Shroud of Four Silences - Chapter 7: Stone Ring Pond

We’re not really going to steal from Worliwynn, are we?” Eleukas whispered as they headed toward Stone Ring Pond.

“Of course not,” Wendlyn said. The kindly gnome druid was revered in Otari for her wisdom and her practical advice on stewarding the fish and trees that produced the town’s wealth. Upsetting Worliwynn would be a surefire way of turning the entire town against them, and she was mildly insulted that Eleukas thought so little of her that he even had to ask.

“Stealing from Worliwynn would be a terrible idea,” she told Eleukas, “but going to Stone Ring isn’t. These ‘foul ones’ and Fangsparks seem to have been more active in the forest than they have been in town, so Worliwynn might have a better sense of what they’re up to.”

Eleukas nodded, and they continued through the wood in a more companionable silence. Ahead of them, Lisavet and the goblin were discussing something in animated tones. Wendlyn couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but it sounded friendly.

She was glad for that. She still wasn’t entirely sure they could trust Gristleburst, but she wanted to. The goblin had saved their lives, and he’d been decent company on the journey back to Otari. And if being the sole survivor of the Gullcracker tribe didn’t give him a solid reason to want vengeance against the “foul ones” who’d murdered his kin, Wendlyn couldn’t imagine what would.

Assuming that story was true. And that was what unmoored her, almost more than anything else they’d seen or fought so far: that what she took to be real and knowable might not be, and that she might not be able to tell.

Rats too smart to be rats, ghosts that weren’t ghosts, the lurking possibility that any of her friends and neighbors in Otari might be complicit in the strange plot they’d begun to unravel… given all that they’d witnessed so far, how could Wendlyn be certain that Gristleburst really was a lone survivor, and not an agent planted by the same “foul ones” who’d murdered the rest of the Gullcrackers? Maybe he wasn’t a Gullcracker at all. Maybe he was an enemy from some rival tribe.

Maybe, maybe.

But she had to trust the goblin. She had to. In its own way, that felt like fighting back. You won’t separate us from allies that easily.

Ahead, the trees parted. The circled monoliths of Stone Ring Pond came into view. Twenty-four standing stones, each of them twelve feet high, circled the mirror-bright pond to create one of Otari’s best-known landmarks. An aura of contemplative serenity suffused the cool, leaf-scented air, and a quiet that spoke of deep peace. Even the birds softened their songs around Stone Ring Pond, as if they too felt a sense of reverence around the sacred pool.

“Let’s think about what we want to ask the–” Wendlyn started to say, when something grabbed her by the ankle and flung her up into the air.

It was a snare. There was a game snare wrapped around her foot, holding her high above the ground from a tree branch. Wendlyn twisted around, grabbing the rope with one hand and reaching for her boot knife to cut herself free with the other. It was only hemp. She’d be free in seconds.

Just as the knife bit in, something huge and brown lurched out of the brush beneath her. A bear—the biggest bear Wendlyn had ever seen—charged at the others, roaring so loudly that its reverberations almost shook the knife from Wendlyn’s hand. It swatted Eleukas to the ground with one enormous paw, pinned Lisavet with the other, and let out a second ferocious roar that made Gristleburst drop his string of bombs, which he’d halfway fumbled out, straight back into his pants.

Eleukas got back to his feet, spitting leaves, and pulled Viserath from its sling. He readied the acid-hazed axe, looking for a clear opening. Gristleburst yanked the bombs out again, flicking an odd dragon-headed stick with his other hand. A flame appeared in the dragon’s maw, and he tipped it toward a bomb’s fuse.

“No!” Wendlyn yelled, spinning slowly as she dangled from the tree. “Don’t attack! It doesn’t want to hurt us!”

“Funny way of not hurting someone, smacking them senseless,” Eleukas groused, but he checked his swing and dropped into a guard stance instead. Gristleburst kept the flame ready in his hand, but moved the fuse away. The bear grunted and withdrew its paw from Lisavet, backing up a few steps but keeping a wary eye on them all.

Wendlyn finished sawing through the rope and tumbled to the ground, landing in a smooth crouch. She tugged the loosened knot off her ankle and kicked the snare free.

“It’s a guardian. It doesn’t want to hurt us. It just wants to be sure we’re not here to–” She stopped. To do what?

“To taint the magic of the pond,” said a calm voice from the trees. The bear relaxed immediately and shuffled away from them, toward a gray-robed gnome woman who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. “Yes. You are correct, young Wendlyn. Torhan here did not wish to hurt you. But we have strange enemies these days, enemies who can disguise themselves behind false faces, and we must be careful.”

“We share those enemies, I think,” Wendlyn said. She gestured urgently to Gristleburst, who reluctantly put his dragon stick away. Eleukas had already sheathed his axe. “We were hoping you might be able to help us.”

As quickly as she could, trying not to omit any pertinent details, she sketched out what they’d seen over the past few days: the murdered stranger near Giant’s Wheel, the poisoned rats and faceless monster in the woods, the book theft from the Dawnflower Library, the sad story of the drunkard Osgrath and his “haunting” by a false ghost that tried to frame him for murder.

When she got to the fate of the Gullcracker goblins, she paused and let Gristleburst take up the tale. The goblin recounted how the “foul ones” had murdered his kin and reanimated them as zombies, and how he had finally managed to destroy the last of them with his new companions’ help.

When they had finished their story, Worliwynn looked grave, but also quietly relieved, as if hearing the worst had, at least, confirmed that the problem was as serious as she’d imagined.

“The dead man’s name was Elgrin,” the druid told them, “and it was he who stole the books from the Dawnflower Library. He did so at my behest, for they were too dangerous to leave in Otari. I dared not ask Vandy for them. I am sure she would have given them to us willingly, had I explained what they were, but then she would have known their true location and their importance—as might you, young Lisavet, or some of your fellow acolytes—and that knowledge would have put her, and you, in danger.

“Instead, I asked Elgrin to steal them, reasoning that the secret would be safer if only the two of us shared it. Evidently it was not safe enough. Before he could hide the books as we had agreed, he was murdered, and they were taken from him.”

“Why?” Lisavet asked, at the same time that Wendlyn said: “Who took them?”

“Our faceless enemies,” Worliwynn said, looking gravely from one woman to the other, “because in those books is an old, old secret from the days of Otari’s first founding, when the heroes of the Roseguard settled here and built the beginnings of our town. Some of the legends from their day are well known. Others are less so, and survive only as myths and superstitions. Distorted, half forgotten, yet still dangerous.

“One of those superstitions concerns Inkboil Spring, which lies two days to the north, deep in the Fangspark kobolds’ territory. Its steaming waters are bitter and black as ink, and stain the tongues and veins of anyone who drinks from them. Some say the waters are poisoned by an ancient dragon’s venom, while others claim it is the curse of a vengeful fey. Neither of these tales is true. What is true is that something foul and forgotten lies deep beneath Inkboil Spring, and its influence is what taints the water.

“I do not know what lies hidden beneath the black spring. I do know it is not of the natural world, and that it is unholy. It was locked away by the heroes of another age, as recounted in the books that Elgrin’s murderer stole. Beyond that, its nature is wrapped in a shroud of secrecy that none of my spells can pierce. But in those books were riddles and diagrams that I believe would have informed the right reader—one who was versed in their allusions and cryptic codes—of how to unlock the heroes’ wards and reach the secret buried under Inkboil Spring. And that is what Elgrin was killed for.”

“How do you know that’s the one they’re after?” Wendlyn asked skeptically. She rubbed her ankle where the rope had chafed her, still smarting at how easily she’d been caught. “There must have been plenty of other places mentioned in those books.”

“Yes,” Worliwynn agreed, “but Inkboil Spring is where the Fangsparks and their cowled masters have gathered. The birds in the sky have seen them, and the small creatures of branch and brush. I dare not send any larger spies, but what I have seen already leaves little doubt. What they seek lies beneath Inkboil Spring.”

“And you have no idea what that is.” Wendlyn straightened, pulling the slouchy top of her boot back into place. Her ankle was still sore, but she didn’t think it was injured badly enough to slow her down. “Other than that it’s unnatural and unholy.”

“No. If you find the books, and the key to understanding them, you may find that answer. But I do not have it.” Worliwynn sighed, and the great brown bear came close to snuffle reassuringly at the gnome’s shoulders and the back of her head. She patted the beast affectionately. “I am sorry for our misunderstanding today, with Torhan and the snare. He wishes you to know that he is sorry, too. We both wish you well. If there is anything we can do to help…”

Gristleburst blinked at the druid and her bear through his soot-streaked goggles. “Gristleburst wants rocks and stinky roots for blastings and brewings.”

Worliwynn’s mouth quirked toward a smile. “Yes, we will be glad to help you with ‘blastings and brewings.’ And anything else you might need. The Fangsparks are a formidable tribe, and their new allies are worse. If they could kill Elgrin… well, suffice to say, if you intend to confront them, you must be well prepared.”

###

A few hours later, Worliwynn had supplied them with fresh water, preserved food, healing herbs for Lisavet, and a pile of pungent, gnarled roots and glitter-streaked stones for Gristleburst. She had also sketched a birchbark map of the Fangsparks’ territory, noting the tribe’s known trails and hunting grounds. Finally, the druid had given them a stock of healing potions, as well as antidotes for the kobolds’ most commonly used poisons.

They were as ready as they could be, yet Wendlyn felt only trepidation as they walked away from Stone Ring Pond. She and her friends had barely survived the challenges they’d faced so far. Now they were going to confront an entire tribe of kobolds, as well as the mysterious puppet masters behind them.

Did they have a chance? Did they have a choice? Wendlyn wasn’t confident of either. If she’d had any inkling that their investigation would turn out like this, she would never have gotten started, much less pulled Eleukas and Lisavet in.

But they were all in it now, and they were in it because of her. And there was only one way to get them out.

Forward. There was nowhere to go but forward. They’d picked this fight, and now they had to win.