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Unfettered

Page 48

by Terry Brooks


  She waited there still, sleeping in the very spot where he had left her. She rose, then immediately went to one knee before him.

  The Freed scrambled down from their hillside above. He did not fail to notice that the female Ayyad, dressed in black robes with white tassels, had arrived to watch for him. Two hundred of them waited with the gathered nobility that Bao had appointed. In a wave, they fell to their knees as Shendla had, leaving only Mintel, who sat at the top of the path with legs crossed as he meditated.

  “Mintel!” Bao announced, walking up to Shendla and reaching down to her shoulder. “Open your eyes to angor’lot! The day has come at long last. I name myself the Wyld. Your dragonslayer has come!”

  The people began to cheer him, and Shendla looked up. “You smile,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You have accepted it?” she asked. “Your role among us?”

  “Yes.”

  He noticed a tear roll down her cheek, and she bowed her head again. He had come among them as a stranger. And oh, what power he had found, far more than he had ever anticipated. The Scepter was merely a beginning.

  Mintel cried out, standing, eyes opening. “Hail the Wyld! Hail him and bow! He who shall save us from the Dragon, who shall prevent the death of the land and bring us to glory! Hail Bao! Hail our king!”

  The cries of the people rose to the heavens above. Bao drew in power thirstily, and fully embraced what he had become. Two years ago he had started on this course when he had decided to impersonate a slave among the Sharans. After that had come the revolution, which he had led almost by accident.

  Through it all, he had sought one thing. Through earning the allegiance of the Ayyad—won at a terrible price—and gaining the fervent loyalty of the Freed. Through the chaos of revolution and vanished monarchs, through the solidification of a kingdom beneath him.

  Through it all, he had sought this one object for a single purpose. Finally, Lews Therin, thought Bao—once named Berid Bel, and later called Demandred, now reborn as the savior of the Sharan people. Finally, I have the power to destroy you.

  The characters of Royce and Hadrian came to me during my self-imposed ten-year hiatus from writing. After crafting twelve novels and spending a decade getting nowhere, I had determined that publication was hopeless, and I had vowed never to write creatively again. But they kept invading my mind, and as hard as I tried to silence them, I finally gave in, on one condition: that I would write a book that I wanted to read and forgo any thoughts of publication. What a fun time I had bringing these two rogues to life. My wife decided to circumvent my plans and got the books published, and hence Riyria was born.

  The six books of The Riyria Revelations were released by Orbit in three two-book omnibus volumes, and while I thought that would be the end of Royce and Hadrian, readers clamored for more. Because I didn’t want to “tack on” to a carefully choreographed ending, The Riyria Chronicles were born to explore adventures that occurred during the twelve years the pair were together before Revelations began.

  The short story I’ve provided is a Chronicles tale. It takes place after the events of The Rose and the Thorn and before those of Theft of Swords. Even so, it’s a stand-alone story and no prior experience with any of my books is required to enjoy it to its fullest.

  Crafting a work for Unfettered was quite a daunting experience. I wanted to help Shawn and his cause, but how could I not be intimidated by the esteem of the authors I’d be sharing the pages with? Like Riyria, I hope that I rose to the challenge, and that you’ll be entertained by “The Jester,” a story of adventure, bonds of friendship, and a recognition that the choices we make dictates the future we find.

  — Michael J. Sullivan

  THE JESTER

  Michael J. Sullivan

  Hadrian discovered that the most fascinating thing about plummeting in total darkness wasn’t the odd sense of euphoria instilled from the free fall or the abject terror derived from anticipating sudden death, but that he had the opportunity to contemplate both.

  The drop was that far.

  The four had plenty of time to scream, which they did the moment the rope had snapped. Hadrian wasn’t sure if Royce yelled. He couldn’t hear him—and doing so wasn’t in his partner’s nature—but Wilmer would have drowned him out anyway. The pig farmer was so loud that his shrieks ricocheted off the stone walls and bounced back before any of them hit the water. Whatever air they had left was driven from their lungs by the vicious slap and suffocating cold.

  The impact would have hurt anyone, and Hadrian already had a broken leg. He nearly blacked out from the pain. Maybe he did, if only for an instant, but the immediate plunge into ice-cold water woke him. Just deep enough. Hadrian pushed off the bottom with his good leg and hoped he would reach air in time. Normally weighed down by three swords, this was the first time he was happy to have lost two—not so much lost as one having been shattered and the other devoured.

  He broke the surface with a gasp.

  “Hadrian?” Royce called.

  Turning, Hadrian spotted his friend, bobbing. The soaked hood collapsed over his head, as if a bat hugged his face.

  “Still alive,” he yelled back.

  A flurry of splashing near him suggested neither Wilmer nor Myra could swim. Wilmer had never impressed Hadrian as athletic in any way. Given that walking had proved difficult for the pig farmer, swimming might be as impossible as flying. Similarly, Hadrian imagined Myra’s past experience with bodies of water would have been limited to lying in a brass tub while servants added scented oils and refilled her wine cup.

  “There’s a blue light behind you,” Royce pointed out after peeling off his hood. “Looks like the edge of the pool is just ten feet or so. Can you make it?”

  Hadrian turned and spotted the eerie glow coming from the cavern wall. Royce was right. The edge of the little lake was close. The subterranean pond was less a basin and more a stone fissure filled with water—likely with straight sides. The ice-cold pool sapped Hadrian’s strength, freezing his muscles and strangling his breath. A death trap.

  “I can try,” Hadrian replied, still struggling to keep his head above the surface. Over his shoulder he called out, “Myra? Wilmer? You okay?”

  “Forget about them,” Royce said. “Get yourself out.”

  Hadrian struggled to see in the dim light. He could hear both Wilmer and Myra gasping, coughing. “I don’t think they can swim.”

  “Not my problem—not yours either. Get to the edge.”

  “If you won’t help them, I—”

  “You’ll what? Help them drown?” Royce asked. He was somewhere behind Hadrian, somewhere in the dark, hardly making a sound. “You’ll be lucky to get out alive on your own.”

  Royce was right, but when had that ever mattered? “I’ll do what I can.”

  “All right, all right!” Royce barked, the familiar frustration in his voice. “I’ll help them. But get yourself out. I can’t save everyone.”

  Hadrian swam as best he could, happy to be wearing leather and wool rather than chain mail. While down to only one sword, the two-handed spadone strapped to his back was still the biggest and heaviest he owned. His left arm, numb and useless, hung limp. The distance wasn’t far, just a few kicks away, but he only had one good leg. At least the cold water soothed the burns on his back, and—if the pool wasn’t putrid—it might help clean the claw marks raked across his chest.

  Working as best he could, Hadrian swam until he reached the ledge. He hung for a moment, catching his breath. Then, using his elbow for leverage, he lifted and rolled onto the stone floor, carefully avoiding the burns on his back and the cuts on his chest. He lay on his side, panting, feeling the water drain from his clothes.

  Opening his eyes, Hadrian saw they were in yet another massive chamber of the never-ending cave complex. How many were there? How deep did they run? How long could they keep going? They must have been a week underground. All the food they had brought was gone, but Royce still carri
ed some of the wolf meat.

  They all would have died if it hadn’t been for Royce. Not that his partner cared about Wilmer or Myra. They had stopped being important when the level of danger exceeded the twenty-five gold tenents Myra had offered them to serve as escorts. After only the first night inside, Hadrian had been convinced Royce would have abandoned the fee, along with Myra and Wilmer, if doing so would have caused a magic exit to appear. As it was, Hadrian worried what would happen when the wolf meat ran out.

  They must be at the bottom. The roots of the mountain—that’s what was written on the map; that’s how the jester described the heart of the Farendel Durat range. Hadrian had always considered mountains to be beautiful—but learned this was only true from the outside and from a distance. On the inside, they proved terrifying.

  The others crawled out of the inky pool, shivering in the faint glow emanating from the cluster of gems embedded in the cave wall. Myra looked dead, the blue light draining her skin of color, thin hair plastered flat. Upon first meeting, she had been lively as a rabbit and spoke so quickly they had needed her to repeat everything. Lying on the stone, coughing, shivering from the wetness, the widowed wife of the candle merchant looked more her age. Somewhere in her thirties, or maybe older, she was finally sapped of the insatiable drive that had powered her. The exhaustion showed in her eyes, a blurry, unfocused stare. She was a dormouse, caught too far from her hole by a bright light. She wanted it to be over—they all did.

  Wilmer lay facedown a few feet away. Never more than a rag, his thin, homespun tunic—blackened on one side and bloodied on the other—had become the stained road map of where they’d been. Wilmer was still coughing, still spitting. That scream of his must have cost a lot of air. He’d likely swallowed water on the way up.

  “Nice place, this,” Hadrian said and grunted, trying to shift position. “I think we should stay awhile.”

  Royce knelt beside him, panting. “I’ll ask the innkeeper for extra pillows and blankets.”

  “Tell him I’ll have the special—the special is always the best.”

  Royce pulled up Hadrian’s shirt to examine the burns and the claw marks.

  Hadrian saw him grimace. “Oh—nice bedside manner, pal. Why don’t you just pull my cloak over my face and recite something religious.”

  “If I knew anything religious, I might.”

  “Did we get away?” Myra asked.

  No one answered.

  Hadrian was afraid to—afraid to jinx what little luck they found by hitting the pool instead of jagged rocks. Gods looked for such hubris when deciding where to step, and so far good fortune had been scarce.

  Of the group, Royce showed the least wear. His hood and cloak had survived without a tear, although he did have a nasty-looking cut across his forehead. His expression was sullen, but that was normal for Royce. It was only when he smiled that Hadrian worried.

  Royce turned and cocked his head, like a dog listening. Always the first sign, the early indicator that life was about to get ugly again. Over the course of their underground journey, Hadrian had come to see his friend as a canary in a mine. He wished he could have been surprised to see his friend’s expression darken, but by then he would have been more astonished to discover they were safe. A second later, Hadrian heard the distant banging for himself. A long, familiar, striding rhythm that sounded like a god beating out a cadence using thunder as a drum.

  “Nope,” Royce finally told Myra, as he helped Hadrian to his good leg.

  “Why doesn’t it stop?” Wilmer cried. “Why doesn’t anything in here ever stop?” He was slapping the floor with his palms, fingers spread out.

  The banging became hammering and then pounding as the sound grew nearer.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Royce shouted, and they were up and running again. Hadrian limped, using his partner as a crutch.

  Wilmer also struggled, his side still bleeding. The stain around the snapped arrow shaft had grown almost up to his arm and down to his hip. In contrast, Myra made better time, her wet skirt hiked to her thighs, modesty abandoned in favor of survival. They ran the only way possible, the only way they could see—toward the light.

  “Door!” Royce shouted. Abandoning Hadrian, he raced ahead. Reaching it first, he knelt, as if proposing marriage.

  Of course it was locked. He expected nothing less from that miserable place. Hadrian had never seen a lock that Royce couldn’t open, but they were in a race. The frightening bangs of giant footfalls became terrifying booms. Hadrian chanced a look but couldn’t see it. The thing was still in the darkness, and his imagination just made the panic more justifiable.

  “Open!” Royce announced, and they raced through. Shoving the door closed behind them muffled the thunderous steps but also blotted out the light. Hadrian heard Royce twist the lock then the sound of a board sliding into place.

  “We need a light,” Myra said.

  “You’re the candle maker!” Wilmer shouted.

  “Everything is wet.”

  “Give me a second,” Royce said.

  Outside, the thundering steps closed in.

  Sparks flared several times before a flame developed, revealing Royce. Kneeling on the floor, he blew into a pile of gathered debris. Myra pulled candles out of her pack and began lighting them.

  She must have a million in there.

  Before setting out, Myra had possessed eight separate bags of luggage—some with hats, another with makeup, and several filled with fancy gowns. An entire bag had been devoted to uncomfortable shoes. Hadrian had persuaded her to leave most of them behind. His argument had become irresistibly convincing when everyone refused to help carry her load. She had kept only a single knapsack with food, water, the map pieces, and candles. As she opened her pack this time, Hadrian realized all that remained were the pieces of map and the candles.

  Flickering light revealed an octagonal chamber the size of a barn. Chisel marks revealed a room carved out of the mountain—the handiwork of the jester.

  Had he done this all himself?

  It seemed impossible that anyone could hew a hall from solid stone. Dwarves were legendary for their mastery of such things, but Hadrian had long since been convinced the jester hadn’t worked alone. Even so, it must have taken years.

  In the center of the chamber, a chest the size of a wagon sat on a stone dais. Built of steel with brass corners and coin-sized rivets, it was secured by a formidable padlock. On the far side of the room stood another door, also cast from steel with its own massive lock. The last remaining item was an iron lever and the thick chain that connected it to the keystone holding up the arched ceiling.

  Royce was busy shoving another brace across the door they’d entered, and with the light of Myra’s many candles, Hadrian could see it was old and rotted. The door itself was an even greater concern. The iron hinges were rusted, the wood grooved from worms and termites. As the pounding grew closer, they all backed away, staring with anticipation at the rickety door that had become their castle gate.

  “Better open that other door, Royce,” Hadrian said.

  “Wait!” Myra shouted, and all of them froze. “It’s another choice.”

  Hadrian looked to Royce.

  “I think she’s right. We’ll get to choose only one.” His partner said, shaking his head in disgust. “By Mar, I hate this short bastard. First Manzant prison and now this—I’m really starting to develop a dislike for dwarves.”

  “So it’s another trap?” Hadrian asked.

  “What are we gonna do?” Wilmer’s voice was rising in octaves again. The man was a human teakettle always on boil.

  BOOM!

  Something hit the little door and it shook, kicking out a cloud of dust.

  Wilmer screamed.

  “Shut up!” Royce ordered, and Wilmer clamped both hands over his own mouth.

  “This is all his fault,” Myra said. “We were doing fine until he screamed and announced us to everything in the area. He screams at everything! We should never hav
e brought him.”

  “We had to,” Hadrian said. “He had the last piece of the map. Besides, Wilmer only started screaming because you turned that statue to the left and made the floor disappear.”

  Myra smirked. “I didn’t have a choice. Have you forgotten about the snakes? And Royce wasn’t doing anything.”

  “I was busy trying to stop the walls from closing in,” Royce said absently, his sight fixed on the chest, and if Hadrian had to guess, the lock. Anything requiring a key must be like a loose tooth to his partner. “And stopping them was more important than a few snakes.”

  “A few? Where’d you learn to count?”

  BOOM!

  Hadrian felt the impact through the floor that time, and it made one of Myra’s candles wobble. “We’ve got a choice to make, people.” Hadrian leaned against one of the carved walls. “Door, chest, or lever?”

  “We came here for the treasure,” Myra pointed out. “We have to open the chest, or what was the point of all this?”

  “How can you even think that?” Wilmer shouted. He alone faced the little wooden door. “That—that thing is out there. A tiny door won’t hold it! But that one might.” He pointed across the room. “We gotta get to the other side now!”

  “You’re just panicking.” Myra dismissed him with a wave of her hand that the farmer didn’t see. Nothing could pry his sight from the entrance.

  “’Course I’m panicking!” Wilmer balled his hands in fists. “Panicking is what a body does in a spot like this!”

  “Why did you even come?” Myra shook her head in disgust and moved away from Wilmer—or was it the door she was getting distance from? Perhaps she was heeding the old adage that one doesn’t need to outrun a monster, just the terrified pig farmer and the guy with the broken leg. Whatever her motives, Myra began following Royce as he approached the chest. She was careful not to pass him and stepped only where he had. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “And here I thought you was a smart lady,” Wilmer responded to Myra’s rhetorical question. “You said you had the rest of a map leading to some amazing treasure. Why in Maribor’s name do you think I came along?”

 

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