by Mason Thomas
Dax shook his head. “You are under my protection.”
What was that worth? Hunter wondered. He felt he needed more answers. But he wasn’t even sure what the questions were anymore. They’d all blended together in a dark churning soup in his head. “Dax, I need to make sense of what’s happened. For Christ sake, I almost lost my fucking hands today.”
“Tomorrow. Get some sleep.” He left the tent. Hunter watched the glow of his lantern slowly fade.
12
NEARING MIDDAY, at the top of a ridge, they broke the tree line.
The land sloped downward to a wide plain, which was a patchwork quilt of striped farmland and a meandering river, yellow from the late morning sun, stretched across the full length of it. At the center was a great sprawling city. Ancient from the look of it, a commotion of wood and stone, quarantined within a massive wall as if to protect the pristine lands around it from contamination. Thin vines of gray twisted up from rooftops, and even at this distance, Hunter could smell a sooty trace of the smoke on the wind.
The river severed the city into two sloppy halves. Along a slow bend, a castle sat majestically on the haunches of a natural stone ridge, a sparkling white structure that loomed over the rest of the city and caught the sunlight like mother of pearl. The contrast between it and the city at its feet was jarring, like a priceless jewel set in a rusted iron band.
“Something you don’t see every day,” Hunter muttered.
The guy marching in front of him, the bald man with the tattoo on the side of his head, glanced back over his shoulder at him. “A sight to behold, yes? You are not the first to be awed by her. The most beautiful city in the world.”
That wasn’t precisely what he meant, but he let it go. It was the first time someone had bothered to speak to him the entire morning. “What is it called?”
The man gave him a confused look. “Andreya, of course. The capital city.”
Hunter sighed. They were heading right into the hotbed of their insurgency. He still hadn’t been given any indication what they were going to do with him. He wasn’t dead—so that was a plus. Zinnuvial woke him at dawn and rushed along like someone late for the bus, and he and perhaps fifteen resistance members had filed out of the camp and spent the entire morning hiking through the dense forest. No one told him where they were going. No one actually said a word to him, just shooed him along with impatient grunts.
Dax told him he wasn’t a prisoner. But Hunter couldn’t think of anything else to call it.
He was put in the middle of the pack again, and for the most part ignored. It felt like the first day he entered the Lions’ locker room as a new player. Everyone knew he was there, but they went about their business as if he didn’t exist.
Dax remained up at the front with Quinnar, leading the charge, their heads bent toward each other in quiet conversation.
The looming questions were how disciplined were these insurgents? How strong was Dax’s influence against them acting on their own? Zinnuvial certainly intimated they would act if they felt the need. And Dax’s wishes didn’t mean shit if Quinnar decided he wasn’t worth the headache.
He was descending into the hive of a political mess he didn’t understand, but if he was going to ever find a way home, he would find it down there, in that city. He had to believe that.
Corrad shoved Hunter from behind. “Keep it moving.”
He clenched his fists and somehow managed to fight the impulse to turn about and punch him in the face.
Beyond the city, the land surged upward to a line of rugged and uninviting hills. The tops were flattened as if sheared off, and erosion had chiseled deep gashes into the bald sides, painted in horizontal bands of rust and gold.
Hunter decided to capitalize on the opening the bald guy made. “What is that place?”
The man followed the line of Hunter’s finger. “That there’s the Crags.” He chuckled. “Where you’re like to end up, y’ask me. Mining witchstone.”
“Witchstone?”
The man narrowed his eyes at him. “You dim or something?” And he turned his attention forward again. The conversation was over.
After a slow snaking path down from the ridge, they merged with a cobblestone road that angled toward the gates in the wall. The tightly placed stone was worn flat and smooth except for two parallel ruts that ran along its length, presumably from centuries of carts and wagons that followed this path. A testament to the age of this place.
Others were on the road as well. Most were on foot, packs on their backs or tugging along small handcarts, but a few rode horseback, wending through the travelers and barking at the people who stood in their way. An ox-drawn cart, fully loaded with something buried under a gray tarp, lumbered and creaked its way from the city, the wheels fixed within the ruts in the stone.
The road curved into a young copse of birch trees. The city and the hills beyond were no longer in sight.
A call came from up at the front of the line to halt. Everyone seemed to expect it. Without hesitation, they left the road and moved into the trees. Someone jogged from the front back to Hunter—he recognized her as the messenger from yesterday. She came right to him.
“Master Quinnar calls for you.”
He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, then. With a nod, he moved to follow her up the line, but someone grabbed his arm and gave him a rough tug.
Corrad brought his face in close to Hunter’s. “Those are my boots you’re wearing. You remember that. I want them back.”
Hunter groaned inwardly. Of course they belonged to this greasy fucker. His feet immediately began to itch. He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his eyes locked into Corrad’s. “Feel free to take them off me,” he snarled.
“I follow orders,” Corrad replied as if that was in question. “Was told they’d come back to me today. Just saying they’d better.”
“First chance I get,” Hunter said as he yanked his arm free. “And your feet are a lot smaller than mine, by the way. That shouldn’t come as surprise to anyone, right?”
He smirked as he turned and followed the messenger up the line.
She jogged ahead, while he walked at an intentional pace. He wasn’t going to hustle at the snap of their fingers. Dax and Quinnar stood with folded arms as he walked up. They leaned into each other’s ear and spoke in conspiratorial whispers that cut off when they saw his approach. Both looked annoyed. Zinnuvial was with them, leaning on her bow.
“You’re to continue on to Andreya,” Quinnar said. “Accompanied by Dax and Zinn. The rest of us will follow later in smaller groups.”
“It’s best if we not try to approach the gates all at once,” Dax added directly to Hunter. “Could attract attention.”
Hunter nodded.
“Once in the city, they will take you to a secret location. You will submit to being blindfolded—”
“I will not,” Hunter said.
Quinnar stared back at Hunter, stunned into silence for a moment; then he flashed an angry glare at Dax. “I will not have him risk the security—”
“I will handle it,” Dax replied coolly.
Hunter wove his arms together. “Forget it. I won’t do it.”
Dax held out a palm to Hunter to quiet him. To Quinnar he said, “I said I’ll handle it. Our location won’t be compromised.”
Quinnar’s expression remained stony, but he eventually gave in and managed a small acquiescent nod. “You best be right.”
Dax gestured with a tilt of his head for Hunter to follow and headed back to the road. Zinnuvial, without comment, fell in pace alongside Hunter.
When they were out of earshot, Dax glanced his way. “It would behoove you to not antagonize him. He is quickly provoked, and I have only so much sway over him.”
“It makes no fucking sense to blindfold me, Dax. I don’t know the first thing about this city of yours.”
“You will need to trust me,” Dax replied. “In the future, let me speak.”
Trust.
Hunter wanted to scoff at that, but the truth was, Dax was right. He had no choice but to trust him. He was apparently the only one in this world who didn’t want him dead.
The road emerged from the trees and rolled out over the broad green plain of the valley, the city walls once again in view. In time, the road merged with another wider and more established road, one brimming with travelers heading to and from the city—much of it on foot, but oxcarts and horse-drawn carriages threaded through the flow as well. Canopy tents, decorated with colorful flags and streamers, appeared on the shoulders, filled with vendors behind tables. Fruits and vegetables, bolts of cloth, candles. There was even a table covered in weapons of all sorts, which struck Hunter as disconcerting. It was a symbol of the overt violence of this world. By necessity, it appeared everyone was armed to some degree. The vendors shouted at the travelers passing by, promising better prices than they would find within the city.
Hunter’s eye was drawn to a group that unloaded their wagon on the side of the road. Their skin was a striking bluish-violet tone that reminded Hunter of glacier ice. They each had black hair and ears that rose to form gentle points. A few were arranging tent poles while others unfolded the canvas of their tent. A shirtless man pulled crates from the back of the wagon, arms and shoulders bulging. The sunlight striking the sweat on his torso made it look as if his skin was melting.
Hunter leaned closer to Zinnuvial, who marched at his side like a prison guard. “Who are they?”
Zinnuvial glanced over. “The Mazenti. Nomads from the east, here to sell their wares.” Her tone was cool and impatient, as if it pained her to speak with him.
Hunter found it hard to pull his eyes from them. They were captivating, alluring.
“These were likely turned away,” she added. “Fewer are allowed entry into the city of late.”
“Why is that?”
“Many trade with the Henerans. So they are not trusted and treated with suspicion.”
Farther along, they approached a brightly colored tent considerably smaller than the others. An old man sat behind a table covered in large chunks of clear crystal.
“Witchstone!” he called out to the three of them as they passed. “You won’t find beauties like these in Andreya!”
Zinnuvial curled her lip at the old man. “Charlatan,” she grumbled under her breath.
Hunter remembered seeing a similar chunk of the stone hanging around the neck of the Heneran. “What is witchstone?” he asked.
“Pay him no mind. Likely not real. Or if they are, they are depleted.”
“But what are they?”
Zinnuvial glared at him like he was an idiot.
“I’m not from around here, remember?” Hunter said.
Hunter could tell Zinnuvial was having a difficult time wrapping her brain around that. “Fyrollite. It is the source of power for sorcery.”
Magic power came from rocks?
“Not sold in any city market,” she added. “That is for certain.”
As they drew closer to the gate, the wind shifted, and the scent of rotting meat made his face scrunch. He glanced at Zinnuvial, ready to ask her where it was coming from—she was looking up toward the crenulated parapet of the wall. Her face hardened, and she turned her eyes away. Hunter followed her gaze. Blackened shapes hung from ropes at the top, and crows squawked and flapped about them, snatching off pieces of flesh in their beaks. Long wooden stakes stood like naked trees atop each crenellation, each with a black hair-covered orb affixed at the top.
He stared in horror, and his mind fought to reject what he was seeing. It couldn’t be real.
“What the hell!” he breathed. “Fucking barbaric.” What kind of civilization was this?
Zinnuvial shifted her eyes his way. “This practice is new. A warning to any entering the city.”
“Are… are those friends of yours?”
Zinnuvial took several moments to respond. She held her eyes on the road in front of her as she walked. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line. “Some. But others were perhaps unfortunate enough to not have enough coin for the new taxes. Or said something in the wrong ear that might be construed as critical of the crown.”
Hunter couldn’t pull his eyes from the gruesome display. Dark stains ran down the stone from each body and Hunter couldn’t help but wonder if they were still alive when they were strung from the wall.
“It is why we fight,” she said.
Dax threw them a look over his shoulder. “Quiet.” He glared directly at Hunter. “Don’t speak.”
The portcullis was drawn up only partway, as if they were preparing to drop it closed at a moment’s notice. It was high enough to walk under, but the larger wagons entering or leaving the city were being forced to wait for it to be raised higher. Several wagons had been pulled off the road to be inspected. Bored guards leaned on the heavy shafts of their pikes on either side of the wide opening of the gate. They gave the three of them a once-over as they approached. They were dressed in a dense leather armor. The thick chest plate was dyed bloodred, and iron studs lined the shoulders. One of them grabbed a tablet resting on a stool and stepped closer.
“Residents of Andreya?”
“We are,” Dax replied.
“Yes,” Zinnuvial said.
The guard looked at Hunter, awaiting a response. On instinct, he opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again. His accent would give him away as a foreigner.
“I’ll need you to answer,” the guard told him.
“He’s mute,” Dax said. “A horse kicked him in the head.”
The guard considered Hunter a moment with narrow eyes, but then seemed to accept the story. It didn’t surprise Hunter at all. Most people assumed he was a moron when they met him.
The guard looked back down at his tablet and scribbled something. “Why did you leave the city?”
“Hunting,” Dax said. “No luck.”
The guard’s mouth pressed into a line. His eyes took in the long bow in Zinnuvial’s hand. “Very well,” he said. “Move along then.” He returned to his position, and the three of them were already forgotten.
The crowd beyond the gate was a churning mass of bodies, wooden vehicles, and various animals. Everyone was funneled into a narrow street that twisted along like a snake. There were no sidewalks. Carts, wagons, and people all occupied the same limited space. Buildings made of thick timber and fieldstones lined the street with no spaces between them. The second stories reached out over the road, pitching out the sky. Hunter felt like he was entering a canyon. The stench of the place burned his sinuses. Sweat, urine, animals, rotting garbage, and God knew what else was mixed in with it.
He’d spent a good portion of his adult life in a rugby locker room, which made him a bit of an authority on things that reeked. This was worse. A lot worse. This made his insides roil.
“Amazed we didn’t get pulled away for questioning,” Zinnuvial said once they were beyond the guards’ earshot. “They grow more suspicious of those entering the city each day.”
“It will only get worse,” Dax replied. “Her grip is tightening. A day will come when all will be interrogated before being allowed to enter.”
They ducked under a brick arch on the left and entered a less occupied side street that was barely wide enough for three people to walk side by side. The path swerved downhill between tightly packed buildings and stone walls. Behind Hunter, someone called out from a window above, and moments later a loud splash hit the cobbles. People jumped aside and swore up at the woman leaning from the opening.
“What day is it?” Dax asked Zinnuvial.
Her brow was furrowed as she tugged on her ear. Hunter could almost see the calculations happening in her head. “Lundus. The second.”
Dax slowed to a stop and pursed his mouth. “Head back. We will meet you there shortly.”
She raised a single brow at him. “If Master Quinnar asks where you are?”
“Looking for confirmation,” Dax told her.
She nodded, accepting the cryptic answer, and at the next alley, she peeled off from them and disappeared.
Dax glanced his way for only a moment. Despite the hardness of his expression, Hunter thought he saw something else behind his eyes. Sadness? Regret? “Follow me.”
They wound their way through the confusing network of streets. Dax seemed to know where he was heading, but to Hunter, it felt erratic and random. For a while, the crowds had thinned, and the rank smell by the gate had mercifully thinned as well. Dax kept them to the narrower byways. He seemed to be avoiding the more populated areas. Hunter caught a glimpse of a large square crammed with brightly colored tents and throngs of people—a market, apparently.
The city was ancient. Hunter couldn’t gauge how old, but he could feel the deep passage of time around him. Stone buildings were weathered and timeworn. The cobblestone streets had deep parallel ruts that ran their lengths, formed by thousands of carts being dragged up and down them for centuries.
Dax hooked his hand under Hunter’s arm and tugged him into a shadowy alcove.
“What—” Hunter protested, but Dax slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Quiet,” Dax hissed.
A group of four men stomped past, dressed identically in black leather and flowing black capes. Two of them dragged a balding middle-aged man behind them who kicked his legs and fought to gain his feet, but couldn’t get his legs under him. His pants were torn at the knees, and Hunter could see the flesh underneath was scraped and bloodied.
“Wait, please,” the man cried, but the men ignored him.
Dax pressed his body against Hunter, his hand still over Hunter’s mouth. Hunter could feel Dax’s breathing against him.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the man continued. He tried to tug his arm free from the man’s grip. The man in black’s expression changed from indifference to sudden anger. He turned, tightened his hand into a fist, and slammed it into the older man’s temple. Hunter lurched and gasped at the sound of bone cracking, which caused Dax to press harder against his mouth. The man fell limp and he was dragged out of sight.
