by Jon Kiln
“Oh course I do, Rothar,” Ariswold answered. “Is your friend having a little trouble sleeping?”
“Sleep?!” Harwin shouted. “Rothar, I do not wish to sleep!”
“Do you wish for me to find your daughter?” Rothar shot back.
Harwin fell silent and looked as though he may begin to sob again. “Of course I do.”
“Neither you, nor I, know who is at the bottom of this, but I can guarantee you that someone will be keeping an eye on us,” Rothar said. “I can disappear easily enough, but you are a hard fellow to overlook. I do not wish to merely make you sleep, I intend to convince the King’s City that Harwin the blacksmith is dead.”
“Dead?!” This time it was both Harwin and Ariswold who exclaimed.
“Yes, dead,” Rothar replied. Turning fully to Ariswold, he asked the old apothecary, “Do you have enough gilded fern to make a man as large as Harwin here appear, for all intents, deceased?”
Ariswold still looked stunned, and he shrugged slowly. “I have enough to make your horse appear dead, but why?”
“Fetch it for me please,” Rothar replied.
Ariswold began to climb a ladder to reach a high shelf full of jars, and Harwin slumped down in a chair, still clearly perplexed.
“You will take a large dose of gilded fern, and fall into a deep sleep,” Rothar began. “I will arrange for you to be discovered very publicly. Word of your demise will spread through the city. Then I will steal your corpse and move it to a safe location.”
“Please do not refer to me as a corpse, Rothar,” said Harwin. “And why must we do this?”
Rothar’s expression turned dark and he spoke a little more softly. “I believe that your supposed demise may help Esme stay alive a little while longer.”
The air in the room was heavy as none of the three men moved or made a sound for some time. Finally, Harwin broke the silence.
“Well, get on with killing me then.”
Ariswold filled a small leather pouch with a generous portion of powdered gilded fern and gave it to Rothar.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lad?” the old man asked.
“As a matter of fact, I think there is one more favor I must ask of you today,” Rothar said.
Rothar knew that Ariswold had made the pilgrimage to Rakhan for nearly his entire life, until a number of years ago, when the high priests in the kingdom had equated his beloved apothecary work with black magic and taboo. Ariswold had abandoned the church and the pilgrimage altogether, but Rothar was hoping he still had some souvenirs.
“Do you have any pilgrims cloaks left about?” he asked.
Ariswold’s eyebrows went up. “I suppose I do, but why would you want those?”
Rothar stared out the window at the river of supplicants moving north.
“To hide in plain sight.”
***
Rothar and Harwin ducked out of Ariswold’s shop through the back door and slunk around to the bustling street out front. Heads ducked, hooded all in white, the two men blended into the exodus like sheep rejoining their herd. They traveled in silence, as all the pilgrims did, so as not to draw any unwanted attention to themselves. They blended so well with their fellow travelers that Harwin had to hold on to the back of Rothar’s cloak to avoid being separated. If the two had lost sight of one another for even a moment, it would be nearly impossible to be reunited.
The flaxen tendril of humanity wound through the King’s City and past Castle Staghorn. By King’s order, the gates to the castle were locked and guards stood at attention throughout the pilgrimage. The crown had an inherent distrust and aversion to the religious zealots, which was ironic, as the church’s crest bore the King’s seal.
The road began to rise into the hills of the northern part of the city. From the crest of the rise the pilgrims would walk down a great stairway that led all the way to the waiting boats on the shore of the Amethyst Sea.
On the broad landing at the top of the huge stone stairway, Rothar veered to the side, towing Harwin along behind him. They moved to the far north side of the pathway, where the shadow of the Yawning Cliffs was beginning to darken the ground as the sun began it’s downward arc in the late afternoon. The two men ducked into a crevice in the side of the cliff.
Rothar opened his flask and poured in most of the powdered fern.
“Alright, Harwin, drink this quickly, and then get back into the crowd,” he told his friend. “Do not begin down the stairs, sleep will come and you may fall to your death.”
“Wouldn’t that achieve our goal?” Harwin asked dryly. The gravity of the day was taking a deathly toll on him. It was good that he would be resting soon, Rothar thought.
“Our goal is for you to see Esme again in this world, so no, it would not,” Rothar replied. “Just go to the edge of the path there and sit on the top step. Pretend to be resting, taking in the view, it doesn't matter. You will drift off peacefully and deeply. Soon enough, someone will notice you and come to you. You will appear to be dead. You won’t draw enough breath to be detected. I will handle it from there.”
Harwin took the flask from Rothar and paused, looking long at the water, and then at Rothar.
“I am placing my life in your hands, as well as Esme’s,” he said. “When I awake, how will I know where to find you?”
Rothar shook his head. “You mustn't find me, friend. When you awake you must stay where you are. I will come to you when it is safe for you to be… resurrected.”
Harwin sighed.
“Perhaps it is better this way,” he said. “I fear I would kill a hundred men, and never find the one who took my Esme.”
“If I must kill a hundred men to find her, consider them already dead,” Rothar said.
Harwin nodded and tossed back his head, draining the flask in only a few huge gulps. With that, he pulled the white pilgrims cloak off, revealing flame singed blacksmiths clothes beneath. He walked to the top of the great stairway and sat down, travelers parting around him, as though he were a boulder in the river of their progress. After less than a minute, Harwin’s head dropped between his shoulders and his muscles went limp. A moment later, nudged and jostled by passers by, he slumped over sideways on the landing.
A woman cried out and a group of pilgrims rushed to him. Some produced canteens of water and tried to revive him, propping him up and patting at his face. Soon, a sad quiet fell over the crowd that had gathered around. Most of the bystanders simply turned and started down the stairway, carrying on with their holy journey, but the woman who had first rushed to Harwin stayed by, and instructed a young girl to run back and tell the soldiers at the castle that a man was dead, and an undertaker must be sent.
Chapter 11
Rothar had remained concealed in the crevice to make sure that Harwin was tended to safely. In time, a crude wooden carriage arrived, pulled by a single, sullen looking nag. The undertaker and his apprentice rolled the limp body of Harwin onto a wooden board and attempted to heave him into the carriage. The blacksmith proved too heavy, and some straggling pilgrims were enlisted to aid in the lifting. Rothar was one of those pilgrims.
“Good sir,” Rothar said to the undertaker once the body had been loaded. “It would bless me greatly if you would allow me to ride along, to pray over this man’s body.”
Rothar kept his head bowed, his white hood still concealing his face, and he spoke with the humble tone of a penitent pilgrim.
The undertaker was an impassive man with a gaunt face and fingers like tallow candles.
“You will miss your ferry,” was all he said.
“The gods will forgive me, for the sake of this man’s soul,” Rothar replied.
“Very well, I suppose,” said the undertaker. “Climb in and hold on.”
Rothar cradled Harwin’s head on the bumpy ride back into the King’s City, holding the blacksmith’s face high enough to be seen as the carriage passed through the heart of Witherington. Everyone in the peasant’s district knew Harwin, and
Rothar was oddly pleased to see the shocked looks on people’s faces as they held their hands to their mouths at the site of Harwin’s seemingly deceased body. The whispers were practically audible over the clomping of the nag’s hooves as the carriage made it’s parade through the streets leading to the undertaker’s morbid hovel.
Rothar felt as though he were cradling a ghost, knowing in his heart that Harwin was still alive and well, but seeing the haunted expressions on the faces of the villagers.
The carriage finally came to a stand still in front of the long, narrow stone building where the undertaker conducted business. Rothar wondered how many men he had sent here.
“You may as well pray a while longer while you help us carry him in,” muttered the mortician.
“If it is all the same to you, I will pray over him until you seal the box,” replied Rothar.
The undertaker looked at him with tired and bewildered eyes, but only nodded before mumbling something under his breath about a “mad holy man.”
They carried Harwin into the stone building. Rothar was surprised at the cleanliness of the room. Gleaming utensils hung upon the walls and a large, smooth white table dominated the center of the room. They laid Harwin upon the table and the apprentice began to struggle to remove the blacksmith’s clothes while the undertaker took down a number of razor sharp blades from the wall.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rothar demanded. “Should you not leave this man with at least his decency? Put him in his box and leave him alone!”
The undertaker smiled a wicked smile and tested the edge of a blade with his fingertip.
“What is the matter, pilgrim?” he sneered at Rothar. “Does the pursuit of scientific discovery offend your eternal soul?”
“Soul or no soul, I cannot allow you to defile this man,” Rothar said, his voice cold.
The undertaker’s lip curled and he gripped the lethal looking instrument. Rothar heard the apprentice move behind him, blocking the way to the door. At that moment, he was sure that more than one man had entered that lair alive and left in a box, but it would not suit his purposes to kill these men right now. If the town mortician and his apprentice turned up dead, and the body of the well known blacksmith went missing, there would be widespread gossip and an investigation. The entire purpose of all that Rothar had put Harwin though today was to divert attention. No, Rothar would have to find a way to spare these men for now, while still keeping Harwin intact.
Rothar bowed deeply to the undertaker.
“All apologies, my lord,” he said. “I fear that sometimes in my allegiance to our great gods, I forget the all encompassing importance of hard study. I will leave you to learn what you can from this specimen. However, I insist that you share a drink with me first, for I am weary, and the road ahead is difficult.”
Rothar strode to a corner shelf which held a number of decanters of wine and some chalices.
“Do you have a preference?” he asked, holding up one of the bottles.
The undertaker growled, “I would prefer you leave.”
Rothar just held the decanter towards him. Seeing that the annoying pilgrim would not depart without having this one request fulfilled, the undertaker sighed and nodded. “That one, that one is fine.”
Turning his back to the undertaker and his apprentice, Rothar poured three glasses of wine. He only sprinkled the remaining gilded fern into two of them.
“My studious friends,” he said, turning around with a flourish. “Let us drink… to science.”
He handed the chalices to the men and they drank hurriedly.
“Now get on out of here,” the mortician said, wiping his mouth.
“As you wish.”
Rothar took his time walking to the door. When he reached it, he turned around a leaned against the threshold. The two men stared at him in annoyance, then their expressions changed. They looked confused, then weary, then drowsy. Seconds before dropping asleep on the floor, the undertaker had a momentary look of realization, and a fire lit in his eyes, just before they shut.
***
In the narrow corridor within Castle Staghorn, the one that leads to the kitchen and past the room full of children’s playthings, Rothar waited. Harwin lay peacefully in an adjacent room, with the door open. Rothar watched his friend sleep. The herb was effective, and Harwin’s breathing was so shallow that Rothar could not even perceive a rising and falling of his chest. In such stillness and peace, he really did look dead.
Rothar wondered if death truly was the only real peace that man would ever know. Even the wealthiest, in castles such as this one, and the happiest, in hovels like Witherington, never really knew peace in life. All of his life, Rothar had witnessed loss and suffering, from kings to peasants, everyone was vulnerable to pain. This was why Rothar had long ago closed himself off from anything or anyone that could cause him any pain. Pain was weakness, and there was no room in this world for weakness, not for a man like Rothar.
But now, the disappearance of Esme, the grief of his good friend and Rothar’s oppressive fatigue, were all conspiring together to cause him to feel something.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Shortly, King Heldar came into view, hurrying towards him. The King was alone.
“Sire,” Rothar bowed briefly, “does anyone else know I am here?”
“No, no one at all,” Heldar replied. “Only Sabine, and he came directly to me as soon as you sent him.”
Sabine was King Heldar’s cup bearer, and one of the only people in Castle Staghorn whom Rothar trusted completely, besides the King and Queen themselves. If there was ever any cause for Rothar to see the King in secret or in great haste, he called upon Sabine to relay the message.
“What brings you to me in such a covert manner, dear Rothar?” Heldar asked.
Rothar motioned to the open room where Harwin lay motionless.
“Is that Harwin, the blacksmith?” the King asked.
“Indeed.”
“Is he… dead?”
Rothar suppressed a satisfied smile.
“As far as the rest of the kingdom is concerned, yes he is - for now.”
King Heldar looked perplexed. Rothar brought him up to speed on the situation, beginning with the abduction of poor Esme and ending with how he had outwitted the undertaker.
“Do you not fear that the undertaker will give you away once he awakens?”
“I doubt it,” Rothar said matter-of-factly. “I left him a message via his apprentice, who will not be waking - he donated his body to science.”
The King stared at Rothar for a long moment before shaking his head vigorously, as if to clear it of cobwebs.
“I do not wish to know,” Heldar said. “What am I to do with this man?” the King motioned towards Harwin.
“Nothing, just keep him. He cannot be seen by anyone besides yourself and Sabine. Just please see to it that he has anything he needs - within the walls of this wing. But he cannot leave, and he understands that.”
“Very well,” Heldar replied. “It will be done.”
Rothar turned to leave, but the King’s voice stopped him once more.
“Rothar, I must tell you… the sentries have reported that two more children went missing today… right here in my city.”
Rothar stood still but did not turn back to the King. His blood boiled and an inexplicable pain welled up deep in the very core of his being.
“What will you do to serve our people, Rothar?” King Heldar asked.
Silence filled the corridor before Rothar answered.
“You do not wish to know, your Highness.”
Chapter 12
Afternoon was turning into evening as Rothar saddled Stormbringer in the castle stables and discreetly descended into the city. He kept to back alleys and side streets, doubling back twice to see if he was followed, trotting swiftly with his head low. When he was quite satisfied that no one was tracking him, he took the back way to Harwin’s shop.
Dismounting Stormbringer at th
e back of the blacksmith’s place, Rothar entered through the splintered rear door. The blood spots on the wooden floor had dried completely to black. Rothar studied the door. He could see from the splintering that it had not simply been blown open with a kick, but pried open at the latch with something sharp, probably a sword or dagger. It wasn't surprising, the kidnapper had obviously entered fairly quietly. What was surprising was that they had apparently been able to seize Esme before she could even call out. Quick and quiet.
Out in the garden, Rothar searched the ground for any soil soft enough to show an impression. Off at the far edge of the garden, where Harwin’s little piece of property overlooked the golden field that separated the King’s City from the Banewood, he found what he was looking for. The slender trench of a carriage wheel was visible in a moist patch of soil. They could be halfway across the kingdom now, and trying to track them would be a waste of time. Rothar would have to find Esme another way, by extracting information.
He remounted Stormbringer, the events of the last two days swimming in his weary head. There was no way that everything was disconnected. He was sent to Thurston to dispatch the wretched merchant Sleeth, the child abductor. On his was back, he was nearly intercepted by Southlanders who knew his identity. Then the abductions continued with poor Esme and the other children in the King’s City.
Rothar decided what he must do, but first, he would need to head back into the Banewood.
***
Kenner saw Rothar coming from a long way off, which was probably a good thing. Rothar knew that surprising a Banewood clan at their camp was a good way to become filled with holes.
“Didn’t expect to be seeing you again so soon,” Kenner said, as Rothar rode into camp. “Has his royal majesty sent you to chase us out of the Banewood?”
“Hardly,” replied Rothar. “The King sends his condolences for your loss.”
Kenner eyed Rothar’s saddle bags. “Any of those bags filled with the King’s condolences?”
Laughing, Rothar answered, “Sorry, not this time… I’ve actually come to ask you for something, and it is not an easy thing to ask for.”