by Kris Kramer
* * * * *
Galen bounded up the stairs, followed close behind by Jonir. He was still anxious, but this was a freer and more purposeful feeling, one that made him speed up everything he did. With the deal now made, all that was left was to move to yet another inn, wait around until tomorrow, then get out of Tyr as fast as they could. The unease he felt in this city ate away at him every moment he walked within its walls. In fact, he hadn’t been comfortable since the moment they left the Wind Riders camp. He wanted to get out of here and back to his own environment, where he could stop hiding and start being a Pilot again.
Galen was so caught up in his thoughts, however, that he failed to be ready for what waited around the corner. As Jonir and Galen turned into the hallway at the top of the stairs, they found six men standing there. Galen’s first instinct was to move to the side, thinking they were just patrons of the inn, trying to get through. But a split second too late he realized they weren’t moving through, and they weren’t patrons. The four in front were Tyran guards, while the two standing behind were younger men, wearing blue robes. Galen froze, realizing only too late that he’d walked right into an ambush. He had little chance to run, though, because he immediately felt the air around him harden, wrapping his ankles together, trapping his arms against his body and covering his mouth to keep any sound from escaping.
When his feet stopped moving, his momentum continued to carry him forward, and he would have fallen to the ground if the guardsmen hadn’t caught him. They dragged him down the hall as his thoughts finally caught up with everything that had just happened. The two men in robes were Clerics, using Air Magic to trap them. But how did the Tyrans know to find them here? He looked back to see Jonir being dragged behind, bound exactly the same way, only struggling much more. The Lander even managed to swing his feet out and kick the side wall twice, before the guardsmen subdued him with a few quick punches to the gut.
The two of them were taken to a room at the far end of the hall, where three empty chairs waited, arrayed in a line facing the door. The four guards, two to each captive, sat Galen in the leftmost chair, and Jonir in the middle. They held them to the chairs with death grips, not easing up for a second. One Guardsman had his hand dug so deeply into his shoulder that Galen would be crying out if not for the binding on his mouth. The two Clerics stepped inside, neither of whom were much older than Galen. They must be in training, he thought, since the Pilots borrowed a lot of their teaching methods from their old Cleric upbringing. They each stood in front of one of the captives.
“Hold them still,” one of the Clerics muttered.
The Cleric began chanting a mantra of the Ilarahan though Galen didn’t recognize it right away. He was holding his hand outstretched, with a large, flat, polished stone in his palm. A shudder went down Galen’s spine as he recognized the object. A tether stone.
Tether stones worked just like the masts of a Karawan. They were technically precursors to the mast, and they inspired a similar design when the first Karawan was invented. Using crystals, tether stones were enchanted with magic, usually of a specific type of spell, and they held that spell until the magic dissipated. This stone would be used to remember the Air Magic spell holding their bodies. Galen felt the air move, almost releasing him before it re-hardened, binding him to the chair, arms to the arms, legs to the legs, and torso to the back. When the Air stopped moving, the Cleric stopped chanting and went back outside. He looked at the other Cleric, stone in hand, who was in the process of doing the same to Jonir. When he finished, he too walked out. The guardsmen rattled them around some, tipping them over a bit to see if they really were held to the chairs. After they were satisfied, they left.
Galen looked at Jonir, who watched him back. Galen shook his head, his worry matching the concern that showed on his face. He tried to think for a moment, to see if there was any way out of here. The room had two beds behind them, one on either side of the room, and a window in the middle. But bound to the chairs they couldn’t do much, and they would stay bound to the chairs as long as the tether stones were near. Galen assumed they were just outside the door, so they couldn’t get to them. Of course, four guardsmen and two Clerics were out there, too.
Galen heard bumping noises coming from down the hall. He thought about Iago, and wondered if they’d caught him downstairs, or if he was safe and would be able to manage a rescue somehow. Any hope of that was dashed, though, when two more guards dragged the Lander-Captain inside the room, unconscious. He was not bound except at the mouth, with a cloth binding, but the Cleric who followed them into the room would fix that. The guards sat Iago upright in the third chair and bound him to it at the chest, arms and legs, just like Galen and Jonir. The cloth binding was kept in place, though.
“This one should go to the Pits. He’s got too much fight in ‘im,” said the taller Guard.
“Aye. Damn near busted my jaw up,” the other replied.
The Cleric finally spoke. “Find Marten and tell him the captives are ready.”
Each of the guards gave a slight bow before leaving the room. The Cleric stayed a moment, catching Galen’s eye. He stepped close, looking Galen up and down. He reached for Galen’s collar, feeling inside the shirt around his neck. Galen pulled away from the Cleric as best he could, a bit startled, but also grateful he had not been wearing his chain inside the city, since he presumed that’s what the Cleric had been looking for.
“Smart man,” the Cleric said. “Having crystals on your person is a death sentence. Not like you would ever see the outside of a cell, though. It will be useful having another of you ‘Pilots’ to interrogate.” He said the word scornfully, but Galen was more shocked that the Cleric knew exactly who he was. Not necessarily his name, but what he did. How did anyone in the city know that?
The Cleric glanced at Jonir, who stared back angrily, then left the room. Galen realized he’d been holding his breath, so he slowly let the air out through his nose and steadied his breathing. He saw Jonir turn his head left and right, scanning the room the same as he had done earlier. Then the Lander started to rock his chair slightly. Jonir glanced over at him, and then rocked his chair again from back to front, a bit harder this time. Then he leaned farther back, probably as far as he dared, and threw himself forward causing the legs of the chair to leave the ground, but Jonir, still stuck to the chair, was now on his own feet.
He stood there for a moment, hunched over by the chair, and unsure what to do next. He glanced back at Galen, who did not think this was the best way for them to escape the situation, then he shuffled his feet slowly, moving towards the door. The door swung open and a Guard came through. Jonir dropped his chair back to the ground, but the Guard had obviously seen what he was trying to do.
The guard laughed. “Whaddya think yer doin’ boy? Tryin’ to tippy-toe outta here?” The guard chuckled and shook his head, then left again, slamming the door closed. They could hear him laughing outside, telling the others about what he saw.
The sound of the door closing caused Iago to stir. His head, leaning forward lifelessly at first, started lolling around. A moment later he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. After blinking about twenty times, he kept his eyes open and stared at the ground in front of him. He squinted, then looked up at the door, then back down at himself. He twisted his body, realizing he was bound somehow, then he turned and saw Jonir and Galen, watching him helplessly.
Iago seemed to be trying to focus on them, then he shook his head and looked at himself. His chin moved as he struggled with the mouth binding, but then he stopped and looked at Jonir’s chair. He stared at it for several moments, then back at his own. He looked at Jonir, then motioned down at his own chair, his arm muscles bulging as he strained against the wooden arms. Galen realized what they were trying to do. The Air Magic bound them to the chair and nothing else. If they broke the chair into pieces they could get up and move around, albeit with parts still bound to their arms, legs and backs. But he wondered what
would be accomplished. The guards would hear them and come back in immediately, assuming they weren’t completely foolish and had wandered off. It became a moot point, however, as heavy footsteps approached from down the hall. Iago stopped struggling, and stared at the door.
A few whispers from outside, another set of softer footsteps moving away, and then the door opened. A tall man entered, but instead of the garb of a Cleric or guardsman, he wore more modest clothes, a tunic, pants and jacket, all different shades of dark brown. He wore a sword at his side, and a dagger stuck out of his rugged leather boots. Galen thought he might be a tracker, since he dressed like Iago did when he first came to camp. The man had shoulder-length brown hair, and scary-looking grey eyes. Galen decided this must be the man the Cleric spoke of. Marten.
He closed the door behind him and studied his three captives intently, pacing back and forth in front of them as he did, wringing his hands together constantly. Finally, he stopped in front of Iago and smirked.
“Iago.” Marten shook his head. “Not even a month and you’re back in my city.”
Galen looked over at Iago, surprised. He knew Iago had been gone recently but he had no idea he'd been here. What reason did he possibly have to come to Tyr? Iago stared hatefully back at Marten, who just smiled.
“Of course, I had those two louts who were guarding you sold off to the pits. They certainly aren’t capable of doing anything that requires thought.” He leaned over and looked at Iago eye to eye, then shook his head. “What a waste. You know what I have to do this time. You’re going to Deep Hold, where you will die young and miserable. It’s your own fault, too. I gave you so many chances, but you just turned your nose up at me.”
Iago’s face twisted in rage, but Marten just smiled and began pacing back and forth again, looking at each captive in turn.
He looked at Galen. “You’re the Pilot?” Galen did not respond in any way. Marten nodded, then looked at Jonir. “You’re what they call a Lander, right? I suppose that’s what Iago here is, too?” Jonir remained similarly quiet, so Marten leaned over and rapped on the door. A Cleric appeared, and Marten pointed at Galen. “I want to talk to this one.” The Cleric nodded and stepped back out, leaning over to grab something off the ground. When he came back in he had one of the tether stones in his hand. The Cleric silently mouthed another chant, and the air around Galen’s mouth loosened. Galen opened his mouth, stretching his jaw while Marten motioned the Cleric back out of the room.
“Six of you came here, Pilot. Where are the others?”
Galen said nothing, not wanting to betray the lives of his friends by giving up their location. Even though they were out of town by now, surely this man had the resources to chase them down and find them. Clerics, even though these were young, took orders from him as if he were running the city.
“Where are the others?” Marten moved to stand directly in front of Galen. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“I don't know. We split up earlier today. They could be anywhere by now.”
Marten nodded, then thought for a moment. “Perhaps I should explain something to you, Pilot. Within an hour, an entire troop of guardsmen and Clerics will be here to take you and your two friends to the Old City. When you get there, you will probably be jailed by the Clerics and tortured for information the rest of your life. Your two friends will be taken to Deep Hold, a prison built so far under the city that it’s saved only for those who should never expect to get out.”
Beads of sweat formed on Galen’s brow, and he couldn’t resist the urge to blink incessantly as Marten moved closer and closer to his face.
“Now, that’s what you can expect if you don’t help me. But, if you decide to be helpful, and I really suggest that you do, then things will be better. A little easier for you. Iago here has used up any favors he has in this town, but what about you? What about your other friend here? What’s his name?”
Galen hesitated, breathing heavily. If he didn’t know Jonir’s name, then maybe they didn’t know as much as he was afraid they did. Maybe he could think of a fake name, someone from camp. Maybe he could-
Galen’s head snapped to the right as Marten wickedly slapped his face.
“You were thinking, Pilot. Don’t think, just say. What is your friend’s name?”
Galen’s left cheek burned. The force of the blow surprised him so much that he didn’t even try to be crafty with his reply.
“Jonir,” he muttered.
Marten nodded, then turned to the Lander. “Jonir.” He looked back at Galen. “Now, what about you? What’s your name, Pilot?”
Galen looked up at Marten, hesitating again. He saw Marten bring his hand up again, barely an inch, and he cursed himself for being so weak as to blurt out his name. “Galen.”
Marten stood up and smiled. “Very good, Pilot. I knew your name already, of course, I just wanted to make sure we started this conversation off with honesty.” He began pacing again. “Iago, Jonir, Galen, and the three others. And you say you don’t know where they are?”
“No,” replied Galen.
Marten nodded for a second. “That may be true. But what about their destination? Surely you don’t go your separate ways with no intention of finding each other again?”
“Why are you holding us?” asked Galen.
Marten stopped, considering that question, probably deciding whether or not to answer, ignore or respond with more violence. He eventually decided on the first one. “Surely you know that you’re all enemies of the great city of Tyr? Wind Raiders do not come and go as they please here.”
“Why do you think we’re Wind Raiders?”
Marten smiled, broadly this time. “Pilot, I’ve known you were coming for a while now. Don’t insult me by trying to pretend you’re some refugee.”
It was clear now. They had a spy in camp. Someone set this up from the beginning, and he walked right into it. The only question was who.
“Remember that blow to your face, Pilot. That is nothing compared to what will happen once the Clerics have you. You know the power of Air Magics I assume, so you also know what they can do to people.”
Galen thought of the Garn at Duren Olan and he suppressed a shudder while wondering what it would feel like to die in such a way.
“And why protect your friends? Jonir maybe, but Iago? How can you possibly call him a friend after what he’s done?”
Iago’s head jerked up slightly, but Galen caught it. What had he done? He looked at Iago, who stared back at Marten with an expression that betrayed… panic?
Marten stopped as realization came over him. Then he laughed. He walked to Iago, a huge smile on his face. “They don’t know, do they?”
Know what, Galen thought. Was Iago the traitor? Had he disappeared last month to set this whole thing up? Galen’s mind worked frantically now, remembering every little detail about Iago that struck him odd. But one thing stuck out more than anything else. Iago’s trip to Tyr, which he had kept a secret, had kept him away from camp while the Tyrans attacked. During their darkest day, Iago was in the city of their enemies. It could still just be chance but it was enough to cloud his mind.
“How is it possible that they don't know what you've done? Maybe I should tell them.” Marten smiled wickedly. “It’s best they know, don’t you think?”
Galen’s eyes flicked back and forth between Marten and Iago, watching both of them carefully.
“Do you remember the name Nasimir?” Galen’s stomach dropped at the mention of their missing Pilot. Nasimir disappeared from their camp over a year ago. He was an old man, and after no search parties could find him, everyone assumed he’d been lost to the wilds of the Lore Mountains. He liked to wander off every so often, just to take a walk, so even though losing him was tragic, no one suspected anything sinister. At least, not until this very moment.
“Iago and I were hired, along with many other trackers, to find your camp,” Marten continued. “We knew you moved around so our o
nly job was to bring back someone the Clerics could use for information. We spent almost a year searching those hills, all of us, but in the end it was your friend Iago here who finally did it. He found your camp, and captured one of your Pilots. An amazing feat. It’s only too bad that I took credit for it.”
Galen felt dizzy as everything he thought he knew turned upside down. He almost couldn’t believe what Marten was saying, yet something told him it was all true. Iago, who had lived and worked with them for a year now, had betrayed them like no one else possibly could. And worse, he had traveled with him to Tyr, the city of their enemies. He’d trusted him, even when he set up a deal with a slaver. He never for a moment thought that one of their own was responsible for what happened in the mountains four weeks ago. But it was true. He saw it now; they had been betrayed from the inside all along.
“Your Pilot, Nasimir, has been a prisoner of the Clerics for the last year. They’ve been holding him in Ocasha where he’s been teaching the Clerics all he knows about building and flying airships. You can thank him for the one that found your camp a few weeks ago.” Marten could barely contain his delight now.
This was too much to handle. Nasimir was alive. He’d been a prisoner of the Tyrans this entire time, and Iago was the one responsible. He turned to the Lander-Captain, desperate to see any sign of defiance towards Marten's words, but all he saw was a man whose secret had been revealed. Iago stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped, despair in his eyes. And right at that moment, Galen knew it was all true. He'd betrayed them. Hundreds of people were dead or injured because of him, including his own cousin, and Tyr could now finish them off at their leisure.
Iago had destroyed the Wind Riders.
TO BE CONTINUED IN…
THE MONTSERNAN AGREEMENT
Excerpts from the History of Iador by Autilus