“No last name?” Wayland asked the man. “He’s not one of the ones I was told about.”
“I will sell him to you anyway.” Wayland turned his head and looked over at Sir Byrning, perhaps because the knight had made a face and shown his dislike just now for what was going on.
“Cheap I hope,” Wayland commented, “because I wasn’t planning on doing you this favor.” He looked back at Ludt, “Is there anyone who will ransom you, back where you come from?”
“I will trade him for the wine,” Weech said, and crossed his hairy arms. It was a ridiculous trade, with the wine being worth a small fortune because of the glut of money and the drink’s scarcity. The man had meanwhile not been able to reply that anyone would pay Wayland back.
“He isn’t worth all the wine,” Wayland said, “and it’s not like I need someone to build me a hall. Still, we are doing eachother a favor.”
“I was Lord Chuin’s builder at Fugoe,” the man spoke up for himself now, eager to somehow get himself free. Wayland played that he was thinking it over, and he was. The list of people that had been taken in the raids was not complete. It had named only the most important ones, the ones with property, the nobles, or the ones who had somehow got included because they had the ear of the men making it.
Some that had been listed were dead, and others thought dead had been discovered to be alive. A builder was important though, and his guild would certainly try to pay his ransom. Since builders traveled about, perhaps no one even knew he was missing yet.
“They did a lottery, when the tower fell, didn’t they?” Wayland asked the man. If he had been at Fugoe, he would know that. Ludt sighed out, and he nodded back.
“Well, if he was at Fugoe when it fell, I’ll trade you half the wine for him, and then reckon it out with the stone men.” Weech frowned.
“He’s worth more than that!” he immediately argued back.
“Count your profit from him as this fine hall you now possess. I’m doing you a larger favor, and you know it. It’s a smart thing you are doing though, in moving him along to me, but I can’t be beggared to pay for your cunning.”
“He’s seen Golden Sword’s slave,” Weech added, to sweeten the pot. Wayland stopped and scratched his head for a moment, not seeming too eager, thinking it over.
“Seeing is not the same thing as having,” he replied, “or having a letter to sell to the stone men. He’s worth half the wine, I say. This may be the proof I need to the lords, but maybe it turns out that they have each seen her, and it is after all, just their word.” He now looked at the others, dismissing the builder for now. The man sighed and stared about in desperation.
“Who else do you have here?” Wayland asked Weech, looking at the remaining three. Weech cursed, moved on with him, and pointed at the sobbing older woman.
“A worn out troll wife,” he explained.
“What’s your name?” Wayland asked her.
“Getline of Ronziers,” the other man in the group said. It had been the one they had not talked with yet.
“Please rescue me!” the woman cried out suddenly in Alonic. “There are two silver candlesticks and a plate in a church at Ronziers. My brother is the deacon there, and he will give them all to you!” Wayland put his thumbs down into his sword belt, adjusting it, and he translated what she had said to him back over to Weech. Then he replied to her in Alonic.
“Now that I know where they are, what’s to stop me from just going there and taking them for myself?” He looked back at Weech, told him what he had said, and they both laughed together for a moment, wickedly. The woman began weeping again. It was too much for him, and Wayland loudly cleared his throat.
“Now she’s making everyone sad, I can see that,” he said. “I can see why you want to be rid of her. I’ll give you thirty swans for her, hoping she’s telling me the truth. That’s one of those candlesticks at least, and I bet that they are very small.”
“I agree,” Weech said. It seemed like every one of these reansoms was going to be some sort personal favor for the goblins, but that was the way these things worked. Wayland also wondered if the chief was trying to get rid of all the people who had seen the countess at Warukz, and why that would be important to him. The next person they looked at was the limping archer who had just spoken for the woman. He had damage to one of his legs, and it had broken and partly healed out of position.
“This man is Edou,” the chief said. “He came off the Dimm with Golden Sword and his slave.” Behind them, Johnas made a noise like a surprised start, but Sir Bryning quickly covered it over by making a foul noise, and then he shoved against Grotoy, to get him be quiet.
“Why, this is even better!” Wayland said with enthusiasm. “You did try to trick me earlier into buying the builder for a larger sum. You are quite the goblin chief to deal with I see! Well as we say in the Isles, twice in the pudding, twice the proof!” They negotiated, and he traded most of the wine away with a handful of silver coins for the two men. The last person there in chains was a lean, somewhat pretty dark haired girl with a wild look in her gray eyes.
“Why are you selling her?” Wayland asked the chief.
“She’s gone out in the head, is too small, and she bites. Trolls didn’t want her, goblins don’t want her now. She makes too much noise and is worth more to ransom away. She is still the daughter of the Lord of Grevies.” Wayland knew the place, and had passed it on his way into the West Lands from Rydol.
“Sabine of Grevies was on the list,” Wayland said. The girl turned her head a little, as if she had caught her own name being said. “She’s fifty swans at least, but her father might kill me if I bring her in like this. I’ll give you twenty and the rest of the wine here, and try to get the road knights in Krolo to pay me, and then they can try to return her to Grevies.”
“I agree with that play,” Weech said. “This slave is broken.” Wayland counted the money from a bag out onto one of the trestle tables as Weech watched him do it. The goblin chief then counted it all again, inspecting every piece of silver, smiling with his guards as he did so. He was satisfied, and motioned to his guards, and they went over and helped themselves to a couple of the jugs.
“You wouldn’t want a bowl of stew while you are here?” Weech asked him. Wayland looked over at the dark pots and remembered the joke that the goblin had told him at the Darkling Gate. He also remembered the story of the wine merchant who had been eaten at the feast. “I don’t want to offend you, but I’ve already had my dinner. We will also need to get these people back to our camp and taken care of them before it gets any darker.”
They left the hall soon after that. As they came out, the troll moved forward with the ponies and looked them over. He imposed himself in their way, and they put their hands down to their swords. He gestured at the dark haired girl, in her tattered shift and she began to scream. He went forward and grabbed her hair, but not roughly, with the hand that wasn’t holding the bridle leads. He brought her face around to look at, as Sir Byrning began to slowly draw out his sword.
The troll heard the rasp and looked over at the knight. He stepped back and let go of the girl’s head. He stepped back farther and hesitated, appearing to try and decide if he wanted to now fight Sir Byrning.
“Get away from them!” Wayland said to him, and stepped out and grabbed the lead ropes for the ponies, and pulled them out of the hand of the troll. More quietly he then said, “Don’t be a fool. They are watching you.” Had the chief inside the hall just set them up to confront and maybe kill each other? Wayland would wonder about it for a long time, until something worse probably happened.
“It’s not her,” the troll said, “but she is a bit like her.” The troll stepped farther back, crossed his arms, and then sat back down on his keg.
Sir Byrning kept his sword half way drawn for a moment, ready if needed, and then he sheathed the blade.
“Let us by,” Wayland said to it.
The troll had indeed moved away, and it now just made
a gesture with its arm for them to continue past, the girl screaming still, incoherently, but more quietly. Perhaps she was not even sure what she was screaming about anymore. She stopped and gasp for breath, and the whole foot chain then moved on, led away by Johnas Tygus. Sir Bryning took the pony leads from Wayland and pulled them along, following the people. When the troll would not say anything else, Wayland turned to also leave.
“Wait!” the troll called out.
Wayland sighed, and he turned back around, his hand gone down to the grip of his own sword, but he knew that it would not be needed. He pretended to be reluctant, that he had lost his patience, but he had not. The troll used the fingers of one of his hands to make some lines across his other wrist.
“Malice Chalice,” it said quietly to him. Then it gritted its teeth and growled, in anger. Wayland backed away, and then he turned and went down to help the others get back to camp. They arrived there and unlocked the people from their shackles, easily done since Weech had provided him with the key. After consideration, Wayland put a rope around the mad girl’s waist and tied the other end of it to an old iron ring he found sticking out of the stones. He watched her, as best he could when she had stopped crying, and he saw what the troll had been telling him. She had several long cuts on the inside of both of her forearms, behind the marks and bruises from the wrist shackles. They were not very deep, but were enough to cause a lot of pain and draw out her blood.
“Just what is Malice Chalice?” Wayland then asked himself. It was an odd word combination, sort of a sing-song, and not one that he recognized.
“It’s a thring,” the builder named Ludt said.
Then no wonder she was mad, Wayland thought. They settled in and spent an uneasy night there in the ruins. In the early morning Wayland walked around and checked on the people they had gotten, and he was relieved that the girl had not run away in the night. He made an inventory of their remaining merchandise and decided it was worth staying for at least another day.
He thought about selling some of the ponies too, though he knew they might come in handy later. It was a gamble and of a passing odd interest to him about just how much he could get for one of them, and of what a goblin would do with one when he got it. Their natural inclination would be to slaughter them for meat, but now that he knew the goblins better, he thought that they might get used for the same thing that had brought them there.
He walked back over to the market space near Weech’s wooden hall. The other trader was now out there, setting up is stall again with his men.
“I was thinking of moving on,” Wayland said to him, “of going up one of these trails and trying to sell directly to the caves. I got better coming in from the ones that were loaded down with silver.”
“Less competition, that’s for sure,” the trader remarked. “But if you stay here for a few days, the news will get around and they will all come down to see you on their own. And if you go up there, Weech won’t try to stop whatever happens to you.”
“Is there anywhere that I should stay away from that you can tell me of?” he asked him. The Golok put on a sour frown, and looked directly across into Wayland’s face.
“You should not have come up here at all,” the trader said plainly. “My family has been trading in and out of here for three generations, when the conditions allow for it. But you, you came up this road and showed your wine and you metal to them, and you have paid out ransoms. You are lucky they aren’t particularly hungry or thirsty right now. But tomorrow, who knows what will happen to you?”
“I’m aware of where I am,” Wayland said back, a little angry at being so bluntly told off. “I’m talking about the places where no man should go.” The trader scratched at his stubble as he considered that.
“South of here is a big warren full of trolls. They don’t like anyone around there because it’s full of sows and slaves. It’s a waste of time to go there, and they will chase you off or worse. There are caves and warrens on the east shore of the Dimm going up north from here, on into the hills. But you need to be careful there, because some of those are still used by the thrings that did not take part in the war. If you think angry trolls are dangerous, then you don’t want to try and sell to the dead.”
“Well, thanks for the advice,” Wayland replied. “I’ll think about it a bit more before I decide on my path.” The man gave him a small, neutral wave, like a salute, and then he walked away.
Wayland went from there back over to the troll sitting in front of the hall on his keg with his swords. The keg was rumored to be full of gold, but Wayalnd doubted it. How the creature maintained its post there was impossible, and it must of course move and do other things at times, though he had not seen it do much else. The troll Kulith, also called Golden Sword, was now yawning out and eating some baked fish he had bought from a goblin, spitting aside the small bones.
“I’d like to talk to you about selling that sword,” Wayland said to him. The creature gave him a piercing look, and then shook its head. “Where half the goblins here aren’t as likely to hear us,” Wayland added. The creature stirred off its trove then, and they walked down away from the hall.
“You held Sunnil of Rydol captive for months,” Wayland said to him. “Do you have any idea where Weech is keeping her now?”
“It has to be north of here, near the lake,” Kulith replied. “I watch the messengers that come and go from there. They try to fool me, to confuse me, but I still know. That funny smell and color of the earth is only to the north of here. It is a form of brimstone.”
“Then why stay and do what Weech wants you to?” Wayland asked him. “And what does Sunnil mean to you, to make you stay?” The troll shook his head, and then it stilled and said.
“A promise was made, and I cannot now fulfill it. When I fought a thring, Little Toad told me that if I could keep her safe, she would make it so that I would never be under the dead men’s thumb again.”
“Any more clues of where she might be held?” he asked.
“Look for Malice Chalice: a bad thring on the come-up. She has cages for people. I don’t know where her cave is, but north of here for sure. Goblins talk too loose and I hear about her. This is a bad pot for us to all be in. The game that Weech plays with me cannot go on much longer.”
“If I can get Sunnil back, I’ll give you a sign,” Wayland said to the troll.
“Do it quickly then and I will show lord Weech how much I really love him,” Kulith said. Then he added, “You should have all you need now to find the path.” Then the troll roughly shoved him away; and he said loudly, “I tell you for last time. I will not sell you the sword!” Wayland stepped back and caught his footing.
“Fine, I’m done with the asking.” He saw the sword flash for a moment, as the sheath and the blanket moved. The thing now appeared to be made completely of gold, and he did not wonder at the name the other buggers had given the troll. He turned and walked away, scratching his head, already working on the new puzzle. He went across the grass and back down the side of Warukz’s outer embankment, then took a trail through the corn and came back up on the little flat of ruins they were occupying. When he got there he sat down by the builder, who was eating their corn mash biscuits like pie at a feast.
“What else have you made for Lord Weech?” he asked him.
“I showed him how to build a barn, and shored up some of the huts. I repaired and lengthened one of the docks on the lake. I built the scaffold for a lookout bell that now sits on the hill over there.”
“Build any cages?” Wayland asked him.
“Three of them, all about large enough to hold a bear in,” he said.
“Or a man, or a princess,” Wayland quietly countered. “Where did you do that?” Ludt scratched his head, a little confused, but starting to understand.
“About two months ago, at a village to the north.” Wayland nodded to him, as it was fitting in together with the other things he knew.
“We will go that way then,” he told the oth
ers. “And I think I know how to find the exact place. It will be somewhere near to the lake. The goblins and the trolls will not want to get too close to it. And the Lady of Grevies may be able to help us find it, I think. For, as a hound follows the trail, so shall this girl not want to return to the place that caused her madness.”
“Work or not, that’s a cruel thing to count on,” Johnas Tygus said, and he made a disgusted frown at Wayland. Even Sir Byrning behind him slowly shook his head, though he wasn’t sure if he was being picky, or just thought it not likely to work.
“Then let’s all go back to Krolo, sit in the hall and sing sonnets to Lady Tazah,” he said, “for there will be none made of our bravery, or for that of the Lady of Grevies, and of her sacrifice. That choice will probably be the end of the Countess of Rydol, for I believe we are her last chance. If there is a song about not doing this, are you willing to hear it played over and over for the next thirty years?” He stood up and looked at an old piece of masonry, then kicked at it. He took a drink of water from one of the skins while they thought it over, noticing that it had now started to go bad.
“In the histories I read, it talked about the thrings,” Wayland said. “For every thousand or so of them bewitched, rising up from the swamp between the Dimm and Lake Talvus as ghouls, there appear a few that have a spark for magic and human intellect. And yes, these generally have control over the rest. What we are seeking out is one of these, perhaps not very strong yet in the scope of the creatures, and passed over by their war, but trying always to gain more power.”
“The cages are for living people,” he continued. “One of the ways magic can be gained is from rituals involving the use of blood and flesh. Malice Chalice is both the name of a thring, and a description of the business it is engaged in to gain its power. It is collecting the blood from its victims and drinking it from a cup.”
A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight Page 57