Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (22 page)

“Do you care to offer a better answer?”

“
Salif Mavracumduri
, you
gweith
-eating
jefeth!
”

“As you wish.”

Owein was exiting the lift in the lobby when he thought he heard someone’s scream echoing down the elevator shaft. It was very faint, though, and followed by silence. So after only a moment, he shook it from his head and walked on.

Jerahd cradled the body of his dead son in his arms. He wept bitterly on the sand floor of the anteroom, pressing Havlah’s lifeless head to his breast.

“My son! My son!” he rambled deliriously. But the boy did not respond. His mouth hung ajar strangely and his eyes were locked open, staring ever upward. His bloodied shamshir lay nearby, doomed to lie idle forevermore.

A deep gash ran from the side of his neck to his collarbone, and was still seeping blood. He must’ve been hit in the darkness. Somehow Jerahd had missed it while he was fending off the Geldr in the cave. The boy was too traumatized to take notice himself. Surely his whole body, like Jerahd’s, had long since been numbed by endless exertion and extreme exhaustion. And neither of them could have simply seen it… until it was too late.

“Why, Lord Votoc?!” he pleaded in the meager firelight. “Why did you want this? Why must it be Havlah…?!”

As Jerahd had become accustomed when speaking with the Lord, there came no answer.

No reply.

No satisfaction.

No relief.

Nothing.

He was left alone with the heavy corpse in his lap, the weight of his dead son, and the sound of his own weeping.

The combination of grief, dehydration, and severe physical drain left Jerahd in a state of mental stupor. His brain was begging to shut down. He felt disconnected from his own body, convincingly outside himself. He was drunk with sensation, and began to wonder if he might be losing his mind.

Then the sound of inhuman screams from the cave behind jarred him back to reality. That and the pounding of feet – the remaining Geldr still lost in the labyrinth, running for their lives from unseen horrors.

Something stronger than Jerahd’s own willpower told him to set his son’s body down.

He did.

Then it told him to run up the stone stairs to the desert far above.

He did that too.

Without understanding why – being wholly incapable of understanding anything – Jerahd was sprinting up the steps three at a time. Tears poured down his face, washing over his tattoos and streaming into his beard. He continued to weep the entire way, but by the time he reached the surface he could scarcely remember why.

Jerahd spilled clumsily out of the archway and into the desert of Val. He failed to notice that the steps had ended, and so miscalculated his stride and fell flat on his face. He crawled for a while on his belly, since that was easier than trying to stand again. After covering an unknowable distance that way, he noticed it was nighttime. No, not quite night. The lower part of the sky was glowing blue. It must be approaching dawn.

Jerahd had hauled himself up a dune and draped himself over its apex. He pushed himself forward and rolled down the other side. When he came to a stop at the bottom, he lay there for a while and wheezed. Eventually he forced himself to his hands and knees and then, miraculously, he managed to stand on his feet.

He walked.

Though the act was as difficult as it had been when he’d first learned how, Jerahd walked. He walked for what seemed to him to be several hours, though it might’ve been just a few steps, before the weight of his fatigue finally brought him down again. This time, when he hit the sand, he couldn’t find the strength get up again.

He could vaguely sense the warmth of the rising sun on his legs before he lost consciousness.

“Mister, wake up,” said a tiny, female voice.

Jerahd was awake instantly.

He was facedown in the sand. The high position of the sun told him it was midday. His skin was hot and raw. He tried to lift his head to see who was talking to him.

She was standing almost directly in front of the blinding sun, but Jerahd could tell that she was a young girl, maybe nine years old. She was dressed like a desert native and had long hair. She held something in her arms.

“Get up, mister,” she said. “You’re not done yet.”

Jerahd tried to speak, but nothing sensible came out of his mouth. The girl bent to hold a plump waterskin over his head. Uncorking it, she doused his hair and face with cool water.

He gasped beneath it. He lapped it out of the air. The little waterfall was beautifully refreshing. Jerahd opened his dry mouth wide to catch as much as he could. He drank and drank and drank until his stomach felt close to bursting.
Could that single waterskin really hold so much fluid?
Or had Jerahd merely forgotten what it was like to drink water?

Then the water stopped. The girl stoppered the bag and dropped it on the ground before him. Jerahd saw that it was completely full, as though not a drop had been spilled.

But
…
how
…
?

Then she pulled something out of a satchel and set it on the ground beside the waterskin. When his eyes were able to focus, he saw she had set down three pieces of fruit. They were peculiar, yellow-orange balls like nothing Jerahd had seen before. He grabbed at one with his hand and turned it around. There was no stem anywhere on it, or any other trace of parentage. The fruit was a seamless globe of soft, lightly fuzzed skin. Jerahd blinked several times, sure he must be hallucinating.

“These are from my master,” said the girl. “He says they’ll give you strength.”

Jerahd tried to look up at her again, but the sun was too bright beside her face. “Strength…” he sputtered. “Strength for what?”

She giggled at him. It was a high-pitched laugh, ringing purely in Jerahd’s ears. “Your mission, of course!”

“…Mission?”

“Votoc isn’t done with you yet.”

Jerahd squirmed on the ground, trying to get a better look at her. She was smiling at him, that he could see, and from what he could tell she was an intensely pretty young girl.

“He has one more thing to ask of you,” she said.

“Haven’t I failed him enough…?” he said. “Feth is reborn. He’ll bring about the devastation of the –”

She laughed again. The sound was unusually pleasing to Jerahd. Strangely, it put his mind at ease. It calmed him.

“Oh, come now!” she said. “What kind of an attitude is that? After all, the prophecy has many parts. What is one before many?”

“What does My Lord command?”

“Go to Gresadia. Find a man called Maeriod. And protect him.”

She turned from Jerahd and started walking away.

“Protect him? From what? From whom?”

The girl giggled again.

“From everything!” she said, and kept walking. Her hair bobbed with each step.

“Wait! Don’t go! Who are you?”

But she didn’t answer. Jerahd tried to heft himself to his legs, but he was still too weak. He fell back down.

“Little girl!” he called out after her. “Come back!”

And she was gone.

Jerahd grabbed one of the fruits and took a huge bite. The flavor was incredibly sweet, and just a little tangy. The fruit was pillowy soft, yet somehow still firm, and so juicy it seemed to actually generate more liquid while he chewed it. There was so much juice, in fact, that Jerahd couldn’t swallow it fast enough to keep it from pouring out his mouth. And that was the first bite.

As he ate it, he felt a living sensation inside his stomach, as though the energy of the fruit were being absorbed directly into his body, bypassing digestion entirely. A few more bites and he was beginning to feel rejuvenated, like he had slept for days instead of hours. The fruit had no seeds or pit: it was wholly delicious meat.

Before he finished the first one he was on his feet again. The mysterious girl’s tracks had been blown away by the wind. He didn’t bother trying to find her. He knew it would’ve been pointless.

Jerahd was alone in the empty desert with the two remaining pieces of fruit and a full waterskin. He gathered them in his arms and started walking, due east.

When he got home, Owein experienced a surge of alarm to see the door to his apartment hanging open. The lock was forcibly dismantled. Inside he found his few belongings strewn about the room and his furniture smashed. More shocking than any of that, however, was the sight of a young woman near the fireplace.

He didn’t know whether he should speak first or just tackle her. Instead, his confusion led to complete inaction, and the woman turned around to face him.

“Shazahd,” he heard himself say.

“Owein.”

He took a step inside. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you.”

“Did you have to look
everywhere?
”

“It was like this when I got here. Not three minutes ago.”

“
Nieva
…” he said, stepping over the remains of his table. “I guess I have less time than I thought.”

“Less time for what?”

“To …wait a minute. Why are you looking for me?”

“Well… haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About my father.” Owein’s expression told her he hadn’t. He could tell she’d been crying.

“He… he’s been taken.”

“Taken?”

“Abducted. Last night. These men broke into our house, and they…. We don’t know who they were. We don’t know why they came…. There was no ransom made. No note, no explanation – there’s nothing…!”

Owein scrounged a handkerchief from a pile of his belongings on the floor and brought it to Shazahd as a tear ran down her cheek.

“I’m scared, Owein. I didn’t…. I didn’t know who else to come to.”

She collapsed onto him, enveloping him with her long arms, and wept quietly. Owein was unprepared, and stood awkwardly for a second before his instincts told him to put his arms around her, too.

“Uh… there, there,” he said. “Come on, now …eh, don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Fine?” she peeled herself off. “
Fine?!
He’s been kidnapped, Owein! For all I know he’s been murdered!”

“No. No, he’s alive. If someone wanted to murder your father they wouldn’t have bothered to haul his body away. They’d have just killed him. That means they need him alive.” Shazahd dabbed her face with the handkerchief. “If there’s no ransom,” he went on, “then there must be something else they want. Something they could only get from him. Not money…. Something he knew. The ship, perhaps? I don’t know, but there’s
got
to be a reason.”

“Owein,” Shazahd said. “The reason I came here… was to ask you to help me find him.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Look, you hired me for security on your ship, but I don’t just… I’m not –”

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“I…” Owein had to stop there. But after a moment he said, “I wish I could help. I really do. But… well, something’s come up and… and I have to leave town. I’m sorry.”

He found a trail to his cupboard, the door from which was still hanging on by one hinge, and procured his brown liquor.

“Thank the gods they spared this,” he said to himself, uncorking it and taking a drink right from the bottle.

“I can protect you,” she said. “You’re a wanted criminal, a fugitive –”

“I’m innocent. I already told –”

“And I believe you. But that doesn’t change anything. They’re still going to be looking for you. They’ll hunt you down, Owein. They will find you.” He wiped the drink from his mouth and looked at her curiously. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were set and her face was stern.

“You’re in the heart of the Empire,” she said, taking a step toward him. “There’s nowhere you can go where they won’t find you. But I can hide you, Owein. Keep you safe.” She could tell he was considering it. She came closer. “You’ve got thousands of
itthum
to cover in any direction before you can escape them. You’re a dead man on the ground. But I can take you in the air….”

“I wouldn’t want to burden you,” he said a little coldly. “I’m a liability. A dangerous one.” He took another sip.

“I know you can help, Owein. I’ve seen you…
handle
situations before.” He took a deep breath. “But most of all, Owein, I –” He met her eyes. “…I trust you.”

He studied her face for a moment.

“So what’s your plan?”

“I believe the men who took my father work for the Tricorns. I heard them mention Lamarioth by name.”

“Counselor Lamarioth?”

“He’s rumored to have connections with the mafia. They’re both in Zarothus, so I figured that’d be a good place to look around.”

“Let me get this straight…. You want to protect me from the Empire by taking me to
Zarothus?
To the Old Capital?”

“What do you say?”

“I say you’re crazy.” He took a generous swig from the bottle.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

He choked on the harsh drink, but swallowed it down anyway.

“I want six times what you paid me,” he said, coughing.

“Done.”

“Seven times.”

“Fine.”

“Ten.”

“Don’t be a
jefeth
.”

Owein raised an eyebrow at her. “I’ll need a minute to pack my things.” He surveyed the rubble around him. “Maybe less….”

The carriage bucked terribly along uneven cobblestones. A trio of time, weather and the shoddy craftsmanship of underpaid government labor ensured that the streets of New Gresad bluffed and billowed like miniature, brick-covered foothills. The coachman whipped at his horses mercilessly, and they tore across town in a jouncing frenzy.

Owein and Shazahd pressed themselves firmly against the walls inside to keep from being thrown out of their seats.

“What about the Empire?” Owein asked. “Did they ever show any interest in
Gilderam?
”

“They were interested, naturally. But my father has refused to negotiate with them for years. He never wanted his designs to be used for war.”

“It could be them, then.”

“Not likely. When they want something, they come in the daylight with legal papers.”

“Good point.”

The carriage took a sharp turn around a corner, and yanked Owein and Shazahd to one side.

“What about competitors? How much is a thing like
Gilderam
worth to them?”

“Well, a lot. But I don’t think most of them believe it really works. Before this, the last of my father’s patents were filed almost two-dozen years ago. A lot of people thought he was washed up.”

“How did the company survive?”

Shazahd smirked. “They were good patents. But rival products have been catching up. Newer ideas were outpacing us before
Gilderam
. She’s going to put my father, and his company, back on the map.”

“So what was he planning to do with it?”

“As far as I know he never made any formal plans for the new engine. Private projects, I’d suppose. That’s mainly what he does.”

“What about mass production? With such a breakthrough? He’d be the richest man in Gresadia.”

Shazahd looked at him for a moment. “How well do you know my father, Master Maeriod?”

“He’s successful,” Owein said.

“But he’s never cared about success.”

“He’s rich.”

“But he’s never cared about wealth.”

Owein cocked an eyebrow. “How well do
you
know your father?” He was surprised by the look on her face. Apparently his words had cut her rather deeply. Shazahd swallowed with difficulty and went on.

“All his life, he’s only wanted to create,” she said. “He’s an inventor, nothing more or less.”

“How noble,” Owein said without thinking. He kicked himself for being so callous.

“Noble’s not the right word. He doesn’t do anything for anyone else. Whatever benefit to society his inventions are, that’s incidental to him. He’s really… he’s a kid at heart. He just wants to play.”

Owein pushed one of the window curtains aside to peer out. Though still bright, the sun was on its way down. They would be lucky to leave the ground before nightfall.

“You know,” he said. “One thing that still doesn’t make sense –”

One of the horses neighed sharply. The coachman cried out. Then the carriage jerked hard to the left, sending Owein and Shazahd flying into the upholstered wall.

The coach leaned over on two wheels before tipping all the way over on its side. It landed with a grinding crash, spilling its occupants into a crumpled mess of arms and legs on the grounded wall.

Owein heard shrieks and shouts from outside as he came to, and the sound of running feet.

“Ugh… are you okay?” he asked Shazahd as he picked himself up.

“Yes. I think so.”

He helped her to her feet and then knocked open the carriage door above them. Grabbing onto the frame with his hands, he wrenched his body through it and climbed out on top of the overturned buggy.

A crowd was forming in the street. The body of the coachman was a couple
entilum
behind the wrecked carriage, facedown on the pavement. His unmoving form was quickly surrounded by spectators.

“Are you all right, son?” someone asked Owein.

“Oh my!” a lady exclaimed. “Look at that!”

Owein saw that the hitch connecting the horses to the chassis was partially overturned as well, and as a result one of the horses was half-lying on the other. The one underneath had broken a leg.

Something caught Owein’s eye in the crowd. It was a person coming towards him, roughly shoving aside passersby. Owein recognized his tight-fitting coat, with the collar upturned and buckled, the beaten tricorn, and a long, braided ponytail….

“Quick, give me your hand!” he called down to Shazahd in the carriage.

“What?”

“Your hand! Come on!”

She reached up with her thin arms and Owein drew her out of the carriage in one swift lug, pulling so fast that she bumped into the doorframe along the way.

“
Ow!
” she said, coming to her feet on top of the coach. “Be careful! Remember what I’m paying you.” 

“We’ve got to go. Now.” To the people on the ground Owein yelled, “Him! Right there!” He pointed at the oncoming man with the ponytail. “That’s the guy who overturned us! He killed the coachman!”

Shouts of concern transformed into shouts of anger. Tolora was barraged by enraged citizens from all sides.

“Is this true?” they demanded. “Who are you?” “Show us your face!” “You scoundrel!”

Owein helped Shazahd to the street and jumped down beside her.

Somebody thought to stop Tolora by planting himself defiantly in his path. It was a particularly tall and burly Gresadian, and he towered over the shorter, foreign man.

“Not so fast, you!” he bellowed. “Was it you what toppled that cart and threw that driver?”

Tolora’s eyes flashed at the brute before he shoved him mightily in the stomach with both hands. His huge body crumpled like a piece of tin, and he flew backward, knocking over a couple people before falling flat on his back.

The onlookers wailed.

Owein grabbed the uninjured horse, a brown gelding, and pulled it upright with all his weight. Shazahd gasped when she saw the one with the broken leg, jolting futilely on the ground and braying, trapped there by its harness. With his sword, Owein hacked its partner free from the girth and collar.

“That poor animal!” she said.

“No time for that,” said Owein, mounting the horse bareback. “Get on!”

He took her by the hand and swung her up behind him. They kicked off right as Tolora was about to pounce on them.

The horse whinnied and complained, struggling to find a route through the throng on the street. Those in the way cried out for fear of being trampled and scurried aside. Tolora was close behind, and anyone in his way was quickly and effectively displaced. Owein dug his heels into the horse’s sides and it huffed angrily in reply. But it burst forward, although too close to a young couple who were knocked off their feet.

The gelding found an open stretch of street, but so did Tolora behind them, and then it was a foot race – a surprisingly close foot race. The short man with the ponytail was frighteningly nimble, and could almost grab the horse’s tail before it got going at a decent gait.

Shazahd screamed when she turned to see him, sprinting only an arm’s length behind them. His eyes were ablaze, his legs pumping, and his ponytail whipped furiously behind. He tore through the air like a bird in flight.

Owein ground his boots harder into the horse’s ribs and it neighed at him, begrudgingly picking up a little speed. Slowly – very slowly – they outpaced Tolora. At that moment he uncovered inhuman resolve, and sprang forward with renewed stamina, briefly matching the horse’s acceleration.