by Jim Galford
Circling back to the main hallway, Raeln sped up their pace toward the front doors, where just two guards stood.
Unlike the last time she had come by the main doors, Ilarra could see that a heavy bar blocked the doors from opening. Perhaps they did know about the escape after all.
Raeln did not stop or seem overly concerned by the blocked and barred door, marching confidently right up to the two soldiers.
“Turn right around,” the elven man on the right told Raeln. “Until the king gives the order, no one comes in or out. Magisters’ orders. We kill anyone who tries to leave without permission.”
Ilarra saw Raeln’s left ear flick in frustration, but his face revealed none of that.
“What’s happening?” asked Ilarra, attempting to hide the fact that Raeln could not speak. That might lead to more questions than she was ready to deal with.
“No idea,” the other man at the door replied with a shrug. “Whoever it is, only the kingsguard is allowed above the common floors and no one goes in or out.”
“So we can’t leave at all?” Ilarra inquired, glancing at Raeln. He looked back at her from the corner of his eyes. “There’s no way out? My friend is really not feeling well.”
“Not until…”
Raeln punched the soldier in the throat, making him collapse as he choked and clutched at the exposed section of his neck where armor did not cover. Before the other soldier could react, Raeln kicked him in the leg, knocking him down. A giant-pawed stomp on the second man’s head knocked him out and left a bloody smear where he had managed to bleed out of his helmet’s visor.
“We need to hurry, Raeln. I doubt they intended to leave only two at the main door.”
Nodding, Raeln grabbed the heavy wooden bar that kept the door from opening and grunted as he braced his legs. Muscles shaking, he lifted the bar—likely meant for a group of humans to move, judging by its heft—and let it drop to the floor at his feet. The doors no longer held shut, Raeln gave one door a gentle push, filling the room with sunlight.
Ilarra hobbled past her brother into the main courtyard, blinded immediately by the intense sunshine. It was something she had craved and hoped to see again, but after so long in the dungeon, she could not keep her eyes open without them tearing up. Thankfully, Raeln grabbed her hand and led her out; giving her the time she needed to slowly adjust. The intense cold of the city in early winter was painful, especially on her bare feet, but Ilarra was thankful to be free, no matter what might come of it.
They ran on for some time with Ilarra blinking rapidly, trying to make out more than blurred shapes. It took her until they had nearly left the central city to be sure of what she was seeing. Even then, detail was mostly lost in her tears, but she recognized enough of her surroundings to not be entirely dependent on Raeln. She let him cling to her hand as he hurried down the street, happy for the help so she did not trip over the crowds of people as easily as she would have on her own.
People stared at Ilarra as she stumbled after Raeln, but she did not care. They were escaping, getting away from the people that had yet to give her a real trial before punishing her. She had no further use for Lantonne and would have been happy to see it burn, so the opinions of these people were not much of a concern.
Near the outer edge of the city, they detoured through a market district. In passing, Raeln grabbed a pair of boots from a leatherworker, who he growled at to keep quiet. He handed the boots to Ilarra and turned them back toward the north, while the shopkeeper muttered angrily.
They made good time out of the city and onto the packed snow of the road. From there, Raeln left the main road and led Ilarra around the edge of the outer city and into an area where great penned fields held horses and other livestock.
He led her straight to a specific building that had a large passenger wagon out front, horses already hitched to it. Ilarra could even see an elderly dwarven driver sitting at the head of the wagon. Raeln must have planned the whole escape and had a wagon ready to take them from the city. As always, his efficiency made Ilarra proud. He was everything she was not, which was pretty much the purpose behind their arrangement. In passing, she wondered how he had negotiated the deal without talking, but that was a concern for another time.
Slowing his pace as he neared the wagon, Raeln gave a familiar wave to the driver, who nodded grimly back at him. At their approach, the old dwarven man tossed his snow-covered grey beard over his shoulder and turned in his seat. Leaning out over the edge of the wagon he squinted at Ilarra, then Raeln.
“Got extra passengers,” the man said, his eyes studying Ilarra as though he wanted to ask why she was covering her eyes to see on a relatively dim day but deciding better of the choice. “I assume you can pay what you promised?”
Raeln patted Ilarra’s hand, indicating that she should remain near the wagon’s door. He reached for his side, where a leather money pouch normally hung. Where it should have been, two straps of leather dangled, having been torn or cut. The bag with all of his money was long gone.
Closing his eyes in shame, Raeln shook his head in dismay, making the face of the driver darken angrily.
“No coin, no bloody ride,” the man said gruffly, turning forward in his seat again. He gave a little flick of the reins, getting the attention of the horses. “Have fun trying to leave the city without…”
Another voice cut in from inside the wagon, making the driver trail off.
“They’re with me, old man. I can cover their costs. Kick them if they delay us too much.”
Rolling his eyes, the wagon driver waived Ilarra and Raeln toward the door into the wagon’s cabin.
Raeln and Ilarra exchanged confused glances, and she thought over the few paltry spells she might be able to manage without rest. None were particularly likely to help if someone was going to try to arrest them. Without more training, Ilarra’s skills were situationally useful, whereas Raeln tended to be able to adapt to nearly any possible problem. As such, any fighting would fall to him.
Making it look as though he had no concerns, Raeln opened the door to the wagon and bowed to Ilarra, giving anyone watching the impression that he was her servant regardless of their attire. The simple action allowed him to look into the wagon without the driver being able to see his face, while Ilarra pulled herself in.
The inside of the wagon was dimly lit, the shades on all four windows pulled tightly. Only the light from the door did anything to illuminate the occupants, though just enough that Ilarra could see that there were two people inside.
Huffing angrily, Raeln pushed Ilarra inside to speed her up.
Stepping up into the wagon, Ilarra found that the other wildling they had freed in the keep sat at the rear of the wagon, his bare paws propped up on the seats across from him, covered with mud that had covered much of the seats. Beside him, the halfling that Raeln had used to free Ilarra was tied and gagged, glaring between the two wolf wildlings.
“Glad you caught up,” the wildling said smoothly, smiling broadly when Raeln growled. Raising a hand, he showed them Raeln’s money pouch. “You did pay for the wagon, after all. I might feel bad if you didn’t show up.”
Snarling, Raeln climbed into the wagon after Ilarra, snatching the coin purse as he did. Closing the door behind them, he sat down hard across from the other wildling and swatted the man’s feet off the bench to give Ilarra a place to sit down.
“Where are we headed?” the stranger asked while Ilarra situated herself. “I’d like to head west, but I’m guessing I’m at the mercy of you two. If you’d taken a few more minutes, I’d already be on my way. It was your coin, so I’ll let you set the destination.”
Ilarra looked the man over, noticing even in the weak light of the wagon—far better than the lighting of the dungeon—she could make out thin scars covering his face near the muzzle and the exposed sections of his arms where the sleeves of his shirt did not cover. Even his legs and feet below the cuff of his pants showed signs of a rough life. Comparing him to Raeln
’s brushed and unblemished fur—aside from the fresh scar near his ear—the two men looked as though they had come from opposite ends of Eldvar. Even more telling, the newcomer’s claws were grown out and had the dangerous-looking curve of a wild animal’s, contrasting Raeln’s trimmed claws.
Turning in her seat, Ilarra slid open the small wooden blind that separated the passengers from the driver. The man looked over his shoulder at her, clearly waiting for some cue as to where he was going. “Set off for Hyeth,” she said softly. “If we need to stop along the way to get rid of any baggage, we’ll let you know. Do not stop, no matter what you hear, as we have some matters to discuss.” She closed the window as the wagon lurched into motion.
“Hyeth?” asked the wildling, looking pensive. “Never even heard of the place…not that I’ve really been anywhere but Altis and Lantonne. You can drop me off once we’re out of site of the city. Until then…”
Without warning, Raeln leaned forward and punched the wildling in the face, bouncing his head off the back of the wagon’s wall, before sitting back.
As the wildling slumped, the halfling’s eyes widened and he looked around at the three other people in the wagon, clearly questioning.
“He stole from us,” Ilarra explained, smoothing her dress while Raeln fidgeted, trying to find a position that his large frame fit properly in the wagon’s close confines. “Raeln really doesn’t like thieves. He has a small obsession with law, so he probably wants to set you free, but I’m still torn on that.”
Squirming to get his tied hands in front of him, the halfling waved them at Ilarra, grunting something through his gag.
Smiling to herself, Ilarra leaned back into the cushions. “You tortured people…innocent people,” she told the child-faced man. “Raeln likes torturers even less than thieves. Something about them having less honor. My father can decide what to do with you when we arrive.”
Scowling, the little man muttered something that Ilarra guessed was a string of curses.
“Be nice,” warned Ilarra. “I believe you forgot to feed me about every third meal. I would hate to forget to feed you…this trip is a long one.”
The halfling’s eyes narrowed angrily, but he remained quiet for the rest of that day, leaning against the unconscious wildling and seemingly plotting Ilarra’s untimely death.
Chapter Eight
“Awakening”
When confronted with adversity, I pray that history remembers me as a wise man and not a brutal one. This I put before those who come after me. Think not of how they view you now, but how your enemies’ children will remember you. If history cannot fault you for your actions, you have conquered as a just ruler. Should history remember you as a tyrant, your rule must fail and you will be cast down by your own people.
- Teaching of Turess, considered by most to be symbolic rather than a command
“How many have you found?” demanded Therec, hurrying through the debris-strewn halls of the school of magic. He had to watch his step to keep from tripping over broken objects or stepping into dried pools of blood that had yet to be scrubbed from the paving stones. The whole tower would smell like death for months.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, ambassador,” the serving boy told him, following through the halls. “We haven’t found any of them.”
Therec practically slid to a stop, forcing the boy to catch himself so as to avoid running into him. “Not one magister? Corpses do not vanish. I doubt the enemy took the time to haul them away.”
The servant shrugged and repeated, “We have not found any magisters’ corpses, sir. Arlind and Dorus are under guard as you requested, but there is no sign of the others.”
“How many other bodies are missing? I see indications of multiple deaths right here.”
“None, ambassador. There were perhaps thirty other dead in the whole tower, but they are all accounted for. Only the magisters are missing. It looked as though they were hunting down the instructors and leaving any pupils that stayed out of their way.”
Therec tried to issue an order for the boy to check again, but he began coughing as his bruised throat rebelled against him. By the time the fit has passed, the serving boy had slipped away. That boy had already griped more than once about being sent to search through the bloodied halls alone and he likely thought he could escape further work by getting away from Therec.
It was just as well, Therec thought, rubbing at his throat and heading back toward the main stairs. He knew the answer would be the same. Three search parties had come up with nothing more than finding several apprentices that had been hiding. Each search discovered more corpses hidden away in odd places, but they were always servants. The singular exception had been an orcish junior magister, whose shredded remains were discovered across much of the second floor of the school. Therec had kept that hushed, as he would rather the servants whisper about missing magisters than dead ones. So long as they could believe the senior wizards were alive somewhere, they could hope for the keep’s security against the main force of Altis.
Therec had yet to find any clear purpose behind the attack, but he had to think the missing magisters had something to do with it. Small skirmishes had happened from the top of the keep to the dungeon, before all of the attackers had vanished in a matter of minutes. For as bizarre as the attack in the dungeons had been, both he and the king had survived…more or less. It had taken him until the next afternoon to wake, but the mere fact that he did wake up told him much about the other Turessian. The man was not in the tower to kill him or the king, or the job would have been finished. They were clearly after something else. Attacking the two of them was a distraction. The Turessian people were anything if not practical and leaving the job half-finished was entirely unlike them. That told him that whatever the other man’s true purpose was, he had likely succeeded, or he would still be in the tower.
Thinking of the king reminded Therec that he had been roaming the upper floors too long. He hurried down through the keep until he reached the entrance to the king’s chambers, where a great many soldiers stood at the ready before a freshly-installed door. Many still bore blood-caked wounds from the attack the day before, but Therec had to applaud them, not one had requested time off-duty.
Weapons were drawn as Therec approached, despite having come to the chamber once already that day. Sighing, he offered his hands, allowing the men to tie his wrists together in the belief that it would cripple him as a spellcaster. He did not have the heart to tell the ignorant men that most Turessians were trained to cast at least simple spells with their hands bound, while gagged, or in any number of other compromising situations. Such training was essential when living in lands that half the world’s barbarians had contemplated invading at one time or another. Telling these men that would have only complicated things.
Once he was bound, two soldiers led Therec into the king’s room and remained at his sides after the door closed behind them. He knew they were going nowhere and every visitor was being treated in much the same way. It was a precaution borne out of desperation and lack of any understanding of how to address the real problem.
To one side of the room, Arlind sat on one of the king’s chairs, her feet dangling off the ground as she wrung her hands in worry. She had not left the king’s side since the attack, though like Therec, she had two soldiers behind her watching for any treachery.
“Is there any change, Your Majesty?” Therec asked, genuinely concerned.
Cinastin sat up slowly in his bed, his wheezing far worse than it had been earlier that morning. He shook his head, but Therec could tell that he had gotten more pale and was having difficulty finding the breath to speak. Things were progressing uncomfortably swiftly.
“He wanted us both here,” said Arlind for the king, though she did not look away from the boy. “Dorus has been sent elsewhere to attend to the military. Half the horse-humping army is out looking for someone to fight, with no clear leadership. I’ll be damned if I’ll join a bloody witch-
hunt, while my king…is like this.”
Arlind looked up at Therec and then down at his hands. Turning on her chair, she punched one of the guards in the thigh to get his attention. “Remove those ropes, you imbeciles. I will climb up your armor and bash your heads if you keep doing that.”
At last, King Cinastin caught his breath and smiled at Therec weakly while the attending soldiers untied Therec’s hands.
“Welcome back, my friend,” the king said, his voice shaking. “I hoped you would be back in time.”
Therec bit down the false protestations that leapt to mind, intended to help the dying believe their situation was not so dire. He had always found such deceptions to be a betrayal of that person’s trust, especially when they already knew better. With a dwarven healer at Cinastin’s side, he probably knew all of the worst-case results of his illness already.
The king had fought against the disease that ravaged his body from the ghoul’s bite. Shortly after waking from his own injuries, Therec had struggled at Arlind’s side to push back the progress of the disease, but he knew as well as the king that there was no true cure. Both magic and mundane medicine could cure ghoul plague, but only in the first few hours. The king and Therec had lain in the dungeon undiscovered for hours, by which time the fever had already begun. There was nothing anyone in Lantonne or Turessi could do to save the man. He would have already been dead, were it not for their efforts and even with them, he had maybe a day to live.
“I have already advised Arlind of her role in this,” the king continued, once Therec sat down nearby. “Given the risk of spreading this to anyone nearby during attempts to restore my body with the healing circles in the tower, no such attempt will be made. Publically, the attempts were made but did ultimately fail. My body and spirit are too weak to restore.”