by Mel Odom
Nodding, Darrick sheathed the cutlass and turned from them. He swept the horizon with his gaze, conscious of Mat’s eyes still on him. The fact that his friend didn’t trust him even after he’d said he was all right troubled and angered him.
And he seemed to hear his father’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears, pointing out his helplessness and lack of worth. Despite how far he’d pushed himself, even shoving himself up through the Westmarch Navy ranking, he’d never been able to leave that voice behind in Hillsfar.
Darrick took a deep, shuddering breath. “All right, then, we’d best get at it, lads. Maldrin, take a couple men and fetch us up some water, if you please. I want this bonfire wetted so it can’t go up by design or by mistake.”
“Aye, sir,” Maldrin responded, turning immediately and pointing out two men to accompany him. A quick search through the guards’ supplies netted them a couple of waterskins. After emptying the waterskins over the pitch blend torch, they set out for the cliff’s edge at once to get more water to finish the job.
Turning, Darrick surveyed the big pirate as Mat tied his hands behind his back with a kerchief. “How many of you were on guard here?” Darrick asked.
The man remained silent.
“I’ll not trouble myself to ask you again,” Darrick warned. “At this point, and take care to fully understand what I’m telling you here, you’re a better bargain to me dead than you are alive. I don’t look forward to trying to complete the rest of my mission while bringing along a prisoner.”
Lon swallowed and tried to look defiant.
“I’d believe him if I were ye,” Mat offered, patting the pirate on the cheek. “When he’s in a fettle like this, he’s more likely to have ye ordered thrown off the mountain than to keep ye alive an’ hope ye know some of the answers to whatever questions he might have.”
Lying on the ground as he was, Darrick knew it was hard for the pirate to feel in any way in control of the situation. And Mat’s words made sense. The pirate just didn’t know Mat wouldn’t let Darrick act on an impulse like that. Anyway, the loss of control was behind him, and Darrick was in command of himself again.
“So, go on, then,” Mat encouraged in that good-natured way of his as he squatted down beside the captive. “Tell us what ye know.”
The pirate regarded them both with suspicion. “You’ll let me live?”
“Aye,” Mat agreed without hesitation. “I’ll give ye me word on it, I will, and spit on me palm to seal the deal.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” the pirate demanded.
Mat laughed a little. “Well, old son, we’ve done an’ let ye live so far, ain’t we?”
Darrick looked down at the man. “How many of you were there here?”
“Just us two,” the pirate replied sullenly.
“What time’s the changing of the guard?”
Hesitating, the pirate said, “Soon.”
“Pity,” Mat commented. “If someone happens by in the next few minutes, why, I’ll have to slice your throat for ye, I will.”
“I thought you said you were going to let me live,” the pirate protested.
Mat patted the man’s cheek again. “Only if we don’t have nasty surprises along the way.”
The pirate licked his lips. “New guards won’t be until dawn. I just told you that so maybe you’d leave and Raithen wouldn’t be so vexed at me for not lighting the torch.”
“Well,” Mat admitted, “it was a sound plan on your part. I’d probably have tried the same thing. But we’re here on some matter of consequence, ye see.”
“Sure,” the pirate said, nodding. Mat’s behavior, as always in most circumstances, was so gentle and understanding that it was confounding.
Immediate relief went through Darrick. Changing of the guard during the middle of the night wasn’t something he would have suspected, but the confirmation let him know they still had a few hours to get the king’s nephew back before the morning light filled the land.
“What about the king’s nephew?” Mat asked. “He’s just a boy, an’ I wouldn’t want to hear that anything untoward has happened to him.”
“The boy’s alive.”
“Where?” Darrick asked.
“Cap’n Raithen has him,” the pirate said, wiping blood from his lip. “He’s keepin’ him aboard Barracuda.”
“And where, then, can we find Barracuda?” Darrick asked.
“She’s in the harbor. Cap’n Raithen, he don’t let Barracuda go nowheres unless he’s aboard her.”
“Good.” Darrick turned east, noting that Maldrin and his crew had returned with waterskins they’d filled from the river using the rope they left behind. “Get this man up and on his feet, Mat. I’ll want him gagged proper.”
“Aye, sir.” Mat yanked the pirate to his feet and took another kerchief from a pocket to make the gag.
Stepping close to the pirate, Darrick felt bad when the man winced and tried to move away from him, held in place only because Mat blocked him from behind. With his face only inches from the pirate’s, Darrick spoke softly. “And let’s be having an understanding, you and me.”
When the silence between them stretched out, the pirate looked at Mat, who offered no support. Then the prisoner looked back at Darrick and nodded hopefully.
“Good,” Darrick said, showing him a wintry smile. “If you try to warn your mates, which could be something you’d be interested in because you might actually be inclined favorably toward some of them, I’ll slit your throat for you calm as a man gutting a fish. Nod your head if you understand.”
The pirate nodded.
“I’ve no love of pirates,” Darrick said. “There’s ways for an honest man to make a living without preying on his neighbors. I’ve killed plenty of pirates in the Great Sea and in the Gulf of Westmarch. One more won’t bump up the score overmuch, but I’d feel better about it myself. Are we clear here?”
Again, the pirate nodded, and crocodile tears showed in his eyes.
“Crystal, sir,” Mat added energetically as he clapped the pirate on the shoulder. “Why, I don’t think we’ll be having any problems with this man at all after your kind explanation regardin’ the matter.”
“Good. Bring him along, but keep him close to hand.” Turning, Darrick started east, following the ridgeline of the Hawk’s Beak Mountains that would take them down toward Tauruk’s Port.
FIVE
Standing near the dead woman’s body in the inn room in Tauruk’s Port, Raithen watched as Pettit reached into a pocket under his vest and took out a piece of paper. “That’s what brung me up here to see ye, cap’n,” the first mate said. “Valdir sent this along just now as quick as he could after them priests found the door buried down in them ruins.”
Raithen crossed the room and took the paper. Unfolding it, he leaned toward the fireplace and the lantern that sat on the mantel.
Valdir was the current spy the pirate captain had assigned to Cholik’s excavation team. Raithen kept them rotated out with each new arrival of slaves. The men assigned didn’t care for it, and the fact that they didn’t become sickly and emaciated as the others did would draw attention from the mercenaries who remained loyal to Cholik’s gold.
The paper held a drawing of a series of elliptical lines, centered one within the other, and a different line running through them.
“What is this?” Raithen asked.
Leaning, Pettit spat again, missing the cuspidor this time. He rubbed strings of spittle from his chin. “That there’s a symbol what Valdir saw on that door. It’s a huge door, cap’n, near to three times as tall as a man, the way Valdir puts it.”
“You spoke to him?”
Pettit nodded. “Went in to talk to some of the mercenaries we’re doin’ business with. Ye know, to kinda keep them on our side. Took ’em a few bottles of brandy we got off that last Westmarch merchant ship we took down.”
Raithen knew that wasn’t the only reason Pettit had gone to see the men. Since the pirates had all
the women in port, a fact that Cholik and his priests didn’t much care for, the mercenaries they’d hired had to negotiate prices for the women’s services with Pettit.
Being avaricious was one of the reasons Raithen had taken Pettit on as first mate. Pettit’s own knowledge that his loyalty ensured not only his career but also his life kept him in place. It helped that Raithen knew Pettit never saw himself as being a captain and that his only claim to power would be serving a captain who appreciated the cruel and conniving ways he had.
“When did the priests find the door?” Raithen asked. If Cholik had known, why hadn’t the priest been there? Raithen still didn’t know why Cholik and his minions crawled through the detritus of the two cities like ants, but their obvious zeal for whatever they looked for had gotten him excited.
“Only just,” Pettit replied. “As it turned out, cap’n, I was in them tunnels when Valdir fetched up with the news of their findin’.”
Raithen’s nimble mind leapt. He turned his eyes back to the crude drawing. “Where is that bastard Cholik?” They had spies on the priest as well.
“He joined the diggers.”
“Cholik’s there now?” Raithen’s interest grew more intense.
“Aye, cap’n. An’ once word of this discovery reached him, Cholik wasted no time in harin’ off down there.”
“And we don’t have any idea what’s behind this door?” Of course, Cholik didn’t know about the king’s nephew Raithen and his pirates were holding for ransom, either. Both sides had their secrets, only Raithen knew Cholik was hiding them.
“None, cap’n, but Valdir will be lettin’ us know as soon as he’s in the knowin’ of it.”
“If he can.” Any time the priests found something that they thought would be important, they got all the slaves out of the area till the recovery was complete.
“Aye, but if’n any one man can do it, cap’n, Valdir can.”
Folding the note then putting it in his pocket, Raithen nodded. “I’d rather have someone down there with the priests. Get a crew assembled. Cover it as a provisions resupply for the slaves.”
“It’s hardly time for that again.”
“Cholik won’t know. He works those slaves till they drop, then heaves them into that great, bloody abyss down there.”
“Aye, cap’n. I’ll get to it then.”
“What of our guest aboard Barracuda?”
Pettit shrugged. “Oh, he’s in fine keepin’, cap’n. Fit as a fiddle, he is. Alive, he’s worth a lot, but now, dead, cap’n?” The first mate shook his scruffy head. “Why, he’s just a step removed from fertilizer, isn’t he?”
With care, Raithen touched the wound on his neck beneath the kerchief. Pain rattled through his skull, and he winced at it. “That boy is the king’s nephew, Pettit. Westmarch’s king prides himself on his knowledge and that of his get. Priests train those children for the most part, and they concern themselves with history, things better left forgotten, I say.” Except for the occasional treasure map or account of where a ship laden with treasure went down in inhospitable seas.
“Aye, cap’n. Worthless learnin’, most of it. If’n ye’re askin’ me own opinion.”
Raithen wasn’t, but he didn’t belabor the point. “What do you think the chances are that the boy we took from that last Westmarch ship knows a considerable amount about history and things a priest might be interested in? Maybe even knows about this?” He patted the breast pocket where he’d stored the paper with the symbol.
Understanding dawned in Pettit’s rheumy eyes. He scratched his bearded chin and grinned, revealing the few straggling teeth stained by beetle-juice. “Me, cap’n? Why, I’d say there was considerable chances, I would.”
“I’m going to talk to the boy.” Raithen took up his plumed hat from the trunk at the foot of the bed and clapped it onto his head.
“Ye might have to wake him,” Pettit said. “An’ he ain’t none too sociable. Little rapscallion liked to tore ol’ Bull’s ear off when he went in to feed him this e’ening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ol’ Bull, he up and walks into the hold where we’re a-keepin’ the boy like it was nothin’. That young’un, he come out of the rafters where’d he’d been a-hidin’ and dropped down on ol’ Bull. Walloped ol’ Bull a few good licks with a two-by-four he’d pried loose from the wall of the hold. If’n ol’ Bull’s head hadn’t been as thick as it was, why he’d have been damn near knocked to death, he would. As it was, that boy nearly got his arse offa Barracuda for certain.”
“Is the boy hurt?” Raithen asked.
Pettit waved the possibility away. “Nah. Mighta picked him up a couple of knots on his head fer his troubles, but nothin’ what’s gonna stay with him more’n a day or two.”
“I don’t want that boy hurt, Pettit.” Raithen made his voice harsh.
Pettit cringed a little and scratched at the back of his neck. “I ain’t gonna let any o’ the crew hurt him.”
“If that boy gets hurt before I’m done with him,” Raithen said, stepping over the dead woman sprawled on the floor, “I’m going to hold you responsible. And I’ll take it out of your arse.”
“I understand, cap’n. An’ trust me, ye got no worries there.”
“Get that supply crew together, but no one moves until I say.”
“It’ll be as ye say, cap’n.”
“I’m going to speak with that boy. Maybe he knows something about this symbol.”
“If I may suggest, cap’n, while ye’re there, just mind ye keep a sharp watch on yer ears. That boy’s a quick one, he is.”
* * *
Buyard Cholik stared at the huge door that fronted the wall. In all the years of knowing about Kabraxis and of knowing the fate of Ransim buried beneath Tauruk’s Port, he’d never known how he would feel once he stood before the door that hid the demon’s secret. Even months of planning and work, of coming down to the subterranean depths on occasion to check on the work and inspire fear or reprisal in the acolytes who labored under his design, had left him unprepared.
Although he had expected to feel proud and exuberant about his discovery, Cholik had forgotten about the fear that now filled him. Quavers, like the tremor of an earthquake hidden deep within a land, ran through his body. He wanted to shriek and call on Archangel Yaerius, who first brought the tenets of Zakarum to men. But he did not. Cholik knew he had long passed the line of forgiveness that would be offered by any who followed the ways of Light.
And what good would forgiveness do a dying old man? The priest taunted himself with that question as he had for the past few months and stiffened his resolve. Death was only another few years into the future for him, nothing worthwhile left during that distance.
“Master,” Brother Altharin whispered, “are you all right?” He stood to Cholik’s right, two steps back as respect and the older priest’s tolerance dictated.
Letting his irritation burn away the traces that were left from his own anger and resentment at his approaching mortality, Cholik said, “Of course, I am all right. Why would I not be?”
“You were so quiet,” Altharin said.
“Contemplation and meditation,” Cholik said, “are the two key abilities for any priest to possess in order that he may understand the great mysteries left to us by the Light. You would do well to remember that, Altharin.”
“Of course, master.” Altharin’s willingness to accept rebuke and toil at a relentless pace had made him the natural candidate for being in charge of the excavation.
Cholik studied the massive door. Or should I think of it as a gate? The secret texts he’d read had suggested that Kabraxis’s door guarded another place as well as the hidden things the demon lord had left behind.
The slaves continued to labor, loading carts with broken rock with their bare hands by lantern light and torchlight. Their chains clinked and clanked against the hard stone ground. Other slaves worked with pickaxes, standing on the stone surrounding the door or atop frail scaffoldin
g that quivered with every swing. The slaves spoke in fearful tones to one another, but they also hurried to finish uncovering the door. Cholik thought that was because they believed that they would be able to rest. If something behind the great door didn’t kill them, the old priest thought, perhaps for a time they would rest.
“So much of the door is uncovered,” Cholik said. “Why was I not called earlier?”
“Master,” Altharin said, “there was no indication that we were so close to finding the door. We came upon another hard section of the dig, the wall that you see before you, which hid the door. I only thought that it was another section of cavern wall. So many times the path that you chose for us has caused us to punch through walls of the existing catacombs.”
The city’s builders had constructed Ransim to take advantage of the natural caverns in the area above the Dyre River, Cholik remembered from the texts. The caves had provided warehouse area for the goods they trafficked in, natural cisterns of groundwater they could use in event of a siege—which had happened several times during the city’s history—and as protection from the elements because harsh storms often raced down from the summits of the Hawk’s Beak Mountains. Tauruk’s Port, founded after the destruction of Ransim, hadn’t benefited from access to the caverns.
“When we started to attack this wall,” Altharin continued, “it fell out in large sections. That’s why so much rubble remains before the door.”
Cholik watched the slaves loading huge sections of broken stone into the carts, then pushing the carts up to the dump sites. Other slaves filled large buckets with smaller debris and filled more carts. The ironbound wheels creaked on dry axles and grated against the floor.
“The work to uncover the door went quickly,” Altharin said. “As soon as I knew we had found it, I sent for you.”
Cholik strode toward the door, drawing on the remaining dregs of his strength. His legs felt like lead, and his heart hammered against his ribs. He’d pushed himself too far. He knew that. The confrontation with Raithen and the spell he’d summoned to destroy the rats had shoved him past his limits. His breath felt tight in his chest. Using magic no longer came easy to the aged and infirm sometimes. Spellwork had its own demands and often left those too weak to handle the energies warped and broken. And he’d come into the spells late in life after wasting so many years in the Zakarum Church.
