by D Mickleson
“Nooowwww,” she intoned.
Feeling like he’d rather swallow a hot coal, Triston stooped and retrieved the pitcher.
I’m going to kill Alden.
She stood contemplating him for a moment, a cruel smile stealing over her cracked lips.
“Now apologize to Gorwain.”
The quiet was so complete Triston could hear logs crackling in the fire across the room. He forced a look at Gorwain. The big man stared back, his lip curling triumphantly.
“Apologize, bitch.”
No friendship is worth this.
“I’m sorry for—”
At that moment, a slurred voice rang out from a far corner.
“I ever tell you, Sonny Jim, how old Door-shield got ‘is name?”
Every head swiveled. Lumpens, who had succeeded in eluding sobriety since the Seer’s enchantment, appeared to be speaking to the minotaur head mounted nearby. The poor creature stared back at him with wide eyes, its mouth open in a silent scream.
“Twas ‘ere in this very room the whole thing ‘appened, nigh on thirty years ago. Yes, sirrah. Only a lad meself, o’course. A tender age to see such things, as you’ll agree, and I wasn’t likely to forget them neither.”
Jaws dropped as the befuddled tippler downed a generous swig, smacked his lips, then blundered on at the top of his voice. With Winchie’s back turned, Triston began backing away.
“No such gale of fury no sailor never knowed as what miss Primrose Gelsey gave out that morning. A woman of the night, so me mom called her.” He wagged a finger reprovingly at the minotaur. “Not that I took her meaning then, I say. Put it together later.”
All knew the tale, it being a favorite of Wyrmskull’s old-timers, provided Grimbold “Door-shield” wasn’t present. Titters of amusement filled the room as the oblivious Lumpens muddled on, those laughing loudest being shushed by others eager to hear the story again. One table however, at the far end of the room from Lumpens, sat in anxious silence, as Grimbold himself slouched snoring into his mug.
“BANG!” roared Lumpens, and Grimbold’s head popped up like cork. “I look, and what do I see? It’s Grimmy, as we knowed ‘im then, wearing naught but ‘is skin. And what’s he done? He pulls the door clean off its hinges as he flees her room. Why’s he done that, you say? Nobody knowed at first. But then we knowed it. Here she comes, howling about deadbeats who don’t pay up, and she’s a-swinging a copper pot at ‘im like he’s some ravishing beast. And he’s defending his self with the door like a, like a . . . . ”
As Lumpens groped for words, a clamor rose from the middle of the room. Grimbold was wading through the throng, his meaty arms shoving people out of the way as he locked bleary-eyes on the hapless drunk. With a fluttery gasp, Winchie made to intercept him.
“ . . . like a shield, I say. Like a hero of old. Except here’s no dragon nor sea demon neither. Here’s a little lady with a big pot.” Lumpens attempted to laugh and drink at the same time, causing himself to choke and spill the remainder of his ale. “Now you’ve done it!” he roared at the minotaur when he’d recovered and found his mug toppled.
A cry of outrage arose a few tables down as Grimbold, perhaps mistaking Winchie for a man, batted her to the ground with a vicious backhand as she leapt in his way.
Roaring like a wounded minotaur, Bildad and a couple of Lumpens’ regular drinking-partners descended on the retired Fighter with enraged oaths. Tables collapsed and chairs flew as people rushed to flee, or join the affray.
The last thing Triston saw, as he ducked from the room with a steaming pork pie in hand, was Captain Brand leading Gorwain and two other Fighters toward Grimbold, who had Bildad’s head locked under his arm exactly as Triston had done two days earlier.
Bearing his pilfered prize to the quietest, most out-of-the-way place he knew, Triston soon found himself crouched on a wooden crate in the inn’s dusty basement, a barrel his impromptu table. The only light filtered down from a high window through which the occasional pair of feet could be seen hurrying by on the street above. On three walls, this room opened onto other, darker chambers in which the shadowy outlines of stacked crates, cob-webbed shelves and piles of debris stood out in the gloom.
Pulling a spoon from his pocket, Triston gouged the golden-brown crust and popped a tongue-tantalizing bite in his mouth. He closed his eyes and relished how the savory pork complimented the buttery crust.
Bliss by the spoonful.
“I’m not buying Haise by the bloody spoonful!”
A hoarse whisper, carried on the dusty air from the shadowed doorway opposite Triston. “Fine by me. You can fetch the stuff in the forest yourself if you don’t want mine. Give my love to the Wildmen, won’t you?”
A pause.
Crouching low and holding his breath, Triston crept to one side of the opening and eased his head forward, peering into the gloom. Two silhouettes were hunched over something small. He couldn’t see there faces, but there was no need.
“Two Dragons for the whole bag. That’s more than you’d get in Luskoll.”
“Luskoll Haise? Wood shavings! My stuff’s worth its weight in gold, and that’s what you’re paying.” There was a choking sound, as if someone had been seized by the collar. “I know you sold those trick dice for an Eye o’ Lion. Now hand it over.”
A sulky whimper. “Never had a gold coin before. Just got it.” More choking. “All right! But . . . but I want some of that other stuff in the bargain. Just a pinch.”
Triston had heard enough. Stepping out into the doorway, he drew himself up to full height and barked “Aha!” in his best Captain Brand imitation.
The effect was instantaneous. The smaller figure loosed a strangled scream and bolted toward a side door; the larger drew blade with startling speed and leapt at Triston. He found himself facing Alden’s icy gaze, feeling cold steel at his neck.
Neither moved. The sound of rushing feet on steps met their ears, followed by a stumbling fall, a curse, then more rushing, the creak of a hatch door opening and closing, then silence.
“You gonna put that away or what?”
Alden swore loudly. “Triston! I thought you were Brand!” He pulled back and sheathed the weapon.
“You were going to kill the Captain?”
Alden seized something off the floor and stowed it carefully behind him beneath his tunic. “You cost me an Eye o’ Lion!” he growled. “Why are you even down here?”
Triston looked behind him wistfully. “Same thing as you I guess. Forbidden pleasures.” He paced back to his makeshift table and sat, Alden following. Taking an indecently-generous bite, he said with his mouth full, “Owain’s fifteen, Ald.”
Alden shrugged, pulling up an empty crate and plopping down. “Smoked a bowl with him once. Honestly the stuff doesn’t make a dent in his personality.”
They sat in silence while Triston devoured his pie. “The banshee can bake, I’ll give her that,” he said when, all too soon, the plate was empty. “How can such sweetness and light be birthed from utter darkness?”
Alden cocked his head pensively. “I suppose that’s why Bildad married her. We know it wasn’t for her looks. Do you think they even, you know . . . actually, forget I asked.”
Triston groaned. “Yeah, one of us just ate.” Then, struck by a sudden thought, he said, “Hey, what did Owain mean, some of that other stuff?”
In the dim window-light, Triston saw the smile freeze on Alden’s face. “Kid’s got Haise for brains,” he said after an awkward pause. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a few more stops to make—”
“Ald, are you OK? What did those Ironwood idiots want?”
“Drop it, Triston. It’s not your business.” His sudden, sharp tone took Triston aback.
The tension was broken by the sound of a hatch door creaking open overhead in the next room. Triston leapt up and joined Alden behind a stack of crates in the nick of time.
“ . . . just find the salve and get your face patched up in no time.”
&
nbsp; Bildad. The footsteps drew nearer, just through the open doorway.
“I don’t know if I can take much more of this, Billy.”
“Ah, dear. Hold those sweet cheeks up to the light and let’s see the damage. There now. This might sting a little.”
“I know we’re raking in the gold, Honey-lips—ouch! Careful!—but it’s been day-in, day-out since Her Grace turned up. And that boy’s been absolutely useless! A complete waste of space—”
“Come now, my little Butter-breasts. The lad and the girls have the Fire Hall under wraps as we speak. How’s abouts I get you up to bed so’s you can rest that pretty head, eh?”
By the look on Alden’s face, Triston could tell his friend was thinking the same thing as he was. Pretty head? “Those are Winchie’s dulcet tones I hear in there with him, aren’t they?” Alden whispered incredulously.
There was a girlish giggle. “Maybe rest isn’t what I’ve a hankering for.” This pronouncement was followed by an even throatier giggle, and suddenly Triston felt an uneasiness in his insides. The pork pie didn’t seem to be sitting well.
“I thought you said you were tired of—”
Winchie’s voice was pouty now. “Tired of taking orders, yes. Now it’s Winchie’s turn to be giving some orders, Mm hmmmm. And I know just what I’ll be demanding.”
There was a gasp, followed by the throatiest giggle yet. Bildad’s.
“You serious, sweetums? I thought you was hurt?”
“You’re going to be the one who’s hurting, if you don’t start manhandling me like the wild mare I am.”
There was a scuffle, two sets of giggles, followed by two heavy thuds from the floor.
“Sorry! Sorry darling. I had it mind to carry you upstairs. Guess my back’s not what it used to be. Let me help you up.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” came her husky voice. “And neither are you.”
Sounds like two sucker-fish clamped at the mouth filled the air. Triston faced Alden, his friend’s wide-eyed horror and mouth open in a silent scream a perfect reflection of his own.
“This can’t be happening,” Alden managed at last.
“Run for it,” Triston whispered fervently.
There was no escape up the way Owain had just run, so they fled farther back, Triston winning a silent struggle to lead the retreat into the depths of the basement. Leaping as quietly as possible over crates and barrels, they forced their way to its deepest reaches. Determined to be out of earshot as well as sight, Triston yanked at the rusty knob of a battered old door at the far end of the last room, and to his surprise, it opened. They rushed inside, Triston holding the door for Alden, then closing it firmly behind him.
The room was windowless and utterly black. They halted just a few steps into the darkness, waiting for their sight to return. After a long moment Triston waved his hand in front of his face, but though he felt a tremor in the air when his hand passed, his eyes told him nothing.
Suddenly they heard the sound of muffled voices surprisingly close.
“Maybe they heard us running,” Triston whispered. “We need to get under cover. Don’t forget he’s got a lamp. Go on,” he urged, pushing on Alden’s back. However, in the blind dark he’d missed and instead found his hands pressing into a leather satchel, by the feel of it, strapped beneath his friend’s tunic on his right side. The satchel was filled with small, squishy items which Triston didn’t at first recognize.
“Watch it, Triston! Careful!” Alden said, abandoning his whisper. “Watch what you’re—”
“Shhh!”
“Ok, fine. Just keep your hands off me. Let’s go. Stay close behind—” CLANG. Alden came to an abrupt halt as his body collided with something huge and metallic. Triston walked right into him. Once again his hand happened to press against the satchel, but this time he recognized what was in it.
“Mushrooms?” he whispered. Then, understanding dawning on him, “Hellcaps!”
In the darkness a few steps ahead of him, Alden froze. “What’s that you said?” he whispered, then without waiting for an answer he began to quietly tap the large metallic object he’d collided with. “This thing is massive. I can feel it curving but I can’t place my arms around it. Not even close. Triston, come and feel this thing. What is it? I think it takes up most of the room.”
“Alden, no way. You’ll swing from the gallows for that for sure.”
“I think I’ve heard of this thing. Anyon, you know, the blacksmith, he mentioned it. He said his furnace was only the second biggest in Wyrmskull.”
“They’re deadly, Ald. Pure poison. That’s when they don’t explode in your face first.”
“—said Bildad’s grandfather tried to build a central furnace, tried to make it so he only had to light one fire to heat every room in the inn. Course, it didn’t work. Guests wouldn’t pay. They wanted fires in their rooms, thought that was part of the deal. Poor man put his life savings into this giant furnace and never finished it.”
“They can choke you if you don’t prepare them right, for another thing, and—”
“Still, it might be worth looking around in here. I think I’ll come back later with a lamp—ah, here’s a lever. What happens if I—” There came the sound of grinding metal as Alden pulled the lever, followed by a sharp clank and the squealing protest of hinges. “It’s opened. I’ve got it open!”
“You’ve not selling Hellcaps in Wyrmskull! I won’t let you. No way.”
Alden went silent. Triston stared into the impenetrable shadow, anger washing over him. How could his friend be so selfish just to make a little gold?
He jumped as he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
“You’re an ass, Triston. You know that?”
“I’m the ass?”
“How could you think I’d sell the stuff here? Look”—a reluctant pause—“Just listen. Those two dogfaces,” he said, using the common slur for Meridian soldiers, “the ones you and Kara saw last night.”
Triston nodded pointlessly in the darkness.
“I owe them some money. OK, a lot of money.”
“Damn Ald. You owe the legionnaires?”
There was another silence. “More like the whole legion actually.”
Triston was speechless.
“Remember last year when you said it might not be the best idea to gamble my tourney winnings in Luskoll?”
“How much you in for?” Triston asked quietly.
He didn’t need light to know Alden was shrugging nonchalantly. “Thirty. Maybe forty.”
“Silver Dragons!”
Alden gave no response.
“Lions!”
“Don’t you see? That’s where the ‘Caps come in. Stuff’s worth more than diamonds mixed right. Meridian blighters will sell their souls for a hit. You know how boring their lives are when there’s no war to fight? And if one or two take a snort too many and go mad, what’s that to us? Who do they think they are occupying our land anyway?”
“I wouldn’t wish that stuff on my worst enemy.”
“What about me?” he demanded hotly. “You wish the lash and debtor’s stocks on me?” His voice grew hard. “It’s not your business anyway so back off.”
Neither spoke for a moment, then Alden added in his usual friendly tone, “They’re not exactly stable right now, so you might want to, you know, not grab them again. Blow your manhood off if you lit a spark.”
Triston shuddered. “Thanks for the warn—”
“Shhhh. Listen!”
The nearby voices were back, but this time they were hardly muffled at all. What was more, they seemed to be coming from inside the enormous furnace. Curious, they felt their way to its door, which was open wide like the gaping maw of a black dragon, and peered inside.
An irate voice was echoing inside the hollow chamber, licking at its iron sides with flames of wrath.
“—seventeen piles of useless rubbish. Do you know, Your Grace, I’ve doled out more of His Exaltancy’s gold than the imperial coffers wi
ll collect in tribute from all of Corellia for the next six months? And for what? Look at this, look here—a rusty comb with missing teeth, a cat figurine with fake gems for eyes, and one of them missing! A pair of silver dice supposed to be magically lucky but obviously weighted so that sixes show up more often than not. And see here—a real treasure! The ring of Willbrand the Dragonslayer I was told, clearly marked with his crest, and it just happens to be made from a gold-silver alloy we Meridians developed not a century ago. What a miracle! Not one item with a trace of magic, not one thing with any real history or lineage!”
“He’s the ass!” Alden whispered. Then, as an afterthought, “There must be a shaft or something connecting the upper rooms to this furnace.”
A new voice began, smooth and melodious, a pleasure to the ears and mind. “Your lordship may remember how I prevailed upon you not to take this course of action. As I often assured you, nothing likely remains of Magog or his hoard. Relics of great events may be swept away in a generation, and yet perhaps forty have passed since that long ago time.”
Triston noted that the Seer, for all her courtesy, had not quite managed to keep the amusement out of her voice. Though he had nothing against this emperor’s lackey, he found himself grinning in the darkness. The Seer, for her part, was not finished twisting her blade. “As for the lamentable profusion of His Exaltancy’s hard-earned gold, it strikes me that the deficient nature of your newfound possessions must have been at least somewhat apparent before their purchase. Why, may I ask—”
“You know very well why!” snapped Sarconius. “If I refused to buy their trinkets, these stupid people would have refused to offer them, and I would have had no hope of happening upon that which I seek. To draw it out of hiding was my purpose, and the investment would have been well worth it if my plan had succeeded.”
“That which you seek? You say you’re certain it may be found in Wyrmskull, despite the passage of time. How you know this, you won’t tell. You can give no report as to its appearance, and yet you are certain it is not among any of these. You hired my powers at no small expense, I may remind you, and yet you refuse to be wholly open with me. So how can it come as a surprise that your plans have gone amiss?”