Greyfax Grimwald

by Niel Hancock

  “Ahem,” he began, shifting and tumbling through the contents of the pack. “Here,” he stammered. “No, now where has it gotten to? Ah, here it is,” and his hand fell on the gleaming eye of the dragon stone. He wasn’t sure if it was made of stuff men would treasure, but it sparkled and caught the dim light, bursting into a hundred colors at once, filling the room with the glow of an exploding rainbow. Bear had never really looked closely at the stone, and was as dumbfounded as Wheatflower, who stood, eyes starting from his head, at the door. The two figures watched, speechless, as the colors began taking shapes, moving quickly into spinning, glistening patterns upon walls and ceilings. A head, large and bright emerald green, appeared, snake-like, but with long rows of carved, gleaming teeth. Then came a body, serpentine, coiled and covered by a sheen of pale golden skin. As this vision unfolded before them, a distant echo of a deep voice reached through the veiled room.

  “What seek ye of the stone, Master?” Vibrations of red and purple-gold sound rang about them, and a faint chime of bells in some faraway citadel sounded.

  Wheatflower’s jaw dropped, and Bear had sprung for the safety of the underside of the nearby table.

  The sound of a great, rushing tide flooded their ears.

  “Speak, Oh Master. What task is set for the dwelling within the stone?”

  Dwarf had never said anything about the dragon stone, except that it was an heirloom of his family, and Bear trembled to think he had been carrying it about with him like some ordinary piece of common feldspar. Tentatively, voice breaking, he called out.

  “I am Bruinlen, descendant of Bruinthor, mighty king of old, keeper of the stone. My dear friend Dwarf has been taken by the Dark Queen, and I now carry you until such time as I may return you to your rightful master.”

  Two sudden brilliant white flashes lighted the room, and the two men had to cover their eyes with their arms to keep from being blinded.

  “I am aware of all you say, Bruinlen. You have carried me well, and I shall serve you as my master for the time it takes to discharge your mission. I would have spoken to you before, but there was no cause to awaken me until now.”

  From the far corner of the chamber, a great, armored golden fish swam onto the air and passed over their heads, spewing large crystal bubbles that burst and showered the floor at Bear’s feet with a dozen or more perfectly shaped stones.

  “You may use one of these for payment to the innkeeper. Carry the rest and use them as the need arises.”

  “I wasn’t really going to part with you,” stammered Bear, but he was cut short by a loud, popping noise, and a miniature display of fireworks sizzled and whizzed about the floor. As the last rocket burst, the light faltered, flared once more, then went out, leaving Bear staring dumbly down at the dark eye of the stone in his still outstretched hand.

  Wheatflower shook his head violently, blinking his eyes twice in rapid succession. He looked quickly at Bear, who was picking up the small, shining stones from the floor.

  “I seem to have dropped them,” he said, trying to disguise his bewilderment. “Here, friend, here is your price, and more, but it’s the smallest I have to offer.” He placed the small, round stone in Wheatflower’s hand. The man stared in amazement at it, rolling it around with a finger, and at last placed it between his teeth and bit down sharply.

  “Aoow,” he mumbled, taking it out again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Just testing, friend,” he explained. “I’m not so dumb as to have never heard of worthless glass being passed off as jewels. This one seems on the straight, though. A pretty thing, too. I accept it, against your bill, and will extend you credit, too, if you travel these parts often.”

  Bear had drained one of the honey bottles in a swig, and now sat wiping a sleeve across his mouth to dean the comb from his mustache.

  “Thank you, friend. I don’t expect I’ll be in these parts beyond this once, but if you have any more of this, I’ll take a few more bottles in place of credit.”

  “As you wish, sir, there’s plenty more where that came from. You admit it’s good then,” chuckled Wheatflower, the warmth of his new treasure resting safely in the pocket of his robe, next to his pistol

  “Most excellent fare,” gulped Bear, already busy at the second bottle, then under his breath as Wheatflower left, “At least for a man stomach. Eek, but it would give me heart murmur, or worse, if I tasted this stuff as me.” He lost himself a moment, thinking of his snug cave and the great ripe barrels of bark bear honey that awaited his return, and musing on his home, he grew weary, and the prospect of his supper began to lose its promise for him. He tried counting the days he had been gone, wandering about these cold man roads, but somehow the mere counting made him even wearier, and he left his tally at something over eighty days, as Mankind marked it, and wished aloud Wheatflower would hurry back to show him his bed. He’d finished the third bottle, and had gotten halfway through the coffee when the innkeeper came clanking in again, arms full of the same dark brown bottles.

  “There should be enough here to keep you, Master, er, I didn’t catch the name. Jason Wheatflower, at your service.” And bowing low, he placed the new bottles before Bear and picked up the empty ones.

  “Bruinlen, friend, and thank you. If you could show me my bed, I’d be grateful. I’ve been upon the highway now for a good many miles, and would deep.” Bear rose, picking up the bottles. “I’ll just take these to my room with me, to ease up a bit.”

  “Certainly, certainly, Master Bruinlen, come this way, please. I’ve just put fresh linens in one of my most comfortable rooms, and I’m sure it’ll satisfy your fancy.”

  Wheatflower showed Bear up the stairs, and at the second landing led him into a rather small but cheery room that overlooked the inner courtyard and stables of the inn. Bear thanked his host again, bowed, and placed the honey on the table near the bed. After emptying two more bottles of the heady stuff, he wearily lay back, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin. There was no fire in the room, and he soon grew cold again, so he quickly crossed and checked to make sure his door was bolted, repeated the words and crawled back into bed, more comfortable in his heavy, warm fur body.

  “Men,” he muttered sleepily. “Not even thick-skinned enough to ward off a simple chill.” Almost before he finished his speech, his head was beneath the pillow, paws to his muzzle, and he was snoring, his dream mind filled with the light of the dragon stone and great golden fish that breathed precious jewels.

  Below him, in the stables, Wheatflower was waking his stable hand, a knobby-boned gypsy that worked for a scrap of food a day and warm nay to sleep on at night.

  “Wake up, you useless lump. We’ve work to do.” Wheatflower directed a vicious kick at the dark head.

  Whining, Strap cringed before his master. “No need in cracking my skull. I’ll do what you want, just give me time to get the sleep out of my eyes.”

  Wheatflower handed the man an old, rusty dagger. “We have a guest tonight. I won’t expect to see him for breakfast tomorrow. If you do your work well, you’ll be justly rewarded. If not, I’ll flail the stinking skin off your miserable back.”

  Strap shuddered.

  “Is it another soldier whats you wants me to cut? Does he carry things to hurts me with?” Strap cringed, holding the rusted blade close against him.

  “He’s unarmed, just like you like them. If he’d carried weapons, I wouldn’t have asked a stinking dog of a coward to kill him.” Wheatflower aimed a kick at Strap’s backside, but the man hurried out before him, still cringing and complaining. He looked up at the dark window of Bear’s room, twisting the knife in his hands.

  “Use the trapdoor, idiot. And don’t wake him, or I’ll have seen the last of your likes. He’s a big one, this fellow.”

  Strap entered the dark galley and disappeared. Wheatflower walked slowly back across the courtyard, listening to the hard-packed snow crunch beneath his feet, already counting the other jewels in his mind, the other stones he had seen after his strange half-w
aking nightmare, when the man had dropped them. He took the small, round, warm thing out of his pocket and held it before his eyes. It caught the silver-white light of snow and stars, holding them in its smooth surface, reflecting back the dark blue sky like a field of glittering, shimmering, brilliant fire.

  “At last,” he sighed. “After all these years of sweating and starving I have my chance. No more licking boots for my living. I’ll be my own master for a change.” He laughed, and the stone glowed dimly in his dark eyes, burning his hand and mind with the power it would give him, once he had the others. Then it would be Master Wheatflower, or. General Wheatflower, if he wished, and he would be feared and admired by all those scum who had stepped on him as if he were no more than a beetle. Once he possessed all the stones, he, Jason Wheatflower, would step on a few beetles himself.

  With these thoughts raging through his fevered brain, he went into the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait.

  In Bear’s room, a rug shifted a few inches, raising slowly, and Strap peered out of the small slit at the large figure upon the bed. He listened for a few moments, making sure the man was asleep, then slowly raised the trapdoor fully open. Its hinges creaked as he laid it back, and terrified, he froze to the spot, not daring to breathe. The snoring went on unaltered.

  Strap fingered the dull blade of his knife, stretched out a foot, and repeating the process, put out the other, slowly, carefully, one after the other, until he stood beside the bed. The man was covered completely by the rag of a blanket, and in the poor light, Strap couldn’t be sure where to strike his blow. Holding his breath, he carefully placed his hand out and grasped the edge of the blanket, drawing it slowly down. The pale, dim starlight filtered in across Strap and onto the peacefully sleeping form of Bear. Thinking the figure unlike any other he had ever seen, Strap leaned close to the sleeping muzzle. Bear snored loudly, smacked his lips, and turned over, sprawling one huge forepaw over the edge of the blanket. Strap’s knife clattered loudly to the floor, followed by his scream, and he stumbled backward, teetered a moment, then went crashing down into the open trapdoor. Below, Wheatflower gloated, hearing the scream and scuffle, and went out to the stairway to claim his rightful treasure, the jewels that would make his fortune. He was greeted at the landing by a huge, towering dark form that was cloaked from top to bottom in what appeared to be a fur robe. As his foot touched the last step, the booming figure whirled.

  “A demon ghost,” shrieked Wheatflower, stumbling headfirst down the stairwell, thumping and bumping down to a stunned heap. Bear, dunking something had attacked the man, hurried down to the crumpled form.

  “Easy there, easy,” he said, patting the man’s hand with his paw, and trying to think what he ought to do. “Water, he should have a nice glass of water,” he mumbled, and lumbered off in the direction he thought the kitchen to be. In the galley, Strap held a mangled arm to his side, and white with fear, was racing toward the safety of his stable. As he crossed the pantry, Bear’s shadowy form filled the room, muttering in his own tongue, trying to find the pump handle to draw up water for the unconscious innkeeper on the stairway. Strap, eyes accustomed now to the dark, fainted away at the sight of this apparition moving purposefully about in the dim kitchen quarters. Bear finally found what he was after, and leaving, looked down and saw the small tin cup clutched in his huge paw. He returned hastily to man form, and hurried out to his stricken host.

  Wheatflower sat cowering on the bottom stair, his pistol clutched unsteadily in his hand. Seeing Bear, he tried to steady his aim, but his arm shook, and still weakened and dazed by his fall, his shot went wide, burying itself in the wall beside Bear’s head. The report and blinding muzzle flash stopped Bear in his tracks, but before the man could gather himself to fire again, Bear was on him, swatting the firearm away with a heavy, quick blow.

  “I’m not your assailant, friend. You’ll hurt someone if you’re not more careful.”

  Wheatflower scooted backward up to the next step, eyes wide with fright. All thought of the stones was gone, and all he wanted now was to go on drawing breath.

  “I meant no harm, Master Bruinlen. I thought some assassin had attacked you in your sleep. I heard noises and rushed to aid you, but there was a demon monster at your door that set upon me and threw me down the stairs.”

  Wheatflower’s head spun at the strange visions that had come upon him since this odd man’s arrival. First the frightening scene in the common room, then the giant goblin that had appeared to him on the landing.

  “I thank you for your attempt to help, friend, but you should be more cautious about waving firearms : so recklessly. Your aid came near to settling me for good.” Bear helped the man to his feet. “But what’s done is done, and I know you meant well. I think your murderer has fled, whoever he was, and frightened out of his wits to boot. I don’t think we need fear any further attacks tonight. I’m going to try to finish out my nap, and suggest you do the same. You’ll probably have some nasty bruises tomorrow, and a rest is what you need.”

  “I don’t understand at all,” muttered Wheatflower. “I run a decent inn. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing. I’ve never had any trouble before.”

  “Most likely some passing bandit; the roads are full of all sorts these days.” Bear stumped heavily up to his door. “I would make sure my gates were double-barred in the future, to avoid such ruckuses as this.”

  “I shall indeed, Master Bruinlen,” he agreed quickly. “I shall do that, for sure.” Another dark thought was slowly stirring in his reeling, tortured brain.

  At daybreak, Bear awakened to loud voices from the courtyard below.

  “That’s him, sir, there’s the one who did it” Wheatflower’s voice was loud and accusing.

  Bear went to the window and looked down. Two soldiers had Strap by both arms, one broken and useless, and a third soldier with a single iron bar on his helmet stood beside the innkeeper. “He made me do it, it’s him what’s guilty,” whined Strap, his arm throbbing painfully, bringing tears to his eyes.

  “I was kind enough to give this murdering thief a job when he came to my door starving. I’ve given him shelter and food, and this is how he repays me,” Wheatflower said indignantly.

  “Well take care of his likes,” growled the officer. “He’s not strong enough for a work camp, but he’s good enough to make good target practice for my men.”

  “No, no,” screamed Strap, struggling to free himself from the grasp of his captors. “Not Strap, he’s done no harm, you can’t shoots old Strap.”

  “Take him away,” ordered the officer, and the two soldiers led the gypsy squirming and screaming away.

  Wheatflower was pointing up toward Bear’s window, explaining something to the officer, who nodded, and the two of them came back toward the house. Whatever they were up to, Bear knew it was of no good tidings to him. At the least, all those unpleasant questions, or at the worst, another delay. He placed two bottles of the honey in his rucksack, pulled it onto his back, and hurried down the stairs.

  As he passed the front gate and quietly shut it after him, he heard the galley door slam and the two men clumping loudly up the stairs. A quick look revealed no one about on the dawn streets, and Bear quickly set out toward the edge of the small settlement, trying not to walk too hurriedly, and as he reached the crossroad where the highway met the village, he veered sharply away, heading for the safety of the thin patch of low shrub trees that bordered the open fields around the town. At any moment, he expected to be hailed, but after a tense few minutes, he was under the low-lying branches of the trees, and no one had seen his passing. The sun had broken the chill that lay over the day, and the bright light sparked gaily on the snow. Above, the sky was a dear, high blue, the wind crisp and fresh, a good day for traveling, he thought, and travel he must, and put as many miles beneath his feet as he could, for they would be looking for him soon.

  Wheatflower and the officer had agreed to split the gems between them, and put the fellow into
the army, or a work camp, and no one would ever know the difference. They had searched the inn and stables thoroughly, and at last, victim gone, the officer, angered at being done out of the treasure he was promised, marched Wheatflower at weapon point to his commander, and enlisted him in a company outbound for a distant front.

  The officer then alerted his men to be on the lookout for a deserter, and promised a reward of gold for the man who brought him the big stranger. He did not mention treasure.

  And Bear, moving steadily on, reached woods’ end by noon, and was safely far beyond their reach by nightfall. He had seen no living thing the entire day, except for the birds chattering in the woods. He spoke to them, inquiring if any of them had seen a small gray otter thereabouts. And one, a dark russet brown field lark, told him of the strange animal with die odd humped back that had passed through their land, going on away toward the mountains. This news heartened Bear greatly, and he doubled his speed, in hopes of overtaking Otter before the little fellow reached the now barely visible lines of low foothills stretched out across the horizon.

  Otter and Flewingam roused themselves and broke fast with the remaining food Otter carried, and moved on, ever upward now, across the rolling chain of snow-carpeted hills. They planned to reach a shepherd’s camp that Flewingam knew to be safe by nightfall, and with another day’s march, to be at General Greymouse’s camp.

  A Voice

  From

  the Past

  At daybreak, Dwarf was awakened by a chattering, incessant bird voice. It was calling out loudly in a tongue he understood well.

  “Wake up, you scoundrel, you crack wing, wake up, I say.”

  A flutter of dark black wings beat about Dwarf’s head. He reached for his sword and began thrashing blindly at the drumming things. The raven flew up out of Dwarf’s arm reach and pelted him with a stone he had picked up in his beak.

  “Villainous nest robber, I’ll have your eyes for my breakfast,” cawed the bird in a screeching war whoop, and dived angrily at the stunned dwarf. Just as he fell upon the little man to pluck out an eye viciously, he halted in mid wing-stroke.