Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  Maggie began cleaning up after her, and as she picked up her mistress’s clothes, Arabelle’s new dagger fell out.

  The maiden’s eyes widened. “Is that from—”

  “Yes,” Arabelle cut in, “and we need not talk about it. Please put that in my chest for safekeeping.”

  Maggie put away the dagger, holding it with two fingers as if it was going to burn her.

  “Is it almost time for dinner?” Arabelle asked. “I’m very hungry.”

  “Yes—I believe Madam Mizmer is roasting fowl tonight. Will you be dining with your father, or are you staying in your tent?”

  “Lay out my clothes to visit with my father. I have a few things to ask him.”

  Arabelle’s muscles ached fiercely, and as Tabor escorted her to her father’s tent, she had to work hard not to let it show. Apparently she was unsuccessful.

  “Princess,” asked Tabor, “what ails you?”

  Arabelle gave Tabor her most innocent look. “What do you mean? I’m sure you’ve heard I was feeling a bit tired today.”

  Her guardian crinkled his nose. “Don’t pretend with me, Princess. I’ve seen enough lame horses and injured soldiers to recognize physical pain. You’re being very cautious with your stride. So I ask again, Princess, what ails you?”

  Arabelle gave a dramatic sigh and tried to appear guilty. “You’re right, of course. This morning when I raced to Maggie’s tent, I accidentally tripped on a stone and turned my ankle. It isn’t serious, but I’m trying to be careful to ensure that it doesn’t get worse.”

  He shook his head. “Foolishness.” He knelt and examined Arabelle’s ankles. “No swelling. Would you like me to carry you?”

  Arabelle stepped back. “Don’t you dare! I’ll die of embarrassment.”

  “I very much doubt that, Princess.”

  “I’m fine, Tabor. I just need to stretch it out.”

  Tabor smiled. “As you wish.”

  As they walked, a pair of Azazel’s enforcers came walking in the opposite direction. Enforcers weren’t often seen in the caravan, and Tabor put the flat of his hand on Arabelle’s back and hurried her along. But as they passed the two black-leathered soldiers, she caught a fragment of their exchange.

  “Looking for strangers in Trimoria. What do you think that means?”

  “I don’t know. Just keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. Last thing we want is for Kirag to accuse us of inattentiveness.”

  As the strands of conversation faded, Arabelle wondered what that was all about.

  Life as a Slave

  As Grisham’s wits returned to him, his head still throbbing, he found himself shuffling along a dank underground corridor. A metal collar had been snapped around his neck. Humans shuffled both in front of him and behind. All of them had collars around their necks, and each of those collars was connected by a chain to a single, massively thick chain that ran the length of the marching line.

  The truth hit him harder than the blow he’d suffered to the head. I’ve been taken by slavers.

  A deep bellow sounded from far behind him. Only after hearing it a third time did he understand the words. “Go or bash head. Go now!”

  The human in front of him grumbled, “Damned ogre. I wish someone would bash his head in.”

  Another voice replied. “You’ll need a very large club to even tickle that beast. Just shut up before you cause us trouble.”

  They marched quietly forward from then on. Grisham had no idea who was leading; he could only see the man directly in front of him. He knew only that the passages turned and twisted, and his Ta’ah senses told him that they were sloping ever deeper beneath the ground.

  At one point he heard a chanting coming from a cross corridor, and he realized with surprise that the words were in the old language. His father had insisted that he learn it, even though he grew up speaking Trimorian, yet this was the first time he’d heard the old language spoken since he’d crossed the barrier.

  On another occasion, they crossed a passage lined with purple flames that reminded him of the forbidden passages from his youth. The humans muttered, cursed, and quickened their pace to get past it, and Grisham wondered if the underground world here held the same dangers that he had known on the other side of the barrier. Demons. Followers of Lilith. Perhaps something even worse.

  After what seemed to be hours of stumbling through the underground, they arrived in a large cave, and Grisham saw for the first time the ogre that had been bellowing at them from behind. The thing was easily six feet wide, heavily muscled, with two large teeth jutting up from his lower jaw, and he stood twice again as tall as the largest humans, who were already twice again as tall as Grisham. When he stood straight, he was at eye level with the ogre’s knee.

  The behemoth pointed at a pile of picks and hammers. “Take. Bash rock. No bash rock? Me bash head!”

  Grisham scrambled to grab a hammer small enough for him to wield. It was terribly worn and its head was pitted.

  “Bash rock!” the ogre bellowed.

  Grisham followed the lead of the other prisoners and began slamming his hammer against the wall of rock ahead of him. He didn’t know why; he didn’t spy any veins of ore or signs of unusual minerals. But he certainly wasn’t going to ask. The rules here had been made clear enough: Bash rock, or bash head.

  He worked like that in silence for a long while, wondering if this monotony would ever end. If they would get food, or water, or even a short break. Then he felt the vibrations of the ogre walking up behind him.

  “Puny dorf bash tiny rocks.”

  Grisham turned and saw the beast pointing at a pile of debris that some of the others had excavated from the wall. Apparently this target was deemed more suited to his “puny” efforts.

  He moved toward the pile, the chain on his neck resisting as it dragged the heavy main chain behind him, and began mindlessly hammering on the stones. His arms and shoulders were burning from the effort, and his stomach growled. But Father had long ago taught him how to focus on a task to the exclusion of all else. By concentrating on his work, he distracted his mind from his body’s complaints.

  He didn’t pause until he felt a hand on his shoulder. And as soon as he stopped working, his needs came rushing back: thirst, hunger, and throbbing pain.

  Behind him stood a grizzled human with a kind, wrinkled face. The man actually smiled as he handed Grisham a bowl of gruel. “Food is served.” He hitched his thumb toward a trough. “This time, I bring you a bowl. Next time, you need to move quickly before these vultures eat it all.”

  Another human, a teenager, shook his head. “Nicholas, if the dwarf wants to bang on rocks all day, let him. He’s going to be one of the first to die anyway. Might as well leave more food for us.”

  Nicholas turned to the teenager. “Best watch yourself, Grappa. You’d do well to remember that down here you’re just a slave like the rest of us. This young dwarf worked harder than you on your best day, and he’s half your size.” As he spoke, his aura included large streaks of red and white—anger and honesty.

  Grisham was surprised and grateful that this stranger had defended him. “Grisham,” he said. “My name is Grisham.”

  The man and held out his calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you, Grisham. I just wish it were under better circumstances. My name is Nicholas.”

  Grappa spat on the ground and mumbled, “Dwarf-lover.”

  Grappa’s aura was filled with streaks of red, yellow, and black. The first two, anger and cowardice, were common human traits, but it was rare to see tinges of black, which usually mean a person has evil intent.

  I will have to stay away from that one.

  Nicholas invited Grisham to sit with him to eat. As the older man scooped gruel into his mouth with two fingers, he said, “Best eat before it gets cold. It’s not good when it’s warm, but I promise you that it’s worse when it’s cold.”

  Grisham shoveled the pasty substance into his mouth. His gag reflex tried to kick in, but
he suppressed it. There were oats in it, he tasted that, but beneath that something was off and very sour.

  Nicholas scratched at his beard. “So tell me your story, young sir. How did you end up getting captured by the slavers?”

  “Well, I live in the orphanage in Cammoria and—”

  “Ha!” Grappa interrupted. “A dwarf and an orphan. A two-time loser!”

  Nicholas grabbed the boy’s chain and yanked on it, pulling the teenager closer, then cuffed the boy on the back of his head. “Mind your manners or you’ll regret it.”

  Grappa scowled and backed away. The black in his aura flared.

  “Let me guess,” Nicholas said to Grisham, ignoring the interruption. “You got an offer to be adopted, it was arranged for you to meet your future parents somewhere, and something happened.”

  “How did you know?”

  Nicholas clicked his tongue. “Ptah! Many an orphan has come here, and your tale isn’t uncommon. These slavers target those who are helpless or foolish, but they especially like those who won’t be missed.”

  Grisham felt bad for the matron at the orphanage. She would miss him. He could always tell she truly cared for her charges, and she had been expecting him back with the signed parchment. He couldn’t imagine what Wat might think.

  “How did you get caught by them, Nicholas? You don’t seem like an easy target.”

  Nicholas sighed. “I wish I could say I put up a struggle, or did something valiant and lost. But no. I was a hired soldier for a caravan, and I’d just gotten my month’s wages, and it was the first anniversary of my wife’s death. So of course I got roaring drunk. I went into the forest at night by myself, and the slavers scooped me up as I slept in front of my campfire. Clearly, I deserved my fate due to sheer stupidity.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, and your misfortune.”

  The man smiled. “She was a good woman, but she’d been sick for a long time.” He stretched his arms. “Relax and stretch for a bit; that ogre won’t be back for at least a couple hours. We must take whatever rest we can, when we can, for the ogre certainly won’t tolerate resting in his presence.”

  “Can I ask one more question?”

  Nicholas lay down on the ground. “Certainly.”

  “What are we doing down here? What good is it to break these rocks? What are we mining for? I see no veins of ore.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “I heard more than one question in there.” He yawned and closed his eyes. “Nobody knows what we’re doing here. All we ever do is dig, dig some more, and sort through broken rocks. We’re never told what we’re looking for, nor are such questions tolerated.”

  “I’m sorry, one more question, and you don’t need to answer if you’re going to sleep, but is the ogre the only slaver here, or are there others?”

  “Oh, there are others. The ogres are the muscle. There are also some humans that work for them, but the one you don’t ever want to meet is the elf priestess. I’d rather not speak of her. Let’s just say she and Azazel would be a well-matched pair. Both are evil to the core, and frighten me for many of the same reasons.”

  Anytime Grisham heard the wizard’s name, his thoughts turned to the day his father had sacrificed himself for his sake.

  Grisham lay on the ground and closed his eyes. And look at what I’ve accomplished for all his sacrifices.

  Grisham’s vision was consumed with a field of white. From within the whiteness, a voice echoed in his mind.

  “Grisham, all is not lost. Your mission is not complete.”

  He found himself unable to move, not even to open his eyes. He began to panic.

  “Do not be afraid; I am here. To all who watch, you are asleep. Simply think your thoughts, and I will receive them.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Seder, and our time is brief. Listen carefully, and remember. Your hardships have been many, but I will provide you with what you need to complete your mission.”

  “Mission?”

  “Your destiny is to bring your people out of self-imposed isolation. You must find the Thariginian king and, as the representative of your people, strike an agreement with him.”

  “But Seder, there are no longer any Thariginian kings in Trimoria.”

  “Not all is as it seems, young Grisham. Soon, a Thariginian will be discovered. You will meet with him, I promise. You will complete the first step of your destiny.”

  Grisham felt a spark of hope. If Seder said it was possible, then it was possible. “That means I escape, right? How?”

  A moment passed in silence and the field of white shimmered.

  “Be patient. Some events must occur before your escape is possible. I have unlatched powers that were hidden deep within you—powers that are rarely seen within your people. They will emerge slowly. In the meantime, pay careful attention to what things look like. And Grisham… always avoid the influence of Lilith.”

  Seder’s voice faded, the field of white dimmed, and a scene unfolded in Grisham’s mind.

  A dozen black panthers enter a wide passage into a mountain cliff. The tunnel is symmetrically constructed, with clear signs of dwarven workmanship.

  The lead cat roars. “We have arrived, lizard lords.”

  From deeper within the tunnel comes the sound of claws scraping against stone, and the ground vibrates from the movement of a heavy creature. The cats hiss in fear and shrink back.

  Sparks and hints of flame flash in the dark of the tunnel, then a giant, scaled head appears.

  A dragon.

  The dragon’s claws spark against the stone as it moves forward on thick muscular legs. It’s sixty feet long from its snout to the end of its tail, and its armored black scales glow with hints of red.

  A grinding voice erupts from deep within the dragon’s chest. “Changeling, you have arrived as promised. We must now await my brother. He is late, as always.”

  A thud outside the cavern announces the arrival of another creature of tremendous size. A blood-soaked snout appears at the cave’s opening. “I heard that, sister. Can I help it if I was hungry and you said I wasn’t allowed to eat the swamp-cat creatures? I blame my tardiness on you.”

  Smoke billows from the first dragon’s snout. She growls in exasperation. “Males,” she mutters.

  She turns back to the cats. With the exception of their leader, they cower between the two beasts. “It is now time. You understand that once my brother and I pierce the barrier and you cross over, we have no way to retrieve you. You will be stuck.”

  The lead cat yowls his understanding.

  The female dragon turns to her brother. “It is time.”

  Living with the Curse

  Arabelle took her training very seriously in the weeks after leaving Aubgherle. In the process, she discovered that Castien’s exercises had a valuable side benefit. Not only did they allow her to live with the poison her body carried, they also made her stronger. She was beginning to understand why Castien had referred to her as a weapon, and she wanted to be a powerful one.

  After all, the elves and Seder seemed to believe she was meant for something more than survival, and indeed, she felt like she was meant for something more. She just hoped she wasn’t deluding herself.

  She also practiced every day with the dagger as well, though of course this too had to be done within the confines of her tent. The one time Maggie walked in on her practicing, the poor girl looked like she was going to faint.

  The one skill she could practice anywhere was the ability she had now started calling her inner sight. Any time she wanted to find her father, she would simply visualize him, and her senses would point her in the right direction. It worked for Castien, too. Though the elven sword master was now many days away, her senses would carry her to the edge of the caravan, and she would stare into the distance, knowing that if she could miraculously fly in the direction her senses told her, she could travel in a straight line to him.

  But strangely, Arabelle’s inner sight didn’t work we
ll on other people—only those two people. If she tried to find someone else, her senses gave her no response at all. It was as if everyone else didn’t exist. It was worrisome; she had to learn how to fix this so she could use the skill as intended.

  And then… she did. It turned out the problem was a simple one, if embarrassing. Arabelle realized that she rarely paid much attention to what people truly looked like. So when, for instance, she visualized the merchant who sold her favorite pastries, her inner picture would be incorrect, or incomplete, and thus her inner sight provided no response.

  It troubled her to realize that she hadn’t even been looking at the people in her life. Had the merchant always had a missing tooth? Had Tabor always been quite that scarred? Arabelle was especially ashamed when she realized she was misremembering Maggie’s eye color. It was then that she decided that she must invest time in improving her attention to detail.

  And when she did, her inner sight improved. She pictured the pleasantly plump and jovial face of Madam Mizmer, and found her in the market, haggling over a melon. She pictured the dwarf, Oda, and found him at the stables grousing about the size of the horses. She would never again need to search the caravan for Maggie. And of course she could find Tabor if she needed to, though he was almost always at her side.

  “Princess,” Tabor said one day, “you seem to be changing.”

  Arabelle looked up innocently. “Am I?”

  Tabor cleared his throat. “Yes. You seem more energetic, you walk with a much smoother stride, and you seem more comfortable with yourself. I also believe you’ve lost some weight.”

  Arabelle felt a flash of anger. Her clothes were indeed more loose-fitting than they used to be, but how dare he comment on her appearance? She breathed in and out slowly to calm herself. “I’m the same as always,” she said.