by Ember Lane
“Then Elleren as Sanctuary’s leader?” Allaise hovered over the spot, writing her name down when Lincoln nodded.
“Head of magic? Cronis?” Allaise looked around.
Flip roared. “He won’t sit still long enough. See if Belzarra is going to stick around and ask her. She’ll be infinitely better at organizing it all.”
Lincoln looked at the sheet. They had one spot missing at the head table and three underneath—two innkeeps and a city leader. “Not too bad,” Lincoln said. “Don’t suppose I could…”
Flip shook his head. “I have my own responsibilities. Besides, Aezal may return, or Mezzerain; leave a spot free for folks to aspire to. Won’t hurt for now. Starellion doesn’t need a leader just yet. Post the positions for the two inns and they’ll be filled in seconds.”
“I think you’re going with your heart on Forgarth,” Allaise said. “He nearly cost the elves their lives through his inaction. The times that are coming won’t tolerate that.”
“Who would you suggest?”
“The gnome.”
“Crags?”
Allaise nodded, and then drew another line under Starellion. “And if you can persuade him…” She wrote Thadius and Master of Portals.
“Crags?” Lincoln asked again.
“Subterfuge.” Flip burst out laughing. “That works.”
“Still leaves one,” Lincoln pointed out.
“And you still need a treasurer, no matter what your gripe with Finequill.”
22
A Builder’s Estimate
Lincoln crossed the bridge, intrigued. Morningstar had told him that work was well underway to divert the river into the Shaft of Vitality, as she referred to it, but he got the sense that she was keeping something from him.
The restoration was, by all accounts, proceeding nicely with much of Sanctuary’s workforce wanting to help get the historic city up and running. It was the kind of excitement that would run its course, but Lincoln was pleased that the community feel was still thriving in his rapidly growing settlement. His population was already growing by around a dozen a day, and the pull of the historic city was bound to bring more folks.
He began the climb up to its towering mass.
Now completely devoid of clinging foliage, the castle-cum-city looked magnificent. Its brilliant white walls gleamed in the morning sun, the ridge behind him casting shadows that slowly chased down to the treetops. Arched windows dotted its sides, some with trough-like balconies held up by ornate corbels, and rank upon rank of archer slits sat ready to rain merry hell on unfortunates below, in this instance—Sanctuary, Lincoln mused with a wry grin on his face.
His vast banner now flew from the corners of the walls, and two lined the end of the bridge up, all flapping with the light breeze, and they fortified his heart in a way only a powerful, symbolic, standard could. It gave him resolve, a reason to be proud, and a thing to fight for. It added its fire to his gut.
He’d never truly understood a flag before, thinking them just symbols of government, a disease that killed his own Earth. But here, infused by its dominance, by the way it owned the sky, he knew his flag was a symbol of refuge, of Sanctuary, of fairness, and that would be exacted by his power—the power he drew from that banner.
That thought brought him back to wondering about the dragon. Its image was majestically fearsome and fantastically terrifying, a look only a dragon could pull off. It promised both instant protection and certain death with the same fiery eyes and fang-lined jaw, with the same fire-breathing nostrils. The dragon was truly a talisman to worship, but was it his?
Though he did wonder if he had truly felt its wings wrap around him. Had he really felt its hot breath on his neck? He remembered Alexa telling him about three great rings bolted to the tops of Castle Zybond’s turrets. Turrets, she’d told him, which kissed the sky. Lord Zybandian had told her that they used to tether dragons to them—they—ancients—the unknowns that always seemed to rear their heads.
Had he felt the dragon’s wings? Probably not, he mused, he had been leveling up at the time.
Allaise had elected to stay behind in Joan’s Creek, deciding to spend the day in the academy thrashing out the last fundamentals of her esteem master plan with Griselda. Jin and Elleren had said they’d take up their duties tomorrow—they wanted the day to themselves, and it had been agreed that any announcements would be made from the hall of banners the day after. Lincoln was tempted to delay his own start, but he also wanted to complete the delegation tree—as the land had named it and head off any issues with the drafted swords, and…
Lincoln grimaced. Letting go was hard, especially when he had a new city to rebuild. With the colossal XP associated with the place’s renovations, he was beginning to wonder how powerful he could get. The potential was mind boggling, but then the slow crawl and immense cost of moving up every room, chamber, and hall up to sixteen should see them back and forth from planet Celleron a number of times. But it would still be a steady, reliable boost, especially if Joan’s Creek could supply the needed stone and iron, and Sanctuary the needed lumber. Grinning, Lincoln realized that wasn’t his problem. If anything, having others do it took out the emotion from the build. Nearing the bridge’s end, he grimaced. Shrimp was waiting for him.
“Y’come fer a quick fight?” he asked, dancing around, pounding his fists the way he did. “Look!” Shrimp turned and pointed to the battlement’s end as if his mind couldn’t focus on one thing for more than its fleeting thought.
“What happened to our beacon tower?” Lincoln asked, aghast that the wooden structure had vanished.
“Gone,” said Shrimp, somewhat needlessly. “Apparently and according to the fairy-like thing, it wasn’t befitting the standards of a historic city, and so it had to go.” He had that glint in his eye that told Lincoln there was more to come. Sure enough, Shrimp waved him on as he began half jogging and half walking toward the site of the old tower. “We can spar on the way.” And he punched Lincoln’s shoulder.
Lincoln wanted to floor the annoying apachalant, but still doubted that he could best him in a fight. Shrimp punched him again, skipping away. He wanted to remain calm, to take it in his stride, but he felt his temper start to simmer.
“C’mon big man,” Shrimp cried, dancing around. “Y’need to up that close-quarter fighting.”
“Not today, Shrimp,” Lincoln replied, drooping his shoulders, scraping his feet, and pretending to be exhausted. Shrimp stopped jumping around, appearing resigned to a boring walk. Lincoln sideswiped him and then backed it up with a roundhouse punch, knocking the apachalant back. Now, Lincoln grinned, the fire in his belly ignited. Shrimp regained his footing in an instant and ran at Lincoln. Skipping out of the way, Lincoln raised his arms ready to smash his fists onto the onrushing Shrimp’s back. His victorious smirk was soon wiped from his face as Shrimp slid under, grabbed his flailing fists and pulled him to the ground.
Crashing onto the stone, Lincoln instantly tasted blood in his mouth. Shrimp stood over him, a felt boot on Lincoln’s heaving chest.
“Now that was sneaky,” said Shrimp. “Good, but sneaky, and yer thought you’d won too quick, so yer lost.” He offered Lincoln his hand. “Y’up fer some more?”
Lincoln raised his hands in surrender, then took Shrimp’s hand, pulling himself up, then using his momentum to pull Shrimp’s arm up behind his back, kicking at the apachalant’s legs. Shrimp sprang up, his crooked arm straightening, Lincoln’s legs hitting thin air. Lincoln lost his grip on the apachalant’s wrist, then felt Shrimp’s forearm clamp his neck, and he knew he was doomed again.
Blood trickled down his throat as he tasted the dry stone of the battlement again.
“Not quite,” Shrimp said. “Now shall we? I gotta lot of things to do, can’t be messin’ all day.” The apachalant skipped off.
Lincoln brushed himself off and picked himself up. Apachalants were a strange bunch, and Shrimp was an odd one. Trotting after him, Lincoln wiped his bloody nose on hi
s sleeve.
“That was treason!” he shouted. “I could have you hung for that.”
“You’d have t’catch me first.”
Shrimp waited for him at the battlement’s corner, swaying on the banner’s pole.
“Morningstar’s not too bad once you get past the holier-than-thou fairy attitude, but they’ve all got it—fairies—the lot of them. So,” he said, as Lincoln approached, “look.” And he pointed along the castle’s south face.
Lincoln saw the city’s vast southern battlement had been completely cleared. A good twenty-foot width of gray paving now led off to their west, and close by, the copper bots were building the first of a line of trebuchets, judging by the piled wood and iron all along. It appeared Morningstar had secured a few more bots in her morning’s negotiations.
“You know, Shrimp, I think I’m going to enjoy this delegation business.”
“What’s that?” he replied as he pushed himself off the pole.
Lincoln sniggered. “Nothing, a chain of command, that’s all. So what’s the surprise?”
But Shrimp didn’t say anything until they were halfway along the battlement, then only to sweep his hand out and direct Lincoln to a narrow set of downward steps that led straight toward the battlement’s edge. “Buried under the mess of neglect,” Shrimp explained. “But the fairy knew it was there, pompous ass; should’a seen her, nose in the air ‘n all. Course, the vines had vanished by then, so we’d have spotted it sooner or later. Sure we would.”
Lincoln didn’t doubt it for a second but wondered what else the crafty fairy had hidden. He’d also concluded that she must, in some way, be in league with Poleyna. Why else would she go to all those lengths to show Cronis that Scholl had, in fact, betrayed him and not the other way around, and also show himself that Shylan was her chosen second. He vaguely wondered why she’d then set the graveling and all the goblins on him and the rest of his party, but luckily Shrimp inadvertently told him next.
“Spiteful devils, fairies. Probably been stewing for a hundred years and fancied makin’ someone’s life a misery.”
And very nearly succeeded in killing a few of them…
Lincoln followed Shrimp down the steps, a little concerned that they appeared to be long enough to pass through the battlement and into thin air. Instead of a lengthy drop, they ended in a long but thin wooden hut. In front of him a half-height wall looked out over southern Irydia, and behind was the stone of the city wall.
“A beacon tower perched on the wall—clever. Let’s have a look through the… I take it that’s a telescope.” Lincoln scratched his head. “Hang on, are those my beer barrels?”
To one side of him, five ale barrels were lashed together on an H frame, each smaller than the last, the fat end poking over the half-height wall. There was just about enough room for him to squeeze behind it. He peered into the resulting tube but merely saw its other end and little else.
“It doesn’t work,” Lincoln said, standing up, wondering if he was missing anything.
“Nope,” Shrimp said. “It’s Cronis’s little invention. I told him about the lookout room, he told me about a telescope thing…this.” He pointed to it. “And I bet him it’ll never be good enough to be able to see all the way to Brokenford, and he said nonsense and took the bet and had it made first thing this morning.”
“But it doesn’t work,” Lincoln pointed out.
“Yet,” Shrimp told him wagging a finger. He turned and looked south, leaning on the hut’s parapet. “It doesn’t work yet—Jack’s gotta craft the lenses.”
“Then why did you let me? Never mind.” Lincoln slumped beside him, looking out over the carpet of thick, dark forest, out to the rolling downs that surrounded Brokenford.
He wondered if that city should really be his nemesis as it seemed to have become. Surely the land of Ruse, the Zender boy, or even Sutech Charm—surely those should be his focus? In his mind’s eye he could see his standard flying over the hills, over hamlets and villages, his dragon trailing it behind as it soared on the wind.
Lincoln tapped on the wood capping under him. He had work to do to make that dream come true.
“Okay, well, thanks for showing me.” He turned to leave. As he put his foot on the first step, he felt Shrimp’s hand slap on his shoulder.
“Hold up there, big man, I could have just told you about this place. I haven’t showed you what you need to see.”
“What’s that?”
Shrimp pointed to the farthest east you could possibly see from the hut. “Look—lean out a bit.”
Lincoln couldn’t see anything…at first, then he noticed what he could only describe as a completely see-through rainbow, a mere blurring, a small fade in the sky’s color, nothing more. It rose from the east and headed south, from… “Oh no!” He felt his heart skip a beat. Tanglewood…he knew exactly where it originated. Then it became more distinct, suddenly snapping, its end rearing up like a snake about to strike, a scattering of black speckles that Lincoln guessed were trees exploding up with it. It hung there for a moment, almost looking at Lincoln through its open maw, then cracked back to the ground and faded again. “Is it disintegrating?” Lincoln asked Shrimp, but didn’t expect an answer.
“Don’t even know what it is, really, but it looks to me like its looking fer something.”
Lincoln knew what exactly he meant. “It’s hunting,” he whispered. “Hunting its pair.”
“Funny,” Shrimp said. “You can’t see it from anywhere else. Is it that portal thing you took Swift to see?”
“Quite possibly…” Lincoln became lost in thought at the implications. “Can you keep it to yourself for now. I’ll send Thadius up to see you.”
“No point, and no I can’t,” Shrimp replied. “No I can’t because I already told Swift, and no point ‘cause he already told Thadius Hawkwind, and the excitable gnome has already come up and seen it.”
Lincoln spun on his heels, marching for the steps. “Where is he now?”
“How should I know?”
Rolling his eyes, Lincoln jumped the steps two at a time. “Mad as a box of frogs,” he muttered, emerging back into the sunlight.
“I’ll fight with you later!” Shrimp shouted up the steps.
Standing on the battlements, Lincoln blinked, not quite understanding what he was seeing. A road stretched out toward the center of the city’s fields, gleaming brightly, clearly newly restored. Morningstar was definitely getting things organized. A thought that was confirmed when Lincoln spotted the dry riverbed to its side and an abundance of homeless crawfish. He wished he could get a message to Ozmic. The dwarf was obsessed with them and probably—no certainly—knew twenty-plus ways to cook them. Again, that was something he needn’t have worried about.
“Ho, Lincoln!” Ozmic shouted from the riverbed, stubby legs deep in its mud. The dwarf waved Lincoln down, and as he neared he saw Grimble sitting on its grassy bank, pipe in hand. He sat next to the dwarf, and Ozmic ambled over, a wriggling critter in each hand.
“Whispers, we’ve heard whispers!” Ozmic shouted up, as one of his boots became stuck in the mud. Looking down, he seemed to be torn by the choice of freeing himself and dropping the crawfish or leaving his boot behind.
“What whispers?” Lincoln called back, but Ozmic was too preoccupied with his boot and didn’t answer.
“That you’re going south with the prince. That you’re going to the Forest of Ledges,” Grimble said out of the corner of his mouth. Then carried on smoking his pipe.
“Then the whispers would be right,” Lincoln replied. “Flip thinks I should see more of the land, understand its politics.”
“The what?” Ozmic shouted up.
“Take you a while,” Grimble said slowly, ignoring his stranded friend, puffing out a plume of smoke and then grunting as Ozmic finally tipped over, the crawfish flying through the air, and his other boot stuck in the mud as well. Grimble chortled at the sight of his struggling friend. “Month, maybe more, same back,” he e
ventually said, and lay back on the bank, soaking up the morning sun.
“He says he’s got a quicker way.”
“Ha! Flogging a string of mounts half to death? Or one of them fancy air tunnels the gnomes use—you’d trust to that?”
Put that way, Lincoln wasn’t overly keen on either plan. “Got a better idea?”
“Me ‘n the joker over there can get you there quicker—just need a note from Griselda.”
“A note?”
“To get that far down, need Griselda to give us a pass, or they won’t allow us through—it’s deep in the underground where the earth growls, their underground. There’re channels down there, deep-down channels—take yer all the way in a few days. No saddle sores, no dead nags, and definitely no appearing in the middle of the air and plunging to an untimely and gruesome death—that’d be worse than when you got… What did you call it?”
“Pizza’d”
“Yeah that. Falling all that way, definitely worse than the troll hammer.”
“So, you want us to come, to escort you?” Ozmic finally made it to his feet. He was head to toe in mud and holding out two boots full of crawfish. Clambering up the bank, he slumped and sighed staring at his catch. “Worth it—look at these beauties. Improvisation is the key,” he announced, dumping the wobbling boots down and clawing some mud from his eyes. “You see we don’t want to come, we need to come. Y’see, me ‘n Grimble here were born to travel. So you see.”
“See what?”
Ozmic leaned across Lincoln and stared at Grimble. “You tell him.”
Grimble cleared his throat. “Your travelin’, we’re born to travel, so…”
His patience faded. What was supposed to be an easy passing conversation become too hard, and he pushed himself up.
“Well?” Ozmic asked, looking up.
“I’ll ask Flip.”
“No point.”
Lincoln rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me, you’ve already asked him.”
“How did you know?” Grimble sounded astounded.
