“I don’t care who or what you are! That kinda thing’s just not possible. If someone loses a body part, you can’t just put the scraps together and make a new one.”
“Why not?” Jaren asked, now completely at a loss.
“What do you mean, ‘why not’? You just can’t do it!” Sal shouted incredulously. Or tried to shout, anyway. What actually came out was more like a wheeze. “I mean, that’s like the sun shining purple! Or the Cubs winning the Series! Or flying horses!”
“Well, I’ve never seen a purple sun, true enough. And I can’t say what cubs or series you’re referring to. But as to flying horses, the Earthen Rank is in no short supply, let me tell you,” Jaren said, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder.
As Sal followed Jaren’s aim, he got his first good look at his surroundings. He lay against the back wall of some stone building, in a large open room with filthy bodies sprawled all over the dirt floor. Rotting corpses lined one of the side walls. And some of the living didn’t seem too far from joining them. Ragged clothing was in abundance, stripped from the maggot-ridden bodies of the dead. Sal was suddenly very conscious of his makeshift eye patch.
Metal bars lined the front of the communal cell, allowing semi-fresh air and sunlight to flood in from the courtyard beyond. And in that courtyard, plain as day, stood a small herd of winged horses in armored livery, with guards in matching leathers.
“Dear God, where am I?” Sal said breathlessly.
“The prison at Schel Veylin,” the young man answered sympathetically, mistaking the disbelief in Sal’s voice.
***
Jaren prattled on about this issue or that for quite a while before abruptly cutting himself off. “You need rest,” he stated judiciously. “Call me if you need anything, and I’ll attend you if I’m able.”
“How’s about a lobotomy?” Sal croaked.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.”
As the “mage” departed, Sal nodded to himself. Yep. I’ve gone off the deep end. You’d figure I could at least conjure up a better looking cell in the asylum or something. But no, that didn’t seem right. As much as he’d like to chalk this whole experience up to insanity, it didn’t seem to fit. Simply the fact that he was “with it” enough to suggest insanity seemed to lend itself to the contrary. Okay, so if I’m not crazy, then what? Surely this can’t be real!
Could it?
Sal spent the better part of the day playing with the logic, but every road seemed to lead back to reality. He could feel the pain, the scars, the mound of eyeball where there should have been an empty socket, so hallucination was out. It couldn’t be a dream, because things were just too vivid, with too much detail to minutia. The winged horses, for example—they looked too real to be imaginary, from the ratted manes to the discolored hooves of one of the studs. There was the matching livery of the guards—not a color nor design that he would imagine, let alone choose for himself even in his wildest imaginations. Then there was the agonizing slowness with which the day progressed! My God, if this is a dream, I should at least be able to skip forward a few hours! He even continued to try out the insanity plea, but every examination of his situation would reveal scattered details and nuances that made too much sense for this to be a world of his own imagination.
Finally, fatalistically, he gave up his quest. As unimaginable as the situation was, Sal had to admit that it was really happening. He was really here... wherever ‘here’ was. But realization and acceptance were worlds apart, and Sal continued to wrestle with the two for quite a while.
Jaren returned a short while later. “Ready to brave the evils of this world?” he quipped, making as if to help Sal up. Looking around, Sal noticed that the other prisoners had started lining up at the cell door before guards laden down with large wooden buckets. Chow call, he realized. Wonder how the food is here in Wonderland?
He waved off Jaren’s proffered hand and struggled to his feet, fending off unconsciousness and his benefactor’s repeated attempts to help him. He knew how weakness would be looked upon by the more enterprising inmates. They weren’t in jail for nothing, and some truths were just universal. However he’d managed to survive that doomed raid on Merrick’s lab, he wouldn’t survive this jail very long if he came across as a complete invalid.
Sal tottered off toward the line. Jaren bent to scoop up two well-used bowls, then followed close at hand, doggedly ready to assist.
The line moved slowly forward, as each moldering prisoner received their pitiful portion and wandered off into some dark corner to dine, mindful of hungry eyes. Sometimes one would go in search of a weak prisoner and a second helping. Invariably, the weaker inmate cried out for help. Sometimes the call would be answered by a good samaritan—or at least, Sal suspected, someone looking for a future favor. Just as often, the call went unanswered. Fights broke out. Meals were stolen. But the guards paid no heed; they just kept doling out their pasty, grey slop, and the line kept moving.
Sal and Jaren finally got their portions, and headed back toward their spaces along the back wall, holding their bowls close. Sal tried valiantly to stagger with confidence, hoping to discourage would-be bullies. It didn’t work.
About halfway to their destination, a cellblock thug stepped into their path. He was tall and thickly built, with corded ropes of muscle showing through wherever his many tattoos would allow. And he was smiling.
The thug barely glanced at Jaren, writing off whatever power an emerald whatever-he-said might have. He stared directly at Sal without saying a word. He didn’t have to. His bunched muscles and evil grin said it all.
Sal felt his training try to kick in, but it fizzled and died like a starter on a chipped flywheel. Still, he set his chin. He wouldn’t win this fight, he knew, but he would fight all the same. The goon stepped forward and snatched the bowl from Sal’s grip, shoving him to the ground almost as an afterthought.
Fight over. That didn’t last long.
Light glinted from Jaren’s face, and Sal guessed that his eyes had changed back to that wicked green that had colored them when Sal had first met him.
“Uh uh uh, mage,” the tough said, wagging his finger at Jaren. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You know the penalty for magic in here. You might wind up in tomorrow’s slop bucket,” he sneered.
The tough turned to make off with his ill-gotten goods, but found his way blocked. A pair of dangerous looking men, though both a full head shorter than the goon, stared him down. Sal squinted up at them, and thought for a moment he was seeing double. The pair could have been twins.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” asked the taller of the two, casually.
“Personally, Reit, I’d hate to be the one to fall asleep in the same cell as the man I’d stolen from,” the shorter man cheerfully remarked to his friend. “No telling how such a person would exact revenge. Or his friends,” he added pointedly, casting a sly wink Sal’s way.
The thug hesitated, his gaze sweeping between the two men. Finally, he glared back at Sal, and thrust the bowl at the taller of the two gentlemen.
“Wise move,” Reit said, receiving the bowl.
Then the thug swung at the shorter of the pair. Lightning fast, the punch was caught, leaving the goon to stare in surprise at his restrained fist. “Not so wise move,” the taller brother said, shaking his head in pity.
What happened next was hard for Sal to follow—not so much the skill in the martial arts he was witnessing, but the style itself. Hand-to-hand combat was a standard to the Navy SEAL training regimen, but the sheer speed and variety of moves astounded him. Punches and kicks came out of nowhere, then melted into blocks and throws. The shorter man seemed to flow around the thug, cuts and bruises seeming to just appear on the thug’s face.
“I believe this is yours, sir,” Reit said, handing Sal the bowl. He glanced briefly at the melee, only mildly interested. “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, by the way. Reit Windon du’Nograh, at your service. That flurry of death over there
is my brother, Retzu.”
As if to emphasize the point, Retzu spun a kick across the hoodlum’s chin, dropping him like so much dead weight. Sal noted that when Retzu crossed to join his brother, he wasn’t even sweating. A very dangerous pair indeed.
“Greetings, mate,” Retzu said, taking Sal’s hand and pumping it firmly. “Good to finally see you up and about.”
“Uh... hi,” was all that Sal could force out. He indicated the crumpled hoodlum where he lay groaning his misery. “Thanks for helping me with that guy.”
“Oh, no worries there. Any friend of Jaren’s is a friend of ours.”
Oddly, that was comforting to Sal. He’d definitely rather have Bruce Lee Junior here as a friend than... well, whatever he was to that bully.
***
The brothers du’Nograh joined Jaren and Sal for “dinner”—if the term could honestly be applied to the revolting sludge, however loosely. As he ate—again, loosely applying the term—the brothers and Jaren made small talk, and Sal started to gain a sense of them.
The brothers were twins, in fact, and almost identical. Reit was a hair taller than Retzu, and was more muscular where his brother was more sinuous, but other than that, their features were the same. They both had night-black hair hanging down to the middle of their backs. They both sported mustaches and goatees. They both had slightly tilted brown eyes and copper skin, though Sal could see very pale tan lines around the neck area. He almost couldn’t tell them apart until they spoke, but once they did, all trace of similarity vanished.
Retzu was obviously the more outgoing of the two. He had a swaggering way about him, an arrogant lilt of his voice that reminded Sal of a snake oil salesman, able to sell water to a drowning man, and at a premium price to boot. If Sal was any judge, Retzu was imprisoned for theft, or something equally shady. He seemed one to play by his own rules. He had a quick wit and an infectious, if rascally grin. Sal liked him immediately.
Reit, on the other hand, was his brother’s polar opposite. He was much more reserved than his brother, more thoughtful and precise. He was sparing with his words, and he guarded them judiciously. It was like pulling teeth to get the man to speak more than a few sentences at a time, and those ambiguous at best. But when he did speak, his intelligence rang through. For all that Retzu was carefree with his speech, Reit meticulously crafted his as if gilding the words for presentation at court. And though his words were few, the vocabulary he wielded was impressive, bespeaking an education that was clearly out of place in that dank, filthy prison. Political dissident, Sal decided.
Even the brothers’ accents were different. While similar, each accent had its own distinct flavor to it. Jaren and Reit had an almost Queen’s English accent, while Retzu did a very good Cockney, if not Australian.
“Truth be told, I’d never have chosen this goat-kissing part of the world myself,” Retzu was saying. “Too bloody humid for my taste. If not for the constraints of my… employment… I’d prefer the rolling hills of the Norwood Isles any day, the verdant green blanketed in a thick, morning mist that would burn off at the merest hint of a summer sun. Growing up in Aitaxen did have its perks, I must say. But to be perfectly honest, the peak of Mount Ysre—”
Reit gagged a bit on his slop—which Sal didn’t find all that surprising—and Retzu broke off abruptly, turning his attention instead to stabilizing his brother’s condition. Sal thought he caught a pointed glance from Reit, and an abashed response from Retzu, but the looks were fleeting, there and gone as if they never were. It gave Sal the distinct impression that Retzu had almost let slip some dread secret.
“Where’s Aitaxen?” Sal asked, not wanting to lose the momentum of the conversation but not wanting to revisit this Ysre.
“The seat of the Titan Rebellion,” Retzu intoned theatrically. “Half a world to the west and north, off the coast of the Northern Plains. Jaren grew up not a league from there himself.”
“So Darsen’s Way is kinda like a suburb?”
“What’s a… sub-herb?” Retzu asked, mouthing the word as if unfamiliar.
“It’s a… village that depends upon a larger city nearby,” Sal answered, doing his best to explain what he thought should have been a household term.
“Then, yes,” Jaren concluded. “Darsen’s Way is a sub-herb. It’s a farming community within sight of Aitaxen’s walls. We grow potatoes and carrots and the like. Nothing much to speak of,” he chuckled, “which is why my ascension caused so much stir.”
“Ascension?”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Well, where is Aitaxen?” Sal pressed. “Maybe if you can draw me a map, I’ll have some idea of where I am, and maybe even figure out how to get home.”
“A map? What... do you mean a chart?” Reit suggested. “I saw a drawing of the coastline one time, but I don’t know how well I could replicate it.”
“Whatever, man. I mean, any help would be better than none.”
Reit raised an eyebrow quizzically, but did as Sal asked.
The map he scrawled in the dirt was an approximation at best. It featured a single large landmass, with a huge inland sea on its western borders and a mass of islands to the southwest. “The Norwood Isles are in this area here,” he said, waving generally to the northwest of the inland sea. “And we’re in Schel Veylin… right here,” he added, stabbing his finger into the heart of the landmass.
Not much, but it’s a start, Sal thought. Now for some proportions. “How far away would you say it is? How long would it take you to travel there?”
The brothers and Jaren consulted each other with looks and shrugs. “What… about six weeks to either Bayton or Eastwind Delta, then another week or two by sloop?” Jaren offered, pointing out areas to the east and south of the inland sea.
“Yeah,” Reit confirmed. “Or about a month and a half, if we crossed the Plains and picked up a fishing boat north of Guard.” He tapped the shoreline to the extreme northwest, much farther out than the six weeks to the nearer ports of call. Sal wondered at the time discrepancy, but his concerns took him in a different direction.
He stared at the map for a moment, slack jawed. The proportions couldn’t be right. What the men were describing—what Reit had drawn—was no mere island with strange people or strange animals. They were describing a continent.
First confusion and then panic gripped him as his mind returned to questions of injury, hallucination, and insanity. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, the spit having dried up in his mouth. “That’s not Earth,” he muttered when he finally found his voice. “That’s not Earth.”
“Well, granted it’s not all that accurate,” Reit said, a bit defensively. “But have you any idea how guarded ship captains are of their charts? It’s the Crafter’s own hand that I was able to glean even this much.”
None of which Sal heard, of course. His mind was still racing with the implications of Reit’s drawing.
In a valiant effort to focus on the problem at hand, Sal pushed his panic aside and attempted to sift through the information logically. If this was a different world, it would certainly account for how the seemingly impossible—magic, flying horses, rebuilt eyeballs, gemstone eyeballs—were so commonplace. Different worlds, different rules.
And somehow, I wound up here, he concluded. The thought, so obvious as to be laughable, led to one more profound, sparking dimly at first, then growing into a beacon fire of hope.
If there’s a way to this world, there has to be a way back.
Before he could dwell on this further, Jaren took charge of his patient. “I think that’s enough conversation for one evening,” he said firmly. “You need your rest. No, no... there’s no point in protesting. I’d hate to have to risk the slop kettles just to put you to sleep, but I will if I have to.”
Sal’s body chose that moment to agree. He hadn’t realized how late it had grown, or how tired he actually was. Sunlight outside the cage bars had evaporated, replaced with guttering torches. Looking around the
cell, he saw very few figures silhouetted against bars. Nearly all of the inmates had gone to ground, preparing for another grueling day of survival-of-the-fittest. Sal decided there was wisdom in Jaren’s words. After all, it seemed that they had all the time in the world to talk. They weren’t exactly going anywhere.
Sighing weakly, Sal obeyed, and fell asleep almost instantly amidst his companions’ hushed conversation.
***
“I don’t know,” Reit said, glancing again at the stranger to make certain he was asleep. “Protecting the weak and injured is one thing. But I’m not prepared to risk spending the rest of my life, however short that might be, in prison by taking in a total stranger. Too much is at stake, Jaren, you know that!”
Jaren sighed, shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness. “How can you be so obstinate? Can’t you see he has nowhere else to go? If we don’t bring his with us, he’ll die in here,” he whispered vehemently.
“He’ll have the same chance as the rest of them,” Reit waved his hand as if to take in the whole prison cell. “He seems a capable man, despite his injuries. I think he stands and excellent chance of finding his own way. And I won’t be saddled with questioning his intentions.”
Jaren closed his eyes and took a calming breath, letting it out slowly, then continued as Reit waited patiently. “Look at him, el’Yatza! His wounds were very real, and very life-threatening. I should know. There is no way I can believe that they could have been staged for our benefit. Even the most hardened soldier would not subject himself to such willingly, not on the bare hope that the Rank mages would care enough to heal him before sending him in here. However he received those wounds, Sal is no friend to the Highest. I dare say, quite the opposite.”
Reit remained unconvinced. “Are you willing to stake your life on that? Are you willing to stake mine?” He spoke softly, but Jaren could hear the razor sharp edge in his voice.
“In two days, my emeralds will be here.” Jaren pressed. “He should be plenty strong enough to go with us by then. Once we’re out of the city, send him on his way, if you like, but don’t leave him in here to rot.”
Gemworld Page 3
