The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  I bend over to kiss his brow, whispering, “Hold on, love. We’re almost there.”

  I almost could swear his eyelashes flutter at the sound of my voice.

  “Are you alright, darling?”

  I look down to find Mary with a hand on Victor’s arm. The doctor is staring off into the distance, his eyes narrowed. He blinks at her words, though, shaking his head.

  “I’m fine.” And then, more resolutely, “I’m fine. Let’s hit the road.”

  Together, they climb upon the seat in front. Grymsdyke settles into the corner between the cart and Finn’s head. The A.D. lowers himself next to Finn’s feet, his own touching mine, before huddling beneath his cloak. The space we occupy is small and cramped, but I suppose we can at least claim in such chilly weather shared body heat will not be an issue.

  “Well, now.” Victor cranes his head to look back at us. “Where is this supposed witch we’re to see?”

  “Woman,” Mary stresses. “There’s no confirmation she’s a witch.”

  The A.D. points in the distance. “Head through the village, and then take the left fork. It’ll take us straight into the woods.”

  “Do you think we’ll find any houses made of candy?” Mary asks wickedly.

  The A.D. frowns. “We better not.”

  “Houses made out of candy,” Grymsdyke mutters. “What utter ridiculousness. You would never find something so undignified in Wonderland.”

  I am tempted to chortle at the look of disbelief on the A.D.’s face at this proclamation.

  Victor slaps the reigns; the cart lurches forward. Now it is our wheels bouncing through the enormous potholes, leaving my teeth snapping with each jerk.

  It may sound ridiculous for a woman who has grown up with horses and carriages, but I believe it’s safe to say I’ve grown to much prefer car travel to this. Wonderland’s roads were never so neglected, though, especially those in the Diamonds’ lands. Shortly before I was forced into exile, workers had nearly completed paving all major travel routes. The White King had the same done to his lands, and with the two routes connecting, it allowed merchants in the two lands a much easier, safer, and quicker way to do business.

  The A.D. must feel the same as me about our journey’s conditions, for he yelps during a particularly nasty jolt. “I think,” he murmurs, gripping onto the side’s railing, “you and I got the raw end of the deal back here. We’ll be black and blue in no time.”

  I don’t say it, but I absolutely agree with him.

  The ride through the village is uneventful, although it offers a much better view of the castle. Gazing upon it as I am leaves me a bit melancholy. My own castle in Wonderland is far more majestic than this, gleaming white with gold and silver accents, appearing in both weather fair and poor like a glittering diamond. Lush gardens filled with militant yet beautiful flowers surrounded it, and every day we were treated to a symphony of delights. It was whimsical yet stately, and my people were always welcome upon the grounds. The castle here, though, appears so forbidding, so . . . untouchable. Almost as if a princess still slept within, it’s so still.

  As Mary and Victor talk quietly amongst themselves, I decide to attempt to peel back the layers Jack Dawkins has chosen to wrap around him. “Have you read these stories?”

  He tears his eyes away from a woman just about to cut the head off a struggling chicken. “Some. They’re a bit too dark for my tastes.”

  “Is that so?”

  Once more, he wraps his arms around his legs. “I prefer books that make me laugh. Or biographies. I very much enjoy those.”

  Is he funning me? But, no—he appears earnest. And this is yet another thing I would not have thought the infamous Artful Dodger to be, a reader. As he answered me honestly, I do the same in kind. “For years, most of my reading was more for work than pleasure. Histories, policies, the art of warfare . . .”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Reading such books?” I shrug. “I never minded them. They were interesting and aided me greatly.”

  He shakes his head, his greasy blond hair falling into his face. “No. I meant being a queen.”

  Grymsdyke quickly takes offense to such an innocent comment. “Her Majesty is, and will be until the day she dies, the Queen of Diamonds of Wonderland. It does not matter if she is within its borders or not to still be a ruling sovereign.”

  “My apologies.” The A.D. waves a hand in a rolling motion to mimic what would be a bow if he were standing. “I ought to have asked if you miss actively ruling. Day-to-day stuff, I mean.”

  And now he’s peeling back my layers. I sigh as I turn my focus back to our surroundings. We’re close to the edge of the village now; the buildings have begun to thin out.

  I tell him, “I suppose I do.”

  We settle into silence as the cart slowly clatters out of the village, old Lightning proving his name a misnomer. Even Mary and Victor fall quiet as the journey progresses. The conditions of the road worsen, as if that was even possible, but the view around us attempts to make up for it. Meadows line the dirt path, lush ones filled with tall grasses peppered with red poppies, tiny white marguerite daisies, and cornflowers. I could easily imagine how delightful it would be to spend a lazy afternoon amongst such beauty, crafting daisy chain crowns and dozing peacefully under misty skies. But such fanciful daydreaming leaves me even more nostalgic.

  If only these flowers sang.

  Lightning reaches the fork in the road, and Victor urges him to the left. Nearby, a falcon swoops down and snatches a rabbit from the meadow.

  Miraculously, I am able to doze just a bit—fitfully, but still. When I waken, the woods loom before us, dark and foreboding. Fog seeps out from between the branches and leaves, leaving the impression that the trees are purposely doing their best to block out the sun. They are not welcoming, not even the tiniest bit.

  “How far into the woods does this woman live?” Victor calls out from the front.

  I kick at the A.D.’s shoes to rouse him from his own attempts at napping whilst traveling a bumpy road. “‘Bout half a league or so.” He straightens a bit. “We’ll see a big oak that looks as if it’s screaming, and then the cottage will be about a kilometer past that. Should be set not too far off the main road.”

  Victor holds up his hand, forming a circle with his forefinger and thumb and raising the rest.

  Once we cross from the meadows into the forest, the temperature noticeably drops. The air is still, the mist covering the woods like a heavy blanket. Precious few sounds other than the clacking of the cart’s wheels or the plodding of the horse’s hooves surface—no crickets, no birds, no crackling of branches. Grand oaks and beeches tower over us, their long, gnarled limbs stretched out like arms hungry for prey. The farther we move into the woods, though, the quieter it becomes.

  I scan the trees, searching for signs. It’s too still. Too silent. Such silence isn’t natural. My hand reaches for the hilt of a sword I’ve brought. Nothing good comes from such stillness in a forest.

  The A.D. watches this subtle motion warily. I give a slight nod and he, too, reaches for a sword of his own. I raise a hand, flashing two fingers before my eyes and then a single over my shoulder, toward the woods.

  It’s his turn to nod.

  I search the view from whence we came; he searches the path on which we head. Unease I cannot assign reason to pools in the pit of my belly. The hairs on my arms stand at end.

  Soon enough, I know why.

  A split second before it’s too late, I spot subtle movement in a tree to my left. I lurch to my knees just as a number of dwarves, each dressed in browns and greens and bearing sharp, thin swords, drop from the trees around us like ghosts. Quick as a flash, they all thrust their blades toward us.

  Victor doesn’t bother urging Lightning to outrun them. He merely pulls the cart to a stop. Mary quickly reaches back and grabs his sword for him.

  The dwarf with the longest beard and most bulbous nose says, his voice like gravel, “Your k
ind is not welcome here.”

  “What kind is that?” The A.D. stands up in the cart, his sword readied.

  The dwarves titter amongst themselves. “He’ll eat you,” the shortest of the lot gleefully announces. “And then grind your bones with his teeth. He’s been hungry lately, too.”

  Victor also rises from his seat. “I suppose you’re warning us from the kindness of your heart to turn back.”

  The dwarf whose beard is braided says, “Not before you pay the toll. These woods are not for you.”

  I very nearly roll my eyes from such overdramatic farcicality.

  “What happens if we do not pay?” Victor asks, his voice as taut as his arm and sword. I realize he’s spoiling for a fight.

  The dwarf with the milky eyes cackles. “Then we’ll eat you up. We’re hungry, too!”

  I draw myself up to my full height. “Then you best come and take your payment.”

  For a moment, they all pause, their beady eyes locked onto me. But then the dwarf with the red curls shatters the silence with a battle cry, and his compatriots surge forward quicker than one would think dwarves might be.

  “Mary, with Finn!” I shout before leaping over the side.

  The A.D. and Victor are on my heels, their swords flashing through the murky gloom. Van Brunt’s assistant rounds the cart to attack the pair of dwarves on the right, Victor and I charge the five dwarves on the left. Pointed teeth gnash at us as they whip the thin blades, slicing through the air like the blades of a helicopter. I toss off my cloak just in time to send one sprawling with a well-placed boot to the chest.

  His wretched little blade carved an ugly hole in my skirt.

  Grymsdyke flies from the cart, landing on the top of the little man’s head. Arms swinging, the dwarf attempts to dislodge my assassin, but Grymsdyke is too strong, too clever to allow himself to be knocked off. Within seconds, his fangs sink into the man’s neck.

  The scream that follows pierces the air.

  Another dwarf lunges at me, his whiskers flying furiously about his face. I manage to dodge his sword just long enough to drive my elbow directly into his nose. A satisfying crunch precedes my sword’s hilt slamming down against his temple. He collapses onto the ground before me, muttering gibberish before his eyes droop.

  The dwarf with red curls picks himself up off the ground, shouting obscenities. It’s my turn to rush him, my sword slashing. Nearby, Victor knocks the bigger of the dwarves off his balance shortly before grabbing his tunic and tossing him into the distance.

  A duck and a dodge later, I have the red-haired dwarf pinned by the collar of his tunic to the tree.

  “You wretched beast!” he shouts at me. “The indignity of it all!”

  A punch to his chin ceases his babble.

  “Alice!” Mary shouts. “Your daggers!”

  I turn just in time to catch the blades. The dwarf with braids charges me like a bull, roaring the entire way. It’s incredibly petty and poor form in a fight, but at the last moment, I jump to the side and stick a leg out.

  He hits the litter of leaves on the forest floor face first. Within a second, I’m straddling him, the hilt of my twin blades slamming against the base of his skull. Nearby, Grymsdyke’s victim shrieks inconsolably, his body now purplish and riddled with bursting blisters.

  When I stand up, I’m forced to immediately step to the side as Victor kicks one of the dwarves in the head, sending him through the air like a rag doll. He smashes against a tree before dropping to the ground, unconscious.

  The A.D. comes into view, dragging the littlest dwarf by his feet. He tosses him next to one of his fallen comrades. “There’s another back there that Grymsdyke took care of. Little bastard bit me!”

  Grymsdyke appears on his shoulder. “I did no such thing! I know who is comrade and who is foe, thief!”

  “Not you! The bloody dwarf!” The A.D. pauses, as if he just now notices a massive spider clinging to his body. “But just to be safe, please do not bite me.”

  I look to the cart. “Mary? Is all fine?”

  She yawns. “It took you four long enough.”

  Victor lets out a breath of laughter. “Sorry to disappoint, sweets.”

  The A.D. holds his arm out so Grymsdyke can climb back into the cart with Finn and Mary. “I imagine those left with a pulse will wake up with some bloody awful headaches.”

  I bend down and finger the rope knotted around the dwarf’s tunic. “It’s best to tie them up. Chances are, when they do wake up, they’ll want a bit of vengeance for being bested so easily.”

  We work quickly, and before long, the deed is done. The A.D. stretches his arms in the air, bowing his back. “Do you think they were telling the truth about the woman wanting to eat us?”

  “They could be talking about any woman,” Mary says from her perch in the cart.

  Victor wipes his sword on one of the dwarf’s shirts before climbing into the wagon. “I believe they said he. He is hungry.”

  An unfazed Lightning is once more urged forward, but this time as we travel, I keep hold of my sword. After a while, the rare shafts of sunlight slanted through the leaves begin to wan.

  Night is coming.

  Thankfully, we finally arrive at the screaming tree, a visage well suited for a nightmare. Its branches barren of leaves, elongated holes forming eyes and a mouth in its trunk, it is a terrifying yet perfect edition for this forest. An owl hoots from within, causing a chill to tickle my spine.

  Soon enough, we spy a cottage set just off the road.

  I tell Victor. “I can walk from here.”

  “We can walk,” he says, but I gently touch his shoulder.

  “One of us always stays with Finn. Remember? You and Mary stay here. The A.D. and I will go.”

  “And me.” Grymsdyke coughs his little spider cough that is so familiar to my ears. “I refuse to allow the Queen of Diamonds to go into such an unknown situation unguarded.”

  If the thought of going into the house of someone who potentially may want to feast on one’s bones unnerves the Artful Dodger, or being told by a spider he is not enough protection for me is an insult, he does not show it.

  Mary takes offense, though. “I most certainly am coming. If this is a witch, who knows what fascinating poisons she might have inside her home?” A gleam shines in her eyes as she hops down from the cart.

  I forgo my sword for my daggers before I exit the cart, as well.

  “If I hear you screaming,” Victor says, “I’m coming in. Finn would understand.”

  Fair enough.

  Together, the A.D., Mary (with Grymsdyke upon her shoulder), and I make our way through fallen branches and leaf litter toward the cottage. Leaning toward one side, the roof nearly completely covered in moss, the abode looks worse for its wear. No paint decorates its surface, and the door appears more raw log than anything else. Smoke twists out of a brick chimney; a faint glow comes from the singular window.

  The A.D. asks quietly, “Have you met many witches, Alice?”

  I haven’t, actually. Wonderland is not home to such mystical beings, although we had plenty of other sorts whose abilities far outshone the normal. I’ve faced many a fierce opponent, though, and have seen magic wielded in other ways.

  The door opens before any of us can knock. Standing there, wearing a drab brown dress and a white apron, her auburn hair arranged neatly upon her head, is a surprisingly non-elderly woman. This is what the villagers deem old?

  “You might as well come in,” she says in a clear, lovely voice. “And those out there in your cart, too. It’s about to rain soon, and I’d hate for you to be soaked to your bones, especially that one in the back. I’ve got room for you all in here.”

  She must be in her forties or fifties, I estimate, but appears to be fit and in good health. Soot smudges her chin, but other than that, there is nothing to indicate if she’s been gnawing on bones or flesh recently. Intuition tells me she’s not all that she seems, but that she’s also not as dangerous as repor
ted.

  Still, none of us move quite yet. I say, “We apologize for intruding, but we have a few questions for you and then plan to be shortly on our way.”

  As if on cue, thunder cracks overhead.

  Her smile is tempered yet rueful. “Unless you plan on traveling through the storm, I suggest you come inside.” And then, a bit cheekily, “I don’t cook guests up for dinner, no matter what the rumors in the village may claim.”

  Next to me, the A.D. starts.

  “Let me guess. You had a run-in with the dwarves?” She shakes her head. “They are naughty boys, are they not? Always spoiling for a fight.”

  “They threatened to eat us,” the A.D. exclaims.

  The woman stands to the side of her door. “They might have nibbled on you, but chances are, they would have sold you off to creatures far less reasonable for gold.”

  “Well, doesn’t that make all the difference?” he mutters.

  Mary, on the other hand, steps into the abode. “It smells wonderful in here. What is it you do?”

  “I’m a healer,” the woman says, “and a bit of an apothecary. Is that not why you are here?”

  A quick glance around the room beyond her shoulder seems to confirm this statement. Dried flowers and plants hang from the ceiling, bottles of varying sizes line racks and tables. Far cozier and well-kept than it appears from the outside, the house does seem welcoming. But it’s the drops of rain that splatter on my face that make up my mind. Good or bad, we need shelter for the time being. I turn to the A.D. “Might as well go and help Victor bring Finn in.”

  The woman reaches out and touches his arm. “Have him bring the cart up near the house. The tree cover is better.”

  The A.D. looks to me, though, several questions in his eyes. I give a quick, assured nod in response.

  He jogs back out to the cart.

  I step into the house, warily savoring the warmth. It smells like fresh bread, and a whole host of other pleasant scents.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Mary is saying, “why is it that a healer and apothecary lives so far out in the woods?”