The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1] Page 4

  He looked at Charity, and shrugged. “In case we get out of here.”

  * * * *

  Gilgafed shook his head, but the feeling grew stronger. It niggled at him like a bug crawling under his silks. He pushed the platter away, and stood up. The pleasures of the flesh would have to wait; his mind was involved elsewhere now.

  A curving flight of stone steps joined his bedroom to the scrying chamber. He took them two at a time, commanding the image to appear even as he entered the small room. The shaping flowed over the glass, warping it into a bridge between dimensions. It was a matter of mere will to center upon the disturbance. The mists swirled clockwise, then reversed direction and parted to reveal the children picking their way through his geode. A bubble of irritation formed in his belly. So, his Wyrm had failed him. He sent another shaping along the Scrypath, this one with even more urgency, along with a promise of what would happen if he were disappointed again.

  * * * *

  The twins, by dint of shear good fortune, made it through the geode without cutting their feet, though their sandals would need some attention later if they were to hold together. The cavern they entered spread higher and wider than the one before. It lacked the many stalagmites and stalactites of the previous cavern, but boasted a number of huge pillars with roots deep into ceiling and floor. The cavern extended off to their left, and branched with both avenues vanishing into shadow. They stood on a low plateau within the expanse. Another plateau of similar size covered the opposite wall. Between them lay a valley with a small stream running its length. The stream disappeared under a path that followed along the cavern's right hand wall, and formed into steps leading up to the opposite plateau. The steps looked like they'd been carved rather than shaped by nature.

  They walked over to the edge to see where the path began, and a horrendous stench rising up from the valley floor met them. They fell back, choking and gagging.

  Charity had never smelled anything so foul. Not even when Uncle Bal accidentally kicked over the chamber pot after his bout of dysentery, and that had been bad. Aunt Doreen had to scrub the floor with lye while she and Adam rinsed it with water drawn up from the creek.

  Adam shook her by the shoulder while he held his other hand over his nose. He pointed across the valley. She saw nothing of particular interest. She tried to breathe as little as possible, and shook her head at him. He pointed again, pumping his arm for emphasis. Charity looked again, and she saw it. Just beyond the end of the stairs, a small patch of blue shone like a beautiful jewel in the wall of the cavern. She looked at Adam, and let out her breath in a whoosh. “How are we going to get over there?”

  “Walk, I guess.”

  “I can't do it. I'll sick up, I know I will.”

  “I don't think we have any choice.”

  “It smells horrible, can't you see what it is?”

  Adam turned away from the plateau edge and took in a deep breath. Holding it in, he walked back to the edge and looked over. He turned a sudden white, and emptied his stomach, which caused Charity to do the same.

  They lay there for some time, just gasping. Charity looked at Adam. He was pale and sweating. “What ... did ... you ... see?”

  Adam looked like he would vomit again. Charity hoped not. She had nothing else to bring up but bile. He turned to look at her. His eyes looked haunted. “I think it belongs to that Dragon we ran away from. It looks like his chamber pot.”

  “But there's no such thing as Dragons.”

  Adam gulped, and he pointed behind her. “Tell that to him.”

  Charity turned, and a small scream escaped from her. The beast was rounding the corner of one of the cavern's branches, hissing like steam being vented at the hot springs.

  “The pit take that Dragon and his chamber pot. We're getting out of here.” Charity took hold of Adam's hand, and jumped over the plateau's edge, pulling Adam with her. The dung heap cushioned their fall wetly as they rolled and slid, squelching to the cavern floor.

  Fear drove the stench from their minds as they scrambled away from the edge of the heap and ran along the path toward the steps leading to the patch of blue. They could hear the hiss of the Dragon closing in behind them.

  The patch of blue showed clearly now, it lay at the end of a small tunnel cut into the cavern wall. The walls of the tunnel glistened with moisture. Charity thought she could hear birdsong coming through the opening, while the thump of the Dragon's feet grew louder behind her. She saw Adam dive headfirst into the tunnel, and dove in after him. The moss lining the tunnel made for a slippery ride downward towards the light.

  Behind her the Dragon roared. The sound was deafening inside the tube. She heard a splash, and then she was in daylight and falling. A gout of searing flame erupted from out of the tube, scorching the air above her, and then she hit water.

  * * * *

  The Sorcerer threw his goblet against the mirror, smashing the glass, ending the shaping, and spattering red wine across the priceless tapestry next to the frame. He ignored the loss, as well as the wine dripping onto the ivory inlay of the floor. “Cobain!” His servant would take care of the mess. Blast that Wyrm to the pit and beyond. What he'd done to it had satisfied his temper, slightly, but now he was going to have to hatch and train another of the stinking things. It would be nearly a day or more before he could shape that strongly again, and so he had to rely on more mundane solutions to his problem.

  A thought struck him, and he reached out to pull a velvet cord rich with silver embroidery. Trolls should do the job.

  He felt better already.

  * * * *

  The water felt cool, and smelled of fresh herbs. Adam kept himself crouched low, so only his eyes and nose showed above the surface. His gaze stayed locked onto the opening in the cliff wall. A tendril of smoke wafted up from a scorch mark at its top edge.

  Charity swam over and joined him behind the cattails. “It's been long enough, I think we're safe.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Charity stood up. The water came up to her hips. She sniffed herself. “Sure enough to take the time to scrub this gunk off of me.”

  Adam rose out of the water, and sniffed himself. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “I see what you mean.”

  They saw a cluster of what Aunt Doreen called soap bush growing along the edge of the creek. They tore some of the leaves away, and rubbed them against their skin and clothes. Bubbles and a sweet fragrance formed under the scrubbing, breaking up the slime clinging to them, and washing it away in the current.

  It took a while, but finally they were clean, and they climbed out of the creek and took stock of their surroundings. The creek they'd landed in ran along the base of a cliff that rose vertically, ending in a slight overhang several yards above them. Cattails grew thickly in clumps on the side away from the rock, and a forest of mixed trees stood well away from the creek, with a narrow field of tall grasses and wildflowers before it. Songbirds mixed their melodies into a choral as butterflies sampled the wildflowers.

  “I wish Aunt Doreen could see this.” Charity walked through the grasses, stooping now and again to smell a flower.

  Adam patted himself down, and gave a small cry of triumph. “Ha! They're still here.” He held up one of the Emeralds. “See.”

  Charity looked at the green stone. “I see.” She said softly.

  “What's wrong?”

  A tear traced a path down her cheek. “I don't believe we'll ever see our village again. I think we've been magiked like one of the stories Uncle Bal used to tell us at bedtime.”

  Adam put the Emerald away, and wiped a trickle of water away from his eyes. “No, we're not. This is probably just the other side of our forest. All we need to do is find the sun, and then we can tell which direction to go.” He smiled. “We might even find ourselves home in time for supper.”

  She gave him a small pout. “Now you've made me remember how hungry I am.”

  Adam puffed up his chest, feeling every inch the older brother. “Don
't worry, we'll find something to eat in the forest. Berries, at the very least.”

  * * * *

  The trolljin helper saw them enter the wood from the pasture, and followed them, leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree. It's long, scaled tail helped to balance the leaps through the treetops. The creature had no real thoughts as to why it must follow the boy and girl, only a desire to fulfill the purpose. So it kept them in sight, trusting in its mottled green and brown coloration to shield it from prying eyes.

  The boy and girl rummaged through the bushes, and brushed fallen leaves aside near the trunks of the trees. They appeared to be looking for something. When the boy called the girl over to a Redberry bush heavy with fruit, the trolljin saw it was food they looked for. It had no use for fruit, but it knew what hunger was.

  A raven landed in a branch next to it, and began to preen. The bird had only time for a short squawk before its neck was broken and the head was torn from the body. Raven was not a favorite meat but it would serve for a meal before completing the task the troll had set before it.

  * * * *

  “These look like Red Huckleberries, but they taste different.” Adam popped another of the bright red berries into his mouth.

  “They're food, that's good enough.” Charity chewed another handful. The berries were sweeter than the huckleberries near their cottage. She reached out to pluck some more, and then pulled back her hand. “I'm getting tired of these; let's go see if we can find something different.”

  Adam had not tired of the red berries. Huckleberries, even very sweet ones like these were one of his favorite treats, but he didn't want Charity breaking into tears again, so he stripped a branch of its fruit, and pushed the lot into his mouth. “OK,” he mumbled around the mouthful, “Let's go.”

  For someone with a little woodsman's knowledge, the forest offered up a buffet of choices. A wide variety of fruit and nut trees grew within sight of the path. Under fallen leaves and attached to the trunks of trees sprouted a number of edible mushrooms. Wild potato and Sunchoke could be found with just a little digging, and Sweet Pea vines seemed to be everywhere where a patch of sunlight shone.

  The twins were fortunate to have had the early training Uncle Bal had given them in woodcraft, for along with the edibles, the forest offered the unwary snacker several unpleasant ways to die.

  Charity crunched a wild potato while they walked. “I don't think I've ever eaten so much in my life.”

  “I don't think so, either.” Adam let loose with a loud belch.

  “Scuz you.”

  “Sorry. The path forks up ahead. Which one do we take?”

  Charity bounced a forefinger back and forth. “Eenie, meanie ... The one on the right?”

  “Suits me.”

  They took the chosen fork, and nearly collided with a strange little man coming the opposite direction, and carrying a parcel on his back.

  He was very short, only coming up to their waist, but had shoulders at least twice as broad as Adam's. A bushy, orange-red beard brushed his knees, and the long hair of his head hung down his back in two thick braids. The muscles on his arms matched those that corded his legs, and he wore a stained mail shirt over a tightly knitted wool tunic. The tunic was belted at the waist with a thickly studded leather strap. The tunic's hem fell below the dwarf's knees into a kind of kilt, and his feet were bare of any covering, but horny with callus.

  The Dwarf stopped short, and scowled at the twins, looking them up and down. Then he blew through his mustaches and pulled the parcel off his back. He thrust it towards them as he said in a gruff, strangely accented voice. “You're the ones. Take this.”

  Adam took the parcel automatically, not knowing what to say. The little man abruptly turned on his heel, and stalked off.

  Charity gaped. “Wha...? Who ... What was that all about?”

  Adam knelt and began unwrapping the parcel. It was of fine linen, yellowed with age, and bound with twine. Charity knelt to help with the untying. Inside the parcel lay a sword within a belted scabbard beautifully worked with gold and Emeralds. Next to the scabbard lay a longbow of carved Yew, with enameled tips and a quiver filled with arrows. The arrows were finished with burgundy fletchings and ivory nocks.

  A second parcel of linen lay folded within the first. As Adam pulled the sword from the scabbard, Charity unfolded the parcel. Her gasp drew Adam's attention from the sword.

  “Clothes. Real clothes.” Charity held up a tunic of fine white linen.

  “Look at this. Boots!”

  “Feel how soft they are.”

  “Trousers! They look new!”

  Each of them chose an appropriate bush for cover, stripped out of their rags, and quickly put on the clothing. They spent a good long while looking at themselves and at each other in their new outfits, assuring each other that the King and Queen themselves never wore finer.

  The clothing was actually of the kind worn by working class people of middle means. It consisted of a good, long-wearing tunic, jackets and trousers of a heavier material woven to take the wear and tear of daily life. There were also tall boots with a fold-over cuff of softened leather, and with a heel and sole of hardened leather, and a hooded woolen cloak, large and heavy enough to use as a blanket on the open road.

  Adam discovered an amulet on a chain with a small note attached. The note said simply for the boy's stone. He took the strapped pouch off, and slipped the chain over his head. In the center of the amulet was an opening approximating the size and shape of his rock, so he tried placing his rock into the opening, round face first. There was a click, and the stone became firmly joined as the centerpiece of the amulet. A brief flash of brilliance washed across the polished surface of the stone and was gone.

  “Charity. Did you see that?”

  “No. I was trying to read this note.” She held up a parchment that looked to be written upon with brown ink. “I can read the other one because it's like the letters Aunt Doreen taught us, but this one has writing of a type I've never seen before.”

  “What other one?”

  She held up a smaller parchment. It was written in the same hand as the larger, but Charity was right, these letters he could read. They said:

  I write this assuming the Dwarves have fulfilled their obligation, yet to be done, to me. I write this also knowing my death is sure, as sure as this breath I take. You are of my kin though you know me not. Nor could you ever, for the mists of centuries separate us, and my bones are now dust...

  * * * *

  The trolljin crouched low on the branch, gathering its legs beneath it for the leap. Its tail twitched, cat-like, and it sprang, claws extended, reaching.

  * * * *

  A creature resembling a cross between a cat and a lizard bred with a monkey slammed into Adam, knocking him to the ground. Leaping from his back, it grabbed the scabbard from the parcel, and dashed toward the bushes, trailing the prize after it. Charity stepped into its path and grabbed at the scabbard. The Trolljin struck back at her with a snarl, and then all Adam could see was a churning whirl of the creature and his sister blended into a hissing, spitting, screaming scrum.

  The sword and scabbard lay where the creature had dropped it, the belt folded beneath. Adam picked them up and measured his target, waiting for the right moment. The moment came, and he swung, catching the creature alongside the skull. It gave a hissing yowl of pain, and fell onto its side, whimpering.

  Adam braced himself, holding the scabbard like a club. Charity got to her feet checking for scratches. The creature looked at Adam with hatred glaring out of its yellow eyes. It looked to be gathering itself for another charge, so he took a step towards it as he pulled the sword from the scabbard. The thing started back in fear, turned and vanished into the brush.

  * * * *

  Gilgafed watched the trolljin run from the boy. Why did they choose one of their pets to do the job? His rage at the stupidity of trolls pounded in his temples, and he berated himself for choosing to allow his temper get th
e best of him earlier. Now he had no power to eliminate this threat personally, at least not until his rest was complete. He cut off the shaping with a twist of his mind, and turned back to his studies. There was something he'd read concerning the Shadow Realms...

  * * * *

  ...I have watched your lives. They have disturbed my rest for many seasons. I cannot tell you how to walk the paths destiny has set before you, for both tragedy and triumph await you. Yet I can, through my faithful Dwarves, give you tools to aid your way. I know you will be man and woman ... in time. My sword is the man's, my bow, for the woman. I caution you to obey me in this completely, though your feelings will guide you. Test them, you will see the truth in what I write.

  I have provided clothing and coin, as much as I can. May the creator guide your steps within the balance. Let the rule of three be your guide and your victory in the dark days to come. Keep safe the vision I have penned, the wolves and the Winglord will show you its truth.

  I am, Labad, Lord of the known lands, Philosopher King.

  Adam gently rolled the small parchment inside the larger one, and tucked them into the inside pocket of his cloak, and closed the seal. “You're right, you know.”

  Charity looked up from inspecting her scratches. “About what?”

  “About us being magiked. That thing that tried to steal this,” He held up the sword. “It's not in our world; Dragons and Dwarves are only in the stories Uncle Bal told us.” He pulled one of the Emeralds out of his belt pouch. “Where we found these is not a part of our world. And this,” He patted his cloak where he put the parchments. “Tells us it was all planned by a King who claims he's our ancestor.”

  “Prophesied, not planned.”

  “Doesn't matter. We're still here.” Adam looked stubborn.

  Charity counted to five, and eased her temper down. She didn't want to get into an argument with Adam over a choice of which word was correct. She decided to change the subject. “Can I hold the sword?”