I am, Squirrel agreed, nodding rapidly.
“And Rufus,” Fist added. “So, uh . . . I’m going to go find Professor Locksher. I should tell him what I’ve decided.”
“You do that,” Maryanne said absently, her lips twisting as her internal conversation with Sarine continued.
Fist strode quickly up the slope, hoping he would get away before she changed her mind. He felt a slight twinge of guilt at escaping from her like this, but he hadn’t been lying about needing to see Locksher. The wizard was still technically his master and needed to be informed. Besides, he was hoping to convince Locksher to come to Malaroo with him. His knowledge would be incredibly useful for Justan.
The problem was that he didn’t actually know where Locksher was. The last time he had seen the wizard was at the end of the battle with the Priestess of War. Locksher hadn’t been with the rest of the wizards as they had searched the lake bed for the source of the wraith.
Fist sent a question to Rufus, hoping that his enhanced senses would be helpful. Can you tell where Locksher went?
The gorilla-like rogue horse, who was walking just behind him, lifted his massive head and sniffed at the air. His wide nostrils flared and he grimaced. “Ooh!” Too much smells. Still stinks here.
Stinks! Squirrel agreed, his small paws covering his nose.
Their reactions were certainly understandable. Though the Black Lake had been emptied, puddles of its rot still clung here and under rocks all across the valley. In addition, the scattered and broken corpses of the Priestess’ infested army still littered the slopes. It was going to take days to gather and burn them all.
Fist hoped he wouldn’t have to stay around for that part. He had smelled more than his share of burning bodies over the past month. Perhaps someone else had seen where Locksher had gone. Fist saw Charz standing not far away and trotted over to him.
The rock giant was speaking with Professor Beehn and Alfred. Charz was facing away from Fist, but he appeared to be standing firm, his arms folded. Professor Beehn was wearing a scowl.
“I think this is a terrible idea,” Beehn was saying as Fist arrived. The air wizard looked as healthy as Fist had ever seen him. The sparkling golden robes Beehn wore were quite baggy on his recently diminished frame.
“You just want me there to lift heavy things for you,” Charz accused.
Beehn huffed. “I may be new to this bonded family, but Alfred has shared his memories of your past with me. I know how you used to be and the flavor of your thoughts right now tells me that your time with these ogres has brought out more of your violent nature. How long before you revert back to your former ways?”
The rock giant’s eyes widened in alarm at that question and he blinked, giving the idea some worried thought. After a moment he grunted and looked at Alfred pleadingly. “It’s not like that.”
The tall and slender gnome warrior gazed back at him thoughtfully. Alfred had traveled up into the mountains with the Academy Army and had been on the front lines during the battle. His wounds had been healed, but evidence of the fight remained. The sleeve of his chainmail shirt had been badly torn and hung from his long arm in tatters as he placed a hand on the giant’s shoulder.
“I know it’s not,” Alfred said. “And I understand why you want to stay here. I would prefer to have you back at the Mage School with me, but I understand.”
“You understand?” said Beehn, surprised at his bonding wizard’s reply. “But you’ve been just as concerned as I have.”
“That was before I saw him up here with the ogres. I see now that this is different. The Charz that had to be imprisoned was wild; a danger to everyone. Among these ogres, he is an accepted part of a community. A brutish community to be sure, but he is comfortable here. At the Mage School, he is always on edge.”
Charz grunted irritably. “I don’t know about all that. The Mage School isn’t all that bad. Ogres are just more fun to be around than stuffy wizards. Besides, it’s not like I want to stay up here permanent. I’m just not ready to go back yet. That’s all.”
He just likes the women’s caves, Squirrel suggested.
Fist was fairly certain that Squirrel was right. The giant had been spending a lot of time there over the past few weeks. He didn’t think that would be a helpful point to add to the conversation though. “The Thunder People do like you, Charz. I’m sure they will be happy to have you stay awhile.”
Professor Beehn turned to look at Fist and gave him an uncomfortable smile. “Hello, Master Fist. Sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Did you need something?”
Fist winced at being called ‘Master’ by one of the High Council. Word about his naming had gotten around to the wizards after the battle. The looks they had given him since were just as uncomfortable as Professor Beehn’s.
“Uh, I just wanted to ask if any of you had seen Master Locksher,” Fist said.
“He’s probably still in the witch’s house,” Charz suggested. “Had me carry her mace in there for him. I was kind of hoping they’d let me keep it, but the stupid thing’s cursed. Almost took my hand off.”
Charz held out his hand and Fist noticed a still-healing spiderweb of cracks in the giant’s skin. Thinking back to the destructive power of the mace in the Priestess of War’s hands, Fist wasn’t too surprised.
“Ooh! Ow!” said Rufus sympathetically.
Fist! That lady’s coming, Squirrel warned, sending an image of Mistress Sarine to Fist’s mind.
Fist glanced back over his shoulder and, to his dismay, saw that Justan’s grandmother was indeed approaching across the slope. The old woman had thrust her knitting into Old Bill’s hands and was making a beeline straight for him. Maryanne was nowhere in sight.
Fist swallowed. He glanced back at Charz. “Thanks. I’ve got to go now,” he said quickly and started away, hoping that he was wrong and she wasn't coming for him specifically. He headed up the slope towards the rock house, taking a route that had not yet been cleared by the ogres. He took careful strides over the dead. Maybe she wouldn’t follow.
“Fist, dear!” Sarine called.
Grimacing, Fist had no choice but to stop and wait. He turned to face her and forced a smile. “Yes, Mistress Sarine?”
The dead did not deter her. She leapt nimbly over them as she ascended the slope to arrive at his side. “Pardon me for asking, dear, but would you mind if I looked at your naming rune?”
“Uh, okay,” he said hesitantly and held out his left hand.
Sarine grasped his hand and turned it over, spreading out his fingers to stare at the square rune that took up the majority of his palm. Her grip was strong. The woman seemed small and frail next to his massive eight-foot frame, but Fist knew better. Justan’s grandmother was a tough old bird. Her bonds to Maryanne, Kyrkon, and Old Bill guaranteed it.
The rune that the Bowl of Souls had placed on his palm was slightly thicker than the rest of his skin. It was pliable, but Fist knew that it was stronger than steel. There was not a knife made that could score it or an arrow that could pierce it. As long as he lived, that rune would remain.
The design of the rune was something unique to him, something that identified Fist by his new name. Oddly enough, his new name had been the same as his old one, something that seemed to bother other named warriors and wizards. Fist didn’t know why. To him it was just a happy coincidence.
“How very interesting,” Sarine said, running her thumb over the rune one last time before dropping his hand. Sighing, she turned briefly to look down into the desolate valley behind her. “This place will be so much nicer once it has been cleared, don’t you think?”
“Uh, yes, Mistress,” Fist replied, caught off guard by her abrupt change of subject. He followed her eyes, scanning the cliff walls that surrounded the valley and the great gap where Locksher’s explosive rocks had torn a section of the cliff away to empty the lake. Fist had a difficult time thinking of this place ever being nice.
“In my youth this was a beautiful place. I
n the spring this slope was covered with wildflowers,” Sarine continued with a shake of her head. “War is such an ugly thing. It creates nasty scars. The valley will recover though. Nature always does.”
“Locksher thinks so too,” Fist said. The wizard had suggested that all that evil sludge would become fertilizer. “I’m actually heading to see him now.”
“How wonderful. That is precisely where I was headed,” she said with a smile. The old wizardess linked her arm around his. “Shall I accompany you?”
“Uh, of course,” he said helplessly. He continued up the slope with Sarine on his arm, stepping around the broken bodies of the dead and wishing he had stuck to the cleared path. Gore and bloody mud was already caking his boots.
“Uck,” Rufus agreed and Fist realized that the rogue horse had it worse. While Fist was worrying over his boots, the rogue horse was getting it stuck to his knuckles.
Sorry, Fist sent.
“I want you to know that I am quite pleased for you and Maryanne,” Sarine declared.
“Oh! Thank you,” Fist said, startled by the sudden shift of conversation. This was the subject he had been hoping to avoid, but at least she was starting it nice.
“I have never seen her so happy and confident with a relationship. And I am so very glad that it is with you,” she added, patting his arm.
“I do love her,” he said sincerely.
“You are such a sweet boy,” Sarine replied with a squeeze. “And I know she feels the same way.”
A smile spread across his face. This was going quite well. Maybe his being named had something to do with it. After all, if the Bowl of Souls vouched for him that had to be a good thing.
“I must wonder, however, if you aren’t moving a bit too quickly.”
Uh-oh, said Squirrel.
Fist’s smile slipped. “Too quickly?”
“I’m speaking of your decision to leave for Malaroo so soon,” she specified. “Don’t you think it would be prudent to take some time to rest first? It would do both of you good to recover from your long battle before continuing on.”
Fist blinked, wondering what her reasons were for suggesting this. Did she think that time away from danger would give him and Maryanne opportunity to change their minds about each other? “But I can’t wait. Justan needs me right away.”
“Is it so urgent that a few days would change things?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
“Fighting could break out in Malaroo at any time,” Fist said. “Last I spoke to Justan, he was going to meet with the Stranger and see if something could be done to stop it.”
“So Matthew has gotten involved. That explains why John . . .” Sarine’s voice trailed off as she mulled that over for a moment. She gave a brusque nod and her demeanor changed. “I see now why you feel the need to rush. Have you decided what route you shall be taking?”
Fist had given that a great deal of thought over the last few weeks. “I think it will be quickest to go eastward through the mountains and south past the Kingdom of Benador.”
She scoffed. “Nonsense, dear! Far too dangerous.”
“I know the trails are dangerous, but Rufus can carry us through places that regular mounts can’t go.” In addition, it would keep them off of open roads so that they wouldn’t scare the populace as they rode by. He really had given it a lot of thought.
“It is also a much longer journey.” She shook her head. “Best depart from the Mage School. The mirror will cut weeks off of your time.”
“Oh,” Fist said, feeling foolish for not thinking of the mirror. He had decided the route long before Valtrek’s mirror had shown up, but that was no excuse for missing something that obvious. “But Rufus and I can’t just travel the main roads.”
“Of course you can,” Sarine said. “I understand why you would be wary if you were alone, but all you need is an official Academy escort. I am certain that Faldon the Fierce wouldn’t mind sparing a few guards to get you safely to his son.”
“Right,” Fist said, his cheeks coloring. Of course Faldon would do it. Even if he was reluctant, Darlan would make him. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
Dumb, Squirrel teased.
No! Fist is smart! Rufus argued.
Fist sighed. “That is a good suggestion. I’ll ask Faldon when I see him.”
There were still complications that could arise. The people in Malaroo itself were very wary of outsiders. Justan would have to get permission from the Protector of the Grove before Fist or any Academy warriors would be able to enter the country. But Justan was on good terms with the Protector now. It shouldn’t be a problem, or so Fist hoped.
Finally, they stepped out of the body-strewn section of the slope and approached the Priestess of War’s house. It was a large square building with a sloped roof that was nestled against the sheer cliffside. Fist couldn’t help but be impressed by its construction. The priestess had used her magic to form it directly out of the rock in such a way that it had no seams or joins. If not for its firm angles it could have been created naturally by ages of rains and wind.
“Hmm . . . Kyrkon is not happy,” Sarine remarked as they came close to the open doorway.
“He’s inside?” Fist asked.
She nodded. “He came to reclaim the bodies of Lyramoor and that elf slave, but Lyramoor’s human friend is balking.”
Kyrkon was a named elf warrior and Sarine’s first bonded. He was also one of the Pruball elves, the same clan Lyramoor had been born in. As Fist ducked into the entrance he could hear Qenzic’s voice.
“Say what you want. That is not what he wanted,” Qenzic said insistently. “Take that other one, but leave him be.”
Inside the doorway was a stark entryway; a room devoid of any furnishings but for a box at the back of the room that looked to be full of ashes.
Qenzic stood in the center of the room facing Kyrkon, his gaze defiant. His Academy-standard armor was torn in several places and Fist could see through the holes to bloody bandages underneath. The man had allowed himself to be field bandaged, but had come here looking for Lyramoor right away instead of waiting to be tended to by the wizards.
Unlike Qenzic, Kyrkon seemed untouched by the battle. The elf stood at ease, his arms folded above the hilt of his runed sword, but the look he returned to the Academy graduate was perturbed. Lying on the dirt floor between them was the canvas-wrapped bundle that contained Lyramoor’s remains.
“Lyramoor is a Pruball elf,” Kyrkon retorted. “He may have chosen to live away from our people, but that doesn’t change this fact. His remains must be brought back to join with and grow our homeland. Who are you to say otherwise?”
“He was stolen from your people as a child!” Qenzic snapped. “For decades he was held captive and your people did little to find him. When he finally was freed, he returned to Pruball only to find that he was no longer welcome!”
Kyrkon glared. “You know nothing of what happened; what lengths we went through to look for him!”
“I know what I know because I am his friend!” Qenzic said. “My father was the one who rescued him from slavery. I have known him since I was small and I can tell you that the Academy took him in when your people did not. As far as he was concerned, we are his family.”
The elf’s glare did not lessen. “That does not give you the right to hurl insults! He was my kin.”
“I merely repeated to you what he told me,” Qenzic replied. “And he told me that if he should die he wanted his body cremated rather than go to any elf homeland!”
Fist was taken aback by the venom in Qenzic’s voice. He opened his mouth to try and say something to calm the situation down, but anything he would have said would have been drowned out by the loudness of the voice that came next.
“Shut yer blasted holes!” shouted Lenny Firegobbler. The dwarf had appeared in the doorway that separated the entryway from the rest of the building. His scowl was far more intimidating than the looks on either Qenzic’s or Kyrkon’s faces. “Fer hell’s
sake! Lyramoor’s layin’ at yer feet! Ain’t right, you two yappin’ over him!”
To Fist’s surprise, Kyrkon looked more chastened than angry after the dwarf’s outburst. He answered calmly. “We were discussing what to do with his remains, Master Smith. As his great-uncle, I have requested that his body be returned to the Pruball homeland where it belongs.”
“But that’s not what Lyramoor wanted,” Qenzic insisted.
“You don’t think I heard all that? I made out every word from the other side of the dag-gum buildin’ and I got a lifetime case of forge ear!” Lenny barked. He folded his thick arms in front of him and lowered the tone of his voice. “If’n you wanna know what Lyramoor really wants, just ask him yerself.” He nodded his head towards Sir Kyrkon. “Yer his blood-kin. You‘cn do the ceremony.”
Kyrkon’s brow rose. “I . . . had not thought of that. It is usually done by closer kin than I, but considering the circumstances I suppose I could do it.”
“What ceremony are you talking about?” Qenzic asked suspiciously.
“It’s an elven funeral,” Fist said and the others turned to look at him in surprise. “I saw one once before. You weren’t there, Qenzic, but back during the war when we were in those caves behind Wobble, Antyni did one for her brother Qyxal.” He cleared his throat. “It was nice. She was able to give us messages from his spirit.”
Kyrkon nodded at him. “It’s called, T’larr, the Homecoming Ceremony. It will allow me to communicate directly with his soul before it passes on. He can tell me his wishes as well as pass on any messages he wishes his loved ones to know.”
Loved ones? Squirrel thought with a soft snort. Lyramoor?
Qenzic frowned. “Well, he didn’t say anything to me one way or the other about that. If it will let you know exactly what he wanted, I guess it’s okay with me.”
“I was not asking permission,” Kyron replied, giving the Academy graduate a firm look.
Lenny grunted. “Just do it quick ’cause he was dead in the dirt fer a long time ’fore we found him. Locksher done cleaned him up with magic, but I think it was probly too late. Won’t be long ’fore he’s gonna start turnin’ to soil.”
Behemoth (The Jharro Grove Saga Book 6) Page 3