"A cold cell with no food and water was the best Barrows could have hoped for, and it was what he received. Huddled in a corner, he contemplated his fate. What he thought, I cannot say. Perhaps he believed it his just reward for being Inanis' assassin — for, too late, he saw he had been the elf's puppet all along. Perhaps he burned with more hate and fury than had possessed him even during the hottest battle of the Red Summer.
"Only a day had passed before someone visited: Inanis himself. He came unaccompanied, and entered the cell with Barrows as if he hadn't any concern for his safety. Barrows watched and waited for his opportunity to exact revenge while the elf spoke.
"But what Inanis did then transfixed him. 'You are not the only one in disguise,' he told Barrows — and, like a veil falling from a bride, he dispelled his illusion. Behind the beautiful face hid one of crystal and stone, a face both of the Bloodlines and horribly deviated from them. He had never seen it before, but Barrows knew precisely what Inanis was as soon as he revealed himself: one of the Extinguished. He had been serving the very adversary who had doomed him to a shadow-life in Dhuulheim.
"Inanis spoke of guilt, of doing what he was commanded, and that he had set into motion something he no longer had the heart for — but Barrows shut out the words. The Soulstealer had lied to him for too long for his words to find any purchase. Inanis finally relented, ending his excuses with one last surprise: releasing Barrows from his cage.
"At first, Barrows believed this another of the sorcerer's traps. But when Inanis left, Barrows' equipment bestowed upon him and the cell door hanging open, he was forced to make the attempt. He ghosted down the halls of the dungeon, always expecting to encounter an ambush. Inanis' plan, he guessed, was to stage one last drama through his escape attempt. But his shock and confusion only grew when he left the stronghold alive, then fled for the exit to the mines.
"Even then, he might never have left Dhuulheim, for one clan's fugitive is another's, by shared clan law. But the plot Inanis had spoken of was already underway. The clans were at war with each other, old scars broken open with the Hardrog chieftain's death. Yardin's killer went unnoticed as he fled the mines, never to return."
His tale finished, the bard seemed to collapse in on himself, his head and back bowed. Garin considered him silently for a moment, then rose and tended to the fire. His head was full of the pictures drawn by Falcon's words. He tried to reconcile yet another piece of Tal's past with the man he knew.
"Did… did Tal ever seem sorry for what he did?"
"Sorry?" Falcon's head jerked up. "How can you ask that? He has not lived a day that he wasn't remorseful! Haven't you seen the man? He reeks of guilt!"
"It's just…" Garin turned his head aside. "Silence, Falcon. I knew he had done some bad things. But an assassin?"
The bard patted Garin's bed, and he sat down at the invitation, then stared into the golden swirl of his eyes.
"I know it's difficult to understand," Falcon said gently. "And no one is saying he made any of the right decisions. But his mind was not well, Garin. And everyday since he left those mines, he has done his best to atone for his mistakes."
"That was the turning point?" Part of Garin could not help but wonder how it couldn't be his father's death.
Falcon shrugged. "It was. From that day forward, he dedicated his existence to fighting against Yuldor and his Extinguished. He had seen what seeds the Prince of Devils sowed; he had been one of them himself. And he's the only living man who has seen the face of three of the four Extinguished. If anyone was ideally positioned to take on the fight, it was him."
Garin nodded, even as the story still hovered like a gray cloud over his mind. But one thing was becoming clear again.
"The reason I wanted to know the story was to understand how Lord Dathal would feel toward Tal. I guess I know now."
"Indeed. If Tal came through here, he would not have received a warm welcome."
Garin stood. "Then we have to look for his prison."
Or his grave.
He didn't see how Tal could have succumbed to these dwarves after what he'd witnessed in Elendol. But he'd been attacked and thrown into the river, then seemingly dragged out.
Anything was possible.
Falcon smiled and stood as well, clasping Garin's shoulder. "So we will. And if he's here, we'll find him."
And when we do, Garin thought as he followed the bard out of the door, I'll pry every last mystery out of him.
The Watcher and the Watched
When Kherdorn came again, faint daylight peeked in through the door.
Tal thought it might have been the next day, though time seemed a limp, sodden thread during the hours entombed in his stone cell. Hunger and thirst made it spool ever slower. He had given up his attempts at sorcery an hour before, though his stomach still roiled with the canker's aftereffects.
The silver-bearded dwarf carried a torch again, but he only lit it once he'd stepped inside and closed the door. Tal let out a sigh of relief at the waning light.
How swiftly we crave the comfort of darkness, he mused.
Once the torch was lit and slid into the sconce by the entrance, and Tal's usual cup of water was drunk and empty in his hand, Kherdorn stood and scrutinized Tal with shadowed eyes. Though he longed to look away from the knowledge contained there, he forced himself to meet his gaze.
The elderly dwarf broke the silence. "You're a Deep-damned fool, you know that?"
Tal snorted a laugh. "So I've been told — and told myself, for that matter."
"I don't know whether to believe the story you spun me yesterday or dash your head against the wall."
"I'm surprised Dathal hasn't indulged in such a pastime himself."
"But if it's true," Kherdorn continued slowly, "if you were manipulated by one of the Thaadosh, the Deceiver's fell sorcerers, and Lord Yardin was as well… then gods be damned if I blame you."
Tal stiffened. "How could you not?"
"You didn't know which way was up — and humans are easily disoriented underground." Kherdorn grinned at his own joke, his teeth catching the light. The smile was fleeting. "You thought our Clan Chief was ordering the deaths of his own good people. I'd have wanted to kill the man myself if I'd believed that."
He should have grasped at that first sign of sympathy shown him among the Hardrog dwarves. He should have simply accepted it. But Tal found himself shaking his head.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Kherdorn, truly. But I don't deserve understanding, only blame."
The dwarf's brow furrowed, further shadowing his face. "What's this?"
"It doesn't matter if I did it out of ignorance, or misunderstanding, or any other excuse. The fact remains that I murdered those men and women. I killed your old Clan Chief. I'm responsible for the split in your clan, your exile here. And I…"
He tried to say, And I deserve the punishment, but the words couldn't quite come out. Even as he tried to shoulder his rightful blame, his stubborn self-preservation choked down the admission.
Kherdorn was shaking his head. "You sure have a high opinion of yourself, Bran — or Barrows, or whatever your damned real name is. Here's the thing, though: you can't take credit when it's due elsewhere. You didn't make the fractures between and within our clans; you're just a human! You were the pick that cracked open the flaws, a tool in the hands of that faerdisht warlock. Don't you see? You're mortal. It wasn't all your fault. It damned well couldn't be."
Tal could scarcely look away. He didn't know that he believed the words; how could he? But even still, that someone could say them, declare he wasn't the monster he'd believed himself for decades — it promised the forgiveness part of him had always craved.
A smile slowly thawed his shock. "You're a good man, Kherdorn. Far better than I deserve to know."
The dwarf snorted and turned toward the door. "At least you have one thing right in your small skull."
Before Kherdorn could reach the door, it banged open. Tal cringed, holding up his hands in
stinctively, even as he tried to identify this new intruder.
"Kherdorn! They told me you'd come to visit the murderer again."
Dread clutched at Tal's chest as he recognized the deep voice. He did not bother adjusting his appearance, but continued to cringe away from the light.
"Good day, Lord Dathal," he said with honeyed cordiality.
The Clan Chief ignored him. "Leave us, Kherdorn. And don't let me catch you here again."
"I was bringing his water, m'lord." The anger in the elderly dwarf's voice was barely restrained.
"Then another will bring it, or he'll go without!" Dathal advanced on Kherdorn. "Now get out, before I have you thrown in chains next to him!"
Through narrowed eyes, Tal observed Kherdorn giving a stiff bow, then shuffling past the three figures near the doorway. Dathal was the foremost of them; he could only guess the other two were guards.
"So, Death's Hand. You seem a sought-after man."
That immediately pricked his interest. Who could be seeking him in the winter-choked East was quite limited.
Only two likelihoods occurred to him. The first was that his momentary companion, Pim, had overcome his cowardice and sought after him.
The second was that the Ravagers had tracked him from Elendol.
Deeper chills folded around his bones. He tried not to show his shivers as he gave a tremulous smile and lowered his hands.
"I have ever been sought-after," he said with false bravado. "One of those personalities, you know."
Dathal barked a laugh, but Tal had a feeling it wasn't at his jape.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the Clan Chief said, not sounding apologetic in the least. "Something has intervened before your sentencing and punishment. But I'm sure it will be gone soon. Or…"
Tal could just make out the smile that curled Dathal's lips. He braced himself. Anything that might make this dwarf smile was bound not to bode well for him.
"Perhaps the cover of darkness would be sufficient," the Clan Chief continued softly. "Yes, that will do. Your waiting need not be drawn out any longer, don't you agree?"
"I rather think I don't."
"No? Good. It's far better when they still want to live." Dathal grinned, then advanced across the cell to reach down and grab Tal by the chin. Tal debated trying to bite him and entertained a brief fantasy of wrapping his chains around the dwarf's neck. But the desperate act would gain nothing, least of all Dathal's death.
Give no warning of your intentions until you mean to act, his old mentor Elis had once said. Then give no quarter.
So Tal wound his patience tightly around him and suffered the dwarf's indignity as he shook his head.
"Soon, murderer," the Clan Chief breathed in his face. "Soon, you'll pay for my uncle's death and everything else you've taken from me."
With a sudden wrench, Dathal flung him to the ground. Only a quick bracing of his neck saved Tal from a twisted spine, though he could not preserve himself from the bruising stone floor.
"Enjoy your final hours," the Clan Chief called over his shoulder before his guards took the torch and slammed the door closed behind them.
Tal stared into the blackness, thicker than even before, toward where the exit lay hidden.
"If you're going to do something, Tal," he muttered to himself, "now would be a damned good time to do it."
He tried to push down his roiling despair and set to weaving one last futile plot.
It wasn't until the sun had fallen behind Vathda's cliffs the next day that Garin finally found a lead.
He'd spent the previous day combing the town and subtly interrogating its residents, but his efforts had borne little fruit. Though he had learned something of the town's history and dwarven culture and plenty more of individuals' backgrounds, there was not a whisper of his missing mentor. Yet in every conversation, when he neared the topic of other visitors to Vathda, he sensed an omission. There was something the dwarves avoided discussing. He meant to find out what.
But it wasn't conversation or exploration that yielded results, but careful observation of the great hall.
It had been an idea born of desperation. When he and Wren hadn't uncovered any obvious prisons during their several strolls around Vathda, and dialogues kept running into walls, he'd come to the conclusion there was only one person who was sure to have the information he sought: Lord Dathal himself. Understanding now the resentments that the Hardrog dwarves must hold against Tal, he feared what they might have done to him.
But he should be able to protect himself, he tried to rationalize with his fears. They could not harm him.
The Clan Chief seemed to rarely leave the great hall, so much so that Garin wondered if he lived there. Though it seemed a long shot that the shrewd dwarf would lead them to Tal — if, indeed, Tal was in Vathda at all — Garin had found a boulder that provided a good view of the hall while being sheltered from the wind. Clearing it of snow, he huddled down for his long watch.
A few of his companions joined him for brief periods. Wren was there most frequently, but she quickly grew restless and ventured off on another fruitless search. Rolan was also a common guest, the boy carrying on a one-sided conversation rife with curiosities and complaints.
"Why do the dwarves put bones in their beards? Do you think they're ever itchy? And the cold! Do they feel it like we do? I don't think I was made for the cold. Elves are supposed to live in forests, warm forests. I miss home."
Garin nudged the boy with his shoulder. "I do, too, you know."
"When will we go back, do you think? To Elendol I mean, not your home." Rolan looked up at him with his stormy, swirling eyes. "Though I would like to visit Hunt's Hollow someday."
"You should. And soon," he answered with more confidence than he felt. "How could Tal evade you for long?"
The boy flashed him a smile, then slipped down from the rock. "That's true. But Master Falcon promised to show me some tricks for the lute, so I'll have to search later. Bye!"
With that, Rolan went running back toward their temporary homes.
Garin watched him go. He hoped he hadn't lied to the boy, for both their sakes. But the truth was, he wasn't sure any of them would be returning home. The East was rife with danger; they'd been blessedly lucky to have encountered so little thus far. And Tal meant to challenge Yuldor. Even with the awe-inspiring sorcery he'd displayed, Garin wasn't sure there was any coming back from that.
Perhaps with help, you will survive.
Garin startled so badly at the voice in his head he responded aloud. "Ilvuan!"
Yes, little Listener. I am here.
The Singer's presence coiled in his mind. Now that Garin had glimpsed his form in Elendol, he could imagine him: a dragon, curled around itself in a tight circle, like a cat lying down for a nap.
I have questions for you, he thought to Ilvuan. Too many.
Tendrils of amusement threaded through his mind. I can see the shape of your thoughts. I know the cloud that hangs about them.
Where did you go? Are you back fully now?
It is as I said before; contending with Yuldor's Fury depleted my reserves of power. Even now, this communication is as much as I can manage. It will be a while still before I can provide you any assistance, Listener. Be sure not to rely upon it.
I can hold my own. Garin wasn't entirely sure that was true, though he hoped it was. He had survived Elendol, after all, and most of it by his own doing.
Ilvuan's mockery pulsed in his ears. But against Yuldor, you will need more than you or any of your allies can provide. You will need me and my kind.
Dragons?
So some have called us throughout the ages. Ava'duala, we called ourselves. But "Singer," as you have known me before… this is a fitting name.
Is it the Nightsong you sing?
Yes... and no.
Garin sensed a small spike of impatience project from the Singer and winced. He doubted Ilvuan would make for a tolerant mentor. Yet he couldn't hide his true feeling
s with his knowing his mind.
That was very helpful.
Perhaps another time, Ilvuan responded, an obvious dismissal. But perhaps a watcher should be watching.
At the Singer's prompting, Garin came back to his senses and noticed what he meant. The doors to the great hall had opened, and none other than Lord Dathal himself had emerged with two guards trailing him.
"This is it," he muttered, as much to himself as to Ilvuan.
The dragon made no response as he slipped away like mist before the afternoon sun.
Garin tried to look as if he were on an idle amble as he trailed after the three dwarves. To his relief, there were few other onlookers that might be suspicious of him. Their path was rapidly taking them beyond Vathda's boundaries. Just as Garin began to wonder if he and Wren had been too conservative in their patrols, the Clan Chief turned into a wide, open cave that yawned along the edge of town.
Garin paused as he reached the entrance. The dwarves had disappeared inside the gloom; if he entered, he risked accidentally running into them. But he was also perplexed by what he assumed this cave led to: a subterranean farm. One of Vathda's citizens had told him the day before that, as dwarves usually lived most of their existence underground, they'd had to discover ways of feeding themselves that didn't involve fields and sunlight. One of their solutions was to cultivate moss and mushrooms. Garin didn't envy their diet; he'd already tasted enough of their earthy food for a lifetime. But the matronly dwarf had informed him that to their taste, when cooked properly, the cave staples were something they never tired of.
But why would the chieftain visit a farm?
The answer soon became obvious. The leader of a village would need to check on their food supplies, particularly during the winter months. Dathal wasn't leading him to Tal — he was just making his usual rounds.
Still, Garin lingered, clinging to this last hope. A pair of dwarves, clad in soiled clothes from their day's labors, gave him strange looks as they passed on their way out. He smiled at them, but even to himself, the gesture felt unconvincing. Afterward, he slipped between a collection of large boulders at the corner of the cave mouth, which hid him while allowing him to peer out through the cracks both into the cave and into the canyon outside.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 10