Pirate and King, chapter nine

9

‘How long has Burrough been sealed away?’ Nusie had wondered. The answer appeared to be: A very long time. The two mortals had stumbled across a very old and badly cracked stretch of pavement, bordered by sagging mile markers and the corroded stumps of old metal signposts. Those vine-covered heaps that they’d found proved to contain the tangled frames of metal carts. Most of the objects inside them were rusted beyond any possible use, but Nusie was an herb-woman; quick-witted and curious. She it was, who spotted the mithral wire (a real windfall) and all the stiff, shining pieces of hardened earth-blood those ancient wagons contained. Also, plenty of blackberry leaves, comfrey and plantain.

“Cor, Nus,” breathed Rykkan, as they uncovered another three feet of pale, gleaming wire. “We’re rich!”

“Aye,” the girl agreed tartly, clipping fresh leaves with her sickle. “And likely dead before we c’n spend it, if them bandits of yours ever turns up.”

Rykkan flexed his muscles, grinning broadly and lifting his cherished new weapon.

“Let ‘em come!” he boasted. “Armed with a fine spear like this ‘un, I’d mow ‘em down like hay!”

“Oh, aye. A weapon from the epics, that is. Great Oberyn’s lance, fer sure!” teased Nusie, as she placed the harvested leaves into separate pockets of her leather collecting bag.

Rykkan paused in his antics, looking thoughtful.

“Needs a name, don’t he?” asked her big, red-bearded lout, frowning down at his weapon. “Somethin’ bold and powerful…”

“Fred,” suggested Nusie. “I’ve always liked the name Fred. Like my grandpa.”

“A good man, and strong,” allowed Ryk, who’d once wrestled the fellow and lost. “Gods rest him… but do ya think that ‘Fred’ sounds mighty enough? I mean ter say…”

Rykkan struck a pose once again, brandishing his spear and thundering,

“Tremble, dogs, before the power of Fred!”

…Only to have Nusie fall over, laughing.

“Oh, please… please…” she gasped, “You’ve got ter name that goat-sticker after Grandpa! His spirit ‘ll surely come down here ter lend ya a hand in the fight, Ryk!” She was wheezing with mirth, too tickled to rise.

“But Nusie, what if the bandits just fall down laughin’ like you did?” he objected miserably.

“Then they’ll be simple as pie ter finish off. Pop… pop… pop. Just like pickin’ blackberries,” she assured him. Then, getting back to her feet and retrieving the dropped collecting bag, Nusie added, “Shame it ain’t later in the year, eh? We might’ve had a bit of fruit.”

But Ryk wasn’t paying attention.

“Fred…” he mused, staring hard at his spearpoint. “Fred the mighty, shedder of blood! Has a bit of a ring ter it, what?”

“A bit,” agreed Nusie, patting his tattooed, muscular arm. “Best be movin’ on, Ryk. We’ve already stuffed a fortune in mithral inta them packs. Anymore ‘ll be too hard ter carry.”

Rykkan grunted assent, then did a full circle where he stood, looking around and quietly chanting the landmarks.

“Double tree… broken road… silver oak crowning the hill… snowy crag… all marks the spot, dead center,” he intoned, in the way of folk needing to memorize a place and hand on that knowledge for generations. “We’ll come back this way, Nus. Remember you said if we got rich, how we’d buy that glade with the big old staircase?”

She nodded, smiling at her hulking, scruffy husband-to-be.

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“Well, I do believe that’s a wish granted, Pigeon,” he finished. “Provided there’s anyone left ter sell it.”

Nusie dusted leaf-litter and bits of straw from her cloak and her braided dark hair.

“Let’s be off ter find out, then,” she advised him. “Sooner starting, soonest returned.”

…and their folk back in Burrough were waiting for help. The broken road was headed in roughly the right direction, and it was a good deal easier to navigate than open, scrubby terrain. No blight had touched this place, which was choked with plants and trees of every description, some of them magical. Better the road than a voracious tanglewood tree. The pair shouldered their packs and set off again, this time keeping to segments of cracked, weedy pavement, hopping from one dark block to the next.

Although that ancient thoroughfare seemed to vanish into the hillside, they found a tunnel screened by saplings and vines, with an inch of scummy water at the bottom. Handy. Nusie struck a light, working with flint and steel once again to ignite their pine-knot torches. (Rykkan had made them himself, and fine work they were, too; cross-split at one end, stuffed with birch-bark, shavings and pitch.) Red-golden light flared up with a noisy whoosh, casting long, dark shadows far into the tunnel. There was no sign of another opening as they ventured within, ducking cobwebs and vines.

“Think a torch ‘ll see us all the way through, Ryk?” whispered Nusie, standing well away from his crackling, spark-dropping flame. Bits of flaming bark hissed and went out in that fetid water, raising puffs of foul steam.

Rykkan grunted, staring at tiny, bright eyes and listening hard to the faint scratching sounds all around them.

“Best put out one of these fer now,” he suggested. “So’s we got a spare ter light up, at need.”

That made good sense, so they doused Rykkan’s torch, leaving him free to wield “Fred”.

“That’s Fredegave, who puts you in the grave, where none can save,” boasted Rykkan, doing his best to seem fierce.

Nusie shook her head fondly, but said nothing, holding her torch in one hand and her collection sickle in the other, just in case. Next, they started forward, side by side. There was plenty of room within, but it wasn’t pleasant. The air smelled close and musty, with a strong scent of water, gnawed bones and acrid droppings. Still, best foot forward, and all that. Their torch cast enough light to see by, as the pair sloshed their way through that long, gloomy tunnel.

Fire was a mortal’s best friend and servant, stolen from the elves (who could create it with a word). And their torch certainly helped Nusie and Rykkan, now. There were darksome things in that arrow-straight tunnel. Creatures that scuttled hissing away from the light. Even the ceiling rustled with tiny, closely packed bodies. There were strange, slimy objects here and there on the ground, but the pair didn’t touch them, fearing disease or a possible curse.

The sides of the tunnel were tiled in dusty and stained mosaic. Many of its stones had cracked or fallen out, but enough remained to reveal bright, happy elven travelers in fast-moving magical carts.

“Guess they gave up on mules n’ oxen,” said Nusie, squinting at one of those mosaic pictures. Her eyesight was weak. (Which was why she’d been handed off to learn herb-lore from old Arla. Nobody trusted magic in Burrough. They wouldn’t have risked a completely hale child.)

“Right, and look where that got ‘em,” snorted Ryk, not slowing down. They had two torches worth of light. Maybe four, if they made new heads for the old ones from cloth, and they had to be quick. Fortunately, they’d spotted a faint blush of day up ahead. Hard to quite make it out in the torch flare, but there all the same. Ryk hurried his pace, grumbling,

“Elves! Naught but broken old pictures and ruins now, ain’t they? Shoulda stuck with good mule-flesh or a team of oxen, if ya ask me!”

There was a bit more mithral and hardened earth-blood to scavenge in that musty dark place, but the worst threat they encountered was a great swarm of bats. Spooked by the torch, a swirling, rustling, chittering storm of the smelly creatures took sudden flight, streaming all around Nusie and Rykkan. He held up his spear. She, her torch, as that tornado of dark, hairy bodies swept past. The tunnel’s stench increased, and a rushing, fluttering, clicking noise filled the suddenly moving air. Some of the bats collided with Rykkan or Nusie and crawled there a moment, confused by the torchlight. A few of the beasts flew too near their flame and were scorched, but at last that noisy swarm ended.

Nusie shuddered, brushing dust and droppings and fur from her cloak and her braided long hair with one hand.

“Ewww…!” she moaned.

“Here, Nus, hand me that torch, before ya burn yerself bald-headed!” chided Rykkan, who was every bit as besmottered, but not as upset by the dirt. “Tidy up as we go, Pigeon, else there‘ll be more tunnel than torch.”

Right. Even dusty and filthy, with her face screwed up in a grimace, his Nusie looked pretty to Ryk. Better yet, bold; a real warrior-woman, for she’d not dropped their torch nor screamed when surrounded by thousands of clamorous bats. On they went.

About half a candle-mark later, they were through that dark tunnel, on the other side of the hill. Nusie gasped in relief and doused their torch in clean soil. Next she put it away, squinting around at the soft light of early evening, at huge old trees, bushes heavy with fruit, and a wide, murky ox-bow lake. Looked, and then looked again, but… No, she wasn’t imagining things. There was a fight going on over yonder, and one side was losing. Badly.