“So Slade is imprisoned now in Wastemoor,” I said.

Caiside nodded. She was at this point into her third mug of grog.

“And that is a three week walk to the west,” I continued. “At best. It might take even considerably longer than that.”

She nodded again; I winced in anticipation because of the wording I had used; and sure enough, she responded:

“And you know whom it takes even longer for? People without two good healthy legs, that’s who. I suppose someone like you, now, might be able to gallivant there with no trouble; but for someone like me, you know, things wouldn’t be that easy. Not easy at all.”

“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t intend to – but anyway, my question is: if he has been there all this time, how did a hoard wind up here? How long has he been imprisoned, by the way?”

“Two years now, or more,” she said. “Fortunately for him, he had spirited away this treasure before he was apprehended. It was flown here. Flown to that cave.”

“Flown? By what?”

“Let me explain,” she said:

So Slade became aware that Wastemoor wouldn’t be secure

for gains from all these wares which he had managed to . . . procure.

He made a plan to squirrel away some wealth, lest all be lost;

so he called in a favor from a grateful alkonost.

He’d helped her once; he gave her back a cruelly stolen egg

which had been taken from her; and so then of course she begged

to let her help him anytime with favors small or light.

She’d kill for him. Or maybe just could help him with some flight.

She’d meet him in the hills and she would take all she could carry;

the jewelry, torques and ingots, all of it, this girl would ferry.

And bit by bit he built himself his nest egg far away

from Wastemoor where he might get caught or bushwhacked any day.

When he was nabbed with smugglers and he thought that all was lost –

and caught in chains he fretted that the final ball’d been tossed –

his erstwhile golden summer had become a fall of frost;

but Slade still has some means thanks to that partner alkonost.

“Very good,” I said. “He had an arrangement, then. Just one thing I’m not clear on – what exactly is an alkonost? It is apparently someone who – flies?”

“Legendary heroines of the far north,” she answered. “Mostly a giant bird, but with the head of a woman.”

“I’ve never heard of such creatures.”

“Many things you do not learn of, when you spend your entire life in Kanin Enkeldal.”

“Enkel Kanindal. But this is amazing. So that egg you mentioned; it must have been – ”

“Her child,” she said. “The alkonost’s.”

“And Slade just – found it?”

“He came across it in the possession of other smugglers. Occasional associates of his, I believe. They were taking care of it, keeping it in a padded crate which was warmed by a brazier, that sort of thing. But Slade had enough sense to abscond with it and return it to her.”

“Hence her indebtedness,” I said. “An alkonost, then. I’d be glad to have the opportunity to meet such a being.”

“And there the young man goes again!” she snapped, banging down her mug on the table. Grog sloshed out. “He is beguiled already and hasn’t even laid eyes on one! What am I getting myself into! Too old to be yanking some youth out of the path of dryads and alkonosts!”

“I,” I began, but I didn’t know where to start. And I wasn’t sure anything I said would matter anyway.

“I know,” I offered, “that dryads lure the unwary with their beauty, and all, but you’re saying alkonosts do too?”

“Absolutely! And usually young bucks in rut like you!”

“But they are – mostly bird?”

“They have exquisite voices and bewitching eyes!” Caiside shouted. “But you know, maybe you’re a thick headed lout enough that you wouldn’t appreciate them anyway!”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m not even certain if this trip is for me. I’m not ready to pack a rucksack. Despite that impressive map you have. And be assured that if I do go, I won’t get ensnared by any dryads, or these alkonost characters, or anything else. And frankly, I’m not sure if I can be positive that you really do know Slade. You know of him, certainly, and of my family, a bit, but none of that would be hard to learn after a day or two in town. How can I be sure that Slade really sent this with you?”

“Good question,” she said. “That’s a promising question. Shows you have some bit of cautiousness about you. A question I would have asked myself, in your shoes. Your two shoes. Your two equally-worn shoes.” She nodded, and took another slug of grog.

“He saw you,” she said, “with the kobold you hid.”

“What!?” I blurted. “He told you that?”

I wish I had not given her the satisfaction of betraying my surprise, but it was too late. Regardless, she sang:

Down Gray Mount a kobold ventured:

it was limping; glum; indentured.

Slade watched it slink toward your folks' farm;

and made sure Dwarves did you no harm.

You were thirteen, or still just twelve?

You hid it, and you asked no help.

He guessed you thought no one knew you

took it in and gave it your food.

It hid in an old barn, Slade said,

you brought victuals. Straw for its bed.

Smuggled porridge from the larder;

proved yourself a noble guarder.

She raised the grog to me, and then continued:

He said you were brave as the Dwarves trooped down

to search for their runaway and ask around.

As they growled and hunted their serf gone missing

you kept yourself quiet and stood around whistling.

Of course it’s not you the Dwarves would have throttled

had they figured out this big secret you bottled.

But as for your parents, and Uncle Slade,

who knows what garboil the Dwarves would have made.

But your parents knew nothing, Slade believed

and the Dwarves returned home with no servant, deceived.

Slade watched, the night you sneaked down to the water

and sent the chap floating like a lib’rated otter.

On a raft to Venedia, did that kobold proceed

and Slade was impressed by your kind and brave deed.

“Well then,” I said. “I suppose you must indeed have spoken with Slade. I didn’t know that anyone else knows that story at all.”

“I do. Now.”

“Well, of course. So. A hoard, and a map to it, and it’s just there for the taking.”

“Getting there, however,” she said, wagging a finger at me.

“Certainly. But it sounds feasible.”

A question occurred to me:

“Why did you pick me? Or why did Slade mention me? Why not my father, or Uncle Danzig? Or my mother, for that matter? Or my cousin Canute?”

“Your parents, and your uncle,” she said, “are no longer as spry as they once were, are they? And nor am I, of course. I don’t need someone with poor eyes and a bad back accompanying me up into those hills. And as for Canute . . . Slade told me he is not the keenest adze in the toolshed.”

“Well, I suppose some would say that.”

“Not the straightest nail in the box.”

“Again, that might be said.”

“Not the best-fletched arrow in the quiver.”

“Right, I understand.”

“Perhaps not the most uniformly-baked loaf which has been set out on the rack.”

“Very well. When would you have us leave?”

“As soon as we can. Tomorrow morning!” She looked down into her mug, then. “Well, perhaps tomorrow would be a good day to sleep, actually. May I trouble you for a bed here?”

“I’m afraid all I have is that bench there, by the stove.”

I pointed to it, across the small room. My house was tiny. It had been built as a single laborer’s quarters on my parents’ property. Their house – my childhood home, where Daphne of course also still lived – was just a narrow field away.

I did at least have a separate bedroom in my place, thankfully.

“Such a small house,” she said. “You have an instrument hanging on the wall, over there.”

“Yes. My slide trumpet.” It hung just past the cupboard.

“A musician,” she reminded herself. “That would explain the small house.”

“There’s somewhat more room over in my parents’ home.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I will stay with you. My questing companion.”

“In the meantime, while you rest,” I said, “I will ask my cousin Freydis if she’s able to come along.”

“No need for that!” Caiside said. “The fewer, the better. We wouldn’t want to – self attention to our calls. Too many . . . weavers in the . . . souphouse, you know. I . . . ”

She trailed off, again looking down into the mug. She was not making a compelling argument for wanting to go it alone, just the two of us.

“I do want to ask her,” I repeated.

“But we cannot let anything slow us down!” she said, reviving. “Because if we delay, that increases the chances that the SwornBorn will find out. They’ve been ranging further and further away from Gray Mount, you know. It’s only a matter of time before they happen across that cave.”

“I shall not delay,” I promised. I looked out my window into the darkness, thinking of Slade’s far-off adventures and imprisonment, and his hard-earned treasure. “I appreciate you bringing me this news, and this map. I trust we will be an effective partnership.”

I looked back at her, but now she was asleep, her head dropped down onto the table.