by Ember Lane
Lincoln suddenly had a dread thought. “But if it can reach any other portal...can...will… Whatever’s on the other side?”
“Will come streaming through—right into the heart of Starellion,” Thadius said gravely.
The light beam pulsed suddenly, the lens milking over, and they all scrambled back at first, before edging forward. The semblance of a face became clearer and clearer, looking down. It was the face of a boy, and yet not, with skin like milk and a black bandage where his eyes should have been. His hair draped down and billowed out at the same time, as you’d expect a pixie’s to. A sneer graced his face, and looked completely at home there, clearly his expression of choice.
“ShadowDancer,” Lincoln whispered. Though he’d never seen him this old, it was like his presence let his name leach through into Lincoln’s mind.
ShadowDancer cocked his head in apparent bewilderment, clearly intrigued. Lincoln felt like a bug with a giant standing over it, looking down, wondering whether to play with the little creature on the floor or just stamp on it and be done. ShadowDancer’s sneer morphed into a derisive grin, and Lincoln watched his hand swipe over the lens. The scene changing to a star-filled night sky, the face no longer there.
Silence.
Had that really just happened? Had Lincoln been dismissed as nothing—as a threat not even worth a word, a challenge? Yet… No… No! No! No! His mind raced. He fell to his knees holding his head. I can’t… It can’t be…
“It is better to know your enemy,” Belzarra said, her voice hushed.
But Lincoln was now gazing up, his mouth open, his mind reeling from his thoughts and then empty, stunned, just staring at the lens, openmouthed. “That’s just it,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard and turned to Belzarra. “That’s the problem.”
“What is?” Belzarra urged.
“I think I do.”
“Do what?”
“Know him—from before this place, this city.”
Lincoln made to stand but staggered back, desperately trying to remember where he’d seen that face before. It had to be here, here in this land. Maybe another vision—he must have had another vision—but he couldn’t remember where, perhaps the troll cave, or maybe under the mountain. His knees felt weak, like he was going to collapse.
Where the hell have I seen that boy before?
He was torn from his panicked thoughts by a sharp rap on the door. Whoever it was didn’t wait for an answer but bowled right in. He looked military, had the red-and-ochre flashes on his tunic and undershirt and a sheathed sword hanging at his side. He stopped dead in his tracks, made to say something, but clearly thought better of it.
“I… I…” was all Lincoln could manage to say. Looking at the standing stranger, wondering who the hell he was, trying desperately to clear his confused mind.
How do I know ShodowDancer?
Slowly, a small part of his world began to make sense again. The fog of seeing the boy, Zehnder, lifting. He pulled himself together, recognizing to color of the flashes on the man’s tunic, realizing the he needed to control what he actually understood.
“I take it you’re the commander of the draft,” Lincoln said, finally reining his roving mind back.
The man’s mouth gaped open. “Yes I am,” he said, but his words came out halfhearted, as his eyes roamed the room. “I’ve come to ask what the meaning… What in Lamerell’s name is this place?”
“What’s your name?” Lincoln asked.
“Bailey, and you sir, or you—any of you. Which one claims to be King of Irydia?”
“None of us,” Lincoln said, walking over to the man, now back in control, now focused. “But I claim to be Emperor of Mandrake. Will I do?”
The soldier briefly hesitated. “Mandrake? Is that not mere legend?”
“Is my throne mere legend, or the banner behind it? Is this city legend or real—or this portal?”
“This place is called Sanctuary, according to your apachalant master at arms. He says we’re still in Irydia, but how can that be? There is no such place. Will you kneel to King Muscat? I have seen no evidence of an army that can best my swords.” His words spilled with nervous bravado, and Lincoln knew them for what they were—desperation. The man was trying to seek a future for his charges—an honorable course and something Lincoln instantly knew he could work with.
He saw Bailey had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and inwardly commended the man’s spirit again. “No I will not,” Lincoln said. “I hear no good things about Muscat. The Lord Zybandian, maybe, but him…no.” Lincoln put his hand on his own sword. “The question is, will he bend the knee to me?”
Bailey partly drew his sword. “Treason!” he spat. His posture changed to menace, but his eyes told a different story, and his gaze darted from Lincoln to Belzarra, from Thadius to Crags. “Muscat will never bend the knee.”
“What about you?”
Shaking his head, he appeared to gather his thoughts, but then discarded them and chose the actions of a cornered rat. “Never! I serve Muscat.” Again, his words petered out. It was clear he had no idea how to act.
And who would? On parade one minute, in a strange, stone chamber the next.
“Do you know what this…witchery is?” Lincoln turned and swept his arm across the portal. When Bailey didn’t answer he merely said, “Of course you don’t. I didn’t a few minutes ago. It’s a portal, and at this moment it’s feeding from another. If it gets enough mana to power up properly and finds a mate in some godforsaken country, what do you think’s going to spill through?”
Bailey shook his head, slowly.
“Me neither,” Lincoln unsheathed his sword, allowing Bailey the time to do the same. Lincoln paced up and down just out of range of the swordsman. “The Lowlands? Tharameer? Variant? Valkyrie or Ruse? Or maybe Muscat will use his portal room, and all your fellow soldiers will burst through, rescue you, and have my head?”
Bailey set himself, ready for the oncoming fight. “I’m not sure he’s got one.”
“No? Well he can’t borrow mine!” Lincoln laughed, sheathed his sword, and opened his arms. “Kill me then; run me through. I’m immortal anyway, so I’ll just come back and pester you all over again.”
The soldier seemed unsure, but tense, too tense, like his choice could go either way. “Pester me?”
“To join me. Tell me, when Sutech Charm comes and you defend Brokenford, do you live or die?”
“Depends on the banners, if they come, we have a chance.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I die, but I die with honor.”
“You still die.” Lincoln walked straight up to Bailey, ignoring his still-drawn sword and said, “Have you drunk any of my ale?” He put his finger against Bailey’s blade and shifted it a few inches to one side.
“It was just being served.”
“You should and then I’ll let you all go. How could I deny Muscat such fine souls?” Lincoln leaned in, his lips by Bailey’s ear. “But first, you must taste my ale and meet my two favorite dwarves. One had crawfish—maybe he’ll cook them for us?” Lincoln winked and pulled the door open. “Morningstar!” he cried.
The fairy flew down the hallway. Had she been on a road, she would have skidded to a halt such was her speed. “My glorious master, how may I aid you?”
Lincoln arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. Morningstar was up to something.
“Can you fetch Ozmic and Grimble? Tell them to meet me at The Swift Half? No, no, I think not. Perhaps Pete could set up some trestle tables outside like we did last night. We will entertain our friends from Brokenford and then set them free—if they wish, of course.”
“Free?” Morningstar queried. “But they will know where we are?”
“Nonsense… You think?” Lincoln started walking back toward the banner room. “You think they’d tell Muscat?” Lincoln ran his fingers through his hair. “No matter if they do.”
“Won’t he march?” Morningstar asked.
&nbs
p; Bailey scoffed. Lincoln checked his stride but then carried on. “Muscat? March? I think not, but…” He leaned into Bailey. “I don’t know a lot about this land’s politics, but I hear he already hides behind his walls. How are they?” he asked the now clearly unnerved soldier.
“What?”
“His walls? When I was in Brokenford he was building them up, rather than marching south to face Sutech Charm’s threat.”
“They’re…” Bailey’s answer faded to naught.
“You don’t think he’ll come, do you? Unless it’s to hide behind my walls, of course.” Lincoln winked at Bailey. “My walls are bigger than his.” Lincoln sniggered. “He’d have to breach them. I’m not just going to open my gates because he’s king. Plus, I’ve got plenty of bows—they should stop a good portion of his army—especially the swords. Got a whole army of scouts coming too—the apachalants seem to like me. And cavalry—I have cavalry on its way from Kobane. Got a few dozen already. Light on pikes—I’ll admit to that. You can tell Muscat I’m light on pikes—insider tip for you.”
“Light on pikes,” Bailey repeated, appearing a little overwhelmed.
They stopped just outside the banner room. Lincoln noticed Belzarra lingering just behind, smirking. “I’ve got wizards and witches mind you. Belzarra from Tanglewood’s my head of magic, and I have my two heroes. What are their names?” Lincoln turned to Belzarra, appearing to dither.
“Cronis and Shylan,” Belazarra said, straining to keep her grin under control. “And Spillwhistle’s here with all her potions.”
“Shylan and The Crimson Mage?” Bailey muttered. “Spillwhistle…from Keep Street?”
Lincoln clicked his fingers. “That’s the one. So you best tell Muscat to bring his casters. Now, we’ve got a whole bunch of dwarves coming and the elves, so that’s good, but we are light on swords—well, melee in general really. Did Swift tell you we were looking to recruit a melee commander?”
“No, no he didn’t.”
“Oh…” Lincoln said, and pushed the door open. Inside, the drafted swordsmen were all drinking and eating. Morningstar had the main entrance open, and the first few were milling by its threshold, clearly uneasy about venturing outside. At the head of the room, right by the raised table, the shaman lay on an upturned crate, his arms crossed over his chest. Lincoln felt a sudden compulsion to pay his respects. “Bailey, could I ask you to take your men outside? I appear to have a funeral to arrange. The shaman used to be a graveling—it was some battle, you should have seen it. I feel I should find somewhere suitable to bury him. Why do you think his body’s still there? Shouldn’t he have faded away by now?”
Lincoln saw a shiver go up the swordsman’s spine. Instead of answering, he quickly started ushering his men outside. Constant glances back told Lincoln that he was more than a little unsettled by the corpse. Wandering over to it, Lincoln inspected the shaman’s body.
The man looked no more than mid-twenties. His scalp was devoid of hair, apart from a single crop on its top that was pulled into a ponytail which ran all the way down the side of his muscular body and to his groin. The rest of his scalp was covered in tattoos, symbols that Lincoln immediately recognized. They were the same as on the gold dais in the portal room.
His boots were lightweight, laced right up to his knees, where the hem of his tunic began. Leather flaps, rust brown in color, draped down from a low-slung belt that, in turn, were adorned with bones: lower jaws, wishbones, fingers, and what resembled ribs, all interspersed with bursting pouches that still held a pungent fragrance. His leather suspenders reached around his thumb and fingers to give the impression of long, fingerless gloves and nearly met the short sleeves of his heavily laced, leather shirt. All the leather skins making up his suspenders, shirt, his tunic and boots were studded with swirling lines of turquoise studs. Two more tattoos arced from his ears and around, curling up to his high cheekbones.
“I hate to break it to you,” Belzarra said, “but you seemed to be arranging his funeral a little prematurely.”
Lincoln furrowed his brow, tempted to look closer, but hesitant to do it. He got that sense too, like the shaman’s light hadn’t yet been extinguished. No, that wasn’t it. It had, but now it was growing again. Lincoln started fiddling with the obsidian ring that Glenwyth and Elleren had given him. He slipped it off, immediately feeling his health take a hit. Ignoring it, took the shaman’s hand.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Belzarra shrugged.
“Worth a go.”
He slipped it on the shaman’s finger.
Nothing happened.
“What now?” Lincoln hissed at Belzarra.
“How should I know? I've never woken a dead shaman before. Try poking him.”
“Have you got a stick? Your wand—gimmie your wand.”
Belzarra recoiled. “You are not using my wand to poke that corpse. Use your finger.”
Lincoln jabbed the shaman in his side, jumping back.
Nothing.
“Bucket of water?” he asked.
“Worth a try. You got a bucket?”
“Why would I have a bucket?”
“I don’t… Oh let me!” She barged past and rolled her coat sleeves up, and gave the shaman a sharp jab.
Nothing.
“Are you positive he’s not dead?” Lincoln asked, but he was still sensing a glimmer of life.
“Could be undead,” Belzarra pointed out.
“A zombie?” Lincoln shivered and took another step back.
“Ammarg ara blodvigen necro,” the corpse said, through clenched teeth.
Lincoln took another step back, but Belzarra pushed him forward, shoving until he was right over the prone shaman.
“What?”
The corpse’s hand shot out, its fingers grabbing Lincoln’s forehead before he had a chance to recoil.
Zenith has gifted you the talent Tongues of Time. You will now be able to understand all languages, dialects and read their written word. You will not be able to comprehend the drunk ramblings of a gnome from the very north of Shambletown though—no one can.
Zenith’s hand retreated, resting back at his side. “I said, ‘I’m not a bloody necro.’”
“Lincoln,” Lincoln said, hesitantly.
“I’m not a bloody necro, Lincoln, and just for your information, you can’t raise the dead with an elven ring.”
“Oh,” said Lincoln, wondering if he couldn’t summon the portal and get it to suck him up. “Thought I’d give it a try.”
“It helped.” Zenith opened his eyes. “But as I said, I’m not a necro—not dead. None of us are.”
“None of you?”
Zenith sat up, slowly. Lincoln swore he creaked a little, as if his hips needed oiling. Flipping his long ponytail behind him, Zenith looked Lincoln up and down and then Belzarra. “Well, what a beautiful sight to behold.” Belzarra blushed.
“You’re…” She fluffed her hair and pulled her collar up. “You’re alive?”
“Could someone fetch me an ale? I’ve been lying here hearing them all talk about it and having not had a drink in…a long time, I’ve quite the thirst.” Before Lincoln could move, Belzarra was already halfway down the hall.
“How come you’re not dead?” Lincoln asked, wondering whether he was speaking Shaman or not.
“That wasn’t part of Krakus’s foolish bet. We are all alive, merely trapped in stone bodies. The bet was simple, we had to live like they did—the demons we tied to a dungeon—like for like, except the demon encased our bodies in stone. Quite the nasty bastards, demons.”
Lincoln noticed the man’s gray eyes for the first time, a constant kaleidoscope of spiraling color. It felt like Zenith was scraping at his soul with them. The shaman had the unique ability to look both dangerous and mystical at the same time. Belzarra returned with the ales. Lincoln drained his while Zenith appeared to struggle to even get a sip down.
“Dry throat,” he explained, swinging his legs off his resting crate. “The fairy coul
d have found something a little more respectful than an old wooden box. Now, which one of you released me from my doom?” He stared straight at Belzarra. “You cleaved my head open with the idonelll bar, did you not?”
Belzarra balked at the accusation. “I merely finished what he started!” She pointed at Lincoln. “Though you did seem rather angry.”
“This is really good ale,” Zenith said, finally managing a gulp. “You’d be annoyed too, if one of your best friends gambled away your life for the mere promise of fame and fortune, if you’d been captured by goblins and held as their guard dog for an eternity, and if you’d been wrenched from that by a fairy, dragged through stone and rock, merely to arrive back in the almost exact spot you’d been standing when it all happened.”
“Definitely him,” Belzarra said, and shoved Lincoln farther forward.
“In that case...” Zenith bowed his head. “I’m in your debt, Lincoln…”
“Hart.”
“Lincoln Hart, and will dedicate my renewed life to your service.”
“Dammit!” Belzarra snapped.
Zenith looked up. “But that service comes at a cost. Now that we know how to release my brothers and sisters, will you vow to hunt each down and free them of their service?”
Zenith has offered you a quest, Free the Shaman. In return for his undying loyalty, he wishes you to release the shamen from their graveling bodies. Do you accept? Y/N
In for a penny… Lincoln thought.
“I do.”
“Meh!” said Belzarra. “I can live without that hassle.”
“Not another shaman?” shouted Cronis, as he lurched through the banner room’s open door, appearing a little worse for wear. “I thought you bunch as dead as a giant desert worm from the Sands of Borodor. Seems these adventurers can’t stop rousing you.”
“I’m not the first?” Zenith said, his voice hushed.
“Nope,” Cronis said, taking Zenith’s mug. “You’re empty. Come on, you’ve got some catching up to do.” Cronis pulled at Zenith’s hand. “Krakus was rescued first. He’s gone off in search of others, probably trying to right a wrong.”