Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  What could Alizarin do, alone with a cloak and some packed bags? Can I help save the baby and Gretsel? Thinking of all the items she possessed, not one came to her attention now as a solution. She needed mighty protection and a feasible way to escape. With her conscience full of the loss of her own family, she could not leave another mother’s child to be orphaned or slaughtered. What can I do? What can I do with what I have?

  Taking a slow and steady series of breaths, Alizarin realized her only course. Almost at the same moment the thought came to her, so did the way of it all become crystal clear. In her mind, she made a general plan and then stepped back inside the monsters’ den to begin.

  Uncloaking, Alizarin nodded again to the remnants of the farmhands who sat at the break day table, picking egg out of their beards. Nonchalantly, she draped the smooth grey fabric over her elbow. Not wanting to even imagine the truth of what the alternative view would be, Alizarin walked on.

  She entered her guest room, washed her face, shouldered the packed clothing and preserves, and went in search of Gretsel. Down the hallway and a few rooms over, Alizarin set down the heavy burden and knocked softly on the closed door.

  “A moment, please!” came the reply. Curly, brown hair, held loosely in a bun crowned her head. She was happy as the bright new day. Full of hope, cheer and good wishes, Gretsel’s smile lit Alizarin’s heart as well.

  “Hello! Hello, and welcome!” Gretsel’s glowing greeting came.

  “Hello, sister of my heart,” she replied, thinking of her customary exchanges with Rethendrel. “Short is the morning and long is the nightfall of late, eh?” said Alizarin.

  “Indeed, the sun of harvest is fading. Almost too quickly, we will find ourselves in the dark of the hard cold season. Will you be returning next daybreak with Rethendrel and Samton, then? Back to Tamborinton?” As she spoke, Gretsel’s hands clasped Alizarin’s arms in an eternal gesture of bond and friendship.

  “Yes, back to Tamborinton with the new sun.” A rush of feeling almost overcame her heart. “Oh, Gretsel, I will surely miss you! Can I do anything this last day to leave your tasks the lighter?” asked Alizarin with sisterly concern.

  “No. No, you needn’t worry about me. I have my wonderful Londer and capable Theress to lean on. Besides which, I am mostly healed.” Gretsel’s face lit from within. “What do you wish to do today with the last of your time amongst us?”

  “I thought to make a little more apple pie. Seems impossible to make enough to satisfy my cravings. How can you live here among the orchards and dislike apples so much?”

  “Yes, it’s a bit sad, isn’t it? Yet, you do get too used to the familiar. After a while, the common becomes just that: common. My thirst is for new tastes. One of the reasons it’s good to be a part of this traveling merchant family, I have always said. Rethendrel does manage to bring to our home the most amazing fruits, spices, and flavors.”

  “Do you think if I make my acclaimed apple and caramel pie, that you might be willing to have a slice?” Alizarin was half-teasing and half-serious. Something about the freshness of food on a farm just made everything she baked taste better. With a visible pause, Gretsel reluctantly agreed. The light in her eyes dimmed a bit. She shivered. Standing there in her nightgown, curly hair pulled back loosely in a braided bun, suddenly she seemed weak and pitiful to Alizarin’s knowing gaze.

  Somehow I must save her! What can I do? True friendship is never easy to come by, harder still to part with. How could she show Gretsel the truth of the grim predators lurking in her own house, under the skins of her loved ones, including her dearest husband? Without the perception enabled mysteriously by the cloak, another person would not see anything untoward or threatening. Alizarin would just sound delusional without proof. Without proof ...

  “Gretsel, after you dress this sunrise, will you meet me in the front of the house, overlooking the orchards?” Suddenly, Alizarin stopped talking. She had not considered Gretsel. Could her dear friend be already a hidden, heinous monster?

  Stooping to pick up her cloak which lay on top of the tightly-packed bundle, she continued, “The view from the front door is so charming. Come share it with me?” Turning, Alizarin’s eyes saw only the truth of Gretsel and her baby: two perfectly human, perfectly normal people, completely in danger, completely unaware. Great relief flooded her heart, and great fear.

  “Yes, I will come after Baby has nursed and I finish the room cleaning,” replied Gretsel.

  Alizarin turned away, closing the stout door behind her. Only when it was shut did she pick up her packages and finish her planning. Walking outside to the far wall of the granary the frightened baker hid her spare possessions, covering them with fallen grain stalks which awaited bundling. The cold breeze rounded the corner of the building and tousled her hair. Best to be prepared to flee.

  Before she turned away from her clothes and such, Alizarin dug through the mass and lifted out her larger private purse. Brilliant yellow trimmed with tiny cowrie shells from the distant Serpend Islands, it was one of her favorite possessions for the color alone. Removing one tiny container from the yellow bag, she nervously slipped it into her day necklace. Quickly she said a little chant, praying that her plan would go right.

  Then she straightened her aprons and tucked the small necklace inside her shirt’s covering. Reassured by the presence of the sapphire and topaz stones, which tapped together in her pocket occasionally as she walked, Alizarin prepared for war. Now the moment of courage begins! Where it would end, she could not have said.

  Briskly, she entered the kitchen, now emptied from the crowding at mealtimes. Expertly, she selected a knife, bowl and supplies. And then, she set to work. Baking, after all, was her trade. She pared the fruit, cooled them in water, and browned the sugar and milk over the heat of the fire. Rapidly, the smell of rich caramel apples floated out of the kitchen and over the open yard.

  Alizarin whipped together the crust, pushing and kneading the butter into the pale white flour. All the ingredients of the most incredible apple dessert filled the counters. Easily, almost without thought, the baker baked. The patterns of motion were as familiar as her own skin.

  She prepared the crusts and trimmed the edges; pretty food always tasted better. Soon ten pies lined the counter: four were apple caramel, two were orange squash and cinnamon, two were made from the berries that only now began to ripen at the hedge around the orchards, and the last two were beaten egg and cream fillings.

  Viewing all of the desserts, in formation, pristine in their presentation, Alizarin reached inside of her shirt’s collar and pulled up the leather bag. Opened quickly, her knowledgeable fingertips fished out the unobtrusive container. Lightly, she sprinkled every pie topping with a dash of her extra seasoning.

  Leaving no pie untouched, she loaded each one into the heated oven. Five across, two rows of frothy, fragrantly rich desserts filled even the capable deep oven of the farmhouse kitchen. Soon, aromas went forth, carried on the breeze. They called to the farthest workers, beckoning the weary to follow the delightful scents with a bugle call of smell across the farmland: Come, Come, Come to the Kitchen! Come and feast!

  *

  Chapter Eight

  What Encircles?

  What must be done, must be done. Ilion knew it in his bones. Sometimes there were ways to accomplish a task half-heartedly, though the results almost always require more of an apology than thanks. Often, begrudged actions led to good outcomes, but oddly, never to great ones. Duty dictated a price to pay for all relationships, and those obligations would be met or wreak devastation within the unwilling heart, with unknown consequences to all concerned. This was always true, never more so than this sunrise.

  The burden must be borne. And who is left other than me to bear it? Two priests well trained in the arts of self-defense and preservation, both were mysteriously dead, taken unawares. One last message had come from the dying lips of urgency, both a request and a demand: To the Fire Maid; Take to the Mountain. The Fire Maid?
Who in the seven hells of Drogos is that supposed to be? It was just his luck to be sent on a dying request to find no one with no directions and no location.

  After burying the younger priest, Ilion figured the interrupted message had to be contained in the spell-sealed scroll he had found while searching the elder priest’s private purse. Taking the man’s last errand as his own following the ritual of Companion’s Right, Ilion set out in search of news of the Fire Maid. Happily, wayfaring stations and pubs were his idea of rest and the source of all knowledge gleaned from travelers. The Fire Maid must be somewhere close by, or at least the direction the priests had set out leaving Dressarna and traveling onward to their unkind ends. Relieved not to have to return back to Tamborinton, where the Green Lady, her hired thugs and her patron still ardently searched for those Staves of Thenta, Ilion decided to walk a bit further on the traveler’s road.

  When he thought about attempting to follow Alizarin’s course, it was daunting. He didn’t know in which direction her shelter lay. With the hidden dangers that appeared to be following him, she was safer resuming the quiet, tidy, predictable life of a baker. She had only left the city to help with a birthing. It appeared that he had to accomplish this dying command before trying to see her again in Tamborinton. At least, he reasoned, he knew her shop’s location. When this journey was all over, he would look in on her there and perhaps pay back, somehow, the strenuous lengths which she had undergone to protect him.

  The travelers’ shelter was a death trap. There was no need to stay there. Indeed, he had stayed long enough that he would have thought the Green Lady’s lackeys would have found him already. Not truly desiring to be beaten, tortured, and robbed by Ronnit types, he thought moving on to be the only logical course. Shouldering his somewhat heavier pack, he set down the wheel-worn road to find the next tavern, inn or wayfaring point, in hopes of some directions to the unknown Fire Maid.

  Not that hard to find. After he had walked briskly for half the day, he saw in the distance two travelers’ shelters, the larger one equipped with the addition of a bustling inn. Attached to the far side of the stone building, jutting out in its prominence, with a great wooden sign, was a well-kept, well-built, thirst-quenching bar. Even the thought of a cool rose ale, brought water to his mouth and relief to the tip of his tongue.

  It had been forever since he had been in and amongst a cluster of people. It felt good—spectacularly simple, after the last few days. Pleased to find his favorite drink available, he sat down at the row of chairs near the barreltaps. It was the best place to overhear conversation, with the added bonus of not having to work too hard for his next refill.

  With plenty of money between the three private purses, he secured sparse lodging above the stables. It was adequate to his needs, with the built in option of an escape route should he need it. It was pleasant to eat hot food and drink something other than water, but mostly, he listened. He sat until his hard, high-backed stool became almost a third leg.

  He became very quiet, very withdrawn, and after a while, very ignored. He drank late into the first nightfall, with open ears and an open mind. He nursed the same drink until he got dirty looks from the tavern keeper. He poured the remnants into the potted ferns surreptitiously and then ordered another.

  Harvest life bustled around him. By the end of the moon, he knew far too much about the local residents, their concerns, and their frailties. Arguments rarely broke out, and the tavern keeper was too interested in turning a profit to allow anything more than harsh words to be exchanged. Still, he learned the structure of country life and the social powers that functioned within a full day’s ride in either direction.

  He listened, he learned, and he waited. There was never any mention of a mountain as a specific location or of Fire Maid, as a person or position. So, he sat on the stool and ordered yet another drink. To the view of the hawk-eyed bartender, he averaged three tall and misty rose ales every nightfall. He was stuck on the stool with dried honey or old molasses to any inquisitive passerby. Finally, after another moon waned, Ilion gave up. It was pretty clear that no one from the local area had any more information than he already possessed.

  After another tedious night of listening to the gossip and passions of small men and large women, he decided that the next sunrise would be the last he spent on the perch of that uncomfortable, wooden stool. One more dawn and he would journey to the next inn. This task was going to be a long, drawn-out process. Silently, within his meditations and ponderings, he began to wonder exactly what the cost in days would be after all was said and done. He was not unwilling to fulfill the obligation the priest had put upon him by dying at his side, but he had hoped the burden might be lighter. He had goods to reclaim if he wanted to work in Dressarna again.

  Nodding his head again to the taciturn tavern keeper, Helt, he pushed the empty mug of rose ale away. On his way out to his sleeping area, he stopped at the partial table by the entrance, paid his bill, and gave notice. Climbing up to his loft above the darkened stalls which rustled with the sounds of burden animals slightly disturbed by his entrance, he quietly laid down on his blankets and plumped his substitute pillow. It was a sad, bumpy, lumpy bag of clothing with an outer skin consisting of one of the large shirts that Alizarin found that afternoon while he lay hidden in the bakery.

  It was nothing like the down of birds that he normally preferred, though it reminded him nightly of her efforts to assist him. Truth told, he had grown used to its firmness and now rather liked its awkward support. As always, his staff lay next to his body, almost parallel. He always felt more rested and safe with it in his grasp. Only reluctantly did he leave it along with his other possessions, unsecured, hidden above the animals while he gathered information in the tavern.

  If only some priests had traveled through—surely the familiarity of one branch of devout would extend somewhat to other kinds? No such coincidence had occurred at this stop. Even if priests had come through, he did not want to draw attention to himself by speaking to them directly. Ilion could only hope the next destination would be more fruitful.

  Settling in for the nightfall’s duration, his thoughts began to swim into a swirling puddle, intermingling in an oddly hypnotic fashion. Murky and vague, images of all kinds of minutiae sorted themselves. He saw his mother’s still form, then Alizarin’s hands, and then his dead sister’s serene face. The images seemed to dance back and forth from one to another. It was completely ludicrous and wondrous at the same moment.

  Just as his mind began to sort through the patterns and puzzles, his ears called him back to wakefulness. Downstairs amongst the animals, he heard a conversation. Drifting out of sleep, Ilion heard a deep, throaty voice speaking. An echo seemed to follow each sentence.

  “What of the plan? It goes well?”

  “Yes, yes, he is an idiot and she bends to my will without question.” The first voice, grating like pieces of chopped wood thumping together, continued, “They must be removed, you know that. You cannot fail. There will be no tolerance. Even a slight change in our plan will cost us too much to be counted.”

  With almost a sigh, the second voice rejoined, “There are troubles and there are troubles. These two are babies unknown to the rest. They have no protection. They cannot fight. They cannot even see me. They will breathe and breathe and then they will cease, and they will never even wake to knowledge. Few things are certain, but this is one: My coming is their end.”

  “Very well,” the first voice agreed. “You are mighty with power. You say your success is assured. I will return to bring word of your actions. When they are dead, wear her skin and eat his. Journey back here to the inn and you will be met in one darkcasting of the moon with further instructions.”

  Startled, Ilion propped himself up on his elbow, leaning over the edge of the grain stalk rack. He was on the lookout for hirelings searching for him, but the darkness of the nightfall was nothing compared to the blackness in those casual words. His insides curled in knots. Eat skin? What kind
of thug would take such grisly trophies?

  Bracing with one hand outstretched, Ilion shifted his weight over and moved his vantage point across the ladder opening. There were no people down below. His eyes were already adjusted to the darkened spaces. Enough moonlight still snuck in through the weathered roof beams to see clearly. He searched for the source of the voices.

  There were only well-used beasts of burden sleeping soundly in their stalls. As he watched, no movement happened within the stalls, but the voices continued speaking. The sounds were clearly coming from the area below him and to the right. He leaned farther out to search the darkened corners of the farthest wall.

  Stretching his neck, opening his eyes to use all the available light, he was still not rewarded. Who is down there? Straining to view the cubicles on the ground, his anchoring hand slipped off the staff slightly. Catching hold of a bale of stalks, he steadied himself. Folding his body, he reverted to the much more balanced Hunting Eagle position.

  With all the threatening talk below, he reached for the staff as a source of continuing comfort. He knew how to use it as a weapon should the conspirators realize their exchange was eavesdropped upon. Holding the bone-white staff across his body, Ilion attempted once more to get a visual sighting of the extraordinary communication. As his eyes searched methodically across the room, he noticed the glaring vacancy of the two middle stalls.

  He was certain they had been occupied. Now there was no trace of animals within them. As he continued to gaze specifically at that area, a vague outline, hazy in nature, began to coalesce. He could just discern twin forms of shaded darkness, almost cloudlike, as large as bulls in their prime. The conversation emanated within them. Awful in its tone, vicious in its purpose, the unnatural talking resumed.