Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga Regina Watts (e book reader online .TXT) 📖

purse of gold that Grimalkin had not before noticed on the old man’s person. The whole thing so recalled the strange gift of the highly priced armor that I was stunned into silence. Grimalkin saw the eerie feeling reflected in my face.

“Strange, innit?” Shutting the heavy leather parcel and shrugging while affixing it to his belt again, the dwarf went on, “Reckon he thought he owed me for cheating me out of the cost of procuring the Scepter. That, or he was giving me a reward for not trying to take it by force…but, as I always say, the surest way to stay alive is to recognize a losing fight before it’s started.”

My mouth shut in a frown of concern, I offered him his axe. Grimalkin nodded appreciatively and slid it into its holster upon his back as I asked, “And he didn’t tell you anything about what he wanted to do with it?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I asked him plenty enough times, but he never answered…would only say things like, “It’s mine; why should it concern you what I choose to do with my property?””

Scoffing at the ranger’s audacity, I shook my head and said, “He never seemed so unreasonable when we were journeying together.”

“Aye, and that’s why I’m telling you that scepter is bloody cursed. He got it in his hand and changed at once. That, or he had no more need to pretend to be the man he seemed while on our way to the Nightlands.”

Though the latter seemed the more likely scenario to me, I made a mental note to ask Father Fortisto what the powers of the Scepter were purported to be. For now, Grimalkin was getting edgy. Shifting upon his feet, looking regularly toward the door, the dwarf seemed unprepared for me to offer my hand in a shake and delayed somewhat in taking it.

“You were wise to avoid confrontation with Hildolfr…he’s a warrior skilled like few I’ve seen.”

“Like I said…no sense in getting myself killed over a bit of gold.”

“Will you be going back to Rhineland on the airship?”

“Oh aye, next flight out. Was just trying to have a good time before leaving town…we don’t have many elves in the dwarven cities.”

“Their constitutions are too delicate for all the factory smoke, I’m sure…even your poor Cloyenda looked a bit bedraggled just from working in this neighborhood.”

Laughing, Grimalkin made his way past. “Paladin, she’s far from ‘my’ Cloyenda…and at her prices, I don’t think I’d want her to be!”

A CALL FOR RESCUE

HOW LOW MY spirits were as I made my way back to the Mongoose! I ought not to have been, but somehow I was shocked by my conversation with Grimalkin.

Perhaps it was because, when I imagined myself confronting the dwarf, I had always pictured walking away from that confrontation with the Scepter of Weltyr in my hands. I was always like that in those days—prone to anticipating that the hardest task would arrange itself into some easy pattern for me. That perhaps Weltyr would somehow intervene in my work on his behalf and see to it that my accomplishments were natural and smooth.

But, of course, if Weltyr were inclined to intervene in these matters, what need would I have to work on his behalf? I tried to remember that all the way to the inn…just as I tried to remember that I ought not to have expected any grand change of heart in Branwen.

How sad it was to know for certain that she had not returned to the Nightlands out of unselfish concern for me! Instead, she had wound up down there simply because she had no other way to claim and pawn the Scepter.

No, it was not a surprise. She had disappointed me so sharply with her initial betrayal that, even after I and my companions saved her life from the bandits, I was still not able to fully trust her story. Yet I made myself agree to it without deeper inquiry, even if only to keep peace with our new companion while on our way to the surface.

And, in making myself agree to it, my heart forgot the sharp sting she dealt it in the den of the spirit-thieves.

My love for her had renewed itself more swiftly than I ever could have anticipated—and, now that she had spent a week with the durrow while I was in the enchanted arms of Gundrygia, she had become ensconced in our group as naturally as any one of the rest of us. I had to hope that her time staying with the durrow while I was away had truly affected the change I had already believed she experienced. But, in spite of this reminder to hope, I could not help the bitter displeasure that arose in me at the thought of seeing her in our room in the Mongoose.

Lucky for me—for a certain definition of the word ‘luck’—I was soon to find myself and everyone else distracted from the matter.

The Mongoose’s tavern was packed by the time I returned from my errands, workers having vacated their posts and come in for a drink or twelve at the end of the day. Barmaids scurried from table to table and a new man stood behind the bar. Though a mite more pleasant-looking, he still eyed me until I made my way upstairs with the confidence of any inn guest. After finding our room, I tried the knob and found it locked; I knocked on the door and waited. Indra’s lovely face filled the gap that cracked open.

Though I smiled at first, when she looked up at me with uncharacteristic grimness I let the expression fall.

“What is it, Indra?”

“We were just wondering when you would come back…Rorke’s here,” she said, pushing the door wide while looking over her shoulder at someone. “Tell him everything.”

While the door eased open, I stepped within and found myself amazed by what I found—or whom. The Mongoose’s innkeeper stood with a dark expression, his arms crossed over