Shadow Of The Mountain (37 page)

“Paige,” Desik whispered. It was his wife. The house was his home.

He felt his soul plummet.

“Tell him…” Paige could be heard speaking with Natalia as if Desik were right by her side. “Tell him that I’m proud of him. That I’m proud of what he’s done, and I’m proud of what he’s yet to do.”

Natalia nodded her head, still gripping Paige’s hand.

“Tell him not to be so angry all the time,” the love of his life continued with a weak smile. “And that it’s not all bad.”

“No,” Desik said. “Oh, no. Paige?”

These were his wife’s last moments, he knew that somehow. They were unfolding right before his eyes. None of it made any sense, but what he saw was so real. The colors, the sounds, the breeze from the window ruffling the white curtains, the women’s carefully tailored outfits and hairstyles. It was all so vivid and pure, stronger than any memory or dream.

“Tell him that I watch over him every day. That every day I miss him, and every day I love him.”

Natalia closed her eyes and took Paige’s hand in both of hers, fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“Tell him…” Paige looked over to the window and was startled by something.

“No!” she cried, the measure of fear in her voice something he’d never heard before, crushing him even more. “Not yet!”

Desik looked over and saw a black figure sitting on the windowsill, nothing more than a murky shadow. No one else appeared to notice. It shifted when he looked, like a moonlit reflection within the depths of a well.

“It’s okay, Paige,” Natalia stroked her hand. “We’re here. We’re all here for you.”

“Don’t let him take me!” his wife screamed. “Please!”

The black figure stood up from the windowsill and moved toward her.

Desik felt his heart ache so fiercely he moaned from the pain of it.

“Desik?” his wife cried, her feet kicking out and head turning back and forth. “Desik!”

“Paige!” He beat his hands against the orb. Bursts of blue light crackled where his fists landed, but there was no getting in. Whatever separated them was strong.

“He’s with you,” Natalia promised her as she laid a calming hand over her forehead. “He’s here with you and he loves you more than anything else in the world. We’re all here, Paige. We’re all here and we all love you.”

The black figure stood by Natalia and watched his wife. What looked like a slender arm reached out toward her face.

“Paige!” Desik continued to hammer the sphere, harder each time. “Look at me, Paige! Look at me!”

His wife turned toward him. “Desik?” she asked faintly.

The dark figure’s hand caressed her brow ever so gently, and then it was over. Paige’s head tilted to the side and she lay motionless. Desik’s pounding fists fell still as he watched the only happiness in his life pass from him.

Paige had died four years ago. He knew that. She was buried outside their cottage beneath a willow tree. Natalia had seen to it. Desik had been away on a king’s errand and missed the service by four months. Whatever he was seeing now was not his wife, could not be. His wife was a long time gone.

Yet none of those truths took the pain away. She had died, right before his eyes.

Desik watched with tears as the women slowly vanished, one by one, their images thinning to shadow. Parts of the room began to crumble away, returning to the thick, familiar darkness that had surrounded him earlier. Even Paige’s body slipped from him again, disappearing as if she had never been. Desik watched her until there was nothing left of his wife.

All that remained was Natalia. She sat alone where the bed used to be, the floor around her breaking apart like cliffs crumbling to a black sea.

Desik felt a pull from somewhere and the orb began to shrink. The last thing he saw was a shifting black shadow making its way toward Natalia, a hand reaching out to her…

***

“He’s waking up!” a voice cracked in the distance.

Desik’s ears were ringing with a hateful scream. The sky was turning gray, blocking out the sun. Coastal storm clouds were rolling in from the north like mountains, obscuring the view above. There would be no stars to gaze upon this night.

Because we are in the shadow of the mountain.

He smelled smoke. Heard a scream nearby. Someone cradled his head. Desik tried to sit up, but a thin hand pushed him back down. Brushing the restraint off, he leaned forward, resting hands on knees. He spit a mouthful of blood out to the street. One of his molars felt chipped and he pressed his tongue against the sharp, unfamiliar edges.

Next to him laid an arm, severed at the shoulder. A woman’s. Strings of wet gore hung loose from the detached end, dust-covered and black. A half-eaten orange lay beside it, clean enough to pick up and finish. Why would he think that?

More screams enveloped him. Anguished screams. A building on his left was partially collapsed with snapping flames that rose three stories above, billowing black smoke into the air. It was the magistrate building where he was to find Tenlon after the meeting with Darien and Lesandra.

Tenlon.

Desik tried to stand, but the hand reached out again to push him down. He grabbed it and meant to break the wrist before seeing Lanard’s startled form spill into view. Releasing the musician, Desik rose unevenly to his feet.

Lanard mumbled something to him.

“What?” Desik growled.

“You need to sit!” the flutist yelled. “You’re hurt!”

Desik took a few steps before losing his footing. Strong hands steadied him. It was Brock. The large bartender’s face was soot-covered and worried, his usual brown mustache and thinning hair now a dusted gray. He tried to move Desik back to a sitting position, but the warrior tore free of his grip.

He stumbled around the street, searching for his swords. There were bodies and smoking debris everywhere. More screams howled around him as his hearing slowly returned.

“You need to rest, friend,” Brock insisted. “We still haven’t found your boy.”

Desik located one of his short swords underneath a smoldering window shutter and saw the other nearby. Wiping one blade clean on his jacket sleeve, he slid the weapon back into its scabbard at his hip, keeping the other in his grip.

“You won’t find him,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Gemma appeared next to her father. She was dressed to travel in light leggings and a hooded tunic with the strap of a leather bag slung across her chest. “Where is he? What happened here?”

“Damnit, child! I told you to go to the dock!” Brock fumed, making her jump. “Hagart can’t keep an eye on you if you’ve gone and wandered off!”

Desik turned his back to them and surveyed the scene. People were scattered across the street—some moving, others not so much. Whatever the explosion was had almost killed him and had taken the lives of quite a few others in his place.

The Amorian saw the gray-haired bartender from the Broken Shield a short distance away. Tombsy, his name was. The fool hadn’t fled, even after all this.

He watched in disbelief as Tombsy rummaged through the pockets of a motionless man face down on the street, a poor bastard who still had flames chewing at the shoulder of his wool shirt. Already pillaging, Desik thought. He was a gem of a man, this Tombsy.

“There was a great crash, like thunder.” Lanard came up behind him. “We were taking Gemma to the wharf when we saw the smoke. It was sheer luck that we found you.”

Desik kept his eyes on Tombsy. “You’ve spent some time in this city, yeah?” he asked, spitting out more blood out.

“All my life,” Lanard proclaimed.

“So you know people, places they frequent? Addresses? That sort of thing?”

“Certainly. I’ve performed all across this city. In fact, much of western Endura has had the pleasure of--”

“I need your help to find Tenlon.”

The flutist removed his purple hat and placed it against his chest. “Anything,” he promised.

Desik moved down the street, stalking toward the gray-haired barkeeper. His balance and strength felt as though it were returning with each step.

“Oh, now?” Lanard asked with surprise, running to keep up. “Perhaps we should see to some of your wounds. You are bleeding from several different places.”

Desik came up behind Tombsy and cracked the flat of his blade against his head, knocking him to the ground.

“Desik! What are you doing?” Lanard cried out. “Was that a purposeful attack? I understand that in times of stress mistakes can be made, but…” He trailed off at what came next.

Desik flipped Tombsy onto his back with the toe of a boot. Still groggy from the blow, his eyes went wide as he saw who stood above him.

“No,” Tombsy pleaded from the ground. “I didn’t know it was going to turn out that way! I swear it! Okin said to just stand behind the bar! That’s all!”

Desik pressed a boot against Tombsy’s right arm, pinning it to the dusty street. The clean parts of his soot-flecked sword caught a bit of the overcast sun as he held it aloft, then it came down to hack off four of Tombsy’s fingers and a large piece of palm. There was a soft clunk as the steel sank through his flesh and met the hard-packed dirt beneath.

“Oh dear,” Lanard said distantly.

The Amorian waited calmly for the barkeeper’s cries to pass, still pinning the bleeding limb down. No one seemed to notice fresh screams amidst the other sounds of pain that surrounded them.

“We’re going to talk now,” Desik said as the shrieks turned to whimpers. “And you will tell me everything I want to know.”

***

Tenlon sat up, sore all over. The stone floor his hands touched was cold and gritty, the air around him damp. He rose slowly, leaning against a wall for support. He was at the foot of a wooden staircase. His groping hands could feel the smooth edges of it in the dark. Looking up, he could see a door at the top of the steps, framed in soft light from beyond. It glowed, beckoning him to it. Not much else could be seen, and the light was far more welcoming than the inky black surrounding him.

Taking the steps one at a time, he tried anchoring himself to the railing, but it was far too loose, feeling as though it could fall off entirely at the slightest amount of pressure. Tenlon released the rail and leaned into the stairs with his hands, slowly climbing them as a child might. Moving was making him dizzy. He was scared. Wherever he was, it was bad. Very bad.

Coming to the door, he blindly fumbled for a knob or latch until finding the cold handle. Pressing down, he heard the small latch click open, but the door didn’t budge. It was barred from the other side.

Tenlon raised his fist to pound on the heavy wood, but then he stopped. People were beyond the doorway.

Leaning in, he tried to listen, but the words were indiscernible. The voices were deep as heavy war drums, filling him with fear. And the tone of it wasn’t even angry. These must be large men, he decided.

His stomach tightened and he took a step back from the door. Large men, but Volrathi? He couldn’t say, hadn’t the time to see their faces, their eyes. Maybe. Probably. Who else could it have been?

He had been approached on the street by bulky hooded men, the biggest he’d ever seen. Goliaths of meat and muscle with rough hands that grabbed him so tightly he felt they might never loosen. Next something had hit him on the head and it all went blank. That would probably account for the growing goose egg above his temple.

He gently rubbed the lump and thought of what to do next. What would Desik have done?

That made him smile. Desik would never be here, not in this situation. What had happened to him? he wondered. Tenlon hoped that wherever he was, his friend was alive and safe.

He carefully climbed backward to the bottom of the stairs, each creak and groan of wood now sounding all too deafening in the quiet basement.

Without the soft light creeping in through the doorway, all around him was black. It only took two shuffling steps before his shin struck something hard, sending a stab of pain up his leg. Anger grew inside of him, but there was nowhere for it to go.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Pressing palms together, Tenlon struggled to summon the Light of Serra
.

It took longer than normal to gather the energy needed, even for a spell so minor. His thoughts were in chaos and the sharp focus necessary was difficult to achieve under such strain.

He pressed on anyway, and two minutes later brought light to his surroundings.

The bright orb was held before him in cupped hands, warm and golden as a tiny sun. He took in his prison cell.

The basement was a mess. Overturned furniture and splintered chests were spread throughout. Robes and garments were thrown in all directions, with broken pots and other bits of garbage at his feet. He could smell urine now, and excrement. Something was rotting down here, or dead.

He moved to a supporting beam of lumber, careful not to disturb anything for fear of bringing those above him down the stairs.

The walls suddenly caught his eye. The dim light of his spell almost missed what surrounded him.

Floor to ceiling, covering each wall, were shelves upon shelves of leather-bound texts, like a tightly packed library. It was stunning.

Tenlon held the light closer, examining the books. There were volumes of history, philosophy and religion. Gadaon’s entire progression of Endura’s ancient races were there, all twenty-two enormous ledgers, each a painstaking analysis of known history prior to today‘s civilized cultures. A full collection was worth a small fortune.

As he continued to look over the shelves, his surprise turned to shock.

It was all here. Jantos Alibadian’s mapping of the stars, Telurod’s life’s work on the creation of the Western Isles, Mon Rhy-en’s
Art of Body and Death,
Makobe Drascul’s thesis on the Lost Lagreans, Shadowfist’s dragon-lore and battle history, detailed analysis of Den Prazi’s political upheavals, and even Han Durror’s work on the shifting of the continents. While the quantity of texts was nothing compared to that of Corda’s libraries, the quality of the collection was a close rival. Tenlon could think of worse places to be held prisoner.