The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper

by Mel Odom

  “All right now!” the skink bellowed in a voice that somehow filled the goblinkin lair. “It’s time to party!”

  The goblinkin just stared at Rohoh.

  He, Wick thought, is supposed to help me? When I get back to One-Eyed Peggie, Craugh and I are going to have a serious talk.

  “Is that a lizard?” one of the goblinkin asked. He struggled to keep his eyes open. The effects of the ale showed throughout the goblinkin ranks.

  “Aye,” another goblinkin said, “that’s a lizard all right.”

  “Ye ever ate a lizard?”

  “I have. Crunchy little thing, it was.”

  “But was it good?”

  “It was good enough.”

  “Might be good in the stew is what I’m a-thinkin’.”

  “Get that lizard in the stewpot,” Chief Zoobi ordered.

  Three of the goblinkin staggered forward. For a moment, Wick felt sorry for the skink. Then he remembered all the hateful things it had said to him. Still, he was loath to see it thrown into the bubbling pot.

  Wick glanced at the entrance to the lair and wondered if he could grab Rohoh and make a run for it. After all, the rude little creature might come in handy later. The skink can run faster than me, he realized.

  Then he slid his right foot in the direction of the lair’s entrance. None of the goblinkin even noticed. Emboldened, he slid his right foot out and took another step.

  “Wait!” Rohoh cried out, lifting his tiny hands and arms.

  The goblinkin halted, looking at each other in consternation.

  “It’s a-talkin’,” one of the goblinkin said. “Anybody ever seen a talkin’ skink?”

  “Ye’re not there to talk to it, Uluk. Just toss it in the kettle.”

  “I’m a magic skink,” Rohoh shouted.

  That stopped the goblinkin. Since he was talking and that wasn’t a normal think for skinks to do, it was obvious that he was different.

  “Magic, ye say?” Chief Zoobi forced his way to the front of the goblinkin.

  “Yes,” Rohoh said.

  “What can ye do?” The goblinkin chief squinted at him.

  “Well,” Rohoh said, taking a moment to think, “I can talk … and I can dance.”

  “Let’s see how he tastes,” another goblinkin yelled out. “I get dibs on the head.”

  Rohoh stepped to the back of the teetering keg, waving his arms to keep his balance. Desperate, he yelled, “Also, I know the way to a fabulous treasure.”

  Wick groaned. How often has that been used in the romances in Hralbomm’s Wing? Talking fish. Talking snakes. At least if he was a talking bear he’d be big enough to defend himself.

  But the goblinkin hadn’t read the romances in Hralbomm’s Wing.

  “A treasure, ye say?” Chief Zoobi asked.

  Rohoh held his tiny arms as far apart as he could. “A huge treasure. Toss me in the pot and you lose your chance at the treasure.”

  “Well now,” the goblinkin chief said, “I could do with some treasure. This bears a-thinkin’ on.”

  “Great,” the skink said, clapping his hands. “While you’re thinking, let’s dance.” He turned to the drummers. “Give me a beat. Something with some feeling. Remember, you’re going to get a treasure!”

  Enthusiastic now in addition to being well in their cups, the drummers pounded their instruments. The skink started dancing, waving his arms and tossing his head to the beat.

  Wick was so mesmerized by the sight that he forgot he was supposed to be escaping. Then he noticed that the skink’s hand and head gestures grew more pronounced. So did that of the goblinkin.

  Aggrieved, the lizard stopped dancing long enough to stomp his foot and point toward the lair’s entrance. “Go!” he shouted.

  Immediately, the goblinkin followed his lead, stomping their feet and pointing at the lair’s entrance. They also shouted together, more or less, “Go!”

  Understanding then, Wick turned and fled.

  “Hey!” someone yelled. “The dweller’s gettin’ away!”

  Okay, maybe it would have been better if I’d figured this out for myself! But it was too late now. Wick ran as fast as he could. As he turned the corner to head outside, he ran straight into a bear.

  7

  Dwarven City of Industry

  Actually, Wick didn’t run into a bear. He just thought it was a bear. But that was before he bounced back from the huge bulk, landed on his backside, and was able to get a better look at what he had collided with.

  A dwarf in full armor peered fiercely down at Wick. Thick and burly, with fair hair and beard, he stared at Wick through solemn gray eyes. He wore his hair back in a long braid that draped over a massive shoulder and was tied up with silver chains.

  The dwarf had his battle-axe lifted over his helmed head and was prepared to strike. Moonslight glinted from the sharp, double-bitted blade.

  Wick covered his head with his hands, yanking the chef’s hat down over his eyes. “Don’t!” he yelped, certain that he was about to become—mostly—asymmetrical halves.

  The axe didn’t descend.

  Unable to bear the suspense, Wick peered under the edge of the chef’s cap and between his trembling fingers. I’m not cut in half! He touched his middle because he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “A halfer,” the dwarf growled.

  Wick saw that the dwarf wasn’t alone. Of course, it would have been foolish for him to attack a goblinkin stronghold all alone. Gazing beyond the first dwarven warrior, Wick saw that at least a dozen others followed the first up the narrow trail leading to the goblinkin lair.

  “What’s the halfer doin’ here, Bulokk?” another dwarf asked.

  “Looks like he was cookin’ for the goblinkin,” Bulokk replied.

  “No,” Wick protested. “There’s been a mistake. I was just—”

  The arrival of the staggering goblinkin interrupted his explanation. “Dwarves!” one of them yelled. “Dwarves is upon us!”

  “Axes!” Bulokk roared. He took his battle-axe in hand and set himself. Two dwarves flared out to either side of him, a full step back to give him plenty of room to swing.

  The goblinkin responded as swiftly as they could, but the ale they’d consumed made them slower than normal. They fumbled with their weapons. Roaring a deafening war cry that echoed from the hilltop, Bulokk swung his axe. Goblinkin went down like felled wheat under a harvester’s scythe. Covered in a wave of green goblinkin ichors, Wick rolled over and tried desperately not to get trampled. Getting to his feet, he found himself pressed along with the action, trapped between the advancing lines of dwarves and the goblinkin.

  “Anvils!” Bulokk yelled.

  Immediately, the dwarves shifted until they faced the goblinkin two by two. Bringing their shields up, they pushed the goblinkin back into the cave.

  “Axes!” Bulokk roared once they were inside the cave that served as the goblinkin’s lair. Lit by the flames under the boiling kettle in the center of the cave and by torches that were shoved into the ground, the battle continued.

  Goblinkin and pieces of goblinkin rained down on Wick. He dodged, using his dweller’s quickness, barely staying ahead of the axes, clubs, and cudgels. Once he’d even managed to get clear of the action and grab onto the wall. He panted, breathing hard, hoping to let the battle pass him by so that he could make his escape.

  Then the fierce-faced dwarf with the braid spotted him. “So there ye are, cook.”

  “‘Cook’?” Wick put a hand to his chest and shook his head. “I’m no cook. I’m a—” He managed to stop himself before he said Librarian. Then the poofy top of the chef’s hat, which had somehow—for once—managed to stay on his head, collapsed slowly down over his face. He pushed it aside. “They made me wear the hat.”

  The denial seemed a weak defense at best. Especially with the sound of steel meeting steel all around them. Shadows danced on the wall as the battle was waged. There was no doubt about the outcome. One of the dwarves grabbed a goblinkin and
threw him into the boiling pot.

  “Ye’re a-comin’ with me, halfer,” the dwarf promised grimly. “I’m sure Master Blacksmith Taloston can think of a suitable punishment for him who’d cook up his mates an’ serve ’em to the likes of these here goblinkin.”

  “But I didn’t serve the goblinkin anything!” Wick said. “I swear! You’ve got to—”

  “Shut yer cakehole, halfer, afore I shuts it fer ye!”

  Wick shut. The chef’s hat collapsed down in front of his face again. Surely One-Eyed Peggie was on her way back by now.

  Only a few goblinkin survived the dwarves’ surprise attack. The rest were quickly routed and went screaming down the hillside to disappear into the trees. Their longer legs served them in good stead in that regard.

  When it was over, Bulokk spent time taking care of the wounded. Three of his warriors had to be carried out on litters. Despite his small stature, Wick was assigned one of the corners of a litter.

  “We should just cut his throat here,” one of the dwarves grumbled to their leader.

  “No,” Bulokk replied, giving Wick a hard stare. “We’ll leave his fate to Master Blacksmith Taloston. Mayhap he’ll think of something evil enough for the likes of a dweller what would cook up his own kind for goblinkin stew.”

  “It wasn’t stew,” Wick said before he thought about what he was saying. “It was dweller surprise.” He clapped a hand over his mouth.

  In the Vault of All Known Knowledge, he’d gotten used to speaking his mind when someone got his or her facts wrong. It usually saved that Librarian a lot of time and effort. Although Wick’s contributions weren’t generally acknowledged or appreciated, he couldn’t help making them. He was in the business of correcting facts, after all.

  Bulokk scowled at him. “Ye’re beginnin’ to tires me, cook.”

  Wick shook his head. He opened his mouth to deny the charges.

  Throwing a finger into Wick’s face, the dwarf said, “Ye want to stay alive long enough to find out what Master Blacksmith Taloston has in store for ye, ye’ll grab ahold of that litter an’ get to movin’.”

  Since it took both hands to lift the corner of the litter, Wick didn’t have a free hand to keep over his mouth to remind him to keep silent. He bit his lips instead.

  Then they were on their way.

  The trip down the hillside, encumbered as they were by the wounded, took a long time. Going without sleep after being frazzled and worried for days aboard One-Eyed Peggie, then being an unwilling guest of goblinkin who wanted only to eat him, hadn’t agreed with Wick’s nerves. He barely had the strength to make the trip. He didn’t even argue when Rohoh caught up to the procession and climbed up his leg, undetected by the dwarves.

  At the bottom of the long, crooked trail down the hillside, was another long hike to the caves where the dwarves lived. After being around the dwarves in Greydawn Moors, who lived mostly outside, it was always a small shock to find dwarven villages inside the earth.

  Only a few fortifications existed aboveground. The caves were vent holes for the volcano at the bottom. As they approached their destination, Wick felt the heated air and sulfur stink coming from them.

  The dwarven entrance was little more than a hundred paces from the coastline, which told Wick at once that they lived below sea level. That seemed awfully risky to him. Parts of the Vault of All Known Knowledge extended down into the bedrock of the Knucklebones Mountains. In places, bridges to the lower levels even crossed the underground river that flowed through the area. However, the Vault of All Known Knowledge seemed so … invulnerable Wick never worried about drowning inside it.

  Beyond the dwarven fortifications, the Rusting Sea rolled out and upward, meeting the sky. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, coming out from behind the hillside they’d left. The light caught the shimmering orange coloration of the sea.

  At the end of a short pier, a ship sat at anchor. Wick studied the vessel, hoping it might be One-Eyed Peggie. Even if Craugh wasn’t there to admit that he’d shoved Wick into a job far too difficult and dangerous for him and was there only to berate Wick for laying waste to whatever carefully constructed plan he’d wrought, the little Librarian figured he would at least be among friends.

  Not dwarves who chose to believe he was a cook for goblinkin.

  But it wasn’t One-Eyed Peggie who lay at anchor in the natural harbor. It was a human ship that was there merely to trade. A line of carts moved onto the pier, loading up and taking away cargo. Boom nets swung over the ship’s side to make the transfer easier.

  Idly, Wick wondered what the dwarves manufacture to trade. Locked on the island as they were, it was easy to see that the Cinder Clouds dwarves would need several things. Then he noted the shabby quality of the clothing under the dwarves’ fine armor. Maybe they’re used to living hand-to-mouth.

  Once the carts were emptied then full again, the drivers drove them back among the fortification. A great, hinged stone gate swung open and allowed entrance.

  “Move along, halfer,” Bulokk’s rough voice said. “Ye’ve done just about enough gawkin’.”

  Taking a fresh hold on the litter he helped carry, Wick trudged forward once more. He was looking forward to sitting down, but he was afraid it might be the last thing he would ever do.

  “Who goes there?” The challenge rang out strong and bold from the stone fort.

  Wick stood at the large stone slab that served as the gate. He was tired and ached all over, and his eyes were fatigued and grainy.

  “‘Who goes there?’” Rohoh repeated. “Like he doesn’t have eyes in his head to see.”

  “Quiet,” Wick told the skink. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  “Bulokk,” the dwarf called back up. “Open up. Ye’ve got injured warriors a-waitin’, an’ all of ’em tired.”

  The dwarf manning the gate tower grinned down from above. “Did ye do for ’em then, Bulokk?”

  “Aye,” Bulokk called back up. “We did. Got rid of one nest, but there’s more of ’em out there.”

  “There always will be,” the other acknowledged. “Until we find a way to take these isles back to ourselves. At least them beasties won’t be tryin’ to get our fishin’ crews for a while.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Open the gate!”

  The cry was repeated. Then, a short time later, the mechanical clank of a windlass ratcheted to life. Chain links clinked as they wrapped the drum. Slowly, grating smoothly, the huge slab of rock raised along the cunningly wrought tongue-and-groove channels fashioned for it. When it rose to its full height some five feet above (plenty of room for a dwarf to walk through), other gatekeepers locked it into place with stone chocks.

  “All clear,” the dwarf above called down. “Come ahead.”

  Stumbling into motion again, Wick walked through the gate.

  “That’s a big rock,” Rohoh said. “If it fell, we’d be smashed flat.”

  Not, Wick thought, a pleasant thought.

  “Probably be relatively painless, though,” the skink went on.

  Wick chose to ignore his unwanted passenger. Some of the fatigue dropped away as Wick’s interest flared anew. He’d been in dwarven fortifications before, by himself and with Craugh, and he was constantly amazed at the architecture. Each underground village or city took advantage of the lay of the land, which resulted in a unique experience each time.

  Inside the fortification, three hills filled the center. All of them, Wick knew, led to different and separate sections of the dwarven village. One would lead to the forge area. Another would go to the living quarters. And the third was reserved for the storage area and wells that tapped into groundwater directly or used a filtration process involving a limestone-lined cistern.

  The carts unloaded in front of one of them. Bulokk’s warriors headed for another. Wick followed along. They handed off the wounded warriors to dwarven women, who picked up their men and carried them down into the passage.

  Then Bulokk grabbed Wick by
the shoulder and aimed him at the third aboveground entrance.

  Upon entering the tunnel, hot air circulated around Wick, letting him know that this passageway probably led to the forge. Bulokk and some of the warriors took up torches to light the way. Several twists and turns later, all of them part of a corkscrew descent into the earth, they arrived in the main forge chamber.

  Intense heat baked Wick to the core. He couldn’t imagine remaining in the large cave for long. Only dwarves with their natural resistance to heat could hope to endure a lengthy stay. The stink of sulfur was almost unendurable. Metallic thuds and clanks of dwarven hammers striking superheated metal resounded throughout the cavern.

  At the other end of the chamber, an open lava pit glowed yellow-orange against the wall and ceiling above it. Judging from the wall that separated the lava pit from the chamber, the design was intentional, providing the dwarven blacksmiths some respite from the roasting heat.

  A score of anvils stood on sturdy tables made of stone. All of them shared a form, but Wick knew from his studies that each of them had been poured from molten ore and beaten into the proper shape and hardness by the blacksmith. When a dwarven blacksmith worked on an anvil, he had to know it as well as the back of his own hand. Every flaw and imperfection showed on his work, and a blacksmith had to know how to use those to his advantage.

  The dwarves plunged long-handled tongs bearing the metal they were working with to a point just above the sluggish lava. In a short time, the metal would glow red-hot and they withdrew it. Back on the anvil, they held the piece with other tongs and picked up their hammers to beat the piece into the desired shape.

  Most of them, Wick saw, worked on pedestrian items like bands for wheels or barrels. Others made frying pans and pots. Others worked on chains and collars. Farm implements, plows, and harness tack were also in evidence. A few of the younger dwarves, noticeable because of their lack of beards, made nails.

  Wick couldn’t believe that the Cinder Clouds dwarves, who had once made some of the best armor ever to be found, had been reduced to making items for sale from a peddler’s cart. Looking at the work they were doing, he felt incredibly sad for them. In the Vault of All Known Knowledge, he’d read a few books that had praised Master Blacksmith Oskarr and the dwarves of his forge for their work.