Klint stood in the doorway, looking from side to side. "Change of plans. We're leaving now."
"What's happened?" Rik asked.
"Somebody recognized you and alerted the Imperial Guards."
"We're ready," Markus said. He and Rik grabbed their belongings, then followed Klint into the corridor.
Klint peered around the nearest corner, then held up a hand to halt them. "Damn. They're already here."
"What do we do?" Markus whispered, heart pounding.
"Let me think. They're in the common room. That can't be the only way out."
Tense conversation sounded from the common room. An Imperial Guard was barking orders.
"Let's try the other way," Klint said. "There's an exit over there. But don't go through it yet. There might be guards waiting outside. Go into the storage room right there." He pointed to a door on the left side of the hall. "I'll come around and get you out when it's safe."
Klint walked toward the common room while Markus and Rik hastened to the storage room—a space crowded with tools, ladders, buckets, and other junk.
"Which room are they in?" asked a man in the hallway, probably the commander.
"This one," the innkeeper said. Markus felt a stab of anger at the betrayal, but he knew there was no point arguing with Imperial Guards. Arguing would get you arrested. Or killed.
The door clicked open, followed by angry voices.
"Dammit, they're not in here! You lied to me."
"They must have heard you arrive," the innkeeper said. "You weren't exactly keeping your arrival quiet. By now, they're probably long gone."
"I doubt it. We have men patrolling the perimeter. They'll be caught."
The commander's heavy booted steps retreated to the common room, where he continued barking out orders, telling his men to check the inn more thoroughly, then to move outside.
"We have to go now," Rik said. "It's our only chance."
"No, we have to trust Klint."
"You told me yourself that you didn't trust him."
"Well, we don't have much choice."
The door opened, and Markus tensed, but it was only Klint in the doorway.
"I'd hate to interrupt this lovely conversation," the smuggler said, "but it's time to go."
Markus and Rik followed Klint, who opened the door at the end of the hall and beckoned them outside. They stepped out into darkness broken by distant torchlight. There was a body on the ground. An Imperial Guard.
"You killed him!" Markus whispered.
"Slit his throat," Klint said. "Didn't think you'd mind a dead Imperial Guard."
"Well, no, but they might blame us for his death."
"That's not my problem," Klint said. "Consider yourselves lucky to get outta here." He fell silent, leading them around the inn and back toward the docks. Before they could step out of the alley, he motioned for them to hide behind some crates.
Moments later, Klint ducked behind the crates as well. "Someone's coming."
Heart pounding, Markus waited. He had his sword, but he wasn't sure he could bring himself to kill even an Imperial Guard. Not all Imperial Guards were evil. It was their ruler Markus hated, not the individual men who served him. Not people like Uncle Theo.
One Imperial Guard entered the alley, coming closer. His boots thudded against the dirt ground, and Markus readied his sword.
Klint jumped out from behind the crate and dragged his dagger across the Imperial Guard's throat before he could scream. The man clutched the spot and crumpled to the ground, making horrible gurgling sounds.
Klint beckoned them forward, bloody dagger in hand. Markus followed, sick to his stomach.
Focus on the task, he told himself, racing across the docks behind Klint. It appeared that only a few Imperial Guards had left the inn. Most of the men were just now filing out, framed in the light from the doorway.
Klint pointed to his left. "Boat's this way."
They kept a quick pace, but didn't go so fast they'd attract attention. Markus thanked God for the Imperial Guards' long and thorough search. The few men outside likely hadn't expected to run across someone willing to kill them.
A short series of steps led them down to a lower portion of the docks, where Klint's boat waited. It was about twenty feet from front to back, another ten from side to side, and featured a small white sail. Their cargo, small stacks of wooden crates, filled most of the boat.
"It'll be a tight fit," Klint said. "Hope you don't mind."
Markus did mind. He'd always hated enclosed spaces. He took a deep breath, then followed Klint and Rik into the boat.
Rik glanced back. "How're we gonna move the boat? There's no wind tonight."
"Well, there's a slow current. That'll move us a little bit. There are also two oars." Klint handed one to each of them. "They'll give us some push, but I've got a little secret.
"There's no way we can move this cargo with just a couple of oars," Rik said. "Not at any decent speed at least. We'll work ourselves to death."
"A couple of strong lads like you should have no problem." Klint moved toward the back of the boat. "And as I said, I have a secret method."
From one of the crates, he grabbed a five-foot wooden staff. He placed the tip of it to the water, and the boat started to move.
"How're you doing that?" Rik asked. "Is that magic?"
"Yes, it's magic. Now get rowing. This will drain me after a while."
They rowed through the night, working muscles Markus didn't know he had, pushing through days of travel fatigue.
"Why'd you come back for us?" Markus asked hours later, looking toward the back of the boat, where Klint was still at work. "You didn't have to do that."
"I might be a lot of bad things, but I'm a man who keeps his word. I agreed to get you to Tate City, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do. After that, you're on your own."
"But you killed for us," Markus said. "That's a big sacrifice."
"You think that was the first time I've killed?"
"There could still be questions," Markus said. "You could be in trouble."
"You can't get in trouble if no one catches you."
The sky had lightened to a dark blue, and Markus yawned, realizing he hadn't slept in a long time. The rhythmic sound of oars slapping against water had grown annoying. The only thing that made him feel better was the effectiveness of Klint's magical propulsion. At times, Markus wondered if he and Rik were helping at all.
"I've just about used up all my energy," Klint said later, taking the staff out of the water. "I'll take one of your spots rowing."
Rik put down his oar, and Klint took it, laying the staff down beside him.
"Can't one of us use the staff to propel the boat?" Rik asked.
"You won't be able to use it."
"Why not?" Markus asked.
"It works for very few people. The chances that you're among them are slim."
"Why not give it a try?" Rik said. "What could it hurt?"
"Go ahead. I'm not holding my breath."
Rik grabbed the staff. His eyes widened, and he almost dropped it. "I feel something. Does that mean I can use it?"
Klint smiled. "Yes. That's a surprise."
"Let me try it out," Markus said. Surely he'd be able to use it. After all, he'd sensed the evil in Woodsville and felt that strange cold feeling near his uncle's cabin.
Rik handed Markus the staff, but it felt like an ordinary stick of wood as he turned it over in his hands. Dispirited, he handed the staff back to Rik.
"Strange," Markus said. "Why doesn't it work for me?"
"No idea," Rik said.
"I don't know how it works," Klint said, "but it'll help us get their quicker. Just stick the tip of the staff in the water and think about generating wind. It's surprisingly easy once you get a feel for it."
Markus took the other oar while Rik moved to the back of the boat. Both Markus and Klint turned around to watch Rik. When Rik touched the staff to the water, nothing happened. He h
eld it there for at least ten seconds, but the water remained still.
"Focus," Klint said. "It'll come to you."
The boat began to move—slowly at first, but then it gained speed. For a moment, Rik looked like he might drop the staff, but he held on, watching the jet of wind burst through the water behind them.
"This is amazing!" Rik said. "I never knew I could do magic."
"It's not true magic," Klint said. "A true sorcerer, someone like Warrick, doesn't need a staff to channel their magic. If I remember correctly, a true sorcerer can't even use these staffs for some strange reason. Don't really understand it."
"Then I could still be a sorcerer," Markus said.
"Possibly," Klint said. "But right now, you're an oarsman."
"Right." With aching arms, Markus continued rowing. At first, he thought he and Klint were a better team, but they were rowing at the same slow speed as before.
"Interesting," Klint said, glancing back at Rik. "Seems like you're more powerful than me."
Though Klint appeared to shrug it off, Markus could tell it bothered the smuggler. Klint became less communicative than usual. Markus didn't mind occasional quiet, but the silence grated on him after a while.
Soon the sun rose, and orange light reflected off the water. On their left, stretching to the shore beneath thick mist, were the Black Swamp's gnarled trees. Large creatures prowled within, and Markus thought he could see some of the black water that gave the swamp its name.
"Guess that's a place where you don't even want to go to the edges," he said. "Rik and I went there once, and that's an experience I wouldn't care to repeat."
Markus remembered the sudden change in their surroundings. As usual, they'd dared each other to enter the swamp. A swamp cat found them and chased them back out before they could see any of the water. They'd barely made it back to the safety of the Crayden Forest, on the other side of Warrick's magical barrier.
Markus had never shared that experience with his uncle.
"I've been to a lot of places," Klint said, "but I've only stepped a few feet into the Black Swamp. I'm no match for the monsters that live in a place like that." He grinned. "Or at least I'd rather not test my luck. My business is risky enough as it is."
"Where do you come from?" Rik asked.
"That's my secret. I won't ask you about your pasts, and I expect that you do the same. Once I get you to Tate City, I doubt we'll ever see each other again. No use getting friendly."
"Just trying to make conversation," Rik said.
But there wasn't a whole lot of conversation to be made.
After a few hours, Markus could no longer row the boat. By then, however, a rare northerly breeze had begun, catching the sail and moving the boat faster than their rowing. Eventually, the staff drained Rik's mental energy, leaving the sail as their sole means of propulsion.
Around midday, Tate City came into view, and they steered the boat into the city's docks. Markus expected Imperial Guards to be waiting for them, but didn't see any. Maybe they hadn't anticipated such a fast trip, or maybe they didn't believe Markus and Rik would go to Tate City.
"Good," Markus said as he disembarked on wobbly legs. "A chance to rest."
"Not so fast," Klint said. "I still need help with the cargo."
"Sorry. Forgot about that."
"Luckily, we don't have far to take it." Klint pointed to a large stone building nearby. "See that warehouse? I'm one of the few people who've got a key to the place. We shouldn't stir any suspicion. Once we're done, you're free."
Free? If only you knew.
Klint began unstacking the crates. Markus moved to help him, but Rik stood at the side of the boat, looking on with narrowed eyes.
"What's wrong, Rik?" Markus asked.
Rik turned to Klint. "Why'd you really need our help? Yeah, we'll help you get the cargo unloaded more quickly, but not that much. That seems like a lot of risk to take on for such a small gain. It doesn't make sense."
Klint put down a crate. "I was running a bit behind schedule. With your help, I made up the time. That's it." He frowned. "Now, let's get going with these crates. We haven't got all day."
It didn't take long to move the crates. Afterward, the three of them stood by the closed warehouse door. Markus looked up at the mountains, which loomed above the city like the walls of a giant prison.
"Well, this is goodbye then," Klint said. Around them, dockworkers hustled back and forth.
"Goodbye," Markus said, a little sad to see Klint go. He hadn't come to like Klint, but he appreciated what the smuggler had done for them.
"Thanks for taking us here," Rik said. "Even if you had your own reasons."
Klint let out a low laugh, then walked away, vanishing into the crowd of workers.
"Let's find some place to stay," Rik said. "There's no way I'm climbing those mountains feeling like this."
"Good idea," Markus said, massaging his aching arm and chest muscles.
Rik looked up at the mountains. "At least we finally made it."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We've still got a lot of work to do."
Chapter 12: The Warning
Berig woke to the sound of water dripping, to a pounding head, to his face pressed flat against damp stone. When he tried to push himself to his feet, he collapsed, the world spinning around him.
Where was he? Why was it so dark? He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision. Something was flickering nearby, but he couldn't make it out. Why did he feel so sluggish, as if his mind and body were separate?
Then it came back to him in bits and pieces: the flight from Bradenton, the man he'd killed in Riverside, the tavern in Crayden.
That was it. The tavern. He'd been drugged.
Still dizzy, he pushed himself to his feet, though his legs did waver at first. He rubbed his eyes, clearing the blurriness enough to make out his surroundings. In front of him stood a set of vertical bars and a matching door.
Prison, he realized, feeling sick.
In the corner of the dark dungeon, a solitary torch flickered, its flame close to dying. Berig pressed his face to the bars but couldn't see anything else. He crossed the stone floor, running his hands along the damp, vine-covered wall. The dripping sound continued in a rhythmic pattern that would grow tiresome with time.
The cell was about twenty feet by twenty feet, larger than any cell he'd ever seen. In the back, a set of decomposing bones lay scattered about the floor. He shuddered.
A rat scurried away from him, and small beetles feasted on what remained of the cell's previous inhabitant. Would that be Berig's fate? He had killed a man after all.
Berig sank to the wet ground, not caring if the water soaked through his clothes. His head throbbed, and his vision hadn't cleared. A musty smell filled the air, tickling his nostrils.
Some new start.
Distant footsteps echoed in the open chamber. His heart leapt and he hopped to his feet, the world spinning around him. Once his dizziness abated, he stepped to the bars, peering into the darkening dungeon.
A shadow appeared, and the man casting it followed, dressed in the yellow surcoat of a Crayden town guard. With the torch in his hand, he relit the torch on the wall, and then he turned away.
"No!" Berig called out. "Don't leave. Please."
The guard started to walk away, then turned back to Berig. "What do you want, prisoner? I have little time to spare for your kind."
"What am I doing in here? Don't I get a trial?"
"Imperial Guard orders. We were to put you on the lowest level of the prison, the one nobody escapes. You must've done something to piss them off."
Berig's stomach sank. "And you're just gonna let them do this to me?"
"Look. It's not our place to get involved in things like this. I'm sorry."
"I don't get it. They didn't even tell you what I did?"
"No, they didn't," the guard said. "And I don't want to know. The less I know, the less guilty I'll feel about leaving you d
own here. Sorry, it's a cruel sentence, but that's the way the world works. Not much people like me can do about it."
"Can you at least get me some food and water?"
"I should be able to do that," said the guard. He shook his head and walked out of Berig's view. Berig sank to the wet ground, wondering when he'd get out. Or if he'd get out.
* * * * *
Tylen woke to a loud knock on his bedroom door. He rubbed his eyes and rolled over, his mind a little hazy from last night's wine. Orange light streamed through his bedroom window, and he groaned. Which of his stupid servants was knocking at such an early hour?
"What is it?" he demanded, placing his feet on the red and gold carpet.
The servant entered the room. Tylen couldn't remember the young man's name.
"Imperial Guards are here to speak to you," the servant said.
"What the hell do they want?"
"I'm not sure, my lord, but they seemed rather impatient."
"Tell them they'll have to wait. I need to get dressed."
The servant trembled. "Yes, my lord. I-I'll tell them that."
He scurried out of the room, and Tylen shook his head in disgust. Why were all his servants so damned worthless? If they couldn't even talk to Imperial Guards without wetting themselves, what use were they?
Tylen rang the bell in his room, calling in another servant to help him dress. This servant, a pretty young woman he'd bedded a few times, came rushing in. He didn't bother remembering her name either, but she was good in bed, so he found her useful.
"Do you need help getting dressed, my lord?"
"Yes, I need you to pick out good clothes for me. I'm going to speak with High Lord Cray today. I have the feeling I did not favorably impress young Lady Cray."
She bowed. "Of course, my lord. I know just the outfit."
She slipped into the closet, then emerged a few moments later with a set of princely red robes. Perfect. Tylen couldn't help but smile.
The servant helped him into his outfit, then combed his hair. By the time she finished, he looked fit to meet the high lord. Maybe even fit to intimidate an Imperial Guard or two. What the hell were they doing waking him so early?
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