Hunted (Book 3) (19 page)

In moments they crossed through the shimmering blue field and into Tenswater, which was bathed in afternoon sunshine. As with the Rhughothian side, a small building stood nearby, the blue-robed Portal Mage sitting on his porch talking with two stoutly built men. He regarded them briefly as the Portal winked out, returning to his talk.

“Church soldiers out of uniform,” Hardman commented about the two men once they had left earshot. “Both fighters and too clean to be mercenaries. I think they are giving the Portal Mage a little notice. My bet is they pass through the Portal before long to give my new friend on the other side the same information. If they are giving advanced notice, it could be that they have implemented some arrangement that will make our day a little more interesting.”

Maewen nodded. Finally Hardman was saying something useful. “Let’s scout their most likely track to the Portal to Mur Eldaloth first and then acquire the weapons. We’ve little time to get our bearings before the caravan reaches the Portal.”

While Maewen eschewed the sights and sounds of cities, Tenswater she could tolerate for its unique qualities. As a Church Protectorate shard, an ever present guard diligently discouraged the accumulation of the filth, noise, and urchins that plagued other places of similar size. Strict regulations prohibited gambling, prostitution, and public insobriety, meaning that only good, clean commerce was allowed free rein.

Even more striking than its wholesome character, however, were the myriads of naturally occurring pools and fountains that dotted the level, grassy landscape. The water, clear and blue, showed hints of the limestone caverns from which it emerged. Trees grew strong and wide in the tracts of verdant grass. The buildings of the city, rather than running in long uninterrupted rows, clumped together in areas where the lack of pools had allowed builders to put down foundations. The abundance of water had forced the road pavers into a more artistic frame of mind, white stone paths and streets rarely running in a straight line for more than a few yards.

Maewen and Hardman’s business, however, prevented them from dwelling on the pleasant scene. With a few quick questions to the local guard, they rode off in the direction of the Portal to Mur Eldaloth, finding it a short time later no more than a mile from the Elsen Portal. Unlike the tall shops with pointed roofs that shot into the air around them, the Church had constructed a circular granite fortress around the Portal to their holy city, a mass of guards patrolling a solid wall that rose twenty feet into the air around it. A portcullis, shut and guarded, stood between any passerby and the ornate Portal enclosure inside. A grand, semicircular wreath some fifteen feet in diameter spanned the Portal area, carved leaves of beaten gold reflecting dully in the late afternoon light.

“Well, Maewen, I think we would do well not to let the caravan get anywhere near this place. Honestly, I wish this city were a little more like Mikmir for our purposes. You could send a toddler from one side of this town to the other with a bag of gold and his innocence and he would get to the other side without endangering either. This may be harder than we thought.”

To hear such a cautionary statement from one of the most reckless, foolhardy people she could imagine sent a chill up Maewen’s spine, but she gathered her resolve and turned her horse back toward the Portal to Elsen and its nearby cluster of buildings. If the Church managed to get Gen into Elde Luri Mora, then no one would have a chance at recovering him. Tenswater was their only opportunity, and she would take it.

For the next hour they scouted the route to several Portals close to the one from Elsen that they could escape to once the job was done. They purchased plain but sturdy swords from a local merchant, who was surprised but pleased to have sold so many at once. Hardman removed his cloak and bundled the swords inside to carry them less conspicuously.

As evening settled in, lanterns flared to life and a chill rode upon a northern breeze. Hardman and Maewen tied the horses to a tree at a small park adjacent to the Portal to Elsen and snacked while they waited for their cue. The cold air emptied the streets, but the Portal Mage remained at his post, eying the two strangers across the way with curiosity and a little suspicion. Only the Portal flashing blue tore his eyes from them. Maewen and Hardman stood, moving quickly to the horses, but only a solitary figure astride a horse emerged before the Portal winked out.

“It’s Torbrand,” Maewen said. “This is not a good omen.”

Hardman whistled and signaled their companion over. “What news?” Hardman asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Our little plan has run into a hitch,” Torbrand reported, breath channeling the ale he had recently imbibed. “The Churchmen are clearing the street and shutting everyone indoors. They’ve posted a contingent of guards at the Portal. I had to be very persuasive to win my way here.” As he finished, the unmistakable sound of armored men marching sank Maewen’s heart.

“We should have attacked them last night,” Hardman muttered.

“Let’s get clear of here,” Torbrand suggested. “If we can get down a side street, we might be able to remain close enough to see what is happening. If we stay here, they will force us into the nearest building. Ride now!”

Maewen and Hardman mounted quickly and rode after Torbrand. They crossed the street into a smaller road to the side of the Portal Mage’s house. To their right a file of at least fifty men in polished chainmail with white tabards marched toward the Portal in perfect cadence. As the three fled into the smaller avenue, they spotted a smaller contingent of soldiers rounding up groups of bewildered townsfolk and forcing them inside a nearby inn. Their leader, a muscular, clean-shaven warrior atop a bulky gray warhorse, signaled for the fleeing trio to stop.

“My apologies, citizens. You must dismount and go inside until we signal that the way is clear.”

“We have business just beyond here,” Torbrand explained casually. “May we not continue and enter there?”

“No,” the warrior answered firmly. “Tie your horses to the rail and get inside. I won’t ask again.”

Maewen admired Torbrand’s restraint as he worked up a relaxed, but annoyed sigh and complied. They tied their horses to the rail as quickly as they could under the close scrutiny of the Church soldier.

“Grab your gear and keep close,” Torbrand whispered.

They took what they could carry and followed Torbrand to the inn door, a commanding tone and expression asserting itself over his former, carefree levity. “We’ll have to hurry to have any chance of this at all. Keep close. We’ll be making for the stairs.”

Maewen turned up her nose as they crammed their way in to the packed common room of The Crooning Loon. The stench of beer and the unnatural warmth and stink of cramped bodies, combined with a steady din, fermented the atmosphere into an uneasy agitation. Torbrand put his muscular frame to good use as he unapologetically and forcefully plowed through the throng, Hardman and Maewen following in his wake. The stairs provided a convenient place to sit due to the paucity of chairs and benches, but Torbrand simply stepped on whomever wouldn’t move until they gained the second story.

Dim lanterns lined the hall where even more people loitered. The former Shadan paused but a moment to consider the doors around him, and then, victim chosen, strode forward and kicked it open without checking to see if it was unlocked already. Patrons screamed and shied away, Maewen gritting her teeth as she plunged into the room after Hardman, finding they had interrupted a plump merchant counting silver coins in a small, ornate box.

“Thieves!” he yelled, clutching the box to his breast like a treasured infant. “Thieves! Guard!”

Hardman’s hand shot out and grabbed the man’s pudgy cheeks in an iron grip while Torbrand yanked open the shutters. “We don’t want your money, pig,” Hardman hissed, eyes intense. “Shut your yap or I’ll cut your tongue out and use it to polish my boots.”

The terrified merchant scooted back on his bed, yanking a gray woolen blanket around himself with his freehand as if he hoped the cloth would ward him from the demon before him.

“Just as I hoped,” Torbrand stated with satisfaction. Maewen went to the window and peered over his shoulder. Beneath the window, an eave sloped downward, terminating at a height just above the lowest part of the Portal Mage’s roof. A five foot gap separated the two. “It will be a little tricky, but manageable.”

Torbrand hoisted himself out the window. Carefully, he stood on the brittle wooden shingles, smiling wickedly as they jiggled, cracked, and slid underneath his feet. “Excellent,” he muttered to no one in particular before crashing headlong down the eave and heaving himself over. Several shingles tumbled over the edge and into the alley, sound covered by the ruckus of marching men. He landed on his stomach with a thud that shook the Portal Mage’s house.

Hardman’s eyes raised speculatively. “I think I’ll let you take the next go at it, lass. I need another example before I attempt that. I’ll barricade the door and make sure this fellow stays quiet for a couple of hours . . . or so.”

Maewen wasted no time, nimbly jumping the distance and landing lightly on her feet. She could only watch in horror as Hardman defenestrated and executed a desperate run and leap with all the grace and poise of a fat, delirious cow. He landed unceremoniously on his side, slipping backward. Torbrand spared him the indignity of falling into the alley with a deft grab of the hand.

Quietly they worked their way to the top of the roof and peered over. Light from the soldiers’ torches illuminated the Portal enclosure, the company forming up on either side of the road.

“I count at least a hundred,” Torbrand informed them. “I can’t see any Puremen or Padras yet. There are at least ten men on horse. I don’t think there is much we can do here, Maewen.”

Maewen’s mind raced down dead end after dead end. Her companions were right. They should have tried to rescue Gen the night before, though even that, she thought, would have ended in defeat. She turned on her back and lay facing the stars, trying to imagine the First Mother’s disappointment at her failure. The Church had learned its lesson about caution from the disastrous caravan journey through Elde Luri Mora.

“I’m sorry Maewen,” Hardman consoled her. “Perhaps tomorrow we can dress as pilgrims and get into Mur Eldaloth. I doubt they’ll let anyone through tonight. I suppose we’ll have to find a different inn. I doubt they’ll let us back into this one. It smelled bad, anyway.”

A flash of blue signaled the Portal opening, and they crawled back up to the apex of the roof and peered over. A Padra came through first, followed by marching Church soldiers. At last, four black horses and the wagon pulled through, followed by another Padra and the remaining soldiers. Once they were through, the Portal winked out and the caravan stopped as the soldiers took their places, the fresh soldiers replacing their travel-weary brothers.

“So close,” Maewen whispered to herself.

“May I join you for a moment?”

All three startled, nearly losing their balance on the slanted roof. A woman, dressed in black and veiled walked easily up the incline toward them. Her voice sounded aged, and her back was bent with time. The slightly acrid smell of old ash accompanied her as she walked past them and stood at the top of the roof, careless of the eyes that might see her silhouetted against the sky. Maewen cast warning glances at her companions, who already had hands on weapons.

“You will appreciate this, elf,” the woman said. “Come watch. They will not see you.” Despite the reassurance, they took pains to present the smallest profile to those below. The woman incanted and gesticulated. A cracking sound momentarily silenced the soldiers as the wagon tongue broke in two and fell. The Padra behind the wagon spurred forward, casting his eyes around. With another chant and a downward motion, the wagon quickly and quietly sank into the ground, the driver heaving himself to the side to avoid interment. When done, the road appeared as solid as it ever had, soldiers and Pardras gawking at it in disbelief.

“I want ten men digging in this spot right now!” the Padra shouted. “I want every Portal Mage in the city rounded up and taken to the the Bastion immediately. No one leaves this shard until that wagon is found. Double the city guard. Call up every soldier. Search every building! Go!”

The woman turned and casually walked down the roof. “My time is coming and I must go. Take care of Gen. He is your only hope.”

“Where is the wagon?” Torbrand asked.

“Your elven tracker will find it,” she answered. “Good night.” She jumped from the roof and was gone.

“Was that who I think it was?” Hardman asked.

“Joranne,” Maewen confirmed.

“Why would she help us?” Hardman followed, sounding perplexed. “From what I was told of Three Willow, she had tried to capture Gen for herself, but it appears if she is simply content to let us have him now when he is within her power.”

“I do not know,” Maewen responded. “Her mind is dark and twisted, her reasons her own.”

“Can you find the wagon?” Torbrand asked, scooting downward toward the roof edge. “Will they survive being buried in the dirt?”

“I can find it. She is using a spell the elves perfected for traveling within the earth. They should be quite safe. We, on the other hand. . .”

Maewen let the thought trail off as they dropped into the alley and waited in the shadows as the mass of soldiers broke apart in groups and scattered.