“You stay by the stairs, Grady. I’ll do a circle, left to right.”
Grady nodded.
Slowly, Daric crept to the first in a long line of the arched recesses. His eyes had still not adjusted enough for him to see inside the dark cubby.
“It’s empty,” Toban told him.
Daric scooted back to Grady and took the long piece of wood from him. The man grunted, but said nothing. Daric went back to the wall and used the stick to prod inside the next arch. The clank of empty bottles and the thud of what must have been old wooden crates was all he heard. He found much the same within the next arch… and the next. Before long, Daric had made his way around to the far corner. From there, he could see Grady waiting at the bottom of the stairs; the faint evening light made a silhouette of his friend. Grady had found another piece of wood and was brandishing it as if it were a club.
There was only one archway left. Daric whispered for Toban to go around the columns and come in from the other side. Once ready, Daric lunged into the arch, fence post poised to strike. He had not gone two steps when he tripped over what felt like a pair of legs stretched out on the ground. Quickly, he fished his knife from his belt.
Daric could see the man, now he knew he was there. He put his blade to the man’s neck. “Where is he? Where’s the ambassador?”
The man laughed low, then coughed hard. “Gone! We split up at the grain store. He’ll be miles away by now.”
“Grady!” Daric shouted. He turned back to the injured man. “That’s a neat trick, getting us to follow the blood trail, and him doubling back.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” the man said. His voice was raspy and weak.
“So, the ambassador has a few tactical skills. Ex-soldier, I suppose. Why did you do it? Why did you betray your king?”
Grady arrived.
“Can you go back to the grain store?” Daric asked. “There should be guards there by now, from the keep. Ask two of them to go to the stables with you. Faelen has fled. Send a few here, too. We need to get this man back to the keep; he has some questions to answer.”
“No!” the injured man said. “No, I can’t. The Hand! No please, they will…”
“They will what? The Hand…? Do you mean the Black Hand? Is this their doing?” Daric shook the man’s shoulder; he was drifting off to sleep, or dying.
“I can’t. Please! They will kill her… they will kill… Oh, Ellie, what have I done? I will die a traitor. She will be… Oh no, no.”
Daric thought quickly. “Wait, Grady.” He shouted at his friend, who was already on the stairs. He turned back to the injured man. “Tell us what you know, and I’ll leave you here. The innkeeper will find you; you can tell him there was a fight, and your Ellie need not hear of your treachery.”
“You would do that for me? A traitor!”
“I understand you were coerced. Now, what’s your name and who is behind this?”
“My name is Teb. Teb Fillion.” Teb groaned as he pulled himself straight. “I only know of the ambassador and the Black Hand, nobody else. But I do know they are coming… the Kel’madden. You haven’t got long.”
“We know that, boy,” Daric said. “Anything else about the ambassador and the Black Hand? Places they meet, couriers they use? How do they communicate? Have you seen the ambassador talking to anyone in Taris?”
Daric waited for an answer. None came. A peaceful look came over Teb’s face as his hand dropped to his side.
“Damn!” Daric grunted. “Another minute…”
Grady sighed. “I’ll get back to the grain store, see about the stables.”
“We might as well come with you,” Daric said. “No point staying here.”
There was no sign of any guards when they got back to the grain store, and the stable master pleaded ignorance about the comings and goings of the past hour. “It’s my job to be discreet, keep my customer’s confidence,” the skinny stable master had said. Daric hoped half an hour with the magistrate would loosen his tongue. However, even if he did identify Faelen, the man was long gone by now; probably blended in with the lines of farmers trailing back and forth along the Western Road. There was nothing to do but go back to the keep and report. And hope that Cal had not taken it upon himself to go on a crusade; they needed him with them, not chasing traitors. That was a job for the guards.
Fortunately, when they got back to the keep, Cal was at the stables waiting for them. Their horses were all saddled and ready to go, and twelve guardsmen, already mounted for a pursuit, lined up against the barrack wall. Daric informed their lieutenant of what he knew of Faelen’s movements, then watched as the twelve rode out of the inner courtyard. Likely as not, Faelen would have headed north to the Salrian general Si’eth had mentioned. Daric could not remember the general’s name… Alad… Alaf…. It didn’t matter; the general would be someone else’s problem, once Daric and the others were on their way to Bailryn, to meet up with Olam’s troupe.
It was during this musing that Daric realised he didn’t know where Si’eth was. He made his way back up to the colonel’s quarters – Grady, Cal, and Toban following – and found Si’eth sitting with the colonel, having a glass of wine.
After ten minutes, explaining what had happened – then another ten, listening to the colonel’s rant – Daric outlined a plan…
“You need to send an officer to Bailryn as soon as possible. They should interrogate Fillion’s wife. She may know the name of someone in the Black Hand.”
Toban whined. “You promised that man you would not speak of his treachery. ‘Let the innkeeper find him,’ you said.”
Daric didn’t want to go back on his word; it made his gut ache with shame to suggest it, but the truth was Teb had told them nothing they didn’t already know.
“Offer her immunity,” Daric said. “Say her husband was forced to aid the Black Hand. You can send Paiden,” he told the colonel. “He’ll be discreet. I’d like to leave the wife out of this, but we are sadly lacking information on our enemy; we cannot leave a possible witness.”
“Send someone to Bailryn,” the colonel said slowly while tapping a finger on his desk and staring at Daric. “I had the same thought. How fortuitous that I have already decided on the perfect man for the job. Here.” Colonel Le’ode handed Daric a scroll.
Daric took the scroll. His brow creased when he saw the wry smile of the colonel’s face. “What have you done, Amerkin?” He quickly opened the scroll. “No, no, no, no! You can’t do this to me!”
“Yes I can, Major Re’adh. Welcome back.”
CHAPTER 13
Mott’s Lot: Part Two
Even at his best, Mott was not particularly good at sensing the passage of time, especially not without the sun’s help. And right now, he definitely was not at his best. He stared in disbelief at the eastern sky. Dawn was approaching. Had he really been running all night?
Of course, the perils of travelling through the Am’bieth Marsh by night had occupied his mind, somewhat. It felt like only a few hours had passed since the Salrians had taken Elspeth and Gialyn. Fortunately, the injury on his hip had gone numb – numb and cold. Now he had to cope with were the rasping ache in his throat and lungs, and the stinging, raw pain in his feet. Hunger often bit at his stomach, too, leaving a sick queasy feeling that made his legs shake if he stayed still for too long. At least he hoped the sick feeling was only hunger.
The swelling glow of early dawn revealed the unnatural straight line of the Great Western Road. It was still miles away, but Mott knew he must make a decision; south, back to Illeas’den; or east, and continue on to Gieth’eire. Illeas’den would be quicker, and better for him. He could have his wound cleaned and treated. Mott dismissed that idea; someone else would have to go make the journey to Cul’taris, which would mean another day before news of the Salrians reached Daric and the others. That would not do at all; the Salrians may have moved by then, if they had not already done so. Elspeth and Gialyn could be lost for good. Gods see them safe. No, it wo
uld have to be east, wounded or not.
Mott kept moving. He fixed his eye on the Great Western Road and concentrated on putting one paw in front of the other. The musky dew itched at his nose. He knew he needed water; his throat was dry and his head ached with the pain of dehydration. Maybe he should have risked that pool he had passed an hour early; salty water or not, he could have rinsed his mouth. The next clean water was two hours ahead. The stream – the very same waterway that ran south of Taris – was the only water for miles. Fortunately, he would be following it all the way to the keep. If only he could reach water before this… hunger got the better of him
Of course, Mott knew it was not hunger; it was poison. The dirty metal from the Salrian arrow was in his blood. It had happened before, years ago, when he and Toban were travelling back from Arandor. Mott had cut his paw on a shard of iron left on the road by one of the merchant trains. Three hours later, his paw had doubled in size. Luckily, he had managed to score the wound on a sharp rock, then Toban had squeezed out the poison. But Mott did not think he would be as lucky a second time. This poison was everywhere; he could feel it. He had to reach the stream. At least there, he could clean the wound properly. And maybe he would find a friendly merchant willing to help. A friendly merchant who will not shoot a wolf on sight. Small hope, this far north.
An hour passed. Mott had reached the Taris border: twenty miles to the keep. He decided walking to Gieth’eire before nightfall might be wishful thinking, but reaching the stream was a priority. He would not make it past noon if he didn’t clean his wound. And even then, cleaning may be too little too late. The poison was already coursing through his veins. He dismissed the thought and trudged ahead. The stream… the stream was all that mattered now. He could not help Elspeth and Gialyn if he were lying on the side of the road, dying of thirst.
After another hour – which felt like a week – Mott stepped up onto the hard-packed dirt of the Great Western Road. The last step up felt like an epic triumph, and it was only another mile to the stream. Maybe he would reach the keep before nightfall. His side was burning, his throat felt as if it was full of sharp rocks, and his head ached, but he had made it – this far, at least.
His spirits rose more when he heard a cart rolling along the road behind him. He would have to risk talking to the driver. Northerners could be funny about wolves, especially farmers, but he needed help.
Mott watched as the heavily laden cart trundled closer. Strangely, furniture filled the flatbed wagon: draws, shelves and slat-backed wooden chairs. The driver had not noticed him yet; he was too busy gazing to the north. Cautiously, Mott took a step into the road and lay down. With luck, that would show the driver that he wasn’t dangerous. Maybe they were among the few merchants who knew of the Rukin…
“Wolf! Get it!” a child shouted.
Seconds later, a rock hit Mott on the shoulder.
Another child jumped down from the cart. He picked up more rocks. The driver smiled. Mott heard him say, “I’m not eating wolf for supper, Culah, don’t waste an arrow on him.”
Mott turned and ran into the long grass. He fought the agony of each stride as the green stalks whipped at his face. He closed his eyes and curled his lip, focusing on forcing out one tortuous bound after another. As he pulled up, he felt the wheezing sickness rise to his throat. He wrenched the bile from his stomach. With two steps to the left and one to the right, he eventually fell on his side. It was all he could do not to fall on the arrow butt still sticking out of his hip. There he lay until darkness crept over him.
* * *
Mott tried, and failed. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d left Gialyn and Elspeth to the Salrians. He could have been lying in that field for days before those other wolves found him and brought him here. But where was here? And how long had he been lying in this damp, cramped den?
Rest, the old grey wolf told him. You’re not going anywhere today.
Mott watched as the dirty human – dressed in skins, with iron-grey hair and a long beard – entered the den. The human carried a clay pot and a handful of rags. He knelt down at Mott’s side and arranged his things before him. Mott tried to move, to speak, but he could not. The dirty human gave him a sympathetic look, before wrenching the broken arrow from Mott’s hip. Mott howled as the arrowhead tore through his skin. The dirty human held Mott’s shoulder and pushed him back down. His hands were gentle; he cared.
Don’t move, the old wolf said. It will be worse if you move.
What happened? Where am I?
The old wolf didn’t answer.
Mott felt the cold cloth, as the dirty human washed his wound, and then a sting as he poured the muddy contents of the clay pot onto it.
Sleep now, the old wolf said.
Mott closed his eyes. He tried to fight the tiredness, but…
* * *
Mott could hear the dirty human mumbling.
The old grey wolf rose from his bed and padded over to Mott’s side. Good, you’re awake. For a while, we didn’t think you were going to. How do you feel?
Who are you? Where am I?
Questions. Always questions with you Rukin. The old wolf nosed a bowl of water over to Mott. Here, drink. I will answer your questions.
Mott looked at the old wolf and then at the dirty human. It was only the second time he had seen a human Wildling. The thin, toothless old man sat cross-legged in the corner of the den, sewing a fur wrap with a bone needle and gut. He looked gaunt and filthy. Little wonder there weren’t many of them; why would a wolf want to live like that, never mind a human?
Mott was surprised the old wolf was talking to him. For eight hundred years, Wildlings had shunned the spoken word, believing it to be a curse that would weaken their wild spirit. “We will lose our own voice!” was their argument. And yet, both the human and the old wolf were talking to him – a Rukin, a weak-minded non-believer.
Still, Mott was grateful for their help. Thank you, he said.
The old wolf smiled. I am Dras. You are on the northern edge of Illeas’coi, three hours from your home. We have sent word; someone from your clan should be here by morning.
Morning? What time is it? Mott noticed stars twinkling through the loosely interlocking canopy of their makeshift den. How long have I been here?
You slept all day and most of the night, Dras said. It’ll be dawn in an hour. The old wolf lay down. He looked tired. I expect one of your humans will bring a cart. You’ll be home by noon, if they come straight away, and if they believe our messenger. We didn’t have a name to give them as proof of your whereabouts. What is your name, by the way?
My name is Mott. I’m thankful for your help, but I must ask, have you seen any Salrians patrolling the border? I know you don’t like talking, but please, it’s important. They have taken some friends of mine.
Dras laughed. ‘Don’t like talking’? You Rukin are a funny lot. What, by Ein’laig, makes you think we’ve been talking?
Mott’s stared at the wolf. Abruptly, he realised that, in all this time, he had not seen the old wolf’s jaw move. “What have you done to me?” he said out loud.
Foolish cub! Dras whispered. If a thought could be a whisper. The old wolf seemed sad. I have done nothing to you, Mott. You mind has opened, that is all. Because of your illness, I would say. We often perceive more of the Voice when our minds are… preoccupied.
Mott tried to stand. He looked at the bowl. Maybe they put something in the water; perhaps the old wolf hadn’t said anything. I must have imagined it.
The old wolf stood, then walked over and put a paw on Mott’s shoulder. Stay down for now. You’ll break open the wound.
Mott heard that. He definitely heard that. He lay back down, saying nothing – thought or otherwise – to the old wolf standing over him.
Don’t be frightened, Mott, this is the way we speak. You can do it because your mind remembers. You’re not sick. Well, not in the head, at least. The old wolf laughed quietly to himself. Although there are many a
mong us who would swear you were. This is how things used to be, before those foolish Cren Woodsmen taught the old Alphas how to speak with humans.
I don’t understand. Mott said, or rather, thought. How did I do that?
The birds have their Voice; the fish in the sea have theirs, we use the Earthen Tongue. That’s been the way of it for millennia; three voices: earth, sea and sky. Oh, and spirit, but that’s for dragons, mostly. Humans had the Voice, too, thousands of years ago, before they learned to use their mouths, but they have forgotten. Well… most have; a few can use the Voice, but they hardly know why, let alone where it came from.
Mott gazed up through the twigs and branches that made the ceiling of Dras’s den. He had heard tales of the old ways, but much of the understanding was lost. The Rukin had long since given up on the Voice, thinking it as backward, a link with the bad days, when even the Rukin fought among themselves.
Why? What harm could there be in learning this Voice? Mott thought. And then wondered if Dras had heard him. If he did, he didn’t answer the question.
Mott shook his head. This had all been very interesting, and he would give it some thought when he had the time, but for now he must think of Elspeth and Gialyn.
The Salrians, Dras.
Dras looked surprised. He probably thought the “foolish pup” was ignoring him, pretending not to hear the Voice. The old wolf paced once around the den before laying back down. He stared for a long moment, thinking. Then, Which Salrians? Tell me more. There’s more than one group along the border.
They’re armed, there’s a general, I think. But not many guards. Somewhere around Cul’taris, no more than a day from the Blue Rock.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 61