by Eli Steele
“They are an adjustment from a good gelding, that is true, but they can travel unending without water. In the winter, they may survive as long as five moons without a drink. But by then, they cannot spit.”
Stone fountains corralled statues of strange creatures – one a warrior with an aurochs’ head and an axe raised high, another a roaring lion with a scorpion’s tail and large leathery wings stretched wide – that shot water out of their mouths. Children gawked and cast coppers into the clear depths. Rowan smirked; some things were the same no matter what side of the world one was on.
“Watch out!” shouted Byard, pulling them up against a stall as a whole herd of sheep rushed off a pier and onto the wharf, bleating as they went. Behind them, several carts stacked high with caged chickens squeaked and groaned as they rolled past on solid wooden wheels. All around, the thick mass of people pressed in and swelled out, like a single living creature writhing its way around the city.
“This place is chaos,” said Rowan.
“And the sun is low still,” replied the northman with a snort.
Despite the musk and sweat of the crowd, the stench of livestock, and the aromas of a hundred open-air kitchens commingled, the overall smell of Thim Dorul remained surprisingly pleasant. Pipe smoke – thick and aromatic – wafted about, hinting of wild tobacco and lusk and other grasses. And all along the sheer walls of the terraces that held the higher rungs of the city, creeping ivy and hanging vines bloomed pink and blue and yellow, tinging Rowan’s nostrils with the freshness of a vale of anemones or ramsons. And in its lazy cadence, the winds of the Calisal swirled through the shops and the crowds and the cookpots, refreshing the space with warm salt air again and again.
“This way,” Byard said, guiding them through the throngs to the far end of the wharf, where wide switchback stairs connected the sea-level promenade to the first terrace. Lacing his fingers in hers, Rowan and Kassina pointed and gawked as they snaked along the cobblestone street in a city that seemed to be in the throes of an endless carnivale.
“Look,” whispered Kassina, as they passed an old man in a turban, flute in hand, swaying and playing for a snake entranced, while a crowd of onlookers dropped coppers in a brass urn. A short ways ahead a monkey dressed in a cote-hardie danced to the lively sounds of a sintir and the claps of spectators, much like the long-tailed sala in Falasport.
“Say one thing about Thim Dorul,” Kassina mused aloud, “no two people look alike.”
“Save for those of us in these damned tunics head to toe,” Rowan added.
“There is wealth in diversity, when it comes to trade,” replied Byard. “This city lives and dies on its movement of goods. And they are harsh to those that would disrupt that. Pickpockets lose both hands forthwith, and greater thieves forfeit their life.
“I prefer an extended hearing,” quipped Rowan, “with ample time to scheme up an escape.”
“You would,” said Kassina.
At the foot of the stairs leading up, a merchant hawked exotic birds of all colors and sizes. “Did that one just mimic him?” the thief said incredulously.
“Come on, Ro,” said Kassina, starting her ascent. “That’s ridiculous.”
* * * * *
“…two-hundred and three, two-hundred and four, two-hundred and five,” said the thief, breaths rasping in his chest as he cleared the last step leading up to the first terrace.
“I need a moment,” she huffed, aiming for a nearby bench. Rowan plopped down beside her.
“Don’t move,” said Byard, turning towards a nearby street kitchen.
From their perch, they gazed out over most of the masts to the blue water and an unbroken horizon, save for several ships that sailed to and from the cove. While the sounds of the wharf were still present, they were dampened by distance. Instead of an endless raucous, they heard birds chirping nearby, and the faint rhythmic crack of drums, and somewhere far above, church bells ringing.
“I thought this place would be more threatening,” Rowan said after a time.
“Did you expect them to meet you at the docks with daggers?” she replied.
“I’m not sure what I thought.”
“Any idea what we’re supposed to do yet?”
He sighed. “None.” Lowering his head, he feigned an impassive disinterest, all the while staring at a man near the terrace’s precipice.
“You alright?”
“We’re being watched.”
“What?”
“Don’t look for it. Charcoal robe, hood pulled tight, to your right.”
“Is he a Sin?”
“Seems too old for the trade.”
“Then who could he be?”
Rowan sighed. “Maybe one of Frost’s.”
“Thatcher Frost?”
“Quiet,” he whispered.
“How would he know where we were? That’s impossible, Ro.”
“Sutton… betrayed us in Falasport, sent a bird to Ashmor. He confessed on our first night in Berea.”
“No… why?”
“The old mage can be intimidating, and who knows what sort of debt Howland owes him. I’ll never forget it, but I understand why it was done. I may’ve even done the same thing.”
“Let’s say the man in the gray is Thatcher’s, as unlikely as that may be. How does he know who we are? I don’t even recognize us in this outfit.”
Rowan chuckled. “Think about it, we’ve bought nothing, we brought nothing, and we’ve done nothing but wander about aimlessly. For all we know, Frost could have a hundred agents here, slowly searching out those that don’t quite fit in.”
The northman returned triumphantly with a basket and sat beside them. He handed out fresh-baked bread and roasted goat and spiced dates and dried bananas, as well as tankards of lukewarm beer. “Feast upon the fat of Thim Dorul.”
Hollowing out the loaf, the thief packed it with the still-sizzling meat, his mouth watering from the smell. After taking a bite, he exclaimed, “Byard, you are amazing.”
He laughed. “You are not the first to say those words.”
Upon turning up his beer, Rowan said, “I think we’re being watched.”
“Gray robe?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have watched him since we passed the fountains. It is doubtless he is trailing us.”
“What do we do?”
Popping a date in his mouth, the northman said, “A confrontation among the crowds would disrupt commerce, Just Rowan, and would see us run through with a guard’s blade. We do nothing but watch the watcher, for now. Now, finish your food, a plan taunts me.”
Past the row of smiths and the ring of steel on steel, and the barbers and bloodletters with their crude instruments and seats seldom empty. Beyond the manic hatters and the reeking dye shops and the apothecaries with their questionable tinctures and salves. Farther down the shelf than all the shops of craftsmen and artisans and makers, was the bazaar. “This may be as far down into the city that many of those that live above ever venture,” said Byard, stepping past a pair of brutish guards with poleaxes and into the long tunnel.
Cream canvas stretched over stone arches, like taut skin over rib bones. Sunlight faded to a pale glow within the crowded pass. There was no other way to the third terrace save for the bazaar.
Rugs from En Geti, art wrought from hooked fabric, hung on display. Beside the stall sat a merchant at a low table selling polished copperware from Kush. And on it went – ornate furniture from Beit El, diamonds from Dhulria, and lamps that cost half as much as the Dowager from Tal’Dorei. But up ahead was the cruelest of wares, slaves from every nation, caged and waiting for their new masters. Rowan’s chest tightened. With a sigh he looked away and saw the man in gray from the corner of his eye. “He’s here,” he whispered.
“The plan is formed,” said Byard. “I’ve seen you douse flames with only your eyes, but can you form them?”
Thinking back to the ball of flame he wrought in the lantern on the Cormorant, the thief
replied. “Indeed.”
“Set loose a blaze in this place.”
“Are you sure?”
The northman nodded.
Pausing, Rowan eyed the priceless lamps. Their reservoirs were empty, but beside them were glass jars filled with amber oil. The thief smirked. A spark was such a paltry thing. So as he stood there, he didn’t reach for the hilt of his sword, nor did he stretch out a hand or close his eyes or whisper some olde word. Instead, he just thought, Boom.
Out of nothing flashed a tiny, mean flicker, but it was tiny for only a moment.
Sharp shards of glass sliced through the air as, one after the other the jars exploded, sending fuel flying everywhere. Hot orange breaths rolled outwards, like a dragon’s yawn, grabbing on here to rugs and there to canvas, and over there to a highborn’s tunic. He brayed like the donkey, but the flames leapt up his back, chasing after him as he tore out of the tunnel.
“Run!” shouted Byard, lunging forward.
Grabbing Kassina by the hand, Rowan chased after the northman while the heat clawed at their backs. Looking over at the cages, he jerked his head up with a sudden motion, snapping loose the locks and slamming open the gates with a shudder. A stream of slaves poured out into the sunlight that beamed beyond the bazaar’s smoking maw.
“Shit!” shouted Byard.
“What?” said Rowan, breathless again as they bounded up the stairs to the third terrace, while black plumes billowed up behind them.
“I did not mean for you to start an inferno!”
“Perhaps next time we should establish that beforehand!”
“Five hundred years – Five hundred years, Just Rowan, and you burn this bastard down in one damned day?”
Just then, a team of watchmen tore by them, buckets in hand, sloshing water all over, sure to be empty by the time they reached the blaze. At the top of the steps, Byard made for a darkened alley that ran behind a row a large stone villas, flat-roofed and whitewashed. Looking at the thief, a smirk curled across his face. Between labored breaths, he rasped, “Everywhere you step, you are blood and iron and fire wrought real… and yet, in those moments, you remember the man bound. I do not know which I enjoy more, razing the wicked or righting the wronged, but perhaps we could do more of both before I decide.”
Kassina laughed. “You are a fool, Byard.”
“A fool, yes, but one that knows what he likes.”
* * * * *
On the fourth terrace, as the sun sank low and the balefire’s glow emerged anew, they sat on the edge of a fountain with a statue of rider reared high on his steed, spear held overhead and round shield slung low. Opulent manors adorned either side of the broad boulevards that formed the district. At the four corners of every intersection palm trees swayed in the breeze.
The chaos of the conflagration in the bazaar had long since faded. “One thing they know,” Rowan quipped, “is how to quench a fire.”
Byard chuckled. “Tis a shame, I’d hoped after considering it to be writ into history. Alas, not this day.”
After a long lull, and with a heavy sigh, the thief said, “I fear I have wasted all of our time.”
“And a good many lamps,” added the northman.
Rowan didn’t laugh. Instead he sat in silence.
“Then we leave. You have wealth enough for us to go wherever you desire. Buy your woman a ship and a tavern someplace on the north Calisal. I’ve heard Port Aris is a place worth living.”
“Perhaps that’s all that’s left. I just… I thought there’d be a way made for us here. I guess I was wrong.”
Standing, the northman said, “Perhaps to leave is the way. Let us go, it is a long walk back.”
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Kassina, bolting upright.
“What?”
“Look!” she shouted, patting her pockets and searching herself.
“What?”
Lifting a hand, Byard said, “She has gone mad, Just Rowan, but it is fine. They all do, and she has lasted longer than most. We will find her wine and she-“
“Shut up!” Kassina shouted, reaching down the front of her tunic with one hand and pointing with the other. “Ro, look at that gate!”
On the center of the wrought-iron entrance to a three-story manor was a family crest, one he was unfamiliar with. “Kass, I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.”
With a quick snatch, she broke the clasp aloose from her neck. Opening up the locket, she stretched it out until it swayed between her eyes and the gate.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
Chapter 66
Griffon Alexander
The Valengrove
There was no sleep to be had in the Valengrove, not anymore, so they trudged onward, exhausted, while dawn’s first light crested the low crags to the east. Slanted rays pierced the canopy, glowing in the darkened forest like the ghosts of spent torches.
“The trees grow thin,” said Kren. “Soon, the ground will climb again, and then we will be out of this damnable vale.”
Griffon nodded, pushing back a branch as he continued forward.
“It seems your man was right to fear the forest.”
“Ogres you called them, right? How can a thing so large exist and not be common knowledge?”
Redstorm chuckled. “Do crag cats exist?”
“Of course,” he huffed, stepping over a rotten log.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen their shit on the slopes.”
“But have you ever seen one, Eleksandr?”
Snorting, he replied, “…No.”
“And yet they abide; it is known. So does the ogre, in the deeps of this place — broader by far than your olde growth — and traveled lesser still.”
“It seems there’s much yet that’s a mystery to me.”
Eyeing him, the wildman said, “There is something that is not known to me either.”
“What?”
“How it is that you are living still.”
He snorted.
“I saw you fold around that tree. We should have buried you beside the nub’s man.”
“A trick of the eye.”
Kren stopped. “I know what I saw. And your eyes, looking past the slopes to the tar badgers? Only the hawk can see such things. And shadowing me along the stream bed? No man can match my strides. I have seen enough to know for certain the wyrm’s blood has changed you. You are a hero of old, now. They will sing songs of that which you will do, these are the things I believe.”
The young lord grew silent. Kren’s words were true, something was different, he could feel it. The blood that had saved him had made him something new. Perhaps Eldrick was right. Perhaps he was the First and the Last, the old words made real.
They continued on for a time, the trees thinning as they did, while the rocks beyond climbed tall in the sky and the forest floor sloped up. Somewhere overhead, a raven rasped his call.
Dhane and Volf followed along at a distance, aloof and silent. The spy studied the Meronians as he fell in beside Griffon and Kren. “I have seen mourning enough for a lifetime.”
“It is a season of death,” replied Redstorm. “None are spared.”
A lull fell over them. After a time, D’Eldar said, “The Raven Knight, what is your plan?”
“To end the bastard,” replied the young lord.
“That much I know, but what then?”
“Whitethroat, then Galaia. If any of ours escaped Ashmor, that’s where they would’ve went. From there, we find them and we leave.”
“Leave?”
“The mainland, Kal’Dea – anywhere in between – it matters not. There’s nothing left for me here.”
“What about them?” asked Eldrick, motioning to the Meronians.
Griffon shrugged. “That’s not a burden I must bear.”
“They’ve nothing, save for a liege that would consider them traitors, which means the lands of their houses are forfeit. All they have left is a strange land that loathes them.”
“Misplaced allegiances have ended many men,” replied the spy. “But a lord’s grace could forge loyalties anew.”
Alexander snorted.
“Hear me,” said Eldrick. “You said it yourself, the name Dhane is strong in Meronia. You cannot fight — Beyorn cannot fight — the Raven Knight, and the mages, and Bathild. But with him,” he said, motioning to Byron, “there’s a chance we could splinter the three.”
“And he and the other are warriors,” said Kren. “They have shown that.”
“Did neither of you hear my words? These are not my lands, for in my mind, I have already left.”
D’Eldar shook his head in silence.
“Say it,” said Griffon.
“You don’t want to hear my words.”
“Say it.”
The spy sighed. “…Lord Baron would never abandon this place, the land of his fathers.”
The words cut. In silence, the young lord considered Eldrick’s words and the choices that lay before him, while they moved through the forest. Finally, he said, “Is this what I do now, move people about a board like pawns?”
“Only if you mean to save these lands from the scourge in Ashmor,” replied D’Eldar, his words were sharp. “But this is your choice, and yours alone. It’s not one that any of us can make for you. If struggle is a lord’s forge, then wisdom is his hammer and allies are his ore. And through that, the sword that is made will slay you or save you. Or, leave this place, and with it your name, for there will be no tomb for you in the lychhall of Alexander.”
* * * * *
At the edge of the Valengrove, they made camp in the middle of the day so they could rest their eyes before their ascent. Before them rose the low, snow-swept crags of the coastal ridge that nestled Ashmor on its far side. With two always on watch, they rotated through their ranks until all had rested.
After they had done so, with two skins of wine and three hunks of stale bread, Griffon approached the Meronians, who sat removed from the others. “May I?” he asked, motioning beside them.