Stiff silence rang through the warehouse. No one moved. No one spoke.
Umbrey looked from Porter to Tom, both of whom stood frozen before the map. “All right, then. We have Keegan’s men breathing outside our door, we have an alternate route to The Beyond, and we have our infamous brothers finally reunited, ready to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of all mankind. So could you kindly tell me what in blazes are you two dunderheads are waiting for?!”
Porter started and stationed himself at one end of the map.
Tom took the opposite side. “Sacrifice themselves?” he muttered, but no one appeared to hear him.
The young thief chewed his lip. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will,” Porter said. “My father swore it would once the two of us were together.”
Tom frowned. There was a sharp edge to Porter’s tone, an underlying tension that was impossible to miss. My father. As though Tom were an interloper to some private, personal ritual. Clearly for Porter, the map wasn’t just a guide to some precious treasure. It was a physical testament to the years he’d spent with their father. Tom pictured Porter at their father’s side as he sketched the map, telling stories, sharing secrets, teaching the art of cartography.
Always Porter. The son he’d wanted. The son he’d kept.
The injustice of it welled up within him. He glared across the table at his brother and was stunned to see the same bitter resentment reflected back at him. But there was no time to consider it, no time to ask questions, no time to do anything but what (if Umbrey was to be believed) he was destined to do. Swept up in the current of events, he placed his fingers lightly against the edge of the map, watching as Porter did the same.
The parchment came alive. But the spark that had shocked him back in Professor Lost’s office was nothing like this. That had been a light, hand-tingling buzz. A mild thrill. This was an electric current jolting through his body, tapping some inner well deep within him and connecting him to Porter. For a brief, blinding moment they were as one.
The compass rose situated in the map’s lower left corner began to glow, bathing them in its warmth. The dial creaked to life then began to spin, whirling madly from north to south, east to west. Towering trees coated in thick strands of moss rose from the map; snakes and alligators slithered between them. Tom heard the frantic rhythm of tribal drums, accompanied by the furious howling of dogs. A sulfur stench permeated the room.
It couldn’t be real, he thought. There had to be a trick. Magic didn’t exist, so this couldn’t be happening.
Tom’s gaze shot across the map. His eyes met and held Porter’s. The simmering hostility he’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by the same shock and awe he felt within himself. Then he understood. Umbrey was wrong. So was he. It had never been a place he’d been looking for all those long nights at the Lost Academy. It hadn’t even been a person. It was this. The feel of ancient parchment coming alive beneath his touch, whether or not he believed it was possible.
Because like it or not, it was happening.
As they watched, two bright sparks shot from the parchment near the southern center of The Beyond. The sparks grew until they became a pair of soaring birds, one deep crimson, the other luminescent pearl. The birds wove circles around each other, diving low to disappear into a thick forest. Within the forest, a deep blue lake shimmered through a layer of gossamer mist. Water spouts began to lick across the surface as the water grew increasingly turbulent, like a pot that had been left to boil. A rumble of thunder sounded and a bolt of lightning struck the lake.
Blinding light lit up the room, followed by a blast of hot, searing wind. A magnificent primal roar shattered the air, a roar so deep and loud it shook Tom to his very bones. From within the lake’s raging depths rose a brilliantly colored orb. It hovered in mid-air, emitting a kaleidoscope of light. Then, in the blink of an eye, the orb transformed.
Tom found himself face-to-face with an enormous, hissing, monster. Glowing red slits for eyes, razor-sharp horns, and glittering black scales. The monster opened its slimy, fanged jaw and bellowed in rage.
Tom gave a shout of alarm and staggered backward, falling flat on his back on the floor. Absent his touch, the map flickered and dimmed, returning to its original state. The monster abruptly vanished, leaving the room utterly still.
“What the—”
“By God, it worked!” Umbrey shouted. He gave a bark of laughter. “It worked! Would you look at that. And Hyster lies to the south, no less! That settles it. We go through Rupert, then the Dismal Swamp.”
“A dragon?!” Tom choked out. “A dragon?! Hyster’s a dragon?”
Umbrey shrugged. “What’d you think she was?”
“What’d I think it was? I don’t know. Some lost princess we had to rescue.”
“Princess?! A little fairy princess in a frilly pink skirt?! Is that what you thought we were after?”
“Well, er, no.” Tom stammered, feeling foolish. “I guess not. But I didn’t think—”
“Now there’s your problem, lad. Lost claimed you had brains. Next time put ‘em to use.”
Tom felt his brows—or at least, the part of his brows that hadn’t been singed off—rocket skyward. “That’s my fault? Don’t you think you might have mentioned it? You know, ‘By the way, there’s a dragon in there, so watch your step.’ That Hyster tried to chew my face off.”
“But she didn’t, did she?” Porter drawled. He affected a look of total boredom. As though Tom was engaged in petty histrionics solely for the attention. Turning his back on him, he refocused on the map. “If we follow the route the thief suggested, it’ll land us in the center of Djembe territory.”
“I’m not a thief!” the boy protested.
“One battle at a time, lads,” Umbrey said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He rolled up the map, shoved it in his hollow limb, and strapped the wooden appendage to his thigh. He gave his peg leg a loving pat. “All set. As long as we have the map and the two of you—and now this bright lad—we’ll be just fine. Smooth sailing from here on in.”
A door slammed in the room below. The shouts of Umbrey’s men, coupled with the clamor of crashing swords, echoed up the stairs.
“Quickly, lads!” Umbrey shoved them toward the rear stairs. “This way!”
The Watch stormed into the room, blocking their exit.
As a group, they skidded to a stop and did a one-eighty. “That way!” Umbrey shouted, reversing direction. “The front stair!” They raced across the room to the stairwell on the opposite side. Suddenly Umbrey jerked to a stop and lurched forward, nearly bent over double. Tom whirled around to see him hobbling around in a wide circle, flapping his arms like great, useless wings.
Umbrey’s wooden leg was caught in a knothole in the floor. He jerked up and down, spinning in a queer half-circle, but no amount of tugging or swearing would free the limb.
“Umbrey!” Tom called.
“Go! Run, lad! Get out while you can!”
“Not without you!”
Porter skidded to a stop beside Tom and turned. “Or the map!”
The Watch poured into the room. Umbrey’s men raced in from the opposite side. They clashed in the center of the room like a breaking wave. As the battle raged around them, Tom and Porter raced to Umbrey’s side, each draping one of Umbrey’s arms over his shoulder to support the man between them. Umbrey tugged at his leg, but it seemed the harder he tugged, the more firmly the peg tip planted itself in the knothole.
A knife clattered to the floor. Tom lunged to the ground and scooped it up. He spun around and with a quick jerk, severed the leather straps that bound Umbrey’s wooden leg to his knee. Free from that constraint, Umbrey threw himself into the battle, swinging his sword, dodging and weaving on his one good leg.
“Get it, lad! Get the map!” Umbrey bellowed—to him, he presumed, as Porter had somehow managed to procure a sword of his own and was attacking The Watch with a barely controlled fury.
Before
he could reach it, however, the small thief dove between battling swordsmen. He threw himself at the leg, reached inside and jerked the map free. Clenching the rolled parchment in his fist, he tossed it to Tom, his small face lit up in a smile of victory. Tom caught the map and tucked it into his belt as one of Keegan’s men spun around, swinging his sword.
The boy scrambled right, missing the blade by mere inches.
Fury at the sheer brutality of the blow—a blow meant to kill the child—shot through Tom. He surged forward, shoving the boy behind him.
“Tom!” He heard Porter call his name and turned in time to see his brother, now fighting with a sword in each hand, toss one blade to him.
Somehow Tom managed to catch the weapon. He gripped the shaft with both hands and brought up the sword, trying his best to pretend two things simultaneously: first, he wasn’t afraid, and second, he’d handled swords all his life. Apparently the act wasn’t as convincing as he hoped. The guard brought his sword around, slamming it against Tom’s blade with a sharp clang! that sent a tremor through Tom’s body. The sword went flying from his hands.
The guardsman kept swinging. Tom ducked and twisted, retreating, his eyes darting around the room for another weapon. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement as the boy scrambled away, shimmied up a rope and out of the battle. Good. At least he had the sense to flee while he could.
Tom kept retreating until he felt a wall jut up behind him. He stumbled against it, pinned. The guardsman smiled a thin, evil smile. He lifted his sword, tucking the tip of the blade beneath Tom’s chin.
Tom sucked in his breath, bracing himself for the impact of cold steel. But before the guardsman could drive his blade through Tom’s throat, an enormous iron pulley dropped from above, landing squarely on top of the man’s head. His eyes rolled loose in his head. He swayed. His sword clattered to the ground as he staggered forward, hitting the floor with a low moan.
Tom’s gaze shot upward.
The boy flashed him a grin from an overhead beam, the rope he’d untied and set loose dangling in one hand.
Tom grinned his thanks as Umbrey crashed into the wall beside him, his hands wrapped around his opponent’s throat. “The map, lad! Do you have it?”
Tom ducked a punch and twisted toward Umbrey. “Yes.”
“Then go! Get out now, while it’s easy!”
While it’s easy? This was easy? Both stairwells were blocked. The entire room was a scene of brutal chaos, of swords and knives and hand-to-hand battles. No way to escape.
“There!” the boy cried from his perch on the beam. “The rats!”
Tom’s gaze shot across the room. The rats that had earlier been swarming the sack of grain now scurried single-file across the room, disappearing down a hole in the floor. A hole barely large enough for Tom and Porter to squeeze through, impossible for Keegan’s men to follow.
The boy swung down the rope, grabbed Tom’s sleeve and tugged him along. Porter stepped in beside them and gave Tom a push from behind. “Go!”
Tom planted his feet, his gaze finding Umbrey in the middle of the melee. “What about you?”
“Me? Forget about me!” Umbrey hobbled up and down on one leg. His wooden appendage, splintered and shattered during the fight, lay in pieces on the floor. “I’ll only slow you down!”
“We can’t leave you to fight alone!”
“Fight? You think this is a fight?” Umbrey gave a shout of laughter. “Why, this is child’s play, lad! Wait’ll you see what Keegan has in store for you once you find Hyster!” He thrust his blade at a guardsman, slicing him across the shoulder, then elbowed him in the belly, doubling the man over. He looked at Tom. “Remember Mortimer’s journal—”
The rest of Umbrey’s words were swallowed up by the din of the battle.
“What?!” Tom shouted. “What about the journal?”
“I said—”
The young thief dove into the hole. Porter followed. A guardsman swung his blade, narrowly missing Tom’s ear. Whatever wisdom Umbrey meant to impart was lost as Tom sprang forward, pitching himself headfirst down the rat hole.
Chapter Eight
SLEEPING WITH GOATS
Rats slithered across his face, crawled over his hair. Slimy tails slid up his nose and between lips, as sharp claws dug into his ears and arms. Tom fought them off in a blind panic, twisting within the confines of the narrow metal tube—a grain chute of some sort, he guessed.
Abruptly, the chute ended. Tom went into a free-fall, tumbling through the air. He landed with a sickening splat, flat on his back in a steaming pile of trash. Spoiled cabbage, moldy potatoes, soured ale, rotting fish and stringy pork innards. And rats. Even more than there’d been in the storeroom, hissing and clawing at one another to get at the putrid feast.
Tom staggered to his feet, gagging. Porter rose beside him, slipping and sliding through the rancid pile of slop. He shoved Tom toward a large wooden bin. The boy thief was already there. They crouched down beside him, tucking themselves against the bin as a set of rough-looking men raced past them, storming into the warehouse where the battle still raged.
“Good,” Porter grunted. “Let’s go.”
Tom paused.
“Umbrey can take care of himself,” Porter said, correctly reading his hesitation. “Those were his men, come to help.”
Though that was exactly what he’d been thinking, Tom frowned at the unwelcome intrusion into his thoughts, the sort of mental shorthand twins were supposed to routinely use. Not that he knew much about it, given that he hadn’t even known he was a twin until thirty minutes ago.
In any event, the question of whether or not they were abandoning Umbrey was answered as the sound of shattering glass exploded above them. A body—one of Keegan’s Watch—soared through the air, landing with a heavy thud on the dirt packed street. The first victim was soon followed by a second. Looked like Umbrey was going to be just fine.
“Follow me,” the boy whispered.
They zigzagged through the narrow streets, keeping close to buildings to avoid being seen. After several minutes running, they ducked behind a mass of empty crates to watch an old man herding goats into a cart. “Old Raynard,” the boy said. “His route carries him through my village at daybreak.”
Porter studied the man. “You think he’ll help us?”
“Could be.” The boy shrugged. “He likes his coin. Give him a few bits and he’ll take us to Willa. A few more and there might be a meal in it as well.”
Porter lifted a small pouch from his belt, removed a few coins and passed them to the boy.
He took Porter’s money, darted across the street to the old man and struck a deal. That accomplished, he sprinted back and ducked behind the crates, lodging himself between Porter and Tom. “He says we can board soon as he settles his goats.”
Porter gave a tight nod and sunk into a crouched position, breathing hard. Tom, his heart hammering against his ribs, did the same. He’d barely drawn a lungful of air when the sound of raised voices drifted their way. He tensed, watching from behind the crates as a large group entered the square. Keegan’s Watch. Tom counted a dozen of them, their black boots pounding the pavement, black capes swirling, ruby-red eye clasps glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Between the fore and aft guards walked a man and woman, barefoot and dressed in rags, accompanied by four similarly dressed children. The eldest, a copper-haired boy, looked to be the same age as Tom and Porter. The boy lifted his chin in a bold gesture of defiance, which might have been effective, had the terror in his eyes not been so apparent. His sisters openly wept beside him, the youngest child shaking in her mother’s arms.
Trailing them was a group of perhaps thirty townspeople. Despair hung above them like a cloud. At length the group reached a bleak square centered with a crude wooden scaffold, held aloft by four stone pillars. The Watch withdrew their swords and prodded the helpless family up the platform steps. The structure rattled precariously beneath their combined weight.
Tom’s blood ran cold. “What is this?” he hissed. He turned to Porter, only to find his brother’s face had gone deathly white. “What?” he demanded. “What’s happening? Who are they?”
“It can’t be. It’s too soon.”
“What’s too soon? What’s going on?”
Porter released a shaky breath. “That’s the man who provided our Letters of Passage. They’ve already traced the forgeries back to him.”
“The townspeople will help them,” the boy whispered, his voice rough with desperation.
“No, they won’t,” Porter said. “They can’t. If they do, their families will be next.” He drew a shaking hand through his hair. “They might hate it, but they’ll let it happen. They have no choice.”
“Let what happen?” Tom choked out, barely speaking past the tight knot of fear lodged in his throat.
“They’ll make an example of them,” Porter said, his pale eyes flashing fury. “Like they do with anyone who tries to resist Keegan. They’ll execute the parents now, and perhaps Carter as well. Or maybe they’ll send Carter to work the mines of Incendia, get a few years hard labor out of him before he dies. His sisters will probably be sold to a slave shipper in Aquat.”
The horror of what Porter was saying struck Tom like a physical blow. Letters of Passage—the documents Porter had forfeited in order to rescue him. They’d been recovered and traced back to this man and his family. The family had risked their lives to help them, and now they were to die because of it. Because of his foolishness, his recklessness. Tossing tomatoes at the butcher. Professor Lost had always warned him that his impulsiveness would one day lead to disaster, and now he was proven correct.
Then something else struck him. “Carter,” he repeated. “You know him.”
Porter gave a tight nod. A muscle ticked near the base of his jaw. “Carter, the printer’s son. My friend. We grew up together. Our parents knew each other well. They knew what was at stake. That’s why they agreed to provide the forgeries.”
“But how—”
Beside them, the boy shifted. “Old Raynard just gave the signal. He’s leaving.”
Racing With Dragons: The Mapmaker's Sons, Book 1 Page 7