Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

  “Waiting?”

  “A person like Star, one who shone so bright; imagine her knuckling down, scrubbing floors, emptying sluice, in the vague hope that her gut might be right: that fate might put her in the right place at the right time. Then one day, same as countless days before, an Apachalant prince, the last of the Beggles, and the pretender to the dwarven throne all turn up at once with a strange girl.”

  “Ha!” I said. “You’re forgetting Shylan, Cronis, Flip, and Marista. They were already enjoying their ales.”

  Sutech grunted. “All her birthdays in one day, then—the whole lot of them.”

  “Yep, she hitched a ride with us to Castle Zybond, and we were together right up until—”

  Sutech’s hand brushed mine, drawing away as if he’d overstepped. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, “very much.”

  “Then I am forever indebted to you. You made my Star shine.”

  I glanced at him. In that moment, he’d shed his warlord’s cloak, and now he was just a father reminiscing about a long-lost daughter. “She worked for peace, you know. That was all she wanted: to find a way to persuade you that Mandrake could unite, could fight together once the mists rose.”

  “Please, Alexa, don’t use her memory to try and alter my course. It’s why we fell out. She had faith. I had none and with good reason. Irydia squandered their lords like petty children: Kobane, Atremeny, did nothing. The Apachalant just served whatever petty fool lived in Brokenford. Show me the warlord?”

  I shrugged. He had a point. “But then Lincoln came.”

  Sutech scoffed, “I heard tell of this new lord. My spies were soon in his camp, tilling his fields, chopping his trees. Do you know what they reported back?”

  “No.”

  “That he was a farmer, frightened of his own shadow, worried that any move on his part would hurt his people. I decided that he was, perhaps, too good a leader for this world.”

  “Not frightened, no,” I corrected him. “He came here wanting to build something big, a legacy for a love lost, but he found a different land—a land of petty men and treachery. It took him a while to understand what this place demanded of him.”

  Sutech stared at me, his mouth slightly open. “And what was that?”

  “That to build his legacy, he’d have to fight. But I still don’t think that’s his calling.”

  “Then what is?”

  I grabbed his hands. He tried to pull away but stopped then squeezed back. “To build,” I replied simply. “Despite all the trials he’s been put through, he can’t stop himself building. Farmer he may be, but given the right army, the right commander, he will build an infrastructure that your god cannot topple.”

  “My god? Not my god. I merely sought a solution where my people would be safe—where we were already aligned with the most powerful god. So that when the mists vanished, it wouldn’t be my lands that burned.”

  “But with Ruse? With ShadowDancer? With Belved?”

  Then he pulled me close, his dark eyes earnest. “How do you know they’re the evil ones? Because Ruse dwells under the eternal night? Or because some meddlesome wizard told you that?”

  He had a point but not a great one. “I’ve seen the Forbane, seen their soldiers throwing themselves against the walls of Castle Zybond, crazed, deluded, so single-minded that they walk onto the tipped pikes of Zybandian’s men.”

  “Is that it? Is that why you fight Ruse? You think the Forbane and Ruse are one and the same?” he scoffed, but his voice was filled with incredulity. “Ruse and the Forbane are so far apart as to be unrecognizable.” Charm leaned forward, his finger wagging. “Let me tell you this, the Forbane are more powerful that all the gods put together. They are the land. They predate Lamerell, Sakina—the lot of them.”

  “So why? Why do they throw themselves at Castle Zybond?”

  “They have no choice,” Charm told me. “The Forbane rarely get involved in the tribulations of man. The Forbane only fight the daemon. That fool Zybandian opens their gates and treats their land like a dungeon. It drives the Forbane mad.”

  “If they’re so powerful, why don’t they just overrun him?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they hold the lord of Zybond in high regard despite his forays into the underworld. They think he has some huge part to play in what’s to come.”

  “And has he?”

  “You’ll have to ask them that, or your friend Random.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Random?”

  “One of yours, according to my spies, rode with Lincoln like he was a long-lost friend.”

  “No! Not…”

  “Not who? I don’t know anymore, only that he was about your age and a warrior from Kobane.”

  “The drunk,” I muttered. “Random—he would have a stupid name like that.” Then it suddenly dawned on me. “How would he know about the Forbane?”

  “Because they slaughtered all his troops but left him and one other alive.”

  “Why?”

  “He invaded their lands. They don’t take kindly to that. So if he’s still alive, he’ll know a thing or two that few else will.”

  I sat dead still, shutting the forest out, Sutech too. Random… Then I thought I might have heard this before but was too grief stricken to remember. Random, the drunk, somehow I knew I needed him. Yet that thought was abhorrent to me. Everything about him had been wrong, seemed wrong.

  But somehow, I knew it was a path I’d have to take.

  “Will you take me there?” I asked.

  “Where?” Sutech asked.

  “To the Forbane. They know me. They’ll either kill me or allow me access.”

  “Why would you want to go? They’re your enemy.”

  I flicked a look at Sutech. “No, I came to this land with no enemies. So far, only the combinium have truly attacked me. Are they Ruse? Or is Ruse the puppet and the combinium the puppet master.”

  Sutech pursed his lips. “The combinium isn’t a god, and the gods are all powerful.”

  “Isn’t it? Are they one and the same? Tell me, Sutech, how much do you know about them? They dot their towers all over Tharameer and Karaktor—just what is their religion? What does it stand for? What teachings do they follow?”

  “Belved, Belved, and Belved. They worship the fat god.” Sutech was emphatic, clearly not enamored with him either.

  “Lip service or true dedication?”

  He clicked his fingers. “I want to say true dedication, but you’ve got me there. I haven’t peered past the statues and false wailing.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you did.”

  We sat in silence for a while until Talis eventually woke. He raised one heavy eyelid. “Discussing gods?” he asked then waved his inquiry away. “Don’t worry, the business of gods is no concern of mine.”

  “How old are you?” I caught my breath. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Older than all of this. I was here before the land was green, the sea blue, before stars punctured the seamless sky.”

  “So you remember Lamerell?”

  “The name, yes. She was a feisty one, wove quite the world, but unwove it and began again. Sakina—I remember her. Yes, a few had their chance to weave this world. In the end, it just was, and now it is, and soon it will be. Are you in a hurry?”

  “We are, kind of.”

  Talis pointed. “Here come your horses.”

  I followed his finger; sure enough, Pog and Thriftswing were leading them through. They seemed the best of friends now. Pog rushed up to us. “You!” he said, pointing at Talis. “How come you can hold my stone? No one can, so how come you can?”

  Pog threw it at him. Talis caught it easily. He held it up, staring through its azure lattices. “Because, young Pog, I was here when it was made. It is part of me as I was part of it.” He handed it back. “The piece you seek is at Striker Bay; you are correct in
that. I can still feel it, despite their trickery.”

  I sat, slack jawed, not quite understanding what I was hearing.

  “So how will I find it?”

  “You’ll just have to listen harder. They put it in a lead box and hid it. One piece missing, and the whole thing’s useless.”

  I pulled at my hair. “Aarrgh! How do you know?”

  Talis turned to me. “Because I was born as this land was. Someone had to dig its rivers, fill its seas, and pile up its mountains. Why wouldn’t I know?” Talis stood, brushing himself off, picking up little Thriftswing. “I must be off. You’ll find your friends that way.” He pointed again. A trail had opened up, running straight, and as far as I could see, true.

  “Wait,” I said. “Wait, I’ve got more questions!”

  But Talis had gone, and with him, any chance of further answers.

  Sutech stroked his thick, black-gray stubble. “Interesting. I think we just met a creator.”

  Pog laughed and jumped up on his horse. “Talis? Talis is the muscle. Thriftswing is the brains.”

  Jumping up, myself, I followed after him, knowing I was closer to the answer but feeling further away. I chose to clear my mind, to harvest some mana. Energy abounded in this old forest: both types, both manas, and I had a feeling I was going to need as much of it as I could lay my hands on.

  We rode for the rest of the day, and by late afternoon, the end of Crawlinwood presented itself, two silhouettes at the trail’s end: one large, one small, one female, one not.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Mezzerain shouted.

  “Talking with giants,” I told him.

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: The House of Mandrake. XP: 86,564.

  Level: 22. Profession: Chooser. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Known.

  Health Points: 550/550 Energy: 510/510 Mana: 12,767 Shadow Mana: 11,223

  HP Regen: 55/Min EN Regen: 51/Min MA Regen: N/A SMA Regen: NA

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (12, 38), Stamina: (12, 5)*3, Intelligence: (98, 0)*4

  Charisma: (6, 6), Wisdom: (23, 8)*3, Luck: (7, 5)

  Humility: (2, 0), Compassion: (3, 0), Strength: (3, 20), Agility: (19, 0)

  XXXXXXXXXXX

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time, The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

  Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.

  The Veils of Lamerell. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Death.

  Sub Quest: The master is now the slave, his command now his prisoner. Free the gambler; end his torment, and confront one of five. Status: Complete.

  Sub Quest: Catch a thief. Status: Complete.

  Sub Quest: Seek the Prince of a Cheated House. Canelo James lives and holds the answers. Status: Complete.

  Sub Quest: Seek Sutech Charm and tell him his daughter’s wish. Status: Complete.

  Sub Quest: Release the Witches of Speaker’s Isle that they might spread the word. Status: Incomplete.

  Chapter Nine

  Speaker’s Isle

  Speaker’s Isle was barely visible, just its craggy top poking above the mist. I’d expected an isle, and by that I’d envisioned an island out to sea, and it was an island all right but in the middle of a huge lake.

  It had taken just a day to get here after our adventures in Crawlinwood, and during that time, I’d mulled over the implications with Pog. He was positive that Talis was a seeder, one who takes the bare bones of a game—the primary lattice—and fills it full of wonder. In our terms, he had to create nine lands that could each travel through time and space and age at a rate that there was some continuum.

  He hadn’t told us much, but he had let slip that the early developers had messed things up. We were sure that Lamerell was a developer, that each of the ship’s AIs were the gods, and that the split sun of Pique represented our Earth as this journey to the new planet was, by default, our last chance.

  “What if,” I’d theorized. “What if the AIs had decided we didn’t deserve to ruin another land—that we shouldn’t complete our journey?”

  But Pog had countered. “Nope, it would be against an AI’s prime directive to kill us. We’re overcomplicating it. The answer is simple, but we just haven’t found it yet.”

  And that had been that.

  Pog decided, as usual, that we’d done enough thinking; it was time for adventuring, and as we stood looking out over the fog cloaking Speaker’s Isle in mystery, so I had to agree. This place had adventure written all over it.

  “Speaker’s Isle,” Melinka said. “Been dead for an age. This should be…interesting.”

  “Who lives there?” I asked, hoping for a straight answer.

  “My mother, for one. My sister did once, an uncle, a few loosely related crones, and Billy Long Thumb’s dead fiancée, Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte Long Thumb? That’d be a choice name,” I said.

  “Oh no, dear. Billy was called Long Thumb because he had an—”

  “Incredibly long thumb. Yes, yes, he showed me. But I never knew Billy was going to get married.”

  “Few did,” she replied. “A sailor was Billy. It was rare his intended was seen, but she was a fiancée nonetheless.”

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked.

  Melinka looked at me, mischief in her eyes. “You’ll see.”

  We stayed there until midmorning, the fog yet to clear, and we waited. If something changed, I had no idea what, but at some unseen sign, Melinka spurred her horse down the gentle escarpment and into its misty shroud.

  It was the thickest fog I’d ever been in, so thick you could put your hand in front of your face, wiggle your fingers and still not see them. Melinka sang a sad song, a lament that was fitting for our passage, but guided us through, and when her song ended, she told us all to dismount and wait, and wait we did until a boat’s prow suddenly came into view, piercing the fog like a ghostly arrowhead before beaching on the soft sand of the lake’s bank.

  Melinka boarded first, Mezzerain second, Sutech third, then Pog and me. The boat pulled off the bank, turning gently on the still water, and then a song rang out, screamed by possibly the worst singer I’d ever heard.

  In fact, it was the worst singer I’d ever heard—and heard that voice, I had.

  “Billy Long Thumb,” I hissed.

  “Alexa Drey,” he replied, though as yet he was still invisible to me. “You took your time, but you got here in the end.”

  I smelled the sweet taint of cigar smoke and imagined it wafting out through his ribs. For some reason it made me happy, but for others fear filled me.

  If Billy had a hand in Speaker’s Isle, then the isle was dead as Melinka had hinted, the crones too, and that made my task just a little more complicated. The fog swirled around us, like fingers: slithering, curling, tasting of intrigue, and promising something. It was unnatural, standing guard, protecting its source, and that source was the island.

  The dip of Billy’s oars passed time, a steady beat, yet more a fold, his lament crossing the still water like The Ballad of the Burning Cat: a squeal, a whelp, no tune that could be discerned.

  Pog reached around and grabbed my hand, holding it tight, though not in fear, more overflowing restraint. I could almost feel his heart pumping, ready to explode. Billy’s song reached a crescendo as we pulled along a sodden jetty, planks part rotted, ropes dangling in the rippling water.

  “Welcome to Speaker’s Isle,” Billy said, and I heard the hollow sound of him scrambling out, the rattle of him tethering the boat.

  We disembarked one by one, Billy extending a bony hand and helping us out.

  “Alexa Drey,” he said as he came through the fog to stand before me, and he bowed low. “Such a pleasure. Do you know your answer yet? Was I mostly good or mostly bad? Which is it?”

  “No,” I told him, “I can’t.”

  He cocked his bony head. “Pray, why?”

  “B
ecause all I know is that you were a smuggler.”

  He coughed, a burst of smoke washing over me. “A part smuggler, never a whole smuggler. No taxes in Ruse—no smuggling there. Some in Valkyrie, so a little bit of a smuggler there. Cendrullia has a Freeport, likewise Kataspay—so a bit of a smuggler only.”

  We stood there while he waited for me to answer, but I had no words concerning his fate. “What’s it like in there?” I pointed randomly, no real direction.

  Billy swung around, both bony fingers pointing behind me. “You mean over there?” And he made a ka-ching noise. I had no doubt that if he’d had eyelids, he’d be winking at me. “Well, I wouldn’t call it homely.”

  Disoriented, I followed him off the jetty and onto a stone path made of slates that sweated in the heavy fog, moss filling their gaps instead of mortar. The fog curled around my legs like crawling ivy slowly binding me, our route upward but random, carving a way toward an iron gate. Billy reached out and held me back.

  “Ruse,” he said. “You could find out about me there.” And with that small snippet, he clattered off up the path.

  I followed. We passed through an iron gate, blistered with rich brown barnacles of rust that adorned its every fancy, twisted rod. Beyond the gate lurked an overgrown garden in dappled shades of the darkest greens—holly bushes, brambles, once-tended lawns, all cloaked in the mystical gray. The slate underfoot ended, and the crunch of gravel took over: glimpses of a mansion, the hint of a gothic arch, a pad-stone edge, and an angular roof. I stopped and took a breath.

  “Really, a haunted house?”

  Billy drew beside me. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”

  A glimmer of amber, the flicker of life, and I knew Melinka was setting up home. “So you coming in, or is it the Endings for you?”

  Billy grabbed my arm, his bony fingers holding me tight. “Time is running out. You must follow the path, but follow it fast. Cendrullia is listing; Zhang Zhou is drifting; time is bunching.”

  He took a step backward then another.

  “Wait!” I said. “Are you talking about…”