The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper (7 page)

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Authors: Mel Odom

BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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“He were a warrior!” Hallekk roared. “He managed to evade that sickness, an' he got what he could of his troops outta the Painted Canyon an' retreated.”
“After they'd made a pact to stay an' die together.”
“Doesn't make no sense to die when it ain't gonna help nothin'. They knew if they'd bolted from Fell's Keep that most of 'em woulda died. The sickness did 'em in afore that. The only thing Oskarr could do was lead them what was healthy enough to run for their lives an' take 'em outta that death trap. He did it.”
“He went back home and stayed away from the fighting.”
“But Oskarr didn't leave the war,” Wick said. “Oskarr returned to the Cinder Clouds Islands and worked on the side of the Unity until Lord Kharrion was finally killed.”
“Hammerin' out swords an' armor from the safety of his forge,” Verdin accused.
“It's powerful hard for an army to fight when it ain't got the tools it needs to see the job finished,” Hallekk said. “When it come to a-buildin' them tools, wasn't none finer than Master Blacksmith Oskarr. He hammered out a lot of armor an' weapons them Unity troops needed over them years.”
“Faugh!” Verdin said. “'Twas fightin' that were needed! An' after that, Oskarr lived himself out a life that was fat an' happy.”
“No,” Wick said. “Oskarr died there in the Cinder Clouds Islands. For six years, Master Blacksmith Oskarr and his chief armorers supplied the Unity army. The forges never ran cold and the dwarves worked in shifts every hour of the day, hammering out swords and armor and arrowheads. During that time, it is said, the Cinder Clouds Islands were never silent, and the ringing of hammers filled all of the forges. In time, their work there drew the ire of the Goblin Lord because the supplies Master Blacksmith Oskarr and his people made started to turn the tide of the war.”
“Lord Kharrion attacked the Cinder Clouds Islands,” a dwarf said.
“He did,” Wick agreed. “The Goblin Lord's spies discovered that Oskarr was preparing another large shipment of equipment in one month. Lord Kharrion put goblinkin ships in the water and went on the attack. He lay siege to Oskarr's city and waited to starve them out. As everyone knows, there wasn't much else in the Cinder Clouds Islands but veins of iron ore. It was a hardscrabble place even then. Only lizards and scrub brush lived there. Oskarr and his people depended on trade to keep food on the table.”
“There was fish,” someone suggested.
“The water was fouled by the forges,” Craugh said. “The Cinder Clouds Islands dwarves used forges tapped directly into the volcanoes that spewed forth the island archipelago. Sulfur, soot, and ash clouded the waters around the island and chased away all living things on land and in the sea. It's impressive that the dwarves were strong enough to survive there. Volcanoes are very hard to tame.”
Wick felt certain the wizard spoke from experience.
“There's no truer heat than that of a volcano,” a dwarf stated. “Makes metal easy to work with, then leaves it hard as can be. The Cinder Clouds Islands dwarves weren't the only ones who learned that trick.”
“And they could have only fished out to sea if they had access to the harbor,” Wick said. “With Lord Kharrion's forces sitting in the Rusting Sea, that wasn't going to happen. But the Goblin Lord was too impatient to simply wait Oskarr and his people out. Instead, he worked his evil magic and turned the volcanoes the Cinder Clouds Islands dwarves had tapped into against them.” He paused to let the dramatic tension increase. “The Goblin Lord's spell struck deeply into the heart of the volcano and wreaked havoc with the forges. In seconds, several of the islands—including the one where Oskarr and his hand-picked blacksmiths worked—sank beneath the waves of the Rusting Sea.”
“Oskarr died?” Verdin asked.
Wick nodded. “He did. And nearly every man, woman, and child of his village died with him.” Shuddering at the memory, he tried to forget about the accounts he'd read of the horrifying incident. It was no use. His imagination, in addition to being wild and vivid, also knew no rest. “Throughout the rest of the war against Lord Kharrion, no weapons or armor came from the Cinder Clouds Islands forges.”
“Pity he didn't die before he betrayed the others at Painted Canyon,” Verdin said.
“Why do you think Oskarr betrayed them forces?” Hallekk demanded.
“He was the only one of the leaders that didn't succumb to the sickness,” Verdin said.
“That's because he was a dwarf!” Hallekk exploded. “Dwarves don't get overly sick!”
“Plenty of other dwarves got sick durin' that time.” Verdin stuck out his jaw defiantly.
“Is that true?” one of the other humans asked Wick.
The little Librarian hesitated, but he knew he couldn't lie to those gathered there. “Many of the dwarves did get sick,” he answered.
“But not Oskarr?”
“Not Oskarr.”
“Why not?”
“No one knows.” Wick listened anxiously as silence created a pall over the room.
Perhaps that telling lacked something
, he told himself. At least they weren't threatening to kill each other anymore.
 
 
Later, when the tavern had cleared out and most of the patrons had returned to their ships, Wick sat drinking quietly at a table with Craugh and Hallekk. Paunsel didn't dare chase the wizard off because he had no designs on becoming a toad.
Talk was small, generally anecdotes about things they'd seen or done, bits and pieces Wick had read of late, and a few choice comments about the ongoing chess game the Librarian and the wizard conducted through a series of letters through shipboard mail.
Wick could see that Hallekk was mightily disturbed over the argument that had cropped up during the night. He hated to see his friend so troubled.
“For what it's worth,” Wick said, “I don't think Oskarr betrayed those men at the Battle of Fell's Keep.”
Hallekk sighed, and the candle flame on the table between them danced between life and death, then finally stood tall once more. “I know, little man.”
“I tried the best I could to express the situation.”
“I saw that.” Hallekk frowned. “The problem is that that battle is still talked about, even a thousand years later.” He waved at the tavern. “Not just here. But all along the mainland as well. Ever'where ye go, sooner or later, the talk'll turn to the Battle of Fell's Keep.”
Wick knew that was true. He'd been in taverns along the Shattered Coast that had turned into great battles themselves between humans, dwarves, and elves over what had transpired in the Painted Canyon at the end of those ten days of siege.
“What happened there,” Hallekk said, “it's a sore spot that most just can't keep from pickin' at. Ye don't see it come up so much here on Greydawn Moors, but out in the rest of the world?” He shook his big head.
“It's a serious problem,” Craugh said. “One that will have to be dealt with sooner or later.”
Wick studied the wizard. Although he hadn't yet said what had drawn him to Greydawn Moors, Craugh had come in looking slightly bedraggled, with halfhealed cuts on his face and hands. Obviously he'd been somewhere dangerous doing something dangerous against someone who had been … dangerous.
Wick was unhappy with his limited mental word choice. Finding new words was somehow beyond him.
You've got to slow down on the sparkleberry wine
, he told himself.
It's making your head as thick as Slops's mashed potatoes. And they could be used for mortar
.
Cleaning the mess those potatoes made on plates after they'd gotten cold had been one of Wick's greatest struggles while he served as dishwasher aboard
One-Eyed Peggie
. He hadn't known how the dwarven pirates had gotten it through their systems. It had to have been a gastronomical feat.
But he didn't say a word when Hallekk filled his tankard again. Trying to match a dwarf in drinking was usually a strategy bound for painful failure and serious regret, but Wick thought himself equal to the task that night. If only the room would occasionally stop spinning.
“Even with Lord Kharrion out of the way,” Craugh said, “the goblinkin have continued to hold sway in the south, and they look to be turning an avaricious eye to the north. Their numbers are on the increase again, and they'll soon be back up to fighting strength.”
Hallekk looked at the wizard. “Do ye think they'll take another run at her? Killin' out all the other races, I mean?”
Wick hadn't thought about that. He'd been to the mainland a few times, and he'd seen how the goblinkin empire had fragmented somewhat, but they'd remained particularly strong in the south. Thinking that they might someday unite and take up the genocidal war once more was frightening. Even the magical fog and enchanted sea monsters in the Blood-Soaked Sea couldn't protect the Vault of All Known Knowledge forever.
“If they do, humans, dwarves, and elves will have to find the strength to once more stand united,” Craugh said. “If they don't, they will all fall.” He sipped his wine. “It would be better if they were able to put the Battle of Fell's Keep behind them.”
“They're still different races,” Wick pointed out. “There's some natural discord between them anyway.”
“Yes, but it's been my experience that those dislikes can be worked through. Prejudice is an ugly thing that feeds on its own energies. It doesn't bring anything with it; the perceived hatred of others that are different drains and limits.” Craugh tugged at his beard. “But it would be better if the questions over the Battle of Fell's Keep were resolved.”
“There has to be an answer somewheres.” Hallekk fixed Wick with a curious look. “Mayhap in them books of yers.”
“They're not mine.” Wick had to work a little harder to make the words come out.
“Haven't ye got someplace where ye can look up the battle?”
Wick shook his head and felt it sway sickeningly, thinking just for a moment
that it had somehow come loose from his shoulders. “We're still sorting out all the journals, memoirs, and histories. If anything was written by anyone who was there, it hasn't turned up yet.”
“Perhaps,” Craugh suggested, “those manuscripts never made it to the Vault of All Known Knowledge.”
“But why wouldn't they?” Wick asked.
“Perhaps,” Craugh said slowly, as if warming to the possibility himself, “those memoirs weren't yet written at the time the different cities and towns surrendered their libraries.” He took out his pipe and lit up. “It is something to think about.”
Personally, Wick thought he'd be better off thinking about it in the morning. For the moment, he was sleepier than he'd ever been.
 
 
When he felt himself swaying, Wick believed at first that he was still asleep. During the night, he'd dreamed of being Taurak Bleiyz rescuing the fair Princess Lissamae from the evil clutches of the cunning wolf's head, Mamjor Dornthoth in the Gulches of Fiery Doom. He thought the swaying was just his imagination taking him out over the spiderweb spanning the Rushing River.
The dream had been an enjoyable time spent in slumber. In fact, he was already thinking of how he'd like to render a second, fresher version of the tale with color illustrations.
Opening his eyes, something he wasn't always able to do while held captive in a dream, Wick stared at the low ceiling overhead and the end of the hammock he was lying in.
“No!” he croaked.
Panicked, he tried to turn over in the hammock to take in the small room and promptly fell out onto the hardwood floor. His head slammed into the solid surface. Stars spun behind his eyes. That was further proof he wasn't dreaming: He never hit bottom when he fell in his dreams.
The impact ignited a headache that seemed on the verge of shattering his skull. A nasty, bitter taste filled his mouth. That definitely wasn't normal. Suspicion darkened his thoughts.
Moaning a little with the effort, Wick levered himself up and stumbled to the porthole. He peered out at the curling waves of plum-colored ocean.
I'm on the Blood-Soaked Sea!
he thought in disbelief.
I've been shanghaied! Again!
“We Have a Mission for You, Librarian Lamplighter”
A
ngry and hurting, Wick headed for the door. Then he noticed the small hammock hanging above the one he'd fallen out of. Inside the hammock, Critter slept with its wings flared out to its sides.
Remembering how Critter had unmercifully awakened him the first time he'd been taken aboard
One-Eyed Peggie
, Wick yelled, “Wake up, ye goldbrickin' feather duster!” and gave the small hammock a spin, looping it over and over from its ties.
The rhowdor spun in the hammock, then fell out and tumbled toward the ground. Critter fluttered and landed on its bottom on the floor with its legs flared out. For a moment, its head bobbed like a yo-yo on a string. It blinked its eye quickly, then focused on Wick with a narrowed, baleful gaze.
“Why ye sawed-off sorry excuse fer a pirate!” Critter exploded. It kicked its claws and got its legs under it. “Ye slimesuckin' bilge rat! Ye're gonna pay fer that, ye are!” It came at Wick, barely weaving as its sticklike legs churned.
Still, Wick moved quickly and let himself out the door. He closed it behind him just in time to hear a satisfying
thud!
that warmed his heart and alleviated some of the misery he felt.
Critter cursed Wick thoroughly through the door and kicked it.
Ignoring the rhowdor, knowing the bird couldn't open the door and trusting that it would be some time before Critter could fly through the porthole, Wick turned his attention to the ship's deck. If waking up in a hammock in the same room as Critter
wasn't proof enough, all the familiar faces of the crew told him immediately he was on
One-Eyed Peggie
.
They all called out to him in greeting, but most of them were moving slowly after shore leave. Sail filled the 'yards and popped in the strong breeze. The sun hung high in the eastern sky, and he noticed they were headed toward it. The mainland lay in that direction, but he judged that they were headed too far south to be making for the Shattered Coast. Somewhere south of there then, but he hadn't yet been in that direction.
Why?
Wick wondered. But he knew asking himself that question wouldn't do any good. So he went looking for Hallekk, going up the stairs to the stern castle.
The big first mate was on the stern deck, just as Wick thought he would be. Surprisingly, Cap'n Farok was there as well. Even Craugh stood there with them, brimmed hat shadowing his eyes as he gazed out to sea.
That can't be good
, Wick thought, but his anger grew inside him. He strode over to them and they all looked at him.
“A fair mornin' to ye, Librarian,” Cap'n Farok greeted in his creaky voice.
Cap'n Farok was the oldest dwarf Wick had ever seen outside of an illustration in one of the books in Hralbomm's Wing in the vault. Almost a head shorter than Hallekk, Farok had silvery gray hair so aged that it was turning alabaster. The years had robbed his face of its firmness, so wrinkled that it looked like it had been hollowed out and was falling in on itself. He wore a fine suit and a decorated hat that set him apart from his crew.
Some of Wick's anger evaporated at seeing the old ship's captain. Farok's health hadn't been good for the last few years. Much of the time he was bedridden. On occasion, he'd talked of stepping down from his post and letting Hallekk take over as captain, but his crew had refused. Everyone knew that the only family Farok had was aboard
One-Eyed Peggie
. If he returned to Greydawn Moors, or any other place, for that matter, he'd only die among strangers.
“A fair morning to you, too, Cap'n,” Wick said respectfully. “I—”
“I'spect ye got questions,” Farok interrupted.
“Aye, I do. Also, I need to ask you to turn around and take me back to Greydawn Moors. I've work to do at the Vault of All Known Knowledge. I don't know whose grand idea it was to kidnap me—” Here he glared at Craugh and Hallekk, both of whom he knew well enough to trust that they wouldn't turn him into a toad or beat him to a pulp respectively. Although the kidnapping had been a total surprise. “—but someone here deserves a swift—”
Farok held up a quavering hand. “It were me idea, Librarian.”
Over Farok's shoulder, Craugh and Hallekk grinned at Wick and raised their eyebrows, waiting to see how he was going to finish the threat he'd started.
“—
chance
to let me know what's going on,” Wick fumbled. He couldn't believe Farok had given the order to take him from Greydawn Moors. They traveled well aboard the ship when Wick was about tracking books down on the mainland, often playing chess and talking over nautical stories—which were a treasure trove
for Wick because he took notes in his journals, but both of them knew he wasn't exactly pirate material.
“Over the mornin' meal then,” Farok agreed. “I'spect ye've got an appetite?”
Wick's stomach rumbled for all to hear.
“Well then,” Farok said, laughing, “that's answer enough.” He turned to the first mate. “Hallekk, the table if ye please. We'll be after takin' our meal here on the stern deck.”
Hallekk went to the stern railing and bawled out the orders.
“An' when we finish the morning meal,” Farok went on, “then we'll talk about why ye're here.”
 
 
In short order, ship's crew brought out the captain's table and covered it with food. The sea was calm enough for them to eat, and being outside in the open was better than being closed up in the captain's cramped quarters or sharing mess with the crew down in the galley.
“Tuck in, Librarian, tuck in,” Farok invited as he shoved a napkin down the front of his blouse. “We've just come from shore leave, an' them good people of Greydawn Moors has been mightily generous.”
Hallekk passed plates around.
They were fired pottery, robin's-egg blue with gold-leaf trim showing beautifully rendered images of fantastic forest beasts. The luster of the plates was so shiny Wick could see himself in it.
“Oh my,” he gasped. “Have you seen this?”
Farok leaned over and peered at the plate. “What is it? Did Slops not get them plates clean again? I've already had a talk to him about that.”
“No. The plates are fine. But it's the plates themselves.” Wick turned the plate to face the dwarven captain. “Do you know what they are?”
“Why, they's plates,” Farok said.
“I believe Wick is referring to the fact that these plates are Delothian warder plates.” Craugh sawed through a plump sausage with a knife, then forked up a chunk and popped it into his mouth.
Wick gazed at the wizard in disbelief. “You knew that?”
“Yes. I'm not uneducated.”
“But you're eating off them!”
“That's what they were made for.” Craugh sectioned a firepear and forked a bit of it as well. “To be eaten off of.”
“But not by a bunch of dwarven pirates!” Wick was suddenly aware of how quiet the stern deck had gotten. Had the wind died down? He tried to recover. “Dwarven pirates who are actually heroes in disguise.”
There. That sounds better, doesn't it?
Hallekk looked grudgingly at his plate, then a little ashamed. “I ain't fit to be eatin' off this plate, is that what ye're a-sayin'?”
“No,” Wick replied, feeling bad and wishing he had a way out of the hole he'd dug for himself. “What I'm saying is that these plates have a unique history.” He
turned the plate in his hands, finding the beginning of the story rendered there in the images. “This tale is about Noosif, the beaver companion of Warder Riantap, who was a great champion and cared for the Cealoch River from the Sparkling Falls to the Moons-kissed Deltalands where the Haidon lumberjack settlement lived.”
Leaning close to his plate, scraping away a piece of egg from the edge, Hallekk said, “This one's about an eagle.”
“That's probably an owl,” Wick said automatically. “The Band of Fur, Feather, and Fin didn't include an eagle. There were twelve animals in all, creatures of the Delothian warders—humans, not elves—who fought the Mad Empress Maligna during the Zenoffran Troll War.”
“I weren't aware there were any trolls in Zenoffra,” Hallekk said.
“There weren't,” Wick agreed, “after the Delothian warders finished with them. Until that time, the Mad Empress had employed them to build engines of destruction in the Skytrees Forest. Then the Haidon lumberjacks were able to move in and start harvesting trees for the ships made down in Cogsdale, where so many cargo ships were built. That war was important to the human sailors because it gave them resources to build fleets of trading and war vessels.” He shrugged. “Of course, they immediately started competitions for trade goods and sank many of those ships.”
“Are ye a-gonna eat, Librarian?” Farok asked. “While it's still hot? Would ye rather have another plate if that one doesn't suit ye?”
Wick sighed. None of them understood. “These were built for the Delothian warders, to commemorate their victory over the Mad Empress. Most of them died or lost their animal companions. They're works of art.”
Craugh scooped up a big spoonful of hash browns fried with sweet onions, and plopped it into the center of the plate Wick held. “And today they hold food provided by generous hosts.” His eyebrows arched in mild rebuke over his green eyes.
Giving up, Wick quickly filled his plate with sausages, fresh baked biscuits, firepears, corn pancakes that he covered in sweet sparkleberry syrup and tart limemelon wedges.
“Well,” Hallekk said, eyeing Wick's burgeoning plate, “one thing ye got to say for them potters what made these plates: They certainly made big ones. Ye ought to be grateful 'bout that.”
Wick was, but he ate carefully and didn't drag his fork over the plate.
 
 
After the table and the remnants were packed away, Farok and Craugh filled their pipes and lounged in their chairs to smoke. Hallekk went to see to his rounds.
One-Eyed Peggie
continued to slice through the Blood-Soaked Sea. The eternal fogs, kept in place through the magical glamours that protected Greydawn Moors, ghosted across the deck and limited vision in all directions. But the sun felt warm.
“Awwwwwwrrrrrrrkkkkk!” Critter moaned below. The rhowdor sounded as if it were dying.
For a moment, Wick felt sorry for the bird. But not too much. Critter would live; it just wouldn't enjoy the experience for a while.
“Awwwwwrrrrrrrrkkkkk!” Critter cried again. A moment later, it stumbled
across the deck. Its pinkish horned face looked decidedly green. Its brilliant tail feathers, now tangled and some of them broken, trailed on the deck after it.
Struggling mightily, the rhowdor climbed the side, hooked its claws in under the top rail, and hung its head over. It used its wings to steady itself, then heaved again and again, sounding like it was strangling.
Mercilessly, the crew guffawed and hurled insults at the poor bird, making fun of his condition. “That'll teach ye to drink that rotgut, ye bone-headed bird!” someone yelled.
“Just keep throwin' up,” someone else said. “When ye see yer claws an' tail feathers comin' up, ye'll know ye're almost done.”
Critter tried to hurl an insult back, but ended up hurling over the side halfway through. Trapped with no way to respond, the bird had no choice but to take every scathing insult the crew could think of. And they could think of a lot because they spent a lot of time at sea with nothing to do.
Wick chuckled at the rhowdor's plight in spite of his mood. No one aboard the ship would see any true harm come to the rhowdor, but the bird was not well liked by anyone.
“I'd come to Greydawn Moors on another matter,” Craugh said, “when I found you lecturing in Paunsel's.”
“I wasn't lecturing,” Wick said. “I was merely trying to forestall a brawl. If I'd had any sense, I'd have left out the back way.”
“It's probably a good thing you didn't. Tempers seemed high last night.” Craugh puffed on his pipe.
“What other matter brought you to Greydawn Moors?” Unable to simply sit and listen, used to having his hands busy all day, Wick reached down into his rucksack and took out one of the journals he kept on hand. A brief check inside assured him that it was blank.
He had a habit of carrying several different journals with him at all times because his attention constantly jumped from subject to subject. Grandmagister Frollo faulted him for that on a regular basis. Wick just had a hard time staying still—unless he had a truly good book in his hands. Thankfully, the Taurak Bleiyz book was in the rucksack as well, though he didn't know when he would ever get the dweller hero across the spiderweb above the Rushing River.

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