by Regina Watts
Brushing a few blonde locks behind her elfin ears, Cloyenda stepped into the hall with her arms folded over her robe. She left the door unlatched but closed it nearly all the way. From her periphery, she caught a glimpse of me and turned to face me, her breath almost hitching, her eyes certainly wider. Her mouth opened but, before she could speak, my guide pressed a fingertip her lips and shook her head. Glancing between us, the elf then looked with reluctance at the door to her room. My guide slid her hand into Cloyenda’s and led her away, the elf going without argument but with a few more furtive studies of my admittedly looming person.
Alone in the hall, I gripped Strife in its scabbard and approached the open door.
Luckily, if Grimalkin could discern a shift in the footsteps of the woman he was with, he did not stop to think why that might have been the case.
“There you are,” he groused, sitting on the edge of the tangled bed while beard-deep in a mug of some ale that was no doubt sixteen times the price one could expect to pay at a more straightforward establishment. “Now, what the hell was all that about?” Not very professional.”
“You’re a fine one to speak of professionalism,” I told him. As his back and shoulders sharply tensed (somewhat difficult to discern beneath the coating of red hair almost comically dispersed over the dwarf’s back), I shut the door behind me. “When most do not feel they are being paid enough by their employers, Grimalkin, they lodge a personal complaint or find a new job. They don’t betray them at the very task that they were hired for.”
“So you came for your money? That’s just fine…I’ve plenty here, it’s no trouble to give you what you’re owed.”
“Don’t play games with me, Grimalkin.” While I spoke, he set the mug upon the nightstand. All the time, Grimalkin was still facing the wall. I took a step toward him and found the room so small that a mere four strides would find me at the foot of the bed. “I came for the Scepter, and I won’t leave you to your own devices until it’s in my hand.”
“Then you’d best be looking elsewhere,” the dwarf told me, slowly rising from the edge of the bed and stooping to pull his trousers up. “I don’t have the bloody thing.”
I completed my approach. “Lying again, Grimalkin? Don’t you think I deserve better than that after you left me for—”
His motions were quick, but the act of pulling the axe from under the bed was too involved for him to arm himself and face me before Strife was in my hand. The sword’s blade rang sharply against the axe: the power of dwarven steel was a reasonable match against the enchanted metal of Strife. Both weapons bounced sharply apart and Grimalkin, owing to his stature, backpedaled a few steps and slammed into the nightstand. The mug’s contents upended over him, leaving the surly dwarf sputtering with outrage. He took a wild swing with the axe and missed—but, stepping back as I was, I unfortunately gave Grimalkin room enough to leap upon the bed and spring off from the other side.
The chase was on. I was surprised to find the dwarf so fast, considering how short his legs were But, between the encumbering weight of my armor and his desperation to escape retribution, Grimalkin might as well have been a racehorse. He tore through the hall and leapt down the stairs while I trundled along behind him, human height soon to prove a disadvantage in more ways than one.
Rather than taking the anticipated route through the alley entrance I had used, Grimalkin made a sharp left and cut through the parlor.
While women shrieked and scattered like birds, the dwarf led with his axe and used his speed to propel the blade straight through the single window of the room. The old glass shattered so thoroughly that few shards remained. After briskly clearing the pane with the blade of his weapon, Grimalkin launched through the opening and out upon the street.
Gritting my teeth, clearly unable to fit through the window, I looked wildly about to find my way through the hallways to the tavern entrance.
“Hojotoho! Hojotoho!”
The warrior’s call, raised in a woman’s voice, caught my attention. I lumbered in its direction and recognized the prostitute who had guided me up to Grimalkin’s room and was now vigorously indicating, “This way, Burningsoul!”
I dashed down the hall toward the sound of her voice. Two rooms from the parlor, she held the kitchen door for me. My heart throbbed with such relief to see this exit that I would not realize I had not given this strange woman my surname until much later.
Just then, I had no room in my consciousness for such details. As was the plains-king for its unlucky prey, I was driven toward my goal—toward the capture of Grimalkin. Dodging past a baffled and bored looking cook, I hurried through the kitchen and out into the alley around whose corner Grimalkin disappeared right away. In hot pursuit, I swept down the alley and around the same corner past which his hairy shoulder had just disappeared. The dwarf was ducking between people and generally using his short height in ways I couldn’t…but he did not know Skythorn as well as I knew Skythorn, nor did he have a god on his side. Not one as powerful as Weltyr, at any rate—nor one so well-regarded in the city.
Seeing how crowded the district was at that time of evening, I ran in the street rather than on the walkway and sometimes darted along the gutter. This was not easy either, as tired men and women alike sat upon the curbs to have a few minutes of whatever counted for peace in their exhausting lives. To my left rolled the tires of carts and mule-driven taxis. I kept an eye out for something helpful—and, praise Weltyr, I struck gold just as Grimalkin turned the corner to make his fast way down a somewhat less central street.
A tired-looking man had guided his horse to the curb and seemed about to unload the contents of his covered cart into a nearby building. I placed my hand upon his shoulder and, when he stiffly turned to see whomever it was Weltyr had sent to challenge him now, I gestured toward my neck. The fellow’s eyes, taking in the tattoo of the Order, widened with disbelief. While he looked me in the face, I told him, “I need to borrow your horse, please, friend—I’ll see to it that he’s returned to you within the hour, or my service to Weltyr means nothing.”
Exhaling heavily, then nodding, the man turned and hurriedly freed his stallion from the cart. I sat astride the beast in a heartbeat, my heels digging in to send it flying in the direction Grimalkin had headed. The horse seemed glad to have a reason to gallop and in fact proved quite adept at ducking through the traffic between us and our quarry. When the road cleared for a spell, it was faster than ever: a bolt of white lightning that claimed the street for its own and permitted me to overtake Grimalkin before he could make himself scarce down another alley. My mount pulled up before the dwarf with a whinny.
A few seconds later, Strife was a few inches from Grimalkin’s nose.
“Let’s return you to The Singing Nixie,” I told him while he lowered his axe in defeat. “Get you dried off and in your clothes before I question you…you deserve more dignity than you afforded me in the Nightlands. Not to mention the ladies of the Nixie, who deserve payment for a new window.”
Soon enough, (and a long conversation with a very angry madame later, my advocate from before sadly nowhere to be seen), I stood with Grimalkin’s axe in my folded arms and my back to the door of Cloyenda’s tiny room. His expression sour not just due to his capture but to the fact that I made him dress in front of me to assure myself he had no concealed weapons, Grimalkin looked at the head of his axe but only very seldom forced himself to peer into my face.
Upon eyeing the equipment he dragged from beneath the bed to don while we spoke, I could not help but note, “So you at least told the truth—the Scepter isn’t here.”
“Aye, and I’d think you’d be relieved to know the precious relic of your god isn’t sitting under an elvish whore’s dusty bed.”
“It has less to do with her heritage or her profession than the dust, truth be told…and the general disrespect. You look at the most sacred artifacts and see only money.”
“And you look at money and mistake it for nothing.”
&nb
sp; “Far from it…all property, all things, are Weltyr’s alone. When he chooses to allocate such gifts to his servants, the wise servant should be grateful. He most certainly should not take more than he is given. Such a betrayal against one’s master is sure to be punished in time.”
“Weltyr’s no master of mine,” grumbled the dwarf.
“Those who deny him are but his blindest slaves. But come, Grimalkin, hurry and dress so you can take me to the Scepter.”
“I’ll dress as fast or slow as suits me, human…but no matter how fast or slow I go, it won’t help you get what you’re after. I don’t know where the blasted Scepter is.”
I searched his face for a hint of falsity and found there nothing deeper than the same dislike he always displayed when we discussed anything of any nature. “What do you mean, you don’t know where the Scepter of Weltyr is?”
“I mean just that, you oaf! I mean that the Scepter is with Hildolfr…and Hildolfr and I have parted ways, in case you couldn’t guess.”
Mouth widening somewhat, I glanced down at myself and the suit of armor for which the old man had paid. “Parted ways, did you? But I thought you had a buyer in Rhineland.”
“Aye, I did…the government of Rhineland would have paid handsomely for it, as they do for all such relics of magical inclination.”
“But you weren’t sent here specifically for the theft?”
“By someone else, no…but an earth-spirit sent me a dream that great fortune awaited me in Cascadia, so off I flew.” While my ears perked at mention of a prophetic dream, the dwarf continued, “I bumped into Branwen, and we into you…you know the rest of the story.”
“Yet, I don’t. What caused you and Hildolfr to split up?”
“That blasted Scepter, I should think!” Straightening up from fitting his feet into his boots, Grimalkin, now mostly dressed, rested against the edge of the bed. I enjoyed a rare moment wherein he deigned to make eye contact, and in the depths of his dark eyes there blazed a very real fever. “There’s an enchantment on that thing—no, a curse—that drives men mad with jealousy! There must be. I’ve never seen someone grow more unreasonable than Hildolfr when he had that thing in his hand. Frosted over at once, and kept dead bloody silent until we were on the surface again.”
Rubbing my jaw, I offered, “Hildolfr is always a very quiet man.”
“Not this way, though. He waited until we were out of the Nightlands to announce that he was taking the Scepter and there wasn’t a bloody thing we could do about it. He said we could come with him and reap rewards or go our ways and perish.”
Shock washed through me to hear this claim. I had suspected something was the matter with Branwen’s story about her change of heart…now, I understood that she had been outraged by this turn of events, and had descended back into the Nightlands to see if I still lived in order to court me to her scheme of revenge. Ignoring the bitter emotions such a notion caused and tucking the matter away for later, I asked the dwarf before me, “What did Hildolfr intend to do with the Scepter?”
“I traveled with him a few days while we picked up his horse. Then we spent a night in an inn in some dead-end little town north of here. By the time I awoke, the bastard had vacated his room and left in the night.”
“Is that so?”
“It is, though I can’t tell you anything that’ll convince you it is. That’s up to you…I suppose you could take the gold as proof, assuming you believe me when I say it came from him.”
A familiar anecdote was then told to me. Grimalkin awoke at The Weeping Willow the next morning to find Hildolfr had gone on without him to whatever destination Hildolfr had in mind. He had also found, however, that Hildolfr had paid for both their rooms—and left behind, in the empty room, a small purse of gold that Grimalkin had not before noticed on the old man’s person. The whole thing so recalled the strange gift of the highly priced armor that I was stunned into silence. Grimalkin saw the eerie feeling reflected in my face.
“Strange, innit?” Shutting the heavy leather parcel and shrugging while affixing it to his belt again, the dwarf went on, “Reckon he thought he owed me for cheating me out of the cost of procuring the Scepter. That, or he was giving me a reward for not trying to take it by force…but, as I always say, the surest way to stay alive is to recognize a losing fight before it’s started.”
My mouth shut in a frown of concern, I offered him his axe. Grimalkin nodded appreciatively and slid it into its holster upon his back as I asked, “And he didn’t tell you anything about what he wanted to do with it?”
The dwarf shook his head. “I asked him plenty enough times, but he never answered…would only say things like, “It’s mine; why should it concern you what I choose to do with my property?””
Scoffing at the ranger’s audacity, I shook my head and said, “He never seemed so unreasonable when we were journeying together.”
“Aye, and that’s why I’m telling you that scepter is bloody cursed. He got it in his hand and changed at once. That, or he had no more need to pretend to be the man he seemed while on our way to the Nightlands.”
Though the latter seemed the more likely scenario to me, I made a mental note to ask Father Fortisto what the powers of the Scepter were purported to be. For now, Grimalkin was getting edgy. Shifting upon his feet, looking regularly toward the door, the dwarf seemed unprepared for me to offer my hand in a shake and delayed somewhat in taking it.
“You were wise to avoid confrontation with Hildolfr…he’s a warrior skilled like few I’ve seen.”
“Like I said…no sense in getting myself killed over a bit of gold.”
“Will you be going back to Rhineland on the airship?”
“Oh aye, next flight out. Was just trying to have a good time before leaving town…we don’t have many elves in the dwarven cities.”
“Their constitutions are too delicate for all the factory smoke, I’m sure…even your poor Cloyenda looked a bit bedraggled just from working in this neighborhood.”
Laughing, Grimalkin made his way past. “Paladin, she’s far from ‘my’ Cloyenda…and at her prices, I don’t think I’d want her to be!”
A CALL FOR RESCUE
HOW LOW MY spirits were as I made my way back to the Mongoose! I ought not to have been, but somehow I was shocked by my conversation with Grimalkin.
Perhaps it was because, when I imagined myself confronting the dwarf, I had always pictured walking away from that confrontation with the Scepter of Weltyr in my hands. I was always like that in those days—prone to anticipating that the hardest task would arrange itself into some easy pattern for me. That perhaps Weltyr would somehow intervene in my work on his behalf and see to it that my accomplishments were natural and smooth.
But, of course, if Weltyr were inclined to intervene in these matters, what need would I have to work on his behalf? I tried to remember that all the way to the inn…just as I tried to remember that I ought not to have expected any grand change of heart in Branwen.
How sad it was to know for certain that she had not returned to the Nightlands out of unselfish concern for me! Instead, she had wound up down there simply because she had no other way to claim and pawn the Scepter.
No, it was not a surprise. She had disappointed me so sharply with her initial betrayal that, even after I and my companions saved her life from the bandits, I was still not able to fully trust her story. Yet I made myself agree to it without deeper inquiry, even if only to keep peace with our new companion while on our way to the surface.
And, in making myself agree to it, my heart forgot the sharp sting she dealt it in the den of the spirit-thieves.
My love for her had renewed itself more swiftly than I ever could have anticipated—and, now that she had spent a week with the durrow while I was in the enchanted arms of Gundrygia, she had become ensconced in our group as naturally as any one of the rest of us. I had to hope that her time staying with the durrow while I was away had truly affected the change I had already believed she expe
rienced. But, in spite of this reminder to hope, I could not help the bitter displeasure that arose in me at the thought of seeing her in our room in the Mongoose.
Lucky for me—for a certain definition of the word ‘luck’—I was soon to find myself and everyone else distracted from the matter.
The Mongoose’s tavern was packed by the time I returned from my errands, workers having vacated their posts and come in for a drink or twelve at the end of the day. Barmaids scurried from table to table and a new man stood behind the bar. Though a mite more pleasant-looking, he still eyed me until I made my way upstairs with the confidence of any inn guest. After finding our room, I tried the knob and found it locked; I knocked on the door and waited. Indra’s lovely face filled the gap that cracked open.
Though I smiled at first, when she looked up at me with uncharacteristic grimness I let the expression fall.
“What is it, Indra?”
“We were just wondering when you would come back…Rorke’s here,” she said, pushing the door wide while looking over her shoulder at someone. “Tell him everything.”
While the door eased open, I stepped within and found myself amazed by what I found—or whom. The Mongoose’s innkeeper stood with a dark expression, his arms crossed over his thin chest. Valeria had adopted a similar posture, leaning against the unsteady dresser on the bed’s other side. The mattress itself was host to Branwen and Odile—each of whom flanked none other than Lively of Soot.
I almost did not recognize Erdwud’s wife for as reddened as her face had grown beneath the onslaught of tears, beneath the dirt of her journey, beneath the ashes of her home. To see me standing there, she ceased her weeping for only a few seconds—then another wave came on, stronger than ever, and she threw herself into my arms.
“Burningsoul,” she cried, “sire! Please—Soot—help—”
“The gimlets,” said Odile, glancing over at Branwen. “I told you they were bad news.”