by Welcome Cole
“I side with Freer on this,” Tree said, “Knowing there’s trouble afoot, we’ve sent better prepared parties out in search of them. Them and anything else lurking about.”
Lucifeus turned to Mal. “This is worse than we’d feared,” he said seriously, “Far worse. Seems the bastards are barking at the gate out back. We’d best begin preparations for the possibility that the savages are mobilizing. We cannot simply ignore this.”
Brisk discussion broke out around the room. Mal slapped the wood. “Quiet! Quiet now! Listen up!” When the room’s attention returned to him, he pointed at Freer and said, “I want you to send additional scouting parties south through Second Town and Farksborough. From there, fan them east, west, and south through Dobb’s Outpost, Fetter’s Woe, and to Smeck’s Gate near the Wall. And by Calina’s love, your teams damned well better proceed with caution. If any one of those sorry bastards gets caught, I’ll drag their sorry bodies back here and hang them myself, do you understand me?”
Freer and Tree nodded in unison.
“You better. I want them ready to march by dawn. That’s dawn next! Are we clear on this?”
Freer grinned and tipped his newly filled glass. “Aye, Captain Fark. Clear as virgin’s breath.”
“Keep the parties small,” Mal said, “Groups of two or three. Send only our best. Give them each one single destination and order them to come directly back once they’ve completed their reconnoiter. No deviations. No side trips. Savvy?”
The Watcher nodded as he drank.
Mal then turned to Tree. “You’ll commit one Vaemyn to each of Freer’s parties. You’ll supply him with your best horns and put them fully at his disposal.”
The Vaemyd’s scowl defied its apparent limits and grew even deeper. She glanced at Lucifeus who nodded solemnly. She was clearly not happy.
“Damn you, Tree!” Mal said to her, “What is it now?”
“You bloody well know what!” she said, throwing a finger out at Freer, “Those damned Watchers will only slow my trackers. They’re as nervous as monks in a whorehouse.” She sneered at Freer, adding, “Meaning no offense.”
Freer smiled back sweetly. “Why, none taken, love. Always flattered to count wild set of horns running point for us.”
She returned her scowl to Mal. “You know we’ll be our wasting time, jh’ven? We’d move a hell of a lot faster if we each went out independently.”
“I reckon it’s my time to waste, isn’t it, Tree? I want your horns out front and the Watchers’ mind-blades in the rear. And by the blood of Calina, you can trust me through when I say I’m not in the mood for a parley over this.”
“If this is true,” she said, “You know what it means. For better or worse, the Vaemyn are my people. If there’s any truth to this, I should be the one to scout it out.”
Mal understood immediately. The message behind the words was that she needed to prove to him and Lucifeus that she wasn’t part of it, that the arrival of the hack was as much a shock to her as to them. And hidden in the shallows beneath that statement was the question: did he still trust her?
He leaned back in his seat and drummed the armrest for a moment. Then he scanned his officers, moving from one face to the next as he assessed the degree of seriousness among them.
“Let’s not romanticize the truth,” he said at last, “We’re a confederation of smugglers, thieves, and murderers bound together in a nation of profit. We come from the lowest ranks in society. No one in this room will ever climb higher on the social ladder than the top tier of the Dancing Tree.”
“Sink me!” Lucifeus said dramatically, “Pray speak for yourself.”
Nervous laughter bubbled around the table.
“Apologies,” Mal added, “I forgot about the man-god at the table.”
“Why, perish the thought,” Lucifeus said, carefully stroking back his tightly bound hair.
“We stay together because we’re the only ones we can trust,” Mal continued, “And despite the odds against it, we do trust each other. So if anyone at this table has any worries about the faith of the Vaemyn warriors enlisted in our ranks, or of Tree’s loyalty specifically, speak up now. There’ll be no reprimand for offering the truth.”
No one responded. It was exactly as he’d expected.
“I damned well won’t tolerate gossip or innuendoes outside of this room,” he pressed, “We officers have been a crew for ten and fifteen years, some longer than that. We all need to walk in the same boots, so speak now or don’t ever speak of it again.”
After several moments of silence, Freer stood up and hoisted his glass toward Tree. “As dutiful leader of Watchers in our sweet company, me trust in Tree and her savage horns rolls boundless. And with a most sincere heart, be it known I’d follow her from here to the very depths of bloody Wyr if asked, and I’d be joyously broiling the giblets of any soul who questions her faith or fortitude.”
A murmuring of agreement rippled through the officers. Mal had expected nothing less.
“Excellent,” Mal said, “We came ashore together ten years ago while the Laughing Molly burned out there on the shoals beyond the Freehold, but we never stopped being a crew. We row together or we drift together.”
“That message comes from both of us,” Lucifeus added, “We’re still the best crew on land or wave. And there’s a golden side to this inconvenience as well. If what we fear most proves truth, if the signs of a Vaemysh uprising hold any validity at all, we my yet harvest it to our profit. Mark my words, if an invasion looms, we shall most certainly survive it. And when we do, we’ll have earned these Nolands as our own. We’ll make these lands a nation. We’ll damned well make it our nation.”
“Hear! Hear!” Mal said, slapping the table.
“I’ve one thing to add to Mal’s orders,” Lucifeus said directly to Tree and Freer, “Under no circumstances are you to engage the savages. Let’s not tip them off that we know anything. Damn me, if you’re forced into an encounter, you must surely win. Make prisoners of the officers and corpses of the rest. Bury the dead deep and true. Am I clear?”
Freer nodded his agreement. Tree only surrendered after a commanding glare from Lucifeus.
Mal looked down across the room at a stocky man with a wide-brimmed green felt hat. He stood back in the corner left of the door, leaning into the wall on crossed arms as if he were trying to disappear into the shadows. Dressed like a stockier and remarkably cleaner version of Treg, he wore straight, shoulder length salt and pepper hair and a mouth full of metal.
“Powell,” Mal called to him, “Ring the summoning bells. I want all hands within twenty miles of fort camped within earshot of the compound in three nights time. The rest of you organize your people. Every officer here is to send word out to your most trusted subordinates in the field. Tell them to bring every available crewmember back to the Freehold on the double. We need all hands on deck.”
Powell flashed the captains a nod punctuated by a smile painted in silver. “Aye, Cap’n. I’ll send word to the outlying camps tonight so’s them what can’t hear the bell might be rounded up poste haste.”
“One more thing,” Mal added, “Send a courier with Tree and Freer’s team to Farksborough. Instruct them to secure the complex, but don’t give any details on why, other than to say an attack may be imminent. No one outside this room is to know why we’re doing this. Absolutely no one. I want no loose lips. This information stays with the officers.”
“Gods’ hooks, this is a hell of a thing!” Lucifeus said. He stopped stroking his moustache and leaned forward with arms on table. “Best we steer our plans to preventing an invasion, unlikely though that may be. Unleash our defensive plans. Organize workers to start building kindling berms in the plains around the outer perimeter of the fort.”
“Aye,” Mal said, “Agreed.”
“Concentric rings of oil ditches,” Lucifeus said as he studied the space above the table, “Set irregularly at quarter mile intervals to a distance of two miles out from the Fr
eehold. Set flame archers’ forts before each and have it staffed around the clock. No sense making it too easy for the savage bastards to reach us.”
Mal looked down to the end the table at a balding, older man with thick gray muttonchops and a set of small, round eyeglasses pinched onto his large nose. Dressed in a loose canvas work coat with a top pocket lined in charcoal pencils, he hunched over a stack of maps and drafts of the Freehold with his face just inches from the print. This was the ship’s carpenter.
“Mister Cooper,” Mal said to him.
The man peered up over the wooden glasses without sitting upright. He looked annoyed by the interruption. “Cap’n?”
“Proceed with the defenses immediately.”
“Hae ye not taken notice of yon charts squattin’ aneath me pencil, sir?” Cooper said tersely, “Appears I’d be already well on task, would it not? Perhaps ye’d like me to slide me spectacles down along the table for ye convenience, sir? Perhaps aid ye in sighting the obvious?” The man harrumphed, then buried himself back in his drafts before Mal could dismiss him.
Mal turned to Esoria and was startled to find that her bright green eyes already had him gripped like a bug in a bird’s beak. He felt himself flush, and he cursed himself for it.
“Esoria,” he said quickly, “gather all the healers and surgeons within two days ride. Freer will provide the necessary couriers, lest any resistance to joining our cause be offered. With any luck, we won’t need their services, but I’m not feeling particularly optimistic. I loathe not knowing what we don’t know. I want nothing less than an army camped out on these grounds within the week.”
Esoria smiled at him. “Like Mister Cooper, I’ve already begun, Mal. I knew the truth the moment I touched that hack down in the brig. I’ve also sent a message to Boakin in Fetter’s Woe.”
“Boakin?” Mal said, surprised, “That gutter sop?”
“He’s a drunk, I agree,” Esoria said, “He’s also the best surgeon these parts have. And he has a team of nuns and whores trained to nurse at his disposal. He’ll come to us without doubt if I call him. Especially if the price is right.”
“If I know Boakin, the price will be exactly right,” Lucifeus said with a sniff, “Exactly right for Boakin, anyway.”
Mal stood up. Everyone at the table except Lucifeus followed suit.
“You have your orders,” Mal instructed them, “From here on, no one moves without permission from me or Captain Fark. Enlist the aid of any independents that come into camp, detain anyone you feel the slightest bit suspicious of. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at six bells.”
VII
THE ARROW AND THE VOW
LUREN LAID AS CLOSE TO THE TORCH AS HE COULD AND CURLED INTO HIMSELF.
The stone felt cold and damp and unforgiving. Still, he forced himself to take the time to rest. There was no true sleep to be found here in the misery of the sewer catacombs, only a little death polluted with vile dreams of the jailer and that Wyr pit of a dungeon. Such dire thoughts, comingled with the endless confinement of this frigid darkness, had taken its toll on his mind as well as his flesh. His thoughts had grown thick and undependable. Even little decisions like eating had become an act of serious contemplation.
Eventually, he pushed himself upright. He had no idea if he’d slept or not. He leaned back against the stone, pawed open his pack and pulled out a miserable looking chunk of meat. He held it before the torch and examined it closely.
Maggots had become a problem sometime in the hours or days or weeks he’d been lost down here. The perpetual gloom had long since taken his sense of time hostage. There were no points of reference to draw an inference from. Even the Baeldonian torch, burning eternally, without loss of wick or substance, was useless to that end. He had to find his way out soon or risk losing his mind completely. Yet, as he watched the meat in his fingers phase in and out of substance, shifting between surreal metallic colors and ominous shades of gray, he wondered if it wasn’t already too late.
He’d taken the moment to rest here at this most recent fork in the tunnel exactly because he needed to clear his mind. A decision was at hand, and he understood in the darkest terms that every decision could be the final decision if chosen poorly or with unnecessary haste.
One branch of the tunnel sloped downward into what was almost certainly more sewer. The other rose up into the darkness at a nearly imperceptible incline. The lower tunnel was damp, slimy, and malodorous. In contrast, the higher tunnel was dry and smelled fresh and vital. It beckoned him to come up and enjoy the comforts it had to offer. It assured him that he needn’t worry, that escape was nearly at hand.
But he wouldn’t be that easily seduced. He’d learned early on that choices with such obvious clarity misrepresented themselves with alarming regularity. It was a poor bet that dry meant good and wet meant bad. Sometime back, he’d followed a side tunnel not unlike the dry, beckoning one rising away from him now. It offered songs of hope all the way up until the very moment it ended at a rusting iron gate. Beyond the gate fell a black shaft that may have plummeted clear to the hells themselves for all he could tell. The shaft itself would’ve been demoralizing enough, but the bars only added another layer of misery. They prevented him from throwing himself into the abyss and ending this nightmare once and for all.
Instead, he’d fallen into the bars and sobbed until he’d collapsed in exhaustion. In the end, he’d awakened to the familiar tickle of Chance’s caeyl essence probing the back of his mind. Chance was alive and sending tidings of hope. It was precisely the motivation he needed to survive, and it had arrived exactly when he’d needed it most.
Still, backtracking along that dank highway took sheer will. Groping his way through the unending gloom was bad enough the first time; groping his way back again had been nearly unbearable. It was a mistake he would not make again.
He realized his hand was locked on the handle of the jailor’s knife tucked in his belt. He quickly released it and redirected his palm to the warm flame of the torch. The blade was his final exit strategy. If he couldn’t find a path out of this horror, if his food and water ran out or he lost his torch, he’d solve the problem himself with the tools at hand. The truth was he could leave this prison anytime he wanted to. The decision was his and his alone, and that knowledge, however dark, offered hope.
His only concern was when to make that decision, which was of a tactical nature more than a philosophical one. His fingers were perpetually numb and stiff from the chronic cold and damp of the catacombs, and he knew the point would inevitably arrive where he wouldn’t be able to carry the torch anymore, let alone use a knife. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but he refused to die slowly.
An almost imperceptible breeze kissed his cheek.
Luren froze. It was clean and fresh, and it unquestionably originated from the outside world. It came from the high tunnel, the dry one with the pretty smile and false promises. He turned very slowly toward it, afraid that any sudden movement might startle the breeze away. He closed his eyes and drew in the fresh air. Though it felt as splendid and refreshing as the breath of Calina herself, that last tunnel, the deceiving tunnel, had enticed him with precisely the same bait.
He sat there forever, munching on the miserable meat and staring up into the black mouth of the calling passageway. He may have dozed off, though it was becoming harder and harder to discern the difference between waking and sleep. Eventually he came to a decision, the same decision he knew he’d made the very instant he’d felt the fresh air on his cheek. He was going lower. He was going to follow the other passage, the darker, danker passage deeper into the sewers. He was going to follow it to where it ultimately must drain from the keep. He wouldn’t be fooled by emotions again.
He took one last bite of the nasty meat and wrapped the remains, stowing it in the ratty bag he’d stolen from the jailer. Then he shouldered the meager pack, grabbed the torch and groped his way toward the intersecting tunnel, the tunnel leading down into hell.
He was just about to enter into the dark passage when he saw the arrow.
He froze at the sight. His heart pounded so hard, it kicked at the backs of his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He held the torch closer.
The charcoal image of an arrow was crudely scrawled onto the block before him. It was just before the intersection, so clear he should have seen it as soon as he’d arrived. It wasn’t a colorful, festive picture like those Chance had shown him in the caves of the ancients hidden among the abandoned cliff dwellings in the lower mountains near their home. This was a directional arrow drawn by a modern hand, and it pointed up into the darkness of the dry tunnel he was turning his back on. He smeared a finger along the shaft. A quick sniff confirmed that it’d been drawn there with the extinguished head of a torch.
Directly beneath the image was another set of marks, smaller and less distinct than the arrow. At first, he thought them just smears of ash, but after studying them for a bit, he realized they were roughly drawn curves and lines. These were Vaemysh runes.
The writing was so crudely executed that he couldn’t read it, not at first. Then again, why wouldn’t they be? The author used a dead torch head for ink and a terrified finger as a pen. They weren’t the tools of calligraphy. He was surprised and delighted that he could read them at all.
He ran a finger along an invisible line beneath the words, mouthing the Vaemysh terms. As he reached the fourth symbol, the message became clear: climb upward to freedom.
Luren stared up into the promising tunnel. Was this a message?
Of course it’s a message, he scolded himself, but what kind of message, and left by whom? Perhaps some long dead maniac got lost down here a thousand years ago and started drawing crazy pictures and words. Anyone lost long enough in this wretched maze of dank tunnels, alone and out of food and water, would likely succumb to madness quickly and with sincere enthusiasm.
