Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (17 page)

“They did it,” he mumbled.

And they would do it again once they came back, though when that would be was anyone’s guess. They had possibly already driven the enemy back and were now recuperating on the outskirts of Denyon, ready and willing to return once they were sure their fellow humans would be safe.

Though at that moment the Elves
’ fate didn’t necessarily matter, Odin couldn’t help but tremble at the idea of once again leading his horse up, then back down these hills, and while he knew for sure he did not look forward to being haunted by the apparition that seemed to spell disaster, ill will and maybe even death, he knew that he had one of two choices—to come back up the hills or skirt around the Dark Mountains.

May
be by the time he left Lesliana he would have a companion, a brother in arms upon which he could lay the burdens of the world.

Who was he kidding?

No one would help someone who wanted to steal a Book of the Dead.

By the time night was upon them, they had crossed the final threshold of the Whooping Hills and now stood firmly within the Great Divide. Tired, breathless and almost ready to collapse, Odin led his horse to what appeared to be a small watering hole near the side of the road before collapsing to his knees, his hair falling over his eyes and his heart hammering within his chest.

“We did it,” he gasped. “We
’re here.”

The horse whinnied and tossed its mane, spilling water from its lips and tossing fresh sweat onto Odin
’s face.

It was here, in the shadow of the Hills and within the ever-creeping darkness, th
at Odin realized he would have to leave his horse here, in a location where water ran abundant and grass could be seen for miles on end. While his heart ached at such a recollection, he knew he could not force the stallion into the forest, not if he wanted it to survive and possibly live another day.

“Would you stay here,” he asked, “if I freed you from your binds?”

The horse turned its head up to regard him and pulled its lips back from its teeth, offering what appeared to be an equine smile in spite of the severity of the situation around him.

“I
’d come back,” Odin continued, pushing himself from his place on the ground and carefully making his way over to the creature. “You’d be all by yourself for a little while, but look—you have a nice watering hole, fresh grass, even some trees you can sleep under when it gets too hot.”

After snapping the clasps free from the saddle and dropping it to the ground, he pulled from one of the satchels an apple and brought it to the horse
’s mouth, hand straying to the side of its snout as it leaned forward and took a bite out of the fruit. While it chewed, slowly grinding the offering into manageable pieces, Odin leaned his brow against the creature’s head and took a low, deep breath, sighing when the horse grunted and passed a breath of air out its nostrils.

“You
’ve been through so much with me,” he said. “There isn’t anything I could ever do to thank you.”

The horse whinnied and butted its head into his shoulder.

When a smile crept across his face, pulling the corners of his mouth into a bright grin, Odin couldn’t help but feel as though he’d made the right choice.

While he didn
’t know whether or not his horse would remain, he could instill a little faith within the creature that had been through so much with him.

Night in the shadow of the Whooping Hills seemed dark and absolute. A fire burning, food fresh and hot in the pot before him, he tilted his head back and exposed his neck to the open air as the horse waded into the water and cast its head about the air, flipping moisture from its mane and whinnying in the triumph of an adventure well spent.

You deserve it, old boy,
he thought.
You deserve it more than anyone else in the world.

Leaning forward, Odin pulled the pot from the rack and set it
on the ground.

He leaned forward.

The wind came up.

The hairs on his neck
stood on end.

No,
he thought, unable to suppress a bought of laughter that rose from his chest and echoed out his mouth.
You’re being paranoid. There’s nothing wrong here.

The moon shone clearly, and while still a fair distance away from being anywhere near them, he could easily see the world before him, as faded in shadow as it was.

He caught the horse’s eyes out in the darkness.

The creature stood
shoulder-deep in the water, watching the world behind him.

His breath caught in his throat.

He pulled his sword from its sheath, the metal twang echoing out of the metal construct and reverberating across the air before him.

Just before he could rise and face whatever it was that had come up behind him, he felt something sharp press against his neck.

Damn.

“Ah,” a voice said. “Who might you be?”

Odin remained frozen as the figure leaned forward and brushed his lips against the curve of his ear. He shivered as the stubble raked across his flesh and trembled when the man’s hold on the dagger intensified. Though he could not see just what occurred beneath the apple of his neck, he imagined the blade curved and completely pressed against his jugular, all the willing to press forward and completely end his life should he disregard any warning of instinct and common sense.

How could I have been so stupid?

“I’m not anyone,” he whispered, resisting the urge to shiver as the man pressed his dagger harder against his neck.

“Stand up,” the man said. “Slowly. Don
’t try anything funny.”

As instructed, Odin raised his hands to the side of his head and rose with the man as he locked an arm around his chest and forced him to his feet. Once stable, the dagger came free of his neck and the figure twirled him around just in time to point the crude weapon directly at his throat.

Though shadowed by the green cloak he so cautiously wore, Odin could see just enough of the figure’s face to confirm that it was, in fact, a man—human, upper lip and chin lined with stubble and lips full and luscious.

“Kick your weapons over to me,” the figure said, momentarily drawing Odin from his thoughts. “Do it.”

With a simple kick, Odin tossed the weapons at the man’s feet, including his father’s silver sword.

“Quite a load you have here,” the man said, crouching down to take the hilts of the sword in hand. “Silver?”

“That’s my father’s sword.

“Who might your father be to have such a fine weapon?” the figure asked, running a finger along the flourish of the silver sheath. “Are you royal? Might you have money that I can take?”

“I don’t have anything.”

“You don
’t have anything?” the man asked, laughing, full lips parting to reveal perfect, snow-white teeth. “Everyone has
something,
my friend. All men do.”

“I don
’t have anything, thief.”

“Rogue.”

“Whatever you are,” Odin growled, raising his hands and attempting to draw magical fire into them. “Leave. Now. I’m a mage.”

“I imagined as such, which is why I put that amulet around your neck.”

Odin looked down.

Just as the figure had said, a bronze amulet emblazoned with what appeared to be a rune of blood sat solid on his neck.

He reached down.

His fingers touched the metal.

An electrical charge so hot and painful it shot his hand directly away from his throat lit from the face of the jewel and forced his grip away from the amulet.

“Only I can take it off,” the figure said, waving his curved dagger through the air as if tracing the very image of a crescent moon. “There
’s nothing you can do to stop me. “

“What did you do?”

“Inhibited your magic.”

“What if I—“

“If you even attempt to try and use any of your tricks, that amulet will open and cut your throat. You’re practically human now.”

“How do you—“

“It takes one to know one, friend.”

The figure pulled his hood back to reveal a stunning portrayal of human masculinity. With fine, high cheekbones lined with stubble and filmed by shadow, lime-green eyes that stared out beneath a seemingly-perfect shock of brows and a nose that could have been called dignified and respectable, this man could have been called beautiful, despite the fact that he wore facial hair and his lips seemed anything but pursed, thin and capable of traits that could have classified himself as manly. What caught Odin most, however, was his chestnut-brown hair, which fell from his head and over his shoulders, then his ears, which held a length and sharpness that could have only been distinguished within Elves or creatures like them.

“You’re,” Odin said.

“A Halfling, naturally,” the rogue said, crouching down to sheath the black sword and retrieve the silver one.

“How did you—“

“How could I
not
know? I can practically smell it on you.”

“I
’ve never—“

“Met another Halfling?” the rogue asked, fumbling with the swords at his side. “Shame. Not many of them exist so far up north.”

“I’ve only known one other,” Odin said, lowering his hands at his side when the rogue let his dagger fall at his hip.

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he know?”

“Dead,” Odin said. “Gone.”

The rogue didn
’t reply. Instead, he reached down, sheathed his dagger at his side, then lifted the swords before his vision, examining them in the faint light that streamed from the fire and the overhead moon.

He
’s looking at them,
Odin thought.
Watching, waiting. He expects you to do something.

Or say something, more likely. Given that the conversation had since dissolved to silence, there was a much higher chance of the rogue responding to dialogue rather than action, that of which might very well land him on the end of the dagger were he not careful.

“Please don’t rob me,” he said. “I’ve gone through too much already. I don’t need this.”

“Why should I pity you?” the Halfling
asked. “What will that earn me?”

“You can
’t take those swords. My father gave them to me.”

“As well as mine did my dagger. I understand your pain, but a man needs to make a living too.”

“Who are you?” Odin asked, stepping forward, bracing himself for anything that could happen. “Please… if you’re going to take away everything I have, just tell me what your name is.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t you want me to know who you are? The man who took everything away from me just as I was about to reach my destination?”

“Very well,” the rogue said. “For your information, my name is Virgin.”

“Virgin?”

“Virgin.”

“What’re you doing so far north?”

“I should be asking you what a half-human man is doing so far south,” Virgin replied, turning his attention from Odin to the swords that dangled at his side. “Although I suppose you have a fairly decent reason to be all the way down here.”

“You’ll understand why I’m here.”

“Will I?”

“I want to steal something.”

“Mighty clever of you. What might that be?”

“The Book of the Dead.”

The Halfling named Virgin didn
’t respond. Instead, he shifted his attention from Odin, to the horse, then back down to the swords before setting his eyes on him.

He doesn
’t know I’m more than just a Halfling,
he thought, taking another step forward to bridge the distance between them.
He doesn’t know that I have Drow blood in me… that I might be able to read from the book and do whatever I want with it.

“Why might you want to steal that?” the Halfling asked after several moments of silence.

“If you give me my swords back, I’ll tell you.”

“What concern of it is mine if you steal a damned book?”

“It might be if you want to help me steal it.”

The Halfling
’s ears flickered much like Miko’s had in weeks past, symbolizing the trait of a true Elf if only by indication.

“You want
me,”
the rogue said, “to help
you
steal a
damned book,
all so you can bring something—“

“Someone.”

“Back to life?”

“That
’s exactly what I want you to do. If you can rob me, who can’t you rob?”

“What you
’re asking is a capital offense,” Virgin replied. “Robbing you lands me nothing except a sack of gold. Robbing
the queen
lands me in jail.”