She could’ve left a clean flask. Gus sat by the rocky spring, sipping from cupped hands. Treacherous witch! Why did she wait until now?
A chilly breeze soothed his skin while the cool spring water worked wonders in his cramping innards. Gus gulped a handful of water, then gagged. He vomited into the stream. A line of yellow bile floated away with the spring’s current. Gus washed his mouth out and then drank another handful. Where did she go? To Eirgo? Skiggi and Dori are with Deacon’s crew and awaiting repairs. Was this their plan? His anger riled a nauseous spell, and he nearly puked again. No. Gus ground his teeth. I was one of them, wasn’t I?
He smashed his fist against a leaf-strewn stone. Damn her! Rose isn’t going back to Eirgo. She won’t face Skiggi and Dori after this betrayal! A tear escaped his eye, streaming down his left cheek. My heart says no, but it’s a fool’s hope. I don’t have friends.
Gus stumbled back to camp on wobbly legs, where his bedding lay covered in leaves. I know she’s not heading deeper into the woods by herself. He scanned the treeline encircling their camp. Food would settle my stomach, but I don’t have time to hunt, and fruit is scarce at this time of year. Rose’s lead grows with every moment I waste. I need to move.
Gus searched for footprints and found an eastward trail toward the shore. The Order will have a ship waiting for her. He broke through the trees, marching downhill, following Rose’s trail, using trunks and boulders to support his weight. Beyond the forest’s canopy, Gus glimpsed a blanket of blue sea stretching into the eastern horizon. Salt carried on the wind. He found another rocky brook and took time to drink heartily. Rose’s footprints disappeared. Gus craned his head, peering into the high woven branches of countless trees.
I’m surprised it took her this long to take the high road. I know her heading, though.
Gus guided himself by the rising sun, gaining his stride as his body recovered. He found a goat path cutting down a steep slope. The forest thinned. The searing sacks of acid embedded under his skin—his stomach and Adam’s apple—abated. Gus entered a grove of tall pines with shaggy limbs. Beyond the grove, he glimpsed miles of rolling hills, green grass separating him from the sapphire sea—another day’s journey. His belly growled. And what will I do when I get there? I don’t have any weapons, supplies, or connections. He leaned against an evergreen sentinel, then sat down next to it. What did the Order promise, Rose? Freedom? Power? Gus admired the tranquil wisdom of the surrounding ancients. Why am I still alive? Did you botch the job on purpose? No. Don’t be a fool! She knew I would come after her. Rose tried to kill me.
Gus grabbed the trunk of the pine and lifted himself onto his feet. What’s my next move?
The evergreens gave way to a field of tall grass steadily sloping eastward, dotted by thickets and lonely trees. Augustus kept a steady pace until dusk when storm clouds forced him into a thicket to seek shelter. A stagnant pond gathered at the center. A growth of young trees surrounding a rotten log and dead limbs to form a lean-to frame, adding twigs and leaves for an outer shell. He crawled into his shelter, curling up next to the log, wishing he had grabbed the blanket Rose left behind. She fooled me well. A drizzle swelled into a downpour. Powerful gusts of wind fanned the rain under his roof and ripped away pieces of the structure. Gus shivered. The rotten log didn’t smell nearly as vile as a dead human. Colonia smelt terrible. After our poison did its work and the corpses piled up in the streets, the city smelled awful. Perhaps I will just lay down here, where my death will inconvenience no one.
Just another tree in the forest.
Gus awoke after daybreak. He crawled out of his lean-to and immediately set off toward the rising sun, stomping through the thicket. The sloping seaward hills made for easy travel. Perhaps it was the salty air or the elevation, but he stepped with sure feet despite the poison, the absence of food, and the lack of sleep. The poison ran its course.
Gus pushed his pace. Rocky ravines opened, scaring the green slopes and severing the woods. He followed the long ledge of a cliff, then worked his way down its jagged face, feet sliding on loose shale, hands slipping off wet stones. A narrow ravine littered with dark gray boulders waited at the bottom. Gus walked until the ravine opened, revealing fields of green grass and gentle hills rolling into the sea. Oak, elm, and evergreens stood in small gatherings. A few miles ahead, on a tabletop of a knoll, set a wooden fortress with high walls, parapets, and towers at each corner. Upon closer inspection, lumpy lowlands surrounding the knoll turned into tiny lodges with domed roofs. A village?
He followed a dirt road through rows of wooden hovels. Villagers sat by their dwellings, weaving baskets, dressing animals, or crafting tools for future works. They didn’t spare energy for gossiping or ogling. A group of children ran down the road carefree, laughing and screaming, blowing past Alessandro without a second glance. A group of men marched past him, carrying a dead stag, its legs strapped to a long pole. Alessandro craned his neck and studied the high fortress at the center of the village. Who are these people?
A small bazaar flourished in the easternmost part of the village, where the road turned to cobblestones and stretched toward the sea. Stalls formed a vast square. Four tables sat at the center, piled with cultivated crops and wild game. Guards patrolled in pairs. They wore no armor and carried bludgeons rather than blades.
Alessandro moved amongst a small stream of browsing shoppers, glancing over the stalls and exchanging pleasantries with the vendors. They didn’t speak of war. Rumors involved local matters: young lovers, tending crops, expanding the colony of Pietronia. They didn’t talk as Chiosians but spoke with strong Milanese accents, though islanders weren’t absent. “General Pietro supplied all my game,” a bearded vendor, wearing a thick fur coat over an outfit of hides and leathers, leaned toward an old woman in a simple gray dress, covering his mouth but whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Oh, did he, now?” the old woman narrowed her eyes. “Shot them himself?”
“Well…” the vendor chuckled. “He gave me permission to hunt his land!” The old woman rolled her eyes. “It’s true. I took three stags from the general’s forest, so he’s the one who supplied my wares.”
“I don’t care who shot them,” the woman tugged at the scarf around her neck. “I’ll buy some venison.”
Pietro? Alessandro continued to the next stall. I don’t know him.
Alessandro approached a palisade gate with two stolen apples tucked into his shirt. Six guards stood talking; their spears leaned against the gatehouse. Traffic trickled east and west. He passed beneath the gatehouse and joined a small pack of travelers on the cobblestone road heading toward the coastal town of Naxos. Amongst them were two fishermen returning home with full coin purses and an old man with worn leather boots and a knotted walking stick nearly as gray as his thinning hair. The old man marched beside Alessandro, carrying a large backpack filled with goods. “What’s your trade?”
The question took Alessandro off guard. His hand moved to his hips but grasped nothing. No weapons. He spread his arms wide and shrugged. “I’m looking for a new trade.”
“Oh,” the old man said. “Well.” He adjusted the shoulder straps of his backpack. “I’ll pay you two silver circlings to carry my bag.”
“Okay,” Alessandro said. The old man stopped and unshouldered his backpack, which thumped against the cobbles. Alessandro grunted, lifted the heavy pack from the earth, and threw its loops over each of his shoulders. He tucked his thumbs into the shoulder straps to keep them from pinching. They continued. “What do you have in here? Ingots?”
The old man’s walking stick clicked against the stones. He smiled. “Books. I’m a scholar, you see. And a bard. Or, well, I used to be. That was when I could still dance. I’ve traveled from Castellia to Pearl City, singing and dancing for important people: kings, emperors, sultans, studied in every college of renown, and wrote a collection of popular poems. Now, I travel, record my findings, and share my knowledge. It’s not a very profitable trade. I wouldn’t recommend it to a young refugee such as yourself.”
“Is it that easy to tell?” Alessandro asked.
“Rugged clothes, no weapons or belonging to speak of,” the old scholar’s eyes fluttered about as he spoke. “Keeps to himself to stay out of trouble.”
“Why come here?” Alessandro changed the subject. “Wouldn’t you be happier in a library?”
“My time as a bard left me with an insatiable wanderlust.” The old man scanned the surrounding seas of tall grass, nodded to himself, and then took a deep breath. “I’m a worldly man. The name’s Manfredi, of the Chiosian University.”
“But why were you in Pietronia?” Alessandro asked.
“It’s the first colony built on this island in over a thousand years!” Manfredi raised his cane and shook it. “I recorded its brief history and interviewed its governor and some locals. Pietronia is an interesting case study, my friend. It’s mostly refugees from the mainland, like yourself, which is unique, too. So, of course, I wanted to go there and see it myself!” He lifted his free hand and rubbed the back of a leathery neck. “My writings will be the first eyewitness accounts of the colony, allowing future societies to peer into this unique community. They will learn how their farms burned while their villages were ransacked. And, most importantly, how they took charge of their fate and sailed across the sea to find a new home. It’s an uplifting story. A heroic yet harrowing story.”
And I helped start the war that brought them here, Alessandro contemplated. “You think what happened to them is uplifting?”
“Their response was inspiring. They didn’t give up like so many others did. They kept moving. And, in that way, I see a bit of myself in them. They may be refugees and foreigners, but they have the heart of Chiosians. They can’t admit defeat.” The old scholar turned his attention back to the road. “What’s your name?” Manfredi asked.
“Alessandro,” he said. “My friends call me Al.” The word ‘friend’ left a bitter taste in his mouth. He flushed with anger, which, combined with the weight of the pack and the winter sun, summoned a heavy sweat.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Well, Al,” Manfredi said. “If you want my advice, take up smithing, fletching, or carpentry. You’re old for an apprentice, but if you’ve got the talent, a distinguished master is always looking for good help. Those professions make a fair living, even during times of hardship—especially during times of hardship. If you’re clever.” His stick thumped faster and faster as sandal-bound feet matched the pace of his tongue. “But that’s just my advice. Some would say join the Duke’s army, but why, my dear boy, would you throw your life away when another war is always approaching? Don’t let them—”
He talks more than Padair, Alessandro pondered. I wonder what that old goat is doing now?
“And revenge won’t better your circumstances.” Manfredi thumped Al’s shoulder with his walking stick. “Are you listening? I know a thing or two, eh?” He sighed. “No one cares about sage’s wisdom. They want money, love, or power. Useless.”
Alessandro snorted false laughter. “Useless?”
“I memorized a hundred poems and a hundred sagas to pass my university exams,” Manfredi boasted, lifting his nose as he spoke. “That pack you carry contains writings from scholars all around the world. Do you know what they have in common? All their characters are dead. Kings, generals, explorers, philosophers—dead. Have you ever heard of Ahnu’away? Every path leads to the same place, my friend.”
“Pearlisians believe in one god.” Al side-eyed the old man. “The world’s too complicated for that.”
Manfredi gathered his brows, raised his left hand, and smoothed his hair. “From my perspective, it is straightforward: things happen, which causes other things to happen. We live in a world of cause and effect. Duke Frederick wants Milanis Duchy, so you lost your home. I grew old, and I can no longer perform. But life finds a way, and, thus, here we are.”
Here I am.
They continued in silence.
Naxos formed a half-circle of white-painted buildings, burning orange in the evening sun, stretching inland from a sandy coast. Alessandro and Manfredi followed the thoroughfare, cutting to the heart of the town, where a giant building with granite columns overlooked surrounding houses and shops. Manfredi stopped below its seamless steps. “I’ll be needing that pack,” Manfredi said. “The men here appreciate knowledge.”
Al happily unshouldered the backpack and sat it on the ground between them. “My payment?”
Manfredi smiled as he dug into his coat pocket, retrieved the silvers, and extended them toward Al. “You prove my point. Well, may fortune favor you, friend. I hope you find work and a warm bed.” The old scholar picked up his backpack and marched up the marble steps. “Take care.” He waved.
Alessandro returned the gesture. Then he turned east, looking out over the sea and a long pier lined with vessels. Is she here? Or is this another fool’s errand?
He followed the thoroughfare. Traffic thickened with sailors, vendors, and dock hands; a roadside ale house teemed with little fish of the sort gathered to take refuge. A carpenter hammered at a broken windowsill. The sweet smell of freshly baked pastries wafted from a street-side bakery. His belly rumbled. Hands in his breeches pockets, Al rubbed his two silvers together. He skipped up the steps of the bakery and pulled open its red door. The aroma of bread and sweets crashed into him, causing his mouth to salivate and his stomach to ache. Two ovens blazed at the back of the building. A countertop cut the room in half: one half offering tables of bread baskets and fruit, the other pastries and two busy bakers—a man and a woman—wearing flour-stained aprons. Sweat streaked their sour faces.
Al approached the counter and cleared his throat. “Excuse me? I want to buy some food.”
The curly-haired man shoved a sizeable wooden spatula into his brick oven, then withdrew a platter of muffins sprinkled with cinnamon. He approached, then set the platter down before Al. “We baked these for ourselves. You watched them come out of the oven, so you know they’re fresh. Take one.”
“I just want a loaf of bread,” Al said. “Fresh bread.”
“You’ve had a hard road, haven’t you, friend?” The baker’s bushy brows climbed his forehead. “We have fresh loaves, of course. Fifty coppers. Or you can get a bun for twenty. For two more, you can add a spread of butter to your choice.”
Al withdrew a silver and sat it on the counter. “I want two buttered buns.” The baker picked up the circling, swept his apron aside, and tucked it into his breeches pocket. He moved to a strongbox resting on the mantle between the roaring ovens, opened it, and withdrew a handful of coppers. After counting, the baker set the coppers on the counter, to which Al plucked them up and placed them with the silver in his breeches. The baker startled Al when he slammed a bun down, sliced it with a thick-edged knife, then used that same knife to scoop out a thick dollop of butter and spread it across the bread. He repeated the process, wrapped the buns in a waxy paper, tied them with strings, and then gave Al a courteous nod. Al picked up the package. “Thank you.”
“Take a muffin.” The baker lifted one from the platter and handed it to Al. “And a few sticks of dried meat.” He pointed at a bowl sitting at the far end of the counter. “No one ever buys it, anyway. Take some.” Al followed the counter and found the bowl filled with tightly rolled strips of dried and seasoned meat. “I thought it was a good idea.”
The female baker let out a laugh. “You and your ideas!”
Al picked up three sticks and studied them. What kind of meat is this? Does it matter? He stuffed them into his breeches pocket and stepped toward the door. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“It’s an investment!” The baker shouted as he turned back to his ovens. “Come back and spend more money!” Al shut the door.
Alessandro hopped down the baker’s steps and stalked down an alleyway, where he ripped open a buttered bun and devoured it. Then, despite his parched mouth, he ate the second. I could use a drink. He practically inhaled the muffin, then left the alley, making for the alehouse he’d passed. Al pushed through a gang of patrons at the door, then squeezed through an expansive open room filled with drunkards and sea-weary sailors. Men danced and sang. Shoulder-to-shoulder, a gang formed a semi-circle near the right wall to shoot dice. A long bar stretched across the back wall. The brunette woman working the bar noticed his approach and met him. Al cupped his hands so the woman might hear him over the unruly patrons. “Do you serve Hunter’s Honey?”
The woman scrunched up her brows and folded her hands on her hips. “We sell what we brew.”
“Oh,” Al said. “How about—”
“Two pints for me and my friend!” a familiar voice announced. Al turned. Murph stood beside him, wearing the baggy pants and loose-fitting blouse of a Chiosian. “I’m buying!” He smiled. His eyes gleamed like a shark’s. “I won’t take no for an answer.” Murph pushed past Al and set a stack of coppers on the bar top. “Two pints!” The serving girl nodded, then spirited away. A sharp point pressed against Al’s ribs. “I could’ve killed you a dozen times over.”
“You knew I would come,” Alessandro said. I was right! Rose is here, somewhere, with my weapons—my cloak.
“I was counting on it,” Murph said. He kept the dagger in his side as they waded through drunken patrons toward a back door. They exited the ale house into a narrow alley. “Right.” Murph shoved Alessandro. It created enough space for Al to spin around and assume a defensive position. Murphrey closed the distance with a lunge, stabbing out with the dagger in his right hand. Alessandro bent at the knees, snatched Murph’s wrist with both hands and stepped his right foot across Murph’s path, flipping his opponent. Murph’s momentum carried him hard to the ground, and his arm twisted at an odd angle, forcing him to drop his weapon.
Steel clattered on the cobbles.
Alessandro released Murph’s wrist and picked up the dagger. He turned. Murph held a second knife, ready to strike. “I need your help,” Murph said. “Keya lives.”
“I won’t entertain another betrayal.” Alessandro resumed a defensive position, crouched low, holding the dagger high. “Where’s Ninathril? Tell me what you know and then disappear from my sight. I’m not playing games. We’re not pieces on a board; you’re not the mastermind setting anything into motion.”
Murph lowered his knife. “She lives, Ardwin. I saw her with my own eyes and barely escaped. I knew where you were heading, so I took a ship to the island.” He lowered his weapon and took a step backward.
“To threaten me?” Ardwin abandoned his accent.
“To recruit you.” Murph smiled. “Keya followed you, too.” Ardwin’s guts quivered as his flesh tingled with the memories of her torments. “With the help of your friend Rose, she outsmarted you. Your friend thought she could buy her freedom.” He chuckled. “Keya took your artifacts and imprisoned Rose. She wasn’t satisfied with your friend’s work. Then again, ever since you fried her skull, the elf has been acting rather strange—erratic. Rose is on a ship anchored offshore. Help me kill Keya. Help me end this, and then we will part ways forever. Take the sword. I don’t care about it anymore. I will find my way.”
“Just like that?” Ardwin sidestepped down the alley, and Murph stepped forward. Ardwin flashed his dagger.
Murph stopped. “Keya has everyone fooled with her magic. She doesn’t appear as a disfigured elf but as her normal self. Somehow.” He tucked his hands behind his back. “I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but until Keya is dead, we’ll never be free. Never. She’s mad. Herman can’t control her anymore. In fact, it appears the Abbot is now her puppet. Magic is at play. She must die, Ardwin. We both know what torments await your friend should we fail.”
“Rose betrayed me. She wasn’t my friend,” Ardwin said. Murph’s my best lead. Straightening his back, he relaxed his shoulders but kept the dagger firmly in his right hand. “If Keya has Ninathril, you will lead me to her.”
“Of course.” Murph nodded. “Keya refuses to believe you’re dead, but she’s sent no one to look for you. She’s waiting.” Murph led Ardwin through the dark alleys of Naxos, then up many flights of stairs, to his top floor room in a seaside hospitium. It contained two empty beds, a square table between them, and two stools. A little square window looked over the bay, where many ships waited to dock. The full moon’s light glimmered silver on the surface of the dark water. Murph pointed a finger at a caravel. “That’s them.”
“How many?” Ardwin asked.
“Two dozen brothers, inquisitors, and half as many mercenaries,” Murph said. “That ship is a floating fortress, and there’s only one way to get there.”
Gus leaned against the wall, propping himself up with an arm. “By sailing across the bay—exposing ourselves.”
“Exactly,” Murph said. He strolled across the room and sat at the table, shoulders slumped, his hands dangling between his thighs. “We need to play the long game. Wait her out. Eventually, Keya will shove off, and then we can take a ship across the straight, wait for the perfect opportunity, and ambush her.”
“She has an eternity.” Gus pushed off the wall. This entire story is ridiculous. I know Keya died. I checked her pulse and felt nothing. Is it possible? He stalked across the room, flopped down on a bed, and interlocked his fingers behind his head. After everything I’ve seen, I dare say it may be possible. He released a breath of pent-up nerves and frustration. “Besides, I won’t risk her escaping with the sword. We’ll strike fast. With luck, we may even succeed.”
Murph leaned back in his chair. “You’ve given up.”
Ardwin laughed. He sat up, bending his knees and resting his arms on his legs. “I want the sword.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” Murph shook his head and counted his fingers as he spoke. “No weapons, no supplies, no plan?” He scoffed. “It sounds like suicide. You don’t believe you can take on Keya with nothing, right? Did handling those artifacts addle your brain?”
Ardwin spat on the floor. “That’s what I think of your Temple toying with people’s lives. But they made you somebody, didn’t they? They made you matter.”
Murph chuckled. “Attack me all you want. You’re right, after all. You have no reason to trust me.” He unsheathed the dagger at his side, set it on the table, and then stood up. “That goes both ways, though. You’d rather give that sword to a child who can’t wield it than see me return home. What a brother you are!” He threw his hands in the air. “Did you write? No! Gregory made time to write. What’s worse, I saw the look in your eyes when we met in Ottoburg. You didn’t see me as your friend but as another obstacle in your path. You’re a selfish bastard, Ardwin!”
Ardwin jumped out of bed and stood eye-to-eye with Murph. His cheeks burned with rage. “You led me into a trap! You poisoned me—allowed me to be tortured! Mind games won’t work this time, Murph.”
Murph matched his glare. “Tell that to Keya.” He walked to the window and peered across the bay. “I won’t stand in your way, but you better stay out of mine. I have plans. There’s nothing to stop me from killing you—nothing left of our bonds.”
“Bonds?” Gus cupped his chin. Could Padair help us? Could I ask such a thing from the satyr?
Would he listen?
“If that’s what they were.” Murph side-eyed Gus from across the room.
No. It’s too dangerous. Ardwin walked back to his bed and sat down. “Gregory and I never enjoyed killing. You did. This life suits you.”
Murph wiped the tip of his nose with his left thumb and chuckled. “You’re too vain to see beyond Calum’s conditioning. Nothing new. Now, we need a plan. Can you get over yourself for a moment?” He stalked across the room and found a seat on a stool. “Are you ready to get down to business?”