by Layton Green
Will swallowed and didn’t respond. Now strong enough to fight with Zariduke in one hand, he raised his sword and gripped a small diamond-shaped shield in his other. He spun back and forth, trying to keep the thieves at bay. Right before the battle erupted, the boulder guarding the door flew backwards, cracking one of the pillars.
Gunnar released a war cry as he rushed inside. Owl staff gripped tight, Yasmina surged ahead of Mateo, who had nocked an arrow to his shortbow and was swiveling to find a target. Most of the fighters pressuring Will were forced to break away and face the newcomers.
Yet it was Selina who ended the battle before it began. After stepping inside and surveying the situation, the sylvamancer raised her arms and caused a section of tiled floor to explode upward, along with a funnel of dirt. After the rubble and loose soil cascaded back to the floor, a host of subterranean creepy crawlies remained suspended in midair, centipedes and eyeless worms and stinging fire ants. Selina sent the insects hurtling into the group of bandits, causing a mad rush to flee the ruined temple. The thieves clawed at their skin as they ran, screaming “mage!”
After giving Will a withering glance, Mala shepherded everyone towards the exit. The commotion had caused a crowd to gather in the plaza, and the party did their best to blend in.
“I thought I said no magic,” Mala said in a harsh whisper, as they hurried away from the temple.
“Would you rather risk lives in needless battle?” Selina said.
“I’d rather not attract the attention of a Battle Mage, when someone reports us. And let us pray no one already has.”
-7-
Days after his brother left, mug of ale in one hand and flask of grog in another, Caleb watched with bleary eyes from the doorway of the Red Wagon tavern as Tamás addressed the crowd. The leader of the Revolution was standing on the lip of the restored beer fountain in the central plaza, calling for volunteers to warn the clans of the escalating threat. The clans liked to roam, but most had traditional settlements of some sort sprinkled up and down the Barrier Coast, from the southern deserts to the coastal forests to the Făgras Mountains in the north.
Caleb wondered morosely whether it would be more dangerous to wait in Freetown until the wizards decided to attack again, or wander the Barrier Coast and risk encountering whatever monsters and horrible surprises this world always seemed to have in store.
Better to stay here, he decided. At least there was a warm bed and plenty of beer.
“Join us!” Tamás shouted, pumping a fist as his long blond hair shimmered in the sun behind him. “Urge your kin to join the Revolution! Warn them they could be next on Lord Alistair’s list!”
Though he missed his brothers desperately, and had never felt more alone, Caleb did not feel guilty about not going on that insane quest with Will, or not stepping forward to join Tamás. Caleb believed in peace and love, in having a good time and doing anything that didn’t involve harm to other people. He had never cared about causes and knew he never would, but did that make him a bad person? Why be something he was not?
After the speech, the members of the council handed out assignments to a few new recruits. Most able-bodied adults had families to tend to, or were part of the Revolution’s fighting regiments.
When the chaos ebbed, Tamás noticed Caleb standing by the tavern, and walked over. “You should join us, son of Blackwood. The people know you. Your exploits have spread throughout the Barrier Coast.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.”
Tamás took in Caleb’s unfocused eyes and the two drinks in his hands. “A journey would do you well,” Tamás said. “As of yet, no one has volunteered to ride to the Blackwood Forest. Why not go yourself? Reach your kin and call them to arms?”
“I’m not much of a recruiter. Nor am I brave like my brothers.”
“Bravery is a choice,” Tamás said softly.
Caleb pointed the mug of ale at him. “Exactly.”
There was a commotion in the square. Another caravan must have arrived. They were pouring in daily, gypsies and other non-citizen refugees from the protectorates, fleeing the patrols and increased persecution, confirming the dire rumors of pogroms and mass graves. Surprisingly, a growing number of Oath-takers had joined the caravans of late, citizens uncomfortable with the atmosphere of bigotry and oppression fostered by the Congregation.
Caleb was about to return inside when he saw someone who looked like a woman he had once known, a member of the Rogue’s Guild who had accompanied him and his brothers to Leonidus’s castle. A lover he had grown very close to, and whose grave injuries had devastated him. He didn’t even know if she was still alive.
Was the ale causing him to hallucinate?
As she moved closer, he started, blinking in disbelief at the familiar waifish face, pixie-cropped auburn hair, and mischievous gray eyes that a slew of passionate nights had burned into his memory.
“Marguerite?”
The woman was facing to the side and didn’t seem to hear. He said her name louder, pressing through the crowd.
She slowly turned. Her eyes popped wide when she saw him. “Caleb?”
She was truly there, in the flesh. Caleb tried to run and stumbled from inebriation. Marguerite dropped her rucksack and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her check to his face. His elation was tempered by the sadness in the young rogue’s eyes when she drew away and took in his condition. He knew he reeked of alcohol and hadn’t washed in a week.
“You’re alive,” Caleb said, as a sob choked out of him. The last time he had seen her, on the verge of death after the ill-fated journey to Leonidus’s abandoned keep, a pair of Congregation wizards had carried her off to a cuerpomancer in the fading hope that she could be saved from the deadly poison of a maw wyrm.
“It was dodgy for a while, but the cuerpomancer brought me back.”
Caleb explained the commotion in the square. Then she told him how bad things had gotten in New Victoria, how even passive members of the public had been pressured into reporting those who refused the Oaths. Neighbors turning on neighbors. Undesirables rooted out at all costs. The Fens bloating with new arrivals.
“Lord Alistair is on a mission,” she said. “One I want no part of. I ’ad to leave town.”
“You came to the right place,” he said, offering her a drink. “We’ll drink ourselves to death while the world goes to hell.”
She gave him a troubled glance but took a pull from his flask. Caleb knew Marguerite loved the Good Life as much as he did, and he was looking forward to having a drinking companion.
After accepting his offer to stay with him, she decided to wash up after her journey. He waited for her in the common room, downing another tankard and feeling tingly that she was alive and with him again. When she returned downstairs, a high-necked riding shirt outlining her lissome figure, he felt as if the room was spinning, a carousel of desire and intoxication.
Just as Marguerite joined him, Tamás walked through the door with Merin Dragici and Kyros Toth. He pulled away to stop by Caleb’s table. “Have you given more thought to my proposal?”
“Save your breath,” Caleb said.
“What proposal?” Marguerite asked, giving Tamás a worried glance that annoyed Caleb. He tried to shoo the revolutionary away after exchanging introductions, but Tamás told Marguerite about the need for an emissary to the Blackwood Forest.
“We’ve got all we need right here,” Caleb said. “Bartender! A drink over here for the lady!”
Tamás laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe you should retire for the day.”
When Caleb tried to twist out of Tamás’s grasp, he stumbled out of his chair and smashed his head on the table. Woozy, he tried to sit but missed the chair and fell down.
The next morning, Caleb woke in his bed and couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. After splashing cold water on his face, it all came back in a rush: Tamás’s speech, seeing Marguerite, falling over at the inn.
Marguerite.
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He realized he had never really missed a woman before. Not like that.
What was it about her that affected him so much? It was all a bit silly. He was acting like Will.
He stumbled downstairs to the common room for eggs and toast and a few cups of coffee. Once the caffeine hit, he stepped outside, squinting in the sun. As he had every morning since the attack, usually while Will was off having important meetings with the council, Caleb wandered the ruined town, looking for ways to help. He didn’t have construction skills like Will, or leadership skills like Val, and he usually ended up doing menial tasks.
He hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the town before the attack, which was a shame. It must have been a beautiful place. A city of bright canvas tents and cobblestone walkways, stretching for miles up and down the coast, extending to the base of the mist and wildflower-covered hills to the east. Outside of the main commercial area, the tents and wagons of the clans were arranged around large courtyards with once-beautiful fountains, where the clan members would congregate for meals and nighttime revelry. A boardwalk along the coast offered views of the ocean and play areas for children. Even now, under the grim pall of reconstruction, a spirit of brotherhood and merriment remained. People of all creeds and races worked alongside each other.
Freetown, he thought, was his kind of place.
Still, Caleb desperately missed home. America had its problems, plenty of them in fact, but at least there was semi-democratic rule and peace in most places. He could not deal with the medieval level of violence on Urfe. He had already been enslaved, forced to bend his pacifist ethos, and witnessed countless deaths and vicious battles.
His brothers were gone, Caleb had no real skills or purpose, and life’s questions had only multiplied. He had long struggled to find meaning in a cruel world, and Urfe had only amplified his efforts.
Which was why he drank himself to sleep every night.
“Sir, could ye give us a hand?”
Caleb had wandered deep into town, almost to the base of the hills. Judging by the scorched earth and charred remains of the buildings, it looked as if the area had taken a direct hit from a fireball. The source of the voice was a middle-aged woman in ragged clothing, struggling with her two daughters to nail a board over a hole on the side of her wagon. The daughters were perched precariously on the roof, leaning down to try to keep the board in place.
Caleb hurried over, reaching up to hold the board while the woman stood on a stool and pounded in nails. After joining them for lunch, cucumber and cheese sandwiches made with stale bread, he spent the rest of the day helping repair the wagon. The woman’s husband, who traded furs from the northern forests, had been killed in the attack.
“There ye are,” Marguerite said, walking up as the sun started to set. “I thought I’d never find ye.”
Caleb set his hammer down. It was getting too dark to work. “Here I am.”
Attraction crackled in the air around them. Despite the time that had passed, he felt none of the awkwardness that usually accompanied a reunion.
She ran her eyes approvingly over the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his lean torso. After the mother thanked Caleb profusely for his help, Marguerite slipped an arm through his. “Do ye ’ave plans for dinner? Or do I have to stand in line with the other lassies?”
Exhausted, he leaned on her as they walked away. “If you can get me to a tavern, I’m all yours.”
They returned to the inn where he was staying, laughing and talking like old friends. Though her presence helped alleviate the ache in his soul, he couldn’t stop thinking about the devastation of the attack and all the children left without mothers and fathers.
By the time the roasted quail arrived, Caleb had downed three mugs of ale, and started to slur his speech. He kept drinking despite the troubled look in Marguerite’s eyes. Though he had longed all day to kiss her, he passed out at the table again.
When he next woke, he felt a cold cloth on his cheek and a hand stroking his hair. He blinked and saw Marguerite looking down at him with a warm but determined smile. After he dressed, she led him downstairs by the arm.
“Where are we going?”
“How many nights in a row ’ave ye passed out from drink?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Why?”
“Because it’s time for a change of scenery.”
“What?”
Instead of replying, she took him to the Red Wagon Tavern and walked right up to the table where Tamás was eating breakfast.
“Do ye still need able bodies?” Marguerite asked.
Surprised, the revolutionary finished chewing and took a drink of water. “Aye.”
“And can ye spare two horses?”
“They won’t be the best. But aye.”
“Good. As soon as Caleb ’ere sobers up, we’ll leave for the Blackwood Forest.”
“We will?” Caleb asked.
In response, she looked up, patted him on the cheek, and ordered two coffees.
-8-
“I don’t understand,” Val said. “What do you mean the demons might be coming from a town destroyed a thousand years ago?”
Cyrus Ravensill led the way as the party navigated a rocky footpath that wound through the gentle hills surrounding Porlock. The morning dew freshened the air under a thin layer of clouds.
Val and Dida followed behind Cyrus. Rucker and Synne brought up the rear. The mysterious young majitsu was so thin she looked almost adolescent in her form-fitting black clothes.
“During the Age of Sorrow,” Cyrus answered, “the town of Badŏn was an important city in the Realm.”
From his studies at the Abbey, Val knew the Age of Sorrow was a time when wizards were viewed as heretics, and druid warrior-priests ruled the island of Albion, which equated to Great Britain on Earth. Most scholars of the Realm believed the “priestly” powers of the druids were magical abilities that, in the anti-wizard climate of the era, had been rebranded for political survival.
Cyrus continued, “No one knows for certain what occurred at Badŏn. It’s thought that one of the more powerful druids, perhaps Cynwrig the Terrible, opened a door to a hell dimension that allowed Asmodeus and his demon horde to come through. Dark times, those.”
Rucker scoffed. “Aren’t ye an educated sort? Asmodeus is a name mothers use to terrify their children into behaving.”
“It was wizards who fought back the demons,” Cyrus said coldly. “And our histories mention Asmodeus by name.”
“Bah,” Rucker said, with a wave of his hand.
“What happened to the town?” Val asked.
“An army of druids led by Cynwrig laid siege. After suffering terrible losses trying to extricate the survivors, fearing the demons would spread, Cynwrig rounded up the most powerful wild mages roaming the island and forced them to raze the town with Mage Fire, as it was then known. Likely the primitive name for Spirit Fire.”
“How does one force a spirit mage to do anything?” Dida asked.
Cyrus grimaced. “By holding his family hostage.”
“Legend says Asmodeus is immune to Spirit Fire,” Rucker said. “I don’t suppose ’e was on a picnic during the siege?”
“The histories do not record the fate of Asmodeus,” Cyrus said evenly. “We assume he returned to his own dimension.”
“I still don’t understand,” Val said. “What does the town of Badŏn have to do with this alleged demon sighting in Porlock?”
They crested a hill and saw the skeletal remains of an old stone fort brooding atop the next hill. In the valley behind the fort, a wall of thick gray fog fell from the sky like a curtain, stretching to the horizon in either direction.
“Queen’s bane,” Rucker muttered. “What the bloody hell is that?”
“Again, we can only speculate,” Cyrus said, “but we think the magical battle with Tobar Baltoris triggered an unknown power of the crown. What we do know is that the ancient city of Badŏn used to lie directly beyond the barrier of fo
g you now see before you.” Cyrus’s jaw tightened. “I was part of the original expedition. Though I wasn’t chosen to cross the barrier, I did battle with one of the demons. Before I killed it, it spoke of its pleasure at subverting the town of Badŏn.” He eyed Rucker. “And of laying my corpse at the feet of Asmodeus.”
Dida paled, Synne’s eyes flickered, and Rucker tightened his grip on his sword. No one spoke for a moment, and Val tried to process the information. What have I gotten myself into?
“Have you tried flying over the fog?” Dida asked.
“As the alchemancers say, ‘As above, so below.’ ”
They started down the hill, proceeding cautiously towards the abandoned fort. Val couldn’t stop eying the wall of fog. “What do we know about demons?”
“They come in many forms,” Cyrus said. “Some have magical resistance of varying degrees.”
“They’re different,” Rucker said, “but they’re also the same. Wicked and cruel, every last one. They care for each other as little as they care for us. Power and pleasure—that’s the only thing that drives them.”
“Are you a believer now?” Cyrus mocked. “Were you not the one who said a true demon has not befouled the Realm for a thousand years?”
“That’s right,” Rucker replied. “The Realm. I’ve traveled the length and breadth of Urfe, and seen things across the oceans that would make yer toes curl right out of yer shoes. Including a handful of demons.”
They reached the bottom of the hill, where a path of downtrodden grass led to the crumbling granite walls of the fort. A fine mist clung to the ruins. After a moment of silent contemplation, the party started up the path.
When they reached the top, Val realized the fort was a maze of broken walls and stone enclosures. Weeds had clawed through every crack. No roofs remained. There was no sign of demons, but a whiff of foul air reached his nostrils, an odor of spoiled meat and refuse, like garbage and road kill mingling in a dumpster.
