by B T Litell
“What cargo have you got?” one soldier asked.
“Simple mined materials, m’lord. Brought all the way from Vilyar, they are. You can see for yourself, m’lord. And I have my tax stamp right here,” the merchant said as he handed a sealed paper to the guard. The wagon cover was folded back, and the guards waved over the first, pointing at the cargo. Clearly something was wrong with what the merchant had said.
The first guard inspected the goods in the wagon, glancing at several sacks filled with cut, unpolished jewels. Some jewels larger than Týr’s hand, others were too small to be seen at this distance. The wagon, unguarded, had to be carrying tens of thousands worth of gold. Why is it unprotected? Týr thought to himself. There should at least be a half dozen guards riding with the wagon. The guard with the tax stamp inspected the paper but his face warped as he read it, then without asking any other questions, he tore the paper repeatedly. The pieces grew smaller as he continued to tear the stamp before he threw the scraps of paper on the ground.
“Sir, you are in possession of goods for which Lord Dennison has not collected a tax. You must forfeit the wagon and its goods. You may take this up with my Lord in his estate on the third day of every other week. You will not be entering Erith with this wagon,” the guard explained.
“He has collected the tax! You just tore up the tax stamp! This is an outrage that you would make me stop, send my guards away to another line designated for foot-traffic, a line which I don’t see by the way, and then you seize my…” the merchant protested before the tip of a pike was planted firmly in his chest.
The guard removed his pike and blood spurted from the wound; the merchant, who had been standing on his driver’s bench, fell from his wagon. One of the guards grabbed his body and dragged it away from the road, another drove the wagon off the road in the other direction. Iona stifled a squeak inside the wagon, seeing the innocent merchant suddenly dead. Týr immediately snapped her a look that didn’t need any words. She could have ruined their whole chance at getting through the line of guards undetected. And they had come so close.
The guards motioned their wagon forward. Týr felt a burning in his stomach, sure that they would get caught by the guards. Especially after seeing the previous merchant killed. Likely for the gems, rather than a false tax stamp, Týr thought to himself.
“What goods are you transporting?” one of the guards asked the merchant, who hadn’t responded to Iona’s squeak. Perhaps she had covered it enough, or the merchant was too distracted by the death in front of him.
“Good morning Captain Rufus. I’m making my weekly trip bearing fruits and vegetables from Canalin. I have all my papers in order if you need to see them,” the merchant said, rifling through the knapsack sitting on the bench beside him.
“That won’t be necessary m’lord. Simply need to see your cargo to verify,” the guard said. The other two had already walked to the back of the wagon, ready for the inspection.
The guards pulled back the curtains on the back of the arch-topped wagon, saw crates of apples and other fruits, and simply shrugged. They made their return to the front of the wagon, reporting nothing unusual. The guards waved the wagon on, and the merchant snapped the reins. The horse walked forward, and the wagon started rambling down the road. The wagon shook as the wheels rolled over stones and rough holes in the packed dirt that served as a road. Týr felt his heart pounding in his ears and sweat dripped down his brow. Something so simple had ended up being the most stressful thing he’d experienced. It was all over now. They could almost taste the freedom. Erith was getting closer by the slow, agonizing minute as the wagon rolled on…
Chapter Eight
Bring the ship to larboard, six degrees, bosun. Reduce our speed to match the harbor’s rules,” Randall called. The bosun repeated calls to the crew; sailors about the ship were scurrying to fulfill the captain’s wishes.
The crew had been quite relieved to set sail again, leaving the nest of sea snakes behind. Two more had come within a few miles, Randall called them knots, of Queller. The crew had grown more nervous as the serpents had grown closer to the ship. And with land in sight finally, the crew had grown both happy and anxious; happy to see land again; anxious because that land was Drendil, the dreaded land of madness! A place where people went but never came back, were never heard of again, were unseen for the rest of time. A great reason to be on edge, and one that Michael couldn’t contest, no matter how hard he thought about the subject. He was starting to feel uneasy at the thought of getting off the ship.
As he leaned against the rough wooden rails on the quarterdeck, gazing onto the water, Michael realized how much he would actually miss sailing. He would long for the salty tinge of the wind and deep blue color of the water, which at times looked far smoother than glass far away from the ship. The sunrises and sunsets, the pure and unaltered colors of the sun morphing the clouds into purples, pinks, and oranges was an undeniably euphoric experience. Even the water changed color to match the clouds. The life of a sailor pulled at Michael’s heart so firmly, but he knew there was another life for him; one that would likely end tragically however heroically he fought. That’s what Joshua could make of the nightmares. They always ended too soon to see for sure. That was something else Joshua had said was a characteristic of premonitions. They showed only some of the future, sometimes not enough to know with much clarity what was actually going to happen.
Joshua had enjoyed the time sailing across the ocean too, despite his apparent feelings toward being sent to Drendil. After convincing Randall to ignore, or at least put aside his hatred of Magic, Joshua had run Michael through the tests for Magic wielding. He had found that Michael was only sensitive to Magic, not actually able to learn or cast spells. The priest still meditated at sunrise and sunset, but instead of staying below the main decks, Randall had allowed him to meditate on the quarterdeck. Still, he did not relax his rule about no one having a covered face while aboard the ship, but they had at least made progress considering his abhorrent feelings toward Magic at the start of the voyage.
With the ship finally close to the harbor, Randall called for the anchor to be dropped as a small boat made its way toward Queller with two men aboard. When they approached, Randall, now wearing some semblance of a uniform, stood beside the railings on the larboard, Michael had learned that meant ‘left,’ side of the ship awaiting their approach. Randall had made it quite clear, a few times, that he would have to deal with the harbor master coming to the ship trying to aide them in docking. But he had no interest in docking Queller in Erith. He simply wanted to drop anchor, give Joshua and Michael one of the dinghy boats, and make sure they arrived on land safely. Then he could aweigh his anchor and return home to Prikea, where his desired promotion would be waiting for him. Commodore Randall had a ring to it, but still would sound odd at first sight of the man. Except right now.
Randall, in his uniform, certainly appeared more like a professional sea-captain than a rough brigand, as he had looked throughout the voyage. A dark blue jacket with gold brocading and epaulettes, in addition to a tricorn hat which made him look…professional. He had donned elegant trousers, puffy at the hips, white in color with a silver stripe down the outside seams. The silver, looking like a velour fabric against fine cotton, nearly blended with the white. From his belt, made of white leather, a saber had been hung. The scabbard extended slightly beyond his knee. The sword, Michael was sure, had seen many battles. In addition to wearing a uniform, Randall had removed his eye patch, as had many of the sailors. Only a couple members of the crew still wore eye patches, and as Michael understood, they actually needed to wear them. He shuddered at the thought of how they had lost an eye.
Even his boots, something he had not worn the entire voyage, showed that he had put in the effort to shine them, something Michael had doubted he would have done. Their black leather came just shy of his knees; a slight heel added to his height, something he really had not needed, but would have been odd to be without for his
boots. The toes of his boots curled slightly, in the tradition of the Prikean Navy’s uniforms.
“Ahoy, Captain! Thrown down a ladder for me,” the harbor master called as the small ship finally reached Queller, pulling up to her larboard side.
“I will not be mooring my ship today. I have two passengers who must reach the city. They will be taking one of my dinghies and can follow you,” Randall said, responding to the man’s request.
“What do you plan to do with your ship while your passengers row to the city? Also, if you would like, or if they would like, we may provide them transport so you don’t lose one of your dinghies,” the harbor master called from the water.
“I plan to drop anchor right here, where I am not blocking the harbor and can watch as my passengers make it safely to Erith. However, they choose to get to land is up to them. I will not make that choice for them,” Randall replied.
“Very well, Captain. Are your passengers coming to stay in Erith?” the harbormaster asked.
“We are simply passing through, sir,” Joshua answered.
“You a priest?” the other man in the boat asked.
“Coxswain shut yer yapper,” the harbormaster snapped. “Apologies about him, he just gets skittish around Magic. How long will you be here before passing through?”
“Maybe a week at most,” Joshua responded.
“You may have to register yourselves with a magistrate if you stay longer than three days, m’lord,” the harbormaster responded. “And to register, you have to be seen by a Mage to prove you haven’t the Madness. It’s a standard procedure, it is. We mean no offense with the registration. There just have been a lot of strange happenings around here lately is all.”
“What sort of happenings?” Joshua inquired, his curiosity piqued by the information.
“Nothing terribly out of the normal here in Drendil. We had some merchants killed outside the gate. They apparently were transporting valuable goods and Lord Dennison, despite having taxed them, wanted their goods outright. If you ask me the whole situation with him is mighty dreadful,” the harbor master responded.
“Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, I have heard tales of a man in dark robes being spotted in the area around here. I think that is more just a rumor going around, or some of the Madness making people see things that aren’t really there, if you ask me. But my job is only to manage the harbor, not to ponder the origin of rumors.”
“Thank you for the information, harbormaster. We will be ashore shortly.”
The harbormaster tipped his hat and ordered his coxswain to paddle back toward the harbor. The surface of the water gently rippled as their oars dipped in and out of the water. As the small boat grew smaller, Michael and Joshua gathered their belongings and prepared for their own boat ride to land. Randall accompanied them to the quarters and ensured they had everything before setting off. He was being uncharacteristically friendly, but it could have been that he was about to sail back home. Were Michael on his way back to Feldring he would be happy too.
***
Shortly after the tax stop, Týr and Iona departed from their unknowing merchant, who continued on toward the city despite having to feel his wagon rocking back and forth as they got out. Maybe he ignored it or thought it was from the road. The stop had been a few miles from the edge of Erith, since Dennison’s reach didn’t extend this close to the city. His goons would be powerless out here. The guards didn’t even patrol this far from their toll station. Now they just had to make it into the city, and while the Erith guards were likely checking everyone coming into the city, that’s the only thing they would be doing. With the Madness still spreading they would be fools to let anyone walk into the only clean city on the continent without checking them first.
The Madness wasn’t something tangible or visually evident. It was a disease that struck the mind, though more often it struck the soul. People who had gone their entire lives without committing crimes could one day wake up and become a serial murderer. It changed who a person was at their very core. It was often rumored that Lars had fallen to the Madness and that was why he so aggressively searched for some treasure he could never explain. Týr found himself thinking about Lars and the other thieves, and how the raid on the camp would have happened. How many soldiers had been sent to wipe out our brethren? Týr wondered to himself before Iona brought him back to reality by touching his arm.
“Are you also thinking that it was too easy getting away from Dennison, Týr,” Iona said as they walked. Their footsteps kicked up small, nearly invisible pockets of dust, a few stones bouncing ahead of their toes.
“It was as easy as it needed to be, Iona. Dennison doesn’t even know we survived, let alone escaped. We are free and can start a new life here in Erith. That’s what we said we would do, and that’s what I plan to do.
“Why not start with new names? I know father liked the name Iona, because it was mother’s name, but I want a different name. What do you think?”
“A clean start might not be a bad idea. What name do you want?” Týr replied, curious about her choice. She was a creative person and would be able to get something good.
“Svenka,” she responded after a few seconds of deep thinking, her brow furrowing as she thought.
“I like it. Father would approve, too,” Týr replied, reassuringly.
“What about you, Týr? What name do you want?”
Týr thought for several moments. Contemplated a new name. Týr had been his name for nearly thirty years. It was just a label, and didn’t change anything about who he was, but he rather liked the name ‘Týr.’ It was his name. Could he throw away his name and simply pick another one? Would he respond to it or would he still only listen for the same familiar sounds his mind had known for so long?
“I don’t think I will change my name, Iona—Svenka. Sorry. It will be hard to break that habit,” Týr finally said.
Before Svenka could respond, horse hooves thundered nearby, approaching quickly. Someone was in a hurry. With such a monstrous roar, it had to be at least four horses, all of which were galloping on the packed dirt road. Shouting accompanied the sounds of the horses, causing Týr and Svenka to turn and look at what was happening behind them. It was a cacophony of thundering hooves, snorting breaths, shouting men, and the clanking of metal on metal.
When Týr turned to see what the ruckus was about, he saw seven guards wearing Lord Dennison’s colors, crimson with silver suns, quickly approaching the two travelers. The soldiers had their weapons drawn, grim looks on their faces. Two of the soldiers carried spears or pikes, but the rest carried the usual curved scimitars that Dennison preferred for his soldiers. The witless lord thought they were better in combat, and in some circumstances, they may have been, such as while fighting on horseback, but Týr had fought and killed dozens of the soldiers. His knives and short sword were always more efficient. Perhaps it’s an issue of training. These soldiers don’t train as aggressively as they need to.
Týr wore a cloak, his weapons concealed underneath. He had no desire to draw attention by having his numerous knives visible while walking into a city many sought as a bastion against violence and madness. There was still a chance these soldiers weren’t charging at Týr and Svenka, so he kept his weapons sheathed for the moment, though he drew his hands into his cloak, ready to draw his knives if he needed. The leather wrappings on his knives creaked under his firm grip. He could feel the bumps in the leather where the wraps overlapped, a familiar feeling that he would miss with this new life he and Svenka were starting.
The horses passed the travelers and some of the soldiers looked closely at them as they passed. The entire group moved as fluidly as a rushing river. A few hundred feet away, the cluster of horses and men turned, moving into a circle around the travelers. That circle tightened as they grew closer, until the horses nearly touched each other nose to rump, forming an impenetrable ring around the two travelers. Drawn weapons, sunlight glinting off the polished met
al, pointed toward the middle of the circle. The tip of the spear was little more than a foot from Týr’s chest, and the tip of the pike came even closer. Týr and Svenka stood, their backs together, moving slowly in a clockwise circle, never taking their eyes off their adversaries. Týr kept his hands inside his cloak and slowly drew his knife from its sheath, the blade resting against his leather-clad wrist, the unsharpened side toward his skin. In his left hand he grabbed a few throwing knives, ready for the guards to make a move they wouldn’t live to regret.
“You vagabonds are wanted criminals. We will take you before Lord Dennison willingly, or otherwise, so you may receive your punishment in his courts,” one of the guards, the only one wearing a helmet, declared. His voice was smooth yet firm, a velvety gentility behind his authority. “Lay down your weapons and come with us.”
“Tell us what crimes we have committed that Lord Dennison would send men out of his lands to fetch criminals!” Svenka demanded, fiery undertones in her voice.
“You are wanted for theft over five hundred marks, murder of legion soldiers, trespassing in military camps, treason against Lord Dennison and his realm, and arson. Shall I continue the list, or are you going to surrender and come with us?”
As Týr and Svenka looked at each other, trying to decide what to do, a doorway opened outside the ring of horsemen. The edges of the door shimmered and wriggled like the air above a fire. On the other side of the doorway was a brightly lit study with shelves lining the walls. Hundreds, if not thousands, of books covered the shelves from the floor to the ceiling high above. A writing desk stood in one corner of the room, facing the doorway that had opened. Various quills were set upon the leather-covered wooden desktop. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to look at the doorway, confused about its existence.
