Beyond the Wide Wall

by Ploof, Michael James

  “That, my friend, is what I was afraid of,” said Sir Eldrick, ignoring his guard’s scowl. “Behold, Atlas, the floating pirate city.”

  Chapter 35

  The Lord of Atlas

  Atlas floated a hundred feet above the rocky coast, looking like an upside-down mountain. The pounding waves sent ocean spray up and over the wide bridge leading from the land to the tip at the bottom of the land mass. Where the bridge met the smooth stone slab jutting out over the shore, a large gate had been erected and was guarded by two fifteen-foot trolls, each with a trident in hand. The worm stopped, and the gnomes went to work dislodging the cages from the mounts and taking them up like a king’s litter. They marched to the gate, and the companions exchanged glances.

  “This would be a great time for Kazimir to show up,” said Gibrig with a nervous laugh.

  At the mention of the wizard, two of the trolls gave the dwarf a wary glance.

  “I sure don’t expect him to show,” said Brannon.

  “And this is when we most need him,” said Murland, following the logic.

  “I wouldn’t count on that one. Just keep your eyes and your ears open,” said Sir Eldrick. “And don’t forget who you are, you are Champions of the Dr—”

  “Shut up, ugly human!” said the guard after hitting him in the head through the bars.

  “You will live to regret that,” said Sir Eldrick, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Whoa!” said one of the lumbering trolls. Its face was long and thin, and it had a snout like a wolf. But rather than razor-sharp teeth, this beast had dozens of molars, ground down nearly to the gums, likely by bone. “State yah biz.”

  “We have slaves for market,” said the lead gnome, who now wore a frilly lampshade on his head.

  Slaves! Gibrig mouthed to Murland.

  The troll glanced past the gnome, scrunching up his nose when he saw the companions. “Why them so ugly?”

  “Just fire ant stings. It go away. Now let us pass.”

  “You pay toll, then you pass.”

  “How much this time?”

  “Five gold. And riddle.”

  The gnome sighed and flicked the troll a coin, which bounced off the giant’s forehead. “Why do you have three fingers?”

  The troll looked to his own hand, waggling the digits as he thought. “This trick question, huh?”

  “You sure are a smart one,” said the gnome, rolling his eyes and peeling back his sleeve to eye the small sundial strapped there. “Come on, come on, we don’t have all day.”

  “Uh, gee. I guess I got three fingers ‘cause, ‘cause I troll,” he said with a big stupid grin.

  “Wrong. You have three fingers because you don’t have four. Now step aside. I have stumped you.”

  The troll furled his brow, staring at his fingers. He looked to the other troll on guard, and the smaller one just shrugged. Together they pushed open the gate, and with a huff, the lead gnome shouldered by their legs.

  “What’s with the stupid riddle?” Brannon whispered to Sir Eldrick.

  “It is meant to make the process of entering slow, so that the real guards can have a good look at everyone. See there? In the stone at the point. They have spy glasses.”

  Murland looked as well, and thought that he saw a quick reflection in one of the many dark hollows. The bridge creaked and groaned as the gnomes entered with their litters single file, but the large ropes—each as thick as one of Willow’s arms—seemed more than adequate. He stared up at the floating, upside down mountain as it blotted out the sun. Murland thought that the top must be flat, and he wondered about the city up there. A small waterfall spilled from the western side of Atlas, which seemed to have its own clouds as well. Looking closer, he could see roots sticking out from the soft soil of the top crust.

  Like all children of Magestra, he had learned about Atlas at an early age, though he never imagined that he would ever see it with his own eyes. The city had anchored off the coast of Magestra when he was young, but he hadn’t had a chance to see it, what with the evacuation and having to stay with his aunt and uncle in the country for three weeks. The triangular chunk of stone was said to be held aloft by powerful magic, which kept it ever floating one hundred feet off the ground. It was said to be able to move across the world as well, propelled by great sails spanning more than fifty feet. Murland saw no sails now and guessed that the pirate city had anchored to the northern coast to trade with the strange creatures beyond the Wall.

  Many people wondered why the wizards of Kazam College didn’t hunt down Atlas and destroy it, for it was the largest pirate trading post and the base of all black-market operations in Fallacetine, and indeed, abroad as well. The trouble was that the leader of Atlas had deemed it neutral ground, and the law was strictly enforced. If the wizards attacked it, what would that say about their opinions of sovereignty?

  Atlas loomed overhead as the gnomes led the companions to the spire, which hung from the main mass of Atlas like a stalactite. A gate stood open thirty feet up from the point, and the cages were carried into a large antechamber. The walls of the room were as black and sparkling as the outside of the monolith. On the other side of the room, beyond the half dozen standing guards, were three elevators.

  After a few minutes of bickering between the guards and the gnomes, the cages were brought to the elevators, and one by one they were brought up to the surface. Along the way, however, there were many levels, and Murland and Gibrig’s lift stopped more than once to pick someone up. At the first stop, a lithe female elf with a tattooed face got on, and she eyed Gibrig and Murland with mild interest. At the second stop, a large minotaur dressed in a black suit, wearing thick spectacles, and carrying a large, square leather case got in, and clumsily he tried to maneuver in the tight space without hitting anything with his long, curved horns. The lift rumbled on, and Murland and Gibrig in the cage, along with four gnomes with spears, the elf, and the minotaur all wordlessly watched the dial indicating the ascending floors tick slowly toward Surface.

  The lift stopped and a bell dinged, and the metal doors rattled open with a squeak. The sounds of the bustling city rushed into the cab, and Murland felt suddenly self-conscious about being toted around in a cage.

  “Look! There be dwarves,” said Gibrig, and he happily waved at one as a small group of them walked past to get on the lift.

  The dwarf only scowled and put a newspaper in front of his face with the header, The Atlas Times. There were humans as well in the crowd; indeed, it seemed like every race was represented here. Pixies flew by, likely here to sell their fairy dust. The minotaur exited the elevator and joined a small heard of his kin similarly dressed, and they all headed toward a place called Atlas Livestock Exchange. Inside the building, Murland could make out groups of goats, sheep, cows, and horses, among other beasts of burden. The elevators seemed to have brought them right into the heart of the city’s market, for there was a bounty of fruits and vegetables spread out on tables, as well as precious metals being sold by dwarves and wood carvings offered up by elves. Three witches had taken up shop near the northern section of the ring. A cauldron boiled behind the display table, and all manner of strange and common wares were laid out, many in jars or floating in milky liquid. A band of red-haired sailors played their stringed and wind instruments near the center of the market, backed up by a singing mermaid who sat in a large wash tub, the end of her tail draped over the side, and only her bright blue hair covering her breasts.

  “Sure be a lot of strange folk around, eh Murland,” said Gibrig, blushing at the mermaid.

  “I’ll say,” said Murland, equally enticed.

  They were led to the southern edge of the market, where other “slaves” were lined up behind a dividing wall, the front of which boasted a high podium. There was a man there yelling, repeating and confirming the bids of the large crowd. At the moment, the bidding was furious, for a scantily fur-clad winter elf from Shivermoore was being auctioned.

  “They really goin�
� to sell us?” Gibrig asked as they were let down behind the wall.

  Sir Eldrick, Brannon, and Willow were put down as well, and Sir Eldrick looked to the fearful dwarf. “We’ll get out of this,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “Shut up and get out. Any trouble and we’ll stick ya!” said one of the gnome guards.

  They were led out at spear point and bound with chains and shackles. Just then, a skinny troll walked over to them, sporting a pronounced limp, and eyed the companions disapprovingly.

  “What’s wrong with this lot? Look like they got cooties,” he said in a whiney, nasal voice.

  “Just fire ant bites. Never mind how they look, they’re healthy as—”

  “Me gettin’ tired you bringing these wretches to mine auction, Bizbrack.”

  “Look here, two fine scorpion men I got too. Look at them claws. Look at them stingers. Every drop of that poison is worth more than any of those other schlups you got out there. Now quit chewing on the sand in my britches!”

  The troll laughed and took an interest in the scorpion men. “Fine. But me tacking ten percent for them five sickly lookers. Insurance against refunds. Look like they was puked up by sand worms.”

  “Ten percent!” yelled Bizbrack, and the two began to argue again.

  When a number was finally settled upon, the companions were brought to the line to wait to be sold. Sir Eldrick surveyed the surroundings, and Murland knew that the knight was looking for any chance for escape. But if Murland saw what the knight saw, there was none. Dozens of guards, from humans to centaurs to fairies, guarded the potential slaves.

  And so, tired, dirty, miserable, and hungry, the companions waited.

  A half hour later, they were brought on stage together. The announcer said they were a bundled deal, and due to their ragged and swollen appearance, the bidding started at only one thousand copper.

  At first no one bid, but then a well-dressed female manticore with large, bat-like wings and blazing red eyes raised a paddle. Everyone waited for a counter bid, but it seemed no one else wanted the five. But then, suddenly, someone yelled out, “Hey, isn’t that Slur Sirsalot?”

  The crowd looked on with interest, studying the knight, but it must have been hard to tell for sure with the dust covering his swollen face. Bizbrack hurried over and doused Sir Eldrick with a bucket of water, and once the crowd recognized him, they gasped.

  “Two thousand!” someone cried.

  “Three thousand,” the manticore replied.

  “And that one,” said an elf. “That is Brannon, Prince of Halala.”

  “A thousand gold!” came a bid.

  “Those are the godsdamned Champions of the Dragon,” another man blurted, and the crowd, indeed the entire market, went deathly quiet.

  The silence was short lived, however, and the market soon erupted with people screaming bids, which soon surpassed ten thousand gold.

  “We’ve got twenty thousand, do we have twenty-five? Twenty-five, do we have—thirty, forty, fifty thousand gold is the bid, do we have—”

  “One hundred thousand gold!” came a deep, commanding voice that silenced the crowd. The sea of onlookers parted, and a bare-chested man with blue skin, whose lower half was that of an octopus, strode forth gracefully. He was dressed in only a golden sash and an abundance of jewelry, and behind him there followed four guards, all women, who looked to be half giant.

  “One hundred thousand from Lord Lyricon,” said the auctioneer.

  He waited, they all waited, but it seemed no one cared or dared to outbid the cecaelian.

  “Sold, to Lord Lyricon!”

  A gavel came down, and Bizbrack leapt with joy.

  Chapter 36

  The Minions of Zuul

  The companions were brought to Lyricon’s palace at the center of the city, whose pointed dome towers were painted in a variety of pastels. Everyone looked to Sir Eldrick for guidance, but he only nodded to them stoically, and they were left with little option but to trust him.

  Through the antechamber they went, up the stairs and down a long hall. The entirety of the interior of the palace gave the feeling of being in an immense seashell. Rather than regular houseplants and flowers, seaweed and other aquatic vegetation adorned large globes of water set decoratively about the place. Fish swam in those orbs as well, some tiny and shimmering, others large and dark. Paintings depicting underwater scenes littered the walls, some ten by ten feet in size. There were portholes rather than windows, though the scene beyond was blue sky rather than dark ocean.

  Lyricon sat in a large half shell, snacking on something that crunched when he popped it in his mouth. As they drew closer, Murland saw that a small pile of oyster shells were scattered about at the foot of his throne. Lyricon spit out a shell, which landed on the pile, and he pointed a long finger at the companions.

  “Look what the gnomes dragged in, the Champions of the Dragon!” said the cecaelian. His octopus tentacles were draped down the long steps to the throne, and he sat back leisurely, eating with a snide grin on his face.

  “I am the prince of Halala,” said Brannon, shrugging out of the guards’ grip and thrusting forward. “I demand to be released!”

  Lyricon laughed and popped another oyster into his mouth. “Elf princes,” he said before spitting out the shell and chewing the meat, “do not demand anything this far west of the Wall.”

  “You cannot buy and sell us like cattle,” said Murland. “We are people.”

  “I can do what I like, for this is my city, after all. But I am a fair cecaelian…” He snapped his fingers, and the shackles were unlocked.

  Sir Eldrick rubbed his wrists, daring to take a step forward. “Great and powerful Lord Lyricon. I can see that you are a businessman, surely we can strike a bargain.”

  “Ah,” said Lyricon, rising. “That is more like it. Good to know that you are not all so hasty and haughty.”

  Sir Eldrick offered Brannon and Murland a scowl. Then he turned a smile on the lord as he strode on his eight tentacles down the steps with fluid grace.

  “I already have a bargain in mind,” said Lyricon, stopping before them all. “You, as everyone now knows, are the Champions of the Dragon. You have no doubt been abandoned by Kazimir the Most High for the hundredth time, and you have gotten yourselves captured. I, in my good grace, have bought you fairly, as is dictated by West Wall law.”

  “There is no law west of the Wall,” Brannon argued.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “As I was saying,” said Lyricon, offering Brannon an uninterested glance. “I know who you are. And I know what happens if you fail. And being that I do not want to see the world burn, I will let you resume your quest.”

  “You will?” said Gibrig hopefully.

  “Under one condition.”

  “What is it?” Sir Eldrick asked.

  “The way I see it, you lot owe me a hundred thousand in gold. Twenty thousand each. Now, I am sure that the elf can afford to pay me back, even with an additional twenty percent, but the rest of you surely cannot. So, as repayment for your debt, and after you have defeated Drak’Noir, you will go on a tour of Fallacetine, managed by me, for a time dictated by me.”

  “You want to, er…be our manager?” said Murland.

  “What’s a manager?” Gibrig asked.

  “You know, like famous minstrels and actors have,” said Murland.

  “He procures the venue and the crowd, and we show up,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “Oh,” said Gibrig, still looking confused.

  “So, what will it be?” said Lyricon.

  “We have a condition of our own,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “Yes?”

  “We want our things back from the gnomes.”

  “Consider it done,” said Lyricon, extending a hand.

  Sir Eldrick shook it.

  Six hours after being brought to Atlas to be sold as slaves, the companions were clean, full-bellied, and recovering from the harsh desert. They had been all
owed to freshen up in Lyricon’s private bath, and while they bathed, their clothes were washed and dried as well. After the bath, they enjoyed a hearty meal at the lord’s table. Their weapons and bags were collected from the gnomes, or in most cases, from those the gnomes had already sold the things to, and returned to the companions. Except, of course, Murland’s backpack.

  Gibrig, always sensitive to the emotions of others, tried to encourage Murland, telling him that there was a chance that Packy was still alive.

  Murland appreciated the gesture, but he had a bad feeling that he would never see Packy, or the wand and spell book, again.

  “Well then,” said Lyricon, once they had all finished eating and the tales of their adventure thus far had come to an end. “That is quite a tale. It might even make an excellent play. Of course, the backdrops will cost a fortune, but who cares, your story’ll make us all boatloads of money.”

  “So, is that your intention?” asked Brannon. “For the tour, I mean. Will we be, like, touring actors?” He quite seemed to like the idea.

  “No, no, of course not. We will hire actors for that. No, your tour will be mostly appearances. You’ll answer a few questions, recount a tale or two, sign autographs, things like that.”

  “Oh,” said Brannon, looking crestfallen.

  “We’ll be celebrities,” said Gibrig dreamily.

  “Right you will, and rich ones at that,” said Lyricon. “Just see to it that you make it back alive,” he added with a wink.

  Sir Eldrick glanced at Brannon, but the elf’s shifty eyes fell to the food he was pushing around absently with his fork.

  “Thank you, Lyricon,” said Sir Eldrick. “For all that you have done. Might we enjoy your beautiful city for a few days before we head out? For the desert was long, and it has taken a toll on us all.”

  “Of course. And I will assign guards to you as well. You are the Champions of the Dragon, after all, and there are many among this city’s visitors who might give you trouble.”