Haladras

by Michael M. Farnsworth

  For all his desire, though, he struggled to keep up a strong pace. He had not slept since the night before their encounter with the Mauwik. How long ago that seemed.

  Footfall sounded on the street behind him. Skylar’s senses quickened at the sound. Another soldier? The footfall was too light. Who then? The black shadows? Not wanting to find out, he turned down a side street and disappeared into the shadows. A voice made him hesitate.

  “Sir...Sir,” it called out as loud as it dared. It was almost the voice of a child.

  Whirling around, Skylar found a small figure running up to him, arm upraised, waving. As the figure came closer, Skylar saw that it was a boy, several years younger than himself. He was breathing heavily, but spoke as quickly as he could.

  “Please, Sir,” he said in a mere whisper. “I’m to have you follow me.”

  “Follow you? Who are you? Who gave you instructions to fetch me?”

  “Please, Sir,” pleaded the boy, as though his life depended on Skylar, “you must come. He who bid me fetch you says that you are looking for him.”

  Grim? Skylar considered the possibility, then warily said, “Take me to him.”

  The boy led Skylar through such a maze of streets and alleyways that he began to grow suspicious. Where was this little urchin taking him? And why the circuitous route? After a dizzying number of turns, Skylar felt certain they were merely tracing circles around the city.

  “Where is this man of yours?” asked Skylar at last. But the boy only replied, “Please, Sir,” and motioned for him to keep following.

  Finally the boy stopped at an alleyway door. He gently tapped on the door several times. After several seconds, the door creaked open. No light spilled out into the alley. Only a subtle difference between shades of blackness indicated the door was open. A large figure loomed before them.

  “Well done,” whispered the man in the doorway as he motioned them inside.

  “Please, Sir,” said the boy. “Inside, here...”

  Skylar was beginning to feel the boy didn’t know how to say anything else. He took a deep breath, as if about to dive under water, and stepped inside.

  A scent of rotten apples, cooked onions, and old potatoes all mingled into a stagnant air touched his nose. Behind him, the door creaked softly closed. The large shadow which had stood in the portal clattered about in the darkness, muttering something under his breath.

  “Here it be,” came a deep voice.

  A sudden glow of light flickered to life just in front of him. Where the large shadow had been, a ruddy-faced man with the stature of a bear now stood holding a phosphorescent lantern. The man beamed down at Skylar with a broad smile and eyes brighter than the thin lantern light. A grease-stained apron covered his chest and protruding belly, and his sleeves where rolled up to his dimpled elbows.

  “This is a capital day,” said the bear. “I never thought my eyes should look upon this visage.”

  The man stretched out his arms. And Skylar feared the man would swallow him with a hug. Instead, he let his arms fall to his sides and his smile departed.

  “The time for celebration is not yet come,” he said with considerable gravity. “Evil lurks at the doorstep as we speak. Come, your companion awaits you.”

  The man motioned with the lantern for Skylar to follow. They passed through a cramped scullery, brimming all over with tottering piles of pots and pans, soup bowls and mugs; then a dingy kitchen, likewise strewn with cookware. A large crock roasted over a small cook fire at the opposite end. From the sputtering crock drifted the aroma of a stew that set Skylar’s mouth watering. They walked out of the kitchen and into a dining hall, furnished with scattered tables and chairs. A meager fire blazed in a fireplace. Yet despite its size, Skylar felt warmer at the mere sight of it.

  “This way, young master,” said his large guide.

  They mounted a narrow stone stairwell running along the wall and which led them to a sort of mezzanine. Several rows of private booths lined the walls. His guide showed him to one toward the rear. He pulled back the curtain for Skylar to enter. Skylar halted, he caught his breath. Inside sat a dark figure.

  “Grim!” he shouted in relief. “How did you—”

  Grim held up a finger for him to be quiet.

  “Not so loud, my prince,” spoke Grim softly. “We are not as safe as it may seem.”

  Skylar sat down opposite from Grim and the guide pulled the booth’s curtain closed. Only a short tallow candle illuminated the interior of the booth. It provided sufficient light to see Grim’s face–composed as ever.

  “Grim,” said Skylar as hushed yet earnestly as he could, “there are two men—two things—following you. I don’t know where they are, but I saw them leave the governor’s office.”

  “I know,” replied Grim. “That’s why I could not come to you myself. I only hope they did not see and suspect you when Harold brought you here. I think not. They have no reason to believe I’m not alone in the city. But I think they hope I will lead them to you. Skylar, they are servants of Morvath.”

  The tiny candle flame shriveled at the sound of the name. Skylar felt something cold creep over his body. Grim nodded knowingly.

  “What’s more, Morvath himself sent them. It was he who told the governor to let me free. Did you see how the governor cowered in his presence? I admit I too was frightened. For I feared he might discover you, sniff you out somehow. What agony he would suffer if he knew that the object of his hunting stood within his grasp!

  “Skylar, you should not have come. He could have taken you. He controls the governor. No one would oppose him. No one would ever have known. What has become of Lord Orphlyus, I do not know. I fear Morvath is at the root of it. Orthunk said well, ‘these are dark times.’”

  “But what about Morvath’s servants?” said Skylar. “Where are they?”

  “Lurking outside. They followed me to the inn. But they will not enter, I think. I have little doubt that they wish to avoid detection. No, they will bide their time and follow me when I leave. Were I alone, I would lead them as far away from you as there is space in the galaxy. But I cannot let them follow me with you. Yet I dare not let you journey back alone.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” said Skylar warmly. “We can fight Morvath’s servants. Give me a sword, any weapon. I’m not afraid to face them.”

  Even as he spoke these words his heart trembled in his chest. Grim smiled faintly.

  “I do not question your valor, my prince. But I will only face those two in combat if I must. Much less endanger you. Therein lies our difficulty, how to evade these cunning servants of Morvath?”

  Skylar dropped his head, clenched his fists.

  “Little use I’ve been to you,” he said bitterly. “I came hoping to save you. Yet all I’ve managed to do is create more problems for you.”

  Grim did not gainsay him, but only looked at him with eyes neither meant to console nor reprove.

  “My prince,” he said after some time, “to none is given what would have been. There is naught for us to do but keep steady to our course.”

  Just then, the curtain to their booth was drawn aside and the corpulent form of the innkeeper stood before them. A steaming bowl of savory stew and a tall mug occupied a tray in his massive hands. That same grin beamed down at him, shaming the candle light.

  “For you, lad,” he said, placing the tray down in front of Skylar. “The house’s finest stew.”

  Skylar looked at the bowl, hunger immediately panging his empty stomach. He eagerly grabbed for his spoon, then looked up at Grim. Grim held up his hand.

  “Please, eat. Barryman has already taken care of me.”

  Not needing a second invitation, Skylar commenced devouring the stew with a voracious appetite. As he did, Barryman took a seat at the booth next to Grim. The wooden bench moaned and creaked beneath his ponderous weight. The table shook, nearly spilling Skylar’s meal.

  “They are still out there—the hungry wolves!” said Barryman in a near
whisper. “I sent Harold on another errand. Told him to scout out the situation. The best he could without drawing suspicion to himself. Good one that Harold be. He said he saw no one, but that he felt as if someone was watching. If that’s not enough for you, he spied thermal sensors in the street and back alley. You won’t be sneaking out either way without them being alerted of it. Even if you climbed out a window.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought this trouble upon you, Barryman,” said Grim. “I had little other choice. I only hope they will not suspect you as a conspirator.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Barryman. “I won’t hear of it. I’d burn down my own inn if I thought it would help our little prince here. I’d do anything for a son of Athylian. Anything to defy that tyrannous so-called king of ours. Do you see what he’s done to Dura Cragis? Orphlyus is dead. Our beloved Orphlyus. A great leader. Lover of his people. I’ve no doubt Tarus is behind it.

  “The new governor brought in the king’s soldiers. They swarm our streets like drunken beetles, doing naught but putting fear into our peoples’ heart. Did you see the streets? Do you see my supper hall? The people fear to leave their homes at night. No, Grim. You honor me.

  “To get you two out of here undetected, leave it to Ol’ Barryman.”

  “How’s that, my good Barryman?” asked Grim.

  The round innkeeper smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  “There’s another way out of this inn other than through doors or windows.”

  SIXTEEN

  THE LOW WHISPERED voice of Grim roused Skylar after only a few unsatisfying hours of sleep.

  “Awake, my prince. The time is come for our escape.”

  Skylar groaned and wished that he had awakened somewhere far from where he was. Somewhere warm, where no one was trying to harm him. Despite his body’s protest for more rest, Skylar quickly got out of bed and dressed himself.

  Barryman waited outside their door, lantern in hand. None of them spoke as the innkeeper led them downstairs. Even the wooden floorboards and stair steps, sensing the gravity of their plight, kept the silence and refused to creak or moan. In the kitchen, Barryman set his lantern upon a table.

  The boy, Harold, suddenly appeared. He and the innkeeper went to work removing tiles from the floor. They worked swiftly and methodically, as though they’d performed this routine a hundred times before. When they had finished, a hole in the floor, little wider around than Grim, revealed a series of short wooden planks. These Barryman removed.

  Nothing but gaping blackness lay beneath the planks, its depth unknown.

  “It’s easy to lose your way once you’re down there. These catacombs crawl beneath the city like a spider’s web. Just keep heading south and you should come to an outlet.”

  Barryman handed the lantern to Skylar.

  “Don’t break this—unless you want to spend the rest of your short life wandering around in the darkness down there,” he said, perhaps jokingly, but Skylar did not think it funny.

  Harold brought over a rope, which he fastened around a wooden column and fed the other end down the hole. He held the rope up for Skylar to take hold of.

  “Maybe you ought to carry the lantern,” said Skylar, handing the precious light to Grim.

  Barryman chuckled and would surely have boomed with laughter were the need for silence not so dire.

  “Are you certain you will be alright?” said Grim to the jolly innkeeper.

  “Of course! I’ll cook those two weasels in my stew if they try to come in here.”

  He smiled and laughed again. Yet even in this dim lantern light, his smile could not hide the fearful look in his eyes, or how he wiped his hands nervously on his apron. Skylar did not know whether Grim noticed this too, but he feared for this kindly innkeeper and prayed him safe.

  Grim descended the rope first, nimbly handling it in one hand while the other held the lantern.

  The distance to the bottom proved less than Skylar imagined. Seven meters—perhaps fewer. Skylar took hold of the rope and made his way down, though less skillfully than Grim.

  “Farewell, little prince,” whispered Barryman as Skylar’s head slowly disappeared into the hole. “Our hope, our salvation.”

  A strong scent of decay and age hung in the thick air. It struggled to squeeze through Skylar’s nostrils, choked his lungs, and filled his mouth with an acrid taste. Pale walls, ceiling and floor stretched out before them in either direction as far as the dismal lantern light dared to shine. At sporadic intervals, dark openings in the walls led off to some never-ending tunnel.

  The path Grim led them along bent and twisted as much as a snake’s body. Despite its serpentine path and constant forks in the tunnel, Grim pressed onward as one who navigated those catacombs daily.

  “Do you think Barryman will be alright?” asked Skylar after a time.

  Grim made no immediate reply, leading on with his sure stride.

  “I pray he will,” came his response at last. It did nothing to ease Skylar’s mind about the matter. “Our trouble now—assuming we make it out of these tunnels—is keeping the others away from the city.”

  A sudden pang of guilt made Skylar cringe. He’d almost entirely forgotten about the others.

  “They have surely discovered your absence by now,” Grim went on. “That they will suspect you came to rescue me, I feel certain. Krom is a fair enough tracker. Though, in the dark he will have little chance of detecting your trail. They will wait to act until first light, unless I guess incorrectly. That gives us some time, though little.”

  That was the last of their conversation until they came to what appeared a dead end. For once, Grim did not immediately know what to do. He hesitated; put his hands on the wall barring their way and felt along its surface. Unsatisfied, he held up the lantern higher and scanned the whole wall.

  There was no turning left or right. Their tunnel simply ended, leaving them with only one option: to go back the way they had come.

  Grim paused his inspection of the wall and set down the lantern. Wordlessly, he bowed his head and seemed to fall into a state of meditation. His eyes were closed, his face taut. For several minutes he remained thus, leaving Skylar to wonder how they would find their way out. Barryman’s jest suddenly became more prophetic than the innkeeper had intended. And it was all Skylar’s fault. Grim would not have had to come this way, Barryman would not be in danger if only he’d not tried to be the hero.

  At last, Grim awoke from his meditation, the confusion and uncertainty in his face now replaced by calm certitude.

  “We’ve come the wrong way,” he said. “I made a wrong turn some time back. We are under the southeastern corner of the city. We shall need to backtrack. Come, my prince, let us hope my folly shall not cost us too dearly.”

  By the time they had backtracked and found the tunnel which Grim believed was the correct one, considerable time had elapsed. Skylar began to long for fresh air and the brightness of daylight. The more time they spent in those tunnels, the narrower they seemed to grow and the less certain their escape appeared.

  They did come at last to the end of the second tunnel. This time the wall which barred the way looked different. At the base of the wall a large round stone protruded out from the flat surface, as though it had crashed into the wall and gotten lodged half way through.

  Immediately, Grim began prying at the stone with his hands. Skylar crouched down to help. In vain they struggled to free the stone. It refused to budge.

  “This is futile,” said Grim, halting his efforts. “The stone mocks us.”

  “If only I still had that soldier’s blaster...” said Skylar wistfully.

  “No need for wicked implements. Perhaps the stone will yield to steel.”

  Grim pushed aside the folds of his cloak and drew out the broadsword from its scabbard. As he did, the metal rang softly through the cave like the clear high-pitched note of a bell. Taking the sword in both hands, Grim worked the blade between the stone and the wall, and pressed his weight against
the sword’s hilt. But the stone remained unperturbed.

  Once again, Skylar doubled his effort with Grim’s. The pair struggled for several minutes; Skylar pulling at the stone with his bloodied fingers, Grim straining against his sword.

  A rasping sound escaped from the stone. The two pressed and pulled with increased force. Minutely, the stone moved. They strained harder. Again, the stone budged. Then again.

  A gap was now visible. With a final heave, Grim and Skylar forced the stone out of the hole and onto the cave floor, where it fell over with an echoing thud.

  “Well,” said Grim, sheathing his sword, “Barryman certainly forgot to mention how difficult that would be. Though, I dare say Barryman could eat that stone for breakfast.”

  Skylar laughed. It was the first joke he’d ever heard Grim make. He felt relieved to laugh. In spite of all their peril, laughing somehow made it all vanish—if but for a moment.

  The hole in the wall was plenty wide enough for them to crawl through. Skylar had expected the distance between the inside wall and the outside world to be no more than a meter. However, the hole proved to be a tunnel it its own right, extending several meters before opening out in the predawn light.

  They stood on a narrow landing, just above the level of the valley. The city gates were east of them. The thin mist from the night before had thickened and grown so that the entire valley lay sleeping beneath its cold blanket of bedewed air. It was yet dark, but not as dark as the night. Morning drew nigh.

  “We’ve come too late,” said Grim, his breath forming a white vapor in the chilly air. “We dare not cross the open vale by the road now.”

  “But it is still dark,” argued Skylar, “and the fog will hide us.”

  “Indeed, my prince. But for how long? The light of morning grows by the minute. And that fog shall burn away under the sun.

  “No, we cannot make it to the others today. We shall have to try and signal them, and hope to meet them on the other side of the mountains. I cannot be sure of Krom’s intentions. I don’t think any had considered the possibility of Orphlyus’ death. To Arsolon, in the western province, we shall make our journey. Lord Denovyn is our last hope so long as we’re trapped on Fenorra. Some ten leagues lay before us out of this valley. How long from here to Arsolon, I do not know. Weeks—no doubt.