Angst (Book 4) (29 page)

9

“What do you mean?” Embril asked Sludge Hammerhead.
“Hardnose Ironbutt assured me that you would help me reach the mines of
Wyrmwood.”

“It cannot be done,” Sludge said, shaking his head. “The
road is blocked.” He was a young, robust, barrel-chested dwarf whose beard only
reached halfway to his belt, but there was no doubting the authority he held in
his bulging arms and sturdy legs.

“Blocked?” Embril frowned. He had used an unusual word, and
she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Normally, if there was a cave-in
or some other obstruction, a dwarf would say the road was hindered while it was
under repair. They only used blocked when they were constructing new roads and
had to dig around stone that was too unstable to build through. But the road
she was taking had been built long ago.

Sludge nodded. “The mountain is angry,” he said. “She
bleeds.”

“Lava?” she asked, and he nodded. “Is there a way around
it?”

“No,” he said. “A river of blood flows between us and
Wyrmwood. All roads between are blocked.” Then he shook his head. “We may have
to leave.”

Embril’s eyes widened.
All of the roads are blocked?
she
thought.
In two days?
“But I have to get there,” she said.

“There is a way,” Sludge replied. “It is a difficult one.
You must go topside.”

“Topside?” Embril repeated. “There is a way to reach it from
here?”

Sludge nodded. “It is not one we share with others,” he
warned.

“I understand,” Embril said. If she could reach the surface,
she wouldn’t have to go to Wyrmwood. She could run around the mountain—or
better yet, fly around it. “Where would it leave me?” she asked.

Sludge frowned and said, “Topside.”

Embril shook her head, “No,
where
on topside?”

Sludge shrugged. “By the mountain.”

“Which mountain?” she asked.

Sludge tugged on his rustic brown beard and offered, “This
one?”

Embril closed her eyes and tried to find a way to phrase her
question in the dwarf tongue, but there were so few words related to “topside.”
Perhaps if she used the map Hardnose Ironbutt had given her? She took it out
and spread it on the table where Sludge Hammerhead could see it. She pointed to
a spot and tapped it. “This is your mountain, yes?”

Sludge nodded.

“Good,” Embril said, tracing the path she had taken to get
there. “This,” she tapped her starting point, “is Hardnose Ironbutt’s
mountain.”

Sludge nodded again.

“Are they two different mountains? Or are they the same
mountain?”

Sludge looked at the map and tugged on his beard again. He
tapped it and said, “My mountain,” then tapped it again and said, “Hardnose
Ironbutt’s mountain.”

Embril almost smiled. If they were two different mountains,
then the one she was inside was the one with the ledge they had crossed over to
reach the plateau. If so, she might have already caught up with Giorge and the
patrol. If they were two sides of the same mountain, which could easily be the
case, then she would still be next to the plateau but much closer to the end of
it. Either way, it was better than going all the way to Wyrmwood and
backtracking to find the patrol. Unless the bleeding mountains stopped her.

“Will you take me topside?” she asked.

Sludge frowned and looked at the letter again. “Ironbutt has
a hole in his head,” he muttered. “He should have left you topside.”

She nodded. “Then take me there,” she suggested.

His thick fingers slowly tightened around the letter,
crumpling it between them until it was a scrunched up ball. He kept squeezing
until the knuckles were white around his fist, and then pounded the table. “If
we were not bound to help you,” he said, “I would not consider it.” Then he
walked over to the small fire burning in an alcove and threw the ball of
crumpled parchment into it. When he returned, he rubbed his palms on the thick
hide of his jerkin as if he were cleansing them of soot or grease. “Very well,
Friend Embril,” he said. “I will take you there.”

“Thank you, Friend Hammerhead,” she said.

“Come with me,” he said, walking briskly—for a dwarf—toward
one of the tunnels leading out of the huge meeting hall. “The road is long.”

Embril loped up to him and frowned. Her Swiftness spell was
still active, but the dwarf was far too slow to keep up. “Friend Hammerhead,”
she began. “Perhaps you can give me a map? Like your cousin, Friend Ironbutt?”

“I will not,” Sludge said. “The entrance is one we do not
share. It exists on no map, and you must not speak of it to those who dwell
above.”

Embril frowned. She needed to move quickly, and the dwarf
couldn’t. Would he be receptive to the spell? She had cast it well enough on
herself, despite trusting only in her memory to do it, and she could do it
again, couldn’t she? If he were running with her… But what if she made a
mistake? She was more than willing to risk her own life, but what right did she
have to risk his? What would he—and the other dwarves—do if her spell
malfunctioned? If it hurt or killed him? Perhaps it would be better to plod
along, instead?

No. She needed to make up ground on Giorge, and she couldn’t
do it if she was traveling at a dwarf’s pace. “Friend Hammerhead,” she began,
“I must make haste to return topside. I know what has injured the mountain and
why it bleeds. I may be able to heal her, but it must be done quickly.” She
paused and sprinted down the tunnel several dozen paces and then returned just
as quickly.

His eyes were wide as she came to a stop. “I did not know
how swift topsiders were!” he said in astonishment. “Never have I seen one move
so.”

“It is a spell,” she admitted. “While I am under its
influence, I can run like that without tiring. It is how I travelled from
Friend Ironbutt’s mountain to your own in but two days.”

Sludge shook his head. “It is a five day journey,” he
protested. “If I had not seen how swift of foot you are, I would not believe it
possible.”

“With a map,” Embril urged, “I could reach topside much
sooner than if you were to show me the way.”

Sludge’s beard waggled as he shook his head. “I cannot,” he
said. “I must go with you. The way out is hindered. If you do not know the
secret places to step, it will become blocked.”

Embril frowned. She had hoped her plea would be successful,
but Hammerhead was being obstinate. Didn’t he understand that she wouldn’t tell
anyone about their secret way to topside? Why would she? It didn’t matter, did
it? If she didn’t stop Giorge, their mountain would bleed them out of it
anyway. She
wanted
to tell him this, but she didn’t. It would lead to
too many questions that she didn’t want to answer. Besides, there was another
option, one that might partially satisfy both of them. “Then will you allow me
to cast the spell on you?” she asked. “Then we can both run together.”

He looked hard at her for several seconds, and then asked,
“You can end the mountain’s pain?”

Embril slowly nodded as she said, “I can try, but I must do
so quickly. The wound must be closed before it festers.”

He looked down the tunnel where she had run and when he
looked back, he asked in an almost child-like tone, “Will I be able to run as
swiftly as you?”

Embril smiled and brought the magic into sharp focus. The
flame strands were disturbingly volatile and there were too many of them. “No,
Friend Hammerhead,” she said, “but it will make it possible for you to run as
fast as you are able to run, without tiring, until the spell unravels.”

“We dwarves are not built for running,” he admitted. “But I
shall do my best. You have my permission.”

He watched her hands as she wove the spell and didn’t flinch
as she attached it to him. When she finished, he frowned and said, “I feel
different. My feet are not heavy enough for my boots.”

Embril smiled again and said, “Run with me.” She started
loping forward at a fairly slow pace, and when Sludge had joined her, she
picked up the pace until he was unable to catch up and then slowed down again.
They ran in silence for some time, and then she asked, “How do you feel?”

“As if I were taking an easy walk,” he said. “I am not even
winded.”

“Good,” Embril said. “Run as fast as you can and see how it
feels.”

Sludge increased his speed a little bit and smiled. “Never
have I run so fast!” he exclaimed.

Embril forced herself to smile at him, but inside she was
quietly fuming over their sluggish pace—which was little more than a fast
jog—and wondered how long it would take them to reach topside. Then she pushed
aside those feelings and focused on what she would do when she caught up with
Giorge. If he resisted…

10

As they neared the south wall of Hellsbreath, Abner said in
a muffled tone, “It’s big, Master Taro.”

Taro nodded in agreement. The size of it was astonishing. It
was like looking up a mountain cliff—and with good reason. The wall merged with
the mountains on either side of it. They were still a goodly distance away from
it, and Taro tapped Abner on the knee and pointed at a large wooden box
climbing up the wall. “That’s the way up,” he said. “They don’t have any doors
on account of the lava.”

“We have to go up in that thing?” Abner asked. There was a
slight tremor in his voice, and Taro glanced over at him.

“If we want to get into Hellsbreath, we do,” he said.
“Otherwise we’ve been traveling over a month for nothing.” It wasn’t for
nothing, though, was it? He had met Hobart and told him about his visions. That
was at least something. Too bad Hobart had rushed off so quickly afterward. It
would have been good to have had another traveling companion, especially one
that was interested in what he had seen in his visions. Abner listened well
enough, but he didn’t ask questions the way Hobart had done, and those
questions had helped Taro make more sense of the visions. They had talked
about
the visions, rather than Taro
telling
him about them. Of course, the
visions still didn’t make much sense, but maybe if more people asked him
questions like Hobart’s, they would. And Dagremon’s. But she was only
interested in the one about the rising island and green serpent thing—and he
didn’t like to talk about that vision. It was creepy.

The lift reached the top of the wall and stopped. They were
close enough now for him to pick out blurry specks on top of the wall and
others at its base. They moved a lot like ants, and that told him they were
people. He was still looking at them when Abner eased the mule cart over to the
edge of the road and looked behind them.

“What is it?” Taro asked as he tried to twist around and
gave up. His body just didn’t bend that way anymore, and with his bum leg
sticking out like that, there wasn’t any point to it anyway.

“Riders from the south, Master Taro,” Abner said. “They’re
riding hard. It seems prudent to give them room.”

So that’s what it was,
Master Taro thought,
dismissing the image he had concocted.
It isn’t a dozen distant drummers
trying to out-tap each other.
As they approached, the sound grew louder and
began to clear up.

Abner looked back again and said, “I think it’s a patrol.
They’re all dressed in brown. Isn’t that King Tyr’s colors?”

Taro shrugged. What did he know about colors? He had never
been out of The Western Kingdoms, and until a month ago, he hadn’t even left
the village by the shrine for over thirty years. Besides, none of his visions
had men dressed in brown, so what did it matter to him?

It was now clear to Taro that they were galloping horses. If
it was a patrol, it was almost upon them, and Abner slowed the mule cart down.

“Why are you stopping?” Taro asked him.

“To let them past, Master Taro,” Abner replied. “They must
have something urgent to report.”

“Fey,” Taro said, waving his hand. “We have something urgent
to report, too,” he half-shouted above the growing din of beating hooves. “Go
faster. Maybe we can reach Hellsbreath in time to ride up with them.”

Abner ignored him and came to a stop at the edge of the
road. More than a dozen riders went by them, and then Abner coaxed the mule
forward at the fastest speed the mule agreed to go. It was not that fast.

The lift was almost down when they reached the lift area,
and Abner tried to urge the mule cart in behind the waiting patrol.

“Hold!” an armed guard dressed in brown said, stepping out
in front of them and holding up his right arm while his left rested on the hilt
of his sword. “You have to register, first.”

Abner reined in the mule cart and looked as if he was about
to speak, but Taro blurted out, “Nonsense! I have urgent business in the city.
Hellsbreath is in danger! A wall of fire is coming!” The lift was settling on
the ground and Taro was determined to be on it when it rose back up.

“We know,” the guardsman said. “But you still have to
register.”

“Good Sir,” Abner said with a nod. “This is Master Taro,
Great Elder of the Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight. He seeks a—”

“Makes no nevermind to me,” the guardsman said. “Tell it to
the scribe.” The guardsman glanced behind him. The lift was already emptying,
and the riders were impatiently waiting to board it. “If you want to catch this
lift’s run, I suggest you hurry. There’s no telling how long it will take for
the next one to come down.”

“But—” Taro began as Abner turned the mule toward the
scribe. “I—” Taro began as Abner came up beside the scribe—but he didn’t stop.
Instead, he made a looping circle so that he—Abner—was next to the Scribe.

“Good Sir,” Abner said in a pleasant, respectful tone. “This
is Master Taro, Great Elder of the Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight. I am Abner,
his manservant. We wish to gain entry to Hellsbreath. It is a matter of great
urgency, and any delay could have dire consequences for your fair city.”

“Indeed,” the young scribe said it as if he had heard such a
tale many times before. “And what is this urgent business?”

Abner gestured at Taro and replied, “He has had visions of a
great fire that is about to descend upon this land and this city.” He said it
in a grandiose way that didn’t at all sound pompous or arrogant, the way it
sounded whenever Taro had said it. “But there is one who can prevent the
catastrophe from happening. We seek him here.”

“Oh?” the young scribe prompted, a hint of amusement in his
tone. “And who might this one be?”

Most of the riders were on the lift, and it looked like they
were preparing to raise it again.

Abner sighed and shook his head. “Alas, the vision is
unclear.”

“Indeed,” the scribe muttered.

“We know only that he is a black-robed wizard named Angus,”
Abner continued, completely unruffled by the scribe’s behavior. “He was, is, or
will be in your fair city. We have traveled far to find him so that we can aid
him in his efforts to save this city and the lands beyond.”

The riders had all gone inside the lift, and the door was
closing. The scribe looked over at it, then turned back to them. He sighed and
shook his head. “I fear you may be too late,” he said, the amusement completely
gone from his tone. He turned to the guardsman next to him and said, “Hold the
lift for them.”

The guardsman hurried off to do so, and the scribe smiled up
at them. “Mule, cart, and two men. That will be three silvers.”