The Rover

by Mel Odom

Sonne glanced at Brant. “I’m not leaving her to this fate.” The young girl’s face appeared to be cut from stone. “I can’t do it.”

  “Neither can I,” the master thief admitted.

  Cobner looked up at the woman strung high above them. A stray shaft of sunlight penetrated the gloom and made the web glisten with diamond brightness. “Then we’ll give her a quick, clean death. A quarrel through the heart. It would be a mercy.”

  “No,” Sonne argued.

  “Or we could leave her here and let someone else come along to finish the job of saving her,” the big dwarf said.

  “We’re wasting time,” Baldarn called out from the rest of the group. “Every minute we spend here puts the Purple Cloaks one minute closer. If we’re going to get away, the time is now.”

  “No!” Sonne turned to Baldarn as if daring the man to speak again.

  The dwarf started to say something, but a quick look from Brant shut him up.

  “I’ll go.” For a moment, Wick wondered where the voice had come from. Then, when everyone else turned to him, the little librarian realized to his horror that he had spoken. His heart was suddenly in his throat.

  Cobner grinned. “Told you the little warrior had grit in him, didn’t I?”

  Wick didn’t believe for even an instant that what had compelled him to speak had anything to do with courage or grit or anything like that. He only knew how terrible it had been to be kept in the goblin slave pens, and that being wrapped in a spider’s webbing could only be so much worse. I can’t leave her like that, either.

  Brant focused on him. “We don’t have much time.”

  “We don’t have any time,” Baldarn growled angrily. “I can practically hear those Purple Cloaks thundering up on us now.”

  Trembling slightly but hoping the others didn’t notice, Wick stepped down from his horse. His foot slipped through the stirrup and he very nearly fell.

  “Steady there, little warrior,” Cobner encouraged. “And don’t you have no worries about any other spiders clambering through them trees and that webbing after you. We’ve got your back.”

  Other spiders? The skin at the back of Wick’s neck prickled. Wasn’t one spider enough? He crossed the ground to the web on weak knees, then caught hold of the web strands. The web shook slightly at his contact, and the strands felt like they were covered with paste that was curiously dry to the touch and wet at the same time.

  The little librarian gazed up the web. It’s no worse than the rigging aboard One-Eyed Peggie, he told himself. And there’s not even the pitch and yaw of the ship and the sea to contend with. He placed a foot on a strand and pushed up, thinking no one could blame him if the strand broke and he couldn’t climb the web either.

  However, the webbing seemed to easily support a dweller’s weight.

  Taking a fresh breath, thinking for a moment that contact with the spider’s web had somehow paralyzed his lungs, Wick started up the web. He climbed hand-over-hand, shaking with each fresh hold.

  “Little warrior,” Cobner called. “Wait just a second.”

  I can’t wait! Wick silently objected. If I do, I’m going to start shaking so badly that I’ll never get this done. But he paused in the webbing.

  Cobner tied a coil of rope at Wick’s belt. “When you cut the woman loose,” the big dwarf said, staring into his eyes, “the webbing might not support her climb back down. Her weight might even tear the web so much that you both fall. Throw a loop around one of those tree branches up there and use the rope to support her weight and yours. I want you back safe.”

  Wick swallowed hard. He hadn’t even thought of the weight problem. This is so stupid. I’m the last person that should volunteer to do something like this. I’m no hero. He gazed up again and met the woman’s violet-eyed gaze. She’s got less choice than I do. I can’t leave her there. He nodded to Cobner, not trusting his voice. Then he climbed.

  He covered the distance surprisingly quickly. Wick was amazed at how quiet the forest was around him. When he was twenty feet up, he was grateful that the web strands were sticky because it made his footing and handholds more secure in spite of the quaking fear that filled him. However, each time he pulled a hand or a foot free of the strands, the whole web vibrated.

  He drew level with the woman only a moment or two later. Her violet eyes searched his, but she said nothing. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat betrayed him and no sounds came out.

  “Don’t worry,” the woman told him. “You can do this.”

  Grimly, embarrassed that no heroic words of reassurance had come from his own lips after all the grand stories he’d read in Hralbomm’s Wing, Wick only nodded. He shook out the rope that Cobner had given him, then tossed it over a thick, sturdy branch above him. He tied it in one of the knots the pirates had taught him, then made sure it was fast by pulling on it. Satisfied, he looped the rope around his own waist in a support rigging.

  He turned his attention to the woman, trying desperately to forget how long the whole operation was taking and that the Purple Cloaks might burst upon them at any moment. She was elven. He saw that now from her slender build beneath the webbing, and from her pointed ears and features. And he wondered what an elven woman was doing out in the Forest of Fangs and Shadows.

  “Wick,” Brant called up.

  Shaken from the mystery the woman presented, Wick cut through the webbing with the small knife Cobner had given him. The strands parted easily. He freed the woman’s right hand first so that she could grip the rope.

  “I have it,” she told him.

  “Are you strong enough to hold yourself, lady?” Wick asked. He wondered only a moment at his address of her, but somehow—as it must have with Cobner—the address seemed correct.

  “Yes,” she replied confidently.

  Wick nodded, then cut away the rest of the webbing that bound her. The elven woman wore a warrior’s scarred leathers, the little librarian discovered when he had her free, and she climbed down the rope as easily as a monkey. Wick slid down jerkily behind her once she’d reached the ground.

  Standing on still-trembling legs, trying not to gasp in relief, the little librarian expertly shook out the rope, freeing the knot around the branch above. The rope fell down in coils around him with enough noise to make him jump in spite of himself.

  Cobner grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You did good work up there, little warrior.”

  There were so many responses Wick could have made that would have made the effort seem like a trifle, just another small diversion in an ordinary day. He’d read hundreds of them in the books in Hralbomm’s Wing. But all he could say was, “Thank you.”

  The elven woman approached Wick. “I would have your name, halfer.”

  “Wick,” the little librarian stuttered. “I mean, Edgewick Lamplighter.” He bowed, not as deeply as he’d hoped, though, because his wound pained him.

  The elven woman’s brows lifted, then she glanced at the other thieves surrounding her. When she looked back at Wick, she asked, “Do you know me somehow?”

  “No, lady,” the little librarian replied. “I’ve never seen you before today.” He felt nervous, wondering if he had done anything wrong.

  “Yet you offer me such respect.” The violet eyes glittered.

  “It—” Wick stammered, “it seemed only natural. Somehow.”

  After a moment, the elven woman nodded.

  “Look,” Baldarn complained, “we need to get moving, Brant. We’ve still got Purple Cloaks tailing us.”

  “Purple Cloaks?” The elven woman glanced at Brant, somehow sensing that he was in charge of the impromptu rescue group. “You’ve run afoul of Fohmyn Mhout’s bully boys?”

  “A minor misunderstanding,” Brant assured her. “We’ve only lately come from Hanged Elf’s Point.”

  “Brant, is it?” the elven woman inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  Brant regarded the elven woman with his black eyes. “No on
e of consequence.”

  The elven warrior stepped toward the master thief fearlessly. Her stride challenged him. “No one of consequence?”

  “No.” Brant glanced around the forest. “Were I of a cruder nature, my lady, I’d be tempted to ask you what you were doing in such a place all by yourself.”

  “Are you a suspicious man, then, Brant?”

  “By nature,” Brant replied evenly, “and by practice.”

  The elven warrior laughed then, and Wick marveled at her aplomb. How many people, he wondered, could come so close to being eaten, yet handle themselves so assuredly? The little librarian knew the dichotomy the woman offered would definitely pique Brant’s curiosity.

  “Suspicion is not a charming feature in a man,” the elven woman said.

  “Then again,” Brant replied mockingly, “there is so much of the man yet to know and the suspicion is such a small part.”

  Cobner and the dwarves laughed at Brant’s quick turn of words.

  A hint of color touched the elven warrior’s cheeks. She nodded. “Another time, perhaps, and we could find out who is the better conversationalist.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Brant said. “Would it be uncouth of me to ask your name? You already have the use of mine.”

  Nervously, Wick glanced along the ridge above. How far behind them were the Purple Cloaks now? They’d spent several precious moments of their lead in the forest.

  “I am Tseralyn,” the elven woman replied, drawing herself up a little straighter.

  “Tseralyn, you say?” Brant eyed the elven warrior with renewed interest. “I’ve heard tales of a mercenary queen roving these parts of late named Tseralyn. She’s supposed to be near to ten feet tall from the stories, as quick with a blade as Saraymon Hitalh, who reportedly refined bladesmanship for the elves.”

  “A coincidence of names,” Tseralyn said, holding her arms demurely at her sides. “As you can see, I’m surely not ten feet tall.”

  “No,” Brant agreed easily. “But I’ve found that tales told in taverns are often exaggerated.” He glanced at the spiderweb now hanging a bit more loosely between the trees. “However, I’ve met few people who could endure what you’ve just gone through with quite the same self-control.”

  “I was scared at the time,” Tseralyn insisted. “You heard me screaming.” The admission, though, seemed to embarrass her greatly.

  “It’s your recovery time that amazes me, my lady.”

  Tseralyn gestured at the two halves of the spider. “But the danger is past now.”

  Wick knew that the danger from the spider was over, but the Purple Cloaks could even now be closing in. Still, he knew the trembling in his knees and his hands wasn’t just from the pursuit, but was partly from the climb up the web as well.

  “There is still the matter of the imminent arrival of the Purple Cloaks to consider,” Brant reminded. “We’ve got to take our leave.”

  “I find myself in your debt,” Tseralyn said. “I don’t like being in anyone’s debt.”

  Brant shook his head. “If I had been in the same dire straits, I’d like to think that you would do the same for me.” He took the reins for his horse from Cobner and stepped into the saddle.

  “I might not,” Tseralyn warned the master thief.

  Brant grinned at her. “I said I’d only like to think that, not hold you to it, my lady. And, perhaps, you may find yourself in a position to return the favor soon.” He glanced meaningfully around at the dark forest. “Unless you plan on staying here.”

  A small smile twisted the elven warrior’s face. “No. I don’t.”

  “Were you out here alone, lady?” Lago asked.

  Sadness filled the elven warrior’s face. “Not at first. Those that were with me are dead.”

  “Wick,” Brant said, “I’d like you to lend the lady the use of your horse if you would. You can ride double with Sonne.”

  The little librarian took his mount over to the elven warrior. “Lady,” he offered.

  Tseralyn took the reins without hesitation. “Thank you,” she told Wick. She stepped into the saddle easily and glanced at Brant. “I suppose you have a plan for evading the Purple Cloaks?”

  Brant nodded toward the plume of black smoke showing through the canopy of trees. “We’re going through the mountains.”

  “A pass?” Tseralyn handled her horse with definite skill.

  “No.” Brant guided his mount back toward the incline that led up into the foothills. “Through mine shafts made by the Iron Hammer Peaks dwarven clan.”

  “I thought they were a myth,” Tseralyn said.

  Brant glanced at her. “I’m surprised that you’ve heard of them.”

  Riding behind Sonne, clinging desperately to the saddle, Wick was surprised as well. Tseralyn didn’t look like a mercenary queen or a scholar.

  “It was probably only a tavern tale I was told at one time,” Tseralyn said. “And you know how those stories go.”

  “I don’t know,” Brant commented dryly. “You’d be surprised at how many of those old tales turn out to have some small speck of truth about them.”

  “Then, perhaps, we’ll have the opportunity to find out if the myth about the dragon has some truth in it as well.”

  “Only if we stay ahead of the Purple Cloaks,” Cobner growled.

  Conversation fell by the wayside, and the only sounds Wick heard were the deep breathing of the horses, the thudding hooves, and the loud rumble of the volcano.

  The volcano loomed high in the mountains, and the land quaked as it rumbled. Black smoke and cinders pooled at its mouth, belying the snow that covered it below the crown.

  Wick’s breath was almost taken away by the sight of the restless giant grumbling above the small band. Gray cinders landed in his eyes and made them water. The little librarian clung to the back of Sonne’s saddle and nearly panicked every time the horse shifted beneath them. Sitting on the back end of the horse, he’d discovered, made every move the animal made seem somehow much bigger and more sudden.

  “Rest the horses for a moment,” Brant commanded, stepping from the saddle atop a wide spot in the ridge through the foothills they followed. “Let’s find out for sure where we are.”

  Gratefully, certain he’d been crippled for sure this time by all the horseback riding, Wick slid from the horse, borrowing the stirrup Sonne took her foot from. She dropped lithely to the ground beside him.

  Tseralyn joined Brant. The elven warrior wore an extra traveling cloak Cobner had packed in his saddlebags.

  Wick drew his own traveling cloak more tightly about him. Despite the presence of the volcano overhead, cold air blew down from the high mountains, mixing with the occasional warm gust. Scraggly brush and trees clung to the volcano’s slope, but here and there the little librarian spotted edifices that had been made of cooled volcanic rock, proof that the volcano had erupted before, though it had obviously been hundreds or thousands of years ago. Glittering streams also showed in a dozen different places, proof that the snow on top of the volcano made its way back into the Forest of Fangs and Shadows.

  Brant sent Cobner above to investigate the pursuit of the Purple Cloaks, and sent Karick and Hamual ahead to scout for any entrances into the mountain.

  Baldarn studied the broken terrain with a grimace, then glanced at Wick, scowled, and spat contemptuously. “If there’s no entrance into any mines that lead through this mountain, the halfer has killed us all. These horses aren’t going to go much further.”

  “Maybe the Purple Cloaks are already afoot,” Lago said. “They pushed their animals hard to try to catch up with us.”

  Wick busied himself helping Sonne care for the horse they rode double on. Luckily, even together they didn’t weigh as much as some of the dwarves, or probably Hamual either.

  “The local people call the volcano the Broken Forge,” Tseralyn said. She glanced along their backtrail as well, and Wick had noticed her tendency to do that. “They say that the Old Ones once dwelt here an
d hammered out the different birds, fish, and animals that roam these lands. Then one day the Old Ones got into an argument over the creation of a new creature. The Old Ones supposedly fought for days and months over the design. In the end, the mystic forge they’d raised from the earth to make their creatures was shattered, never to be made whole again, and the incomplete creatures they’d labored on became the first of the trolls.”

  “Trolls are goblinkin,” Tyrnen stated, brushing down his own horse.

  “Only a lot uglier,” Zalnar added.

  “Orpho Kadar doesn’t believe that,” Tseralyn said. “No trolls are allowed into Hanged Elf’s Point at night. And the ones that have been caught have been kept locked up, tied in different poses till sunlight turns them to stone the next morning. I’m told that Orpho Kadar has quite a collection of them in gardens around his castle.”

  “A collection of trolls turned to stone?” Brant mused and shook his head.

  “In all kinds of poses,” Tseralyn said. “I’m told some of them are supposed to be quite amusing.”

  “There’s no accounting for some tastes.”

  Although Wick didn’t care much for trolls, the idea of having ones turned to stone on purpose then placed in gardens was horrifying.

  Cobner returned from the upper reaches of the volcano as a particularly nasty bit of rumbling nearly knocked the little band from their feet. “The Purple Cloaks have slowed some,” the big dwarf announced, “but they’re still behind us.”

  While Wick and the others digested that bit of news, and the little librarian felt even more pressure about the gamble he’d seemingly made with all their lives because Baldarn kept staring at him, Hamual returned.

  The young human smiled broadly. “I found a tunnel a short distance ahead. I only entered it for a moment and didn’t really travel deeply into it other than to make sure it was a deep one, but it’s definitely a major entrance.”

  “That doesn’t mean it goes all the way through,” Baldarn growled. “And even if it does, it could lead right to that dragon.”

  Brant flashed the surly dwarf a white grin. “Oh, and now the little artist’s stories have got you believing in dragons, do they, Baldarn?”