Eye of Darkness (Part Eight)

 

The sun was getting low in the sky and they had not turned from the high dusty road anywhere before the wizard called a halt. Along the way Belmok had been asking Dunwolf several cunning questions about the past, all of which the old man had answered in such a way that the Morgish scholar had started to foster an increasing conviction that he was telling the truth, at least about his identity. The Kellic War, that had happened when Belmok was a youth of thirty, had captured his imagination and started him on the road to History Master. Though there were still elderly Morgs who remembered the matter, there could be few Men who could know such details as Dunwolf. He was almost disappointed when the brown-clad man raised his hand and said, “Here we are.”

Belmok squinted around at the broken lands and scrubby stands of trees around them, pursing his lips.

“Where are we?”

Dunwolf pointed off to the left, at a clump of low-hanging silver birch.

“There! Do you see it?”

Thron barked, a single mirthless laugh.

“Well, at least it will be a place to camp for the night before I drag you back to the cells in the City.”

As the three left to road and drew closer to the birches, Belmok got a clearer look at what had seemed a tumble of rocks behind the curtain of branches. It resolved itself into a roofless building, a shell of four broken walls and an empty doorway. An old inn, abandoned and now used as a sheep-pen apparently, with only a clump of moldy hay against one wall to speak of a temporary occupancy. A little wicket of dried branches leaned against the vacant doorway.

“Perfect,” said the wizard. “Here is our shortcut.”

“Here,” said Belmok. His voice was flat. He gripped his walking staff tightly and sniffed. “I can see even from here there’s nothing inside but old grass and some lumps of petrified sheep-dung.”

“Even so,” said Dunwolf cheerfully. “Shall we go in?”

“Why not?” said Thron. “There’s all the makings for a good campfire.”

The wizard stepped forward and laid a hand on the wicker gate. He said a few words the Morgs didn’t quite catch, then swung the ramshackle gate open and stepped in, Belmok and Thron close on his heels.

[No Notes Today]