Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4)

by Melinda Kucsera

  The leader kicked the gnome over again and followed the strike by spitting on him. “Have that for your fool faith!”

  Once more the old gnome rose and approached the leader. “Strike me, spit on me, do anything you want to me, but please, let us see it.”

  The leader’s boot lifted again but did not fall. “You’re not going to stop begging, are you?”

  “I beg only this of you.”

  The leader released a weary sigh. “Fine, it’s close to where we’ll be locking you up. It will please me to sell you away in the shadow of your god.”

  “My blessings and thanks.”

  “I want neither! And you’ll have less!”

  Muraheim fell silent. The leader responded with a withering glower and gestured to one of the others. “Take them. You two with me. We’ll pen the centaur.”

  The raider’s good humor seemed to return as he imagined some ill fate for Al’rashal. “Yes, you’ll fetch quite the prize on the market once we break you. Best we treat you with care.”

  Eihn watched as Al was led away, head unbowed and anger seeming to ripple from her body like heat, but she was soon gone from his sight as they were led in different directions, deeper into the remains of Karden. The street here grew wider, the buildings sparser, and soon they passed statuary of every sort or the remains thereof. Though battered by sand and time, what remained of the statuary seemed quite elegant, but even the relatively intact statues paled in comparison to Se’aræles.

  The statue—though perhaps monument would have been a more fitting descriptor—was more incredible than Eihn had expected. Cast from brass, the sculpture gleamed in the sun and seemed untouched by time, save for the drifts of sand accumulating at its base. The wide ovoid base was made to look like the bridge between land and sea, tilting slightly up at the land side.

  On the “shore” was Mehrindai depicted, as she usually was, as a gnome mid-stride as she raced away from her pursuer. Even cast of solid bronze, her dress and hair seemed to be rippling in the wind. Behind her, rising from the sea on a current of water, was Kurgen’Kahl. He was depicted as a human sailor, as was often the case, with long rope-like tendrils reaching from the waters behind and about. One hand was outstretched toward Mehrindai as if directing the tentacles to ensnare her. The statue possessed such lifelike realism Eihn swore the crafter must have seen the gods personally. Most astounding of all was the emotion that shone through the construct. Eihn could almost hear Mehrindai’s laughter, could almost feel the mirth of Kurgen’Kahl. True or not, the crafter of the Se’aræles saw the two as lovers and here they had cast a moment to that love.

  Eihn had grown, silent and it took him a moment to realize they had all grown silent, awed by the beauty and artistry before them. Even their captors remained silent or whispered in low, deferential tones. Muraheim did it first, not asking, simply moving forward as though possessed. One of the raiders called after him, but Eihn doubted if even Urkjorman could have barred the old gnome’s path, were the minotaur still alive. He was followed by one, then another, then Eihn, and soon they all walked forward. Each rested their hands upon the base of the monument, pressed their head to the warm metal that should have been burning hot in the desert sun, and offered a prayer of thanks. Though weary, injured, and dehydrated Eihn felt almost at peace from doing so.

  “Alright, got what ya wanted,” growled one of the raiders as he began pulling them from the monument. “Now go!”

  It was almost painful to be pulled away, and Eihn understood why pilgrims still came to such places to pledge or renew their devotion. Like livestock, they were herded down the street and into the remains of some large building whose purpose was now lost to time but would serve as their pen. Strewn on the floor were straw mats, an uneven layer of hay, and pots for waste or food. It was obvious the raiders routinely made slaves of the faithful and the curious, and they were just the latest in a long line of victims.

  Chapter Eight

  Bound And Unbroken

  The ropes are weird. It was an odd thought to have, but it nagged at Al’rashal like sand in her feathers. Some part of her understood she was fixating on her bindings to take her mind off what happened to Urkjorman, but the larger part of her psyche told that part to shut up. She wasn’t ready to deal with that yet; she might never be ready to deal with that. She shook her head to cast the thought aside and focused on the matters at hand. The rope around her neck still slithered in a discomforting fashion. It had been released from her captor and tied to a post near the east wall. It never went slack; instead, when she drew near the pillar, it seemed to shrink and lengthen as she drew away. It tightened when she was about fifty feet away and she reasoned it would strangle her if she went much further. The rope around her arms seemed to be shorter, or more was used to wrap her arms and wrists. This was tied to the guard, wrapped around his left arm, much to his dismay. He’d cursed the leader, and then her, when he got saddled with guard duty, making sure to say that last bit in the Tongue of Human Kings so she would understand it, instead of the local dialect they spoke to each other.

  They’d stuck her in the stables, of course, though not the ones with their own horses and beasts. However, the looming smell of excrement and the splotches of dried blood indicated it was used intermittently likely to pen whatever animals they stole from others or captured out on the sands if the damage to the walls and doors was any clue.

  The whole pen was in disrepair, but the raiders likely didn’t care to fix it. They had a whole abandoned city of buildings to choose from, so why spend time fixing any of it? Still, she was certain a good kick would shatter the pillar she was leashed to. Idly she sniffed at the ropes writhing around her arms. They smelled like hemp, and she could bite through hemp rope, but did the magic animating them protect it?

  Her jailer said something in his silken native tongue and laughed.

  “What?”

  He seemed to ponder answering. “Do not come close to the rope. It will wrap anything it can and never let go.”

  Was he lying? “Why warn me?”

  He spat in irritation and then smiled derisively. “Because your body is only valuable while you breathe.”

  The sound of sand shifting underfoot caused one of her long ears to rotate and aim at the west wall. It was footfalls, but they came slow and gentle; someone was approaching who didn’t want to be noticed. With concentration she aimed both her ears down, though if the slaver had noticed, he gave no indication. He seemed to wax and wane between irritation at his posting and leering at her bust. With effort she quieted the anger building in her breast and let herself think of her husband pulled into the sands. Immediately, tears welled in her eyes, and her breathing lost the controlled rhythm she’d been maintaining. It took some effort to do so subtly, but she worked the tattered fabric of her shirt aside, exposing one breast to the air of the cooling afternoon.

  Her captor hissed something derogatory into the air. She responded by hesitantly casting her gaze to him and then looking away in weak defiance.

  “It finally happen, eh?”

  She aimed one ear at him, taking furtive glances while using the other ear to track the footsteps prowling behind the rear wall. “What, what do you mean?”

  “You see now. You have no escape; you ours now. And bad times come for you.”

  Was that a gasp of exertion on the other side? Al cantered left and right, kicking up dirt as though shuffling in agitation or worry. “What’s … what’s going to happen to me now?”

  “That depends.” He smiled.

  She looked away, then to him, then away again, and very slowly to him, though never looking him in the eyes. “On?”

  He came closer now, the tension of a man ready to defend himself bleeding away. “On how good you are.”

  She shuddered and slowly lowered to the ground, resting on her belly with her legs folded. He was a little more than head and shoulders taller than her now. “How good … do I have to be?”

  A hand tilted h
er chin up so he could look down on her. “You show me how good you are, and I tell you how much you need.”

  There was a grinding crack as some piece of stone broke away from the wall behind her and fell to the ground.

  “What the sylaress sisenthiss sa …” began the raider as anger filled his eyes. Whatever he saw over her shoulder had made him forget the Tongue of Human Kings, and more importantly forget her. As he lowered a hand to grasp his sword, Al raised her arms and looped them over his head. As expected, the rope wound around the raider’s throat, constricting immediately as it found purchase.

  Sword forgotten, the man reached for his throat, trying to pry the rope away, only for it to pull tighter as it met resistance. Al rose, grasped either side of the rope about the slaver’s neck, and lifted him into the air. The added resistance of his full weight on the rope made it pull tighter, and soon he was kicking at the air in horror as his skin paled, then blued, and his eyes rolled up with the absence of consciousness. She lowered the body to the ground and snapped his neck; best to be certain. “Good enough?”

  Al turned about to see Eihn and Muraheim watching in mute silence from the far corner. “You are bad at stealth,” she began then she felt self-conscious about the body on the ground. “I know we swore not to take lives…”

  The gnome lifted a quieting hand and shook his head. “The path of peace is ours, but even the shepherd knows sometimes you must use the rod to protect the flock. Consider that limitation lifted.”

  Al nodded and looked between the two; she aimed a finger at the boy and then at her face. “Eyes up, boy, or down if you can’t think straight.”

  Eihn flushed and cast his eyes down issuing an apology. “How did you get out? What are you doing here?”

  “There are many pilgrims, and we gnomes look similar to most humans. My daughter poses as me now,” answered Muraheim.

  “Iilna?”

  He nodded.

  “You were half-dead when we got here, and now you’re full of energy.”

  “It was the shrine,” interjected Eihn, bubbling with excitement. “When we touched Se’aræles, it invigorated us. Mehrindai’s strength flowed into us, and Master, gained the most.”

  The boy no longer had difficulty keeping his focus on her face, so she fixed her shirt. “Good, but what did you intend to do here?”

  Muraheim came forward and grasped the rope connecting her arms to the raider’s throat. With a gentle whisper, the rope fell away, completely inert. “Mehrindai is the goddess of freedom. Nothing can long hold her or her Wayfarers.”

  Al smiled as Eihn touched the rope about her neck and uttered the same word. He said it louder; perhaps he needed to because he was younger or had less power, but the rope fell away just the same.

  “I do not know what you can do for us,” began the old gnome. “But I know only you can help us now. Please, do what you can.”

  Al pulled the sword from the corpse and considered its craftsmanship as she weighed her options. “My leather lies on the sands along with my weapons. I can fight and kill some of them, but …”

  She imagined their wagon, broken and left behind. “If only I could get back to our supplies, we’d have a fighting chance.”

  “We can get you there,” prompted Muraheim.

  “The Trade of Toe and Hoof!” exclaimed Eihn.

  “Exactly, and if I only have to help her, I can do more.”

  “I thought that didn’t work on people like us,” she reminded him.

  Muraheim looked down and then bowed. “I have been most unkind to you and your husband, though you have always acted with respect to me and my flock. All my apologies.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. A sincere apology was more than she ever expected, though certainly deserved. “Water under the bridge. But if I escape with you, your people will suffer.”

  “But if you escape with Eihn, they may not suspect our intervention, at least for a time.”

  “Me?” asked Eihn, shocked.

  “Yes, even filled with Mehrindai’s radiance, I could not suffer the Trade again so soon. But you are young and full of life and perhaps the fourth or fifth most learned in the miracles of Mehrindai. Yes, Eihn, this will fall to you, you and Al’rashal.”

  Eihn took a moment to compose himself and then puffed up his chest. “You can count on me, Master.”

  “And I,” assured Al. “By the day’s end, your flock will be free and the slavers dead, or they will curse ever taking them.”

  Muraheim smiled and took up some hay left on the ground. He shook it off, removing the worst of the grime, and held it between Al and Eihn. “Quickly, you two must eat of the same food as I perform the ritual. We must be done before they notice my absence.”

  Al sighed. She hated hay.

  She could still taste the hay as though strands were stuck between her molars, but the benefit was astounding. Muraheim seemed to have layered two or three of Mehrindai’s blessings on her. Her muscles galvanized; her footfalls were assured, losing no traction to the sands, nor did her legs ache from the strength of her stride. However, most of all was the Trade. Running was almost effortless; she felt as though she could run forever. “You alright Eihn?”

  “Yes,” he shouted back; hands twisted into her mane as he huddled against her back.

  “You sure? The Trade almost killed Muraheim.”

  “Yes! I’m young so this is easier for me!”

  She could hear the strain in his voice, but he was trying to put on a brave face for her, and she didn’t want to insult his pride or sacrifice. “Then hold on; it shouldn’t be much longer now!”

  It had taken them close to two hours to reach Karden, but that had been walking, with most dragging their feet and the raiders stopping occasionally to assault the pilgrims for their resistance. Racing back now, the miles evaporated.

  “Do you think they’re following us?”

  She considered. “No, by the time they round up the animals and realize I’m gone, they’ll know I have too large a lead. Even without your magic, they would never be able to catch me, especially with tired horses weighed down with riders and weapons. No, they’ll cut their losses.”

  “Good!”

  She shook her head and released a sigh. “Not good.”

  “Why not?”

  Al’rashal was certain she saw the discarded bodies of Wayfarers who had died during the trek to Karden ahead. They weren’t far now. “The Waytown is only a few days back. They’ll have to pack up and move fast if they’re worried about reprisal. And …”

  “And?”

  “And even if they don’t think the Wayfarers helped my escape, they’ll be mad and probably take it out on them. Small men always abuse others for their faults.”

  Eihn answered with silence, and she could feel his fingers tighten in her mane. The gentle warmth emanating from his body increased as he poured more of the God-given radiance into her muscles and lungs. “Then we must hurry.”

  The following miles elapsed in silence, Eihn focused on lessening her burden and Al focused on the coming tasks. Soon she could see the familiar dunes of the ambush site. More than a dozen bodies and that again in horses and animals were strewn across the sands. She slowed as she reached the nearest rise, as the smell of water drifted into the air. At the top of the dune, she could see where the sand dropped away almost like a cliff.

  Below was a large patch of earth darker than the rest, the mud like sand that had sucked her lover into darkness. It wasn’t as large as it had been before, the sun having burned half of it away, but she still gave it a wide berth on the way to her wagon. Reaching it, she began searching through the piles of goods left behind. The raiders had taken most of the food and some of the water, and of course everything shiny and easy to sell. However, a lot of the mundane things had been left alone. With a sigh of relief, she found what she was looking for and withdrew a long length of rope. “Eihn, I’m going to need you to be brave.”

  “What, what do you mean?” asked
the boy as she raced back to the pool of quicksand.

  “The quicksand, it’s like water or mud, sucks you down, but you can basically swim in it if you’re light or strong.”

  “You, you want me to swim in it?” he cried with alarm.

  Al found a wheel still attached to a broken axle pinned beneath some rubble and threaded the rope around one of the spokes. “No, I need you to dive.”

  “Dive? Are you crazy? For what?”

  “Urkjorman! Please, Eihn, I need you to help me save my husband.”

  “He’s dead! I’m sorry, Ms. Al’rashal. But he’s dead, drowned in the mud.”

  “Servants of Mehrindai can’t be held. Servants of Kurgen’Kahl can’t be drowned.”

  “You … you don’t really believe that, do you?”

  She didn’t. She didn’t really believe in the gods. She knew they were real; she knew they affected the world, but she didn’t believe in them. But Urk did. “I have to.”

  She pulled Eihn from her back and set him down. The moment she lost contact with him, she was hit with a wave of vertigo and could feel her muscles warm with effort. “Listen, Eihn, I’m strong enough to pull him out, strong enough to pull you both out, but I can’t go down there and swim out. So, I need you to dive in. I need you to find him so I can pull him out before the sand dries, and he’s buried alive.”

  Eihn looked at the pool of dark sand, fear and determination at war on his face. “And … and if he’s not alive? If I only find a still corpse?”

  “He’s alive, Eihn, he has to be I … I couldn’t stand it if he wasn’t.”

  “But you don’t know,” admitted Eihn, even as he offered his hand to take the rope.

  “I don’t, but I have faith. Maybe … maybe not in Kurgen, but I have faith in my husband. I believe … I believe in my husband’s belief in his god, and I’m asking you to do that too.”

  Eihn nodded and tied the end of the rope around his waist. Slowly at first, then with growing speed and confidence, he waded into the quicksand. He slipped once, then twice, and soon he was half-paddling half-bouncing, then swimming, and then he went under. Al wound her end of the rope tightly about her arm and waited.