Four days later Jhegan stood before the lower door, key in one hand, staff in the other. The pack on his back held enough food – he hoped – for a week, together with what gear he thought might help him survive. He had packed and re-packed, balancing use against weight and bulk. It was still uncomfortably heavy, and a constant reminder that he was not very fit. His grandfather’s clothes had been too tight in the waist, too narrow at the shoulder, so his city shirt and loose breeches would have to do. He had found a cape, a glaring turquoise affair with a hood, and stuffed it in the pack. He dreaded having to choose between warmth and conspicuousness. A knife, a water bottle and hope. Jhegan gritted his teeth and touched the key to the door.

The rock disappeared and he looked out over the verdant forest. Filled, no doubt, with monsters and weird and dangerous animals and with nary a decent restaurant or a fountain offering clean cold water such as were to be found in any square in Dtlag. Jhegan edged forward and peered around the corner. A narrow path or ledge led downwards. Of course it had no rail. He gritted his teeth even harder and inched out. A glance at the sheer rock below had him briefly close his eyes, then he shuffle-turned to face the path. Below, a dark, long-armed form swung out of the branches on to the ledge and came up at a rapid lope. Jhegan started, regained his balance, lurched back and fumbled for the key. Which pocket had he put it in? Here it was! He dragged it out as a yipping form filled the frame. A long-fingered, black-nailed hand reached for him; in sheer terror he thrust out with the staff, and blindly poked the creature in the eye. It recoiled, he touched the key to the frame, the rock closed – almost.

The other hand was grasping the edge of the door, and it would not close. Jhegan bashed the fingers, then snatched out his knife and hacked. The fingers were snatched back with a scream, the rock became solid and he sank to the floor, heaving painful breaths, throat raw and acid with fright. When he could regain his feet, he left the pack lying there, hurried to the shaft and lofted himself to the mirror-room. The creature, small and distant in the glass, had fetched a heavy stone and was battering away at the rock-face. His plight worsened, for this thing was cunning as well as brutal. Would it force an entrance? His breath caught, but it seemed he was safe for now. The stone was hurled away and the thing scuttled back to the forest. He slumped there for a time, then slowly made his way to the kitchen, to sit, hands cradling a warm cup, cursing his grandfather and his fate. He would not be taking a walk in this Wild.

That night his sleep was disturbed by dreams of black hands closing about his throat, and he awoke more tired than he had gone to bed. What was he to do? He spent a listless two days before his spirits recovered enough to consider other course. Perhaps he could learn enough magic to communicate his plight? He could start with his grandmother’s school exercises.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

* * * *

Five days after that Jhegan was again sitting in the kitchen with a warm cup. It steamed unregarded while he held his head in his hands. He was doomed. Magic was hard. Worse, for those with weak ether-sense, it itched the brain. He had tried a few Words, and wanted to scratch his way through his own skull. He was sure a vagrant syllable was bouncing around in there still, for his nose twitched sideways with every third breath. He did not have years, or a teacher, and somehow a modest proficiency with a weapon was involved. The tower had an invisible cook and house-maid, but not a fencing-master.

He had checked the mirrors frequently. The spider-ape came back at intervals, testing the door, but always left. Manipulating the mirror allowed a close view of the rock, to his unspeakable relief unmarred by the creature’s efforts. He was safe within. Not strangulation but starvation would be his lot. Or he could throw himself from the roof …

A chime sounded, startling him from this gloomy reverie. Jhegan hurried himself to the mirrors to see whether this announced the arrival of a saviour. Outside, the late afternoon sun threw the long shadow of the tower across the greenery. He peered, tilting the glasses this way and that. There – a movement close to the rock. A figure moved out from the trees, gazed upward. A hand-signal, and Jhegan made out two others lurking behind. He stroked the frame, brought them nearer. Two were in armour and hung about with weapons, the first one a woman more lightly-equipped, carrying a coiled rope and grapnel. As he watched, she tied the line on, fiddled with the grapnel and set it to the rock-face. It began to climb, prongs reaching up to stick into the stone, dragging the rope behind.

This was not the behaviour of cordial visitors. He was about to be robbed, and possibly – probably – murdered. Jhegan watched in increasing alarm as the grapnel inched higher, on to the stones of the tower and on up. It was aiming for the balcony off the bedroom. What should he do? Cut the rope? It was a magic item, and might well attack him. But what else could he do? He hurried down, opened the balcony door and brought out his knife. His dislike of heights meant the area was new to him. The balustrade was solid; if he leaned out to cut one of those below might shoot him, for they carried bows. He looked down, to see transparent patches in the floor, which gave a view below but also made him uncomfortable. The grapnel must be near the balcony, for the woman had started climbing. Her legs twined about the rope, and strong shoulders pulled her up, hand over hand. Now he could see that she carried a long blade and had darts holstered across her chest. Her upturned face was fierce with concentration. How long should he wait? If he cut the rope she would fall to her death, and he would be a killer. He reminded himself that there was no law in the Wild and took out his knife.

Before he could muster the resolve to lean out and cut, the rope rapidly shortened, hauling the woman up. Her face shot into detailed view, showing astonishment and alarm. Then the rope relaxed, dropping her away, to halt with a jerk that nearly threw her off. As Jhegan watched the rope stretched, shrank, twirled, swung, the woman clinging desperately as she was bounced about like a bunch of catnip on a string. At last she was dropped to the ground, and the grapnel spat after her in a twisted heap. The trio below retreated into the forest, the woman propped between her armoured friends. It seemed the tower could look after itself.