by Michael Karr
When at last she stood on the spot and took in the Gauntlet from this new perspective, she felt resolve coursing through her veins. Let the Floggers try their best to defeat her. She would not fall. The bowels of the chasm gaping at her feet must go unfed. She would not fall.
“Does the princess require time to study the track?” asked the empress from behind.
The princess turned her head to the side, and clearly declared, “No.”
She had already studied it. But the Trial Council did not know that.
“Then let the blindfold be placed.”
The princess breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, and felt the coarse fabric of the blindfold slip over her eyes.
* * *
Rolander Finch stared at the silver-winged body of the Tracker. His eyes grew wide with amazement as they took in every detail of the infamous machine. It was even smaller than Rolander had imagined. Small enough to rest on the tip of his forefinger.
“Where did you get it?” asked Rolander, his voice full of wonder.
“From the most unlikely of places,” said Jonobar. “A peddler on Quoryn sold it to me. Likely the only piece of merchandise of all his wares that wasn’t pickpocketed.”
“Does it still work?”
“From what I can tell, no.”
“Do you think we could repair it?”
“Perhaps. If nothing else, I thought it would be an interesting exercise to dissect it, to try and understand how it works.”
Rolander nodded his head in agreement, his attention still fixed on the Tracker. So small, he thought again. A rekindled desire to know everything about this tiny machine grew inside him. When he had first learned of the Trackers on Haladras—so long ago it seemed—he had desperately wanted the chance to catch one of them for dissection. Now, here was that chance. It scarcely seemed real.
Seeing the Tracker also made him think of Skylar. The Trackers had been programmed to hunt down his friend. A reality the two friends had not realized in those days. Everything had changed since then. Even their friendship…
“Shall we begin?”
Rolander looked up at his tutor in surprise.
“Now?”
“Unless you’d prefer to wait.”
“No. I’d love to start now.”
Jonobar smiled, then went to fetch the tools they would need for the dissection. Rolander wondered how they could possibly operate on something so small. Within a few minutes, Jonobar returned with a steel box, no bigger than a stylus container. From it, the professor produced an assortment of curious implements, all with the finest of tips. Rolander wondered from where Jonobar had acquired such tools. But the thought fled his mind almost as it entered. He was far too intent on the Tracker. Next, Jonobar clamped a large magnifying glass onto the edge of the workbench. He then took hold of the Tracker by its thorax using a pair of contoured tweezers and held it beneath the magnifying glass.
“Now then,” he said in his best academic voice, “how do you propose that we begin the operation?”
Taken aback at the question, Rolander studied the Tracker beneath the microscope, while Jonobar turned it a few times so he could get a good look from all sides. Not a single bolt, screw, or fastener could Rolander find on the entire body.
“Amazing,” said Rolander, not in the least disheartened by the apparent impossibility of the task. “How is it held together?”
“Perhaps by more subtle means,” replied Jonobar, taking a tool with a tiny flat tip and handing it to Rolander. “Why don’t you try working this between some of those grooves on its body?”
Taking the implement in his left hand, Rolander looked at it reluctantly. Since losing his right hand, he had taught himself to write with his left. Though his agility had improved, he didn’t feel he possessed the fine motor skill necessary for such a delicate procedure.
Jonobar read Rolander thoughts.
“Do not worry,” he said softly. “I did not expect this to be easy for you. But do not think that you cannot do it. For I have full confidence that you can. And I am here to help you. We shall achieve this together.”
“Alright,” said Rolander, taking a deep breath and turning his gaze back to the Tracker.
Hand trembling, he moved the tool into place. At first, he had difficulty working it into any of the grooves running across the Tracker’s exoskeleton. His hand shook too much. Eventually, though, he managed to calm his nerves and succeeded in getting the tool inserted between one of the lower grooves. Taking care not to be rough, he lightly twisted the blade of his tool back and forth, attempting to widen the groove. The motion felt awkward with his left hand. But he did make progress, slowly.
Where the groove had been, a thin black line began to form, a gap in the Tracker’s outer shell. The gap continued to widen as Rolander patiently worked at it will his tool. After several minutes, a shiny piece of the Tracker’s body broke free and fell noiselessly to the workbench. The metallic sheet was no larger than a shard of steel flung off from a grinding stone. Rolander wondered how anyone could assemble such a machine. Surely, no mortal hand possessed the ability.
With growing confidence, he set to work on the next groove. This one proved only slightly more difficult to remove, but he succeeded easily enough. Soon he had perfected his technique and was making encouraging progress.
“Your friend was wrong about you,” said Jonobar after a time. “You are perfectly capable.”
Rolander blinked and had to think for a moment, before realizing Jonobar was referring to Skylar. The reference to him being left behind caused him to smart a little.
“I would much rather have you at my side on a quest than any fool with muscles. Brainpower is mightier than the sword.”
“Skylar didn’t seem to think so,” said Rolander.
“Some people,” said Jonobar, shaking his head sympathetically, “may never learn to see past your physical imperfection. Alas, it is their loss. You are just as capable as any.”
Rolander did not respond. His thoughts were on Skylar. In many ways, he’d always idolized Skylar—wanted to be like him. Why had he? Without his friend there with him, he found it difficult to remember what had drawn him to Skylar.
“They will all see you for what you are someday, Rolander,” said Jonobar. “Mark my word upon it.”
Rolander smiled sheepishly and looked down at the Tracker.
“I know, I know,” said Jonobar, holding up his hands. “Too much chatter. Your mind is on your work. But if you will indulge me just another minute, I have a favor to ask of you.”
Setting the small tool on the workbench, Rolander looked back up at the professor.
“Certainly, what is it?”
Jonobar ducked his head and doffed the poet’s hat from his head, fidgeting with it.
“It’s rather embarrassing,” said Jonobar, twisting his cap nervously. “You see, I need your help…ah…smuggling something into the castle.”
“But don’t worry,” Jonobar hastily added. “It’s nothing like what you’re probably thinking. Just some tea, that’s all.”
“Tea?”
“That’s it. You see, I have a love for a particular type of tea leaf, which can only be imported from the nation of Tor.”
“It’s illegal to import or export goods with the Tors,” said Rolander, matter-of-factly.
“Thus my dilemma.”
Jonobar sighed in defeat.
“It’s a silly matter, really. What harm can a few tea leaves do? Should such trifles really be illegal? I know many who quite agree with me. Forget I mentioned it, I should not have expected—”
“It’s okay,” said Rolander. “Go on. How can I help?”
Jonobar bowed his head in gratitude.
“You show your lowly tutor more kindness than he deserves.”
“It is quite simple, really. The castle guards know and trust you. You can bring whatever you want into the castle, without suspicion. I,
on the other hand, am searched every time I enter. All I need is for you to bring a small box of the tea past the guards.”
“But where would I get the tea from? As you said, it is illegal to buy or sell.”
Jonobar waved his hands as if he were trying to shoo a fly.
“No, no, no. I shouldn’t think of having you procure contraband on my behalf. It’s already been paid for. To be delivered next week to a dispatch unit within the city. All that would be required of you is to pick it up and bring it here. The box will be nondescript, without any sort of markings to indicate its contents. If the castle guards happen to inquire after it, you can simply say it’s a gift for the Queen Mother. Her birthday is coming quite soon.”
For several moments, Rolander considered his tutor’s request. It seemed that Jonobar should not be willing to take such a risk for something as trivial as tea leaves. What if he were caught? He’d never been involved in anything unlawful before. The idea bothered him more than just a little. Jonobar had made a good point, though. Why should tea leaves be illegal? They didn’t pose harm to anyone. He also felt a strong desire to please Jonobar. Who else had shown him such deference? After all, what harm could come of tea leaves?
Twelve
Skylar tried everything he could think of to break free of his enclosure. The only thing he succeeded in breaking was his will to escape. All he wanted now was to die. A coffin was twice the size of the cramped confines that held him bound, and surely just as dark.
Shouting for help had done him no good. His voice gave out on him long ago. Kicking had only bruised his heals beyond feeling. He vaguely wondered if he’d ever be able to walk, should he manage to free himself. His hands were likewise bruised and bloodied from beating on the walls of his enclosure. Whatever pain he felt in his voice, feet, or hands, was consumed in agony from being cramped for so long. His back and legs burned with pain—ached for but a moment’s reprieve.
He had no idea how long he’d been imprisoned in his torture box. Every minute passed with the most merciless crawl. A whole day must have gone by. A whole day, trapped in that awful state, unable to see or hear anything of his companions. Scarcely able to move.
The hours crept by.
At last, muffled noises came from somewhere outside his box. He perked up his ears and held his breath. There were voices. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then there was a loud bang on the side of his enclosure, followed by metallic scraping sounds along the sides and top. For a moment his heart gave way to the hope that someone was trying to rescue him. He kept quiet, so as not to jeopardize his rescuer being captured. For a while, he heard nothing more. Perhaps, this rescuer sensed danger and fled the scene. Who could he be?
Without warning, his enclosure jerked to one side, bashing his head against an enclosure wall. He grimaced and rubbed the knot he already felt forming on his temple. Before he could recover, the enclosure rocked again, to the other side. Then he felt himself being lifted off the ground.
Skylar pressed his hands against the sides of his enclosure. He felt vulnerable—uncertain who was moving him, how high he was, or even was held him aloft. If the enclosure fell…
A loud thud and a shutter echoed around him as the enclosure collided with something. What was going on out there? If someone was trying to rescue him, he had an odd way of going about. Why doesn’t he just open the crate?
Another jolt. Skylar felt his stomach lurch. He was falling. No sooner had gravity taken over, than the enclosure crashed with something beneath it, and Skylar’s head struck the enclosure’s bottom.
He’s trying to kill me!
Skylar waited anxiously to see what would happen next. A few more muffled voices reached his ears. Nothing intelligible. Were there two voices he heard? The voices stopped talking before he could determine how many there were. Something slammed shut, like a door or a hatch. Then all went quiet for a long while.
A roar like the sounds of an engine, followed by a rumbling of his enclosure, suddenly gave credence to the fear he’d tried to suppress. This was no rescue. It was a kidnapping. That sound he heard—he felt almost certain—came from a ship’s thrusters. A ship containing his crate. Containing him. A ship bound for where and for what intent? Were Endrick and Grüny on the same ship?
He tried to force himself to stay calm and think. Perhaps he was mistaken.
The sound of the engine grew louder. The rumbling grew in intensity until it shook so violently that Skylar had no doubt.
He was on a ship. A ship departing Oon Vunda.
He felt the g-force strain on his body as the ship blasted off the ground and rocketed into the sky. The force was less than what he had felt on the Luna. He wondered if this ship was larger than Grüny’s old ship. It didn’t matter, though. Either way, the ship belonged to his captors.
Curse those smugglers.
He should have never listened to Grüny. He should have never left Ahlderon. Not for the first time, Skylar longed for Grim or his father to come to his aid. Grim would have seen the path clearly. He would have never ended up in this trap. But both Grim and his father lay in graves of earth and stone—never again to wake.
Eventually, the trembling of the ship ceased and the g-force released its hold on his body. Both signs that the ship had left Oon Vunda’s atmosphere and was cruising smoothly through space. Space. The antithesis of his confined situation. He longed for space, for room to breathe.
The hours dragged on.
He faded in and out of consciousness. Whether awake or asleep, it didn’t matter; the darkness was the same; the agony of body only replaced by an agony of mind.
Soon, hunger and thirst began to gnaw at him.
A loud crack woke him from his misery. The sound was followed by muffled shouts. More cracking sounds. Then the sound was so close, he knew it came from just outside his own crate. Another crack. Then light. It burst into his enclosure and hit him like a blow to the face. He shielded his eyes. A pair of unseen hands seized him by the front of his cloak and yanked him upwards.
“Get out of there, boy,” said a man with a rough voice. “Stand on your feet.”
He attempted to set Skylar on his feet, but as soon as the man let go, Skylar crumpled to the floor.
“Up with ya!” hollered the man.
A booted foot struck Skylar squarely in his ribs.
“Up!”
Another blow. This time it knocked the wind out of him. He gasped for air.
“Leave off of him, Slem!” came another voice. “He won’t be any good to us dead.”
“He won’t be any good to us soft, either.”
“Just get him over here.”
The same pair of rough hands grabbed Skylar by the back of the neck and forced him to stand. This time his legs held him. He managed to stay standing, despite the new pain in his side. He’d recovered some of his breath and his vision—enough to recognize his antagonist as one of the smugglers from the rug shop’s warehouse.
“You louts sure know how to treat your passengers. Not a bite to eat! I was about ready to eat my own boots.”
The voice was Endrick’s.
Skylar felt a small sense of relief. Endrick’s presence meant he wasn’t alone on the ship with these dangerous men.
Then there was another voice which Skylar knew well.
“What do you think you’re doing?” cried Grüny. “When Deznin finds out about this—”
Grüny’s words cut short, replaced by the sound of someone being cudgeled in the gut.
“Be silent, you fool,” came the same voice which had stopped Slem from beating Skylar senseless. “Deznin will never hear anything of this, I assure you. Now, line them all up in front of me.”
Skylar felt his body jerked around. He saw Endrick and Grüny for the first time since their capture. Both men looked haggard and weary. He caught Endrick’s gaze for a moment, but his first knight said nothing, nor made any sign.
He sa
w the smuggler’s leader—Tanks. They should never have trusted that scoundrel. The greasy-haired liar was sneering at the captives, his arms folded and stance confident. It was then that he realized they were not the only ones captured. Four other men, equally weary from being so confined, were being ushered at blaster point to where Endrick and Grüny already stood.
When Tanks finally stood in front of all his hostages—Skylar hoped there were no more—he simply smiled. It was the same smile that had made Skylar’s stomach churn the first time he met this man. It produced the same effect now. Only this time Skylar knew he had good reason to fear. Tanks remained insidiously quiet, as he slowly walked up and down the line, taking in each of his hostages, like a sergeant inspecting his troops.
When Tanks reached Grüny at the end of the line, the ship captain let out a stream of oaths and curses at the smuggler chief. Tanks responded by striking Grüny across the face with the butt of his blaster. Grüny let out a cry of pain. Skylar cringed at the sound.
“That will be enough from you,” said Tanks. “You and your pathetic mates belong to me now. So get used to it.”
Tanks turned and strode back down the line, patting the barrel of his weapon as he went.
“You are no longer your own masters,” we went on. “You will not eat, sleep, walk, or talk without my permission. If you try to do so—” He struck one of the other hostages in the gut and kept on talking. “—you will not like the consequences. Some of you inquisitive folks might be wondering what we’re planning to do with you. We’re taking you to Gorgoroth, where you’ll be sold to a slave trader.”
Cries of protest rose from several hostages, including Grüny. A volley of blows from the other smugglers quickly silenced the short protest.
“The sooner you get used to the idea the better. While aboard this vessel, you’ll have certain duties. When you are not performing these duties, you will exercise. You will be healthy slaves. You don’t want to know what happens to unhealthy ones.”
Tanks smiled maliciously.
“Any questions?”
One of the other hostages held up his hand.