by Isaac Hooke
He studied her for a moment, and then turned to face the others. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.” And he revealed his plan.
When he finished, he looked at Abigail and Weyanna. They both had their arms folded across their chests.
“I noticed you didn’t mention either of us,” Abigail said. “We don’t have a part to play in this, then? You’ll never get inside the castle without me.”
“In your condition, I think it’s better if you stay here with the monsters,” he told her gently. “You’ll draw a map for us, and—”
“No,” Abigail said. “No maps. I’m going in person. I’ve come this far, I won’t back down now.”
“Nor will I,” Weyanna said. “You’ve Broken us. You’re taking our strength. We deserve to participate just as much as everyone else.”
He decided not to explain to her that he was mostly giving her strength at this point, rather than vice versa.
“I need everyone to be at the top of their game out there,” Malem said. “If we need to run, I can’t worry about the two of you lagging behind.”
“Then give us endurance herbs,” Abigail said. “Or transfer over stamina from your monsters. But don’t deny us this final part of the journey. We want to see this through. We want to play our parts. You need me to get you inside the castle. And a map won’t cut it. Why would you want a map, when I could physically guide you? Besides, I need to be down there in the streets to get my bearings. I can’t just draw a map from memory.”
He sighed, and against his better judgment, he agreed. “All right, you can come. But I swear, if you fall behind at any point…”
“We won’t fall behind,” Weyanna said quickly.
He folded his fingers together and rested his entwined palms on his chest.
“So, in regards to the plan…” Gwen said into the ensuing silence. “A nighttime excursion, huh? I’d almost prefer to infiltrate the city during the day, if only to avoid the dragon. Seeing as how it’s supposed to be active at night and all…”
“If all goes well, we’ll never even encounter the dragon,” Malem told her.
“There’s still a chance the dragon could awaken in the day,” Ziatrice said. “If Mauritania’s call is urgent enough. And there’s also a possibility it will sleep through the night, regardless of our presence.”
Abigail nodded. “Nemertes has been known to sleep for weeks at a time.”
“Oh,” Gwen said. “In that case, okay, I guess it doesn’t matter.” She glanced at Xaxia. “Except for the fact not all of us can see so well at night… I’m looking at you, Bandit.”
Xaxia smirked. “I think I’ll be able to find my way around in the dark, thank you very much. I am a bandit, after all.”
“And an assassin,” Abigail commented in disdain.
Ziatrice’s eyes lit up at that. “Sister!”
Xaxia nodded in appreciation.
Malem shook his head. “Whatever the case, there are too many troops down there for us to sneak inside during the day. It has to be at night.”
“What if the Eldritch have night vision?” Gwen asked. “Kind of negates the purpose of sneaking inside at night, doesn’t it?”
“It won’t matter,” he told her. “Even with night vision, they’ll still need a little bit of light to see by. All of us will. But there’s no moon tonight, so the only light they’ll have is that of the stars—if the night isn’t overcast—and their torches.”
“You forgot their cooking fires,” Xaxia told him.
He nodded grimly at the reminder of where they’d all end up if they failed that night.
22
Malem made his way through the darkness toward the city walls. He had swapped out Garibaldi for an owl, which he named Snowy. He chose the owl for its better night vision, and the bird had mapped out a course on the northeast side of the vale where the tents were fewest. It was that route he took now.
The four monsters lingered on the farm adjoining the ridge, where they waited for his signal. Abigail, Weyanna, Gwen, Ziatrice, Rathamias, and Xaxia followed behind him. Their horses remained at the farm as well, hitched inside the ruined barn. All of those accompanying him had night vision, save for Xaxia, who could see well enough in the dim light of the cooking fires that burned low around them. There was no light from the stars—the sky was overcast.
The team moved at a crouch, using the rocky features of the landscape around them as cover: the valley floor outside the walls of Tartan had little plant life, save for the occasional twisted tree or bramble, and consisted mostly of rocky paths and outcrops. There was usually a hollow they could slip inside, or a boulder they could dodge behind. That said, they still needed to drop to a crawl occasionally when the natural cover between certain tents proved sparse.
Malem was able to sense most of the Eldritch around him, and he concluded they had to be normal troops. There were a few mages that he missed until almost upon them: one such mage had been outside, contemplating the sky, when Malem rounded a boulder almost directly in its line of sight. Malem ducked behind that boulder, and when he heard footsteps, he and the others quietly retreated. They ducked beneath a hollow and Malem silently drew Balethorn. The mage peered around the boulder, but turned around and left when it discovered no one present.
Malem and most of the others had sipped from the blood-laced canteens before leaving, hoping to negate the Eldritch invisibility. Everyone except Gwen had done it: she said she’d only drink when the time came to fight. Malem decided that would be good enough. For now.
The small party soon made it unnoticed to the city wall. This particular spot proved unpatrolled, at least for the moment.
Ziatrice threw her ghostly chains of magic into the surface and heaved, drawing out one of the large stone blocks composing it. Gwen and Rathamias caught the long, thick block, and quietly lowered it to the ground. The night elf removed several more such blocks in succession, and the other two continued to pile them silently on the ground.
When the three of them had cleared enough rock for one person to fit through the wall, Malem stepped forward, bent over, and crawled through the thin opening. He had left his pack at the farm, and his thinner profile allowed him to slide through with relative ease. He also didn’t have a robe—there was no point in concealing his dragon scale armor now. If he was caught here, it wouldn’t matter if he wore a robe or armor: the Eldritch would still attack on sight.
When everyone was through, he made his way along the narrow alley formed between the wall and the buildings just inside it. Little light made its way here, and he had to advance mostly by touch.
Eventually the buildings fell away, revealing a square of sorts abutting the wall. A lamp still burned in that square, though the flames were low, sputtering—they would extinguish soon. Likely they had been burning since the attack began. No doubt the employee responsible for dousing the city’s lamps in the morning and reigniting them in the evening hadn’t been making the rounds. Understandable, given the circumstances.
The dim light from that lamp illuminated huge piles of what looked like soot stacked against the wall. As he got closer, the distinct smell of char filled the air.
“What is this?” Gwen asked softly.
Ziatrice kneeled, and in the dim light, fished out a skull from the powdery gray mass. “Well, I guess that answers the question about what happened to the citizens.” She threw away the skull in disgust, and wiped her hands on her bodice.
Someone wept softly behind him. He didn’t have to look to know it was Abigail: the grief emanating from her energy bundle was profound. She had lived here for a long time after all, interacting daily with the people of Tartan. And now some of them, at least, were gone.
The grief suddenly fell away, replaced by what Malem could best describe as anger.
She wanted revenge.
Can we hurry up? Abigail sent. Or are we going to stand here with open mouths all day?
This isn’t the whole population, Malem told
her. It can’t be.
You don’t know that for sure, she replied. Fire can be very destructive to human flesh.
Yes, I don’t know for sure, he sent. Just as you don’t. I need you to get a grip on your emotions. Don’t let them blind you, because if you do, you might make a mistake that will bring us all down. You have to be on the ball, if you’re going to lead us in. You—
I won’t make a fucking mistake.
He was stunned by her choice of words. She never talked like that. She was a princess, and… well, he supposed she had reason to.
He switched to the spoken word now, for the benefit of Xaxia and Rathamias. “You know where we are?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I recognize this square. World’s End, it was called, because the road leading here terminates at the city wall, and there was no other way to go. Twice a week vendors packed the square, forming a market big enough to attract citizens not just from all over the city, but the surrounding countryside. They sold everything from purses to parsley. Some of us locals called it Thieves’ Corner, because of the pickpockets that were known to frequent the place on market days, robbing vendors and patrons alike.” Her voice was the epitome of self-control. No sobs. No rage. Good. Hopefully she’d gotten out most of her frustrations on him while in his head. “So yes, I know where we are. And I can lead us the rest of the way.”
He nodded and let her take the lead.
It was at that point he realized Gwen, too, was crying. Given the tense exchange that had just occurred between him and Abigail, he decided it was best to leave Gwen alone.
I’m terrible at consoling.
The site of those charred bones had obviously gotten to her. Something similar had happened to her hometown of Durnwald: the villagers had been slain to a man by oraks Ziatrice had sent to hunt him.
Strangely, Gwen didn’t seem to hate the night elf for that; no, her ire was reserved for the oraks alone. Maybe Gwen had decided that those who had performed the actual deed were more responsible than the one who had given the order. Because like Malem, perhaps Gwen couldn’t imagine Ziatrice ever giving an order like that. Or maybe Gwen simply told herself, as he did, that the oraks had interpreted the night elf’s commands too broadly, or that even if they hadn’t, Ziatrice had been under the influence of Vorgon anyway, so that absolved her of responsibility.
But Malem knew Ziatrice well enough by now to realize she was more than capable of giving an order like that. Constantly exhorting him to grab the reins of power at every opportunity, no matter the cost, was the biggest giveaway. But like Gwen, he liked to pretend it was the oraks and other monsters that were the truly evil ones. Not his friends and lovers.
But from the point of view of the monsters, it’s we who are the evil ones. We kill them on sight, hunting them down to keep them away from our cities, and putting bounties on their heads. We’re all oraks to them.
It was a sobering thought.
It was a little odd that a random notion like this would pop into his head now, considering the circumstances: sneaking into an enemy city, surrounded by Eldritch that wanted to kill him, on a mission to infiltrate their headquarters and capture their queen. The aberrant thoughts were perhaps his mind’s way of coping with the stress.
Gwen’s soft weeping soon went silent, and he sensed she’d gotten her melancholy under control. From the well-honed edge to her current emotions, he knew she was ready to kill.
Best to put myself in the same mindset.
He cleared his mind of all thought and concentrated on the present moment.
The streets were mostly empty within the fallen city of Tartan. Given the profusion of smashed windows and broken doors, the enemy army had already looted all the outlying homes and shops. That the Eldritch were still looting the castle the last time Malem had checked spoke of the great wealth amassed within its walls.
The ways were full of shadows, as only a few lamps still burned throughout the city, with the vast majority having long since gone out. That gave ample darkness for Malem and the others to hide in.
The marching thuds of booted feet drew his attention up ahead, where torchlight, growing in brightness, flickered from around the bend.
He quickly dove into a broken home with the others, and they ducked in the common room while waiting for the patrol to pass. Malem peered passed the window ledge, and watched the group of Eldritch soldiers march by. Two of them held torches, and the rest carried those familiar trident and net weapons. He finally understood what those nets were for: gathering refugees that had escaped the initial onslaught.
He was a bit worried the Eldritch would smell them, but apparently the creatures didn’t have that keen of a sense of smell, because they marched right by the building without stopping.
“They had torches…” Xaxia said when they were gone. “Maybe their night vision isn’t as great as we thought.”
“Or it’s exactly like I already told you,” Malem replied. “Remember, night vision needs light in order to work properly. If I were searching a city for stowaways under a moonless sky, I’d bring a torch, too, to illuminate the shadows my eyes couldn’t penetrate.”
He got up and made his way to the entrance. He paused at the opening; light from a low-burning lamp nearby illuminated the broken door, and the blood staining the floor just inside. A struggle had taken place there. Malem imagined a valiant father or mother trying to protect his or her family before being chopped down by the swords of the conquering army.
Abigail sobbed slightly when she noticed what he was looking at; he was about to ask her if she needed a moment, but she straightened almost instantly, the grief from her energy bundle quickly replaced by defiance and determination. Before he could react, she shoved her way past him and onto the street outside.
Abigail led the way, steadfastly winding through the city, diving into side streets, alleys, or homes whenever she caught the merest whiff of a patrol. She had promised it would take only half an hour to reach their destination, but it felt like that amount of time had already passed. It might have been partly an illusion caused by the nerve-racking nature of their situation, but more likely a consequence of the frequent pauses and diversions to avoid Eldritch patrols. Perhaps she had even lost her way a few times: navigating a city under the light of failing lamps wasn’t the easiest even for a long-time resident. She paused unnervingly at times, usually when they reached a particularly dark intersection, which did little to boost his confidence levels.
Malem felt a growing impatience emanating from the energy bundles of the women as well.
“Are you sure she knows where she’s going?” Gwen asked after a time. “Feels like we’re traveling in circles.”
“I second the sentiment,” Rathamias said.
“See, even the orak agrees with me,” Gwen added.
Abigail ignored them. A moment later she pointed out a large manhole next to an unlit lamp. “There.”
They approached.
The subtle stench of sewage reached his nostrils. Malem ignored it and knelt, drawing his sword to pry the lid up. Gwen helped him remove the sewer cover.
With the manhole open, the smell of feces and other excrement hit him in full force. Malem held his nose, nearly gagging. He wanted to turn back, find another way. But he knew there was only this way forward. Nothing he could do but suck it up. Literally.
He stared into the black tunnel that awaited. He could barely see the rungs of a bronze ladder in the dim light.
“Looks like the dark pit to hell itself,” Ziatrice commented. “And smells like it, too.”
“I mean, I always knew we planned to enter the sewer,” Gwen said. “But now that we’re actually doing it, I’m kind of, well… reluctant. That’s probably the least offensive word to describe my feelings on the matter.”
“Then go back,” Malem said, rather mercilessly.
Abigail was already climbing down the rungs.
Malem waited a moment, letting her move further down
the ladder. Gwen didn’t answer his last remark, but she didn’t have to. Her continued presence was answer enough. As was the resolve he sensed from her energy bundle.
He sat down on the edge of the opening and let his feet dangle inside. He had hoped the smell would have lessened by then as his mind adapted to the constant assault upon his nostrils, but it didn’t.
Swallowing nervously, he lowered his feet onto the rungs, turned around, and descended into the all-consuming darkness.
23
Malem glanced down, into the dark, toward where he thought he’d heard Abigail’s boots scuffing against stone, but he couldn’t see a thing.
“You’re sure it’s safe to create a globe of fire down here?” he asked. When they had discussed this part of the plan earlier, she had insisted her flames were safe.
Sure enough, when the sphere of fire appeared, nothing happened—other than the sewage tunnel lighting up.
“You really expected it to cause an explosion?” Abigail asked.
“A little,” he admitted sheepishly. “Given what I’ve seen before, fire and sewers don’t mix. Something about the stench.”
“Flames meant for illumination don’t work that way,” Abigail explained. “They don’t burn oxygen, or produce heat. If I created an actual offensive flame, however, who knows? Maybe it would trigger an explosion. I don’t plan on trying it.”
“Probably a good idea.” When he reached the bottom, he stepped onto a narrow walkway that was elevated above the brown effluence responsible for the stench, and then quickly moved out of the way so that Xaxia could follow after him.
“I’ve heard of people who died in the sewers,” Xaxia said, alighting from the ladder to stand beside him. “If you go too deep, there are places where the air is forced out by the stench.”
“I’ve taken this route twice before,” Abigail said. “And I still live and breathe.”
“Yeah, but you’re a dragon,” Xaxia told her.
“You will live,” Abigail insisted.
