by James Enge
The story you are about to read features James Enge’s wondrous character, Morlock Ambrosius. Morlock is a swordsman, an exile, a hunchback, a drunk, and a wizard, though he himself would use the term “Maker” and say he is a master of the two arts, Seeing and Making. He is a modern descendant of the sword and sorcery adventurer that was birthed in the pages of Weird Tales magazine, and Enge himself has been favorably compared to Fritz Leiber, Jack Vance, David Eddings, Steven Brust, and, interestingly, Raymond Chandler. His tales of Morlock the Maker have appeared in Black Gate magazine, in the anthology Swords & Dark Magic, and elsewhere, and Morlock features in the novels Blood of Ambrose, This Crooked Way, and The Wolf Age. Speaking of the novel The Wolf Age, Locus magazine wrote, “One of Enge’s great virtues as a writer is weirdness—he’s not afraid to do the unexpected, and his imagination is formidable. But there’s an underlying emotional power here, too. The author excels at depicting the bonds of friendship, the pain of betrayal, and the tragedy of well-laid plans going awry, and that emotional payload is what makes this novel into more than just an entertaining adventure story about a guy with a magical sword who fights monsters.” Which is not to say that there isn’t a magic sword, because there is, and where Morlock goes, rest assured there are always plenty of monsters. This story, “Travellers’ Rest,” is no exception. Chronologically, it takes place some years before the events of the novels. If you are new to Morlock, it should make a fine introduction to Enge’s creation, and if you are not, you will be pleased to see the return of at least one old friend. Either way, we hope that you enjoy it.
Sincerely,
Lou Anders, Editorial Director
Pyr, an Imprint of Prometheus Books
The awkwardly made maker and his dwarvish apprentice were passing through trackless green fields peppered with large, slow-moving shell-backed beasts. Ahead, scattered around the junction of two roads that met in the shadow of the nearby hills, were some ragged brick buildings. The town, if that’s what it was, looked worn, weather-bitten, barely populated.
The apprentice—a gray-faced, brown-bearded, dark-eyed dwarf named Wyrth—said, “Master Morlock, let’s go on to the next town.”
“No.”
“Morlock, those beetles are taller than I am. Imagine what the bedbugs are like! Next town, please.”
“I believe these are cattle. Note the udder on that one.”
“I have better things to do than look at the private parts of cows! Um. If that’s an udder, there’s another one sprouting from the beast’s other side. Are you sure they’re cows?”
“No. They seem to be chewing cuds, though. If you can bring yourself to look.”
“You may practice your wit on me as you like, Master Morlock. It needs the practice, as God Sustainer knows. I still vote for the next town.”
Since voting had nothing to do with the matter, Morlock proceeded with his loping irregular stride toward the buildings clustered at the town’s center. His lack of reply was all the reply necessary: Wyrth was free to continue to the next town if he liked, but Morlock was stopping here.
“For the conversation, probably,” Wyrth speculated at Morlock’s crooked shoulders and followed him into town.
Two roads met at the town’s center, where there was a fairly large hostel several stories high. But the facade was in poor repair, and the road running westward to the sea was ill tended and untravelled, carpeted with brown weeds. The road running north toward the hills was in a slightly different condition: the weeds carpeting it were more of a reddish gray.
“Next town,” Wyrth muttered rebelliously, but followed Morlock through the broad open door of the hostelry into the shadows within.
One of those shadows was snoring behind a counter. Morlock rapped a knuckle on the counter and the shadow jumped like a startled rabbit and, rubbing its eyes, said in a professionally suave voice, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Your pardon! Welcome to Travellers’ Rest at Boulostreion! What can we do to assuage the weariness of the long roads you have travelled to reach us?”
“Couple rooms,” Morlock said. “Lunch.”
“Lunch. Yes. Lunch. Let’s see. Right now it’s about—”
“Noon.”
“Noon. Not really? I’ve slept the morning away. I hope my good wife and daughters have not done the same. I mean—daughter. Never mind. One moment while I check. Before I go, may I ask how long you’ll be staying with us?”
Morlock opened his hands and shrugged. When the hosteller realized that was all the response he was going to get, he shrugged himself and hurried off.
“If there is cooking going on in this establishment,” Wyrth remarked, “then I’m one of those cow-beetles back there. I didn’t even see a thread of smoke from the chimneys as we approached.”
“They don’t see as many travellers as they once did; that’s clear,” Morlock replied.
“Maybe travellers know something that we don’t and tend to travel a little further down the road? To the next town perhaps?”
Morlock travelled a little further into the hostelry, where there were many tables and benches set up in a roomy (if somewhat dim) dining hall. The benches, tables, and floor were all scrupulously clean, as far as Wyrth could tell. He was about to comment on it when Morlock gestured at something moving in the shadows nearby. It was some sort of insect fringed with dozens of feathery tendrils; it spun endlessly across the shadowy floor.
“Does it eat the dust?” Morlock wondered. “Or just pick it up to deposit elsewhere?”
“What else does it eat besides dust?” Wyrth countered. “How will you feel when you find one crawling up your thigh in the middle of the night? The thing’s bigger than a sausage tray!”
Morlock hung his sword belt over a nearby chair, then unshouldered his backpack and took a cold-light from it. He tapped the crystalline cylinder and set it on one end of the table, giving light to the room.
Wyrth grumbled a little but eventually slid off his own pack and engaged Morlock in conversation on various topics: the weather; the state of politics in the imperial capital when they’d left it; the likelihood that the cows they’d seen were actually blood-drinkers, like bovine mosquitoes; the amount of blood it would take to satisfy such ravening beasts; and so on.
Morlock had little to say about any of it except, “They won’t be interested in my blood.” This was perfectly true: Morlock’s blood tended to set things on fire, and few parasites made the mistake of putting the bite on him—none made it twice. The same was not true of Wyrth’s blood at all, and reflections on this topic led him to fall into an unusually gloomy silence.
Meanwhile the hosteller returned to his counter and, not finding Morlock and Wyrth, cried out in vexation and something like despair.
“Mine host!” Wyrth said. “We’re over here.”
“Ah!” The hosteller leapt eagerly toward them into the circle of light cast by Morlock’s cold-light. He was followed by a shorter, thinner, paler, female echo of himself. “Ah, gentlemen—may I know your names?”
“No,” said Morlock.
“Oh!” said the hosteller. His plump reddish-brown face looked baffled.
Wyrth was annoyed at his master. The man had his reasons for not giving his name every time he was asked, especially south of the Dholich Kund, but you’d think that by now he’d have figured out some more diplomatic way of answering.
“Canyon keep you, you surly old bastard,” Wyrth muttered at Morlock. “Mine host, this gentleman here is a secretive fellow, but he’s not dangerous when well fed and kept away from poisonous or predatory insects. I just mention that in passing, in case there are any around here. I’m his apprentice in the many arts of making, God Avenger pity me for it. My name is Wyrth, and I don’t give three chunks of chaos who knows it.
”
The hosteller was relieved to meet someone of his own talkative turn of mind. “Well! Gentlemen, I am Sunlar; this is my house. Here is my younger daughter—I mean my daughter, Raelio; she will see to your comforts, within reason, of course.”
Wyrth assumed this meant that the girl was not on the menu. That was fine with Wyrth: he himself never dated outside his species, and Morlock’s vices did not include preying on children. “Despite appearances, we’re reasonable people,” Wyrth said to the hosteller, hoping he could make himself understood without any disgusting particularities.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Sunlar. “Well, I’ll leave you with Raelio. I have to go help my—I have to help with the—Some matters await my tending.” He bounced off toward the back of the house.
The child watched him go, amusement and affection gently lighting her dark-eyed weary face.
“He’s awful excited,” she remarked.
“We’re the first guests in a while, I suppose?” Wyrth said.
“I wasn’t supposed to say. If I did, I’d have to count back a month or two. And they snuck out without paying, the scasp-chewing branticules. Still, it was nice to have someone in the house for a while. How long are you staying?”
“A while,” Morlock said. “What’s to eat?”
“I couldn’t exactly say. I was supposed to tell you that the house special was the best thing I’d ever eaten, but I can’t exactly say that because I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to lie.”
“You’re an honest waitress,” Wyrth said.
The girl nodded. “Morlock drags you to hell if you lie. I don’t want to go to hell. So I’m not lying anymore.” Her tone was cool and pragmatic; she had thought the matter through and this was her decision about it.
“Er,” Wyrth said wittily. He was taken aback, and somewhat annoyed to see that Morlock himself was not: the crooked man was used to hearing these wild tales about himself. “Morlock drags liars to hell, does he?”
“Everyone knows that. My mother says so.”
“But—you don’t anticipate death soon, do you? I mean—”
“It can happen to anyone. At any time. Isn’t that true? They can come for you and then you’re gone. So we have to be happy and good while we can. My mother says so.”
“Well. Well. Right she is, of course.”
“Who are they?” Morlock asked.
“Shut up, you old fool; you’ll frighten her. Never mind him, Raelio. He doesn’t mean any harm, as a general thing, but you have to practice ignoring him.”
“They come for you from the hills,” the girl explained to Morlock, ignoring Wyrth instead. “And then you’re gone. We have to hope that you are dead. That’s the best we can hope for. That’s what my mother says.”
“And is Morlock one of those who come from the hills?” Morlock asked. (Wyrth had to admit that his interest was perfectly natural.)
“No, silly. They kill you in the hills and then Morlock and the angel fight over your soul. But the angel won’t fight for you if you’re a liar, so then Morlock gets you. My mother says so. Do you want something to drink? I was to start you with drinks and then inveigle you in innocent conversation. I guess I inveigled first, but I don’t know what that means exactly.”
“Inveigled is—it means—Well, anyway, what have you got to drink?”
“We have wine—”
“No wine,” said Wyrth firmly, looking sideways at Morlock.
“—the beer’s not bad; I had some at breakfast—”
“No beer.”
“Well we have a little mead from over the border, but—”
“No mead. Have you got anything but strong drink? Water, or something of that description?”
“Water’s all right, I guess,” the girl said dubiously. “Our well’s a little murky and we have to pay Gar Vindisc to use the stream.”
“Get us some of his good water, my dear; we’ll pay you triple whatever it costs.”
“Her. Her water. Gar Vindisc is one of the Old Women. What do you think ‘gar’ means?”
“If I told you I knew, my dear, I would have some trouble with Morlock right quick.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have thrinnel? I love thrinnel. It’s even better than beer!”
Wyrth didn’t know what thrinnel was so he asked, “Is it strong drink? Can you get drunk on it?”
“No, no. Babies drink it. It’s yummy.”
“Well, if it’s yummy then we must have some. Now we move on to shiftier ground. What do you think they’re going to offer us for lunch, Raelio?”
“Anything you want that we’ve got. The da is that excited to have people under the roof again.”
“What’ve you got, then?”
“Shellback brisket, shellback liver, shellback kidneys, shellback steaks and tripe, shellback-tail soup—”
“Shellbacks are those remarkable cattle we saw coming into town?”
“I guess.”
“What is there beside shellback?”
“Might be fish. Dry salted fish, from before winter.”
“Seethe some of that in Gar Vindisc’s good water and bring it to us. Bread, too, as long as you don’t make it from shellbacks.”
“And two shellback steaks,” Morlock added. Wyrth looked at him with a sense of deep betrayal, but Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders and said, “Might as well see if it’s edible,” and Wyrth had to concede his point.
Raelio fetched them wooden mugs of thick yellowish fluid (“Thrinnel!”) and ran off to carry their order to the back of the house. Both the master maker and his apprentice could now detect the presence of several fires in the house, and anyone with ears could have detected a man and a woman shrieking at each other, with excitement rather than rage, amid the clanking of much cookware. A brief silence prevailed, in the heart of which Raelio could be heard reciting their order. There were some whispered consultations and the clanking resumed, even more purposefully than before, but with less shouting.
“What is this stuff?” Wyrth asked, fearfully peering into his mug. “Pus? Does ‘yummy’ mean what I thought it meant?”
“It’s buttermilk,” said Morlock after sipping some. “Reasonably fresh buttermilk.”
“Buttermilk?” demanded Wyrth, outraged. “And they serve it in a public establishment where anyone might drink it by accident? Civil law must have broken down entirely hereabouts.”
“It’s not so bad. Better than wine. Or beer.”
“Er. Yes.” Wyrth was particularly worried about Morlock getting drunk these days.
“Could you map a four-dimensional image of it onto three dimensions?” Morlock asked.
“A four-dimensional image of a fluid?” Wyrth wondered. Then he realized that lesson time had begun. “Or a fluid in a four-dimensional container? Well, why not? What should I use as a medium?”
“Something particulate. You can use a cementing spell to retain the shape.”
“Yes. If only we had some salt or something. Is there some in your pack?”
“There is a dish of it at your elbow.”
“So there is!”
Someone else entered the front of the hostelry while Wyrth was occupied in his model making.
“Must be a happy day for ourn host,” Wyrth remarked. “Two sets of guests in one day.”
“Eh,” said Morlock, but it was the way he said it.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“Listen.”
Wyrth listened. He couldn’t catch many words, but Sunlar’s voice sounded angry or frightened. The stranger’s voice was low, steady, implacable. A third voice rang out, a woman’s, loud enough for her words to carry to the refectory.
“We’ve done our part!” the woman shrieked. “We gave you our other one! Leave us alone! You said you’d leave us alone. Leave us alone!”
“Morlock,” Wyrth said warningly. “Not our problem.”
But the crooked man was already standing. Wyrth knew the crazy look in those pale
gray eyes, and he feared the worst. At least Morlock left his sword hanging on the chair back, Wyrth reflected, which showed he wasn’t intending to kill anybody right away.
Morlock walked back up the refectory hall and into the shadowy entrance hall, Wyrth following reluctantly. The door to the street was standing open and a huge hulking man stood in it. The day was warmish, but his bulk was covered by a full cloak and his flat dull-eyed face showed no suffering from heat. It showed no feeling at all as the stranger said, “I’ve come to take her, that’s all. You know what he says. She is to come with me to the hills.”
Sunlar, Raelio, and an older women that Wyrth guessed must be the girl’s mother were huddled together behind the counter, as if that could protect them from the stranger.
“What is this?” Morlock demanded.
The stranger turned to him. He didn’t seem surprised or even interested in the interruption. He said, “I am to take the girl to the hills. Kyrkylio says so, and I do as he says.”
“That will not be convenient for me,” Morlock said. “The girl is to serve me lunch.”
“The old woman can serve it.”
“She’s cooking it.”
“The old man can serve it.”
“He has other important duties around this busy house.”
“Oh.” The stranger paused, evidently not wishing to be unreasonable. “How long will your lunch take? I can bring her to the hills after you’re done.”
Morlock was usually prepared to be unreasonable, as Wyrth well knew and as the stranger was learning. “I will require lunch tomorrow also,” the crooked man said implacably, “and the next day.”
“How long are you staying here?”
“As far as you’re concerned, forever. Go back to the hills. Tell Kyrkylio that he may not have the girl.”
“He won’t like that.”
Morlock shrugged.
“He gets angry.”
This time Morlock didn’t even bother to shrug.
“I get angry, too,” the stranger said. “You treat me unkindly. I am not used to that.”
“Learn,” Morlock suggested.
“No. I’m done with learning.” The stranger drew a sword from under his voluminous cloak and pointed it at Morlock. “I learned how to cut people open when they are unkind to me. That’s all I need. Now people are kind to me or I cut them open. Which is it for you? What do you say?”