“You should not stop.” Finleara’s sudden reprimand startled him. She was already several yards out from him, and beginning to blend in with her environment. “The Cra'chuna like to stalk their prey, but a motionless quarry bores them and they will attack. As long as you move, you have a chance.”
Now aware of his mistake, he rushed to catch up to her. “How much further?” he asked, winded from the exertion.
It was apparently her turn to stop, for the moment he reached her, she made a few short chops with her blade to reveal an ancient stone door nestled against a small mound of earth bulging up from the ground. It was covered in a thin layer of moss, as well as tendrils of the same type of vine he had seen clinging to the Tower. Krin peered at the door for several long moments, noticing the moss-covered impressions of a similar set of carved runes he had seen on the doors of the Vault. This one, however, seemed devoid of the pictographic representations that had been so prominent on the other.
“We are here,” she said, deftly running her hand over the surface of the door. “Now we must find the hidden release mechanism to open it.” A few seconds later, she let out a satisfied sigh, pushed down on an unseen lever, and was rewarded with the hiss of air gushing from the crack in the door. Cautiously, she pushed against it, and it swung easily inward into a vast pool of darkness beyond.
“Uh, did you happen to remember to bring a torch or something?” Krin asked.
“Perhaps your imps could light the way for us?”
The question staggered Krin. “Seriously? You would ask those guys to help us in there? After what they did in the goblin prison?”
“A very good point.” She nodded.
“Besides, I haven’t seen them since the attack. I don’t even know if they’re alive.”
“Oh, they are, Master Krin. I can sense them. They’re very nearby. Watching.” She turned and studied Krin with curious eyes. “It is most strange. Their kind are notorious for their complete devotion to no one but themselves…and perhaps their kin. Yet for some reason, they have taken an unusual liking to you. Why is that?”
“A liking to me? Those things have caused me nothing but misery since they showed up in my life! And you think they like me?”
She offered him an apologetic nod, then a shrug. “Still, they have saved your life, on more than one occasion. They seem to be following you to the literal ends of the world—though they may not be aware of it. And they have yet to threaten any legitimate bodily harm to you,” she said. “Their species often finds a fool to annoy and pester until they tire of the game. Then, they usually either leave him for fresh entertainment, or kill him outright for being a disappointing source of merriment. Those facts alone prove their devotion to you, in my opinion.”
Krin thought about that for a moment. They had certainly saved his skin when the jinn attacked, not to mention on a few other occasions. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was some bond between them that Krin hadn’t fully grown to discover yet. It was worth pondering further, when he had more time to reflect.
“Be that as it may, I’ve no idea where they are,” he said. “And they’re not like the Carpet. I can’t just snap my fingers and get them to do what I say. I don’t think they’ll be much help to us within the cairn.”
With that, Finleara glanced around until her eyes landed on a pair of broken branches from a nearby tree. Looking sturdy enough, she picked one up, hacked the wood smooth with her serrated hunting knife, and handed it to Krin. “Wrap a cloth around one end.”
Obeying without question, he searched through his pack, but couldn’t find any cloth substantial enough to fuel a torch flame. Undeterred, he sat the branch down against a nearby rock, and slipped off the crimson cloak Nicholas had given him just before they parted company. It was, without a doubt, the finest piece of clothing he had ever owned with its rich, fur lining, and soft velvety feel, and he hated what he was being forced to do to the beautiful mantle. It had to be done.
Taking the knife that one of the dwarves had presented to him for the journey, he cut two slits—five inches wide and twelve long—and handed one of the pieces to Finleara just as she had finished smoothing out her own piece of wood. He then took his own strip, and wrapped it around the thickest part of his branch until it was tightly secured.
“Alright. What are we going to use for pitch?” he asked his guide.
Within an alluring wink, she reached into the pouch strung to her belt, and withdrew small brass vessel. “Hold out your torch.” When he had complied, she uncorked the vessel, and allowed three small drops of a foul-smelling liquid to soak into the cloth. “It is an oil extracted from the Nimchaka Grahn, a plant cultivated by the goblins that was used to fuel their smithies,” she said as she poured a few drops onto her own torch. “I always carry some for just such an occasion.” Once both torches were properly doused, she took two pieces of flint from her pack, and lit them. “Now, let’s get moving. The catacombs beyond are vast, and winding and we need to get to the Tower before sundown, so we have no more time to waste.” Without waiting for a response, she stooped under the doorway, and melted into the gloom with only the light of her torch to mark her passage.
Glancing behind him warily, Krin muttered a silent prayer, dipped his head past the low hanging door frame, and followed after her.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Madagus Keep
Ulfilas growled at Quinton when the annoying little healer shoved him back onto the bed, and threw his falx across the room as easily as if it were made of wood. The strength needed to do both these things simultaneous impressed the bounty hunter, though he would never admit it out loud.
“Don’t take that tone with me, my son,” Magus Quinton said, unperturbed by neither his patient’s size, nor demeanor. Despite the magus’ soft-spoken nature, he seemed a force to be reckoned with—even for someone was formidable as Ulfilas.
“You are fortunate to be alive. And although most of your recuperation came from our Yahweh Rafa, I did play some part in it. Because of that, you would do well to both respect, and listen to me.”
“But I need to go!” the large man boomed. “I can’t believe they left without me!”
“That is because you were at death’s door only a few days ago, you stubborn ox. Your body needs time to…”
“You’ve already told me all this, Healer. I know!” Flat on his back, the giant slammed both fists down against the over-soft mattress of his bed. “But my friends fight for their lives, while I lay here like a useless lump. I’ve got to do somethin’ to help!”
The healer crossed his arms, and looked down at Ulfilas. Only a slight trace of pity betrayed his otherwise severe expression. After several seconds of toe tapping, and scratching at his chin, Quinton sighed with a nod.
“Perhaps there is something you might do that will still help your companions,” he said. “It requires you remain within the Keep’s walls where I can keep a close eye on you, but it would do us a huge service, I believe. And shouldn’t be too strenuous.”
“Fine! Name it. Anything to get me out of this infernal bed!”
The magus considered it a moment longer, then moved to a wooden chest on the other side of the room, and took out Ulfilas’ clothing. The big man noticed, however, that his armor remained conspicuously absent.
“Here,” Quinton said, tossing the clothes on the bed at his feet. “We can’t have you traipsing around the Keep with naught but that forest of hair that covers you to protect your modesty. We don’t employ many women servants here, but there are a few.” The giant slipped out of bed with a sneer, and began pulling on his trousers as the other man continued.
“Magus Reganus has gone missing. Calibus believes him to be somewhere on the premises, but so far, no one has been able to find him. I understand that you are a bounty hunter, by profession?”
“The very best.” Ulfilas tightened his belt around his waist. He noticed he had to pull it three notches tighter than before he had ever heard of the elf half-breed and t
he runt. “So what? You need me to search for this Reganus fellow, is that it?”
Magus Quinton nodded. “Precisely. I shouldn’t think it as easy a task as it sounds either. The Magi Guard are very good at what they do. If their investigators were unable to uncover his whereabouts, I have my doubts that the Magus Prime is correct in his supposition that he’s still here. I believe his faith in his oldest friend, may be preventing him from accepting the alternative.”
“Which is?” Ulfilas strode across the room in three steps, and bent down to pick up his blade. As he straightened up, something sharp pulled across his abdomen, causing him to wince. The little healer hadn't been lying. His injuries still needed to mend, whether he liked it or not. But at least this little bit of busy work might keep him occupied long enough to avoid the madness of being idle too long. At least, until supper time anyway.
“That Magus Reganus has assumed the mantle of our greatest enemy, Sair’n Kryl, and is currently plotting something that would devastate our secluded little valley…and possibly the entire world.”
“Oh.” Ulfilas wasn’t quite sure how he should respond, so he simply slid the falx back into its scabbard, and turned to the door. “Then let’s hope this Calibus fellow is right.”
Without waiting for the healer to respond, the big man lumbered out of the room to begin the hunt.
***
Mindere Cairn
Krin wasn’t sure how long they had been skulking through the shadows of the dwarven catacombs. In the complete darkness, lit only by the flames of their torches, it was impossible to keep track of time, or distance for that matter. Sweat beaded down his face, burning into his eyes, as they meandered the twisted confines of the cairn with short, choppy steps. One false move, Finleara had explained, could set off any traps that might still be active, despite Magus Reganus’ opinion to the contrary. The dwarves had a well-deserved reputation for employing cunning and deadly devices within their sacred tombs to deter grave robbers, and the elf warrior was not willing to place all her trust in the magus’s assertion that the traps had grown harmless over time. Because of this, it was very slow going.
The cairn itself was tighter than Krin had imagined, with walls so narrow that his shoulders brushed both sides as he walked. Here and there, was a small alcove cut into the wall, and his torchlight would reveal the skeletal remains of dwarves long dead. In a few places, the bones had simply been too large to belong to a member of the dwarf race, but any attempts at identifying deceased’s origins proved futile.
“It is highly unusual,” Finleara said. Her voice was little more than a wary hiss in front of him. “Dwarves, by nature, are a very mistrusting race. They’re not fond of anyone other than their kind. Until the Magi moved into Thana Pel, they generally despised any of the ‘giant’ races, as they called any people taller than a dwarf. Of course, their mistrust might be a bit deserving. If I’m not mistaken, at one point or another, the dwarves have been enslaved by almost every taller race—Nephilim, elves, and even human. Whoever these bones belong to, they must have been held in great esteem to have been entombed within a dwarven cairn.”
“That’s a wonderful history lesson and everything, but I’m kind of concentrating on getting out of here,” Krin said, now stooping as the height of the passage began to grow smaller the deeper into the catacombs they went. “Any idea how much further?”
Finleara stopped, leaned to one side of the hall, and placed her ear against the wall. Krin involuntarily cringed at the sight, as it oozed with condensation, and heavy globs of slimy fungi. After a minute, she straightened, and looked at him. “I believe we are directly under the Mindere now. I would estimate we are halfway through, but it is possible I am mistaken.”
“Thanks,” he said. “That clears things up perfectly.”
Rolling her eyes, she ducked her head, and pushed forward without another word. Taking one last look at the pile of bones to his right, Krin turned, and followed quickly after. When they had walked for several long minutes in silence, Finleara came to an abrupt stop when they discovered an intersection cut into the catacombs, opening their way up to three different directions.
“Okay, Captain, which way now?”
“I am not sure I appreciate your sarcasm, Master Krin. I would advise you to curb your tongue while I consider this development.”
Krin nodded, gestured toward the openings, and crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall to wait.
Unperturbed, Finleara handed Krin her torch, then reached into her pouch, and withdrew a small shiny stone, and a piece of twine. She then tied the string around the center of the rock, and dropped it; letting it dangle from her fingertips. Krin watched curiously as the stone spun randomly in the air, twisting and turning until its momentum petered out. Then, slowly—almost imperceptibly—the narrower tip of the stone began to rotate clockwise until it pointed just off to the Finleara’s left.
She pointed in the direction. “That way is north, so we should take that passage.” She nodded to the tunnel bearing off to Krin’s right.
“What was that? Some kind of magic?”
Finleara shook her head. “Something I learned from the dwarves,” she said. “The rock is called lodestone. The dwarves use it to find precious metals and gems, but they found that it is also attracted, for some reason beyond me, to a northerly direction. It makes navigating through the thick forests of Thana Pel much easier, and has been quite useful to me in the past.”
“Handy.”
She nodded, then pointed toward the passage. “We should move. Time is not on our side.”
But as they moved toward the passage, Krin silently stepped forward, and peered into each new tunnel with his torch. Each passage was identical to the other with no markings of any kind to establish direction or purpose. Each one shared the same, musky odor with just a touch of something foul lingering in the air—with one exception.
“Wait. Hold on.” Krin ducked into the middle passage, raising his torch higher to illuminate the tight confines better.
“We do not have time for this,” Finleara said. “I have already told you, the far right passage is the one we should take.”
Krin ignored her, stepping further into the tunnel until he reached a pile of rags cast aside on the floor. “What’s this?” he asked, stooping down for a better look. Taking the discarded cloth with his free hand, he stretched it out, revealing the tattered remains of a little girl’s dress. “Leara, over here. Take a look at this!”
“For the last time, do not call me that.” The light from her torch melted into his own as she shuffled up behind him, illuminating the tunnel even more. “And why are you wasting our time like…”
Krin looked back at her, then pointed at a trail of clothes that littered the tunnel’s floor for another ten feet. “Could these come from those missing children I heard the Magi talking about? The ones from Stindoln?”
Finleara moved past Krin, and stooped down to take a closer look at the rags. “Not just from Stindoln,” she said. Her voice was a low hiss as she spoke, as if the words pressed down on her with a great weight. She stared silently at the clothes for several long moments, sighed, then stood up to face him. “But it is not our concern. We have a mission, and finding the children is a distraction we simply cannot afford to entertain.”
“Distraction?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Though he had never been inclined to like children very much, he couldn’t imagine being so cold-hearted as to consider the missing sons and daughters of the people of Stindoln as a mere distraction. The thought of her cold, calloused heart suddenly repulsed him. “Oh, I don’t think so, lady! You may not give a camel’s hump about those kids, but I can’t just ignore this. If they’re such an inconvenience to you, just go ahead and proceed with your mission all you want. Me? I’m going this way, and see where it leads.”
If they could, her lavender eyes would have bored two angry holes into him for his outburst. Instead, Finleara lunged, shoving Krin against the wall, and
pressing her forearm deep against his throat. “I warned you once never to speak to me in such a tone again, Boy!” Her hot breath—oddly smelling of sunbaked honeysuckle—burned against his face. “Do not forget, I too was taken from my home as a child. Was forced to do horrible things that have haunted me to this day. So do not, for one instant, take my commitment to the mission as indifference to their plight.”
Krin returned her stare in silence. He didn’t struggle against her, just watched, and waited. He knew her rage would subside with time, and admitted that he could have handled his own rebuke with a touch more grace. After a full two minutes of silence, Krin gave a curt nod.
“Then let’s do something about it,” he whispered against the weight of her arm. “Come on. Let’s just take a look at what’s down there. If we haven’t found anything in the next thirty minutes, we’ll turn back and go your route.” He paused, then added, “And I’m sorry. I had forgotten about your childhood, and it was insensitive of me.”
She considered his words, then released him before crouching down at the girl’s dress, and scooping it up. Still eyeing Krin with Vulcan’s fury, she sniffed at the fabric, and turned her gaze down the long, dark corridor they were standing in.
“Very well,” she said, stuffing the dress into her pack, before collecting the other clothes from the floor. It looked as though the clothing had belonged to a total of four children—three boys and one girl—ranging in age from about six to eleven. “But understand this, Master Krin, finding their clothing along this tunnel is not fortuitous. Just do not expect our hunt to end with a happy ending.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They slipped into the tunnel, which seemed to be slightly larger than the one they had just departed, and continued their journey. As they progressed, Krin noticed the passage seemed to be opening up; widening like an inverted funnel. Soon, they stepped out into a vast square chamber, easily the size of the great garden at Madagus Keep, and stopped in stunned silence.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 28