Stinky hesitated to bring the horn to his mouth. All he had to do was blow through the end of it and it would screech like a banshee summoning the rest of the patrol. But Gunther….
Maybe that was what it was? A lost patrol? They were still stragglers staggering out from the depths of the swamp. Could it be one of them?
He was still mulling it over when a man stumbled out of the darkness and into the shadows near the edge of his torch. He almost blew the horn, but even in the shadows, he could see the hunched over figure wasn’t a fishmen. The man was wearing ragged clothes that resembled his own uniform, but they were too tattered to tell for sure. He was thin, too, like the other survivors who had wandered out of the swamp after months of feasting on bugs and raw marsh rats. Even in the shadows, the man’s skin was pale, almost white, and Stinky wondered if he had been held captive in the depths of one of the fishmen’s warrens.
It didn’t matter. If he was a survivor, Gunther would want to know about it at once. If he wasn’t a survivor, Stinky wanted the rest of the patrol at his side. He inhaled deeply and lifted the horn to his lips.
The man reached the barrier of braided grain stalks. They weren’t intended to stop the fishmen, but they would trip them up if they caught around their legs. But the man stopped as if he saw them clearly and lifted his gaze to look at Stinky. The eyes gleamed in the firelight, reflecting it like a cat’s, and Stinky—
Stinky hesitated, his reflexes dulled by months of tedium. It was a mistake, and by the time he realized the interloper wasn’t a survivor, by the time he realized he was something else, it was too late. The horn had barely squawked when he heard the twang of a bow and felt an arrow shaft bury itself to the fletching in his throat. He tried to blow as he lurched suddenly backward, but the air bubbled out around the arrow in his throat.
Then a second arrow struck….
2
Typhus knelt on top of the wall wrapped around Tyrag and looked back at the city one last time. He would miss it, but it was time to leave it for good. It wasn’t the first time he had left it for good, but this time Argyle’s men weren’t chasing after him. This time, Typhus had decided to go on his own, and he was certain he would not be coming back.
He let his gaze cross over the city and shook his head. It had been so easy to do his job here. Nearly all of his victims had lived on the same street, which made escaping easy. Still, from this perch, the city looked strange with all the streets forming perfect squares within the perfect circle of the high wall guarding it from the attacking grain fields.
He sighed and slid over the side. The guards made their rounds with such rigidity in their schedule that he had no difficulty entering or leaving the city. He had always wondered about that. It was as if the King wanted him to escape—wanted them to escape. Argyle knew their schedule and took liberal advantage of it.
Typhus settled softly to the ground and walked silently along the outer wall. The guards on the wall wouldn’t see him down there unless they bent over to look straight down the wall, but they seldom did that. Besides, the black cloak he wore would conceal him from them if they did, provided he moved slowly enough. At least he didn’t have to worry about glowing blue anymore; that had disappeared when Sardach had taken away his magic and gave it back to Angus. He didn’t really mind losing the magic, though; it was too dangerous. At least it had helped him get out of Argyle’s dungeon while he had it, and for that he was as thankful as he was about anything. But the temptation to use it would have been too great, and he would have made mistakes, just like he had with the Cloaking spell. Still….
As he neared the well-lit area around the gates, Typhus veered away from the wall and dropped to his hands and knees. He wormed his way through the stubble on the ground where they kept the grain trimmed low for defense. They might see him, of course, but they probably wouldn’t do anything about it. He was leaving Tyrag, and they tended not to care about that very much. Another oddity of the city guard.…
By the time he was smothered in darkness, he was confident enough to stand upright and walk with purpose. He had a destination of sorts, but it was vague and uncertain. The first step, the most important step, had been simple: leave Tyrag. The second step was also simple: Make it to Wyrmwood. He had a plan for that. There were groups of farmers heading out in the morning with wagons full of grain seed. He would join one of them as a guard, go as far as they did, stay a little while in their village, and then leave with a few more coins than he had had when he arrived. He would be cautious, though; he would only take them from the ones who could afford it. There was no sense making more enemies and having them follow after him. The last thing he needed was a trail of bodies in his wake. Perhaps he should only take some food and supplies?
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. He needed to focus. He was still much too close to Tyrag, and the guardsmen had horses. Besides, he couldn’t decide what to do to the villagers until he got there and found out what they had. Then he would be off to the next village to do the same thing all over again. At some point he would have to steal a horse. He smiled, pondering the audacity of stealing one of the guardsmen’s horses, but it was too risky even for him. The guardsmen weren’t after him, and as long as he left them alone they would probably leave him alone. But Argyle….
Typhus hurried forward, intending to intersect the road about a mile or so away from the city. The farmers would be leaving through the gates before dawn, and he wanted to be in place when they went by. Surely one of them would welcome him into their group, and that would make it much easier for him to escape.
He would go to Wyrmwood, but then where? That was the question he hadn’t answered yet. He couldn’t stay in Tyrag because Argyle’s network stretched to the furthest reaches of the kingdom. There was no safety for him in Tyr as long as Argyle lived. He had thought about killing Argyle, but he no longer had the resources he would need to do it. Perhaps when he had rebuilt his status?
Hellsbreath would be next. He wasn’t going north into the Death Swamps; there was nothing for him there. He couldn’t go back to his father, either; the old bastard wouldn’t lift a finger to help him a second time. That left only two options: The Western Kingdom and The Southlands. Hellsbreath was the gateway to both of them. But what would Dirk do? Hellsbreath was his city; it wasn’t part of Argyle’s organization. But they had a loose alliance and did favors for each other. Otherwise, they left each other’s organizations alone—for now.
He would have to deal with Dirk when he got to Hellsbreath. It should be a simple matter of tribute, and he would acquire enough for that when he got to Wyrmwood. There was a tantalizing surplus in the center of the city, and he had an idea about how to get past that wall of theirs….
He shook his head again. There would be plenty of time to think about what to do while he was crossing Tyrag. It was a long walk, and he would have a plan by the time he got to Wyrmwood. From there? He shrugged. It didn’t matter. He would be far from Argyle, and once he reestablished his reputation, there would be nothing to worry about.
Almost nothing. Argyle still might be tempted to put a contract out on him, and his reach was far….
3
Angus hated being helpless, but there was little he could do. Embril had been gone for too long for him to catch up with her. He wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t. Commander Garret had forbidden him to leave Hellsbreath, and the guardsmen wouldn’t let him go. Worse, his scrolls, book, and the wand had been confiscated and placed in the care of the Grand Master. The only explanation Commander Garret had given him was that King Tyr had ordered his banner into service and he wanted to make sure Angus stuck around until his companions returned. He had protested quite strenuously before complying, and now all he could do was wait and watch.
In the mornings, he watched for Hobart and Ortis on the south road. After four days, there still wasn’t any sign of them, and his concern was growing. Had the Haunted Plateau lived up to its reputation? Had it swallowed th
em up like it had the trappers? They should have made it across it before his return to Hellsbreath, and it wasn’t that far from the cliff to Dagremon’s. If they had gotten there….
But what if they hadn’t reached Dagremon’s? They had been low on supplies; they could have starved on the plateau. No, that wasn’t likely; Ortis was too good a woodsman for that. But what was delaying them? Had Hobart gotten worse? He shouldn’t have, unless Angus was misremembering the effects of the yiffrim blood. He had tried to find out, but Heatherly’s Taxonomy wasn’t in the library; Embril had apparently taken it with her when she left. He had smiled at that.
In the afternoons, he watched from the north wall, trying to see Embril or the patrol. He had seen a few patrols, but they weren’t the right one, and with every day that passed without word, without sign of her, he grew more and more anxious. He wanted to ride out far enough to see the plateau, but Commander Garret wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t even let him practice flying because it would be too easy for Angus to fly out of the town without reporting his departure. So what could he do? Worry. Watch. Wait.
On the third day after his return, his waiting ended. It was a little after noon, and he was making his daily trip from the south wall to the north wall. He had stopped for a meal in the Wizard’s School, and the place was nearly full of students. They were chatting and eating and studying like usual when an alarm sounded. He didn’t know what it meant, but the Master Wizards he recognized leapt to their feet and ran from the room. A few of the older students followed them, and many of the younger ones suddenly looked terribly frightened. He turned to the nearest table and asked, “What is it?”
The boy—he couldn’t be called a man yet—looked at him with wide brown eyes and struggled to speak. Nothing sensible came out of his mouth for a few seconds, and then he gasped, “It’s the alarm! Something’s happened to the shield.” Then he turned away and asked the others at the table, “What do we do? We have to help them, don’t we?”
“And do what?” a young girl asked, a tremor in her voice. “We don’t even know how to tie a proper knot yet. How can we help them?”
Angus rose at that point. He didn’t know the particulars of the spells involved in the shield, but he had ample skills and might be able to help in other ways. He could do something, surely—or at least find out what was happening. He turned to the boy and asked, “Where have they gone?”
“Who?” the boy asked, a pleading look in his eyes.
“The Masters,” Angus said. “Where would they go?”
“Up the spire, of course,” the girl answered.
Angus nodded and walked calmly out of the room. He wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do, but he would help if he could. As he strode calmly, unhurriedly to the spire’s stairwell, he easily sidestepped the wizards who ran by him. None of them stopped him, and by the time he reached the spire stair, it was clear something major had happened. Dozens of wizards were already nearing the top of the stairs, and some of them had flown directly to the top. Angus would have done the same, but he hadn’t been able to prime for his Flying spell since his return. Commander Garret had seen to that.
It took almost twenty minutes to reach the top of the stair, and by then, the wizards had filled the walkway and fluttered around in the air. But they weren’t doing anything other than looking to the northwest, pointing, and talking in hushed tones or not at all. Angus turned that way, but he saw nothing—until he brought the magic into focus.
“No!” he gasped, almost sagging to his knees as he saw the whirling disarray of flame magic pummeling the sky in the distance. It was like a candle flame but ten thousand times its size, and it was pure, unfiltered magic. He shouldn’t have been able to see it at all, but—
“No!” he barked, trying to push his way through the crowd to get closer to the edge. “It can’t be! She wouldn’t—”
Master Yrdic turned to him, hurried over, and turned Angus to face him. He studied Angus for a long moment, and his face grew grim. His eyes narrowed, and he squeezed Angus’s arm and said, “Come with me.”
Angus resisted long enough to look to the northwest once more, and then he allowed Master Yrdic to lead him away from the others. When they reached the door to the stairwell, Master Yrdic put him inside and said, “You are not allowed up here.”
Angus turned and glared at him, but Master Yrdic was already turning away. He stepped forward and clutched the sleeve of his robe and said, “Wait!
Master Yrdic half-turned, scowled, and shook free of Angus’s grip. But he waited.
“I think I know what is happening,” Angus said. “Let me speak with the Grand Master.”
Master Yrdic scowled at him for a few more seconds, his deep-set eyes widely dilated, and then nodded slightly before whirling away. He easily maneuvered his way through the crowd and leaned in close enough to the Grand Master to whisper in his ear. The Grand Master turned to look at Angus, nodded, and gestured for him to approach.
Angus took a deep breath and strode forward. His pace was unhurried; he needed time to decide how best to explain what he knew without being consumed by the shock of Embril’s betrayal. She couldn’t have! he thought as the wizards parted before him.
She couldn’t have! he thought as he strode up to the Grand Master.
But who else could it be?
# # #
Thank you for reading The Golden Key, and I hope you enjoyed it. Book 4 should be out in late spring or early summer. In the meantime, you might consider writing a review or reading one of my other works. Thanks again!
Robert P. Hansen
About the Author
Robert P. Hansen teaches philosophy at a community college and writes fiction and poetry in his spare time. His work has appeared in various small press publications since 1994.
Additional Titles
Poetry
2014: A Year of Poetry: a collection of poems that were primarily written during 2014.
A Bard Out of Time: a long fantasy poem accompanied by other fantasy poems.
A Field of Snow and Other Flights of Fancy: a collection of light verse and other short poems.
Last Rites…and Wrongs: a collection of macabre poetry.
Love & Annoyance: a collection of poems on love and philosophical speculation.
Of Muse and Pen: a collection of poems on writing and the creative process.
Potluck: What’s Left Over: a collection of poems with no particular theme.
Fiction
Have You Seen My Cat? And Other Stories: a collection of mystery, science fiction, and cross genre short stories.
The Drunken Wizard’s Playmates and Other Stories: a humorous fantasy novel and a few other fantasy stories.
The Snodgrass Incident: a science fiction novel in which the crew of The Snodgrass travels to Enceladus to investigate the formation of a new Tiger Stripe.
The Tiger’s Eye: Book 1 of the Angus the Mage series of fantasy novels.
The Viper’s Fangs: Book 2 of the Angus the Mage series of fantasy novels.
The Golden Key: Book 3 of the Angus the Mage series of fantasy novels.
Worms and Other Alien Encounters: a collection of science fiction stories.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 37