by P B Hughes
As the tower grew before them, a sense of trepidation grew inside of Jude. A day ago, he was responsible solely for his own safety. But now Marcus’ life hung in the balance of his every decision. Not only that, he now had Ryker and Samara’s necks to worry about. Fortunately, he thought, Ryker would not be placed directly in harm’s way. For the time being, at least. Ryker’s job was to procure horses and wait for Jude and Samara while they rescued Marcus and escaped the tower. Stealth would be key. It was Jude’s hope that they could sneak in and out without being noticed.
Another spy, a man who spoke to Ryker through the door, had informed them that Oldguard believed Jude would try to escape the way he had come—out the western gate. But there was another gate, a portcullis with a latticed metal grille, built into the easternmost wall of the city that would be minimally guarded. Though the portcullis was normally closed, the spy assured them that the guard on duty was an ally, and that the gate would be raised. Once out of the city, they would cut across farmland until they reached the coast. From there, they would begin their long journey north.
Jude watched Samara ahead of him, slinking from shadow to shadow like a cat. He tried to mimic her movements, but felt almost clumsy by comparison. She was an agile creature, he thought, perfectly built for their mission. Suddenly, Samara ducked down an alleyway. Jude followed, expecting her to continue on, but instead she whirled around and stuck her finger sharply in his chest.
“This plan is crazy,” she hissed, her face almost invisible in the darkness. She unsheathed her rapier with a swish and pointed at him. “You’re lucky I like crazy.” She nodded to her left. Murlock’s Tower loomed over them like an enormous spike stabbing the belly of the sky.
Jude raised an eyebrow. Crazy indeed, he thought. She was a nuisance, but he admired her gumption. “We have the element of surprise,” he said, glancing down the alley; it spilled out fifty feet from the tower’s base. “They’ll never see us coming.” He stared at her gently tapered blade and wondered how many lives it had ended.
“That will make the killing easier,” she said.
“I’d prefer we not kill anyone,” Jude replied, “even if they’re soldiers. They believe me an assassin; I intend to prove them wrong.”
“You suck all the fun out of things,” Samara complained, sheathing the rapier. “Just like Ryker. But know this: not all of Oldguard’s soldiers are as ill-trained as the army outside the city. The ones we’ll meet are as dangerous as any Imperialist. Causalities are inevitable if we’re to succeed.”
Jude fidgeted uncomfortably, trying not to let the harsh reality of her words disturb him too deeply. Death seemed to always follow in his wake.
Sensing Jude’s turmoil, Samara’s countenance softened. “I’ll avoid needless killing. But remember, the Irachnians are our enemy. They will kill us without hesitation. So if it’s between our skin and theirs, I’m afraid they will just have to believe you’re an assassin.”
Jude closed his eyes and exhaled. He nodded, shaking away his foolish notions. “You’re right,” he said firmly. “It’s us or them. I’ll do whatever it takes to save Marcus. Anything less is folly.” With that, he whisked down the alley toward the tower.
He halted, just before the sprawling expanse of clay that surrounded the tower’s base. He scanned the area for any sort of cover and cursed under his breath. Nothing but frozen mud.
“How many guards?” Jude muttered.
Samara crouched beside him. “Usually, there are four at the door and one patrolling the perimeter. But there may be more since the city is on high alert.”
Jude dropped a seed to the ground and took hold of his staff. Samara had given him a piece of cloth to cover the orb. The light, they both agreed, would be a dead giveaway. He waved his staff over the seed. “We’ll need to subdue the patrolling guard.” A sprout popped up and slithered across the ground to the base of the tower. “I’ll have to be quick,” said Jude. “If he cries out, we’re finished.”
“Then don’t mess up.”
Jude clinched his fist and waited. The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Where is this patrolman? Jude wanted to ask. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes to walk the perimeter of the tower. Then he heard the sound of laughter—the patrolman appeared around the corner, chuckling and shaking his head. “Great,” Jude muttered. “He’s been talking with the guards at the front.”
“So?” said Samara.
“They’ll notice more quickly when he doesn’t appear.” Jude readied himself as the man neared his trap. He was almost to the vine; two steps, then one. Jude thrust his staff to the sky. The vine snapped up around the man’s mouth and yanked him to the ground. Jude pulled his staff inward and the guard sped across the dirt; all the while, vines spread around him like a spider’s web.
The man shook with fright when he arrived at Jude’s feet. When his eyes met Jude’s, he tried to scream. Jude knelt down beside him and whispered, “Be silent and we’ll let you live.” He stuck his staff into the man’s face, and a vine curled around his neck. “Don’t make me squeeze.”
The man went silent and nodded, tears welling in his eyes.
“Best to make our move, Miraclist,” said Samara.
Jude scanned the tower from the base to its pointed tip. “The sixtieth floor?” he said.
“Aye,” Samara replied. “Unless they moved the jail cells since last I checked.”
“Follow me, then,” said Jude.
He darted out from the alley at a full sprint, Samara close behind. The roar of the wind drowned out their footfalls as they struck the cold earth. They reached the base of the tower unnoticed, or so Jude hoped. He tossed a fistful of seeds to the ground; they burrowed into the mud. A moment later, vines slithered upward, curling around their waists and holding them secure. Jude raised his staff and trilled his fingers with his free hand. Their feet left the ground; the vines slinked upward, roots taking hold of the tower’s black walls.
The wind screeched louder and louder as they climbed, causing them to sway. But Jude kept on—they would not fall as long as a vine touched their bodies.
There were no windows on the lower trunk of the tower—for defense purposes, Jude mused. But once they reached the middle, they came upon a window closed off by two iron shutters, sealed from the chill of the night.
“Twenty floors to go,” Samara said.
Jude continued on, the two of them rising like wisps of smoke until Samara said to stop.
“Here,” she said, though Jude could tell by her eyes that she didn’t seem entirely sure.
“You’re certain?”
“I’ve been counting,” she said. “This is it—the sixtieth floor.”
Jude wanted to debate, but knew time was running out. He pressed on the iron shutters. They did not budge. “Latched,” he said. “Can open it?”
She gave Jude a sideways glance. “Do you see a keyhole?”
“No,” said Jude.
“That’s because shutters aren’t meant to open from the outside. I swear, they told me you were smart.”
The tips of Jude’s ears burned. He closed his eyes and placed his staff against the shutters. A vine slithered over the smooth surface, searching for any sort of crack. Finally, he found one—a crevice in the stone—the bottom left corner of the window. The vine squeezed inside and started to spread.
“There should be a latch,” said Samara.
“I know.”
“Well, flip it then.”
“I’m trying to locate it. You’re breaking my concentration.”
“It’s right across the middle—it shouldn’t be that hard.”
Jude’s eyes popped open. “You’re making this far more difficult than it—” he froze. The sound of shouts carried across the wind. He looked down at the ground—the guards had spotted them.
“Great,” said Samara. “Now what do we do?”
Jude glared at her but said nothing. Instead, using the vines, he gently moved her to the side of the window. He clenche
d his fist, and flexed every muscle in his body. The vines rooted deeply into the stone around the shutters. Then, with one mighty tug, Jude yanked his arm backward.
The shutters ripped free from the wall in an explosion of dust and stone. Jude watched as they plummeted to the ground and landed with a crash, scattering the guards.
Samara looked impressed. “I suppose that’s one way to open a window.”
They climbed inside, and Jude set them down in a half-circle room lit by a fireplace. Pillars rose all around them from the red-carpeted floor to the ceiling. A large bearskin rug gaped in the middle of the room, and a heavyset man dressed in a crimson soldier’s frock sat quivering by the door, his mouth ajar to match the bear’s.
“I knew it,” said Samara.
“Knew what?” Jude replied.
“This isn’t the sixtieth floor. This is the officer’s lounge. I miscounted. Floor fifty-nine.”
“What do you mean this is the officer’s lounge?”
The man jumped up from his chair and reached for the doorknob. Jude sent a vine flying across the room, wrapped it around the man’s wrist and snapped him back so hard he fell to the floor.
“Please,” begged the man. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want!”
Jude was about to bind and gag him when Samara laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Wait,” she said. “He could be useful. Let’s bring him along—a hostage.”
Jude sent the vine around the man’s other wrist, tying him with makeshift handcuffs. “Take us to the jail cells,” he ordered.
“Y-yes,” sputtered the man, “I can do that—I know where the jail cells are. Right above us!”
“Of course you know where they are,” said Samara, nodding to the ring of keys dangling from his belt, “you’re the jailer. Now where do we go?”
The jailer stood. “Through that door—b-b-but there’s guards out there. You’ll surely be in for a fight.”
“He’s bluffing,” said Samara, heading for the door. “Come on—lead the way, jailer.”
Jude prodded the fellow with his staff while Samara carefully opened the door. The jailer stepped through, whimpering like a mutt left out in the cold. Jude stuck his head out into the hallway. There were two doors—one to the left, and one to the right.
“Quite the fight,” said Jude, wryly. “Which way do we go?”
“Right,” said the jailer.
Samara touched her blade to the back of the jailer’s neck.
“Left, left! For goodness sakes—left!”
“Very good,” she said. “If your memory fails you again, then your usefulness might run out.”
Jude jabbed his staff into jailer’s back and he walked forward, far too slowly for Jude’s liking.
Samara opened the door to a winding staircase. “After you,” she said, bowing to the jailer.
The jailer stumbled up the stairs, his body drenched in sweat. Samara went after him. Before Jude stepped inside, he waved his hand and the vines from the lounge trickled into the hallway across the floor. They slid up around the door directly behind them.
Let the guards deal with opening that door for awhile, he thought.
Jude felt his power wane as he climbed each winding step. After expelling so much energy to scale the tower, he needed to conserve his strength. There was one remaining mana-crystal in his pocket—he reached for it, but then thought better of it. He could get by for now, and he might need the crystal in case of a crisis.
Samara and the jailer stood in front of another door at the top of the staircase. “Which one is it, eh?” said Samara. She was jingling the key ring in the jailer’s face. “Out with it.”
“It’s—it’s the third one on the ring,” he said, nodding to a rusted key. “I think.”
“You think?” said Jude, shouldering his way past the man. “That sounds like the talk of someone useless.”
“It is!” cried the man. “It’s the right one. Please, just let me go.”
“We’ll let you go when we’re done with you,” snapped Jude. “Samara, try the door. Be on your guard.”
Samara slipped the key inside. Carefully, she pushed the door open a little at a time. She stuck her head through the doorway and pulled it back.
“Guards!” she hissed.
Jude wiped his brow with his sleeve and stepped forward. “Stay behind me,” he said. “And try not to kill anyone.”
With a mighty kick, Jude slammed against the door. It flew open into a hallway lined with jail cells.
Jude saw their eyes in the torchlight—two guards at the end of the shadowy room with crossbows aimed. They meant to kill him. The bolts released and Jude ducked as they whizzed over his head. There was a thud against the door and a shriek of pain. Judging by the pitch of the cry he thought Samara had been hit. Jude glanced back—to his relief, it was the jailer. The man was sprawled out on the ground, an arrow stuck in his thigh.
Jude sprang forward. The two guards struggled to reload, but Jude closed the distance between them quickly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a seed—a desert flower that grew in scant soil. He threw it like a dart into a barrel in the middle of the hall, and the flower burst to life in an explosion of lavender petals. Jude snapped his fingers. The flower belched a plume of pollen from its fat stigma that wafted over the guards. They lowered their weapons and smiled sleepily.
“Ernie, do you see all the pretty lights?” said one of them.
The other nodded sheepishly. “The turkey does smell delicious.”
Samara was at his side. “He’s useless now,” she said, casting an annoyed glance back at the howling jailer. “I had to use him as a shield. Now he can’t walk.”
“Leave him,” said Jude. “We don’t need him anymore.” He whirled around to the jail cells. “Marcus?” he said. “Marcus, are you in here?”
“I’ll be Marcus,” said a filthy prisoner at the end of the hall, “if that means you’ll release me.”
“I’ll be whoever you want if you’ll release me,” said another man with a smile of rotting teeth.
Jude ignored them. “Marcus—where in blazes are you?”
“He’s gone,” croaked a voice in the back of the darkest cell directly to Jude’s right.
Jude peered through the bars. He could see the outline of a man lying in the back corner.
“The cadet you’re looking for,” said the man. “Red hair, big mouth. They took him away.”
“Who took him and where?” asked Jude.
“I have the answer to your question,” replied the man, shuffling forward. He had a disheveled beard and wore nothing but rags. “I overheard their plan.”
Jude frowned. If the information was common knowledge then he could do business with any of the prisoners.
Seeming to sense his thoughts, the prisoner grinned. “The rest of these scoundrels have no idea where they took him. That much I can assure you.” He tapped his ear. “The other prisoners don’t listen the way I do.”
Jude couldn’t concentrate amidst the jailer’s screams. “Shut up—you’re wounded, not dying!” he shouted over his shoulder. The jailer’s cries fell to whimpering and Jude looked back at the man. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You don’t,” said the man. “But I can tell you this: Oldguard already knows you’re here.”
“How?” Jude asked.
“That little jailer back there has a Spyball on him. They’ve been watching your every move since you arrived.”
Samara marched over to the jailer and turned him over with her boot. She reached inside a pouch on his hip and pulled out a glowing gray sphere. With a curse she smashed it against the ground and kicked the jailer in the belly.
“You see?” said the prisoner. “I’m on your side. My name’s Fish. With my help, you’ll make it out of here alive.”
Samara stalked over to the man’s cell. “He a criminal,” she said to Jude, “but that’s not our problem. If he can help us then that’s all
that matters.” She tried one of the keys in his cell door.
“It’s that one,” said Fish, pointing to a larger key on the chain.
The sound of pounding caught Jude’s ears. The guards had reached the door downstairs.
Samara frowned and slid the key into the keyhole.
CLICK.
Fish stood before his opened cell door, pausing at the edge. He inhaled deeply and then stepped out. “Freedom,” he whispered.
“Savor the moment later,” said Samara, casting a scowl to the stairs.
“I wouldn’t go up to the next floor if I were you,” Fish said. “There’s something of a nightmare waiting in there.” He was quite tall when he rose to his full height. “The queen’s own pet—a beastly creature that will tear you to shreds with claws the length of swords. They call it a sheleg.”
Jude’s skin crawled at the mention of the queen’s monster. “So, how do we avoid it?”
“Word is,” replied Fish, “the elevator is broken. Fell all the way to the first floor. That means,” the man nodded to a small hallway that ran along the right of his cell, “there’s a straight shot to the top floor up the elevator shaft.” At the end there was a small door—the door to the elevator.
“Where did they take Marcus?”
“The throne room.”
“Then we have to climb,” said Samara.
Fish grinned. “Or face the creature on your own. Then room after room of guards.”
“Climbing it is,” said Jude, making his way toward the elevator shaft.
The man made a move and snatched the keys from Samara’s hand.
“What are you doing?” she barked.
“I’ve made some friends in here,” he said, backing away. “I’ll be releasing them and shoving off, if you don’t mind.”
“Oi, Fish,” said one of the prisoners. “Always knew we could count on you.”
“Not our problem, Samara,” said Jude. “Let’s go.”
Samara glared at Fish and headed for the elevator shaft.
Jude continued on down the narrow hall, Samara trailing him. He stopped at the doors and pried them open with both hands. He looked down into the shaft. The bottom was nowhere to be seen. But above him, he could see a square of yellow light falling against the wall about fifty feet up. Jude took a deep breath. This would take a good deal of his precious energy reserves to climb. But he still had enough. He pulled out a seed and felt the inside of the shaft wall with his hand—cool, damp, made from layers of stone. His vines would have no trouble getting them to the top. He pulled out a seed and stuck it into a crevice in the rock. With a wave of his staff, ivy sprouted, twirling about his waist and Samara’s. He gave a look to the criminals, now free from their cells.