The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 05 - Journey to Uniontown

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “You stinking pile of day old ashes from a dung fire,” she added in a lower voice. “I dare you to try to end my life and put me out of my misery. I’ll fight you until the bitter end.”

  “You’re hardly going to entice anyone by calling them dung ashes,” Kestrel blurted out as he stood with his back pressed against the door, his face white with anxiety; even though the room seemed to be slightly less soul-consuming than the rest of the temple environs, the situation was incomprehensible. He was facing something inexplicable, some magic that was beyond his experience. It made no sense, and he had an instantaneous comprehension that what he felt at the moment was what others must have felt at times when he had unleashed some divine tool or ability.

  The woman sat up suddenly, and the expression on her face changed from a teasing allure to a frowning surprise. “How do you understand the words of the west?” she asked.

  Suddenly, Kestrel gasped, as he realized that his mind had heard and translated her words, but the words had not been spoken in the human tongue used by the people of Uniontown. The woman had spoken a language that included a combination of elvish and gnomish words.

  “Where did?” he asked in gnomish, then paused as he tried to remember the word for goat. “Where did the goat go?” he asked, substituting the elven word for the animal. He spoke in a very low voice, almost a whisper. He repeated the question in elvish as well.

  In response, the woman pressed herself away from him, frightened by his knowledge of her language. She strained to move as far as the short bindings on her legs allowed, which was only a little distance.

  “Who are you? Have you come to kill me? Or are you here to save me? Are you Corrant or Kere?” she asked.

  Kestrel laughed, both at the ludicrous question and as a way to relieve his own nervous energy.

  “I’ve met both Kere and Corrant, and Kai as well,” Kestrel said, speaking in the gnomish language still, “and if he were here, he’d pop a stone out of the walls and start talking to you directly; he wouldn’t take the shape of a false priest.

  “No, I’m not the god of the elves or the gnomes. What do you know of Corrant?” Kestrel asked the woman. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you, to talk of Corrant? How do you know the language of his people, imperfectly as you do?” she countered with her own questions, again relying primarily on the elvish language with random gnomish words mixed in.

  Kestrel drew his hood back, letting the light reach his face and showing his purple eyes. “Are these not the eyes of one who has drunk the water of Amethysaquina?” he asked.

  “What nonsense are you blabbering?” the woman asked scornfully.

  “I lived in the Water Mountains one winter, among the gnomes in the village of Amethysaquina, and I drank the water of the holy spring,” Kestrel replied, puzzled himself now, wondering if this was some trap, something that did not feel like a trap, but one that had nonetheless caused him to drop his guard and reveal a part of his identity.

  “You lived among gnomes in the other place, the place of cold?” the woman asked with surprise. “There truly is a place with other gnomes?”

  “What gnomes do you know?” Kestrel asked. He began to unconsciously edge forward from the door, back into the room, astonished by the unbelievable turn of events.

  “I am now from the western mountains, where gnomes have always lived. I am an elf who the gnomes have allowed to live among the mountains since the great evil came and destroyed the southern forest,” the being explained.

  “Are you saying that you lived with gnomes, and elves lived with gnomes as well?” he asked. “Humans and elves and gnomes lived together?”

  “What humans? Yes, gnomes opened their homeland to the elves. It has made them and us more of a target for the darkness, but it was the right thing to do,” the woman answered.

  “But you’re a human, and you talk about living with gnomes and elves,” Kestrel protested.

  “Ah,” the woman answered, just as there came a knock at the door.

  The woman lunged at Kestrel as soon as the knock sounded, catching him unprepared and starting to turn towards the door.

  His head reversed course and whipped around to look at the woman as her hands seized his shoulder and his robe with a grip that was extraordinarily strong, and then she manhandled him with ease, pulling him more fully within her reach and onto the bed with her, as Kestrel began to flail in panic, and heard the door open.

  In another instant her arms were around him, squeezing him tightly, forcing him to lie on top of her, and their lips were forced together in a gross mimicry of a passionate kiss.

  “Things are going well, I see,” a voice came from the direction of the doorway. Kestrel wrenched his head up away from the woman, fearful and confused by the inexplicable situation, as well as aware of the feeling of the presence of evil gnawing at his soul.

  Kestrel turned and saw one of the priests from the doorway looking at the couple on the bed. “She’s certainly treating you properly,” the tone of the man’s voice sounded highly disappointed. “She’s a real beauty this time, and apparently eager to please.

  “You are a lucky man,” the priest’s gaze shifted slightly, from the woman to Kestrel, and his eyes widened as he looked at Kestrel’s face.

  “Oh Horror Incarnate! You’ve got purple eyes! You’re the Destroyer!” the man backed out of the doorway as he spoke in horror, and he began to flee from the room.

  In response Kestrel’s hand whipped around behind his back and ripped Lucretia from beneath his robe, then threw the knife away. He watched it fly through the doorway and then turn sharply to the right as it followed the priest in his effort to escape.

  The mysterious woman’s arms dropped away from Kestrel and he hastily pushed himself up. “What were you doing?” Kestrel asked in a shocked voice.

  “Who are you?” the woman responded, propping herself up with her elbows beneath and behind her. “Your knife! It flies as it wants!”

  “I’ll be back in a second,” Kestrel said, then darted out into the hall and found the dead priest just steps beyond the doorway. He reappeared moments later, dragging the dead priest heavily into the room, and slammed the door shut.

  “Let me think, think, think,” Kestrel spoke to himself. He stared vacantly at the woman for a moment, then focused on her. “Can I trust you?” he asked her, stooping to pull the knife out of the back of the dead priest.

  “I will do you no harm,” she said indignantly, then flinched as Kestrel thrust his knife blade forward. She watched as the blade suddenly swept downward and sliced through the two pieces of rope that tied her legs to the bed frame.

  As soon as the blade touched the ropes it caused the ropes to dissolve into black smoke, and released a pair of ear-piercing screams.

  “Blessed relief! You undid their spells! You are a powerful mage!” the woman looked at Kestrel in wonder.

  Kestrel stuffed the knife back into his belt, then pulled the robe off the dead priest. “Here,” he thrust the robe at the girl. Use this as a disguise. You might be able to get out of here. Go fast, before they come looking for the dead priest.” He stepped over to the door and started to grab the handle.

  “What about you? Aren’t you going to get away? Do you know an escape route?” she stood and stepped over next to him.

  “There’s something I have to do first,” Kestrel said. “That’s why I came here. I just had to pretend to be a priest and pretend to want to fulfill their ritual sacrifice to get into the temple.”

  “Are you fighting against them? Let me help you!” the girl asked.

  “I don’t have a great chance of winning,” Kestrel said modestly, and as he said it he realized the truth of his words. “You’re better off to escape.”

  “If you’re that desperate, then you need help,” she rebutted. “Stop arguing and lead the way.

  “No, wait,” she paused and looked down at the dead priest, then closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked exactly
like the priest.

  It was Kestrel’s turn to back away in astonishment. “What are you?” he whispered.

  “I’m your friend tonight. Get going and we’ll talk,” the copy of the priest replied.

  Kestrel knew his eyes were wide and his face was undoubtedly pale as he opened the door and slipped out. “Which way?” his companion asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kestrel muttered. “Let’s try that way,” he raised an arm hidden within its oversized sleeve and pointed to the left, then began to lead the way.

  “What’s your name?” Kestrel asked.

  “I’m Lake; what’s your name?” she answered.

  “Kestrel,” he replied. A flight of stairs rose to the right, and Kestrel led the way up.

  “Why are we going up?” Lake asked. “What are we looking for?”

  “There’s an artifact, a skin of water. Anyone who drinks the water is immune to the lies and the influence of the Viathins, the monsters,” Kestrel answered. “It was stolen from us, and I’m here to get it back before it’s destroyed.”

  “A drink of the water will protect one from the evil power? How much of the water is there?” Lake asked as they ran upstairs.

  “The skin is enchanted; the flow of water is endless. Hundreds have drunk from it already,” Kestrel replied. The stairs passed a landing, and he stepped off, then looked both left and right down the adjoining hallway. The light of his small lantern illuminated only a few yards of hall in either direction.

  “The priests at the gate told me they were going to do something extraordinary on the roof,” Kestrel told his strange companion as they caught their breath.

  “Then I say we keep climbing the stairs,” Lake replied.

  They resumed the climb, and at the next landing the character of the stairs changed, becoming a curving staircase contained by rounded walls. “We’re going up a tower, it seems,” Kestrel said, and a minute later they stopped at a window.

  “Keep the lantern down,” Lake hissed as Kestrel started to look out the window, their two heads poked next to one another to observe the scene outside.

  They had a clear view of the sky above, and the city skyline straight ahead. Below them there was a flat roof, and a circle of people in priestly robes around an altar that was lit by candles. Something dark rested on the table among the candles, something that was the right size to be a water skin.

  Kestrel grabbed Lake’s arm excitedly. “That’s it! That’s where I need to go,” he said.

  “Let’s go back down,” she answered. “How do you plan to get it, this mystical water skin? It’s surrounded by people.”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Kestrel said in a hesitant voice, thinking about the few protuberances he had seen on the roof. There were few places to hide, and only one apparent way to reach the roof, through a set of stairs he had spotted on the opposite side of the ceremony.

  They returned to a landing, and began to walk in the direction of the other staircase Kestrel had seen lead to the roof. As they approached a group of priests walking towards them, Kestrel hastily pulled his hood up to hide his eyes, and they passed without incident.

  “Here,” Lake tugged on his robe as she walked behind him, and he saw that there was a narrow hallway that led to a stairway on the right.

  Together they walked up one flight of stairs that ended at a doorway, and Kestrel saw through the narrow opening that there were candles flickering on the open rooftop, a sign that they had reached the rooftop ceremony.

  “You stay here,” Kestrel hissed. “I’ll try to circle around them and get the water skin from the other side, then lead them in that direction. I’ll circle back to here, and we can try to escape through the temple.

  “That’s your plan?” Lake asked scornfully. “That’s a wish, not a plan.”

  “Hold the door and be ready to open it to let me in when I head this way,” Kestrel instructed, ignoring the truth of Lake’s comment, and he slowly edged out of the door, then began to flit from fixture to fixture, seeking cover as he moved to the opposite side of the roof. He heard but paid no attention to the spoken words coming from the gathering of Ashcrayss’s followers.

  His attention that was not focused on the route he was to follow was instead focused within himself, reaching for the energy that Kai had directed towards him. He could feel the power, and he believed he could trigger its use in a needed situation; he didn’t know if he would be able to shape it or control it once it was released. He had not shaped the power when it had arisen in the past, but it had done the correct, best thing every time it had emerged.

  Yet the feeling of oppression and evil that permeated the temple of Ashcrayss seemed to be staining him while he was in the temple, and seemed to be at war with the power within him. He was uncertain and concerned about how the power would react, though he had faith in its greater ability.

  He stooped to hide and watched the people in the circle. They were all holding hands, chanting together, and it appeared to Kestrel that the air within their circle was slowly filling with a green mist that was coalescing out of nothing. He pulled his knife free, determined to break the circle to disrupt the energy that was gathering, and he threw the knife at a man whose back was turned towards his hidden spot.

  The man screamed, and the green mist drew in upon itself, coalescing in a dense cloud over the central altar as the dead man fell and broke the circle.

  “Lucretia, return,” Kestrel whispered, then he moved to his right as soon as he had the knife in hand and hid again. He popped up and released the knife as soon as he saw a man on the far side of the circle. The priests in the circle were all turning towards his direction, and he ran back in the direction he had just come from, calling his knife after him.

  He ran to a chimney and hid again, sure that the priests knew where he was, and that his hiding space was of no great value. He hoped that the men in the robes were disorganized and angry, unlikely to react to his next move rationally.

  Kestrel sprang out from behind the chimney, and reached within himself to call forward the power that waited there. He desperately needed protection from the priests and from the powers of Ashcrayss.

  To his joy, he saw a clear path towards the altar where the water skin sat, and he darted in a straight line.

  “Apostate!” one of the priests shouted as Kestrel appeared in his robes, and he saw all the men on the roof raise their hands and point at him.

  As their hands came up, a series of bright flashes erupted. Around Kestrel a white shield simultaneously burst forth from within him, providing divine protection, while rays of green light shot out from the priests’ pointing fingers and converged on Kestrel’s darting figure. He saw the altar before him, coming ever closer as his momentum carried him forward, but the vision before him became clouded with green as the hostile energy of the priests surrounded him and compressed his shield of white energy.

  Kestrel threw his knife at a random priest, hoping to disrupt the attack he was suffering. He leaped up onto the altar, passing into the cloud of misty green energy, and kicked several of the candles aside as he wildly passed over the surface while reaching down to snatch the water skin in the center of the surface.

  And as he picked the skin up, the altar exploded beneath him. Kestrel flew into the air, and felt the faltering green rays pierce his shield of energy. He landed on the roof surface halfway between the altar and the stairway door he was seeking, and laid momentarily still on his aching back, screaming in spiritual and physical pain as the green energy stabbed at him with loathing and anger and pain.

  The door of the stairway burst open, and Lake, still wearing the priest’s robe, but now looking like a gnome, burst out of the dark shadows. The shapeshifter held an armful of broken bricks that had been smashed loose from the stairwell walls. His right arm flew backwards and then forward, hurling the bricks with extraordinary force at the priests that were the remnants of the disrupted ceremony, cracking ribcages and skulls with an uncanny force that sent
the survivors scattering in fear.

  Lake stooped and picked up Kestrel easily with one strong hand, eliciting a shout of pain as Kestrel rose to his feet, and then the pair were running towards the edge of the roof, to escape an eruption of new forces that were coming up the stairs and joining the fray.

  “Are you alright, mighty power?” Lake asked Kestrel as he ran towards the darkness.

  “I feel wrong,” Kestrel moaned. “The altar did something to me.

  “Can we get away?” he immediately asked.

  Lake stopped at the edge of the roof, looking down several stories to the ground below, as a score of men mobbed the roof and began to search for the two who had interrupted their rite. Kestrel slid out of Lake’s arms, his back feeling sore, and his spirit feeling contaminated. He held the water skin of Decimindion in one hand and his knife in another.

  Looking through the darkness to where candles flickered on and around the altar, Kestrel threw his knife at the man who was furthest away from his hidden spot, hoping to draw the searchers in the wrong direction. After he released the knife he looked over at Lake.

  “You not only look like a gnome, you threw those bricks like a gnome,” he said. “I watched gnomes in the mountains go hunting in the winter by throwing stone at the game we stalked. You were good.”

  “Thank you,” Lake said, then suddenly ducked as he saw a spear flying through the air at them. “I’ve lived among the gnomes enough to appreciate the value of their strength; it’s worth copying.

  “I’m afraid we’ve been spotted. Still, I’d rather go down fighting here on the roof than continue to have to fight off sacrificial battles any longer.”

  Kestrel called his knife and threw it again, then repeated the effort, before a series of spears and arrows drove him to crouch low at the roof’s edge. He was on the edge of unconsciousness, feeling pain and dizziness, confusion and discomfort from the after-effects of the evil energy at the altar.