Wayfarer's Keep

by T. A. White

  Fallon peered closely as the tiny creature yawned, showing incredibly sharp incisors as its wide eyes took in the two men. It chirped and cocked its head, putting its feet under it to stand in Patrick’s palm, its tail uncurling behind it.

  “What is it?” Fallon asked

  “A goyle,” Patrick said, peering at the small creature intently. “A baby from the looks of it.”

  Fallon looked from it to Patrick, trying to see why the little thing was important enough to drag him up here to see it.

  His thoughts were calm and sharp as he considered all the possibilities. But no matter how he examined the situation and considered all the angles, it still wasn’t clear to him.

  It was a simple creature, not important or different from any other beast in any way he could see. Shea would know. She always seemed to see directly to the heart of a matter.

  “We thought they were extinct. I spotted one a few days ago and decided to check this place out since they’ve been known to nest here in the past,” Patrick said.

  Fallon gave him a stare that held no little hint of exasperation. It was the type of look he gave to a recruit who was testing his impatience. Shea’s father hadn’t struck him as the type to waste a person’s time on pointless endeavors, but maybe he’d been wrong.

  “And you wanted to show me this, why?” Fallon asked, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

  Shea’s father looked up, a cunning expression on his face as his lips tilted in a sly smile.

  “This was just the lure,” he said, turning and putting the little creature down. “We’re about to begin the hunting portion of this endeavor.”

  Fallon stared at him for a long moment, his tactician’s mind turning over scenarios and considering their excursion in a new light.

  “You’re hoping to use us to flush out your enemies,” he said.

  Caden stiffened beside him, his expression darkening.

  It made sense. They’d met in full view of the Keep and then traversed its halls to a section that was easily isolated. Only, the ambush wasn’t meant for Fallon. He was the bait for a trap designed by Shea’s father.

  Patrick inclined his head.

  Fallon gave the man an impressed look. It was a move worthy of his most brilliant generals.

  “Come, we need to move to the next site,” Patrick said.

  “Wait a minute. What’s to say they’re not down there right now with those boomers you lot are so fond of, waiting to pick us off?” Caden asked.

  Patrick turned to gaze at Fallon’s First. “They’re not going to use boomers. They’ll wait until they can ambush us all at once. I know just the spot.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Caden asked, eyes narrowed.

  “Because they’re hoping to make it look like a Trateri was responsible for assassinating me,” Fallon answered.

  Patrick watched him with an intent gaze before a grin spread over his face and he slapped his thigh. “Got it in one.”

  Caden frowned as he studied the two men. “They’re hoping to turn the focus on us in hopes we don’t retaliate for Fallon’s death.”

  Fallon jerked his head down. It was a bold move, one he had trouble believing these pathfinders came up with. For one, it was no easy task to redirect suspicion in a situation where the Trateri were already predisposed to be suspicious of their hosts. Furthermore, even if Fallon was slain and a Trateri left with the bloody blade in hand, Fallon’s people would still blame the pathfinders.

  Unless, the pathfinders had caught wind of something that made them think such a move possible. His face turned thoughtful. That, or they didn’t care what happened to the rest of their own people when Fallon’s death was discovered.

  Could be either option.

  “Let’s see if you’re right,” Fallon said, coming to a decision. The thrill of the hunt was on him. He relished the opportunity to work off some of the aggression that had built up while he played at diplomacy.

  Patrick’s expression turned brutal, the inner warrior coming out to play. This was the man who had tangled with a warlord and not blinked an eye. He was dangerous, Fallon had no doubt of that. It made him respect Shea’s father a little bit more. This was a person who had no boundaries when it came to protecting those he loved. He’d do anything, destroy anything that threatened what was his.

  It was a sentiment they shared. Knowing how Shea felt about such things, it was surprising to find such an outlook in her father.

  “My pleasure,” Patrick said.

  He stood, walking beyond the little hole to the back of the cave, much to Fallon’s and Caden’s surprise.

  He tucked himself between two rocks and disappeared from view.

  So, that’s how he planned to get out of here without having to go back the way they’d come. The rock had formed in such a way that you couldn’t find the crack in the two rocks unless you were standing right on top of it.

  “This time I’m going first,” Caden said before Fallon could step through.

  “When did you become such a mother hen?” Fallon asked in irritation.

  “Since you became warlord and people started trying to kill you,” Caden said waspishly.

  Fallon glowered at his First, a look that didn’t seem to intimidate Caden at all. Probably just as well. The man had grown up with him and Darius. He was as unfazed by that look as his general.

  Caden didn’t wait for agreement, slipping into the small space and forcing his way through the tight fit.

  Then it was Fallon’s turn. It was even more difficult for him than for the other two. He was bigger than both, his chest brushing the rock in front of him as he scraped through the small opening.

  He had a brief vision of getting caught, stuck and his enemy having easy access to cut off his head, then he was through, standing in a decent-sized space that had holes of similar size burrowed into the foundation of the rock around them.

  It was like standing in the middle of a beehive, with a latticework of small entrances surrounding them.

  “Do each of these lead to a cave like the one we just came from?” Fallon asked, his eyes moving from one dark hole to another.

  “Some do,” Patrick said, one hand on his hip as he looked around. “Others lead to little caches and dead ends. Stay quiet and don’t disturb those above.”

  His words drew their attention upwards to where bat-like creatures hung from the rock. About the size of a dog, they had leathery wings wrapped around themselves forming a cocoon-like shape. That was all Fallon could tell from the brief look.

  “Nightfliers,” Patrick supplied. “You don’t want to get eaten by accident.”

  Patrick didn’t wait for them to come to terms with the possible killers above them, continuing on his way without a second glance, his steps sure and confident. It was obvious he had visited this space many times.

  “These people are so strange,” Caden told Fallon. He looked at the creatures above with dislike.

  “Did you really expect anything else from Shea’s people?” Fallon asked.

  Caden grimaced. “I guess not.”

  “At least we know they’re not lacking in courage,” Fallon said, before setting off after Patrick.

  “They could do with a little less bravery and a little more sense, if you ask me,” Caden responded to Fallon’s back.

  Fallon couldn’t argue with that.

  The afternoon petered away as they checked tunnel after tunnel. In one, they found a pigeon coop, its inhabitants cooing to each other. A wooden board was attached to the rock of the cave, and it looked like the pigeons’ comings and goings were being tracked.

  This place, at least, saw a lot of visitors, judging by all the footsteps they could see on the ground.

  “Shea said pigeons lose their way up here,” Fallon said, leaning down for a better look at the pigeons as Patrick went about portioning out their feed.

  “They do. About four times out of ten. We think it’
s from the same thing that makes compasses so unreliable.” Patrick opened a cage and reached in to scoop out a pigeon. “These aren’t your average pigeons.”

  He held it up for a closer look. Fallon saw where he’d been mistaken. These looked like pigeons, yes, but they weren’t. The color pattern of their feathers was wrong and these had a dark gray line running in striations across their beak. Their feet also had more claws than a regular pigeon.

  “We bred them,” Patrick said, patting the pigeon’s head before setting it back in the coop. “Figured out a way to change their form just enough that they’re accurate more often than not.”

  “Can they fly through the mist?” Fallon asked.

  Patrick’s face was thoughtful as he considered. “We think so, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  If they could, they would be an incredible asset. Fallon wondered how amenable the guildmaster would be to giving a few of these into his care. He had no doubt Braden and Darius would find a lot of uses for such a bird, if they could figure out how to make it work with an army that was always on the move.

  “Someone approaches,” Caden murmured.

  Fallon grunted, his interest in the birds fading.

  His initial conjecture at what they were “hunting” was proven right when several men sauntered around the corner. All but one were young and not very high up in the pathfinder ranks, unless the pathfinders liked to promote inexperienced and arrogant young men to leadership positions.

  Judging by Patrick and Shea’s competence, Fallon highly doubted that.

  Which meant the man in the back, the one who looked like he’d seen a thing or two, was probably the ringleader of this group.

  “James, Owen, and Mark, to what do we owe this pleasure?” Patrick asked, not looking up from where he tended to the pigeons. “You don’t usually bother with this work. I believe the last time you were assigned pigeon duty you said it was for simpletons and cowards.”

  Fallon lifted an eyebrow, his estimation of the men falling even further. Only idiots would overlook the powerful advantage the carrier pigeons provided.

  “We don’t have any problem with you, old timer. We’re just wanting a word with your guests,” one of the brash young men in front said, his eyes moving toward Fallon and remaining there.

  That was a mistake. The man didn’t notice Caden waiting against the wall, a dagger already in his hand, his body poised to act.

  Fallon grinned, his face that of a predator amused by his next meal’s actions. It was wicked and dangerous, and full of a macabre humor.

  “Now, Owen, you know I’m not going to let you do that,” Patrick said, closing the cage and giving the men a sidelong look. “I suggest you three run on back to the Keep. No need for this to get messy. You’re some of my own. I’d hate to see you get damaged just because you lost your heads.”

  One of the other men snarled, “We don’t take orders from you anymore. You have a traitorous daughter and a weak bitch of a wife. Pathfinders bow to no man, let alone some barbarian from the Outlands.”

  Patrick’s face didn’t change expression, the words glancing right off him without registering a mark.

  Fallon studied the men in front of him, noting the confidence with which they stood. Proud. Cocky. There was no fear there. Just an absolute conviction that they would come out on top during any encounter.

  All carried some kind of weapon. However, the weapon that made him smile was the Trateri spear the last man held. An utterly useless tool for a fight like this, especially in close quarters wielded by someone who had no idea what they were doing.

  The men were all in shape, their bodies molded by the rigors of their lifestyle. They obviously knew some fighting technique, based on the way they’d arranged themselves and held their bodies ready.

  But there was one difference between them and the Trateri they faced. The pathfinders were trained to defend themselves, compared to Fallon and Caden who’d worked every day of their lives to perfect methods to better kill those who opposed them.

  “I hadn’t suspected men trained by you would be such fools,” Fallon said in a mild voice.

  Patrick’s smile was a harsh grimace. “We all have our faults.”

  “So we do,” Fallon agreed.

  The exchange put their opponents off-balance, and the first to speak drew his sword in a flashy movement that Fallon would have severely disciplined one of his warriors for trying.

  “Let me educate you,” Fallon said, his voice calm. “When planning an ambush, you strike from behind so your opponent doesn’t have time to defend themselves.”

  Caden moved, the knife in his hand flashing as he plunged it into the man closet to him. The man gurgled, his eyes wide and surprised.

  The other two turned and froze, their faces shocked at the sight of their companion dead on the ground, Caden standing over the corpse with a devilish smile.

  “Like that,” Fallon said in a soft voice.

  The words broke the spell the men were under.

  They rushed forward with cries of fury.

  Fallon ducked under one wild swing, knocking the man’s hand away and sending his open palm into the man’s throat. “You don’t rush in without thought.”

  Fallon pivoted, dodging the long spear the last opponent stabbed at him. He trapped the wooden length of the spear against his body. His attacker tugged. Fallon didn’t budge.

  “Or bring a long-range weapon to a close quarter fight.” Fallon shoved the spear at his opponent, sending it into his stomach.

  The first man came from his side and Fallon stepped out of his way, letting the man’s own momentum carry him into the one carrying the spear. Fallon watched with a slight smile as they righted themselves and turned to regard him with caution.

  The man bearing the spear dropped it and pulled out two daggers.

  “Getting rid of the spear was a good idea, but now you have another problem,” Fallon said, still in that reasonable voice. “Sometimes, more is not better.”

  The man slashed at him, whirling his arms to keep Fallon away as he pressed forward.

  Fallon blocked one blade away with his forearm and grabbed the other man’s arm, turning his blade on himself, plunging it into his stomach.

  “Like now,” Fallon said into the man’s ear.

  He yanked the dagger out and watched with dispassionate eyes as his opponent fell to the ground.

  “Then there was one,” Caden said from his post against the wall.

  Fallon focused eyes filled with death on the remaining attacker. It was the older man, the one who should have known better.

  He looked at his fallen comrades, correctly coming to the conclusion that even unarmed, the warlord was not an opponent worth attacking.

  Caden blocked his exit, nonchalantly cleaning his blade and looking unruffled.

  “Who sent you?” Fallon asked, when the man whirled back to face him.

  The man moved so his back was to the wall. He watched the three of them with cold eyes. Fallon had to give him credit. He wasn’t a gibbering mass of panic, which was more than he could say for some of those who had come up against him and lost.

  “Owen, this is a disappointment,” Patrick said in a chiding tone.

  Owen didn’t answer, his expression not shifting from Fallon.

  “Tell us what we want to know and we’ll make it quick,” Fallon promised in a silken voice.

  Owen lifted his chin. “There’s a new age coming. You’re on the losing side of a battle you can’t win.”

  Fallon gave him an amused smile. “We’ve already established you aren’t the best judge of what battles I can win.”

  Owen made a small sound. “We may have failed, but the others will not.”

  Before Fallon could question him, Owen grabbed a dagger from his boot. Fallon lunged forward. The blade descended and Owen collapsed to the floor, looking up at them with eyes filled with mad determination. Then the light in them
faded, leaving him staring at monsters only he could see.

  Caden knelt next to him. “Such a pity. He might have had useful information.”

  Patrick sighed. “It would have been nice to find out who else is part of this conspiracy.”

  Fallon stared down at his dead foe. Something bothered him. He turned and looked over the rest. “He said the others would not fail.”

  “What are you thinking?” Caden asked from where he still examined the body.

  “How many pathfinders do you suspect of rebellion?” Fallon asked, his attention on Patrick.

  “More than this,” Patrick said, his gaze assessing.

  That’s what he was afraid of. Fallon moved for the path out of the cave. “Leave him. We need to get back to the Keep.”

  If Fallon was right, he very much feared this wasn’t the only ambush their enemy had planned for the day.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shea stepped lightly over the broken path as mist swirled around her, its hazy arms veiling the world. The group was quiet as they moved, the students intimidated as they looked around them with a deep unease. For most of them, this would only be the second time they’d walked through it.

  They were like little ducklings following the mama duck, unwilling to stray lest they get lost. Shea could remember a time when she was one of them. Now, she was shepherding them and making sure they didn’t get separated from the rest of their fellow ducklings.

  Reece led the group away from the path that would take them to where the rear party was still camped out. The place they were going was only accessible from the mist, existing in a little pocket that only a few knew about it.

  Dane and his friend walked several feet parallel to their group, a rope similar to the one Shea had attached to her wrist around both their waists. They carried whompers like Dane had used when he’d saved her from the second bashe. Its bulky shape extended over their heads from where it was slung across their shoulders, making them look like misshapen monsters as the mist distorted their forms.

  The journey wasn’t a long one and Shea relaxed into it, her senses alert as they walked, the sun a distant shadow whose warm light seemed far away.