The Jewel of Turmish (20 page)

After placing the blanket of wolf pups on the uneven cave floor, Druz shrugged out of her backpack and sat it on the floor as well. Keeping an eye on the cave mouth, working in the darkness of the cave, she rummaged through her pack until she found her flint and tinder.

She opened the metal case, drew out her flint and steel, and a small amount of tinder. She piled the tinder on a small cloth from the metal case, then struck sparks and got the tinder going. A thin trail of smoke rose from the pile of tinder. She took a beeswax candle from her pack and lit it.

Shielding the fragile flame with her hand, Druz studied the cave. The fetid smell of animals clung to the stone surfaces. Piles of animal spoor, old and new, lay scattered around the cave, but there were signs that men had sheltered there as well. A ring of stones occupied a section of the floor in front of the bear. In the back, out of the sweeping winds that carried part of the rain into the cave, someone had left a small pile of dry wood.

Druz soon had a small fire burning in the ring of stones. Taking bandages and mendicants from her pack, she approached Haarn with caution. The bear rumbled and watched her through winking eyes as she began to tend to the druid’s wounds.

When she finished, she returned to the fire. She sat

near the flames, letting the welcome heat bask into her. Painful twinges poked at her body as she pulled her knees up and rested her chin on her knees. Her eyes burned from the smoke, the storm, and fatigue. Hunger pangs made her stomach feel hollow.

She kept her sword at her side and took the time to restring her bow. It was doubtful that the wolves or any other creature would try to gain entrance into the cave with the fire and the bear, but she wanted to be prepared.

After a time, despite the anxiety that filled her, Druz’s eyelids grew heavy. With the warmth from the fire filling the cave, she retreated to a wall and placed her back against it, resting her sword across her thighs and her bow near to hand.

Just as her eyes were about to close again, a reflection from the campfire flashed out in the woods. Awake at once, Druz gripped her long sword and rose to her feet. Tired as she was, she made the mistake of stepping between the fire and the movement. Shifting to one side, heart pounding faster even though her head didn’t feel very clear, she gazed at the woods opposite the cave.

The wolves had noticed the movement as well. The pack closed in on it with menacing growls.

Druz thought at first that it was a traveler, stranded by the storm, who knew about the cave. The possibility of sharing the cave with a stranger wasn’t welcome, but she wasn’t going to leave someone to the mercy of the wolves. She started to return for her bow, then noticed that the pack had clustered around a section of ground beneath an aging sycamore tree.

Rainwater washing down from the mountain had eroded the earth from the sycamore’s roots, baring the woody knees. Something glittered on the ground, reflecting more light than even the wolves’ eyes.

Judging from the pure ruby glint that captured the gleam from the campfire, Druz guessed that it was a piece of glass or a jewel. Curiosity stilled her, and she was surprised to feel the hair lifting on her arms.

The wolves backed away. Their whines echoed under the trees as the muddy ground pushed up and broke open like an egg white bubbling in a frying pan. An arm shoved through the mud, followed by a hollow-eyed skull and bony shoulders.

Fear dried Druz’s throat and locked her breath in her lungs as she watched the skeleton continue to force its way from its unmarked grave. Instinct made her reach for Tymora’s coin tied at her neck.

The skeleton lay still for a moment after it had crawled from the ground. One of the wolves, emboldened by the skeleton’s apparent helplessness, crept closer. Snarling black lips twitched back from white teeth. With a growl, the wolf launched itself at its intended prey. The wolf’s teeth grated against the mud-slick bones.

Orange light flared in the hollows of the skeleton’s eyes. It moved, snapping like a trap. The bony hand curled into a fist and jerked around like a mallet, cutting through the air. Almost too quick for the eye to follow, the skeletal fist crashed into the wolfs skull.

The animal collapsed, its skull destroyed.

Lurching, the skeleton forced itself to its feet and swayed in the storm winds. Ignoring the rest of the wolves, the skeleton turned its attention to the cave.

Druz drew herself farther back into the cave, aware that it wouldn’t do any good. The fire was all the skeleton needed to see to know that the cave was occupied. She tightened her grip on her sword and asked Tymora’s blessing.

Glancing over her shoulder, she said to the bear, “We’ve got trouble.”

The bear shook himself then rose from the floor. Hunkered below the cave’s low ceiling, the bear crept forward, snuffling for a moment, then cocking his head and loosing a fierce growl.

The skeleton strode from the tree line without hesitation. Clods of mud mixed with grass and tree roots dropped out of the skeleton’s ribcage.

Taking a two-handed grip on her sword, Druz glanced at the bear and said, “Go get it.”

The bear growled again and dropped to all four feet, and retreated to Haarn’s side.

“Damn it,” Druz swore, stepping up to block the way.

The cave that had offered them shelter from the rain had become a deathtrap.

Lightning flashed again, setting the jeweled shape in the skeleton’s ribcage blazing with ruby light. The skeleton spread its arms as it neared.

Druz made herself breathe and thought, What is it about this damned druid that seems to draw so much bad luck?

She was certain that had Haarn been awake he’d doubtless wonder the same thing about her. She set herself and got ready to swing, but just before she committed herself, the skeleton stopped.

The grim jaws closed and resumed their mirthless grin. Relaxing, the raised arms clacked against the mud-smeared ivory thighs. Orange glow dimming in the eye hollows, the skeleton turned and walked away.

Druz released a sigh of relief, but she didn’t relax until the skeleton abandoned the washed-out game trail and vanished into the forest. Even then, she stood at her post for several more long minutes until the stinging rain propelled by the cold storm winds drove her inside to the deeper shelter of the cave.

Frightened and near exhaustion, she sat with her back to the cave wall and kept watch over the entrance. The campfire flickered at the corner of her vision as she fought to keep her eyelids open. When she closed them, intending to rest for only a moment, sleep claimed her.

Wrapped in bloody priest’s robes and shrouded in the night, Borran Kiosk walked Alaghôn’s streets once more. Hunger and madness warred within him as what he saw conflicted with what he remembered.

Eldath’s priests had trapped him for years. He had the sense of that from the changes in the city around him. Once familiar, Alaghôn had grown yet imploded as well. New buildings, taller and grander, stood where claptrap buildings once teetered. In other parts of the city, once grand buildings had been left to decay like bad teeth.

The storm continued to crackle and spit around him. Water sluiced through the uneven cobblestones and poured down the pitted iron grates to the sewers that ran beneath the city and out into the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Borran Kiosk walked with purpose. His skeletal feet clacked against the stones and splashed through the water. A passing wagon, laden with workers fresh up from the dockyards where men still labored to unload a ship, splashed muddy water over him. He kept walking, ignoring the dull, distant cold.

The deep, abiding hatred Borran Kiosk had for living men—and elves and dwarves and the rest—squirmed through the empty space where his stomach had once been. Even though he’d been without a stomach for years, he’d never lost the sense of it.

As he walked, the hate festering inside him, he gazed in at taverns and inns still open to the late-night trade from the docks. Even over the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves, he heard the laughter and conversations of the living. Their simpleminded joy, their very ignorance of his passage, angered him more.

He gave in to that anger, turning his steps toward a small tavern. The tavern was on the second floor, squeezed between storage space for the two shops on either side of it.

A fat dwarf with a dark beard guarded an iron-barred doorway. As Borran Kiosk neared, the dwarf came to attention. He kicked the big head of the double-bitted

battle-axe at his feet, causing the heavy weapon to revolve in his palms and come to a natural grip in both his hands. The dwarf tried a grin, but his eyes remained hooded and wary.

“Hail and well met, traveler. Judgin’ from the cut o’ yer robes, ye’ve been up that well-known crick an’ back down again, ye have.”

Borran Kiosk said nothing. The wind slapped at the hood of his robe, but left it in place.

“Gonna cost ye a silver or two to get in,” the dwarf warned. He shifted the battle-axe, his callused fingers rasping against the hand-tooled wood. “An’ I’m gonna have to see the color of it afore I let ye in.”

Without breaking stride, Borran Kiosk opened wide his jaws and spat out the long purple tongue. At that distance there was a chance the dwarf could have evaded the attack, but Borran Kiosk’s tongue caught the dwarf flat-footed. The hard cartilage smashed through the dwarfs throat, tearing through the flesh with ease. Knocked backward, the dwarf slammed up against the iron-barred door blocking access to the stairs. The dwarfs face flexed as he tried to scream, but the sound died unborn in his mangled throat.

Borran Kiosk withdrew his tongue and caught the dwarfs falling body with one hand. The salty sweetness of the dwarfs blood filled the mohrg, taking the edge off his hunger. Borran Kiosk tossed the dwarfs corpse away. He tried the iron-barred door but found it locked. Bracing himself, the mohrg gripped the iron bars and yanked.

Metal screeched as the iron bars pulled free of their moorings. Ignoring the possibility that anyone had heard the door rip loose, Borran Kiosk flung the door aside and strode into the darkened chamber. From above, the sound of revelry continued unabated. The mohrg followed the steps up, lusting after the life that filled those voices.

At the top of the stairs, he gazed through a wide doorway into the tavern proper. Dim light glowed through dingy lantern glass and scarcely made a dent in the shadows that filled the room.

Scarred and dark, the bar ran the room’s length against the opposite wall. A fat human with a curly wheat-colored beard leaned on the bar and talked with a dwarf woman showing considerable years. Three men dressed in the torn clothing of sailors talked at one of the half-dozen tables scattered across the middle of the room. An elf dressed all in black sat at a table by himself, fingers twining around a glittering silver dagger resting point-down on the table top. Two women, both showing signs of a hard night’s work, sat listless and uncaring, not interested in attracting the attention of potential customers.

It was, Borran Kiosk reflected, the dregs of night. Creatures of flesh and blood slowed during these hours, but the mohrg felt stronger than ever.

The bartender glanced at the new arrival. His head was a massive boulder set atop the broad mountains of his shoulders.

“Something I can do you for, friend?”

Pulling himself up in disdain, feeling the thick purple tongue moving with anticipation in his body, Borran Kiosk stepped into the room. The dead priest’s robes whirled around him and dripped scarlet-tinted water onto the hardwood floor.

“Maybe you should have stayed in the hallway a little longer,” the bartender growled, “instead of coming into my place and making a mess of it.”

He reached for a mop leaning against the wall behind him and came around the bar. The dwarf woman said something too low for Borran Kiosk to hear, but she laughed at her own wit and reached for the schooner of ale before her.

“Aye, Serrim,” the bartender said, “an’ Til thank ye to keep such comments to yerself.” He glanced back at Borran Kiosk. “An’ if ye’ve come to sup here, friend, ye’re a mite too late, ye see. The victuals has all been put away for the e’ening.”

“What there was of it,” the dwarf woman agreed.

The bartender stopped in front of Borran Kiosk and un-limbered his mop.

Borran Kiosk stood his ground. Though his emotions

weren’t the same as they had been before his transformation, he still felt a twinge of anticipation.

“Mayhap ye’d care to move them big feet of yers,” the bartender suggested as he mopped toward the mohrg.

“No,” Borran Kiosk said.

Stooping, the bartender peered toward the mohrga concealed face. “What did ye say, little man?”

With brazen boldness, Borran Kiosk reached up and swept the hood back from his head.

“No,” Borran Kiosk repeated.

He knew even the dim lighting would reveal his fleshless face and hollow-socketed skull. He didn’t care what he looked liked. That such a sight caused fear in those who still had blood coursing through their veins served him well.

“What the hell are ye?” the bartender asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes rounded in fear as he stumbled back a step.

“Kiosk!” the dwarf woman croaked, spewing ale. “Borran Kiosk! He’s returned!” She hefted a battle-axe from the floor beside her.

If Kiosk had possessed lips, he would have smiled. Though he was certain he’d been gone a long time, his name and deeds had been remembered.

“Yes,” the mohrg spat, T am Borran Kiosk. Fear me.”

The bartender lashed out with the mop, trying to push Borran Kiosk away. The mohrg reacted with blinding speed. Before his transformation he’d been a warrior as well as a mage, and though the men he raised from the dead did not retain their memories, he had.

The rain-drenched robes whirled as Borran Kiosk spun. He knotted a hand into a hammer-like fist, caught the broom in his other hand, and snapped the end of the mop off. Before the collection of dirty rags fell to the floor, he stepped in, pulled the mop across his body, and brought his fist back up. The mop handle snapped again, leaving the bartender with only a precious few inches jutting from his hands.