Tarah Woodblade (28 page)

“Your mornings shall be spent learning the ways of the green sash. After that I expect you to be working on your rogue horse project. The student sash will allow you access to the libraries, though if you wish access to any particular book that is in the dark section, you must submit a request through Steward Molly.”

“
Yes
!”

“It will be an honor to serve you,” Arcon said. He was expected to take classes for the green sash? What was he going to learn about? Feeding schedules for gnomes?

“I find the possibility of creating a new strain of rogue horses quite fascinating. I applaud you for your initiative,” the gnome said.

“Thank you, Scholar,” Arcon said.

“But in case you get too comfortable, know that I already have my best steward looking for rogues,” Aloysius said. “He assures me that he is close to procuring one on his own. I recommend that you outdo him.”

“Yes, Scholar. Thank you, Scholar,” Arcon said. His knee was killing him. This position was much more uncomfortable than lying prostrate on the floor.

“And one last note, mage. Tell the Troll Queen that I expect her to stay in line. I am well versed in her exploits and if I see anything come from you that could in any way undermine my initiatives . . .” He sniffed. “Let us just say that my protection can be easily taken away. Am I clear?”

“Very clear, Scholar.”

“Good, then. Steward Evan will show you out. Your preparations begin on the morrow.”

Arcon stood with a wince and forced himself not to limp as he followed the red-sashed steward from the room. From his glare, Evan did not seem amused at Arcon’s antics, but he didn’t say anything.

Mellinda was still simmering at the scholar’s threat. “
Oh we’ll show him, sweet Arcon. He may have you on your knees, but the Troll Queen never bowed to anyone. I’ll have him bowing to us by the end
.”

Chapter Fourteen

Tarah was in a panic. She strained and strained, but couldn’t do so much as blink. It was some kind of spell, she was sure of it, though she didn’t have enough experience with magic to tell much more than that.

“You got yerself an odd catch there, Boss Donjon.” said a gruff voice that approached from the trees.

“These folks were destroyin’ our rogue tracks,” said the dwarf with the black mustache. He pulled a wooden cylinder from his pocket and swiped the end across his cigar, causing the tip to burst into flame. “We’re takin’ ‘em to Shade.”

Shade. A pang of guilt struck Tarah. The man who had hired her in Razbeck had referred to himself by that name. He was the one that had given her the drawing of the rogue horse tracks in the first place.

Why hadn’t she been more careful? Riveren had said that the stranger had hired others to find the tracks. She should have been on high alert. She’d had so much on her mind that she’d forgotten all about it.

A short dwarf with a bushy red mustache walked into Tarah’s sight. He was peering up at her as if he were a farmer inspecting a new breed of cattle. A wide scar stretched across his bulbous nose and his breath was foul as he leaned in close.

“A human . . . lady. Not bad lookin’ fer a human, neither,” he said.

Donjon spat. “Don’t make me sick, Mel.”

“I ain’t sayin’ I’d go that way,” the dwarf said defensively. “I’m just sayin’ she ain’t bad.”

“It’s the nose,” said the blond-mustached dwarf with a snort. He was giving Tarah that same kind of appraising look. “Mel’s got a thing fer bent noses. You sure she’s a woman, though, Mel? She’s purty big fer a woman.”

“Of course she is, Leroy. Her lady parts might be hid by that armor, but you’cn tell by the rump,” Mel said. Tarah felt the dwarf’s hand give her a sharp slap. “That’s a lady’s rump.”

She ached to be able to kill him.

“Yer makin’ me sick again, Mel,” said Donjon before taking a long drag on his cigar. He let the smoke billow out his nose. “That’s a weird lookin’ quarterstaff she’s got.”

The red-mustached dwarf took off his hat, revealing a balding head, and took a tinted pair of spectacles out of his shirt pocket. He peered at her staff for a moment, his bushy eyebrows raising. “Never seen nothin’ like it, but there’s magic to it.”

“Lemme see that,” said Leroy. He snatched the spectacles off of Mel’s face and plopped them on his own. “I’ll be dag-gummed. Yer right. There’s some protection runes here. Old work too. All them other runes are just gobbledygook to me, though. Don’t think that’s red paint, though. Gall-durn! It’s almost like it was stained with blood.”

“Nah, blood would flake off. Bring it here,” said Donjon and to Tarah’s horror, Leroy pried the staff from her fingers. No one took her staff! She had never felt helpless in her life. Tears streamed unbidden from her eyes.

“Dag-gum it, I’d swear yer right, Leroy. But it can’t be. It’s part of the wood.” He peered closer. “Well, some of these runes look kind of like spirit magic runes to me, but it’s hard to say.” He tossed the staff back to Leroy. “We’ll have Biff take a look at it when we get back to camp.”

“Well-well,” said Mel, pacing around Djeri. “This-un here’s a real puzzle. Look at that beard! What do you think, Boss Donjon? Is he a short, good-lookin’ human or tall ugly dwarf?”

“Very funny, Mel,” said Donjon, who was peering at Djeri with disgust. “That’s Dremaldrian Battle Academy armor on him. Whoever he is, he ain’t worth piss.”

Tarah’s hackles raised as she heard her papa’s sword being drawn. Mel let out a low whistle. “That is a dag-gum purty sword. Fine rune-work. This could bring in a bundle.”

“Take it off him and bring it in,” said Donjon. “Leroy, you grab the lady and tie her to the mule while we-.”

“Smugglers!” Shouted Djeri. There was a thud and Tarah saw Mel tumble to the ground, his mustache mussed by a well-placed punch. The Ramsetter clattered to the ground beside him. “Corntown turd-lickers!”

Djeri rushed into Tarah’s field of vision. He picked up the sword and charged Donjon, rage on his face. The black-mustached dwarf calmly drew a small dark rod from a holster at his waist and pointed it. A sharp pop echoed from the end of the rod and a wave of magic similar to the one that had paralyzed them earlier struck Djeri mid-swing. The sword fell from Djeri’s fingers and he hit the ground, rolling to Donjon’s feet.

The dwarf placed a heavy boot on Djeri’s chest and puffed on his cigar. “His blood magic’s perty strong to break free from that spell. This-un’s gonna be trouble. Mel! Get yer lazy arse up off the ground and grab some dwarf shackles ‘fore he breaks loose from this spell too.” Donjon spat onto Djeri’s upturned face. “Come on, boys! Let’s load ‘em up!”

Tarah screamed inwardly in impotent rage, but could do nothing as Leroy dragged her over to Neddy and tossed her over the mule’s back, tying her down on top of their supplies. It was extremely uncomfortable. Her body was bent at an angle and one of their trail shovels jabbed her hip while the dwarves’ ropes dug into her wrists and ankles.

Then Donjon walked over to Neddy and pointed the dark rod at him. There was a buzzing noise and the mule stumbled as the spell binding him was released. He turned his large head and looked at Tarah with a worried eye. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to comfort him.

Djeri got the worst treatment. Mel punched him in the face a few times just to get even. Then he gagged Djeri with some sort of dirty rag and yanked his arms behind his back. Mel pulled off his gauntlets and clamped some kind of green metal shackles over his wrists. Another set of shackles was placed around his ankles. Then Mel tied a rope to Djeri’s legs and used it to drag him over to the others.

They set off away from the stream, heading southward down a path that hugged the edge of a steep ravine. Donjon took the lead and Mel walked behind him, dragging Djeri along by his rope, face down in the dirt. Leroy led Neddy after them and two more dwarves whom Tarah had never gotten a good look at brought up the rear.

A short distance into the hike, Djeri broke free of the spell and began writhing and grunting in anger. Mel put up with it for a few minutes, then let go of the rope and walked back to kick Djeri in the head. That just seemed to further enrage the dwarf and he strained harder at his shackles.

“Fine! You brought this on yerself,” said Mel and he shoved Djeri off the trail.

The dwarf tumbled down the steep slope of the ravine, grunting angrily as he bounced off rocks and tree trunks on the way. His plate armor likely protected him somewhat but it also added weight and he picked up speed, rolling faster and faster until he hit the ground with a resounding crash and went still.

The dwarves laughed, finding the whole thing hysterical. All except for Donjon who fixed Mel with a glare.

“What?” said Mel, shrugging. “We’ll pick him up at the bottom of the ravine when we get our cart. He ain’t goin’ nowhere with them shackles on.”

Tarah ached to call out. To rush down after him and make sure he wasn’t dead. Still, she couldn’t budge. The only comfort she had was that the other dwarves didn’t seem worried. Djeri was tough, right? Surely his blood magic had helped him survive.

Worry about yourself first, Tarah
, said Grampa Rolf sternly.
That’s the number one rule. Friends or clients can wait until you make sure you’re safe
.

That advice was what caused her to run away in the first place, Tarah thought bitterly. But his words sparked another memory. Djeri had called them smugglers and Corntown turd-lickers. What was it her grampa had said about them? What was it?

She thought back, focusing until the memory bubbled into her mind.

Tarah was standing next to her grampa by the workbench in his room. He was working on her armor, placing a sheet of thin linen on the underside of the moonrat skin. He picked up a painting brush and began slathering a pungent and sticky substance over it.

“I know this is gonna sound funny coming from me, Tarah girl, but there are some folks you shouldn’t do business with, no matter how good the coin,” he said.

“That is funny, grampa,” Tarah had said with a giggle, but he’d given her a serious look.

“I ain’t jokin’. Hear me now. Tarah Woodblade should never do business with dark wizards, imps, or Corntown smugglers. They may have good coin and a lot of it, but there never was a deal come from those folks that did a salesman any good. I’m tellin’ you this from my own experience.”

He turned back to the leather, laying down another sheet of linen and smoothing it out before slathering the whole thing again. “When you deal with dark magic there’s always a price. Even if you come out with your skin intact, your reputation will be sullied. If Tarah Woodblade’s gonna work, it’s all about your reputation, hear?”

Yes, grampa
. . . The memory faded away. If these were Corntown smugglers she was in worse trouble than she’d thought.

The dwarves continued down the trail to the bottom of the ravine where they found Djeri squirming and very much alive. A deep gash ran across his forehead and blood streamed from the wound, but he had managed to spit his gag out. He let loose on the dwarves with a stream of profanity laced with creative uses of the word turd.

Finally, they got the gag back on him and dragged Djeri by the rope on his ankles again. They stopped after a short distance and Tarah saw a rather bedraggled looking dwarf with a droopy hat sitting atop a brown painted wagon pulled by two horses. She heard the snorts of several horses and felt the strong hands of dwarves untie her hands and feet from the back of the mule.

She was lifted off Neddy’s back and as they swung her around, Tarah saw Donjon and Leroy climbing onto horses of their own. The idea of a dwarf on horseback was funny in her mind, but these dwarves looked at home on the beasts, sitting on specially built saddles that fit them well.

A couple of the dwarves picked up Djeri and tossed him into the back of the wagon like a load of garbage. They were more gentle with Tarah, hoisting her into the back before laying her next to the dwarf. As they did so, she noticed that the wagon was loaded with ropes and canvas. Six steel rings had been bolted to the inside bed and Tarah realized that this rig was set up for the transport of a large beast.

The dwarves had brought the wagon hoping to capture the rogue horse. Idiots. Couldn’t they see that the tracks were three weeks old? And how were they planning to get a paralyzed beast from the stream above to the cart below without seriously injuring it?

The wagon started moving and Djeri wormed his way over to look her in the eye. His face was a mess, covered in bruises and cuts and dirt. The gash in his forehead still seeped blood and blood ran from his nose, but he looked at her with clear eyes. Deliberately, he worked his jaw back and forth as he chewed the gag with his teeth. Couldn’t he see how hopeless their situation was? But to her surprise, he chewed through the gag and spit it out.

“I have tough chompers, a legacy from my family,” he said and smiled at her, something that looked uncomfortable with his split lip. “Are you okay? I know you can’t respond. The paralyzing spells these smugglers use are a nasty business. Most of their trade comes in the form of rare animals and the spells are made to last a long time.”

Tarah couldn’t respond to him in any way, but just the sound of his voice was a relief to hear. He sounded calm and confident and she wished that she were as brave as he was.

Tarah Woodblade is always brave
, said Grampa Rolf.

“Listen I know things seem helpless right now, but these smugglers have no reason to kill us. It’ll likely be uncomfortable for awhile, but they’ll probably let us go a ways from here once they’re sure we can’t make trouble for them.” He shook his head thoughtfully.

“We’ll just need to make up a story once they get us to their leader. Something that makes us look like innocent people just out hiking. Maybe we can talk our way out.” He frowned. “I wonder who hired them? This is far from their normal territory.”

She knew. Tarah struggled to move her mouth but it was useless. Why was he so confident? The dwarves had no reason to kill them yet, but once they found the drawings of the rogue horse tracks in their packs, they’d know they had competition at least. Wouldn’t that make them more than enough of a threat for the smugglers to justify killing them?