Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) (5 page)

  
Gribly never caught more than a fleeting glimpse of the man, and he could never after remember what he had looked like. Everything happened too fast: he edged forward, taking advantage of the universal distraction the Dunelord’s entrance caused. He was a foot away. He was there at the fountain. He had grasped the round crystal container; he had lifted it up out of the ice…

  
…A large, white hand gripped his arm from above. Sharp nails dug into his arm and drew blood. The lad jerked his head upwards and saw the very man he’d been trying to avoid: the noble with black-and-red robes and a face hidden by shadow. He held Gribly with one hand, and where his sleeve fell back from his pale fist the thief could see dark tattoos or brands.
A sorcerer!

  
“You are mine!”
hissed the apparition. The thief did the only thing he could think of: he screamed. Everyone’s gaze- including the Dunelord’s- was instantly drawn to the struggling pair. Gribly could not risk dropping the sphere and losing his prize, so he hopped up onto the fountain and pushed off with both feet. The ghostly man was not much taller or stronger than Gribly; his grip was broken and the lad sailed back into the crates five feet behind. It hurt, but he tucked the balm into his chest and rolled onto his feet. By now the tent was in an uproar, with merchants rushing to protect their precious wares and guards running to protect the Dunelord and guards running to attack the ghost-man and guards… guards…

  
Gribly stumbled back, slipping the balm into the pouch at his waist as he did so. His fingers fumbled with the buckle and secured it, then he was dodging a heavy-handed bronze-clad guard intent on stopping him. He leaped up onto a crate, then up onto another one, leaping off the top just as the angry guard smashed into the pile of crates, bringing the whole thing down on top of him. The young thief landed on his feet, dove onto his stomach (avoiding another guard), and slipped through the hole in the ground he’d made earlier.

  
As he pulled himself out and scrambled to his feet outside, a deafening
BOOM
shook the interior of the tent. He jumped at the sound and stumbled as the very earth under his feet trembled. Inside he could hear men roaring and swords being unsheathed with cries of “Protect the Highfast! Protect the Dunelord!”

  
A deep, commanding voice, probably the Dunelord's, cried above all: “Back, DEMON!”

  
Another explosion shook the world, then all was silent inside. Smoke billowed up from Gribly’s hole. The petrified thief stood stone-still, waiting for the outcome of whatever horrible conflict had happened. For a few seconds, nothing happened.

  
Then, with a horrible shearing noise, the canvas in the back of the tent not three feet to Gribly’s right began to burn. The clawed fingers of the demon-man were tediously ripping a hole in the fabric. What looked like red-hot, molten sand was dripping from the widening tear. The thing was still after him!

  
“By the Aura!” swore the thief. He had never encountered magic before- it was no more than mythology in Ymeer, aside from the few tricksters and harlequins who pretended to be able to tell futures or brew love potions. The city had a cleric, too, but
he
was on the Dunelord’s side. Whatever this demon in the shape of a man was, and whatever he wanted, Gribly had no desire to find out. Tightening his pouch, he ran like the wind as far away from the burning staff as he could get. As he made it around the tent, the door-flap, closed during the fight, was shoved open, and none other than Dunelord Ymorio himself stumbled out.

  
The Dunelord’s fancy, puffy leggings and boots were smoking and burnt. Only a small vest covered his muscled, sinewy chest, which was scarred and welted from whatever fight had gone on inside. His tanned face and lion’s mane of bright blond hair was wild and blackened, and blood seeped into his eyes from a gash in the side of his skull. Pointing the shattered blade of a scimitar at the young thief, he gasped out in pain and fear.

  
“Help me, boy!”

  
For a moment, Gribly was uncertain. The man was wounded, possibly dying- but he was an enemy! He was one of the oppressors, one of the aristocrats, one of the men who forced their subjects into poverty and crime just so they could have a few more sips of cold water on a hot day when no one else had the least bit of relief.

  
With a horrific
riiiiip
ing sound, the ghost-man burned through the remainder of the tent. Guards from all quarters of the inner courtyard were running towards the source of the commotion now. Escape was impossible back the way he’d come, and the pale demon was in view now.

  
Gribly had but one choice. He left the Dunelord gasping in the dust and ran around the corner of Blast Palace. The great gate was still open; Ymorio and his attendants had only a minute ago come out. The youth sprinted for the opening just as someone intelligent in the gatehouse realized the castle was under attack, and took action. The huge iron portcullis was released and slid downward with a horrendous grinding and screeching of metal on metal.

  
Gribly used his gift in a way he never had before: he
willed
the sand beneath his feet to push him forward; to make him faster than he could go on his own. He was climbing- but climbing flat ground.

  
With a terrific leap, the young thief hurled himself forward and under the portcullis. He made it with hardly an inch to spare, rolling under the deadly metal spikes as they slammed into holes in the ground: an enormous iron grid that no enemy could possibly get past.

  
He sprung to his feet and bounded away. The ghost-man was not far behind. He looked around frantically, hoping the demon couldn’t burn through solid metal with those fiery claws of his. The lad found himself in a straight, high tunnel that ran on for several yards before coming out into a small courtyard surrounded by towers and ramparts of every kind. He pressed himself into a small, dark doorway in the tunnel wall, hoping the ghost man could not see him.

  
His pursuer ran up to the closed portcullis and glared inside. His dark, scarlet robes whipped about his ankles even without wind, and his dark hood lay about his shoulders. Gribly was shocked to discover that the sorcerer looked not much older than himself. His face was still mostly hidden in a mess of midnight-black hair that hung to his shoulders, and what showed was so covered in markings that he was unrecognizable. His mouth was contorted in a venomous snarl. He could not burn through iron after all, it seemed, and he stuck his face up to the bars, wildly searching the tunnel and courtyard beyond with his eyes only. They were bloodshot and had bags under them as if the man had never slept a day in his life.

  
“I will find you, little thief. I will find you and bring you down to the Pit where you belong. Your talents are needed by my masters… Come to me…”
His voice, hollow and unnatural as it sounded, seemed to draw Gribly’s mind. He
wanted
to obey this ghost,
wanted
to submit himself and grovel in the torment he deserved for fleeing so long…

  
No! I cannot give in to this monster!
The thief told himself, and bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed, hoping the pain would stop the influence of the demon’s mesmerizing voice. The blood trickling down his chin and the sudden clearing of his mind convinced him that he had succeeded.

  
There was a huge commotion outside- the guards who had reached the Dunelord were now rushing towards Blast Castle, swearing and shouting. The ghost-man peered through the portcullis bars one last time, spitting out his parting words as if they burned his lips.

  
“You have ignored your only chance for my friendship. When next we meet, your fate will be far, far more painful. You have crossed paths with a Pit Strider. Savor what time you have left!”

  
This is friendship? I’d hate to be your lover, then,
Gribly thought. It was all the young thief could do to keep still. The sunken eyes of his enemy passed over him, and the icy hand of fear threatened to claw out his heart. At last the specter turned and faced the wave of bronze-clad guards, raising his hood again as he did.

  
Crack.
The pale man slammed his staff on the ground in front of him, and the noise could be heard as loud as if he had shattered a stone. The rushing guards paused in the middle of their charge, suddenly very silent and uncertain. Who in Vast
was
this monster?

  
“Would you challenge me?”
The skeleton of a man raised his free hand high in the air, gesturing as if he would sweep all the soldiers away in a single motion.
“You do not know your danger. I am no simple sorcerer!”
Suddenly he threw back his head and screamed at the sky. The sound was deafening, and carried all the horror of a thousand gruesome deaths with it. Gribly bit his lip again, clapping hands over his ears as he sunk down to his knees in the shadows. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to he-knew-not-whom until the noise subsided.

  
When he opened his eyes, the man he now knew to be a sorcerer was gone, and the guards had been swallowed up by the sand… literally! Here and there an arm or leg or head stuck out, horribly burned. The whole area in front of the portcullis was a swamp of molten sand! Gribly had scarcely time to wonder how he had escaped the damage- he had to get out of here, and fast! Not only was he trespassing in the Royal Palace, but they knew he was in here! And to make matters worse, he had ignored and possibly caused the death of the Dunelord. One word was on the thief’s mind now: ESCAPE.

  
Struggling to his feet, the boy twisted the handle in the door behind him. It opened with ease and he ran through…

  
…straight into the arms of a burly palace guard.

  
“Hoi!” bellowed the man, and seized Gribly by the arm. His mistake. The sandy-haired lad kicked his dirty foot into the guard’s thigh, seizing up the muscle and causing it to cramp. The man howled in pain and his grip lessened: another mistake. Gribly ducked under the man’s arm while he was still being held, gripping it with both hands and twisting with all his might as he moved.

  
Pop!
went the guard’s wrist, and the man let go of Gribly, crashing heavily into the side of the corridor. The boy was already past him and running away.

  
“Thief! Intruder!” screamed the injured soldier as he clutched his broken wrist. As Gribly continued on, the guard’s shouts were joined by others as several of his fellows hurried in from the doorway the thief had just left.

  
This’ll be close,
he thought.
Way too close.

Chapter Four:
The Incredible Flying Thief

  
I hate being right,
Gribly thought sourly. It was only minutes after entering Blast Palace, and he’d run into three different guard patrols, all of whom were after him, now that the mysterious sorcerer had disappeared and there was no one else to fight. It was far too close of a chase for comfort, even though he had managed to stay one step ahead of the guards so far. He was getting tired, and one false step, one wrong turn could end the deadly game forever. To top it all, he had been going
upwards
the whole way, and his chances of escape were getting lower and lower.

  
Then, quite suddenly, the game changed. Gribly rocketed up a tight, winding staircase, slipped down a side-corridor, and found he was at a dead end. There were five oakenstone doors on either side of the passage; he tried the first and found it was locked. So was the second. A few anxious moments passed as he tried the others: all locked. Then he put his hand to the final door, and it opened, just as a mob of very,
very
angry guards thundered into sight behind him. Without a thought, he ran through and shut the door behind him.