Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Stopping, John slung off his pack, the women doing likewise, John motioning the Weird to wake Golden, which she did by snapping her fingers, Golden coming around but remaining groggy.

  The pressure of traveling through stony land relieved, John was exhausted; so tired he was having trouble forming thoughts.

  Hardly knowing what he did, the others waiting patiently for him, John turned to look back into Malachite, still able to make out the nearest "fog dump," the shaft of mist grown thick enough to resemble a "water spout" at sea. (John had seen a tornado sucking up a water column from the ocean -- in a TV special about weather.) Watching the fog "pour" down that "spout," then spread out over the ground to all sides, John wondered -- knowing that the citizens of this world always "went to ground" for the night -- if anyone else had ever observed these "fog pours."

  It was then, as John gazed out over the cloudy plain, that he saw a bird wing out from Stil-de-grain to enter the "air space" of the Malachite plain, John continuing to track the bird (hawk, eagle, buzzard?) the great fowl wheeling, fighting the increased gravity under the gloomy, gray-green sky. Men had always envied the birds their ability to fly, their freedom. Da Vinci had made a study of gulls in an effort to copy their wing movements, the result -- Leonardo's sketch of a "flying machine." Too bad that a man's chest muscles lacked the strength to "row" him into the air.

  Modern technology had provided super-light material, however. Using materials like mylar, man had achieved his dream of flying like the birds, by unaided muscle power. Technicians had built a man powered "bird" at last. Not "lofted" by man's feeble arms but by his much more robust legs. Bicycle peddles .........

  It was then that the bird ... fell! Straight down! Directly into the last "pour."

  Though John could not see the bird hit the foggy ground, he heard it! An impact like a thunderclap, the bird hammered in an instant to a film of blood and flesh. As if a transparent boulder ... had struck it down! A boulder hurled by a huge, invisible behemoth!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17

  Now, just before up-light, the inn was packed with boisterous men, young men, grizzled old men: soldiers, merchants, travelers -- all waiting for up-light to drive away the terrors of the dark. Though he could hear them across the crowded, table cluttered room, Golden could barely see them.

  Golden and the others had been there most of the night, the Weird grumbling, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin ordering a halt. And that was fine with Golden. Golden needed a drink.

  They had finished eating a late meal: bread, gravy and deer meat, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin leaving the table to take the Weird upstairs to their sleeping room.

  The Weird. Golden reproached himself for being so afraid of the old woman.

  The girl was still at the food-stained table, Golden hardly able to make out her small face in the room's insufficient torch light.

  Even drink could not blot out what had happened on the journey through the land of giants when he'd been under the Weird's power. That was why he drank. Better to be drunk than to remember. Vaguely, Golden realized he must pull himself together. He was still Golden. The Weird had not stolen his soul. At least, she had given it back to him.

  Guarded by Mage-Magic as he was, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had also been afraid. Though the Mage had not been frightened of the giants at first, he'd seen something ... dreadful ... in that awful land. Golden could tell by the questions of the Mage that morning. Always questions. But this time, serious ones. About the giants. Questions about what the Mage called "fog pours."

  Early in the morning after their escape, fog still upon the ground, the Mage had Golden bury the soldier's uniform and the other clothing identifiable as Malachite, after that, had sent the rest of them ahead to find a road that went toward Hero Castle where the Mage wished to go. But the Mage said he was going back into the land of the giants to experiment with "fog pours." Insane! But how could a man argue with a Mage?

  Golden had thought he might never see the Mage again; that the giants would kill John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.

  Later, though, a shout from behind had told them John-Lyon-Pfnaravin lived, Golden yelling back so that the Mage would know they were on the road ahead.

  They had waited, Pfnaravin presently appearing. Talking. Talking about what the Mage had called "gravity traps." About a thickening of gravity in spots so that the fog was pulled down to earth. About how birds flying over these heavy spots of gravity would be mashed flat. How, if you threw small rocks, they would fall down fast over such places. About sticking a branch into a gravity trap and having the end of it smashed to splinters on the rocks below. It was like Band sickness, the Mage had said. Terrible Band sickness -- but only in small areas.

  While the Mage seemed able to smile at that, Golden needed to drink to forget the land of the giants; to forget that the Weird had taken away his soul.

  And that was what Golden had been doing at every inn after that. Drinking to forget, drinking to shift his mind to something pleasant -- like love songs -- Golden trying to remember one he always liked. How did it start? Was it: "What is it makes me love so true?" .....

  The rest was ... gone.

  Golden's fear was ... not.

  "'Nother drink, here!" Golden yelled over the din, the overworked tavern keeper signaling that he had heard. A tiny inn. One barkeep -- the owner. So many men drinking. Soldiers. War. The coming war.

  Golden was more depressed than ever when he thought of war. Led astray by the usurper, how many of his people would be killed? Two bad kings. His uncle, Lithoid. And Yarro of Stil-de-grain. Without them, there would be no war.

  A shaking of his arm aroused Golden. Head on the table, Golden had almost been asleep. "You must go to the room, now," said the girl, in Stil-de-grain.

  The barman was also there with the new cup of wine, picking up the empty cup, wiping up a spill.

  "You get 'way fro' me," Golden said to the Malachite girl. She understood simple words in her native tongue, enough to learn that Golden didn't take orders from her.

  Golden fumbled out a gold from his purse, slapping it on the table for the barman, drawing tight the purse strings with exaggerated care, returning the purse to his belt pouch.

  "I'll get you your change, sir," said the Stil-de-grain barkeep.

  "You do that," Golden said, also in Stil-de-grain. Got to be careful what language you used here. War fever. Dangerous.

  The barkeep walked away with the gold, a gold piece saying that Golden was a man of property. Get better service.

  Across the room, Golden could see the tavern owner talking to men at the counter, the bartender gesturing at Golden with his eyes. Probably telling them Golden was a rich man. Get better service.

  Golden drank deeply, the pleasant burn of alcohol fuzzing up his memories. Like it should. Drank to forget. The Weird. The war.

  "You must go," said the girl again, tugging at the sleeve of Golden's traveling cloak. Cloak of a trader, Golden to be a merchant, now. Keep them safe. Dangerous times. With a final gulp, Golden downed the rest of the wine.

  "Come," said the girl, standing, pulling on Golden's arm. "The Mage wishes it."

  "Leav' me alone!" Golden cried. "You got cat hair on 'ya. Leav' me alone!"

  Rough hands seized Golden then, pulling him to his feet. Who ...? Golden looked around with bleary eyes. There was an evil laugh in his ear. Three of the men who had been at the counter were holding Golden up.

  "So," said one of the men quietly, "you speak Malachite when drunk." Golden could see that the man was a soldier. "Spies shouldn't drink. Makes you careless." Spies? What did the man mean? "Take the girl, too."

  "Want me to tie 'em?"

  "No. Take them upstairs to our room. We'll secure them there. Don't want to start a riot here. Don't know how many others here are spies."

  "Look like Stil-de-grainers, to me," said another voice.

  "Might not matter. Drunks like to fight. Who knows? This crowd might even want to kill the spies. Yarro wouldn't like that.
And it is never wise to anger Yarro." There were mutterings of assent.

  Golden was at a loss. Could not follow what was happening. "So let's do this quietly. After most have left, we'll get them out then." Golden had only understood one word.

  "Spies?" Golden asked. "Who?"

  "Let's go upstairs and discuss that, sir," said the first man, Golden feeling himself held up the armpits, pressed between two men, the third taking Platinia's wrist.

  Then, they were being led through the revelers, the others shouting at them, laughing, calling insults about Golden being so drunk he needed help getting to bed. The men beside him smiled and shouted back good naturedly. To the stairs at the back. Up the stairs. Stumbling, being lifted, dragged. Past ... the Mage ... who was coming down.

  The first stroke of luck was that John was upstairs when Golden and Platinia had been arrested. For he might have been captured, too. Had either Golden or Platinia made a mistake that had them typed as spies? The second, that no one had noticed the look of horror on John's face when he realized what had happened to the others. Coming down the inn stairs after getting Zwicia settled, it had been a shock to see that Golden and Platinia were in the custody of soldiers.

  Not knowing what had happened, John thought it better to pretend not to know his friends, even though Platinia's eyes pleaded so piteously for him to help her.

  John's third break was that up-light had come, most men in the bar able to leave to go about their business, John stepping to the end of the bar to order a tankard of the sweet beer they sold in Stil-de-grain, knowing that a free question came with the price of every drink.

  Up-light translating John's English into Stil-de-grain, he could find out what he needed to know.

  "What's going on?" John asked, taking the foaming stein from the barkeep, sipping the bubbles, wiping his wet mouth on the back of his hand as was the time-honored practice. John rolled his eyes at the stairs.

  "Ya' mean them two?" The barman twitched his head at the stairs, one hand scratching his ample belly through his coarse, beer stained tunic, the other polishing the counter with a rag.

  "I was coming down and it looked like soldiers had arrested somebody."

  "That's right. Spies. Turned 'em in myself."

  "Spies? How'd you know they were spies?"

  "Heard the spy speak Malachite. Just before up-light, it was. Somethin' funny about 'em. Paid with a gold."

  "Do you get a reward for turning in ... the spies?"

  "Just the gold." The barkeep smiled his overly friendly, gap toothed grin.

  "I've been hearing rumors about a war. Do a little business around the band. Travel some. I don't get out this way much."

  "Had to fight 'em before, and we'll do 'er agin."

  "Good for business, though," John said.

  "You're right there. Lots of travelers in a war." The barkeep leaned closer. "Now don't take this wrong," he said, pleased to have an opinion to pass on, "but this 'en might not be sa easy."

  "That right?"

  "Yeah. Had the Mage for the last one. But he's dead. Least ways, that's what I hear. And, being so close to the Mage's castle as we are, I figure that's right."

  "What's the Mage's name, again?"

  "Melcor."

  "He's dead, then?" It seemed that though there was a lot of talk about Mages, common men had no contact with them.

  "That's what I hear. Accident, I heard."

  "Malachite got a Mage and we don't, is that it?"

  "They don't got one neither. Pfnaravin's their Mage. But he's gone. Been gone since the Mage War. No. It'd be even on that score. But I hear tell that the Malachites is joined ...," the barkeep lowered his voice, settling over the counter on his powerful forearms, "to the Black Band." The barkeep made a sour face. To match his breath. Straightening, he wiped an imaginary beer drop off the counter.

  "That true?" John took another drink, trying to look like someone passing time with a little conversation.

  "Like the las' time."

  "Mage war?"

  "That's right. 'Cept we got no Mage no more. If they're with the ... you know who ... then they got magic and we don't."

  "And then there's spies like those others." John jerked his thumb at the stairs behind him. "The soldiers will take them to the Capital, I suppose? To Xanthin?"

  "I guess. What else'd you do with spies? Try to make 'em talk. Tell where their friends is."

  And that was all John could learn from the inn-keeper.

  Needing to trail Platinia and Golden, John went upstairs to explain the situation to the Weird; had gotten Zwicia to part with some of her hocus-pocus money for traveling expenses. (He could only hope she'd stay in the inn where he'd told her to remain, John still hoping her Crystal was the key to his return to "the world," an attempt he'd been forced to delay -- again!)

  John's luck holding, he avoided capture during the days he trailed the soldiers and their prisoners, John able to blend in with other travelers along the way.

  Nor was John seen taking the cable ship across the river, nor recognized when buying passage on the ferry the soldiers took to Xanthin island.

  Off the boat in Xanthin, shoving his way through the crowd (the soldiers themselves having trouble making progress,) John tracked the guards long enough to see that, sure enough, they were taking Golden and Platinia to Yarro's palace. Just where in the palace, John had a good idea.

  Certain of Platinia's ultimate destination, John had doubled back to the harbor to be impressed with how many naval vessels crowded the docks -- the King of Stil-de-grain also preparing for war.

  If John's luck held and this world worked like Medieval England, the king would even have called his merchant ships home, increasing John's chance of finding the Roamer.

  And there she was, tied near the end of a mole!

  Swinging on board, renewing acquaintances, John found the crew pleased to see him but angry at being prevented from taking on cargo, Yarro fearful that someone would carry intelligence to Malachite, the best way of maintaining security, preventing any ship from leaving the harbor.

  The comradery of shipmates plus the captain's irritation with King Yarro had made it possible for John to enlist Coluth (and two handpicked sailors) in John's plot to "spring" Golden and Platinia.

  All background, leading to the moment; John and the three sailors rowing a fishing skiff along the back side of Yarro's Palace-on-the-cliff.

  "There," John said, pausing in mid-stoke to point at an indentation in the beach, the captain nodding, giving the order to the sailors rowing at the back to steer for the land.

  John and the captain continuing to ply their oars, the Captain's men, Orig and Philelph, used their paddles as rudders to turn the dinghy so that its bow nosed onto the narrow strand beneath the sheer rock cliff.

  John double checked the location. ....... Yes! There was the hole in the cliff where Golden had hidden the rowboat that had allowed them to escape some months earlier. If only Golden's pins were still in the cliff ....

  Grounding the craft on the sand, unpacking the skiff, the four of them walked along the sandy base of the sheer stone embankment, John leading, the sailors behind him shouldering coils of various weights of rope, grappling hooks, cargo harness, and one gigantic pliers-like chain breaker. It helped to have well equipped friends in the merchant marine, no doubt of that.

  Just around the next bend should be where Golden had climbed down the cliff, an involuntary shudder racking John at the memory of carrying Platinia down Golden's slender rope!

  Yes! Coming to the spot, looking up, John could see the first of the iron pegs just above his head. "There's the first one."

  "I see it," said captain Coluth. "Ya see it, Orig?"

  "Right, sir," said the wiry, little man.

  Unlimbering a great coil of knotted line, Orig tossed up the end of the rope, its grapple catching on the peg, Orig climbing hand over hand to the stanchion. Once there, holding the spike with one hand, the wiry old sailor swung the grappl
e to the next higher peg, missing only once, hooking it on the second try.

  Monkeying up the rope, he repeated the process until he'd scaled the cliff, the long, knotted rope trailing down for the rest of them to climb, all pulling up with ease -- even John -- who, while increasingly nervous as he gained height, was pleased to be able to climb without the help of the cargo harness the captain had insisted on bringing as a means of hauling landlubber John up the cliff. (Band sickness in reverse meant that John had his super strength back now that he'd returned to Stil-de-grain.)

  The four of them standing on the plateau behind the back of Yarro's Palace, the sailors checked their gear, Orig coiling his grappling rope, Philelph looping the knotted climbing rope over his shoulder.

  As before, no guards.

  All in readiness, John led the sailors beneath the dungeon window.

  Again, with grapple and rope, the sailors scaled the Palace wall, the building's stone blocks irregular enough for the grapple points to catch.

  This time, John did have to be pulled up in harness. (Not strength, but a sailor's grace and balance on the perpendicular wall was what he lacked.)

  Drenched with sweat, the four of them were now on the narrow ledge outside the high, dungeon window, John pressed against the building, breathing shallowly, the sailors seemingly at ease with the height.

  Though they were prepared to winch out the bars if need be, they found that the iron rods were still bent just as John had left them on his previous escape, meaning their captors had not figured out how John, Golden, and Platinia had escaped from the dungeon. Did the king attribute their getaway to confederates in the Palace? Was it possible the king believed John's magic had aided the three of them to make their break? Who knew what went through people's minds in a Medieval world!

  Tying the climbing rope to the bars, the four of them had an easy time lowering themselves to the dungeon floor.

  To find Platinia and Golden chained as before, no additional security posted to guard them.