Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One)

by Gregory J. Downs

  As wonder-struck as he was, it was not the decrepit castle that awed the thief; it was the Arches. There was no doubt it was them- huge monuments at the entrance and exit of the space between the mountain-cliffs, shaped from a darker sort of the precious marble-sand Gribly supposed the ancient Sand Striders to have used in Ymeer’s cathedral. There were four arches at each end of the clearing, and strange runes were set in the sides and at the peak of every one. Statues of haughty, dignified nymphs in flowing robes and holding tridents stood at the very top, one to each arch.

  “The Wave Striders and Frost Striders of the nymph tribes,” explained Byorne as the company passed quietly under the titanic arcs, awed into total silence. Seeming determined to break the ominous spell, the ranger continued.

  “There are three tribes who live in the Inkwell or on the edge o’ the Endless Ocean. My father was from the southern tribe- the Zain, I’ve told you before. They live not a day’s march from here, at a port they’ve owned since ‘long as anyone can remember. Aside them there be, oh, two more, if memory serves me. Treele live in the North and a bit farther East, on the edge of the Ocean. Then, even more northerly than that, you’ll get Reethe. Reethe live on enormous clods o’ Ice even bigger than the icebergs o’ the Treele.”

  “Complicated,” Gribly managed, staring up at the arch above him and wondering tentatively if he could Sand Stride with it. He hardly dared try. Maybe tomorrow. He doubted it, somehow- everything seemed too sacred and serious to meddle with.

  “For sure, for sure,” Byorne agreed, smiling a gap-toothed grin. He rubbed his stubbled chin. “See them statues on the far side?”

  “No, I’m not tall enough. The ruins are blocking them.”

  “No matter. Anyhow, they’re bound to be Reethe Frost Striders. They don’t stride water… just ice. They’re the strongest, or they wouldn’t a’ be able to live where they do.”

  “Something I’ve never understood,” Lauro commented as they moved out from under the arches and into the ruins, “is why the Inkwell is so cold, almost eternally in the winter season; yet only a few leagues to the west is the Blackwood, where the nymphs live. Winter is normal there, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Ah,” Byorne breathed wisely. “That’d be the Grymclaw, for sure. They say that a great demon imprisoned Wanderwillow the Wise there, thousands on thousands o’ years ago. That’s why ‘tis so hard to find head or tail of the Aura. I’d’ve thought ye was told that in Vastion, where so many clerics still be.”

  “We’ve only got four or five in the kingdom,” Lauro responded, his voice a bit grim. “And my father is one of the few who still remember the old ways.”

  “Did the King say anything ‘bout the demon?”

  “No,” the prince sulked, frowning. Gribly thought he saw a gleam of resentment. “But I’m willing to risk it, if it means meeting one of the Aura and restoring Vastion.”

  But you don’t really believe any of it, do you? Gribly thought to himself. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, but anything was better than running from this or that Dunelord or sorcerer back in Blast.

  Thinking of that got his mind back to the strange man who’d called himself a Pit Strider. When he asked Lauro and Byorne about it, they said there was no such creature- at least not for hundreds of years- in all of Vast, and the prince began cursing the dark days his realm was undergoing. The thief tuned out the tirade and retreated deep into himself and thought vengeful thoughts against Old Murie’s mysterious murderer until the group halted on the northern edge of the ruins.

  It was later, but still light enough to see clearly when the party dismounted in a smoothly paved circle of stones between three mossy stone ramparts. A colonnade ran around the length of the circle, but it was full of gaps and mostly destroyed. The fourth wall had fallen and now lay like a giant’s bridge into what had formerly been a dining-hall or throne room, or both; before the fortress had fallen into disrepair.

  When the horses and mules were fed and tied and Byorne had gone off to find fresh water (the half-breed could find a streamlet or spring in the desert if he wanted- so Gribly thought), Lauro endeavored once more to teach the Sand Strider how to wield a sword. He’d taught Gribly the basics during their trip across Blast, but the thief had no great love for fighting any more than he had for reading or cooking.

  “Up, Gribly, up!” called the prince, throwing a quick stroke at the boy’s shoulder with one of the sturdy olive-branches the pair was using for weapons. “Keep your stick up to block!”

  Gribly blocked, but not very well. Lauro seemed to delight in bruising and battering him every which way- just to embarrass him, the thief was sure. Fending off a lazy series of slashes from the older youth, he backed up again and again until he had come to the edge of the stone circle.

  “Come on,” the prince groaned, after Gribly made a particularly awkward attempt at parrying and had his branch smacked forcibly out of his hand. “You’re not even trying. Now look- it’s done like this, and this, and this! (‘Ow! Ow! Stoppit!’) No, I won’t.” He sounded like a pompous little nobleman’s brat… which was exactly what he was. “At least not until you’ve learned it right.”

  Gribly protested loudly, but to no avail. Even the normally impassive silver-armored guards began to chuckle to one another at his expense, gathering around at safe distances to watch his humiliation progress. Infuriated by their throaty, foreign-sounding laughs, the thief decided to strike back at Lauro… but in his own way.

  Moaning softly to keep up his whining charade, he stumbled drunkenly to where his sword lay at the foot of one of the colonnade’s pillars. Stooping stiffly to reach it, he noticed some sand at its foot: perfect for what he had in mind.

  “Get going!” Lauro fairly shouted at him, irked to distraction by his complaints. “We’ll never finish at this rate!”

  “We’re already done!” snarled Gribly, whirling around and hacking at his opponent with the olive branch. Lauro lifted his own to stop the blow, and as the two heavy sticks clacked together, sand that had been caked on Gribly’s with a stealthy bit of sand striding came off and exploded in the prince’s face.

  “Agh!” Lauro cried. To his credit he didn’t drop the stick, but he turned his head away blinking profusely. It gave the thief all the time he needed to thwack the prince in the stomach and sweep him violently off his legs. “Cheat!” fumed Lauro, writhing as he tried to clear his vision. Gribly moved to hit him again- but he’d forgotten about Lauro’s Wind Striding. The prince smacked his feet against the pavement, pushing him up into Gribly before the boy could react. They fell to the ground as a pair and the older lad quickly wrestled him into submission. The wind strider had his fist drawn back in a punch when a sharp, commanding voice called out.

  “What are you, bleeding little boys who fight in the schoolyard? Get up out of the dust, little prince! You too, urchin!” It was Byorne, returned from his trip with a skin of water placed beside him, looking red and angry.

  Both youths separated sulkily. The half-nymph treated them to a lengthy, profanity-laden speech worthy of both parts of his blood, before setting them both to gather wood for a fire while he cooked a mountainhorn he’d caught by the spring he’d found. The watching silverguard retreated beyond the smooth circle and sat quietly together tossing dice, unwilling to provoke the feisty old ranger to anger.

  Gribly went about his chore with a torn lip and a throbbing pride, but he was used to such tongue-lashings. Lauro, it was obvious, was not, but he bore it remarkably well. It’s a rare old man who can tame the prince himself and make him behave, he thought. Perhaps King Larion was the same, and that was why Lauro obeyed. It wouldn’t surprise him; despite Byorne’s rough, uncultured exterior, he had a sort of chiseled, natural dignity the street-thief from Ymeer had never seen in a real nobleman. Any country’d be lucky to have Byorne as their king. He’d do it right, even if he did it too harsh.

  With such thoughts in mind, Gribly was moving briskly as he dumped his bundle of dry, shriveled
olive branches and bark at the old ranger’s feet and shook hands with Lauro, who was done first. The prince seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, and even though he wouldn’t speak to the other boy his attitude was civil enough.

  ~

  “I hope you’ll both act like men, now that you’re on a man’s mission,” Byorne cautioned over a low fire after dinner that evening. Gribly nodded reluctantly, as did Lauro- Byorne had conjured some excellent mountainhorn soup from what little ingredients he had, and it had gone a long way towards improving everyone’s spirits. After drawing straws it was decided that Byorne would take the first watch that night, then Lauro, then Gribly in punishment. After the young Sand Strider would follow three of the silverguard. The boys would each take double shifts in punishment for their fighting- a prospect neither liked but both agreed to obey.

  It was remarkable, Gribly mused as he wrapped himself for the hundredth time in the worn traveler’s blankets brought from Ymeer’s finest markets before the company left. Truly remarkable how that old half-breed can lead us all. Before he could think on it further, his tiredness caught up with him and his mind faded into dreamless sleep.

  Once in the next few hours he awoke briefly. All he saw was Lauro, perched at the top of a broken pillar he’d Wind-Strode up to, watching the stars. Laying back, he slept once more.

  Chapter Seventeen: White Blade, Black Night

  Peace, blissful peace. Gribly slept without disturbance, oblivious to the world and undreaming.

  Then came a dream, and his world, the world, was never the same.

  He was looking down into a deep pool. Dark water lapped his feet. Leaning over, he glanced in. His reflection was there, but it looked changed. His face was longer, leaner, and paler. Dark lines ran under his eyes, and a shock of dark hair shadowed his brow. It was him… but harder. Angrier. Spiteful. His good characteristics (heaven knew he didn’t have many) were submerged, while his evil traits were foremost and dominating.

  All that from a face. His face.

  “What have I become?” he mouthed silently. But the face in the pool… it didn’t move. Is it not me after all? He wondered, leaning forward even more to see the image clearer. Suddenly the spiteful face in the pool began to laugh.

  “Ah… ha! Ha! Ha! Hah…….” He could hear it! Startled, Gribly tipped forward and fell in.

  Water splashed his face…

  ~

  …And he woke up. His face and shirt were drenched in cold water from a slashed water-skin. The mule that was carrying it had been braying madly and leaped over his body to keep from trampling him as he slept. The water had sloshed out and spilled on him, forcing him out of his dreams.

  “What the-” he sputtered, sitting up. It was deep night, and other than the maniac donkey charging off into the shadowy ruins there was no other sound. He shook of the unsettling nature of his sleep and tried to clear his mind. Was this Lauro’s idea of a joke? Was the prince trying to get back at him for cheating during their sparring match? “This isn’t funny, scumface!” Looking around and up to the pillar where he’d last seen the older boy, Gribly realized with a start that he couldn’t find him.

  Deciding against more insults (it’d risk waking Byorne- something neither of them would want), he got disgustedly up. Intending to surprise Lauro, the thief crept around the back way and into the abandoned, roofless guards’ chambers where the company had tied their mounts. Climbing nimbly to the top of a crumbling stony wall, he craned his neck to look inside.

  The animals were dead. Slaughtered wholesale.

  He almost fell back off the wall in shock. Lauro might be a pig-head, but Gribly knew the prince would never do something like this. Cautiously he eased himself up and over the wall, dropping down into the soft grass to get a closer look.

  Byorne’s own white stallion he’d claimed to have raised from a foal was lying twisted on a broken stone, its throat cut and scarlet blood seeping in ugly trails all over its pale neck. The other animals had fared even worse- sides punctured and manes torn apart, bloody holes perforating every part of their corpses.

  Shaken with fear but held by a strange, morbid desire to know what had happened, Gribly stooped forward to examine one of the marks. Without knowing why, he found their origin easy to guess.

  “Teeth.” He breathed. What kind of animal kills thirteen steeds and lets one escape, all without making a single sound? If there had been a sound, he hadn’t heard it, and neither had… “Lauro, blast it all!” he swore under his breath, straightening. Was the prince dead? Or had he run away like a- no, he wouldn’t have. He hadn’t run from a hell-dog, he wouldn’t run from whatever this was.

  Nothing prepared Gribly for what was about to happen.

  A stealthy hand reached out over his shoulder from behind and clamped over his mouth. In half a second he was pulled into the shadow of the corner, gagged and held crushingly tight around the gut. A hoarse voice that seemed about to scream- or cry- spat quietly in his ear.

  “Don’t move a scraping’ muscle, Grib. Another one’s coming.” It was Lauro. He was white-faced and grim as death. Letting go of Gribly slowly he put one gloved finger to his mouth, then pointed to the door-less arch across from them with the other. It was bathed in moonlight and both lads could clearly see what was beyond.

  A shadow passed outside; a loathsome mouth and fangs dripping with blood swung and breathed harshly just beyond the entrance. A huge head swayed back and forth; a huge, ugly nose with more nostrils than should have been there sniffed for prey.

  At first glance Gribly thought it was a bear, only far, far too large. Then he decided it was a wolf or direwolf, such as he’d only heard about in ghost stories and legends. Finally he decided it was neither. Hair covered its face and neck, two bulbous red eyes protruded from its head, lidless and glowing with malice. Its lower jaw jutted out like a reptile’s and its tongue lolled out hideously long, like a dragon’s. A dragon-wolf-bear, then? It was so large that only its head and hairy shoulders were all that was visible.

  Drool hung from its cracked, bony lips, and slime oozed from its blank eyes. A gleam of something caught Gribly’s attention away to the space just below its gnashing jaw- metal: rusty and old, but tough enough to shine a little, still. It was bolted to the monstrous beast’s throat and chest as far as the frightened thief could see. He shuddered, wondering what kind of abomination had skin of iron.

  The hideous thing caught the movement, slight as it was, rearing its ugly head higher and staring at the pair hidden in the shadows. Both boys tensed, holding their breaths. A low growl, a sort of demented purr, broke from the monster’s throat. Its eyes seemed to grow redder and fill with blood as it tried to see them.

  Aura of the Creator, Gribly thought in the deepest part of himself he could find, deliver me.

  The hellish creature turned and lumbered away, content that there was nothing in the ruined chamber but dead horses and their stench. Thank the Creator for that awful smell, Gribly thought. It’s masking our scent. As the monster passed, he caught glimpses of more metal, a gear and chain or two, and several wicked iron spikes. It was terrifying.

  The prince and the thief stayed still for a long minute after the thing had gone. Finally Lauro let out a quick breath and turned to Gribly.

  “We need to get back to camp,” he hissed as silently as possible. “Warn the others.” Gribly raised an eyebrow, as if to ask where he’d been if not at his post. “Came when I heard the mule,” the wind strider explained. “It was the only one. Blasted draik got the rest. Disappeared when I came. Blast’d things can do that.”

  “Draik?” whispered Gribly as they crept over to the doorway.

  “Monster. Breathes fire. Comes from pits. Lots of them on the border wars. Part of our problem.”

  No more was said as they shuffled stealthily by empty back-ways and came back to the paved circle where the camp was held.

  Lauro behind him, Gribly peeked out of a dwarf-sized hole in one of the walls.

 
; “Scrapped. There’s someone there, Lauro.”

  The wind strider followed the direction of his cautiously pointing finger. Out in the clear lay Byorne and the ten black-skinned silverguard, wrapped in various blankets and traveling cloaks, their weapons close at hand. Two encounters with bandits in Blast had taught them that. The cook-fire Byorne had put out was dead and ashy. No one snored or even moved.

  But out of the shadows cast at the far side of the colonnade stepped a slim figure in black robes tinged with scarlet. A hood was thrown over its head, obscuring its face, but Gribly knew instantly who- or at least what- it was: the Pit Strider who’d murdered Old Murie.

  “Blast you…” Gribly snarled in a low tone. His fingers gripped the chalky edge of the hole in the wall, whitening the knuckles with the force of his anger.

  “Is that…?” whispered the prince behind him. He nodded, curses forming in his mind for this specter who’d ruined what little life he had before and was trying to do it again. “Let’s-” began Lauro, but before he could continue the Pit Strider stepped up to the cold fire ring and snapped his fingers.