Melody sat with her back against the cliff face, her robes pulled tightly around her. “Good thing we only have to spend a few nights down here.”
Silurian swallowed. He recalled spending more time than that down here with the Group of Five. Of course, they had no idea where they were going. “A few nights, huh? What do you consider, a few?”
Melody’s features were hidden beneath her raised cowl, but he thought he detected a slight uncertainty in her voice.
“Two. Three if you count tonight. As long as we aren’t delayed, we should reach the stair to Spectre Wood long before nightfall two days hence.”
“Hence?” Silurian grunted. “You sound like a wizard.”
They fell silent for a while, battling their own dark imaginings.
A guttural growl sounded directly below the ledge, catching their breath in their throats, and sending shivers up their spine.
Silurian made to withdraw St. Carmichael’s Blade, but a subtle shake of Melody’s head stopped him. She raised a finger to her lips.
The growl sounded again, more drawn out this time.
Silurian gestured that they should make their way up the trail, but she shook her head again.
A higher pitched snarl answered the growl.
They held their breath.
The tension was shattered as whatever slunk below engaged each other, roaring, hissing and screeching. One of the combatants let out a terrifying cry—abruptly replaced by a faint whimper, and then silence.
In the distance, a howl echoed throughout the Gap; the direction from which it originated was difficult to ascertain. A second howl answered the call, closer—seemingly from the south, and not too far away, setting their nerves further on end.
Slurping and gnashing sounded directly beneath their hiding spot. Melody and Silurian regarded each other with wide eyes.
Silurian pointed to the edge of the ledge and held a hand to his mouth, imitating eating something.
Melody nodded vigorously.
Silurian swallowed. It was going to be a long night.
High Warlord?
Olmar looked over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of Splendoor Falls as the trail they trod rounded a bend. The miraculous sight never grew old in his estimation. He loved seeing the falls as a child, and now, after all these years, and everything he had seen since, the majestic waterfall retained the same sense of the magic it had held for him on his first visit to Songsbirth with his parents.
With all the death and destruction they had witnessed over the past few weeks, the natural wonder of the Muse and the many cascades flowing down her sides still thrilled him, but nothing compared to the sheer power of the thunderous force giving birth to the mighty Madrigail River. Splendoor Falls took his breath away.
Alhena and Sadyra walked along the Olde Gritian Road up ahead. Sadyra wrapped a delicate hand around the old man’s forearm, as she had taken to doing since Millsford, and talked of everything and anything under the sun.
Olmar waddled behind, his long strides allowing him to keep up despite his obvious impediment. As his last view of the falls fell behind a large elm, he turned his thoughts to the road ahead. He forever puzzled over Captain Thorr’s insistence that he act as Gerrymander’s envoy to the Chamber of the Wise. He had almost snorted at the appointment. He knew his own strengths. Being considered wise wasn’t one of them. Practical, perhaps, but never had he been accused of being an intellectual.
Loping through the forest shadows of the late autumn day, he couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his heart. Amid all the destruction, they discovered Songsbirth had remained unscathed. Upon reaching the area, they were surrounded by members of the Songsbirthian Guard long before reaching the entrance to the Splendoor Catacombs. The Guard had recognized Sadyra as one of their own and ushered them through the labyrinth of tunnels connecting the mainland to Madrigail Lake nestled thousands of feet higher, within the ring of mountains known as the Muse.
Yesterday they had given a full account of their journey to the Under Realm to the Songsbirthian Council of Elders, and Master Pul wholeheartedly agreed they continue on to the Chamber of the Wise. Master Pul informed them of Castle Svelte’s annihilation, and his fear for the fate of their beloved monarch. If tragedy had taken King Malcolm from them, the rule of the land inevitably fell upon the high bishop—Chambermaster Abraham Uzziah. According to Master Pul, it was imperative that His Eminence be informed at all costs.
Olmar stopped and waited for the newest member of their group to catch up.
Larina, another archer with the Songsbirthian Guard, had beseeched Master Pul to accompany the trio to Gritian to provide them with extra protection. Johnnes Holmann, Captain of the Splendoor Catacombs Guard, had lamented that her departure would signify the loss of his best archer, but Master Pul insisted the young brunette join Sadyra. It was the least the Songsbirthian Council could do.
Slender, and taller than the average person, Larina bounded up beside Olmar, a mischievous smile below her slate grey archer’s cap.
“Oh, oh. I’s not be likin’ the look of ye,” Olmar said, standing over two feet taller than the lanky Larina.
Larina’s pretty face smiled up at him, a finger held to her lips.
“Ah, conspiratorial, eh? Alright lassie, but ol’ Olmar’s got his eye on ya.”
“Not to worry, you big lunkhead. Just stay clear of Sadyra when she settles down tonight.” Larina winked one of her large brown eyes and skipped ahead to catch up with the other two, grabbing Alhena’s other elbow and joining in their conversation.
Olmar shook his head. Now he had two Sadies to contend with. Life with two of them around wasn’t going to be dull. He smiled at the image of the old codger being escorted by two, lovely young ladies. Pops is one lucky man.
The archers had a fire crackling beneath a three-quarter moon. The air had picked up a noticeable chill as the day wore on, and Alhena, above the others, was thankful for the warmth the flames provided.
The day had proven uneventful travelling along the Olde Gritian Road. Their progress had taken them level with the lesser mountains south of Lake Refrain to the west. It would be another two days before they entered the Midland Grasslands. Memories of his grueling escape from a band of Kraidic warriors with Rook Bowman whirled through his mind. The events of their miraculous adventure seemed distant now, yet it had been less than four months since he had scaled a cliff face and plunged hundreds of feet into Madrigail Lake.
Tired from the day’s trek, they ate in relative silence; the two archers speaking quietly amongst themselves. Alhena finished stowing his eating utensils and settled beneath his thin blanket beside the fire, pulling his robes tightly about him. As he listened to the nocturnal sounds of the wilderness surrounding them, a dark wisp of cloud slithered across the moon.
Olmar grunted from somewhere nearby, the big man settling into his own bedroll.
Larina had insisted they post a watch and volunteered to take the first shift. She walked around the campfire to where Olmar lay and muttered something to him before moving on.
Just as dreams sifted into Alhena’s mind, he was startled awake by a high-pitched shriek and a commotion from where Sadyra had settled down across the fire. A chill shot through him. He located his staff and scrambled from beneath his bedroll.
A deep, rumbling laugh rose close by, followed by a higher pitched chortle farther away. Confused, Alhena followed Olmar’s pointing finger across the fire.
Sadyra had extricated herself from her bedroll and jumped about, scratching furiously at her abdomen and nether regions, screeching in obvious discomfort.
Plunking herself down long enough to rip off her boots, she sprang to her feet again and began removing her outer garments as fast as possible, hopping about and cursing in a shrill voice. She paused long enough to glare murder at Larina who stood half hidden behind a tree, bent over laughing.
“Just you wait, bitch. Just you wait.”
Larina laughed even harder. Stru
ggling to compose herself, she spit out, “Ah, I’ve missed you too, dearest Sadie,” and walked howling into the darkness to commence her watch.
Olmar’s deep voice filled the night with unbridled laughter as Sadyra stripped off the rest of her clothing. “Now we’ll see ‘ow cold the night air is, eh lassie?”
Alhena, realizing Sadyra was pulling off her shift in a frenzied effort to get at whatever ailed her, looked away and observed Olmar enjoying the spectacle. He gave the sailor a puzzled look.
“Larina filled her bedroll with fire ants!” Olmar exclaimed, falling to his side and roaring loud enough to be heard all the way back to Songsbirth.
“What was that all about, last night?” Alhena asked the following morning, eating his breakfast beside a rekindled fire.
Larina, sitting next to Sadyra on a large rock, looked at her friend and pushed her on the shoulder, almost knocking Sadyra to the leaf-covered ground. “Just having fun with me mate.”
Alhena frowned.
“I saw a hill of ants yesterday, so I collected a few—”
“A few?” Sadyra shoved Larina right off the rock, causing her bowl of gruel to fly into the air.
Olmar snorted a mouthful of breakfast back into his bowl.
Alhena shook his head. “Women.”
“This is the closest we get to Torpid Marsh,” Alhena commented, four and a half days out of Songsbirth as the Olde Gritian Road left the charred grassland below the Muse behind. The devastation evident in the fields was no different from anything they had experienced since Madrigail Bay, but as the day drew to a close, Alhena began thinking the farms appeared less ruined than the terrain they had recently travelled through.
He dashed that glimmer of hope as soon as it surfaced. How many times had he believed things were getting better, only to have his euphoria crushed by the death and destruction that awaited around the next bend? The exception, of course, was Songsbirth, but there was a good explanation for its survival. The hamlet lay snuggled within the upper reaches of the Muse. So high, in fact, that the layers of clouds normally blanketing the mainland hovered at a lower elevation than the quaint community.
Sadyra and Larina walked several paces ahead, their eyes continuously scanning westward toward the fringes of the Torpid Marsh, bows clutched casually at their sides.
Olmar loped along behind him, his warhammer in hand. Last night he had informed them he had never travelled this far south before. At one point he suggested they check out the fabled marshland to see what all the fuss was about. The withering looks he received from Sadyra and Larina put a quick end to that idea.
“Riders!” Sadyra suddenly called out. She slipped off the roadway, dropping to a knee, an arrow already in her left hand.
Larina matched her on the opposite side of the road, hunching down behind a small bush.
Olmar and Alhena followed their lead, dropping out of sight behind a large tree.
Alhena couldn’t help but smile. If they had seen the riders, how could the riders not have seen them—or more particularly, Olmar?
As the riders drew near they slowed their charge and drew their swords. When they were within arrow shot, Larina and Sadyra stepped out from their concealment, arrows nocked.
Sadyra lowered her bow and looked back. “Relax. They bear the Gritian Militia insignia.”
There were six horsemen in all. Upon reaching the two archers the lead rider dismounted and shook hands with them.
Alhena spotted the knot of gold rope on the man’s left shoulder denoting him as the Enervator of Gritian—the Chamber’s whip. He thought it strange that they had already replaced Avarick, especially since they had no idea whether he was coming back or not.
Olmar stepped out from behind a tree and the militiamen gripped their swords tighter.
Larina said something to the Enervator. Sadyra laughed and turned to point at Olmar. “Aye, meet Midge.”
The militiaman nodded toward Olmar, the Enervator’s green eyes wary of the warhammer in Olmar’s hands.
“And that bag o’ bones is Alhena Sirrus. We seek audience with the preacher,” Sadyra said, her choice of words causing the militiaman noticeable discomfort. “We must hurry, lest Alhena expire before we reach the Chamber.”
Alhena shook his head slightly, the action becoming a habit in the presence of the two archers.
At the mention of Alhena, the militiamen tensed.
The man on the ground strode up to Alhena, studying his clothing. His eyes stopped on Alhena’s staff for more than a cursory glance. “Senior Messenger Sirrus?” He looked to his companions. The nearest man on horseback nodded, his expression grave.
“There is a writ of apprehension out for you,” the Enervator said, flicking a lock of black hair from his eyes. He looked to the archers, and then uneasily at Olmar. “I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany us back to Gritian. High Warlord Uzziah is searching for you.”
Three more militiamen slid from their horses and moved to surround Alhena.
Alhena frowned. High Warlord Uzziah? Surely the man misspoke. “I apologize. You are?”
“Jibrael Fox. Enervator of the Chamber of the Wise.”
Olmar growled and Alhena knew why. That had been Avarick’s title.
“My friends call me Jib. You may call me Enervator,” Jibrael said, his tone serious.
The three militiamen made a move to grab Alhena, but stepped back and raised their swords as Olmar inserted his great girth between them, warhammer at the ready. “Anyone layin’ ‘ands on me friend will be getting’ their brains bashed, an’ that’s for sure.”
The two men still on horseback sidestepped their mounts to either side of Olmar.
At once, Sadyra and Larina trained their arrows on the horsemen. If it came to blows, the four men on the ground would be hard pressed to bring Olmar down.
The Enervator held up his hands. “Easy now. Let’s not make this worse than it is. We’re doing our duty. As senior messenger to the Chamber, you are well versed in protocol.”
Alhena’s opaque eyes never left the Enervator. “It’s okay. I had assumed as much before I agreed to return here. Once I speak with Chambermaster Uzziah, everything will be fine.”
“’tis all well ‘n good, Master Alhena, buts they ain’t t’ be takin’ ye in fetters,” Olmar declared, his corded forearms ready for action.
Alhena offered the Enervator a slight smile and raised his eyebrows. He left it up to the Chamber whip to decide how the rest of this played out. Alhena knew only too well that Olmar meant what he said, nor did he doubt the sailor capable of carrying out the threat.
The Enervator appeared to be gauging the possible outcome of the situation should he decide to take issue with Olmar’s declaration. “Very well. Since you were the senior messenger to the Chamber, I’ll allow you to come along without restraints, but I will require you to ride with us. Your friends may follow along as they see fit.”
Olmar snarled, “We all goes together like, or ye lot can stay here lickin’ yer wounds. I’s tellin’ ye right now, Master Alhena disnae go alone.”
The Enervator appeared on the verge of saying something he might regret. With great restraint written across his purpled face, he muttered through gritted teeth, “And just how do we transport someone as big as you?”
The sentries manning the northern guard post at the top of the Gritian basin were shocked to see the strange procession riding down Redfire Path. Following the Enervator, four horses trotted along bearing two riders each: a militiaman and someone resembling a wizard, the next two carrying a militiaman and a female archer, and then a horse carrying two militiamen together—the rear man not looking too happy about having to ride behind his companion. However, what made the whole procession totally bizarre was the last horse. The poor beast struggled beneath a man so large that it seemed no bigger than a colt.
The sentries stepped out to inspect the group, but a withering look from the Enervator had them scrambling to get out of the way.
As
he passed, Jibrael mouthed to one of the guards, motioning to the back of the procession with his eyes, “Get help.”
Jibrael rode to the Chamber’s entrance shed and dismounted. He invited the others to do the same and follow him past two posted guards, and into the entrance tunnel.
Alhena kept pace with the Enervator as they entered the cooler confines of the passageway beyond. “I am sorry, Enervator Jibrael, but I think I misheard you back there. I thought you mentioned High Warlord Uzziah.”
Jibrael stared at Alhena as if he were daft. “What of it?”
“Surely, you mean High Warlord Archimedes. Uzziah is the high bishop.”
“Archimedes is dead,” Jibrael grunted. “He died chasing you and that wretch Mintaka. Hey—”
Olmar clutched the Enervator’s neck in his massive hands and lifted him off the ground. “What did ye say, little man?”
Even if Jibrael wanted to respond, Olmar’s strangling hold prevented him from doing so. The Enervator struggled to pull the hands from his neck but lacked the strength.
“Olmar, no!” Alhena pleaded.
Sadyra and Larina each hung off one of Olmar’s arms, trying to extricate the struggling Enervator. Judging by the look on the man’s face, it wouldn’t be much longer before Jibrael’s throat was crushed beyond repair.
“Olmar, you lunkhead,” Larina screamed at him. “Let him go. You’re going to be the death of us all.”
Grudgingly, Olmar lowered the nearly unconscious man to the ground.
Jibrael fell against the tunnel wall, clutching his throat and gasping for breath.
Alhena looked from Olmar to the Enervator and back again. “Do you know who this man is? Apologize now, before it’s too late.”
Olmar crossed his arms across his chest, glaring at Jibrael. “Ye watch ‘ow ye speak of Silurian, else ye’ll be getting’ more o’ the same.”
Footsteps rushed in from outside—a group of armoured men bristling with weapons.
Olmar reached for his warhammer but stopped. He barely fit in the tunnel as it was. Effectively wielding his weapon would prove problematic in the close quarters.
The Wizard of the North Page 7
