Clash (The Arinthian Line Book 4) (33 page)

“Good. I am going to instruct the villagers to go about their business in a quiet manner and to remember their vow of secrecy. We are a tight-knit community here though so I expect no trouble. In a moment, the constable is going to take you to the crate. You will climb in and await the arrival of the Legion warlock courier.” He glanced between them while taking a breath. “Are you prepared for this quest?”

Augum’s stomach buzzed with butterflies. “We are, Mr. Haroun.”

“Then let us get to it. Excuse me.” Mr. Haroun left the cabin, immediately greeted by the throng. He began speaking to them in a calm manner, voice muted through the door.

Bridget paced back and forth while Leera absently chewed on her fingernails. Haylee stared at the fire, repeatedly straightening a lock of long blonde hair between her fingers, cane by her side. Jengo kept fidgeting with the blue book, which he had vowed to study at length while they were gone. Devon kept rubbing his hands together, looking like he wanted to start conversation, but was held back by his father, who had a firm hand on his shoulder the entire time.

The noise outside eventually died down as people dispersed.

Constable Clouds used his son’s shoulder to heave himself to a standing position, other hand shaking on his cane from the strain. “It is time. It would be best for you to say your goodbyes now. As discussed, we do not want to make the Legion warlock suspicious, do we?” And so everyone gathered before the fire where hugs and well wishes were exchanged.

“Find your way back to us,” Haylee whispered as she finished hugging the trio, wiping her eyes. “And Chaska wishes you the best of course. I’d so be coming along to help, but a bunch of those necrophytes know me. I’d be recognized instantly.” She gave her leg a rancid look. “Not to mention I’d only slow you down …”

“We understand,” Bridget said with a compassionate smile. “And thank you.”

“Don’t die,” Jengo said, swallowing hard as his towering, gangly frame wrapped all three of them in one big hug. “I’ll be studying very hard and thinking of you all.”

Mr. Okeke wrapped each of their hands in his, giving a firm shake. “Mind yourself and be careful,” he said to each of them. “May the Fates guide your path.”

And so it went. It was the longest goodbye Augum had ever experienced. It made his heart ache. It also made him realize he was not very fond of long goodbyes.

Leland was the last; he reluctantly let go of Bridget, still clutching the Agonex with tiny fingers. She whispered they would return and wiped his tear-stained cheeks. The trio then solemnly departed with Mr. Haroun, Constable Clouds, Devon, Lieutenant Briggs and Sergeant Cobb. Villagers kept a respectful distance, but all snuck peeks at the three hooded necrophytes quietly making their way to the Haroun home. Augum felt like it was some kind of strange procession, almost funereal. He could not help thinking that all it took was one of those people to inform the Legion and claim a great prize. He had a sour feeling about so many people knowing who they were, and had to keep telling himself to trust the constable and Mr. Haroun and everyone else involved with the town’s defense.

Clayborne greeted them at the door with a stiff bow. “Follow me, please.” He led them past a stone-faced Mrs. Haroun and a sullen Annelise, who gave Augum a meaningful look he did not understand, before taking them down to the cellar, where Gabe was placing books into the crate.

Clayborne stiffened. “Son, what are you doing here?”

“Just helping, Father. I shall see myself out.”

“That you will, and immediately.”

Gabe kept his head down while he shuffled by and zipped up the steps. How odd, Augum thought.

“A reminder that the Legion warlock has never been here before,” Clouds said as they lined up before the crate. It was mostly full of books already, leaving a gap for them to climb into. “And has therefore had to ride here from Eastspear, departing before sunrise. I shall greet the person at the entrance to town. We expect the warlock soon, so it is best that you hurry. Devon will help hide you.”

Clouds let go of his son’s shoulder and reached out to each of them, shaking their hands. “May the Unnameables light your way,” he said after letting go of Augum’s hand. “And remember—do not speak of the Agonex or the scions to anyone. Do not reveal who you are; use disguises. Do not befriend lightly. Do not trust lightly.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Augum said. “We will be careful.”

Devon could not look any of them in the eye. His lip trembled and he said nothing.

“Goodbye, Devon,” Bridget said at last. “Wish us luck.”

Devon sniffed and nodded. “I … I wish you all the luck in Sithesia. May the Unnameables watch over you … and stuff.”

“I shall leave you to your brave quest,” Clouds said, departing, cane prodding at the floor. He turned to look them over one last time from the staircase. “The kingdom needs you,” and he left, muttering, “So brave for ones so young …”

Mr. Haroun stepped forward, shaking each of their hands. “I wish you nothing but success. Be careful, stay alert, and watch out for each other.”

“We will, Mr. Haroun,” Bridget replied.

Mr. Haroun reached into a pocket and withdrew a wax-sealed letter. “This is for the senior arcaneologist, Lien Ning.”

Bridget received the letter. “Thank you.”

Mr. Haroun smiled before gesturing welcomingly at the crate. One by one, the trio climbed in, settling at the bottom. Mr. Haroun and Devon, the latter sniffling throughout, began burying them with books.

Augum and Leera found each other’s hand and squeezed. The candlelight steadily dimmed, finally obscured completely by books. The trio stayed silent throughout, breathing short bursts in the confined space, which quickly grew hot and dark.

“I’ll come and give you a warning when the warlock is almost here,” they heard Devon say, his voice muffled as it fought through the piles of books.

“He better arrive soon,” Leera whispered after Devon departed. “Can barely breathe in here.”

Augum tried to keep his breathing even, thinking this had to be the most uncomfortable space he had ever been in.

Bridget’s breathing was the fastest though. “Can’t stand cramped spaces,” she muttered.

“Hang in there, Bridge,” Augum said. He recalled the cave under Bahbell and how Bridget had struggled. Poor thing.

Finally, Devon’s voice rang out. “She’s coming, she’s coming—! The Legion warlock is here! Good luck, you three!” His footsteps echoed in the cellar, muffled by the heaps of books the trio was buried under.

Soon there were more footsteps, and this time the trio held their breath.

“It is here, Ms. Terse,” said the wheezing constable.

“What is this? Are you transporting an entire library?” came a piercing female voice. “A bit overzealous with the confiscations, were you not?”

“I find it is best to keep the villagers as ignorant as possible, Ms. Terse. It serves our Lordship’s interests best. And not all are confiscations. Milham is a proud supporter of the Legion. Many of these books have been donated by the local populace who are eager to see the Legion succeed. They recognize sacrifices have to be made for future necrophytes.”

Augum could almost feel Leera smirking. He squeezed her hand in acknowledgment of Constable Clouds’ deft handling of the Legion warlock.

“That is all well and good, but the object is much larger than I usually teleport. It’s going to cost you more.”

There was the sound of a bag of coins clinking. “I believe you shall find this adequate compensation for your troubles,” Mr. Haroun replied.

“Ah, that will indeed do.”

“Now if you would be so kind, Ms. Terse,” Clouds continued, “please teleport this crate to Lien Ning, the senior arcaneologist in the Antioc libr—”

“—I know who she is,” Ms. Terse interrupted. “The old lunatic receives a parcel every tenday regarding some fine point in arcanery. I do believe chicken scratchings would shed more light on any subject than the ravings of that shriveled thing.”

“Nonetheless, the Legion is grateful for your services.”

“Is it now? And when am I going to attain this so-called ‘eternal life’ gratitude supposedly bestows?”

There was a marked pause. “I shall pretend I did not hear that, Ms. Terse.”

Clouds was indeed skilled at this, Augum thought.

“Forgive me, Constable, I forget myself.” There was the sound of swishing fabric as someone strolled near. “Stand back, please.” After a moment of silence, “Impetus peragro obiectum massus!”

But nothing happened except a groan.

“It’s too heavy. You’re going to have to lose some books.”

There was a marked silence.

“Of course,” the constable eventually said. “Devon, give us a hand.”

There was a stuttering sound and quick footsteps.

Augum swallowed. He could barely breathe as the sound of books thumping against the ground echoed in the cellar.

“Try now, Ms. Terse.”

“Constable, I do not think that is enough—”

“Ms. Terse, every book removed is one fewer book for our young necrophytes, the very future of the Legion.”

“As you wish.” After another moment of concentrated silence, “Impetus peragro obiectum massus!” and Augum felt himself and the crate yank.

The Ancient Library of Antioc

Being pulled apart in all directions while tumbling end-over-end only to wake up in a tight, dark space was enough to make Augum nearly throw up. He had not prepared for teleporting in such a manner, and judging by their silent writhing, neither had Bridget and Leera. It was a hard struggle not to make any noise as they heard quick, clacking footsteps approach.

“Giant crate of books for the lunatic, Prudence,” Ms. Terse said.

“Jezebel,” replied a squeaky female voice. “Did not expect to see you back so soon.”

There was a barely audible noise not unlike a shrug. “This one paid well. Some fat constable and his contribution to necrophyte knowledge. Bunch of confiscations, blah, blah, blah. The usual.”

There was a small snort of laughter. “What, did he hide himself in it? It’s huge.”

A wave of fear rippled down Augum’s spine, combining with the nausea from teleporting. Oh no, were they going to search the crate?

“My thoughts exactly,” Ms. Terse replied. “I’m willing to bet not one of these books has anything to do with arcanery.”

“I’m of the same mind. Every eager constable from here to Dramask seems to think they can curry favor by ‘contributing to the pool of knowledge’. Fools. They must think we have an unlimited supply of attendants to catalog and sort it all, forgetting most had been snatched for the war effort. What a waste of talent, if you ask me.”

Ms. Terse sighed. “I should see her and get this signed in.”

“She’s busy berating the head examiner for volunteering as a judge in the tournament.”

“So she’ll be a while.”

“You know how she is. Tea?”

“You’re a shining light in this dark dungeon, Prudence.”

“If only everyone else thought so. Guards here are about as sharp as a cake knife. Speaking of which, how does a bite of candied Tiberran apple sound?”

“In these times? That would be marvelous …” Ms. Terse’s voice trailed as the two women departed, one set of footsteps soft and relaxed, the other quick and noisy.

Just as Augum was about to whisper if everyone was all right, there was the sound of vomiting—
except it did not come from the trio
.

“Who’s there?” Leera hissed.

There was a whimper and a muffled gagging. Suddenly there was another vomiting noise, this time from a new source, just as close, but from a different corner of the crate.

“What’s going on here, who is that—?” Bridget whispered.

A panting and groaning. “Gods, I’m covered in my own filth, someone help me.”

Augum immediately recognized that voice. Bumps rose on his arms. “Malaika—?”

There was a cough and another groan. “Ugh, I’m not feeling well.”

This time it was Leera’s turn for incredulity. “Charissa—?”

“I need to get out of here,” Malaika said in a panicked voice. “I can’t breathe, and the stench—Unnameables help me before I—”

“Shh, someone’s coming!” Bridget hissed, and everyone inside the crate fell silent.

“… said to me, ‘I can teleport too, you just watch!’ and do you know what happened?” Ms. Terse asked.

“I could scarcely guess, but knowing your other stories, something gruesome,” Jezebel replied.

“The poor boy teleported all right—they unearthed him two days later
underneath
the spot he tried to teleport from. I swear these necrophytes are dumber than beheaded chickens.”

“They don’t train warlocks like they used to.”

“You’re damn right they don’t. All they care about is training them how to raise corpses and kill things; hardly room for minutia. No wonder most of the poor wretches don’t make it past the second degree. And guess how many healers are being trained? That’s right—
zero
. You believe that? Necromancy is apparently more important!”

“Not to mention all the good teachers have fled—”

“—or been murdered.”

There was a dual sigh.

“Did … did they raise the boy?” Prudence asked, taking a bite of what Augum could only assume was a candied apple.

“What do you think?”

“Unnameables …”

“That’s right, used as a
teaching
example on how to raise a freshly-killed seventeen-year-old boy from the grave.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Speaking of which, what’s that smell?”

The two women sniffed at the air as Augum stiffened.

“Must be a dead rat in the crate or something,” Ms. Terse said.

“You sure that fat constable isn’t in there?”

The two women laughed.

“PRUDENCE!” roared an arcanely amplified voice that echoed off what sounded like stone walls.

There was a deep sigh. “Gods, what is it now …”

“Probably wants you to change her floating chamber pot.”

“Stop it, you’ll get me in trouble again. And don’t you even think about making it do tricks behind her back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“PRUDENCE—! HOW MANY TIMES MUST—”

“I should go. Why don’t you just fly off, I’ll sign the crate in for you.”