Dormarion: Book 4 of Tinder & Flint

By Matthew Hinsley and Billy Garretsen

"Hinsley packs this installment with intriguing characters and subplots. He nevertheless deftly concentrates on the series’ heroes as well as others returning from preceding books. The narrative moves quickly through its abundant subplots, from one starring a villain and his newfound “pet monster” to periodic flashbacks featuring a strange character whose relevance isn’t clear until late in the novel. Most of these storylines connect at the end and spawn another memorable cliffhanger. The author’s prose continually shines: “Night bathed the canyon in bluish black. The fall evening was chilly and clear, and…the first stars winked down.” Likewise, Garretsen’s stunning artwork provides a shadowy, surreal quality to images such as a man in chains and a figure reflected in a candle’s flame. An otherworldly, briskly paced installment in a consistently exhilarating series."
- KIRKUS Reviews

Meriden is no more. X'andria has disappeared. Geoffrey is imprisoned in the Rockmoor Sewer. Boudreaux, Arden, Ohlen, Ruprecht, and Gnome must figure out what to do next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781329728363

Book preview

Chapter Two SEWAGE

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Rage boiled deep within Leopold. He dove again and again at the mysterious white-hot golden cage encircling and protecting the hairless misshapen prisoner who cowered on the sewer’s stone landing before him.

The pathetic creature had weakened and crumbled like a traumatized child upon Leopold’s arrival at the meager Westwood lodging several nights earlier. Of course he had. He knows of what I am made, he has tasted it, thought Leopold proudly.

Leopold had grasped the prone man’s ankle—which sizzled and froze—and hauled him swiftly here, to the subterranean bowels of the city. These deep walls were steeped in The Gaoler’s might, the bricks themselves had called out to Leopold. The Book had been here, as had Leopold’s Eyes ever so briefly. Here the servant boy Elias had even carved and fed an effigy of The Gaoler himself, before the enemies—the thief bastards—murdered Elias the servant boy, destroyed the glorious effigy, and then fled carrying Leopold’s property with them.

And now, through some infuriating sorcery, this sniveling prisoner could not be touched.

Leopold dove again. The impenetrable golden light-cage was searing hot. He was repelled backward out of control and clattered on the stone like a heap of bones. It took him a moment to rise back up into the air.

Impossible! Leopold thought wildly. I am weakening!

Weak was for other beings. Weak was a distant echo of a far-off memory from another life. Weak was a cruel taunt from somewhere deep in his consciousness, from his master The Gaoler.

Leopold had left the whimpering prisoner only briefly after depositing him on the stone by the slow-moving river of waste. Upon returning this garish golden light was emitting from hasty runic scratches in the grime. And through the cage, within the prisoner’s eyes, Leopold had seen another. An enemy. A thief.

Leopold drifted cautiously back over to the bright-gold dome. He brought his empty eye sockets within inches of the maddening light, and allowed his cold hatred to ripple out and test the pulsating gold. Inside the browless man cast his eyes down to avoid the hateful glare, and clutched his freeze-blackened ankle like it was a child.

I will find the other, Leopold promised in a hiss of ancient sounds. I will retrieve my property. Then I will come find you, and I will destroy all that remains. You cannot hide in your little cage forever.

And with that, Leopold’s black shadow sped from the Rockmoor sewer like a giant bat made of smoke, bones, and cruelty.

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The morning after their return home Zordim seemed to have found her voice, and with it she pressed her mother, Zarina, for all manner of comforts from food to games to excursions. What she really wanted, of course, was her father, Mordimer. But that would never again be.

Zordim’s younger sister, Mara, said not a word.

Zarina kept busy tidying and fussing over the girls. She staunchly refused to allow them to venture out, but acquiesced to a fishing game of matching polished stones called Under The Sea, that her husband had once brought back from a trading vessel as a gift for the girls. The stones rolled and clicked as Zordim matched her collection. Mara sat staring despondently into space, and Zarina played mechanically, thankful for the distraction.

Waif hovered awkwardly in those first hours, not sure how to fit himself into the broken family. The family had been away for weeks—since they had been abducted in the dead of night and hauled down to the dreaded sewer-cell—so all the fruit and bread had spoiled. Waif was grateful when Zarina, having scrubbed the last of the grayish mold from their thick wooden dining table, turned to him and said, Waif, would you please go out and find us something to eat? I think the girls are hungry, and you must be hungry too.

Even with just one arm remaining, going and getting things was a task at which the young rogue Waif was especially adept. With pleasure, he had said, bowing slightly. It seemed an odd thing to say given the circumstances, but Zarina had smiled before he turned and stole away, and her look had been enough to warm Waif’s tired and tormented heart.

But WHY can’t we go to the docks today? Zordim pressed in the middle of the fifth day, her small doll-face blotchy, her eyes like heavy clouds ready to burst.

Zordim, look at me my love, Zarina cupped her older daughter’s cheeks in her strong worn hands, hands that were scarred from days of futile scratching and pounding on cold stone. Someday we’ll be able to go back to the docks again, or any place you want. But right now, Zarina sighed, looked at the floor, and then back into Zordim’s puffy eyes. Right now we have to be really, really careful, alright? Because the bad people that took Daddy from us, are still out there, and I don’t know where they are, or what they want right now.

Zordim’s defiance softened in her mother’s care. Mara began to cry.

An hour later, tearing hunks of bread from a loaf Waif nicked at a morning market, Zarina piped up with new resolve. We begin today, Waif.

Waif looked up, mid-chew.

I want to go back down there, Zarina continued firmly. Do you know how to find the secret stair into the sewer?

Waif put down his piece of bread and nodded slowly, warily.

Excellent, we’ll go now. Zarina stood abruptly and began gathering provisions—a candle, a large kitchen knife. Zordim, you will take care of your sister. Do not leave, and do not open the door for anyone for any reason. If someone comes, you two hide under the bed, understand?

Yes mom, Zordim mumbled. She was sitting a little taller.

Zarina walked briskly through the narrow twisting cobblestone streets of Watertown, and into the muddy mottled pathways of the Grotto. Waif struggled to keep up.

I just need to go back, Zarina answered the question Waif was yearning to ask. The whole thing is awash in my memory, Waif, and I need to see the evidence with fresh eyes.

Waif kept pace, listening numbly.

Because if we’re going to convince others to join us, we need to know the truth. And besides, who knows if we’ll find something important? I don’t know where else to begin.

Zarina remembered roughly where they had emerged into the driving rain several weeks earlier, but the whole ordeal was a blur. Waif had been totally unconscious that evening—disease wracked his body through the rat bite in his now-missing left arm. But he had a way of knowing the location of things through his connections in The Thieves’ Den, and so he took the lead as they approached the dank alley with the heavy oak door concealing dark, twisting stairs and a foul, creeping odor within.

Zarina shuddered as the smell of her family’s imprisonment came flooding back to her senses. But her determination mastered her trepidation quickly. She lit her candle, placed a hand in front of the flame as a shield, and advanced downward with sure steps.

The candle was insufficient for one person to really see, let alone two. The meager, flickering light gave hints here and there of uneven steps, of dark patchy slime or lichen creeping across what might once have been light gray or even white stone. Zarina had to stop and turn frequently to allow Waif a chance to catch up.

It grew cold quickly—colder than either of them remembered. And it was exceptionally quiet. Each step and scuff echoed brazenly against the hard, long-forgotten stone.

Is someone else here? Waif’s sharp ears detected an echoing swish that seemed out of time with their movements. Wait Zarina, he hissed, heart-rate rising.

They hovered mid-step for a long moment, candle flickering between their taut faces, ears straining for evidence of another.

Nothing.

After another minute of careful stepping and tense breathing they arrived at the narrow path beside the slow-moving river of sewage. It was easier going here, without the stairs, but Waif felt himself trembling with the hideous memory of countless rats emerging from drippy holes in the walls—like the one that had latched onto his left arm just above the wrist.

There were no rats this time, though. With the heroes’ victory over the dark scourge, perhaps the rat infestation bled away? Even so, Waif’s eyes darted nervously to and fro scanning the edges of Zarina’s candlelight for any hint of beady eyes and quivering whiskers. It was so cold. And it still seemed like they were not alone, like another moved here as well, but only as they moved, sound cloaked within sound.

The smell grew worse as they approached the scene of the battle. The sewage mixed with putrefaction. No one had come to clean up any of the corpses. Of course they haven’t, Waif thought, stifling a powerful wave of nausea.

Zarina stopped and scanned the bleak scene. She held her candle high and let its soft light penetrate out over the ruined bodies, sunken with time and gravity into nondescript mounds.

Zarina looked everywhere except the place she knew Mordimer’s body still lay. The evidence before her confirmed everything her addled memory had tucked away and tried to forget from the night of their escape—from the night she lost her husband forever.

She was just about to return to the cells where she and X’andria had been held, when they heard a groan.

What was that? Waif hissed.

I don’t know, Zarina whispered. Stay close. She extracted her kitchen knife and stepped toward the source of the tortured moan.

The shadow pursuing them crept silently along the wall behind.

Zarina’s knifepoint glinted shakily in the candlelight. With no hand to shield the flame, the yellow fire sputtered and splayed sideways with each step. Cold and terrified, Waif felt his chest shudder and constrict as he breathed.

Hello? Zarina called softly into the void. Waif spun around and stared into the blackness behind them, positive this time that he had heard something other than the echo of her voice coming from nearby.

Zarina took another tentative step into the room. The small candle guttered from the motion and nearly went out. When the flame stabilized it threw off just enough light to reveal a decaying carcass lying deflated off to the left.

Someone’s here, Waif whispered.

I know, do you see anything? Zarina whispered back.

No. Waif insisted, his stomach in a knot. "Someone else is here. Following us."

What? Zarina blurted, spinning. Waif ducked instinctively to avoid the blade clutched in her hand. The candle blew out. Darkness engulfed them.

Stay AWAY! Zarina shrieked. You stay AWAY from us! She sliced wildly through the black air. Waif could hear the swishing and stayed low, utterly terrified. He crawled on his hands and knees around to what he assumed was her other side, the floor was sticky and so incredibly cold.

Stay away from us! Waif echoed. But his voice sounded thin and weak, like a child. No sooner had he called out, than he wished he hadn’t.

Another groan, this time louder, issued from across the room. No response came from the pursuer Waif believed was following them.

For a long moment both Zarina and Waif stayed completely still, hearts beating like drums in their ears.

Nothing attacked them. No threatening words were uttered.

Here, came the thick, garbled, moaning voice from across the room. I’m here.

Zarina reached her wax-dripped hand down to find Waif’s shoulder. Stand up Waif, she murmured. We’re going to be alright, I can feel it. She did not sound too sure.

We’re here, she called. Where are you?

But no sooner had she asked, than they both saw, for the first time, a faint golden glowing semi-circle pulsing gently across the space. The soft light grew in intensity, and beckoned them forward.

How did you get here? Zarina asked breathlessly of the distraught man huddled in what they could now see was a circle of pale golden light glowing out of runic scratches on the stones themselves.

Help me, was all Geoffrey could manage, and his hands slipped aside to reveal his blackened and lifeless ankle.

Many agonizing minutes later, Waif and Zarina hauled the decrepit stranger out into the grey of dusk. Above ground, with fresh air, and enough light to see, they took turns helping him along.

And the dark shadow followed them at a distance back into Watertown, back to Zarina’s home where her two precious daughters lay hiding underneath the bed even though no one had come to the door.

Chapter Three RUBY RED

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Jastro’s trading vessel slid smoothly back into the Rockmoor harbor. Don’t stray far, Jastro, the last words of the invisible boy conjurer had not stopped ringing in the pirate-merchant’s ears.

An enthusiastic trader of anything profitable—including Atolian slaves—even Jastro’s limits had been tested by the darkly ambitious boy. One night the boy had paid handsomely for a silly light-bending garment of concealment in a seedy Watertown bar. It was scarcely a month later that the boy had returned, fully invisible, with rat-human fiends at his side, setting things on fire at will. That night he demanded Jastro’s allegiance, several of his prized tattooed sailors from Stark Island, and live Atolians as fodder for some despicable sacrifice.

Deep inside, in a place aggressively stifled with justifications of self-preservation, Jastro wrestled with a tiny kernel of guilt. What choice did I have? He would say to himself when thoughts of his faithful dockhand Mordimer, Mordimer’s wife Zarina, and those two darling girls came bubbling up. He wanted more, and he wouldn’t wait! He was gonna burn my ship right here in the harbor, with me on it!

Jastro was good at making himself feel better.

Whu-now‘ushro? Claw coughed out. Jastro’s two remaining Stark Island hulks had secured his ship to the docks, and the one that could sort-of speak was asking what to do next.

He’ll find us, Claw, Jastro was sure the invisible boy would arrive soon, with his pompous superiority and new outrageous demands.

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The people of Stark Island were not known for their eloquence. It was a hardscrabble existence on the wind-buffeted stony protrusion in the otherwise open sea. A few artisans made hideously ugly pots and plates with jaunty decorations that looked more like accidents than artwork to Jastro. But the rich idiots of Greenlee went crazy for the stuff, and that was enough to keep Stark Island on Jastro’s sea log year after year.

It was Jastro’s fourth visit to the godforsaken island when he happened upon the witch. He was approaching the lee side of the island and several flashes of green light from beneath a long low outcropping caught his attention. Intrigued, he sailed closer, beneath the looming jagged rock ledge. Suddenly three massive tattooed islanders pounced onto his deck out of nowhere.

The tattooed islanders were terrifying. Their ripped bodies erupted giant insect and animal appendages right out of their skin with which they laid waste to Jastro’s stupefied crew. Jastro watched in stricken horror and amazement, offering no resistance, as his deckhands were skewered and severed and tossed overboard into the churning sea.

With its captain subdued, the tattooed islanders morphed back into human form and guided the vessel to a secret mooring beneath the rocky ledge. Soon after, Jastro was introduced to the stooped and wizened witch, Jana. To his great relief it turned out Jastro, ever the trader, was in possession of something Jana very much desired: news from across the sea.

And so their dark, salt-sprayed arrangement was born. Information in exchange for a new set of deckhands. Enhanced, tattooed deckhands.

Jastro had no real understanding of how the witch transformed the Stark Islanders—even though he witnessed the whole ritual several times. She chanted and swayed, she mixed things together in wide clay bowls, she dropped squirming creatures into the mixture—he’d seen scorpions, snakes, and giant spiders. They would writhe and hiss. Their skin would dissolve, long before they stopped their thrashing.

The unpainted islander initiate was always in some kind of trance before the ritual. And he was restrained anyhow—Jastro had only seen men, though he knew women had undergone this as well. Jana used a large bladder, affixed with a long and hard spout. Perhaps the spout was a hollow whale tooth with the tip cut off. The bladder was filled with Jana’s slurry