In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (31 page)

“Can we sail completely around the Eastern edge to reach
Sands End?”

“No, General.  The Sea of Hate is no kinder this time of year, it is a much longer voyage, and it puts us close to the Great Whirlpool as well.  Better to sail off the map completely than to take that route.”

Tar-Tan rose again, mindful of the ceiling this time.  He leaned over a map that he unrolled on what was left of his small table.  “You know what this means, Captain.”

“A long march, General.”

Tar-Tan nodded slowly.  “You give me a choice of delivering some men in poor condition or no men at all.”

Captain Grull said nothing, waiting for Tar-Tan’s decision.

The massive half-ogre looked at his captain.  “Very well.  Make sail for the Dead Marshes.  We will land the fleet east of there, and make preparations to march up Ipidine.”

~Veronica~

Veronica had made up her mind.  She would not take the well
-travelled path across the Crystal Mountains.  Elf’s Bane was a gap in the mountains wide enough for thirty well-armored men on horseback to ride abreast without breaking formation.  So it was passable for a lone rider, for sure.

But that was the problem.  It now was less a strategic military outpost and more a trading route between the Eastern and Western halves of the continent.  It would be difficult, even for her, to pass unnoticed through the gap.  A young woman travelling alone would be beyond odd
—it would cause undue questions and invite unwanted attention.  Though she feared no man one-on-one, even a True Warrior, she did not need to fight off the advances of three or four lonely mercenaries.  That was not a prudent strategy.

There were, however, alternate routes through the mountains.  Less travelled, more secretive.  Climbing the mountains
, however, would take eons.  There had to be another pass or another way through.   And if you knew who to ask, and how to ask, the right information was all around you.  Before she ran into Marik, she had been gaining quite a bit of information in Briz.

All of her
Master’s plans could have unraveled if she had blown the mage’s cover.  She had not expected him to turn up in Briz at the same time in the same inn—the chances of their paths crossing were a million to one.  She did wonder which of the two boys he was with was the one Xaro was obsessed with, but that was not her concern.

Her concern was Strongiron, and he lived in Rookwood.  She did not want to sail all the way around the Southern coast of Elvidor, either.  Money wasn’t the problem, it was time.  It would take a month or two by ship, and she would be confined on board a sailing vessel with a bunch of lonely men.  The last time she
’d had to take an extended sea journey, she’d disguised herself as a man.  No, that would be her fallback plan this time.

Veronica knew other paths existed
—fellow members of the Assassin’s Guild had told her as much.  Finding them was the challenge.  But her luck had changed a few days ago. Before she stopped in Briz for the night, she ran into a group of gypsies heading west toward the port city of Nervadine, from whence she had come.  Gypsies were some of the most friendly folks a stranger can meet.  Their whole mission is often to attract strangers who have nowhere else to go.  It was by their sprawling campsite, just off the road, where she fell into conversation with a Dwarf who was seated by a fire, nibbling on some burnt meat.

“That smells delicious.  I bet you’d like to wash that down with something warm,” she said as she took a
n uninvited seat next to the Dwarf, away from the caravan.

“Hmph.  What do you suggest?  Flat ale is all we have, and not much
at that.”  The Dwarf eyed the woman curiously as he picked at a hunk of meat dangling from the end of a long dirk he was using as a skewer.

“This.”  Veronica threw him a full wineskin.  “Try it, good
Dwarf.  If you tear me off a piece of your meat, we’ll call it even.”  Lowering her hood, Veronica smiled at her new friend.

The
Dwarf pulled the stopper and drank deep.  “Woman, what are you doing carrying such fine drink as this!”  He ripped off a chunk of meat with his grubby hands and tossed it to her.  “Deal!”

Veronica laughed.  “I should ask you what a
Dwarf is doing travelling with a pack of gypsies, but I thank you for the meat.”  She ate it without hesitation, less because she was hungry, but more to build camaraderie.  Having shared food and drink, perhaps he would open up even further.

“
That’s easy enough to answer,” he began in more quiet tones.  “You get tired of living in one spot all the time.  My people don’t understand that, but the gypsies like to move around.  I’ve seen half of Elvidor while most of my kin are holed up underneath the Hawthorne Mountains a continent away.  Just a different kind of Dwarf I guess.  Your story?”  He tossed her another piece of meat like she was some kind of animal being trained for tricks.

Veronica smiled.  She gnawed at the lamb or whatever it was and took the wineskin back, moving closer to
him.  “I, too, like adventure.  Seems we’re kindred spirits.  My whole life has been on the western side of the Crystal Mountains, and I long to see the East.  But the Elf’s Bane
is a merchant thoroughfare, from what I hear.  I am looking for a different way across.”  She paused and looked at her friend in the eyes, letting her gaze linger.

The
Dwarf considered her, then said, “Aye.  There are other ways across.  Might be I can help you.”  He put a stubby hand on her leg.

Veronica didn’t miss a beat.  “What path?” she whispered breathlessly, allowing the flames of the campfire
to illuminate her pure, porcelain skin.

The
Dwarf’s eyes glinted as he leaned further in.  The wine stench on his breath was awful.  Veronica just encouraged him with a gentle squeeze of her hand on the inside of his thigh.  “What path?” she repeated.

He
smiled greedily.  “Northeast of Briz, there is an old mine.  Ask around and some locals will point it out.  It has been abandoned for years, but really it was a cover anyhow.  Sure they pulled some pretty rocks out, but the real prize was an underground path clear through to the other side of the mountains.  Dwarfs built it, mainly for smugglers and outlaws who wanted to evade the arm of Rookwood in the East.  But you can find a guide through the mine.  Ask the town smitty in Briz, Barnabus, if he ‘knows how to put a thread through a crystal needle.’  Tell him Thimble sent you.  He’ll help you.”  The Dwarf reached up to grab Veronica’s face.

“Wait
—let us drink again.  I want to be good and drunk before you have your way with me,” Veronica teased as she pushed herself away and handed him another flask.  “Here.  I share the whiskey only with real men…or in this case, real Dwarves.  If you can handle it,” she said with a devious smile.

“Give me that.”  Thimble took a good long pull, his eyes watering.  “No woman as fine as you should be carrying drink
on her like
that!
”  He handed it back.  “If drunk is what you need to be, than drink!”

Veronica took the bottle and stopped it
again, tucking it back into one of the secret pockets she had all over her.  She stood suddenly and retrieved her wineskin.  “Thank you for the information, Thimble.”  She didn’t bothered turning around to see him keel over dead from the poison.  The
thud
was confirmation enough.

That had been a
little over a week ago.  She had asked around inside the
The Crystal Break
(before running into Marik—which was most unfortunate) about the whereabouts of a smitty in town named Barnabus.  It certainly didn’t take long to get pointed in his direction.

What a bronze
-looking man
.  Barnabus stood outside his forge. Though it was getting quite cold late into the fall, he seemed content in little more than loose-fitting pants and a leather vest.  Most metal-smiths were big men, with chiseled arms from countless hours of hard labor.  Barnabus was small.  Veronica towered over him as she approached.  He was exceptionally tan, with brownish-reddish hair and a beard that needed a bit of trimming.  His paunch was the only thing on him that made him look out of shape. 
A man who likes to drink
.

She smiled as she approached.  “Are you Barnabus?”

He looked up and gave Veronica a quick look.  “So me mum says.  If you need some work, it’ll be a day or two—I’m backed up.”

“Actually, I need but a moment of your time.  My friend Thimble thought you might know how to thread a
crystal needle.”  She let the smile fade from her face, to be replaced with a curious look.

“Thimble, eh?  What business do you have with that
Dwarf?”  He went back to hammering a piece of steel to remove a dent.

“We were, ah, friends.  I met him on the road to Nervadine.”  She left it at that.

“Well, your friend was my brother.  Half-brother.  His dad got together with my mum.  Can’t say as we’re close.”

A half-dwarf.  How rare, and interesting.  No wonder Thimble took such an interest in a human female.  Probably grew up with his
dad bragging. 
She trusted her instincts and rolled the dice.  “Actually, we weren’t that close either.  I didn’t take kindly to his advances, so he won’t be doing much more of that.  He did, however, point me in your direction.  If you know how to get through the mine, I would be grateful.”  She smiled that twisted little smile that most men couldn’t resist.

Barnabus stopped working and looked up.  He started shaking his head and chuckled.  “Well, so be it.  We live in a Dark World.  I’d ask what’s in it for me, but I’m guessing that’s what got Thimble into trouble with you to begin with.  Yeah, I can help you.  My
dad was a slave smuggler, and he knew those mine shafts by their smell.  Before he died, he drew me a map.  I’ve no interest in smuggling or mining—I do fine shaping iron.  Mum always said it was honest-man’s work.  You can have the map.  But know this—the mines are dangerous.  Trolls, or worse, you’ll find in there.”  He went inside and returned a few minutes later with a scroll case.  “Here.  Just leave in peace.  I don’t know your business, and I don’t care to either.”

Smart lad.
  Veronica took the case and looked at the map.  “Thank you, Barnabus.  I’ll leave you to your work.”  She rolled it up and put the map away.  She did throw him a piece of silver—not for the map, but for the courtesy of not forcing her to kill him.

Chapter 11:  Revelations

~Trevor~

Though not the first time Trevor had set foot in the seaport of Gaust, he was nevertheless always impressed by the grandeur of the city.  Shoal and Nervadine, the other port cities on the tips of the Three Fingers, were large and busy as well.  But Gaust had more wealth, better architecture, more marble and stone, older buildings—it was just a first-class city.

Walking tall in his special shoes, Trevor arrived in the city and began asking around the docks for ships heading west.  Soon winter would be upon Elvidor, and few would try to sail past the Great Whirlpool then.  It did not take him long to learn that one vessel,
The Modest Mermaid
, was set to leave with a shipment of ore from the Crystal Mountains, bound for the Great Isle between Adimand and Ipidine.  Finding passage from there to the western edge of Ipidine, where Xaro was refortifying Sands End, would be much easier from the Great Isle.  One of the dock workers told him to check inside the
Lazy Pour
tavern and ask for Helmut Bowhistle, first mate on the
Mermaid.

Though it was mid-afternoon, the tavern was crowded.  It took tipping the barkeep for Trevor to find Helmut, who was surrounded by several empty mugs, three other men, and a pair of dice.  His full beard was shot with grey, and his hands were cracked and bloody, like a man who spent his days laboring in the sun covered in salt water.  Or a bare-knuckled fighter.  Or perhaps both.

“I’m looking for Helmut Bowhistle,” Trevor said as he approached the group of men cautiously.  “I understand he sails on a ship headed west.”

The thin man with a scraggly beard looked up, eyes narrowed.  “Might be you found him.”  The other men
chuckled, eyeing Trevor suspiciously.  “What do you want with Helmut?”

Trevor smiled pleasantly.  “I’m looking for passage west.  If he’s first mate on the
Modest Mermaid
, I’d like to see if there’s room for one more.”

The man stood up.  “Well, I am Helmut Bowhistle, but I can tell you that our captain doesn’t take to freeloaders, and we’ve all the labor we’ll need.  So unless you’ve got gold to spend
—”

Trevor
anticipated this long before it was brought up.  He didn’t bother to negotiate.  He had half-again as much gold as he’d need to buy passage already bagged, and he tossed it to Helmut.  “When did you say the
Mermaid
departs?” He asked, motioning the barkeep for another round as he sat down with the sailors, uninvited.

Helmut opened the small bag, looked up at Trevor, and smiled.  “You throw dice?” was all he asked as the ale arrived.

~Magi~

The Elf’s Bane Pass was a curious split in the terrain.  Marik led Magi and Kyle out of Briz at a quick pace, steadily marching south toward the large city of Shith, on the western edge of the great forest Filestalas, home to many Elves.  Shith was near the sea toward the south, where the Strait of Holstine separated Elvidor from the continent of Oraz.  To the northeast was Lake Calm, the massive body of freshwater that stretched out for miles to form another barrier to the Elven homeland.  To get to this cosmopolitan city from across the Crystal Mountains, the Elf’s Bane was just about the only way through.  And the pass was aptly named.

It was enormously wide.  Magi could envision
a sea of people crossing fairly easily through the pass.  There were some jagged hills to his left and right, both impassable for an army or horses, but the way through could easily serve as a battlefield itself.  Though nobody knew for sure, legend had it that Quixatalor “blew a hole through the mountains to keep the Elves from withdrawing completely from the affairs of the world.”  Thus the name, or so Marik said with a smirk and a shrug.

As they passed through the mountains, Magi
grew annoyed by all the travelers they were passing.  It was entirely too crowded, and after many months of travelling in a small group, he found it more of a nuisance having all these people milling around through the gap.  Wagons, horses, some warriors and knights, merchants, gypsies, and all sorts of other travelers were slowing progress down, even though they were just walking.  It made it difficult to concentrate and mentally rehearse his spells. What’s more, Magi was increasingly sensitive about his personal space as well, having somehow lost his ring the last time they were packed together like this.

“Pardon me, good sir,” an older man said as he was jostled into Magi from the other direction.  He tipped his cap sheepishly.

Time seemed to slow as Magi called forth his magic.  He could almost
feel
the mountains on either side of him, and could easily pick out individual conversations from everyone packed into the pass.  He released himself to his Art…and sent a magic missile into the old man’s shoulder, knocking him and about six others close by to the ground from the point-blank blast.

“Get the hell away from me!” he shouted.  “Move aside!” he said loudly to everyone in his general vicinity.

The middle-aged man cried in pain as he held his smoking shoulder.  Several of the other travelers cursed Magi, and he thought he saw a couple swords rattle in the scabbards of some wandering knights.  But no one confronted him.  Except Kyle.

“Magi!  What are you doing?”  Kyle
ran to the hurt man and helped him sit up.  “Master, please help him,” he called to Marik.

Marik smiled to himself before round
ing on Magi to rebuke him.  Then he walked over and crushed some dry leaves on the man’s shoulder, healing him with relative ease.

Magi just scowled and kept walking.

~Queen Najalas~

“So, war is coming, Pilanthas.” The Queen said it as a statement, not a question.

“I’m afraid so.  It shall be the great conflict of this Age.  Perhaps of any Age, I fear.”  The old
Elf set his favored mead aside, instead joining his Queen in common ale from common cups.  It was perfect.  He took a long pull and wiped his ageless face with the sleeve on his green tunic before continuing.  “My Queen, as I have said, my council is that peace cannot be kept.  You must concern yourself with winning.  Or prepare to die by whatever means best suits you.”  The Elf allowed himself a modest laugh.

He acts more like an imp than a prophet.  Still…
Queen Najalas couldn’t help but like Pilanthas.  “Tell me again how I might win.  All this talk of Gods is a bit much.”

“God.  Not plural.  You are facing a foe with almost unlimited resources.
” The Elf paused. “Surely you have heard stories of Kuth-Cergor?”

“I have not lived 250 years, nor have I read a tenth of what you apparently have.  Pretend
that I know nothing.”

“Very well, b
ut there are some basic truths that you must come to grips with if we are to discuss your future, and strategy.  The first thing you must understand is that Kuth-Cergor is real; he is not a phantom.  He is a demon, and he has considerable power in this Dark World.”

“So you say.”  She took a sw
allow of her ale.  Simon was aghast at the prospect of his Queen swigging ale with an Elf in this overgrown library.

“So I know.  You would do well to trust me, my Queen.  The second truth is harder to grasp than the first:  Kuth-Cergor fancies himself a God, but he is far from it.  God does, however, exist.”

“Many Gods exist, Pilanthas.  You Elves have Gods.  So do the Dwarves, and we Humans worship all sorts of Gods to suit our needs.  What is your point and how does this help me win this war you say is coming?  I grow impatient.”

Pilanthas put his mug of ale down, stood up, and fixed the Queen with a piercing stare.  It was the first time he looked old and wise.  She actually flinched.  “You have much to learn, my Queen, if you would
hope to win this war.  Listen carefully to me now.  You cannot defeat Kuth-Cergor with your troops and political alliances.  He seeks to raise an undead army as we speak, and a young man travels to me this very day to learn of his prophecy, upon which much of this conflict will hinge.  You will need swords and you will need spears, yes.  But what you need most is God to enter this conflict.  Your general is not the match of Kuth-Cergor’s chosen one, and you are nowhere near the match of this demon or any of his minions on your own.  But there is a way.  You Humans, we Elves, the Dwarves, the Ogres—every race upon Tenebrae has been sold a Great Lie—that God has left us to our own devices.  We live in a ‘Dark World,’ that is what we all say, correct?  Well, God has not left this world.”

“Then where is
He?” the Queen shouted.

The Elf shook his head.
“
He
never left. 
Her
name is Dymetra.  Find the True Clerics, and you can fight Kuth-Cergor.  As I have said, you will need fighters, and you will need mages.  Many, for sure.  And even then, it may not be enough—our world may be too far gone for Dymetra’s liking.  But the True Clerics have it right, and with their help—even one True Cleric of Dymetra—you can change the world.”

“And where do I find a ‘True Cleric’
?” she asked, doing her best not to sound sarcastic.  Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You may not be able to find one at all.  The good news is that I believe one will find you.  And when they do, my council is simply this: help them with everything you can.”

~Malenec~

Malenec knelt in supplication, his black-rimmed eyes closed, his long hair stretched back into its usual severe pony tail.

It was midnight
, off the western coast of Urthrax on a crystal clear, warm night this far south.  He had left the comforts of the port city of Ilbindale and traveled toward the interior of the wreath-shaped continent, where it was heavily wooded.  Urthrax had always been a mysterious, holy land.  The sea slipped through the straight near the southern edge to form a massive lake, which wasn’t quite freshwater.  Beautiful trees grew in massive groves near the edge of this holy water that clerics had come to worship for centuries before they disappeared. 
The clerics have the truth of it, at least the True Clerics.

Malenec began his prayers to his God, hoping this time that his faith would be rewarded.  “My God, all I do is for you and your coming coronation.  You have given me the power to raise the dead.  Kuth-Cergor, in your name, I ask now that you will give me the dead to raise!  The power you granted me is only effective while the flesh still clings to memory of life
—after three days, I am powerless to animate the corpse.  Grant me a plague across any continent, and send me there that I may reap a mighty harvest for your army.  Grant me this, and I swear that I will hand you this world!”

Just then, a bird fell out of the sky and landed dead at the Dark Cleric’s feet.  His God’s answer also came straight into his consciousness
…

“
…No…”

Malenec got up and kicked the dead bird out of his way. 
Very well, my God.  As you wish.
  He had received the same answer every night since he gave Xaro his last update weeks ago.  But he knew better than to stop asking—Faith is the hallmark of any True Cleric’s life, of course.

That did not stop him from pursuing other options, however.  Perhaps Kuth-Cergor was testing his creativity.  Perhaps his God did not share his cleric’s vision of an undead army of 50,000
walking corpses.  To date, he had just over 50, having slaughtered villagers by the handful near the port city.  He would not meet with Xaro until he could deliver an army worthy of their God’s approval.  Oh no—that would not do.  He would bring that conjurer a mighty undead army.  Let Xaro crow when he sees
that.

But
Sands End, off the far western coast of Ipidine, was a world away.  Clearly, Kuth-Cergor was spurring him to make a bold decision, perhaps to prove his worth over his current favorite.  Malenec contented himself in the knowledge that he had a connection to their God that Xaro would never understand.

“I have three choices,” he said out loud to himself as he walked back toward his encampment.  “I can leave this holy land and head to Elvidor or Oraz, where there may be more inhabitants.  I can stay here and keep praying for more freshly-dead bodies.  Or I can unleash my modest army on the city of Ilbindale, which would certainly announce to the world that Kuth-Cergor has returned.”

“…Now you understand…”
  The voice of his God was as clear as a bell in the middle of the night, so much so that Malenec stopped and looked around.

Ilbindale it is.

~Veronica~

Veronica approached the place where the abandoned mine was supposed to begin (or end) near the end of a long day of hiking.  She sold her horse and bought a month
’s worth of supplies for her journey—mostly food, water, flint, and some climbing tools in case she had to get through some tight spots.  Her pack for such a lengthy journey was oversized and odd for a woman travelling alone to be carrying.