The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim (17 page)

“
Go to hell, doc.”

“
I've been wondering where your spark for life had gone.” The doctor smiled and hung the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “Looks like you're getting it back.”

“
When are you gonna let me out of here?”

“
When are you going to stop asking me that?”

Pompidus' face flushed in anger. He folded his arms and grunted while the doctor sat on a stool by the bed and started prodding his useless leg. His grunts turned to grimaces as the instruments got closer to the location of the wound.

“
It still hasn't healed entirely, has it?”

“
You tell me, doc. I'm not the one being paid to keep me on the mend.”

The doctor stood and put away his instruments. “I would take it as an insult that you would think like that if I didn't know what state you were in. I'm trying to get you healthy, not keep you from it.” He produced a small cup with some colorful pills that he held out to his patient.

“
What're these?”

“
New antibiotics, the ones you've been taking are losing their effectiveness.”

“It would help if you had an idea of what you were doing
.”

The doctor pushed his glasses up and stared at the Mayor until he obliged and took the pills.

“
You'll be happy to know they've allowed you a visitor.”

“
You know what would make me happy? My damned office.” Merodach choked down some of the stale water sitting by his bed. The pills were huge. They felt like they were taking an alternate route and trying to break free through his larynx rather than face the torture of his belly. “Who the hell are 'they' anyways?”

The doctor didn't say anything as he took the cup back.

“You'd better start talking, doc.” The Mayor was practically growling now. “I rarely forget my friends, but I never forget my enemies.”

The doctor turned to leave, pushing the stool back under the bed and walking towards the door. “Your paranoia is as worrying as that infection.”

And with that he was gone. Merodach lowered himself onto his bed and rolled over to face the wall with a frown. He hated being quarantined like this. He wanted his power back; he wanted respect. The idea that Silvers might come back for him did manage to temper his haste, however. But the longer he stayed here, the worse things would be for him when he got out. He couldn't even be sure how long he had been here. Time had blended into an eternity of white walls and colorful pills. Some days his anger and ambition flared to life. Other days he dwelled on taking his own.

He had woken up down here, and though he had tried to escape on numerous occasions, his lack of strength always undid him. That and the fact that he was certain he was on a sub-level of the Southern Tower. There would be no escaping without help, he had realized. And there was no one around willing to risk their necks and do just that.

“
This fat bugger's who we's lookin' for then, hey?”

“
Guess so.”

Merodach kept facing the wall. Whoever the hell they might be they certainly weren't from the military. They didn't even sound Elandrian.

“
Oi, you. Wadsworth. Roll over.”

“
Maybe he's sleepin'?”

“
Maybe he's gots you fooled, hey?”

“
Shut up, he's all sick like. Sweatin'n quiverin'.”

“
Don't mean he's sleepin.”

Pompidus could barely stand to listen to them go on. “What the hell are you here for already?”

“
Oi! You 'ear that? 'E's plenty awake then.”

“
So he is. You Pompotius Mer... Mera– ”

“
Pompidus Merodach. Of course I am!” He rolled over to face them. “What kind of idiots are you? I'm the only damn person down here!”

Two big, square-shouldered men stood facing him. Each was dressed well but looked completely uncomfortable, like dogs in their owners' finest suits. As out of place as the clothes made them look, they seemed overly confident to be dealing with someone like Merodach.

“
Oi, right temper he's got.”

“
Aye, right testy.”

“
Who are you?” Merodach barked.

“
He's curious though.”

“
Like a rat.”

“
Cat.”

“
What?”

“
Cat. It's curious as a cat, you bloat.”

Merodach almost exploded at the exchange. “Who the hell are you?”

They turned from each other to face the pallid man on the bed before them. The less brutish one of the two spoke up.

“
Name's Bill, this 'ere's Clive. We's 'ere to make sure you gets back on the ol' 'orse.”

T
HE SEA HAD PROVED FAR LESS CHOPPY IN THE PAST FEW DAYS, AND THOUGH IT REMAINED IMMUTABLY GRAY,
A
RDIN FELT HIS STRENGTH RETURNING
.
Even though he didn't feel so bad any more, he thought he would never find his sea legs. He was certainly gaining no love of life on the open ocean.

The Fisherman, on the other hand, seemed disappointed at the lack of spirit the waves had been showing. He never grinned so broad as when they listed upwards of twenty degrees. Ardin couldn't be certain, however, as he'd rarely witnessed it. Those were the occasions he was busy lying on his back or being tossed about the ship. When the ocean was relatively calm, the Fisherman would get bored and tie off the wheel. It made Ardin nervous to see the Fisherman wander off from the bridge, but he supposed the old man knew what he was doing.

“
Do you know about magic?” Ardin asked while playing absentmindedly with his bread one
morning. “I always wanted to learn about it. I mean, before I actually could use it.”

It was the first meal he had been able to keep down in two days. He still didn't have much of an appetite, but the Fisherman insisted.

“
Not much, lad, no. I can sense it, sure. I can tell ya when it's present and how strong it is, but
that's about it these days.”

“
You can't manipulate the Atmosphere?”

“
You think I can?”

“
Somehow I would be surprised if you couldn't.”

The Fisherman laughed at that. “You have a mighty high view of me then. But yes, I can pull a few tricks when I needs 'em. I still couldn'a tell you much about it though. It's more an art than a science to me. That's magic though. If I understood how it worked, it wouldn'a be magic no more, would it?”

“
Did the Magi understand it?”

“
Aye, lad. That's why they didn'a call it magic. Jus' us ignorants that do that. But what fun is a world without a little magic?” He put down his mug and waited for Ardin to look him in the eyes. “You feel like you're gettin' a feel for it?”

“Yes and no.
” Ardin looked down at his food. “I don't really
know
how to use it, but when I call, it's always there. Always ready
. In that way I guess I'm learning more; I've been working at it. I'm just...
I guess I'm just scared of what will happen if...” He trailed off as he put the hunk of bread back on his plate.

“
You'll do fine lad, I promise.” He took a swig of coffee, thick and black as the leather of his belt.
“You won't end up like Charsi.”

“
I already have...”

They sat there in silence as the deep rattling hum of the boat's engine droned on. It pressed them into and over the low swells that rolled lazily on for what seemed like forever.

“
There's a blessed grace in this life, lad.”

Ardin looked up. The Fisherman seemed to be staring off into the distance from inside their boat. Into his own past or perhaps somewhere beyond.

“
We all crave redemption. Whether or not we're ready to admit it.” He smiled his kindly smile and looked back at Ardin. “Thankfully, it's extended to us more often than we deserve.”

The skies cleared over the next day. Before they knew it they were sailing on glass. Ardin spent hours out on the bow watching the hull slice through the waters. The spray in his face made him think of his trip with Alisia from White Shores. He sighed, imagining his hand on hers as it rested on the railing.

The Fisherman sat with him the next day, breathing deeply as the salty breeze rolled past. The weather was growing steadily warmer, comfortable even.

“My father was a soldier.” Ardin said. “He wasn't so specialized as Khrone's, but he wound up being some sort of strategist and low-level commander. He never told us much about what he had done, or how he had served. He told us stories, but they were never his own.”

The Fisherman stretched his legs but stayed silent.

“Even though he never told us much about his own life, he shared with us what he
knew
.
He taught us how to fight, how to plan our attacks on each other and how to disappear. We thought it was all fun. My brother John and I would traipse off in the woods for days. My mother hated it when we didn't come back at nightfall, but we didn't care. We would get so absorbed in hunting each other that we would forget to eat.”

He looked up at the big man sitting next to him. “I'd always wanted to be someone like you. Someone like my father, who had served and fought and killed. I thought it would be a great way to turn life into a game.”

“And now that you're a part of the game, lad?”

“I wish it
was
a game.”

They came within sight of land a day later, the Fisherman cursing at misjudging the distance to the coastline. He hadn't realized quite how close they had come in the night. It couldn't be held against him; there were no real charts of Grandian shores and he hadn't been there in decades. If anyone saw them they didn't make themselves known. The duo passed along the coast, keeping it just in sight as they wandered farther south. They kept a close eye on the shore, a dark slit that separated the blue above from the blue below. The Fisherman said they were just past the line on the world that marked half-way between north and south. But for Ardin, comparing maps to reality in his mind kept the idea from really gaining a foothold.

“
What are we looking for?” Ardin asked after they had passed another natural harbor.

“
There used to be a road that ran from the coast,” the Fisherman said. He kept peering at the horizon as he steered the boat with patient skill. He never bothered to look at Ardin as he continued.
“
Built it when we landed here durin' the war. It's the only landmark I'm familiar with enough to make land.”

“
Where are we going from there?”

“
Inland. Reconnaissance, lad. Gotta find out what's goin' on. People must be in trouble for the Bein' to ask you to come here.”

“
She said they needed to be freed.”

“
She? I wou... right. I don' doubt it. When we were here last there was whole cities built like slums. People livin' in rancid squalor, right on top of each other. The Demon's slavers had almost broke the whole lot of 'em before we got here. Poor souls hardly remembered they was human any more.”

Ardin felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. It brought him back to his time in the asylum in the mountains. To his fellow inmates. To the wraith in his dreams. He had forgotten who he was. He wondered how close he had been to forgetting what it was to be human. If that's what the wraith had been there to accomplish. He knew with dark certainty that it was possible.

“
There it is.” The Fisherman brought him back to reality. “Just between those hills. I'd recognize 'em in the dark.”

And with that they pulled starboard and sailed toward land. Sure enough, Ardin could make out the broken remnants of a road running to the shore as they got closer. It faded into the trees just a few hundred yards in. To call it overgrown would have been to understate how densely covered it now was. Enormous trees covered the landscape, crowding down to the rocky beaches as if being forced into the ocean by the sheer mass of their numbers. They were different than any trees he had ever seen. Like flat-bottomed clouds connected to the earth by ever thickening leashes.

It seemed miraculous to Ardin. Even the jungle at White Shores couldn't compare to the majesty of this forest. It seemed to ebb and flow back to the horizon, swelling up and breaking on the bald buttes that dotted the landscape. The road ran between two of the larger hills who, though covered in tall grasses and shrubs, looked bare in comparison to their surroundings.

“
If Donovan can get us some help, this is where he'll come.”

“
We're not even sure what kind of help we'll need,” Ardin said quietly. He surveyed the growing shore with suspicion. The air became even warmer and stickier as they drew near.

“
Nah, lad. You're right. But we will need help, that much is certain.”

They moored the boat as high on the beach as they could. The Fisherman said that the tide would leave it sitting on land, which made little sense to Ardin, but he trusted the old man. They tied the bow to as many trees as they had ropes for. The sun began to set before they had even found a suitable clearing in which to camp.

It took them another hour to get their supplies off the ship.

“
There's no one around,” Ardin said as the Fisherman dropped a load of driftwood in front of
him. “I mean no one. I've never seen so much empty space.”

“
The mountains back home are awful empty,” he said, sitting back to watch Ardin work.

Ardin had only been able to practice with blocks of wood and crates on the boat. It was tempting to exercise his manipulation of the Atmosphere on something new. He started by sorting the driftwood into a pile. He formed ropes in his mind; more than that, they were living tendrils. He gave them instructions on what to pick up and where to put it simply by imagining where they were to go. He was getting to the point where he was comfortable moving small objects without much thinking about it.