Of Shadows and Dragons (6 page)

After breakfast, the chamberlain approached Therian and Gruum. It was the same man who had opened the portal for them last midnight. He invited them to join the retainers for a hunt.

“A hunt?” Gruum asked. “But the storm has only just passed.”

“Fresh game will be out and hungry after such a blizzard,” the chamberlain said.

“You are dedicated sportsmen to want to go out in waist-high drifts,” Gruum said.

The chamberlain sniffed. “We hunt every day while we lodge here. It is the purpose of this place.”

“What of the Duke?” Therian asked, speaking for the first time.

“He will not be joining us. You will see him tonight, I’m sure.”

Therian nodded. “We will join your hunt. But we have no spear or bow.”

“There is an armory downstairs, milord. I’m sure you can find suitable equipment there.”

Gruum watched the man leave. He turned to Therian. “What an odd bunch. Every one of them makes me uneasy. How can they know a lich walks among them and yet seem unperturbed?”

Therian gave him a slight smile. “You slept with a living shadow last night, and even managed to coax it into its pouch for transport. Who are you to judge the strange habits of these people?”

“I suppose you have a point there. But milord, we have not spoken of the Dragon’s charge. Do you know what we are to seek here? Is this the right place?”

“Oh yes,” Therian said. “We are in the right place. Of that much, I am sure.”

When they stepped downstairs, they found the armory to be a place of gloom, dust and cobwebs.

“Everything here seems ancient and disused,” remarked Gruum. Therian did not respond.

The two men poked about. There were barrels of rusty spears and an entire wall hung with swords. None of them seemed to be well cared-for.

“Perhaps I can help you gentlemen,” said a fair voice behind them.

Gruum and Therian turned with their brows uplifted. It was the huntress, wearing the same cloak and hood she had worn while Gruum carried her through the previous night. Gruum was especially surprised to see her standing behind them. He had not heard her feet echoing upon the stone steps.

Gruum smiled at her. “I did not catch your name at breakfast, miss…?”

“I’m Margaret,” she said, returning his smile.

“Maybe you can help, Margaret. I can’t find a weapon that isn’t coated with the work of a thousand spiders.”

She led them to a door in the back. They followed her through and Gruum made appreciative sounds. The room was full of well cared-for boar spears. Every point was shining, polished steel. There were crossbows as well, a dozen of them with strong prods. Each had two strings of fresh, braided gut hanging from the prods, ready to be strung by a huntsman’s hand.

Gruum took down one of the lighter crossbows and bent the prod against the stone floor. He found plenty of spring in the prod and had to grunt and struggle to string it. “I prefer a short bow, but this will do nicely,” he said. “Can I string one for you, master?”

Therian made a dismissive gesture. He stood inspecting the boar spears for a time before selecting one with a wide head and a haft of stout hardwood. He took it down and worked the air with it experimentally. Gruum sidestepped, frowning. Margaret stood her ground, smiling.

“An excellent weapon,” said Therian. “By the look of the grain, I believe the shaft is made of ash.”

“Ash wood is the best,” agreed Gruum, looking for a spear of his own. “Lighter than oak and almost as strong, it is less likely to split. What of you, Miss Margaret?”

“I have my own bow and dagger,” she said.

Gruum turned to her. “Do you recall how you came to be here?” he asked her.

By her reaction, he judged he had made a misstep. She looked down, and appeared embarrassed. “I’m told I owe you thanks, sir.”

“Think nothing of it,” Gruum said quickly, not wanting to upset her. Perhaps the idea of having spent the night helpless and in the care of two strange men was disturbing to her.

Therian watched them closely. He tested his spearhead to see if it was firmly seated. The spearhead had a thick, central rib down the center of it, a sharply tapered point and twin broadening blades that ran down the sides. To prevent the spearhead from sinking too deeply into the target, two quillons extended from the base where it sat upon the shaft. The quillons resembled the crossguard of a broadsword.

Therian turned to Margaret. “I would ask you a question, girl. Do you recall your physician’s role in your recovery? It was nothing short of a miracle.”

She blinked at him. “I—I’m not sure. I remember someone. A figure in a red robe. He did not come to check on me this morning when I awoke. Strange, the entire experience was like a dream to me.”

“How did you become injured?” Gruum asked, keeping his voice gentle and informal.

“Injured?” she asked, as if she had never considered the possibility. “I suppose I must have fallen. Perhaps my head struck a stone.”

“And your throat?” Gruum asked, unable to contain himself. His eyes probed at her neck, but he could not see beneath her hood in this torch lit chamber.

Margaret put a hand to her neck. She frowned. Gruum thought again that she had a lovely look to her. “It does itch. My voice is slightly scratchy, and when I swallow I feel an obstruction. What else can you tell me?”

Therian’s face flickered into a smile. “Forget about it, my dear. Let us focus on the hunt.”

Gruum cast an annoyed glance toward his master. He had hoped to learn more of this girl and her amazing recovery.

“Yes,” Margaret said brightly. “The hunt. I’ll meet you upstairs. They will be gathering the hounds and the horses now.”

She left, and Gruum stared after her. After she had disappeared up the steps, his eyes still lingered at the spot where she had vanished.

Therian huffed. “So easily beguiled. It is a wonder you do not trot after her.”

“You are one to talk!” Gruum said. “I saw you kissing Anduin’s claws, remember?”

“No, I do not recall your presence,” Therian said with sudden severity.

“I’m sorry, sire. I misspoke.”

“Indeed.”

Gruum cleared his throat. “But, um… milord, what do you think of the girl? How is it she still lives?”

Therian eyed him. “You don’t want to know.”

Gruum opened his mouth to insist that yes, he very much
did
want to know, but then stopped himself. He realized he did not want to know anything upsetting about Margaret. Perhaps an unplumbed mystery was better than the truth in such situations.

Outside in the courtyard, the hunting party assembled. The skies were brighter than they had been the day before, but still fully overcast. Gruum was glad for this, as the direct sun would have been blindingly bright if it were to reflect from the snow into their eyes. As it was, every tree was blanketed in snow. Broken branches and icicles like crooked spears hung down everywhere. To him, the frozen world looked as if it were caught in the very pit of winter. He had to remind himself that the true season was autumn. He wondered what kind of storms they would have up here later this year when winter truly took hold. It was unimaginable. Surely, no one could dwell up here then.

The hunting party seemed unperturbed by either the cold or the depth of the snows they were about to go plunging through. The hounds had been loosed, and the hunters milled on their horses in the snow, talking and waiting until they caught a scent.

Baying rose up to ring from the stone walls of the mountain in short order. Margaret rode up to Gruum, her eyes alight with excitement.

“They’re after something. Let’s hope it’s an elk, I don’t care for bear meat.”

 “Venison is your favorite?” Gruum asked. “You have good taste. I wouldn’t mind a platter of fresh meat tonight.”

Margaret eyed Gruum and Therian, seeing the swords that still rode on their belts. She laughed. “Spear, crossbow, sword and dagger? You shall break your horses’ backs! You are geared for battle, not hunting.”

Gruum smiled and shrugged. “Force of habit, I suppose.”

Margaret goaded her horse then, and Gruum felt the urge to gallop after her. He glanced over at Therian, who inclined his head forward, giving his permission.

Gruum tilted forward in his saddle and held his spear with the tip high and well out to his side so as not to clip his own horse or another’s. He set off after the girl, and heard the thunder of many more hooves behind him.

The chase led to a clearing. Following the hounds was a simple matter in the snow drifts, they left a well-plowed trail as they plunged along. Gruum looked for signs as to the nature of their game as they went, and soon saw the deep hoof-strikes that sank all the way to the stony soil beneath the snow.

“Elk!” he cried ahead to Margaret.

She turned her head and glanced back at him, rewarding him with a smile. She increased her speed then and was soon lost from his sight. Gruum muttered curses. His pony was unable to keep up with its short legs and the heavy load it bore.

They were gaining on the elk, he felt sure. He could not yet hear it crash through the trees ahead, but the baying of the hounds was closer every minute. Soon, the hounds would corner the beast and it would have to turn and make its stand. The hunting party must arrive quickly then, lest the beast kill the dogs.

Gruum was excited to see the elk with his own eyes. He had glimpsed elk before, but those that dwelled high in the mountains were known to be bigger than the ones that grazed on the steppes. The stags were monstrous animals, standing higher than a man at the shoulder and often possessing a set of antlers that spanned ten feet. Not normally dangerous, a stag could be ferocious in rutting season or when forced to fight.

Blood trails! There they were, glistening and fresh on the white snows. He looked over his shoulder and saw none of the others from the hunt. Odd, he thought. Perhaps they had driven their mounts with less urgency down the snow-covered trails.

Gruum lifted the horn he’d been given to his lips. He blew a blast, calling the rest of the party that may have lost their way to this spot. He knew he was close, whether the blood on the snow was from the veins of a great elk or a hound.

He rounded a bend in the trail, heading down slope, when his eyes lit upon a strange sight in front of him. A large, dark shape lay stretched across the trail. It was black against the snow, with one end showing bright red. His first thought was he had found the fallen body of the elk they hunted. If that were the case, he had to wonder next where the hounds were. He heard them then, baying up ahead. This carcass in front of him then could not be the elk.

A moment later he was close enough to identify what he gazed upon. It was Margaret’s horse, and it was stone dead. He pulled hard on his reins, but it was already too late. A hulking figure stepped out into the roadway in front of him.

Shaped like a man, but impossibly large, the giant had a blue face and a white beard. It was dressed in a mass of layered furs, each of which still bore the head, feet and rotting eyes of the animals whose flesh they’d been scraped from. The giant held a club high. The head of the club was a round stone, fixed to the haft with leather thongs. The stone head was stained dark.

Gruum was far too close and his horse could not change directions or halt in time to avoid the giant. Reflexively, Gruum thrust with his spear. The furs belted to the monster’s belly absorbed the spear tip. Then the club came crashing down.

The skull of pony that had borne him faithfully up the mountain was bashed in. Shivering, the small horse collapsed, and Gruum rolled free of it. He scrambled to his feet and ran with snow flying from his heels. He glanced back toward the bulky figure on the roadway. It reached down with one massive fist and plucked the boar spear from its belly. Gruum took the moment of its distraction to look around for Margaret. He thought to see her, floundering through the snow and the trees. His heart leapt, she had escaped.

Gruum turned his head back to the snow giant—for that’s what he was now sure he faced—and ducked just in time. His own spear came whistling back at him, hurled with fantastic force. The tip and the blade missed him, but the quillon caught his right ear as it passed over his hunching shoulder. It tore an inch long gash there, then sped into the trunk of a tree twenty paces behind.

The snow giant turned its attention back toward Margaret, perhaps judging her the easier prey. It lumbered forward, heedless of the blue blood spurting from its belly and flowing over the hanging skirt of furs.

Gruum had lost his crossbow when he’d been cast from the horse. He still had his blades, however. He drew them both. He followed the giant and the girl.

Margaret was at a clear disadvantage. She was heading into fresh, deep snow. The giant had no trouble with this, its waist being six feet up. The snow came up no further than its knees. Gruum’s path was likewise made easier, all he had to do was follow the giant who plowed deep furrows through the snow with each step.

Gruum did not quite make it to the giant in time. The monster caught the girl, and although she threw her dagger at the blue face and cut it open, her attack did no more than cause the monster to grunt. The stone head of the club swung once, twice. The girl was a crushed and broken doll on the snows.

Gruum howled and cast his dagger into the giant’s back. It winced and turned. It cursed him then, in its own grating tongue. The words sounded like the speech of trees.

Gruum had his saber out and slashed at the huge being. It was hopeless, but he felt he wanted to at least hurt it. Attacking was better than running when there was no hope of escape. With both horses down and this monster clearly able to outrun him, there was no point to being chased down.

The giant’s boulder head swiveled. They both heard a sound Gruum thought was most welcome: The sound of approaching hooves.

Therian rode into the clearing and came up to the two of them. He addressed the giant.

“Man of the forest, parlay with me,” Therian said.

“Don’t talk to it, kill it!” Gruum demanded.

“Don’t be rude, Gruum,” Therian said.

“Rude? It killed Margaret.”

“This is its place. Possibly, these events are all a misunderstanding.”

Therian spoke again, this time in the strange speech of the Dragons. Gruum gritted his teeth. The giant, however, smiled. It answered in the same tongue, and the two held a brief, ear-shattering conversation.  At the end of it, the giant turned and trudged away into the snows. It left a dribbling trail of azure blood on the snow as it went.

“What did you tell it?” Gruum asked, amazed.

“I apologized and promised it a favor from my people, should it ever have the need of such a thing.”

“Are you mad?”

“This is the giant’s home, Gruum. Its territory. The girl has led you astray.”

Gruum made his way to Margaret’s crushed body. He thought to see—no! It could not be!

“White breath still comes from her lungs…” Gruum said. “Her spine must be broken. Her chest is crushed. Yet she still lives, milord! How can this be?”

“Leave her, Gruum,” Therian said.

Gruum stooped over the girl and touched her throat. “She’s warm yet. I don’t know how—she can’t have survived.”

“No one could have.”

Gruum looked over his shoulder to his lord, who still sat upon his horse. He stared up at him. “What are you saying?”

“That she is dead. That she was dead when we first found her.”

Gruum fell to his knees by the girl’s mangled body. “Is this true, Margaret?” he asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Her eyes snapped open. They slid to meet his, but her head did not turn, because her neck was too badly broken to function. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Gruum sucked in a gasp. He let it out again in what sounded like a sob.

Margaret’s eyes stared at him, unblinking. The whites showed all around her unnaturally wide orbs. Gruum got to his feet again, but felt as if he wobbled on his legs. Her eyes followed him as he moved. He turned back to Therian.

“She is Vosh’s creature,” Gruum said, understanding at last. “He made her into something—something full of false vigor.”

Therian nodded. He looked around the clearing. “We’d best be leaving.”

“What of the girl? What of the hunt?”

“The girl will wait for the next man to find her. Of the hunt… do you hear the hounds?”

Gruum listened. All was silent save for the whisper of the wind. “No,” he said.

“Do you hear the thunder of hooves, the winding of horns, or the crashing of the great stag’s antlers?”

Gruum shook his head.

“Then come. The hunt is over—if it ever was. We shall return and have words with our hosts.”

“Yes,” said Gruum, his lips compressing tightly. “Let us have words.”

Therian rode uphill then, and Gruum followed on foot. As they were about to leave the clearing, he dared glance back at the crushed girl. Margaret remained hopelessly broken on the snow. Her eyes… he thought to see them still. They followed his every step, staring.

Gruum realized her eyes had never blinked since the moment they had snapped open to meet his. Not once.