D&D - Mystara - Penhaligon Trilogy 02

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

  Without another word, the human returned to his bubbling flasks. This final mention of the accursed blade sent Verdilith into another paroxysm of pain, and he choked off his rising whimper. The pain was so great he almost believed what the magician had said. But the dragon knew that nothing could ever heal his wounds. Whether Wyrmblight remained whole or not, he would bear these wounds to his grave, of that Verdilith was sure.

  But that didn’t matter to the dragon as he rose from his seat, the acid from his human mouth having destroyed the chair and some of the floor. He slowly walked toward the table and lifted his arm to pocket the gem. The pain flared again and for once Verdilith found he could ignore some small part of it. The stone felt delicate in his hand. Fragile. But from this fragile gem, he knew he might finally have the vengeance he sought.

  Or his own death.

  It truly did not matter. Once the blade and the bitch were destroyed, he would betray Auroch for spite and let himself be torn limb from limb.

  Jo’s weary step grew a little faster as she recognized the Hap’n Inn, where she and Braddoc were supposed to stay for the night. Not that there’s much night left, she thought, remembering the hour or so she had stood outside the rendering hall, trying to reconcile her rage at Brisbois and her grief for Flinn. She stopped to shift Braddoc’s battle-axe, which fit poorly in Wyrmblight s harness. She had carried Wyrmblight in her hands all the way from the rendering hall; it had given her a sense of security she’d sorely needed as she walked through the gloom alone.

  Almost by instinct, her fingers sought the four raised sigils. You have lost faith tonight—the sword again—but it can be reclaimed. Have faith, Johauna Menhir. Have faith! The words rang in Jo’s mind, but not in her heart. Duty alone had prompted her to return to Braddoc to help him bring Brisbois back to the Castle of the Three Suns. That and the fact that she couldn’t fail Sir Graybow. Jo’s benefactor had expressed his good opinion of her directly to the baroness.

  Jo reached the alley leading to the exterior stairs. She took a step into it, then stopped. The alley was dark, far darker even than the one near the rendering hall had been. Shouldn’t there be a light near the stairs? she thought. Hadn’t there been one lit when they set out for the hostler’s? Perhaps the rain or the wind had extinguished it, she thought. The squire glanced toward the front of the inn. A shuttered lantern rested by the door, casting a starlike pattern of minute lights from holes punched in its sides. Pretty but not very illuminating. Still, it was brighter than the gloomy alley. Jo held Wyrmblight a litde higher. I can go through the front, I suppose, and risk stepping on the people sleeping in the common room. She took a step in that direction.

  Something shifted in the darkness near the stair. Jo dropped to an immediate crouch, Wyrmblight gleaming before her. The gloom was too great for her to make out anything more than a general impression. Some creature, hunched and draped in rags, lurched toward her.

  “Who goes there?” Jo called out firmly, only a trace of fear in her voice.

  The figure halted for a moment, sniffing oddly in the darkness, then continued toward her. Jo retreated a step, trying to sidle toward the inn’s front door. The creature paused, its darksome eyes piteously studying Jo from beneath a tattered hood.

  “Please,” came a thick, rasping voice. “I mean you no harm. I only wish to know if. . . you are Squire Menhir? The one who was bitten by the watcher in the woods?”

  “. . . watcher?” Jo asked tentatively. Her eyes adjusted minutely, and she could make out the creature s crooked shoulders.

  “An old term,” the voice responded. Jo couldn’t tell if it was male or female, only that it sounded old and infirm. “Some call them abeylaut, or abelaat. Are you she?” The figure took one tentative step, and this time Jo did not back away. She kept Wyrmblight at the ready, however.

  “And if I were?” she countered.

  “I have . . . something for her, if you are she,” the voice grated. The figure knelt, removed something from its cloak, and placed it on the stony ground. It then stood and backed away. “It is for you,” it said, pivoting on a heavy, thudding boot and starting away down the alley.

  Jo called after the mysterious creature. “Wait! What is it?”

  The cloaked figure stopped, and Jo thought it turned around. It said, “It is a crystal, a crystal of the first abeylaut. Through it you may join with Fain Flinn. But beware: if you speak of it to anyone or anything, the stone will shatter into a thousand pieces, which will lodge in your flesh and work their way into your heart.” The figure began walking away again.

  Jo bit her lip, unable to believe the infirm being, but unwilling not to. “How do I know this isn’t a hoax?” she called loudly.

  The figure did not stop. “Try it,” she heard faintly, “and discover the truth.”

  The next moment, only shadows remained in the darksome alley. Trembling, Johauna knelt on the ground and looked at the gem, taking care not to touch it. It glowed faintly, unlike any abelaat stone she had ever seen, and it was larger, too. Whether or not it was an abelaat stone, it was a thing of power. But why give it to me? Why?

  Cautiously Jo picked the stone up. It took up most of the palm of her hand and felt warm to the touch. She ran her fingers across the four sigils of her sword and murmured, “Wyrmblight, is this stone an abelaat crystal?” She waited for some sort of response, but the blade remained cool to the touch, and none of the sigils glowed. She tried other questions, all pertaining to the stone or the cloaked figure, and at first received the same silence after each question.

  But then, a voice spoke. Keep the stone, Jo. It bears my heart. It bears my love. The words hadn’t come from Wyrmblight, but they had come all the same. Perhaps it was her own weary mind that had spoken. Perhaps it was the stone itself. But an insistent, irrational hope told her it was the voice of Flinn.

  Blinking, Jo realized suddenly that dawn was lightening the sky. The alley, which a moment before had been impenetrably dark, now glowed with morning light. A lump in her throat, Jo lifted the stone and gazed, mesmerized, into it.

  “Flinn,” she whispered, hoarsely. “You are in this gem, aren’t you?”

  Her words were answered only by silence.

  Glancing from side to side, hoping no one had seen the precious stone she bore, Jo tucked the crystal inside her belt pouch. She’d worry about it tomorrow, after she’d had some sleep. Maybe she’d talk to Braddoc about it, she thought for a moment, but a suddenly spasm of fear clenched her heart. Braddoc would insist on giving the treasure to the baroness, who would imprison it—the heart of Flinn—in a glass case for all the world to see. No, Jo thought. I will keep it a secret, my silent, constant communion with Flinn. Nodding, she headed down the alley, up the stairs, and into the hallway running the length of the inn.

  At the seventh door on her left, Jo stopped and listened through the plain pine door. She heard someone stirring. Good, she thought, Braddoc’s up and I won’t disturb him. Jo opened the door to the room she had planned to share with Braddoc. The castellan had given her money enough for two rooms, but Johauna was frugal to a fault after living so many years on the street.

  Jo entered the small room just as Braddoc sat down on the only chair, situated by one of the two narrow beds. A curtainless window behind the dwarf let in a little light, supplemented by a candle on a table between the beds. From the look of the melted wax and the stubble remains of the candle, Jo knew the dwarf had been up the better part of the night. Braddoc looked at Jo and grunted a greeting, then turned to Brisbois.

  The squire’s eyes shifted toward the man on the bed. Brisbois’s injuries had been dressed, Jo saw. His broken arm was in splints and a sling, and white strips of bandage nearly covered one side of Brisbois’s face. He was murmuring in his sleep, and his free hand jerked spasmodically. Jo set the battle-axe in the corner with Braddoc’s other things. She undid the harness and stretched her back, then rested the sword next to the bed along the far wall.

  Jo sat down on the edge
of Brisbois’s bed, but was careful not to touch the man. For some moments, she watched him sleep, then turned to Braddoc. The dwarfs good eye was on her.

  Jo gave Braddoc a little smile. “I hope you didn’t have too hard a time bringing him back here by yourself.”

  Braddoc snorted. He shook his head. “I’ve had the healer in. Brisbois’ll live, if that’s all right with you.” The dwarf stared at Jo.

  The young woman’s eyes widened for a moment, and she turned away from Braddoc’s gaze. “That’s good ” she said quietly. “I’m sorry about how I acted. I want to do what Sir Graybow asked of us.” She turned back to the dwarf. “At least, that’s what I want to do now. Earlier tonight was a different matter.”

  Braddoc looked at her and said slowly, “I don’t understand you, Johauna. I don’t.” He turned to the injured man, then reached out and tucked the blanket a little closer around Brisbois’s neck. Beside Braddoc, the candle on the table sputtered and went out. The room was bathed in the half light of the rising sun, and, moment by moment, the light grew in the tiny room. Jo felt it touch her face, and she closed her eyes against its caress.

  The squire stood and then lay down on the other bed. She groaned as stiff muscles tried to loosen up. Gesturing at Brisbois, she said. “Is he able to ride in an hour?” she asked.

  Braddoc stared at Jo and then said slowly, “Yes . . . but I think—”

  “That’s all I want to know,” Jo said coldly. “That’s all I need to know.”

  Chapter X

  Not even the dreary, cloud-covered sky could dampen the mood of Squire Menhir as she approached the Castle of the Three Suns, Keeping her victorious smile tightly concealed, Johauna rode behind the young knight who had met them on the approach. She watched the gentle bobbing of the blue plume on his helmet as the knight s stallion trotted toward the gate. Noting his arched back and broad shoulders, Johauna tried to sit as straight on Carsig as he sat on his horse,

  “You’re as bad as Flinn,” Braddoc hissed tersely over her shoulder.

  Jo glanced back at the dwarven warrior, riding stern and disgruntled astride his pony. “As good as Flinn, you mean,” she snapped with an indignant smile. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the pathetic prisoner in the queue behind Braddoc. The man, slumped, shackled atop one of the pack mules. Sir Brisbois. He still holds his title, but not for long, Jo told herself. Vengeance tasted sweet. The very day after Sir Graybow had sent her out to retrieve Brisbois, she returned, her mission complete, her quarry broken and humbled—ready to talk. She would do the same to Verdilith, and Teryl Auroch. The spirit of Flinn would have its vengeance.

  The knight at the head of the procession saluted the gate guards and continued on into the main entrance. Jo reined Carsig in for a moment, noting only then that she had been following the knight too closely. It was the excitement of the capture, she told herself, urging Carsig forward.

  As the party passed through the gates, entering the slate-paved marketplace, the bustling crowds drew back to make room for them.

  “Look! It’s Brisbois, the traitor!” a gray-haired beggar man said.

  The cry drew the attention of a fabric merchant nearby, who strayed, incredulous, from his cart. “Never thought I’d see him rounded up!”

  “The proud boy’s been humbled!” called a wiry cobbler from a small shop along the wall.

  A cluster of peasant washerwomen drifted steadily toward the procession, whistling and whooping as they came.

  The knight at the head of the parade tightened his hold on the reins of his steed, who was stamping nervously as the crowd converged.

  “Look who done it, too!” the cobbler shouted, rushing forward now. “It’s Flinn’s girl!”

  Jo reddened visibly at the remark, uncertain whether to be flattered or angered. But one of the washerwomen answered for her by slapping the cobbler in the face with a wet rag. “She’s not Flinn’s girl! She’s her own girl!”

  “She’s Squire Menhir,” Braddoc supplied with a reluctant cough. Jo flashed him a glance, but the dwarf merely nodded her direction.

  The procession had slowed, almost halting in the face of the growing mob. A brace of children, running from a crowded corner of the market, came stomping up, their young voices raised in shouts.

  “Brisbois the Bungler! Brisbois the Boor!”

  Jo laughed aloud and wondered if the children knew how similar their taunts were to those used against Flinn. Over the cries of the children she could hear a flurry of other voices: “Where did you find him?” “How’d he get wounded?” “Who’s the dwarf?” “Tell us what happened.” “Did he put up a fight?”

  The knot of folk around her tightened, pressing against her legs and her mount. Noting Carsig’s uneasiness, Jo signaled to the knight ahead of her. He pivoted his steed about with some difficulty in the crowd and shouted, “Back. Let us through to the donjon!”

  “Tell us the story!” a few voices demanded of Jo, ignoring the knight’s order. Their calls touched off other shouts from the crowd, which drowned out the knight’s next commands.

  Jo bit her lip, watching the young, red-faced knight try hopelessly to move the crowd. When she saw he was getting nowhere, Jo turned sheepishly toward Braddoc. The dwarf merely shrugged and mouthed the words, “You’re the storyteller.”

  Jo nodded grimly and scanned the sea of faces. Their voices raised a din that must have reached to the donjon itself. They wanted her to tell them what had happened; they wanted her to tell the story of Brisbois’s capture. But she’d never told a story to so many people before—for that matter, she’d never told a story that wasn’t about Flinn. Her tongue felt like a ball of lead in her mouth, and the events seemed to jumble in her head.

  Carsig nickered and took a gentle sidestep, and Jo saw that Braddoc’s pony had nudged the horse. The dwarf’s face was impassive, but he nodded minutely in Jo’s direction. “Go on,” he mouthed.

  Jo nodded back, a nervous smile on her lips. She swallowed hard and lifted her hands in a gesture to quiet the crowd. “It’s really not much of a story,” she shouted out as the clamor died down.

  “Tell it anyway!” the cobbler cried.

  Jo bit her lip; she didn’t know how to begin the telling. “I—ah . . .” she started, then flushed: she’d forgotten to adopt her storytelling tone. Lowering her voice and taking a deep breath, she said, “Some days ago, the honorable Sir Lile Graybow, castellan of this mighty fortress, learned the whereabouts of the ignoble rapscallion, the defamed Sir Brisbois.” Jo paused, her heart in her throat. The crowd seemed to have appreciated the phrase ignoble rapscallion, responding with a smattering of boos and hisses. And her emphasis on the knight’s undeserved title garnered even more jeers.

  It was a good crowd.

  Warming to the task, Jo continued. “Sir Brisbois, I tell you—this worm of a knight, this knight of the wyrm Verdilith—” more hisses “—was the man who falsely accused Flinn the Mighty. Sir Brisbois was the man who willingly brought the glory of Flinn and of Flinn’s sword Wyrmblight to an end. And though Flinn forgave the rapacious monster—though he spared the man’s life and made him bondsman—Sir Brisbois repaid this kindness with desertion and treachery.”

  In the chorus of disapproval that followed, the townsfolk around Brisbois’s mule began prodding the pathetic figure with their fingers. The knight didn’t respond, except with an angry, bloodshot glare.

  “So the noble Sir Graybow decided that Brisbois must be captured and tried. Being the one-time mentor of Flinn the Mighty, Sir Graybow dispatched Flinn’s former squire and his long-time friend to hunt down the vile man, to bring him back to the castle so that all the folk of Penhaligon might have vengeance for their fallen hero.”

  “We were supposed to retrieve him for questioning,” Braddoc corrected loudly, breaking into Jo’s account. “That’s the story. Now, in the name of the baroness, let us through.”

  “Quiet,” called someone from the crowd. “Let the squire finish!”

  Jo
, glaring hotly at her companion, shouted out, “We journeyed across the rugged Southern Wulfholdes unto Castle Kelvin, a pig sty of a place beside the gleaming towers of Penhaligon.” The crowd responded with cheers and whistles. “There, we found the man fully entrenched in his element—floundering about in the mud of a gutter, beside a vat of rotting animal parts, and surrounded by a trio of grimy thugs.”

  “Did the thugs give you trouble, squire?” called out the cobbler excitedly.

  “Not with that sword of hers,” the washerwoman interjected, playfully flipping her rag in the cobbler’s face.

  “In fact, the thugs were no problem at all,” Jo answered, almost laughing. “They were doing our work for us. They’d been beating up the infamous Sir Brisbois for some moments before we arrived.”

  The crowd let out a whoop of surprise, and some of the listeners began to clap.

  “You didn’t get to lay a hand on him?”

  “Of course I did,” Jo responded with mock indignation. She raised her hands before her and made a separate sweeping motion with each. “I slapped him first with the right, and then with the left!”

  Amid the gales of laughter, a blacksmith bellowed out, “What then?”

  “Then my level-headed companion—” Jo shot Braddoc a surly glare “—advised me against any further retribution against the filthy cur.” She consciously deepened her voice again and said, “Though Squire Menhir s fists had not yet wrought their full vengeance upon the evil knight, though she was driven in that moment to unmake Sir Brisbois with the very blade he had darkened by his evil—” Jo dramatically seized the hilt of Wyrmblight and pulled it with a crackling pop from the shoulder harness. She held it up, cold and brilliant in the silver sky “—Wyrmblight, sword of Flinn the Mighty, nemesis of Verdilith the Great Green—though the very Immortals seemed to be crying out to the squire to wipe this wretched filth from the face of the world, the dwarf stayed her hand. Yes, he stayed her hand, though every impulse told her to slay him!”