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

by Garrett Robinson

  “We hoped you would be able to point us to some of them,” I said.

  They leaned back in their chair, looking pensively at the table and tapping their chin. After a while they rose and went to a cupboard at the other end of the room. From it they pulled a wide scroll, which they unfurled on the table to reveal a map of Opara and the surrounding area. On the eastern end of it was half of Tahumaunga, the fire mountain, with many notes scratched around the area of its foothills. Some had been rubbed away, leaving only a smudged stain behind. Tuhin leaned over it.

  “If the weremage is up to no good, and is trying to avoid the law, there are many places she could be hiding,” said Tuhin. “Of course, being a weremage, she could be anywhere, even in plain sight.”

  Mag nodded. “We think it will be easier to find her by way of the friends we mentioned earlier. Someone in one of the previous towns we passed through heard her talking about coming to Opara to join them.”

  “And what sort of friends are they?” said Tuhin.

  Mag shrugged innocently. “She is a criminal on the run from the law. I imagine they are other criminals.” Then she fixed Tuhin with a piercing look. “Though of course, the Rangatira seemed rather suspicious of the whole matter. Tell me: are the two of you worried about the Shades?”

  She might as well have pulled the ceiling down on us with mindmagic, so great was the effect upon Tuhin. Dryleaf’s brows shot for the sky, and his grip tightened on his walking stick. I tried mightily to keep an expression of calm, but I must admit I wondered for a moment if Mag had quite lost her mind.

  “How do you—” began Tuhin.

  “When we were following the weremage through Dorsea, the rumor of these ‘Shades’ was thick across the land,” said Mag. “We heard they have already attacked a town in Selvan—some place called North Forest, or some such.” She gave a look of surprise so genuine that I almost believed it. “But you look shocked. Are they meant to be a secret?”

  Tuhin frowned. “They are. Blast. My lord will not be pleased to find out that rumors of the Shades have spread to the commonfolk—though I am happy to hear that it seems to have started in Dorsea, and not here in Calentin.”

  Mag cocked her head, her eyes widening slightly in perfectly innocent curiosity. “Who are they?”

  Tuhin shook their head slowly. “The Rangatira has told me that you should hear that news from your own lord. But if your weremage has something to do with the Shades, then—”

  “Oh, we are certain she does not,” said Mag, shaking her head emphatically. “There was not even a rumor of them in Tokana. We only heard about them in Dorsea, and never related to our search for her. And we heard less and less about them the farther we came north.”

  I understood at last. As long as Tuhin thought we knew nothing about the Shades, they would not speak of the matter with us—but they would harbor a secret suspicion about our weremage, and might even withhold information. But by assuring Tuhin that yes, we did know of the Shades, but that we were certain our weremage was in no way related to them, Mag hoped to put Tuhin’s mind to rest on the matter. It made sense, though it still seemed a wild risk, and I wished we had had time to discuss it first.

  Tuhin was silent a long time. Their brow furrowed, and they looked between Mag and I. “What did this weremage do, exactly? Why did Lord Telfer command you to hunt her in the first place?”

  “She killed someone,” I said quietly. “Someone dear to us, and dear to Lord Telfer. It was a spiteful, personal fight that spun out of control.” Mag’s expression turned grim.

  Tuhin sighed. “I am sorry to hear it,” they said. “Very well. If the weremage has friends hiding her from the law, and they are not lurking here in the city, that should narrow it down. She is likely somewhere in the foothills of the mountain.”

  “We came from there just this morning,” said Mag.

  Tuhin nodded. “So I heard. There are many folds in the land in that area. Opara is an always-changing place. People move here, and people move away. Abandoned homesteads are common near the edge of the wilderness. So, too, are neglected strongholds even farther away. Some are built by bandits and thieves and left empty when we drive them off, but then there are abandoned fortresses, relics of ancient kings, some stretching back to the time before time. They often have an evil air, and criminals usually avoid them, but not always.” They thrust their finger at the map. “We should begin with the stronghold of Maunwa. The last time it was occupied was three years ago. After we drove bandits out of the place then, the Rangatira kept a watch on it. But that watch was relaxed a year ago, and now it is visited but rarely.”

  An evil stronghold in the mountains. I did not much like the sound of that. But Mag had focused on something else Tuhin had said.

  “You said ‘we’ should search the stronghold? Kanohari and I had planned to go on our own.”

  Tuhin grinned up at her. “Did you? Well, I am the Rangatira’s servant, and it is my duty. He assigned me to help you.”

  I gave them an easy smile. “We are grateful, of course.”

  “It seems your plans are set,” said Dryleaf, who had settled back in his chair. “Though I am afraid I will not be much help in such a venture.”

  Tuhin nodded and knocked their knuckles once on the table. “It is settled, then. The day has worn on too long for us to go now. I will arrange for you to be quartered here in the keep tonight, and we will set out first thing in the morning.”

  “You are too kind,” said Mag. “But we have lodgings in the city.”

  “I would rather not have to seek you out,” said Tuhin lightly. “And besides, you are servants of a Rangatira. It is only right that we should house you while you visit our domain, as well as spare your coin.” But they had a careful look in their eye, and I wondered if they wanted to ensure we did not try to investigate the fortress on our own.

  “Then I suppose the matter is settled,” I said, just as amiably. “We thank you for your help.”

  “Of course,” said Tuhin. “Let us get you to your rooms. Our servants will rouse you before dawn, and then we shall all see what may be done about your weremage.”

  We set about retrieving our things from the Ugly Squirrel, and Oku was allowed within the keep walls to bed with the other hounds they kept. But as we set about readying ourselves for another night’s rest, I found myself wondering whether Tuhin’s presence by our side would be a help, or if they might inadvertently keep us from the end of our long hunt.

  It takes a special sort of person to be a ranger like Tuhin. One must be a fighter as well as a tracker, and able to survive alone in the wilderness for weeks on end. I never wanted to be one. Not because I lacked the skill—I was better in the wilderness than most, and a good archer, as well as a passable swordsman. But I did not want to fight for my mother, to be another soldier serving at her command. As a consequence, my mother thought I was rather useless, and that was the only quality she could not forgive in a person. She doted—as much as she ever doted—upon my eldest sister, Romil. And she tolerated my middle sister, Ditra, because Ditra at least tried to play the part our mother demanded.

  When I was young, it was hard for me to tell how much of Ditra’s demeanor was an act, and how much was genuine. She could adopt a hard-bitten, stern manner when she wished to please our mother. When she was following orders, she would grow stone-hearted, cold, even ruthless.

  But I knew another side of her. She was kind to me, and to others, when not under my mother’s eye. She was assigned several retainers close to her own age as she grew older, and she grew to love many of them—or at least to bed most of them. I was not supposed to find out, but I did, though Ditra swore me to secrecy.

  It happened when I was fifteen, and Ditra would have been … oh, she would have been about nineteen? I had woken after a nightmare. I had such dreams often in my youth, though never after my wending, which tells you something. In any case, when I woke up frightened in the night, I would creep down the hall to Ditra’s room. Ne
ver to my mother’s, certainly never to Romil’s.

  And so there I found myself, creeping along the hallway in the thin moonslight pouring through the windows—when suddenly, the door to Ditra’s room opened.

  Out came her retainer, cloaked in shadow and little else. I could scarcely see her in the darkness. But she saw me, and she fled at once as if in terror. I stood staring after her, and only after a moment did I realize that Ditra now stood in the doorway. She was clothed in a thin robe, one hand on the door’s edge, red upon her cheeks and a scowl upon her face.

  “Do not say a word,” she whispered in the dark. “Not one. If Mother finds out, she will put me in the stocks.”

  “Mother would never do that!” I protested. But Ditra gave me a long look, and I wilted under it. “I mean … well, obviously, I would never say anything in the first place.”

  “Good girl,” she said, because none of us knew any better in those days, least of all me. “A bad dream?”

  I nodded, though I had almost forgotten why I was there. The nightmare was fading. “A small one. Do not trouble yourself over it.”

  “Oh, come in,” she said, opening the door wider. “But sky above, please pay attention in the future, will you? And if you should come to my room, and my door is closed, knock before you open it.”

  “I will,” I promised her.

  “Very well,” she said. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

  I entered her room, which smelled sweet, and told her all about the dream, which I do not remember now. And at last I fell asleep in her arms, and felt just a little safer than I had before.

  That is what a ranger should be. It is why I always thought Ditra would be an excellent ranger, if she had not had to serve my mother. But it is why I never thought I would be a good one. Because Ditra could always make me feel safe, but that was not a gift I felt I could give to anyone else.

  A ranger’s first duty is always to keep their people safe. Or at least to try, even when faced with threats against which they are powerless.

  On the same night that Mag and I conferred with Tuhin, there was trouble in my homeland of Tokana.

  In a small village north of my family’s stronghold in Kahaunga, a woman named Whetu and her husband Paora had just put their children to bed for the night. They were sharing a cup of wine before they, too, went to sleep. They rested in wicker chairs in front of their home, watching the stars make their slow turn through the sky.

  Whetu had been a ranger long ago. She was the one who heard the sounds first. A heavy stomping, along with a deep, guttural snuffling.

  She shot to her feet. “Paora,” she whispered.

  Paora rose, though more slowly. “What is it?”

  “Something is coming. I think—”

  A loud, heavy crash shattered the stillness of the night. Towards the northern end of the village, someone screamed.

  Whetu turned. “The girls.”

  They ran inside the house to the back room. Their daughters were sitting up in bed, listening in terror as more screams rang out in the darkness. Together Whetu and Paora scooped them up, running for the front door.

  CRASH

  The wall to their left shattered inwards. A piece of wood whizzed through the air to jam straight into Whetu’s thigh. She managed to bite down on her scream, turning it into a grunt instead, but her daughter fell from her arms onto the floor.

  “Whetu!” cried Paora.

  “I am fine,” wheezed Whetu. “Get the—”

  Her eldest daughter screamed, pointing at the new hole in the wall. A massive face was looking through it. The skin looked stony, with small formations of crystals looking as though they had erupted through the skin, and moss clinging to the cracks. Two tusks were visible in the bottom jaw, and two in the top. Huge ears, like miniature sails, swept back from either side of the head, twisting every which way. Small, beady eyes glinted with the light of a nearby fire.

  The troll opened its mouth and roared.

  “Run!” screamed Whetu, forcing herself to her feet. She seized her daughter’s hand and pulled her along, half-dragging her out the door and into the night, forcing herself to keep up with her husband despite the pain in her leg.

  Together the family fled south, beyond the bounds of the village and up a rise. Most of the other villagers had gathered there. Whetu and Paora stopped in their midst, clinging to their daughters as they turned to look back at their home.

  Trolls were ripping the village apart. There were at least a dozen that Whetu could see. Wooden timbers cracked in their grip as they ripped roofs and walls off of houses, as though they were peeling away the skin of great beasts to reveal and eat the insides. There were only a few stone buildings, but even those could not stand before the monsters—the trolls simply smashed their fists into the stone, and after a few blows, it crumbled before them. A fire had caught in one of the buildings, and tongues of orange licked up into the night. The trolls gave that building a wide berth.

  “Why did they attack us?” said one of the villagers.

  Whetu’s expression was grim. The village had been her home ever since she had retired from the Rangatira’s service. Ten years she had lived here, and they had been the happiest years of her life. Watching the trolls rip it apart was like watching them tear her life into pieces and scatter them to the winds.

  “Who knows?” she said. “It does not matter now. We must make for Kahaunga.”

  “She is right!” cried Paora, turning to the others. “We will be safe there. The Rangatira can protect us.”

  Whetu held her tongue as she pushed through the crowd, leading them off south in the darkness. She wanted to say that Paora’s hope was misplaced. They needed to reach the city because they needed food and shelter. But if the trolls attacked Kahaunga, Lord Telfer would not be able to keep them safe. No one would.

  Whetu wanted to say it, but she did not. She was no longer a ranger, but she had been. And a ranger was supposed to make her people feel safe. No matter what.

  We were guests of honor in the Rangatira’s keep, and our quarters were more than comfortable. Mag distributed our possessions between the bedrooms we had been given. Dryleaf smiled broadly as I walked him about the place, letting him run his fingers along the bookshelves and push them into the deep, plush cushions of the furniture.

  “We have gone from comfort to comfort the last few days,” he said. “Why could not the road from Bertram have been this gentle on my old bones?”

  I laughed. “If only it had, friend. Let yourself relax. You will remain here while we set forth tomorrow.”

  “Naturally,” said Dryleaf. He gave a sigh. “I never thought I would rest inside noble quarters again. It has been some time since I resigned myself to dying in Lan Shui.”

  “It was our pleasure to change your fate,” said Mag.

  Dryleaf chuckled. “Oh, I do not know if anything can do that. It depends upon whether you believe in fate or not, I suppose. But I certainly never suspected that I was destined to embark upon another adventure so late in life. The Birchwood was all I ever wanted, for a good long while.”

  At that moment, a knock came at the door. Supper had been brought for us, though the sun was still well above the horizon. We would go to bed early that night, so that we were well rested when they came to wake us up before dawn. Servants set the dishes out for us, and we began to tuck in. The fare was nowhere near so fine as the meals at Victon’s had been, but it was still better than anything we had had upon the road.

  “What was it about the Birchwood you so loved?” I asked Dryleaf as we ate. “Why there, and not any of the other wondrous places you must have visited in Underrealm?”

  “A fair question,” said Dryleaf. “The Birchwood is a place of small wonder, but great peace—which is a wonder in itself, if a less obvious kind. There was something about the trees. Not the sight of them, mind you—that matters little to me, especially now. But there was a feeling to them, a peace beneath their boughs. Four branches of magic ther
e are, wizards will tell you. Yet I have often found myself wondering whether there are other, older magics in the world. It seemed there was always a spell of tranquility upon the Birchwood—something that relaxed your muscles, that made you wish to dip your feet in the cold, clear water of its rivers. I was happy there.”

  His expression darkened. “Though others were less fortunate. The other reason I wished to return was to look after some friends.”

  Mag’s face twitched. I noticed it, though I did not understand it.

  “Old friends?” said Mag.

  “Not old the way I am,” said Dryleaf. “They were only children, and I had known them for most of their lives. I was mostly concerned with the girl, though there was also a boy who loved her. It has been … well, it has been many long years since I was last able to visit them, and when last I was forced to leave them … well. The girl, Loren—”

  Mag and I had both frozen, her with a bite of food halfway to her mouth. A dawning realization had been creeping upon me as Dryleaf spoke, and when he spoke Loren’s name to confirm it, I nearly choked.

  “—she had parents with evil hearts,” Dryleaf went on, not noticing our sudden silence. “I always worried for her, and as time went on, I would return to visit her more and more frequently. The boy, Chet, was moonstruck for Loren from a young age, and I worried it might get him into trouble with her parents. Particularly her father. I did not know exactly how to help them, but I thought, if I could be there when she came of age, I could somehow … some way …”

  He fell silent. Still I could not move, could not speak. But now Mag was looking at me from across the table.

  “Albern,” she said quietly.

  I stared at her.

  Dryleaf frowned. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

  Mag turned to him. “Dryleaf … this girl from the Birchwood …” She fell silent, seemingly unsure what to say.