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

by Garrett Robinson

  We left the cover of the rock and crept along a slope that fell away from the platform. We were careful to keep ourselves concealed, but it hardly seemed necessary. No one, neither the Shades nor the satyrs, looked away from what was going on. At last, when we were only a score of paces away, I bade Mag to hide again, for now we could clearly make out the Shades’ words. Again we ducked out of sight, each of us poking one eye into view to see what was going on.

  “—after you killed the messenger?” one of the Shades—a burly man with a thick, bristling beard—was saying. At first I dismissed him, searching only for the weremage. Then my better sense caught up with me, and I realized the weremage might very well have changed her appearance. Though why would she do so, when she had no idea we were watching her?

  The elder in the center of the row shifted in her stone chair and bleated an answer in the satyrs’ tongue. I spoke but a little of their language and did not understand her, but there was a clear defensive tone in her voice, like a child who had been caught in wrongdoing and was inventing an outlandish tale to excuse it.

  An elder at the end of the row spoke in the common tongue. “Elder Seko says: Tiglak’s debt was paid. Then we drove the humans towards you. We have told you this already.”

  “But what you have not told us,” growled the Shade, “is why you did not tell us of these interlopers.”

  More bleating from Seko, and then the translator spoke again. “Elder Seko says: the Lord never said to tell you. He said not to let any humans pass through the valley and live.”

  The Shade thrust a finger towards the center elder. “Which is exactly what you did!”

  The translator quivered at the anger in his voice, but now one of the other elders spoke. He was not quite so hoary as the first, and there was a clear current of anger in his words. The translator looked uncomfortable, but after a sharp reproach from the elder, she spoke. “Elder Hagan says: we allowed nothing,” she said, her voice shaking. “We brought them to you. You allowed them to escape, not us.”

  I looked at Mag behind our rock. “We were right on that count, it seems.”

  “Never mind that,” said Mag. “I cannot see the Shades clearly enough to tell if the weremage is among their number.”

  “What of the leader?” I said. “Satyrs respect only strength and size. She would have better luck speaking to them as a large warrior than in her natural form. You saw how slight she was.”

  Mag frowned. “So it could be her, but how can we know?”

  Before I could answer, something happened in the circle. The Shades seemed to have had enough of the satyrs’ arguments. Their leader raised his hand, palm pointing towards the elders, and the circle fell quiet.

  “Enough,” said the Shade. “The Lord is tired of your excuses. There will be payment in blood. Two of you may present yourselves, or we can make the choice for you.”

  My stomach turned. The elders cowered in their seats, and as they did so, I glanced at the two empty stone chairs. Did I see bloodstains on the rock, or was it my imagination? Had this Lord already demanded such a sacrifice once in the past?

  Elder Seko looked at the others. They chattered back and forth in their own tongue for a moment, with Seko sounding increasingly desperate. Finally, Elder Hagan shot to standing and barked a series of short, loud words. The rest of them fell silent.

  Slowly, Elder Seko stood from her chair. Beside her, another elder, almost as grey and wizened, stood as well. Together the two of them stepped towards the Shades.

  “The two oldest,” I muttered.

  The Shade leader stepped forwards. He held up a hand—and then his eyes began to glow. My heart did a somersault, thinking of the weremage—but then just as quickly, it sank into my stomach. Elder Seko gasped and clutched at her throat. Slowly, a finger’s width at a time, she rose into the air.

  “You are servants of the Lord,” intoned the Shade. “As are we. And he does not brook failure.”

  “He is a mindmage,” I said. “He is not who we seek.”

  “He will kill them,” said Mag. Her voice had taken on the lifeless monotone of her battle-trance.

  “I am not certain that it would be wise to—oh, sky save us,” I said, for Mag had leaped out over the top of the slope. She sprang forwards, shield raised and spear held high.

  Mag was among the Shades before they knew what was happening. From five paces away she threw her spear. It impaled the Shade mindmage through the chest. He froze, staring at her weapon as the glow died in his eyes. His magic fell away, and Elder Seko fell gasping to the ground.

  Before the Shade had started to fall, Mag seized her spear and kicked him away, ripping the weapon from his torso. She had killed another of the Shades before the rest could react. I loosed two arrows, each taking a Shade in the head. They fell like puppets with cut strings. Two stood, but not once Mag reached them. One managed to get his sword out—Mag batted it aside with her spearhead before it sliced around in a wide arc and laid his throat open. The other leaped towards Mag with raised blade, but I fired another arrow. It took the Shade in the chest, and she fell to one knee, wheezing. She looked up just in time to take Mag’s spear in the neck. Her body fell to the floor, her hands jerking as they tried to reach for her throat. She died before managing it.

  It was over almost before the half-ring of satyr warriors realized what was happening. But once they saw the corpses on the floor, they raised their weapons with angry brays, smashing the weapons against their shields in a violent cacophony. Mag fell into a fighting crouch, her shield up and her spear ready to strike. I nocked another arrow, but did not draw.

  “Enough!” I cried. “It is over.”

  Elder Seko had risen by now, helped to her feet by the other satyr who had offered himself in sacrifice. She spoke in anger and fright using the satyrs’ language. I frowned at her and then looked over at the translator. The translator shook worse than ever, but she tried to compose herself as she spoke.

  “Elder Seko says: it is not over,” she whimpered. “Who are you? Why have you done this?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “We have saved the lives of two of your elders. You do not sound particularly grateful.”

  The elders might not have deigned to speak the human tongue, but they seemed to understand it well enough, for the oldest one screamed a reply without waiting for my words to be translated. The translator swallowed hard. “Elder Seko says: you are no servants of the Lord. This was not his will. His retribution will fall upon all of us now, and it will be swift and merciless.”

  “Then I suggest you stop obeying this Lord, whoever he may be,” said Mag. Elder Seko drew up straight and raised a hand. The half-ring of satyrs edged forwards, but Mag stood firm. “I would not do that, if I were you. It will only result in a pile of satyr corpses to go along with these human ones.”

  I gritted my teeth. Mag did not know the nuances of speaking to these creatures. Threats rarely worked unless one had a satyr utterly at their mercy. The satyrs might have been in such a position, in truth, but they could not know that—they only saw a normal human woman, and would know nothing of Mag’s skill.

  “We saved your elders,” I said loudly, trying to draw attention to myself and away from Mag. “Two of your most venerable and wisest leaders would have died if we had not intervened. That ought to earn us at least a moment’s clemency.”

  Elder Hagan, who had interjected before, brayed a response. The translator spoke quickly. “Yet now all our lives are in danger. What are two lives compared to the whole clan?”

  “Do you think the Lord would have stopped there?” I pointed to the elders’ stone chairs. “Two of your seats are already empty. What would have stopped the Lord from killing the rest of you, if it pleased him?”

  There was a long moment of dead silence. The satyr warriors were looking between each other and the elders now. Hagan looked furious, but Seko studied us, frowning but not quite hostile. At last she spoke in a slow voice, and the translator hastened to relay her w
ords.

  “Elder Seko says: who are you?”

  “I am Albern of the family Telfer,” I said. “This is Mag, the Uncut Lady, the greatest warrior in the nine kingdoms.”

  Mag gave me a wry look. But as the translator spoke my words in the satyr tongue, a low, angry rumble ripped through the satyr warriors. Quickly I realized my mistake.

  “The greatest human warrior,” I corrected. “We would never presume to question the might of your own brave fighters.”

  “Elder Seko says: your name is known to us, Albern,” said the translator. “You turned the mind of Tiglak, our warrior. We punished him for his leniency towards you.”

  Anger blossomed in my heart at those words. I had met Tiglak more than once in my travels through the mountains, and more than once he had taken up arms against me. But he had not been bloodthirsty, and he had been an honorable warrior, in his way.

  “I knew Tiglak,” I said. “And I never tried to turn him, nor would he have let me. He was a faithful servant of Skal, the holy mother between the moons, and I know she honors him in the sky.”

  Elder Hagan erupted in a series of furious screams, but Seko silenced him with a raised and gnarled hand. She looked at me with an expression I could not read. Understanding? Curiosity? From what I knew of the satyrs, I was certain she had never been in the presence of a human who spoke of Skal with true knowledge. That is a deep secret of the satyrs, and one no outsider could learn of easily.

  After a moment’s pause, she spoke again. “Elder Seko says: I am Elder Seko,” said the translator. “What do you seek here, Albern?”

  “We are looking for a wizard,” said Mag. “A skin-shifter. In her human form, she is short and slim, with horn-colored skin and black, braided hair. Have you seen her here?”

  Seko looked displeased as she shifted her focus to Mag. “Elder Seko says: we have seen many humans who serve the Lord,” said the translator.

  Before Mag could answer, I stepped in. She would care little for the Lord, but his agents had already tried to kill me, and I had had questions ever since. Besides, I thought, I still might find Loren one day, and she would want to know. “Who is this Lord? What is he? Some have said he is not human, and I believe it, for I know the wise elders would never serve a human.”

  The elders raised their chins with pride at that, and one or two of them bleated quietly. Seko spoke through the translator. “Elder Seko says: he has appeared only to us who sit in the stone seats. His form is unknown.”

  “But when he appeared, how did he look?” I pressed.

  “Elder Seko says: he was a form all in white, cloaked in mist and light—as terrible as an Elf, but speaking words we could hear.”

  I shuddered at that. Even a fleeting thought that the Lord might be an Elf was enough to make me want to run and hide in the deepest hole I could find, never to emerge.

  “Enough of the Lord,” said Mag. “The weremage. Have you seen her?”

  Seko stamped a hoof and bleated. Soon the translator said, “Elder Seko says: how are we to know? You are humans. Humans look like humans.”

  Mag had enough sense not to point her spear at Seko, but it seemed a near thing. She slammed the butt of it on the rocky ground, and the satyr warriors shifted uneasily around us. “I have told you what she looks like. Surely some of you have seen her.”

  The elders seemed displeased. Mag’s insistence was not far away from calling them liars. I stepped close to her and spoke in a voice I hoped was too low to be overheard.

  “If she never performed magic in front of them, they may not know who she is.”

  Mag gave a frustrated growl. “I had not thought of that. Then what should we do?”

  Before I could answer, Seko suddenly spoke more loudly and rapidly than before. My pulse skipped, and I looked to the translator. But she said nothing. Then, behind us, the warriors began muttering to each other. It took me a moment to realize the truth: Seko had not been speaking to us at all, but had been addressing her clan directly.

  After some hurried conversation, one of the satyr warriors stepped forwards. He was large for a satyr, almost as big as Tiglak had been, and he rolled his shoulders as he answered whatever question Seko had put to him. Now Seko turned to the translator and spoke. The translator nodded and relayed the words.

  “Our scouts have seen the woman you seek,” she said. “She left the mountains heading west, and went to a village there. It stands near the place where the southern river of the Great Spearhead leaves the mountains.”

  “Thank you,” said Mag, nodding to Seko. The elder inclined her head.

  “Elder Seko,” I said. “I have only one more question. How did the Lord first come to you? How long ago was it?”

  Seko snorted, her nostrils flaring. “Elder Seko says: we have no more answers for you.”

  My breath had grown quick, and I tried to calm myself. “The Lord has caused great suffering in the human kingdoms,” I pressed. “In this, we share your—”

  Seko cut me off without waiting for the translator, and the translator relayed her words as soon as they were spoken. “Human worries are nothing to us. You have saved two lives, and we have answered more than two questions already. Leave now, and remember our generosity and kindness.”

  Though my nerves felt grated almost to the root, I knew better than to try to press her any further. Instead I took a step back and bowed low.

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you, Elder Seko. We will never forget your mercy or your lenience.”

  Mercifully, Mag managed not to laugh, though she had to cough to hide it. I tossed my head at her, and we walked away from the circle of satyrs. I did not look back until we were well out of sight, though I imagined I could feel the satyrs’ eyes boring into my back long afterwards.

  Mag and I came riding down out of the mountains some days later.

  Elder Seko had said the weremage went to a village near the southern river of the Great Spearhead. I thought long on those words, and soon I thought I had an answer to them. I remembered Dorsea well enough, for I had often campaigned there, and I remembered how the Blackwind River came down out of the Greatrocks to join the Bluewater, forming a sort of spearhead in the land. I knew there was a town there, though I did not recall the name of it. And so it was in that direction that I guided Mag, and soon brought her to the outskirts of Lan Shui.

  It looked a sizable town to us. Not a large city, certainly, but big enough to lose people in. It was built around the river, and I guessed that they used it for trade and for travel. Farmlands were laid out beyond the town proper for leagues in every direction. But as we drew closer, I began to notice that some farms seemed abandoned. About half the fields had no one working in them, and the crops, though mature, were untended.

  But I did not remark upon it at first, for Mag seemed to be in a poor mood. As we drew closer to the town, I thought I understood why. Though the homes were clearly of Dorsean make, and the people here wore Dorsean clothing, it was impossible not to see the similarities between this town and Northwood. And when thinking of Northwood, it was impossible not to think of Sten.

  “Do you know why the river is called the Blackwind?” I asked her, trying to pull her from such thoughts.

  Her head jerked around, as if she had forgotten I was there and was surprised to hear me speak. “What? No.”

  “It is the twin river of the Bluewater farther north, and they join at the city of Bertram to form the Fanrong,” I said. “In the days of the Sunmane, one of her generals—a man named Torben—came through what would be called the Moonslight Pass into Dorsea’s western reaches. His army was low on rations and water after the pass, where they had been attacked many times by satyrs, who were in those days more plentiful. They followed the Greatrocks south until they reached the river and the fertile lands that surrounded it. Torben named the river then, for as he said: ‘It shone in midday’s light like the purest sapphire, though I valued it more highly than gemstones, for instead of wealth, it brought my s
oldiers life.’

  “His army camped around the river for one week, resting. At last they continued their journey south, seeking for the end of the Greatrocks and what might lay beyond them. Soon they arrived here and found this second river, and Torben called it the Blackwind.”

  My words cut off suddenly, more suddenly than I had intended, for in the middle of the tale, I had remembered its ending. Torben had called it the Blackwind because when his army came to it, they were attacked by a greater host of satyrs than they had yet faced, and there was a great swarm of imps as well. In the fighting, Torben’s son had been killed, and so he had named the river as a curse. That was not the sort of story I thought it would be best for Mag to hear just then.

  She did not seem to notice the strange way I had cut the tale short, for her eyes were on the town’s gates ahead. I followed her gaze and saw why. The gates were almost fully closed, and in front of them stood three constables with less than friendly expressions.

  “Trouble, do you think?” said Mag.

  “I doubt it. It is not unusual for a town to be wary of strangers, especially this close to the mountains, where there are many perils.” But we both knew that was not entirely true. There was no war near here, and so there was no reason for this town to be wary of anything except satyrs and harpies, neither of which would be hampered a whit by a closed gate.

  We spoke no further word as we approached the constables, and for their part, they made no move and said nothing as we pulled to a stop before them.

  “Hail, friends,” I said in a cheery voice. “We beg your leave to enter this town—and, too, we ask its name, for we have never been here before.”

  One of the constables stood a pace ahead of the others, and the white stripe on her red leather armor marked her as a sergeant. Beneath her red helmet was a shock of bristling yellow hair. I guessed she stood a head taller than me, and half a head over Mag, and she had muscled limbs as impressive as her height. Now she stepped forwards, crossing her arms, and spoke.