Milo swung his legs over the edge of the cot and brought his head down so he could better hear Berthold.
“There were five in my group in this place, all strangers to me, and all on this road headed . . . somewhere. I didn’t know I was anybody other than Berthold — scoundrel, rogue, thief supreme.’’
“Just like what happened to us,” Naile whispered.
"We stopped in a tavern, the five of us. We were drawn there. Some magical force, some ... I don’t know . . . something tugged us there. We sat in the corner and tried to figure out how we all came to be on that road. None of us could recall our ‘real selves’ at that point. Didn’t get very far with the talk before this mysterious messenger — more like a ghost — appeared before us and beckoned us to the dungeons of Quag Keep. The image . . . ghost . . . whatever it was . . .
explained that a wizard was held in the deepest part of the dungeon in the keep and had magically brought us here to save our home world . . . and possibly save him and this realm in the process. That’s when our memories came flooding back, our real selves.” He paused: “Well, our selves in our real world. I’m not sure what is real. Anyway, the image was pretty weak, just like the wizard who spawned it apparently, and it was in mid-sentence when it quit. Curious, and having nothing better to do, we set out for Quag Keep. We knew if we wanted to get home, we were going to have to free the wizard.”
“We were there, too, in Quag Keep,” Yevele said. “But we didn’t see a dungeon or a wizard.”
“We didn’t even make it to the Keep,” Berthold explained. “Keth got sucked down into a stretch of swamp water and drowned. Matthew and Marc had their faces eaten off by some weird flying monsters on the other side of the marsh. And Roland ... I woke up one morning and he was gone. So I ran back to the city hoping to find some other folks from home. And I did. I found you.”
"How?” Naile looked skeptical.
“I saw you wearing these.” Berthold pulled a bracelet out of his pocket. Its links were broken, but it looked like the ones on their wrists.
“How’d you get that off?” Milo asked.
“It wasn’t easy. But maybe I can break your bracelets, too. There’s some risk involved, though. Keth got burned real bad when I managed to get his off.”
Milo stared at his bracelet and toyed with one of the gem dice.
“Oh, I bet they came in handy for a while, those bracelets,” Berthold said. “Tugging you here and there, warning you about danger.” He gave a clipped laugh. “Danger. Yeah, the bracelets are what’s dangerous. Before Roland disappeared on me, he figured out someone was using the bracelets to track us — someone who wanted to keep the wizard in the dungeon, and who wanted to stop us from reaching him. Someone wants to keep that wizard held captive lor a reason I’ve no clue to."
“The undead,” Ingrge said. “Maybe that someone sent the undead after us.”
“Maybe,” Berthold cut back. “To keep us from going after the wizard.”
Naile didn’t buy that. "We weren’t going after the wizard. We didn’t know about any wizard. Not until you told us.”
"But maybe that ‘someone’ didn’t know that,” the thief said.
Milo tapped Berthold on the shoulder. “We were never contacted by a . . . ghost or magic spell . . . and were never told to fmd a wizard in a dungeon. I’ll admit we were drawn to Quag Keep, and we explored most of the tower. But Yevele’s right. We didn’t find a wizard. ”
"So you’re doubting me. You’ve a right, I guess. But I bet the wizard ran out of energy to contact all of you . . . and maybe he wasn’t able to contact whoever else got pulled into this place. But I also bet the wizard was able to tug you to the Keep nonetheless. And so you explored the tower, but not the dungeons under it. You didn’t know to look for a wizard below the tower, but you have to help me find him now, or we’ll never get home. Perhaps, never save our home. We can help each other.”
“To save our world?” Milo asked. His expression said he still wasn’t wholly convinced. “I’d like to believe this might be a way to get home,” he added after a few moments. "You did have a bracelet, after all.”
"So we can help each other?” Berthold looked hopeful.
Milo nodded. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Great!” Berthold’s voice carried to the nearby cots, and he quickly brought it back to a hush. "It’s still dark, so we can sneak away from the caravan and head toward Quag Keep now.”
“No.” Yevele stood and put her hand on Milo’s shoulder. “No journey for Milo and Naile.” Her eyes were smoldering. “Milo needs rest. And the merchants need protection —look how many guards they’ve lost. Sure, they’ll hire some sellswords in this village, but probably not enough to replace the ones who were killed. What if the bandits attack? Or what if more dead men rise up from the ground? Milo and Naile need to stay.”
Milo shook his head. “We’ve got ourselves to think about, Yevele. Getting home.” He jangled his bracelet and pointed to his rings. “We should be worrying about us.”
“I don’t disagree with that,” Yevele said. “But you and Naile are sworn to work for Ludlow Jade, since he bailed you out of jail. You promised him. And on your honor, you owe him.’’
“But what about Quag Keep?” Berthold gave her an incredulous look. “I can’t go there alone. I don’t want to go alone.”
“You won’t be alone.” This came from Ingrge, who moved to crouch next to Naile. "Yevele and I will go with you.”
Naile growled, but the elf cut him oil.
"We’ll meet up with Naile and Milo in the city, after the caravan returns there.” The elf’s face was as stern as any of them had seen it. “With luck, we’ll have this wizard freed and our dilemma solved before the caravan returns home.”
“Then let’s get going,” Berthold advised. “I’d like to be well away from this caravan before the sun comes up. This Ludlow Jade fellow might not be so amenable to letting any of you go. No reason to cause a scene.”
Ingrge, Yevele, and Berthold of the Green slipped silently from the room.
Naile continued to growl softly and shake his head. “He could’ve taken off these bracelets before he left.” He gave a futile tug on the links, then growled again. “I should’ve asked him about doing it.”
“I don’t like this,” Milo said. “Any of this. It was always a bad idea in the game to split the party. And that’s what we’re about to do.”
Cross Country
They slipped out of Wheaton Dale and headed south down the trail. After a few miles, Berthold stopped and looked east. Pale rosy pink and yellow lights played above the rim of distant trees.
“Beautiful. I’ve never seen fireworks so beautiful." Berthold stood in awe.
“They call that the Celestial Dance,” Ingrge said. “Those sky ribbons appear this time of year, and again in the early spring, when the sky is clear and the air is cold enough. Our people of the Seneval Pass believe the lights are an omen, that this time of year they signal an unforgiving winter coming to slay many of their brethren. However, such displays mean good hunting and a fine growing season, long and well-yielding.” He paused and scratched his head. “I don’t know why I know that. I never saw the Dance before.” Much softer: “I don’t know why I know a lot of things. I remember things I couldn’t have experienced.”
The elf continued to watch the lights. At times the sky looked like a watercolor painting, where too much water had been used and the
colors smeared down to touch the horizon. In places the stars winked through. Moments later the colors brightened and undulated, like parade streamers blown by a strong wind. They were hypnotizing, and Ingrge’s eyes followed the swirls as his breath caught.
Berthold pointed to a constellation directly overhead and nudged the elf. “Ingrge, that would be the Dog King, wouldn’t it?”
The elf struggled to take his gaze away from the ribbons and tipped his head up. “Yes, the Dog King. Named for a squat, ugly king long centuries past
who was said to have ascended to godhood after dying in a great battle to retake stolen lands. Only the dwarves from the Rhinehold Mountains still worship him. They believe he was this world’s first dwarf. Other races call him the faded god.”
“So, we follow where its snout points, right?” Berthold was looking at the constellation, then dropped his gaze a little so he could watch the flash of the Celestial Dance. “I said I never made it to Quag Keep, but we were headed this way. I know it lies in this direction. Somehow I can )ust feel it."
“Aye,” Yevele said, losing interest in the sky show and striking east off the trail. “The damnable place is indeed this way.” She sniffed audibly. “You wanted to be long absent from that town before the caravan roused, Berthold, so let’s move. I’m good for more than a few hours. Until noon at least. I’m sure Ingrge is, too.” She let out a clipped laugh. “Not that any in the caravan would take the time to do so, but none will be able to track us . . . Ingrge was their only scout.” “Wait.” Berthold hurried to catch up to her. “Your bracelet, Yevele. I can remove it. Why don’t I see to that now?”
She held out her arm and let out a deep sigh.
“You said there was a risk.” This from Ingrge, as he joined the two. “Slight, I should think. I had practice removing my own bracelet, and my former comrades’.” He tugged a small leather pouch from his pocket and unfolded it. Inside, silvery picks glinted in the starlight. “It shouldn’t be so hard for me this go ’round.” He selected a thin pick, resembling a dentist’s probe, to set about working on one of the links.
"Don’t you need more light for that?” Ingrge peered intently over the small man’s shoulder.
Berthold shook his head. “Thief supreme, remember? Thieves are used to working in the dark.”
“Well, thief, just don’t get the idea to turn any tricks on us," Ingrge cautioned.
Yevele cut him a cross look. “We have nothing to steal. In fact, we — ouch!” There was a flash at her wrist, and Berthold jumped back, slamming into Ingrge, almost knocking the elf down as the broken bracelet fell to the ground.
Berthold shook his hand and blew on his fingers. “Told you there was a little risk. Nothing major. Not near so bad as what happened when I got Keth's off.” He looked up at her. "You’re not hurt, are you?”
She was rubbing her wrist. "No.”
“What happened to Keth?”
Berthold looked across at the elf. “Burned two fingers so bad they were useless. Curled and black they were. Not that it mattered, really He drowned in the swamp a day or so later.” He frowned and cast his head down, as if he were silently praying. Then he raised his head. “Next?” Berthold gazed straight at the elf.
Ingrge shook his head and pressed his hand tight against his chest until he caught Yevele’s questioning stare. "Sure.” But he did not hasten to pull up his sleeve and extend his wrist. "Take care of the fingers, mind you. I need them to use my bow.”
It was several minutes later, and the use of several different picks before this bracelet came off. The flash was just as bright, and a burn around the elf’s wrist showed clearly on fair skin. Though the elf regarded that with surprise, he said nothing. The elf’s eyes were watery, silver in the night and looking as if they held mysteries and pain.
The bracelet fell to the ground, joining Yevele’s, and Berthold dropped his, too. Then the thief jammed the heel of his slipper on them for good measure.
"C’mon,” Ingrge urged.
Yevele had already started eastward once more — quick, long, long strides that even trained company would have trouble matching. Berthold let out a soft groan and started jogging.
Three days later, they were clear of the forest and were starting across a stretch of low hills. Heading southeast, the weather was still unseasonably cold, and the sky was log-gray and cut by low-hanging threatening clouds.
"Not cold enough to snow,” Ingrge observed happily. "But still could rain.”
It did so in the late morning, starting with a soft misty drizzle that at the same time chilled and invigorated them. For the first time since they’d left Wheaton Dale, Berthold had been able to keep up with Yevele without huffing. But the drizzle turned into a steady rain, and then a cruel driving storm that hammered at them relentlessly and finally sent them searching lor cover.
It was nearing mid-afternoon when Ingrge found a cave which he suspected had been abandoned by a large cat. It smelled musty inside, the air heavy but tolerable. And it was relatively small. They huddled in it and listened to the rain rat-a-tat-tatting against the rocks. Occasionally the wind gusted, sending a lance of rain against their already wet cloaks and freshening the air.
Yevele was studying Berthold, glumly plastered against the rock wall opposite her.
"What?” he demanded at last. "What are you looking at?”
"This wizard,” she began, "the one that we are supposed to rescue. . . .”
“Yes?” He shivered. "Can’t seem to get warm enough. My clothes, soaked. Brrrrr.” He pushed away a fold ol his cloak, shook it, and scowled when the wind blew it close again.
"How is finding and freeing this wizard going to save our world? And which world? This one we find ourselves in now? Or the one we left behind?”
Berthold pursed his lips. “Well ... a world. Our world. I’m not sure. But it’s what the message said. It seems to be worth pursuing. Better than floundering around with no leads at all.”
“And just how will freeing the wizard save . . . our world?”
Berthold held a pensive look for a long moment before he jerked off his sopping cloak and shoved it to the back of the cave. “Yevele, that message faded out in mid-sentence. Remember? The message . . . well, it never really explained anything.”
She ground her teeth and turned her head to stare at the ram.
The silence dragged on between them, becoming a palpable thing that made the thief increasingly uneasy. He watched the ram, which appeared never ending, its rat-a-tat-tatting tune never changing, save tor brief intervals when the wind gusted stronger or changed direction and made the rain louder or softer. But that happened only briefly.
Hours might have passed, judging by the darkening of the sky. They had dozed on and off, Ingrge fitfully. It had to be sunset, perhaps a little later, the sky a dark gray now, the rain continuing relentlessly.
"This isn’t unlike a medieval house,” Berthold said. He felt the need to talk about something.
"I’m wondering.” Yevele was still watching the rain, a solid sheet of cold water continuing to wash away stunted grass and pockets of soil outside the cave mouth. “What a local house must be like.”
“This cave,” he responded sourly. “If you weren’t upper class, you typically lived in a house about this size. Damp and dark, frequently cold. It was usually nicer outside the house, lighter and warmer at least. There were only a few windows, and they were small and had shutters, stretched animal skin for panels. So you could see out when you wanted to, but it was difficult for others to see in.”
“And you know this because as a thief you’ve broken into these houses?” For the first time in hours Ingrge spoke.
Berthold shook his head. “1 used to read a lot about history, kings and famous knights, especially the Hospitalers and the Templars, and about how bad things were for the common folks. Playing the game got me interested in it.” He paused. "You know, in a true medieval society, women had little power. They certainly weren’t warriors. You’re lucky this is some sort of fantasized version of a medieval world.”
Yevele looked away from the rain and studied Berthold again. His face and features were obscured by the shadows. “And what did you do, Berthold of the Green, before coming here?”
“Traveled with those folks I told you about. Keth and Marc and — ” She poked him in the shoulder. “No. Before you came here.”
“Oh.” Berthold studied a spot on his gray leggings. He could barely make out his knee because of the thickening shadows. “Answer her,” Ingrge
said sharply.
Berthold sucked in a breath but did not turn his gaze from outside. “I was a cop in Bowling Green.”
“A cop. A policeman? Where is Bowling Green?” Yevele persisted. “Kentucky.” Berthold let out a deep breath. “Bowling Green, Kentucky. I wasn’t always a cop, though. I started as a security guard for the Corvette plant there, right out of high school. The plant was something, so huge, and up front they had a couple of the first Corvettes that ever came off a line. The plant let employees drive the new cars, not that you could put many miles on them, but you could sign one out at night.”
Yevele seemed uninterested in this particular bit of information. “But the police force had openings, and they paid better. And without a college degree, I knew I’d never get into management at the Corvette plant. So I took some tests, and on my second time around, they hired me. At twenty-two. I was passed over the first time in favor of some guys who were coming out of the Army and had served as MPs. Funny, I’d went back to the Corvette plant the Tuesday before . . . before the miniatures arrived. I put in an order for a black one. It was going to stretch me to the very limits of my paycheck. But I wanted one of those cars real bad.”
“Berthold of the Green,” Ingrge mused.
“Priorities change. I couldn’t care less about a damn car now. My real name was Bertrum Wiggins. Never liked it. But Berthold of Bowling Green . . . Berthold of the Green . . . has a nice ring to it. Patrolman Wiggins. Traffic sometimes, riding around catching speeders. Got to work a robbery a few times.”
"And the game . . .” Yevele pressed.
“Started playing it in high school. Same group to this very day.
Well, right up until the day I was bamfed here. I was always the thief.”
Ingrge snorted. "All the game conventions I went to, the cops, sheriff deputies, whatever, they all played thieves. Probably figured they knew how to get away with things better than the real criminals.” Berthold shrugged. "I know how to use all these tools. I know how to cut the strings of someone’s purse, how to pick their pocket, open practically any locked door.”
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