Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  The pants were fine, although on closer look they were a bit narrow, not to mention a bright green.

  As he contemplated the pants that were too tight and the shirt that was wet and probably too tight as well, he wondered if perhaps this weren’t as clever a plan as he’d originally thought. Unfortunately, it was the best he had.

  As it turned out, the worst thing wasn’t wriggling into the dead man’s clothes. It was divesting himself of his Altenerai khalat. It wasn’t just that it was superb armor that had been uniquely tailored for him. It was that, like his ring, it was a sacred object, entrusted to him to wear for the safety of the realms. Light and flexible it might be, but it was still armor, and it didn’t roll into any sort of concealable bundle. How to explain carrying a large object with him?

  In the end he decided he would wrap it in a blanket. He assumed he had enough rank to do what he wanted without challenge, and if he was questioned by a superior, he’d claim he’d found the armor and was planning to show it to the general.

  The other option was to stuff it into the closet where he’d left the bodies, but he’d be damned before he let some Naor lord find his khalat.

  With a little luck, of course, everything would be settled before the bodies would be discovered. But then he’d been pressing his luck for hours now. How much longer could it hold?

  Please, he thought, whispering to Darassa, patron goddess and founder of the realm of Erymyr, let me get by for just a little while longer. I know I’m far from home, but these people need my help.

  Rylin continued the prayer as he emerged into the moonlight and beheld the long line of dragons, still now and apparently sleeping. Naor pennants flapped noisily along the wall. Somewhere in the distance, Naor officers shouted commands.

  He sighed and offered thanks at the sight of Rurudan. The big black was standing precisely where he’d left him. He knew his horse was well enough trained to stay where left, but he hadn’t been sure the Naor were well enough trained to leave an officer’s horse alone. He split the too-tight green pants climbing into the saddle and then decided to tear the shirt along the upper arm seams to give himself more range of movement before setting out, cloak and hat obscuring his features.

  So far, bold action had proven the best option, so he continued in the same vein and briefly activated the semblance to impersonate Talkus while he asked a passing black-feathered soldier if he knew where the officer in charge of prisoners was to be found.

  The man with the power over tens of thousands of innocents turned out to be fat and pig-eyed with a thin mustache and scraggly beard. Rylin found him in a finely appointed Alantran home. He got up from his candle-lit banquet table, struggling to smooth out a sash worn over his armor.

  Rylin hadn’t decided how to play the situation until he sensed the man looked a little flustered, so he kept his voice tight and clipped. “I want one thousand prisoners, including children, and mothers with infants—whole families if you can manage it—delivered to the west gate within one hour’s time.”

  The man’s face lit with a grin. “That’s a whoppin’ olech, eh?”

  Rylin nodded curtly. “The lord general has commanded it. I’m to repair the fallen dragon.”

  “I will see that it’s done, Dragon Lord. Do you want pretty ones?”

  Rylin couldn’t suppress a frown at the man’s leer. “I want numbers; their appearance doesn’t matter.”

  The Naor grinned. “Of course.”

  Rylin nodded sharply to keep from driving his sword through the officer, then turned away. “I shall await them at the west gate,” he said over his shoulder.

  Still sickened from the encounter, he disengaged the semblance, wondering the while how few moments of it were left him, and rode quickly back to the second level and the temple district, trusting that darkness and his Naor garb would be enough of a disguise.

  He headed past the sentries around the temple district and then up around the maze of bushes surrounding the temple of Vedessus, riding his horse up to the porticoed entryway. As he dismounted he was dismayed to see two Naor guards slipping out of the darkness to draw close.

  What if they’d seen the Naor bodies just beyond the temple door? “Who posted you here?” Rylin demanded. “How many are with you?”

  He heard the scuff of a step behind him and pivoted sharply. The movement saved his life, for a spear jabbed through the space where he’d stood only a moment before. The figure from the darkness lunged with the weapon again. As Rylin stepped aside the man snapped at the others to hurry.

  “Get him before he makes any noise,” one on his right said softly.

  The speaker didn’t have a Naor accent, and none had beards. The ramifications of that information didn’t occur to him until he blocked another spear thrust. It was only when he had the spear grasped in his off hand and his sword driving toward the man’s throat that he recognized his attacker for one of the citadel archers. He managed to spare him only by a wild contortion that left him off balance. As one of the others leapt at him he threw himself sideways, willing his ring to glow as he rolled to his feet.

  The two swordsmen disguised as Naor soldiers came at him anyway. Rylin maneuvered to the left, parried one savage strike with his blade, and said, sharply, “It’s me, Alten Rylin.”

  Flush with battle lust, the men stared at him for a moment before realization finally dawned. He had the ring, but not his khalat, and apart from the sapphire light upon his hand the lighting conditions were feeble at best.

  “It is him,” the archer bearing the spear said breathlessly. He was a tall, powerful man with long dark hair.

  “I’m wearing a Naor disguise.”

  “So are we. Praise the gods you alerted us,” the archer said. “We might have killed you!”

  More likely he might have killed them, but he let that pass. Rylin was disappointed that he hadn’t thought of disguising some men as guards himself. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to report in, Alten. Alten Varama set us to watch for you.”

  That bode well. It likely meant that Varama’s group had found the other refugees and she had taken charge of the situation here. “Is she doing better?”

  “Better than she was, sir. She still seems weak.”

  “But she’s speaking clearly?”

  “Oh, yes. Did you find anything?”

  “I think I’ve got a way out for a whole lot of us. Where’s Varama?”

  The archer brightened at the news, then pointed to the main door. “Just down the ladder, sir.”

  Leaving those three on guard, he grabbed his khalat and headed inside to the hidden entrance, and even with his ring shining had nearly as much trouble locating the proper stone as he had the first time. He divested himself of the strange hat and the cape, donned his damaged khalat, then pressed upon the stone to open the chamber. The revealed ladder led into darkness illuminated solely by a lamp at the bottom that pooled light against the final few wooden rungs. As an added precaution, he kept his ring lit as he climbed down.

  Below he found squires, who greeted him like a long lost friend. Dust-covered lanterns hung in niches every fifty paces or so. Only a few were lit, shining feebly on refugees huddled all along the narrow hallway in both directions. There were far more than he recalled guiding to safety.

  “Rylin!”

  Before he knew it, a slim woman had thrust herself into his arms. She pulled back far enough to stare at him, as if searching his face to ensure it was really him. Denalia.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she said.

  “Neither was I.” He noted her glad smile and the bright eyes, and remembered again that she thought herself in love with him. He felt guilty that he hadn’t thought about her for hours and that her own enthusiasm for their reunion was far greater than his. “How did you get here?”

  “I led a band to the temple for shelter and the guards let me in.”

  There was probably more to it than that, but he was in a hur
ry. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Pleasantries would have to wait. “Where’s Varama?”

  “That way. What did you learn while you were out scouting?”

  “I found us a way out, but we don’t have much time. I need to see Varama.”

  Denalia nodded as if she understood, grabbed his hand, and forced her way past a group of staring youngsters.

  Rylin was surprised by how far the tunnel stretched. “How extensive are these tunnels?” he asked. “Who built them?”

  She glanced back with a smile. “There are all sorts of tunnels that run under the city: water tunnels and sewage tunnels and even some maintenance tunnels. When Alvor was governor, he abandoned some aqueducts and tore up a bunch of the city to add the canals. Varama says that while he did that he added hidden entry points and connecting tunnels to link it all together, and tie it in with an extensive cave system under the second tier. Apparently, the most hidden sections have been maintained by a select few ever since, under command of the Altenerai.”

  And apparently not just any Altenerai, for he’d certainly never heard of them. Rylin was swiftly lost in his own worries and oblivious to the touch of the young woman’s fingers. The more he thought, the more tenuous his planning seemed. Right now the people in these tunnels were free and safe. If he was to lead them out he’d be exposing them to the Naor, and there was a very strong possibility that his plan would fail, in which case they’d be slain, or captured … and then slain. And what of the thousand prisoners he was promised? Could he convince the Naor to let him take the “olech” outside the city, as he’d thought when talking to the officer of prisoners? And even if he could get a group beyond the gates, what would stop the Naor watchers—for they’d surely send guards—from alerting the horde, who would chase after on horse and slaughter them all? Maybe he should just try to get them all into the tunnels, but would they all fit? And how long could they live with the surely limited supplies stored here? He couldn’t see a way to get clear and could only hope Varama would be able to make something more of his efforts.

  They passed several people who halted their activities to whisper or nod at him with questioning eyes, but none impeded their progress. Denalia stopped beside another lantern, where there was a door, and pushed it open. Varama sat behind a small, battered desk in a small, square room under an old-fashioned oil lamp, writing something on a piece of parchment paper. Sansyra lingered to one side. Varama saw him and set down the pen. As her long face turned up toward him, he felt a wide smile spread across his own. It was wonderful to see her again, and a delight to see her rising, even if it was slowly. The blue tinge to her skin seemed particularly prominent in the light, lending her an otherworldly cast. She stopped before him and slowly gave him a salute. “Hail, Alten.”

  “Hail. Feeling better?”

  “I’ve felt worse and better.” She nodded. “It’s good to see you as well. You’re wearing quite an interesting outfit.”

  He glanced down at his terrible Naor pants. “I only have one semblance stone left and it’s nearly drained. You’ll have to use it to conceal your appearance when we leave.”

  She blinked at him, said nothing. Sansyra looked expectantly between the two of them. Finally, Varama prompted: “Perhaps some of the questions I would ask in the wake of your pronouncement will be answered as you describe for me, precisely, what you’ve seen and done.”

  The door opened once more and Governor Feolia entered.

  “Shut the door, if you please, Governor. Alten Rylin was about to present his report.” She stared at him expectantly.

  It had been such a pleasure to see her alert and normal again that he struggled momentarily to regain his focus. He noticed, too, that he was very, very tired. It took longer than he wanted to organize his thoughts.

  He recounted chronologically, trying to include details he thought of most import to Varama. The adoption of Elchin’s identity and the freeing of the prisoners. The killing of Talkus and the assumption of his identity. He conveyed all that he learned at the conference meeting, suddenly aware of the stunned regard of his listeners. He veered from strict recount to synthesize everything he now knew about the Naor leaders, from their names, to their plans, to their capabilities and behaviors. He moved on to the death of Zhintin, showed Varama a sample of the strange weapons the dragon lord had hurled at him, then returned to the subject of prisoners.

  Tired or no, he found himself nervously shifting in the silence that followed his report. He concluded, somewhat self-consciously, “So the Naor are going to give me a thousand prisoners. But I’m not sure what to do next.” He groaned inwardly that he should sound so hapless.

  Sansyra and Denalia looked stunned.

  Governor Feolia’s worry-lined face was lit with determination. “You’ve succeeded beyond expectations, Alten Rylin. Not only did you gain valuable information, you’ve dealt major blows to their command structure and secured the lives of a great number of our people. This may be the providence we’ve needed to mount an effective resistance.”

  Rylin shook his head. “But the ones they release to me probably can’t fight and they can’t all live down here, right?” A hope flared as he turned to the still-silent Varama. “You haven’t found a way out through the tunnels, have you?”

  “The tunnel network is even more extensive and well stocked than I realized,” Varama said. “But, no”—she looked at the governor before returning to Rylin—“it won’t support a large number of people for long. And only one passage leads out of the city—it’s currently impassable due to wall collapse.” She crossed her arms thoughtfully.

  “Then we’ll have to get them out through the main gate.” Rylin sighed. “I need a more plausible excuse to take the prisoners outside of the city.”

  A pregnant silence followed, broken by Varama’s high timbre. “There’s a spring with magical resonance a half mile from the city, where any ritual would increase in potency by nearly fifty percent. Tell them you intend to perform it there.”

  “I know of no such spring,” Feolia protested.

  “That’s because I’m lying,” Varama said. She spoke again to Rylin. “The Naor leaders don’t know magic. They don’t trust magic. They’re likely to believe anything you say about magic if it’s said with conviction.”

  He nodded slowly. There were a lot of steps missing—like how to take out the prisoners’ guards—but he could assume Varama’s keen mind had already worked out intermediate actions and he was more interested in the end point. “All right. Assuming we get that far, what then?”

  “The village of Rilatrys. Some of the locals should know the way. It’s in the mountains a half day west from here. Remote, accessible through a footpath that’s easily defendable. There’s a mountain lake with plentiful water, and they have storehouses for food because snow, and occasionally a strand of the shifts, precludes travel for months at a time.”

  “But the Naor will surely overrun that area soon,” Denalia interrupted, and Rylin was surprised to note the same irritation he was sure Varama would register.

  Varama’s answer was clipped. “After Rylin escapes with his group, we’ll be keeping the enemy busy enough that they won’t have time to follow.”

  “Wait a moment.” Rylin could scarce believe what he heard. “You’re going to stay?” He didn’t add that the whole reason he’d left the tunnels in the first place was to find Varama a way out. “You’ll be discovered. There must be people out there who know about the tunnels, and the Naor might be questioning them even now. Whatever you intend to do here isn’t worth the risk.”

  “On the contrary. Look at how much you have achieved in but a single night.” Varama moved on as if the matter was settled. “I’ll need most of the squires and many of the Alantran soldiers.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be eager to fight for their city,” the governor affirmed.

  “The remainder will have to accompany Rylin, disguised as Naor, so that he has warriors at the ready. The Naor will assign guards to you
r prisoners—”

  “—Unless we already have our own guards,” Rylin finished. Of course.

  “Exactly. We have a small number of Naor uniforms, including those acquired from the soldiers you slew in the temple. Additionally, we can hide weapons among the evacuees here. I wish you to take them with you. You can claim you rounded them up on your own.”

  “I will accompany them,” the governor announced.

  Varama turned to her. “You’ll put yourself at more risk than if you remain.”

  “Yes. Should the gods smile and allow me to survive, I mean to rally help to relieve the city.”

  Rylin licked his lips and wondered how he could convince Varama to leave Alantris or if he should even try. He wanted to talk to her alone. “We’re short on time,” he prompted.

  “We certainly are. Denalia, I want thirty warriors detailed with Rylin. Except archers. I’ll need all the archers that can be spared.”

  “Right.” Denalia nodded agreement and hurried to instruct her soldiers.

  “Sansyra, go get the squires prepared for action. Feolia, you might spare a word for the evacuees.”

  “I will.”

  “Rylin, I want a word with you.”

  Feolia bowed shortly to Varama and left. Sansyra filed past him with a nod of approval. Denalia touched him again on the arm, smiling sadly, and then shut the door behind her.

  Rylin sank down upon an old bench. It shouldn’t have felt comfortable at all, but the relief was palpable.

  Varama sat down across from him and passed over a flask. He took it gratefully, speaking as he uncapped it. “More fruit juice?”

  “Only a little. We haven’t much left.”

  He sipped, and the sweet pleasure of it was almost as much of a restorative as the cool tingle that spread through his body, for Varama tended to magically fortify juices with aid of a hearthstone. As Cerai had stolen all their hearthstones, it wasn’t surprising the supply was limited.

  He capped the now-emptied flask and passed it back.