Chetwin's Space

Gom couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Was it a waking dream, coming upon him as they used to up on Windy Mountain? Out of nowhere, born of some urgent need, to warn him of some danger, or show him something hidden from his normal sight?

The massive gate ground inwards, just wide enough to let men through in single file. A fresh squad moved out smartly, the returning crew went in. The gate groaned shut. The bars screeched back into place. Gom and Wycan were inside.

“We must move out, heal wounds, repair the damage between the lake folk and us. Take chances, offer what we have for mortal folk out here. Share our knowledge, put our gifts at their service.”

“You mean you can hear what someone’s thinking?” Gom didn’t sound so friendly any more.

Gom pulled the stopper and dripped its fulsome contents onto Wycan’s tongue. . . .

In frustration, Wycan reached inside his shirt, pulled out the tag and chain. Cupping the chain in his palm, he pointed to the woman’s clasped hands. Gom stared down in dismay. Whatever Kyr meant, the woman who had held that chain was certainly Leana up in that mountain. Alive—or dead?

Going out the door, he paused. When Wycan was done bathing, there were questions to be asked—and answered. But how? Gom ran to the back of the workshop, fetched out chalk and slate, then ran downstairs.

Wycan was waiting. But what could Gom say? That he now knew to call him Althlafor? . . Leana had scored it through. . . . .Gom turned the tag over. Three words he found there, two together with a single one beneath. Ëalfgren, halfling, the first two words read. Under them, a short and simple name oft-used in the common tongue. Hal.

The helmet pressed against his chest, Wycan eyed Gom over the top of it.

At first glance, he didn’t seem so old, maybe a year or so younger than Wycan, but a second look at those eyes and he was not so sure. Frowning, the youth opened his mouth and let out a series of piercing shrieks. Wycan started, goosebumps popping out all over. Here was the second bird!