Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) by Brad Magnarella (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

“Lots of stories about this guy,” he barked.

“Crusspatch? Any of them reliable?”

“About as much as a story that gets passed around dozens of times can be, I guess. According to one, a group of orcs set up camp on the edge of these very woods. Next thing they knew, Crusspatch had joined them at the campfire. Just humming a tune, like the orcs weren’t even there. And he had a big chunk of something on a skewer that he was rotating back and forth over the flames.” Bree-yark peered at me over a shoulder. “Turned out it was their captain’s severed foot.”

“Really,” I said dryly.

“The rest of the orcs attacked, but fire balls leapt from the blaze and bored holes through their chests. Dropped them all ’cept one, a young orc who’d stayed back. He said Crusspatch never even turned his head. In fact, he was still staring at the sizzling foot when he said, ‘You’re welcome to the heel, but the toes are mine, mine, mine.’”

“Well, it’s like you said, time and the number of tellings tend to inflate these stories out of all proportion.”

“Yeah, but there’s always a seed of truth.”

“Then maybe we should be keeping our eyes open instead of telling tales.”

I didn’t mean for it to come out harsh, but the Kinloch Forest had put me on edge. And the threat of a banshee or Grumus paled in comparison to that of a full-blooded fae lord. Especially one off his rocker.

“Sorry,” Bree-yark said. “Just wanted to prepare you.”

“No, it’s me,” I sighed. “I’m still coming down from the forest.” I planned to leave it there, but I needed to get something off my chest. “I’m also feeling the pressure of Crusspatch being my last good shot. So if he’s going to be crazy, I need it to be the pleasantly confused kind and not the eating-roasted-orc-toes kind.”

“I hear ya,” Bree-yark said. “It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

Though he was just saying it to pacify me, I found his words, spoken in his thick goblin voice, strangely comforting.

As we entered the trees, I began to think tactically. Was the better strategy to sneak up on Crusspatch’s dwelling, or alert him to our presence way out here? Deciding the second hadn’t done much for the orcs, I took the lead, wizard’s senses on high alert.

I didn’t pick up anything resembling defensive energies, but ornaments began to appear. They swung from branches on long threads: sparkling baubles and little figurines. The deeper into the trees we went, the more ornaments materialized until they were everywhere. They spoke to Crusspatch’s oddness at the very least. Bree-yark squinted up at a wooden girl, Dropsy’s light glinting from a single crystal eye.

“Don’t touch it,” I whispered.

“Don’t worry. I like my feet attached to my ankles.”

Soon, a small cottage appeared through the trees. With narrow walls and a sloping, moss-covered roof, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. Bree-yark and I crept to the edge of a small yard. A cobblestone path led to the front door. No lights shone from the windows, but it wasn’t fully dark out yet. Thin curls of smoke issued from a stone chimney, suggesting someone was home—or had been very recently.

“What should we do?” Bree-yark whispered.

“I think it’s time we announced ourselves.”

He peered around nervously. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“If he’s as powerful as everyone says, there’s a good chance he already knows we’re here.” After all, not sensing any wards didn’t mean there weren’t any. They could have been beyond my abilities.

“Hope he’s not preparing the skewers,” Bree-yark murmured.

I tuned into my magic to be sure of my decision. It wasn’t nodding, but it wasn’t shaking its head either. Pulling Bree-yark up beside me, I uttered the Word for protection. The air around us hardened into a shield.

“Crusspatch?” I called. “I’m Everson Croft and this is Bree-yark. A friend of Seay Sherard’s arranged for several of us to meet you. Unfortunately, not all were able to come. We would be honored and humbled if you would deign to grant the two of us an audience.”

I shrugged at Bree-yark—a little flattery never hurt—and then we waited. Around us, night deepened and ornaments tinkled in the breeze. Dropsy’s light shone toward the cottage with what seemed wariness. There was magic at work here, but it was strange and hard to nail down. It seemed to buffer us from the Fae Wilds while at the same time exposing us to something considerably more dangerous.

“Hello?” I called.

When no one responded, Bree-yark looked around. “Now what?”

“Keep watch out here.”

“You’re going to the door?”

I pictured Arnaud in his cell, waiting for me with his legs crossed and that little grin on his lips.

“I have to.”

“I like you, Everson,” Bree-yark said. “Be careful.”

He retreated with Dropsy to a large tree on the verge of the yard. When he whispered something to her, the lantern’s light dimmed, and they blended into the growing darkness. I scanned the cottage’s front porch. No protections.

Swallowing, I drew my amulet and crept up the cobblestone path. The front door was slender, its frame canted to one side as if its designer was either whimsical or careless. But still no signs of wards or defenses, even up close.

“Hello?” I tried again. “Crusspatch?”

When no one answered, I winced and rapped the door with my cane. No defensive magic detonated, or even suggested itself. There was simply the plain sound of wood striking wood. With my final rap, the door opened a crack. A smell of smoke seeped out, and beneath it, something less pleasant.

I pushed the door open wider until I was looking into a one-room cottage. A kitchen crowded with hanging pots competed for space with an oversized bed and a chair-crammed wooden table. Pegged shelves stood from the walls, holding books and an assortment of odds and ends. From a stone hearth, a pile of embers illuminated a single chair on a round rug