Nathelion saw that the old man spoke quite truly. Sailing along the coast to Lourne would also have them passing the White City, Maerghinn, and Meirovitan with its fabled harbors. Quite an adventure. And on the map there was indeed a passage in the mountains beneath the mighty city of Cawarath to the north, though he didn’t much like the fact that it was named “the Martyr’s Passage.” Other than that, nothing was included of Rurhav beyond the Savage Hills, and he could not know if Alwarul’s account had been more than mere fiction. But if he was to believe anything the old man said, then it would have to be the bits not including magic and monsters. He handed the map back, satisfied with the fact that it corresponded with Alwarul’s description of the world.
The sounds of weeping reached them quite suddenly, a woman wailing not far away. Nathelion and Alwarul exchanged a short, communicative look before spurring their horses. They came over a hill and turned along with the road, and there she was.
The weeping woman sat against a tree with a pale and bloody man in her arms, not far away from a toppled wagon lashed to a dead ox. The sacks of potatoes it had held had spilled into a shallow ditch. Four armed men were at the scene, clad in tunics and steel helmets, guardsmen from their appearance. Two of them seemed to be collecting potatoes, while the others stood silently near the wailing woman.
“May I ask what is happening here?” Alwarul said at once, his voice almost a command.
The guardsmen looked up at him while the woman kept wailing, her whole body trembling with grief. “Well, we bloody ain’t robbing her,” one of them said irritably, spitting to the side before hauling up the potato sack from the ditch.
Another was more amiable. “Bear attack,” he told them. “Ugly one, too. Magdha here lost her husband. Ox as well, if it matters.”
“A bear attack?” Alwarul’s question sounded half-statement. He dismounted in front of them. “In these lands?”
“Aye,” the tall guard confirmed. “Gets stranger still when you hear what bits she’s able to tell.”
Nathelion dismounted as well and followed Alwarul, reins in hand. His horse neighed weakly, liking not what lay in the air. The woman named Magdha was covered in blood, though most of it must have come from her husband. He was a bald man of middle age, but you couldn’t tell much more than that. His body was badly mauled.
“We think she’s hurt as well,” one of the guardsmen said, a chubby fellow with a good bit of bristle on his cheeks. “But she won’t let us look at her. We ought to take her back to the village. How, though, when she won’t rise?”
“We sent Haswel to fetch help,” the tall one added. “He’ll likely come with a cart soon.”
Nathelion glanced at the guards gathering the potatoes. They were tying up the bags and stacking them on the road, no doubt eager to busy themselves with something. One of them muttered under his breath, and the other shook his head in shared disbelief. “Bloody big bear, must’ve been. That ox is in pieces.”
Part of the mutilated animal could be seen from behind the wrecked wagon. Though a heavy beast, its thick neck was fully twisted to the side, broken as if it had been a lamb. Nathelion shuddered.
“I will have a look at her,” Alwarul told the guardsmen.
The tall one furrowed his brow. “And what do you suppose to do, old man. Are you a priest?”
“Only a traveling physician with a sore spot for the misfortunate,” Alwarul confessed humbly, and then he turned to the despairing woman. The man did not try to stop him but rather looked on with some interest. So did Nathelion.
Magdha first seemed to stare past Alwarul without noticing him, and her ears seemed deaf to his words of comfort. But then the old man put a gnarled hand on her forehead, and suddenly, her eyes locked on his, and she spoke to him. It was a long story told in whispers, and it seemed as if the very winds were unsettled by what words she passed to Alwarul.
“Bloody... How’d he get her to speak?” one of the guards collecting potatoes asked, all toil coming to an abrupt end.
“Don’t ask me,” the tall one said. “He claimed he was a physician. You know him?” Directed at Nathelion, the question startled him. “Is he really a physician?”
“He might be,” he said, turning to observe Alwarul again. “He might just be.” Was this what you did before you lost your mind, old man? It was touching, seeing the gentle care Alwarul had with the shocked woman, how he looked over her wounds discreetly while she talked, meanwhile nodding and speaking calmly to console her. How terrified were you when your skills failed to cure your own sickness?
“Damn, what is she saying to him?” one of the guardsmen asked, his tone lowered so as not to violate the sudden air of sanctity that seemed to envelop them.
“Something wholly other than what she told us, must be,” answered another in puzzlement. “Wholly other.”
Nathelion didn’t know why he would wish to hear it. It was doomed to give him more nightmares. Yet he edged nearer.
The woman’s haunting flusters were unintelligible at first, the breathless narrative of some ghost of misery that cared not to be understood. When he moved closer, he could discern her words. They made his hackles rise. “...beast, mister,” she was saying to the old man. “So sudden that I almost put my hands to my ears at its thunderous roar. The ox tried to run at once, but with the load, it was too slow, and the thing... It tore the ox apart even as we sat there behind it, with Hugar on the reins! Oh, Hugar! I knew we shouldn’t have gone here, not today. I had a sense of ill — I told him thrice, and he would not listen! He watched the shadows as much as I did. As much as I did, mister! He saw how the shadows deepened. He felt those winds, like a nightmare... A nightmare... Oh, mister. I was sure it was a nightmare. I was sure...”
She was awfully pale, Nathelion thought dizzily, almost as colorless as her husband.
“Yes, young Magdha,” Alwarul said softly. “An awful nightmare. And it’s time that you wake up now, do you not think so? Leave this grisly nightmare behind and find some peace.”
She closed her eyes, her breaths growing weaker. Alwarul rose with a grim face.
“She won’t be the last,” he said. “Nor the worst.”
The Dwarf
Molgrimin the moinguir moved like a shadow in that town so far from his home. Its giant inhabitants looked down at him curiously as they went about their daily chores. He always returned their curious glances with scowls, making them turn away. They knew he was dangerous, just as he knew it. It was why he found himself here, in exile, was it not? The thought was a bitter one.
He could not waste away like this, winning no more “honor” than what tavern brawls brought him. He was looking for a worthy opponent, but he was out of clues. He had followed some rumors telling of a dragon’s lair or a giant’s mountainous domain, but all had proven false. And he had been left standing there like a fool at the end of week-long journeys. It had gotten to the point where he had even considered joining this war amongst men. But what glory was there in warring against men for the sake of other men? He needed a conflict with meaning. That was how he could win honor. Unfortunately, he had been born in a time in which there were no monstrous horrors left in the world. There was no invasion of giants that he could repel like Jalgram Stonefist, no demon from the nether to be banished in the way Huimer Fireseer had banished Melicus, and not even a mad sorcerer to be put down by a new Wyriar the Wizardslayer. The heroes of the past had left little for him to do. They had robbed the world of all terrible beasts and left the civilized races to war against each other instead. He was a warrior without an enemy, growing old without a triumph and doomed to vanish without leaving a mark upon history other than that of his shame.
The clouds rolling in over the sky mirrored his mood as he trudged along the dirt streets. He had turned to the gods for guidance. He had beseeched the furious Agakrak, who should have had some understanding for his plight. Then he had uttered prayers to the wise Lawaldon, whose benevolence surely should have been there even for him.
In later years, he had even pleaded to the grudging and pitiless Durthkrim, who would demand a terrible price for his aid. But no aid had come, neither from gods nor men, and the quest had remained dead. Rotten fate. I’d be better off forgotten.
The streets were quickly emptying on account of the thunderclouds. Humans had an altogether different constitution from that of his own people, something he had discovered after he’d left Kast-Harnax. For one thing, they seemed acutely sensitive to the elements. For him, cold was a small concern, and he needn't fear the smithy’s fire either. Those things caused him no more pain than did the shifting between day and night, and they prompted no more caution. Here, though, in these surface cities of man that he visited, everyone was ruled by the weather. They could die from cold in the winter and heat in the summers. Whenever a storm brewed, they vanished from sight, seeking shelter. Like now.
He walked down an empty street as the winds began to howl. Only when he turned into a cramped alleyway did he meet others still outside.
“Look there, is that a dwarf?” one of the youths outside the brothel called out at once. No doubt the three miserable sods had spent their last coin inside.
“I thought he was a kid!” another exclaimed in an obnoxious voice.
This made the bear inside Molgrimin turn in its sleep.
The third one was smaller than both the others, and he sounded doubly incredulous. “There’s a dwarf in Silverstream?”
The youths were filthy and ill clad in the garb of those who tended the fields and animals, and dirt was tousled in their uncut hair. None of them had a beard. “I heard it yesterday,” said the second one who had spoken, a scrawny young man with a beet-red nose and freckles. “I didn’t believe it, though, since it was Bill who said it. But look at that beard! Ahah-hah! The little fellow is almost tripping over it!”
“I swear, my little sister couldn’t make so many braids,” said the first one, who was taller and broader. He had a twisted nose that spoke of past brawls. “His cloak would probably fit her, too. If it isn’t too small, that is.”
The smaller one eyed Molgrimin more warily, his dainty face gone uncertain. “I’m not sure, Jake. I’ve heard dwarves are...”
“Rich,” Jake finished for him. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that, too.” The youth turned to Molgrimin, and his eyes were as implacable as his tone. “You, dwarf, are you rich?” Molgrimin thought he’d do them the favor of just passing by without comment, but the fool was fool enough to place himself in his way. “I asked you, dwarf, are you rich?”
“Rich?” Molgrimin said coolly. “Well, gold is pretty and all, but deep in the mountains of Kast-Harnax, were ye folk wouldn’t dare to go, there be far more precious metals. Hâlor, for example, that thing which yer heroes’ weapons are made of in the legends. Unluckily, I don’t find myself the owner of any hâlor. A shit-ton of gold, though.”
Jake smiled at him. “Are you mocking us dwarf? Do you know how far I could toss someone of your size?”
“Mocking ye?” Molgrimin raised an eyebrow. “Now, I was just answering yer rather rude question in a rather rude fashion. But I’ll ask ye a thing that might have yer head working a good, unusual bit. Why, do ye think,” he asked ponderously, “have yer kings never in these last five hundred years sent armies to take our riches, eh? Do ye know?” His voice was dangerous now, as were his burning, orange eyes. “Did ye, perhaps, ever happen to think of that?”
The clever lad with the fragile frame grew anxious, looking to and fro at his friends. “Maybe we should go. He seems serious, Jake. The loot is in Marenn, remember? That’s where we’ll get our gold.” He put a hand on Jake’s shoulder, but the other youth shrugged it off.
“You know where we are going on the morrow, dwarf?” the fellow asked. “We are called into service, and we’ll take part in the siege of Evratilin in the south. Most likely, none of us will ever return here. But seeing as we are going to leave, and it is dark and unpleasant here, and we are all poor, and no one is watching us, and we might be dead before this winter, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Why, Jake, would you not beat a cocky dwarf senseless and help yourself to his gold?’”
Molgrimin felt the bear’s eyes flutter open, and the youths saw the change in his expression. Even Jake took a step back. “Oh, lad,” Molgrimin growled. “Ye should’ve stayed in the brothel.” The beast charged out of its den, and the entire world turned dark.
Afterward, he lay bleeding against one of the alley walls. His chest hurt, and the swellings and bruises on his face pulsed with pain. They had fought like cowards, the three of them. And they had given him a good number of kicks in the stomach once he was down, too. That was where the freckly one had done the most, the rat. Molgrimin had dealt a few good punches himself, though. Aye, Jake had definitely lost his breath after those first punches. Molgrimin would have kept throwing them, too, if the others hadn’t come to aid their friend. Now they had made away with his cloak. It didn’t matter, of course; he wasn’t bothered by the cold. Unlike feeble humans. And they hadn’t found his gold either — the fools thinking he walked around with a pouch of gold at his belt for the first cutpurse to snatch. A few coppers and an old cloak were all they’d gotten for their efforts. It was worth it just for the punches he had gotten in on Jake.
The door to The Wild Rose opened, and a handsome woman of middling age with a thick braid over her shoulder looked out at him, her face painted with indecision. “So...will you be okay?”
“Aye,” Molgrimin said. “Aye, I’ll be okay.” The three youths had been wise to run away so soon. Perhaps they had decided that they wanted to live to see that siege after all.
The rain fell gently from the sky. The woman nodded at him slowly and then turned back inside, closing the door against the cold. Molgrimin remained seated a bit longer to let the worst agony fade from his legs. It took some time, but when he rose, he dusted off his clothes, tidied his beard, and then continued on his way without further delay.
He hadn’t wished for that fight, but he was rarely able to command the bear. It was a primal thing. It was his curse. Only, for the longest time, he had hoped that it would prove his salvation as well.
The rain began to fall more heavily. Before long, it was smattering violently on the cobblestones, forming deep, sloshing puddles and rivulets in the gutters. And as the thunder started to boom above and the flashes ripped through the sky, even the homeless dogs and cats fled. Molgrimin felt no reason to hurry, though he did have a destination: The Bloody Corner, A wooden inn with begrimed windows and a sign in as unpretentious a condition as the name it bore. He threw the splintery door open and passed a smoldering glance over the sorry pack of ruffians infesting the sweaty common room this time. He left the door for a serving wench to close. Irritated faces followed him as he walked through the mist of tobacco smoke to the bar, where a bald man was serving the drinks. Molgrimin didn’t like the way people leered at him when he didn’t quite reach the top of the bar counter, but he hopped up on a chair and stood without trouble. “Give me a pint of that bland lemonade that ye folk see fit to call ale, unless ye happen to have some ‘dwarven’ ale in this flea-infested hole.”
“Nothing dwarven here,” the bartender said with a smirk. He poured what looked like apple juice, or maybe lemon water. Supposedly, it was ale. Others laughed around the common room, and Molgrimin knew that he would not be leaving here peacefully. He felt the hostility in the air, and he knew that there were those just waiting for an excuse to exchange blows with him.
“Then I’ll be pretending that this were real ale,” Molgrimin said, raising his mug, “and not the piss that ye’re all drinking.” He took one swallow and then swore loudly. “Bloody hell, my imagination just ran out.”
Silverstream
The heavy downpour soaked Nathelion’s clothes as quickly as if he had jumped into a pond — and a cold one at that. They saw the town of Silverstream in the distance as they came out from the trees to ride down a hill, and Nathelion understood at once t
hat Alwarul did not use the words “small town” the way he would. Silverstream was many times greater than the settlements around Widowswood, any or all combined.
The river languidly caressed the town’s western end, shaping the sprawl of buildings into gentle curves before disappearing in the distance both to south and north. A great, arched bridge crossed the waters, lit by hundreds of lanterns. Silverstream did not seem quite the idyllic place that its name suggested, however. It had mighty walls, but the greater part of the houses lay outside them, disorderly hovels forming vast slums in their shadows. It was a stark contrast to the keep atop the northern hill with its great arches and proud spires.
Outside Silverstream lay farms among their fields, which were now a frozen wasteland that allowed one’s view to stretch all the way to distant forests and, to the north, to mountains that seemed to touch the sky.
On their way along the muddy road, they passed a few lone trees that were flailing in the winds. An inexplicable sense of dread washed over him. A flash of lightning lit up the landscape, and he thought he caught sight of a beautiful woman standing beneath those trees, before she vanished. He stared at the spot as they galloped on, but there was no one there. I have gone mad. Yet the apparition had lasted just a moment too long to be discarded. Was it a figment of my imagination, or was it... Was it real?
Both possibilities were terrifying, but damn it if he didn’t see which was worse. It could not have been real. If I believe that, I might as well recognize Alwarul as a wizard. The thought was comforting. He needed to get out of the rain.
They rode into the slums. Most of the buildings were in disrepair and jumbled in a manner that created plenty of small nooks and alleys that easily filled with shadow. Nathelion immediately took a strong dislike to the place, sensing an atmosphere of desperation that reminded him too much of Widowswood. But they needed a roof, they needed a fire, and they needed warm food, so they pulled in their weary steeds before the first ramshackle inn they came upon, on a deserted street that was far from the graceful silhouette of the distant castle. Peering, he discerned the flaking red letters spelling “The Bloody Corner” on a splintered sign that swayed on black chains stained with rust.
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 6