by Dorian Hart
Slab of pork.
Behind his guards the commander backed away, a long curved sword in his hand. Pewter had been right: at close range the man’s resemblance to Tor was startling. Same lantern jaw, same broad shoulders, same red hair and angled cheekbones. The only obvious difference was that the Kivian version of Tor was about twenty years older.
He moved toward the huge metal doors, shouting over his shoulder. “Intruders! Get those doors open!”
Muffled cries answered from the other side.
Grey Wolf arrived first, sidestepping and ducking and lunging beneath one of the long spears. Tor ran at the second spearman in seeming defiance of Grey Wolf’s gang-up-on-one-man tactical plan, but at the last moment he veered right, dove into a shoulder roll that took him past his target, and slashed with his sword as he popped to his feet. The first spearman dropped, clutching his side as blood fountained out.
“Next!” shouted Grey Wolf, and Ernie understood, shifting his attention to the remaining spearman. Grey Wolf battered away a spear thrust and side-stepped rapidly, giving Ernie the perfect opportunity to bracket the enemy. His blood thundered in his ears, terror clawed upward from his bowels, but he forced it back down and stepped into position. Pyknite shook in his trembling hand. He kept his eye on the spearman, who whipped his head back and forth, trying to keep track of both his assailants at once.
Ernie saw an opening, slashed sideways with Pyknite, but the Kivian soldier parried with the haft of his spear. For a split second Ernie took his eye off his enemy, instead watching Grey Wolf move in from behind, and the spear-tip flashed toward him. A strange thing happened then. Grey Wolf’s sword-point emerged from the Kivian’s chest, but the pain of that strike flared up in Ernie’s own leg. He stumbled back and the spear came free of the Kivian’s suddenly slack fingers, following him, its haft scraping on the stones.
Oh. The point was buried in his thigh. Blood poured out and soaked his trousers. He sat. The rush of battle muted the pain, but he knew it would be awful. Ernie pulled weakly at the spear, but the nasty barbed thing was stuck.
On one side now, the rest of Horn’s Company dashed out from Kibi’s tunnel and hurried toward the arch. On the other, close at hand, Tor stood over his double, chest heaving, his sword dripping blood. He must have killed the commander in single combat. Gods, it was good to have Tor on his side!
Loud shouting continued to come from behind the iron doors, and with it came an ominous mechanical noise, like a large metal cricket clicking in the night.
“They’re winching open the doors,” said Grey Wolf. “Come on, Ernie, I’ll carry you. Everyone, through the arch!”
Grey Wolf scooped him up, none too gently. The spear dragging from his leg felt like a hot coal pressed against his skin. “Aravia, as soon as we’re on the other side, get us the hells away from wherever we end up. We’ll be in no condition to put up a fight.”
The arch’s gray-black piers loomed plenty big now that Ernie looked up at them. The metal crosspiece forty feet above his head was larger than most of the houses in White Ferry. Aravia stood directly in his field of vision, Pewter clinging to her shoulders, a deep frown of concentration on her face. Was she worried that her random teleport spell wouldn’t work? If it didn’t, they were as good as dead.
With Morningstar still slung over Kibi’s shoulder and Ernie in Grey Wolf’s arms, they plunged through the arch.
And came right out the other side, still inside the wall. Had they been transported to an identical staging ground in Kivia? No, the bodies of the three Kivians still sprawled on the stones. They hadn’t gone anywhere at all!
“I should have thought of that,” said Aravia, maintaining her calm as always. “The arch needs to be activated somehow.”
The sound of the winches changed in tenor, and the metal doors quivered. They’d be trapped! Ernie fought against his pain and panic. “We need to retreat, back through the tunnel! Or Aravia can teleport us away!”
Grey Wolf looked furious. “But this is our only chance! They’ll guard the arch triple after this.”
“Kibi!” said Aravia. “Quickly, put the commander’s body in the tunnel, then seal it up and come back. Dranko, stand in front of the arch, keep your dagger pressed to Tor’s throat, and prepare to improvise. Tor, your job is to stay perfectly quiet and look scared. Everyone else stay close. Let’s hope these Kivians value the life of their leader, and that Ozella’s ear-cuffs work both ways.”
Kibi put down Morningstar, hauled the commander’s body to his shoulder, and ran for his tunnel. Ernie felt only a terrified confusion. “Aravia, what are you—”
But Aravia wasn’t listening. She was already casting, her fingers dancing madly in the air, strange magic words spilling from her lips. The metal doors slid open, inch by inch, and a pack of spearmen started to come through, squeezing in one at a time at first, then swarming as the opening widened. Ernie looked around in bewilderment, wondering what was the plan, what was going on, how long he had to live.
“Stop right there!” Dranko stood behind Tor, his knife pressing lightly into the skin of the boy’s neck. But—it wasn’t Tor. It was the Kivian commander!
The soldiers slowed but kept advancing, cautiously, curiously.
“I said stop!” called Dranko. “Get any closer and I open up your leader’s throat.”
Dranko’s threat was an empty one; his oaths to Delioch prevented him from harming someone with a weapon. But he sounded deadly serious, and it only mattered that the enemy believed him.
There were maybe fifteen Kivians in the group, and one near the front barked, “Hold!” The mob stopped, their bodies tensing. The Kivian who had spoken, a handsome man with a trimmed red beard, stepped out from the group. “Release our warchief.”
“We will,” said Dranko. He shifted Tor to one side so he could see the Kivians better, but kept the dagger clearly visible. “But first you’ll need to turn on your magical archway.”
“Warchief,” called the Kivian. “Are you injured?”
If Tor spoke, they’d know he was a fake! Ernie’s panic grew; there were so many ways Aravia’s plan could go wrong.
“Talk to me,” said Dranko. “I’ve already told the warchief here that if he opens his mouth, he’s dead. He’s fine, and I’m sure we’d all like him to stay that way.”
How did Dranko sound so calm and in control? For all his bravado, he was probably as terrified as Ernie. Could he keep up this charade?
The Kivian frowned. “Warchief, do not speak if it puts your life in danger. But nod your head if you are unharmed and feel we should negotiate with your captors.”
Ernie felt his throat constrict. Would Aravia’s illusion hold if Tor moved around? Was this where Aravia’s mad scheme would fall apart?
Tor nodded his head, even managing an expression of resignation by rolling his eyes and raising his eyebrows.
The crowd of soldiers muttered angrily. Some pointed to the bodies of the spearmen. But the leader raised a hand that brought them to silence. “What do you want?”
“We want to go through the arch. We’re not going to hurt the warchief, I promise, as long as you let us through.”
“You will be committing suicide,” said the Kivian. “Beyond the arch are the massed forces of Delfir. If you go through, our soldiers on the home side will kill you.”
Dranko grimaced. “Let us worry about that.”
One of the other soldiers, a grim-faced veteran with abundant facial scars, blurted out, “It’s a trick! They have some plan to spy or commit sabotage through disease or magic.”
“No trick,” said Dranko. “The truth is, we want as little to do with you and your army as possible. We’re escaping from Charagan, and this is the only way to leave it. We’ll beg mercy from your army and let your warchief go.”
The Kivian turned to his fellows, and the bunch of them held a hurried conversation, obviously disagreeing about what to do. After a minute they came to a decision.
“We will energi
ze the gateway,” said the red-bearded Kivian. “But you will release the warchief before you go through. If you attempt to take him with you, we will follow you immediately and kill you on the home side.”
“Let me consult with my friends,” called Dranko. “You just stand there another minute and don’t do anything that might startle me.”
Ernie couldn’t figure out what there was to discuss; surely leaving Tor behind wasn’t an option. Dranko leaned in once they were crowded around. Ernie felt like a helpless child, cradled in Grey Wolf’s arms, the spear dangling awkwardly and sending fire through his leg with every small movement.
“We say yes, right?” said Dranko in a low voice. He kept his eyes on the crowd of enemies and his knife blade on Tor’s neck. “We’re just having this little chat to make things look good. If we agree too readily, they’ll be more likely to expect something nefarious.”
“Agreed,” said Grey Wolf.
Ernie couldn’t believe his ears. “Have you gone mad? We’re going to abandon Tor?”
“Of course not,” said Dranko. “We let him go, he makes a good show for the Kivians for a few seconds, then leaps through afterward. Tor, if you understand that part of the plan, blink your eyes twice.”
“There’s a complication,” said Aravia. “I will need a few extra seconds once we’re through. Making Tor look like the Kivian warchief drained too much of my potential. I’m going to have to improvise a variant of random teleport that consumes less energy, which means it will take longer to cast. I wish I had a better solution, but those are our new parameters.”
Grey Wolf’s aggrieved expression would have been funny in less dire circumstances. “How many is a few? Five? Fifty? It could matter.”
Aravia thought for a moment. “I am not certain. Between twenty and thirty seconds is most likely.”
“Fine. We’ll just have to stall. Tor, aim for twenty seconds, then follow us. When the Kivians have activated the arch, I want everyone to put away their weapons before stepping through. We can’t fight as it is, with Morningstar out and Ernie disabled. If we put up our hands, we reduce the chances that the Kivians on the other side will simply kill us on sight.”
Dranko nodded. To the Kivian soldiers he called out, “We agree to your terms.”
“You must let Kerieo approach the arch.” The leader motioned to one of the others. “He will need to be close to make it function.”
Dranko adjusted the knife, shifted his weight. “How close?”
“Half way to you should be close enough. There are command words.”
Ernie held his breath. Could this actually work?
“Walk slowly,” said Dranko.
The man named Kerieo took halting steps toward them. Thank the gods these people valued the life of their warchief so highly! If someone like Morningstar were in charge of the group of Kivians, they’d probably have written off the prisoner’s life and Horn’s Company would be full of spears.
Kerieo stopped, turned back to look at his comrades, then looked again toward the arch. “Delfriallestua! Alenno p’fren hannath e frenna…” The ear-cuff didn’t translate the words. He chanted for half a minute, then stopped abruptly. The air beneath the arch trembled and became opaque, a red-orange curtain of thick, foggy light.
“You may go now,” said the Kivian leader, “but leave the warchief.”
Grey Wolf carried Ernie a step toward the arch, Kibi on his heels with Morningstar again over his shoulder.
“Wait! Stop!” Dranko still hadn’t released his prisoner.
“Now what?” cried Kibi. “We gotta get out a’ here!”
Grey Wolf stopped abruptly, making the spear in Ernie’s thigh swing and tug against his skin. Bolts of hot pain shot through his leg.
“Dammit, Dranko,” said Grey Wolf, keeping his voice low. “We don’t have time for—”
“That was too easy,” Dranko whispered. “And can you feel that? There’s heat coming from the arch that wasn’t there before. What if it’s a trap?”
“The Kivians worship a god of fire,” said Aravia. “Perhaps their arcane rituals naturally evoke a thermal—”
“Or they just opened a magical doorway into a giant bonfire,” said Dranko. “Look, in my line of work, I have to get a lot of mileage out of fooling people. I’ve got a feeling in my gut that we’re getting played.”
The Kivian soldiers grew restless, probably suspicious of the company’s hesitation.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” asked Grey Wolf angrily. “We’re past the point where we can worry about every stupid possibility.”
“Stick something through the arch and see what happens to it,” said Dranko.
“Like what? We don’t have time to—”
Ernie looked down. This is a terrible idea. “Use the spear in my leg.”
“What?” Grey Wolf shook his head. “No, too dangerous.”
“Just do it!” Ernie shouted. “It hurts plenty as it is. A little more pain is worth it if it satisfies Dranko and we get the heck out of here.”
“Fine.” Grey Wolf looked down at him. “You’re a brave man, Ernie.” Grey Wolf swung him around, and new pain burned in his leg, nearly dragging a scream from his lips. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.
“Aravia,” said Grey Wolf, “hold up the spear handle, but keep your hands away from the arch.”
Grey Wolf took a final half step toward the roiling, ruddy light beneath the arch, and Aravia let two feet of the spear handle vanish into it. The weight of it, dragging down against Ernie’s skin, his flesh, grew less.
“Now back out again,” said Grey Wolf. He stepped away from the arch.
The spear handle was shorter by two feet, its new truncated end charred, as though it had been placed into a hot fire and half its length burned away. A murmur went up among the Kivians, and Kerieo looked back at them, dismayed.
Dranko shook his head. “That was not very smart!” he shouted to the Kivians.
Kerieo smiled grimly. “Neither was infiltrating our camp, killing our soldiers, and threatening the life of our warchief.”
The leader wheeled upon Kerieo. “You idiot! I ordered you to open the arch properly! You could have killed Davarian.”
“But Lem, we cannot allow…”
“I am allowing it! We will not risk Davarian’s life over this unless he himself decides it.”
“You have one more chance,” shouted Dranko. “No tricks this time. You may have lied, but I’m still telling the truth. We don’t care about you and your army, and we don’t want to hurt your leader. We only want to go to Kivia and then get as far away from your people as possible.”
The enemy soldiers continued to mutter among themselves. Surely they would decide this game was over, chalk up the chief as a casualty of war despite Lem’s wishes, and leave the arch closed. Horn’s Company was outnumbered and in no position to put up any kind of fight. If Ernie was about to die anyway, he’d yank out the spear, ignore the pain, and fight to his last breath. That’s what a hero would do!
Lem pointed to the arch. “No tricks this time, I promise. You can have the warchief put his own arm through first if you still have doubts. But I warn you again: You will be dead no matter what course you take. Ten thousand spears await you in Delfir.”
Dranko flashed his tusky smile. “Thanks for the warning. Now please tell your buddy there to open this thing properly. No funny business.”
This time Kerieo’s chant took nearly a minute, and while the view through the arch changed once again, this time the effect was different. Ernie imagined he saw a different land, but blurry, as though someone had hung a heavily smudged window between the arch’s posts. Oddly it was brighter on the other side.
“Let’s go,” said Grey Wolf. In a lower voice he added, “Tor, remember, wait twenty seconds, then follow us. Weapons away, everyone. I’ll go first with Ernie, then Kibi and Morningstar, then Aravia and Dranko. Aravia, start casting the moment we get through. The rest of us will form a cir
cle around you. Now move!”
Ernie winced as Grey Wolf hauled him through, as much from fear as from the screaming pain of the spear. The arch could still be trapped, despite the Kivian’s assurances. They might be roasted as they crossed the threshold, or turned to dust, or—
The world abruptly changed. Before him stretched a vast rocky plain, gray and hard and forbidding, lit up by a low pale sun behind a shroud of clouds. The land had the watery yellow glow of sunrise splashed across it, though it wasn’t more than two hours past midnight. The air, which a moment ago had been muggy, was cool and dry.
A wide road stretched straight away from the arch through a seemingly endless armed encampment. There was no wall. Through a haze of breakfast cook fires, Ernie saw thousands of tents pitched on the stony flat. A regiment of about two dozen armored soldiers stood at attention not more than thirty feet distant, some facing out toward the army, others looking—
“Don’t give them any reason to attack,” Grey Wolf hissed. “And make sure we’re all in contact. I don’t want anyone left behind.”
Aravia was already chanting, softly, and twisting both hands into complex shapes. The twenty-odd Kivian soldiers ran toward them, shouting challenges. “Who are you? Who ordered the arch opened? Where is Warchief Davarian?”
Dranko had his hands up, palms out. Ernie put up his own, just in case it wasn’t already obvious how little a threat he posed, cradled like a helpless babe in Grey Wolf’s arms. Kibi raised one hand, Morningstar draped over his opposite shoulder. In seconds the enemy had them surrounded, fifteen spears lowered and aimed at their little band.
“We come in peace!” Dranko shouted.
“What is she doing?” One of the soldiers gestured with a spear toward Aravia. “Tell her to stop!”
“I can’t,” said Dranko. “Her spell is the only thing keeping us all alive. Warchief Davarian sent us to warn you; the arch could explode any minute! You are all in danger!”
What? Had Dranko concocted this story earlier, or was he making it up on the fly? Either way, his fake sincerity was impressive! And it had the effect Dranko must have hoped for; the spearmen paused in confusion. Some looked up worriedly at the towering arch. A few raised their weapons.