Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 4

Wynn gripped the bench's edge—not from panic but from growing nausea. Poor Shade had long since gone silent.

The tram constantly shuddered, rocking slightly whenever rounding a gradual curve. It didn't agree with Wynn's stomach, and worse, Chane appeared annoyingly immune. He glanced back at her now and then in concern.

"On our return, we will take a forward car," he said. "Being closer to the engine may minimize the rocking."

Wynn bit down on her lower lip. Such ideas were all well and good, but they didn't help her now. Rationalizing every problem was always his way of helping, but she wondered if he possessed any true empathy. She was also beginning to feel trapped.

Even with a welcome breeze from the tram's rush, there was little to see along the way. The absolute blurred sameness throughout the night made her feel as though the tunnel were closing in.

"The uneven motion may partly be the tracks' construction," Chane went on. "Did you notice them?"

Wynn glowered at the back of his head. Normally he was so quiet. Why all the prattle now? Perhaps he was trying to distract her from suffering.

"Simple and easily maintained," he added. "They need only forge new steel to reline the ruts, likely guiding the tram without need for a steering mechanism."

Wynn swallowed hard. "Chane, please … stop … talking!"

He pivoted and raised his eyebrows, as if surprised at her tone, and the tram took a hard left turn.

Wynn closed her eyes with a groan. Her fingernails bit into the bench as a strange metal screech built around their car.

"We are slowing," Chane said. "There is light ahead, more than from the engine's crystal."

At least that was a welcome comment.

Wynn opened her eyes in fragile hope and leaned over the tram's rail wall. She saw some light ahead, enough to make out the tram car's side … and the tunnel's stone wall rushing by in a blur.

Her stomach lurched.

Light grew quickly, building to a warm glow. The tunnel wall's rush began to slow, and to Wynn's relief, the tram rolled into another constructed cavern. In a screech of steel, it finally stopped, lurching her forward in her seat.

Shade groaned somewhere below amid a scratch of claws on the car's floor.

Wynn saw a station platform on the car's far side. Dwarves aboard immediately got up and began disembarking. She sagged forward, bracing against the back of Chane's bench, and reached down for Shade's head.

"We're here … it's over," she whispered with effort, but she couldn't find Shade by touch.

A moaning growl rose from somewhere behind her. Without a breeze from the tram's rush, so did a thin, foul smell.

"Shade?" Wynn whispered.

She stood up, wobbling as she stepped into the aisle, and bent over, looking for the dog.

Shade lay under the next bench back. Her rib cage bulged with each heaving breath, and spittle dripped freely from her half-open jaws. Below Wynn's own bench was a pool of saliva surrounding undigested sausage lumps.

Wynn covered her mouth against a gag.

"It wasn't any better for me," she muttered.

Shade exposed still-dripping teeth, and Wynn regretted her words, even if Shade couldn't understand them.

"Come," Chane interrupted, and hoisted his packs and hers as well.

Wynn took up the staff, checking the sun crystal under its leather cover. Then she crouched, patting the side of her leg as she peered at Shade.

Shade crawled out, rising on shaky legs, and Wynn felt even worse at having put Shade through this ordeal. It couldn't be helped. They had to find High-Tower's family as soon as possible. She stroked Shade's head, passing memories of quiet inn rooms, and then pulled Shade along as she followed Chane onto the platform.

Sea-Side's tram station wasn't set deep into the mountain, as in Bay-Side. It was couched directly behind the settlement's main market cavern, smaller than Bay-Side's but still filled with the hazy glow of steaming crystals upon pylons. Beyond scarce vendors and others, only four great columns with few upper walkways supported the high ceiling. Scant passengers already gathered on the platform for the tram's return trip. As the stout female dwarf came along to usher them aboard, Wynn caught the young woman's attention.

"How late is it?" she asked.

"Barely Night-Summer's end," the girl answered. "About your midnight."

She stepped back on to the tram with the last of her passengers.

"And now?" Chane asked.

Wynn looked about. Some arriving passengers headed for the archway leading outside into the cold night, but most of them disappeared into the widest of three other tunnels leading deeper inside the mountain.

"That way," Wynn said, nodding toward the latter.

With Chane on one side and Shade on the other, she stepped off the platform to search for Sea-Side's "underside." Motion sickness passed as curiosity took its place.

After a short walk down a vast columned tunnel, she spotted side paths through archways the size of normal roads. These were placed at intervals akin to a city block. Squat pylons with engravings stood at each intersection, but only every other one held a steaming orange crystal, smaller than the ones of Bay-Side.

"This settlement is not as developed as the other," Chane commented, stepping ahead.

"Wait," Wynn called, circling the nearest pylon.

She studied dwarven engravings on all four sides. It took a moment to figure them out, and then she peered down the left-side path. The way broadened farther on, and she spotted signs, flags, and banners in front of varied doors and openings.

"The pylon says this is Chamid Bâyir," she said, pointing down the main tunnel. "Oblique Mainway—wherever that goes."

A few dwarves and fewer humans milled past them.

Chane looked warily at a thickly bearded human in a shimmering head wrap and short umber robe. Dark skinned, with a sheathless curved sword slid into his fabric wrap belt, he returned Chane's stare with haughty disdain before moving on.

"Do not get out of my sight," Chane warned.

Wynn shot him a glare. She was as well traveled as he was, and far more accustomed to this culture.

Shade growled.

The tone was different from her pained suffering on the tram, and Wynn forgot Chane's irritating manner. She spun about and found Shade watching a dwarf in a leather hauberk striding toward them along the mainway. Two matched, overmuscled, and short-haired hounds padded beside him.

Both animals were barrel-chested, their raised heads easily higher than the dwarf's belt. In contrast, Shade looked even more like a slender, long-legged wolf. Her hackles rose as she pulled back her jowls.

One dog slowed and began growling back.

Wynn crouched, quickly laying down her staff and grabbing Shade's neck. She'd tried to warn Shade about growling at strangers, but doing so with memories hadn't been easy. She hadn't mentioned—shown—Shade anything about other dogs.

"Apologies," she said in Dwarvish. "My dog is a bit protective."

"Dog?" the dwarf replied.

His bushy brows rumpled as he eyed Shade, who obviously looked like a wolf. But he didn't appear offended and nudged his own animal with his knee, growling, "Quit!" With a polite smile to Wynn, he continued on his way.

Wynn watched the houndmaster and then saw Chane's hand on his sword's hilt. The dwarf either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared. Holding Shade fast, Wynn called out in Numanese so that Chane could follow.

"Sir?"

The dwarf paused and half turned.

"Do you know of the Yêarclág … the Iron-Braids?" she asked. "And where they reside?"

"No, miss," the dwarf answered, this time glancing at Chane's tensed hand. "But you are in the upper trade district. You may need to head beyond it, possibly down, to find dwelling districts. Maybe someone there can help you."

His Numanese was perfect, but most dwarves spoke it well enough, along with a smattering of other tongues. Dwarves, who valued good trade with other cultures, were so oral that language came easily to them.

"Thank you," Wynn called.

The dwarf returned a shallow bow and headed off with his hounds. Shade was still leering after them, and Wynn grabbed her gently by the snout.

"No!" she whispered firmly.

Shade rumbled, glaring back with blue crystalline eyes. She shook herself free of the grip.

Wynn sighed in frustration. Sometimes she forgot that Shade didn't understand language—not like her father. Trying to use memories and present them in clear and meaningful strings was daunting. Wynn stood up and turned on Chane.

"And you!" she said. "Keep your hand off that sword, unless you have no choice! Most dwarves are quick to laugh and slow to anger, but once aroused, they don't calm easily. Even you would have trouble facing one of them."

Chane's eyes widened and his jaw muscles bulged. Clearly offended, he opened his mouth to respond.

"I'm not questioning your skill," she went on, but lowered her voice to a whisper. "And keep your sword in plain sight. To them, only a villain carries concealed weapons. Magiere and Chap both saw visions of the past … through the memories of others. Dwarves are a match—or better—for an undead's strength."

Chane's expression relaxed. Perhaps he took her at her word—or he was patronizing her. The barest slyness surfaced in his expression—almost a thin smile—and he lunged sideways.

By the time Wynn twisted to catch sight of him, he was behind her.

"They would have to get a hold on me first," he rasped.

She just stared at him. Was he joking? Did Chane know how to joke?

Wynn almost smiled—and then scoffed. He might be faster than a dwarf, but that wasn't the point. The last thing she needed was his overprotective gallantry getting them into trouble.

Chane gestured down Oblique Mainway, then cocked his head toward the side tunnel.

"Onward or outward?"

Wynn had no idea. If the Iron-Braids lived in the poorest district, then they would have to head below sooner or later. How and where was another matter, and she would rather have the answers before they tried navigating unknown regions. She should've asked more from the polite houndmaster.

"The main tunnel," she finally answered. "Maybe it will lead to some way down."

At that wild guess, they were off once more.

A single row of sculpted-based columns stretched along the avenue's center. The structure of Oblique Mainway was plain but astonishing, not only for size and supports but for the chaotic structures that lined it.

Shops and stalls were carved into or built out of the side walls, but their spacing, shape, and size had no discernible pattern. Between one with wide double doors and another with an archway blocked by a garnish of braided drape was a third with a vertical set of three windows—triangle, square, and hexagon. Even those were obscured with curtains. Occasionally, vendors' stalls of wood or canvas surrounded a column, but nearly all along the way were closed for the night.

There was no one who appeared to be a resident to ask for directions. The farther they went, the fewer passersby scurried off their own way. More than half of those kept to the other side of the center columns once they spotted Shade.

Wynn was thankful that Shade kept quiet, but she couldn't help noticing the near absence of humans. Even without Shade, that alone made her and Chane stand out.

"If we cannot find guidance," Chane said, "then we should secure lodging. Tomorrow, more people will be about. We cannot visit these Iron-Braids in the middle of the night, if manners are valued here."

"I want to at least find where they live, and you can't be out during …" She paused when he glanced sidelong at her. "Oh … I suppose you can down here."

The thought hadn't occurred to her before. Underground, shielded from the sun, Chane wasn't limited by daylight.

"Let's look a little longer," she added.

They finally reached the end of the shops. Farther on, the tunnel emptied into a tall, domed chamber somewhat wider than the mainway. Four slimmer columns supported its ceiling, and narrow passages spidered outward around it. Thick steps on both sides climbed upward into stone. On the cavern's far side, one broad tunnel continued onward in a gentle downward slope that arced left.

Wynn heard someone walking toward them.

It took a long time for the figure to enter the mainway's light. An ancient dwarf in a faded gown hobbled into Oblique Mainway, leaning upon a walking rod. Her hair was so thin that her age-speckled scalp showed through it all around. Gnarled wrinkles over her features all but obscured her small eyes. In her stoop, she might have been shorter than Wynn, but was twice as wide, with a large mole on her wrinkled cheek.

"Old mother," Wynn said, a respectful phrase learned from Domin Tilswith, "we are looking for the Iron-Braids. Could you help us?"

The elderly dwarf raised her milky eyes, but her voice was clear as she shook her head.

"I only recently came to live down below … with distant relations… ."

She trailed off somberly. Perhaps she'd lost her immediate family and been reduced in circumstances enough to fall back on relatives in the underside.

"Could I ask," Wynn began, reluctant to press, "where do you and yours reside? It might be near where I can find those I seek."

The old woman took a slow, haggard breath, answering in Numanese. "Go all the way down to Âyillichreg Bâyir … Limestone Mainway. Look for the cheag'anâkst called Kìnnébuây. It stays open all the time."

"Cheag'anâkst?" Wynn repeated, trying to decipher the term. "A greeting house?"

The old woman nodded. "The locals there may have heard of your friends."

"Thank you," Wynn replied.

She wanted to say more, or offer trade for welcome advice, but the old woman had already hobbled onward.

"What is this … greeting house?" Chane asked. "A tavern?"

"Not exactly," Wynn replied. "I've never been in one. It's closer to an eatery, lodge, and gathering place all in one."

"Then a common house."

She shook her head. "Dwarves have another word for that. And such places are for family or clan only, not outsiders."

She looked across the wide end chamber to where the tunnel began its downward curve. She'd hoped for more specific directions before going into the depths. Without a word, Wynn trudged onward, and Chane and Shade paced her on separate sides.

A few small crystals were set in the walls along the gradual downward spiral. In a while, another wide tunnel with a single row of columns shot off in what she assumed was the same direction as Oblique Mainway. She stepped through the end chamber to the first crystal-mounted pylon. The new tunnel wasn't Limestone Mainway.

Here, the look of the shops and structures were much the same as above. She peered back to where the curving tunnel joined the right side of the end chamber. On the left, its gradual spiral continued downward. And they were off again… .

Down to the next level, and the next, and yet again, but none of the names upon the first pylons depicted the symbols for Limestone Mainway. The lower they descended, the fewer crystals lit the spiraling tunnel, until there were none at all. Wynn took out her small cold lamp crystal and rubbed it briskly to provide light.

She stepped out through yet another end chamber, but this time, the curving tunnel didn't continue on its far side. It was the last place to look. Sure enough, the first column was marked for Limestone Mainway. It was nothing like Oblique Mainway far above.

Perhaps it had been named for the shots of limestone that ran through the wide tunnel's walls. There was an ocher dinginess to the whole place. It was brightly lit, as were all the main tunnels, but none of the excavated shops here were smoothly finished. All looked hastily cut for their space, with no thought for appearance. Some fronts were even made of old timber and piled stone. Dust and grime had built up in the crevices around column bases and where the mainway's walls met the floor.

And the only place with any signs of life was hard to miss.

A dingy banner too dull to read from a distance hung above a wide, plain arch with no door or curtain. Yellow light spilled out across the mainway's stone, as did a loud, raucous noise of deep voices that echoed in the tunnel.

Wynn took a step, eager to find someone to direct her. Chane's hand settled on her shoulder, and she looked up. He studied the greeting house's entrance, and a twist of distaste spread his thin-lipped mouth.

"I do not like the sound. You do not belong anywhere so … common."

Wynn shrugged off his hand. "Don't be a snob."

She reached the doorway and stepped inside before he could catch her. There she paused as Chane and Shade pushed through. At first she couldn't see clearly through all the pipe smoke swirling in the air and the numerous bodies packed around the tables. Wynn coughed and her stinging eyes began to adjust.

The room was large and dauntingly crowded. Dwarves of all shapes and walks of life sat drinking from large mugs of wood or clay rather than pewter or tin. Some tugged on short and squat clay pipes, sending rolling ribbons or great blasts of gray smoke up to the arch-supported ceiling. At the room's center, the only open and clear space, a large dwarf paced around a wide circular stone platform one step in height.

Some of crowd called out, cheered, or banged their mugs, but all eyes remained fixed on the one pacing dramatically before them.

He was quite stout but also tall for his kind, with steel-streaked ruddy hair and a curly cropped beard a slightly darker hue. A well-crafted chain vest covered him over a quilted leather hauberk. Steel pauldrons and couters protected his shoulders and elbows. Two war daggers were sheathed at his hips, and a double-sided war ax was sheathed upside down on his back, so he could draw it instantly over either shoulder.

"And then?" someone called out in Dwarvish. "What then, Fiáh'our? Finish already!"

Wynn glanced toward the voice, but couldn't spot the speaker. When she looked back at the warrior upon the platform, her breath stopped at one final detail of his attire.

A slivery thôrhk hung around the dwarven warrior's thick neck.

Its ornate loop, looking as if made of braids, was thicker than two of Wynn's fingers. Traditional flanged knobs, each as big as a sword's pommel, were mounted on its ends resting below his collarbone. But in place of round domes, those ends protruded like butt spikes on the hafts of war axes.

Not just a warrior—this was a thänæ, marked in honor with a thôrhk. What was he doing drinking and telling tales in an underside greeting house?

His voice was low and loud, like rolling thunder.

"After the goblin raid on the village of Shentángize, no one dared step beyond the stockade at night. I had no choice but to set out … with only my ax for company."

The audience roared, banged mugs, and slapped the tables in anticipation.

"What is happening here?" Chane whispered.

Wynn remembered he didn't speak Dwarvish. She tried to explain but stumbled over the storyteller's name. Its components were simplified truncations of dwarven root words.

"Uhm … Stag … Battering. … no, Hammer-Stag. He's a thänæ, a paragon among his people for virtuous accomplishments."

"Paragon?" Chane rasped in disbelief. "That bellower?"

Someone snorted, and Wynn flinched around to meet pellet black eyes. A dwarf seated an arm's length away tilted his head with an angry glare. He slowly set down his mug.

"Apologies!" Wynn spit out quickly in Dwarvish. "My friend is an uncouth foreigner … out of his element." She turned on Chane, switching to Belaskian in a sharp whisper. "Keep quiet, before you start something! Dwarven virtue differs from human cultures. He is telling them a story of his exploits."

"That is not virtue," Chane hissed, "only bluster."

"I found no tracks," Hammer-Stag continued, and his low conspiratorial tone brought the room to attentive silence. "But I could smell their passing."

He paused near one table. The room remained silent as he stepped off the platform.

Hammer-Stag reached across the nearest table. He dragged the mug of one patron slowly toward himself, as if waiting for its owner to object. But that dwarf and all others remained quietly still. Hammer-Stag hefted the mug, took a long gulp, and slammed it back down.

Wynn had no idea what this meant, but his audience roared as he returned to the platform.

"So, I tracked them," Hammer-Stag went on, tapping the side of his broad nose.

Chuckles and snickers rose briefly, likely at some jest concerning the stench of goblins.

Wynn stopped listening. Solving the mystery of the thänæ's presence here wouldn't help her find the Iron-Braids, and Chane's elitist contempt was only going to get them in trouble.

Standing close, Chane looked down and gave her a short, sharp shake of his head.

"Some of these people must live nearby," she whispered, ignoring his suggestion that they leave.

Quietly, Wynn slipped forward, trying not to interrupt the thänæ's story.

"Excuse me," she whispered between a pair seated on the outskirts. "Could you tell me where the Iron-Braids live?"

Dwarves were usually willing enough to help a lost stranger. If one of them knew anything, perhaps a quiet response would be enough.

The male to her right dropped his jaw in shock, and then gritted his teeth as if she'd committed some terrible offense. He spun back toward the platform, crossing his arms and pretending not to see her. Others at the table grumbled and followed suit.

The thänæ glanced over but didn't break stride in his tale.

"When the first three came, I took two heads at once!" he called loudly. With one hand, Hammer-Stag whipped the ax off his back into a level arc. It passed swiftly before those nearest, as if severing heads right before their eyes.

A cry of triumph rose in the crowd, and Wynn sighed. Clearly she'd chosen the wrong table, and she moved farther toward the back wall near the entrance.

"Pardon me," she whispered to a small group in the leathers of laborers. "Could you please—"

She was cut off in a gasp as someone grabbed the back of her robe and cloak.

Wynn was up on her toes as she headed unwillingly toward the exit. Shade burst into a loud snarl, and Chane began pushing toward Wynn, his expression darkening. Her heart sank as she flailed her hands before her, trying to wave them both off before this all ended badly.

Chane still had his hand on his sword hilt as Wynn's heels hit the floor. She spun about, wobbling a bit under her pack's weight, and came eye-to-eye with a wide-faced woman.

"If you want to act like a rude little turnip," the female warned in a baritone voice, "then at least be silent like one!"

The dwarven woman straightened and brushed off her muslin apron.

Chane looked about uneasily as a dozen irritated patrons turned in their seats. Shade stayed put and ceased snarling as the woman proceeded back through the tables. Although the thänæ never paused in his telling, his squinting eyes turned once in Wynn's direction.

"Then the pack was upon me!" Hammer-Stag shouted. "I thought to face fifteen or twenty of the half beasts, but they poured from the forest's dark spaces by the scores… ."

Wynn rolled her eyes.

Scores? Hardly! A rare pack of goblins had been known to raid far settlements beyond Malourné's eastern reaches. No more than a dozen had ever been seen at one time. Her frustration grew.

Someone here had to assist her, for where else could she go asking at this time of night? But no one seemed willing to speak during the thänæ's tale. By his overly dramatic manner, he might go on until dawn.

Chane jerked his head toward the door.

Wynn sighed and nodded, fighting down annoyance at the open relief on his face. For a homeless wanderer, he was such an elitist.

"I swung over and over," Hammer-Stag called, "cleaving the first ten who reached me. But in my brazen courage, choosing to face them alone, I was outnumbered by the beasts. I knew I would die there … but I would take many with me on my way to our ancestors."

He paused again, and as Wynn turned to leave, she heard him gulp from another mug.

"Then a white-skinned woman with wild black hair came at me out of the dark."

Wynn stopped and shivered as if dropped in a frigid river.

White-skinned … black hair … wild …

An image of Li'kän's pale, naked form rose in her mind. Magiere had locked that ancient undead in the orb's cavern below the ice-bound castle … the place from which Wynn, with Chap's aid, had gathered the same texts she now sought.

Li'kän was one of the thirteen "Children" of the Ancient Enemy of many names … perhaps one of the first vampires to walk the world in the time of the Forgotten. Had she escaped? Was that monster loose, somehow crossing the world to this continent?

"She shouted at me in the Numans' tongue to ‘give room,' " the thänæ exclaimed.

Wynn spun in confusion.

Li'kän had been fascinated by the power of speech, but she'd been alone for so many centuries that she'd lost her own voice.

"Her blade was long and broad," Hammer-Stag went on. "Single-edged, and too weighty for her stature, but she wielded it as if it were light as a scribbler's quill. Sparks of bloodred ran in her tresses."

Wynn teetered on her feet. The thänæ was speaking of Magiere!

"Before I knew where the pale one came from or why, she charged in at my side… ."

Wynn shoved Chane aside, rushing back between the tables.

"Then came a silver wolf, taller than its kind, rending its way to give me aid… ."

Wynn's mouth opened, but she couldn't get a word out. Now, he spoke of Chap and tears welled in her eyes.

"And last, an elf with blunted ears dropped from the treetops and bolted in faster than I could—"

"Where?" Wynn cried, shoving forward toward the platform. "Where did you see them?"

Sudden silence filled the greeting house.

Hammer-Stag stopped midsentence, looking at her, and then gasps and curses exploded all around.

Wynn froze in place. She'd just committed some terrible breach, but she didn't care.

"Where?" she shouted more firmly.

"You broke my tale!" he barked, but his haughty tone was as overly dramatic as his telling. "Have you no manners … puppy?"

Then his gaze shifted aside and down. Wynn heard Shade's rumble as the dog pushed in beside her. Hammer-Stag straightened. As he stared, his broad face filled with stunned puzzlement. The crowd's hostile grumbles grew again into loud, derisive shouts.

Wynn cringed. But Hammer-Stag had spoken of Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. She was desperate to hear more, no matter what else she'd come here for. And she had just offended the locals, who might have helped in either pursuit.

"I … beg your pardon," she said quickly.

She couldn't be sure anyone heard amid all the noise. Chane's hand closed on her arm from behind, but she jerked free, trying to think of some way to serve all her desires.

"I came seeking the whereabouts of the Iron-Braids," she shouted. "But your tale was so engrossing that I spoke out of turn. Please go on. What happened next?"

Hammer-Stag blinked again. His astonishment at Shade vanished.

"Too late!" he shouted, and then snorted like a bull, swinging his arm to silence the crowd. "The tale is broken, the mood gone! So you must have a better one to take its place … if you wish to barter."

"What is he saying?" Chane demanded.

Confusion overtook Wynn, and she waved him off. Too much was happening, and she kept her eyes on the thänæ.

"Barter?" she asked. "Barter for what?"

"This is the way you seek my aid … our aid?" he challenged, smoothly changing to Numanese as he gestured to the gathering. "Do you think me some servant to fulfill your demands? Fair trade is our way, and rightly so, here and now. If you find my tale wanting, enough to cut it off, then tell me—us—a better one!" He smiled with a knowing wink to the crowd, spreading his massive arms wide. "Perhaps one of your own worthy exploits."

Wynn choked on smoky air and swallowed very hard.

"If your tale is as grand as your nerve," he added, "someone here might point your way."

Mixed reactions broke out in the greeting house. Someone laughed aloud, and that laughter spread, laced with grunts of disdain. Others shook their heads in disagreement, shouting in outrage at some young girl taking the thänæ's place.

Wynn felt small compared to Hammer-Stag's hulking stature as her mind raced for some way out of all this. Hammer-Stag raised his large hands in a gesture to quell the crowd.

"Of course, you must win the audience along the way," he continued, pointing to a large tankard resting before one soot-covered listener. "At any need, take your fill, if you dare … if the mug's owner finds your tale worthy so far. That is the way of a telling."

Wynn's stomach tightened, and a bit of the tram ride's nausea returned.

Even a stout human male would find dwarven spirits hard to bear. Would she give more offense if she didn't stop to drink? What if she accidentally sipped wood alcohol? Playing this game—this unknown custom—without knowing all the rules grew more daunting by the moment.

"Oh, dead deities!" she whimpered—another crass phrase picked up from Leesil.

But she was sick of all the hoops she'd been forced to jump through in the past year. Her guild superiors had looked at her with Hammer-Stag's same arrogant expression every time they dangled a carrot before her. Always one more proof of loyalty, obedience, propriety, always one more requirement, one more game.

Amid panic came anger.

She wasn't leaving here without learning of the Iron-Braids—and of the friends she'd lost in returning home.

"Wynn?" Chane whispered. "Do something."

"I am! I'm trying to think!"

"No more low-life nonsense!" Chane hissed, reaching for Wynn. "We find directions elsewhere."

She grabbed his wrist before he got a grip, but her attention remained fixed on the blustering dwarf.

"I can do a tale justice only in my own language," she stated clearly.

Hammer-Stag frowned as Chane's eyes widened. The dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully and then called out to the crowd, "Skíal trânid âns Numanaks?"

More grumbling rose among the listeners. Chane heard "chourdál" uttered more than once.

"Done!" barked Hammer-Stag, and nodded assent to Wynn.

"No!" Chane whispered, but Wynn pushed him off.

"If my tale is enough," she went on, "will you also tell me more of the white woman, the silver dog, and the elf who isn't an elf?"

Surprise spread across Hammer-Stag's broad face. Then it was gone. A wry smile took its place, and Chane shook his head. Wynn had just upped the stakes before her tale had even begun.

Rumblings sharpened around the room, but she stood her ground.

Chane was at a loss. Would pulling her out of here start an outright brawl?

Hammer-Stag slowly began to laugh. His guffaws grew until it seemed tears welled in his eyes. Others began to chuckle as well.

"By the Eternals," he barely got out. "This must be some tale. Agreed, O mighty little one!"

Hammer-Stag stepped down and, with a wide sweep of his hand, ushered Wynn to take the platform. Shoving his way onto a bench at the nearest table, he dropped down, grabbed a mug, and clacked it once on the table with a shout.

"To the telling!"

Chane saw too many eyes locked on Wynn amid stony, disgruntled expressions filled with doubt. At more chuckling around the room, Hammer-Stag slapped his table.

"Silence!" he shouted. "And respect!"

The room went instantly quiet.

Wynn stepped up amid the crowd and turned slowly about. Shade trotted closer as well, perhaps unwilling to let her get too far away. All Chane could do was fight the wild urge to throw Wynn over his shoulder and haul her out of this detestable place.

Why had they ever come in here? What was she thinking? He could not believe she would succeed at what amounted to street-level theater. Wynn was a guild sage, the highest of scholars, yet she had made a bargain upon her word. He could not break that any more than she would herself.

Chane crossed his arms, waiting. Within moments, she would be jeered out of this commoners' arena, and he could finally take her away.

Wynn raised one hand and pointed to Hammer-Stag. Her voice low and not quite steady, it still carried.

"This honored thänæ spoke of a pale woman, a silver dog, and an elf," she began. "These were my companions of old. In company, we faced horrors not imagined, things to make goblins into bed tales for children."

Hammer-Stag raised his eyebrows, and Chane groaned softly. Why did she have to begin with an insult?

Wynn held both hands out toward her audience.

"Five seasons past, we traveled to the top of the world, to a place of year-round ice on the eastern continent known there as the Pock Peaks. We searched for a treasure lost beyond history—but not for our own gain. We sought to keep it from the hands of a murdering villain and worse … one of the undead."

Chane's mouth went slack. Did dwarves even know about the undead? From what he had learned of the Numan Lands, such creatures were only fables and folklore here. Several dwarves fidgeted like children suffering in boredom, but all remained quiet. Wynn's low voice carried throughout the smoky room.

"He was what the people there called a Noble Dead, the highest and most feared of the undead … an upér, upír … a vampire, a drinker of the blood of the living. We struggled on in those white mountains, trying to find the treasure before he did."

Wynn's exaggerated accounts of trials and hardships built as she circled the platform, fixing upon the whole audience and perhaps purposefully ignoring Hammer-Stag. After a while she paused, and silence filled the room. She met the steady gaze of one female dwarf sitting at the back side of Hammer-Stag's table.

Wynn stepped down from the platform and reached past Hammer-Stag for the woman's mug.

Though she faltered, no one tried to stop her. She took a fast and deep drink, and slammed the mug back down like Hammer-Stag—or tried to. Compared to his pounding, it sounded like she had dropped the mug.

Ale sloshed out on the table.

Its owner frowned, shaking bits of foam off her stout fingers. Wynn quickly retreated to the platform while others at the table tried to stifle their amusement.

"One night in our search," Wynn began again, "I became lost in a blizzard. But Chap, the silver sire of my own companion"—and she gestured toward Shade—"found me. Together, we took refuge inside a stone chute to wait out the storm." Her voice rose slightly. "But we were fools to think a storm our worst enemy. We heard a sound at the chute's bottom. … We peered downward to see two of the Anmaglâhk, the Thieves of Lives, a caste of elven assassins, crawling up to murder us!"

Chane grew still and attentive. He had heard only scant bits of Wynn's journey, and little to nothing of her time up in the Pock Peaks. He knew what had become of those two elves, for he had seen the bodies. But he had not known they had come so close to Wynn.

A low rumble passed briefly through the crowd. Chane's ire rose for an instant, until he looked at their faces.

The mention of elves as assassins seemed to startle them into disbelief. But distaste came quickly, as if they accepted Wynn's accounting. Even the fanciful notion that such a caste might exist did not sit well with the dwarves. Chane remembered Wynn's earlier warning to keep all weapons in plain sight as an issue of honor and virtue.

"Until then, we didn't know these eastern elves sought the treasure as well. Chap is fierce, as Hammer-Stag has said, but he would be hard-pressed against such trained assassins. They moved like a sudden night breeze, wielding stilettos as if born with them. I'm ashamed to say I faltered in fear."

She paused once more at Hammer-Stag's table, this time reaching for a closer mug, but Hammer-Stag quickly covered the mug with his hand.

Wynn's face drained of all color at his denial, but Chane was relieved. She had finally failed in her challenge.

"Perhaps another mug would be better," Hammer-Stag said quietly, and then his face flushed with anger as he glared at the mug's bleary-eyed owner.

That ragged-looking male with ruddy features blinked in confusion. Horrified realization took him, and he quickly pulled his mug away.

Chane was baffled. For such stout and hardy people, he wondered at any dwarf being so drunk.

Wynn recovered. Exchanging respectful nods with Hammer-Stag, she grabbed another mug and took a drink. And Chane realized what had happened.

That one drunken dwarf had been swilling wood alcohol—which would have killed Wynn if Hammer-Stag had not intervened. Chane's discomfort grew, not only for Wynn's safely, but because she was doing better than he expected.

"But as those murdering elves began their ascent," Wynn continued, "a black shadow passed overhead." She raised one arm, draping her robe's sleeve below her eyes. "When I looked up, I barely made out the transparent ghost of a raven as it dived down through the chute."

She jabbed her other hand through the sleeve, the fabric whipping aside as her fingers shot out at a nearby table. One young male stiffened sharply in startlement, almost dropping his tankard.

"That black ghost rammed straight through the first Anmaglâhk!"

More dwarves sat upright in their seats.

"He grabbed his chest in pain, but something more pulled my eyes skyward. A hint of white flashed by, running down the chute's wall. It went straight at the elves, and the second one vanished from the chute's mouth as it came. That white form was gone, and the first elf slumped against the stone wall.

"Chap raced after them, for in protecting me, his heart would never turn him from a fight. I rushed after him but stopped at the chute's bottom when I saw the one fallen Anmaglâhk. The elf's ribs protruded around a gaping hole in his chest … where his heart had been torn from his body."

Wynn raised her hand, closed in a partial fist like a claw, as if gripping that heart. She turned, walking slowly around the platform. All the dwarves watched in silence.

"Then I heard the snarls and screaming," she whispered. "I rushed on after Chap to a sight I still cannot push from memory. The other elf lay dead in the snow, his head torn from the gushing stump of his neck … and standing over him was a naked white woman.

"She was so deceptively frail in build, but with fangs and clear crystal eyes. Her hair shimmered black as night, its tendrils writhing in the snow-laced breeze. She was undead, a vampire, but centuries old. And she had torn apart two of the Anmaglâhk like gutted fish."

Wynn paused near another table and locked eyes on a young wide-eyed dwarven couple.

"I could barely breathe," she whispered, "as I stared at her."

This time she did not hesitate and took another long drink. Her brown eyes glittered as she twirled back around to the platform's center.

"To my despair, Chap charged. So fierce was he that he held the white woman in combat for a while. But finally she threw him against the cliff side, and he fell limp in the snow. She turned her eyes on me … and I ran!

"I barely made the chute's mouth before she was on me. She grabbed my throat and slammed me against the sheer stone as I cried out."

Wynn paused so long that Chane thought someone might speak.

"She released me … and cringed away against the chute's far wall."

Hammer-Stag leaned forward, neither smiling nor scowling, his eyes locked on Wynn.

"She stared at me with those colorless eyes. Even through terror that froze my body more than cold, my thoughts were racing. I had cried out for her to stop … and the sound of my words, not my voice, had caused this. I spoke again."

Wynn glanced toward Chane.

"She had been locked away in those white mountains, alone for hundreds upon hundreds of years … so long that she'd forgotten the very sound of speech. Upon hearing words once more, so vaguely remembered, like a home lost so long she had forgotten even the hope of it … she did not kill me.

"Instead, she grabbed me and raced through the mountains. She carried me to a six-towered castle trapped upon a great snow plain, the very place my companions and I had been searching for. She was the guardian of the treasure we sought.

"Even wounded, Chap came for me, and finally closed upon us once we reached the castle doors. I spoke to the white woman again. She did not understand me but held off from tearing me apart as she had the elves … only because of the sound of my words and that I spoke to her.

"She was mad, driven insane by isolation. She led Chap and me inside her castle, the first to enter it in … well, who knows how long. All because I kept speaking to her, and she listened."

Wynn turned a full circle, her hands held open.

"She was destined to destroy all who came near the treasure, but I alone gained her secrets. Though helpless, I was strong enough of heart and wise enough to best her. Not by ax or sword or feats of might, but by my voice, my words … my telling … given in charity to her."

Wynn fell silent, pulled her robe and cloak closed around herself, and bowed her head.

Chane stood rooted to the floor.

He had never seen this side of Wynn. Her sense of drama, of the moment, was surprising if not perfect. It took several breaths for others to realize she had finished, and then the rumble began. One dwarf shouted out in Numanese, "No, that cannot be the end! What happened after? Did you find the treasure?"

Wynn raised her head with the hint of a smile.

"That is another story … another telling … for another time." She turned her large brown eyes upon Hammer-Stag, adding, "And for some other fair trade."

At first, Hammer-Stag simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable. Then he slowly shook his head. He began rumbling with laughter, and suddenly he slapped the table, making the nearest mugs jump and shudder.

"By the Eternals, fair trade indeed! You will sit with me, little one!"

Wynn's gaze wandered to Chane.

He could not help wondering if the dwarves believed a single word of her tale. Elven assassins and ancient white undeads? But it did not seem to matter. Several raised their mugs high as she joined Hammer-Stag and took a seat. Shade trotted after her, and Chane reluctantly followed, settling beside her at the table.

Another dwarf remained sitting with Hammer-Stag, younger and wearing a cleanly oiled leather hauberk. His mass of brown hair was pulled back with a leather thong, and his slightly darker beard was trimmed and groomed. He observed Wynn, but did not speak.

Hammer-Stag gestured to his companion.

"My kinsman, Carrow," he said simply. He gathered a pitcher and mugs from the table, shoving one down to Chane.

Chane did not touch it. Then Hammer-Stag slapped a hand over his heart.

"I am Fiáh'our," he claimed, as if only the sound of his name was needed for anyone to recognize him.

"Hammer-Stag?" Wynn interjected.

He pondered her translation. "Yes!" he agreed. "Hammer-Stag of the family of Loam, Meerschaum clan of the Tumbling-Ridge tribe. And who are you, girl, and your young man?"

"He is not my …" Wynn began through clenched teeth, and then fidgeted. "My name is Wynn Hygeorht, of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. This is Chane Andraso, a scholar I met in the Farlands, a region of the eastern continent."

Chane frowned. Her words were now slurring, and her eyes appeared overly bright. Amid the tale, he had lost track of how much ale she had sampled.

"I see," said Hammer-Stag, raising thick eyebrows. He glanced down at Shade, who flattened her ears but did not growl. "A fine tale," he went on. "And well told."

"So, why is a thänæ telling tales in this poor neighborhood, in the middle of the night?" Wynn blurted out.

Chane's eyes widened, as did Carrow's, but Hammer-Stag did not appear insulted.

"Tales must be told … a telling is the way … most especially if one is honored among the living," he said. "How else will they be retold, molded over years by the many, and hopefully stand the test of time? That is the only way to become one of the honored dead, to be reborn among the people. So was it with all of the Eternals, whose tales belong to all of the people, no matter where they live."

Chane frowned. Wynn had mentioned that the dwarves believed their "saints" lived on in this world, watching over them. To claim that their Eternals—their patron saints—still lived seemed strange.

Hammer-Stag waved his hand, brushing off Wynn's question. "Now, what is it you wish to learn from me?"

Wynn had made that clear from the start, and Chane said, "The location of the Iron-Braid family."

Carrow winced visibly at that family name.

"Ah, yes." Hammer-Stag's expression turned thoughtful, almost sad. "Continue down Limestone Mainway, and turn in at the fifth tunnel to the north. You'll find a smithy a short way down; you cannot miss it. But only two Iron-Braids remain among us—Skirra Yêarclág Jäyne a'Duwânláh, the daughter, and her mother, Meránge."

The long dwarven title jumbled in Chane's head, but he knew from Wynn that Yêarclág meant "Iron-Braid," based on some respected ancestor in their direct family line.

Wynn tettered on the bench. "Why are … you … sad … when you speak of them?"

Her speech slurred and faltered more and more.

"The fifth side street on the right," Hammer-Stag repeated softly, glancing at Carrow in apparent concern.

"And what of my … com … panions?" Wynn said, struggling to pronounce the words, and her eyes turned glassy with threatening tears. "Magiere and Leesil … Chap. … where are they?"

Hammer-Stag shook his head. "I do not know, Wynn of the Hygeorhts. After they aided me in my own audacity, I asked about their journey. But they preferred to keep to themselves. They headed north, perhaps to one of the Northlander coastal towns."

Chane watched a tear roll down Wynn's cheek as she closed her eyes. She looked broken, as if something she sought, desperately needed, had turned into only a figment. She was drunk, and he feared she might crumple onto the table.

Wynn looked up at Hammer-Stag, and Chane saw desperation in her face.

"But they are alive?" she whispered.

Hammer-Stag leaned in upon her with a toothy grin. "There is slyness in those three. And yes, O mighty little one, I would barter my honor that they are still alive!"

Chane rose up. "We thank you for your assistance."

"A little thing," Hammer-Stag said absently, and then laughed, poking Wynn in the shoulder. "And I had the better of the barter!"

Under that one-fingered push, Wynn nearly toppled over. Hammer-Stag quickly grabbed her before Chane could, and studied Wynn with something akin to affection.

"The ale could not be helped—it is part of the telling," he said. "You gave us much enjoyment tonight. A dark tale it was, but a fresh one we have never heard!"

"Dark?" she whispered. "Not compared to others I know."

That was enough for Chane. He grabbed Wynn under the arms and hoisted her up. She struggled until he breathed in her ear, "Let us go … and find the Iron-Braids."

What he intended was to take her straight to find lodging, but first he had to get her out the door.

"Yes, to the Iron-Braids!" she said loudly, struggling to stand on her own. She looked down at Hammer-Stag. "Good-bye, thänæ … and thank you."

Before the parting dragged on, Chane turned her toward the exit, and Shade followed after. But as he steered Wynn between the tables, her story would not leave his thoughts… .

Or rather, Chane could not stop picturing her upon the platform, pretending to clutch the heart of an Anmaglâhk.