Authors: Robert P. Hansen
13
Embril was falling further and further behind Giorge. The
only way she could catch up to him was by casting the Swiftness spell, but the
magic around her was too confused for her to risk it—yet. She rode so long and
so fast that she felt miserable for her horse, and still she couldn’t outrun
the expansion of the nexus’s influence. The first two nights, she cried herself
to sleep as the frustration of failing Angus intermingled with her grief for
him. She had tried to convince herself that Giorge had lied about him falling
to his death, that Giorge was just a scoundrel, but she couldn’t. He had been
under Darby’s influence, just as she had been when the Truthseer had
interrogated her about The Tiger’s Eye. He
couldn’t
have lied.
She tensed with anger when she thought of him. He had been
so
genuine
when she had met him and while she talked to him as they had sped
across the plateau. There had been no hint that he wanted The Tiger’s Eye for
himself, and yet…
She replayed again and again every conversation she had had
with him, and each time she returned to the same thing: Symptata’s curse. He
had told her quite a bit about it, but almost none of it was helpful. Riddles
in poetic form. Family history. How he had died and returned to life. There had
to be something in it that she was overlooking, something that would explain
why he had taken it, knowing full well what would happen.
On the fourth day, the acrid taste of smoke surrounded her.
It came from the mountains surrounding the Angst temple. The caldera was
leaking and they were on fire. Then on the fifth day, she saw the dwarves.
It was early morning, and she had just started out. She and
her horse were both rested, and she was eager to get past the crossroads.
Darby’s provisions were nearly gone, and she was watching for clusters of
edible plants that might be worth gathering. She had come around a large
evergreen and hadn’t seen them at first. When she did, she reined in her horse
and her eyes widened. It looked like the dwarves were running a caravan north across
the plateau. Most of them were walking beside the road with heavy packs on
their backs, but the few heavy-laden carts they had were on the road. There
were
hundreds
of them.
And she needed to get past them.
She slowed her horse and eased up closer to them.
“Greetings!” she called out in dwarf. “I am Embril, a friend.”
Most of the dwarves ignored her. A few of those nearest her
looked her way. Only one stopped. “Friend,” he growled, looking at where she
had come from. “Foe more like!” Then he spat on the ground and turned away from
her.
One of the dwarves near him broke away from the others and
set down her pack. “Pay him no mind,” she said. “I am Griselda, friend.” Her
beard was singed, and there was ash smeared across her brow. Her heavy smock
was covered in soot, and she had dark, sad eyes.
“What happened?” Embril asked, knowing what the answer would
be.
Griselda—she seemed young for a dwarf, but it was hard to
tell—sighed and rubbed her sleeve over her forehead, smearing soot over the
ash. “The mountain bleeds fire,” she said. “We run from it.”
A part of Embril was perversely amused by her choice of
words. The plodding dwarves passing before her were about as far from running
as a person could get.
Another dwarf broke off from the rest and came over to them.
“Griselda,” he said. “We can’t tarry.” Then he looked up at Embril on her horse
and said. “You should come with us, friend. These lands will burn like those
mountains soon. You won’t be able to escape it on that beast.”
“I must,” Embril protested. “There is one I seek who rides
before me.” Her lips pressed together as she thought of Giorge.
The older dwarf shook his head and said, “You cannot. The
blood of the mountain will spew forth soon.” He looked to the south and shook
his head. “Too soon, I fear. Many of us may not make it.” Then he turned back
to her. “You surely won’t.”
“The mountain to the north,” Griselda said, “is not
bleeding. We go there.” She reached down to pick up her pack. It jingled as it
settled on her back. She turned back to the steadily moving stream of dwarves.
“You are welcome to come with us,” the older dwarf said.
“There are roads that will take you to your kind. We will see you safely past
the wounded mountains.”
Embril frowned. She desperately needed to catch up to
Giorge. But if what the dwarves said was true—and she had little doubt that it
was—she would fail. He would be across the plateau soon, perhaps before the
lava burst forth, but she would never make it. Even with the Swiftness spell,
it was doubtful that she could make it the rest of the way in less than three
days. She turned back to the waiting dwarf and asked, “How long before the blood
boils over?”
He frowned and said, “Not long. Can you not feel it bubbling
beneath us?”
Embril shook her head. “No,” she admitted. But if
he
could feel it, then there wasn’t time for her to make it across the plateau.
Besides, her provisions were running out, and they would treat her as an
honored guest. Not that she deserved it. Their plight was her fault….
The dwarf was waiting for her answer. “I accept your offer,
friend dwarf,” she said as she dismounted and led the horse up to him. “Perhaps
I can unburden you and Griselda in return for the kindness you have shown? My
steed can easily carry both of your packs.”
In response the dwarf turned away and started walking. She
fell in beside him, wondering how long it would be before she would feel the
rumblings of the mountains in the soles of her feet. As she walked, she watched
for edible plants, hurrying over to them whenever she spied a few close
together. She let the horse graze beside her when she could, and wondered if
they would have anything that she could feed it when they went underground. If
not…
14
“This way,” Hobart’s escort said as he ushered him through
the crowded, bustling halls. “He is expecting you.”
Hobart frowned. There was too much activity for this time of
night. Most of the men scurrying about should have been asleep or gambling or
drinking. Instead, they acted like they were preparing for a morning battle.
And the Commander was expecting him? What had happened in the weeks he had been
gone?
The guardsman stood to the side of an open door and
indicated that he should step through. Commander Garret glanced up and said,
“Ah, Commander Hobart. Won’t you join us?” he asked, gesturing him toward the
four men gathered around a map. “We can use your input.”
Commander
Hobart?
Hobart thought as he moved
forward.
It’s official, then. I’m back in the army.
“If I have anything
to offer,” he said, “it is yours.”
“Good,” Commander Garret said, pointing at the map set out
before him. Hobart glanced down and frowned. It was a detailed map of
Hellsbreath and the surrounding countryside. The Tween had new notations on it,
but he didn’t recognize their significance. “You are familiar with the terrain
around Hellsbreath, are you not?”
“Certainly,” Hobart said. “I have traveled through here
several times and have spent time in The Tween.”
“If you were to leave Hellsbreath in a hurry, what route
would you take?” Commander Garret asked.
“That would depend on why I was leaving,” Hobart replied.
Commander Garret nodded. “Assume one of them erupts and the
dome over Hellsbreath fails,” he said. “What would you do?”
“Rebuild the dome,” Hobart said at once. “If that isn’t
possible, I would head east through the mountains and hills until I reached the
plains. It is rough terrain, but once you get by the river, there aren’t many
obstacles in the way.” He paused and traced a rout between two of the mountains
and around third. “It’s a long ride, but the mountains will offer some
protection.”
“If you weren’t alone?” Commander Garret asked. “Say you
were guiding a party of townsfolk away from the danger.”
“The same route,” Hobart said. “Or the road to Wyrmwood and
east from there. I wouldn’t go south or west because we would get too close to
the volcanoes. The ones to the west are temperamental, and their smoke and ash
tends to float east over the South Road when they erupt. Of course, there
hasn’t been a major eruption there in centuries.”
“See?” Lieutenant Lollard agreed. He was a bit of a lopsided
man when he stood, but put him on a horse and there was none better. Having a
leg three inches shorter than the other made little difference to the saddle.
They had practiced mounted combat a few times over the winter, and Hobart had
even learned a thing or two from him. “Even if the fishmen are down there, we
shouldn’t go after them until we know what is happening.”
“Yes,” Lieutenant Urt said. Hobart didn’t really like him.
He was too stoic, and Hobart had difficulty trusting men who didn’t laugh and
drink once in a while. But that didn’t stop Hobart from talking strategy with
him when their paths had crossed. “Our first priority has to be the people of
Hellsbreath.”
Commander Garret shook his head. “No,” he corrected. “Our
first priority is to obey the king’s orders. If he sends us to fight the
fishmen, we will go. But I doubt he would leave Hellsbreath unprotected at a
time like this.”
Hobart frowned. What had he missed? He hadn’t been gone
that
long
, had he?
“Now, Hobart,” Commander Garret said. “Assume these
mountains—” he pointed to the west and north of Hellsbreath “—were erupting and
you needed to evacuate Hellsbreath in a hurry because the dome suddenly failed.
Where would you start?”
Hobart had to fight back the urge to laugh derisively. What
Commander Garret was suggesting was absurd; the dome couldn’t fail, and those
mountains had not erupted since the Dwarf Wars ended. But something about the
way Commander Garret had asked the question led him to take it seriously—if
only as a tactical exercise—and he looked down at the map. “Barges,” he said at
once. “There should be enough skilled laborers to oversee the building of them.
The river is still flooding, which makes it dangerous, but the wizards should
be able to help with that. If not, there should be more than enough backs on
the barges to carry the gear past the rapids downstream.” He pointed at three
places along the river that started north of Hellsbreath and meandered in a
southeasterly manner past the city. “It’s impassable here, here, and here.
There are places to go ashore to avoid the rapids, and once you’ve gotten to
this point—” he indicated a spot where a smaller river joined the large one
“—leave the river and head north. It’s about a two day ride to reach the
plains, four by foot—maybe five for townsfolk. Or you can go south and reach
the road skirting Tyr’s border. It’s a bit rougher going that way and takes
longer.”
“Barges?” the third lieutenant—the skinny one Hobart didn’t
recognize—said. “We had not considered those. There won’t be very many
shipbuilders here, but we might find a few craftsmen up to the task.”
Commander Garret nodded. “Find out. We need to know the
options available to us.” He looked up at Hobart and said, “Thank you, Hobart.
I fear I have been in these mountains for too long. I would not have thought of
the river as an escape route.” He looked at the others and added, “Get some
rest. We’ll resume our discussion in the morning.”
“Have a seat, Commander Hobart,” Commander Garret said,
gesturing at the chair near the end of the table. “We have things to discuss.”
“So I gathered,” Hobart replied, trying not to sound surly.
“Well,” Commander Garret said as he walked over to a side
table and poured a mug of wine from a large jug. “We don’t have to do so with
our mouths dry.” He poured a second mug and brought them back to the table. He
held one of them out for Hobart, who accepted it with a nod, and then set his
down on the table. “Are you aware of the situation?” he asked as he sat down.
Hobart frowned. “What situation is that?” he asked.
Commander Garret reached for his mug and said, “Your failure
to return to lead my men to the fishmen you found last fall has led to
disaster, Hobart.”
Hobart frowned. How could that be? Did the fishmen—
“I suppose you couldn’t have anticipated it—unless that
wizard of yours said something to you about it.”
“About what?” Hobart demanded. He disliked the kind of
roundabout way of getting to things that high ranking officers tended to
employ; it was one of the reasons why he had stayed with the mounted infantry
for as long as he had. They spoke plainly.
Commander Garret surveyed him for a long moment, and then
shrugged. “Why don’t we begin with the reason you’re here? The king has a task
for your Banner, and I assume you will understand his orders, because I don’t.
Here they are,” he added, picking up a small slip of paper and reading from it.
“The Banner of the Wounded Hand is hereby ordered into The Tween to retrieve
what has been taken. Once it is found, it is to be returned to its rightful
place.” He set the paper down and waited.
Hobart frowned and repeated the orders precisely. “‘The Banner
of the Wounded Hand is hereby ordered into The Tween to retrieve what has been
taken. Once it is found, it is to be returned to its rightful place.’ What is
that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t understand it, either?” Commander Garret seemed
disappointed as he set the note on the table.
“No,” Hobart admitted.
Commander Garret sighed. “I was afraid of that. But it
doesn’t matter. The message wasn’t addressed to you, even though it is for your
Banner. It was addressed to Angus. Apparently, the king expects him to
understand it.”
“Does he know about it?” Hobart asked.
Commander Garret shook his head. “It came in earlier today,
along with other orders. I expected him to check in the way he has every day
since he returned, but he hasn’t. I’ve been busy too busy to send for him.”
“Well, I will be sure to ask him about it when I see him
tomorrow,” Hobart said.
“Good,” Commander Garret said, handing him the note. “It is
strange that your Banner has been ordered into The Tween at a time when I have
been ordered to remove all my men from the area and evacuate those few who
dwell there. It is a challenging task.” Commander Garret paused, and then
shrugged. “But who am I to question the king’s orders? He has his reasons, just
as I do when I give orders to my men. They don’t need to know those reasons in
order to obey my orders, because they know if they don’t perform their duties,
the overall scheme can be thwarted.”
Hobart heard the rebuke in the offhanded comment and
accepted it. Perhaps he should have sent word back to Commander Garret to let
him know they weren’t going to make it back in time to accompany the patrol to
the temple ruins? No matter. If it was a serious infraction, he would have done
something about it—something other than an indirect verbal exchange. Perhaps
being of equal rank also helped?
Commander Garret picked up his mug and held it between his
hands as he leaned back. “You know, Angus must have done something to upset the
king,” he added. “When he arrived, I was told to confine him to the city and
confiscate his wizards’ paraphernalia for the duration of his stay.
That
order was quite clear when it arrived.
This
order—” he pointed at the
slip of paper by Hobart’s hand and shook his head.
Hobart frowned. What could Angus have done to anger the
king? It couldn’t be because they hadn’t come back to guide the patrol to the
Angst temple; Commander Garret had made that request, not the king. It couldn’t
have been anything they had done while trying to rid Giorge of the curse,
either—
Hobart clenched his jaws and reached for his mug of wine.
Taro had said he saw Angus talking to a man about being unable to leave
someplace—could it have been Commander Garret ordering him to stay in
Hellsbreath? If so, what about Taro’s other so-called visions? Would they come
true, too? Was he a
real
seer? He lifted the mug—it was too small in his
grip—and took a swig of it. The wine was too sweet for his taste, but it didn’t
matter. He wasn’t really thirsty.
“I don’t know what it could have been,” Hobart said after he
set the half-empty mug back on the table. “I can think of nothing Angus—or the
rest of us—did that could have caused such displeasure. At least while we were
still together.”
Did Angus do something he shouldn’t have done in Tyrag?
Commander Garret shrugged. “I follow orders,” he said. “I don’t
need to understand them.” He paused for a sip of wine, and studied Hobart over
the brim of his mug. “But in order to perform my duties, there are things I do
need to understand. Perhaps you will be kind enough to help me with one of
them. The man who calls himself Angus is not the man my men recognize. He is
different in appearance, and he carries himself differently. However, he knows
the people who knew Angus and has convinced the wizards of his ability. I
questioned him on this, and he told me a most interesting tale, one that I
would like to hear again—from you.”
Hobart took another swallow of wine, effectively emptying
the mug, and set it back down. Where should he begin? What could he say? He
still didn’t understand most of what had happened, so how could he help
Commander Garret understand it?
While he waited, Commander Garret stood up, walked over to
the side table, and retrieved the jug of wine. As he brought it back, he said,
“I would like to make sure the right man is being constrained, and I trust your
judgment on this matter. You know him better than any of us, and you know what
happened to him. So tell me about this little excursion of yours. You can skip
the details for the moment—it is late, and I know you have been riding hard to
get here—and can start at the point where you reached the lift at the edge of
the Haunted Plateau. We can discuss the rest later, when neither of us is
pressed for time.”