The Nether Scroll (17 page)

Weighing his options quickly, Dru gave Tiep a shove toward the underbrush.

"Lay low!" he commanded.

The boy had been coming around as they walked. He hadn't said anything yet, but
managed to nod his head before secreting himself in a patch of waist-high ferns. Dru judged
that Tiep would continue to survive and went for the length of fire-hardened wood jutting out
from Bandy's saddle.

Other mages might carry staves, Druhallen of Sunderath preferred an ax-shaft. His
father—gods keep him safe in Sunderath—had taught him how to grip and swing the wood. He didn't
bother with the axe head; it was too heavy, too much trouble to sharpen, and unnecessary for a man his
size. Against their undergrown enemy, the shaft was lethal and faster than a sword. Dru swung into the
gut of the nearest misshapen creature. The force of his blow lifted the critter—Dru couldn't guess its
sex or species—off its feet and flung it some ten feet across the bog. It wouldn't be getting up soon,
maybe never, if the thing that got the dung-beast was looking for a snack. Dru backhanded his next
target. The misshapen enemy collapsed face-down in the old leaves and twigs.

It was butchery, not battle, and they didn't stop until every last one of the misshapen lay
motionless on the ground.

"When we've finished at Dekanter, we leave by another route," Rozt'a said grimly. "I'd
sooner face the Network on the road than this again." She wiped her blade on a corpse's
thigh, but decided that wasn't good enough and cleaned it again with leaves before sheathing
it.

Between the dung beast and this lot, Sheemzher's spear had taken a beating. Most of its
dangling ornaments were gone, but the flaked stone head was still firmly attached to the
shaft. The goblin's hat was gone. Rozt'a retrieved it from the bog. Its crown was crushed, the
brim, torn. It would never hide his wispy hair again. Sheemzher took it from her gently, his lips
a-tremble as though he'd lost his dearest friend. Dru didn't know if goblins could cry, but the
rain left credible tracks down the red-orange cheeks.

The Lady Wyndyfarh might have done her servant a favor when she taught him manners
and dressed him up in the manner of men, but if Dru were a competent judge of emotion, she
hadn't added any happiness to his life.

Tiep emerged from the ferns. His hands were clapped against his temples and his eyes
had the look of cheap wine, but that was considerable improvement.

"Remember how you got here?" Dru asked.

"No." He noticed the array of corpses and took a backward stride that nearly unbalanced
him. "What—? What's happened? Where are we? I remember it starting to rain, then nothing until I
was on my knees over there."

Rozt'a slipped her hand under his elbow and guided him toward the horses. There'd been
no time to tie them properly, of course, but none of the five liked the bogs and they'd stayed
close together.

"We got ambushed," she explained as they walked. "You took a stone on the head. You're
bleeding. That's not rainwater coming down the side of your face."

"What about you?" Dru asked Sheemzher when the other two were past.

"Demons no harm Sheemzher." The goblin fumbled with his hat. He tried, and failed, to
put it on.

"There'll be other—"

Sheemzher cut Dru off with a stream of words that had to be curses in his own language,
then he threw his hat onto the ground and stomped it mercilessly. "Demons!" he shouted and
stomped the nearest corpse instead. When abusing the corpse with his boots couldn't quell
his need for revenge, Sheemzher attacked it with his spear. He stabbed it between the ribs
and in the abdomen and took aim at its skull.

Dru had seen enough blood for one day and, grasping the upward end of the spear, put a
swift stop to the goblin's mutilating rage.

"Demons!" the goblin turned the word into a song.

"Not demons," Druhallen insisted. "Cousins, maybe. Your cousins. And they took
exception to you Sheemzher, in a big way."

Sheemzher struggled to free his spear from Druhallen's grasp. When that came to naught,
he nudged the corpse with his foot. Its lifeless hand flopped to the ground. "Count fingers,
good sir!" The goblin waved his open hand in front of Dru's face. "Five fingers. People have
five fingers. Sheemzher have five fingers. Sheemzher's mother, sisters, brothers all have five
fingers. Five. Five. Five!"

The misshapen corpse's exposed hand had seven fingers, all of them cruelly twisted. It
couldn't have made a fist or scratched its head without pain. Its other hand had five functional
fingers and was, to Druhallen's eyes, identical with Sheemzher's. Dru mentioned this and
other similarities, but the goblin remained adamant: demons and goblins had nothing in
common but hatred.

Well, they weren't the only blind race under the sun. Dwarves insisted they weren't related
to the duergar and more than a few elves disowned the drow. Dwarves and elves, of course,
were justly proud of their heritage. It boggled Dru's mind to think that goblins held themselves
superior to anyone else that walked on two legs. He recognized a lost cause, though, and left
Sheemzher alone with his delusions.

"Something's meddling with the local goblins," he said to Rozt'a when she was repacking
the medicine chest.

"That would take some pretty potent sorcery, wouldn't it?"

He shrugged. "Probably, and a twisted mind. You hear about it every so often, someone's
trying to make a stronger this, a more docile that. The Thayans do it, mostly with the dead,
but they've conjured up some fairly reliable orc changes, a lot of unreliable ones, too. An orc's
bigger, harder to control than a goblin, but they're as close as dogs and wolves. A mage who
could change one, could change the other."

"So the Red Wizards are back to meddling with Netherese magic?" She concluded her
remark with a sigh and shut the chest with more force than was necessary.

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

Dru hadn't been, but only because it hadn't occurred to him. Now that it had, his mind was
alive with connections and possibilities.

"Well, add this to your thoughts. Tiep needs rest. He's blaming himself for what's
happened—not that he shouldn't be, but he throws off healing at the best of times and guilt is making
everything worse. He's walking and talking, but he's punch-drunk from that rock and feverish from last
night's filth. He should bounce back quick enough, but we'll up the odds if we settle in now for the
night."

"Up the odds of what? Another attack? We've just piled up enough fresh meat to attract a
dragon, not to mention another pack of these misshapen goblins and whatever lives under
the bog. If Tiep's patched up, then I say we get moving."

Rozt'a got to her feet and hefted the heavy chest to her shoulder. "Let's not push it, that's
all. If we see a good campsite, let's use it. I've done all I can. If he goes into a brain fever,
we're going to be stranded for a lot longer than one night—unless you've got some other idea?"

He swallowed hard, not liking her implications. They were going to get out of this with both
Galimer and Tiep intact. What they did this winter in Scornubel—whether or not they told Tiep
to go his own way—was winter's problem, not today's.

"We'll keep an eye on him—put him astride if he gets wobbly. And keep our eyes open for a
campsite, preferably one with a roof."

The rain had let up and the wind had died back, but the stone-gray clouds weren't
breaking up. Dru expected bad weather to return and wasn't disappointed. He tried to
convince himself the wet wind was a good thing. Dragons weren't apt to fly through it and a
pack of misshapen goblins might not notice a smartly dressed goblin trespassing through
their territory.

Dru recalled his conversation with Amarandaris. Ghistpok's goblins had been making
enemies of themselves with the other Greypeak goblins. They'd been stealing males and
driving the females to exile around Parnast. Sheemzher claimed ties to Ghistpok. If goblins—
including misshapen goblins—had some means of identifying their heritage, as moon or gold elves
did, then the attack on Sheemzher was understandable, even if not deserved. On the other hand,
although Amarandaris had warned Dru that goblins saw demons everywhere, he'd said nothing about
misshapen goblins. If Ghistpok's tribe had driven their cousins into exile, then a few odd-armed
goblins ought to have shown up in Parnast.

They won't touch a demon, not even to bury it. It's a cult thing, something to do with
transformation and deformity. It might be interesting to know why the Greypeaks were home
to two goblin races; and what had transformed one but not the other while turning them into
blind enemies. Still, both races were goblin-kin and Druhallen had greater worries when
thoughts of Amarandaris crossed his mind. A wizard on horseback, riding the Dawn Pass
Trail around the Greypeak Mountains, could get to Dekanter faster than they were getting
through the bogs and mountains. Dru would sooner face the Beast Lord and a dozen demons
before he faced Amarandaris in the shadows of Dekanter.

Early in the afternoon, while they were crossing a bog, Rozt'a spotted what appeared to be
a cave in a distant rock formation. She wanted to check it out. Dru said, no, they weren't
splitting up and they weren't going off the trail.

"If there's one cave, there's bound to be another, closer to hand."

It was the wrong thing to say. Rozt'a didn't take well to being overruled and daylight was
fading before they sighted another.

This time she didn't offer Dru a choice. "I'm going in," she announced, the first words she'd
spoken since he'd rejected her suggestion.

They were all rain-chafed by then, weary, and ready to call it a night. Tiep had been
astride Ebony since mid-afternoon. He'd slumped over one hip, like a crimped sack of grain.
His eyes were closed, his color was lousy, and every so often he'd let out a shiver or a moan.
There were herbal powders in the medicine chest that could snuff out a death's-door fever in
a single night, but only if they were steeped first and their recipient could rest after taking
them.

"I'm coming with you," Dru said, looking about for a place to tie the horses he led.

Rozt'a handed him the reins she'd held instead and stalked into the cave alone. Short of
breaking into a wizard's private sanctum, few things were as dangerous as entering an
unexplored cave. She needed backup; she needed light—and she'd have Dru's head if he
suggested either. Tiep was too far gone to notice, but Sheemzher did. The goblin gripped his spear so
tightly its remaining decorations rattled against the shaft.

After the longest quarter hour of his life, Rozt'a returned.

"It'll do. There's a hearth already dug and dry wood stacked high."

"You're sure it's safe?" Druhallen regretted his words immediately, but they were out and
there was no unsaying them.

"I know my job, Dru."

"I didn't mean—"

"Its got a hearth, not a dragon's lair, for gods' sakes. A cold hearth where a momma
mouse or rat has raised a couple of families. I'd rather defend one point of entry than a
thousand—What about you?"

"If you're satisfied, I'm satisfied," Dru snarled back. At that moment, he didn't care if the
damned cave were a dragon's lair.

Sheemzher clambered down from Hopper's back. The cave met the goblin's criteria for a
place where flames could burn and he had a fire going in the hearth before they had Tiep
moved inside. There was a drafty shadow at the rear of the cave. It was big enough for a
wolf—or a determined goblin—but not a dragon or a man. After they'd unharnessed the horses and
stowed their gear for the night, Dru used the jangling bridles to improvise a non-magical warding
across the shadow. When he stepped back to contemplate his cleverness, he realized Rozt'a had
watched his every move.

She hadn't noticed the second entry. Or she had, but thought he wouldn't. Dru couldn't
guess which. He couldn't guess what she was thinking at all before she turned her back on
him.

They had food for themselves, fuel for the fire, full water-skins, and enough grain to give
the horses a single measure. Lady Wyndyfarh had provisioned them for a ten-day journey.
Cardinal was gone; that gave them an extra day or so, but they couldn't afford extravagance.
There was enough light left to return to the bog forest and gather up green forage for the
animals.

Dru grabbed a pair of loose-knotted nets from the heap of gear and headed out of the
cave. He hadn't taken twenty strides down the trail when he heard footsteps behind him. It
was Rozt'a with the other nets thrown over her shoulder. They didn't exchange a single word;
they didn't need to. The road might change, but not the work. They each knew what needed
to be done and did it without getting in the other's way.

Sheemzher had slung a pot over the fire and boiled up some water. He presented them
with steaming mugs when they returned. Clover tea, by the smell, and no guessing where
he'd gotten it. Maybe it had been in the gear from the start. Maybe, Dru thought, he should
exercise his suspicion and pour it out on the ground. Maybe he'd had enough of suspicion for
one day.

"Thank you," he said and seared his tongue thoroughly on the first sip.

He'd swear he caught Rozt'a smirking at him, but by the time his eyes stopped watering,
she was as sullen as before and busy with Tiep. The youth needed more than clover tea.
Rozt'a fussed over him until Dru and Sheemzher, working awkwardly together, had crafted a
barley-stew in the pot. She left the youth wrapped in blankets to join them.

"He's not making sense when he talks."

"So, let him sleep it off," Dru advised.

Rozt'a gave him yet another dark look. "There's nothing to sleep off. He's not drunk, he's
been hit on the head. We've got to rouse him every little while, else he'll slip away. Promise
me you'll waken him during your watch."