“And yet I can distinguish neither aura color nor scent from you,” Aoife said.
“My race do not possess an aura.”
“I have never come across that before.”
“We are unique. And now we are few,” he added. “In fact, I may be the last of my kind. When I was younger, I crossed the Shadowrealms alongside Zephaniah in search of adventure and knowledge.”
“And did you find it?” Aoife asked.
“Oh, a bard could fill volumes with our adventures. But as for knowledge…well, I think I could fit that into a slender pamphlet.”
“But judging from the contents of that cart I saw earlier, you are still seeking knowledge.”
“There is nothing especially valuable there,” Bes said so quickly that Aoife knew he was lying. “Dangerous, yes, but not valuable.”
Aoife dipped her head to peer out into the night. There was no sign of Nels, but she caught a trace of his peculiarly musky odor. So he was either close by or he was so badly in need of a bath that he left his stench on the night air. When she turned back to the room, Bes was watching her closely.
“You remind me of your grandmother,” he said. “I can see the resemblance around your eyes and chin.”
“You should probably not tell her that,” Aoife murmured.
“Did she ever mention my name?” he asked, almost too casually.
“The Witch may be my grandmother, but I can probably count on my fingers the number of conversations we’ve had. She is closer to my sister. I knew nothing about you until I learned you were offering a huge fee for protecting this wagon train and that you had specifically asked for me. I did a little digging before I accepted, of course.”
“Of course. And did you find anything interesting?”
“A mixture of rumor and outright lies wrapped around what might be a tiny kernel of truth,” Aoife answered. “You come down from the icy Northlands two or three times a season to buy supplies for an unknown number of miners who work in the ancient and long-abandoned white quartz pits.”
“That much is true,” Bes said. “Though if digging goes on there, the mines are hardly abandoned.”
“No one seems to know exactly what you and your miners are digging. The seams of quartz are long since worked out. However, I did hear a local legend about a vast treasure buried deep in the heart of the earth. The Treasure of the Great Old Ones.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” the Dwarf murmured.
“Every abandoned mine on every Shadowrealm I’ve visited supposedly contains hidden treasure, a monster, a dragon, and sometimes all three. I’ve never come across any treasure, though it is true that thunderbirds or wyrms often nest in the lower levels of old mines.”
“I’ve encountered a few in my time,” Bes said, and rubbed his wrapped knee.
“The townspeople are wary of you,” Aoife went on, “and when I dug a little deeper, they told me some interesting stories.” She paused, and then added, “One of which reminded me of something that happened maybe fifty years ago.”
Bes continued to rub his knee, but Aoife caught the sudden flare of his eyes.
“Fifty years ago, maybe a little more, I took a job as a sheriff in a small southern town on the slopes of the Mouth of the World,” Aoife said. “You know it?”
“A volcano. I know of it,” he answered casually.
“Some travelers reported that they’d seen a pile of bodies lying in a field off the highway. I rode out to investigate, a circle of birds in the air pointing the way. The bodies turned out to be the remains of a party of army deserters who had been terrorizing the road for the best part of a season. The five heavily armed men had been killed by something incredibly powerful.” Although she kept checking through the open door, Aoife was watching Bes carefully from the corner of her eye. “I made my report and the local judge decided that the outlaws must have been slain by werewolves—never mind that the Torc Madra had not been sighted that far south for centuries.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to them?” Bes asked.
“Interesting question. But surely the question you should be asking me is why am I telling you this? That’s the question you would be asking if this had nothing to do with you.”
The Dwarf smiled, revealing his razor-sharp teeth. “Perhaps I was being polite.”
Aoife nodded. “That is a possibility. Or perhaps you wondered how much I knew.”
“And what did you discover?”
“It had snowed, and it was easy enough to read the story written into the mud and slush. Two outlaws had stopped a wagon on the road. Then three sets of tracks left the wagon and moved across the field to a stand of ancient trees. The middle footprints were small, like a child’s. Or a Dwarf’s. There were three more men waiting around the trees, and I could see clearly where the five men had surrounded the smaller figure.” She stopped.
After a moment, Bes said, “And then?”
Aoife’s smile was grim. “And then something happened. Because suddenly the five outlaws were very dead and the child—or the Dwarf—returned to the wagon. During my investigation,” she added, “I discovered that a Dwarf had ridden through the town the day before. I cannot remember his name, which suggests I was never told it, because I have an excellent memory.”
“And you think this outlaw killer might be me?”
“Was it?”
“I have traveled the length and breadth of this land,” he said, not answering the question. “I’ve been attacked and mocked, and yes, I have been forced to defend myself.” His smile was grim. “I am small, and so sometimes, foolish people think I am a victim.”
“That would be their mistake.”
“Yes. Often their final mistake.” Bes focused on tightening the wrapping around his knee. “You and I,” he said suddenly, “are puppets, moved, directed, and placed by your grandmother. And she is as much a puppet as we are: Death manipulates all of us.”
“I was told Marethyu can see the threads of time,” Aoife answered. “He moves people now to influence events in the future.”
“And who gave him that right”? Bes suddenly demanded. “He has this extraordinary power, and we presume that he is using it for our good. But we simply do not know. Such power is dangerous in the hands of one man. Even if he only has one hand,” he added with a wry smile.
“You don’t trust him?”
“You’re Next Generation, born after the destruction of Danu Talis. But I was there. I watched the battle atop the Pyramid of the Sun. I saw him call down the lightning and ignite the volcanoes, which in turn created the earthquakes, which ripped the island continent asunder. Marethyu destroyed Danu Talis. He tore apart my world. Why should I trust him?”
Aoife nodded slowly. She had heard various accounts of the story over the centuries. “I was told that one world had to die so that another could grow. The races who fled the island founded colonies which established civilization across the primitive world.”
“And was it worth it?” Bes asked bitterly. “One of the greatest civilizations the world has ever seen, wiped out so that the humani could rise. Were they worth it? Are they?”
Aoife shrugged. “My sister thinks so. She has always fought for them.”
“But you are not your sister. And you know she is under the influence of the hook-handed man.”
“If you despise Marethyu so much, then why do his bidding?” Aoife asked.
“I don’t. I do this for Zephaniah.” Bes drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Ignore me. I am old, tired, and cold. It makes me cranky.”
Aoife nodded. The conversation troubled her, because she too had often wondered if Marethyu was not becoming too powerful. Also, his apparent power over her sister, Scathach, troubled her.
“Have you any idea what you saw in the valley earlier?” Bes asked eventually, deliberatel
y changing the subject. His head was turned so that it appeared he was looking away, though his right eye was fixed on her face.
“No.”
“But it disturbed you.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re going in search of it?”
“I would rest happier.”
“It could have been the sunlight sparkling off a pool of water,” the Dwarf offered, “the shimmer of silica in an outcropping of rock, the bark of a tree catching the light.”
“I know that,” Aoife said quickly. “This felt different.”
“An excuse,” he said eventually, with a ghost of a smile. “Admit it: you are curious.”
“It has always been my failing.” Aoife agreed, sharp teeth yellow in the firelight. “And I would be failing in my duty to you if I did not investigate.”
Bes’s smile barely curled his lips. “Your duty is to guard this wagon train.”
“Why?” Aoife asked boldly. Crouching on her haunches, she stared hard at the Dwarf. “I am thinking,” she said carefully, “that if a person was able to dispatch five heavily armed outlaws, then they would not need someone like me and the mercenaries to guard the wagons.”
“That is true,” he said, and then added, “I have no need of guards. You grandmother insisted I hire you. So clearly she wanted you in this place at this time.”
“So I could go and see what lies hidden in the forest.”
Bes nodded. “The guards are just for show…and, well, there’s a bridge up ahead, guarded by a particularly ugly half-man goat-headed creature.”
“A gabhar. One of the Torc clans.”
“The gabhar are very partial to a mercenary or two. Once it feasts off a couple, it’ll fall asleep and we can pass.”
“You’re not a very nice person, are you?” Aoife asked.
“You have no idea who I am. Or what I am,” Bes said pleasantly.
5
Nels moved slowly through the ruined and tumbled buildings, gradually edging away from the other drovers. He noted the positions of the mercenary guards as he made his way to the shattered storehouse behind the circular Well House. A glance back over his shoulder, to ensure that no one was watching him; then he ducked into the gutted building. With infinite care he lifted a brick from the wall and pressed his face against the gritty stones, peering in through the tiny opening. He could make out flickering shadows, and faintly, he could hear the thin sound of Aoife’s and Bes’s low voices on the other side of the wall. The drover’s thick lips drew back from stained, misshapen teeth. He’d been little more than a boy when his father, a notorious brigand, had shown him this place and demonstrated the acoustic qualities of the walls. Noise bounced off the curved interior of the well house and was funneled through this opening. Later, when Nels became a drover, leading oxcarts across the mountains, he realized he could put the place to good use. He always timed his trips to include an overnight stay in the ruined temple and insisted that his employer take the warm and dry safety of the well house.
Nels had grown wealthy by simply listening to some of his passengers talking. He’d learned the whispered locations of buried wealth, the muttered revelations of military and trade secrets, and clues that lead to wills hidden under floors or treasure maps tucked behind pictures. Nels passed the information on to his network of thieves, brigands, and pirates, and as payment he took a share of the treasure without ever having to place himself in any danger.
Even before he’d seen the amulet-protected bags in the cart, he’d known he was going to bring the Dwarf to this place. He knew that Bes had never used guards before, so he was certain that there was treasure in the wagons.
And he wanted it.
A few miles up the road, a particularly ill-tempered gabhar had laid claim to a bridge. The creature demanded a tribute before allowing anyone to cross what he now considered to be his bridge. The gabhar took his tribute in meat, cheese, and beer. Like most of the gabhar and Allta clans, the creature loved honey, and Nels always brought a fresh honeycomb when it was in season or a jar of rich southern clover honey as a treat for the monster.
The gabhar owed Nels a favor or two.
The wagon master wondered how Aoife would fare against the ancient forest creature. It would be a shame if anything were to happen to her and the other mercenary guards.
Nels pressed his face against the dry, dusty stones, closed his eyes, and listened intently. It was at times like this that he wished he could write, so he could make notes.
6
“You are aware that the earth has shifted recently?” The Dwarf’s voice was a low whisper rasping off the stones.
“I’ve heard about the earthquakes and upheavals in the high mountains and valleys. The Airgead and Óir suns are aligning, as they do once every thousand years.” Aoife’s voice sounded flat and disinterested.
“In places whole mountains have split,” Bes answered. “Gullies have appeared like wounds through the ancient stone; valleys have disappeared, entire communities vanished, wiped away as if they never existed.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me—” Aoife’s voice was harsh, arrogant. Nels decided that he would be there when the gabhar killed her. And he’d make sure she saw him so she’d know who had betrayed her.
“New creatures haunt the Highlands,” the Dwarf interrupted Aoife. “Some resemble beasts of legend and history, but others…well, who knows what has awakened and crept from the heart of the shattered mountains? It is said that the Lord Cernunnos himself rides with the Wild Hunt seeking new trophies for his walls.”
“I have heard those stories, and I am not sure I believe them,” Aoife said. “Not that it matters: Cernunnos does not frighten me. I know him for what he is…and he knows me. He would not dare lay a finger on me.”
“Cernunnos should terrify even you. He is an Archon, one of those who ruled the One World in the Time Before Time, before the creation of the Shadowrealms. He is dangerous beyond belief. And it is said that he is now mad. You know how dangerous mad gods can be?”
Nels heard Aoife laugh, a harsh ugly sound. “Cernunnos is not a god. He is a creature of breath and blood. He can be killed.”
“You have killed gods before, Aoife?” Bes asked.
“Only those who deserved it.”
A long silence followed. Nels waited patiently, knowing that if he moved, the noise might alert either Bes or Aoife. Had he had learned anything of value? The Dwarf certainly believed the woman was the real Aoife of the Shadows, and that information had some value, though he wasn’t entirely sure who he could sell it to.
A sudden thought struck him, and his lips twisted in an ugly smile. Although Aoife had dismissed Cernunnos and claimed that he was afraid of her, the drover wondered if he dared bring the information to the green-robed priests of the Horned God.
Hmm, Perhaps it would be more profitable not to betray her to the gabhar, but to sell her out to the priests. He could tell them about the woman who’d stolen Aoife the Gatekeeper’s name and then blasphemed the Horned God. The priests allowed no one to mock their god; they would certainly kill her. He nodded. Watching the gabhar tear her limb from limb would give him immense pleasure but would earn him no coin. The priests would pay handsomely, and she would be just as dead when they were done with her.
Cloth rasped, and Nels heard Bes wheeze and sigh as if he was settling down for the night. When the Dwarf spoke again, his tone had shifted, becoming sly and conspiratorial. “The recent earthquakes have brought forth more than just new creatures from the bowels of the earth.”
Aoife remained silent. Nels closed his eyes, his forehead and cheek pressed against the stones, focusing intently.
“I have also heard stories of the earth splitting apart to reveal ancient, long-forgotten secrets and artifacts….”
“What sort of artifacts?” Aoife asked quickly.
“All manner of treasures,” Bes answered. “Why, not a month ago, a sheep farmer just to the north of here found a sword as tall as himself in a recently torn gash in the ground. The sword was made of a stone he’d never seen before—and this man had previously worked as a miner and had some experience with stones.”
“I have seen stone swords aplenty,” Aoife said.
“As have I. But hidden beneath the sword was a suit of armor cast from solid silver, etched in gold and inlaid with jade.”
“To fit a man or a woman?” Aoife asked, almost too casually.
“A woman, I believe.” Bes paused then asked, “Why, have you heard of this armor before?”
There was a long silence, and just when Nels was beginning to think she was not going to answer, Aoife spoke. “Once, a long time ago, I watched a blond-haired girl wearing similar armor ride into battle at the head of an army of monsters.”
“Which side were you on?” Bes asked.
“The losing side. What did you do with the sword and the armor?” she asked.
“The sword is stone and worthless. A curiosity, nothing more. But the armor is priceless. It is in one of the boxes on the wagons.”
On the other side of the wall, Nels flashed a quick smile and his lips formed the word priceless. He liked that.
“I will buy it from you,” Aoife said.
“It is not for sale.”
“I was not asking,” Aoife said. “I will exchange it for the fee you owe me.”
“It is worth more than that,” Bes answered.
“It is worth exactly what I am prepared to pay for it,” Aoife snapped.
“I am not sure it is your size.”
“I do not want it for myself. I want to return it to the fair-haired warrior.” Nels heard something in the woman’s voice he’d not heard before: respect. He wondered who the fair-haired warrior was.
“But you’ve no idea where she is.”
Aoife and Scathach, Shadow Twins Page 3