by Ember Lane
“Quest, AVENGE OF AMY WAINWRIGHT, updated. You have killed the Johnson Gang and collected their heads. Take the severed heads and place them on her grave so that she might rest. Her grave is by the smokehouse.”
Merl held one of the skulls up. “I guess you’ll have to do,” he said, quite sunnily, given the weather.
“What’s next, then?” Billy asked.
Merl repeated the quest’s instructions.
“Well,” said Frank, “seems we’re a bit buggered then. Guessing this quest was hatched when the skeletons were folk and the buildings were buildings.”
“I’d imagine all quests were,” Desmelda added. “The Witches of—” She cut herself off with a cough. “We always assumed the energy we could sense was residual magic that was slowly dissipating over time. We never thought for an instant all the quests might still be active. It’ll be interesting to see if the rewards are still available.”
“Won’t be no reward unless we find the grave, like,” said Billy, scratching his curly bonce and flicking bits of stuck bone around.
Frank jumped up and paced the foundation lines. “This is the tavern, so it won’t be here. It’d be close enough that you’d smell it enough to get a little hungry, but far enough away so the smoke wouldn’t get in yer eyes. If Amy was that savvy, that was. Besides, killers and brigands are usually a lazy bunch, so it won’t be far. Ain’t gonna be toward the river, so start looking that way.” Frank pointed inland.
Merl knelt by Gloomy Joe. His lip had a sliver of bone sticking out of it and blood was dripping from his mouth. Merl gently teased the bone out.
“Hey, boy, you’ll be okay. At least we ain’t covered in guts an’ the like.”
Desmelda crouched by them. “Let me see.” Merl angled up Gloomy’s jaw. Desmelda shuffled in her coat and retrieved a small bag and took a web of what Merl thought looked like moss out. She touched it against the dune dog’s lip and pressed. “Hold it tight.” She winked at Merl. “Can’t be too careful around your dune dog, can we now.”
“No.” Merl grabbed him. Gloomy kept trying to force his tongue out and lick the webbing away.
Desmelda stared at Merl for a tap or two. “Merl, if you ever need to talk… you know, away from the others. Just you and me. Give me a tug on the sleeve.” She stood, but then crouched down again. “Just if there’s something you need to spill that you don’t want Frank and Billy knowing.” Desmelda winked and smiled, and Merl realized how truly, naturally beautiful she was. He felt her warmth radiate through him, nodded, but shied away from the moment. It was too close, too intimate, something he’d never shared with a woman he looked up to. Something he’d missed by not having a mother.
Gloomy Joe gave Merl a huge lick, and then tore away from his grasp and bounded after Billy, who was vanishing into some bushes. Frank had the Staff of Morrison White back in his hands and was using it to clear brambles. He glanced over his shoulder at Merl, full of smiles.
“What? You said it was a stick!”
Merl raced after them. Desmelda and Quail were by his side. They dove into the bushes in search of the smoker, but they didn’t have to wait long until Billy’s voice carried above all of Frank’s slashing.
“Found it,” Billy called. “S’over here.”
Merl burst through the bushes and into a clearing. Billy was standing proudly by the remnants of an old, stone chimney.
“Think this must be it. We should start stacking tha’ skulls, like.”
“That’s her grave,” Merl said, pointing to a small mound all covered in wax-milk flowers. “Them bloom all year, ‘n feed on bones ‘n stuff.” He knelt by the grave. “You see ‘em dotted around Winter Pasture. Makes it look pretty all year ‘round. She’ll be under that lot. We stack the skulls around the flowers.”
They all set to work. All them except for Mushroom, who’d found a nice, half-rotten trunk to perch on. Strange slurping sounds emanated from his stalk. As soon as the skulls were all piled around Amy’s grave, Merl received another of the strange notifications.
“Quest completed; AVENGE OF AMY WAINWRIGHT. The land awards you twelve gold coins and seventy experience points.”
Merl had no idea if that was good or not. He also still didn’t know what an experience point was, nor where the gold went to. He did know he was rich, but that was bugger all good if he couldn’t find the coin.
“Looks like she could afford a bit,” Merl said. “Got me some of them invisible gold coins and them points—”
His words stopped, and his mouth drooped open as a brilliant cone of light grew from the wax-milk flowers. Its radiance slowly formed the shape of an old, portly woman, and it dulled as her features clarified. Hunched over, she leant towards Merl and began talking.
“Welcome, adventurer, welcome to my tavern. Alas, you come at a dire time. Lord Deathpunch has forsaken his duties. His city is in chaos. His port is rife with pirates, and bandits roam the streets. I have little to reward you with for avenging my death, as times are hard, but what I can give you is this. It is a way. It will lead you to Deathpunch’s keep. Seek out The Worm. He will give you your just reward.”
Amy Wainwright’s ghost vanished, leaving a scroll laying across the wax-milk flowers.
“Me?” Merl asked, and everyone nodded.
Picking it up, Merl unrolled it and shrugged. “Looks like a map.”
Frank grabbed it from him and began grinning. “It is a map, Merl, a way into the castle.”
“I thought we were just going to the port to meet up with the giants,” Desmelda pointed out.
“That we were, but we’ll be able to signal them better from the castle.” He grinned. “It’s a castle with a reward at the end! Come on, Desmelda, we can’t pass that up.” Frank sounded excited. “We should follow Merl’s gut more often,” he said, and once more Merl swelled with pride.
“What about the zombays? It’s bound to be packed,” Desmelda protested.
Frank beamed. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a secret way in.”
Desmelda didn’t seem convinced. “We stay close to here for the night, though. No telling how long we’ll be stuck in Erreden if it is full of zombays. We’re assuming the giants got Billy’s message. We’re assuming they made it.”
Desmelda’s words struck fear into Merl’s heart. He hadn’t realized how much he was relying on the giants. Their ship was like a home to him now. The thought of not meeting them shattered his future like the fragile crystal it truly was.
“If the giants aren’t there, we’ll run out of land,” Merl said sadly, crumbling to the grass as his newly found spine collapsed.
“Nonsense,” said Billy. “Land don’t end ‘till you get t’the ice mountains, everyone knows that, and we’re nowhere near them yet. It’d be a mighty bit nippier if we were, and the clouds live low there, low as yer feet.”
Merl cast an inquiring mind toward his good friend. “Are you messin’ me? How can the clouds be as low as yer feet?”
Billy slapped his hands on his hips and began nodding authoritatively. “Ice mountains poke thru the clouds, and then… there’s more clouds—something like that. Anyhow, we’re not close. Ain’t parky enough, is it?”
Frank dumped himself down next to Merl. He clicked his fingers and his level-one mud hut appeared. Snapped them again, and the firepit came to be between them and the hut.
“You’re getting good at that,” Merl told the Wizard of Quintz.
“Not that good. I can’t upgrade it to level two. I have a feeling that if I could, we could all fit in there without one of us having to poke his legs out of the door.”
Merl pondered Frank’s problem, but he didn’t mull it over for long. The answer was as clear as the water in Bucket Lake.
“It’s because you haven’t got a stronghold, or if you have, it’s only level one. You can’t upgrade your buildings above the main stronghold’s level. That’s why,” Merl said right as Gloomy Joe slumped between Merl and the firepit. The dune dog flipped onto his bac
k and began squirming around to itch himself. Merl scratched at its tummy and watched as Gloomy Joe nearly smiled. Then, the odd feeling that everyone was staring at him suddenly washed over him.
“What?” Merl asked. Frank broke his gaze. The wizard jumped up, conjuring kindle and firewood from his ring. He set the fire and watched its fragile flame grow. “How can you possibly know that?”
Frank’s words cut through the wind, silencing its bluster. Desmelda crouched over the fire, amber flicked over her bemused expression.
Or was it amused?
“Surely, great wizard from Quintz, you and your peers know more that Merl Sheepherder?”
Frank’s still-confused expression threatened to cloud, but instead broke to laughter which, at first, didn’t suit the time, place, or mood. It was like he’d lost his mind—that Merl’s revelation had tipped him over sanity’s edge—but then Billy joined in, and so did Desmelda. Merl grinned inanely, but he wasn’t sure why.
“Because we’re bloody useless, that’s why,” Frank said, and his shoulders twitched, and his laughter lifted the small world that friends inhabit sometimes.
They finished making their camp in their now practiced way. Desmelda’s bed took pride of place in Frank’s mud hut. The witch of Falling Glen, as she would always be to Merl, gathered leaves and vegetables, nettles and berries, and added them to her steaming cauldron. Billy found a small brook, and they washed up and drank their fill. Once fed, watered, and washed, they settled around the fire pit, and Frank brought out the Staff of Morrison White.
“This, Merl, do you know what it is?” Frank asked, balancing it across his hands.
“Of course. It’s the Staff of Morrison White. It is the Staff of War—we saw that when you raised it up and hailed the drexen welt. You secretly know that too.”
“But we don’t know how to use it.” Frank bounced it up and down on his palms. “Do we?”
Merl shrugged. “Not yet, but that wasn’t my point. You hide it away, Frank. You won’t learn anything without taking a chance. It’s like having a dog on a leash because you’re worried it’ll run away if you set it free. All you get is a dog on a leash, and that ain’t no good fer herdin’, is it?”
Merl reached across the fire, and Frank handed him the staff. Taking it, Merl ran his hand up and down its sturdy shaft. He felt no tingling power, no pent-up anger, no dire curse waiting to unleash its power upon the world. “Just what are you frightened about?”
“What if I can’t control its power? What if I destroy the land, time, our destinies?”
Billy scoffed. “If you destroy the land, won’t matter, since we’ll be dead. As far as I can see, dead don’t worry about nothin’. Dead are just mud waiting to happen. If you destroy time, pretty much don’t matter coz the days’ll just get longer, or shorter, or there won’t be days at all, and we’ll all get used to it, like summer n’ droppin’ season, or winter n’ sproutin’. If you destroy our destinies, how the hell would we know? Hell, you might have done it already.”
Merl waited.
Billy made a strangled noise and collapsed back. He groaned as he looked at the waking stars.
“Is he alright?” Desmelda asked.
“Always does that when his bonce works too hard. He’ll be right as a rabbit in tall grass any tap now,” Merl told them, and as soon as his words were done, Billy sat up and scratched at his bonce.
“Need an ale,” he said.
Frank sprang up. “Well, Billy, I have a surprise I’ve been saving, and now’s as good a time as any. If the giants are offshore, then we’ll be aboard soon and back in the adventurer’s cabin. If not, we’ll scour the city. But for now, I have ale.” Frank produced a barrel and four mugs. “Let’s drink to Merl’s discovery, although I suspect it’s more of a recollection.”
Merl drank to that. Frank was back making no sense at all, and that was exactly the way Merl liked him.
Merl sank his chin farther into his collar. The rain drove at him in a god-like display of retribution, more than likely punishment for their previous night’s ale and merriment. Merl’s head had been foggy when he woke, though it was as clear as Morgan Mount stream water now. The rain angled in from the sea, clearing the growing black scar of Erreden and slamming into them in unrelenting washes. Gloomy Joe looked a shadow of his former fluffy self. His hair clung to his bony body, and if possible, his eyes sagged farther down his cheeks. Even Mushroom’s shelter couldn’t save the dune dog from getting completely soaked. Billy strode beside Merl, swinging his troll hammer around and walking like it was a summer’s day in a buttercup-filled glade. When Billy had a mood on, good or bad, Merl knew there was little that affected it.
Desmelda, on the other hand, grumbled with every step. Her boots creaked. The peak of her hood dripped, and the bluster kept blowing the steady stream back into her downcast face. Merl had never known her like it, but then, he’d never known her to enjoy herself as much as she had the night before. She’d laughed, joked, and at one point had danced with Billy while Merl and Frank had clapped a tune. Merl decided the ale must have got caught between her earholes. Ale had a way of doing that sometimes. His dad had suffered terrible moods some mornings after a night’s swilling with Walinda Alepuller.
Frank strode ahead. He had his cloak’s hood up, and the Staff of Morrison White in his hand. He marched with steadfast determination. It was clear he wanted to get to the castle before nightfall, and Merl was with him in that respect.
They marched up the road following the map, then they turned around and marched back down the road when the map didn’t make sense. Then, when no other options became clear, they turned around again and they marched back toward the castle. Frank was determined to get to the castle before night, but Frank was lost, and no matter how much Desmelda griped and groaned, he refused to hand over Amy Wainwright’s scroll with the directions on it. They slowly closed on the city, grinding the distance away with dogged determination, and then they turned around and went back the way they had just come.
“Will you just give me the map and let me look?” Desmelda snapped.
“There’s supposed to be a track leading up to a mine.” Frank replied, finally relented, and showed Desmelda the map.
“Track’s probably long gone,” Desmelda shouted over the driving rain.
Frank looked like his bonce was going to pop. His face went all red, and he quivered a little. “I know that. That’s why I can’t find the bloody thing!”
He stormed off. Merl thought he was going the wrong way, but as they had repeatedly gone both ways, he was at a loss which way was the right way and which wasn’t.
Frank stopped in his tracks after a few yards. A figure staggered through the gale straight toward them. He lurched and stumbled. At first, Merl thought it a zombay, but then he realized that the man was probably just drunk. The person stopped and appeared to open an imaginary door. He stepped through it, turned, and closed it, and then brought a rag-clad finger up to his lips and shushed them. Merl could now see him plainly. His manner reminded Merl of Molly Longeyes. She was always out of her bonce. Billy said she licked rock toads morning, noon, and night, but Billy often lied about stuff like that just to make Merl say something. The man looked like he’d licked one toad too many.
Billy marched forward with the troll hammer high. Frank faced the man, and a heated discussion ensued.
The man lurched into the undergrowth. Frank turned toward Merl and Desmelda. He raised his palms up, and then beckoned them up away from the river. The storm grew as they climbed, but Frank followed the man as he strolled around sodden thickets and through stands of gale-blown trees. Their path led into foothills and they traipsed its shallow valleys until they came to a small mine that’s entrance was lined with a horseshoe of flint bricks, and stone chips made the bones of an old path that led in.
Merl ducked through. Gloomy Joe followed with Quaiyl and Mushroom. The drunk blinked once, then twice, and then his eyes seemed to change color as they grew wide; a
small grin spread on his lips like a dying slug getting burned by salt.
“That a live mushroom?” the man asked, and then his mouth gaped open and he backed away. “I said, is that a live mushroom, friend?”
“Not the type you’ve been eatin’, friend,” Frank said, stiffly. “Now, you’re sure this is the place?”
The man began swaying back and forth on his heels. “Keep the thing away from me,” he said. “I didn’t mean its friends any harm, like.”
Billy began sniggering, and Desmelda covered her mouth. Frank produced a torch and lit it. He studied the scroll. “This mine here?” He offered it to the man. “This mine? Are you sure? I’ll set the mushroom on you if you’re lyin’.”
The man staggered backwards, getting tripped up and falling over a boulder. Desmelda snatched the map from Frank.
“Really? You asked directions from him?”
Frank shoved his hood back. “I told you that path doesn’t exist no more. He happened along, and I asked him.”
“Out of his brains on something,” Desmelda snapped. “But I suppose it could be the place. You!” she snapped, pulling the man up to sitting. “ARE. YOU. SURE. THIS. IS. THE. RIGHT. MINE?” she asked, slowly, loudly, and deliberately.
The man squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. “IT. IS. THE. ONLY. BLOODY. MINE,” he mimicked, wobbling his head and then dissolving in laughter. “It’s a tin mine, ‘cept there ain’t no tin here. That should tell you enough. Say, do you think your mushroom would mind if I had a little bite? Just a nibble or two.”
If wrinkles were tales, Merl decided the man’s face was full of stories. Yet, he didn’t fit the wrinkles. He looked younger. A ring dangled from one of his ears, and his clothes, though rags, has the air of being worth more gold than Merl had, and that was a lot, if Merl could find it. Merl didn’t understand the strange man, nor his sharp expression that was blunted by his dreamy state. He was a mix of opposites, both calm and desperate, smiley and angry.
“Got a hooter on him, ain’t he,” said Billy.