Tomas
considered. “May we know where he is?”
The lady upon
the throne leaned forward. “There are limits, Valheru, even to
what I may attempt. Put your mind to the task and you shall know
where the black sorcerer abides. There can be only one answer.”
She turned her gaze again upon Pug. “Silent, magician? You have
said nothing.”
Softly Pug said,
“I wonder, lady. Still, if I may” - he waved a hand at
those about him - “is there no joy in this realm?”
For a moment the
lady upon the throne regarded the silent lines of people arrayed
before her. It was as if the question was new to her. Then she said,
“No, there is no joy in the realm of the dead.” She again
studied the magician. “But consider, there is also no sorrow.
Now you must away, for the quick may abide here a short while only.
And there are those within my realm who would distress you to
apprehend. You must go.”
Tomas nodded and
with a stiff bow, led Pug away. Past long lines they hurried, as the
brilliance of the goddess dimmed behind. It seemed hours they walked.
Suddenly Pug halted, transfixed by recognition. A young man with wavy
brown hair stood quietly in line, his eyes fixed forward. In
near-silent voice, Pug said, “Roland.”
Tomas paused,
studying the face of their companion from Crydee, dead for almost
three years. He took no notice of his two former friends. Pug said,
“Roland, it’s Pug!” Again there was no reaction.
Pug shouted the squire from Tulan’s name, and there was a
nearly imperceptible flicker about the eyes, as if Roland heard a
distant voice calling. Pug looked pained as his boyhood rival for
Carline’s affections took a step forward in the long line of
those to be judged. Pug’s mind ached for something to say to
him. Then at last he shouted, “Carline is well, Roland. She is
happy.”
For a moment
there was no reaction, then, faintly, the corners of Roland’s
mouth turned up for the briefest instant. But Pug thought he looked
somehow more at peace as he stared blankly forward. Then Pug suddenly
discovered Tomas’s hand upon his arm, and the powerful warrior
propelled his friend away from Roland. Pug struggled an instant, but
to no avail, then walked in step with Tomas. A moment later, Tomas
released his grip. Softly he said, “They’re all here,
Pug. Roland. Lord Borric and his lady Catherine. The men who died in
the Green Heart, and those taken by the wraith in Mac Mordain Cadal.
King Rodric. All who died in the Riftwar. They’re all here.
That’s what Lims-Kragma meant by saying there were those here
who would cause us distress if we met.”
Pug only nodded.
Again he felt a deep sense of loss for those whom fate had taken away
from him. Turning his mind again to the cause of their strange
travel, he said, “Where are we bound now?”
“By not
answering, the Lady of Death answered. There is only one place beyond
her reach. It is an oddity outside the known universe. We must find
the City Forever, that place which stands beyond the edge of time.”
Pug halted.
Looking about, he noticed they had again passed into the vast plain
of bodies, all arrayed in neat rows. “Then the question is, how
do we find it?”
Tomas reached
out and placed his hand upon Pug’s face, covering his eyes. A
bone-wrenching chill passed through the magician, and he suddenly
found his chest exploding in hot fire as he sucked in a lungful of
air. His teeth chattered and he shook, a fierce, uncontrollable
trembling as his body coiled and uncoiled in knots of pain. He moved
and discovered he was lying on a cold marble floor. Tomas’s
hand was gone from his eyes and he opened them. He lay upon the floor
in the Temple of the Four Lost Gods, just before the entrance to the
dark cavern. Tomas rose on wobbly legs a short distance away, also
pulling in ragged gasps of air. Pug saw that his friend’s face
was pale, his lips bluish. The magician regarded his own hands and
saw the nails were blue to the quick. Standing, he felt warmth creep
slowly back into his limbs, which ached and shook. He spoke, and his
voice was a dry croak. “Was it real?”
Tomas looked
about, his alien features showing little. “Of all mortal men on
this world, Pug, you should know best how futile that question is. We
saw what we saw. Whether it was a place or a vision in our mind, it
doesn’t matter. We must act upon what we experienced, so to
that end, yes, it was real.”
“Now?”
Tomas said, “I
must summon Ryath, if she is not too deep in sleep. We must travel
between the stars once again.”
Pug could only
nod. His mind was numb, and dimly he wondered what possible marvels
could await beyond that which was already behind.
T
he
inn was quiet.
It was fully two
hours before sundown and the hectic quality of evening revelry was
not yet unleashed. For this, Arutha was thankful. He sat as deep in
shadows as he could, Roald, Laurie, and the two squires occupying the
other chairs. His newly cropped hair, shorter than he had worn in
years and his thickening beard lent him a sinister appearance, giving
credence to their impersonation of mercenaries. Jimmy and Locklear
had purchased more common travel clothing in Questor’s View,
burning their squire’s tunics. In all, the five of them looked
to be nothing more than a simple crew of unemployed fighting men.
Even Locklear was convincing, for he was no younger than some of
those who passed through, aspiring young bravos seeking their first
tour of duty.
They had been
waiting three days for Martin, and Arutha was growing apprehensive.
Given the timing of the message, he had expected Martin to reach
Ylith first. Also, each day in the city increased the chance of
someone’s remembering them from their last encounter here. A
tavern brawl ending in a killing, while not unique, was still
something to cause a few to remember a face.
A shadow crossed
the table and they looked up. Martin and Baru stood before them.
Arutha rose slowly and Martin calmly extended his hand. They quietly
shook, and Martin said, “Good seeing you well.”
Arutha smiled
crookedly. “Good for me also.”
Martin’s
answering smile was his brother’s twin. “You look
different.” Arutha only nodded. Then he and the others greeted
Baru, and Martin said, “How did he get here?” He pointed
at Jimmy.
Laurie said,
“How can you stop him?”
Martin looked at
Locklear and raised an eyebrow. “This one’s face I
recognize, though I don’t recall the name.”
“That’s
Locky.”
“Jimmy’s
protege,” Roald added with a chuckle.
Martin and Baru
exchanged glances. The tall Duke said, “Two of them?”
Arutha said,
“It’s a long tale. We should tarry here as little as
possible.”
“Agreed,”
answered Martin. “But we’ll need new horses. Ours are
weary, and I expect we still have a long road before us.”
Arutha’s
eyes narrowed and he said, “Yes. Very long.”
The clearing was
little more than a widening in the road. To Arutha’s party the
roadhouse was a welcoming beacon, every window on both floors showing
a merry yellow light that knifed through the oppressive gloom of
night. They had ridden without incident since leaving Ylith, passing
beyond Zun and Yabon, and were now at the last outpost of Kingdom
civilization, where the forest road turned northeast for Tyr-Sog. To
travel directly north was to enter Hadati country, and the northern
ranges beyond marked the boundary of the Kingdom. While there had
been no trouble, all were relieved to be reaching this inn.
A sharp-eared
stable boy heard them ride up and came down from his loft to open the
barn - few travelled the forest roads after sundown and he had been
about to turn in. They quickly cared for their animals, Jimmy and
Martin occasionally watching the woods for signs of trouble.
When they were
done, they gathered their bundles and headed for the roadhouse. As
they crossed the clearing between barn and main building, Laurie
said, “It will be nice to have a warm meal.”
“Maybe our
last for a while,” commented Jimmy to Locklear.
As they reached
the front of the building, they could make out the sign over the
door, a man sleeping atop a wagon while his mule had broken its
traces and was making its getaway. Laurie said, “Now for some
hot food. The Sleeping Wagoneer is among the finest little country
inns you’ll ever visit, though at times you may find it
occupied by a rather strange assortment.”
Pushing open the
door, they entered a bright and cheery common room. A large open
hearth contained a roaring fire, and three long tables stood before
it. Across the room, opposite the door, ran a long bar, behind which
rested large hogsheads of ale. And making his way toward them, a
smile upon his face, came the innkeeper, a man of middle years and
portly appearance. “Ah, guests. Welcome.” When he reached
them, his smile broadened. “Laurie! Roald! As I live! It’s
been years! Glad I am to see you.”
The minstrel
said, “Greetings, Geoffrey. These are companions of mine.”
Geoffrey took
Laurie by the elbow and guided him to a table near the bar. “Your
companions are as welcome as yourself.” He seated them at the
table and said, “Pleased as I am to see you, I wish you had
been here two days ago. I could have done with a good singer.”
Laurie smiled at
that. “Trouble?”
A look of
perpetual trial crossed the innkeeper’s face.
“Always.
We had a party of dwarves through here and they sang their drinking
songs all hours. They insisted on keeping time to the songs by
beating on the tables with whatever was at hand, winecups, flagons,
hand axes, all in complete disregard for whatever was upon them. I’ve
broken crockery and scarred tables all over. I only managed to return
the common room to a semblance of order this afternoon, and I had to
repair half of one table.” He fixed Roald and Laurie with a
mock-stern expression. “So don’t start trouble, like the
last time. One ruckus a week is plenty.” He glanced around the
room. “It is quiet now, but I expect a caravan through at any
time. Ambros the silver merchant passes through this time of year.”
Roald said,
“Geoffrey, we perish from thirst.”
The man became
instantly apologetic. “Truly, I am sorry. Fresh in from the
road and I stand jabbering like a magpie. What is your pleasure?”
“Ale,”
said Martin, and the others echoed the request.
The man hurried
away, and returned moments later with a tray of pewter jacks, all
brimming with cool ale. After the first draught of the biting liquid,
Laurie said, “What brings dwarves this far from home?”
The innkeeper
joined them at the table, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have
you not heard the news?”
Laurie said,
“We’re just in from the south. What news?”
“The
dwarves moot at Stone Mountain, meeting in the long hall of Chief
Harthorn at village Delmoria.”
“To what
ends?” asked Arutha.
“Well, the
dwarves through here were up all the way from Dorgin, and from their
talk it’s the first time in ages the eastern dwarves have
ventured up to visit their brethren in the West. Old King Halfdan of
Dorgin is sending his son Hogne, and his rowdy companions, to witness
the restoration of the line of Tholin in the West.
With the return
of Tholin’s hammer during the Riftwar, the western dwarves have
been pestering Dolgan of Caldara to take the crown lost with Tholin.
Dwarves from the Grey Towers, Stone Mountain, Dorgin, and places I’ve
never heard of are gathering to see Dolgan made King of the western
dwarves. As Dolgan has agreed to moot, Hogne says it’s a
foregone conclusion he’ll take the crown, but you know how
dwarves can be. Some things they decide quickly, other things they
take years to consider. Comes of being long lived, I guess.”
Arutha and
Martin exchanged faint smiles. Both remembered Dolgan with affection.
Arutha had first met him years ago when riding east with his father
to carry news to King Rodric of the coming Tsurani invasion. Dolgan
had acted as their guide through the ancient mine, the Mac Mordain
Cadal. Martin had met him later, during the war. The dwarven chief
was a being of high principle and bravery, possessing a dry wit and
keen mind. They both knew he would be a fine King.
As they drank,
they slowly discarded their travellers’ accoutrements, putting
off helms, setting aside weapons, and letting the quiet atmosphere of
the inn relax them. Geoffrey kept the ale coming and, after a while,
a fine meal of meats, cheeses, and hot vegetables and breads. Talk
ran to the mundane, as Geoffrey repeated stories told by travellers.
While they ate, Laurie said, “Things are quiet this night,
Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey said,
“Yes, besides yourselves I have only one other guest.” He
indicated a man sitting in the corner farthest from them, and all
turned in surprise for a moment. Arutha motioned for the others to
resume their meal. All wondered how they had failed to notice him
there all this time. The stranger seemed indifferent to the
newcomers. He was a plain-looking fellow, of middle years, with
nothing remarkable about him in either manner or dress. He wore a
heavy brown cloak that hid any chain or leather armour he might be
wearing. A shield rested against the table, its blazon masked by a
plain leather cover. Arutha became curious, for only a disinherited
man or one on some holy quest would choose to disguise his blazon -
among honest men, Arutha added silently. He asked Geoffrey, “Who
is he?”
“Don’t
know. Name’s Crowe. Been here for two days, coming just after
the dwarves left. Quiet sort. Keeps to himself. But he pays his bill
and makes no trouble.” Geoffrey began clearing the table.
When the
innkeeper was gone to the kitchen, Jimmy leaned across the table as
if to reach for something in a pack on the other side and said
quietly, “He’s good. He makes no show, but he is
straining to hear our conversation. Guard your words. I’ll keep
an eye on our friend over there.”