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“We need to find supplies,” Hiram whispered as Albryan divested himself of the last silver manacle, using his stolen sword as a makeshift crowbar. The two of them were huddled beside a low stone wall in the poorest quarter of the city. A group of city guardsmen tramped by noisily, their sable uniforms drinking the yellow sunlight.
“We have to get out of the city first,” Albryan replied darkly, sliding the slightly bent blade into his belt. Perhaps he could find a blacksmith somewhere on the way to Qwu’Mallorn, to hammer it out again. It was not a bad sword, especially from the arsenal of a group of dungeon guards.
“You could sneak out on your own,” Hiram retorted. “You pass. Meanwhile, my clothes would give me away as soon as you could say ‘convict.’ ”
“I agree,” Albryan said absently, fingering the hilt of the sword as he peered left and right down the empty lane. “You are far too conspicuous.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Hiram hissed.
“It’s too easy,” Albryan whispered back.
“What?”
“It’s too easy,” he repeated, turning to face Hiram. “There’s hardly any response from Arran. All he’s done is to send these buffoons.” He gestured after the group of noisy guardsmen. “Where is Dannine? The rest of his children? Where are his flying quetzals, where is their magic?”
Hiram did not have an answer for this. Albryan turned back to scan the street.
“So what do we do?”
Albryan examined the layout of the neighbourhood. They had headed away from the palace in a straight line towards the western mining district, and now found themselves far away from the bustling centre of Armour City. This dusty borough was one of the least prosperous places Albryan had ever seen. Clotheslines flapped in the wind as the ubiquitous iron dust blew from the mines down a pockmarked road. Albryan could feel the grit settle in the corners of his eyes and in his beard, and already it coated the inside of his nose.
They were crouching in an abandoned cartmaker’s yard, a relic of past glory days. Albryan’s position behind the crumbling stone wall gave him a fairly good view of the street and the ramshackle wooden buildings which passed for residences on the block opposite. His main worry was for the inevitable observer, though the inhabitants of this kind of suburb likely had little love for local law enforcement or for their glittering silver king on his hill. Whether they hated Arran more than they feared him, however, that was a question Albryan could not venture an answer to.
“We have to keep moving,” he said at last. Careful to keep silent, he swung himself over the low wall, quickly crossed the street, and stepped through a ruined wooden fence into an overgrown yard abutting one of the ramshackle residential blocks. A dog barked somewhere, but it was too far away to concern him. He motioned to Hiram, who was right behind him, and they moved behind a line of laundered sheets which would shield them from sight of the building.
“Take what you need,” Albryan ordered.
“What? Steal from these people?”
“It’s that, or risk going back to your little jail cell.”
Hiram’s brow furrowed over his long hooked nose, but he did as Albryan ordered, stripping a man’s blouse and a pair of baggy trousers from the clothesline. The two fugitives once again took cover behind the wall stone. Their theft seemed to have gone unnoticed. The streets in this place seemed eerily quiet to Albryan, who was used to working with throngs of people surrounding him. Back home at barracks, he was never alone; though his rank entitled him to a private suite, there were always people coming and going through the rooms of a military officer.
I must get back to Thinas, he found himself thinking frantically. Arran is clearly well-informed and planning something. We have to work out a strategy. We have to find the one who betrayed us.
There was still an odd feeling in the back of his head, a sensation that Albryan did his level best to ignore. He still only had very fuzzy memories of being in Arran’s laboratory, and he could not be quite sure whether anything he remembered was real or not.
“Do you know of any place close to here where we could sneak unnoticed from the city?” he asked Hiram.
The old man crouched motionless without answering. There was a strange look on his face. Albryan nudged him. “Hiram?”
“I—” Hiram began. He passed a hand over his face, his slender fingers shaking. “I remember,” he whispered. His voice was hoarser than ever.
“What do you remember?” Albryan asked cautiously.
Hiram did not answer, but raised a hand and pointed beyond the line of slowly collapsing wooden buildings. “A dozen yards in that direction, there is a main road which leads out of the city,” he said, and his voice was steady. “Just beyond the road, there is a line of scrub trees which shield the bank of a stream that runs down to the plains. That stream will be dry at this time of year, for it only flows when the summer rains come.” He finally looked at Albryan, who had the strange feeling that Hiram was not truly seeing him, but something or someone who existed only in his memory.
“We will be safe, going that way,” Hiram murmured, “if the guards don’t get us.”
“If they do, take cover,” Albryan said grimly. His hands were free now, and his connection to the other plane was already replenishing him with quicksilver magic. “It won’t be pretty.”
Hiram did not acknowledge the remark. He was shivering beneath the thin garments he had just donned, even with his convict’s clothes tucked underneath. Though the sun shone brightly, the hard-packed dirt of Armour City still harboured the chill of winter. There was frost on the ground in the shadows. Albryan unclasped his long cloak and handed it to the old man. “Put this on.”
The cloak was made of wool from Morgein sheep, thick and soft, and Hiram took it with hesitation. “I would look... odd, wearing this,” he protested softly.
“I would rather not have you die on me,” Albryan returned. “I owe you a great favour, Hiram.” He gave the man a genuine smile. “I don’t need it, not for now, at any rate. How well do you remember the way to this stream?”
“I remember it very well,” Hiram replied hollowly.
“Then you lead the way.” Albryan got slowly to his feet, putting out a hand to help Hiram to his. No trace of the energy that Albryan’s magic had imparted to him remained. He was a weary, frail old man again, and Albryan hoped that he would last to make his escape from the city that had betrayed him.
“We must move fast,” Albryan said aloud, “but we must not run. Goddess knows that we will look suspicious. I do not want us to stop for anything. Is that understood?”
Hiram nodded, and Albryan stood aside to let him lead the way.
The two fugitives darted across the desolate township, cutting through windblown alleys and across dusty circles that could have passed for courtyards. They passed a group of wine-soaked men in a sunny corner, all of whom quickly averted their eyes, anticipating trouble. A few grubby children were playing in a street as they dashed past. They stopped to stare, but kept their distance.
At last they reached the main road, where Albryan paused for a moment, scanning for guards. But there was no-one around save workmen from the mines and their dusty ponies. They crossed the road without incident, and took cover under the scrubby trees that grew along the edge of the riverbank. Albryan glanced down. The dry streambed was shallow, not more than a foot or two above the surface. Water pooled here and there between worn river-pebbles. The ground was littered with rubbish that the residents of the area had tossed into the stream: rusty horseshoes, broken pots and bottles, the desiccated corpse of a dog.
Albryan and Hiram scrambled down into the streambed, taking care to avoid broken glass and nails. Albryan turned to the old man. “Where exactly will this lead us?”
“The stream leads due west,” Hiram said. He stared intently downstream, as if he could see beyond the crippled trees and grey boulders flanking the way. “There are no barriers, no wall on this side of the city. The stream will lead us downhill into farmland. From there, the nearest village is but two hours’ walk away.”
“It occurs to me,” Albryan said grimly, as they started walking, “that this is the perfect place for an ambush. Narrow, winding, an obvious way to sneak out of the city.” He put his hand on the hilt of the sword hanging at his belt.
Hiram did not reply. They must be planning some kind of ambush, Albryan thought to himself. Some kind of trick. His heart beat fast and loud in his chest, and a feeling of wrongness nagged at the back of his mind.
The way down the dry stream was long and wearying. Hunger started to needle Albryan, making him want to quicken his footsteps. But Hiram could not walk as fast, and it was clear that his years in prison had weakened him substantially. Albryan wondered how heavy the old man would be to carry.
At last, after a long horizontal stretch, they reached a narrow gulley which led sharply downwards. Albryan ascended the riverbank to scout the way ahead, leaving Hiram to rest below for a moment. Brushwood and thorn-bushes grew thick here, narrowing the way, and the standing pools of water had become more frequent. Albryan pulled two creepers apart and emerged on the hillside.
Armour City towered above him, a sprawling labyrinth of yellow sandstone and dull brickwork. The palace was still visible from here, though dwarfed by the hill that stood behind it. Brockton Hill, it was called; the first place where precious ore had been liberated from the earth, earning the city its name.
They had come even further than Albryan had hoped. There was fresh farmland air around him, and when he gazed west over the plains, all he could see were rolling fields of winter gold, the grasslands awaiting the season of planting.
He returned to Hiram, grinning, to find the old man standing at the edge of the gulley, staring off into space.
“We’ve made good progress,” he said cheerfully. He glanced at the sun passing overhead. “Perhaps we will even make a village before nightfall.”
Hiram did not reply, nor stir in the slightest. His aquiline features were expressionless, but there was something in his eyes which reminded Albryan of his own darkest moments, the times he had wanted to cease existing.
“Hiram?” Albryan looked in the direction he was gazing, but there was nothing ahead but golden field and blue sky. A chill crept down his spine. “Is something the matter?”
“This is where I was captured,” Hiram replied at last.
“Captured?”
“Nineteen years ago.” Hiram clenched his fist until the knuckles went white. “It was only me and my daughter. My wife and her husband—they stayed behind and fought. We fled; we made our way down here. I have not seen her since.” His voice cracked on the last syllable, but he kept talking. “They got me. She ran. I shouted at her to run. I don’t know if she made it.”
Oh. Albryan looked down the gulley. Hiram had nearly made it.
He fingered the hilt of his sword, glancing around. They had made it this far, but he could not trust Dannine Sylvaissen to give up the pursuit. Urgency was in him, wanting to move on.
“Hiram—”
“If she followed our plan,” Hiram said, “she would have fled north on the Asmyth road to Svanfeld. On a trade caravan, perhaps. She had some money.” He paused, and suddenly looked back at Albryan. “Surely she is there now.”
“I’m sure she is,” Albryan said gently. “Hiram, we have to go.”
The old man sighed and took the arm that Albryan proffered, leaning on him. The gulley was steep, and the protruding rocks were sharp. It was a difficult journey down, but at last they found themselves down amongst the farmlands, awash in the golden plains. No-one waited for them; they found no ambush.
––––––––
The sun was hanging low over the fields by the time they reached the main road. There were no settlements in sight, only isolated farmsteads, and Albryan was determined to press on until they were well out of the reach of the city. In the end, Hiram had proven a lot tougher than he looked; he was still on his feet, after nearly an hour of walking.
The two men walked in silence until the main road led into the trade road, which was dead quiet in the late afternoon. The emptiness of the land around gave Albryan an uncomfortable sense of suspense. It has all been too easy, he thought to himself, and fretted silently.
The road forked, north and west. They took the north turning, and rutted dirt soon turned to gravel. A milestone to the side signalled that they were in a region of some traffic, and a raised stone slab indicated that a settlement was nearby. There was no writing on the stone slab, just a rough pictorial of a group of houses. The workmen and farmers of Vailana had no use for letters. So unlike Qwu’Mallorn, where a thorough knowledge of letters and ciphers was viewed as indispensable for practicing magic.
Hiram stopped in the middle of the road. Albryan turned, half expecting to see the old man collapsed upon his feet. But Hiram was still standing, his attention arrested by a grassy mound off to the side of the road.
The metalliferous hills of Armour City were behind them, and the landscape here was flat and endless, plains grass alternating with cultivated fields being readied for planting crops. The mound did not look natural to Albryan’s eyes, and a wooden post had been hammered into the highest point, surrounded by three small, weathered rocks, similar to those that lay in the unworked fields.
Hiram silently made his way towards the mound. Albryan followed uncertainly.
“Someone was buried here,” the old man said, walking around and measuring the shape with his eyes.
Albryan cleared his throat softly. “These are—quite common,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They date back nineteen years, when so many fled the city and the surrounding countryside. Many tried to escape with traders in their caravans, only to be betrayed. Some were taken by slavers, promised freedom in exchange for all their worldly possessions, only to discover that they themselves were the saleable commodity.” He broke off in distaste.
Hiram took a deep breath, and Albryan immediately regretted telling him about the slavers. “The village is nearby,” he said, trying to distract the old man from the gravesite. “We should reach it soon.”
“Slavers,” Hiram repeated, staring at the lonely mound. “Unscrupulous traders. Hunters collecting bounty for catching refugees. The dangers of the road.” He clenched both his fists and closed his eyes. “The dangers of childbirth.”
“What?” Albryan asked softly.
“I waited nineteen years,” Hiram said. “Not hoping for revenge, but for reunion. And yet, I don’t know where to begin. Lathea,”—his voice broke on the name—“was about to become a mother; I was to be a grandfather. I was the last one left to protect her.” He turned towards Albryan, and there was beseeching in his eyes. “I only hoped that we might escape the violence. That her children might be born in a place free of it.”
“Children?” Albryan repeated softly.
“Twins,” Hiram whispered. “Risky to carry, even at the best of times.”
Albryan did not know what to say. But as he stood there, the only witness to Hiram’s grief, a hideous scream tore through the silence.
Both men crouched low beside the mound, raising their eyes up to the clear blue sky. The silence rushed back, more stifling than before, and they saw a faraway shadow soar across the sky towards the setting sun.
Flying lower than most birds, the creature hovered far above them, and Albryan felt his courage fail. The quetzal’s neck was stretched out in flight, making its form appear like a long black snake winding across the sky. Its great jaws were bared to the winds, its scream triumphal.
Albryan knew the game was up, knew that Dannine had come for them at last. Perhaps she had simply been playing a game, biding her time until they thought themselves free, out in the open. But there was no way they could escape her. As the quetzal widened its jaws to screech again, Albryan espied the metallic glint of her armour between the flapping of its great wings. It banked slightly, swerving in an undulating wave across the land, and now he could see the splash of bright golden hair beneath her helm.
Albryan crouched lower, gripping his stolen sword, ready to spend his last in a physical attack against the beast. Perhaps he could bring both quetzal and rider down with the right cut. There would be only one chance to strike true.
Abruptly the creature banked north again, and the world rushed in upon him as Albryan realized that they were not heading in his direction. The quetzal righted itself in a slow-motion roll and continued heading north by northwest, following the trade road which led to the Svanlyn mountains and Svanfeld beyond.
How is she so complacent about my escape? Albryan wondered, his head reeling. What was more important than a captured spy of high rank? What was in the Svanlyn mountains?
They’re not concerned with you, he answered himself, staggering with the realization, because they wanted you to escape.
His mouth went dry, but as he watched the flying lizard coast towards the mountains, he knew it must be true.
Albryan went quite still as memory came flooding back. Arran and his set of silver tools, delicate blades that had been forged for the most intimate of surgeries. Holding the wicked blade up to the light, moving towards Albryan even as he slipped out of consciousness. Pulling Albryan’s slumping head further forward to expose the back of his neck...
There were no wounds upon Albryan’s body. Nothing painful, anyway. Nothing he could feel. He moved a hand to the back of his neck, pushing his hair away, and there he felt the unmistakable line of a new scar, so fine as to hardly be felt, barely half the length of his little finger.
Albryan swallowed hard. Hiram was still staring off after the quetzal, and had noticed nothing.
Part of him was not himself, Albryan already knew. What did they do to me? He wanted to shriek out, to run away from it all. What was that little set of sharp blades for?
Instead, he closed his eyes, focused deeply, spread his hands in front of him and called forth his magic. And there it was. He went cold to discover it, and trembled when he thought of how close it had been for him. For all of us...
How Arran had accomplished it, Albryan did not know, but he could discern the result. The distinctive, dark consciousness of the blood sorcerer was there, when he looked for it. Like a hook planted securely in that part of his being where the magic was. When Arran Sylvaissen tugged on that hook, he would be able to control Albryan through his own magic. There would be nothing that Albryan could do about it, nothing that would drive the blood sorcerer out of him. For a moment, true despair threatened to take hold of him.
Arran must have known I would return home. Of course! Did he not plant that idea himself? Albryan fumed. Insinuating that there is a traitor within our ranks! He could have found me some other way! My name, my description? This was all set up to make me return immediately!
But surely I must bring knowledge of this to Thinas! His own voice echoed inside his head in frustration. And perhaps, if they know what is wrong, my own people can heal or restrain me...
No, that is a vain hope. For all you know, Arran already monitors your every move. Albryan shivered in the golden evening light. I cannot bring this taint home with me. He felt empty, abandoned, utterly alone. I cannot, must not, bring the taint of blood sorcery into the sacred forest.
“Hiram,” he finally said out loud. The old man turned to him, his eyes stricken.
“I thought I was going to be heading back—there...” he whispered.
“This is the road to Svanfeld,” Albryan stated baldly, swallowing down the despair. “Lathea might have made it. She might be there. She might be in the mountains.”
Hiram digested this for a moment, his face shadowed. Then he looked back towards Albryan.
“And what road will you take?” he asked softly. “Are you going back home?”
“I cannot return.” His voice did not break, for which he was grateful. Albryan took a deep breath. “Our escape was easy because Arran willed it,” he said bluntly. Hiram’s golden eyes widened, but he did not speak. “He wants me to return to Qwu’Mallorn, and so I will not.” He lifted his eyes to the setting sun, to where Dannine and her quetzal had vanished into the western horizon.
Thinas had never sent spies into the Svanlyn mountains. Svanfeld claimed neutrality in the conflict between Arran and Qwu’Mallorn, neither augmenting the blood sorcerer’s troops nor aiding the Morgei in any way. If Dannine was flying up into those mountains, she was not likely to be doing so with the Sven king’s knowledge or permission.
“Arran thought I would make straight for Tenna,” he said. “North by east along the River Granite, where there are places I could have swum out of the city in secret, and then up along the Tenna Vey. He did not expect me to come out west of the city, and he did not intend for us to see where his daughter is going.” He took the old man’s arm. “I will go with you to Svanfeld, Hiram. You need protection along the way, and I must uncover the mystery of what Dannine is doing in the Svanlyn mountains.”
A cold wind had begun to blow from the west, and Albryan shivered without his cloak. “We can rest awhile at the village,” he said. “Perhaps even earn some money. But we have to get to the mountains as fast as we can.” In the past, whenever he’d run low on coin whilst sojourning in Vailana, Albryan had managed to support himself as a true mercenary, doing any odd job that came along. Sometimes with his sword, sometimes with only his two hands. Despite technically being of noble birth, Albryan had never thought so highly of himself that he turned his nose up at yard-work or farm labour.
A cloud overhead moved in front of the sun, casting a deep shadow over the mound. Hiram’s eyes seemed almost black as he looked back at the three rocks supporting the solitary wooden post.
“May the Goddess be with us,” he intoned before turning and looking to the way ahead.
