by P B Hughes
“It’s okay, lad,” Barnabas said. “No one could have foreseen what happened. Besides, it’s my fault. I should have known better. For now, I won’t be taking any more trips to the pub. Shouldn’t be doing that, anyway, seeing as its often swarming with Plague Rats. The beer is all watered down, anyway. At any rate, I don’t need any more drinks.” He tapped his temple “Need to keep the noggin sharp. Those repairs won’t make themselves.”
“How long will it take to get the ship up and running?” Gregory asked.
“Two days. Maybe three. I’m just glad the Industrial guards aren’t nearly so nasty. Don’t ask questions, neither. Should be smooth sailing from here.” Barnabas stood and shuffled over to the corner of the room and began rummaging inside a barrel. He pulled out an object that looked like a tiny bear trap. “Now, it’s time to get my dinner.”
Jelani gave the man a disgusted look as he marched up the stairs.
“He’s going to get dinner and didn’t offer us anything?” Gregory asked, insulted. His stomach had been growling the whole day through. Even the mention of food made him salivate.
Jelani lay back, folding his hands behind his head. “How do you like your rats cooked, Gregory? Medium or extra crispy?”
Chapter 23
A bone-chilling scream woke Gregory in the early morning hours. It was Nera. She was searching the room frantically with wide, glazed eyes. Though Martha and Sir Weston urged her that everything was all right, that she was safe, she did not seem to hear. She only sat there on her mat, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. Then, she looked directly at Gregory and breathed four words: “The shadows are alive!”
Martha rushed to Nera’s side, taking hold of her hand. She spoke softly, gently lowering Nera back onto her mat. Nera calmed, and was soon sound asleep.
“A night terror,” said Martha, glancing at Jelani. “She’s okay.” She gave him a reassuring half-smile.
Sir Weston shushed them and climbed the stairs. He cocked his head outside the door and listened. After a long pause, he released a breath and walked back down the creaking stairs. “A scream like that could give away our position. I hope she returns to normal soon.” He stopped at the base of the stairs and gazed up at the dimly glowing window. “More than that, I hope that Barnabas finishes the repairs in a timely manner. We need to get Nera out of this cursed city; it seems she is bewitched.”
“She’s been through a traumatic experience,” said Martha. “It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed. Nightmares are only natural.”
“But screaming like that isn’t natural,” said Gregory, his skin still crawling. He remembered the whispers he had heard in the alley and wondered if Martha and Sir Weston had heard them, too. But couldn’t bring himself to ask, afraid they might be in his head. “Everything in this city is off. It feels like it’s haunted.”
“Gregory, stop it,” said Martha.
“I’m just saying that everything seems to have a dark aura about it. You saw those soldiers out there. They looked like armored spirits.”
“Barnabas called them Paragons,” Jelani inserted. “He said they are the Obsidian Plague’s best human fighters.”
Martha fidgeted, clearly unsettled by the very thought of the supernatural. “They were made of flesh and blood,” she said. “The same as you and I.”
“I never said they were actual spirits,” snapped Gregory. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts. But ghosts or not, I wouldn’t want to cross blades with them.”
“Formidable foes, to be sure,” said Sir Weston. “Even I might have trouble combatting a squadron like the one we saw.”
Gregory rolled his eyes. He was certain Sir Weston couldn’t defeat one Paragon, much less a squadron. But, in truth, as much as the soldiers intimidated him, it was the unexplainable things that were happening to him that frightened him most. “Those soldiers aren’t the only thing that feels off to me.”
“What else, Gregory?” Jelani asked, his dark eyes pressing.
Gregory looked at Jelani. He immediately regretted the statement. For a brief moment, he had wanted to tell them about the whispers, about the way the streets seemed to bend and swirl. He wanted to tell them about the voice inside his head that condemned him and the beating of drums in his ears. But now, he realized that to speak of such things would leave him vulnerable. Not only that, it could lead to more questioning. And with all the silly talk of curses, it might lead to questions about the treasure and his crown. And no matter what, he would never admit to taking it. So, instead of answering truthfully, he diverted, saying: “Never mind. The wind and the rain just make me feel on edge.”
Jelani bought it, nodding with understanding. “Evil has a firm grip on this city. I am sure that once we escape, your head will begin to clear. For now, we must remember that being in such a dark place can make our minds behave in strange ways. I too have sensed many strange things here, Gregory.”
Gregory leaned in, hoping Jelani was about to speak of the whispers. But he didn’t. Instead, the boy closed his eyes and said: “In times such as these, we must cling to the power of light, the power of the Creator. For the light is a power that gives hope to the righteous, and strikes terror in the hearts of the wicked.”
Gregory had heard people talk of a ‘power of light’ throughout his life as if it was some sort of good luck charm. They would toss up prayers whenever they wanted something—riches, better health, a litany of possessions. He even met a young man who was praying for a wife. It sounded absurd to him. If someone wanted riches, they had to go out and get them, not whisper something to the sky and hope gold fell in their lap. And now Jelani, someone he respected, was speaking as if there was power in the light? Well, Gregory didn’t buy it. He had tried praying before. The night his mother died he prayed in earnest for her life; he spoke to the heavens but he did not know to whom or what. It was the only prayer he had ever uttered—the only thing he had ever asked for. And while others walked about constantly asking for this and that, he had only wanted one thing; he was a little boy who wanted to keep his mother. That was it. A simple request denied.
Power in the light, Gregory scoffed silently to himself. He thought of his crown, his treasure. There isn’t a power of light and a power of darkness. There is only the power of gold. Those who have it, and those who don’t.
Nera woke again that afternoon, drowsy and groggy. Gregory informed her that their mission had been a relative success. She didn’t seem to care, even when Gregory told her they had essentially been used as bait. She complained of a headache, drank some water, and drifted off to sleep. Martha had stayed by her side all the while, pouring healing mist on her brow.
The repairs seemed to take forever. Fortunately, for the next three days, the rain stopped and the sun peeked out, shooting a warm beam down from the thin cellar window. Gregory basked in the rectangle as it passed through the room, for they were not allowed to leave. His mood remained fairly positive during those days. And while everyone stayed quiet, worrying, fidgeting, restlessly sleeping, he actually enjoyed the rest.
In the morning of each day, Barnabas would stop by and inform them of his progress.
“She’s coming along,” he’d say. “There’s more work to be done than I thought. Shouldn’t be long now.”
He told them the men who planned the attack had been captured—all twelve of them. He expected them to be slaughtered, left in the town square as examples for those who might consider another uprising. Instead, they were carried away from the town in cages, black hoods covering their heads. At first, this pleased Gregory. The lad hadn’t been killed after all, and that cleared him of any blame. But his pleasure was short-lived. All of them, he realized, would meet a fate far worse than death.
Barnabas fretted at first. He and Jelani had been seen by the guards; certainly, his role in the theft would be made known. But the morning of the third day, he came in clapping his hands for joy.
“The two guards who saw us were executed by Maloch. The Cythe was so angry
at them for their carelessness, he went mad with rage—didn’t even listen to their story. He took them both in each hand and strangled the life out of them! Looks like we’re in the clear. No one to tell on us. The perfect crime.”
“No one except Geoffrey,” said Gregory.
Barnabas frowned. “You may not trust him, but Geoffrey keeps his mouth shut. It’s a virtue and a vice. Besides, he’s been assisting me with the repairs. He wants to get out of here, same as you do.”
“There are men you can trust and men you cannot,” said Jelani. “But there are also men who act predictably. While you may not trust their character, you can know with certainty what their next move will be.”
Barnabas nodded his agreement. “Exactly.”
“Barnabas, what of security?” asked Sir Weston.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve noticed more patrols going by. Before, there were only two per day—dawn and dusk. Now there are four: dawn, dusk, noon, and midnight.”
Barnabas squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said. “There’s been talk that the Plague has beefed up security. More patrols, more questioning, more disappearances. I haven’t concerned myself too much with it, though. Been preoccupied with my work.”
“But that’s information we need,” said Gregory. “You can’t just ignore things like that.”
“Right you are,” agreed Barnabas. “Especially since they’ve been searching homes more often.”
Nera coughed and sat up. “Searching homes? For us?”
Barnabas would not meet her gaze. “For you, I’m afraid. Maloch knows there’s a Gold Miraclist on the loose in the city. But he doesn’t know about the rest of you; or what you look like.”
“And if they happen to stumble upon some refugees hiding in your basement, what then?” asked Nera.
Barnabas scratched his head. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose you’ll have to fight.” He pulled his hood over his head. “May it not come to that! I’m off to make repairs. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning.”
When he shut the door, Gregory leaned back against the wall and muttered, “We’re all going to die. We’re in the care of a nincompoop.”
“What he lacks in common sense,” said Nera, “he makes up for in technical knowledge. We just need to post a guard going forward.”
“You can count on me,” Sir Weston asserted. “I will remain vigilant. Night and day, I shall be on watch. You do not need to fear.”
“Good,” Nera replied, yawning. “I’m going back to sleep.”
The next day, storm clouds rolled back in. This time, it began to drizzle. The rectangle of light faded; Gregory’s mood soured. The basement was beginning to stink, and Gregory was hungry. Always hungry. Cooked rat was beginning to sound good to him. And so Gregory sank into the shadows, waiting as the hours crept by.
Finally, on the fifth day of their captivity, when Gregory had all but given up hope, Barnabas arrived with Geoffrey, a look of anxious joy on his face.
“Get ready, lads and lassies,” he announced. “The repairs are made. We leave tonight!”
Chapter 24
Sir Weston led the way through the maze of narrow streets, followed by Martha and then Gregory. Nera, Jelani, and Barnabas had left the cellar an hour before with the bulk of their supplies. Barnabas had them leave in groups of three rather than all together, and since Sir Weston knew the location of the Air Shipyard, he acted as their guide.
A light rain blew chill against Gregory’s face and hands. The rest of him was covered by a tattered brown cloak loaned to him by Barnabas. Gregory felt claustrophobic as the shops and homes, wilted from the years of intense northern weather, squeezed close on either side of them. He objected to taking the streets rather than the rooftop pathways, but Barnabas told them there would be fewer check points to navigate.
These streets reek, Gregory wanted to shout as he stepped over an overflowing gutter. It was all he could do not to vomit. It was no wonder the people kept to the rooftops in this part of town—their sewer system was archaic. To keep his disgust at bay, Gregory focused all of his energy on acting casual. Each step he took felt measured as he tried his best to perform like a man who belonged in the bowels of the city. He pretended to pay no heed to the random guard or vagabond who brushed by them, but each one added to the pit of anxiety forming in his belly. It’s hard to look normal with the threat of death around every corner, he wanted to complain to Martha. He shifted his pack and wished for his staff. Not that it would matter, he realized, cursing the rain for the hundredth time. I can’t create so much as a spark. Besides that, his staff was wrapped in a blanket, hidden amidst the rest of his supplies. That would be one way to be discovered—a Miraclist staff jutting out for the world to see. What would he do if they were caught? Fight his way out with only a knife in his belt? Bribe them, he thought, though picturing himself handing over his crown to a warty goblin left a bitter taste in his mouth. No. I’ll fight my way to the hangar, he decided.
A bucket of brown water spilled out in front of Gregory, splashing up on his boots. His head shot up and he saw a silhouetted figure leaning over the eaves of a sagging roof.
“Watch where you throw that mess,” Gregory barked, forgetting himself for an instant. “We’re walking down here.”
Martha turned around, head cocked, jaw set with frustration. He could tell she wanted to scold him, but she didn’t dare open her mouth.
“Gregory,” Sir Weston whispered. “We must remain silent. We do not wish to—”
There was a blur, a thud, and a splash in front of Sir Weston. The figure above them had leapt down. To Gregory’s mortification, it was a goblin soldier, his rusted scimitar drawn. Fog poured out from inside his black helm, and Gregory could see his yellow eyes glaring through narrow slits. The goblin hissed: “You dare talk to me like that, street rat?”
Sir Weston stepped between them. “Our most sincere apologies, my good goblin. My companion spoke out of turn.”
“Aye, he did. The last human who spoke to me like that had his entrails spilled in the streets for the dogs.”
“No need for that. We’ll be on our way.”
Sir Weston tried to step around the goblin, but was quickly barred by the blade.
“Not so fast,” the goblin said. “You three look awfully suspicious walking down through the muck in the rain. What’s your mission?”
Sir Weston cleared his throat. “We are transporting goods to the Industrial District.”
“What kind of goods?”
“Oh, you know, this and that. Tools, weapons, food.”
The goblins eyes lit up at the mention of food. “Let’s have a look.” He reached for Sir Weston’s pack, but Sir Weston pulled away.
“The food is meant for the Captain of the Guard. We wouldn’t want you to be reprimanded, now would we?”
The goblin snorted and looked from Sir Weston, to Martha, then to Gregory. He slashed his blade at the air. “Dirty wretch gets his bread while the rest of us go hungry.” He sheathed his scimitar and turned as if to walk away. Gregory felt a wash of relief. But then the goblin turned back around. “Let’s see your marks,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Sir Weston replied.
“You heard me. Your marks—now! I don’t trust you. You have a queer smell, full of deceit. My nose don’t lie.”
Sir Weston shuffled a moment and removed his pack. “All right. Let’s go ahead and show him our marks,” he said, looking at Gregory with deadly seriousness.
Gregory closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He knew what he had to do. Without a word he took his pack off, slipped his hand inside his cloak, and darted forward. Gregory could see the confusion in the goblin’s eyes turn to recognition as he aimed the dagger at his throat. The creature tried to dodge, but Gregory caught him in the joint of his armor, plunging the blade into his clavicle.
“Sound the alarm!” the goblin screamed, unable to lift his weapon. “We’re under attack! We’re under—”
Gregory pulled the dagger out and slit the goblin’s throat before he could finish his last word.
But it was too late.
Gregory could hear shouts on the rooftop above. “Over there, I see them!” a voice cried out. A horn rang out through the ever-darkening sky.
“Run!” cried Sir Weston.
Gregory snatched his pack. The three of them raced forward; two arrows thudded against the wall behind them.
Why did I open my big mouth? Gregory rebuked himself over and over as they ran. Then, as the darkness of night settled, the sound of a bell began to toll—a warning to the whole city.
“Now we’re in for it,” huffed Gregory. “What if those Paragons come after us, then what?”
“Just keep running,” Sir Weston replied. “We’re nearly there.”
Gregory saw two figures step out from the shadowed alleyway ahead, swords drawn. Goblins.
“Look out!” he cried.
Sir Weston pulled out his sword and charged forward. Martha stepped aside to retrieve her staff, letting Gregory run past her. Sir Weston met the two goblins with a clang of steel, driving one into the wall and then spinning around to stab the other. Both enemies fell to their knees, and then slumped to the ground before Gregory could do anything. There was a flash of blue light behind them. Gregory turned to see a wall of ice separating them from their assailants and Martha staggering forward.
“Are you hurt?” Gregory asked.
She shook her head. “I…I can’t,” she said, hardly able to breathe.
Then Gregory remembered. She’s a healer, not a fighter.