The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 03 - Road of Shadows

by Jeffrey Quyle

  Yet when he went to sleep, Kestrel found that his dreams were not of the cave, not of the daring adventure planned for the future. Instead he dreamed of Margo and Picco, and of the beautiful half-elven girl, Moorin, who was somewhere in his future.

  “Kestrel, we need you here,” Margo spoke to him in the dream as he sat at the breakfast table in her family’s manor in the mountain foothills. “Graylee is unsafe; the nation is falling apart, and no one can protect us as well as you can,” she said as she carried a cup of tea with her and sat down next to him at the table.

  Her hands were callused, and her fingernails were broken, he noted. There were dark rings under her eyes. “I’ll come to you as fast as I can, I promise,” he told her.

  “I am trying to help my friends the sprites, who are in such trouble; with them we may be able to find a way to stop the forces from Uniontown. The lizards are the key! We have to wipe away the lizards,” he told her. “I think they’re behind everything Uniontown is doing.”

  “It will be too late for her, Kestrel,” Picco said from behind him. Her hands were suddenly gripping his shoulders, massaging the muscles, removing the stress, as they sat on a stone floored patio that looked out over a view of the sea. Though he had never been there, Kestrel knew that they were at the estate of Picco’s mother. “Look, here come the ships from Uniontown, bringing more soldiers to fight Graylee. They’re going to trap Philip and his allies from Hydrotaz. Julia was courageous enough to bring her army to help him overthrow the Prince in Graylee City, but now they’re going to be slaughtered by the reinforcements coming from Uniontown.

  “Only you could save them if you were here,” her fingers continued to knead his shoulders as she explained the situation. “Look,” her hand left his shoulder and touched his head, turning it to see down on the beach, where a ship was disgorging two squads of Uniontown soldiers in red at the dock of the estate. “They’re coming here too.”

  “I’ll help you, Kestrel. I’m the true Moorin,” a flaxen-haired half-elf told him, as she reclined on a luxurious bed. “I’ll leave the harem, and you and I will take the solution to the beginning of Uniontown’s troubles.”

  “Kestrel, it’s your watch,” Thorsee shook his shoulder, awakening him from the nightmare.

  Kestrel sat up with a start, unable to immediately comprehend the brutal shift from the very real and life-like dream sequence to the true circumstances he was in.

  “Thank you,” he told the imp after he grasped the situation. He sat up and looked around the quiet campsite. Pumpkin was already snuggling into a nest of the others, where they shared body warmth as they slept without covers in the mild evening temperatures.

  Thorsee went over to join the pile of blue flesh as well, as Kestrel stood and walked around the campsite, giving a shallow inspection to conditions around them as his mind examined and distilled the elements of the dream. He had been here in this other land for many days now, preoccupied with his immediate needs, and he’d given no conscious thought to the people back home, except in the abstract sense that he sought to relieve them of the dangers of Uniontown by finding a means to defeat the Viathins, who he believed were the monster lizards that manipulated and controlled Uniontown’s warlike demeanor.

  If he had not been sucked into this strange land, if Growelf had not plucked him from the plains of northern Hydrotaz and thrown him into this place, he would have been at least in Hydrotaz City, checking on Yulia, and probably already on his way to Graylee. He should have been in contact with Phillip by now, and perhaps have seen Margo and Picco, who he hoped were safe in their northern fastness.

  And now Moorin was a part of his subconscious awareness. A name that had been mentioned once, many months ago, mentioned in passing by a goddess, somehow was important. The shapeshifter in the cavern had used the name, and his own dreams called upon the name. Was it a prophecy, he wondered. Had the dream been fate’s way of preparing him for dire circumstances that he would return to in his own world?

  His walk around the camp completed its first circuit, and he stopped. He was worried about Margo. His dream had not touched upon Lucretia or Alicia in the Eastern Forest, or Merilla, up in Estone, who now seemed like such a distant memory; he was not worried about their safety, it seemed. And he had dreamt about Picco, who had tried to comfort him in the dream, massaging his shoulders to try to reduce his stress.

  He bent over and placed another piece of wood on the bed of coals, then bent and blew on the red embers to spark dancing flames. He sat down on a nearby stone and stared at the small flickers that fringed the bottom of the log, and brooded on events back in his own land. Yet there was no recourse, no alternative course he could follow; a god had sent him to the strange world, and he had friends who needed his help to stay alive. And there was the promise of finding a solution to the Uniontown problems back home. He could not turn around; he could not abandon his obligations in the land of two suns. He would have to stay on the course he followed, and hope and pray that his desire for a happy future at home would remain viable, and eventually come to pass. He would have to have faith.

  He stood up and circled the camp site again, taking his time. There was a faint glimmer of light off in the distance, and he cautiously walked away from the campsite to get a better look at it. It was daybreak, he realized. The day was about to begin, and he was going to venture into the center of the Viathins in this land in order to find his friends and set them free.

  When the sun had risen further, he began to rouse the other members of the group, and piled the last of the nearby wood on the camp fire to create a source of warmth they could all huddle around, as the group reviewed the challenging day ahead.

  Chapter 8 – The True Rescue

  Kestrel and two of the Parstoles guards were walking along the road, not far outside the amphitheater on the edge of the city, feeling very self-conscious as they passed continual traffic of Viathins and Parstoles who also traveled the same route. Fasmet and a Parstole who Kestrel hardly knew were acting as his escorts, as Kestrel took on the dejected demeanor of a captive. Gainue and the other Parstoles had begun the journey with them, but then veered off on their own mission, to try to find and seize as much food as possible. They were all optimistically assuming that Kestrel would carry out his rescue, and they would all be able to make the journey to the portal that provided access to the home world of the Parstoles, the land where there was a means to permanently defeat the Viathins.

  Several passersby had stared at Kestrel as he had limped between his two escorts, relying heavily on his staff to aid his movement; he was an unusual looking specimen of a prisoner, and attracted attention. While he was being observed, be was busily observing the environment around him. There were buildings scattered along the roadway, and they might be places that would provide hiding spots if needed during the escape attempt. There were scattered trees, but they were only small and solitary specimens that would not offer a way to escape through the overhead network of interconnected branches.

  But what he most noticed, and what repeatedly drew his eyes to the north, was the distant profile of an extraordinary mountain on the horizon, one that towered at twice the height of all the surrounding peaks. The mid-morning sunlight illuminated the mountain thoroughly, and Kestrel knew that it had to be the peak that would be their next destination, where they would find the passage that led to the next world he and his companions sought to visit.

  Ahead was the stadium they were headed towards. The plan that Kestrel and the Parstoles had agreed to called for him to be escorted to the stadium, and taken to the cells where prisoners were kept. The Parstoles would scout among them to try to find any sprites that were being held captive, while Kestrel was imprisoned by the jailers at the facility. After they finished that assignment, they would leave the vicinity of the stadium for a day, and then return the following day with large, empty sacks, in which they hoped to smuggle out the newly-freed sprites while the ceremonies were underway. Kestrel would be expected
to arrange his own escape.

  He had his knife hidden in his waistband, and he had his staff, which he intended to justify keeping by faking a leg injury and a limp. With those two weapons he felt confident that he could escape from captivity at the appropriate time. As long as the sprites were in sight, he felt reasonably confident that he could find them and set them free. He had been sent here by a deity for this very mission, he told himself, and there had been so many fortuitous events that had been to his advantage he had to believe that he was destined to succeed.

  After several more minutes of a silent stroll, the trio reached the unguarded gates to the stadium, and entered one of the many openings, then followed in the direction that most of the rest of the foot traffic seemed to be traveling, heading, they hoped, towards the pens where the prisoners were held.

  “What do we have here?” an officious Parstole, wearing an uniform that had a whip hanging from his belt, asked Fasmet as their trio reached a doorway through a thick stone wall.

  “We have a new prisoner for the great sacrifice. He came through the portal, the same way the bluelings did,” Fasmet said nervously. The former slave of the Viathins was tense, knowing how perilous their circumstances would be if their true role was discovered.

  The guard checking at the doorway failed to notice Fasmet’s tension as he carefully looked Kestrel over. “Odd looking fellow, isn’t he?” the Parstole commented.

  “Very odd,” Fasmet’s fellow conspirator agreed.

  “Take him in and put him in a cell. Make sure the jailer knows he’s there and locks the gate. He can’t keep that staff of course; I’m surprised you let him keep it,” the door guard waved them towards the next section.

  “It was either he walked with the staff or we had to carry him; you can see what happened!” Fasmet laughed nervously as they walked through the door way.

  The first thing they noticed as soon as they walked through the door was the heavy, fetid stench that hung in the air.

  “Oh by the orange hills, this is most foul!” Fasmet exclaimed.

  “The masters had the water supply back here completely cut off,” the guard at the door explained. “You can see the busted ductwork overhead. They said the prisoners didn’t need any sanitation, since they’ll just be going to the knife anyway.”

  Kestrel shook his head and tried to hold his breath, sure that his eyes were about to start tearing up from the terrible smell.

  “Let’s just slam him in a cell and get out,” Fasmet said to his fellow guard, loudly enough for the gate attendant to hear, and they walked into the dim interior.

  “There they are!” Kestrel exclaimed softly. “I see sprites,” he added as he tried to appear calm. “And there’s an open cell right next to theirs. Put me in there. Hurry, before the attendant sees me, and I may be able to hide my staff in the back of the cell,” he urged.

  The two escorts hurriedly led Kestrel over to the cell. “Hide your staff while we alert the jailer. We’ll be back tomorrow night to pick up your friends,” Fasmet told Kestrel. “We’ll go see the jailer now. Good luck Kestrel; we look forward to seeing you again, soon,” he said earnestly, before the two of them strolled away into the murky surroundings of the holding area.

  Kestrel walked over to the set of metal bars that separated his space from the listless quartet of sprites in the adjacent space. Three sprites were lying on the floor of their cell, while the fourth sat with eyes closed, back against the back wall. The sprite sitting up was Jonson – who was actually an imp, Kestrel reminded himself.

  Kestrel smiled a smile that was filled with both sadness and joy. He was sorry to see the exuberant sprites and imps reduced to such pitiful circumstances, but delighted to see them still alive. Yet he felt his stomach tense up at the observation that Dewberry was not present.

  There was a sound out in front of the cell, and he turned to see Fasmet and his companion passing by on their way out of the detention area. There was another rattling sound, and he watched the jailer slowly start to approach from the far end of the darkness, headed towards him to check on the new occupant of the cell.

  “Jonson!” he called softly and urgently. “Jonson,” he repeated.

  The imp’s eyes opened lazily, and looked to find the source of the call.

  “Jonson, it’s me, Kestrel. Stay calm and quiet,” Kestrel urged, as their eyes made contact.

  Jonson’s eye’s widened in astonishment.

  “Wait until the jailer has come and gone. We’ll talk then,” Kestrel spoke quietly, then walked away from the bars that separated their cells and waited for the jailer to arrive.

  “What do we have here? Quite the ugly creature aren’t you? Probably as stupid as you are ugly, I’ll wager,” the Parstole guard muttered to himself, presuming that Kestrel did not understand his language.

  “It’ll be good to keep you here beside these stupid blue abominations, I reckon. Where do all of you freaks come from anyway?” he asked as he turned the key in Kestrel’s lock, then shuffled away from the cell, heading back to his seat at the far end of the detention area.

  “Jonson,” Kestrel said as he saw the imp rise and watched the jailer fade away, “it’s so good to see you at last!”

  “That’s a very cheerful greeting, my friend, coming from someone who has just joined a collection of doomed prisoners,” Jonson answered, reaching between the bars to grasp Kestrel’s hand in a desperate clasp.

  “Don’t worry about that; I’m here to set you free, and to help you carry out your mission,” Kestrel said reassuringly. He hesitated for a moment, then asked the fearful question that hung heavily on his heart. “Where is Dewberry?”

  “She is here, we think,” Jonson answered to Kestrel’s relief. “She fought back against them the whole time we were in captivity and being transported here. I think she is in a cell down by the jailer; we haven’t seen her in a week.”

  “But she is alive?” Kestrel sought confirmation with relief.

  “Yes Kestrel, I’m fairly sure she is, for now. I don’t think any of us will be alive much longer. But it’s good to see that you love her almost as much as I do; I know how much she cares for you too. Should I be jealous?” Jonson asked.

  “You’re really here to help us escape?” he immediately asked. “This sitting in a jail cell is just a step to get us all out of here?” he queried with a hint of desperation, as the other sprites gathered around.

  “I will do my best to get us out of here tonight. It’s why I came to the jail,” Kestrel assured them. “I have my staff and my knife here with me.”

  “So what is your plan? How can we help?” one of the other sprites asked.

  “Well, I don’t actually have a complete plan yet. I had to get inside to see what the situation was, and make sure you were here first,” Kestrel admitted confidently. “I should be able to overpower the jailer tonight, and set us free. I thought we’d try to find a place to hide for a day after that. I’ve got a plan to get us out of here, after the searching and alarms are all done the following day.

  “Now, really, all we have to do is find a place to hide for a day,” he concluded.

  “I know a place to hide; I don’t know how we’d get there,” one of the sprites said.

  Kestrel looked at him closely, and realized that the speaker was actually an imp, like Jonson.

  “Where? What do you have in mind?” he asked.

  The imp pointed up at the high ceiling behind them. “That broken pipe,” he indicated a wide diameter pipe that was broken open, attached to the ceiling that was far overhead. “The pipe is big enough for us to hide inside it.”

  Kestrel looked at the pipe speculatively. “I was told they cut off the water supply back here; did that use to be the water pipe?” he asked.

  “We don’t know,” Jonson said, “but Leaven’s right – we could fit in it, but I don’t know how to get up there.”

  Kestrel stood silently, examining the height to the pipe, considering options. “We’ll keep it
in mind,” he said at length.

  “Tell us, how did you get here? Why are you here at all?” Jonson asked, and so they all settled down to sit or squat on the filthy floor and talked at great length, as Kestrel related all the history he could remember since the last time he had seen Jonson or Dewberry, amazing them with his stories and revelations.

  They watched the shift change, as a new guard entered and the old guard left. Kestrel eventually judged that the time had come to start his plot to escape. The change in guards suggested that night had fallen outside, and the prison area would be unwatched and uninterrupted for hours to come.

  “I did something like this at the last jail I was in,” he forewarned the sprites and imps as he stood up and retrieved his staff, then walked to the front of his cell and started banging on the bars.

  The racket drew the jailer’s attention. The Parstole guard shouted something at Kestrel, but didn’t bother to stand up from his comfortable seat at first, until Kestrel’s unceasing shouting, pounding, and rattling noise went on too obnoxiously long.

  “Strange, idiotic creatures!” Kestrel heard the guard bellow as he started to rise from his seat. Kestrel banged his staff against the bars of his cage one more time for good effect, then waited as the jailer stalked towards him. When the Parstole was within ten paces Kestrel heaved his staff out of the cell, into the wide corridor, where it clattered on the floor and rolled to a stop.

  “Well ugly, now you don’t have your toy, do you? You shouldn’t have had it anyway,” the guard said as he came to a stop in front of Kestrel’s cage.

  “Mastrim, come,” Kestrel spoke simply, in a quiet voice, and he extended his hands out through the bars of his cage and caught the staff, just as he had in the village jail he had escaped from, then banged the long wooden staff against the guard’s neck.