Chapter 4 Chapter 6

- Chapter 5: Villa -

Concealed in a thick garden, Jarik crouched with Hilg, the big Northerner now his second-in-command. The two were dressed in the drab, patched tunics and trousers common to the lower class of Ducor Adta-Hars. Both had cropped their blond hair short and Hilg had reluctantly shorn his beard to match the city's current styles. They watched carefully as servants went in and out of the expansive walled villa of the High Priest Pranzik. A huge, three-storied white manor rose in the middle of the complex, surrounded by a handful of smaller buildings, including a private columned temple. As far as the two could see, the only way into the villa without scaling the high, smooth, limestone walls was through a broad wooden gate. Acolytes of The Voryaki, however, heavily guarded the gate and walls.

"We're never going to get Black Muraga's family out of there," complained Hilg, exasperated.

"Bautista said it was necessary for the Revolution," whispered Jarik. "Remember, Borig Muragasson has all those followers in the city we were unaware of just two weeks ago, what the wizard called the ‘Followers of the Truth.’ We can more than double our numbers if Borig joins us."

Hilg nodded. Jarik noted how agitated the tall, brawny man seemed and realized that he too was taut with a frayed nervousness. He decided it was time to return to the inn. Silently, they drifted out of the foliage and back onto the streets of Ducor Adta-Hars.

Immediately Jarik again sensed the tension in the streets. The evil that permeated the city was like poison in a cup of wine, invisible yet deadly. Chanting servants of The Voryaki swung smoking censors in unison, watching passersby out of the corner of their eyes while soldiers hassled anyone whom looked suspicious. No one spoke, not even the vendors. Buyers didn't haggle but merely pointed at the items they wished to purchase and then paid the price indicated, no matter how inflated. Being careful to stoop over, Jarik never wondered even once as they shuffled along the streets like old men what had caused the city to lose its spirit.

They made their way swiftly through the hot, silent city. A squad of arrogant soldiers stomped past, spears over one shoulder, forcing the two to flatten themselves against the chipped, plastered wall of a wine shop to avoid being trampled.

Finally they reached the inn and immediately climbed the rickety stairs to their room, a room devoid of anything save two piles of straw and a pair of rough woolen blankets. Light filtered through a shuttered window with several missing or broken slats. Once Hilg slid home the bolt, they both blew a relieved sigh.

Hilg waved his arms futilely. "I can't stand bein' in this city. It's so depressin'!"

Jarik nodded agreement. "Tonight then. We'll go mad if we remain in this oppression much longer. I just wish we could find some other way into Pranzik's mansion."

"You really think it's possible?"

"The way I see it, the only way in is as a servant or a priest of The Voryaki. Since we don't look like priests, that leaves us only one option."

"Can't we go back and check for another entrance one more time?"

Jarik shook his head. "We spent at least eight hours studying the place. There's no postern or any other way in. And if we delay much longer, Pranzik may have them moved to the king's dungeon. How long do you think the High Priest can afford to wait before someone tries to rescue them?"

Hilg hung his head. "I still can't believe we came so close to reachin' 'em yesterday before Pranzik had 'em arrested."

"Well, if what that innkeeper told us is true, Black Muraga appears to have teamed up with my brother. I bet that'll send people flocking to us." Jarik patted his stomach. "But let's go downstairs and get something to eat before starting. It's going to be a long evening."

*****

"Here come two," hissed Jarik. "Get ready!"

The pair huddled behind a dark corner of a tall building near Pranzik's mansion. As two peasants staggered past towards the villa, each carrying large sacks, the men reached out and grabbed their shoulders, yanking them into the alley and clamping a hand over their mouths. The rebels pricked the peasants' necks with long hollow darts Jarik had filled previously with a sleeping drug. The reaction was instantaneous. Quickly, they dragged the bodies aside.

"That should keep 'em quiet til morning," said Jarik. "Let's go!"

Grunting as they hefted the peasants' heavy sacks, they cautiously strolled to the mansion gates, hoping that the sacks were for the High Priest. The night was muggy, yet the sweat now plastering their tunics to their skin arose from anxiety as much as the humidity. Even so, not a single soldier or priest challenged them as they approached.

Pranzik's villa, though large, was not nearly so huge as Savonna's palace. Armed acolytes of The Voryaki paced the high wall-walks as sentries. Nervously the pair stepped up to the well-lit gateway where a black-robed priest checked every person entering and exiting. They opened their sacks for the priest, who looked in briefly, then nodded as they saw the rice inside. He pointed to a building on the right, grunting, "Kitchen."

They followed a couple of peasants also headed towards the scullery. Jarik glanced at Hilg.

He still seems jittery now that we're past the gates, thought Jarik, but there's more confidence in his steps.

Soon they were inside the coolness of the walls, descending the stairs to the kitchen. Delivering the rice to a cook, they followed the other peasants out. Instead of returning to the courtyard, however, they hung back momentarily before sneaking further down the stone stairs to the cool lower levels, guessing that Pranzik would be holding Black Muraga's family in his personal dungeon.

As they wandered, they found themselves often ducking into alcoves and doorways while servants, acolytes, and occasional priests marched by. They discovered that the lower levels seemed to spread beneath much of the villa grounds like catacombs. Finally, Jarik peered around a corner and spotted a priest with a large keyring leaning against a thick wooden door at the end of a hall. A gong and beater hung nearby.

"This looks like it, from what Bautista said." Jarik whispered softly, speaking directly into Hilg's ear so that the sound wouldn't carry. "But there's a priest guarding the door."

After taking a peek, Hilg whispered, "He's nearly asleep! We shouldn't have much problem overcomin' 'im."

Jarik wasn't so sure. "We've got to be careful. We don't want him raising an alarm. Remember that these priests are no ordinary fighters. They're much tougher to kill than Savonna's soldiers."

Hilg frowned. "Do you have any ideas?"

Jarik furrowed his brow for a moment, then whispered reluctantly, "You have your dagger. We could use that."

"Kill 'im in cold blood?!"

"I suppose you can look at it that way. I prefer to think of it as an act of war." He watched for several moments as Hilg considered what was essentially murder. Jarik was also having trouble justifying this action. Neither of them had ever killed an unsuspecting man like this.

Finally, Jarik whispered, "It's necessary."

Hilg nodded. "I s'pose." Sliding his dagger from its sheath, he crept to the corner while Jarik silently drew the short sword hidden beneath his cloak. Then the big Northerner stepped out and hurled his knife at the priest while Jarik rushed forward.

The jailer opened his mouth, surprised, but merely gurgled as the dirk struck his chest. While the priest fell, he reached to strike the gong but Jarik's sword stopped him short, slicing off the oblate's hand. The priest lurched to his feet, trying to draw his sword but Jarik slipped his blade between the man's ribs. Hilg caught the body, easing it softly to the ground while Jarik grabbed the keyring, fiddling it in the lock until he found the right key.

While Hilg dragged the jailer's body inside, tossing it into the first open cell, Jarik mopped the blood off the stone floor with a cloak he found crumpled in the corner, as well as wiping clean his sword. Then he followed his comrade into the dungeon, grabbing a lit torch before descending the steps.

The prison was a short, dank hallway lit by a single torch, the fetid odor of death and rotting decay clinging to the dripping stone walls. Rats scurried out of the way as the two men strode down the chilly hall, glancing briefly into each cell through the window grate set in the massive metal doors, all green with corrosion. The first cells were empty or contained only skeletons. Soon, however, they found a cell with three bodies huddled together as in sleep.

"Borig Muragasson?" hissed Jarik. The figures moved.

"Who's there?" asked a tired male voice.

"Friends. We've come to get you out. Is all your family in there?"

"All but my father."

"Good. Get yourselves ready."

The figures quickly moved to the door as Jarik rattled the keys in the lock. Then the cell was open. A tall, sturdily built young man covered with grime came out first. He had straight, closely cropped black hair and a thin mustache, and his dark eyes shone with pride and confidence. Two nervous-looking women in tattered clothes followed him. One of them, a slender, graceful blond with sparkling blue eyes, carried a sense of maturity and wisdom that Jarik felt immediately. The second had waist-length braided hair as black as the man's, and was nearly as tall. Her arms were bare, revealing firm yet supple muscles and, although she'd barely reached womanhood, a certain hardness in her large, dark eyes bespoke a toughness uncommon to ladies of noble rank.

Gods, they're beautiful, thought Jarik, even with all that filth covering them. I wonder what they'd look like in their most splendid finery.

"I thank you for aiding us, friend," said the man. "I am Borig Muragasson and this is my mother Alera and my sister Kalia. But who are you? I don't recall your faces."

"This is Hilg Sveinsson and I am Jarik Jorinsson. We fight for Evesthar around the Swesadian Hills."

The prisoners gasped and Kalia exclaimed, "A Jorinsson? Then you're rebels!"

"And dead rebels soon if we don't start moving," Hilg interjected.

The others nodded and they slipped out of the dungeon.

They have so much strength for all they must have endured, thought Jarik. These aren't the soft city dwellers I expected. I wonder what other dangers has hardened them so.

He glanced at Kalia, her jaw set firmly. Her dark, grim eyes met his gaze momentarily, a fierce pride visible before she turned away.

It's good they're strong, he thought. They’ll need every bit of it to survive tonight, let alone survive the Swesadian Hills.

As they cautiously stepped into the main corridors, Borig whispered, "We don't stand much chance of getting out through the mansion gates. Our faces are too well known, not to mention our reeking clothes."

Jarik stopped short. "We spent the entire day trying to find another way short of climbing the walls. What other way is there?"

A grin spread over Borig's face. "The sewers. Even Pranzik has to get waste out of here."

Hilg hushed them. They jumped into an alcove as a couple of priests marched past in the general direction of the dungeon.

When the clerics had gone a safe distance, Jarik said, "If you don't know where the exit is, we're going to have to make a run for it. Those priests--"

Alera held up a hand. "This was my husband's house once, before Savonna gave it to Pranzik a decade ago. This way," she pointed.

They dashed through a couple of empty hallways. Suddenly, a gong rang. They increased their speed. A few seconds later and the gong began crashing frantically, echoing loudly through the stone corridors.

"Our cell's been found," Alera shouted over the din. "I hope we can make it."

Borig grabbed a lighted torch from a wall bracket as his mother led them down another stairway. The stairs were slippery while an awful reek wafted up from below. At the bottom was a locked and rusted iron door. Jarik fumbled with the keys until one of them finally fit. Bursting into the room, they were nearly overcome by the stench. It was a small room, no bigger than the dungeon cells, and covered with slime and slop. Several holes the size of a man's head appeared in the other three walls, brown sewage dripping slowly from each hole. A grated tunnel entrance barely the height of a man appeared in the far wall, into which the waste slowly flowed.

"You want us to go through there?" asked Hilg incredulously.

"Do we have a choice?" Without waiting for a response, Alera waded into the muck, followed by Borig and Kalia. The three raised the grate and crept into the darkness. Jarik glanced at Hilg and the big man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. They followed the others into the sewer, hunching over to avoid banging their heads. Hilg pulled the grate shut behind them.

The sludge was only ankle deep but stunk worse than anything Jarik had ever smelled. It only got worse once they were in the sewer. Suddenly, shouts sounded from behind.

"Bloodsuckin' priests!" Hilg swore. He pulled out his short sword. "The rest of you go on. I'll hold 'em off."

"Not by yourself you won't," shouted Jarik as Alera led her children farther into the sewer.

Hilg glared at Jarik. "They've still got to get out of the city. That's your responsibility. Besides, who'll lead the Revolution if we lose you?" Jarik hesitated for a moment. The grate crashed open with an echoing clang.

"Go, you fool! They won't get you!" Hilg shoved Jarik after Black Muraga's family.

He knew Hilg was right and reluctantly stumbled after the others, whose torchlight had nearly disappeared around a bend. Moments later, he could hear the clash of swords and the cries of wounded men. He ran to catch up with Borig, swearing that he would avenge Hilg once he got Black Muraga’s family out of the city. Finally the ringing swords faded and Jarik cursed.

They remained silent as they sloshed through the sewer. Jarik strained his ears for sounds of pursuit but heard none. Then when he thought he could stand the stench no longer, they halted. Borig turned to him and whispered.

"We're near the end of the tunnel, down near the wharves outside the walled part of the city. There're probably soldiers or priests at the end so we're going up right here." Jarik descried rust-coated rungs in the sewer wall leading to a metal lid in the street above.

Borig continued. "I've got some friends down here who'll help us but the word will soon be out that some prisoners are trying to escape through the sewers." He gestured at the slime that covered much of their legs. "I think it'll be obvious who those prisoners are."

Jarik nodded. "Douse that torch while I go up." Without waiting for a response, he hauled himself to the top rung, holding on with one hand while silently sliding the lid aside, and pulled himself level with the street before peering into the gloom. Below him the torch sizzled.

He glanced swiftly about. It was nearly as dark outside as in the sewer but he could still see that the street was deserted. He clambered the rest of the way up and then helped the others out.

They kicked the lid into place and scrambled off the street into an alley, pressing themselves flat against the side of a run-down wooden building. When Borig was sure they weren't being followed, he furtively led them through several side streets.

I can't get used to this stillness and darkness, thought Jarik. When we used to visit Ducor Adta-Hars, it was always so lively, especially after dark. He glanced about at the shuttered buildings. But now even the taverns and brothels are quiet. All that's left are soldiers and priests.

Finally, Borig knocked softly on the door of an abandoned warehouse. They waited nervously for a few moments before a muffled voice spoke. Jarik couldn't hear what was said but when Borig mentioned his own name, the door cracked briefly and then opened all the way.

Soon they were huddled around an oil lamp in the warehouse loft. Three brawny, rough-looking men clad in drab, patched tunics smelling of fish sat with them. All nervously fingered their notched swords. Jarik wished Hilg were with him, even though he knew the three were not enemies.

"So then, Jarik," asked Borig, "Why have the rebels decided to get involved in the city's affairs?"

"It was no intention of ours, originally. Actually, it was the wizard's idea."

Eyebrows rose suspiciously. "What wizard?" asked one of the men, whose name was Torlik. A long, ragged scar ran up one cheek, passed beneath a black eyepatch and finally disappeared into his tousled red hair. A fishhook dangled from one lobe like an earring.

Jarik felt his face flush. "Bautista, a member of the Grand Order and wearer of the Carnelian Robe. He's the one who told me about your father, Borig."

The others gasped as one. "My father?" asked Kalia.

"Yes. It seems he somehow knew your father was going to be caught up with my brother Keir and so sent Hilg and me to get your family out of the city before Pranzik could get to you."

"We're still not safe," reminded Kalia. Jarik avoided her steely gaze.

"But we're no longer in Pranzik's dungeon either, dear," said Alera. She turned to Jarik, gripping his arm gently. "My most sincere thanks for risking yourself, Jarik Jorinsson, and I'm sorry about your friend." He nodded gratefully.

"Tell me," asked Torlik, "Is it true about your father? Is he really dead?"

Jarik hung his head to hide the anger and bitterness at such a question. These are friends, he reminded himself.

"I'm afraid so. That is partly why I came." He went on to tell about the quests Bautista had given both he and Keir the night his father died.

As he finished, Borig said, "Well, it looks like we're committed anyway. Besides, it's about time the Followers of the Truth joined the Revolution."

"There won't be a revolution here in the city," Alera interjected. "At least not with you in it."

"Mother!" Borig protested.

"You heard the message Jarik brought from Bautista. You children may not understand the importance of the Grand Order but your father and I certainly do. They are holy men of Evesthar. If Bautista wants us out of the city and with Jarik's men, then we must leave."

"Excuse me, my lady," said Burgan, a husky fisherman with weathered skin and receding gray hair. "But what proof have we got that this here Jarik's even givin' us the truth?"

"We have his actions tonight, and the sacrifice of his friend Hilg. They make no sense if they are anything other than what he claims." Alera gazed intently at Jarik. "My intuition also tells me that he does not lie."