Of Truth and Beasts (Noble of Dead Saga Series 2 Book 3)

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  Yes, it was time to go, since nothing more could be learned here.

  Wynn snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward along the road through the plain before her eyes and the other one in her memory.

  Chuillyon sat on a horse amid the trees far off from the road. He waited beside Hannâschi and Shâodh, sitting on their mounts.

  When Chuillyon had requested Hannâschi accompany him abroad, Gyâr had fumed until Chuillyon explained. Even Gyâr would want to know what some “covert” little Numan sage was up to. Not that Chuillyon would share all he learned of Wynn’s pursuit.

  “Why are they traveling by night?” Shâodh asked.

  Chuillyon put a warning finger across his lips. He still had not spotted Wynn’s wagon pull out of the forest onto the road.

  “Her tall guardian is likely an undead,” he whispered. “Though it would seem he has some method of hiding his nature.”

  Hannâschi, sitting on a white gelding, leaned forward to glance at him around Shâodh.

  “And you neglected to mention this?” she said.

  Chuillyon rolled his eyes and shushed her. “Either you or Shâodh can detect the others. The stonewalker will be the greater problem, if they actually locate the seatt. He can travel in ways that we cannot follow.”

  He waved both of them to silence as movement caught his eye.

  Wynn’s wagon pulled out of the trees along the road, heading slowly through the plain. Chuillyon waited until it had nearly reached the plain’s far side. He could stop Wynn at any time, but he had no plans to do so—not yet.

  “There’s the patrol,” Shâodh said, pointing.

  Indeed, the Shé’ith guards emerged from the trees to the north and galloped along the forest’s edge. They pulled up in the grass, waiting. All three nodded in respect to him, and Chuillyon returned his acknowledgment as he urged his mount forward.

  Formalities mattered to maintain an image of authority.

  “Let them pass unimpeded,” he said.

  The patrol leader nodded again. “As you wish, Domin.”

  Chuillyon did not want to get too far behind tonight—just enough to let Wynn have her unwitting relief at being free to follow her purpose.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wynn stirred in the wagon’s back and sat up, feeling groggy. A whole moon had passed since they’d left Lhoin’na lands. She rubbed her eyes and crawled out of her lean-to canvas shelter. Two facts hit her instantly.

  First, she’d overslept. It was fully dark, and they’d normally be on the move by now, traveling during Chane’s waking hours. They’d made good time so far, as winter nights were longer than the days.

  Second, she was alone, but this didn’t worry her. The others were likely out foraging again, as their supplies were more than half gone.

  Even if Wynn hadn’t had her makeshift map, they couldn’t have missed the head of the Slip-Tooth Pass. Once inside the pass, navigation became unnecessary; they simply pressed south by southeast between the tall ridges on both sides.

  No one appeared to use this pass anymore. There was little path to speak of, let alone an actual road. Their way was occasionally interrupted by a depression, a boulder field, or having to locate a place to cross the broad stream that ran along parts of the pass’s floor. Eventually this route would lead them to the northern side of the Sky-Cutter Range. Beyond the leagues and leagues of those immense mountains lay the vast Suman desert.

  And they were nearing the end of the pass.

  Crawling to the wagon bed’s back, Wynn looked around, hoping to spot Chane or Shade returning. She didn’t, and her thoughts drifted to the previous morning.

  The wind had kicked up shortly after nightfall, channeled down upon them by the pass’s high sides. The gale was so strong that the wagon rocked and rain began pelting them. Then the rain turned into hail.

  Chane spotted a stone outcrop on the leeward slope and drove the wagon in beneath it. They lost part of a night and the next day but were grateful for any shelter. After Wynn’s companions had gone to sleep, she’d stayed awake past dawn, listening until the patter abated. Then she crawled out in daylight to see what lay ahead.

  In the hazy distance were the vast peaks of the Sky-Cutter Range. She’d studied those mountains, so great in size that it was difficult to judge how far they had to go. Finally, she’d settled down, curling up beside Shade in the small shelter on their side of the wagon’s bed, and slept away the rest of the day.

  Now she’d awakened alone in the dark.

  “Shade?” she called tentatively.

  The dog didn’t answer. Hopping out, Wynn spotted pots and pans already laid out near a lit campfire, and both horses were munching oats from their buckets. She stumbled toward the fire, stretching out her aches, and her movements loosened an odor from her clothing.

  Wynn wrinkled her nose as she picked up the teapot. She could barely remember the last time she’d had a decent bath.

  Chane and Shade had taken to hunting as a team. Wildlife wasn’t abundant, and Wynn knew what they’d likely bring back. She should’ve been grateful, but she didn’t look forward to yet another roasted wild hare. That’s all they seemed able to catch. What she wouldn’t give for an herbed lentil stew with tomatoes, celery, and a bit of onion.

  She dug through burlap supply bags in the wagon’s back. All the melons were long gone, though they still had some small apples and dried jerky. She was saving those for when they entered the range, where nothing else might be available. Pulling out another sack, she found their last few potatoes and a couple of limp carrots. Maybe she could try making a quick soup?

  Wynn paused, pondering the fire.

  It was already lit, and the horses had been fed. Ore-Locks wasn’t a hunter, so he’d taken to foraging for necessities like firewood. Had he already returned and was here somewhere? Bending over, she looked under the wagon.

  He wasn’t resting there. Straightening, she looked about, and then spotted a flicker of light halfway up the sheer slope on the outcrop’s southern side. She barely made out a hulking form by that small torchlight.

  “Ore-Locks,” she called. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer. She noticed how high he held the torch, its flame well above his head, but she hesitated at being alone with him up there. Curiosity won out when he began climbing higher, and she raced for the slope and scrambled upward to follow him.

  “What . . . are you . . . ?” she panted, closing as he reached the outcrop’s top. “What are you doing?”

  Up close, he didn’t smell any better than she did. A focused intensity covered his face.

  “The top did not look right,” he said absently, not looking at her. “This is not natural.... Too level.”

  Wynn followed his gaze.

  The hang of the rutted ledge they’d seen from below was indeed level on top. By torchlight, she made out a pile of huge stones near its outward end. She was still staring when Ore-Locks headed out over that unnatural level toward the stone pile near the precipice.

  Chane followed a few paces behind Shade as they made their way back to camp. Though he carried a large hare from a successful hunt, he wished they could have found something—anything—else to bring back from this wild, rocky land. Wynn never complained, but he knew she was probably dreaming of lentil stew.

  Creeks and streams were plentiful enough for water. A few were large enough to support fish, if he was given time for the lengthy act of catching them. Wynn normally wanted to forage and move on as soon as possible. Between him and Shade, the quickest meal they could catch was a flushed rabbit, or maybe a partridge, if they caught it asleep.

  Chane was walking at a good clip when Shade suddenly stopped. Her ears pricked up, and at first he thought she had lost her way.

  But Shade never lost her bearings.

  He followed her eyes to beneath a sparse pine tree downslope. A downed deer lay there, and Chane stepped around Shade to check out their find.

  When their supplies were s
till plentiful, he had replenished his stores of life with the feeding cup by dragging down a few deer or wild cattle. He had not seen either in nearly a moon. An animal this size would provide food for some time, and venison might be a welcome change for his companions. But how long had the beast been dead? Would its flesh still be safe to eat?

  Shade rumbled softly.

  “What?” he asked, as if expecting an answer.

  She remained where he had left her and wouldn’t approach the carcass.

  Chane dropped to his knees and found that the carcass was still warm to the touch. That gave him hope that it had not yet spoiled, but it felt boney and gaunt. He could not see it clearly and grabbed its hind legs to drag it out beneath the moonlight. It weighed almost nothing.

  Once Chane saw it clearly, disappointment set in.

  At first, he thought the creature had died of old age. Its skin was shriveled and stretched tight over its rib cage. Then he noticed that its antlers were short, barely nubs, where tines would eventually grow. The deer could not have been much more than a yearling, yet it looked old.

  He rose to his feet and backed away. He had no reason to fear disease, but he did not want to carry any taint back to camp.

  “Come. We’re late,” he told Shade, and she loped ahead as he stepped onward.

  Even as he reached camp, something about the carcass still bothered him—until he realized the camp was empty, and all thoughts of the deer vanished.

  “Wynn?” he rasped.

  The black gelding nickered, and he saw that the horses had been fed and the fire was lit. He leaned down to look under the wagon. Ore-Locks’s bedroll was empty, though his iron staff still lay there. Shade growled, and Chane straightened.

  Shade sniffed the air, perhaps searching for Wynn in her own way, and Chane grew tense as the dog began ranging about the camp and peering out into the dark. Had Ore-Locks decided to drag Wynn off on his own in search for the seatt? Then why leave the wagon, horses, and weapons behind? Why bother building a fire?

  “Wynn!” Chane called.

  His maimed voice didn’t carry far. Shade threw back her head and howled once.

  “Up here!” Wynn shouted. “Come quick.”

  Chane looked up and saw light above the outcrop’s top, perhaps thirty or more yards overhead. His relief faded under annoyance. What was she up to now?

  He dropped the hare by the fire and ran to catch Shade scrambling up the slope along the outcrop’s southern side. When he ascended to a height where torchlight reached his eyes, Shade was beside Wynn and Ore-Locks out on the outcrop’s strangely level top. They were climbing over a pile of large stones—practically boulders—near the outcrop’s end.

  Chane was about to call Wynn back, not caring what brought her up here, when Ore-Locks dropped to a crouch beside one large, erect stone.

  “Get over here,” Wynn called, waving.

  Exasperated, Chane stepped outward, but his curiosity did not take hold until Ore-Locks stood back up. The stone next to the dwarf was about his height and half that in width. Roughly weathered, it seemed too square. It was raggedly sheared at an angle, as if it had once been quite tall, but had broken off.

  “What is it?” Chane asked.

  Neither Wynn nor Ore-Locks answered at first. Perhaps they had not yet discussed this.

  “A pylon?” Wynn suggested. “Like the ones in Dhredze Seatt, used to show directions?”

  Uncertain as he was, her notion made him uncomfortable. By its worn and shattered state, it was very old, perhaps ancient.

  “Why?” Ore-Locks ventured, for once so focused that he seemed open to discussion. “My people do not need pylons outside our own seatt.”

  “Unless . . .” Wynn began, “unless it’s from a time when there was more than one seatt.”

  Ore-Locks’s frown began to fade. “Or when more of my people once traveled well-used ways.”

  Reluctantly, Chane asked, “Is there writing?”

  Wynn and Ore-Locks exchanged a look, and then both crouched and pawed at the erect stone’s surface.

  Chane hoped they found nothing—hoped Wynn might have grown weary by now and notions of giving up were in the back of her mind. When they reached the great range, and perhaps after days and nights on foot in those peaks with no sign of a “fallen mountain,” he might finally take her home to relative safety. There were fewer threats that would risk following her among her own kind.

  “Here!” she breathed.

  That one word almost extinguished Chane’s hope. Ore-Locks crouched beside Wynn near the squared stone’s base.

  “Can you feel them?” Wynn asked. “There’s not much, but these might be worn traces of old engravings.”

  “Perhaps,” Ore-Locks said at first. “Perhaps, yes . . . yes.”

  He rose again, torch in hand, and peered southward in the direction of the stone’s face. Wynn looked up at him, her dust-smudged face faintly hopeful.

  “This must mean we’re on the right track,” she said.

  Ore-Locks tilted his head, appearing thoughtful now. “If the seatt is on the range’s southern side, this marker is much too far away. Pylons, as you call them, point to the next closest location or subsequent marker in the direction from an engraved surface.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  Ore-Locks fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps the seatt is not as far as we thought.”

  “No, it has to be on the far side. Its name is derivative of an old desert language.”

  Ore-Locks paused, as if uncertain. “Then a way station . . . perhaps.”

  Chane’s discomfort increased.

  Wynn stood up. “A what?”

  “A land-level entrance to a seatt or its settlements,” Ore-Locks continued. “Like those of my people’s stronghold, Dhredze Seatt.”

  “A passage?” Wynn asked. “All the way through the range to a seatt? That’s not possible even for your people.”

  Ore-Locks gazed southward. “Something is out there, along our path.”

  He strode off past Chane and down the sheer slope. As Wynn passed, following the dwarf, Chane saw thoughts working hard upon her face. He just stood there, tired and frustrated, as Shade passed him, as well. When he turned to follow, Shade had paused at where the overhang met the slope.

  Her ears pricked up and she stood rigid, facing northward.

  Chane tried to follow Shade’s gaze but saw nothing. The rushing night breeze made it impossible to pick up a scent. Then he heard a low rustling in the scant trees. A low branch swayed, but nothing came bustling out. Shade had likely sensed a hare or perhaps a thrush attracted by the torchlight.

  “Come,” he said.

  Shade scurried off downslope, and Chane climbed down. When he reached camp, he went straight for the fire to skin and spit the hare.

  “Couldn’t you find anything tonight?” Wynn asked from behind the wagon, a nearly empty burlap sack in her hands.

  Chane looked to the fireside and then all about the camp. The hare was gone. He glanced upward to the outcrop above. Perhaps Shade had not sensed another hare, but something else scavenging for an easy meal.

  “Chane?” Wynn asked.

  What could he say? He was not about to alarm her over some fox or wildcat that had outwitted him and Shade.

  Sau’ilahk hovered in the shadows of a fir tree just above Chuillyon’s camp on the pass’s western slope. He’d discovered the elves trailing Wynn many nights ago. Unlike Wynn’s group, these elves had no majay-hì to sense his proximity. He sometimes floated in the darkness, listening for bits of information they might unwittingly share.

  Tonight was more difficult.

  For one, the deer he had fed on provided so little life that he was still hungry. The sight of Chuillyon only thirty paces away was a nagging temptation. He had not forgotten how the old elf had hampered him, helped to trap him back in Dhredze Seatt.

  But Sau’ilahk could not risk a vengeful feast just yet.

  The old elf traveled with
two others. By what Sau’ilahk had overheard from them, one was possibly another white-robed sage, though all three were dressed for travel. Tonight, only Chuillyon and the one called Shâodh were present, both looking a little worse for wear. They had not stocked supplies as carefully as Wynn, and had been sleeping on the open ground. There was no fire, only a glowing crystal resting on the boulder they leaned against.

  The elves had always kept pace with Wynn, so why had they not packed up to ride out?

  Chuillyon closed his eyes and leaned back, half sitting on the waist-high boulder. However, Shâodh glanced southward through the slope’s trees a little too often.

  Where was their third companion, the woman called Hannâschi?

  “How much longer will the human journeyor continue?” Shâodh asked tonelessly. “They must be in a similar state to us.”

  Sau’ilahk sensed dissension between them as he caught the almost imperceptible tightening of Chuillyon’s mouth as the old elf’s eyes opened. These two had had this conversation before.

  “As I have said,” Chuillyon answered, “I believe she is looking for a seatt . . . which are always built in mountains or a high vantage point.”

  “You do not think she will turn back?”

  “I do not.”

  Sau’ilahk wondered if perhaps against only two, he might take the old one and leave the younger alive enough for questioning.

  Shâodh suddenly stood up and stared southward. Tree branches wavered and snapped back, as if something had passed through them. A strange ripple in the night formed three steps inward from that disturbance on the camp’s southern side.

  Hannâschi stepped out of the warped air as if from water, the colors and textures of the trees and earth flowing off her.

  Sau’ilahk had not seen her do this before. It confirmed she was a thaumaturge, a metaologer among the sages. And she was fairly skilled, if she could bend light to hide herself at night.

  “Well?” Chuillyon asked, straightening. “Are they moving? How far are they?”

  Sau’ilahk realized the female had been spying on Wynn’s group.