Blademage Adept (The Blademage Saga Book 3) by Chris Hollaway Read Free Book Online Page B

now kerchiefed securely.
    The wagon lurched ahead and rumbled down the roadways the last few miles to the secluded barn.
    Armed dwarves burst from the farmhouse, making sure that the passengers were secured before opening the barn door and lashing an odd-looking contraption into the back of the wagon.
    Bertus stared at the two large stretched hide drums that hung suspended by leather harness, filling almost half of the back of the wagon. Hooded brass lanterns were lit and hung from hooks in the front and rear of the wagon.
    Britger-Stoun fussed with the harnesses of the muscular ponies that led the wagon, and made sure that the reins of the three horses following the wagon were tied at the corners and midpoint of the rear of the conveyance. He drove the team down the ramp and continued on to the rough stone bumps that Bertus had walked upon when he’d followed the last wagon down into the tunnel.
    “All right,” Britger announced. “Untie them.”
    Bertus loosed the knots that had been tied rather forgivingly around Alma’s wrists, and allowed her to release Martin.
    “Where…?” Martin rubbed his eyes and peered back at the ramp that coiled up and around the corner, then ahead to a darkening infinity.
    “Are ye going te gawk, or drum?” Britger growled, handing Martin a pair of age-worn sticks tipped with milky-white spheres. “Slowly, at first, until yer horses get used te it.”
    Martin scowled, rubbing his wrists before accepting the sticks. Testing the drums, he tapped one with a globed end, resulting in a hollow toom .
    One of the ponies snorted, and the wagon lurched ahead and to the side.
    “Steady!” Britger snarled. Martin waited for the horses to calm down.
    “Not them, you!” the driver flicked the tip of a rein that cracked like a whip inches from Martin’s ear. “They don’t understand Common!” A string of curses in his native language spilled forth, and the ponies stamped uneasily. “Drum!”
    Anger at their treatment over the last few hours flared, and Martin swung the drumstick with all his might, and the sound boomed around and through him. He struck the other drum, and the slight variance in pitch rose and twined around the other tone that was just starting to fade.
    “Better!” Britger-Stoun called through the thrumming din. “Now, steady! ”
    Half a dozen beats on each drum, and Martin’s arms were already starting to burn. Before he knew it, the base of the ramp was lost in the darkness behind them, the wind picking up at his back, blowing stray strands of straw past where he pounded on the giant instrument. He leaned against the hay bale behind him, watching the horses galloping along behind in time with the beating drum between them. The tone of the drumbeats evened out as he found the correct rhythm, and a new sound rose below the deep thrum that seemed to shake itself through his entire body. Too scattered to be a whistle, too low to be a squeak, he shook off the image of hundreds of tiny millstones grinding away at nothing.
    The sound ebbed, and the whistling wind tore at the hanging lanterns. The swinging light sources threw odd shadows at the seamless walls and ceilings, but Britger and the stout ponies kept the wagon barreling down the center of the path. The ringing of shod hooves against stone settled into a soothing rhythm that accented the drumbeats. Britger pulled the brake, and the wheels slowed and locked, but the speed they traveled at increased.
    Hours passed, and the burning in Martin’s arms had long since faded to numbness. Each drumbeat struck as true and as firm as the last, as the first. He wondered if he would be able to stop when asked, if he truly controlled his arms at all. The speed they traveled, judging by the wind at his back, was unnatural at best. He dared not slow down, nor waste a breath on trying to shout a question into the wind behind him.
    Bertus sat alongside Britger, peering ahead into the unchanging distance. His eyes watered from the