Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2) (33 page)

Of that, Pancras was certain.
Whatever they decided, he hoped it would involve keeping a safe, low profile
during the ocean voyage.

* * *

By the time Delilah returned to
the Arcane University from Grimstone Keep, darkness had fallen over the city.
Her mind reeled from all that Archduke Fyodar and the minotaur wizard Theros
revealed to her. She cursed herself for somehow becoming involved in another
dispute between the ruler and those who would be rulers.

“You’ve done it again,
Deli-girl.” Delilah paid no heed to passersby who regarded the drak talking to
herself with both concern and bemusement. “In over your head, in between two
rocks about to smash together.”

“Damn it!” She kicked a loose
cobblestone and sent it skipping across the street. The guards at the Arcane
University gates nodded in acknowledgement as she passed between them. Despite
hunger gnawing at her stomach, Delilah returned to her quarters and opened up
her grimoire. She had neglected her personal studies in favor of jumping
through hoops for everyone else, so to calm her mind, the drak sorceress
decided to indulge in a selfish pursuit.

Weeks and weeks of practice
amidst the other students of the university enabled her to tune out the others
in the area. As a result, coaxing the grimoire to come alive for her once more
took less time than she expected. The familiar scenes of Gil-Li the Graven
annihilating armies on a devastated battlefield, filled her mind.

Tendrils of aether swirled around
Gil-Li like a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of rainbow serpents. The tattoos etched
into her scales flared, and fire burst from her body. The flames grew in
intensity, swirling until they formed a humanoid shape. Gil-Li pointed toward
her enemies, and the furious fire creature dove into the fray, igniting those
near it and incinerating those it touched.

The scene shifted. Gil-Li stood
at an endless expanse of shore. Waves crashed against the rocks, and Delilah
tasted the salt spray of the ocean. Gil-Li’s tattoos glowed with arcane energy,
shining like a beacon in the night. Ships rocked on the surf in the distance.

Creatures rose up from the water
at Gil-Li’s bidding and rode the ebb current. The creatures pummeled the ships,
their watery fists as battering rams against wooden hulls. When they were
finished, the ships sank, claimed by the sea, and the creatures dissolved,
becoming one with the water from which they were formed.

Delilah’s mind raced. She’d seen
Gil-Li’s creature of earth before. Now, she witnessed creatures of fire and
water. It nagged at her. Only one element, air, remained. The scene dissolved,
scattering like a sand sculpture in a tempest. The drak sorceress heard a
snapping noise in front of her, but she saw nothing that would have caused such
a noise.

“Delilah!”

The drak sorceress’s eyes snapped
open. Katka stood beside her, clicking her fingers in the drak’s face.

“Wake up!”

Delilah slammed her book shut. “I
wasn’t asleep! I was concentrating!”

“Oh.” Katka stepped back, her
face reddening. “I’m sorry.”

Delilah’s ire faded. The young
woman couldn’t have known.

“I’ve never seen someone reading
with their eyes closed before.”

“This is an arcane grimoire.”
Delilah traced the pattern on the cover with a clawed finger. “You don’t really
read it as much as you open yourself up to it and experience it.”

She returned the book to her
pack. “Anyway, I was just trying to take my mind off some things. The archduke
and the archmage have me stuck in the middle of their power plays, and all I
want to do is learn some magic and go home.”

Delilah pulled the pack onto her
lap and wrapped her arms around it. She rested her head on top of the pack,
sighing. Not for the first time, she considered fleeing with Kale and Kali.
When the challenge was a pack of oroqs charging the city gate, Delilah was
prepared and able to act; however, when it involved navigating a political
swamp, she feared she would stumble into a sinkhole that would suck her down to
oblivion.

“Anyway, what do you need?”

“Master Galina is looking for
you.” Katka glanced over at a group of initiates who burst into laughter.
“Since your Novice Trials are three days from now, she wants to make sure
you’re not wasting her time.”

Delilah clenched her jaw and
narrowed her eyes. Katka picked her fingernails and shrugged. “Those were her
words.”

The drak hopped off the bed. “So
much for my free time.” She clapped Katka on the shoulder as she passed and
sought out Master Galina in the practice yard. She hoped to spend the next
three days deep in her grimoire. At the very least, she expected demands from
other wizards to lessen until her test.
Once the archmage apprentices me, I
bet they’ll all leave me alone.

Chapter 18

A few days’ layover in Curton
provided the perfect opportunity for Pancras to search for a suitable weapon.
The morning star he found in the fort was adequate, but it was made for a
human. A more suitable weapon would be one designed for a minotaur’s height and
reach.

Most of the smiths in town forged
weapons from iron imported from dwarven mines in the mountains south of the
city and showcased their wares in stalls in the marketplace. The ringing of
hammers on metal mixed with the drone of conversation as Pancras and Gisella
walked the cobblestone streets of Curton. The drying mud caking the cobbles
diminished the farther from the gates they trudged. Curton was a city of mostly
humans, though he spotted more than a few dwarves and draks. He seemed to be
the only minotaur, however. To his surprise, his appearance rated only a few
cursory glances. The people of Curton seemed to be all about minding their own
business.

“Have you decided yet what kind
of weapon you seek?” Gisella examined a broadsword while the smith prattled on
about the virtues of his dwarven steel.

“I’m getting too old to learn
fancy sword play”—Pancras lifted the morning star he brought for comparison—“so
something like this, but better built for minotaurs would be ideal.”

“Nothing like that here.” The
smith shook his head as he glanced at Pancras. “Piotr likes to make ugly
weapons. His shop is behind the sausage tent.”

Pancras thanked the smith and
left him to his other customers.

“Do you think Edric is serious
about staying behind here?” Pancras clasped his hands behind his back as they
walked. He towered over most of the people in Curton, a distinct advantage when
navigating the crowded market.

“He’s made his dislike of water
clear. Come to think of it, I have never heard of a dwarven sailor.” Gisella
pointed to the sausage tent.

It was hard to miss a large tent
where ropes of cured meat dangled like curtains. Clanging, which emanated from
the building behind the sausage tent, indicated the presence of another smithy.

“Go on ahead; I’m going to see if
there are any cured meats to tide us over until we arrive in Vlorey.” Gisella
entered the sausage-maker’s tent, leaving Pancras alone to shop for his weapon.

The smith working behind the
sausage tent was a mountain of a man. Muscles like knotted rope flexed as he
hammered away at a glowing bar of iron. Sweat poured down his brow, soaking
into bushy eyebrows, which matched a salt-and-pepper beard that would do the
mightiest dwarf proud. The odor of perspiration mixed with brimstone made
Pancras’s eyes water.

He glanced up when Pancras
cleared his throat. His brow furrowed, and his eyebrows came together like two
fuzzy caterpillars kissing in the middle of his forehead. “Whatchoo wont?”

Pancras wasn’t sure what exactly
the smith said; his words were quick and slurred together.

The minotaur held up his morning
star. “Are you Piotr? I’m looking for something like this, but more suited to
my size.”

“I got what you see.” The smith
gestured to the racks on the walls and resumed his hammering.

Were he in Drak-Anor, Pancras
would commission a weapon, but forging one from scratch would take weeks, more
time than they could afford to spend in Curton. Piotr’s swords were
broad-bladed and seemed more suited to chopping than for light-footed
swordplay. His axe heads were equally broad and covered with ornate etching and
fretwork. There was an artistry to the brutality of his weapon designs, and
Pancras wondered if he’d been trained by a dwarf.

Next to the rack of swords and
axes stood a rack of hammers. They weren’t weapons, per se, rather than they
were the types of hammers used by builders and crafters. Above them, on a
display set off from the other tools, was a spike-backed hammer with a head as
large as four sledgehammer heads put together. The face was knobby, and the
entire weapon appeared to be forged from a single piece of red-tinted steel.
Pancras felt a longing well in his heart, a sensation he recognized as coming
not from within, but from his connection with Aita.

He reached up and grasped the
weapon, lifting it from its mount. It was heavy but felt balanced in his hand.
The haft was long enough for him to wield with two hands, yet as he gave it a
practice swing, one hand would suffice if need be. Unfamiliar runes were carved
into the head of the weapon. They appeared to be related to dwarven runes but
were of a dialect with which Pancras was unfamiliar.

“How much for this one?”

Piotr glanced up from the blade
he formed from a bar of iron and grunted. “Shatterskull. Figures. Not for
sale.”

“Shatterskull.” The name could
not be more perfect. Pancras would not be deterred by the first refusal. Many
merchants intending to haggle would refuse a sale on the first attempt as a
matter of course.

“If it is not for sale, why is it
with these other weapons? You indicated these were what you had for sale.”
Shatterskull felt at home in Pancras’s hand.

Piotr slammed down his hammer on
the blade he was working. “Not for sale to you, minotaur.”

Pancras understood. It wasn’t a
sentimental attachment to the weapon; rather, it was a racism issue. He was not
to be deterred. “It’s a gift. For a friend.”

“Ha!” Piotr plunged the glowing
steel into the forge and worked the bellows. “Many fine axes here. Pick one of
those instead. Make you good deal.”

Pancras would not argue the
merits of Piotr’s fine axes. “Shatterskull calls to me.”

“Shatterskull needs someone
worthy. Someone with a just cause.” Piotr wiped his hands on his apron and left
the half-formed blade to heat in the forge. He walked over to Pancras and
reached out to grab the maul from the minotaur’s grasp.

Emerald lighting played over
Shatterskull’s head when the smith touched it. Pancras felt the power of Aita
flow into the weapon, transforming the runic carvings into the relief of a red
skull. Piotr gasped and recoiled, releasing Shatterskull. The weapon’s head
reverted to its original appearance.

“Sorcery!” Piotr took up his
smith’s hammer and held it above his head, poised to strike. “You’ll not
ensorcell me. Guards! Guards!”

“Aita has made her will known.”
Pancras regarded Shatterskull in wonder, heedless of Piotr’s will. He felt her
power infusing the weapon, knowing it pleased her. He heard shouts of alarm
from the marketplace outside, but he was too engrossed in the sensation of power
coursing through his body to pay it any mind.

Piotr’s beard quivered as he
stood shouting for the guards. The power coursing through the maul faded.
Pancras was reluctant to part with Shatterskull, so he stood there, shoulders
slumped, and waited.

Gisella arrived from the sausage
tent at the same time as a dark-skinned woman in gleaming plate armor. Her hair
was pulled back in tight braids, and she rested her hand on the hilt of her
sword as she regarded the standoff between the smith and the minotaur with
pursed lips and scowling eyes.

“What is going on here?” The
woman spoke like a native of the area, though her skin color told of more
northerly origins.

“I can’t leave you alone for five
minutes!” Gisella’s tone was between exasperation and amusement. She hefted a
sack full of dried sausages over her shoulder.

“Lady Aveline! This minotaur put
a spell on me! He seeks to rob me!” Piotr pointed an accusing finger at
Pancras, even as he continued to hold his hammer in an attack-ready position.
Pancras marveled over how steady his arm remained for the duration.

Lady Aveline closed her eyes and
took a deep breath before turning toward Pancras. “In public, no less? A bold
move. Foolish, but bold.”

Pancras licked his lips. “I did
no such thing. I am a Bonelord of Aita, and my goddess made her will known when
this man refused to sell me this weapon. I am more than happy to provide fair
compensation for his craftsmanship.” He raised Shatterskull for her
examination.

“A bonelord? Really?” Lady
Aveline raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t break Pancras’s gaze. She was about
the same height as Gisella and wore her armor the way a noblewoman at court
wore a gown. The clasp of her blue cloak bore the seal of the City Watch of
Curton.

“Mi’lady?” Gisella bowed her
head. “I travel with this minotaur and can vouch for his status.”

“And she consorts with robbers!”
Piotr’s voice rose an octave.

“Quiet, Piotr.” Lady Aveline
rubbed the bridge of her nose with a gloved finger. “Who are you? Both of you.”

“Gisella Jorgandottir, the Golden
Slayer, from the Arcane University in Muncifer.” Gisella placed her free arm
across her chest and bowed.

“Pancras, Bonelord of Aita, First
Wizard of Drak-Anor.” Pancras tilted his head toward Lady Aveline.

“A wizard-cum-bonelord and a
slayer.” Lady Aveline dropped her hand to her side and sighed. “Why were you
trying to enchant poor Piotr?”

“I wasn’t.” Pancras stared at
Shatterskull. No matter how much he concentrated on the maul, he couldn’t make
it transform again.

“Piotr, tell me what happened.”

“I told him he couldn’t buy it,
and he used his foul magic on me.” The smith lowered his hammer at last, but
backed away from Pancras.

“I need more details than that,
Piotr. What sort of magic did he use on you?”

“The maul”—Piotr gestured with
his smith’s hammer—”He gave it a face! A terrible face… He means to devour my
soul with it!” The smith again raised his hammer to strike. Lady Aveline
stepped over and snatched it from him as she pushed the smith backward with her
other hand.

“I do not know what gods you
venerate, or even if you believe they can show their will in such direct ways.”
Pancras rubbed his right horn as he spoke. “The skull our good smith saw was a
sign from Aita. I will gladly compensate the smith for this weapon. Fine
craftsmanship deserves payment.”

Lady Aveline flared her nostrils
and pursed her lips. “Why are the least popular gods always the biggest
showoffs?”

Pancras blinked. “What?”

“Piotr, think for a moment.” She
placed her hand on the smith’s shoulder. “If this minotaur truly is a Bonelord
of Aita, and the Princess of the Underworld gave a sign, don’t you think you
should avail yourself of this opportunity?”

Gisella nudged Pancras, and
leaned in close, and lowered her voice. “You might have some work to do here.”

Pancras didn’t understand her
insinuation. Bonelords sought out and destroyed rampaging undead and death
cults. Sometimes they were called upon to help the suffering cross over, but he
knew nothing about smithing.

“What do you mean?” The smith
narrowed his eyes as they darted from Lady Aveline to the minotaur and back.

“Your mother, Piotr.”

The color drained from the
smith’s face. He stammered and stared at his feet. Pancras was not sure what
the guard intended for him to do with Piotr’s mother. He held up his hand. “I
don’t know that I can do anything. I’m not a healer.”

Piotr mumbled something
unintelligible. Lady Aveline turned to Pancras. “She’s afflicted with an
illness Apellon’s healers cannot cure. She lingers and suffers. Her mind is
gone, yet”—she glanced at the smith—“Piotr and his wife still care for her. It
is a most unfortunate situation.”

Gisella placed her hand on
Pancras’s arm. “One for which a bonelord is called.”

Pancras gulped. In his heart, he
realized he wasn’t ready for the most sacred of bonelord responsibilities—ending
the suffering of the dying. It was a fine line between that and murder. He
breathed in deeply and did something he had never done before.

He offered a silent prayer to
Aita for guidance.

* * *

Kale was awakened by an insistent
yipping at the foot of his bed. Through bleary eyes, he saw a glowing blue
boggin hopping near his feet. When it noticed he saw it, it stood still.

“Mistress Delilah wants me to
inform you that her Novice Trials are in two days. She wants you to meet her at
The Stone Maiden tomorrow at dusk.”

The boggin disappeared in a puff
of blue smoke. Rolling over, he woke Kali before stumbling from the bedroom. He
stifled a yawn while he stoked the fire in the cooking hearth. They threw a
couple of bangers into a skillet, and Kale shook it over the fire as they began
to sizzle and pop.

Banging at the door drew their
attention away from the preparation of their meal. Kali shuffled to answer it
as Kale finished cooking. She returned, leading a drak with broken horns and
whose scales were such a dark hue of blue Kale mistook them for black at first.

“Tell him what you told me.” Kali
plopped into a chair at the table and buried her head in her hands as she
yawned.

“Boss Steelhand wants another
meeting.” The drak sniffed the air while wrinkling his nose at the sausages
Kale cooked.