Galen pulled his own rough blanket off the bed. His rose doublet, long since ruined, was little protection again the chill of the night. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders as he stepped down onto the chill floorboards of the barracks.
One of them spoke again, “Out the door—now.”
Galen took a long, deep breath and then turned toward the door. Rhea and Maddoc quickly fell in step behind him.
“Who are they?” Rhea whispered urgently from behind Galen.
“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ve seen people disappear from the barracks before. Perhaps now we’ll get to find out where they went.”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Rhea rejoined.
Galen chuckled darkly. “I’m absolutely sure I don’t want to know. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid it at this point.”
Rhea shivered behind him. “What do we do?”
“When I come up with a brilliant plan, believe me, you’ll be the first to know!” was Galen’s only answer.
They stepped out of the open barracks doorway. The night sky overhead was overcast, a broken blanket of clouds shielding them from the stars overhead. Only the occasional torch, sputtering in a stiff night breeze, gave flickering definition to their surroundings. Galen could barely make out the form of the rows of barracks behind them, though they were less than a hundred feet from where he walked. Ahead of them, the darker shape of the arena emerged from the night, a mass more felt than seen.
Now fewer than ten of the Pir escorted them from a distance. Galen could not see their faces, shrouded as they were in their deep hoods, but he noticed that each of them held a dragonstaff, keeping its eye turned away from the prisoners as they walked. The entire group passed quickly through the warrior’s arch and onto the floor of the arena itself, a dim open space in the darkness. The vacant seats of the various sections looked down on them in their passing. Galen could smell death in the place.
“Listen, Rhea,” he said with quiet urgency. “I met a man in the dream who said he could help us escape.”
“It looks like he may be a little too late,” Rhea replied gruffly. “Unless . . . do you think this is his doing?”
“I don’t know. He appeared to me as the Pir Inquisitas, and these are Pir monks.”
“The Pir Inquisitas?” Rhea’s voice sounded skeptical. “Is this the same Pir Inquisitas you told me about? The one who is responsible for you being here in the first place?”
Galen nodded sheepishly.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to place my entire trust in that one,” Rhea said with great sarcasm.
“What’s your game, Galen?” Maddoc whispered conspiratorially as they walked across the empty arena floor.
Galen glanced at Maddoc but Rhea answered for him. “It is a mission . . . a mission for the Circle of Brothers who . . . uh, who . . .”
“The Circle of Brothers Forged by Galen’s Will?” Maddoc finished for her, patting her on the hand. “Don’t you mean the Secret Circle of Brothers Forged by Galen’s Will?”
“Yes, husband, forgive me.”
“Anything for a fellow member of the Circle,” Maddoc said, patting her hand.
Galen glared at Rhea. “Is he going to be trouble?”
“Why? Are you expecting any?” Rhea shot back a little too quickly, then thought better of her words. “Sorry, Galen. No, he won’t be any trouble. He believes we’re performing some noble task for the Circle. He—he thinks we are escaping.”
“Oh, great!” Galen huffed, then turned to Maddoc as they walked. “You wouldn’t happen to know how we were supposed to escape, would you?”
“No, Galen,” Maddoc said solemnly. “I do not enjoy that level of trust in the Circle. You are the genius behind our escape. You certainly know well how to keep a secret. I’m confident that you will let us all in on your brilliant plan the moment you deem it prudent.”
Galen seethed with frustration. “I’ll be more than happy to tell you my brilliant plan—the moment I have one.”
“And I would love to hear it, too,” said Galen’s sword.
Galen stumbled in midstride. The Pir monk hoods turned as one to watch him warily. Galen recovered and continued to march across the open arena floor, but he surreptitiously reached down with his right hand along the outside of the blanket draped over his shoulders.
S’shnickt was there, hanging at his side under the blanket.
Galen panicked for a moment. He was certain the sword had not been there when he was dragged out of his bunk. Now, inexplicably, it hung at his side. If the Pir should discover that he was armed . . .
“Can we stop at the armory for a moment?” S’shnickt suddenly asked.
“No!” Galen hissed.
Rhea looked at him in confusion. They were emerging from the opposite warrior’s arch in the arena from where they had entered. The Pir guard surrounding them urged them south down the broad curve of Beggar’s Lane. Before them, Trader’s Gate, one of the original four towers that overlooked the entrance to the Garden, rose into the pitch night, its base illuminated by several braziers roaring with flame.
“Can’t we stop just for a moment?” the sword asked once more. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to do anything but strike a gallant pose in the doorway while I let the rest of the armory know what is going on.”
“I said no!” Galen rumbled through gritted teeth.
“Galen? What is it?” Rhea asked urgently. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, it isn’t like they can tell anyone your secret plan,” S’shnickt groused from under the blanket. “I mean, none of these Pir are Craftis!”
“Shut up!” Galen snapped under his breath.
“All right,” Rhea responded meekly.
“No, not you!” Galen was exasperated.
“I didn’t think so,” the sword answered mistakenly. “I’m willing to let things unfold as they come, but Kri-dankt and Swashthok both would like to know how soon we’ll be seeing some action out of—”
“Who?” Galen asked.
“What?!” Rhea demanded, her anger rising.
“Kri-dankt and Swashthok . . . they are the swords with Rhea and Maddoc,” S’shnickt answered.
Galen caught his breath. He turned ever so slightly toward Rhea, who was struggling at his side with Maddoc, and spoke in a careful whisper. “Feel down your right side.”
Rhea’s nostrils were flaring. “Are you talking to me now? Because if you are I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to you before we—”
“Later! Just reach down on your right, but try not to be noticed!”
“We’re about to die and all you—” Rhea’s eyes went suddenly wide. “How?”
“We’ll have to work that out later between us,” Galen said. “Maddoc, I suppose you are armed as well?”
“A member of the Secret Circle of Brothers Forged by Galen’s Will is never without his weapon,” Maddoc intoned with a combination of humility and pride.
Their detail was quickly approaching the inner gate. A large torusk beast stood before the gate, an ironreed cage harnessed to its back. The cage was open, waiting for them. A torusk master stood next to the tusks of the beast.
“It looks like we’re going on a journey,” Maddoc said happily. “How I love adventures!”
One of the Pir—the leader of the detail, no doubt, although Galen could not distinguish between him and the others—indicated the short ladder laid next to the torusk. Each of them in turn climbed up to the opening in the wicker cage and lowered themselves inside.
Once his prisoners were within, the Pir leader quickly climbed the ladder and secured the cage with several large locks. He then hurried back to the ground and pulled the ladder clear of the side of the beast.
The torusk master clucked.
The torusk slowly began to move toward the gates. As they approached, the huge gates opened wide. They were leaving the Garden, passing the unassailable, impenetrable wall of their prison. The gate soon
fell behind them, replaced by the closed, deserted streets of Vasskhold.
Galen quickly looked about. Their escort now numbered only four. One torusk master urged his beast along their course. Three Pir monks accompanied them at a distance, their dragonstaffs at the ready.
Rhea’s voice quivered. “Galen, what are we going to do?”
“Remember that brilliant plan Maddoc kept asking me about?”
“Yes?”
“I think I may actually have one after all!”
32
Blind Eye
The torusk passed beyond the Trader’s Gate into the Caravan District of Vasskhold. Beggar’s Lane continued to curve down toward the next tower, Freeman’s Tower, and its gate, but the torusk master pushed his baton against the tusk of the beast, turning it to the right off of the large avenue and down a narrow street.
Large warehouse structures lined the street on Galen’s left, while the smaller, more ornate structures of the guildhouses were crammed together on the right. The warehouses were dark, their work having concluded with the arrival of the last caravans. The city gates closed at dusk, and with them much of the operations in the warehouses as well.
The guilds, however, were another matter. Their business was conducted well into the night and sometimes into morning as the need required. The lights in the guildhouse windows continued to burn into the street, brightly illuminating the broken stones of the cobbled street as the small procession passed.
“Where are they taking us?” Galen asked, as much to himself as to Rhea.
She could only shake her head.
“To glory, Galen.” Maddoc winked. “Where else?”
The guide directed the torusk down several more close and confusing streets. There were ramshackle homes pressed together and leaning outward into the street. They passed a modest Kath-Drakonis at one point, its familiar dome dark against the diffused lights in the streets against the clouds. Then they turned once more down a broad avenue leading away from the Temple of Vasska in a great curve through more homes barely reclaimed from the old ruins.
“I don’t think we can wait much longer,” Galen said to Rhea. “If they are taking us somewhere in the city, they are sure to have more guards there to help unload us.”
“Are you sure the swords can do the job?” Rhea asked.
“We can do our job, if you can do yours,” S’shnickt said haughtily.
“We’re about to find out,” Galen said. “There’s a space opening up just up ahead. Everyone knows what they have to do, right? Maddoc?”
“Yes. Escape. Got it.”
Galen took a deep breath. He had escaped once before from a cage just like this one, only he still had no idea how he had done it. If they could somehow get out of the cages, they would then have to surprise the Pir monks who were already watchful and were rarely, if ever, surprised by anything. He had to do all this with a woman, a madman, and three swords that would not shut up in his head.
Maybe he was crazy after all.
Gendrik, the torusk master, was miserable. Not only had he spent most of the previous night tracking down this Galen prisoner, but now Tragget had put him back on the road with this same Galen and his two companions. He missed his bed. He missed his wife. He missed not having anything to do.
Tragget had called him back to his quarters that same afternoon. It was bad enough that he had to get the caravans ready to leave in less than two weeks’ time. Now Tragget had demanded that he make another journey before the departure of the Enlund caravans. It was really too much to expect out of any torusk master—even one in service to the Pir Inquisitor himself.
Gendrik was tired and wondered how he could possibly get through the night. The monks managed to get the prisoners loaded easily enough and without any protest on their part. Perhaps they knew why they were there and where they were going. Gendrik hoped so—it would make the trip go ever so much more pleasantly.
His route had been very specific: turn off Beggar’s Lane and go down Guild Alley. A few difficult turns through the Bard Quarter and then down Ferand Street until it intersected with King’s Row. King’s Row was the important one: it would bring him into the Old City. Gendrik knew of a path through those ruins that would get them out of Vasskhold without their having to pass through any of the usual gates. Tragget had been very specific about that. He did not want it generally known that these prisoners had left the city.
Indeed, he apparently did not want anyone to know that they had even left the Gardens. Gendrik knew the monks that had been used to bring the prisoners to his torusk. Each of them was specifically in the service of the Inquisitor. Indeed, the three monks that accompanied them as guards on this journey were the most trusted of the Inquisitor’s elite. Gendrik had been frankly surprised that there were three of them on this trip; one would have been more than a match for three of the Chosen.
The torusk turned his head, causing Gendrik to pull it back facing forward with his baton. Well, if Tragget wanted to get these people out of harm’s way, the torusk master thought, that was his business. It was not Gendrik’s place to try to understand the thoughts of the Pir, and certainly not to question the orders of the Inquisitor. Far better for him to just take these people up to Brenna Keep; that was all there was to his business. Brenna Keep was located atop a crag just southwest of Garlandhome and about as far removed from the trade routes as any place in Vasska’s realm. It would be an arduous journey to make it there and back, but Gendrik wanted to get it over with. The sooner he finished this little task, the sooner he could enjoy his own warm bed.
Gendrik yawned. He could see King’s Row up ahead—a wide avenue that ran straight past the “reformed” buildings of the south side and into the collapsed remains of the northwest quarter. They would have to cross the Victor’s Way, the wide avenue that ran between the kneeling statues toward the nine towers of the inner city. They would probably be given little notice there anyway. All they had to do was get out of sight of the city walls before sunup and he could then take his pace as he liked.
The King’s Row Cross was absolutely deserted. The rows of tumbledown buildings and their patchwork architecture were all dark and still in the night. Watch fires burned on the corners of the street.
Gendrik pushed the tusk of the torusk to the right. The great beast turned to follow his head, lumbering to the right and heading down King’s Row.
Suddenly the beast lurched upward, rearing on its hind legs. Its maw gaped open, baring its double ridges of razor teeth. It howled pitilessly. The terrible sound echoed down the still streets of the city and shook the buildings.
Gendrik leaped back. The thrashing tusks of the suddenly enraged torusk sliced through the air barely a hand’s width from his chest. He raised his baton more out of instinct than from any real effort to get the beast under his control again.
It did not matter. The torusk had forgotten entirely about his master, having given over all thought to blind pain and rage. The beast stomped the ground, spinning about in a frenzy. Its thick tail whipped about, bowling one of the monks to the ground as the other two hastily leaped out of the way of the rampaging monster.
“Thon! Thon! Easy, boy!” Gendrik yelled at the torusk. He had never seen one of the beasts this upset before, and though he was one of the most experienced torusk handlers in all Hrunard, even he was uncertain how to calm so enraged a beast.
Thon either did not or could not hear Gendrik through his panic. He spun once more, reared up on his hind legs with a terrible howl, and then bolted at full gait into King’s Row toward the south.
“No! Thon! You’re going the wrong way!” Gendrik called out.
The massive flanks of the torusk, the ironreed cages bounding on either side, rapidly disappeared down the darkened streets.
The monks pulled themselves up from the ground, giving chase at once.
Gendrik yelled once more in his rage and frustration, then dashed down the avenue after the monks.
The ancient cobbles
tones still showed through the compacted dirt here and there as Gendrik hurtled down the dark and deserted street. He could hear his booted footsteps rebounding from the walls of the obscure and anonymous buildings as he ran. The sound of the torusk was always before him, seeming to get farther away with each passing howl. Gendrik winced painfully a few moments later when the terrible sound of a crash rolled back toward him from the darkness. Worse still was the silence that followed.
Gendrik pressed ahead faster than before. The shadows of the street were slow to give way to his eyesight. Soon, however, he arrived at the end of the street. King’s Row stopped abruptly where Cooper’s Lane from the west turns into Southline Alley. The Nine Towers Inn lorded over the end of the street, one of the better-known establishments in the city. Its three-story façade welcomed pilgrims of means to the cleanest lodgings in the city.
Gendrik groaned. The Nine Towers Inn looked to be short a tower or two. The rampaging torusk had been unable to turn in time and slid into the front of the building. The doorway was shattered, buried under a cascade of stone and wooden beams. The front of the building sagged forward toward the street. It was missing its upper corner entirely, and stones lay broken on the street.
Thon, his torusk, was wandering around the street looking somewhat dazed. The creature was bleeding from its flanks. Somehow, the prisoners must have stuck his poor beast back there, inciting it to charge down the street recklessly.
The prisoners! Gendrik realized that the cages were empty. He quickly inspected the separated ironreed strands. They were all sliced cleanly through.
Gendrik swore the worst oath that he knew, glancing angrily about. Several people had spilled out from the inn. They were pointing eastward, down Southline Alley.
Gendrik needed no further urging. These prisoners had been far more trouble than he had expected. They had wounded his torusk. And now they had escaped.
In his mind, Gendrik saw the two portals behind the throne of the Pir Inquisitas. He felt a chill knowing that one of them was waiting for him and that in this moment he was choosing which one. He suddenly ran after the monks in their headlong dash down Southline Alley. He knew he could not return to face the Pir Inquisitas until he had the prisoners safely back in his charge.
Mystic Warrior Page 26
