Wrought of Iron and Silk, Book One [2014 Watty Award Winner]

Chapter 23 - The End Bringer

Chapter 23 – The End Bringer

Tens of hundreds of tiny grains of rocky debris pelted their faces, shields, mail, and every inch of unprotected flesh. Battered by the gusts, Cecilia, Tin and Asher struggled onward, mounted on ponies. Scarves muffled their faces, but the cloth was no match for the fine dirt, which worked its way through the fabric, clogging their noses and grinding between their teeth.

Tin had taken the lead shortly after leaving Faragard that morning when the city was alive at dawn, the elves busy at their work, the streets bustling with activity. There was a trace of ash and sulfur in the air, and the shadow of the trellqueen's mountain was a dark smudge against the sky to the east where the city backed into the mountain, but the magic kept the world within sheltered and protected. The elves were going about their business as if everything were normal, as if nothing could threaten them.

"Bedeviled wind," cursed Tin. The dwarf tugged at his scarf, pulling it over his nose. His heavy tunic of finely forged mail was worn with pride, despite the trying circumstances. Beneath his helmet, his hair and beard were brown and wiry. He led the party unflinchingly through the scree.

"I never saw a sand-storm below the surface," Cecilia complained, longing for the cool air of the trellwarren.

"The gods knew what they were doing when they sculpted dwarves from rock," Tin said proudly. He then tightened the scarf around his cheeks and stroked his beard. "I'm no friend of magic, but if ever we needed a sorcerer it's now."

Cecilia raised a brow. "Why's that?"

"They would commend the wretched wind to stop."

The ponies that had borne them on their long journey to the trellqueen's mountain snorted and whinnied fractiously, trying to clear their nostrils, but blocking them further with all-pervasive sand. The group was just below the cave Rahl had described to Cecilia just days prior. However, such information proved to come at a price. The group had to endeavor to cross a landscape that consisted of nothing but barren dunes and godforsaken wasteland, a vista so cheerless that they would have preferred to stare at the tangled manes of their ponies or the tips of their boots.

Their journey north from Faragard had taken them through the lush valleys and steep gorges of the mountainous realm; from there they had ridden over gentle plains and shady forests that gave way to fertile fields. The passage up the mountain was the last and most grueling leg of the journey, a swathe of desert forty miles wide, lying at the foot of the mountains like a moat of fine sand. It was almost as though nature wanted to prevent them from reaching the cave.

A final gust swirled toward them; then the gales died unexpectedly. Only five miles separated the company from the comb of rock that ran from east to west.

Asher rode up next to Cecilia, and before she could ask him eagerly if he'd seen something, the elf spoke. "You're not a bad sorcerer yourself," he said, breathing a sigh of relief. He didn't seem especially fond of the world outside his kingdom and this latest foray had persuaded him that one epic journey in a lifetime was more than enough.

His next remark disconcerted her. "Ten elves of High magic on Faragard's Council, and the troll spoke to you and you to it." He looked away for a moment. "Why?"

Cecilia frowned, but didn't turn. "What are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything." His hazel eyes met hers and then their gaze shifted away. "I thought you should be wary." He stared into the distance, gloomy, silent. "Somehow I feel you always keep the most dangerous troubles to yourself. Unless one of us happens to be with you when something occurs, you wouldn't tell us about anything."