Apprentice

by Nicholas Hale

  Brock was sitting next to him, also watching the spectacle as the slavers chattered away. Azrael had given him a short sword with strict instructions to use it only when absolutely unavoidable.

  "I think it's going to start moving now," said Brock, craning his neck over the rock to look at the carts.

  Azrael was sitting with his back to the rock, his head resting on the hilt of his long sword. He had been excited when the day first started, warming up with Olaf.

  Azrael was gaining a deeper understanding of the voice with each passing day. Besides the simple cant to release all his energy in a forward dash, he had learned how to control it so that he didn't expend all of it at once. There were several advanced phrases he could use in complex attacks and defenses.

  Apparently, the physical Rhial cants were the easiest ones. Olaf tried teaching him and Brie to synchronize their voices, but they had both failed miserably at it. Probably had to do with them being unable to find each other's voices.

  After the morning exercises, Azrael had prepared for their small expedition into the third level. His stomach suddenly growled. Perhaps those preparations should have included some food as well.

  "It's moving!" said Brock, standing and then dropping into a crouch.

  It was about time, thought Azrael getting to his feet.

  They were positioned above the tunnel into which the carts would disappear. It was the only way they could hitch a ride on them without being noticed. There were slavers on all sides of the cart, so Brock had spent a good bit of time identifying the right place to board them.

  The second cart was the ideal one. The first cart would be too visible at the destination. Right behind the third cart was a smaller cart meant for carrying humans. Gerzahn was in one of these along with three of the slaver nomads. The second cart, being right in between, would have only two sides exposed.

  As soon as the first cart picked up pace, both Azrael and Brock ran to a ledge near the top of the tunnel. The jump would not be from above, but from the side—they would have to leap forward and land in the cart. If they missed, they would get crushed under the third mine cart. They should have rehearsed this jump or at least thought it through instead of idling behind the rock, thought Azrael, cursing himself.

  On the bright side, the cart was large enough that they shouldn't miss.

  "Have to do it now! No turning back!" said Brock, looking almost cheerful.

  He was really enjoying this. Without warning, he leapt off the ledge.

  No! He jumped too early, thought Azrael. He would hit the tracks. Surprisingly, Brock landed right in the middle of the cart on the iron ore.

  Shit! This meant Azrael was the one who had the timing wrong.

  Without thinking, Azrael launched himself off the ledge. This was bad. He was going to miss the cart entirely. He stretched out his arms and reached for the cart just in time. Both of his hands gripped the rim of the cart. With a sudden jerk, his body crashed into the back of the cart. Thankfully, he was still holding on to the cart as it entered the tunnel. He tried climbing into the cart, only to notice that it started speeding up. The tunnel was going downhill and getting steeper by the second. He heard a screeching noise behind him. The third cart was gaining speed and it would crash into the second one.

  Azrael started scrambling with the realization that he would be crushed in between the two carts.

  He felt a hand pulling on his shoulder.

  Brock was trying to help him into the cart. Azrael got into the cart in the nick of time as the third cart collided with the second. Both the men felt the jar of the impact and lost their balance, falling on the hard iron ore.

  "That was close," said Brock.

  Azrael could hear the excitement in his voice.

  Both of them had numerous scratches from the ore. They should have worn some sort of protection on their hands and feet at the very least, thought Azrael. Azrael had chosen what he assumed was one of his stronger tunics, but it had ripped apart when it caught on the ore. Even simple leather armor would have offered more protection.

  There was another jolt as the carts crashed, once again sending both of the men tumbling once more.

  "We should hold on to these," said Brock, pointing to metal brackets on the sides of the cart.

  Good idea. The crashes came in frequent intervals, but the brackets helped them maintain balance.

  "How long is this tunnel?" asked Azrael over the noise of the carts racing down the tracks.

  "I'm not sure. But from what I heard from one of the slaves, it should at least be a few more minutes."

  Brock had done a good job in gathering information from the slaves. Azrael had relayed the information to Lord Doyen, who put his own spies to work. The only two ports where the ore could reach for direct transport were Slaver Port and the port at Bren. Neither could hide ore ships, and Doyen had confirmed that there wasn't any excess in ore there. Braemar was a little too far to the south, but it did too little business and any large shipments would stand out glaringly.

  However, the forges in central and western cities were producing weapons far in excess of the amount of ore they were supposed to be receiving officially. The cities were also the prime producers of weapons for Eora and, thus, the Army of Light.

  Located centrally, they catered to all three continents—Eora, Ryga and Aegis. Several Eoran noblemen owned forges in these cities, which could be the prime targets for Rennar if he was looking to secretly sell ore.

  Zinhara was the largest, and was essentially a city of blacksmiths. Azrael heard once that the master blacksmith in Zinhara was the richest man in the city and also the mayor. Apparently, nobility, rank and wealth were all decided by how good a smith you were—and the Mayor of Zinhara was supposed to be the best.

  While at the academy, at the peak of his tournament days, Azrael had dreamed of owning a blade forged by the master blacksmith of Zinhara.

  The carts began slowing down.

  "We should get ready!" said Brock.

  Both the men scurried to the front of the cart. There was one final crash as the carts bumped into each other for the last time before coming to rest.

  Azrael went first. As planned, he climbed into the gap between the carts and crawled underneath the first cart. Brock followed close behind him. Azrael signaled silence to Brock as they heard voices. The fourth cart carrying the men had arrived.

  "Holmwood here yet?"

  "Don't think so."

  "We'd hear him complaining if he was. Loud one that."

  "You lot! Start unloading!"

  "We haven't got all day now."

  Azrael heard the crack of a whip. Three loud clangs followed. The sides of the mine carts were swung open, causing the ore to tumble out. All for the best. They were completely hidden now.

  "We need to follow Gerzahn," whispered Azrael.

  Brock nodded. They snuck under the first cart, looking for a good hiding spot. There were several.

  The place they were in now was more a natural cavern than mineshaft, so it had several outcrops and even small natural ponds. They darted quickly between the outcrops while keeping the foreman in sight.

  Azrael held out a hand for Brock to stop and pointed towards a group of tents.

  There appeared to be chairs and a small wooden table at their center. Looking more closely, Azrael could see that these were makeshift living quarters. From the looks of it, the tents had been there for a while.

  Gerzahn had made his way to the table and had busied himself with the several documents he removed from his bag. There was also a small clay jar which Azrael could only presume contained wine. Gerzahn took a small sip from the glass before he was lost in the documents.

  He didn't as much as raise his head until they heard the loud galloping of horses from the cave's entrance.

  "Why we must continue to meet in this infernal place, I can never fathom!"

  A loud booming noise drowned out the rest of the chatter.

  A fat, exquisite
ly dressed man was getting down from the carriage that followed behind the horses.

  "Why, even the air here reeks! I can never get used to this dank, horrid cave!"

  "I beg forgiveness, Baron Holmwood. But discretion is of the utmost importance. Especially during these times. We have a new overseer—"

  Looked like this was the buyer, thought Azrael.

  "Pfaugh! New overseer be damned. Let us be done with this!"

  Holmwood and Gerzahn made their way to the table.

  "Four hundred tons of ore! You must be mad! We need at least thrice that quantity as it is."

  "I assure you, my lord, the yield from the ore of Bren far exceeds your calculations."

  "Be that as it may, even with your so-called calculations, we have three hundred tons of steel. It's simply not enough!"

  "We are working to improve the production—"

  "Governor Rennar promised me the production would meet expectations by the end of this month. We're fighting a war in the tundra! Commitments were made to the Army of Light founded on our trust in your governor!"

  More bickering. This was a transaction, that much was clear. Azrael saw three bags being unloaded from a small horse cart following Holmwood's carriage. Gold, presumably.

  The men unloading it were wearing clothes marking them as Eoran infantry.

  The iron ore was being put into large sacks and loaded into horse carts. As mad as it sounded, they seemed to be shipping all this ore by land. Iron ore was typically shipped using special Aegean ships built for carrying ore. Naturally the treasurer would have his eyes on those ships, so moving this ore by land was the only choice, it seemed.

  "I'm surprised you need so many signatures with all your damned need for discretion," said a bored Holmwood.

  "Again, I apologize, my lord. Discretion or not, we need to maintain records to run a business."

  "From Duke Bancroft himself," said Holmwood, taking out a small envelope from his robes and handing it to Gerzahn. "For the eyes of your master, the governor, only."

  Azrael needed to get his hands on the documents. And that letter. If it did have the seal of this Duke Bancroft, then it should be sufficient to implicate Rennar.

  Right now, there were far too many people here. The slaves notwithstanding, Azrael counted a dozen slavers, and about two-dozen Eoran infantry. How was he going to get his hands on those documents? The letter itself was tucked firmly into Gerzahn's robes.

  "Captain!" yelled Holmwood to one of the infantrymen. "Ensure that every scrap of ore here is loaded into the carts before you start moving. I'm starting ahead."

  "That is, if the foreman has no more petty documents for me to sign," he added with sarcasm.

  "Of course, my lord. I, too, should head back to mines. The trip back is far slower."

  The trip back! Of course!

  A difficult but plausible plan began to take shape in Azrael's mind. He looked back at the table that held the documents. He had seen Holmwood signing several of them, but the letter, addressed directly to Rennar, would make the strongest case against him. If he were to accuse a man as powerful as Rennar, he would need undeniable proof of his direct involvement. Any less and there was always the chance that Rennar could set someone up to take the fall.

  The jar of wine would be the key.

  Azrael signaled for Brock to stay as he made his way back to the carts. He had to be careful now; most of the people were concentrated around the carts.

  At the very front of the tracks, he found it. A special kind of cart that would be used to push all the carts back into the mine. It was outfitted with pumping machinery. It was how they would move the carts uphill back through the tunnels. Most of the cart was occupied by the machinery, with space enough for one other man to sit.

  Azrael knew of these. They had magical power sources inside them that stored energy and could be used to power several kinds of machines and constructs. The sewer systems and cisterns back in Aegis made use of them.

  They were taught about them in the Aegean academy, and Azrael wished more than ever now, that he had bothered to find out more about them.

  Yet, thankfully, all he needed to do now was break it. He couldn't remove the power source—that would be too obvious. There seemed to be several gears and springs inside. Azrael took out a small knife and began prying out the gears. One large gear definitely looked like an important piece, so Azrael was satisfied that the machine wouldn't work. Pocketing it, he made his way back to where Brock was.

  "What happened?" whispered Brock.

  "You'll see," said Azrael.

  Azrael watched as Holmwood departed in his carriage. The horse carts too were beginning to leave as they were filled with ore sacks. Gerzahn seemed to be finishing up. He gathered all the documents and made his way back to the carts with two of the slavers accompanying him.

  Azrael smiled as they heard loud exclamations and cursing.

  "Stupid piece of shit," he heard one of the slavers curse.

  "What do we do now?" asked another.

  Gerzahn appeared to be deep in thought.

  "We need the engineer to fix this," said Gerzahn. "The power source looks like it's working, but some of the gears seem to be...missing."

  The last word certainly sounded as if Gerzahn suspected a saboteur, but this would be his only chance. The attention of the entire room was focused on the damaged cart.

  "Stay here," said Azrael to Brock. "If anything happens...don't move. Stay hidden and I'll handle it."

  As silently as he could, while acting with a sense of urgency, Azrael began crawling toward the tents. He sprinted the last stretch where there was no room to hide and found himself behind one of the tents.

  He could still hear the slavers' chatter.

  Leaning close to the ground, Azrael crawled toward the table. He could see the small congregation near the mine cart now. Keeping one eye on them, he reached into his belt and pulled out a handful of his medicinal herbs. These were among the strongest he had, and meant only for emergencies. A man not used to them would be put out cold for a few hours at least. Crushing them, Azrael dropped a handful into the jar. The herbs had a distinct flavor, but they were completely soluble in water or wine. This was the second time they would prove useful to him.

  "You. Ride back to the mine and send the engineer."

  "You could ride with us as well," said the slaver.

  "No. It'll take a good part of the day to make it back on horseback. I'd rather get some of my work done here."

  "You should get some rest, Aegean. Even the slaves get more sleep than you."

  Laughter echoed from the slavers.

  They began making their way back towards the center of the cavern. Without panicking, Azrael quietly made his way to the back of the tents. He couldn't afford to make the slightest noise.

  His heart was pounding as he thought about how lucky he had been. If he had been seen, there were enough men to have overpowered both him and Brock. Whatever else Gerzahn was, Azrael could tell that he was extremely clever. The only way out would be to kill Azrael and make his body disappear. An easy task in these caverns.

  Slipping behind the tent, Azrael peered around its edge to see that Gerzahn had taken his place at the table. It was now simply a matter of waiting. He looked around to see that Brock was still well hidden behind the rocks from the eyes of the slavers, but they could see each other. Azrael raised his hand once again, signaling Brock to wait.

  Azrael waited patiently, his eyes fixed on Gerzahn the entire time. Once the glass of wine touched his lips, it would only be a few minutes before he would succumb to its strong lethargic effect.

  Finally, after nearly a half-hour of waiting, Gerzahn took a small sip of wine before continuing his work.

  Azrael readied himself.

  He crept out from behind the tents to get a clearer view and could see that the slavers had settled into one small corner of the cavern. It seemed that when not partaking in conversation, their attentions were dive
rted entirely towards the slaves.

  That was good. He looked back at Gerzahn to see that the man had fallen asleep at the table, both his hands hanging limp by his sides. Azrael moved silently with anticipation. So far, everything was going exactly as he had planned.

  He searched the man as quietly as he could without disturbing his position. Azrael knew the effects of the herbs firsthand, and nothing short of the earth quaking could wake you from the induced slumber. Still, it was always better to be cautious. He wasn't keen on testing that theory.

  It didn't take him long to find the sealed letter. Carefully, tucking it inside his own robes, Azrael began looking over the documents on the desk. He would need to take some of them, without making it look too obvious.

  Giving a cursory glance, Azrael found that Rennar had indeed covered his tracks well. There wasn't one document with his signature. Several of them were agreements, but Azrael quickly pocketed the ones that seemed to have numbers on them. Numbers, perhaps, that would show the extent of Rennar's betrayal.

  There was one final thing he needed to do. It was risky, but he needed to do it if his ruse was to be airtight. He slowly held the jar of wine with both hands and took it off the table. Carefully holding it as close to the ground as he could, he emptied the contents. The laced wine seeped into the earth, disappearing into it. After draining the last drop, he replaced the jar back on the table.

  Satisfied that he had enough evidence, he quickly made his way back toward the tents and slowly back to Brock. There was no need to hurry now.

  "What did you do to him?" asked Brock, looking a little worried. He seemed to have been observing Azrael throughout his small venture.

  "I just put him to sleep."

  "For how long? What'll they do when they find him like that?"

  Questions Azrael had considered and weighed the risks of. He could have used a milder dose that would have put him out for a short time, but he simply couldn't risk discovery. If the slavers thought Gerzahn had indeed been attacked, then Azrael would have something to worry about.