by C. M. Gray
It landed heavily but immediately jumped up with a scream and raised its knife. 'No stalemate, you now die!' It leaped forward, but its cry was cut short as, with a loud 'pop' a bubble trap surrounded both wraiths and a limping Loras staggered forward. For a moment, they ignored the struggling wraiths as both Magicians combined their healing energies.
'What by the love of the Source have yer got there?' Bartholomew Bask, feeling it was now safe to come close, waddled down the slight slope, stepping carefully over the loose rocks in his path. He peered at the wraiths with a look of disgust. One was standing, the other slumped and obviously dying from its wound. 'Ugly little brutes, ain't they?' he glanced down at the two Magicians kneeling together, eyes closed as they continued the healing, then back at the wraiths. He smiled. 'These two little…' he waved his hands about trying to sum up a word, '… things, nearly bested yer?'
Loras opened his eyes and struggled to his feet. He ignored the grinning merchant and turned instead to the wraiths. Passing his staff in front of the bubble trap, he smiled as the magic worked. The ragged breathing of the injured wraith could suddenly be heard, and the expression on the other's face showed that it could also hear the world outside of its bubble prison.
'I can help your friend, maybe heal him completely,' said Loras. 'I will help, but first… why did you attack us? Who sent you?' The wraith glanced down at its fallen comrade then back at Loras. A wet, pink tongue darted out to moisten dry, cracked lips.
'You will let us go?' Its head tilted questioningly to one side. Loras nodded. 'You will heal my companion?' Loras nodded again.
'We should squash the little runts, that's what we should do,' growled Bartholomew.
'Be quiet,' cautioned Tarent in a low voice. Magician Falk pulled himself up with the help of his staff and put a finger to his lips, indicating that Bartholomew should indeed remain silent. The merchant appeared to be about to retort, but thinking better of it, clamped his mouth shut and frowned at the wraiths instead.
'We were sent to… intercept a small party that would be travelling the Bolt at this time.' The wraith glanced nervously about him. 'You will let us… leave?' Loras nodded.
'Who sent you?'
'We were sent by a human who is known as The Haw….' The wraith's answer was cut short as Tarent shouted a warning.
'Loras, look out, avalanche!' As the group scurried out of the way, huge rocks and boulders rained down upon the unfortunate wraiths, hitting the ground with an ear-splitting explosion of noise and dust, knocking all of them from their feet.
Smaller rocks and stone continued to fall for several beats as everyone lay helpless, and then, as they realised that it was over, they clambered to their feet, glancing to each other for signs of wounds. Tarent had been hit by a rock on his leg and was limping as he stood, but other than that there were, quite surprisingly no other injuries.
'That was awfully convenient for someone,' said Magician Falk, peering up through the dust and snow. Nothing could be seen save the cold hard face of the mountain disappearing into the clouds.
'Did you hear what the wraith said, just before the rock fell?' asked Loras. 'I'm sure he said the Hawk sent them, which makes sense. Maybe he's up there now, and he dropped those rocks to silence them?'
Bartholomew scowled up into the swirling snow.
'I'll find you and make you pay, ya filthy…' he screamed, and then added as the thought suddenly occurred to him, 'that rock could have hit me!' He took several steps backwards in case his shouting provoked more rocks to fall. 'Not that you give a damn about me though, do you,' he mumbled.
As the wagon crested the rise, they moved to the opposite side of the Bolt and made camp; a fire, a warm brew and the chance to rest, which was needed by all.
* * *
Matheus Hawk took one last look at the figures below him and smiled in delight at the display he had just witnessed. He had learnt a great deal. The Magicians were both gifted, the old one had shown himself to be especially so when confronted by the wraiths. The boy Magician shouldn't prove too much of a problem, the wraiths had taken him down easily enough, and it appeared that his healing powers weren't as strong as Matheus had thought. For a moment or two, he had actually thought the boy was dead. Now that would have been a welcome end to the day.
That the wraiths might be successful was a thought that had never actually crossed Matheus's mind, but they had managed to get quite close, almost killing one and injuring another. It was almost a shame to have had to drop the rock on them, but then there were countless more wraiths.
Getting to his feet, he smiled to himself as he recalled his surprise at seeing his former employer amongst the group. Bartholomew Bask was now conspiring with The Griffin brats, 'How wonderful!' growled Matheus. He reached into his cloak and pulled the struggling Nhasic out into the cold. The little demon, its ears folded back, shivered as it gazed up at him.
'Call your big red friend, Nhasic. It's time to go back to the warmth of the desert.' With a shriek of delight, the little demon scuttled to the edge of the outcrop and opened its mouth, trembling with the intensity of its silent cry. Matheus watched with interest. He couldn't hear the sound, but he knew from experience that the dragon could and would soon be here for him to command. He felt a flush of pride at what was his to control and clearly saw the destiny set before him. A storm was coming to this world, and he would be riding at its head - to rule, command and conquer all in his path.
* * *
The twin cities of Bedlam and Mayhem weren't hard to spot, even with the weather as foul as it was. The Griffin had been flying through heavy rain for some time with the three friends huddled, wet and cold, staring down from on high above green forests and fields, tracing the flow of a great river as it wound its way inland from the coast. When they saw the twin cities they first appeared as darkness on the horizon, a large grey sore in an otherwise green expanse. They were squatting over the river, poisoning its flow, and corrupting its waters.
The city of Bedlam sat higher than its twin. Rising on the hill behind, dominating both the river and the lower city of Mayhem below. The taller grey buildings of Bedlam were colossal in their arrogance as if each were attempting to intimidate its neighbours like a gang of unruly bullies in a playground of giants. Mayhem, by comparison, sat squat, ugly and sprawling upon the lower side of the river, cowering at the feet of its taller sibling.
Smoke rose from countless chimneys to hang over both cities, merging with the heavy cloud cover creating downpours of black, filthy rain that made it hard to see where the cities ended, and the sky began. It was not a welcoming sight.
Quint directed The Griffin down into a clearing close to Bedlam. He saw little reason to fly any distance away, there were few travellers on the road, and the thick woodland came very close to the city wall.
Mahra laid a cautious hand on Quint's arm. 'I think it's best we leave the swords and bows with The Griffin… don't you?' She saw Quint's cold hand flex around his beloved bow. 'We can't go marching into that city armed to the teeth and expect to blend in, can we Quint? If we stand any chance of getting those skulls, it will be by deception. I'm sorry, but carrying that bow, you aren't deceiving anyone.' Quint sighed, knowing she was right and reluctantly tied his sword and bow onto The Griffin's back. The big yellow beak swung round to look at him, the golden unblinking eyes so hard to read. Quint stroked her beak and she snorted, her breath coming out as a cloud in the chill wet air.
'Look after them for me, Griffin. We'll be calling on you really soon… at least I hope we will.'
Pardigan walked over and added his sword and a few words of thanks, and then The Griffin sank back on its haunches and took flight, showering them with mud and water before disappearing into the clouds. Gathering their packs, they made the short walk through soggy woodland to the edge of the treeline, and took their first close look at the city of Bedlam.
They were used to rain by now, but the rain that fell here could only be described as falling in a
constant misery, leaving black streaks on their skin and clothes wherever it touched. A group of armed warriors rode past them, splashing through the mud and puddles and on and into the city through the unguarded gates in the distance, the sound of the horses' hooves clattering noisily as they entered the cobblestone street.
'What now?' whispered Pardigan. 'What's the plan? Do we just go marching in?'
'Well, I suppose so… I haven't really given it much thought,' confessed Quint with a shiver. 'Let's get in and find an Inn or something. We need to get warm first. I can't concentrate on much else at the moment.' The sound of a clattering wagon sent the three friends quickly ducking back into the trees just before a group of woodsmen came along the road escorting a wagon full of damp, freshly chopped firewood. Heads hung low and stained black from the rain and soot of the city, the men on the wagon appeared exhausted. It obviously wasn't just the warriors that were dirty black from head to foot; it seemed to be the rule throughout the Barbarian community.
'We have to get dirty,' said Quint under his breath. 'If we're as black as them we'll blend in.' He picked up a handful of gloopy black slime and dolloped it onto Mahra's head.
'Hey!' she hissed, pushing him away. 'What do you think you're doing?'
'Well, I can't imagine you to be deliberately getting dirty. We have to look like we live here. I'm giving you a helping hand.' She glared at him then smiled as Pardigan slapped two handfuls of slime on Quint's face. They spent a while trying to stay as quiet as possible while smearing the mud on each other, giggling and spitting theatrically when it got into their mouths.
Coming out of the woods, the good mood they had shared moments before dropped abruptly away as they stood in the muddy road looking up at the dark foreboding walls that loomed ahead of them.
A rainy, muddy day was never the best time to see any city, and being soaked to the skin, and freezing cold didn't help much either, but there was something more about this particular city. Feelings of misery and despair seemed to ooze from every stone and roof tile of Bedlam. Noticing the effect it was having on her two friends, Mahra walked between them and slapped a hand on a shoulder of each. Pardigan jumped, and Quint shook his head to clear the awful feelings the city had filled him with.
'Come on, it might not be that bad,' said Mahra. 'I remember they used to sell wonderful cakes here. Let's find someplace to rest and see if they still have them. If we don't dry out and eat something soon, we're going to perish long before we get a chance to search for the skulls.'
They trudged on towards the gate, gazing up at the many small black windows set high in the city wall. It felt as if the many eyes of a giant spider were staring down at them, following their progress along the road as if the city itself had been awaiting their arrival and was watching them walk into its embrace.
At regular intervals, small stone gutters spewed arcing waterfalls of black filth that splattered into large puddles in the road. In other parts of the road, the mud was so thick that a wrong footfall immersed their boots in stinking slime even as they waded at the edges.
The gateway, when they got there, was dark and deserted. There were no torches lit in the failing light to guide in late travellers and no guards stepped forward to demand knowledge of their business nor asked to see papers of any kind. There were no beggars, no trader's agents, no hostellers offering rooms, and no opportunists ready to snatch an unguarded bag; none of the distractions you might normally find when entering a city. There weren't even any criminals swinging by their necks from the walls; it was a long way beyond strange. As they walked through the gate and onto the streets of Bedlam for the first time, they found it completely and utterly deserted.
The city was cold, dark and incredibly gloomy and the feeling of misery, and despair had an almost tangible thickness in the air. A stream of black water ran down the middle of the cobblestone street that greeted them, tall silent buildings lining either side with their doors firmly shut and their windows shuttered even tighter.
'This is even scarier than I thought,' murmured Pardigan, fingering a knife in the sleeve of his cloak. 'I was ready to see streets full of Barbarians… but this! Where is everybody? I was worried we weren't going to fit in, but there isn't anybody to fit in with!'
'I don't know,' whispered Mahra. 'The last time I was here the streets were crowded.' She glanced around as the sound of running feet caught her attention. A small boy ran out of a side alley, slipped in the stream with a splash and a curse, but got up in a flash and continued at a run, further into the city without noticing them, his footsteps disappearing into the distance.
'Wait!' called Mahra, but the boy ran on without looking back. 'Please stop.' They hurried after him down the dark street, but he'd gone, and the city once again felt deserted, the only sound the gurgling and dripping of water.
They walked on, and the street eventually opened into a small square with a covered well at its centre. Several buildings around the edge appeared to be Inns. The first they approached had a sign hanging outside with a picture of a bed and a mug on it, which seemed to confirm their suspicions, however, the door was locked as was the door to the second Inn and the one after that, as well.
'It's deserted, like a city of ghosts,' whispered Pardigan, staring round for any sign of life, ghostly or otherwise.
'Maybe the population is the army,' offered Quint, 'and they're all camped down by the mountains waiting to go through the Bolt. Maybe…' but he didn't get a chance to pass on any other theories as a troop of Barbarian warriors entered the square.
'Run!' shouted Pardigan, and before either Quint or Mahra could decide whether that was the best course of action, they were running as fast as they could, further into the city with the warriors shouting orders at them from close behind.
With laboured breathing and the heavy sound of their footsteps echoing between rows of dark silent buildings, they ran on, the shouts and curses of the warriors following. Pardigan led them in a dizzying chase, changing direction whenever the opportunity presented itself, trying to throw off their pursuers while looking for a bolt-hole at the same time. At last, with the sounds of pursuit became fainter, they slowed down to a walk.
This was now a different area of the city. The buildings were taller, some even aspiring to be grand under their coat of wet black slime. To a certain degree it resembled the merchants' areas of some of the cities back in the Realm, or would do if it were cleaner. This may be a Barbarian city now, but they almost certainly hadn't been the ones who had built it.
They stopped outside a large building at the corner of where two streets met to form a crossroads, it was boarded up and appeared to have been the recent victim of fire, the smell of smoke was even stronger here and there was a burnt window frame lying in the street. With a quick glance around, Pardigan began pulling at the boards covering the door. He struggled vainly for a moment before Quint stepped up to help and they soon had the bottom two boards off and were pushing their way inside.
'It's dark in here,' whispered Mahra, stating the obvious as she squeezed in, helped by the unseen hands of Quint. Inside, it was indeed as black as night. Pardigan replaced the boards roughly back over the hole, and Mahra lit a small glow globe that illuminated blackened sooty walls. Stepping over a fallen beam, they moved off into the building.
'It's not really the plush accommodation I'd been longing for,' whispered Pardigan as he followed Quint up a flight of stairs. 'I wonder if the kitchen is still serving food?'
Twice they had to retrace their steps, searching for a passage with floorboards that weren't burnt through making their way either impossible or unsafe. When they had finally clambered up four floors to the highest rooms they were tired, but knew they could now relax and rest a little, the building was as deserted as the city.
Finding a room that wasn't quite as damaged as the others, they shed their wet cloaks and after lighting a fire in the small grate, began to feel life re-enter their weary bodies. They shared a meal of almost dry biscuits an
d three bruised apples, taken from Bartholomew's table three days before, and sat steaming in silence.
A short while later, as the boys held various items of their clothing out to the fire to dry, Mahra stood and with a nod to her friends, leapt forward. The snowy white barn owl flew out into the corridor in search of an open window and some answers as to why the city was so deserted.
As she left the building, gliding out into the rainy night, the sound in the distance of thousands of voices rose in a roar of excitement and echoed through the city. Casting about, Mahra decided it was coming from down closer to the river. Fighting through the damp air, she rose above the rooftops to survey the gloomy city. In the distance, she could see a large round structure surrounded by a faint glow of light. It was almost certainly where the sounds were coming from. She gave another flap of her wings, her curiosity drawing her on.
* * *
Chapter 13
The Emperor, Djinn Tsai
The Emperor, Djinn Tsai, had sat upon the elephant throne for more than eight hundred years - a considerable measure of life, unimaginable for any mortal man. Yet to one such as him, it was still merely a passing fancy. To sit upon the elephant throne was an opportunity for him to learn and grow with the experience of ruling a people and, consequently, to gather the particular form of energy he craved above all else, before possibly seeking other distractions for a life that could have no measure.
However, the lives of his subjects, once a source of amusement and distraction to him were fast becoming little more than an irritation. They lived such a short time span and spent most of it consumed by such a multitude of constraints and addictions that what he had found at first amusing and a little baffling, was now little more than irritating. To place such overwhelming importance in petty emotions like love, hate and honour made them complicated creatures, easily controlled, yet impossible to understand, but then maybe that was because the Djinn was no ordinary man.
