Baleful Signs (Dagger of the World Book 3) Read online

  The Brother was young, with short-cropped hair, and was, of course, a human.

  “Brother Dee, what is it?” Jacques turned on his heel.

  “Sir, I wouldn’t bother you were it not important. Sister Ulia told me where you were heading.” The Brother gasped, pausing at the bottom of the stairs as he nodded to Terak, and then continued his task.

  “We’re hearing reports from the Wall Brothers and Sisters that it wasn’t just the Estreek that attacked last night,” the young man said, and looked concerned. “If it was any other minor spirit or creature, I wouldn’t bother you, but . . .”

  Terak felt a shiver of apprehension shoot through him. Oh no! He had an idea what this young man was going to say, and he was right . . .

  “Well, out with it!” Jacques muttered irritably.

  “Well, several wall guards are reporting that they saw a massive dog-like creature roaming the walls and courtyards last night,” the man said. “They tried to give chase and could barely believe their eyes, but the creature always vanished before they could catch it.”

  Oh, Ixcht. Terak gritted his teeth.

  “It was a giant dog-like creature, with skin that was brown and gray and black—like stone.” The messenger had to shout over the noise of the weir, but his round eyes portrayed how serious the news was. “And it had a mane of tentacles and a barbed tail . . .” The man paused meaningfully. “There is only one creature in any of the bestiaries that fits that description . . .”

  “A Mordhuk,” the Chief External said heavily. Terak felt the man’s eyes flicker to him, but he kept his face a mask of concern. It wasn’t hard to do.

  “If the Mordhuk have already been loosed from the Blood Gate, sir . . .” the messenger said.

  “Brother! Control yourself. Remember the Path!” Jacques said severely, and then, a little more gently, “I thank you for bringing this to my attention. Return to your work now, Brother Dee.”

  “Yes, Chief-sir,” said the Brother. He nodded to the Chief, and then a shallower nod of greeting to Terak before he turned and disappeared back up the stairs.

  Terak was grateful for the roar of the weir as Jacques turned to regard him but said nothing. Father Jacques had been with him when the Mordhuk had suddenly appeared and killed the Ixcht insect-man warrior who was trying to kill Terak. And Father Jacques knew precisely where the Mordhuk had come from: the Loranthian Shrine.

  But has he put the two facts together?

  Jacques gestured to the Water Gate itself, pulling out a set of iron keys to open the smaller gate inside the grillwork of the larger. Together, they stepped out into the narrow gully with its rushing mountain stream, crested with scrubby Tartaruk trees.

  The Chief External continued to not say anything as he took the narrow path up through the gulley. Soon, they were surrounded by trees and boulders before coming to a hollow formed by the land.

  And standing there in the hollow, barely with room above her head, was another Sister of the Black Keep. She held one of the small and feisty piebald Tartaruk ponies by a lead. The pony was already girded with saddlebags. Slumped over the horse’s neck was the form of Reticula, still apparently unconscious.

  “Reticula, can you hear me?” Terak moved forward to the pony, receiving a nod from the Enclave Sister and a groan from Reticula, who tried to raise her head, but only slumped back down.

  “We have her under enchantment,” Jacques said, before dismissing the Sister, who hurried back the way that she had come. “But the somna will not hold forever, and I fear that the poison is still spreading through her body. We could have waited for your return, but I fear that it would be too late.”

  Terak nodded. “I will have to take her with me?”

  “And heal her as soon as you can,” Jacques stated seriously, before prodding the saddle bags. “Equipment, powders, more ointments to ease Novitiate Reticula’s pain. But you will have to think on your feet. I have no idea how Lord Alathaer will respond to your request.”

  “Maybe we cannot wait to make a request,” Terak said. It was clear that Jacques knew what he meant. Novitiate Terak would steal the Demiene Flowers if he had to.

  “Perhaps.” Jacques nodded favorably. “Only you can make that choice, when you see the Path ahead of you.”

  Terak nodded. “Thank you, Chief. I will try not to fail the Enclave—and Reticula . . .”

  He lightly mounted the steed, nudging close to Reticula until he felt her weight slump against him with another low whisper of pain. Terak was eager to get going and was already picking up the reins when he heard a cough from the Chief External behind him.

  “Novitiate. Did you see one of the Mordhuk last night, as you fought to save Novitiate Reticula’s life?” The Chief said, and his tone was so stern as to be undeniable.

  Terak turned and looked at the Chief External in his bright eyes. For a moment, the air between them seemed taut. “No, Chief-sir,” the elf said. He was a good liar. Father Jacques had, after all, taught him well.

  Jacque’s eyes were sharp and attentive, and Terak wondered if he saw a shadow of something—suspicion?—pass over them. Father Jacques, also, was very good at hiding his inner thoughts as he nodded.

  “Good. The Mordhuk spotted is more than likely to be the one from the Loranthian Shrine. If it is any other, then it is very dire news for all of us indeed,” he said, resting a hand on Terak’s stirrups casually.

  “The Mordhuk are the traditional attack hounds of the Ungol Hosts. The Gatekeeper releases them ahead of the armies, where they rampage and kill mercilessly without thought or fear,” the Chief External said. “A sighting of one in the wild would surely indicate that the armies will follow . . .”

  “I understand, sir,” Terak nodded. Although, internally he was screaming: They don’t know the Mordhuk! Just what they have read from their blasted bestiaries and sagas of the last time the Blood Gate opened!

  While the creature that he had met—or rather, that had tracked him down and kept reappearing around him—seemed vicious and dangerous, yes . . . It’s also loyal, Terak thought.

  “Is there a problem, Novitiate?” The Chief’s eyes glittered once more, as if he had detected something going on behind Terak’s own eyes.

  “Uh—yes sir, I am just concerned about how I am to be received by my kin,” the elf said, which was, after all, the truth. The last time that Terak had encountered the Second Family, they had demanded to know where he had come from and what he was doing. When they realized who he was—the only elf at the Enclave—Lord Alathaer had appeared disgusted.

  Am I to be an abomination to them, too? he thought. Outcast from both humans and elves, not finding a home among either?

  “I understand,” Father Jacques stated, not without some kindness. “But of all of us at the Enclave, you are the only one who has a chance of talking to them,” another careful nod, “if you decide to negotiate with them, that is.”

  Terak was of two minds just what he would do. It would be far easier to rely upon the skills he had developed in the Enclave of sneaking and stealing than it would be to barter with a people he had no knowledge of.

  But then, how will I know what my people are even like? Terak’s heart was torn. How would he ever know his own history, both personal and cultural?

  A part of the elf wanted to belong somewhere, but Terak wouldn’t allow himself to think any more of it. He shook his head softly.

  “I know this must be difficult for you, Terak,” Jacques said. He gestured to Reticula. “But I believe that she is in good hands. You are trained. You are ready. Travel toward the setting sun for a full day, and you will be in the territory of the Second Family. Beyond that, I cannot guide you.”

  Terak nodded. “I’ll get it done, Chief-sir.” He was adamant. Even if he did not know the ways of his people, he knew the ways of the Path of Pain, and it hadn’t failed him yet.

  The Chief External stepped back and raised his three-fingered hand solemnly, as Terak urged the pony on with a feral, defia
nt cry.

  6

  Return to Everdell

  The elf rode as fast as he dared along the familiar track that he had taken before, down the western escarpment of the Tartaruk foothills. Ahead of him, the dense black and green of the Everdell lay like a blanket, with mist clinging to its tall treetops.

  “The last time I was here . . .” he found himself murmuring as he rode, not wanting to think about it, and yet unable to stop himself at the same time. That last time had been his initiation into the Enclave-External—which was also his chance to prove that he, as a null, could be of use to the austere order at the top of the world.

  “Was it really a year ago?” He mumbled to Reticula’s half-awake form, who said nothing. Her body felt cold between his arms, even through the heavy, shrouded layers of her black robes.

  Terak remembered being scared that first time into the Everdell—a place that the Brothers and Sisters dared not step foot. He had faced the strange beastial creatures—a mixture of boar, ape, and man—and had fought worse nightmares inside the Loranthian Shrine.

  But he wasn’t as scared then as he was now, he realized. Before, he had felt a physical fear of the unknown, which was a jittery-teeth feeling that he had been trained to suppress and transmute by the Enclave into energy and courage.

  Now though, Terak felt a sick anxiety in his gut that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times he performed the breathing and mental-clearing exercises.

  Is she going to die before I can find the Demiene Flowers? Terak thought. What if Lord Alathaer refuses to give us aid? What if the elves of the Brilliant Host perceived him as an interloper and trespasser into their realm? Which he was, he had to admit.

  There was no way that he could prepare himself for the answers to these questions. That was the part that kept his nerves feeling frayed.

  They passed the standing monolith of the quartz-striated black Tartaruk rock, decorated with strange loops and whorls, just as before. He had now left the “official” Enclave territory. The pony was cantering across the small meadow with the stream running down one side that separated the foothills from the forest.

  Terak didn’t pause. He spotted the same dirt path that he had taken before, and he urged the pony faster into the dark.

  The trees of the Everdell were wide and imposing, stretching up twenty, thirty, even fifty feet into the sky above. Their crowns were so dense that they formed a thick mat of branches and foliage, throwing Terak into an umbral gloom. The only light came from the odd shafts of watery mountain sunlight that struck through the canopy, or the eerie blue-and-red glows of strange Everdell flowers.

  The pony cantered on, with Terak always forking and changing paths in the direction that he thought was westward. At some point he knew that he would have to leave the path, unless it led straight into the elf encampment or city or town or however they lived out here.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been riding past the constant trees and moss-covered boulders when the pony suddenly snorted and skittered away from the path ahead.

  “What is it, girl?” Terak slowed to a halt, knowing the pony would have senses that he did not. He could feel the beast’s agitation through his body, a tight, thrumming nervousness that infected his own mind.

  Ahead, the path appeared to be just the same as it had been for the few leagues or so that they had been riding.

  Apart from one thing.

  No bird sound, Terak realized. He breathed deep, allowing his body to relax and his senses to sharpen, just as he had been taught.

  Something bitter, his nose told him. Almost like the tang of recently cooked meat, lingering on the breeze. But Terak could see no cook fires or smoke.

  And then his fine elvish ears heard a crunch from the leaf-litter, in the undergrowth that surrounded the path and on the other side of a boulder. Someone was there.

  Someone—or something.

  Terak used one hand to hold the reins tight and hold Reticula tight to him, as his other swept to the short sword at his hip—

  The crunching became a crashing. Something leapt out onto the path. It was large, easily ten feet tall, and Terak was amazed at how quiet it had managed to make itself. Its limbs were powerful, and its skin was a mottled gray and dirty green. From its bald head swept back two curling horns like antlers, and its face was flat with an over-large, tusked jaw.

  Terak had only ever seen its like in the bestiaries of the Chief Martial.

  It’s a Star’s-damned forest troll!

  “Graaarrgh!” The creature’s three-toed feet slammed onto the path, making the ground shake as Terak’s horse reared in panic. The elf struggled to control the animal, but it was easy to see why his pony was panicking.

  The forest troll was immense, standing at eye-level with Terak mounted on his steed. Its long forearms were knotted and bunched with powerful muscle, and its torso was almost as wide as one of the tree trunks that surrounded them.

  “Yeargh! Terak urged his steed backwards from the beast dominating the path ahead. The pony was only too happy to oblige.

  But Terak could see that there was something odd about the troll. He tried to remember any scrap of lore that he had garnered from Father Gourdain’s lessons.

  Forest trolls are feral, vicious, and violent, but also reclusive, he remembered as he tried to control his steed.

  But this one, with its great talons and broken tusks for teeth, was wearing an iron collar with chains dangling from it. The collar was rough-forged and so wide that Terak doubted that he could lift it were it on the floor.

  Has someone been keeping this creature captive? Terak thought desperately. He realized that there were other iron collars like manacles at the thing’s wrists and ankles, all of them similarly free from any chains. Where they exposed gray-green flesh, Terak could see thick calluses like the manacles had warped the troll’s flesh. The troll wore a simple loin cloth of what looked like pelts or rags and had no weapons or tools that Terak could see.

  Not that it needs any, he thought as the creature bellowed again, lowering its head and stamping on the ground in challenge.

  “Hnnh . . .” Reticula murmured, snorting from her sleep. “Terak . . . ?”

  Oh no, not now, Reticula! Terak saw the forest troll scrape at the dirt floor of the path, and he made his decision. There was no way he was about to face a monster like that, whilst also trying to keep Reticula alive.

  There has to be another route west. He wheeled his pony as the forest troll bellowed once again, and kicked her into a gallop—

  Something sprang from the floor ahead of him, spraying the leaf litter and twigs that it had been hidden underneath: a rope!

  Terak’s already panicked steed reared again and skidded, kicking at the air in front of the rope. Terak felt himself lift from the saddle with a jolt. He clutched Reticula to him as they were thrown, dropping his short sword and flinging out his arm to cushion their joint blow as they slammed into the forest floor, thrown from their seat.

  This was a trap, and Terak and Reticula had literally fallen straight into it.

  7

  The Warband of Dol-Markel

  “Oof!” Terak hit the ground, twisting to make sure that Reticula landed on top of him and not underneath him.

  “Urgh!” she cried out in pain, slumping to one side as Terak flipped and half-crouched over her. His eyes raised.

  Two shapes were jumping up onto the path from the undergrowth. One was tall, seven feet or so, with mottled pale and gray skin that looked hardened into calluses and knots. Its large lower jaw, top knot, and distinctive part leather, part ring-mail battle attire made it clear what Terak was facing.

  An orc! In one hand, the orc had what looked like a massive cleaver with a stout wooden handle. To anyone else, it would almost have been a halberd, and yet in the orc’s other hand was a length of chain that dragged through the undergrowth behind him.

  Terak had faced such foes before—and he had barely survived with the help of an expertly train
ed Sister of the Enclave. Now he just had one semi-conscious Reticula at his side.

  The creature that jumped to the other side of the path was much smaller, with skin that was also creamy-gray, but it looked like an emaciated, much smaller version of the orc. It was hunched in drab ochre robes, with sharp features and pointed ears. In one of its hands was a curving scimitar.

  This creature was one that Terak had never faced before, but he knew precisely what it was. He had seen their like in the bestiaries, and Father Gourdain, the Chief Martial, had spent many long and happy afternoons talking about how much of a scourge they were.

  A goblin, Terak snarled internally. They were renowned for being fast, sneaky fighters, but were not very strong. The goblin chittered in delight.

  “We ‘ave ‘em, boss!” it shrieked in a voice that sounded like fingers scraping on glass.

  The only thing saving them both from being jumped on by the fiends was the jumping, kicking, and snorting pony that pranced in front of Terak, terrified of what was behind it and in front of it.

  My short sword! Terak had dropped it when he had been thrown, and all that he had in his weapons harness were small knives now. But he could see the blade clearly, lying on the ground just a few yards away—

  “GRAAARRGH!” Just then, the forest troll burst into its charge.

  Reticula was by the side of the path where she had tumbled. Terak knew that there was nothing he could do without some sort of weapon. He leapt into a roll as the thundering clawed feet of the troll pounded the ground, straight down the middle of the path.

  With a hiss, Terak seized the blade as he rolled, bouncing up on the other side of the path as the troll’s feet landed a foot away from where his hand had been.