Deomans of Faerel_Contemporary Fantasy Page 10

  He looked down upon his company with much less gold in his pockets than when he had left them. He had gone out into the desert for supplies. But he had returned with something that would bring his company great wealth.

  He told the tale of how, in a small tavern near the outskirts of the town, he’d been approached by a krin, a reptilian trade merchant from the far west. For most of the remaining gold Breven carried, the krin offered a stone, a codec that would teleport him and everyone near him into the very heart of the Dragon Keys.

  “And tell us, Yellowhair, why the hell would we ever want t’ make such a foolish purchase?”

  As expected, the voice of opposition belonged to his rival, Barrett Swiftstrike, a forever doubtful weyr with a sour disposition and an eye patch over the empty hollow in his rugged skull. “We’ve limited funds as it is!”

  The rest of the company fidgeted below, their weyrwolf mounts—alts, as they are called—pacing nervously beside them. Breven’s own alt, Sunspot, a brave but tranquil giant wolf, lay snoring on a warm rock beside him, her big fuzzy head cocked to one side.

  Breven held out his fist. The soft amber glow of the stone bled through his fuzzy grasp.

  “There is only one such codec stone as this. And it can be used only once.”

  Barrett spat into the dirt. “Again, why would we ever want t’ use it at all?”

  It was a difficult argument. Wild creatures of the deep woods, the weyr naturally detested magicks of all kind, choosing to place their reliance in what could be seen and grasped. Magick was for the weak of heart and the lazy. And while no weyr would ever consider stepping into a pentalpha for travel, Breven was about to ask something even more atrocious.

  “Because without this codec we will be unable t’ deliver our captors t’ the Dragon Lord himself.”

  For a brief moment only the panting of the alts could be heard. Then the entire company broke out in a raucous fit of laughter. Barrett seemed to be laughing the hardiest.

  “Come now, Breven. Everyone knows the Dragon Lord is just a myth. No one even knows if the Dragon Keys exist at all. What in hell’s half-acre are you talking about?”

  Breven remained steadfast. “I’m talking about The Four, the four Travelers mentioned in the old prophecy, the ones said t’ bring about Renewal. They are real. They are here right now. And the Dragon Lord himself has called upon the Brotherhood of the Weyr t’ bring these Travelers t’ him at once.”

  The reaction wasn’t quite the one he had anticipated. Below him the men grumbled and gnashed their teeth, throwing up their hairy arms and muttering to one another. His good friend and longtime companion, Kellin Longrider, a ruggedly tan weyr with long black hair, stepped forward.

  “You’ve been to the Dragon Keys, then?”

  They all knew the answer to that. “Well… no.” Breven felt his face getting hot but held his composure. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly!” Barrett howled. “What exactly is that supposed t’ mean?”

  He led the company in another round of laughter.

  “I was shown an image,” Breven endued. “The Dragon Keys lie far west of here, surrounded by an icy range of mountains in the middle of an acid desert. None may approach. Indeed, none can without this stone.”

  Red Fang, Barrett’s twitchy ginger alt, bared its crooked teeth and growled low. Barrett narrowed his steely gray eye and pointed up the hillock.

  “Look here, just because yer old man was once company leader don’t give you the right t’ spend all our gold! This is larceny!”

  Breven scratched at his thick golden beard, Sunspot involuntarily twitching her leg in response. He stared down at the softly glowing stone in the palm of his hand. It looked small.

  He had to convince them. This stone meant untold riches for the entire company and fame beyond imagining. Their blood music would be enhanced greatly by this simple act alone. If he could only show them what he had seen, tell them in better words what he had been told…

  He narrowed his almond eyes and glared down at the cynical weyr. “Watch your tone, Barrett. You’ll never make old bones if you carry on the way you do.” He turned to the company. “I understand your reluctance t’ take on such a difficult task. But you’ve put your faith in me for nearly two seasons now. I’ve led you well.”

  He withdrew the silver war hammer that had once been his father’s and held it out to his side. “As was my father’s way, you all know I am not one for words. I let my hammer speak for me. But I would give my life for this fine company any day. You know this. I am fierce in the hunt, and solid of heart and mind. And I am still your leader.” Breven glared down until he was certain there would be no more words of challenge.

  There would be no more talk. They would venture to High Cambria, he explained, and up into the Kesselbachs where the krin had said the Dragon Lord suspected a female Traveler to be. But first there was one stop to be made.

  “The Thelsa D’Lune is not far over the western hills,” he said determinably. “We ride there this night. And then it is off to the Gardens of Cynthiana.”

  There was more grumbling, but the men climbed onto their alts without protest. Whatever they thought of the manner in which the young weyr led the company one thing was for certain: Breven was not one with whom to pick a fight. Like his father before him, when Breven pulled out his hammer it was wise not to push him further.

  They gathered the remainder of their things and made ready to leave. Breven scrubbed behind the ears of Sunspot, himself sensing the ghost of a similar sensation. He climbed onto the saddle strapped across the alt’s broad back and dashed off across the hillocks, the company of twenty-three that was the Brotherhood of the Weyr following close behind.

  The plan was simple. They would wait for the next bell to appear in the river and then force it into the shallows. When the occupants came out to clear the obstruction, Andin would subdue them.

  It was the subdue part that had Som worried.

  That and the fact that his memory had suddenly returned. It was the tiles, a gambling game the greasy man had insisted they play to pass the time. Something about the association with gambling had jarred lose his memories, all in one sweeping wash. He’d nearly lost his stomach when he came to the realization but kept it to himself.

  “Couldn’t we just… wave one over?” Som suggested, realizing at once how quixotic he sounded. Andin chuckled softly as he studied the tiles spread out on the black sand. A length of oiled rope lay within reach, a grappling hook tied to the end.

  “I’m afraid these aren’t city carriages, my friend, and there’s only so much room inside.” He nearly lifted one of the tiles near the upper right portion of the configuration that lay stretched out before them in the black sand. Som knew it was the wrong one. “If it’s full, a few of them are going to have to be… persuaded to stay behind.” He turned the tile over and growled.

  Som leaned forward and turned over a tile of his own. The image of a red spider was on its surface. “But aren’t you welcome down here? Couldn’t you just—”

  “Kriegen Hold is a different story, my friend. Only a privileged few are granted access to the Underlands. I’m not really even supposed to be wandering around the mines.” He looked up, a distant look in his eyes. “But so many of the good antechambers can only be reached by first zigzagging through the ore patches.”

  Som knew precisely where the mate for his tile lay. He turned it over and quickly snatched up the two pieces.

  Andin frowned. “Some scientists and engineers are occasionally let down,” he said. “The rest are Reyks and Colodians. And while it’s rare to find a gazer using a bell, no dwarf is foolish enough to stop one in progress. The mechanics of the device don’t allow for much steering. Even if we wanted to ask if we could just hitch a ride, we’d first have to force one into the shallows.”

  Som listened intently to every word the man said. He was in the wrong place. This was not Arythria. He would find it soon enough, but first he had to break f
ree of this man.

  He turned over another tile. The image of a blue fish appeared. “Good, then why don’t we do just that?”

  In a pitiful attempt at distraction, Andin tested the knot he’d made to hold the hook in place. “Look, friend. You’ve obviously lost most of your memories, a very strong enchantment to be sure. There are people I know who can help you.” He tugged at the knot. “But if you get in my way, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you behind.”

  Som turned over all three of the blue fish tiles. Andin swiped at the remaining tiles, and then stood and huffed away. He hoisted his pack and unzipped a long pocket along the side, pulling out what Som first took for a thin stick of black wood. But when Andin pressed a lever and the two ends telescoped into a yard-long arch, Som began to get the idea.

  “We won’t have much time,” Andin said as he strung the bow. “Each bell can hold three, four dwarves at the most. One or two will come out to free the craft while the rest remain inside. We’ll need to get to them quickly.”

  Once the string was taught, he twanged it then stood and slipped a dagger from his boot. He tossed it into the sand at Som’s feet. “Take this, just in case.”

  Som picked up the weapon. He’d held many knives, mostly Henkels and the occasional Wusthof, finely crafted works of art with nearly indestructible tips and razor-sharp blades that could snip off the tip of a finger as easily as they rendered mirepoix. But this thing was ugly and pitted, a crude device meant for one purpose.

  “You… you want me to kill them?”

  Andin looked at him blankly. “You’ve never killed before?”

  Som shook his head. He opened his hand and let the dagger fall to the sand. “Please, don’t involve me. I don’t think I can do this.”

  Andin sighed. He tromped through the sand and scooped the dagger up. He grabbed Som by the wrist and pressed it back into his palm. He leaned in close, grabbing him by the shirt.

  “Too late, you’re already involved.”

  Som opened his mouth to protest some more, but the scraggly man was already walking away. “Trust me,” Andin said over his shoulder, “if things go well you won’t have to do much more than hold it menacingly.”

  Andin remained entirely unsympathetic. He’d propped the bow in the sand beside a shelf of rock about ten meters from the shallows. A handful of black arrows lay scattered in the sand beside it. He leaned now against a flat edge of rock with his hands cupped behind his head.

  “I don’t know where you came from, or how you got down here,” he said coldly. “But I intend to make it up top without any trouble. The Underlands are a valuable resource for me, a steady source of income.”

  Som sat alone, stirring the tiles. “You’re right. I have no idea where I am, or even who I am. I’m not even sure what… what world I am in.”

  It was a bold move. Falfax had said there were other worlds, many other… membranes of existence, in fact. Perhaps the possibility of him being from another world would make his story all the more easy to swallow.

  Andin’s face was a thing of stone. He said nothing, giving no indication he had even heard Som. Then he broke into laughter.

  “Well, my little friend, whatever world you are from is clearly far, far away now. For better or worse, you are here, in Faerel. And if you want to survive, you better do as I tell you.”

  Perhaps this would work after all.

  “So, what exactly are they mining here?” Som asked in an effort to change the subject.

  “Brynstan, a greasy, mustard-colored ore found only in the deepest deposits. It’s a source of fuel used for everything from heating homes to running complex machinery.” He scratched at his elbow. “The sad truth is no one really cares who controls the Deep Mines, so long as the brynstan keeps coming.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the rock. “Never liked the stuff anyway. Why not just use firewood? Nothing dangerous about burning trees. And then some dolt discovered that if you boiled off water that had been soaked in brynstan, the mineral dust left behind, a substance known as chaar, would burst at the touch of a flame.” He shook his head. “Or a good, hot spark.”

  He was standing now. “Those same idiots also discovered that if you contained this explosion…” He brought the thumbs and index fingers of both hands together to form circles. He then brought one loop up to his eye and stretched the other arm out before him. “…guided it down a tube of iron…”

  He let his hands drop away as he trailed off, looking once again distant. “Once there was glory in battle, in the taking of another life on an even field of combat. But now… The weapons they are forging now will be the end of us. The end of us all.”

  Som saw a glint of copper moving across the water. Andin saw it too. A bell was coming. Andin quickly gathered up the slack on the rope.

  “Just stay down,” he said. “If things go well you shouldn’t have to do more than that.”

  The transport bell didn’t look like much of a technological achievement. It looked as if it had been fashioned out of bended plates of brass riveted together at the seams. There was a hatch at the side and some small round windows, but not much more, nothing to indicate how it moved or was steered. It passed slowly before them, barely kicking up a wake.

  Andin expertly tossed the claw onto the mesh of chains that surrounded the outer shell of the contraption. It landed with a resounding clang but stuck. He jerked back to lock it in. Quickly, he jammed the knotted end into a crevice and picked up the bow. He then calmly nocked an arrow.

  “Easy now,” he whispered to Som. “Stay down and keep quiet. I’ll do the rest.”

  They watched as the rope went taught and the bell swiveled in the indigo waters. It drifted lazily across the current until it became lodged in the sand. From behind a rock, Som looked on as Andin drew the arrow back to the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked in fierce determination. A tiny door to the vessel creaked open and the first dwarf emerged.

  It looked much like Som had expected: a very short and stocky man, very similar to how Som had heard them described in folklore. This one sported a red beard and mustache and had a nose like a wrinkled cucumber. Its skin was the color of leather and its features were rugged. It was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, ragged pants held up by suspenders, and heavy black boots caked in a yellow crust. Ringlets of shimmering iron around each of its ankles looked out of place.

  Andin ducked down. He looked harried.

  “What?” Som whispered over to him. “What is it?”

  But Andin only held his finger to his nose. The dwarf grumbled when it spotted the rope and immediately pulled out a broad knife. It began sawing at the rope as a second dwarf with braided, blonde hair and drooping eyes poked its head out the opening. This one had a smoldering pipe clenched firmly in its teeth. It looked about for a moment, casually surveying the scene. It gave a short cough and then climbed out onto the sand.

  “Damn,” Andin whispered.

  “What, what is it?”

  Still, he did not answer. Andin eased back on the bowstring and slid back down the face of the rock to where Som was. “Damn,” he said again. Then he simply stood and waved.

  “Gleise!” he called out. “Svenji, it’s me!”

  Had he gone mad? Surely he would receive an arrow in the chest at any moment. Som poked his head around the rock. The dwarf with the pipe in its mouth nearly convulsed on smoke. But the one now brandishing the dagger was not so easily startled. He glared in their direction.

  “Show yerself, ya carcass lovin’ heathen son a deoman whore!”

  Andin stood slowly. “Calm yourself, you tomato-faced fool.”

  The red-haired dwarf squinted. “Andin? Andin, is that you?” He slipped the knife back into his belt and broke into a toothy smile. “Well dip me in batter and roll me in oats! Tis you!”

  The dwarf barreled across the sand and the two men clasped forearms. As they exchanged pleasantries, Som stepped out from behind the rock and stood quietly by, no
t sure if he should say or do anything. The boisterous dwarf noticed him.

  “And who might this be?”

  “This is Som,” Andin quickly said. “He is a friend.”

  The dwarf needed no more. He nodded in greeting and held out a hand with fingers as plump as sausages. “Pleased to meet ya, Som. I am Gleise. And any friend of Andin be a friend of mine.”

  “I’ve lost my bell,” Andin quickly explained, motioning to the rope and hook. “Can you give us a lift?”

  Gleise threw up his arms. “Well sure! Climb aboard! There be plenty of room in the ol’ grease glob!”

  Clearly, there wasn’t. The innards of the bell were muddy and cramped, little more than a claustrophobic, spherical chamber with a metal grate for a floor, but the four of them managed. It smelled terribly. Gleise pulled some levers and the bell chugged away from the shore.

  The blonde-haired dwarf leaned forward with his hand extended. “Svenji,” he said in a nasally voice. He smiled beneath puffy eyes and offered the pipe. When Som declined he shrugged and muttered something, snapping his fingers together as he did. A spark of green flame ignited between his stubby digits, which he used to relight the crackling bowl.

  Som was in awe. “H… how did you do that?”

  The blonde dwarf looked up quizzically. “What? This?” He snapped his fingers again and the green flame returned.

  Andin chuckled. “They’re called cantrips,” he explained. He shook his head and pulled a small black book from one of his belt pouches. It looked very worn. “One-word spells you memorize each day. The memory of them fades by nightfall and you must rememorize them in the morning. They’re quite useful.” He tossed it over.

  Som caught it. He squatted and opened the tiny book to the first page, pointing to the symbol scrawled on the surface. Oddly, Som found he could read it just fine.

  “Flame-finger?” Som asked with a squint.

  Andin nodded. “Yes, spoken as one word. Just memorize the catalyst word below and you’ll be able to do just what old Svenji here has done with his pipe.”