“A Welf ship!” he gasped.
Though he had never seen one, the Geg recognized the ship instantly from the descriptions given by those who had. Made of dragon skin stretched over wood, with huge wings that kept it soaring in the air, the ship was monstrous in both appearance and size. The magical power of the Welves kept it afloat, carrying them from the heavens to the lowly realm of the Gegs below.
But this ship wasn’t flying or floating. It was lying on the ground, and Limbeck, staring at it nearsightedly through the driving rain, could have sworn-if such a thing were possible for a ship of the immortal Welves-that it was broken. Pieces of sharp wood jutted up at odd angles. The dragon skin was torn and rent, leaving gaping holes.
A bolt of lightning striking quite near him, and the resultant thunder, caused the Geg to remember his danger. Hurriedly he leapt into one of the holes that had been torn in the side of the ship.
A sickening smell made Limbeck gag.
“Ugh.” He grasped his nose with his hand. “It reminds me of the time the rat crawled up the chimney and died. I wonder what’s causing it.”
The storm had settled in; the darkness inside the ship was intense. The lightning strikes were almost continuous, however, providing brief flashes of illuminating light before the ship was once again plunged into pitch-darkness.
The light didn’t help Limbeck much. Nor did his spectacles, when he finally remembered to put them on. The interior of the ship was strange and made no sense to him. He couldn’t tell up from down or what was floor or wall. Objects were scattered about, but he didn’t know what they were or what they did and was reluctant to touch them. He had a fear, in the back of his mind, that if he bothered anything the strange craft might suddenly rise up and fly off with him. And though the thought of such an adventure was somewhat exciting, Limbeck knew that if his father had been mad before, he would positively foam at the mouth to hear that his son had in any way annoyed the Welves.
Limbeck resolved to keep near the doorway, holding his nose, until the storm ended and he could find his way back to Het. But the whys and whats and wherefores that were continually plunging him into trouble in school began buzzing in his brain.
“I wonder what those are,” he muttered, staring at a number of fascinating-looking blurs lying scattered about on the floor just a few feet in front of him.
Cautiously he drew nearer. They didn’t look dangerous. In fact, they looked like . . .
“Books!” said Limbeck in astonishment. “Just like the ones the old clark used to teach me to read.”
Before Limbeck quite knew what was happening, the “why” was propelling him forward.
He was very near the objects and could see, with growing excitement, that they were books, when his foot struck against something that was soft and squishy. Leaning down, gagging at the foul smell, Limbeck waited for another lightning flash to show him the obstacle.
It was, he saw in horror, a bloated and decaying corpse. . . .
“Hey, wake up,” said the copper, poking Limbeck in the side. “Wombe’s the next stop.”
CHAPTER 10
WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
AN ORDINARY FELON ON DREVLIN WOULD HAVE BEEN BROUGHT BEFORE HIS LOCAL Froman for judgment. Petty thefts, drunk-and-disorderlies, the odd brawl-these were considered to fall under the domain of the head of the defendant’s own scrift. A crime against the Kicksey-Winsey, however, was considered high treason and therefore the defendant was required to go before the High Froman.
The High Froman was head of the most important scrift in Drevlin-at least that was how his clan viewed themselves and that was how other Gegs were expected to view them. It was their scrift which was in charge of the Palm-the hallowed altar where, once a month, the Welves descended from the heavens in their powerful winged dragon ships and accepted the homage of the Gegs, given in the form of holy water. In return, the Welves left behind “blessings” before they departed.