Todrick, having heard them, opened the door and welcomed them in, despite the frown on his face telling a different story.
Kharisi took a step back, crushing Saerus’ foot. Todrick stood to the side and waited for them to walk in. There was an air of tension in the room, and most came from the mage. “Now, what is it you need to discuss?” He asked, voice flat and more than a bit annoyed.
Kharisi turned to Saerus and pointed at his chest. “You should just show him, would be easier that way.”
Saerus said nothing and did as he was instructed. Todrick took an unlit candle, placed it in a holder and snapped his fingers, lighting the wick. He moved closer to inspect Saerus’ chest, as the room was nearly dark as night. One small window high up on the wall allowed the only light in, and even then it was a rather feeble attempt. Candles were placed around the circular tower at regular intervals giving the immediate are some light, though there seemed to be something muffling it from really exploding in the room as it should have done.
Todrick studied Saerus’ chest, eyes opening wide, He stretched one thin, bony finger and started to touch the protrusions from the teeth around the nipple to the fingertips on his abdomen. Todrick looked up at Saerus and then back down at his torso. “Are there more?”
“No, just a partial earlobe on the inner thigh, and of course the two plows, which I’m sure you’re aware of.”
Todrick nodded. “When did these start appearing?”
Saerus gave a small shrug, “I’m not sure, the first was the partial fingers, and those started maybe two pregnant moons ago.”
“There’s more to this Todrick,” Kharisi said and went into the story of the previous night’s events. Todrick listened intently and said very little, merely absorbing all the information. When he had finished, Todrick remained silent. Saerus started to put his shirt on again, and without so much as a glance, Todrick’s arm shot out and stopped him from continuing.
“Wait here,” Todrick ordered, and in another plume of smoke disappeared. Kharisi and Saerus looked at one another, then at the candle Todrick had been holding, hovering in mid-air.
“Are you sure this was the right idea?” Saerus said in hushed tones.
Kharisi raised his eyebrows in a puzzled motion. “Sometimes, it’s not about being right but being necessary.”
Saerus clucked his tongue at him. “Don’t be so evasive. Or clever. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Yet you wish me to be a leader?” he said playfully. Saerus was about to reply with a curse-filled argument when Todrick reappeared in the same blanket of smoke.
“An Elven leader in a land of humans?” Todrick said. Both looked at the wizard, their faces white. “I caught that when I returned. And that is a conversation for another time. And sooner rather than later, I would think.”
Todrick had brought a bag with him and he emptied the contents out on the table where he got the candle. There were herbs, bottles, vials filled with liquids, a wand and several instruments made of metal. Todrick sorted through everything and held up a pin almost six inches in length, with a wooden handle on it that added an extra half an inch in length. Todrick twisted and turned the pointed end in the flame of the still floating candle allowing the tip to become dark and waited until it was hot enough to glow. Saerus moved away, his eyes wide, face filled with fright. “I have no idea if you will feel anything, but I will make it quick. You, elf, hold him still. I don’t want to miss.”
Saerus moved away as far as he could but felt his back run up against something. He didn’t know if it was a wall, a piece of furniture or a corpse. Quick as the snap of a whip, Kharisi had maneuvered behind Saerus, and laced their arms together so the King was nice and still. He leaned in and kissed Saerus’ neck as a consolation of comfort. Todrick kneeled down and waggled a finger to bring the hovering light closer. He grabbed one of the digits around the navel and placed the tip against the skin. Saerus flinched and inhaled harshly, but felt nothing. Todrick slowly slid the heated pin into the fleshy nub just enough and it moved as if trying to get away.
A little more of the needle went in until a drop of blood seeped from the wound. Todrick continually switched his gaze from what he was doing upward to Saerus’ face. The King’s expression remained the same, head bent back, eyes shut tight. As Todrick pushed in further, the tip of the needle came out the other side where a fingernail would eventually form. He then unbuttoned Saerus’ leggings, pulled down the undergarments and examined both organs. He held both out by the edge of the foreskin, then put the tip of the needle in the candle flame again. Todrick held the lower organ out and was getting ready to place the tip of the pin into the organ’s side, when Saerus kicked out with both feet, using Kharisi to lean against so he could lift high enough to get the Mage directly in the face.
There was the snap of cartilage as Todrick’s nose broke and blood filled his nasal cavities. Saerus leaned his head forward and then moved it backwards as hard as he could, the back of his skull connecting with the elf’s forehead. When that didn’t knock Kharisi out, Saerus did it again and felt the grip on him loosen. He strode forward towards the wizard and lifted one slippered foot and brought it down on the side of the wizard’s head. He could feel the skull crumple under his foot. Saerus bent down to pick through the wizard's robes and found that there was no corpse. He looked behind him and saw Todrick looming over him, arm extended and wand pointed at his forehead. Saerus tried to roll out of the way but wasn’t fast enough, as the blast of ice hit him in the back, and he could feel the frigidness cover his body until he was frozen in place.
Kharisi got to his feet, rubbing his head.
Todrick looked at Kharisi and said, “I think we need to have that talk.”
8: Kiandra’s consequences
When the smoke from the blacksmith shops throughout the capital city of Dernheld was visible on the horizon, Petram reached into the rucksack tied to the side of his mareling and fished out the glass vial Todrick had given him. He pulled out the stopper, gave a quick sniff and promptly threw up from the aroma. “What in the blazes? Is he trying to poison me?” He looked at the liquid and saw it was not only bubbling slightly but there were thin filaments that swirled throughout the murky liquid. Petram heaved a sigh, held his nose and swallowed the potion before he lost his nerve.
In spite of the smell which reminded him of an overripe corpse left outdoors in the summer heat, there was very little taste. He could feel the filaments on his tongue and at the back of his throat almost as if they were sentient. Petram put the stopper back in the empty tube and stuffed it back in the rucksack. He touched his cheek and was amazed to feel stubble, something he hadn’t felt for many a year. Not since the Crone cursed him and caused his beard to fall out and not regrow. Petram could actually feel it grow, getting longer through his stubby fingers and after a few moments, it was thick enough to cover the hand he still held to his face. He looked down and could see it flowing over the top of his shirt and continued cascading down until it slowed and then stopped halfway down his chest. While not as long as he would like (a feeling he was all too familiar with) it was still a very satisfactory beard, and he hoped Todrick would be able to create something that would make it last longer.
Petram looked ahead, and moved on, the walls of the city only minutes away. With his beard came new confidence, and an insatiable desire to see Kiandra for the first time since he left her at the altar. He’d never communicated with her after that and in the years hence. He’d started many letters, but finished none. He simply couldn’t find it in himself to hurt her any further. Yet that was what he now had to do.
As he drew closer and saw the great stone walls that loomed in the air as far as the eye could see, he stopped and got off the mareling. Pulling her behind by the bridle, Petram came to the ornately carved wooden doors pushed the stone that opened it for him. They swung inward, grating on the stone, sounding more like broken bone grating on the break. He uttered a brief prayer to his ancestors for guidance and as
sistance and stepped into the city of his birth after vowing to never return.
The smells of burning wood, hot iron and smelting metals assaulted his nostrils. Though his family had been blacksmiths for generations, it held little excitement for Petram, who was more interested in wood and stone. The sun was just starting to set, and he brought his horse to the stables that were to the left of the doors. Archibald, the stable master was feeding the horses he had and when he saw Petram’s shadow fall on the ground he looked up. He stared for a moment, eyes squinting through glasses perched on a red bulbous nose.
“Can I help you?”
“Aye, need to board the mareling here for a couple of days.”
“Sure, sure, that’s no problem,” Archibald said still staring. “Do I... do I know you?” he finally asked.
“You gave me my first riding lesson I would hope so.”
Archibald’s eyes widened almost comically. Giving a loud whoop, he went to Petram and enveloped him in a bear hug. “By the Queen’s sagging tits, it’s you Petram! Never thought to see you again!”
“Never thought to be here again,” he said, pulling away from the stable master.
“What’re you doing here? Last I heard you were in Tularen.”
Petram nodded. “I’m an advisor to the Queen. Well, King now, and here on semi-official business.”
Archie nodded. “Well, look at, you then. In with a Royal family and yer beard grew back too!” Petram nodded but said nothing. “Are you going to see Kiandra while you’re here?”
“I’ve no choice. I have to.”
Archibald gave a whistle and looked away for a moment. “Don’t envy you that my friend. She’s not one to forgive and forget.”
“Don’t I know it. Is she still at the library?”
Archibald shook his head. “No, she’s up to the castle now, in charge of the private library there.”
“Things are never easy are they?” Petram said, sounding more than a bit glum.
“You can find her at the Double Anvil most nights after the sun sets. You can probably get a bed there as well.”
“I best be off then,” Petram said, removing the bags from the horse and slinging them over his back. “Take good care of her, it’s the Royal’s not my own.”
“As if I would treat her any less!” Archibald said with mock offense. That caused Petram to crack a bit of a smile. He waved to his old friend and walked down the main street. Businesses were still bustling, but some pubs were filling with workers on their way home. Some were having a quick drink before having to deal with their nagging wives, while others were having a meal before starting an evening of debauchery.
Petram ignored them all for the most part, and they responded in kind. The Double Anvils wasn’t far from the front gates, and it was not only the biggest Tavern and Inn but also one of the best. The different beers and ales that they had were unequalled anywhere. He shifted the weight of his bags from one side to the other and walked up the steps to the entrance. Petram took a deep breath, put his hand on the door and pushed it open.
The Double Anvils was bustling, so much so, no one even turned around when the door opened. There had been some obvious improvements made, but the smell of stale alcohol, puke and piss still permeated the atmosphere. It was a smell he’d never forget, no matter how much he tried. He stood only a bit in front of the door and looked around at his former tavern of choice. There were many places to get a drink, but few held the charms of the Double Anvils. Even all this time later the bar was packed. Petram made his way through the crowd aiming to the bar when the sharp shriek of a familiar voice managed to drown out and then silence the noise.
“Oooh, ya bastard! The nerve showing up here, as if I’d forget!”
Petram winced and was prepared for a few blows which he would reluctantly accept. He turned around and saw that the crowd had parted for Kiandra who was barreling through them, eyes focused on Petram, her hands balled into tight fists. Petram put his bags down, and as he looked up, a right hook sent him to his knees.
“Get up! Ya weak bastard, I’m just getting started.” Before he could stand, an idea came to him as quick as a chill, and he began to sing, low at first and then louder. It was a song he’d written for her on their date of engagement. He had help to compose it, but the ideas within, the imagery was of his doing.
“My Snow princess with cheeks aglow, whose body and face I will forever doth know...”
Kiandra kicked him before he could sing anymore. Petram losing all sense of decorum tried to scramble away from her on his hands and knees. Kiandra grabbed his left leg and pulled him toward her, then grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up to his feet. She grabbed his beard and gave it a sharp yank. Petram cried out in surprise more than pain. Kiandra then dragged him by the beard up a staircase at the back of the tavern, leaving Petram to trip over each wooden plank that pretended to be a stair, once on the landing, she let go of his beard, grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty room. Kiandra slammed the door so hard the building shook.
“What do you think you’re doing here? Come to reap what you sow?” Her green eyes sparkled with fury; her nostrils flaring. In spite of the anger, Petram saw the hurt behind her eyes, every line on her face, and crack in her nails was his doing. He saw his effect in every little tic, every odd bit of posture. It permeated her like cancer, and for the first time in his adult life, Petram felt tears come to his own eyes.
“I came for help, Kiandra. I cannot tell ya the why’s other than it involves the royal family in Tularen, the late Queen’s son. In particular.”
“Why should I give a...” Kiandra interrupted herself. “The Queen is dead?”
“Less than two days of rain gone, she’s on her final journey through Tulan as we speak.”
“Treachery?” Kiandra asked, feeling civil for the moment.
“Of a kind, though none doing with the Queen, ‘tis with the King, the heir.”
“And what is so wrong the Court Mage can’t heal him?”
Petram walked to a window in the small room and sat down in a chair beside it, running a hand through his beard. “Too powerful, and it may not be magic.” Petram looked up at Kiandra who was standing in place, arms folded across her ample bosom. “I’ve no right to ask for anything from ye Kiandra, I know that, but I need help.”
“What can I do?” she asked. “I know nothing about Tularen or the Royals there, other than what the traveling merchants tell us.”
“We need to find a Druid. Da’Nel of Throckmorton.”
“Now why would I know where he would be Petram Grimfoot?”
“Because you know everything,” Petram answered trying to butter her up though he knew that was probably a wasted effort.
“I know a tarnished silver-tongued fool when I see one,” she said, glaring. “And what do I get in return? If I can help that is.”
“Whatever you want Kiandra, you’d have earned it.”
“And then some. Stay here, I’ll have yer bags and some food brought up. And fer all the ancestor’s ghosts, don’t be drinking. Wouldn’t want to lose that fake beard.” Kiandra cackled and left Petram to himself. He looked out the window, no more than a vertical slit, and watched as shadows faded into the earth as the sun left Bernholdt for another day. Petram had no idea how long he’d been daydreaming when a knock on the door broke his near hypnotized state. Petram went to the door and opened it. Esmeralda the innkeeper stood there, waiting for Petram to move out of her way. Once he stepped to the side, she entered, threw his bags on the straw-filled mattress and put a plate of food on the rickety table.
She thrust a wineskin at him, and said, “Saffron tea. I expect that back.” Without another word she left and shut the door a bit too hard for Petram’s liking.
Even though he expected that kind of response it didn’t soften the blows when they fell. Petram moved the chair from the window to the table. He lit the candles there with some matches that were lying next to the brass candleholder. A fork and kni
fe were stuck in an unidentifiable piece of meat. A great wad of fat clung to one side, with a couple of small potatoes and sickly carrots on the other side of the plate. He ate with gusto, despite the abject mediocrity of the meal and gave a loud, foul belch once he’d finished. He grabbed the wineskin which he’d slung over his shoulder and took a long swallow. After another belch, he drained the wineskin, laid it on the table next to the plate and went over to the bed to lie down.
As he waited for Kiandra to come back, he fell asleep and dreamed.
They weren’t pleasant dreams nor were they nightmares, yet there was an unsettling feeling to it all. At some points, he was in the castle which was deserted. He saw occasional smears of blood along the walls and pools of it on the floor. In the Throne Room, lay bodies of soldiers, their corpses dead and rotting. Carrion birds had gotten in to pick the tender meat off the bleached bones. The feathered intruders glared at the dwarf as they continued to dine. Petram drew his sword and swung at them and they flew up for an instant and then settled back down to keep the feast of rotting meat going. He looked at the empty seat, its ornate arms made from gold and intertwined with silver and jewels. He stepped up to it and sat down, immediately falling and tumbling through the seat into a void. There was no sense of motion as he could see nothing, yet he knew the sensation. He landed on a pile of something wet and stinking. Only when his eyes came to focus in the over-bright room did he see it was the bodies of more soldiers, who’d had their bones removed through some foul magic. Petram scurried off the mound and managed to contain his retching.
He looked around, sword out and ready, as he turned in a circle. Other than the pile of deboned meat, and a small fire in a fireplace the room was empty, with no way in that he could see. Even when he looked up to where he fell from, there was only a ceiling, nothing more. Petram looked to the mound of flesh, girded himself, sheathed his sword and went to the pile. He started picking his way through the dozen or so corpses and found a trap door. With no visible handle, He took the edge of his sword and placed in the groove, popping it open with relative ease and a bit of dust. Petram looked down but saw nothing. He got on his hands and knees and peered over the edge. As he did so, a crone’s claws came reaching up from the dark and pulled him into the hole. He gave out a scream as he fell, and when he looked up, he saw that the boneless corpses were being thrown in after him.
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