The Crosser's Maze

by Dorian Hart

  He had looked down at the dark silhouette of the sleeping man. Might he have a family? Children? Was he a patriotic zealot? A conscript here against his will? Half a year ago Ernie was a simple baker’s son who didn’t even like killing the flies that swarmed around the fresh loaves at midday. Now he contemplated murder! To kill a sleeping man, defenseless, under any circumstance, was the province of evil souls. Wasn’t it?

  But he had heard over and over from Abernathy about the dreadful stakes, the consequences of Naradawk Skewn’s escape from his magical prison. Would the means be justified? And this sleeping warrior was part of an army invading his own country. Tomorrow he could be putting a Chargish farmhouse to the torch, or putting his sword through a Stormknight of Werthis.

  A wave of confusion had rolled over him, a sense that he had been transported to a faraway land and mistakenly given another man’s life. It was too much. The path of least resistance was to stand slowly, quietly, and exit the tent with a minimum of fuss.

  * * *

  They had threaded and dodged their way through the Kivian encampment until they came to its northern edge, the tents and campfires giving way to grassy hills. Ernie had risked a glance back, but none of the soldiers seemed to have noticed them. Several hundred yards further they had come across an abandoned farmhouse on a hill, which seemed like an ideal place to take shelter. It reminded Ernie powerfully of White Ferry, and he desperately wanted something to ground him, but Grey Wolf advised against it. If the Kivians decided to send out search parties, the Company would do better not to hide in the closest building in any particular direction. So they had marched another twenty minutes until Morningstar, still stumbling with fatigue, had spotted this derelict barn.

  Dranko perched in the loft, keeping watch. Morningstar had passed out on a pile of brittle hay in the only intact stall. Somehow this place, empty for years, nearly battered to bits by time and weather, retained a lingering air of dry manure and equine sweat. Ernie breathed it in, letting the country smells calm his nerves.

  Aravia stood frowning in the opening that once had been the barn door, slumped slightly against the jamb. Pewter was out scouting, wearing Aravia’s ear-cuff. Despite having come to accept so many oddities in his new career, Ernie was still bewildered that he traveled with an intelligent cat.

  Tor leaned against the wooden siding of the barn wall and also stared out the door. Kibi lay on his back, eyes closed. Grey Wolf paced.

  How long would they need to wait here? He approached Aravia, who looked unusually weary up close.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Tired,” she said. “But in a few more minutes I should be recovered enough to teleport again. Arcane fatigue is difficult to explain to people who are not themselves wizards.”

  Ernie felt nettled. Aravia, with an easy arrogance, always assumed he wouldn’t understand her. Nearly everything she said and did seemed designed to demonstrate how clever she was. And had she ever spoken to him about anything substantial? Asked him how he was doing, or feeling? Unless Ernie was part of one of her ideas, he was obviously beneath her notice.

  But that was no reason to be uncivil. “Will Pewter be able to find his way back here?”

  Aravia nodded. “Yes. He always knows where I am.”

  “That’s handy. Do you always know where he is?”

  “I do.” Aravia turned away from him and stared out into the darkness. “He’s about a mile away right now, very close to the arch. I hope he comes back soon.”

  “Can he use telepathy to tell you what he’s seeing?”

  Aravia shook her head. “That only works when we’re close to each other.”

  Tor waved, trying to catch his eye.

  Ernie tried to sound reassuring. “I’m sure your cat’s fine.” He turned and walked to Tor, who backpedaled at his approach, beckoning nervously. Ernie followed his friend around the bend of the L-shaped barn.

  “What’s the matter? Is everything all right?”

  Tor was always so confident and upbeat. Fearless. It shook Ernie to see him looking so fretful.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” Tor’s voice was a stage whisper.

  Tor was scared. That was it. And who could blame him? Ernie was pretty gods-damned scared himself right now, given what they were trying to do.

  “It’s fine to be afraid,” Ernie said. “We’re about to sneak past hundreds of men who will kill us if they catch us.”

  Tor gave a startled look. “Oh, that? I’m not worried about that. I’m sure we’ll make it through. This is something worse.”

  “Worse?”

  Tor looked back the way they had come. His words tumbled out in a hurry. “What do you think about Aravia?”

  “Aravia?”

  “Yes…what do you think about her?”

  “Well, she’s smart, obviously. Smarter than either of us will ever be. She can’t get her nose out of her books. And it’s a good thing we have her; otherwise we’d have failed Abernathy goodness knows how many times. And she saved your life.”

  Ernie held his tongue about his other opinions. His mother had often reminded him that if he couldn’t say something nice about someone, he should say nothing at all.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Tor looked down forlornly at his boots. His mouth twitched. He glanced at Ernie with an expression bordering on panic. “I’m in love with her.”

  Ernie nearly laughed. He had been dreading that Tor’s discomfiture came from something dangerous, either to them or to the mission. But Tor looked mortified.

  “Oh…that’s…” How should he react? Happy for his friend? But was it a good thing? What could possibly come of it? “Does she know? Have you told her?”

  “No!” Tor turned bright red. “Do you think I should?”

  “Tor…I…I don’t mean to make light of your feelings, but is this the best time for…?”

  Tor hung his head. “No, of course it isn’t. And I know I shouldn’t say anything because she doesn’t feel the same way. I just had to tell someone, and you’re my best friend.”

  Ernie flushed with happiness at those words. It was one thing knowing the two had grown quite close over the months since Abernathy had brought them together, but quite another to hear Tor say it out loud. He wished he could say something comforting, but Tor was right about Aravia’s feelings. Ernie couldn’t imagine her being in love, except with her books and her cat. And she was nothing but dismissive of Tor—not in a cruel way, not exactly, but as though he was more or less irrelevant to her. Which he was, he supposed. They all were. Aravia had more in common with her cat than she did with the likes of Tor or himself.

  He put a hand on Tor’s shoulder. “I wish there was something I could do. I’m not really the best person to be giving advice about girls, but if you want some, I’d say to stay focused on our job for the archmagi. Keep being nice to her, and maybe when we’re under less stress you can, uh, court her properly.”

  Tor smiled. “She is amazing, isn’t she? Confident and brave and accomplished. And pretty. I don’t think she cares about what anyone thinks of her.” His smile faded. “Which is great, except that she doesn’t care what I think of her, either. And…there’s another problem with me courting her.”

  “Oh?”

  Tor frowned, staring at his boots. “My family.”

  “You think they wouldn’t approve?”

  “I’m certain that they wouldn’t.”

  Ernie’s own parents would be delighted if Ernie married a wizard—not only because they approved of book-learning and valued intelligence, but also because they had always been so puzzled about his lack of success with girls. Ernie was their golden child—hard-working, handsome (they always said), talented. Like everyone else in White Ferry, they hadn’t realized that Ernie faked his way through everything, that he wasn’t nearly as capable as everyone believed. That he was afraid all the time, especially with girls.

  But this wasn’t about him. Tor was distraught.
“Tor, we’ve all guessed you come from a noble family. But Aravia isn’t just some common tradesman’s daughter. She’s a wizard in the employ of an archmage!”

  Tor gave him a dead-serious look, which was even more incongruous on his friend’s face than his expressions of worry. “Ernie, can you keep a secret? Another secret?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  Tor glanced back to make sure no one else was eavesdropping. “I’m not just from a noble family. My father is Olorayne Firemount, baron of Forquelle, and I’m his oldest son.”

  Ernie blinked. The baron of Forquelle? Even Ernie knew about Forquelle—small, but fabulously wealthy. Nearly every diamond, every ruby, every sapphire or topaz or tourmaline in the kingdom came from the fabled mines of the archipelago barony.

  “How…but…why haven’t you told us before?”

  Tor gave him a rueful smile. “Well, here’s the thing. For about half a year before Abernathy summoned us, I had been plotting how I might run away from home. I was going to sneak away in the dead of night, sail to the mainland, dye my hair, grow a beard, all that stuff. ‘Tor Bladebearer’ was the name I had picked out since the plan had been to join a mercenary company or maybe become a Stormknight. My real name is Darien Firemount.”

  Ernie couldn’t believe his ears. “Run away? You’re the heir to the barony of Forquelle! You must have servants, and horses, and…and chefs, and everything else. Why would you want to run away from that?”

  “Ernie, do you think I could rule a barony? I know the way my brain works. I can’t focus. I have a poor memory. I’m not stupid, but there’s no way I could deal with all the paperwork and diplomacy and logistics of ruling Forquelle. My younger brother Alomayne is much more suited for it, but father only cares about the order of our birth. I was looking at a life sitting behind a desk signing trade agreements and allocating tax money, and botching it badly enough to bring Forquelle to ruin. Can you imagine anything so awful? I was born a great warrior! When Abernathy whisked us away, it was destiny putting me exactly where I belonged. There’s no way I’m going back.”

  “Does your father know where you are?”

  “I don’t know. Abernathy told me he took care of it, and I didn’t ask to hear any more. But I’m still a member of the baronial household of Forquelle; I simply can’t court, let alone marry, the daughter of a cartwright, no matter how good a wizard she is.”

  “Tor, it seems to me you’ve either run away or you haven’t. If you’re giving up your claim to the barony, surely your father shouldn’t still have sway over…over these kinds of decisions.”

  Tor brightened, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him…which it probably hadn’t. But his smile was short-lived. “I suppose, but it still doesn’t matter. Can you imagine a more mismatched couple? The scatterbrained fighting man and the brilliant bookish wizard?”

  Ernie smiled as reassuringly as he could. He might not like Aravia much personally, but he didn’t want Tor to be miserable. “You’re brave, skilled, and you always think of others before yourself. Aravia would be lucky to have you.”

  “Thanks, Ernie. You’re a good friend. And Aravia did say I was sweet a couple of times.”

  “See?” Ernie gave Tor a shove. “There’s hope!”

  Dranko’s head appeared around the corner of the barn. “Hope of what?”

  “Hope that we’ll find the Crosser’s Maze,” said Ernie hastily.

  “Come on,” said Dranko. “We’re about to learn exactly how much hope. Pewter’s back from his scouting trip.”

  * * *

  Pewter sat quietly on the ground in front of Aravia, his gray tail flicking back and forth. They stared at each other, silently, for nearly two minutes, until Pewter hopped up onto Aravia’s shoulder. She scratched under his chin.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” she said. “And…strange news.”

  “Good news first!” said Tor.

  Now that he watched for it, Ernie saw in Tor’s face his open adoration of Aravia. Should he have noticed it sooner?

  “The good news is, the uproar over our near-disastrous encounter earlier has died down, and the Kivians don’t suspect their camp has been infiltrated. Pewter says they’re chalking it up to a piece of wet wood bursting and setting the tent on fire. Most of the soldiers have been sent back to bed, though there are guards patrolling through the camp and the surrounding fields. None have come within a half mile of our current location.”

  “And the bad news?” asked Dranko.

  “Before Pewter left, I told him the location of the arch. I asked him to take a close look at it. But the Kivians have constructed an enormous circular stone wall around it. Pewter guesses it’s two hundred feet in diameter and thirty feet high. He climbed the closest tree he could find that rises higher than the wall. It’s five feet thick, nearly seamless, and flared out at the top. They’ve also chopped down all the trees around it, both inside the wall and for another thirty feet beyond its perimeter.

  Pewter meowed.

  “Oh, yes,” said Aravia. “The Kivians have also draped rope netting over the top of the arena. It’s highest where it sits atop the center of the arch, but anchored all along the inside top of the wall.”

  She paused and looked down at Pewter. “Yes, like a carnival pavilion with the arch serving as the central support pole.” She paused again and looked annoyed. “Pewter, I’m sure they understand. There’s no need to extend the metaphor.”

  “Was Pewter too busy constructing metaphors to notice if there was a door?” asked Dranko.

  Aravia paused and smiled at Pewter before answering. “There are two huge iron doors, facing north. They can be slid to the sides by a pair of oversized winches, but Pewter estimates that it would take two strong people at each winch, and judging by the size of the gears it probably takes several minutes to open the doors fully.”

  “We don’t need to open them fully,” said Grey Wolf. “Just enough for us to slip inside.”

  “The winches are also well-lit by numerous torches and guarded by a half-dozen armored soldiers. And there’s a large alarm bell close at hand.”

  “Dammit.” Grey Wolf started pacing. “I don’t see how we can take out six soldiers without raising a commotion. Beside those six, are there any other soldiers stationed near the wall?”

  Aravia paused for a moment, looking at Pewter. “None immediately at hand, but there are tents about fifty yards away, to both the north and west of the arch. If there was fighting near the winches, the sound would carry that far. Oh, and there’s another guard who patrols around the outside of the wall. It takes him about four minutes to make one full circuit.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  “There has to be something we can do!” Ernie blurted. Anger kindled inside of him. “We let an entire city get destroyed! We let Aktallian blow that horn, let people die in Sand’s Edge, because we had to let the Kivians open their stupid arch. We’re so close! Think, everyone. Think!”

  Aravia grabbed a half-rotted tool handle, its metal end long since rusted away, and scratched a map of the arch, wall, and soldiers in the dirt.

  Grey Wolf stopped pacing and contemplated the drawing. “Aravia, could you levitate one of us to the top of the wall? That person could cut a hole in the netting, drop a rope of our own down to everyone else, and we could climb up.”

  Aravia frowned, considering. “Levitation is a difficult spell, especially that distance. I wouldn’t have enough energy left to teleport us once we made it through the arch.”

  “And we’d only have four minutes to get everyone up and over before the patrolling sentry came back around,” said Dranko. “If it’s thirty feet high, it might take that long just to get Kibi to the top. Uh, no offense.”

  “You ain’t wrong,” said Kibi. “I ain’t built for climbin’.”

  “Morningstar,” said Ernie. “Can you give us any more invisibility?”

  Grey Wolf had woken Morningstar when Pewter had returned, but the Ellish pries
tess had been nodding off throughout the discussion and hadn’t spoken a word. She blinked her bloodshot eyes and shook her head.

  “So much for the good news and the bad news,” said Dranko. “You said there was strange news, too.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Aravia. “Pewter did see someone that’s probably the commander of the Kivian forces, or at least someone high up in their chain of command. He was giving orders, and runners kept coming up to him delivering reports.”

  “Why is that strange?”

  “Because he bore a striking resemblance to Tor. He was older, but he could be Tor’s father or older brother. Pewter can show me faces via telepathy, and he’s right. It’s uncanny.”

  Ernie exchanged a quick glance with Tor.

  “I don’t have an older brother. And my father wouldn’t… That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s why I said it was strange. But I’m not sure how it helps. I could effect a small glamour, make Tor look like the man Pewter saw, but as with levitation it would take energy out of me I’m going to need for our evacuation. Also, Tor’s voice would be different.”

  An awkward silence followed. Everyone stared at Aravia’s map.

  “We could hunker down here until tomorrow night,” said Grey Wolf. “Morningstar may have recovered by then. We could get close to the door in the wall and wait for them to open it, then dash inside and through before anyone could stop us.”

  “No.” Aravia stared intensely at her drawing. “We don’t know how often they open the door. What if it’s only once a week, and it happened yesterday? And what if Morningstar needs more time to recuperate? We shouldn’t wait. Every day might be the difference between stopping Naradawk and being too late. We should do this tonight. There must be something I’m not thinking of.”

  “The flying carpet!” said Tor. “We can fly Vyasa Vya over the wall!”