by Dennis Foon
“The Forgotten saved her, you know. Raised her as one of their own. They saw her potential, and that was that.”
“Yow!” shouts Talia.
Lumpy, sitting on top of her, quickly gets up. “Sorry, sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No,” she replies. “That’s called acting. That ‘yow’ was my line.”
“Sorry,” Lumpy peeps.
“Well, I’m so happy that you’ve worked that out,” Kamyar bellows. “Now could we run the whole thing again—staying in character, if you wouldn’t mind, young Lump.”
Suitably chastized, Lumpy resumes his place on top of Talia.
“Yow!” she screams, grimacing broadly.
Then, without any warning, Roan throws Kamyar to the ground. An arrow bolts into a tree.
“Clerics!” whispers Mejan.
Mabatan holds up five, then four fingers. Nine clerics. Another arrow blasts by, nearly piercing her hand. As two more arrows fly past, Kamyar motions for everyone to stay low and scatter.
Diving for his pack, Roan can feel the star-scab on his chest split open. Still, he reaches for his hook-sword. He knows he’s the only one here with the skill to protect them.
The handle secure in his palm, he listens as heavy footfalls move closer. Peeking from behind his rock, Roan sees a burly cleric, crossbow raised, rapidly bearing down on him. Roan leaps up, knocking the bow away. The trigger releases and the string snaps the arrow into the ground at Roan’s feet. Unsheathing his sword, the cleric slashes at Roan. Roan avoids the blow, then parries with a strike at the man’s blade. He spins and kicks the cleric hard in the chest, knocking him backward against a tree. The cleric yanks a short, translucent rod from his belt and points it at Roan. As it emits a gentle thrumming sound, Roan feels a slight twinge in his chest. The twinge becomes a numbness that overtakes Roan’s whole body: his hand goes limp, he loses his grip on his hook-sword, his knees give way. Falling to the ground paralyzed, Roan hears dying groans all around him. Watching helplessly as the cleric raises his sword, Roan’s final thoughts are of how his quest has led his companions to their deaths.
But before the cleric can thrust his weapon into Roan’s chest, his eyes widen and his mouth opens in a fish-like gasp. He falls, a knitting needle lodged firmly in his back.
Kamyar pulls out his needle and grins at Roan while he cleans it. “We Storytellers are all compulsive knitters. A wonderful way to abate stress, don’t you think?”
One sound rises in the sudden stillness, a perfectly pitched middle C. “Talia,” says Kamyar. An A joins it. “Dobbs.” Then an E, to make a flawless three-part harmony. “Mejan,” Kamyar smiles. “Everyone’s accounted for.”
Trotting up, Mejan has a close look at the rod, while Lumpy rushes over to Roan. “Are you hurt?”
“Can’t... seem... to... move,” Roan manages to say with his uncooperative jaw.
“Don’t worry, Roan, the effect of the stunner will wear off within the hour,” Mejan declares, brandishing the weapon.
Kamyar takes the rod and pockets it. “We consider ourselves lucky that this is the most advanced weapon they’re using. The City, quite justifiably, fears any arms they manufacture being turned against them. So for the moment, a modicum of skill and an intrepid nature are an adequate defense. But who knows what will happen once the heat gets turned up.”
“Nine clerics pierced clean through,” says Lumpy, scanning the scene. “Those the same ones you use to knit?”
“Effective, aren’t they?” says Mejan. “They’re longer and much heavier than a true knitting needle, but the weight builds up hand strength. A bit sharper on the ends, too, so you can do this with them.”
She raises the needle and flings it at a skinny tree twenty feet away. The spike thuds into the trunk with lethal force. “Worth a few nicks in the fingers now and again, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ll never turn my back on a knitter again,” vows Lumpy solemnly, hand over his heart.
“Praise heaven!” announces Kamyar. “I’ve created an actor!”
As promised, within the hour Roan’s skin begins to tingle, and soon, with a little help, he’s able to stand up and start walking.
“Sorry if I upstaged you with my needle,” Kamyar apologizes. “I’m sure you could have still killed him using your teeth.”
“Maybe. I’d have to really want to, though, wouldn’t I?”
“And you didn’t? Perhaps that’s why he got the upper hand.”
“Perhaps.”
“One more tale to add to our Saga of the Promised One,” mocks Kamyar. “He’d rather die than fight, a true son of Longlight.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
“Ah! What is truth, Roan? You were raised to honor all life—that’s a tale well worn. Then you were forced to become a warrior.”
“I wasn’t exactly forced.”
“You loved it, of course you did. You’ve a talent. A gift, some would say. You enjoy using it.”
“That’s what Saint said.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t wrong about everything.”
Roan, unsure, casts his eyes down at his feet. “I thought that once.”
“And now?”
Carefully lifting his shirt, Roan flinches as it separates from his newly opened wound.
Kamyar whistles. “It may not be pretty, but it’s big.”
“A gift from the families of some of those I killed, using my ‘talent,’” says Roan.
“Speaking of your talent—forgive me, but I need to know: if we meet the clerics again in any numbers, can I be sure you will fight by our side?”
“If it comes to that, of course I will. It’s not as if I heave at the sight of blood.”
“Well, if you do spew, aim on the enemy.”
Laughing, Roan extends his hand to Kamyar. “You have a deal.”
It’s almost evening when they emerge out of the brush, and step onto a wide, overgrown road that goes as far as the cloud-streaked horizon. Lumpy, who’s been walking ahead, calls back, “Look at this!”
It’s an ancient sign that’s toppled in the dirt, covered in rust and grime. “Highway One,” reads Roan. “This was the way into the City.”
“Yes,” says Kamyar. “Still is.”
“Are we safe?” asks Roan. “Seems awfully exposed.”
“Under normal conditions, we might avoid it.”
“But normally those Blue Robes aren’t sniffing around in the woods,” says Talia.
“What I’m wondering about, if you please, is why those clerics attacked us at all,” Dobbs chimes in. “The Blue Robes usually question you before they kill you.”
“They are changed these last weeks,” says Mabatan. “Anyone off the roads is considered an enemy.”
“There you have it. We go openly into the City,” Kamyar pronounces as he takes his first steps on the old expressway. “Ah, the high road. Don’t you just love what it feels like?”
Talia steps over to the wagon and, with a pat to the pony, pulls out two long gowns. “Apprentices!” she commands.
Roan and Lumpy reach for the ocher robes.
“You’ll notice the hoods, you will need to make use of them.”
Roan throws on the robe, concealing his pack and sword. The seven march down the highway, eyes alert. When Mabatan stops to put her ear to the ground, all halt at the ready and wait for her sign before moving on.
“Talia tells me we’re only three days from the City.”
“Have you a plan, Roan of Longlight?”
“No plan at all.”
“A plan is always useful,” advises Kamyar. “Especially if you expect to get out of there alive.”
Mabatan shoots a side glance at Kamyar. “Roan seeks his sister.”
The Storyteller stops in his tracks. “Really? Your sister?”
“Our Stowe,” says Lumpy.
“Did you hear that? He wants an audience with Our Stowe!”
The other members of the troupe fidget uncomfortably.
&
nbsp; Kamyar levels his gaze at Roan. “You’re committed to this?”
“Completely.”
“And there’s nothing I could say to dissuade you?”
“Nothing.”
Taking a long, deep breath, Kamyar shakes his whole body like a dog sloughing off water. Then he stops and looks at his associates. “Well, friends, he appears to be standing firm.” He turns back to Roan. “What do you know of the City?”
“I saw it once in the Dreamfield.”
“And what kind of perspective did you get from there?”
“Not a very clear one. But I do know it’s dangerous.”
“Ah, that’s a start, he knows the City is dangerous.”
“Belly of the beast,” confirms Dobbs.
“Your sister being the beast itself,” mutters Mejan, rounding on Roan.
“She can’t be more than a symbol, she’s only ten years old.”
“Believe what you want,” she tosses off. “But our ears hear a lot of what goes on. And rest assured that sister of yours hasn’t become the icon of the City because she has a sweet disposition. She’s overseen the dismemberment of kidnapped children, some say she’s even participated in it.”
Roan shudders from a memory he has of Stowe in the Dreamfield, blood dripping from her hands.
“One witness even saw her blast open the heads of her own servants on a public road.”
“How could she blast open somebody’s head?”
Roan winces at Lumpy’s question, but he doesn’t doubt any of it. Nevertheless, the child he knew, the sister he loved, must still be present in the so-called monster of today. He will call that child out. And hope like hell she answers. “I have to see her. Face to face.”
“She’s closely guarded. Never emerges from the Pyramid without a small army around her,” Talia warns.
“If she doesn’t kill it first,” Mejan adds wryly.
“Well,” says Kamyar, “we aren’t without our contacts in the City. I’m sure they’ll be loath to get involved, they always are, but there’s no harm in hoping for a miracle.”
Mabatan raises a hand to silence them, then lowering her head to the ground, states grimly, “Two riders.”
“Clerics?” asks Kamyar.
She shakes her head, rising. “No. The horses are big.”
“This is the time, my friends, that we prove our talents as actors. If you would be so kind, Roan, to earn your keep by playing a little tune.”
Roan reaches into his pack, pulls out the recorder.
“Hoods up, apprentices. A jig, if you please.”
Within moments, two riders appear. Brothers. One of them, Brother Wolf.
Roan and Lumpy bow their heads, faces disappearing deep inside their hoods. Out of sight, like all good apprentices.
“Stop the ruckus, apprentice! Can’t you see we have company?” Kamyar smiles at Wolf’s impassive face.
“Why, Brothers! For a few coins we’d gladly give you a command performance.”
“How long have you been on this road, Storyman?” asks Wolf.
“Only the day. We were performing at the very town where you made such a timely appearance. Blessings upon you for saving us from those fiendish Fandor.”
“You’ll soon be rid of them, and the traitor who rides alongside,” says Wolf, reaching a hand to calm his horse.
“If only that were the end of our troubles. The City already sends out clerics in their stead.”
That gets Wolf’s attention. “You’ve seen clerics?”
“Oh yes, in fact, just yesterday eve, back in the woods. How many would you say?” Kamyar asks, turning to Talia.
“Ten, I think. Or was it nine?”
“And we hear there’s a ravaged farm village by the east Finger Lake,” mutters Dobbs.
“That was the clerics’ work, certainly,” chimes in Mejan.
“We seek,” shouts Wolf over the mounting clamor, “a fugitive from our brotherhood.”
“We exist to serve.”
“Tall, fair-haired. Uses a sword like this one.” He holds up his hook-sword. “He’d be about eighteen years old.”
Roan wonders if this is Brother Wolf’s solitary quest, or if all the Brothers want to make him pay the price for their prophet’s death.
“Are you speaking of Roan of Longlight?” inquires Kamyar.
“What do you know of him?” asks Wolf.
“Only that he perished in the Devastation. At least that’s the story we tell.”
“We have reason to believe he is alive.”
“Well, a young man with a reputation like his shouldn’t be hard to spot,” says Kamyar, tapping his cheek. “Do you want him dead or alive?”
“We want him alive. No one touches him. He’s ours.”
“If I may be so bold, Brother, is there a reward?”
“Three horses. And a hundred gold coins.”
Kamyar’s eyes light up. “Now that is a prize! We may only be a motley band of players, Sir, but we’re clever and we don’t miss much.”
“So I have heard.”
“Thank you. If Roan of Longlight is truly alive, we’ll be the ones to hear of it, and if at all possible, we’ll deliver him to you. A hundred gold coins!”
“Don’t underestimate his power, Storyman. He will not be easily subdued.”
“We’ve heard the stories—in fact, we tell them. But where there’s a hundred gold coins, well, there’s a way! Not to scoff at the three horses, of course.”
“Indeed,” murmurs Wolf. And at his signal, he and his companion guide their horses past the rest of the company. Setting his eyes on Roan, however, he pauses. “I’ve seen an instrument like that before.”
Roan freezes, not daring to move a muscle.
“No doubt,” says Kamyar, “but could it be played like this?” He swats Roan hard on the back. His face still hidden beneath the hood, Roan’s fingers fly over the holes to deliver a wild, frenzied variation of an old reel. Talia and Dobbs start dancing, stomping a rhythm to the crazed tune.
A hard-won smile spreads across Wolf’s face, and with a shake of his head, he leaves the eccentric band of Storytellers far behind. The apprentice with the recorder keeps playing, but once the Brothers are safely gone he shifts to a haunting tune once heard in the village called Longlight.
THE RISE OF THE VULTURE
FOR MANY YEARS, TRADE WAS UNDER THE GUIDANCE AND PROTECTION OF THE FRIEND. BUT CORRUPTION RULED BOTH MASTER AND GOVERNOR AND THEY WERE FOUND UNWORTHY IN THE FRIEND’S EYE. THE PROPHET ENSURED THE ALLIANCE WAS SEVERED AND CHAOS ROSE IN ITS WAKE.
—ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND
“EXCELLENT,” SAYS DR. ARCANTHAS, “your precision is extraordinary!”
While the doctor makes his notations, Stowe observes the mole-rat’s final convulsions. It’s the eighth rodent she’s terminated today and she’s had enough. “Dr. Arcanthas, I need rest,” she says as pleasantly as she can manage. He’s had her in his laboratory since early morning. Surely he has all the information he needs.
“Of course, of course, Our Stowe. Forgive me, I become so engrossed I forget myself. I must say, the potential applications of this ability of yours are staggering. I’m afraid I lost all track of time.” He looks like one of his rats as he fidgets in the pristine white room, quickly gathering his precious printouts, fussing over the eight blood-splattered bell jars as if they were about to move on their own.
“Perhaps you might wake me in half an hour?” Stowe gently inclines her head as Arcanthas bustles past the monitors, and settling herself down on the cot, she closes her eyes with a dramatic sigh. She listens for the satisfying click of the door shutting behind the irritating doctor.
There. Now she can stop playing games and find out what Darius is up to.
Though the fear of being stranded outside her body has not left her, the danger of walking into her test unprepared far outweighs any anxieties she might have about traveling. Filling her lungs with air, one breath after another, she patiently con
trols their flow until the spark arrives. She does not worry it, but continues her measured breathing until the spark turns to flame. As soon as the flame becomes a column of light, she follows it, leaving her body behind. In a moment, she’s floating past the good doctor, then along corridors bustling with clerics and technicians and on through the clawed brass door—to find Kordan fawning all over Darius.
“The Brothers continue their disruptions of our commerce, and Raven is helpless to stop them,” Darius states.
Kordan’s glee at Raven’s failure can barely be contained. “I tried to warn you...”
“When will you let go of your petty jealousies?” Darius snaps. “Have you learned nothing?”
Kordan turns pale. “My role is to advise, my only desire to serve.”
“We must send the clerics farther afield.”
“But many clerics have been killed. The defense of the City—”
“Inform Fortin to step up production on the alpha Enablers. Master Querin has arranged a new campaign that should encourage enlistment...”
“But Keeper, the training, the enhancements, they take months. And then the—”
“Do not waste my time with the details of a program I designed. They will be ready when replacements are required. The elite guard stays in the City. If the people of the Farlands have grown brazen enough to kill our clerics, we must send out more spies.”
“I will make the necessary arrangements.”
“Be certain that you do. We have little time and much to accomplish. The summation of my architecture depends on Our Stowe and you came perilously close to undermining our achievements.”
She chuckles at the quiver that shudders up Kordan’s spine.
Don’t gloat. You fare no better when you stand before the Archbishop.
He deserves it.
And you don’t?
“But I did not call you here to rebuke you. I wish to discuss the next step in Stowe’s education.”
What? Kordan as her teacher again? Impossible!
“I exist to serve, Keeper. What will you have me do with her?”
“You will do nothing with her. Stowe will open the way into the Wall. I want her to fetch me an Eater. I believe I have found a means to have you and Willum follow. Then you will be able to help her grapple with it. I need an Eater, Kordan. Alive.”