Well, there was Mountainside, but the journey there was too difficult.
His only choice was to cross the ring of mountains surrounding the Empire. Everyone said that was impossible, but Markus had to believe it wasn't. He could never serve evil. No matter what Uncle Theo said, Warrick was evil. If he wasn't evil, why had he created these mountains to trap his subjects, and why had he created dangerous regions infested with monsters, keeping the people from traveling freely?
No good emperor would do those things.
Markus trudged along a narrow, winding path through the forest's vegetation. A calm wind rustled the leaves around him—a sound he knew he'd miss. A sound of home, of stability and comfort.
Soon the cabin's outline receded from view.
After a few minutes, the air felt suddenly cold, and Markus pulled his traveling cloak from his sack. Even covered in the thick fabric, he shivered.
The longer he walked, passing through thicker vegetation now, the colder the air felt.
All summer, he'd felt the occasional nighttime chill. Before, he'd thought it strange, but now he worried something supernatural lurked behind it. He didn't live far from the ruins of Woodsville.
Had Warrick's magical barrier around that site failed?
Shoving these doubts aside, Markus pushed through low-hanging branches and emerged in the next clearing, where his friend Rik waited in front of his family's cabin. Rik's red hair stood out like a small fire in the moonlit forest.
"About time you got here," Rik said.
"Had to wait for my uncle to fall asleep," Markus said as he dropped his leather sack on the forest floor.
"Don't worry. I'm only giving you trouble."
"I know." Markus punched Rik lightly on the shoulder. "You're more trouble than a hundred people put together."
"But what would you do without me?"
"Live a much safer and saner life," Markus muttered.
"Hey, I heard that!"
Markus picked up his leather sack, ignoring Rik's remark. "You sure about this? You don't have to come."
"Of course I'm sure. Friends stick together."
Markus loved that part of Rik's personality. Many friends would have found an apprenticeship in Crayden by now or used their skills as a woodsman to make a living. But not Rik. He'd pledged to remain around until Markus turned eighteen.
But was Rik only doing so to avoid real responsibility?
"You ready to go?" Rik shifted his own leather sack to a different position. "Why the cloak?"
"You don't feel how cold it is?"
"No, it's kind of muggy out."
"Well, I'm freezing," Markus said.
"That makes no sense. You sure you aren't sick?" Rik moved as though he was about to put a hand on Markus's forehead, but Markus backed away.
"I know it doesn't make sense," Markus said. "But, look, I can see my breath! I'm not imagining things."
As they started traveling, Rik said, "That's strange. I can see it too, but I don't see my own. Could it be related to Woodsville in some way?"
Markus walked beside Rik. "I already thought of that. It's as good a theory as any. Since we're heading in that general direction—"
"I've always wanted to see Woodsville!"
"I'd rather not."
"Come on," Rik said. "You know it would be a fun adventure."
"Maybe I'm not as keen on adventure as you are."
They traveled through the night, following familiar paths at first, passing places from their childhoods. The lake where Markus used to skip rocks. The trees he used to climb. The stream he and Rik dared each other to swim in late one autumn.
He and Rik had done a lot of stupid things. Once, they'd dared each other to get close to a sleeping bear. Another time, Rik had challenged Markus to eat some green berries, and Markus spent the next day vomiting. There was also the time they'd seen who could shoot an apple off the other's head with an arrow. Rik won that dare.
Unfortunately, Uncle Theo found out about it. Markus still had scars on his butt from his uncle's leather belt. It was the only time his uncle had ever hurt him like that.
And he'd deserved it.
Rik sure had a way of bringing out Markus's foolish side, and Markus feared that was the case now. Leaving the Empire had been Rik's suggestion. Most of their plans started with Rik's creative idiocy—or genius, as he would call it.
As they walked, the chill intensified, and Markus felt on edge. He wished he'd brought a heavier cloak. It was summer for God's sake. What the hell was wrong with the forest?
Trees crowded their path. Twigs and leaves crunched beneath their leather shoes, the sounds echoing eerily. Markus felt as though something were watching them, something evil hovering in the air. He didn't voice these concerns, though, because Rik wouldn't believe him. Or worse, Rik might believe him and want to investigate more thoroughly.
The path narrowed further, winding in snakelike patterns. Markus parted low-hanging branches with his sword while Rik had his axe ready for thicker branches. Why Rik had to carry an axe, Markus had no idea. Even though he was stronger than Rik, he'd always found axes unwieldy. A sword flowed in his hand, almost like artwork.
As morning neared, the chill remained, like icy daggers hitting Markus from every side. He tried to ignore it by talking, but his teeth were chattering too much. Whatever this was, it wasn't a good omen.
Hours later, the sun rose, and the cold vanished as if it had never existed.
"That's strange." Markus removed his cloak. "It's not cold anymore."
"Interesting. So only you can feel it, and it only happens at night. I don't know what to make of that. Maybe ghosts are more active at night."
"Yeah, maybe."
It didn't take long for Markus to miss the chill. After a few minutes, his light tunic stuck to his back, and sweat trickled down his forehead, into his eyes. His dark blond hair was soaked.
As the morning warmed, they marched through tighter and tighter paths, finding only the occasional clearing. This was a part of the forest people didn't enter because of its proximity to Woodsville, and it showed. Vines covered everything, looking as though no one had touched them in hundreds of years. Their path was uneven, difficult to climb at times. The mountains near Crayden weren't large, but they were enough to make hiking exhausting.
Markus and Rik had planned a path that would lead them southwest through the forest, toward the riverside city of Levine. From there, they'd hire a boat and take the river south to Tate City, avoiding the dangerous Black Swamp.
Then they would stand at the base of the mountains, Markus realized with a jolt of fear.
He pushed through some low-hanging vines. "This really is crazy. What are the chances that we'll actually make it?"
"We have to stay positive. Who knows? Maybe Warrick creates the myth that no one can escape so no one will ever try. I mean, nobody who got out would come back to tell us."
"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Markus said, but he didn't trust Rik's logic. Imperial Guards were alerted whenever anyone set foot on the mountains, and then the Imperial Guards could teleport to the other side of the mountain.
And wait to kill the unfortunate travelers.
But was there a chance? A magical barrier at the edge of the mountains prevented Imperial Guards from crossing, but maybe others could pass through. Imperial Guards were so efficient that no one had ever reached the barrier, or at least no one had lived to tell the tale.
Markus shoved aside another low-hanging branch. "I still don't see how we're gonna get past the Imperial Guards. What makes us any different from anyone else?"
"What choice do you have? You said yourself you'd rather die than become an Imperial Guard."
"But you don't have to die with me. You have a future. I don't."
"What future?" Rik said. "Do you really see me living in a cabin the rest of my life? Or do you think I should become an apprentice blacksmith like Tomas? I'm sorry. I don't care what people think. That's not the type of life
I want."
"So you'd rather die instead?"
"Maybe I have a bit more confidence in our chances."
"Or maybe you're just insane."
"Yeah, maybe," Rik said. "But I already told you. Friends stick together."
* * * * *
Darien Warrick sat once again at the table where he read the Webs of Fate. This time, he was more frustrated than ever. He'd spent many years directing Markus's life, but Markus had made an unexpected decision, choosing a path of lower probability.
Darien had known it might happen, but it still angered him. Now he had to adjust his plans, and they were too delicate to survive unexpected changes like these.
He took a few deep breaths, willing himself to relax. All was not lost. It never was.
He was in control.
But how could he correct Markus's divergent choice? Nearly fifteen years ago, Darien had ordered the killing of Markus's parents, members of the Order. They had faced no choice but to flee the Empire, taking their three-year-old son with them.
However, this had been different from Darien's manipulation of Nadia's life. He'd never wanted Markus to resent him. He'd wanted Markus to serve him.
But Theo had failed to turn Markus into the right kind of man. Had Darien missed something with his magic, leaving traces of memory in Markus's head? That wouldn't have surprised Darien. He'd always been better at creating than destroying.
Something must have driven Markus to hate him.
No use lamenting it now. Darien couldn't change the past.
In truth, this possibility had been growing more likely with every passing day. It wasn't the path Darien would have chosen, but he could make something out of it.
It might even turn out better.
Chapter 3
Berig was living his worst nightmare.
He sat in an old wooden chair, tapping his fingers on a desk and trying to ignore his churning gut.
The room was bright and clean, a place fit to do business. From the next room came voices, light and friendly—a sound that would change all too soon. Berig's moneylender, Amar, would be furious once he discovered Berig didn't have his money.
Berig ran a hand threw his messy brown beard. Could he talk himself out of this?
Not a chance. Amar was not a merciful man.
When had anyone ever shown Berig mercy? Not in his horrible twenty-five years of existence. Life was one misfortune after another, piled on and on. He'd thought he might improve himself and escape the problems of his past, but he couldn't.
The door opened, and Amar stepped through. He was a short, wiry man, but still intimidating to Berig, who was even shorter and skinnier—a product of growing up on the streets.
Darker-skinned than most residents of Bradenton, Amar had black hair and a matching mustache. Berig fidgeted beneath his stern gaze, and the old chair groaned.
Amar sat down at his desk. "You got my money?"
"Well, I—"
"Do. You. Have. My. Money?"
"Okay, the thing is—"
"I'm not going to ask again."
Berig took a breath. "No, I don't."
"We have a problem, then." Amar leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "You're already a month late. I can't keep extending your deadline. I have a family to support, unlike you." He shuffled through some papers. "You have till tomorrow."
"What! That ain't enough time!"
"It'll have to be. If not, it's prison for you. Where you belong."
"Please, can't you show some mercy? I'm trying here. I'm really trying."
"No, you're not," Amar said. "You piss away all your money gambling and drinking yourself to death. The rate you're going, it's a race between liver failure and a knife in the back. Don't know which one'll kill you first. Don't really care either."
Berig couldn't go back to prison. Two years ago, he vowed he'd never return, vowed he'd turn his life around, be a good citizen.
"We've gotta come to some kind of arrangement," he said, wringing his hands. "You're right. I haven't been responsible. But that ain't no reason to send me to prison. I'll get you that money. It might take a while, but I can do it. I promise. You gotta trust me."
"Trust is not a virtue in my profession. You have one day."
"Come on. You gotta listen to me. It's not fair." Even as the words came out of his mouth, Berig realized that he sounded like a whiny child. Once, such a display might have worked for him, but now it was pathetic.
"Well, life isn't fair," Amar said. "You of all people should know that. Now get out of my house. I'll see you tomorrow."
Berig's legs felt weak as he stood. He walked out the door and onto the sundrenched streets of Bradenton, thinking only of the time he'd spend in prison
How long would it be before he saw the sun again?
He trudged through Bradenton's business district, where the cobblestone streets were clean and well-kept, comparatively speaking. Nothing remained in perfect condition with the monster that attacked the city every night.
In the lower income districts of town, the places Berig had always called home, the city authorities made no effort. That part of town was marked by dirt streets, deep runnels, and buildings on the verge of collapse.
Berig's steps carried him there without thought.
He passed people dressed in filthy rags, all some shade of brown—the kind of clothes he still wore. Some people greeted him fondly, but most went about their business, their eyes downcast, a mirror of their grim fortunes. But none were as grim as Berig's.
He felt as though his life were over. It hadn't been much of a life, he realized, thinking back on everything that had brought him to this point.
He stopped beside the remnants of a house, one the monster had destroyed years before he came to Bradenton. Beside that house was the door to a small cellar, the place Berig had called home his entire childhood. He opened the door and peered inside.
So small. How had he and his brother survived there?
How had they survived at all?
Berig remembered all too well the day he and Marek had escaped their village with nothing but the clothes on their backs. For some reason still unknown to Berig, Imperial Guards had burned the village to the ground, leaving only two survivors. In his mind, he could still see the Imperial Guard who'd hesitated when he saw Berig and Marek.
Why had the man done that?
Only four at the time, Berig hadn't understood that he'd never see his parents again. Marek told him, but it took a long time for it to sink in.
Staring at the cellar, Berig remembered the night he'd discovered it. He and Marek had arrived at Bradenton as the sun set, unaware that the monster was approaching. When it was about to grab them, Berig spotted the cellar, and they ducked inside.
Now, at one of the lowest points of his miserable life, Berig recalled some of the others. The day his brother had disappeared, probably eaten by the monster. The times he'd spent in prison. The day one Imperial Guard had nearly beaten him to death, a day when he was saved only by the mercy of another Imperial Guard, a man named Gram.
So someone had shown him mercy. Once.
Still, the world was hell. Maybe Berig could join his brother in death, but death scared him. Some people could believe in a higher power. To Berig, though, you faded into nothing when you died, and as much as he hated his life, as useless as he was, he didn't want to disappear.
Maybe he could go back to thievery, a time when things had been easier. He and his brother had mastered their craft, stealing almost anything they wanted.
After his brother's disappearance—he still had trouble calling his brother dead—he'd lost his passion for thievery and become careless. He couldn't go back to that life.
But never had he been as desperate as he was now. Never mind that his debt was far too large for a single day of thievery.
What did it matter anyways? He'd return to what he always did. He never learned from his mistakes. Again and again, he drank and gambled his
money away, finding only the occasional odd job to pay his debts.
For a few years, he'd managed to cheat at poker, but eventually the other players caught on and began watching him. There was no hope for him anywhere.
Dispirited, he returned to the business district, where he entered a well-kept and mostly empty inn owned by his friend Liam. Berig had spent so much time drinking in the first-floor tavern that Liam had offered him a room for a small fee, which Liam often waived if Berig agreed to help out around the inn.
Berig seated himself on a stool at the deserted bar.
"You look miserable," Liam said, wiping down the wooden counter with a wet rag, a nervous habit of his.
"Well, I feel miserable," Berig said.
"Money trouble again?"
"Yeah, you could say that."
"How much?"
"Twelve gold coins."
Liam put down the rag. "How'd you manage to get that far in debt? I give you half your drinks for free."
"Well, things happen, I guess."
"You're still gambling, aren't you?"
"A man's gotta make money somehow." Even as he said it, Berig knew it was a weak argument. In truth, he felt as if he could never escape that side of him. Maybe he did belong in prison. Surely he'd never become a productive member of society.
Not after the life he'd endured.
Liam shook his head and started wiping down the counter again. "I hate to say it, Berig, but you brought this on yourself. You've gotta be smarter."
"I know that," Berig said, resting his head in his hands.
"What're you gonna do about it?"
"No idea. I figured I'd come here and drink myself into a coma."
"Not gonna let you do that," Liam said. "You can have a few drinks, but that's it. I don't want to see you like that again. Drinking is just your method of avoiding life, and this isn't a situation you can avoid."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Berig said. Liam was a good friend, even if Berig wanted to punch him in the face right now. In the end, the innkeeper had Berig's best interests in mind.
While Berig tried in vain to think of a way out of this situation, Liam brought him a glass of ale, which Berig drank slowly, trying for once not to give in to his nature. He'd spent enough days throwing up in alleys and getting into bar fights. Maybe he had to take bigger steps if he wanted to turn his life around, but he doubted he could do that.
Empire of Chains (World in Chains Book 1) Page 3
