T
he Henchmen were the best trackers in the land. Picking up the trail of Melris, Solomon, Sticks, and the others didn’t take them long. Their prints showed well on the canyon floor. That led them inside the strange wormhole that was filled with natural light and warm and humid instead of cold.
Abraham and Horace led the way, but Cudgel and Tark scouted out front. The flooring inside the strange twenty-foot-high tunnel didn’t leave any prints, but it went one way.
“So, what was it like to have the old Ruger back?” Abraham asked.
“No disrespect, Captain. I’d follow you into the Sea of Troubles if need be, but it was a good thing to have him back, even if for only a short time.” Horace scratched his eyebrow. “I’m glad he still lives, however that be.”
“Yeah, he’s living, all right. Listen, there is a lot that we need to talk about, between us and when Ruger comes back.” It had become natural to talk about Ruger as if he was a different person who hosted the same body. “And I’m assuming he will. Things are coming to a head. The people in my world are invading Titanuus. We have to stop it.” He brought Horace up to speed on everything. Horace wasn’t slow by any measure, but he always felt more comfortable telling it to Sticks. “No matter what happens to me, you have to warn King Hector. The sooner we get back to Kingsland, the better.”
“You know I won’t let you down. We won’t let you down, you or Ruger.” Horace grinned. “It’s kind of exciting.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’d been cast aside so long that we’d become insignificant. Now, well, the fate of the very world might rest on our shoulders. We can take it.”
Vern caught up with them and said, “It all sounds like madness to me.”
Horace gave Vern a disappointed look and opened his mouth to speak.
“But”—Vern lifted a hand—“I’m in sword deep. Ruger was here. He filled me in. I have a better grasp of the situation. We’ve got to win this.” He put his hand on Abraham’s arm and said, “If you ever doubted my sword before, doubt it no more. It’s yours. For the king. For the Henchmen.”
“You can be my wingman anytime?” Abraham said.
“What does that mean?” Vern said. “I don’t have wings.”
“It’s a thing in my world. I’ll explain later.”
When they caught up with Cudgel, he was standing at a tunnel intersection that split off in at least twelve different sections. “I have no idea which one they took. There isn’t a sign or anything. We always leave a sign. There is not one.”
“Where’s Tark?” Abraham asked.
“He’s running along these ribs, looking for a sign.” Cudgel cradled his club in his hands. His eyes scanned the ceiling. “This is a strange place. I don’t like it. Watch this.” He pressed his hand into the crud caked up on the tunnel wall, leaving an impression. A few seconds later, the impression was gone. “See. You can scrape it with a knife too. I see bone underneath. I think we are inside a living thing.”
Tark came hustling back. His smoky eyes were wide, and he was holding a flat knife in his hand. “I found this. It belongs to Sticks. I’m sure of it.” He flipped it up and caught it. “You know she never loses a knife.”
“Show me,” Abraham said.
Tark led them to the fifth tunnel and stepped inside. The tunnels were half as wide as the one they’d been walking in. “It was stuck in the way.” He jabbed the knife in. “Like this.”
The tunnel gently quavered underneath their feet.
“I hope that’s a coincidence.” Abraham stuck his sword in the ground, and the tunnel didn’t shake. “Good. I’d hate to think I’ve been eaten again.” He looked ahead. “That way.”
“Captain, do you want to split up?” Horace suggested.
“No, splitting up the last time is what got us into this mess. You should have stayed with Melris.” He eyed the company of men. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“A punishment is coming, eh?” Horace asked.
“One thing is for sure—no soup for you.” He nodded at Tark. “Lead the way.”
The farther they traveled, the more the walls dripped with humidity. Sweat dripped from their chins and splashed on the ground. They walked for an hour on a straight path without the slightest bend in the tunnel. They heard no other sounds among their quiet footsteps.
“Captain.” Tark had stopped ahead in the tunnel and was holding another small knife in his hand. “Another one.”
“At least we are on the right path.” Abraham lifted his shoulders. “Keep rolling.”
“Sticks doesn’t leave her knives unless she’s in some kind of trouble,” Horace commented. “Methinks that something is wrong—very wrong.”
“I know, but how is this any different than any other day. Tark, pick up the pace. The sooner we find the trouble, the sooner we can put an end to it.” I hope.
The company moved on hour after hour, or so it seemed. Abraham couldn’t tell. He had much on his mind during the droning march. He had been asked to betray the king and promised that he could go back to his family. All this madness could come to an end, and he could make that happen.
He looked at his men. Their faces were hard, filled with deep cracks, scars, and lines. Their hands were hard with calluses and as thick as leather. The Henchmen were something, the ultimate teammates. They did what they were told to do without question.
But there was another question. Are we on the side of right or the side of wrong? After all, what kind of king would brand a man with a hot iron?
The zillon, Ottum, had gotten him thinking. Abraham gave all his men a careful study. Not one of them wouldn’t pass for a hardened criminal.
What if—just what if—the king fooled me?
