The Lost Princess of Aevilen

by D. C. Payson

  Thezdan let his head fall into his hands. “I should not have come here. I should have stayed with her!”

  “Do not forget, you are serving her now. Persuading Domin to help us will surely get Julia closer to her return home. Keep your head about you. The sooner we do what we came to do, the sooner we can return to her.”

  Thezdan breathed in deeply and exhaled. Reaching back, he pulled the hood of his tunic over his head and tried to steel his mind. Keep her safe, Goddess, he prayed silently.

  Waellin was a small fringe town that extended out from the southern gate of Riverstride. It had never been rich, though it had once possessed a certain mercantilist dignity, bustling with the activity of tradesman and traders hawking wares to travelers and local shoppers. In recent years, it had been reduced to a collection of drab, ill-maintained row houses. All that remained of the town’s past vibrancy were a few colorful patches of paint clinging stubbornly to the walls. There was little activity visible from the road.

  “Does that look like it is still in use?” Thezdan asked, pointing to the stone tower standing ominously at the town’s entrance.

  “I do not know,” said Lothic. “But we should assume it is.”

  “It’s not going to be easy to talk our way through if we’re stopped by guards. They’re skittish these days, Lothic, much worse than you probably remember. It might be better to look for a different route, or even prepare to fight.”

  “Fighting is not an option, and there are no other routes. If you want to see Domin, you’re going to have to trust me, Eodan.”

  A moment later, they saw the tower door open slowly, the blade of a Revolutionary Army polearm peeking out from behind the wood.

  “You’re a farmer,” said Lothic.

  “As you wish,” Thezdan muttered.

  The guard who emerged was slight in stature, his leather tunic hanging loosely on his frame. He fumbled around awkwardly with the polearm he carried, too weak to bear its weight. Unlike Domin’s distillery aide, the guard showed the hardness of a man who had lived the difficult life of a low-level Party soldier.

  Moving to the head of the road, the guard thrust his hand in the air. “Halt!”

  Lothic dutifully brought the cart to a halt and waited for the guard to come forward.

  “What business do you have in Waellin?” he asked gruffly. His cheeks were hollow, and he had a large, open sore on his temple.

  “Hail Defender,” said Lothic. “We’re bringing grains for the troughs at the People’s Rest, and then we will continue to Riverstride.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “The Western Territories, near Breslin.”

  “Breslin?” the guard repeated, his curiosity piqued. “Did you witness yesterday’s crimes?”

  “Witness? No,” said Lothic. “But we certainly heard about them. Hopefully the Revolutionary Guard will find the ones responsible.”

  “Indeed … ” said the guard. He gestured at the sickly animal pulling their cart. “Do you have a permit for the borum?”

  “I do,” said Lothic. He reached into his tunic, pulled a piece of paper from an inner pocket, and casually held it up at his side.

  “Give that to me,” the guard ordered.

  Lothic reluctantly handed over the paper.

  The guard examined it for a moment then looked back at Lothic. “This is old, citizen,” he said, his tone betraying his growing suspicion.

  “Yes, it is,” said Lothic. “But it’s still valid.”

  “Is it?” the guard spat. “I don’t recognize the signature. Strange, since Revolutionary Grimmel has been personally signing all borum permits for years.”

  Thezdan shifted in his seat, preparing to draw his sword. Without turning, Lothic reached back to stay his motion.

  “Listen to me,” Lothic said, his voice suddenly gratingly serious. “Do you know why my permit is old? It’s old because I have been providing feed for the personal borum stock of senior Revolutionaries since the earliest days. Why don’t you tell me your name so I can know who will go to the Pit in my place when Committee members are walking around with starving borum?”

  The guard stepped back and tightened the grip on his weapon. He stared icily at Lothic as he grappled with what to do next.

  Lothic turned and grabbed a small sack out of the wagon and held it to his side. “You have done your duty. Let me do mine.”

  The guard examined the sack in Lothic’s hand, imagining what it might be like to feel full again. If this man was who he said he was, stopping him could mean a year working the Pit, or worse. He offered a shallow nod as he handed back the permit and reached forward to receive his bribe.

  No sooner had Lothic passed the sack over than he whipped the borum back into motion. “Be well, Defender of the Revolution!” he called as they drove off.

  Thezdan held his position—and his tongue—as the cart moved past the guard tower and onto the narrow road that snaked through the village. The cart wheels clacked loudly against the cobblestones underneath, the sound amplified as it bounced back and forth between the houses walling them in on either side. All of the windows at ground level were shuttered closed even though it was well before dark.

  “That was awfully close back there, Lothic,” Thezdan said finally, tilting his head forward.

  “Yes, it was. You were right about the guards being skittish. It makes me concerned about what awaits us ahead.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “The People’s Rest used to be a preferred tavern for merchants and the occasional Rokkin. After the Revolution, it became a tavern for People’s Army soldiers and mid-level Party leaders.”

  “I see,” said Thezdan. “We’re going straight into the faeron’s mouth, then?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “If we’re discovered, we’ll be trapped. Your injury means that you cannot run, and this town looks to be sealed more tightly than a dungeon.”

  “Indeed. We must be careful.”

  “Yes, careful,” Thezdan agreed. “And lucky.”

  Continuing down the road, they passed a slow, steady stream of tunic-clad townspeople, each carrying a small, wooden bowl in his or her hand. In the town’s central square, several soldiers were serving stew out of a giant cauldron at the square’s far end. The townspeople lined up to have their bowls filled. Even from a distance, Thezdan could smell the fetid odor of rotten meat, and he grimaced at the thought of anyone eating anything so foul. The townspeople, however, appeared to be less picky; those already served sat at long communal tables hungrily choking down the contents of their bowls. They rarely looked around at their tablemates, and they seemed to avoid conversation entirely.

  Thezdan shook his head. Despite his occasional trips to Breslin, he didn’t know that living conditions in the towns had deteriorated so greatly in recent years. He spotted the remains of a destroyed temple on the other side of the square, an old statue of the Goddess effaced beyond recognition.

  “Better to look ahead, Eodan,” said Lothic under his breath.

  Thezdan snapped back to attention. He clenched a fist, aching for the opportunity to exact his long-sought revenge. But Lothic was right. With all the potential eyes around them now, he couldn’t afford to look out of place.

  Lothic guided the cart through the square and up the road at the far end. As they came around a bend, they saw the southern drawbridge leading to one of the four Great Gates of Riverstride in the distance. It was a different town ahead of them. Gone were the townspeople and ill-kept, row houses, replaced by empty streets and larger structures stretching nearly to the river.

  “Let me guess,” said Thezdan.

  “As with the tavern,” said Lothic, anticipating the question, “once merchant, now probably mid-level Party and army.”

  “Think they eat the sludge being served back there?”

  “Probably not. But just so you know, the tavern we’re going to is owned by a couple, Co
bran and Elda, and Cobran has occasionally made things that smell so bad you’d have wished he were serving that stew.”

  “That doesn’t seem possible,” said Thezdan. “What would you do when he served it?”

  “Eat it, of course,” chuckled Lothic. “It almost always tasted better than it smelled.”

  “Almost always?”

  “Almost always. You’ll see soon enough; the tavern is just up ahead.”

  Thezdan looked up to where Lothic pointed. It was a two-story stone building not unlike the merchant houses surrounding it, distinguished by the size of its door and the large, open lot beside it. There were two black borum attached to Party chariots feeding from the lot’s troughs. Beside them, farther in from the road, sat a large, metal wagon. It had an exotic, highly ornamented skeleton frame holding a complement of barrels, and four oversized wheels. There was no animal attached to the wagon but rather a long pole extending from the front axle, hinged near the frame, that had been tilted upward so as to allow it to fit in the lot.

  “Thankfully, it appears that Domin is here after all,” said Lothic.

  “Even the Rokkin are not allowed to have borum?” Thezdan asked.

  “The Rokkin don’t use borum. Animals like borum are not suited to life underground, so the Rokkin have never kept them. They pull their carts themselves.”

  Thezdan smirked. “I know what that’s like.”

  Lothic carefully pulled into the lot and parked behind Domin’s wagon, hoping to partially conceal their cart from the road. He cinched the reins to the catch mounted in front of his seat then turned toward Thezdan.

  “Eodan, I think I should go in alone. It could attract attention if we were to go in together, and you can keep our cover by transferring some of our grain to those troughs.”

  Thezdan shook his head. “No. If you get in trouble in there, you’re going to need my help.”

  “If I get in trouble in there, there will be no helping me,” Lothic said firmly. “Stay here with Scylld; if you hear anything that sounds wrong coming from that tavern, I want you to get in the cart and go.”

  “No,” Thezdan repeated, looking back at Lothic with equal resolve. “I will not abandon you. I am coming in.”

  Lothic was silent for a moment, then nodded in resignation. “Alright. But be careful to not bring attention to yourself.”

  “Of course,” said Thezdan. He checked the road behind them to make sure it was clear then spoke quietly into the cart bed. “Scylld, wait for us here. If something should happen, cry out, and we will come quickly.”

  The grain bales shook ever so slightly.

  Thezdan climbed down from the cart. He heard a loud snort and glanced over to find the nearest of the Black borum looking back at him. There was something strangely captivating about the animal’s large, black eye, filled with bestial menace. It brought him back to his dream, to the evil, red fire he had seen in the eyes of the wolf. And then, inside, he began to hear a rising voice, a dissonant, otherworldly growl.

  You are late, Guardian! Aevilen will be mine!

  “Are you ready, Eodan?” Lothic whispered, gently grabbing his arm.

  Thezdan gasped as Lothic’s voice brought him back to reality. His heart beat rapidly, the vision still anchored in his subconscious.

  “Eodan?” Lothic repeated, sensing his unease. “Are you alright?”

  Thezdan breathed in and out several times to calm himself. “Yes … still feeling the effects from my dream.”

  “I see. Gather yourself; we will not be here long. When we go into the tavern, wait near the front wall, over toward the bar. There should be a dark place for you to stand and observe.”

  “Alright. I will wait there and watch. If I see trouble, I will rap against the wall to alert you.”

  Lothic led Thezdan to the front door of the tavern. “I will listen and hope to hear nothing.” He raised the latch and pushed it open.

  It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room. Even with the tavern lit from the late afternoon sunlight and the steady candlelight from the table lanterns, Thezdan and Lothic couldn’t make out anything more than general outlines of the patrons. Several large chandeliers overhead remained unlit, as did the many wall sconces; darkness here was by design. Even those who wore the fine tunics of Party bureaucrats hid in the shadows with their hoods up, leaning over their food or drink. In the back, two horn players rotely played some up-tempo tune. The music did little to relieve the heavy atmosphere of the tavern. The patrons were not here to converse and cavort; they were here to drink, eat, and forget.

  Thezdan knew that every eye in the room was probably looking toward the door to see who had come in, and so he made a great effort to seem unremarkable. He followed Lothic down a few steps and over toward a long, wooden bar behind which an older woman stood, busy wiping down glassware as she furtively sized up her new guests.

  Thezdan stopped short, ducking into an alcove. Lothic approached the bar and tapped gently against the wood to get the barmaid’s attention.

  “What can I get you, hunter?” she asked tentatively.

  Lothic leaned over the bar, his hood hiding his face. “A braen of river white and the haerrit pie, warm.”

  The woman froze. Shocked, she nearly dropped the glass from her hand. “I’m sorry. We haven’t served those things for a long time.”

  “A shame,” said Lothic. “I never much cared for the rest of Cobran’s cooking.”

  The woman swallowed hard. “W-Who are you?”

  Lothic reached up and pulled back his hood just enough to expose the features of his face. “It’s nice to see you, Elda.”

  The barmaid nervously checked left and right then slowly leaned forward. “Sithic?” she said. “How can it be? How do you still live?”

  “I fled before the Trebain fell. I survived, living in hiding.”

  “Sithic, it is not safe for you here,” Elda said under her breath. Her eyes darted around the room again. “It is not safe for anyone here!”

  Lothic pulled his hood forward again. “I will not stay long. I’ve come looking for Domin. Have you seen him?”

  Elda paused for a second then nodded. “I gave him a table and stool in the storeroom so he could take a drink after his deliveries. He usually likes to be left alone … but if you need to see him, you can go knock twice on the storeroom door. He should still be there.”

  “Thank you, Elda. I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to cause you and Cobran any trouble.”

  Elda shook her head, her eyes showing a suppressed sadness that told Lothic all he needed to know.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “These are bad times, Sithic,” said Elda, choking back her emotions. “Don’t come back here—for your own sake.”

  Lothic tipped his hood goodbye, then he turned and headed toward the doorway. Thezdan watched the room carefully as Lothic opened the door and went outside, wanting to be sure that no one in the bar would follow. After a few moments of no activity, Thezdan made his way out himself.

  He found Lothic waiting for him back by their cart. He had a forlorn look about him, but wasted no time in beckoning for Thezdan to come.

  “The storeroom door is over here,” Lothic said gruffly.

  “Wait,” called Thezdan. “What is it, Lothic? What troubles you?”

  Lothic halted in his tracks. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his fist tightly clenched at his side. He took a deep breath. “It’s too late now, anyway. We need to focus. Be ready.” He walked over to the storeroom door and pounded out two strong, deliberate knocks.

  Bang … Bang …

  Several moments passed without a response. He knocked again.

  Bang … Bang …

  This time, there was movement inside. Thezdan could hear the muted thuds of heavy footsteps just beyond the door. He grabbed hold of Lothic’s tunic and pulled him back a step, just far enough that he might have time t
o react if the Rokkin attacked. There was a scratching sound from a sliding lock, followed by the clanging of a chain being unwound. Suddenly the large door sprang open, revealing an enormous figure looming in the doorway. He was nearly Scylld’s size, and he wore a simple pair of leather pants with a sleeveless, wool tunic on top. Though his features were exaggerated, he looked in many ways like a human man except for his ashen-gray complexion and short, wiry, metallic-gold facial hair.

  Lothic quickly raised his hand in a fist to his side and bowed his head. “Borrenon ommag Domin,” he said, his voice quivering faintly.

  There was silence as the giant figure stared down at them expressionlessly. When finally he spoke, the air shook with the contra-bass rumble of his voice.

  “Sithic,” he said. “I thought you had been reclaimed.”

  “No, Domin,” said Lothic, looking up. “I still live.” He paused a moment, trying to gauge Domin’s intentions. “Do you wish it otherwise?”

  “You believe I wish the unmaking upon you?” Domin asked. He let out a rumbling chortle. “No, I do not.”

  Lothic bowed his head again. “I have missed seeing you all these years, bren Simarron.”

  A faint smile appeared on Domin’s face. “You remember our tongue, yor Domin barrog Simarron. Come in, let us speak inside. I know the risk you took in seeking me here, so I am sure you have something important to discuss.”

  Thezdan and Lothic entered the storeroom and Domin closed the door behind them, resetting the sliding lock and chain.

  The interior was darker than the bar, illuminated by a single candle on a large, round table. Thezdan could only barely see that they were standing in a two-story space, the nearby tall, mostly-empty shelves extending almost all the way to the ceiling. On the floor were several barrels standing on their ends. He tried to resolve their stamps, wanting to compare them to the one he had seen in Domin’s cellar earlier, but it was too dark to do so.

  “Sithic, is your companion of you?” came Domin’s voice in the darkness.

  “No, Domin,” said Lothic. “He is not my son. He is Eodan, son of Eobax, the leader of the Guardian Clan reclaimed when the Trebain was sacked.”