Authors: Shawn Weaver
Mississippi DEAD (13 page)
From the fields, six of Tyree’s sibling stopped their work; Jell and Stone in the east field of barley; Tarrin, appearing from the patchwork of sweet growing vine apples from the north; while Marko, Nod, and Kane, holding hoes in small strong hands, approached from the west field, where they were desperately trying to make a crop of stone wheat grow.
From the back of the house, four pairs of tiny bare feet scurried, making long feathered, multi colored chickens run with fear of being crushed. Cries and giggles of happiness emitted from little bodies, not one taller than a foot and a half. Abruptly they stopped as they rounded the house, each bumping into the other like dominos. In front, Sam, the eldest by a few minutes from his three younger siblings, stood his ground as the others peered around his body.
Opening the oaken front door to their home, mama emerged, wiping her hands on a stained cotton cloth that was slipped partially into her apron. With a friendly smile, she stepped away from their home. As soon as the four little ones saw their mothers step out from the doorway, they scurried to hide behind her, making her plaid skirt billow out as it brushed the ground. Bright little eyes peered out from the folds of her skirt, taking quick, but cautious, glimpses of the man on the wagon.
Acting brave for his age, Sam stepped out from the folds of his mother’s skirt, standing as tall as his small frame would let him, a bristling one foot six inches. In his hands, he held out a small branch protectively, guarding his mother and family. That was, until the man in the wagon raised a hand to the brim of his hat. Lifting it slightly, a worn face was revealed, crossed with wrinkles and lines of age. Letting out a scream, Sam dropped the stick and charged back around his mother. With a warm laugh, mama reached a hand down and patted her brave child’s head.
Just off to the northwest of the house. Tyree and his father stepped through the open doors of the barn. Hearing a heavy sigh issue from his father at the sight of the new visitor, Tyree looked up and saw him grimily set his jaw. Firmly father gripped the leather reigns in his tough work callused hands.
“Finish unstrapping Betsy,” Father said, handing over the reins without looking down at Tyree. Wiping his hands on the tan vest he wore over his threadbare unbuttoned white work shirt, Johnathan Loveland let out another deep breath before walking away from the barn, and into the sunlight. As he moved away, Tyree could see a look of concern grow on his father’s face. But for what, he did not know.
Betsy, father’s ten-year old black-coated mule, stepped from the cool comfort of the barn. Specially crossbred to grow to only half the size of a normal mule, but still hold the ruggedness of any larger sized mule, Betsy showed intelligence and patience that marked her lineage from its ancestry in the dwarven mines of Murdoch.
She nudged Tyree’s shoulder, but he ignored the heavy shove from her large flat snout. Taking another step forward, Betsy snuffled Tyree ear. Without taking his eyes off of his father, Tyree lifted a hand and ruffled the mule’s thick coarse mane of dirty blonde hair.
“Okay, let’s go,” Tyree said.
Turning, he walked back into the barn without guiding Betsy. Loyal and trained as she was, the mule obediently followed him back into the barn to be groomed and fed. As he walked to Betsy’s stall, Tyree glanced over his shoulder through the doorway. He saw the human in the wagon lift a long hand in greeting.
“Hail Master Well,” Tyree heard his father say in greeting to the wagons occupant.
“And hail to you as well, Master Loveland,” Master Well returned, in a rich resonating voice that made his appearance pale in comparison.
Stopping in front of the Betsy’s stall, Tyree unhooked the rope loop that held the gate closed to a rough-hewn post. He pulled it partially open, but stopped as he watched his small father reach a hand up toward the driver of the wagon. The tall human, bent low to take the greeting of shaking hands, the only pure humanistic form of greeting that Tyree ever saw done in his valley, for most halflings used a hug as a welcome.
Stepping to Tyree’s side, Betsy reached for the gate with her snout, and briskly pushed it open, making Tyree shuffle quickly to the side, or be knocked over, as she walked into her home. Betsy turned around in her stall; giving a snort she shook her head, as if telling Tyree to pay attention to his duties. As he watched his father, Tyree never expected that such a simple handshake would change his life forever.
“Snap to it boy!” Master Well said, startling Tyree out of his deep thoughts. He jumped slightly, making the contents of the bucket he held slosh around, threatening to spill out.
“Careful now,” The mage said his gaze unwavering as he looked down into the halflings eyes. “Drop any of that on your foot. It will melt right down to the bone.”
Hearing that, Tyree's eyes grew wide. Even though he had never owned any shoes, at that moment, he wished he had the protection. However, even that probably would not have done any good. If the contents of the bucket would eat through flesh, leather or any other fabric, would not hold up against it.
“And through the floor,” Master Well finished.
Wrinkles appeared momentarily in the corners of the Master Well’s eyes. He smiled, while straightening himself up. His back creaked with an audible pop from the center of his spine. Growing old was a troubling factor, even with spells to slow the aging process. Time still weighed heavily on one’s shoulders, no matter how slow it was magically forced to move inside his cells. Little by little, year-by-year, his hair still got grayer and muscles responded slower.
Turning away from Tyree, Master Well walked to a high table set along the far wall. There, Master Well let his hands drift over its contents of vials and beakers. Each one was filled with liquids of all colors and textures, some sparkling, while others cast a dark glow and a syrupy feel.
Mixed within the vials of mysterious compounds, a few dusty sealed glass jars held what Tyree believed to be animal parts all dried up and leathery, while another contained what he thought was a large eye, the size of a rock. Nevertheless, Tyree was never allowed to get close enough to this table to be sure.
Forcing himself to hold still, Tyree looked back down at the bucket. Its steel handle felt slippery in his hands. Inside the bucket, the bubbling mass moved on its own from side to side threateningly.
Without looking from the table, Master Well pointed to the fireplace along the left side of the chamber.
“Put the bucket over there,” he said.
Taking cautious steps, Tyree started to walk to the fireplace. The bucket swayed slightly, so he grasped the handle tighter in his sweaty hands.
“Do not put it too close to the fire,” the wizard added, as he pulled a vial of white power from the mass of glass containers on the table.
Tyree saw no fire burning in the dark and sooty hearth. But as he got closer, he could hear the crackle of the fire and feel its heat. Magical in its incantation, the invisible fire would serve its purpose to heat the always damp and cold chamber.
“Yes sir,” Tyree responded.
Off to his right, a double looped black steel hoop sat upright on the floor. Within it, quartered chunks of kindling lay. That since his arrival to the keep was his general duty to keep filled. Day after day, Tyree would bring wood to place in the container. However, the ring would never need filling. But he knew that if one day he did not bring wood up to the chamber. he would catch hell for shirking his duties.
Taking a pinch of mud-colored dried herbs, Master Well dropped them into a bluish-colored stone mortar on the table. He then picked up a heavy pestle that lay beside it. For a moment, he mashed the dried herbs with the stone. Then after putting the pestle back down, Master Well picked up another thin vial that seemed to contain a white, glue like, liquid. Easily popping the cork with his thumb, Master Well slipped a drop of the thick liquid into the mortar. He then popped the stopper back on the vial, and placed it back into its proper position on the table.
“Just put it over there,” Master Well repeated, without looking up from the table.
Tyree did not respond. He just grunted a little, as he looked for a clear spot on the mantle. Scattered about it, were copper devises of all shapes and sizes that the halfling had no idea what purpose, if any, they had.
Picking up a white-feathered quill from within the jumble on the table, Master Well carefully stirred the mixture within the mortar. A gold spark emitted, shooting out of the stone mortar like a firefly, raising only a few inches before it dissipated quickly into the air.
“Humph,” Master Well breathed out with slight frustration. With a knotted brow, he stirred the contents again receiving the same response as before.
“There is an ivory box at the foot of my chair,” Master Well said. “Bring it to me.”
“Yes sir,” Tyree responded, still looking for a bare spot on the mantle to place the bucket.
“Now!” The wizard said in a stern voice.
“Coming master,” Tyree replied hurriedly.
Knowing full well that the mage did not like to be kept waiting, especially while in the mists of an experiment, Tyree quickly set the bucket down at the base of the damp looking stone fireplace and as best he could he hurried so not to anger his employer. Stepping over to the rocking chair, oiled to a deep rich cherry colored shine, Tyree reached down for the ivory box that sat on the floor alongside the rocker’s curved feet. Cold to the touch, the ivory box was intricately carved with swirling patterns on all sides. Its clasp and hinges were made out of gold that shined in what light the chamber had to offer.
“Here it is sir,” Tyree said, as he took hold of the box.
“Good then. Now hurry up and bring it here,” Master Well replied.
Not answering, just hurrying to do his duty, Tyree started to carry the box back to the table. As he crossed the fireplace, a bubbling pop reached his ears. Glancing down, Tyree looked at the pail. A thick greasy bubble was slowly emerging from the lip of the bucket.
Across the surface of the bubbles’ thin membrane, Tyree could see the heat of the fireplace radiating off of it. Then suddenly, he realized that he had set the bucket to close to the fire. Something he had just moments before, been warned not to do.
Slowly the bubble expanded out of the bucket, its skin turning from the thick greasy coating to a clear skin. The last thing Tyree remembered before the bubble burst from the bucket sending him off his feet, were the words of his master
saying.
“Remember, not too close to the fire now.”
Available US:
Available UK:
Volume Three:
The Dark Caravan
CHAPTER ONE
Eyes closed, Tyree felt the rushing wind against his face. Even though bruised and beaten from the last week of trails, he at least still lived. A sharp stabbing pain etched into his right side, bringing him further into consciousness. The pain was not strong enough to fully wake him from the encompassing darkness after falling through the lethal mass of thorny vines in Vine Gate Pass. Striking his head on one of the hard rubbery vines, he‘d knocked himself out.
Tyree could hear flapping of large leathery wings, and feel the wind tousle his hair. Then it dawned on him, like a spark erupting in his mind — he was no longer dreaming, safe in his bed at his parent‘s home in the Vale of Snell where all Halflings lived. Nor was he flying under his own power over the fields and mountains; instead something carried him high in the air.
Opening his eyes slowly, the air stung them as he looked up to see night black scales only a foot away. Looking down, Tyree saw talons sharp as knives wrapped around his body, holding him fast. Underneath him, bent at an awkward angle, hung the lifeless body of the white pasty-fleshed demon that had been chasing him and his companions for the last week.
The shaft of an arrow protruded from the demon‘s open mouth. With every beat of the wings that carried them, the humanoid head of the demon flopped forward, and the arrow struck Tyree‘s leg with a sickening thud as it sank deeper through the back of the demon‘s skull.
Tyree could feel the demon‘s cold flesh against his body, making his skin crawl. His stomach churned as though he may throw up the last bit of nourishment in his body. His malaise came not from the fact that as soon as they landed, the wygern was going to devour him, but from his close proximity to the demon from hell that had been seeking his death.
A hundred yards below, trees and the rocky cliffs of the Kin- Morrow Mountains flashed by, giving Tyree no sense of direction as to where they were heading. Then Tyree saw his backpack dangling by a strap around the chest of the white demon. Much of the fate of Ishtabar weighed on that little pack. Tyree‘s first instincts were to regain the bundle from the demon, even though he knew he did not have long to live.
No one would think twice at seeing the Halfling-sized backpack. But the forces of good and evil needed what it held in their current struggle. Inside the backpack, a dragon egg lay nestled in its own radiant heat, waiting for the moment to leave the stasis field within a chest, a chest finely crafted by dwarves and wrapped in the magical folds of the leather pack.
With a free arm, Tyree reached towards the strap. A shiver ran across his body when he wrapped his fingers around it and touched the cold flesh of the demon. With as good a grip as he could, Tyree tried to pry the strap from around the demon‘s body, but the wygern held all tightly in its grip. He could not get the leverage to pry the strap free. The pack had one more strap that hung down the other side of the demon. Neither dragon-kin nor demon held this one. If he could reach it, he might be able to pry the first strap free of the demon. But even if he did free the pack, the wygern‘s talons still held him.