by Louis Emery
“I tore cloth from my shirt and wrapped it around my hand, and I grabbed the rope to use as leverage when needed. The stones were damp and slippery. I fell three times before I could make it halfway up, each time scraping my body and landing with a splash in the cold water. I had no choice but to continue my efforts—for there was no one around to help me. I gave it my all. I climbed up a third of the way and paused to catch my breath. I made it past midway to three-quarters the way up and looked down. The height didn’t faze me before, but it horrified me now. I began to tremble, just before reaching the top, only to slip and plunge back down.”
“I’m surprised you weren’t killed …”
“So am I. Fortunately, my second fall had me land in the deeper part of the well water, so there were no serious injuries. My shoulder still throbbed and hurt like no wound I’d ever had before, but by now, I felt I was adapted to the climb. I took my time, realizing it was all up to me. This time I didn’t look up, I didn’t look down. I solely focused on the process. One step, next step. One step, next step. Grab rope to steady. After hours of trial and error, I’d climbed out into the crisp night air. I collapsed on the ground, transfixed by the freedom of stars that hung above me in the sky.”
“Once I’d caught my breath, I limped back to the cottage, threw myself on my feather bed, and slept as I’d never slept before in my life.”
“You were one fortunate lad,” Ethlin acknowledged. “Even then, tenacious and a fighter.”
“That I was,” Ser Royce smiled.
“Why did you tell me all this?” Ethlin met his gaze.
“This journey we’re on …” Ser Royce began, leaning forward. “It’s an arduous climb. Many obstacles get in our way.”
“More than I can count.”
“Yes, and it’s just like that well. You keep climbing. When you fall again and again, you continue to climb. When you’re almost to the top, that’s when you’ll fall the hardest. Just when you’re ready to give up, you hear a voice in your head saying, ‘keep going.’ And when you heed that voice, before you know it, you’ve reached fresh air.”
Ethlin realized Ser Royce had been holding her hand. She felt encouraged by his words and comforted by his presence. She also felt sleep coming on.
“You’re tired. Get some rest, milady.” Ser Royce squeezed her hand then raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Ser Royce.” Ethlin watched him leave.
For over a week Ethlin and the others wore the foul garments and pungent smelling armor. Malcolm and Halarn’s plan worked, for Ethlin and her companions found themselves passing the Great Gate of Barrport unchallenged. The stronghold was much greater in person than in her mind, and the River Barr, which sat next to the city, more vast than she could have imagined. It was bittersweet entering the Gatekeeper City with the followers of Darien surrounding them.
Their plan was to slip past the barricades in the middle of the city and reach the safe haven of Barrport’s resistance. Throughout the day, Ethlin could sense the eyes of Sect guards watching them, and she was relieved to have reached the barricade under cover of night.
Ethlin shivered, for it was a cold night, and the frigid breeze swept down the Barr Mountains and Dragon Mount, which towered over the city. They made their way in darkness, creeping along the makeshift blockade, stacked high with all manner of rubble—collapsed masonry and stonework, burned edifices, wooden beams of demolished homes, broken down carts, and even large piles of what looked to be furniture.
“This area looks weakest,” Malcolm said scanning a small gap. “We may be able to crawl through, one by one.”
Ethlin heard footfall nearby. “We must hurry,” she said. “Guards are making their rounds.”
“Right. Follow me.”
Despite Malcolm’s size, the gap beneath the rubble permitted entry, and their party began to crawl through. Before Ser Artemis, Ser Royce, and Ethlin could start their crawl, the nearby footsteps grew louder.
“You there. Halt!” shouted a guardsman.
The three of them twisted around to face three similarly clad Sect sentries.
“Speak your business,” the lead guard barked. “What’re you doing here? This is our sector.”
Sers Artemis and Royce stepped in front of Ethlin, and she pulled her helm down further, hoping to mask the femininity of her face.
“Our sergeant ordered us to patrol,” Artemis answered. “We’re following orders.”
The guard grunted. “Well, your sergeant’s wrong. This route’s already taken.” He looked behind Artemis and Royce. “And who’s that? You hiding someone?”
The guard and his two companions stepped forward.
Ethlin saw Ser Royce place his hand on the hilt of his sword. Artemis was already gripping his.
“Drunk, sir,” Ser Royce replied. “He’s been heavy in his drink. Kept it from us, but we noticed it when we started our rounds.”
“It figures,” the guard smirked, turning to his comrades. The two of them snickered. “Get him out of here and go back to your sergeant requesting a new route. When we come back this way, I don’t want to see your pretty little faces again.”
“Yes, sir,” Ser Royce replied. “We will do that, sir.”
The guard guffawed, and he and his comrades sauntered past them into the darkness of an alleyway.
Ethlin and her two guardians let out long breaths, and when the patrol was out of sight, they crawled through to the other side of the barricade.
As she rose to her feet, Malcolm asked, “Get into some trouble?”
“Guardsmen on the other side. Sers Artemis and Royce smooth talked our way out of it.”
“This true?” Malcolm glanced at the two men.
They nodded.
Ser Royce said, “I’m just glad we used words instead of swords.”
“Yeah, me too,” Ethlin agreed. “Oh, and evidently I’m drunk.”
Malcolm raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“So what now?” Ethlin pressed.
“We’ve got to get out of these clothes,” Orbist replied, “or Barrport soldiers will be the ones running us through.”
“He’s right,” Malcolm said. “We’ve got to find a place of concealment where we can at least turn our tunics inside out. Don’t want them to see dragon fangs and flame and think us the enemy.”
“Well, we shouldn’t be malingering by this barricade any longer,” Ser Balliol rasped, glancing suspiciously over his shoulder.
“Let’s move,” Malcolm said, leading them on.
The streets were eerily quiet, illumined by moonlight, and dotted with long shadows of stone buildings and overhanging business signs. They passed homes, a stable, and a blacksmith shop before reaching a long alley that provided cover. Despite being on the friendlier side of the city, Ethlin still could not shake the chill running down her spine.
“Okay, here’s the place,” Malcolm said. “Let’s change our appearance then try to find us a tavern where we can get information. We need to meet with Barrport’s ruling council.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ser Balliol said, removing his tunic. “I get the feeling that someone is watching our every move.”
“I, too, sense this,” Artemis said. Ethlin noticed him give Malcolm a disconcerting look.
“Where do you suppose we find one of the leaders or nobles at this hour?” Halarn asked.
“At this point,” Ethlin replied, “I think we can all do with someplace warm.” She reversed her tunic, put it back on, and began rubbing and blowing into her hands. “It may be best to find a tavern and sleep in a warm bed before meeting with Barrport nobles.”
“She has a point,” Orbist agreed. “This time of night is not ideal to be roaming around a city at war, even if we are on the good side of it.”
“Yes, the old man’s right,” came a voice, followed by the ring of unsheathed steel. “Now is not a good time to be trespassing these streets.”
Startled, Ethli
n turned and saw the silhouette of a man with sword in hand. He stepped into the alley, the moonlight reflecting on his breastplate.
Malcolm and the others drew their swords as dozens of armored soldiers filled both sides of the alley, blocking any means of escape. The man who’d spoken walked toward them angling his sword at Malcolm. Ethlin could make out the Great Gate emblazoned on his breastplate and intricate etching on the pristine blade of his sword.
“If you all value your lives,” the man continued, “you will drop your weapons to the cobbles. Or we slay you where you stand.”
The soldiers inched forward following their leader.
“We mean you no harm,” Malcolm said, lowering his sword, but still holding onto it. “We are allies.”
“Allies, is it?” the man replied. “Funny how I heard something similar just a week ago when Sect men, dressed as Guardians of the Gate, slaughtered two companies of my soldiers.”
“I assure you,” Malcolm said. “We have no affiliation with the Sect and do not condone their agenda.”
The man cocked his head staring at Ser Balliol and one of Halarn’s men who’d yet to hide the Sect’s sigil. “Then why are some of you wearing their uniform?”
“We were desperate to gain entrance to the city.”
“You must have a better answer than that. Men!” the man shouted. “If these blackguards don’t drop their weapons in five seconds, kill them!”
Ethlin heard more swords unsheathe and could see the soldiers’ elongated shadows grow larger on the surrounding walls.
“We’re representatives of King Greenvale of the Backlands,” Malcolm said, placing his sword on the cobbles and motioning everyone to do the same. “Please, we’ve traveled the Thornvine and battled barbarians to seek an audience with your nobles and generals.”
The man let his sword drop a bit, and amusement marked his face. “We will take you to our holding rooms. If what you say is true, then you shall get your audience.”
“I thank you, Ser—”
“I am Ser Riles,” the man said. “You will come with us, but we will have your weapons. We can’t take any chances, you understand.”
“Of course,” Malcolm replied.
The Guardians of the Gate stepped forward, picked up the swords, and escorted them out of the alleyway and to—Ethlin hoped—a warmer place.
They’d slept soundly, in rooms under guard and heated by fireplace, much to Ethlin’s relief. They stayed the night in a great merchant guild with makeshift bedrooms for any manner of people. The guild was serving as a sort of command center and refugee camp for those displaced citizens of Barrport.
Ser Riles had apologized for their rough treatment. Evidently, he had spoken with his superior who’d informed him that word of Malcolm and his companions had been sent ahead, notifying the Barrport nobles of their important journey.
After breakfast in a large hall filled with soldiers and refugees alike, Ethlin and her companions were ushered down a tiled corridor into a chamber past immense oaken doors. In the center of the great room was what seemed a never-ending table at which sat the active ruling council and Barrport’s generals.
At the further end of the table, Ethlin noticed a council of wizards. A mixture of both women with long graying hair and wrinkled and heavily bearded men.
“Council, Generals, and Gathered,” Ser Riles stated, “may I present Ser Malcolm Longstride, Mage Orbist, and company.”
“Thank you, Ser Riles,” a commanding voice said. “I am General Tamarian. Many years ago, I knew your father, Ser Malcolm. He was a man of honor and a hero to the Gate.”
“I am honored by your words, General.” Malcolm bowed.
“The Council of Nobles has given me voice to speak on their behalf, Ser Malcolm. It is amazing to me that you have made it to us, despite having to take the Thornvine and get past the enemy literally at our doorstep.”
“Quite so, General.”
“And I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for me to relay some unfortunate news.”
Ethlin looked around at Artemis and the others in confusion. She could see worry cross Malcolm’s face as well.
“What news?” Malcolm asked.
“There’s been an attempt on your king’s life. Evidently this Coterie that has been haunting the lands is not entirely composed of possessed knights, but of Phozantin spellcasters as well. A powerful sorcerer attacked King Greenvale on his visit to the Prestonpan Isles. He has been severely wounded, but is still alive—so I guess the news is not all bad. This assassin slew the king’s guards before escaping.”
“Do you know of the Kingsguard who were slain?”
“I’m afraid your friend Ser Lambert fell, along with Sergeant Jon,” General Tamarian rubbed his face lethargically. “It grieves me to tell you this.”
Malcolm looked to Artemis, who put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, my friend.”
Malcolm let out a sigh and raised a hand to his temple.
General Tamarian continued, “To add to this news, it seems the Coterie is a group of assassins conjured up by the magic of Grundburr and Varick’s alliance with Phozanti and that kingdom’s casters. All three of these factions—Grundburr, Westers, and Phozantins— are working together. There are rumors that a wing of Varick’s army is heading this way with Grundburr and a Coterie knight at the vanguard.”
Ethlin saw Malcolm straighten himself at this.
“We have called for aid. I have sent scouts to Sydonya, East Ballardia, and to your General Beric at the Backland Front. We need support. The Barrport Army is not strong enough for such a force, though we plan to expel Varick’s Sect allies in the next day or two. The Sect forces took us by surprise, but they didn’t know that half our army is stationed at the east end of the city. We most assuredly will defeat them in retaliation.”
“General, I for one would like to assist you in your attack,” Malcolm said. “But first, we are here to fulfill a purpose.”
“Yes. I believe King Greenvale had written us, via his post by the river, that Mage Orbist and his apprentice desired to speak with the Gathered.”
“Yes, General,” Orbist said, stepping forward. “If it pleases the General and the Council, I’d like to direct myself to the Gathered directly.”
“You have traveled far, Mage Orbist,” said a woman wizard at the far end of the table. “I am Maven, and these are my colleagues Wynondra, Nilrem, and Sammerland. We are the Gathered Ambassadors to Barrport. What have you come all this way to tell us?”
“My lady,” Orbist replied, “I am but a humble Mage-Counsel to the King of the Backlands. I deal in magic, albeit on a more tame level than the one you all deal with. But I can use my abilities and my trained senses to rule out false suspicions and find the diamonds in the rough, so to speak.”
“And what is your point?”
“If milady will bear with me, I am getting to that.” Here he waved Ethlin over. Ethlin stepped beside her teacher, meeting the gazes of the Gathered. “As you are aware, there is an evil force growing. There are rumors of another Phozanti invasion from beyond the Needle-Tip Mountains. A tyrant king to the west is allying with a warlock of the dark arts. The Darien Sect, who is at your doorstep, seems to be in league with them, as well as the Phozantins. And who knows when the dragonriders join the fray?”
“That is hearsay. We haven’t seen any proof of dragonriders. We can use our powers as wizards to defend Barrport and will do so, but we will not break the centuries-long creed by bringing our dragons into the fight.”
“This girl,” Orbist placed a hand on Ethlin’s shoulder, “who I am proud to call my apprentice is also an apprentice to the Dragonmother. But more importantly, she is a true prophetic Seer.” Orbist paused to let this sink in, while the Gathered Ambassadors glanced at each other. Mumbling echoed around the table of nobles and generals.
Orbist continued in a raised voice, “She has seen visions of dragonfire used in destruction. I know her visions to be genuine. And I be
lieve she is a Seer of Dragons!”
Gasps and chatter filled the room. Maven raised a hand as if calling for silence. It took a while, but eventually, the chamber quieted. Maven was a woman who appeared to be in her seventies, by the graying of hair, but she moved with the grace of youth. She stood and strode across the great room and bent down in front of Ethlin.
“Give me your hand, child,” the wizard said.
Ethlin looked up to Orbist. He squeezed her arm and nodded.
The wizard’s hand was warmer than usual, even hot, Ethlin thought. Maven closed her eyes in intense concentration. Ethlin gazed around the room and saw many leaning forward to get a better look, even Maven’s colleagues back at the table.
For a moment, Ethlin thought the wizard had fallen asleep. In a start, the woman pulled back, catching her breath.
Maven met Ethlin’s eyes. “You, child, should come with us. There’s only one way.”
“What’s that?”
“You must meet a dragon.”
41
As he stood in the turret of the Great Gate, Malcolm made out the approaching West Ballardian Army. He wondered if the Guardians of the Gate could hold out long enough before help arrived—if it were to arrive at all.
They’d defeated the Sect forces easily enough. General Tamarian was correct—with the east wing of the Barrport Army, they had the numbers to overpower the Sect’s shabbily trained recruits and evict them from the front half of the city. That’s not to say the battle wasn’t brutal.
Malcolm looked at his ragged tunic and coat arms, the fabric torn by narrow misses of Sect blades, with splatters of dried blood in places. He’d slain a dozen Sect soldiers, fighting with a fury he’d not felt for some time. His longtime friend and comrade Ser Lambert was dead, and his king was badly injured. And here he was—hundreds of miles away. He wished he’d been there, fighting alongside his friend, defending the king who’d treated him in many ways like a son.