Terry Brooks: Witch Wraith

“Everyone stays aboard but Skint, Railing, and myself. The three of us will go into the town and try to find the man we need. It might take us a while, so you will have to be patient. But no one,” he continued, looking specifically at Austrum and the other Rovers, “leaves the airship while we are away.”

“Not much of anywhere to go,” Austrum allowed with a grin. “I don’t think you need worry, Old Man.”

He said it affectionately, and Farshaun took it that way, giving him a grin in reply before adding, “You’ll find out just how old I am if you disobey me.”

So while the others set about finding something to do in the interim, Skint, Railing and Farshaun descended the rope ladder and set off.

They crossed the airfield through the darkness, heading for the lights of the town, picking their way over humps and ruts and clusters of rocks as they went. They reached the first of the lights—a lamp attached to what appeared to be an equipment shed but looked like little more than another ruin. They found a path there and followed it through a scattering of buildings—some of them homes, some sheds, some barns—moving steadily toward the laughter and singing. Debris was scattered everywhere, and no one was about. A few of the better-maintained houses were dark, the shutters barred and the curtains drawn. No one else moved on the path, not until it turned into a weather-eroded roadway. Even then, the men they passed walked with their heads down and their eyes averted. Some stumbled drunkenly. Some turned aside to slip from view between the buildings. No one spoke to them. No one evinced the least interest in who they were or what they were doing.

By the time they were finally approaching the town center, the storm had caught up to them and it had begun to rain. The rain increased in intensity while they plodded up the roadway, the ground beneath their boots turning soft with mud and standing water. Ahead, the lamps burned dimly through the gloom, and the torches sizzled and sputtered.

At the first inn they reached, Skint paused. “Wait here.”

He disappeared inside and came out only moments later, beckoning them on. Railing was hungry by now, along with being cold and wet, and was impatient to reach their destination. But they slogged on past several other taverns without slowing and had almost reached the far side of the town when the Gnome Tracker motioned them through the door of a dilapidated building whose sign read PAINTED LADY. Smoky air and dim lighting greeted them; the haze was nearly as bad inside as out. The room in which they stood was big by any standard. The floor space was filled with tables and benches, and most of them were occupied. A bar against which a clutch of men leaned, drinking and joking, took up one long wall. A few heads turned, but most of the tavern’s customers ignored them. Skint stopped just inside the doorway, glanced around, then directed them to a table near the far wall. They threaded their way through the tables and bodies and arrived at their destination unchallenged. They were close to a huge fireplace with a fire blazing in the open hearth. They removed their cloaks and felt the heat begin to chase off the chill that had settled into their bones.

“Better now, eh?” Farshaun said to Railing, who nodded absently.

Skint left them without a word, moving over to the bar. A few minutes later, he was back with tankards of ale. “Get a little of this inside you. Our man will be over in a moment.”

They sat drinking the ale, waiting. Railing wanted to ask something more about the man they were supposed to be meeting—Challa Nand—so that he would have some idea of what he was like. But Skint had said nothing about the prospective guide earlier and he offered nothing now. So at this point, it seemed better to hold his tongue and let matters unfold.

Suddenly Skint straightened in his seat. “Here he comes. Let me do the talking,” he said, the words so soft that Railing almost didn’t hear.

A huge Troll was coming toward them, winding his way through the closely bunched tables as if unconcerned whether he avoided them or knocked them over. The occupants of the tables he passed were quick to move aside, either out of courtesy or to avoid being crushed; it was hard to tell which. Challa Nand wasn’t just big. At three hundred pounds or more, and topping out at just under seven feet, he was huge. The bark-like skin and blunted features were a familiar sight, but it was the man’s build that was more impressive. Railing was willing to bet that there wasn’t an ounce of fat amid all that muscle. Challa Nand looked as if he could pick up any table in the room—occupants and all—and fling it out the door.

He reached them and sat down at the end of the bench next to Skint, who quickly made room for him. He dark gaze passed over all three men before settling on the Gnome Tracker. “What do you need of me?”

He spoke the Southland dialect that had become commonplace during the last century, his voice a deep rumble, harsh and jagged about the edges. Railing tried to stop staring at him and failed.

“We need a guide into the Charnals,” Skint replied. He seemed calm enough sitting next to the Troll, who looked to be three times his size. “Into country not many know or dare to go.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The ruins of Stridegate.”

A rough chuckle. “Urda country. Why would you go there? Never mind, don’t tell me that. I don’t need to know. Stridegate. That’s inside the Inkrim.” He glanced at Railing and Farshaun. “Just the three of you?”

“We have a ship. A crew of Rovers. Two other passengers.”

“A warship?”

“No, but she’s well protected.”

“She’ll need to be. That’s dangerous country even for men who know it, which I’m guessing you don’t. Deep inside the Klu, which are deep inside the Charnals.” He shook his massive head. “An old man, a skinny Gnome, and a boy. Are the rest any better suited to this than you?”

Without waiting for a response, he took Skint’s tankard of ale and drained it. “You should get us another round, don’t you think?”

Skint glared at him but complied. The Troll watched him go, then turned to Railing. “There’s something about you—I sensed it right away—and it troubles me. I can’t put my finger on it, though. You don’t look very impressive, but there’s something there, right enough. Where do you come from, boy? What’s your name?”

Railing flushed at the assessment, his irritation at being addressed so bluntly almost getting the better of him. “Railing Ohmsford. From the village of Patch Run on the Rainbow Lake.”

The Troll studied him. “Never heard of Patch Run, but your name is familiar. Why do I know it?”

Railing met his dark gaze without flinching but said nothing. Why should he tell this creature anything?

Skint returned with the tankards of ale. Challa Nand took all four from him, pushed one at Farshaun, one at the Gnome, and kept the other two for himself. Railing’s face darkened further.

“You think me bold?” Challa Nand shrugged. “Let me tell you something, Railing Ohmsford. I am a big, strong man. You can see as much. I get what I want most of the time because of my size and strength. There’s not much reason for me to worry. But every now and then, something or someone comes along who, for one reason or another, is my match. Early on, I didn’t sense it the way I do now. I’ve learned to look for it, though. I’ve learned not to rely too strongly on size and strength, not to take it for granted that my physical gifts will see me through. Knowing your limitations is important in this world.”

He drank from his tankard of ale. Then he pushed the second tankard toward Railing. “I sense those limitations now, with you. You have magic, don’t you? Magic strong enough that you don’t see any real need to be afraid of me. What form does it take?”