The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper (8 page)

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Authors: Mel Odom

BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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“The Cryptkeeper of Houngal,” Craugh said.
Wick glanced sharply at the wizard. “I thought the Cryptkeeper was a myth.”
Craugh puffed solemnly on his pipe. “I'd hoped.” Something dark and dreadful flickered in his eyes. “But I think I met it.”
“Where?” Unbidden, Wick's hands removed a stick of charcoal from the rolled leather pouch that held his writing utensils. Quickly, he sketched out the tall, lean frame of the Cryptkeeper, shrouding the crocodile's skull he reportedly wore in the hood of a tattered cloak.
“Near Moiturl,” Craugh answered. “There are ruins there—”
“Tumbledown City,” Wick said, nodding, watching with growing interest as the Cryptkeeper took shape on the blank page. “It wasn't always called Tumbledown City. From the geographic references I've been able to piece together,
Tumbledown City was once a human settlement called Arrod. It was a meeting place for the humans of Northern Javisham.”
“Correct,” Craugh said, looking more than slightly impressed. “Truly, Second Level Librarian Wick, your knowledge of the world before the Cataclysm sometimes astounds me.”
“You have to remember that all the books I read are pre-Cataclysm,” Wick said. “But I listen to the travelers' tales down at the Yondering Docks, and I can sometimes put today's places with what they were all those years ago. During that time, Arrod was a large town—for a human settlement, which wasn't common given that humans tend to wander—and the center of three different trade routes.” He started to name them, but Craugh held up his hand in irritation.
I guess, at the moment, he isn't prepared to be astounded anymore
, Wick thought.
“We need to talk about why you're aboard
One-Eyed Peggie
,” Craugh said.
“What happened to the Cryptkeeper of Houngar?” Wick asked. He hated mysteries. Well, truth to tell, he actually enjoyed them. But not if they weren't properly finished.
“All those years ago? Or when I met him?”
“Both.”
“All those years ago, he was a graveyard attendant who stole from the dead. As a result, he was cursed to eternally guard the dead but he couldn't leave the graveyard.”
“And if he did?”
“He turned to dust.”
“Oh. So you lured him away from the graveyard.”
“No,” Craugh said, frowning, “I turned him into a toad. When I left, he was hopping around the crypt. If he didn't hop away from the graveyard, he's still there.” He smiled a little. “It's a rather fascinating experiment, actually, to see if my spell or the curse gives out first.”
“You turned him into a toad. Haven't you ever thought about turning those who vex you into … I don't know,
something
else?”
“No,” Craugh said flatly. “It works. Why fix it?”
“It's not very creative.”
Craugh shifted irritably in his seat and came close to glaring. “Do you think I stole you away from Greydawn Moors to critique my choice of transformations?”
Wick was suddenly aware that he was out on thin ice. “Uh …
noooo
?”
“I did not.”
Then, before he could stop himself, Wick said, “I thought Cap'n Farok made the decision to shanghai me.”
Craugh's face colored darkly with anger.
“I did,” Farok said. “After Craugh put the sleeping powder in yer drink an' Hallekk carried ye back to the ship.”
“You?” Wick exploded. “Put sleeping powder in my drink?”
“You wouldn't have agreed to come if I'd asked,” Craugh said.
“Of course not!” Wick couldn't believe it. The wizard had betrayed him in the past, but nothing like—Then he stopped himself.
Actually, this is exactly like
that time in Cormorthal
. He groaned. He couldn't believe he'd been made the fool.
Again
.
“I made the decision for ye,” Farok said. “So if 'n yer after a-placin' blame, let it be on me head.”
Wick gazed at the captain's rheumy old eyes. Even though he struggled valiantly to hang onto his anger, he couldn't. Farok had never betrayed him, never once deserted him to deal with razor-tusked melanoths in a dead-end alley, never abandoned him to explain the theft of an ensorcelled skull in a temple of Thurdamon the Cursed, never—well, all things considered, there was a lot Craugh had to answer for over the years.
Sighing, Wick said, “I'm not going to blame you, Cap'n Farok.”
“Good,” Craugh said. “Then we can be about this bit of business.”
“I
am
going to blame you,” Wick declared fiercely.
With an acutely threatening air, Craugh leaned forward and gave Wick the hairy eyeball. “Are you auditioning to be a toad, Librarian?” the wizard asked in a cold, hard voice.
Striving to control his bladder, hoping his voice didn't squeak when he spoke, knowing his first clue would be when the chair he was sitting in suddenly seemed too big, Wick leaned back at the wizard. “I don't know. Can a t-t-toad do whatever it is y-y-you've set your c-c-cap for me to d-d-do?”
For a moment longer, Craugh glared at him. Then he started laughing. “By the Old Ones! Do you know when the last time was that someone stood toe-to-toe with me?”
No
, Wick thought.
“Well, actually,” Craugh went on, “it was more like toe-to-toad, but there you have it.” He looked away and swirled his staff through the air, scattering green embers upon the wind. “We have a mission for you, Librarian Lamplighter. Captain Farok and I.”
“I didn't volunteer for this,” Wick said.
“Ain't no one more suited to the task,” Cap'n Farok said. “I knowed that after Craugh laid it out afore me.” He looked at Wick. “We need ye to do it, lad.
I
need ye to do it.”
If it had been anyone else who asked me, or
threatened
me
, Wick thought,
I wouldn't do it
. But over the years and the journeys to the mainland, he'd developed a strong affection for the crusty old dwarven sea captain. He took a deep breath and let it out.
“What is it?” Wick asked.
“We need ye to go among the Cinder Clouds dwarves an' find Master Blacksmith Oskarr's magic battle-axe, Boneslicer.”
“But the Cinder Clouds Islands
sank
!”
“Mayhap not,” Cap'n Farok said. “'Tis true them islands got mightily shaken up, but some of 'em's still there.”
“If the battle-axe was still there, someone would have found it.”
“Not necessarily,” Craugh said. “There were many things lost during the
Cataclysm.” A great scowl darkened his face. “The problem with lost things is that they don't always stay so.”
Wick silently agreed. Cursed objects had a habit of turning up again and again to cause new problems. “Okay, let's assume it's still there. Wonder of wonders, let's assume I even find it. What good will it do?” Though he didn't want to admit it, he was intrigued.
“Magical items, especially ones forged for their bearer, as Boneslicer was for Master Blacksmith Oskarr, have a tendency to absorb something of their respective owners,” Craugh said.
“What good will that do?”
“One day, Librarian,” Cap'n Farok said, “not in my lifetime, of course, but perhaps in yours, the world will become closer. Dwarves, humans, an' elves will need to know how to live with each other again. If there's to be any peace at all betwixt 'em, them questions about the Battle of Fell's Keep need to be answered. Mayhap, the Old Ones willin', we can get some of them answers ready.”
“By going to the Cinder Clouds Islands and finding Master Blacksmith Oskarr's battle-axe?” Wick asked.
“Aye.” The old captain nodded.
Wick sighed. “How are we going to do it?”
“‘We'?” Craugh shook his head. “There's no ‘we' to this, Librarian Lamplighter. There's only you.”
“
Me?
” Wick couldn't believe it. “You're going to plunk me down on an island and expect me to survive?
And
find a mystical battle-axe no one has seen in a thousand years in an island group that was disrupted by volcanoes?”
Craugh looked at him. “No one said this was going to be easy.” He was silent for a moment. “But there is an added attraction.”
To getting killed and eaten by goblinkin? To being put to death by suspicious dwarves who don't take to strangers? To getting burned to a crisp by a sudden volcanic eruption
? Wick couldn't wait to hear how the wizard was going to
attempt
to entice him. If he wasn't sure they'd put him ashore anyway, he'd have argued and demanded, maybe even begged and—
“Master Blacksmith Oskarr believed in the power of books,” Craugh said. “The rumor goes that he kept a few personal favorites—and his journals—with him even after he sent everything else he had with Unity ships.”
Wick knew they had him then. No one else aboard
One-Eyed Peggie
would lay his life on the line for books. Not the way he would.
He sighed. “All right. But I'm not going to like it.”
Marooned in the Cinder Clouds Islands
O
ne-Eyed Peggie
sailed slowly through the islands, most of her sails furled and crew lining the railing with weighted lines to call out the depths as they went forward. There were hundreds of islands scattered over the Rusting Sea, which got its name—Wick discovered—from the tiny flecks of oxidized iron ore that fluttered through the depths. As a result, the sea looked dark orange and murky. He doubted anything could live in those waters, but every now and again he saw something huge and monstrous slide through the sea.
Or maybe it was only the churning of the sea, caused by underwater volcanic vents.
The islands came in all sizes. Some of them were no bigger than a foot or two across, looking like a flagstone footpath that had been scattered across the sea. But they were attached to spires of rock firmly attached to the ocean bottom that could rip out an unwary ship's hull. Several others were scarcely large enough for a hut.
Then there were some that soared three and four hundred feet straight up, broken and craggy things devoid of vegetation except for a few gnarly trees and ugly brush that had peculiar reddish-gold blossoms Wick had never before seen.
“What are those blossoms?” Diligently, Wick captured the shape and relative size of the blossoms in his journal. He mixed the color with the pigments he brought with him, but only put a dab of the color on the page to extend his supply. Although, with the ore seemingly in goodly supply on the islands, it was possible he could make more paint by mixing ore in powder
form with animal fat. He'd been working quickly, blocking out first impressions of the Cinder Clouds Islands.
Hallekk stood only a short distance away. He looked alert and ready, but he was uneasy about sailing into waters that were unknown to them. Especially a sea that presented such dangers to ships' crews new to the area.
“Them are goldengreed weeds,” the big dwarf answered. “Ye'll want to stay away from 'em.”
“Why?”
“' Cause they bite.”
“‘Bite'? Like with teeth?” Wick had seen flesh-eating plants before, but they didn't bite. They usually had a tendency to swallow prey whole, asphyxiate it or poison it, then digest it at their leisure. Brandt had once cut him out of a cresthearted gulper they'd found in a wizard's enchanted greenhouse up in the Thundering Hills while looking for a treasure.
“They bite,” Hallekk said, “but not with teeth. Don't know how they do it, an' I've no wish to find out. They got a workin' relationship with a uniquely loathsome weevil what feeds on human flesh.”
“You mean they're symbiotic?”
Hallekk glanced at him for a moment. “'Course I do. How could I mean anything else? Once a goldengreed bites ye, they deposit a weevil what's about to lay eggs—”
“You mean she's gravid,” Wick said automatically.
“If 'n ye say so. Anyways, the weevil burrows up in yer skin, then digs in deep an' tight. After a few days, she ups an' lays her eggs in ye an' she dies. Only a short while later, them little weevils hatches an' eats ye from the inside out.”
“That's disgusting,” Wick said. He thought the whole process unnatural and needlessly morbid.
“Aye. Goblinkin in these parts use goldengreed as torture sometimes. Stake a prisoner out, then make bets on how much of him gets eaten afore he croaks.” Hallekk looked at Wick with concern in his eyes. “I've heard tell that if 'n them newborn weevils are left to their own business, they can eat a man down to skin an' bones in a few weeks. Usually he dies somewheres in there, but it ain't an easy way to go.”
“No,” Wick agreed, his throat tight and dry.
And they're going to put me off in the middle of that
? “So … if I get bitten, what should I do?”
“Burn it out if 'n ye can. Dig it out with a knife.” Hallekk shrugged. “If 'n ye think ye're still infested an' ye can live without that part of yerself, if 'n it's only a finger or a toe—or even a hand or a foot—cut it off.”
“Oh.”
“It's best if ye doesn't get bitten.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
“Oh, an' don't go to sleep within driftin' distance of a goldengreed plant. Sometimes them blasted things gets desperate an' takes their chances by jumpin' out of the plant in hopes of landin' on something close by. They get the chance to crawl into yer ear, they'll do it. Then ye'll be keepin' a weevil in mind.” Hallekk showed him a callous grin.
Never sleep with your ears open
. Wick wrote that in his journal and underlined it. In case he forgot. But he didn't see how that would happen.
 
 
“Are you afraid, Wick?”
Startled, Wick looked up from his journal. Actually, while he'd been working, he didn't feel anything at all. But now that the thought of dying was suddenly thrust into his mind again, he was terrified.
Craugh stood at his side, gazing out at the sea. With the sun setting in the west behind him, Wick could only see the wizard mostly in silhouette. As a result, Craugh looked almost insubstantial, while at the same time shot through with darkness.
“More than I've ever been,” Wick said, hoping that Craugh might relent. He knew if he could get the wizard to change his mind, Cap'n Farok would change his, too.
“Well,” Craugh said, looking out over the Rusting Sea, “it's always good to be a little afraid, but don't let that fear rule your thinking. Use it to keep you alive.”
“Why don't you go,” Wick asked, “and I'll stay on the ship and give
you
advice?”
“Do you think the Cinder Clouds dwarves would talk to a wizard?”
No. Nobody wants to talk to a wizard
. But Wick didn't say that. Instead, he pointed out, “You don't have to tell them you're a wizard.”
Craugh frowned at Wick. “Do I have to ever tell anyone I'm a wizard?”
Wick thought long and hard about that, seeking any avenue of escape. No matter where they went, no one made the mistake of thinking Craugh was just an old human. When someone looked at him, they just saw …
wizardly
.
“No,” Wick grumped. Then in a lower voice, he mumbled, “But a lot of people think you're an
evil
wizard.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
“I know you're not happy about this, Wick,” Craugh said, “but it's for the best.” He pointed.
Following the bony finger, Wick spotted a seagull flying low over the water on
One-Eyed Peggie
's port side. The bird cruised easily, no more than ten feet above the placid, orange-tinted surface.
“Let's say that seagull represents the present,” Craugh said. “It sails through life blithely, but one day the past will rear up its ugly snout—”
The water under the seagull suddenly erupted and a wart-covered red snout led a reptilian body up from the sea. Massive jaws opened and closed swiftly with a
snap!
of teeth that sounded like a tree trunk splitting. In the next instant, the seagull was gone and only a few white feathers drifted on the air.
“—and the present will be ripped away,” Craugh said.
Listening to the wizard, Wick detected a deeper level of meaning to Craugh's words. The warning scraped against something personal inside Craugh.
“You have to pay attention to the past, Wick,” Craugh said quietly. “You read books and look for the old science and history that has been lost or forgotten. But
you have to understand that people—humans, dwarves, and elves, and even dwellers—lived in that science and history. They had lives in addition to discoveries and explorations, and some of those lives weren't quite as heroic as the authors of those books would have readers believe. People—” The wizard took a deep breath. “—well, they have a tendency to fail and disappoint. Especially when you view them as strong figures.”
The anger and fear drained from Wick when he regarded the wizard. For the first time after all the adventures they had been through, Wick thought Craugh looked somehow vulnerable and lost.
How can you go through a thousand years of living?
he wondered.
How many friends, how much
family
, did you lose over those centuries, Craugh?
But he knew he dared not ask.
“Those warriors that died at the Battle of Fell's Keep need to be remembered,” Craugh said. “But they need to be remembered as a whole, not disparate groups.” He looked at the islands before them. “If we can find Oskarr's battle-axe—”
“Boneslicer,” Wick put in.
“Just so,” the wizard said. “Once you find Boneslicer, we can begin healing that old wound.”
Wick thought that all sounded well and good, but he kept remembering how easily the snouted beast—
a giant crocodile
?—leaped from the water and snatched the unsuspecting seagull. How could Craugh and Cap'n Farok possibly believe he was going to succeed at this insane quest?
 
 
At dusk,
One-Eyed Peggie
dropped anchor less than a hundred paces from one of the islands. The lookouts had kept careful watch and didn't think any goblins were in the area, but they had heard the clangor of dwarven hammers in the distance and knew they had to be close to a dwarven village.
Dressed in a modest traveling cloak, his journal hidden under his shirt in a waterproof oilskin along with a quill and ink bottle and a few sticks of charcoal to work with, Wick stood ready to leave.
Wheezing with effort, Cap'n Farok joined Wick beside the longboat the crew had prepared to lower over the side. The sulfurous air hadn't agreed with the dwarven captain the whole day. Now he looked pale and wan.
“Ye keep yer head about ye while out there,” Cap'n Farok said in a nononsense tone. “I don't like losin' crew, an' I won't stand for it outta stupidity.”
“Aye, Cap'n.” Unconsciously, Wick stood a little taller and puffed out his chest. There was something innately noble about the old captain, something that reminded Wick of Grandmagister Ludaan, who had accepted him as a Novice and shown him the secrets of the Vault of All Known Knowledge.
“Ye come back to us when ye've finished yer quest, Librarian Lamplighter,” Cap'n Farok said. “We'll see ye through the monster's eye an' come to fetch ye when ye've got Oskarr's battle-axe.”
The monster's eye Cap'n Farok referred to occupied a large bottle kept under the captain's bed. The ship's captain could use the eyeball (which still lived inside
the jar) to see any past or present crewman that yet survived, no matter where they were.
Unfortunately, the sea monster could also keep watch over the ship and—every now and again—track it.
One-Eyed Peggie
had been attacked a number of times so far.
“I will, Cap'n Farok,” Wick promised. “We've still got your memoirs to write.”
“In due time,” the old captain said. “In due time.” With that, he ducked in for a quick, fierce hug that touched Wick's heart. “Fair weather an' followin' seas to ye, Librarian.”
“And you, Cap'n.”
Wick stepped into the longboat, joined by Hallekk and Craugh. The wizard's decision to risk stepping ashore surprised Wick, but he didn't say anything. Three more crewmen joined them, filling out the longboat crew.
Luckily, the ocean was calm. Wick took up one of the oars and pulled with a trained stroke, falling easily into the silent rhythm with Hallekk and the dwarves. They had to make an adjustment because Craugh didn't pull an oar, but the wizard kept watch.
Wick knew his hands were the roughest of any Librarian. They were even rougher than those Librarians who made most of the paper at the Vault of All Known Knowledge. That process involved harsh chemicals.
Grandmagister Frollo faulted him for his worker's hands on several occasions, but Wick took a curious pride in them. There were several scars in with the calluses, from knife and rope and other sharp edges and fires, and looking at them was almost like studying a table of contents in a book. Each of those scars told a story.
Only a short time later, with the moonslight blunted by the thick smoke that shrouded the islands, the longboat ran up on the shore. Hallekk and the others got out, shipped the oars, and pulled the boat up so the retreating tide wouldn't carry it back out.
After a brief search of the coastline by torchlight, they found a cave where Wick could weather the night. With the area heated by the volcanic activity, it was warm enough that he didn't worry about being cold. He had precious little supplies.
Besides his hidden journal and writing utensils, he had only ragged clothes and a patched traveling cloak. All of it was clothing an escaping slave—if he were fortunate enough—could have stolen.

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