Path of the Traitors

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Getting another apple, the chaos elf pours water from her hand to clean it off. “I certainly don’t like the sound of that last option, so we’ll use the rings. The question is who will wear them. I don’t do well with illusions and artifacts can lock my own powers. Not sure if you having Tyler inside you will be a problem and I doubt Vile can activate them. Though, it would be funny to see him wear one as a belt. That leaves us with Quail and Altia.”

  “We came to the same conclusion and they are currently working on a decision,” Nimby reports, his proper manner making the two women suspicious. Pulling out his yo-yo to nervously do tricks, he does his best to smile. “They’ve become a little heated over this. Quail wants to use them because he says the rings are related to maps. Altia says she should have them because she was the one who guided us to the diary and spent time examining it for clues. We’ve all decided to let them have their own tent until this is done. They don’t get destructive, but the arguing gets really awkward.”

  “How so?”

  “You can tell they used to date and have excellent memories.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, they’re not very good at ending the arguments either.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not.”

  *****

  Quail and Altia remain in distant corners of the tent, the golden rings left on the central table. The pillows that are typically scattered around the floor have been gathered around the two, who only stare each other. Neither of them wants to be the first to speak and break the tension that lingers in the stale air. Their eyes go to the bowl of fruit and steaming pot of coffee that is sitting on the table, their stomachs rumbling in unison. With a proud smile, Altia attempts to get a banana with her whip, but only accomplishes knocking the food over. One of the oranges rolls to Quail’s feet and he eats it without hesitation, which causes the stubborn elf to growl and stick out her tongue. His victory is short-lived when he looks for a napkin to clean his face and hands, the stack of white cloths sitting on the cot next to Altia. Seeing his situation, she holds one over her head and playfully waves it around like a flag.

  Forgetting his own strength, Quail hurls a pillow that knocks Altia onto her back and leaves a smear of orange pulp on her face. She retaliates with a flurry of poorly aimed projectiles that knock over cups and nearly hit the coffee pot. By the time, she hits the chaos elf in the chest, she has run out of pillows and is left exposed for retaliation. Quail proves to be a better shot with his attacks missing only if Altia dodges or uses a frying pan to bat them away. Tripping on a bunch of grapes, the young woman falls hard on her rear and cringes at the feel of something squishing beneath her. Reaching down, she shudders at the touch of mushed banana and carefully stands up. Looking at Quail to call for a time out, the elf takes a pillow to the face and stumbles back against the tent.

  “My toes are covered in crushed grapes, orange juice is in my eye, and I have banana mush stuck to my pants,” Altia says as she drops the frying pan. Grabbing a handful of napkins, she does her best to clean her bare feet and dabs a clean corner in water to press against her bloodshot eye. “Don’t even think this means you win. Pillow fights are a ridiculous way to settle such an important decision. Feel like a fool for even suggesting it. Turn around because I need to put on a new pair of pants and we don’t have that kind of relationship right now.”

  “But you watched me change earlier,” Quail points out while he does as he is told. Spotting a mirror, he walks over to put it face down in case she thinks he is peeking. “Are we sure only one of us can use the rings? The instructions weren’t really clear. Sounded to me like they were written for someone traveling alone. I vote that we stop fighting and see how it works when we get there.”

  “Voting ended with the arm wrestling match that knocked over a pot of coffee,” the elf replies, her rear sticking out from under the bed. Pulling out a backpack, she rummages for her last clean pair of pants and grabs her nicest smelling shirt as well. “Tzefira said it will be one more day before we reach Ashkeep. The two of us need to clean our clothes. Not sure how you’re doing, but I smell like an orc’s suit of armor after marching through a desert. Really hope we can take a bath too. Not together or . . . why are we doing this silly dance? Do you want to be a couple again?”

  “You can’t just go back to the way things were.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I might not want to.”

  “The kiss yesterday says differently.”

  “Yeah, but you could have asked nicer.”

  With a sigh, Altia puts on her shirt and frees her hair from the rough collar. She grabs the nearest cup and fills it with coffee before bringing it across the tent as a peace offering. Taking a seat next to Quail, she stares at the rings that are surrounded by apples and pears. Both of them have tried the relics on, but there have been no signs of magic beyond a comforting warmth against their skin. The only difference between them are the symbols inside the band, which are of a hammer, a turtle, and a dragon. None of the rings have revealed the secret behind their name, which is another source of their childish squabbling. The thought of failing when they are so close to the portrait and possibly the crests is infuriating. With every passing hour, their anxiety has increased and their tempers have become incredibly short.

  “Why are you so determined to help?” Altia asks, accepting a cup of coffee from her companion. She smirks at the two melting sugar cubes, the elf happy that he remembers how she likes all of her drinks. “I’m here because Ambrosine wants me to help and Trinity’s goals are similar to my own. You aren’t a warrior and haven’t lived on Shayd since you were two. Don’t get me wrong and I do apologize for being rude. My point is that you’re one of the lucky ones who created a good life in the light and you’re risking it. Why is that?”

  “Because I want others to have the same opportunities I did,” Quail answers after a few seconds of thought. Sitting on a stool, the mapper takes out one of his tools and fiddles with the settings. “There is a selfish reason too. As you said, I haven’t stepped foot on Shayd since I was a child. I have no memory of my birthplace and very little connection to the culture. If the Baron falls then I can go home and learn all the lessons that were denied to me. Perhaps I can teach others about the rest of Windemere too. Maps are a priceless tool when it comes to teaching and that’s my specialty.”

  Altia leans over to kiss the chaos elf’s knee, her nose wrinkling at the sweaty smell of his clothing. “In that case, you can use the rings. This journey is more important to you. Besides, I’m not a chaos elf, so I don’t have a right to this job. My place is by your side and to give support without taking over. Ambrosine wants the chaos elves to earn their freedom and I feel that should be done by their own hand. I’m merely here to be your guide and guardian. Do you think I can go with you to Shayd when the Baron is gone?”

  “As long as you don’t anger Queen Trinity and get exiled before we reach Ashkeep.”

  The couple share a laugh and inch closer before attempting to kiss, but the smell of their clothes forces them apart. Eyes watering and noses twitching, they mutter curses and return to the table. Within a few minutes, they are focused on uncovering the secrets of the Illusion Rings instead of the palpable tension in the room.

  *****

  “I swear that I will lead all of you to victory and glory!” General Vile shouts as he stands atop the animal cart. Letting his echoing words linger, he looks out over the mercenaries and sees nothing more than blank expressions. “All of you are highly skilled and deserving of the wealth that comes with conquest. Tzefira keeps you fed and comfortable, but she does not let you rise higher than you are now. I see nothing more than soldiers who will never be remembered or worshipped for their deeds. Before I became trapped in this body, I was a great warrior who earned his reputation on the battlefield. People still know my name, which is an honor that none of you can claim. You are merely known as Tzefira’s army, the Salamanders,
or the servants of the Mercenary Queen. Is that what you want your legacy to be? Is this simple and pathetic lifestyle what you truly want? Help me take the leadership of this army and I will bring money and power to every man and woman here. Together we can conquer lands and be feared throughout all of Windemere. Once I find a way to get a new body, we will become even more dangerous and-”

  Unable to take the speech any longer, all of the mercenaries break out into laughter and begin throwing the remains of their dinner at the toy. Dodging apple cores and turkey bones, Vile scurries off the animal cart and dives behind the wheel. Humiliated and enraged, the figurine violently kicks at one of the spokes until his foot snaps off. Flopping onto his back, he grabs the severed piece and turns it over in his hands. The feel of the waterstone is noticeable, but he still has a deep numbness that has slowed his reflexes. Pressing the foot to his jagged ankle, Vile mutters a spell that reattaches it and waits to see if it will fall off again. The discoloration on his leg makes him fear that it is too weak for him to walk, so he is forced to crawl out from under the cart. Sneaking to a pile of unopened feed sacks, he uses them to shield his attempt at standing. A few test jumps put his mind at ease and he settles into his hiding place where he plans to spend the night.

  “That was humiliating, but fairly entertaining,” the Lich says as Nimby leans against the other side of the bags. Pulling at a loose thread, the necrocaster tears a hole in the burlap and sends a flood of seeds onto the figurine. “I assure you that was not intentional. Far be it for me to kick a man when he’s down. Well, maybe not that far. Still, I do admit to feeling responsible for your situation. If it makes you feel better, it will all be over soon.”

  “Glad you are entertained by my suffering,” Vile growls while he digs his way out of the food. Not having any weapons, he picks up a pebble and throws it at the halfling’s back to no avail. “I still don’t understand why you keep me here. This body is weak and useless. I serve no purpose other than getting into small spaces or being tossed in the air for ridiculous reasons. We never had much of a problem with each other in life, so why torture me in death?”

  “The truth is that I’m the one doing it with Tyler’s power,” Nimby answers, drawing two tiny swords of wood from his pocket. He checks the weapons, which glow with a minor enchantment that prevents them from splintering. “Part of it is out of petty revenge for turning me into a cold-hearted thief. I have no memory of my mother because you took me away once you deemed her unnecessary. For that alone, I want you to feel weak and useless. Maybe it’s having necromantic power coursing through my body, but I can’t shake all of the hate that I feel towards you.”

  “And what is the other reason, my loving son?” the figurine whispers as he emerges from his hiding place. A passing mercenary chuckles at the sight of the warrior, but the man is swiftly smacked in the head by his more serious companion. “On second thought, I would rather not know. You already said enough. I assume those weapons are for me, so I will take them and find a place to be alone.”

  Nimby hands the wooden swords to Vile who puts them into his belt and walks away. The halfling watches his father disappear among the bedrolls and carts, nobody giving the toy a second glance. With a yawn, the thief stretches his arms and his eyes blink rapidly as if he is waking from a deep sleep. Getting to his feet, he looks around to get his bearings and scratches his head. Seeing a vacant fire, Nimby hurries to check his fleshy arm and curses at the sight of the exposed bone. Black veins now run along the limb and meet in his palm to form a pulsing blob of infected blood. Drawing a blade, he is about to pierce the thin membrane when a flash of crimson light erupts from his eyes. The weapon splits in half and falls out of his hand to bounce into the flame, which becomes strong enough to melt the crumbling steel.

  “Is that any way to thank me?” the Lich asks in mock surprise. The looming cackle is stopped when the ring is banged against the hot stones. “Don’t be so angry. You were exhausted, so I put you to sleep. While you were resting, I finished those swords for Vile and had a brief chat with him. Not sure if I should tell you this, but your father attempted to stir a revolt against Tzefira.”

  Nimby takes a long sip of water before whispering, “Bet she wasn’t very happy about that.”

  “She thought it was amusing and not worth her time,” the necrocaster replies, a wave of satisfaction flowing through the shared body. “You will be relieved to know that I told your father why you wanted me to keep him around. I even made him believe that you were doing it against my wishes. Still, he seemed to have trouble accepting the truth, which shouldn’t be surprising. You were loyal to him for years until Luke Callindor entered your life. He needs some time to consider the situation.”

  “Thanks, Tyler, but I don’t understand why he would have trouble,” the halfling admits while the infected blood seeps out of his pours. Refusing to corrupt the land, he holds his hand over the flames and calmly endures the heat. “I only want him to have a chance at redemption since I know he’s suffering on the other side. He wasn’t claimed by anyone, so being out here might earn him a restful afterlife. For all the problems we had at the end, he is still my father and he took care of me after my mother passed away. Be nice to know he wasn’t suffering in Ram’s Garden.”

  “Vile is a proud man, so I wouldn’t bring it up again.”

  “Are you sure? If he’s having trouble then-”

  The Lich materializes in front of Nimby, his skeletal body devoid of its usual cloak and collection of rags. “I saw his face and it was of joy and confusion. General Vile was a soldier who kept his emotions in check at all times. These are complicated thoughts and feelings for a ghost to handle due to their undead nature. They aren’t known for changing their behaviors and mindsets. Your father needs to handle this alone. The choice of redemption is his to make. As his son, you should want him to earn this by his own hand.”

  “You’re right, but I really wish you would let me talk to him,” the thief claims while walking away from the fire. He climbs on top of a cart and settles in for a chilly night, which is already making him drowsy. “Hard to believe he took it so well considering his pride. He refused to pray to any deity after joining with the Baron since he felt it was an alliance that would cost him a peaceful afterlife. Thanks again, Tyler, for taking care of this. Guess you’re not a terrible monster after all.”

  “It’s like I said when you put the ring on. You can always trust me.”

  11

  “All of you could have gone with Tzefira. She made the offer,” Trinity says as she watches Salamander Army disappear into the distance. The chaos elf shivers as a cold breeze whips up the hill, which is overlooking the tree-filled valley. “Staying with us will be boring because you have to stay here. I’m not marching an army into Ashkeep, especially since none of us know what will happen afterwards.”

  “We did enjoy our time with the Salamanders, but our business with you has come to an end,” Sir Harbiss declares, his arms crossed like an immovable statue. The man nods his head at his army, which hurries to make camp on the hill and within the trees. “Many of us are still unsure if you can be trusted. We have observed your heroics, but your kind are known for such tricks. I believe our decision will be made when you have found these crests and decided on what to do with them. Turn on your former master and we will see the truth. Until that time, we shall remain here and await your return.”

  “This is a horrible place to make camp.”

  “We will be fine.”

  “All I ask is that you leave if we don’t return in five days.”

  “Do you think this city is dangerous?”

  “I’d be surprised and disappointed if it wasn’t. Take care of yourselves.”

  Lengthening the sleeves of her black shirt, Trinity heads to where her companions are waiting by a boulder. The dark stone does not resemble any of the minerals found in the area and a faint marble pattern can be seen whenever the sun strikes its surface. More of the rocks can be seen mak
ing a winding pattern along the hill, their positioning similar to road markers. Running her hand along the boulder’s surface, Trinity feels a warmth emanating from its polished surface and a stirring aura licks at her fingers. Pulling away before anything happens, the chaos elf takes another look at the valley and wonders how such a small area can hide an entire city. The question causes the hair on the back of her neck to stand up and her confidence is slightly eroded by a fear that they have missed an important clue. Pushing the thoughts from her mind, the channeler steps forward to lead the way and is immediately tapped on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, but shouldn’t Quail go first since he has the rings?” Altia politely asks, the elf bowing her head. She silently counts to five before standing straight and doing her best to act respectful. “I don’t mean to offend you, your majesty. The only thing is that we don’t know how this will work. Whatever is down there might expect the person leading us to have the rings. This is only a guess, so I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

  “That makes sense, so Quail goes first,” Trinity replies, standing aside to let the mapper pass. She gently catches Altia by the shoulder and jerks her head to urge Nimby and Vile to go ahead. “What are you up to now? Bowing your head and acting . . . Are you trying to get on my good side or suck up to me? I admit we had some problems when we first met, but I’d like to think the incident with Aeriel put those to rest.”