Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) (20 page)

  
“Of course.” Winking roguishly, Gribly turned and loped off into the darkness quickly. The ranger and the prince following behind.

~

  
The night-guard on the ramparts overlooking Ymeer's main gate jolted awake at the muffled curses and rustlings that suddenly burst out below. Shaking his head to clear it, the man yawned widely and nervously hefted his bronze spear. Was he imagining things? The captain of the watch would beat him to a pulp if he...

  
No, he
wasn't
imagining things... there was someone or something thrashing around on his side of the gate!

  
The guard was an experienced man, else he would never have gotten away with dozing on duty for so long. He knew rushing down the wide-hewn stairs would expose him to whoever was at the gate before he could get a glimpse of the miscreant... therefore he crept stealthily to the edge of the battlements, bent over, and hazarded a glimpse down over the steep drop to the shadowy sand below.

  
What he saw almost made him tip forward and fall right off the rampart to his death. It took him a moment to comprehend, and another to actually believe. When he did, he quickly rose and ran to the top of the wall stairs descending them as quickly as possible, spear clutched in the crook of his arm. It took all his composure not to laugh when he reached the bottom, from sheer confusion at the humorous oddity he witnessed.

  
The commotion inside the gate came from a hefty, red-faced man, bound and gagged tightly. He hung from a chain twined 'round his bloated stomach that stretched up behind him, where it was secured to the thick wood of the gate by several deeply-embedded crossbow quarrels.

  
The night-guard shook his head, staring up at the enraged captive, who fumed and shook, trying with all his might to break loose... without success.

  
“What in Vast...” he wondered.

  
The gagged man saw him then, and immediately fell silent and still. The guard cautiously checked all the surrounding area for any sign of the culprits (cursing himself inwardly for not doing so sooner), but no sign presented itself.

  
Turning back to the entangled captive, the guard saw something glinting in the moonlight, hanging from the man's neck. Warily, lest the ruffian lash out at him if he got too near, he put out his spear, lifting the crude necklace with the weapon's tip. The light fell on the design engraved on a large silver medallion.

  
It was a white hawk.

~

  
The old pickpocket was slightly worried that Crutus had not returned that night, but he let the other brutish guards of his wine-house leave for home at the usual time.

  
“Prob'ly jus' off getting' hisself drunk again,” the old man grumbled to himself, moving awkwardly down one of the darker corridors of his establishment on dual crutches. As he passed a large, heavy oaken door, the sounds of piteous weeping could be heard coming from just inside. Frowning, the old pickpocket rapped hard on the wood twice with his crutch, calling out, “Shut yer trap, girl!”

  
The weeping stopped abruptly.

  
Chuckling meanly, pickpocket-turned-slave-owner turned to hobble off again. Without warning, a gloved hand shot out of the dark, roughly slamming him into the sandstone wall and pinning him by the throat. Gargling in shock and fear, the old pickpocket dropped both crutches and clutched vainly at the hand that strangled him.

  
“If you
ever
want to move again,” growled a low man's voice, “You will open that door and release the girl immediately... in the name of the King of Vastion.”

~

  
Gribly and his companions were two-thirds of the way to Blast Palace when it happened.

  
RUN,
said a voice in his head. It was the voice of Cleric Argoz... Dunelord Argoz... the nymph.

  
“Did you hear that?” he whispered quietly, increasing his pace to a jog. Lauro looked at him like he was crazy.

  
“Hear what? It's silent as a grave out here.”

  
TIME IS RUNNING OUT.
The voice called. Gribly cursed under his breath.

  
“Something's wrong,” he told the others. “Something's... happening. I can't tell what, but we need to get back to the palace...
now
.”

  
Lauro opened his mouth, but Byorne cut him off with a curt nod.

  
“Let's go,” the old ranger said. “Run first, questions later.”

  
And they did.

~

  
Dunelord Argoz met them at the gates of Blast Palace with ten of the silverguard at his back, bearing full provisions for a journey of many leagues.

  
“What's all this?” Lauro questioned the nymph.

  
“Have you found a guide?” Argoz asked Gribly, ignoring the prince. “Your quest has run out of time.”

  
“Here,” Byorne said grimly, stepping forward. Quickly Gribly explained all that had happened, and the Dunelord took it all in hungrily, acknowledging the ranger with a curt nod.

  
“You must all set forth at once,” he said. “Here are ten of my best warriors... they will replace any of your hired men. Visions have come to me... war rises in the south, and a terrible evil is preparing to assault my nymph brethren dwelling in the Inkwell. You have no time to lose!”

  
“Ten silverguard can't hold a candle t' two of my rangers,” Byorne said, grimmer than ever.

  
“Nevertheless, you are all out of time,” Argoz insisted. “I will agree to whatever demands you require, and your men will hold high favor with me when they come... only leave, all of you... this very moment!”

  
A tense silence followed, during which all eyes turned unexpectedly towards Lauro.

  
“You're the one who started this,” Gribly told the prince. Lauro ignored him, musing quietly for a minute, then spoke.

  
“We will go before the sun rises.”

  
“
Now,
”
 
Argoz countered.

  
“No,” Lauro said. “First, I will visit the Highfast Shrine. Any help I can get, I'll need later on... even from the Aura.”

  
“
Then
you will go?”

  
“Then we will...” Lauro confirmed, “But only then.”

Chapter Fifteen:
Sand Striding Stone

  
“Just our luck,” grumbled Byorne, spitting a wad of the dark green leaves he chewed onto the dirt. “Looks like the mountainside just broke off and tumbled down here in pieces. The road’s blocked, for sure.” The Longstrider looked every inch a ranger-guide. He was tall, gray and grizzled, wrapped in his battered, forest-green cloak and sporting a small silver ring in his left ear.

  
When pressed for more information, he had revealed that he was from the dirtlands directly south of Blast, on the edge of the Highwood. He smelt like a garbage heap and talked like one too, most of the time, but Gribly didn’t complain- he’d found the way here, hadn’t he? Leading ten of Argoz's new silverguard warriors here all those leagues from Ymeer, not to mention a Vastic Prince and a street thief who smelled no better than he did, spoke of the man’s skill at path-finding… and the immense reward he’d been promised from Dunelord Argoz to aid the two adventurers.

  
“Is there no other way to the Arches?” Lauro spoke up, brow furrowed as he tried to find a solution to their dilemma. They had followed the main road North from Ymeer until it veered sharply West to avoid the mountain range known as the Spiral. There Byorne had taken them off the beaten path and through a windy stretch of white sand in the Northeast.

  
He had soon located the nearly abandoned roads used by the merchants and seafarers in the bygone age when Vastion had ruled the entire continent. They had picked their way among those dusty, rocky roads until they came to be where they were now: a nearly-forgotten mountain pass in the Spiral. Here they had been foiled: the pass was blocked with sandstone boulders that seemed to have fallen years before. Their time to solve the dilemma was limited: in the desert they had been attacked by bandits more than once, and once they had come upon a band of Vastic soldiers with their throats cut and burned to a crisp.

  
“Not likely,” responded Byorne, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin. He did that so often Gribly wondered that he didn’t rub it all right off his face. It was a sign of annoyance; on the rare occasion where their guide felt intimidated or scared, he rubbed his spiky gray hair instead. “I know all the paths from here to the Greenwood to the Greyfeld and back again. I know every mountain from Ymeer to the Blackwood, and if this isn’t the only pass within an hundred miles, I’m boarbait.”

  
Gribly held back a snicker at the ranger’s heavy accent and slang. His own speech was hardly better, even with Old Murie’s instruction back in the old days. What made him laugh was that language of any kind annoyed Lauro. Lauro, with his cultured tongue and careful words…

  
“Fine then,” the prince conceded, gesturing helplessly towards the pile of debris blocking their path, “Is there any possibility of moving all this out of our way?”

  
“None I can see,” shrugged Byorne. “From the looks of these here rocks, they’ve been here for years and years. Isn’t no way through ‘em that I can see.”

  
Up until now Gribly had been paying only partial attention to the conversation, but when a sudden thought struck him he raised his hand like a child in school.

  
“What is it?” inquired Lauro, suppressing exasperation for the thief’s antics.

  
“I think… I think I might be able to help, at least partially. You can too, Lauro, if what I’ve got in mind works. Hear me out?” Byorne shrugged noncommittally again. Lauro raised an eyebrow and inclined his head. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he grinned, and quickly outlined his plan for carving a path through their obstacle. At the end of his animated speech, an expectant smile tugged at the prince of Vastion’s mouth. Even the rugged ranger wore a grin of anticipation.

  
“You’ve got one blaze of a head on those shoulders,” chuckled Byorne, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s give it a bleedin' shot and see what happens, eh?”

~

  
Gribly stood less than a foot from the mass of boulders and chunks of cliff piled in his way. He was flanked by Lauro, Byorne, and eight silver-armored guards, each with their swords drawn. The guards carried round, gilded shields in addition, ready to move on the thief’s command. Two of their brethren stayed behind with the pack animals the group had brought to carry their supplies and the horses they’d all ridden. Everyone wore the same expression: tense expectation.