by Peter Plasse
Andar didn’t answer for a while. He cleared his throat. He looked Ubri in the eye.
“Son,” he said. “We have always known that he had a dark side. It came out yesterday, and he might have killed your sister, my daughter. Probably not, but his behavior was way beyond what your mother and I are willing to accept in our home. Believe me, if there was any way we thought we could have him here, and have everybody safe, we would do it. But this type of thing will happen again. Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not for the entire time he is with us, but that, son, is a risk your mother and I are not willing to accept. The decision is final. This is our home, and everyone in it plays by our rules. When you have a home of your own, I’m sure you’ll understand, but for now you’re going to have to accept it.”
Andar once again patted him softly on the side of the head, turned, and reentered the room in which Bramwith was now a prisoner.
Ubri stood there, stunned by the finality of it all. He felt like he wasn’t in his body. He and Bramwith had grown up together. They had shared a room, and laughed, and worked, and studied, and played together for all those years … They had been best friends. They had been brothers.
Overwhelmed by his emotions, he sat down with his back to the wall and put his head between his knees. This is how he remained until the constable and his deputies led Bram by him. He never looked up, and the last remembrance he had of Bram’s passing by was the smell of the filth in his drawers.
It had been years since they first went into hiding, and Saviar Murlis, former personal advisor to Hanz Oratorius Night and now Acting Emperor of Vultura, had made good use of the time, at least as far as the revolution was concerned. There were too many clandestine trips throughout the nation of Vultura, trying to organize the Gnomes into an underground network of freedom fighters, for him to remember. There had been more narrow escapes than he could count. Hundreds had died at the hands of the Trolls. The slightest suspicion of being associated with these freedom fighters was a death sentence. Conversely, the Trolls were averse to killing too many. After all, a dead slave doesn’t produce. But they had never caught up to Saviar Murlis and his family, thanks mainly to Turman Pandieth. They had lived on the run all that time, never spending more than a few nights in the same place.
Kerlix had done her best to keep up with the children’s studies, and in all the years they had been at this, had broken down only a few times over the difficulties associated with life on the lam.
He pressed his hands to his temples, as was his way when the stress of it all gave him headaches. “Kerlix,” he called out softly. She came from the next room, pausing in the doorway. “Have we any tea?”
She took a deep breath. “We have nothing: Nothing to eat and only water to drink. That’s it. Where is Turman Pandieth? He said he would be here yesterday.” She crossed the room and began to rub his neck. Seeing the strain on his face always made her sad. He had aged right in front of her. She knew their mission mattered so much more than the personal comfort to which they had grown accustomed before this difficult life had begun, but the thought that her children might become casualties in this underground resistance effort was almost too much to bear.
“I’m sure that he’ll be here today,” sighed Saviar.
“Assuming he hasn’t been killed or captured.”
“Yes,” he said.
“What is the backup plan if he fails to show? Our children need food. We need food. And we need to be on the move before we are discovered here.”
Saviar continued rubbing his temples. These were solemn issues. “Well,” he said, “I would be lying to you if I told you that there was a reasonable backup plan already in place, but unfortunately there is not. That is, of course, entirely my fault. I’m afraid I have all along just assumed that Pandieth would always be there for us.”
“I see,” she said.
“Well, we need one now. If he doesn’t show today, we’re going to have to take matters into our own hands. One of us is going to have to take the risk of leaving this place and securing food. Lofty ideals will not help to ease the rumblings of the bellies of our children. The cause, the cause, there are times when I am sick to death of the cause.”
There was a soft knock on the door, the knock Turman Pandieth always used. Kerlix jumped up to answer it, almost falling on her walk across the small room as the effects of their recent bout of food deprivation caused her to swoon. She cracked the door and saw it was he. “Praise the Old One,” she thought. She opened it and said, “Thank you for coming, Turman. We were afraid something had happened to you.”
Right away she noticed he was carrying a large sack of what she presumed to be foodstuffs. As he entered, she took it from him and peered inside. It was packed with dried fruits and vegetables, several varieties of nuts, smoked meats, potatoes, and a container of tea. There was even a large ham.
“You two go ahead and talk. I’m going to see if the children are awake.”
She wobbled from the room on unsteady legs. Turman noticed her strained gait and asked, “How are you faring?”
“I can’t lie to you. We are in rough shape, Turman. What was the reason for your delay?”
Turman took a seat opposite the rough-sawn table that separated them.
“The Trolls, of course. I was completely unable to use any of the usual routes. They are choked with them from Emperor’s Glenn to King’s Port. Even at night. They know that something is up and are killing on sight any of us that they catch out after dark”
“Where have you come from?”
“A week ago, Soledad. I used the Old Road down from there for much of it. That was the easiest leg. They don’t seem to have discovered it yet.
“I won’t lie to you, Saviar, the going was slow. It’s dangerous out there.
“A week before that, Kohansk. The Inn. Andar Gall’s place. He was the one who gave me the food, praise the Old One. We talked until late about the movement. He is presently unwilling to throw in with us, but said he would help us in any way he could. He is concerned about the well-being of his family. Not too many places to hide up there.
“But,” he leaned forward with a distinct gleam in his eyes, “two weeks before that I left the side of our Prince. I believe he is ready to take command of the forces. He is young, but wise beyond his years.”
Saviar thought this was fool’s talk. His oldest son, Miano, was merely sixteen now, and he was already five or six when the Prince was born. It didn’t make sense. How could a prince who had not reached adolescence be expected to lead anything? He decided to let it rest for the moment. Turman Pandieth was not a stupid Gnome, and he felt there was probably more to the story that he would soon hear.
“Andar Gall,” mused Saviar. “I don’t remember him.”
“Sure you do. You met with him during the planning of the Emperor’s Highway from King’s Port to Vultura. Tall fellow. Handsome in his own way. He’s the one who built the inn. Turned it into a most impressive establishment.”
“Yes,” said Saviar. “I remember him now. Had quite a pretty wife. I’m sorry, Turman. I’m afraid I’m getting old.”
Turman left that one alone.
Kerlix returned with the children in-tow. Hugs were exchanged, and Turman asked for the bag of food. Handing each a small piece of dried fruit, he said, “Start with this. I know you’re very hungry, but this will help you to not get sick when you eat the other foods.”
Kerlix fixed each a plate, and they sat down. She deliberately kept the portions small, knowing that if she gave them too much too soon, they would all pay for it.
After their simple meal, Kerlix shooed the children out of the room. Neither wanted to go. What they wanted was more to eat, as well as to visit with Turman Pandieth, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Bad enough they were caught up in the whole political struggle to the degree that they were, she nevertheless felt it best that they be kept out of it as much as possible.
“What’s next?” he asked, swirling the last sip of tea ar
ound in the bottom of his cup.
“Well,” said Turman. “The reason we are in King’s Port, and the reason we have never before used it as a place of refuge, is we need to get hold of a Gnome named Titan Mobst. He is one of the local fishermen and has always had a fascination with metallurgy. And, I have it on good authority from Gnomes I know to be credible that he has been designing a boat, something he calls a ship, that is twenty times larger than the little skiffs they use in the harbor to catch fish. Maybe fifty times. The project has been going on for years now, predating even the subjugation ceremony. Of course in those days it was all out in the open, but at the same time that they commenced building her, he had the foresight to begin the digging of a massive cavern into one of the side hills to the south of the city, and the entire undertaking was eventually moved there. A party of Gnomes’ daily chores includes concealing the trail to and from it in order to maintain secrecy.”
“And what, exactly, would the point of this vessel be?” Saviar asked.
“I’m surprised that you would ask that question,” said Turman. “The points are self-evident. First of all, with such a vessel, those aboard would be automatically safe from the Trolls, meaning even if our entire race was eradicated by them, it would guarantee survivors. Second, if we had a fleet of them,” his eyes came alive, “we could do severe damage to the brutes. We will never be anything but slaves using the bow and arrow. They are way too big and way too many. But if we could attack them from the water, we could strike quickly, say, while they were sleeping, and escape without fear of pursuit. And lastly, nobody knows a thing as to what, if anything, lies beyond the oceans. Perhaps there are lands there where we could settle and live out our lives in peace, an ocean removed from the them. I know that’s a reach, but certainly not out of the realm of possibility.”
“I’m sorry,” said Saviar. “Of course. I’m afraid that fatigue, and lack of food, has addled my brain.” He pointed at his head for emphasis.
“Not a problem,” said Turman. “Now, getting back to the Prince, you’ll be glad to know that all of those rumors we used to hear when we were children about the witch out at Round Lake are true. Her place is there. I’ve been to it many, many times. It’s spelled, so time doesn’t pass in the same way as it does here in Vultura. Hence, our Prince is now a strapping young Gnome of nineteen years. And not only that, he’s had the benefit of training in all of the things necessary to prosecute our revolution: History, Geography, Map reading, Mathematics, Combat Skills, Battle Strategies … I can also tell you he’s had rudimentary instruction in the Supply, Distribution, and Maintenance Issues involved in a war effort. Everything. The total package. He’s of age, he’s willing, and I judge him to be his father’s son.”
“Amazing,” said Saviar. Now it was his turn to sit forward and take notice. This was astounding news. Turman noticed the change in his countenance and smiled.
“Tell me, my friend, why have you kept these things from me all these years?”
Turman laughed a short, staccato laugh. “I’m afraid your brain has become addled Saviar. Isn’t it obvious? What you didn’t know, you could never tell, were you captured by the Trolls and subjected to their brutal interrogation methods. But the time is at hand, for while there are many that are with us, there are more that are not. What those need is their Emperor back in power and leading the cause. We’ll never be able to convince all of them, but if we convince enough, well, maybe, just maybe … ”
Saviar raised his now empty mug in a toast. “Here’s to maybe.”
Chapter 22
Rolan frowned. They had searched endlessly for this alleged witch’s place for days now, going back and forth over ground that they had already checked, and rechecked, and checked again with no success. They had found a small cabin and had thought, at first, that they had found what they were looking for. But when they entered it, it was clear that it had not been used for years. A thick blanket of dust covered the floor, and cobwebs were draped from wall to wall. Still, it afforded them shelter from the elements, and so they had looked and looked to no avail. More surprising than the discovery of the cabin itself was the fact that it was well stocked with foodstuffs, and it didn’t take them long to find a generous supply of dried wood for a fire, of which they were sorely in need. The significance of these two findings, especially considering there was not another sign of recent occupation, was not lost on them despite their lack of success to date in locating the old woman.
“You know what this means,” said Rolan. “Either this witch story is nothing more than a fairytale, or we will have to traverse the swamp.”
None spoke, but eyebrows were raised around the table in the shack. Rolan couldn’t help but notice and said, “If there is anyone here who has a better suggestion I would surely be willing to discuss it.” When again nobody spoke, he said, “All right then. We will do what we have to do.”
“With due respect, My Lord,” said Borok, “we have already searched the south side of the lake as hard as an area can be searched, and I frankly don’t see the point of searching it again merely by changing our approach. And we have all heard the stories of the thing that lives in the swamp. The point is, if we are postulating the existence of an enchanted place, occupied by a witch, the other fairytale we all heard of as children has an equal chance of being true, does it not?
“Are you suggesting that this would-be witch lives in a swamp?”
Rolan scratched his head. “Right now I’m pretty much out of suggestions,” he said, offering up a tired smile. “But we need to try something. I grow weary of this shack, and I suppose we are all equally weary of this search. What I am trying to say, good Borok, is I have no idea how we should proceed. I don’t know.”
The soldiers of the King’s Guard that accompanied them spoke not a word. Their duty was to follow orders, and each would do as they were told.
“My kingdom for an honest answer,” murmured Borok, thinking, “At least he had the good sense to leave the Queen in Ravenwild. Thank the Old One for that.”
The next morning they set out. The weather had decided to be good to them, and they entered the swamp on a remarkably warm day in the middle of winter. The significance of this odd occurrence was not lost on any of them either, and they remarked more than once of their good fortune as possibly due to some magical influence by their mysterious, and so far ethereal, witch.
The trek was uneventful, aside from the frequent slips and falls that were part and parcel with the arduous walk through mud and sinkholes. So, covered in grime, they arrived at the final rivulet across from which stood a Gnome who looked to be about twenty years old and who was watching them curiously.
“You,” called out Rolan. “Can we cross this safely?”
“That depends,” the Gnome called back.
“Depends?”
“Correct.”
“Might I ask on what?”
“On whether or not I tell my friend here that he should allow it.”
At this point a large area of the rivulet stirred, declaring in no uncertain terms that there was something huge, and undoubtedly menacing, in the waters before them. Maybe more than one.
“It would help if you would identify yourself and state your intentions. You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
Rolan smiled. This fellow had a sense of humor.
“Very well. My name is Rolan. Rolan Andrew Fairman. I am the King of Ravenwild. The man to your left is named Borok Dodson. He is my Minister of Planning and Escapes. The two to your right are members of my palace guard. Their names are Wayne and Duane. As to our intentions, I tell you now that they are honorable, yet strange, and I would feel it best if we discussed them face to face and not by shouting them across a river. Will you allow us to pass?”
The young Gnome reached into a sack that hung from his left shoulder and extracted a large fish. He walked down to the stream’s edge, and a monstrous squid-like creature rose from the waters. He bent down low and passed th
e fish to one of the tentacles, another of which stroked his face in an obvious display of affection. He seemed to actually be talking to it quietly. Its eyes were enormous, and seconds before it disappeared back into its watery home it turned them upon the four men, seeming to gaze upon them.
Completely unbelieving of what they had just seen, they stood in shock as they waited for the young Gnome to speak.
“You may proceed,” he said. “But you’ll have a much easier time of it if you cross about a hundred yards that way.” He gestured to the narrows off to their right. “Much shallower,” he added. “I’ll wait for you here. After you cross, you will disarm yourselves. Completely. You will have no need of weapons here. If and when you depart, they will be returned to you. Do we have an accord?”
“We do,” said Rolan.
He took the hand of the Gnome in greeting. He noticed that his grasp was firm, but not overly so. He looked hard into his eyes. There was resolve there, no mistaking it.
Despite their surprise encounter with this Gnome, and their greater surprise at seeing the tentacled monster, with whom this fellow seemed to have some sort of tangible friendship, the next words that came out of his mouth were more surprising still:
“I am Singular Barb’rus Night, Emperor of Vultura, son of Hanz Oratorius Night, murdered by the Trolls.”
It all happened so fast it would take years for Ubri Gall to sort it all out in his mind. One moment he and his mother and father were sitting at a table in the inn, eating their evening meal and discussing the plight of Bramwith, and trying to reason a way that they could reach out to him and keep in contact with the Gnome that they had essentially raised, and the next they were in front of a squad of Trolls who, rather than open the door in the normal fashion, chose to kick the entire entryway in, which fell with a crash to the floor.
