The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "That long?" Olivander said. "I expected you to demand to leave tonight."

  "My people need a few days to conclude their research."

  This was true, but he also had business of his own. He returned to the sub-basement to get to work. There, he began writing down the materiel they'd need for the venture—mounts, provisions, arms, clothing. That evening, when Cee and Lew came in from their search, he asked them to add whatever they needed as well.

  "A bow," Cee said. "Not one of those common-issue ones you give to your guards, either. The good shit you keep for yourselves. Compact but strong."

  "I didn't know you were an archer," Dante said.

  "I am when I don't want to let anyone get close enough to touch me."

  "Parchment," Lew said. "And all the things that make parchment useful."

  Dante noted it down, adding quills and the like. "And weapons?"

  "Do you expect me to...fight?"

  "Unless you prefer to die unarmed."

  "Something sharp?" the monk said. "A sword, maybe?"

  "Something," Dante wrote down, "sharp. We'll liven that up when they write your ballad."

  He added to his list throughout the next day, adding and subtracting as new considerations came to light. He wasn't used to this level of planning and foresight. For years, he and Blays had improvised their way from one disaster to the next. Which may have been why there was always another disaster. But there had been something invigorating about leaping into space knowing you'd find a place to land on the way down.

  Once he finished his list, he blotted the ink, shook off the sand, and stood, meaning to deliver it. When he turned, he crashed straight into a lurking figure. He cried out.

  Somburr winced. "Was this your doing?"

  "Don't you knock?" Dante said. "And was what my doing?"

  "Enlisting me on this mad voyage."

  Dante shuffled his papers, stalling. Somburr might be excellent at spycraft, but that may have been due to his fiendish paranoia. If he believed Dante was to blame for wrapping him up in this business, he might enact a long-burning revenge that Dante would never think to connect back to him. Yet if he implied he didn't want Somburr, that too could earn the man's ire.

  "It was Olivander's suggestion," he said. "He thought you'd be a significant asset in the field."

  "I see." Somburr stared. "Then I'll have to thank him instead."

  "You want to go to Weslee? Why?"

  "Because I know nothing about it."

  "I've never been swallowed alive by a whale, but I can be pretty sure I'd rather not see the inside of one's rectum."

  Somburr raised one brow. He was a small man, the type you might describe as elegant, and each of his motions, however small, was impossibly deliberate. "You met the Hanassans for answers yet you still know nothing about the place. How can you not be intrigued?"

  Dante didn't bother to ask how Somburr knew he'd seen the Hanassans. The man knew about the trip to Weslee even though he clearly hadn't been briefed by Olivander yet. Knowing things he wasn't supposed to was what he did.

  "Well, I'm glad you're enthusiastic. Let me know what you'll need for the trip."

  Somburr's brows flickered. "I'll manage my own needs, thank you."

  He turned on his heel and strode away. The basement was largely empty, and the smallest sounds echoed up and down the stone halls, yet as soon as Somburr exited the doorway, Dante couldn't hear a single scuff.

  The third day before their departure was absorbed by arguments with the Citadel's stablemaster, who insisted they didn't have any mounts capable of crossing the Woduns, and that even if they did, he couldn't risk such resources on a trip as speculative as theirs. Dante presented the case that the man worked for the Citadel, and that as Dante was the Citadel, he'd better get his damn horses. The man, as stubborn as one of his mules, eventually sent Dante to another stable across town where they supposedly bred animals fit for cold weather.

  Incredibly, this turned out to be true. The man there had bred stout, shaggy ponies that looked capable of prancing through a blizzard. After intense haggling, including making a promise to conduct at least 15% of the Citadel's next twelve months of quadruped-related business with the stables, Dante departed with the assurance that ten of the ponies would be delivered to him the next morning.

  Of course, they were late by a full day. But after surviving that scare, and what felt like far too much work in general, he, Lew, Cee, Somburr, ten ponies, and a half ton of gear and provisions assembled in the courtyard.

  "Don't put your lives on the line out there," Olivander advised. "No more than is intrinsically involved in the journey, at least. You're more valuable to this city than whatever it is you're seeking."

  "We'll be careful," Dante said, though that wasn't quite what Olivander had asked of him.

  The Citadel gates parted. The procession of ponies tramped into the square.

  On the long ride to Soll, Dante had time to catch up with what Cee and Lew had picked up about Weslee. More outlandish tales of the foreign land ensued. Dante had two favorites. The first was a story about a princess who yearned to escape her loveless marriage in Weslee and find refuge in Narashtovik. To cross the Woduns, she concealed herself inside a dead cow, was thusly swallowed whole by a kapper, and was eventually excreted on the western side, where she befriended a village and later found love in Narashtovik. His second-favorite was that the Wesleans who lived in the eastern Woduns (and thus on the west side of Weslee) lived in trees for fear the ground would swallow them while they slept.

  But there was as little useful info as ever. Dante combed his memories of their first trip, trying to remember if there had been an obvious pass through the range. As he did so, Somburr peppered him with questions about the Hanassans, Soll, and Ast. Somehow he'd heard about Dante's encounter with the king, too.

  "The rumor," Somburr said, glancing behind him to make sure the others weren't listening, "is that he lacked adequate proof to imprison you. He let you go out of the hope you'd do something dumb enough for him to lock you up for good."

  "I thought my freedom was granted a little too easily."

  "You should know this about giants: when one decides not to crush you, that's because he means to eat you instead."

  "You should consider writing a book," Dante said.

  Somburr was cryptic to the point of opacity, but he was interesting to have around, that much was certain. Olivander had been right to suggest him. Above all else, leadership seemed to be about recognizing a good idea when it was presented, no matter the context or your initial resistance to it.

  The plain slanted up. A bone-chilling wind swept from the mountains. The ponies' breath steamed like dragonsmoke. They entered the foothills. Each morning, the frost on the grass lingered longer.

  "How are we going to protect the ponies from the kappers?" Lew asked as they bedded down a half day's ride from Soll.

  "We'll feed the monsters something else," Dante said. "Why do you think I brought you along?"

  "It's a valid question," Cee said.

  "Then start thinking of answers."

  They looked unimpressed.

  "I'm not kidding," Dante said. "For better or worse, you're members of this team. I need you to start contributing on all fronts—not only your abilities, but your ideas. I'll need your help thinking our way through the Woduns. Doubly so once we get to Weslee."

  Lew wrinkled his brow. "But you do know how to stop the ponies from getting eaten, don't you?"

  "What if I don't?"

  "Then the kappers are going to be in for a very easy winter."

  "You could open a cave at ground level, then seal the ponies inside," Cee said. "Leave a hole in the wall for air."

  "Not bad," Dante said. "It's getting cold enough we should do that ourselves."

  "They're not supposed to like light, are they?" Lew pulled his blanket around his shoulders. "So we build fires. Summon lights and don't let them go out."

  Dante thought abou
t it. "Three of us can use the nether. We could sleep in shifts. But the kappers have proven they'll attack in broad daylight, too. It would be risky."

  "Well, I hope you've got better, because that's my one good idea."

  "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you contribute. Good ideas are more valuable than Vossen steel—and they often take just as many strokes to forge."

  On the approach to Soll, they had to lead the ponies around the stone staircase. As they rode across the clearing, a horn sounded in the village—presumably, they'd been mistaken for raiders—but the locals calmed down by the time they'd reached the edge of town. Several villagers had drifted out to see what odd circumstances had prompted a full train of visitors to show up in their backwater on the eve of winter.

  Vinsin exited one of the communal buildings and laughed. "You're back?"

  "Not for long," Dante said. "We need to see Ast Modell."

  The man rubbed his blunt nose, bobbing his head. "Should he be pleased?"

  "Oh, I doubt it."

  Vinsin grinned and wandered north into the woods. While they waited, they watered the ponies at the stream and bought a hot meal. They ate outside at the tables. Soon enough, Ast walked up alongside Vinsin, tall and grave.

  Dante stood and shook his hand. "Would you be up for playing tour guide again?"

  "To the mountains?" Ast said. "As far as I've heard, nothing new has come of the lights."

  "Not to them. Through them. To Weslee."

  Ast's head jerked. "Why do you want to go to Weslee?"

  "To learn what can't be found here."

  Ast glanced east to the ridges that ran from one side of the sky to the other, as white and foreboding as a full moon. "It can't be done."

  "It can't be done?" Dante said. "Or you won't do it?"

  "Even at the peak of summer, you're more likely to never be heard from again than to get to the other side."

  "We've brought three nethermancers. Two of whom have seats on the Council of Narashtovik."

  Ast frowned across their group. "Nether's no use against kappers. You saw that for yourself."

  "And what if I knew how to handle the beasts?" Dante said.

  "Caves won't work this time. Some stretches are solid glacier. And the kappers are no longer bound by night. They could come on us at any time." He stopped, as if that would end the discussion, but when Dante stayed quiet, waiting, Ast wrinkled his brow. "How do you propose to get us past them?"

  "How else?" Dante smiled, moved to his pony, and lifted a long bundle from its back. He swept away the cloth wrapper, revealing a blade carved from pure white bone. "With a sword of the gods."

  14

  He had known the water would be frosty, but as he ran into it, high-stepping over the waves, its cold ran so deep his muscles tightened like drawn bowstrings. He stopped, found his breathing, forced himself to relax. As he homed in on the woman in the waves, he shifted to a second form of breathing. Within moments, his skin seemed to glow with heat. He knew he wasn't as warm as he felt, but every bit would help.

  The arm flashed again. Just for a second. Then the woman was back under. But Blays had marked her. He charged into the waves. One rolled over his waist and nearly swept him from his feet. He ran through the lull. When the next one surged forward, he threw his arms forward and dived into the swell.

  The noises of the air went mute, replaced by a million swirling bubbles. He swam hard. Another wave passed and he came up for air, grabbing a quick glance around. No sign of the swimmer. He had a ways to go yet. It was shockingly, paralyzing cold. Even his little tricks of breathing wouldn't keep him going for long.

  Then he had nothing to do but go faster. He swam on. His clothes were much too heavy. Should have shed those, too. As soon as he made it past the breakers and into the still-potent open waves, he came to the surface and treaded water. Saltwater stung his eyes and dripped down the back of his throat, harsh and desiccating. He stripped off his tunic and kicked off his trousers. As he hung there, catching his breath, he scanned the roiling seas.

  And there was the hand, not twenty feet from him. With a flash of white, it disappeared.

  He thrashed toward it, keeping his head above water so he wouldn't lose the spot. Once he'd reached it—or what he thought was it; waves tossed and turned and slapped around; the sturdiest landmark he had was a ball of rust-colored kelp, and that too was swishing around in the currents—he bobbed from the water, filled his lungs with air, added a final gasp to his mouth, and went under.

  The burble of water. The churning of his arms and legs. Bubbles trickling past his cheeks and ears. He opened his eyes. He was just a few feet below the surface, but the cloud-diffused sunlight fought to penetrate the heaving seas and screens of bubbles. He kicked deeper, casting about for any glimpse of pale skin. With his breathing exercises, he'd trained himself to go without breath for a couple minutes even while fighting at full force, but that was in open air, not in a cold ocean fighting his every movement. Too soon, he had to resurface. He took three long breaths, held the fourth, and plunged back in.

  He swam straight down, turning in a spiral. Something brushed his leg. He shuddered and glanced up. Seaweed. He realigned himself head down, then cried out, gurgling. A pale body was suspended below him.

  He kicked down, snagged it by the armpit, swapped his feet for his head, and fought toward the surface. He broke through, surging up and sucking in a deep breath. He pulled the woman up, sinking down as he did so, waves smacking over his nose.

  She was hardly a woman. Late teens at best. And quite oddly—in defiance of all rhyme, reason, decorum, or desire to survive—she appeared to be entirely naked.

  And at least half dead. Blotched face, blue lips. He rolled on his back, holding her to his chest, and stroked toward shore. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, clacking like the finger-drums of the Clan of Red Sky. It was going to be a fun bit of business hauling the girl all the way back to the caves before he dropped dead of hypothermia.

  She spasmed and choked, spewing water into the air. She heaved for breath. With that first taste of air, she grabbed at his body and climbed up him, keeping his head from the water by pushing his under it.

  He kicked back up. He had plenty of size and strength on her, but she was in full-blown can't-breathe panic, and she clung to him like the buoy he wasn't. He went under again. Again, he wrestled his way back to the surface. She raked his chest, clawed his shoulder. Bright lines of pain scored his skin.

  "Knock it off!" he burbled.

  She screamed and pulled at him just as he was going for breath. The first half was air. The second was water. He dropped below the waves and filled his lungs with salt and wet. He kicked wildly, but she was holding him down, using him like a human raft. His sight tightened. Dimmed. Grayed.

  Blackness. But he could see different shades of black, vague arms of matter reaching for him, touching his nail-raked skin, merging with the blood floating from his body. A part of him wanted it and it reacted to his want like a hungry lover. He reached for it, and it responded.

  Cold lips pressed against his. His chest jerked. He felt so perfectly still, as if even his heart had gone quiet, and then his body stiffened like a plank and he coughed saltwater and he was lying on a gritty beach with a naked girl blowing air into his mouth. He gagged and jackknifed to a sitting position, drooling all over his chest, hacking and spitting. The brackish taste would not leave his mouth. The girl whacked him on the back. In sudden fury, he cocked his fist, coiled his muscles, and stopped. She wasn't attacking him. She was saving him.

  "What?" he wheezed.

  "You went under," she said.

  "I had help." He stopped and coughed some more. He was shivering and chattering. "Who are you?"

  "Hellen," she said, words chopped up by her clattering teeth. "Can you stand up? We have to get warm."

  He lurched to his feet. He wobbled and she grabbed his arm, exposing her small breasts. Despite his shock and pain and cold, he immediately f
elt supremely awkward. He averted his eyes and tottered toward the cliffs. His sodden smallclothes streamed water to the sand.

  "Where are you going?" she called.

  He didn't answer, just wobbled over to where he'd shed his cloak. He desperately wanted to throw it around his own shoulders, but he wrapped it around her instead.

  "Here." He snugged it tight. "L-let's go."

  His shoes were there, too, but he was too stiff to go for them. They staggered down the beach, leaning on each other. Gripping his upper arm, her fingers were as cold as stone before sunrise. He couldn't feel the sand grinding under his feet. She tripped and dropped to her knees and stayed there. Praying he wouldn't fall too, he hauled her back up.

  The caves were far down the beach. So far. It would be much easier to fall down and lie there. Hot defiance burned up his throat and down his spine. It wasn't time to die. They trudged on.

  As they neared the caves, his hands and ankles began to tingle; that was either very good or very bad. Beside the cliffs, a woman in a flapping cloak called out. She ran to them, goggling between the girl and Blays. Shadows flocked to her hands. A trickle of warmth seeped into his skin.

  She helped them inside. After the buffeting waves and deafening winds, the silence of the tunnels roared in his ears. His feet slapped the floor. Wan light lurched in his vision. They turned this way and that. He was deposited before a snapping fire. Towels rubbed him, chafing his skin. Someone pulled off his soaked shirt, his smallpants. He was too woozy to protest.

  Two more women arrived. One set her hands on his chest while the other tended to the girl. His teeth stopped beating against each other. He took an endless, shuddering breath.

  "What happened?" A woman crouched over him, red hair cut close to the scalp except for a strip running down the center of her head.

  He tipped his head toward the girl, who was wrapped in three blankets, juddering like a wet dog. "I think she fell in."

  "I did not," the girl said. "I was Betweening. Something must have gone wrong. This man pulled me out."

  "And in your gratitude, you attempted to kill me."