Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3)

by Berardinelli, James

  “It’s been nearly two decades since Ariel lived with her mother. You ask us to gamble on a perhaps.” Carannan knew he shouldn’t have been shocked; he had been a member of Ferguson’s circle when plans were being hatched to manipulate Sorial into risking everything by stepping through a portal.

  Ferguson shrugged.

  “The prelate is used to making such gambles,” remarked Gorton. “But this one reeks of desperation - and we haven’t reached that point, at least not yet. Let’s make an effort to locate this priest-tunnel first. If it can’t be found… well, the option with Ariel will be as viable in another three or four days as it is today.”

  When Carannan left the tent, dawn’s first rays were obscured by encroaching clouds that would postpone the morning twilight and stall the coming of the new day. With only a few lanterns hung on poles to illuminate the camp - the queen had ordered fire usage to be kept to a minimum - it was difficult to pick his way along the wide, rutted pathways that had become the makeshift settlement’s “roads.” If the clouds brought rain, the water would turn everything into a muddy quagmire. One of the reasons the camp had endured so well thus far was that the weather had been dry. The poor sanitation had been kept in check, reducing disease to isolated outbreaks. A little rain might be a boon. A lot of rain would be a misery, if not a disaster. Another thing to worry about.

  Initially, the overcommander had intended to seek his bed for a quick nap before the activities of the tunnel search demanded his participation, but he changed his mind along the way and decided to confer with Warburm. If there was anyone in camp who could provide insight to the question of Ariel adhering to a bargain, it was the innkeeper. Carannan was surprised Ferguson hadn’t recommended sending for Warburm. The two had once been as thick as thieves.

  The overcommander’s instincts alerted him to danger before the blade sliced through his cloak. He was able to twist away in time to avoid injury, simultaneously slipping his short sword free of its hip scabbard. Blackness surrounded him. He adopted a defensive posture, anticipating a follow-up attack. He didn’t have to wait long. Something lunged at him out of the darkness, knives singing. Carannan found himself hard pressed. In good light, he felt sure he would have the upper hand but, with the nearest lantern twenty feet away and his attacker swathed in shadow, it was like fighting a ghost. His parries were unsure and at least one of his enemy’s strikes penetrated his guard only to be turned away by the links of chain on his breastplate.

  The sound of steel-on-steel from his fight was echoed elsewhere in the camp. Alarms rang out. This wasn’t as isolated attack. But Carannan didn’t have the opportunity to contemplate what it might mean as his adversary pressed his advantage. Knives flashed, their edges reflecting the dim light. Carannan desperately knocked one away but the action exposed him to the other. This time, his armor didn’t block the attack; the dagger found an opening and plunged into his right side through the armpit. He stumbled backward, lost his footing, and went down.

  The death blow never came. Instead, there was the sound of a crunch and a half-gurgle/half-scream then nothing. Moments later, a form loomed out of the darkness and extended a hand to Carannan. “Let’s get inside, Yer Grace. My tent be just over there.” Warburm’s ax was tinted red from the blood it had drawn.

  “I have to check…”

  “Bandages first, Yer Grace. Then you can gather yer men.”

  Once inside the innkeeper’s tent, Carannan divested himself of his breastplate and tunic, which by now was soaked through with blood. It was a small but deep wound. Warburm lit another lantern, seemingly unconcerned about whether The Lord of Fire might be lurking, cleaned around the puncture with a wet rag, and examined it clinically. Carannan endured Warburm’s ministrations impatiently, anxious to rally his men and get a report on the situation. What the hell was happening?

  “Coulda been worse,” Warburm pronounced, ripping clean cloth into strips. “Missed the lung, although I ain’t sure how, and didn’t hit anything vital. It should heal clean. You be lucky there ain’t no poison. Not professional assassins, then. But it’ll hurt like shit for a few days and you won’t be able to swing a sword with yer right arm for a while.” He reached for a half-full bottle of something and tossed Carannan a strap. “Bite it. This ain’t gonna be pleasant but it gotta be done.”

  The overcommander clamped down with his teeth until he could taste leather and sweat. He steeled himself for the pain but was still nearly overcome as the liquid from the bottle sloshed into the wound. He swooned but Warburm kept him in a sitting position. Once the area had been thoroughly “cleansed,” the innkeeper went to work with a bone needle and catgut thread. The stitching was done expertly but was designed more for functionality than aesthetics. Then again, not many people were going to notice a scar in the armpit. Once the thread was tied off and the new blood wiped away, bandages were applied.

  Carannan’s cry when subjected to Warburm’s crude ministrations had drawn the attention of a couple of soldiers. Warburm barked gruff commands to them and they scuttled away to get more help. A prostrate form near the enclosure’s center captured the overcommander’s attention. Lying unmoving under a blanket was Ariel. Carannan hadn’t been aware the innkeeper kept her this close. He thought she was still in the wagon that had transported her from Vantok.

  By the time some of his men arrived to check on his condition, Carannan was able to stand to receive their reports.

  “By all accounts, there were between ten and twelve of ’em,” said Rotgut. “We killed nine, so a few got away. They were assassins and it don’t take a chancellor to figger out who sent ’em. Most of the men know the queen and the wizard went into the city but ain’t come out.”

  Carannan nodded. It was another indication, as if one was needed, that they were now in hostile territory. What better way to ensure that no rescue operation was mounted than by eliminating those who might spearhead it? Carannan wondered if the attackers had been given specific targets or if their orders had been to create as much chaos and death as possible before melting away into the night.

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Fifteen, although not all of those were militia. Another eight injured. Good thing they weren’t using poison. More likely soldiers dressed in black than professional assassins. Work’s too sloppy. Real assassins sneak in, do their work quick and quiet, and get out. That ain’t what happened here.”

  “What about the other council members? Chancellor Gorton and Vice Chancellor Ferguson?”

  “There was one waiting for Gorton in his tent. He suffered a minor wound to the arm fending off a blow then his bodyguard finished the killer off. Ferguson weren’t attacked.”

  It was nearly noon before full order had been returned to the camp. After examining the bodies of the assassins, Carannan personally visited each of the wounded and paid his respects to the families of the dead. Gorton accompanied him on these visits but Ferguson remained sequestered in his tent. Meanwhile, bands were sent out to search for hidden entrances to the city. Gorton speculated that the assassins had used such a tunnel to facilitate their attack. If that was the case, there might be a trail, however faint.

  Additional attempts to contact the city were met with stony silence. The gates remained closed and, although guards could be seen on the ramparts, they ignored greetings and calls. Carannan put his men on full alert and ordered the camp regularly patrolled. The scent of fear and desperation hadn’t been this thick since the early days after Vantok. There was nothing that could be done if Basingham threw its entire might at the refugees but he was determined that there wouldn’t be a repeat of the morning’s events. There was no word from either the queen or wizard - no indication if they were dead or being held hostage. If it was the latter, Basingham wasn’t interested in a ransom from Vantok’s survivors.

  “How’s your side?” asked Gorton when they retired to his tent after finishing their tour of the camp. The chancellor sported a bandage on one forearm but the injury didn’t
appear serious.

  “Sore, but I’ll survive it. Thanks to Warburm. I owe the man my life. If he hadn’t been there, I’d be among the casualties and you’d be visiting my wife and sister this morning.”

  “The very sister we hope to crown Lady of Air someday.”

  A possibility that looked increasingly unlikely. “I wish I knew what was going on in Basingham. Who’s in charge, I wonder?”

  “An opportunist. Someone who’s decided that by declaring allegiance to The Lord of Fire at this early stage, he’ll be rewarded when Justin marches through the open gates. There’s probably a long list of candidates starting with Justin’s family. The djinn’s demands were clear but he might be willing to relax them if someone delivers Sorial and Myselene to him upon arrival.”

  “So it doesn’t matter to this would-be ruler that Myselene and especially Sorial might be the only ones capable of stopping Justin before he takes control of the continent?”

  “All politics are local. The insurgents probably don’t care about the continent. Only Basingham and who Justin will put in charge of the city while he’s elsewhere. This is a power play by someone with a taste for high risk bets,” said Gorton.

  “Now we have to hope we can find this tunnel.”

  “Don’t pin all your hopes on that.”

  “You don’t think our soldiers will unearth it? It can’t be that well-hidden.”

  “I have little doubt that, given enough time, we’d be able to find it. I’m not sure we have enough time. And, even if we do locate it, it may be useless. My guess is that, once the assassins returned, whoever’s in charge of Basingham ordered it collapsed. Unless you can fly like a bird or burrow like a mole, it may not be possible to enter Basingham at the moment.”

  “Which means…”

  “Which means we’d better hope that there’s some vestige of sibling affection between Sorial and his sister, because it’s entirely possible his life will depend on her accepting and honoring a bargain that would, in effect, force her to betray her long-time ally.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT: DIRT IN THE FLASK

  Consciousness was an elusive, vaporous thing. Every time he reached for it, it slithered away like a snake coated in quicksilver. Trapped in the gloom of a drugged, addled mind, all Sorial could do was wrestle toward the light and, at just the moment when the blackness seemed to be lifting, it snapped back into place with renewed strength. He didn’t give up, however, doggedly pursuing awareness while grappling with the forces seeking to pull him back into the soup of chaos where his thoughts were held captive. One herculean thrust catapulted him forward through a seemingly impenetrable barrier. Then his eyes snapped open.

  His vision swam; it was as if he was looking at his surroundings through a layer of murky water. His mind, befogged and sluggish as a result of the drug coursing through his veins, seemed disconnected from his body. His memory was uncertain. Where was he? Why was he here? What was happening?

  He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It was fruitless. Some deep instinct told him he probably shouldn’t be awake. He felt like throwing up but that would have required too much effort. Even the simple act of breathing demanded more thought and energy than he would have expected. What if he just stopped…?

  Fragments of his situation came back to him - a jumbled collage of half-memories. Saying goodbye to Alicia. Defeating the djinn. Basingham. The dinner betrayal. He was a captive somewhere. The time spent in Havenham had taught him what a dungeon was like. His lone arm was manacled to a steel ring affixed to the floor. The same was true of his whole leg. He could determine that much by feel. Someone wasn’t taking any chances with him. His blurred vision let him know that he wasn’t alone here. His queen was his companion.

  “Sorial?” she asked quietly.

  He managed to grunt a response. Forming words was too much to ask.

  She struggled to move closer to him. Her feet were chained together like his. “Are you awake? Can you understand me?”

  Another grunt. He heard her questions but lacked the necessary concentration to grasp their meaning. The drug wanted to drag him back into unconsciousness. He fought against it. That battle was absorbing all his available mental acuity.

  “We’re captives in Basingham. Ambassador Uthgarb and some associates have usurped the throne and put King Durth under arrest. We’re to be handed over to Justin as a ‘peace offering’ when he arrives.”

  “How long?” It amazed Sorial that he was able to form the words, much less say them. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking: How long had they been here? Or, how long did they have?

  Myselene assumed the former. “A couple days. It’s difficult to say with no way to tell night from day. I think they give you doses of that drug at twelve hour intervals. You had your third a few hours ago. I’m surprised you’re awake.”

  “So am I,” muttered Sorial. His mind was slowly beginning to function. Not enough, he knew, for him to be able to command more than a scintilla of earth, if that, but enough that he could recognize his situation. But as awareness returned so too did the discomfort of his situation: hunger, thirst, pain. It was nothing he hadn’t coped with in the past. Langashin had taught him a few things about enduring physical deprivation. He might not have magical powers at the moment, but he hadn’t had them then, either. Warburm had rescued him in Havenham; that seemed unlikely in this situation. He wasn’t in a dungeon guarded by a group of belligerent mercenaries; these were seasoned guards and gaolers and there were considerably more of them.

  “Can you use magic?” asked Myselene.

  Sorial shook his head. “Too weak. Too… fuzzy.” It was hard to explain why he couldn’t make contact with his element.

  “I didn’t think so.” The resignation in her voice was unmistakable.

  It occurred to Sorial that this must be how his sister felt during those instances when she was allowed windows of consciousness. It was necessary to ensure that the previous dose had worn off before administering another lest she be given too much. An overdose of what they were using on her could be fatal. He wondered if he was being given the same drug. Probably, or something close to it. That raised an interesting point. Ariel only woke when it was time for the next dose, when the earlier one was wearing off. But he had only recently been given his latest “refresher.” So how to explain his being conscious now, when the drug should have been at its most effective?

  The answer came to him in a flash. There were few dirtier places than a dungeon and all it would take was a little dirt entering his system along with the drug to weaken it. Inside his body, the dirt would act like a sponge and soak up the drug, limiting its robustness, allowing him moments of clarity like this one.

  It wasn’t enough, though. Too much drug, too little dirt. And just licking it off the floor wouldn’t be sufficient without his magic to guide and manipulate it - just another substance headed for his stomach. It had to come in with the drug so the two could interact on entering his system. It would have been so easy to expel the drug if he could use his abilities to perceive its presence, but that was beyond him at the moment. Reason was already evaporating, blackness once again encroaching. There was something he had to say, something Myselene needed to know.

  “Next time they come to dose me, throw a handful of dirt into the flask. Get as much in as you can. They’ll think you’re throwing it at them and they’ll hurt you but it might enable me to fight off the drug. Don’t let them know what you’re really doing, though. Make them think it’s an act of defiance.”

  “If I do that, will you be able to get us out?”

  “Don’t know,” said Sorial. What didn’t he know? Who was she? Who was he? It didn’t seem to matter then, as he closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles, giving in to the overwhelming power of the blackness, all thoughts and concerns fled.

  * * *

  By the end of the second day of intensive searching, nothing had been found. Despite the nearly two hundred men involved in the effort, no e
vidence of an opening to an underground tunnel had been uncovered. The soldiers did their work in groups of eight, clearing away scrub, poking into the ground with pikes, moving large rocks, and digging in places where it looked like there might be a seam. Some of the searchers came within a stone’s throw of the city’s walls. Initially, Carannan had been concerned that such close proximity might result in a hail of arrows, but the guards atop the walls watched without taking action. Basingham remained strangely silent. The normal bustle of an active city was absent. War was coming and preparations were being made. No one was being permitted to enter or leave. Basingham was sealed.

  For the refugees, time was running short. Scouts reported that Justin’s army - or at least a significant portion of it - had exited Vantok shortly after dawn on the previous day. Best estimates put the number of men close to eight thousand - more than enough to overwhelm Basingham’s militia even without help from magical creatures and a wizard. Their pace was brisk but not brutal; it would bring them to Basingham in about a week’s time. That gave Carannan and Gorton three days to make a final determination about freeing their queen. The camp had to be struck before Justin’s advance guard came within fifty miles of Basingham.

  “Whatever we’re going to do, we have to decide soon,” said the overcommander to Chancellor Gorton. The two were walking the camp, letting themselves be seen while conferring about how to proceed. They had taken to excluding Ferguson from their discussions; in Myselene and Sorial’s absence, his sense of entitled authority had begun to assert itself. He believed that, with the queen gone, he was the most appropriate leader, although the official chain of authority placed him behind Gorton.