Winds of the Wild Sea

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Then . . . then it’s hopeless?” Alanya asked. Donial was afraid his sister would start to cry.

  “I did not say that.” Cheveray tapped his long fingers on the cane. “Anything can be done, Alanya,” he assured the girl. “If one has the will—and sometimes, the means—anything at all can be accomplished. It is simply a matter of how hard one is willing to work for it.”

  “We will do whatever we have to,” Alanya vowed. “We cannot just let Kral rot in there or die on the headsman’s block.”

  “Prison is hard for any free man,” Cheveray agreed. “For a young man raised in the open wilderness, probably harder still.”

  Alanya was about to respond when one of Cheveray’s servants interrupted. “A visitor, sir,” the old man said. “For the young people.”

  Donial felt a surge of certainty. Kral! he thought. Somehow, it must be Kral.

  He practically leapt from his chair. Alanya followed closely, and Cheveray, slowed by his infirmity, hobbled along behind.

  But when they reached the doorway, it was Conor who stood there, not Kral. Donial felt a wave of disappointment, but a shallow one. Conor wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t learned something.

  “What news?” he asked.

  Conor waited until all were gathered in the entry before answering. “I found the man who stole the crown from your uncle. His name is Tremont, and he was near death—is likely dead by now, I’d wager.”

  “So you have it?” Alanya asked anxiously.

  “No,” Conor replied. “Someone stole it from the thief. Three Stygian priests, he said. Doubtless the thing is already in transit back to that dark and mysterious land.”

  “Stygians, eh?” Cheveray pursed his lips. “Bad news, that.”

  “Bad, yes,” Conor agreed. Donial thought the big man almost shivered. “Those Sons of Set make me nervous.”

  “Understandable,” Cheveray said. “Why, when I was in Stygia . . . but you don’t want to hear about that now. Young man, you have done excellent work.”

  “But we still know not where the crown is,” Donial protested.

  “True,” Cheveray admitted. “But we know where it is headed. Nothing we can do at this moment to stop it, I’d wager.”

  “Anyway, Conor,” Alanya put in, “we have something else to deal with right now. We have discovered where our friend is.”

  “And he’s in prison,” Donial added. Perhaps this new information could help alleviate the suspicion that Kral had had anything to do with their uncle’s death, or Rufio’s. But how could they present it to the authorities? Mitra only knew what laws Conor had broken to discover the thief’s identity.

  “That is correct,” said Cheveray. He looked the big Cimmerian up and down, as if measuring him for a suit of armor—or a shroud. “And you might be able to help us get him out.”

  “I . . . I have some other pressing business,” Conor hedged.

  “It need not take much time,” Cheveray said. “And we could definitely use a big, strong fellow like you. You would be a huge help.”

  “You agreed to help us get Kral back,” Alanya reminded the barbarian. “This is part of the job. We still need to get the crown, but we are not going to Stygia without Kral.”

  “That’s right,” Donial seconded. He still had no idea what Cheveray’s plan might be, or how Conor would fit in. But he didn’t want Conor simply to walk away if there was, in fact, a plan to be put into action. “You have to help.”

  Conor looked uncomfortable. Donial could tell there was someplace else he’d rather be. But finally, apparently accepting that he had already agreed, he gave in. “Very well,” he said. “I will do what I can. What is your plan?”

  7

  KRAL HAD NO intention of peacefully meeting a headsman’s axe.

  As long as he drew breath, he would fight for life. According to Carillus, the jailer, his appointment with the executioner was not far off. He would be transferred from the city jail into a military one, which would be much more rigid and severe, and it was from there that he would be taken when the time came. So Kral was determined to increase his efforts to break free of the dark prison, before he was moved.

  Every night, he tried the door. It was always locked. Carillus never unlocked it—he just slid food trays in through a small opening in the door and occasionally demanded that Kral’s toilet pail be passed out the same way. The opening was too small for Kral to squeeze through, though he had tried. And Kral had not been allowed out of the cell once since he had been locked in. Totlio told him that in years gone by, prisoners had been chained to the walls within their cells. As part of his efforts at modernizing Aquilonia, King Conan had done away with that practice.

  So Kral tried the door, testing to see if it was unlocked, even though he knew it wasn’t. Then he tried the bars set into the thick wood of the door, but they were solid, sturdy. He could not loosen them or break the wood. That done, he turned his attention to the walls. He had guessed, and Totlio confirmed, that the cells were underground. Even if he could dig through one of the cell walls, he figured he would only find earth behind it, or another cell. He would have to dig up and out like a rabbit, and it couldn’t possibly be done in one night.

  The only advantage he had was that at night there was no jailer down in the cell area with them. When Carillus left, locking a door at the top of the curved staircase, the prisoners were alone down here. That was the worst time, for Kral. Several of the prisoners seemed to have slipped over the edge of madness, and at night they laughed, sang, raved, and danced about in their cells like the lunatics they were. During the day, he could at least spend time talking to Carillus and Totlio, and the others, the mad ones, were quieter.

  At night he could devote himself to trying to find a way out of his cell, but each time he did, he reached the same conclusion.

  It was hopeless. He could not break the door, he could not pass through the walls.

  If he was going to get out, someone would have to open the door for him. It was as simple as that.

  Since there were only three people in Tarantia who might care that he was down here, he sincerely doubted that would happen. Until, that was, they came to take him to the chopping block.

  Each night, Kral tried the door, tried the walls, just in case. Then he exercised, doing what he could, in the cramped space, to keep his muscles strong.

  When they came for him, they wouldn’t find a docile victim, weakened by his time in the cell.

  They would find a Pictish warrior, ready for battle.

  WHEN THE JAILER looked up, his face registered surprise at the sight before him. Well it might. He could not have remembered another time when two teenagers, a bent, humpbacked old man in a voluminous purple cloak, and a giant Cimmerian had entered his building together. They came as evening fell, just after the time when the downstairs guard had retired for the night, leaving only him, upstairs to watch over things. That was considered sufficient protection, as the building itself was within a greater compound. Only people who were supposed to be here could pass through the gates into the compound, but fortunately, Cheveray’s connections, combined with judiciously applied bribery, gained them entrance. The gate through which they had come was unguarded, and would remain so for another hour, Cheveray had been promised. None would see them enter or leave.

  The prison building was solid, nearly impenetrable, Alanya guessed. Which only made sense. Its walls were two feet thick, built of solid stone blocks. There were only a few windows, too small for any creature larger than a bird or a mouse to pass through, and set high in the wall. Its sole door was wood reinforced with iron panels and hardware. To that door, however, Cheveray had somehow acquired a key. So instead of knocking and alerting whatever guards waited on the inside, Cheveray had simply unlocked the door, and they all walked in together.

  That was when the guard looked up from the bench on which he sat. “What . . . what do you want?” he demanded. “How did you get in here?”

  “The door was
unlocked,” Cheveray lied.

  “It certainly was not!” the guard insisted. He was a stocky man, with a florid face and a thick brush of dark hair on top of his round head. His sword and helmet sat on the bench near him, but not immediately to hand. Obviously he had not been expecting visitors. On the wall beside the bench was a rack containing a variety of keys and a huge wooden whistle that a guard would have used to summon aid if need be. A single, heavy door led away from the room—undoubtedly the door to the cells below.

  “Do you think I could have opened it otherwise?” Cheveray asked. “Look at me.”

  The guard did just that. Alanya realized that Cheveray had played it just right. He had entered first, after unlocking the door with his key. So his was the only hand the guard had seen on the door.

  “It is not supposed to be unlocked,” the guard said. He rose, but still didn’t make for his weapon.

  “I am sure not,” Cheveray agreed. “Most dangerous, I should expect. You should be more careful.”

  “I . . . I am certain I locked it,” the guard blustered. “Must have been someone else.”

  Alanya and the others had been watching the building from a nearby alleyway for almost an hour. Whoever had supplied Cheveray the key had also told him about the schedule the guards kept. They knew the other guards had all gone, so this guard might be able to convince himself that it had been one of his fellows leaving who had failed to secure the door.

  “Be that as it may,” the guard said, regaining his composure somewhat, “you are not supposed to be in here. What do you want?”

  “Simply some help with directions,” Cheveray said. “We seem to have gotten lost.” He fished a rolled map from beneath his cloak and approached the guard, unrolling it as he did. “If you could just show me—”

  “Out!” the guard cried. “I will show you nothing. Leave now, or I’ll arrest you myself.”

  Cheveray didn’t stop, however. He couldn’t have looked very threatening, with his twisted form and the cane he used to walk. As he neared the guard, he allowed the map to unroll completely, and he held it up before the guard’s face, almost enveloping the man with it.

  That was when Conor rushed past Donial and Alanya. With the guard distracted, his weapon and whistle both forgotten, and the map carefully positioned to indicate his target, he charged the guard, swinging one giant fist directly into the guard’s chin.

  The guard let out a grunt of pain. He tore at the map with both hands, trying to move it. Cheveray released it then and backed out of the way. Conor drove his left fist low, into the guard’s midsection, and followed with another right to the man’s jaw. The guard sank back to the bench, dazed or unconscious, as the map rustled to the floor.

  “The keys, children,” Cheveray said, urgency in his voice. Alanya and Donial grabbed keys from the rack beside the addled guard. They took turns fitting them into the door, until one of them turned, and the lock released. It still required both of them pulling on it to open the door.

  “You will likely need keys downstairs as well,” Cheveray reminded them. “Take them all, in case. And have a care!”

  The plan was for both Cheveray and Conor to stay upstairs—Conor in case the guard came around, and Cheveray because once he got down, he wouldn’t be able to climb quickly. Which left it to Alanya and Donial to descend into the dark, find which cell was Kral’s, and let him out. Alanya was scared at what she might see down there—and what might see her. But she owed Kral, and they had not come this far just to walk away. She steeled her courage, got a good grip on her share of keys, and started down the stairs. Only two torches, widely spaced, lit the way.

  “Who’s there?” a strange voice called up from below. “It isn’t time, isn’t time!”

  “A madman,” Donial whispered. “Place is probably crawling with them.”

  “That doesn’t help,” Alanya replied. She wanted to find Kral quickly, didn’t want to think about who else might be locked down there.

  “We could call him,” Donial suggested.

  She paused on the stairs. She could see a line of cell doors, but the torchlight didn’t penetrate the cells themselves. Even if she was willing to stick her face right up against the bars, she wouldn’t be able to see Kral. “I guess we must,” she agreed.

  “Kral!” Donial spoke his name in a loud whisper, as if everyone in the cells wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. “Kral, where are you?”

  “Right here!” Kral’s voice came from a cell just three doors away from the staircase, then his hand waved through the bars in his door. “I’m in here!”

  “We’re coming, Kral!” Alanya called. “We have keys, worry not. You will be out in a minute.”

  “Take me, too!” another voice shouted. It sounded like it came from the cell next to Kral’s. “Take me, boy! I have been here too long. I would see the sun again, ere I die.”

  “No, Totlio,” Kral said. “It is too dangerous.”

  “Nothing is more dangerous than staying in here,” the man Kral called Totlio pleaded. “Please, take me with you!”

  By that time Alanya had gained the door to Kral’s cell. She tried key after key in its lock, to no avail. Kral came to the bars, but she could barely make out his face in the gloom. He smiled maniacally at her. “I suppose we could free him,” Kral suggested. “I doubt he can run very fast. Maybe when they realize that we are both missing, they will go after him first, as an easier target.”

  “Donial, try your keys!” Alanya urged. “I’ll try his door,” she said.

  When she stopped in front of that other door, the man inside started crying and laughing and praying. He made Alanya nervous, but she worked her way through the keys. When she found the one that opened the lock, she paused and waited for Donial. She didn’t want to let the old man out before Kral was released, just in case he was less harmless than Kral seemed to think.

  But then Donial got Kral’s door open, and the Pict enveloped her brother in a hurried embrace as he exited his cell. She opened the old man’s at the same time, then immediately turned to Kral. Another embrace, this one held a moment longer, and the three of them started up the staircase. Behind them, the old man was only just coming out of his cell.

  Upstairs, she saw that Conor had hit the guard again. He was now slumped on the floor, blood running from nose and mouth. Cheveray waited near the door to the street, his eyes bright with anxiety and excitement. When he saw Kral appear, he raised his cane in triumph. “Excellent! Come, boy! Your friends have been working hard for your release, and there is much news to share!”

  Alanya saw Kral hesitate momentarily when he spotted Conor. Cimmerians and Picts were natural enemies, she knew. “He is with us,” she assured him. “He helped get you out.”

  “Did you tell me he was a Pict?” Conor asked, as they left the guardhouse.

  “Yes,” Alanya assured him. “You were drunk and might not remember. But we did.”

  On the street, Kral’s head swiveled this way and that, looking at his rescuers with amazement. Finally, Alanya took his hand and led him into the shadows, toward the abandoned gate through which they had entered the compound. “We’ll tell you everything,” she promised. “Just not here.”

  They were two blocks away, and running as fast as they could—Conor carrying Cheveray as easily as a sack of flour—when the alarm whistle finally blew.

  8

  CHELLUS WORKED OUT of the back of a little shop that specialized in inexpensive jewelry, mostly for women and girls. Glass cut to look like diamonds, or stained to resemble emeralds, rubies, or jade. Common metals polished and colored to pass for gold or silver. Every now and then, the real thing would fall into his hands, primarily through the side business he ran out of his cramped back room when there were no paying customers in the front. When that happened, he would move the item through some other contact, even though it meant sharing a cut of the profits, rather than sell it through the shop, thereby drawing attention to both the low prices and low quality of h
is phonies.

  Every thief in town knew of Chellus, as he and his fellow purveyors of stolen goods were an important aspect of plying their trade. So Conor had heard stories and knew where to find the man. He figured Tremont wouldn’t have given up his name if he hadn’t known he was dying, with nothing left to lose.

  Conor hung around outside until he knew the shop was empty. Then he entered casually, as if just wandering in from the street. After a few moments, Chellus emerged from the back room. He was a portly fellow, bald on top with a fringe of red hair around his cranium, wearing a gray shirt and breeches with a black apron over them. “Looking for a gift for a special lady?” he asked.

  Conor had rehearsed his lines. He touched his purse—laden with the coins the siblings had paid him for helping to free their friend—and said, “No, I am looking for someone who might be interested in buying things without asking where they came from.”

  Chellus took a step back, wiped both his palms on his apron, and wrinkled his forehead. “And what makes you think you’d find such a person here?”

  Conor shrugged. “Friends tell each other things,” he said. “Your reputation as an honest broker of found things spreads far and wide.”

  “Found things,” Chellus echoed with a low chuckle. “I like that.” He waved Conor toward his back room. “Join me in here, where it’s private.”

  Conor threaded his way between display cases packed with fake jewelry and through a curtained doorway. Chellus’s back room was crowded with the tools of his trade—jewelry-making equipment, cases of raw materials, cloth bags stuffed with things Conor couldn’t begin to imagine. There was precious little space for people in the room, so Conor found himself standing very close to the other man. Too close to use his sword, he noted.