The Last Rune 4: Blood of Mystery Page 6

  “I see,” Durge said, studying one of the matches. “It’s an alchemical reaction. The sulfur acts as a catalyst for the fuel, and fire results.”

  “They do seem handier than flint and tinder,” Lirith said, adding a stick to the fire, and Sareth nodded in agreement.

  Travis groaned. “You’re all boring. Matches are totally cool! When I was a kid, I liked seeing how far I could flick them while they were burning.”

  Durge gently but insistently took the box of matches away from Travis.

  Full night found them, if not exactly comfortable, at least far less miserable than they had been the night before. Their new clothes were stiff and chafed at the seams, but were warmer than the garb of the Mournish, intended for southern climes. The fire gave off cheering light, and somehow Lirith made the sardines and crackers look appealing, although getting the tin cans open hadn’t been easy at first. It was only when Durge unsheathed his greatsword and pointed it at one of the cans that Travis remembered his Malachorian stiletto. He pulled it from the small bag of things he had managed to hang on to in the Etherion, and the blade cut through the lid of the can like butter.

  All of them drank water once it cooled, and Lirith made a tea with several drops of the salicylate of soda. This seemed to ease the pain in Sareth’s head. Not in immediate fear of survival, their minds turned to other, no less pressing, worries.

  “So how are we going to get back to Eldh?” Lirith said. The witch’s dark eyes gleamed in the firelight.

  “I have a better question, beshala,” Sareth said. His color had gotten better, and he sat up straight. “When are we going to get back to Eldh?”

  The day before, after much struggling, Travis had managed to explain to the others that, while this was his world, it wasn’t his world as he had known it. The date in the Castle City Clarion had read June 13, 1883. They knew the demon had altered the flow of time in Tarras. Somehow its lingering influence had also affected the gate artifact when they tried to escape the Etherion, and as a result they had traveled over a hundred years into Earth’s past.

  “Can the gate artifact not help us?” Durge said. “It was able to transport us to a time long ago. Logic dictates it must also be able to take us to a time yet to be. And there remains one drop of blood in the Scarab of Orú.”

  “I’m not sure logic applies this time, Durge.” Travis reached into the sack and pulled out the gate artifact. He set it on the dirt floor, and a tiny, gold shape crept to the top of the obsidian pyramid, reaching out one of its eight slender legs to stroke Travis’s hand.

  As always, Travis was entranced by the scarab. It looked like a real spider, except that it was fashioned of gold, and on its abdomen glittered a teardrop-shaped ruby. It seemed truly alive, but what would happen when they used the last drop of blood contained within? Would the scarab die?

  “I don’t think the gate can move us through time on its own power,” Travis went on. “I think it was only because of the demon that we traveled across time as well as worlds.”

  Lirith combed her black, curling hair with her fingers. “Which means if we used the gate, we’d arrive in Tarras a hundred years before any of us were born.”

  “Maybe it’s not so bad as it sounds,” Sareth said, flicking a bit of dirt from the wooden peg at the end of his right leg. “I used to dream sometimes about going back to the past.”

  “So there is nothing in the present to keep you?” Lirith said, her words sharp.

  Sareth looked up at her, coppery eyes startled, but she had turned her gaze to the fire.

  “It seems we are lost,” Durge rumbled. In his jeans and calico shirt, the knight looked exactly like nineteenth-century miners Travis had seen in old photographs. The Embarran’s mustaches and longish hair, swept back from his somber brow, only added to the effect. “If a demon is required to move through time, then your fancy has come to be, Sareth, and we have no hope but to remain in the past—on this world or our own.”

  “No,” Travis said, standing up to pace back and forth. “I don’t think we have to give up yet. I think there’s someone who might be able to help us—the one who got me mixed up in all of this in the first place. Only I don’t know if he’s here yet.”

  Lirith looked up from the fire. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The man who gave me this.” Travis pulled the Stone of Twilight out of his pocket. It gleamed silver-green in the palm of his hand. “Jack Graystone.”

  Travis had never spoken a great deal about Jack Graystone with anyone but Falken and Melia, so he started at the beginning: how a year ago, on a windswept October night, his old friend Jack had called him to the antique shop just outside of town, and everything in Travis’s life had changed forever. Jack had given him Sinfathisar and had told him to run from perilous beings that came in light—beings Travis only later learned were wraithlings. Travis had run, and somehow, impossibly, he had stepped through a billboard into the world of Eldh. It was only later, when Travis returned to Earth, that he learned that what he had feared was true: Jack Graystone had died in the fire that consumed his antique shop that wild October night.

  Durge stroked his mustaches. “So, like Mindroth, this wizard Graystone was one of the three runelords who fled with the Great Stones after the Fall of Malachor. Only he found his way to your Earth. And you believe he might be able to help us get back to the time in which we belong.”

  “That’s right,” Travis said.

  “And it was because of Graystone that you gained the Stone Sinfathisar and sealed the Pale King behind the Rune Gate last Midwinter’s Eve. And stopped the Necromancer last summer.”

  “And defeated the demon,” Lirith said. “As well as the sorcerers of Scirath.”

  Sareth let out a low whistle. “It seems a lucky thing that you met this Jack Graystone.”

  Travis gripped the Stone. “I suppose you could call it that.” After all, it couldn’t have been fate. Not if he was A’narai, one of the Fateless, as Sareth’s grandmother had said.

  “So you think there is a chance the wizard Graystone is here in this time?” Durge said.

  Travis sat back down and flicked at a sardine head in one of the opened cans. “I’m not sure. He might be. I’m trying to remember how it all happened. You see, Jack had lived for several centuries in London—that’s a great city far from here, across an ocean. He owned a bookshop there called the Queen’s Shelf. Only then the bookshop burned, and after that he came here, to Castle City. I know the Queen’s Shelf burned down in 1883—that’s this year. But I don’t know exactly when in 1883 it happened.”

  “So this Jack Graystone could already be here,” Sareth said.

  Travis shrugged. “Maybe. Or it could be months before he comes. Either way, we need to find out. I suppose I’ll have to go into town tomorrow and ask around.”

  “There is a way we could find out tonight,” Lirith said softly.

  The others stared at the witch.

  Lirith went on. “If I knew this Graystone, perhaps I could sense the presence of his life thread. I imagine a wizard’s thread would shine brightly in the Weirding.”

  Sareth was studying her. “Can you do that, beshala?” It was not doubt in his voice, simply quiet wonder.

  “I think so. The Weirding is weaker on this world than on Eldh. But I think it is strong enough to work this magic. Although there’s something wrong as well. It’s as if the land cries out in pain.”

  Travis thought he understood. In modern Denver, where Grace had tried to work magic, the natural world to which the Weirding was connected had been all but smothered beneath concrete, steel, and asphalt. But in the mountains, in 1883, the land was still mostly wilderness. Only it had been wounded: mines gouged into its flesh, railroads sliced across its skin.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but there seems to be a problem,” Durge said, making a clear effort not to look queasy. The knight never had seemed to care for witchcraft. “You said you could see the wizard Graystone’s thread if you knew him. Bu
t you have never met him.”

  Lirith looked up. “Travis could help me.”

  Travis knelt beside her and held out his left hand. Lirith took it between both of her own. Durge’s eyes widened in an expression of horror, and he quickly moved away. Travis wondered what had caused the knight’s strong reaction, but before he could ask, Lirith shut her eyes and a voice spoke in his mind.

  Picture your friend Jack.

  Travis shut his eyes and did as Lirith’s voice instructed. He visualized Jack as he always remembered him: a handsome and professorial older gentleman, clad in a rumpled gray suit and green waistcoat, his wispy hair flying about his head and his blue eyes sparkling.

  Travis felt a tingle in his hand, then Lirith let go. He opened his eyes, but the witch’s were still shut. The three men watched her, holding their breath.

  “I don’t think he’s come here yet,” Lirith murmured after a minute. “The vision you gave me was clear, Travis, and his thread should be easy to see. But it’s nowhere in sight. He must still be in—oh!”

  Lirith’s eyes fluttered open. Sareth hurried to kneel beside her. “What is it, beshala?”

  “I saw something,” she whispered. “A shadow. Close.”

  Durge was already on his feet. He gripped his greatsword in two hands and stalked to the door. There was a long moment of silence, then all of them heard it: the sound of a small pebble skittering over rock.

  In one swift motion, Durge jerked open the door and lunged outside, sword at the ready. Travis was right behind him, Malachorian stiletto in hand.

  Cold wind swept through the empty night. The moon shone down from the cloudless sky, revealing bare rock and nothing more.

  Durge lowered his greatsword. “It must have been an animal. One of those little striped chippucks, as you called them.”

  Travis started to answer the knight, then a glint of crimson caught his eye. He glanced down at his stiletto just in time to see the ruby set into its hilt flicker dimly, then go dark.

  6.

  Travis woke to the boom of thunder.

  Grit sifted down from the rafters of the cabin, falling onto his face. He rubbed the stuff from his eyes and sat up. Sunlight shafted between the planks of the door, carving hot slices out of the dusty air. Morning.

  Another report shook the cabin.

  Next to Travis, Durge sat up, eyes wild, sand in his tangled hair. “We must hurry!” the knight sputtered. “The dragonsfire is spreading. The castle is going to collapse!”

  “Wake up, Durge,” Travis said, shaking the knight’s shoulder. “There’s no dragon. And believe me, this is no castle.”

  “Is it a storm, Travis?” Lirith said. She was curled up on the floor under Travis’s gray mistcloak. Sharing the cloak was Sareth, who still appeared to be sound asleep.

  Travis stood, stretching stiff limbs. “It’s blasting. Over on the south ridge of the mountain I suppose.”

  Durge’s forehead furrowed. “Blasting?”

  Lirith sat up and wrapped her arms around herself. “They’re making more holes in the land. But what magic do they use to work such a feat?”

  “It’s not magic,” Travis said. “It’s explosives. Dynamite, maybe nitroglycerin. I’m not sure what they would have used back then—I mean, now. I do know they can blow out tons of rock with a single charge.”

  Durge shook the grit from his brown hair. “I think I should like to see this blasting, as you call it.”

  Sareth let out a groan. “These are without doubt the loudest dreams I’ve ever had. Would you all go away so I can sleep? And take your blasting with you.”

  The night had been better than the first, but not by much. Even with the chinking and the fire, the cabin was wretchedly cold not long after dark. Travis hadn’t bought any blankets at the store, and the only cloak they had was his frayed gray mistcloak, which had been wadded at the bottom of his sack of belongings. He gave the cloak to Lirith and Sareth, after the two lay down close to one another, huddling for warmth.

  As the two curled together under the cloak, Durge had given Travis an appraising look.

  Travis had done a double take. “You’re not serious?”

  The practical Embarran had let out a snort. “Last I knew, Goodman Travis, you favored knights with fair hair rather than dark. And I favor knights not at all. So I think we are safe on both accounts.” He lay down on the floor. “Now put your arms around me before we freeze solid.”

  Travis had spent the night pressed close to Durge’s hard, compact body, and he supposed that had saved him from the worst of the cold. But he still felt as stiff as if he had spent the last eight hours hanging from a hook in a meat locker.

  Another boom rattled walls and roof. A chunk of wood fell directly on Sareth’s head. With a hot Mournish oath that required no translation, he flung back the cloak and sat up.

  “I see fate has decided it is not my lot to sleep.”

  Travis couldn’t help laughing. “Feeling better, Sareth?”

  The Mournish man’s glare transmuted into a look of mild amazement. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Durge rose from the floor, joints emitting a symphony of pops and snaps. “My lady,” he said to Lirith, “is there any sign that the...snare you set was sprung?” The knight tried not to look uncomfortable as he spoke, which of course had the opposite effect.

  Lirith stood and dusted off her dress, which bore hardly a wrinkle. Before sleeping she had woven a small rope of dried grass, which she laid across the threshold. Now she knelt to examine the grass rope.

  “No, the spell was not broken. Nothing tried to enter here last night.”

  “Save the cold,” Durge said, flexing raw-knuckled hands.

  “And loud noises,” Sareth said sourly.

  Travis ignored them and looked at Lirith. “What do you think it was you sensed last night?”

  The witch shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “Could it have been an animal? A bear maybe, or a mountain lion? There are probably dozens of them up here.”

  “No, the presence of an animal would not have affected me so adversely. But whatever it was, I only glimpsed it for a moment.” She lifted a hand to her chin. “In a way, it reminded me of...but, no, that’s impossible.”

  “What is it?” Travis said, feeling a gnawing in his gut that wasn’t just hunger.

  “In a way, it reminded me of the way I felt in the Etherion.” They all exchanged startled glances. Could some of the demon’s magic have followed them through the gate?

  Travis made a decision. “It’s too isolated up here, and we still have some money left. I think we had better try to find a place to stay in town.”

  “Is that wise?” Sareth said. Two days’ worth of beard shadowed his bronze cheeks, imparting a sharpness to his expression. He gestured to Lirith and Durge. “We are strangers to this world.”

  Travis sighed. “So am I. At least in this century. But I still think we should go. If something is stalking us, I’d rather not be such an easy target. Besides, there’s a chance someone in town might have an idea of when Jack is going to arrive. He might have written ahead to arrange for a house. And don’t tell me you really want to spend another night in this palace.”

  As one they gazed down at the hard dirt floor, and that settled it.

  They made a dull but welcome breakfast of most of the remaining foodstuffs Travis had bought; the cold had made them all ravenous. Travis would have done anything for a pot of steaming coffee, but he hadn’t bought any at the store, and as far as he knew there was no rune for maddok. He started to ask Lirith if there was any witchcraft that could conjure a cup, but as soon as he mentioned the word maddok she snarled at him, then stalked away, clutching a hand to her head. In the end, he and Lirith each settled for a cup of hot water with a few drops of salicylate of soda added in hopes of easing their throbbing skulls.

  It didn’t take long to pack up their few belongings, and an hour after dawn they set out. The high-altitude sun was alr
eady bright, and Travis was glad for the straw hat on his head. With his shaved cranium and sensitive skin, it was a necessity if he didn’t want to immediately turn into jerky. He had bought hats for all of them. Didn’t just about everyone wear hats back in the 1880s?

  They saw no people on the narrow trail that snaked down the mountainside, and the few cabins they passed were in even worse repair than the one where they had stayed the last two days. From his years in Castle City, Travis knew most mines were abandoned not long after they were claimed, once the easy-to-reach blossom ore was hauled off. By now, the only operations still running in the valley would be the big mines, the ones that had enough capital to buy the equipment and hire the men needed to dig down deep to the bones of the mountain.

  Once it reached the floor of the valley, the trail met up with a rutted dirt road. As they approached, Travis could see it was busy with people: mostly miners on their way to the diggings, although the first mule-drawn carts filled with ore were already lurching down the road, making their way to the train depot.

  It was only when he saw the people that a troubling thought occurred to Travis. He supposed he would be able to communicate in Castle City—despite the fact that, if the woman in the store was any indication, the English they spoke wasn’t quite what he was used to. However, Lirith, Durge, and Sareth didn’t speak English at all. What if someone tried to talk to one of them?

  You could give one of them the half-coin, Travis. Except that wouldn’t help the other two. And then you wouldn’t be able to talk to the three of them, unless your Eldhish is a whole lot better than you think it is.

  The four had stopped on the trail, about a hundred yards from the road where the men and wagons moved past.

  “Is something amiss?” Durge asked. “These men look to be a rough lot. I suppose they’ll attack the moment they see us.” The knight reached over his shoulder for his greatsword, now wrapped in Travis’s mistcloak.

  “No, Durge. I don’t think they’ll attack us.”

  In fact, the road was so crowded—and with such a variety of people—that Travis doubted anyone would even notice them. Mixed liberally among the tide of pale Europeans were faces of black, brown, yellow, and red. But then, from what Travis knew, the Old West had been a true melting pot. Just about everyone had heard the twin siren calls of gold and silver.