The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4)

by Garrett Robinson

  She crouched and sprang, landing on a narrow ledge halfway up one of the huge boulders at the edge of the clearing. It was a leap I could not have made two decades ago, and I had no hope of it now.

  “I am afraid we are both useless next to you, and always have been,” I told her. “But could you help two decrepit old men make the climb?”

  Mag laughed loud at that, and she lowered a hand. Sten seized it, and she levered him up to the ledge beside her. I was next, and each of them took one of my hands to pull me up. I was momentarily shocked by the strength of Mag’s pull, though I should not have been. When you looked at Sten, you thought he was a man who should be able to lift you off your feet. Mag did not project the same strength, for all her plentiful wiry muscle. And indeed, when it came to sheer strength, Sten outmatched her. But Mag understood something about the way the world worked, and the way the human body worked within it. She knew how to twist, where to bend, and how to leverage every ounce of her strength into something much greater. It came naturally to her, as natural as a tiger stalking the jungles of Feldemar.

  But as I said, they pulled me to the ledge beside them. Then Mag made another leap, and then she hauled us up again after her. It was like a game to her, and she urged us to move faster with each climb. Soon we had reached the top of the boulder, where there was plenty of room for all three of us to lie down beside each other. Mag lay in the middle, and Sten beside her with his head close to hers—but I was on Mag’s other side, and I lay with my feet near her head. Sten and I breathed heavily with exertion, but Mag’s chest rose and fell steadily.

  “You were right,” I told them. “The moons are perfect.”

  Sten pointed. “The sisters are returning home. Enalyn leads the way, urging Merida to hasten her steps.”

  “Enalyn may find that her home looks different than when she left it.”

  The words came out without my even thinking them, and they surprised me as much as they evidently surprised Mag and Sten. Both of them raised their heads to look at me.

  “You are very thoughtful tonight, and very dour,” said Mag. “I gave you ale to fix that.”

  “Mayhap you are losing your touch, brewmaster.” We all three laughed, for that was a plain lie. “No, you are right. I … suppose I was thinking of Loren.”

  “Were you.” The words seemed inquisitive, but Mag did not speak them as a question.

  “If she returns to her home, she will certainly find it different than she left it,” said Sten. “What a long road that child has ridden.”

  And has yet to ride, I thought. But this time I managed to keep the words to myself.

  “Speaking of riding,” said Mag. “Do you think we ought to worry about that boy Chet?”

  “Sky above, Mag,” said Sten. He actually sounded embarrassed.

  I laughed aloud. “Though you might have put it more delicately—no, I do not think we need to worry.”

  “Loren seemed distressed after they spoke,” said Mag.

  “Likely he brought bad news of home,” I said. “But he seemed a good sort, if mayhap a bit foolish. But putting Chet aside, I have faith in Loren. She can care for herself, even if he is of ill intent—though as I said, I doubt it.”

  “As you say,” said Mag. There was a long moment’s silence, and then she spoke again. “You do not think we need to tell her of silphium, do you?”

  Sten groaned. “If you wish to have children, can we do it the usual way, rather than leaping straight into parenting two people who are very nearly adults?”

  Mag slapped his shoulder, and Sten winced. “I am only teasing. Well, mostly teasing.”

  “She has always been this way,” I said. “Quite a number of new recruits suddenly found themselves with a mother in their own mercenary company. And once she latched on to one of them—”

  “Latched?” said Mag indignantly. “You make me sound like a leech.”

  “I might not have used that word, but you are not wrong to.”

  Quick as a flash, Mag leaped to her knees and shoved me. My head slipped over the edge of the boulder, and I was only kept from falling off by Mag herself, for she had seized me by the knees.

  “Take it back,” she said mildly.

  “Mag!” I cried. “If I fall I will break my neck!”

  “You will bruise at worst,” she said mildly. “You have fallen from here before—on previous occasions when you refused to apologize for your rudeness.”

  “Mag!” She did not reply. “Sten!”

  “You are on your own, I am afraid,” said Sten.

  “I think I feel my grip slipping,” said Mag, whose fingers had not budged whatsoever. “You had best hurry.”

  “I am sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “For?”

  “For calling you a leech.”

  “Which I am not.”

  “Which you are not.”

  Mag yanked, and I flew back atop the boulder to land in a heap. “There now,” she said, dusting off her hands—I did not miss the implication that I was unclean. “Was that so difficult?”

  “It is not very fair of you to treat your friends this way,” I said. “If every argument comes to a scuffle in the end, no one will countermand you, since they know they will end up losing.”

  “But that is just the point,” said Mag, settling herself down next to Sten again and clasping his hand. “Who wants to be argued with?”

  I thrust out a finger at her and opened my mouth, ready to go on. But Sten caught my gaze in the moonslight, and he grinned while shaking his head. “Leave it,” he said, chuckling. “Tell us how things have been for you in Strapa.”

  He was right, of course. I was not going to defeat Mag in our verbal sparring, any more than I could have done if we had had training weapons in hand. Huffing, I lay down again, crossing my arms over my chest. “Very well,” I said. “I will have you both know, however, that I am entirely disgruntled.”

  “I will keep it foremost in my thoughts,” said Mag.

  And despite my words, my soul was filled with joy. It was just like the old days, and my love for my friends had not waned in the slightest. For the first time in years, I felt like I was home—more so than I had ever felt in Strapa.

  Now, none of us knew it, but far away, another three friends had gathered in council—though their aims were much crueler than ours.

  The southern arm of the Greatrocks serves as the western border of the kingdom of Selvan. But north of the Birchwood Forest, there is a spur that juts out into northeastern Dorsea, and at the end of that spur is a peak they call the Watcher. And at the base of the Watcher, in the council room of a great and long-forgotten fortress, three people were deep in a conversation that would bring disaster down upon me, and Mag, and everyone in Northwood.

  First was Kaita, a weremage and a Shade. She had skin the color of burnished walnut and Calentin ancestry plain in her features, and she wore her black hair in a long braid down her back. Across from her was Tagata, a Shadeborn woman whose name is, thankfully, not widely known. And at the head of the table was Rogan of the Shadeborn, imposing and terrible. I can see by the look on your face that I need say no more about him.

  These were the days before the Necromancer and the Lifemage had revealed themselves and done battle. The Shades still lurked in secret across the nine kingdoms, and none knew of their designs—none save for me and my friends, and we knew precious little. The Mystics had long been an arm of the King’s law, and they dealt with crimes beyond the norm—with rogue wizards, especially. The Shades were their mirror, dressed in blue and grey instead of red, and as far as we could see, intent on toppling all the nine thrones of Underrealm.

  So Rogan, Tagata, and Kaita were hatching whatever secret plots they were busy with, when a heavy pounding came at the door of their council chamber.

  Rogan’s thick, shaggy locks swung as he looked up at the door, frowning. “Come.”

  The door flew open, and a Shade ran into the room. Her blue cloak was mud
dy and soaked with rain, and her black hair was bedraggled and wild. She ran to the head of the table and knelt by Rogan’s chair.

  “Rogan,” she gasped. “I bring word. Dire news.”

  He looked at her, unsmiling but not angry, either. With one great hand he took her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. “Come, Nian. Be seated. However troubling your words, you can take a moment to rest before you give them, unless there is an enemy pounding at our gates this very moment. But if there were, I think I would have heard of it sooner.”

  Nian looked at the others, obviously unsure. Rogan smiled and waved his hand at Tagata.

  “Come, sister. Make room for her.”

  “Of course,” said Tagata, abandoning her seat at once and motioning Nian into it.

  Kaita watched the proceedings silently, her right hand toying idly with her black braid. It grated her to see Nian seated at the table across from her, but by now she was well familiar with the eccentricities of Rogan and the other Shadeborn.

  Nian sat silently for a moment, still clearly uncertain. But when Rogan moved to pour wine for her, she tried to stop him, horrified.

  “Please, I can do it.”

  Rogan forestalled her with a raised hand. “You forget your place, as well as my own. I have no more authority than I am granted by our father. I am no king, thinking myself superior to those who serve me. We are all of us siblings, partners in a great cause.”

  Nian seemed taken aback by the words. Kaita doubted the woman fully understood them. Rogan finished pouring her cup and handed it to her, and Nian took a great swallow of the wine.

  “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes, when she turned them upon Rogan again, were full of a fervent respect that bordered on worship.

  “Of course,” said Rogan. “Now. What brought you here with such urgency?”

  “There has been an attack,” said Nian. “In the Greatrocks.”

  The air in the council chamber seemed to freeze. Rogan’s brow furrowed at once. “An attack? By the satyrs? Or have we lost control of the harpies again?”

  Nian shivered. “Not by the beasts. Mystics.”

  Rogan and Tagata sat bolt upright, and each gripped the arms of their chair with pale knuckles. Even Kaita could not pretend to be aloof any longer.

  “Mystics? In the Greatrocks?” said Tagata. “How did they know about our stronghold there?”

  “We do not know,” said Nian. “There were not many of them—only half a dozen.”

  “Dark take them,” growled Tagata. “Rogan, what are we to do? If the Mystics—”

  “There is more, my lord—Rogan, I mean,” stammered Nian. She looked as though she would rather do anything in the world than say her next words. “There was a battle, and Trisken … Trisken fell.”

  The room went deathly still. Kaita straightened in her chair, staring at Nian in wonder. Rogan leaned forwards over the table, as if trying to bore through Nian’s skull with his gaze alone.

  “What do you mean, he fell?” demanded Rogan. “He is Shadeborn.”

  Nian’s voice was like the squeak of a reluctant hinge. “He is dead, my lord. They killed him, and he did not rise again.”

  Rogan slammed his fist on the table with a cry. Tagata gave an anguished roar and kicked her chair away. It struck the wall, one of its legs snapping off. She went to the wall and seized her greatsword, smashing it into a cabinet without bothering to unsheathe it. The cabinet shattered to kindling, scattering books and scrolls across the room.

  For her part, Kaita felt as though the stone floor beneath her had become as shifting and unstable as water. Who could kill a Shadeborn? How was it even possible? The Lord had made them invincible. He had all but promised that his favored children would live on forever.

  Slowly, Rogan sank back into his chair. He sagged into it, covering his face with one hand. Tears streamed from beneath his fingers, running into his thick black beard. Tagata stood facing away from them all, her shoulders heaving, and Kaita suspected she was weeping as well. She fell abruptly to her knees, head bowed over her sword hilt as its tip rested on the stone floor.

  “Death as my witness,” whispered Tagata, “I will kill the ones who did this.”

  That seemed to bring Rogan back to himself. He uncovered his face and looked upon her, his eyes still brimming with tears. “We will, sister,” he said. “I swear to you, we will do it together.”

  They seemed to have entirely forgotten Nian and Kaita in their grief. The messenger looked terrified, quaking in her seat, and her fair skin had gone even paler. Rogan noticed, and he forced a bitter smile.

  “I am sorry for our lack of restraint, Nian. Trisken was …” His voice thickened, and he paused for a moment. “Trisken was with me almost since the beginning. He trained Tagata. This is an evil day.”

  “It is, my lord,” whispered Nian.

  Rogan shook his head slowly. “I told you. None of that. There is but one Lord, and he is your father as well as mine. We are all equal before his kindness.”

  Tagata turned back towards the rest of them, hastily scrubbing at her face with the back of her hand. She strode over beside Nian’s chair and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Nian jumped with fright. But Tagata pulled her gently to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace.

  “You have ridden hard to bring us ill news. It could not have been easy. Thank you.”

  Slowly, Nian returned the embrace. She began to quiver, as if she, too, was finally relinquishing her grip on emotions she had long kept within—as though Tagata’s massive frame gave her the strength she needed to let go.

  “I could have done no differently,” said Nian. “It was my duty.”

  “And doing one’s duty is worthy of the highest honor,” said Rogan. “Fetch yourself another chair, Tagata. Let us all be seated and discuss what is to be done.”

  Tagata gently held Nian’s cheek for a moment before finally pulling away. She took another chair from further down the table and brought it next to Nian’s before sitting down. Rogan shifted his chair closer to the table and leaned forwards, his shoulders hunched.

  “What more do we know, Nian? Can you tell us anything about these Mystics?”

  “We did not recognize all of them. But we know the party was led by Jordel of the family Adair.”

  Another shock went through the room, though far less explosive than the last. There was not a Shade alive who did not know that name.

  “Jordel?” said Rogan. “That is ill news.”

  Kaita slapped the arm of her chair. “Why did you not mention Jordel from the beginning?”

  Nian quailed, but Rogan raised a palm towards Kaita to pacify her. “We hardly gave her the chance, after she told us of Trisken’s fall.”

  Kaita looked grudgingly away, tugging at her braid again.

  “How could Jordel have found us?” Tagata asked Rogan. “Our agents have worked tirelessly to keep him and Kal off our trail. Hewal sent no word of this whatsoever.”

  “Jordel has been away from Hewal for some time, and our ability to guide him has lessened the longer he has pursued Xain,” said Rogan. “But as for your question, there are two possible answers. The first and far more troubling possibility is that they have been aware of us for some time, and somehow they have kept that knowledge from us. But I do not think that is the case. If they had meant to assault us—or even to investigate and gather more information—they would have come here, and not to Trisken’s stronghold. The other possibility is that they knew nothing of us at all, and that pure happenstance brought Jordel’s party to our doorstep.”

  “That seems so unlikely as to be impossible,” said Tagata.

  “Yet it may be true,” said Nian. “For I have still more to say. Jordel died in battle with Trisken.”

  “Ha!” barked Tagata. “And good riddance. Darkness take him.”

  But Rogan did not seem to share her elation. “That is good, I suppose,” he said slowly. “But what else, Nian? For I sense that you still have more to tell
us.”

  “We did not recognize all of Jordel’s party, but we recognized some of them,” said Nian. “The Nightblade was with him, as was the wizard Xain, and the children who have been with the Nightblade as long as we have known of her. But they had with them someone new—a guide from the town of Strapa. He is a Calentin archer, unknown to us. It is he who led them into Northwood.”

  Kaita went rigid in her chair.

  “A Calentin archer?” she blurted out, interrupting Rogan’s next question.

  The rest of them paused. Nian and Tagata frowned, but Rogan looked searchingly at her.

  “What is it, Kaita?”

  She did not answer him at once, but kept her attention on Nian. “Where did he take them when they reached Northwood?”

  Nian looked confused. “We … have not learned that yet.”

  “But how do you know?” asked Sun.

  Albern paused and cocked his head. “What?”

  “How do you know all this?” said Sun. “You were not there. Yet you are telling me the tale as if you were in the room.”

  Albern smiled. “Of course I was not there. But it has been many years since then. In that time I learned much of what happened, and I guessed at even more.”

  Sun shook her head and straightened in her seat. “But … but why, then, do you not simply tell me what happened? You are making it part of the story—the words they spoke, this woman Tagata’s fit of rage, that other woman Nian and her terror at delivering the message. You cannot possibly know it really happened that way.”

  Albern gave a low chuckle and sipped at his beer. “Ah, I understand. You are looking for a story you can believe.”

  “Of … of course I am!” said Sun, scowling.

  “Then I am afraid you will never find what you seek,” said Albern. “If you believe every story you hear, you shall live a false life. The same may happen if you believe any story you hear. But if you put your faith in the right tales—if you choose to believe in them, seeing how they may be useful—there is no limit to what they can teach you.”