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

from too many sides for my bluff to count. A few of the scoundrels snatched the lantern from her hand; still others disarmed Branwen and carried her new crossbow off to parts unknown. They knew better than to even look at the sword in my hands.

While the druid cursed them in the name of Anroa, Gundrygia laughed at a high and glimmering pitch.

“How easy it is when you won’t attack, Burningsoul…they are dear creatures, aren’t they?”

Sweeping the tip of my blade around us to give us some space from the crowd, I let both women press against my back while I told the witch, “They can be, when they act in accordance with Weltyr’s laws and not at the behest of a wild pagan woman. What are you to them? Why should they have any call to serve you?”

Her painted lips contorting into a parody of a pout, Gundrygia leaned toward the gimlet hurrying up with the lantern in his hands. “It’s annoying to see how much a man can forget sometimes…but, then again, you were very upset. I created the gimlets, Burningsoul. Gimlets, and many other things besides…none of which, I found, any being of Weltyr’s would accept as one of their own. Even Valeria there”—who tensed to be addressed by name—“should know the evidence of my handiwork.”

After a steady pause, Valeria looked frankly at her. “The misshapen?”

Her long fingers tickling her servant between his stubby horns, Gundrygia, who had been smiling into the gimlet’s little face, looked shocked by Valeria’s use of the moniker. “What a sick thing to call them! They are beautiful men. Custom-made for your kind, you know…and you threw them away.”

“They proved wickeder than we,” Valeria answered, shuddering at the thought of the spider centaurs. “You must indeed be very ancient, Madame, to have such claims as these.”

“Your line had not yet been established, Rosewallow,” was the witch’s curt response while she took the lantern into her hands. Her eyes danced with a merry light of their own as she adjusted its valve and brought it to life. “Durrow history was not being recorded in full at that time. I speak of a time older than you think. In fact, the durrow had barely settled El’ryh…the first berich dwarves, with whom they were doomed to quarrel, were still excavating the city.”

This was a common story told of the Nightlands—that its originating settlement, the city-state of Valeria’s origin, had been founded with intention for the durrow and berich to rule it in partnership. A failed power grab ended with that tribe of berich dwarves as the first batch of durrow slaves. As these things went, the practice continued…and with slavery grew El’ryh.

Valeria’s expression did not shift.

“Your power is indeed very great to have created whole races with magic alone…and, as the Materna of El’ryh, I can sympathize with your desire to see your people thrive. But we are here on the command of divinity.” Valeria waved between us, adding with a gesture toward Branwen, “Even the druid is a devotee of Anroa, who would not have guided her this far without a purpose to her being here.”

“You certainly are here by the grace of the gods,” agreed Gundrygia, leaning back in her throne with her long legs akimbo. She rested the lantern in her lap, one hand caressing its glass surface in a way my eye simply could not avoid. The gimlet had curled at her feet and now rested its cheek against her knee, where it wagged its tail occasionally amid her words. “Had it been up to me, the paladin would be here alone. How you burn with questions, Rorke…I see all the same old things bursting up in you, and more. So much more. Like the relics.”

Branwen shot me a glance I could practically feel through the back of my head. “Should you even be entertaining conversation with her, Rorke?”

Too late—Gundrygia had snapped my attention with that, and my thirst for information from even a questionable source was irresistible. “What can you tell me about the relics Father Fortisto mentioned? Is that the Lantern of Hamsunt?”

With a long, predatory smile, Gundrygia cradled the lamp to her breast with one hand and used the other to pull her hem up around her knees. She rose without help from the servant who scrambled off and, effortlessly picking her way down from the throne, the gimlet queen said, “Once upon a time, things were different in the world. Future gods were then just menfolk. Weltyr had a different name. All this was even before my time…before the durrow broke ties with the berichs. Before, even, the elves separated from them.”

The high elf and dark one exchanged a glance of some interest. For Branwen, the expression was one of surprise that I happened to catch when I looked over my shoulder at them. By the time I looked back, the witch had reached the foot of her throne and now slunk toward me. A raven cawed in the distance, and the noise caught my attention only due to the late hour.

“There are many treasures in this world…many things that draw their power from the secret threads making up the tapestry of our reality, that same Wyrd net that we embroidered figures might learn to weave by what is called magic. Most such objects are accounted for. Four of particular importance have been lost to the endless chain of mortal fascination, stolen and traded and gambled and killed for. Weltyr made what is now called the Scepter as the manifestation of his purest will; Roserpine’s Ring was crafted to win his love; the Lantern of Hamsunt was said to be Weltyr’s punishment for the very disobedient god; and then, ah…the Casket of Oppenhir. The most important treasure of all.”

“How can that be when you just mentioned the Scepter of Weltyr was crafted by the All-Father himself?”

“Because though the Scepter may be useful, immortality is not foremost among its gifts. And I do mean immortality…true immortality with no