30

Hembeard III

WYNN’S STOMACH CHURNED AS SHE followed the duo through the ravine, cutting through the thick brush.

“Ugh, I’m so nervous,” Wynn said. “It’s like that one time when I got on stage for a performance. I felt so sick I threw up.”

Beryl’s eyes widened as he hovered nearby. “In front of an audience!?”

Wynn shook her head. “Oh, no it was tryouts. After two weeks of practice, too. But it didn’t matter. I’d hardly made it on stage when—” She started to feel queasier at the memory. “Blech. I shouldn’t have chosen porridge for breakfast…”

“Okay, we get the picture,” Lance said. “Please talk about something else.”

They started to climb a steep slope.

“So, you attend a caster academy,” Wynn said curiously.

Lance sighed. “I should’ve seen that one coming.”

“But you did, right?” Wynn pressed.

Lance shrugged. “You have to learn magic from somewhere.”

“Where?” Wynn asked, knowing she’d receive no answer.

“The Isle of Ravelment,” he said, “across Wattle Reed Lake, past the Western plains.”

Wynn perked up her ears. “Wait, are you serious? You’re from the Isle of Ravel-something?”

“Ravelment and yes,” Lance said, “and that’s all I’m telling you.”

“Okay, I have another question,” Wynn said, growing excited. “How did you two meet? Are you brothers? Classmates? Best friends?”

“What? No,” Lance said, retching at the thought.

“Neighbors,” Beryl said. “Different schools, and yes, friends.”

Lance muttered under his breath.

Beryl leaned over to Wynn’s ear and whispered, “He also has a crush on one of his classmates back at the academy.”

Wynn gasped. “Really? Who? What are they like?”

Lance whipped around angrily. “What are you talking about?”

Beryl grinned. “Nothing.”

Wynn stopped in her tracks at the sight of a tall blue-tinged spire poking above the trees in the distance. “Is that it?”

The two bug-larks followed her gaze to the spire.

The group swiftly approached it, and within moments they were among the vine-covered remnants of the fallen village. Wynn looked around the silent towers and piles of stone and splintered wood. It was eerie to know that a place once bustling with loud and happy larks had just fallen into this empty clutter of stone and invading plants.

As they continued, they met a large stone statue of a bearded plant-lark. He proudly loomed overhead, the light catching his copper-colored crown.

That is some beard, she thought, looking at the long shuffle of stone leaves hanging below his branch-like nose. Wynn looked back to the others and saw Lance scanning the village remains.

“This village is smaller than Runnelloom,” he said. “But it’ll still be a bit difficult to locate the exact place it was forged.”

“I thought you said you knew,” said Beryl.

Lance gave him a look. “All I was taught was that it was forged here.”

“Then we’ll have to split up,” Wynn said.

Beryl looked uncertain. “But what about Brume? He could show up at any moment.”

He was right. They had no way of knowing how close Brume was to discovering the village. For all they knew, he could be lurking in one of the many buildings or fortresses that surrounded them.

“Also wilders,” Wynn thought out loud. It wasn’t uncommon for wilders to make dens in old buildings.

Lance nodded. “We’ll have to be careful and try to stay hidden then.”

Wynn agreed. “And if anyone spots Brume or any sort of trouble, they have to find the others. No one fights alone.”

“All right,” Lance said and pointed down an old road into the village. “I saw a sign for a blacksmith down that way, so I guess I’ll start there. Wynn, you could look up east, and Beryl, you can take the road down north. Look for anything that may point us in the direction where this thing was created. I’m talking about a forge, archives, an armory, those sort of places. Oh, and be careful—these building are not as sound as the ones in Runnelloom. They’ve probably been crumbling since the last century.”

“All right,” Wynn said, casting another look at the enormous figure of Hembeard. “We should meet back at this statue to catch up on what we’ve found.”

“When the sun reaches its highest point,” Lance added.

As they began walking their separate ways, Wynn felt a familiar pang of fear in her gut, and she pushed it down. This may be our only chance. I have to do this for everyone back at home. Ma, Pa… Mae.’ She felt another pang at her sister’s name. I owe them at least a try.

THE MEMORY FADED AS WYNN’S eyes rested on the ornate brick pillars around a building’s entrance. Unlike the other crumbling structures in the village, this one was mostly untouched by vines and plants of the Dark Agrestal, and was mainly intact. Its pillars were engraved with carvings of plants and larks, and it had a strange silver sheen to it.

She moved closer to the pillar and ran her paw over the images of the larks until her eyes fell on one of the creatures. She paused.

It has a curled tail and wavy ears.

A swirl-ear.

Wynn studied it, perplexed. She looked around for any indication of what this building was, but any signage that had been placed around or on the building seemed lost to history.

Wynn gazed into the pitch-black entrance looming ahead of her.

As she neared the threshold, she gave one last glance around.

And entered.

Wynn began down a narrow corridor, scanning the many doorways until her eyes met another strange image above a door. It was of a swirl-ear with closed eyes, leaping through what seemed to be a wave of stars. Below were the chipped remnants of words engraved above the doorway:

 

FORGE

OF

SPINDLE and HEARTH

 

As if feeling an invisible force beckoning her, Wynn trudged down the stone steps till she came to a wide circular room. It was mostly empty, picked clean by scavengers and thieves many years prior. Through the darkness, Wynn could make out the large dome-like hearth that sat at the end of the room. All around her lay empty barrels, large vine-engraved iron pedestals, and wooden racks that slanted down from their chains in the walls.

Around her were etched the images of loops, wisps, swirls, and stars, all dancing in a quiet performance in a now long-forgotten age.

It all seemed oddly familiar.

That was the feeling Wynn felt pulling her paws here.

But why?

As Wynn began to study the images she heard a loud thump above her. She paused.

The sounds continued, and then she heard heavy steps descending the stairwell. Wynn quickly ducked behind one of the large pedestals. Her mind began to race. Was it a wilder or a bandit? Can’t be the others. It sounds too heavy.

A large shadow crossed the wall as the figure loomed into view. A soft blue light flicked from across the room.

Wynn peeked out as the lark raised the lantern to his grizzled, bearded face. The blue flame flicked across his hardened scowl.

Wynn’s heart sunk.

Brume.

WYNN FROZE. SHE WATCHED FROM behind the pedestal as he crossed further into the room. He placed the lantern down near his scuffed boots and dug around his dark mottle-veil cloak, muttering as he pulled a splintered arrow from his cloak. He tossed it behind him. It clattered on the ground mere inches from Wynn, who remained unseen.

“All so foolish,” she heard Brume say.

He inspected the tear on his cloak and groaned, “This was made with the finest linen in all of mottlefly silk, from the oldest tailor in all the frayed lands, and now it’s ruined! All due to those slack-jawed, soil-brained guardsmen.”

Wynn’s tail swished against the dusty ground. He’s crying over such a small rip. Nothing a quick sew can’t fix, mottlefly-silk or not… what a big jest.’

“Nonetheless,” he said, “great sacrifices like this must be made.”

He plopped a black-clothed sack in front of him, dug into it, and pulled out a small silver chest. He carried the chest and his lantern to the large hearth in the room.

Wynn’s eyes followed, locking onto the Spindlechest. She couldn’t believe it. After so long, there it was again—just as pristine as when it had once sat within the small grotto of her home.

She crept closer in the darkness, peeking at it from behind. There was an audible crack as her paw stepped over something long and wooden. She looked down at it in a panic and saw the splintered arrow. Then she looked back up at Brume, whose eyes were focused on the Spindlechest as he placed the chest in the center of the hearth.

He raised his lantern to the hearth, and the flame jumped from its container down to the empty chamber below. A blue luminescence filled the room as the flame grew. It burned furiously and without any kindling, crackling, popping, and fizzing to life.

Wynn glanced up at the glowing walls. The outlines of the images seemed to twirl, spin, and twist in a rhythmic pattern.

Finally, the chest itself began to glow. Small cracks began to form around it, and flames spilled out from its lid.

There was a little click.

The chest flung open.

The walls stopped moving and the light faded, returning the room to its previous form. There was a silence as the light finally died from the chest, leaving behind its broken, cracked case.

Brume grinned as he greedily reached for the chest. As he pulled up a small, gilded glass, he yelped, and sent the round golden object flying across the room. He turned and blew on his hand, waving it.

The ground sizzled as the glass landed in front of Wynn.

Wynn glanced at it, then back up at Brume. He now clutched his hurt hand and scowled at the chest. “Nothing but pain and grievance from this infernal chest!” he snapped, blowing on his hand.

Wynn looked to the side, seeing the splintered arrow. She picked it up and broke off the fractured tip. As Brume continued to mutter, she reached it across to the glass and slid the gilded object close. She could feel the heat emanating from it as she placed it on the end of her cloak and bundled it within the cloth.

One of the four, Wynn thought. She felt a twinge of excitement. The talking-glass. I’m actually holding the talking glass!

She looked back up at Brume, who started scouring around the pedestal.

I have to find the others, she thought. If she could just slip out, maybe the glass’s disappearance would keep him distracted. Just long enough for us to fight back with the plan.

She slowly shuffled back into the darkness as Brume ranted to himself.

“You can’t be serious, it fell right here,” he snapped, and raised a hand to his head. “Why does such misfortune befall me with such frequency? Such unfortunate turns for a very ambitious fellow like—”

Wynn tripped. As her paw skidded against a smooth stone, the glass went flying, leaving a plume of dust as it plopped onto the ground.

Wynn froze as Brume’s eyes landed on her, then shifted to the glass, only to shift back on her.

“You!” he cried in disbelief.

Wynn dashed over to the glass, scooping it up in her cloak, and raced for the steps.

Brume peeled his lips back in a snarl. “You wretched thief!”

Wynn huffed as she darted up the steps. As she neared the top, the shadows around her began to bend and swirl.

“You cannot escape me!” bellowed Brume from below.

In front of her, spikes rose from the shadow. She tied her cloak around the glass and ran on all paws. She leapt over the shadow, mimicking the image of the swirl-ear above the doorway, and cleared the spikes. She turned and dashed through the doorway and down the corridor.

Wynn felt a sting in her left ear as a wisp of magic fly flew past her head. She rocketed out the building and down the streets of the village.

Hembeard’s Statue! Wynn thought as she ran. If I can just get to the others!

She glanced up at the sky, where the sun sat groggily behind the clouds.

It was a bit early, but perhaps they were at least making their way back.

“Wynn!” Brume roared.

Wynn nearly tripped hearing her name come out of the lark’s mouth. She glanced over her shoulder to see the caster emerge from the building. Glowering at her, and with a flap of his large leather wings, he was in the sky.

“You and all your wretched kin will suffer greatly for this!” he growled.

Wynn turned a street corner and bolted through a thin alleyway and across the street. She zig-zagged past crumbling shops, looped past lampposts, and skittered over a fallen bridge. Her heart thudded as the caster continued to pursue her.

Wynn loudly pleaded in her thoughts, on the off chance the thoughts would somehow make it to the others.

Please! she thought as her paws flew across a paved street. Please, please be at the statue!