Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (13 page)
“I’ll be more comfortable doing something, instead of lolling around moaning.”
Cantor climbed on. Bridger had provided a saddle. As they took off, Cantor waved to Neekoh, who hopped around with enthusiasm over watching the dragon take flight.
“He certainly is a happy fellow,” Cantor observed.
By mutual and unspoken consent, they started a zigzag search pattern. Cantor felt Bridger’s fatigue and wanted to head back to the camp after four sweeps of the valley. He was just about to make the suggestion, when Bridger tensed beneath him.
“Would you look at that?” Bridger swooped toward a larger river. “There’s a fisherman.”
Cantor spotted the man standing in the shallow water. “Could we have found Chomountain this easily?”
“Neekoh didn’t say there was anyone else in Bright Valley, so I suppose we have.”
He banked and circled, coming at a good angle to land. A sandbar jutted out into a bend in the river. As they approached, the fisherman pulled in his line and waded ashore to meet them.
Of a wiry and slim build, the man was old, with short-cropped white hair and a long white beard. Suntanned and spry, he wore blue pants tucked into rubber waders and a plain
green shirt, also tucked in. His belt was of fine leather tooled with a fancy design.
He waved as he came near. “You’re the first visitors I’ve had in a very long time.”
“You have visitors?” Cantor slid off Bridger’s back and onto the sandy bank.
“Once in a while. They always try to lure me out of the valley, but I like it here.” The fisherman reached out a hand to shake as he crossed the last few yards. “Welcome to Bright Valley.”
“My name’s Cantor D’Ahma, and this is my friend Bridger-Bigelow.”
Bridger grasped the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir. You’re Chomountain, if I’m not mistaken.”
The old man laughed. “Well, you are mistaken, sonny. My name’s Trout. Old Trout, nowadays. I’ve more than a few winters under my belt.”
“You’re not —?” Cantor paused to gather his wits. Were they in the right valley? Was Chomountain here? Anywhere? Was the right hand of Primen still alive? Had they been delayed on their mission for nothing? “Do you know Chomountain? Is he here?”
“Chomountain? Seems like I knew something about a Chomountain years ago.” Looking at the ground, the old man appeared to be thinking. He shook his head. “Can’t say he’s here, if you mean here in the valley. I rarely cross paths with anyone. I live here. Have lived here for many years.” He looked up.
Cantor thought his expression very sad. Surely this old man knew something. Hadn’t Neekoh said that Chomountain had lost his memories? Maybe these sad eyes testified to having forgotten who he is.
Trout grimaced. “Sorry I can’t help you. First time I’ve had visitors in lo these many years, and I can’t give ’em what they need.” His face brightened. “Could be you need something else. And I can help you with that.”
Cantor frowned. “When did you come to the valley? How did you get in?”
“I came with my parents through the East Gate. I was just a wee lad and had seven brothers older than me. Over the years I've laid each to rest, everyone, one by one.” He looked from Bridger to Cantor and back to the dragon. “Now isn’t there some way I could be a good host and help you out?”
Cantor gestured toward Bridger, who had stepped back, observing. “My friend here has a cold, and I have two more traveling companions who have been struck down with some kind of sleeping disorder.”
Trout snapped his fingers and pointed to the sky. “Now that, I can help you with.” He turned and strode toward the water. “Just let me get my fishing gear, and we’ll go by my house to pick up a few things.”
“We also have a young man with us. He’s part of the ward that protected Chomountain. His name is Neekoh.” Cantor watched Trout closely in hopes that Neekoh’s name might register with him.
The man’s stride never faltered. “Do you like to fish?”
Apparently, Old Trout didn’t know anything about Neekoh.
“Yes, I fished at a lake near my home on Dairine.”
“I fish a lot.” Old Trout pulled his catch on a string out of the water. “Where are the rest of your party?”
“We camped at the base of the ridge, near the tunnel that leads to the outside.”
“There’s a tunnel leading to the outside, you say? Never knew that.”
“It’s been closed. With a ward. To keep Chomountain inside.”
Old Trout motioned them to come along as he followed a track through the woods. Bridger had to shrink a bit before he could manage the trail.
The old man set a brisk pace, and he talked over his shoulder as they went. “Must not have worked very well, because obviously, he got out. If he's still here and I can, I’ll help you to find this man, Chomountain. Why do you think he’s in Bright Valley?”
Cantor ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t want frustration to make his voice sharp. “Well, because there was a ward designed to trap him in here. If he wasn’t here, there would be no need for a ward.”
“That sounds logical. Here’s my home, humble and cozy.”
They broke through the last of the trees and came into a small meadow. A log cabin stood to one side with a garden, an old-fashioned water well, a chicken coop, and a seven-by-seven-foot animal pen. Rabbits hopped among the plants in the vegetable patch.
Old Trout spoke to the two goats in the pen and waved a greeting to the rabbits and the chickens. He left his fishing gear on the porch. “One minute and I’ll grab my herb satchel.”
“Do you want us to chase the rabbits from the garden?” Cantor asked.
Old Trout stopped suddenly and turned about. “Why would you want to do that?”
“So they won’t eat all your food.”
The old man frowned. “But that’s not my food. I only take the leftovers.”
He ducked inside and came out with a wide-brimmed, floppy hat on his head and the strap of a green leather bag over his shoulder. He carried a pair of soft leather shoes. Using a boot jack built into the wood slats of the porch, he pried off his waders, then sat on the steps to put on his shoes.
“Have you got a frying pan, a kettle, and eating utensils?” Old Trout stood and hitched up his trousers.
“Yes, we do.”
The fisherman grabbed his string of fish. “Good. Let’s go make some breakfast.”
He headed off through the forest, and Cantor followed. Bridger fell in behind, grumbling.
“What did you say, Bridge?”
“I said I’m tired. Slept all night and I’m tired.”
“You’re sick. I hope Old Trout’s remedy works. It doesn’t look like he’ll be of much help finding Chomountain.”
Bridger coughed. “What if he is Chomountain and just doesn’t remember?”
“Then we’ll have to find evidence that he is and convince him.”
The trail led to their camp, although the place where they stepped out of the woods wasn’t obvious from the other end.
Neekoh jumped up when Old Trout stepped into the open area. “Chomountain!”
The old man held up a hand. “No, no, no. Name's Trout. Your friends made the same mistake. I brought breakfast. Get out a frying pan and we’ll cook this fish. I’ve got herbs for the dragon’s cold too, so heat up some water.”
Neekoh looked at Cantor with his face twisted in disbelief.
Cantor sympathized. The poor young man had just been disillusioned in his life’s work. Neekoh studied the fisherman.
His voice squeaked. “Do you know where Chomountain is?”
“Can’t say that I do, but I’ll help you look for him. I’ve been thinking of some places he might be, places in the valley where I wouldn’t run into him.”
Neekoh’s face stiffened. “Who told you your name is Trout?”
Old Trout tramped over to look down at the two sleepers. “Oh, I suppose it was one of my brothers. Older brothers do tend to give little brothers strange nicknames.”
Neekoh wasn’t ready to give up. “What did your parents call you?”
“Young Trout. Now people say Old Trout.” He paused in examining the sleeping duo and concentrated his attention on Neekoh. “For obvious reasons, don’t you think?”
Cantor came up beside Trout. “Do you have any idea what could be wrong with them?”
He shook his head. “No spots or fever or delirious caterwauling?”
“No, just sleeping.”
Old Trout shrugged and turned back to the business of making breakfast. “Could be they’re hungry. That might be what ails them.”
Cantor shook his head. “They fell asleep right after our noon meal yesterday. I don’t think hunger put them to sleep.”
“That doesn’t mean hunger won’t be what wakes them up. Let’s get this food on. Nothing beats the smell of sizzling fish, and I brought dough for biscuits as well.”
He crouched beside the fire, opened his satchel, and pulled out a small cloth bag, a rag, and a larger sack. Neekoh placed
the kettle, a frying pan, and a large fork on the flat rocks he’d brought close.
Old Trout opened the lid of the kettle and peeked inside. He hummed as he pinched herbs from the smaller bag and scattered them over the water. He pushed both rock and kettle closer to the flames.
He grabbed the oily looking rag and wiped the inside of the frying pan.
“Anything I can do to help?” asked Cantor.
The old man handed him the string of fish. “Yep. Clean these and keep the innards. I’ll dig the guts into the garden soil. The bunnies have the biggest and best vegetables in the valley.” He sat back on his heels and looked around with one eyebrow quirked. “Of course, they’re the only ones who’ve got a garden.”
Chuckling at his joke, he stretched open the drawstring top to his larger sack. Out of the coarse-woven cloth came a double handful of whitish dough. Old Trout pinched off bits of dough to roll in his hands and plop into the pan.
By the time Cantor returned with the cleaned and filleted fish, a pile of golden biscuits sat on a serving platter. Cantor didn’t recognize the dish, so he assumed Neekoh had produced it. He’d used a tin plate from his own hamper for the fish.
Bridger leaned against the tree he’d claimed earlier. A huge mug with steam rising over the rim rested in his cupped hands under his chin. The dragon alternately sipped the brew and breathed the steam. His lips curved in an understated smile.
The powerful aroma of bacon wafted from the frying pan.
“Bacon?” Cantor quickened his step to peer over Old Trout’s shoulder.
“Just
to give us some nice grease for the fish.”
Cantor handed him his plate. Bixby moaned, and Cantor rushed to help her sit up. He wanted to squeeze her in a tight hug, but held off. Perhaps she was fragile after her ordeal.
“Something smells wonderful,” she said. “I’m starving.”
Cantor pointed to the fire.
Bixby caught her breath. “Chomountain.”
“He says his name is Trout.”
“But?” She looked confused. “Shouldn’t he be Chomountain, or are we someplace other than I expected us to be? Where are we? Last I remember we were gliding over those pretty plants in the water.”
“That was yesterday. Today we’re in Bright Valley.”
“Isn’t that where Chomountain is supposed to be?”
“Supposed to be, but apparently isn’t.”
Dukmee struggled to sit. Neekoh quickly gave him a hand, and the mage stood. He stretched and groaned. “I feel like I slept for a month.”
Neekoh grinned. “Only a day, sir.”
Dukmee squinted at the old man. “Chomountain?”
“No, sir.” The young ward guardian stood as if on duty, stiff and proper. “Old enough to be, but not. He remembers things. Chomountain would have forgot. He’s Old Trout, and he’s making breakfast.” Neekoh’s stance melted with his enthusiasm. “There’s biscuits already, and tea. And another kind of tea if you have a sore throat. And bacon, and there’s going to be fish.”
“Good. I’m starving.”
“That’s what Bixby said. And Old Trout said you were probably hungry. He thought the smell of breakfast cooking would wake you up, and it did.”
Dukmee finger combed his hair. “Does he know where Chomountain is?”
“No, but he says he’ll help us look.”
Dukmee walked over to the fire and extended his hand. “I’m Dukmee. Pleased to meet you.”
“Hands are busy right now, but pleased to meet you as well. Grab yourself a biscuit and fill it with bacon. Neekoh, get this man some hot tea. Fish’ll be ready in two ticks.”
“How long have you lived here?” asked Dukmee.
“For as long as I can remember, and I suspect some time before that. Love it here. The fishing can’t be beat. Do you fish?”
“No.”
“Well, you and the other folks can look for that Chomountain fellow. That young man Cantor and I’ll bring in lunch and supper.”
“We do have some other things we need to do.” Dukmee took a bite of his hasty sandwich. “Oh my, that’s good.”
“Yep. Most everything in Bright Valley is good.”
B
ixby marveled over the old man’s home and garden. “Look, Cantor, he makes his own shoes and cloth and everything. He made this furniture. He made the rug. It’s all homemade. Even the oiled paper in the windows.”
Cantor and Dukmee sat at Old Trout’s table with their scrolls from the Library of Lyme spread out. Cantor didn’t seem to be sufficiently impressed, so she went on. “There’s a smokehouse and a drying shed for his herbs. And he showed me where he has cold storage in a cave nearby.”
