Through Stone and Sea Page 8

  Wynn choked on smoky air and swallowed very hard.

  “If your tale is as grand as your nerve,” he added, “someone here might point your way.”

  Mixed reactions broke out in the greeting house. Someone laughed aloud, and that laughter spread, laced with grunts of disdain. Others shook their heads in disagreement, shouting in outrage at some young girl taking the thänæ’s place.

  Wynn felt small compared to Hammer- Stag’s hulking stature as her mind raced for some way out of all this. Hammer-Stag raised his large hands in a gesture to quell the crowd.

  “Of course, you must win the audience along the way,” he continued, pointing to a large tankard resting before one soot-covered listener. “At any need, take your fill, if you dare . . . if the mug’s owner finds your tale worthy so far. That is the way of a telling.”

  Wynn’s stomach tightened, and a bit of the tram ride’s nausea returned.

  Even a stout human male would find dwarven spirits hard to bear. Would she give more offense if she didn’t stop to drink? What if she accidentally sipped wood alcohol? Playing this game—this unknown custom—without knowing all the rules grew more daunting by the moment.

  “Oh, dead deities!” she whimpered—another crass phrase picked up from Leesil.

  But she was sick of all the hoops she’d been forced to jump through in the past year. Her guild superiors had looked at her with Hammer-Stag’s same arrogant expression every time they dangled a carrot before her. Always one more proof of loyalty, obedience, propriety, always one more requirement, one more game.

  Amid panic came anger.

  She wasn’t leaving here without learning of the Iron- Braids—and of the friends she’d lost in returning home.

  “Wynn?” Chane whispered. “Do something.”

  “I am! I’m trying to think!”

  “No more low-life nonsense!” Chane hissed, reaching for Wynn. “We find directions elsewhere.”

  She grabbed his wrist before he got a grip, but her attention remained fixed on the blustering dwarf.

  “I can do a tale justice only in my own language,” she stated clearly.

  Hammer-Stag frowned as Chane’s eyes widened. The dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully and then called out to the crowd, “Skíal trânid âns Numanaks?”

  More grumbling rose among the listeners. Chane heard “chourdál” uttered more than once.

  “Done!” barked Hammer-Stag, and nodded assent to Wynn.

  “No!” Chane whispered, but Wynn pushed him off.

  “If my tale is enough,” she went on, “will you also tell me more of the white woman, the silver dog, and the elf who isn’t an elf?”

  Surprise spread across Hammer- Stag’s broad face. Then it was gone. A wry smile took its place, and Chane shook his head. Wynn had just upped the stakes before her tale had even begun.

  Rumblings sharpened around the room, but she stood her ground.

  Chane was at a loss. Would pulling her out of here start an outright brawl?

  Hammer-Stag slowly began to laugh. His guffaws grew until it seemed tears welled in his eyes. Others began to chuckle as well.

  “By the Eternals,” he barely got out. “This must be some tale. Agreed, O mighty little one!”

  Hammer-Stag stepped down and, with a wide sweep of his hand, ushered Wynn to take the platform. Shoving his way onto a bench at the nearest table, he dropped down, grabbed a mug, and clacked it once on the table with a shout.

  “To the telling!”

  Chane saw too many eyes locked on Wynn amid stony, disgruntled expressions filled with doubt. At more chuckling around the room, Hammer-Stag slapped his table.

  “Silence!” he shouted. “And respect!”

  The room went instantly quiet.

  Wynn stepped up amid the crowd and turned slowly about. Shade trotted closer as well, perhaps unwilling to let her get too far away. All Chane could do was fight the wild urge to throw Wynn over his shoulder and haul her out of this detestable place.

  Why had they ever come in here? What was she thinking? He could not believe she would succeed at what amounted to street-level theater. Wynn was a guild sage, the highest of scholars, yet she had made a bargain upon her word. He could not break that any more than she would herself.

  Chane crossed his arms, waiting. Within moments, she would be jeered out of this commoners’ arena, and he could finally take her away.

  Wynn raised one hand and pointed to Hammer-Stag. Her voice low and not quite steady, it still carried.

  “This honored thänæ spoke of a pale woman, a silver dog, and an elf,” she began. “These were my companions of old. In company, we faced horrors not imagined, things to make goblins into bed tales for children.”

  Hammer-Stag raised his eyebrows, and Chane groaned softly. Why did she have to begin with an insult?

  Wynn held both hands out toward her audience.

  “Five seasons past, we traveled to the top of the world, to a place of year-round ice on the eastern continent known there as the Pock Peaks. We searched for a treasure lost beyond history—but not for our own gain. We sought to keep it from the hands of a murdering villain and worse . . . one of the undead.”

  Chane’s mouth went slack. Did dwarves even know about the undead? From what he had learned of the Numan Lands, such creatures were only fables and folklore here. Several dwarves fidgeted like children suffering in boredom, but all remained quiet. Wynn’s low voice carried throughout the smoky room.

  “He was what the people there called a Noble Dead, the highest and most feared of the undead . . . an upér, upír . . . a vampire, a drinker of the blood of the living. We struggled on in those white mountains, trying to find the treasure before he did.”

  Wynn’s exaggerated accounts of trials and hardships built as she circled the platform, fixing upon the whole audience and perhaps purposefully ignoring Hammer-Stag. After a while she paused, and silence filled the room. She met the steady gaze of one female dwarf sitting at the back side of Hammer-Stag’s table.

  Wynn stepped down from the platform and reached past Hammer-Stag for the woman’s mug.

  Though she faltered, no one tried to stop her. She took a fast and deep drink, and slammed the mug back down like Hammer-Stag—or tried to. Compared to his pounding, it sounded like she had dropped the mug.

  Ale sloshed out on the table.

  Its owner frowned, shaking bits of foam off her stout fingers. Wynn quickly retreated to the platform while others at the table tried to stifle their amusement.

  “One night in our search,” Wynn began again, “I became lost in a blizzard. But Chap, the silver sire of my own companion”—and she gestured toward Shade—“found me. Together, we took refuge inside a stone chute to wait out the storm.” Her voice rose slightly. “But we were fools to think a storm our worst enemy. We heard a sound at the chute’s bottom. . . . We peered downward to see two of the Anmaglâhk, the Thieves of Lives, a caste of elven assassins, crawling up to murder us!”

  Chane grew still and attentive. He had heard only scant bits of Wynn’s journey, and little to nothing of her time up in the Pock Peaks. He knew what had become of those two elves, for he had seen the bodies. But he had not known they had come so close to Wynn.

  A low rumble passed briefly through the crowd. Chane’s ire rose for an instant, until he looked at their faces.

  The mention of elves as assassins seemed to startle them into disbelief. But distaste came quickly, as if they accepted Wynn’s accounting. Even the fanciful notion that such a caste might exist did not sit well with the dwarves. Chane remembered Wynn’s earlier warning to keep all weapons in plain sight as an issue of honor and virtue.

  “Until then, we didn’t know these eastern elves sought the treasure as well. Chap is fierce, as Hammer-Stag has said, but he would be hard-pressed against such trained assassins. They moved like a sudden night breeze, wielding stilettos as if born with them. I’m ashamed to say I faltered in fear.”

  She paused once
more at Hammer-Stag’s table, this time reaching for a closer mug, but Hammer-Stag quickly covered the mug with his hand.

  Wynn’s face drained of all color at his denial, but Chane was relieved. She had finally failed in her challenge.

  “Perhaps another mug would be better,” Hammer-Stag said quietly, and then his face flushed with anger as he glared at the mug’s bleary- eyed owner.

  That ragged-looking male with ruddy features blinked in confusion. Horrified realization took him, and he quickly pulled his mug away.

  Chane was baffled. For such stout and hardy people, he wondered at any dwarf being so drunk.

  Wynn recovered. Exchanging respectful nods with Hammer-Stag, she grabbed another mug and took a drink. And Chane realized what had happened.

  That one drunken dwarf had been swilling wood alcohol—which would have killed Wynn if Hammer- Stag had not intervened. Chane’s discomfort grew, not only for Wynn’s safely, but because she was doing better than he expected.

  “But as those murdering elves began their ascent,” Wynn continued, “a black shadow passed overhead.” She raised one arm, draping her robe’s sleeve below her eyes. “When I looked up, I barely made out the transparent ghost of a raven as it dived down through the chute.”

  She jabbed her other hand through the sleeve, the fabric whipping aside as her fingers shot out at a nearby table. One young male stiffened sharply in startlement, almost dropping his tankard.

  “That black ghost rammed straight through the first Anmaglâhk!”

  More dwarves sat upright in their seats.

  “He grabbed his chest in pain, but something more pulled my eyes skyward. A hint of white flashed by, running down the chute’s wall. It went straight at the elves, and the second one vanished from the chute’s mouth as it came. That white form was gone, and the first elf slumped against the stone wall.

  “Chap raced after them, for in protecting me, his heart would never turn him from a fight. I rushed after him but stopped at the chute’s bottom when I saw the one fallen Anmaglâhk. The elf’s ribs protruded around a gaping hole in his chest . . . where his heart had been torn from his body.”

  Wynn raised her hand, closed in a partial fist like a claw, as if gripping that heart. She turned, walking slowly around the platform. All the dwarves watched in silence.

  “Then I heard the snarls and screaming,” she whispered. “I rushed on after Chap to a sight I still cannot push from memory. The other elf lay dead in the snow, his head torn from the gushing stump of his neck . . . and standing over him was a naked white woman.

  “She was so deceptively frail in build, but with fangs and clear crystal eyes. Her hair shimmered black as night, its tendrils writhing in the snow- laced breeze. She was undead, a vampire, but centuries old. And she had torn apart two of the Anmaglâhk like gutted fish.”

  Wynn paused near another table and locked eyes on a young wide-eyed dwarven couple.

  “I could barely breathe,” she whispered, “as I stared at her.”

  This time she did not hesitate and took another long drink. Her brown eyes glittered as she twirled back around to the platform’s center.

  “To my despair, Chap charged. So fierce was he that he held the white woman in combat for a while. But finally she threw him against the cliff side, and he fell limp in the snow. She turned her eyes on me . . . and I ran!

  “I barely made the chute’s mouth before she was on me. She grabbed my throat and slammed me against the sheer stone as I cried out.”

  Wynn paused so long that Chane thought someone might speak.

  “She released me . . . and cringed away against the chute’s far wall.”

  Hammer-Stag leaned forward, neither smiling nor scowling, his eyes locked on Wynn.

  “She stared at me with those colorless eyes. Even through terror that froze my body more than cold, my thoughts were racing. I had cried out for her to stop . . . and the sound of my words, not my voice, had caused this. I spoke again.”

  Wynn glanced toward Chane.

  “She had been locked away in those white mountains, alone for hundreds upon hundreds of years . . . so long that she’d forgotten the very sound of speech. Upon hearing words once more, so vaguely remembered, like a home lost so long she had forgotten even the hope of it . . . she did not kill me.

  “Instead, she grabbed me and raced through the mountains. She carried me to a six-towered castle trapped upon a great snow plain, the very place my companions and I had been searching for. She was the guardian of the treasure we sought.

  “Even wounded, Chap came for me, and finally closed upon us once we reached the castle doors. I spoke to the white woman again. She did not understand me but held off from tearing me apart as she had the elves . . . only because of the sound of my words and that I spoke to her.

  “She was mad, driven insane by isolation. She led Chap and me inside her castle, the first to enter it in . . . well, who knows how long. All because I kept speaking to her, and she listened.”

  Wynn turned a full circle, her hands held open.

  “She was destined to destroy all who came near the treasure, but I alone gained her secrets. Though helpless, I was strong enough of heart and wise enough to best her. Not by ax or sword or feats of might, but by my voice, my words . . . my telling . . . given in charity to her.”

  Wynn fell silent, pulled her robe and cloak closed around herself, and bowed her head.

  Chane stood rooted to the floor.

  He had never seen this side of Wynn. Her sense of drama, of the moment, was surprising if not perfect. It took several breaths for others to realize she had finished, and then the rumble began. One dwarf shouted out in Numanese, “No, that cannot be the end! What happened after? Did you find the treasure?”

  Wynn raised her head with the hint of a smile.

  “That is another story . . . another telling . . . for another time.” She turned her large brown eyes upon Hammer-Stag, adding, “And for some other fair trade.”

  At first, Hammer-Stag simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he slowly shook his head. He began rumbling with laughter, and suddenly he slapped the table, making the nearest mugs jump and shudder.

  “By the Eternals, fair trade indeed! You will sit with me, little one!”

  Wynn’s gaze wandered to Chane.

  He could not help wondering if the dwarves believed a single word of her tale. Elven assassins and ancient white undeads? But it did not seem to matter. Several raised their mugs high as she joined Hammer-Stag and took a seat. Shade trotted after her, and Chane reluctantly followed, settling beside her at the table.

  Another dwarf remained sitting with Hammer-Stag, younger and wearing a cleanly oiled leather hauberk. His mass of brown hair was pulled back with a leather thong, and his slightly darker beard was trimmed and groomed. He observed Wynn, but did not speak.

  Hammer-Stag gestured to his companion.

  “My kinsman, Carrow,” he said simply. He gathered a pitcher and mugs from the table, shoving one down to Chane.

  Chane did not touch it. Then Hammer-Stag slapped a hand over his heart.

  “I am Fiáh’our,” he claimed, as if only the sound of his name was needed for anyone to recognize him.

  “Hammer-Stag?” Wynn interjected.

  He pondered her translation. “Yes!” he agreed. “Hammer-Stag of the family of Loam, Meerschaum clan of the Tumbling-Ridge tribe. And who are you, girl, and your young man?”

  “He is not my . . .” Wynn began through clenched teeth, and then fidgeted. “My name is Wynn Hygeorht, of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. This is Chane Andraso, a scholar I met in the Farlands, a region of the eastern continent.”

  Chane frowned. Her words were now slurring, and her eyes appeared overly bright. Amid the tale, he had lost track of how much ale she had sampled.

  “I see,” said Hammer-Stag, raising thick eyebrows. He glanced down at Shade, who flattened her ears but did not growl. “A fine tale,” he went on. �
��And well told.”

  “So, why is a thänæ telling tales in this poor neighborhood, in the middle of the night?” Wynn blurted out.

  Chane’s eyes widened, as did Carrow’s, but Hammer-Stag did not appear insulted.

  “Tales must be told . . . a telling is the way . . . most especially if one is honored among the living,” he said. “How else will they be retold, molded over years by the many, and hopefully stand the test of time? That is the only way to become one of the honored dead, to be reborn among the people. So was it with all of the Eternals, whose tales belong to all of the people, no matter where they live.”

  Chane frowned. Wynn had mentioned that the dwarves believed their “saints” lived on in this world, watching over them. To claim that their Eternals—their patron saints—still lived seemed strange.

  Hammer-Stag waved his hand, brushing off Wynn’s question. “Now, what is it you wish to learn from me?”

  Wynn had made that clear from the start, and Chane said, “The location of the Iron-Braid family.”

  Carrow winced visibly at that family name.

  “Ah, yes.” Hammer-Stag’s expression turned thoughtful, almost sad. “Continue down Limestone Mainway, and turn in at the fifth tunnel to the north. You’ll find a smithy a short way down; you cannot miss it. But only two Iron-Braids remain among us—Skirra Yêarclág Jäyne a’Duwânláh, the daughter, and her mother, Meránge.”

  The long dwarven title jumbled in Chane’s head, but he knew from Wynn that Yêarclág meant “Iron- Braid,” based on some respected ancestor in their direct family line.

  Wynn tettered on the bench. “Why are . . . you . . . sad . . . when you speak of them?”

  Her speech slurred and faltered more and more.

  “The fifth side street on the right,” Hammer-Stag repeated softly, glancing at Carrow in apparent concern.

  “And what of my . . . com . . . panions?” Wynn said, struggling to pronounce the words, and her eyes turned glassy with threatening tears. “Magiere and Leesil . . . Chap. . . . where are they?”