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	Chapter 6
	Chapter 6 ------------- The Pirates had been impressed when the giant mage had soared the gap between their ships and landed deftly upon their smouldering deck, ready to fight them all. Kern, however, had not been impressed. He had even fought alongside the pirates against Tyrius, but had only received a sore head in the process. Now all the cutthroats lay either dead, dying or locked up in the brig, and Kern was tied securely to the mast by a thick series of clever knots. Tyrius was immortal, that was the only thing Kern could conclude. No mortal could have taken on a whole ship full of pirates and won without a single battle wound, much less without a blade, dagger or spear at hand. Now the big man was preparing a life-boat for their escape, come the dawn. ‘You know, I could have taken you if you weren’t using your magic, you cowardly barbarian.’ Kern declared. Tyrius looked back at the man and frowned, ‘Indeed? Well perhaps you’d like to hold off on your magic next time also?’ Kern shrugged, ‘I barely even used any of mine!’ ‘No, of course not, the pirates turned invisible all on their own.’ ‘Well maybe they did! Maybe they were a whole ship full of mages, did you stop to think of that?’ ‘I confess, I hadn’t considered the fact that the ship full of poorly dressed, undernourished pirates were capable of magic tricks that could make them rich and famous in half a day’s work.’ ‘Well I’m not rich and famous.’ Tyrius shot him a second glance, ‘I wonder why.’ Kern sneered. The big man had stocked the small lifeboat with rations and other equally important goods and was preparing a sling to lower them down for when they were ready to leave. Kern raised a hand to self-consciously smooth his hair down as if his ego had been damaged by the insult. Tyrius heard the movement and span about, but Kern quickly returned him arms to the ropes as if he was still bound by them, a mock-innocent expression on his grubby face. --- It took the Grey Eagle a further week to reach the harbour of Midport, a short sail inland in the general direction of the nation of Zar. The journey passed without further incident, except for the funerals of the fallen sailors, which had left many of the crew – as well as Muirayn – in a solemn mood. Fane and Sec spent most of their time wandering the ship and playing games with Clyde. They talked a little with the remaining two mages or the first mate, when they had a chance. The chatter was lacking warmth, as should be expected, and they conversed mainly of Midport or Southkeep. Fane had not yet told Sec about his conversation with Gwynia regarding the mage-girl in his vision. He suspected his friend would consider it a betrayal. The truth of it was that Fane was honestly concerned for the well-being of the girl. He had no idea why; he feared her power and her anger, but he felt as if he could help her, as if he was the only one who could. Deep down he knew that if they did not find the girl, another person would die, and that person would perhaps be the girl herself. Obviously he did not consider the girl and himself alike, as he was taken for premature reasons; what ifs rather than serious current concerns. The only danger his magic possessed was to over-curious wild-boar. Yet in seeing her and her use of magic, he felt emotionally dependant on her well-being, for some reason that he could not fathom. He spent some of the time over the two days simply staring at Gwynia when she wasn’t looking. He was transfixed by her; by her beauty and grace, her overwhelming presence of perfection reflected in her pale, alien eyes. Sec of course, had noticed Fane’s transfixion, but Fane was oblivious to his friend’s disapproving glare. As they approached the Human city of Midport, Gwynia came to the two boys, followed by Muirayn. ‘Fane,’ Gwynia said, ‘We need you to come with us on this mission.’ Sec looked at his friend, ‘What?’ Fane shook his head, ignoring Sec for the moment, ‘I will have no further part in her capture. You already knew what I had to tell you, and I won’t be an aid to this.’ ‘What did you tell her Fane?’ Sec said, his tone cold with anger. Fane turned to Sec, ‘I told her about the vision, but – listen, please. All I told her she already knew. I merely sought an explanation for why I was given the images.’ ‘Fane!’ Sec hissed, his eyes wide, trying to convey the seriousness of what confiding in their captors really meant. Fane did not see it as a serious issue, but his reasoning was blurred by the beauty of a certain mage. ‘I had no answers for him,’ Gwynia said, ‘No explanations. It’s possible that he inadvertently reached out and felt the magic of a nearby mage, but that usually does not happen unless the magic user is concentrating profusely.’ ‘However,’ Muirayn said, ‘We would like Fane to come with us in case he can help him find her.’ Sec was livid, ‘Why would he do that!? The nerve of you people! You take us from our home, you take us prisoner, and then you expect us to help you do the same to others!?’ Fane nodded, ‘I will not go that far.’ Gwynia also nodded in return. Suddenly she reached out her hand and snatched Fane’s arm, slipping a steel object over his wrist. Sec, still very angry, started forward to push the tall woman away from his friend, but Muirayn was there, holding Sec back firmly. Fane stepped back, looking at the object that had been forced upon him. ‘What…’ He queried. ‘An enchanted object,’ Muirayn said, releasing the struggling Sec. ‘It will bind you to Gwynia. If you move more than 10 feet away from her, it will cause you great pain. The same, if you try to remove it.’ Fane stared in disbelief, ‘This is what you call treating us hospitably? Are we to be no more than your slaves!? I told you, I will not help you in your search, even if I am forced to accompany you on this mission!’ Gwynia’s expression was resolute, ‘You are not a slave, child. If you decide not to help us, you do not have to, but you will come with us anyway, as a prisoner, not a slave.’ --- It was only an hour later when Fane and Sec were beset by images the likes of which they had never seen. A city of bustle beyond their collective experience’s compare. Never had they seen so many merchants, so many colours and creeds of people as they milled about by the harbour’s edge, seeking to sell their goods to travellers and foreigners alike. In the distance, beyond the harbour, stood a great collection of tall buildings, various and rich. A church spire rose up in the centre of the stone constructs, surrounded by flags and arches of all tones and formations. ‘Not in all Ryadell is there a city so alive with foreign visitors.’ Muirayn said, ‘People from all nations and races come here to trade with the most powerful people on Sheol, or at least they did before the recent wars, but it is still far from the largest of their cities.’ He looked at Fane, ‘But it is certainly not a place to walk with your guard down. It might seem pretty, but it’s a dangerous city.’ The boys stared in wonder as the ship pulled up against the docks. Before them was an Eskan ship, recently docked, as they had. Its form was jagged rather than smooth, like a boat made out of wooden steps and constructed from scales of wood rather than from regular planks. At its head was a giant serpent’s skull which Fane could only guess was the head of a vanquished monster from the E’eskan desert lands. It was four-masted, with each mast being progressively higher than the last as it ascended from fore to aft. The sails themselves seemed to fold out like a hand-held fan, and were held up by rigging whipped around long, black spikes at the tips of the ship’s highest extremities. Everything about the vessel was hard-edged and powerful looking. Out of the ship ran a crew of alien beings that Fane had only seen in picture books. Eskans; the race of cold-blooded reptilian beings. They were nose-less, covered in hard scales of yellows and browns, and their hair protruded from their head in naturally formed matted locks, grown separate from one another in hardened bunches. As rumours had it, they appeared to be entirely female. Their chests were large, filling out their band-plated armour in what would humanly be considered as an ample fashion. At their behinds, from the depths of their heavy armour came a thick tail lined with doted golden scales, trailing to the pointed - and reputably poisonous - sting. The legends said that there are no males in the entire Eskan race, but there was a general disbelief of this myth amongst Fane’s kin. However, it was said that the Eskan people laid their children as eggs, with no need of fertilization. Fane understood why they were there. They were allies of the Human race, and this ship was a military vessel, perhaps a patrol ship or maybe even part of an invasion force bound for some poor Furalian or Tenakos city. *1 Fane chose that moment to reveal a plan to Sec. ‘Sec.’ He whispered lightly, standing close to his friend, ‘Let me go with them, do not make a fuss. I have an idea. I will attempt to use my power to call the aid of another, if I can. I’ve never tried speaking to a Human before, but if what Tyrius says is true, I may be able to adjust it to do so.’ Sec nodded, understanding the clever plan, ‘Be careful who you chose as our savoir, Fane. There are more enemies in this city than there are heroes.’ Fane agreed, understanding what Sec meant completely. ‘And don’t be so willing to share with that Furalian wench!’ Sec hissed, still whispering, as he clenched his jaw furiously. ‘Use your brain to make decisions regarding women for once.’ Fane nodded, smiling slightly. ‘But oh dear gods …’ he raised his eyebrows approvingly, ‘She’s one fine looking lady isn’t she? Part of me wishes her spell made it hurt to move more than 10 inches away from her, rather than 10 feet.’ He grinned openly. Sec gave him a disapproving look. --- The city was found to be even more astounding when it was traversed on foot. Explosive bellows of advertising merchants filled the ears of the small party, at times shocking in volume. It was a choir of competing vendors, each one seeking supremacy over the other, each one in a constant war song of monetary conquest. The chill of autumn did nothing to dry the sweat-soaked bodies amidst the busy crowd of visitors and villagers. The smell was almost tangible; it was a meaty, thick, acrid stench of mortal hard labour. Faces passed Fane by, dizzying his head, swamping his senses. He could not keep up with the bustle of the ancient city, much less work out which direction they had just come from, if it became necessary to remember. In their party walked Muirayn, Gwynia and two crew members, one of whom was the first mate, Darren; an aged, silver-haired Human with a seemingly kind hearted yet stern of demeanour. ‘This used to be a Zard city, you know.’ Darren said to Fane, trying to make conversation in the chaos - chaos which he was evidently un-phased by. ‘That figures.’ Fane said, not in the mood for small talk, ‘Humans will take all the city’s of others, given enough time.’ He had not meant it as an insult to Darren, but he realised as he said it that it might have annoyed the Human first-mate. ‘Oh I don’t know.’ Darren said calmly, ‘The same could be said against any other race, ‘specially Eskans and Tenakos. Greed is … everywhere.’ Fane had to agree with this, though he did not say so. Humans, however, had shown many more crimes than greed of late. The sins of the Human race were fast becoming unspeakable, and here they were, right in one of their most prolific cities. They headed towards the heart of the city, walking briskly so as not to get caught in the human traffic. Fane noticed the change in architecture. Here and there were buildings that appeared to be built from massive stone slabs rather than bricks or wood. The buildings were built tall, curved inwards in convex patterns and crested by worn inhuman looking statues, almost gargoylish in appearance. Fane should have guessed that they were the ancient constructs of the original Zard that had occupied this place, but Fane hadn’t realised the bestial peoples were capable of such art. Finally they came to a clearing and a green park amidst the stone streets. It was scattered with wooden benches and decorated with formations of colourful flowers and interesting plants of all shapes and size. The party made their way to the centre of the perfectly rounded clearing, standing far enough away from any of the other civilians so that they could speak privately. ‘Anything?’ Muirayn asked, looking at Gwynia. ‘Not me. You?’ She replied. Muirayn shook his head negative. Fane deduced that they have obviously not sensed the presence of the girl. ‘So what now?’ Gwynia asked her senior. Muirayn clenched his well-defined jaw in thought, looking around at the group of people who passed them closely by. When they were gone he replied, ‘This would certainly be easier if Tyrius was with us, Gwyn. We should have searched for him.’ Darren interrupted, ‘Like the Captain said, Muirayn, he could have been anywhere. It’s a big old sea, a ship is like a splinter of wood in a lake by comparison.’ Muirayn sighed, ‘Unless the girl uses her powers again, we won’t know where to start looking.’ He turned to Fane and held his gaze for a moment. ‘I’m not helping!’ Fane declared stubbornly. ‘She could die if you do not.’ Fane straightened up, ‘Well lucky her.’ Gwynia glared at him, her translucent gaze icy and frustrated. She had opted to go cloaked and hooded into the Human town, as the only Furalians usually seen in this city would be slaves, and she did not carry herself as a slave. Still, her eyes gave away her heritage, so she was still forced to be careful. ‘Death is never lucky.’ She said; venom in her voice. ‘When your home city is burned at the hands of the Human army and you are far away, kept safe, then you will remember that. Then you will be the lucky one.’ Her words were hard edged and cut Fane deeply. There was much cruelty in the world, but Fane often tried to ignore it. Often, it did not affect him. Yet the thought of his home being overrun by Humans … it unsettled him, even to hear it suggested. Muirayn placed a hand on his companion’s shoulder, restraining her from further admonition of the boy. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’ Darren said, ‘We need to start asking questions, like normal people.’ Muirayn nodded, ‘What do you suggest?’ He asked. Darren shrugged, ‘What about posing as a Human Agent and asking around in the taverns?’ Muirayn laughed and grinned, ‘A Human Agent, with unkempt, long blonde hair and the look of a Hornish?’ *2 ‘It could happen. Okay, so we’ll have to cut your hair … but I’m sure you wouldn’t miss it.’ Muirayn raised an eyebrow, ‘Come anywhere near my hair and we’ll see what gets cut.’ He was being playful, but it was evident that he was proud of his long shanks. While it was currently fashionable neither in Human nor Dreyhood cultures, it wasn’t unseen in this day and age. More to the point, however, Human agents were not known for having long hair. *3 ‘Okay, okay.’ Darren said, raising his hands. Then he paused and made the face of a genius that had just invented his newest machine. ‘Wait … I have an idea.’ --- The rope around Gwynia’s neck jerked as the party entered the tavern. Darren, on the other end of the rope, whispered an apology and was repaid with a venomous glare. At their lead, the newly cloaked Muirayn strolled confidently up to the bar, his hood pulled up around his hair and ears. The extra shade of the hood also masked his slightly golden skin tone quite effectively. Of course, there was some intermixing between Human and Dreyhood peoples, but Muirayn, in light of day, was plainly part Hornish. A Dreyhood in Human country didn’t turn any heads, as the self proclaimed independent ‘race’ of Westerners long ago individually chose which side of the divide they were on; some chose the Human side, some chose the rebellion and became known as Dreyhood. However, it wasn’t common for one of Dreyhood heritage to be a Human Agent, as such people were more often treated as spies. The barman eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’ll it be stranger?’ He asked in a fairly clichéd gruff tone. Muirayn slipped a purse of coins across the bar discretely. The barman looked surprised as he took the large sum of money. ‘Ale.’ Muirayn demanded in a semi-passable authoritative tone. ‘For me and my 3 colleges here. Nothing for the slave.’ He said, referring to Gwynia. The barman glanced at the pretty Furalian. ‘She been a bad girl?’ ‘You could say that,’ Muirayn replied, ‘gave us a bit of the old run-around.’ ‘New capture or an escapee?’ Muirayn seemed about to agree, when he caught himself, ‘None of your business.’ The barman nodded and began to pour the 4 tankards of ale, as requested. ‘Anything … else?’ He said, obviously referring to the ample change he had been given. ‘Yes,’ Muirayn said, leaning over the counter, ‘We are looking for a girl, young, I believe. We had information that she may have murdered somebody in the town recently.’ The barman arched his mouth downwards in mock-deliberation. ‘What’s it to you?’ ‘It’s nothing to me, it’s to the King of Zar.’ Muirayn responded, cleverly thinking on the spot. The barman realised immediately what Muirayn was saying. The party were government Agents (or at least Muraiyn was, and the other fellows were his servants or aides), specifically employed to track run-away slaves. You didn’t hinder the investigation of Human Agents, not if you wanted to stay in business, and especially if they were handing you big purses of coins as reward. ‘Yeah, we’ve heard of the girl. Supposedly killed her master, knifed him about 12 times, so they say. This one’s a little weird though.’ ‘How so?’ ‘Well. There were 12 knives, and all still in the body when they found him. And the room … well it was in tatters, so they say.’ ‘Interesting.’ Muirayn had suspected as much, even Fane could see that. ‘Any idea where she might be?’ ‘Well … I can’t rightly say I recall. We get a lot of custom through these parts.’ Muirayn held his hand out to Darren, who reluctantly passed him another pouch of coins. Fane stifled a smile, remembering how Darren had been the only one among them carrying any Human currency, and had subsequently been burdened with the party position of “sponsor”. Muirayn promptly passed on the coins to the barman. The barman seemed to remember all of a sudden, ‘Oh yeh, that’s it, there’s s’posed to be some kind of organisation that harbours escaped slaves. A new guild, so they say. Not sure what’s in it for them, but they do well to avoid the law.’ ‘Interesting.’ Muirayn said; his well acted Agent-persona becoming more and more convincing with each passing moment. ‘Any idea where I can find this guild?’ ‘Now why would I have any idea about that? I’m an honest man I am!’ Muirayn gave the man a ‘do I look stupid to you’ look. ‘Honest to the gods, Sir. I barely earn enough in here to feed my two daughters, and I do it all without dishonesty.’ Muirayn gestured for Darren to pass him another purse of coins. Darren audibly groaned, almost whimpering as he passed over his last pouch of money. ‘Oh but I remember something Sir!’ The barmen said, his selective amnesia was remarkable, ‘Just some men talking in here the other day. I overheard them saying something about the city sewers in the north quarter. And they mentioned a password; ‘icecat’ … or so I heard.’ ‘That’s a lot to overhear isn’t it?’ Muirayn said, eyeing the man in mock suspicion. ‘I’ve gots me some good ears, Sir.’ The barman said dryly. ‘But telling you that puts me and my establishment in danger, Sir … they wont take kindly if they find out I’ve sold the buggers out. My whole livelihood could be in danger.’ He glanced sideways at Darren’s belt, searching for more gold. Muirayn looked over his shoulder at the Human first-mate. ‘No! I haven’t got any more!’ Darren protested loudly. Muirayn nearly laughed, but straightened his face as he turned back to the barman, ‘I’ll put in a good word for you when I return home.’ The barman grumbled, ‘Words don’t feed my two daughters, Sir.’ He said. Muirayn turned away and led the party out of the door, ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said to himself with an ironic smile. --- ‘If the city has sewers,’ Fane said, skirting the edge of a cess pool, ‘then why do the streets smell so bad?’ ‘They aren’t really used that much now.’ Muirayn explained. ‘Most of it doesn’t work anyway. As usual, the rich side of the town is the only area where the sewer system is even slightly functional.’ ‘Why did they build it then, if they let it fall into disrepair?’ Muirayn glanced back at Fane, twisting his way past a ladder that blocked the small, crumbling walk way which plummeted down into a brown waterfall of effluence, barely guarded by a rusted old grate. ‘They didn’t build it, the Zard did.’ Fane raised his eyebrows, looking around the stone tunnels Gwynia shot him a disappointed look, ‘You cannot assume that those who seem different to you are naturally inferior.’ Fane’s expression was of exaggerated innocence, ‘I didn’t assume that … it’s just that … well, The Zard seem so monstrous.’ Gwynia snorted, ‘And you probably seem the same to them.’ Fane raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Muirayn muttered something as he crossed a worn stone bridge across a particularly deep pit. ‘No, Muirayn, I’m not going to get into that.’ Gwynia responded. ‘Get into what?’ Fane pressed. ‘Muirayn is all too familiar with my theory that there are no monsters on the planet.’ The fact that Fane had seen a monster or two in his time wasn’t something he needed to share. They had all seen them. The world was flowing with them; creatures of darkness, twisted in form as well as in mind. They came hundreds of years past, when the great winter covered Sheol. Different from animals, they were carnivores one and all; some stronger and more savage than others, but all of them had one other thing in common: they fed on the flesh of all things, living or dead, predator or prey. Some of them were intelligent, but none to the point of being able to communicate in words. There were thousands upon thousands of species of monster, but their defining feature was that they did not exist 1 thousand years ago, that they came from nowhere, supposedly brought down to earth by evil origins, or at least that was what Human kind believed. Animals, such as the rabbit, the tiger or the foreign Coalgrath had always been there, from as far back as any histories go. Likewise, the 9 known races of the world had always been; Humans, Drey, Furalian, Zard, Tenakos, Meunos, Eskan, Ackai-Odis and the very bizarre Othma. What separated the races from the monsters or the animals of the world was their ability to speak, to create, to empathise and to exist beyond their natural instincts. Though in the matter of monsters, the line was a thin one indeed. There were even stories of certain tribes of monsters being able to fashion and wield rudimentary blades. Because of this, he assumed what Gwynia meant by her statement regarding the denial of monster’s existence was that the line between monster and animal (or monster and sentient) was too thin to sometimes categorise. ‘How exactly are we gonna find her down here?’ Darren asked, calling to Muirayn over the rush of stale sewage. Muirayn turned his head, ‘My guess is that the group we are looking for will find us.’ ‘Had much experience dealing with guilds?’ Darren pressed, as if he knew something which Fane didn’t. Muirayn didn’t answer, but Fane got the impression that the answer wasn’t something that the young mage wanted to talk about – at least not here and now. They continued on for over an hour, at times seemingly coming back on themselves to a similar looking passageway or arch. Eventually, as they reached a wider platform they were greeted by a band of grubby looking bearded men in black, emerging from the shadows as if they were made of darkness. ‘What business brings you down here, strangers?’ The supposed leader asked, stepping to the forefront of the small ranks. Muirayn, thinking quick on his feet as usual, responded with, ‘The same business as your own.’ The man in black frowned with suspicion, ‘If that’s true, then you’d know the password.’ Muirayn answered with the same password he had been given by the barman. The man nodded, ‘New recruits?’ ‘Fairly new, yes.’ Seeming satisfied with the answer, the band of men in black led the party through a series of narrow passages and tunnels. At times they were forced to trudge through the knee-high human waste and stale water, now many years old and lined with the white film of rot and fungus. Everywhere there were water trogs (*4), and the party held their noses as they passed them, aware of the diseases they might carry. The leader spoke to Fane as he walked by his side, ‘She a newly freed slave?’ He asked, gesturing towards Gwynia, who no longer had any rope around her neck. Fane paused for a moment too long, unsure of how to answer. If he called to the man for help, he risked a great deal. Firstly, how did he know he could trust these new people? Second, how could he be sure that his plea for help would not result in their deaths as they tried to free him from the mages? He could not take that chance, and besides, he felt sure that a better opportunity would present itself. ‘Yes.’ He answered, slightly unsure of himself, ‘A runaway…’ He eyed Fane suspiciously ‘Hornish are you?’ Fane almost stammered, ‘Erm, yes, actually. At least … my Father was.’ The man nodded. Obviously the answer had been satisfactory. He was an odd looking gentleman; the sort with bulging, deep set eyes that you could tell were not that way because of lack of sleep. He carried himself with a gormless discontent arrogance, the attitude of which was constantly mirrored on his unwashed, unshaven face. Finally they came to a bolted doorway of thick steel. It swung open as they approached, revealing a low archway leading down into a much cleaner complex. They descended a staircase and looked around the new area. It was wide and tall, furnished with wooden panels and flooring, and large lamps yielding lit candlesticks that gave the room a pleasant glow. The concourse stretched out in a rectangle, broken by an angled staircase which led up to a balcony of surrounding platforms, looking down upon the hall. It was quite homely, considering its location in a sewer. Gesturing for Gwynia to follow, the leader led her towards a small room directly in front of them. The party followed without being told to do so, and nobody stopped them. Glancing around as the entered the smaller office, Fane wondered exactly what this place was. Of course, he dared not ask, for fear of seeming out of place as a ‘member’ of the guild. It occurred to him that this “mission” was becoming more dangerous by the second, and he shouldn’t even be here by rights. An aging, silver-haired, bearded man sat within the office, perched at a sturdy oak desk, a quill in hand, scrawling text onto a long parchment. The room was an odd triangular shape, which could possibly once have been a compartment of a sewer duct, which had been cleaned out and refurbished to house somebody of importance. ‘Ahh, what have we here?’ He said, looking up at Gwynia, ‘You’d be a runaway I take it?’ The man in black nodded, ‘I’m told she is, Sir.’ He replied. The man at the desk smiled, ‘Pleasure to meet you my dear, I’m the Chancellor of this establishment; the guild master.’ Gwynia nodded curtly, unsure as the rest of them as to how she should act or what she should say. There was a moment of awkward silence as The Chancellor appraised the woman in front of him. Leering, his eyes lingered long as he scanned her form. She was wearing loose-fitting attire as usual, but with a lower-cut beige blouse adorning her torso, which plunged ‘v’ shaped at the neck. ‘I apologise for your messy trip down here, lady. We shall have you cleaned up in no time. I trust my cohorts did not treat you badly?’ Gwynia nodded, unsure of what to say at this moment. ‘Very good’ The man replied, ‘May I ask, what sort of slave were you before you escaped your former masters?’ ‘I … I was a love slave, Sir.’ ‘I see. Well I’m sure you fetched quite a price in your master’s business. Now, let’s get directly onto the matter of your freedom. We ask new slaves a total of one-hundred gold pieces before we officially free them. Obviously, you would gain this money by working for us – as our employee – in the trade to which you are accustomed. Once you have earned these one-hundred gold pieces, you are a free woman, and we will forge for you the needed documents of liberty. False identification certificates, pass-ports, even a change in hair colour if one is needed.’ Fane glanced at the others out of the corner of his eye, a deep frown of confusion on his face. What had the man just said? That they needed to work for their freedom? Then they were still slaves, were they not? Judging by Muirayn’ expression; his clenched jaw and hard-edged pupils, Fane guessed that he had heard right. One-hundred gold would take at least five years for a worker to earn, even one with the beauty and physical fitness of Gwynia. The Chancellor of The Guild glanced towards the party, who were hanging back, just inside the doorway of the small office. Suddenly suspicion flickered in his eyes. ‘Who are these people?’ The gormless guild member glanced to his rear, ‘Um … new recruits, Sir?’ He didn’t sound too sure. ‘They brought the slave in.’ ‘I’ve never seen these people in my life!’ He said, rising to his feet. Gwynia, whose expression was indignant at the mere thought of such a twisted guild existing, lashed out without waiting another second. Her fist struck hard, launched straight into the pit of the elderly man’s stomach. He went down in a heap, clutching his gut. Muirayn span, seeing the guards rush at them, the bearded, black garbed forms running at the open doorway to the office. With a gesture the door slammed shut and he turned on the remaining threat. The leader of the men in black had already drawn his sword, and came at Muirayn with a determined expression. The blonde mage skirted the lunge, and watched as the other Grey Eagle crewman swung a blow to the back of the attacker’s head with the hilt of his sword. Gwynia was at the door, forcing it shut with all her considerable strength. She placed her hand on the knob of the door, melting the iron, locking the portal for good. Shouts of anger emanated from behind the wooden door, calls for guild reinforcements. Ignoring the yells, Gwynia returned to the old Chancellor, propping him against the wall by the scruff of his blazer. ‘You rescue slaves so you can use them as slaves!?’ Gwynia screamed, her usually light grey face now pink with rage. The man choked, still in pain from the initial blow, ‘No …’ he stammered, ‘We offer slaves a chance at freedom…’ ‘And there just has to be something you get in return doesn’t there?’ She said, glancing at his fine attire ‘Such as your pretty clothing … only a very rich man indeed would own such finery.’ Muirayn was singing by the blockaded door, his eyes closed and palms outstretched to the wood. A blade came through the door, stabbed viciously, narrowly skimming Muirayn’ hand. Fane watched intently as the bark turned slowly grey, and suddenly it was not wood at all; it was stone. Muirayn had changed the door to brick, and the sword was stuck. No further blades would penetrate it for now. ‘That gives us a little time.’ Muirayn said over the roaring accusations of Gwynia. Darren and the other crewman searched to walls for an escape route, but weren’t having much success so far. Fane backed into the corner, seeing his chance. ‘We’re looking for a girl.’ Gwynia said, still holding the man fast to the wall, ‘A slave, escaped very recently. Where is she!?’ The Chancellor’s eyes widened, realising who they meant. ‘There – there are many girls…’ He said with a stutter. Fane closed his eyes, allowing his breathing to vibrate through him like a slow, humming metronome. ‘Enough!’ Gwynia said, pushing the old man roughly into the wall, winding him with the impact. ‘We are searching for the killer. The one who stabbed her master to death.’ The man coughed, ‘Her uncle,’ he said, his grey eyes wide with fear, ‘It was her uncle. Damn it - take her! She’s been nothing but a curse from the day we took her in. She’s a devil I tell you!’ Fane summoned The Hand. It rose up out of his subconscious immediately, an invisible eagle’s talon called forth to do his bidding. He deepened his trance, using the hand to feel the life forces around him, to feel the guards beyond the bricked doorway, to sense the many slaves locked in the concourse rooms over his head. ‘Where is she!?’ Gwynia demanded. Her pale face glowed - instead of reddening - with outrage as she roared into the face of the ageing guild master, which was not three inches from her own. Her voice did not tremble as she raised it, but hardened, like liquid iron as it cooled on the anvil, and her anger was no less sharp. ‘Room 17, on the top floor…’ The man said, ‘Don’t kill me! I have a family!’ His consciousness stretched upwards, transcending the physical world, seeking souls, seeking those who could hear. He saw them as lights in his mind’s eye, feeling them but not seeing them. Girl, boy, man … he felt them all – faintly, as if each of them were torches, all heating the skin of his back in prickly, jagged, pinpricks, and all were various of strength and tone to behold … no - to feel. He could feel their lights, if such a thing were possible. He searched silently for the one who could help him, there had to be one, he knew it, there had to be one somewhere who could help him. He could more easily feel the simple instinctive presences of the animals; the rats and water trogs through the passageways, the birds in the parks at the edge of the city. He was used to sensing animals - used to communicating with them, and they were simpler somehow, less daunting to understand and speak to. But he had no experience in doing what he was about to do. Muirayn sung a command quickly, humming it at a mere whisper, and The Chancellor dropped to the floor, asleep and about to stay that way for a long while. Gwynia wheeled, a maddened look in her pale red eyes, as if she were a fanatic tiger that had suddenly been interrupted while feasting. She paused for a moment and then blinked and took a deep breath. ‘Are you all ready?’ He asked, looking about the room. The crewman and First Mate nodded, and Gwynia stepped towards the door, ready to call any needed barrier to protect the party. Muirayn looked at Fane and froze; his eyes narrowing. Fane allowed the power to flow through him, seeking his own emotions, seeking the feelings that would convey his message. Confinement, resentment, the sadness in his heart when he was forced to remember the family he would likely never see again. Gwynia glanced at Muirayn, ‘He can only communicate with animals can’t he?’ Muirayn’s eyes widened. ‘Can’t he?” Gwynia repeated. ‘Fane!’ Muirayn said, stepping forwards, arm outstretched. Emotions rippled outward in waves, the transcendental hand of magic gifting empathetic waves onto its unintended targets - and its targets were hundred-fold. Soldiers, guild members, slaves, rats and peasants; they all heard the emotions. They all felt them, even though he had not intended to send them yet, not to so many, and certainly not before he found one who could help him. Washing over them like waves of warm wind, tears came to some of their eyes, hearing the boy’s emotional plea without perhaps understanding or believing it, yet they felt it all the same. Like a fisherman’s net cast over a school of fish, without prejudice, without thought for what might be taken. He had intended to search for help from a kind hearted individual, and to alert the girl, but his control slipped away quickly. The spell had spiralled away from his grasp, delivering the unfinished message as if of its own accord. He had the momentary feel of a man chasing a private parchment down a blustery street, as the document sailed its way unerringly towards those for whom it was not intended. But then came words too, and images. Without knowing how, Fane sent an image of The Grey Eagle, the sleek ship at the city’s docks, and amidst the images and terrified emotions were the repeating words, echoing up through the streets to be heard in the mind’s of all who received it, ‘save me!’ --- The message reached his mind like a lighthouse beacon on a pitch dark night, blasted out of the tower and over a sea of tranquil emptiness. He heard it more clearly than most others did, feeling more from the message than was intended. Standing, the armoured figure took a moment to translate the garbled images and words, and to locate the beacon itself. Satisfied, the man placed his coins on the bar and walked out in the direction of The Grey Eagle, his deep black hair shimmering in the sunlight as it washed over his pale Furalian skin The hunt was on. His master would be happy. -------------- *1 The United Human Empire had already taken three of the four isles, culminating in the destruction of Kortak one year prior to these events; thus leaving just Korzue, which was still owned by the Eskan peoples. Additionally, their declaration of war against the “inferior” races of Sheol had given them uneasy control of Rupea, as well as parts of Furalia and Newhaven. Still they sought to extend their lands further. *2 “Hornish” is the term used to describe one of what was currently known as Dreyhood descent, yet – when Horn was part of the common ‘Human’ nations – those who hailed from that country were known as Horns by nationality. The term was still used today, particularly by those who did not consider Dreyhood to be a separate race, as they themselves opted to be classed. Ethnically, Hornish was seen to be partially similar to far-eastern heritage of our own world. *3 Human Agents, who were basically special detectives of the United Human Empire, did not wear their hair long, as a rule. Instead, they almost always cut their hair short and unstyled so as not to draw attention to themselves. *4 Small water mammals, akin to rats but with more aquatic (specifically; freshwater) tendencies.
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