by Paul Barrett
The sounds of chaos filled the warehouse, tempting him to peek over and see what was happening. He resisted. If the wrong person saw him, the whole ruse would be useless. He only hoped they could slip away without being spotted.
The clash of metal and screams of pain echoed. How many people would die to help him escape? He gritted his teeth at the thought of more innocent blood on his behalf. First an entire village of people Elissia knew, and now her brother’s friends. Beatru had been right. He brought nothing but death.
Stop it, Blink thought. It will be far worse if you die before we get to the mountain.
His friends came around the corner of the crates, and Erick almost shouted. In all the noise, he hadn’t heard them approach.
“Come on,” Marcus said. “Stay low and keep that cloak on.”
Erick stood up and stumbled as the pain in his head doubled. Corby and Elissia grabbed his arms, and they scuttled through the warehouse, sticking to shadows as much as possible, although Erick saw little need. The sounds remained behind them and lessened with distance as they traversed the massive building. He tried to ignore the screaming, pay no attention to the death.
They slipped out a small door and into the morning air. After the burlap and wood smell of the warehouse, Erick relished the cool, crisp air, which smelled of dirt and sawdust.
“Where now?” Elissia asked Marcus.
“The east gate.”
“But we have to head west,” Erick said.
“You want to walk through the city with what’s going on, be my guest. But if you want a chance to survive, we hit the east gate. Your choice.”
Erick nodded. He didn’t like Marcus’s tone, but couldn’t fault the logic.
“There’s a safe house near there, too,” Marcus continued. “Callon laid up some supplies for us.”
“Are you sure it’s still safe?” Corby asked.
“As safe as anything,” Marcus answered.
“See you at the east gate,” Erick said to Blink. With a nod, the familiar took off.
They walked down the city street, ignored by the workers heading to their daily labors. Erick wanted to run, to be gone as quickly as possible, but that would attract undue attention.
“Take the cloak off,” Marcus said.
“Shouldn’t I leave it on so no one recognizes me?”
Marcus shook his head. “A cloak in this weather is suspicious, and we don’t want any problems with guards. If Father has any lookouts, they’ll recognize Elissia or me before you. We’ll have to trust to Denech on this one.”
Elissia huffed. “Or just trust that Father wouldn’t expect us to run.”
“Are the guards that draconian?” Corby asked.
“If draconian means ‘pain in the ass’ then yes, they are,” Marcus answered.
They continued through the city in silence. This early in the morning, with few people going to their labors, it was much quieter and less populated than when Erick had arrived, which wore at his nerves. It would be easier to blend into a crowd, but every eye seemed unfriendly, every shadowy nook a hiding place for a hostile Procurer.
Despite his fears, they reached the safe house, which wasn’t a house at all, but a small wooden stable with a second story full of hay.
They slipped inside. There were ten stalls, but only two occupied. One held a brown horse, and the other quartered an odd, four-legged animal tethered to one of the boxes. It had close gray fur, long ears, and a high-pitched, braying whine.
“What is that?” Erick asked Marcus. “It looks like a horse gone wrong.”
“That’s a pack mule; we’ll use it to carry stuff. Don’t get near his back legs,” Marcus warned. “He’ll kick your teeth out if you give him half a chance.”
“I’ll let you deal with it.”
Marcus slipped inside the stall beside the mule and pushed aside a giant pile of hay, revealing several wooden boxes filled with items. He quickly sorted things out. Callan had provided generously. They had two weeks’ worth of food, bedding and tents, cooking equipment, a loose-fitting chain shirt, two daggers, and a supply of weapon oil, whetstones, and cleaning supplies. A pouch that clicked with coinage lay in the case; Marcus attached it to his belt.
“This is for you,” Marcus said, handing Erick a wooden box with a leather shoulder strap.
When Erick opened the box, he found a vast and varied supply of herbs. A piece of onionskin parchment lay on top. Unfolding it, he saw a message written in a light, flowing script. I can only assume you use the same things we do, so I hope these are beneficial. The signature was a single scripted letter: G.
“Who’s G?”
Marcus began loading supplies on the mule. “Gabrielle. You saw the two healers?”
“Yes.”
“She was the young one.”
“How did she know to give this to me?”
“Father may not think I’m a leader, but I’m smarter than he gives me credit for.”
“This was never about their rebellion,” Corby said. “It was only about getting us out and convincingly faking your death.”
Marcus tapped his finger on his nose. “Clever, aren’t you?”
“I am a scholar,” Corby said.
Erick stared at Marcus. “You let all those people who trusted you die just so we could run?”
“A lot more would die if we didn’t get you out,” Marcus said. “It’s not as dire as that. Dere and the rest disengaged after they knew we were clear. Hopefully, we didn’t lose any more than three, and gave just as good or better to Father.”
“How can you talk so casually about people you know dying?”
Marcus stopped loading the mule. “What’s my option?” He asked Erick. “To moan and wail? There’s a risk in any venture. We could have stayed there and let them take you and been safe, or we could get you free and take a chance of people dying. There may be a lot more death before this is over and even after all that, you may not succeed. Welcome to the real world.”
“You’re right,” Erick said, although he didn’t like admitting it. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Marcus said. “Just make sure you succeed, so none of this was in vain.”
Erick nodded. He hoped Caros would accept into his heaven anyone who died defending a Necromancer. He slipped on the padded leather gambeson and a chain shirt, adjusting it for the best fit. He attached the knives to his belt. Laden with the armor and supplies, he sympathized with their beast of burden.
“The gate is three blocks away,” Marcus said as he grabbed the reins attached to the mule. He pulled the mule along, while the others followed.
“What about your rebellion?” Erick asked. “Your father knows it’s real now. You’ve failed. And it’s my fault.”
“You’re just determined to flagellate yourself, aren’t you? Are all Necromancers like that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met any others.”
“Father knew about the rebellion anyway, which I suspected. We haven’t failed. We’ve had a setback, but we’re better provisioned than he suspects. And we have contacts in the government that he doesn’t.”
“You mean like the Geleit D’Arascant,” Elissia said, smiling. Erick didn’t understand the comment, but it made Marcus wince.
“Better than that,” Marcus said. “This revolution is just beginning.” He jerked a thumb at Erick. “We’ll wrap it up handily when you come back with us.”
Erick didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how likely it would be he could return. Even if he did, he didn’t have Marcus’s confidence the rebellion would still be alive.
They reached the gate and Erick took a last look at the city. It seemed strange to be walking out so casually, as if people weren’t fighting, and likely dying, less than half a mile away.
They walked around the outer wall, the way made easy by the cleared and level ground. They encountered few others, mostly merchants with laden wagons that traveled better outside the confining roads. The day already
grew warm and humid, the ocean breeze blocked by the intervening city. Sweat formed under Erick’s arms and knew it wouldn’t be long before beads started popping onto his forehead. The weight of his equipment already wore on him, and they hadn’t even started on the road. He shifted the box strap, trying to adjust it so the weight didn’t press into his shoulders so much.
“Put that on the mule,” Elissia said. “That’s what it’s for.”
The animal had already been laden with supplies. “Doesn’t he have enough?”
“He could carry twice what he’s got now,” Marcus said. “He’d bitch about it, but it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Okay,” Erick said, pulling the box off his shoulder. They paused and strapped the case to the braying creature before continuing.
As they reached the western gate, Erick spotted a familiar figure standing outside, nervously glancing around as people passed by.
“Here we are, Gabrielle,” Marcus called. She turned to them, and the tension eased in her shoulders, but not her face.
“What’s she doing here?” Elissia asked.
“She’s going with us. We may need a healer before it’s over, and I had to get her away from Valarie before the jealous crone squashed her talents.”
“I hope she works out better than your last rescue attempt.”
They reached her, and she said, “Callon says I’m to go with you.”
Marcus cocked his head, and his mouth tightened. “Don’t say it like it’s a death sentence. I thought you’d be happy to be away from Valarie.”
Gabrielle’s plain face twisted into an unreadable expression. “I suppose I am. Thank you,” she said, although her voice lacked any emotion.
Marcus turned to Erick, his black eyebrows bunched in confusion. “Well, let’s go.”
Erick studied Gabrielle. The girl appeared miserable, a small backpack and large herb box slung over her broad shoulders. She still wore her shapeless smock with the stitched healer’s sigil. “Are you sure you wish to go?”
She glanced between Marcus and Erick with her wide brown eyes. “I do wish to go, and I am grateful. It’s just...” She stared at Marcus for a long moment, before returning her gaze to the ground. “Never mind.”
Perplexed, but sensing nothing could be resolved here, Erick said, “Then Marcus is right, we should be moving.”
Blink flew high above them. When we’re a mile or so away, you can come down, Erick told the familiar.
“How did you get away from the fight?” Elissia asked.
“I slipped out in the confusion,” Gabrielle said. “It was easy, but I shouldn’t have gone. There were wounded.”
“Valarie can handle the fight,” Marcus said. He took Gabrielle’s hand. The girl’s green eyes lit up. “We need you more than she does.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus released her hand. Elissia frowned at her brother. “How was the fight going?”
Gabrielle shrugged. “There were people hurt. That’s all I know.”
“Valarie is going to be livid when she finds you gone, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Elissia said.
As they left, Erick sent out a thought to Geran but received no reply. They had been out of contact for too long, so Erick had lost his creation. He sighed. It would have made life easier to have the extra weapon.
A mile out, Blink re-joined them. Six travelers and one mule marched their way along Routh Krinnik, the northwestern road that would lead them to Broken Mountain, Erick’s destination. His thoughts turned to that distant crag. Once seven miles high, it had been shattered, blown apart by the desperate last battle between the three Inconnu and the ten Necromancers, so that now it rose only two miles into the sky, its top a broad plateau, the remains of the devastated peak spread around it like crumbs from a toppled cake.
A troubling memory came to him, hovering at the edge of awareness. Although he had never been to Broken Mountain, he had seen it in a dream; a dream that seemed relevant, but that he could not recall. Putting his hand on his necklace, he prayed, Caros, Denech, or both, please help me to remember what I have forgotten. Nothing came to him, and he felt suddenly forsaken, as if it amused the gods to let him figure it out on his own.
He shook off the gloomy thoughts. “We have a long journey, Corby. Tell us the stories you know about Twr Krinnik.”
“The Broken Mountain?” Corby asked. “Oh, I know plenty.”
Great, Blink thought to Erick as Corby launched into the first of his tales.
25
What is known of the Inconnu has been gleaned from captured Eligoi or Fist members, and that is precious little. They are not of this world, but whether they are spawned from the Aesir or denizens of the Hells, none can say.
-Report from High Commander Bryce Tarn of Kal Adan.
The Pratanin rocked gently in the Bay of Kalador, awaiting permission to dock. A detachment of the Dock Watch, their tan uniforms disheveled, poled out to the ship in a dingy, barely serviceable flatboat. They boarded and began inspecting the vessel for contraband.
While Fathen stood by the wheelhouse to avoid the warm sun, Andras fumed as the guards examined every corner of the vessel. The Watch Commander, bleary-eyed and stinking of drink, pompously badgered a nervous Talas-An to hand over his bills of lading.
After much prodding and poking, they found only bolts of desert cloth and casks of Sakenin sand crab ale, nothing in the least incriminating.
“You may dock and unload,” the obviously disappointed commander told the relieved captain.
No sooner were the mooring ropes tossed than Andras moved amidships in preparation for the lowering of the gangplank. Talas-an stood nearby, returning his papers to their leather satchel. Andras walked toward the captain, and the dark-eyed man flinched when the assassin moved toward him. Fathen followed.
Reaching into the hefty hide pouch hanging on his belt, full of hard currency from the sale of the icons, Andras pulled out a handful of golden coins and offered ten to the captain. Talas-an’s beady eyes lit up, but he hesitated.
“Take it,” Andras said. “To replace your missing crewmen.”
With a toothy grin, the Sakenin extended his hand, watching with delight as the coins clinked into it. “You generous.”
“Remember this and tell others you know,” Andras said as the last gold piece dropped from his palm. “The Fist is harsh, but the Inconnu do forgive. To those who are friends, the rewards can be great. The Sakenin tribes of Falan-Dar were friends to the Fist once; the Fist wishes them to be again.”
The captain bowed his head and clenched his fist around the money. “The Parshera were not friends to Inconnu, but Talas-An will be friend.”
“Then spread the word. Friends of the Inconnu will prosper. Those who oppose us will be crushed.” Andras turned and walked away, leaving Talas-an making profuse promises of loyalty to his back.
“Ten aesta?” Fathen asked as two large sailors lowered the gangplank. “That’s almost as much as he’ll make this whole trip.”
“Yes.”
“But why? It seems like a waste for someone who tried to kill us.”
“You heard what I told him?”
“Yes, but how do you know he’ll obey?”
“The tribesmen of Falan-Dar respect power and their traders respect money. I have shown him both. He will obey because I paid him and because he fears me. Did you note the other sailors watching? At the least, his crew will spread the word of my generosity. Until I return to my full power, the Fist needs allies. When I am again whole, those allies will help us gain armies.”
The sailors left, their job finished, and the two men started down the gangplank toward the docks. Andras said, “We must seek out a Procurer to learn news of the Necromancer.”
They moved across the docks, and Fathen forgot his questions as he soaked in the mostly forgotten sights, sounds, and smells of a large city. The odors this close to the docks and fish warehouses seemed a delectable perf
ume after the boring purity of soil and plants that had been his home for twenty years. He knew he would soon tire of the stench, but for now, it provided an exhilarating reminder of real life.
“There,” Andras said, nodding toward a brown-haired boy no older than ten who lounged on bundles of thick hemp rope, his feet dangling over the sides. He had a slothful manner, but his alert eyes belied his lazy posture.
As the two men approached, the boy sat up straighter and stared at them with his round face and dark brown eyes. His hands rested on the hemp, ready to spring him away.
“I would speak to your master,” Andras said.
“Orphan,” the boy said, his voice reedy and quiet. “Don’t have a master.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jyme.”
“I am Andras of the Fist.”
“Fist?” Jyme pondered a moment. “Many say Fist, none show Fist.”
Andras studied the crowd a moment. Fathen followed his gaze and saw nothing but people going about their business. Andras turned to the boy and casually rolled up his sleeve.
Jyme leaned in close to examine the tattoo. He spat on his hand and gave a brusque rub across the ink. “Seem real. Why see?”
“I think you know.”
“You want boy that bring back dead?”
“Exactly.”
“Could be problem,”
“Why is that?”
Jyme shrugged. “Have to ask master.” He leapt off the ropes, landed on the dock, and walked away, not even bothering to see if they followed.
As they moved through the crowded streets, the boy kept a watchful eye in all directions. Seeing a quartet of Royal guards in their brown hauberks, carrying shields with the silver rose painted upon them, he slithered behind a vendor’s stall, and Fathen momentarily lost sight of him. Once the guards passed, the boy reappeared and waited for the two men to catch up.
“Royal Sentinels in the docks?” Fathen asked Jyme. “What’s happened?”