by Brian Fuller
“Well, Maewen, I think we would do well not to let the caravan get anywhere near this place. Honestly, I wish this city were a little more like Mikmir for our purposes. You could send a toddler from one side of this town to the other with a bag of gold and his innocence and he would get to the other side without endangering either. This may be harder than we thought.”
To hear such a cautionary statement from one of the most reckless, foolhardy people she could imagine sent a chill up Maewen’s spine, but she gathered her resolve and turned her horse back toward the Portal to Elsen and its nearby cluster of buildings. If the Church managed to get Gen into Elde Luri Mora, then no one would have a chance at recovering him. Tenswater was their only opportunity, and she would take it.
For the next hour they scouted the route to several Portals close to the one from Elsen that they could escape to once the job was done. They purchased plain but sturdy swords from a local merchant, who was surprised but pleased to have sold so many at once. Hardman removed his cloak and bundled the swords inside to carry them less conspicuously.
As evening settled in, lanterns flared to life and a chill rode upon a northern breeze. Hardman and Maewen tied the horses to a tree at a small park adjacent to the Portal to Elsen and snacked while they waited for their cue. The cold air emptied the streets, but the Portal Mage remained at his post, eying the two strangers across the way with curiosity and a little suspicion. Only the Portal flashing blue tore his eyes from them. Maewen and Hardman stood, moving quickly to the horses, but only a solitary figure astride a horse emerged before the Portal winked out.
“It’s Torbrand,” Maewen said. “This is not a good omen.”
Hardman whistled and signaled their companion over. “What news?” Hardman asked. “What are you doing here?”
“Our little plan has run into a hitch,” Torbrand reported, breath channeling the ale he had recently imbibed. “The Churchmen are clearing the street and shutting everyone indoors. They’ve posted a contingent of guards at the Portal. I had to be very persuasive to win my way here.” As he finished, the unmistakable sound of armored men marching sank Maewen’s heart.
“We should have attacked them last night,” Hardman muttered.
“Let’s get clear of here,” Torbrand suggested. “If we can get down a side street, we might be able to remain close enough to see what is happening. If we stay here, they will force us into the nearest building. Ride now!”
Maewen and Hardman mounted quickly and rode after Torbrand. They crossed the street into a smaller road to the side of the Portal Mage’s house. To their right a file of at least fifty men in polished chainmail with white tabards marched toward the Portal in perfect cadence. As the three fled into the smaller avenue, they spotted a smaller contingent of soldiers rounding up groups of bewildered townsfolk and forcing them inside a nearby inn. Their leader, a muscular, clean-shaven warrior atop a bulky gray warhorse, signaled for the fleeing trio to stop.
“My apologies, citizens. You must dismount and go inside until we signal that the way is clear.”
“We have business just beyond here,” Torbrand explained casually. “May we not continue and enter there?”
“No,” the warrior answered firmly. “Tie your horses to the rail and get inside. I won’t ask again.”
Maewen admired Torbrand’s restraint as he worked up a relaxed, but annoyed sigh and complied. They tied their horses to the rail as quickly as they could under the close scrutiny of the Church soldier.
“Grab your gear and keep close,” Torbrand whispered.
They took what they could carry and followed Torbrand to the inn door, a commanding tone and expression asserting itself over his former, carefree levity. “We’ll have to hurry to have any chance of this at all. Keep close. We’ll be making for the stairs.”
Maewen turned up her nose as they crammed their way in to the packed common room of The Crooning Loon. The stench of beer and the unnatural warmth and stink of cramped bodies, combined with a steady din, fermented the atmosphere into an uneasy agitation. Torbrand put his muscular frame to good use as he unapologetically and forcefully plowed through the throng, Hardman and Maewen following in his wake. The stairs provided a convenient place to sit due to the paucity of chairs and benches, but Torbrand simply stepped on whomever wouldn’t move until they gained the second story.
Dim lanterns lined the hall where even more people loitered. The former Shadan paused but a moment to consider the doors around him, and then, victim chosen, strode forward and kicked it open without checking to see if it was unlocked already. Patrons screamed and shied away, Maewen gritting her teeth as she plunged into the room after Hardman, finding they had interrupted a plump merchant counting silver coins in a small, ornate box.
“Thieves!” he yelled, clutching the box to his breast like a treasured infant. “Thieves! Guard!”
Hardman’s hand shot out and grabbed the man’s pudgy cheeks in an iron grip while Torbrand yanked open the shutters. “We don’t want your money, pig,” Hardman hissed, eyes intense. “Shut your yap or I’ll cut your tongue out and use it to polish my boots.”
The terrified merchant scooted back on his bed, yanking a gray woolen blanket around himself with his freehand as if he hoped the cloth would ward him from the demon before him.
“Just as I hoped,” Torbrand stated with satisfaction. Maewen went to the window and peered over his shoulder. Beneath the window, an eave sloped downward, terminating at a height just above the lowest part of the Portal Mage’s roof. A five foot gap separated the two. “It will be a little tricky, but manageable.”
Torbrand hoisted himself out the window. Carefully, he stood on the brittle wooden shingles, smiling wickedly as they jiggled, cracked, and slid underneath his feet. “Excellent,” he muttered to no one in particular before crashing headlong down the eave and heaving himself over. Several shingles tumbled over the edge and into the alley, sound covered by the ruckus of marching men. He landed on his stomach with a thud that shook the Portal Mage’s house.
Hardman’s eyes raised speculatively. “I think I’ll let you take the next go at it, lass. I need another example before I attempt that. I’ll barricade the door and make sure this fellow stays quiet for a couple of hours . . . or so.”
Maewen wasted no time, nimbly jumping the distance and landing lightly on her feet. She could only watch in horror as Hardman defenestrated and executed a desperate run and leap with all the grace and poise of a fat, delirious cow. He landed unceremoniously on his side, slipping backward. Torbrand spared him the indignity of falling into the alley with a deft grab of the hand.
Quietly they worked their way to the top of the roof and peered over. Light from the soldiers’ torches illuminated the Portal enclosure, the company forming up on either side of the road.
“I count at least a hundred,” Torbrand informed them. “I can’t see any Puremen or Padras yet. There are at least ten men on horse. I don’t think there is much we can do here, Maewen.”
Maewen’s mind raced down dead end after dead end. Her companions were right. They should have tried to rescue Gen the night before, though even that, she thought, would have ended in defeat. She turned on her back and lay facing the stars, trying to imagine the First Mother’s disappointment at her failure. The Church had learned its lesson about caution from the disastrous caravan journey through Elde Luri Mora.
“I’m sorry Maewen,” Hardman consoled her. “Perhaps tomorrow we can dress as pilgrims and get into Mur Eldaloth. I doubt they’ll let anyone through tonight. I suppose we’ll have to find a different inn. I doubt they’ll let us back into this one. It smelled bad, anyway.”
A flash of blue signaled the Portal opening, and they crawled back up to the apex of the roof and peered over. A Padra came through first, followed by marching Church soldiers. At last, four black horses and the wagon pulled through, followed by another Padra and the remaining soldiers. Once they were through, the Portal winked out and the caravan stopped as the
soldiers took their places, the fresh soldiers replacing their travel-weary brothers.
“So close,” Maewen whispered to herself.
“May I join you for a moment?”
All three startled, nearly losing their balance on the slanted roof. A woman, dressed in black and veiled walked easily up the incline toward them. Her voice sounded aged, and her back was bent with time. The slightly acrid smell of old ash accompanied her as she walked past them and stood at the top of the roof, careless of the eyes that might see her silhouetted against the sky. Maewen cast warning glances at her companions, who already had hands on weapons.
“You will appreciate this, elf,” the woman said. “Come watch. They will not see you.” Despite the reassurance, they took pains to present the smallest profile to those below. The woman incanted and gesticulated. A cracking sound momentarily silenced the soldiers as the wagon tongue broke in two and fell. The Padra behind the wagon spurred forward, casting his eyes around. With another chant and a downward motion, the wagon quickly and quietly sank into the ground, the driver heaving himself to the side to avoid interment. When done, the road appeared as solid as it ever had, soldiers and Pardras gawking at it in disbelief.
“I want ten men digging in this spot right now!” the Padra shouted. “I want every Portal Mage in the city rounded up and taken to the the Bastion immediately. No one leaves this shard until that wagon is found. Double the city guard. Call up every soldier. Search every building! Go!”
The woman turned and casually walked down the roof. “My time is coming and I must go. Take care of Gen. He is your only hope.”
“Where is the wagon?” Torbrand asked.
“Your elven tracker will find it,” she answered. “Good night.” She jumped from the roof and was gone.
“Was that who I think it was?” Hardman asked.
“Joranne,” Maewen confirmed.
“Why would she help us?” Hardman followed, sounding perplexed. “From what I was told of Three Willow, she had tried to capture Gen for herself, but it appears if she is simply content to let us have him now when he is within her power.”
“I do not know,” Maewen responded. “Her mind is dark and twisted, her reasons her own.”
“Can you find the wagon?” Torbrand asked, scooting downward toward the roof edge. “Will they survive being buried in the dirt?”
“I can find it. She is using a spell the elves perfected for traveling within the earth. They should be quite safe. We, on the other hand. . .”
Maewen let the thought trail off as they dropped into the alley and waited in the shadows as the mass of soldiers broke apart in groups and scattered.
“They will lock the entire city down,” Torbrand stated. “It will be amusing to see what tale they offer as justification, and even more amusing to see how we will get off this shard.”
Hardman asked, “How far away is the carriage, Maewen?”
“I cannot say for sure. Come. I think we can sneak by now.” They turned away from the main street that led by the front of the inn, slipping to the rear of the structure and ducking down behind a low fence that bordered a tree-lined road.
“I can see two of the Church soldiers,” Maewen announced, peering into the dark. “They seem at their ease.”
“Only two?” Hardman complained.
Chapter 60 – Underground
“We’re dead,” Volney lamented, voice echoing in the impenetrable darkness. “We’re dead and in the Abyss. What did I do to deserve this?”
“We’re not in the Abyss,” Gerand disagreed, voice exasperated. “For Eldaloth’s sake, Volney, get a hold of yourself. This is no worse than the sacks they put us in before.”
“I expected there would be a lot more pain and torture, perhaps with some fire or demons, but I think the dark will drive me barking mad.”
“You already are,” Gerand said. “Look, people go to the Abyss when they die and if they have been disposed to evil. We sank into the ground. Didn’t you hear them shouting in surprise? This was some sort of magic. If we could get out of this accursed wagon, we might just find our way to light. If you listen carefully, you can hear the wind moaning from time to time. That means there is a way to the surface.” Gerand yanked at the bars, kicked the lock, and then slumped down in frustration. “At any rate, since they can’t drug Gen anymore, perhaps he’ll wake up and have some sort of brilliant idea.”
Since their disastrous encounter with Padra Nolan on the floating dock, the Puremen who fed them their meals had always forced Gen to drink some foul-smelling liquid. Not once since their capture and entrapment within the carriage had Gen managed any sort of coherency, even if he managed to open his confused, bleary eyes. Gerand shook him, eliciting a brief moan.
“Why do you think they did that to him and not to us?” Volney wondered aloud. “Drug him, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Gerand admitted, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve asked myself that on occasion. I would say that they fear that he might use his intelligence, fame, or persuasiveness to find some way out of this rolling jail cell.”
“And what are we, a couple of dog-brained morons?” asked Volney. “We’re both in the upper classes! We’re both educated and eloquent!”
“If that’s the way you feel, if they find us, I’ll ask them to drug you, too—for the sake of your pride and a little peace and quiet. We need to think.”
When the wagon had passed through the ground and into the empty chamber, it fell several feet, splintering the wheels. The carriage rocked back and forth uneasily with their movements. The absolute, enveloping dark clouded their notion of the passage of time. They said little save to engage in inane conversation just to gain the reassurance that another person waited with them in the dark.
Gen began breathing more shallowly, turning restlessly and mumbling.
“I think he’s coming out of it,” Volney observed hopefully.
“And I think it’s getting lighter out there,” Gerand added.
After butting heads with Volney scrambling for the window slit, Gerand gripped the bars and peered out, noticing a faint orange glow. Periodically, the faint echo of whispered voices would reach their ears, or the staccato of a loose rock kicked about the stone walls.
“We’re definitely in a cave,” Gerand asserted.
“Have the Eldephaere have found us?”
“I don’t think so. Whoever is coming treads lightly without a lot of armor. They are too quiet.”
“And you two thunder mouths are not.”
Maewen’s voice sent a surge of hope through Gerand’s veins, her torch blinding him as she rounded the corner of an underground passageway. Once his eyes settled, he saw that the carriage had fallen into a large, damp cave with stalactites and stalagmites sticking up like points of wet clay.
“I hope Ethris is with you,” Gerand commented.
“He is not,” Maewen reported. “I have Torbrand Khairn and. . .”
“General Harband!” Volney exclaimed. “I’d recognize him anywhere, after all the stories.”
The General executed a small bow for his benefit.
“Recognition is not our friend right now,” Torbrand cautioned seriously, “and neither is the door of that carriage, I assume.”
“It took a Padra incanting some spell to open it,” Gerand confirmed. “We’re trapped, aren’t we?”
“For the time being,” Maewen said, face troubled. “Is Gen well?”
“They drugged him to keep him incapacitated. They usually administered a dose at night when the caravan stopped. They did not get around to that tonight, so perhaps he will wake soon. I don’t know.”
Maewen crouched on the ground and rummaged through her backpack. “Just a moment. Tell me, does he have both of his legs?”
Gerand and Volney both creased their brows. “Yes,” they answered in unison.
“Then he truly is the most dangerous man alive. Put a pinch of this under his nose,” she said, handing Gerand a small pouc
h she produced from her pack. “Just a pinch, mind you.”
“I need a bit more light!” Gerand requested after fumbling in the dark for several seconds. Maewen strode forward and put the torch near the bars.
“What do you mean about Gen and the leg?” Volney inquired, perplexed.
“The Church has sent riders throughout Ki’Hal proclaiming that Gen was the Ilch, attacked Chertanne, and was then killed by him. They say they amputated Gen’s leg and are carting it around to major cities in a grand procession. So you see, if Gen shows up not dead and with both legs attached, the Church has a major credibility problem.”
“Gen? The Ilch? That’s ludicrous!” Volney exclaimed. “Who would believe such a fable? And if Gen is such a liability, why haven’t they killed him? He’s been helpless in this wagon for days!”
“Information, perhaps,” Shadan Khairn ventured. “That would assume, however, that they truly believe he is the Ilch. If they could spend time and search his mind, he might reveal some clues as to what Mikkik was up to. Of course, with Chertanne dead, I suppose the outcome of the prophecy is already set.”
“Chertanne is dead!?” Gerand nearly smashed Volney’s face into the bars as he shot from Gen’s side. Volney’s mouth hung silently open as his companion pushed him out of the way. “Who killed him?”
“Keep your voice down,” Maewen hissed. “Jaron killed him. Few know that. Mirelle was able to sneak the news to us before she left for Aughmere.”
In the wagon, Gen began to wheeze and cough.
Maewen looked behind her nervously. “I’ll tell you all we know when Gen awakes. I dislike telling the same story twice. Return the pouch to me, please.”
Gerand complied, returning to Gen’s side, helping him struggle to a sitting position, clarity returning to his troubled, dark-rimmed eyes.
“Easy, Gen,” Gerand cautioned.
Gen sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Where am I? The last thing I remember was greeting Padra Nolan on the dock.”
