Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

  “Perhaps we try something different.” Faulk then outlined a new plan.

  “Been thinking about it, then?” I said, but I liked the idea—I liked it a lot.

  Faulk tapped his picklock on the table. “When you’re forced to work for your enemy, your mind tends to be full of what ifs. Some think, what if I steal a boat and escape? What if the guards all get food poisoning and all collapse, and I run and escape? Those fill your mind. My what ifs were slightly different, but each involved whichever tower I was working on at the time. What if a fire started here? What if one started there? What if this or what if that? So yes, in answer to your question, I have been thinking about it every damn day since they came.”

  Melinka sucked in her cheeks before letting out a small whistle. “I think that’s fair, and I’d like to apologize. I’ve not trusted you at all yet find you’ve only helped. You must forgive me. I too have lived under Ruse’s occupation, and for me, seeing all the collaborators reveling in their new roles, beating and hounding former friends and neighbors has eroded my trust. Forgive me, it doesn’t return easily.”

  Faulk reached into his tool bag once more, rifling through it until he brought out a bronze coin. “In my darkest days I used to look at this. I used to kiss it for luck in the morning, hoping that luck would endure for the day. I hoped beyond hope we’d be free, that you’d come and rescue us.”

  He flipped the coin. Melinka caught it and gasped. “You think too much of me.” She held the coin, staring at her likeness.

  “No,” said Faulk. “Not at all, because you did come, and you did free me.”

  “Not I.” Melinka nodded at me.

  “Oh, Alexa and Pog may have destroyed the tower, but who brought Mezzerain back? Who took them to Speaker’s Isle and on to Douglas? No, you are our talisman. So yes, I’ll forgive you your trust as mine doesn’t come easy either, but never forget—that isn’t the only coin with your likeness on it. Thousands of folks, in thousands of dwellings, kiss it every morning.”

  Before Melinka had a chance to answer, a scrape from above told us Eve had returned, but it was Joss the Nine who bounded down the steps.

  “Alexa, Mezzerain, Sutech, and little Pog.” He stopped in his tracks. “And you appear to have collected a straggler. A name would settle—”

  “Faulk—you might know me as the trapmaster. A pleasure at last.” Faulk edged upward, offering his hand but nervously.

  Joss the Nine scratched his chin. “Trapmaster, yes, some good work done there. Thought you’d be younger—not sure why.”

  “The business of trapping is a dying art.”

  “Nonsense, you’ve got years in you yet.” He dithered. “Tell me again, why are you here?”

  “Not sure I told you in the first place.”

  “Hmm, well, it doesn’t fit for me. We seven have things to discuss, not we eight.”

  Faulk withdrew his hand; Joss clearly had no intention of shaking it. He glanced up at the open trapdoor then rummaged through his tool bag, withdrawing a pipe and tobacco pouch. “If you wish to discuss plans without me, or me even, I’ll do you the courtesy of popping topside for a smoke.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Melinka butted in then turned to Joss. “Faulk has already proved himself a valuable part of the team. He has my vote to join us, and us supersedes Valkyrie alone.”

  “But I could still go for a smoke…”

  Melinka smiled at him, and I had no doubt his little tale about a certain coin had swayed her judgment hard. “Of course. You’re not a prisoner.”

  Faulk retired to the top of the steps, just his booted feet showing. “Talk all you want; I can’t hear you,” he called down.

  “Are you sure?” Pog asked.

  “Sure as eggs is eggs,” he replied, much to Pog’s amusement.

  Joss sat down, grunted, scowled at all, and then spoke. “So we have word from the inside; they know you’re here, and they’re expecting you. They’re rounding up the women, children, putting fighting-age men in stockades. This is going to be tough. It might be worth rethinking and going straight for Striker Bay.”

  “I already got a plan,” Faulk called down. “Pog tells it better than me.”

  Pog recanted Faulk’s plan. Joss the Nine drummed on the table. “The trapmaster?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll admit, it’s a great plan. How does a trapmaster come up with such an insightful plot?”

  Faulk laughed. “I can spring a spear from one hundred feet with all the mechanisms hidden. How do you think that happens? Guesswork or planning?”

  “Point taken,” Joss affirmed. “Well, your plan, my original plan, much the same business, but I’ll bet yours has fewer civilian casualties, so we go with that. I take it you want my soldiers too…”

  “Cause absolute chaos, and I’ll need you to ring the bell at midnight.”

  “We can manage that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pangor and an invisible me

  We lay under straw bales, pressed against the cart’s planks. The grind of metal-shod wheels on cobbles told us we were traveling slowly, the screech of their dragging turns, the chink of numerous bumps and gullies. We eventually stopped. They pulled the bales off, and we slipped out of the wagon.

  Houses towered over us, their second floors reaching out and stealing the moonlight. I could smell the sea, among other less savory odors, and hear the mumbles and murmurs of a scared city.

  “Are you ready?” Faulk asked.

  I pointed to the cart, but it was soon pulled out of the way replaced by three mounts. “Now I’m ready.”

  Taking a breath, I dropped my new and improved arcane shield by lowering its woven-in concealment, and I momentarily focused on the priests, in their tower, around their pyre. They jumped back, startled. I acted nonchalant, like I couldn’t see them, moving to the back of the alley and vanishing inside a doorway, waiting, reappearing, and then darting back as if I were scared, hunted. Once back in the shadows, I immediately put up my concealment, threading it, entwining it with my shield.

  Bursting back outside, I jumped onto the middle horse, Faulk already mounted on one side, Pog on the other, and we tore through the streets as fast as we could without raising too many eyes. We darted one way and then the other, like ghost riders or apocalypse horsemen.

  Dismounting as soon as Faulk stopped us, I ran a little distance from them, dropped my shield, exposing myself, and I darted across the street, immediately feeling their glare, though it was peppered with confusion, and as soon as I made the other side, I slammed my concealment back in place, skulking back across the street, now invisible to them.

  I jumped up onto my mount and we sped off again, this time heading to the stronghold, jumping off, scrambling up a bank, and equipping my dark knight's staff. Letting it glow with a subtle power, I dropped my shield again, this time giving them a long while to observe me, recovering some precious mana—the concealment shield eating it up fast.

  They watched, but they did not attack. I felt some measure of relief flow from them that they were not the center of my focus. I heard barked orders, commands, and sensed something awaken in the stronghold.

  Scooting around, I scrambled up onto a lean-to, pulling myself farther up until I clambered onto the main building’s roof. Bringing out Faulk’s sight glass, I let them see me again. Let them watch me studying that stronghold.

  Faulk called me back down. I completed my protections, and then we left the horses and walked to the docks. With my hood sheltering me from wandering eyes, we ducked into a tavern and sought out a mug of ale each—a mug of ale and a shady corner by a thick glass window.

  “So far, so good,” Faulk said, glancing through the window. “They’ll rouse the militia, reinforce the fort. Now, just leave glimpses here. Remember, they should see you and be eighty percent sure it was you.” He supped at his ale as casual as a man enjoying his pint after a hard day’s toil. “We take our time; we act normal, and we’ll be good.” So
we drank, we talked, and in our own time, we left, and as we did, I pushed my hood down.

  I heard my hushed name whispered as the door clicked to. We strolled down the street, taking a sweeping arc to the tower, stopping at two more inns and showing ourselves, before eventually sitting outside one, overlooking the tower’s plaza.

  “That’s our problem,” Faulk said. “Just how do we get those innocents out?” He grunted. “Mind, most would choose death if Valkyrie was liberated through their unavoidable demise.” It was a hundred-yard dash to or away, one we’d never make in one piece nor would the hostages. Faulk looked up at the moon. “Half hour, maybe more.”

  A troop of soldiers marched across the plaza, another shuffled down the road right by us. Faulk seemed to be measuring time when he suddenly drained his mug and said, “Let’s go.”

  Scooping up his trusty tool bag, he crossed the street and dove into a tight alley. Setting his bag down, he brought out a crowbar and levered up an iron grate embedded in the cobbles. “Didn’t I tell you? One thing the priests were most insistent on was a means of escape. This is the end of a priest hole.” He winked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “We built them, but we made them far too complicated for them to use, even remember. Thing is, until you came along, they had nothing to worry about.” The grate lifted. “You first.”

  I dropped into the hole, soon thudding onto a stone floor. Pog jumped in next, then Faulk dropped his tool bag down and hauled the grate over, swinging for a moment before dropping deftly beside us. He picked up his bag. “Shall we? One of those glowing spheres would be good, unless they can track you through solid granite, of course.”

  Shrugging, I conjured one anyway. It lit up a perfect arched tunnel, carved and mortared stone walls, a smooth floor. I could see someone like Faulk had crafted it with a great deal of care—enemy escape route or not. We strolled along it; so far, Faulk’s plan was perfect, too perfect. The tunnel swept in a gentle arc, its end becoming clear: a circular cellar, empty, disused—or never used.

  “These, Pog, are the guts of the tower—the maintenance areas, except the combinium frown on intrusion, so maintenance is rarely directed.”

  I looked around but could see nothing that would indicate it was anything but an empty basement. Faulk took out his crowbar again, prodding at the ceiling. A trapdoor fell, making me jump. I’d forgotten my nerves, but they hadn’t forgotten me. We were here, under them. The stakes were higher this time. A city full of people were destined to live or die, depending on our success. Reversing the bar so his hook end was up, he pulled a ladder down.

  “I have to say, I was a little put out by Joss the Nine’s lack of faith in me, but it’s hardly surprising; the network is quite cellular. If one gets found out, he can’t—”

  “Shop another,” I completed.

  “Still, planning is my forte, and I planned this little attack in my head countless times.”

  He scooted up the ladder. Pog and I followed, and we entered a wooden room, all levers, cogs, wires, and pulleys. It looked like something from some strange, mechanical steamship, and as I turned, fascinated by all the brass, I saw the slim door. “Is that the lift?”

  “It is. We can get right to the top. Subtlety, Alexa, that is the key here.”

  We all crammed onto the little platform, and Faulk shut the door. “Extinguish your sphere, and the true beauty of this shaft will become apparent to you.” He pulled a small lever, and we began to rise.

  “Herd them like sheep,” Faulk whispered.

  “Like sheep,” I repeated.

  The platform rose up, and as it did, we passed through a hundred shafts of light, all streaming in like luminous straws. We eventually stopped, and I looked through the nearest peephole.

  We were level with the penultimate floor, a circular chamber with just a set of steps leading up. A priest stood guard at their base, a dozen or more prisoners all shackled together and sitting on the marble floor.

  “If I miss and it rebounds in here…” I let that thought sink in.

  “I have faith,” Faulk assured me.

  Pog moved his hand to a lever on the wall. He pressed his eye against another spy hole.

  I watched the priest bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Watched as he pulled out a grand-looking timepiece and checked the hour. A man pleaded for water and got a smack to his head for his troubles.

  I desperately wanted to drop my concealment to attract his attention, all their attention. With the mana levels I had now, I could beat all of them easily, but the whole time my protections were in place, my mana was steadily being eroded. This way of Faulk's was a balancing act, nothing more. Sweat dusted my brow. My hands began to shake. Then as if my stares alone had alerted the priest, he suddenly looked straight at me, and our eyes locked, and in that small moment, I felt a warning forming in his mind, a desperate scramble to protect the others, but I knew he couldn’t truly see me, just feel my presence, and he also knew his time was done.

  “She’s—” That was the only word he said. I sent a magical bullet straight at him, entering his open mouth and blowing the top of his head off.

  For just a moment, he stood, his head part blown away, a line of brain and bloody slurry splattering up the steps. For a moment, stunned silence reigned. Then the screams began, wails, and the prisoners all recoiled from the corpse, but a chain snapped taut, tethering them to the upward steps.

  I concentrated on the link, aiming a small bolt through the spyhole. It smashed into the chain, severing its link and sending them all tumbling down. Just at that moment, the first of the priests came rushing down the steps, hesitating at the corpse, and then glaring around, hunting for me, but finding only cowering and screaming prisoners.

  “The smoke?” Pog asked.

  Conjuring a small glowsphere, I squeezed it through and out the other side. Sending it on its way, I focused on translucence, but as it came to the chamber’s center, I switched to a vision of serenity blowing its top, smoke billowing around. Faulk slipped the secret door’s trap and Pog slid out.

  I sat back, dropping momentarily onto my haunches, pulling mana from all around me as I tried to steady the sucking drop from my concealment. But new screams from outside brought me back bolt upright, and I squinted through the peephole, seeing priests panicking, appearing and then vanishing in the smoky haze, gouts of crimson pumping from their neck wounds, falling to their knees while others scrambled around in confusion.

  “More smoke,” Faulk called as he studied Pog’s carnage.

  So I sent Pog more smoke, and Faulk slipped the catch again, Pog easing back inside in perfect choreography.

  The smoke settled.

  “Five,” said Pog, all proud, and he crouched by a low spy hole, waiting for the smoke to clear.

  The remaining priests now surrounded themselves with their hostages and began retreating down the spiral steps. Faulk waited, watching intently, and once they’d all passed, he triggered the top trap, sending a dozen spears across the stair’s head, thumping into the wall opposite.

  If the priests had been moving with caution before, they started to run now, taking the steps two, three at a time, in a bid to be gone. When we were in the clear, Faulk slipped the door’s catch again.

  “Now you can destroy it,” he said, a grin finally escaping him.

  I slipped out, scooting around the corpses, just as Joss the Nine’s bell began to toll, just as the City of Pangor was about to rise in rebellion. At the top of the combinium’s tower, though, a single priest waited for me, holding his line to defend the cauldron.

  He was small, wiry, like a praying mantis in a cloak. His bulbous eyes didn’t match the rest of him, and his bald head shone with sweat. He held his hands clasped together as though he were in prayer. No words spilled from him. Instead, as fast as a viper’s strike, his hands flicked out and sent a streaking blast of black magic at me.

  It punched me in the chest, sending me flying back, clattering down the steps, and into the f
irst priest’s corpse. Though my ribs felt crushed, and my breath had fled, my protections held. Pushing myself up, slipping on the wet blood, I climbed the steps again, this time ready for him.

  This time, the cauldron separated us.

  “A neat trick,” his voice rasped. “Of course, most thought you’d gone to the stronghold, but I decided not.”

  The cauldron burst into brilliant flame, superheating like ignited phosphorus, making me take a step backward and shield my eyes. I struggled to breathe and began seeing illusions, huge heads hanging in a circle. An immense presence entered the room, and it dawned on me that the heads weren’t illusions but projections.

  The cauldron calmed.

  I wasted no time shedding my concealment and blasting the little priest. He staggered back, clutching at his breast, but soon recovered, and I realized that he was drawing power from the projections. He grew his own magic, filaments streaming into him from above. I didn’t bother waiting, blasting my magic into the cauldron in the hope that it would destroy them, but instead it sucked urgently at my power, consuming it, and sending it up to the heads.

  His magic blew me off my feet, blasting me back down the steps, tumbling past the corpse. I growled in frustration, marching back up, equipping the black knight's staff and exploding with a torrent of magic from the moment I reached the top.

  Ignoring the priest, I set the tower’s roof ablaze then systematically took out each of its supporting columns. At first, the priest merely gathered his own magic back, but then he seemed to twig what I was up to.

  But it was too late. I had destroyed half, and the roof began to crumble, falling through the heads, crashing down on the priest and the cauldron. I screamed in victory, fresh bursts of magic erupting from me as I held my position at the stair’s top.

  A painful screeching sound bled from the roof—a groan, and then the rest of the roof collapsed down upon us. But I just stood there and watched the heads disappear, the priest crushed. His final expression wasn’t shock but resignation. They’d tried something new but had failed again.