by Eli Steele
“There are the caves.”
“Caves?” asked Kren. Sand perked his ears.
“Ashmor was built on a vast system of caverns,” replied the spy. “They wind into the mountains and out to the sea and puncture the city’s sewers at more than a few junctures. It’s said that the First Eleksandr pushed the stoneborn off the Colored Coast and into the tunnels’ deepest reaches, before sealing them in and ending their reign.”
“Do you know your way through these caves?” Redstorm asked.
“No.”
The titan snorted. “That is no plan, Wyrmblood. There is no surer way to lose ourselves in the belly of a mountain than by venturing blindly into its throat. We will scale the walls; I have done this before, do you not remember?” Kren took the skin from Eldrick and drew a mouthful of wine. Swooshing it in his mouth, he studied them before swallowing it and adding, “But Bo and Jarin do not like our course, for they fear the wood.”
Griffin rolled his eyes.
“Why?” asked D’Eldar.
The titan smirked. “They say it is bedeviled.”
“Every lowborn local says the same thing about every forest in every land,” replied the young lord. “Hell, half the armsmen in the keep said the same about the Braewood and I’ve spent the better part of my life in its deepest groves and never once saw so much a wight’s shadow.”
“Just because you haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it’s not so,” said Eldrick.
“Don’t tell me you of all people believe them?”
“I’ve seen far more in these last days than I ever thought real. Just say I doubt them less than I would’ve only a season ago. And you of all people — a man who just felled a demon aflame and survived only by the blood of a blue wyrm — should be more wary of that which we don’t understand.”
“Wyrmblood’s words are wise,” said Kren. “Though I myself do not fear some lowland wood sprite. It is known that a true devil would only live in the high crags or the caverns deep. We are safe here,” he said with a chuckle, “of that I am sure.”
“Over there!” shouted Byron, rushing into the shadows with his hands bound, his companions close behind. “Riders, to the south. I count twenty, maybe more.”
“Shit,” said Griffon, dropping low and crawling to the edge of the stand.
Peering down the slope blanketed with hoargrass and dogstail and fescue, Eldrick and Griffon studied them. A horde of grim riders – garbed in cloaks and leathers sable and grief gray and murky umber – were spread wide across the expanse. They rode bannerless and bore shields with no sigil, like men damned.
“They’re searching for someone,” D’Eldar said, looking over his shoulder at the three prisoners. “In time, they’ll work their way here and find us. We haven’t long.”
“We’ll never make it to the Valengrove without being spotted.”
“And they’re far too many to fight.”
“Let us fall back into the shadows of the slopes,” said Kren, edging up behind them. “There we can melt into the mountain and climb out of their reach. And if it is willed, we may yet find a cleft or a cave to draw back into like a pride of crag cats. There we will wait them out. And under night’s mantle, we will make for the wood.”
“What about the horses?” asked Griffon.
“We’ve no choice,” said the spy, “but to tie them up and leave them here. Unfortunately, that will surely see them discovered and put the riders to scouring this place for us.”
“Let them search, Wyrmblood. Trust the mountain, it will not forsake us. We will not be found on this night.”
Easing back from the group, Griffon looked at Byron and said, “It seems someone would have you found. Do they have a name?”
“It matters not.”
“It matters to me.”
Dhane eyed him unblinkingly, but said nothing.
With a sigh, Alexander relented. “These riders, are they your Bluchnoire?”
“They are, though not all. You would do well to unbind our hands and let us fight.”
The young lord’s eyes narrowed. “I have not forgotten our encounter on the field beyond Hell’s Gate, nor will I ever forget your dumping the head of Barda Torp at the base of my wall from a flour sack. If you think I need your help, much less give one damn if you live or die, then you are a fool and a craven deserter. You would do well to do exactly as I say, lest I finish what I started on that day. Now, move your ass before I change my mind and leave you here for the Raven Knight’s Black Bastards.”
Chapter 62
Rowan Vos
The Dowager
City of Thim Dorul
Rowan awoke shivering on the bow an hour before dawn’s first light. His back was sore from the hard deck and chill air had hoarsed his throat. Sliding his arm out from under Kassina, he disappeared below deck.
The door to his room in the hold was just as he’d left it. Lighting a nearby lantern hung from a rusty nail, he fumbled in his pockets until he found his key and unlocked the door, before grabbing the light and stepping in.
Setting the lamp on the table, he pulled the wool blanket off the hammock and turned to leave, but froze instead. Beside the lantern, in a tight coil, was his sword belt.
With a slow motion, he slid loose his dagger, sucked in a deep breath and faded into the shadows. Padding to a far corner, he studied the room but found everything as he’d left it.
What in the nine...
Stepping out of the gloom, he slid the belt slowly off the table and fastened it around his waist, letting out a shiver from the shadows as he did. Throwing the blanket over his shoulder, he grabbed a couple skins of new wine and headed above deck.
“I thought you’d left me,” she said.
Sitting down beside her, he draped the scratchy wool across their laps and handed her a skin as he looked first at the taut anchor chain. Only then did he gaze upon the phantom glow of Thim Dorul. For a long, shared silence they stared through the cimmerian gloom at the wonderment beyond. “Have you ever-”
“Never,” he said.
A legion of unblinking blue-green lights basked waxy in the black, like turquoise stars, shaping a city that was still masked by a moonless mantle, while their crinkled reflections cast wide across the cove below. Rowan reasoned the ethereal embers rose half again as high as the spire on Rorke Minster, like a bluff set ablaze by the flames that danced and licked Unforged’s blade in a fit of rage, or the warwitch’s birch battle staff. He suddenly felt small, immaterial in a vast world whose metes and bounds he knew not, and all the knowledge and mystery and magery contained therein that he may never even bear witness to, much less fathom.
“I remember my first time seeing it,” said a familiar voice somewhere from behind. Several moments later Sia passed beside them, before settling against the rail. “Words fall short. You must cast your eyes upon it to grasp the beauty that cannot be explained and just is. Sutton was right to hold us back, for a night in the City of Secrets can be a perilous place. Still, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps this was a gift to you from he – to see it first from the water. So take it in, in these last moments before twilight despoils it.”
“It’s a wondrous thing,” said Kassina.
“Spiritual,” said Sia, “I have thought on it for many nights and that’s the word I suppose I would use to describe it. Spiritual.”
“What is it?” asked Rowan.
“It has many names — wraith-shade, balefire, moonflare, they are but a few.”
“But what is it?”
Sia chuckled. “That is one of the city’s many secrets. Its base component is luminescens, saltlike crystals that can be found in the cliff caves here, as well as many other places.”
“The caves here glow green?”
“Not nearly this bright, so I expect they combine the crystals with alchemical reagents to create what you see.”
“Seems like a lot of work,” said Kassina. “Making it and keeping it secret. Why not use torches and lant
erns like the rest of the world?”
“Indeed,” said Sia, “and five-hundred years ago, give or take, Thim was torchlit like everywhere else, but one fire changed that. For six days it raged, and consumed over half of the city. The winds of the Calisal carried the blaze far and fast, and the nature and shape of Thim made tamping it out a challenge too great.
It’s said that many of the city’s oldest structures were destroyed, including the original Temple of Lyra, St. Bastian’s Basilica, and the Athenaeum — the endless archives that are said to have contained a copy of every word ever written.”
“And for a hundred years they rebuilt the city,” said Byard as he climbed the stairs leading up to the bow. “And a hundred more they searched for a light that glowed without burning, until they came upon the balefire.”
“You know the story?” said Sia, surprised.
“Most who have seen this place do.”
“I see everyone is up,” interrupted Sutton, alight by the glow of the lantern held at his side. “Is there anything more beautiful set beneath the moon in the whole world?”
“I can think of one,” whispered Rowan to Kassina.
Looking over, the captain said, “So, the great tension that has hung over the Calisal like a summer squall is finally undone, like a bolt from a ballista?”
“What?”
Sia snickered as she turned away. Byard grinned. Kassina blushed red. “You fool no one, Vos. I for one am relieved... and a bit richer, too, though I was running out of time. I’d wagered it would happen before we reached Thim Dorul.”
“Wager?” said Rowan. “With who?”
Howland held out his palm, first to Byard and then to Sia, who each begrudgingly handed over two silvers each.
“I feel mildly betrayed,” quipped Kassina.
The three chuckled.
A lull slunk over them, awkward at first from the exchange, though it quickly fell away as morning’s faint white halo materialized out of the gloom, drawing the silhouette of the city high in the sky — dull at first, but sharper by the moment. As it grew larger, an orange glow crowned the alabaster aurora, followed by a chasing away of the bitter black sky by a wash of blue as deep as the waters where the devils lurk. At the center of the broken horizon line of steeples and towers and spires erupted a blaze the color of fresh-spilled blood on a field of poppies. Out of it rose a ball of fire the color of a forge’s maw, pushing back the last vestiges of the night, revealing a city more marvelous than even the wraith-shade that lustered just moments before.
A sheltered cove held an armada of ships of all shapes and sizes, both familiar and exotic. In its center was a bronze statue twice as tall as the Dowager from stern to bow, with legs parted wide enough to ride a horse between. A sword hung loose by his side in one hand. In his other was a torch raised high, though Rowan reasoned from the story that it hadn’t burned in at least five-hundred years. On his right leg, he wore a deep gash, likely the result of a scrape with a caravel that had come too close.
Beyond the water’s edge was a wharf shaped like a crescent moon, with shops and warehouses and market space, guarded on three sides by sheer stone walls that stepped up at least twenty armspans before cutting into the cliff like a terrace. On the arced ledge lay the next tier of the city, modest flat-roofed homes and workshops. Again the stone scarp soared straight up on three sides, its only precipice facing the sea. Thrice again the terraces cut into the cape, like a concave staircase set in shale for the Creator to step out of the sea and, dripping of sapphires and clothed by the clouds, ascend east to be brushed by dawn’s first light. Its pinnacle was set aside for only the grandest jewels — pillared temples and buttressed basilicas, tower-like villas with bronze-green spires, the gold-domed Plenarium, and an amphitheater that crowded up against and overlooked the precipice. Ensconcing the apex was a sandstone wall in the shape of a half-circle and taller than any Rowan had seen before, jutting out at least six strides past the face of promontory on either side of the city’s edge.
“It’s amazing,” said Kassina.
“A wonder of the world,” remarked Sutton. “But never forget, she is just as deadly as she is wondrous. I for one will not be stepping foot beyond her docks.”
“How in the nine will we ever find the Sins in a place as big as this?” Rowan asked no one in particular.
“I expect it will be they that find you,” replied Howland.
“They should be wary,” said Byard. “My steel has not yet drank of a man’s blood, and it is sorely thirsty.”
“Well,” said the thief, standing, “we should be going. Take us to port.”
* * * * *
As the Dowager breasted along a broad pier with dark-stained planks sanded smooth, two sailors slid the gangway out from the ship. Stepping forward, the captain clapped a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Don’t let this place be your end.”
Nodding, he replied, “Look for our return.”
“Every day.”
“Wait!” said Sia, emerging from the hold in a linen tunic and overcoat, cream under almond brown, hood pulled tight over her head and shemagh wrapped around her face. In her arms was the same stack of garments she’d bought in Berea. “The Sin surely will know your faces, so it’s best if you blend in with the lowborn.” Looking to Byard, she added. “And leave that behemoth blade on your back with Howland. It can’t be concealed and will draw too much attention. Take your longsword instead.”
The northman narrowed his eyes, but did not protest. Instead, he handed it off to the captain and received the linens.
A short time later, they emerged from the hold in their disguises. “Now,” said D’Eldar, “you look like Dorulians. You may yet stand a chance.”
“Thank you, Sia,” said the thief.
“Think nothing of it. Now, I must be off. I shall be gone for at least three days, but no more than a septimane. If I haven’t returned by then, do not wait for me. And if I should not see you again, then...”
“Oh, Sia,” said Kassina, stepping forward and embracing her. “Please, be careful.”
Nodding, D’Eldar forced a smile, before turning and leaving.
As he watched her go, Rowan said, “We should do the same.” Giving the Dowager one last look, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of Unforged and stepped onto the dock of Thim Dorul, the City of Secrets.
Chapter 63
Luther Brayden
City of Galaia
Kingdom of Beyorn
Waist-high plants, brown and prickly and barren, stretched from the edge of the road to the duneless, flat beach. Dirty-gray tufts still wisped on the wind, clinging fibrously to stems, while fist-sized heaps lay on the ground or pressed out of their bolls like flowers of the clouds. Frost cotton was coarser and darker than the more common and valued southern varieties, but it was also hardier and willing to grow as far north as Galaia – in fact, it was as if it was tailored especially for the peninsula. And what it lacked in quality, it made up for in proximity to the north, and had helped enrich everyone involved, from the farmers and harvesters, to the tailors and merchants and sailors, to House Ross.
Altair plodded along, past the occasional farmhouse on the last stretch between the city and them, while the early morning sun started its arc across the graying sky. Luther took in the salty air and listened to the ever-present gulls, while chasing bites of bread with the last of his wilterberry wine.
Faint gray walls of wetrock —made by mixing sand and sea shells and volcanic ash from the islands just off the coast – climbed high from a low hill. Behind it, spires and steeples and towers peeked over the merlons, constructed from the same mixture as the wall that loomed before him. Atop the gatehouse, the banner of Ross flapped in the wind. “The Summer City,” he said. “It seems altogether different than the rest of Beyorn — the rest of the Four Kingdoms for that matter. I’ve missed it, what about you?”
Altair nickered.
Guards milled about overhead, but paid him little mind. At the por
tcullis, the stallion planted his front hooves and stopped abruptly in the middle of the road.
“What is it?”
The horse snorted and lowered his head.
“You’re not-“ Luther chuckled. “The stables. Well, I don’t suppose I blame you.” Stepping down from the stirrup, he grabbed his pack and garth pole and left the sheathed shortsword on the saddle. “Don’t go far, and don’t drink the seawater.”
Altair reared back his head before turning and making his way towards a solitary salt oak in a frost cotton field. Nodding at the guards, the priest stepped through the gatehouse passage and into the city.
It was smaller than Ashmor by half, but made up for it in wealth. Most homes were made of wetrock with flat roofs and balconies with climbing ivy and hanging ferns. A few had cedar shingles, and fewer still terra cotta imported from the Calisal. If cleanliness were godliness, he mused, then there were plenty of parishioners for him here.
Looking up, he sucked in a deep breath of Galaian air and smiled. The docks and tanneries and slaughterhouses and dye shops were all downwind; someone with some forethought had districted this place. Brayden turned down an alley fragranted by baskets of wild hyacinth hanging from the verandas overhead.
Galaia was quiet and empty, far more than he’d recalled, though that had been in the throes of a summer where the ladies had waded out into the surf in long linen dresses that clung to them like new skin. The city was certainly more vibrant and mirthful in the warmer months. Still, something was amiss.
Brayden chased the alley around winding curves and through the squat hills that rose and fell through the city — never more than three or four steps at a time — while the hint of fresh-baked bread pushed back against the familiar smell of wet sand and salt air, watering his mouth.
The garth pole’s clatter echoed off the cobblestone and then the walls, sounding more significant than it was, though, in the hands of a mage — even a lowly learned one such as he — it was deadlier than common-forged steel. While willow worked well enough as a conduit, there were far better choices such as braewood or drake maple or swamp oak, but he was not in a position to be choosy, and it had ended the threat of the corsairs just fine. In fact, he had grown a bit partial to the throwaway staff. Beyond the clack of the pole, the clamoring of a crowd increased with his every step. His interest piqued, Luther peeled off his course to find the source of the discontent.