The City of Lies

by Robert J. Crane

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was soft. “There isn’t any treasure.”

  That was all she said. An apology, comforting in tone, and the truth laid bare: the treasure of Ostiagard didn’t exist. No I told you so. No You should have listened. This was not icy Heidi, the Heidi who, a month ago, had hated Carson and would’ve used this opportunity to lord it over him. This Heidi was compassionate—and very, very sorry that Carson had finally come to the end of his journey and found the disappointment we knew he was running headlong into this whole time.

  “But—no,” Carson said. He shrugged free of Heidi. “There has to be.” He spun, raking the flashlight across the cavern. “It must be here.”

  Heidi tried again. “Carson, it’s not.”

  “It must be here! I read it! Tell them, Emmanuel. It was right there in Guye Mordame’s journal.”

  “It was,” Emmanuel confirmed—though it was not a confirmation of anything but that; definitely not a promise that the treasure was real, was here, hiding from us in the dark.

  “I told you!” Carson said to Heidi. “The passage said—it said—I don’t remember the exact wording, but it referred to a passage specifically hidden through a rift in the throne room, where no one would find it.”

  I frowned. Something flickered, deep in the back of my brain, buried too far to grab onto.

  “Carson, the journal was wrong,” said Heidi softly. “There’s nothing here. You can see that.”

  “There must … but it said …” He swung the light around madly, scrabbling over rock. But the space was small, confined, narrowing at both ends. Unless the treasure was squirreled away beyond those places where the passage thinned and holes the size of my fists led deeper into the earth, it could not be here, simply couldn’t.

  The light flashed across me again—

  “Mira!” Carson staggered toward me, hands out. “Your compass!”

  “Why—?”

  He’d already tugged it from my belt. “It could be through another gateway. Maybe they came back to Earth via this cavern, and then moved it to some other place.” He strode around, compass held in a white-knuckled grip, staring madly into its face. “It’s got to be. That has to be it.”

  Yet though he walked in a long circle, backtracking and starting over again, his face grew only more downcast. Because there was nothing on the other side of that compass; no glint of gold, no silver—not even a single copper coin.

  “It has to be here,” he croaked. “It just … I thought … the journal said—”

  He stared at us. He looked haggard.

  And he slumped to the floor. My compass fell from his hand, and skittered to me, knocking my boot. The flashlight dropped too, and cast a long and lazy beam across uneven rock.

  “It’s not here,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Carson.” Heidi approached. She squatted beside him. She reached out a hand. For a moment she didn’t seem entirely sure of what she was going to do; she hesitated before retracting it. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah,” said Emmanuel. “Sorry, big man.” He squeezed Carson’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  Burbondrer lumbered forward, incredibly awkward in the tight space.

  He rested a meaty fist on Carson’s other shoulder.

  Carson looked up.

  Tears streaked his face.

  My heart cracked, and the hurt he’d caused tonight was forgotten. His pain was so, so much worse.

  And we’d known. We’d known it was coming. And we let him pursue it.

  What did that say about us?

  “We have a saying in Ocklatojsh,” Burbondrer rumbled.

  Carson swiped at his eyes, slipping fingers in under his glasses. “Yeah?”

  Burbondrer puffed up his chest. “Some days you defeat the targknaught and enjoy its bounty upon your hall’s table. And some days the targknaught feasts upon your entrails, ending your journeys for all time.”

  Uh …

  Carson stared.

  Burbondrer smiled back.

  “Um … well, thanks, for … that. It’s, uh …” Carson struggled for words. Then he exhaled, slumped again. “It’s not very comforting, really. But thank you, Bub.”

  Burbondrer nodded solemnly. “At least your journey does not end in a targknaught’s belly. I have gutted them. They smell fiercely bad.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Carson sighed. “Thanks, Bub.”

  “Come on, big guy,” said Emmanuel. He held out a hand. “Let’s get outta here and call it a day.”

  “Yeah,” Carson said sadly. “Yeah, okay.” He took the outstretched hand, and climbed to his feet. Then he bent, picking up the flashlight, swinging it around us—and landing on me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said sadly.

  “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “It’s okay.”

  “So how do we get back?” Emmanuel asked. “Will a normal gate do the job?”

  “It should do,” Carson said.

  “Then why don’t you let me. Meer, you wanna tell me where to point this?”

  I removed my compass from my belt, and tilted it into the beam of the flashlight to watch scenes shift on its face. I stepped, passing a void, then a crater dusted in dark ash, and finally Ostiagard’s throne room.

  “This’ll do it.”

  Emmanuel swiped a line—and his gateway opened on the rocky wall in all its pearlescent glory, colors dancing lazily around.

  “After you,” he said, and waved us through.

  Heidi went first. Then Carson. He slumped to it. Emmanuel placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze; Carson lifted the faint hint of a smile in return, then passed through.

  “You wanna go next, fella?” Emmanuel asked Burbondrer. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but it should accommodate you.”

  Burbondrer looked dubious—the way things were going, he’d be lucky to have any armor at all when this was over—but he squeezed through the gap, turning sideways to enter.

  Just me and my brother again.

  “You first, sis.”

  This time I obliged him.

  He looked like he was about to say something just before I stepped past—but the moment was gone, and I entered through the portal, leaving him behind, and this cave, and the wretched end of this whole affair …

  Regurgitated into the throne room, I collided with Burbondrer—

  Barbs stung. “Ouch—”

  “Company,” Heidi bleated.

  I looked, expecting guards—and froze.

  The throne room was filled with a dozen people, all of them in cloaks, and led by one man who stood at the forefront, his cloak covered in golden patterns.

  The Order of Apdau had found us again.

  26

  Running into the Order that first time in London—that was unprecedented. A surprise, especially given the locale, and not a welcome one, considering I also had to escort my newfound friend away from the danger and save his skin as well as my own.

  The second run-in? Annoying. Third? Getting old now.

  Now we were past old and getting into ancient. And to have to fight these guys off yet again after the emotional low that we’d just experienced, having finally seen Carson come face to face with the reality that the treasure of Ostiagard simply did not exist?

  I was finally done.

  I screamed.

  “ARGH!! WHAT DO YOU WANT?! WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET YOU CREEPS TO STOP FOLLOWING ME EVERYWHERE!?”

  I yanked the umbrella from my pocket, and swung it. Decidian’s Spear shook loose its glamour, swinging to full length.

  “YOU WANT THIS? THE SPEAR? FINE! TAKE IT FROM ME! I’LL LET YOU HAVE IT IF YOU WRESTLE IT OFF ME. SO YOU WANT THIS? DO YOUR BEST. BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO TAKE IT POINT FIRST!”

  The man in the patterned cloak stepped forward. Slow, almost painfully so, he raised his hands. The sleeves fell back, revealing pale fists, forearms of sinew, a ring on every single finger … and then kept rising.

  He
took his hood between fingers and thumbs … and pulled it down.

  The man beneath was scarred. Bald-headed and old, he stared at me with eyes that were almost black. A cleft had been carved in his cheek, running across one eye, the valley resuming through his eyebrow and snaking up his forehead and to his scalp. His nose was flat, as if it had been broken one too many times.

  And he was thick. Like those wide forearms, this was a man built like an ox.

  “We do want your spear,” he said. As in our encounter in London, his words were slow and measured. “Give it to us, and the cutlass, and no harm will come to you.” Moving his head barely an inch, he turned to Heidi. “You must hand over the cutlass too.”

  Heidi drew it. She snarled, “Over your dead body.”

  For a moment we faced off, a dozen Apdau agents lined up on one side of the throne room, our gaggle arrayed on the other side of it.

  “So be it.”

  And quick as a flash, he drew a cinquedea from his cloak—

  He surged for me.

  The Order of Apdau flew forward as one behind him.

  I rose to meet their leader.

  The blade clanged against the spear’s tip.

  The power of the blow was like none that these other guys had delivered. The jolt rattled through the spear, deep into my arms. I gasped, thrown off-balance—

  He was already swinging again.

  I gasped, ducking backward barely in time to avoid being sliced through my knee, and thanked heavens that Carson had closed his gate once Emmanuel came back through—

  Speaking of: “Carson! Get back!”

  “I can fight—”

  “I’ve got you, big guy,” said Emmanuel.

  I saw a flash of my brother running to block one of the Order from swinging at Carson, catching the cinquedea between a pronged blade he produced from a sheath at his waist—

  Then their leader was swinging again, high this time.

  I lifted the spear to block it—

  The blow sent me staggering backward.

  I grappled to bring it back around—

  He was fast. His swings melted into each other with perfect form and power. He came in low again, and it was only at the last moment that I brought Decidian’s Spear into place to block it—

  The blade buried into the spear’s pole.

  He tugged it toward him, and I was dragged with him—

  Dark eyes stared down on me. No emotion tinged them, no hint of anger … or anything.

  I tried to keep back the swell of fear I felt at that.

  “Release the spear, and you may go unharmed,” he said.

  “Get a new hobby, John Locke,” I spat back—and swung a kick.

  It missed the crown jewels. But he did twist away from it, and the moment’s pause was enough for me to yank back on Decidian’s Spear, detaching it from the cinquedea buried in the haft.

  I frowned at the wound it had left. “You guys are really ticking me off, scratching up my spear like this.”

  “Then relinquish it to us,” he said—and he pushed in again.

  I staved off another blow. Knowing to brace now, I took the brunt of it—

  Another Order agent ran for me from the right—

  “Leave her!” roared Burbondrer. He swung a fist, clapping the cloaked man in the midriff, and sending him sailing across the room.

  “Thanks, Burbondrer—”

  Before I could ask for a little help with their leader, a handful set upon the orc.

  Running interference, I realized. They were distracting my friends so Baldie could deal with me.

  I gritted my teeth, and blocked another blow.

  Be proactive, Mira. What’s that saying? The best defense is a good offense.

  Well, let’s give him one.

  I blocked another swing—and then jabbed for the bald man with the spear.

  He dodged it.

  I swung around—

  He blocked with his cinquedea—and then it swung for me.

  I jerked back, ducking the blade with a yelp—

  Brief flash of Carson swinging his manbag over his head—

  Then Heidi cut someone down—

  Burbondrer was getting overloaded, too many of the Order piling on him to be able to swing his sword anymore, or his fists—

  We couldn’t fight them off. Not this time. I was certain of it.

  Another swing from the Order’s leader.

  I lifted the spear to block it—

  The cinquedea buried itself deep in the haft again, right above my head—deeper than before.

  I gasped, eyes bulging. It would snap, I was certain—

  No—he wouldn’t want that, would he?

  He pushed down, and now his teeth gritted, bared—

  The blade shifted closer.

  I grunted. My arms shook.

  “Release the spear,” he ordered.

  “No … chance …”

  He pushed harder—

  I staggered backward, fighting to keep him at arm’s length—to keep that dark steel from coming down on my head, splitting it in two—

  The orc roared a battle cry—“I AM BURBONDRER OF OCKLATOJSH!!” He bucked—but his spikes had been shorn flat on his armor by the jaunts through Heidi’s gateways, and the order members clung to him, not dislodged. Another pair were grappling for his sword arm, keeping it from swinging—

  Heidi’s cutlass danced—blood spurted—

  Carson cowered behind her—

  We were out of luck.

  The Order’s leader shoved—

  I staggered back—and my feet hit the steps up the dais.

  I yelped, falling backward—

  His eyes lit—his chance!—and his knuckles tightened on the handle of his blade, ready to push, to force it down on me as it stood embedded in Decidian’s Spear, to cleave my head in two—

  “I’ve got this, sis!”

  And then Emmanuel was there. His pronged blade flicked skyward through the air dangerously close to my face—

  It slammed the cinquedea in my spear. Blade dislodged, the Order’s leader stumbled back—

  Emmanuel filled the gap and started swinging.

  The bald man clenched teeth. “The spear is ours!”

  “Heard it all before,” said Emmanuel. He caught a blow between the prongs, and parried to the left. Jabbing into the opening, he met air as the Order’s leader dodged backward. “You okay back there, Meer?”

  “I had that!” I griped.

  “It looked like it.”

  I gritted my teeth too. Damned Emmanuel, deciding to be the big hero and save the day.

  He just saved your bloody life, the voice of reason said. Show some gratitude!

  Fine. But he was still doing it to big himself up.

  I took a moment to stare at the new divots in the spear’s handle. That second one had cut so deep. Fear drenched me; it would snap, I was certain. And if not, could its healing magic take care of this damage? How much was too much before Decidian’s Spear gave up the ghost entirely?

  “You really ought to find a new hobby, you know,” Emmanuel was saying. “Bothering people for their own spoils can hardly be rewarding.”

  Irony, I thought. Wasn’t that the whole reason he was here in the first place?

  I rose, bypassing Burbondrer and taking a moment to jab one of the Order in the back with the tip of the spear—

  “I’ve got this,” I hissed to Emmanuel, filling the space alongside him.

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, blocking another blow. “But just for argument’s sake, why don’t we make this a two-on-one battle?”

  “I can handle him on my own!”

  Baldie swung for me—

  Spear and blade crashed, metal ringing.

  I gasped, falling back a step.

  The blade cut through the air, coming back in low—

  Emmanuel caught it. “Leave my sister alone!” He thrust, deflecting the cinquedea.

  “I told you, I’ve g
ot this!”

  “Meer—”

  The Order’s leader whistled. “Take the other Brand!”

  Two of the Order clinging to Burbondrer peeled away.

  Emmanuel spun to meet them—

  “There,” the bald man said. He grinned. “Prove you’ve got this, yes?”

  I gritted my teeth, suddenly not sure.

  No. You’ve got this. You’re a Brand too, damn it!

  I thrust forward with all my might—

  He dodged. The cinquedea sailed in again—

  I jerked Decidian’s Spear around to meet it. Metal didn’t crash on metal, but the haft and blade met at an awkward enough angle that his cinquedea couldn’t bury into it, adding another wound to its collection—

  He pushed forward, swinging overhead—

  I danced backward. Swung the spear around. Realigned it for another thrust—

  He twisted away. One hand shot out to grab it—

  He missed.

  “What’s with all your rings?” I shouted.

  No answer.

  “Fine,” I snarled, and jabbed for him again. He parried this time, and I staggered back to prepare for another assault. “Don’t tell me. But they don’t look very bling.”

  The cinquedea flew—

  Spear and blade connected. Metal rang—

  He stepped forward, another blow sweeping at me faster than before.

  I gasped as I tried to meet it—

  The blade clanged hard on the spear. The force sent me to the floor—pain erupted in my knees—

  He pushed in, grin settling again on his face, cinquedea raised—

  “I said to leave my sister alone!”

  Emmanuel darted in front of him, his blade raised.

  The cinquedea slammed it.

  Emmanuel’s blade spun from his grip, and he twisted after it, mouth open, eyes wide.

  The Order’s leader drew the cinquedea back—

  And plunged it through Emmanuel’s shoulder.

  27

  Time seemed to move in slow motion.

  The blade stood there, inches of it jutting through the front of Emmanuel’s body, slick with blood. It tore a slit through his checked shirt, as though the fabric had been stitched around it—only there was a darkening patch of crimson growing wider around the blade’s base—

  The Order’s leader dragged it out again.