Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga Read online

  How gladly I pressed my lips to the petal of that rose! I held her by the shoulders at first, but soon one hand found its way into the wild mane of rich black hair that so elegantly framed her face. She moaned softly as my other palm slid down the curve of her spine to settle in the small of her back, that flesh as agonizingly smooth as I had expected it to be. Even through my tunic, her nude body was warmer than those of the other women whose company I had begun to regularly enjoy. She yearned for me, this much was evident, and her embrace of me tightened to permit her to slide upon my knee. There she slowly rocked herself, her fingertips tickling through my hair while at last she drew her mouth away.

  “My father’s name is Clinschor,” she whispered, gazing into my face, her hands traveling over my chest while I sighed with pleasure to study her features. “And if my name is forgotten, his is sure to be.”

  “I struggle to believe anyone could forget a woman like you.”

  “All things are forgotten amid the march of time, Paladin…Burningsoul. Handsome, proud”—her long fingers at last reached my breeches, those tantalizing lips brushing mine while she slowly untied them and unleashed my gasping desire for her—“night’s hair and smouldering eyes…what is your breeding, Burningsoul?”

  Exhaling as she explored my anatomy, I trailed my hands over her curves and confessed to her, “I don’t know.”

  Her smile grew wicked and inspired a throb of mad pleasure. “Would you like to?”

  My lips parted in shock. Gundrygia laughed at once, delighted by my astonishment. As the high spate of madwoman’s laughter cracked like a peal of thunder, another sound reached my ears.

  Branwen’s voice, calling, “Rorke! Ror-ke!”

  I still do not know how I got up out of that pit. I still do not know what happened to that pit. One second I was grabbing Gundrygia’s wrist to detain her for further questions, the time for games having suddenly passed us by. The next, I lay upon my back surrounded by those offerings the gimlets left the sleeping woman, the torch’s blue glow illuminating the plateau where once had been a hole—and where now I rested, supine upon flat ground. Disoriented by the transition as I was, I still had faculty enough to answer Branwen’s repetition of, “Ror-ke!”

  “Here,” I called back, unmoving, my head for some reason aching. This, I thought, might have had something to do with finding myself so suddenly in another place. Soon footsteps hurried to my location. The search party made up of Branwen and Indra found me where I’d awoken.

  “Rorke!” Branwen gasped, hurrying off the gimlets’ road and down to their site of strange worship. “Are you all right?”

  “Seems like I’m always waking up to beautiful women,” I said while the pair helped me up, Indra frowning while she kindly dusted me off. “But this time, I was the one who did the waking…I thought I did, at any rate.”

  The warmth of her body in my hands, the taste of her on my lips—no.

  It could not have been a dream. It was not a dream. The taste of her was still on my lips. I touched them in dreamy delirium before looking up to ask my rescuers, “How is it you found me?”

  “You were gone on the trails at least an hour—far longer than any of us expected. Then we heard a noise like a rock slide. I decided I’d better track it down.” Looking me over for cuts or bruises, Branwen asked with curiosity, “What is this about a woman?”

  “A mountain witch of some kind…under this plateau here. There was a sepulcher. Its rotunda was thin before, collapsed right beneath my feet, and…”

  I looked between them, then down at myself. All three of us stood atop the same place I had fallen through. The ground beneath our feet showed not the slightest evidence of instability.

  “Maybe I did dream her,” I said softly, baffled.

  “Perhaps you tripped and hit your head?” Indra, concerned, leaned upon her toes to check through my hair and along my scalp. “We didn’t see anyone on the trail.”

  “Not even a gimlet? I remember, now…yes, a gimlet stole my torch and brought it here. But why were they worshiping this woman? Gundrygia…”

  While I fell into a state of almost trancelike rumination on the subject, Branwen and Indra shared a look of concern.

  “Come on,” said Branwen, “let’s get you back to the fork…we’ll call up and see if Odile and Valeria can meet us there. If not, I’ll go fetch them.”

  THE TOWN OF SOOT

  PRAISE BE TO Weltyr for sparing our precious time! Valeria and Odile were able to hear us without issue. They met us at the fork and, together, we made our long way down the mountain.

  Though not nearly so grueling downhill as it had been up through claustrophobic caverns for blooms on end, our descent to Soot proved a long hike and an appropriately belabored denouement to our journey through the Nightlands. Even now I remain awash with gratitude that Odile’s lantern and the warmth of the dancing wisp flames made it an easier task to navigate than one might have otherwise expected.

  Except, of course, for watching out for Valeria, whose face so frequently darted toward the stars that I feared she would trip and slide down any number of the steep switchbacks we navigated in a slow and steady line. I slid my hand into her splendid, soft elbow to keep her upright. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, though I confess my thoughts were elsewhere.

  Upon touching her, my hand crackled with the memory of touching Gundrygia.

  Had I really tripped and fallen? For some reason the events in that hidden sepulcher were hazy to my mind when I pictured them, leading me too easily to believe them to interlinked dreams. Yet some pieces of definite sense-memory fell through the cracks. Then there was the frightful question of my missing time: subjective in the slash through my perception as I suddenly found myself flat on my back upon the rocks; and, more alarmingly, objective in the length of time I had been absent from my friends.

  I had walked down that hill perhaps twenty minutes; chased the gimlet for five, and spoken with Gundrygia for surely no more than ten minutes more including the time I woke her. Branwen declared I had been gone an hour even before she and Indra set off to search for me—mean that, for almost an hour, I could not account for my own whereabouts.

  The thought numbed me into a kind of maddening dread, as you may well imagine, but I suspected this amnesia was linked to whatever magic Gundrygia wove over me. Of course, I had no proof. No proof that she had enchanted me. No proof that she had even existed. I had no proof of anything at all, save for the mysterious taste of woman upon my lips—and, of course, my memory.

  Ah! What good was memory to any but his master, Weltyr? He flew away just as soon as you set eyes on him. Memory served no purpose in matters of legal testimony, and in religious testimony it was even less useful without those accompanying miracles sent to us as signs of confirmation.

  Rather than dwell on my memories of Gundrygia, therefore, I thought of her words. Of what she had teased me with. Knowledge about myself—knowledge about why she was there.

  Pay attention. Pay close attention. Ask questions.

  “Rorke.” Valeria drew me from my thoughts, her soft voice gilded with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Just feeling somewhat scattered after falling,” I said, adding truthfully, “and a bit embarrassed I let that little scoundrel make off with my torch for even a temporary span of time.”

  “You’ve been off in your own thoughts longer than that, though.” Regarding me carefully, Valeria suggested, “I don’t know what it is, but you’ve seemed—different somehow since the bandits. Pensive, I suppose.”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I’ve figured it out.” Owing to a reflexive glance toward the back of Branwen’s golden head, my attention was drawn eastward across the graying sky. I was seeing rather well: dawn was nearly upon us. “How are your eyes? It looks like Weltyr’s shown us his favor and sent a cloudy morning. We should be able to make it to Soot and get a roof over our heads before the sun breaks through, assuming it does. Cascadia is a notoriously overcast
region.”

  “That’s good…I’m not bothered yet. Frankly, I wouldn’t care if I were bothered. I want to watch the sun rise, oh—Rorke.” Her hand tightened around mine and she insisted, “I’ve never seen a thing like this. I wish I might do it with eyes that weren’t so sensitive.”

  “We’ll find a solution,” I swore to her, my heart leaping as my sentence was punctuated by the cry of an early raven.

  We were nearing the ground. I had endured a few hikes in my time, but of them all this had been by far the most arduous. The sentiment was likely held by my companions, who stumbled into Soot with me while its markets were still opening. There were therefore not many people to gawk at the paladin and his retinue of fine elves from both above and below Urde’s surface, but in a village the meager size of Soot, all it takes is one or two prying eyes to spread news like wildfire.

  The innkeeper, for instance, had no discretion, but probably made his best living by being indiscreet unless paid. We knocked on the front door of his establishment, the tavern entry labeled with the name The Weeping Willow. I recall thinking it a dreary moniker for a place of relief and revelry when at last our knocking was answered, and the man—ruddy and mustached as I suspected all innkeepers were required to be—cracked open the door with a tired, somewhat sour look to see who it was so early.

  He saw, all right.

  “Cor,” said the man, his eyebrows traveling halfway up his bald head to see my companions. “It’s finally happened. I died in my sleep. You lovely lot must be Selectrices, here to whisk me to Weltyr’s castle in the sky.”

  I couldn’t help myself but to laugh, unconvinced he had even noticed me.

  “Oh good,” said Branwen, looking tired from the hike and unamused by the innkeeper’s (in my opinion) quite innocently meant appreciation of my companions’ good looks. “You two will get along, sounds like.”

  Maintaining an earnest expression, I bowed to the innkeeper and told him, “Good morning, sir. I cannot deny we were sent by Weltyr, but I also cannot promise you these companions of mine will be your guides to the Hall of Valor. We’re but weary travelers in search of a place to stay.”

  “Oh, aye, well, you’re in luck when it comes to that. We just had two rooms vacated by another couple of adventurers…not near so comely as this lot. Never in all my days did I expect to see a durrow aboveground! They’re twice as beautiful as I’d imagined.”

  Clearing my throat, sympathetic to his distraction but no less tired or in need of rest, I urged him gently, “They are, indeed, and would be all the moreso if given a little time to rest their after the long journey. Two rooms, you said?”

  “That’s right, just turned over yesterday. I’ll give ‘em both away and throw in meals for”—his eyes scanned our number and his head buzzed with calculations—“an ounce of silver a head a night, how’s that.”

  “We’ll take them,” I said. Even Odile couldn’t complain at that price; at her nod, Indra opened the party’s purse, its weight surely handsome after being filled in the bandits’ house. I carried on asking the fellow, “And would you happen to know a smithy here?”

  “Sure enough! There’s Regin down the ways a bit. Just follow the clanging sound anytime the sun’s up…I’d mind who goes with you, though, if you see what I’m saying.” While accepting the coins from Indra’s hand and smiling fondly at her, he inspected the silver, dropped the disks into his apron, then stepped aside to let us into the yet-closed front of the house. “In fact, you ladies might want to spend a good deal of your time in your rooms, and exit out the back door I’ll show you if you need to leave at some point during daylight hours…people round these parts are strange when it comes to durrow. Sometimes even just elves. Rural folk!”

  While Branwen, aggrieved and exhausted, rolled her reddened eyes, Valeria nodded. “We’ll keep it in mind,” she said. “We won’t cause you any problems—yet I can’t help but notice you don’t seem to be strange toward us, yourself.”

  “Well! I didn’t say their strangeness made sense to me, did I? Me, I’m a man of the world! Been to Draston and Massadua, as far north as Perodule. And all the women I’ve seen in all those places have qualities to commend them…I were only just talking to one of the last fellows about Rhineland, as it happens. Now there’s a splendid place! Don’t know much about the women from it since they won’t give a human man the time of day—but the food? Well, let’s just say there’s a reason most dwarves are twice as wide as they are tall!”

  The jolly man, fairly round, himself, broke into laughter and patted his stomach though his apron. By this point, though, Branwen and I had already exchanged a glance.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, managing to work from her tired voice an especially feminine lilt that always served her well. Indeed, the innkeeper turned his bright eyes upon her, expectant and clearly eager to answer her least question. “These other adventurers—was one of them a dwarf, by chance?”

  Glad she had seemingly read my mind on this issue, I pressed, “And the other one a tall man, a bit older than you—missing an eye?”

  “Well now!” Laughing, stroking his mustache, the loudmouthed innkeeper looked between us and enthused, “Aren’t the two of you astute! Friends of yours?”

  “Yes,” said Branwen without missing a beat, her lips arranged a sweet, even smile. “We were separated, you see.”

  “Is that so! They didn’t mention anything about you…can’t believe they’d leave out a lovely group of elves wandering with a warrior.”

  “A Paladin of Weltyr,” I told him, earning a lift of his eyebrows. The expression of new interest in me remained as I went on, “And it’s true, they probably did not mention anything about us. These three were not with us then.” I gestured to the durrow and the man followed my motion, thinking on it with a hum. “As it was, at the time, just myself and Branwen here they expected, I don’t think they would have felt us extraordinary enough to mention.”

  “I suppose not! We’ll, they’ll be in for quite a surprise when you lot meet back up in Skythorn.”

  My blood ran cold at the thought of showing my face in the city without the scepter in hand. “They went along to Skythorn already?”

  “Oh, aye, to catch the airship to Rhineland! Poor sods just missed the last one a day or so before coming to stay with us. Leaves once a fortnight, and costs a bit of a fortune to fly on. You lot going across the sea with them?”

  “If we can catch them in time,” I told him, feeling somewhat guilty for telling these half-truths. I was at least secure in knowing that Weltyr himself was fond of such verbal games, and that all this was, as always, in his service. Our helpful host, at any rate, did not notice the slight tint I had given reality. He went on without hesitation.

  “Well, if you need horses, I think the Dardrie family in the ranch south of town always has a handful for sale. Breed ‘em for farmwork. Not exactly fit for a paladin, but they’ll take you where you need to go, and if you’d prefer to rent them awhile I’m sure the Dardrie boy would be glad for an excuse to ride to Skythorn and lead ‘em back up after you’ve departed on your flight. Come on up here! Let me show you the rooms.”

  The Weeping Willow had six guest rooms circling above the tavern, arranged along a hallway open like a balcony. Ours were the two on the farthest end, quite cozy little chambers with surprisingly soft beds and well-kept furniture.

  “I’m Erdwud, by the way,” he told us at last, watching with a pleased smile as we inspected the rooms. “If you need anything at all, myself and my wife, Lively, are always somewheres around. Ask one of the maids for us and tell ‘em your room numbers.”

  “We will,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thank you so much for accommodating us, Erdwud. Oh, and—if anyone does come asking after my companions”—I produced a few coins from my own small bag, meriting a corresponding glint in his eye—“would you keep things quiet for us?”

  “With pleasure, sire, with pleasure. Weltyr himself could not pry the mystery from my lips.
I’ll let you get settled in now and tell Lively to run up with breakfast.”

  Bowing, scraping, casting a few more appreciative glances at my companions, Erdwud made himself scarce and let us retire to the solitude of our rooms. Convening in the one at the farthest end, we shut the door and, sighing en mass, divested ourselves of weapons, armor, and the burdensome equipment we had carried with us out of the Nightlands.

  “By Roserpine”—Odile kicked off her boots and dropped upon the foot of a bed wide enough for three if we were lucky—“are all surface men that impudent?”

  “Things here are very different from the way they are in El’ryh,” I warned not just Odile but all three durrow. “He’s a friendly old man, and men of his sort tend to show their friendliness in a very forward way. Let’s count our blessings he’s well-tempered and not inclined to spread idle gossip as long as we keep him paid.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Odile with a snort, draping her hand over her eyes. “Oh! Darkness. That feels delicious. I’m going to fall right to sleep.”

  “How can anyone sleep?” Buzzing with excitement, Valeria hurried to the window and peered through the curtains at the small town square beneath us. Girlish delight that seemed almost unknown to her glowed in her face, and she looked delightedly between me and the vision of sleepy townsfolk waking up to go about their days. “How wonderful this is! It reminds me of illustrations I’ve seen…why, what’s that, what’s that woman leading there? That’s a horse, isn’t it?”

  I peered out past her, swallowing back a light laugh. “Yes, it is most certainly a horse—you mean, you’ve never seen one!”

  “Of course not. Where am I going to have seen a horse in El’ryh outside of a book?”

  “By Weltyr…then I suppose it’s useless hoping you already know how to ride, right?” At her somewhat blank look, I exchanged with Branwen the silent realization that we had quite a task ahead of us. “Do any of you know how to ride a horse?”