Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

  “Think that old bugger will do better?” Maccus shot back. “I say we take the youngest and the oldest. Then see what ole’ Grattus will give us for our troubles with the rest.”

  Ealrin did not like these prospects at all. He looked urgently at Holve, hoping he would give some sort of signal that it was time to escape or have Blume work her magic or something. He even fingered the Rimstone ring on his finger and wondered if he could pass it to Blume without being too conspicuous. But he just looked up at the rooftops again.

  Tratta turned the cart, taking a left at a fork and shouted at some people who were walking in the way of their procession.

  “No magic,” Holve whispered. Blume looked at Ealrin, who looked back at her angry eyes and found he agreed with her.

  He almost let out a groan of frustration, but he was cut short by the dagger that fell right by his foot and sunk deep into the cart.

  “Finally,” Holve said, kicking out with his two feet at Mas.

  The quiet man lurched forward into a crowd of people who shouted and fell together in a heap. Gorplin growled with rage as he threw himself at Maccus. Bound though he was, the dwarf made a considerable leap and bowled the young man over.

  Ealrin grabbed the knife and began to hack away at Blume’s restraints.

  In the middle of the chaos, two cloaked figures jumped down from the rooftops and landed in the cart. The wood creaked underneath them as one threw Tratta off her seat and grabbed the reins. Another yell accompanied Tratta’s and several more joined in. Mas was getting up and throwing people out of the way to get back to the cart. Fornos fell to the other cloaked figure.

  “Hiyah!” said a distinctly male voice. Ealrin looked up to see him whipping the reins of the horses. The cart lurched forward and people screamed to get out of the way.

  “Wait! Don’t leave us!”

  Ealrin turned around to see Gorplin and Olma standing in the street as guards and their captors surrounded them. Gorplin was still trying to fend off anyone who came near him, but he was still bound.

  “Stop! Turn around!” Ealrin shouted, trying not to fall of the cart himself as it bounced and bumped along the city’s uneven streets. “We have to go back!”

  “Are you crazy?” said the driver, not turning around to look. “We can’t risk it!”

  “But our friends!” Ealrin protested, trying to scoot off the cart and dive back to help Gorplin and Olma. A hand forced him back. Ealrin looked up to see another cloaked man holding him tightly as the cart picked up speed and zoomed away from the gathering crowds. More screams of people dodging out of their way rang out.

  Ealrin was still struggling, trying to help his companions.

  “Let it go, friend,” said a grim voice in his ear. “They’re done for.”

  THE WAGON DIDN’T SLOW down until at least another half-hour had gone by. Ealrin was worried. The people had become much sparser in this area of town. In fact, he couldn’t see a soul wandering the streets. It was still noon, but the streets were empty.

  When the driver finally pulled up on the reigns, he hopped out of the driver’s seat and began to empty the cart of all of its contents.

  Blankets, packs, food containers, whatever he could find, he put on the ground. The passengers seemed to be an afterthought to him.

  “Best get off,” said the other, grimmer voiced man in a cloak. “We’ll be driving the cart to another part of town soon. We’ll set the horses free and the smash the cart. Can’t have them come looking for us and find such a good sign that we’re right here.”

  Ealrin looked up at the man in a dark gray cloak and saw that he had most of his face covered in a tightly wrapped scarf. Only his eyes were left uncovered. His accomplice had the same attire. They both wore colors that seemed to blend into the city's dark stones.

  “We’ll need to find out where they’ve taken our friends,” Holve said as he scooted himself off the cart.

  “No mystery there,” the man unloading the cart said. “They’ll take them to the Temple. I don’t envy what they’re about to go through.”

  Ealrin jumped down off the cart and, with his own hands free, he shoved the man up against the side of a windowless building. Blume shouted something that Ealrin, in his rage, couldn’t hear.

  “Those are our friends!” he demanded. “How could you be so cold!?”

  “Easy, friend,” said the same grim voice in his ear. Ealrin felt the sensation of cold metal against his throat. “And I think it’d be best if you let go of my accomplice there.”

  Ealrin’s blood was hot. He was fuming. How could these two be so heartless? Olma was just a little girl. Gorplin was weaponless. How could they just leave them to the devices of Ladis’ temples?

  “Ealrin,” Holve said standing next to him and placing a strong hand on his arm. “Let him go. These are people I know and they risked their lives to get us out of there.”

  Slowly, staring hard into the man’s eyes and feeling the metal up against his throat, Ealrin relented. He shook himself as Holve turned to the two in cloaks.

  “Now,” he said, looking between them both. “How are you going to help us rescue our friends?”

  20: A Dwarf Problem

  A crowd was forming around the scuffle taking place just inside the gates of Meris. Several of the guards of the city had come forward, but none wanted to get too close to the crazed dwarf who was tackling anyone who came near him.

  Olma didn’t blame them; he looked ferocious. Especially since he had taken up a rather large metal pole and was swinging it at anyone who came too close.

  “BAH! Try it, you black-gutted, fire-headed kidnappers! Just come near her again!”

  She huddled behind Gorplin and tried to think about what she ought to do. There was a part of her that wanted to fight with the dwarf and escape through the crowd by picking up something menacing and taking out any who crossed her path. Another, and at this point much more sane, part of her knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered. And more guards were coming their way even as Gorplin prodded his pole at Fornos.

  “Just give it up, dwarf!” the young man shouted. “You’re surrounded! And more are comin’!”

  “Ever corner a dwarf, lad?” Gorplin asked in a voice that was far too joyful for Olma’s liking. “We fight to the death!”

  Olma wasn’t quite so sure she was ready to die. In fact, she knew she wasn’t.

  “Um...” she said in what she hoped was a steady voice. “Gorplin?”

  She had known the dwarf long enough to understand a few basic things about him: he was loud, strong, and not one to back down from a fight.

  The dwarf growled at the men who pressed in on them, swinging the pole at any who dared get too close.

  “That’s enough, stout one,” said a deep voice from behind the crowd of people. They parted ways and Olma took a sharp breath.

  No less than ten guards of the city stood with bows and arrows pointed at them. In the middle of them all was a man in brown robes with a black skull embroidered on the chest. The man wearing them was dark-skinned and had an imposing goatee. Olma knew those robes.

  This was the Priest of Meris.

  And he looked beyond angry.

  “If you so much as twitch, long beard, I will ensure that the first arrow goes into the neck of the girl you so belligerently defend. You will watch her bleed to death and then die yourself.”

  “Finally!” Fornos said, turning to look at the priest. “Someone get these two in chains or something!”

  The priest snapped his fingers and a spear shot out of the front of Fornos’ chest. He barely had time to flinch before he fell to ground dead.

  “No!” Maccus yelled.

  “I suggest no one else move or make a sound,” the priest said, not even bothering to look at the fallen man.

  Olma swallowed hard. This was not a man to be tested. Unfortunately, neither was Gorplin.

  “Bah,” he said. “So what’s to make me think dropping this stave will help us live another
moment, Priest?”

  The people gasped at this statement. Olma could see them whisper behind their hands. It occurred to her that, perhaps, they had never heard their Priest spoken to in such a manner.

  He straightened himself up to his full and, as Olma could figure, considerable height.

  “I would gladly usher you to death’s door myself, but I am curious who you are, why you have come to my city, and where your companions might be. The answers to these questions are the reasons you still draw breath.”

  Olma couldn’t breathe. What would happen once the priest received his answers?

  Gorplin kept his defensive position while Olma tried not to blink. The guards around the priest held their bowstrings taut, even as the crowd looked at one another.

  “Please, Gorplin,” Olma breathed. “I don’t want to die...”

  Olma knew it was true. Even though she had lost nearly everything she held dear, she was not ready to yet go to where her parents and uncle had gone. She wanted to draw breath. She wanted to live. As slowly as she dared, she placed a hand on Gorplin’s shoulder.

  Then the dwarf let out a deep sigh and dropped the metal pole. It fell with a clang to the ground. Raising up his hands, he looked back at Olma.

  “Sorry, lass,” he said. “A dwarf ought to be able to keep his charge safe.”

  She squeezed his shoulder.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said softly.

  The next moments was a blur of grabbing hands and ropes and general confusion as the city guards came to tie them up.

  “And what do we have here?” came another voice from down the street.

  Olma looked up just in time to see a man dressed in dark green approaching them. He was surrounded by more men in the black and silver of the city guard. They looked confused, but most just held out their spears and kept their shields up.

  “Ah, Prince Grattus,” the priest said, turning to face the prince. “What a pleasure.”

  “Why are you accompanied by my guards, Priest?” came his gruff reply. “I thought you had better things to do up in your temple. Like discerning why we’ve been so accosted lately by refugees.”

  “And I thought you might have a better handle on security within your own walls, My Prince,” the priest said, bowing.

  Grattus sneered.

  “Take those prisoners to the dungeons,” he barked. “I’ll question them myself....”

  He trailed off as he looked down at the two and blinked. Olma had the distinct impression he was getting a good look at them for the first time. A moment of silence was followed by a burst of laughter. Then Prince Grattus slapped his thigh and pointed.

  “Are all these guards for a girl and an imp? What was all that racket I heard earlier? Surely it wasn’t these two giving you all such a hard time! They’re hardly taller than my waist!”

  The guards looked at one another doubtfully, but no one replied.

  “An imp!?” Gorplin roared. “I’ll have you know I’m a dwarf and stronger than three of your men put together. Untie me and I’ll show you what a dwarf can do to a man who insults him! An imp! Why you...”

  A guard shoved a rag into Gorplin’s mouth and it quieted the spew of taunts and jeers coming out of his mouth.

  “As those responsible for your intelligence will surely inform you at a later point,” the priest responded dryly, ignoring the continued grunts and noises coming from Gorplin. “There were several who broke into the city and sent the market into a state of panic. I believe these four had something to do with it.”

  With a hand, the priest motioned towards the ones who had brought them in. Olma was shocked to see that they were also bound and gagged. For what purpose?

  “I was going to question them,” he said, bowing to the prince. Olma had the impression that he was only doing so to mock him. “Unless you see fit to do otherwise.”

  “Take them to my dungeons as well,” the prince said. “I’ll have them questioned.”

  “But of course, My Prince,” the priest said, bowing again.

  “Enough, Retter,” Grattus replied, looking up at the priest. Olma had just realized that the priest was a good head taller than the prince. It was nearly comical to see, but she didn’t feel much like laughing. The prince glared at the priest before waving a hand and several things happened at once.

  Rough hands grabbed her and Gorplin and began to usher them away from the market. The people who had gathered to watch the commotion began to disperse. Gorplin continued to curse through the gag, even as four men came to him to encourage him to walk with the tips of their spears.

  “I’ll be by later to see the fruits of your inquiries,” Priest Retter called out from behind them. The thought of that visit did little to calm Olma’s spirits.

  WALKING THROUGH THE streets of Meris was not a pleasant experience. Every so often, Olma tripped over a loose stone as they trekked through the rundown streets. No building or structure brought any beauty to the city. Each shop looked more bleak and dilapidated than the last.

  Gorplin kept up a steady stream of muffled curses and exclamations, especially whenever the guards prodded him with the butts of their spears. The three who had originally tied them up and brought them to Meris walked ruefully behind them.

  Olma glanced back at them once or twice to see what they thought of the situation. The men were all wide-eyed and shaking their heads. It looked to Olma like they had been tackled from the side and hadn’t been expecting such a terrible change of fates. Before they had been tied up they had been discussing how much they would get paid for their haul of prisoners.

  Now they were the prisoners.

  Only Tratta walked with any dignity, head held high and eyes alert. The woman looked down at Olma and nodded her head forward, as if to say to her to keep her eyes front.

  Olma turned and looked just in time to see the prince walking ahead of them take a right turn. After they followed him, the castle of Meris loomed ahead of them.

  If the city of Meris was pale and dark, the castle was a paradise by comparison.

  Olma saw the grass and flowers that the castle grounds were surrounded by first. Trees and flowers like she had not seen the entire time they had been trudging along the plains grew in an abundance around the castle walls. It was as if they were walking into another world.

  “Keep it up, there!” one of the guards shouted, and Olma felt a jab in her back followed by a sharp pain. One of the guards had prodded her with a spear. She hadn’t even realized she had stop walking.

  “Take them to the dungeons,” the prince said as they entered the gate through metal reinforced doors. “I have other more urgent matters to attend to.”

  Several attendants came running towards the prince as the guards who had brought them from the marketplace began to shepherd them in a different direction.

  A sinking feeling came over Olma. How long would the prince keep them in the dungeon? She knew the priest had said he would come and check on them, but would he really? And would she want him to?

  This country belonged to the prince, and he did as he pleased. Olma knew this from stories about other princes and other countries in Ladis.

  At the same time she had another sharp pain in another portion of her back from a guard’s spear, Olma began to feel the anxiety of a prolonged imprisonment settle on her.

  The open sky of the plains had unnerved her.

  What would the stone walls of a cell do? She had heard about the dungeons of castles and temples. They were bleak and dreary. Nasty parents would threaten their children with harsh treatment and tell them about these dungeons reserved for children who disobeyed their parents. Her own mother and father had never done such a thing to her, but here she was, about to be thrown into a prison solely because of who she traveled with.

  Would she survive the experience?

  She was not looking forward to the answer.

  21: Cities of Woe

  Meris was as ramshackle and broken down as Ealrin had guessed
when they first arrived. The only part of the entire city that seemed to be maintained at all were the walls. Everything else was at best neglected, and at worst, like their own quarters, falling apart.

  The only thing that lifted his spirits was the thought that they would not be staying in the city for long.

  Holve told them that this was only one stop in their journey. They needed information, but then they would head to the colder and more northern kingdom of Juttis. That was where the king’s son was.

  “Makes sense to put him at near the opposite of his other princes,” Holve told them. “It also helps that the young prince would be covered in snow most of the year. Helpful defense for anyone.”

  Ealrin nodded his agreement, but he was distracted by a brick that seemed to be edging its way out of the wall he was leaning up against.

  The building was twice as old as Holve, so said their kind hosts. After having removed everything of value from the cart they had been brought in on and sending the horse off with another accomplice to be sold somewhere, the group had been escorted into the two-story home of people long dead.

  “It may not look like much,” the grim voiced man said, shrugging his shoulders and putting some of the things he had stolen off the cart onto a shelf. “But the rent is good. How’s free suit you Holve?”

  Holve shook his head.

  “We won’t be staying long, Gregory. Just long enough to get our information and our friends,” he said. It seemed he was looking determinedly at Ealrin.

  “Poor Miss Olma,” Jurrin worried over in a corner. “Mr. Gorplin, too. Those four kept saying things about a dungeon. Do you think they’d really take them to a dungeon? I’ve spent more than enough time in one myself and can’t imagine little Miss Olma doing well inside of one.”

  “She won’t be there long,” Blume said making a fist. Ealrin saw little sparks fly through her hair and wondered if Holve would tell her to stop.