by John Marco
Absorbed with the ring and his upcoming rendezvous, Gilwyn hardly noticed his surroundings. He had left his horse Tempest and his wagon on the far side of Capital Street hours ago, venturing on foot toward the west side of town in search of a pawnbroker. That had been the easy part, but finding a suitable ring for his eight sovereigns had proved far more difficult. It had taken hours, and now it was well past dusk. The moon was hidden behind glowing clouds. Shadows from the buildings grew tall in the streets, darkening every alleyway, and the commerce had slowed as the vendors cleared the sidewalks. Gilwyn could hear laughter from the distant taverns, where the businessmen retired from their long days of dealing. He paused in the street to listen. Once, Koth had been full of diplomats and civil servants. According to Figgis, they had been elegant days, but now only the bankers remained to share the streets with the criminals. The chancelleries were gone; barracks and armories had risen in their place. If Gilwyn went into the taverns, he knew he would find Liirian soldiers; they were everywhere in the city now. He frowned, glancing around at his surroundings. Koth was still beautiful, but how much more lovely had it been back then? Why, he wondered, had Akeela shunned his city?
There were no answers from the candlelit windows. And suddenly Gilwyn forgot his many questions. He realized he had been walking without thinking, so enamored with his present for the girl that he had lost his way. The brick buildings and tangled avenues became alike in the gloom. A chill passed through him. Glancing toward the sky, he noticed the clouds begin to thicken.
“Oh, great,” he sighed. He hadn’t expected rain. Teku shared his bleak assessment, staring at the gloomy sky. The monkey wrapped her tail protectively around his neck. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I know where we are.”
But after two more blocks, Gilwyn admitted he was lost. The darkness and buildings conspired to confuse him. He was in a narrow avenue of cobblestones, bordered on both sides by rows of empty shops that had closed for the night. Gilwyn heard the far-off laughter from the taverns and the occasional clip-clop of a horse, but he could see no one in the street, and he suddenly cursed himself for blundering so far afield. It was getting late. He hadn’t even told Figgis where he was going. The old man would be very cross when he got home. But where was home, exactly? Engulfed as he was by Koth’s tall buildings, he couldn’t even see Library Hill.
A cool drizzle began to fall. Gilwyn slid the ring he’d purchased into his pocket. His foot ached in its special shoe, crying for rest. He was limping again, because he had taxed himself and not built up the muscles the way Figgis had ordered. Teku chattered nervously in his ear, sensing his fear. Gilwyn stroked her head to calm her.
“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll find someone and ask for directions.”
Behind him he heard the noise of the taverns, deciding quickly not to ask there for help. They would take one look at his strange shoe and twisted hand, and they would laugh, he was certain. He had endured the laughter of drunks many times.
“Better to be lost,” he muttered, and continued down the avenue. The avenue quickly narrowed, turning into a filthy alley, and Gilwyn was soon sorry he hadn’t taken his chances in a tavern. Apprehension rose in his stomach as he spied the abandoned buildings. He was thoroughly lost and decided to turn back. Yet as he turned he heard footfalls behind him. Very faint, they bounced off the alley’s grimy walls, defying direction. Gilwyn peered behind him through the darkness and fog. Suddenly he wished he had his cane with him, or any other weapon. Teku’s tail coiled harder around his neck.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Gilwyn, as much to himself as the monkey. The footfalls grew louder, then suddenly stopped. Gilwyn struggled to see through the mist. Two figures stood motionless in the fog. Very carefully Gilwyn turned and continued down the ever-darkening street. To his great dismay, the footfalls followed him.
“Teku,” he whispered, “we’re in trouble.”
Up ahead the alley terminated in a brick wall. Gilwyn searched the wall for a way out, any little crevice he could slip through for escape. He limped through the mist toward the terminus, his bad foot throbbing with effort. Behind him the footfalls quickened. His mind groped for a plan. He scanned the end of the alley, but only the smallest sliver of space existed between the broken buildings, barely enough for Teku to get through. There was no chance for Gilwyn to squeeze past, so he took a deep breath and turned to face the approaching footsteps.
There was no laughter from the taverns, no sound of horse hooves on the pavement. There was only the dreadful sound of boots. Gilwyn fixed his gaze on the alleyway, straining to see through the mist. The rain made him shiver. Teku shook with anticipation. Together they watched as the two figures emerged, the moonlight slowly defining them. Both were raggedly dressed, with long coats that hung in tatters around their bent frames. Their shoddy boots scraped the paving stones as they shuffled forward, their faces all but hidden in shadows. Gilwyn backed against the wall. The men continued forward, then paused when they realized he was trapped. The smaller of the two, a man with filthy blond hair, smiled through broken teeth.
“You lost, boy?”
Gilwyn shook his head. “No. I’m . . . on my way home.”
“Oh yes, you should get home,” said the other man. He was dark-haired and lanky, most of his face obscured by a scraggly beard. “It’s dangerous this time of night.”
They both stalked closer. A shaft of moonlight lit their features, revealing a sickening pall. But despite their gaunt appearance Gilwyn knew running was out of the question. He was cornered.
“What do you want?” he asked. “I don’t have any money.”
“No money?” said the blond man. “Ah, now that’s a lie. We saw you dealing with that jeweler. What’d you get yourself?”
“None of your blasted business.” Gilwyn squared his shoulders, trying to look bigger. “And if you so much as touch me I’ll let out the loudest scream you’ve ever heard.”
The man looked at his companion. “Uh-oh, Jorry, we’d better do as he says. No one ever screams here in the alleys.”
Dark-haired Jorry, the larger of the two, leveled his eyes toward Gilwyn’s pockets. “Give it here,” he said in a voice thick with consumption.
“I don’t have anything.” Gilwyn held up his empty hands. The two took notice of his clubbed appendage and smirked.
“Whatever it is you’re hiding, I don’t think you want to fight us for it,” laughed Jorry. “So be a good boy and don’t make us hurt you.”
Teku squealed with anger, baring her sharp fangs. Jorry stopped mid-step. “Shut that beast up or I’ll skin it alive,” he hissed. Gilwyn made a fist with his good hand.
“You touch her and. . . .”
Jorry drew a dagger from beneath his filthy cloak. Moonlight and rain glinted on its blade. Gilwyn felt his knees begin to buckle.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “Or you’ll face the wrath of the king!”
“The king?” The little blond man feigned surprise. “Oh, so you’re the king’s man, eh? That’s good. Then you should spill a lot of gold when we shake you upside-down.”
They both edged closer, Jorry’s pitted dagger glinting dangerously. Gilwyn fell against the grimy wall, felt its wet surface seep though his shirt. Desperate to appease the thieves, he reached into his pocket.
“Wait!” he cried, fumbling for the ring. “I’ll give it to you.”
But before he could find the bauble a hand shot out and seized his wrist. Gilwyn jumped, thinking another thug was behind him, but when he looked down all he saw was the hand emerging from the wall. He sputtered, horror-stricken, as the hand held him firm. It was a small hand, hardly bigger than a child’s. Jorry and his companion gaped at it, thunderstruck. The dagger in Jorry’s hand went limp.
“What is that?” croaked the smaller thief. Like Jorry, he stared at the appendage coming from the wall. The hand became an arm, and soon a whole shoulder emerged from the shifting bricks. Gilwyn pulled free just as a face appeared in the
masonry. A woman’s face, with a devilish smile and a cascade of white hair around her elfin ears. He stumbled back, sure that a ghost was coming from the wall, but the wall was hardly there anymore, replaced by a dazzling frenzy of color. Out of the rainbow stepped the woman. She wore a patchwork coat that swirled around her as if alive, shifting with the colors of the brick and misty rain. As the wall grew solid again, she looked up at Gilwyn with burning, coal-black eyes.
“Hello,” she said smiling. She was remarkably tiny. An amulet hung from a chain around her neck, barely peeking through her amazing coat. When she turned toward the thieves, her smile vanished in an instant. “What is this?” she asked, staring at Jorry’s dagger. “Violence?”
Jorry tightened his grip on the knife. He sputtered, “What are you?”
The little woman sidled up to Gilwyn and put her arm around him. “I’m a friend of the boy. That’s all you need to know.”
The blond man’s face twisted with rage. “That’s just fine, midget. Then you can bleed together.”
“Ah ah, not so fast,” giggled the woman. Her strange amulet glowed furiously. “Look behind you.”
Both Gilwyn and the thieves gazed down the alley. Suddenly there was no way out. Another wall had appeared, as solid as the three that had always been there. And blocking the alley, as wide and tall as the newly formed wall, stood an immense man with stooped shoulders and a shining bald head. Expressionless eyes hung atop his over-bite, and the hair on his bulging, naked forearms was as coarse as a wire brush. He didn’t move and he didn’t speak. He merely watched the thieves, waiting like a sentry in the dark alley.
“See my friend?” asked the woman. She had taken her arm from around Gilwyn’s waist and now leaned back casually against the wall. “It’s one thing to pick on a crippled boy. Why not try your blade on Trog, Jorry?”
“How do you know my name?” Jorry insisted.
The tiny woman shrugged. “Reading the mind of a simpleton is easy.” Then she looked at the blond man. “You are Harl,” she said. “And right now you’re wondering how you’re going to escape. You don’t even mind leaving Jorry behind to deal with us, just so long as you get away.”
“Sorcery,” spat the man called Harl. “Get out of my head, you little bitch!”
“Plenty of room up there for everyone,” said the woman. “You too, Jorry. Your skull is as empty as Harl’s.” Again she shrugged. “Or as full as a chamber pot. Whichever.”
The answer enraged Jorry, who whirled to face the giant at the end of the alley. He tossed his knife from hand to hand, squaring off with the silent monster. “All right, you ugly bastard, come on!”
Gilwyn inched back. The little woman held her ground, her inscrutable smile growing.
“Trog doesn’t talk, Jorry,” she said. “And he’s already heard every insult in the world. If you want to hurt him, do it with your knife.”
Jorry stalked forward, swishing his blade and moving like a sidewinder toward his adversary. Breath rasped from the giant’s slack jaw. His two eyes watched Jorry with dull regard, and for a moment Gilwyn thought the quick thief would best the giant. But as Jorry swiped with the blade, the giant’s hand came up in a blur, effortlessly catching Jorry’s. There was a bone-crushing pop as the massive forearm flexed, forcing Jorry’s hand open and shattering his wrist. The mute monster lifted his quarry off the ground, barely acknowledging him as Jorry kicked and screamed in pain. The giant held him at arm’s length, looking toward the tiny woman for guidance.
“Very good, Trog,” said his mistress. “Let him go now.”
The order given, Trog discarded Jorry by flinging him aside. Jorry tumbled, collided with the wall, then sat up whimpering and cradling his broken arm. Trog lumbered forward, now eyeing Harl.
“Don’t you touch me!” cried the thief. “I swear, I’ll kill you!”
If Trog heard the threat, he ignored it. His hand shot out and seized Harl’s throat, his fingers circling like ropes around his windpipe. The thief jerked as Trog lifted him to his toes. Harl’s hands working uselessly to pry off the iron grip. As he choked for air, the little woman studied him pitifully.
“You see where violence gets you?” she sighed.
Harl’s eyes bulged. “Please. . . .”
“Please what? Please let you go? Please release you so you can rob some other poor soul? Is that what you want me to do?” She looked over at Jorry, still crumpled in pain. “Is that what I should do, Jorry?”
Jorry said nothing, grimacing against the agony of his broken arm. Gilwyn could see bones breaking through the skin. His right shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated.
“Answer me, you frog of a man,” commanded the woman. Her strange amulet glowed an angry red. “Speak for your friend here, or Trog will snap his neck.”
Harl let out an anguished cry. The little woman tapped her foot impatiently. “Well?”
“Let us go,” Jorry pleaded. He struggled to his feet. “We wouldn’t have harmed the boy.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“Please!” gurgled Harl. Trog kept his fist around the man’s throat, his face emotionless.
“Don’t beg,” said the woman. “Give me your word that you’ll harm no one else, and you may go free.”
“Yes!” gasped Harl. His face had turned apple red.
The tiny woman held up a finger. “Wait. Before you make your promise, I want to show you something.” She turned to Gilwyn, waving him closer. “Gilwyn, come and stand near me.”
Gilwyn hesitated.
“I won’t hurt you,” said the woman.
Her gentle tone encouraged Gilwyn’s trust. Teku slid down from his shoulder to rest in the crux of his arm. When he was safely beside her, the woman took a deep breath, closed her eyes in concentration, and spoke in a toneless whisper. They were words Gilwyn had never heard before, incomprehensible, musical words. And when she opened her eyes the fog in the alley began to shift. The wall her magic had erected disappeared, and it its place rose up two twisting pillars of mist. Jorry staggered back as the pillars took form. Harl’s already bulging eyes popped. And Gilwyn stood in fixated horror, watching as the mists shaped themselves into ghostlike figures. They were human and inhuman, beautiful and terrifying, and their faces shifting from angelic to demonic like the swinging of a pendulum. They had no feet; gusts of fog carried them forward. Their arms floated beside them, ending in insubstantial fingers. As they drifted closer they outstretched their ghostly hands, one caressing Jorry, the other engulfing Harl. Both thieves screamed at the ghastly touch.
“Trog, release him,” said the woman.
Trog’s fist opened, letting Harl crash to the ground. The spirit-thing still clung to him. He and Jorry batted at the creatures, their arms sailing uselessly through empty air.
“Jorry and Harl, these are your Akari,” said the woman. “I have summoned them for you. They will watch you always. You will never be rid of them.”
“Get it off!”
“Jorry, are you listening to me? Because it’s very important. These spirits are part of you now. They will go with you everywhere, see everything that you do.”
The little woman stepped toward them, raising her hands to heaven. Instantly, the ghosts dissipated. Jorry and Harl looked at her, their faces drawn with shock.
“They have not gone,” she told them. “They are bound to you. You cannot see them, but I assure you they are here now.”
“Great Fate,” whimpered Jorry.
“Remember our bargain,” continued the woman. “If you ever threaten another of my children, the Akari will return. Now. . . .” She turned and gestured toward the open alley. “Go and trouble us no more.”
The thieves looked about in terror. Trog still towered over them, but the ghosts were nowhere to be seen.
“Go!” barked the woman. The order snapped the men from their stupor. They staggered to their feet and hurried out of the alley, looking back in fright until they disappeared into the rainy night.
“How’d you do that?” Gilwyn finally asked. “What were those . . . things?”
The lady smiled. “Always full of questions.”
Gilwyn inched toward her, studying her peculiar coat and impish face. The glow of her amulet dimmed to a dusky crimson; the patches of her coat stopped swirling.
“Who are you?” Gilwyn asked.
“Friends,” replied the woman. “Do not fear us, Gilwyn.”
“How do you know my name?”
The evasive smile reappeared. “You are Gilwyn Toms, from the library.”
“But you’ve never been to the library,” said Gilwyn. “Believe me, I’d remember you.” He glanced between the midget woman and her mute companion. Raindrops dripped into the giant’s eyes, but he hardly blinked.
“We travel, we hear things,” said the woman. “We have heard of you, Gilwyn Toms.”