by Lee Dunning
The only relief came when the old woman dozed off several times during the day and part of the night. Even her rattling snores came as a relief compared to her sour, suspicious scrutiny. During these hours, Foxfire introduced Lady Rimedeath and Lord Silk to the basics of the nomad’s language. Sometimes his companions reciprocated by relating amusing tales of their time working together. Foxfire wouldn’t be adding their stories to a song anytime soon but listening to them was preferable to sitting in silence, staring at Croaking Wisdom’s meager collection of cracked crockery or brushing sand from his clothes.
At one point, Lord Silk brought up the disturbing possibility the crone could die of natural causes at any moment and no one would believe the elves’ hadn’t murdered her. It turned out she was much too acerbic and stubborn to simply keel over. Foxfire thanked the mysterious workings of fate. He couldn’t bear the idea of explaining to the council how his mission failed because his mere presence led to the demise of the tribal elder. Of all the councilors, only W’rath would find the situation humorous. Last Foxfire had seen of him though, he looked little better than Croaking Wisdom.
Now, at long last, the elder squatted in front of him, huffing in feigned indignation, pointing with knobby fingers at the scattered offerings he and the others had lugged through the portal. “So, you bring these paltry gifts and expect us to reveal our greatest shame?”
The woman’s words didn’t fool Foxfire. The elves had brought her a wealth of useful items. He’d gleaned enough about her over the days to understand she hoped to haggle more out of him. Frankly, he didn’t blame her. He saw no reason not to accommodate her. The nomads had little and the elves had plenty, however he wouldn’t allow her to insult the quality of the gifts.
“These rolls of leather came from the deep forest owlbear,” he said. “It’s the largest carnivore of my homeland. We brought enough leather to see to all your needs for at least a year. We imbued it with preservation magic. It won’t rot or grow brittle in your harsh weather. These herbs make powerful healing teas and salves. They’ll break fevers and pull poison from stings and bites.”
The old woman pretended indifference but her hands, as they lay upon her thighs, flexed with anticipation. She was more than interested. Foxfire continued his speech. “We brought several bags of fruit, all of which you’ve tasted and found free of poisons. Dried, it’s easier to carry and has a more concentrated flavor.” He didn’t mention the fruit would provide much-needed nutrients for Croaking Wisdom’s people. She’d never understand what he meant. “This honey, even without our magic, has amazing preservation properties. In addition, you can use it to add a taste of pleasure to your lives.”
“There is no pleasure in the Badlands,” Croaking Wisdom said. “Only pain is eternal.” Even so, she ran her hands over the gleaming ceramic of one of the jars.
Between the three of them, the elves had brought over five hundred pounds of goods to lay at the feet of the elder. If the clan were at full strength, the supplies wouldn’t have gone far but as best Foxfire could tell, the tribe had dwindled to less than a hundred souls. The herbs alone could save lives.
The profound scowl, which permanently froze Croaking Wisdom’s face into a forbidding mask, kept her thoughts hidden. When at last she spoke though, Foxfire knew he’d won her over. “Our salt is your salt. Be welcome. My daughter’s daughters have a made a place for you. Refresh yourselves and tonight I shall tell you how our goddess took the rain and our men, abandoning us to wander in eternal shame.
Chapter 14
This time K’hul didn’t bother with protocol and barged into Historian’s study without knocking. He ignored the displays except for the sickle-clawed reptile’s skeleton, which he spared a look of loathing before surging down the length of the room where he came to an abrupt halt, breathing hard. The annoyed countenance of his teacher glared up at him. “He knows,” K’hul announced.
“You must have me mistaken with the psion,” Historian said, turning back to his studies. “I cannot read minds. Who knows what?”
K’hul smashed his fist into Historian’s desk making the older elf jump. Historian’s precisely arranged notes shifted, leaving corners and edges pointing in haphazard directions. “The damned Exile! He knows!”
“I see.” Historian’s lips curled in disgust and he set to straightening every paper back into alignment. “This is what comes of your failure to put him down on the battlefield when you had the chance.”
K’hul wasn’t in the mood for Historian’s bullying. “I didn’t come here to endure your sneering pronouncements concerning my inadequacies. I can get enough of that from the Exile.”
Historian shrugged. “So, a need for advice brings you here. Lord W’rath requires killing. Figure out a way to make it happen. He’s small. Snap his neck and be done with it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It seldom is.” His desk back in order, Historian rose and sauntered out from behind his desk. He brushed past K’hul and strolled down the scarlet carpet flowing like a long tongue down the middle of the room. K’hul followed and found himself confronting the bloody lizard once again. Historian reached out a long hand to trace a finger down one of the huge talons attached to its raking feet.
“He has one of these as part of his made-up family crest,” K’hul said. “The damned house has molded itself to him, told him about … the great casting.”
Historian nodded, no hint of surprise shifting his features. “As I feared. He’s more dangerous than any mere Exile. After all these years Lady Uruviel Stormchaser has finally put into motion her vengeance for what the First did to Umbral. Her rage has manifested in the form of Lord W’rath.”
The image of the statue of Umbral, watching over the entryway to House of Memories, pushed its way into K’hul’s mind. The house had welcomed the Shadow Elves and only then revealed the sculpture. Even for one not used to unraveling the vagaries of diviner symbolism, K’hul understood the message. Regardless of W’rath’s claim, Umbral’s influence had returned to the Elven Nation and put all of them in peril. “He claims if something happens to him the house will tell our secret to all of First Home.”
“Well played,” Historian said. A grudging smile of admiration briefly visited his face only to melt away as if it’d never been. “Accidents do happen though … surely, the magic won’t leave us at the mercy of simple bad luck. That assumes he’s telling the truth. Do you believe him?”
K’hul had no answer. He’d gnawed at that very question during his rush to return home. “There must be a way out of this trap. I refuse to spend the rest of my life watching the back of that arrogant prick just to make sure he doesn’t break his neck tripping down a flight of stairs.”
Historian barked out a laugh. “Lady Uruviel had quite a sense of humor if that was her intent. To have the head of the K’hul family serve as bodyguard to a Shadow Elf Exile would ruin us as surely as exposing our ancestor’s treachery.” He cocked his head and turned his attention from the skeleton to K’hul. His icy eyes glittered from a face seemingly too delicate to contain them. “Has he made any demands?”
“Nothing in exchange for his silence. He professed a desire to free the elves from the curse by retaking Second Home so the populace can relocate and regain their memories without anyone realizing the truth.” That K’hul’s father may have supported the building of Second Home for that very reason somehow galled in light of W’rath’s much too reasonable claims. K’hul’s fists ached to pummel the smug face of the Exile. The only words W’rath had uttered, which K’hul fully believed, were I follow no one.
Historian returned to his admiration of the skeletal reptile. He caressed its toothy maw with an intimacy K’hul found distasteful. “They’re dangerous,” Historian said, almost to himself, “but when isolated from the group, they can be taken down.” He smiled, his expression as cold and deadly as the dagger-like teeth of the long dead hunting lizard. “From everything you’ve told me of the Exile, he’s overconf
ident. Use his ego against him. While you act the hero in Teresland, send him off to the Glass Desert. He’ll waltz down the throat of the Dragon Queen and do our work for us.”
Says the person who claims to have no skill at hunting. Then the rest of Historian’s words sunk in. “Wait—what?”
“Let me guess,” Historian’s voice dipped to the caustic level he used when he grew frustrated at his pupil’s tiresome inability to grasp a lesson, “Lord W’rath didn’t bother to notify you we’re mobilizing for an attack? He has everyone convinced the demons will seek out the elves in Teresland.”
K’hul’s ruddy face turned three shades darker. “He should have told me.”
“He shouldn’t need to tell you,” Historian shot back. “You should have thought of it yourself weeks ago. Why did I bother teaching you history and tactics if you can’t use that damned lump serving as your brain to apply the lessons?”
K’hul’s mind whirled. Had Historian realized the demons would hunt down the elves and kept the information to himself just prove a point? And he still seemed unconcerned about what W’rath’s death might unleash. “Have you forgotten about House of Memories?”
Historian tossed his head in exasperation. “Naïve child. The Exile lies. Lady Uruviel would never doom all of First Home to exact revenge against our family.”
“You can’t know that for certain.” K’hul found he’d take several steps back from his teacher. He stopped his retreat. “Your plan risks too much.”
“You came here seeking my advice and I have given it. If you haven’t the stomach to do what’s necessary then leave. Go play soldier, I’ll deal with the Exile.” Historian gestured imperiously toward the door. “Next time you come stumbling down here, don’t presume your position as Head of Household gives you the right to ignore common courtesy. Knock.” This last came out as a snarl as fierce as any K’hul’s hated father ever delivered.
For a second the faces of his father, Historian, and W’rath merged into one venomous visage and it took all of K’hul’s resolve to keep from ripping Historian into pieces. He needed the bastard, though. Needed him to help drag the family out from under W’rath’s tiny but powerful thumb. I’ll kill you later.
Without another word, K’hul exited, leaving Historian to commune with his specimens. He’d traveled halfway to his suite before it occurred to him to wonder what Historian planned for W’rath.
Foxfire and his companions learned refreshing themselves consisted of gaining use of a private yurt the tribe’s younger women set up for the elves. Foxfire didn’t know if the women were literally Croaking Wisdom’s granddaughters or if the term ‘daughter’s daughters’ simply referred to any female two generations younger than the elder. He scratched out some notes concerning what he’d discovered during the past several days. He liked to write about the many cultures he ran across during his travels. They always seemed to alter in between visits but that too interested him. When he returned home, he’d add this latest collection of notes to those he’d written during his first visit with the Clan of Thorn and Spine.
“That water is meant for drinking,” Foxfire said as Lord Silk reached for one of the chipped ewers their hosts had provided them.
“I gathered,” came the testy reply.
“How do they clean themselves if water is such a precious resource?” Lady Rimedeath asked.
“Perhaps the creatures in their hair are there to nibble away the filth.” Lord Silk peered at his gleaming ponytail as if worried an army of lice might spill out and overwhelm him.
“They scrub themselves clean with sand,” Foxfire said. “There’s a plant growing amid the clefts of the rock formations we passed. They crush its leaves and make a salve to soothe their skin after such a harsh bath. It also has a strong scent useful as a fragrance.”
“If you say so,” Lord Silk said, sounding more like a sulky child than a soldier. The Sky Elf took a mouthful of water and swished it around before swallowing. He poured a generous cup of water without wasting a drop and offered it to Lady Rimedeath.
Lady Rimedeath raised an eyebrow but accepted the cup. “These poor souls at least have an excuse for their wretched condition. I did a rotation in Teresland for two weeks and the people there go for days without bathing despite plenty of rain and a river nearby. I don’t think they even wash their clothing.”
“They don’t have magic,” Foxfire said. “The dyes in their clothes would run and ruin the outfits if they washed them. They settle for touching them up as much as possible and pour on the scents to cover the odor of old sweat.”
“And worse,” Lord Silk muttered.
Lady Rimedeath tapped her nails against her cup. “Perhaps they could hire some gnomes to help with their plumbing issues. Then they wouldn’t have to bathe in water that’s half sewage.” She sipped her water and reached for a fig from a nearby bowl.
“Not a bad suggestion,” Foxfire replied. “Right now, though, they’re more concerned with surviving the winter without resorting to cannibalism.”
A small tray of roasted meat sat next to the bowl of figs. Foxfire pulled one of the bits of flesh from a skewer and popped it into his mouth. Aside from a herd of goats, Foxfire hadn’t noticed any farm animals. Either the tribe had slaughtered one of the precious creatures to welcome their guests or the skewers contained snake or lizard. Foxfire chewed at the sinewy, bland meat. Definitely snake.
Foxfire hadn’t mentioned it to his companions but among the pillars of stone, where the nomads went to gather their fragrant plants, large poisonous snakes dwelled. Their existence was the primary reason Croaking Wisdom had reacted when he explained the herbs they’d brought could pull venom from a bite. The snakes could fill a hungry belly but their bad tempers meant they struck with little provocation. The nomads probably lost many people to the bite of the reptile they’d named Quiet Death. They needed the plants, and the snake’s flesh helped to supplement their meager diet, so they couldn’t avoid the rocks where the reptiles lurked.
Foxfire used his knife to slice off three generous portions of the soft goat cheese their hosts had left for them and doled it out to his little party. He felt a twinge of guilt eating so well when the nomads lived on the cusp of disaster. However, since the tribe had opened their tent flaps, the elves couldn’t turn down the food without giving insult.
A round-eyed face poked through the flaps of the elves’ yurt. “Elder Grandmother will speak with you,” she said. Her eyes roved over them, curiosity overcoming any fear she might have of the strange point-eared visitors. Then her head suddenly disappeared as if yanked from behind.
Running footsteps and childish giggles receded from the yurt, bringing a smile to Foxfire’s face. Croaking Wisdom is wrong, more than pain exists in the Badlands.
Foxfire stood. “That’s my cue, I guess.” He winced when the soldiers’ confused expressions told him he’d let slip another odd phrase. He waved them back to their seats as they made to join him. “It’s okay, she’s opened their homes to us—I’ll be fine. It will show respect if I go alone. Plus, she’s more likely to open up with a small audience.”
“Sounds grand to me,” Lord Silk said, plucking up one of the skewers of meat. He scrutinized it with suspicion. “The less time I have to spend around that rattling pile of bones, the less I’ll itch.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Lady Rimedeath said. She gave Foxfire an apologetic smile. “Good luck, Councilor.”
A half hour passed while Foxfire sat cross-legged on the tired rug serving as a guest seat in Croaking Wisdom’s yurt. She’d greeted him gruffly when he arrived and set to preparing one of her people’s bitter teas. A battered old oil lamp gave off a weak glow. That she’d honor Foxfire by using such a rare resource as oil to welcome him, struck the elf as a good sign.
Once it had finally steeped enough to satisfy the old woman, she poured the tea out and waited patiently for Foxfire to choke it down. The elf longed to add some of the honey they’d gifted the humans but he didn’t d
are bring the subject up. In keeping with the tribe’s name, its members had a reputation as prickly, and Croaking Wisdom epitomized that quality. If he hoped to extract information from her concerning the Dragon Queen, he couldn’t risk angering the elder.
When at last only a few leaves remained, Foxfire placed the empty cup down. “Your tea tastes as fine as the last time your people welcomed me,” he said.
Croaking Wisdom wheezed and it took Foxfire a moment to realize the old woman laughed. “It tastes like goat piss,” she said in between gasps for air. “We serve it to guests to test their commitment. You’ve drunk it twice? You must be very committed.”
Or stupid. Foxfire felt his cheeks heat. “In light of that …”
“Yes—yes,” Croaking Wisdom said, her laughter going to dust like the forest that once covered the Badlands. “You wish to know of our goddess and her abandonment of us.”
Foxfire tried to recall what he knew of the nomad’s belief system. When last he’d traveled with them, they had pointed at the distant obelisk breaking the endless white of the glass desert with its unnatural metallic black sheen. They indicated their goddess resided within its strange shell. They also told him all who approached the goddess’ palace died, that she valued her privacy. If she desired the attention of her children, she came to them, filling the skies with storms and bringing them life among the wastes in exchange for trinkets and camels.
Foxfire had to admit that sounded very much like a dragon. Though he stayed with the nomads for months, the goddess never made an appearance. When at last he said his goodbyes to the humans, he made his way toward the obelisk. After ten days, the strange anomaly loomed above him larger than three skyscrapers, from his home world, stacked end to end. An unknown length lay buried beneath the sands. A queasiness crept into his stomach and head, which he recognized as his body fighting a toxin. The magic in his veins would protect him but that he felt it at all meant he traveled perilous sands indeed. No wonder humans couldn’t visit the residence of their goddess. However, science not magic or nature had created the barrier. The structure itself leaked poison, spreading death as it settled like a sentinel in the wasteland its arrival caused.