Warlock Apprentice, Black Lake Novel 4

Chapter Three

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I gripped the neck ridge in front of me and dug my knees in. The first time I rode dragon-back, the unexpected launch made me spot my britches. Wasn’t about to let that happen again. But Taiz’lin lurched far more gently into the air, and his wings lolled, nothin’ like the rushed flurries of my first experience. I let out my breath and looked toward the Earth. Had to close my eyes. The ground rushed by too quickly.

Five minutes later I dared another look. Higher in the sky now, the motion below didn’t yank at my gut, but the darkenin’ shadows hid the detail of the terrain, so I turned back to the horizon.

Taiz’lin headed northeast, toward the darkenin’ washboard of the lowland. Due north, the plains extended to the horizon where they were punctuated with the rough edge of sun-sculpted hills. The Range rose menacingly over my right shoulder, a flurry of purple hues capped by dozens of snow-covered peaks still facin’ the fallin’ sun.

Snow still, though autumn beckoned soon. I’d heard the word glacier, before. What covered the highest peaks.

I tried not to think about the gentle rise and fall of my stomach matchin’ the down thrusts and recovery of Taiz’lin’s wings. His motion was more circular and twistin’ than Iza’s, but still discomforted. I tried to focus instead on the opportunity at hand. Remained beyond my belief one of the Lake dragons helped me search for my papa. An hour earlier I expected to be the dragon’s lunch.

Life flows from one unexpected furrow to another. That tic in my back itched again.

The air continued to turn crisper. I risked removin’ my hands from Taiz’lin’s neck ridge for a moment to latch the top two loops of my coat. Right hand back, I pressed my left between my crotch and Taiz’lin’s hide for warmth. I shivered, and hunkered down more to get out of the wind. Taiz’lin’s soft hide beckoned, and I lay my face against the dragon’s neck. The short fur tickled, the constant motion chafed. I rose, surprised how far we’d traveled so quickly. We’d already crossed much of the plain and neared rollin’ lowland, and Taiz’lin angled downward.

A new anxiety thrust into my chest. What was I supposed to do down there? Before movin’ to the Range I’d only passed through a handful of human settlements. Never spent any time there. What could I expect of strangers? The day of a farmer’s son didn’t include lollygaggin’ and socializin’. I toiled in the fields, spring through winter.

Where did I go to ask about Papa? Who’d help me find him? The few folk from the Black Lake Hamlet I’d met were friendly enough, but experience indicated people acted in their own best interest, and weren’t otherwise inclined to aid a stranger.

Below, the last glow of the sun accented the silhouettes of chimney smoke to the left. But Taiz’lin soared away from them. Where was he goin’? The settlement must be farther north.

Taiz’lin overflew the rutted path that made up the main road leadin’ behind us to the Range and Black Lake, far to our south now. The dragon arched clockwise, and thrust hard to land. Momentum flung me against the neck ridge, chest plungin’ into hard gristle, bone. Face luckily ploughed into soft hide though, when Taiz’lin touched down.

“Uhh!” I rubbed my breast. Likely be rewarded with a bruise for that landin’. I swallowed and looked around at the dark groves that surrounded us.

“I thought ya were takin’ me to a human town?”

Taiz’lin replied in a hushed gravel. “Ya don’t necessarily want it known ya’re travelin’ with a dragon, lad.”

“My name is Paul.” The point was important after all, since Taiz’lin made such a big deal of his own name.

“The Northern humans are likely not yet over bein’ forced to accept peace with the goblins. Especially those humans nearest what they consider the threat.”

“But ya stood beside Range ogres and humans to head off war.”

The rumble of a draconic chuckle echoed in the growin’ dark. “Many Northern humans wanted a war.” Taiz’lin leaned forward and extended his forelimb.

I slid down his shoulder, jumped to the ground, and hurried forward to face the dragon.

“Why would they want a war? That makes no sense.”

The dragon made a belchin’ sound and closed both sets of eyelids. I figgered the combination amounted to a human groan of frustration, an eye roll, or both. The followin’ silence indicated Taiz’lin might not be in the mood to explain. But he finally spoke.

“Ya’re on yar own from here. A settlement no more than a mile away. Follow the wagon tracks and even ya can’t get lost.”

“Ya’re rude. Sure ya—”

“Get along. I’ll meet ya north of the settlement tomorrow.”

“Any lions make it up into these hills?” I asked.

Taiz’lin shook his head slowly. “No lions on this continent since dragons settled here, long before humans learned to scrawl runes.”

No lions? But— Lyin’, stinkin’ dragon.

Taiz’lin dug into the loam with all four taloned mitts and an earthy aroma rose with the dust. The dragon settled his torso into his temporary bed. His neck swung right and his head ended up hidden under a folded wing.

He had complained about missin’ his afternoon nap.

I stood watchin’ the still dragon for several seconds. Taiz’lin’s breathin’ settled quickly after a couple loud phoufoughs. The rhythmic hum of sleep mixed with the crickets and frogs, and whatever else found the early dusk the time for courtship and declarin’ territory. A fear of the unknown jabbed me in the chest. Pain radiated through my trunk, down my limbs.

Why’d Mama have to die?

Stinkin’ warlock and witch. They coulda done more. Did that ogre run Papa off, or was it Papa’s doin’?

The six of us were indeed starvin’ up in the high mountains. Me and my three sisters were better off bein’ cared for by the Hamlet folk, truth be told. Despite me fightin’ ’em with every ounce of energy.

Am I a fool for hopin’ to bring Papa back? The man rarely shared a word with me, other than a command to do this or that. If it wasn’t for Mama, the six of us wouldn’t have felt like much of a family at all. Why are these thoughts just now seepin’ into my itty bitty brain?

Manly disgust for weakness was all that kept me from sobbin’ right in front of the dragon. I whirled, situated my inelegant, hand-sewn pack, and headed for the road. Phlegm challenged me to swallow. Hunger added to my discomfort, but I was loath to put off reachin’ the human settlement to stop for a bite to eat. As though, interruptin’ my path would convince me to turn around? Give up my quest? Quest? Stupid thought.

Steppin’ out of the taller weeds, I picked up my pace along the road’s shoulder. The whiff of cook fires reached me within minutes. I passed several structures sittin’ farther off the road that appeared to be homesteads. What of the people who lived within? Be like Mama and Papa. Farmin’ folk? Business types? Considerin’ the orchards on my left and right— Kind? Mean spirited? I didn’t stop to knock on a door to find out.

The first buildin’s abuttin’ the road stood quietly, bottom floors dark, prolly business storefronts. Faint lights hinted families lived above. A boardwalk, unnecessary in the summer drought, connected the half-dozen plank-paneled buildin’s.

I trudged on, unlatchin’ my coat. Had been so wrapped up in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed the difference in the temperature since I transitioned from the cold of the highlands, and the altitude of a flyin’ dragon, to the lowland’s late-summer evenin’.

Past most of what I’d call the village, I stopped and studied the only structure that seemed awake. It set a hundred feet away from the rest of the tiny community, back from the road. The flicker of a fire and maybe a lamp lit the shutters of the near-shanty. My skin crawled, but I neared. A sign out front hung from two posts. I squinted against the gloom at the carved likeness of a runnin’ stag, whitewashed to stand out. The place must be an inn of some sort.

I listened to the murmur of voices from within. Harsh laughter and shouts leached into the gloom. I struggled to raise a foot, even take a breath. Considered turnin’ and fleein’.

The last weeks livin’ with the ogre and his mate, and the human who rode Iza, wasn’t so bad. The place was clean. Plenty of food. They were kind in their way. Though ogres are cranky beasts—I should use the term creature. They don’t care for the other word. Right irritates ’em. The lair was nowhere as cold as the hills Papa selected to settle us.

So why did I nearly kill myself to get here?

Must go on. Unmanly to change one’s mind. Right? Never saw Papa change direction once he’d set his mind to somethin’.

If someone spied me, I’d look the proper fool, to come this far and turn away. Knees near bucklin’, I strode to the inn’s door and reached out to knock, only to stop short. It was a business for goodness sake, a knock unnecessary. I fumbled in the dark to find the door’s hand-hold. The rough wood reminded me of a shovel handle. I pushed, and the voices within quieted.

I froze, and swallowed, considered pullin’ the door closed without enterin’.

I repeated my earlier argument in my head, and strode in.

The heavy air of an oak fire wafted into my face, stingin’ my eyes. I blinked it away, and peered about the thirty-foot-wide room. Hard-lived faces glared back.

Most of the light originated from the hearth, though a lantern with a heavily-sooted globe hung from the ceilin’ in the middle of the room, and another sat on planks of wood, a servin’ platform four-foot long, in the corner.

A man who must be the proprietor stood behind that bar, carvin’ at the remains of a ham that was little more than bone. He shifted the tendrils of fat and tendon he claimed onto two hunks of bread sittin’ to his right. I gave the air a sniff. Under the sharp smell of oak smoke, human sweat and worse lingered.

I sucked up my fear and closed the door behind me. Two long, rough-hewed tables with benches front and back made up the seatin’. I made my way to the left, farthest from the hearth, and the other patrons. The dark seemed more invitin’ than the heavy air from the fire. Why did the others press so close to the heat of the hearth? Maybe the night air felt cooler to the lowlanders, acclimated to this heat.

I rested my hand on the table as I squatted to sit, immediately wishin’ I hadn’t. My flesh slid over a thick layer of slime. I ripped my hand away, throwin’ me off balance. In horror, I sensed myself fallin’. Jammed my shin into the bench as I lurched. There was nothin’ to grab, nothin’ I wished to touch. My shoulder plunged into the dirt floor. New aromas, very unpleasant ones, attacked me, along with a gang of guffaws from every other man in the room.

I hurried to right myself, avoided pressin’ away from the ground with my hand. Dustin’ off I sat on the bench without touchin’ the tabletop. The sideways glances lasted another ten-count past the laughter.

Carryin’ the free lantern with him, the proprietor delivered the—I didn’t know what they would be called, ham fat on bread—to two men. He dropped the trenchers on the table without a word and walked toward me, wearin’ a scowl that tightened my gut. The round-mass of a man grumbled somethin’ I didn’t catch. His aroma folded around me like a fog, interruptin’ my thoughts.

“Sir?”

“Five pence. Ya deaf?”

“Five pence? For what?”

“A trencher, a tankard of ale, and a place by the fire for the night if ya choose to stay. Them who eats by the fire gets first choice to lie. First come and all. That way we has less bloodshed when I shutter the door. An extra two pence would buy ya a table to sleep on, but they already be spoken for.” At least that’s what I think he said. The accent twisted his words up somethin’ horrible.

I couldn’t imagine sleepin’ on either the bare floor of the place, or one of the tables. Somethin’ grabbed my gut and gave it a twist. Why wouldn’t the men prefer to sleep under the stars? It’s a cloudless night.

“I don’t have all night,” the proprietor snarled.

I considered the fresh bread and cheese in my shoulder sack. That sounded much more appetizin’, but perhaps the man would be more forthcomin’ with information if I was a payin’ customer.

“Five pence then it is,” I muttered, my voice risin’ a tad unnaturally.

The man stood still. After a three-count the man’s face oozed inward as though it were a fruit bein’ juiced.

“What?” I asked.

“See yar coin first, lad.” In a softer voice the man said, “Ya haven’t traveled much, have ya?”

I pulled the strap over my head and dug into my sack for the ogre’s coin pouch. Without extractin’ it from the pack I fumbled to open it, and selected a single coin, which I held out. The man squinted and held the lantern nearer. His jaw dropped and he flicked the coin from my hand, put it to his mouth and bit down, and studied the token closer.

“What are ya, a thief?” he shouted. “If this is real gold, I should call the constable. But since we don’t have a constable, I should string ya up myself. Where’d ya get this, lad?”

Other shouts of, “Gold?” reverberated in the room. The proprietor loomed. Benches were knocked over as their occupants rushed to stand. A crowd swirled around me. A fist grabbed my shoulder and pulled me backward. Another pulled at the strap of my shoulder sack. I twisted to hold it, but a fist ploughed into my face and I tumbled backward. Blackness folded over me. Boots collided into my ribs, back, and legs, over and again as the loomin’ din spiked.

The thought I was about to die crossed my mind after a brutal heel slammed down on my face. The onslaught lessened though, as the men towerin’ over me fought among themselves over my belongin’s. A flutter of material fell to the ground—the handkerchief the ogre hen sewed for me. I wrenched to grab it, and received a vicious kick in the ribs for my effort. I fought the pain and lunged again, slappin’ at the grease-coated dirt for the gift. A boot crushed my hand for a moment, but after another instant I found the soft, woolen square, balled it in his fist, and pulled it into my body.

A grander fight ensued above me and feet trampled across my body indifferently.

The unmistakable sound of knives bein’ drawn slithered between shouts. A shriek of pain, another, and flingin’ arms encouraged me to renew my effort to get away. I tucked up and rolled between a break in the bodies as the brawl spread out. A man fell hard against the near wall, hands grippin’ his gut. Coins clinked off wood and a half-dozen bodies dove for the sound.

Another twist and my spine collided into a wall stud. Despite the pain, I forced myself to keep movin’, struggled to my knees and crawled for the door. The shouts grew angrier and deadlier. At least now they ignored me. I staggered to my feet, threw back the door, and ran.

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