Gormer chopped up the dried meat and added it along with the vegetables to a large cast iron pot suspended over a substantial mound of hot coals in the fireplace.
“I wish we could keep this place,” Pleth said. “It would make a nice shop. There’s enough room for a few tables. People could sit and eat.”
“Basement’s big enough for ovens,” Mortsen said. “Make a perfect bakery.”
The two men looked surprised as they sat down at the table with Mortsen and a jug of ale between them. Gormer poured.
“You guys keep looking surprised at me,” Mortsen chuckled. It sounded like thunder in miniature. “My parents were both bakers in a place called Arcadia.”
“I know the place,” Gormer said.
“I know you do,” Mortsen said, fixing Gormer with a probing stare.
“What is Arcadia?” Pleth asked.
“A city,” Mortsen replied. “Nothing like it in this part of the world. It’s far to the West, several thousand miles.”
“You’re both a long way from home,” Pleth said. “Most people around here never leave a twenty-mile radius.”
“I’ve seen a lot,” Mortsen said.
A knock at the door brought them all to their feet. Gormer brought two long knives from his sleeves and stood in a crouch, while Mortsen just stood looking like a bull just before the charge.
“Relax,” Pleth said. He’d jumped up more startled by their responses than the knock at the door. “It’s probably the messenger with your bow and arrows.”
It was. The messenger handed over a canvas sack with the bow and quiver, then left without a word.
“I’m surprised he made it here with that,” Mortsen said. “Damn obvious to anyone with eyes what’s in there.”
Gormer wasted no time. He set the sack down on the counter and removed the recurve bow that was nearly as long as he was tall. He tested the string, then looked the weapon over.
“This will do,” Gormer said. “You really came through for me, Mortsen.”
“Yeah. I don’t know nothin’ about bows, but I know a guy who does.”
“It’s rare that I say this,” Gormer replied, still turning the bow over in his hands. “But I owe you one. This is a keeper.”
“Glad you like it,” Mortsen replied. “I’ll put it on your tab. That is, if we survive the crazy shit we’re about to do.”
They finished the jug of ale and ate their stew in silence, each man thinking about the tasks ahead.
When another knock came at the door, this time, they all froze. Pleth got up to answer, quietly pushing his chair back.
Gormer picked up his bow, and Mortsen rose to his feet like a storm swell.
“Not expecting anyone,” Mortsen said in a low voice.
Pleth took a deep breath and moved to the door. “Store is closed,” he said, loud enough to be heard.
“It’s me,” a voice said.
“That’s the courier,” Mortsen hissed. “The guy that just dropped off the bow.”
“He’s been made,” Gormer said. His eyes had turned white. “There’s a squad out there. Fifteen of them. They don’t seem to know about the back door. No Movers.”
“Basement!” Mortsen hissed, grabbing Pleth and pushing him towards the back room.
“But your man!” Pleth responded as Gormer grabbed him.
“Can’t help him,” Gormer said, dragging Pleth away. He grabbed the bow and threw the quiver over his shoulder.
“I can,” Mortsen said. As he spoke, his voice changed. Gormer glanced behind him in time to see Mortsen’s eyes turn black and glow with white light around the corners.
“Hit the dirt!” Mortsen bellowed. The command for his man to duck took on an otherworldly sound. It seemed to fill the room
Gormer caught it all in a split-second. The glance at raw power was the only thing he needed to sear the vision into his memory forever. A red glow surrounded Mortsen. He threw his body at the door and it exploded outward into tiny splinters. The sounds of screaming men followed them down the basement stairs.
“What the fuck was that?” Pleth said as they tore across the basement.
“Does it matter?” Gormer said, heading for the second exit. “The other door!”
“Are you sure?” Pleth asked, turning to follow Gormer.
“The first escape is made. I can feel them out there.”
Gormer kicked the door open and darted into the short tunnel that took them beneath the shop next door. He put his head and shoulders through the bow, where it rode over his left shoulder. He charged down the tunnel that turned to complete darkness just paces away from the basement lantern light.
“Fuck!” Pleth said, fear and tension rising in his voice.
“Put your hand out,” Gormer commanded. “Drag it along the wall.”
“Good idea,” Pleth said.
Oomf! Gormer’s impact with the door at the other end of the tunnel nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. A few desperate seconds of fumbling for the lock brought them to a short flight of stairs to the streets lit with oil lamps.
They startled a lamp lighter coming down from the rungs pounded into the corner of a stone building. She nearly dropped the long lighting rod.
“Curfew,” the woman sputtered. Hearing the screams from the fight, she scrambled back up the rungs. “Criminals!” she shouted.
Gormer’s arm twitched for his bow and arrow. The woman shouted again, and it was all he could do to keep from putting an arrow in her chest.
Instead, he whirled towards the sound of running feet and shouting guards. Two bloodied fortress guards ran after—who? Gormer couldn’t tell at first. He didn’t have enough mental energy left to feel the approaching minds.
“Mortsen,” Pleth gasped, running forward.
That was when Gormer realized what he was seeing. The courier served as a crutch for an old and withered man who struggled to run from the pursuing guards. Somehow, the frail, gray-haired man was Mortsen. Gormer only recognized him by the gold teeth in a mouth that sucked wind with a wheezy rasp.
“What the fuck,” Gormer said. Pleth ran forward with no weapons and little combat experience. “Damn it, Pleth,” Gormer said as he took in a deep breath and nocked an arrow.
On the exhale, he put an arrow through the forehead of the closest guard who was about a hundred feet away. Less than two seconds later, the second guard fell with an arrow in the eye.
The woman on the rungs kept screaming. Gormer whirled on her with another arrow.
“No!” Pleth screamed. “She’s—”
The arrow shattered on the stone wall beside her head. “Shut the fuck up!” Gormer bellowed. “That could have been your fucking skull! Don’t come down ‘til you count to a thousand, or I’ll find you and slit your damn throat.”
The woman clung to the metal rungs and sobbed as Pleth became the second crutch for Mortsen.
“That way,” the old man version of Mortsen wheezed and nodded down the alley to their right.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Pleth said. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Hell,” Gormer replied with faraway eyes.
With Gormer covering them from behind, they made their way down the shadowy, icy alley. It seemed people dumped their kitchen waste into the streets in this part of town. The street crews ignored these parts. Normally, the streets would have been salted by now.
“You’re wounded,” Pleth said.
That was when Gormer noticed a dark stain on the courier’s heavy coat. He knew the small man had lost a lot of blood.
“Dickheads tried to run a sword through my back,” the courier said.
“Ran out of energy,” Mortsen gasped. “I took out a lucky thirteen of them, though,” he said. Laughter bubbled in his lungs, and he nearly stopped from a coughing fit.
“Stop bragging,” Pleth said. “You’re still a heavy shit bag.”
That made Mortsen laugh harder, slowing their pace further. But they’d alrea
dy run several blocks and transitioned through several more alleys. They reached the safe house.
“We weren’t followed,” Gormer said as the courier left Pleth to hold up Mortsen as he knocked a pattern on the door.
“Come on,” Gormer said, scanning the street with an arrow nocked. All he had to do was draw and…
The door opened, and Pleth yanked him inside. After the near-darkness of the wrong side of town, the lamplight in the low-ceilinged room was nearly blinding.
“You fool,” a familiar voice said.
“Mina?” Pleth gasped.
“Who else would it be?” she replied, shouldering Pleth aside to take Mortsen and guide him to a long table where she helped him stretch out.
With a long sigh that was nearly a death rattle, Mortsen laid his head down and passed out. Red static electricity crackled over his skin, and instantly, his hair began turning black.
“He’ll be out a while,” Mina said, turning back to the men who still fought to regain their breath. “Sit,” Mina commanded.
“We got made,” the courier said.
“No shit,” Mina growled as she grabbed a jug from an open cupboard and poured three cups of ale. “Do you think it was that weasel doctor and the Fortress Guard?”
“How do you know about that?” Gormer asked.
“Because I’m the one who set up the meeting, dipshit,” Mina said.
“So charming,” Pleth said, then took a long pull from his mug.
Mina stabbed him with a look. Pleth shrugged, said, “Those guys seemed sincere.”
“I didn’t feel deception from them,” Gormer replied.
“That means they might have been caught and tortured,” Mina said.
“Or Lungu has spies,” Pleth replied.
“Shit,” Mina said, joining them at the table. Mortsen laid across the heavy boards like the strangest main course. She pushed him down the table until his legs bent at the knees, hanging over the edge now, and they could see each other over the table again.
Pleth couldn’t help but laugh as they all watched Mortsen’s legs swing like pendulums.
The courier laughed hardest until the rest stared at him. Then he passed out.
“Fuck!” Gormer said. “I forgot he was wounded!”
“Idiots!” Mina said. She sprang to her feet while they rolled the courier over and yanked off his heavy winter coat.
Mina had to use warm water to separate his tunic from his flesh. Dried blood was like glue.
“Lucky,” Mina said. The heavy clothes stopped the blood.
Pleth turned away, his face pale.
“Better get used to the sight of blood,” Mina said.
“H—how can I help?” Pleth asked. “Sorry. I’ll be fine in a minute. It’s just… stress…”
Mina scowled and was about to say something when Gormer caught her eyes with his. “He’s alright. Not used to this, is all.”
Mina’s face softened. “Get my sewing kit,” Mina said, turning back to the wounded man. “He took a sword, but it isn’t deep. Went about an inch into the muscle of his lower back. I can patch him.
Pleth went to start a fire in the small fireplace opposite the door. Mina stopped him. “No fire. We don’t want to give this place away.”
They took direction from Mina as she worked. They set the courier up as best they could with musty blankets, then spent the night finishing the ale and trying to figure out how badly they were burned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Procession
They burned most of the day waiting on the Toll Road. The cold weather made it necessary to start fires right in the road, so the people would not freeze. Vinnie was grateful no children were along.
“This must be half the village,” Vinnie said, looking over the crowd from atop a wagon from Argan. There were more than three-hundred people here now.
“Just about every adult in the village,” George remarked. “I’ve been asking around.”
“What about defenses?” Tarkon asked.
Vinnie had a ready answer as he stepped down from the wagon to join the others. “Some of Sally’s people came up from the Southern District. They’ve been staying in Belford. With the extra folks at the Keep, Woody sent an extra fifty or so fighters back to Argan to help keep watch.”
“I haven’t seen Sally since we helped liberate Belford,” George said. As he spoke, he didn’t take his eyes of Merg, who was busy sharpening her sword.
Moxy sidled up to him. “Go talk to her, idiot,” she said.
George snapped out of it and immediately began to stammer, “What? Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Stop being a coward and just go talk to her. Don’t try to insult her, even if she insults you. Just say hello. I can tell by the way she punched you in the face that you have a very good chance with her.”
George scratched his head and shifted on his big feet like a small boy. He looked angry at being called a coward, but the truth of it broke down all his defenses. “No good at that,” George said. “I can fight. That’s about it.”
Tarkon threw back his head and laughed. George rounded on him with fire in his eyes.
“You have about three seconds to explain yourself,” George pushing up his sleeves.
Tarkon held up his hands, palms up. “You sound just like me before I met Moxy. Just go over there and tell her the damn truth. Save yourself some trouble and follow her advice.”
George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He turned towards Merg, but Tarkon reached out a hand. “Give me your sword,” Tarkon said.
“Fuck off,” George said, as if Tarkon had told him to take off all his clothes and do a jig.
“Trust him,” Moxy said.
George let Tarkon take his sword, as if he was giving up his only child for adoption. As he shuffled over to Merg, he looked several inches shorter than his six-feet-five inches.
“This should be interesting,” Vinnie said.
“Is everything with you an experiment?” Tarkon asked.
Vinnie sighed and answered, “Yes. Life has been that way for me for more than a decade.”
“Sounds lonely,” Moxy said.
“Not anymore,” Vinnie answered with a huge grin.
They watched as George stood next to Merg, who went on sharpening her sword. She appeared to ignore him at first. They couldn’t hear what George said, but they saw the expression on his face and his hands as they wrung themselves.
Something about the last sentence made Merg put her sword away. She stood up slowly.
“Oh, shit,” Vinnie said.
“No,” Moxy replied. “Wait.”
The hard, guarded expressions fell from the faces of two hardened fighters. Vinnie actually gasped, then wiped some mist from his eyes. Merg tossed her hair to the side, then wrapped her arm around George. The two strolled arm-in-arm towards the front of the wagon train.
The big mage cleared his throat. “I’m allowed,” Vinnie said. “My people feel things very deeply.”
Moxy had to jump up to kiss him on the cheek. Tarkon roped an arm round his shoulders. A few minutes later, they were on their horses and walking along with everyone else. That was, of course, after George sent a young Dreg back to retrieve his sword from Tarkon.
Somewhere in the Fortress Wards
A booming, savage yawn startled everyone from sleep. Gormer was on his feet in a flash, daggers in hand. After a short but intense rest, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered the flight from the safehouse and Mortsen looking like an old man.
“It’s just me,” Mortsen said, flashing his gold teeth.
Pleth was up but looking around confused.
Mina shook her head at Mortsen and said, “You fool. I told you not to let other people see your magic.”
The courier stirred and rose to his feet painfully. “Thank you for saving me, Mortsen,” he said.
“No problem,” Mortsen replied, showing even more gold. “But you
’ve seen my magic now. I have to kill you all.”
The courier turned even paler and began to tremble as Mortsen put a hand on his slight shoulder.
“Oh, shit,” Mortsen said, drawing his hand back. He realized what he’d done. “I’m joking!” He exclaimed.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mina exclaimed. She stepped around and gave him a swift kick in the ass. Mortsen pretended to be pushed aside by the kick. In a rare show of kindness, he looked truly concerned with the effect he had.
Gormer chalked that up to whatever strange magic aged him fifty years.
“It’s ok,” the courier said. “It was kind of funny. But after what I saw you do…”
“I know,” Mortsen said, running a hand through his thick, shiny black hair. “I’d just as soon you keep quiet about it. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“You a favor!” the courier exclaimed. “I owe you my life.”
“Well,” Mortsen said, turning back into his old self. “If any one of you butt hairs let it be known that I have a soft spot, I’ll do to you what I did to those guards.”
He actually growled when everyone but Mina smiled as if to say ‘yeah, sure, right.’
“You’ve been out a while,” Gormer said. “A lot has happened.”
“Fill me in, then,” Mortsen said. He looked around at the completely boarded-over windows and squinted at Gormer in the dim lantern light. “And what fucking time is it?”
“We were up most of the night and slept most of the day. It’s about dusk outside.”
“Shit,” Mortsen said. “She’ll hang tomorrow afternoon.”
“No,” Gormer said, locking eyes with each person in turn. “We won’t let that happen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
A Hell Away from Home
Astrid lay in the rotting straw and let the water dripping from the stone cool her burning cheek. It took all of her effort to roll from one side to the other once in a while. Her elbows and knees popped and crackled audibly every time she shifted. But the icy splashes were like heaven compared to the burning in her veins.
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