by Barb Hendee
“Cheâ, âha a-chadléag silédí?” said the dwarf, jutting his broad chin at Wynn, and then glanced expectantly at Chane.
Chane shook his head in confusion.
The young dwarf huffed his own frustration. He slapped his hands together, fingers flush, then tilted them and laid his cheek against them. All through this, Shade quietly crept closer, staring fixedly at the dwarf. With his eyes closed, the young dwarf made a show of snoring. Then he opened his eyes, pointed at Wynn, and repeated insistently, “Chadléag!”
Shade bolted off up the tunnel, but Chane had no time for her nonsense.
“Yes . . . sleep!” he replied. “She needs sleep! Where . . . where do I go?”
“Kre?” said the dwarf.
Chane set down his second pack. He walked two fingers across the floor, mimicking someone on their way, and then pointed in every direction. Finally, he held up his hands in mock futility.
“Chad-lay-ag?” he tried to repeat.
The young dwarf chuckled. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed to the tunnel roof.
Chane stared back in confusion. To make matters worse, somewhere behind him up the tunnel, Shade began barking.
The dwarf shook his head again. He walked his own fingers across the floor, and then up and up into the air in a steady rise. He slapped the floor, held up four fingers, and pointed upward again.
Chane finally understood, but it was not the best news. A place for Wynn to sleep was at least four levels up, possibly all the way to the tram level, if he had correctly counted the levels down.
Shade kept on with her noise.
“Be quiet!” Chane rasped, turning on one knee.
Shade snarled at him, pacing near the intersection. She then lunged partway down the tunnel, wheeled about, and rushed back to its end. She stood there rumbling before the side way’s exit.
“You are an idiot,” Chane whispered to himself, remembering how the dog had stared at the dwarf.
Shade already knew where to go. She had caught the young man’s memories as he tried to make his instructions understood.
Chane hooked Wynn’s legs and shoulders in his arms. The dwarf scooted forward, as if to help. Chane shook his head and rose up, towering over his happenstance guide. The young dwarf’s expression blanked in surprise at how easily he bore all that he carried.
“Thank you,” Chane said flatly with a nod.
The young dwarf acknowledged him silently in turn, and Chane hurried off, carrying Wynn.
Shade ducked into the mainway ahead of him, trotting too quickly. Then she suddenly stopped.
The instant Chane caught up, a twinge halted him as well—so quick it was but a feathery touch. Or rather it felt as if something should be there but was not, like stepping into an empty room that did not feel empty. Then it was gone.
Shade rumbled. Her sound broke and stuttered. The charcoal fur on her neck stood on end.
Chane held Wynn tighter against his chest. That presence, or lack of it . . . had it been there at all?
Shade fell silent and inched forward, swinging her lowered head side to side, and watching all ways with each step. Chane knew he was not the only one who had felt it. Something had been there, was not there but should have been, or . . .
He turned a full circle but felt nothing—truly nothing at all.
Chane had worn Welstiel’s ring of nothing for moons. As much as it hid his nature and inner self from all unnatural detection, it also dulled his awareness as a Noble Dead. Taking it off in Shade’s presence was not an option; she would instantly sense what he was. But was something near, something even Shade could not pinpoint?
Shade quieted and raised her head as if listening.
Wynn moaned in discomfort, and Chane took off down the mainway. Shade finally darted ahead to lead.
He had a long way to go, and hunger was beginning to weaken him. As they followed the wide turns to the upper levels, he walked as fast as he dared without breaking into a run. He was nearly to the top, or so he thought, when Wynn stirred in his arms and open her glazed eyes.
“Be still,” he said. “Shade is leading us to a place where you can rest.”
“I’m so sick,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She groaned when he shifted his arms; then her eyes widened. “My pack . . . where . . . do you have it?”
Chane halted on the sloping turn. He had not even thought about it; he had thought only of the staff. And now, he could not remember her pack in the passage when he had knelt next to her.
Then he did remember. Wynn had dropped her pack inside the smithy.
She struggled in his arms. “Put me down. Everything . . . my notes . . . elven quill . . . translations . . . someone will find them!”
Chane cursed under his breath—another oblivious stupidity on his part. For an instant, he considered abandoning the pack, but he could not. Wynn was right on every count. Her journals held recent notes of folklore research on undead, of their encounters with the wraith and pieces from the ancient texts . . . and the partial translation from his scroll.
It was all in her pack.
He had to get to it quickly before anyone stumbled upon it, digging inside to figure out where it had come from or to whom it belonged. Or worse, walked off with it, not even knowing what they had.
Chane trotted past Shade around the turn, entering one of the end caverns of a mainway tunnel. He spotted the first shop down the way with a thick stone archway, and he caught a hint of sea salt in the air. They had reached the uppermost level, though he had not noticed. Chane hurried over and set Wynn inside the door’s shadowed archway.
“Shade will stay with you. I can go faster alone. Rest here and stay out of sight.”
Wynn bit her lower lip, her sallow face scrunched in a grimace.
“I ruined our only real lead!” she whispered.
There was plenty of blame to share for this fouled exploit, but Chane had no time to console her. Wynn’s head rolled back, and he feared she would be sick again, but she just leaned against the archway’s cold stone.
“Shade!” Chane rasped, and pointed to Wynn. “Stay.”
Shade wrinkled a jowl at him. The order was unnecessary, as the dog had never willingly left Wynn’s side. Halfway to the end cavern and downward passage, Chane stopped one last time, gazing at Wynn’s pretty face—so miserable.
As Chane backed away, Shade drew in next to Wynn. He turned and jogged back into the depths, his own emotions a puzzle to him.
For so long, he had tortured himself with visions of Wynn the sage, the perfect and pure scholar—the one he could never have. In his mind, she was always in clean gray robes, her brown hair tucked back, a parchment before her, a glowing cold lamp and a mug of mint tea nearby. Always studious, intellectual, inquisitive, she was so far above the human cattle of the world.
Yet this night, she had entertained a mass of common dwarves, performing for them—something he could not possibly have imagined. Now drunk, her own vomit staining her hands, she slumped in a doorway, bemoaning her mistakes.
This Wynn was nothing like the one in Chane’s mind. Yet, he was driven to care for her, to protect her, even more than the one of his fantasies. He hated leaving her alone, but he kept hearing her words concerning all that was in her pack.
Someone will find them.
Chane rushed into a cavern where the downward-curving tunnel ended. He ran past the greeting house, counting off northbound passages until the fifth. He slowed near its mouth, looking inward. A full red glow spilled into the passage where the smithy was positioned.
Sliver must have waited until her unwanted guests departed and then reopened the door.
Chane did not have time to ponder why. The open door could be lucky or unlucky, depending upon the exact spot where Wynn had dropped her pack. Slipping along the wall, he drew as close as he dared without being seen by anyone inside. He leaned around the door frame enough to peek at the floor inside—and spott
ed no sign of the pack.
Ducking low, he shot across to the door’s other side and peered in again.
To Chane’s relief, there was the pack, just inside the door’s left atop a stack of folded canvas. It blended so well in the low red light that anyone might have overlooked it. Dropping to his hands and knees, he reached in and then spotted Sliver.
Chane pulled back quickly.
Sliver stood leaning against a table with one hand covering her mouth. Embers in the open forge were waning, and it was hard to make out her face. Another movement at the workshop’s rear caught Chane’s attention.
A door opened in the workshop’s back wall.
Sliver looked up, turning her back to Chane. An old dwarven woman with wild white hair and a long, dull blue woolen robe stepped out of some well-lit back room. Sliver hunched her shoulders as she spit out a curt string of Dwarvish.
The old woman stepped closer, and her wrinkled face twisted into desperation. She gripped a table’s edge and uttered a reply so pained that Chane was riveted, wishing he understood the words.
Sliver scoffed and turned away from the old woman. Perhaps it was to hide the sudden doubt that crossed her face.
A domestic dispute was clearly in play. Chane wondered, considering it came so close behind their visit, if the two events were connected.
The old woman’s next utterance was sharp if not loud, and Sliver straightened. So did Chane at the sound of one word—say-gee.
Could that word have been “sage,” garbled by the old one’s accent?
Sliver turned angrily to face her elder, her back to the outer door.
Chane took the opportunity and reached in for Wynn’s pack.
Sau’ilahk hung motionless at the intersection as Chane scurried across the smithy’s doorway. He had tried to follow all three of his quarry, but the cursed dog had picked up his presence. On some level, Chane had seemed to “feel” him as well. Sau’ilahk had been forced to slip into dormancy, vanishing quickly from either’s awareness.
He waited in that pure darkness as long as he dared, then awakened once more in the same dark spot inside Limestone Mainway’s end chamber. At the sound of footsteps in the upward-bound tunnel, he followed and watched as Chane hid Wynn in a doorway and turned back.
Sau’ilahk was pleased, even as he blinked away once more to let Chane pass by. He now had the chance to pull closer, to see and hear what Chane sought in this dingy, forgotten smithy. He focused on a point farther down the side tunnel, slipped into dormancy, and reappeared at that place.
Beyond the smith shop, Sau’ilahk listened to two female voices arguing within. Dwarvish was one of many tongues he had picked up over the centuries. He ignored Chane and focused on their words.
“Go back inside the house, Mother,” said the first, low and bitter.
The other cried out in an age-broken voice. “If the shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge assisted the sage, there is good reason she seeks Meâkesa . . . and you sent her away! Why did you not help her to find your brother?”
Sau’ilahk knew from his servitor eavesdropping on Wynn that these people must be High-Tower’s family. “Meâkesa” translated as “Ore-colored Hair.” Wynn sought the Stonewalkers through a link between them and a son of the Iron-Braid family—High-Tower’s brother.
“Why should I help her?” the first voice returned. “He abandoned us long ago . . . as did Chlâyard! Neither of them even returned when Father fell ill. Tell me, Mother, how should I have helped? We do not even know where he is!”
“It is a sign,” the creaking voice wailed. “The coming of a human sage is a sign. Do you not see? We are to be rejoined with Meâkesa. Help her!”
The smithy fell silent, and Sau’ilahk saw Chane stealthily reach inside the open door. An instant later, he pulled back, holding a faded canvas pack.
This was what he came for—a forgotten pack?
Sau’ilahk mulled over the conversation.
Wynn had come all the way down here and been sent away. She had been seeking a connection to the Stonewalkers, but it seemed she had gained no lead. But that connection was here, waiting, and only an old woman seemed to care that it was fulfilled.
Sau’ilahk had little knowledge of these Stonewalkers—little more than rumors of the sect from centuries ago. At the least, they were hidden guardians of the dwarven dead. He had never had a reason to learn more.
In Calm Seatt, he had searched the guild grounds for many nights. Rumors passed on by his informants had called him to the king’s city of Malourné after Wynn’s return. But other than translation folios sent to scribe shops, he found neither trace nor hint of where the original texts were hidden. If the Stonewalkers knew their location, as Wynn seemed to suspect . . .
Then why had some cult of the dead become involved with the texts?
Sau’ilahk grew impatient with the inept sage. Wynn should be gaining information much faster! All the trouble she had caused him so far left him seething and indignant in even allowing her to live.
Chane rose, his attention no longer absorbed by his task, and then he froze. He turned about, staring deeper down the side passage. His hand dropped to his sword’s hilt.
Sau’ilahk could have hissed in rage—he had been sensed! Anger turned to alarm as Chane stepped slowly in his direction. He had no fear of this man who was there and not there, but this one had survived his touch, an anomaly not to be taken lightly.
Sau’ilahk backed into—through—the tunnel’s stone wall.
He lost sight of everything and twisted about—what he thought was about—hoping there was no other space behind him. He remained immersed, blinded and deafened by solid stone. But how long should he wait before Chane gave up?
Yes, Wynn was waiting, and Sau’ilahk ticked off in his mind what Chane might do.
Perhaps traverse no more than a few doorways down the tunnel. Then urgency would take him back the other way. Sau’ilahk waited even longer, and then slipped forward through stone.
As pure black broke before him into the faint red light in the passage, Sau’ilahk peered up the tunnel toward the mainway.
There was Chane, rushing away as fast as silence allowed.
Sau’ilahk stewed in envy.
Tall, pale, and handsome, yet some strange form of undead, Chane would look that way forever. Waves of jealousy grew into spite at Beloved’s betrayal. Once, Chane would have been a meaningless shadow compared to Sau’ilahk’s great beauty . . . so long ago.
Sau’ilahk hung there in self-pity.
If Wynn did not locate the Stonewalkers or draw them out, perhaps he would have to do it for her. There was only one way. But for this, he needed strength—he needed life to feed upon. Not a local, a dwarf, but a foreigner, some visiting human not quickly missed.
Sau’ilahk drifted along the twisting back ways of the dwarven underlevels.
The light of crystals grew sparse and excavation was not so smooth or painstaking. Places where the walls were jagged with small hollows and depressions offered shadows for him to meld into without arcane effort. He calmed, letting his presence sink into sensual awareness, searching for human life.
And he sensed one, not far off.
Sau’ilahk turned into a southbound tunnel that might even hook back toward the far-off mainway. The distance between smaller crystals in wall brackets decreased. He prepared to wink out into dormancy if needed. He could not be seen, not clearly noticed, or word of a strange dark figure might accidentally reach Wynn.
To his delight, footfalls drifted toward him from around another turn.
Sau’ilahk peered around the gradual corner and saw a lone human—a bearded man of dark skin with a curved sword in a fabric wrap belt. It was one of his own kind, or at least a descendant of such people from his lost living days. He pulled back, waiting until the man took the turn in the tunnel.
Even the approach of a victim—living in flesh—taunted him.
Long ago, he had been first among the Reverent, favorite of Beloved�
��before the Children came. His mere visage among the hordes and followers had inspired awe. Now he was nothing but a shadow of black robe, cloak, and hood. Not true flesh, and only by the act of feeding could he gain enough strength to take physical action. He did not even have the grace of a true ghost, to pass unseen if he wished.
All because of the bargain he had struck, once the Children first appeared.
All because of Beloved’s coy consent, twisting Sau’ilahk’s plea.
The bearded Suman rounded the corner. Jarred from misery, Sau’ilahk lashed out.
His black cloth-wrapped fingers passed down through the man’s face. The Suman’s skin paled slightly along those fingers’ path. And quick as the stroke was, the man never cried out. He shuddered, his breath caught, and his hand reaching for the sword only convulsed in spasms, until . . .
Sau’ilahk’s hand slid down through the man’s throat and sank into his chest near his heart, draining his life away.
The Suman dropped hard onto his knees and toppled over. He lay there, face frozen in shock, with mouth agape, and Sau’ilahk’s immaterial hand embedded in his chest.
Shots of gray spread through the Suman’s dark curls and beard, until cloth-wrapped fingers withdrew, leaving no physical wound.
Sau’ilahk’s weakness faded beneath the consumed life, and he could not afford to waste any of it in destroying the corpse. He might require even more life for what he needed to accomplish. He threaded a mere fragment of his gained energies into one hand, turning it corporeal, and dragged the body along the passage to a nearby shadowed depression.
Then he sank into dormancy to fully absorb his meal.
But as he dissipated into darkness, his last thoughts were of Wynn. If the bungling sage could not find the Hassäg’kreigi, the Stonewalkers, then he would have to draw them into plain sight. And the Stonewalkers emerged for only one reason.
Sau’ilahk had to kill a thänæ.
CHAPTER 6
Misery dragged Wynn toward consciousness. Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes.
She lay on a rock-hard bed in a strange room, still fully dressed, but she had no strength to wonder why or where she was. Rolling over was torture, and she came face-to-face with Shade’s snoring muzzle.