Read The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper Online

Authors: Mel Odom

The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper (36 page)

BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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“About the curse?” Wick asked. He spooned up oatmeal, grateful for the simple meal. Rankle had also put out a loaf of bread and chokeberry jelly. The bread tasted fresh and the jelly had a sugary tang.
“The curse Wizard Hardak put on him,” Rankle said.
“The one that turned me into a donkey,” Dawdal said. “I told Rankle about how my father, the king, had put you in charge of finding me.”
“On account of no one would suspect a halfer,” Rankle said. He leveled a forefinger at Wick and grinned. “Clever plan, that one.”
“Right,” Wick said. “Clever.” But he was wondering where the donkey got his
imagination. During the days they'd shared together earlier, the creature had shown no sign of intelligence.
“I also told him about the treasure,” the donkey said.
“You told him about the treasure?” Wick asked.
The donkey nodded solemnly. “I told him we were trying to find it because it had a cure for the curse that keeps me a donkey. I also promised Rankle a portion of it for sparing my life.” He paused and looked at the renderer with sorrowful eyes. “It was the least I could do for his generosity.”
“Yes,” Wick agreed. “It was.”
 
 
Only a short time later, once more fortified with supplies, Wick set out with the donkey and the cat. Rankle stood on his uneven porch, waved at them, and wished them well.
“Remember your promise, Prince Dawdal,” Rankle called after them.
“I will,” the donkey replied. Then he swiveled to face forward again and muttered, “When pigs fly.”
Given what he'd seen the last two days with talking animals, Wick wasn't so certain that he wouldn't see that before his journeys were over.
“You're not really a prince, are you?” Wick asked.
The donkey looked at him. “What do you think?”
Wick gave the question serious thought. At the moment he wasn't getting to ride the donkey and was being forced to lead him. Perhaps appealing to the donkey's ego would get him up out of the snow.
“I think you are,” Wick answered.
“Idiot,” the cat snarled.
The donkey brayed with laughter. “You're not riding me. Those days are over.”
As he trudged through the snow, Wick missed those days. Why couldn't Craugh have arranged for someone who would actually
help
him? Only the thought of tracking down Boneslicer for Bulokk drove him on. That and the certain knowledge that toads couldn't turn pages in a book or write with a quill and ink without a great deal of difficulty.
They headed into the mountains, once more taking up the trail.
 
 
Near nightfall, they reached one of the small outlying villages on the way down the mountains to Wharf Rat's Warren. No more than a dozen small structures jammed together with fifty or so houses scattered behind them, the village framed the road as it twisted to the east.
Candlelight burned soft yellow against a few windows. Only a few people were about on the street. They gazed curiously at the small group that wandered into their town.
Wick felt uncomfortable under the weight of the stares. During the last few hours of breaking through the new-fallen snow and staring through the flakes that continued to fall, he'd thought of nothing but the three magical weapons that had
been at the Battle of Fell's Keep. He couldn't help wondering why Captain Gujhar was looking for them. Of course, the captain was working for someone else, but he'd purposefully not mentioned his employer.
What was it about the three weapons, though?
Wick wondered.
Why were they so important after a thousand years?
Nothing in anything he'd read offered a hint of that. In fact, he didn't know why Craugh had come to Greydawn Moors and been so interested. Though looking back on the situation, neither Craugh nor Cap'n Farok was the type to just go searching for the truth of a battle that took place during the Cataclysm on a whim.
So what weren't they telling him? The thought rolled uncertainly in Wick's mind. He didn't like thinking like that, but the truth of it stared him in the face. But even as he felt anger over being used, he knew that Cap'n Farok—and probably Craugh—wouldn't have gambled his life without good reason.
That could only mean that the danger he was walking into was even greater than he feared. Wick almost felt sick with anxiety, but curiosity drove him as well.
He stumbled tiredly down the street, knowing he had to have someplace to rest. Thankfully, there'd been no sign of pursuit from either the goblinkin or the Razor's Kiss.
A man with a sword stood on a porch in front of a tavern. “Greetings, stranger.”
“Greetings,” Wick said, bringing the donkey to a stop. Alysta popped her head out of the pack of supplies she'd been riding in. Wick hadn't seen her for hours and guessed that she'd been sleeping.
“What brings you to our village?”
Wick wondered if the place even had a name. Some of them were so small they didn't.
“I'm just passing through,” Wick answered. “But I'd like a night's lodging if I could.”
The man shook his head. “We don't have lodging here. Even this tavern's just for drinking and eating. Most that travel this road never stop here.” He looked around. “There's a few who take in lodgers.” Stepping out into the snow-covered street, he pointed out the houses. “Give 'em a try. Tell 'em Enil sent you.”
“I will,” Wick replied. “Thank you.” He moved through the street, leaning into the harsh wind and the swirling snow.
The first two houses didn't even answer his knocks. The third offered lodging, but apologized, saying there was no room for the animals.
Back out in the street, Wick spotted another building that held a leather harness and an apron, advertising the shopkeeper was a leatherworker. Without a written language, shops did the best that they could to advertise what they were.
The detail on the apron, made large enough to nearly cover the expanse of leather, caught his eye. It was a rose caught in the thorny embrace of a vine. He remembered exactly where he had seen such a design: on the leather bag Quarrel had carried.
The leatherworker's shop had been one of the places the man at the tavern had pointed out.
Drawn by his curiosity, Wick went to the shop and rapped on the door. He felt encouraged because a lot of light came from inside.
A man in his middle years opened the door. “Yes?” He was lean and composed, dressed in a leather apron and a dark shirt and trousers. His face was hollow and tired.
“Enil said you might have a bed for the night,” Wick said. “I can pay.”
The man looked at the donkey and at the cat, who had her head poked up through the supply bag. “For the animals as well?”
“Please.”
The leatherworker suggested a price that was fair and Wick agreed. The man said, “There's a small shed in the back. The donkey can stay there. The cat can come inside.”
“Thank you,” Wick said.
“I'll show you.” The man pulled on a heavy coat. “I'm Karbor, by the way.”
Wick introduced himself, again claiming to be a glassblower. Together, they took the donkey around back to the small shed and saw to his needs, then returned to the house next to the modest shop.
The Leather-Maker's Tale
I
nside the house, Wick helped Karbor in the kitchen, setting out dishes for a small but scrumptious repast.
“I apologize for the meagerness of the meal,” Karbor said. “I've not had company for a while, and I've been somewhat distracted of late.”
“The meal looks good,” Wick replied. “It's been days since I've eaten this well.” He hadn't gotten to eat in the Tavern of Schemes, and there'd been no decent meal since he'd left
One-Eyed Peggie
. The renderer's oatmeal had been just enough to keep his stomach from meeting his backbone.
Dishes held venison, sweet potatoes, fresh-baked sourdough bread, and a canned vegetable medley with a pepper seasoning particular to the south.
“One of my affordable vices,” Karbor grinned as he poured the glass jar of vegetables into a small kettle to heat in the fireplace. “I do like exotic flavors. Up here, usually it's potatoes or other root crops, things that the farmers can get this cold earth to give up in ready numbers. I have to warn you, though, if you're not used to peppers, they can burn.”
“I love peppers,” Wick assured him. The fragrance of the peppers opened his nose and made his stomach rumble.
“Then you've been beyond Wharf Rat's Warren.” Karbor put out a dish of honey butter.
“Several times,” Wick agreed.
In minutes, everything had been heated and they set to at the small table. Wick ate with more than his usual appetite,
devouring sourdough bread, cheese, venison, vegetables (which were even hotter than he expected), and sweet potatoes.
“You eat bigger than you look,” Karbor observed. He dangled a piece of venison out for Alysta, who took it with proper disdain.
Embarrassed, Wick apologized. “I'll pay extra. I hadn't meant to. But, as I said, it's been a long time since I sat down to a meal like this.”
Karbor waved the offer away. “It was just conversation. These are the winter months up here, and I'm not used to having company. During this time, I generally do a few commissioned pieces and put back others for sale in the spring when the traders start their regular trips back and forth across the mountain.”
Curious as always, Wick talked to Karbor about the goings-on of the community. It was hard acting like he was knowledgeable about the area while at the same time trying to get an idea of what might have drawn the Razor's Kiss up into the mountains.
To cover his inadequacies, and because he didn't like silence at the dinner table without a book in his hand, Wick summoned up some of the old legends he knew about the northlands and spun them out in great detail. Most of them were about cursed pirates, shipwrecks bearing lost fortunes, and monsters that tore men to pieces high in the mountains. And a dragon or two. Dragons always made for some of the best stories.
“Are you sure you're a glassblower?” Karbor asked during a break while they retired to the fireplace to smoke their pipes.
“What do you mean?” Wick asked, at once worried that he'd somehow given himself away.
“You could be a storyteller.” Karbor puffed on his pipe and stared into the flames. “You have a knack for weaving a tale.”
“Thank you,” Wick said. “You're too kind.”
“No,” Karbor said. “I know a good taleweaver when I hear one, and you're better than any I've ever heard.” He puffed for a moment. “I only wish that my daughter were here to hear you. She always loved a good story.”
“You have a daughter?”
“
Had
,” Karbor said quietly. “I lost her.”
“I'm sorry for your loss.”
“It was only a few months ago. She wasn't my daughter by blood, but I raised her from the time she was eleven years old. She's seventeen now. Her name was Rose.” Karbor took down a piece of leather from over the fireplace. “She was gifted in leatherwork, though it wasn't her calling. She crafted the design I've been using for the last few years.” He tapped the rose wreathed in the thorny vine. Smiling at the memory, he traced the imprint. “She did this as a lark. I chose to use it to mark our work. Not many do that, you know. Because the goblinkin see such a mark as writing.”
“I know,” Wick said.
“She was a precious child,” Karbor said as he put the leather piece back on the mantle. “But sad. I never could get her past the melancholy that plagued her as a child.”
“Why was she sad?” Wick asked, before he realized that he might be prying. He couldn't bear to leave a tale untold.
Karbor packed his pipe and got it going again. “Her parents, my good friends in younger and more profitable years, were killed by goblinkin. Rose barely got away. When I found out what had happened, I went down the Shattered Coast to see to her. She had no other family, so I brought her back here to live with me.”
“The goblinkin overran her village?” Wick asked. That wasn't an unusual tale. Goblinkin ferocity had been building across the mainland as the tribes turned outward to work out their aggressions instead of fighting with each other as they had in the past.
“No.” Karbor's voice was soft. “As it turned out, the goblinkin were searching for her family.”
“Why?”
“Because they are the present descendants of Captain Dulaun, the hero of—”
“The Battle of Fell's Keep during the Cataclysm,” Wick said. Although the large meal had made him sleepy, he was once more awake.
Karbor glanced at him with concern.
“I collect tales,” Wick said. “The Battle of Fell's Keep is one that remains on everyone's mind.”
“It does.” Karbor nodded. “Many people—humans and elves—distrust the dwarves due to Master Blacksmith Oskarr's betrayal of those brave defenders.”
Master Oskarr didn't betray anyone!
Wick curbed his response with difficulty. “Your daughter was Captain Dulaun's descendant?”
Karbor nodded. “She was. On her mother's side. I didn't know it at the time. Rose told me that later. Her ancestor wielded the sword Seaspray in a thousand battles, and he lost his life there at the Battle of Fell's Keep.”
“And the sword fell into goblinkin hands,” Wick said, remembering.
“Yes, and during the last thousand years, it was lost in time. No one knew where it was. But there was someone who believed he knew.” Karbor puffed on his pipe. “In fact, he felt certain Seaspray was somewhere in this area.”
Wick's heart quickened. “In Wharf Rat's Warren?”
“No, but somewhere nearby.” Karbor waved to the north. “A dozen empires and kingdoms have risen and fallen in the mountains. One of them, I don't know which, was supposed to have found Seaspray.”
“Was the sword found?”
Karbor shrugged. “I don't know.” He sounded tired and old.
Wick felt sorry for the man then. Karbor was in the winter of his years, alone and without family. No one should have to die like that, he thought. Then Wick realized that he had a chance of doing exactly that while on the task Craugh had set for him.
Unless, of course, he was able to learn enough to save himself.
“They came here to find my daughter,” Karbor said.
“Who came here?” Wick asked, fighting the fatigue that filled him.
“The goblinkin. Under the direction of a despicable man named Gujhar.”
Karbor scowled. “I was next door. In the shop where the hides are cured. I heard the sounds of a fight and ran outside. By that time the goblinkin already had Rose.” Tears showed in his eyes and his hand trembled as he held his pipe. “She fought them. With tooth and nail, she fought them. I swear, you've never seen a girl who could fight so well. Her mother was a warrior, trained in swordcraft and hand-to-hand arts. A child was chosen in each generation to train so.”
“Why?”
“In the event that Seaspray was recovered.”
“Who trained your daughter?”
“Her mother, for a time. But even here she felt the need for more training. There's man in the village, a blind man who was once part of a king's bodyguard, that trained Rose in hand-to-hand techniques. And not far from here, I know another man who was once a sellsword. I bartered for lessons for her because she wanted so badly to learn.”
“You don't know what happened to her?”
Karbor shook his head. “I went down to Wharf Rat's Warren and tried to spy on the goblinkin ship. I nearly got killed for my trouble.” His voice broke. “But I learned enough to know not to hold out any hope for Rose.”
“While I was in Wharf Rat's Warren,” Wick said, “I saw a man who carried a small bag with the rose emblem on it.”
“A bag?” Interest flickered in Karbor's wet eyes.
“Yes.” Wick looked around the room. “You make a lot of leather goods—gloves, blacksmith's aprons, and harness—but I don't see any bags or backpacks.”
“I don't make them,” Karbor said. “The communities I sell to are all working people. They don't have enough wealth for excesses. A leather bag when a cloth one would do is excessive.”
“So you didn't make that one? I saw the emblem with my own eyes.”
“I made one,” Karbor said. “But only one. For Rose.” His voice thickened. “Tell me the man's name. I'd like very much to talk to him if I'm ever given the chance.”
“Quarrel,” Wick answered.
“Was he human?”
Wick nodded.
“Part of Gujhar's group, no doubt.”
“I don't think so,” Wick said. “Why would Gujhar want your daughter?”
“Because Seaspray is ensorcelled,” Karbor replied. “The magic inside the sword can't be wakened without one of the true heirs holding it. Only Dulaun's family can evoke that.”
“Why would the goblinkin want her or the sword?”
“I don't know. According to the legend Rose told me, all three of the weapons—Master Oskarr's battle-axe Boneslicer, Captain Dulaun's sword Seaspray, and the elven warder Sokadir's mighty bow, Deathwhisper—were used to strengthen the wards protecting the defenders there at the Battle of Fell's Keep.”
“How?”
“By tapping into the magic within them.”
That was the first time Wick had heard such a story. He sat up a little straighter. “Rose told you this?”
Karbor nodded. “She did. Her mother told her the story, though her mother never mentioned it to me. Only a handful of the defenders at that battle knew about that.”
 
 
After a time, Karbor excused himself and went off to bed. He made up a pallet in front of the fireplace for Wick.
Despite a full stomach and not much rest, Wick found his mind was too busy to allow him to drift off to sleep. His thoughts kept chasing themselves inside his head. Instead, he'd taken out his journal and his writing tools and set about putting down the events of the day. The work went quickly by the firelight, even though he knew he would have to revisit it at a later date.
Still restless, he turned to the books he'd taken from
Wraith
. The journal detailed Captain Gujhar's progress in his search for Boneslicer and Seaspray, and even mentioned that Deathwhisper was rumored lost somewhere deep within what had been Silverleaves Glen. There was even a series of maps detailing the elven city of Cloud Heights and the environs as they had been and as they currently stood.
One of Captain Gujhar's notes said:
I have been told
(Wick noted that never once did
Wraith
's shipsmaster acknowledge who might have told him)
that anyone with two of the weapons in hand will be guided to the third. With the successful location of Boneslicer, all I need is Seaspray to find Deathwhisper. The men among the Razor's Kiss that I've been dealing with swear they know where Dulaun's sword is. We will see.
“You should get to sleep,” Alysta said softly.
Blinking, Wick looked over at the cat. She hadn't spoken while Karbor was around, which was understandable, but she'd seemed aloof and lost in her own thoughts even after the man had gone to bed. He wondered if he'd done something to upset her and was afraid to ask.
“I will,” Wick said. “I usually stay up far later than this at the Vault of All Known Knowledge.”
“Not,” the cat insisted, “after you escaped goblinkin earlier in the day, and after spending the night trying to stay warm in a snowdrift.”
Wick studied the cat. “Are you worried about me?”
The cat glanced away. “No. But I'm not going to be blamed for your failure to escape early in the morning in case the goblinkin come here looking for you.”
BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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