Masters & Slayers, Page 3

  He knelt and pried up a loose board, revealing a small cubbyhole. As he lowered the tube toward the hole, a sense of sadness dragged his spirits down. And why not? After today, he would likely never see the precious message again. Although he had long ago deciphered the hidden meaning behind most of the words, viewing it once more might reenergize him and send him off with a renewed passion.

  A screen on the side of the cylinder read, Deposit genetic material for access.

  He plucked a hair from his head and inserted it into a small opening next to the screen. The letters changed to, Genetics verified.

  He raised the tube to his eye and looked through the end. As usual, a video played. Victor, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and goatee, stood in the midst of the hardwood forest beyond Mesolantrum’s boundary. He held a tricornered hat and said, “Adrian, you gave me this hat to analyze, and I have very little to tell you beyond what you already know. Bear hunting is perilous, and I fear that your brother has fallen victim to an especially dangerous variety. As you suspected, the blood on the band was not his. The genetic markers indicate a variety from a distant region, one that neither you nor I have ever ventured into. Yet your brother mentioned many times that he wished to go there to hunt this species.”

  Adrian nodded at the familiar words, coded, yet easy to translate for those who understood the mission of the Underground Gateway.

  “Of course,” Victor continued, “all mountain bears are intelligent, but these appear to be especially crafty. I fear that one has visited our region and placed the hat here in order to lure us to his lands. He likely wants us to come there in order to provide more captives for him and his clan. And, as you long suspected, there is a bear in our midst, one that hides his own guilt by concocting stories about other bears stealing innocent girls. If you find the bear among us, you will find his captive. The key to his secrets never leaves him, for even as he sleeps it rests upon his heart.”

  Adrian pondered the meaning of the “innocent girls” comment, one of the phrases he hadn’t fully understood. Could Victor be referring to Elyssa, a teenager supposedly stolen from her home by a clan of bears? Yet, the bear story seemed impossible, in spite of the physical evidence that pointed to bears in the vicinity. And the key resting on a bear’s heart was another mystery he had not yet solved. The key to the key, it seemed, followed Victor’s brave soul to his grave, and he didn’t survive long enough to offer his advice when the dragon began querying Drexel about a trade for extane.

  Victor placed the hat against his chest. “Because I honor your brother so highly, I urge you to hunt the bears and rid the world of the danger.”

  The screen went blank. Adrian waited for the secret portion, which an intruder, thinking the video was finished, likely wouldn’t see. After about a minute, another man appeared wearing the same tricornered hat, his back turned as he looked at a tall stone wall covered with thorny vines.

  “Frederick,” Adrian whispered. He tried to swallow, but his throat caught. Seeing his older brother always raised a surge of emotions—longing and heartbreak.

  As usual, a dirty, bare-chested little boy stood near the wall. After picking up a handful of stones and putting them into a big pail, he hoisted the pail into his arms and shuffled away with it. Seconds later, Frederick turned. His face seemed narrow from loss of weight, and a few days of beard growth covered his cheeks and chin.

  With wide eyes and sweat-dampened face, he spoke quickly, almost angrily. “Adrian, if every prayer of mine is answered, you will get this message. Hear me, my brother. It is all true. Every story is true. I have seen the dragons. I have met the Lost Ones. I do not have time to explain everything, so I simply beg you to come. Attempt the passage in the way I explained before I left home, and we will work together to rescue the lambs from the wolves. I cannot leave, for I fear that I will not be able to return to this world. I must stay and help them for as long as I can.”

  Frederick swallowed hard. A new tone etched passion into his voice. “I hope to be here to greet you when you make the passage, but if the dragons learn of my presence, you will likely not see me again. For now, I can only bring comfort to the Lost Ones. The rest will be up to you.”

  After the screen faded to black, Adrian wiped a tear with his sleeve. The day had finally arrived. After months of preparation, it was time to make the journey, though in a manner that differed from the way Frederick had envisioned. Frederick had learned about a way to pass through the portal and discussed it with Adrian before going on a search for the portal’s location. He never returned to reveal its hiding place, and, in his hurry, he forgot to mention it in the video message. Yet, it might not matter. Apparently the dragon used a different portal to deliver the hat and this message. Finding this second portal would be Adrian’s goal.

  He clutched the cylinder tightly. Taking in a deep breath, he smiled. Yes, it was finally time. All that remained was to ride back to the palace, inform Prescott of his decision to resign, and then come home again to say good-bye to Mother and Jason. Of course, that last step would be the most difficult part. Father already approved, and Mother would understand his desire to go on yet another journey to find Frederick. Jason, on the other hand, wouldn’t like it. He didn’t believe the dragon stories and would not want his brother to go.

  Adrian laid the cylinder in the cubbyhole. Father had warned him not to show Jason the message. Faith, he had said, is better rooted in prepared soil—fertile ground that embraces the seed. The soil must hope for it, long for it, though it had only imagined its presence by seeing fruit appear nearby. When soil reluctantly accepts seed that is thrust upon it, seed that it had rejected until the great farmer pushed it under the soil’s skin, the seed will not germinate as readily, and the roots will likely not support a stalk strong enough to bear fruit. If Jason believes without seeing, as we all did, he will be a fruitful tree indeed.

  Adrian set the board over the hole, concealing the courier tube. There wasn’t enough time to wait for the soil to be ready. Jason needed to believe now, and Adrian had to force the seed down his throat. In his absence, Jason had to continue the search for Elyssa, and learning the truth about the dragons might motivate him to find his childhood friend.

  Rising to his feet, Adrian stepped on the board and wedged it in place. Soon everyone would learn the truth. When the slaves returned from Dracon, every eye would see what Mesolantrum had disbelieved for so long. It was only fair that Jason’s eyes be opened first.

  He gazed at the wall to the right of the bedroom’s only window and the mural he had painted there—the planetary system, at least all the planets the scientists had detected with the powerful sky scopes Prescott installed in his observatory.

  With his eyes focused on the center of the mural, Adrian stepped closer to the wall. Solarus, of course, hovered at the focal point with orange flares streaming from its reddish surface. He counted the planets, as was his habit, and arrived at the same number—eighteen, those far from Solarus painted as frozen, blue and gray spherical rocks and the closer ones as smoother spheres displaying vibrant green and orange.

  He touched the fourth large planet from Solarus, Major Four, the most verdant of the living worlds, and traced the blue line that represented the Elbon River to its mouth where it poured into the Sterling Sea. Those crystal waters yielded a wonderful bounty of fish and provided sustenance and trade for much of Mesolantrum—home to himself and ten thousand other souls who pledged allegiance, whether heartfelt or feigned, to Governor Prescott. And Prescott, of course, bowed the knee to King Sasser, the ruler of all the inhabited regions of Major Four.

  As always, Adrian let his gaze jump to the opposite side of Solarus, where a black planet sat on the purple backdrop like the dark center of a bruise—Dracon, the mysterious dragon planet. Legends about Dracon described a distinct ice cap, a characteristic unseen on any visible planet. But Dracon had to be out there, likely too dark to be seen as it swept through its orbit. His drawing reflected mere spec
ulation, a guess that it must always lie on the opposite side of Solarus where it floated like a celestial mouse trying to stay away from a pursuing cat.

  Adrian smiled. Then again, maybe Major Four was the mouse and Dracon was the cat. Considering all that had happened, his own world was likely the one running from a predator.

  He checked his sword and belt, positioning them in the perfect array Prescott demanded. He might as well look his part. No use making Prescott angrier than he already would be. Resigning never made sense to the pompous governor. Why would anyone ever want to leave such a high calling as guarding his person?

  Adrian picked up the now-empty saddle pack and slung it over his shoulder. A high calling, indeed. Walking behind his hefty highness and watching his fat posterior swagger from one pretentious pageant to another wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of a warrior’s career. Still, it wouldn’t hurt for Jason to use this position in order to gain some information. Maybe he could find the key Victor had talked about and solve the mystery of Elyssa’s disappearance.

  With a confident gait, he strode from the room. It was time to put the plan into motion—resign as bodyguard, then come back to the commune and reveal the truth to Jason.

  As she hurried along the meadow path between the amphitheater and the governor’s palace, Marcelle spied a column of smoke ahead and to the right. Veering toward it, she crossed into a cornfield with browning stalks, most taller than herself. After a few seconds, she broke into a clearing where a farmhand stood near a small pile of burning debris—moldy hay and dried cornstalks. Short and stocky, he jerked his shaggy head up and shuffled back a step, his fingers tightening around a garden rake. He swallowed and spoke with a jittery voice, “Marcelle?”

  “Good afternoon,” she said as she drew close. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “No, but everyone knows who you are.” The man stared at the sword fastened to her belt. “What can I do for you?”

  She suppressed a smile. “If you would be kind enough to fetch some water, I would be most appreciative.”

  “Certainly.” The man dropped his rake, backed away a few steps, then turned and hurried into the cornstalks.

  “Perfect.” Marcelle withdrew Drexel’s note from her pocket, held it open in her palm, and read the last few lines. Turn the valve three-quarters to open the pipeline just enough to deliver the extane gas to our network. If you are successful, immediately notify the person who gave you this note so that he can arrange his part of this undertaking. You, then, must go to the collection tank and wait for a warrior we have assigned to help you. Be sure to arrive within five hours, or the collection tank’s pressure valve will release gas and make a considerable noise. We do not want to attract attention, so it is imperative that our timing be precise and that you shut off the valve at the collection point. The dragon said he would leave further instructions near the tank, so when you arrive begin looking for signs of those instructions. He has provided communication in a variety of ways—a note, an etching in a tree, letters scrawled on the ground. Finding the next step is crucial, so consider every possibility.

  She closed her eyes and repeated the message from memory. Then, crouching by the fire, she dropped the note into the flames. As orange tongues licked the edges, she pictured the gas valve in her mind. This was all just too strange to be true. How long had the Gateway believers been planning this bribe? If the plan worked, would the dragon be appeased? Would they be able to bring the Lost Ones home, at least enough of them to prove to Mesolantrum that they existed?

  And if the dragon granted passage to Dracon, what would prevent other dragons from coming through to Major Four and kidnapping more people in the future? Would they continue demanding ransom forever?

  As the last of the note burned to ash, she rolled her fingers around the hilt of her sword. This was wrong, all wrong. The inhabitants of Major Four should fight to get their people back. Only force would teach those dragons to stay on their own planet. Accepting the fruits of extortion was the coward’s way.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her passion. She had an assignment to complete, an assignment that would begin in mere moments and in a most unpleasant manner. She, too, had to use stealth and deception to get her way, and fooling Prescott would be no easy task.

  She searched the cornstalks for the farmhand. No sign of him. He was probably too frightened to return. This was certainly nothing new. Very few men ever wanted to be around her, whether out of fear or embarrassment.

  She marched back through the cornstalks and found the path again. After a minute or so, the governor’s palace came into sight. With towering marble columns, pristine white stairs leading visitors between lions of stone, and ornate carvings in the massive oaken doors, it was an edifice fit for the noblest of nobles, the most honorable of statesmen, the finest of gentlemen.

  “Too bad Prescott is none of those,” she muttered. With a quick stride, she marched along the grassy path that led around the palace’s east side before slowing as she entered the rear courtyard’s Enforcement Zone—the plaza where the pillories, burning stake, and gallows stood atop a floor of flat red stone.

  She stopped and stared at the rough floor. No wonder Prescott had it painted. The blood spilled here now wore a disguise.

  Although empty, each instrument of torture still provided a haunt for the ghosts of its victims—the members of the Underground Gateway who suffered under the hot sun with their wrists and ankles clamped in splintery bonds; the denounced “traitors” who swung from the noose dangling from the L-shaped post; and, worst of all, the “witches” who gave up their tender flesh to the flames of torment, all the while answering with whispered prayers the catcalls of the righteous. Even today it seemed that the smoke from the widow Halstead’s burning body still billowed as her soul flew toward heaven and into the arms of God.

  Tears pooled in Marcelle’s eyes. How could anyone, especially the clergy, believe that Mrs. Halstead was anything but a woman gifted by her Creator to see beyond the physical? Why did the counselors preach the benefits of recognizing spiritual realities and then turn around and persecute someone who actually saw them? Such was their hypocrisy.

  Marcelle swept past the noose and stalked toward the back of the courtyard where the dungeon guard rested on a flat, waist-high boulder. Clenching the hilt of her sword again, she forced her inflamed passion into submission. No sense in barking at Gregor. As a secret member of the Underground Gateway, he would never approve of Prescott’s cruelties.

  “I heard the governor entered the dungeon,” she said. “I am his new bodyguard, so—”

  “There is no need to explain,” Gregor said as he rose. “I am to take you as far as the inner stairway.” He bent his large frame and pulled open a door embedded in the ground, revealing a flight of stairs underneath. The hinges creaked loudly, proving their age and lack of use. Most criminals under Prescott’s reign never made it as far as this door into the void. All the better for them. Even death was more tolerable than being plunged into darkness and then forgotten.

  Using a pair of flint stones, Gregor lit a torch and descended the crooked, wooden stairs. Marcelle followed, treading lightly as the stout man in front of her raised loud squeaks from the two-centuries-old boards.

  As light from above faded, the fire’s glow spread across the walls on each side. With every step, the rough plaster felt closer, colder, as if the walls might pinch together behind her and block her escape. The air carried a musty odor intermixed with the expected smells of sweat, urine, and feces. A quiet moan echoed from somewhere below, more of an extended sigh than a cry of lament.

  Marcelle tried to imagine a face to match the low voice, perhaps an elderly man with long scraggly hair and sad, bloodshot eyes. This was surely a place of precipices—life hanging in the balance, men young and old desperately clutching a shred of hope that someday they could climb these stairs, walk out with hands unbound, and feel the sun once again. Even the foul odors bore witness to each man’s d
etermination to survive just one day more.

  When Gregor reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned left and lumbered toward a passageway, the center tunnel of three. Ducking slightly to keep his head from scraping the granite ceiling, he whispered, “They’re probably awake. Don’t listen to them. They’ll tell any lie, any fable to arouse pity.”

  “Shouldn’t we pity?” she asked as she followed.

  Gregor shook his head. “If I were to allow them to prick my heart, my emotions would break out like a flood. I would unlock their cells and lead them out with a sword. I could never perform my duty.”

  “Your duty?” She gave him a skeptical squint. “Do you mean to Prescott or to your fellow man?”

  Gregor stopped and glared at Marcelle. The torch highlighted the crags in his cheeks and chin as well as his fiery eyes. “We all compromise somewhere. Don’t pretend you’re excepted.”

  Marcelle bit her tongue. A clever retort would be easy, too easy, but what would it accomplish? Staying on Gregor’s good side was essential. He represented the only way out.

  She clasped Gregor’s arm. “I have never stood in your shoes, my good man. Who am I to question your decisions?”

  The big guard half closed one eye, but after a moment, he offered Marcelle a firm nod. “Let us be done with this task.” He turned and marched into the central tunnel.

  As Marcelle followed, the stench of waste and decay assaulted her nose. With no breeze to clear the air, the odor seemed to hang in the hall like a dirty curtain.

  The torch crackled as Gregor walked, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. He made a beeline for a stone wall at the end of the corridor. Marcelle stayed a few paces behind, swinging her head back and forth to get a glimpse of each barred window as she passed.

  Fingers gripped the bars from inside a window on her left, and a nose protruded through the center gap. “I smell a coward,” a man said.