by Travis Smith
Chapter 6:
The Brothers
1
“Y
ou have damned yourself coming here. And your kin!” she hissed. Her pin-straight, black hair sagged to her midriff as she shook her head in frustration. Ghostly, silver-colored eyes surrounded her wavering pupils. “The Hoxar Woods will ne’er let you leave alive.”
“Saleema, we’ve dedicated our lives to this,” Ian Meng replied. “We’re prepared to die to find him.”
His young brother stood silent behind him, his resolve visibly more shaken than Ian’s own. He slowly nodded, nonetheless.
“Magic that powerful is impossible to conjure here in my home, with no notice at all. And even if I could do it, it would cost a soul to make it work,” Saleema whispered, though the trio were alone in her cabin. “You’ll damn him.”
“You’re the most brilliant enchantress I know,” Ian assured her. “If anyone can do this, it is you.”
“You’re a flattering fool, Meng,” she scoffed. “Your adulation will not help you here. I cannot create from mere drawings.”
Ian held up a stack of papers overflowing with erratic drawings and writings. “I have more than drawings in here. These ledgers contain lifetimes of knowledge. My research is thorough, and I—”
“Knowledge is not a totem from which spells may draw power,” Saleema interrupted.
“Of course it is!” Ian barked. “Knowledge is the most powerful totem in the multiverse!”
Saleema closed her eyes and held up a hand to stay the man’s raving before it got out of hand. She had seen him in his prime. “Leave with your lives, while you still have half a chance …”
“Saleema, I implore you,” Ian sighed. “We’ve risked everything to come here. We’ve braved your Hoxa sisters and reached the end of it all. This is the end for us.”
“It won’t work,” she maintained, her glassy eyes piercing Ian’s own unfaltering gaze. “It is not possible …”
“We understand well the risks. I stand before you a man with nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
The witch mused for a long stretch, but neither of the brothers moved to interrupt her thoughts. The night outside the cabin was silent, unnaturally void of wind, weather, or beast to disturb the still air.
When she spoke at last, her tone had softened. “Perhaps I can give you a glimpse.”
“This will work,” Ian repeated.
Saleema shook her head and looked at Ian’s younger brother. Ian turned to look at him as well. His stern face lit with his lopsided grin as he did. His brother tipped his head in slow, somber agreement.
2
When The Stranger finally awoke within his cell, his wounds had nearly healed, but a bone-deep, distant ache remained. He reached down to touch his abdomen, where the Hyd had orally removed a chunk of flesh. He winced at the sting as he touched the frail, inflamed scar tissue that now covered the deep wound. His wince sustained when he attempted to bend his toes, one of which had nearly been chewed off his foot.
“Who’s ’at?” a voice in his cell exclaimed.
The Stranger squinted against the bright setting sun and spared no heed to the elderly man who was staring at him with a carefree smile.
“Mmhmm,” agreed the other man in the cell’s corner, clearly giving the geezer as much thought as The Stranger had. He was squatting in the corner with his back turned, more interested in his scribblings in the dirt. His wooden spoon had been worn down to a nub as he’d turned it around and used the handle to draw compulsively in the dry, packed clay in the cell’s corner.
The Stranger had been asleep on the cell’s sole cot—for how long he knew not—and now he struggled to sit upright.
“Hmm?” the black-haired man in the corner asked, glancing up as The Stranger groaned. “Oh! The King lives!” he tittered, turning around with a bright smile.
“What?” The Stranger asked. “You know who I am?”
“Nope!” the younger of the two men replied. He had tufts of black hair that stood up straight in cowlicks all over. The most prominent one at the front of his head was peppered with a streak of grey-white. “Been serving ya like slaves to a king, while you rested off your—your—your sickness. Didn’t think you’d make it there for quite a time.”
“Who?” the elder in the opposite corner demanded, still smiling dementedly.
“Our stranger,” the man replied dismissively. “So, who then?” He smiled.
“Exactly that,” The Stranger replied. “A stranger.”
“I’m Ian. Ian Meng,” he said, unfazed at the dismissal.
“Gregoire Gildersleeve!” the older man shouted jovially. He had a round head that was bald on top with white wispy hair that circled the sides and back and stood out in all directions. He smiled a bright, absent smile showing shrinking old teeth with growing spaces in between.
“He goes by that,” Ian agreed, tipping his head toward his companion.
In the waiting silence that followed, The Stranger gazed out of his cell bars at the hellscape before him. Dismal wails and mutterings echoed through the prison’s courtyard. “Why did you revive me?” he asked. “Why would you save my life only to condemn me to this?”
“Best day ever, for old friends!” Gregoire barked.
“Well,” Ian nodded to the old man, “that. But also they insisted on it. Don’t wanna get on the—the—the, uh, the guards’ bad sides in this place. One in particular brought every herb I asked for in your aid.” He sat across the cell from The Stranger, still squatting in the dirt. Now he lunged forward and crawled toward the cot and whispered, “Requested an extra tincture of one or two for me an’ Greggy to help through the bleaker nights, if ya know what I mean.” With that, he chuckled a shh-shh-shh-shh sound through closed teeth.
The Stranger shook his head.
“Wasn’t any fur off his hide—they don’t know potions like we do.” He motioned at himself and Gregoire. “No questions asked.”
“Delightful,” The Stranger replied with a dark tone that seemed to close the discussion.
Ian remained in a squatting position for a few more moments of silence. The Stranger peered out of the cell morosely while Gregoire wore an untroubled grin.
At last Ian crawled back to the corner and resumed drawing his circles in the dirt.
3
The air above Ankar Lake held the crisp, pristine quality found only in dreams. Fluffy white wisps of clouds skated slowly across the bright blue sky, fingertips reaching down to touch the tips of the large, rolling hills on the outskirts of Krake. To the north, Mount Kolva’s snowy summit hid from the warm summer sun behind thicker white clouds. No sounds of insurgencies or uprisings echoed across the lake, as all those sounds had faded away. The populace was prospering and more contented than ever before. Laura was lying in the lush grass with a resting William by her side. She smiled and reached with one fair-skinned arm to touch her lover’s cheek. She pulled him close to plant a slow kiss upon his lips as the sun shone down, a perfectly cool breeze breaking up the heat.
Bernard smiled back and accepted the kiss with divine content.
As he pulled away, a man was rushing toward them through the plains. Bernard stood and stepped protectively in front of Laura and William. He drew his short blade from a sheath on his waist. When the man drew closer, Bernard’s eyes widened in dread. It was his brother.
“He’s alive …” he muttered.
Bernard’s heart pounded in his chest. He tightened his grip upon the knife and stepped forward to end this once and for all, but as his brother approached, a pure-black flash appeared from nowhere. It shrank and vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and with it went the accosting man, leaving naught but the bright blue sky and brilliant green grass of the plains.
Bernard broke out in a full dash for the castle.
“He’s still alive!” he wheezed as he crashed through the castle’s gate. He raced through the halls and toward the Throne Room door, which stood open. As he app
roached, the double doors slowly drew together. The closer Bernard got, the faster they shut. “He’s still alive!” he screamed, the doors slamming shut at last with a bleak finality.
—
Bernard snapped awake in the night, heart still pounding in his chest. “He’s still alive,” he moaned again, breathless. He reached out with his arms and clutched at the wall as he sat up in bed, both to steady himself and to reassure himself that he was truly in his quarters inside his castle. “He’s alive …”
He had not spoken with the mysterious man who had quietly helped him rise to power for quite some time now, since the incident with the baker’s daughter. In light of the recent revelation that his brother may be in a prison in Fordar, The Baron thought it best to hold council before embarking on a lengthy and trying journey across the Great Sea.
He donned a wardrobe more fitting for late-night expeditions and made his way out the castle’s door. As heavily as the events of that long-ago night had weighed on his mind, the act had proven rather effective in deterring the swell of rebellions. Occasional bouts of insurgency still arose, but they were sparse and poorly organized, easily quashed by The Baron’s loyalists. This particular night was quiet as he made his way through the city and toward the abandoned cabins on the outskirts of town.
“Quite some time …” the man mused without turning to look at him when Bernard entered the cabin.
Bernard allowed the familiar sense of unease to wash over him before replying. “Indeed. I’ve come because I will be leaving Reprise for quite a while.”
“You think me oblivious to this development?” the man asked. He turned now to face Bernard. He was thin with pallid skin that appeared nigh translucent. His heavy black cloak swayed around his ankles. The hood was resting atop his shoulders, revealing a bald, grey scalp.
“So you knew?” Bernard asked.
The man cocked his head in silent inquisition. “I do not read minds, fool.”
“What exactly is it that you do?”
“My powers know few bounds, boy, so have care how you’d address me.”
Bernard glared at the man in silence.
“If you’ve something to say, then say it. I did not adopt such risk to play petty games with your inconsequential emotions.”
“What did you do to the girl?” Bernard demanded at last.
The man snarled and waved a pale, long-fingered hand in dismissal. “I have power, you worm. I have not devoted my existence to a pursuit of your worldly dominance. You came to me seeking guidance for quelling the uprisings, and I delivered. Now you threaten to unravel all that we’ve built together? All that I’ve built for you? Simply because you do not understand my power?”
“Why did you not merely kill her, as we had discussed?”
The man’s gaunt face contorted in transient rage, and his raspy hiss vanished. “I delivered unto her a fate worse than death!” he bellowed.
Bernard shook his head. “She’s still alive.”
The warlock raised his hand to halt Bernard’s speech. In an instant, he stood before Bernard, and his slick indifference had given way to unquestionable fury. His thin chest heaved beneath the black cloak. The cabin’s walls creaked dangerously, as if the very air within the cabin had expanded and threatened to push them outward. “Question not my power again, mortal, or I will show you exactly what lay on the other side of that dark flare,” he hissed through gritted, serpent’s teeth. “Proceed with your matters of dominion.”
Bernard’s resolve had faltered as the man’s hot, sour breath flowed down on him. In all the time the two had worked together, he’d never dared step close enough to feel the extent of his presence. He took a step backward toward the cabin door before speaking again. “Where is my brother? Is he in Fanxel prison?”
The man dropped his arm and walked back toward his chair, his air of insouciance reinstated. “My mind cannot confirm such.”
“Why?” Bernard asked. “Your eye has the power to see all.”
“Your unsophisticated understanding of my powers surprises me not. The man who once was your brother is no more. Whoever he has become is a stranger to me. My eye cannot discern him.”
Bernard thought in uninterrupted silence for a time. At last he slowly nodded his head. “Then I must away to Fordar, it seems.”
“So it does,” the man replied, settling back into his chair, his back to the guest. “Slay the rightful king, as you tried once before, or bring him back and have him open the doors himself.”
“What lay beyond those doors?” Bernard demanded not for the first time, his hand upon the cabin door.
“What lay beyond those doors is the symbol you seek so desperately to seal your quest for power—the throne. The ressst,” the man hissed, his tone conclusive, “is mine. Only a true king shall know what treasures lie within, and a true king you shall never be. Now go and still the blood that’s inherited that power. Fulfill your end of the bargain. Only then will your helpless captive be rightful heir—only then will he possess the power to open the doors.”
“And what if I simply kill the child as well?” Bernard spat. “This whole plan has gone to shit anyway. He was supposed to be the final living successor to the throne to make opening the door simple. What would befall if I merely squashed his tiny beating heart after my brother is gone? Then who would be king?”
“Since the dawn of this realm,” the voice spoke, “no mind has been perverse enough to think it.”
The man was still seated in the chair facing away from Bernard, but he did not need to see his face to hear his lips spread across his teeth in a barbarous smile. He did not need to see the smile to know that the man’s mind had thought it.
4
The evening chill lingered as an autumn sun rose above the eastern horizon. The waves prodded docilely at the rocky shores of a lonely and peculiar island. Tyranny had arrived and departed, leaving in its wake a trail of blood and destruction. The lines between good and evil had been blurred, and the punisher once committed to thwarting evil had grown confused and unpredictable. The beast had threatened to tear the island apart. But now all parties had vacated or perished therein. For now, there was peace.
Eugene sat in his rocker upon the porch and closed his eyes against the rising sun, a thin smile forming on his face beneath the warmth. At last, there was peace. But his serenity was short-lived. Unsettling feelings which he had been unable to shake crept back into his gut. Since The Stranger had fled his island, he’d been plagued by such thoughts. There was peace for now, but the old man was cursed with an awareness of the darkness to come. He’d imprisoned the man thinking him a pirate, and by the time he understood who he truly was, it was too late. The Baron’s scouts had arrived, and his backup plan to free The Stranger had failed. The man had fled with haste, not understanding of the stakes which he’d claimed. Now he could be anywhere—most likely place being the bottom of the Great Sea. Eugene’s stubborn grasp on The Stranger was lost, and he could not shake the notion that all else, too, was lost …
But perhaps there was one last chance …
5
The first night after he had fully regained consciousness was the longest for The Stranger. Eventually the days blended together, and the periods of monotony peppered with some public display of horror dragged on. The slop that was delivered to them bordered on inedible, and the man-creature who delivered it remained insufferable.
“We meet again, Stranga,” Skuttler had said on his morning rounds once The Stranger had finally regained his health.
“You—” The Stranger was aghast that their paths should cross again.
“Ah!” Ian chimed in. “This is the gentleman that’s been bringing your herbs while you recovered.”
“Been watchin’ ya sleep,” Skuttler said with a wicked grin.
“As I recall, you made a living of that in another life, innkeeper Miles,” The Stranger replied.
The man’s smile dissipated. “Skuttler now, I done told ya back on that i
sland,” he growled.
Gregoire ignored the bitter exchange and rolled his food bowl toward the cell’s door, along with Ian’s.
Without taking his gaze from The Stranger’s, Skuttler slopped a ladleful of whey into each bowl. He plopped the third scoop in the dirt next to them. “Ye’d be keen t’ watch yer serpent tongue while yer in these walls. I ain’t some commoner ye can take advantage and make a fool of anymore.”
“Ah, yes! You’ve moved up in ranks to chow courier!”
Skuttler’s face twisted with rage, but he glanced across the prison’s courtyard at two armed guards. His tongue flicked to the sore on the corner of his mouth before gliding slowly over deep, red bite marks on his lower lip. “Ye’ll get yers, Stranger,” he muttered under his breath before turning back to his morning rounds.
“So you know him?” Ian asked after a moment of silence.
The Stranger did not respond. Instead, he scowled at the hunkering man as he walked away until he was out of sight. Guards paced the grounds in small groups, gabbing distractedly and occasionally breaking away to torment a troubled prisoner. The Stranger pondered how their lives must have shifted with the turn of power. Misguided, misinformed, and maligned members of society who had grown in the shadows, concealing their shifty deeds from the rest of the world, now free to roam the streets carefree. Their fates the exact antithesis of the most productive and well-meaning members of society who refused to bow to tyranny, many of whom inhabited these very cells.
Ian eventually returned to his corner to resume his etchings in the dirt.
“Who’s ’at stranger?” his companion belted with the same intonations as the last hundred times he’d asked.
Ian did not reply.
“Ehh?” Gregoire said, staring at The Stranger.
“Eh?” The Stranger huffed. “Yes. A stranger. Don’t talk to strangers.”