For sure. The Aelen Kofer were making him crazy. He was worried about his health. At his age he ought not to face prolonged stress and physical labor. Though he had the Construct to support him-he was, practically, part of that machine-there were limits to what he could overcome.
Most of today’s Grail Empire was wilderness. That had not always been the case. But the fall of the Old Empire and several passages of plague had reduced the population by two-thirds. The Aelen Kofer mostly went unnoticed when they stuck to the wilds.
There were incidents. Even deep wildernesses got visited by hunters, woodcutters, and just plain wild men who could not stand the stress of civilization. The more self-confident of those reported having seen dwarves.
The news caused no excitement. Country people knew strange beings lived in the woods. No local prince or count called up the levies.
The fortress had no name. The nearest village was eight miles away. No one there talked about the castle. The villagers seemed unaware that it existed. Few ever went into the forest more than half a mile. Yet a ghost of a road led to the fortress, a recollection of a way that might have been important in some century now forgotten.
Cloven Februaren used the Construct to be waiting at a gateway through what looked like an innocent boundary defined by a split rail fence. On his side, that frozen memory of a road, a biting wind, and scattered precipitation that felt like a shower of frozen needles. Beyond the fence, possibly a little less enthusiasm for winter. But only a little. Patches of ice and piles of snow were plentiful. There was a glistening glaze on otherwise barren branches. Some wore little icicles, like rows of teeth, on their undersides.
On the top sides there were crows.
The Ninth Unknown stared, only vaguely aware of the racket being made by the Aelen Kofer approaching. He tried to guess how many crows. How many hundreds of crows. Or maybe ravens. He could not tell the difference with them just sitting there. Nor did he much care when faced with the question of why they were silent and still.
Crows were never silent, and seldom still for long.
Sorcery.
“Of course it’s sorcery, you ass!” he muttered at himself. “The question is, what kind of sorcery? And to what point?”
“Double Great?”
Februaren jumped. Heris had turned into being beside him, unnoticed. “Just thinking out loud, child. You want to take a turn? Why are all those damned crows over there? And why are they so quiet? They ain’t sparrows but they still bicker in their damned sleep.”
“Somebody spelled them so you’d work yourself into an apoplectic lather worrying about why they’re quiet.” Then, in her best spooky voice, “Or maybe they’re not crows. Maybe they’re demons spelled to look like crows.”
“Muno is still laughing about inflicting you on me, isn’t he?”
“I was drafted. But I bet he is sitting in front of a nice fire, maybe with a cute little boy on his lap, drinking coffee and chuckling. What’s this over here?” Heris headed for the gateway.
“Stay back! We can’t just go prancing in! No telling what that might trigger.”
“I’m not going in, Double Great. I’m looking to see what this is.” She indicated a chunk of weathered board tangled in the remains of last summer’s weeds.
“It does look out of place,” Februaren admitted. Grudgingly. Because he should have noticed himself. Long ago. Maybe even the first time he came exploring.
Heris pried the board loose, cracking it lengthwise in the process. The old man took it, again failing to note an important point. He rotated the board so he could see the wet side. “Something written here. It must have been a sign. Hard to make out. Ah. In Firaldian, roughly, it says, ‘Beware of the wolves.’ And something else that I can’t make out.”
“Never damned mind that! Look!” Heris pointed. Vigorously.
A skull and some long bones lay where the sign had hidden them, sunken into the frozen mud under the dead weeds.
“Well,” the old man observed. “That’s something to keep in mind.” He eyed the crows again. They seemed mildly amused. He had stumbled across an old acquaintance of theirs.
Heris asked, “You think they’re hoping we’ll join this guy?” She shuddered. The cold had nothing to do with that.
A heavy tread approached from behind. The old man recognized that step. Khor-ben Jarneyn. Tired and hungry. “That the place?”
“It is,” Februaren admitted. “I’m pretty sure. I’ve never dared go look.”
Iron Eyes pushed between man and woman. Other dwarves rattled and clanked and came to a halt behind them. “How come?”
“It might be dangerous. Why take chances before you need to?”
“To have some fun? Huh! Might be dangerous?” Iron Eyes stepped up to the opening in the rail fence. The crows began to stir, but settled again when he stopped a foot short. Iron Eyes spent two silent minutes glaring straight ahead, at what looked like some kind of structure looming behind a dense growth of leafless trees. Then he came back. “Lots of magic in there. We’ll camp. We’ll rest up. We’ll eat and get our strength back. See if you can bring in some goats. When we’re full of piss and vinegar again we’ll go grab the Bastard. I’ll pick bits off till he says he’ll help us.”
Februaren considered insisting on wasting no time. Anytime now the Windwalker might…
Iron Eyes would remind him that the Windwalker was beached on a stony Andorayan shore, barely able to keep himself together. If Kharoulke regained strength enough to start something he would send his Chosen out long before he regained enough power to do anything directly. The Aelen Kofer would love that. They were spoiling for a fight.
A dustup with the Ninth Unknown would suit them if he started questioning their tactics.
Februaren said, “You all just get comfortable, then. Enjoy your time off. Heris and I don’t have the luxury. Come, Heris.” He touched her so they would stay together while the Construct moved them.
They materialized inside a little-used room in an out-of-the-way wing of the Delari town house in Brothe. Februaren said, “If we’re going to waste time resting we might as well be comfortable.”
Heris grunted and nodded and said, “I can buy into that. Though I don’t expect to do a lot of loafing. Those dwarves need to eat. But not before I get a hot bath and a couple decent meals inside me. Food. Glorious food. If Piper could just not bug me for a few days I’d be in Heaven.”
So, naturally, valuable loafing time got wasted on talk about what was happening in Alten Weinberg.
Khor-ben Jarneyn needed three days to steel himself for the next phase. During that time temperatures rose enough for the ice and snow to start melting.
“Spring is in the air,” Februaren declared. No one got the joke. He sulked, muttering about a congenital Aelen Kofer immunity to humor.
That third morning Iron Eyes said, “We’ve determined the bounds of the place and the three general classes of sorceries protecting it. Since you two aren’t the usual hero type that charges straight in just to see what happens, we’ll experiment before we do the time-honored Aelen Kofer slithering attack.”
“Slithering attack?” Februaren asked.
Iron Eyes ignored him. He barked orders in dwarfish. A couple dozen crossbows materialized, the dwarfish variety so powerful their bolts could punch through granite. So the Aelen Kofer claimed. The weapons began a moaning chorus of strings slicing air, slapping stops, and bolts humming downrange.
The crows over yonder shrieked, outraged. A score had become explosions of blood and feathers. Cursing, they took wing, their cries and pounding wings overwhelming the aria of the Aelen Kofer crossbows. The dwarves impressed the Ninth Unknown by downing the birds on the fly. Maybe fifty, total, died in Jarneyn’s experiment.
The dwarf said, “That didn’t bring anybody out. Maybe the Bastard doesn’t worry about his far-seers.”
“He can afford to lose a few more than Ordnan since he started with a thousand.” The All-Father of the Old Gods, the Gray Walker, had had only two ravens to keep him informed: Thought and Memory.
