The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (5 page)

Grey Wolf looked across the table at her. “Morningstar. Isn’t that an unusual name for a priestess of Ell?”

Yes, yes it was, and she had resented it from the moment it had been given to her. In the halls of the Goddess of Night all names were supposedly born in the eye of Ell, but her fellow priestesses regarded hers as an effrontery. Between her name, pallid skin, and white hair, she had earned the nickname (whispered behind her back, but loudly enough for her to hear) the White Anathema. Her sisters felt that her name and appearance were punishments for some sins of her family, or childhood, or even deeds she had not yet done.

“It’s the name I was given,” she said simply. “I have learned to accept it.”

Tor dropped his fork to his empty plate. “This is fantastic!” He spread his arms to indicate the room and everyone in it. “Hired by a wizard to help him keep the kingdom safe, with our own headquarters and a butler and magical food-making box. I wonder when we’ll get our first mission.”

Grey Wolf gave Morningstar an apologetic glance, then rolled his eyes. “Kid, how old are you?”

Tor lowered his arms and turned a bit red. “Sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” repeated Grey Wolf. “This must all seem like a dream come true for you, but I have a decent job and a life to get back to. Abernathy can say what he likes to me, but I can’t imagine what will convince me to start over at my age.”

“My life needed changing anyhow,” said Tor sullenly. “This one will be better, I’m sure.”

That was curious. Tor was obviously well-fed, carried an expensive sword, and had upper-class table manners. But the boy’s dissatisfaction wasn’t her business, and like Grey Wolf she’d soon be taking her leave of this ad-hoc band.

“I thought Mr. Abernathy was very nice,” said Ernie. “Remember what he said about the toads!”

“Are you sixteen too?” asked Grey Wolf.

“I’m seventeen.”

“Pikon preserve me,” grumbled Grey Wolf. “Half of this group are children.”

“Some of us might count you among them,” said the elderly Mrs. Horn, flashing a mischievous smile.

“Abernathy’s spell chose us for a reason,” said Aravia. “I’m sure we each bring something to the group, so let’s talk about our skills. I personally am—”

“Yeah, a wizard, we know,” Dranko interrupted. “If you don’t mind me asking, do you have to wear a stupid-looking hat to be a wizard? Abernathy wasn’t wearing one.”

Aravia blanched and swept the hat from her head. “I forgot I was wearing it,” she mumbled. But she recovered impressively, lifting her chin and meeting Dranko’s eyes. “I am the student of Master Serpicore, a formidable practitioner of the arcane arts. He has always insisted that I wear a hat in his home. It improves one’s casting focus.”

“He’s pulling your leg,” said Dranko. “That, or he has a weird thing for hats.”

Aravia ignored this and gave the table a superior smile that reminded Morningstar of some of her less congenial sisters. Holding her fork in her right hand, she twirled the fingers of her left while mumbling strange words under breath. After ten seconds of this the tined end of the fork blossomed into cool yellow light, much like the enchanted candles in the chandelier. Morningstar flinched instinctively.

“Fantastic!” Tor exclaimed.

“I can do that too,” said Dranko. “All I need is a torch, a tinderbox, and the time to run home to get them.”

All of this banter was becoming tiresome, Dranko’s in particular. He was the sort of person who needed to hear himself talk and turn everything into a joke. But who knew what kind of insecurities a goblin-touched man would build up over time? She could almost empathize with him, were he not so unapologetically crude.

“Your home?” asked Tor. “Do you live in a cave? With goblins? What’s it like to have tusks?”

Morningstar winced, and everyone else stared at the boy, who gulped and seemed to immediately regret asking. But Dranko laughed.

“Makes it easier to eat babies,” he said. “First I scare ’em, like this.” He opened his mouth wide and let his gray tongue loll out. “Then, when they start crying, I eat ’em. They taste better that way.”

Tor let out a relieved breath.

“But let’s get this out in the open,” said Dranko. “All baby-eating jokes aside, I look a little like a goblin because somewhere generations back in my family a goblin got involved. But I am not a goblin, I’ve never seen a goblin, and aside from my lovely face I have absolutely nothing in common with them. Now, anyone else have inappropriate questions for me? Anyone want to know about my sex life? Because I could tell you—”

Morningstar cut him off, appalled. “No, thank you, please. In fact, maybe it would be best if you stopped talking altogether.”

Into the awkward silence that followed, Kibilhathur said quietly, “I’m a stonecutter.”

Morningstar wondered what had prompted that, until she remembered Aravia’s attempt to learn everyone’s profession.

Dranko flashed a grin. “Hey, that’s great. I’m sure we’ll need one of those at some point!”

Kibilhathur either ignored or didn’t notice Dranko’s sarcasm. “Always had a knack with stone. I can make it do what I want, in some small ways. It don’t feel like magic. Just feels natural-like. Almost like I’m part a’ the rock, and it’s part a’ me. Know what I mean?”

Morningstar didn’t have the slightest sense of what he meant and guessed that no one else did either, but Mrs. Horn answered warmly, “That sounds extraordinary, Mr. Bimson. You’ll have to show us some time.”

“There’s no need for ‘Mr. Bimson.’ Folks just call me Kibi.”

“So what do you bring to the table, Dranko,” asked Grey Wolf, “besides a glib tongue?”

“My tongue is more than just glib,” said Dranko with an exaggerated leer. Morningstar felt sickened. She had been living exclusively among women for many years, and her experience with men was extremely limited, but Dranko was a match for the most exaggeratedly lewd caricatures she had heard.

Dranko smirked at her. “Here’s my serious answer. I have street smarts. I can procure things quickly in an emergency. I know where I can get the most gold for Abernathy’s little bird friend here.” He held up the jade owl. “Also I am a man of the cloth, or at least I was. I’m an expert at first aid, and I can channel Delioch’s healing might.”

Morningstar’s eyebrows went up. “You? You’re a priest of Delioch? That would explain the scars, but you don’t strike me as the pious type.”

“The church elders felt the same way, which is why I’m sort of on leave at the moment. But if you don’t believe me, I can put my hands on you and prove it.”

Ernie made a choking noise and blushed. “Dranko, don’t be such a…such a pig!”

Dranko laughed it off. “I’m harmless. Just trying to add some levity to our new situation.” He poured himself another glass of wine. “So, Ernie, what do
you
do? What great talent do you bring to our merry band?”

Ernie sat up straight. “I…well, I’m a pretty good cook. My parents are bakers. And though I wouldn’t describe myself as having any ‘great talent,’ I have been training as a swordsman since I was a boy.”

“So,” said Grey Wolf, “about six months then?”

“Four years,” mumbled Ernie.

Morningstar herself had extensive combat training, serving in the order of Shields at the temple. Hers was the martial wing of her sisterhood, who would protect the people from dangers that dwelt in darkness. Though she was slight and not possessed of great strength, she was quick, practiced, and able to spar for hours.

Of course, in this time of peace in the Kingdom of Charagan, sparring was most of what the Shields of Ell did. She frowned. Abernathy’s spell must have picked them for their fighting skill, which meant he expected there’d be battle. Was it possible that his locked-up monster was already free, and they’d wind up fighting against it? But, no, Abernathy had admitted they didn’t know how to kill it, and if the archmagi with their great powers of wizardry were helpless, there was no way this little band of summonees would have any hope.

“You fighting types should have a tournament tomorrow to see who’s best,” said Dranko. “Mrs. Horn, you’ve got your butchering cleaver. Care to test your mettle?”

“Oh, that wouldn’t be fair,” said Mrs. Horn. “None of you would hurt an old woman, so I’d simply chop off all of your heads, and then where would we be?” She shook her head. “No, no, I’m too old for that sort of thing. I’m a farmer, not a warrior-maid. When we hold a cow-milking contest, count me in.”

“Fine,” said Dranko. “You can sit this one out. Hey, Eddings, does the Greenhouse have a backyard? My friends here could use it for combat practice.”

“Indeed it does, Master Blackhope,” said the butler. “The back lot is quite large. Master Abernathy said you might find it useful to have a large outdoor space at your disposal. It is also enchanted so that anyone looking over the fence will see only an empty lawn.”

“Huh,” said Dranko. “What sort of things did Abernathy imagine we’d need to do in secret out there?”

“I couldn’t say, Master Blackhope. But perhaps you could count sword practice among those activities.”

Dranko turned to Morningstar. “So I saw you had a weapon like the rest. Any good with it? What do you call that thing, anyway?”

Morningstar had first seen the picture in an old book of arms in the Chroniclers’ library. She had only been a Shield for a month, but when she saw the drawing, she knew in her bones that one day she would swing such a weapon in the service of Ell.

“It’s called a morning-star mace,” she told him.

“They named a weapon after you?”

Morningstar blew through her lips. “Are you really as stupid as you pretend to be?”

“I’m probably stupider,” said Dranko agreeably. “But can you swing that thing?”

“Yes. So take care not to stand too close to me.”

She was surprised at how confrontational she was being, but something about Dranko stirred up a long-dormant anger inside of her. He was a like a toddler who liked to poke his elders to get attention.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” said Tor. His grin had returned, his faux pas already behind him. He had the attention span of a mayfly. “It can’t be chance that Abernathy’s spell picked a group with lots of fighting skill, plus a wizard, and a channeler, and a…um…” He looked apologetically at Kibi and Mrs. Horn. “A stonecutter and a farmer. The missions he’s going to send us on must be very dangerous!”

Grey Wolf gave a bitter laugh. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No. Not yet,” said Tor defensively. “But I could, if I had to.”

“You can’t know that,” said Grey Wolf. “Not until the time comes. And you shouldn’t look forward to it.”

“What about you?” Dranko asked Grey Wolf. “Ever killed someone? I’m guessing you’re no stranger to the blade.”

Grey Wolf nodded. “Not often, but yes. I’ve spent the last fifteen years as a sword for hire. It pays the bills. Well,
paid
the bills, until we were kidnapped. Abernathy swiped me right in the middle of a job, which is not going to do my reputation any favors.”

After the meal Eddings gave Abernathy’s makeshift team a tour of the Greenhouse. The kitchen was large but not yet stocked; its only remarkable feature was the Icebox, a silver metal crate four feet on a side that sat on a large table. As they walked back toward the staircases, Eddings waved at the black door and mentioned a spacious basement, currently empty.

He stopped before leading them upstairs. “Before I go further, I will give you each one of these.” The butler produced a large key ring and started detaching keys from it. His voice became even more formal than usual. “These open the Greenhouse doors. Each of you gets one. Without a house key, the only way you, or anyone else, can enter is by a verbal invitation from someone already
in
the house. Abernathy made it clear that crafting spare keys would be a great bother to him, so I implore you not to lose them.”

Morningstar hesitated before taking a key she was sure she wouldn’t need, but decided not to make a fuss.

“Morningstar,” said Eddings, “I have noticed the light seems to bother you. I suggest you shield your eyes.” Once she had done so, he said, “Stairwell lights on please,” and a number of small heatless torches sprang to magical life along the walls.

“I will now show you the most important room in the Greenhouse.”

In the upstairs hall Eddings stopped halfway between two of the bedroom doors, where a large oil painting of Abernathy’s tower hung on the wall. “Please watch,” he said. He grabbed the sides of the painting and spun the whole thing upside down. Once it was fully inverted, a tiny doorway appeared near the base of the tower’s exterior. Eddings flicked the doorway with a finger. A whole section of the wall swung silently inward on invisible hinges.

Beyond the concealed door was a small room, large enough for all of them to squeeze inside, but not much larger. In its center was a table, and on that table, resting upon a squat metal tripod, was a large glass globe.

“Abernathy,” Eddings said to the globe, “we need to speak with you.”

The glass ball filled with a swirling gray fog that soon cleared. A face appeared, though it did not belong to Abernathy. It was the dull red visage of a metal bust, its cheeks composed of gem-like facets, its eyes two silver marbles, its head a tiered dome.