by Robert Beers
Adam finished brushing off the last of the snow and walked over to Milward's side. “Why is she calling you sire?”
Milward finished signing their names into the book. A number of the lines had x's or thumbprints in place of names. “It's not a title of royalty. It's just this community's way of saying ‘mister'. You'll find it fairly common in a number of places.”
“Well met, sires.” The man behind the voice did not fit what Adam had come to expect the Innkeeper's mold to be. Rather than being large, fleshy and ruddy of complexion, this fellow was slightly shorter than he was, had a dark olive complexion, salt and pepper hair, and appeared to be a few meals shy of starvation.
He came out of the great room wiping his hands on his apron. “Well met. I'm called Westcott. Welcome to my humble Inn. Ani says you and your handsome young man, here,” he winked at Adam, “Desire to share our dinner with us.”
“If you please, sire Westcott.” Milward reclined his head in a bow. “What is the price for two dinners with drinks? Mind you, neither of us is a Lord.”
Westcott's smile was thin. “It matters not, good traveler. Lord or Peasant, all pay the same in Access. A copper for dinner, a half for drink.”
“They charge less in the city,” Milward demurred.
Westcott's smile broadened. “Then you may go back to the city for dinner.”
Milward dropped the coins into Westcott's hand. “Droll. Very droll. I hope your cheese is as sharp as your wit, and your ale as smooth.”
Westcott bowed them into the great room. “You will find my wit poor fare in comparison, sires. Poor fare, indeed.”
He showed them to a table, and then left for the kitchen, claiming disaster if he was away for too long. The great room was uncrowded, with only two other tables holding diners, who nodded at their entrance, and a couple of old men smoking pipes in a corner while they played a games of cards.
Adam removed his pack and sword, stowing them alongside the table. “A copper and a half for dinner and drink? That's at least twice what it's worth, if not more.”
Milward sat with him, leaning his staff with its wolf head against the table. “The Innkeeper claims the food is worth the price, we'll find out if he's telling the truth, soon enough.”
The food arrived in quantity and in short order. Westcott proved to be a man of his word. It was all delicious.
Adam looked up from his stew as Milward finished his slice of venison. “You must have been hungry. That's your third helping.”
Milward mumbled something around a mouthful of baked potato.
“What's that? I couldn't understand you.”
“I said.” The Wizard washed the potato down with a mouthful of Westcott's nut brown ale. “It's the result of holding that shaping for so long. Keeping us warm used only a little energy to generate it. Keeping it going for mile after mile, while hiking through the snow, mind you, nearly drained me dry. I wouldn't be able to move a salt cellar right now.”
Adam followed the example and sipped some more of his ale. “But I thought you said a Wizard draws power from the world around him, as well as within. Couldn't you use the power from outside to maintain the shaping?”
Milward shook his head. “You'd think it would work that way, wouldn't you? Unfortunately it doesn't.”
“Why?” Adam sipped some more ale.
“That, I can't tell you.” Milward spooned up some more potato, dripping with butter. “It just doesn't work that way. You try holding a shaping for an extended period of time, and you'll find yourself becoming more and more fatigued, as well as ravenously hungry.” He smiled. “That's why I'm making a pig of myself.”
Westcott approached their table. “Well, good travelers. How do you find my fare? Is it worth what you paid for it?”
Milward made a show of patting imaginary sauce from his mustaches and beard, as Adam sipped his ale. “Innkeeper,” he said, as he patted, “Your kitchen could have graced the court of Labad himself. That venison must have been born for the table, for this was its greatest triumph.”
Westcott beamed under the praise. Adam thought Milward was putting it on a bit thick. The food had been good, to be sure, but he had as good in Dunwattle, and also at Bustlebun's.
The front door of the Inn crashed open and every head turned to see Nowsek, his face streaked with dirt and blood. His mittens were gone and blood was on his hands. “The mine.” He gasped.
* * * *
The latch gave way under McCabe's deft touch. It was almost too easy, “The Duke should have spent more on security.” He thought. “Grisham is a dangerous place to live.”
He lifted the window carefully, listening for any sign of a give-away squeak that could bring guards at the run. His luck stayed with him and the hinges remained silent.
The room he stepped into held enough trinkets to allow him to indulge in his hobby for years. His mouth watered at the thought.
He began moving about the room, picking and choosing among the jewelry and art objects for those most valuable, and still of a size easy to carry down the drainpipe. A sound from outside the room's only door stopped his hand halfway to a matching set of earrings, a necklace and bracelet set with diamonds and blood red rubies. Someone was scratching at the door. Time to leave.
McCabe tiptoed to the window and eased himself out of it backward, feeling for the pipe support with his foot. He found it after an anxious bit of waving around, and started down the pipe.
“A shortened visit.” He thought. “But what I have should do for a while.”
“Visitors usually arrive through the front door.” The voice had an oily quality, redolent with self-indulgence. McCabe liked its sound.
He turned smoothly and saw the guards that ringed him. His heart quickened in anticipation of a beating.
A goateed man dressed in silks and furs stood behind the guards, his enormous paunch straining the silk to its limit. He held out a gloved hand toward the thief. “I'll take my jewelry back now, please. If you resist, I'll have you tortured before killing you, If you give it back now, I'll just have you killed. Please resist.”
McCabe resisted. To his credit, three of the nine guards died under his hands, and two others would curse his name whenever the weather changed. The rest would remember a battered face that smiled more broadly with each blow until the eyes glazed over, and the body collapsed.
He woke to pain, delicious pain. McCabe was tied into a device that could tear the limbs from their sockets if tightened sufficiently enough. He was being stretched, nude, on a rack. He'd always wanted to try that.
“Ah, you're awake. You fought well for such a little man. Three of my guards you killed. You're going to have to pay for that, you know.” The man with the paunch came down the curving stairs into the dungeon where McCabe was being held.
He smiled at his visitor. The pain was making him giddy. “I know.”
The man walked around the rack until he faced McCabe's feet. “You stole from me. No one does that, and you shall live to know why.”
“Oh?”
The man scowled. “Impertinence will only make the pain worse sooner. I promise you.”
“Good.”
His captor moved around the rack and leaned over him. “All right, you fool! You will learn a hard lesson. I am Duke Bilardi of the royal house of Grisham. Remember my name and title, for you'll want to scream it when you beg for mercy.”
The Duke turned away from him, and pulled a small lever set into the stone wall. In a few minutes, a large man wearing a stained tunic with heavily muscled arms walked through one of the archways that led out of the dungeon.
The Duke presented him to McCabe with a wave of his left hand. “This is Dunn. He will be your playmate.”
McCabe took him at his word.
* * * *
“What is the matter, Dunn?” Bilardi did not bother to look up from his meal.
“Beggin’ yer pardon Milord but this feller in the’ dungeon, he ain't normal, Milord.”
&nbs
p; Bilardi still did not look up. He reached for his wine goblet. “What do you mean, not normal?”
“I think ‘e likes it, Milord.”
The Duke looked up; a forkful of spiced noodles inches away from his mouth. “Likes what?”
Dunn looked embarrassed. “Wot I do, Milord. ‘E likes it. I ‘wack ‘im wit da ‘ot irons, an’ all ‘e does is smile. An’ you shoulda seen wot ‘e did when I started on ‘is privates.” Dunn's eyes grew wide. “It just ain't natcheral, Milord.”
Bilardi sat back in his chair, his meal forgotten. “No screams? Not even a whimper?”
Dunn shook his head, the greasy curls swaying with the movement. “No, Milord. ‘E did grunt once, just before ‘e ... well, it were disgustin’ Milord. Just plain disgustin'!”
Duke Bilardi threw down his napkin, and rose from the table. “We shall see about this. Come with me, Dunn.”
The giant torturer followed his employer through the Castle hallways and down the curving stair that led to the dungeon. McCabe lay as he'd been left, a pincer attached to his scrotum, and a beatific smile on his face.
Bilardi crossed the foot of the rack, and moved to stand along McCabe's left side. He folded his arms over his paunch and nodded at Dunn. “Show me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Dunn picked a long-handled iron out of the brazier that smoldered next to a wall hung with the tools of his trade. Most of them wore encrusted bits as telltales to their use. Waves of intense heat fluttered in the air of the dungeon as he moved it to a spot on his subject's inner thigh.
McCabe's breath quickened as he saw the iron pass over his body.
Bilardi exclaimed, “Deity! The man's getting...!”
The iron hissed as it met tender flesh, and the smell of it filled the air. McCabe moaned and then screamed in release.
Bilardi fell back against the wall. “Did you see that? He just...”
Dunn nodded, his face a pasty white. “I know, Milord. It ain't the first time. I told yer. He ain't natcheral.”
He leaned over the gasping McCabe, and yelled into his face, “you ain't natcheral, you pervert! Yer should be ashamed of yerself!”
Bilardi pulled out a linen kerchief and wiped his face. He felt out of his element entirely. What can you do to a man who does that because of pain? Then another thought intruded. What could you do with such a man?
* * * *
Circumstance sat on the stoop leading into the house his mother and Ethan got from the nice old man, Sammel.
“What do you think of your new home, Circumstance?” Ethan stood in the doorway behind him.
“It's nice enough, I guess.” Circumstance looked up at Ethan's approach. “I miss the forest.”
Ethan knelt down next to the boy. He could hear Sari and Jonas playing with some of the neighborhood children. Youngsters didn't worry about where you were from; they just wanted a playmate. “I miss it, too, but we were given little choice. It's easier to start over if you have friends to help you.”
Circumstance nodded. “I know.”
The level of maturity the boy showed again struck Ethan. Did his being part Elf have something to do with it? Elves only lived about half as long as humans did. They moved into adulthood faster. An Elf lad of about Circumstance's age would already be fathering children, but Circumstance had a human half. This made him really neither Elf nor Human, but a blend of both.
Circumstance broke into Ethan's thoughts with a question. “Ethan. Do you ever get the feeling there's something you need to do, but you don't know what it is?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have that feeling. There's something I need to do, but I don't know what. I've been asking myself, but I don't get any answers.” Circumstance rested his chin on his forearms crossed across his knees.
Ethan turned his hands palm out. “I don't know, son, it could just be the change coming on you. You're turning from a boy into a man. That can cause some mighty strange feelings to go through you. It did for me.”
Circumstance shook his head up and down. “Maybe.” “But I don't think that's it.” He thought.
Ethan stood up and brushed off the knee that had been on the floor. “Tell you what. You let me know if something comes to you, and I'll see what I can do to help. Pact?”
Circumstance nodded. “Pact.”
“Good. Now I've got to get back to that new wheel, or Ellona's going to wear herself out on those spindles I made her. Don't forget to get yourself some lunch.” Ethan turned to go.
“I won't.” Circumstance replied. “It's to the East and South of here.” He thought. “But what is it?”
Ethan picked up the finishing rasp and put it to the Flyer he was working on.
Nearly done.” He thought to himself, “And it looks even better than the first one.”
Sammel had been kind enough to lend Ethan some of the wood for the new wheel in exchange for the use of his services. The amount of businesses his old friend had fingers into was surprising. Before, he'd just been a friendly face and someone to help occasionally as a Watchman, and now ... well, it was obvious Sammel had a lot more ambition than he did. Taking care of Ellona and the children was fulfilling enough.
Ellona came into the workroom with a smile across her flushed face. “She's been running.” Ethan noticed.
“They want to buy my yarn.” She cried.
Ethan felt proud and pleased all at once. “Who?” He asked.
“The weaver's shop and that place on Tweed Road where they do the knitting. They both said they'll take all I can make. They compared it to what they haul in from the Wool Coast. Oh, Ethan, I'm so happy.” She threw her arms around him and squeezed.
“You should be.” He said as he looked down into her eyes, returning the hug. “You deserve every bit of happiness that comes your way.”
She leaned her head against his chest and hugged him even tighter. For Ethan, that was answer enough.
* * * *
The Librarian opened the ancient chest with reverence. The dust of ages covered it, but even that he treasured. Labad himself may have run his finger through that dust. He refused to allow his housekeeper to clean it. It had been with him for over a hundred years, but the chest came to him locked and without a key. Then, wonder of wonders, a key had been found by his young assistant in a long forgotten room hidden in the far back wall of the library.
The hinges creaked with age. “Just like me,” he thought, as he lifted the lid. The smell of ages wafted out of the interior. He looked inside to see a single roll of parchment and more dust, but nothing else.
His hand trembled as he reached in to lift out the parchment. It bore the seal of the Dwarf family that tradition held to be the caretakers of the Philosopher King's legacy. It could be the original itself, the vision he wrote in his own blood.
He cracked the seal with great care, fearful that the old adhesion might tear the parchment itself. As he unrolled the ancient parchment hope faded, but only slightly. The writing on the parchment was only a copy of Labad's prophecy, but it was an original copy, faithfully made by an attendant Dwarf, probably with the original right next to it.
He held his new treasure with ginger hands as he called for his assistant. “Felsten!”
It would take the boy time to get there, so the Librarian settled down in the dust to look over his prize.
* * * *
“The mine.” Nowsek collapsed into the arms of Westcott and his daughter.
Adam rose to go see he if could help, but Milward put a hand on his arm to stay him. “We can hear from here just fine, lad. Let's see what develops.”
Adam sat back down and waited with the Wizard. One of the old men playing cards at the time ran out the door as soon as Nowsek said, “the mine.”
A woman burst through the door and fell to her knees next to Nowsek. “Petron,” The name came out in an anguished whisper. “Is he...?”
He reached up and stroked her cheek. “Maibell...”
Milward arose from the ta
ble and joined the group around the exhausted Nowsek. The Mayor of Access's eyes widened in recognition when the Wizard bent over him.
Maibell was becoming hysterical. She grabbed Nowsek's shoulders and shook him. “Husband! Our Petron! Is he dead? Our Petron!”
Westcott pulled her away, and handed her over to his wife, Sheriwyn, who comforted the sobbing woman.
Milward reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a pod that he cracked under Nowsek's nose.
The Mayor inhaled and then broke into a fit of coughing.
Milward patted him on the back. “It'll be all right, sire Nowsek. The Angeimyn pod will give you your strength and your senses back in short order. Can you tell us what happened?”
Nowsek shook his head. “Wfff! Oh, my head is clearing. You know your stuff, Wiz ... umph.”
When Milward took his hand away from the Mayor's mouth, Maibell was sobbing in the background. “Enough of that, Nowsek. What can you tell us about the mine?”
Adam had finished his ale, and now stood behind Milward.
“A cave-in. I don't know how far back it goes. I tried to dig a way in, but the rocks are too large. I couldn't shift ‘em. I ... failed.”
“You weren't going to a disaster when we first met you. Were you going to the mine to work it? Do you know how it's built? What about the type of rock around it?” Milward peppered him with questions.
Nowsek accepted the brandy Westcott held out for him. He talked as he sipped. “I had supplies for the miners in my sled. Food and drink for their dinner break.” His eyes shifted to where his wife sat crying into Sheriwyn's shoulder. “Our boy, Petron, works ... worked there...” His voice trailed off.
Milward patted the Mayor's shoulder. “Don't think like that, sire Nowsek. There's always hope.”
“What do you mean? How can you...? Oh, I see. Sire, if you do this, you will have my eternal gratitude, and that of the village, as well.” Nowsek grabbed Milward's hand.
The Wizard shook off the Mayor's grasp and stood up. “Never mind that! Show us the mine.”
Nowsek surged to his feet. “At once, sires. At once.”
Westcott reached behind a counter and pulled out a heavy coat. “I'm going with you.”