He sighed, stood up and walked around, his hands wringing behind his back. He was safe, his journey complete, yet he was agitated.
“Ah … what is this?”
A wine rack, a person wide and ten feet tall, was in his midst. He pulled one burgundy bottle from the rack and blew a thin film of dust away.. There was a label in the common tongue of the humans. He checked another and another. All sorts of wines and liquors from all of the races were there. “Impressive, Oran. What a lush you had become. All of those years, drinking alone … Tsk, tsk. My, you’ve got two centuries worth here.”
Just below his waist he spied what he needed. He squatted down and pulled out a long black bottle with a mushroom cork.
“Ah … underling port, my favorite,” he said as he grabbed a small fish bowl of a glass. He wriggled his finger and the cork pulled out, hovering in the air. The fragrance enriched his senses . He had filled his glass more than half full when he noticed something else; a box made out of wire mesh sat on a dark pine table behind the sofa. Dozens of insects of all sorts were sitting inside in their garden of dirt, rock, water and sand. A jar of fine powder, like crushed pearls and salt, illuminated the side of the wire mesh box.
“I haven’t seen one of these in over a century.”
He took a large pinch from the jar and sprinkled it over the insects. The mantises, crickets, grasshoppers and the like came to life and started crawling around. A strange music began to play, like tiny violins in a forest. It sounded so good that Verbard began tapping his foot. He finished his glass in one drink and poured another.
“An insect box and all the port I can drink. I think it’s time to celebrate.”
It wasn’t long before the tightness in his chest began to subside. He let his thoughts escape somewhere else, home perhaps. He gave his mate some thought. The underling woman had been a pregnant beast when he left, and when he returned he wondered if his children might have been born. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that yet, all of the ceremonies and the like.
“Maybe I’ll just stay here a while longer,” he said, covering his mouth to yawn. Exhaustion had set in from his fingertips to his toenails, and in seconds he was fast asleep, oblivious to the fact that he was not alone.
Chapter 56
“Is it ready yet, Wizard?” a gruff voice demanded.
Fogle gave Mood another frustrated look. His face was strained with concentration, while the Blood Ranger King’s had the fiery look of an inferno. The giant dwarf’s oversized hands were clutching in and out at his sides as he paced. Fogle rubbed his scrawny neck, and then buried his nose back in his spellbook.
“I’m almost done writing, Mood. Writing spells onto scrolls is much more difficult than it looks. Go smoke another cigar or something,” he said, looking back up, “and keep your distance. I can’t be getting confused.
The big dwarf gave him a dangerous look that caused him to take in a sharp breath. Fogle would be more wary of how he addressed a king from now on.
“I’ll look fer some more grub, I suppose,” Mood said as he walked away.
“Shoo,” he said, wiping his brow while mumbling, “… and good riddance.”
“I heard that.” But the dwarf kept going.
Fogle Boon sat cross-legged by the stone pyre. The wall of mist was still over a hundred yards away, but a fog seemed to be rolling in from it. For the past two days he had been writing one of the spells from his grandfather’s spellbook, one that he had come across over a decade ago and thought utterly ridiculous. How little he had known then compared to what he knew now. Wondering if any of these spells had even been tried before, he drew in a deep breath, regained his focus, and began writing anew.
His lithe hand was steady on the parchment as he wrote. Every symbol he copied had to be exact and perfect. A small wooden box, similar to a craftsman’s toolbox, sat beside him full of scroll parchment, ink, quills and an assortment of tiny drawers and bottles. His wizard’s kit had most everything he needed for his spells, but not for his grandfather's. No, his grandfather’s spells required many other sorts of things.
He wiped the drops of sweat off his face with his sleeve. Almost done.
Unlike his own spells that he could memorize, recall and cast, his grandfather's required a different discipline. To save time, he could have just read each one from the spellbook page while casting it, but that would erase it forever. Without the proper spell components, such as an albino cat’s hair or a powdered orcen toe, it wouldn’t be possible to memorize these new spells. Instead, he had to re-write each spell in its entirety on a scroll. Each was so long it would make a bookkeeper's hand ache, but his hand was just fine. He could write days on end if he had to, and his pace was faster than normal. He shook his hand, waving the feathered quill back and forth.
Two hours later, the writing was finished.
“Are you done yet, Wizard?” Mood’s sour voice had returned.
“Almost, now get the rope.”
Mood did as he was told, pulling a coil of rope from one of the horses' saddlebags. Fogle reached inside his wizard kit and grabbed a tiny jar. After twisting off the metal cap, he dabbed his fingertip into the silvery oil. Setting the jar back inside the box, he rubbed the oil on the scroll he had written. He made a few intricate symbols on the parchment and whispered a word that ignited the oil on the paper. His face was bathed in silver light for a moment, and then the light winked out on the scroll.
“Is it ready yet?” Mood said, tossing the rope by his feet.
“It’s ready,” he said, picking up the rope as he stood up. It was climbing rope, beige, layered with fine cotton, and inlaid with twine. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to using; even as a child he had never tied a person up during play. There were many rope tricks that the magi liked to play, but rope spells were not his forte. He had never desired to study the more passive arts of wizardry.
“I suppose yer gonna be wanting me to tie it to me now,” Mood said.
The plan had already been discussed, but it was more Moods’ idea than his.
“Here, tie it around your waist,” he said, handing a length over to him.
Mood wrapped it around his waist, grumbling something in dwarven, and then secured it with a knot. Fogle tried to do the same. His fingers fumbled, and Mood had to come to his aid. “Can’t even tie a simple knot I see, silly human.”
Fogle wasn’t embarrassed though; instead, he held up before him the scroll he had just written. “Be silent now, and hold on to the rope,” he said, wrapping his free hand around his side of the rope.
He took a deep breath and began to read. As the fog rolled past his knees and the suns rose behind his back, he let the magic of the words flow from his lips. The words came fast, twisting his lips and turning his tongue. Once he got going there was no stopping. He didn’t notice the bemused look on Mood’s face. He tried not to think. Writing was so much easier than speaking. The words he pronounced were even foreign to him, and each annunciation was stranger than the one before. This was why wizards rarely read spells with the tongue. The mind could do things far quicker than the body. Memorization and trigger words were their usual practice.
Fogle felt his stomach twitch as the mystic power filled him like water fills a glass, then flushed out of him in a spiral. The parchment in his hands began to dry up and wither away, like the ashes of a fire. His throat felt dry, and his tongue was swollen and burning.
“Well Little Man, did yer little spell work or not?” Mood said as he stood at his side, still holding the rope. “You look like a sick dog.”
Fogle tried to answer, but only a mouthful of spit came out.
“Son of a Bish! Take a drink,” Mood said, handing over his canteen. Waving him off, Fogle opted to drink from a vial in his magic kit instead. The clear liquid was pasty, sticking on his tongue like honey, but tasting like salt. “Er … ulp … Ah, that’s better. I hope I never have to do that again,” he said, rolling his neck and tongue.
“Can
we get on with this? And explain how this works again. I’ve never heard of no endless rope spell. We dwarves got our own spells and—”
“I don’t see any dwarven magi here, and this is what you agreed to.” Mood’s remarks over the past two days had worn him down. The loss of Ox still left parts of him numb. “The rope will keep you tethered to me. Our knots won’t untie, either, unless we do it. It’ll go on a long ways, miles maybe, I don’t know. It’s supposed to be never-ending. Just don’t take the knot off. Tug on it whenever you can't see me… I’ll feel it and tug back.” Fogle shrugged.
Mood held his hand up, waving him off.
“Fine, I get it. Off I go, then.”
They headed toward the mist, each towing his horse. Fogle checked over his shoulder, making sure their camp didn’t leave his sight. The fog was rising over it now, but the rising suns were still clear.
“I’ll wait here.”
Mood had remarked that the coil of rope was more than 100 feet long. As he walked away, the coil of rope between them unwound. It didn’t seem like Mood had taken more than twenty steps away when he disappeared altogether. The rope was still unwinding. A naked chill ran down Fogle's spine. He pulled his horse farther back from the wall of mist. Fogle couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that there was something very unnatural about the Mist.
Mood thought he had been everywhere on Bish, even the Underland, until today. The Mist was entirely new. He looked back toward Fogle Boon, but only the mist was there. The step of his boots was cautious at first, short and uncertain. He took a deep snort in his nose and found himself in a new, strange, and tasteless world. For centuries Mood had treaded the world with absolute certainty, but now, for the first time in his life, he felt like he had no idea where he was. He tugged on the rope. A moment later it was tugged back.
Venir. If his friend was in here, it was an absolute certainty he was lost. He crunched over the hard ground until he heard a faint howling of the wind. Something or nothing was ahead; another void in space that was different from where he stood now. He had senses other men did not. He could see, taste and hear things like a wild animal in the woods.
“Sweet Mother of Bish,” he whispered.
He could see his foot hanging over a ledge. His keen eyes guided him as he walked along it, putting one foot in front of the other and fighting a feeling of despair that had begun to set in. He reached inside his pouch, grabbed some stones, and tossed one over. More than a minute passed, and he heard nothing. He hurled another one through the chasm, hoping to hear something land on another side. Only the mist, the silent white mist was there. He ran his fingers through his beard. He felt a tugging around his belt. He tugged back and turned around.
He wasn’t one to worry, but what if Fogle Boon was attacked, the rope cut or gone slack? Without the suns or moon, a landmark, water, or any life, how would he find his way out? He was certain that whatever came too far into the Mist wasn’t coming out. If Venir was in there, he was on his own, at least until they figured something out. Hand over hand he pulled his way back out of the mist. It seemed like heading out took much longer than heading in. He had counted his steps, but he was well past that amount now. He felt confused.
“What in all of Bish!” he said, as he stormed ahead.
He kept on going, wondering when the suns' light would emerge. What if Fogle Boon’s spell had not worked? What if the underling had come back and the mage was dead? Such thoughts were not common among his hardened kind. Dying in battle was honorable, but dying from being lost was … unheard of.
Chapter 57
Venir donned his helmet and forged up the hill. The roar he heard and the flapping of wings began to fade the farther he went. He could have traveled for hours or days, he did not know. He was desperate to feel or hear anything, something living, other than himself. Maybe the helmet would help him find something, for he couldn’t trust his own instincts and ears anymore.
He swore he’d kiss an underling if he saw one at this point. All of his anger had burned for decades over the evil creatures. Something inside of him made him feel obligated to kill them all. It wasn’t something he ever understood, or cared to. It was just what it was. It didn’t matter to him any more, and he wasn’t sure why it ever had. He stubbed his toe on a rock, cursed, and stopped.
“Where’d that come from?”
His foot began to throb. More jagged rocks and boulders jutted from the steep hillside that he climbed. The loose rocks under his feet were becoming more secure. He stopped and closed his eyes. There was a hum in his ears, natural like the silence of a cave. There was a beating of wings somewhere far ahead or above. He fanned the mist before his eyes, but it went nowhere. He resumed his climb, focusing on the sound of beating wings, heavy and slow, as if from a dream in a faraway land.
Sleep. How long had it been since he had indeed slept. He knew nothing but moving on in hunger, anguish and pain. He had no idea how he was sustained. Had it been hours, days, months, or years since he had been on the move? It felt like a day or two, but his mind suggested something longer. Again, the thought of his reality was intertwined with a dream or a nightmare. Was he dead or alive? Did the underlings have him captured or imprisoned in the Underland far below? He did not know. Move and live … or die.
WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!
The sound drummed in his head from time to time, but it seemed to be getting stronger. Venir had never heard a roar like that before. Many beasts roared, but not like a dozen lions in one. Whatever type of monster it might be, he was all too eager to face it. Anything would be better than what he was dealing with now: a tortuous journey that had no end in sight.
He was clawing his way up the hillside when he grabbed hold of something else. A vine? He ripped something from the ground and held it close to his face. It was a root from a plant of some kind. He pushed upward and was crawling across the boulders when felt something slick and soft under his hands. Moss? It was moist and silky. He tongue began to swell inside his mouth. There must be water nearby.
The steep incline of the hill began to subside, and his footsteps began to find softer ground. The mist began to thin and green grass mixed in with the rocks. He could see his boots now. He held his hand out from the utmost point of his face and it was still there. He picked up his pace and stepped over a large piece of driftwood. The mist seemed to dissipate and become damp, more like fog, and it left a taste of water in the air. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!
He crouched down. The beating wings were closer now than before, almost as close as the first time he heard them. He could make out a line of brush ahead and swore that he heard a trickle of water from a stream or brook. Still, everything was haunting. The assault on his senses that were dulled by the time in the mist was an awakening. There were sounds, tastes, feeling and smells. I hope I’m not dreaming.
His heart began to pound in his chest. His temples thundered the way they did before battle. Fighting the need to surge into the unknown, he slowed his pace as he passed through the brush and foliage. The mist was more like a heavy fog now, and it seemed to be lifting. The ground beneath his feet had turned to grass, leaving the rocks and rubble long behind him. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! CRUNCH!
It sounded like a flying beast had landed on a pile of logs nearby.
THOOM … THOOM … THOOM ... SNORT!
The ground under his feet trembled as he crept forward, every hair on his body standing up. Venir’s breathing became loud and heavy, but he couldn’t help it. He unslung his pack, pulled out the sack, and reached inside. There was nothing there! A streak of fear raced up his spine. His shoulder was half inside the bag before he grasped hold of something. He pulled something out. “Brool,” he whispered.
SNORT! THOOM! … THOOM! … THOOM! …
The snorting beast was coming his way. Venir remained still; his muscles were as rigid as a statue's. His arm was still in the sack, searching the vast empty space inside. I’m gonna need some armor. Nothing else came out. Blasted bag!
&
nbsp; THOOM … THOOM … Thoom …
The beast was moving away, but the suffocating tightness was still there. He had been ready to die and get this insane journey over with, but his need for survival kicked in.
“The Bish with it!”
Venir charged ahead, emerging from the mist. Toward the beast he went, war-axe raised high..
Chapter 58
Melegal slipped out of his apartment, leaving Octopus and Haze to themselves. He had Tonio’s sword, wrapped up in some cloth. He headed for the main floor. He had spent half a day recovering and letting Haze dress his wounds, now it was time to move on. He was ten feet into the main tavern floor of the Drunken Octopus when he realized he should have taken the window. His body ached so much that he didn’t have the climb in him. He glanced over to his table where Jeb and his gang now sat. Velvet was sitting on the thug leader's lap, arms draped around his neck, whispering and pointing his way. That’s when the snickers and foul remarks came. He averted his eyes.
Sam the barkeep barred his way, hands crossed over his chest.
“Ye got three days left on rent,” the man said with a guilty look in his eye. “I suggest that be the end of it. Hole up with yer friends elsewhere.”
Melegal let out a short little laugh, side stepped the barkeep, and continued on. He could feel eyes burning into his back as he headed through the door. The outer districts were onto him. They didn’t want his kind hanging around anymore. There was a constant battle between the commoners and the Royals, a silent war of sorts. Melegal worked for the other side now, the one that always won. He took a long look back and moved on. They can have it.
The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 25