Escape From Riddler's Pass

by Amy Green

  Bern followed them as they stepped down from the platform. “Thank you,” Jesse said to him, before they walked over to join the History Keeper. “For saving our lives, I mean.” Bern just nodded crisply at him before joining the crowd of Roarics, who now stared fixedly at the platform.

  “Come,” the History Keeper said. “We must go to a place where we can speak freely.”

  He led them through the straight, orderly streets, past shacks that looked like a heavy sigh would make them collapse.

  “I think we’ll be all right,” Rae whispered to them. “He stood up for us in front of everyone.”

  Silas shook his head. “No. I don’t trust him.”

  Jesse said nothing, choosing instead to watch the History Keeper, who was now a few paces ahead of them. I imagine that all Roarics, deprived of much of their sense of sight, have excellent hearing. But if he heard them, the History Keeper did not say anything.

  The History Keeper stopped at the very back of the cavern, in front of a dwelling set into the stone wall. Jesse noticed it was a distance away from all of the others. “Much different than what you’re used to, of course,” he said, turning to them, “but it’s home.”

  “So you’re the History Keeper,” Jesse said thoughtfully, looking him over. He seemed much like the other Roarics. Same rags, same pale skin, same squinty eyes…. But no. The eyes are not the same, somehow.

  “Yes,” the History Keeper said, “that is my title. But you may call me Noa.” He sighed and looked away briefly. “It would be nice if someone did.”

  Jesse blurted out what he was thinking. “I expected someone…older.”

  “An ancient relic hunched over faded manuscripts, no doubt,” Noa said, laughing. “No, although the History Keeper before me, my father, came close to that description.” He waved them in through the door. “Come in, please.”

  “Not yet,” Silas said, planting his feet firmly and crossing his arms. “First tell us why you stood up for us at the meeting.”

  Noa turned his squinting eyes to Silas, looking up at him without judgment. That’s when Jesse realized what was different about his eyes. They have something behind them.

  “You are right to be cautious,” Noa said at last. “But, believe me, I mean you no harm. I simply do not trust the ruling clan to make a wise decision about you.”

  Rae grunted. “No wonder. That Kasha woman would have imprisoned us here for the rest of our lives!”

  “Because her own life is built on fear,” Noa said. “All these years, my father tried to get the other Roarics to see that, but they would not believe him. Sometimes, I wonder if they were even listening.” He shook his head. “I am sorry. We do not need to stand here and talk. Come inside.”

  This time, even Silas followed, although reluctantly. Noa’s dwelling was brighter inside than the dim streets of New Urad, and Jesse blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust before looking around. When he did, he was surprised at what he saw.

  One wall was made entirely of the glowing stones that provided the cavern’s light. A solitary bench stood on one side of the room, and a makeshift desk on the other, crowded with ancient-looking books. A ragged blanket roll lay beside it.

  But what caught Jesse’s eyes most of all were the paintings—rows of parchments attached to the wooden wall with iron nails. Each seemed to bear a different, intricate design. He stepped toward them to get a better look in the dim light. The lines were dark and smooth, with shades of color here and there. “These are beautiful,” he breathed, tracing one of the outlines.

  “They are the histories of Urad,” Noa said simply.

  “Then you can tell us what happened,” Jesse said eagerly, turning to him.

  Noa just stared at him, and for a moment, Jesse was afraid he was wrong, or that he had misspoken in some way. “You really want to know?” Noa said at last.

  “Yes.”

  The smile lighting Noa’s face was grateful and sad at the same time. “None of the Roarics care to hear the histories,” he explained. “Really, they don’t care to talk to me at all, shunning me as they did my father before me. But at least my father had me. He told me the histories almost every night.”

  For a moment, Noa’s face showed deep sadness. Jesse thought he understood. Even though he didn’t know if his parents were alive or not, he knew what it was like to lose a father.

  “Now that he is gone,” Noa continued, “the histories have gone untold for two years.”

  “Until now,” Jesse pointed out.

  “Until now.”

  Rae and Silas sat down on the bench to listen, but Jesse stood transfixed, as Noa pointed to each painting and described what happened in each.

  When he reached the eighth painting, his story began to describe what led to the destruction of Urad. The scene was a cart full of uncut gems, pulled along a track by a Roaric miner while a Patrol member looked on.

  “Of course, they mined for iron as well,” Noa narrated. “But all of the materials went to the king, and our people were paid only a small portion of what they were worth.”

  The next painting showed five Roarics, four men and one woman, in front of a group of Patrol members. Is that…Kasha? The dwarves were, as the Roarics would say, Above-ground.

  “My father and a few others decided to demand their rights. The Patrol members refused, and when my father threatened to incite the rest of the Roarics to a rebellion, they left in a fury. My father knew something terrible would happen, so he urged the people of Urad to leave the city. They would not, though he pleaded with them day after day. Then the army came.”

  The paintings became dark and ominous, filled with smoke and swords and death. Jesse could almost smell the burning buildings, hear the cries of the people, feel the panic that must have come with the Fall. “The king’s retribution was swift, and nearly complete.”

  Here Noa paused, his face full of sadness. “Many—including my mother—were killed by the king’s Patrol. Only a few escaped. My father was one of them. In the confusion, he ran with me to the mines, hiding in one of the shallow shafts that had not yet been fully drilled.”

  Jesse was drawn to that painting in particular. It showed a man huddled in little more than a deep ditch, shielding a small baby and looking upward in fear, as the gray boots of Patrol members ran by above them.

  “Eventually, once the Patrol members were gone, the survivors found each other. Because remembering brought so much pain, the Roarics decided to forget—to forget what life had been like before, to forget the Fall, to forget their troubles, hoping that would make them disappear. My father refused to forget, and so he was called the History Keeper. After some time, the survivors built New Urad with the scraps the king’s men had left behind.”

  Here Noa stopped. “But I hardly need to show you that painting. You have seen the city yourself. Life has changed very little over the past three decades.” He walked away from the wall of paintings, shaking his head.

  Then he looked up at them. “But I have talked too long. I have not yet asked you for your history. I doubt your story to the ruler clan was fully accurate.” He looked at them expectantly.

  Jesse was about to speak up, when Silas stood, motioning for him to be quiet. “Maybe not,” he said firmly, “but it will have to stand for now.”

  Noa nodded, seeming to accept his answer, whether or not he understood it. “Would you like something to eat?” he offered. “I have only the small ration the hunter clan gives out, but….”

  “No,” Silas said quickly. “We have supplies of our own.”

  “But thank you,” Jesse added.

  “Perhaps something to drink, then?”

  “Actually,” Rae said, moving toward the door, “I have to say, I’m ready to leave. It’s strange for us to be so far underground.”

  Noa nodded. “I understand, though it will be hard to say good-
bye to my first—and perhaps only—guests. I will show you the way. It’s not far from here.”

  “Wait,” Silas said, stepping in front of him. He set his pack on the ground, and rummaged through it, pulling out the Rebellion symbol. Now, in the darkness, Jesse noticed what he had not before: the faint white glow around the stone. “What can you tell me about the Rebellion?”

  “The Rebellion,” Noa said softly, reaching out for the stone. “May I?”

  At first, Silas jerked his hand back, studying Noa. “He’s not going to steal it, Silas,” Jesse said, exasperated.

  “I know,” Silas snapped. He handed the stone to Noa, who stared at the symbol carved into it.

  “My father spoke of the Rebellion,” he said. “In the old days, he was part of the representer clan, which dealt with the Above-grounders. The Patrol members hated the Rebellion, I remember that much.”

  “With good reason,” Silas said bitterly.

  Noa didn’t seem to hear him. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There was one story my father used to tell. I remember it, because it was one of my favorites. He overheard a Patrol member talking one day, telling of a fellow Patrol who had gone mad and spoke of a place in the mines where there were traps and secret tunnels. He described it as ‘the place where the fist pounds the mountain.’”

  “The fist?” Rae asked, sounding confused.

  “Yes, that’s what the other Patrol member thought too. He described the man’s ravings as a hilarious joke, and apparently thought nothing of them. My father thought differently. He knew of a place fitting the crazed Patrol’s descriptions.”

  “How?” Jesse asked.

  Noa shrugged. “Our people created these mines, nearly all of them. The first one was poorly planned, full of twists and turns and dead ends, deep in the heart of the mountains. It was mined of anything useful and abandoned generations ago. My father always believed that was the place the man spoke of.”

  “But what does that have to do with the Rebellion?” Silas pressed.

  “Of course,” Noa said, like he had forgotten. “The man also repeated the phrase, ‘The Riddler’s Pass. The riddler and the Rebellion.’” Noa smiled slightly. “My father told the story well, imitating the man’s crazed words. But, though I found the story amusing, Riddler's Pass does not sound like a place hospitable to visitors.”

  A mild statement. “So their headquarters are somewhere in the Deep Mines,” Jesse mused out loud.

  “Yes,” Noa agreed. “About half a day’s journey from here, in fact, if I remember correctly.”

  “Then you know where the headquarters are?” Silas demanded, his voice rising in excitement. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

  “You didn’t ask before,” Noa said, shrugging. “You asked what I could tell you about the Rebellion—its history. Its location is something to be looked up in a book of maps, not something to be told about. There is a difference.”

  “You have a book with a map of the Rebellion headquarters?” Silas asked in amazement.

  Noa nodded. “The mountains are our home. You Above-grounders are newcomers here. In the old days, we had every ravine and crevice diagrammed. I am perhaps the only one who remembers.”

  “Why haven’t you done anything with it? Told anyone?”

  “Who would I tell?” Noa pointed out. “No one Above-ground knows we exist—besides you, of course. No one here cares. And besides, how do I know this Rebellion is evil?”

  “They killed my father,” Silas said in a dull, dead voice. “He was a priest, shot in an attempt by the Rebellion to murder the governor’s steward. He was innocent—killed for no reason. What could be more evil than that? The king may do wrong, but it cannot compare to the evil of the Rebellion.”

  “Who are you to judge that?” Noa asked. “Is the evil that destroyed my mother and my people greater than the evil that destroyed your father?” His eyes, though squinting, seemed sharper as he stared at Silas.

  Silas didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead, unblinking.

  Without another word, Noa crossed over to the cluttered desk on the other side of the room and began rustling through papers and books. “I can’t recall where it might be. Never added to it myself, you see.”

  Jesse sat back down on the ground to wait. Rae chose to pace, and Silas just stood, staring at Noa. “A map of the headquarters,” he muttered to no one in particular. “And they had it all this time….”

  “Here it is!” Noa said triumphantly, producing a thick volume. “The Geography of the Suspicion Mountains.” Silas was at his side immediately, and Jesse and Rae looked over Noa’s shoulder, not a difficult task with a dwarf.

  “Above-ground locations….” Noa muttered, his stubby finger running down a neat index. “Riddler’s Pass.” He looked up. “A label added by my father, of course.” He turned the pages carefully and slowly. Silas tapped his foot in a repetitive beat on the floor.

  Finally, Noa reached the right page. “There,” he said, pointing. Spread out over both pages was the diagram of an elaborate tunnel system. Jesse could hardly follow all its twists and turns.

  “A view from above,” Noa explained. “This map is, of course, more than twenty-six years old, but perhaps it could be of use.”

  “Yes,” Silas said, staring at the page. “Yes. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  Noa turned the page. “A wider view,” he explained. Now the map showed the topography of the mountains themselves, and the nearby landmarks.

  Silas took the book from Noa and pointed to a town near the border. “I know this village,” he said. “Caven. My father was born there.” He looked back at Jesse and Rae. “We can use this to get there,” he said. “I know we can.”

  Something inside of Jesse wondered, And then what? But he said nothing.

  Silas turned to Noa. “Can we take this with us?”

  Noa just laughed. “A funny sight you would look on the road, hefting along a large volume of maps to find your way.”

  “I mean tear out the pages.”

  From the horrified look on Noa’s face, Jesse would have guessed Silas had suggested killing his firstborn child. “Of course not.” He snatched the book away from Silas. “I’ll make a copy.”

  He took out a clean piece of parchment and dipped a quill in a half-full bottle of ink. “I don’t have much left,” he said apologetically. “It will have to be small.”

  “Just so we can read it,” Jesse said, although Silas looked about to protest.

  Several quick, fluid strokes later, Noa had outlined the features of the map. In surprisingly neat handwriting for someone with such clumsy-looking hands, he labeled the landmarks and added the necessary details.

  Jesse admired the finished product. It wasn’t an exact copy, but the lines were clear and accurate, though smaller. Noa clearly had an artist’s eye.

  “It will help,” Silas said, studying the map again, then placing it carefully in his pack. “Do you think anyone else here will have more information?”

  Noa laughed outright at that. “No. I know they will not. They discard any information that is not immediately useful for survival. The Roarics have always been a race of workers, not thinkers,” he explained with a shrug. “And after the Fall, the leaders decided that it was the representer clan’s questions and demands that caused the destruction of Urad. So questions, and with that curiosity and knowledge—became the enemy.”

  “Yet they have you, the History Keeper,” Jesse pointed out.

  “Yes, they have me,” Noa said, giving a dry chuckle. “The village idiot, the strong young man who plays with heirlooms, paints on his walls, and writes records in books when he ought to be hunting and mining to ensure New Urad’s survival.”

  Then he shook his head. “But this is no time to feel sorry for myself. I will lead you to the river.”

  The rive
r?

  But Noa continued without explaining. “I walk there often to get away from the town. It leads to a passage that will take you to the surface. Believe me, the other Roarics have already forgotten about you. You will not be missed.” He paused. “At least, I hope not.”

  Chapter 6

  They almost made it out of New Urad without any trouble. Noa was leading them all the way through the small village, when a dwarf with a pickaxe and a dark scowl stepped out from behind the last house. He stood firmly in their way, stocky arms crossed in an unspoken threat. Even though the Roaric was half his size, Jesse couldn’t help feeling a little nervous.

  “I don’t suppose he’s here to wish us good-bye,” Jesse muttered.

  “Doubt it,” Noa muttered back. “Not Vane.”

  The Roaric, Vane, stepped forward. Dirt and sweat made lines on his wide forehead, making his sneer seem like something permanently etched into his face. “Going somewhere, History Boy?”

  “Yes, I am,” Noa said calmly, meeting his gaze. “To the river. To show the newcomers how to fish.”

  “So they can do work to help New Urad? Like you never do?”

  “We all do our part, Vane. Now, step aside. Please.”

  Vane didn’t seem to know how to respond to Noa’s cool politeness. Jesse got the feeling this conversation had happened many times before.

  Instead of moving, Vane looked up at the them. He stared longest at Rae. “You’re a pretty little thing, for an Above-grounder,” he said, grinning at her. “Maybe you’re half Roaric yourself.”

  “Maybe,” Rae said, her eyes blazing even in the dim light. “Like you, I’m small in frame. Unlike you, I’m not small of mind. That’s half.”

  Vane’s smile went away.

  Jesse groaned inside. Rae always knows how to make enemies.

  “Hold your peace, Vane,” Noa said, as the other Roaric muttered angrily. “She’s new here.”

  “She should go back where she belongs,” Vane said, spitting at their feet. “All them should.”