Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) Page 15

  SORTING THINGS OUT

  Bixby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think Old Trout knows?”

  Cantor shook his head. “No. Neekoh said that Chomountain doesn’t remember who he is.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “And we haven’t seen any evidence that he is constrained in any way. People were kept out, but he willingly stayed here and fished. Taking his memory was sufficient to impede his travels.”

  “I suppose they could have instilled the obsession with fishing.”

  Cantor nodded thoughtfully. “I bet you’re right.”

  “They changed his focus.” Bixby shuddered at how easily they had made sure Chomountain would not be involved in Primen’s business. Of course, the execution of the idea required more expertise than most people possessed. Who was behind this? And who were the people in the graveyard?

  “Do you think that somehow Trout’s responsible for all those graves?”

  “It seems likely he dug them, but not that he slew the people in the graves.”

  “I guess we should ask him.”

  Neekoh approached with a piglet in his arms. “Bixby, he’s injured his foot. Do you have medicine for him?”

  “I suppose so.” She pulled a hamper from her skirts. “Do you know where Trout might be?”

  “Fishing.” He sat on the edge of the porch, holding the piglet securely. His glance traveled past Bixby to the paper Cantor still held. “You’re quite an artist. I didn’t know. When did you sketch Old Trout?”

  Cantor held the picture out for Neekoh to inspect. “It isn’t Trout. Or, rather, it is, but it isn’t.”

  Neekoh’s mouth fell open. “It says Chomountain. Did you find it in the ruins? But the paper doesn’t look as old as the others you brought back.”

  Bixby swabbed the injured hoof, making the little one squirm. “The paper is old, but it was well preserved in a stack of unused art materials. Cantor can feel what a pen has written or drawn before and reproduce it.”

  She smiled at Neekoh’s look of disbelief. “I was astonished as well, but I have read about wizards who could do the same.”

  “Cantor’s not a wizard, is he?” Neekoh shifted the pig in his arms, clutching it tighter against his chest. “I thought he was a realm walker.”

  Bixby studied her friend, who had become engrossed in another drawing. Grinning, she nodded to Neekoh. “He is. But realm walkers come with different talents. I can fashion clothes, wraps, purses, shoes, and other useful things with my fingers. That comes in handy.” She waved a small pot of ointment in front of Neekoh. “Hold piggy closer to me so I can smooth this over the wound.”

  He obliged while Cantor looked from his drawing to the two people beside him. “You could ask me your questions, Neekoh. I’m sitting right here.”

  “You’re busy.”

  “Not that busy.” He picked up a clean sheet of paper and another writing instrument, this time a device holding a sliver of charcoal. His attention riveted, without an ounce left over for Neekoh.

  The piglet squealed another objection to Bixby’s tending of his foot.

  “Oh, stop that,” she said. “The salve doesn’t hurt.”

  Neekoh scratched behind the pig’s ears. “You think Old Trout is Chomountain after all.”

  Bixby pulled out some strips of white material. “Pretty sure he is.”

  Neekoh’s body quivered with excitement. “Then we will be able to free him. I will be the Neekoh who released him.” He hugged the pig, then turned a sincere face to Bixby. “With your help, of course. And Cantor, Dukmee, Bridger, and Jesha.”

  Cantor put aside another completed drawing. “Only Trout won’t leave as long as he doesn’t believe he’s Cho.” He changed writing instruments and selected another sheet of paper.

  The piglet squealed. “Oh, sorry!” Neekoh loosened his grip. “How do we get Trout, I mean Cho, to believe us?”

  “I have a feeling we only need to trigger a memory to break the spell that took his past. Dukmee should be able to help with that.”

  “Where did Dukmee say he was going?”

  “To the ruins.”

  Neekoh thrust out his chin, indicating a new drawing in Cantor’s hand. “What’s that?”

  Bixby neatly tied off the binding and turned to study Cantor’s work. “It looks like vegetation.”

  “Those aren’t like any plants and flowers I’ve ever seen.” Neekoh shifted his gaze to Bixby’s face. “How about you? You’ve been to lots of places besides this mountain.”

  “I don’t recognize them. But I do know this picture was originally drawn by a different artist than the one who drew Chomountain.”

  “How?”

  “A different style.”

  Neekoh nodded as if he understood what she meant. “Cantor sure draws fast. Why aren’t all the pictures in Cantor’s style?”

  Cantor held the picture away from him and stood. “Because it’s not my talent that produces the picture. I’m only a conduit of the original artist, whoever held this charcoal.”

  He put the paper on the porch boards and bent over. With quick, sure movements, he labeled the picture and read the words aloud. “Flora, Lymen Major.”

  Bixby gasped. “Someone from here has been to Lymen Major?”

  “It would appear so.” He displayed the charcoal encased in the convenient holder. “This contraption is practically jumping in my fingers, seeking more pieces of paper.”

  “You’re not upset about that?” asked Bixby.

  Cantor put the pen down and dug a scrap of parchment out of the hamper. “I seem to be getting used to it. Each time is easier than the last.”

  He grinned at her and stood to stretch. When he sat down again, he gestered to the pile of pictures. “I think I can probably spend several more hours working.” He turned to Neekoh. “You’ve been fishing with Trout a lot. Do you think you could find him and bring him back?”

  Neekoh’s lips stretched into a goofy smile. “I think I’ve been to every one of his fishing holes. He’s fun to follow around. He talks all the time. And hums too. I guess both of us have had to make do with little company.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Bixby volunteered. “Unless you want me to stay here, Cantor. I could cook something to go with the fish.”

  Neekoh laughed. “As long as it isn’t more fish. Trout’s meals do get monotonous.”

  Although Bixby could tell his attention had already shifted to his next picture, Cantor laughed too. “Go with Neekoh and help find the old man. Dukmee and Bridger will return and cook.” Cantor picked up a different pen. “I’m actually going to enjoy what these tools will reveal. It’s exciting.”

  Bixby patted him on the arm, an act which he ignored. She rolled her eyes and started off with Neekoh.

  Their first stop was the pigpen and livestock shed. Neekoh put the piglet in a stall rather than in the outside mud hole. He left food and water. As they left the stable, he patted the animals within reach. “I’ll feed the rest of you when we get back.”

  The animals looked attentive to his voice.

  Bixby grinned to herself. The men on this quest continually surprised her. Cantor now wanted to draw. Neekoh had found an affinity for animals. Dukmee preferred research to his healing profession. And humble Old Trout was the most powerful being among the planes, though he didn’t know it.

  “Where do you think he’ll be?” asked Bixby as they followed a path in the shade of the trees.

  “He likes to rotate among his favorite spots. I’ve gone with him enough to be able to guess. Two places are due for another visit.”

  The afternoon sun brought out the fragrant scent of the forest. Green plants and colorful flowers swayed a bit in the breeze. Birds with fancy feathers darted from branch to branch. Plentiful insects provided their afternoon snack and kept up a rattling percussion softly in the background of other natural sounds. All unexciting, normal noises of the forest. But Bixby felt that she would burst with the exhilaration flowin
g through her.

  Extending her hearing out around them, she tried to locate Trout. Keen as she was to find him, she could barely contain her impatience with Neekoh’s vague notion of where the old man might be.

  She gave herself a mental shake. She would get used to this outrageous development. Cheerful, simple Trout being the ancient, wise right hand of Primen tickled her sense of the absurd. But circumstances in the very near future were too severe to allow anything to be taken lightly.

  She reminded herself of the trust that had been placed in her. For too long, the prophecy of three realm walkers thwarting evil and pointing civilization in a different direction had hidden dormant under the tasks of every day. Bringing Chomountain out of retirement would be monumental. Was this what the prophecy predicted? Not if Trout remained in Bright Valley.

  Hopefully, Trout would accept his change of circumstances. With the invasion coming and the guild councilmen perpetrating evil schemes, all the planes needed the personal guidance of Primen. Chomountain had a big job to tackle.

  They had walked several miles when Bixby heard a soft song like a lullaby being sung in Trout’s whispery voice.

  “I hear him,” she told Neekoh. “He’s singing.”

  “Ah, he’s trying to catch a big fish he’s been after for several years. He’s grown to be monstrous compared to the others in the lake. Trout thinks if he sings a croony tune, the fish will be lured into carelessness.” Neekoh tsked. “He’s going to miss fishing.”

  They hurried, not bothering to go quietly among the tangled undergrowth and scurrying creatures.

  When he saw them emerge from the forest, Old Trout abruptly reeled in his line and waded out of the river.

  He scowled as he splashed to the shore. “Won’t catch that old coot with company standing on the banks. When are you and your friends moving on? You’re welcome here, of course. But I’m used to solitude. And you people eat a lot. Don’t mind fishing. Love fishing. But keeping the frying pan full has taken some of the joy. The relaxing part of fishing. The sitting and absorbing the sun, the sounds, the smells. Fishing for four more people, a dragon, and a cat is almost work.”

  Neekoh went to the old man and rested a hand on his arm. “Is something wrong? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Bixby agreed. The old man’s creased face frowned at everything in sight. Usually his bright eyes snapped, and his mouth turned up in a cheerful grin.

  Old Trout shook his head and jerked a shrug. “I feel twitchy, like something’s going to happen. Can’t tell if it’ll be pleasant or not.”

  Bixby took hold of his other arm. “Let’s hope it’s pleasant. Cantor has something to show you. Shall we go back to your cabin?”

  The old man squinted at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Might as well. I’m supposing whatever your Cantor wants to show me is part and parcel of this creepy feeling under my skin.”

  Usually, Old Trout hummed a bit randomly as he walked, and he spoke a few words to critters he passed. Now though, he was silent.

  Questions tumbled in Bixby’s brain. Was Old Trout really Chomountain? Would Chomountain regain his powers along with his memory? Would he regain his memory? After hundreds of years, was he physically, emotionally, spiritually fit to assume the duties of the right hand of Primen?

  She gazed at the back of his scrawny neck as he tromped down the path ahead of her. Had this been a necessary side trip or a colossal waste of time? She’d be happy to turn the whole situation over to Dukmee’s capable hands. Let him tell the old man he wasn’t a fisherman, but the most high priest, the right hand of Primen, the advocate and intercessor between Primen and his people, the chosen arbitrator representing the one and only true and living God.

  SORTING OTHER THINGS OUT

  Dukmee peered over Bridger’s shoulder at the land passing below them. Not one sign of human life. At least those soldiers and others from the Realm Walkers Guild would not interrupt his exploring.

  As he perused the books in the cabin, he’d thought that the secret rooms and hidden library mentioned in the literature referred to those in the mountain. But bits and pieces of odd statements had slowly come together in his thinking. The city was established during the same era as the Library of Lyme. The same scholars worked at both places. They’d divided the wealth of information to keep it safe. If one source fell into the wrong hands, the villains would still need the details from the other site. In order to use the knowledge, both stores of information must be at hand.

  His conclusion: the castle harbored a room of interest, one with Lymen artifacts and eyewitness accounts. Evidence from this location would dovetail with and perhaps expand upon the reports he’d found in the mountain.

  Since his troop of investigators had been sidetracked into this lonely valley, the find of a store of information would do much to justify the loss of time. Now he understood why he’d resisted the inclination to shake the dirt from his shoes and urge everyone out and away. Something in this valley was important, very important.

  The wise men who left it here probably warded it to repel evil, designing men. But perhaps it was also warded to attract followers of Primen. Cantor had been determined to leave, but he’d not made the final push to see his desire fulfilled. He’d probably been influenced by the ward. Dukmee intended to discover this last clue in the mysterious valley.

  The westward wall of the valley rose before them, showing clearly that this side of the mountain was rugged. Sparse vegetation dotted the steep rock inclines. Rock had fallen off in sheets of colorful shale. In the distant past, settlers must have depended on the abrupt cliffs to protect their backs.

  “There’s our destination, Bridger. Circle once to spy out any intruders.”

  “The portal isn’t open.” Bridger huffed over his shoulder. His lungs hadn’t cleared completely of the infection he’d had.

  “And that’s a good sign. Hopefully, we’ll be alone.” Dukmee tapped the scales on Bridger’s neck. “I have a good feeling about this. Land at the far end, close to the broken walls that look like they once enclosed large rooms.”

  “Looks like a tumbled castle to me.” Bridger slowed his speed and started his descent.

  “Exactly! It’s easier to see from up here.”

  As soon as Bridger’s feet hit the ground and he folded his wings against his sides, Dukmee threw his leg over the ridge and slid down the pale bronze scales. He stood so the dragon could look over his shoulder at the book he held open.

  “That’s a history book of a city.” Bridger leaned closer, his chin touching Dukmee’s head. “Is that this city?”

  “Yes, and the whole purpose of this settlement was to offer sanctuary to scholars. One big university. They called it the Whirl of Knowledge. Or just the Whirl.”

  Bridger grunted. “A strange name.”

  “Not when you know its history and the thinking of the founding fathers. They believed that knowledge held power. As information is acquired, it builds momentum. They had left what they called a maelstrom of learning. Those with the most data in their time used it for evil. These pilgrims wished to isolate themselves and use intelligence for good.”

  “Sounds fanciful.”

  “It was. They repudiated the Maelstrom of Madness. They had lots of names for it. Maelstrom of Malice. Maelstrom of Mayhem. Malevolent Maelstrom. They sought to establish a World Whirl of Benevolence.”

  Bridger lifted his head and surveyed the crumbled walls, deserted buildings, and piles of stone rubbish. “Did they succeed?”

  Dukmee closed the book with a snap. “Initially. In the beginning, their premises were centered on Primen’s teachings. Then they became engrossed in saving the world from physical destruction. Their people became frenzied, unfocused, and weak.”

  “Did the outside maelstrom discover their whereabouts and conquer the city?”

  “No. Not as a fighting force.” Dukmee marched to the front opening of the castle. “Strangely, the outsiders came seeking help from the Whirl. A
mutual threat had overcome three of the planes. These grandiose warriors of the Mayhem Maelstrom discovered that their knowledge had no muscle in battle. The methods they had used to develop a ruthless army failed to give them men with fortitude. Without a moral core or commitment to something, they could not withstand a constant conflict against this stronger force.”

  “They had to care about something in order to fight for it.”

  Amazed at how the simple dragon comprehended these philosophical concepts, Dukmee finished his summation. “And it seems the loyalty did not have to be attached to something of real merit, although that helped.”

  “What was this threat? Dragons?” Bridger’s voice picked up enthusiasm. “There are stories of monstrous dragons eons ago.”

  “Not dragons.” Dukmee opened his book once more and walked into the desolate courtyard.

  Bridger followed. “Beasts? Ogres? Massive serpents? Poisonous spiders without number?”

  “No, Bridger.” He looked down at the page and over to the shadowed side of a crumpled wall. “I think the room we seek will be over there.” He strode with purpose and spoke over his shoulder as he went. “They were decimated by Lymen, Bridger. The Lymen we face in a few weeks.”

  The crunch of Bridger’s steps stopped. Dukmee glanced over his shoulder. The dragon stood for a moment, thinking, then continued following Dukmee. “You know,” he said, “that doesn’t sound like good news to me.”

  “I don’t suppose it is. But if we can glean knowledge from this source and rightly combine it with the information we already have, we should be ahead of the invaders in battle.”

  Dukmee concentrated on the dimensions of the rooms, walls, and even the doorways. Some of the drawings in the book lined up with what he could see, but too many variables made it hard to judge.

  “What’s wrong?” Bridger hung at his shoulder again. His hot breath smelled like peppermints.

  Dukmee turned to the side, away from the cloying sweet exhalations of his fellow researcher. But Bridger put a claw on his shoulder and moved him back.

  “It’s a puzzle book, isn’t it?” The dragon took the tome from him. “Imagine one this old. We have them on Effram. I’ve seen them in the markets, and I’ve played with them with the children.”