From Across the Clouded Range

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  #

  With his pain and fear locked away, Jaret slept soundly for the first time in as long as he could remember. His sleep was dreamless, deep, and fulfilling. The nightmares were far off, held at bay by the same barrier that restrained his emotions. They fought against that barrier, but for this night, it held.

  He woke suddenly from that sleep to the sound of a hushed voice calling him and the sensation of being roughly shaken. His first thought was that Thagas'kiula had returned. He knew that the prospect should fill him with terror, but that fear was insubstantial, so he opened his eyes and looked blearily at the shadow-shrouded intruder. He found a ruggedly handsome face some years younger than his own that he eventually matched to one from the catalogue of images from his life so long ago. He closed his eyes then opened them again to be certain, but the image did not change. Gallian Jimmenov, sub-commander of the Legion of the Rising Sun, was crouched over him, shaking him awake.

  Gal, as he was commonly known, was not watching his subject as he shook, and Jaret had to put a hand on his chest to show that he was awake. With that touch, Gal’s face shot back to Jaret’s. Their eyes locked. “Commander, we have come for you, but we must hurry.” The words were little more than whispered pants.

  He certainly is excited, Jaret thought with utter indifference. He assumed that he was dreaming. He had experienced this dream countless times in the days since his capture. This had to be a new version of the same torturous delusion, but he still knew how it would end, with his men dead and him cowering before a small man in a black robe. He tried to dismiss the dream before it could start, but Gal just kept looking at him in confusion – probably wondering if his commander was worth saving.

  “Sir,” Gal whispered sharply, “it’s me. We have come for you, but we really do have to hurry. The guards will discover our handiwork any minute now.”

  Jaret could not remember anyone talking in the previous versions of this dream. He also did not remember ever having a choice, so with the detachment of one who can no longer feel fear, he allowed Gal to pull him from the hard stone floor.

  Gal was visibly surprised by Jaret’s apathy, but he soon recovered and handed his superior a bundle of dark clothes similar to the ones he was wearing. Gal had already unlocked the shackles that had bound Jaret’s wrists and ankles, so he pulled on the loose-fitting pants, long-sleeved shirt, and soft boots as Gal anxiously watched the hall.

  Much to Gal’s apparent chagrin, Jaret did not hurry with his changing. He was not certain if he was capable of feeling urgency. He felt perfectly calm and settled as if he were waking in his summer cottage on Lake Balair rather than preparing to escape from the dungeons of a massive fortress against all possible hope. The black pants and shirt were followed by a stiff leather vest and a dirk that he slipped into his belt. He looked up just in time to catch the length of a dark scabbard that Gal threw to him. He checked the blade then slung it over his shoulder as he stepped to the door.

  Jaret strode outside the room behind Gal and found two more men hidden in the shadows. Those men led him at a run down the long hall of doors that ended in his cell. With each door they passed, more black figures joined their ranks until their number was near twenty. They sprinted past the crumpled forms of four men in the garb of chamber guards. Jaret found himself wholly indifferent to the deaths and felt no satisfaction to see that one of them was the mammoth brute who had taken so much pleasure in beating him.

  The end of the hall brought them to another group of black clothed figures and another neat pile of bodies. This time, there were eight of the first and a dozen of the second. One of the bodies was clad in black, but Jaret did not mourn the loss as he turned down another long hall. From what he could tell, the rescue was going well. His muscles, joints, and bones felt as good as he remembered them feeling in the past twenty years, and despite weeks of inactivity, he was unfazed by the exertion of the run.

  Though his body felt remarkable, the pain of Thagas'kiula’s poison still burned his blood. The barrier in his mind had dulled the pain, but it was certainly there. It was the same with his other emotions. They were there but unreachable, insubstantial. Where he should have felt fear, anticipation, exultation, there was nothing, only a detached indifference as if he were watching himself from far away. It was an eerie sense of calm and purpose almost as if he were being guided by a force other than his own freewill.

  The black troop rounded another corner and started up a wide set of stairs. At that point, Jaret realized that he did not have the slightest idea where they were. The Great Chamber was a colossal building, and he had never been much of an explorer, so he did not know most of it. Logic dictated that the dungeons would be in the lowest, inner-most part of the building, and given what he knew about the fortress-like building, their hopes of escape were miniscule. Certainly, Nabim would have increased the number of guards in the Chamber in anticipation of an escape and to ease his likely sense of paranoia. Even if he had not, they would have to pass countless guard posts to reach the outer wall and then make it out of one of the gates, which were always closed at night. Still, Gal had made it into the Chamber, perhaps he had an equally good plan for getting out.

  The muffled clatter of a man falling backward down the stairs stanched even that slight hope. Jaret noticed the dark arrow quivering in the legionnaire’s chest as he hurdled the writhing form, yet from the time he was struck until the moment he died, the man did not make a single sound that might serve as an alarm. The discipline was extraordinary, but Jaret did not mark it. He brought his eyes to the top of the stairs and saw a cadre of sleek, black, not quite human shapes blocking the passageway, the Curava Deilei Tuhar’za.

  The site of the creatures created an eruption of fear that pounded against Jaret’s barrier, but he refused to give in to that fear and mentally reinforced the barrier. The appearance of the blade in his hand strengthened his resolve further, and the barrier was soon a steel wall. It blocked even the emotions that should have been racing through him in anticipation of battle. He dodged an arrow without a tremor in his pulse or catch in his breath and pounded up the stairs looking for Thagas'kiula in the crowd of dark shapes.

  Ten legionnaires had hit the figures at the top of the stairs and were fighting for their lives when Jaret reached the fray and looked for a place to insert himself. The creatures carried terrible weapons that were better suited for torture than actual fighting, but they were skilled in their use and supplemented them with their horrible bite. The teeth of one of the creatures found the shoulder of a legionnaire in front of Jaret. He winced in recognition of the pain that bite would cause but did not hesitate in skewering the creature as the injured guard recoiled from the attack.

  The sound of the man’s unbridled screams echoed down the halls, sending a tremor through the legionnaires and a shaky looking cadre of chamber guards who stood behind the creatures, but the man was back on his feet better than new a minute later. He returned, still muttering in disbelief, just in time to block a set of barbed hooks that were aimed at Jaret’s leg. The legionnaire parried the hooks and drove his blade into the chest of the creature that held them. Jaret returned the favor by deflecting a curved knife from the man’s stomach before burying his dirk in the side of its owner. The creature fell but was replaced by another that could have been its twin.

  Jaret dodged the thrust of its serrated sword, deflecting the thick blade with his own. He jerked his dirk from the thing’s cousin, dropped to a knee, and brought the knife up just in time to catch the mouth of the creature as it plunged toward him. “And keep it shut,” he growled as he punched the dagger up into the creature’s head then brought his sword around into its chest.

  He discarded the body into a growing pile of unmoving forms behind him and turned to face his next opponent, but there was no slashing sword to deflect or darting teeth to dodge. Somehow a seam had opened before him, and he stared at it, waiting for it
to fill. The legionnaires had fought their way through most of the creatures, Jaret realized as he stared at the opening, but the chamber guards who formed the next rank were afraid of their allies and were keeping a lot of space between themselves and the dwindling number of creatures.

  Unfortunately, the numbers of the legionnaires had likewise dwindled to about a dozen while there were at least fifty chamber guards stretching as far as Jaret could see down both sides of the hall. Even if they made it through the creatures, they had no hope of escape. With their long spears and tight formation, the guards would push the legionnaires back into the dungeons, trap them in a corner, and cut them to ribbons without the legionnaires ever getting close enough to strike. Jaret searched the eyes of the chamber guards. He found no desperation, bloodlust, or rage that could be exploited, only calm certainty. These men were trained professionals. They would not make the same mistakes as the imperial guards. The situation was desperate.

  A bellow drew Jaret’s eyes attention to the far end of the staircase. He turned in time to see a hulking legionnaire lift a creature and throw it back into the crowd of guards he was preparing to face. As the guards recoiled from the body of the creature, Jaret saw their chance. The stairs they were on continued around the corner from where they fought and appeared to be free of guards. If they could make it around the corner to those stairs, they might be able to outrun the heavily laden guards and escape, if only for enough time to regroup.

  Knowing what he had to do, Jaret broke from his place in the middle of the line and bounded to the far side of the stairs. He inserted himself at the end of the line just in time to deflect a spear to the wall. He tossed his dirk to distract the guard then pulled the spear toward him. The off-balance guard plunged forward into the blade of Jaret’s sword and convulsed as he twisted it. Rather than discard the guard’s body down the stairs as he would have done a minute before, Jaret held it in front of him and turned to the legionnaire at his side. “You, man,” he yelled. “Bring one in close and hang on to him.” Jaret felt spears slashing by him, but the guard proved an effective shield as his compatriots refused to stab through the body of their friend.

  The legionnaire nodded his understanding without ever looking away from the three guards he was facing. Those guards thrust their spears at him simultaneously. He didn’t have a chance. He caught the first, deflected the second, but had no answer for the third. It found its mark and pounded through him.

  Jaret flinched, but the veil in his mind blocked further response. He just watched as the valiant legionnaire continued on despite the spear jutting from his guts, brought his opponent in close and stuck a dagger in his side so that they would die together. The heroic display created enough forward momentum to knock the guards around the pair off-balance, and that was all the opening Jaret needed.

  “Legionnaires, circle ‘round. Follow me!” he screamed and lowered his shoulder into the guard he held. He pushed into the body with all the force his legs could muster and felt it rise off the floor as he pressed it into the men before him. The already unbalanced guards fell back into the packed masses of their fellows until an opening appeared at Jaret’s back.

  Men patted him as they passed, and he heard their boots thumping up the stairs behind him. He counted eight pats, but he had lost his momentum. He held for another second, straining for all he was worth. There was another tap, then, “That’s all, get the hell out of there,” released him from his duty.

  Jaret lifted the body with the last of his strength and threw it into the guards. They did not budge, but he used it to push himself away from the mass. His foot found the first step a heartbeat later, and he ran up the stone stairs as quickly as his tired legs would take him.

  Several seconds passed before he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, but it was not enough of a lead. He scanned the men in front of him and saw that only two of them had bows. It would have to be enough. As he rounded the first landing in the stairs, he yelled, “Archers form up!”

  He dashed past the midpoint of the flight as the two men came to a stop on either side of him, swung around, and gracefully pulled their bows. He stopped just behind them. “Hit any bastard who sticks his head around that door. Aim for their faces and make it ugly.”

  Two heartbeats passed – it seemed like an eternity – before the first of the guards made it onto the landing. The archers were less than twenty feet away, and the arrows that flew from the taught military bows hit with enough force to send the bodies of those first two guards flying back into their fellows. Two more arrows rose to and left the bows and two more guards were thrown back. One more volley left a final guard with two arrows standing from his eye and cheek, but there were no more targets. They had succeeded in their goal. The stairway was as quiet as a tomb. Only the mumbled indecision of the guards disturbed the silence.

  “Fire once more at the wall,” Jaret instructed in a panted whisper, “then get up these stairs as quietly as you can. At the top, one more volley into the wall, then follow me.”

  The men did as they were told, but Jaret was already running up the stairs and did not see the arrows bound harmlessly off the wall. The collective gasp from the guards was all he needed. A second later, he heard the shuffling of feet behind him. It would be some time before those guards had the courage to poke his head around the corner. It would not be enough time to escape, but it would buy them a few precious minutes.

  Jaret sprinted to the top of the third set of stairs and turned down the hall that issued from either side. A flash of steel brought him up short. By instinct alone, he deflected that flash away from his throat but caught the sword with his own in such a way as to redirect it down into the top of his leg. He watched as if in slow motion as the sword slid down his own and into his thigh, slicing all the way through the thick muscle to the bone beneath. He looked into the eyes of a half-clothed noble, who had thought himself a hero a few seconds before but now realized that he had crossed the thin line between hero and fool, just as one of the trailing legionnaires slashed open his throat.

  As the body fell away, the sword dislodged, and Jaret clenched his hands over the wound to quell the flow of blood. He cursed himself but did not feel any of the fear or anger that should have accompanied the wound. The pain was equally far away, trapped by the barrier in his mind, so he just watched without concern as his hands were soaked with red.

  A legionnaire grabbed Jaret's arm and slung it over his shoulder. The thin man practically lifted him from the ground and half-carried him. Jaret’s eyes rose and watched six more legionnaires pound furiously on a polished wooden door, but they were at the farthest end of a hall that seemed to stretch forever. Behind him, boots slapped against stones, spears rattled, armor jangled. The guards were ascending the stairs, would be upon them in moments.

  Jaret focused on the door, put all his effort into reaching it, but his leg was worthless, and even with help, the run was a staggering, grunting procession of futility. When the legionnaires – working now with a marble bust of the former Emperor – broke through the door, he was only halfway there and losing momentum. At that same moment, a yell rose from behind him, and the sounds there changed. The guards were off the steps. They were in the hallway and closing fast. They would never make it.

  He was turning to face the guards – better to face death than feel a spear drive through your back – when another set of hands grabbed him from the other side. Between them, the legionnaires lifted him from the ground and carried him at full stride to the momentary sanctuary. At that same moment, three streaks of black raced past them, charging toward the approaching guards. A suicide mission, but Jaret could not make himself feel remorse for the men who would soon die to save his life.

  The clash of steel on steel and the screams of men meeting their ends issued Jaret through the threshold of the door. The men who carried him threw him into the room then followed as the
door slammed behind them. Two other men pushed a huge wardrobe the final few feet to cover the entrance.

  Jaret landed on the floor of the lavish room next to the crumpled figure of a woman dressed in seductive silk nightclothes. Next to the body was a knife; its edge glistened with a sheen of blood. The woman’s chest was rising and falling. She was not dead, but Jaret doubted he would have felt differently about her either way.

  Two legionnaires lifted him from the floor and carried him to the canopied bed in the middle of the room. The men looked at him with concern as they forced his hands away from what should have been a gaping wound. It was everything but.

  Jaret stared in disbelief. He had felt the sword strike his bone, had felt it slice through his flesh, had felt the blood pulsing over his fingers. A blow like that should be nearly fatal from the bleeding and leave him with a lifelong limp at the least, but as he and the legionnaires watched, the blood cleared, muscles reformed, pulled together, and stitched tight. The skin followed until a scab formed across the wound and slowly faded to leave only a vicious scar. The men who had been assigned to tend the wound were left holding makeshift bandages as they watched the spectacle in wide-eyed awe.

  “What kind of sorcery is this?” one of the men screamed. “Lord Commander, what have they done to you?” He leapt away and struggled to wrest his sword from its scabbard. He shook as if Jaret were one of the monsters they had just fought.

  “Put the sword down, man,” Jaret scolded. “There is no time for that now. That door’s not going to hold forever.” He stared at his leg again. He suspected he had Thagas'kiula to thank for his rapid recovery but didn’t spare it any more thought than that.

  The legionnaire did not seem convinced. He looked from Gal to Jaret in indecision. His fellow backed away, holding his bandages in trembling hands like a shield. Jaret was growing impatient, but Gal’s voice cut through the bewilderment. “Soldier, you just received an order from Imperial Warlord Jaret Rammeriz. You had better follow it before I cut you down myself.” The legionnaire with the sword, looked at his commander, remembered himself, sheathed his sword, and saluted. His fellow turned to Gal and began wrapping the bandages around a long gash on his arm.

  “Bitch surprised me,” Gal chuckled. “Can you believe it? I fight a hundred chamber guards and their hell-spawn minions without a scratch only to get sliced by some overpriced whore. I wish I could pull off your trick. That was something, but I don’t think I want to . . . .”

  A pounding at the door ended the conversation. Two men pressed their backs to the wardrobe, but it shook with each blow and crept ever so slightly from the jam. They had a few minutes but nowhere to go.

  Jaret turned to Gal, happy to change the subject. “Mind telling me what you had planned for the finale?”

  Gal did not answer. He grabbed the only lamp in the room and placed a black cloth over it. He carried it to the room's one large window where he methodically lifted and replaced the cover.

  Jaret joined him, scanning the darkened landscape outside. They were on the third floor of the Great Chamber in what must be the southern wing because the canal that ran by the building defined the entire scene below. The broad canal had been built long ago to link the city’s huge port to the Vasuki River several miles before the mud-clogged delta that formed to the south of the city. The lights of countless boats moved up and down the canal even at this late hour – during the daylight hours, the canal would be crammed almost to the point of immobility. Jaret scanned those boats and found Gal’s finale. The light on one of the boats was flashing in a cadence that matched the lamp in Gal’s hands.

  “That’s our ride.” Gal smiled. “Do you feel like a swim?”

  Gal put the lamp back on the nightstand and returned to the men at the door. There were three of them now, with two others pushing furnishing across the room to obstruct the entrance. The men were fighting a losing battle. The wardrobe was slowly jarred away from the doorway with each blow from outside. “When the Lord Commander and I are clear, you will hold that door as long as you can,” Gal ordered, calm and steady. The eyes of his men showed the same resolve. “Then you will follow us out that window. You will swim to the docks, not the boat. Make your way to a safe house. They will have new orders for you there. Pauli, you will be first, followed by . . . . ”

  The door, wardrobe, and legionnaires were engulfed in a fiery ball then erupted in a rain of flaming splinters. Jaret pulled his hand up just in time to catch the shrapnel before it slashed into his face. Gal was not so lucky. He was riddled with shards of wood then burst into flame where he stood several paces closer to the door. The fire shriveled Jaret's hair and charring his skin, but the pain was far away along with the fear and shock he should have felt. He looked with clear eyes at the exposed hall and saw the black-robed figure he had expected standing there with an outstretched hand. Guards and more of the creatures stood behind the wizard as if they were necessary.

  Jaret knew that they were not. The little man stretched his hand out again. His lips worked through the shadows of his cowl. The gift that very man had given him was the only thing that saved Jaret. In the split second that normally would have been lost to shock, fear, and indecision, his body acted.

  Flames engulfed him as he leapt from the window and exploded from their embrace. He could feel his skin crisping as he fell in a fiery shroud, but the burning was only there for a moment before it was replaced by the cooling comfort of water as he knifed beneath the surface of the canal.

  A superior swimmer, Jaret soon found his bearings and paddled toward the place where he had seen the flashing a moment before. He reached the side of a shallow-sided boat quickly and several sets of hands silently pulled him from the murky depth and laid him on the hard deck. A soft voice whispered commands somewhere behind him, and his saviors scattered.

  Jaret thought he recognized the voice but could not place it. He did not try for long. He just lay on the deck of the small boat watching fire and smoke boil from the window where he had made his escape. Soon, a dark figure was silhouetted against the light of that window despite the fire dancing about him, but it was too late. There was no way to differentiate Jaret’s ship from the hundreds of others that crept up and down the canal.

  Chapter 39