The Dreaming Hunt (73 page)

Now what did that mean? “How do I get home?”

“Find the one you love. He is your anchor to that other reality. Follow the link.”

She wasn't sure she knew how to do that, but she closed her eyes and focused on her feelings for Will. She opened her eyes.
And was still in the Shadowed Land
. “It didn't work!” she cried out to Cerebus. Except he didn't answer her this time.

Terrified, she tried again.
Her link to Will
. She concentrated on the empty space within her where she'd given a piece of her spirit to Will. She filled it with her feelings for him. Her …
love
. Huh. She'd fallen in love with the big, stubborn, awkward young man. With all his big ambitions and grand ideas, and suspicion and irascibility … and tenderness and compassion that he did not like to admit to.

The more she thought about how she felt about him and all the reasons why she loved him, the closer she felt to him. Of course he was her anchor. He would always look out for her, always be there for her, always bring her home. And with that thought, she blinked open her eyes.

Will was standing over her, looking as furious as she'd ever seen him. “Am I here? Am I really back?” she asked him.

“What did you do?” he asked in a flat tone that was either him so scared he could hardly speak or so angry he was restraining himself from doing violence.

“I, uhh, rescued the spirits of the alligator speaker's children. Cerebus helped me do it.”

That caused Will to look over at the unicorn, who did in fact look exhausted, head low and hide slightly gray in cast.

Frowning, he held a hand down to her and lifted her into his arms. “Don't
ever
pull a stunt like that again without telling me first,” he said in a ravaged voice.

“I did not mean to frighten you.”

“What would I do if I lost you?” he ground out.

She mumbled against his chest, “I love you, too.” She half hoped he didn't hear her. But his arms tightened in a crushing grip until she could barely breathe. He'd heard her.

Eventually, he asked, “Did you save them?”

“I did.”

“What was the spirit realm like? Was it all shiny and peaceful like they say?”

“On the contrary. It was dark and menacing and very frightening. But I think Cerebus took me to the in-between place where spirits pass through to the Void.”

“The Shadowed Land?”

She nodded.

“It is said that once the shadows touch you, you're never the same. Aurelius told me he thought that might be why Leland didn't resurrect this last time. The time before that he died, Raina talked his spirit into coming back from the Shadowed Land. But Leland never shook free of its hold.” His arms tightened around her in concern.

“I am free of it.”
She hoped
.

She waited until Will had stacked more wood upon the fire, crawled into his own bedroll, and was snoring lightly to pull her hand out from under her blanket. She concentrated on remembering the feel of that twisting, powerful magic and summoned it.

In the golden glow of the firelight she looked down at her fingers. And the magic writhing restlessly upon them was black.

 

CHAPTER

34

Gunther had well and truly had it with being dragged hither and yon, up and down mountainsides. He was sorry he ever found that stupid armor. Should've left it inside that mine. Now he was haring off even deeper into the mountains with a bunch of strangers and that statue.

The notion of being alive, but trapped forever, inside a hunk of metal was by far the most horrible fate he could ever imagine. Nope, when he died, he wanted to do it in his own bed with his back teeth awash in the best ale money could buy.

They topped the pass into the Rignhall Valley according to Olivar, their ogre-kin guide. Not a bad sort, Olivar, if a person could look past his vaguely monstrous appearance.

Gunther's irritation faded into wonder at the city suddenly sprawling at his feet.
Rignhall
. The City of Giants. Where canals were as plentiful as streets, and broad, flat-bottomed boats were used as often as one's feet for transportation.

They started into the city. All the roads were paved, and not just in crude cobbles. Nay, these paving stones were smooth and flat, their seams so expertly joined as to be nearly invisible. Grand stone buildings of ancient design towered above the broad canals, their workmanship every bit as fine as the road's. The structures had a shockingly delicate and airy feel to them. He allowed reluctantly that even the greatest dwarven carvers had never achieved such exquisite artistry in stone.

In between the great stone edifices, common structures huddled, squat and ugly by comparison. The city sprawled in every direction, filling the entire valley. A distant roar of great waterfalls rumbled below the workaday din of the city, and a hint of mist in the air kissed his skin. They'd passed a great, rushing fall of water on their way through the pass, its top obscured in a rainbow cloud of the mist.

They walked until he judged they'd reached the center of the city. There, he stopped in amazement as he emerged into a square many times larger than any he'd ever seen before. The center of the open space was filled by a gigantic, symmetrical bowl, dipping below the level of the pavement. It was lined by some sort of metal cladding, and was perhaps three-quarters full of clear water. Smelled like rain, it did. The others in his party seemed similarly awestruck.

A local dwarf they'd passed on the road into Rignhall had said to follow the main road straight as an arrow through the city until it crossed the Rigngata. And there they would find the way to the Great Storm Forge.

Standing in the square now, he could imagine giants fashioning this great copper bowl. He asked a kelnor passing by if this huge basin was the Rigngata and got a hearty laugh from the fellow in response. “Gor, nay! This be a mere rain basin. The Rigngata be that way.”

Frowning, Gunther stumped across the square with the others and continued onward. The place was farking huge. Fitting for giants.

They walked past several more canals and great stone halls, and abruptly, the city stopped at the banks of a massive lake. The only reason he could see across it was because of the height of the majestic mountains on the far shore. A narrow ribbon of stone extended right out across the lake, no more than a foot's height above the water. It appeared to float there, suspended delicately upon the surface. Whoever heard of stone floating on water?

Olivar started out confidently across the bridge with the others in single file behind him. Cautiously, Gunther set foot to the road. He fancied that he felt it give way slightly beneath his boot as if it were, indeed, floating. Bah. Silly fancy. Naught more. He trod ahead firmly, his attention fixed upon the far shore.

It took them nearly two hours to walk the Rigngata Road. But at long last, their feet touched solid ground once more. Great, ancient pines rose around them, interspersed with white-barked aspens, their leaves trembling in the slightest breeze. The air was pure and cold in his lungs, the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. And the mountains—ahh, the mountains felt alive, standing as eternal sentinels to the grandeur of this place. Something deep in his soul sang the song of this land.

Olivar gestured at the narrow road leading up into the high pass between the mountains. “There lies our way.”

Gunther was glad to climb into the heart of these mountains. Even if the stump of his missing leg ached, and even if he grew tired and sore from the trek. They climbed all afternoon and made camp on the side of the narrow path the road had devolved into. He grudgingly had to give the yeren Kuango credit. They'd fashioned a cart for the beast to pull the heavy copper statue in, but it still had to be hard work pulling the cart over the uneven and rocky path. The creature never expressed fatigue or displeasure at the task, but sturdily and steadfastly stayed right behind his mistress. Loyal pet, he was. And stronger than an ox.

The next day saw them to the top of the pass. Olivar stopped when they reached an open plateau just large enough to hold them all. They looked out in silence at the ring of great mountains surrounding the Valley of Storms. Each snowcapped peak towered impossibly high, scratching the belly of the heavens. Steep and forbidding, these were surely the grandfathers of Groenn's Rest.

Mist formed a blanket covering the floor of the valley below. They began the descent, and it was hardly less arduous than the climb had been. The path was steep and narrow, beset by stones that rolled underfoot and gravel that slipped beneath the unwary boot.

Late in the afternoon, a faint roaring sound became audible. They decided to make camp a little way beyond the fall where the sound diminished enough for them to speak and think. But he slept that night to the roar of crashing water.

The next morning brought them down into the mist. An enchanted land lay inside it, green upon green upon green. Lush forest, abundant wildflowers, and earth carpeted in a bright green velvet of moss. A fae place it seemed, too beautiful and perfect for the mortal realm.

Farther down the mountain, they emerged from the mist into a gently clouded valley of trees dripping with moisture and moss-covered marker stones beside the path, which had widened into a road once more. And people.

A dwarf came out of a moss-covered stone hut beside the road to study them suspiciously. He growled the meagerest of greetings and then retreated to his abode once more. Several more times along the way, they ran into locals, dwarves mostly of the terrakin variety. Plenty of reason they had to be unfriendly to outsiders. Of all races within the Empire, they had been most persecuted. The most unanimous they were as a race in their hatred of Koth, as well. It was rumored that some terrakin even refused to acknowledge the Empire and considered themselves in rebellion against it.

At length they came to a pretty little village with neat cottages surrounded by verdant gardens of vegetables, flowers, and fruit trees. Fat goats and fluffy sheep looked up at them from their grazing as they passed by.

“Where to, Gunther?” Gabrielle asked him.

“Given as this is a dwarven village, and seeing as how we wish to speak to the elders, the pub's the place to go.” He led the way to an establishment announcing itself to be the Rokken Anvil.

Rocking it was, too. When they ducked inside, a drinking song was being bellowed by a crowd of dwarves. Miners by the looks of them. Grit was permanently ground into their skin, and their corded forearms and broad shoulders announced them to be strong and fit.

Mina chose to stay outside with Kuango and mumbled something about finding the stable. Gunther, Gabrielle, Olivar and his avarian apprentice crowded into a tight space the locals slid over to make for them on the benches. A comely barmaid brought out ales, and Gunther drained his with gusto. He joined in the next drinking song, delighted to be among his own kind once more.

The locals to his right asked him whereabouts he called home, and before long, they were engaging in animated conversation about the mineral composition of the Hauksgrafir versus the mountains hereabouts. When the question arose as to why he traveled with an ogre-kin, it was an easy enough matter to mention that Olivar was a stormcaller.

That caused a shout of welcome to go up to the ogre-kin and toasting to a stormcaller in their midst. From there, it was only a few more rounds of ale before Gunther was able to bring up the topic of storm forges and whether their might be a smith in the area with knowledge of the workings of one.

The dwarf beside Gunther was abruptly quite a bit less drunk and cast his voice low below the general din. “How'd ye know 'bout those?”

“We have need of one. Found a bit of storm copper in need of repair.”

The fellow stared hard at Gunther, then at each of Gunther's companions in turn. He nodded slowly. “Come wit' me.” The fellow threw a few coppers on the table, and Gunther jerked his head at his companions to come along.

The fellow led them outside into the evening chill and down the street to a private home. They were let into another gathering of dwarves, this one much more restrained than the previous crowd.

“Who've ye got there wit' ye?” one of the gathered terrakin asked their guide.

“Summat travelers. Come lookin' fer a storm smith. Got a bit o' storm copper in need o' repair.” The announcement fell like a block of lead into sand, with a silent thud that was felt more than heard.

“Indeed?” the first speaker said mildly. “And how are you folks in the knowin' of this storm copper?”

Olivar spoke up. “I'm Olivar Worbal, Stormcaller of the Achensberg. The legends of storm copper are taught to all my kind. Along with legends of the Great Storm Forge and the master smiths who once used it. I am hopeful that at least some of that knowledge still exists, here in the Valley of Storms, said to be home of the Great Forge itself.”

“Show us your storm copper,” the speaker demanded.

“Show us a smith who can work it,” Gunther challenged. Best to get these fellows to show their hands first before he and his companions revealed the existence of the statue.

Grim amusement flashed across the faces of the group seated around the fire. “Spoken like a kelnor,” one of them commented.

“If that means I be cautious, or even a bit suspicious, I'll be taking that as a compliment,” he retorted. “Our business requires it.”

“Indeed?” the speaker replied. More interest sparked in this gathering's faces now.

To his surprise, Gabrielle stepped forward, fishing in her collar. She pulled out a chain, and on it hung a heavy, eight-pointed pendant with a large green gem in its center. “Do any of you gentlemen happen to recognize this? Or mayhap a figure eight turned on its side?”

As one, the front legs of every chair in the room thumped to the floor.