The Croning Read Online Free PDF

chivvied and threatened the confused man and drove him from the castle sans mules, supplies, or payment for the tobacco he’d handed the Count and daughters. They fled across the forsaken landscape. Eventually the Peddler shook free of his stupor and joined in casting fearful backward glances for signs of pursuit.
    Upon reaching the outskirts of the village they composed themselves and repaired to the Spy’s quarters at the inn. Safely ensconced, they shared a flask of wine the Spy had previously stashed in a cupboard and were soon three sheets to the wind.
    Darkness engulfed the village. The men, shaking with cold and nerves, huddled around a candle. The Spy, numb from the horrors he’d witnessed and the knowledge he’d failed his sweet sister, grasped the Peddler’s shoulder and confessed why he’d journeyed to the valley.
    The Peddler finally said in a besotted slur, “Wait, wait. Not a traveling soldier or sell sword? The Queen’s own spy… Are you by chance the son of a miller?”
    Having difficulty lifting his head or speaking in complete sentences, the Spy grunted that this was indeed the case.
    “By the gods,” the Peddler said, his eyes as large and round as tea saucers. He told a story then of how once, as a young, green trader upon his first visit to the valley he’d gotten lost in the mountains during a thunderstorm and taken shelter in a cave. The Dwarf was drawn to the cheery blaze of the Peddler’s fire and the two spent a long evening smoking from the Dwarf’s hookah and swapping tales as the wind howled and lightning cracked the sky. The Dwarf claimed to be a hermit who subsisted by trapping and gathering herbs and that he dwelt in several caves and huts scattered throughout the area.
    An exceedingly odd thing disquieted the Peddler. Perhaps his senses were distorted by whatever powerful herb was percolating in the hookah barrel; nonetheless, he’d received a fright when at one point it appeared the Dwarf’s face was melting. Right before the Peddler collapsed unconscious, the Dwarf lifted the man’s chin with a razor-sharp fingernail and told him to relay a message to the son of the miller when they met one day. The message was, There are frightful things, Groom. Time is a ring. My name won’t save you or your sister. We who crawl in the dark love you .
    The Peddler paused, lost in memory. His eyes cleared and he said, “I was alone come dawn. The storm yet raged, so I hunkered in that cave for three days and three nights. There was another chamber farther in back. I realized the Dwarf had dwelt there long ago by the rotted bedding and clothes, a few mugs and tarnished bits of silverware. The rest was dust, cobwebs, and bat shit. Or so I thought until I found a bundle of clay tablets beneath a loose stone. These comprised essays and a journal by a self-styled naturalist who’d been driven from his community. The charges against him included child murder and witchcraft and trafficking in black magic, all of which he adamantly denied in his notes. The people feared him because of his small stature, his misshapen bones, and claimed he was son to a warlock. I couldn’t follow his words completely, for the language is difficult and the account had been carved before our grandfathers were even born. The gist of his latter entries was that he made friends with visitors from another kingdom or tribe who visited him from their own caves that lay deeper in the mountain. These men knew wickedness as a potter knows a wheel and over time they corrupted the Dwarf, swayed him to their cause. You say the Queen struck a bargain with this fiend and seeks his identity? That makes sense as a True Name is a token of power. Well, I beheld it all those years ago. His signature was engraved in the old tongue in the clay. I will not say it, for it must be one of the many names of the Prince of Darkness.” He brought forth quill and parchment and scrawled with a shaking hand the name he’d seen written on the