| |
Chapter Two- Island in the Mist
Lark was beginning to feel imprisoned by the siege. She had been caged within the city walls for close to a month now, not counting the two months before that she had spent before the siege had begun. It was different then. The city had not felt so much the prison when she could have left whenever she chose. Her days had already begun to melt into one another, become a routine of work, eat, sleep and dance. She was becoming like the Gegenta around her, sedentary and ordinary. She looked at the grass growing up beneath the wheels of her wagon with disgust. Her father would be very unhappy to see that; but ingrained in her, too, was the reluctance to leave her home behind. She had worked hard on the wagon. It was a symbol of her freedom. Oh, she would leave it behind quickly enough if forced to flee; but she had not yet come to that point.
Sighing yet again, she grabbed a bucket filled with feed and set it out for the two horses. The pied jostled the mare for his share, and it was then that Lark noticed he was favoring a foot. Running her hands with practiced ease down his hip, she pinched the hock in just the right place, allowing her to bend and lift his foot. Not only was there a small stone lodged there, but there was a narrow crack and split beginning to form. She dropped the hoof and lifted the seat on the driver's box, pulling out a paring knife, a large file and a hoof pick. Tucking them into the sash at her waist, she went back to the horse and braced his hind leg between her knees. Drawing the pick, she worked the stone loose. Dolal began fidgeting. The stone went flying. She checked the frog with her thumb, pressing lightly, discovering a small bruise. A black and white tail hit her in the face. She elbowed him, hissing something under her breath in Romany.
She traded the pick for the knife and cut off the cracked part of the hoof little by little. Satisfied she had gotten all of the damaged area, she put away the knife. Dolal, watching her, saw her reach back for the file, and chose that moment to resist. He set his foot down. Lark barely kept herself from sprawling onto the dirt. She turned and glared at him. He glared back. Behind them, someone started laughing.
She spun, her eyes flashing blackly. She knew that laugh. She stomped over to the tree under whose shade the laugher lounged and slapped him in the stomach with the tool as she handed it to him. "Fine, Ox, you think so funny. YOU file!" She cocked her fists on her hips and glared up at her brother. He had not changed a bit.
Ivan was a big man, well named. Ox just fit him, even when he was a child. He was already in his late twenties and had the body of a blacksmith, though he rarely did any real metal working, having no access to a forge. Mostly he was an animal handler. He wore his curling black hair long, kept back in a ponytail and his mustache was always smartly curled. He had the same dark eyes as his sister, large and deceptively blue. He was a very handsome man, and he knew it. His large, dark muscles rippled bare in the afternoon sun, as he wore only a red felt vest, no shirt. His blue trousers were sashed in gold and a bag and a blade hung from it.
Still chuckling, he took the file and crossed to the horse. He spoke softly, trying to calm the beast. Dolal was very calm. He just did not want his hoof filed. He picked up the foot, Dolal behaved surprisingly passive. Then, as Ivan went to place the hoof between his thighs, he found himself lying face first in the dirt with the horse and his sister both laughing at him. Growling, he got up, grabbed the hoof, planted himself, and held it firmly, his thumb on the nerve just under the hock, effectively disabling the foot. After a few seconds, the horse gave up and Ivan began to work.
"I keep telling you," he said, fingering the newly pared edge, "You have to shoe them if you want to keep them in city."
"I never intended to keep spotted nightmare IN city," she sulked, pulling a bit of hard bread out of her pocket and chewing on it. Nightingale perched on her shoulder immediately and she began feeding him little bits of it without thinking.
"You need to move your wagon," he added as he filed, eyeing the knee high grass on the far side and ragged clumps on the horses' side. "Even if only a few sites away."
She spread her arms wide, gesturing broadly to the whole of the tight, disordered encampments, dislodging the bird with a start. "And where to, sesket? Where in this broad stinkhole called Portswain am I to find place to put wagon? Since siege there have been complaints of how much room I have been taking! Now you want me to move?"
He began to gesture at the wheels, letting Dolal go. The horse quickly sidled away. She threw up her hands again in a helpless, frustrated gesture. "I KNOW, Ivan, I KNOW. I believe me, I hate it! Hells, I even have regular JOB!"
He looked at her in disgusted surprise. He crossed to her. "That's it, 'Yani. Is time to go, to leave wagon, even horses..." He watched as her eyes began to darken. He shook off her protests. "You can trade them for large sum to city now, for portable wealth that will easily trade elsewhere for another wagon and pair. Maybe even for gold if we are not too picky. Siege has made animals very precious. We are South now, near Alsteadt. There are festivals and food in plenty there." He reached for the crust of her bread. "You won't have to eat stale heels of black bread there. Fresh meat and new cheeses...."
She struck his hand away, "NO!" she hissed in Romany. "I left caravan for a reason. I am not Raunie. Gruma is.. I cannot live my life as a transition. Father will never be able to take orders from me, he is too used to giving them to me. I cannot live this way, is true, but neither can I go back to stay. No, Ivan Petrovich, matter is settled. I stay. Even with grass growing under my wagon. When I leave, it will be on my terms."
Ivan stared at his sister, knew from experience that she was not going to give, not even an inch on this. He sighed, made a generic gesture of giving up. "Ah, women!" he growled. "You are still as stubborn as day you came out backwards! Will you at least cook the food I brought for us?" he asked, holding out a small sack.
Lark knew when to surrender. She snatched the bag, growled at him in a low voice, not willing to give in even when giving in, "Only if you keep your fool mouth shut about it. Or we will have all my neighbors banging on door for share!"
She went inside the wagon, gesturing for him to follow. Just before going in, Ivan searched for and caught sight of a scruffy, shadowed figure watching from behind the nearby tree. He made a gesture with his hand and the figure moved to obey, slinking past the horses and underneath the wagon. He closed the door behind him. His sister was closing the shutters tightly to keep the smells of cooking food from drifting too far. She opened the sack and found a narrow haunch of smoked venison and a loaf of fresh, sweet, unleavened gypsy bread. She sighed with contentment. "Ah, brother. One thing your wife does well is make bread!"
"Is not only thing," he grinned. "I do have three sons. But bread making... cooking in general, was one skill you did not get from mamma."
"Sesket," she replied, shaking her head in agreement. "But I do get by." She began stoking up the small iron stove.
She put the meat in a covered pot on top of the stove to heat, and set the bread beside it. At the bottom of the bag she found a pair of Alphasian oranges, with the leaves, still green, clinging to the stem. She pulled them out, setting them on a shelf and pulled the table down. "You are trying to spoil me, Ivan. You are trying to show me bounty is good if I come home, but will not work. I know your conniving ways. I am not some animal for you to charm into traveling with you. But I will feed you, brother. Then, after, I think I will take you to meet Lily. For drinks."
Ivan made himself comfortable on the bed. "And who is this Lily? I am beyond my days of chasing skirts, Illyana."
She smiled as she set a pair of plates and mugs on the table. "Jena keeping a tight leash on you these days?"
He sighed happily, "Usually does when she is pregnant," he boasted.
"What, again? So, what are you wishing for this time? Another strapping young son?"
He shook his head as she slid in beside him. "No, actually, I think I would like a little girl this time. Someone to keep Jena happy, and who'll not be running off to join his bride's caravan."
"I think meat is done," she said, going to check it. It was not, but she needed an excuse to ignore the obvious barb her brother had just dealt. He had not taken well to the idea of her leaving the caravan. Gypsy women did not leave their families. They brought their husbands into them. Ivan had not left his father's caravan because his wife had been one of very few survivors of hers. Jena had been found eighteen years ago, along with five other children, hiding in the woods not far from the burnt out shells of their family's wagons. Jena, Rosita, Julan, Ferran, and Victor, victims of a rabid anti-gypsy purge to the Southeast, had grown up as part of the Rushavska clan. The two women had both found love within the clan: Jena with Ivan, and Rosita, the oldest of the five, then nineteen, had taken up with their father a few years after their mother had died. Of the boys, only two were left. Julan had been apprenticed to another clan to learn blacksmithing, a tricky trade for perpetual travelers; Victor had married a handsome young woman from the Kesenata clan and now rode with them as was the custom. Ferran had died not many years after they had been found, in the same wave of plague that had taken Danine, Ivan and Illyana's mother.
None of these thoughts, memories, did anything to help Lark's mood. She pulled the meat from the stove, setting it on the table. They ate in relative silence, sharing the meat and bread and a small bottle of weak wine Lark pulled from a cabinet. Ivan picked the bottle up and examined it. It was a cheap wine, no label; probably no more than some farmer's home brew.
"Never were much of a drinker, Petrovna," he mused, setting the bottle down. "But when you did you have better tastes."
She sighed, "Water here is questionable at best. I have small cistern on roof. But even that is sometimes contaminated by smoke and ash from siege. Here we are too close to gates and water is precious. Wine... wine is cheap, and mostly safe to drink. I water it down when I have fair water, to last me for when I do not."
"Yet still you persist, sister? Still you remain determined to remain here, in this city between two levels of hell?"
"Is not quite that bad," she said. "Some moments, I must admit were quite... pleasant," she mused, her mind drifting back to two nights but a month past, and the scent of a certain elf which still clung faintly to her pillow. "But yes, I will not go. If I can get my wagon out, then I will go, but until then please, stop asking me."
She got up, picking up the few dishes and wiping them carefully clean with a damp cloth before putting them away. There was a bit of the meat left, which she put back into the sack and gave to her brother. He took it reluctantly. Lark went outside. He sighed, getting up to follow, stopping to put the bag on a hook where he could claim later to have casually forgotten it.
When he stepped out into the late afternoon sun, she was staring at something under the wagon. He smiled secretly, then covered it. "What is problem, sister?" he asked.
She held up her hand, shaking her head, then bent down. She began to make soft coaxing noises, holding out her hand with tiny gestures. Her body language was subtle, but Ivan recognized what she was doing. He smiled. He had taught her that trick of reading the animals. She used her knowledge of body language in everything she did, but it showed best in her dancing, and her handling of men. He seated himself on the back of the wagon and watched as she managed to convince the tall, lanky, scruffy looking dog out from under the wagon to her hand.
The animal was obviously a wolfhound, at least three feet at the shoulder with curly, scraggly hair of a soft fawn color, or at least that is the color he should have been, if he had been remotely clean. He was filthy, but friendly. Before she had finished checking him out fully, he was licking her face. "Is huge," she whispered, awed.
"Wolfhounds usually are," Ivan muttered, filling a pipe as he watched the pair.
She looked up at him. "He friend of yours?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Not really. Found him on way in, over on Bayside. Chased off some kids who were tormenting him." It was not exactly a lie. Some kids were tormenting him when he left him outside the inn long enough to go in to inquire after his sister. She had not been easy to find. He very carefully neglected to tell her about the four good knives he had traded for the beast in Keristan, or the past four months he had spent training him. "He would not hurt them no matter what they did to him; though I have seen him kill rats. He can be viscous when need arises." Exactly the kind of dog she needs, to protect her in this pit, he thought. Never mind the fact that the leggy pup had grown a bit bigger than he had expected him to. He laughed as the dog, in his fervor of greeting her, knocked her over.
Lark rolled over in a fit of giggles, begging the slobbery, wet, tickling kisses to stop. Finally, she got up enough breath to shout, "Off! Sit!! Down, boy!" To her surprise he backed off and sat. She sat up, looked up into his liquid brown eyes as he cocked his head rather intelligently at her. She stood, dusting herself off as best she could. She stared down at the dog, her fists on her hips. His head came almost to her shoulder, even seated. "All right, you can stay. But two things: First you have to have a name." She thought for a minute. "Ivaska. That is a good name. Second.... you get a bath." And she began casting.
She wove a mini-spell, taking its components from the surroundings; water from a nearby pothole filled with undrinkable water, a scrub brush from the horse box, and a bit of wind to work the bath. The magic sifted the mud from the water, making it bathable, if not drinkable. It carried the brush in windy hands and scrubbed the huge animal even as it began raining on him. The dog tried to get out of the rain, but found himself held by the same winds and just stood there, shaking. When she was satisfied that he was suitably clean, she dropped her hands and allowed him to shake himself dry. Tired, she perched on the back of the wagon next to her brother and watched the animal as he comically looked about for the invisible bathers, sniffed suspiciously at the still brush.
"Nice trick," Ivan mused.
"Tiring. Takes a lot out of me, for effects like that," she answered, resting her chin in her hand.
Ivaska shook himself dry and grabbed the brush, playing with it, shaking it as if trying to kill it.
"Is not illusion then?"
"Not this spell, no. Is minor cantrip. Has limitations, but within those I can do just about anything. Little things. Like washing dog. Or horse," she grinned, glancing over at him. "Or making rain on irritating brothers." He glared over at her, not much amused, and only half daring her to try it. He continued to puff away. "I use mostly when I dance, to make invisible partner from cloak rack, make willo-wispies come and go. Is really very minor magic. Not more than poltergeist, though poltergeist can do more moving of things."
She got up suddenly, took the brush from the dog and put it away. "Let us go. If we go now, I might actually be able to drink with you before I have to work. And I have lesson to give I do not wish to be late for." She refused to say more, going into the wagon and grabbing her gear and violin. She took a moment to put on a few bracelets and other jewelry, and to add garlands of multicolored ribbon to the shoulders of her vest with small brass pins. Trying a belled sash around her waist, she shouldered her bag, slipped into a pair of soft boots by the door and joined her brother on the doorstep. She faced the door for a moment, mumbling quietly, and traced a glowing rune onto the surface of the door, ken reversed, the sign of the closed door. Nightingale perched himself on her shoulder and stared questioningly at the dog. Ivaska was sitting at attention, head held high and chest puffed up, looking smart and ready to go, if a little shaggy. One ear went up in question.
Lark put her fist on her hip as she looked at the dog. "Now where he learn this trick, I wonder?" She glared at her brother, who immediately found emptying his pipe to be an intense operation taking all of his concentration. All of her brother's dogs eventually learned that trick. She sighed. Not quite willing to fight over this, and she did kind of like the scruffy monster. "What else does he know?" she asked. "Can he guard? Will he stay quiet on command? Does he sing like your other hounds?"
Ivan popped his head up immediately, "No," he said, holding up his finger pointedly. "This one does NOT sing. He does not even open his mouth unless there is food in front of it, or something not right."
"Good. Ivaska, come. We go to work." She hopped off the wagon and began walking down the narrow path between the cramped tents and ramshackle lean-tos. Ivaska trotted obediently at her side, looking about him as they walked as if they were on a holiday through the countryside, and not tromping through the worst section of town next to the Bayside. Ivan caught up quickly and walked with his sister, glaring at anyone who looked too hard at her as they passed by.
Lark pointed out things of interest to Ivan as they crossed town. Telling him which corners were generally good for busking and which were apt to gain solicitations other than music or dance. Showing him places were the City Watchmen did not like minstrels or bards to hang about, or other "loiterers" for that matter. She pointed out the street which headed down into Bayside, a place one does not travel alone at night, nor unarmed. Bayside was a place even the Night Watch would not go. Finally, they came to the Cinnamon Tree. Upon entering, Nightingale flew to his usual perch on the mantle.
Lily was carrying a heavy tray filled with clean mugs, set them down on the bar for Neneis to put away. She came over as she saw Lark come in, weaving past the handful of customers.
"You're early!" she smiled. "And who, pray tell is tall, dark and handsome here?"
"Tall, dark and handsome is my brother," she replied with a wry grin. "Ox, meet Lily, Proprietress of Cinnamon Tree. Lily, my brother, best known as Ox, for obvious reasons."
Ivan bent over her hand, caressing it tenderly as he did so. "My pleasure," he said. "Such a rare flower you are, hidden amidst this midden heap."
Lark pulled Lily away, "Oh, never mind his ranting, he's good and married," she said, glaring over her shoulder at him.
Lily laughed, "Doesn't mean he can't look, darlin'."
"Hah, you don't know his wife!"
"Hah, you don't know my wife!" they said simultaneously.
Lily laughed, looking from one to the other of them. "Oh, I can tell the two of you are related! Holy hand bells!" she cried, catching sight of Ivaska peeking up at her from behind Ivan. "It's a hell hound!" She raised the tray between her and the dog.
"Oh, this is Ivaska. Is... gift from my brother. I thought perhaps he would serve good deterrent for thiefs and Coolies."
"Oh, that he certainly would be..." she breathed, beginning to relax bit by bit as the dog just looked at her curiously. "But he's so big!"
"He'll stay out of way, I promise." Lark gestured to the fireplace and told Ivaska to go. He looked up at her for a moment, then slinked across the taproom and plopped himself down on the hearth, resting his head on his paws with a sigh.
"Well, I suppose it will be all right...."
Dane entered the room from the kitchen, reaching for the wall with one hand, the other filled with a roll stuffed with sliced meat and toasted cheese. He felt his way carefully to his seat beside the hearth, eating as he went. He stopped mid-bite, smelling something out of place. Mother and gypsies watched as boy became aware of animal and animal became aware of approaching sandwich. Dane found his chair and set his supper on it, then walked carefully towards the strange smell. He stopped at the hearth edge and bent down, feeling for what was there. Hands met fur. Ivaska looked up at the boy, sniffed him, then stood up. Dane, hand still on the dog's side, felt the back of the dog rise to his own height and scrambled back, startled. He backed into a chair someone had left out and fell onto his rump. He held his breath as he felt the huge animal come near. Ivaska sniffed him again, snuffling around his ears and tow-colored hair, began licking him.
Lark saw Lily visibly relax as she heard her son giggling on the floor. "All right," she sighed, "he can stay if he stays out of trouble."
Ivan burst out laughing when, from the floor across the room they heard Dane inquire, "Can he have the soup bones, mama?"
"No!" she called. "Maybe! After there is soup from them!" She threw up her hands, tucked her tray under her arm and went to see if the men in the corner needed anything else.
Ivan sat drinking a mug of Neneis's good beer, watching his sister teaching the blind boy to play the violin. People began to filter in as the evening wore on and Lark turned from teaching to playing. She set her tambourine down in front of Ivaska, told him to guard. The first time someone tried to toss his pennies into it, he growled, but Lark was quick to correct that behavior.
Many of the customers seemed to have come solely to watch his sister work her magic of forgetfulness. She had a way of making you forget everything but the movements of her body. Mother had had that way. He understood more of Lark's movement than anyone, because he could read the body language. He sighed, Lark, it seemed, had no end of admirers among the crowd. Always had and always will; but they were Gegenta, no one she would give a second glance or thought to, so he did not worry. He watched as she deftly, swiftly and sharply put down each and every admirer's suggestion, but in such as way as to keep them coming back, begging for more abuse, and to keep the money flowing into her timbrel. He smiled. She played them like a well strung fiddle, getting from them what she desired without giving a wink more than she wished.
After a while of watching and listening, he took up the fiddle from the boy and played for his sister. He played a wild Romany tune that the boy was not yet able to play. Lark threw herself into the music, and Dane listened, wholly entranced. When the instrument was finally laid back in the boy's hands, it was almost hot to the touch. Ivan ruffled his hair fondly. "You have potential, boy," he said. Dane fairly glowed.
Lark, glistening with sweat, turned to her brother, beaming. The look on his face caused the smile to fade. She brought them over to a side table, drank deeply of the mug of water there. "What is, brother?" she asked.
"Is time for me to go. Jena…."
She nodded. "I remember. She is impossible pregnant. Go, keep her happy."
They embraced, kissed each other's cheeks. He paused to say a few Romany words to Ivaska which Lark did not hear, and left. She watched him go with a heavier heart than she expected, wishing she could go with him, but at the same time glad she was not. Hate it here though she may, there was something here holding her back, something other than the wagon and her stubborn pride. Something she could not place. She made a small gesture which left everything in the hands of fate, and went back to work.
It was well after midnight when she finally strolled homeward, Ivaska tagging sleepily along beside her. Her pocket was heavy for once. There had been several adventurers freshly returned from questing with heavier pockets and thirsty palates and they spread their money freely. There was even a gemstone or two there. They would make nice earrings, she thought, fingering them through the cloth. She smiled. She was tired, in a very good way. It had been a long time since she had had a real gypsy violin played where she could go all out. She could not dance the same when she played for herself.
Ivaska began to growl. He stopped, staring down a side street. She stopped, tried to get him to come on, to ignore whatever it was, but a scream punctuated the night and the dog took off towards the sound. Growling herself, she activated the light pendant at her throat and ran after him, drawing her scimitar. Nightingale took flight, being careful to stay within her light as she ran.
She did not have to go far. Two large men were pursuing a young woman down the street. Another man, following her closely, stopped and turned, holding a rather ineffective short sword to try and cover her retreat. Lark dropped her bag beside her and reached into the pouch at her hip. Pulling out a bit of blue sand, she cast it in the direction of combat, chanting the activation words of the spell as she did so. The smaller of the two staggered back, blind and stunned as the sudden arch of lights pierced into his brain like a migraine. The other shrugged it off, changing his direction towards Lark and the very obvious area of light. Ivaska leapt at the staggering monster, reaching for its throat ferociously. The young man fighting it staggered back, unable to see anything but flashing lights.
As he neared Lark's field of clear vision, she noted quickly that these were no ordinary men. They were easily eight or nine feet tall, and had but a single eye in the middle of their fanged, hairy faces. Lark hesitated only a second, spinning under the descending club and bringing her scimitar up across his midriff as she slipped under his guard. The foul leather armor split at the seams, oozing fouler, purplish blood. As it turned to swing again, she cut into the back of its thigh and danced out of the way.
The third swing Lark felt barely miss her as she ducked in, swinging wildly, making contact but only just. She slashed upward, connecting finally with a vital, unprotected area and neatly severing the artery. She stepped aside, narrowly avoiding the spray of hot, black blood as the beast crumbled and fell. She turned to the other monster, desperately trying to get a hold of the dog attacking it, or at least ward it off. A huge fist made connection with Ivaska's side, but not with any real force. Ivaska took the chance to seize the throat and clung there, kicking and growling, trying to rip out a hunk of meat. Lark managed to hit the arm reaching for the dog, rendering it useless even as the blood running from its throat brought it to its knees. She brought her sword across the back of its neck, severing the spine. Ivaska hung on until the blood stopped flowing and he could no longer feel the heart beat through his jaws.
The young man continued to swing wildly, unable to see anything at all. Lark looked over at him, and realized that he must have been caught in the backlash of the spell. She called out to him in as soothing a voice as she could. "Is over. You can stop fighting..."
He did not react, but kept swinging, turning about protectively. Lark mustered herself up to her most commanding. "Put down blade, man!" she snapped. "Is dead!"
This time he heard her. He paused, aiming the blade in the direction of her voice. "Who are you? Where are you? Why can I not see?
"Put down your sword, my friend, before you hit me. Monsters are dead." Hesitantly, he obeyed. "I am Lark, a gypsy, and I cast spell on beasts. You got caught. Will wear off shortly. Never lasts long, only long enough. So sit, relax. I will stay with you until is clear."
He felt for the ground, satisfied that he was not sitting in a puddle, and knelt. She walked up to him, tilted his head back and looked into his eyes. She saw the bright spots of light still dancing there. "I am sorry," she said. "I did not think you would be hit, standing with your back to me. Never happened before."
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am... Lark, as said. Am gypsy dancer."
"Thank you," he sighed. "You saved our lives."
"Our?" she asked.
"Yes. Miranda..." he stopped, looked blindly about, beginning to panic. "Miranda!!" he yelled. He grabbed Lark's arm, "She does not know this city! She could get lost, get hurt, attacked...."
She disentangled herself. "Ivaska, go get girl. But be nice!" she added. The dog trotted off, following the faint scent of frightened woman. "He will bring her back. I will wait with you long enough for your eyes to see again, then I must go. I have worked all night and need to get back to my wagon."
There was a deep barking from just up the street. Then Ivaska returned, running, slowed just short of them and trotted over to sit at Lark's side.
"What is going on?" he asked, confused. "I can see a very large something next to you, and you not more than shadow...."
The girl was not far behind the dog, accompanied by four of the Night Watch. She pointed in shocked awe at the dead figures, then at Lark and her companion. Lark looked up. "You Miranda, yes?"
She dumbly nodded.
"Good, then he is yours. He will be able to see again in few minutes. Sorry, again." She waved at the night watch. "All yours, boys," and darted off down the street with the dog at her heels.
Behind her, she heard the Night Watch start to pursue, but the young man called them back. "No, she helped! She saved our lives! Let her be!"
Lark smiled, feeling quite satisfied with herself, in spite of her tiredness. Ivaska would need another bath, though. He was covered in blood.
She took a short cut to Tent Town.
As soon as home was in sight, Nightingale disappeared into his house. Lighting the lantern hanging from the other eave, she doused her pendant and turned to face the dog. Casting one last small cantrip, she called forth another small rain shower over the beast, rinsing away the blood still clinging to his body. He looked up at her with large, pathetic eyes, asking what he had done to deserve this, but did not try to escape. She kindly redirected a nearby breeze to swiftly dry him, then opened the door to the wagon. Stowing her stuff, she called him in, made him lay down on the floor by the bed. He flopped over, stretching out as best he could, making her step over him as she undressed and sank gratefully into the mattress. She was asleep almost immediately.
There was a sudden pounding on the wagon door. Lark jumped awake, snatching the scimitar from over her head. Ivaska began barking immediately, his deep booming voice painfully filling the small room. With a mental nudge she woke Nightingale, who peeked out of his house sleepily and stared down at the three men banging on her door. He gave a small chirp and crawled back into his nest. "'Same clothes'?" she replied, thoroughly confused. "What you mean 'same clothes'?" She saw a mental flash of uniformed men and understood: The watch. She groaned.
They renewed their banging, "Gypsy Lark! This is the City Watch! You are needed!"
"Darn it!" she swore. "I just got to sleep!"
Just out of spite, she focused on the outside of the door, gestured with her fingers and uttered a single word. Tiny blue sparks of light flew from her hands, through the door and began swarming the watchmen. She smiled with satisfaction at their resultant exclamations and shouts of "Get it off, get it off!!" She got up, threw on a skirt and a blouse, grabbed her scimitar again and opened the door ready for battle. The men were dancing about swatting at the lights as if they were a swarm of bees. She sighed, and, with a wave of her hand banished the lights, canceling the spell. "So sorry," she said. "Thought were disreputes."
The corporal straightened himself and his uniform, huffed, "We SAID we were the City Watch, madam!"
"Yeeeess, and, if I believed everyone who said that...." She answered, rolling her eyes. "What you want?" she snapped.
He made himself look his most officious. "We are sent to collect you. There is a matter of great import and it is believed you have the necessary skills." His tone of voice and the angle of his beaky nose gave her the distinct impression that he thought no such thing.
She cocked a fist on her hip. "And if I do not?" she asked.
"That is for the magistrate to decide. For now you must come with us."
She disappeared inside without a word, leaving him face to face with a very unhappy wolfhound. Inside, Lark pulled on her boots, threw on a vest and grabbed her pack from its hook. "I have got to move," she growled, taking down her violin. She opened her secret drawer, sliding on three gold bangles and only one or two rings. Her grandmother's emerald went straight to its place on the first finger of her right hand. She pulled her hair back with a comb and headed out the door, pausing only to grab her shawl from behind the door. Ivaska moved out of her way, never taking his eyes off the watchmen, nor stopped showing his teeth.
"Ivaska, out." He obediently got down from the wagon, seating himself between the men and her. The corporal backed up.
She tossed her pack to the corporal, who reacted just quickly enough to catch it. "Make useful," she said. "And careful, have delicate instrument inside." Growling, he handed the pack to the private behind him, who slung it over his shoulder.
Lark's hands now empty, she shook her bracelets up her arm and began weaving her locking spell. The rune lit up on the surface of the door and faded. Tossing her hair out of her face, she reached up and knocked on the bottom of the brightly painted birdhouse. There was an irate and sleepy chittering from within. She put her fists on her hips and glared at the swinging box. "And if they send by magic? How you 'catch up' then, sesket?" Silence. A grudging peep. "Lunasa! But you are lazy!!" She reached in and pulled the bird out of the box, complaining loudly, and stuffed him into her pocket.
She hopped off the wagon, folding up the steps and began to follow the watchmen. Ivaska started to trot along side but she stopped. "Ivaska, no. You stay." He looked up at her suddenly, cocking his head sideways, flopping one ear into the air. "No, you cannot come with me. You stay. These puffas have made too much of my leaving. I take you and I have no wagon when come home. Stay. Guard horses."
The two privates, glanced from each other to the neighborhood and the subtle stirrings taking place around them and looked a bit sheepish. The corporal showed no remorse whatsoever, just stood there, tapping his foot impatiently, with his arms crossed over his chest.
Sulking, Ivaska turned around and crawled under the wagon, groaning and growling to himself as he lay down.
Lacing up her vest, Lark once again began to follow the watchmen. "This," she warned the corporal as they walked, "had best be urgent."
By the time they had reached their destination, the mockingbird had woken himself up enough to climb out of her skirt pocket and up onto her shoulder, riding there in stubborn silence. "You think I like more than you?" she asked him, as he gave a sulking chirp.
Lark found herself being taken into the house of the Magistrate. She casually observed the opulence of the house as she was led into a sitting room. The place was virtually untouched by the ravages of the war outside. The private politely handed her pack back to her before bowing out of the room and leaving her there.
Lark was apparently not the only soul dragged out at this ungodly hour. Rue was there, dozing in a chair. A dwarf was leaning against the wall, grumbling about disturbed sleep, and a tall, handsome human in flashy clothes who did not seem the worse for the late hour. She leaned towards him, nodded in the direction of the door. "Don't see why they no send THEM out on missions in middle of night. 'Stead of wasting their time waking honest folk to do their jobs."
"Ah," he sighed, "but perhaps it is their job to wake honest folk? though surely you were not asleep at this early hour?" he inquired.
"Most certainly, though only just. Been dancing and playing since afternoon and need my beauty sleep."
He made a very flamboyant bow, "Keltree Danhaven at your humble service, my lady," he kissed her hand. "But allow me the liberty to say you most certainly have no need of beauty sleep."
She smiled, almost purred. "Bold young cock'rel, aren't you? I am Lark."
"I take it Lark is a bard?" he asked.
"I dance," she smiled, shrugging off the question. 'Dashing,' she thought, openly admiring his flashing blue eyes and ready smile and handsome face. 'A real charmer. A little too much so.'
Rue woke at the sound of voices, sat up. "Oh!" she exclaimed, sighting Lark. "My dear girl! How have you been?"
"Well enough, Rue, well enough. Could certainly have used more sleep though."
"Couldn't we all," she drawled, rising. She extended her hand to Keltree. "I am Sister Rue, daughter of Mysteries. And you are?"
Keltree bowed to her, introducing himself, as charming as he had been with Lark. 'Ladies man,' she thought. 'As suspected.'
Lark stood, looked around. "Who's the sullen one in the corner?" she asked.
"That is Rog Thrathrog," Keltree answered. "He's just upset that they pulled him out of a deep slumber over his ale in the tavern where I was entertaining."
"Entertaining?" she asked, beginning to get confused. "Is most odd."
"Oh, I am no minstrel by any means or stretch of the imagination. I am a thrill-seeker and story teller and would be dragon slayer. This is not my first summoning of this nature. Often I have been sent upon dangerous expeditions that the City Watch have neither the heart, nor the men to spare for. I, unlike their useless rumps, am expendable, but very tough to kill."
"Still," she mused. "Is rather odd...." Lark's train of thought was interrupted by the opening of the door and the sudden addition of another human. He glared over his shoulder at the departing watchmen. He turned to the group, tried to smile, tipped his hat to the two ladies, gazing long and admiringly at Lark's blouse line. She put her hands on her hips, "And you are?" she asked.
"Ebastion Shadowfalk," he replied.
"No, you are? What do you do?"
He looked confused. "Strong arm," he answered. "Sort of a mercenary. Why?"
He never got his answer as a servant came into the room. "His eminence will see you in his study. Follow me, please."
The dwarf peeled himself away from the wall, "Bout flamin' time," he snarled.
The servant led them down the hallway to another, equally elaborate room. There was a large desk and some shelves containing only a handful of books and interesting odds and ends. There were no other chairs in the room. The desk chair was occupied by a large, imposing man whom Lark did not recognize, but took, by the gold medallion of office, to be the Magistrate. Standing to the left of him were two young people, a man and a woman whom Lark instantly recognized. She stepped forward, blinking in surprise. "You? But?!"
The young man bowed to her. "Forgive me, my lady, for having you summoned, but after what you did with those monsters.... I asked for you specifically."
Keltree and Rog raised their eyebrows at that, glanced in surprise at Lark, reassessing her. Ebastion had not been paying attention, but was looking about the room in suspicion.
The Magistrate cleared his throat rudely. "Why don't I allow Merrick, and his sister Miranda, to explain why you are here," he said sarcastically.
Merrick gave a half bow in the Magistrate's direction. "Thank you, your excellency. I did not have time to ask you, before you flitted off this evening, to further aid us. I understood you desire not to involve yourself in the long questioning and clean up regarding the monsters which attacked my sister and I. It has been a long night for everyone and again, I apologize most sincerely for repaying your kindness by waking you at such an hour."
Lark smiled. "We are even then. Now, why for you drag me out of bed?"
He sighed, leaned back against the desk. "My sister and I are from Evandair, the small fishing town on the island across the bay. We escaped just a few days ago."
"Escaped?" asked Rue.
Miranda nodded. "Yes, escaped. We thought it was a sickness. ...We were… wrong," she breathed
"We are a small village, really," he continued. "Nothing like Portswain. When people began to behave strangely, we noticed quickly, but we did not think much of it. We thought, as my sister said, that it was an illness. No sooner an individual began behaving oddly, they would retire, lock themselves up in their homes and not come out for a long while. When they did, if they did, they were changed somehow. "
"They looked weak, sickly, as if they had long been ill," Miranda injected. "And they spoke little. But then, no one tried to engage them in conversations, for fear they were not yet well enough not to spread their ill."
"First it was only the odd bachelor, or old maid, or widow, people who lived alone. When whole families began to fall ill, we rightly feared we had a plague on our hands." He shook his head. "It was not until a few days ago that we discovered what nature of plague. I fear that it is too late, even now."
"What kind of plague?" Keltree asked.
"An undead one," Miranda whispered. She was trembling, staring off into the air as if she could see every speck of it, and feared what she saw moving within. Lark had seen such stares on seers, but knew this was not such a trance. Her voice was dry and brittle as she spoke, still whispering as if afraid to be heard. "I saw them, saw HIM. Up in the mountains. He was... Eridinne brought it down with her. His taint. She stays there now, near him, visits the village to bring him fresh victims. I saw her and Julien, on the bluff." She shuddered. "Julien was waiting for me. I was late. I guess Eridinne got tired of waiting for me, or she just saw him as alone and easy prey. It was like a bird caught by a snake's gaze. He let her... touch him... kiss him.... then followed her up the mountain to the caves. He was waiting there for her. ...I... I saw him.... drink from Julien... do something to him.... I fled, returned home. I was too afraid to sleep. I saw Julien the next morning and... he had changed. He was different. He... he had the plague." She drifted off, still whispering, but under her breath, unintelligible. Her brother wrapped his arms around her, set her down in a chair back in the shadows.
"You see, we have a serious problem. I did not believe her when she told me.... then Julien tried to get her alone, never saying much, as if I was not even there. She would not see him and it did not bother him as it should have. He is under that man's spell somehow. That Eridinne is involved in this somehow does not surprise me, she has dabbled in witchcraft for years, but this... this seems beyond her. The town is full of half zombies, and I am certain there is something worse somewhere. We cannot take on this mysterious man, but perhaps you can. You with your light and magic, and that flashing sword. Please! There is no telling how far this will spread."
"Or even if it will reach Portswain itself," the Magistrate interrupted. "If this is not a plot by the enemy to seal off our very port! And so you were sent for. Each of you has some reputation for this sort of ... freelancing," he added with some obvious distaste. "Sister Rue was sent by the Temple of Mystery to aid in the question of undead things. The rest of you are... well, what you are. I want this menace stopped on those shores. You will be compensated for your troubles."
"You speak as if we have no choice in this," Lark snapped.
"You would refuse to help the city out in its hour of need?" he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Lark felt him begging her for some excuse not to trust her, to accuse her of spying or worse.
"I will do this for you, Merrick. Because YOU asked it of me. Not for this fat man in his palatial jail," she snapped, defiant. She knew not to push too far, but she felt she had to get some of her own back. She did not like being bulled into things.
"I will go with you,” Merrick injected quickly, not giving the Magistrate time to react. “To show you the caves where Miranda thinks the source lives, this mysterious man of hers which I am not convinced is not a conjuration of Eridinne's." He turned to his sister, took her hands in his and knelt in front of her. "Miranda. You will stay here. I want you to go to the temple and stay there. They have already said they will take care of you. I will be back in a few days, and maybe by then this will be all over."
She stared into his eyes. "Promise?" she whispered.
He kissed her fingertips. "I promise."
"How will we get to Evandair?" Keltree asked the Magistrate. "We are under siege."
"There is a ship waiting for you at the docks. It will sneak you back into Evandair and return you here when the job has been completed."
"Ship? Forget it," snapped Rog and headed for the door. "Ain't goin' on no ship!"
Ebastion planted himself in front of the door. Rog tried to move him physically.
"What's wrong with a ship?" Ebastion asked.
"Ground don't stay still. Rog don't go where ground ain't still. Rog sinks like a stone."
Lark pulled out a bit of glowing quartz from her pack and held it out to the dwarf. "Here."
He paused for a moment, looked at the rock suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Take. As long as have this in pocket, and you believe you will not sink, then you will not sink."
He stared at the rock, glowing in her hand. He looked up at her pretty, sincere face and believed her, sort of. He pocketed the rock. "In my pocket," he repeated, making sure he had his instructions right.
"In pocket," she nodded.
He shouldered a mean looking warhammer. "Come on, let's get this over with," he growled, pushing Ebastion out of the way and marching out the door.
"Masterfully done," Keltree whispered.
Lark smiled. "Use number twenty-three for simple magic aura," she replied.
Another member of the Night Watch was assigned to escort them to their ship. They traveled swiftly, as if trying to get there before the dwarf could change his mind. The ship was waiting at the dock, a single sailor at the rail watching for them. He called out as he saw their bobbing lights approach. "Ho, there! You the island folk?"
"Aye," called the watchman. "And five adventurers to aid!"
"Come aboard! We're ready to get underway!!"
The watchman stepped aside and gestured for them to proceed on board. "Farewell, and good winds," he said, bowing in their direction. He gazed after them until the gangplank had been drawn up behind them, as if wishing all the while that it had been his lot to join them. Finally he turned and wandered back to his regular beat.
They found themselves face to face with the ship's captain. "Head on down below, folks, ladies. The bosun'll show yer's yer bunks. Keep down and keep lights to a minimum. I'm runnin' past pirate blockades an' I don't want 'em seein' me comin'." He gestured at the fiddle hanging from Lark's backpack. "And you, young lady, none of that playin', ye' hear? Sound travels farther'n light n' twice as clear. BOSUN!"
A small, withered man appeared at the summons, separating himself from the other sailors that had begun moving like ghosts across the surface of the ship, setting the sails. He nodded and gestured for the group to follow him down. The passage below was very narrow with steep stairs and opened into an equally narrow hallway. He gestured to a series of bunks at the rear of the ship, and two hammocks that stretched across the passage. "You can use these," he said, his voice low and coarse from years of salt air. "If there is an attack, the ladies stay here. You," he pointed at the men, "go up the stairs here and help with the fight. We take on water, go out here. There are small boats on the starboard side. Would suggest sleep now." With that, he pressed forward and disappeared up the back steps.
Lark tested the stuffing of the nearest bunk, turned her nose up at the musty straw and rushes. She stowed her belongings out of the way and climbed into one of the hammocks. Nightingale found himself a niche in the rafters and tucked himself in.
"My lady," Keltree began, "would you not be more comfortable in one of the bunks?"
"No," she replied shortly. "But thank you. Hammock is nice for sea travel. Do not feel motion of boat so badly."
Rog changed direction the instant he heard that and hauled himself into the other hammock. He swayed for a few moments, glaring over at Lark. Once the hammock stopped its initial rocking, and it settled into a more steady counter motion to the boat, he was able to relax a little. He was still uncertain about this whole boat business, but he checked to make sure his rock was still in his pocket and slowly went to sleep, certainly not willing to show his unease in front of the others.
Surprisingly, Lark woke well before anyone else. She yawned, stretched. Climbing out of the hammock, she silently tip-toed her way past the filled bunks and down to a hatch she remembered passing last night when they had come on board. Slipping down the ladder, she found herself in the tiny kitchen/mess hall. The cook was just finishing cleaning up after the crew's meal and getting ready his own. Lark sauntered over, leaned on the narrow counter that separated the kitchen from the small eating area. "Good morning!" she chirped.
"Mornin'?" he laughed. "Try noon, sweets."
"Noon?" she asked, distraught. "Is later than I ever sleep! Must be late nights at Magistrate's." She rubbed her eyes, her temples, then dragged her nails through her hair to pull it back.
"Must be," he muttered.
"Have coffee anyways?"
"Sure. Allus have coffee." He began rummaging through his stores looking for a cup. When he found one, he checked it against the lamp to see if it was clean, wiped it just to be sure, then filled it with steaming coffee. "'Ere ye go." He smiled at her. She noticed that he was missing some teeth, but politely took the cup.
She took a long draught from the mug, made a face. "Awugh! Nothing like foul coffee to wake a body, no?" She managed a smile.
"You don't like me coffee?" he asked.
"Don't like coffee. But tell you something, it wakes a body!" she chuckled. "Mmm, but something else smells good."
He moved over to the stove, turning over something she could not see in the pan there. "M'lunch. Allus save out a bit fer meself. 'F'n I didn't, I'd never get nuthin'!" He thought a moment, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Care fer sum?"
"Mmm, is tempting. What is?"
He shrugged, "Jus' sum salt fish an' journeycake. Nuthin' fancy."
"Maybe a little." He brought the pan over and gestured for her to take what she wanted. She looked at it for a minute. She was starved, but she was aware that this was the man's own meal he was offering her. She took a very small piece of each, about her usual supper portions.
"'Ey, that all yer gunna eat? Er ye jus' not partial to fish?"
She gave him her most disarming smile. "Have to watch figure," she said.
"Humph, sure lots men do 'nuffa that fer ya. Side's," he shrugged, leaning on the counter and stuffing his mouth with the journeycake, "wimmins need more meat on 'um."
She laughed, "Maybe big belly good for babies, not good for dancing. Dancing make for flat, tight tummy," she said, giving hers a good thump.
She spent a few amiable minutes with the cook, chatting about nothing in particular. It was quickly clear that the man did not get much in the way of company very often. He spent the crew's eating time feeding them, and survived himself on what he picked at while cooking or scrounged up after every one had left. She got up after he had finished eating and started finishing the cleanup. "Should be getting back," she mused. "Thank you for breakfast. And the company."
"Hold up," he said, reaching into a tin under the counter. He pulled out a biscuit and closed the tin. "Jus' don't tell Cap’n," he grinned, and went back to cleaning up, whistling.
When Keltree woke up, Lark was lying in her hammock sharing the last of her biscuit with her familiar. He sat up, careful not to hit his head on the upper bunk.
"Good morning," he crowed, stretching.
"Morning!" she answered. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough," he smiled. "You?"
"Yes. So, what do you think we are getting ourselves into?"
"Not certain really," he mused, absently rubbing the back of his neck. "Could be any manner of things magical. Could be an artifact this Eridinne has uncovered which has begun to corrupt the populace. It could be a necromancer creating his own version of undead. Hells, it could even be a vampire for all I know of such things. All I can be certain of is that this certainly sounds like a charm in effect."
The others began to stir, awakened by the conversation. There was a sharp thunk and an "OWW!" from behind Lark, as Ebastion cracked his head against the upper bunk.
"Low bridge there, lanky," Rog chuckled.
"And how did you sleep, Rog?" Lark asked.
"Enough," he grumbled, not willing to admit he had slept better than he had expected to. Lark noticed that he did not get out of his hammock though.
At that moment the ship lurched. Keltree grabbed a hold of the overhead beam to keep his balance. Merrick and Ebastion were thrown back into the bunks and Rue fell to the floor. Rog seized the edges of the hammock in a white knuckled grip, all the color leeched from his face.
The bosun appeared halfway down the stairs. "Yo, folks, we's in port and comin' about! Be plankin' up in half hour! Git'cher gear and git up here, but stay outta the way!"
Rog was the first one on deck, He fought his way out of the hammock, snatched up his stuff and charged after the bosun. Of course, reaching the upper deck, and seeing all the rolling water surrounding the ship, he instantly regretted his decision. He seated himself on a huge coil of rope and locked his eyes on the approaching dock, blocking everything else out.
Below decks, Lark and the others gathered their things at a more leisurely pace before coming up on board just as they reached the dock. There were only one other ship in the small port, a small fishing vessel.
"Where did all the ships go?" Merrick asked. "There used to be quite a fishing fleet here."
"We'll find out shortly," Keltree told him.
Nightingale perched himself cheerily on Lark's shoulder as they disembarked. Rog was the first one on the dock and did not stop walking until he reached the dry land just beyond that. He pulled the rock out of his pocket and held it out to Lark. "Thanks," he said.
She shook her head. "No, you keep. I do not need."
He shrugged, "Whatever," and stuffed it back into his pocket. Lark caught a glimpse of Keltree smiling knowingly at her. She returned the grin.
They looked about the deserted wharf, at the empty fisheries and barreling piers and warehouses. Beyond the docks the town rose haphazardly through a series of steppes, some clusters of houses and other buildings situated higher up the mountain than others, half disappearing in the mist and haze that enveloped the peak.
"So where to?" Rue asked.
Merrick pointed westward to a mountain rising visibly above the stepped town. "That way is the bluff and the caves."
Ebastion held up a finger. "All well and good, my friends, but... I would like to stop and gather some information first. It would behoove us to gather the local gossip. At such a place as...." he glanced around. "Ah! This conveniently located tavern!" he gestured to the building just to the left with a dingy sign swinging in the breeze that read the Dirty Griffin.
They looked at each other. Keltree shrugged. "Sounds like a good idea to me. And none of us have eaten yet."
Lark held her silence. Nightingale chirruped an energetic note at the mention of food. "Oh, you always hungry!" she laughed, as they turned towards the tavern.
It was early yet, so none of them expected a horde of people inside, but none of them expected what they did see. Nobody. There were no customers at all. The place was as deserted as the wharf.
Merrick looked around in shock, touched a sticky place on the bar with disbelief. "Things are worse," he breathed. "Jinga would never let anything dry on his bar. He spent hours a day polishing it. He must have fallen to the 'illness'. I tell you, even sick, that man... This is not normal."
Rue set her bag on the table and reached into it. She handed each person a bottle.
"What is this?" Ebastion asked, holding it up to the light.
"Holy water," she answered. "I was given a small supply before they ushered me off with the Night Watch. I can make more if I have to, but it takes time we may not have. So, use this sparingly, and only when you think it will do any good."
She shouldered her pack and headed outside again.
The afternoon was heavily overcast, but with no rain or threat of rain, just the heavy, oppressive grey mass of clouds. The streets were deserted, not even a watchmen on patrol. They walked across the city unchallenged.
"Do not undead have problem with daylight?" Lark asked as they passed into what was obviously the road to the higher steps.
Keltree looked up at the sky. "Usually," he mused. "But I do not know with the overcast, my lady."
"Just as well," she sighed. "This place is dead. Where should we search first?"
"Eridinne's may be a good place. I will take you there. Perhaps there will be notes or a journal if we are lucky. Letters...," Merrick suggested, and led them upward, towards the high steppes and the mountain. "An explanation...."
The way grew misty. The fog drifted downward to fill the town. Visibility was low, casting an eerie glow on everything. The higher they went up the streets, the heavier the blanket became.
"We must be getting close," Keltree commented. "Most assuredly, there is something up this way he does not wish us to see. Be careful and stay close."
They walked closer together, blades at the ready. Shadows and figures spun through the cold fog just out of clear view or reach; tricks of light and shadow amid the swirling mist. More than once one of the fighters swung at something they thought they saw, and more than once it turned out to be a tree or a lamppost or nothing at all. The road sloped steadily upwards, sometimes it was deceptively flat, but always upward. Even Nightingale had begun to feel the oppression and stopped his singing, clinging tightly to Lark's shoulder.
At last, the yellowed corner of a house loomed in the fog to their right. "I think this is it," Merrick whispered. "I'm pretty sure this is Eridinne's"
Keltree sized up what he could see of the house. "Mighty big for a woman alone," he mused.
"She inherited it a couple of years ago. How she keeps it up, I don't know."
They cautiously spread out, examining the outside of the residence, looking for signs of life within.
"Now remember we want answers from her," Rue warned, looking pointedly at Ebastion and Rog. "So don't attack her out of hand, and for The Maiden's sake, don't kill her!"
"Can we at least beat her senseless?" Rog grumbled.
Rue sighed, "Only if she attacks you!"
Lark leaned up against a rear wall, peering into the window. It looked into a sitting room of some kind, with papers and books and scrolls covering every available surface. Inside were two people, a pale, golden woman and a man with long, dark brown hair who sat in a large, comfortable chair. They were speaking to each other and Lark focused on the woman's lips to read what she was saying.
"And then I shall be Queen here, yes?"
There was a moment as she listened to his reply.
"Oh, no," she continued. "I would not want more. I shall be content with my little island, so long as you are not too far away." She held out her hands to him, drawing him from the chair into her embrace. Lark thought it odd that she did not kiss him, but, instead, tilted her head to nestle it against his shoulder. He turned her into the light of the pale lamp, and Lark stared in fascination as he bared her long white neck and sank a kiss there.
Just as she was going to turn and whisper to the others, his eyes met hers and she was unable to look away. Indeed, they were incredibly handsome eyes set in the most compellingly expressive face. He had to be the most attractive man she had ever seen, and she found she could not resist the minute gesture of invitation he made to her as he looked up and smiled.
Without another thought, Lark dropped her patchwork bag and walked around to the nearest door. Nightingale, confused by her behavior, refused to follow and settled on the window sill watching inside, as entranced as his mistress.
Rue saw the bird and the abandoned bag and picked it up, looking around for Lark, peeking in the window for a brief moment. They all heard the door open and close.
The front door was separated from the sitting room by a very short hallway. Lark paused in the open door, hesitating. The man was seated again in the chair, waiting for her, his long brown hair draped over one shoulder. The woman stood behind the chair, leaning on its back with her arms folded, but Lark did not acknowledge her. The man consumed her thoughts and attention. He beckoned. "Come, come, my dear. We must wait for your friends." She came readily, gliding across the floor to sit at his feet.
He reached out, fingering her hair, tracing one delicate eyebrow with a long ivory finger. The smell of him was intoxicating. "Quite the exotic, isn't she?" he asked the woman.
She purred. "Mmmm, yes. Would you like to keep her, my lord? As a pet? Or a bride, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," he mused thoughtfully, considering it. "But her friends are here. Perhaps we should deal with them first?"
Keltree filled the doorway, took in the occupants of the room and the patiently smiling man waiting with steepled fingers, and stepped aside, allowing the others entry.
The man's smile broadened. "I was wondering when you would come. Where is your lovely sister, young man? Julien has been asking for her."
Merrick snarled something unintelligible and tried to lunge for him, but Keltree held him back.
"We have come from the mainland," Keltree intoned. "And I am afraid we are going to have to ask you to leave."
"Why should I? I was, after all, invited."
"The witch does not speak for the whole town!" Merrick shouted, straining against Keltree's arm. Rue pulled him back.
"Be that as it may, " Keltree continued, "I am afraid we are going to have to ask you to release the unnatural hold you have on this town."
"And I am equally afraid that I cannot do that. I need them, you see." He reached up and patted Eridinne's hand fondly. "And I have a promise to keep."
"Then we will have to use force. I was hoping to avoid...."
The man laughed. "Oh really? I am so sorry, but I believe the army of Portswain is... otherwise occupied at the moment," he said with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes.
"And what might you know of that?" Rog growled, forcing himself to be patient.
"Plenty. Enough," he shrugged. "But none of that matters, does it, my dear?" he purred, stroking Lark's hair tenderly with a taloned hand. "My exotic flower."
"Lark, come over here, please," Keltree said firmly.
Lark glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes slightly glassy and dreamy. She laid her head on the man's knee, watching Keltree and the others suspiciously.
Rue began to put two and two together with what little she knew of vampires and the undead. She sidled further out of the man's view, behind the men and closed her eyes. She prayed silently, making minute motions with her hands, begging her goddess to uncloud Lark's mind and remove the spell that had obviously been placed on her.
"You hear that, my beautiful? He wants to take you away from me. You do not want that, now, do you?"
He reached out to touch her cheek tenderly. Rue's prayer began to have an effect. For a moment, Lark felt a driving need for that approaching caress, that loving reassurance. The next second, it felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach with a battering ram. She felt something cold and evil nearing her face and focused suddenly on the pale, twisted talon coming towards her and threw herself backwards. She scrambled quickly behind Keltree, getting to her feet.
The man sat there, startled for a moment by her unexpected reaction. Then he leaned back in the chair, laughing ironically. "Ah," he sighed, "that is one. But she will be mine again soon enough. You, too, Priestess," he purred. "As for the rest of you, I think I shall give you to Eridinne, once you are docile enough. For cattle."
Rog snorted rudely at the suggestion.
Hiding behind the tall human, with Rue checking her over briefly, Lark began piecing things together on her own. Namely, the embrace she had witnessed through the window, the thin line of blood on Eridinne's throat, the fog, the strange plague-like affliction, the faint reek of death that now filled the room all spoke of a creature her Gruma once told of around the family campfire. The Vampire.
"I think you will find us more than up to the task of removing you, Mr. ....?" Keltree questioned, trying to buy a moment's time to think how best to make a successful attack. The man was obviously powerful.
"My Lord will do nicely," he responded.
"Eat pig poop, pasty face," Rog snarled, tightening his grip on his weapon as he noticed Lark reaching into Keltree's back pack for something. He figure out quickly what she was reaching for and waited.
Keltree felt the hands in his pack and just kept talking, trusting Rue to do whatever it was priests did against the unholy. "And just what vested interest have you in this, Miss?" he asked Eridinne.
"A crown," she purred, giving him a hungry, appraising look even as she reached down to rest her hand on the vampire's shoulder. "I still have no consort. Care to volunteer, handsome?"
"No, thank you. I prefer more even relationships...."
A bottle sailed over Keltree's head. He had just enough time to register it as one of the holy waters before it exploded just above the chair, showering its occupants with a spray of water. Steam rose up from the man’s clothes and face where the water struck. He screamed with rage and pain, Eridinne more from fright.
Everything happened at once. Keltree, Ebastion, Merrick and Rog leapt for the man, weapons sailing violently downward. Rue began chanting, channeling energy into her body and focusing it through her medallion of faith. The vampire seized Eridinne's hand and the pair of them vanished into thin air. The weapons struck the leather upholstery uselessly.
Lark spun, pulling her scimitar, fully expecting the pair to materialize behind them, but no one was there. No one appeared. After a few minutes it was confirmed that they were indeed gone, perhaps to his cavern retreat, and they relaxed just a bit. Rue passed Lark her belongings and they began to sift through the mountains of papers in the room, looking for anything incriminating.
Rog plopped himself into the recently vacated chair and began cleaning his fingernails with a knife.
"Aren't you going to help?" Ebastion asked him.
"Nope," he replied without looking up.
"Why not?" Merrick asked.
"Can't read," he replied. "Not what you call writing anyway." He saw a book on the arm table he was using for a foot stool and grabbed it. "THIS," he said, holding it up, "THIS is writing." He grabbed a piece of paper that lay half under it, glanced over it, held it up, too. "This AIN'T. This is chicken scratch!" He folded the paper neatly up and sailed it into Ebastion's face. He then began to flip through the book.
Ebastion snatched the paper out of the air and started to throw it aside, intending some violence to the dwarf, stopped to pull a feather out of his mouth and looked down at the parchment in his fist. There were hundreds of little folds in the paper and other fragments of down, telltale signs of delivered via messenger bird. He unwadded it and read it aloud.
"To our dearest ally and faithful friend, E.R."
Everyone, even Rog, stopped to listen.
"Go on," Rue prompted when he failed to continue immediately.
"We are in whole hearted agreement on the matter of the City of Portswain and feel that it could be put to far better use in our expert hands. Your aid and that of your island ally will indeed go far towards our eventual conquest of the port city and we agree to grant you total dominance over that small province in exchange for freeing our ships for more important things than blockade duty. To this end we will be sending you four cannon by the end of the week to be mounted on the east-west edges of the island to prevent the entrance or exit of ships from the Portswain harbor, effectively cutting them off from the sea. Again, you have our heartfelt congratulations on your little coup, as most such are rarely as complete and total as yours. Looking forward to crowning you myself at the completion of this little inconvenience. Sincerely, R.N."
"Oh My Goddess!" Rue gasped, covering her gaping mouth in horror.
"Jackpot!" Rog grunted.
"I'll say," Keltree said, coming around to collect the letter from Ebastion and tucking it safely into his shirt.
"No, no, no, no, not that stupid thing," Rog growled. "This here!" he waved the book. "It's about summoning things.... undead things.... and the control thereof."
"I thought you could not read," Merrick asked, glancing at the gold lettered spine of the book. "I most certainly can't read that."
"That's because its in an ancient script that we dwarves still use as a common tongue, you ninny!" He snatched the book back. "Some of the more magical texts were written in Rune and this here's one of them. It says here all we need to know about our charming undead friend."
"How can you be sure?" Lark asked.
He smiled at her. "Because, dear lady," he held the book up so she could see the pages inside, pointing to a section, "she was so kind as to dog-ear and underline."
She leaned on the arm of the chair behind him, reading over his shoulder. She could not read it as well as he could, but she recognized some of the characters as the Runes from which her true magic sprang. He skimmed through it quickly, then tucked a long leather strip into place on the page and popped it into his pack. He scrambled out of the chair.
"Well, aren't you going to tell us what it says?" Ebastion snapped.
Rog sighed, turned. "It said that a priest, which would be you, darlin'," he said, giving Rue a gentle poke in the ribs, eliciting a startled giggle from her, "can hold him to his place with the power of faith, and a single word. His name. Which, conveniently is contained herein," he added, patting his pack, "as the witch needed his name to summon him. Enabling us to destroy him. But we have to find him first. Shall we go?" he asked with a sweeping, bowed gesture towards the door.
They filed out, still clinging tightly to weapons and ready now for anything. The fog had gotten heavier since they had been inside, and if it had not been for the mystic link between Lark and the mockingbird, Nightingale would never have made it back to her shoulder. As it was, he scrambled in under the shelter of her hair and tucked himself up to keep out the growing chill.
Merrick guided them steadily upward and no one argued that most likely the best place of catching the vampire was up in the caves where he currently resided.
The fog spun in an about them, making it hard to see one another, even from only a few feet away. Lark began to hear a whispering echoing out of the mist. It was very faint at first, so faint she did not notice it. But it grew steadily as the fog thickened, the voices reminding her of the feathers of barn swallows in the rafters, or owls winging through the night. She heard something, a definite direction to the voices. She turned to look and in that instant lost sight of the others. She stilled the sudden rise of panic, and concentrated, trusting her innate sense of direction to tell her which way they had been going. She did not think to call out. She was still on the road, of that she was certain, and it was only a matter of finding its edges to tell her which way the road ran. She began to walk forward, in the direction she was suddenly certain was right. Within moments a large structure loomed ahead of her, a barn with a wide open door. She saw a flicker of movement within, a flash of dull purple which might have been Rue's robes. The voices grew louder as she approached.
She entered the barn, calling softly, "Rue? Keltree? ... Rog?" There was no answer. None of the others were there. The barn seemed empty save for a pale, flickering light in the back of a stall near the rear of the building. She cautiously approached, hearing the voices very clearly now in her head, whispering seductive phrases and meaningless endearments. She stopped fifteen feet from the stall door, staring into the well shadowed light and tried desperately to see who it was, or what. She began to make out a man's figure, and slowly realized that the light was not a light, but his eyes, glowing softly in the darkness, beckoning to her. She felt the draw like a physical chain, trying to pull her into the stall, into the deathly embrace. She balked.
Nightingale shrilled a warning seconds too late, flying up into the rafters as the hands grabbed Lark from behind. One, thick, callused hand covered her nose and mouth, preventing her from screaming and inhibiting her breathing. The other came around her waist and lifted her off the ground, physically carrying her closer towards the stall and the man that awaited her within. She dropped her bag and sword and fought back, kicking and struggling desperately, but the man was incredibly strong and his grip was beyond her ability to break. As he neared the stall door, she kicked against the framework of it, forcing her captor to stagger back to regain his balance, which was not easily maintained while holding on to her writhing body.
Nightingale began to shriek at the top of his tiny lungs, mangling the wolf whistle signal until it was barely recognizable, and deliberately setting the roosting pigeons flying out of the barn in a panic.
Lark began to suffer from lack of breath. Her lungs were burning even as she tried to catch the hand with her teeth to make him let go, but he was expecting that and pressed harder against her face, partially cupping her chin to keep her jaw tightly closed. Her head was beginning to spin as the glowing eyes came closer and closer.
Suddenly he let go of her and she fell reeling forward into the stall. She looked up at him, grinning through the scars on his face that were fading even as she watched. She scrambled back, seizing a nearby pitchfork and hurled it at him. It struck the back of the stall, shattering a dimly lit lamp hanging there. But he was already gone. The straw ignited where the lamp fell and blazed up, spreading quickly. Laughter filled the air, cold and deep, coming from no where and everywhere at once.
Lark turned, saw the man who had grabbed her lying unconscious on the floor at Keltree's feet. Ebastion and Merrick were right behind him, with Rog and Rue just coming through the door. She just stared, trying to catch her breath. Suddenly Keltree's eyes widened and he lunged for her. She flinched just as his body impacted with hers, throwing both of them into a nearby haystack just as a jet of flame spewed out of the stall where Lark had just been standing. The clothes of the man lying on the floor caught fire and he was quickly crisped to a cinder as a wall of flame separated the pair from the others, blocking off the door. The laughing continued, fading out slowly.
"LARK! KELTREE!" shouted Ebastion and Rog over the flames.
Rue screamed as a beam fell, collapsing the hayloft over the stalls.
"We're all right! Get out!! We'll make a back door!!" Keltree shouted, pulling Lark to her feet and towards the back of the barn, praying fervently for a second door.
Rog hesitated, unwilling to leave them at the mercy of the fire. Ebastion snatched up the bright, patchwork bag lying in the floor near the fire, but not burning yet and grabbed Rog's sleeve, trying to keep him from doing something heroically stupid like charging through the flames. "He'll get them out!!" he yelled over the roar of the fire and the screaming of the wood.
Rog, hesitated another moment, then reached into the edge of the wall and snatched out the scimitar she had dropped. It was hot, but he maintained his grip on it as he followed the human out of the barn.
Keltree and Lark found themselves against a solid wall under the overhang of the loft. There was no other obvious exit, and part of the loft collapsed behind them, trapping them there as if by design. He glanced up at the flames dancing across the wood above their heads, eating its way through, then looked down at Lark. "I am sorry, girl. Truly."
In her mind she heard the whispering beginning again. 'Come to me and I will save you. Give in to me and the fire will not touch you....’
"NO!" she snarled. She turned to the wall, desperate and determined enough to try something she had never tried before. She began to summon up the magic within her, chanting softly to herself and drew the rune of opening on the face of the wall. She had always used it to lock things, to seal her door to prevent theft. She had never reversed it before, not to open something where there was no opening. The rune flared to life on the ancient surface, shrinking the boards, causing them to groan and pop. The whispering became louder, unintelligible, fierce and angry. The fire burned madly at the loft supports, behaving like a living thing trying to stop them before they could escape. Keltree saw the change in the wall's integrity and threw his weight against it, battering it with his shoulder. Lark concentrated, in spite of the whispering attempt to disrupt her thoughts. She pulled at the wood, willing the boards to separate and collapse. With a final, desperate kick, the wall caved in and Keltree grabbed her, pulling her through just as the loft fell and forced a wave of heat and flames out through the narrow opening.
Lark's silk skirt caught fire and Keltree quickly helped her to beat it out with his gloved hands. He then pulled her further away from the barn as it groaned, moaned and finally collapsed. Lark turned, watched in horror as it sank, still ablaze, into itself.
"Nightingale!" she choked, tried desperately to sense her familiar.
A voice suddenly came out of the fog nearby. "See, I told you they got out all right!" Rue called over her shoulder as she appeared within view. Nightingale flew from her shoulder to Lark's, chattering his frantic concern.
Lark stroked the dull gray and white breast to calm him, slowly succeeding. The others materialized quickly out of the fog like rising ghosts. Keltree got to his feet, pulled Lark to hers.
"Are you both physically sound?" Rue asked, giving them both a quick appraisal.
"Yes," Keltree looked at Lark to confirm his statement even as he made it. "Other than a little too much smoke in the lungs and a bit of singeing, I think we are well enough."
"Good."
Ebastion handed Lark her bag. She took it with a sigh. "Is beginning to become habit." She checked its contents briefly, satisfied herself that the violin had not suffered too much damage. She looked up as Rog cleared his throat. He held her scimitar out to her by its hilt, his hand wrapped in a strip of linen and smelled oddly of herbal ointments. "Thank you," she said, taking the weapon. "What... did you do?" she asked, pointing hesitantly to the bandage.
Rog shrugged, "Weapon was hotter than I expected. 't's all right." He turned away, uncomfortable. "Shall we stay closer together now?"
Lark rose, made sure her pack was secure on her back and hefted the scimitar. "I, for one, am ready to end this."
continued.....
|
|
Main Category: 
Previous...
Cyala Rhynestone
