The back door opened, and a weary Mohrdrand let himself in. Rosaluna looked up from the fire. So Cable has learned control of the Runstable’s, then? She sent.
Mohrdrand couldn’t completely hide his glare. “I give them an eighty percent chance of arriving at their destination without overturning the wagon and being killed, yes.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she held comment. There is food on the table beneath the heating bowl, she sent. Eat something, you must be famished.
He spared her a look, but turned for the dining room. The old woman stood and made her way slowly into the kitchen to fetch some tea.
She sat with him as he ate, face inscrutable, neither drinking nor eating herself. Finally, Mohrdrand could stand it no longer.
“Rosaluna,” he said around a mouthful of soft bread. “What is wrong with you?”
She raised her eyes to him, one eyebrow going up.
“Look here, old woman,” he said in a tone that clearly indicated his anger remained but lightly tamped. “I’ve known you for sixty years. I know how you are. I know your foibles and your eccentricities. And I’ve been trying to ignore it, but something is clearly wrong with you. Has been since you sent the wandering bird to warn me of my approaching guests, and probably before.
“You’ve been acting off. Hiding things. And being even more bossy than is your wont, which is saying something.”
He glared for awhile longer. Long enough to take another mouthful of food, chew and swallow. When she didn’t answer, he pushed the plate away and lay his forearms on the table. “Is it just the boy?” he wondered. “Does having him about cause you that much pain it’s addled you?”
Her face drew into a fierce frown, but she remained silent.
“The boy thinks he was at your cottage for three months while you healed him,” he accused.
“I was expecting you to arrive with your cartload of product more than eight months gone at the latest,” he followed. “So you had him at least that long.” Another pause. “Just how close to death was he when you found him?”
Her shoulders sagged and she let a long breath out. As near as does not matter, she finally responded without energy. Had I found him a quarter hour later than I did, there would have been nothing even I could have done.
She went on after a long pause. I did what I could to keep him from knowing because he would not be still. She looked up and directly into his eyes. Had he realized how long...
Truthfully, Mohrdrand, she sighed. He should still be at the cottage, not wandering about slaying monsters. He should be another two or three months recovering before venturing forth to so much as walk to town.
But I could not... tears began to form. I did not have the strength, Mohrdrand, she admitted. Do you understand? Not to have him there. Not to remember... Not enough to hold him against his will. She wiped the damp from her eyes with a handkerchief. I could feel him chafing, wanting to be gone. Into Jehsha knew what, for no particular reason. Just like all the rest. Just like....
“So you lied to him.” it wasn’t a question.
I... did not tell him the truth, she admitted. And allowed him to draw his own conclusions. I kept him from realizing how badly he’d been injured so that he wouldn’t lose hope. And in the end, I foisted him off on my Button when I could no longer bear the pain.
“So why take him in to begin with?” he wondered. “By your own admission, people die, Rosaluna. You sent him off to me, you said, knowing that he probably would. Why go to so much trouble and heartache for someone you clearly... dislike? Someone you already think is as good as dead?”
She had no answer for that. It... she struggled. It never occurred to me to do otherwise, old friend, she told him. That is who I am, you see. I could no more leave him there to die than he can avoid charging into a suicidal battle the moment one presents itself.
“That isn’t all, though, is it?” he accused. “You forget, old woman, that my memory is still very good. When I visited you the other day, you were filled with sly musings, and secret knowings.”
Rosaluna rose and returned to her seat beside the fire, where she sat quietly, gazing into the flames. Wiping the occasional tear.
Mohrdrand retrieved his plate with a grimace, shoveling down the remainder of his meal without so much as tasting it. Finished, he brought plate and cup to the kitchen and returned to join her by the hearth. He sat and glared.
“You insisted that I be here,” he accused. “In Mokkelton. When I’m clearly needed elsewhere. Why? Button is not here to frighten now, Old Woman. It’s just us two old dabblers, and we’ve faced down more than low level bandits on our own more times than either of us can count. What are you afraid of?”
She turned to him, and her expression caused him a start.
I am not afraid, Old Man, she assured him. I am terrified.
He blinked a couple of times at that pronouncement. Of all the words that might escape her lips, those, he would never have expected.
“What—?”
I... have... friends, Mohrdrand, she told him slowly. Quiet friends. Secret friends. They tell me things. They have been telling me things over the past months. Darkness is rising once more. In the absence of protectors, darkness is rising.
Abruptly, she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders, and her face went stony. Know this, Old Man, she admonished. I do not cling to this life for my own sake. Nor for yours. Nor for the people of Mund. Do you understand?
Left to my own devices, she sent, I would allow myself to fade. What, after all does this world hold for me? Most all that I have ever loved is gone. I am one old woman, surely the world would continue to spin without me.
Gladly would I venture forth to the next plane, or even oblivion were it only me. Hear this, then, she pressed, stabbing a stiffened finger his way. I live on for one reason, and one reason alone....
“Button,” he finished for her.
Button. She nodded. All that I do, I do for her. I have attuned myself to her very core for her protection. I have made myself strong for her survival. I have developed spells that allow me to project my energy into her in times of dire need, such as when she faced the otherworld monsters on my road.
And yet, she deflated, her hand dropping to her lap, in the end, I gave her over to a madman. And sent them both forth into the teeth of the darkness.
“What darkness, Rosaluna?” Mohrdrand pressed. “You’ve now alluded to that twice. Surely mere mid tier bandits—”
Far more, Mohrdrand, she warned. Far more.
“But Mohrtgauth is dead.”
Yes, she sent. The current idiot killed it, finally. But think, you, Mohrdrand. How did he kill it?
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“Yes, yes,” he nodded, “we’ve been over this. He swept the world clean of every fighter, mage, and healer he could lay hands on and brute forced his way up the Dark Road and into the Obsidian Fortress, where he slew the Demon Lord using a composite spell cast by five hundred mages simultaneously and channeled through him and his special power.”
And what did he leave in his wake?
Mohrdrand’s eyes went wide.
And now they’re gathering, Mohrdrand, she clasped her hands together in her lap. With or without their lord, the old lieutenants are gathering. Mohrtgauth may be gone, Mohrdrand. Their generals. But how many of the lesser blights upon Mund remained unaddressed? Bypassed? They are gathering under new leaders. With, now, none to stand in their way.
“Except for,” he stroked his beard.
Children, Mohrdrand, she finished for him. A few scattered children barely into their power. And One misplaced hero whom Jehsha has snatched from oblivion. Who cannot be everywhere, and who has the caution of a housefly, she scowled. And who has my Button.
“Why have you kept this a secret?” Mohrdrand demanded. “Surely—”
And who would I tell, Mohrdrand? She wondered. Should I alert the guild? What would Jonkins do? Warn the new king? Who no doubt knows already, given it was his plan to leave the dark lord’s forces run loose so as to preserve his army’s strength for the final battles.
No, old friend, she shook her head slowly. Bor Jonkins would ask me what I intended. And he would worry.
“You can’t know that.”
Oh, she tilted her head. Can’t I? What are his other options? Fortify the town? With what? Higher walls, thicker gates? Nothing an ungifted can construct will stop them.
Reinforce the guard? With whom? There is no one, else they would already be reinforced.
Evacuate the citizenry? To where? Mokkelton is the sanctuary, old friend, she cautioned him. Were there any possible steps he could take to mitigate the forthcoming crisis, I most certainly would have informed him. But there are not..
“He could....” But, thinking hard, he couldn’t come up with any either.
I will also tell you another secret I’ve been keeping, old man... she sighed. I sent a wandering bird to the capitol before even our new hero arrived.
“And?”
The bird returned within a month, for it was one of my strongest. No message accompanied it.
Mohrdrand fell back in his chair with a gasp. “So we’re abandoned, then?”
It would appear so. Along with the entire eastern region.
I have been twisting my head around the problem, Mohrdrand, she sent. In whatever moments I might spare from the tasks of keeping wandering heroes alive or preparing Button for her journey.
“And?”
I... there might have been a way, she confessed. Once. Once, long ago when I was young. When I was far less frail. Now? Now, there is forlorn hope and ruin.
I cannot find a solution, Mohrdrand, she sighed and settled back into the chair. Not one with an acceptable outcome. And so I pretend it will all turn out alright somehow. And I fear. And I lash out from time to time, because fear is a thing I’ve grown unaccustomed to over the decades since I... over the decades.
Still, she sent, should the town be attacked, the two of us might at the least slow the horde where I alone would not.
Mohrdrand’s hand was at his beard again, his mind racing. “What gives you reason to believe that Mokkelton, specifically, is in danger?” he asked. “And how large is this horde of which you speak?”
The presence of the bandits, of course, she replied. Ask yourself, she went on. Why are mid rank bandits wandering about our countryside, hmm? There can be but little of interest to them here. There is little of experience to gain for such as them from the slaughter of ungifted. And certainly no great treasures to be garnered from looting traveling peasants or farmers in the hinterlands.
It’s likely, therefore, that they’re some sort of advanced guard for the larger force. Mokkelton, as the town nearest the Heroes’ Glade is an obvious target for destruction given its relative lack of defenders.
As to the size of the horde? I cannot say for certain. Only that one of Mohrtgauth’s greater lieutenants, a Drugand named Grishnuk Oggza, was seen some months ago in the vicinity of Oria, accompanied by at least fifty lesser drugands and a score of other dark creatures, along with a scattering of human soldiers.
That number is likely to have grown in the intervening months. Possibly significantly.
Mohrdrand stood abruptly and began to pace, hand still at his beard. Every once in awhile, he’d pause and turn to her, as if to say something, but then hold and continue pacing. The force she'd described, even had it not grown, would easily be sufficient to sack the town, given its current state and defenses.
“You should have told me sooner,” he growled at the last, not turning his head. “Me, at the least, if no other.”
She did not immediately answer, staring instead down at her clasped hands. I will concede, she sent at last, her tone as near contrite as he’d ever heard it. Up until the moment you demand to know my sources.
He did turn at that, spinning in place to glare down at the top of her lowered head. That had been an interesting caveat.
* * *
At that moment, some sixty lenn west of Mokkelton, and nearing the crossroads that would have them heading north towards the ferry station, the Runstable’s speeding wagon sat quietly in the middle of the road while the horses rested.
The journey through the town had been... a trial in the bizarre coach do to its length and height, taking far longer than it should have. And that with the wizard driving. He who owned the insane contraption, and, it was to be presumed, knew its operation.
The real trial, however, had begun once they’d cleared the north gate. That had been when Mohrdrand had pulled the thing to a halt and vacated what he’d called the driving seat, motioning for Cable to take his place — a thing which he’d been loathe to do. In the end, of course, there’d been naught for it. They’d had a place to be and the wizard had insisted that he would not be able to accompany them the whole of the way.
True to his word, an hour into the journey, and already an improbable distance from the town, he’d ordered Cable to pull up.
The spearman had watched the empty patch of air through which the old wizard had vanished for some long time after he’d gone before coaxing the horrid contraption into motion.
Now, here they were, near two hours farther along and already two days journey from the town by regular means.
In the horse wagon, Cable was stowing the fold away water trough with shaking hands. Twenty minutes, the wizard had insisted. At least twenty minutes of rest after the first two hours. Well, that time was up, and while the horses seemed ready enough, Cable, himself, felt in no way prepared to move on.
He’d fought against veritable hordes of monsters while following the hero, and never had his nerves been tested like this. Even the wounds that had nearly spelled his doom hadn’t affected him in such manner.
Back in the cabin, he settled himself into the driving seat. He twisted towards the rear section to regard Tiarraluna, a thing that was possible because, against all convention, they were both within the coach. “Are you ready, lass?” he asked nervously and with a heavy sigh.
He was still not entirely confident in his ability to pilot the contraption alone. Particularly given they were soon to arrive at the end of straight and level road.
The girl nodded, not looking up from the tome she was studying, and so he turned to face through the wide glass that spanned the front of the carriage. With some trepidation, he mashed down on the leftmost pedal sticking up out of the floorboard, stirring the long stick to his right until its base lay firmly within the slot marked 1 on the diagram plate screwed into the dash panel beneath the glass.
With another, deep, almost gasping breath, he eased his foot down on the longer, rightmost pedal of the three before him. Presumably, this action would, in some way, coax the horses into motion, though he felt no trace of it, nor could he see a trace of it.
The only indication he had that the pressure was working was a large brass needle moving slowly within a jeweled dial inset into a brass cabinet below the forward window. The same cabinet the ‘shifting’ diagram was screwed into.
Once the dial had circled to the proper number, as per the wizard’s instructions, he eased the left pedal slowly up, and the whole of the long coach lumbered into motion. The whole process flew in the face of everything he’d ever known about wagons or carriages, and this being the seventh or eighth time he’d seen it happen wasn’t helping.
Easing further down on the right pedal, he watched the road racing toward him, bathed in the glow of the twin directional lamps affixed to great, sweeping fenders arcing over the fat wheels. The wagon was difficult to control as there were no reins, but only a large, tri-spoked wheel as big around as a wash tub stuck onto the end of a thick shaft that disappeared into the floor just forward of the three pedals.
The needle of the dial reached the shifting point, and he let his right foot up and mashed down on the left pedal again, sliding the stick into the slot marked 2, before easing up with his left and easing down with his right. He repeated the ordeal with the slot marked 3.
There were nine such slots in the floor, connected by a central slot. Mohrdrand had cautioned him, though, against going past the third of them with only a single pair of horses, and only at the low side of the dial, lest they exhaust the beasts and founder them. That was fine with Cable. That range was already vastly faster than he’d any desire to travel.
Before long, they were once again hurtling through the darkness at a pace no living horse could match. Cable held on for dear life, jaw clenched, white at the lips, eyes wide, nerves taut as the string of an overdrawn bow. Constantly running through his mind was the solemn vow that he would walk back to Mokkelton barefoot before ever he came near this infernal rolling dungeon again.
At this rate, even staying to established and paved roads and going the long way ‘round, they’d reach the ferry station in a little over four hours more, and that with another stop to rest the horses midway along. Less than eight hours total for what should be more than a three day journey. Four more terrifying hours, granted.
He wondered, with that small part of his brain not repeating his vow, why he’d never heard of anything like this before tonight.