Through Stone and Sea ndst-2

by Barb Hendee

  Chane grew still and attentive. He had heard only scant bits of Wynn's journey, and little to nothing of her time up in the Pock Peaks. He knew what had become of those two elves, for he had seen the bodies. But he had not known they had come so close to Wynn.

  A low rumble passed briefly through the crowd. Chane's ire rose for an instant, until he looked at their faces.

  The mention of elves as assassins seemed to startle them into disbelief. But distaste came quickly, as if they accepted Wynn's accounting. Even the fanciful notion that such a caste might exist did not sit well with the dwarves. Chane remembered Wynn's earlier warning to keep all weapons in plain sight as an issue of honor and virtue.

  "Until then, we didn't know these eastern elves sought the treasure as well. Chap is fierce, as Hammer-Stag has said, but he would be hard-pressed against such trained assassins. They moved like a sudden night breeze, wielding stilettos as if born with them. I'm ashamed to say I faltered in fear."

  She paused once more at Hammer-Stag's table, this time reaching for a closer mug, but Hammer-Stag quickly covered the mug with his hand.

  Wynn's face drained of all color at his denial, but Chane was relieved. She had finally failed in her challenge.

  "Perhaps another mug would be better," Hammer-Stag said quietly, and then his face flushed with anger as he glared at the mug's bleary-eyed owner.

  That ragged-looking male with ruddy features blinked in confusion. Horrified realization took him, and he quickly pulled his mug away.

  Chane was baffled. For such stout and hardy people, he wondered at any dwarf being so drunk.

  Wynn recovered. Exchanging respectful nods with Hammer-Stag, she grabbed another mug and took a drink. And Chane realized what had happened.

  That one drunken dwarf had been swilling wood alcohol—which would have killed Wynn if Hammer-Stag had not intervened. Chane's discomfort grew, not only for Wynn's safely, but because she was doing better than he expected.

  "But as those murdering elves began their ascent," Wynn continued, "a black shadow passed overhead." She raised one arm, draping her robe's sleeve below her eyes. "When I looked up, I barely made out the transparent ghost of a raven as it dived down through the chute."

  She jabbed her other hand through the sleeve, the fabric whipping aside as her fingers shot out at a nearby table. One young male stiffened sharply in startlement, almost dropping his tankard.

  "That black ghost rammed straight through the first Anmaglâhk!"

  More dwarves sat upright in their seats.

  "He grabbed his chest in pain, but something more pulled my eyes skyward. A hint of white flashed by, running down the chute's wall. It went straight at the elves, and the second one vanished from the chute's mouth as it came. That white form was gone, and the first elf slumped against the stone wall.

  "Chap raced after them, for in protecting me, his heart would never turn him from a fight. I rushed after him but stopped at the chute's bottom when I saw the one fallen Anmaglâhk. The elf's ribs protruded around a gaping hole in his chest … where his heart had been torn from his body."

  Wynn raised her hand, closed in a partial fist like a claw, as if gripping that heart. She turned, walking slowly around the platform. All the dwarves watched in silence.

  "Then I heard the snarls and screaming," she whispered. "I rushed on after Chap to a sight I still cannot push from memory. The other elf lay dead in the snow, his head torn from the gushing stump of his neck … and standing over him was a naked white woman.

  "She was so deceptively frail in build, but with fangs and clear crystal eyes. Her hair shimmered black as night, its tendrils writhing in the snow-laced breeze. She was undead, a vampire, but centuries old. And she had torn apart two of the Anmaglâhk like gutted fish."

  Wynn paused near another table and locked eyes on a young wide-eyed dwarven couple.

  "I could barely breathe," she whispered, "as I stared at her."

  This time she did not hesitate and took another long drink. Her brown eyes glittered as she twirled back around to the platform's center.

  "To my despair, Chap charged. So fierce was he that he held the white woman in combat for a while. But finally she threw him against the cliff side, and he fell limp in the snow. She turned her eyes on me … and I ran!

  "I barely made the chute's mouth before she was on me. She grabbed my throat and slammed me against the sheer stone as I cried out."

  Wynn paused so long that Chane thought someone might speak.

  "She released me … and cringed away against the chute's far wall."

  Hammer-Stag leaned forward, neither smiling nor scowling, his eyes locked on Wynn.

  "She stared at me with those colorless eyes. Even through terror that froze my body more than cold, my thoughts were racing. I had cried out for her to stop … and the sound of my words, not my voice, had caused this. I spoke again."

  Wynn glanced toward Chane.

  "She had been locked away in those white mountains, alone for hundreds upon hundreds of years … so long that she'd forgotten the very sound of speech. Upon hearing words once more, so vaguely remembered, like a home lost so long she had forgotten even the hope of it … she did not kill me.

  "Instead, she grabbed me and raced through the mountains. She carried me to a six-towered castle trapped upon a great snow plain, the very place my companions and I had been searching for. She was the guardian of the treasure we sought.

  "Even wounded, Chap came for me, and finally closed upon us once we reached the castle doors. I spoke to the white woman again. She did not understand me but held off from tearing me apart as she had the elves … only because of the sound of my words and that I spoke to her.

  "She was mad, driven insane by isolation. She led Chap and me inside her castle, the first to enter it in … well, who knows how long. All because I kept speaking to her, and she listened."

  Wynn turned a full circle, her hands held open.

  "She was destined to destroy all who came near the treasure, but I alone gained her secrets. Though helpless, I was strong enough of heart and wise enough to best her. Not by ax or sword or feats of might, but by my voice, my words … my telling … given in charity to her."

  Wynn fell silent, pulled her robe and cloak closed around herself, and bowed her head.

  Chane stood rooted to the floor.

  He had never seen this side of Wynn. Her sense of drama, of the moment, was surprising if not perfect. It took several breaths for others to realize she had finished, and then the rumble began. One dwarf shouted out in Numanese, "No, that cannot be the end! What happened after? Did you find the treasure?"

  Wynn raised her head with the hint of a smile.

  "That is another story … another telling … for another time." She turned her large brown eyes upon Hammer-Stag, adding, "And for some other fair trade."

  At first, Hammer-Stag simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he slowly shook his head. He began rumbling with laughter, and suddenly he slapped the table, making the nearest mugs jump and shudder.

  "By the Eternals, fair trade indeed! You will sit with me, little one!"

  Wynn's gaze wandered to Chane.

  He could not help wondering if the dwarves believed a single word of her tale. Elven assassins and ancient white undeads? But it did not seem to matter. Several raised their mugs high as she joined Hammer-Stag and took a seat. Shade trotted after her, and Chane reluctantly followed, settling beside her at the table.

  Another dwarf remained sitting with Hammer-Stag, younger and wearing a cleanly oiled leather hauberk. His mass of brown hair was pulled back with a leather thong, and his slightly darker beard was trimmed and groomed. He observed Wynn, but did not speak.

  Hammer-Stag gestured to his companion.

  "My kinsman, Carrow," he said simply. He gathered a pitcher and mugs from the table, shoving one down to Chane.

  Chane did not touch it. Then Hammer-Stag slapped a hand over his heart.

  "I am F
iáh'our," he claimed, as if only the sound of his name was needed for anyone to recognize him.

  "Hammer-Stag?" Wynn interjected.

  He pondered her translation. "Yes!" he agreed. "Hammer-Stag of the family of Loam, Meerschaum clan of the Tumbling-Ridge tribe. And who are you, girl, and your young man?"

  "He is not my …" Wynn began through clenched teeth, and then fidgeted. "My name is Wynn Hygeorht, of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. This is Chane Andraso, a scholar I met in the Farlands, a region of the eastern continent."

  Chane frowned. Her words were now slurring, and her eyes appeared overly bright. Amid the tale, he had lost track of how much ale she had sampled.

  "I see," said Hammer-Stag, raising thick eyebrows. He glanced down at Shade, who flattened her ears but did not growl. "A fine tale," he went on. "And well told."

  "So, why is a thänæ telling tales in this poor neighborhood, in the middle of the night?" Wynn blurted out.

  Chane's eyes widened, as did Carrow's, but Hammer-Stag did not appear insulted.

  "Tales must be told … a telling is the way … most especially if one is honored among the living," he said. "How else will they be retold, molded over years by the many, and hopefully stand the test of time? That is the only way to become one of the honored dead, to be reborn among the people. So was it with all of the Eternals, whose tales belong to all of the people, no matter where they live."

  Chane frowned. Wynn had mentioned that the dwarves believed their "saints" lived on in this world, watching over them. To claim that their Eternals—their patron saints—still lived seemed strange.

  Hammer-Stag waved his hand, brushing off Wynn's question. "Now, what is it you wish to learn from me?"

  Wynn had made that clear from the start, and Chane said, "The location of the Iron-Braid family."

  Carrow winced visibly at that family name.

  "Ah, yes." Hammer-Stag's expression turned thoughtful, almost sad. "Continue down Limestone Mainway, and turn in at the fifth tunnel to the north. You'll find a smithy a short way down; you cannot miss it. But only two Iron-Braids remain among us—Skirra Yêarclág Jäyne a'Duwânláh, the daughter, and her mother, Meránge."

  The long dwarven title jumbled in Chane's head, but he knew from Wynn that Yêarclág meant "Iron-Braid," based on some respected ancestor in their direct family line.

  Wynn tettered on the bench. "Why are … you … sad … when you speak of them?"

  Her speech slurred and faltered more and more.

  "The fifth side street on the right," Hammer-Stag repeated softly, glancing at Carrow in apparent concern.

  "And what of my … com … panions?" Wynn said, struggling to pronounce the words, and her eyes turned glassy with threatening tears. "Magiere and Leesil … Chap. … where are they?"

  Hammer-Stag shook his head. "I do not know, Wynn of the Hygeorhts. After they aided me in my own audacity, I asked about their journey. But they preferred to keep to themselves. They headed north, perhaps to one of the Northlander coastal towns."

  Chane watched a tear roll down Wynn's cheek as she closed her eyes. She looked broken, as if something she sought, desperately needed, had turned into only a figment. She was drunk, and he feared she might crumple onto the table.

  Wynn looked up at Hammer-Stag, and Chane saw desperation in her face.

  "But they are alive?" she whispered.

  Hammer-Stag leaned in upon her with a toothy grin. "There is slyness in those three. And yes, O mighty little one, I would barter my honor that they are still alive!"

  Chane rose up. "We thank you for your assistance."

  "A little thing," Hammer-Stag said absently, and then laughed, poking Wynn in the shoulder. "And I had the better of the barter!"

  Under that one-fingered push, Wynn nearly toppled over. Hammer-Stag quickly grabbed her before Chane could, and studied Wynn with something akin to affection.

  "The ale could not be helped—it is part of the telling," he said. "You gave us much enjoyment tonight. A dark tale it was, but a fresh one we have never heard!"

  "Dark?" she whispered. "Not compared to others I know."

  That was enough for Chane. He grabbed Wynn under the arms and hoisted her up. She struggled until he breathed in her ear, "Let us go … and find the Iron-Braids."

  What he intended was to take her straight to find lodging, but first he had to get her out the door.

  "Yes, to the Iron-Braids!" she said loudly, struggling to stand on her own. She looked down at Hammer-Stag. "Good-bye, thänæ … and thank you."

  Before the parting dragged on, Chane turned her toward the exit, and Shade followed after. But as he steered Wynn between the tables, her story would not leave his thoughts… .

  Or rather, Chane could not stop picturing her upon the platform, pretending to clutch the heart of an Anmaglâhk.

  Chapter 5

  Wynn sucked air, trying to clear her head of pipe smoke as she stumbled from the greeting house. That was why she felt dizzy and nauseous. She wasn't drunk—not on a few gulps of ale.

  Limestone Mainway was a dim and hazy umber in her sight. Chane still gripped her arm, and she pulled away, instantly unsteady under her feet.

  "Five tunnels down … on the right," she mumbled.

  Shade pricked up her ears with a whine.

  "No, we go to an inn," Chane stated flatly.

  "I'm fine … now come on."

  "You need to sleep this off."

  Wynn flushed indignantly. "Sleep what off?"

  Who did he think he was? He wouldn't even be here if not for her, and now he was acting like … like High-Tower—sanctimonious, overbearing, and stuffy.

  "I'm fine," she repeated. "I just need some fresh air."

  "Where would we find that, this far underground?" he rasped back. "I grew up among nobles who started drinking as soon as the sun set. I know someone drunk when I hear them!"

  A pair of dwarves in laborers' attire stepped from the greeting house and glanced at the two humans arguing in the empty mainway.

  "We are going to an inn," Chane whispered.

  "No! To the Iron-Braids … now!"

  Wynn spun about—and all the tunnel's columns suddenly leaned hard to the right. Great crystals steaming on pylons blurred before her eyes. But no one was ever again going to order her about. Not even Chane … especially not Chane.

  "It is late," he said behind her, and then paused. "But we will locate their smithy, so we know where it is. Then return tomorrow evening at an appropriate time."

  Even through Wynn's haze—from smoke and glaring crystals, not ale—this made sense. So how could she argue if he was right? She hated that. Rational counters were another ploy her superiors had used to manipulate her.

  Wynn found herself leaning with the columns, until she accidentally sidled into one. She braced a hand on its gritty stone until the columns straightened.

  "Very well," she finally agreed.

  Shade huffed, and Wynn found the dog peering around her side.

  "Don't you start," she warned, and headed off.

  Her boot toe snagged in her robe.

  She teetered for an instant and righted herself in a few tangled steps. She wasn't going to give Chane's accusation any credence. She wasn't drunk, damn him. It was just the greeting house's stinky air.

  Shade padded beside her, intermittently whining and huffing. Chane caught up on her other side. Why was he so tall? He towered over everyone here among the dwarves. That too annoyed her.

  They passed varied closed shops so worn and nondescript she couldn't even tell what they were.

  "You never told me that story," Chane said, catching her off guard.

  "What … what story?"

  "About the white woman—the one you call Li'kän. I did not know that you had kept her from killing you by the power of words."

  Wynn peered up at him and almost tripped again. His pale features were drawn and pensive.

  "Oh … that." She hesitated. "I didn't figure e
verything out by myself."

  "I assumed as much," he answered.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing," he returned quickly. "It seemed too brief and simple—but necessary for a tale. I see that."

  "Chap figured it out," she admitted. "I helped once he understood what we should do … embellishment is part of dwarven ‘telling.' The teller has to be the hero. Facts wouldn't have gained fair trade."

  "You did well," he said. "Very well. I had no idea you could give such a performance."

  Wynn flushed, surprised by the effect of his praise.

  "I thought they would jeer you off the floor in three or four phrases," he went on.

  She stopped in her tracks. "You thought what?"

  Chane's expression went blank. "I only meant—"

  Wynn hissed at him, mocking his voice, and trudged onward. Jeered off the floor? Indeed! Was that what he thought of her? She lost count of the tunnels, and spun about to check again.

  "Five!" she said tartly, and turned back to the last one they'd passed. "Let's find the smithy."

  Then her stomach rolled. Or the stone beneath her seemed to do so. An acrid taste coated her tongue.

  Chane's mouth tightened, as if he were still puzzled by her offense—the dolt.

  Just as Hammer-Stag had said, they couldn't have missed the smithy. Of the few establishments or residences cut into the dark path's stone, it was the only one still aglow. With its old door shoved inward, warm red-orange light flickered upon the tunnel's floor and opposite wall.

  "It's still open?" Wynn said in surprise.

  "Not likely," Chane answered. "It is well past the mid of night … unless …"

  Wynn didn't need him to finish. How long had they lingered in the greeting house? Was dawn already near?