Knight's Struggle: Age Of Magic - A Kurtherian Gambit Series (Tales of the Wellspring Knight Book 2)

by P. J. Cherubino

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Gormer said. He sighed audibly.

  Barney was hooked. Pleth used his insider knowledge of how Protectorate commerce worked to convince Barney to learn about and report on the public sentiment around Lungu Fortress. Barney wouldn’t exactly be a man on the inside, but he’d be a damn good canary in the deep coal mines that were the Fortress Wards.

  They buttered Barney up, stuffed him with a few coins to get started, and sent him on his way to mine information.

  “Well,” Barney said as he rose on wobbly legs from his bar stool. “I better get some sleep if I want to make it to Lungu Fortress tomorrow. I’m so glad I met you, my new partners!”

  They shook hands, and Gormer flattered Barney shamelessly as he stumbled up the stairs to his room. Mina came over and set two mugs of ale in front of them.

  “Masterful,” Mina said. “Absolutely masterful. You boys are slicker than owl shit.”

  “Worked him like a greased axle,” Pleth said.

  Mina and Gomer looked at each other. “Is that a sex thing?” Gormer asked.

  Pleth’s cheeks turned splotchy red. “Isn’t that an expression? I think I heard it before…”

  “Nice try,” Gormer said. “But no. Nobody says that.”

  Pleth looked at Mina with pleading eyes. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not into that kind of thing.”

  Pleth stammered and stuttered before Mina and Gomer lost control of their deadpan faces. Gormer spit a little bit when the laughter escaped.

  “Assholes,” Pleth said, laughing himself. “Both of you. Totally got me.”

  “Yeah, we did,” Mina said. “Seriously, though. My grandfather used that expression. Once. We need to work on your banter.”

  Gormer eyed the weight-driven clock behind the bar. “It’s almost time,” he said.

  Mina nodded to Mortsen, who crossed the room, blew out the lights by the window and barred the door.

  “Will it look funny if we’re closed?” Pleth asked.

  “Who’s ‘we,’” Mina asked. “It’s just you two: the speculator and a drunk farm hand upstairs. It’s wee o’clock in the fuckin’ morning in the dead of winter. Being closed won’t look suspicious. Besides, them crashing through the door will give us at least some warning.”

  Pleth looked nervous as he followed Mina and Gormer behind the bar and through the door into the kitchen. The Stump Inn happened to be one of the only buildings on the Strip with a full-length basement.

  “The walls are masonry,” Pleth said, running his hand across the stone. “Very well-set.”

  “By these,” Mortsen said, holding up his massive bear-like hands.

  “Didn’t figure you for a stone mason,” Gormer said as seven other people came through a door at the other end of the basement.

  “Lots about me you don’t know,” Mortsen said. “Lots you never will.” Turning to the new arrivals, he said, “Take a seat,” as he motioned to a table near the door.

  Gormer, Pleth and Mina took their place with the others, while Mortsen stood a few feet back so he could watch the staircase.

  The others were already arranging themselves around the table when Gormer followed Pleth to his chair. Something about Mortsen was different. He was a tough guy, there was no doubt about that. His knuckles were flat, and his hands scarred. A crescent-shaped scar on the corner of his right eye told the story of at least one fight that didn’t go well for him.

  But in that basement, he seemed like a lot more than just a bouncer in a seedy inn. He seemed much more professional.

  “Mortsen is on double duty tonight,” Mina said. “He’ll be involved in our operation.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” a broad-shouldered man said. He was dressed in the uniform of the civil guard. “I didn’t agree to be part of any operation.”

  “That will change,” Mortsen said, taking his eye off the basement door for a moment, “when you hear what we have to say.”

  “And you are?” Gormer asked the civil guard.

  “Call him Snowflake,” Mina said.

  “Oh, come on,” Gormer groaned. “Snowflake? Code names… really?”

  “Yes, Breadcrumb,” Mina replied, fixing Gormer with a devious smile.

  “Why do I have to be breadcrumb?” Gormer asked.

  “Would you rather be Mousetrap, like your friend here?” Mina nodded to Pleth, who didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m fine with that. Not using or knowing our real names will make it less likely to be found out.”

  “This is moving too fast,” Snowflake said.

  Another person at the table spoke. She identified herself as Parchment. “A few of us know each other already,” she said, looking at Snowflake. “You’ve known me for years. We have not been friends. But now, we need to be allies.”

  “That’s right,” another man said. “I’m Mustache, by the way.”

  Gormer snickered. The man looked like he couldn’t grow a beard even if he was a terrier. He had to be pushing forty, but looked half that age at first glance.

  “I know half of you by sight, the rest by reputation,” Snowflake said, looking around the table. “The only two I don’t know are these two.” He nodded at Gormer and Pleth.

  “You don’t need to know them,” Mortsen replied. “The only thing you need to know is that none of us can afford to be who we were this fall. Lungu will enslave us all if we let him. I’ve seen it before.” Mortsen fixed Gormer with a meaningful glance for a moment. “We need to stop this now. And we have the opportunity in the form of these two men, who are working for Astrid herself.”

  The room fell silent. Everyone stared at Pleth and Gormer, who met their eyes with a renewed sense of mission that showed up in their eyes as an unwavering stare.

  “They have to prove it,” Snowflake said, “before I trust them.”

  Gormer took a deep breath and said, “I was there the night Arthur was killed. He was on the Toll Road near the gates. Balan had him killed and set an ambush. He sent a family out into the cold to die just to make a second ambush.”

  “You killed a lot of my colleagues,” Snowflake said. His jaw clenched. There was heat in his jowls and in his eyes.

  “No,” Pleth said. “Balan got them killed by wasting their service on his power grab. None of what Lungu has ordered is lawful. He is no longer the Protector. Those who follow his orders are criminals.”

  Another woman spoke up, identifying herself as Horseshoe. “What a world we live in now. The bandits are standing up for the law while the civil guard are ordered to break it.”

  Snowflake looked down at the table. “We stood by and watched Lungu’s son murder that girl. I talked to Arthur the night it happened. Most of us can’t live with ourselves. A few of us just don’t care.”

  “How many are on Lungu’s side?” Gormer asked.

  Snowflake looked up from the table and studied both Gormer and Pleth carefully before he finally spoke. “I don’t have exact numbers. Right now, I’m guessing about a hundred of the hundred seventy-five civil guard will fight against Raluca and her troops if shit goes down.”

  “That’s most of the complement,” Pleth said.

  “And I definitely know you,” Snowflake said, rounding his head like a turret towards Pleth.

  Oh shit, Gormer thought. He was just about to activate his mental magic and do… Well, he didn’t know what…

  Mortsen took his eyes off the basement door. “Stitcher vouches for him,” Mortsen said.

  That simple sentence was enough to shut Snowflake up. Then it hit Gormer. If this rebellious civil guard knew Stitcher by his clan name, then he must have been in deep with the black market. That’s how he knew Pleth. But why didn’t Gormer know him?

  The failed mystic and former friendless criminal had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter. He’d known Woody and his clan for nearly a year. They ran games together on just about every keep in the Eastern District.

  They’d pulled
capers on tribute carts, hustled civil guards at card games, and had more than one drunken fistfight for seemingly no reason at all. All of that pretty much added up to being besties as far as bandits were concerned.

  But Woody had always kept him away from Keep 52. All this time Gormer thought he was in tight with Woody and his clan. It turned out that he was on the outside after all. Here, he thought he was hustling Woody, when in fact, the reverse was true. Gormer didn’t feel so bad about taking Woody’s cheese now.

  But in the final tally, it worked out perfectly. Gormer was able to keep his cover while earning credibility with the keep underworld. But it was looking like the rule breakers were about to save everyone from an increasingly despotic Protector. The “underworld” was rising to the top.

  Gormer caught Pleth staring him down and shaking his head. He snapped back to the conversation.

  “That’s gonna have to be good enough for me,” Snowflake said. “But you know that if we take the keep, we can’t just stop there.”

  “We have plans for that,” Mina said. “Mortsen here has been in contact with Chief Commissioner Brovka.”

  “How in the fuck…” Gormer burst out, unable to contain himself. “Who the hell are you, anyway? I mean, how the hell are you so well-connected?”

  “Because Brovka likes to have sex,” Mortsen said.

  “Who the hell doesn’t?” Gormer fired back. “Most people with working plumbing like sex.”

  “He likes to have sex with women who aren’t his wife,” Mortsen replied. “He also likes to have his—”

  “OK, OK!” Mina said, holding up her hand. “We get the picture from the sketch. No need to finish the portrait.”

  “Holy shit,” Gormer said. “That woman sure as fuck can labor a metaphor!”

  “That’s not all I can labor,” Mina replied. “You two owl turds are going to the Fortress Wards.”

  “I got a few people down there, too,” Mortsen said.

  “Yeah, of course you do,” Gormer replied. “Do I need to ply them with cheese?”

  “Not likely,” Mina said. “I think Commissioners get the best cheese already.”

  “What?” Pleth said. “You mean—”

  “Yeah,” Mina replied. “Worst move Lungu coulda made is firing the commissioners. They all went home to the Fortress wards, to their big, expensive houses and their big chests of coin. They have nothing better to do than figure out how to sneak up behind Lungu and poke him in the ass.”

  The meeting went on well into the night. It was nearing dawn when they finally worked out their plan. It was a complicated one. They had to be careful. Each person at the table used their status as businesspeople, their rank in the civil guard, and their connections in the underworld to provide cover for Gormer and Pleth.

  When they were done, the code names left through the door on the other side of the room. Gormer assumed it led to some kind of tunnel system, or at least to another building on the strip.

  Mortsen climbed the stairs first, then called back down to them to come out of the basement. Gormer yawned, triggering a sympathetic yawn from Pleth. Mortsen skulked off to his room while Gormer and Pleth parted ways, heads hanging heavy on their shoulders.

  “Long day,” Gormer said as he unlocked his door.

  “Longer night,” Pleth replied, shooting Gormer a weary grin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Stump Inn—the Wee Hours

  Gormer woke with a start, every muscle tense. He couldn’t move a single limb. Only his eyes seemed capable of motion. They stared at the gray ceiling, with its patches of black shadow hiding from the moonlight.

  Gormer felt him. The Reacher was back. A brief moment of panic washed over him like a bucket of cold water in the face. Then, another voice spoke to him. It was Astrid.

  He knew it wasn’t her actual voice. It wasn’t quite a memory, because she never spoke those words to him. Instead, her voice spoke his own thoughts to him. In his half-sleep state, his mind was play acting.

  “You can do this,” the voice said. “The Reacher showed you who you really are. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Your friend needs you.”

  Gormer finally relaxed. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. As he willed his lungs to take air, more shadows formed on the ceiling like tendrils of thick smoke. Only it wasn’t smoke.

  The fear prickled against his skin again, and he let it come. He was afraid. He was unable to take the Astrid-voice advice, but he refused to allow that fear to rule him. Instead, he studied the tendrils closely. They came through the walls.

  Gormer followed the tendrils with his eyes, then his neck. He could move again.

  “Wait,” the Astrid voice said.

  The tendrils paused like a startled animal. Gormer relaxed, and they began moving again. They were searching for him. The ghost of a smile cracked his face as he rose silently from the bed as if his muscles were filled with fluid. He was no longer afraid. The tendrils could not sense him.

  “You will not find me. You will not see me,” Gormer’s own voice said in his mind as his eyes turned completely white.

  For the first time ever, using magic caused no vertigo, no pain, no burning in his skull.

  “It’s Pleth he’s after,” his disembodied mind spoke. There was no time to wonder about the foreign feeling of his own voice. He could not afford to question anything while Pleth’s life was in danger. Everything depended on this.

  Gormer could only watch the scenes in his mind that played out, even as he crossed his room and carefully opened the door. He saw Pleth through the eyes of the Reacher.

  Pleth’s eyes were wide as he stood in front of his bed. He, too, was paralyzed. A pale hand hovered before his face, palm out. The black tentacles spread out from that hand in every direction.

  Gormer always slept with knives. It was a habit he’d had since childhood. He drew a t-handled dagger, three-inches long, from the many-pocketed shirt beneath his tunic.

  Then, he heard the Reacher’s voice say, “Tell me your plans.”

  Pleth trembled before the second vision as Gormer stepped carefully down the hall on cat’s feet. Pleth’s door was ajar. Gormer froze as the black streamers reached out for him. Then, they simply slipped by as Gormer relaxed.

  He was there, but not there. His mind was empty, and everything he experienced came from something else. His existence was a single purpose.

  As he pushed open the door by fractional inches, the world came to him through his own eyes again. Gormer saw the Reacher’s back. His shoulders were draped in fine cloth dyed in the deepest black. The cape fell nearly to the heels of his black boots.

  Gormer crept closer, and Pleth’s eyes focused on him for an instant as they streamed tears.

  “I can’t…” Pleth managed to stammer. “Don’t make me betray them,” he wept.

  “You know what you are,” the Reacher said. “You are weak. You are a liar. Your wife and your children don’t respect you. You think you have friends? They merely tolerate you.”

  “N—no,” Pleth stammered. “Even if it’s true, I don’t care.”

  The Reacher cackled, sadistically and the black tendrils drew in towards his palm, then rose above Pleth’s head like a black tidal wave.

  Gormer sprang forward, uncoiling the muscles of his legs. His arm shot out with the t-blade in his fist like the tip of a spear. The steel found its home just above the shoulder blades.

  With his spinal cord severed, the the Reacher collapsed and draped across Gormer’s arms like a filthy dishrag.

  Gormer lowered the Reacher to the floor almost gently and knelt down beside him. The black tendrils of pure fear collected around Gormer’s body like the arms of a sea anemone. He felt it all and simply did not care. None of it bothered him. All the horror in the world didn’t belong to him anymore.

  But he could control it.

  “This belongs to you now,” Gormer said as he coaxed the streamers together and pushed them into the gaping e
yes and mouth of the Reacher on the ground.

  The reacher died in the midst of a silent, total-body scream.

  Gormer’s eyes still glowed. The tendrils were gone. His own internal voice returned. Feeling for other Reachers, Gormer found none.

  “He was alone,” Gormer said.

  Pleth had collapsed back into the bed, breathing heavily.

  “He made me see all the horrible things I’d ever done, and so much more,” Pleth said in a shaky voice. “He made me doubt everything.”

  Footsteps crashed down the hall. Mortsen appeared in the doorway, long dagger in his hand. “Reachers!” he shouted.

  Gormer finally released the mental magic and smiled. “Just one,” he announced with a wry grin. “And he won’t be digging around in anyone’s head—ever.”

  Pleth groaned, “I can’t do this… I can’t…”

  Mortsen crossed the room in a flash. He gathered Pleth up by the collar and slapped him across the face hard. “Snap the fuck out of it!” Mortsen bellowed. “He’s poisoned your mind!” SLAP! “Don’t give in. It’ll drive you crazy.”

  Mortsen drew his hand back to slap Pleth again, and to everyone’s surprise, Pleth punched Mortsen squarely in the jaw.

  Gormer held his breath. Pleth realized what he’d done and instantly spewed a panicked apology. Mortsen threw his head back and boomed laughter as he set Pleth back up to his feet.

  “You’re back! Now, you finally give me a reason to respect you! I mean, you punch like a toddler, but not many men have the balls to try what you just accomplished.” He pounded Pleth on the shoulder with his bear-paw of a hand, while Pleth laughed nervously.

  Gormer let out his breath and searched the body. Aside from the light, black leather armor, and the cape, the corpse carried nothing. Gormer paused for a moment, then began stripping off the clothes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mortsen asked.

  “Making this asshole useful for something,” Gormer growled. “Help me get this off him. Something tells me this uniform will come in handy later.”

  More footsteps came briskly down the hall. It was Mina. “Are there more?” She had a crossbow in her arms.