Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) (6 page)

Britger-Stoun held fast for a few moments before the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“I still don’t like it,” Martin said as the blindfold tightened about his face. His and Alma’s hands were already bound behind them, and another dwarf worked at covering her eyes.

“Ye’ll be freed once we’re on our way, in the tunnels. Nothing to see there.” Britger laughed.

Martin sat back against the bale of hay and appeared to relax, leaning into Alma, who was now kerchiefed securely.

The wagon lurched ahead and rumbled down the roadways the last few miles to the secluded barn.

Armed dwarves burst from the farmhouse, making sure that the passengers were secured before opening the barn door and lashing an odd-looking contraption into the back of the wagon.

Bertus stared at the two large stretched hide drums that hung suspended by leather harness, filling almost half of the back of the wagon. Hooded brass lanterns were lit and hung from hooks in the front and rear of the wagon.

Britger-Stoun fussed with the harnesses of the muscular ponies that led the wagon, and made sure that the reins of the three horses following the wagon were tied at the corners and midpoint of the rear of the conveyance. He drove the team down the ramp and continued on to the rough stone bumps that Bertus had walked upon when he’d followed the last wagon down into the tunnel.

“All right,” Britger announced. “Untie them.”

Bertus loosed the knots that had been tied rather forgivingly around Alma’s wrists, and allowed her to release Martin.

“Where…?” Martin rubbed his eyes and peered back at the ramp that coiled up and around the corner, then ahead to a darkening infinity.

“Are ye going te gawk, or drum?” Britger growled, handing Martin a pair of age-worn sticks tipped with milky-white spheres. “Slowly, at first, until yer horses get used te it.”

Martin scowled, rubbing his wrists before accepting the sticks. Testing the drums, he tapped one with a globed end, resulting in a hollow
toom
.

One of the ponies snorted, and the wagon lurched ahead and to the side.

“Steady!” Britger snarled. Martin waited for the horses to calm down.

“Not them, you!” the driver flicked the tip of a rein that cracked like a whip inches from Martin’s ear. “They don’t understand Common!” A string of curses in his native language spilled forth, and the ponies stamped uneasily. “Drum!”

Anger at their treatment over the last few hours flared, and Martin swung the drumstick with all his might, and the sound boomed around and through him. He struck the other drum, and the slight variance in pitch rose and twined around the other tone that was just starting to fade.

“Better!” Britger-Stoun called through the thrumming din. “Now,
steady!
”

Half a dozen beats on each drum, and Martin’s arms were already starting to burn. Before he knew it, the base of the ramp was lost in the darkness behind them, the wind picking up at his back, blowing stray strands of straw past where he pounded on the giant instrument. He leaned against the hay bale behind him, watching the horses galloping along behind in time with the beating drum between them. The tone of the drumbeats evened out as he found the correct rhythm, and a new sound rose below the deep thrum that seemed to shake itself through his entire body. Too scattered to be a whistle, too low to be a squeak, he shook off the image of hundreds of tiny millstones grinding away at nothing.

The sound ebbed, and the whistling wind tore at the hanging lanterns. The swinging light sources threw odd shadows at the seamless walls and ceilings, but Britger and the stout ponies kept the wagon barreling down the center of the path. The ringing of shod hooves against stone settled into a soothing rhythm that accented the drumbeats. Britger pulled the brake, and the wheels slowed and locked, but the speed they traveled at increased.

Hours passed, and the burning in Martin’s arms had long since faded to numbness. Each drumbeat struck as true and as firm as the last, as the first. He wondered if he would be able to stop when asked, if he truly controlled his arms at all. The speed they traveled, judging by the wind at his back, was unnatural at best. He dared not slow down, nor waste a breath on trying to shout a question into the wind behind him.

Bertus sat alongside Britger, peering ahead into the unchanging distance. His eyes watered from the strain, and dried in the wind. The musty air was punctuated only with occasional horse flatulence. Traces of fine dust swirled and caked on the front of their clothing, collecting in wrinkles of fabric and escaping as the riders shifted position.

Glints of silver spiked the sides of the tunnel, and Britger-Stoun’s hand moved again to the brake lever.

“Hold fast!” he shouted, releasing the brake. The wheels turned back slowly at first, the horses groaning at the increased drag, then charging harder to compensate for it.

The wagon lurched as it passed between the shining markers. Wheels that had begun spinning backwards surged forward, threatening to drive them over the team that led the way. Britger pulled the brake lever again, and the ride resumed its maniacal familiarity.

“That’s the only break in this line,” the dwarf yelled over the whistle of the wind. “We’ve only lost two teams te it this generation!”

Bertus’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail and the seat-board tighter, ready for the journey to be over.

“Are you all right?” Alma asked Martin, the wind nearly tearing the words from her lips as she spoke them.

The focused drumming kept him from answering, but even in the flickering lantern light, she could see that all the color had drained from Martin’s face.

“Let me help.”

Climbing under Martin’s swinging arm, Alma slid in front of her husband, nestled her back against him, and scooted back onto the bale of hay he sat on. She twined her arms around his, feeling the beat, sensing the rhythm that drove them onward toward their destination. After a minute, her fingers overlapped his hands and wrapped around the drumsticks, grasping them firmly enough that Martin could let go.

His connection to the strange phenomenon severed, Martin sagged, slid further back on the baled hay, and slipped into unconsciousness.

Three awkward beats, and Alma found the rhythm. The team coursed ahead, steadier than before. Smooth stone walls masked the miles that their journey devoured. The headwind they fought was the best indication of their progress, and even that seemed unreliable, at best. Her hair whipped around her face, streaming behind like a frayed pennant, but her eyes were closed. She felt, rather than saw the drums, focusing only on her breathing and the music. The whine of whirling stone cylinders mirrored her breaths, ebbing and flowing with eerie similarity.

Martin woke hours later when Britger-Stoun called out from the front bench.

“Steady!” the dwarf called, turning to make sure he’d been heard. “We’re almost there.”

The first opposing drumbeat took Alma by surprise. Her concentration and hands were both shaken by the unfamiliar beat. No sooner had she recovered from the surprise, than another beat pounded into her. She could feel the wagon slowing, the decreasing wind from behind her let her lean back into Martin, who was only starting to sit up.

“Keep drumming!” Britger screamed, moving his hand to the wagon’s brake.

Alma sat forward, tightening her grip on the drumsticks, and smoothed out the tempo, a task made far more difficult now that the trance she’d been in for the last few hours had been broken.

The drumbeats from ahead sped up, building until there was one for every two that Alma struck. The wind calmed, and the air freshened.

Britger released the brake lever, and the wheels rolled lazily forward, lurching the wagon only slightly as they burst into a large lighted chamber. “Ho!” he called, and the drumming from the chamber stopped a few beats before Alma managed to control herself.

“
Bertus-Oscare!
” Britger-Stoun shouted as scowling dwarves swarmed the wagon, snatching the drums and sticks away from Alma. The king’s nephew shouted a few choice words in his native language before pointing to the blindfold hanging around the Warrior’s neck. “My apologies,” he growled.

“About time,” Bertus said, slipping the blindfold up and over his head. It was an hour later, and several spiral ramps, ear-popping pressure changes, and creaking stone doors lay behind them. The familiar sights and smells of the Dwarven Hold’s stable surrounded him, and he leapt down to greet the hostlers and help with the care of their horses.

“A-Ah…” Britger-Stoun stammered. “I’m sure Uncle will want te see ye straightaway.”

Bertus laughed. “When this is finished. We’ll not keep him waiting as long as last time.”

Martin and Alma followed behind Bertus as they were led through the winding tunnels and passages that led to the chambers of the Dwarven King. The Warrior called out greetings to those he knew in the rudimentary Dwarven he had learned on his last visit. Work stopped as the procession passed, cheers of welcome mingled with murmurs of confusion at Mirsa’s absence, and the addition of the two newcomers.

“Behr-toos!” Bargthar-Stoun cried out, leaping from the Seat of Earth before the group was halfway across the chamber. The overexcited ruler backhanded a guard that stumbled into him near the base of the stairs that led up to the throne, and motioned for the rest of them to stay where they were.

“Heee-Ro.” The King stopped a few steps before Bertus, and extended his arm in a formal greeting. “Muhr-sah?” he asked, peering over Bertus’s shoulder to his companions.

“Mirsa still journeys with Kylgren-Wode and Rhysabeth-Dane, Highness.”

Bargthar-Stoun nodded as Britger translated. “
Anch seite?
”, he asked, pointing to the knife at the Warrior’s hip.

“Your old sword?” the King’s nephew asked.

“The first leg of my journey was magical, I was forced to leave it behind.”

Bargthar-Stoun nodded at the translation and pointed to one of his guards, yelling something that Bertus could not understand. The guard bowed, then fled from the chamber.

“
Hoo
?” Questioning eyes squinted at Martin and Alma.

“Alma, sister to Kevon, and her husband, Martin.”

The dwarves argued back and forth for a time, as Martin and Alma fidgeted.

“What is it?” Bertus prodded Britger-Stoun in a lull in the squabble.

“Yer people don’t abide the use of iron and sorcery, do they?”

“No, they do not,” Bertus sighed. “If you are unable to help us, I understand.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Our people have been waiting fer him since before the wars. We have te help ye.”

Chapter 11

“I still don’t like it,” Reko declared as the cabin door closed behind Kevon and the others. “We should not have to risk so much for them, when it would be so easy to turn them over to-”

“Not your decision, I’m afraid.” Captain Yusa chuckled at his friend. “I value your counsel, but you are not always right.”

“I’d like that to stay between us,” the Mage growled, vanishing with a gesture and a soft
whoosh
.

Yusa strode to the cabin door and opened it. “Tea, now,” he told the sailor standing closest to him. He returned to his desk to wait for the herbal brew, rubbing at his neck.

‘Captain?” Kevon asked, poking his head through the still-open door.

“What now?”

“If we’re causing trouble between you and your-”

“Nonsense. Arguing with Reko is one of my favorite things. Despite the headache it usually brings.” He kneaded at his neck a moment longer, stopping just shy of the scar at the base of his skull. “Was there something else you needed?”

“I was hoping to speak more with Reko,” Kevon confessed. “I’m not having as much trouble so far this voyage, but was wondering how he copes with the sea so well.”

Yusa laughed. “We don’t sail to the north! I tried once, nearly drove him mad. Never seen him so upset. No, we stay to the shallows. If the weather is calm, you can always see the bottom below us. That’s one headache I don’t need.”

“I’m grateful for that, then,” Kevon admitted. “Our last voyage was not an easy one. It came close to claiming my sanity, and our lives.”

“We’ll be out of the shipping lanes soon, and beyond my experience. What lies between here and the Glimmering Isle is a mystery to us all.”

“I only hope the Isle has more in the way of answers than mysteries for us,” the Warrior sighed.

“How’s that?” Yusa asked, waving Kevon to silence as he answered a knock on the cabin door, and took the tray from one of his crewmen. “Please continue,” he said, pouring two cups of the steaming brew from the silver pot.

“It’s nothing, really,” Kevon shrugged. “A riddle, a cipher, in a book we’ve been given.”

“Nothing?” Yusa sputtered, wiping flecks of tea from the corners of his mouth before focusing his stare at Kevon again. “Your idea of ‘nothing’ involves assassins, and lighthearted journeys to the Glimmering Isle?”

“It’s complicated,”

“You mean magic, I assume. Nothing like a book worth killing over to make a fellow’s thoughts turn to sorcery.”

Kevon nodded, and sipped the hot tea, the bitter undertones almost hidden by the minty taste. “We think it is a book of spells, but we’re unable to read it. We have only a fraction of it translated, our only guess at the next part lies with the elves.”

“My guess is you’ll have to lock the book away in an ironbound chest to keep Reko from trying to help. His love of games and puzzles is disturbing at times.”

“We’re not ungrateful for what you’ve done to help us,” Kevon said carefully. “Or Master Reko, either, for that matter. It’s just that…”

“Trust is a funny thing, lad. I understand.”

The wind died on the third night out, and Kevon woke as he felt the magic begin to work in the water all around the ship. He shrugged into his tunic and boots, and stumbled up the stairway to the deck.

Crew members tended their duties with only the slightest hint of unease. The last stars of the morning were still visible through the lessened obstruction of now-furled sails.