by J. C. Staudt
They stopped at the first public house they came to, a stacked-stone inn whose outer walls were overgrown with a slippery green moss. One of the stable boys was scrubbing at the moss with a stiff brush, dipping his implement into a bucket of lye and saltwater. The boy looked up at them through strands of long wet hair as they passed. “Welcome to the Hart’s Wharf,” he said.
Sullimas replied with a curt nod.
The inn’s door creaked on salt-rusted hinges, and they entered a warm open room where the air hung heavy with the smells of fish and fire. The hearth was blazing, though the soggy men crowded around it were absorbing most of the heat. A dozen candles burned low in a cartwheel chandelier, their spent wax hanging in gnarled white icicles.
“Morning, gentlemen,” said the innkeep, a big-bellied bald man with a thick black mustache. “What can I do for you?”
“A room for the night, if you please,” said Sullimas.
“Is it just you, or will it be the three of you?”
“Us three. And a meal each, with ale.”
“I’ve a room with four beds open, as it happens. Pay for the empty, and twenty-five silver ought to cover it.”
Sullimas slapped three gold pieces onto the counter. “Here’s something extra for a bit of information.”
“Aye, I’ve got plenty,” said the innkeep, sweeping the gold into his palm. “What sort?”
“We’re looking for a man who knows his way about the wilderness.”
The innkeep studied the priest. “Do I take that to mean you intend to venture into the wilds? You’d be better served finding a ship to bring you round the coast to Orothwain, or up north to Thraihm. Much easier going round than going through.”
Vicar Norne was skeptical. “Have you seen the waves out there today?”
“‘Course I have. I see them through my window every morning. This weather will clear up in a few days. Take my advice; you’ll want to avoid the wilds. It’s no place for men such as yourselves.”
“And what sort of men do you suppose we are?” Norne asked, indignant.
“I didn’t mean to offend.”
Vicar Sullimas rested a calming hand on Norne’s shoulder. “Nonetheless, I’ve paid you for the information.”
“As you say. There’s a man by the name Rochlathan, though most call him Roke. A masterly tracker, they say he is. I reckon he knows his way round these parts better than most.”
“Where might we find him?”
“Lives in a cabin on the bluffs. You’d take the road through town and turn left where it forks by the well. Follow it to the top. There you’ll find a shanty of timber and thatch ‘neath a twisted old spindleroot tree. That’ll be his. Will you take your meals now, or do you mean to march up the bluffside first?”
“We’ll take them in our room, if you don’t mind. We ought dry our clothes and warm our bones before we venture out again.”
“As you will.” The innkeep took an iron key from a rack on the wall and slid it across the counter. “Second door on the right.”
Sullimas took it and gave him a shallow bow. “Our thanks.”
“I’ll have your meals ready in an hour’s time,” said the innkeep, shuffling off toward the kitchens.
The room was clean, if musty-smelling, with a round table in the center and a leak working its way down the stone wall beside the window. Maaltred and the vicars undressed and hung their robes from the crossbeams to drip dry, then crawled into their respective beds to warm themselves. A fireplace would’ve been preferable, but the woolen blankets were crisp and dry, and the mattresses were filled with good soft straw. Within a few minutes Maaltred was so comfortable he drifted off to sleep.
He was woken some time later by a knock at the door. Norne crawled out of bed to answer it, and a kitchen maid brought in a tray with three mugs of ale and plates of hot bread and meat and boiled vegetables. It smelled so good Maaltred forgot his nakedness and threw off the covers to join the vicars at the small table. The kitchen maid blushed and took her leave.
Rest on land had calmed Maaltred’s stomach for the first time in days. He ate with a hunger, though the room still spun as if he were aboard ships. Norne and Sullimas were similarly famished. When their plates were clean and their cups empty, they retreated to their beds once more to sleep away the afternoon.
Norne woke first, standing to relieve himself in the wooden chamber pot in the corner. “I thought I’d never miss a chamber pot,” he said, “until I spent a fortnight pissing off the side of a ship on stormy seas.”
“Savor it while you can,” Sullimas croaked from his bed. “It’s the last chamber pot you’re like to see for some time.”
Maaltred chuckled to himself and rolled over, hugging the blankets and reveling in the pleasure of a full belly. The only thing that could’ve made it better was to have Juna beside him, warm and alive. Better yet, naked. The thought of her made him hard. With the cold wet ship fading into memory, his strength was returning, and his desires were not far behind.
“It’s nearly dark,” Norne said, giving himself a shake before going to stand by the window. “Shall we visit this Roke fellow and ascertain his need for gold?”
“On the morrow,” said Sullimas. “Tonight, we consort with the locals. See if the townsfolk have anything to offer as to the whereabouts of Darion Ulther.”
“Can’t we summon the wild-song to find him?” Maaltred asked.
“We can. Need we, though—that’s a different sort of question. If he’s anywhere within fifty leagues of here he’ll have noticed the sphere’s influence by now. He’ll be wary of any attempts to spy on him from afar, I should think. Better we find him using the eyes and ears of a seasoned woodsman so he doesn’t know we’re coming.”
Maaltred nodded, though he wasn’t sure he understood. So long as the vicars knew what they were doing, he decided, the decision was best left to them.
“Get dressed, Brother Maaltred,” said Norne. “We’ve a night ahead of us. Plenty of ale to purchase and townsfolk to lubricate.”
Maaltred’s underclothes were damp and salt-stiff when he put them on, as were his robes. He groaned when he removed the stack of folded parchment spells from his pocket and found the pages soggy and the ink smeared. He would need to buy fresh paper and spend half a day copying them down again, assuming he could read what was left.
“What’s the matter? Has the sea ruined your spells? That’s why I keep mine up here.” Norne tapped his bald head.
“I’m still working on that,” said Maaltred, spreading the parchments on the table to dry. He tucked his pack beneath his bed where the sphere would be safe, then followed the vicars into the hallway.
To his surprise, Sullimas locked the door and handed him the key. “For safekeeping. You are the bearer of the sphere. Should anything happen to us, your access to our room will be of the utmost import.”
Maaltred tucked the key into his robes and followed them toward the stairs. “I’ve never been good at chatting up strangers. I’m somewhat better at listening to other people’s conversations than holding my own.”
“How about you leave the talking to us,” said Norne, “and we’ll leave the listening to you.”
A drove of voices and clinking cups drowned out the vicar as they descended into a common room packed with evening guests. The air mellowed with the smells of poached herring and spilt ale and wood smoke. A trio of musicians on fiddle, pipe, and drum played a jaunty tune while guests capered across the dance floor. Sullimas found an empty bench at a long table half-full of patrons and took a seat at one end. Norne sat on the other, leaving Maaltred to squeeze into the space between them.
“Care for a drink, milords?” asked a serving wench. She was a different girl than the one who’d brought their suppers upstairs and blushed when they rose naked from their beds.
“A pitcher of ale for me and all my new friends, here,” said Norne, gesturing toward the table full of strangers, who lifted up shouts of gratitude in response.
&n
bsp; “To what do we owe this honor?” asked a fair-haired lad of no more than twenty. “I wouldn’t think to find three men of the cloth in a place like this.”
“Nor would we,” said Norne.
The strangers chuckled and sipped their drinks.
“We are but simple traveling priests,” said Sullimas. He introduced himself along with Norne and Maaltred.
“Well met, and welcome to Cliffside Harbor,” said the lad. “I’m Torrick. My companions here are Gothar, Eli, Ladric, Cainon, Hob, Wynther, and Kepold. What brings you to these parts?”
“We are come to spread news of our goddess Yannui to the lost peoples of the realms.”
“You’ve come to the right place, then,” said the one called Kepold, a stocky dwarf-kind with a thick brown beard. “I’ve not been blessed with the proper attentions of a goddess in years.”
The others guffawed and clinked their tankards.
“I’ve been feeling a bit lost myself of late,” said Torrick. “Tell us. What sort of lady is this goddess of yours? What does she stand for? What’ll I get if I decide to follow her?”
“Aye, what’s in it for me?” Gothar chimed in.
These gentlemen are clearly having a bit of fun with us, Maaltred thought. The whole exchange was making him uncomfortable, though he felt safer with the two vicars flanking him. When the serving girl brought the ale, Maaltred took a large gulp and slouched low on the bench so as not to be noticed.
“Yannui is the queen mother of nature,” Sullimas explained. “She rules over all things beneath the sun, from the depths of the seas to the highest heights of the skies. She makes the wind to blow and permits the rain to fall.”
“Might she permit some ale to rain on my tankard?” asked Wynther. “I’ve a thirst, and I’ve spent me last copper.”
Sullimas started to reply, but their laughter interrupted him.
Vicar Norne cleared his throat. “Say, would you fellows happen to know anyone round here who can do magic?”
Maaltred smirked. That’s getting right to the point.
“You might ask this goddess to whose service you’re bound,” said Eli. “Sounds as though she’s played a magic trick upon the lot of you.”
Norne was undeterred. “I’m not talking about a jester’s stunt. I’m talking about real magic. Spells. The mage-song. Do any of you know anyone who’s able to awaken it?”
The men traded curious glances.
Torrick spoke up. “What would you need someone like that for?”
“Are you not familiar with the mysterious ways of the gods?” Norne asked. “Yannui is the most mysterious of them all. We, her servants, require a manner of aid we feel would be best achieved using magic. Can you help us, or no?”
The strangers conferred briefly.
“We hear rumor of mages passing through from time to time,” said Cainon. “But then, lots of folk pass through here on their way up and down the coast. There’s always a new ship, and new rumors to go with it.”
Norne prodded further. “What about Pathfinders?”
“Dathiri Pathfinders?” Torrick asked.
“Do they ever come through here?”
“Haven’t seen one in years meself,” offered Kepold.
“I seem to recall a year or two after the Korengadi War, a band of Pathfinders making a stop in town,” said Gothar.
“Do you remember why they were here?”
“Looking for something. Someone, mayhap. That’s what Pathfinders do, isn’t it?”
“Any idea what—or who—they were looking for?”
“Some runaway, methinks. A traitor, or the like.”
“A spellsword.” It was Hob, the quiet one of the group, who hadn’t yet spoken a word.
Norne’s lips eased into a dark smile. “A spellsword, you say. Tell me more.”
Chapter 6
The next morning, as the three priests climbed the bluffs overlooking Cliffside Harbor and the angry waves of the Aeldalos, Maaltred decided the only thing near as bad as being on the ocean was being this high above it. The winds were raw and fierce, and the damp of yesterday had left a crisp, biting chill in the air. With their packs slung full, they trudged up a hard rocky path where loose scree threatened to conspire with the wind to toss them to their deaths upon the rocks below.
Maaltred was beginning to regret his choice of attire; the thin linens of his priestly robes had proven suitable for the desert climes of eastern Dathrond, but here they hardly sufficed as even a windbreak. “Perhaps we ought to have purchased some overcoats from a clothier in town before coming up here,” he suggested with a shiver.
“I, for one, welcome the cold,” said Norne. “It’s invigorating. Gets the mind turning.”
“My mind works just as well beneath a heavy coat,” Maaltred complained.
“Not to worry,” said Sullimas. “We’ll provision ourselves before we leave town for the wilderness. Plenty to stock up on.”
Maaltred hugged himself and continued up the narrow rise. It’s all for Tanielle, he told himself, as he often did these days. For Tanielle, and Liselle, a daughter made orphan by those Korengadi scum and their foul magic. Never again.
The climb to the blufftop gave Maaltred time to remember the letter he’d written to Juna before he left Maergath. No doubt she’d received it by now, and had enlisted young Inthrop, the son of the village scribe, to read it to her. Maaltred could never speak frankly in his letters or express his dislike of the king’s commands, lest he be found out. Still, he hoped she understood his delay in coming home. Perhaps she would see fit to spend a few pieces of silver on a return letter, and he would find it waiting for him upon his return to Maergath. How he cherished her letters, despite their being written in the hand of a boy of twelve. A word from his wife was the only comfort he knew anymore.
Long before they arrived at the tracker’s cabin, they could see the boughs of the old spindleroot tree sheltering the path ahead. Though the day provided little sunlight, the shadows of its leaves grew denser as they ascended. He wondered what sort of man would choose to live all the way up here by himself. Not the sort who fancied people, surely.
The trail dumped them into a rounded hollow covered in green moss and shielded from the seaside winds by high rock walls. There squatted the meager dwelling the innkeep had described, a simple wood-beamed cabin bound in clay daub, its stone chimney profuse with smoke. The spindleroot tree grew from a cleft in the rock behind the cabin, its branches twisting low and wide into a massive canopy which shaded the whole of the hollow like some grand awning.
“Are you going to knock,” asked Norne, “or shall I?”
Maaltred gulped. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re the bearer. You ought to be the one to hire our protection, don’t you think?”
“I—well, I…”
Norne laughed. “Only jesting, Brother Maaltred. I had you going there for a mite, didn’t I?”
Maaltred breathed a sigh. “Oh. You were—” He smiled. “I thought—I mean… don’t I feel a fool?” He laughed, forgetting the cold for a moment all too brief.
The cabin door slammed open. A man with sharp features and long brown hair stepped outside holding a shortbow pointed at the ground, an arrow nocked to the string. “You’ll want to be moving on from here, sirs. The trail continues yonder.” He gestured with his head to the far end of the moss-covered hollow.
“We are come in peace,” said Sullimas, lifting his hands in surrender. “I believe it’s you we’re here to find. Presuming you answer to the name Rochlathan, that is to say.”
“Never mind what name I answer to. I’ll visit the temple when I’m well pleased to, and not before. I’ve nothing to donate. Begone with you.”
“We are not here in collection of alms,” said Norne. “Rather, we’ve alms to provide in exchange for your much-needed services.”
“I’m not offering any services, goodman priest.”
“Nevertheless, I cannot imagine what reason might drive you to ra
ise a weapon toward a simple man of god.”
“I haven’t raised it yet. Follow the trail and I’ll see it stays that way.”
Sullimas lifted a finger and signaled him to wait. He submerged a hand into his robes and withdrew a small purse heavy with coin. He shook the purse to jingle the money inside, then tossed it underhand to land at the man’s feet. “From the king himself.”
The man who may or may not have been Rochlathan lowered his eyes to stare at the purse suspiciously. “Which king?”
“Olyvard of Dathrond.”
A pause. “What for?”
“We mean to brave the wilds, and we require a guide.”
“Take a ship round the coast instead.”
“Alas, we must locate something valuable to the king. Something which can only be found in the wilds.”
“Such as?”
Sullimas gave Norne a glance. “We shall relay such information to you upon your acceptance of the post.”
“So that’s it, then. You climb my cliffs and stroll into my yard with your vague proposals, expecting I’ll pick up without a hint toward the particulars?”
“I wasn’t aware it was a crime to enter your yard,” said Norne.
“Do you know how many passing travelers have pilfered my hard-cut firewood as though I’d set it out for donation? I’ve a right to be vigilant. I’ve a right to stay in my home, and mind my own affairs. Not least of all because it’s dangerous out there. It’ll be more so with a herd of bumbling preachers in my wake, snapping twigs and parting branches like they’re window dressings. All toward a quarry I’m not to be endowed of unless I accept? The forest is no bedchamber, sirs. The fields are no cloister. The wilds are an unfit place for men of your sort to be found.”
“We’ve dire need of you,” Maaltred blurted.
Roke mocked flattery. “Oh, I’m sure you have. Just as I’ve need of a strong wind to help me fly. Such help has not availed me yet, but I’ll be sure to fetch you to the cliffside when it does.”
“We can hold our own in the wilds,” Maaltred insisted, though he was not sure it was true.