A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (4 page)

Gwendolyn opened her eyes as she felt a jolt and
a bump on her head, and she looked all about, disoriented. She saw she was
lying on her side, on a hard wooden platform, and the world was moving about
her. There came a whining, and she felt something wet on her cheek. She looked over
to see Krohn, curling up beside her, licking her—and her heart leapt with joy.
Krohn looked sickly, famished, exhausted—yet he was alive. That was all that
mattered. He, too, had survived.

Gwen licked her lips and realized they were not
as dry as before; she was relieved she could even lick them, as before her
tongue had been too swollen to even move. She felt a trickle of cold water
enter her mouth, and she looked up out of the corner of her eye to see one of
those desert nomads standing over her, holding a sack over her. She licked at
it greedily, again and again, until he pulled it away.

As he pulled his hand away, Gwen reached up and
grabbed his wrist, and she pulled it toward Krohn. At first the nomad seemed
baffled, but then he realized, and he reached over and poured some of the water
into Krohn’s mouth. Gwen felt relieved as she watched Krohn lap up the water,
drinking as he lay there, panting, beside her.

Gwen felt another jolt on her head, another
bump as the platform shook, and she looked out at the world, turned sideways,
and saw nothing but sky before her, clouds passing by. She felt her body rising
up, higher and higher into the air with each and every jolt, and she could not
understand what was happening, where she was. She did not have the strength to sit
up, but she was able to crane her neck enough to see that she was lying on a broad
wooden platform, being hoisted by ropes at either end of it. Someone high above
was yanking on the ropes, squeaking with age, and with each yank, the platform
rose a bit higher. She was being raised up alongside steep, endless cliffs, the
same cliffs she recognized from before she’d passed out. The cliffs which had
been crowned by parapets and gleaming knights.

Remembering, Gwen turned and craned her neck,
and she looked down and immediately felt dizzy. They were hundreds of feet above
the desert floor, and rising.

She turned and looked up, and a hundred feet
above them, she saw the parapets, her vision obscured by the sun, and the knights
looking down, getting closer with each yank of the cords.

Gwen immediately turned and scanned the
platform, and was flooded with relief to see all of her people were still with
her: Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen, Arliss, Aberthol, Illepra, the baby Krea,
Stara, Brant, Atme, and several of the Silver. They all lay on the platform,
all being tended to by nomads who poured water into their mouths and on their
faces. Gwen felt a rush of gratitude toward these strange nomadic creatures who
had saved their lives.

Gwen closed her eyes again, lay her head back
on the hard wood, as Krohn curled up beside her, and her head felt as if it
weighed a million pounds. All was comfortably silent, no sound up here but that
of the wind, and of the ropes creaking. She had traveled so far, for so long,
and wondered when it all wound end. Soon they would be at the top, and she only
prayed that the knights, whoever they were, were as hospitable as these nomads
from the desert.

With each yank, the suns grew stronger, hotter,
no shade under which to hide. She felt as if she were burning to a crisp, as if
she were being hoisted to the center of the sun itself.

Gwendolyn opened her eyes as she felt a final
jolt, and realized she’d fallen back asleep. She felt movement and she realized
she was being carried gingerly by the nomads, all placing her and her people back
on the canvas tarps and carrying them off the platform and onto the parapets. Gwendolyn
felt herself finally placed down, gently, onto a stone floor, and she looked up
and blinked several times into the sun. She was too exhausted to lift her neck,
not sure whether she was still awake or dreaming.

Coming into view were dozens of knights, approaching
her, dressed in immaculate shiny plate and chain mail, crowding around her and
looking down at her in curiosity. Gwen could not understand how knights could
be out here in this great desert, in this vast waste in the middle of nowhere,
how they could be standing guard at the top of this immense ridge, beneath
these suns. How did they survive out here? What were they guarding? Where did
they get such regal armor? Was this all a dream?

Even the Ring, with its ancient tradition of
grandeur, had little armor to match what these men wore. It was the most
intricate armor she’d ever laid eye upon, forged of silver and platinum and
some other metal she could not recognize, etched with intricate markings, and
with weaponry to match. These men were clearly professional soldiers. It reminded
her of the days when she was a young girl and accompanied her father onto the
field; he would show her the soldiers, and she would look up and see them lined
up with such splendor. Gwen had wondered how such beauty could exist, how it could
even be possible. Perhaps she had died and this was her version of heaven.

But then she heard one of them step forward,
out in front of the others, remove his helmet and look down at, his bright blue
eyes filled with wisdom and compassion. Perhaps in his thirties, he had a
startling appearance, his head stark bald, and wearing a light blond beard.
Clearly, he was the officer in charge.

The knight turned his attention to the nomads.

“Are they alive?” he asked.

One of the nomads, in response, reached out
with his long staff and gently prodded Gwendolyn, who shifted as he did. She
wanted more than anything to sit up, to talk to them, to find out who they
were—but she was too exhausted, her throat too dry, to respond.

“Incredible,” said another knight, stepping
forward, his spurs jingling, as more and more knights stepped forward and
crowded all around them. Clearly, they were all objects of curiosity.

“It’s not possible,” said one. “How could they
have survived the Great Waste?”

“They couldn’t,” said another. “They must be
deserters. They must have somehow breached the Ridge, got lost in the desert,
and decided to come back.”

Gwendolyn tried to answer, to tell them
everything that happened, but she was too exhausted to get the words out.

After a short silence, the leader stepped
forward.

“No,” said, confidently. “Look at the markings
on his armor,” he said, prodding Kendrick with his foot. “This is not our
armor. It’s not Empire armor, either.”

All the knights crowded around, stunned.

“Then where are they from?” one asked, clearly
baffled.

“And how did they know where to find us?” asked
another.

The leader turned to the nomads.

“Where did you find them?” he asked.

The nomads squeaked back in return, and Gwen
saw the leader’s eyes widen.

“On the other side of the sand wall?” he asked
them. “Are you certain?”

The nomads squeaked back.

The commander turned to his people.

“I don’t think they knew we were here. I think
they got lucky—the nomads found them and wanted their price and brought them
here, mistaking them for one of us.”

The knights looked at each other, and it was
clear they’d never encountered a situation like this before.

“We can’t take them in,” said one of the knights.
“You know the rules. You let them in and we leave a trail. No trails. Ever. We
have to send them back, into the Great Waste.”

A long silence ensued, interrupted by nothing
but the howling of the wind, and Gwen could sense that they were debating what
to do with them. She did not like how long the pause was.

Gwen tried to sit up in protest, to tell them that
they couldn’t send them back out there, they just couldn’t. Not after all they’d
been through.

“If we did,” the leader said, “it would mean
their deaths. And our code of honor demands we help the helpless.”

“And yet if we take them in,” a knight
countered, “then we could all die. The Empire will follow their trail. They
will discover our hiding place. We would be endangering all of our people.
Would you rather a few strangers die, or all of our people?”

Gwen could see their leader thinking, torn with
anguish, facing a hard decision. She understood what it felt like to face hard
decisions. She was too weak to resign herself to anything but to allow herself to
be at the mercy of other people’s kindness.

“It may be so,” their leader finally said, resignation
in his voice, “but I shall not turn away innocent people to die. They are
coming in.”

He turned to his men.

“Bring them down on the other side,” he
commanded, his voice firm with authority. “We shall bring them to our King, and
he shall decide for himself.”

The men listened and began to break into
action, preparing the platform on the other side for the descent, and one of
his men stared back at their leader, uncertain.

“You are violating the King’s laws,” the knight
said. “No outsiders are allowed into the Ridge. Ever.”

The leader stared back firmly.

“No outsiders have ever reached our gates,” he
replied.

“The King may imprison you for this,” the
knight said.

The leader did not waver.

“That is a chance I’m prepared to take.”

“For strangers? Worthless desert nomads?” the knight
said, surprised. “Who knows who these people even are.”

“Every life is precious,” the leader countered,
“and my honor is worth a thousand lifetimes in prison.”

The leader nodded to his men, who all stood
there waiting, and Gwen suddenly felt herself lifted into the arms of a knight,
his metal armor against her back. He picked her up effortlessly, as if she were
a feather, and carried her, as the knights carried all the others. Gwen saw they
were walking across a wide, flat stone landing atop the mountain ridge,
spanning perhaps a hundred yards wide. They walked and walked, and she felt at
ease in the arms of this knight, more at ease than she had in a long time. She
wanted more than anything to say thank you, but she was too exhausted to even
open her mouth.

They reached the other side of the parapets and
as the knights prepared to place them on a new platform and lower them down the
other side of the ridge, Gwen looked out and caught a glimpse of where they
were going. It was a sight she would never, ever forget, a sight that took her
breath away. The mountain ridge, rising out of the desert like a sphinx, was,
she saw, shaped in a huge circle, so wide it disappeared from view in the midst
of the clouds. It was a protective wall, she realized, and on its other side, down
below, Gwen saw a glistening blue lake as wide as an ocean, sparkly in the
desert suns. The richness of the blue, the sight of all that water, took her
breath away.

And beyond that, on the horizon, she saw a vast
land, a land so vast she could not see where it ended, and to her shock, it was
a fertile, fertile green, a green glowing with life. As far as she could see
there stretched farms and fruit trees and forests and vineyards and orchards in
abundance, a land overflowing with life. It was the most idyllic and beautiful sight
she had ever seen.

“Welcome, my lady,” their leader said, “to the land
beyond the ridge.”

Godfrey, curled up in a ball, was awakened by a
steady, persistent moaning interfering with his dreams. He woke slowly, unsure
if he was really awake or still stuck in his endless nightmare. He blinked in
the dim light, trying to shake off his dream. He had dreamt of himself as a
puppet on a string, dangling over the walls of Volusia, being held by the Finians,
who’d yanked the strings up and down, moving Godfrey’s arms and legs as he
dangled over the entrance to the city. Godfrey had been made to watch as below
him thousands of his countrymen were butchered before his eyes, the streets of
Volusia running red with blood. Each time he thought it was over, the Finian
yanked on his strings again, pulling him up and down, over and over and over….

Finally, mercifully, Godfrey was awakened by
this moaning, and he rolled over, his head splitting, to see it was coming from
a few feet away, from Akorth and Fulton, the two of them curled up on the floor
beside him, each moaning, covered in black and blue marks. Nearby were Merek
and Ario, sprawled out unmoving on the stone floor, too—which Godfrey
immediately recognized as the floor of a prison cell. All looked badly beaten—yet
at least they were all here, and from what Godfrey could tell, they were all
breathing.

Godfrey was once at once relieved and
distraught. He was amazed to be alive, after the ambush he’d witnessed, amazed
he had not been slaughtered by the Finians back there. Yet at the same time, he
felt hollow, oppressed by guilt, knowing it was all his fault that Darius and
the others had fallen into the trap inside the gates of Volusia. It was all because
of his naïveté. How could he have been so stupid as to trust the Finians?

Godfrey closed his eyes and shook his head,
willing for the memory to go away, for the night to have gone differently. He had
led Darius and the others into the city unwittingly, like lambs to slaughter. Again
and again in his mind he heard the screams of those men, trying to fight for
their lives, trying to escape, echoing in his brain and leaving him no peace.

Godfrey clutched his ears and tried to make it
go away, and trying to drown out Akorth and Fulton’s moaning, both of them
clearly in pain from all their bruises and from a night sleeping on a hard
stone floor.

Godfrey sat up, his head feeling like a million
pounds, and took in all his surroundings, a small prison cell containing just him
and his friends and a few others he did not know, and he took some solace in
the fact that, given how grim this cell looked, death might be coming for them
sooner rather than later. This jail was clearly different from the last one, feeling
more like a holding cell for those about to die.

Godfrey heard, somewhere far away, the screams
of a prisoner being dragged away down a hall, and he realized: this place really
was a holding pen—for executions. He had heard of other executions in Volusia,
and he knew that he and the others would be dragged outside at first light and
become sport for the arena, so that its good citizens could watch them get torn
to death by the Razifs, before the real gladiator games began. That was why
they’d kept them alive this long. At least now it all made sense.

Godfrey scrambled to his hands and knees,
reaching out and prodding each of his friends, trying to rouse them. His head
was spinning, he ached from every corner of his body, covered in lumps and
bruises, and it hurt to move. His last memory was of a soldier knocking him
out, and he realized he must have been pummeled by them after he was down. The
Finians, those treacherous cowards, clearly didn’t have it in them to kill him
themselves.

Godfrey clutched his forehead, amazed that it
could hurt so much without even having a drink. He gained his feet unsteadily, knees
wobbling, and looked about the dark cell. A single guard stood outside the
bars, his back to him, barely watching. And yet these cells were made with
substantial locks and thick iron bars, and Godfrey knew there would be no easy
escape this time. This time, they were in until the death.

Slowly, beside him, Akorth, Fulton, Ario, and
Merek gained their feet and they all studied their surroundings, too. He could
see the puzzlement and fear in their eyes—and then the regret, as they began to
remember.

“Did they all die?” Ario asked, looking at
Godfrey.

Godfrey felt a pain in his stomach as he slowly
nodded back.

“It’s our fault,” Merek said. “We let them down.”

“Yes, it is,” Godfrey replied, his voice
breaking.

“I told you not to trust the Finians,” Akorth
said.

“The question is not whose fault it is,” Ario
said, “but what we are going to do about it. Are we going to let all of our
brothers and sisters die in vain? Or are we going to gain vengeance?”

Godfrey could see the seriousness in young Ario’s
face and he was impressed by his steely determination, even while imprisoned
and about to be killed.

“Vengeance?” Akorth asked. “Are you mad? We are
locked beneath the earth, guarded by iron bars and Empire guards. All of our
men are dead. We’re in the midst of a hostile city and a hostile army. All of
our gold is gone. Our plans are ruined. What possible vengeance can we take?”

“There’s always a way,” Ario said, determined.
He turned to Merek.

All eyes turned to Merek, and he furrowed his
brow.

“I am no expert on vengeance,” Merek said. “I
kill men as they bother me. I do not wait.”

“But you are a master thief,” Ario said. “You’ve
spent your whole life in a prison cell, as you admit. Surely you can get us out
of this?”

Merek turned and surveyed the cell, the bars,
the windows, keys, the guards—all of it—with an expert’s keen eye. He took it
all in, then looked back at them grimly.

“This is no common prison cell,” he said. “It
must be a Finian cell. Very expensive craftsmanship. I see no weak points, no
way out, as much as I would wish to tell you otherwise.”

Godfrey, feeling overwhelmed, trying to shut
out the screams of the other prisoners down the hall, walked to the prison cell
door, pressed his forehead against the cool and heavy iron, and closed his
eyes.

“Bring him here!” boomed a voice from down the
stone hall.

Godfrey opened his eyes, turned his head, and
looked down the hall to see several Empire guards dragging a prisoner. This
prisoner wore a red sash over his shoulder, across his chest, and he hung
limply in their arms, not even trying to resist. In fact, as he got closer, Godfrey
saw that they had to drag him, as he was unconscious. Something was clearly wrong
with him.

“Bringing me another plague victim?” the guard
yelled back derisively. “What do you expect me to do with him?”

“Not our problem!” called back the others.

The guard on duty had a fearful look as he held
up his hands.

“I’m not touching him!” he said. “Put him over
there—in the pit, with the other plague victims.”

The guards looked at him questioningly.

“But he’s not dead yet,” they replied.

The guard on duty scowled.

“You think I care?”

The guards exchanged a look then did as they
were told, dragging him across the prison corridor and throwing him into a
large pit. Godfrey could see now that the pit was filled with bodies, all of
them covered with the same red sash.

“And what if he tries to run?” the guards asked
before turning away.

The commanding guard smiled a cruel smile.

“Do you not know what the plague does to a man?”
he asked. “He’ll be dead by morning.”

The two guards turned and walked away, and Godfrey
looked at the plague victim, lying there all alone in that unguarded pit, and
he suddenly had an idea. It was crazy enough that it might just work.

Godfrey turned to Akorth and Fulton.

“Punch me,” he said.

They exchanged a puzzled look.

“I said punch me!” Godfrey said.

They shook their heads.

“Are you mad?” Akorth asked.

“I’m not going to punch you,” Fulton chimed in,
“as much as you may deserve it.”

“I’m telling you to punch me!” Godfrey
demanded. “Hard. In the face. Break my nose! NOW!”

But Akorth and Fulton turned away.

“You’ve lost it,” they said.

Godfrey turned to Merek and Ario, but they,
too, backed away.

“Whatever this is about,” Merek said, “I want
no part of it.”

Suddenly, one of the other prisoners in the
cell waltzed up to Godfrey.

“Couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, grinning
a gap-toothed grin, breathing stale breath all over him. “I’m more than happy
to punch you, just to shut you the hell up! You don’t have to ask me twice.”

The prisoner swung, connected right on Godfrey’s
nose with his bony knuckles, and Godfrey felt a sharp pain shooting through his
skull as he cried out and grabbed his nose. Blood squirted out all over his
face and down his shirt. The pain stung his eyes, clouding his vision.

“Now I need that sash,” Godfrey said, turning
to Merek. “Can you get it for me?”

Merek, puzzled, followed his line of vision
across the hall, to the prisoner lying unconscious in the pit.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just do it,” Godfrey said.

Merek furrowed his brow.

“If I tied something together, maybe I could
reach it,” he said. “Something long and skinny.”

Merek reached up, felt his own collar, and extracted
a wire from it; as he unfolded it, it was long enough to suit his purpose.

Merek leaned forward against the prison bars,
careful so as not to alert the guard, and reached out with the wire, trying to hook
the sash. It dragged in the dirt, but fell a few inches short.

He tried again and again, but Merek kept
getting stuck at the elbow in the bars. They were not skinny enough.

The guard turned his way, and Merek quickly
retracted it before he could see it.

“Let me try,” Ario said, stepping forward as
the guard turned away.

Ario grabbed the long wire and stuck his arms
through the cell, and his arms, much skinnier, passed through all the way up to
the shoulder.

That extra six inches was what they needed. The
hook just barely connected with the end of the red sash, and Ario began to pull
it toward him. He stopped as the guard, facing the other direction, nodding off,
lifted his head and looked around. They all waited, sweating, praying the guard
did not look their way. They waited for what felt like an eternity, until
finally the guard began nodding off again.

Ario pulled the sash closer and closer, sliding
it across the prison floor, until finally it came through the bars and into the
cell.

Godfrey reached out and put the sash on, and they
all backed away from him, fearful.

“What on earth are you doing?” Merek asked. “The
sash is covered with plague. You can infect us all.”

The other prisoners in the cell backed up, too.

Godfrey turned to Merek.

“I’m going to start coughing, and I’m not going
to stop,” he said, wearing the sash, an idea hardening in his mind. “When the
guard comes, he’ll see my blood and this sash, and you’ll tell him I have the plague,
that they made a mistake in not separating me.”

Godfrey wasted no time. He began coughing
violently, taking the blood on his face and rubbing it all up and down himself
to make it look worse. He coughed louder than he’d ever had, until finally, he
heard the cell door open and heard the guard walking in.

“Get your friend to shut up,” the guard said. “Do
you understand?”

“He is not a friend,” Merek replied. “Just a man
we met. A man who has the plague.”

The guard, baffled, looked down and noticed the
red sash and his eyes widened.

“How did he get in here?” the guard asked. “He
should’ve been separated.”

Godfrey coughed more and more, his entire body
racked in a coughing fit.

He soon felt rough hands grab him and drag him
out, shoving him. He stumbled across the hall, and with one last shove, he was
thrown into the pit with the plague victims.

Godfrey lay on top of the infected body, trying
not to breathe too loudly, trying to turn his head away, and not breathe in the
man’s disease. He prayed to God he didn’t get it. It would be a long night,
lying here.

But he was unguarded now. And when it was
light, he would rise.

And he would strike.