Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “They’re going to kill you,” he whispered as he brushed past Alistair.

  The whisper was the slightest of exhalations, barely audible even absent the rush of the waterfall. The speaker himself would have heard it more in his imagination than in reality. Fighting to relax his tense muscles, Alistair realized no one else could have heard the warning. His three companions were no longer comfortably reclining, but that was due to the unfamiliar presence of the warriors outside their chamber. The warriors themselves looked like typical on-duty soldiers: alert but bored.

  “I’ll return,” whispered Mordecai as he moved past Alistair once more, rubbing his nose to cover the movement of his lips now that he was facing the guards. A moment later the curtain was closed and the four visitors were retreating.

  Alistair was on his feet a moment later. “We might be in a bit of a predicament.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Greg.

  “That slave gave me a warning.”

  “How?” asked Ryan.

  Alistair went to the curtain, drew it back, and looked both ways down the corridor. Letting the brown fabric fall back into place, he continued, “He said they were going to kill us.”

  “What?” Greg asked louder than he intended.

  “He said he would be coming back.”

  “Why would he tell us?” asked Ryan dubiously.

  “He saw that tattoo on your buddy and wants to be rescued,” said Clyde.

  Alistair moved to the lip of the cave’s entrance and scanned the face of the rock around them. “There’ll be no climbing down from here,” he pronounced with a grimace.

  “I don’t know that I want to wait for him to come back,” said Ryan, on his feet now and shifting nervously about.

  “If he didn’t mean to come back he wouldn’t have said anything to us,” Gregory said.

  “It might not be up to him. He may be delayed and come back too late,” countered Ryan, “or sent to his cage before he can get to us.”

  “Why the hell would they want to kill us?” demanded Clyde. “Especially Greg and Alistair?”

  “We were rebels,” said Alistair, realizing the truth. “This city is ruled by a king and we rebelled against ours.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Ryan hissed. “We should’ve fucking lied!”

  Gregory vaulted out of his cushioned chair and rifled through their belongings. “No weapons.”

  “We’re leaving now,” Alistair decided and grabbed a handful of their gear. “Is our money intact?”

  “The money is there,” said Greg, hoisting a bag himself.

  Clyde and Ryan offered no argument, simply grabbing what remained and following Alistair. Since they came from the right, Alistair went left. The particular corridor in which they found themselves was vacant, but it later merged with another more trafficked hallway. Unwilling to turn back, they were taken deeper into the city as the tunnel curved inward. Casting wary glances right and left, they plunged onward, hoping to find a more propitious corridor.

  Unable to trust anyone, entirely ignorant of the layout of their present environs, surrounded by thousands who might turn on them in a moment, they might as well have been blind as they went. Whenever a tunnel offered a downhill slope, they took it. Left or right ceased to matter as even Alistair’s finely honed directional sense was rendered useless. The only metric to measure their progress was that, the more downward sloping tunnels they took, the more common folk, identified by their coarser dress, they ran into. One cavern housed a tavern emitting from its doorless and windowless openings the sounds of a gay crowd and copious torchlight. Alistair stopped there, peering uncertainly at it, on the point of stopping in to ask directions.

  “If you’re looking for somewhere to spend your money, my friends and I have just the place,” said a woman’s voice in fluent English touched by a mild, untraceable accent.

  The four men turned to regard the speaker, a stunning woman of no more than 25 years with brown skin, long and smooth black hair, deep brown eyes and full lips. Distant from any torch, her skin nearly blended with the shadows, though her white robes, as fine as could be found on Srillium, stood out. Her arms and shoulders were bare and the robe came down to her knees, leaving the smooth skin of her calves open to view. Barefoot, she leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other and with her head seductively tilted so that she was looking at them from just under her eyebrows. The whites of her eyes, matching the clothing she wore, seemed to glow in the middle of her dark face.

  “We don’t have any money,” Alistair muttered and made as if to move on.

  “Men always have money for what I’m offering.”

  “We’re actually a little busy right now,” Gregory stammered and shuffled towards Alistair, who was at the entrance of the next tunnel.

  “What’s the rush?” she said with a playful half smile. “Someone coming to kill you?”

  This stopped all in their tracks save Alistair, who did an abrupt about face and charged the young woman, stopping just in time to keep from squashing her against the wall. She started but did not lose her poise, boldly meeting Alistair’s gaze.

  “What did you say?” he asked, hulking over her with her forehead barely reaching his sternum. The other three crowded around them.

  “Mordecai sent me. Well, Mordecai asked me to come; he’s in no position to send anything. You remember little naked Mordecai, right?”

  “We remember.”

  “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll discuss getting you out of here alive?”

  “At what price?”

  “At whatever price we decide to charge,” she said with a smirk and, extricating herself from the narrow space between Alistair and the stone wall, moved towards a different tunnel. “You’re not in a strong bargaining position.”

  As the shadows fell on her, her skin disappeared until only the white robe could be seen, as if floating. Two steps later and her garments too were wrapped in darkness. Alistair paused for a moment, but the issue was a simple one. He entered the tunnel where she disappeared, his companions on his heels.

  Chapter 51

  The young woman with the seductive mien glided through the tunnels with the careless ease of one long familiar with them. Alistair could not guess in which direction she led them, but she did so without hesitation. All he could say afterwards was that they were led upwards a bit, but for all the forks they took, turns they made and caverns they crossed he could not say with any confidence that, fifteen minutes of walking later, they were not directly above the very tavern where they met her.

  “You never told us your name,” said Gregory, moving to her left side.

  With expert control she allowed a smile to develop on her lips. “Layla.”

  “Gregory Lushington,” said the young doctor, holding out his head.

  “You cannot shake hands with a woman here, Gregory Lushington,” she advised him, and she widened the smile when he clumsily withdrew his hand. “Not without paying her first.”

  “What is your full name?”

  “Layla Dubai.”

  “That’s a very pretty name.”

  “We’re taking the right fork,” she advised as he, looking at nothing but her, found himself separated from the others by the wedge of stone that created the split in the tunnel. Tripping over himself, he hastened to rejoin the group, but now he found himself stuck in the back with Ryan Wellesley.

  “I wish toilet paper were as smooth as you,” was his sardonic greeting. “Every shit would be a vacation.”

  One last tunnel they took, which emptied into a medium size cavern lit by a lone torch. Like most of the others, it was fixed to a tall, three legged stand, this one in the center of the cavern. Some noises issued from somewhere inside, noises composed of hushed human voices, but the people making the sounds remained unseen. At the mouth of the tunnel Layla turned to a small copse of stalagmites.

  “They’re here,” she whispered.

  At her words Mordecai, still naked
, stepped out from behind a stalagmite and another attractive woman, past thirty years old and dressed like Layla but with lighter skin, stood up behind another.

  “Did you bring me clothes?” Mordecai said with a dark look, only just managing to keep his whisper from becoming a hiss. His accent was light but unmistakably Chinese.

  “I’m sorry but we didn’t have time,” said Layla as if the issue were of no concern to her.

  In response Mordecai clenched a fist. “This isn’t a joke to me.”

  From the depths of the tunnel came the sound of a giggle and its echoes.

  “It’s time,” said the second woman as she surveyed them. Her accent was familiar to Alistair but he could not place it. Bending down to grab something behind the stalagmite and coming back up with a light ax and a spear, she proffered these to Alistair who took the spear; the ax wound up in Wellesley’s hands. Mordecai, after shouldering a couple of bags full of items, grabbed a spear and an obsidian dagger.

  “Are we going to fight our way out?” Alistair asked.

  “The way out is taken care of,” the woman replied, the finger on her lips telling Alistair to be more quiet. Another giggle issued from the cavern. “But we may have to fight later.”

  Layla took the lead, guiding them towards an outcropping of rock at the far end of the cavern. As they approached, it became clear the voices they were hearing were coming from near it. Layla, Mordecai and the woman stepped gingerly, and Mordecai held his spear so that it did not clack against stone or rub against the straps of the bags he carried. In unconscious imitation, Alistair’s group followed, each moving as silently as he could. A low moan that turned into a purr filled the cavern, echoing and reechoing against the stone interior. It was a woman who made the sound.

  When they drew near the outcropping, they finally saw the people making the noises, and they saw the reason. Two spears were tossed on the ground next to a pile of leather clothing of the sort Issicrojan warriors wore. A woman, dressed in a white dress of a similar cut to Layla’s, sat atop a boulder, her hands supporting her weight as she inclined backwards. Her right leg was splayed out to the side with her foot planted on a stalagmite. Her left leg was draped over the shoulder of a naked man, her thigh and calf running down his back. His head could not be seen but its shape was obvious beneath her dress. His hands pawed at her hips and Alistair, embarrassed and nearly stumbling, saw her wink at him. With a wicked smile she tossed her head back and emitted a loud moan. Whether sincere or not, the outburst covered any sounds they made. Another couple lay flat on the floor, both naked, he on top of her, her enveloping his head in an embrace forcing his face into her chest. The man’s movements rocked them back and forth.

  For a few moments only did they observe the scene, and then the projection of rock blocked their view and they found themselves at the entrance of a lightless tunnel. It was a jagged fissure in the surrounding stone, as if two puzzle pieces did not fit together properly. Even Alistair’s vision could not see far into the opening because the passageway cut left only a short distance from its entrance. Two of their three guides, apparently less familiar with this area, entered with some hesitation, but Mordecai suffered from no such uncertainty and strode into the tunnel and took the lead.

  “I’ll bring up the rear,” mouthed Alistair into Gregory’s ear.

  The doctor nodded and, hands out in front, lightly touching his companions around him, plunged into the tunnel as more moans covered their exit. Alistair went in last, always with his spear ready. There was never any true danger, but for those who could see nothing it was a harrowing experience, with dangers conjured from their own imaginations. Every echo seemed to reverberate off the walls of an unseen precipice; every trickle of water threatened an underground river; every dip in the height of the ceiling menaced; they were startled by every elevated bit of floor over which they stumbled. In the end the passage was not as long by half as their expectations made it out to be, and they were soon crawling up a cramped incline and emerging from the innards of a hill and into the red tinged Srillium night.

  The breeze, first announcing itself while they rested in the chamber on the edge of the underground city, grew in strength to become a proper wind. The long grass on the hillside swayed under its weight and the night was filled with the rustle of grass blades and tree leaves rubbing against one another. When Alistair finally pulled himself out of the shaft, the first thing he saw was the curvaceous body of the second woman, back to him, standing with her legs spread and arms flung out wide, her head thrown back and her dark, curly hair mussed by the wind. Each finger was stretched out as far as it would go, as if she were trying to envelope all of nature with her body.

  “Is she praying or can we get started?” Ryan asked.

  “Freedom is a thing to be drunk with one’s whole body,” she replied. “I have not been a free woman for many years.”

  “And won’t be for much longer if we don’t start moving,” said Mordecai.

  With that, Layla reached into a small bag and produced two pairs of moccasins that she and the other woman promptly slipped onto their feet. Mordecai saw this and glowered at them but they, seeming not to notice, started down the hill.

  “You said you didn’t have time to get me clothes,” he called after them, in control of his voice to the same extent a rider controls his mount stung by a bee.

  “Our skin is soft, not made for walking around barefoot,” Layla informed him without looking back. “You’re used to being naked.”

  With a furious motion, Mordecai grabbed his spear and descended. Alistair and his friends followed, with Alistair moving up to walk next to the woman whose name he did not know.

  “It seems we have time for an explanation,” he prompted.

  “They were going to kill you. We saved you.”

  From the corner of his eye he fixed an incredulous look on her. “My name is Alistair.”

  “Giselle.”

  He gazed at her comely Mediterranean features. Her thick hair was a deep black and cascaded to her shoulders in gentle ringlets which coiled and uncoiled against the bounce of her walk. She was tall enough to reach his chin, and her well toned body had not lost its feminine roundness. Older than he, she still retained her youth but from close range one could detect the beginnings of age’s grip on her.

  “Giselle…?”

  There was a slight hesitation before she answered. “You may call me Giselle La Triste.”

  “Giselle The Sad?” She did not respond. “And you are from Arcabel, unless I am mistaken.” The last comment earned a quick glance from her.

  “Yes, Arcabel.”

  “And what are you getting out of this?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Or what do you expect to get?”

  It was Layla who interrupted with an answer. “We are leaving, just like you. It’s not an easy life in Issicroy, especially for a woman. We had been planning it for a while. When Mordecai saw your tattoo and heard what you were sent here for…”

  “If you think Issicroy is hard for a woman, you should try doing my job for a week,” grumbled Mordecai. “Just one week. I’d like to see you do it.”

  “I rather think you would have a harder time performing ours,” Giselle retorted and Layla laughed.

  “If I had your equipment,” growled Mordecai over their laughter, “I’d consider myself fortunate to live in the kind of luxury you had.”

  “Oh yes!” said Giselle. “It’s such a delight pleasuring all you sweaty, hairy, callused men. I just can’t get enough penises inside me.”

  “And where exactly are we headed now?” Alistair cut in before Mordecai could reply with something as angry as his face looked.

  “We were going to travel to the south coast. After that…”

  “You are looking for Odin.”

  There was a hint of surprise in the pause that followed.

  “Yes, we are looking for Odin,” Giselle confirmed. “And we’ll all be executed if we’re found.”<
br />
  “I’ve heard Odin is a risky proposition.” This elicited only a shrug from Giselle. “Well, we’ve got nowhere else to go. A friend of ours left here a little while ago. He is headed that way as well. I don’t know what route he would take…”

  “If he’s on the main trail,” said Mordecai, “it’s took risky to look for him there. If he’s not on the main trail we’ll never find him except by accident.”

  “Do you think they’ll pursue us?” asked Alistair.

  “It’s an absolute certainty,” said Mordecai.

  “Well, they’re as likely to run into us as we are of running into Santiago. Which means if they want a reasonable likelihood of catching us they’ll have to send out multiple search parties. And the main trail is as good a place to ambush a search party as anywhere else, correct?”

  Mordecai mulled it over for a moment. “Why do we need to find this guy?”

  “I think he has a good idea how to find Odin. Besides… he seems like a decent guy. Good head on his shoulders.”

  Shrugging, the former slave said, “We can probably make the trail before he does. I doubt he left the way we did, and if he wants to use the main trail he’s got to travel a ways down the canyon first.”

  So saying, Mordecai made a slight easterly correction in their bearing. Though the others couldn’t make it out, Alistair saw they were headed towards a dark mass of forest. From the way he maneuvered in the dark, he guessed Mordecai possessed sight akin to his own, for the glow of Srillium was partially blocked by clouds, and the landscape so far off was hard to discern. Silent as he pondered their new companions, the ex marine fell in behind Mordecai, using his spear as a walking stick and never ceasing to scan the countryside.

  Chapter 52

  As Alistair watched the play of muscles under Mordecai’s skin, he concluded he had been, as it was called, enhanced. His physique did not exceed the bounds of what was naturally obtainable, but was beyond what a slave to a semi-barbaric king on a prison planet could have maintained. Beyond what was on his head and perched over his eyes, the half-Caucasian, half-Oriental warrior did not have a hair on his body. Not on his face, which was bereft of not only the shafts of hair but also of the roots which shaving does not remove; nor on his chest; nor where his limbs met his torso. It was a preternatural smoothness interrupted only by the occasional scar, especially on his back.