M McNally - The Sable City

“Allow me, sister,” he said. Tilda had forgotten for a moment that the man was a cleric as well.

John was frowning in deep thought, his eyes on the stairs up which the snorts of the big pig demon still sounded. He looked at Nesha-tari, then at Zeb.

“Does she have enough juice to blow up that thing?”

Zeb stared at him. “Juice?”

John waved his hand holding a bloody sword.

“Magic, spells, whatever. Can she knock that thing down, at least long enough for us to kill it or run away?”

Zeb asked Nesha-tari, who looked back at him and shook her head.

White light flared from Heggenauer’s hands, each clasped tenderly against Amatesu’s forearm. The shukenja sighed and gave a pretty smile, and nodded thanks at the cleric.

A horn sounded from outside, several long blasts, and everyone tensed. Claudja peered out a front window between the shutters.

“The hobgoblins have fallen back to the bridge, but they are not charging.”

“That is a signal horn,” John said. “They are calling for reinforcements.” He looked around at the others. “We can’t hole-up in here. We rush the demons now, or we are trapped.”

The party looked at each other, tired, worn, and beaten down, with no one showing much confidence. The Circle Wizard, Phin, cleared his throat. He still clutched the heavy satchel and now he slowly withdrew a thick book from inside.

“There are teleport spells inscribed within this,” he said quietly. “I may be able to cast one.”

John’s fierce eyes snapped to him. “You said they don’t work through the veil around the city.”

“They don’t,” Phin said, and he looked around with an expression Tilda wanted to read as confident, but really was not even very hopeful. “They might, however, work inside the city.”

The others stared at him.

“Maybe,” he said again.

*

The Shugak had driven the merchants away from the front gate of Vod’Adia when Black Danavod ordered her Magdetchoi in to pursue the Wizard. The bullywug shaman Kerek, the Mistress’s most special favorite, thought the merchants had set up again further down the main street, but he did not much care. He had deployed his hobs and wugs around the entrance plaza to ward all the streets from behind barricades. While the adventuring parties still entering the place were allowed to pass through, all those seeking exit were to be stopped and thoroughly examined. Those were his orders from Danavod.

Kerek himself took up residence in a smoke tent set up in front of a building which a band of Shanatarian priests had cleaned for use as a hospital. The clerics had been shooed out of the plaza with the other humans and such, and Kerek used some extra cloth bandages they had left behind to keep his braziers burning, puffing foul smoke about the plaza. He was within the lodge, cross-legged and meditating among the fires as he awaited any new word from his Mistress, when alarm croaks and hobgoblin shouts roused him. He uncoiled his legs and hopped out of the tent flap just in time to see two running men in armor disappear into the mist-shrouded passage through the towering black gatehouse.

“What was that?” he croaked, and a chorus of answers came from roofs. Nine people had appeared in the middle of the plaza as though by magic, then raced out of the gate before any of Kerek’s slack-jawed minions had managed to do anything but point at them.

Danavod was not going to be pleased.

“Chase!” Kerek croaked.

*

Phin was more surprised than anyone, for he had hardly committed the plaza to memory when he had passed through it four days ago with Claudja and the unlamented legionnaires. He knew he would have a better chance of teleporting into the small house where he had spent the first night in the city, but that place was still far from the gate. Even worse, given the building’s size and the fact that he would be teleporting a full nine people, Phin was sure that he would have put someone into a wall, with results he did not want to consider.

So the party gambled, and he tried for the plaza. He hit it spot on, and though the others had stared at him in amazement for a moment before everyone was up and running, Phin knew the credit was not really due himself. He had wrapped his hand around the golden jewel atop the wand within his right sleeve as he read the spell, and he had felt the surge of the Witch King’s power when the world around him began to fade.

The party emerged from the gatehouse and their feet rang loudly as they raced across the iron drawbridge. Then they were off it and out of the mist at a step, people shouting in surprise as after four days in a gray-and-black world they emerged into a different one with impossibly green grass, and a brilliant blue sky high above them.

They ran on a hundred yards or so before warning horns started to blow ahead of them in the Shugak towers fronting Camp Town, and Deskata shouted for everyone to halt.

“Do it again, Phoarty!” he yelled, and everyone who had drawn weapons snapped them back into sheaths and scabbards. Phin dropped to a cross-legged seat on the ground and opened the book on his lap. He opened to where a finger marked a page that was now blank, and hurriedly flipped ahead to the next teleport spell. The others joined hands in a circle around him, except for Claudja who knelt behind Phin, one hand linked to Tilda’s and the other sliding into the collar of Phin’s robes to rest on his bare shoulder.

Phin found the next teleport spell and started to read aloud, the rhythmic words of old Tullish flaring blue on the page as he spoke them, moving one finger along the lines. With his other hand, still within his right sleeve, he again clasped the golden gem atop the wand of the long dead Witch King, and felt the warm surge of its power.

The words on the page faded even as Phin read them, and he listened only to the sound of his own voice, not to the horns nor the sharp croaking noises, nor to the people telling him to hurry. Phin’s mind fell away from itself and he thought of long months of longer nights and early mornings, boredom and uselessness. The grass and the sky disappeared and there was another stomach-churning jolt, though actually not as bad as the first one. Phin knew the place he was going to this time, only too well.

In an instant Phin was sitting on hard stone in an ugly barren courtyard with mismatched walls, next to a dirt-filled fountain out of which sprouted weeds and the hacked stump of a dead tree. Phin’s friends were all around him, if he could call them that, and he thought that now he probably could as that had been some serious magic he had just performed, without killing any of them.

Two horses whinnied and Zeb yelled, “Whoa!” A wagon with a very startled-looking driver stopped just short of the party, the man on the board staring at them with his mouth hanging open.

“Souterm?” Claudja asked, her hand still on Phin’s shoulder, holding on tight.

“Welcome to the Empire, your Grace.” Phin said, and then Claudja was hugging him, weeping and laughing at the same time. Everyone else started doing the same.

A gray-robed Circle Wizard had run away from the area of Souterm’s North Gate as soon as the party appeared, and any number of travelers stood staring at them in amazement. The group did not linger. Phin Phoarty led the way south along side streets and back alleys all the way to the docks just short of the Miilarkian Quarter at the foot of Broadsword Ridge’s southern end. The party had vaguely agreed that was the best place for everyone. On the way the ragged, dusty band stared around in wonder, for a living city full of colorful storefronts and signs, trees rustling in the breeze, and people of all descriptions laughing and talking and strolling along seemed the strangest place imaginable.