by M. S. Verish
“Who is he?” she asked.
The old man smiled and straightened. “Ah, now you do ask the proper question.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait—where are you going?” Kariayla asked, standing.
“Fear not. We will aid your friends,” he said without turning, “but you must consider another haven for the Ravenstone. Atrion and your companion will join you presently.”
She started to go after him but hesitated. “Are you an Ilangien too? Who are you?” Her eyes had lost him to the shadows, and he replied no more.
*
Hawkwing said to wait in my room, but it’s been hours. Sure feels like hours, anyway. Rourke paced by the door, too anxious to stay put any longer. A walk ain’t gonna hurt. Just a short one. Maybe I can find him and ask what’s goin’ on. It seemed like a fair enough idea, and there certainly was not a crime in wanting to know the status of their party. He opened the door and headed for Lord Hale’s room, but he could tell before he reached it that his companion was not inside. There was no candlelight flickering from within, and the door itself was slightly ajar. He peeked inside anyway to find the chamber immaculate, as though no one slept there at all. With a shrug, Rourke decided to take his walk.
He had not quite reached the dining hall when he heard his leader voicing himself to another. He paused to listen, intrigued by what would inspire Hale to raise his tone in such a way.
“What do you mean ‘indisposed’? We leave at dawn,” Hale said.
“Rashir asked that he not be disturbed. This is his time of meditation. When he is finished, I will send for you.” This second voice had to belong to one of the Jornoans—most likely Nesif.
“It just might be that I will be indisposed,” Hale returned. “You see the result of this morning’s incident—”
Rourke slipped past the origin of the voices and realized he was on the same trek to the kitchen. And the kitchen led to the cellar. I just wanna chance to talk to ‘em. To meet ‘em or at least get a better look. Maybe this time I can figure out a way to help.
The kitchen was empty, but Rourke turned his head at every corner—just in case. He may not have been the best thief, but he had learned a few lessons in caution on the streets of the Freelands. Trying not to make a sound with his giant feet, he descended the stairs on his toes. The door had not been fully shut, and he wondered if whoever left it open planned to return soon. He paused to listen, but the sounds he heard came from within the cellar, not the kitchen. The Prophet was speaking to the Demon.
“They will be back soon, and I fear there is little time.” The old man’s voice was rough and weak, but Rourke hung on every word he imparted. “I know y’ are angry with me. I know y’ are ‘urt by all this. It pains me to say ‘ow I ‘ave failed y’ and the others. I ‘ave no excuses, and I know my end is ‘ere. Y’rs is not. I cannot say ‘ow, but y’ will survive this, Collin. Y’re destined for another path, a diff’rent fate. Y’ave to believe me in this.”
Only silence ensued, and Rourke thought he heard the old man sigh. Maybe now’s the time, he thought, his heart thudding against his chest. He pushed the door open enough for him to enter, then turned to close it as it was left. The torchlight revealed two sets of eyes upon him. The Prophet looked as though he had been beaten. His white hair was in disarray, his scruffy face blemished with dark lesions, and dried blood encrusted his nose and mouth. The Demon, if in a similar state, remained concealed beneath its cloak.
Rourke nervously cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “This is gonna sound strange, but I’m here to help. Ya see, I’m not what I look like, and…” He trailed, unsure how to convince them. “I’m a thief, too. I heard stories of you. Great stories.”
The Prophet continued to glare at him. “What is this?”
“It’s not a trick. You gotta believe me. I want to help.” Rourke took a step toward him. “Look, you got nuthin’ to lose by trusting me.”
“What can y’ do?” the Prophet asked, nearly condescending in his doubt. “Untie us? Open the door?”
Rourke sighed, realizing he was right. So much for his noble intentions.
The Demon suddenly turned its hooded head toward the door.
“They ‘ave returned,” the Prophet said, and Rourke felt his heart skip a beat. The old man nodded toward the Demon. “If y’ can, ‘elp ‘im. Right now, y’ better ‘elp y’rself.”
Rourke nodded dumbly and dashed into a corner, sliding behind a stack of crates, into a space that denied his brutish illusion. What would happen should he be discovered? Would they do the same to him as they were about to do to the Prophet and the Demon? Would Arcturus and Hawkwing even know where to find him if he became trapped? He tried not to think about his fate, scarcely breathing as he peered past the crates to where he could see the Prophet’s back.
The slight figure of the Priagent came into view. A second set of footfalls revealed he had not come alone, but the other remained beyond Rourke’s narrow scope. Those footfalls were the only sound in the room. There was no discourse, no threat, no announcement of what was to follow. As the Priagent stood there, his dark-eyed stare upon the old man, Rourke had to repeatedly tell himself that the Jornoan leader was not staring straight at him instead. It was a cold regard—an emotionless assessment of his victim. Rourke tried not to shiver, though his own breathing seemed loud and tremulous enough to obviate his presence.
The Priagent bent to set something at his feet, and then he straightened again. It seemed to Rourke that he stood there a long time, just staring at the Prophet. Neither moved, and just when he thought nothing was going to happen between them, the room darkened. It was not as though the unseen brother had extinguished the torch. Rather, it was as though a dark cloud had descended, like starless night had permeated the cellar. It grew colder, too, and Rourke felt the heat leave his body as it was drawn away to another source. There was a sound—a quiet fluttering from the floor near where the Prophet sat. Rourke could see the old man try to move away, but the chains held him fast.
The Priagent’s eyes grew impossibly wide as a black, translucent shape started to rise in front of him. It twisted and turned, and there was a sound like wind rushing though a narrow gap in a shed. It was a high, long wail, decidedly unearthly and eerie enough to make Rourke wish he could reach to cover his ears. The sound prevailed as the shape expanded to reach the ceiling of the cellar, and the crates and bottles began to rattle where they were held. The shadow, Rourke realized, had assumed the form of a massive bird, and it spread wide its wings, swallowing the Priagent’s frail form.
The beak opened, and with the speed of a serpent, it struck, diving down upon the old man, and striking again and again. The Prophet never made a sound, or if he did, it was consumed by the roaring din of the unseen, unfelt “wind.” Each time the razor bill dipped, it emerged full of glowing strands torn from its victim’s body.
Jedinom’s Sword, Rourke thought, horrified. They’re killing him. They’re killing him, and there’s nuthin’ I can do. The desire to sink into the floor or flee with all the speed his legs could deliver were the only options repeating in his head. He did neither, helplessly choosing to close his eyes and pray that the nightmare would be over soon.
How long he was there, or if he had blacked out, Rourke was at a loss to say. He knew only that the terrible sound was gone, and that was what caused him to open his eyes. The cellar was silent, and the glowing ember of a torch upon the far wall was the only light to aid him. As far as he could determine, the Priagent and the Prophet were gone. Dare he move from his cover? Would there be someone stationed in the cellar to keep guard?
Keep guard of who? If they killed the Prophet and the Demon, why guard an empty cellar? Then he considered the idea, and his stomach dropped to his feet. Both of them were dead, and he did nothing to help them. His heroes were gone, and he had watched, like a coward, from behind a pile of boxes. Gone was the vision of swinging his magic sword to save the day. Gone was the image of
him beside the notorious thieves, rushing them to their freedom. Suddenly his mission did not seem so glorious. How could he travel with the men who killed the Prophet and his Demon? Perhaps it was better he remain in the cellar; he was too ashamed to show his face—even if Hale and Argamus had no idea what he had witnessed.
Hawkwing and Arcturus. They had no idea where he was. Would they be searching for him now? Could they be in danger? He had to go—to find them and tell them about what he saw—whatever that was. The Priagent had powerful magic, and the Priagent was a murderer. Rourke slid from behind the crates and stumbled his way across the cellar and to the stairwell. He tried not to look where the old man had been. He did not want to see whatever might have been left behind.
Motion from the corner of his eye caused him to freeze. A guard. They did leave a guard. He slowly turned his head to what could have been a pile of rags upon the floor. The Demon. By Jedinom, he’s alive! He took a step toward the creature, but it shifted from where it lay, turning away from him. Rourke stopped. He saw everything too. He watched his master die.
Rourke bit his lip and wavered. “I…I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If I…if I can help you, I promise I will. I swear it.” He waited a moment longer, but the Demon did not stir or acknowledge him. With a heavy heart, he left the cellar and shut the door behind him.
*
Argamus folded his arms, staring up at the man before him as if he could see past the illusion to the tracker—the man who donned the “name” Hawkwing. Or perhaps the illusion was appropriate, given that he could not read the man, could not see through to his intentions, could not understand what he sought to accomplish by starting a mass brawl inside a shady tavern. The fact that the Seroko happened to be in their tavern was merely an excuse—a poor stroke of misfortune that did not justify the cause to incite violence. Neither Hawkwing nor Lord Sebastian Hale had anything to say about the matter, so Argamus was merely left guessing.
“I am not certain how we should proceed,” Argamus said, unwilling to let the conversation drop. He stood before the door in Hale’s room, barricading the entrance so his elusive leader could not escape without divulging a semblance of a plan.
Hale strode across the room unhindered despite his bandaged foot. He picked up a map—no doubt one of his own, stuffed in his pocket before the “journey” to Orecir. “Nesif said Rashir wants to leave at dawn.” He handed the map to Argamus. “We head north and watch our behavior and our conversation. It will be much harder to hold these meetings once we are in the Priagent’s company. Privacy will be rare.”
“I understand,” Argamus said, impatiently, “but exactly what role are you trying to play? It will be difficult to seem amiable when our leader is a rude, antisocial snob.” He expected a protest, or at least a look of surprise. But Hale actually smiled. If he says to trust him one more time, I will hit him over the head with my staff.
Hale did not have the chance to say much of anything, for the door opened into Argamus, nearly shoving him over as a breathless Rourke forced his way inside.
Argamus rubbed his back and frowned. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “You were absent at dinner, and I was hard-pressed to make an excuse. It is difficult enough to lie for one member of our party.”
“He killed the Prophet,” Rourke blurted, and Hale was quick to usher him in and shut the door.
“Slow down and think before you speak.” Argamus took hold of the brute’s arm. “Then explain what has happened.”
“I saw it,” Rourke insisted. “I saw the Priagent kill the Prophet. He turned dark and had wings, and it took up the whole room. Then he—” He made gestures with his hand as though he was plucking a duck. “It was horrible. I don’t think they hurt the Demon, but I couldn’t really tell ‘cuz it was dark by then.”
“Where were you?” Argamus asked, annunciating each word.
Rourke looked at his feet. “I was in the cellar, where they was keeping the Prophet and the Demon.”
“And why were you in the cellar?” He tried to keep the anger from his voice, but his recent lack of conversation with Hale had stirred his ire.
“I…I had to see them. I wanted to…” Rourke shook his head. “Never mind.”
“I am afraid I must mind,” Argamus said, glancing narrow-eyed at Hale, “as our leader seems not to think this worthy of comment.” He thumped his staff. “So you were in the cellar consorting with criminals at the risk of being discovered. Were you discovered? What exactly happened?”
“Well, the Priagent came back, so I hid. Nobody seen me, I’m pretty sure. ‘Cept the Prophet and the Demon, but the Prophet is dead…” Rourke fell silent, staring without seeing.
“Tell us again what the Priagent did,” Hale said quietly.
“It does not matter,” Argamus interrupted. “They are criminals. They were destined to face justice, be it by some aspect of Secramorian law or by our host.”
“This could shed light upon Rashir’s possession of the stone,” Hale said.
“We would not be here if he did not have the stone,” Argamus asserted, thumping his staff again. “James was snooping where he should not have been. What the Priagent does in his cellar is irrelevant. If he killed the thief, there must have been a body. Was there a body?”
Rourke’s expression was taut. He shook his head.
“Rashir was also not present at dinner,” Hale reminded.
“Because he was resting for tomorrow’s journey, as it was told to us,” Argamus said. “Our business is retrieving the stone. My point being, what was done in secrecy must remain secret. There is nothing we can do at this point. Until he outright tells us that he has the Ravenstone and intends to destroy all of Secramore, we cannot act. And even if he should relate this to us, we are not in a position to directly challenge him. We are the thieves in this scenario. We must exercise the utmost caution and discretion. We have been doing a poor job of exercising either.”
“I appreciate your concerns,” Hale said.
Argamus frowned and waited for the inevitable “but.”
“I agree with you.” Hale sat upon the bed. “We need to consider this carefully. Rashir has the stone, and he will have it hidden on our journey. We need to learn where he is keeping it, and once we have a feel for the habits of our company, we need to plot the best time to take it.”
“There may not be a ‘best time,’” Argamus argued. “What if an opportunity never presents itself? Take the object too soon, and its absence will be noticed. We hardly have the means for a ‘take and run’ operation.”
“No, we do not,” Hale agreed. “As I see it, we need to be as close to Veloria as possible. We have to believe Kariayla made it there, and that she and the Ilangiel will be waiting. It will be close—uncomfortably close—but by then we will have a haven, and our backs will be covered. Ideally, Rourke will discreetly obtain the Ravenstone, and we will slip away from camp and head into the forest.”
“And the more likely?” Argamus asked.
“We will need to distract the Priagent and his brothers while Rourke takes the stone and bolts for the forest. I will cover our escape.”
Argamus pulled at his beard and sighed. “This is not a sound plan.”
“There was never a sound plan,” Hale said. “We have an intelligent enemy who has plotted his course very carefully. Surprise is our greatest asset, and unfortunately, it offers no guarantees.” He looked Argamus and Rourke in the eyes. “We knew this before we came here.”
“Yes,” Argamus mumbled, “we did.”
“We are travelers, conversing over meals, tending the fire—”
“Hopefully enjoying the comforts of an inn here and there,” Argamus interjected beneath his breath.
Hale continued, “All the while, we will be attentive to our company—especially Rashir—to discover where he is keeping the stone. Fortunately, he will not have many options.”
In the following pause, Argamus found Rourke with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. “D
o not fret, my boy, we have time before we act.” He tried to sound as optimistic as he could, hoping to take weight from the brute’s frown.
“You don’t believe me. You don’t think he killed the Prophet,” Rourke said.
Argamus and Hale exchanged a glance. “My boy, it is not that I do not believe you. I merely consider all the possibilities.”
“Well, I saw it, and I know,” Rourke said.
“I think it will be apparent tomorrow,” Hale said. “When we assemble, the Demon and the Prophet will or will not be in our midst.” Hale stood. “Let’s meet here before breakfast. We will face this journey together.”
22
The Enforcer
The morning was brimming with anticipation. The horses were tacked, the wagons were loaded, and breakfast was a brisk breeze passing through, stirring the travelers like fallen leaves before winter’s first breath. The Priagent appeared in good health, and nothing seemed out of order. It was not until the travelers were set to depart that Hale noted the cage in the back of the covered wagon.
“Ah, yes, think of it as a security measure,” Rashir said cheerily.
“What is it?” Hale asked, humorless.
“Why, it is the White Demon, of course.” The Priagent smiled and presented the creature, which was sitting hunched, the top of its prison just an inch shy of its head. It was completely draped in a ratty, hooded cloak, like an old piece of furniture since forgotten. Two bulges on its back hinted at its wings. Rashir tapped on the wooden spokes of the frame with his walking stick, but the creature did not stir. “The storm you experienced when you first arrived was the demon’s doing. It has many uses, and now that it serves me, you may rest assured that no bandit will entertain the thought of robbing this party.”
