by P B Hughes
But when Nera saw the city from atop that hill, she knew everything had changed. It was as if a blanket of shadow had fallen from on high. The city was barely recognizable: muted, crestfallen, full of fear.
Now, bands of goblins and wicked men crawled through the streets, patrolling, watching, enforcing the will of the Obsidian Plague. The city had been ransacked, Barnabas said. Overnight, even the richest citizens had been plundered into poverty. The goblin’s broke into the storehouses and emptied the winter food supply. Their voracious appetites were never satisfied; they consumed everything in sight. In two short weeks, they had created an urban famine.
Then, people started to disappear. Men, women, even children would go missing in the dead of night. Excuses were given by the townsfolk: perhaps they had escaped, perhaps they had gone for help. But in the back of their minds, they knew the truth: goblins were cannibals, and man flesh was a delicacy.
Feelings of helplessness, Barnabas confessed, made the people too afraid to fight back. They might have tried, if the battle was steel against steel. But it was the Cythes that made their courage melt. Any resistance and the monsters would murder them all.
Their leader was a Cythe named Maloch. A living skeleton, his body hidden beneath a smoky black cloak. Even the goblins would shudder at the mention of his name. Some nights he haunted the streets, hunting for foolish souls who might venture from their homes in search of food. Their horrid screams woke Barnabas many times, and he would pull his pillow over his head to shut them out. It was no mystery what happened to them. Their mangled bodies were left in the town square; a reminder of what would happen to those who disobeyed curfew.
“An army’s gathering,” Barnabas said early the next morning over a meal of dried bread and water. “There might have been hundreds of soldiers the first week, but more keep coming. I’ve lost count. Might be a thousand; might be two. They don’t need but five hundred to hold this city, and that’s being generous.”
“Then I say we head home and report our findings,” Gregory said. “Chancellor Bubbs will want to know an army is collecting so close to the Imperial City.”
Jelani turned a stern look on Gregory. “It is almost certain that the Empire knows what has happened here. They have many scouts and many spies. More than likely, they already have a plan of action. We, on the other hand, must complete our mission.”
“That’s stupid,” Gregory snarled. “We have our information. The goblins broke the treaty; why go on?”
“There are many goblin tribes,” said Jelani. “The tribes who attacked us in the arena were not of the Iron Cliffs, so it is possible that these goblins are not either.”
“Jelani does make a valid point,” said Sir Weston. “The goblins of the Iron Cliffs are made up of several tribes. However, they are led by the ruler of the Bloodwolf Clan, Chief Korophant—a proud, mighty warrior. If Korophant were here, we’d know it. He flies his colors with flourish.”
Defeated and scowling, Gregory leaned back against the wall, mumbling curses under his breath.
Nera stared at him sidelong, irritated. He’d been acting surly since they’d arrived in Riverton. “Uncle,” she said, “how should we go about retrieving your spider gear?”
“The supply warehouse is heavily guarded. But the good news is, goblins prefer to sleep at dawn. Humans usually take over at sunup. We should take our chances with the human guards, seeing as they tend to be less violent.”
“But what if they send you away?” Martha asked.
Barnabas scratched his brow. “They might. There’s no telling, really. And if that’s the case, I don’t know what we’ll do. Can’t fly out of here without that gear.”
“Don’t worry,” said Nera. “We’ll get it. Now Uncle, what do you need from us?”
“Not sure I need anything except protection,” Barnabas replied. “The guards will either buy my story or they won’t. It’s the journey there and back that I’m worried about. Travelling the streets is what’s most dangerous.”
“Then I suggest we send two of us with you as bodyguards,” said Nera.
“I volunteer,” Sir Weston said, standing. “It would be my honor to protect you on your mission, Barnabas.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Weston,” Nera replied. “But you’ll be of little help if a Cythe attacks. Besides, we need you alive to lead us to the Iron Cliffs. Better if I go with Gregory or Jelani. We need someone who can fight.”
“I’m staying here,” Gregory said. “I won’t risk my neck for some silly screw.”
“Gear,” said Martha wryly.
“Whatever.”
“You know, Gregory,” shot Nera, “I never noticed you were so concerned for your own skin.”
Gregory rose to his full height, his face flushed red. “I was nearly eaten rescuing you from that ogre, and you have the audacity to—”
“So that’s it,” Nera said, talking over him. “You put your life on the line and it frightened you, so you’ve lost your nerve.”
Jelani placed his hand on Nera’s shoulder. “I will go with you, Nera. Gregory should remain here.” He smiled down at her reassuringly and then shot a glance at Barnabas. “First, we must change into something less conspicuous and conceal our staffs.”
Nera had thought she had a good read on Gregory: good-hearted and true, if a bit absentminded. But when she locked eyes with him, he stared back at her with such ferocity she wondered if she had ever truly known him at all.
Maybe this journey is revealing everyone’s real nature, she thought as she pulled a brown cloak from her pack. She removed her golden cloak and pulled on the new one. It was itchy and ugly, but she didn’t care. She would do everything it took to ensure their mission was a success.
Dense fog met them outside, so thick Nera could barely see ten feet in front of her. Barnabas whispered that the fog was good, that they’d be harder to spot.
“Nearly all the merchants keep their goods in those warehouses,” Barnabas whispered over his shoulder as they traversed. “Built them there because it stays dry. The city’s on an incline. It’s prone to flooding with heavy rains like this, but not in the Highland District. Everything flows down from there.”
They continued on in silence down narrow roads, puddles splashing beneath their boots. Nera couldn’t help but notice the number of barrels that lay strewn about, knocked over on porches and in gutters. Their insides lay spilled out across the ground, plundered for any scrap of food they might contain. Occasionally, a man or woman would edge by them, careful not to meet their eyes. Many simply ducked into an alleyway to avoid them altogether. It was disturbing, Nera thought, to feel such fear in the air; to feel the suspicion of every soul in the city. But, try as she might to feel otherwise, she was equally distrustful of everyone she saw. It had to be that way; no one knew who had aligned themselves with the Plague and who hadn’t.
They rounded the corner out of the maze of byways and into a broad, deserted street. The only sound was wind and the creaking of shop signs on Nera’s right and left. Barnabas slowed, glancing around frenetically. It was clear the emptiness made him nervous.
Something moved out of the corner of Nera’s eye. She reached for her staff but stayed her hand. Out of the mist, a leather ball came rolling up to her feet. She let out a sigh of relief and picked up the ball.
A little girl came running after it, but when she saw Nera, she skidded to a halt. Her eyes went wide and she took a step back. Nera was startled by how frail the girl looked; her cheekbones protruded, and her hair was like wispy yellow feathers on her head. She wondered how her uncle had stayed so plump while others withered away.
“It’s all right,” said Nera. She set the ball down and gave it a soft kick with her toe.
Warily, the girl picked it up. She looked up at Nera, and a grin flickered on her lips.
“Lilian,” hissed a voice from behind the girl. “Get back inside—hurry, they’re coming!”
The girl cast a longing look at Nera and scurried away.<
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Barnabas ushered them off the street and beneath the eaves of a deserted shop. “Keep your heads down,” he said. “It’s a patrol, no doubt. If they decide to stop us, it’s over.”
The sound of footsteps caught Nera’s ear. Sure enough, a patrol of armed guards was heading their way. A small part of Nera wanted to be discovered. She wanted a fight. She wanted revenge for what the brutes had done to the townsfolk.
But when she saw them, twelve shadowy figures hulking in the mist, her courage faltered. They were men but they looked inhuman. Heavy armor rose about their bodies like flames, and their faces were shrouded by long black hair. They had no shields, and wore giant two-handed broadswords on their backs. And then, one of them looked directly at Nera.
His eyes were two solid spheres of black, and there was a strange glint in them. It was not the brightness in a person’s eye, the light of the living. No, this was abnormal—red in color, devilish and cruel.
He halted.
Nera dropped her gaze, berating herself for looking. You fool, she thought, you fool, you fool.
The rest of the troop seemed to pay their comrade no mind, heading down the road without a second glance. Seconds crawled by, and then, one of the Plague shouted to the lone soldier. His eyes broke off from Nera. Then, to her relief, he grunted and headed away.
When the soldiers were at a safe distance, Barnabas spoke in a frightened tone: “Those are Paragons—the Plague’s top soldiers. Not sure why they’re on patrol this time of day. One thing’s for sure: our mission just got more dangerous.”
“They looked like devils,” said Nera, shuddering. “Not men.”
“That they may be. Born killers, the lot of them.”
“We will have to be more careful going forward,” said Jelani. “It would be difficult for Gregory to lead a rescue mission should we be captured.”
“Gregory,” Nera huffed. “He wouldn’t rescue us. He’d stay behind and sulk.”
“He rescued you from the ogre.”
Nera marched into the street, annoyed at Jelani for being so measured. “Yeah, well, he’s been a regular snot since then.”
“He is just tired and sick. You heard Martha—he is running a high fever.”
“We’re all tired. Some of us just bear it better than others.”
Jelani’s brow raised. “Fever makes the head foggy. But Gregory will get over it; give him time.”
“I’d rather give him a punch in the nose.”
“That’s enough jabbering, you two,” said Barnabas, his eyes shifting. “We need to get a move on.” He pointed off down the road to a sharp bend. “The supply warehouse is just around that way.”
“Wait,” said Nera. She reached into her pack and pulled out a hunk of bread. She hurried over to the steps of the little girl’s decrepit home. She could see the yearning in her uncle’s eyes; he licked his lips at the sight. Nera did not pity him. He was fat of off something, and his weight had aroused her suspicions. She set the bread down and hurried back to her uncle. “There. Now let’s go.”
The supply warehouse was one in a row of square, three-story structures built with little concern for beauty. Nera peered up at their target from the safety of an alleyway—a gray, pockmarked building surrounded by a walled-off courtyard. Above her head, long-forgotten laundry hung from windowsills, fluttering in the wind. The houses seemed abandoned, and the garments were brown and dirty. Nera wondered why the clothes were left. Perhaps the owner had moved, frightened at being close to such a highly patrolled area. Or, she thought grimly, maybe this was the home of one of the poor souls who was abducted by goblins.
A giant drop of rain exploded on Nera’s nose, dousing her lashes. Lighting flashed, thunder rumbled. The stormy weather had returned.
Nearly all the warehouse windows had been broken by Plague looters, Barnabas had said. But Maloch had forced them to stop and ordered them to put everything back in its place. The advanced items, mostly constructed by Chimaroos, were to be kept under lock, key, and guard—spoils for the Plague military.
Two surly guards were outside the gate. One of them leaned in the doorframe, shouldering a pike and taking a snooze. His moth-eaten cloak was wrapped about his shoulders and head, and Nera could hear his ragged snoring. The other guard sat cross-legged on the ground with a sword lying across his lap. He ignored the rain as it began to clang on his armor and drench his hair and beard. Another soldier circled the warehouse every few minutes, spear lazily draped over his shoulders. When he passed the other two guards, he did so in silence. For all the trouble the Cythes had taken to protect the wares, Nera thought their choice in guards seemed poor.
“All right, you two,” Barnabas whispered, “stay hidden. These Plague rats are unpredictable. They may let me in, they may send me on my way.” He shifted his weight nervously. “I don’t want think about what they’ll do if they’re in sour moods. If they try anything, then blast their heads off, fry them up hot—whatever you Miraclists do.”
“We’ll keep you safe, Uncle,” said Nera. “Don’t worry.”
“Good. Now, I may be awhile. The gear is on the second or third floor, but I’m not really sure. Don’t leave me though, no matter how long I take.”
Barnabas rolled up his sleeve to show the eye on his wrist—the mark of the Obsidian Plague. With a grimace, he turned and walked out of the alley and into the street. He hallooed a safe distance away. The guard on the ground stirred.
Barnabas waved the mark on his wrist and inched closer. “I’ve been sent from the Industrial District,” he said. “Been ordered to retrieve a spider gear. A Sky-Whale’s in bad shape; needs some repairs.”
The man sat silent, watching, unmoving.
Barnabas continued. “We haven’t been able to fly them; now they’re deteriorating. A Whale’s natural place is the sky, you know. Not in some hangar.”
Still the guard said nothing.
Barnabas drew up only a few feet from the guard. He seemed at ease, for the most part. Nera thought things were going well.
Suddenly, the soldier snatched his sword and aimed it at Barnabas’ belly. “What do we have here?” he said, giving Barnabas a cracked-tooth smile. “A merchant come to get free supplies?”
Barnabas flinched with fright. He placed his hand over his heart and chuckled uneasily. “That looks pointy, it does,” he said. He cleared his throat. “But, no, I’m no merchant. More of a transporter. I used to ship goods. But now they’re using my expertise as a technician to make repairs. But there now, I’m boring you. I can see it by the dull look in your eyes. What I’m really here for is—”
“Tell me,” interrupted the guard. “How’s it that every man in this city is starving, but you’re plump as a pumpkin?”
“I—” said Barnabas, a confused look overtaking his face. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re fat. Everyone else is starving.”
Barnabas reddened. “I’m just naturally big-boned, is all.” He smoothed the front of his cloak and continued. “Now, as I was saying, I’ve been ordered to get a spider gear for repairs to the Sky-Whale.”
“Maloch said to let no one in,” dismissed the guard. “Now, Jelly Belly, tell us your secret. You got a stash somewhere?”
Barnabas began to back away. “Now, I don’t want any trouble. I just came for a gear is all.”
No, you fool, Nera thought, don’t back up. Tell him Maloch sent you! Give him a reason—frighten him!
The guard stood and walked toward Barnabas, twirling his blade as he went. “You should have worn a girdle round that chubby waist of yours.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” Barnabas cried.
“Tell me where the food is before I cut you down to size!”
“Rats!” cried Barnabas, falling to his knees.
“Rats?” growled the guard.
“I’ve been eating rats! I have a trap from the warehouse I set up in the street. I can catch two, maybe three a night. It’s not good eating, but it’s better than starvi
ng.”
The guard spit in Barnabas’ face. “Would have been better for you if you’d starved.” He raised his blade to strike him.
Lightning flashed overhead. Nera aimed her staff at the heavens.
A bolt cracked the sky. It struck the guard mid-swing, lighting him like a torch. Barnabas fell backwards, and the other guard stared at his comrade, now smoldering on the ground.
“Jelani,” Nera hissed, “get me over that wall.”
“What good will that do?” Jelani replied.
“I can find the gear,” she said. “I know what it looks like. Now hurry—we haven’t much time before more guards come.”
“But Nera, I—”
Nera grabbed Jelani’s staff and tugged him forward. “Quit dawdling. Look, here comes the other guard—they’re distracted!”
Jelani’s eyes flashed. The ground rumbled; a staircase formed at the base of the wall.
“Keep my uncle safe,” said Nera.
She darted to the staircase, the rain muting her footsteps. Up and over she sped, landing with a splash in the mud. Her eyes rose to the top of the warehouse. Three stories seemed far higher now than it had on the other side of the wall.
She searched for an open window, but those on the first floor were barred. To her right there grew a tree, its branches rising up to the second floor just over a broken window. It looked sturdy enough to climb.
Shouts echoed in the streets; she hoped her uncle was okay.
Nera tied her staff to her back and raced to the tree, climbing up the slick bark, higher and higher until reached the windowsill. But before she took hold, she paused and searched for her uncle. Her stomach tied into a knot: he was gone! But so were the guards; only the smoking body remained. Still, Jelani remained crouching in the shadows of the alleyway, and that reassured her. He would never let her uncle be captured.