D&D - Mystara - Penhaligon Trilogy 02

by The Dragon's Tomb - Heinrich, D. J (v1. 1)

  “Go on,” urged Jo.

  “I looked down at Flinn, this man I’d heard so much about in the last few weeks. I looked at him, and I thought: This man hasn’t got a dishonorable bone in his body. And I held out my hand to him,” Braddoc paused. “He didn’t take it immediately, but I think that’s because his bruises were puffing up and obscuring his vision.”

  “He finally took your hand?” Jo asked.

  “Aye, he did,” Braddoc nodded. “I helped him up, dusted him off, and apologized for my lot. Then I invited him to have a bit of food with me. We sat down then and there and ate. We were friends from that moment on until the day he died.”

  Jo said nothing, and the silence that fell was marred only by the trilling of birds and rhythmic clopping of hooves.

  Braddoc mused quietly for a few moments, then said, “Before his disgrace, people followed him around, pestering him to take up their causes. But he understood that. He knew he was their hero, and he knew they looked up to him.” The dwarf shrugged, then shifted in his saddle. “At the same time he was an intensely private man. Sometimes the two sides of his life were difficult to reconcile.”

  “Surely the people stopped dogging him after his fall?” Jo asked. She was getting to know a side of Flinn she hadn’t considered before.

  “Well, in one way, yes, and in one way no,” Braddoc answered readily. “Trouble is, the hero worship was replaced with a malice and cruelty.”

  “Is that why Flinn was so angry the night you met?” Jo asked in sudden inspiration.

  Braddoc nodded. “I’m sure of it. This was several months after his dismissal from the order, understand. He’d been drifting, trying to find work, I’m sure. His reception in Rifllian was probably typical: callow and brutish.” Braddoc shifted in the saddle, his short legs obviously wearying of the ride.

  The late afternoon sun was beginning to set. They topped the crest of a hill, and Jo spied a cluster of towers rising above the tree line a few little valleys away. They were nearing Castle Kelvin. She and Braddoc would stop there for the night, then make for Rifllian and Brisbois tomorrow morning. She pointed toward the towers and asked, “How long to Kelvin, you think?”

  “Two hours, maybe a little more,” Braddoc replied. He frowned at the clouds looming from the south. “We might get some rain before then, though. Onyx seems better; let’s pick up the pace.” The dwarf urged his pony into a canter, and Jo gave Carsig the rein. The big gelding nickered and easily matched the pony’s stride.

  The pair traveled in silence for the next hour. The road was smooth, and the animals’ pace was swift, but the clouds proved faster still. It wasn’t long before the once- clear sky turned dark and overcast. Distant rumbles of thunder grew progressively louder and more sustained, and the clouds boiled black with rain. Jo and Braddoc kept to the winding Duke’s Road, catching glimpses of Castle Kelvin through the trees every now and then and hoping to reach it before the clouds let loose.

  In time, they rounded another curve of the road. Braddoc pointed at a walled gate not five minutes’ ride away. “Ah, there’s Castle Kelvin now,” the dwarf said eagerly. “They’ve got a fair-sized merchants’ quarters here on the north side. We should be able to find a decent room for the night and a place to stable the animals. Then we’ll get an early start in the morning for Rifllian ”

  “I hope Brisbois hasn’t left by the time we get there,” Jo said with an edge of anxiety in her voice.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Braddoc replied gruffly, guiding his pony around a large rock in the road. “In the inn room tonight, we’ll use one of the abelaat stones to pinpoint him. Doesn’t matter where he goes, as long as we’ve got stones to spy on him.”

  “No,” Jo said quietly. She kept her eyes focused on a spot between Carsig’s ears.

  “We can—” Braddoc continued, then abrupdy stopped. “What did you say? Did you say no?”

  “Yes, I did,” Jo said quietly, still staring at Carsig’s ears despite Braddoc’s intent stare. “I said no. I will not use the crystals to find Brisbois.”

  “But why?” the dwarf’s voice cracked an octave. “It makes perfect sense! We locate Brisbois through the crystal and then corner him. We’ll know exactly where to find him, and we can make sure he doesn’t escape!”

  “I know,” Jo said even more quietly. She shook her head, her red braid flapping forward. “But I won’t do it.”

  “Why?” Braddoc demanded.

  Jo glanced into the dwarf’s good eye, then back to the road. “Because Karleah says she may be able to contact Flinn through the abelaat crystals . . . because I’ve only got a few crystals left.” Jo’s voice rose, and her hands drew Carsig s rein so tight the gelding was forced to carry his head too high. “Because I want to use every one of those crystals to talk to Flinn—” Jo choked on her words and clenched her teeth. The warm taste of blood reached her tongue, and she realized she’d bitten the insides of her cheeks. She loosened her grip on Carsig and bowed her head.

  She could feel the dwarf’s gaze upon her, and she knew Braddoc wanted her to look up at him. Jo ground her teeth. I can’t! I can’t! she thought. As much as I want revenge on those who betrayed and murdered Flinn, I want even more to talk to Flinn’s spirit. Jo knew, without question, that Braddoc’s plan for the crystals was much more sound than her own. Karleah Kunzay had told jo there would be no guarantees, that the crystals would likely burst if she tried contacting the dead.

  “Jo . . .” Braddoc began, then stopped. He said slowly, “I see we both have things we’d rather not talk about. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Long moments passed, and Jo was roused from her misery by a sudden clap of thunder. She looked up. Dark storm clouds filled the sky, wind tossed the trees about them, and fat raindrops began to fall. Jo and Braddoc approached the gate to Castle Kelvin, and Jo felt relieved that they wouldn’t sleep outdoors tonight. I hope we find a stable and an inn soon, she thought. She glanced again at the sky as a white-hot jag of lightning reached down from the cloud and clawed through the forest, filling the air with roaring thunder.

  Jo looked over at Braddoc and smiled tentatively. The dwarf looked the other way. “Well,” Jo said in an attempt at levity, “looks like we timed our arrival just right.” She held up her hands as the rain started coming down harder.

  The dwarf snorted and refused to look at Jo. “Look for an inn. I’m hungry, and I want a bath.”

  The man leaned back in the rough wooden chair and took a draw of the bitter, pungent ale in his mug. He rested one long, lanky leg on the corner of the equally rustic table before him, then crossed his other leg over the first. He surveyed the tips of his badly worn leather boots, the maroon so faded as to be a nondescript brown. The once-silver buckles were tarnished irreparably. He took another draw of ale, then looked about the tavern.

  It was the foulest establishment he’d ever been in, barring none. The room was tiny; it housed only four tables, assorted chairs, and a short counter. A film of smoke hung in the air, making the tavern seem even more cramped and closed in. But the rain had started coming down hard, and he didn’t have a place to stay tonight. The Elder Tavern seemed as likely a place as any to wait out the storm.

  Besides, he might be able to shake the youth who’d been following him the better part of the day. He took another swallow of the bitter ale and grimaced.

  The only other customers in the place were two old men. They were rolling and smoking some filthy weed as they played a game of stones. The stench of the smoke was overwhelming. Every now and then, one of the geezers would go into a hacking cough and spit phlegm onto the floor. Although a layer of sawdust covered the hard-packed dirt, the sawdust hadn’t been changed since the day it had been laid out. Someone had added extra layers of sawdust and rushes throughout the years, and the floor had developed a strange, rolling appearance. One of the ancient men coughed again, this time spitting up blood as well as mucus. From some dark corner a scraggly dog came out of the shadows, wandered over to the blo
ody pile, and began snuffling.

  The only woman in the place looked the man’s way and caught his eye. He gave her a bold appraisal. Once truly a serving “girl,” the woman was now a little mature for his tastes. She was also a trifle overblown, like a rose that had passed its perfection. He met the woman’s eyes, and she smiled coyly. A little dimple played in her plump cheek, and she swayed back and forth ever so slightly.

  It's been a while, he thought. Too long, in fact. He downed the rest of his ale and held up his mug, an inviting leer creeping to his lips. The woman smiled back readily. She slowly wiped her hands across her stained apron, pressing her short, fat fingers into the cloth to outline her bodily curves. She winked and smiled once more, then turned around seductively and picked up a small ale cask from behind the bar.

  Come on, come on! the man thought. I don’t want to be at the courting stage all night. Suddenly his attention was captured by the sound of the door scraping open and rain splashing on the threshold. Through the obscuring haze of smoke, he saw someone enter and close the door. The two old men never looked up from their game. The serving woman frowned, then put down the cask she’d picked up and began searching for the cleanest tankard.

  He watched the figure enter the tiny tavern room, hesitate, then walk toward him. His eyes widened. It was the youth who’d been following him. Casually he moved his hand to the knife at his belt.

  The thin, dirty urchin held out a slip of paper and said, “Here, this is for you. I was told to deliver it by a quarter of ten bells.” When the man made no move to take the note, the boy placed it on the table. He turned around and, shying away from the serving woman, left the tavern.

  The man stared at the stained slip of paper, lying crumpled on the coarse table before him. Should I? he wondered. How brave am I?

  The woman retrieved the cask and walked over to the man, her hips swaying languorously. He glared at her, and she stopped walking. Her beaming face fell into lines of discontent and disillusion. The mans lip curled into a sneer. Another five years for you, woman, and that expression you wear will be habitual, he thought. Maybe three.

  He turned his attention back to the paper, wondering if it could be magically trapped. It was so blotched and sodden, so crumpled by the waif’s grip, that he thought it unlikely. Gingerly, he reached out and picked up the paper. It was folded into fourths. The man bent back the first fold and braced himself. He half expected some sort of explosion, but nothing of the sort happened. He stared at the paper and wondered if the next fold was trapped. If he hadn’t been so damned curious, he might have never known.

  With a cautious breath, he gently bent back the second fold. He winced as he did so and closed his eyes. Still no explosion, no trap of any kind. Using the surface of the table, he blindly smoothed the rough paper flat. Drawing another deep breath, he opened his eyes.

  It was a simple note, and not the scroll-casted spell he had feared.

  Come to the alley behind the rendering hall, just after ten bells. There, I will meet you.

  The note was signed with a sigil reminiscent of a wild bull’s horns. The man snarled. Then somewhere, faintly, he heard the first chime marking ten bells.

  Waves of searing heat passed through him, purging every tissue of his unearthly body. Still his feet bore him across that place of flame, still he kept his mirrorlike eyes on the Immortal that guided him. And in place of the constant, dull thudding of his mortal heart, he felt the insistent words resound and repeat in his breast: have faith, have faith, have faith. . . .

  With solid, reverent steps, Flinn followed on the heels of his patron, Diulanna. In life she had been his inspiration, and he had followed her immortal path. Now, in death, she led his soul across the tumbled, stony ground of this netherworld, led him through the cleansing fire. He had seen visions of others along the way, other Immortals he knew were the friends of his patron—Thor, the Thunderer, and Odin, known as the All Father. They had saluted Flinn on the path and he had saluted them back, remembering how he had called for their blessings on the battlefield. Now he knew his call had been answered.

  It would not be long before he reached his final destination. It would not be long before he would again feel the earth of the mortal plane beneath his feet.

  Chapter VIII

  I tell you, we’re lost,” grumbled Braddoc as he and Jo turned down yet another alley in the town surrounding Castle Kelvin. “And I don’t know why we had to hostel the animals at the stable instead of the inn. We wouldn’t have gotten lost like this if we had—” Braddoc pulled his cape’s hood a little farther down his face “—and we wouldn’t have gotten so soaked!”

  “We aren’t lost,” Jo countered as she skirted a puddle and then stepped quickly through a veil of dripping water to get under an overhang. The streets of Kelvin were poorly lit in this part of town, and the late night and the rain added to the gloom. Jo suppressed a shudder. They had found a reputable hostel for Carsig and Onyx on the far side of Kelvin and then taken this shortcut back to their inn. The buildings surrounding her and Braddoc had deteriorated from pleasant, well-kept establishments to progressively harsher and seedier hovels. Gone were brightly painted signs proclaiming a business’s name. Many of these buildings looked abandoned, and only one in every four or so boasted a number or name.

  The smoke-darkened windows of the district glowed with only faint glimmers of candlelight, if any light at all. Jo felt fear grow inside her as the number of windows with candles decreased until the streets were utterly dark. She stretched her long legs a little more, hoping to find their way back faster. She tried to keep under roof overhangs as best she could. Braddoc followed close behind her, and she felt a measure of comfort at the dwarf’s presence and low, continuous grumbles. Suddenly she stopped and gave him a brief hug, to his consternation. “I know how cities are laid out,” Jo said reassuringly. “We re going to get back to the inn quicker this way. Trust me.”

  Tower chimes rang ten bells, their peals sounding tinny and hollow in this forsaken side of town. Jo wished they were back in the snug little inn Sir Graybow had recommended to them. She wanted to be clean and dry and sipping honey wine before a roaring fire.

  Just beyond the glow of the next street lamp, Jo saw someone moving—the first living soul they’d seen for a long while. The mans shoulders were hunched over, and he was hurrying. Jo wondered if Kelvin had a curfew and whether they enforced it. She grimaced. Specularum had a curfew for the part of the city Jo had lived in. Of course, Jo thought wryly, no one willingly entered the slums to make certain it was kept.

  “The inn’s stable wasn’t all that bad, Johauna,” the dwarf said suddenly, perhaps to break the gloomy silence that had fallen on the pair.

  Jo was grateful for the chance to talk. Kelvin was beginning to spook her. “Wasn’t that bad?” she exclaimed nervously. “Why, did you see what was in that one nag’s stall? Did you?”

  As they crossed a street, the dwarf’s good eye whirled white in the light of a shuttered street lamp. “No . . .” he murmured.

  Jo nodded vigorously. “It’s a good thing you didn’t, Braddoc. You would have been appalled. There was barely a fistful of corn mixed in with rice—rice, mind you! That’s no way to feed a fine challenger like that. The rice’ll expand and give him colic if his owner runs him hard tomorrow.”

  “You called the stallion a nag a moment ago,” Braddoc said. An undercurrent of humor laced his words, and Jo spotted a gentle smile on his lips.

  “Well, the horse will be a nag after a night in that stable,” Jo retorted. “Either the rice or the sea hay the innkeeper put down for bedding—” Jo sniffed and then almost gagged. They were nearing a rendering hall. The smell of processed fat, entrails, and rotting animal parts rose in the wet air. Jo hurried her pace still more.

  “Even so, you might have let us stable the animals there—we could have taken care of them ourselves, you know,” Braddoc rumbled. The dwarf stepped into a deceptively small puddle and sank suddenly up to his kne
e. He jumped out quickly and cursed under his breath. He shook his wet leg and swore once more.

  “What? And have that place charge us three times as much as an honest hostel would?” Jo demanded. She touched the knot of coins in her belt pouch, which she had securely fastened and concealed in the small of her back. She had caught many a cutpurses’ act in Specu- larum. The young woman shook her head vehemently. “I’m not going to spend Sir Graybow’s money by throwing it out the window at an inn like that—”

  Sudden shouts, accompanied by the clang of steel on steel, interrupted Jo. She and the dwarf stopped abruptly, their hands leaping to their weapons; Jo was thankful she and Braddoc had stopped short of the lamplight. The sounds came from some distance away, though how far was difficult to say with the muffling rain. The shouts seemed to be coming from a dark alley. Jo wrinkled her nose. Next to the rendering hall, of course, she thought. She looked at Braddoc, who fixed his good eye on her and shrugged.

  Sure, Braddoc, leave the decision up to me! she thought with a touch of dismay. Jo loosened one of the two tabs holding Wyrmblight into place. Her bow was back at the inn, but she also had her knife if the fight were in quarters too tight for Wyrmblight. The Immortals know I haven’t mastered use of the great sword yet, Jo thought wryly, but maybe the thugs’ll be scared by it and back off.

  It was then that Jo knew what she was going to do. Her first impulse had been to run, to leave the hapless person to his or her problems. But that was a reflex she’d learned from the streets of Specularum. She was a squire now’ in the Order of the Three Suns. No, Jo thought firmly as she unleashed Wyrmblight. Briefly her finger stroked the blade’s sigils, and she thought: The path to righteousness, to the Quadrivial, lies down that alley. She touched Braddoc’s shoulder and pointed for him to take the left. Jo slid toward the right, keeping her back to the wall of the rendering hall.