty is to you.” Morgan's calm voice again frustrated her.
She made her voice imperious. “I wish to be alone. Come back tomorrow.”
She thought she heard muffled laughter from the other side of the door. She repeated her command. “I said, you may come back tomorrow.”
“I have something which may interest you.” Morgan answered after a short while. “More than that wooden knife you've been working on.”
Damn the man. She thought. How did he know? She opened the latch. “Very well. You may enter.”
He opened the door, and came through, walking in that fluid way she'd come to recognize. How did a man of such obviously advanced years move like that?
Charity turned and stalked over to one of a pair of wing-backed chairs that flanked the central high window in her chamber. She sat down and placed her hands in her lap as she regarded her caretaker. “And just what do you have that may interest me?” She tried to pitch her voice so as to be as insulting as possible.
Morgan did not even blink. “A way to fill your days with something more enriching than staring at the window, Milady. If you please, may I demonstrate?”
Charity tried to hide the interest she felt. “You may.”
Morgan seemed to relax at that. “Good.” He pointed to a solid-looking brass sculpture of a hunting dog sitting on the table next to Charity's right elbow. “If you would be so good as to throw that at me as hard as you can.”
Charity gaped at him, unmoving.
Morgan stood where was, his face impassive, but she thought she saw a glint in his eye. Toy with her, would he? Her temper flared, and her hand moved in a blur. The statue flew unerringly at the center of Morgan's face, and then he wasn't there, and the statue was placed gently on the mantle next to where he stood.
“You are fast, Milady, much faster than the other ladies at court. Faster even than most of the men I've trained.” He turned and fingered the sculpture. “And I must say ... far more accurate.”
Charity watched him, saying nothing.
Morgan paced back and forth in front of her. He reminded her of Adam when he was working out a problem. “I'm sure you're wondering how I avoided being hit. I assure you, right now, nearly anyone else would either be unconscious or in pain.”
“Ok. I'll ask. How did you do it?” Charity relaxed and sat back into the chair.
“Training, Milady. There is a method of training both the body and the mind so that the individual becomes the weapon, rather than just the one wielding the blade.”
“That really doesn't answer my question.” Charity snorted.
Morgan nodded. “It is really much easier to demonstrate than describe.”
Charity stood up. “So, demonstrate.”
Morgan moved so he faced her. “Very well. Hold your hands like so.” He positioned her hands until they suited him. He then grunted in satisfaction, and pushed at one of her feet with the toe of his boot. “Now change your stance so you are balanced, like so.”
Stepping back a couple of spaces, he looked her up and down. Then he closed the gap between them again, and readjusted her pose and stance. He stepped back and examined her once more.
“I hope you like what you see.” Charity said coldly. “What do I do now?”
Morgan copied her stance and told her. “Strike me.”
She lashed out with a straight right that was neatly diverted to the side by a blocking forearm.
“Again.”
Charity threw another punch in Morgan's direction, and it was blocked in the same fashion as the first one.
“Again.”
She'd had enough of being blocked, so she kicked him in the shin.
He yelped in surprise, and grabbed at the offended limb, and then he moved. Charity found herself upside down, and held in such a way that any attempt to escape caused pain.
“You cheated.” His voice remained clam. She wondered how he did that.
“I improvised.”
Morgan began to chuckle, and then he laughed. He released her out of the hold, and continued to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks.
Charity rubbed her wrists as she glared at him. He looked at her and broke out in more laughter.
“What's so funny? Stop that!” She shouted at him.
He sat up and forced himself to settle the laughter. “You.” He replied around chuckles. “You. Held against your will by a Lord you can know nothing about. Guarded by a stranger of whom you know only his name, and yet, instead of acting as any other maiden would, you kick me in the shin, and I let you do it!” He began laughing again.
Charity saw nothing funny in what he said, but his laughter was becoming contagious, and a smile started to twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Morgan saw the smile and pointed at her. “Aha! I knew there was a smile in you! I just had to draw it out.”
She put a hand to her mouth as if to hide the evidence, and then lowered it. “Very well. You saw a smile, but I couldn't help it, with you laughing like a loon. What was that thing you did after I kicked you?”
He stood and held out a hand. She took it, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “Ok,” He placed his right hand over her left with his fingers spread. “What I did was...”
* * * * The rooster woke him. Ethan opened his eyes to the dim light that proceeded dawn. He felt the thick bandage that wrapped his midsection. If he pushed on the part that covered his wound hard enough, he could feel a bit of pain, but only then. She did good work, this widow woman. He owed her his life. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that knowledge. Maybe after he was healed enough, he'd see what he could do to repay her.
* * * * “Again, Milady.”
Charity threw the punch, and blocked Morgan's return. The months of practice had built hard muscle on her, and speeded up her reflexes to the point where she was nearly as quick as Morgan himself.
Cloutier's infrequent visits seemed to be only for the purpose of assuring him his prize was still within reach. Other than that, he seemed to show no interest in her whatsoever, so she took advantage of every opportunity to learn as much as she could from Morgan. But, even as early as today, she'd learned that speed and strength alone cannot equal technique and experience.
She'd caught Morgan hard enough to make him flinch during a fast, complicated exchange that involved all four limbs, including the elbows and knees. When she tried to take advantage of it by tying him up in the same hold he'd used on her all those months ago, he reversed her position, and she found herself back in it once more.
“Again.”
She threw the punch again, and again he blocked the return, but this time he didn't end it there. She found herself blocking an even faster blow, so she altered her pattern, and then Morgan was on defense. Charity dropped and swept a kick across at knee height. Morgan drew his feet to his chest, just in time and threw a palm strike at her head while she recovered, but Charity had been waiting for him. He found himself being pulled in the direction of his punch, and off balance, to boot. Tucking his head to avoid having his nose crushed, he couldn't avoid what came next; the completed roll left his arm in a bone breaker of a lock, with a young woman's hand poised to rupture his throat.
* * * * Plop! The peeled potato dropped into the water to join its fellows.
“Pass me ‘nother spud, Flynn.” Neely held his hand out, as he stared at the water.
Flynn reached into the pile, and placed the potato into Neely's hand. “'ere ya go, Neely. These is fine lookin’ spuds, these is.”
Neely grunted and peeled.
Flynn pulled another potato out of the pile, and began peeling it. “I likes spuds. Good eatin', they's is.” Plop!
Neely grunted again. “Hmmppf. Knew a man once. Ate so many spuds it near ruined him mixin’ it with the ladies.”
“Oh, c'mon!”
“It did, I tell'ee. Ever look close at ‘em? Put two together. Kinda look like yer plums in th’ bag, don't they?”
Flynn held up two potatoes together. “Well I'll be...”
“I tell yer, anything that looks that much like ... well, yer just gotta be careful that's all.”
Plop!
“Tell me about th’ man, Neely.” Flynn picked up another potato, and handed it to his friend.
Neely paused in his peeling, and leaned back against the stone wall of the prison kitchen. “This man, he had a terrible love of spuds, couldn't get enough of ‘em. Just like ‘e couldn't get enough o’ th’ ladies. Once, when he was lucky at Jack Th’ Spot, he took his winnin's to Hattie's Hoar House in Coverdale, and spent the whole night with four of her lovelies.”
“No! Four?”
“Yup. Four. Well, after that night, he spent th’ rest on a breakfast of spuds. Gorged hisself, he did. Th’ next day he got th’ stones so bad, he couldn't wear pants for a month. Shocked ever old lady in th’ village. Potatoes or nookie, me lad, ya gotta chose one or th’ other. Mix ‘em, ya got trouble. Remember that.”
“I will, Neely. I will.” Plop!

Chapter Ten
The Elven village was small; it stank, and she hated having to live there, but the child was going to come too soon for her to travel. She was half certain the villagers were involved in her husband's death. He had been far different from the others. He stood tall and strong, and he wasn't afraid to show his affection toward her, regardless of the stricture against an Elven male doing so to any woman, much less a human one.
A contraction racked her body, and she screamed through her gritted teeth. It felt like it went on for hours, and when the pain passed she lay back, exhausted and breathing heavily. She could hear the village women outside, chattering in their insipid little voices. They wouldn't help her, even if they wanted to. They were afraid of the men, and she had to admit she was, as well.
Another contraction hit her, and the urge to push became too strong to ignore. Her legs spread by instinct, and a wave of fiery pain washed up from below.
Her scream echoed through the village, but none of the women of the village looked up. A child raised its head, and received a smack on the back for its curiosity. A couple of the Elven men looked up at the scream, and then nodded to each other.
One more scream, and the child came forth in a rush. She forced herself to sit up and tend to it. It was a boy, and her tears flowed. A boy, his father would have been so pleased. His coloring looked good, but he didn't cry. Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled him to her breast, fearing he was stillborn. When he began to suckle, she nearly collapsed with relief.
Another contraction came, but this one was small, nearly painless, and she realized the afterbirth was passing. She had to separate her child from the afterbirth. An old nurse had told her when she was growing; the baby had to have the birth cord cut as soon as possible to prevent the dark one from entering the child. She had no idea whether or not the old nurse had the right of it, but she didn't want to take any chances. He was all she had now, but there was no knife. She had nothing to cut the cord. Small panic crept in on her, and she gritted her teeth in fear for her baby. Her teeth, those she had, and all of them, too. Maybe she couldn't cut her baby's cord, but she could bite through it.
She bent her head to meet the cord she held in her free hand, and bit as hard as she could. The taste of blood almost gagged her, but she continued to chew until the cord parted and her baby was free.
Allowing herself the brief luxury of feeling her baby feed, she lay back and rested. In the morning she would begin to prepare for travel.
“Filthy human whore!” The Elf woman threw the clot of feces, but her aim was bad, and it only hit the side of the hut. She ducked back into the darkness, and tried to hold back the tears. They were not going to allow her to leave peacefully. Damn their Elven bigotry. She'd done nothing to them except fall in love and marry an Elf man. To them, that was crime enough.
She'd recognized the two males drinking across the street. They'd been rivals of her husband's. One of them had even propositioned her when her husband had been off hunting. The memory of the expression of shock on his face made her smile, even now. That a mere woman, more a tool or toy than a person, would refuse him ... she tried to steel herself for the gauntlet she must run, as she clutched her newborn to her breast.
The women of the village were gathering; the sounds of their voices irritated her even more as she poised herself to run.
Ducking her head, she dashed out the hut's door. The sewage running through the middle of the Village Street splashed against her legs, and the stones in the mud bruised her feet, but she continued to run. The Elven women cursed and screamed at her as they threw rocks, sticks and feces, but she continued to run. She covered her baby's head, and bent her body to protect him from the villager's blows and missiles. Sharp pains struck her legs and side, and the wetness of her blood warmed her skin, but still she ran.
She continued to run even when she passed the outskirts of the village and the range of Elven women's rocks. Her breath burned in her lungs, and her body ached all over. Blood ran into her eyes, and she wiped it away with a hand as she ran. The thought of never hearing an Elf woman's voice again gave wings to her feet as she ran and ran and ran.
The pine needles cushioned her feet, and the covering of the trees made her feel safe enough to slow down to a walk. Soon, ferns began to cover the forest floor. In a moment of giddy freedom, she looked up to see the blue sky showing through the treetops, and didn't see the gully hidden in the ferns. She fell, twisting so as to land beneath her baby. The sharp pain told her she'd broken an ankle, and a sob escaped her throat.
The raindrops woke her. She looked down to see her baby sleeping. He looked so beautiful, neither like his father nor like her, but beautiful in his own special way. She looked to either side for a way out of the rain. Off to her right, a hollow log extended over the edge of the gully. She sat up and tried to stand. The agony that shot through her ankle reminded her of the break. Her hiss of pain failed to wake her baby, and when her eyes stopped watering, she looked around to see if there was something in the gully she could use for a crutch. She saw nothing except a few dried fronds and some small dead pine branches. So, she would have to drag herself to the log. The throbbing in her ankle settled down to the point where it blended in with the feel of the wounds she'd taken running the Elven gauntlet. It was time to start.
Her baby stirred as she shifted him to her other arm, and then she wriggled herself onto her side so the injured ankle was supported by her other leg, and started to drag herself, holding her baby, up the slope of the gully.
The climb felt like it took hours, and by the time she made it to the log, she was trembling, both with shock and fatigue. A dampness told her she'd begun to bleed. She lay down within the log with her baby, and tried to rest. He stirred again, and she moved him so her nipple was at his mouth. Instinct took over, and he began to suckle. A wave of contentment swept through her, and she stroked the fine black hair on the back of his head as she smiled down at her treasure. She felt like she could lie there forever.
* * * * The huntsman followed his target as it leapt through the pines. His hands held the drawn bow and its arrow steady, as he tracked the stag. There was a brief moment where the trees cleared, and he released the arrow. The stag dropped with the arrow through its heart.
“Got you.” He said to himself. “Ellona loves venison. This one should keep her happily cooking for a month or two.”
He shouldered his bow, and began picking his way through the bracken to get to the downed stag.
He reached it in short order, and retrieved the arrow. Dressing the beast took him a good two hours or more, but he didn't like the idea of the meat possibly souring on the long trip back to Ellona and the children.
“What's that?” A movement off to his left caught his eye, as he tied the heart, liver, kidneys and sweetmeats into the hide he brought for that purpose. “Who's there?”
There was no answer, but he was too experienced in the ways of the wood to discount his senses. If it was an animal waiting for an easy meal, or one of those thieving Elves, he'd deal with it directly. There was no sense in letting them ride his back during the journey home.
He stepped cautiously through the ferns. They had a nasty habit of hiding creeks and gullies. His caution proved correct, because he soon found himself at the edge of a steep one. A hollow pine log lay on the other side, its ragged end jutting into the gully. He couldn't quite see what was in the log, so he worked his way through the gully and to the other side. His nose told him part of the tale, but he was not prepared to find a living baby at his dead mother's breast.
The morning air still held its predawn chill, and he wondered why the baby wasn't at least fussing. Babies cried all the time, didn't they?
“Come here, little one.” He reached into the log, and gently lifted the child off the woman's corpse. The babe looked back at him out of large ebony eyes. He was struck by the intelligence he saw there.
“Well, lad. It looks like you're coming home with me. It was a lucky circumstance I found you, so that'll be your name, Circumstance.”
* * * * “What are you working on, Ethan?” Sari and Jonas stood by him watching him whittle.
Ethan held up the wooden disc that he was in the process of smoothing so the children could see it.” A spindle, see?”
“What's a spindle?” Sari peered closely at the disk.
“Yeah, what's a spintle?” Jonas echoed his older sister.
Ethan smiled at the mispronunciation.” A spindle is used to spin wool or cotton into yarn so it can be woven or knitted.”
“What's spin?”
“What's knitted?”
“Ellona.” Ethan called to the cottage from the bench in front of the hut he built during the late spring and summer.
She came out of the back door of the cottage, wiping her hands on a homespun towel.
“Children,” she called,” Stop bothering Ethan. It's time for chores now, anyway.”
“Aww, ma...”
“I wanna play whiff, Ethan.” Jonas started to fuss.
“Hush, now.” Ethan soothed him from the back porch. “We can play later. I'll show you how to spin some wool into yarn.”
Jonas clapped his hands, and ran off to catch up with his sister at the cottage door. Ellona kissed them into the cottage, and walked the short distance over to Ethan.
“I'm sorry they were bothering you. I really should keep a better watch over them.” She sat down on the bench.
Ethan snicked off another shaving of wood from the disc, and held it up for measure. “They're no bother, Ellona. I enjoy their company.”
“Is that why you built your hut here?”
He started digging out a centered hole in the disc with the point of his knife. “That, and other reasons.”
He could hear her smile. “Jonas said you were making a spintle, and you were going to let him spin it. Is that what you're doing, carving a toy for the children?”
“No, I'm making this spindle...for you.”
Ellona's eyes widened. “For me? Whatever for? I've no time for playthings.”
“This isn't a plaything.” He finished digging out the hole on the other side of the disc, and began working on smoothing the hole through. “It's a tool used to turn wool or cotton into thread or yarn. You can sell that to the shops in Bantering, if I don't miss my guess.”
“How...? But ... I know nothing about that. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
Ethan pointed to a slender rod on the ground near the bench.” I'll show you how. Pass me that rod, will you?”
He took the rod from Ellona's hand, and twisted it into the disc until about two inches of rod showed through the other side. He then cut a notch that angled upwards near the long end of the rod.
“Ok. Now, where's that tuft?” He bent over to look under the bench.
“Tuft?” Ellona said. “Tuft of what?”
“Wool. I wheedled some out of one of the ranchers near the western side of the forest. I need it to test the spindle.”
Ellona stood up to help him look.
Ethan laughed. “Don't move. I found it.”
“Oh? Where was it?”
“It's sticking to your backside. Shall I get it?”
“NO! Uhh ... I mean, I'll get it myself. If that's all right.” She arched an eyebrow at him.
Ethan gave her a rakish grin, and held out his free hand. She picked the tuft of wool off of her bottom, and dropped it into his hand.
“Thank you.” He said. “Now, watch how I do this.”
Ellona nodded her head. In spite of her misgivings, she found what he was doing fascinating.
Ethan pulled a small amount of wool from the tuft, and rolled it against his thigh until he had a short piece of woolen thread a little over a foot in length. He tied one end of the thread to the short end of the rod that passed through the disc, and looped the middle around the notch in the far end. This left him with about three or more inches of thread extending beyond the end of the rod.
“This,” Ethan pointed to the disc, “is the whorl. The rod is the spindle, and you spin wool into yarn like this.” He pulled some more wool from the tuft, and gently secured some of it to the thread.
“You spin it like this.” He held the top of the spindle between his thumb and forefinger, and spun it like a top. He let it drop as he held onto the wool.
“Oh ... my...” Ellona exclaimed. “Look at that.”
Ethan lifted the spinning spindle as he played out the wool, attenuating the forming yarn. “It's as easy as it looks.”
“How did you learn such a thing?” Ellona looked at him with huge eyes.
He shrugged. “I grew up among farmers and ranchers down in the Wool Coast. I learned it as a way of family life.” He wound the spun yarn onto the spindle behind the whorl.
Ellona held out her hands. “May I try it?”
“That's why I made it. Here, give it a go.” He put the spindle into her hands, and handed her a small amount of wool.
She held the spindle, and looked at him. “How do I do it again?”
“Like this.” He guided her hands into the right position, and then told her, “Ok, spin it.”
“It's working! I'm making wool!” She cried out in her excitement, and then, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he said, through his chuckles, “that's exactly what I told my mother when she first taught me. I'm going to tell you what she said to me that day. You're making yarn, sheep make wool.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, and then she blushed furiously, covering her mouth with her free hand. “What was I ... did I say ... oh Deity! I'm so embarrassed.”
Ethan stopped laughing. “Don't you think that. Don't you ever think that. You're a fine woman, Ellona and you've proven that you're the worth of anyone in that town down there.” He pointed towards Bantering.
Ellona looked at him. “Why, Ethan! One would think you were beginning to really care for me.”
It was Ethan's turn to blush.
* * * * “...And that one gives the best red.”
Ellona recoiled at the sight of the little bug Ethan held in his hand. “But it's a bug!”
“Can I see, mama?” Jonas peeked over the edge of Ethan's hand. “Oooo, buuug.”
Circumstance pulled him away. “Come over here, Jonas, and you can play with Sari and me.”
Ethan watched Ellona's adopted son lead his youngest sibling across the room. “That's a good boy you've got there.”
Ellona looked at Circumstance and smiled affectionately. “Yes, he is. I worry about him sometimes, he's so somber.”
Ethan kept an eye on the boy as he showed Ellona which plants, and insects gave the best colors in dying wool and yarn. Was it his imagination, or did the boy's ears look slightly pointed?

Chapter Eleven
Morgan slapped the chamber floor twice. The signal of surrender. Charity released him, and stood up.
Morgan raised himself up onto one elbow, and massaged his wrist. “You've been practicing without me.” He said wryly.
“You're not angry?” Charity was a little surprised at his easy acceptance of defeat.
He stood up and brushed himself off. “Why would the teacher be angry when the student surpasses his expectations?”
Charity allowed herself a little smile. “I did do rather well, didn't I?”
“You did splendidly, my dear student. You've learned what I could teach faster than I would have thought possible. I'm quite happy having to slap the floor.” He gave her a half bow, and left the room.
Cloutier was standing on his terrace overlooking the city of Berggren when Morgan found him.
“And how is my ... guest faring in our care, Captain?”
“She is ... adapting well, my Lord. She will be a woman any man would be proud to have at his side.”
Cloutier turned and looked at Morgan with an upraised eyebrow. “I detect a note of affection in you, Captain. Your loyalties would not be changing, would they?”
“Of course not, my Lord.” Morgan said stiffly.
“I would hope not, Captain.” Cloutier replied with equal stiffness. “I have plans for that young woman. She is ripening nicely, and I plan to be the one to harvest her fruit.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The Earl spun on his heel, and looked back out over the city. The sun was beginning to set, and the city buildings were painted with the colors of the sunset. He motioned to Morgan. “See the colors? This is my favorite part of the day. The buildings look like they're coated with blood. Delicious.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Cloutier turned again, and looked the Captain up and down. “Captain, in all the years I've known you, you haven't once committed an act contrary to the law.”
“No, my Lord.”
“I've always found that to be a little disappointing.”
“I am sorry to be a disappointment, my Lord. Do you have any further need of me?” Morgan kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Cloutier turned away from him, and waved him away with a languid hand. “No, not at this time. Go away. I wish to enjoy this sunset.”
Charity looked up from her book at Morgan's knock. She'd learned to recognize his particular single rap on the wood of the door. “Come in, Morgan. I'm only reading.”
He pushed open the door, and entered the chamber.
Charity could see something had upset him. “What's wrong?”
“I've something to tell you, my Lady. You may not like it.”
Charity got to her feet. “I don't like it already. Go ahead, tell me.”
“The Earl has plans for you. He means to take you at the moment you fully enter womanhood.” Morgan's face was set in stone.
Charity felt the beginnings of fear grow in her belly. She strode across the room and faced Morgan. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, my Lady. It is his right within the law.”
“What!?” Charity's scream made him flinch. “HE has his WAY with ME, and you're just going to stand there and do Nothing?”
Morgan stood beneath her verbal barrage, ramrod straight as if on review. “I cannot circumvent the law, my Lady, it is there for a purpose. I came here to tell you because I thought you should know, and you could prepare yourself.”
Charity began hitting him as she screamed. “Prepare myself? How? Perfume? Powder? Maybe I should have you bring in a trollop or two to teach me a few tricks?” She drew blood with her last blow, and then she collapsed onto the settee, and started to cry.
“I am sorry, my Lady.” Morgan still stood where he was, blood trickling from his nose. “I meant prepare in another sense.”
“What sense was that?” Charity replied through her sobs.
“Stand to your feet!” Morgan rapped out the command in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
Charity stood to her feet before she realized what she was doing.
“Guard yourself!” Morgan shifted into an attack stance, and sent a series of lightening swift strikes her way.
Charity parried the blows as quickly as they came. There was no time to think about what to do. She moved through pure instinct. High, low and then back to high. This continued for nearly a full half minute, and then Morgan stepped back, placed his hands on his hips, and nodded in satisfaction. “That sense, my Lady.” He turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Charity stood where he'd left her. “That sense.” She repeated the words slowly as a dangerous look came into her eyes.
* * * * “You don't have to do this.”
Ethan sat on the cottage porch of the woman he'd come to know as Ellona. He was putting the finishing touches on a Yew bow, and small flecks of wood drifted to the ground under the touch of the small knife he wielded. The woman's children, Sari, Jonas and Circumstance, sat or knelt around him as he worked.
He looked up at her voice. “Yes, I do. I'm not comfortable being in someone's debt.”
“You needed help. I gave it. That doesn't mean you're in debt to me.” Her voice was reproachful.
Ethan finished his work on the bow, and tossed the knife into a small block of wood a couple of yards away. The children ooo'd. “Maybe not to you, Ellona, but it does to me. A life debt isn't something I can just forget.”
He stood up and tested the flex of the bow, bracing one of the arms against the inside of his boot. It seemed to satisfy him, and he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a bowstring made of several strands of a long, sturdy fiber with the ends looped and the center wrapped tightly. He fit the string to the bow with two sure movements, and then pulled it back to his ear.
“It seems a good bow.” Ellona stood on the porch, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.
Ethan grunted in agreement. “It should do the job. Now, we unstring it, and see to the arrows.”
A pile of shafts, made of small branches whittled to an even thickness lay on the porch near Ethan's feet. Next to the shafts, an old pottery bowl sat, full of feathers. Next to the feathers lay a small pile of odds and ends of scrap metal.
Ethan sat back down and picked up one of the shafts and one of the feathers. He held one end of the shaft, and lined the feather against it lengthwise. Grunting his satisfaction with it, he then trimmed the feather with the knife. Then he picked up a length of hemp fiber, and tied the feather in place with two snug loops. Picking up two more feathers, he repeated the trimming and secured them to the shaft as well. Carefully, he began wrapping another length of fiber around the feathers, making sure to cover only the quill portion at the base and at the top. Taking the small knife, he added a notch into the end of the shaft, and then picked up another to begin the process all over again.
When he'd finished putting fletchings onto all the shafts, he picked up one of the metal scraps. “Where did you get these?” He said to Ellona.
“My husband used to collect them. He would save them up, and sell the collection to the blacksmith in Bantering.”
“Where is he now?”
“He died ... a fever two summer's ago. I've never thrown anything of his away.” Her voice caught.
Ethan felt as if he were suddenly intruding. He turned away from Ellona to hide his embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”
“You had no way of knowing unless I told you.” She wiped a corner of an eye with a fingertip. “I'm glad some of his things are being put to use,”
Ethan fingered the scrap he held. “I'll try to make a good use of them.”
The boy called Circumstance picked up one of the scraps, and held it out for Ethan to take. “This one will work.” His voice was high; higher than it should have been for a boy his age.
Ethan took the scrap. “Thank you, Circumstance.” The name sounded odd on his tongue, he looked at Ellona in question, she nodded.
“Run along now, children, Ethan doesn't need to be bothered while he finishes his work.”
“Ah, ma...”
“There's nuthin’ to do...”
“Yes, mama.” Circumstance gathered his siblings and led them back to the cottage.
There is something different about the boy, Ethan thought. He balanced the scrap Circumstance had given him in his hand. He held it up for Ellona to see. “The boy has a good eye.”
“He always has. It's a knack of his.”
“He's not yours, is he.” A statement, not a question.
“No.” Ellona sat and hugged herself. “Russal brought him home after a hunting trip. It must be nearly ten years now. He was just a baby then, and we had no children of our own.”
“Russal was your husband?” Ethan began shaping the scrap with a file he'd found in the small shop behind her cottage.
“Yes. We were married almost thirteen years.” She looked around at the cottage and the grounds. “He was a good husband and a good provider. It's been hard, but we've managed.”
“How did he find the baby?”
“He wouldn't say, not entirely. It was happy chance that he found him at all.”
“Oh?”
“He found the baby in a hollow log. He just happened to glance that way. Circumstance was cold and hungry, but he wasn't crying. He hasn't cried as long as I've known him.”
“Hmm.” Ethan finished filing on the scrap of metal. He reached down and picked up one of the fletched shafts. Using the small knife again, he split the end of the shaft to a depth of two fingers. He then worked the flange end of the shaped metal into the split, and held it up to see.
“It looks deadly.” Ellona commented.
“I hope it is. Game doesn't throw itself into the cook pot just on the asking.” Ethan began winding hemp fiber around the split so the crude arrowhead would remain in place during flight.
He finished the winding, and examined the finished arrow. “Well ... it looks all right. Only eleven more to go.”
Ellona got up to leave the porch. “I'll start making some hot food.”
Ethan looked up at her. He noticed the way the sun caught the highlights in her hair. “I should be finished about then. Thanks.”
Ellona walked into the cottage, and Ethan heard the sounds of pots and pans being rattled. Soon the smell of cooking filled the air, and Ethan realized he was hungrier than he'd thought. Anticipation moved him, and he bent to his task with a will.
Ellona's a fine woman. He thought. I wonder what she could do with a haunch of venison?
* * * * Cloutier balanced the oyster onto the edge of the slice of toasted rye bread, and conveyed it to his mouth. He closed his eyes in pleasure as he began to chew. Marvelous. The balance of flavors was just right. Some said that raw oysters were poison, but he knew better than that. An old witch passed onto him some of her secrets before he'd had her skinned, and what raw oysters could do for a man's ... performance was one of them.
He picked up a small silver bell, and rang it once. Moments later, Youch appeared.
“Milord?”
Cloutier speared another oyster, inwardly relishing his servant's involuntary shudder of revulsion. “Fetch Morgan, and bring him to me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Youch scuttled back out the door.
The Earl of Berggren swallowed his oyster on toast, and then poured a measure of a light green wine into a carved crystal goblet. The sweet astringency of the wine fitted perfectly with the finish of the oyster and rye. He was examining the color of the wine in the goblet when Morgan entered his chamber.
“Morgan, so good of you to show. I hope I'm not taking you away from something important?” He added a trace of sarcasm to the question.
“Nothing I cannot put off untill later, my Lord.”
“Good. Good.” Cloutier got up from his table, and walked around it to stand, facing Morgan. “I wish you to bring our nubile young guest to my chambers this evening. Have her suitably prepared; we will consummate our union this night.”
“No, my Lord.”
Cloutier reared back his head, thunderstruck at the refusal. “No? What answer is this?”
Morgan stood at attention; his eyes fixed straight ahead. “The only one I can honestly give, my Lord.”
“The only one you can honestly give?” Cloutier began pacing back and forth, the volume of his voice rising as he spoke. “The only honest answer you can give? Of course. Morgan, the straight arrow. Morgan the unmovable. Morgan the pure. The most incorrupt officer of the court. The loyal military lapdog of the house of Berggren.”
“My loyalty is unquestioned, my Lord. If you only ask of me another...”
“I don't want another!” Cloutier whirled to scream the interruption into Morgan's face. “Was your loyalty unquestionable when you bedded the Countess those three and a half decades ago?”
“My Lord ... I...”
Cloutier's laugh was bitter and sarcastic. “Of course it wasn't. The Duke was away, at war, and she needed comforting. The years of loneliness would have driven her mad ... but for Morgan's comforting hand...” He pressed his face up to Morgan's, nose to nose. “...or other body parts.” He hissed.
“Did you know, Morgan,” Cloutier's pacing took him past his table where he scooped up a knife. He toyed with it as he paced and talked. “She bore your bastard. She tried to keep its genesis from the other members of the family, as she tried to keep your identity secret. Children can be especially cruel.” He looked at Morgan out of the corner of his eye. “Did you know that? They can be cruel with an inventiveness that passes all genius. Pity none of them live today.”
He paced over to where he stood in front of Morgan again. “Have you anything to say to that, my dear Captain? Have you anything to say about the poor bastard you left to the gentle ministrations of a court full of sadistic little gets?” His voice rose to a shriek.
“My Lord, I am sorry ... but, uggghh!”
“Goodbye ... father.” Cloutier twisted the knife he'd driven into Morgan's heart a couple of times, and then pushed the body off of it.
He looked at his father's body, with his head tilted to one side as he wiped the blade clean with a linen napkin.” I suppose this means I'll have to summon her to my chamber myself. Youch!”
* * * * “Nnooooo!” Charity's despairing wail echoed through her chamber as the servant left. She threw herself onto her bed, and cried. She wanted to kill herself, and join Morgan and Adam. First she had lost her brother, and now she had lost the only man she'd cared about since her brother was taken away from her. The world was too cruel for her to stay in it.
She bounded off the bed, and began searching for something she could use for her suicide. She found no sharp or pointed objects that she could use on herself. Morgan had been very thorough in that regard.
The thought of his name brought another cry to her throat. She looked around the chamber wildly. The window! Of course. The wall beneath had no handholds for climbing, so it was left unbarred. They never thought she would be so foolish as to throw herself from it. Morgan, Adam, she thought. Here I come.
“No.” The voice whispered. “You cannot kill yourself.”
She stopped halfway into the window. “What? Who's there?” There was no answer, but the interruption had broken her self-destructive grief. She stepped down from the windowsill, and walked back over to sit down on her bed.
The voice was right. She really couldn't kill herself, but she was sure she could kill that slimy son of a bitch of an Earl. At the very least, she was sure she could give it a damn good try.
* * * * Milward ran his hand over the scryglass as the image faded. “Bardoc bless you, child. You've courage enough for us all.”
* * * * Cloutier stood under the rain bath, luxuriating in the warm fall of the water over his body. It was times like this when he enjoyed most the power of his office. He plucked a bottle of scented soap-oil off the ledge, and began rubbing it into his skin. Small bubbles rose into a citrus-scented froth as he rubbed and thought about his evening to come. The anticipation of it caused him to break into humming an old melody he learned as a child. Yes, it was good to have the blessings of the Sorcerer.
“Milord?” Youch called from his place outside the rain bath.
“I wasn't speaking to you, Youch. Nothing has changed.”
“Must you do this again, Milord?”
“Again, Youch? How often must I instruct you in the pleasures of the flesh? There is so much more available to the one who ... experiments. Yes ... a perfect word for the description. Experiments. Taste, smell, sight, touch, how much of them do you use, Youch? Bah! You're just like all the rest of the sheep. Go, get the girl, and have her prepared for me. If there is one spot of sweat, or one hair out of place, I'll be dining on your sweetbreads.”
Youch left at a run.
* * * * Charity paced back and forth in her chamber. Morgan had given her the skills and the training to defend herself against the Earl, but it would do her no good if enough guards got involved. Given enough numbers, even the best of fighters can be overwhelmed ... and killed. There had to be a way ... there had to be.
She knew practically nothing about ... it. The closest she'd ever come to the situation was her brief encounter with the Avernese soldier who had tried to rape her. She remembered how frightened she'd been. How could she deal with what Cloutier had planned for her? There had to be a way.
She half-remembered something Morgan had said ... something about drawing your opponent in, allowing them to believe they were winning. This belief usually caused an opening that could be exploited. How to do it, that was the question.
* * * * Plop! A peeled potato dropped into the pot of water.
“Potatoes again, Flynn. I bloody well hate peelin’ bloody potatoes.” Neely griped as he reached into the bag next to him to pick out another potato.
“Shhh.” Flynn put a finger to his pursed lips. “I can't hear what's goin’ on up there.” He pointed to the window alcove two stories above him.
They had their backs against the Palace wall in a small courtyard that backed up against the kitchens. Flynn was the one who had found out that the alcove above led to the Earl's bedroom.
Neely looked up at the alcove. “Don't see why we even try. Can't hear a bleedin’ thing. Haven't heard a bleedin thing since we first set up here a week ago.”
“Heard the shoutin last week.” Plop! Flynn reached for another potato.
“So what.” Plop! Neely reached into his potato bag. “Just ‘is grace shoutin’ at some poor goober named Captain somebody. No moanin.’ No groanin.’ No nothin.'” Plop!
“Ya think he'll take Miss Charity, Neely? Th’ pot boy tol’ me he heard th’ cook say th’ chamber maid tol’ her he would tonight.”
“Well, I'm not surprised.” Plop!
“Neely!”
“Oh, I'm not sayin’ I'd be doin’ her. No, Flynn, you put that thought right away. I'm just sayin’ I'm not surprised. Th’ Earl's a mighty lusty man, he is. A mighty lusty man. Now, you give man like that an opportunity to be th’ first one ... well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what can happen.”
“What is that, Neely?” Plop!
“You don't know? You never heard...? Well...” Nelly leaned back and gestured with his peeler. “What's th’ worst fear a virgin has about her first time? Not bein’ good'nuf, of course.”
“You sure about that?”
“Stands to reason, Flynn. Stands to reason. Now you take a lusty man like his Grace th’ Earl, there,” He pointed up to the alcove. “He ain't gonna stop at just one turn o’ th’ wheel, now, is he? Once ya gets past th’ first time, a virgin wakes up, doesn't she? She's ready for another two or three at least. Hard to stop once she's warmed up, a virgin is.” Plop!
“So, you think we'll hear somethin'?” Flynn worked a bit of peel off his peeler.
“Won't hear a bloody thing.” Plop!
* * * * “Please, Milady.” The chambermaid clutched the towel between trembling hands. “You must bathe. It's my head if you don't.”
Charity looked at the girl. She couldn't have been much older than Charity had been when they brought her here, maybe a year or two younger. She was barely beginning to show topside. Of course, her mother could have been one of those women with small breasts, more boyish than womanish. The Mayor's wife back in the village, Darzin's mother, had been like that, but this girl didn't have the sour, puckered expression Darzin's mother always wore.
She held out her hand to take the towel. As much as she wanted to act contrary to the Earl's wishes, she couldn't bring herself to be the cause of this girl's death.
“Oh, thank you, Milady. Thank you.” The chambermaid gushed as Charity lowered herself into the bath.
“You're welcome.” Charity grumped, making the mannerism sound like a complaint.
“Oh, please, Milady. You don't know how He is. You just make things worse on yourself if you fight Him. I think he likes the punishing.” She shuddered.
What the chambermaid said sparked an idea within Charity. She thought about it as she lathered herself. Morgan had told her about drawing an opponent in ... how could you do that with someone like the Earl? He was simply the Avernese rapist with an Ermine collar. She had to consider this.
“You are most comely, Milady.” The chambermaid broke into her reverie while she added heated water to the bath.
“What?”
“Your shape. I wish I had such ... pillows.” She blushed slightly at her directness.
Charity looked at the girl. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen summers, Milady.”
“Thirteen.” So her guess was right. The girl was a few years younger than she was. And already used by the Earl, if she didn't miss the meaning of what she'd been told; alive, most likely, because she hadn't struggled when she was taken.
Charity worked some lather into her hair. “Give yourself some time. They grow.”
“Yes, Milady.”
The knock on her chamber door cause Charity's hands to fumble while fitting the last tie on her bodice. “It's time.” She thought.
She looked at herself in the floor-length mirror. The gown she'd been given to wear must have cost as much as the Lord Mayor's house back home. The skirt and bodice were of the finest white silk, with a trim of small perfect pearls. The bodice was laced abominably tight, and cut distressingly low. Her breasts looked like two escapees nearly succeeding at the job.
The knock came again, along with, “are you ready miss?” The voice was male, and tentative.
She crossed the room, and pulled open the door. There were two of them, both young, maybe a few years older than her, and both were nervous.
The smaller guard's eyes widened at the sight of Charity's exposed bosom. He stammered a bit as he began to speak. “I ... it's time, miss.”
Charity closed the door behind her. She'd determined to not let them see a shred of nervousness or fear. Early on, during their tours through the palace's hallways, Morgan had pointed out the Earl's rooms to her. She began walking that way, ahead of the two guards, her head held high.
Cloutier's private chambers were three floors and several hallways away from where she'd been housed. Charity spent the walk replaying the points of her plan over again, the guards keeping pace with her at a few steps behind.
The chambermaid who had helped her with her bath had proven helpful in making her aware of what was to come. She had personal knowledge of what the Earl liked to have done to him. She shared this knowledge with Charity in shocking detail. It very nearly drove her off of her plan entirely. At first she gagged inwardly at the thought of doing such a thing, deciding that it just may be better to die rather than submit to the Earl's obscene desires. But, as the time for her trial approached, her resolve stiffened and then solidified into a deadly calm, and now she made her way to Cloutier's chambers with a will.
The two guards had escorted a number of young women along the route. Some were dragged, wailing in despair, to their tryst with the Earl. This was the first time they'd ever had to work to keep up with one. Charity could hear their whispered conversation as they walked the palace hallways.
“Cor, Reilly. This'un's a cold bitch, she is.”
“I hear you, Giff. Not a twitch. Not one bloomin’ twitch.”
“You think she really wants it?”
“Don't know, why don't you ask her?”
“Why don't you?
“You crazy? She's His nibs’ property! One squeal, an’ we're dog meat.”
“What about all those we had to knock on th’ head and drag there?”
“Yer a damn fool, Giff. We was told to knock ‘em in the’ head, and you should remember that. This'uns a prize doxie, an’ we're damn lucky she's wantin’ a go there, and that's a fact.”
“I suppose yer right, Reilly.”
Charity was glad her hair covered her ears, so that the two guardsmen couldn't see how red they'd become.
They reached the double doors that led into Cloutier's private chambers, and the smaller of the two guards knocked, once.
An imperiously indolent voice called from inside the doors. “You may enter.”
The guards pushed the doors open.
Cloutier lounged against an embroidered couch shimmering with gold thread on burgundy velvet. He waved a negligent hand at the guards while sipping from a goblet of wine. “Leave her there, and leave us alone.”
Charity stood in the center of the chamber foyer; the highly polished tile reflected the flicker of the candles in their sconces. The click of the closing doors sounded to her like the ring of doom.
Cloutier rose from the couch in a smooth single movement. She barely repressed the shudder that tried to overwhelm her as he laid his hands on her shoulders, and then ran them over her bosom.
“Sssssp.” He inhaled wantonly. “You don't know how long I've waited for this evening, my dear girl. Let me look at you.”
He grabbed onto her bodice, and ripped it away from her. The ruined fabric fell into a rumpled pile around her ankles. She stiffened in anger.
The Earl, nearly overcome with lust, mistook her body's reaction. “Oh you're a hot one, aren't you?” He panted.
He dropped his hand, bruising her with his thumb and forefinger. Her sharp intake of breath was mistaken, as well, and he fumbled rapidly with his laces. “Yesss, you are. Don't worry, my lusty one. I'll soon fill the emptiness within you.” His voice was hoarse with passion.
Cloutier dropped his hose, and Charity nearly screamed. She tried to focus on her plan, as she did what the chambermaid had told her she should do. The Earl moaned with pleasure.
She dropped to the floor, and swallowed a bubble of bile that tried to rise in her throat. What she had to do next was the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but she had to do it for Morgan.
Cloutier tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He began to groan loudly, and then he began to scream.
* * * * Giff and Reilly stood at their posts on either side of the double doors listening to the sounds coming from the other side.
“Hear that, Giff?”
“Aye, Reilly. We said she was a hot'un.”
“That we did, Giff. That we did.”
They both knew they were lying.
Their eyes widened when the moans turned to high-pitched womanish screams, but they did nothing. This wasn't the first time they had heard such coming from behind those doors. The screams rose in pitch, until they were nearly beyond the range of hearing, and then they ended in a burbling gurgle. Giff and Reilly looked at each other, and then they each found something else to occupy their eye's attentions.
They were shocked back to the present by the doors bursting open, and a nude woman with blood on her mouth running past them, and down the hall. The last thing Giff remembered seeing before rushing into the Earl's chambers was a vision of bouncing sandy hair and a tight pink bum.
“Oh, Deity.” Reilly put his hand to his mouth, and then emptied his stomach as he fell to his knees.
“Bardoc's beard!” Giff had a slightly stronger stomach, and managed to hold his gorge down, barely.
Cloutier, Lord Earl of Berggren, lay before him in a pool of blood, his head at an impossible angle, and his manhood stuffed into his mouth. He was quite dead.
Reilly finished his business, and shakily climbed to his feet.
Giff helped him up the rest of the way. “What're we gonna do, Reilly? Go after her?”
Reilly wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You can if you want, Giff. Me, I'm headed into town and gettin’ drunk. As drunk as I can. I never seen nothin’ here, an’ if you've got a brain in that skull o’ yours, neither did you.”
Giff looked at what used to be his employer, and nodded. Then he spat into the blood, and turned on his heel. “First round's on me.”

Chapter Twelve
Charity pushed open the door at the bottom of the servant's stair that led to the kitchens. By using back ways and some of the hidden passages Morgan had revealed to her, she'd managed to avoid being seen by all except one unfortunate over-zealous armsman. When he awoke, it would be several desperate escaped prisoners who overcame him, rather than one naked slip of a girl.
The hour of the day should mean an easy passage through the kitchens, as most of the kitchen help would be asleep. The bakers weren't supposed to begin their day for a few hours yet, and they woke up the roosters.
She eased the door shut behind her, and tiptoed around the baking island. She missed seeing the leg sticking out beyond the end of the island, and fell, sprawling, towards the flagstones of the kitchen floor.
She tucked her head, and rolled on one shoulder to come up facing whoever had tripped her. She stayed there, crouched and poised on the balls of her feet, and then flew into them.
“Flynn! Neely! You're alive. You're alive!” She buried herself into their embrace, and began to cry with release.
Flynn's meaty hand patted her on the back. “There, there, miss Charity. It's all right now.”
Neely, for some reason he was forever at a loss to explain, kept his eyes averted from what his friend was holding. He was never embarrassed, the very idea shocked him, but there it was.
He coughed. “Uh, Charity. We needs to be goin'. I mean, you coulda just now roused the whole kitchen, if you catch my meanin'.”
Flynn held on to Charity, like a bear protecting his young. “Aww, Neely, give the girl a break, you know as well as me what she's been through.”
Charity pulled out of Flynn's embrace, and looked at them, wide-eyed. “You know? How? I mean, how could you?”
Flynn chuckled deep in his chest. “The whole castle knew, miss Charity. Neely an’ me, we peeled spuds under the Earl's window to check on you.”
Neely broke in when he saw he her eyes widen further and a flush creep into her cheeks. “We figgered it was you at work when the screams started up, so we did a bit of detecting, as it were.”
He reached behind himself, and pulled out a bundle, and handed it to her.
“My clothes! My bow and quiver! How ... where did you get them?”
Neely grinned from ear to ear. “Truth be known, I've had me hand in a couple o’ thevin's now and then, you know? Well. I just put me talents to work. Let's leave it now, and could ya do an old tracker an’ thief a favor?”
Charity looked up from her inspection of the bundle. “What? Oh, of course I will.”
“Could you put some o’ those clothes on, lass? I mean, you're a fine lookin’ specimen an’ all, but I think I prefer seein’ ya with coverin's.”
Charity hurried into her clothes, blushing furiously while trying to ignore Flynn's comments of agreement with Neely on how fine a specimen of womanhood she'd truly become.
Either the balance of the kitchen staff were sound sleepers, or they'd chosen not to investigate the sound of her greeting Flynn and Neely. This made for an easy path out of the kitchens into the small yard that connected the stables with the Palace wall.
Neely cracked the door that led to the yard, and peered out with one eye. He pulled back a bit, and said over his shoulder. “Cloudy night. Couldn't ask for a better chance than this.”
“Awfully quiet.” Flynn muttered. “I'd have expected the Earl to have roused the whole castle by now.”
“You needn't worry about the Earl,” Charity said, with a tone of finality that raised Neely's brows.
He looked at Flynn, and raised an unspoken question. Flynn answered with a silent don't ask me.
“Well, come along, then.” Neely led them into the small yard and along the wall where the shadows were the deepest. The moon obliged them by staying behind the clouds and adding to the gloom.
The door to the stables was unguarded as expected, but it was barred, on their side. Flynn lifted the bar out of its blocks, and Neely pulled open the door. A smell of hay, manure and horses wafted into the yard.
Charity edged around Neely, and tiptoed into the stables. A family of mice scurried out her way into deep hay. A few of the horses wuffed in their stalls as the three escapees moved past them.
A pile of tack lay slung over a railing across from the stalls. Charity stopped and fingered one of the blankets.
Neely fidgeted and hissed at her. “Come on, miss, we've got to get a move on.”
Charity looked at him with an arched brow. “Wouldn't we move faster with horses?”
Flynn and Neely froze in their tracks. A broad smile spread across Flynn's face.
“There's a thought. Why didn't we think o’ that, Neely? What with all these horses here an’ all?”
Neely glared at the horses from beneath his brows. “Because I can't ride.” He muttered under his breath.
“What do you mean, you can't ride?” Charity hissed back at him. “All you do is climb onto their back and let them walk. Anyone can do that.”
“Well, I can't.” Neely turned away from her.
“I forgot, Miss Charity.” Flynn rubbed the back of his head.
“Flynn!” Neely cautioned him in a whisper.
Flynn ignored his friend's admonition. “You see, Neely's afraid of horses, ‘e is.”
“Oh, come on. Horses?” Charity smirked.
The tone of her question touched a sore spot in Neely, and he barked at her. “A man's got to be afraid of something!”
“Huh? Wuzzat? Who's there?” A sleepy voice drifted out of what they had thought was an empty stall.
“Now you've done it. You woke up the stableboy.” Flynn pushed Neely on his shoulder as he whispered the accusation.
Neely pushed Flynn back. “So what! I'm not crawlin’ on top of no bleedin’ horse.”
“Ohhh, deity! Barbarians in the stables.”
They all turned at the voice. It belonged to a boy a couple of years away from his teens, and he was staring at them with a look that spoke volumes. He was certain he'd be killed, kidnapped, raped and plundered, in that order.
Flynn took a step toward him, and he squealed and back-peddled back into his stall. A couple of the horses shifted in their stalls uneasy with the disturbance.
“Easy, sonny. I ain't gonna hurt you none.” Flynn eased towards him, but he only scrabbled further back into the stall.
“Ease off, Flynn. All you're doin’ is scaring the kid more.” Neely pulled Flynn back out of the stall, and turned to Charity.
“I think your touch is needed here, Charity.” Neely jerked a thumb at the stall.
Charity moved around Neely, and stepped into the stall. The stableboy edged back against the fall wall of the stall. As Charity knelt down in front of him, the moon came out from behind a cloud and cast a beam across her face.
“I ... I know you. Y ... you were with Sire Morgan.”
Charity's smile hid the pain of that name. “Yes, I was.”
“I used to watch as you walked around the yard. You were so pretty in that dress.” A tentative smile crawled across his face. “What are you doing in the stables? Do you want some horses?”
Charity reached out and patted the stable boy's knee. “Why, thank you. Yes, I'd like three horses, if you can spare them.”
The stableboy climbed to his feet, and walked out of the stall to look closely at Flynn and Neely. “You're not barbarians.” He said it almost accusingly.
Flynn and Neely looked down at the boy.
“No. They're not barbarians. They're my friends.”
The stableboy gave Flynn and Neely another look that told them what he thought about Charity's choice of friends, and then he crossed behind Charity to the tack on the railing.
He picked up three of the blankets, and turned to face Charity. “What horses would you like, Milady?”
Charity looked up and down the line. She had no idea what made the difference between a good horse and a bad one. “Tell you what. I'll let you pick them out for me, ok?”
The stableboy beamed at being placed in such a position of trust.
He grabbed three halters, and rushed down to the end of the stable. “Thank you, Milady. I'll get them for you right now, Milady.”
“Our Charity's made an impression on the young lad,” Neely remarked to Flynn.
“That she has,” Flynn chuckled, all thought of the earlier quarrel forgotten. “That she has.”
Charity whirled on them. “Oh, do be still.”
Flynn nudged Neely with an elbow. They'd both seen the look of pleasure in her eyes.
The stableboy did quick work, and with a practiced eye, he picked out a horse suited for each of the would-be riders.
For Charity he chose a dapple-gray mare with an intelligent look in her eye. “She's a real lady herself, um ... Milady,” he said as he handed Charity the reins.
“Thank you ... what can you tell me about the other two?” She looked at Flynn and Neely with their horses.
He pointed to the draft horse next to Flynn. “He's the strongest one in the stable, Milady. Even that one won't wear him down.” He pointed at Flynn.
“And the other one?” Charity pointed to the buckskin that Neely stood nervously next to.
“That's old Wilbut. You won't find an easier soul in the stable. A baby could sleep on Wilbut's back, she could.”
“A gentle horse, is she?” Charity looked at Neely.
“Oh, aye, Milady. Gentle as the day is long. Born that way, from what I hears. Old Malt, the stable master? He allus gives Wilbut to the Nervous Nellys, he does.”
“I see.” Said Charity. “Will that satisfy you, Nelly, I mean, Neely?
Flynn's chuckle threatened to become a belly laugh.
Neely growled. “One thing I'm not, is a Nervous Nelly. If Flynn can ride that great gray beast, I can ride this one.”
“Good.” Charity turned to the stableboy. “You've been most helpful. How can I ever thank you?”
“Aww, you needn't do that Milady. It was me pleasure.”
“Will, I think I should, anyway.” Charity reached into the purse she had when Cloutier took her prisoner in front of the restaurant. To her amazement, the coins were still there. She flipped a silver to the stableboy.
He caught it, and flipped it back at her.
Charity caught the silver, surprised at the boy's rejection of the coin. “Can't you use the money?”
“Oh, aye, that I can, but, if I go flashing a silver, they'll either take it from me, or accuse me of thevin'. A silver's too much for a stableboy, Milady.”
Charity dug into the purse, and pulled out a half dozen coppers. “Here.” She poured the coppers into his hand. “Don't toss those back at me, because I'll let them hit the floor. You hide what you think is too much, and save it for later. No one is going to accuse a stableboy of stealing a copper now, are they?”
He smiled shyly at her. “No, Milady. I guess not.”
They led the horses out of the stable, and mounted up. Neely had to try a couple of times, but Wilbut stood patiently there while his rider fought his fear and climbed into the saddle.
The stableboy waved goodbye as they rode into the city of Berggren, the horses’ shod hooves clopping against the cobblestones.
A shadow detached itself from the alley between two houses, and followed them on silent feet.
The city's windows were, by and large, dark and silent. A very few had lights behind their curtains, but no faces filled the windows to see the three riders pass. The streets were empty just outside the Palace wall except for a few stray dogs and two very drunk Palace guards trying to hold themselves up by clinging to each other. The song they were singing was very inconsiderate to royalty.
Berggren's street twisted like a vine as they descended from the palace hill into the city below.
When they reached the level below the Palace, Charity leaned towards Neely, and asked, “How are you doing?”
“Just fine, miss. Just fine.” Neely looked about as tense as a man could be without exploding.
Flynn eased his mount up next to Charity on her left side. “Might be good to take his mind off the horse, Miss Charity.” He whispered in her ear.
She nodded and leaned toward Neely again. “What happened to you two after the fight in front of the restaurant? I lost all track of you.”
Neely's mouth quirked in a little smile. “Well, now, miss. Flynn an’ me, we was knocked about some in that fracas. I expect you saw that bit of it.”
Charity nodded her head in the affirmative.
Neely saw the nod. “Thought you did. Well, we woke up in a cell. Been in worse, at least this one had friendly rats. Didn't stay there long, the gaoler, he saw right quick Flynn an’ me was men of quality, an’ give us jobs in th’ kitchen. We was in charge of, uh ... well it was somethin’ important, I can tell you that.”
Charity turned to Flynn. “Was it really that important?”
Flynn nodded vigorous agreement. “Aye, Miss Charity, Folks don't like their spuds peeled poorly. Me an’ Neely was the best spud peelers they ever seen. We was told that.”
Charity turned back to Neely. “Spud peelers?” She laughed.
Neely puffed out his chest. “Like he said, miss. We was the best they ever seen. Told us so, they did.”
“How did you get into the Palace?”
Neely rubbed the side of his nose. “Well ... me an’ Flynn like our grub, you see, an’ I think it got a mite expensive keepin’ us there.”
Charity let out a silvery laugh. “Are you telling me you two ate the gaol out of house and home?”
Flynn grinned shyly, and scratched a grizzled cheek. “I reckon he is at that, Miss Charity.”
“Marvelous. And for that they put you in the Palace? Why not just on the street?”
“They said we had to work off th’ bill for our keep. Flynn an’ me got a cot in the helps quarters and a spot in the kitchens.”
“Let me guess. Spuds?”
“Like he said, Miss Charity. We was the best they ever saw.”
Charity finished the last half of the sentence with Neely, and then turned to Flynn.
“How did you know I was in the Palace?”
Flynn took the question. “We saw you, miss. Walkin’ with the Captain. You was across the courtyard, hanging’ on his arm. It was so good to know you wasn't killed. Me an’ Neely, that's when we put our heads together to try an’ keep an eye on you.”
“How? How could you do that? There were guards everywhere.”
“They'll let a man peel spuds nearly anywhere, iffn’ he's not in th’ way.” Neely looked a new man on the horse now.
Charity felt an inner glow at the accomplishment. “So, you just moved around, peeling potatoes, until you found the right window to camp under?”
Flynn nodded. “Aye, miss. That's what we did.”
“And the Earl's rooms? You said the whole Castle knew?”
Neely coughed. “You tickle a chambermaid or two, you can learn a lot about the inner goings on. In a castle, I mean.”
Charity looked at Flynn. “You, too, Flynn?”
Flynn shifted his bulk in the saddle. “Now, miss Charity. What chambermaid would want to play slap an’ tickle with a lump like ol’ Flynn?”
Charity reached out to touch him in sympathy.
“Me. I learned it from the cooks.” He chuckled.
The touch became a slap. “Flynn!”
Flynn rubbed his arm. “What was all that screamin’ about, miss Charity?”
Charity flushed. “You don't want to know that.”
Neely really wanted to know, now. “Hey, now. I told you about peelin’ all them spuds. The least you can do is tell us about a few screams. Uh ... it wasn't you doin’ the screamin', was it?”
Charity couldn't help smiling at the memory. “No, it wasn't me.”
“Who was it then?” Neely pressed for an answer.
“You really want to know?”
Flynn clicked his tongue, urging his horse to keep up with the others. “I'd like to know too, Miss Charity.”
Charity sighed. “Ok. Don't say I didn't warn you.” She then told Flynn and Neely about her being taken to Cloutier's chambers, and his ripping her gown from her shoulders.
“Bloody swine.” Neely muttered. “I'd like to get my hands on him. I'd tear his manhood off and feed it to him raw.”
Charity's smile was hidden in shadow. “Then you'll like this next part.”
She continued her tale, taking them through the Earl's fondling of her, and her desperate anger at what he was planning, to do to her. She told them of her own plan, and how difficult it was to bring herself to do it. When she got to the execution of that plan, Flynn and Neely reacted strongly.
“Oooowwww! With your teeth?”
“Bardoc save us all! Uuuugghh! I'm not gonna sleep for weeks after this. Stuffed it in his mouth!? How could you, girl?”
Charity suspected the only thing that kept them from crossing their legs was the saddles. “You just said, Neely, that you'd like to do that very thing to him. I heard you, and Flynn heard you. What's the difference?”
Neely looked at her. Even in the moonlight she could see how pale he was. “I ... just ... said it. You ... you ... oh, I can't say it. I can't. You tell her, Flynn.”
Charity turned to Flynn. “Flynn?”
Flynn wiped his mouth. For some reason he felt very vulnerable just then. “Things ... like that are just said, Miss Charity. You never actually do them.”
“Are you saying I should have let him get away with all he's done?” Charity was beginning to feel a little angry at this lack of support.
“No ... I'm sure he had it coming, miss.” Flynn temporized. “It's just ... you know, knowin' it was done ... You know...”
Neely began to chuckle. “Bet it was a bit of a surprise, though.”
Flynn joined in, “A lady whose bite is worse than her bark?”
Charity stopped the coming gales of laughter with a sharp whispered, “Hsssh! You want to bring the entire guard down on us?”
Flynn and Neely swallowed their chuckles as they looked over their shoulders. Flynn turned to look at Charity. “So, how d'we get past them guards at the gate then?
“Come on, Flynn!” Neely hissed the imperative around the corner where he'd flattened himself against the wall.
A cloudy night sky helped by providing the gloom they needed to get past the gate guards. The guardhouse was a tollbooth-sized structure set against the city wall. One of the two guards leaned against the outside of the house, a rollup smoldering between his lips, and both hands stuffed into his trousers. He occasionally looked to either side, but his primary interest seemed to be what was in his pants.
Flynn sidled around the corner to Neely's side. “Miss Charity's got the horses held steady. They seem to like her.”
Neely growled. He still preferred walking to riding horseback. “I can only see one guard. Where've you been?”
Flynn sounded smug. “Puttin’ th’ other one to sleep.”
“Oh.” Neely's nerves wouldn't let him feel grateful. “All right, then, let's do this one.”
He detached himself from the wall, and turned the corner, allowing his body to fall into a casual saunter as he crossed the guard's line of vision.
“Halt! Stand and be recognized!”
Neely turned to face the guard. “Huh? What'choo mean, recognized? Do I know you?”
The guard took his hand away from the pike that leaned against the guardhouse. A drunk, and well into the bottle if he didn't miss his guess. “On your way, citizen. Bed is where you belong, though your head may not like ... urk!”
Flynn eased the throttled guard into the guardhouse while Neely lifted the bar out of its brackets and eased open the gate.
“You go get Charity. I'll keep watch.” Neely whispered to Flynn. His feet itched to be out of Berggren and back onto open road.
Flynn kept to the shadows, and made his way back to where Charity held the horses. She was moving back and forth between the three, keeping them soothed with gentle words and a soft hand.
“The gate's free, Miss Charity. We can get goin’ now.”
She rubbed one last nose, and handed the reins of Flynn's horse to him. “Good. I can't wait to be free of this place.”
“The memories'll fade with time, Miss Charity.” Flynn gave her a puppy dog look.
She patted his cheek. “I know they will, Flynn. Thanks for caring.”
They walked the horses out of the closed alley, and down the street to where Neely stood fidgeting.
“Come on!” He hissed. “Come on! They could be on us at any moment.”
Charity looked back at the castle sitting on the hill. Its windows were dark. “We would have been overrun already, Neely, I think the guards were as pleased to see Cloutier's end as I was.”
She mounted her horse, and nudged him into a slow walk through the gate. “Are you coming?”
Neely cursed his fortunes silently, and climbed back onto his patient mount.
Flynn came alongside of him and smiled broadly. “It's good to be back on the’ road again, ain't it Neely?”
Neely muttered his opinion of that and other things under his breath as he let the horse follow its mates out the city gate, and into the lands beyond.
After they passed through the gates, a shadow detached itself from the guardhouse and followed them at a distance, keeping pace with Neely's plodding horse.

Chapter Thirteen
“That's a good-looking skein, Ellona.” Ethan held the yarn in his hand. “You learned the trick of plying quickly, faster than I did, in fact.”
“That's only because you were a little boy, and little boys get distracted easily.” She worked the drop spindle as she talked, being careful to spin it in the opposite direction the yarn had been originally spun to insure a proper ply.
She looked at the basket with its skeins of plied yarn. “Are you sure these will sell in Bantering?”
Ethan looked at the yarn again. It was that soft cream color unbleached natural wool takes on when washed without having the lanolin stripped from it. He was sure they would sell. His mother could spin a tighter, more even yarn, but she didn't market in Bantering. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “These'll sell.”
* * * * “How long are we going to keep riding?” Neely felt as if his teeth were going to be jarred loose from his gums, and his behind had long settled into one giant painful pile.
Charity sat her mare as if she were born to the saddle. Her obvious pleasure of being on horseback did not help Neely's disposition.
Flynn reached forward and patted his Clydesdale's neck. “I dunno, Neely. I kinda like it, though. I never had me own horse before.”
“Well, I hope we find a stopping place soon. Me bum is about to fall off, an’ I'll be eatin’ mush for the rest of me life iffn we keep on like this.” Neely rubbed the backside in question.
“All right.” Charity turned in the saddle toward her two companions. “How about that place. Will it do?”
That place was a grouping of thatched roof buildings including a large barn built into the wooded hillside. A creek ran behind the smaller buildings and powered a water wheel that turned a shaft running into the one closest to the creek. It occupied a choice piece of land backed by the trees of the long wood.
Neely gazed at the grouping with adoration. “It's just lovely. Come on, horse, we's going to part company for a bit.” He clucked his tongue and dug in his heels, urging his mount to pick up the pace.
Charity and Flynn fell in behind him, and in a very short order they were having their mounts cared for by the barn's stableboy.
“You say this is a Wayfarer House?” Charity stood next to the boy as he rubbed her mount down with a wisp of straw. She'd removed her bow from the back of the saddle, and had it slung over her back.
He was about the age that Hersh's boy, Ornette, had been when she and Adam had moved into the Butcher's household in Dunwattle. A bloom of freckles lay across his nose and cheeks just like Ornette's, but his hair was dark, and he had none of the former's bulk.
He worked his way around her horse, and started rubbing the other side. The mare grunted in pleasure. “Aye , Milady. That be the callin'. This be the main road ‘tween Berggren an’ Grisham, plus the lands to the south. Lots o’ travelers come by here goin’ both ways. His nibs’ Da did the buildin'. A man o’ vision, he were. A man o’ vision.”
“What does a Wayfarer House do, besides put folk up for the night?”
The boy stopped rubbing, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “Well, now, I think outfittin’ be the main thing, Milady. That an’ the smithin'.”
Flynn and Neely coming back into the stable interrupted Charity's next question. Flynn's eyes were huge.
“You gotta see it, Miss Charity. The place is tops full! Everything we could need for the road, and more. And the prices! The man only wants a copper for a ten-pound bag of wheat flour. He's practically givin’ the stuff away.”
Neely was pleased but less effusive. “He's got an impressive place, that's for sure. I ain't never seen so much dry goods all together in one place. Man must be doing a landslide business.”
“He's got over a dozen folk workin” for him full time, at least.” Flynn interjected.
“Oh ‘is Nibs’ got more'n that on the crew, to be sure,” the stableboy said, while he finished up Charity's mare. “Why don'tcha go inside an’ see fer yerself?”
Charity held her hand out and her mount nuzzled it. She smiled at the show of affection. “I think I will.”
She looked at Neely. “What do you think we'll need for the road?”
He counted on his fingers while they walked out of the stable and into the yard separating it from the main building. “Hmmm. Flour for biscuits. Tin of jam. Yeast cake would be good along with some leavenin’ powder. Dried meat, for sure. Tisane mixin's, couple pounds'll do, some salt, cheese for slicin', the yellow'd be best...”
Neely's shopping list continued as they walked across the yard and onto the porch that lined the front of the main building, a three-story structure with several dormer windows poking through the heavily tarred thatch. A couple of the windows had faces in them, watching the trio make their way across the yard.
Charity stopped inside the door and gasped. In her estimation, both Flynn and Neely had understated the amount of goods the outfitting shop held. Items for purchase sat stacked upon row after row of shelves with a walking space wide enough to allow two people to pass between the rows. There were twelve rows with small signs; each had a simple picture painted upon them depicting the type of goods underneath, nailed to posts set upright along the center of the row.
Articles of clothing hung on pegs set into the walls between the multi-paned windows, and a long counter, set against the interior wall stood in front of another row of shelves lined with dozens of small boxes bearing tiny labels.
Next to the counter a triple wide doorway, minus the doors, opened onto a typical Inn's gathering room. A number of travelers were at table, either eating lunch or drinking. A staircase started upwards just beyond the opening. A small counter and desk, occupied the floor next to the foot of the stair. An older woman sat at the desk watching the folk in the gathering room.
A man with white hair and a dark gray beard wearing an aged, stained shop apron came up to where Charity stood. “How can we service you, milady?”
Charity ignored Flynn and Neely's snickers at the unintended double entendre, and answered demurely. “We have need of supplies for the trail. Can you help us?” She was well aware of the idiocy of the question.
The old man, to his credit, didn't even blink. “Of course, milady. We will be happy to aide you and your worthy companions in any way that our humble establishment can be of service to do so. Please, come inside.”
He stepped aside, allowing Charity to pass him. Flynn and Neely broke away and began exploring the largesse of the shelves.
“Flynn. Neely.” She called to them.
“You need us, Miss Charity?” Flynn arrived first, being a couple of aisles closer than Neely who'd been eyeing the clothing hung against the wall.
“Yes I do.” She waited the few seconds it took Neely to arrive.
“We need a list,” she said, when he joined them. “You were putting one together outside, Neely. I think it would be good to lay it all out to the old man, and be sure we can afford it before we start pulling things off the shelves.”
She noticed Flynn's face. “What are you smiling at?”
His grin grew broader. “You're gonna make someone a good wife, Miss Charity. By Bardoc, you are.”
The old man helped Neely with the contents of the list, adding fodder for the horses and trail medications.
Flynn added a request for pots and pans made of tin that could nest together for ease of packing. The old man nodded and added the items to his tally.
Charity requested thick woolen bedrolls and a bottle of cedar oil to keep the bugs out.
Neely objected to the cedar oil. “Aww, come on, miss. The camp'll smell like a bleedin’ drawin’ room, it will.”
Charity raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you enjoy sharing your bed with partners who draw blood when they bite?” She smiled, showing small, sharp, teeth.
Neely paled and nodded to the old man. “Add the oil. A pint's worth.”
Charity leaned over the counter to see the list in the old man's hand, and felt her heart sink. It was much more extensive than she had imagined, and she feared they'd not have enough coin to pay for half of it, much less the whole thing.
She sneaked a peek into the coin pouch built into her belt. As she feared, there was little left there. Two golds, the silver the stableboy in Berggren had returned, and a half dozen coppers. She sent up a silent prayer it would be enough.
The old man broke in on her thoughts. “I said ... will you be needing arrows for that bow, milady?”
“Huh? Oh, oh yes. I suppose I will.” She said weakly. She began to wonder if the Wayfarer House had need of a sausage maker.
He turned and walked over to a cupboard with two man-high doors in its face.
Neely whispered to Flynn. “I clean forgot about weapons. What was I thinkin'?”
Flynn whispered back. “We's becomin’ domestic, I guess.” He shrugged, giving the appearance of a minor earthquake in action.
The old man returned with a handful of arrows. Each of them bore a different fletching and head. He laid them out onto the countertop, and spread his hands over the collection.
“Do any of these suit your purposes, milady?”
Charity found herself automatically examining each arrow critically, for weight, balance and accuracy of line. The old man grunted in appreciation as she discarded one after another in the collection. Finally, she had two left from the original grouping.
She looked up at the old man. “May I see the rest of each of these? And can I test them in actual flight?”
He nodded, a small smile creasing his face. “For one who appears to know the craft as well as you do, milady, it will be a pleasure.”
He held out his hand. “I am called Howell. This is my establishment. Both sets of shafts are my own handiwork.”
She took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Howell. I'm called Charity. This is Neely, and the large one there is Flynn.” She inclined her head toward them.
Howell dipped his in a nodded bow. “Well met, gentle sirs.”
He looked back to Charity. “There is a small range out back. Shall we go there?”
She smiled and nodded.
Flynn leaned over and nudged Neely in the arm. “This is going to be good.”
Neely wasn't as sure. “Don't know. Been a long time since that day we first saw her shoot. Knowin’ what a good arrow looks like is one thing. Being able to shoot it without practicin’ is another.”
Flynn was shocked at his friend's near blasphemy. “Neely! That's Miss Charity. Of course she'll do it.”
Neely grunted. “We'll see, Flynn. I surely hope so, but we'll see.”
Howell showed Charity the archery range, laid out in the yard behind the main house. A large cloth target was tied to a straw backing woven into a circle that sat on a framework of crossed logs at the end of the range. Sticks hammered into the ground marked off the various distances for shooting. He and Charity stood at the mark for thirty paces.
He handed Charity one of the arrows from the bundle he held. “This is a fair distance for a lady to be shooting, milady. Are you sure you do not wish to begin at a closer range?”
She took the arrow from him, and nocked it to the bow. “I'm sure.”
She drew the arrow back, sighted along the shaft, and released it in one smooth movement.
“Well shot.” Howell murmured, as the arrow cut the cross mark in the center of the target.
Charity bounced the bow in her hand. “I'd like to try a couple at further range if it's ok with you, Howell.”
The old man ducked his head in a bow. “As you wish, milady.”
Flynn and Neely stood at the back of the main house, and watched as Charity and Howell made their way to the sixty pace line.
Flynn chuckled in his throat. “Told yer so, Neely. She ain't lost a thing.”
Neely sighed. “Aye. You're right in that, Flynn. Seems unnatural to be that sharp and that young all at the same time. We're in for some kind of adventuring, my friend. I'll tell ya that.”
Howell handed Charity another arrow. She shook her head at the choice.
“No. I'd like to try one of those with the speckled fletching, if you don't mind.”
Howell made the change, and handed her the new arrow. “Why the change, milady?”
“Oh, I just want to try something.” She sent the arrow into the upper right quadrant of the target.
Howell shook his head, clucking his tongue. “It's a bit far for a lady to be shooting. Maybe we should...”
Charity held out her hand. “May I have two more, please?”
Howell started to protest, but then handed her the arrows. Sometimes it was best to allow the young to learn by their own mistakes.
Charity held one shaft in her bow hand while she drew back the other to her ear. She released the first one, and then the second was in the air right behind the first.
Howell open his mouth. “What are you...? Oh, I see...”
Charity turned and held out her hand again. “May I have one of the others now, please?”
He handed her one of the arrows with the pure white fletching without comment.
Charity drew the shaft to her cheek, and released it in the same smooth motion she'd used earlier. The shaft buried its head dead center in the target, splitting the previous arrow shot at thirty paces down the middle like a piece of kindling. The other three arrows surrounded the center in a perfect triangle, head down.
Flynn and Neely broke into thunderous applause.
Howell gave Charity a deep bow. “Milady Charity. If you would do me the honor of accepting both sets of arrows, I would like to give them to you at no charge, in appreciation of the show of mastery you've just gifted me with.”
Her smile was answer enough for Howell.
Back in the interior of the Wayfarer House, Charity's elation over her archery exhibition vanished like mist when she saw the supplies list once again.
“We'll never be able to pay for all this, I just know it.” She looked at her coins again, two golds, one silver and six coppers. The count hadn't changed from the first time she checked the pouch.
She looked at Flynn and Neely. Their faces told her nothing other than they were very excited about getting the supplies. She looked at Howell, and inwardly gritted her teeth. “Give us the tally will you please, Mr. Howell?”
A stylus appeared in his hand as if by magic. “At once, Milady.”
The tip of the stylus wove a tight trail back and forth over the list as Howell's lips mouthed a silent compilation. Charity could feel a nervous sweat form on her palms and the small of her back.
“Hmmm.” Howell let out the sound in a long, drawn out fashion.
“Yes? Yes?” Charity could not bear the suspense.
Howell looked up at her, the tip of the stylus at his lips. “Three gold, a silver and four be my best price, and you'll not find better ‘tween here and Grisham.”
Her heart sank. Nearly three and quarter golds. What her purse contained wasn't nearly enough. She could feel her hands chapping in anticipation of the drudgery to come in order to pay for everything.
Neely nudged her shoulder with a finger. “Go on, pay the man.”
She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I don't have that much money!” She whispered fiercely.
Flynn leaned over Neely's shoulder. “Whut?”
“I said, I don't have that much money. I can't pay the bill!” Charity kept her voice to a whisper, mostly out of fear. She dreaded telling Howell they'd wasted his time. He was probably going to take back all those beautifully fletched arrows.
Flynn elbowed Neely. “Go on. Tell ‘er.”
Neely looked sullen. “But that's our...”
Flynn scowled; the teddy bear became a Grizzly. “Tell ‘er.”
Neely looked embarrassed. “Uh ... miss Charity. Umm. Milady. We ... uh ... we have the extra.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
Neely found himself engulfed by a pair of very feminine arms, and his face covered with kisses. He gently disentangled himself from Charity, and coughed to hide his blush. “Uh ... yeah. Well ... glad to help, Miss Charity. The right thing ta do, you know. Gotta look out for each other.”
He reached a thumb and forefinger behind his wide belt, and pulled out three golds. He slapped them down onto the counter in front of Howell.
“I'll expect th’ packin’ to be done for us, you know.”
Howell inclined his head in a bow. “Of course. That is included in the service.”
He snapped his fingers, and a couple of young men detached themselves from the aisles and began putting together the items on the shopping list.
Howell stepped out from behind the counter, and indicated the adjoining room. “May I interest you in a late lunch while your supplies are being prepared for travel?”
The lunch was plentiful, if plain. Cold roast meats and wedges of white and yellow cheese were available along with thick slabs of a yeasty smelling nut brown-bread. A small bowl filled with creamy yellow butter sat next to one of a dark reddish colored honey with other, spicier, condiments such as mustard, piccalilli and horseradish. Jugs of clear water touched with lemon finished off the meal.
Charity dipped a slice of rolled meat into the horseradish, and tried a small bite of the combination. “Ummm. Try this sauce, Flynn. It's nice and spicy.”
Flynn shook his head. “No thanks, Miss Charity. Too hot fer me. You must have some Dwarf in ya to eat that stuff.”
He would wonder for a long time why that brought such a peal of laughter from her.
They ate their fill, and then left sire Howell to his overseeing of the Wayfarer House and the packing of their supplies.
The stableboy met them at the door to the large barn.
“Yer all packed up folks. I put th’ heavy stuff on the big'un there.” He pointed to Flynn's Clydesdale. It had two large canvas packs slung across its rump just behind the saddle.
Neely's Buckskin held two packs about half the size of the two on Flynn's horse, and Charity's Dapple held one large pack and two large quivers full of arrows.
Charity turned to the stableboy. “This isn't right.”
Alarm showed in his eyes. “Whatcha mean, mum? It's all there, I swear it!”
Charity shook her head. “That's not what I mean at all. These arrows,” She pointed to the quivers. “I was given only half that many. You'll have to take some of them back.”
“I can't do that, milady.” The stableboy shook his head no.
“You have to. I won't take something that doesn't belong to me.”
Neely rolled his eyes.
The stableboy remained firm. “Sorry, milady. Ya have ta take ‘em. Milord Howell said so. I ain't goin’ ‘gainst ‘im, no matter what ya do.”
Charity blinked. “Excuse me? You said Howell had something to do with this?”
The stableboy nodded his head rapidly. “Oh, aye, milady. He told me to put th’ arrows into th’ quivs, an’ I done just that.”
Charity put her hands on her hips. “Well, I'll be...”
Flynn chuckled. “Looks like Howell liked your shootin’ better'n you thought he did, Miss Charity.”
Neely barked out a laugh. “Our princess has herself another conquest, Flynn. Soon she'll have the whole county payin’ court with flowers and sweets.”
Charity slapped him on his shoulder. “Get off it. Howell's a sweet old man who did us a favor. I'm sure he had his own reasons for what he did.”
Her glare stopped Neely's next retort. “And I'm sure they're perfectly honorable.”
She mounted the Dapple Gray and rode out of the barn, her ears burning a bright red as Flynn and Neely's muffled chuckles followed her.
They turned onto the road and headed south. A small black shape detached itself from the shadow of the barn and followed them, flitting from bush to bush, keeping just out of sight. One of its paws shone white in the sun.
* * * * “No, Jonas,” Ethan sighed, as he answered the question of were they almost there one more time. “It's a couple more miles, yet. We'll be ready for lunch when we get to town. Here.” He tossed him an apple. “Chew on this.”
“Maybe it'll stop the questions for a bit.” He thought.
They were on the road to Bantering, a medium-sized town on the northern edge of the forest southeast of Ellona's cottage. They had a pleasant walk ahead of them. The day was warm without being sticky, and the rainy season was another month away. The main road to Bantering ran along the edge of the forest, so they had to walk through the downs. Heather and other wild flowers were in abundance and being tended to by bees and butterflies. Ethan had his hands full for the first half-hour keeping the children, Jonas and Sari primarily, in sight while they chased their chosen butterfly. Circumstance, true to form, stayed at Ethan's heels all the way to town.
“Well?” Ethan leaned forward as the cloth monger examined the skeins.
“Hmmph hmmm ... good tightness ... could be softer. Yes, could be softer.” The merchant peered up at Ethan through eyes rimmed with fat. “I can't give you top grade price.”
“I know that, fat man.” Ethan growled. He didn't like being worked around, and this one was no artist at it. “But what you're looking at there is still better than second grade, and you know it.”
He held up a hand as the merchant opened his mouth. “I know what I'm talking about, fat man. I grew up on the Wool Coast. Ever hear of a little town called Swaledale?”
The merchant gasped. “Swaledale? W..w..who hasn't? The finest wool in the country comes from there. Royalty wears only Swale Tweed.”
“My mother and father own a ranch that weaves Swale Tweed from the wool they produce.” Ethan's grin was pure ice. “I want a copper for each skein.”
“What? Are you trying to ruin me? A quarter, and that's my final offer.” The merchant's jowls quivered in indignation.
“You're trying to rob me. I'll let you steal it for three bits, and not a sliver less.” Ethan sneered.
The merchant slapped down a small bag that clinked when it hit the counter. “A half-copper each, and not a sliver more!”
Ethan spit in his palm, and stuck it out toward the merchant. “Done!”
“You're very good.”
“Huh?” Ethan turned to look down at Circumstance. “What did you say?”
The boy kept his eyes on the path as they walked. “You're very good. You wanted that merchant to offer you a half-copper each, and you led him right to it.”
Ethan stopped in his tracks, and looked down at the boy. Circumstance was full of surprises. “Just when you think you've got a handle on the boy...” He thought.
“You pegged me, Circumstance. Do you always watch people so closely?”
“No, but you're going to be staying with mama. I thought it would be good to know about you.”
Ethan was struck dumb. He'd never thought about it that way. Each day just seemed to flow into the next, kind of like when he was drinking. Sure, Ellona was a fine woman. Fine woman. Why did he just repeat that?
He looked down at Circumstance again. It looked like he wasn't the only one who bore watching.
“You got what?” Ellona stood on the porch as the news of their successful market trip was shouted to her in four voices.
Ethan stepped up onto the porch as the children ran into the cottage. “We sold them all! A half-copper per skein, and fat Gerkin bought them.”
“Oh, Ethan, That's wonderful!” Ellona gave Ethan his second shock of the day when she threw her arms around his neck, and landed a kiss full on his lips.
“Uh ... yeah. Sure. Glad I could help.”
Her laughter just added to his blush.
* * * * “You sure he's dead, Bel?”
“Sure as I'm standing here.”
The tanner looked across his friend's shoulder at the church house, and made the sign of Bardoc by tracing a triangle, point up, on his chest.
“Parish's without a priest, Durhan. What're we gonna do?”
Durhan shook his head. “Bad sign, dying like that. Right in the middle of a funeral.”
“He was old, Durhan. Been here as long as I can remember.”
“True.”
“So what are we gonna do? We're the Parish elders.”
“Guess we gotta send for a new one. Looks like Bantering gets itself a new Priest.”
* * * * “C'mon, Flynn! Move those big feet o’ yourn.” Neely did not look over his shoulder, preferring instead to concentrate on putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.
“I'm comin'. I'm comin'.” The big man lumbered behind Neely. His breath huffed and whooshed, leaving small puffs of steam in the moonlit darkness.
Flynn looked back and gave a small yelp as he redoubled his efforts. They were almost upon him. Their hisses sounding like a steam pipe with a bad leak.
He looked forward, and relief washed over him like a warm bath. The wall! It was just a few steps away. A couple of more feet, and he would be safe from these hissing monsters.
Neely vaulted the wall without slowing down, and continued to run. “Hurry up, Flynn! Run, man. Run!”
Flynn reached the wall just as he felt a sharp pain on the back of his thigh. The pain pushed him forward, and he hit the top of the wall with his palms, and pulled himself over by shear strength of fear-born will alone.
He landed on the other side and rolled back to his feet. “Neely!” His stage whisper carried in the darkness. “Where are ya, man?”
“Over here, behind the oak.”
Flynn found his friend with his back against the said tree. His chest heaved as he drew in deep breaths. “Ohhh, I'm totally fagged. Couldn't run another yard if the keeper of the pit hisself was on me heels.”
Neely grabbed him by the arm. “Well, you can walk anyway, can't ya? Charity'll be waitin’ fer us, an’ we have to tell her there'll be no fresh chicken for th’ pot tonight. Gonna be field rations agin.”
Flynn rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I hope she isn't too upset.”
“Geese!?” Charity was nearly doubled over with laughter. You got chased by geese? Oh, what brave foragers you two are.”
“They was big geese, Miss Charity, an’ they bit hard.” Flynn rubbed his insulted thigh.
“Shoulda whacked their heads off an’ brung them fer th’ pot.” Neely muttered into his cup of hot tisane. “Great nasty gray things like that. Farmer oughta put up a notice. Oughta be a law agin that sorta bird.”
“Yeah.” Flynn agreed with his friend's grumping. “A law.”
“Oh, settle down, you two.” Charity tried to soothe them, but her snickers and giggles around her words did little to ease their discomfort.
Eeeaowww!? The sound whipped their heads around, and Charity's laughter died in her throat. She reached for her bow as Flynn and Neely eased their hands toward the pommels of their knives.
The source of the growled query stepped into the light of the campfire, and Charity squealed, her excitement driving her voice to a girlish high pitch. “It's my cat!”
“That ain't no cat, milady, that's a beast, an’ a big one, at that.” Flynn's hand stayed near his knife. His thigh still ached where the goose had bitten him, and he had little trust in a cat that was closer in size to a medium-sized dog.
“You sure you know it, Charity?” Neely stood up slowly into a fighting crouch, his knife in his hand.
She looked at them both, and pursed her lips in disgust. “Of course I know it! Adam and I rescued her from drowning when she was this little.” She indicated the size with her thumb and forefinger.
Flynn peered more closely at the cat. “What's that it's got with it?”
Neely sheathed his knife. “Looks like a couple o’ Conies.”
Flynn looked at Charity. “It brung us dinner?”
Charity crossed the campsite to where the cat stood. Sure enough, two rabbits, their throats torn out, lay at the cat's feet. The toes of the right foot confirmed Charity's claim. They gleamed white in the firelight.
She reached out with her right hand toward the cat, and it drew back as if unsure of her.
She kept her hand out and clicked her tongue gently. “It's me lady, Charity, remember? Did you bring those rabbits for us? What a good girl you are. Come on, my lady. Oh, I've missed you so. It's me, Charity.”
The cat stretched forward and sniffed Charity's hand, and then licked it with her rough pink tongue.
Charity looked over her shoulder at Flynn and Neely. “She remembers me!”
As if in answer to Charity's cry, the cat meowed in a loud pbleert! and jumped into her middle, knocking her backwards onto the ground.
Flynn and Neely started forward, intent on violence, but they pulled up short when Charity erupted into a peal of laughter and giggles.
The cat was purring loud enough to be heard outside the campsite, and butting her head against Charity's chin. Her front paws alternately kneaded the forest floor and Charity's heavy cloak.
“Ok, ok! I'm glad to see you, too.” Charity pushed the cat off her chest, and sat up.
The purrs continued as the cat arched her back luxuriously against Charity in a march that circled her entirely. As greetings go, this one rated high in extravagance and enthusiasm.
“Labad's ghost, but she like's you, Miss Charity!” Flynn goggled at the scene.
“Blimey! I'll say!” Neely sat back down and stirred the embers in the campfire.
He looked up at Charity again. “You wanna toss me those Conies?”
Neely held the rabbit leg with his thumbs and forefingers, and bit into it with ill-disguised relish. “Mmm.”
“Good, huh?” Flynn, busy nibbling off the last of his portion, looked across the fire at Neely.
The rumble of the cat's purr added a steady background sound to the crackle of the fire.
“Damn straight it is. Nothing better than keepin’ a full belly an’ your plums warm, I always say.” Neely bit another huge chunk out of the leg.
“Mighty good luck, that cat of yours showed up, Miss Charity.” Flynn looked over to where she was petting their new traveling companion.
Charity looked up at him. “I don't think luck had any part in it. I think she was waiting for me all the time I was in the palace. I wonder why she didn't come in to be with me?”
“ Prolly knew it would be too dicey.” Neely mumbled around a mouthful of rabbit. “Better'n a dog.”
“Near as big as one, anyhow.” Flynn cast an eye on the cat.
She was nestled against Charity's left leg, her paws gently kneading the ground in front of her as Charity ran a hand down her back.
Charity looked up at her friends again, and leaned forward, resting an elbow on her knee. “So, where do we go from here? Any ideas?”
Neely tossed the bones of his dinner into the fire. The cat watched them fall with faint interest; her belly was already full.
“Ain't goin’ back to Berggren, that's for sure.”
Charity's smile was ironic. “Tell me another. Flynn.” She focused her gaze on the large fellow. “How about you? Any idea where we might go that's fairly safe for people like us? I also want to find a place that may have a way to earn an honest living.”
Neely winced at the emphasis on honest.
Flynn scratched the back of his head, and then examined a well-chewed thumbnail. “Well now ... There's Grisham. I hear there's plenty work there.”
“Can't go to Grisham.” Neely spat into the fire.
“Why not?” Charity picked up the cat, grunting a bit with the effort, and placed her in her lap.
Neely looked a little embarrassed. He muttered something under his breath.
“What? I couldn't hear you.” Charity leaned further forward.
Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. “C'mon, man. Ain't nuthin’ to be ashamed of.”
“All right. All right.” Neely scowled at them from beneath his brows. “Grisham's out ‘cause there's a small matter of me not wantin’ my neck to get stretched. Ok!?”
Charity and Flynn just looked at him, saying nothing. The cat began to wash herself.
Neely picked up a stick and began pushing the tip of it around in the coals of the fire. “You're gonna make me tell it all, ain't'cha?”
They both nodded.
Neely threw the stick into the fire, sending a cloud of sparks crackling and flaring into the air. “Bound to come out sooner or later.” He muttered.
“Ain't somethin’ I'm proud of, mind you.” He sent a sharp glance their way. “But a man gets hungry, y'know?”
Flynn's timely belch brought a dark look from Neely.
Charity tittered, and then smoothed her face. “We're sorry, Neely, but I think we'd both really like to know your tale. It's not like there's much entertainment going on in these woods right now.”
Neely looked at them for a moment longer, and then his shoulders sagged. “All right. Here's the tale, for what it's worth. You know I was once a soldier of fortune and a tracker?”
They nodded that they did so.
“Well, a number of years ago. This was before you an’ me hooked up, Flynn. I had me a position guarding th’ goods a merchant shipped ‘tween Grisham an’ Ort. He sent ‘em down th’ highway, y'see. Long smooth road, easy on th’ horses, an’ a seat for me on th’ cart.”
“That fat little man made hisself a pack of gold on those runs, an’ on occasion he tossed a taste of it me way.”
“What was he shipping?” Charity stroked the cat's ears. She responded by increasing the volume of her purr.
“Ah! Therein lies th’ rub of me tale.” Neely poured himself a mug of tisane.
“He wouldn't tell me. Said it wasn't my job to know what I was guardin'. It were just my job to see it safe to market, and then to see his gold safe to him.
“Now, I'm not sayin’ there wasn't th’ odd scrap here an’ there. I've a few scars that would call me liar iffn’ I did. There's some rough country ‘tween Grisham an’ Ort an’ rough fellows interested in easy gold, only they found out Neely's charge weren't so easy.”
“Now I know yer thinkin', what's all this have to do with old Neely's neck being stretched? Well I'll get to that part soon enough.” He sipped some of the tisane, its fruity aroma floated through the small campsite, and blended with the wood and spice scent of the trees around them.
“Curiosity'll kill a man sooner'n his balls will, I can tell you that. I never shoulda peeked under that tarp. That's what started it all. That an’ me big mouth.”
“It was one of the foggiest days I seen since comin’ to Grisham. I remember th’ tide was low, too. You could taste th’ stink of the shallows as well as smell it. Like fish an’ kelp rottin’ together. Th’ fat merchant, I can't remember his name, he was real twitchy about this one shipment. Wouldn't tell me so, kept claimin’ things was just fine, but you can see when a man not used to lyin’ is.
“That kept buggin’ me for days as th’ caravan headed south on th’ highway. Th’ fog seemed to be followin’ us. You couldn't see past yer arm stretched out in front of you, so it was slow goin', indeed.”
“I got this itchin’ to see what was under that canvas cover, an’ it got worse as th’ days went on.”
“We was only makin’ ‘bout half th’ speed as th’ other trips, an’ I knew th’ supplies weren't going to last out th’ trip. I also got an idea on how's I could get th’ time to take a peek under that cover.”
“What was the idea?” The cat had decided to curl up for a snooze, and Charity had moved over to sit next to Flynn.
“I'm comin’ right on to it, Charity.” Neely pulled a splinter off one of the sticks for the fire, and began picking his teeth with it while he talked.
“I was a tracker, remember? I chatted up th’ pusher for th’ caravan, and convinced him to stop long enough to do some huntin', for extra rations, y'know?”
“Well, th’ pusher was a man who liked his meat. Always complained about th’ salted stuff out of th’ barrels, didn't blame him. I think it's pure crap, meself.”
“He took to th’ idea of a hunt right away, and th’ rest of th’ caravan fell right in with him. I led them out into th’ fog until I found a set of tracks fresh enough that even th’ dredge boys could bag ‘em one, an’ then I did a quick double back while they all looked th’ other way.”
“Th’ canvas was tied down pretty tight. Of course, it had to be to keep any shiftin’ goin’ on with th’ load. I worked th’ knot for a while, gettin’ nowhere. Begun to fear they'd be back before I got a chance to see what th’ fat merchant was so twitchy about.”
“Th’ knot finally begun to come loose, an’ I got th’ corner untied. When I folded it back, all I saw under th’ canvas was a cart load of little boxes. They had tops on ‘em that fit inside th’ lid with four nails holdin’ ‘em shut. Th’ blade on me knife was thin enough to slip under th’ head of the nails an’ work ‘em loose.”
“I tell you I was sweatin’ even in the chill of the fog when I worked that last nail loose. I pulled up th’ lid, and saw the shine of yellow gold.”
“Gold?” Flynn and Charity said the word as one.
“Ortian Gold Marks. Th’ full size wheels.”
Flynn whistled. Charity had no idea what Neely was talking about, but they sounded pricey.
“I shook a couple more of th’ boxes. They was heavy, an’ they rattled. Th’ whole cart was filled with th’ coins. I grabbed a few of ‘em from th’ open box an’ put ‘em in my pouch.”
“No wonder the merchant was twitchy.” Flynn whispered, as if someone might be in the woods listening.
“That's what I figured, ‘cept I was wrong.”
“What was the reason then?” Charity leaned forward.
“They wasn't gold Marks.”
“What was they?” Flynn leaned forward like Charity.
“What they was is the first half of the reason I can't show my face in Grisham. Somethin’ in the way th’ marks sounded niggled at me while I put things back th’ way I found ‘em. When I was done, I took th’ ones I grabbed out of my pouch, and shook ‘em in my hand. They didn't sound right.”
“Fakes?” Charity suggested.
Neely placed a forefinger alongside his nose. “Give th’ little lady th’ prize. I scraped one of ‘em with my blade. Under th’ gold was pure lead. I figured th’ fat little merchant got hisself mixed up with someone interested in makin’ a killin’ passin’ th’ fakes, an’ leavin’ us in th’ caravan holdin’ th’ bag if we's got caught.”
“The bloody swine!” Flynn muttered.
“Yeah.” Neely agreed. “Only I was wrong. What was goin’ on was worse than passin’ fake marks, but I didn't find out till we got to Ort.”
“I found th’ rest of the caravan, an’ finished th’ hunt with ‘em. Th’ fog cleared up a couple of days later, an’ we made good time after that.”
“Th’ pusher got us to th’ warehouse outside of Ort we was supposed to be at, an’ I made up an excuse to take a walk, if you catch my meanin'.”
Charity and Flynn nodded understanding.
“Well, th’ pusher couldn't know my bladder wasn't full, an’ I didn't want my neck goin’ under a headsman's ax. They don't hang ya in Ort.”
“When I found th’ Guard Sergeant, I pulled out th’ fake Marks, an’ told him there was a whole cart load waitin’ a few warehouses over. I still had th’ one with the gold scraped off, it didn't take much convincing.”
“But why can't you go back to Grisham? All that took place in Ort.” Charity looked confused.
Neely tossed the sliver he'd been using as a toothpick into the fire. “I think it was th’ pusher. He acted as surprised as the rest of ‘em, and he talked a good story. It got him off without losing his head, but only iffn he stayed out of Ort from then on. He was givin’ me some pretty black looks on th’ way back, but he never went further than that. Th’ man couldn't use a blade to butter his bread. Friends of mine got word to me th’ Duke put out a standing order for me hanging’ if I ever showed my face in Grisham again. It had to be him behind th’ merchant. I heard tell th’ poor little fellow kicked quite a bit before he died.”
“That's why he was so twitchy.” Flynn declared, smiling as if he'd solved the puzzle.
“So, if they weren't just passing fake money, then what was going on?” Charity asked.
“Oh, yeah. I didn't tell you that part, did I?.” Neely poured the rest of his tisane onto the ground.
“Turns out th’ Duke has some kinda grudge against Ort. Somethin’ to do concernin’ his old man. Th’ fake Marks were supposed to go toward ruinin’ Ort's economy. Seems I upset his plans a bit. Ort put up a checkpoint on th’ highway before we left. We had to pass through it, and go through th’ same searchin’ of the wagons th’ ones comin’ in had to.”
“I wound up leaving Grisham a couple of days after we got back. Ran across Flynn on my way to Mossett. Never got there, did we?” He winked at his old friend.
Flynn nodded again, sending a quiver through his chins. “Wound up in Berggren's army, we did. That was back in the days of th’ old Earl, miss Charity.”
She gave Flynn a sad smile. “No need to explain. I really am ok with it now.”
“Well, then,” she changed the subject, and looked to both Flynn and Neely. “We're back to the question, where do we go from here?”
Flynn scratched an armpit. “Seems Grisham's no good, and I don't think Berggren's any choice, either.”
Neely looked up from staring into the coals of the fire. “How ‘bout Ort?”
Flynn looked at his old friend. “Yeah ... you been there. ‘Course, it was a time ago...”
“Don't matter none,” Neely replied. “From what I'd been hearin’ while we was restin’ between spuds, it's still quite th’ place. Lots o’ work, and no one goes hungry, less'n they wants to. Iffn a man's got a good eye an’ a strong arm, there's more'n enough work for ‘em.”
“Sounds good to me,” Charity said, as she stood to find her bedroll. “Ort it is.”

Chapter Fourteen
Ethan scraped another shaving off the piece of dried oak with his finishing knife. Four days now, and the pieces of the wheel were almost done. All he had to do was insert the spokes, and glue the three arcs together. Ellona had bravely rendered the hides he collected into what would become the glue, with a bit of boiling water.
She had taken to spinning like a fish to water. Her deft hands seemed to instinctively know when to attenuate the yarn when plying, and the additional income had enabled him to purchase a few used tools. This spinning wheel would be the first piece to come out from their use.
If asked, he would not have been able to say exactly when they'd become a couple. It just seemed to happen naturally, like night merging into day.
Ellona sat on the willow branch chair he had put together a couple of weeks ago, spinning one of the bags of dyed wool batts. The color was a pleasant forest green made from a particular toadstool they'd found growing in the wood behind the cottage. Other bags lay next to her filled with batts of yellow, blue and red wool.
She looked at Ethan as he worked a spoke into its hole by gently twisting it back and forth. “It looks beautiful, Ethan. Are you sure all this work is necessary? The children and I seem to be doing quite well using the spindles.” She now had a collection of eight.
Ethan grunted as he set the spoke. “It'll be necessary, all right. You're going to need a production wheel soon, especially if Bantering's new priest follows through on his promise to order the yarn for his robe.”
Ellona nodded as she reached for another batt of the green. “I'm not sure I like the look of him.” She and the children had run across the town's new priest on their last trip into Bantering.
Ethan grunted again. “His gold spends as well as the next man's. If you want it, I'll deal with him, and leave you out of it.”
“It's not that. I just didn't like the way he looked at Circumstance. He kept staring at him, and frowning.”
A chill hit Ethan's gut. Ellona might not have noticed, mothers can have their blind spots, but the boy had Elf blood in him. He'd swear by Bardoc's word on it.
He picked up another spoke. “Did he say anything about him?”
Ellona creased her brow with a small frown. “No, that's the part I liked least. He invited us to join the church, and then frowned at Circumstance again just before he left.”
“Why spin for him, then?” Ethan set the spoke, and picked up the last one.
Ellona smiled at him. “As you said. His gold shines just as brightly as the next man's.” She added some more wool to her spinning.
“But,” She added. “I'd rather not go to his church, if you don't mind.”
Ethan nodded. “You know, now that you've brought it up, there is something about Vedder ... Damn my memory I know it has to do with the past, but with my drinking and all...” He looked Ellona in the eye. “We'll just have to watch what happens in the village closely. If it comes to it, we may have to move, quickly. Ok?”
Her eyes met his. “Ok.”
* * * * Vedder held one of the skeins of brightly colored yarn in his hand. Without meaning to do so, he was weighing it in his hand to assure full weight of what he paid for, as he considered what he'd just seen.
“Mussoli?” He murmured to his alterman, as he watched the woman and her children walk away.
“Yes?” Mussoli put the last of the skeins he had into the basket. It would take his wife a good month to weave the heavy cloth they would make, even working around the clock, but it was for the church.
“Did you notice the older boy?” Vedder bounced the yarn in his hand. He hated paying for things, it made him feel as if he was being cheated somehow.
“Circumstance? No, not really. He seems to be a good boy. Always polite, always does what his mother asks of him.” Mussoli wished he had a couple of Circumstances instead of the brood of little Garlocs Bardoc had gifted him with.
“Something about him...” Vedder turn to Mussoli, and handed him the last skein. “What do you know of his parentage, his father?” Far too much intelligence and self-assurance in that man, a sinner for sure.
Mussoli scratched his thinning scalp. “Don't know about the father, Brother Vedder. I never met him.”
Vedder stared, aghast at the blatant falsehood. “How can you say that sire, Mussoli? You talked to the man yesterday at the Blacksmith's while he was picking up the tools he designed.”
Mussoli stayed calm under the outburst. “You mean Ethan, Brother Vedder? He's not the father of any of them. Ellona lost her man near to seven years ago now, to a fever. Tragic that. Ethan coming along like he did saved them all. Ellona wouldn't admit it, but she was wearing out. I'm sure of it.”
Vedder considered this. The man, Ethan, wasn't the father. Most likely, they hadn't sanctified their union, either. He could deal with that later. His immediate concern was this boy, Circumstance.
He began walking back toward the church. “What have you heard about this boy Circumstance's father? Keep nothing back, Mussoli, it is for the good of the Church.”
Mussoli thought back. It had been a long time, nearly eleven years now. Strange how Ellona's man died almost to the day he ... brought the baby home.
“I remember.” He told the priest. “Her husband brought a baby back out of the wild. He'd gone hunting. Found a nice big buck up by the Circle Sea, southeast of Leward. Had a rack this big.” He measured with his arms outstretched.
Vedder could not have cared any less for how big the rack was, or if there had even been a buck, but the location, that was another matter. “Where did he find the child?”
“The northern edge of the forest just off the Circle Sea, if I remember rightly.”
“That's Elf territory, isn't it?
Mussoli shook his head. “Oh, no, Brother Vedder. They picked up and left, over five years ago. Some say they headed back over the mountains. I can't say for sure where they went myself.”
Vedder didn't care. He had his evidence and the boy was already tried and convicted. Elf. If not Elf, then Half-Elf at least. The people had to be warned of the potential danger this child represented. The mixing of the races ... he shuddered inwardly at the filthiness of the thought.
As he walked back to the church he began piecing together his sermon. He should have it ready for the congregation by the next meeting day.
* * * * “The mixing of the races is against the very will of Bardoc himself!” Vedder pounded the pulpit as he emphasized the point of his message to the congregation.
“The Elven race, though much, much older than mankind, has never reached the heights of reason and sophistication we have.”
Actually, Elves had not been in the world as long as humans, but Vedder never let the facts get in the way of a good sermon.
He changed his voice from a trumpet to a wheedle. “Which of you, in your dealings with Elves, has ever heard them invoke the name of Bardoc? Which of you hasn't heard of the drunken orgies they frequent, even to the point of using their own children in their abominable rituals?”
The congregation nodded. They'd never seen an Elf, but they'd all heard stories.
He had them now. It was time to set the hook. “What would you say if I told you this community was facing the potential danger of becoming infected with those Elven practices and rituals?”
Vedder had no idea what Elves really did, but it sounded good.
His voice became oily. “What would you say if I told you there were those in our community harboring the seed of that infection?”
A beefy man with a reddish complexion stood at the back of the church, and shouted. “Burn ‘em out!”
Inwardly Vedder smiled as he raised his hand. “Now, now, Brother Dhomil. Let's not jump to action. We are a peaceful community of gracious souls.” He spread his hands wide to either side of the pulpit. “We don't burn our neighbors out. What a thing to say. We must first judge the situation.”
He gazed at them lovingly. “I know you wish to ask, ‘And how do we judge the situation?'”
Now to tease the fish a little. “Vigilant is what we should be. This is how we judge: Bardoc's will demands such. Did he not say, keep watch?” The verse was horribly out of context,but these people never read the holy books so he was safe.
He leaned over the pulpit, and pointed to the congregation at large. “Watch. Be vigilant. Look for the signs of infection, and when it is proven,” he paused for emphasis, “Then you must decide what to do. Bardoc has given you free will for a purpose. Do you think that purpose was to allow human blood to be mixed with the lesser races?”
“No!” The congregation shouted back.
Vedder smiled. “There are times when the best love is the hard love. There are times when to best love a neighbor is to send them home. Home to be with our loving Deity. If they will not repent ... that is the only thing to do.”
He looked across the congregation filling the hall. He saw their rapt expressions. They were his, to do as he willed.
His expression saddened. “I understand our dear sister has not repented of her actions in taking in this terrible danger to our peaceful, pure community. She still harbors this half-Elf ... thing. Who knows what it may do if it is allowed to wander our streets free to carry out any unnatural desire that may cross its fancy? Who knows which of your daughters this thing may rape and impregnate? It is said that most Elf women die in childbirth, killed by the very life they carry in their sick little wombs.”
This was a blatant lie. No one actually knew anything about Elven birthing practices. The rituals were guarded behind a thick veil of racial secrecy.
Some of the women were weeping and clinging to their husbands. The hook was set, and the fish was on the line. Vedder straightened and gave a small move as a pre-arranged signal.
The ruddy faced man on the back stood again. “I say, burn ‘em out. Burn ‘em out now!”
Vedder raised his hands, and stepped away from the pulpit. “As you say, brother Dhomil. I accede to the people's will.”
* * * * Ethan slammed open the door to the cottage. “Ellona!” He yelled. “Ellona!”
“I'm here.” Her voice came from the back porch.
Ethan stumbled over a chair as he raced through the cottage to the back door.
“Are you hurt?” Ellona saw him rubbing his shin.
“No time for that,” He gasped. “Gather up the children and what you can carry. We're getting the flick out of here.”
Ellona's eyes widened at Ethan's curse, but the expression on his face convinced her to begin packing.
“Children.” She called them to her. Sari and Jonas came from the bedroom rubbing their eyes, and yawning.
She picked up a canvas bag, and began stuffing food and cooking utensils into it. Ethan pulled out his packs, and started filling them with his tools.
“Why are you packing, mommy?” Sari peered into the bag as Ellona put a much-loved hand-thrown ceramic pitcher into it.
“We have to go away tonight, honey.” Ellona ruffled Sari's hair. “Now, you and Jonas need to get dressed as fast as you can, ok?”
Circumstance came into the room, already dressed. He collected the younger children, and herded them into the bedroom “Come on,” he said. “We'll make a game of it.”
Ellona's eyes followed Circumstance into the room. “Is he the reason?”
Ethan looked up from arranging the items in his pack. “I'm afraid so. Vedder's got himself a nice little mob put together, complete with torches. I passed them on the way here. I figure we've got no more than an hour.”
Ellona swept the cottage interior with her gaze. So many years filled with so many memories, and in a few moments it would all be gone because of one man's hatred.
She saw Ethan had finished his packing and was collecting his knife, bow and sword. She walked over to the bedroom door, and saw Circumstance solemnly helping Jonas and Sari play their packing game. He was making sure they took warm clothes and extra stockings.
Ethan rolled up some blankets and tied the roll onto his larger pack. “I think this is all we can handle, Ellona. How are the kids coming?”
“They're just finishing up now.” She tied the last thing on the other bag and draped her heavy wool cloak about her shoulders.
Ethan looked out the front window. A line of flickering lights was cresting the rise in the meadow south of the cottage.
He turned and gathered the children from the bedroom while settling his packs onto his back. “Let's get going. The mob is only a few minutes away, now.”
Ellona picked up her bags. “I'm going to miss this place. So much of my life is here.”
Ethan followed Ellona and the children out the back door. He was going to miss the place, as well. For the first time he could remember he had begun to feel at home here. Vedder was going to have a lot of things to answer for.
“Head straight into the forest.” He called out to them as ran over to the chicken coop. “I'll catch up with you.”
Ethan had seen mobs before, and well knew their mentality. There would be those in it who, frustrated at not having their chosen victims at hand, would kill or destroy what they could. The least he could do was give the chickens a chance.
He could hear the mob approaching. Some of the voices were louder, encouraging the others. “Vedder's paid bullies,” he thought, as he pulled the door off the coop. The chickens clucked and rustled in their sleep.
“Sorry about this, girls, but it's for your own good.” He spoke to them quietly, as he kicked the back out of the coop. A few of the hens fluttered to the ground in alarm, while most of them looked up at him in outrage. They would scatter into the trees when the mob arrived.
He looked over his shoulder as he headed across the property behind the cottage. The mob was closer, almost to the lone oak that they used as the front yard boundary. The moon wasn't out yet, and he used the darkness to cover his dash to the forest where Ellona and the children waited.
Ellona gave a small gasp of alarm as Ethan pushed through the huckleberry bushes into the small clearing where she and the children hid, then she recognized him.
“Ethan!”
“Shhh. Down. All of you. We need to get further into the forest. They'll search the fringe, I'm sure of it.” He pointed into the gloom behind Ellona and the children.
“Circumstance. You keep an eye on Sari and Jonas. I don't want to have to chase them in a moment of panic.”
“Ellona. We're going to have to both lead and follow. Can you break a trail?” He looked at her intensely, searching for signs of weakness or panic.
She surprised him by showing none. “Come, children. Follow me.” She turned and began working her way through the brush with the children close behind her. Ethan trailed Circumstance, keeping both an eye and an ear out for anything that would tell him of the mob coming their way.
Ethan need not have worried about that part of it. Upon finding the cottage empty, they began destroying anything breakable. One of them tipped a lamp onto the floor. Its oil took fire from the wick, and the flames spread across the floor, licking at the dry wood.
They watched the flickering light of the burning cottage as they crouched behind the underbrush, and Ellona began to cry.
Ethan reached out to comfort her. “I know it's hard to see it burn, but I'll build you another cottage in a place where there are no Vedders.”
Ellona clung to him as she sobbed. “It isn't the cottage. It's that beautiful spinning wheel you made for me.”
He looked down at her. “I can always build another wheel. I could never build another you.”
She looked up into his eyes. She saw no anger there. All she saw was adoration.
Ethan stood and took her by the hand. “It looks like that will satisfy them. Come on. We can make a few miles more before we'll have to sleep. I think we'll travel East this time, over the mountains.”
“I'm tired, Mommy.” Jonas dug his heels into the rocky soil of the path.
They had begun this stage of their journey Eastward at dawn. It was now only an hour or two untill midday, and the two youngest, Jonas and Sari, were beginning to show signs of fatigue.
Ethan smiled to himself at a wandering thought that passed through his mind. Give a child a couple of good friends and a few toys, and the play will go on till nightfall. Give them a few miles of trail, and they're worn out in less than half the time.
He slowed a bit, and scooped Jonas into his arms. “Can't stop now, little man. We'll never get there if we don't put one foot in front of the other. Here, you can ride me for a while.” He put Jonas behind his neck, with the boy's feet dangling onto his chest.
“Weeee. Giddyap!” Jonas tried using Ethan's hair as reins.
“No, no, Jonas. You don't pull Ethan's hair.” Ellona put a restraining hand on the boy.
“Mommy, I wanna ride Ethan, too.” Sari tugged at her mother's skirt.
Ellona smiled down at her daughter. “I'm sorry, dear heart, but Ethan can only carry one of you at a time. Maybe later.”
“Oh, poo.” Sari pouted, and a small tear glistened in the corner of her eye.
Circumstance stepped forward from his place at the rear, and picked up Sari.
“Weeee!”
“Circumstance! No! You'll hurt yourself.” Ellona reached out to stop him.
“No, I won't. She's light. Lighter than Jonas.” He calmly placed his little sister onto his shoulders, and continued to walk.
Ellona touched Ethan's arm.
He turned to look at her as he continued to walk. “You're worried about Circumstance.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded.
He looked back to see the boy carrying his stepsister. Circumstance was smiling broadly, showing his pointed canines. He didn't look to be staggered at all by his little sister's weight.
He turned back to Ellona. “Don't be. He's having fun. It's one of the few times I've seen him smile.”
She turned her head. “He is, isn't he?”
They walked along together for a while in silence, listening to the sounds of the wood and the Firth River running alongside it.
Ellona sighed.
Ethan glanced at her. “What is it?”
She gave him a small smile. “I was thinking about the future. About where we're going to live. What I'm going to do. What the children are going to do. Things like that.”
“All good reasons for a sigh.” He nodded in agreement. “As far as the children are concerned, I wouldn't presume to tell you not to worry. You're their mother. It's natural.”
“As far as what you're going to do, I'd like you to consider doing more spinning. You like it, and you're good at it, almost as good as my mother, and she's known as one of the best of the Wool Coast. Where we're going to live is another matter. One of the Wandering Folk came through Bantering a couple of weeks ago. He passed along the usual news about world events in their typical crazy quilt fashion.
“One of the items struck me. The Earl of the town where I first became a watchman died suddenly, leaving no heir. That means Berggren could become a nice place again, and I like the idea of the mountains being between us and that priest.”
* * * * Charity reined in her horse before the gully. The small creek running through it had had centuries to do its work. The gully walls were far too steep for the horses, and the gap between them was too wide to jump.
Flynn and Neely pulled up beside her. Flynn's draft horse pawed the ground, and wuffed through its nose.
“He's eager to be on.” Charity looked over at the big man. Astride that horse, he appeared to be of normal size.
“Aye, miss Charity, that he is. I ‘spect this is more fun than pullin’ a cheese cart day in an’ day out.”
Neely leaned forward in his saddle a squinted at the gully. “How in th’ bloody pit are we gonna get th’ horses over that bleedin’ thing?”
Charity turned in her saddle, and looked toward the forest that ran alongside their path. It had been their constant companion for days now, ever since the Wayfarer House. Neely called it the Long Wood. It was supposed to grow from Black Ben Mountain all the way to the headwaters of the Ort River, nearly thirty-five hundred miles to the south.
The gully appeared to narrow as it approached the forest. She turned her horse, and started to walk alongside the gully.
“'Ere now!” Neely called out to her. “Where you goin'?”
“To find a narrows, of course,” she called back. “Where else would I be going?”
“But, but there's ... oh damn!” Neely jerked his horse around, and followed her. “C'mon, Flynn. We'd better keep up. The way this trip is goin', we'll be sharing our supper with a pack of wolves next.”
“Flynn eased his huge horse around and followed Neely. “Oh good. I likes wolves.”
Neely muttered unmentionables under his breath as he followed Charity.
The gully continued to narrow as they followed its path into The Long Wood. The exposed ground below the long grasses at the gully's edge showed more and more rock mixed into the soil. The ground was just a little bit tougher for the water to cut into.
Tree roots started to show through the soil of the bank, and they found their path curving away from the gully as the trees grew thicker along its edge.
“We're being forced deeper into th’ wood.” Neely looked over his shoulder at Flynn. “There's wolves this far in.”
“We'll be ok, Neely.” Flynn pushed a branch away from his face. “We're makin’ a lot of noise. I imagine any wolves'd be scared away long before we'd see ‘em.”
Charity had to rein hard to the right to skirt a thick copse of Alders. The sun created a patchwork of light and shadow as it fell through the leaves. Frogs croaked at the horses as they passed by the Alders and moved into the Cottonwoods and Oaks.
A family gathering of sparrows exploded out of the trees, and caused the cat to look up and mnaaack at them as they flew by overhead.
Flynn laughed. “Hwaammphh! She wants ‘em to come down an’ play, she does.”
“Shhhh!” Neely looked around at the forest around them as if expecting shadowy gray forms to come hurtling at them from out of the green.
Charity looked back at Neely, and shook her head at his case of nerves. She'd always liked the forest. This one reminded her of the one backside of Aunt and Uncle's place.
“Down this way.” She turned her horse left, and followed a widening between the trees back towards the creek.
The Cottonwoods and Oaks soon gave way again to Alders and the croaking of frogs. Daffodils, and Skunk Cabbage with its distinctive sour smell, appeared and became more numerous. The horses’ hooves now left small depressions that filled with water as they passed.
“Our creek's become a swamp, fellows.” Charity called out to them from her position on point.
“Hope it's a shallow one.” Neely looked down at the black water with apprehension. Small bubbles rose up and popped on the turgid surface, releasing the scent of decay.
Small amphibious eyes watched them as they worked their way through the swampy ground. The croaks of the frogs quieted as they approached, and began again behind them like they were passing through a curtain of sound.
Flynn took advantage of the widening of the space, and moved his horse alongside of Neely's. “Well, we knows where the creek comes from.”
“That's a fact.” Neely replied. “Gotta be a bunch of smallish springs here ‘bouts. Bet this swamp goes on a ways, too.”
“Seems shallow enough.” Flynn considered the water.
Neely clicked his tongue at his horse. As much as he disliked admitting it, he was finding horseback more and more enjoyable.
“Dry land ahead!” Charity's call echoed around the swamp, silencing the frogs. A hooting birdcall sounded in the treetops ahead of them.
“Blue Fisher.” Neely said. “Probably after the frogs.” He nudged his horse's flanks with his heels to catch up with Charity.
Flynn kept with him, and they soon saw what Charity had called out about. A spot of dry land rose up above the waters of the swamp. Daffodils grew in clumps along its curve, and bundles of sword grass ringed the sides. A few of the grasses sported elaborate seed fronds. Some of them were being used as a handy perch for sweet-songed Redwings.
Charity reined her horse to a stop, and climbed down. She massaged her bottom as she looked around the patch of dry ground. The surface of the knoll was covered in a mix of short grasses, fragrant ground hugging herbs and wild flowers.
The horses took advantage of the rest, and began cropping the ground cover, jerking mouthfuls of the sweet mixture away from the soil with sharp twists of their heads.
Flynn and Neely followed Charity's example, and unhorsed, allowing their mounts to nose about the knoll for select morsels.
“Nice bit of ground here.” Neely plucked a small blossom from a wildflower, and sniffed it.
“Aye, it is.” Flynn deposited his bulk onto the soft ground with an audible thud.
Charity saw something in the soil, and motioned Flynn and Neely over to where she knelt. The cat was sniffing the spot, and puffing slightly. A ridge ran the length of her back, and her tail was larger again by half.
Neely knelt by Charity, and took a look at what the trouble was. “I told ya. I told ya both. There's wolves about!”
“Can you tell how long ago they were here?” Charity ran her hand down the cat's back, trying to soothe her.
Neely peered more closely at the tracks. There was a line of them leading to the East. The edge of the forest could be seen from where they knelt, with the horizon showing the rolling lands beyond.
“Strange.” Neely murmured.
“What?” Charity asked. Flynn looked to both of them, expecting another story.
“These tracks say th’ wolves headed east, out of th’ forest. Wolves don't do that Miss Charity. They live here, in Th’ Long Wood and up north in Wolfwood. They don't move out into th’ plains. Passin’ strange, it is.”
“Do they say how long ago this happened?” Charity did not like the idea of a Wolf Pack visiting her while she slept.
Neely studied the tracks again. “Ummm, ‘bout three, maybe four days ago. There was six ... no, seven cubs with ‘em, an’ a pregnant bitch.”
Charity looked at Neely with new respect. “You got all that?”
Flynn chuckled. “Said he was a tracker, he did. Didn't say how good, though. Neely's a natcheral at it. Reads the ground like a book, he does.”
“I'd say so.” She looked up at the sky. “Looks like we've about another three or four hours of daylight. I'd like to get out of this swamp, if we can, and put a few more miles under these horses before we camp.”
Neely groaned to his feet. Now that he'd a chance to be out of the saddle for a bit, his bottom had decided to start complaining about the abuse.
“Aye, miss. Might as well, but me bum's gonna be callin’ me names from here on out.
Flynn suggested a few.
Neely's ears burned a bright red under Charity's giggles and Flynn's guffaws as they splashed their way out of the swamp.

Chapter Fifteen
“It's so big.” Ellona's eyes grew huge as she tried to take in all of Berggren at once.
They arrived at the city gates on market day, and the streets were crowded with carts, stalls and wagons filled with goods coming into the market.
People thronged the Market Square and the streets feeding into it. The shouts of merchants and crafts folk competed for the ear of passers by.
The air was filled with the smells of cooking and spices as well as that of droppings left by the draft animals.
The combined clamor of the merchants, crafts folk, shoppers and animals was nearly deafening.
Jonas tugged at Ellona's skirts. “It's noisy, mommy.”
Sari chimed in. “Yeah, too noisy. Too crowded, too.”
She looked up at Ethan. “I wanna go home.”
Ethan knelt to look into Sari's face. “We are home, dear. This is our new home. Give it some time, and I'm sure you'll like it here.”
“It's too noisy. I want my old home.”
“Ethan! By Bardoc's beard, it is you. Ethan, my boy, you've come home!”
Ethan stood at the sound of his name, and turned to see an old man, slender, with sparse white hair and a short, full beard pushing his way through the crowd towards him.
“Sammel! It that you? Still alive after all these years?” A wide grin split Ethan's face, and he pushed forward to meet his old friend.
“Ha hah!” Sammel gripped Ethan's shoulders in joy. “Yes, it's me, you rapscallion. I'm much too ornery and far too rich to die. You should have known that.”
Ellona stood beside Ethan with the children gathered around her. “Is he a friend of yours, Ethan?”
“Ellona!” Ethan took her by the arm. “I want you to meet Sammel, an old, old friend of mine. He was the first one to treat me kindly after I received my Watchman commission.”
“That's because you were the only one not involved in some form of extortion, my boy.” Sammel took Ellona's hand, and bowed over it.
“So pleased to meet Ethan's beautiful lady. And of course, his children.”
Ellona blushed under the compliment, and chose not to correct the kindly old man.
“Who's he, mommy?” Jonas peered at Sammel from behind his mother's skirt.
“A friend of Ethan's, dear heart.” Ellona patted Jonas’ hand.
“He's ooold.”
Sammel threw back his head in a laugh. “Oh, he's a sharp one, he is. Of course I'm old, my dear. I've earned every one of these white hairs.” He pointed to his head. “Those that are left, anyway.”
He turned back to Ethan. “Where are you staying?”
Ethan shook his head. “We don't know yet. We've only been in the city for a little while, yet. Do you know of anything?”
Sammel beamed, creating a road map of creases in his face. “Such a question. Do I know of anything? You just follow me; I have a little place a few streets from here, over on Shilling street. You may remember the neighborhood, Ethan. It was part of the outer fringe of your watch territory at one time.”
Ethan frowned. “If I recall, that was not a good place to live, much less walk through.”
Ellona took hold of Ethan's arm. “Ethan ... the children.”
Sammel held up his hand. “No need to worry, dear lady. Things have changed greatly since Ethan left us. It has been nearly twenty years, Ethan. Those old storefronts and shops have been converted to homes and crafters studios. The thieves and bullyboys are long since gone. I had a small part to play in that, if I do say so myself.” He puffed out his chest at the last sentence.
The frown did not leave Ethan's face. “I don't know, Sammel. A neighborhood like that cleaned up ... doesn't seem possible.”
“I didn't say it was easy, Ethan.” Sammel's expression turned grave. “It took a lot of blood, and a number of good men died in the process.” He grimaced with the memory.
“You stormed the neighborhood?” Ethan was incredulous.
Sammel looked embarrassed. “Somebody had to.”
Ethan laughed out loud. “Sammel. You're a wonder! You should be the Mayor.”
Sammel held up his hands as if warding off a threat. “Oh, no. I want no part of that quagmire. I have enough troubles of my own without adding politics to the mix.”
Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. “I remember you being a wise man. I'm glad to see you haven't changed.”
“Who, me?” Sammel feigned innocent naïveté with wide blue eyes.
He clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. “Well, now. How about you folks follow me to your new home?”
Ellona looked at Ethan. “We haven't said we'd move in, yet, but we will look at it.”
“Good, good.” Sammel turned and began to part the crowd around them. “Come on, make way. Make way. Coming through here. Thank you.”
The crowds thinned rapidly once they were out of the main square. They followed Sammel along a street he called Candlewick lane. The cobblestones were tightly set with a few patches of moss showing green and amber at the joins.
He kept up a running commentary as they made their way along the streets, pointing out items and places of interest with an infective enthusiasm.
“Over there's Willum's Alehouse. Best pasties in this sector of town, bitter's a bit thin, though.
“That's where old lady Nanatette makes dresses. Pretty good still, for someone who's nearly old enough to be my mother.
“Remember this place, Ethan? Apperby's Toy Shoppe? You used to spend an hour or more, there every day.”
“I was just making sure he was safe, that's all.”
“Sure you were. I hear he had the old man teach him how to carve and work wood. Always interested in something new, Ethan was.”
With Sammel as tour guide, the walk to Shilling Street flew by, seemingly in no time at all.
Ethan looked at a neighborhood he remembered as being a place where good people just did not go, and the rats grew large enough to chase dogs.
Sammel was right. The place had changed. The buildings and storefronts were clean and whitewashed. Open shutters contrasted brightly against the clean walls, and flower boxes promised a riot of color when their buds finally burst, and the children! Children were playing openly in a street that used to display their broken bodies as a warning sign to interlopers. Their squeals of laughter echoed like bells in the open street.
Ellona stopped short and pointed. “Ethan! Look! She's spinning.”
The woman she pointed to was sitting in front of an open door, treading on a spinning wheel of ancient design. The wheel itself sat above a three-legged bench that tilted slightly forward. The gray wool she was spinning lay in a basket near her feet, next to a sleepy-looking dog with floppy ears and short reddish-brown hair. The creak of her wheel blended in with the shouts and laughs of the playing children.
“Her name is Nicoll. She sits here every day, when it isn't raining. She's quite a spinner, sells every skein she makes.”
“I know one even better.”
“Ethan!” Ellona shushed him.
“Look, mommy, spindling.” Sari noticed Nicoll at work.
“Spinning.” Jonas corrected his sister.
The dog noticed the attention being paid his owner, and wuffed at the children.
“Quiet, Red. No one is bothering you.” The woman spoke to the dog without taking her eyes off of her work.
“Afternoon, Nicoll. How're the children?” Sammel tipped an imaginary hat in greeting.
“Why, hello, Sammel. It's so good to see you. What brings you by the neighborhood?” She looked up and smiled at him while her feet and hands continued to work.
“I've an old friend and his family with me. They're moving into my old place.” He looked at Ethan and Ellona, with Sari and Jonas clinging to her skirts. “At least, I hope they are.”
The wheel stopped and Nicoll stood, brushing bits of wool off her skirts. She held out her hand to Ellona. “Well met, I'm called Nicoll, as this old gossip must have told you. I think I overheard your children recognize what I was doing. Do you spin?”
Ellona nodded. “Ethan taught me. He's originally from the Wool Coast.”
“Do you have a wheel?” Nicoll instantly regretted the question when she saw the sadness enter Ellona's eyes.
“She will again, soon.” Ethan stepped forward and held out his hand to Nicoll. “I'm called Ethan. This is Jonas, and the shy one there,” he pointed to where Sari was peeking out from behind her mother. “Is Sari.”
“And this strapping young fellow is called Circumstance.”
Nicoll rose several levels in Ethan's estimation when she made no sign of noticing Circumstance's obvious Elven heritage.
She nodded her head once in greeting. “Well met, Circumstance. Welcome to Berggren.” He nodded back, gravely.
“My name is Jonas, an’ this is Sari.” Jonas pulled his younger sister from behind her mother's skirts.
“Well met, Jonas. Well met, Sari. What do you think of my town?”
“This is your town? The whole place?” Jonas and Sari chorused their energetic reply.
Ellona rescued Nicoll. “We've bothered Nicoll enough for now, children. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Nicoll. I hope we can spin together someday.”
Nicoll smiled back. “As do I.”
Sammel beamed. “What did I tell you, Ethan? Transformed!”
Ethan looked around at the neighborhood. If the buildings were any judge of the people living in them, then this was a good place to get a new start.
He turned to look at the old man. “All right, Sammel, show us our new home.”
* * * * Flynn looked behind himself, and saw the line of trees fading into the distance. “We've come a fair piece already.”
Neely kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of his horse. “I'm just glad to be out of that swamp.” He scratched a forearm where some midges had gotten a quick supper.
It was the fifth day since they had worked their way around the creek and through the swamp. The mire's southern end was mostly stagnant water, home to clouds of hungry midges, mosquitoes and a pervasive stench like that of something long dead. The flying pests found Charity, Flynn and Neely welcome fare, indeed, and the bites itched terribly.
Charity turned in her saddle, and saw Neely scratching. “They'll heal faster if you don't scratch, you know.”
Neely scratched a little harder. “I know. I know.”
Flynn's stomach entered the conversation with a loud rumble.
Neely turned his head just enough to catch his friend out of the corner of his eye. “You tryin’ to tell us somethin'?”
“I agree.” Charity laughed. “It's long past time for lunch.”
The cat seconded with a meow from her now familiar perch on the top of Charity's saddlebags.
Neely nodded. “All right, then. How about that spot over there?” He pointed to an elongated glen nestled into the flank of a rolling rise in the landscape to their right. Oak, Madrone and fragrant Oilwoods crowded against the back wall of the rise in a horseshoe shape. Soft grasses and wild alfalfa mixed in with blue cornflower provided forage for the horses.
The Oilwood's pungent aroma swept across their path on a stray breeze; Charity sniffed the air. “Ummm. I love that smell.”
Neely hurried his horse forward with a nudge of his heels. “So do I, Charity, but for different reasons. Them Oilwood leaves'll help with this itch.”
Charity stuck her heels into her Dapple Grey's flanks, and surged forward to pass by Neely. “You're right. I should have remembered that.”
She hit the ground running as soon as her horse was inside the glen. One of the Oilwood trees bore branches that drooped enough for her to tear away some of the leaves. The pungent resinous smell of the leaves welled up as she crushed them and began smearing the oils over her arms and face where the insects of the swamp had bitten her. The relief was almost instantaneous.
“Ohhhh.” Neely sighed, as he treated his bites. “That feels near as good as hittin’ the hay with Molly McFadden, maybe better.”
Flynn reined in his draft animal, and patted her on the rump as he dismounted. The action of the Oilwood leaves against the bites that covered his face brought a huge smile of relief, and he sat down in the tall grass with a thump. “Oh, yeahhhhh.”
“Feels good, don't it?” Neely sat down across from Flynn. Their horse walked across the glen, noses in the tall grass, grazing.
“Stand and deliver!” The harsh command shocked them to their feet. Flynn and Neely's long knives appeared in their fists. Charity saw with chagrin that her bow was out of reach, still fitted into its wrap on the saddlebag.
The owner of the voice stepped out from behind one of the Oilwoods, a baker's dozen of toughs appeared with him, each of them armed with a variety of edged weapons.
The chief highwayman matched Neely in height and build, but his nose had been flattened for him sometime years earlier, and allowed to heal unset. His deep brown eyes swept across them from beneath heavily ridged brows that sprouted hair resembling black wool. He smiled at the show of knives, revealing chipped and stained teeth.
“A weed chewer.” Thought Neely. “Probably buzzing even now. Dangerous.”
The highwayman gestured with his sword. As tattered and worn as his outfit was, the sword's edge glittered with the sign of competent care. “Ah, ahh, lads. Methinks the little lady there would rather see your guts stay where they are. Drop yer stickers, an’ we'll have usselves a little talk.”
Neely looked at Flynn, and nodded. Fourteen to three was stiff odds at best. They dropped their knives into the grass.
He looked back at the highwayman, and crossed his arms, feeling the smaller knife hidden beneath his vest. “All right, let's talk. What's your business here, if we didn't know already.”
The highwayman scratched the black wool on his head, dislodging a number of vermin. He laughed sarcastically as he looked back at his band. “His lordship wants ta know what our business is, lads. Shall we tell ‘im?”
The band hooted and howled at the joke. He spat into the grass, and sneered at his three victims. “We wants whatever it is you got, bucko.”
Charity stepped forward, her mind whirling with Morgan's lessons and the results of over a year's worth of practice. “But we have nothing besides what you see; our few supplies, weapons and clothes. If you're hungry, we'll be glad to share what we can, but you can't leave us with nothing!”
He sneered again, spitting before he answered. “Like I said, me fine bitch. What you gots, we wants. Start strippin’ or start dyin'.”
Charity shifted her stance, taking on a loose-jointed look. Neely saw her change, and thought, “Oh damn. Here we go.”
He whispered to Flynn. “Get ready. She's gonna do it.”
Flynn didn't answer, but a subtle shift of his bulk said he was ready.
The highwayman saw the change in Charity and Flynn, and readjusted the grip on his sword. “So, it's gonna be the hard way, eh? Fine with me. Ok, lads, take ‘em out!”
The four thieves closest to Charity rushed her as one. She stepped in to meet the one slightly in front of the others, and did something with her hands. He yelped in pain, and landed on his side in front of where his fellows’ feet were going to be. Two of the thieves became tangled in with their companion, and landed across him. The remaining member of the foursome was a bit more agile, and hurdled the obstruction, only to be met by a hard heel in the solar plexus. He landed on his butt, vainly trying to breathe.
Flynn gathered two of the group in a bear hug, and squeezed. They dropped to the ground, groaning.
A third thief came against him more warily, weaving the blade of his battered glaive in a snake-like motion. Numbers four and five fanned out in a flanking maneuver, their short curved swords held low.
Neely dove under a thrown blade, and retrieved his long knife while throwing the one hidden in his vest with a flick of his left hand. The blade sank hilt-deep into the throat of the knife thrower. The impaled thief's scream gurgled around the knife while he weakly attempted to reach its handle. His reaching hands trembled in place for a long moment, and then, as if in slow motion, the thief fell backwards onto the grass.
One of the band, with long dwarf-like braids hanging down his back, went after Charity's Dapple Gray. The mare shied and skipped backwards, striking outward with her forelegs. Another thief joined the one with braids, and tried to reach for the reins. She rewarded him for his trouble with a hoof to the knee. The other one heard bone crack.
Three of them encircled Charity, feinting in and out, swiping and jabbing at her with the points of their knives. She turned with them, keeping her front to the one closest to her at the time. One of them, a redhead with thickly matted hair and sallow skin, pushed his jab, trying to get inside her reach. He succeeded, and she wrapped her hand around the wrist, twisting it the wrong way against the joint. Charity then removed the knife as her left foot connected against the cheekbone of the one sliding in against her blind side. He tumbled to the ground, senseless.
She spun on her right foot, and faced the two left standing with the knife in her hand. “You want some more of this?”
They backed slowly out of her reach. The redhead massaged his wrist and looked for reinforcements. The other one turned and looked for easier prey.
Their leader was practically dancing in his fury. “Take them, you fools! It's only the three of them, and only one real man among them. What does it take to handle a fat man and a girl?”
Flynn's four opponents closed in on him like terriers worrying a mastiff. The one with the glaive swept its blade in a fast arc, aiming at his chest. Flynn threw up his knife to block it, but the thief quickly reversed direction, and caught the big man a glancing blow with the spike end of his weapon.
The thief flanking Flynn's right side darted in as he flinched to avoid greater damage from the glaive's spike. He pulled back his arm to stab Flynn in the back, and his body followed that arm into the grass, a knife protruding from his chest.
Neely yelled at Flynn. “Keep yer bloody eyes open, thickhead. Don't be such a whittle, an’ you'll live longer!”
Flynn waved his thanks, and backhanded another of the flankers with it while he was distracted by Neely's yell. The angle the thief's head lay said he wouldn't be thieving much in the future.
Neely ran straight at two of the band while they were trying to decide who to attack, and clotheslined one of them. The other ducked and whirled to face him, knife held loosely and low. This one had the look of an experienced fighter.
The bandleader looked at the fight around him. The odds were becoming too even. That demon of a horse had killed or knocked out two more of his men, leaving him with just three beside himself. His best knife man was facing the skinny one, and Finn the Red had the girl. The fat one was facing down Rubert and his glaive, but he didn't hold much hope for Rubert. The fellow was too quick to take chances for his own good.
Charity crouched as she kept her eyes on those of the redhead. The eyes usually moved a split second before the body did. If you watched closely, they told you what was coming.
The redhead feinted right then left, then struck left again, expecting his quarry to have fallen into the trap of the rhythm but she wasn't there, and his wrist was trapped again in that devil's hold of hers. His second blade was taken from him.
“Arrrggghhh!” He felt the bones in the joint give way as he tried to force his way out of the bitch's grip.
“It's your own fault you know.” She told him as she forced him to his knees. “It wouldn't have broken if you had just gone with it and sat down like you were supposed to.”
The words came out of his mouth through teeth clenched against the agony. “A slip of a girl ... how can you...?”
Charity brought her knee up sharply to the point of his chin, ending both what he was going to ask and his consciousness, together.
She spun on her other heel to face the one who had started it all.
The highwayman snarled at her. “Come on, bitch! I'll split yer from twat to chin, by the pit, I will!” He spat out a bit more of the brown wad he was chewing.
Charity shook her head. “No, you won't, and I'm not going to waste my time fussing with you.”
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Neely and his opponent were dancing closer and closer to where she and the bandleader stood.
Their movements seemed choreographed. Slash and parry, bob and weave. Thin lines of red stood out starkly against the white of Neely's blouse where the dance had come too close. His opponent's left arm hung useless at his side, testimony to the reach of Neely's long arms.
The tracker ducked beneath a backhand swipe of the other's knife, and then arched backwards to avoid being disemboweled by a sudden change of direction. His heel slipped on a pile of horse droppings, sending him into the grass, off-balance, and flat on his back. The knife squirted from his hand, and landed out of his reach.
“Hah!” The thief gloated. “Gotcha now, slick!”
He tossed the knife back and forth from hand to hand as he sidled around Neely, looking for an opening.
“Gut ‘im, Lengen. Leave ‘im fer the crows.” His leader called out.
“Hear that, Slick?” Lengen snickered through his matted beard. “Doogin wants ya gutted. Let's see iffn we kin do that, eh?”
The thief darted in at Neely, his knife sweeping at the tracker's midsection.
Neely twisted to the side as he threw his fist at the thief's jaw in a desperate roundhouse. He connected just as the tip of the blade cut a furrow across his ribcage, drawing out a hiss of pain.
The thief's head rocked with the blow, and he fell off to Neely's left side, rolling away from the elbow that followed.
He climbed to his hands and knees, only to fall a last time to a straight-legged kick from Charity.
“That was a foul blow!” The highwayman yelled. “You gave ‘im no chance. No chance at all!”
“I didn't intend to.” Charity stepped around Neely and ran the few steps it took to get to her horse. She pulled out her bow and strung it, nocking an arrow and immediately aiming it at the highwayman.
“Ok. Call off your men who're left, or I send this shaft right through your eye.”
Doogin flicked his eyes left and right, gauging his chances of making it to cover. The answer didn't please him.
He seemed to shrink in size, like a tomcat loosing its puff. His sword fell into the grass. “Rubert!” He called out to the fellow fighting Flynn. “Leave off. Leave off, I say!”
The thief backed away from Flynn. and lowered his glaive. They were both breathing heavily. Flynn sounded like a bellows as he puffed and blowed.
Charity nodded. “Good. Now, the three of you get together so I don't have to keep turning my head. Get up, Neely.”
He climbed to his feet, and stood, swaying slightly in the aftermath of the fighting.
Charity saw the bloodstain spreading through the fabric of his blouse, and raised the arrow to point. “If he dies...”
Doogin held his hands up as if they would shield him from the arrow. “Deity! No, lady. Please. I don't want to die.”
Neely held his hand over his ribs as he trudged across the glen to his horse. The old gelding hadn't moved an inch during the fighting.
He looked at Charity as he passed her. “I'll be all right, Charity. Flynn'll bind me up. Th’ fixin's are in my bags here.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bundle of cloth and a jar of ointment. Flynn hurried over and helped him off with his vest and blouse.
Charity watched Flynn's ministrations to Neely for a while, keeping a close eye on the Highwayman and the standing survivors of his gang. When it looked as if Neely was going to be all right as he had said, she lowered her bow and indicated to Doogin with a point of her chin the rest of the band that lay in the grass.
“Ok, you three start covering your dead so the wild animals can't get to them. When those who aren't dead come to, they can help you.”
The redhead glared at her as he cradled his wrist with his good hand. “What about me? Me hand's broke, I can't do nothin.”
“You can pick up stuff with your other hand, can't you? I still have this arrow nocked.” She lifted the half-drawn bow slightly. “And you're not one of my favorite people.”
Finn the Red scrambled to join Doogin and Rubert in picking up stones and sticks for their dead companions’ burial mounds.
Flynn finished with his binding of Neely's wounds, and they searched through the grass, picking up what weapons they could find. Flynn appropriated the glaive for his own use, ignoring the glare sent his way by Rubert.
Doogin objected when he saw them stuffing the purloined weapons into their horses’ saddlebags. “Ere now! You can't go off an’ leave us helpless. It ain't charitable.”
Neely smirked. “And what you was gonna do to us was? Least we's leavin’ you alive.”
Charity put her foot into her saddle's left stirrup, and swung herself into position. Her mare stamped the soft ground, eager to be off. “I'm going to keep watch every now and then to make sure you boys are keeping to yourselves, and not following us. And just so you do, I want you to keep an eye on that acorn across the glen.”
She pulled out her bow, restrung it and drew an arrow to her ear.
The silence that greeted the dropping of the acorn was audible.
Doogin scratched himself behind an ear, and swallowed. “Uh ... me an’ the boys ... we'll be goin’ north.”
* * * * Neely brushed the dirt off of his hands as he walked back to his horse. “Nope, not a track. Lessen you call an old bug hole a track.”
Flynn muttered to himself as Neely remounted. “Coulda sworn it were a track.”
Charity, Flynn and Neely were east of the slopes leading to Dragonglade. The last of the Long Wood was just a dark line on the northern horizon. The shadows of the mountains crept toward them as the sun began to dip below the jagged peaks to their west.
Charity reached forward and patted the neck of her Dapple Gray mare as the horse bent her head to crop the dark green grass.
“Well, I guess we should be satisfied we're well clear of the outlaws.” She spoke half to herself. “We haven't seen any tracks of men or horses for the past hundred miles or more.”
Neely reined his horse back into line with Charity and Flynn. “Doesn't hurt to keep an eye out, just in case.”
Charity urged her mount onward with a click of her tongue. “I suppose you're right. I'd rather not have to take on four-to-one odds again any time soon.”
“You're pretty good at it, Miss Charity.” Flynn pulled an apple out of his right-hand saddlebag and took a bite out of it.
She hid her smile with a yawn. “Doesn't mean I want to do it on a daily basis.”
Charity then turned in the saddle to look at Neely. “Do you know anything of the land between here and Ort?”
He shook his head. “Not a blessed thing. Spent my time on the East side of Cloudhook. The headwaters of the Ort are supposed to be in this part of the country,” He looked around at the deepening shadows. “Somewhere...”
“There's a river with the same name as a city?” Charity asked.
“It's the way they do things.” Neely shrugged. “You come across a good name, makes sense to put it on as many things as it fits. Logical, really.”
Charity thought, “Confusing, really.”
Flynn mumbled something. Charity barely caught the word river in what he said.
She reined the mare in, allowing Flynn's draft horse to catch up. “What was that? Something about a river?”
Flynn looked down as his left hand toyed with the pommel on the saddle. “I wuz just thinkin', that's all.”
“Thinking? About what?”
“You'd just think I wuz bein’ silly.”
Charity reached up and touched Flynn on his huge arm. “No, I won't. And you know that.”
The big man's face twitched with a small, brief smile. “I wuz just talkin’ to meself, wonderin’ like, y'know, about the river? I ain't never seen a real river. Oh, I seen lots ‘n lots o’ creeks an’ streams, mind you. But a river. They say th’ Ort's gots places where you can't see th’ other side, it's so wide.
“Anyway, that's what I wuz talkin’ to meself about. Nuthin’ much, really.”
Charity patted his arm where she'd touched it. “I think it's sweet. This has to be a real adventure for you. I'm glad.”
The cat took the closeness of the two horses as an opportunity to jump up to a higher vantage point. She arched her back as she rubbed against Flynn, her tail held like a furry flagpole.
Charity giggled. “It looks like she's decided you're her new friend.”
Neely snorted from his position to the rear of them. “If we're quite through foolin’ around here, I'd like to find a good campsite before th’ bloody moon comes out.”
“He's right on that, Miss Charity.” Flynn squinted at the line of red light on the mountaintops. “It's gettin’ dark, fast. I'd druther not have to do my wood gatherin’ all in th’ dark.”
The cat echoed Flynn's sentiments with a meow.
Charity nodded and stood in the stirrups as she tried to check the landscape ahead of them.
“How about up there?” She pointed to a rise in the land that was a bowshot to their southwest. “That looks like a small stand of trees, which means we'll have wood for a fire, at least.”
Neely squinted as he tried to see the spot Charity was pointing out to them. “Y'say there's trees up there? Where? Can't see a bloody thing in this gloom.”
“She's got the younger eyes, Neely. They's probably trees where she says they is. C'mon, ol’ boy.” He kicked his heels gently into the draft horse's flanks, and started into a brisk walk up the slope behind Charity.
Neely pulled Wilbut into line behind Flynn's horse and they followed Charity and her younger eyes up to the trees and to their camp for the night.
Charity guided her horse through the maze of boulders and dead trees down the slope toward the flat below, with one hand on the halter and the other reaching for whatever handhold was handy. The Dapple Gray mare followed her docilely, trusting in Charity's ability to know the best path to the grass below. The cat rode in her accustomed place behind the saddle, watching their progress with interest.
“Them's gotta be the headwaters, I'll bet.” Flynn was in line behind Charity, his large draft horse's dinner plate hooves finding the loose foundation underfoot more secure than those of his smaller cousins.
Neely clicked his tongue, and rubbed Wilbut's muzzle, reassuring the older horse as they trailed Flynn. “Good. The horses'll need th’ fresh water, an’ I'm ‘bout parched meself. Haven't seen a spring for the past two days. Where in th’ pit is all th’ blinkin’ water?”
Flynn pointed to the headwaters. “There.”
Neely hoped his large friend could feel his glare. “Har de har har.”
“Well, it is.”
Charity started to slip in loose shale, and caught herself on the corpse of an old Madrone that jutted from between two cow-sized boulders colored a dusty pink with streaks of mud gray shooting through them. “You two better pay more attention to the trail. I don't want to have both of you in my lap. It's really loose here. Hush, girl. There's a good lass.” She soothed the mare as some more of the shale went skittering down the slope.
Neely called out from his spot in the rear, “Ease up there, Charity, we're doin’ no good this way. See those big stones off to your left?”
Charity shaded her eyes with the palm of her hand, and looked where Neely indicated. “I see them.”
“Looks like a switch back to me, from up here. May take us a bit more time than this straight downhill shot we're doin', but at least we'll get there in one piece.”
Charity looked over her shoulder at Flynn. “What do you think, Flynn? It's three of us here.”
He rubbed the salt and rust stubble on his chin. “Well, now, Miss Charity. I'm not sayin’ I'd druther have Neely leadin’ us instead of you, I wants you to know that.”
She nodded her understanding.
Flynn's chest heaved with a sigh. “Neely's th’ best of the three of us when it comes ta trackin'. Iffn he sees a switchback, you can bet money it's there. I don't much fancy me landin’ in your lap, meself not that it isn't a fine lookin’ lap, mind you.”
Charity's laughter was infectious, and lightened the mood of their climb down to the headwaters of the Ort River.
Neely's guess proved correct in both matters. The series of switchbacks he found allowed them to lead the horses with much less of a chance of a fall. But it lengthened the time of the descent to the point that it was well into the afternoon by the time they came out onto the flat.
The mighty Ort's headwaters, as with most major rivers, were something of an understatement compared to what they became several miles downstream. The flat where they began was the northern tip of a series of valleys that extended hundreds of leagues to the south, ending at the miles wide mouth of the Ort River where it met the Southern sea below the city of the same name.
Charity could see at least a dozen small springs flowing out from under the hill of rubble they'd descended. She pointed to a spot where several of them had cut tiny canyons into the soft earth of the flat. “There's where all the water's been hiding, Neely. It's under that pile of rock and driftwood we were on.”
“Aye.” He turned and looked up to where they'd begun their climb down. “Wonder what caused all this to pile up here? Looks like some giant cleaned his yard, an’ this is th’ trash heap.”
Charity watched her mare drink from one of the streams. The cat was across from the mare, lapping up some of the water with flicks of her quick pink tongue. She glanced back at the debris hill. “I can't answer that one. You're right, though. It does look unnatural, almost as if a giant shovel scooped out all the litter from around us, and piled it all there.” She pointed at the hill, and then began filling her water bags.
“Bet it wuz th’ magik war whut done it.” Flynn squatted to fill his own bags. “I'd sure liked ta have seen that.”
“Enough of that!” Neely busied himself checking the cinches on his tack. “Magik makes my skin crawl. Unnatural, it is. Man shouldn't mess around with such stuff. Them wizards an’ sorcerers murdered whole cities. It's all from straight outta th’ Pit, nohow.”
Charity's eyebrows climbed into her scalp line. “Oh?”
Flynn chuckled. “Yer foot's in it now, Neely.”
Charity demurely secured the cork in her last bag as she walked over to Neely. When she was close enough to stand toe to toe with him, she looked up into his face, and smiled. “Are you telling me that my brother, my twin brother was a creature straight out of the Pit?” Her voice was soft and gently modulated, but each word drove into Neely's gut like a hammer blow.
He tried to smile, but the effort was a sickly one at best. “Uh ... miss Charity. ‘Bout your brother...”
Charity smiled back at him. Her expression promised mayhem. “What about my brother?”
Neely backed away. “Nuthin'. I meant nuthin’ by it, Charity. I mean that. My grandad, he tol’ me stories ‘bout th’ magik war an’ whut was done to th’ folk back then. Gave me nightmares, they did. I'm sure your brother's as good a man as you're a woman. Whether he does magik or not.”
Flynn clapped his hands. “Good answer, Neely. Good answer. You kin skin ‘im now, Miss Charity.”
Neely's glare shot knives at Flynn.
Charity put her hands behind her back, and nodded at Flynn. “Thank you, Flynn, but I think Neely looks much better in his skin than out of it.”
She looked back at Neely. “Your apology is accepted, and you can be sure that if you ever had met my brother, you'd have found he's worth every bit of respect you could show him. Now, shall we be on our way?”
The three of them climbed back into their saddles. Charity scooped up the cat and placed her back onto the saddlebags, and they started the horses walking along the Ort as it made its way into the Southlands. The flat was more than wide enough, so they rode side by side. Flynn was on the outside, Neely in the middle, and Charity rode next to the bank.
The river grew wider and deeper as the miles eased into the background. Soon cattails and rushes began to appear as a buffer between the banks and the slow moving water.
“Looks like I'll be cuttin’ myself a willow branch soon.” Flynn remarked. “A nice bit of fire roasted fish would go down proper.”
Charity eased her mare closer to the bank so she could see over the rushes. “Yes, I think I'd like that. It'd make a nice change from biscuits and stew.”
“I'll keep with th’ stew an’ biscuits, thank you.” Neely said.
Charity turned in her saddle. “What's the matter? Don't you like fish?”
He shuddered. “Can't stand ‘em. Won't eat ‘em.”
Flynn laughed. “Don't even try it, Miss Charity. Long as I've known ‘im, he's been this way. Won't even try a nice bit of fry an’ chips.”
Neely shuddered again. “Eeuugghh.”
Charity turned back to face the direction they were riding. “Looks like a good time for another one of your stories, Neely.”
Both Flynn and Charity could feel the face Neely made.
Flynn chuckled again. “May as well tell it, Neely. She's gonna dig it outta you, one way or another.”
Neely flicked his horse's reins irritatedly. “Man can't keep one little secret with you two,” he muttered, “All right, here it is, but it's the last one. You hear?”
Charity said. “If that's the way you want it. But, didn't you feel better after telling us about your adventure with the Grisham merchant?”
Flynn chimed in. “She's right on that one, Neely. You did feel better.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He rubbed the back of his neck, in thought. A fish broke the surface of the water as it took in a skipper bug for supper.
“Ok, back when I was just a lad. Skinned knees an’ all. Me an’ my friends liked to hang around th’ docks an’ watch th’ boats an’ ships come in an’ out of port. I'll tell you. We saw some of th’ most outlandish folk. Saw one old salt with a for-real peg leg. Carved outta ivory or bone, had scrimshaw all over it.
“Well one day we saw one of th’ biggest ships ever to come into port. Had three decks, an’ two of ‘em for th’ oars. Up on top, th’ forecastle looked big enough to use for a barn, an’ it had dragon wings carved into its sides.”
“Why? Did you ever find out?” Charity loved stories, and this one already captivated her.
“Nope. Never did. Got my suspicions, though.” Neely shook his head, then nodded.
“Me an’ th’ boys, we was real curious about this here ship. When the soldiers come off it, well, it just made th’ wonderin’ worse.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, I'll tell ya Charity. These fellers had skin th’ color of a chestnut, and hair like silver thread comin’ out from under their helmets. Those helmets had wings on ‘em, just like th’ wings carved into the forecastle, and you shoulda seen th’ jools.”
“Jewels?” Charity and Flynn spoke the word in unison.
“Oh, yeah. They was stuck into th’ ship, here an’ there, you know, random-like. Least ways, I couldn't see a pattern. Them fellers in th’ ship, they mighta said different, iffin we coulda understood ‘em.”
“Why couldn't you understand them? Everyone I've met, wherever I've gone, they all spoke the same language. Only the accents have been different. Are you sure it wasn't just a strange accent, and it made them difficult to understand?” Charity turned in the saddle to ask the question.
“Not with words like gundzptx or whatever it was, Sounded like they was sneezin’ instead of talkin'.”
“Anyway, we was sittin’ there, hidin’ behind these barrels, watchin th’ soldiers an’ lookin’ at all those jools stuck into that big boat, when one o’ me buds gets it into his head we should wait for dark an’ sneak on board. You know, go after some o’ them jools.”
“What's this got to do with you not likin’ fish?” Flynn queried.
“I'm gettin’ there. I'm gettin’ there. We decided to choose who got to go first by drawin’ lots. Guess who got th’ short one?”
“You?” Charity asked.
“Me. After we was through with th’ choosin, another feller come down outta th’ forecastle an’ onto th’ dock. He was as dark as th’ others, but where they was near as tall as Flynn here, but half as wide...”
Flynn chuckled good-naturedly at the rib.
“This guy was half as tall and near twice as wide. I swear, he looked wider than he was tall. Never seen such a fat man, haven't since. Well, he starts jabberin’ at th’ soldiers in that same sneezy talk, an’ then they all take up an’ follow him on down th’ dock to where th’ warehouses was. Leavin’ that lovely gangplank wide open for the explorin'.”
“I took me a good look around to see if any of those fellers off th’ ship was watchin. They wasn't, so I scampered real quick across to th’ gangplank an’ up into th’ ship. I figured I could wiggle out a couple of those jools outta their sockets, and get back to me buds before anyone was th’ wiser.”
His sigh was audible to both Charity and Flynn. “Boy, was I wrong. I was workin’ me blade into th’ socket of a ruby ‘bout th’ size of a hen's egg when I got picked up by th’ scruff o’ me neck. It was one of those big soldiers. He spun me around in his hand, an’ jabbered somethin’ at me. I didn't know what he was sayin', so I kept me mouth shut. I guess it was th’ wrong thing to do, ‘cause he shook me like a dog shakes a mouse, and said whatever it was all over again.”
“I think he might have gone on doin’ that ‘till he broke my neck, but before he could, another of those fat guys come outta th’ forecastle. He jabbered at th’ soldier a bit, an’ then he turned to look up at me, my feet was still a couple of feet offa th’ floor.”
“Is what Suldam Gessit says true? Were you attempting to purloin one of the Sacred Eyes of Tettwain? He talked to me usin’ real talk.”
“You coulda knocked me over with a feather. I sure wasn't expectin’ th’ little fat guy to be speakin’ in plain talk. I looked back at him, an’ all I could think of sayin was,
“Let me go. I wanna go home.”
“Th’ little fat guy just smiled at me. I noticed his hair was done up like that of some o’ th’ fancy women I'd see hanging’ around th’ show halls, an’ comin’ outta those big black carriages with matched horse teams. His mustache was done up with little gold beads, an’ it hung down below his chins.”
“He turned back to th’ guy holdin’ me, th’ guy must've been strong as a troll ‘cause his arm never even trembled, an’ jabbered some more at him. The guy jabbered back.”
“He turned back to me, an’ said,’ Suldam Gessit says you must be punished for your crime'. I agree. Even though you are young, what you attempted to do was against our law and the will of Tettuwain. If you were an adult, you would loose a hand and both your eyes for such an offense.”
“What? They were going to cut off a hand and blind you?” Charity couldn't believe her ears.
“They was strange folk, miss Charity, with strange ways. I never did learn where they was from. Not sure I want to find out. Some lessons you never unlearn.”
“Anyway, as you can see, they didn't cut me hand off or gouge out my eyes. No, what they did was stuff me into a barrel of fish.”
“What?”
“Ho ho. So that's where it comes from.” Flynn laughed out loud.
“You wouldn't've thought it so funny if it was you havin’ to breathe an’ taste raw fish goin’ bad for three days.”
“Three days!?”
“That's right, miss Charity. Three days. No water, little enough air and no food, lessen I wanted to eat raw fish.”
She rewarded that thought with a face.
“I could hear th’ soldiers outside th’ barrel jabberin’ at each other in that funny sounding’ tongue o’ theirs. I'm sure they heard me yellin’ an’ cry'n through th’ holes in the barrel, but none of it did no good. I fell asleep in there, twice. When I woke up th’ second time, I heard no jabberin’ so I started yellin’ an’ screamin’ for all I was worth. It took a while, but someone finally popped th’ lid offa that barrel. I can't remember much of what the guy looked like or who he was, but I'm damn sure he'll never forget me. I crawled outta that barrel, and slapped a hug fulla dead fish guts onto him. I've made it my business to keep as far as I could from a fish dinner ever since then.”
“Did you ever see that ship or those soldiers again?” Charity nudged her horse around a clump of sword grass.
Neely scratched the darkening stubble on his cheek. “No. Never did, but I did some askin’ around over th’ years. Most of what folk've told me smacks of legend at best. Th’ majority of ‘em say th’ land west of Angbar is where they come from. I remember askin’ an’ old codger on th’ dock ‘bout this Tettuwain. He made a warden’ sign an’ slammed th’ door on me. I never did learn much about those folk, but I can tell you this, there's gonna be trouble with ‘em. I can't say when, but it's gonna happen.”
* * * * Flynn took his hands off the reins, and stretched, yawning hugely. “Eaaaaaa. It's gettin’ dim, and I'm ‘bout beat. How's about we start peelin’ our eyes for a place to set for th’ night?”
“You just want to get out that willow pole you put together.” Neely growled at him from his spot in the line.
Flynn eyed the widening river with contemplation. “It does look like a good spot...”
“Oh, give me a bleedin’ break!” Neely exclaimed. “If you like eatin’ th’ disgustin’ things so much, why don't you just build a bloody raft, and join them in their flickin’ world.”
Charity pulled back on her reins and halted her mare. “You know, that's a good idea.” She ran her free hand down the cat's back, who rewarded her with a loud purr.
“What?” Neely's stomach felt suddenly hollow.
“Building a raft. That's a very good idea, Neely. I'm glad you thought of it.”
“What?” Neely couldn't believe his ears. He began silently kicking himself in his mind.
“I'll say it is, Miss Charity.” Flynn pointed off to their right. “Them trees over there got's real straight trunks, and they's not too big around, neither.”
Charity looked where Flynn pointed. A thick stand of Alder grew on the backside of a rise in the bank about fifty yards from the river's edge.
She pulled her horse around and started toward the rise. “Looks good enough for me. Shall we make camp?”
Neely swung the axe with enough force to drive the deeply curved blade halfway through the Alder trunk.
“Me an’ my bloody big mouth.” He muttered to himself as he worked the blade back and forth, easing it out of the cut to swing again, opening a large notch. “Should learn to keep it shut is what I should do.”
Flynn grunted as he swung his own axe. “Ease over, Neely. Raftin's fun.”
Chunnkk! Neely's axe swung again. Like Flynn's, it was one of the weapons captured from the thief's band. “I know that. What's eatin’ me is havin’ to be eatin’ fish. Just th’ thought of it puts me right back in that barrel.” Chunnkk!
Flynn and Neely chopped, and Charity trimmed the logs. When they collected a good-sized pile, they tied them into a skid, with Neely's directions, which Flynn's draft horse easily dragged down to the river's edge.
The cat watched the proceedings from her chosen perch at the edge of the Alders. Work of this sort was strictly for humans.
“Think that's enough?” Flynn flipped the reins back over his horse's saddle as he walked back to the skid.
“We won't know till we put ‘em in th’ water. We'll be building some of th’ raft in th’ river, I think.” Neely wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“You've built rafts before? The way you feel about fishing?” Charity worked at untying the knots holding the Alder logs.
Neely's mouth twitched. “Raftin’ isn't fishin', Charity. Sometimes it's easier an’ faster to move freight down th’ river than humpin’ a bunch of oxen cross country. I've built my share of ‘em.”
Charity looked back at the pile of logs. “How do we start, then?”
“Like this, grab th’ other end of this one, here.” Neely walked around to the end of the pile and selected one of the thicker logs.
Flynn stepped and took Charity's end of the log. “This'un's a mite too big, Miss Charity. I'll take it for ya.”
Charity stood there while they positioned the log perpendicular to the rest of the pile. “Well, I'm not going to just watch you guys work while I do nothing. There's got to be something I can do.”
Neely looked at the pile, and then back where they did the cutting and trimming. “Tell you what. We're going to be needin’ a mess of dowels for this job. You, with your deft hands, should be good at that. Grab a batch of twigs ‘bout this thick,” He measured three quarters of an inch with his thumb and forefinger. “And trim ‘em clean, then cut ‘em so they're all ‘bout a foot long. When you've got that done, Flynn an’ me should be ready to start burnin’ th’ holes.”
Charity looked back at the campfire. It was a good fifty yards from where they were working. “Then I probably should get a work fire going here first, then start on making the dowels.”
Flynn nodded and smiled as he lifted his end of the next log. “There's a lass with a head on her shoulders, eh Neely?”
“Right you are, Flynn.” Neely grunted as he picked up his end. “Right you are.”
The two men laid the logs side by side until they had a foundation wide enough for the horses to stand on, with enough room for another horse on either side. This made for a platform approximately twenty feet square.
“Now we start layin’ th’ cross pieces, an’ this is where those dowels'll come in handy. I don't fancy a raft that starts comin’ apart on me in mid river.” Neely rummaged through the pile selecting logs that were about half the thickness of the previous layer.
He looked over at Charity. “How's that fire comin?”
“Almost got it.” Charity struck her flint with the back edge of her knife, sending a white-hot spark into the small pile of tinder she had built inside a ring of stones. A tendril of smoke rose snake-like from the tinder, and she blew on it gently until a tiny flame flared up from the pile. Quickly, she added a few small dry twigs, and then a few more after they caught. In short order, she had a respectable blaze going.
Flynn grunted in approval at the work fire burning merrily a few feet away from where they were building the raft. “She's gonna make someone a fine missus someday. You can mark me word on that one.”
Neely chuckled as he picked up his end of one of the thinner logs. “Well, it sure ain't gonna be you, Flynn.”
Flynn blushed furiously.
She cleared her throat, and stood up from the fire. “Ok, how do we use the dowels?”
Neely looked back at the fire, and then bent to pick up a small branch about as thick as his finger. “I'll show ya.”
He put the stick into the fire and held it there until the end began to glow red. Then he placed the burning end against one of the smaller logs approximately six inches from its end.
“This gives us a good-sized starting point,” he said, as the smoke began to curl up from the log.
Charity placed her hands on her hips. “A starting point for what?”
Flynn chuckled to himself. “I think I knows. He's settin’ himself up to do a bit o’ drill burnin'.”
“Drill burning?” Charity looked and sounded puzzled.
Flynn used his hands to demonstrate with gestures. “It's kinda like starting a fire by rubbin’ th’ end of a stick against another one by using a small bow, ‘cept instead of startin’ a fire, we wants to burn a hole through th’ log.”
Neely was nearly done making the bow. He wrapped the other end of the leather thong securely around the remaining end of the Alder branch, and then looped the thong once around the stick he used to burn the pilot hole.
Charity followed Neely's preparations closely. “Oh, I see ... Flynn and I could do this too, couldn't we?”
Neely had begun his drilling. “Sure could. Cut our time in half, it might. Should be doin’ this with an auger, but since we don't have one...”
Charity and Flynn bent to making their own bow drills with a will.
It took the three of them nearly two and a half days to burn holes through all the logs, and by the time the last one was finished, they all felt as though their arms would fall off.
Flynn dropped his stick and bow. “Crikey. Me arm's feel like Granny's pudddin', all lumpy an’ runny. I got no strength left at all.”
Charity sat where she stopped, and rubbed her own arms. “Mine feel like they're burning in their own fat. I say we buy an auger the next town we come to. I don't know about you, Neely, but I don't want to have to go through all that again just to build a raft.”
Neely pulled his arm across his brow, wiping away more sweat. “I'm with you there, lass. Problem is, we're only half way done. We still got's to put th’ thing together.”
“Oh ... yeah.” Charity looked at the framework of holed logs with a sinking feeling. She felt completely worn through, and didn't want to have to do more work. Then she steeled herself, and sat upright from her slump. “What's next, then?”
Neely groaned as he stood. “Uhhhh, my back's gonna be gripin’ at me for this.” He walked over to a pile of trimmings, and pulled out from it several finger-thick branches.
He walked to where Charity and Flynn still sat. “We never did get them dowels done. Remember?”
Charity slapped her forehead. “Ohhh, drat! I got so caught up in the drilling I forgot all about making the dowels for the holes.”
She paused for a breath, and then said, “That's what the dowels are for, isn't it? They're going to be used to hold the logs together, aren't they?”
Neely dropped the branches in front of her and Flynn. “Aye, that's what they're for. Now we gotta make ‘em.”
Charity picked up one of the branches, and began trimming the small branches away from what would become the dowel. Flynn and Neely did the same. They worked steadily, cutting, trimming and smoothing for a couple of hours until a good-sized pile of trimmed lengths lay at their feet.
Neely picked up one of the dowels, and motioned for Flynn to join him. They lined up the hole burnt through the smaller log with that of the one underneath, and then Neely pushed the dowel into the hole. Flynn picked up a length of Alder that was thick enough for a good cudgel, and pounded the dowel the rest of the way through.
Charity followed the job with interest. “And that's why we had to burn all those holes in the smaller logs.”
Neely nodded. “That's why. Doesn't do any good iffn they float away in th’ water. That crisscross has to be tight, an’ we don't have no nails with us, nor no blacksmith close by to make ‘em. Them dowels'll swell when they gets wet. Be a tighter bond than nails, anyhow.”
Flynn nodded as he picked a couple more dowels. “That's a fact, that is. Good thinkin', Neely.”
Neely grunted. “Naw. Just experience.”
Another couple of hours was spent hammering dowels into place. By the time that task was done, it was time for supper, rest and a good night's sleep.
The three of them, exhausted by the exertion of the day's labors, were barely aware of their heads touching the rolled blankets that served as pillows. Charity was joined by a black shadow that burrowed its way into her bedroll, and vibrated her with quiet purrs until she dropped completely under.
Morning arrived as if it was unsure of the appointment. Heavy clouds obscured the rising sun, and a mist coated everything with a fine layer of dampness.
“Mmmppff! Hey! What happened to th’ sun? Where's th’ morning?” Flynn poked his head out from beneath his bedroll, and squinted at the clouds and fog.
“I think it's still sleepin'” Neely lifted his forearm off of his eyes.
Charity crawled out from underneath her bedroll, and over to the ring of stones where the campfire had burned the night before. The cat peeked out from underneath Charity's bedroll, and complained loudly about the conditions.
Charity looked back at her, and nodded. “I know, but I can't do anything about it.” The cat's face disappeared back within the blankets.
Charity picked up a stick and began stirring the ashes. “I'll see if there's any life left in these coals. I'm not going to tackle that raft today without a nice hot cup of tisane to get me going.”
Flynn yawned hugely and smacked his lips. “Neely's already headed that way. For a fellow who says he hates somethin’ so much, he sure puts ‘is heart into th’ job.”
Charity stirred the ashes, looking for a coal or two she could bring to life. “I don't think he hates fishing or rafting all that much, really, Flynn. I think he just likes to find a way to be contrary. Kind of like you looking for the good in things.”
Flynn rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You may be right on that one, Miss Charity. Long as I've know ‘im it's been that way. He'll fuss over somethin', but iffn it's really th’ right thing to do, Neely does it.”
Charity blew on a surviving coal. “That's the impression I got.”
She added bits of tinder and twigs to the flare of a glowing coal until the campfire was blazing again. Then she rigged a tripod for the tisane pot.
“Breakfast'll be in a few minutes.” She told Flynn. “Why don't you see if Neely wants some before we tackle that raft again?”
Neely did indeed want breakfast, and ate all that was offered, along with several cups of steaming tisane. He snuck a number of tidbits the cat's way when he thought no one was looking.
“Uuurrrppp! Sorry.” Flynn smiled behind the hand covering his mouth. “That was nice an’ fillin', wasn't it, Neely?”
“Huh?” Neely looked up from wiping up the last of the bacon grease from his travel plate with the last of his biscuit.
“I said...” Flynn finished of his tisane as he stood. “That was nice an’ fillin'.”
“Yup.” Neely replied around a mouthful of biscuit. “Now, let's finish that raft.”
They cut and trimmed a third layer of logs to serve as the floor of the raft by the time midday arrived. After the midday meal, Neely had them peeling strips of bark to use as thongs to tie the floor to the base of the raft.
“Mind you, now.” Neely gestured with his knife. “Only take a few strips from each tree, and don't girdle ‘em, so they'll have a chance to heal. I don't want to kill a tree just for a bit of bark.”
The work of collecting the bark warmed them up to the point where the chill damp of the day didn't really affect them.
As per Neely's instructions, they worked their way through the Alder stand, taking only one strip of bark from each tree. The job took them until dusk to complete. When they were finished, the collected pile of bark strips sat almost two feet high.
“We gotta make sure these strips don't dry out overnight, so we better spread ‘em out, an’ let this weather do its job.”
They woke in the morning, groused about the continued lousy weather, breakfasted and began attaching the raft's floor with the softened bark strips. The cat had decided staying under covers all day, in spite of the damp weather, was boring, and busied herself examining each tie as if insuring its quality.
Charity looked up from tying one of the strips in a crossover pattern that bound the log she was on and the one beneath it tightly together. “Before we started this raft, Neely, you said we'd probably be working on it in the water. Are we still going to be doing that? I mean, it's looking pretty complete now as it is.”
Neely straightened from his crouch. “Might. Might not. It all depends on how she floats when she's in the water. “Specially when we've got th’ weight on. Y'know, th’ horses an’ such?”
“I see. And if it sinks?” Charity raised an eyebrow.
“We start over, I guess.” Neely shrugged.
Flynn reached for another strip of Alder bark. “Or ... we could keep adding layers until it floats.”
Neely reached for his last strip of bark. “Well, we're almost done here. Might as well see what happens. We're gonna need that beast o’ yourn, Flynn.”
Flynn got up from his place on the raft. “I'll get th’ rope ... an’ the’ horse.”
Flynn's draft animal was hitched to the completed raft, and Flynn guided him into the shallows of the river. Neely stepped onto the raft as it entered the water. “It floats!” He called out.
“We did it! We did it!” Charity jumped up and down at the river's edge.
“All right, Neely!” Flynn yelled his congratulations.
“Yeah, yeah.” Neely waved the jubilation away. “It holds me, all right. Let's see if it holds th’ horses an’ th’ packs afore we celebrate. Ok?”
Flynn pulled his horse around, and brought the raft as close as possible into the bank without grounding it. Neely jumped off the raft, and collected the poles he'd cut earlier, and brought them back to the raft. Charity began gathering up the packs, and repacking the loose camping gear, followed closely by the cat.
Her Dapple Gray mare carried the collected packs to the riverbank without complaint, and Flynn tossed them to Neely from the shore.
“It looks like it's holding the weight ok.” Charity observed, as Flynn tossed the last pack onto the raft where Neely caught it.
He walked over to the edge, and bent down to examine the water line. “Lookin’ good, all right. Th’ horses'll be th’ real test. Shall we bring ‘em on?”
They decided that Wilbut would be the first. He was the easiest tempered, as well as the most experienced of the three horses. If he took to the raft well, the other two should be coaxed on board that much easier.
“That's it, Neely. He's goin’ on. He's goin’ on.” Flynn steadied the raft from one of the corners with a pole as Neely led his horse onto the floating platform.
“How's she floatin’ now?” Charity was so excited that she slipped into Flynn and Neely's patois.
“Still lookin’ good.” Neely knelt down to examine the water line once again.
“Good.” Charity took a hold of her mare's reins. The cat leapt onto the packs tied onto the back the saddle. “She'll go on next, and then Flynn's horse. If we don't get wet, we should be good to go.”
Neely nodded. “Sounds good to me. If that beast don't sink us, nothin’ will.”
Flynn ignored the barb. “You bring ‘er on, Miss Charity. I'll steady things from this side.”
Neely held Wilbut's reins while Charity led her mare onto the raft. The horse wuffed as the raft dipped slightly under her weight, but she continued forward and walked across the platform to stand next to Neely's horse.
“Ok, Flynn. Let's see if that beast of yourn'll fit.” Neely took the pole from Flynn to steady the raft.
Flynn's horse transferred over to the raft as if he was merely stepping into a comfortable stall. The raft sank slightly under the added weight, but the water line remained below the top layer of logs.
“Looks like we have a raft,” Neely said, to accompanying cheers.
Charity comforted her mare by offering her a small apple from the pack. She looked at Flynn and Neely. “Shall we see what's down this river?”

Chapter Sixteen
Vedder, Priest and spiritual conscience of the village of Bantering, clicked his tongue as he urged on the twin mules pulling his cart.
Avern would be just over the next rise. He congratulated himself on thinking of the cart. He'd almost forgotten about the downs between the forest and the lakeside city.
His mind traveled ahead of the cart as he thought about his older brother, Rolston. He would be so proud of his younger brother's accomplishments, if it were not for the nature of them. Rolston, according to his letters, had built a successful business collecting night soil, aging it, and then reselling it as fertilizer to the farmers in the Dairy Lands south of Avern.
“Bardoc's ways are mysterious, indeed.” He thought. “Who would ever think the stuff in the bottom of cesspits could be turned into gold?”
Avern came into view; its log walls starkly brown against the verdant green of the downs. Firth Lake gleamed a brilliant blue to the north of the city.
The mule team merged into the traffic traveling along the main North-South road. Vedder noticed with distaste the number of elf breeds and dwarves mixed into the flow.
He shook his head at the blatant lack of morality of this city, allowing such ... creatures to move about freely was against the very will of Bardoc.
Vedder twitched the reins against the mule team's backs, trying for more speed out of the plodding beasts.
There was a queue at the city gate. Because of the war with Spu a couple of years ago, the vigilance of the cities had been raised. Anyone entering, or leaving their confines was questioned. In some cases a search would be performed. In a very few cases they would find something, hence the atmosphere between Avern and its neighbors remained tense.
Vedder found no fault with the security or the searches. He had nothing to hide, and would welcome the opportunity to prove his worthiness. The only thing that bothered him was seeing some of the lesser races being treated as though they were as good as he.
“No, Gunther, I'm tellin ya. It were a dragon. I saw it flyin’ past th’ clouds, plain as th’ nose on me face. I swear it, on Bardoc's bristlin’ beard.”
“I don't give a skrud ‘bout Bardoc's beard, an’ I ain't seen nuthin’ plainer'n yer nose, Dolbutt. There ain't no sech thing as dragons; I ain't never seen one. ‘Splain that, iffn yer will.”
The heavily country accented conversation caught Vedder's ear. Did he hear the word dragons mixed within that slop the two bumpkins called speech? He pulled on the reins, slowing the mules, and cocked his ear towards the two who were speaking.
“Yer ain't seen no dragons, ‘cause yer ain't never been further from yourn farm than yer fields, an’ yer knows that good'n well, Gunther. Tell me iffn it ain't so.”
“Yer got's me there an’ that's a fack. But skrud me iffn I'm gonna believe in no dragon. Whatta yer wants me ta do, stay awake all night? Naw Dolbutt, they ain'ts none, ‘cause I says they ain'ts none.”
“Yer a close-minded man, Gunther. They is dragons. I saw ‘em as I was passin’ through th’ mountains above th’ Bastard River. Iffn yer had th’ gumption to go there, yer'd see ‘em too.”
“Oh, no, Dolbutt. Yer ain't gettin’ me with that'un. Yer knows I got crops comin’ in. Naw. You go watch yer bleedin’ dragons, an’ I'll tend to me crops. Good day to ya, Dolbutt. I'm gettin’ back to me missus, an’ me nice farm where there ain't no skruddin’ dragons.”
Vedder missed Dolbutt's farewell to Gunther due to an argument that broke out between an elderly couple and one of the gate guards over the contents of the woman's parcel.
He was considering the subject matter of Gunther and Dolbutt's talk when another voice broke in on his thoughts.
“Oy! Priest! You awake up there?” The guard tapped the seat of the cart with the tip of his spear.
Vedder looked down his nose at the guard standing to the right of his cart. “Of course I'm awake. My mind was elsewhere. Is there something you need of me?”
The guard peered into the cart's bed. Vedder was traveling light. The empty bed looked back at the guard. “You got anything to declare?”
If there was one thing Vedder understood above all others, it was the bureaucratic mind. Here, he was on familiar ground. He reached under the cart's seat and pulled out a wickerwork basket. “All I have with me, guard Sergeant, is my lunch. You're welcome to inspect it, if you wish.”
“Might as well.” The Sergeant sighed. “Best to keep with the rules.” He looked at the priest with a humorous glint in his eye. “You never know, you could be smuggling Spuian mercenaries in there.”
Vedder smiled back even as he shivered inwardly at the crassness of the guard sergeant's joke, and opened the basket. “As you can see, Sergeant, there are no mercenaries hidden within my lunch.”
“Very good, priest, You can go now. Welcome to Avern.” The guard waved him along, already turning his attention to the next one in line.
Inside Avern's gates, Vedder turned the cart a hard right to follow the line of the city wall. Rolston's home and office occupied one of the homogenous wood frame buildings along the backside of a street appropriately named Skunkwood lane.
Vedder's brother met the cart as it pulled up in front of his door. One of his employees, a grizzled oldster with a permanent tremor, took care of the team as the priest stepped to the ground.
“Brother! Good to see you after all these years. You're looking prosperous and well.” Rolston hopped down off his porch and held out his arms to greet his younger sibling.
“Brother!” Vedder greeted Rolston in kind. “How does one go about killing a dragon?”
* * * * Charity stretched her arms out and opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The cat, nestled snugly in Charity's lap, copied her mistress’ action.
They were rafting in the upper reaches of the Ort River where the water flowed wide and slow. The horses, partially due to the stability of the raft and its slow drift in the river's current, had settled enough that their riders no longer felt compelled to watch their every living moment onboard.
She was content to just lie back against the packs and enjoy the warm fall sunshine. Flynn, on the other hand, thought this was a perfect time to try to infect Neely with the same love of fishing he had.
The big man was sitting on the edge of the raft across from the horses with his bare feet dangling into the river. One of the willow poles he'd made rested in his hands and the line trailed off behind them in the water.
He reached up with a hand and scratched his cheek. The scritch, scritch sounded loud in the stillness of the morning. “Come on, Neely. Give it a try, you may like it, if you give it a chance.”
“I ain't fishin'. You know why.” Neely sat with his back against the other side of the packs Charity used as a rest.
Flynn shrugged and turned his attention back to his pole. “Well, iffin you change your mind...”
Neely's derisive snort expressed the chances of that being very, very small.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! I got one!” Flynn surged to his feet with his willow pole bent nearly double.
In spite of his intentions to the contrary, Neely got excited over Flynn's catch. He got up from his spot against the packs and joined Flynn at his side. “You got a big'un there, Flynn.”
The big man hauled back on the pole as he fought to keep the thrashing fish on his line. “Sure do. Look at that! You see the flash of pink on its side? That's a salmon, that is. Even you'd like a fresh salmon steak, Neely. Even you.”
“Don't bet on it, Flynn.” Neely muttered, and then “Ease off there. Don't pull so hard, you'll lose ‘im.”
Flynn looked over at Charity and smiled. Then he turned his attention back to the salmon. “I got ‘im, Neely. Ohhh, he's a strong'un, he is.”
Neely edged closer to Flynn, his eyes glued to the king-sized fish on the end of the line. “Ok, give ‘im a little slack now. Good, good. All right. Draw ‘im in, Flynn, draw ‘im in.”
“You wanna take over for me, Neely?” Flynn asked, with a half smile.
Neely shook his head, but his eyes stayed on the fish.
Flynn put the pole in his friend's hands. “You take over for me, Neely. Me arms was gettin’ tired, an’ we don't wanna lose th’ prize, do we?”
Neely grabbed a hold of the pole. “Oh, skrud. Give me th’ bleedin’ thing. Come ‘ere, me pretty. I got you now.”
He worked the willow pole back and forth, bringing the fighting salmon in toward the raft, and then allowing it spare room to run. After a time, the struggles of the fish slowed as it began to tire.
Flynn leaned back against the packs and crossed his arms over his paunch. “You doin’ ok, Neely? Need any help?”
“No. No, I've got it.”
Charity had watched Flynn's seduction of Neely into the world of fishing. She noticed the fanatical gleam in Neely's eyes when he answered Flynn's inquiry. She then leaned over until her chin rested on Flynn's shoulder blade. “You beast. You baited him into it, didn't you?”
Flynn chuckled. “I did, didn't I. Seems to be enjoyin’ himself though.”
“I got ‘im.” Neely called out. “Look at ‘im. Isn't he a beauty?”
He held up the exhausted salmon by its tail. The hooked mouth opened and closed as it tried to breathe out of the water.
Charity looked at the salmon, and then at Neely. The sense of triumph he was feeling radiated out of his expression. “He sure is, but I thought you said you didn't want anything to do with fish or fishing?”
Flynn chuckled deeply in his chest, as Neely, abashed, blushed crimson. “Awww, now. Don't go teasin’ ‘im, Miss Charity. Takes a big man to admit it when he's been wrong. I'd say Neely, here, just done a heap of admittin'.”
Later, after Flynn's masterful preparation, Neely had to also admit he liked salmon steak.
Charity watched the moon rise in the east as Neely maneuvered the raft into a still eddy against the shore. Thick green grasses flowed from the shoreline into the black shadow of the mountain range to the West.
“Looks like a good spot to pasture the horses, as well as camp for the night. Whadda you think?” Neely pushed the pole he held into the soft mud of the river bottom to help keep the raft steady until it could be staked and tied fast.
Flynn took hold of the reins of his horse and began the task of leading them from the raft onto shore.
Charity looked up from stroking the cat curled upon her lap. “Looks good to me. How about you?” She looked down at the cat who looked up at her, and burped salmon-flavored breath through an open-mouthed purr.
* * * * “You really are serious, aren't you?” Rolston looked across the table at his brother, the priest. “About hunting and killing dragons, I mean.”
Vedder sipped from his mug of cider and wrinkled his brow in thought. “Absolutely. It is the will of Bardoc. Evil must be driven from our land. Surely you remember the church teachings?”
Rolston lifted his mug of stout. “Most of them. I don't recall one of them mentioning dragons though, for either good or ill.”
Vedder smirked in that superior way Rolston had learned to overlook while they were growing up. “I shouldn't be surprised that you hadn't. One needs to be anointed by Bardoc's spirit before one can delve the deeper mysteries of his word. Dragons are evil because of the form they take. They take on the appearance of evil because they are evil. It's simple as that.”
“Circular logic.” Rolston downed a healthy portion of stout.
“Only to those unenlightened.” Vedder's smirk reappeared as he sipped more of his tisane. “Really, Rolston, it's better if you leave the theological questions to those of us best suited to answer them.”
Rolston put his mug down and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve, ignoring his younger brother's glare at the lack of manners. “Yes, well, I suppose that's the way religious matters are handled now-a-days. You know me, I've always been more interested in things a tad closer to the ground.”
Vedder laughed out loud, causing heads to turn in the meeting room. “Seems to me you've lowered your point of view somewhat since then.”
Rolston laughed with him. “What can I say? My life is crap.” He raised his mug and drank.
After he finished drinking he set the empty mug back onto the table and looked at his younger brother quizzically. “You really serious about this dragon business, then?”
“Of course I am.” The food arrived just then as Vedder finished his cider. “Another, please,” he asked, holding the mug to indicate what he wanted.
Lunch was a couple of thick chops cooked in pastry, fried potatoes sprinkled with parsley and steamed greens garnished with diced red onions. Dark brown crusty bread with slices of creamy yellow cheese finished the serving.
A comely serving girl brought Vedder his refill of cider. As she poured, she smiled at Rolston. “Why, hello, Rol. More stout for you?”
He looked up at the girl. She had thick curly red hair that fell below her shoulder blades, large brown eyes with flecks of gold in a heart shaped face, white even teeth and a bosom guaranteed to provide adventure.
“Why, thank you, Elssyn. That'd be nice.” Rolston handed her his mug.
Vedder looked up from his plate and saw his brother watching the waitress work her way back to the bar. “You like that type?”
Rolston turned back to face his brother and picked up a crust of bread. “What do you mean, that type?”
“You know,” Vedder sneered. “Curvy, busty ... wiggly.” He made the last word sound dirty. “Women of that type only lead the unwary down the path of destruction.”
“Oh, I don't know. Could be a fun trip.”
“Rolston!”
Vedder's older brother chuckled and held up a hand. “Peace, brother. So, you're serious about dragons being evil and it being your duty to go out, hunt them down and kill them.”
Vedder sampled some of his chop. It was delicious. “I am. I feel it's my calling.”
“All right.” Rolston cut into his chop and added a bit of potato to the morsel. “I know someone who might be able to help you in that.”
Lord Souter, the Earl of Avern was, to Vedder's judgmental eye, grossly overweight, slovenly mannered, and ... he stank. “Why is it?” He thought to himself. “That fat people cannot control their body odor?”
“So,” The Earl leaned back in his ornately carved chair as it creaked in protest. “Rolston has a priest for a brother.”
Rolston stood, leaning against a back wall of the Earl's private chamber while Vedder sat. “Yes, and I love him, regardless.”
Souter opened his mouth in a broad, fruity laugh. “Bwaahahahahaha, Rolston! You are a rascal. I think that's why I like you so much.”
Vedder's smile was sickly. “Eh, heh. Yes, my Lord. My brother has always been the droll one of the family.”
The Earl wiped tears away from his eyes with a linen cloth. “Well, at least one of the family is worth having around. He says you have a quest you need some help in fulfilling. What is it?”
Vedder told him. Near the end of the tale, the fires of fanaticism caught and The Earl could see it in the priest's eyes.
“Hmmm. Yes. Dragons, you say? Um Hmmm.” He steepled his hands and looked at Vedder over them. “Rolston, please help yourself to a brandy and get one for your brother as ... no? Oh yes, you're a priest, aren't you?
“Dragons ... Let me think on this for a moment.”
Rolston stepped over to the Earl's well-stocked sideboard and selected a black bottle with a soft satin sheen to its finish. He held it up to the light. “Mossett brown? Excellent year, as well. You're doing very well with your properties, Lord Souter.”
The Earl acknowledged Rolston's praise with a limp wave of his hand.
Vedder's brother walked across the room and whispered in his ear. “He doesn't believe in dragons, or anything else for that matter, but he does owe me a favor or two. You'll get your help.”
The priest nodded, keeping his gaze upon the Earl.
Souter lifted a finger while keeping the others steepled. “Pour me a goblet of that lovely elixir, will you, Rolston? Ah, good man.
“As to you, my dear priest. Thank you, Rolston.” He sipped noisily from the crystal goblet. “As I was saying, as for you priest. Your brother is right. I don't believe in dragons.” He began to chuckle from deep in his belly. “Nor in anything else,” he added. “Oh, don't look so surprised, Rolston. You know I have excellent hearing.”
He sipped again. “Ahhhh, yes. Excellent vintage, indeed.”
“Now as to your problem with these so-called dragons.”
“So-called!?” Vedder raised his voice in protest.
“Lower your hackles brother. Let him finish.” Rolston admonished his younger sibling.
Souter raised his goblet in salute. “Thank you, Rolston, but there is no need for your involvement. What would a religious man be without strong beliefs?” He sipped and then opened his eyes wide. “Why, he'd be me!” The Earl let loose with another of his fruity laughs.
When the laughs settled into chuckles, and the chuckles into silence, he looked back at Vedder and pointed a finger at him. “Now, as I was saying, these so-called dragons of yours seem to be a simple problem to solve. I'll loan you one of the companies of my city guard for a month. Take them, find your dragons, kill the dragons, and come back. Seems simple, to me, at least.”
“Solves one of your problems too, my Lord Earl,” Rolston said, as he finished his brandy.
“Oh?” Souter said with raised eyebrows. “And what would that be?”
“You pay off one of those weighty favors you owe me.” Rolston smiled.
Souter smiled back and raised his goblet in another salute.
* * * * Neely hummed along with the choral voices of the crickets and frogs as they sang to their prospective mates under cover of the night sky. Charity and Flynn were sleeping along with the horses. The cat sat next to Neely, watching his fishing line for potential action.
“Gonna get us a big'un. Night's when they bites th’ best,” he whispered to the cat as he gently bobbed the line up and down, simulating the action of a bug swimming.
The cat shifted on her feet and watched the action of the line. Then, for no apparent reason, she looked in the direction the raft was floating and meowed. She meowed again and walked to the front of the raft, her tail swishing back and forth in agitation.
“Whatcho got there girl?” Neely abandoned his pole and stepped around the horses to the place where the cat paced back and forth. She was becoming more and more anxious as the minutes passed. And then he heard it.
“Oh, Deity. Oh, skrud. We're in for it now.” A faint roaring sound came to Neely's ears. Rapids. Possibly deep ones with waterfalls mixed in. They were too far off to see by the moonlight, which was small comfort to him.
He shook Charity and Flynn awake. “C'mon. C'mon. Up, you gotta get up. Now!”
“Huh? Wuzzat?”
“Neely! What's wrong?” Flynn and Charity surged to their feet still groggy.
“Rapids!”
The single word, spoken harshly, drove the rest of the sleep from them. The cat meowed loudly at Charity, insisting that she do something about this. The horses wuffed, tossing their heads and stamping, they felt it too.
“Great Bardoc preserve us all. Look at that!” Flynn pointed downstream ahead of the raft. Moonlight limned white off of a boil of froth, scant yards ahead of where they lay.
“Grab a pole, Flynn. Charity, untie the horses. Move, girl!” Neely pulled one of the steering poles out of its holder and crouched at the ready.
“Untie the horses? But ... they could drown.” Charity looked at Neely, unsure of what she heard.
Neely felt he had no time to argue. “Horses swim better'n people, an’ they can't tip the raft over iffn they're not tied to it. Better for them, an’ us. You ready, Flynn?” He called out, as Charity leapt to get the horses tethers loosed.
“Don't wanna be, but I am.” Flynn's voice came from the other side of the raft to the right of the horses.
Neely glanced at Charity. “Make sure those packs are secure, Charity. They'll go flyin’ iffn they ain't tied down.”
“Here it comes.” Flynn yelled out.
The horses’ screams mixed in with those of Charity and the cat as the front of the raft fell out from underneath them. Neely just barely kept his feet underneath him, but Flynn met the raft with his backside as it slammed back into the Ort below the short falls.
Charity clung to the lashings that held the packs to the raft. The cat yowled in banshee voice all twenty of her claws dug deeply into the canvas of the packs.
Wilbut, Neely's mount, slipped to his fore elbows and would have tumbled off the heaving floor of the raft if Flynn's draft horse had not been between him and the edge. Charity's mare spread her legs for additional support and voiced her displeasure at the top of her lungs.
Flynn scrambled back to his feet, grabbing his pole just as it was bouncing into the rage of the rapids.
The volume of sound was tremendous. They had to scream to be understood.
“Just try to keep us off th’ rocks.” Neely yelled out, as he and Flynn manned their poles on either side of the raft.
It hurtled down the river, lurching and jumping like a drunken toad. They were all drenched to the skin. The cat looked like she'd been half drowned. Flynn and Neely exerted themselves, using the poles to push the raft past the larger rocks. Grinding sounds came from underneath as the bottom framework scraped and bounced off the smaller ones below.
No one spoke; even the animals now kept silent as their once peaceful floating platform lurched, bounced and twisted its way through the maze of rapids. Spray washed across its passengers constantly, and Flynn and Neely had to take care in bracing themselves as the floor of the raft grew slick with the water sweeping over it.
A large black boulder loomed up out of the shadows. It split the river in twain. The roar of high falls came from the left side.
Charity cried out in terror, as did the horses. The cat hissed.
Neely screamed to Flynn. “Push, man! Pole us to the right! If you love life, do it now!”
Charity clung to the packs, unable to do anything but wail her fear to the winds. The cat cried with her. The mare nuzzled the back of her hair in an attempt to comfort her.
“Harder, Flynn! She's not movin’ enough!” Neely strained at his pole, striving to edge the raft into the right hand flow of the rapids.
Flynn didn't answer, but bent all his massive strength into the task of saving their lives.
The raft moved to the right, but Neely saw it was not enough. They were going over the falls unless something was done, and done now. He looked over at Flynn and at Charity, his smile bleak. “You keep an eye on her, Flynn. She's somethin’ special.” He stepped off the raft and into the water. with his right hand gripping the outermost log of the raft at the front.
“Neely!” Charity's scream tore the heart right out of him, but he could do nothing about that now.
His boots scraped and tore at the rocks lining the river bottom, but the extra leverage of his position allowed Neely to push the left front corner of the raft just enough so that it caught the right hand current. He could feel the left current pulling him, and he reached out desperately for the pole Flynn held out to him.
“C'mon, Neely, grab it!” Flynn called out over the roar of the falls.
“I ca-” The rest of Neely's words vanished in a white mist of noise and water as the raft tipped into the right hand channel and away from the sure death of the falls.
* * * * Vedder turned in the saddle to watch the double line of uniformed men marching behind him. “I knew this day would come,” he thought to himself. “A man of my quality can remain in obscurity only so long.”
The Earl of Avern, Lord Souter, was a man of his word, even if he was an unrepentant slob. The twenty guardsmen behind him were proof of that. They were a quiet bunch, which suited him just as well. He needed strong arms and steady hands, not conversationalists.
They were into their second day of the march, moving south along the western slopes of the spine, and Vedder could not have been more content. Bardoc would be smiling upon him now, and soon he would send his god the gift of the dragon's destruction.
* * * * Charity woke to a rough tongue rasping the tip of her nose, and a claw-tipped paw tapping at her eyelid. She groaned and rolled halfway over, throwing an arm across her face to block out the sun. Then she remembered and bolted upright. She could hear the faint roar of the falls in the distance up river. They must have clung to bits of the raft in spite of all that the rapids threw at them. She thought of the horses. The poor horses.
“Neely!” She turned around and around searching for her companions. “Flynn!”
There was no answer. She heard a sound to her right, up the bank from the river. She spun, crouched and ready to do battle. The mare whinnied softly at her and tossed her head, sending the long hair of her mane flying.
Charity ran to her horse and threw both arms around the mare's neck. “You're alive. You're alive. Oh, I'm so glad.” She hugged harder and the mare nuzzled Charity in return.
“Let's go see if we can find Flynn and Neely, girl.” Charity took hold of the mane and swung herself onto the mare's back. The horse tossed her head once more and then moved off at an easy trot toward the beach and the bend in the river beyond the tall grasses.
The cat ran ahead of the horse, leaping from rock to log amongst the debris scattered along the river's edge. A lot of it was what used to be the raft they worked so hard at building.
Charity saw one of the packs and dismounted. The oiled canvas was ripped in a few places, but otherwise it was in serviceable condition. The glint of tin showed through one of the rents. “Flynn's pots and pans.” She stood and craned her neck, looking for a sign of the big man.
The cat meowed, calling Charity's attention to where she stood atop a large pile of the alder logs that used to be the base of the raft. Some of them showed where the dowels holding the logs together had snapped.
“Flynn! Neely!” Still no answer.
The cat meowed again. Charity tried skirting the pile but the bank to the left of it was too steep and finished in a grassy ledge nearly twice a man's height above her. To the right was the river so she remounted the mare and they waded through the shallow waters around the debris. More of the packs appeared on the other side. A couple of them, further down the beach appeared to be totally intact.
A susurrus of sound drew Charity's attention to a series of sandy mounds topped with grasses like dark green tufts of spiky hair. She nudged the mare with her heels and they worked their way across the sand to the mounds. The sound became clearer and coalesced into soft, bubbly snores. She recognized the sound.
“Flynn!” She was off the horse in an instant and at the big man's side. He groaned and grumbled as she tried to wake him. “Urrglmmff! Lemme sleep. C'mon!”
“Flynn! Up! It's me, Charity! You've got to get up!”
He opened one eye and held a hand up to shield it from the sun. “Miss Charity. That you?”
“Of course it's me, you big oaf.” She threw herself into his embrace. “I thought you were dead!”
He hugged her back. “Takes more'n a bit of rapids to kill an ol’ lug like me. Hey, don't cry. Miss Charity. We made it.” He patted her back as she sobbed into his shoulder.
Charity cried out her relief for a while until she was able to control herself and pull away, allowing Flynn to stand.
He looked over the area where she'd found him. Sandy hummocks topped with clumps of the spiky grass formed a wide crescent of broad beach along the river. A couple more of the packs lay on the beach just inside the line of the water.
“My bow! My quiver!” Charity's squeal whipped Flynn's head around. He saw Charity sprint up to one of the packs at the river's edge and stoop to collect her possessions. She waved the bow and quiver over her head as if they were hard won trophies. The quiver, miraculously, still held a couple of arrows.
Flynn pulled the other packs from the water's edge and went through them. “Most of th’ stuff's still in pretty good shape, considerin',” he said. “Sure could use th’ horses. Did you see th’ others when you found that mare of yourn?”
“No.” Charity shook her head. “And I didn't find her. She found me.”
She walked back to the mare, looping the strap of the quiver over her neck and shoulder as she walked. “I'm going to go further down stream for a ways. Could you go up stream toward the falls? We've got to find out if Neely made it or not.”
Flynn nodded. “Right you are, Miss Charity. I'm on it.” Inwardly he didn't feel much hope for his old friend. Those falls felt, and sounded, awfully high.
He turned and began the slow process of picking his way along the riverbank, looking for any sign of the tracker's body. He shook his head as the word body crossed his mind and he worked at pushing it away. Neely was a tough old dog and a survivor, to boot. If anyone could've made it, he was one of ‘em.
As he proceeded upriver, the material of the bank changed from sand and grasses to rocks and more of the woody debris. In one place an entire tree, complete with roots, lay lodged against large pink boulders. Part of Flynn mentioned to the rest of him that it looked like a good place to drop a hook.
The sound of the falls increased, as did the rockiness of the river's edge. He inched his way around a bend in the river where the bank was nearly vertical to the tree line and forced him to steady himself with his left hand along the top edge of the overhang. The falls came into view right after he rounded a house-sized rock slick with moss to a point a foot above the water line. The roar of the falling water had become deafening when he came across Neely's body. The tracker lay slumped face down half in and half out of the water.
“Neely. Oh, you poor sod.” Flynn looked over the rocks, trying to find a way to get to his friend's body. “Look what your kind act did to you, Charity an’ me, we're safe enough, but what're we gonna do without you, old friend? What're we gonna do without you?” Fat tears ran down his cheeks as he bent over Neely's body.
“One thing you can do is stop blubberin’ over me corpse an’ get me outta this water. Both of me legs is broke.” Neely's voice was slightly muffled because of the way he was lodged into the rocks, but it was his voice. Flynn had never heard anything more beautiful.
“Neely! You're alive. You ain't dead!”
“Of course, I'm alive, you big goob. It'll take more'n a bit of a fall onto some rocks to kill me. Now, get me outta here. I can't feel me legs,” Neely yelled.
Flynn reached down and took Neely by the armpits. “Hold on, Neely. I'll getcha out. If your legs is broke, it could hurt some, though.” He cautioned the tracker.
“Just do th’ bloody thing, Flynn. I'm freezin’ here.”
“Ok, Neely. Here goes.” Flynn bunched his shoulders and lifted.
“Aaaaggghhh!” Neely's scream cut across the background roar of the falls as his massive friend pulled him out of the water. He gritted his teeth as his broken legs bounced across the rocks while he was dragged up to the grassy area above the bank.
“There ya go, ol’ bud. High ‘n dry.” Flynn lay Neely gently onto the ground with his back against the bole of a large pine. “I gottcha on the sunny side so's you'll warm up.”
Neely managed a sickly grin. “Thanks. What about Charity?”
“Came through just fine. She's the one who found me.”
“Figures.” Neely waved his friend off. “Go get her. See if you can find the pack what has the doctorin’ stuff in it. These legs o'mine need settin'.”
Flynn took off down river the way he came. As he passed the area where Charity had awakened, he heard a whinny. He turned in the direction of the sound and saw Wilbut, Neely's old horse, and his mount, a beautifully marked Clydesdale, looking at him from a rise above the bank. It looked like a nice place to set up a camp with its flat ground, sheltering pines and a nice thick layer of soft leaves and grass.
He turned, jogged up the bank, and stood facing the two horses. “Boy, am I glad to see you two. And so will be Neely.” He hugged the draft horse and rubbed Wilbut's soft nose. “Looks like we all made it.”
Then he noticed the scrapes and cuts on the shoulders and flanks of the two horses. “Banged up some, I guess this'll need lookin’ after. But we all made it, thank Bardoc. I gotta go get Miss Charity, but I'll be back. You boys stay here, ok?”
He bent and plucked some tufts of green grass that he held for the horses to take. “Yes sir. We'll all be back.”
He met Charity where she had first found him. She was on horseback and her head was down. She looked up at his approach. “I went as far as I could, Flynn. I couldn't find him.”
Flynn's smile was as broad as his stomach. “S'ok, Miss Charity. I did. He's banged up some, so are the horses, but we's all alive.”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then threw herself off the mare and into his arms. “Alive? Oh, Flynn, we're all alive! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She broke into fresh tears.
Flynn patted her back, not really sure of what to do. When Charity subsided, he took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I found us a good spot for a camp. My horse an’ Wilbut's there now. Neely's a bit banged up, both his legs is broke.”
Charity gasped at that, and covered her mouth with her hands.
“No, no, no. Miss Charity. Neely's gonna be all right. We needs to find the pack with the fixin's for wounds an’ such, so's we can set the breaks. He ain't bleedin’ none. I made sure of that.”
They found Neely where Flynn hadleft him with his back against the pine. The sun had moved some and a bit more of his lap was in shadow. Flynn noted his friend looked paler than he had before, and his face was drawn.
Charity wasted no time in digging into the medical supplies. She opened two small packages and mixed a few pinches of the white powders together. She reached out and felt Neely's pulse at his throat the way the old wizard had shown her, a world ago it now seemed.
“Flynn?”
“Yes, miss Charity?”
“I need some clean water, as quick as you can get it.”
The big man ran to the bank with a salvaged water bag in his hand. He clamored over the rocks and disappeared from Charity and her patient's sight.
“Gonna put this ol’ dog outta his misery, eh?” Neely's voice was weak and tight with pain.
“Don't say that.” Charity kept her eyes focused on Neely's. “You're going to be just fine. Flynn and I are going to make sure of that.”
She hitched herself backwards, and took a gentle hold onto Neely's left boot. “Don't hold it in,” she said. “Tell me if this hurts.”
Neely nodded his head, and Charity pulled on the boot, lightly, as if easing out a newborn.
“Eeeerrraarrrggghhh! Stop! For deity's sake. Stop!” Neely's back arched in agony, and he fell back against the pine, gasping.
“What happened? Why'd he scream?” Flynn ran back to where Neely lay, the full water bag swinging in his right hand.
Tears of empathy coursed down Charity's cheeks. “I checked his boots. They're bad breaks, all right. You got the water?”
Flynn held out the bag. “Right here.”
“Glad to see ... you ... got something ... right.” Neely ground out the jest between gasps.
Charity held up a tin cup before Flynn. “Fill this about half way.”
He did so, and she poured the powder mixture into the water, mixing it with the tip of her knife. She held it out to Neely when it was fully dissolved. “Drink it all, in spite of the taste.”
Neely drank. His face twisted with the bitterness of the solution, but he drank it all, as Charity had insisted. When finished he threw the cup to the side.
“Euuucchhh! But that's awful. Why can't potions ever taste good? What's this going to do to me anyway?”
Flynn retrieved the cup and put it back into the open pack. “Bet it's for the pain, ain't it?”
Charity nodded. “That and something else.”
Flynn looked supremely please with himself. “Toldja.” And then his expression changed to one of puzzlement. “What else?”
Neely stifled a huge yawn. “Yeah, what else?”
Charity looked at him with a knowing smile. “How's the pain?”
Another yawn split Neely's face. “Aaaaoouu. Eeaaaooww. Sorry ‘bout that. Pain's goin’ away ... I think. Yeah, reminds me of the time I got in a storeroom with these two scullery maids. It's really bett....sssnnnnxxxx.” His voice dissolved away into snores.
“Sleeping potion's the other one.” Charity patted the snoring Neely on the cheek. “Now we can set those legs. Flynn, we're going to need some wood for splints.”
Flynn looked at Charity as he gathered pine branches suitable for the task. “How come you know all this stuff? I mean, no offence, Miss Charity, but you ain't old enuf.”
She searched through the branches, selecting those best for splints as she answered Flynn. “My brother and I stayed with this old wizard for a while. He knew about a lot more than just magik. He liked to go on long walks through the forest sampling and discovering what mother nature had to offer for those with their eyes open enough to see. That's how he put it. Adam and I went on a lot of those walks with him, during that winter, when the weather was mild enough. He taught us a lot about what plants are good for certain medicines and which ones to watch out for as being poisonous, along with other things. Adam and I have always had good memories. We don't forget much. Didn't, I mean.”
Flynn cut lengths of canvas cloth to tie the splints. “What do ye mean, didn't?”
Charity didn't look up. “My brother was killed, remember? In that war between Spu and Avern just before you two found me in that cornfield.”
Flynn nodded his head. “Yeah, I remember. You scared the piss outta us with that bow of yours. I remember that, too.”
Charity looked up at him and grinned. “I did, didn't I? Ok, now we've got to set these legs.”
She lay both hands onto Neely's right leg and nodded at Flynn. “Get around so you can pull this leg from the heel and toe. Do it real slow, and quietly. I need to listen as well as feel.”
Flynn did as he was told. Charity held up a hand when she heard the soft click of Neely's bones realigning. “Hold it there, now. Steady. Don't move at all. Good.”
Charity placed a splint on either side of the leg, centered at a point where she believed the break to be, and then slipped one of the canvas strips under them and the leg, and then tied it snugly. She repeated the process with two more of the strips and then checked all three of them when done. Then they did the other leg.
“Ok Flynn. You can let loose of him, but slowly. It's going to be a while before he'll even be able to use crutches.”
“How we gonna get ‘im outta here?” The big man scratched the back of his head. It sounded like sandpaper being used.
Charity looked at Neely and then at Flynn, “Think you can put him over your shoulder without banging his legs?”
Flynn considered his friend. “Oh, I can lift him, all right. Flingin’ him over me shoulder without hurtin’ his legs is the problem.”
“How about if you pick him up and I control his feet? Maybe I can keep them from slapping against you.” Charity pantomimed her idea with her hands.
“Sounds good to me.” Flynn bent and took the sleeping Neely by his left arm and his right armpit. As he straightened, the tracker came with him, and Flynn helped the motion along with the strength of his huge arms. Charity watched closely as Neely was lifted, and stepped in to control the swing of the legs.
“I think that'll do it.” Charity stepped back and surveyed Flynn and his burden. “We may as well start walking.”
Flynn kept his eyes on the ground while they made their way back to the site where he found the horses. Flynn kept Neely draped over his shoulder while Charity built a bower out of branches and one of the blankets.
“You ‘bout done, Miss Charity? My shoulder's startin’ to go to sleep.”
“Just about done ... there. You can put him down now, Flynn. Easy ... easy ... good. He ought to be comfortable there.” Charity gave the bower a critical eye.
“How long's he gonna have to stay like that?” Flynn massaged his shoulder.
“Normally, at least a month, but Milward taught me how to mix a potion that'll cut it to one week.” Charity pulled at her lower lip as she watched Neely slumber in the bower.
“Milward?”
“That was the old wizard's name. Milward. A cranky old man sometimes, but I sure enjoyed the time we spent together. I wonder how things are going with him these days?”

Chapter Seventeen
Shealauch swooped and glided from thermal to thermal in an ecstasy of flight. It felt good to leave the confines of the caverns and ride the free air up here, where the air was thin and chill. Dragons were meant to fly. That's why the creator gave them wings.
He dipped his right shoulder and turned into a snap-spin that dropped his altitude by over five hundred feet. At the bottom of the drop, he opened his wings with a crack of leather and began another climb.
Part of him felt sorrow for the adult Dragons and their interminable studies that kept them from this joy. Dragons were more than philosophers and scientists. All they had to do was spend some time up in the glorious clouds and they'd understand that. His friend Drinaugh understood. He was off somewhere having an adventure with that human friend of his. The thought of humans put his mind onto another track. Humans. He wondered about them. They did so much, and all in a life span no longer than that of a mayfly, as far as dragons were concerned. He'd never met a human and had only seen a couple of them at a distance; Drinaugh's friend, of course, and that white-haired wizard the Winglord mixed with on occasion. He decided it might be nice to actually meet some humans himself. Maybe, when he was older, he would go off on an adventure like Drinaugh, and see some.
Shealauch banked out of the thermal he was riding and swooped into a long shallow dive that took him below the clouds. There appeared to be a line of specks moving on the ground below. He transferred his vision to the telescopic; humans, a whole bunch of humans, on a course toward Dragonglade, by the look of it. He banked into another dive to get a closer look at what could turn out to be a very interesting adventure.
* * * * “No talking!” Vedder spoke the command over his shoulder, exercising just enough volume to be heard without having to shout. There was a style to being in command and one did not obtain that style shouting in the vulgar way of the unenlightened.
“We're near the place I was told about.” Vedder continued with his instructions to his loaned cohort. “I want you to be both silent and vigilant. The minions of the evil one could be anywhere.”
“Oy. Oy, guvor!” One of the guardsmen loaned to him by the Earl of Avern raised his hand.
Vedder sighed inwardly. Hopefully these buffoons’ questions would show greater intelligence than their vocabulary. “What is it?”
“Wot do these here ... minyuns look like? How we gonna know whut we's lookin’ at iffn we sees one? They look anyfing like dragons?”
Bardoc save me from the military mind. Vedder lifted a silent prayer to his God while doing a relaxation meditation before he answered.
“Minions, my dear fellow, is only a figure of speech that means follower. The dragons are minions, or, if you will, followers of the Evil One. I want you to keep a watch for dragons.”
“Wot fer?” The guard looked puzzled. “I ain't never heard nofing ‘bout dragons bein’ these here minyuns, like you calls ‘em, milord. Wot makes you so sure?”
Vedder ground his teeth in frustration with the guard's blind ignorance. If the man was so thick he couldn't see a simple fundamental truth ... He counted to three under his breath and tried one more time with something he felt even this simpleton would be able to follow. “They are, because I say they are, and your Lord placed you under my command. That's what for.”
The guard looked relieved. This he could understand. “Oh. Why din't yer say so in the first place, milord? Cooda saved a lot o’ bother.”
“Oy! Cooeee! Inna sky!” The guard sergeant pointed upwards with his sword.
* * * * Shealauch spread his wings to their full thirty-foot span, and pulled out of the dive to look more closely at the subjects of his interest. It was a small party of humans, a few of them on an equine, and the rest on foot. Twenty of those on foot had what looked like sticks in their hands. Some of the sticks were bent, with a string tied to each end.
* * * * “It's a bleedin’ dragon!” The guard who questioned Vedder exclaimed.
Vedder looked up at Shealauch hovering overhead. He'd no idea they would be as large as this. He was going to need more men. The priest turned and looked at the cohort, their mouths hanging open as they gaped at the dragon above them.
“Shoot!” He shouted. “Kill it before it destroys you all with its flame!”
The guards responded to Vedder's command as one, and a flight of fifteen arrows arced upwards toward the hovering Shealauch.
The young Dragon's curiosity changed abruptly to pain as one of the arrows pierced his tail and another his left hind foot. The powerful wings beat down rapidly as he climbed above the reach of the second flight. He looked down at the suddenly fearsome things below him with bewilderment, and then turned back towards Dragonglade and his mother as a third flight of arrows were sent in his direction.
“You fools!” Vedder turned on the guards. “You missed it! You should have taken time to aim. If you can aim at all.”
The cohort stayed silent under the priest's tongue lashing, but a few of them expressed their opinion of his temper by the looks on their faces. Vedder ignored the looks. Let them think of him what they wish, as long as they did what they were told.
He turned his back to the guard sergeant and issued another order. “Send one of the men back to Avern. We are going to need more and better fighters.”
“At once, milord.” The sergeant replied. “But it won't do no good.”
Vedder turned back to face the sergeant. “What?” He modulated the tone of his voice to sound as menacingly officious as possible.
“Said it won't do no good ... milord.” The sergeant made the appellation more of an insult than a title. “Lord Souter, he give you us. That, an’ no more. You have me send a man back. The only thing'll happen is we're short another man, an’ the Earl gets hisself another laugh at your expense ... milord.”
The sergeant's words bit deeper than intended. The priest remembered vividly his encounter with the obese Earl, and how the disgusting fellow had laughed at him. Apparently, word of that exchange had been circulated for the city guard's entertainment. His gut twisted with the thought. The butt of jokes, was he?
Vedder leaned forward and thrust his prominent nose into the guard sergeant's face. “Very well, then, we'll not share any of the gold with them. Not a single flake.”
The glint in the sergeant's widening eyes told Vedder he'd chosen the right tack.
“Yes, you heard me right, sergeant. Gold, mountains of it for the taking. I'm sure you heard the legends when you were a child. I'm sure you thought dragons were built of the same gossamer stuff as those stories of their treasure heaps. You've seen a dragon. Shall we go get its gold?”
The sergeant rubbed his chin. “You've got a point there, milord. Big bugger...” He mused. “Never woulda thought it.”
“Gold, sergeant.”
“I heard ya, milord. I heard ya.” The sergeant's face showed the struggle going on inside of the man.
“Dragon's gold. Mountains of it.”
Vedder saw the subtle change in the sergeant's expression and knew he had him. “Why don't you turn around, sergeant, and tell the men. Perhaps it will improve their aim.”
The sergeant did so and the men responded as Vedder had hoped. To a man, they raised their weapons into the air and shouted, stamping their feet in time to the shout. “Gold, gold, gold.”
Vedder's response was not the one the sergeant expected. There was no posturing or speech making. The priest simply turned in the saddle and waved the cohort onward. The sergeant followed along behind, with his corporals on either side, and the balance of the men walking behind the horses.
A grizzled veteran with the look of one who'd worn Sergeant stripes, and had them taken away several times, stepped over a fresh horse apple with the agility of long years of practice. He whispered to his companion in the formation out of the side of his mouth, his eyes staying fixed firmly on the back of the guard in front of him. “Oy, Vern. Whotcho think o’ this here gold bizness?”
Vern's eyes, like the veteran's, never shifted from their forward gaze. “Nice for us, iffn it's true. I hears dragon's got more gold than Souter's gots chins.”
“Whatcha think about our lord priest?”
Vern considered. “Strikes me as a bit of a twit, that one. What about you?”
The veteran stuck his tongue into his cheek, and then replied. “Cain't say as I agree with that, Vern. I think e's summat different.”
“And what would that be?”
“I'd say e's a twat.”
* * * * “C'mon!” The burly Ortian Sergeant bellowed, his pitch dropping at the end of the command. “Get yer arses into motion. We won't git nowhere playin’ at bein’ rocks, now. Move it, move it, move it!”
The Ortian army was finally on the march, much too slowly to suit General Jarl-Tysyn, but at least they were covering ground. The towers of Ort, the seat of the southern Empire, had just vanished over the horizon. That placed their final camp objective at least a seven, if not a ten-day away. Plenty of time for the Duke of Grisham to marshal his forces and make a fight of it, unless the man was a total fool. Jarl-Tysyn had a few dealings with the fellow. Crazy, was the assessment, but no fool. They were going to have a fight on their hands, and unfortunately that meant conscripts had to be taken.
Stringers were sent out along either side of the Ort River, traveling northward in a skirmish line sure to flush out anyone unfortunate enough to be eligible. They had picked up three score since the first morning, mostly farm kids with a few of the farm holders mixed in. The General worked at keeping his thoughts away from those wives and mothers who would never see their husbands or sons again.
“Grandle! Whatcho playin’ at? This ain't no tea soshull, an’ you ain't no gen'mun. Git yer arse outta that ditch an’ on the road afore I climb down there an’ kick yer balls up ‘tween yer ears! Twern! What the pit is that? Some kinda country dance? It ain't marchin', that's fer skrud sure. One two. One two. Good. Now keep that rhythm goin', or the point o’ my blade'll be yer teacher. Awright! We're gonna sing a bit to keep you slugs in time...”
The sergeants kept it up as the army worked its way northward, absorbing conscripts here and there as it flowed along, like a miles-wide single-celled animal with the sole aim of devouring everything along the way that suited its purpose.
A company of engineers had been sent ahead to begin the preparations for what would eventually become a small city; military in its society, culture and law, but a city nonetheless, complete with shops, restaurants, stables, pubs, a hospital and, of course, those parts that all cities eventually develop to cater to the darker side of humanity.
Much to the Ortian underworld's dismay, Alford, Emperor of the Southern forces, had decreed that prostitution would be allowed only if those women involved were there because they wanted to be. Pimps were given leeway to try to do things the old-fashioned way if they wished; the only punishment was public castration, performed by those women they victimized. Painkillers were optional, at the woman's discretion. Very few pimps took Alford up on his offer. Apparently there was at least one thing a pimp wouldn't do for money.
Upon arriving at Cloudhook's base, the Ortian engineers set to their tasks with a will. Teams of oxen crisscrossed the acreage planned for the encampment, grading the ground into a flat expanse that would soon blossom into thousands and thousands of sandy brown tents. Following after the Oxen, a team of engineers put together their planning office from timbers and lattice pre-cut for just that purpose.
Further to the south, a skirmish line of conscript “recruiters” continued their northward sweep, though much more porous than when they first started out. Their encounters were becoming much fewer and farther between.
* * * * Neely balanced gingerly on the two crutches, putting barely enough weight on his legs to keep himself from tipping over.
“You ain't gonna get far on those things, iffin you don't move yer feet,” Flynn called out from his side of the campfire where he and the cat were sharing the last bits of the trout he'd roasted for breakfast.
“I'll get there. Gimme some time to get used to the idea, all right?” Neely looked down at the splints that bound the lower halves of his legs. Both Charity and Flynn made sure they were as tight as possible each day since they were first put on.
Charity placed another piece of wood on the fire from the stack she sat next to. A longer, much larger stack stood yards away, next to the shelter she and Flynn had built for their stay while Neely recovered from his injury. “The bones should be healed enough by now to take the weight. You really should try walking on them. Do you need some more Willit?”
Neely made a grimace at the mention of the bitter white powder used as a general painkiller. “Ecch, no. If I have to drink any more of that brew, my mouth'll leave my face in protest.”
“Well, get on with it, then. This is a nice place, an’ all, but I'd just as soon be on me way, given me druthers.” Flynn waved a bit of trout in Neely's direction. The cat reached out and up and snagged a fragment of the treat as Flynn was bringing it back toward his mouth. He looked down in surprise, and then dropped the rest of it as she looked up in expectation.
Neely looked at his friend with an unappreciative glare. “S'easy for you to say. Yer not th’ one with th’ splints on his legs.”
Flynn picked out some of the last of the trout from the skeleton on the stick he held, and flicked to the cat, which plucked the bit out of the air. “Try doin’ it that direction. Th’ grass is softer.” He pointed off to Neely's left, away from the campfire.
“Come on, Neely. You can do it. I know you can.” Charity gave the tracker an encouraging smile.
“Ok. Ok. Here goes ... I don't know what.” He put a little more of his weight onto the crutches and swung out with his right leg coming down onto the soft grass. He tensed a bit and then relaxed, allowing some of his weight to be supported by the leg. To his surprise, and delight, the limb held.
“Attaboy, Neely. Yer doin’ it.” Flynn called out.
“Way to go.” Charity added.
Encouraged by not falling flat on his face as he thought he would, Neely swung his left leg out and repeated the motion. That leg held, as well. In very short order, he was stumping around the campsite on the crutches as pleased as a three-year old with his first hobbyhorse.
“I'm walkin'! I'm walkin!” He yelled out as he went by Charity and Neely for the second time.
“I knew you could do it!” Charity stood up and clapped her hands. The tracker grinned back at her as he began another circuit of the camp.
Flynn's draft horse wuffed, and the cat growled low in her throat as she looked southward into the trees beyond the perimeter of the clearing.
“Somethin's comin'.” Flynn stood up and drew his long knife.
Neely stumped back to the log they used as a bench before the fire and picked up the yew bow he had carved while convalescing. Charity bent and picked up the bow left to her by Labad, the last Emperor of the United Kingdoms, and fitted an arrow to it.
Several men on foot came into the firelight. Most of them were obviously military by the look of their uniforms. A few, in the back of the group, looked like prisoners. One of the military types, separated slightly from the group by a few yards, looked to be in slightly better shape than the others, this, in spite of being several years older. Charity thought he looked about the same age as Ethan had looked when she and Adam found him sleeping off a drunk outside the Village of Silgert. He walked over to the edge of the fire and looked at each of them in turn for a moment.
“Congratulations, the Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment.”
His only answer was a trio of laconic stares.
“I said,” the Ortian Sergeant placed his hands on his hips and raised his voice to command level. “The Emperor is pleased to accept your enlistment!”
Flynn sheathed his long knife and walked over to the tisane pot hanging above the fire. He made a show of pouring himself a cup and then sipping from it. “What?” He sipped again as the sergeant's face grew red. “D'you mean by our enlistment?”
A few of the soldiers snickered. It wasn't a nice sound.
The sergeant stalked over to Flynn and slapped the cup out of his hand. “It means you an’ your skruddin’ friends here are now privates of the glorious Ortian military corps, an’ under this sergeant's gentle care. Iffin you don't fall in line, right now, yer gonna do so without the benefit of plums t'slow yer fat lazy arse down! Unnerstand!?” He finished the last as a full-throated shout and with his chest pressed against Flynn's belly.
Charity stood with her bow half-drawn. “Sergeant?”
He whirled at her call, his eyes widening at the sight of the bow. He didn't like the way she held it. She looked too skrudin’ competent.
Charity gave him a slow, broad smile. “I have no plums to worry about, but I'd love to discuss the matter with you, at length.” She pulled back on the bowstring, the arrow aimed directly at his heart. “Shall we talk?”
One of the soldiers off in the shadows made a move toward Charity on her blind side, but Neely whacked him up along the skull with the upper arm of his yew bow. The soldier dropped to the clearing floor, senseless.
A spearman moved into position to cast his weapon into Neely's back and then jumped back with a curse as an arrow drove it right out of his hand.
“Feisty, are ye? Well I ... ulp!” The sergeant found himself looking at another broadhead, this one aimed at his face instead of his middle.
Charity's voice sounded chillingly calm. “Now, sergeant. Tell your men to stand down right now, or you, my dear sergeant, will never enjoy another breakfast again.”
“I'd listen to her sergeant,” Flynn interjected. “Me an’ Neely here, from what I sees of your crew, could take yer men by usselves, an’ him with two broke legs. Miss Charity, there,” He pointed at her with his refilled cup of tisane, “She can take both of us at th’ same time.”
He gave the sergeant a lazy smile. “Now, does you wanna reconsider yer offer ‘bout our ‘listment, or does ya wanna go home tied to th’ back of a horse?”
The Ortian sergeant thought about his options. There wasn't but two he could see before him. One was him, having a go at that girl with the bow. Two was ... it seemed there was only one that'd leave him his manhood. He looked at the girl again. That broadhead did seem awfully steady.
Neely sniggered, imitating the sound the Ortian soldiers made earlier. “Interestin’ choice, isn't it? On the one hand, you get's ta keep what stones ya got, but ya don't live to enjoy them. On th’ other...” He left the rest of the thought hanging.
“Which eye should I take?” Charity asked. “The right? Or the left?”
The sergeant decided living was the better part of valor. After all, he wasn't an officer. “Stand down, men. No need for anyone to get kilt over a bit of fluff an’ two roustabouts.”
“But sarge...” One of the soldiers who'd sniggered earlier objected.
“I said, stand down!” The sergeant's shout caused a horse to snort with alarm, but the men put their weapons down.
Flynn relaxed and sat down on the log before the fire. “That's better. Come on over here, sarge.” He patted the log next to him. “Have a sit-down and a sip. There's a lad.”
Charity sat down at the same time as the sergeant, putting Flynn between them. Neely put his back to the tree closest to the fire and slid into a comfortable position. He kept his bow strung. Some of the morning birds picked up their song in the treetops.
“'Ere ya go, gov.” Flynn held a cup out to the sergeant. “Ave a nice cuppa an’ tell us what all this enlistment nonsense is about.”
“I'd like to know about it, as well.” Charity leaned forward and poured a cup of tisane for herself.
“Aye. I suppose you would, at that.” The sergeant took the proffered cup from Flynn and sipped.” Not bad,” he said, and then he gave Charity an appraising stare. “You really as good as he says?”
Charity just smiled.

Chapter Eighteen
“It's no use, lad. We've looked for a solid week. If she's still alive, she's not anywhere around Dunwattle or even the wood. We even went as far as the old wizard's place, nothing.”
Adam didn't answer the Butcher. He concentrated on his packing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hersh stood in the door to Adam's room.
Adam turned at the question. Hersh could see the dark circles under his eyes. “I don't want to, I have to. I have to find her,” His voice caught. “...Or her body. I can't ask you and the rest of the town to sacrifice from the time you need to rebuild.” Avern's soldiers had torched several of the town's buildings including the Church.
Hersh's eyes shifted in the direction of the gutted Church. “Aye, lad, yer right at that. Wise beyond the years, you seem, or at least gracious to an old man and his town.”
“It's just something I've got to do, that's all.” Adam returned to his packing. “I do want to thank you for the supplies, Hersh. It wasn't necessary.”
There was a catch in the Butcher's voice. “Yes, yes, lad, it was.” He turned and left Adam to finish his packing.
Hersh and Ornette met him at the door to the shop. Ornette was sniffling. Adam wondered what kind of man the boy would make if his feelings were kept that close to the surface.
“You take good care of yourself, lad. There's a home here waitin’ for you when you want it.” The Butcher's voice was thick with emotion.
Adam swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I'll...”
“Adam!” Willard came running up to the Butcher's porch. “My Da told me. I wanted to give you this.” He held something made of leather thongs in his hand.
Adam held it up after Willard handed it to him. “A sling?”
“Yep.” Willard beamed. “Made myself, I did. Help you get supper in the wild, it will. All you need is to practice, on the road like, I mean.”
Adam looked at the sling again. “Thank you, Willard. I'll be sure to make use of it.” Willard swelled like a Pouter Pigeon under the praise.
He stuffed the sling into his belt and shouldered the supply pack. Either he was growing again, or he had failed to pack as much as he needed, because the pack felt nowhere near as heavy as the one he had carried from Milward's in the spring.
He turned and shook the Butcher's hand. “Thank you for everything, Hersh, I really mean it.”
The Butcher dabbed his eye. So, Ornette was his father's son. “I know, lad. I know you do.”
He shook hands with the blubbering Ornette, clapped Willard on the shoulder, and set off down the street toward the forest path. Some of the townsfolk who saw him pass by shouted his name and waved. He waved back but kept walking; he could feel the forest drawing him.
The fields outside of Dunwattle were empty of farm hands, “they're probably involved in the rebuilding,” he thought, as he made his way past them.
He planned to walk straight through to Milward's cave, if at all possible. Without being able to put a finger on the reason why, he felt the old man could help him better than anyone else in his search.
* * * * Milward pulled his counterstroke over the red thread gently but steadily, and chuckled to himself as he felt the knot unravel. Gilgafed must be filling his drawers right now. He'd had some of his earlier shapings erased when he was studying Wizardry as a youth, and the feeling was not pleasant, especially ones he'd had to maintain with a loose connection. He chuckled again, shapings such as this one in particular.
* * * * “Master! What is wrong?” Cobain came running at Gilgafed's scream. His master lay on the floor of his chamber. The usual olive complexion was deathly white, and a stain darkened the carpet where he lay.
The cords in Gilgafed's neck stood out like cables as he struggled to speak. He motioned with a twitching hand for Cobain to come closer. “That demon damned Wizard, bring me the Aleth.”
Cobain sped off to get the elixir as Gilgafed strove to control the spasms that racked his body. The backlash from Milward's erasure of his shaping sent every muscle in his body into agonizing seizure, including the involuntary ones. His heart beat like timpani; his stomach, his bladder and his bowels emptied their contents explosively.
Cobain returned with the Aleth, and held his master's head as still as possible while he poised the vial over the Sorcerer's mouth. His master had taught him about the drug. Aleth was a potent antispasmodic that needs only to hit the soft tissues of the mouth to be absorbed into the body. A small amount will suffice in almost all cases.
Gilgafed opened his mouth with a supreme effort of will, and Cobain tapped two drops of the elixir onto his tongue. The Sorcerer's body stiffened and then his back arched in one final, massive spasm. He screamed his throat raw and then fell back in Cobain's arms.
He looked up into his servant's eyes and laughed bitterly. “Damn ... that ... Wizard.”
* * * * Adam's path to Milward's cave followed no set direction. He veered widely from the forest path to both sides in the chance he might come across any sign of Charity's passing. The first day he came up cold, finding nothing. Midway through the morning of the second, he spotted a scrap of burgundy cloth that could have come from Charity's cloak or tunic. There was a small patch of ground where it looked like a struggle had occurred, but his woodsman skills were not enough to be able to tell when or by what. He followed the trail of disturbed ground and broken twigs to the best of his ability. The spoor led through thickets that tugged at his hair and brambles that tore at his skin. He followed it up a dry creek bed where it eventually led to ... a packrat's nest.
He sat there and stared at the nest and then slapped himself on the forehead. “What a gnomic droob! I should have listened to my gut. It told me this was a wrong turning, and I took it anyway.”
He continued with several more minutes of self-recrimination, and then reshouldered his pack and turned back in the direction of the path. At least he should be able to sleep in a bed tonight. Milward's cave, to best of his memory, was only a few more hours of walking away.
“At last!” The thought flew unbidden through Adam's mind. He'd forgotten that they'd walked mostly downhill after leaving the cozy comfort of the Old man's home. He was nearly fagged by the time he crested the last rise, and looked upon the creek and the glade that fronted the cave. He really didn't care at that moment if Milward was home or not, all he really wanted to do was cool his feet in the creek.
“Ooohhh...” It felt so good. The water was cool, and the tiny fish nibbling at his toes tickled nicely. He lay back and closed his eyes; Milward had to be coming home eventually.
Shawooom!! The explosion jerked Adam awake. He looked up to see the old man falling out of a hole in the sky.
“You can get off me now, thank you.” Adam squeaked. The old man was heavier than he looked. Milward had landed, one foot to each side of Adam's chest, and his, to Adam's thought, bony bottom into the pit of Adam's stomach.
The Wizard looked down, “Adam! Good to see you, boy!” and then he realized where he was. “Oops, sorry about that, lad. Here, let me help you up.” He stood and reached down for Adam's hand.
“Thank you.” Adam took the proffered hand and was pulled to his feet. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
Adam shook his head. “Oh, no, you don't.”
Milward peered at him out of his beard. “I don't? What don't I?”
“Uncle used to do that to me when he thought I was too little to know about something. He'd make believe I hadn't seen what I thought I saw. Most of the time, especially when I was very little, it worked.” He put one of his hands on Milward's shoulder. “I'm not going to allow that tactic to work now. I'm no child, Milward. I've killed men with my own hands. I've been forced to become an adult, sooner than some would have liked maybe, but there it is, and I insist on being treated like one.”
The wizard stared at Adam for a long time, hunched over like some wading bird. Then he blew out his whiskers and straightened his back. “You're right, lad, right as rain. It was a foolish impulse and I should have told you back when you and your sister first appeared in my wood. What you saw was a shaping.” He emphasized the word.
“Shaping?”
“Yes, shaping. Don't repeat every word I say as a question, and I may enlighten you before the year's end.” Milward held up a hand. “And don't apologize, just let me get through this.”
“Now,” He rubbed his hands together “There is magik in this world that can be used, shaped, as it were, like you would a painting or a sculpture.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
Milward raised his eyes skyward, beseeching the heavens. “Have you an imagination?”
“What kind of a question is that?” Adam was getting a little irritated. Milward had yet to answer his original question.
“A fairly reasonable question, I would think.” Milward huffed. “In order for you to understand my answer to your question, you need to understand the basis of the answer.”
“Ok...” Adam crossed his arms and waited.
The wizard looked at him for a moment. “Hmmm ... well, I'll assume you have an imagination. Any decent artist, as you probably know, must have a decent imagination. It is exactly the same in shaping the magik of this world.” He used his hands to illustrate the point. “What you saw was a traveling vortex. I shaped it here,” He pointed to his head, “with my imagination first, and brought it into being here.” He rubbed his belly. “It's one thing to have a good mind, but shaping, like art, is empty without the feeling that gives it form.”
“I ... see ... no, I don't.” Adam's brow wrinkled in concentration.
Milward sighed. He took Adam by the arm and began walking up the bank to his door. “We'll try again later. I think if I show you what I mean, you'll get a better handle on it.”
“Milward.”
“Yes, lad?”
“Are you a wizard? Charity and I always thought you were.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I'm The Wizard.”
“Will you tell me now what you meant by saying you're the Wizard?” Adam poured a mug of ale from the brown crockery pitcher Milward had on his table.
The old man had steadfastly refused to talk any further concerning magik or the title of The Wizard until food had been prepared and served. Adam spent a frustratingly long hour or so until dinner was declared ready.
Milward accepted the mug and sipped from it before he spoke. “Ahhh ... that takes the edge off. I meant just what I said. I'm The Wizard, not a. There are three kinds of practitioners of magik, Adam. Wizards, of which I am the last surviving one, Sorcerers, such as Gilgafed, and witches. I'm not sure that there are any witches left, the magik war killed so many...” His voice drifted off.
“There was a magik war?” Adam tore a huge bite out of his slice of roast venison.
“Oh, yes. It nearly devastated the entire world. It began between a Sorcerer and a Wizard, and then others joined in to aid their side of the battle. It went on for centuries until all that was left were Gilgafed and me. The few petty sorcerers besides him were beneath notice. I don't know of the witches...” That far away note entered his voice once more.
“So that's what you meant by the Wizard.” Adam poured himself some ale.
“Yes...” Milward's eyebrows lifted at Adam's choice of drink.
“How long ago did the war end?”
“Not long ago, only a few centuries.”
Adam's eyebrows imitated Milward's. “A few centuries?”
“What did I say about repeating my words back as a question? I only say what I mean, lad.”
Adam nearly said sorry, when he remembered what Milward had said about apologizing all the time. He shut his mouth and nodded.
“Good. Now to answer your next question, very few people are born with the gift of using magik, and nearly as few of those can be taught. A very, very rare few have the inborn ability of using it as naturally as breathing. You can see why even a span of time as long as centuries has spawned no Wizards as of yet. Sorcerers and Witches, possibly. You'll learn of the differences later, after you've mastered at least the rudiments of your own gift.”
“I have a gift?”
Milward threw back his head and let go with gales of laughter. “Gift? My boy, your gift has the potential to tear the moon out of its orbit. I could see it in you when you stayed with me before...” His voice trailed off as he realized the pain of the subject he was approaching.
“Before Charity and I went to live in Dunwattle.” Adam finished for him.
“I'm sorry, Adam. It was a foolish mistake on my part. I did not intend to dredge up unpleasant memories.”
Adam's smile was brittle. “Don't apologize. I have no intention of letting go of those memories, and I also intend to find her, wherever she's been taken.” Adam looked up at Milward sharply. “How did you ... I never said a thing about Charity after you fell on me.”
Milward looked back at him gravely. “There is an ancient prophecy. It speaks of two, brother and sister, who come into our world. As in all prophecies, it is both specific and vague. It is very specific about the two being separated in a war. When I saw just you, and when you made no mention of your sister, I believed the worst, that the separation had happened.”
“I see.” Adam sipped some more of the ale. “How ... what made it possible for you to tell, about me, I mean?”
The Wizard leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “It's a bit difficult to describe. It's like recognizing a smell by its color, or a taste by its sound.”
“That's more than a little confusing.” Adam finished his meat.
“Maybe I should show you.” Milward lifted his right hand and pointed the forefinger at his empty plate on the table in front of him. He began rotating his forefinger like he was stirring an imaginary drink.
Adam felt a sensation he was at a loss to describe. There was a pressure on the back of his mind, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up and ... in his mind's eye he felt ... spinning.
The plate beneath Milward's finger began to turn. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster until its motion was a blur, and the sound of its passage became a hum. The plate began to rise in the air until it hovered at eye level to Adam and the Wizard. Adam felt it rise in the same place he'd felt the spinning. The wizard was right, the sensation was impossible to put a finger on, but it was definitely there.
The plate slowed its rotation and settled back to the table. Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “That was it?”
Milward nodded. “That was it, if you felt it. The sensation is different for each individual gifted, even Sorcerers and Witches have a form of it. I believe it has something to do with the ability to shape the magik. You cannot sculpt something you cannot feel, nor could you paint something you cannot see. Not with any accuracy, at least.”
Adam mimicked the finger twirl that Milward had done. “How do I...” He felt a pressure build in his head.
“No!” The Wizard grabbed his hand and stopped the motion. The pressure went away.
Adam looked up. “Why did you do that? I felt something.”
Milward nodded vigorously. “I know. So did I, you were about to destroy this room.” He looked around. “I have a lot of memories here, I'd rather not lose them just yet.” He turned back to Adam. “I think it best we practice on the road, and leave off shaping indoors until you learn some control.”
Adam blinked. “On the road?”
“Of course.” Milward poured himself some more ale. “You didn't think I'd let you search for your sister by yourself, did you? Let's get some sleep, lad, the morning will come early.”

Chapter Nineteen
“Those, Adam, are Garlocs.” Milward and Adam huddled behind several large boulders in the mountain pass. They were in the Western slopes of The Spine, about a league South of the Great Wood. This was the third day since they had left the old Wizard's home. The previous two days, Milward had filled Adam's head with example after example of what it meant to be a Wizard. He still would not allow Adam to practice, using the excuse that he wasn't quite ready to converse with his maker face-to-face yet.
They had begun to work their way through a series of narrow passes that would eventually bring them to the Eastern high plateaus overlooking The Long Wood. Milward was the one to hear the sounds first, and he was equally quick in dragging Adam with him behind the boulders.
Below them, a group of creatures were gathered around the carcass of a mountain goat, tearing out chunks of meat, skin and organs and stuffing them into their oversized mouths as quickly as they could. Occasionally one would bump into another, and a short snarling quarrel broke out. Sometimes blood would be drawn. Its color looked strange to Adam, and when it hit the ground, it bubbled and steamed, sending a whiff of an acrid scent toward their hiding place.
“That blood is a deadly poison that even my magik can't counteract, so please, Adam, don't let it get on you. During the wars, assassins would tip darts with Garloc blood. They only had to scratch their target to be sure of earning the commission.”
“They look like something crossed with a lizard.” Adam turned away from the Garloc feast and hunkered down against the boulder.
“I'm not sure of that, but legend has them being the offspring of arcane experiments deep in the past.” Milward scootched himself down next to Adam. He chuckled lightly. “They do look like someone crossed a lizard with a Gnome, though, don't they?”
Adam turned to peer over the top of the boulder again. “Nasty tempered things.”
“These actually appear to be in a good mood. It's probably the goat meat. They usually don't get that much all at once.” Milward patted his pockets for a snack.
“Are they just vicious animals, then? They stand upright, kind of like we do.”
“Those are the two things a traveler should never assume about Garlocs. One, that they are just a vicious animal, and two, that they are like men. They have their own culture, their own societal hierarchy, and their own religion, of a sort.”
Adam sat back down next to Milward. “Those things have a religion?”
Milward shrugged. “As I said, of a sort. They worship; it's as close an approximation to what they actually do that I can come up with, this mythical source that will one day give them all the food they can eat, forever.”
“What about their culture?”
Milward smiled. “It's a little looser than their religion, I'm afraid. The law of the hungriest prevails, and Garlocs are always hungry. They have more than one stomach, you see. Their society is slightly matriarchal, as the females are a little larger and stronger than the males. It is certainly not based on any maternal instinct. The young are abandoned at birth, and left to fend for themselves, which, I believe, is the cause for their diet.”
Adam looked at Milward. “What is their diet?”
“Whatever fits into their mouths.”
“I think I'd like to be a little further away from them, if it's all right with you.”
“I knew you were a smart lad from the moment I met you.” Milward eased himself up to check on the feeding Garloc group. They had reduced the goat to mostly bones and were working on those. When they were done, the only sign of what had happened here would be a few stains.
He turned and sat back down. “They're almost done. They're down to the bones now.”
“They eat the bones too?”
“As I said. Anything they can fit into their mouths.”
Adam heard a rustle. He looked up to see an even larger group of Garlocs looking down on them from the bank above their hiding place. “Uh ... Milward?”
The Wizard looked up at Adam's whispered exclamation. He slowly reached out and carefully grasped his staff, a black length of iron hard wood with a carved wolf's head at its end. “Adam.” He whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Remember when I stopped you from duplicating my levitation shaping because you would have destroyed the room we were in?”
“Ye ... s.”
“I think now would be a good time to try it again. Right under that grouping in fact.”
Adam looked closely at the Garlocs. The group stood there looking at them. Some of the Garlocs licked their lipless mouths with green tongues and grinned, showing a lot of sharply pointed teeth. One of the Garlocs stood about half a head taller than the others. It turned its head to each side and snarled twice.
Adam whispered to Milward. “That sounded like it was telling the others something.”
“Yes, they have a language. Most of the words have to do with food and eating. How is your shaping coming?”
Adam could feel the first beginnings of pressure at the back of his skull. “I think it's getting there; my head is starting to hurt.”
“Good. We may have very little time left.”
The larger Garloc snarled at the others again and they fell back a step. Seemingly satisfied, it turned back to looking at Adam and Milward and uttered a string of guttural syllables that ended in a high note of question.
“What did it say?” Adam could feel the pressure in his head beginning to pound.
“It wants to know if we're the other's food.” Milward gathered his feet under him. “I think the big one is a senior female. They can be territorial. You ready?”
Adam's head was pounding like a drum now. “Yes. Let's do it.”
The Wizard lifted his staff and streamers of crackling energy erupted from it, transfixing the large female and two of the others on either side of her. “Release your shaping. Now!” Milward screamed at Adam over the thunderous snapping of the staff's discharge.
Adam released the pressure he felt inside him and the ground around them exploded outward. Boulders the size of horses flew through the air, landing hundreds of yards away. Bits and pieces of Garloc rained down, as Milward raised a hasty shield to keep the poisonous bloody flesh from hitting them.
Milward held the shield until he was sure all of the debris had fallen. He looked at the moat-like rent Adam's shaping had torn out of the earth. It encircled them completely and the bank that the female Garloc and her tribe had stood upon was now gone, along with the boulders he and Adam had hidden behind. The moat had to be at least twenty yards deep. Wisps of steam curled up from the bottom.
He combed his free hand through his hair. “I knew you were strong, lad, but ... balls! Adam! Are you hurt? Did any of their blood touch you?”
Adam was staggering and clutching his side. He turned toward Milward. His face had gone white and sweat ran down his cheeks. “M ... my side.”
“Let me see.” Milward gently lifted Adam's hand away from his side. The hand was smeared with blood, and the tear in his tunic was wet, a dark stain spread beyond its edges.
“This may hurt, lad, but I have to make sure.” He undid the frogs on the tunic front, and then pulled the shirt tail out of the trousers as gently as he could. Adam hissed with pain. “Easy, lad, easy.”
He lifted the shirt away from Adam's wound and examined it closely with a small shaping, and watched the results.
“What ... are ... you ... doing?” Adam's voice was tight with pain.
“Wait a bit.” The wizard's voice was muffled. “Ah. Good.” He straightened and wiped his hand on his robe. “It looks like you were struck by a stone from that explosion you caused. Not a chunk of Garloc, as I feared.”
“Lucky me.” Adam grunted.
“You don't know how lucky!” Milward snapped. “Don't you remember what I told you about their blood? Blowing up an entire tribe. Balls, boy! What were you thinking?”
“I didn't want to be eaten.”
“He didn't want to be eaten!” Milward addressed the universe. “You need to be taught ... what's this?” He stooped to pick up a folded parchment.
“That's mine.” Adam took it from Milward's hand. “...and Charity's.” He looked at the parchment. He'd carried it all this way and hadn't really thought about it much. Like his rock, it was a part of his routine. Get dressed, slip the parchment into his shirt, make sure the amulet is secure on his neck, greet the day.
He handed it back to Milward. “No, you should see it. Charity and I really didn't understand much of it.”
Milward unfolded the parchment and his eyes widened slightly, but he made no sound. Adam saw his lips move, and then, “...I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can...” He looked at Adam, “Do you realize whom this is from?”
“The signature says he was a king.”
“Not a king, Adam.” Milward's tone softened. “The King. Labad ruled the land for a thousand years as their King, their teacher and their guide into civilization. He was the one the Dragons trusted enough to come to his call during the magik war. It was Labad who saved the Dwarves from extinction, and he was chief in the council that planned and succeeded in driving the Sorcerer Gilgafed into exile. His vision, his prophecy, is the central theme in the studies of nearly every culture in the land. Some have spent their lives searching for it. The earliest copies are valued as treasures equal to that of chests of gold, and I stand here now ... holding the one, the original, penned by Labad himself.”
Adam pushed his hand against the wound in his side. Whatever Milward had done helped, but it was still sore, and he could feel it bleeding.
“...All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands.”
“I couldn't read it very well. Labad must have had terrible penmanship.” Adam looked over Milward's shoulder at the parchment.
“Some believe it was the writing instrument rather than his penmanship.” Milward's voice was small.
“What?”
“It's nothing. How's your side lad?”
“It's still bleeding.”
“Hmm. Must be deeper than it looked. I'll prepare a poultice of Alum and Willit. That should help the bleeding and the soreness, for a while at least, but I think you're going to need some sewing done on you.”
“Milward.”
“Yes, lad?”
“I'm sorry. I tried to control it better, but I didn't know what to do. All I could feel was this pressure. I didn't know what was going to happen.”
The wizard stopped his preparations and looked up at Adam. “No, no need to apologize. If there's any of that to be done, it should be me doing it. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Of course you didn't know what was going to happen. You'd never done it before.” He bent his head and continued mixing the poultice.
Adam could smell the sharpness of the Alum. “Did the others have that problem. When they were learning, I mean?”
Milward choked back a laugh and it came out as a cough. “No, usually they started at a smaller scale.” Like a pebble to your mountain, he thought.
“Oh.” Adam looked down as Milward applied the poultice. “That helps. Thanks.”
“All part of the calling, my boy.” Milward said briskly. He brushed his hands against one another, whisking away the Alum and Willit residue and picked up his staff. “Shall we continue our journey?” He held out the parchment to Adam.
Adam took only the letter leaving the prophecy in the Wizard's hand.
Milward looked at his hand. “I don't understand.”
Adam tucked the letter back inside his shirt. “Labad wrote the letter to Charity and me personally, but he wrote the prophecy for everyone. I think you should keep it. I'm sure it means a lot more to you than it does to me.”
Milward stood still, looking at the prophecy of Labad in his hand. The boy had given it to him as if he were giving a friend a toy they'd admired. The import of the moment swelled over him like a wave of destiny, and he felt another piece of the prophecy fall into place. He turned his gaze to Adam. “I ... don't know what to say but ... thank you, Adam. You have given me the greatest treasure I could receive.”
Adam felt his side. The wound was numb, and he could feel the Alum tightening the wound, slowing the bleeding. He readjusted his pack and began to step forward, then stopped.
“What's wrong?” Milward sounded worried.
Adam laughed bitterly. “I forgot something. How do we get across?” He waved at the expanse encircling them.
Milward looked in the direction of Adam's gesture. “Yes, I suppose that could present a problem.”
The moat created by Adam's shaping went down over sixty feet, and was far too wide to be jumped.
“A problem, that is, to anyone but me.” He motioned to Adam with his free hand. “Stand back a little, if you can please. Thank you.” The wizard raised his arms and held them straight, away from his side. “Try to feel what I do, lad. This is an example of control and direction in a shaping. Close your eyes and try to picture what you feel in your mind.”
Adam closed his eyes and tried to do as Milward asked. At first his mind jumped around, with random thoughts and images paying brief visits, and then moving on. He forced himself to settle down and consciously quieted his mind.
He began to notice a pressure, but this one was outside his head. He worked to bring it into focus and as its presence became stronger he sensed a direction. The pressure was in front of him on the ground and it was extending away from his feet. He opened his eyes while trying to keep a hold of what he sensed in his mind. He saw Milward with his arms stretched out to either side. Small energy discharges crackled through his hair and around his staff. At his feet was a glowing sheet of ... something. It stretched out in front of him, reaching for the other side of the moat. Adam could feel its growth as it closed in on the opposite side of the trench.
“You feel it, Adam?” Milward's voice showed the strain he was under.
“I do. It's like a pressure I feel outside my body.”
“Eh? Well, everyone's different. At least they were back when there were more of us.” He lowered his arms and stepped to the side. “After you, my boy.”
Adam stepping onto the glowing sheet and tested it to see if it would hold his weight.
Milward urged him on. “I don't make bridges that break. Get along, now.”
Adam put his full weight onto the sheet. It was as rigid as stone. He readjusted his pack once more and crossed over to the other side. The wizard followed.
“Now, pay close attention.” Milward turned to face his bridge. “I'm going to remove the shaping, but I'm going to do it slowly so you can follow the process. Remember that feeling of pressure.”
Adam nodded and reached out of himself with his mind. The feeling of pressure was there along with a sense of shape. It was as if he could see a faint outline in his head; the edges of it glowed.
Milward said, “Now...” And he felt the pressure reverse, like a push becoming a pull. The outline in his head began to shorten and then it was gone.
Adam shook his head as if waking out of a trance. He looked down and Milward's bridge was gone. He looked into Milward's eyes. They twinkled with self-satisfaction. “It was as if you sucked it back into yourself.”
“I did.” The wizard put his arm around Adam's shoulders. “One of the things you need to understand about Wizardry, my boy, is that the magik you use comes from within you just as much as it does from without.”
“I'm not sure I follow you.”
Milward nodded and stooped to pick up a rock. “This pebble. Do you know what it is made of?”
“No...”
Milward looked at the pebble and then he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “Frankly, neither do I, but what holds together, whatever this little rock is made up of, is magik. As a Wizard, you have the ability to tap into that magik, amplify it and join it with your own. That is the power behind the shapings you choose to do.”
“So ... you pulled the magik of the bridge back into you ... t o save power?”
“Marvelous deduction my boy! That is exactly why I did it that way. Creating a shaping uses power. If you create one that uses too much power, it can weaken you substantially even if you are able to draw some of the magik back. If you create a shaping that cannot be drawn back, such as the one you did back there, and it uses too much of your magik ... it could kill you.”
“Then why don't I feel tired?”
Because you are so flicking strong. Milward did not give voice to the thought as he walked alongside Adam. He passed off the question lightly. “Just as everyone has their own way of sensing magik in use, they also have their own levels of strength. You didn't exceed yours, that's all.”
“Oh. Did you know this King Labad?”
“Not personally. I did sit on the council that he called to overthrow Gilgafed, but I was one of the junior members.”
“Were you the Wizard who began the fight with Gilgafed?”
“No, I hadn't been born then. And no, I don't know which Wizard helped start the magik war. As far as Labad, I know he was born a commoner in the West, had a rather uneventful childhood, and discovered his gift, as most do, near the end of his adolescence.”
“Like me.”
“Like you. Now, as to how he became King...”
* * * * The Alpha Wolf sniffed the air. Winter was approaching; it was time to take the pack to the grotto.
* * * * “...and that is how Labad became King of the entire land.” Milward finished his tale just as they came to the lip of a grotto. It was encircled on three sides by the sheer cliffs of the eastern plateau. A narrow passage, only as wide as two carts driving side by side, was the way out to the wide plains of the eastern lands. The path ended at the drop off.
Adam looked into the grotto as he digested the Wizard's tale. According to Milward, King Labad could have commanded the cliffs to form a staircase and they would have. He thought there was most likely an element of exaggeration in what Milward had been telling him over the hours of their journey from where they escaped the Garloc cook pot to here, but he felt too kindly toward the old Wizard to tell him so.
He tested the lip of the cliff with his toe. A small cascade of dirt and pebbles tumbled into the grotto a hundred feet or more below. “How do we get down there from here?”
Milward didn't answer, he stood there leaning on his staff and looking at Adam with a grumpy expression.
Adam looked back at him. “What?”
Milward said, “Well?”
“Huh?”
“Frog droppings! Do I have to drag it out of you?”
“Drag what out of me?” Adam was completely perplexed. Milward's mood could change on a whim. This was a side he and Charity hadn't seen the time they stayed with him.
“I suppose I do.” The Wizard muttered to himself. “What did you think of my tale?”
Adam blinked. “Oh, that!” He considered his choice of words. In many ways Milward had a touchy vanity and Adam wanted to avoid another blowup like what happened after his explosive shaping. “There's a lot to think on there ... I'd like to have some time to mull it over. King Labad did so much that I'd have a difficult time imagining half of it. I do have to say you told it well, though. A lot better than the storytellers that used to come around our village.”
“Hmmph.” Milward looked at him through his eyebrows for a second, wondering if the lad really didn't know it was he in his guise of Nought, and then his expression cleared. “I imagine I did, at that. Now, as to how we get down there from here, I believe there is a way. Over there, if I remember correctly.” He pointed to a large Pine off to Adam's left, and continued talking they walked over to the tree. “You should find a narrow stair cut into the cliff face; it's quite steep as I recall.”
“I found it.” Adam called from behind the tree. “You're right, it's steep. Are you sure you can make it down?”
“Don't worry about me, lad.” Milward walked over to where Adam stood and looked down the stair. It twisted back upon itself, as he remembered, and was more of a ladder than stair in its steepness.
“There's a lot more life in these old bones than you may think. Are you sure you can make it?”
Adam shifted his backpack and looked at the climb waiting for him. It was very steep. “I guess there's only one way to be sure.”
Milward affixed his staff into its holder on his back. “I'll be right behind you, my boy.”
Adam stepped onto the ledge that led into the stair and began his descent. He found it easier to go down backwards like climbing down a ladder, except this ladder was made of stone, and had a switch back every fifteen feet or so. Milward waited until Adam was a good half dozen steps below him and then started down. He chose to face outward as he descended. Adam had to admit he'd been wrong again about the old Wizard. Milward appeared to be handling the stair better than he was. He was even whistling a tune as they climbed down to the grotto floor. It had a minor key with a unique octave shift that gave it a jaunty feel. Adam felt his spirits lift as they descended with the tune in the background. He also found himself using the beat of the music as timing for his steps. Before he realized it, they were in the grotto, looking back up at the cliffs.
Milward stood next to him, leaning again on his staff. “They are high, aren't they?”
“Do they have a name?”
“No. This is Wolf territory. The wolves have no names for anything except when they use one for our benefit. They know who they are and where they are. For them, that's enough.”
Adam looked around warily. “There are wolves here?”
Milward looked disgusted. “Oh, settle down! Wolves are peaceful and simple. On the whole, they are a matter of fact, straightforward people, and highly intelligent, in their own way. You've more danger from your neighbor's bad-tempered dog.”
“Intelligent? But you said first they were simple.”
Milward settled onto his staff, a pose Adam had come to learn meant, I'm going to lecture you, so you'd better listen. “You misunderstood the term. Simple, in the way I said it, means to be without guile. Wolves will never lie to you, and they will never break their word, in fact, there is no word in the wolf language for a lie.”
“Uh, excuse me. Wolves have a language?”
“Of course they do. What do you think I've been talking about?”
Adam smirked. “Sometimes I'm not entirely sure.”
“Don't be snide. I said wolves have a language and I'm going to teach it to you. Don't interrupt me; I've a lot to do, and too little time to do it in. Sit down there.” Milward indicated a fallen pine that had long ago lost its branches and nearly all of its bark.
Adam shrugged off his pack and sat down on the log.
Milward stood in front of him and bent over to take hold of his head. “Now, look into my eyes.” His tone of voice said he would not take no for an answer. “Good. Don't try to follow what I say, just listen. And don't lose contact with my eyes.”
For Adam, the rest of the world grayed away. Milward began to talk to him, but the words sounded strange. He could feel the pressure of a shaping, but it seemed to be all around the grotto, and diffuse in nature like a wispy fog. His head began to spin, and he desperately wanted to blink, but he pushed the desire away and kept his eyes on Milward's. The wizard's voice droned on and on and on.
“There. That should do it young pup.” Milward took his hands away from Adam's head.
“I be no pup, gray muzzle.”
“Oh? You be ready for the hunt then?”
“Show me the path of blood, pack leader. I... What am I saying?” Adam stepped back and shook his head. It ... felt full ... of something ... and there was a whopper of a headache forming up, as well.
Milward smiled. “That was Wolfen. It's my name for the language. Search your new knowledge. Tell me if you can find a name for the tongue in there.”
Adam sifted through the new knowledge in his skull, and then went through it once more. Not only could he not find a name for language, he couldn't find what he would really consider a name for anything.
“Can't find one, can you?”
Adam shook his head. The headache was getting worse and his stomach was beginning to get queasy.
“Oh, by the way, you're going to feel a little sick for a while.”
Adam could feel the sweat breaking out. Alternating waves of hot and cold washed through him. “You did this? Why?”
“I'm sorry, my boy. It's an unfortunate side effect of the teaching.” Milward dug around in his pouches while Adam proceeded to be violently ill.
Adam looked up after he finished vomiting. “Unfortunate ... side ...effeeuuugggccchhh?!”
Milward continued rummaging in his pouches. “Yes, Hit me hard a couple of times during my first century, but a Wizard's got to learn ... ah! Here we are.” He held up a leaf. It had a sawtooth edge to it and smelled pungently spicy when he held it under Adam's nose. “Chew this. It will help the heaves.”
Adam took the leaf and chewed it. It tasted of resins and spice, not at all unpleasant. Another spasm cramped his stomach and he shook with chills. He almost wished the fever would return. “Wh ... wh ... when will it work?”
Milward looked into his eyes again and grunted as if he'd seen what he expected. “Hmm, yes ... how's your head, now, Adam?”
Adam noticed the Wizard used his name instead of lad, or my boy. “It hurts.”
Milward grunted again and pulled a vial of white powder out of his pouch, poured some of the powder into a small cup. He then mixed a couple pinches of a light green powder into it and filled the cup with water from his flask. He held the cup away from his body and drew his other hand over and away from the cup like he was picking cotton. Steam came out of the cup, following his hand. “Here, drink this.”
The fever started up again, along with the sweating. Adam took the steaming cup in both hands to keep it from slipping loose.
Milward watched him drink it. “Willit and Phedri. It will help the headache and...”
Whhhhaaaacchhhooooo!
“...the sneezing. You hit my robe.”
“Ib soddy.”
“This was my best robe.”
“I sab Ib soddy.”
“I spent a lot of coin on this robe.”
Whhaachooo!
“The barmaids at the Inn said it looked right proper on me.”
Whhaacchhooo!
“It'll never come clean, I just know it.”
“A clobb.”
“Pardon?”
“I neeb a clobb!”
“Oh, you need a cloth.”
Adam nodded and touched the tip of his nose.
Milward muttered, “You're being snide again...” And handed Adam a cloth for his nose.
Whhoonnnkk!
“You may keep the cloth, my boy. How's the headache now?”
Adam rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “A little better.”
“How about the nausea?”
“It's gone! The leaf worked. In fact, I'm feeling hungry.” Adam looked up at Milward.
The Wizard turned his head at a faint sound. “That's good, because lunch has just arrived.”
* * * * The Alpha wolf stood under the Pine tree and looked across the clearing at his friend. He appeared much the same as last time, except he now had a cub of his own.
His mate and two other members of the pack stepped down from the slight rise and walked over to where the two legs and his cub stood. They dropped the rabbits they carried at the two legs’ feet and returned to their place behind the pack leader.
* * * * Milward put a hand on Adam's near shoulder. “Just keep quiet and listen.”
Adam watched as Milward approached the wolf pack. The Wizard knelt in front of the large wolf standing slightly in front of the rest and held out his hands palm up just under the wolf's muzzle. “It has been long since our last meal together, my old friend.”
The wolf sniffed Milward's hands. “I smell you, friend two legs. It has been long. Many hunts have gone by since our last meal together. I have two new cubs.” The wolf added with a touch of pride in his voice.
“So you have.” Milward said with pleasure. The wolf's mouth hung open in his kind's way of grinning.
“May I greet them?” Milward reached a hand toward the cubs. They retreated a little ways behind their mother.
The mother of the cubs nuzzled them forward and admonished them gently to mind their manners. “Our cubs, friend two legs.”
“I smell you, young wolves. May you soon join in the hunt.”
One of the cubs, the male, looked back at his mother. “Is he pack, mother?”
The father laughed a wolf laugh. “He is as much a wolf as a two legs can be cub. This is the two legs you have told stories of.”
The cub looked at Milward with something akin to awe. “You are that two legs?”
Milward stood. “Yes, cub. I am that two legs.”
The cub moved backwards until he was next to his sister and they had a whispered conversation with many glances in the Wizard's direction.
Milward indicated Adam with a turn of his head. “I have a cub myself.”
The male wolf looked in Adam's direction. “Do you now have a mate?”
Milward shook his head. “No. He is foundling.”
The male wolf hung his head. His mate nuzzled him in the rough fur of his neck. “Sadness. The cub is lucky you found him. Can he hunt?”
Milward looked back at Adam. “He has much to learn and much to do, but he can hunt. He may one day become the pack's greatest friend.”
* * * * Adam felt the snowflake land on his nose. He looked up into the gray sky. The clouds had been there for nearly a week, and now, finally, it was beginning to snow.
“Winter is finally here my boy.” Milward approached him with one of the wolves right behind him.
“I smell you, bright eye.” The wolf greeted Adam. Bright eye was what they chose to call him, despite the fact that wolves tended to avoid naming things.
“I smell you, wolf friend.” Adam returned the greeting. This wolf had been the Omega wolf when he and Milward first met the pack in the grotto. The Omega wolf was the lowest ranking member of a pack. The last to share in the fruit of the hunt and the butt of any other wolf's bad temper with no recourse allowed. He and Adam had become friends at first sight and consequently the wolf's ranking had skyrocketed due to Adam's association with the Wizard. This left the pack without an Omega wolf, which caused some consternation among the wolves for a while until the typical lupine fatalism settled in and the matter was forgotten. “What news of the hunt?”
The wolf opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “We have a stag, bright eye and four rabbits. The rule of three does its work.”
Adam turned to Milward. “There it is again, this rule of three. What does it mean?”
Milward turned to the wolf. “Bright eye needs to learn of the rule of three. I will be speaking to him for a time in the language of two legs.”
The wolf looked at Adam, then back at Milward. “I will rest, then. Good hunting, two legs. Good hunting, bright eye.”
“Good hunting, wolf.”
Adam opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “Good hunting, wolf friend.”
The wolf turned and walked back into the pines of the grotto, vanishing within the trees.
Adam said to Milward. “They never look back.”
The wizard leaned on his staff. “Why should they, they've already been there.”
“Good point.”
Milward chuckled.
Adam looked at him.” What was funny?”
“You. You're becoming more wolf than boy. I shouldn't be surprised to see you joining in one of the hunts soon.”
“I hope so. But I think I need to learn more before they'll let me.”
Milward looked at Adam in amazement. The lad really meant it! Well, there was nothing for it but to begin the teaching. He motioned for Adam to sit. “The rule of three,” He began. “Is the root philosophy of nearly all the peoples of this world. It will take you your lifetime to begin to understand its ramifications entirely, but at least we can get you started on the basics.
“The rule of three deals with the three forces or elements found in nature: Water, earth and air. To the wolf, the rule of three guides the hunt. As the three elements work together, so does the pack.” He knelt and sketched in the gathering snow on the grotto floor. His breath showed in the cooling air as puffs of steam. “As the earth is the foundation, the main body of the hunt moves in a line, thusly. Water moves and flows, and so do the outlying pack members, like this. Air is all around us. With it we live, without it, we die. Likewise with the pack; with food, they live. Without it they die.”
“That's it? I thought it was something much deeper, more profound.” Adam looked at Milward's sketches in the snow. “Why didn't Uncle Bal and Aunt Doreen tell us about this?”
“As to your Aunt and Uncle, they were most likely following orders and keeping you from standing out too much against the background you were being raised in. The folk of that part of the world have little use for philosophy.
“As for the rule being profound, it is.” The wizard straightened and leaned again on his staff. “As I told you, that was just the basics. If you wish to delve deeper into the philosophy, you need to first open your eyes to the world around you. See how nature works within itself; the Rule of Three is found within that working.” He stooped and picked up a pebble. “Remember when I asked you what held the stuff of a pebble together?”
“Yes. And I remember you telling me you didn't know.”
Milward nodded. “Yes, yes, I did. And I still don't. But that doesn't mean I couldn't find out! Observation, that is the foundation upon which all knowledge rests. Never be stupid or stubborn enough to disbelieve what your senses tell you is true. Even if it's contrary to what you already believe. And by your senses, I mean more than just your eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin. You, as a wizard have senses beyond the ordinary five, and you need to learn to trust them as much, not more than the others.”
“Why?”
“Because they can lie to you just like the others.”
“Then how can I know what is true?”
“You check one against the other. Also, you must learn to develop a sense of when you're being lied to. It usually takes a while for both a wizard and an ordinary man to learn the difference. It did for me.” But it will probably take you less than a fortnight. He thought.
“I see. Then ... the path of blood the wolves speak about, it is also based on the rule of three?”
“I suppose. I suppose. It's a concept that has mostly eluded me.” Milward fingered his staff. “I believe one has to be a wolf to fully understand it.”
“I think it has to do with smells.” Adam murmured.
“What?” Milward looked at Adam sharply.
“I said, I think it has to do with smells. The wolves talk of smells like they're paintings in the air that show the history of what passed before. I think the path of blood is like that. It's a way of teaching the smells of the hunt to the young wolves.”
Milward rubbed his chin. “Could be ... by Bardoc's bristling beard, I believe you're right! My boy, you've just taught your teacher a lesson, and opened his eyes to the solution of a nagging concern.”
“What is it?”
Milward pulled out the parchment Adam had given him and raised his head. The howl he let loose was a reasonable facsimile of a wolf's.
In answer to Milward's howl, the pack appeared at the edge of the trees. The Alpha wolf walked up to the Wizard. “I smell you friend two legs, but I smell no danger. Why do you call?”
Milward held the parchment out before the wolf. “Can you show me the path of blood on this parchment, friend wolf?”
The wolf sniffed the parchment and then curled his lips back as he savored the scent hidden in the writing. “The blood of a man, friend two legs. A man of ancient, noble birth, sick from the poison of the bad ones.” The wolf looked Milward in the eyes. “What is this old blood to you, my friend? Will it help you in your hunt?”
Milward folded the parchment gently and put it back inside his robe. “Yes, it will my friend. I thank you.”
The wolf grinned a wolf grin and then looked at Adam. “This one is nearly ready for the hunt. Isn't he?” He kept his gaze on Adam for a moment and then turned and walked back into the forest.
Milward looked back at Adam, who shrugged. He chuckled and put his arm around his young pupil's shoulders. “Come on. Let's go back to the hut. It's getting cold.”

Chapter Twenty
“The cold ends, the new life comes.” The wolf walked up to stand at Adam's side, enjoying the scent of the flowers growing in the grotto.
“I smell you, packmate.” Adam dropped his hand to receive a lick from his four-legged friend.
“You will be leaving soon with the old one.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I will miss our hunts together.” The wolf's tail wagged at the memory.
“As will I.” Adam had become adept at following a spoor and at flushing out game for his hunting partner. “The rule of three is a good teacher.”
“When one is wolf enough to learn.” The word Adam translated as wolf actually meant The One's That Hunt. “Good hunting, my friend.”
“Good hunting.” Adam felt a thickness in his throat. The wolf turned and soon vanished in the pines.
He heard a rustle to his left and turned to see who or what was approaching. The mass of white hair pushing through the brush told him it was Milward.
He pushed his way past the Huckleberry bush and left the trees to stand next to Adam. “Aren't the flowers bright this morning?”
Adam stood there, waiting.
Milward rested both of his hands on the top of his staff and sniffed the air. “Smells like a good day to travel.”
“I suppose so.”
“What's bothering you, boy?” Milward look at him sharply.
“I can't help feeling we should have left earlier, and I also wish I could stay.”
“Ah, conflicted.” Milward shifted his hold on his staff and looked across the grotto. Some yellow and white butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. He lowered his chin to his chest as if in thought, and then nodded.
“Adam.”
“Yeah?”
“I've something to confess and I want you to try to understand my reasoning for what I've done.” He shifted as though uncomfortable.
Adam felt the familiar chill again. “Ok, go ahead.”
“I know why you feel we should have left earlier. You want to be looking for your sister. The bond between twins can be even stronger than that between a man and his wife.” He paused.
“Go on.”
“I ... know she is alive.”
“So do I, Milward.”
“No. I actually do know she is alive.”
Adam whirled to face the Wizard. “How!? And why keep it from me? Do you know where she is?”
Milward waved a hand. “All perfectly reasonable and understandable questions. As to how, I placed a small shaping on each of you when you first stayed with me. If either of you were to be gravely injured, in danger, or killed, I would know of it. You are both very special to me, you know.
“As to why I kept it from you, I have no good explanation. I wanted you to find out how to create the bond yourself, but primarily I'd forgotten about it; it had become as much a part of me as my aches in the morning.”
“As to where she is? She's in the world, I can tell you that, but I cannot be any more specific.”
“Why?”
“I just can't!” Milward slammed the point of his staff into the ground. “I can't. And I don't know why!”
Adam was nonplused. His anger at Milward suddenly had nowhere to go. The Wizard seemed more upset about his inability to locate Charity than Adam was upset about his being left out of the loop. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly embarrassed at being witness to Milward's admission of weakness. He busied himself at checking his pack and sword.
Milward composed himself with difficulty and placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. “We'd best be going, lad.”
“Milward?”
“Yes, Adam?”
“I understand.” He didn't see Milward's smile.
“How far is this Whistle Bridge?” Adam helped Milward up the incline. The weeks of travel were beginning to weary him, and he was anxious to reach the goal.
“Not far.” Milward puffed. The climb had been long and somewhat slippery. “It crosses a chasm deemed by some to be endless in its depth. I don't agree with them.”
“You don't?” Adam reached for the next handhold.
“No, I don't. Everything created has its end as well as its obvious beginning.” Milward held out his hand. “Help me up, lad. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.”
Adam helped him up to the next ledge of the incline. “How far to this chasm, then?”
Milward rubbed dried mud off his robe as he thought. “Ummm, if this is the last rise ... we should see the ravine leading to it by morning.”
“Where do we camp?” Adam looked around them. They stood on a flat section of a path that would have given a goat pause. Steep walls rose on either side of them with nary a hand or toehold to be seen. Spring was still new, so ice glinted here and there in areas where the sun didn't reach. Along the path before them the ground was strewn with pebbles and rocks. Sleeping would be uncomfortable, at best.
Milward rubbed his chin. “If I recall correctly, and I usually do, there's a widening with a nice grassy glen with a few trees there for shelter if it rains. We should be comfortable enough for the night.”
“Good. I hate sleeping wet.”
“Me too, lad; me too.”
The Wizard recalled correctly. The path wound terribly for a while, but it eventually emptied onto a sylvan glen with soft green grass, wildflowers, a small grouping of pines and a brook that filled the glen with its silver song.
“See there, my boy. I told you so.”
Adam left Milward to his gloating and walked over to the brook. He refilled the water skins and then lay down to drink deeply.
“Leave some for me, lad. Drink any more and you'll cause a drought.” The wizard sat on a pine log that had conveniently fallen a number of seasons long gone.
Adam brought the water skins over and sat down on the log. His feet hurt, but there was still the matter of setting up camp.
Milward noticed Adam's look as he sat down. He reached out an arm and halted the boy's attempt to rise again. “Leave the work to me lad. Take this as an opportunity to learn something more about being a Wizard.”
Adam felt the pressure again, building up outside of him. This time, however, it was in several places at once and it moved. One part zipped into the trees, while another group roamed about the glen gathering rocks, which were placed into a circle. When the last rock fell into place, the part that went into the trees came back with a large bundle of sticks and broken dead branches and dropped them outside the circle.
The pressure cut off and Adam looked at Milward. The Wizard face glistened with sweat though the day still had some of the old chill of winter. He looked back at Adam. “Did you follow that?”
“You're sweating.”
“Of course I am!” Milward snapped. “A multiple shaping is one of the hardest to do. Especially if you work to maintain its smoothness.”
“What do you mean, smoothness?” Adam rummaged in his pack and pulled out a cloth that he gave to the Wizard.
Milward wiped his brow with the cloth and then put it into a pocket. “See the rocks which make up the fire circle?” He pointed to them.
“Yes.”
“Look at them closely. What, if anything, do you see of significance in them?”
Adam studied the rocks. As far as he could tell they were just rocks. He shrugged his shoulders. “Other than them being in a circle, nothing.”
Milward snorted. “Look again.”
Adam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. There was something the Wizard wanted him to see in the rocks, he was sure of it. Should he try a shaping to himself to figure it out? No, he'd probably wind up destroying the campsite, and besides, Milward would know as soon as he started. He stared at the rocks, straining to see what would be there that Milward wanted him to find. Was it color? They were all a melange of gray, pink and brown. Shape? The shape varied little from the usual rounded lump. Size? Well, the size varied..."I see it!”
Milward leaned back. “You do, do you?”
“It's the size. You lined them up according to size.”
Milward smiled and touched a forefinger to his nose. “Right you are. I could have just had them drop in a circle willy-nilly but I wanted you to see what can be done with a little control. You have strength, Adam. More than I've seen in any other Wizard, including what I saw during the magic war, but you lack control. That could make you as dangerous to yourself as you are to your enemy.”
“Is this why we're traveling this direction?”
“Partly. I thought it would be good for us to visit the Winglord.”
“The Winglord? Who's he?”
“He's not a man, if that's what you mean.” Milward lit the fire with a snap of his fingers. Adam felt the sudden rush of power.
“What is he, then, another Wolf?”
“No, a Dragon.”
“A Dragon?!” Adam surged to his feet. “Charity and I were nearly fried by a Dragon in the caves, and you're taking me to see one?”
Milward looked closely at him. “You never mentioned this before.”
Adam told him about the Dragon they met in the caverns and their narrow escape through the cave wall into the creek.
Milward rubbed his chin in thought. “Can you remember enough about this fire breather to describe it to me?”
“I think I can. It had to be at least twice the height of a tall horse at the shoulder. It walked on all fours, had spines running down the length of its back and ... oh, yes, it had things coming out from behind each jaw like eels.”
“Like eels.”
“Uh huh. Oh, and when its saliva hit the water, it hissed like water hitting a hot stove.”
“I see. Do you remember seeing wings on this Dragon?”
Adam ran back over his memory of being chased through the caverns by the Dragon. He tried to picture its back. “No. No wings.”
The old Wizard seemed to relax. “My boy. I'm glad to tell you that what you and your sister ran from was not a Dragon.”
“Not a ... but it breathed fire. Its head was as big as ... as a calf, at least!”
“Yes, I imagine so. The fire was one of the reasons I asked you to describe the creature.”
“Not ... a... Dragon.” Adam repeated the statement, trying to get a handle on the concept.
“As I said,” Milward replied slowly as if teaching a slow learner. “Not a Dragon. I've never had the opportunity to see one of the creatures you described, thank the creator, but I've read about them during my studies back before the war. They are called Firewyrms. A real Dragon has wings. What you saw doesn't fly, but it does breathe fire. Well, it doesn't really breathe it, according to the old records. They are supposed to have a sort of second stomach that creates a gas they can expel at high pressure. The saliva you mentioned causes the gas to burst into flame as it leaves the mouth, hence the so-called fire breathing you saw.”
“Do the flying dragons breathe fire?”
“I don't think so ... never heard of one doing it. I'm sure Mashglach would have mentioned it sometime...” His voice trailed off in thought.
“Whose Mashglach?”
“The Winglord, of course. Didn't I tell you his name earlier? No? Well ... Mashglach is the chief of the Dragons, the Winglord. They are the Oldest and wisest creatures living. I don't think anyone knows their origins; they're shrouded in the past like so many of our beginnings.”
“Are they dangerous? The Dragons?”
“Oh, of course. As would be any creature as large or as strong. But if you mean, are they dangerous to you or I, then I would have to say no. Mashglach and his people are my friends. Of course I've had a few centuries to get to know them. Give it time and they'll be your friends as well.”
Adam tossed a small stick into the fire. “Ok. I'll give it a try.”
Milward looked at Adam in a studying way. He found himself doing that more and more. He really didn't know what to do with the boy. On one hand, he was scared pissless with the sheer volume of power the lad could bring into a shaping, and on the other, he was dying to see what he could do with it. “Yes, I suppose you will.”
Adam got up and walked over to his pack. He opened the top and began pulling out supplies for supper. Some dried meat and a few herbs and spices packed in small individual skins, two small cheeses covered in wax and a bag of dried vegetables.
Milward watched his preparations. “Stew?”
Adam looked up from measuring out a dark green herb. “Yes. We've got the time and I think we'd both prefer it to eating the stuff cold and dry.”
Milward grinned and smacked his lips. “On the money, lad. I'll get the water.”
* * * * Gilgafed tested the barrier. It gave slightly with a rippling effect as if he'd dipped his finger into a still pond. More of the power was applied, and it gave further. “Soon,” he thought. “Very, very soon.”
* * * * From their camp, Adam and Milward followed the trail as it passed over the eastern plateaus. Near midday, the ground rose into an area of high downs covered with bracken and heather. Bright yellow butterflies danced in the lavender scented air, ignoring the passage of the old Wizard and his charge in favor of the nectar the flowers offered.
Beyond the heather the downs rose sharply in a rise of moss-covered stone. They topped the rise and looked down into a rent in the earth. On either side of the ravine entrance, the ground rose slightly and then fell away as the table of two sheer plateaus.
Milward pointed to the opening. “There it is. The beginning of the ravine that leads to Whistle Bridge.”
“Why is it called that?” Adam peered into the ravine. The sunlight only reached so far. The heart of it looked to be black as night.
“You'll hear the reason yourself when we get to it. The wind creates a whistling sound as it passes over the span.”
Adam looked thoughtful. “Who built the bridge?”
“So many questions.” Milward stopped Adam's apology with an upraised hand. “It's all right, I don't mind, really. I was the same way as a youth. Drove my parents and teachers to distraction, I imagine.” He patted his pouch belt. “Whistle Bridge wasn't built, as far as anyone can tell. If it was, it was before recorded history. Some say the wind carved the bridge out of the naked stone itself. Some say it was first water, and then wind. Some say the Dragons themselves made it back when they had their cities.”
“Their cities?”
Milward set off down the path toward the ravine with Adam slightly behind him. “Yes, I said cities.” His tone of voice betrayed mild annoyance. “Dragonkind is far, far older than mankind. Legend has it that one city still exists in the far north at the outer fringes of the frozen wastes. Chrysostom, I believe it is called. Some ancient texts say the Dragons even had ships that sailed to the stars.”
“Did they?”
“Can't say. Mashglach won't speak of it. I think something about the subject embarrasses him. Just understand this, Adam. When you meet Mashglach, you're meeting a being that was alive nearly ten thousand years before you were born. Their concept of time is different from ours. Most of what mankind does is beneath their notice, like the Mayfly is to us.”
“How did you become friends, then?”
Milward smiled at the memory, though Adam didn't see it. “I think it was because I kept turning up. Wizards live longer than other people, you see. Around my fourth century, they began to notice I was the same little man they'd been bothered by the previous century. After that, it was just a matter of communication.”
Adam noticed it was becoming dark. He looked up. The opening that was the top of the ravine glinted far above them. He reached forward and tapped on Milward's shoulder. “I can't see where I'm going. Maybe we should walk a little more carefully.”
“Not to worry, lad. There's nothing much between us and the bridge except the occasional pebble.”
“What's that I hear?” Adam's hand gripped Milward's shoulder this time, stopping him.
“Eh? I hear nothing, boy. We're too far away to hear the wind in the chasm.”
“I hear something. Listen.”
Milward strained his ears. There was something. The boy had better ears than he did, obviously. Being young had its points. It was a chittering, just on the edge of hearing. It put the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
“Do you know what it is?”
He could feel Adam turning to put his back to his as the silken hiss of the sword leaving its scabbard told its own tale. The lad has good defensive instincts, at least, he thought. “No, I've never heard anything like it. Jars the nerves, doesn't it?”
“It puts mine right on edge.” Adam agreed. “It's getting louder.”
“I hear it.” Milward raised his staff. It began to glow and a crackling nimbus of octarine purple infused the staff, lighting the area where he and Adam stood, along with a radius of about two yards.
“It seems to be coming from everywhere. It ... it sounds evil.”
* * * * “I have you now.” Gilgafed watched the old Wizard in the scry glass. It had taken nearly all his available power, but if he didn't miss his guess, the brat was with the old fool, even though something hid him from the scry. What he had summoned would deal with them both, the old Wizard's new strength and the security of the world be damned.
The single door to his chamber opened tentatively. He whirled to see Cobain with a silver service tray and a bottle of wine.
Gilgafed leveled a shaking finger at his servant. “How dare you!? Get out! Get out, and don't come in unless you are summoned.”
Cobain shuffled backwards out the door, and shut it.
The Sorcerer grunted and turned back to his glass. He did not want to miss a second of this triumph and his thorn's removal.
* * * * The light from Milward's staff threw the shadows of the ravine into a sharp, purple-edged focus. They could see things moving in them. The sound grew louder, and a scent, equally as disturbing as the sound, reached their nostrils.
Adam's lip curled in disgust, and he growled in his throat.
“Steady, lad, don't go wolf on me. We've no idea of what we face here.” Milward cautioned him.
The sound was all around the edge of the light, now. Adam's sword wove an intricate pattern. “You don't know what these things are?”
“I've only a vague suspicion, Adam, and I am hoping by Bardoc's beard that it's wrong.” Milward raised the hand not holding the staff.
Adam felt the now familiar pressure of a shaping. A glow began coalescing around the Wizard's hand similar to that around the staff. Small arcs and streamers of energy leapt and spat from his fingertips. Adam felt the pressure increase and then let go. A blue white bar of fire shot from Milward's hand and transfixed ... a something. He had no name for what he saw, only that he wished he never saw anything like it again.
Its coloring was dead black, like the ash found on a cook stove pipe. The head had no ears and no nose, only a gash that opened and closed continuously. The mouth dribbled, and a semi-thick drool spattered against the ravine wall it clung to. It had two arms that extended from a torso with no shoulders and short curly fur resembling an advanced growth of mold. Six legs extended from the end of the torso like those of a Black Widow. The hands and feet were alike, with two digits each ending in a hooked claw. There were no sexual organs visible. Its eyes glowed with a sickly green illumination under the blaze of Milward's fire.
It scuttled out of the shaped bolt and back into the shadows. The chittering came from the movement as its joints rubbed against each other.
“Balls!” Milward spat the expletive.
“You know what these things are?” Adam swung the sword up to block a swipe by one of the creatures. Sparks flew where blade met claw.
“They're called Chivvin, if I'm any judge of legend. They're not supposed to be here.” Another bolt leapt from his hand.
“You mean this ravine?” Adam leaned back to avoid a lightening slash.
“No! I mean this world.” Another bolt of fire lit the ravine. A metallic smell followed it. “These shapings should be destroying them. They only look like insects. They're from someplace other than our reality. But my power only sends them back into the shadows.”
Something began tapping on the door of Adam's mind. “Where do the legends say they come from?”
“The writings speak of them coming from the other side.” Milward sent forth his shaping again, but the brilliance of the bolt was markedly less than the ones before.
“The other side of what?”
“Dreams. These are the creatures of nightmare. They can only ... Bardoc's Beard! I'll fry his filthy stinking guts!”
“What?”
“They had to be summoned. There's no other way for them to come through. It's that Sorcerer's doing. That fool doesn't know what he's playing with. I'll flay his hide from his bones. I'll light his balls on fire and feed them to him whole. I'll...”
“Light!” The door to Adam's mind opened. He half turned to share his idea with Milward, and had to duck as one of the Chivvin leapt at him. From his knees, he swung upward at the juncture of head and torso. It felt as if he'd struck an anvil. A loud CHINK and a shower of sparks followed the strike, and the Chivvin flew over Milward in two pieces. The torso landed on its back, and the legs clawed at the air like a beetle flipped onto its back.
“Aaarrgghh!” Milward cried out and began dancing around. The head had latched onto the toe of his right boot, and the jaws worked, trying to chew through the tough leather. He pointed his staff at the head and sent it rolling into the darkness with a surge of energy.
He backed up against Adam and raised his voice to be heard above the increased chattering of the Chivvin. “You said something. What was it?”
“Light. It's the light that scares them. I'd bet my sword on it.”
Milward shook his head. “You may be right. I should have thought of it before, but now I'm nearly knackered. I doubt I could float a pebble.”
“What can we do, then?” Adam parried slashes from a group of Chivvin clinging to the ravine wall above him.
“You'll have to do it, lad. We'll have to chance it.”
“What do I do?”
“As you build your shaping, think of sunlight, pure, white, sunlight. Remember how it looks, how it feels, and put those memories into the power, and direct the shape of it to where you want it to go.” The Wizard looked around them. “In this case, I'd say everywhere.”
Adam concentrated as Milward had instructed. He thought of light, pure and blinding white, filling the ravine as he built the shaping. The pressure of the power grew and he opened his eyes prior to releasing it. There was a glow coming from his skin and his clothing. Small sparkles, like diamond dust, danced and skipped through the air.
The Chivvin closest to them edged back from the glow, their chittering now loud enough to cause pain. Adam had to shout to make himself heard. “Close your eyes!”
He released the shaping at the same time he closed his.
Irritation caused by the glow forming around the targets caused the Chivvin to back away. It grew brighter, and the irritation became pain. They increased their cry in defense, but the pain grew and then blossomed into agony. Blinding white radiance enveloped them and they began to break apart; smaller bits crumbling into even smaller bits that then floated away into the all-consuming light until they were gone.
“You can open your eyes now, lad.”
Adam opened his eyes. It must have worked. Milward didn't use that tone of voice unless he was well pleased about something. Adam saw no Chivvin left in the ravine. It had worked.
* * * * Cobain answered his master's summons. He found Gilgafed roaring drunk, lying in a pool of ancient, very expensive wine, and surrounded by a number of empty bottles.
His master waved him over with the loose-limbed movement of the very, very drunk.
“Ah, Cobain! He did it again. The brat destroyed them, even ... even my sh, shumminmumums ... summons failed. A toast!” He raised an almost empty glass. “A toast to failure.’ Hic’ A delicashee I've not tasted for nearly a ... a... a thousand yearsh.” He up-ended the glass and slurped loudly. He then brought the glass up close to his face. “Drained. Jush like me.” His eyes rolled back, and he began to snore.
Cobain looked down at the slumbering sorcerer. A glint off to the side caught his eye. He bent to see what it was and found shards of glass. It was then he noticed the mirror Gilgafed used for scrying. Its frame was empty, the backing cracked, and what remained of the beveled mirror glass scattered across the floor.
He looked back at his master. The Sorcerer lay in a drunken stupor, snoring and hugging his empty bottle. Completely helpless, he would know nothing for days. Cobain bent and picked up a shard of glass and looked at his master. Then he bent once more and began picking up the rest.
* * * * Milward leaned on his staff. It had worked. The boy was learning fast. Far, far faster than he had when he was apprenticing. The battle had completely worn him out, but his pride wouldn't allow him to ask Adam for help in walking.
“May I help?”
He turned to see Adam holding out his arm for him to take as if he were an invalid. Straightening his back, he strode off down the ravine, heels clicking against the stone. “No, thank you, boy. We've delayed here long enough.”
Adam followed the old Wizard shaking his head. He knew Milward was nearly drained, he could feel it. His perceptions were growing. If he strained them a bit, he could feel small snatches of shapings being worked. He didn't have the subtlety to be able to tell how far off or where they were, but it was a beginning.
The path continued downward at a steady rate, and the shadows grew deeper until Adam asked Milward. “Do you think I should try your torch trick? I can't see my hand in front of my nose.”
He heard the Wizard grunt. “First, it's not a trick. It's a shaping. Remember that. Ill-informed boobs call the things we do tricks. Secondly, additional practice wouldn't hurt, would it?”
“No, sir.” Adam began to glow, and the walls of the ravine came into focus. He felt a considerable relief in seeing the bare rock empty of Chivvin.
“You've got a good quality light there, lad, but does it have to be you all over? How about just a hand?”
Adam concentrated, trying to move the light to his right hand. “I can't get it to move. Sorry.”
Milward sighed. “Ah, well. I guess this will have to do. Mind you, it is a lot better than stubbing your toe in the dark.”
The ravine narrowed until there was just enough room for them to squeeze through with their packs. Milward had to unbuckle his beloved pocket belt with its many pouches and sling it over his shoulder.
He grumbled about Gilgafed while they made their way through what Milward called the narrows. “Egotistical idiot! What does he think he's playing at, a children's game? Didn't he realize what ... damn and blast him to perdition. Chivvin! What in the pit was he thinking?” And so on.
Adam listened to Milward's monologue with interest. The old Wizard had a marvelous grasp of language, and exercised his gift with paramount skill in describing the Sorcerer's many faults and failings.
At one point the narrows became too tight to traverse without inching up the wall and bracing the feet against one side and the back against the other and then covering the distance sideways like a crab.
They were able to get through the narrows without too many scrapes and bruises, but Adam developed a good strawberry on his right elbow, and Milward caught the back of his head against a protruding stone somewhere in the middle of the climb.
The Wizard felt the back of his head as they moved into a more comfortable area of the path. “Damn. It's gong to leave a knot. Of that, I'm sure.”
Adam felt his elbow gingerly. “Do we have enough water to make poultices?”
“No, and it's a good few hours before we reach Dragonglade.”
“I guess we'll just have to suffer through, then. Is your strength coming back?” Adam looked at Milward out of the corner of his eye.
“A little bit ... but after such a...” He stopped and gave Adam a suspicious look, then he headed on down the widening path, muttering about boys who are far too sharp for their own good.
The path's downward slope increased after a while and the ravine widened to a distance of yards instead of feet. The walls curved inward high above their heads, giving them the feeling of being in a massive hallway. The air grew moist and cooler as the sound of water rose up in the background.
A patch of light came into focus and Adam turned off the glow. He wondered why he felt none of the drain as Milward had, but that thought was swept away by what he saw as they entered the light.
“Behold, Adam, Whistle Bridge.”
Adam stood there, awestruck. What Milward had told him on the way was inadequate to prepare him for what he saw. The bridge was merely the centerpiece of a magnificent tableau as it stretched into the distance over the gorge that lay before them. An impossibly high waterfall lit by the sun fell from the gorge's cliff to the left of where they stood. Bushes and small trees stubbornly clung to the cliffs, sprouting from cracks and outcrops that jutted into the mist. White birds flew in and out of the mist, some of them skimming the waterfall itself. An incredible rainbow spread its arch between the bridge and the waterfall. The sounds of the falls, the birds and the breeze whistling across the bridge blended into an ethereal harmony. He could hear the small patter of drips of condensed mist hitting the stone, and the air had a sharp, washed scent like spring cleaning on a grand scale.
“Quite a sight isn't it?” Milward eased himself over to Adam's side.
“I ... never dreamed anything like this even existed.” Adam breathed.
“Well, it does, and has for tens of thousands of years. Some say it was here even before man came to be.”
The old wizard pointed to the waterfall. “No one knows how far it falls. The chasm underneath the gorge falls away from the cataract and gives it no wall to fall against.”
“What are those birds doing?” Adam pointed to them as they skimmed the falls.
“Fishing.”
“What?”
Milward smiled. “I know it sounds strange, but that is exactly what they're doing. They live off the small fish who come over the edge into the falls itself.”
“Amazing.” Adam stepped onto the bridge for a better angle to view the gorge.
Milward followed him onto the bridge. Whistle bridge was only wide enough for two to walk it side by side and he passed Adam carefully. “Heights don't bother you, lad?”
Adam bent to look over the edge of the bridge, resting his hands on his knees. A jewel lit fog hundreds of yards below obscured his view of the actual depth. “They don't seem to. Why?”
He didn't see the Wizard shudder as he bent over the drop. “Oh, no reason. Just asking.”
Adam straightened and shaded his eyes as he tried to see across the gorge to the other side of the bridge. “The other side's a long ways off. How long till we get to Dragonglade from here?”
Milward looked up at the light coming into the top of the gorge. “I had hoped we'd be there before summer's done. That's when the gate is shut.”
“Gate? What gate?”
* * * * The sun rose in the east. The colors played across the Alpha Wolf's muzzle as he watched the day being born.
His mate came up beside him and sniffed the early morning air. The plain below them was filled with wildflowers and the sounds of birdsong greeting the rising sun. “You think of the old one's packmate.”
He turned and greeted her. “I smell you, my mate. Yes, I think of the young two legs. He learned quickly the way of the hunt and I feel as if a packmate of ours is journeying away from us for the first time.”
“I, too, miss him, but he will do well.”
The Alpha Wolf's mouth hung open in a wolf smile. “He will.”
* * * * “This is the gate.” Milward rested a hand on Adam's shoulder as he pointed to the gate in question.
“Gate!?” Adam exclaimed. “This isn't a gate. It's a bloody edifice.”
He had his neck craned back so he could see the top of the gate. The dim light of the cavern made gauging the height of it difficult, but it had to be sixty feet if it was an inch. The designs worked into the metal of the gate were otherworldly to his eyes. They had a definite symmetry and balance, one side was a mirror image of the other, but the intricacy of the patterns was as complex as clockwork.
Milward sensed his young charge's bafflement. “Yes, I was struck much the same as you are now, the first time I saw them. I must have spent nearly a fortnight trying to trace the pattern. Used up every sheet of paper I had with me, if I recall. To this day, I don't know much about their history, maybe Mashglach will consent to tell it to you.”
“Why me if not to you? You're their friend.” Adam turned to look at the Wizard.
“You can never tell about Dragons, my boy. They have entirely different reasons for doing things than you or I or anyone else might, for that matter. Just because I'm considered a friend doesn't mean I'm considered a confidant.”
“This is another one of those times where I'm not sure I understand you.”
“Never mind. Once you meet the Dragons, you'll have a better understanding of what I'm talking about.”
Adam walked up to the gate. The metal shone a dull yellow. “Gold? Are these gates ... gold?”
Milward was looking in one of the pouches on his belt. “Hmm? Oh, yes. They're gold, and some other metal to give them strength. If they were solid gold, they'd collapse of their own weight. Now, where was that ... ah!”
Adam came over to see what the Wizard was pleased about finding.
“The key. I knew I had it somewhere. You don't use something for about a hundred years, and it gets hard to find for, some reason.”
“Uh huh, yeah.” Adam looked at the key the Wizard was holding. It was, if anything, remarkable in its plainness. It appeared to be made of simple brass with no engraving to be seen on either side. One end was a simple open loop and the other held the teeth of a standard door key. “This little thing opens that gate?”
“Seems a bit lopsided, doesn't it?” Milward chuckled, as he walked over to the joining of the two gate halves and turned the key in the lock.
A snick sounded and the gate doors began to swing inward in a silent, stately fashion.
The open gate revealed an intimidatingly large hallway lit by unseen lamps giving a soft natural light. The ceiling curved into an arch along its entire length with decorations and moldings of a size that give Adam the impression he was a mouse entering a giant's home. Inset into the ceiling arch about a hundred feet above them were highly detailed frescos of what appeared to be a timeline of Dragon history. One showed a large number of Dragons building something, using logs as rollers, with some of the workers pulling on ropes as others pushed the huge stone blocks.
“These paintings show the Dragons with hands.” Adam pointed one out to the Wizard.
“Of course. What did you expect, hooves? I told you about their legendary city, remember?”
“Oh, yes ... What is that thing?” Adam indicated a portion of a fresco that showed a three-sided platform of some kind floating in the air above a gathering of Dragons waving large, feathered fronds decorated with some of the same highly complex designs that covered the gate.
“I've never really been sure. This is one of those things Mashglach keeps silent about. It could be the craft they used to sail to the stars, but there is no method of moving the craft that I can see. It could be one of their legends. You'll notice it's hovering over the crowd there. It could be one of their ancient explorers getting a send-off.”
Adam wasn't convinced of the legend theory. All the other frescos showed events that had to be part of a living history instead of legend. Why would the Dragons have placed something fictional within a factual timeline?
They passed under more frescos that showed elaborate feasts and ceremonies. Scenes of tragedy and triumph where nature's immense destructive power was overcome and a flattened city rebuilt.
Adam noticed something missing from the history. There were no scenes of battle. He considered asking Milward why, but didn't want another lecture about missing the obvious, so he tried to piece an answer together from the frescos. An idea was beginning to formulate when they came to an interior door. The top of the door, though not as high as the gate, was still four times as high as a man on horseback. There was a knob and a latch, but unless Milward had a way of levitating himself, as Adam suspected he did, the knob could not be reached to turn it.
“Over here, Adam.”
Adam turned from his inspection of the door to see why Milward called him.
“We go in through here.” Milward showed him a keyhole similar to the one in the gate set into the lower right corner of the main door.
“They certainly are accommodating,” Adam remarked, as they passed through the smaller door.
“And why would we not be, young human? We are DRAGONS, after all.”
The voice was inhumanly deep to Adam's ears, resonant and full of subsonics, but with a quality that said welcome. He found he liked the voice and it fit the speaker like a well-tailored suit of clothes.
The Dragon door warden bent down to look at each of them closely. “Ah, it's that young Wizard. And you've brought a friend! Welcome. Welcome to Dragonglade.”

Chapter Twenty-One
Adam sat on the garden bench under the branches of a flowering Cherry tree. Across the plaza, Milward huddled deep in conversation with three immense Dragons, one of who wore a medallion encrusted with white and red gems around its edge. The center of it looked to be a firestone more than a span in diameter. Dragons’ coloring was different from what he'd expected. It seemed as if they'd been dusted with a fine coating of diamond that lay over their scales as minute prisms. A cloud passing over the park-like setting caused a dimming, as if an internal light had been extinguished. Orange and red, brown and yellow, and blue and green were the predominant colors, but each one had them in their own unique patterns.
The wings were incredible. They lay along a Dragon's back like cloaks, and the huge pectoral muscles that drove them gave the Dragons a rather chesty appearance, though at an average height of sixty feet when standing on their hind legs, the proportions fit.
Their tails were carried off the ground as a balance. No fins or series of ridges ran down the spine like those of the Firewyrm, though there was a change in the color pattern similar to the stripes in a tabby cat.
He found Dragon faces to be pleasing and very expressive. They had a somewhat horsy appearance, if a horse had a mouth that could smile like a man's. He had no notion of what Dragons ate, but from what he could see of their teeth they were probably vegetarian, for the teeth were blocky, like those of a cow.
Their forelegs had hands that could easily double as feet, and a few Dragons passed him walking on all fours. The six toes were as long as fingers, and had opposing digits on either side. Their claws were rounded, nothing like the set of daggers the Firewyrm sported back in the caverns, and the palms were long and narrow like the base of a foot.
He heard the word Garloc mentioned and saw the Dragon's heads nod. “Milward must be telling them of the journey to get here,” he thought.
The old Wizard made a gesture where he threw his arms wide as if describing an explosion, and the Dragon heads turned to look in Adam's direction. “Uh oh,” he thought. “What did he tell them about me?”
The Dragon with the medallion turned and started to walk over to where Adam sat. Milward followed by jogging alongside, hitching up the skirt of his robe in one hand.
Adam stood to his feet and stepped out from under the Cherry tree as Milward and the Dragon approached. He leaned forward and whispered into the Wizard's ear. “What did you tell them about me? Did you tell them about me blowing up the Garloc's?”
“He did, young Adam.” The Dragon spoke. His voice was deeper even than the one that met them at the door. “Though we sorrow at the loss of life, we rejoice at your triumph of survival.”
“You heard that?” Adam looked up at the Dragon. Its eyes were a rich, reddish brown, with golden flecks scattered around the edge of the iris.
The Dragon nodded solemnly. “Accept my apologies for listening in. It was inconsiderate, but I must confess, you have raised my interest, and I've not found anything of man interesting since I first noticed my young Wizard friend these few centuries ago.”
Milward raised his eyebrows at Adam, beaming like a proud father at the county fair.
“You find me interesting? Why?” Adam felt very insignificant in the shadow of the huge Dragon. The idea that such a creature would find him interesting was more than a little disturbing.
“The way you dealt with the problem of the Chivvin. I find your choice of solution ingenious. Other men, and most Wizards, would have used violence, and died. You used light, an element of life. Why?”
Adam thought about his meeting with the Chivvin and tried to bring up the reason why. He knew he reacted mostly by gut instinct. They were frantically trying to keep alive at the time, and it had just come to him, so he did it.
The Dragon waited for his answer with the patience of one whose life spanned thousands of years.
Adam noticed Milward was starting to fidget, so he tried to put his feeling into words. “I saw them being pushed back by the lightening Milward was casting from his staff. But I also saw it wasn't just the ones the lightening was striking, it was also those light from the flashes shone on. I thought that maybe a brighter light would move them back far enough for us to escape, so I made one.”
He waited for the Dragon to respond to his answer. He tried to give the same impression of patience the Dragon had given him.
The Dragon looked at Milward. “He has courtesy as well as reasoning. Your King chose well.”
Milward looked insufferably proud. “I thought so, too. In spite of his continual questions.”
“Ah,” Replied the Dragon. “Reminds me of someone I used to endure not so long ago.”
Milward winced.
“So,” Adam thought. “They have a sense of humor.”
“I smell magik.” The Dragon's rumble brought Adam out of his reverie.
The Winglord, Adam figured this Dragon had to the one, swung his snout around until it centered onto Adam's chest.
Adam found himself being the central object of a Dragon nose. He wasn't comfortable with it.
Mashglach sniffed deeply, and then he focused his gaze upon Adam and pointed with a forelimb. “What is on your chest, child?”
Adam looked down to where the Dragon pointed. “Just my rock. It's kind of an heirloom.”
“Let me see it.” The Dragon held out a front foot, palm up. Adam could have climbed onto it.
He took hold of the chain the amulet was attached to, and pulled it over his head. He placed the amulet into Mashglach's palm and waited. “What's going to happen now?”
“I thought there was something special about that stone,” Milward mused to himself.
“You have good instincts, Wizard,” the Dragon murmured. “Niamh. Your aid, if you please.”
The fattest Dragon Adam had ever seen since arriving in Dragonglade waddled over to where they stood.
Milward leaned over to Adam and whispered, “before you say anything, she's pregnant; near the end of it. She only has another twenty years to go.”
“Twenty years!?” Adam blurted out the exclamation before he could stop himself.
“We do not rush things, as mankind does,” Mashglach said, without looking up from his study of the amulet. He held it in his palm and carefully turned it over with the tip of a claw.
The Dragon called Niamh reached The Winglord's side and peered over his shoulder. “A magic talisman, interesting. Have we ascertained its strength?”
“Not yet.” Mashglach held up the amulet between two claw tips. “It smells ancient to me, what say you?”
Niamh arched her neck to sniff the amulet. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Not the gems ... no. Stone only ... the smell ... familiar...”
Her eyes opened with a click and she turned quickly, dropping her head so that she could look Adam in the eye. “Your name, child, and your lineage, if you please?”
“Huh?”
* * * * McCabe was a sneak thief and proud of it. His small stature helped him in climbing through windows and drains. He spent hours without number, perfecting his climbing techniques, for Grisham was a city of tall buildings, and if one intended on making his life's work robbing the well-to-do, one needed to be able to climb.
The poor and working class had to make do with single story huts and cottages. They were child's play to break into, but doing so was a waste of time. Besides, the poor made for scant play after the robbery. Their tolerance for pain was far too high to suit him.
McCabe was also a sadomasochist. He'd discovered his enjoyment in inflicting pain when still a toddler. There are some that say there is no such thing as a bad boy. The fools never met McCabe. They'd also never met someone whom enjoyed receiving it as much as he did. Over the years, he'd learned to discipline his self-pleasuring activities in order to remain alive and still able to function. He still limped slightly because of a night years ago when he discovered what he could do with his left knee and an ice pick.
He also liked children. They screamed so beautifully.
* * * * All cities have their areas where nice people do not go. Some call that place the Shades, the Mission District, Deadman's Alley and other names descriptive of the sort of existence experienced there.
Grisham had a reputation of being the richest port city on the eastern sea, and it was well deserved. Marble palaces graced the slopes above the sea, and the mansions of those whose wealth plied the sea lanes lined the bluffs along the shore. There were those who said Grisham's streets flowed with gold, and for some this was true, but as with all great cities, Grisham had its darker, seamier side.
Welcome to the Lowers. Beyond the hills of the wealthy lay a valley with a creek running down its middle. The creek carried the waste of the wealthy away from their noses as it supplied drinking water to the poor.
Welcome to the Lowers, a maze of twisted alleyways and spaces between rows of rock, mud and thatch huts that passed for streets of a sort. Here, the poorest of the poor lived, not thrived. Rats feeding upon smaller rats. No one kept pets in the Lowers; their neighbors ate them. Nor did the Watch venture within its boundaries, unless it was in force and in armor. The only safety there lay in being so poor and so wretched that others in the Lowers felt you had nothing worth stealing.
McCabe was born there, but he had only stayed as long as it took to develop his skills as a thief, and McCabe was a good thief. He was good enough that if he put his mind to it, he could have earned enough to purchase his own house, but his hobby kept getting in the way.
Tonight his hobby was a young girl, a child really. If she had lived it would have been at least another five years before her first blood. Her screams brought no response, except McCabe's pleasure. No one came to see who or what was torturing her. He would, on occasion, do his hunting in the lowers for that very reason.
McCabe looked down at the twisted body beneath him as he worked to bring his breathing back to normal. An urge came over him and he obeyed it. No one looked to see who laughed so loudly as he left the alley. They had their own problems.
* * * * The Great Library perched on the rough point of land across the strait of Grisham from the city itself. It clung like a giant growth of fungus to the rocks above the strait; its many additions adding to the illusion. A series of steps carved into the living rock wound their way to a single pier below. There, the occasional boat docked to unload a researcher, a member of the literary cast, or the rare Sorcerer in search of hidden treasure within the stacks.
The Librarian lived for his books. It mattered not who wrote them, they were his. He loved the musty smell of the stacks, and could easily lose an entire day sorting and cataloging the scrolls, vellums and books that made up his collection. Some of the writings in his collection were so well known to him that they seemed to have acquired personalities of their own. One was the collected works of Labad, the Philosopher King. A few of the vellums within the folio were impossibly rare originals, but his prize possession was a second-generation copy of Labad's prophecy. No one knew where the original was, or if it even existed.
He had a staff, of sorts, an ancient crone and a lame boy who someone once taught to read. The crone he allowed to stay in a small room tucked into the outer wall of the library in exchange for cooking and the occasional dusting of the stacks. The lame boy was to become his replacement when he eventually passed on, but before that day came, the boy had to memorize the contents of the library and where everything was stored. That involved getting to know the whereabouts of over a million pieces of literature and reference, including a working knowledge of what they were about. It was a daunting task, unless your master had a touch of the wizard within him.
The librarian sat in his personal chamber reading a letter from an old friend. It told him the friend hoped to visit next spring with his new apprentice, as well as something he would find of great interest. He was wished well, and then the letter wrapped up with some items of personal small talk that infrequent letter writers use to try to fill the page.
He set the missive back onto the side table and picked up his cup of hot Tisane. “Well, Milward.” He thought as he sipped. “What is it you aren't telling me?”
* * * * “You heard me, child. Your name and your lineage, surely you know that.” The Dragoness held Adam with her gaze as she voiced her question.
“My apologies, Niamh, but the boy is an orphan. His lineage is unknown to him, and he was named by an Aunt and Uncle outside of the Royal line.”
“Hmmm.” Niamh's mouth curved into a frown of deep thought. “The Philosopher covered himself well, for a human.”
She reached behind herself and plucked the amulet from Mashglach's palm. She held it in front of Adam; Milward hid a smile. The size disparity was beyond ludicrous.
“Where did you come by the stone in this trinket, child? I must know.”
Adam's mind reeled. The phrase Milward used, Royal line, had a portent he didn't like the sound of, and Niamh's interest in his rock brought back the feeling that forces outside of his control were guiding his life.
“I don't know where it came from. I've always had it. Aunt Doreen and Uncle Bal said I had it with me when they found us.”
“Us?” Niamh pounced on the word. “You have a sibling?”
“My twin sister.”
“Yes!” The Dragoness’ shout blew Adam backward onto the grass surrounding the cherry tree.
“It begins, Wing Lord! It begins!” Niamh was practically dancing. Milward skipped back a few yards to be sure one of those huge feet didn't inadvertently land on him.
Mashglach looked at Adam closely as he climbed back to his feet. Fortunately, the grass was soft. “As I suspected, Niamh. The child has the scent of ancient blood, but what he does with it is his affair, not ours.”
Niamh looked at the Winglord. “I know our law, Winglord. Yet, I can still hope, can I not? I carry my child, the only one I will ever carry because of what was done to us ages past. Is it so wrong to desire to see the change come in our lifetime?” Her wings flexed with the passion of her speech.
“It is not wrong, Mother-To-Be.” Mashglach used the description as a title. “To desire our world healed is never a wrong thing. Please forgive my unclear speech. I rejoice with you in seeing the promised one's arrival. Dragonkind will aide him ... within the law.”
Adam could contain himself no longer. They were obviously speaking about him, and again he understood only every other word. “Excuse me.”
The two Dragons turned towards him. There was a large pink granite boulder set as an ornament into the lawn. He walked to it, and climbed to the top.
“I feel less tiny here.” He explained. “I have a few questions.”
Milward grimaced, “I knew it.”
Mashglach looked down at the Wizard. “Like, and yet unlike.”
The gentle rebuke was ignored.
The Dragon nodded to Adam. “Speak your questions, child.”
“Ok,” Adam had considered how to phrase what he wanted to know but now his brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton. “Uh ... you seem real interested in my rock. I think I'd like to know why first. It has something to do with my shaping powers, doesn't it?”
Niamh's expression showed more deep thinking. “Mmmm ... a part. It has a part in them. Though no more than any other Wizard's staff has.”
Adam looked at Milward accusingly. “You knew this?”
The old Wizard shrugged his shoulders and looked guilty. “I ... suspected it.”
“And you didn't tell me? I could have been killed...” He counted on his fingers, “At least four times, maybe more and you kept that a secret?”
Milward's temper flared. “Don't you take that tone with me. I only suspected what that stone was, and I certainly didn't want to confirm it, with you more of a danger to yourself as a Wizard than not.”
Adam yelled back. “Then you should have told me that, along with telling me about my rock. Maybe I could have used it to keep Charity from being taken. I should have at least been allowed to make my own decision about it.”
They were nose to nose. Adam had jumped down off the boulder to face Milward, and they appeared to be almost at the point of blows when a huge pair of hands reached in and forced them apart.
“The peace will not be broken. Wizard.” Mashglach turned his eye onto Milward. “You know enough of our law not to have done this. It was your fear that caused you to act, not your wisdom.”
Adam saw Milward shrink within himself as if he was a bladder someone had stuck a pin into.
The old Wizard looked up at Adam. He hadn't realized until now that he'd grown taller than Milward.
“I suppose I owe you an apology, lad. Mashglach is right. I was afraid of spoiling the prophecy's fulfillment, as if I could actually affect the course of such an event. You're correct, you did have a right to know, and I should have told you.”
He turned and walked away from Adam and the Dragons, his head bowed. He leaned on his staff as if needing the support. Adam anger changed, and he suddenly felt thoroughly rotten, as though he'd just finished kicking a dog. He started to go to Milward when the Dragon's hand stopped him.
“Give him his time, young Wizard. He needs to consider his path, as well as his part in this story.”
“Why'd you call me young Wizard instead of child?”
A Dragon eye dipped down level with his. “Because that is what you are now. Not human, not Dragon ... Wizard. Niamh's witness established what was suspected.”
“That's why he brought me here?”
“The old Wizard?” Mashglach's voice was a bass rumble that vibrated the ground beneath Adam's feet. “Yes, your instincts are right. We've known him for just these few centuries, but know this, young Wizard.” His volume raised slightly. “He is a man of strong conviction and honesty. His pride is both his weakness and his strength, and what he does, he does so because he absolutely believes it is the right thing to do.”
“Like keeping me in the dark.”
“Just so.” Mashglach reared up to his full height. “Ask your other question.”
“It's about the blood.”
Mashglach nodded, his forelegs crossed on his chest. “Ah, you wish to know my meaning when I spoke of you having the scent of ancient blood.”
“Yeah.”
The Winglord rested his head against his chest in thought, with his forelegs beneath his chin. “I had the good fortune to know the Philosopher King. I had come into the full of my Dragonright the millennium before. He had the wisdom to see the need for unity among the peoples; we aided in that as much as we could within our law. A noble Wizard. The best of his kind, his passing saddened me, and I nearly broke our law by joining in the storming of Pestilence.”
“Milward mentioned that when he told me about the magik war. He said the Dragons joining in ending it.”
“He erred in that. The war continues, but allow me to finish the answer to your question. A Dragon can smell magik, for it is built of the essence of our world and those who work it. And it leaves some of that essence behind. Your amulet stone, for example, carries the scent of the Philosopher's shaping.”
“Are you saying my blood smells of magik?”
Mashglach smiled a Dragonish smile. “You are a Wizard, are you not? It is not a sickness, it is what you are, and the scent of your blood is the same as what I smelled when I met Labad, the human's Philosopher King.”
Adam's brain was still reeling from the shock the Winglord had given it, when he settled into the apartment that the Dragons had assigned him. They wouldn't come right out and say it, but it seemed they thought he was a descendant of Labad, the one-time Emperor of the western lands.
“Are you settled in, young human?”
Adam turned at the voice. It wasn't as deep as the other Dragon voices he'd been hearing. Nor was the Dragon sticking its head into his room as large. He judged this Dragon to be less than half the size of Niamh or Mashglach, maybe no more than twenty feet when upright.
“The room's not too big, is it? I've heard you humans like your living spaces a little on the cramped side.” The Dragonet turned its head this way and that on its long neck as it examined Adam's apartment.
Adam sat onto the bed. His feet didn't hit the floor. Like the room, it was oversized. The Dragon craftsmen probably had a time of it building what to them would be miniature models and doll's houses.
“It's good enough for me. I've almost gotten used to sleeping on the ground.”
The Dragonet's eyes widened. “Tell me about the outdoors, please? Was it exciting? Did you see lots of interesting things?”
Adam smiled at his visitor's eagerness. “I'd be glad to, but I'd like to get something to eat first.”
“Oh, I can show where to get some food. You can talk to me on the way. I've never met a real human before, not to talk with anyway.”
The words bubbled out of the young Dragon's mouth in a steady torrent. Adam thought he understood how Milward felt sometimes.
The Dragonet led him down the hallway outside the door to his room. Doors like the one to his room lined the hall in both directions. They were all closed. The same arched ceiling as he saw leading from Whistle Bridge lay overhead with its series of frescos.
His guide saw him looking at the ceiling. “Oh, that is our memory painting. We have it on every hall in Dragonglade.”
“It's very well done. Did the same artist do them all?”
“Oh, no. Each painting was done to remember that moment in our history. I hear a new one may be painted soon.”
Adam wondered what soon meant to Dragons.
They continued on down the hall, with the Dragonet asking Adam questions about humans. His curiosity seemed boundless, and each answer prompted a new question. Some brought an exclamation of disbelief and a question for clarification.
“No! Seriously? You actually eat other living creatures?” The subject had moved onto diet and the types of food Adam liked.
“No, I don't. That would be cruel, the animal is killed first, then cooked, then eaten.” Adam realized he'd never thought much about that part of his diet.
“Eeewwww.” The childish sound from such a large creature caused a laugh that brought out questions about what humans found funny. Adam tried to explain the reason why he did so just then.
“Ah, I think I understand.” The Dragonet mused. “Dissimilarity and contrast, creating an assumed absurdity, thus invoking the laugh reflex.”
“Huh?” His guide sounded like Uncle Bal mimicking one of the instructors at university.
The Dragonet continued on unabated. “My teacher gave a lecture on that only a few decades ago. It was fascinating, but it is much more interesting to experience the real thing. Don't you agree?” The head swiveled around on the long neck to gaze at him while they walked. They came to a branch in the hallway and turned right.
“Here we are.” The Dragonet gestured with a forelimb. “The eating place.”
Adam beheld the largest room he'd ever seen in his life, and it was full of Dragons lying down to feed. Some were lying across from another diner, separated by, to only another Dragon, a small table heavily weighted down with fruits and salads. Highly decorated partitions divided the room into cozy individual areas where diners could eat and converse in private.
He saw no servers such as were found in the Pubs and Inns. Where did they get their food?
“You'll find no killed living creatures here.” Adam's Dragonet host to the eating place craned his neck as he looked over the room for an open space.
“Was that a joke?” Adam looked up at his host.
“It was. It was.” The Dragonet bounced a little in glee at Adam's question. “Statement of the obvious as irony. Oh, humor is such fun.”
“Before we fall over laughing, can you show me where we get our food?” Adam's stomach rumbled quietly.
The Dragonet cocked his head at the sound of Adam's stomach. “Oh, you are hungry, aren't you? Come, let's go this way.”
He led Adam in a twisting course through the partitions, past a number of fruit-bearing trees and berry bushes in neat pots lined with glossy ceramic tiles. Imbedded into the ceiling overhead, crystalline panes directed the afternoon's sunlight to the plants below.
On the back side of the interior orchard was spread a Dragon-sized vegetarian buffet with a variety of salads, fruits and some pale yellow bits in interesting shapes glistening with some kind of herb-flavored clear sauce. Plates sized for Dragon proportions along with smaller of a size Adam could handle lay stacked at the beginning of the spread.
His host reached into a bowl filled with the yellow bits, and lifted one out with a thumb and forefinger. “Here, try this, I think you'll find it delicious.”
Adam cautiously took a bite of the stuff and chewed. The flavor was strange, but pleasing. It had an astringent sharpness laid over a background of herbs. The texture was similar to that of the crust of an egg and cheese pudding, slightly chewy but not overly so.
He nodded to the Dragonet. “It's very nice. Can I have more?”
Adam was loaded down with a plate of the food. The Dragonet called it Pfasla. A loaf of sweet smelling bread, a large tumbler of a citrus-scented water, and a few strange looking orange fruits full of little spiky points rounded out his meal.
“Where do I sit?” Adam looked around for a table that wasn't occupied, but he couldn't see over the partitions.
“Ah ... over there.” The Dragonet led him to an empty table near the edge of the room.
The tabletop came up to Adam's chin, and he saw nothing nearby that could be used as a chair or stool. The Dragonet settled down onto his haunches and elbows, and proceeded to eat.
He looked up at Adam. “You're not eating. Is something wrong with the food?”
“No, it's the table. I'm not exactly Dragon-sized.”
“Oh. Oh, my apologies. I became so comfortable with your company that I forgot all about you being human.” The Dragonet reached across the table and lifted Adam onto its top.
“There.” He said with satisfaction. “You can lie down there and eat with me.”
“I eat better if I sit up while I do it.” Adam reached for some of the Pfasla.
“Really? Dragons use sitting for teaching and learning and sometimes for painting. What do humans use lying down for?”
“Usually for resting or sleeping.” Adam broke open the loaf of bread and tried it with some of the Pfasla. The bread was as sweet as it smelled, and mixed deliciously with the sour/herb flavor of the Pfasla.
He washed the food down with some of the water. “What's your name?”
The Dragonet paused with a handful of salad halfway to its mouth. “You wish to exchange namesign with me?” He sounded surprised and delighted all at once. “You will treat me as an adult? Oh, this is glorious!” He stuffed the salad into his mouth and chewed vigorously.
Adam thought. “Well, I suppose it's up to me to do it first.” He sat up straight on the tabletop and placed his hand over his chest. “Maybe this is formal enough for Dragon etiquette.” He thought.
“I am called Adam. Human, Wizard and swordsman, at your service.” He finished with a half bow from the seated position.
The Dragonet swallowed his mouthful of salad and sat up onto his haunches. He duplicated Adam's hand-over-the-heart pose and reclined his head in a Dragon bow. “Drinaugh, at your service and your family's.”
Drinaugh's face split in a wide Dragon grin after his response, and then his eyes widened as his stared at Adam. “Wizard? Did you say Wizard? Like the white-haired human the elders talk to? That sort of Wizard?”
“No, not really. The white-haired human is my Teacher in how to be a Wizard. I'm ... a little clumsy with my shapings.” Adam drank some more of the water. It had an aftertaste of sweet lemons and oranges.
“Oh?” Drinaugh picked up one of the melon-sized fruits and popped it into his mouth. It made a popping sound when he bit down. “In what way?”
Adam grimaced at the memory of the Garlocs. “I guess my powers are kind of strong, and I haven't mastered the technique of how to not put too much into the shaping.”
“Hmmm.” Drinaugh considered this. “So, what does a Wizard do? What makes a Human a Wizard?”
“I'm still figuring out what a Wizard does. I've learned a few things about what a Wizard can do.”
“Oh? What sort of things?” Drinaugh picked up another fruit.
“I haven't done much,” Adam shrugged. “I'm still learning. I've made some rocks explode, and I lit our way in a couple of dark places.”
“Um hmm. Um hmm. And what makes you able to do this ... shaping? Is it different from making rocks explode?”
Adam smothered another laugh by drinking some more water. “No, actually, shaping is part of making rocks explode, light being made for dark places, and a host of other things. You see, what a Wizard does is called shaping. Shaping the forces to do what the Wizard wants done.”
“Oh. Silly me.” Drinaugh giggled and reached for another fruit. There was quite a pile of them on his plate. “Please forgive my misunderstanding.” He chewed the fruit and worked on some more of his salad.
Adam busied himself lowering the amount of Pfasla on his plate.
Drinaugh raised his head again and looked at Adam. “Adam.” He said the name as if tasting it on his tongue.
“Yes?”
“What makes you a Wizard?” Drinaugh's tone had a note of longing in it.
“Well...” Adam tried to remember the essence of what Milward had told him all those months ago. “It seems I was born with it, Drinaugh. It seems everyone who becomes a Wizard is born with it, and if it is going to show, it does so when they begin entering adulthood.”
“Puberty.” Drinaugh's lips smacked as he chewed a fruit.
“Pardon?”
“Puberty, the start of adulthood. The change of life, where the child's body begins to metamorphose into that of an adult.”
“Is that what Dragons call it?” Adam used some of the bread to mop up the last of the Pfasla sauce. “I've never heard the word before.”
“I understand that both Humans and Dragons call it that. How can you be a Wizard and not know such a thing?” Drinaugh changed from fruit back to salad.
“I told you. I'm still learning how to be a Wizard. I don't know if you can tell, but I'm still growing. I won't be a fully grown man for a few years, yet.” He washed down the bread with some water.
“Really? Oh this is wonderful news!”
Adam didn't see what was so wonderful about it.
“This means we have a lot in common. I'm still growing, too. Is there anything you'd like to know about Dragons? I could tell you so much. Go ahead, ask me a question.”
Adam sipped some more water. “Something I've heard from all the Dragons on occasion. They mention the law. What is the law?”
“Oooo, such a question.” Drinaugh's eyes closed for a moment then opened. “The Winglord should be the one to answer such a question, but I'll try. I'm still learning how to be a Dragon myself, you know.”
“Isn't that something you're born as?”
“Oh, no. Being a Dragon means understanding and living Dragon law. Without that I would be nothing more than ... an intelligent beast.”
Adam said nothing; his mouth was full.
“The law teaches us how to interact within Dragon society. We are more a family than a community. Each Dragon cares for the welfare of the other the way a family is supposed to.”
Drinaugh indicated the eating place with a wave of his hand. “Take this place, for example. I have heard that humans must pay for their food unless they are capable of growing it themselves. Is this true?”
Adam thought about that. He nodded, “In most cases I'd have to say yes, unless that person wanted to live completely off the land, they'd have to pay for some of the makings, at least.”
“Not here.”
“Ummm?” Adam's mouth was full again.
“No one pays for food here. In fact, the human system of exchange would be against Dragon law.” Drinaugh looked smugly pleased.
Adam drank the last of his water. “Then how do you get any work done if no one gets paid?”
“Ah, That's one of the things that makes Dragon law so special. The Rule of Three states that there is the body, the mind and the spirit.”
Adam heard the wolves in the back of his head speaking of the hunt and the elements of nature. The Dragons obviously had a different view.
Drinaugh continued. “If those three are kept in harmony, then the individual, as well as the society they are a part of, is satisfied.”
“What does that have to do with no one getting paid?” Adam worked at the rind on a fruit.
“Why, everything, of course.” Drinaugh picked up another fruit and toyed with it with his claw tips. “No Dragon is expected to do a task they are not suited for.”
Adam shrugged. “So? That seems pretty ordinary to me. The alternative would be stupid.”
“There is more to it than just that, of course. It has to do with what you are suited to do in here.” He tapped his chest. “And in here.” He tapped his head.
Adam had a feeling he heard this part before, and he told the Dragonet so.
Drinaugh smiled. “See, I knew we had much in common. What it means to Dragons is that as I grow, I will show what I am best suited for by what I am best at, and by what I most enjoy doing.”
“You mean your talent?”
“Exactly.” Drinaugh flipped the fruit into his mouth. “According to the law, a Dragon's talent is to be supported and encouraged by the society as a whole. When that Dragon becomes an adult member of society, it is ready to add that talent to all the others being used for the good of the whole. And here is the most important part. The work is done because he or she loves doing it, not because they have to.”
“What do you want to do, Drinaugh?”
“I don't know yet.” The Dragonet mused. “I do hope it is something terribly exciting and interesting.”
“Ah, young Drinaugh. I see you found one of our human visitors.” The new Dragon voice came from behind Adam.
Drinaugh looked up. “Venerable Chabaad! Please, lie down and share our meal.”
Adam turned to see the one Drinaugh was speaking to. He was the first old-looking Dragon he'd seen. The diamond dust sparkle he'd seen on the others was almost gone, and the coloration of the old Dragon's hide showed white around the muzzle. The usual well-fleshed appearance of the other Dragons was replaced in this ancient specimen with thinness bordering on the cadaverous.
The old Dragon shook his head at Drinaugh's invitation. “Thank you for the kind gesture, young Drinaugh, but I have dined quite sufficiently already. Have you begun to satisfy your curiosity about humans?”
Drinaugh looked at Adam. “Oh, I'm just getting started, venerable Chabaad.”
* * * * Milward sat on his bed and thought. He was not the type for self-flagellation, but he did tend to be introspective if he caught himself acting, as he called it, sheep-headed. As he looked at it, he'd been acting sheep-headed since the day he met the twins. It had to be a problem of age. He was into his twelfth century, and they hadn't even seen their second decade, so of course he had to know better what they should and shouldn't know about their path, right? Wrong. Mashglach had seen so, and, as nicely as a Dragon could, had pinned him to the board like he was a bug specimen already dried and labeled.
Well, there was no way around it. He had to make it up to the lad. They had far too much to go through before their path together was finished. There would be no use in the journey being complicated by having this sort of thing between them.
His long talks with the Winglord had done nothing except solidify some of his fears. The Dragons smelled something in the ether that made them very nervous, and what could make a Dragon nervous turned his bowels to water. He had a feeling Gilgafed was wrapped up in this somehow, just like he had a feeling the twisted Sorcerer was involved in Labad's untimely death before the storming of Pestilence.
He had to do some more research. Perhaps the librarian would be able to help. The note should have reached his old friend by now, even with post delivery as haphazard as it was, and Adam still needed to become acquainted with those incredible powers of his.
There was a soft rap! On the door, followed by a Dragon snout pushing through the opening.
“The Eating Place is serving, Wizard. Will you be joining us?”
Milward snapped out of his reverie. “What? Oh, yes. Quite. I'll be right along.”
He followed the trio of adult Dragons along the spacious hallway to the Eating Place.
The trio consisting of Mashglach, Niamh and Harlig, the master instructor in Artisan Studies as well as the most sensitive Dragon to the winds of prophecy, chose a table near the door. As they were settling in, Niamh pointed with a motion of her head to the tables behind Milward.
“I see your young companion has already found a friend among our people.”
“Eh?” Milward turned and saw Adam sitting on the table he shared with Drinaugh. “So, he has, and with the ingenuity of youth, he has discovered a more comfortable way of dining here than levitation.”
“He may be more bendable than you are, Wizard,” Harlig said, after swallowing a large helping of Pfasla.
Milward swelled slightly with indignation. “I assure you, noble Harlig, that I am as limber as I was six centuries ago, and I shall prove it.”
He missed the amused glances the Dragons gave each other while he was climbing onto the table.
“Isn't that young Drinaugh with the Wizard's student?” Mashglach dug into a complicated-looking salad that smelled to Milward of hot spices.
Harlig looked over to the table. “It is, Winglord.”
“How are his studies in Elaboration Mechanics coming along?”
Harlig ruminated a bit while he chewed. Then he swallowed and washed the Pfasla down with a large beaker of a clear green juice. “Could be better, Winglord. I fear the young Dragon's talents lie in another field.”
“Such as?”
“He has an insatiable curiosity about humans and other peoples of this world. He will learn the basics of our law, but beyond that...” Harlig shrugged. “I believe we are seeing the birth of the first Dragon Ambassador since the time of your great gransire.”
Milward looked up from his plate. “Another sign, Harlig?”
Mashglach flicked an imaginary speck off a pale yellow summer squash. “We may see more. Many more, before this time is done.”
Niamh looked up at a sound. “They approach.”
Adam and Drinaugh were finishing up their meal when Adam saw Milward come into the room with the three senior Dragons. He hadn't seen the old Wizard for several weeks since that day they had quarreled in front of the Winglord.
He caught Drinaugh's attention with a wave of his hand. “I want to introduce you to someone.” He thought that would be a good excuse to enable him to approach Milward and apologize.
Drinaugh thought the introduction was a wonderful idea. “What fun! You do know his is a name of renown among Dragonkind?”
“No.” Adam thought. “He hadn't known.” Milward had, in fact, gone out of his way to underplay his relationship with the Dragons.
They were all watching as he and Drinaugh made their way to the senior Dragon's table. Adam felt their scrutiny, and a subtle pressure that told him someone was using a shaping.
“Young Drinaugh. How do you find your new experience with humans?” Harlig, ever the teacher, broke the silence.
Drinaugh's usual exuberance was little dimmed by the presence of the three. “Oh, I am learning so much. Did you know...”
He proceeded to relate to Harlig, Niamh and Mashglach all that he and Adam had spoken about over the last few weeks. Adam expected to see the Dragon's eyes glaze over in patient boredom, but they seemed to be genuinely interested in Drinaugh's tale.
“What did I tell you?” Harlig turned to Milward and the other two Dragons. “The next Ambassador.”
Drinaugh began jumping up and down, causing Adam to scuttle out of the way. Drinaugh was small only by Dragon standards.
“Ambassador? Me? Oh marvelous, wonderful and fantastic all at once. I'm to be an Ambassador. Did you hear that, Adam? I'm to be an Amba...”
He turned and looked at the Dragons. “What's an Ambassador?”
* * * * “...And that's why Drinaugh and I came over to your table.” Adam finished up his apology to Milward.
“Well, that smoothed things over nicely.” The Wizard thought to himself.
“It's nice to hear a young man willing to apologize to his elders.” He beamed a smile at Adam.
“I thought it was only right, since you apologized to me after The Winglord chided you. Besides, they told me how miserable you've been.” Adam kept pace with Milward as they walked back toward that part of Dragonglade where their rooms were to be found.
“Did they?” Milward frowned. “Well ... harrumpf, I suppose ... being a compassionate people, Dragons would obviously be very sensitive to such things.” He waved a hand in emphasis.
“Did you use a small shaping back when Drinaugh and I were coming over to your table?” Adam asked suddenly.
That startled the Wizard. He stopped and looked at Adam. “What? No, of course not. Why do you ask me that?”
“Because I felt one back there, just as we came up to the table.”
“Well, it certainly wasn't my doing.”
“Do Dragons use shaping? Can they use magik beyond being able to smell it?”
Milward stopped and thought, his forefinger against his upper lip. “Come to think of it, as far as I know, no.”
* * * * Drinaugh wiped a tear from his eye, as he watched Adam put the last of his things into his pack. “I wish you didn't have to leave us so soon, Adam.”
“Milward says we have to leave now if we're going to miss the snows before the next stop.”
“We could fly you there. I know I could carry you.” Drinaugh wrung his hands as he pleaded his case.
Adam closed up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. “I'm sure you could, friend Drinaugh. But I've got to take the long way there. I need the time to get to know how to be a Wizard, just like you're learning how to be a Dragon. It's something I've got to do. Can you understand that?”
The Dragonet wiped away another tear. “Just because I understand something doesn't mean I have to like it.”
Adam smiled, and put a hand on his friend's knee. “No, it certainly doesn't.”
Milward leaned into the open door to what was Adam's room. “You ready, lad? The day's nearly gone already.”
“I'm coming.” Adam hugged Drinaugh's thigh, receiving a gentle pat on the back in return.
The way out of Dragonglade that Milward chose was actually an old drainage tunnel put in when the Dragons first settled into the ancient crater. They had also put in a moat that circled the inner wall. The drainage tubes kept the moat from overflowing during winter and the rainy season.
There was little chance of rain right now, and the gentle downward slope added to the ease of Adam and Milward's walk to the eastern face of the mountains.
The inside of the tunnel was high enough to allow a full-sized Dragon to check it without stooping, and it was lit with a cool soft light that came from discs inset into the midline of the ceiling.
After walking for several minutes. Adam looked over his shoulder and saw that the entrance had vanished into the distance behind them.
“Milward?” Adam broke the silence.
“Yes, lad?”
“Something's nagging at me. It's been nagging me ever since I felt it back in the Eating Place.”
“Ah. You're still on about that shaping you felt, aren't you?” The Wizard nodded his head as he spoke.
“That's the one.” Adam admitted. “One of the things is, I felt it, and you didn't.”
“Probably another indication of strength.” Milward thought. “What's the other thing?”
“You remember you said you'd never heard of a Dragon using magik in a shaping?”
“Something along that line, yes.”
“What if it's just because it's something they wanted to keep secret? What if they really can use it? I remember something Mashglach told me when he let me ask my questions. He said the Magik War wasn't over. If the Dragons can do shapings ... why haven't they done something about it?”
Milward turned to face Adam. “He really said that? The war isn't over?” The Wizard rubbed his chin. “Well, you've seen Dragons up close now, so you know how cryptic they can be. You should also know why they won't do anything about it. Killing something is abhorrent to any Dragon. All life is precious to them, even that of the creatures of shadow. Bardoc knows why.” He adjusted his grasp on his staff.
“I didn't tell you this earlier, and I suppose I owe you another apology for that.” He grimaced. “Near the end ... what I thought was the end of the Magik War, the sorcerers weakened the barrier between the worlds, allowing some of the inhabitants of that world enter ours. Chivvin and Twills made it through before Labad and a few handpicked Wizards closed the breach. For a time there, we thought all was lost. The Twills alone killed thousands. An Embassy was sent to the Dragons to plea for aide in the fight. Both the Winglord and the Dragon Ambassador at that time refused on the grounds of Dragon law. Dragons must not kill. They were very sorry for our losses, but there was nothing they could do. Later on, when the last Twill killed the old Ambassador, all they did was grieve. The Winglord came close, I'll tell you that. He came very close to breaking their law, then.”
He sighed massively. “But in the end he didn't. It took over a hundred men to kill the last Twill, and while we were so occupied, an assassin's arrow found Labad.”
“You haven't forgiven him, have you?” Adam watched the old Wizard's face.
Milward's brow furrowed at the memory. “Forgive? Lad, it would be like trying to forgive the sky for the bolt of lightening that destroyed your house. No, forgiveness isn't something I can occupy my mind with. Mashglach was only following the path set for him, and he was incapable of veering from it. If he had, he would not have been a Dragon.”
He turned to look at Adam again. “What he said about the war not being over, that troubles me. They were nervous, and that means something terrible is brewing.”

Chapter Twenty-Two
Cobain dropped the cup of wine as the scream cut through the air.
He was on his feet in an instant. It had come from the Sorcerer's chamber. Months had passed since that day he found his master drunk and despairing. He ran through the halls of Pestilence with concern gripping his heart. Another scream, louder then the first, added to his speed.
As he burst through the door, another scream rent the air. This time it came from his throat. Gilgafed was in the grip of a ... a thing, its shape, amorphous and writhing. The black mass of it changed shape and density continuously in a stomach-churning way. Waves of inhuman lust poured out of it and enveloped Cobain. A lust for life, all life, to be consumed within its blackness washed through his mind and sent him reeling backwards against a shelf.
Gilgafed screamed again as he fought against the creature's grip. “Cobain! Help me!”
The Sorcerer's servant reached out and snatched a jar off the shelf. He threw it at the thing as hard as he could, but the jar passed through its substance as if through thick fog, splashing against the wall. Some of the droplets spattered back into the blackness, missing Gilgafed by scant inches.
It screeched, a hissing, grating sound that hurt the ears, and then it pulled in upon itself until all that was left was a small black blot whizzing about the room.
“The blood.” Gilgafed croaked from his position on the floor. “It's Garloc. Wave the blood at it ... our only chance.”
Cobain understood. He bent and picked up a dead torch, dipping the end of it into the Garloc blood, hissing and spitting on the flagstones of the floor.
The blot dove at Gilgafed, but swerved away before Cobain could hit it with his makeshift weapon. The end of the torch began to smoke under the corrosion of the Garloc blood.
Cobain stepped over his master, waving the torch back and forth, giving the blot no avenue back to its prey.
Gilgafed, regaining some of his strength, summoned enough power to send a shaping into the darkness. Another hissing scream filled the chamber.
The blot dove at the Sorcerer once more, only to be rebuffed again. It hovered before them for a moment, and then flew into the wall and disappeared through it, leaving a small stain and a stink of decay.
Gilgafed lay there on the floor of his study, staring at the wall, and then he began to laugh with an edginess that bordered on hysteria.
Cobain tried to help the Sorcerer up, but Gilgafed threw him off.
“Master. What happened? What was that thing?”
Gilgafed continued to laugh as he got to his feet and staggered over to a sidebar filled with various bottles of wine. He pulled the cork from one and drank from the bottle.
“Master?” Cobain tried again.
“A seeker,” Gilgafed said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You, my loyal Cobain, are looking at one who has set the stage for the end of the world.” He gave his servant a sweeping bow. “You are looking at one who was arrogant enough to think he could control the creatures of shadow.”
He drank deeply from the bottle. “I have opened a door to nightmare, Cobain. A seeker came out. Chivvin and Twill cannot even begin to compare to what it is capable of. The door is open, and not even Milward's brat will be able to close it.” He spat out the last part with a vengeance.
Cobain felt his knees go weak. The torch dropped out of his nerveless hands. “Master. What have you done?”
* * * * The blood hurt. This sensation was new. It had never felt pain before. In fact, it had never felt anything prior to its release. The shadow realm was a place of numbness, of non-being. Those of its kind who dwelt near enough to the barrier could sense the life on the other side. Many desired to taste of it, but the barrier was there, and frustration was the rule of the day; until now.
High above Pestilence it flew, extending its senses to the new world around it. The glut of life it sensed was overwhelming. A host had to be found so it could feed. There was also another need, that of revenge, but that could wait until it had fed and grown. The one who let it into this world would learn soon enough the folly of resisting.
The Seeker began its search while it tasted the pain, savoring it.
* * * * “The snow is getting worse, Milward.” Adam ploughed ahead while shielding his face with a forearm.
“I know, lad. I'm afraid we left too late to miss the onset of winter in these elevations.” Milward followed in Adam's wake. “At least Access isn't too far now.”
“Access is the name of the place we'll be staying?” Adam puffed with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other in the heavy snow.
Milward held fast to his staff to prevent his slipping on the steep slope. “That's correct. Access is a small mining village on the upward flanks of this mountain.”
Adam searched his memory. “Cloudhook, right?”
“You're learning, my boy.” Milward patted Adam on the back, dislodging a small flurry of flakes.
Adam slipped on some buried ice, and had to throw himself forward to keep from ending up as a man-sized snowball back at the bottom of the slope. He spat snow out of his mouth and rolled over to look at Milward. “Tell me again why we can't use a shaping to go there.”
Milward extended a hand to help Adam to his feet. “One more time. If my suspicions are anywhere near close to the truth we daren't try a major shaping because it would attract attention.”
“...And that attention would be from any creatures of the Shadow Realm that have been let into this world through a weakening of the barrier between the worlds.” Adam looked at Milward, and said, “You see, I was listening.”
He turned around and continued his trudge up the slope. The wind was beginning to slacken, but the air was still full of flakes, and his breath left puffs of steam in the chill air. “But I think we could at least use a small one to warm us up. My feet feel like blocks of ice, and I can't feel my toes anymore.”
Milward shook his head in resignation. “Ok, a small one only. Try to follow what I do now. It may be of help to you in the future.”
Adam felt the pressure of a shaping form up. He reached out with that part of him Milward called his Wizard sense, and attempted to follow the feel of what was happening. The shaping wrapped itself around him like a blanket, and he began to feel warm. A groan of pleasure accompanied the relief it brought to his poor feet.
Milward smiled. “Feels good, eh?”
“Oh, yes. I never knew being warm could ever feel so good.”
“Excellent. The rest of the way should be much more comfortable now.”
Access lay tucked against a bluff in a small high valley protected against the wind. Tall pines ringed the slopes around it, adding to the feeling of seclusion. Their boughs were heavy with snow.
They could see smoke rising from chimneys as they crested the ridge and looked down upon the village.
“It looks like a picture someone should paint and hang over their fireplace,” Adam said, as he readjusted his pack for the trek downhill.
“Yes, it is a pretty place.” Milward agreed. “It will be even prettier when we get inside, and I can turn off this shaping.
The Wizard's comment gave Adam pause. From Milward's tone the act of maintaining their warmth was causing a physical strain. This was another thing to remember about this thing called magik.
They picked their way down the zigzag path leading into the village. The snow wasn't as heavy in the valley and the path proved easier.
On the outskirts of the village, they came across a large man dressed in furs, with a team of wolf-like dogs hitched to a small wagon with skis under it instead of wheels.
“Well met, travelers.” His voice boomed out from behind a thick brush of red beard. “Where do ye be hailing from?”
Milward stopped and leaned on his staff. “West of the mountains, north of Firth Lake, friend. We are in need of food and lodging. Can you direct us?”
The man scratched at his beard with a mittened hand. “Food and lodging, eh? Well, now, you don't look like you eat much, Father, but this lad, here,” He pointed the mitten at Adam. “Looks like he could do serious damage to a pantry.”
Milward looked at Adam. “You're probably right, friend, but he eats no more than his due.” He straightened. “As do I. Is there a Hostel or Boarder that comes to your mind?”
The man laughed, causing a couple of his dogs to bark and wag their tails. “Well and merry met again. I like a man who can think on his feet. Eight houses down and two over you'll find a large house with the sign of a stag's head painted on it. That's the Inn. Speak to Westcott, he'll put you up.”
Milward stuck out a hand, and the man grasped it firmly. “Thank you, sire, we are most grateful. May I have your name?”
“No, you may not, but I'll share its knowledge with ye.” He barked out another huge laugh and slapped Milward on the shoulder.
The wizard staggered a little under the friendly blow, but managed to return the humor with a broad smile. “I see you're a man who likes a joke. Sire, I will gladly share knowledge of your name with you, and offer mine as tender. You may call me Milward.”
Adam was not prepared for the reaction Milward's name would have on the huge man. He fell to his knees in the snow and held his hands clasped before him in a pleading gesture.
“Spare me, mighty one, I knew not who I was joking with. I am a poor man, my Lord, but what I own is yours, if you but spare me and my family's lives.”
Milward looked disgusted. “Oh, get up, man. Bardoc's beard! I am so sick of this sort of thing.”
The man stayed on his knees.
Milward put one hand on his hip and looked at the man. He blew out his mustaches and gestured with his staff. “If you don't get off your knees right now, I will turn you into a rabbit for your dogs to chase.”
“Master! No! Please, spare me.” The man shot upright and stared at Milward with terrified eyes.
“What's your name, fellow?” Milward said resignedly.
“Nowsek, my Lord. I am the Mayor of this poor place, but all that we have is yours, if you please, my Lord.”
Milward pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Nowsek, my good man, all I want of your poor village is a hot meal and a warm bed for me and my companion, and I plan on paying for every single item we use or consume. You and your folk are going to learn that I am far more of a friend than a danger, if I have to beat the knowledge into you. Now, go away. Do what you were going to do. I'm too tired to try to teach you that right now. Go. Go.” He waved Nowsek away with his staff.
Nowsek, Mayor of Access, turned and grabbed the handles of his sled, calling the dogs to attention. With a click and a whistle they were off, their driver urging them to greater speed, as if the very Pit itself were on their heels.
Adam watched the retreating sled. “Would you really have turned him into a rabbit?”
Milward snorted. “Of course not! Transmutation is tricky business at best. Remember the pebbles?”
Adam thought back. “Uh ... yeah.”
“As complex as that pebble's makeup was, a rabbit is even more so, by many, many fold.”
He looked up at Adam sharply. “Can you build a rabbit? Can you describe each and every function of each and every organ, and how it does what it does?”
“Of course not. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
“Neither would I, and I've studied them for several hundred years. Come on, I want a supper that's been cooked inside, and one that contains some meat.”
Adam said with a smile. “I'd think I'd like some rabbit.”
Milward laughed all the way to the Inn.
Access's Inn was like others in the world. Its first floor held a great room for meeting, eating and carousing. The kitchen was set into the back, along with the living quarters for the Innkeeper and his family. A deep basement, reached by stairs behind the bar, held the brewery and the wine and root cellars.
A young girl came up to them as they entered the front door of the Inn. “Good evening, sires, my name is Ani. Do you need rooms?”
Milward walked over to the guest desk where a large book lay open with a quill and ink well before it. “That and some dinner, my dear. What is the fare this evening?”
Ani didn't even blink. “Venison roast and rabbit stew, sire.” She looked at Adam. “Will that be two for dinner?”
Adam graced her with a smile. “Yes, please.”
Ani returned the smile shyly. He was even better looking than the Blacksmith's son was. “Yes, sire. I'll tell cook right away.” She ran off into the great room and through the kitchen door.
Adam finished brushing off the last of the snow and walked over to Milward's side. “Why is she calling you sire?”
Milward finished signing their names into the book. A number of the lines had x's or thumbprints in place of names. “It's not a title of royalty. It's just this community's way of saying ‘mister'. You'll find it fairly common in a number of places.”
“Well met, sires.” The man behind the voice did not fit what Adam had come to expect the Innkeeper's mold to be. Rather than being large, fleshy and ruddy of complexion, this fellow was slightly shorter than he was, had a dark olive complexion, salt and pepper hair, and appeared to be a few meals shy of starvation.
He came out of the great room wiping his hands on his apron. “Well met. I'm called Westcott. Welcome to my humble Inn. Ani says you and your handsome young man, here,” he winked at Adam, “Desire to share our dinner with us.”
“If you please, sire Westcott.” Milward reclined his head in a bow. “What is the price for two dinners with drinks? Mind you, neither of us is a Lord.”
Westcott's smile was thin. “It matters not, good traveler. Lord or Peasant, all pay the same in Access. A copper for dinner, a half for drink.”
“They charge less in the city,” Milward demurred.
Westcott's smile broadened. “Then you may go back to the city for dinner.”
Milward dropped the coins into Westcott's hand. “Droll. Very droll. I hope your cheese is as sharp as your wit, and your ale as smooth.”
Westcott bowed them into the great room. “You will find my wit poor fare in comparison, sires. Poor fare, indeed.”
He showed them to a table, and then left for the kitchen, claiming disaster if he was away for too long. The great room was uncrowded, with only two other tables holding diners, who nodded at their entrance, and a couple of old men smoking pipes in a corner while they played a games of cards.
Adam removed his pack and sword, stowing them alongside the table. “A copper and a half for dinner and drink? That's at least twice what it's worth, if not more.”
Milward sat with him, leaning his staff with its wolf head against the table. “The Innkeeper claims the food is worth the price, we'll find out if he's telling the truth, soon enough.”
The food arrived in quantity and in short order. Westcott proved to be a man of his word. It was all delicious.
Adam looked up from his stew as Milward finished his slice of venison. “You must have been hungry. That's your third helping.”
Milward mumbled something around a mouthful of baked potato.
“What's that? I couldn't understand you.”
“I said.” The Wizard washed the potato down with a mouthful of Westcott's nut brown ale. “It's the result of holding that shaping for so long. Keeping us warm used only a little energy to generate it. Keeping it going for mile after mile, while hiking through the snow, mind you, nearly drained me dry. I wouldn't be able to move a salt cellar right now.”
Adam followed the example and sipped some more of his ale. “But I thought you said a Wizard draws power from the world around him, as well as within. Couldn't you use the power from outside to maintain the shaping?”
Milward shook his head. “You'd think it would work that way, wouldn't you? Unfortunately it doesn't.”
“Why?” Adam sipped some more ale.
“That, I can't tell you.” Milward spooned up some more potato, dripping with butter. “It just doesn't work that way. You try holding a shaping for an extended period of time, and you'll find yourself becoming more and more fatigued, as well as ravenously hungry.” He smiled. “That's why I'm making a pig of myself.”
Westcott approached their table. “Well, good travelers. How do you find my fare? Is it worth what you paid for it?”
Milward made a show of patting imaginary sauce from his mustaches and beard, as Adam sipped his ale. “Innkeeper,” he said, as he patted, “Your kitchen could have graced the court of Labad himself. That venison must have been born for the table, for this was its greatest triumph.”
Westcott beamed under the praise. Adam thought Milward was putting it on a bit thick. The food had been good, to be sure, but he had as good in Dunwattle, and also at Bustlebun's.
The front door of the Inn crashed open and every head turned to see Nowsek, his face streaked with dirt and blood. His mittens were gone and blood was on his hands. “The mine.” He gasped.
* * * * The latch gave way under McCabe's deft touch. It was almost too easy, “The Duke should have spent more on security.” He thought. “Grisham is a dangerous place to live.”
He lifted the window carefully, listening for any sign of a give-away squeak that could bring guards at the run. His luck stayed with him and the hinges remained silent.
The room he stepped into held enough trinkets to allow him to indulge in his hobby for years. His mouth watered at the thought.
He began moving about the room, picking and choosing among the jewelry and art objects for those most valuable, and still of a size easy to carry down the drainpipe. A sound from outside the room's only door stopped his hand halfway to a matching set of earrings, a necklace and bracelet set with diamonds and blood red rubies. Someone was scratching at the door. Time to leave.
McCabe tiptoed to the window and eased himself out of it backward, feeling for the pipe support with his foot. He found it after an anxious bit of waving around, and started down the pipe.
“A shortened visit.” He thought. “But what I have should do for a while.”
“Visitors usually arrive through the front door.” The voice had an oily quality, redolent with self-indulgence. McCabe liked its sound.
He turned smoothly and saw the guards that ringed him. His heart quickened in anticipation of a beating.
A goateed man dressed in silks and furs stood behind the guards, his enormous paunch straining the silk to its limit. He held out a gloved hand toward the thief. “I'll take my jewelry back now, please. If you resist, I'll have you tortured before killing you, If you give it back now, I'll just have you killed. Please resist.”
McCabe resisted. To his credit, three of the nine guards died under his hands, and two others would curse his name whenever the weather changed. The rest would remember a battered face that smiled more broadly with each blow until the eyes glazed over, and the body collapsed.
He woke to pain, delicious pain. McCabe was tied into a device that could tear the limbs from their sockets if tightened sufficiently enough. He was being stretched, nude, on a rack. He'd always wanted to try that.
“Ah, you're awake. You fought well for such a little man. Three of my guards you killed. You're going to have to pay for that, you know.” The man with the paunch came down the curving stairs into the dungeon where McCabe was being held.
He smiled at his visitor. The pain was making him giddy. “I know.”
The man walked around the rack until he faced McCabe's feet. “You stole from me. No one does that, and you shall live to know why.”
“Oh?”
The man scowled. “Impertinence will only make the pain worse sooner. I promise you.”
“Good.”
His captor moved around the rack and leaned over him. “All right, you fool! You will learn a hard lesson. I am Duke Bilardi of the royal house of Grisham. Remember my name and title, for you'll want to scream it when you beg for mercy.”
The Duke turned away from him, and pulled a small lever set into the stone wall. In a few minutes, a large man wearing a stained tunic with heavily muscled arms walked through one of the archways that led out of the dungeon.
The Duke presented him to McCabe with a wave of his left hand. “This is Dunn. He will be your playmate.”
McCabe took him at his word.
* * * * “What is the matter, Dunn?” Bilardi did not bother to look up from his meal.
“Beggin’ yer pardon Milord but this feller in the’ dungeon, he ain't normal, Milord.”
Bilardi still did not look up. He reached for his wine goblet. “What do you mean, not normal?”
“I think ‘e likes it, Milord.”
The Duke looked up; a forkful of spiced noodles inches away from his mouth. “Likes what?”
Dunn looked embarrassed. “Wot I do, Milord. ‘E likes it. I ‘wack ‘im wit da ‘ot irons, an’ all ‘e does is smile. An’ you shoulda seen wot ‘e did when I started on ‘is privates.” Dunn's eyes grew wide. “It just ain't natcheral, Milord.”
Bilardi sat back in his chair, his meal forgotten. “No screams? Not even a whimper?”
Dunn shook his head, the greasy curls swaying with the movement. “No, Milord. ‘E did grunt once, just before ‘e ... well, it were disgustin’ Milord. Just plain disgustin'!”
Duke Bilardi threw down his napkin, and rose from the table. “We shall see about this. Come with me, Dunn.”
The giant torturer followed his employer through the Castle hallways and down the curving stair that led to the dungeon. McCabe lay as he'd been left, a pincer attached to his scrotum, and a beatific smile on his face.
Bilardi crossed the foot of the rack, and moved to stand along McCabe's left side. He folded his arms over his paunch and nodded at Dunn. “Show me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Dunn picked a long-handled iron out of the brazier that smoldered next to a wall hung with the tools of his trade. Most of them wore encrusted bits as telltales to their use. Waves of intense heat fluttered in the air of the dungeon as he moved it to a spot on his subject's inner thigh.
McCabe's breath quickened as he saw the iron pass over his body.
Bilardi exclaimed, “Deity! The man's getting...!”
The iron hissed as it met tender flesh, and the smell of it filled the air. McCabe moaned and then screamed in release.
Bilardi fell back against the wall. “Did you see that? He just...”
Dunn nodded, his face a pasty white. “I know, Milord. It ain't the first time. I told yer. He ain't natcheral.”
He leaned over the gasping McCabe, and yelled into his face, “you ain't natcheral, you pervert! Yer should be ashamed of yerself!”
Bilardi pulled out a linen kerchief and wiped his face. He felt out of his element entirely. What can you do to a man who does that because of pain? Then another thought intruded. What could you do with such a man?
* * * * Circumstance sat on the stoop leading into the house his mother and Ethan got from the nice old man, Sammel.
“What do you think of your new home, Circumstance?” Ethan stood in the doorway behind him.
“It's nice enough, I guess.” Circumstance looked up at Ethan's approach. “I miss the forest.”
Ethan knelt down next to the boy. He could hear Sari and Jonas playing with some of the neighborhood children. Youngsters didn't worry about where you were from; they just wanted a playmate. “I miss it, too, but we were given little choice. It's easier to start over if you have friends to help you.”
Circumstance nodded. “I know.”
The level of maturity the boy showed again struck Ethan. Did his being part Elf have something to do with it? Elves only lived about half as long as humans did. They moved into adulthood faster. An Elf lad of about Circumstance's age would already be fathering children, but Circumstance had a human half. This made him really neither Elf nor Human, but a blend of both.
Circumstance broke into Ethan's thoughts with a question. “Ethan. Do you ever get the feeling there's something you need to do, but you don't know what it is?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have that feeling. There's something I need to do, but I don't know what. I've been asking myself, but I don't get any answers.” Circumstance rested his chin on his forearms crossed across his knees.
Ethan turned his hands palm out. “I don't know, son, it could just be the change coming on you. You're turning from a boy into a man. That can cause some mighty strange feelings to go through you. It did for me.”
Circumstance shook his head up and down. “Maybe.” “But I don't think that's it.” He thought.
Ethan stood up and brushed off the knee that had been on the floor. “Tell you what. You let me know if something comes to you, and I'll see what I can do to help. Pact?”
Circumstance nodded. “Pact.”
“Good. Now I've got to get back to that new wheel, or Ellona's going to wear herself out on those spindles I made her. Don't forget to get yourself some lunch.” Ethan turned to go.
“I won't.” Circumstance replied. “It's to the East and South of here.” He thought. “But what is it?”
Ethan picked up the finishing rasp and put it to the Flyer he was working on.
Nearly done.” He thought to himself, “And it looks even better than the first one.”
Sammel had been kind enough to lend Ethan some of the wood for the new wheel in exchange for the use of his services. The amount of businesses his old friend had fingers into was surprising. Before, he'd just been a friendly face and someone to help occasionally as a Watchman, and now ... well, it was obvious Sammel had a lot more ambition than he did. Taking care of Ellona and the children was fulfilling enough.
Ellona came into the workroom with a smile across her flushed face. “She's been running.” Ethan noticed.
“They want to buy my yarn.” She cried.
Ethan felt proud and pleased all at once. “Who?” He asked.
“The weaver's shop and that place on Tweed Road where they do the knitting. They both said they'll take all I can make. They compared it to what they haul in from the Wool Coast. Oh, Ethan, I'm so happy.” She threw her arms around him and squeezed.
“You should be.” He said as he looked down into her eyes, returning the hug. “You deserve every bit of happiness that comes your way.”
She leaned her head against his chest and hugged him even tighter. For Ethan, that was answer enough.
* * * * The Librarian opened the ancient chest with reverence. The dust of ages covered it, but even that he treasured. Labad himself may have run his finger through that dust. He refused to allow his housekeeper to clean it. It had been with him for over a hundred years, but the chest came to him locked and without a key. Then, wonder of wonders, a key had been found by his young assistant in a long forgotten room hidden in the far back wall of the library.
The hinges creaked with age. “Just like me,” he thought, as he lifted the lid. The smell of ages wafted out of the interior. He looked inside to see a single roll of parchment and more dust, but nothing else.
His hand trembled as he reached in to lift out the parchment. It bore the seal of the Dwarf family that tradition held to be the caretakers of the Philosopher King's legacy. It could be the original itself, the vision he wrote in his own blood.
He cracked the seal with great care, fearful that the old adhesion might tear the parchment itself. As he unrolled the ancient parchment hope faded, but only slightly. The writing on the parchment was only a copy of Labad's prophecy, but it was an original copy, faithfully made by an attendant Dwarf, probably with the original right next to it.
He held his new treasure with ginger hands as he called for his assistant. “Felsten!”
It would take the boy time to get there, so the Librarian settled down in the dust to look over his prize.
* * * * “The mine.” Nowsek collapsed into the arms of Westcott and his daughter.
Adam rose to go see he if could help, but Milward put a hand on his arm to stay him. “We can hear from here just fine, lad. Let's see what develops.”
Adam sat back down and waited with the Wizard. One of the old men playing cards at the time ran out the door as soon as Nowsek said, “the mine.”
A woman burst through the door and fell to her knees next to Nowsek. “Petron,” The name came out in an anguished whisper. “Is he...?”
He reached up and stroked her cheek. “Maibell...”
Milward arose from the table and joined the group around the exhausted Nowsek. The Mayor of Access's eyes widened in recognition when the Wizard bent over him.
Maibell was becoming hysterical. She grabbed Nowsek's shoulders and shook him. “Husband! Our Petron! Is he dead? Our Petron!”
Westcott pulled her away, and handed her over to his wife, Sheriwyn, who comforted the sobbing woman.
Milward reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a pod that he cracked under Nowsek's nose.
The Mayor inhaled and then broke into a fit of coughing.
Milward patted him on the back. “It'll be all right, sire Nowsek. The Angeimyn pod will give you your strength and your senses back in short order. Can you tell us what happened?”
Nowsek shook his head. “Wfff! Oh, my head is clearing. You know your stuff, Wiz ... umph.”
When Milward took his hand away from the Mayor's mouth, Maibell was sobbing in the background. “Enough of that, Nowsek. What can you tell us about the mine?”
Adam had finished his ale, and now stood behind Milward.
“A cave-in. I don't know how far back it goes. I tried to dig a way in, but the rocks are too large. I couldn't shift ‘em. I ... failed.”
“You weren't going to a disaster when we first met you. Were you going to the mine to work it? Do you know how it's built? What about the type of rock around it?” Milward peppered him with questions.
Nowsek accepted the brandy Westcott held out for him. He talked as he sipped. “I had supplies for the miners in my sled. Food and drink for their dinner break.” His eyes shifted to where his wife sat crying into Sheriwyn's shoulder. “Our boy, Petron, works ... worked there...” His voice trailed off.
Milward patted the Mayor's shoulder. “Don't think like that, sire Nowsek. There's always hope.”
“What do you mean? How can you...? Oh, I see. Sire, if you do this, you will have my eternal gratitude, and that of the village, as well.” Nowsek grabbed Milward's hand.
The Wizard shook off the Mayor's grasp and stood up. “Never mind that! Show us the mine.”
Nowsek surged to his feet. “At once, sires. At once.”
Westcott reached behind a counter and pulled out a heavy coat. “I'm going with you.”
They stepped out onto the front porch of the Inn and into a crowd of people gathered holding picks, shovels and other digging tools.
Milward murmured to Westcott, “looks like you're not the only one.”
Adam leaned forward and spoke quietly in Milward's ear, “what are you going to do? You said you were too weak to even do a small shaping.”
Milward whispered back, “I'm not going to do anything. You are.”
In answer to Adam's blank look, he said, “think of it as some long overdue practice.”
The mine sat perched on the top of one of the rocky slopes to the north of the village, a good two-mile hike up-slope. Tailings from the mine spread down the face of the slope in an ever-expanding wave.
Single logs, hand milled into timbers roughly two feet square, formed the entrance to the mine. A pile of dirt and gravel, intermixed with huge stones filling it, told the tale of the disaster that Nowsek had spoken about.
The men of the village rushed forward and began digging at the stuff of the cave-in, but the size of the stones hindered them. Most were far too large to shift, even with more than two men working on each one. Their breath showed as puffs of steam in the air.
Some of the women of the village lent a hand in the digging, with the rest huddled in a group, lending support to those whose sons or husbands lay trapped in the mine.
Milward sidled over to Nowsek, who was struggling with two other men to roll away one of the boulders. “Tell them to step away from the opening.” He spoke for Nowsek's ear alone.
The Mayor nodded once and bellowed to the other diggers. “Step back! Back I say!”
The would-be rescuers stopped their digging and looked at the Mayor. His wife pushed through the crowd and latched onto his coat front. “Why are you stopping? Our Petron is in there! You have to get him out! Get him out now!”
Milward reached into the middle of Nowsek and his wife and pushed them apart. The effrontery of the act shocked Maibell into silence.
The Wizard nodded. “That's better. Now, if you'll just step back a bit more, we'll get this rescue done up proper.”
Maibell recovered from her shock and screamed at him, “how are you going to do it, old man? With Wizardry?”
Milward's calm expression and her husband's white face gave Maibell her answer. She shrank back against Nowsek, her face a mask of terror. “Please.” She drew the word out as a long, terrified sob. “Spare us, oh mighty one. I meant no disrespect. We're poor people.”
She reached out to clutch at Milward's robes, but he pulled back with an expression of distaste on his face. “Oh, get hold of yourself, woman! I am not a sorcerer; I'm a Wizard. I'm The Wizard, Milward, and if you people will be patient for a little while, my young friend and I will open a way for your people to get out.” He pointed at the mine entrance for emphasis. “Do you want them out, or not?” His voice rang across the face of the mountain.
The crowd did not answer but, to a man, they all stepped back from where they stood by a couple of paces.
“Good, very good.” He reached over and drew Adam to him. “Now's your turn, lad. Remember the bridge I made back then after you blew up the Garlocs?”
Adam nodded. How could he forget it, with Milward reminding him of it every chance he got?
Milward rubbed his hands together briskly. “Good. I want you to picture a straw thin tube with that same stiffness. Have you got it?”
Adam nodded and reached out with the power. He felt the pressure of the shaping build in the back of his skull.
“Right. Now insert the tube into the center of the cave-in. Try to feel for the end of the collapse as you push it through. You want it to extend beyond both sides. But not too quickly, now.” Milward cautioned. “You don't want to run through any of the folk we're trying to rescue.”
Adam reached out with his senses as he pushed the magik stuff of the tube through the rubble blocking up the mine. “I'm through,” he called out to Milward. “It went through pretty easily.”
The Wizard grunted. “A good sign. Hopefully, it means the collapse is only within the length of the entrance itself. If they were working inside the mine proper, they should all be ok.”
“Get off me, woman!” Milward tried to disentangle himself from the thankful embrace of Nowsek's wife.
“You still have the tube held in place?” Milward said, as he handed Maibell back to Nowsek.
Adam could feel a small strain building with the pressure of the shaping. “It's still there.”
“You're doing fine, lad, now begin expanding it, slowly now, just like when you pushed it in. We don't want to collapse the rest of the mine on top of them.”
Adam willed the tube to expand. He could feel it forcing the stuff of the cave-in back into the walls and ceiling of the mine. The strain increased.
Behind him someone yelled, “Bardoc save us all! Look at that! The mouth is opening!”
Milward murmured in his ear, “pay no attention to them, Adam. You're doing just fine. Nice and easy now, nice and easy.”
Adam concentrated on pushing the material back. He was beginning to understand what Milward had been talking about when he spoke of the price of shaping. The strain and pressure continued to build as he eased the opening into the mine wider and wider. He tried pulling in more power from the land around him to compensate.
“Good lad. You're doing well.” Milward encouraged him.
A man's head emerged from the gloom inside the tube. A woman screamed. “Tyndale! Oh thank Bardoc.”
A younger voice called out at the same time. “Father!”
Another head followed the first one, and then another, with voices from the crowd yelling their names. “Rober. Thayil. Hergin. The names went on as Adam held the tube open. He was beginning to sweat, even though the air was freezing.
Finally, the heads stopped appearing, and he looked at Milward.
The Wizard shook his head. “Can you keep it open a little longer? Just to make sure?”
“I'll try, but it's getting harder to hold it.” A bead of sweat ran into his eye.
Nowsek and his wife held each other, their faces masks showing and grief mingled as one. Finally, another head appeared and merged into the shape of a man bent over and looking behind himself. As he emerged from the tube, the people could see he was dragging another miner.
“Petron!” Maibell ran across the space between the crowd and the entrance, and enveloped her son into her ample bosom while smothering him with kisses.
Milward was at the boy's side instantly. “Are there any more of you in there? Come, boy. Answer quickly! Are there?”
Petron struggled out of his mother's embrace. There was a scratch on his forehead and blood on his chin. “No, sire. Me an’ Duggin were the last.”
Milward deflated with a sigh. “Thank Bardoc for that. You can release the shaping, Adam. They're all out.”
Adam did so, and slowly collapsed face down into the snow.

Chapter Twenty-Three
The Seeker skimmed over the surface of the northern plains, tasting with its senses the small lives that floated over the creeks and streams. It passed over some larger lives that interested it briefly, but not enough to cause it to inhabit them.
Food was taken by absorbing some of them that came across its path while it sniffed the ether and drifted in a winding, roughly Southern direction along the shores of Northlake. Its power allowed it to do so on a subsistence level, only. The true feast would come when it found its host.
* * * * Circumstance wrapped the bricks of cheese carefully in the scraps of cloth he'd collected over the past week. The cheese made up the last of the supplies he had for his journey.
The restlessness he'd been feeling had grown into a driving need to travel. He hadn't yet learned exactly where he needed to go, but he did know it was to the South and to the East.
He'd decided not to tell his Mother or Ethan about his leaving. Mother would cry and Ethan would be understanding, and in the end, he would be forced to put off what he had to do now.
“Whatcha doing, Circ?” Jonas stood in the pantry door, his tattered blanket trailing in his right hand.
Circumstance finished wrapping the brick of cheese. With that one, he had two of each color, white and yellow. He preferred the sharp tang of the white, but he didn't want to leave the house bare of one over the other.
He looked at his little brother. “I'm taking a trip, Jonas.”
Jonas’ eyes lit up. “Kin I go, too?”
The question brought him a sad smile. “No, I'm sorry, but it's something I have to do by myself.”
“It's ‘portant, huh?” Jonas’ question was half statement of fact.
“Yes, yes, it is.” Circumstance hefted the backpack and slipped his arm through the straps. Ethan's teachings about the wild and its ways scrolled through his memory. They would all be carefully gone over as he journeyed. He hoped to be proven worthy of the time his surrogate father had spent with him.
“An’ I can't go.” Jonas looked somber as he struggled to grasp the adult concept.
Circumstance knelt and put a hand to each of Jonas’ shoulders. “I need you to look after your sister for me.” He knew the request was a trite one, but it worked on his little brother as he expected.
Jonas puffed out his chest and nodded his head, silently promising to do his best with his new responsibilities.
“Good.” Circumstance looked out the window in the front room of the row house. The crescent moon was climbing above the rooftops. “I've got to go now. You head back to bed and get some sleep.”
“Bye, bye Circ,” Jonas said, as his older brother eased himself out the front door and closed it quietly behind him.
“Circumstance. Time to wake up.” Ellona knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer, so she knocked again. “He must be sleeping deeply.” She thought.
“Come on, sleepy head. Rise and shine.” There was still no answer, so she eased open the door. She didn't want to startle the boy awake.
“Ethan!” He started awake at her anguished scream, and then ran down the hallway in the direction it came from.
He found Ellona frantically searching through Circumstance's room; a part of his mind registered that the boy's bed was made.
She looked up as he entered the room. “He's gone! I've looked everywhere. I thought he was just sleeping in, but he's gone!”
Ethan crossed the room in two strides and took her in his arms. She clung to him desperately, digging her nails into his shoulders.
“I've looked everywhere. Some of his clothes are gone, and so is his pack.” She sobbed out her fear into his chest.
“He said it was ‘portant.”
They turned and saw Jonas in his nightshirt, standing in the hallway.
Ethan dropped to his knees and looked Jonas in the eyes. “Did he say where he was going? Try to remember now, Jonas, it is very important that you remember.”
Jonas screwed up his face as he thought. “Circ said it was ‘portant.”
“What was important?” Ethan pressed gently for details.
“What he hadda do.” Jonas elaborated with a tone of satisfaction.
Ellona half sobbed in exasperation, and Ethan let out his breath in a slow three-count. This was going to be like searching for diamonds in a coal mine, but he had to find out where Circumstance was going. The boy had mentioned feeling that there was something he had to do. Now he was off somewhere, trying to do it.
“Listen carefully to me, Jonas.” Ethan worked to keep his voice calm. “Did he say what it was he had to do?”
Jonas screwed up his face again and chewed on the end of his thumb. “No.” The answer took a time coming out. He followed it closely with. “But he said I hadda do somethin’ for him.”
“What was it, Jonas?” Ellona crouched down next to Ethan. Her insides felt as if a part of her had been ripped away.
Jonas’ face split in a wide grin of brotherly pride. “He said I hadda take care of Sari for him.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Ethan tried for something to give him an edge in his search.
“No, sorry,” Jonas yawned hugely. “Kin I have some breakfast?”
Ellona's sigh spoke volumes.
Ethan squeezed her arm and stood. “Sure you can. Come with me to the kitchen.”
He looked at Ellona as Jonas ran to get ready for his breakfast. “I'll find him, you can be sure of that.”
Ellona smiled a sad slow smile. “I know.”
* * * * Circumstance balanced himself against the trunk of the tall pine as he shaded his eyes against the rising sun. Cloudhook stood as a triangular silhouette on a horizon outlined in fire. The voice inside him told him he still had many days of walking before he made it to the mountain. It was the same voice he'd begun hearing when the villagers had burned his mother's cottage.
He had his direction now, so he turned on the branch and climbed back down. His pack lay in the tree, stuffed firmly into a v-shaped crook. He lifted the pack out of the crook and held it in one hand, as he hung from the branch with the other. The drop was not too far, so he wasn't afraid of breaking something when he hit the ground.
Once out of the tree, he set himself toward Cloudhook and began walking.
The inner voice lectured him on what he saw as he walked. This plant was good to eat. That one was not. This tree's bark would ease the pain of a burn. That one held fibers long enough to use as fishing line or a bowstring in a pinch, and so on. He'd long since ceased wondering where it came from, and the unease he'd first felt diminished with each mile closed between he and the mountain.
Over the past week, Circumstance discovered he knew how to rig a gig for trapping fish and a snare for small game. His father and Ethan had both taught him many things, but those were not among them.
The cold nights did not bother him as much as he thought they would. His elven part seemed to embrace the coolness like an old friend.
His path began to climb and the pines grew thicker. Soon he was walking on a deep cushion of needles. The air held the sharp, musty scent of aged pine. A number of the mushrooms folk called Gnome's Footstools poked their golden brown tops through the floor covering. He stopped long enough to pick several of them. They would cook up nicely with a few wild potatoes and some fish.
The rise in the land crested after a quarter mile and then it fell away sharply. Circumstance checked the ground to either side of where he stood. The one to the right looked to be the easiest for climbing, and the valley below the rise appeared idyllic. A slow-moving stream ran its length, with the majority of the valley land to the north of the stream. Broad-leafed trees grew along the water, and he could see ripples where fish sampled bugs that came too close to the surface.
The pines behind him held a quiet within, as if nature considered their stand to be a sanctuary for solemn meditation, whereas the valley Circumstance descended into was nature at full volume. Songbirds sang their melodies over the drone of the cicadas in the trees and competed with the pipes and croaks of the frogs in the stream.
He decided the day was shaping up to be a nice one for a walk, and the last of the morning's fog was already burning off when he chose a fishing spot. Shallow rapids fed its bubbles into a calm eddy lined with cattails and rushes. An excellent spot for a nice fat trout, his inner voice told him. All he needed was a few of the bugs flying over the stream, and something he could carve into a spear.
An orb weaver with a bright yellow and black body had her web stretched between two of the cattails. A number of mayflies were stuck to it. He helped himself to a few while her attention was occupied with wrapping up some of the others for a later meal.
He bowed to the owner of the web after taking his bait. “Thank you, my lady. I will try to return the favor, if ever I can.”
The spider continued to work on her pantry and ignored Circumstance's good manners.
Finding something suitable as a fishing spear proved to be more work than finding bait. None of the broadleaf trees were the type that grew straight limbs, including their saplings. He was beginning to think he would have to try his hand at setting a trap in the rapids, when the cattails caught his eye. Some of their reeds were quite large, nearly man-high. Perhaps all he had to do was carve a spearhead, instead of an entire spear.
Strapped to his thigh was a small, but very sharp, knife. Ethan's lessons in woodworking would serve him well right now. He waded into the stream and cut a reed as thick as a large man's thumb, and long enough to more than serve his purpose. The day was warming up, so he would dry well enough. He selected a piece of windfall whose shape suggested enough of a point and finished it off with the knife.
The last few inches of the point were carved into a plug that would fit into the end of the reed. A half dozen blades of the tall water grass functioned as the wrapping that secured the point to the reed. A few casts into the soft ground proved the spear's worthiness.
So, he had the tools for fishing. Now, if the fish would only cooperate.
* * * * “He's been by here. I'm sure of it.” Ethan ran his finger along the depression he read as one of Circumstance's boot prints. The boy walked like an Elf, toe first, but without the crouch the full bloods preferred.
This was a lucky find. Circumstance had an uncanny ability to disguise his tracks, and he seemed to do it without effort, as if it was second nature. Ethan had spent a frustrating two days seeking some sign of Circumstance's trail. The footprint under his finger was a welcome change in the pattern.
The boy was smart. He had to give him that. Circumstance left early enough in the morning that even the dairy farmers were still sleeping. No one had seen him walk out of Berggren, not even the dogs.
He stood up and walked slowly, head low, following the footsteps. Sometimes he had to look carefully, as Circumstance's feet found rocks, pieces of bark, patches of springy grass or anything else capable of hiding a footprint. The prints followed a track leading to the southeast, mostly south. There wasn't much between Berggren and that direction other than Cloudhook and its few small villages. Or ... he could possibly be heading toward Grisham. But the track would have to be more easterly. At least, it would be, if the boy were going there.
Ethan straightened and made a decision. He would mark this place in his memory and then push on in the direction of Cloudhook. If he found no tracks after a couple more days he'd return and start following these again, even if they turned out to not be made by Circumstance. He didn't think he'd be back this way again.
* * * * Adam woke to soft hands caressing his cheek. Without thinking about it, he leaned into the caress and groaned with comfort.
“He's awake.” The voice was feminine and softly contralto. Adam wondered if she looked like her voice.
He opened his eyes to see a heart-shaped face framed with shoulder-length red hair. The eyes were large, deep green and adorned with long, lush lashes.
She saw him looking at her and smiled, revealing small perfect teeth. “Good morning,” she said, blushing slightly.
“Good morning,” he said, and then he remembered. “The mine! Did everyone get out ok?”
She pushed him back into bed with a small hand and another smile. He found he didn't have the strength to resist, but he felt terribly hungry.
As if anticipating his feeling, she turned and reached to the side of the bed, returning with a bowl of a savory smelling stew that she held before him. It made his mouth water.
“Everyone is just fine. Dunstle will be having headaches for a while until his skull knits, but the Lord Wizard says he should recover completely after a season.”
She spooned out some of the stew and placed it into his open mouth. “What you did was wonderful. My father is alive because of it.”
“Muuff Wabf fee?”
“What?”
Adam swallowed and tried again. “Who was he? Which one?”
She blushed slightly again, and spooned up some more stew. “Tyndale, the first one to come out. You remember, don't you? The white-haired gentleman?”
Adam nodded as he chewed. It figured, if he read these people right, the eldest miner would have been the first to be sent through to safety, there being no children in the mine.
“Ah! You're finally awake. How are you feeling, my boy?” Milward came into the room with his staff in his hand. His beard was freshly brushed, and the smell of sweet herbs entered the room with him.
Adam looked up at the Wizard and swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Hi, Milward. Right now, I feel hungry. Like I haven't eaten for days, weeks.”
Milward chuckled deep in his beard. “That's to be expected. You've been sleeping for three days, and this is the dinner hour of the third, so let's make that three and a half days.”
Adam tried to rise out of bed, but the girl placed a hand on his chest and wouldn't let him rise. He gave it up as a bad idea and fell back into the mattress.
Milward continued to chuckle. “Don't worry, lad. The village will do quite nicely without you, thank you very much. Thaylli, here, insisted on being your nurse, and I've of a mind to agree with her, so you may as well lay back and enjoy your convalescence. I would, if I were in your shoes.”
Adam had to agree the old Wizard had the right of it. He felt nearly ready to fall back to sleep after finishing the stew, and Thaylli was very easy on the eyes. There were plenty of faces he would rather not have in front of him instead of hers. He relaxed and settled into the pillow. “I suppose you're right.”
Milward huffed. “Of course I am.”
Thaylli wiped a corner of Adam's mouth with a cloth she had at hand. “The Lord Wizard is wise, you should listen to him.”
Milward glanced in her direction. “Young woman. How many times must I tell you ... Auuuggghh! I give up.” He threw his hands into the air. “I give up! These people, Adam, after thinking I was no better than a common Sorcerer, now insist on treating me as some sort of minor deity. It is becoming quite insufferable.”
Adam managed a weak smile. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier. He stifled a yawn. “If you don't mind, I think I'm going to fall asleep on you, but before I do, could you tell me how the miners fared? Did they all get out?”
Milward looked at the boy gravely, and nodded. “You saved them all, lad, and they and their families will be forever grateful for the deed. Now,” he said brusquely, “Let this part of Access,” He patted Thaylli on the shoulder. “Show her gratitude and nurse you back to strength. There's a good lad.”
Milward turned and left the room, a one-Wizard parade.
Adam looked into Thaylli's eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
Her blush was fetching, but she rallied and fluffed each side of his pillow briskly. “You rest now and call me when you wake. I'll be right outside the door.” She stood and turned to leave.
Adam's last thought before sleep overcame him was that she was awfully shapely for a girl.
He woke hungry again and was about to ask Thaylli if she could fetch him a sandwich and a pint, when he realized she was not in the room with him. Milward was there, along with two other village folk. The Wizard's face was unreadable, but the other two had the same look that Thaylli had given Milward when he visited him last.
“Your color is better, Adam. I imagine you feel you could finish off a roast pig at a sitting, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I'd settle for a sandwich or two, and a pint.”
The older man of the two looked familiar to Adam. He stepped forward and pulled his floppy hat from his head. “You'll soon have that and anything else you wish, my Lord Wizard. You have enriched our poor village beyond all imaginings.”
Adam looked stunned. “Huh? Lord...? Milward, what are they talking about?”
The other man was several decades younger than the first, and much larger, nearly as burly as Nowsek but his hair was black, rather than Nowsek's rusty red. He put his hand on the older man's shoulder and spoke softly to him. “Come, Paulo, I'm sure the Wizard's have more important things to talk about than what happened at the mine.”
Paulo turned at the interruption. “Huh? Oh ... yes, quite.” He bowed to Milward and to Adam. “Sires.” He backed out of the room.
Milward's face remained unreadable.
Adam shifted in the bed. He was beginning to feel restless and even hungrier. “What did he mean; enriched? And what was that drivel about Lord Wizard? I'm no more a Lord than you are, probably less so.”
Milward thought, “Probably more so, if my guess is right.” He leaned on his staff. “Well...” He scratched his long nose. “There was a side effect I hadn't considered when I had you shape that tunnel into the mine.”
Adam didn't like the sound of that, but the villagers didn't seem angry with him, quite the opposite, in fact. “What happened?”
Milward looked at him with his head tilted. “What do you know about physics?”
“Huh?”
A sigh. “I might have guessed. It's good thing you're going to live a Wizard's lifetime, lad. You have a lot to learn. Do you know what happens to coal when it is put under tremendous heat and pressure all at once?”
“No.” The answer was cautious.
Milward leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “It turns into diamond! You, without meaning to, I am sure, have given the village of Access the only coal mine in the entire world with a diamond-lined entrance. The thing couldn't collapse now if we set another mountain on top of it.”
Adam felt a little green around the gills, “Diamond?” He said weakly.
“That's what I said. This village will want for nothing from now on, if they can keep their new wealth's origin a secret.”
“I made diamonds?”
Milward frowned. “You keep repeating yourself, and I'll have to examine you for early senility.”
Adam shook off the vision of a diamond tunnel and brought himself back to the present. “Sorry. It's a lot to swallow all at once. What is it with this Lord Wizard title they called me?”
“At least I don't have to be the only one having to put up with that. The people of this village, along with most of the small towns and villages in the East, have a somewhat skewed view of the world of magik. The East was hit the hardest during the war, and was, in fact, ruled by Sorcery for a couple of hundred years. Their historical picture of a wielder of magik is a bit different from what the West has known.
“My name became linked as one of the mighty during those centuries. I suppose it has been passed down to this day as a name to be feared.” He sighed. “I'd have preferred a warm fire and a hot bowl of stew.”
The mention of stew reminded Adam of his stomach and its demanding nature at the moment. He brought Milward out of his reverie. “Speaking of stew...” His stomach rumbled on cue.
“What? Oh, oh, yes. You must be starving.” The Wizard rose from his perch on the foot of Adam's bed and pulled open the door to the bedroom. “Food! Bring food now!”
The staff obeyed Milward's bellowed order with alacrity. Soon, Adam found himself facing a platter overflowing with sliced meats, steaming potatoes and crisp vegetables covered with a tangy white dressing that smelled of aged cheese.
Milward left while Adam was focused solely on eating. When he came up for air he noticed Thaylli. She was leaning against the wall of his room, wearing an amused half-smile.
He swallowed and reached for the mug of cider that had been brought in with the platter. “How long have you been there?”
Her smile broadened. “Long enough to see you down enough food to feed both of my brothers, and you're only half their size.”
“I was hungry.” He pleaded his case.
She suddenly sobered. “I imagine so. The Lord Wizard says you lifted the entire top of the mountain all by yourself, and you would have to eat a lot to recover your strength.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “How can you be so strong? You're nowhere near the size of my brothers, and they couldn't shift one of those stones working together.”
He swallowed some more cider. “I really don't know why. I suppose it has something to do with the Wizard powers I'm developing.”
Thaylli blinked. “Developing? You did that? And your powers are just developing?”
Adam looked at her strangely, saying nothing.
“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”
He blinked. “Oh, nothing. It's just for a moment there you reminded me of Milward.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, thank you very much. That's the best compliment I've had all day.”
His grimaced. “Sorry. What I meant by that was that Milward looks at me sometimes with the very same expression you just used. Especially when we talk about what I'm supposed to be learning.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm. An apprentice Wizard with the strength of a master Mage, and you wonder why he looks at you funny.”
Adam's mouth twitched in a wry grin. “I see your point.”
He levered himself up onto his elbows and lifted the now-empty tray onto the side table. “Do you think it would be okay if I got up and walked some? I'm getting sick of just laying around.”
Thaylli moved from the foot of the bed around to Adam's side. “That's why I'm here. The Lord Wizard says you need to get your blood moving again. Your days of sloth are over.”
Adam took Thaylli's hand and allowed her to help him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, taking care to make sure the nightshirt did not rise to an embarrassing level.
He put his feet on the floor and transferred weight to his legs gingerly. They seemed solid enough, and he stood upright with a sigh. “Ahhh. That feels good.”
Thaylli eyed him critically. “Yes ... I imagine it does. I'll let you get dressed, unless you think you need some help...”
“No! No, I'll be all right.” Adam reached for his trousers that hung over the back of the chair next to the window.
She moved to the door. “Very well. I'll be right outside the door if you need me.” She closed the door.
Adam rushed into his clothes. The thought of her opening the door at an inopportune moment lent wings to his movements. She was an interesting contrast to the others he'd met. They treated him as if he were a not quite tamed jungle animal liable to rip their throats out at any moment. Thaylli, on the other hand, seemed to be less interested in what he could do than in how he did. She was certainly easy to look at, he thought. They could have given me a nurse with the face of a wild boar and a disposition to match.
A knock sounded on the door. “Are you all right?” Thaylli's voice came from the other side.
Adam worked at the frogs on his jacket. “Almost done. You can open the door if you want.”
She opened the door. Behind her, in the hallway, stood a young man half again taller than Adam and muscled like a gladiator. Thaylli saw his glance and turned to indicate the young giant. “This is Moen, he's one of my brothers. I asked him to come along with us for your walk.”
Moen looked like he would gladly be anywhere else.
Adam was beginning to get a picture of Thaylli. Her mother probably ran the household with an iron hand wrapped in velvet and most likely raised Thaylli to do the same. He was Thaylli's accepted charge, and she was going to have someone help him, regardless of how they felt about being in the presence of a Wizard.
Adam held out his hand to Moen. “Hello. I'm called Adam. I'm pleased to have you along.”
Moen looked at the hand as if it could turn into a viper at any moment.
Thaylli buried an elbow into his side. To his credit he merely grunted. “Oh, come on, Moen. He's not going to turn you to a statue or some such. Take his hand.”
Moen swallowed and took Adam's hand. His grip was strong and sure, in spite of his obvious nervousness. “Well met, sire Adam. Thaylli says you are the reason our Da is alive this day; I thank you for that.”
“I'm just glad I could help. Milward guided me through it. He's really the one responsible, I just followed his instructions.”
Moen grunted. “A humble Wizard? This is a season of wonders, Thaylli. I begin to see the wisdom of your choice.”
Adam wasn't sure he liked the portents in that statement, but held his tongue. “Can we go outside? I'd like to have some open air above me. All of a sudden, I'm feeling like a caged animal.”
Moen threw back his head and barked out a laugh.
Thaylli threw him a quick glare that Adam missed. She took Adam's arm and led him down the hallway. The great room of the Inn was filled with villagers. Most of the men had a tankard in their hand, and some of the women, as well. Milward was deep in conversation with Westcott, Nowsek and Tyndale, Thaylli's father. Everyone looked up when he and Thaylli hit the top of the stairs.
Milward rose to his feet. “Finally! I was beginning to think you'd taken on the trait of the Bear and decided to hibernate the winter away.”
Nervous laughter tittered through the room. Westcott pushed his way though the crowd to meet them at the foot of the stairs. “We have a custom in our village, sire Adam. When one performs a service to our community, such as what you have done, those who have benefited from the deed honor them with gifts of thanks. Since the entire village has done so...” He spread his hands.
Milward sidled up to Adam's side, and spoke to him out of the corner of his mouth, sotto voice, “Just accept it all as it comes, lad, it's the best thing you can do now. Be your natural humble self later.”
The next hour or so became a blur to Adam, as each of the villagers came up to him in turn. Thaylli and Moen stood behind him. Milward kept his place off to the side, again beaming like a proud parent.
Each of the villagers had something to present him. For some, it was an article of knitwear. For others, a carving made with loving detail. Some presented him with a baked pie or a cured ham. No one left without placing something at his feet, and all of them looked as though they were in the presence of royalty. Near the end of it, he had a building desire to climb the stairs back to his room and bolt the door. The attention made him extremely uncomfortable, and he did not feel worthy of it at all.
He told Thaylli so, after the crowd had dispersed and the great room was nearly empty.
Moen grunted. It seemed to be his favorite expression. “Better and better. I am coming to like you, sire Wizard Adam.”
Thaylli glared at Moen.
Adam looked at the pile of gifts. They filled the floor and two tables next to where he stood. “Where am I going to put all this stuff? There's no possible way I can fit it into the room.”
Thaylli picked up one of the pies. “I'm sure sire Westcott will gladly store the food for you.”
Adam looked at Westcott. “Will you?”
Westcott looked at the pile. He seemed to be counting. “Oh, I'm sure we can work something out.”
“Sire Westcott!” Thaylli was outraged.
He held a forestalling hand up between the girl and himself. “Just having a bit of fun, lass. Nowsek himself would string me up by my figgin if I so much as charged our young hero a copper twit for the deed. Maibell hasn't let Petron out of her sight since he came out of that mine, and she makes sure to let her husband know who opened it up. Daily, from what he tells me.”
He looked at Adam, his usual sardonic expression gone. “You've done a great service for this town, young man, and I thank you for that. Those were both my friends and family in there, but what I want to thank you for even more than that is the way you carried yourself just now. A lot of folk in your position would take these gifts as their just due. If I read you right, you're more embarrassed than anything else, eh?”
Adam nodded.
Westcott nodded in return. “Thought so. That's why you deserve it and they don't.”
Thaylli tugged at Adam's arm. “Time for your walk. Come with us, Moen.”
Milward turned to Westcott as they left the room. “I'll have another of those nut brown ales, if you've any left.”
Westcott pulled the handle behind the bar. “I've some left, Wizard. Mind if I join you?”
Milward picked up a nibblet from a tray on the counter and chewed it. “Not at all, innkeeper. Not at all.”
They picked up their mugs, and nodded to each other in a silent toast, and then drained half the mug in a long pull.
Milward wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve. “Ahhh. That is a worthy brew, Innkeeper.”
Westcott nodded his acceptance of Milward's compliment. “What do you think of our Thaylli taking on your apprentice, Wizard? Is her decision a wise one?”
Milward looked at Westcott over the rim of his mug. “You mean, by that the tale of Wizards being bachelors by nature?”
“I do.”
“You're very well read for an Innkeeper in Access, my friend.”
Westcott smiled. “I was born in Grisham. Access is my adopted home. I've never regretted it.”
The front door to the Inn opened, letting in a man and a woman along with a flurry of snow.
Westcott looked up at the sound. “I'd better put another kettle on. You were answering my question?”
Milward sipped some more ale. “I don't think we can judge Adam by the histories. He a nexus, not a participant.”
Westcott's eyes widened. “The prophecies?”
Milward turned to look out the window. The snow was falling harder. “He's the spoon, my friend. It's us who will be stirred.”
* * * * The Librarian held the parchment open in the light of the room's only window. Dust danced in the sunbeam that shone onto the smudged brownish letters.
“Felsten.” He called for his assistant again as his ancient eyes passed over the familiar lines of the prophecy. He reached the bottom and found something he'd read niggling at the back of his mind. He started at the top and proceeded through the prophecy again, one slow line at a time, and there it was.
“...Guide to Eleven Chance, master of warriors, Ducal doom. Through these you will know her.”
The line... Ducal doom...should he alert Bilardi? Bardoc knows, the man did little enough to provide for eternity, that is, unless flames were involved.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see their cause. “Ah, Felsten. Come here, boy, I've something to show you.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
Gilgafed woke with a start. The dream fled from his memory, leaving only the disturbing feeling that he was threatened from something ... from the south.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant as he pulled on his robe. The fool was probably still sleeping.
He remembered the Seeker's touch. It sat upon him like a sickness that only time and the full restoration of his power would remedy.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant again. If that idiot was sleeping when he couldn't...
“Master?” Cobain stumbled into Gilgafed's bedroom, still pulling on a slipper, as predicted.
Gilgafed felt a small mollification at his successful surmise. He let his servant's tardiness off with a scowl. “Ready my scrying chamber; something is happening, and I mean to know what and where.”
Cobain turned on his heel and scuttled back into the hallway.
He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it while he allowed his mind to consider what had awakened him. Dreams could sometimes be prophetic, had this one been such?
The thought threw him into action and he stalked the hallways of his palace to the Scrying chamber. Cobain was lighting the final candle as Gilgafed entered the room.
“The chamber is ready, Master.”
Gilgafed nodded to his servant and stood before the mirror. He sent a twisting tendril of power into the silvered surface, and the mists appeared.
He cast his perceptions into the mists, spreading them as widely as possible. The small lives of common folk appeared as brief flashes of light that flickered and faded as he passed them by. He ignored them as inconsequential, and continued his search, sending the shaping ever wider.
Near the end of his range, the shaping passed over the city of Grisham and brushed past ... something. He worked at narrowing the search passing through the Lowers, over the merchant quarter and the docks to ... the Castle.
He began forcing the power of his shaping to clarify what he was sensing, but all he could do was ascertain that whatever had disturbed his sleep lay within Grisham's castle walls.
He ended the shaping with a twist of his mind, and began another.
“Milord Sorcerer. It has been a long time.” The voice was female, but with a flat quality that destroyed the libido before it was born.
“Indeed it has, but I have a use for you now.”
The mists swirled. “As you wish, Milord. What would you have me do?”
* * * * “Cold one tonight.” The portly guard's breath puffed in the afternoon air. He was wishing he'd worn the second under-tunic like his wife had suggested. The heavy gloves kept his fingers from freezing, but the wind cut like blades against his chest.
“You've got the right of it, Merril.” His partner stamped his feet to warm them while keeping his hands tucked into his armpits. “Makes a witche's tit seem balmy.”
Merril looked down the road from their station alongside Grisham's main entry gate and straightened. He nudged his partner with the butt of his halberd, “'Ere, Dunkin. What'chu make o’ that?”
Dunkin opened his eyes and looked in the direction of Merril's pointed thumb. “Damnfino,” he muttered. “Never seen th’ like. Should we stop ‘em?”
Merril shrugged and hitched up his sagging winter hose. “Why th’ flick not? Day's been a complete balls up, so far.”
He slouched his way over to a position that put him directly in front of the partially open double-doored gate and held up his hand. “'Old up there, now.”
The rider slowed its mount with apparently no command being issued.
Merril stayed where he stood. He'd never seen such a large dog. Its head was the size of a steer's, in fact; the whole flickin’ thing was at least as large as a steer, maybe even an ox. The rider was slim, possibly female, but it was hard to tell with all those furs. She, possibly, was dressed head to toe in black, both cloth and fur. The cloth portion was a flat, dead black without sheen or richness. The fur, in contrast, looked like it was dipped in black glass. Waves of glisten flowed across the garments with each passing breeze.
“Oy!” Dunkin stepped into the gateway next to Merril. “E said stop, now that don't mean continue on but slower. It means stop.” He brought his halberd into a guard position; point up.
The rider stopped, again without any command being obvious to the two guards.
Merril felt it first. It began as an overall unease, and built into a creeping fear that danger was present, everywhere.
Dunkin began to sweat in spite of the cold. He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. “Merril. Whut's goin’ on ‘ere? Whut's ‘appenin'?”
The fear built until it became a level of terror the two guards were powerless to ignore. Merril's bowels let go, and he collapsed, gibbering against the side of the gate as his fingers scrabbled at the wood.
Dunkin threw his halberd away, and fled, wailing, into the city, causing a number of its inhabitants to look apprehensively in the direction he ran from.
Years later, he would still be unable to approach the gate. Merril never regained his sanity.
The rider nodded once, and the great dog walked at a leisurely pace into the city of Grisham.
* * * * The vellum fell from the Librarian's fingers as he clutched his chest.
“Master!” His apprentice rushed to his side. The boy's face was a mask of raw concern.
The old man waved his apprentice away. “No. It's all right, Felsten. Whatever it was, it wasn't my heart.”
“What did you feel?” Felsten wrung his hands. He dearly loved the old man.
The Librarian looked at his apprentice. The rheumy eyes went wide. “Fear. Raw, terrifying fear.”
“Of what?” Felsten looked around. All he saw was the now-familiar stacks of books and scrolls.
The Librarian rubbed his forehead with the tips of the fingers of his left hand. “I don't know, Felsten, but I aim to find out. Bring me that box of scrolls. No, not those, the old ones; yes, those.”
He took the box of scrolls from his apprentice and began digging through them. They were of varying ages, from ancient to nearly prehistoric. He had a vague memory of reading in one of the old scrolls about that type of fear. Something was telling him it was imperative he find that scroll again.
* * * * Adam knocked on the stout wooden door.
“Come in, Adam.” Milward's voice came through the door.
Adam had ceased long ago to be surprised at the Wizard's ability to know who was knocking at his door.
He opened the door onto what looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind in a library. “What happened here? And how do I get into the room without stepping on something?”
Milward looked up at him. The Wizard was wearing those little windows in front of his eyes again. He called them spec-tables or something close to it.
“What are you looking for?” He picked up one of the scraps of parchment. Small bits of its edge fluttered to the floor.
“I'll take that. Thank you.” Milward reached up and plucked the parchment from Adam's hand.
“What I am looking for is a mystery wrapped within the runes of the past. But I'm afraid it won't be found in this village's poor library.
“Westcott added a few of the copies he had of the old prophecies, but they gave me nothing new to what I've already read.”
“Can you tell me more than that?” Adam edged around the pile to the other side of the bed where there was room to sit.
The Wizard sighed and sat back on his haunches. “It's something that's been bothering me since that day in the Narrows.”
“The Chivvin?”
“Close guess, lad, but not on the mark. The how of the Chivvin, that is what has been niggling at me since we came across them. They weren't supposed to be there. Bardoc's beard! They weren't supposed to be in our dimension! Gilgafed may have done something we're all going to regret and I have to find out what can be done about it.”
He looked up at Adam, concern written all over his face. “The only place that will have the information I'm looking for is the Library at Grisham.”
Adam leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms. “When do we go?”
“That's it?” Milward was astonished. He'd been young once, and still remembered his first romantic pairing.
“That's it.”
“No stamping your feet insisting you'll die without being near her? That you can still smell the musk of her hair in the gallery of your mind?”
Adam looked at Milward and arched an eyebrow. “What in the pit are you babbling about?”
Milward arched an eyebrow in return. “Have I been hallucinating these past weeks, or have you been keeping very close company with a certain young woman? Much to the heartbreak and chagrin of all the other single young women of Access, mind you.”
Adam shrugged. “She'll understand. This is much more important than holding hands.”
Milward's eyebrow climbed into his scalp line. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“You're going to do what!?”
Adam was completely unprepared for her outraged response to what he thought was a reasonable, well thought out, logical decision.
She paced the floor of the Inn's great room in front of him and gestured into the air with her hands as she spoke. “You're going off with that old fossil into Bardoc knows what sort of danger and you thought I'd understand?!!” The last word came out in a full-throated shout.
“Well, I thought...”
Thaylli planted herself right under Adam's nose and looked up into his face. “No, you didn't. If you had been thinking, you would have talked to me about this foolishness before you said yes. Did you think about how I would feel waking up and finding out from someone else that you'd gone? Did you think I would have understood your reasons for making up my mind for me?”
She abruptly turned on her heel and gave her back to him. “Go, then! If that's all you've come to care for me. Go and become the world's hero. Apparently that's your destiny.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Adam had absolutely no idea how to react. Emotions ran through him in a variety of different streams. He chose the closest one.
“Thaylli, I'm sorry. It was very stupid of me to not ask how you'd feel about this.” He couldn't see the small smile of triumph that bloomed on her face as he spoke.
She turned, but not before making her expression severe. “Well, I'm glad to see there's some sense in that man-thick skull of yours. Now, all you have to do is go tell that old Wizard about your decision to stay here. I'm sure some men of the village will be able to keep him safe on his journey.”
“Thaylli.”
“Yes, Adam?”
“I didn't say I was staying here.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What?!”
“I said, I didn't say I was staying here. All I said was that I should have considered your feelings before I told Milward yes.”
She couldn't believe her ears. “You mean you're going with that old fool?”
“I have to. I feel my destiny is wrapped up in it, and he's not an old fool.”
The sharpness of his tone stung her. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, it's just ... just ... ooooh, men!” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Adam looked around the room. The other people in the Inn's great room were pointedly focusing on their plates, cups and tankards, all of them except Westcott, who was drying a tankard and grinning broadly.
“Something's funny?” Adam walked over to the counter where Westcott stood.
“Oh, yes. The memory of a youth nearly forgotten.”
“You've been through this?” Adam thought he saw a straw to grasp at.
Westcott placed the now dry tankard with others of its kind on the shelf and picked up another. “Oh, yes. Believe it or not, my young Wizard, your experience in this matter is not unique.”
“How did it happen with you? How did you solve it?” Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar.
Westcott looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Solve it? You don't solve dealing with women, boy. You survive it.”
Adam looked puzzled. “I don't understand.”
Westcott sighed and put down the tankard he was polishing. “How many women have you been with, boy?”
“Huh?”
Westcott snorted. “I'll take that as an admission of novicehood. Look, Adam,” He leaned forward onto the bar. “Women have been playing men like an angler plays a fish since the beginning of time. They are the chief prizes in the grand hunt, and they allow us to chase them until they catch us. You, my poor innocent ox,” he pointed at Adam with a forefinger, “Have been tagged and harnessed. The only thing that remains is the hitching.”
“Huh?”
Westcott smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It's OK, lad. Give it a few years, you'll understand eventually. Every man does.”
Adam's mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Can I have an ale?”
He found Milward in the midst of packing. The parchments and vellums that had been spread around before were gone.
The old Wizard looked up at his entrance and peered at him closely. “Hmmm, no bruises, no lacerations. You appear to be in decent health. It went better than I thought it would.”
Adam grimaced. “She accused me of not caring, shouted at me, and called you an old fool.”
Milward's eyebrows did their climbing act. “She did, did she?” He chuckled for a moment. “Well, maybe she is right, at that. Only an old fool would be doing this sort of thing. What do you suppose that makes you?”
Adam scowled. “I don't care what it makes me, it's something I've got to do. Besides, I've still got to learn how to use these powers of mine. I don't think Thaylli could teach me how to do that.”
Milward looked at him for a long moment. “No ... no, in that you're correct. At least as far as shaping is concerned.” He thought the last to himself.
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well now, enough of that. How is your packing going?”
“I haven't started. Are we leaving today?” Adam suddenly felt things were moving much too quickly to suit him. Thaylli's importance had shifted a number of positions to the fore.
Milward looked up at Adam's tone, and then smiled. “No, not today. Nowsek wants to give us a send-off ceremony. Politicians love pomp and circumstance, and we may as well accommodate him anyway, it won't hurt us.”
“How much time do I ... uh, we have?”
The Wizard laughed and stood upright. He placed both hands on Adam's shoulders, and looked at him with a smile on his face. “You will have plenty of time for billing and cooing before we leave. Nowsek has to plan his ceremony. I still have a few things I want to get straight prior to leaving, and besides, the pass is still closed with snow.”
He turned and began fiddling with his pack again. “Run along, now. I'm sure your young lady will be happy to know she still has a few more days to set her hook.”
Adam left Milward with the thought that the Wizard was spending far too much time with Westcott across the Knights and Hounds game board, if it had gotten to the point where they were using the same euphemisms to describe his relationship with Thaylli.
Milward was right, however. Thaylli was delighted they weren't leaving Access immediately. She still pouted over knowing that he would eventually have to leave the village, but she did it so prettily that he couldn't bring himself to mind it when she did.
He still felt uneasy around her brothers, especially Merillat, the oldest. The big man would stare at him silently, as if measuring him for worthiness, and finding it wanting. Moen was all right, he guessed, but the fellow had a tendency to hover in a protective manner that left Adam feeling suffocated. Monier, the youngest, was a few years behind Thaylli in age, and he had an annoying habit of using Adam as the butt of the occasional practical joke. That evening when he found his boots filled with ox dung, he had nearly torn it, and he still wondered if using shaping to clean his boots hadn't been breaking some rule. Monier seemed to think so.
Milward continued to spend his evenings hunched over Knights and Hounds across from the Innkeeper, Westcott. They appeared to spend much of the time in conversation rather than game play, at least as far as Adam could tell. He was usually too involved in the by-play of Thaylli and her friends to hear what they spoke about, but the occasional glance in his direction was telling.
Eventually the news came that the pass was clear, and he and Milward gathered the last of their supplies into the packs as they prepared themselves for the first leg of their journey to Grisham.
Adam closed the lacing on his pack and straightened his back. His muscles complained loudly at being in one position for too long, and he listened to them by lying down on the bed that had been his during the long winter months.
Milward poked his head in the door and nodded as if confirming a guess. “Ahh, all packed, I see.”
Adam didn't move from where he was lying. It felt too comfortable. “All packed,” he replied. “How far away is Grisham?”
Milward leaned a shoulder against the door jam. “Oh, if I had to guess, I'd say about one thousand, two hundred and fifty-six miles. Or three hundred and sixty-six leagues.”
“That sounds like more than just a guess.” Adam sat up on the bed.
Milward looked smugly pleased with himself. “Of course it is. I've been there more than a few times in my day. One of my best friends lives there. He's the Librarian.”
Adam lay back. It felt much more comfortable than sitting up, and he wanted to lock the memory of the soft mattress in his mind as he thought about all those future nights on hard ground.
He remembered Milward telling him about the Library at Grisham. “Oh, yes. He's the one who has all those old prophecies you want to look at.”
Milward inclined his head. “All that and more. He is the one individual in the known world outside of Dragonglade that has all of the recorded history, prophecy and knowledge ever written down at his fingertips.
“For a scholar, or shall we say, a Wizard? Hmm? He is a very good person to have on your side.”
Sheriwyn appeared at Milward's side. She had a cloth tied over her hair, which told them she'd been cleaning rooms again. Ani was most likely elbow-deep in a bucket, helping her mother scrubbing floors.
She tapped Milward on the shoulder. “Sire Wizard? Sire Nowsek is below, wishing to see you prior to the ceremony.”
He turned to her. “Thank you, Sheriwyn. You may tell sire Nowsek we'll be down presently.”
She gave him a half curtsey, and left.
Milward straightened up from his slouch against the door jam. “Well, we had best get ready to face our public. I'll go down and see what Nowsek wants to talk to me about. You may as well stay comfortable until it's time for this ceremony.”
Adam lay there on the bed, letting his thoughts drift while he dozed. Pictures scrolled across the back of his mind in no particular sequence. Charity playing with the kitten. The giant and his cleaver. The Chivvin evaporating into dust. Thaylli's face wove among the pictures like a connecting link.
Westcott's voice roused him out of sleep. “They're waiting for you downstairs, lad. Time to let someone else use the bed.”
Adam yawned hugely and stretched out his arms. “How long was I sleeping?”
“Not long. Only a few hours.” Westcott smiled thinly.
Adam bolted out of the bed. “A few hours?! I've got to get down there. Milward hates to be kept waiting.”
Westcott put a restraining hand on Adam's arm. “Ease up there, Adam. The old Wizard's the one who told us to let you sleep, and you've plenty of time to make your entrance.”
He rubbed his eyes and looked at Westcott. “But you said they were waiting for me downstairs.”
The Innkeeper gave a small laugh. “I didn't mean the whole village, lad. I'm just talking about those folks who've come to think of you as their friend during your stay here. There's a good lad, get along now. I'll see to the room.”
Adam strapped on the sword, and picked up his pack, and slung it over his shoulder. His mind was still a bit woozy with sleep, and he stumbled a couple of times on his way down the hallway.
Westcott was true to his word. The lower hall was not packed, as he had feared, but some of the faces that looked up at him as he started down the stairs were a surprise.
Milward was there, of course, talking with Nowsek, Maibell and Petron. Thaylli stood with her mother and father. One of the surprises was Merillat, and the other was Moen. He'd seemed to be more of a guard than a friend.
The small gathering was filled out with the younger miners from those he'd rescued. The others were still too much in awe of how they were saved, and of the diamond-lined entrance created as a side effect of the shaping.
Thaylli met him at the foot of the stairs and took him by the arm. “The whole village is going to be here and it's all for you. Isn't that wonderful?”
Adam looked around the room, picturing it filled with village folk expecting him to say something profound. “Yes, wonderful.”
Milward detached himself from Nowsek and his family, and worked his way over to Adam and Thaylli. “Well, my boy. I suppose this must all be very exciting for you. Your moment in the sun, as it were.”
Adam leaned over and whispered to the Wizard. “Honestly, Milward, it all makes me rather uncomfortable. I'm not a speech maker, I'm really not anything.”
“Oh, you're much more than that, Adam. Much more than that.” The old Wizard whispered back as he patted Adam's shoulder.
“Well!” He said loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Our special guest has arrived, and before the rest of the village gets here I propose we do what we gathered here to do.”
“Hear, hear.” Nowsek remarked in approval. An echo of it circulated through the room.
Petron separated himself from his mother and father and crossed the floor to stand in front of Adam.
He cleared his throat, he looked nervous.
“I hope he isn't going to sick up all over me.” Adam thought.
“Ummm. I want to thank you for saving my life.” Petron began.
“You already did. A couple of months ago, if I remember rightly.” Adam smiled at him.
Petron returned the smile with a nervous twitch of his mouth. “Not the way I'm supposed to. We have our traditions. One is, if you save someone from dying, you become a part of their family. The one saved has to perform a service for his new brother. That's you.”
Adam felt his head beginning to swim. This was not what he was expecting.
Petron held out his hand. It held a small stone of very ordinary appearance. “This is the first stone of your cottage.”
He looked from the stone to Petron's plain, honest face. “I don't own a cottage.”
“You do now, laddie.” Nowsek pushed his way through to Petron's side and clapped his son on the shoulder. “My boy here, and the other miners'll have one waitin’ for you when you return from this adventure of yours.”
Adam was flabbergasted. Adopted and a cottage? He looked to Milward. “M ... Milward? What's going on here?”
The old Wizard was beaming. “The fruits of your labor, my boy.” He leaned closer. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“But I didn't do anything. You told me what to do. What if it all went wrong?”
Milward wasn't given a chance to reply, as the rest of the village came in through the doors and the farewell celebration got underway in earnest.
Adam found himself on the receiving end of back slaps and crushing handshakes from the men, and well-cushioned hugs accompanied by wet cheek kisses from the women. One of the younger women lingered a bit long on the hug, and her kiss missed his cheek completely, landing full on his mouth, prompting a cry of protest from Thaylli.
“Hold on! None of that!” She pushed herself between Adam and the enthusiastic young woman.
Adam stepped back, gasping. His recent handful gave him a broad smile and wiggled her way back into the crowd.
Thaylli watched her go and fumed with her hands on her hips. “Saichele.” She made the name a curse. “If the world were made of men only, she'd still be unsatisfied.”
“Friend of yours?” Adam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Thaylli didn't turn around. She gave every indication of mimicking a mother bear guarding her cub. “Not hardly. She warned me this would happen. She said she'd get a good taste of you, and blast her to the pit if she didn't.”
“You shouldn't let it bother you. It's no big thing and besides she was just being grateful.”
Thaylli spun around. “No big thing!? Some woman engulfs you, buries her breasts into your chest, she practically has her tongue down your throat, and it's no big thing?”
Some of the crowd had discovered a source of entertainment other than Westcott's ale, and were eagerly awaiting Adam's response.
He shrugged. “Why should it be a big thing? I don't have any feelings for her. If she wants to be rude like that, it's her problem, not yours.”
Thaylli stood there with her mouth open. Boys did not act that way. “You thought she was being rude?”
“Yeah, didn't you?”
“You didn't notice the amount of bosom she was showing, or her wiggle?”
Adam crossed his arms. “Thaylli. I'm not blind, I just don't want to be with her, I want to be with you.”
The applause from the crowd brought blushes out both of them.
She looked at Adam through her eyelashes. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Adam, on impulse, leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips. The crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers and applause that brought out another bright blush from Thaylli. A tiny smile played across her face.
Nowsek raised his voice and hands to quiet the crowd and bring their attention to focus on him. “Now, now. We've said our peace, and have given our gifts.”
“And enjoyed Westcott's good ale!” Someone from the crowd yelled out.
Nowsek joined in the laughter. “Yes, yes. Sire Westcott is sure to have a banner week, based on this day alone.”
“But, we gathered here to express our feelings of gratitude to our new brother and his mentor. It is time for them to take their leave of us, and time for us to wish them good journeying. Sire Wizard?”
Milward detached himself from the bar, but kept the tankard in his hand. “Well, some would say it is good for Wizards not to involve themselves in the affairs of others. It has been said so in the past and in many cases practiced so to the letter. I would venture to say our interference in this place has become a welcome thing. It has gained us new friends, and has enabled us to learn much about each other, and, in spite of what some would say, this is a good thing.
“You have been given a gift, nay, two gifts through the actions of this young man who just happens to be an apprentice Wizard. One of them is beyond price. That is the gift of life he gave to your sons, husbands and fathers by opening the way to the mine. The second, if husbanded properly and its knowledge guarded judiciously, is the wealth of diamonds left behind as an after effect of Adam's shaping. Used wisely, Access may never know privation again.”
“A third gift, you have given us. That is the gift of your open hearts and your open minds. Charity and generosity are all well and good, but they soon curdle if held within a closed mind. I have enjoyed many an evening watching the snow fall, while deep in debate with some of you, and for that gift, I thank you.”
He raised his tankard. “To the people of Access! My thanks and my gratitude.” He drained the tankard to the accompaniment of yells of celebration and several breathtaking slaps on the back from some of the burlier residents.
Nowsek raised his hands again and bellowed for silence. When the clamor died down, he turned and pointed at Adam. “And now, a word from the young man we've all come to accept as one of our own.”
Adam's mind went blank. The few words he'd been rehearsing to himself vanished like mist in the sun.
The crowd filling the Inn looked at him expectantly and he had nothing to say to them.
“Uh hmmm.” He cleared his throat trying to find his speech, but it kept out of sight, hiding behind corners in his memory.
Finally he gave in to the reality of not having anything speech-worthy to say, and told the crowd so. “I'm sorry, but I'm not a speaker like Milward. I don't have anything profound or wise to tell you. All I can do is thank you for your hospitality and the kindness you've shown to two strangers this winter.”
His eyes began to water, and a catch started up in his voice. “The ... cottage you've promised to build is, to me, riches beyond counting, and I can't begin to thank you all enough. I feel like I'm leaving family, not just friends behind. Thank you.”
Westcott elbowed Milward from behind. “That was nothing to say? He wrapped them around his little finger with those few words. Look!” Tears were in several eyes.
Milward nodded. “Like I said, Westcott, a nexus. Labad was such, and armies flocked to his call. How does it feel to know you're seeing history unfold before you?”
Westcott ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know, Wizard. Uncomfortable, I think ... yes, that's the one. Uncomfortable.”
“An honest and fair assessment, Innkeeper.” Milward shook Westcott's hand. “I shall miss our games of Knights and Hounds, especially on those long nights under the stars.”
Westcott returned Milward's grip. “And I shall miss beating you.”
Milward smiled. “Thirteen out of thirty games, if I recall. Not a majority, but good competition nonetheless.”
He looked over to where Adam was involved in deep discussion with Thaylli. The hulking figure of Moen hovered behind them. “All that aside, it's time for me to collect my apprentice and be off. It will be well into nightfall by the time we reach the shelter hut at the foot of the mountain.”
Westcott let him go, picked up another tankard and began polishing it. Yes, it was very uncomfortable being aware of history in the making.
Thaylli clung to Adam and wept into his shoulder. “You're never coming back. I just know it.”
He tried to soothe her. “I'll be back. I promise.”
“No, no, no. You're going to die out there. There's bandits and Garlocs and...”
He stopped her wail with a finger against her lips. “No, I won't. Look.” He held out his other hand. A small glowing ball of bright blue fire appeared and danced above his open palm.
Her expression changed to one of astonishment. “Ohhhh, Adam, it's beautiful. How'd you... ? Oh.”
Her looked into her eyes. “Yes, magik. Do you think someone who could do this would be an easy target for bandits or Garlocs? Do you think someone who could open up a collapsed mine entrance and turn it into hard diamond couldn't take care of himself?”
She lowered her eyes. “I ... I forgot. You look so normal!” The last came out in a blurt that was nearly an accusation.
His smile was rueful. “I know. It's the way I was born, I'm sorry.”
Thaylli hugged him impulsively. “I love you! Please come back to me!?”
He returned her hug and stroked her long hair. “I will. I promise. I will.”
Milward's voice cut into their reverie. “Adam! Come on, lad. It's time to leave.”
Thaylli let him go reluctantly. Moen crushed his shoulder with his grip and gave him a nod goodbye. Tyndale called him son as if the union was already a fact, and Aisbell planted a wet kiss onto his cheek. Nowsek held the door for them, and the next thing he knew they were on the path again, and Access was receding into the distance behind them.
He turned as he and Milward reached the top of the ridge overlooking the village.
Milward stopped with him. “Looks different, doesn't it?”
Adam nodded. “Uh huh. Now it looks like home.”

Chapter Twenty-Five
“Candles! Nice clean candles!”
“Bern is an easy city to live in, if you are young, strong and male.” The thought walked its way through the old woman's mind once more as she pushed her single wheel cart through the city streets.
“Candles! Nice, clean candles. A copper for three!” Her harsh voice croaked hollowly in the chill morning air.
No one answered her. She was too early for those who would buy her wares, as she always was. It would be a few hours yet before anyone approached her.
A shadow passed overhead. She felt a chill strike her bones, deeper than the dead of winter. Fear gripped her, and she looked around for its source.
She saw nothing out of the ordinary, The same streets she'd rolled her cart over hundreds times remained unchanged, and the shops and houses looked the same as the day before.
The chill feeling increased as it began to settle around her heart. Her stomach ached and a burning started in the back of her throat. A wave of nausea hit her like a sledgehammer blow to her belly, and she cried out in pain. The agony dropped her to her knees just as her vision began to narrow. She tried to struggle back to her feet, but her legs would no longer obey her and her hands tingled. Her vision blacked out entirely and she felt herself falling. Her last thought was of her candles.
The seeker left Bern with the taste of the old woman's fear and pain lingering on its senses. It was beginning to like the sensation and wished to taste some more. There was also that drawing to the south. The impulse was stronger now.
Somehow moving ahead of the wind, the Seeker pushed on Southward, following the spoor.
* * * * Ccccrrraaaccckkkkk!! “Ooooo.” Jonas and Sari exclaimed their appreciation of the fireworks display nature was giving them as they sat on the front porch with Ellona, watching the late summer storm roll in from the mountains.
Bbbboooommmmm! Thunder from an earlier strike further away reverberated across the rooftops of Berggren.
“This is fun, Mommy.” Jonas looked up at his mother as he leaned into her side.
She looked down at her son and hugged him to her as she smiled at him in return. “Yes, it is. Isn't it?”
Flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning illuminated the bottoms of the storm clouds, followed by an almost continuous bass rumble of thunder.
Cccrraaaakkk! Another jagged fork of lightning traced a pathway to the earth against the gray-black sky to the West of them. A short time later, the thunder came booming in, washing over them in waves.
“How far away was that one, Mommy?” Sari looked up at her mother.
Ellona rubbed the long, tawny hair of her daughter's head. “That was about five miles away. Remember what I taught you? When you see the lightning, start counting the beats. It's one beat for each mile.”
“Ok, mommy.” Sari settled back against her mother's skirts to watch the storm.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Jonas?”
“Is it raining on Ethan?”
Ellona watched the storm. It was over the mountains. The sky to the South and the East of Berggren was clear, and a large, butter-yellow moon was rising over the sea of roofs and chimneys that spread out before her eyes.
She thought of Ethan and of all the times he'd shown her how to do things in the woods she'd never dreamed were possible. Whatever the weather was doing to the land around him, he would have a way of dealing with it.
She looked down into Jonas’ large brown eyes. “No, dear one. It isn't raining on Ethan.”
* * * * A thick covering of clouds hid The Mountain's peak. The wind that swept down from the heights was winter chill in spite of it only being early fall. Cloudhook stood high enough to make its own weather. There were those, mostly in the more isolated regions of the land, who said the mountain was a living thing. Ethan usually smiled at those who told such stories. His feeling was, if Cloudhook was a living thing, then it was as contrary as a woman coming upon her time.
The boy's tracks climbed the mountain. Ethan wondered what Circumstance could be thinking. This was no country for a lad, even if he was half elf.
He shook his head as he began to climb the steep trail. He'd been lucky by guessing right and taking a chance that Cloudhook was the boy's destination. There was no guarantee Circumstance would have taken the angle he chose. For that matter, there was no guarantee he'd have kept on in the same direction Ethan thought he would when that first set of tracks had been stumbled upon.
Bardoc, luck, or whoever looks on fools with favor had been kind to him.
The climb eased as the path began to level out into one of the many switchbacks that inched their way up the Mountain's flanks. He pulled out his gloves and put them on as he walked. The air grew colder. The clouds now looked heavy enough to be carrying snow.
“Snow.” He thought ruefully. “Before the feast days. There's a sign for the priests and their prophecies. Wonder what they'd make of that?”
Small pines, twisted into tortuous shapes clung to the poor soil on the rocky slope. He used them to help him in his climb up to the next level area.
His eye caught sight of a footprint in the leaf and sand litter on the plateau floor as he pulled himself up over the rocks that ridged its edge. It was near to the same size as the boy's boot print, but it showed four toes with talons instead of a foot sheathed in sturdy leather.
“Bardoc preserve him.” Ethan breathed. “The lad's being stalked by Garlocs.”
He followed the tracks, but with far more care than before. Garlocs could hear a meal breathing half a bowshot away if the wind was right.
It looked to be a small foraging clique, according to the trail sign. Circumstance's prints led around the plateau and along a ridge that would lead him up to the high valleys. The Garloc tracks stayed right in line with the boy's.
At the top of the ridge, Ethan narrowly missed putting his foot into a pile of Garloc droppings. The stone beneath the mass still smoked where the corrosive feces ate into it. He puffed out his breath in sigh of relief. The stuff would have eaten right through his boot, fresh as it was. Funny how, once it settled down and aged, it would make a fine, strong fertilizer.
He stepped over the pile and continued on. The land dipped away into a shallow valley filled with hardwoods mixed with pine and thick with underbrush. Now the trail was fresher and blindingly clear. Garlocs always left a swath of trampled grass and broken twigs in their wake.
The valley narrowed to a point as it rose to meet the next. Ethan decided to cut to the far right and pass the Garlocs and their prey, if he could. It meant running, uphill, and he did not want to attract the beast's attention. He had no doubts as to his ability to kill them each in turn, but all it took was one scratch.
Again, fortune was in his favor. The valley floor rose slightly as he made his way over to its right side. The leaf litter grew sparse, allowing him to place his feet onto quieter ground. He quickened his pace until he was up to a steady jog, dodging to the side on occasion in order to pass by bushes or branches protruding beyond the edge of the wood.
He heard the guttural, growling chatter of the Garlocs as he passed their portion of the valley.
“Bardoc, please let Circumstance be well ahead of them.” He sent up a quick prayer as he ran. A part of him in the far back reaches of his mind chuckled at the prayer, finding humor in how often men who think themselves unreligious suddenly feel differently when their spine is against the wall.
It was becoming harder to keep from panting, so he slowed his pace, contrary to those emotions which clamored for him to run faster.
The valley was beginning to narrow sharply, and he slowed his pace further, eyes half on the ground, searching for signs that Circumstance had passed this way.
The wind was behind him, which was another good stroke of fortune. It meant he could move a bit more freely in his search. The end of the valley came into a stair-like arrangement of stones climbing up to form a pass into the next. Most of the ground around the base of the stones was rock, and it gave few clues as to who or what came through there.
“Where is that flickin’ boy?” Ethan ran his hand through his hair as he searched the ground. He'd have to hide soon. He could hear the Garlocs now, and the trees wouldn't hide his presence long.
“Ethan.” The whispered call whipped him around, as relief washed over him strong enough to weaken his knees.
“Circumstance.” The boy peered at him from over the edge of the larger stones at the top of the pass. “Get back, son. There's Garlocs coming this way.”
“I know.” Circumstance maintained his whisper. “Come up here. I found something that might help.”
Ethan scrambled up the stone stair. Circumstance had pulled back from the edge, and was running into the wood that covered that valley. He turned and beckoned Ethan to follow.
He caught up with the boy as Circumstance was passing the first line of trees. “What are you doing out here, lad? There's things in the wild worse than those Garlocs.”
Circumstance held a finger to his lips and pointed into the trees.
Ethan looked over his shoulder. The Garlocs hadn't made the pass yet. Thank Bardoc for small favors. He nodded once, and followed the half-elf boy deeper into the wood.
Circumstance stopped at a bush that grew into a ball-like shape with silvery green, thinly curled, leaves. He stripped off a handful and began rubbing them over his face arms and hands.
He nodded to them with his chin, indicating to Ethan that he should do the same.
Ethan could smell the resin from the leaves as it mixed with Circumstance's sweat and body oils. His nose curled in reaction. The stench would hide them from the Garlocs, all right. Not even they went after skunk.
He looked at the boy and grinned at him even as he held his nose. Deity, but he stank. How did the lad learn this trick? Was it some kind of elven racial memory?
The guttural croaking of Garloc speech broke in on Ethan's thoughts, and he pulled Circumstance behind the skunk leaf bush with him.
It was a foraging clique of three. Their mottled hides sprouted hair like a discouraged lawn and they used their fatty tails to brush through the leaf litter, flushing out small prey. One of the three, the largest, stooped to grab a ground squirrel as it bolted from under a bark hideaway. A muffled squeak, and the little creature became a tidbit. The other two glanced the lucky one's way and then continued their search for food. Sharing was not a word in the Garloc vocabulary.
The group passed within ten yards of Circumstance and Ethan's bush just as the wind shifted. The two smaller ones caught the scent first, and stopped their searching, mewling and pawing at their noses.
“It must be worse for them than it is for us.” Ethan thought. He heard Circumstance chuckle under his breath as he watched the results of his plan unfold.
He looked down at the boy. The leaf juice stains were darkening into an olive green blotchiness, which added camouflage to the covering of the scent. This plant would be a good one to remember.
Circumstance felt Ethan's eyes on him and he returned the look. Ethan smiled and gave the boy a thumbs up signal, which Circumstance returned along with the smile.
All three of the Garlocs were showing distress from the stench wafting off of the two travelers behind the bush. Ethan could see tears coming from their eyes, and saliva dripping from their mouths.
Eventually the idea should filter into their tiny little brains that if they moved away, the smell would diminish. All he and the boy had to do was sit it out and stink.
* * * * McCabe dreamed. This one was both pleasurable and exciting. He dreamt he was entertaining children, an entire classroom full, young ones, just past the age of diapering. His suite was decorated with just the right amount of hanging hooks and braziers for his irons.
It was a good dream. Oh, yes, a good dream, indeed.
“All right, you. Get up. Gods! He's done it again. Bring the bucket and sponge, Lifetile, he needs another cleanin'.”
The guard glared down at the groggy McCabe. “Listen, you. I'm sick of havin’ ta clean up yer stinkin’ hide. You do this again, an’ I'll put me fist down yer gob so far I'll be able ta yank yer balls off from th’ inside.”
McCabe smiled up at the guard.
The guard dismissed him with a wave. “Aww! Yer a total whittle. Useless. I don't see whut the’ Duke sees in you. Lifetile! Get yer lazy arse over here!”
Lifetile hurried as quickly as he could, dragging both the heavy bucket and a lame leg. His matted black hair hung into his eyes, and he smelled strongly of dirt and sweat.
The other guard, frustrated and angry at McCabe's mess, met him halfway, and tore the bucket out of Lifetile's hand. “Gimme that.”
He stomped his way back to McCabe's cell, muttering, “Damn lazy mute ... don't know why I even bother, some days. Doesn't do half whut you ask of him ... can't do the other.”
McCabe submitted to the scrubbing with indifference. He was trying to recapture his dream. It wouldn't come back. By the time the guard was done, his mood had soured from indifference to a sullen anger. If they weren't going to play,and they wouldn't let him go back to his dream, then he had little use for them. The guard had no idea how much he owed to the shackles that pinned McCabe's hands to the cell wall.
Lifetile slouched into the cell with a bundle under his good arm. He handed the bundle to the guard along with a note.
The guard scanned the note and looked at McCabe. “Well, it looks as if his nibs has decided ta have a little talk with yer pleasant self.”
McCabe didn't answer him.
The guard shrugged. It was out of his hands now, so he could not have cared less what McCabe thought of him.
Three armsmen with their swords drawn came down the stairs that curved along the dungeon wall. The one with a pair of chevrons sewn on to his surcoat walked up to the cell and indicated McCabe with his chin. “The pervert ready?”
“He's ready.”
This change raised McCabe's level of interest. These guards were going to take him somewhere. Maybe he was going to be allowed to play with his friend who wore the black hood once again. He decided to not kill the guards, or even the ill-tempered one, at least for now. Maybe tomorrow would bring something new.
The armsman with the chevrons braced himself, and held his sword ready. “Ok, let him loose.”
McCabe allowed the guard to release the shackles unmolested, and stood away from the cell wall for the first time in several days. He bounced on his feet, testing the spring in his legs.
The guard, untrusting of the armsman's ability to keep him safe, backed out of the cell, and stood well away from its door. He fingered his truncheon nervously.
“Come on, you. The Duke wants you for something.” The armsman took McCabe by his arm and guided him out of the cell.
McCabe looked up at the man. He topped him by a head and a half. “What does he want me for?”
The armsman kept his eyes to himself. “His Grace didn't deign to tell me. You'll have to find out when we get there.”
“Fall in, you two.” He ordered the other armsmen standing at attention outside the cell as he took the bundle out of the guard's hands.
They fell into place behind McCabe, and he was escorted out of the dungeon and into the castle proper of Bilardi, the fourteenth Duke of Grisham.
The dungeon guard looked at Lifetile and released his breath in a whoosh. “Can't tell if yer knows it, but you an’ me just squeaked through.”
Lifetile knew.
The armsman trio led McCabe through the castle hallways and up two flights of stairs until they reached the door to the west tower. A small archtop door inset into the interior Castle wall lay to their left. The Sergeant pointed to it as he thrust the bundle into McCabe's arms.
“Go in there and scrub the stink off of you. When you're done, put on these clothes. We'll wait out here.”
McCabe took the bundle and passed through the door. He found himself in a room just slightly larger than the tub it held. The tub was filled with clear tepid water. He found the temperature disappointing.
A cloth and a towel lay on a shelf attached to the wall, along with a large bar of lye soap.
He took the soap from the shelf and began scrubbing the accumulated grime that a week's stay in a dungeon cell left on his body. He had to admit it felt better being clean. It became a bit more intriguing what the Duke wanted him for besides the slight disappointment he wouldn't be playing with the torturer again.
After a final rinsing, he climbed out of the tub and toweled off. His fingers had to suffice as a comb for his hair.
The new clothes surprised him. The quality was beyond good, and he ran the fabric between his fingers to feel its softness. Silk, if he was any judge, of the highest quality. The color was a black deep enough to be startling. Soft ankle boots of black suede and a belt of the same material finished his ensemble.
The armsmen were waiting for him, as they said they would be. Men who kept their word were boringly predictable.
The sergeant inspected him as if he were on parade. “Acceptable. Follow me,” he said as he turned into the stairwell of the tower.
Intrigued, McCabe followed him up the stairs. They spiraled up the inside of the tower wall with a small landing every twelve feet. The Armsman Sergeant passed each of them in turn until they reached the final landing at the top of the tower.
The door to the top room stood open. Bilardi sat behind a small ornate desk, his huge belly making a convenient resting-place for his hands.
He straightened in the chair when McCabe made the landing. “Ah! My guest has arrived. Come in, come in. Have a dainty.” He indicated a plate of sweetmeats nestled on a silver tray.
McCabe reached out and plucked one of the sweetmeats from the tray, and popped it into his mouth.
Bilardi grinned at him. “Good?”
McCabe chewed the sweetmeat. “Not bad. A bit too sweet, but not bad. Could use a light dry wine as a follow up.”
Bilardi reached behind his chair and lifted a bottle and a glass off of the wall unit that lay there. “A man of exacting taste, I see. Try this. It should mix nicely with the sweetmeat.”
McCabe poured himself a half glassful, and sipped. He nodded at Bilardi. “Nicely, indeed.”
He sat down in the chair across from the desk and leaned back in it. “You aren't going to let me play any more in your dungeon, are you?”
Bilardi's face grew slightly paler. “Yes ... I've never seen anything like that before in my life. How did you do that?”
McCabe sipped more of the wine. It was a pale green in color. “Do what?”
“You know.” Bilardi gestured aimlessly with his hands. “That ... thing you did when he used the hot poker on you.”
“Oh, that.” McCabe smiled at the memory. He wished he'd thought of that technique before. “I suppose I'm a little different from other people, that's all.”
Bilardi gaped. “A little!? You acted as if the pain was your lover.”
McCabe's smiled broadened. “She is.”
“You call pain ... she?” Bilardi reached for a sweetmeat.
“Of course.” McCabe nodded. “Women are the source of all pain. I learned that as a child, and I've seen nothing since then that would cause me to change my opinion.”
Bilardi sipped some of the wine. “Do you feel about women as you do pain, then? Do you love women?”
McCabe looked thoughtful and then he shook his head. “No ... I don't love women, I love me.” He tapped his chest. “Women are useful, they make for an interesting plaything, but they're not as much fun as children.”
“Children?” Bilardi put his glass on the desk.
“Their screams. They're so much more primal, so much more ... real.” McCabe shuddered with the pleasure of the memory.
Bilardi swallowed his revulsion. This man was perverted beyond his comprehension, but he suited his purpose perfectly.
He picked up his wineglass, and peered at McCabe over the rim. “I have a proposition for you.”
* * * * “Pass me another handful of that Soapweed, will you?” Ethan reached out a hand toward Circumstance while he scrubbed furiously at his face and throat with the other.
The boy's idea of using the Skunkbush, Ethan's coined name for the plant, worked like a charm. The Garlocs discovered the benefit of moving rapidly away from the source of the stink, and did so, with alacrity.
Circumstance paused in his own scrubbing to reach over and strip a soapweed branch of its small leaves and flowers.
Ethan took the handful, and rubbed it between his hands, raising a froth of sweet citrus-smelling lather that cut through the Skunkbush scum, removing both the stain and the smell.
“Ohhhh, that feels better.” Ethan moved from his face to his hair. The water in the creek was cold, coming off the mountain as it did. “How did you know about that plant, Circumstance? Was it some racial memory from your Elf half?”
Circumstance splashed water onto his face before answering. “No,” He said. His expression became thoughtful. “I don't think so ... it's something else.”
Ethan stood up. “Well ... you can tell me about while we walk. I think I remember a mining village near this part of the mountain. I'd like to see if we can reach it before dark.”
Circumstance finished rinsing off. “I know where it is. It's that way.” He pointed to the Southeast.
Ethan paused in pulling on his trousers and looked at the boy. He was right. There was something else going on here besides possible racial memory. He shook his head and continued dressing. Whatever it was, it wasn't hurting the lad. In fact, he seemed healthier, less distracted than he had in Berggren.
The creek where they washed off the residue of the Skunkbush flowed through a swale tucked against the Northeast flanks of Cloudhook. The springs feeding the creek fell in a tinkling waterfall down a rugged cliff face. To the right of the cliff, a goat path worked its way upward in a long, slow curve to a ridge thick with pine trees.
They climbed the path, using their hands when necessary, and followed the ridge upwards through the pines.
The pine forest was quiet. Ethan thought it a good place to ask his questions.
He stooped to pick up a fallen branch, and used it as a staff while they walked. “Why are you doing this, Circumstance? You have to know your mother is terribly worried, don't you?”
“Of course I do, but I have to do this. Remember when I told you about that feeling I had?” Circumstance turned his head to look at Ethan.
He nodded. “I remember. I also remember telling you it might just be the change coming upon you.”
Circumstance turned his eyes to the forest floor. “I know. I didn't think so then, and I still don't. Some things have happened since that day that make me sure of it, now.”
Ethan thought of the Skunkbush, and of how Circumstance hid his tracks without even trying. He looked down at the pine needles on the ground. The boy was doing it, even now. “What sort of things?”
Circumstance sidestepped a tall toadstool with a blood red cap. “I know how to do stuff that my dad, you, or mom never told me how to do. I built a fish trap the right way the first time, and I know no one ever showed me how to do that.
“I know which plants and berries are good for eating, medicine or other things. I know, some of them you showed me, but all the others just popped into my head. The change can't do that, can it?”
Ethan had to agree with him. “No. It can't do that.”
“I also remember you telling me we had a pact. You said if I thought of anything to let you know and you'd help me. Do we still have a pact?” Circumstance looked at Ethan, weighing him.
Ethan tipped the scales in his favor. “I don't break my word, son. Not even if it costs me money to keep it. We will always have our pact, as long as I live. You want my help with something?”
They reached the top of the ridge and looked down into a long shallow valley lined with pines. Smoke rose into the late afternoon air from chimneys within the village they saw tucked into the far Eastern end.
Circumstance sat down upon a large stone thrusting itself through the berm. “There's something I have to do. I'm sure of it, now. Part of it is that I have to be someplace in that direction.” He pointed to the Southeast.
“So, that village is just a stopping point.” Ethan murmured.
“I won't be coming home.” Circumstance kicked his heels against the rock. “Probably, not ever.”
Ethan nodded. “I see. Want to tell me what you think it is you have to do?”
The boy continued to kick his heels. “I don't know. I just know it's important, really important.”
* * * * Thaylli eased up the window to her room. The cold night air flowed in, and spread across the floor. She could hear her father's snores mingling with those of her brothers. A slight smell of flatulence mingled with that of the pines outside.
She paused to listen for the sound of anyone stirring outside her door. Good. They were still all fast asleep.
Her bag went out the window first and she crawled out after it. The drop to the ground outside was very short, and she made it without turning an ankle.
“Bardoc must be with me.” She thought as she shouldered her bag, and began walking down the path that would take her out of the village, and towards the Wayfarer Hut where Adam and the old Wizard had stayed before beginning their journey towards Grisham.
She patted the water bag tied to her hip as she walked, and thought about what she would do when she caught up with Adam.
Clouds scudded past the moon high in the night sky, hiding a faint black shadow that floated along with them.
* * * * Mashglach looked up at the young Dragon's approach. The disturbance irritated him somewhat, but he pushed his temper back with force of will. Something was wrong. He felt it as well as the rest of Dragonglade.
“What is it, Drinaugh?” His tone was sharper than he intended and it caused the young Dragon to tremble in apprehension.
“I b..beg your pardon, honorable Mashglach. I can come back later, if you wish.” He turned as if to leave.
Mashglach's wings twitched in a massive sigh. “No, stay. It's a poor Dragon who cannot give some time to the young. What do you wish of me?”
Drinaugh dry-washed his hands. It was clear to Mashglach that whatever the youngster wanted, it was very important to him. He settled back on his haunches and closed the book of prophecy he'd been studying.
“Uh ... I wish ... I wish ... toleaveDragongladeandtravelEasttofind myhumanfriend Adamandtoseeifheiswell.” The last came out all in a rush as if it were spoken as one word.
Mashglach hid his smile within himself. He'd had a feeling this was going to happen. It was hinted at in the prophecies, in the very one he'd been studying, as a matter of fact. The return of Labad's reign was to have a Dragon involved in it, and it appeared Drinaugh was going to be the one. He almost wished he were six thousand years younger. Almost.
He leaned forward and asked the question again, being very careful to keep his voice level. “What do you wish of me?”
Drinaugh swallowed. “Iwishto ... I mean, I wish to go find Adam, my human friend? You know, the one who came with the Wizard?”
Mashglach nodded. “I know who you speak of, young Drinaugh. What I do not know is why you wish this. Dragonkind has been content to remain in Dragonglade and devote ourselves to our studies. It has been this way for millennia. Why do you wish to change this?” Mashglach was well aware of Drinaugh's discovery of his talent, but he wanted to hear how the youngster would respond to the question.
The young Dragon's eyes glowed with the intensity of his emotions. “I ... have to. It's my talent, you see, and he's my friend. I can help him, I'm sure I can.”
Drinaugh looked at Mashglach for a moment and then burst out with. “Dragons are so boring!”
Mashglach could not help the smile. “May I point out the obvious, young Drinaugh, that you happen to be a Dragon?”
“I ... didn't mean to say that.” Drinaugh looked as if he wished he could crawl into himself and close the opening after him.
Mashglach stood and stretched his wings out. The popping sound of joints and sinews realigning filled the study of the Winglord.
“Of course you did. If you hadn't, it would not have been uttered. That is part of your talent, you cannot discriminate, and those around you instinctively feel that.
“The truth is as much a part of you as it is in all Dragons. You just happen to carry it at the surface of your personality. Never lose that, Drinaugh. It would be a tragedy to do so. You are going to need it as you undertake your quest.”
It took nearly all of Drinaugh's self control not to embrace the Winglord.
Mashglach's gaze stayed upon the doorway long after Drinaugh left. Finally, a sigh passed through him, and he turned back to his book. “Good fortune, young Dragon. May Bardoc bless you, and us as well.” He added silently.
* * * * Ethan and Circumstance walked into the shallow valley just as the sun dropped below the horizon. The pines were releasing their scent into the early evening air, and the valley was thick with the smell of resin, wood smoke and cooking.
A small party of miners intercepted them, coming down from the upper slopes of the mountain. The oldest tipped his hat to the two travelers.
“Good evenin’ to ye. Your faces be new to me. Just travelin’ through?”
Ethan looked at the man. He had the appearance of one who'd spent most of his life mining. He was big enough for a couple of regular-sized fellows with arms the size of Ethan's thighs, and he smiled at Ethan and Circumstance through a bristling beard that reached to his chest under which a tartan shirt strained to hold back the bulk beneath it.
Circumstance replied to the miner's question. “We're just up from the eastern side of the mountains to the west, Sire Miner.”
“The boy tells the truth, we're from Berggren. Is there an inn in the village with food and a bed?” Ethan spoke while the two parties walked toward the village.
Another of the miners pointed to the right hand side of the broad street running through the center of the village. “Aye. Sire Westcott's place'll have what ye be needin.” Look for the sign of a Stag's head. That'll be the inn.”
“Thank you, sires.” Ethan placed a hand over his heart, and gave a quick bow of his head, which the oldest of the miners returned. “We will remember your kindness.”
“Given in charity, sire traveler. No remembrance is necessary,” The large miner replied. “Good eve to ye. We part company here.”
“Good eve.” Ethan waved at them and Circumstance hastened to join him, as the miners’ path curved off to the left into a cluster of cozy-looking cottages.
Circumstance looked up at Ethan as they continued on into the village. “That sounded like a ritual.”
“What did?”
Circumstance placed his hand over his heart and then gave a fair imitation of Ethan's baritone. “Thank you, sires, we will remember your kindness.”
“Oh, that.” Ethan grinned. “That's exactly what it was. Someone started that ages ago as a way to keep people from hacking each other to pieces over small differences. Could be very disruptive to a family outing.”
“And the ritual gave them enough space to not have to defend their honor.” Circumstance finished the thought.
Ethan had stopped being surprised at the boy's insights. He pointed to a sign hanging from an iron holder on the side of a two-story building with four dormer windows in the top story. “There's the inn. Let's see what they have for supper, Ok?”
“Ok.”
The Innkeeper hailed the two travelers as they came in through his door. He placed the tankards burdening his arms onto the table before him, where they were quickly snatched up by his thirsty patrons.
“Welcome. Welcome travelers, to the Stag's head Inn. I'm Westcott, the owner of this humble establishment. How can I be of service?”
Ethan sat at the table indicated. Circumstance chose the chair across from him. “Two large helpings of whatever that is we smell coming from your kitchen, sire Westcott, and if you could trouble yourself to bring me one of those tankards I'd be eternally grateful.”
Circumstance raised a hand. “I'd like some berry juice, if you have any, please?”
Westcott said to Circumstance. “Black or Red? I'll see which we have fresh pressed.”
As he passed Ethan, he murmured. “Well mannered lad you've got there.”
The half-elven boy looked around the interior of the inn while they waited for their food to arrive. A number of the round top tables were filled with village folk eating and drinking, talking and drinking, or just drinking.
“Gonna be a cold one this winter, Merillat.” A man with one of those beards that only covered the upper lip and chin spoke to a husky looking fellow hunched over a tankard across from him. “Hope yer sis gets it into her head to come back home afore then.”
The one called Merillat took a pull from his tankard and then set it back onto the table with a clunk. “She'd better. Runnin’ off like that. Fool girl, actin’ like she's without a thought in her head. Ma an’ Da beside themselves with worry. I tell ya, Petron, yer lucky ya don't have one. Sisters're nothin’ but trouble.”
A surge of guilt washed over Circumstance, and he hastily switched his attention to another table. This one held two young couples who were in a considerably better mood than the brooding fellow before.
“You should have seen it, Decora.” The other young woman leaned forward, exposing a generous supply of bosom. “He just stood there, statue-like, and stared at the cave-in. For a moment nothing happened, and then it started to open, like a fall in reverse, real slow like.”
“First time I ever saw magik,” the lighter colored of the two young men spoke, as he reached for his drink. “Not sure I ever want to see it again, shivered my figgin, it did.”
“That's ‘cause you weren't on the inside ‘spectin’ to die, Helm,” the darker of the two spoke after putting his tankard down.
Circumstance's juice was placed before him and ignored in favor of the conversation going on next to him.
Ethan quickly drained half his ale and listened as well with a more passing interest.
The young man called Helm looked suitably contrite upon being chided by the other. “Sorry there, Rob. Didn't mean nothin’ by it. Saichele was there. She knows I helped with the diggin'.”
The one called Decora reached over and hugged Rober. “Well, I'm glad Adam was there, magik or no.”
Ethan set his ale down, and stood. “Excuse me, did you just say the name, Adam?”
Rober looked up at Ethan, measuring him. “Aye,” He said slowly, keeping an arm around Decora's shoulder. “That she did. And what would your business be with the man?”
Ethan heard the implied threat behind the young man's tone, and whispered to Circumstance out of the side of his mouth. “Listen closely, This is one of those ritual times we talked about.”
He held out both his hands, palm up, and spoke to Rober and his friends as a group. “My intentions are peaceful, sires, ladies. I knew someone called Adam a few years ago. He was traveling with his sister, west of the spine. We traveled together, I taught him use of his sword. The sword was more remarkable in appearance than most, it looked to be a lord's blade.”
Saichele gasped. “I remember that! Oh, he looked so handsome with it strapped to his thigh.”
Helm gave her a long look that spoke jealous volumes. “I saw it, too,” he muttered. “Thought it were pretty showy for man to be wearin'.”
Rober was still a bit suspicious. “Adam. I remember him as a big man, over six foot with thick black hair.”
Ethan dropped his hands. “I apologize. The Adam I knew was a young man of average height, sandy hair and brown eyes.”
“Was his hair thick and wavy with those gorgeous highlights like our Adam's?”
Ethan thought Rober was going to have his hands full with this one. From the look of him, he knew it, too.
Decora squeezed Rober's arm. “That's him! He knew him.”
“Aye, That he did. I'll give him that.” Rober patted Decora's hand as it lay on his arm.
“Sit, traveler.” He waved at Ethan's chair. “Drink your ale, and ask us your questions. Your Adam is ours, and I'm one of the many in this village that owe him their life.”
The food arrived, heaping platters of steaming hot stew with thick crusts of still-warm bread that smelled of butter and yeast. Ethan and Circumstance dug in with a will, and Ethan asked his questions in-between mouthfuls. Circumstance listened, and as he did, that sense of purpose built within him.
Ethan asked Rober about their life debt to Adam and heard the story of the miraculous mine rescue. Rober dutifully left out the creation of the diamond lining to the mine and was quick to prevent Saichele or Decora from adding it to the conversation.
“I saw none of that in the lad when I knew him,” Ethan mused, after Rober finished telling of his rescue from the mine. “Of course, he showed a lot of wizardry with the sword.” His eyes took on a far away look as his memory took him back to that day outside of Silgert and that first lesson in swordsmanship.
“Oooo, tell us about it.” Decora and Saichele chorused.
Another tankard plunked down next to Ethan's arm. “Thought you might need this,” Westcott said, as he swiped a cloth across the condensation on the table. “These girls'll dry a man's throat to dust, with their love of tales.”
Circumstance looked up at Westcott's approach and turned his attention back to the stew, the bread and the conversation.
Ethan swallowed a healthy portion of the ale. It was good stuff, bittersweet with the nut-like flavor of roasted malt and fresh hops. “I'd just woken up from a week long drunk. Adam and his sister were sitting on a log talking; their voices woke me up. I have to admit I was less than polite at the time.”
The two men, having suffered through hangovers before, nodded their heads in understanding.
“Adam gave me some medication that took the headache away, and soon I felt good enough to find out some things about them, who they were, where they were coming from. The usual questions.”
He received some grunts of assent from his audience.
“Tell us about the sword fight.” Decora urged.
“I'm getting there,” Ethan reassured his listeners. “I offered to guide them through the forest into Dunwattle. They'd been chased out of a vile little pit called Silgert.”
“Silgert.” Hem mused. “I heard of Silgert. Wasn't none of it good.”
“Then whoever told you about the place spoke the truth.” Ethan picked up his tankard. “I picked up my pack, and started walking into the forest, headed south. They followed, and we talked some more. I wanted to take it slow. Only a fool rushes through the woods.”
More grunts of assent.
Ethan sipped some more ale. “Ahhh, that's good. I set camp a few miles into the forest in a clearing with close water and some fruit trees mixed in with the rest. It's there I decided to see what the boy could do with that fancy sword of his.
“I've got to tell you something about myself to set the stage for what happened. I made my living with the blade for quite a few years. Got real good at it. You know the names Morgan and Bilardi?”
For a moment all he got was a quartet of blank stares. Then a light of recognition blossomed in Rober's eyes. “Swordmasters!”
Ethan nodded. “Yes. Both of them, the best in the world. I'm the third. My name's Ethan.”
He saw Rober gulp as he remembered the earlier implied threat when Ethan first asked about Adam. Helm settled back into his chair with a grin.
“Well, that sets the stage for the sword fight.” He finished off the last of his ale.
Oooo's of appreciation came from the girls.
“I thought the boy would be an easy pushover, but he surprised me. I don't know how large he's grown by now, but then he was about three-quarters my size, maybe a bit more. I was sure I could push past any guard he put up.” He smiled. “I was wrong. I wound up fencing with a swordsman as good as myself, only younger and faster. Fortunately, I had experience on my side, as well as a few tricks only I knew about. Damn near got myself skewered on one, but the second one worked. I tapped him on his backside. That trick probably wouldn't work now.”
Saichele giggled.
Ethan graced her with a scowl. “Go ahead, laugh. It wasn't funny at the time. The kid nearly scared the life out of me. Made me feel like an old man.”
She looked unrepentant.
“Well, that's about it.” Ethan leaned back in his chair. “I taught him a few more tricks during our stops on the way to Dunwattle, picked ‘em up after the first run through. Never saw anything like it. Last time I saw he and his sister was at the inn in Dunwattle. You ever see her shoot that bow of her's?”
Helm shook his head. “We never heard of a sister till now.”
Ethan's eyebrows rose in unison. “Oh?”
“S'truth.” Rober put his now empty tankard onto the table. “Was just him and the old man, the wizard he come into town with.”
Ethan's eyebrows climbed even higher. “Oh?” he said again.
“He scared me,” Decora said, hugging herself. “He had creepy eyes.”
“Naw,” Helm said. “He just looked intense, like the way Wizards do. My da, he's seen people what do magik before, and they looked the same way.”
“What was this Wizard's name?” Ethan leaned forward onto the table.
Circumstance, finished with his stew, sipped his juice and listened. Something inside awoke with the mention of the wizard.
Rober leaned forward and looked into Ethan's eyes. “He called himself Milward.”
Ethan's brows could not climb any higher. “The legend? He lives?”
Helm snorted. “Rob said, called himself Milward. Didn't say we all believed it. Some of the elders, they did, though. Man living over a thousand years. C'mon, it's a bit hard to take.”
Saichele leaned forward until her chin was resting on her arms on the tabletop. “I believed him,” she said dreamily.
Helm snorted. “You believe every guy who says he loves you.”
Decora rushed to Saichele's defense. “Helm!”
The busty girl held her friend off with an upraised hand. “It's all right. They mean it. Every time.”
Ethan could see why. The girl had a gift and knew how to use it. “Why did you believe him, Saichele?”
She looked at Ethan through thick black lashes. “Because Adam did.”

Chapter Twenty-Six
Alford the 23rd, Emperor of the Southern Lands, scion of the House of Labad tossed the small handful of breadcrumbs onto the manicured lawn of his aviary. His action was rewarded with the arrival of dozens of brightly colored birds. Several of them boasted heads of an iridescent teal blue on a bright yellow body with wings containing soft golden yellow ovals in a field of dark green. Others in the crowd of bobbing heads and tails were smaller and plainer, but still colorful in their own right.
In the trees of the aviary, birdsong trilled and warbled through the leaf heavy branches. Two Whitecrests perched above their nest and preened their yard long curved tail feathers. The larger of the two, the female lifted her head and called. The song, high, sweet and melodic, caused Alford to look up and smile.
Another song answered that of the Whitecrest. It started as a low tenor and rose to finish in an achingly beautiful contralto. The melody brought to Alford's mind images of high mountains towering over wide rivers and the wind causing ripples in oceans of golden grain.
As always, when the Talegallu sang, he found tears coming to his eyes. He dabbed at them with a lightly scented kerchief, and dipped his hand into the bag of breadcrumbs.
The Emperor's aviary stood at a height of four stories, about half as tall as the golden dome of his palace. Its walls were of panes of glass, handset into individual frames, making the aviary an eight-sided spot of brilliance when the sun struck it.
The grounds around the aviary were park-like in their setting, with marble walkways laid in gentle curves throughout. A flowerbed surrounded the structure giving ample attraction to bees, butterflies and hummingbirds.
Alford leaned back against the wrought iron bench he sat on, and let his eyes wander through the glass wall of the aviary. He saw his secretary, Cremer, hurrying along the walkway towards the double doors that formed the entrance to his private retreat.
He allowed himself to release a small sigh of resignation, and stood up as he emptied the last of the breadcrumbs onto the lawn. It was time to go back to work.
* * * * Adam tried to concentrate on the small stone hovering before him.
“Now add another one,” Milward said, from his perch upon the stump a few feet off the path. A grove of Aspens bracketed the path. Songbirds flitted through the tops of the trees and added their song to that of the wind passing through the leaves.
Adam exerted another finger of pressure and lifted one more of the stones, bringing it to a point level with the first one.
“Good. Now keep them perfectly steady while we talk.”
“Talk about what?”
Milward snorted. “Anything. I want you to be able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. A Wizard has to be able to ... call it ... dividing his mind into compartments with each compartment working on or maintaining a separate task.”
“That's impossible.”
“No, it's quite possible. I've done it myself several thousand times as I recall, and you can, too.”
Adam was forced to consider the possibility. While Milward was talking, his attention had been pulled away from the stones, or so he thought. A part of him must have kept them hovering in place during the distraction.
He looked away from the stones toward the old Wizard. “Tell me again why we didn't take the horses they offered us at the Wayfarer hut down slope from Access?”
“I already told you.” Milward kept a steady eye on the stones. “Pick up another.”
A third stone joined the first two. “Tell me again.”
Milward's sigh was just short of exasperation. “Very well. It's simple. I don't like horses. I prefer walking. If I absolutely have to get somewhere faster than walking, I'll translocate myself there.”
Adam smiled. “Like you did when Gilgafed trapped you?”
“Don't be snide. Add another one.” Four stones now hovered in a line before Adam.
“So, why don't you like horses?”
Milward grimaced. “You're not going to let up, are you?”
Adam tired of just keeping the stones in a straight line, and decided to have them play a complicated game of hopscotch. “No. Tell me about the horses.”
“Oh, very well. It happened when I was about your age. I'd just begun to learn that I was different from the other boys in my village. New Wizards were about as rare then as they are now.”
“What does that have to do with horses?”
“I'm getting to that. There was a farmer at the far end of the village who kept a few of the beasts. He allowed my friends and I to ride the gentler ones from time to time. I was all arms and legs then and hadn't quite gotten used to the changes of growing into my teens. I was, in a word, clumsy.
“I never should have climbed on that horse. I had a feeling I shouldn't do it, but my friends were insistent.
“I'll leave the mundane part of the ride unsaid, and move along to where the trouble started.”
“Sometimes, with the more powerful Wizards, your developing powers work a shaping without you consciously doing anything.”
“That happened to me.” Adam reversed the direction of the stone ballet.
Milward looked at him sharply. “It did? What was it? You destroyed a village? Leveled a mountain? By the way, add another stone.”
The four stones in the ballet became five. Adam looked back at the Wizard. “No, I healed a blind girl.”
Milward shook his head. “Yes, I suppose you would. Nice pattern, by the way.”
He leaned back on the stump and looked up at the Aspen leaves overhead. “My introduction to the ways of power wasn't quite so philanthropic. I was busy trying to stay upright on the nag I'd been given, when, for a reason unknown to me at the time, the beast reared and threw me into the bramble patch it was passing just then. Don't smile, it took several stitches to close some of the gashes I received.”
“Did you find out what caused the horse to throw you?” Adam now had the stones following each other in a mobius loop.
“Yes, eventually. One of my friends saw bright blue-white sparks jump from me to the horse from the region of my posterior. Don't laugh! You don't know how long it took me to lose the nickname they gave me after that, and no, I'm not going to tell you. You can use your imagination.”
“So ... riding horses just brings back too many bad memories?”
“You are remarkably perceptive for a young man. That's it exactly. I would rather walk from here to Ort, than ride another horse.
“Add another stone now.”
Adam now had six stones dancing in the air in front of him.
Milward nodded his approval. “Good control. Now double the amount.”
Six more stones rose off the path from various areas of the path and winged their way towards the original six.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” The six original stones dropped to the glade floor as the second six pelted Adam like horizontal hail.
He looked at Milward. Bruises were blooming on his face and arms. “What happened? I had them under control. I know I did!”
The old Wizard stood and leaned on his staff. “The contrary appears to be obvious. Actually, what happened is control overload. You had more than enough power to lift another six stones, but the additional compartmentalization needed to control them wasn't there. Too much, too soon. I see you can feel the results.”
Adam rubbed his cheek. “Yeah, I can. Do you have some Willit Bark in those pouches of yours? These bruises hurt like the pit.”
* * * * Ethan finished buckling on his swordbelt as he took the stairs down into the main room of the inn. The bed he used last night was comfortable enough, but it wasn't his, and Ellona wasn't in it.
Only two of the chairs in the room were occupied. One held an old gaffer nursing a cup of hot tisane, the other, Circumstance. Somehow the boy had managed to get up and leave the room without disturbing him.
Circumstance was busy digging into a dish piled high with sausages, potatoes and eggs. The smell started Ethan's mouth watering.
He pulled out the chair opposite the one Circumstance was using and sat down. “Uh, where'd you get that, lad?”
The boy's mouth was full, so he pointed to the oaken door set into the back wall of the room.
“The kitchen must be back there.” Ethan said to himself.
“Do we dish up ourselves?”
Circumstance shook his head no and bit into another one of the sausages, adding a bit of egg right behind it.
Ethan stepped away from the table and walked over to the door. The smell of cooking came from under it. He swallowed the saliva building up in his mouth and pushed through.
“Good morning! Take it you want some breakfast. You with that beautiful boy sitting out there?” A woman with her hair bundled up in a cloth tied in the back called out to him as he came into the kitchen. She was busy stirring up a mix of potato wedges and link sausages. Ethan could hear to pop and sizzle of the eggs in the pan next to the one she worked.
She threw him a greeting consisting of a brief flash of white teeth. “I'm Sheriwyn, Westcott's woman. Grab yourself one of those plates over there.” She pointed at a stack of dishes on the long counter to the right of the sink with her spoon. “...and I'll fix you right up. Tisane's over there.” The spoon pointed to Ethan's left. A covered black kettle with heavy white stoneware mugs gathered around sat on another, shorter counter. A dipping ladle hung on a peg to the right of the kettle.
Ethan's stomach rumbled. He hoped the sound of stirring and popping grease covered the noise. Sheriwyn heaped his plate with sausage, egg and potatoes.
She looked into Ethan's face with a smile that had motherhood written all over it. “You tuck into that bit. Let me know if you want seconds. Run along, now.”
“Thank you, ma'am.” Ethan murmured. “It looks and smells delicious.”
“Oh, go on with you.” She waved him out of the kitchen gruffly, but her grin said she appreciated the courtesy.
Ethan rejoined Circumstance at the table. The old gaffer was gone from the room. His cup sat alone on the table he'd been using. “What time did you get up?” He stuck his fork into a chunk of potato and bit into it. The flavor equaled the promise of the smell.
“Mmmm. Oh, this is good.” He chewed, swallowed and speared another potato chunk along with a sausage.
“Um hmmm.” Circumstance mopped up the last of the grease on his plate with his last piece of potato while he chewed.
Ethan finished his second mouthful and paused with his fork poised over his plate. “What's bothering you, lad? Something's on your mind. Mind telling me what it is?”
“Not sure you'd understand.” Circumstance sounded tentative rather than sulky.
Ethan had to swallow before he answered. That woman in the kitchen could cook. Westcott was a lucky man. “Try me.”
Circumstance looked up into Ethan's eyes. “I think I now know what it is I have to do.”
“And what's that?” Ethan placed a combination of potato and egg into his mouth.
“I have to find the Wizard Milward and his apprentice.”
“The one they were talking about last night.” Ethan remembered he forgot to get some tisane to wash down the food. “You want something to drink? I'm getting a mug.”
“Circumstance nodded. “Yes, please. I have to do this, Ethan.”
“I'll talk to you about it when I get back.” Ethan walked across the room and through the door that led into the kitchen. He returned back through the door, bearing two mugs with wisps of steam wafting over their rims.
“Here you go.” He set one of the mugs in front of Circumstance. “Now, tell me more about what this is you have to do.”
Circumstance sipped the tisane. “It was when those people were talking about the rescue at the mine and this man named Adam who did the magik.”
“Go on,” Ethan said.
“I got this feeling,” Circumstance traced a random design in the condensation ring left from his mug sitting on the tabletop. “When they talked about the magik. I got it stronger when they talked about the Wizard Milward. I don't know what it is I have to do, but I do know it has to do with them.”
Ethan looked at Circumstance for a long moment and then dropped his gaze to the tisane in his mug. “You feel pretty strong about this, don't you?”
He got a smile for his trouble. “Strong enough to leave home in the middle of the night, I imagine.”
He got a laugh from Ethan in return. “Yes, you did that, didn't you? Led me on a merry chase, as well.” He paused to sip some more tisane. “Did pretty well in the wild, too.” he said, half to himself.
Circumstance leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “So I should continue to do well as I look for the Wizard. Don't you think?”
Ethan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don't know ... it's a big world out there, and there's a lot of dangers.”
“Like ... Garlocs?” Circumstance raised an eyebrow.
“Yes ... like Garlocs. I have to tell you, it is strange how you knew about that Skunkbush.”
Circumstance said nothing in return. He felt his case had been made and he knew what he had to do. Up to a point.
Ethan looked down at the table for a very long moment and when he raised his eyes back to the boy's, his expression was unreadable.
“You're going to let me go.” Circumstance said it as a statement of fact.
“Yes. I suppose I am.” Ethan toyed with his mug. “I don't know yet what I'm going to tell your mother, but I'll figure something out by the time I'm back in Berggren.”
“Would ... would you go with me for one more day? I know it'll mean a longer trip back, but...”
“But you're feeling lonely already, aren't you?” Ethan's smile held understanding.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Circumstance replied. “There's a difference, knowing what you have to do, and actually doing it. The idea of starting, with you being here, I mean, it's not like leaving when everyone's asleep.”
Ethan finished his tisane. “Homesick?”
“A little.”
Ethan reached across the table and squeezed the boy's shoulder. “It'll be all right, lad. Of course I'll go with you. You know I will.”
* * * * “How do the bruises feel now?” Milward marched along the path a little behind and slightly to the right of Adam.
Adam rubbed his cheek where one of the stones had struck him. “Most of the ache is gone, thanks.”
The Aspen trees gave way to Oaks and Cottonwoods. They were nearing the feet of Cloud Hook. Behind them, the flanks of the mountain climbed into the blue sky, the midday sun glinted off the eternal ice on its peaks. The path had become a series of switchbacks, and Adam and Milward had to lean slightly back to compensate for the steepness of the grade. The air smelled of wood and herbs and. something else.
“Do you smell that?” Adam asked Milward, as they were working their way through the switchbacks.
“Smell what?” His wizard's staff tap tapped as he kept himself steady on the steep path. “The woods? The wildflowers? Yesterday's rain?”
“No, cooking. There's a faint smell of cooking. Bad cooking.” Adam's nose wrinkled as a stronger whiff passed by. “Real bad cooking.”
Milward sniffed the air, and then began to cough. “Houwggh! Ouwghh! Oh, that's foul. Worse than Dwarf stew, even.”
“Could it be more Garlocs?” Adam's eyes did a rapid side-to-side dance as he checked to see if they were in any immediate danger. He disagreed with the Wizard's statement. He rather liked Dwarf stew.
Milward held a cloth over his nose. “No, Garlocs don't even understand the concept of fire, much less how to use it for cooking. This stuff smells bad enough to be elfish cooking, but we're too far south for Elves.”
“Elves?” Adam turned toward Milward in surprise. “Aunt and Uncle used to tell us stories about Elves. I remember them telling us about their great beauty and wisdom. They never said anything about the cooking.”
Milward looked at Adam with disbelief on his face. “Elves with beauty and wisdom are a combination I've never heard of. Your Aunt and Uncle must've had a fine imagination, that's all I can say. Those were stories, lad. This is reality.”
“They're not like that? They're not older and wiser than humans?”
Milward snorted, blowing out his moustaches. “Not exactly. Elves are a younger race than Humans and far less developed. They are, on average, about the size of an early teen. The women are smaller and finer boned than the men and they have a tendency to walk in a half crouch, as if they're skulking.
“What do they look like? I mean, how are they different from you and I?” Adam asked.
“Other than size, you mean?” Milward asked.
Adam nodded. “Uh huh.”
The old Wizard scratched an itch on his left shoulder. “Well, now, their hair is uniformly black, as well as their eyes. Elfish skin is darker than most humans, except for some of the far southern clans. It's usually more of an olive tone instead of our pale tan.”
“Their features are much sharper than that of a human. The nose is usually very small and pointed, as well as the chin and teeth. Their ears are large, and lie flat against the skull. They have pointed tips, making them an Elf's most distinguished feature.”
“What about their voices? Aunt and Uncle used to tell Charity and I about the beautiful singing Elves would do.”
“Not these Elves, Adam.” Milward shook his head. “You would find their voices whiny and nasal, at best.”
“Well, if that smell actually is Elvish cooking, I think I'm going to find out shortly.” Adam waved at the air in front of his face.
The odor became stronger as they walked down the path. At the end of the switchbacks the path widened and leveled out. The wind shifted, and the smell became almost palpable.
“Uuugghhh! It smells like sour vegetables mixed with rotten eggs.”
Milward nodded. “Sounds like the Elfish diet, all right.”
“They like rotten food?”
“From what I hear.” Milward spat out an excess of saliva. “I've been told by some of the wandering folk who trade with them that they prefer it that way. They say it has more taste than fresh.”
“Yuk!”
Milward patted Adam on the shoulder. “I quite agree.”
His patting changed to a grip of iron that halted Adam in his tracks. “They've a Shaper with them,” he muttered.
“A Wizard!?” Adam rubbed the spot where Milward's fingers had dug in.
Milward shook his head. “No, a Shaper.” He emphasized the word. “Wizards, such as you and I, can shape all the various types and forms of the world's energies. A Shaper has the ability to only work with one form or another. Such as fire, earth, water and the like.”
“Can you tell what kind this one is?” Adam crouched down next to the old Wizard.
A thicket of Huckleberry bushes blocked their view of the Elf campsite. The sound of voices was faintly audible, and Adam caught a word or two. Milward proved accurate in his description of how they sounded. It was whiny, with a harsh edge that he found disturbing, irritating and completely disagreeable.
Milward raised himself up to try to peer over the thicket. He returned to his crouch with a shake of his head. “I can't see to be sure, but it feels like a Fire Shaper.”
“It?” Adam's eyebrows raised in question.
Milward shrugged. “It's the best pronoun that fits. A Shaper gives themselves over entirely to their talent. They loose all sexual identity. A Fire Shaper's heat will cause a subtle distortion in the air around them. It's pretty easy to tell if you're looking for it.”
Adam parted a portion of the thicket in front of him. Faint forms moved on the other side, seen through the thinning of the leaf pattern. “How could you tell a shaper was with them? I still can't sense anything.”
“Experience, my boy. It's that simple. Experience I had hoped you'd never have to go through, and maybe not, if Bardoc grants us any luck.”
Milward gripped his staff and used it to help himself to a standing position. “I think it's best we detour around these folk. Follow me.”
He chose a path that led through several Cottonwoods that grew alongside a small creek choked with grasses and a vine that bore small yellow flowers.
He pointed at the vine as they passed by it. “Mind the vine. If you crush its leaves, you'll take a Dragon's lifetime trying to get its scent off you.”
Adam halted his foot before it could come down on a thick bundle of the leaves in question. “Thanks for the warning,” he whispered.
Milward didn't answer, but continued to push through the undergrowth.
Adam's attention was taken momentarily by a patch of Morels growing at the base of a large Oak that encroached upon the Cottonwoods’ territory.
He bent to pick some of the delicacies when a harsh voice called out. “Strangers!”
The Elves had found them. Milward's chosen path led them right into a party making its way back to the camp.
They soon found themselves bracketed by several Elves with short swords. The weapons’ edges were wavy with hammer marks, crude, but still effective for the killing.
Milward was in front of Adam. He whispered over his shoulder. “Don't do anything to startle them, and keep your power hidden, if at all possible.”
“No talking!” The command was followed by a whack with the flat of a blade against the Wizard's thigh. Milward cried out in pain.
Adam reacted without thought. The power built within him, and erupted in a rush, sending the blade wielder flying backwards through the trees like a thrown stone.
The old Wizard hissed at Adam. “Now you've torn it! Look! Here comes their Shaper.”
Adam looked to where Milward pointed. The Elf running in their direction looked like the others. Crude, roughly woven robes and a dirty breechcloth was the basic costume, except this Elf carried a staff covered with carvings, and the air shimmered around its body, creating a halo of distortion.
The phalanx of Elves parted to allow their Shaper to step through. It looked at Adam and Milward, as well as to either side in a searching gesture. Its gaze swept past Adam one more time, and then snapped back to him alone.
“You. You're the one.” The voice, like that of the others, was harsh and nasal.
Adam looked back at the Shaper. Lank black hair brushed its shoulders, divided by the extended points of its long ears. The eyebrows arched upwards, giving its face a feral expression, which was augmented by pointed teeth, bared in a humorless smile. Its skin was the olive color Milward had him about. The old Wizard never mentioned the acne.
He forced himself to relax, to act nonchalant in the face of the Shaper's accusation. “What are you talking about? The one ... what?”
“I smell your magik, Human. It covers this clearing.” The Elf's arm swept around, indicating the mentioned area. “We will see who has the most power, you and I. Human or Elf.” It finished the statement by tapping its right thumb against its chest.
“No! You can't! He has no experience! Look how young he is.” Milward tried to step between Adam and the Shaper. It took four Elves to drag the old Wizard away.
Adam looked at the struggling Wizard. “Can't you use your magik? Translocate us out of here, or fight them off?”
Milward shook his head. “There's too many of them to fight. We could take care of maybe half their number, but I can't be sure a blade wouldn't get through. I'm not going to risk your hide on a mass fight if I can help it. Translocation is out of the question. You don't know how to do it, and it's something a Wizard can only do for himself. I'm sorry.”
He looked down at the Elves that held his arms. “You can let go now.”
“Is that what you want me to do then? Fight a duel!?” Adam stared at Milward in disbelief.
“I'm sorry, my boy, but it's the only way we have a chance to get out of this without you being killed. If you win, the rest of the Elves will let us go in peace.”
“And if I don't?”
“I'll do my best to heal your injuries.”
“Thank you, so very much.”
“Enough talk!” The Elf Fire Shaper snapped. “Come, young Wizard, show me your strength. If you have any.” It braced itself, the staff held out with both hands gripping the ends.
Milward called out. “Please, show some mercy. He's young. He hasn't had the practice you have.”
“Well then, old father,” the Fire Shaper sneered, “He will get some. Even if it is a last lesson.”
“No!” Milward's surge forward was smothered by the several Elves who bore him to the ground.
Adam looked back at the Fire Shaper. The distortion halo expanded, and he could feel a wash of heat with it.
“I don't want to fight you,” he said, even as he crouched and began to feel the pressure of the power building within him.
“No matter, Human.” The Shaper called back as its smile broadened. “I want to fight you.”
The blast of superheated air from the shaper's staff turned the trees behind Adam into torches, and singed the back of his hair as he dropped to the ground and rolled under its path. His release of the power was off, and it ploughed into the ground before the shaper, sending earth and rock into it with explosive force.
The shaper's scream scraped across Adam's nerves like nails on a blackboard.
“You did it, Adam! You did it!” Milward shook off the Elves holding his arms, and rushed over to help Adam back to his feet.
The Elves stood where they had been when the short-lived duel started. Not one of the party made a move to help their fallen comrade. It lay on the clearing floor, writhing in agony, most of its legs below the knee shredded to the bone.
Milward walked over to where the Shaper lay, and looked down at it impassively. “Will you give the lad quarter now?”
The Shaper whimpered incoherently as its hands groped to find a way to stop the pain.
Milward grunted. “I'll take that as a ‘yes'. Come on, Adam. We can leave now.”
“No.” Adam finished brushing the last of the forest litter off his clothes.
“No!?” Milward stared at his young protégé, aghast. “This ... thing forced a duel on you only because it was so sure of its own victory. It would have cooked you to death, you know, without any thought of mercy, and you want to stay here? Why?”
“It needs help.” Adam said simply.
“After what it tried to do to you?” Milward couldn't believe his ears.
“No, because of what it tried to do to me. If we leave without trying to help, we'll be acting as it did. I wouldn't want to go to sleep with that on my mind.”
Milward sighed in resignation. “Yes, I suppose you're right. Let's see what we can do. You know it can't expect any help from that lot.” He pointed to the Elves, who were making their way back to their cookpot.
Adam stood over the Shaper. It was now unconscious and in shock, mercifully out of pain. He built the power slowly, conscious of a flow coming from outside that felt different from what he used in rescuing the miners.
He tried to visualize the Shaper's legs as they had looked before the duel, but he had only a faint recollection, and gave up on the idea, choosing instead to let the power work through his emotions with his mind functioning only as guide.
He released the pressure at the point where it had become intolerable, and let it flow into the body of the Shaper.
The Elf awoke out of shock and screamed as if its lungs would burst. The sound became unbearable and Adam had to put his hands over his ears. He tried to halt the flow of power, but it wouldn't stop. The screams increased in volume and intensity as its body began to glow.
The forest fire the Shaper's attack had started suddenly died as if blown out like a candle.
The glow around the Shaper intensified to the point where Adam had to take one hand off an ear to shield his eyes, and still the power flowed.
He began to feel weak and his knees started to buckle.
“Adam!” Milward shouted into his open ear. “Stop it! You're killing yourself!”
“I can't!” Adam gasped. “It won't turn off! Help me, Milward. Turn it off!” He could feel his life force draining, fear clutched his heart with an iron hand.
“Blast me for a Gnomic headed droob! I knew this was going to happen.” Milward concentrated, and held his staff between Adam and the ball of blazing light that had become the Shaper. A twitch of his head showed the force of will he exerted, as a barrier of blue radiance slammed down around Adam. The flows of power stopped and Adam felt strength return to his limbs.
As fast as the barrier appeared, it was gone, along with the light around the Shaper.
The Elf sat up slowly and felt for its legs, now whole. It looked at Adam in wonder and fear. “Why?” The word came out in a whispered hiss.
Adam looked at the Shaper. “You needed help.”
The vanquished Shaper nodded and then dropped its head. It seemed to be looking for something as it patted its body, searching. Abruptly, it clenched its eyes and threw back its head. “My power!” It wailed. “You took my power!”
It continued to cry, sobbing out its grief in inarticulate screams.
Adam stared at it, not believing or understanding what he was hearing, but knowing it was true. “I didn't mean to. You were dying, I wanted to help you.”
“You should have let me die!” The ex-Shaper spat at him, tears welled up in its eyes. “What good am I now, filthy human?!” The word came out as a curse. “You stole my power. What good am I now?” The Elf dissolved into grief. “What good am I now?”
Milward placed a gentle hand on Adam's shoulder. “Come on, Adam. We'd best leave while we can. Their awe of you will last long enough, I think, for us to be beyond their finding. But only if we leave now. Besides, my nose is reminding me why we wanted to avoid this spot in the first place.”
Adam allowed himself to be led away, his mind awhirl with thoughts and emotions, sick at heart at what had become of his desire to help the Elf.
He remembered little of the next few hours, until Milward finally stopped them to make camp for the night several miles away from the base of Cloudhook.
“What happened, lad? Do you remember what you were thinking when you tried to heal that Shaper?” Milward sipped from the cup of tisane he held as he tended the coals of the fire.
“Not all of it, no. I do remember trying to visualize what the Elf's legs looked like before ... I did what I did.”
“You did what you had to do. Remember that, Adam. There was nothing else for it.” Milward admonished him gently.
“I guess so. Anyway, I couldn't bring his legs into focus, and so I thought I just use what I was feeling, you know, my desire to heal it? And then I just let the power go.” Adam threw up both hands to either side of his face in emphasis.
“Hmm. I thought that was what happened.” Milward nodded, as he took another sip of tisane.
“You did? Then why did you ask me?” Adam pulled his robe tighter around himself. The night was becoming chill.
“I wanted to be sure, that's why. What you did, young man, was the most dangerous thing a Wizard could do; allow his emotions to rule his power. Many, too many, have died because they did the very same thing, and they did not have someone like me there to help rescue them from their own folly.
“You allowed the power flow to become so great that you had none in reserve to stop it. It takes power to start a shaping and it takes power to control it. You, my brave, thoughtful, heroic but oh, so foolish, young Wizard, lost that control.”
Adam looked up at Milward sheepishly. “Like the stones, huh.” He rubbed his cheek.
The old Wizard reared back his head and howled with laughter. “Yes. Like the stones.”
* * * * Bilardi walked over to the alcove that led to his private balcony. He stood against the edge and looked down upon the city of Grisham. Even after all these long years, the sight still gave him pause. He loved its stark beauty, and breathed deeply of the wood fired smoke of its air.
His palace's location upon the central hill in Grisham, in addition to the height of his private tower, gave him the best view in the city. There was one blot upon his personal panorama, however. Nestled within a choice bit of Grisham's land, and directly in the Duke's line of sight, lay the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned residence and offices of the Ambassador of Ort.
The Emperor of Ort had humiliated Bilardi's father over sixty-seven years ago, but to the present Duke the wounds were as fresh as if the deed had been done to him yesterday.
He had a plan for the Ambassador. The man McCabe would play a part in it. The Ambassador's brother, the Emperor, would be forced into a position where he would have no choice but to declare war upon Grisham. Bilardi had no doubt as to the eventual outcome of that war.
McCabe's likes and desires repulsed him, but they also made up a large part of what made the little pervert perfect for the plan.
The Ambassador had two daughters upon whom he doted. McCabe's self-assured, confident manner and his dark good looks would go a long way towards using at least one of them as a weapon against the father.
Yes, McCabe was perfect, and he loved the irony of the idea. He would attract, become close to, seduce and then murder one of the young ladies.
Bilardi picked up his cognac and sipped it while he gazed upon his city. Yes, McCabe was perfect, as perfect as if he, Bilardi had made him to order himself.
His gaze swept across the city once more, coming to rest upon the Ortian Embassy. A cold smile spread across his face. Perfect.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Children stopped to stare as the great dog and its rider passed by on the cobblestoned streets. The rider seemed to be looking for something without really looking. Its head would turn from side to side every few yards or so without focusing on any of the people or buildings.
Those few souls hearty enough to approach the dog would immediately retreat when the rider turned its head toward them. All crowds, regardless of their depth, parted like reeds before a boat to allow the dog to pass. Many in the crowds changed their chosen path to take them away from the rider and the dog. A few began making plans to move out of Grisham entirely.
The Envoy extended her senses as widely as possible. Her master would not allow her failure to find this disturbance of his to go unpunished, and she was beginning to think that whatever he'd sensed was no longer in Grisham.
The dog carried its rider into another street and she reached out again.
There! A faint glimmer of ... something. Her best description for it, if pressed for one, would have been potential, potential for great evil. The type of evil that cares nothing as to whether or not what it does is right or wrong, it does so because it likes what it is doing.
For the first time in many years, doubt entered her.
* * * * Ethan and Circumstance left Westcott's Inn about an hour after sunrise. The air felt crisp and cool with hints of the approaching winter. Blue Jays in the pines complained at their passing and then flew on to roost in the next stand to do it all over again.
“Those birds are obnoxious.” Ethan looked up as a dislodged cone narrowly missed his shoulder.
“We're invading their territory.” Circumstance looked up at a branch where a pair of Jays perched, scolding them.
Ethan snorted. “I'm aware of that. That type of bird ruined many a picnic my family tried to have when I was growing up. I'm afraid I still hold something of a grudge. Let's get out of their back yard.”
They quickened the pace and soon passed beyond the border of that part of the wood the Blue Jays considered their own. They followed the curve of the mountain until they reached the southern face. Circumstance took the lead and Ethan allowed him to do so. Soon, the angle of the sun had them walking in shadow and the cool of the day became a chill.
Ethan called a halt to their walk and slipped the pack off of his back. “I'm going to have to put on something warmer. It feels like we'll be having an early winter.”
Circumstance glanced up at what sky could be seen through the overlapping branches of the pines. “I suppose so.”
The forest floor beneath them was thick with layers of fallen needles and their footfalls gave only a soft crinkling sound to show people were passing through the wood. It had graced the sides of Cloudhook Mountain for millennia. The moist climate of the Mountain's southern flank proved a perfect habitat for mosses that added their own decoration to the forest. Long streamers like green beards draped from branches gnarled by centuries of growth, and rounded mounds of deep green spread across the floor like carpeting.
Ethan noted a wealth of mushrooms sprouting in various areas through the wood. Ideas for a meal came to mind. “I'm getting a bit hungry. How about stopping for some lunch?”
Circumstance looked around the area where they stood. One of the things about an old pine forest is that the large trees are very selfish. They share their space with no one else. Consequentially, there was a lot of open space under the interlocking branches of the wood. A fallen giant, long stripped of its branches in decades past, lay in a diagonal to the right of them about ten yards away. Needles piled high against the sides of the log. Several wood ear mushrooms grew in small clusters close to the ground.
Ethan walked over to the log and picked a few of the Wood ears. He held them up before Circumstance. “Fancy a mushroom medley for lunch?”
The boy's smile was answer enough.
They cleared an area about twenty feet wide. A small cook fire is harmless only if the precautions to keep it from becoming a big one are taken. Ethan used his belt knife to dig a shallow pit for the fire, while Circumstance gathered kindling and larger branches of breakable size.
Once the pit was dug, Ethan stacked some of the branches into a pyramid shape with an opening for the placement of tinder, which would be some of the dry needles off the forest floor.
He put together a small bow with a green branch and a piece of thong. Wrapping it around a straight piece of deadfall, he then set the combination in place over a piece of bark dry enough to be used as tinder in its own right. Using the bow, he began spinning the wand back and forth while holding the tip against the piece of bark. Eventually, the friction would develop enough heat to ignite the bark. The only question was how long.
Circumstance squatted next to Ethan and watched him work at getting the fire going. “How long before we eat?”
Ethan grunted softly as he worked the bow back and forth. “Hard to tell. Could be a couple of minutes. Could be a while. You've got to learn patience if you're going to be living in the wild.”
“I see.” The boy extended a hand toward the firewood and it erupted into flame.
Ethan jumped back from the fire with a shout. “What the flick?!”
He turned to face Circumstance. “You did that. How?”
His answer was a shake of the head. “I don't know how. I just did it.”
“You ever do it before?”
Circumstance shook his head again. He seemed as startled over the display of power as Ethan was.
Ethan tried another tact. “How did it feel? Was it another one of those urges you talked about?”
Circumstance looked puzzled and somewhat overwhelmed all at the same time. “Kind of like that ... I guess. I don't know, not for sure.”
A part of Ethan stuck to the practical and he fed the fire while the other part of him explored the deepening mystery that was Circumstance. “Try to describe it,” he urged.
The boy pursed his lips in thought. “Uh ... it was like I had to do it. You were taking so long getting the fire started and I was getting hungry for some of those roasted mushrooms you suggested. Something in me told me all I had to do to start the fire was reach out and make it burn.”
“Um hmm.” Ethan nodded. “Clear as mud,” he thought. If this lad was growing into a wizard, he'd have little need for a worn out swordsman tagging along.
“I still don't know how I did it.” Circumstance looked at his hand with puzzlement in his eye.
Ethan put another piece of branch onto the fire and shrugged. Just another piece added to the puzzle. “That's a question you'll have to answer for yourself, lad. The fire's ready. You made sure of that. Shall we get to those mushrooms?”
* * * * Drinaugh woke on the second day of his journey to find himself surrounded by wolves. The pack was a large one, with several pups standing close by their mothers.
One wolf, obviously the pack leader, stepped cautiously forward, away from the ring of his packmates, and sniffed the young Dragon.
Drinaugh's experience with wolves was limited only to study and theory in Dragonglade. That, and his size removed any reason to fear the pack that stood before him.
“Hello.” He said in the language of wolves. “I'm called Drinaugh. Who are you?”
The pack leader sniffed the young Dragon. “I smell you, Drinaugh. Are you one of those that rule the sky? The old legends tell of your type. You do not smell like a cub eater.”
Drinaugh huffed. “Of course not! I'm a Dragon. Dragons do not eat other animals.”
The pack leader opened his mouth in a Wolf grin. He left his thoughts concerning plant eaters unsaid.
“A young one.” He considered. “What brings a cub of your type to our woods, young sky lord?”
“I search,” began Drinaugh, and then he changed his emphasis. “I must find ... my two-legged friend.”
The pack, as one, stepped in closer. The Alpha Wolf's eyes glinted. He sat on his haunches and cocked his head at Drinaugh. “Tell me about your friend two legs.”
Drinaugh was glad to tell the wolf about Adam. “He is the first two legs I ever met. He is also a Wizard. We have shared food together many times. He taught me much.”
The wolf turned back toward the pack and looked at the young Dragon over his shoulder. “We know this two legs. He is one of our pack. We will go with you, and see him ourselves.”
“How do you know him?” Drinaugh asked. “And how can a human Wizard be a member of a wolf pack?”
The pack leader did not turn to look at Drinaugh, but his answer came to the Dragon's ears. “He has learned the way of the hunt, and has followed the path of blood. He is both wolf and human. He is our friend, too. He is Bright Eye.”
Drinaugh stood and shook off the last of the logy feeling from his night's sleep. The only drawback he could see from accepting the Wolf's offer of assistance was that wolves couldn't fly. It looked like he'd was going to be doing a lot of walking from here on out.
* * * * Thaylli had no idea her pack, which had seemed so light when she left the outskirts of her village and walked down the mountain to the Wayfarer Hut, could have somehow trebled its weight without her adding anything to it.
Also, the wild, once a place of wonder to her on her camping trips with her father and brothers, had now become a sinister abode of dark shadows and suspicious forms.
Her feet hurt as she trudged along the path and her water was almost gone. That knowledge made her even thirstier. She lifted the nearly flaccid bag and shook it. The sound was discouraging.
Behind her, Cloudhook's peak gleamed pink in the light of the setting sun. She had to find a safe place to camp for the night, and she also had to find water.
Emotions tore at her with opposing force. Part of her wished she could give up and return to her nice warm bed in her safe little village. She imagined she could smell her mother's cooking, and she could hear the little tune mum would hum as she cooked supper to the calls of the night birds.
The other part of her said she couldn't go back now. It would be too embarrassing, besides that little tramp Saichele would be there, smirking at her whenever she turned around. Momma would look hurt, and Poppa would yell and turn red in the face.
“Ohhhhh, bother you, Adam! Why did you have to go off and make me go through all this trouble?” The wilderness didn't answer back.
The sky grew darker and she jumped, letting out a small scream when a Lunar Moth fluttered past her ear.
The ground leveled out into a plateau for a space. The tops of some trees showed at its end. She quickened her pace, heedless of the complaints her feet sent her. She did not want to be caught in the open when full night fell.
She almost sobbed with relief when she heard the sound of running water. The face of the plateau slanted downward at a comfortable angle, so she was able to make it to the bottom without taking a tumble.
The trees welcomed her into their grouping with silent regard and she sank to the needle coated ground thankfully. Rushing to the protection of the grove had exhausted her, and she fell back against her pack, using it as a pillow. The water bag could be filled in the morning. Sleep soon overcame her and she had no knowledge of the various small animals that visited her in the night.
* * * * “Those mushrooms sure were good.”
“You said that yesterday. A lot.” Ethan looked down at Circumstance as they worked their way out onto a ledge that led to a long flat plateau on the eastern side of Cloudhook's southern flank. The lip of the plateau stood a mere hundred feet above a plain that extended eastward from the mountain as far as the eye could see.
Circumstance hugged the side of the mountain as he edged his way onto a wider part of the ledge. The plateau sat just another yard to his right. “Well. It's true, isn't it?” he said, with the implacable logic of the young.
“Yes,” Ethan sighed. “I suppose so. Are you telling me you want some more?” He edged past the same narrow spot the boy had traversed and onto the wider section.
“No, I guess not. I just like the memory, I suppose.” Circumstance stood on the plateau and held his hand out to Ethan. “Here. Let me help you.”
Ethan took the boy's hand. “Thanks. I'm not too proud to accept help where it's warranted. Deity, but that's a narrow path. Why'd we have to go that way? Another one of your feelings?”
“Yes,” was Circumstance's answer, as he turned and began walking toward the lip of the plateau.
Ethan followed the half-elven boy to the edge of the plateau and looked out at the plain beyond. “There's something going on down there.”
“Yes.”
“This what your feeling's pointing to?” Ethan rubbed some of the ache from clinging to the rock face out of his palms.
Circumstance sat down and dangled his feet over the edge. “I got a strong one about finding somebody down there. I didn't get it until I saw the men.” He pointed at the tiny figures on the plain below them.
“Uh hmm.” Ethan grunted. He knew an army camp being set up when he saw one. The question he wanted answered was whose was it, and what was it doing here. The City-States hadn't put together a force larger than a few hundred men in over a hundred years. Aside from a few skirmishes like the one between Spu and Avern a few years ago, the land had been peaceful. A knot of worry started up in the back of his mind.
He turned and walked back toward a stand of Beech and Alder that grew against the shelter of the mountainside. “We may as well make camp here in the trees. We'll get some protection if it rains, at least. If you still want to, we can check out what's going on down there tomorrow.”
“Ok.” The boy stood and sent one last longing look at the activity below him. The tug felt stronger now. He had to be down there. Everything depended on it. Somehow he knew that, as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. Would Ethan understand? He could feel his adopted father's concern. Then the thought struck him. He'd called Ethan his adopted father! It had always been just Ethan before. Maybe it was because he had the feeling he'd never see him or his mother again.
“You coming?” Ethan's voice came out of the trees. Circumstance could smell smoke. Ethan had gotten a fire going sooner this time. Maybe there were some mushrooms to be found in the trees.
The sounds of voices shouting roused them at dawn. Bits of red sky showed through the mixed Alder and Beech leaves overhead. Ethan raised himself onto an elbow and looked in the direction of the plateau's edge. “It sounds as if they're on our back porch,” he grumbled.
“I'm going to go look at them.” Circumstance stood and pulled his bedroll blanket around his shoulders. The thick wool was a good barrier against the early morning's chill.
Ethan stood with the boy, still wrapped in his bedroll. “Let's not rush into things. Those fellows we saw yesterday had the look of an army about them. We don't know whose army they are. We may not want to know.”
“I'm only going to look.” The boy pushed his way through the trees and out onto the plateau flat. Once out of the trees, the sounds coming from below were much clearer. It did sound as if they were doing things right at the base of where they were camped.
At the plateau's lip, he saw a city of sandy brown tents spread out to the horizon in all directions. The area covered had to be larger than two Berggrens. Men were everywhere. The shouting was coming from the base of the plateau where a hut stood. A man with a red sash across his chest was yelling into a cone-shaped thing at a bunch of other men working at removing things from the backs of large freight wagons with ox teams hitched to their fronts.
“They're from the south,” Ethan said, from behind him.
Circumstance looked up at him. “How can you tell?” He asked.
“The oxen. If this is the beginning of an army base, as I suspect, then they have to be from the south. All the northern cities use mules for their freight teams.”
“Why?”
Ethan smiled down at the half-elf boy. “Don't know. It never crossed my mind to find out the reason, but mark me; the difference is there. You can be sure these folk are Southern.”
“Oh.” Circumstance turned back to watching the supervising engineer call out his directions to the teamsters unloading the freight. “Are they dangerous?”
Ethan knelt beside the boy. “That's the real question, isn't it? I don't know. I've heard stories ... some about how the South's the last bit of the real Labadian Empire left, with all it's culture, learning and the like still intact. The others whisper about human sacrifice to pagan gods, and even worse things. Those men down there,” he nodded at the bustling camp below. “They don't look like baby killers to me.”
He stood back up and looked down at Circumstance. “I promised you it'd be your decision. Decide.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sobret Cremer, secretary, seneschal and one time childhood caregiver to Alford the twenty-third, Emperor of the Southern lands, balanced the golden chafing dish upon his fingertips as he swept into the royal dining alcove with his liege's mid-morning repast.
“Your lunch, My Lord.”
Alford looked up at Cremer's lined face framed by the mane of white hair that he kept pulled back and held with a silver clasp. The clasp had been a gift from Alford when the heir to the throne was but a child.
“You know my name, Cremer. Why don't you use it?” Alford took the dish from his old friend.
“It would not be proper, My Lord.” Cremer's tone spoke volumes on the subject of court propriety.
Alford scowled, but it was not at the taste of his lunch. The chops were done perfectly, enhanced to a turn with the sautéed mushrooms and slivered carrots. The smell was delicious.
“I don't care about what's proper. You practically raised me, dammit! Besides, who's going to see you bend a little in this place?” The alcove was on the third floor of the palace, just below the edge of the dome, and in an area that was nearly deserted at midday. Golden light bathed the dining table, filtering through a layer of lace curtains swaying across the beveled glass of the panes.
Cremer remained unbent. “I was your father's friend, My Lord, and I was proud to be so. All the days I knew him, I never called him by his first name. It wasn't proper. As fond as I am of you, in spite of the number of times I changed your nappies, my Lord, it would not be proper now.”
Alford retreated under his secretary's onslaught of court manners. “Very well, very well. I give. You can go now, and leave me to my meager repast.”
Cremer turned and left the Emperor to his lunch. The term meager repast formed on his lips in a silent statement of irony.
Alford's placesetting gleamed in the rich golden hue of the metal it was made from. The chafing dish that held the chops matched the set in color and in price. The crystal goblet that held his wine was worth the price of the average cottage in Access; the bottle of wine, their land.
He cut another bite off one of the chops and washed it down with a sip of the wine. As was typical of the man, the superlative flavor of the dish was wasted on him. Other than its ability to fill him up, he cared little for what went into its preparation.
Alford was bored. The Empire essentially ran itself, and had done so as long as he could remember. His father had a bit of excitement several years before he was born, when the late Duke of Grisham tried to involve himself in some palace intrigue. Alford's father had exposed the scheme during a summit meeting with a number of visiting dignitaries. The man never recovered from the embarrassment.
He sighed deeply and cut another bite of chop. Why couldn't something exciting happen in his life?
* * * * Hypatia gazed across the table with half-lidded eyes at the most fascinating man she'd met since her father had dragged her to this dreary place. She had begun to despair of having any fun at all in Grisham. Most of the men her father placed her in front of were either old enough to be her father, or so foppishly affected as to be ludicrous.
One of the surest forms of non-surgical castration was giggling at the clumsy advances of a would-be suitor. She had seen it happen many times since moving here. One evening in particular, Father's harvest Ball, if she remembered aright, she was sure she could hear the sorry little things hitting the ballroom floor like rain. Old men and boys. Not one of them was worth the time it took her to put on her perfume.
McCabe, on the other hand, was neither an old man nor a boy. He moved with a cat-like grace that made her thighs itch. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, and what he said sent warm shivers all the way down her spine.
“No, I am quite sure you are the most beautiful woman in Grisham.” McCabe sipped from his wineglass. “I've seen the others, and the comparison really isn't fair.”
“You've seen all the women in Grisham?” She emphasized the word all. He waved a hand dismissively. “Those of the court, of course. The peasants don't matter.”
Hypatia giggled. His sense of humor was so worldly. During their conversation, he'd told her of some of the places he'd been to, Verkuyl; where duels are nearly a way of saying hello. Longpointe, where the fishermen bring in lobsters almost half the size of their boats, and Angbar, the magik island, where his life had been lost and gained back again.
All she had ever seen in her eighteen years were the courts of Ort and Grisham. Her fertile mind drew pictures for her of his heroism as he told his stories.
She decided to take the great leap and fortified herself with a long sip of wine. “Do you ... do you think we might be able to meet somewhere ... more private?”
McCabe leaned his elbows on the table, being careful not to smudge the sable velvet of his evening coat. His smile was calculated to be both sincere and seductive. “Why, whatever do you mean, my dear?”
Her eyelids dropped even further, and she looked at him through her long black lashes. “I would suppose a man such as you would have no trouble guessing my meaning.”
His smile broadened. “A man ... such as me?”
Hypatia blushed with the brazenness of her thoughts. Was it the wine? Or was it McCabe's presence?
She felt a hand touch her knee and then travel up her leg.
McCabe nodded at her as his hand was placed back onto the table. “I believe we understand each other.” She hadn't flinched at his touch. A very good sign.
Her answering smile was only a shade off feral. By Labad, she was a brazen one.
“Yes.” She said. “I believe we do.”
* * * * “There are the gates of Grisham, my boy. All in all, I'd say we've made good time.” Milward leaned on his staff and looked at the city spread below them.
Grisham sat on a series of three low hills below the highland where Adam and Milward stood. The city overlooked a narrow throat of water that led into a bay large enough to be an inland sea. The tops of the city's buildings were being stroked by wisps of the retreating morning's fog.
A grouping of buildings sat upon the highest of Grisham's hills surrounded by a thick parapet adorned wall.
Adam pointed to the grouping. “Is that the library? It's huge!”
Milward smiled to himself. The idea of Grisham's Ducal family housing the library was a fine bit of high humor. “No, that's the Ducal Enclave. The center structure with the towers? That's the palace. The others around it are barracks, warehouses, workshops and so on.”
“Why do they have such a thick wall?”
“The city started on that hill, oh ... about six thousand years ago. The wall was proof against roving bands of bandits and the occasional pirate ship that docked at the village growing on the headland.”
“The villagers were composed mostly of retired sailors, fishermen and those whose shops catered to the whims and desires of the men coming off the boats.”
Adam looked back at the way they'd come. He didn't consider six weeks of walking to be making good time, as Milward called it. He would have preferred a horse, but the time spent practicing had been well worth it. He could now control a couple of dozen stones while carrying on a conversation with the old Wizard.
Looking back at Grisham, he asked, “what about the city on the hill? Who lived there?”
Milward shook his head. “I don't know. The records say next to nothing on that subject. The folk of the village were the ones that prospered. Vice always has a market and they learned that lesson well. Be careful inside those gates, Adam. Grisham will bleed you dry, if you let it. Anything a man can think of can be had there, plus a few things men didn't. It is a rowdy, licentious, murderous city, and damn proud of it.”
Adam shifted his stance and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. “I can take care of myself.”
The old Wizard looked at him, resting his chin upon the hands on his staff. “I suppose you can, physically, but Grisham goes after a man's soul. How prepared are you to defend that?”
Adam blinked. He had no answer for Milward's query. Since his last successful practice on the road to Grisham, his confidence level had been high. He even believed he could handle multiple opponents with relative ease with either magik or sword. The safety of his soul had never entered into the picture.
“Not a simple question, is it?” Milward grinned at him.
Adam shook his head ruefully. “No, it isn't. How am I supposed to protect something about me I can't even see?”
Milward held up a forefinger. “Ah, therein lies a question only Bardoc can answer. But so far, he hasn't returned any of my messages. Seriously though, being yourself and doing what you know to be right, in spite of whomever you offend doing so, this is the best course you can take. Knowing what I now know of you, those who would be offended by an action you believe is right are no friends of yours in the first place.”
Adam stood silently for a long moment, and then he readjusted his pack. “Well, I suppose the only thing to do is make our way through Grisham, and keep our eyes and ears open.”
Milward snorted. As much as he loved the Library, he distrusted the city that sat across it even more.
They turned from the edge of the down slope, and stepped back onto the path that led down to Labad's Highway and on into Grisham.
The Highway stretched from Grisham in the north to Orbis in the south, with Ort being the central hub. From the chasm bridge spanning the Ort river, an eastern arm extended to the university city of Labad. Its paving stones were made of massive slabs of speckled granite with mica flecks scattered through the matrix that glinted when struck by the morning sun.
Even after more than a thousand years of abuse by cart wheels, hooves, sun, wind, hail and rain, the slabs held, still joined together so precisely that few blades of grass found room to grow between them. Milward's staff tapped out a rhythm that followed them as they walked the last mile to the city gates. From just beyond the point where they entered the highway, they walked a gauntlet of stall-based businesses whose owners implored, screamed and pleaded for the two travelers to stop and sample their wares or service.
“Who are all these people?” Adam asked, as he pushed aside a vender of fetishes who had tried to block their way as they approached the open city gates.
Milward sent another overeager merchant back to his stall with a glare. “Entrepreneurs who either can't or won't pay the taxes and license fees necessary to own a shop inside the city's walls. They actually do a rather brisk business, because the city's laws are only enforced inside.”
Adam looked around at the grouping of stalls that lined the highway. They were uniformly haphazard in their construction, thrown together with whatever materials could be found at hand.
He shook his head, disappointing the comely harlot that had beckoned at him. “So they get potential customers both coming and going.”
“That they do. Come, we need to present ourselves to the gate guards.” Milward drew him on with a hand at his elbow.
The guards saw their approach and straightened out of their at-ease slouch.
Milward stopped before the taller of the two, and began to introduce himself when he was struck with an agonizing wave of nausea and angina. He gasped with the pain and fell forward, clutching at his heart. The headache began as he hit the ground. That was when he groaned and vomited over the guard's boots.
Adam dropped to the old Wizard's side and looked up at the guards. They stood there helplessly. Neither of them had any training or experience to deal with a dying old man.
He fumbled through the writhing Wizard's pouches, shouting at the guards as he searched. “Bring me water and something to cradle his head, now!”
The young lord's tone brooked no disobedience. The guards pushed through the gathered crowd to fetch the items.
Milward vomited again, but all that came up was bile and phlegm. The “Ooh!” from the crowd sounded disappointed.
Adam found what he was looking for, and cradled Milward's head. “Don't worry. It's going to be all right, I've got them getting water for the potion.”
Milward tried to understand what was being said to him through the waves of nausea and pain. The blood pounded in his ears, making it difficult to hear words. “What ... potion...?”
Adam looked at the vials. “Aleth and Willit. AH! Here's the water.”
The two guards forced their way back through the crowd to where Adam knelt with Milward. The shorter of the two handed him a small bucket of water. The other held a gray, lumpy pillow.
“Got ‘em from th’ barracks ... m'lord.” The shorter said around a tired looking dog end.
Adam took the water and motioned to the taller guard. “Good. Put the pillow behind his head while I mix the potion.”
The shorter one made a sign as if warding off evil. “Potion m'lord?”
Adam didn't have time for superstition. “Medicine, then. Herbs that will make him feel better. Get me a cup. Now!”
His bellow spurred the fellow into action and he ran to find a cup.
Adam looked down at Milward. The old Wizard was pasty white with pain and his tongue, stuck between his teeth, was gray. Spasms passed through his body as another groan was released. The veins in his temples stood out like twine pasted onto the skin.
The guard reappeared with a battered tin cup. “It all we got, m'lord.” His hand shook as he offered it to Adam.
Adam took the cup. “It'll do.” He dipped the cup into the bucket. The water was clean, at least. He opened the two vials and poured their contents into the cup. The crowd closed in to see what he was doing.
He sensed the pressure from the crowd and something else as well. It felt dirty ... and dangerous, and it was above them, high in the sky.
“Make them back away.” He said out to the guards and pointed to the crowd. They began to do so, with ruthless efficiency. This, at least, was something they knew how to do.
Adam brought the cup up to Milward's lips and tipped some of the potion in. Milward swallowed a bit of the bitter mixture and lay back.
The Aleth started working on the spasms immediately, and Milward managed to pull Adam closer to him with a shaking hand. “More,” he whispered when Adam's ear came close.
He brought the cup to the old Wizard's lips again and poured the remainder of the potion down his throat.
Milward choked and made a face at the foul, bitter taste. “Faughhh! That's awful. But it seems to be doing the trick on most of it.”
“What happened to you?” Adam put the cup onto the stone of the gateway entrance.
Milward held his head in his hands. “I'm not rightly sure. One moment I was getting ready to introduce us and find an appropriate inn for our lodging tonight, and the next...” He indicated his prone position with a cross wave of his hands. “Well ... you know.” He winced as another wave of pain washed through his head.
Adam felt that presence again, and looked up, but saw nothing but fleecy puffs of cloud in a blue sky. He turned back to Milward. “We've got to get you to a bed.”
He called out to the guards as he helped Milward to his feet. “The closest inn, a good one. Where is it?”
The short one left off pummeling a beggar with his staff, and pointed to a cobblestoned street that curved its way up a hill. Steps lined the street, acting as sort of a sidewalk. The buildings along its path looked to be well cared for, with most of them having two or three stories, the top two of which poked out over the street. The roofs were primarily thatch, but a few showed the glow of red tile where the sun struck them.
“Yonder up Mulligan row, past where Turnberry crosses it. That be where Granny Bullton's place lie. She keeps a good table, she does, an’ th’ best brown ale this side o’ th’ Palace. She'll do yer Da right by her.”
Adam pressed a coin into the guard's hand. “Thank you, I'm obliged to your kindness.”
The guard looked down at the coin, and his eyes bulged when he saw the buttery yellow of its color. “Anytime, yer grace!” he called, as Adam led Milward in the direction of the inn. “Anytime at all!”
Adam called back, “I'll remember that. Split it with your friend.”
The shorter guard, chagrined, looked at the taller one, who smiled back at him, holding out his hand.
Milward was able, with the help of his staff and Adam, to make his way, albeit slowly, up the steps of Mulligan Row.
Unlike the way approaching the city gates, Mulligan's row was composed mainly of crafters more interested in fulfilling their commissions than in pulling unwilling shoppers off the street. A few peddlers asked politely if they were interested in seeing the latest and greatest of something, but the sight of Milward's ashen face caused the requests to be half-hearted, at best.
They passed a bakery just before the intersection of Mulligan and Turnberry that filled the street with the scent of fresh loaves in the oven. A few urchins had their noses pressed to the front window, hungrily coveting the goods on the other side.
Adam saw the sign of the inn extending out over the sidewalk. Its oval shape was enclosed in a wrought iron frame ornamented with curling flourishes. It sported a painting of a rampant stag superimposed over a flagon of ale. The amount of fading in the paint spoke of the sign's age.
A careworn old man held the door for Adam and then began trudging up Turnberry after closing it. A woman, even older, bustled out from behind a counter at their entrance.
She held her hands to her cheeks at the sight of Milward. “Oh, mercy me! What's happened to the poor dear?”
Milward weakly waved the innkeeper away. “Get away, old woman. I'm not as frail as all that, yet. Just show me to a bed and I'll mend nicely.”
The old woman, Granny Bullton, fluttered around them, as Adam helped Milward up the stairs to the second floor. Their rooms, as she'd said, were the third and fourth ones on the right, down the hall. The window coverings were clean cotton prints that matched the thick comforters on the beds.
Milward sank into his with a sigh of relief, and Adam gave him another draught of the Aleth and Willit potion. He then left him to his rest.
Granny Bullton met Adam outside Millward's door; her arms were loaded with towels and linens. “Oh! Hello. How is that dear old gentleman doing? Is he going to get better? I've brought some things for him.”
Adam held up a hand. “He's resting right now. I gave him a potion that will help him sleep, so the towels and things should probably wait till later.”
The old woman nodded. “I'll put these aside till they're needed. Is there anything I can do for you, young man?”
He smiled at her. “I hear you've got the best brown ale this side of the Palace.”
* * * * The stacks smelled of musty parchment, old leathers and dust, and the Librarian breathed deeply of the old familiar scents. Passages of remembered books flitted through his memory like old friends. In many ways, they were his friends. No book or parchment had ever broken its word to him, nor attempted to use him for its own gain. They never complained if he dedicated his evenings toward one and not the other, and when he felt the need for their companionship, they were always there.
His hunt through the ancient prophecies had been fruitless, so now he'd turned to the Library's collection of legends and fables.
“Here's the others, master.” Felsten staggered into the reading alcove, his head and torso hidden behind the pile of books and folios he held in his arms. His lame leg scraped on the tiles of the floor as he worked his way to the old man.
The librarian turned and hurried to help his apprentice before the stack of precious writings tumbled out of his arms.
“Felsten, Felsten.” He admonished him gently. “You should have taken another trip, at least.”
“I kin handle it ... master.” Felsten panted.
The Librarian noted wryly the amount of quiver in Felsten's arms. He guided the boy over to a long side table where several rolled and tied parchments lay. He swept them to one side and helped Felsten settle his burden onto the table.
“Ah ... there we are.” The Librarian ran his hands over the mixed bag of writings. Long buried memories bubbled to the surface as he caught sight of old familiar titles. Labad and the City of Gold. Bardoc creates the Circle Sea. The Witches of Angbar. And so many others.
Felsten picked up a particularly dusty folio with a tooled leather binding. The edges of the binding were tattered with age and long use. The title worked in gold leaf, showed faintly through the dust, Visions of Darkness. “Whut are you hopin’ to find, master?”
The Librarian did not turn around. He knew if he saw what he was looking for, he'd know it. “I'm not quite sure. I know it's either a folio, a scroll or a collection of parchments tied together. Gave me frightful dreams. Of course, I was much younger then. Nearly as young as you.”
Felsten looked at the folio. “Wuz it called Visions of Darkness?”
His master spun around with the agility of a man half his age. “You found it! Felsten, you're a wonder! Here, let's have a look.”
He snatched the volume from Felsten's hands and opened it on the table. The oversized pages crackled as he lifted the cover sheet with care.
“Yes, yes, this is the one. No doubt about it. Not a scroll, as I first thought. Oh, you should go through this folio sometime, Felsten. Such nightmares it gave me as a young man. Good days those were, good days.”
Felsten vowed silently to himself to avoid taking the folio as bedtime reading material at all costs.
The librarian mumbled the words as he read. “...Jeffan walked through the crypt ... tardiness led him to ignore ... The Krell waited in the shadows...”
He turned the page and then another. “No, not this one. Hmmm ... Let's see...Beyond the veil ... Susallia pushed through the gossamer webbing ... the fear following at her heels.”
He turned pages again. Dust, smelling of great age, billowed into the air of the room. A sunbeam turned some of the motes into dancing fairies.
“I believe we're getting closer, Felsten. I do believe we are ... Listen to this one. It reads less like a narrative than the others.”
“Thin grew the separation between the worlds. The Elven Sorcerer probed the dimensional fabric with his mind. He tasted it with his spirit, and grew drunk upon its terror.
“I have the power to control the phantoms of nightmare.” He thought to himself. “Through their unworldly strength, I will add to my own. Even Bardoc himself will bow to me.”
"The light of the moon brings to the surface the eccentric and the unique. It aides the traveler in its seeking. The Sorcerer knew this, the blood of innocents fed his fell knowledge, and in his folly he brought the destroye,r and through his folly destruction came in its wake.”
The librarian nodded his head in discovery. “This is the one, Felsten. Legends, I called these. Fables. Stories to scare young boys. Little did I know they were prophetic. Listen to this...”
"The Sorcerer made war with the Human King, creating fell beasts to swell his host. Children torn from their mothers’ living wombs for sacrifice brought the darkness closer until the beasts’ blood became death itself, and the King fell on the field of valor."
The librarian pointed at the page. “Yes ... this is it, Felsten. Part of it anyway. This part right here, about the fear.”
“In the time of the promise.” Whatever that means. “The Sorcerer split the veil in his folly and his pride. He sent forth fear as his embassy to cause the promise to fail, but brought forth the Destroyer instead.”
Felsten looked at the page. “The writer talks about this Destroyer two times. See, here ... and here.”
“Very good, Felsten. I'll make a librarian and a scholar out of you, yet.”
The apprentice beamed under the praise as he looked at the page. “I wonder who this Sorcerer fellow is. Says here he's an Elf.”
He looked at the Librarian. “Elves is real?”
* * * * The Alpha Wolf sniffed the air as he stood in the shadow of the young Dragon. “The pack is nervous. They do not like being out of the forest.”
Drinaugh looked across the expanse of grass prairie that stretched before them. The solitary mountain the humans called Cloudhook soared into the sky in the distance to the Southeast. The afternoon sun glinted off the glaciers lining its peak
To the North of the mountain, dark patches on the prairie coalesced into clumps of trees as he focused on them with the telescopic part of his vision.
“There are trees out there. Small forests, you could call them. We can travel from forest to forest. The pack can still sleep within the trees.”
The Alpha Wolf looked at the Dragon. “My muzzle is not as gray as it looks, sky lord. I smell the trees. The pack will survive.”
* * * * Thaylli woke to her third morning in the wild, shivering. Dew covered the outside of her woolen cloak. The sound of it dripping from the leaves above her was what woke her. She was just as glad to be awake. Her dreams had not been pleasant.
“Adam, where are you?” She rubbed the moisture from her eyes. “Oh, that's right. You're off heading for the big city, if you're not there already.”
Adam didn't answer. She didn't expect him to, but she'd decided to talk to him anyway, especially when she felt lonely. She'd been feeling lonely since that first night when she fell asleep using her pack as a pillow.
Breakfast was cold. Her attempt at cooking the day before had turned out to be disastrous. The bacon burned to a cinder, and the tisane came out weak enough that it may as well have been water alone.
She re-stuffed her pack and fit her arms through the straps with a feeling of stubborn determination. She was going to find Adam, even if it meant being miserable every stupid step of the way.
The terrain from where she'd camped rose steadily up a short rise, and then down again into another glen. She was in the downs to the northeast of Cloudhook. She remembered her Father talking about them. If she followed a slightly southern route, she should wind up in pine forest with a gentle downslope, and eventually come to Labad's highway. Maybe there she could catch a ride to Grisham with one of the merchant caravans.
The path she chose curved around one of the low, lopsided hills that made up the downs. Its surface was thick with yellow-flowered Cassia and Acacia bushes that took advantage of the spaces between the sparse tan oaks.
In spite of her homesickness and feeling that somehow Adam was to blame for her present troubles, she found herself enjoying the hike. The yellow flowers were fragrant, and butterflies competed with hummingbirds for the best nectar, giving her an entertaining diversion for the walk.
She was so engrossed in one of the competitions she didn't see the little man until she walked full into him.
“Hey now!” He pushed her back firmly, but gently, off of his toes.
She looked down at him. He was a full head shorter than her, but almost twice as broad. His hair was reddish-brown, and hung down his back in long braids. His beard and mustache blended together into a mass that covered his belly, and a pair of stout legs extended from beneath a colorful kilt held up with a broad leather belt.
She pointed to him. “You're a dwarf!” She said it almost accusingly.
He looked up at her with bright blue eyes. “Aye.” He said. “That I be. A Dwarf, and proud of it. What be you, besides a toe-trodder?”
Thaylli blinked at the Dwarf's calm, matter of fact disposition. “Uh ... I be, I mean, I'm Thaylli ... a human. Who are you, besides a dwarf, I mean?”
“Coraghessan.” He thumped his chest with a fist, and stepped to her side, as he looked her up and down. “Your pack. It's all wrong.”
Thaylli craned her neck to look at her pack. “What's wrong with it?”
Coraghessan shook his head and blew between his teeth. His breath smelled of bay leaves. “Too much to tell you here. Follow me.”
He turned on his heel and started back in the direction he came from. Thaylli stood there a moment and watched the dwarf until he vanished around the curve of the hill, then she took hold of one of the straps on her pack, and hurried after him.
“Hold up! I'm coming.” The pack banged against her back, seeming to count out the phrase, “the Dwarf is right. The Dwarf is Right. The Dwarf...”
She pushed her imagination away and concentrated in keeping up with Coraghessan. For someone with such short legs, he could walk very fast, and he never looked back to see if she was behind him. Thaylli thought it somehow rude.
The dwarf blazed a trail that had Thaylli pushing through Acacia and thick stands of thornless muskberry vine.
When she pushed aside the last Acacia branch she found herself looking at a trio of dwarfs, including the one who'd introduced himself as Coraghessan.
The one sitting to the left of Coraghessan thumped his chest. “Basho.”
The one on Coraghessan's right thumped his chest. “Graaff.”
The three Dwarves looked at Thaylli as if expecting something from her. She did the only thing she could think of. “Thaylli,” she said, thumping her chest.
The dwarves on either side of Coraghessan nodded in approval and said something in a language she didn't understand.
“W ... wh ... what did they say?” She looked to the dwarf who led her to the campsite.
Instead of answering her question, Coraghessan turned to each of the others in turn, and asked them something in the same language. They nodded and answered him with a single, “Jhi.”
Thaylli looked at the three Dwarves. “Does that mean ... yes?”
Coraghessan scratched after a roving itch in his beard. “It can. In this case it means they don't object to their words being known to a young human female foolhardy enough to travel the wild without knowing how to survive there.”
She felt the flush rising up her throat and into her face. Knowing the dwarves could see her overt show of embarrassment added chagrin to her shame.
She swallowed the retort that welled up and forced herself to settle down with a slow count backward from five.
The dwarves continued to look at her stoically, waiting for her response. She swallowed again. “Very well. I suppose I deserved that, but there always has to be a first time for everything, doesn't there? Well, this is my first time, and I think it's for a good reason. I also think you wouldn't have had me follow you here, Coraghessan, unless you were going to help me somehow.”
She took her pack off and sat down on it, returning the dwarves stare.
Coraghessan looked at each of his fellow dwarves and asked them something in that language again. They nodded, and this time when they looked at her, they smiled.
He nodded as well and stood up. “They agree with me that there is more to you than Garloc meat. You will stay with us and learn the ways of the wild. Enough to make your journey safer, at least. That is all we have time for, now.”
The dwarf's brusque manner got to Thaylli. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Of course there's more to me than Garloc meat! And just what gives you the right to tell me what I'm going to do? I don't have to stay here, you know.”
The dwarves shocked her by laughing instead of becoming angry with her. They roared out their response, slapping each other on the backs, and wiping the tears that streamed down their cheeks.
Thaylli sat there, dumbfounded, her mouth hanging open. After a bit, the dwarves laughter proved contagious, and she found herself smiling at first, and then joining in with them wholeheartedly.
Coraghessan's howls reduced to chuckles, and he wiped the last of the tears from his eyes with both hands.
“Good. Very good. There is rock in your limbs, almost like a dwarf female, you are. You will do well. That is, if you wish to learn.”
She felt the sincerity in his words. They would let her walk, if she chose to. She nodded her acceptance.
The Dwarf reached out and clapped her firmly on her upper arm. “Good. We begin now.”
Thaylli's indoctrination into the ways of survival began with the Dwarves going through her pack. They repacked it for her while telling her the why and the wherefore of what went where. A number of the items she'd thought utterly necessary, they dismissed altogether. A very few of the items she thought a little useful, they proclaimed mandatory in travel. She felt humbled and not a little frightened at what might have happened to her when they were done with the lesson.
She was made to unpack and repack her bag until the Dwarves were sure she had committed it to memory
They then led her into a shallow wash that ran through a depression in the downs a few yards behind the campsite. There they showed her how to identify medicinal plants and berries, as well as the green tops of tubers she could eat raw for a crisp refreshing meal during a march, roasted with game or in a stew with the other trail vegetables they pointed out to her.
The Dwarves led her out of the wash and then had her venture back into it to gather samples of what she'd been shown. She had to make the trip four times until she got them all right.
When dusk arrived, Thaylli sank gratefully onto the pallet she built under their guidance gratefully. She was so tired she could feel her skin trembling, and she felt as if she were floating. She could hear the voices of the dwarves chanting something about Labad and war. One of them was playing something on a pipe in a minor key, the chant followed the timing of the pipe's melody, and she fell asleep without tasting the stew they'd prepared for her.
* * * * McCabe smiled. Hypatia's “some place more private” was one of the lesser-used bedrooms in the Ortian Embassy. The curvy bitch had quite a sense of adventure. It was a shame he couldn't drag his assignment out a little longer; the end was always much sweeter when the game was savored slowly.
“Do you like it?” She swung herself around one of the bedposts on the foot of the oversized four-poster.
He began undoing the frogs on his black silk blouse. “Yes. Yes, I do. And I'm not just including the bed in that.”
Hypatia laughed and swung around the bedpost one more time.
McCabe pulled off his blouse as she swung herself back onto the floor. She met him halfway to the bed, and ran her right hand upwards into his hair, drawing his face towards hers.
He responded by crushing her to his chest and grinding his mouth against her lips. She fumbled with the ties at his waist, jerking at the cords.
She gasped as his hands explored further. “Take me.” She breathed in his ear. “Take me now.”
He did. Hypatia responded by digging her nails into his back, drawing blood. McCabe nearly lost his sense of purpose with the pleasure her nails gave him.
He could feel her building up for another one. The slow down after the first had been too brief. Now was the time.
He held her to him, and flipped her over so he was on top. His hands moved up to her cheek, and she pressed it into his palm. Her breathing quickened, and she smiled up at him.
He moved his hands to her throat and tightened his grip.
Her eyes widened, and she tried to scream, but the fingers on her throat tightened, crushing her larynx. McCabe leaned forward, putting all his weight into the girl's throat, and then he kissed her as she died. Now for some fun.
Later, when he was through, he left her body there on the bed, and the door open. In a few days, the sweet odor of decaying flesh would attract someone's attention, and they would find Bilardi's calling card sewn onto the flesh of her belly, as per the Duke's orders. McCabe, at his worst, never had the brazenness to do that before.
His smile became laughter as he left the Embassy through the back door, the one Hypatia had told him about.
* * * * “It's three coppers, an’ not a groat more.” The peasant woman was heavy set; graying and her breath stank of onions, the same onions Adam was trying to buy for his stew, but three coppers a pound was akin to theft from what he'd seen as he toured the marketplace.
He told her so. “That's twice as high as what the other farmers are charging.”
She spat the saliva buildup from her chew. The juices from the weed made her eyes red-veined. “That's ‘cause mine are twice as good, an’ everbuddy knows so. Three coppers. I don't bargain.”
Adam sent a small shaping, into her, asking her body if it was lying. She showed no sign of feeling the shaping and she was being truthful, or at least she believed she was.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a silver. “I'll take a pound.”
The coin was snatched from his fingers with lightening speed. “Ahh, good lad. You be makin’ a wise decision, you do. Them's the best onions this side of the mountains. You'll find that out, you just wait an’ see.”
Adam took the wrapped parcel of onions and his change and stepped back into the organized chaos of the marketplace.
Grisham's marketplace was not a single entity. The place Adam was shopping in was one of the smaller installations, away from the mass insanity of the press inside the city gates.
“Hey, Guv! Fancy a sausage?” The heavily accented voice called out to Adam as he strolled through the crush of stalls and carts. A knot of giggling and screaming children pushed past him, involved in some sort of game that had to rely on how many toes they could trod on in a given minute.
Adam turned to look at the fellow holding up a steaming sausage impaled on a wooden skewer. “You said something?”
The fellow squinted at him through dirty round spectacles. Bland, frizzy mouse brown hair peeked out from underneath a floppy knit hat that looked older than Milward. The grayish, greasy sausages grilling on the brazier did not smell, or look, appetizing. Adam tried not to breathe in too deeply.
Knit hat poked the sausage he was holding under Adam's nose. “Sure did, Guv. Have a sausage. Only a copper, an’ a real bargain at that. I should sell ‘em for a silver, at least, but me ol’ mom would come back an’ haunt me iffn I did somethin’ so dishonest. C'mon. Buy a sausage. Make me poor ol’ mum proud.”
Adam recoiled from the rancid odor that assaulted him. “Not on your life! What do you put in those things, anyway? It smells like burnt hair.”
The sausage vendor had the poor grace to look offended. “Burnt ‘air? Burnt ‘air? I'll ‘ave you know I use only th’ finest selected meat an’ spices in these ‘ere sausages.”
Adam held his mouth over his nose. “Selected from what? The finest rats?” He backed away from the stall.
“Oh, yeah, ‘at's right. Insult th’ ‘onest sausage seller an’ walk off. Go ahead. ‘Oo needs ya? Get outta ‘ere!” The merchant shooed Adam away with a wave of his merchandise.
He checked his purchases as he walked away from the vendor, through the market, and back into the city streets. The open netting of the shopping bag made it an easy task. Onions, carrots, and celery occupied the top of the bag, and bunched clippings of fresh herbs, long loaves of fresh baked crusty bread, a waxed package of yellow butter, and an even dozen golden brown potatoes made up the rest. All he needed was the meat, and the stew could be put together.
The time spent working in Hersh's shop had taught him a lot about grading meat. From what he'd seen in the market, nearly all the cuts offered there wouldn't make graduation. There was a butcher shop a couple of streets downhill from the inn, and the butcher was a fan of Granny Bullton's ale. He'd been at the bar when Adam discovered the guard's estimation of granny's brown ale to be accurate.
He greeted Adam with a wave and a grin as the bell over the door signaled his entrance. “Hey there! Gonna make that stew after all, eh?”
Adam's answering smile was tired. The walk had been mostly uphill, and he'd had to face down potential cutpurses on two separate occasions. “I suppose so. Milward could use the nourishment, and although Granny Bullton may be a good brewmaster, she's no cook.”
The butcher laughed as he drew one of his knives across a steel. “Don't I know it! She turned one of my best roasts into charcoal.”
He leaned across the counter. “I think she uses the same recipe for everything. Even her wheat cakes taste like beer.”
That brought a laugh out of Adam. “You're probably right. I'll take a couple pounds of stew meat. Small chunks, please.”
The butcher pursed his lips as he looked across his stock. “Beef, venison or mutton?”
Adam considered the old Wizard's tastes. “Beef.”
The butcher nodded. “Good choice. Venison's pricey, and the mutton's strong enough to walk out of the pot on its own.”
He pulled a well-marbled haunch out of the cupboard, and began dicing it into bite-sized chunks of stew meat. Adam watched the deft handling of the large butcher knife with a sense of nostalgia. He and Charity had been happy then.
He shook off the feeling. There was no sense in dwelling on a past that wasn't going to be revisited, at least not any time soon.
“That'll be a half silver.” The butcher plopped the bundle of stew meat onto the counter.
Adam handed him the five coppers plus one more. “Thanks. The extra's for you and your missus, and for me not having to use the stuff down the hill.”
The butcher pocketed the coin, and nodded his head. “Aye. If they keep on going as they are, Grisham won't have a rat to its name. I swear, if they could get away with it, they'd serve Garloc.”
That got another laugh from Adam. He felt considerably better than when he had entered the butcher shop. The man's gregariousness was catching. He found himself whistling a tune as he walked the two blocks to the inn.
Milward woke as Adam entered the bedroom. Granny Bullton came in and left a supply of fresh cloths for his forehead before going into her basement brewery. A lingering smell of hops and yeast lay in the room from her visit.
“So, you've made it back in one piece,” the Wizard grumped, as he reached for the water pitcher and poured himself a glassful.
“You must be feeling better,” Adam remarked, as he unbuckled his sword belt. “That's the first sour word you've said to me in most of a week.”
Milward's eyebrows climbed into his scalp line. “Really? I must have been stricken harder than I thought. No one takes you seriously when you get to be my age unless you crab a bit. Remember that.” He drank the water in one long swallow.
“I've got a stew started.” Adam took the empty glass and placed it back onto the nightstand.
Milward looked at him suspiciously. “That old crone hasn't had her hands into it, has she?”
Adam smiled as he shook his head no. “I made sure of it. She was a little disappointed at not being able to help out. I think she's sweet on you.”
Milward looked alarmed. “Bardoc preserve me. We've got to get out of here as soon as possible.”
He started to pull back the quilts, but Adam restrained him with a small laugh. “Don't worry about it. I've already told her you were a confirmed vagabond bachelor. She was even more disappointed to hear that one than about the stew.”
Milward sank back into the mattress with a profound sigh. “Oh, thank you, dear boy. You don't know how large a favor I owe you for that one.”
Adam grunted. “I'll collect later. Can you tell me more about what happened back at the gate house?”
Milward thought about the seizure. It had felt like an attack, but he was sure Gilgafed didn't have the reach; not from Pestilence. But, there were entities ... he drove the thought from his mind and refocused on Adam.
“Ummm. Not really. It was most likely a reaction to some of my own cooking out in the wild. I really should pay more attention to such things.”
Adam crossed his arms. “If I remember correctly, I was the one who prepared that morning's breakfast. And I don't recall hearing any complaints.”
“See!?” The old Wizard pointed a finger at Adam's nose. “I told you your cooking would one day be the death of me! Look at what you did.” He spread his arms, indicating where he lay.
“If that's what happened,” Adam kept his arms crossed as he leaned back against the bedroom wall. “Then you ate something I didn't, otherwise I'd be in bed the same as you.”
Milward gathered the covers around himself and settled deeper into his mattress. “Well, I'm not going to argue with you about it.”
Adam snorted a short laugh. “That's a change.”
“Go. See to your stew, if you're going to be that way. I want to get some more sleep.” The old Wizard pulled the covers over his eyes as he turned on his side.
He could hear the click of the latch as Adam closed the door. "He is a good lad.” Milward thought. “He doesn't deserve what's coming.”
“Please, Bardoc.” He prayed. “Let it not be a seeker.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cobain pushed the door open with his rear as he worked at balancing his master's lunch on the silver tray. The sorcerer's appetite was finally coming back to something resembling a normal level since that horrible day he released the Seeker into the world.
“Finally.” Gilgafed's voice cut across the room, disturbing his reflections. “Did you have to give birth to the shoat, as well as cook it?”
The Sorcerer sat at his favorite dining spot, drumming the fingers of his right hand, pinky to thumb and back again. He was hungry, and impatient. He hadn't felt hunger, real hunger, for the first time in weeks. Ever since ... he shuddered at the thought. The problem, he'd learned, with the shadow creatures was, you couldn't trust them. They'd just as soon take the one who summoned them as the target they'd been brought over to deal with.
Cobain laid the covered platter onto the table with a practiced flourish. “Your repast, Master.”
He swept the cover upwards to reveal a suckling pig, roasted whole, in a honey glaze with the heart, kidneys and sweetbreads laid around it, interspersed with apples and potatoes.
Gilgafed looked at the feast, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He picked up his knife and cut into the crisp golden skin of the shoat. It crackled, and sweet fat welled up as the blade sliced off a thick serving.
“Ummm.” He closed his eyes in rapture as he chewed the succulent flesh. “I am forced to admit, Cobain, the wait was worth it.”
Cobain was surprised at the unlooked for compliment. “W ... why thank you, Master. I am gratified.”
The Sorcerer gulped at his wine and waved off his servant's reply. “Think nothing of it. I'm hungry enough, the hooves would taste good. In fact, I may eat them, anyway.” He sliced off another section and shoved it into his mouth.
Cobain watched his master eat and nodded to himself. He should probably follow the sorcerer's advice and think nothing of the compliment. It was safer that way.
He swallowed and asked his question. “Have you heard anything from the envoy, Master?”
There was a slurping sound as Gilgafed gulped more of his wine. Cobain winced. The vintage was hundreds of years old, and as rare as a flawless ruby. The sorcerer was treating it like spring water.
Gilgafed wiped his mouth with back of his hand as he put down the empty goblet. “Nothing yet. Not that I expected to hear anything so soon. Grisham is a giant haystack, and I've sent her to find one particular needle. Really, Cobain, you should learn to practice patience, like I do.”
Cobain set his face into a mask of resigned tolerance. “I will endeavor to do so, Master.”
* * * * The great dog sniffed the corner of the building with interest. In spite of its size and its immunity to its rider's power, it was, of course, still a dog. The envoy hissed a command and it forwent the inspection of the neighborhood message board, and turned back into the center of the City Street.
The envoy could feel she was getting closer to finding what the sorcerer had sent her to find. That feeling of evil was becoming stronger, and in fact, it had developed an additional nuance, almost ... a flavor, as if it were particularly pleased with something it had recently accomplished.
The rabble inhabiting Grisham continued to be repulsed by her power, which was just as well. There had been times in the past when her power was used to kill. Fear would stop a man's heart as surely as a blade, and it had done so, many times. She preferred not to have to do so again.
The buildings around them were looking better, the streets wider, and the people better dressed. “This must be one of the moneyed neighborhoods,” she thought.
They turned another corner, this one of no interest at all to the dog. The street opened into a wide, park-like setting, with an expensive looking mansion set in the middle of it. The evil wasn't here, but it had been. Recently. The trail led ... that way.
Guards came running her way, carrying ornate, but serviceable looking spears and halberds. She turned her head, and watched them come. Some of them were made of sterner stuff than the others, they actually came to within a spear length of the dog before their bowels turned to water. In the back of her mind, the question arose again. “Why don't they ever think of using a bow?”
When the last of the guards lay on the grass gibbering in terror, she turned her head and directed the dog to continue the search. She had the trail; now it was just a matter of time.
* * * * McCabe's right hand held the gold coins over his outstretched left palm, and dropped them, one after another, into it. He relished the rich, tinkling sound they made as they rearranged their stack on his palm.
The Duke had been generous, more than he thought the pot-bellied old man would have been.
“They should have discovered the little bitch's body by now,” he mused to himself, as he clinked his coins in his hand. A smile that was less than kind spread across his face as he walked the street in the neighborhood he'd chosen to live in. It was upper class and indulgent, a perfect playground for one with McCabe's tastes.
A couple of women coming home from shopping shied when they saw his expression and crossed the street. Their steps quickened as his laughter followed them. A few shutters opened to see the cause of the sound, more closed because of it.
* * * * The Envoy's skin began to tingle. Her target was very, very near. The great dog sensed it, as well, and a low rumble formed in its throat. Alongside the excitement of the hunt lay apprehension. This target was not their usual prey. The sense of evil was nearly palpable. She, who gave fear, now felt it. She increased her projection as a precaution. The people who had stayed in the street to gawk at the great dog vanished from it as if swept aside by an invisible broom.
“Only a few more moments, now,” she thought to herself. “Maybe this turning, or the next.”
The dog's rumble became a growl and then a bark. The envoy looked up the previously empty street to see a slender, dark-complexioned man of less than average height walking towards them. He wore black; silk blouse, leather belt and twill pants that tucked into calf-high shiny black boots. The smile his face wore as he approached her and the dog was anything but pleasant.
She feared this man. The emotion was alien to her, and it gave wings to the tightness that flew to her heart.
The shaping hit McCabe with all the force the envoy could muster. Men had died under less, their insides rupturing under the weight of the terror that struck them. McCabe merely smiled as his hand toyed with the pommel of his dagger.
* * * * Thaylli's temper had been better. Her feet struck the ground as if it were to blame for her present mood. She knew the real reasons for how she felt. Her mouth still burned a bit from that foul stew the dwarves had left for her breakfast, and they hadn't even had the good graces to be there when she awoke.
To top it off, she could feel the pressure of her time coming on. No, today was not a good day.
She had to admit that the advice and the lessons of the dwarves were serving her well. She now had a sturdy staff, and it did help in her walking, especially when the uphill grade was steep. She took some small satisfaction by maintaining her foul mood in spite of that.
The weather was also cooperating in keeping her out of sorts. A storm had rattled the highlands behind her last night. The edges of it left a dampness that clung to the greenery around her, and soaked her skirts through to her skin.
“Oooo ... bother you, Adam. You're going to pay for this when I finally catch up with you.” She raised her staff and whacked the top off of an innocent thistle as she passed it. A small part of her rose up to protest the meanness of the act, but she pushed it back as she thought about all the things she was going to say to Adam concerning his thoughtlessness in running off and leaving her like he did. That she had agreed with his choice bore no weight at all in the argument.
She dug the staff into the damp ground and used it to help her climb the slope. This one was stepper than the rest, and the tall grasses gave off a fragrant sweet alfalfa smell as she passed through them.
Her mood took a sudden swing to the better as she looked down the other side of the ridge she had just climbed. A gleaming white ribbon curved away to the north and to the south, maybe five or six miles from where she stood.
Labad's legendary highway, the rest of her journey would be much easier.
* * * * They watched the solitary female from their vantagepoint in the pines.
“She is without pack or mate, sky lord.” The Alpha Wolf said to Drinaugh.
One of the pups whined and was quickly shushed by his mother. The Alpha Wolf noted the disturbance with a twitch of his ears. The cub would be spoken to later.
Drinaugh flexed his wings as he shifted his shoulders. He ached to take to the sky again, but that would be rude to the wolves, as well as cause him to lose track of Adam's scent.
He sniffed the air as the wind shifted. “Our human friend has been with this one. His scent is on her.”
The wolf sniffed the breeze. He curled his upper lip as he musthed. “Your nose does you great credit, sky lord. I smell the short ones and where she has walked, nothing more. When was she with our pack mate?”
The young Dragon sniffed again. “It has been a long time. Maybe as much as a season, but it is his scent.”
The alpha wolf opened his mouth in a wolf grin. “I smell you, dragon. The wolves will honor your nose in our songs.”
Drinaugh gave him the Dragon equivalent of a blush. “The honor is mine, pack leader. I am grateful, but ... how shall we approach our friend's female?”
“The day is near its ending,” the wolf said, while watching Thaylli walk down the hill. “We will greet her in the morning. If she is the she of our pack mate, she will know who we are.”
* * * * Adam readjusted the sack full of apples in his arms as he climbed the stairs to the floor where he and Milward stayed. The apples had been a good find. Their green striped, reddish skins hid a solid white sweet flesh with a nice, tart aftertaste.
“Hey, old man.” He called out as he nudged the door to Milward's room with the toe of his boot. “I've got some apples here you'll want to ... Milward!”
Adam dropped the apples and rushed to the old wizard's side. Milward was bathed in sweat and his teeth were chattering. His skin held the color of the grave and each shuddering breath came past his lips in an agonized groan.
“Milward!” Adam tried to get the wizard's attention. “What can I do?”
Milward's eyes shifted to Adam's face for a brief instant and then they began to roll back as his breathing slowed.
“No!” Adam took hold of the old Wizard's shoulders and shook him. “Stay with me, old man. I won't let you die! I won't!”
The shaping surged out of him as if it had a mind of it's own, and enveloped Milward in a nimbus of crackling gold and blue light. Adam could feel himself weakening as the energy was drained from him.
Suddenly, with a crack of thunder, the nimbus left Milward's body, and shot out of the room through the ceiling. The only trace of its passing was the fading thunder.
“Adam.” The old wizard looked up into his young apprentice's worried eyes. “Why are you holding my shoulders like that? I would have woken eventually.”
The look on Adam's face got to him. “What happened, lad? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Adam didn't know where to begin. He started and stopped his explanation a couple of times before he spoke. “Well, uh ... I came in here with some fresh apples for you. You were having some kind of seizure ... You started to die, and then this ... shaping ... comes from out of nowhere. It turns you into a glowing mummy, starts draining me of power, and then ... it leaves!
“You wake up and act as if nothing happened. Look at you. You look better than you did when we left Dragonglade.”
Milward didn't hear the last few words of Adam's rehash. A verse from the prophecy of Labad came flooding into his mind. “Through his power the destroyer is born...”
“It begins,” he said, half to himself.
“It begins?” Adam echoed. “What begins?”
* * * * The Seeker found the object of its interest in the street below it. The mind held twists within that took different paths from the other tiny minds around it. It stood before a creature of power. The Seeker was brushed by part of that power as it dipped low in the air, considering how to join with the one it desired. The taste of it was delicious.
* * * * McCabe was wondering what to do with this female who gave him such interesting sensations, when she and her dog were struck by a writhing mass of golden light intertwined with blue lightening.
The power of the shaping obliterated the envoy and her mount, expelling an eruption of life energy that tore into McCabe, knocking him to the ground.
The people that came to their doors and windows to see what was happening misunderstood the screams coming from the little fellow dressed all in black, they weren't of pain, they were of ecstasy. Wave upon wave of pleasure overcame him as the life of the envoy and her great dog flooded every fiber of his being.
* * * * The Seeker chose its moment and meshed its essence with that of the shaping, as it flowed into McCabe, and mixed its being with his. The wash of sensation overwhelmed it, and it used McCabe's voice as its own to scream out its entrance into the world of men.
Grisham heard screams echo across the city, screams given voice by lungs no longer merely human. Housewives pulled their window shutters closed, and ordinarily fearless men looked to the skies to find the source of their sudden apprehension.
The being that used to be McCabe lay on the cobblestones, the after-euphoria nearly as overwhelming as the beginning. Townsfolk watching him from their doorsteps refused to venture any closer. That decision saved their lives.
* * * * The mists of the scrying swirled and pulsed with mixing colors, but they wouldn't clear.
“Nnnnggghhhh!” Gilgafed strained his power to its limits in an effort to break through the mists to his envoy in Grisham. Sweat broke out upon his brow, and his fingernails bit into his palms, drawing blood.
“Master. Please. Your hands, they're bleeding,” Cobain pleaded with the sorcerer from his place against the wall.
“Aaagghh!” He broke the scry with an abrupt wave of his hand across the face of the glass.
“Why won't they clear?” The question was not directed toward his servant.
“Could it be the mirror itself, Master?” Cobain tried to staunch the blood dripping from the Sorcerer's palms.
“Of course not. Get away from me, fool!” Gilgafed thrust his servant back against the wall of the chamber.
He wiped one bloody palm against the other as he paced back and forth in front of the glass hung on the wall. “This is a piece of silvered glass, nothing more. Scrying comes from here.” He slapped his chest with his hand, twice.
“Something is happening out there.” He pointed in the direction of Grisham. “Something involving that little bitch of a sorceress. Could it be... IT?”
Cobain blanched. “You mean the ... Seeker?”
“Don't mention it by name!” Gilgafed whirled to face his servant. “Do you want to bring it back here!?”
Cobain cringed back against the wall. “Master! No!”
Gilgafed dismissed his servant's fear with a wave of his hand. “Oh, hold your water. One brief speaking won't bring it, just don't do it again.”
He turned again to face the mirror. “What is going on down there?”
* * * * “What was that?” Duke Bilardi turned his head at the sound that disturbed his morning meal.
“Sounded like screaming, Milord.” The liveried servant craned his neck to peer out the tower window.
“Oh.” The Duke's fork paused in its journey to his mouth. The morsel of rare sweetmeat glistened on the tines. “Close the shutters, will you?” The fork resumed its journey.
* * * * The librarian's finger stopped at the word “known,” as something from outside disturbed his reading. He marked the position in his memory, and put the parchment down long enough to light another candle. There was something he was supposed to do...
Felsten pushed open the door to the reading chamber with his backside, and entered, carrying a silver tray loaded down with breakfast and a pitcher of steaming tisane.
He set the tray down next to the librarian's desk, and began pouring a mug full of the beverage. “Will you have some, master?”
The librarian looked up at Felsten, and then at the tray as if suddenly remembering what time of day it was. “What? Oh, oh yes, certainly, Felsten. Thank you.”
* * * * The howls woke Drinaugh from a dream about flying. It was not one of the nice ones. He was trying to escape a darkness that flowed over the landscape like burnt treacle, and it kept grabbing his tail and slowing his flight. The waking was almost a relief by comparison.
“Huh? Wha...? What's all the noise about?” In his groggy state, he failed to ask the question in wolf, and he also stood up, exposing himself to the sleeping girl on the other side of the large boulder that separated them.
* * * * Thaylli woke to wolves howling. Her dreams had not been much nicer than what she woke to. Dark, gibbering things, had been chasing her, and no matter how hard she tried, she only moved as if she were stuck in molasses, and the things kept coming closer and closer.
She sat up with a start and looked around her, half expecting to see the things surrounding her in her bedroll, but all she saw was the mist laying heavily over the lowlands below, and the pale ribbon of Labad's highway glinting where the morning sun struck it.
She rose to begin gathering her things, when the howls came again. She whirled to face the sound, and found herself confronted with the bulk of Drinaugh. He was only half grown as dragons go, but to a mountain girl who's never fully believed in their existence, he was more than large enough.
A small squeak escaped through her half-open lips and then she fainted dead away.

Chapter Thirty
“How long has she been dead?” Nikkas, brother to the Ortian Emperor, Ambassador to Grisham, and father of the dead girl, put the question to the ranking sergeant of his guards.
Hypatia's body lay where McCabe had left it, sprawled across the four-poster bed with her crushed neck at an unnatural angle, and the Duke of Grisham's greeting card sewn into her belly. The smell was what had finally brought someone into the room prior to the regular biweekly check. The chambermaid who alerted the guards was still in hysterics and being tended to by the cook.
“By the smell, Lord Nikkas, four ... maybe five days.” The Sergeant gave no outward sign of being affected by the sight of the body or the smell. His short-cropped gray hair, broken nose and the fine tracery of old scars where his skin showed, told those with the experience to read the signs, that he'd seen deaths like this, and worse, before.
“I want whoever is responsible for this, Sergeant. Remove that flicking card, now!” The Ambassador spoke through clenched teeth. He'd known his eldest daughter was bored to tears with Grisham's lack of sophistication, and he suspected she may have been venturing into promiscuity as a result. This ... tragedy was partially due to his inattention.
The need for revenge filled him with a fury only blood would wash away. He held the calling card between thumb and forefinger. “Duke Bilardi, eh?”
He spun on his heel and stalked from the room. The sergeant followed him, to his right side and a pace behind. “Use your best men, Sergeant. Find out for me if Bilardi is truly behind this. Knowing the man, I wouldn't be surprised if he were. If he is, there won't be a stone in this city left standing, and the only thing living in Grisham will be the rats.”
* * * * “Sire! Sire! Sire!” Alford turned in his feeding of the birds to see his aide, Cremer, rush into the aviary waving a roll of starched silk. The birds exploded into a white and pink cloud of feathers that dispersed into the branches of the trees overhead. Several of them voiced their displeasure at the interruption, and a number of them showed their opinion of Cremer by targeting him as their garderobe.
Cremer slid to a stop in front of his Emperor and stood there, covered in bird droppings and panting. Obviously the man had run all the way from the message loft where the homing pigeons landed.
Alford reached out and wiped a smear of dropping off of his aide's cheek. “Cremer,” he clicked his tongue in mild reproof. “What is the meaning for all this? You've quite literally scared the crap out of my birds, and you look totally blown, as well. Sit down, man, before you do yourself an injury.”
Cremer held the roll of silk out to Alford. “Please, My Lord.”
The Emperor looked at the roll of silk underneath his nose. “Really, Cremer. What's this all about?” Then he noticed the color of the roll, black with a red seal. The seal was broken. Of course, Cremer read it before bringing it to him as he always did. Something terrible had happened. Something involving the royal family.
He unrolled the silk. The white lead ink glared against the black sheen of the silk.
As Alford read the nine terse lines written by his brother, the blood drained from his face. He looked up at Cremer, and death was in his eyes.
“Is this thing so? Could this have happened?”
Cremer didn't answer, but the bleakness in his eyes told Alford what his aide believed.
“I ... see...” The silk missive crumpled as the Emperor's hand clenched into a fist.
Without another word he spun and ran out of the aviary, startling the birds that had resettled to feed. Cremer heard him calling for the seer the empire employed. He sighed. He'd already spoken to the enchanter. War was in the wind.
* * * * Thaylli woke from a horrible dream. She'd been dreaming about being surrounded by howling wolves and being chased by a dragon. The dragon had been the worst.
She rubbed her eyes as she sat up. The air smelled queer, in a musky animal sort of way. She finished rubbing, and opened her eyes to see herself ringed by gray and black muzzles.
Her scream startled the wolves into backing away from her, and then she looked up from them directly into the concerned features of Drinaugh, the dragon.
Thaylli screamed one more time, and then fainted, again.
The Alpha Wolf stepped forward and sniffed her. He snorted and backed away again, settling down onto his haunches. “Why would our friend bright eye choose this one for a mate? She makes too much noise, and she is more timid than a newborn cub.”
His mate moved up beside him, and looked at Thaylli as she swooned on the grass before them. “Perhaps it is because she is a good breeder.”
Her mate looked at her. “How can one tell without seeing her cubs?”
“That is for him to decide, is it not?” She replied levelly.
Drinaugh leaned over the wolves and sniffed Thaylli carefully. She wasn't injured, as far as he could tell. Nothing in her scent gave any indication of her being in ill health, but there was something...
He straightened and declared to the wolves. “It appears that is a question our friend still has to have answered. They've not mated yet. She is a virgin.”
The female wolf looked at Thaylli's still form and licked her cheek. “The poor thing.”
* * * * “Are you sure you're all right?” Adam watched Milward, as the old wizard fussed over the things he was packing to take to the library.
“Of course I am. Don't hover. You're acting like I'm a child, and I haven't been one of those for nearly twelve centuries.”
Adam hung his head for a moment, but he didn't uncross his arms. “I'm sorry. It's just that I'm worried. You almost died. If that shaping hadn't come out of me...”
“Then I'd be dead.” Milward snapped. “And you wouldn't have...” He cut off what he was going to say. There wasn't proof yet that that part of the prophecy had come to pass. Maybe Adam wasn't the he it spoke about, but he had very little hope of that being the case.
“I wouldn't have what?” Adam dropped his hands to his hips, his left resting on the pommel of the sword's hilt.
“Never mind that.” Milward secured the straps on the small pack he'd purchased for the trip across the straight to the library. “I'm all packed; let's get going; it's a good long walk to the docks.”
Granny Bullton met them at the foot of the stairs and fussed over Milward, much to his dismay.
“Och, you poor old man. How're you doin', me dear? Are ye recovering’ from yer spell ok? I've a nice drop of ale brewing for ye, sweetened with honey. You just let me know, an’ I'll have it drawn for ye in a flash.”
Milward tried vainly to disentangle himself from her concerned hands. “Old woman! Leave me be! I'm doing just fine, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I'd be much more thankful if you'd attend to your brewing, and let me tend to me.”
Adam stepped between Milward and Granny Bullton before Milward's bad temper ruined their chances of being welcomed back at the inn. “We really are thankful for everything you've done for us, Granny, but we've got to rush to a very important meeting across the straight.”
Her eyes went wide. “The library? Oh, my goodness. I didn't know I had Lord's stayin’ here.” She attempted a clumsy curtsy.
Adam stopped the gesture in midst. “We're not lord's, Granny. And I'd appreciate you not spreading anything like that around, ok?”
He released her and she bobbed her head in a series of quick bows. “Yes, milord. Thank you, milord. I will, milord.”
“Now you've done it!” Milward hissed at Adam, as they made their way out of the Inn and into the busy morning street. “That old biddy is going to spread all over Grisham she's got a young Lord and his grandfather staying with her. We'll be swamped with retainers and invitations, not to mention the huge target Grisham's female gentry are going to paste on you, my boy. I hope you're prepared to explain that to Thaylli.”
Inwardly, Adam blanched. He hadn't thought of Thaylli, not for a number of days. Things had just been so busy lately. With Milward's reminder, her face and voice came flooding into his memory, along with the sweet fragrance that seemed to follow her everywhere.
His smile at the old wizard was less than genuine, “Oh, I'm sure she'll keep her word. You heard her say she'd wouldn't spread that sort of thing around, didn't you?”
Milward grimaced. “Oh, of course,” he said sarcastically. “I'm sure gossiping is the last thing on her mind. Mind the oxen, they're leaving a reminder behind.”
Adam stepped to the side of a merchant's cart where the draft animals, their tails cocked, were doing what oxen do.
Due to the hilly nature of Grisham's demesne, Adam and Milward's path to the docks was a circuitous one. Milward's knowledge of some of the seedier parts of the city state was nearly encyclopedic, and he kept up a running commentary on the history of the neighborhoods, shop enclaves, and the several red lantern districts that ringed the outer perimeter of the city, just inside the yards-thick wall.
The wharf and its environs began their northward run approximately a half-mile inside the mouth of the straight, and continued along the Grisham side for over twelve miles. Its collection of piers, docks, ship builders, warehouses, fisheries competed with the ubiquitous taverns and pubs that catered to the men, and women, that came off the ships for space on the crowded wharf.
The dock Milward was headed to lay near the far southern end of the wharf, and slightly apart from the rest. Three covered piers extended over the turgid waters of the straight. Each of them housed a moderately-sized sailboat. Two of the boats were secured to the pier with oiled ropes, and their sails tightly furled. Three old men, two of them smoking pipes of weed, were sitting in the third. They appeared to be deep in conversation over some matter. One of them gestured with his pipe as he spoke.
They looked up as Adam and Milward walked down the steps of the ladder. The wizard's staff tapped loudly onto the wood of the steps as they descended.
The old man without a pipe stood as they approached and slapped his hands together. “Good morrow, m'lords. Will ye be needin’ a ferry?”
“That is exactly what we need, my good fellow. We wish to go across to the library, post haste.” Milward indicated the direction they wished to go with the point of his staff.
“The library, eh?” The old man rubbed his chin with a hand covered by a fingerless glove of knitted gray wool. “You be scholars then, eh? Never mind. Ol’ Rawn'll get ye there quick and safe, don't you worry.”
Milward snorted. “I wasn't worried in the first place. I know your work, Rawn, and I know of your boat. That's why I'm letting you ferry us over.”
Adam had been busy looking over the boat the old men were sitting in, while Milward dickered with Rawn. He knew nothing about boats, but his senses told him that this craft was the better of the three moored at the dock. It seemed ... more tightly put together than the other two, and, as far as he was concerned, if he was going across those waters, he wanted the best he could get underneath his feet.
“Done!” Rawn stuck his hand out to Milward, and the wizard took it as they closed their agreement.
“Come on lad, let's get going.” Milward spoke to Adam, as he stepped down into the boat.
Adam followed the Wizard, and found a spot to sit down in the rear of the craft, but the old man made him stand back up. “Sorry, boy, but that's me place, lessen you know how to guide her ‘cross to the books.”
“Books?” Adam stood and made way for Rawn to take his place at the tiller.
“That's what some of the locals call the library. It's sort of a pet name.” Milward rested his hands upon the butt of his staff, as the breeze began to fill the sail, easing the small craft out into the waters of the straight.
The ride became rougher as the boat cleared the wharf area and sailed into the channel itself. The ridge the library sat upon was a dark smear upon the horizon, and Adam began to wonder if they would ever get there, as he discovered his stomach wasn't suited to sailing.
“Are you feeling all right?” Milward asked him. The wizard's body shifted easily with the motion of the boat.
“He's turnin’ green.” Rawn smiled at them from his spot at the tiller. “The side's right there lad, if you need it.”
“I'll ... be fine.” Adam managed to get out before letting go with a huge belch.
“Sure ya will, lad. Sure ya will,” Rawn chuckled, as he steered them into a tacking maneuver.
Adam felt a partial sense of pride over having kept his breakfast down, as Rawn pulled his boat alongside the Library's dock. It sat nestled into a protected cove at the base of an imposing cliff. He could smell the combination of salt and seaweed from the rocks on either side of the dock. Seagulls cried above them, and pelicans squabbled among themselves on their cliff side aeries.
“There's a lot of birds here,” he said to Milward, as they climbed out of the boat and onto the dock.
The wizard looked around himself, as if noticing where they were all of a sudden. “Yes. Yes, there are. But we're not here sightseeing right now. Come on. It's a long climb up to the top.”
Adam looked at Milward quizzically. “Are you sure you're fully recovered? You seem ... distracted.”
“What? Oh, don't worry about me, my boy. I am quite fully recovered, as you put it, from whatever it was. I'm just thinking about the Prophecy, that's all.” And about the part you're going to play in it, he added silently.
The wizard readjusted his grip on his staff, and began the climb up the stair that led to the library above. The steps were carved into the living rock of the cliffs below the library, and followed a curving track that twisted back upon itself once before edging along the cliff face to a final steep climb to a gatehouse.
By the time Adam and Milward reached the gatehouse, they were panting and wiping off beads of sweat from their brows. There was no guard, and the door opened easily with just a push.
“Where are the guards?” Adam asked, as he pulled his sleeve across his forehead.
“There aren't any. There haven't been guards here for, oh, it must be three or four hundred years, now.” The wizard's laugh was slightly bitter. “Eh. You would think it would be different. If they only knew the vast store of riches these walls contained. But to them, they're just ... books, and you don't see many gaffers willing to pull a pint in exchange for a book.”
“I'm not sure I follow.” Adam cocked his head at Milward's rumination.
“You don't? Eh, no, you probably don't. But you will, lad, in the years to come, if you survive them. The taste of the hunt for knowledge will teach you the true value of what's in this library. Men can forget, and some societies can even actively unlearn the wisdom of their past, and fall back into the darkness they clawed their way out of, but that wisdom, once written down, is saved for the future. A book never forgets. A scroll or a parchment will teach the reader just as thoroughly today as it did a thousand years ago. All that student has to do is begin reading it, and class is in session.” Milward's eyes lit with the fervor of the eternal student speaking about his first love.
Adam nodded at the old wizard. “I think I'm beginning to follow, now.”
Milward looked at him searchingly for a moment. “Good,” he said. “Good. Come now, we don't want to keep them waiting.” He hurried on up the walk through the gatehouse, and onto the wide palisade that climbed up to the library proper
“This looks even larger than the palace,” Adam remarked, as the dome-capped walls of the library came into full view.
“It is,” Milward replied, as he pointed toward the library with his staff. “It covers almost half again the surface area of the Ducal Palace. You'll notice that the building stones come in different sizes for different areas? That's because it was built over several generations, during the reigns of several different rulers. The first was Labad himself, when Grisham was a part of the unified empire.”
“I see,” Adam said, as he visualized the construction of the library in his mind's eye. “And different rulers had different ideas about how they wanted it to look?”
“That explains a lot of what you see around us, doesn't it?” Milward smiled. The blocks of stone that made up the walls they walked by were carved out of a black marble streaked with a pale green. The tower they approached, in contrast to the wall, was built of granite that boasted white and black specks. Over all, the effect it gave Adam was that of a building that couldn't make up it's mind.
The librarian met them at the main entrance to the library. The massive pillars bracketing the portal to his private world of knowledge emphasized his small stature.
“Milward! You old reprobate. You've come to visit me at last. How long has it been?” The librarian gripped his friend's hands in greeting.
“A few years, but I've been busy, my old friend, and it is a long journey from my home, as you well know.” Milward returned the librarian's grip of friendship.
“Busy, he says.” The little old man looked at Adam with bright blue-gray eyes that showed no sign of the age displayed by the rest of his body. “Most likely holed up in that cozy little cave of his, investigating the secrets of some defenseless root or berry.”
“How well you know me.” Milward replied, not bothering to dispute the good-natured accusation.
Adam couldn't help smiling at the scene of two old friends meeting after a long absence.
“And who is your strapping young companion, Wizard?” The librarian kept his gaze on Adam while he asked the question.
“He is partially the reason why I'm here, old friend.” Milward replied, putting one hand on Adam's shoulder. “This is Adam, one of the two promised in Labad's prophecy. You'll notice the sword at his hip?”
Rather than reacting in surprise as Adam expected, the librarian merely nodded and murmured. “So. It has begun. And I live to see it.”
He looked up at the two of them and said, in a louder tone of voice. “You must be thinking me a horrible host, keeping you standing out here on the stoop. Come in. Come in. Felsten!” He called out the name in a surprisingly loud voice.
“My apprentice will be here shortly to take your things. Come inside.” He led them up the short flight of steps and into the foyer of the library.
Adam stopped as they entered the foyer, and then stood there, transfixed. The ceiling above him ended in a multi-colored translucent dome high enough to accommodate a large dragon. Thick pillars four yards thick of opalescent stone bracketed the four points of a mosaic compass laid into the floor. Inside the compass, a map of the world, set with tiny colored chips of tile, looked back at him. He found Cloudhook Mountain, and traced his journey back to the southern edge of the great forest, and then up to its northern border, where he and Charity began their adventures.
“Quite impressive, isn't it?” The librarian's statement pulled him out of his reverie.
Adam blinked and then focused in on the librarian's face with its tracery of deep lines. “It is very impressive. It must have taken years to complete.”
“Almost a century and a third, from what the histories tell me. Sometimes I find myself getting lost within the trails I make for myself here.” The librarian looked down at the map with a wistful expression.
“Is it very accurate?” Adam asked.
“Is it accurate? What a question.” Milward stepped onto the mosaic and gently tapped a spot on the map. “Labad himself commissioned the laying of these tiles. Mashglach himself drew the plans. I believe you would consider him a source for accuracy in map making, would you not?”
Adam looked at the map again with elevated respect, beyond what had been there for its beauty alone. “The Winglord designed this?”
Milward smiled. “He did, indeed. During the time of Labad, there was trade between mankind and Dragons such as had not been for many centuries prior to his reign. It was an enlightened time.”
He indicated the library with a wave of his arm. “There are histories here which speak of it in great detail. You may find one of them useful in answering your questions.”
His smile faded and he shook his head. “Sometimes ... sometimes, I wish I had the power to return to those days.”
The librarian noticed the change. “What troubles you, my friend? Why the sudden morose nostalgia?”
Milward rubbed his eyebrows with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “As you said. It has begun. I think ... the destroyer has come into the world, in fact, I am sure of it.”
They continued to speak as the librarian led them past the foyer into the library itself. Adam saw acres of books and manuscripts, rolled parchments and vellums stacked neatly into row after row of dark wooden shelves. The air within the library smelled of deep age tinged with musk and lemon oil.
Milward continued to tell his old friend about his concern. “Gilgafed has released a Seeker from the shadow realm. Before that, it was Chivvin.”
“Blessed Bardoc, no!” The librarian staggered back in shock at Milward's revelation. “How is it you still live?”
“I told you. He's one of the promised ones. Where the sword proved useless against the Chivvin, his instincts did not.”
Adam felt uncomfortably like a class assignment that was being presented for grading. His memories leapt to those times Aunt and Uncle made he and Charity attend the village school, and everyone turned to look at them in their rags.
“Magik? The young man used a shaping on a creature of shadow? And it worked?” The librarian peppered Milward with his excited questions.
“Yes, yes, and yes.” The wizard gestured with his left hand, while his right kept the staff tapping the tiles of the library floor as they walked. “He noticed the Chivvin avoided the sunlight and kept to the shadows. The shaping created sunlight. Simple, ordinary sunlight. It broke them apart like water hitting soft sand. The rest of that day's journey proved quite uneventful.”
The librarian nodded, absorbing and cataloging the story just like one of his manuscripts. “Uh hmm. Uh Hmm. But you say the destroyer is abroad? I know that term ... I read something about it ... Oh, yes, the folio, Visions of Darkness. Yes...”
He looked up a Milward sharply. “Gilgafed is the Elven Sorcerer? Of course! He'd have to be, wouldn't he?”
Milward took his old friend by the arm. “Have you this folio at hand?”
“Oh, yes, certainly. It's back in my study, through that door over there, and up a few flights of stairs. I also have something else you might be interested in seeing, Milward. It's a true treasure.”
Milward smiled inwardly. “I have something to show you myself.”
“Really? How nice.” The librarian hurried forward with surprising speed for one so old. “Where's that boy gotten himself? Felsten!”

Chapter Thirty-One
Cremer found Alford in the tower where the pigeons were kept. He cleared his throat.
“What is it, Cremer?” Alford's voice was a low growl.
“Is ... is it, true Milord? Is... she dead?” The Emperor's Aide's voice trembled.
Alford's tone dropped to a whisper. “I knew her, Cremer. I watched her grow into a young lady. She was headstrong and willful. At times, even aggravating, but she was my niece. My flesh, my blood!”
“The ... Seer?” Cremer asked, dreading the answer. Hoping against hope there could be some chance the message was wrong.
The Emperor turned to face his aide. With shock, Cremer saw that Alford had been crying. The haggard look in his eyes also said he'd not slept for a number of days.
“She confirmed Hypatia's death and the manner of it. I kept her at it until I was sure. Just finished, in fact. Sent her home, think she'll sleep for a week.” Alford chuckled at the end of his statement. There was no humor in his laugh.
“I never thought Bilardi actually hated me that much.” He turned back to look out the arched cupola that opened to the city below. “To go to such lengths,” he murmured. “I will kill him, Cremer. I will gut him like the pig he is, and watch his eyes as his spirit falls into the pit itself.”
“He will deserve it, Milord.” Cremer nodded. He'd known the girl himself.
“She was most explicit.” Alford continued, speaking over Cremer as if he wasn't there. “I tried to have her hunt the bastard down, but she couldn't, or wouldn't. Maybe it was her exhaustion. I don't know.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Something frightened her, so I sent her home.”
He turned again and looked at Cremer. “Fetch Jarl-Tysyn and bring him to my suite. I'm leaving for there, now, and I don't want to wait long, so bring him to me regardless of his state. I don't care if he's eating or with his wife.”
Alford left the tower and Cremer followed him. At the level where members of the court lived, he turned aside to take the left hallway. Jarl-Tysyn's apartment lay at the far end in the southwestern corner of the palace.
Cremer tapped on the door to the bath diffidently. The General was a man with a temper, who little liked being disturbed, especially when he was enjoying one of his rare private moments.
There was no answer, but he could hear water splashing. He knocked louder.
“Go away!” A string of profanity followed the demand.
Cremer knocked again. “I'm terribly sorry General, but the Emperor told me to fetch you. He is in his suite.”
“I said go ... what was that?” More splashing, and then the door was yanked open.
Cremer found himself facing a man equal to his own age and height, but powerfully built, with close-cropped white hair, ice blue eyes, a slash of a mouth underneath a beak of a nose and a towel gripped in one callused hand. Water dripped from the point of his nose and pooled at his large feet.
“Cremer.” The General's tone told the Emperor's aide just what the military man thought of Imperial functionaries. It wasn't much. “What in Bardoc's balls are you babbling about?”
Cremer, a religious man, winced at the epithet. “Pardon the interruption, milord, but the Emperor commanded me to bring you to him, immediately.”
“What is so bleeding urgent that it can't wait until I finish my bath?” The General's shout nearly blew Cremer's hair back.
Cremer told him.
Jarl-Tysyn stood there looking at Cremer for a moment, and then he whispered. “Gods.” And ran off, clad only in the towel.
The only thing faster than a released bolt from a crossbow is rumor. Jarl-Tysyn gave birth to several in his near-naked headlong dash to the Emperor's chambers that afternoon. One of the longest lived, and the one that the palace staff circulated with the most enjoyment, concerned Alford the 23rd greeting a dripping wet Jarl-Tysyn, clad only in a towel, at the door to his suite. A subplot spread among the guard staff pondered the reasons why the Emperor showed no concern at the sight of the unclad General. Wiser heads persuaded the others to not mention it in the General's presence.
* * * * “He's awake, my Lord Duke.”
McCabe heard the coarse voice, and recognized it as that of the guard who'd kept watch over him in the Duke's dungeon before ... before what? New sensations ran through him on butterfly feet. Voices, other than those of the two small lives, why did he think of them that way? On either side of the...
Ah! He was chained. Chained on that lovely slab the Duke had been so kind to provide him with on his earlier visit. He decided to reward the Duke for his kindness by not draining him. Draining him? Where did that come from? The other voices were speaking to him, but not in words ... feelings. Yes, that was it. Feelings, primal, strong lustful feelings. McCabe began exploring, testing and ... tasting the new rooms that he found within himself.
He found that he knew he could leave his chains anytime he desired, but he was content not to do so. There was so much to discover, and he liked the feel of the harsh, cold granite against his naked flesh. He found it restful and stimulating at the same time.
The small lives of the Duke and his guard were buzzing around him like midges. He chose to ignore them; they had little importance where he was concerned just now. A few of the voices wanted them, wanted to taste their fear, drink their despair, but McCabe forbore. They would have their uses. Later.
Later. A part of him told the voices. You may have them later, once they've served their purpose.
“I knows he hears us, milord. He's just not answering, that's all.” The guard wrung his cloth cap in sweaty hands. The pervert may be the one infuriating the Duke, but there was every chance he would be the one to bear his master's wrath.
Bilardi could not have been more frustrated. He knew torture on McCabe would only produce embarrassing results. Slapping him to get his attention, the same thing. How in the pit...?
“McCabe! You answer me, you disgusting pervert! You will answer me! I command you!” The Duke bellowed into his prisoner's ear to no effect. The man just lay there, staring at the ceiling. “Answer me!!” His voice grew hoarse with the effort.
“What can we do, milord? Iffn I prod ‘im he'll just ... you know.” The guard indicated his meaning with gestures that vaguely conveyed the message.
“Do you think I don't know that?” Bilardi rounded on the guard with his fist half raised. The guard flinched away, but the blow didn't fall.
“A dozen good men, plus one who'll never be good for anything but a door stop. How? How did he kill them?” The Duke spoke facing McCabe, but the questions were more to himself.
He turned back to the guard. “Did they find no mark on them at all?”
The guard shrugged. “You can look at ‘em yourself, milord. I got Lifetile keepin’ watch over the bodies in the first tunnel back over there.” He pointed over his shoulder to a pair of heavily studded oak doors set into the stones of the prison wall.
The Duke looked in the direction the guard pointed and shook his head. “No, I'll take your word for it.” He wanted nothing to do with that hulking mute.
Bilardi drew his attention back to McCabe. The little pervert had that same insipid smile on his face as he had last time. Something was going on and he didn't like it. “Thirteen men. How could this runt take out thirteen men?”
The guard didn't catch the Duke's mutter. “Milord?”
Bilardi came out of his reverie with a shake of his head. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Keep an eye on him. Use that...” He pointed in the direction of the studded doors. “...thing if you have to. Send word to me if anything happens. Anything at all.”
The Duke left, almost running up the stone steps.
The guard watched Bilardi hurry out of his dungeon then turned to look at his prisoner.
McCabe giggled softly, the first sound he'd uttered since being brought back to the palace. The guard wiped the sweat off his face with a piece of rag pulled from a pocket. “What in the pit have I gotten meself into?”
* * * * “She stirs.” The Alpha Wolf's mate spoke quietly to Drinaugh.
The young dragon peered over the boulder outcrop he and the wolf pack hid behind to watch the human female as she came out of her swoon.
Thaylli opened her eyes, and saw small fluffy clouds scudding across a bright blue sky. The shadow falling along her body told her she'd slept well into the afternoon.
“What a lazybones I'm being.” She spoke to herself out loud. “And what a terrible dream. Dragons and wolves. It must be this life in the wild. I never dreamed about them in my bed back home.”
“She thinks she dreamed us.” Drinaugh told the wolves in a dragon whisper. “She speaks of her home.”
Thaylli heard Drinaugh's whisper as a low-voiced growl, and felt panic beginning to blossom in the pit of her stomach. “Who's there?” Her voice quavered. “I warn you. I've got a knife and a boy friend who can turn you into a toad!”
“We won't hurt you, young lady.” Drinaugh tried to pitch his voice high enough to sound reassuring to the human female. “We are friends of your fiancé... uh, the boy friend you mentioned. We would very much appreciate it if you would not faint again, please. It is very worrying.”
Some of Thaylli's panic diminished in the indignation she felt over being accused of fainting. “I do not faint!” She declared. “I'm not a child! I'm almost seventeen summers old.”
“Please?” The voice sounded like someone trying to imitate a child.
“I don't faint.” She said stubbornly.
“Well, whatever you care to call it, we cannot talk to you or introduce ourselves when you ... fall asleep, like that.” The voice insisted. “Please don't do it again?”
Thaylli stood and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Of course I won't. I don't, I mean.”
“Ok, we're coming out from behind the rocks now...”
Thaylli stepped back and then moved forward, mad at herself for her sudden alarm. “No, I'm coming around.”
“Very well, but remember, you promised not to faint.”
The insistence that she not ... do that, increased her temper and her indignation. She was going to give that ... whoever it was, a good piece of her mind.
She stepped around the outcropping and in spite of her resolution to the contrary, she nearly fainted again. A small scream escaped her lips and the world swam around her. A monster out of nightmare crouched before her surrounded by a pack of slavering wolves.
With an effort she managed to push the coming blackness away and remain standing, but the monster was coming toward her!
Thaylli tried to shield herself with her hands as she backed away. “No! K ... keep away from me! D ... don't hurt me!”
The monster spoke, using the voice she'd heard on the other side of the boulders. “I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Drinaugh. I'm a dragon.” He raised up to his full height and pointed at his chest with one of his right thumbs. “I'm one of Adam's best friends.”
Thaylli was not prepared for just how large Drinaugh was, and his size, coupled with his nearness alarmed her. She began to back away again. “P ... please. Don't eat me.”
The last thing she was prepared for was laughter. The dragon was laughing, at her! Fear became pushed away by a larger amount of indignant embarrassment. “You're laughing at me! Stop laughing at me!” She stamped her foot. Part of her noticed the wolves had not moved an inch since she had first seen them.
The dragon's laughter settled into chuckles and then it spoke again. This time, the voice was a full octave lower. “I'm laughing at the assumption rather than at you. The very idea of me eating you. I mean, really! Everyone knows dragons are vegetarians. Everyone.”
* * * * The single light shone in the palace tower. Voices came from within, too far above the street below to be heard clearly.
Within the chamber, Jarl-Tysyn poured over a map of the northern lands around Grisham. A tightly rolled stick of weed jutted from between his teeth, and four members of his staff gathered around the map-laden table with him.
“Last time I was sent to the Embassy in Grisham, I had a good chance to look at the city walls.” Lancer Captain Ferrgyn traced the line of the walls with a middle finger.
“What do you think? Can they be breached?” Jarl-Tysyn took the weed stick out of his mouth and spat.
LC Ferrgyn shook his head no. “Too thick. Some parts are so deep they've got rooms in them. You could send a dozen balustrades against them for a year and you'd just be wasting your time. No, what we have to do is force the gates, preferably, from the inside.”
Jarl-Tysyn shifted his eyes to Ferrgyn's immediate superior, Major Gyst-Bersyn. “What about you, Major? You've done embassy duty. Do you feel the same?”
The Major looked at the map and pursed his lips. “Captain's got a point. I've been on those walls. Some parts are wide enough to house rooms. They run carts along the tops of them. Supplies for the guard points.”
“What about allies? Will Grisham stand alone, or do we have to take on the whole of the northlands?” The General looked back at the map.
LC Ferrgyn pointed to the lands north and to the west of Grisham. “There's possibilities of conscripts coming from as far north as Ulsta, and maybe from as far west as Berggren, possibly even north of the Dairy Lands.”
Jarl-Tysyn nodded his head. “Uh hmm. And us? What about our allies?”
The General's second in command, Sept-Colonel Fergus stepped forward to the table. “We have call upon over two millions. More, if we can pull from west of the spine.”
Gyst-Bersyn agreed. “Give us a few months to gather the armies and we should have what is needed to render Grisham to ashes.”
Jarl-Tysyn looked at the map again and then pulled another one over it. The map showed the Spine, the central range of mountains that split the continent in two, lengthwise.
He stabbed his finger onto the lone mountain east of the spine. “Cloudhook. Here is where our armies will gather.”
* * * * Felsten met the librarian and his guests at the entrance to the room containing the main stacks.
Adam thought nothing else he saw in the library could awe him as much as the foyer did. He was wrong, and admitted it to himself freely.
The main stacks of the Library were housed beneath the central dome. As he looked up at the vast inner curve of the dome from the floor over a hundred feet below its apex, a golden, opalescent sky looked back.
The room's walls curved to match the circumference of the dome, and no potential storage space was wasted within the room. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and ladders rode iron tracks set into the granite of the walls. Above the ladders, ancient hardwood balconies lined the wall with landings arranged to receive the climber.
Milward looked around the room and grunted in his beard. “Impressive, as always.”
The librarian raised his head from the small bit of ancient parchment Felsten had given him at Milward's statement. “Huh? Oh, yes, yes. I suppose it is.”
“How long has it been since you looked up, old friend?” Milward gently chided the librarian.
The old man smiled. “When you see what I've got to show you, you'll know why my eyes have been elsewhere than on pretty ceilings, Wizard.”
He handed the bit of parchment back to his apprentice. “I know, Felsten. It looks promising, but it is only a fragment of a recipe for Shepherd's Pie, and not a particularly good one, at that.”
Adam felt he could emphasize with the librarian's assistant. Milward could be just as condescending when teaching magik.
The librarian led them through the maze of stacks until they reached a point beneath the very center of the Dome. A small reading desk nearly buried in books, parchments and scrolls sat next to a single podium bearing the weight of a massive volume bound in Cave Dragon hide and Platinum.
Milward pointed to the volume. “Is that what I think it is?”
The librarian beamed like a proud parent showing off a favorite son. “It is, Labad's Book of Vision, the collected writings of the Philosopher King. Made so it could be added to in later days as an ever-growing tome of wisdom. Felsten and I found something to add to it just a few months ago, as a matter of fact.”
Milward raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
His old friend beamed from ear to ear. “Oh, yes. Felsten? If you would be so good as to open the Book of Vision to our new treasure?”
The librarian's apprentice looked at his master and his guests.
The librarian urged him on. “Go on, go on. No need to be intimidated, now. Open the book, there's a good lad.”
Felsten walked over to the volume and released the latch from the catch.
Milward noticed the boy had been well trained in the care of ancient bindings. Instead of just automatically flipping to the asked for page, which had to be at the end of the book, Felsten opened in sections, carefully turning small groupings of pages until he reached the desired place in the volume. The wizard pursed his lower lip and nodded appreciatively.
The apprentice turned to face the librarian. “Here it is, master.”
“Ah, good. Thank you, Felsten.” The old man stepped in beside his apprentice and beckoned to Milward. “Look at this. Would you believe we found it in an old chest?”
The old wizard moved in to take the place Felsten had occupied next to the librarian.
Adam walked over to stand next to the librarian's apprentice. “Is he always like this? About books, I mean?”
Felsten was startled that the young Lord would talk to someone as common as himself. “You're speaking to me, milord?”
Adam copied Milward's trick with the eyebrow. “Of course, I'm speaking to you. Is there anyone behind you?”
To his credit, Felsten didn't look. “But I'm a commoner, a mere librarian's apprentice, an assistant, at most. People of your type, you don't do with the likes of me.”
“First off,” Adam pulled down a finger with the other hand. “I'll hear no more of this milord tripe from you. You call me by my name, Adam. Second,” he pulled down another finger. “You are working in the greatest collection of knowledge this world has. That's what Milward calls it, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. You,” he pointed a forefinger at Felsten's chest. “Are about as far from being common as you can get without being royalty.”
Felsten was dumbfounded. “By ... but that's what you are, if I take the meaning of the prophecies aright. Don't you know?”
Adam shushed the boy. “Hssst. Don't say anything like that again. I don't feel like royalty, and I don't want to be royalty.”
“But...”
“I mean it.” Adam hissed. “I've heard the prophecy, in fact I've read it. There's a lot of things in there that could mean a lot of different things, if you catch my meaning. This,” he shifted the sword in its scabbard, “Is pretty convincing, especially after using it, but...” He let his breath out in a soft sigh.
“Just do me this favor, ok?” Adam patted Felsten on the shoulder.
The boy felt as if he was being knighted. He swallowed. He was looking at the next Emperor, he was sure of it. “As you wish, milo ... Adam.”
Adam smiled and nodded at Felsten. “Good. Now, what about my question?”
The apprentice blinked. “Question?”
“About your master, and ... the books?” Adam indicated Milward and the librarian huddled over Labad's book.
“Oh ... yes.” Felsten craned his neck to see his master and the old wizard. “Quite batty about them, he is. I expect I'll be the same when I'm his age. I've already some which are favorites.”
Adam envied the boy. Aunt and Uncle had taught both he and Charity to read at an early age, but books had never been much of a feature while they were growing up. The family was just too poor to afford them.
He turned to look at Milward and the librarian along with Felsten. The old man was showing off his treasure to the wizard.
“See this line? ...Guide to Eleven Chance, master of warriors, Ducal doom... it has to have something to do with what's been going on over in the city. The prophecy is coming to pass before our very eyes!”
Milward looked closely at the parchment leaf containing the copy of the prophecy. There were a couple of lines that didn't appear quite right in comparison to the original, similar to the ones he saw in the monastery near Ulsta.
He turned his head to look the librarian in the eye. “Are you sure it's accurate?”
The librarian reacted like a mother bear defending her cub. “How can you even ask such a thing? This is, at the very least, a second edition copy, if not a first! Labad could only have been gone a few years when this was penned. It might even have been copied upon the very battlefield itself!”
Milward smiled as he reached into the pouch that held the parchment Adam had given him. “I understand the possibility, but you must remember how Labad wrote his prophecy, and under what conditions. The legend is very clear on how it was done, and I've recently received a confirmation to that belief.”
“It is difficult at best to read the words. A dagger does not make the best of writing instruments, and blood flows better inside a body than off of steel.”
“I know all that.” The Librarian blustered. “What I want is...”
Milward interrupted his friend with an upraised hand. “For example, the ancient symbol that reads as persevere becomes prevail with a very slight change. The same applies to the symbols for foe as well as those designating landed titles such as Duke, Earl or Baron.”
The librarian stared at the wizard for a long moment and then his eyes widened. “Of course! Why, that means Labad could have been seeing something entirely different than what the clerics have been saying he saw all these hundreds of years. I'll have to begin researching this immediately.”
“Felsten!” He yelled out for his apprentice as if the boy were a full room away.
“I think he wants you.” Adam said dryly.
“Milward, my old friend,” the librarian turned and placed a trembling hand upon the Wizard's arm. “You are a scholar of vast repute, I could greatly use your help in this regard. Think of all the directions this could take us in!” His face creased in a mischievous smile. “Think of the consternation of the clerics.”
He looked back at the copy on the podium. “Ah, if only we had the original and we could compare and be sure.”
Milward laughed softly, half to himself as he pulled the parchment out of his pouch.” Ah, but we do, my old friend. We do.”
* * * * The rat nosed its way into the central dungeon chamber through the space between the bars across the drain. Bits of slime and fungus coated the sleek hair of its hide as it squeezed into the room.
The whiskers along the rat's snout quivered as it ran along the dungeon wall. There were new scents here since its last visit, possibly of something useable as food.
It turned from the wall and followed the scent trail to the granite block located in the center of the dungeon chamber. Dark streaks ran down the sides of the block. They smelled of salt and blood. The rat licked them eagerly. A meal was just above it!
Rats, especially large ones such as this, are marvelous jumpers and climbers. A bound put it onto the top of the granite block and next to the man it knew would be there. Instinctive caution pulled it back, but when the man didn't move, the rat crept forward in small stages, sniffing at the tantalizing aromas coming from the body.
It reached a place that looked good for nibbling. Five, pale, sausage-looking things, small enough so it could lean over them and sniff out the most flavorful spots lay before it.
The rat opened its mouth and licked a place on the second finger over from the block's edge. It licked again, and died.
McCabe absorbed the life of the rat as idly as a man in a pub nibbles on a crisp. He could feel the surge of the small life flow through his system. A small exhilaration quivered his body, and the hair on his arms and legs stood on end.
He'd lain there, enjoying the painful bite of the cold stone against his naked skin, testing his newfound abilities for nearly a month. The time to leave was approaching.
The Duke's dungeon keepers had him shackled to the granite block in such a fashion that he could only move his head from side to side, and lift his hands from the wrist alone. It mattered little. He found the cramps and spasms an enjoyable diversion.
The only keeper he'd seen since that day the Duke railed at him to answer his foolish questions was the huge mute; the one they called Lifetile. For some reason, the voices didn't like the mute. They wouldn't say why, but they continued to clamor for food, pushing at the essence of the being that McCabe and the Seeker had become when it joined with him. They wanted to gorge upon the life essences they sensed through the conduit he gave them as a window into the world of men. He pushed them back once more, preferring to wait and learn about what he had become. There was an eternity of time ahead to enjoy the tastes of the lives he would take in satisfying the hunger.
McCabe sensed the second rat as it forced its way into the chamber through the bars over the drain. Another snack had arrived.
* * * * “I think we should go down there.” Circumstance looked over the edge of the plateau at the tent city snuggled up against the southern flank of Cloudhook Mountain. A week had passed since Ethan put the choice into his hands.
Ethan shrugged his shoulders, and then tested the fit of his sword in its scabbard. “As I said, it's your decision. Let's go, then. There's the path.” He pointed to his right, where the remains of an old game trail snaked away from the plateau and down the mountainside.
The trip down proved uneventful, however some of the men working in the camp saw their approach, and a welcoming committee was dispatched to meet them when they reached the bottom.
“Hold up there, strangers.” Ethan noted the southern accent in the man's voice. “State your business here, if you please.”
Well, Ethan thought. The fellow was courteous, at least. “We've a matter that needs the attention of whoever's in charge of this camp.”
The southerner rested his palm on the knife at his side while he looked Ethan and Circumstance up and down. Apparently he didn't see anything worthy of raising an alarm about. He turned halfway to his right and pointed at a tent slightly larger than the others around it. The grouping sat about a bowshot away from where they stood. “That one in the middle? There's where you'll find the Chief Engineer. Guess he'd be the one to talk to.”
“We're much obliged, sire...?”
“Colling-Faler. Engineer, third. No need to be thanking me. You don't look like a hoard of Grishamites to me, so I've no worries about sending you on to the Chief.” The engineer waved them along as he turned and began walking back to his own tasks.
“Nice man,” Circumstance remarked, as they wound their way through the tents toward the one pointed out as their destination.
Ethan nodded. “Seemed that way. Say it's a point in the favor of the Southerners not being the monsters some have said they are.”
Circumstance looked back in the direction of engineer Colling-Faler as he vanished into the maze of tents and other bodies to the south. “He's a Southerner?”
“Sounded like it. Did you notice how he pronounced the word middle?”
“Uh huh. It sounded more like maddle.”
“That's how the Southern accent works. If he's not Southern now, he was at one time. Keep alert, now. We're at the Chief Engineer's quarters.” Ethan pointed at the tent with a nod of his head.
“Hey!” The voice came from one of the tents further down the row. “Who're you? And what are you doing there?” A Southerner, this one in a uniform of sorts came running towards them. “Intruders! Awake the camp! Intruders!”
Men erupted from the tents at the call. Cries of who? What? And where? Came from all directions around them. Ethan and Circumstance, wisely, didn't run. They stood in front of the Chief Engineer's tent, as they became surrounded by a horde of men in various stages of dress and wakefulness.
Engineers must not be early risers, thought Ethan. Some of these fellows look like they jumped right out of their cots.
“I said,” puffed the one who'd called the camp to alert as he ran up to them. “Who are you, and what are you doing here? This is a secure operation. Strangers are not allowed.” He looked more closely at Circumstance. “Especially strangers who are obviously not Ortian.”
A small smile twitched the corner of Ethan's mouth. “Do we really look so dangerous,” He turned to look at the crowd about them. “That it takes all your men to subdue one man and a small boy?”
The man sputtered a bit as his face reddened slightly. “Well ... uh...” And then he straightened, swelling his thin chest. Ethan thought that even Circumstance could have taken him. He looked like a Nervous Nelly. “There are rules to observe, and proper channels to follow, sirra. You can't just waltz in here as if you're the Emperor himself!”
“You tell ‘im, Gaspic,” a voice called out of the crowd. “A brute like you'll have no problem handling a pair of monsters like these two are.”
Gaspic's face reddened further with the laughter that followed the taunt. “You shut your face, Javik-Ster! You wouldn't know what procedure was if it stood on your foot!”
He turned back to face Ethan, still breathing a bit heavily. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”
“We want to see the Chief Engineer. This is his tent, isn't it?” Circumstance spoke up, no fear at all in his voice. A few murmurs of approval wafted out of the crowd.
“Oh, it's the Chief Engineer you want, is it?” Gaspic rounded on the boy.
Ethan had the man's measure now. He wasn't a Nervous Nelly. He was a bully. Someone probably placed a little responsibility into the fellow's hands and he used it like a club against those below him.
Circumstance didn't flinch away as Gaspic thrust his face into his. “Yes, it is.”
Gaspic straightened and folded his pipestem arms. “Well, you can't see him.”
“But we were told to. That's why we're here.”
Ethan decided to let the boy take the lead and watch how things played out. It was obvious the crowd wasn't hostile, merely interested in seeing how things went themselves. It also seemed a few of them, at least, were not on the officious Gaspic's side.
The boy's answer appeared to rattle the man. “Wha ... who ... no one has the authority to do that! Not without going through my office first! Who told you that?!” He reached out to grab Circumstance by the shoulders, but all he got was air as the boy smoothly stepped aside. More laughter came out of the crowd.
Gaspic seemed to want another try at grabbing Circumstance, but he controlled himself and merely glared instead. “Who told you to see the Chief Engineer?”
“Engineer Third Colling-Faler. He told us. He was a nice man.” Circumstance added the last as an indication of what he thought of Gaspic.
“Colling-Faler?” Gaspic reared back, aghast. “Wh ... why the man's barely a third! He's just out of academy!”
“An’ more of a man than you'll ever be, Gas-puke!” The shout from the crowd was followed by raucous laughter, more than before.
Gaspic glared at the crowd, furious, but unwilling to move against such odds. He'd take care of them through subtler means.
Circumstance spoke up over the laughter. “I liked the Engineer third. He could teach you manners.”
“Oh, he could, could he?” Gaspic's anger and frustration took hold, and he lunged at the boy with murder in his eyes. His chin met Ethan's fist with a meaty smack, and he wound up snoring softly, face down in the trampled verge of the camp floor.
The cheers coming from the crowd told Ethan he need fear no reprisal for his defense of the boy. “Well struck! Serves the bugger right! One punch! You see that? One punch!” And so on.
“What's all this about?” An older man, with a fringe of red hair encircling his bald head, looked out of the tent Colling-Faler had earlier pointed them towards.
“He laid out Gas-puke wi’ one punch. That's what.” A tall rangy fellow with the look more of a day laborer than an engineer spoke up from behind Ethan and Circumstance.
The chief of this crowd, or so Ethan supposed he was, looked down at the foot of his tent and sighed. “Can't say as I'm surprised. And that's Gaspic, as you well know, Durston-Kres.”
He stepped out of the tent, straightened, and then cracked his back as he stretched. “All right. Tell me how it happened.”
To Ethan's ears, he sounded like a patient father sorting out a neighborhood scuffle between children, instead of the head of a semi-military outfit who's had one of his men assaulted.
The one the Chief called Durston-Kres raised his hand, and pointed at Ethan and the boy with the other. “We all heard Gaspu ... Gaspic yellin’ the camp was bein’ invaded. Well, I gets outta my tent an’ all I sees is these two. One guy an’ his boy. Don't look like invaders to me, they don't.”
The Chief Engineer looked at Ethan and Circumstance and then at the prostrate Gaspic. “I take it the boy wasn't the one who did this?” He jerked a thumb at the body near his feet.
“No, sire engineer. It was me. He attacked the boy, just because he didn't like what the lad said. I stopped him.”
“Yeah. With one punch!” The clarification came from out of the middle of the crowd.
“He wouldn't have hurt me.” Circumstance said to Ethan and the engineer.
“I couldn't take that chance, son.” Ethan looked down at Circumstance.
“You the boy's father?” The Chief Engineer moved his eyes from Circumstance to Ethan.
“Adopted,” Ethan murmured.
“I see.” The engineer folded his arms over his chest. Ethan noted the man's arms held muscle, and the stomach was still flat in spite of the age of the body. “Why are the two of you in my camp? As you can see, we're no army, but this is a military operation. Some of us,” He looked down at Gaspic, who was beginning to stir. “Tend to take it more seriously than others.”
Ethan looked around at the crowd. Some of the men were still in their smallclothes, but they appeared to be hanging on every word. He shrugged. “I'd prefer to tell you with less of an audience listening in.”
A chorus of complaint came out of the crowd. “Oh, come on chief!” “Bloody hell!” “Just when it was gettin” good.”
The Chief Engineer stepped aside and held the tent flap open for them. He called out to the men in the crowd, as Ethan and Circumstance ducked into the tent. “All right, entertainment's over. Try to get at least half of your workload done today, ok? Surprise me.”
Inside the tent, the Ortian engineer motioned for Ethan and Circumstance to sit in two of the wooden chairs set up before a plank wood desk on the left side of the tent. He sat down on the edge of a cot pushed against the right side.
“Ok.” He rubbed the eyebrow over his left eye. “Tell me why you're here.”
Ethan looked at the boy. “Circumstance?”
“I have something I have to do. I don't know what it is yet, but part of it is waiting here for someone.” Circumstance looked at the engineer soberly while he spoke.
The engineer stared at the boy for a moment, and then turned his head to face Ethan. “And you go along with this?” His tone indicated disbelief.
Ethan spread his hands. “I know it sounds like a pile of meadow muffins, but he's proven to me there's something going on. It could be that part of his heritage, which isn't human; I can't say for sure what it is, but whatever it is, is real. We wouldn't be here otherwise.”
The tent flap parted, and Gaspic, sporting a bloody mouth, stumbled in. “Intruders! We're under attack! We must rally the camp! We ... you!”
He stood there with his eyes wide, staring at Ethan and Circumstance, and then he turned to face the Chief Engineer, holding himself rigidly at attention. “My Lord. I demand that these ... persons, be put under arrest and held for public trial.”
The engineer's glance at Ethan contained an embarassed apology. “Why?”
Gaspic sputtered. “Why? Why? Why, because he,” he pointed a trembling forefinger at Ethan. “Assaulted me, that's why. And that one,” the finger moved to center on Circumstance. “Grievously insulted an officer of the Ortian military corps. That's why.”
The engineer turned back to face Ethan. “Did you really do all that?” He asked mildly.
Ethan looked at Gaspic. “Essentially. He's left out a thing or two.”
“And what would that be?”
“One of your people directed us to your tent. We asked permission first before our ... invasion. The insult was the lad expressing his opinion concerning the difference between the one who directed us, and this fellow here.” He waved a hand in Gaspic's direction.
“My Lord! I most strongly object! These fellows must be treated as the criminals they are!” He touched the corner of his mouth, and then held his finger out to show the Chief Engineer. “Look at the result of his pummeling me.”
“I didn't know one punch was considered a pummeling in the Ortian Empire.” Ethan remarked dryly.
“Ethan hit him when he tried to attack me,” Circumstance stated matter-of-factly. “It wasn't necessary, but he didn't know that.” Meaning Ethan.
“One punch?” The engineer looked at Ethan with new respect.
“My Lord! Surely you're not...” Gaspic raised his voice.
“Oh, pipe down!” The engineer barked.
Gaspic backed down, biting off the rest of what he was going to say.
The Chief Engineer leveled a finger at the fellow. “I don't want to hear another word from you on this matter. Now turn around, leave my tent, and do the job you're supposed to do. Make sure those lazy oafs who call themselves engineers get their work done. We're nearly a five-day behind schedule as it is.”
He looked at Ethan and Circumstance, and then back at Gaspic. “You're still here?”
“No, my Lord, I mean, yes my Lord. I mean...”
“Just go!” The engineer's shout spurred Gaspic into action. He left, almost tripping in his haste.
The engineer grimaced. “What a completely aggravating little man. If he wasn't such an efficient administrator...”
Ethan smiled. “As to what we were saying ... he called you... My Lord?”
The engineer mirrored Ethan's smile. “An accident of birth. The Emperor is a third cousin. I prefer being called by my name, Lemmic-Pries. The title is for the court.”
“I'm Ethan, this is Circumstance. Now, about why we're here...”
“Before we were so rudely interrupted.” Lemmic-Pries interjected with a grin. “By all means, go on with what you were saying.”
A sigh gusted out of Ethan. “The root of it is, the boy feels he must stay here, with you, to fulfill whatever this pull of destiny that's on him. I'm not sure I like it all that much, but I've given him my word to back him in his decision, and he's made it.”
The Chief Engineer nodded once. “I take it you're a man who values his word? No, don't answer, I don't need to hear it. Before I say anything on what you've told me, and it's a cartload, you can be sure of that, I want to ask the lad here a question of my own.”
“Ask him.” Ethan shrugged.
Lemmic-Pries raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” He leaned forward and looked at Circumstance intently. “You said his defending you wasn't necessary.” He pointed at Ethan. “Why?”
A head poked into the tent. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Chief, but we needs to requisition more planks.”
Lemmic-Pries’ forehead creased in a frown. “Why are you bothering me with it? Tell Gaspic.”
The head coughed. “Well, uh, y'see Chief. Ever since this here fellow laid ‘im out, he's been right short with everyone. A real bugger, in fact.”
The Chief Engineer bowed his head and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I should have seen this coming. We're never going to finish in time.”
“I can help.” Circumstance spoke up.
This earned him a sad smile. “I appreciate the offer, lad, but I really don't see how you could.”
“I could help carry messages. Your main problem is, you don't have enough people to get all the information to where it needs to go on time. I'm real fast, and I don't get lost.” Circumstance twitched his shoulders in a half-shrug as he finished.
Lemmic-Pries discovered his mouth was open and shut it. He got up, walked over to the tent flap and opened it. He called out to a passing member of his company. “Have the cook send me over tea, and a plate of biscuits and honey.”
He turned around and stared at Circumstance for a moment and then he sat back down on his cot. “How, in Bardoc's name, could you know that?”
“Now you know just how I felt when I tracked him down. He did the same thing to me a few times. I tell you, Lemmic-Pries, there's more to this kid than good manners.” Ethan leaned back in his chair.
“I'm coming to see that.” The engineer slapped his hands onto his knees and stood up. “I also see a couple of potential problems. One is Gaspic. You two have made quite an enemy of him, and he is a very vindictive man.”
“He won't bother me.” Circumstance said quietly.
“Yes, you mentioned something like that before, didn't you?” Lemmic-Pries raised the eyebrow again. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“Yes.” Ethan echoed. “How?”
Circumstance shrugged. “I'm very fast.”
“I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at, boy.” The engineer frowned.
Circumstance stood up, arms held akimbo. “Try to hit me.” He said to Lemmic-Pries.
The engineer shook his head. “No, lad. I'm not going to do that. I'll injure you.”
“You won't touch me.” Circumstance shifted his stance slightly. “Just like Gaspic wouldn't have.”
Lemmic-Pries cocked an eye at Ethan, who threw up his hands in defeat. “Go ahead. Do as he asks. I'm coming to regret my promise. Go ahead, try to hit him.”
This time both eyebrows went up. The engineer shifted his own stance and balled his fist. “Very well...” He swung and his fist blurred, but the boy wasn't there to be hit.
“Try again.” Circumstance said.
He did, with the same result. Ethan thought it wasn't so much that the boy was amazingly quick, but he seemed to know just where to be at the right time to avoid being struck.
“Try again.”
Lemmic-Pries shook his head. “No. No need. You've convinced me. I'd almost like to see Gaspic make a go at him,” he said, half to himself. “The fool would wear himself to a frazzle swinging at air.”
Ethan smiled broadly. “I think I'd like to see that myself. So Circumstance will be allowed to stay with you, then?”
“I think so.” Lemmic-Pries nodded. “To satisfy my own curiosity, at least. No, I think he'll prove useful, and he'll be safe from the conscriptors.”
“Conscriptors? What are the conscriptors?” Circumstance asked, looking at the sour expression on Ethan's face.
“A bad memory.” Ethan replied.
The Chief Engineer crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded. “To us, it's a sad reality of war. No one can keep an army large enough on payroll to prosecute a war during peacetime, so they send out teams of conscriptors to forcibly enlist the manpower needed for the war. Not too many escape their net.”
He focused his eye on Ethan. “You need to be going soon, otherwise you may be staying here for much longer than you intended.”
Ethan nodded. “I suppose you're right, at that. Circumstance and I said our good-byes a couple of days ago.” He stuck his hand out for the engineer to take. “I want to thank you for your kindness, Lemmic-Pries. I won't forget it.”
As the engineer reached out to take Ethan's hand, one of the company of engineers came in through the tent flap. He was dressed as a cook, complete with the white floppy hat, and held a silver serving tray in his hands. “Your tea and biscuits, my lord.” He set it down on the cot, and left the tent.
“Tea? You drink that stuff?” Ethan exclaimed. “You're not concerned about what it does to a man's....” He glanced at Circumstance. “...uh ... manliness?”
Lemmic-Pries poured himself a cup and sipped from it. He smiled at Ethan's wince. “I'm aware of the tales, but that's all they are, old wives tales, because they didn't like the idea of something new brought in from foreign lands. It's shipped in from the lands of the Maraggar. I've grown to like the taste, myself. It has a nutty, enlivening flavor I prefer over the fruitiness of tisane. It may help you to wake up in the morning, but that's all it will do.”
He held the cup out to Ethan. “Try some.”
Ethan recoiled. “No thanks. I'll stick with tisane, thank you.”
“The habits of a lifetime. I know.” The engineer held his hand out and Ethan took it. “Have a good journey back home, Ethan. Rest assured, your lad'll be safe with us.”
“You sure of this, Circumstance?” Ethan looked at the boy, who nodded. “All right. Then I'll be going. I'm sure Ellona must be holding supper for me.” He smiled briefly and left the tent.
Lemmic-Pries looked over at Circumstance, and handed him a biscuit with honey. “Well now, lad, what shall we do first?”

Chapter Thirty-Two
“Pour me another.” Bilardi, Duke of the City-State of Grisham, held out his crystal and ruby goblet for another measure of the red wine he favored for its strength and texture.
“Now, fool! Not when I'm in my dottage. Now!”
The wine steward rushed to fulfill his lord's request. Slowness in meeting Duke Bilardi's demands had killed more than one servant in times past.
“He's been like this all day. Woke up in a foul mood, and it's gotten worse,” one of the servers said to a busboy standing in the wing of the Duke's dining chamber.
“I know,” the busboy's voice quavered with his fright. “I'm dreadin’ havin’ to go in there agin.”
The steward looked over his shoulder at the Duke. Bilardi was guzzling the wine as rapidly as he could. Some of it spilled past the rim of the goblet and ran down his cheeks. “I overheard one of the guards sayin’ he's got somthin’ locked away below that's givin’ him the fits. Some say it's a demon that can't be kilt.”
“I don't care what it is. Anything's better than havin’ to face him when he's like that.” The busboy winced as a plate, thrown by the Duke, shattered against the wall to his right.
“You! Get you lazy arse in here and clear this bilge away. Where's my wine?!”
The wine steward started and slunk back into the chamber.
“About bloody time.” The Duke growled at the hapless steward. “Fill it.” He held out his empty goblet.
The steward lifted the bottle, but his hand shook, and he slopped some of the wine onto Bilardi's embroidered cuff. The Duke dropped the goblet with a curse as he surged to his feet. “Damn you to the pit, witless idiot! Look what you've done! Ruined! Ruined!”
The wine steward cringed, and vainly attempted to undo what he had done by patting at his lord's shirt cuff with the towel from his shoulder, but the Duke would have none of it.
Driven to a wrath near madness, he pulled his rapier from its sheath on the bench and drove it through the steward's heart. Blood gushed from the man's mouth, and the hole in his chest as he fell, and was kicked off the razor-edged blade by a thrust from Bilardi's boot.
The duke spat on the body of the steward while it was still twitching. “Gnomic headed skrud!”
He looked at the body of the former wine steward for a moment and then speared the quaking busboy with an eye. “You! You're the new steward! Bring me a bottle, any bottle.” The rest of what he would have uttered stayed unsaid as the newly appointed steward sprinted from the room.
Bilardi turned his back on the door to his dining chamber and cleared his table of its contents with a sweep of his hand. “Wuest!” He bellowed his personal secretary's name at the top of his lungs. “Wuest. Where are you? Damn your hide! Wuest! Wuest!”
“Milord?” Bilardi's secretary and aide de camp stuck his head into the chamber's door. “I came as fast as I cou ... Milord Duke! What has happened? Are you injured?”
The room was strewn with the debris of Bilardi's temper, as well as the cooling body of the ex-wine steward.
The Duke sniffed, mollified by the placating concern shown to him by his secretary and the release the destruction had given to his rage. “Thank you, Wuest, but I am quite all right. Have someone clear this mess away, will you?”
Wuest turned to carry out his Lord's command when he was called back. “Oh, yes, Wuest?”
“Yes, Milord?”
“Any news from the Ortian Embassy?”
“No, Milord. Should I watch for something?” Wuest caught the sight of one of the busboys running toward them down the hall with a wine bottle in his hand.
Bilardi gave his secretary a short nod of his head. “Anything of a diplomatic nature is to be brought to my attention at once, regardless of what I'm involved in.”
The busboy passed Wuest with a hurried, “Pardon, pardon.”
Wuest ignored the busboy handing the Duke his bottle with the long practice of years. He turned again to carry out his task. “As you wish, Milord.”
Bilardi dismissed the busboy, now wine steward, and removed the cork himself. He was rather pleased with the decisiveness of the thrust he used to kill one who had spilled wine on him. As firm and sure as it was back in the days when he achieved his sword master ranking.
He patted his paunch. The years had not been kind to his figure. A bit of self-indulgence now and then will do that to a man, he supposed. “Damn those Ortians. Why won't they take the bait?”
* * * * Cobain pushed open the door to his master's meditation chamber in the very peak of Pestilence with his rear as he balanced the heavy, covered serving tray in his hands.
The sorcerer was wont to retreat to this high spot during times of trouble or stress, or when fasting. He'd been spending the majority of his time in the chamber recently, gazing out of the floor to ceiling crystalline window, since that day he released the Seeker into the world.
“Your repast, master.” Cobain set the covered tray onto a table with elaborately fluted legs ending in clawed feet, each of them grasping an opal sphere.
Gilgafed turned from the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Excellent.”
He looked a second time at the table. “Where's the wine I requested?”
Cobain hurried to the door. “Just outside, master. I had to make two trips.”
“Perhaps I should do something about that.” The Sorcerer mused. “How would you like a second set of arms?”
Cobain blanched. “Master, no!”
Gilgafed laughed. “Oh, settle down, Cobain. I'm just having some fun with you. You're ugly enough with one pair alone.”
“Eh heh. Thank you, master. Very droll. Very droll, indeed.” Cobain set up the wine service alongside the serving tray, and took his accustomed place along the edge of the chamber.
Gilgafed lifted the cover off the tray and breathed in the savory aroma deeply. “Ahhhh yesss. This is what I've been needing.”
“I hope it is to your liking, master,” Cobain said from his place along the wall.
The entree’ portion of the meal lay in the center of the tray, ringed by an assortment of grilled tubers and vegetables. A garnish of herbs finished the dish.
The sorcerer pinched a small piece off of the golden brown entree’ and placed it into his mouth. He chewed with relish. “It is always to my liking, Cobain. You know how much I adore roast fetus.”
* * * * “And I say we send our armies up into Grisham now!” Jarl-Tysyn slammed his fist onto the marble of the conference table. “What they did to Hypatia was an act of war, not to mention being against every tenet of Ortian law.”
“In this discussion, General, what was done to my niece is secondary to the fact that Ortian law, as you are so fond of saying, demands that a formal declaration of war be sent first.” Alford leaned forward and favored Jarl-Tysyn with his best glare.
The General glared back at his Emperor for several seconds, and then threw up his hands in exasperation. “Aaaarrrggghhh!”
Alford straightened and picked up the sheet of embossed parchment that lay before him. “I know how you feel, Jarl-Tysyn. I would like nothing more than to send in a team of night stalkers, and burn the Duke's palace to the ground, and then sift the ashes, but I can't.” He held up the parchment. “This has to be delivered into the Duke of Grisham's hands before we can release one arrow. What kind of Emperor would I be if I descended to my enemies’ level?
The General turned back to face Alford. “But, Sire...”
“You know I'm right, Jarl-Tysyn. You know I am.” Alford placed the parchment back onto the table. “Now, according to our law, I must have your witness to my affixing the Imperial Seal to this declaration. When that's done, we can get down to the business of planning just how we're going to hand Duke Bilardi his balls on a platter.”
Jarl-Tysyn turned his left hand toward his eyes, and looked at the massive signet ring adorning his fourth finger for a moment, and then a wide smile split his homely face. “Yes, yes! Scrood the bastard for a mongrel, Yes!”
He slammed the face of the signet ring into the soft wax applied to the bottom right corner of the parchment, and then pulled it away, leaving an impression of the military branch of Ortian authority next to that of the Royal house.
Alford took the parchment again and held it before him. “Now, to send this north. I will need your swiftest rider, General. Be sure he has coins enough to exchange mounts at the way stations along the highway.”
“Pigeon'd be faster, your Majesty.” The General pulled at his lower lip.
“Pigeons can also be eaten by any number of hawks or eagles. A rider willing to lose a few nights sleep is slower, but far surer. We can use the time it takes this...” He rustled the declaration in his hand. “...to reach its destination on planning and strategy.”
Jarl-Tysyn nodded his chin on his chest as he thought. “Aye, probably for the best. Better to be sure.”
He looked back into his Emperor's face with a small smile curling the left side of his mouth. “I wonder what that paunchy fool in Grisham's going to do when he reads it?”
* * * * Thaylli walked alongside the dragon with her thoughts awhirl. She still wasn't completely convinced, even though Drinaugh, that was what the dragon said his name was, steadily insisted dragons did not eat meat. After all, it was traveling with a pack of wolves!
The wolves made her nervous. Why wasn't Adam here to protect her? The thought of Adam's thoughtlessness raised her temper enough that her nerves vanished.
“Our friend's cubless she is timid.” The Alpha Wolf said to his mate as they padded along the highway just behind Thaylli.
“Yet she walks with the pack, my mate, in spite of her fear,” the she wolf replied. “I think better of our packmate's choice than I did before.”
One of the pack behind them, the onetime Beta Wolf whom Adam befriended, spoke up. “We are watched.”
The Alpha Wolf and his mate stopped, causing the rest of the pack to do so. They sniffed the air.
“Two-legs, hiding in the trees.” The Alpha Wolf's mate pointed her nose toward a copse of Beech trees at the top of a knoll to the left of the highway.
“I smell them.”
“Dragon!” The Alpha Wolf called to Drinaugh, as he and Thaylli continued along the highway, apparently oblivious to the wolves stopping behind them.
Drinaugh halted and turned to look at the wolf pack. Thaylli stopped with him, thankful of the chance to rest her feet. The stone slabs of the highway proved to be much harder on her feet than the soft loam of the woods and plains she'd walked on her journey from Access.
Drinaugh lowered his head to a level with the wolves. “Why do you call me?”
“We have a pack of two legs watching us from those trees, there.” The Alpha Wolf's nose indicated the copse on the knoll.
Drinaugh looked in the direction the wolf pointed and nodded his head. “Oh, that. They're not the first to watch us from hiding. Two others did so yesterday and a large group did the day before.”
The Alpha wolf opened his mouth in a laugh. “So, they are hunters afraid to face their prey.”
Drinaugh chuckled, “perhaps they aren't used to seeing a pack with dragon in it.”
Thaylli looked up at the dragon. “Why'd you laugh? What's going on?”
* * * * “I don't know about this, Brill.” The older bandit tugged on the ear with the missing lobe.
“Why not, Fretin? Look at ‘er. Ripe as the day's long. She'd bring a pretty penny. The four of us could spook ‘er dogs, no worries.” Brill fingered the edge of his long knife.
“I dunno, Brill. Them's don't look like no dog I ever seen, and what about that thing?” Fretin pointed to Drinaugh's bulk in the middle of the pack.
“That's a dragon, iffn I don't miss me guess.” Drynn, a bandit with barely enough teeth to chew his food, lisped. He scratched at the greasy mat of hair on top of his head. Dandruff flew.
Brill turned to the last of the foursome. “Whatta you think, Ruggels? Do we, or don't we?”
Ruggels peered over the bush they were crouched behind, and then parted a portion of it to gain another angle. He nodded, made noise in his throat, and then closed the bush back up.
“Well?” Brill scratched himself, dislodging a family of lice at dinner.
Ruggels took the twig he was chewing on out of his mouth and spat. “Them's wolves, and that's a dragon. I ain't going up ‘gainst no wolves and no dragons, nohow.” He stood his lanky form to its full six foot plus and walked back into the woods.
“Y'all best do the same, iffn y'all wanna see the morrow.”
The others rose and followed Ruggels. Brill parted the bush one last time, and undressed Thaylli once more with his eyes. “Yer right, Ruggels,” he thought. “It's a bleedin’ shame, but yer right.”
* * * * “Ow!” Thaylli stopped to hold her right foot in her hands as she hopped on her left to keep from falling over.
Drinaugh looked down at her in concern. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”
She looked up at the dragon. His expression showed nothing but genuine concern for her welfare. At that point, all her fears about dragons vanished, and affection began to take their place.
She leaned against the soft hide of Drinaugh's thigh. “My feet. They're all swollen and bruised. Every step is painful.”
“Oh you poor thing. Here, climb up onto my back. As small as you are, I won't even feel your weight.” Drinaugh turned and pointed at a spot above his shoulders between two of the blunt ridges that ran from neck to tail.
“Can I?” Thaylli clapped her hands in joy like a little girl getting to ride her first pony.
Drinaugh smiled. “Of course, you can. I invited you, didn't I?”
He leaned over and placed his hands on either side of Thaylli. “Here. Hold still now.”
Thaylli squealed as the dragon gently lifted her up and placed her onto his back. The ridges in front of, and behind her, fit as nicely as any saddle.
The young dragon cocked an eye in her direction and asked, “are you comfortable?”
“This is so high!” Thaylli laughed, and then she hugged Drinaugh's neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
She didn't see the dragon's smile. “My first successful diplomatic conquest,” he thought.
* * * * “I ... am ... holding the last words Labad wrote in his own hand.” The librarian's hand trembled as he held the parchment given him by Milward. “How ... how did you come by such a treasure? All scholars and clerics the world over thought this lost. Lost forever.” He turned his head to look back at the wizard. “How?”
Milward pointed a finger of the hand draped over the top of his staff at Adam. “From him.”
The librarian looked at Adam as if he were seeing a statue that had just come to life. “Him? This ... youth, had possession of the Prophecy of Labad?” The librarian's voice rose in pitch and volume as he went on. “Are you telling me this ... this... sprout was walking around with the most precious, prized treasure of knowledge in the world as casually as ... as ... as if he were carrying a shopping list?”
“Youth? Sprout?” Adam looked to Milward for support.
“Ease up, old friend.” Milward lay a soothing hand onto the librarian's shoulder. “The Dwarves gave it to him and his sister, along with the rest of Labad's legacy. According to the letter, he is one half of the promise.”
The Librarian ‘s eyes bounced back and forth between Milward and Adam. “Letter? What letter?”
“Show him the letter, Adam.” Milward turned back to look at the Book of Vision.
Adam reached into his pouch and pulled out the letter that accompanied the prophecy. “Here, but it could be talking about anybody.” He handed it to the librarian.
The old man placed the parchment containing the prophecy onto the reading desk with extreme care, and then unfolded the letter. He ran his fingers along the swirls of the cursive text as he read.
I write this assuming the dwarves have fulfilled their obligation, yet to be done, to me. I write this also knowing my death is sure, as sure as the breath I take. You are of my kin though you know me not. Nor could you ever, for the mists of centuries separate us and my bones are now dust.
I have watched your lives. They have disturbed my rest for many seasons. I cannot tell you how to walk the paths destiny has set before you for both tragedy and triumph await you. Yet I can, through my faithful dwarves, give you tools to aide your way. I know you will be man and woman ... in time. My sword is the man's, my bow, for the woman. I caution you to obey me in this completely, though your feelings will guide you. Test them, you will see the truth in what I write.
I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can. May the creator guide your steps within the balance. Let the rule of three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. Keep safe the vision I have penned, the wolves and the Winglord will show you its truth.
I am
Labad, Lord of the known lands, Philosopher King.
The librarian set the letter down with a sigh.
Milward leaned on his staff and nodded in sympathy. “It is profound, being witness to history. You'd best retrieve your letter, Adam. That's proof of your legacy.”
Adam leaned across the librarian, collected the letter, refolded it and placed it back into his pouch. “It could be talking about someone else,” he said hopefully.
Milward patted him on the shoulder as he went past. “You just keep telling yourself that, my lad.” He chuckled.
Adam saw Felsten looking at him with huge eyes. “Well, it could.”
The librarian turned and bowed his head at Adam. “Forgive me, your majesty, for calling you a youth and a sprout. They were merely expressions of surprise and anger.”
“I am not your majesty! I'm not your ... anything. I ... don't know what I am, but I sure don't feel like anyone's Emperor.”
“You're not.” Milward snorted. “At least, not yet.”
The old Wizard held up a hand to forestall Adam's protest. “I think now is a good time to look at the prophecy. Tell me, old man, do you want to read what Labad really said? Are you open for a little compare and contrast?”
The librarian's eyes lit up like a new bride's. “Here, let me lay the two next to each other. Felsten!”
“Here, master.” Felsten stepped out from behind Milward.
“Oh, there you are. Where've you been hiding? Hold this flat for me. Careful, now, it's the real thing. Legend has it, Labad himself wrote it using his dagger and his own blood.” The librarian ignored Felsten's grimace.
“Ok, old friend. Here is where the past comes back to life. You are right, by the way.” Milward said in an aside. “Those symbols are Labad's blood. The dragons confirmed it.”
The librarian looked a bit more closely at Labad's prophecy. “Indeed. Yes, you can see where it clotted within the fibers of the parchment. Hmmm, Yes, it reads as so;
"The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them but yet they prevail.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Friend of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill father but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
The librarian straightened and rubbed his chin. “There are differences. Major differences. They change the entire tone of the prophecy.”
“Oh?” Milward leaned over the reading desk with a smile. “Where?”
“Here, for one.” The old man traced a line underneath the symbol for prevail in Labad's prophecy. “In my copy it's translated as persevere, and...”
The Librarian looked at Milward with a wry expression. “You knew about this already, didn't you? This is the reason for those pointed questions of yours earlier, isn't it? You've already read the prophecy and compared it to other copies.”
“You have me at the point, old friend. Yes, I've already committed the true prophecy to memory, as well as compared it to the copy held by the clerics in Ulsta. Your copy is an exact duplicate of theirs.”
Felsten moved over to stand next to Adam. “They're gonna be at this for hours, your majesty.”
Adam hissed in a fierce whisper. “Don't call me that!”
“But ... the letter. The prophecy.”
“We don't know for certain they mean me ... or my sister. I'm not going to step into boots that big unless there's no other choice.” Adam looked away from Felsten to where Milward and the librarian huddled over the prophecy and its copy.
“I'd always wondered why Aunt and Uncle knew so much, but lived like the poorest of peasants. I'm starting to understand why,” Adam mused to himself.
“What was that, Milord?” Felsten asked.
Adam turned back with his mouth open to admonish the apprentice, but stopped before uttering it. “I guess Milord will have to do. It's probably too much to expect just plain Adam out of you.”
Felsten nodded. “I just wouldn't feel right about it, Milord.” He smiled. “I've got a drop of good ale on tap, and a bit of stew on the simmer, if you'd care to join me.”
Adam's stomach growled.
Felsten smiled at the sound. “Shall I take that as a yes, Milord?”
The old woman set a steaming bowl of stew along with a small loaf of dark bread in front of Adam. She favored Felsten with a small smile from the side of her mouth. “You kin git yer own, sprout.”
Felsten rose from the plank top table in the kitchen and went about the business of dishing himself a helping of bread and stew.
Adam tore a chunk of bread off of the loaf and dipped it into the stew. He looked at the old woman over the dripping piece of bread. “Aren't you going to join us?”
The old woman started from her watching Felsten in his task. “Wha...? Who, me sit with a Lord at table? Naw, I think not, Milord. I'd be so nervous I'd git no food down me throat. It'd land in me lap, most likely. No thank'ee, Milord. I'll be happier at me own place an’ in me own place, iffn ye catch me meanin'.”
Adam took a bite of the bread and stew mixture. It was thick and tasty with a peppery accent. He nodded in understanding of the old woman's feelings. “Yes, I believe I do catch your meaning. I won't insist on something that would make you uncomfortable. By all means, do what you think best.”
“Thank'ee, Milord. I'm much obliged.” She bowed away, walking backwards for a few steps.
Felsten took his place across from Adam at the table just as Adam tore another chunk off the bread with a bit more vigor than was necessary. “What's wrong, Milord? Is the stew not to your liking?”
Adam dipped the bread into the stew. “No, that's not it.”
“Was it Lisbeth? Did she say something to insult you? I'm so sorry, Milord. She's old and set in her ways. She meant nothing by it. I'll...”
Adam stopped Felsten's tirade of worry by stuffing a piece of bread into the boy's mouth. “Here. Eat, don't talk. The only thing that's bothering me is all this, ‘yes, Milord', ‘no, Milord', ‘if you please, Milord'. Don't you people realize that all this makes me more than a little uneasy?
“I was raised poor, along with my twin sister, Charity. The only titles we ever heard were those that the other kids of the village made up to insult us. We bloodied a few noses along the way, until they learned to treat us with at least a grudging respect.
“Please try to understand, Felsten. This sword, as much as I find it useful, scares the bowels right out of me. It's very strong evidence, this,” he waved in the air with his left hand, “...prophesy may be what Milward says it is. I'm not prepared for that to be true right now. Not at all.
“None of this would be happening at all if we hadn't gone out to that creek.”
Felsten thought it wise to not ask about this creek. If the new emperor wanted to be treated ... well, unemperor-like, it certainly wasn't his place to say otherwise.
He finished chewing the bread Adam had stuffed into his mouth, and swallowed. “What would you have me do...” He halted before saying the word Milord.
Adam dipped his bread again, smiling a little at the apparent swallowed word. “That's a good start.”
He bit into the bread, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “I'd like to know about some stuff, but I'd also prefer to hear it from someone closer to my age. You look like you'd fit that description better than the librarian or Lisbeth.
“You could also get that drop of good Ale you promised me.”
Felsten jumped to his feet. “Oh! Oh, forgive me, Milord. I forgot. I forgot. I'll get it right now. Oh, I'm such a gnomic.”
Adam smiled wryly to himself as Felsten rushed from the kitchen. It was going to take a lot of work, but he'd get the boy to treat him less formally, so help him, he would.
Felsten returned with two foaming tankards and set them onto the table between them. He waited for Adam to choose which one to take and then picked up the one remaining.
He drank deeply and set the tankard back down, sighing and smacking his lips. “Ahhhh. That's a fine one, that is. Now, what questions do you want to be askin’ me, Milord?”
Inwardly, Adam sighed. It looked like the best he was going to get. At least the boy wasn't groveling and kissing his hand.
He sipped some of the ale. Felsten was right. It was good. Medium bodied with a nutty sweetness. “There are some questions. The first one is about something that Labad put into the note he wrote to my sister and me. The Dragons and the wolves also talked about it.”
Felsten's eyes widened at Adam's casual reference to speaking with dragons and wolves.
Adam continued. “Labad said, Let the Rule of Three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. I know what the Dragons and wolves had to say about it, but I haven't heard a single person say a thing. Not even that priest in Silgert.”
“You talk to Dragons and wolves?”
Adam shrugged. “I didn't have much choice. Milward took me to see them. Before he introduced me to the wolves, he performed a shaping, that's magik, that allowed me to speak with them. It gave me a headache. A bad headache, along with some other delightful symptoms.”
“But you talked to Dragons and wolves.”
Adam hid his smile behind another sip of the ale. “Let's try to get past that, ok? What can you tell me about this Rule of Three?”
Felsten scratched the back of his head. “Don't know much, Milord. Not being a cleric an’ all.”
“Just tell me what you know of it,” Adam pressed.
“I'll try, Milord.” Felsten wet his throat. “Best as I recall the Rule of Three, from the church teachin's I heard, talks about the way of Bardoc, the way of man an’ the way of nature an’ how they all fit together.”
“Go on.” Adam sipped some more Ale after taking another bite of bread and stew.
“Don't know much more ‘bout it, milord.” Felsten said apologetically. “I heard some talk about how man needs to see Bardoc movin’ in the clouds an’ the rain an’ the sun an’ all. Most, it seemed to be a lot of common sense mixed into religious talk.”
“How so?” Adam finished his helping of stew. He wondered if there was any more.
Felsten was becoming comfortable talking with this young Lord, despite the fact he may be the rightful Emperor. “Well ... it makes sense, don't it, Milord? I mean ... Bardoc makes the world an’ man an’ nature an all ... I mean, it kinda fits together, don't it? I mean, you don't see your wolves thievin’ from the bears. Do you? An you sure don't have no chickens or foxes fightin’ no wars gainst each other, do you? Seems common enough sense to me. Kinda why I like being apprentice in this place. Ain't no wars nor thievin’ going on.”
Adam figured Felsten was pretty close to the mark in his estimation of the basis for the teaching, but what Labad meant in his letter could something entirely different.
He drained the last of his ale and stood up. “I suppose Milward and your master are going to be at it until dawn.”
Felsten grinned. “You got that right, Milord. He loves it when he gets a chance to argue over the old writings. Come with me. I'll show you where you can doss down for the night.”
“Thanks.” Adam separated himself from the table's bench. “Would you know of any books or parchments on Labad? If he's my ancestor, I should probably get to know more about him.”
“Should be one or two lyin’ around here, Milord.” Felsten laughed. “I mean, this is a library.”

Chapter Thirty-Three
“I can see the city walls.” Thaylli called out from her perch high upon Drinaugh's neck.
“Well, I certainly hope the people inside those walls will be more interested in talking than the ones we've come across so far,” Drinaugh grumped. You'd think they'd never heard of Dragons before; and he wasn't even fully grown. What would they have done if Mashglach settled down amongst them?
At the approach of the young Dragon and his wolf pack, the highway cleared of traffic as if swept by a giant broom. They passed abandoned carts and stalls. Many of then tipped with their goods scattered across the verge alongside the highway.
“The pack is nervous.” The Alpha wolf came up alongside the Dragon's right flank. “It is good your presence keeps the two legs away.”
Drinaugh looked at the wolf. “Yes, I suppose so, but how are we going to find my friend, your packmate, in all of that,” He pointed at the distant city. “If we can't ask questions?”
“The way the wolves have always known,” the wolf replied. “The way of the hunt, the scent of the prey, the path of blood. Our noses will tell us if he is there in the pack of the two legs.”
“What are you talking about?” Thaylli called down. “I can't understand all that growling and barking.”
Drinaugh cocked an eye upward at the young woman on his neck. “The wolves say they can find Adam by using their noses.”
“Well, tell them to start looking. I mean, sniffing.” Thaylli patted the soft hide beneath her.
“You don't tell wolves to do anything.” Drinaugh admonished gently. “You ask, and hope they're willing. If not, you just do it yourself.”
“Oh.” Thaylli's reply was contrite. “Will they please try to find Adam? I really miss him a lot.”
Drinaugh did so.
“Tell the female we will find her mate,” the Alpha Wolf's mate growled. One of the pack members, a female with husky-like markings ran ahead along the highway, and soon vanished in the distance.
A merchant caravan approached the group from the south until Drinaugh turned his head to see the source of what his sensitive dragon hearing picked up. The oxen pulling the lead wagon caught a whiff of the combined scent of wolf and dragon, and refused to take one step further. The wagon driver snapped the reins a few times, and then looked up to see the dragon towering over the wolf pack.
“They're backing up,” Drinaugh said, disappointment shadowing his voice.
“They're afraid. They've never seen a dragon before.” Thaylli watched the frantic efforts of the wagon drivers as they tried to get their teams off the road and turned around.
“But I thought everyone knew about dragons. Everyone.” Drinaugh wailed plaintively.
“I didn't.” Thaylli reminded him. “But I do now and I'm glad.” She hugged the back of the young dragon's neck.
“Thank you,” Drinaugh murmured.
“Our packmate returns,” the Alpha Wolf stated. A gray shape appeared out of the haze between the city walls and where they stood.
Thaylli leaned out from her seat between Drinaugh's neck ridges to watch the wolf approach. The female came in at a dead run, and slowed only a few paces from the rest of the pack. She sat before the Alpha Wolf, her tongue lolling as she panted.
“Speak of what you found,” the Alpha Wolf said, in a low growl. “Does bright eyes dwell in their place?”
“His scent is there, pack leader,” the panting female replied. “And the two-legged gray muzzle is still with him.”
“What did they say?” Thaylli asked Drinaugh
He told her.
She dug her heels into the side of his neck as if he were a horse. “Come on, let's go. Let's go now.”
Drinaugh swiveled his head on his long neck until he looked at Thaylli face to face. “I think we should wait.”
“What!?” She was incredulous. She couldn't believe her ears.
The Alpha Wolf's mate asked the panting female, “what of the two legs in that pack? How did they treat you?”
The female closed her mouth and took on a serious expression. “I could smell their fear. Some of them looked my way with their long teeth showing. The pack could have trouble in that place.”
“You speak wisdom.” The Alpha Wolf licked the side of the female's cheek in a gesture of reward. She opened her mouth in pleasure.
The Alpha Wolf continued, “the pack will wait and watch outside the boundary the two legs made for their pack's safety. It is better if we know more of this place before the hunt for our pack mate continues.”
Thaylli leaned forward and spoke quietly at Drinaugh's ear. “You don't have to tell me. I understood that clear enough. We're not going in, are we?”
“It's for the best right now, Thaylli,” the young dragon replied. “There is a genuine concern as to the possible safety of the pack. Humans can be dangerous and unpredictable. That is, that's what the older Dragon's have told us younger ones. The wolves say we're going to wait outside the city walls for a while to watch and learn before we go in.”
“Oh ... poo!”
Drinaugh, deep down, agreed with Thaylli's sentiment.
* * * * The Ortian messenger reined in his horse and dismounted at the foot of the first flight of steps leading to the Ducal Palace. His mount's chest heaved as it tried to recover from the exertion of its day long run.
“Every time I've been here I've thought Grisham a filthy place. It has yet to change my mind.” The messenger eyes darted left and right as he mounted the steps to the first landing.
He would have to pass three checkpoints before being granted permission into the palace itself. Each would ask him the same question in the same dead, uninterested tone of voice.
“Bureaucrats, every one of them,” he thought. Collectively, you couldn't find enough initiative in all of them to wipe their own bums without a palace directive, filed in triplicate.
He shook his head. Nothing to do but get it over with and then get out of here. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could be on his way home.
“Halt and declare,” the first check point guard intoned, proving the accuracy of the messenger's prophetic skills.
He stopped the required three paces before the guard, catching the steady flow of functionaries and palace leeches out of the corner of his eye. Then he opened the leather pouch, pulled out the roll of bleached parchment with his right hand, and held it out for the guard to take.
“Sealed and warranted?” The guard didn't even look at the message.
“Aye, by the Emperor's own hand,” the messenger gave the required response. Title would have been the only change, depending upon the author of the missive.
“Enter and proceed.” The guard waved him on. If the man were any stiffer, he'd be a statue.
He stepped around the guard post and took the steps of the second landing with the same deliberate tread he'd taken the first.
Twenty steps to the first guard position. Twenty more to the second. Grisham's city planners had no more initiative than any of the other bureaucracies rotting within their seat of power.
“Halt and declare.” Again, the same monotone command.
He repeated the carefully choreographed pattern of opening the pouch and held the message out at arms length. This guard, like the first, gave no indication he even saw the roll of parchment with its dated Imperial seal.
“Sealed and warranted?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like the last time.” This was getting monotonous.
“Sealed and warranted?”
Nothing would happen until he stayed with the pattern. He kept the sigh hidden inside himself, it wouldn't have been appreciated anyway. “Aye, by the Emperor's own hand.”
“Enter and proceed.”
Just one more checkpoint to go and he could leave this stinking hole. Twenty more steps and the final check point. Grisham's rulers had to be obsessed with threes. Everything in triplicate.
“Halt and declare.”
He kept his temper under control and went through the scripted motions of the ritual. The “enter and proceed” order fell upon his ears with welcome relief. Now he could get to the end of this dreary business.
Three wide steps of rose-colored marble led to the verandah fronting the main entrance to Grisham's Ducal palace. Three doors showed their faces to the outside worl set into thick granite frames flush with the stone blocks of the palace wall itself. The door to the far right was where friends and family of those residing with the palace entered their satin and fur-lined world. The door to the far left was for workers and servants, and led to a much less opulent existence. The one in the middle was his to use, as his message was for the eyes of the Duke alone, even though a servant would most likely be taking it.
Inside the foyer, a guard officer sat behind the high teakwood desk, situated prominently before the middle door.
“State your business and destination.” At least this one had a more flexible script.
“Messenger from the Empire of Ort, with a sealed parchment for the Duke's eyes, only.”
An oversized book was turned around and a dipped quill handed to the messenger. “Sign or make your mark here.”
Ignoring the veiled insult concerning his potential illiteracy, the messenger signed his name and title in the next available space, and handed the quill back to the guard officer.
The officer was of a more thorough strain than his subordinates were on the steps outside. He actually looked to see if there was a signature or a mark in the book. He saw the signature and grunted.
The messenger smiled inwardly. The officer was probably just literate enough to tell the difference between the two. Score one for Ort.
The guard officer gave a high sign to a page waiting in the wings. When the page approached, he nodded toward the Ortian messenger. “Sealed parchment for the Duke. Take it to him directly.” He handed the page a medallion that the boy hung around his neck. This protected him from being pulled aside for any other business while he was thus occupied.
The messenger reached into his pouch and pulled out the parchment, handing it to the boy. He knew it would reach the Duke unmolested. A few object lessons hung upon the palace walls insured the honesty of those left behind.
His job done, he turned on his heel and left the Ducal palace foyer. In another fortnight he would be home. Then he could rest.
* * * * The page ran up the flights of stairs until he reached the floor the Duke's apartments were on. The door wardens saw the medallion he wore and opened the double doors as he approached.
“Second one this week, Gupp,” the one on the left remarked.
“Cause they knows I'm fast, Sire Dorrin. Tell yer sis I'll be there fer supper after shift.” The page ran on into the Duke's quarters.
He'd been there often enough over the two years of his duty that the splendor no longer got to him. He managed to keep his eyes straight as he stood at attention while waiting for his lord and master to notice him. Sometimes the Duke liked to test the patience of his pages. Those who failed the test got sent to service Magister Mallien, the High Priest. He had a fondness for young boys that approached legendary status. Gupp was determined to keep his virginity, that is, unless Dorrin's sister proved willing.
To Gupp's relief, his lordship was more interested in the content of the message than in Gupp's ability to keep his backside inviolate. “Hand me that parchment, boy, and then get out of here.”
Gupp hightailed it out of Bilardi's apartments as if the pit itself were on his heels.
The Duke watched him go while fingering the seal on the message. It was from the Emperor himself. This was an occasion calling for wine. “Wuest,” he called for his aide de camp.
The little man with the rat-like face peered around the corner from his desk alcove where he tended to the Duke's papers. “Milord?”
Bilardi tapped the Ortian imperial seal with the heavy signet on his right ring finger. “Bring me a bottle of the Thirty-four vintage.” The command was given in a preoccupied tone.
Wuest's eyes bugged, but he knew better than to question any command, or request, given by his Duke. “At once, milord.”
Bilardi could have walked the few paces to the wine closet himself, but he was of the mind that was what servants were for. Wuest returned with the bottle. A film of fine dust covered it with a soft gray powder.
“Open it and leave it, Wuest, and a glass, thank you.” Bilardi worked the seal with a thumbnail, loosening it with care. When it separated from the parchment, he unrolled it and weighted the corners with lead discs made for that purpose.
He picked up the bottle of wine and poured a glassful as he began the read the declaration of war from the Ortian Empire. He finished the first paragraph and drained the glass in a swallow. A chuckle of supreme satisfaction and triumph welled up as he poured another glassful. He finished the second paragraph at the same time he finished his second drink.
A stray thought said it was near criminal to treat such a fine vintage like cheap swill. He brushed it aside as he poured again.
When he reached the part where the Emperor said that the war would be prosecuted until the Duke's head graced the highest flagpole on his own palace tower, he started to laugh out loud. The chuckles increased until they became full-throated howls of maniacal glee.
In the dungeons below, McCabe heard the echoes of Bilardi's madness. The voices inside him laughed along with the Duke. McCabe listened to them, heard their plans for the future, and smiled in the darkness.
* * * * “The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them but yet they prevail.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Friend of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill father but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
The Librarian looked up from the ancient parchment and stared at Milward. “I still have difficulty believing I'm looking at the original, and yet, here it is, in my very own hands.”
“It is yours to keep, as well, my old friend. It will be far safer in your care, than in mine.” Milward's fingers tapped against the haft of his staff.
The librarian stumbled a bit as what he just heard took hold. “You cannot be serious! Me? You're giving Labad's vision to me?”
“I can't think of anyone else to give it to.” Milward said. “Your reaction proves the correctness of my feeling in this matter.”
The librarian rubbed the parchment between his thumb and forefinger as he mulled over the Wizard's words. “Then I must give you something of equal value in return. My real name.”
Milward gave no outward sign to the librarian's statement, but a stillness settled over the room they were in. It seemed as though the books and writings in the stacks themselves waited for what would be coming next.
“It is the only thing I have that comes close to the treasure you've entrusted to me.” The librarian kept his eyes on the parchment.
Milward remained silent.
“It will give you, as a Wizard, an avenue for great power over me, if you so choose,” the librarian continued.
“I will keep it as I've kept my own.” Milward said softly.
The librarian looked up at him and a brief smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I've no doubt of that, my old friend. I've no doubt of that at all.”
Milward waited, resting both hands on his staff as he sat in the chair opposite the librarian.
The old man cleared his throat. “Alten Baldricsson was the name my father gave me.” He smiled again. “It's been a long time since those words passed my lips. They sound almost foreign in my ears.”
“I've known you for a few centuries ... Alten. It's been at least that long.” Milward took an ornately carved pipe out of his tunic and fiddled with it. “You could have told me what you just did at any time during those past years. Why now? The prophecy,” he pointed a finger at the parchment in Alten's hand. “...Is just an excuse, you know very well what else the knowledge of your real name does where I'm concerned.”
“Oh, I'm very aware of the protection aspect, Milward. Call it... pride, if you will, that kept me from doing it sooner. I don't like the feeling of having to depend upon the kindness of others, but as you can see, I'm not the vibrant young scholar you used to know back then.” The librarian settled deeper into his chair.
“I know that ... Alten.” Milward said the librarian's name as if tasting it for palatability. “Age eventually gets to us all, even Dragons. You have a premonition?”
“It's not that definite; more of a vague feeling of unease about the future. Perhaps I'm just being paranoid.” Alten mused.
“You're not the type.” Milward tamped some Bacweed into his pipe. “I've learned to trust my feelings over the years. It's not too late for you to do the same.” He squinted at the bowl of the pipe as fragrant smoke began billowing out of it.
“That's very reassuring.” Alten's tone indicated he meant just the opposite of what he said. He reached into a drawer built into the side table next to his chair and pulled out a pipe every bit as ornate as the one Milward held. “Have you got any more of that Bac?”

Chapter Thirty-Four
“Read it back to me.” Bilardi leaned back into the soft velvet of his oversized chair as he placed his feet, one ankle crossed over the other, onto the polished ebony of his desk. He poured himself another measure of the fortified wine he'd been drinking since sunrise.
Wuest, his aide de camp, held the vellum in his hands as if it were a dangerous insect about to bite him. “Are you sure you want to do this, milord?”
The Duke sipped his wine. He had reached that stage of drunkenness where mellow met the edge of sobriety. “Read it, Wuest. Your station in life doesn't allow you the luxury of questioning the motivation of your betters. What I choose to do is my business, not yours.”
The aide cleared his throat. He could feel a lump building right along with the one in his belly. “Ahem ... Bilardi, Lord of Grisham and its environs, to Alford, pretender to the throne of Ort;
“We have received your attempt at writing an intelligent declaration. Know you that the great city-state of Grisham in its long and glorious history has never known defeat in battle, much less with a rabble such as you would gather unto your skirts.
Know you also that it is a poor excuse for a man who cannot protect his own family, even if they are a slutty bitch that lays with anything hanging between two legs.
You have impugned Grisham's honor, and that is a grievous insult that will not stand. Know you that we will meet you upon the field of honor, even though you have none."
Wuest finished his reading, and waited for the Duke to respond, but Bilardi remained silent. What he did do was lean forward, resting his elbows on the desktop with his forefingers steepled in front of the goblet he still held.
After about five minutes, Wuest cleared his throat around the ever-growing lump. “Milord...?”
Bilardi did not move. His eyes stared at some point in time beyond where he and his aide stood. “I have one more task for you today, Wuest.” The Duke's voice was soft, and silkily deadly. “I want you to go see the poisoners. I want you to have them concoct a potion for me. One that can be added to a drink, say a small glass of wine. It cannot change either the nose or the taste of the wine, regardless of how much is used. It must kill suddenly, but not in seconds, minutes, or even a day. It must kill after ten days. No more, no less. Make sure of this, Wuest.” He finished his wine and placed the goblet onto the desk.
Wuest knew then that he was facing a madman. He felt sick, but he also knew Bilardi would react adversely to his carpet being ruined. “May ... I ask why you wish such a thing made, Milord?”
“For the reaction, Wuest. That, and nothing more. What do you think the Ortian court will be feeling after they see our messenger vomit his guts onto their nicely polished floor?” Bilardi reached out and poured himself another goblet of the strong wine and sipped. “Grisham needs this war, Wuest. We have become comfortable and decadent. War changes that. Yes ... it does, indeed.” He began to chuckle.
Wuest left as the Duke waved him away. He heard the chuckles change into the peals of mad laughter he'd come to recognize over the past days. He made plans to visit his local right after he delivered the Duke's command to the alchemists. The ones Bilardi liked to call his poisoners.
* * * * “He's mad, I tell you; starkers. Totally, raving, starkers.” Wuest drained half of his ale in one go and picked up the pitcher sitting in the middle of the pub table.
“What else is new?” said Hodder, a life long friend. All elbows and knees with his six foot three scarecrow frame topped by a wild thatch of red hair, sat back in the booth and followed Wuest's example by tipping half of his own mug down his throat. The prominent Adams apple bobbed as the ale went past. “The last six Dukes've been starkers. You knows that. S'part of the heritage. Grisham wouldn't be Grisham without it.”
“Avin may be straight on this one though, Hodder.” Avin was Wuest's circle name. The one friends used. Stroughten, Wuest's other companion at the pub booth, was as ordinary in his appearance as Hodder was striking. Bland, medium brown eyes looked out of a medium face framed by medium brown hair. Stroughten's body was of medium height and built upon medium lines. The only unordinary thing about him was the fact that he was so unordinarally ordinary. He balanced Hodder's uniqueness quite nicely.
Stroughten reached for the pitcher, and refilled his mug, emptying the pitcher. He signaled for another before continuing his thought. “Gettin’ married to your favorite horse, or havin’ the moon arrested for keepin’ you up at night is fittin’ with the standards of our loving Duke's ancestors. Startin’ a bloody war with the Southern Empire because you're a bit bored is another thing alltogether.”
“Ok, so he's blooming starkers. There isn't a skrud's worth of difference we three can do about it, cept drink ale and complain.” Hodder followed his statement by giving an example of the drinking part.
Wuest took the pitcher a serving maid had placed in their midst and poured some of the ale into his mug. Some of it spilled over onto the tabletop. “I don't know what else to do. Knowing it's going to happen and being powerless to stop it...”
“I hear the sea air's good for a man's health.” Stroughten remarked dreamily.
“What?” Wuest's voice was beginning to slur with the amount he'd drunk.
“Yes...” Hodder picked up on his friend's tack. “A nice voyage would do us well, I think. Somewhere warm for the winter.”
Neither Wuest nor his booth companions noticed the look that crossed the serving maid's face as she listened in on their conversation. By the time the Duke's aide and his friends were snug in their separate beds, word of the coming war with the southern Empire was sweeping through the neighborhoods of Grisham like wildfire.
* * * * Back in Bilardi's dungeon, McCabe felt the stirring as the world prepared for war. The voices inside of him quieted, as they, too, felt it, using his senses as their access into this world. He could sense the emotions of fear and worry spreading through the city as neighbor told neighbor about the ravening hoards of southern barbarians marching their way. He pushed with a small part of his/their will and extended the reach of his perception. Outside of the city, the emotions he liked the taste of best diminished. Word of war hadn't reached there yet, but there was something. A mind of power, raw and undeveloped, lay sleeping within reach of the gates, and another, no power there, no, but it was linked to something. He extended further. The sheer power of what he touched nearly overwhelmed him, and his questing senses recoiled lest he be discovered too soon. Those two held a combined power that could destroy what he'd become.
Another rat leapt onto his slab and died as it licked his hand.
A little more exertion extended his perception's radius even further, but he was careful to keep away from the area east of where he lay. To the west of him, he felt little of interest save a small spark of potential near Cloudhook. To the south, he could feel the Ortian army as it flowed north, and he paused to savor the raw fear of those conscripted along the way. The north proved uninteresting, and so he extended the radius to the furthest limit of his/their power. A name came to his mind ... Gilgafed. A bubble of nostalgia rose up within him. Part of him knew that name. Another part remembered the blood of a Garloc being used against him and wished revenge. The voices rose up again, wanting to feed on the power they sensed in that name. McCabe felt their hunger and echoed it. Unlike the other to the east, this would add to his ... essence. His store of power would increase, the whole becoming far greater than the parts. He would become this world's God. He liked that idea.
A small portion of his power was directed into the shackles that bound him to the slab and they crumbled to powder.
No one was in the dungeon to see him sit up. Fear had long since overridden the Duke's orders to keep a watch on his prisoner. McCabe looked at his wrists. They showed no sign of having been shackled for weeks in rusty iron, neither did his ankles. He wiggled his toes. He would get some boots before he headed north.
He fingered the tattered black silk of his shirt, and new clothing. The Duke would have something for him to wear; besides, a host should be thanked for his hospitality.
Dark-loving insects ran from him as he mounted the steps leading out of the dungeon.
* * * * Cobain rushed down the hallway with a knot twisting the inside of his gut. His master's shrieks had pulled him out of a wonderful dream, the substance of which faded even as he ran.
“Master!” He cried, as he pushed through the door leading to the Sorcerer's chambers. “Master! What troubles you?”
Gilgafed lay in a fetal position, screaming as if his liver were being torn out of him while he watched. His voice was so hoarse that his servant could barely make out the words. “He's coming! I felt him touch me! He's coming!” This was repeated over and over.
Cobain tried to reach him, to comfort his master, but a barrier prevented him from getting any closer than about a foot away.
“Who's coming? Master! Who's coming?”
Cobain was suddenly gripped in the crushing grasp of giant, unseen hands. The sorcerer's voice came from everywhere in the chamber. “The Destroyer. He lives, and I felt his touch. He hungers for me, my power, and my life, and nothing will stop him from taking it all!”
Gilgafed's servant struggled against the mystical force that held him to no avail. “Master! Please! You're hurting me!”
“Send out my Golems. All of them. He must not get through. My life. Your life. The world's life depends on it.”
The sound of Gilgafed's voice echoed throughout Pestilence. The bats living in the caverns erupted out of the cave mouths as if the volcano had come back to life. They exploded into the early morning sky, creating a writhing dark cloud that circled the mountain, and sent several members of the fishing village at its flanks to their knees in prayer for Bardoc to save them from the evil one whose omen they'd just seen.
The last echo of the sorcerer's voice faded away, as did the force gripping Cobain. He fell to the marble floor of Gilgafed's chamber, and scrabbled backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. The Golems! Only a threat of the direst consequences would cause his master to issue such an order. Not for the first time he considered leaving Pestilence for more peaceful pastures, but threw the thought away as soon as it surfaced. He'd never get any further than the beach. One only needed to go there to see why. The sand of the beach was made up of bits of human bone.
* * * * “Foggy.” Adam pulled the collar of his coat up so that it sheltered his neck. “And cold.”
“The weather's apparent to us all.” Milward remarked. “No need to state the obvious.”
Adam turned and caught the edge of the Wizard's scowl before it hid behind his beard. “Something bothering you, Milward? You've been cranky all day.”
The old Wizard patted his tunic inside of his robe. “I've told you before. I don't get cranky, or grumpy, or crabby. Damn and blast! Where's that skrudding pipe?”
“Of course.” Adam replied dryly. “I should have remembered that.”
“Ah ha! There it is!” Milward pulled out his errant pipe and proceeded to stuff its bowl with some of the fragrant Bac he pulled out of a belt pouch.
“That's better,” he stated, as he puffed his pipe to life. “Shall we get on down to the dock? I'm sure Rawn must be getting impatient waiting for us.”
Adam looked askance at Milward. “The old man? The one who ferried us over here to the library? But ... how can you tell? Was there a schedule? You certainly can't see the dock from up here.” He craned his neck to see above the rocks lining the cliff face at the library's southwestern border.
The Wizard puffed his pipe. “No, I sensed him. You could, too, if you just worked at it a bit. Go on, try.”
Adam worked the inner change that brought on the pressure he'd come to recognize as the power building within him. He started small, trying to expand his awareness of the things close by around him. It was as if a play opened in his mind, and he was sitting in a place that allowed him to swoop in close to each character as he chose. He saw the field mouse in its burrow under the rock next to Milward's left boot heel. Further out, there was a family of gulls below the lip of the cliff tending to their clutch of eggs, and further out from that...
“I see him. He's sitting in his boat ... smoking. Just like you are. It's almost like I can reach out and touch him.” Adam extended his right hand slowly.
“Don't do that!” Milward slapped Adam's hand down and the vision evaporated like a popped soap bubble.
“Why'd you do that?” Adam was more than a little irritated. He was having the most fun he'd had since coming to the library. And that included the time he'd spent researching the life of Labad.
“Because you would have given old Rawn a heart attack, at the very least, touching him, when he knows very well he's alone in his boat.” The Wizard pantomimed a ghostly hand reaching out and touching an unsuspecting shoulder.
Adam's eyes grew huge. “You mean, it was real? I was really there? I could touch him? Wow.”
“Yes, wow.” Milward echoed Adam's exclamation with a very small fraction of the enthusiasm.
“Can all Wizards, I mean, could all Wizards do that?” Adam followed Milward as they made their way down the switch back steps to the dock.
Milward's staff tapped the stone of the steps as they descended. “Only the most powerful. Most could only sense the area around them for a few feet. Good for finding lost keys and not much else. The very powerful, the few, such as Labad ... and myself during my younger days, could in essence be in two places at one time, but it was, and still is,” He fixed Adam with a warning glare over his shoulder. “A most dangerous thing to do. The unwary Wizard who attempts to manipulate things in the vision can become ... trapped ... yes, that's a good word for it. Trapped between the two realities.”
Adam could see his shudder from behind. Milward must know of someone that had happened to.
“Did they die?” He asked carefully.
“One can only hope.” The old Wizard replied. “Magik is a tool, Adam, that can be used to gently sculpt the fibers of dandelion fluff,or to bludgeon an enemy into paste. Technique and the skill of the practitioner are what make the difference, and the gentler skill is the harder to learn. Unlike other arts, a slip with this tool can be fatal to both the painting and the painter.”
“I'm coming to understand that,” Adam said, as he stepped onto the wood of the dock. He could smell the acrid aroma of Rawn's pipe coming from the boat moored at the foot of the dock. He felt a sense of accomplishment with the affirmation of what he'd seen with his magik on the cliff top.
“See?” Milward said, as they walked down the dock. “He's already loosening the ropes. Not a patient man, our Rawn.”
“I'll have ‘er loose in a jiffy, wizard.” Rawn's pipe puffed out billows of smoke, as he flipped the last coil off the piling.
Adam coughed as a cloud of Bac smoke rolled over him. “Thanks, but you needn't rush on our account.”
Milward climbed into the boat, and moved to a seat just starboard of the tiller. “Don't listen to the lad, Rawn, we're here, so let's be on our way.”
Rawn stood stiffly at attention and made an exaggerated seaman's salute. “Yes, Milord Wizard. At once, Milord Wizard. Shall I order room service, Milord Wizard?”
Adam nearly stepped into the straight instead of the boat, he was laughing so hard. Milward impaled Rawn with a fixed glare. “Do you have a sudden appetite for lily pads and flies, Rawn?”
The old sailor gave Milward an impertinent grin. “Do you know how to sail a boat?”
Milward blew out his mustaches with a “Hmmmphh!” And sat back with his arms crossed. Adam's chuckles received another glare.
The trip back to Grisham was as smooth as the trip from there had been rough. Adam was just as glad for the change. Last time, he'd nearly embarrassed himself by sicking up all over Rawn's boat. Only a strong resolve and several deep breaths prevented what he would have considered a personal tragedy from taking place. Milward rode the entire trip over, wrapped in a wall of sulky silence. Something was eating at the old Wizard, and Adam was at a loss as to how to pull him out of it.
If Rawn noticed the difference in his passengers from the first time they had ridden with him, he gave no sign indicating so. The old sailor puffed away on his reeking pipe, and hummed a merry, off-key tune. Gulls followed the boat in its tack from the library to its home slip at the southern end of Grisham's wharf. Every now and then, one of them would skim the surface of the straight just a couple of inches off the water, and then dip their bill in to snatch out a small silvery fish. Adam watched them for much of the passage, fascinated.
The wharf above Rawn's dock was a beehive of activity. People rushed everywhere, many of them carrying what looked to be their life's possessions. Several men, along with some women and children, were standing at the foot of a gangplank arguing with two burly ship's guards, demanding that they be allowed on board. One of the men was waving what looked to be a fat purse. It clanked with the highpitched sound of silver. The guards appeared ready to stand there all day.
Milward got out of the boat first, still silent. He looked deep in thought. Adam followed him, as Rawn steadied the boat with one hand on the edge of the dock.
“What's all this about, Rawn?” Adam stepped back, narrowly avoiding being run over by a fat matron running past with two squalling girls in tow.
“It's the bloody war. S'got everyone's knickers in a twist. Bunch o’ nonsense, iffn ya ask me.” Rawn looked at the bowl of his pipe, and then tapped the dottle into the waters of the straight.
“War?” Adam stopped dead in his tracks and turned to stare at the old sailor. “What war?”
Rawn spat into the water from where he stood on the dock. “That's right, ain't it? You an’ the Wizard there been outta touch over there in that library, ain'tcha? Seems our Duke got hisself inna dustup with the southern Emperor. Seems they's a milliyun o’ them soljers o’ theirs on th’ march ta turn Grisham into one big bonfire.”
“But ... that's horrible!”
“Iffn it's true.” More spittle flew from Rawn's mouth to the strait. “Sonny, when you git ta be as old as me, you'll learn more people'll sell their houses over a rumor, than they will on anythin’ else. Don't you go gettin’ yer knickers inna twist, too. Ask yer agin’ friend, there. He'll tell ya. S’ probably all over summat somebody said over a drink'er two, nothin’ more.”
“Is that true, Milward?” Adam tapped the old Wizard on the shoulder. A couple leading a pack mule rushed past, the mule braying its complaint at being made to go faster than it wanted to.
“Huh? Who's jostling me? Oh, it's you, Adam. What's the question?” Milward's eyes looked out of focus, like the eyes of a poppy addict.
Another knot of people pushed against them. A few tried to climb into Rawn's boat. He beat them back with a coil of rope. “I gotta git outta here, lad, afore summat happens, an’ I lose me lively'ood. Good luck ta yer's. Back! Git yerselves back, ya bleedin’ twits! Go find another boat. Back!”
He flashed a knife big enough to be called a small sword and uncoiled his line from the piling with the other hand. Some of the people on the dock yelled and cursed at him as the sailboat drifted away from the pier, but the knife prevented them from taking further action.
Adam led Milward away from the pier and into the wharf area proper. The crowds grew closer, and there seemed to be no pattern to their activity other than a general movement toward the port and the ships at anchor there.
“Watch where you're putting those big feet of yours!” The old Wizard admonished a man with long, braided hair, and beads woven into his beard that had swerved into him. The crush grew tighter as they worked their way to the intersection that would take the to the market square.
“If one more bumpkin steps on my toes, I swear, I'll send a lightning bolt right up his bottom,” Milward grumped, “What's causing all of this anyway?” The crowd noise was so loud he had to shout for Adam to hear him.
“That's what I wanted to ask you about,” Adam shouted back, as they pushed through into the cross street that led into the square.
The crowd thinned abruptly along with the accompanying noise. Adam looked toward the square and saw why. A troop of Grisham soldiers swept through the square and into the side streets. Several carts pulling prison cages held a number of occupants. Some of them looked pretty wretched.
Milward turned from looking back at another one who'd come close to trodding on his already abused toes and saw the soldiers. He grabbed Adam by the arm. “Press gang. It's begun already.”
“When we get back to the inn, you and I are going to have a talk.” Adam glanced at the Wizard.
“You don't understand, boy.” Milward turned and faced Adam. “Those brutes are a press gang. Their job is to round up every single man, or child able to lift a sword. They are going to see you as an ideal candidate.”
The gang worked their way across the square and split off into smaller groups. One of the groups appeared at the opposite end of the street they were on, effectively cutting off any hope of retreat for those unfortunates still there.
“Can you use a shaping to get us out of this?” Adam watched the gang members as they worked. Some of them merely clubbed their acquisitions into submission and dropped them to be picked up later. “I'd do it, but I don't want to hurt anyone.”
Milward shook his head. “I'm sorry, lad, I can't. Something touched me back at the library.”
“What?” Adam's question stopped abruptly, as someone roughly grabbed his arm and spun him around to face a soldier with a brutish, unshaven face, bad teeth and even badder breath.
He leered at Adam as he hefted his truncheon. “Yea, you'll do for a warm body. C'mon wif me, me lad, or do I gets ta whack yer one?”
Adam surprised the guard by turning into his grasp and then out of it; the King's sword appearing in his hand as if by magik.
The press gang member stepped back away from Adam, dropped his truncheon, and drew his own sword, a military issue single edge saber. “Oy! Oy!” He yelled. “We got usselves a feisty one!”
Several of the other members of the press gang dropped their pursuit of future members of Grisham's military in answer to the guard's call. In short order, Adam found himself facing six drawn swords.
* * * * Thaylli stood in front of the young dragon, with her hands on her hips, and a determined expression on her face. “I'm going in. I'm going in right now, with or without you.”
Drinaugh pinched the bridge of his snout between his eyes. This young human was giving him a headache with her inability to see reason.
The Alpha wolf looked up at the dragon. “Give the human female whatever it is she wants. Her continual whining is beginning to make the pack nervous."
“But she wants to go into the city.” Drinaugh replied. “And it sounds and smells dangerous.”
“So, go with her,” the wolf suggested. “No human will pick a fight with a dragon, and the pack will be spared her complaints.”
“But...” Drinaugh's muzzle switched back and forth between the adamant Thaylli and the wolf.
“Go.”
Drinaugh sighed, and Thaylli allowed a smile of triumph cross her face. The Dragon looked back down at her and pointed at the back of his neck with one of the thumbs on his right hand. “Ok, climb up onto my back. I'll take you into the city.”
* * * * Jerrold leaned on his halberd and listened to the clamor coming from inside the city on the other side of the gate. “No one allowed in or out?” He called over to his partner in the outside duty.
“Them's the orders.” His partner spat a bit of the weed he was chewing off to the side. “No one in or out. No matter what.”
“The Sarge say why?” Jerrold shifted his weight to the other foot.
“Naw.” Another spit. “Just said to keep an eye out, an’ skewer anythin’ that tries ta climb the wall.”
Jerrold considered. “I ain't never skewered anythin’ afore.”
His partner spat again. “Ain't nuthin’ to it, ya just shove.” He demonstrated with his halberd. “Want some chew?” A bag was held out for Jerrold to see.
Jerrold shook his head. “No thanks. Makes me see things that ain't there.”
His partner was impressed. “No kiddin'? All's I ever gits issa nice buzz. What kinna things ya see?” Sput!
“There's a woman ridin’ a dragon!”
“Wow. Wish I could see stuff like that. Like I said, all's I ever gits issa nice...”
“There's a ... flickin'...woman ... ridin’ a flickin’ dragon! Right ... flickin'... there!”
The weed chewer looked up and his eyes bugged. He took out his stash and looked at the bag. “Good stuff.” He murmured.
* * * * Thaylli looked past Drinaugh's neck at the high double gate that led into the city of Grisham. “They're closed. Why are they closed?”
The Dragon cocked his head to listen. “There's a commotion inside the gates. Perhaps they're closed because of fighting going on inside. Maybe we should go back.”
“Oh, no, you don't!” Thaylli thumped the back of Drinaugh's head. “You promised you'd go into the city with me. You're big enough, open the gates!”
The young Dragon's face showed the conflict going on inside him. “But ... the danger.”
Thaylli raised up and pointed at the gates. “Go on, push ‘em open.” She leaned forward and whispered into his left ear opening. “You want to see how Adam is doing as much as I do. We can't do it if we stay outside of the city.”
Drinaugh tried another argument. “The guards. What if they try to stop us from entering?”
“Ignore them. They can't hurt you. Come on, Drinaugh. You're a Dragon. Do you really think they're going to try anything other than running away?” Thaylli thumped the back of the Dragon's head again.
“I really wish you wouldn't do that,” he admonished her. “How about if I ask the guards to let us in before I break their gates. Is that ok?”
Thaylli sat back against the neck ridge she used as a saddle. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Drinaugh noticed the pout in her voice, but ignored it as he started forward. The excitement he felt earlier about being the first Dragon ambassador to mankind had vanished as soon as Grisham's walls came into view. Now, striding forward to confront the guards protecting the city gates, all he really wanted to do was take to the skies, and wing his way back home to Dragonglade as quickly as the power of flight could get him there.
* * * * Jerrold couldn't believe his eyes. A Dragon! A bloody, flickin’ huge Dragon. With wings yet, and a lass wearing a shape a man dreams about, on it's back, walkin’ right at him!
“Soddle. You seein’ this?” He called across the road in front of the gates to his partner on the other side. “You seein’ the Dragon?”
“Oh, yeah, Jerrold. This weed's better'n I thought it was.” Soddle said dreamily.
“It's flickin’ real, you twit!” Jerrold hissed back. “Think about it. I ... don't ... chew!”
“S'what I'm talkin’ about. You ain't chewin', and yer'll still seein’ it. S'gotta be really good stuff.” Soddle pushed another wad into his mouth.
The Dragon was only a few yards away, now. Jerrold took one look at his totally inadequate halberd and ran off. Soddle was on his own, the poor twit.
Soddle watched the dragon with the maid on its back walk his way. “This was skrudin’ great! Wait'll the boys back at the guardhouse hear about this. Maybe then they'll try some of his stuff.” He made a quick note to himself to remember where hehad picked this batch. Skruddin’ great.
“Uh ... uh, excuse me.”
“It talked, too! Oh, yeah, definitely need to remember where that patch of weed was.”
One guard had turned and run. That left the other with the glazed eyes as the only one to speak to. Drinaugh tried again. “Uh ... I said, excuse me. Hello?”
The young dragon rotated his head so he faced Thaylli. “His eyes are open, but I don't think anyone is home.”
Thaylli looked down at the guard. He had that same look as some of the miners after a long night at Westcott's bar in the inn. “Try again,” she said. “At least he isn't running away.”
Drinaugh sighed, “very well. But I don't think it will do any good.”
He looked down at Soddle. “Ummm ... can you hear me, man? Can you understand what I'm saying?”
Soddle looked into the dragon's eyes, scant feet away from him. “Wow...”
“It's no good, Thaylli. Something's wrong with his brain. He just stares at me with this silly smile on his face.” Drinaugh shrugged his wings.
“Oooooo!” Thaylli beat a tattoo of frustration against the ridges on the dragon's neck before her. “And he's just inside there. I can feel it!”
“Oy! Dragon! Coeeee. Draaaagon!” The guard was jumping up and down, waving his hands over his head. “Draaagon!”
Drinaugh lowered his head until his eyes were level with Soddle's bloodshot orbs. “Yes?”
Soddle peered at him closely, screwing up his face in a quizzical manner as he cocked his head to one side. “You fer real, er am I seein’ things?”
Thaylli leaned out over the dragon's neck, exposing quite a lot of cleavage for Soddle's appreciation. “Of course, you're seeing things. You think a woman riding a dragon would be real?”
Soddle thought about that for a moment. “Yeah ... I see yer point. Man, this is good stuff.” He held out the bag toward the dragon and the maid. “Want a chew?”
In spite of his youth, Drinaugh wasn't slow on the uptake. “No, thank you. Apparitions can't chew. You should know that, you know.”
“Oh yeah...” Soddle looked embarrassed. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that. Wasn't thinkin'. It's the weed, you know, makes ya see things.” He paused. “Iffn it's good stuff.”
“It must be good, then.” Thaylli leaned over a bit more. Soddle's attention became riveted on something other than the Dragon. “Would you mind doing us a favor?” She wiggled a bit to set the hook.
“Whadda a pair of ... huh?” Soddle blinked, as the question registered. “Uh ... yeah. Sure, sure. Whatcho want me ta do?”
Drinaugh raised back up to a normal stance and pointed at Grisham's gates. “If you would be so good as to open the gates for us, we'd be very grateful.”
Thaylli gave Soddle her broadest smile. “Very grateful.”
Soddle couldn't turn around fast enough. He hammered at the gate. “Oy! Hervy! Oy! Come on, open ‘er up! There's a lad! Hervy! Come on, now!”
A peephole opened up in the center of the right gate and a brown eye looked out. “Whoozat? Oh, s'you, Soddle. Still chewin', I see. Whatch hammerin’ onna gate for? Ain't shift changin time.”
“Gotta maid with a nice pair a...” He swallowed. “...an’ a dragon, wants ta come in. Be a sport, an’ open the gates, ok?”
Hervy sniggered. “Right. An’ I got's a date with the Duke's mistress after me shift. You knows the rule. Long's they got's the pressers out an about, no one in or out. You knows that.”
Soddle looked back at Thaylli perched on Drinaugh's neck. She smiled and wiggled at him. “Ah, c'mon, Hervy. Be a mate. This is Soddle yer talkin’ to. Open ‘er up.”
“You an’ me ain't mates, Soddle. ‘At's another of yer weed dreams. Bugger off.” The peephole closed.
“Well? Are you going to let us in?” Drinaugh asked.
“Are they going to open for us?” Thaylli's question rode in on top of the Dragon's.
Soddle turned away from the gate with a face like a thundercloud. “Buggerim. Buggerim. Bugger the skrudin sod. Not mates, ‘e says, eh? I'll show ‘im.” He looked up at Drinaugh and Thaylli. “You want in? Go in. Be my guests.” He was too mad to notice the sobriety his anger had brought on, and the fact that he was still seeing a maid riding a Dragon. “Give my regards to that bugger, Hervy.”
“But ... the gates are closed. Locked. If I push them open, I'll be breaking them. Is that what you want?” Drinaugh pressed his concern on the guard.
“Awe, bust the’ soddin’ things, fer all I care. Not mates, ‘e says. After all the’ stouts he's drunk on me silver. Th’ soddin’ prat. I'll mate ‘im...” Soddle wasn't paying attention any more. He stalked off, lost in his own outrage.
“You heard him. Let's go.” Thaylli dug her heels into Drinaugh's soft hide.
He rotated his head and looked full in her face. “If you please? I am not a beast of burden, you know.”
Thaylli had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry. I forgot, but can we go? You heard the guard. It's his fault if the gates get broken.”
Drinaugh watched the still outraged Soddle wander off, waving an arm as he lambasted the absent Hervy. He was still wrestling with his emotions, but the part of him wanting to see how his human friend was doing was taking the high ground. “Hold on, then.”
Thaylli put her arms onto either side of the Dragon's neck as Drinaugh walked forward and pushed. The sharp sound of snapping timbers mixed with the screech of warping metal as the bar locking Grisham's gates was put under pressure it was never intended to withstand.
The gates swung inward, and the first Dragon in over a thousand years of Grisham's history strode into the city. This particular Dragon bore a human rider, which, unknown even to Drinaugh, was an historical first.

Chapter Thirty-Five
Dragonglade in the fall presented itself in a riot of color and smell. The dragons had long ago mastered the art of horticulture, and the glade, which acted as their town square, represented the crowning achievement of that art.
Shealauch's sensitive nostrils picked up the sweet floral scent wafting out of his home, as he struggled to come in safely from his flight away from the men who'd attacked him. Spots and lights swam before his eyes, and red blood dropped away from his pierced foot and tail. He felt weak and dizzy as he backwinged onto the grass outside the entrance where his mother Timidi kept her apartments. The injured foot would not support its share of the young Dragon's weight, and he collapsed onto the grass with a cry of pain.
Shealauch's outcry was heard by several of the Dragons out enjoying the peacefulness of the mid-morning air. The first to reach him was Harlig with Niamh, who could still move more quickly than most of the others, despite her pregnancy.
Close behind them came another knot of Dragonglade's residents, along with the injured youth's mother, who pushed her way through the Dragons encircling the moaning Shealauch.
“What happened? My baby! Wha...? What are those things sticking in him? He's bleeding!”
Timidi knelt down next to her son and cradled the foot with the arrow in it. “This is a man's thing!” She cried out to the other Dragons. “Why is a man's thing piercing my child?”
Chabaad peered over her shoulder, using his telescopic vision to focus in on the object of Timidi's outrage. “That's an arrow!” He stood erect and shouted to the rest of the Dragons around the glade. “They've shot Shealauch with arrows!”
Harlig muttered loud enough for the Dragons encircling Shealauch to hear. “I knew there would be trouble, allowing that fool Drinaugh to venture forth into the human world. They hate what they cannot understand.”
Niamh scorched him with a look. “You know nothing of the kind. Your statement shows the falsity of your words by their very own context. Do you know the mind of every Dragon? No? Then how can you claim to know the mind of every human?”
“You defend the ones who tried to kill my Shealauch?!” Timidi reared back, hissing in fury. Several other Dragons joined her in argument against those more of a mind with Niamh. In an instant the glade was filled with the deafening sound of Dragons shouting at one another at the top of their lungs.
A family of black bears living on the slopes above the caldera that formed Dragonglade sat up, listened for a second, and then decided to leave the area in search of more peaceful places. Flocks of birds fled to the skies, and some of the sharper hearing Avernese soldiers marching behind Vedder cocked their ears, straining to hear what sounded to them like distant thunder.
Chabaad called for the ones who did this to be hunted down and punished. Harlig's shout rose above his, saying they should be slain as the animals they obviously are.
“Silence!!!” The glade settled into shocked silence, as the Dragons looked up to see the Winglord glaring down at them from an elevated porch built into landscape of the parkland. Rose bushes framed the tips of his half-extended wings. His posture told all within the glade the extent of his anger. “What ... is ... the ... meaning of this ... this undragonlike tumult?” He raked the heat of his gaze across the crowd gathered around Shealauch.
No Dragon answered him.
“Well?” Mashglach focused his attention on Timidi.
“They've pierced my child with ... arrows, Winglord.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Remove them!” Mashglach's tone indicated disbelief in that it hadn't been done immediately.
Timidi covered Shealauch partially with her wings. “That will hurt him more.”
Niamh knelt back down next to Timidi. “Let me try. I believe I can be of aide to him. These hands do have a few centuries of experience as a surgeon in them.”
“Winglord?” Timidi looked up at Mashglach.
“Let the surgeon care for your son, Timidi. She'll ease his pain, not worsen it. You should know that.” The Chief Dragon's voice was gentle.
“But I...” Shealauch's mother looked at Mashglach and Niamh in turn.
Niamh ducked her head close to Timidi's. “Please.”
The mother Dragon pulled back her wings, exposing Shealauch's wounds to the rest of the gathering. A collective gasp rose up from the crowd, and a few of the murmurs concerning revenge and justice followed close behind.
“Silence, please. Let the surgeon perform her task.” Mashglach rumbled.
Quiet re-entered the glade, as Niamh probed Shealauch's wounds.
“Uuunggghhh!”
“Sorry, child. But I needed to know if infection had set in. You are fortunate you bled so much. The wounds have been flushed clean.”
She looked at a Dragon whose hide bore a subtle leopard's spot pattern. “Hurry. Bring me the Sandalwood box with the camellia engraving in the lid. Fly part of the way, if you must.”
Niamh turned back to her patient. “Try to work on a relaxation exercise. Freniagh will be back with something to take the pain away and to help you heal faster.”
“I ... I hope it's soon,” Shealauch put on a smile, but it didn't fit right.
Harlig called up to Mashglach while they waited for Freniagh to return with the surgeon's box. “What are we going to do about this, Winglord?”
“The law isn't specific, here. We are going to have to consider our actions. The Winglauch will have to be convened.” Mashglach scratched an eye ridge with one of his left thumbs. “I would have hoped for a brighter reason than this.”
Murmurs arose again. This time, the term Winglauch was bandied about.
The glade became silent again when Freniagh settled onto the grass with Niamh's box tucked into the crook of an arm. The crowd parted, giving him a path to the surgeon and her patient.
Niamh opened the box by pressing three of the camellia petals in the inlay in sequence. It opened with a soft click and she removed an opalescent bottle that seemed to contain small swirling lights.
“Wha ... what's that?” Shealauch raised his head at the sight of the bottle. “It's beautiful.”
“Something to help you feel better.” Niamh gently pushed the young Dragon's head back onto the grass, and then opened the bottle. A scent of citrus rose mixed with an indefinable bitter sweetness billowed out of the bottle. Those closest to Niamh and her work breathed in the scent, and felt immediately lighter in heart. She pushed Shealauch's head back down once more with her left hand, and poured three drops of the glistening fluid into each wound where the arrow shafts rose out of the Dragon's hide.
“Oooooooo, that feels good.” Shealauch moaned with relief as the fluid washed the pain away.
“That's nice, dear.” Niamh tested the level of pain by wiggling the arrows. Her patient didn't react, so things were good, so far.
She used the thumbs and fingers of her left hand to stretch the hide on either side of the wound in Shealauch's foot. Using her right hand, she gripped the shaft firmly. “Hold very still now, Shealauch. Try that relaxation exercise now. You mustn't move a muscle.”
“Ok.”
Niamh focused her eyes until the arrow's point of entry filled her field of vision. She had to pull back the arrow exactly along the path it entered. The barbed head already had done enough damage; there was no need to compound it.
For a human arrow, it was uncommonly large. Niamh had seen others before. To her Dragon size, they had appeared to be more like a knitting needle. This, to a human, would be a small spear with fletchings.
“Is it out yet?” Shealauch asked, as he hummed the relaxation mantra.
“Almost. Be patient, and be still.” She eased the broad head out of the wound and purplish-red blood flowed after it.
A concerted gasp came out of the crowd of dragons as the barbed broadhead came out of Shealauch's foot. The gasp cut off with Niamh's raised hand.
“Be silent! There is still another to deal with.” She moved sideways until the young Dragon's abused tail lay before her. She repeated the slight wiggle on the arrow's shaft to be certain the fluid's pain killing properties continued to work. Shealauch still gave no indication she'd done anything. “Good. Now to remove the ugly thing.”
Niamh spread the flesh on either side of the wound as before and began backing the arrow out. Because of the differences between foot and tail this one was in deeper than the other and took a little longer to remove,also, this time, there was a lot more blood.
“Unnnnhh! Sorry,” Shealauch moaned quietly.
“Don't apologize.” Niamh held up the offending arrow and discarded it next to the other. “The Lortis is wearing off, it's not your fault.”
“Freniagh. Give me the small green bottle with the blue stopper,” she said, as she poured a drop of the Lortis into each wound.
“Thank you.” Shealauch sighed with the relief.
Freniagh dug out the requested bottle and handed it to Niamh, its glaze an opaque bilious green. “Not near as pretty as the first one, surgeon,” he said, as she took it out of his hand.
She nodded. “The beauty's not in the bottle's looks, but what it contains.”
“Like some people.” Freniagh nodded back.
“Exactly.” Niamh unstopped the bottle and tapped one oily drop into each of the two wounds. “This should feel a bit chill.”
Shealauch shuddered as the drops were applied. “Chill!?” It feels as if I'm being doused in ice.”
Niamh smiled, along with several of the other Dragons gathered around her patient. “Good. That means the Comfret is doing its job.”
“What does it do?” Shealauch tried to watch without raising his head.
“In your case, it has two tasks. The first, and most important, is to counteract any poison or infection that may have been born upon the arrowhead.”
“Poison!?” The young Dragon raised his head in alarm.
This time Niamh did not push him back down. “No need to be alarmed. That part of it is only a precaution. If there had indeed been poison, you would not have been able to fly back to here. No, infection is more of a worry than poison. How does it feel now?”
Shealauch's eyes showed he was looking inward. “Warmer, a bit.”
Niamh looked at the wounds. The flow of blood had stopped, and they were beginning to close, as expected. “Well, it looks as if my patient is going to survive.”
Murmurs of appreciation came from the crowd.
She turned her head to find Timidi. “He'll be fine, now. You should feed him to help him restore his strength. The Comfret uses the body's resources to speed the healing.”
Timidi gathered her son into her arms and helped him to his feet. “Thank you, Niamh. Thank you.”
Chabaad spoke up from where he stood in the crowd. “You mentioned Winglauch, Winglord. Is one being called? This ... action against one of our own demands some form of action on our part.”
Mashglach gazed back at Chabaad levelly. “I did indeed say the Winglauch should be convened. You heard well.” He raised his voice. “We will meet in the great hall as soon as possible. Spread the word. This is a matter for all dragons. Young and old.”

Chapter Thirty-Six
McCabe pushed on the door at the top of the dungeon stairs. The palace proper lay on the other side, but the door wouldn't budge. He extended his perception into the door and the space around it. A bar with heavy chains secured it from being opened, so he did to them what was done to the shackles holding him to the slab. The life of the metal had a bitter salty taste to it, and was unsatisfying but, the door opened. He stepped across the small pile of corrosion into the palace itself. Now, where would his Excellency the Duke be?
He walked down the hallway, his senses tasting the ether for signs of life. A couple of chambermaids came out of a room pushing a cart of cleaning equipment and linens before them. The younger one glanced his way and screamed. She gathered her skirts about her and ran, but the other one stayed, brandishing a mop as if it would serve as a weapon.
“You get back. I'm warning you, whoever you are. I've thrashed bigger ones than you.” She was a husky woman, and of middle age.
McCabe thought she would have been intriguing to toy with, but he had other things on his mind.
He continued to walk towards her, the lazy smile on his face appearing as an evil leer because of his untrimmed beard.
The maid yelled. “Stay back, I tell you. Back!” She raised the mop and swung it sideways in a roundhouse blow. It connected with the side of McCabe's head full on the temple. An ordinary man would have died from the blow. It knocked him against the corridor wall by the force of it, and he stayed there for a moment, relishing the waves of pain that radiated from the healing bones of his crushed skull.
He looked at the maid and smiled broadly. “That was nice. Shall we do it again?”
She stared at him with bulging eyes. He noticed they were a cool light blue in color, then pushed himself away from the wall, and continued to move toward her. She hefted the mop as if to use it again, and then threw it at him, using the distraction to get away. She didn't scream, but saved her breath for running.
McCabe batted the mop aside and watched the woman run. He let her go, not feeling a need to feed just now. His senses reached out and tasted the palace grounds. “Where are you Duke? Ah, there. The tower room. No, he's coming down the steps.”
He passed a floor to ceiling hall mirror and glanced at it. The apparition looking back at him explained why the maids had run. His hair hung in twisted mats past his shoulders, and his eyes looked out from a face hidden in a tangled bush of dead black beard. What exposed skin there was showed smears of dirt and sweat that looked like some horrible disease. Though he didn't feel hungry, he looked thin enough to be a walking corpse. The ruined black silk of his former clothes hung on him like he was a hall tree instead of a man. He began to chuckle. Of course, he wasn't a man, not any more.
He fingered the beard as he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd have to do something about his appearance before he left the palace.
Several maids and a few liveried servants got the fright of their lives as he moved through the living areas of the palace, looking for something to wear that suited him. He found chests and armoires full of clothing, but either the color was wrong or it was the fabric. What he wanted was another outfit of black silk and polished black leather as he had before.
Finally, a closet filled with footwear yielded a pair of boots twin to the ones he'd worn prior to being brought back to the dungeon.
A trio of guards confronted him as he stamped the last boot on. “C'mon, you. Back to the cells, an’ no one gets hurt.”
McCabe let a giggle escape his throat. “No one gets hurt? They didn't know who they were talking to, did they?”
He stamped his feet one more time, checking the fit of the boots. He was a bit disappointed. They didn't pinch at all.
“You deaf as well as ugly? Back to the cells. Now!” The guard ordering him carried a truncheon with a metal ball on the end. The other two had halberds held at the ready.
McCabe scratched his left side with his right hand. “I heard you. No thanks, it's boring down there.” He took a step in the guard's direction. “I'd rather play with you.”
“He's gone right round the bend.” One of the halberd bearers shifted the long-handled weapon in his hands.
“Totally starkers,” agreed the other. “Bein’ in the pits'll do that. Lookit his beard, e's been down there a summer's worth, at least.”
“Drop the chatter, you two, and take him. He's only one fellow and a skinny runt, at that,” the one with the truncheon commanded.
“You!” He pointed the weapon at McCabe. “On the floor, now!”
“On the floor, now. On the floor, now.” McCabe mimicked the guard's command, as he continued to advance upon them. “Your problem is that you have no imagination.” He reached out and brushed the back of the hand that held the truncheon. The guard dropped lifeless to the parquet floor. “You're only good for a light snack.”
“D'ju see that?” One of the halberd bearers ejaculated, taking a step backwards.
“I ain't blind,” the other one said. He dropped his halberd and ran. The other guard followed close on his heels.
McCabe didn't bother to watch them go, but walked out of the room and into the one across the hall in search of shirt, belt and trousers to go with his new boots.
He could sense the Duke getting closer. His partner in murder was only two floors above him now. He searched through the drawers and closets in the room with frantic haste, tossing the rejects to the side or over his shoulder. He didn't want to meet the Duke dressed in rags.
The third closet produced a suitable black silk shirt, and the fourth chest of drawers yielded a pair of pants. He sensed the Duke entering the hall that this set of rooms was on, as he fit the last frog into its loop. Good. Just in time for the reunion. A hair cut and beard trim would have to be taken care of later.
He opened the door leading to the hallway and stepped out of the room. A silhouette stood at the far end of the hall, outlined by the light coming from the skylights in the foyer beyond. The girth of the belly portion told him the outline belonged to the Duke.
“You!” The Duke's shout was slurred and thick with the sound of one long gone to the bottle. “Get back to the cells, damn you!”
“I own you,” he hissed. “And I'll be damned if I'll let you leave.” The sound of the Duke's saber leaving the scabbard was like silk tearing. “Back to the cells, now, or I'll gut you like a trout.”
McCabe and the Duke advanced on each other until the point of the Duke's saber pressed into the black silk of McCabe's new shirt.
McCabe looked down at the sword point. It pressed into his new shirt at a point about two inches below his sternum. The voices gave him an idea.
Duke Bilardi snarled. “This is your last chance, animal. I don't know who let you loose, but you're going back to where you belong. Chained to a slab in my dungeon.”
“No, I don't think so.” McCabe looked into the Duke's eyes and walked forward, impaling himself upon the blade.
“No! You can't! You ... can't be doing this.” Bilardi saw waves of ecstasy pass through McCabe's expression as he pushed himself onto the sword, forcing his body along its length until the hilt touched the silk of his shirt.
The former thief gasped through the wonderful feel of the agony he was experiencing. “Oh ... yes ... I... can.”
Bilardi let go of the sword hilt and backed away. His mouth worked like a gold fish out of its bowl. When McCabe grasped the hilt and began pulling the blade from his body, the Duke turned and ran screaming from the hallway.
McCabe pulled the sword from his middle and examined the blade. Interesting, there was no blood. There should have been blood. He tested the edge and found it to be razor sharp. It would do for cutting his hair and beard.
He held a matted lock away from his head and sawed at it with the sword. The lock fell away and he started on another. It took him nearly half and hour to cut the mess back to the length he preferred. The beard took less time and still looked a bit ragged when finished. He walked back to the large mirror and examined the results. Satisfactory, for now, he would have to find someone to finish it with style, later.
Smiling at the thought, he passed through the foyer and into the mid-morning sun.
* * * * The press gang closed in on Adam. The one who called to the others was slightly in front and to the side. “Ok, me boyo. Drop yer fancy pigsticker an’ come quietly. Ain't no one good'nuf ta face down six blades by hisself.”
Adam crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, allowing the spirit in the blade to move his hand. He felt his grip shift slightly as he gave over to its feel.
One of the press gang tried a feint. The King's sword dipped and slapped it aside without apparent effort.
“E's got a wrist. ‘E ‘as.” The guard remarked to the others.
“Let's whut ‘e can do agin’ three o’ us at oncet,” grinned a whippet-thin fellow with blonde hair pulled back into a tail. He held his blade steady and then began scribing a series of figure eights and cycles with its tip.
“Don't talk much, do he?” the one with the bristling chin chortled. “Wassa matter, lad? Cat got'cher tongue? No worries, yer don't need to be a talker, just a dyer.” He stretched forward in a lightning lunge intended to disembowel his opponent.
As fast as the guard's lunge was, Adam's wrist moved even faster. His sword shot forward in a blurred riposte, corkscrewing around the other's, and tearing it out of his hand. He side-stepped to the left, repeated the move with the guard on that side, and then spun around in time to parry an overhand slash from the one on the right. The return blow whistled through empty space as he ducked beneath it, and buried the tip of the sword into the guard's armpit.
“Adam! To your left!” Milward called out while he drove the breath out of a guard that had less than neighborly intentions coming in from the street behind them.
He raised his staff at another who was following. “Six on one is more than enough odds. You can enjoy the show from there, or you can be a newt. Your choice. You do know a Wizard when you see one, don't you?”
The guard looked Milward up and down, and refocused on the ornately carved staff. His eyes bulged, and he gulped before bringing his gaze back to the Wizard's stern face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milord Wizard. I, I din't know. Iffn ye'll be excusin’ me, I ... I'll be goin’ now, Milord.” He ducked a bow, and tugged a forelock as he backed away.
Milward harumphed and turned back to see how Adam was faring.
One of the guards in the press gang was holding his wrist like it was broken. Two others lay on the cobblestones, one in a spreading pool of red. The guard who'd originally started the fracas was being hard pressed to defend himself under a whirlwind attack, and he called out frantically to the remaining two press gang members. “Don't just stand there gapin', help me!”
The remaining two pushed in and attempted to stab past Adam's guard, but they soon found themselves in the same fix as their compatriot.
The one on the right missed the repeat in his pattern first, and got a pink in the nerve running up his bicep for his trouble, that temporarily paralyzed his hand. The saber dropped from his lifeless fingers and clattered onto the cobblestones. He backed out too fast for his feet, and landed onto the street, scrabbling away like a crab.
The one on the left continued the fight for another few passes, then he too backed out. “Sorry, Giff.”
Giff threw him a black look and redoubled his effort. At least a half dozen spots on his blouse showed red where Adam's point had gotten through.
“You don't have to do this, you know.” Milward leaned against the brick wall of one of the shops, as he stuffed his pipe. A tiny spark appeared above the bowl and lit the Bac. “Don't you think it would be much healthier,” he paused to puff out a smoke ring that formed into a passable sculpture of a foaming tankard. “to find the nearest pub, and conscript a pint or two? You can take your friends there,” He pointed to the other press gang members still living, with his pipe. “With you. Right after you unlock the cage, of course.”
“I can't.” The guard panted. “The Duke'll ‘ave me head.” Another spot of red bloomed on his blouse.
“I won't tell if you won't.” Adam's sword whipped past Giff's guard and sliced through the belt holding his scabbard. The fellow had to do some fancy dancing to avoid tripping over the belt as it fell to the street.
Another blur of metal, and a portion of an earlobe was sliced away.
“The boy's more than a match for you. We all know it, you included. Dying for this...” Milward shook his head in disgust. “It's stupid, at best.”
Giff ran through a couple of more passes, but it was obvious the Wizard's words had had an effect. His heart just wasn't in it anymore. “Awright. Awright! You win, blast you. The kid's a demon wif a blade, anyway.” He threw his saber away and slid to a sitting position against the wall where Milward was leaning.
He looked up at Adam through the sweat pouring down his face. “How'd you get so damn good, anyway? You'd be match fer Bilardi fer sure.” The fight over, he acted like a lot of professional military men. Adam was no longer an enemy, but a compatriot with similar interests.
Adam looked at him. “The Duke?”
“Naw. ‘Is son. The old man's good. I ain't sayin’ ‘e isn't. Used ta be a swordmaster, ‘e did. But age an’ a lotta good food...” He let the rest of the sentence be assumed by the listeners.
“Then who are you talking about?” Milward tamped out his pipe against the bricks of the wall.
The guard looked to the left and right. The crowd, seeing the battle was over, began to filter back into the streets, those not clamoring at the docks for a boat out of the area. He looked back at Adam and Milward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Duke's son, named after hisself, pure poison wif a blade.”
Milward stood off from the wall. “Well, he's Grisham royalty, what would you expect? A man of letters? No, I think it's best we ... What is that?”
The sound of snapping timbers and tortured metal brought all their heads whipping around in the direction of the southern gate.
“Southerners! We're being attacked already!” Several in the crowd took up the cry, and what crowd there had been in the gate market square vanished like mist in a summer sun, except for those few soldiers who sense of duty was stronger than their sense of survival.
Milward snorted. “Can't be Southerners, Northerns or Island Folk. No siege engine built has the power to do that. Come on, Adam. This may prove interesting, from a distance, of course.” He added, as a point of caution.
Adam followed the wizard out of the side street and into the Gate Market Square. People who been pleading earlier with the gate guards to let them outside were now pushing past him in an effort to get as far away from whatever was coming through those gates. Foremost in the crowd was Hervy, the inner gate guard.
What ever it was, it was exerting incredible force. The huge gates were bulging inwards, causing timbers to snap, sending splinters and pins whizzing across the Market Square. Some shot out with enough force to embed into the sides of a cart or stall several yards away. The remaining guards took their cue and hightailed it out of there.
Milward took Adam by the arm. “Ready your power, my boy. We don't know what's causing this, but the odds are, it isn't friendly.”
“Can't you sense what it is?” Adam tried reaching out, but all he got was a sense of confusion.
“Not enough time, lad. Besides, I'm a bit knackered from the fight back there.”
“I'm ready.” Adam watched the heavy iron bar that stretched across the twin halves of the gate bend inwards. The screeching sound came from it.
The power had come up almost without thought, and he held it ready, like the waters of a dam. He could see a shape now partially revealed within the ever-widening crack between the doors of the gate. A niggling began in the backside of his memory. He knew that shape.
“Milward...”
He got no further. The gates burst inward with a resounding crash, and the left gate door rebounded against the city wall hard enough to tear itself off its hinges. It slowly toppled over and slapped against the hard packed clay of the Market Square. Through the ruined gates strode Drinaugh, with a radiant Thaylli riding high on his shoulders. Behind the Dragon, the Alpha Wolf looked into the two legs’ den and sniffed. He smelled the fear of the city along with the scents of what man used for his food, and the individual smells of those who'd passed though over time. None of the scents told of danger to the pack. The wolf reflected on the usefulness of having a sky lord with the pack, and sniffed again. Winding its way through the maze of smells intermixing within the Market Square was the scent of their packmate. He gave a very unwolflike bark and bounded through the gate opening on Drinaugh's heels. The pack followed, with their tails wagging.
Thaylli clung to the Dragon's neck as the city gates burst inward. “Can you see him?” She yelled out against the noise.
Drinaugh shook his head, forgetting he had a rider up there. “Not yet, but I smell him.
“Oops. Sorry,” to Thaylli's scream, as she was tossed back and forth by his headshake.
She thumped the top of his head with her fists. “Don't do that again!”
“I said I was sorry.” The dragon said reproachfully. “You didn't have to ... there he is! Adam!”
Drinaugh roared out his friend's name, and took off across the Market Square in a straight line toward the spot where Adam and Milward stood. In his haste, he forgot about the results of what happens when several tons of dragon impact upon the vending carts of produce merchants and the like. The stalls, carts and displays in the Dragon's path toppled and crumbled as if they were made out of so much tissue. Displays of spring melons were squashed into fragrant smears. Penned livestock decided they'd had enough, broke through their enclosures, and stampeded out of the square into the streets that fed into it from the north, west and east. Two mobile chicken coops unloosed from their oxen porters earlier in the morning went toppling to the ground, disgorging their feathered contents. A number of Grisham's poorer families had chicken dinners that night, and a few of the more enterprising ones developed tidy little egg businesses over the following months.
The young Dragon pushed through the last of the stalls and thundered to a stop in front of Adam and Milward. “Adam! I've found you at last! Oh, you don't know how much I've missed our fun conversations. How have you've been? I've found some new friends. I met a pack of wolves who say they know you, and I've...”
“Adam!”
Adam looked just in time to prepare himself for the feminine bundle hurtling towards him. Thaylli threw herself into his arms and buried him in kisses and small cries of joy.
Drinaugh looked down at his two human friends and smiled. The pack with the Alpha wolf and his mate in the lead picked their way through the debris left behind by the dragon's passage. They circled Drinaugh and settled to their haunches in a rough grouping to the left of Adam and Thaylli.
Milward walked over to where the Alpha wolf sat. “I smell you, my friend. Was the hunting good?”
“The hunt is always good, friend two legs,” the wolf replied, and then pointed his muzzle at the billing and cooing Adam and Thaylli. “But not as good as the hunt of our packmate's she.”
The Alpha wolf's mate watched as the couple got reacquainted. “A very good hunt, indeed,” she said, with a wag of her tail.
Adam disentangled himself from Thaylli's embrace and looked up at his Dragon friend. “What are you doing here? Why are Thaylli and the wolves with you, especially now?” He indicated the square with a wave of his hand. “It may not look like it right now, but this place is in an uproar.”
Drinaugh looked slightly embarrassed. “I just wanted to see if you were ok.” His tone of voice made him sound like a child confessing to stealing cookies too soon before dinner.
“I imagine that's the reason they're all here.” Milward said dryly.
The Alpha wolf's mate uttered a series of growls that brought out a chuckle from the wizard and a blush on Adam.
Thaylli looked at the red creeping up to his ears. “What was it? What did she say?”
“I'd rather not say,” Adam replied, as Milward's chuckles grew into outright laughter.
“What did she say?” Thaylli demanded, looking around at the others. “What did she say?”
“She said,” Drinaugh's voice sounded a bit strangled. “That he should go ahead and get it over with, mate with you now, settle down, and raise a litter of puppies.”
“I don't know why you're so red in the face, Adam,” Milward said, between gales of laughter. “You know wolves are a very practical people.”
End of Well's End, volume one.

The Wells End Chronicles Glossary
Phonetic pronunciation in parentheses
Town Names:
Silgert, (sell-gurt)
Dunwattle, (dun-watt-all)
Old Firth, (ol-furth)
Bustle, (bus-all)
Bantering, (ban-tur-ring)
Hetfield, (het-fell-d)
Access, (ak-ses)
Northlake, (north-lek)
Firth, (furth)
Longpointe, (long-point)
Ulsta, (ool-stuh)
Targy, (tar-gee)
Meyer, (my-err)
Beri, (burr-ee)
Marino, (marr-ee-no)
Swaledale, (sway-all-day-all)
Wenslydale, (whens-lee-day-all)
Bern, (burn)
Lamsa, (laam-sa)
Farrar, (far-ar)
Swete, (sweat)
Wycliffe, (weh-cliff)
Hickie, (hick-ee)
Coverdale, (cover-day-all)
City Names:
Spu, (spew)
Avern, (awe-vern)
Leward, (lou-ard)
Mossett, (moss-it)
Orbis, (oor-bus)
Berggren, (burr-grin)
Grisham (gris-shum)—Ancient trading center that grew into the largest city-state in the world. Also site of the great library,
Labad (la-baad)—philosopher's city and university named after Labad the genius of the 7th century, deified by Alford the 7th,
Southpoint, (just like it's spelled)
Bren, (breen)
Ort (oo-ert)—seat of the Southern Empire,
Verkuyl (verr-cue-yewl)—Ruined Elven capital)(leads some to believe the Elvish race is older than common belief holds,
Chrysostom (cris-sauce-towm)—Ancient dragon birthplace
Places:
Old Oak Forest,
Hillside Wood,
Echo Cavern,
The Grotto,
Dragonglade,
The Geode,
The Narrows,
Whistle Bridge,
The Great Library at Grisham,
The Sea Pass,
Labad's Bridge,
Labad's Highway,
North Lake,
Pestilence (Gilgafed's Island),
The Great Wood,
The Long Wood,
Angbar, (aang-bare)
The Great Swamp,
Wildflower Inn,
Willum's Alehouse
The Wayfarer House,
Dwillkillion (de-will-kill-yun)—Home of the Dwarfs
The Well of Sorrows—A supposedly bottomless well in the heart of Angbar thought to be the entrance into the Shadow realm
Rivers and Creeks:
Ort River,
The Mossett (mows-et) River,
Little Ort River,
Milk River,
Elfheart River,
Bastard River,
Black River,
Custom Creek,
Bones Creek,
Troll Creek,
Helmson (helms-un) Creek,
Deer Creek,
Mad Creek
Mountains:
Cloudhook,
Black Ben,
Angbar—island of witches, location of the Well of Sorrows,
Losthope Peak
The Spine—Central mountain range running the length of the continent
Peoples of the world:
Human,
Elf,
Dragon,
Dwarf,
The Wandering Folk,
Wolves,
Maraggar (maa-raa-gar)—dark skinned people with silver hair
The Suldam (sool-dahm) are Maraggar fighters.
The Pfaldam (fahl-dahm) the Maraggar administrators.
Tettuwain (tit-two-ween) is the Maraggar's deity
Human's names:
Bal (bahl)—Adam and Charity's Uncle
Doreen (door-reen)—Adam and Charity's Aunt
Travers (trah-virs)—Ortian patrol Sargent,
Hooper (hoop-er)—Trading States’ soldier that captures Ethan,
Mundy (moon-dee)—lieutenant in Grisham city guard,
Milward (mell-word)—the retired wizard,
Nought: (not)—Milward's storyteller identity in first of new beginning
Darzin (derr-zen)—Lord Mayor's son whose nose Adam bloodies,
Dunn (done)—Duke Bilardi's torturer,
Rolston (roll-stone)—Vedder's brother,
Elssyn (El-see-in)—serving girl in Rolston's favorite pub
Lord Bilardi (bell-ar-dee)—Duke of Grisham, Swordmaster,
Captain Bilardi—Swordmaster, Captain of Grisham City guard
Cloutier (clu-tee-ay)—Villainous Earl of Berggren,
Youch (you-ch)—Cloutier's manservant,
Gerkin (grr-ken)—fat fabric monger in Bantering
Bel (bell)—Church elder in Bantering
Durhan (derr-hawn)—Church elder in Bantering
Old man Falstaff (fall-staw-f)—Silversmith in Dunwattle
Mistress Wermott (worm-ot)—Madam in Dunwattle,
Mr.Sandalwood—miller in Dunwattle
Ornette (or-net)—Hersh the butcher's son,
Hersh (like it's spelled)—Butcher in Dunwattle,
Alverd (all-ver-d)—Baron of Spu's aide
Belcon (bell-con)—Dandy in Dunwattle
Jully (jewel-lee)—Innkeeper in Dunwattle
Harry—Lord Mayor of Dunwattle
Sammmel Gruen—Pig farmer in Dunwattle
Willard—son of the Innkeeper in Dunwattle, Ornette's friend
Flynn and Neely the thieves—Flynn: a Cooper, Neely: Soldier of Fortune and a Tracker,
Thayil (thay-ell)—trapped miner,
Rober (row-bear)—Trapped miner,
Petron (pea-trone)—trapped miner Nowsek's son
Nowsekk (know-sick)—Mayor of Access,
Maibell (may-bell)—Nowsek's wife
Cobain (koe-bane)—Gilgafed's servant,
Morgan—ethical Captain of Cloutier's guard who trains Charity in unarmed combat,
Vedder (ved-derr)—priest,
Mussoli (moose-oly)—Vedder's aide in Bantering,
Chilton (chill-ton)—baker,
Ethan (ee-thun)—soldier with hangover,
McCabe (mac-cabe)—becomes joined with a seeker. Sadomasochist,
Jovovich, (jo-vo-vitch)
Rosenman. (rose-en-mawn)
Howell (howl)—owner of the Wayfarer House,
Mallien (mal-yeen)—High Priest & a pedophile.
Sarai (sair-eye) and Jonas (joan-aws)—Circumstance's siblings,
Thaylli (thay-yee)—Adam's eventual wife,
Tyndale (tin-doll)—Thaylli's father,
Aisbell (aes-bell)—Thaylli's mother,
Merillat (mer-I-yatt)—Thaylli's eldest brother,
Moen (moan)—next oldest,
Monier (moan-yer)—Younger,
Alford (all-ferd)—Emperor of the Southern Lands,
Nicoll (nye-cole)—Spinning woman in Berggren,
Cremer, Sobret (creh-mer, soh-bret)—Alford's aide,
Moulton (mole-ton)—Aide to Philosopher King,
Hodder (hod-der)& “Leum"(loom) Stroughton (straw-ton)—Wuest's friends at court in Grisham,
Souter (soo-ter),—Earl of Avern
Wuest (woost) “Avin"—Duke of Grisham's aide de camp,
Westcott (west-caught)—innkeeper in Access,
Sheriwyn (sheri-win)—Westcott's wife,
Ani (ann-knee)—The Westcotts’ daughter,
Schmidt (sh-mitt)—Grocer in Adam and Charity's town,
Bustlebun (bus-ell-bun)—Innkeeper in wood,
Jully (jewel-lee)—Innkeeper in Dunwattle,
Willard (Jully's son),
Willum (well-umm) the Red—Outlaw band leader,
Felsten (fell-es-ton)—Librarian's assistant,
Lifetile (life-tull)—Mute Dungeon guard in Grisham,
Greenstone (greens-ton),—Soldier who abuses Circumstance in Cloudhook camp
Dolbutt—farmer outside of Avern
Gunther—farmer outside of Avern
Merril (mer-all) and Dinkin (din-ken)—Grisham gate guards,
Saichele (say-chell)—flirtatious woman in Access,
Decora (di-cora)— young woman in Westcott's Inn
Hypatia (hi-pat-chia)—Ortian Ambassador's eldest daughter,
Nikkas (ny-cass)—Ortian Ambassador and brother of Emperor,
Rawn (ron)—old ferryman in Grisham,
Gessit (guess-sit)—Suldam that captures young Neely,
Brill (bree-ell)—Bandit
Fretin (free-tin)—Bandit
Drynn (drin)—Bandit
Ruggels (rug-gills)—Bandit
Sept-Colonel Fergus (fir-gus)
Lancer Captain Ferrgyn (fear-gin)
Major Gyst-Bersyn (gist-beers-in)
General Jarl-Tysyn (yarl-s-eye-sin)—chief over Ort's armies
Lisbeth (liz-beth)—old woman, cook, housekeeper in Library at Grisham
Lemmic-Pries (lem-mik-prize)—Chief Ortian Engineer at Cloudhook base
Colling-Faler (cole-ling-fall-ler)—Engineer third
Gaspic (ghas-pik)—Lemmic-Pries’ administrator
Durston-Kres (ders-stone-krez)—Ortian engineer
Soddle (saw-dil)—Grisham gate guard
Hervy (here-vie)—Grisham gate guard
Jerrold (jair-awld)—Grisham gate guard
Giff (g{as in get}if) -Grisham press gang leader
Granny Bullton (bowl-ton)—Innkeeper in Grisham where Adam and Milward stay
Travers (trah-verz)—Ortian press gang sergeant
Gupp (goop)—page in Grisham castle
Dorrin (duer-rin)—Door warden in Grisham castle
Magister Mallien (maul-yeen)—the High Priest in Grisham cathedral with a fondness for young boys
Sammel—Ethan's old friend in Berggren
Alten (all-ton) Baldricsson (ball-dricks-son)—Librarian of the Great Library at Grisham
Bright eye—The wolves name for Adam
Aerny (air-knee)—Avernese soldier, one of Vedder's loaned squad
Wullim (wool-limb)—Avernese soldier, one of Vedder's loaned squad
Nestia (nest-chia)—Chambermaid in Grisham Castle
Lisbeth (liz-beth)—Dishwasher in Grisham Castle
Grisabele (griz-a-bell)—Chambermaid ordered skinned alive by Duke Bilardi
Kittlyn (lit-tel-lin)—Waitress in Grisham
Big Keri (curry)—top heavy woman in one of Neely's tales
Dagbare (daag-bare)—Crone in charge of Gilgafed's kennels
Friella (free-al-ya)—Pregnant woman in kennels
Errold (ear-old)—Grisham City repair chief
Mordun (more-done)—Construction Supervisor in Grisham
Corporal McKenit (mac-ken-it)—old lookout at Grisham military barracks
Yeric (your-ick)—Supply Sergeant in Grisham barracks, likes to drink
Murt (mert)—Ortian trooper beaten soundly by Charity for abusing her cat
Derrl-Gynic (deer-el-gin-ick)—Ortian trooper who bet on Charity
Corporal Cobb (cob)—Trading States’ soldier who guards Ethan during march to Grisham
Jessup (gess-up)—Grisham noncom in conscript washdown
Lowwol (low-whole)—Grisham noncom in conscript washdown
Dwarf names:
Urbus (err-bus)—Chieftain leader of Garven,
Garven, (gar-vin)
Belgris, (bell-gris)
Faltur, (fall-terr)
Mergan, (mer-gun)
Durl. (der-all)
Twill, (just like it's spelled)
Knurl), (ner-all)
Basho, (bash-ho)
Bakker, (back-ker)
Kurkka, (kirk-kah)
Luggi, (lug-gee)
Galtru (gal-true),—Senior Dwarf in Dwillkillion
Graaff, (grah-fh)
Coraghessan, (cora-geese-son)
Zasloff, (zas-loff)
Muntz, (monts)
Druffo, (droo-foe)
Spratt, Fineal (fin-neel), Finear (fin-eer), Fnost (fin-ost)—4 brothers, Spratt is the youngest
Dragon names:
Shealauch (she-lock)—Male Dragon who tries to find Drinaugh on his quest,
Chabaad, (sha-bod)
Harlig, (harl-lig)
Mashglach (mosh-glock)—The Wing Lord,
Temidi (tim-midi)—female, mother of Shealauch,
Niamh (nee-ah-ma)—friendly female, pregnant, in her third trimester, her 80th year
Drinaugh (dree-nock)—Young male whom Adam befriends
Oscglach (aws-glock)—very ancient Dragon
Naublouch (naw-block)—Dragon who died tragically in the past before the magik wars
Elven Names:
Circumstance (cer-come-stance)—half-elf orphan,
Elien, (ill-leen)
Angenen, (ann-gin-nen)
Begonen, (be-gone-nen)
Telexen, (tel-lex-in)
Stenen, (sten-nen)
Xenen, (zen-nen)—all men
Alstire, (alls-tire)
Guinire, (gwy-in-ire)
Flavire, (flay-vire)
Swevire, (swee-vire)
Lwonire, (el-wan-ire)—women
Pets’ Names:
Skip, and Donger—Bustlebun's mastiffs
Diseases:
Ghooies, (goo-eez)
Chills,
Drips,
The patch.
Stones—“They gets hard and painful, like yer haulin’ a pair of rocks down there.",
Swellneck,
Firethroat,
The Sweats,
Curses:
Deity,
Gnomic, (no-mick)—Being thick-headed or grossly stupid.
Flick,
Balls,
The pit take you all,
A complete balls up,
Bardoc's Beard
Bardoc's Balls
Skrud
Dragon Curses:
Great Gakh (gock)
Hide and tail
Medicines and Poisons:
Aleth (al-lith)—antispasmodic,
Willit Bark Powder—for pain,
Phedri (fed-dree)—stops the drips,
Cancra Seed Oil—prevents healing skin from scarring,
Alu gel—helps cuts heal faster,
Opatia (o-pat-chia)—Addictive painkiller
Angeimyn pod (angi-my-in)—For fainting
Blood Fern—cleanses the blood
Bladderleaf—sucks the poison out of wounds
Lortis (lore-tis)—Pain killing fluid used by Dragon's surgeon
Comfret (comm-fritt)—oily liquid that speeds healing by accessing the body's own resources
Creatures of the dark:
Chivvin—insect-like, hunt in packs. Killed with pure daylight only,
Twill—Like a millipede that has clawed arms and a mouth on every segment
Seekers—life force vampires that need a host willing to allow them in before they can effect their power over the living,
Krell—balls of stinking fur that are one-half mouth filled with teeth able to chew through steel
Dreamstalker—Feeds on the fear caused by projected nightmares
Luusticles (loose-tic-cleez), Father of Darkness—chief entity in the Shadow Realm
Other Creatures:
Trolls—giant creatures of various appearances. Very few in number. Infrequently encountered
Trollick—tree-dwelling creature. Used by Trolls as a hunter
Ogren—race of creatures bred by Gilgafed to be his army. Large, with ram-like horns and a pugnacious temper. Very dangerous when encountered in the wild
Golem—creatures of living rock. Normally keep to the extreme depths of the earth. Brought to serve in Pestillence by Gilgafed during the magik war.
Gnome—small furry biped with a tendency to poke their noses into anything due to their extreme curiosity. Ususally causes them to get into trouble hence the term “Gnomic”
Fire Wyrm or Cave Dragon—fire breathing wingless reptile. Lives in underground caverns
Garlocs—A hunting group is called a tongue
Tools:
Birdcage Distaff,
Spinning wheel
Spindle
Loom
Clothing:
Kinsale Cloak,
Lace-neck shirt,
Doublet.
Trou's,
Tunic,
Breeches,
Boots,
Riding Cloak,
Plain Cloak,
Plus-fours,
Surcoat,
Kirttle,
Shift,
Breechlout
Plants and Trees:
Muskberry Vine,
Cassia,
Acacia,
Soapweed,
Huckleberry, (Red and Black)
Thimbleberry,
muskberry vine
Skunk Bush
Beech
Ash
Oak
Madrone
BlueBerry
Alder
Bitterleaf
Sweetroot
Oilwood
Liummin
Foods:
Pfasla,(foz-la)—A baked pasta-like dish of the Dragons
Baked Sweetroot
Tisane
Tea
Scrumpy—a fry-up made from whatever happens to be available at the time
Limmin juice
Animals and birds:
Whitecrest (bird)
Talegallu (bird)
Redwing (bird)
Wolves

About The Author
I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. In fact, many of the landscapes I describe in The Promised Ones can be found there. I attended Humboldt State University as an art student and for a number of years maintained an active studio in Eureka California, a small port city in the heart of the redwoods. My wife and I currently live in the Southwest where I work as a computer graphics expert. In my spare time I play guitar, paint and, of course, write.
The Wells End Chronicles, of which The Promised Ones is only the first book, grew out of a graphic novel I was asked to create. When the outline alone reached 45 pages I knew it was time to just start typing.
Two writers in the sci-fi/fantasy field who have earned my undying respect and admiration have given me a lot of support and a couple of quotes on what they thought of the first book.
“A rip-roaring action adventure that never stops” L.E.M. “He avoids clichés, but when one has to be included he punches it in the nose.” J.LeV

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