The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) by Garrett Robinson (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

below the surface, Mag’s spade struck hard rock. She dug the hole wider until it was big enough for her to stand in, and then she fetched the pickaxe. She made no remarks about the fact that I did not aid her. As when she had carried Sten to his pyre, there was an unspoken agreement that this was something she had to do alone.

Mag attacked the stone, and it shattered before her. Shards of rock flew from each blow, but Mag hardly seemed to notice.

At last she broke through. Beneath the stone were two bundles, wrapped in oiled leather to protect them from the elements. One was long and thin, the other wide and flat. Mag lifted them out and placed them on the ground outside the hole, then climbed out after them. With steady hands and a reverent bearing, she unwrapped them.

A spear, a shield, and a shirt of scale mail came out. Without pausing for even a heartbeat, Mag took them up and began to clean from them any traces of dirt.

I had not seen that spear in years. Sten had made her bury it here. It was part of the promises she had made to him when the two of them wed.

These were not the heirlooms of Mag, tavern owner and brewmaster. These were the arms of Mag, the Uncut Lady, the most feared warrior in the nine lands. These were for a quest where only death waited at the end. But not Mag’s death, I was certain.

I was certain of so much, back then.

Mag had been fierce from the day we met. With any blade in her hand, she was a living weapon. But with that spear and a good shield, she was a walking incarnation of death.

Still I said nothing. I only waited. When she had finished her task, she rose to her feet and donned the mail. She gripped the straps of the shield and hefted the spear, giving it a few experimental thrusts.

As though she needs to practice, I thought. As though she does not remember how it feels in her hands. As though she and the spear are not two parts of a whole.

It was not often that my fear of Mag eclipsed my love of her, but I feared her then, for just a moment.

And then she looked at me. “Time for the horses,” she said.

We walked back to Northwood, Mag now clad in her armor. When we reached the Lee Shore, I fetched my bow, my sword, and my travel pack before meeting Mag in the stables. They had remained largely untouched during the battle, and the masters of several of the horses had perished in the fighting. Mag went to one of them, a large mare of light grey, and began to saddle her. My horse had died in the battle, so I went to one of the other stalls, where a tall roan gelding snorted at me.

“That one has something of a temper,” said Mag.

“Coming from you, that says something,” I replied. But I ignored her warning and fetched a saddle from the wall. The gelding stamped a hoof when I stepped up beside him, but I clicked my tongue at him.

“Easy, fool,” I told him in gentle tones. “If you throw me, I will butcher you for the townspeople to eat.”

He gave me no more trouble as I made him ready to ride, almost as if he understood the words. Mag led the way out of the stable, where we mounted. The gelding shied at once, shaking himself lightly as he felt my weight on his back. But I kept my balance. My family had owned many horses, and I had learned to deal with all sorts of them.

“I am not going anywhere,” I said, as the horse began to calm. “You had best get used to it.”

“Indeed, it is hardly possible to get rid of him,” Mag told the horse. “I have tried.” Our gazes met, and I smiled.

As if it understood her, the gelding settled down, though he gave a disgruntled snort. Mag’s mare nickered, and I was reminded of one of Elsie’s disapproving harrumphs.

“Lead on,” I told Mag.

She guided her horse over next to mine, holding my gaze. “Thank you, Albern,” she said quietly. “For all your many years of friendship, and for your company on this road. It is going to be a long one, and it will grow dark before the end. Yet I would have no one else beside me.”

“Nor I.”

She nodded, and then she nudged her horse. We rode west out of Northwood, breaking into a canter as soon as we passed the western gate.

High above, far too high to hear, a harsh croak sounded as a raven circled and flew towards the mountains.

The raven sped on, far faster than our steeds. It rode the warm currents of air, drifting through the lazy smoke of the last fires in Northwood, fires soon to be extinguished as the people left their homes forever. Before too long, it winged its way over the peaks of the eastern Greatrocks.

In the valley on the other side, a small party of riders waited, clothed in blue and grey. The raven descended towards them in wide, sweeping circles. When it was less than a span above them, one of the riders took notice of it. He was a large man, with shoulders like cornerstones and a thick, bristling beard. His name was Ertu.

The raven landed on the ground before the man, and its eyes glowed. Kaita emerged from its form and stepped forwards. The man handed her the reins of her horse.

“They are coming,” she said.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Ertu. “All this waiting grates upon me.”

Kaita frowned sharply at him as she climbed into the saddle. “You serve at our father’s pleasure.”

“Of course,” said Ertu. “I will always obey him. But I am free to wish I was with the rest of our siblings.”

“So long as it is only a