Chapter 15

Day Six – Morning

The shoals of Teblen, its sewage system, awaited Torm and the unconscious man in his care. The plan had failed on every imaginable level except for this last step. Zaber was still alive and Torm had dragged him to a manhole. An acrid stench filled the boy’s nose, but nothing was going to stop him.

There was not much time to think, with no ladder to descend and eight feet downwards. Arms wrapped around his mentor, Torm lowered him slowly into the gutter. The foggy light from above gave the boy a preview of what was waiting for him; a brownish, greenish sludge, slowly flowing to the south. With all that armor, Zaber was too heavy to be held for long. And the drop was too short to make it a gentle landing. Torm closed his eyes and let go, trying to guide the fall so that he wouldn’t crack his head or break his legs. After a splash, the boy followed. He jumped at the best possible angle to avoid crashing into Zaber – and succeeded. However, his footing was bad, and he tumbled over from the impact and uneven ground, soiling his pants and sleeves. There was no lingering on the disgust though, that mage was still behind them. Damned they be, Zaber even got some under his helmet…

Torm stood up, his boots sinking into the sewage for a couple of inches. "Positioning himself swiftly, he pulled Zaber up by his arms and dragged him on. The natural light faded away, eaten by the depths of the underground. North; that was the only instruction the boy remembered. Either Asher or Zaber were supposed to take the lead here. He had to go north, alone. Under heavy breathing and soaking wet, stinking gambesons beneath their steel, he carried on. Until they ran into the first wall. His sense of time? Lost. Silent panic spread in his stomach and through his chest. He wanted to gasp and scream in frustration, but he couldn’t allow anybody to hear him. Torm was running low and needed a break, but there was no time. In total darkness, he felt the stone behind him. A slight curve to the right… or left while walking backwards. As he and Zaber came to a halt, the boy realized there was no noise. Only the flowing rot beneath them… they weren’t followed.

In an instant, Torm’s body gave in. He wasn’t able to stand up properly for a while and his back hurt. His muscles ached and he just sat there for a very long moment. Head leaned back, the skullcap hit the wall behind him.

“Fucking–” said Torm with clenched fists, bumping them on the drenched paddings of his legs. “Fuck, piss, shit,” he cried, muffled. “Literal. Fucking. Shit.” He looked at his hands and punched into the gutter, splashing him and Zaber. “Oh, shit,” he said again, but sorry. He fiddled around with the straps of Zaber’s helmet, but the thick leather gloves he wore made it impossible to work in the dark. After throwing them away he opened the buckles on his mentor’s chin. The sallet and bevor went right behind Torm’s gloves, back into the drainage from where they came from.

“Come on, don’t swallow it,” said the boy and felt for Zaber’s lips and neck. “I need light, I don’t know where your damned mouth is.” Torm feared that he stuck his gutter-finger in the unconscious man’s eye.

Torm went on and suppressed another cry. The curve didn’t go on for long and the boy thought it was straightening out, roughly north. An occasional source of light illuminated the underground further down the path. A crossroad of streams under a latticed manhole, not unlike the one they entered through. The boy didn’t stop right under it, just close enough to bathe himself and Zaber in light. To take care of the man. His entire chin and mouth were covered in filth and neither of them had their usual canteen or waterskin with them.

“Fff–” Torm was about to scream, but regained control soon enough. “Fuck it,” he whispered and opened every strap on Zaber’s body. The brigandine, the pauldrons, greaves, legs, arms, maille – everything. He got rid of his own hauberk as well, weighing him down so much. By the Kraken, where is north? Is this north?

Just before he was about to speak to himself again, Torm heard steps from above. He looked up and saw Father Sun, producing a shadow to guide him. With the water of the sewage running from the northern moats down south to the river, making it just as disgusting, Torm regained a sliver of hope. He was on track.

While the boy toiled on, he lost more and more of his armor. Arms, legs, shoulders. Only Zaber’s short-sleeved gambeson, that Torm wore, and his own clothes beneath stayed on. Covered in piss and shit and whatever else folks emptied into the sewer. And the skullcap, because of how often Torm’s head bumped into the low ceiling of the underground. His muscles burned and felt like the goo that surrounded them, forcing him to take a break every now and then. Whenever there was light, he checked on Zaber. Torm saw his eyelids twitch every so slightly and even though he was told that was a good sign, he felt his own breath become more erratic.

How many candles had passed became more and more unclear. More folk above them were talking, passing rumors and driving jitters into Torm’s bones. A transport to court had been ambushed. Some had escaped and the savage blackheads had been involved. But the main culprit was a violent heathen from Westwatch. The brave men of the city watch have repelled them and killed most of them.

“Don’t–” slurred Zaber, still senseless. “I… no–”

“Please, man,” replied Torm, well aware that he wasn’t heard. “I can’t do this without you. Stay with me, please.” He looked up, his face painted in dread, sweat and excrement. The way people talked, he was sure to be beneath a better quarter. He heard them speak about visiting the graveyard, but also going to the market. None of it was a sure-tell where to go.

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“–kill–” A drip of sludge spluttered out of Zaber’s mouth.

There was no stopping. Torm had to go on, never give up, never stop. He had to get out before the sun went down. Or else he would never be able to find the rendezvous point with Breg and Buron. They could ditch this starforsaken place, regain strength, start anew. Nurse Zaber back to health, Buron was good at this said Asher and his mentor. Kell was still waiting on the other side of the river and wouldn’t do so forever.

Just when Torm thought he was going in circles, bright light revealed itself behind the next turn. The light came not from above, but behind him. Is this what the Auror’s are lecturing about in the Song of Ascension? By Father Sun, Torm hadn’t prayed in a long time, but damn would he when this was over. The water beneath them was clear, even if the boy couldn’t smell it with all the muck and grime in his clothes and pores. He left Zaber behind, head braced out of the water, and scouted ahead. A constant stream of water ran down a bricked wall, and Torm could finally stand tall again. He looked up at the thick bars that were the lower part of the city’s walls and let in the moat’s water. Connected via underground canals to Lake Teblen, it was the architectural foundation of the sewer system. But this wasn’t Asher’s smuggling route. None of the bars were loose; none could be removed. Nothing moved at all.

“No,” cried Torm, high-pitched. “Nonono. How the fuck–” He searched the bricks, looked around in pain and frantically walked back and forth between the bars and Zaber. Knowing he was right under the walls, nobody could hear him anymore. The boy looked down on himself, wearing only a belt with his weapons. Grabbing his hunting knife, he walked back to the bricked wall and jammed it into the mortar. Right beneath the bars, under the highest chalk stone, scratching out thin dust. He only stopped to go back and look at Zaber or clean his hurting fingers with clear water. Only the Stars knew how long this would take, but one stone after another came loose. Torm used the blade his mentor had given to him as a crowbar, breaking out and widening the bars. Daylight was running out on him when he was finally able to squeeze his own body out of this prison that was the City of Teblen.

Next he had to get Zaber up that wall without drowning him on the other side. The moat was six or seven feet deep, enough to hinder a force from storming the walls unimpeded. So the first step was to clean his own hands, then the greasy and unkempt man’s face and hair, and then the same for himself. Erect Zaber against the wall as well as possible, squeezing himself up to sit on the edge of it. His butt was already wet, but it was at least clean water now. When Torm grabbed his mentor and lifted him by the shoulders, bumping his head against one of the bars, both of them toppled backward into the moat. Startled at first, he never let go of the human package he was carrying. Keeping their heads afloat wasn’t an easy task, but Torm paddled backwards, like a duck, to the shore. There was no search party in sight and the walls were not manned. If that was also the case for the towers was impossible to tell from this angle. Torm took another break to assure that Zaber was still alive. They had to take a leap of faith and make a run for the hills. Judging from their position, the hamlets of Waelan and Hoam were to the east. The grove around and between these two were where Buron and Breg waited.

“–ain’t… doing–” mumbled Zaber while Torm shouldered him like a yoke. The boy was glad he was still breathing.

“A little more,” he replied.

“Stop–” was the next whisper. They made Torm halt, as if he got an order, but made up his mind when he heard, “–Airich,” next. It sounded afraid and unlike Zaber.

“Let’s go.”

The pain in Torm’s muscles had softened, either by newfound enthusiasm or the long break at the bars. Marching around the elevation of the hill, not to be exposed, looking for the treeline as guidance. Father Sun had reached his peak in the south and Torm’s shadow kept him company and showed him the way.

Down the woods, far from the walls, he yelled, “Buron!” and closed in on the trees. “Breg!” They had to be somewhere. A few yards at best.

About the same moment the thought of them getting caught, like Asher, intruded his mind, a slender figure about his own height stepped out behind some bushes. Even though he was only a year younger than Zaber, Buron’s dark blonde hair was already receding. He chose to age in dignity; shaving his head to a stubble. Wearing a simple and light tunic with high pantaloons, he was only armored with a sleeveless, tan gambeson. He carried a crossbow and wore a crude falchion on a leather girdle.

“Oh, shit,” exclaimed Buron, heavily. “Come out, Zaber got fucked,” he yelled into the woods and waved at someone.

An unreasonably tall man ran out in no time. His shoulders were wide and imposing, a towering presence. The thick, scuffed gambeson he wore wasn’t dissimilar to Zaber’s when fully tinned. Breg wasn’t though, wearing rusted maille with plates layered above it. He had an angular face that was only rounded by a thick, curly beard that had streaks of gray in it. So was his long black hair. The wild man threw his bardiche axe aside, only armed with an unusually long seax in his belt, and reached for Torm in no time.

“Lemme help ya’,” said Breg. Although it sounded like an offer, he grabbed Zaber immediately and took over as if there was no weight to him.

“What happened?” Buron picked his companion’s polearm up and looked at Torm. “Where’s Ash and the Yesilians?” He walked right next to Breg and Torm, inspecting Zaber’s face. He opened his eyelids and searched for wounds under the wet hair.

“I–” Finally safe, Torm’s body and mind gave in. “I don’t know. L–, Let me–” he stuttered, closing his eyes and ran his hands through his hair before he cried, “Everything went wrong.”