by R A Oakes
But a spy for whom? Jaren wondered, as he had once before, for he realized that no one back home had any actual battle experience. A few weeks ago, he’d even started memorizing the layout of Gratuga’s vast system of caverns, but with Warlord Zarimora stirring up trolls throughout the capital, Jaren had wisely chosen to lie low and bide his time. And now, being away from the troll capital, Jaren put aside all such considerations and focused instead on what he could accomplish for the moment.
And the spy began spying.
Beginning to sway back and forth while groaning and moaning in the most pitiful manner he could muster, Jaren watched Balzekior carefully, suspecting that the old crone took great pleasure in his suffering. Up until now, Jaren hadn’t cared what Balzekior thought about him, but things had changed, and he was determined to learn all he could about his enemy.
After stumbling and falling once more, but this time intentionally, and pretending to cry out in agony, Jaren watched the old crone as she turned her head and cocked an ear in his direction, listening to his anguish. Shifting around on her seat to get a better look at her prisoner, Balzekior was again wearing a twisted little smile as the man with the ravaged face struggled to get back onto his feet. And Jaren wondered, How can I use this weakness, this pleasure she gets from watching others suffer, against her?
And then, the spy noticed something else.
Even though Balzekior often appeared to be withered and emaciated, her eyes had always been brimming with malice and cruelty. But this time, despite the old crone’s twisted smile, Balzekior’s eyes were dull and lackluster. It was as if some dark light inside of her, some evil presence, was flickering and getting ready to go out.
Balzekior tired? Jaren marveled. Maybe keeping up with Warlord Zarimora has taken a greater toll on her than anyone suspected.
Over the last few weeks, Warlord Zarimora had been acting like a woman possessed, consumed by one goal and only one goal, to launch the first major attacks ever attempted on village stockades. The warlord and Merimar, her friend and ally, had been badgering the old crone relentlessly, seeking any information Balzekior might possess on how to launch successful assaults on a few of the smaller villages.
However, even the closest villages were several days away, days requiring long marches through rough terrain, Gratuga being in the middle of a vast wilderness region. Until recently, Zarimora would never have considered traveling so far from Gratuga, but since Balzekior had arrived with protective cloaks, the warlord had begun dreaming of conquest and was hungry for power.
After Balzekior had explained how to use fire against the villages, how to build fires that could damage or even burn down a stockade, there was no holding Zarimora back. The warlord had taken five of her best female trolls and about 40 male trolls, all wearing protective cloaks, and they’d charged out of Gratuga’s entrance yelling bloodcurdling battle cries.
Now, as Jaren watched Balzekior riding in her horse-drawn cart, he saw that the old crone’s shoulders were slumped, her back was bent, and her head was drooping, as if holding it up took too much effort. And Jaren began wondering if there might be more to this little excursion than Balzekior was letting on.
Why would the decrepit old crone be traveling anywhere when she was so worn-out? he wondered. Wouldn’t it be better to just rest at Gratuga, especially with Warlord Zarimora being away? And who were the friends Balzekior wanted to visit, and why did she need to see them?
Jaren thought, If Balzekior has actually been pushed to the limit of her endurance, then maybe she’ll get careless. And maybe I’ll learn something useful.
Suddenly, the chains didn’t feel so heavy, and the miles didn’t seem so long, as Jaren threw himself into his acting role, suffering with such sweet agony that Balzekior was becoming giddy with pleasure and excitement.
Upon finally reaching their destination, which turned out to be little more than a jagged crevasse in a rocky hillside, Balzekior looked back at Jaren who’d dropped to his knees and was gasping for breath. Then, after falling to the ground, clutching his chest and grimacing as if wracked with pain, he rolled onto his back, gave an exquisite cry of agony and lay still, appearing to have fainted.
“Wow!” the old crone said, captivated by Jaren’s performance.
Climbing down from the cart, Balzekior looked at Jaren lying in the dust wearing a sweat-stained shirt, his face streaked with dirt, the double set of chains accentuating his wretchedness, and the decrepit old crone was taken aback, considering it to be a moment of genuine beauty. Now this is perfection, Balzekior thought, struck by how this simple tableau had captured the essence of one ruined life. But it also made her nervous, for the old crone realized why she was savoring this moment so fully.
Balzekior knew that training Zarimora, Merimar and a team of their best trolls had sapped every last ounce of her strength. And she knew that making it home, at least to the entrance leading home, had been an achievement. Several times along the way, she’d almost collapsed and fallen from her cart, but now she was here, and no one was the wiser. As far as Balzekior could tell, neither Zarimora, Merimar nor any of the trolls had suspected her main weakness, her need to go home periodically to renew herself.
And seeing Jaren sprawled out before her in abject misery was a treat she hadn’t expected. It gave her some much-needed encouragement for the long trip down into the bowels of the earth, a dangerous journey to a land filled with demonic energy, energy which had taken the form of evil-infested molten lava with all its potent, hideous glory. Looking down once more on Jaren’s ruined existence, Balzekior nudged him almost lovingly with her right foot, nudging him gently and seeking only to awaken him, not to harm him in any way.
But then a warning flashed through her.
Behaving tenderly towards some unfortunate creature was a sure sign, at least to her, that she was cracking up, and that she had to get home and get home quickly before she collapsed completely and totally lost her sanity, at least her version of it. Now fear started to overtake Balzekior, fear that, as some people said, there was good in everyone. Not in me! she screamed inside her own soul. Not in me!
I won’t be shamed in front of my friends! she said to herself with all her might. I won’t appear like a pathetic creature who’s lost her way, not in front of others who get to live surrounded by demonic lava all of the time. I won’t present myself before them like some poor relation.
When Jaren opened his eyes, Balzekior kicked him and said, “Get up, you worthless maggot.” And the old crone hoped her voice sounded full of hatred and malice, but it didn’t. Hearing her own words, she could tell they lacked conviction, and this self-awareness of her powerlessness terrified her.
I can’t stay away from home this long again, she said to herself with grim determination. And I should have come back weeks ago, even before Zarimora went off to attack human villages. That could have waited, but Zarimora’s just too impulsive, way too impulsive.
Next, looking down at Jaren, Balzekior smiled and thought, When my friends see him, they’re going to be speechless.
And Balzekior was sure she was right, for she knew their weaknesses as well as her own. She knew that although her friends lived a privileged existence with demonic lava forever within their reach, what they didn’t have were fresh victims to torment.
Feeling a little better about herself, Balzekior headed over to the entrance, a small jagged crevasse partly hidden by scrub brush. Wisps of steam were seeping out of it, and the evil old crone stood in front of the entrance sniffing the air like it was filled with the pleasant aroma of freshly-baked bread rather than hints of noxious fumes.
Going back to the wagon, Balzekior took off Jaren’s chains and made him crawl to the crevasse on his hands and knees. Jaren glanced inside, but all he saw was darkness, pitch darkness.
“Just keep crawling for the next 100 yards, or so. At that point, we’ll round a bend, and the floor will drop at a pretty steep angle which will make the ceiling seem higher. And by then,
it shouldn’t be so dark.”
“Why not?”
“There will be a trickle of lava.”
“Lava?”
“Yes, lava.”
“How far down are we going?”
“Deep, very deep.”
Jaren hesitated and looked back at the cart.
“I can leave you chained to it, if you prefer, but wolves come out at night.”
Looking into the gloom, Jaren steadied his nerves, reminding himself that exploring the unknown was the duty of any good spy, and began crawling into the darkness. After about 50 yards, he turned around and looked back at the entrance, which now seemed a whole lot smaller.
“You won’t be able to see it at all once you round the bend,” Balzekior said, taunting him.
Facing forward once more, Jaren stared into the darkness but couldn’t even see the end of his own nose. “You’re sure there’s light up ahead?”
“Would I lie to you?” Balzekior said, chuckling.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing.”
“Things will get better.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Rather than allowing Balzekior to continue taunting him, he started crawling once again, putting one hand in front of the other, over and over, for what seemed like an eternity.
An eternity until . . . “Ouch!” Jaren said, his forehead bumping into a rock wall that was now directly in front of him.
“Reached the turn, did you? Well, the tunnel goes to the right.”
“Are we going to have to crawl the whole way to wherever we’re going?”
“No, we’ll swim most of the way.”
“Swim?”
“Yes.”
“A stream underground?”
“Something like that.”
Then, sighing in exasperation, Jaren found himself facing yet another problem. Having rounded the bend and crawled a few more yards, he was soon feeling dizzy and said, “The fumes are getting stronger, and I’m finding it harder to breathe.”
“It will get worse.”
“I think I’m going to faint.”
“If you do, I’ll leave you behind, and you’ll die for sure.”
“How reassuring.”
“Get moving.”
And so, Jaren kept on crawling, his knees becoming numb with pain, but he stopped when one of his hands missed the floor, or at least missed where the floor was supposed to be. “I think I found where the floor drops at that steep angle,” Jaren said, having fallen forward, his head and chest on a downward slant while his legs and pelvis remained up on the level.
“What do you see off in the distance?”
“Light, a tiny hint of light.”
“Good, and don’t kill yourself before we get there.”
Jaren continued crawling, this time at an angle steep enough that he was always at risk of falling. Even when coming to a second bend in the tunnel, he turned left and kept crawling down, always downward. But now Jaren could see, faintly at least, for there was indeed a ribbon of lava threading its way along the left side of the tunnel.
After going down several hundred more yards, the passageway became wider and the amount of light increased considerably. Then, with the quality of the air deteriorating by the moment, Jaren made another right turn, this time into a large cavern, and the cavern was filled with light, abundant light.
Jaren managed to stand up, but his legs were wobbly and his head was spinning, the noxious fumes now overwhelming. Stumbling over to the left side of the cavern, the floor being tilted in that direction, Jaren could no longer think clearly and knew he was getting ready to black out. But before he did, he discovered the reason for the poisonous fumes. The trickle of lava had turned into a stream of molten magma, the heat being almost unbearable.
“Did you ever see such a beautiful sight?” Balzekior asked.
Jaren looked over at the old crone and saw the weary smile on her face, one conveying a sense of relief. He also noticed that Balzekior’s eyes were riveted to the yellow, orange and red colors in the lava and seemed transfixed by them. However, Balzekior quickly snapped out of her trance and knelt down by the stream where she reached into the lava with both hands, scooped up some of the fiery molten magma and splashed it on her face.
Jaren was stunned, expecting Balzekior to be incinerated, but she stood back up appearing at least somewhat refreshed. Gone was the ghastly pallor of her skin, and her back was no longer bent by fatigue.
“It’s amazing what a facial will do for someone’s appearance,” Balzekior said, laughing at the startled look on Jaren’s face. “You should try bathing in lava. It would make a new man out of you.”
“No thanks.”
“As we go deeper into the earth’s crust, much deeper, the lava will become infested with evil energy. But this stuff is tame, and you might even like it.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I insist,” Balzekior said, giving the man with the ravaged face a hard shove, one so forceful that he was taken completely by surprise, the old crone having seemed more dead than alive before entering the cavern.
And Jaren plunged headfirst into the stream of lava, disappearing beneath the surface.
Chapter 12
After having ridden north for almost 30 miles, dusk was falling, and Raven and her companions began looking for a place to camp. They were still ten miles from Hawthorn Village, and traveling at night was always perilous no matter who you were.
Raven’s best friend, Dynarsis, was riding his equestrian father, Dark Shadow, and Brianuk was riding their equestrian mother, Swift Arrow, and the other travelers were riding six of Dark Shadow’s best wild horses.
Alongside Raven were Starlight and Andylan, her warrior women allies, and Renivy, Zorya and Aldwen were riding close by, with Dynarsis and Brianuk having positioned themselves on the far left and right of the group, their horse father and mother ever alert for the slightest hint of danger.
The travelers had proceeded cautiously throughout the day, especially avoiding the crests of hills where they would have been silhouetted against the sky, hoping to avoid being spotted by any roving bands of local trolls. However, those creatures were probably in hiding, at least during the day, with the sun overhead in the cloudless blue sky.
Of greater concern was the possibility of being seen by larger trolls wearing protective cloaks, should any be prowling about the region. Where they’d come from was a mystery, but the travelers feared they were from Gratuga. Even Starlight had never seen meat-eating trolls, or any trolls, wearing cloaks before.
And now, as dusk continued to fall, Raven’s eyes scanned the horizon seeking a defensible position and came to rest upon a possible site, a rocky knoll atop a steep grassy hillside. Yet in order to reach the knoll, Raven realized that she and the others would have to make their way through a dense forest extending more than halfway up the hill. The rocky knoll and the grassy area around it created what appeared to be a bald vantage point above the trees with a view of the entire landscape.
Raven sighed, however, knowing that reaching it safely could be a challenge. If there were trolls of any kind roaming the forest, they would be almost impossible to see among the trees, especially in the rapidly fading light, nighttime being nearly upon them.
“I’m going to take a closer look, but the rest of you stay here,” Raven said in a quietly commanding tone of voice. Having long ago won the loyalty and respect of Dynarsis, Starlight and Andylan, they were reluctant to speak up. But that didn’t stop Renivy who said, “That’s crazy. Trolls could be swarming all over those woods.”
“Maybe, but not likely, not after such a sunny day,” Raven replied.
“What if you’re wrong?”
“In that case, I’d prefer not to be taken alive, thank you.”
“Why do you have to go first?”
“I’d never ask more of anyone than I would of myself.”
“Fine, because I’m not going into those wood
s no matter what.”
“We all die sometime, and today’s as good a day as any, I suppose.”
“Tomorrow would be better,” Renivy insisted.
“All we have is today, tomorrow’s an illusion.”
“I like illusions.”
“What I’d like is for you to stay here,” Raven said before nudging her horse and galloping away.
“You’re actually going to let her go alone?” Renivy asked, looking over at Dynarsis, Starlight and Andylan.
“Raven gets a little testy if you challenge her authority. It’s better to humor her when she’s like this,” Dynarsis said.
“She wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Andylan agreed, “but making her mad isn’t always wise. I’ve seen grown men cry after Raven directed her full anger at them.”
“I’m younger than she is,” Renivy said, pointing out the obvious.
“Which means you should obey,” Starlight suggested.
“Which means I don’t have to fear her.”
“I’d reconsider that conclusion if I were you,” Dynarsis said, surprised that Renivy would say something so foolish.
“I’m serious,” Renivy insisted. “If I died, what do you think would happen to her?”
“What do you mean?” Dynarsis asked.
“If I were dead, how could a 33-year-old version of me still exist? Raven would just disappear, wouldn’t she?”
“Be careful,” Starlight said. “If you share that idea with her, she might send you back to Coldstream Village for your own safety, if not for hers.”
“I don’t think so. She wouldn’t send me back alone, and she can’t spare anyone as an escort,” Renivy said smiling, and then she nudged her horse and galloped off towards the wooded hillside.
“I can’t let her go by herself, I’m her mother,” Zorya said firmly, and the Lady of the Well galloped off towards the trees also.
“Renivy saved my life, so I can’t stay behind either,” Brianuk insisted.
