The Merchant Adventurer (16 page)

Boltac sat in the dark for a long time. There are many more gradations of darkness than the human eye can see. In fact, it is correct to say that humans cannot see any kind of darkness at all, only light. But there is always a catch. As Boltac stared into that endless night and saw nothing, he realized there was a patch of blackness that he couldn’t see, but it was a patch of blackness that he couldn’t see a little less than all the other blackness surrounding it.

Very slowly, and with many groans, he got to his feet. His clothes, what were left of them, were in tatters. But when he felt his limbs and torso, he realized that, somehow, he had been made whole. His ribs had stopped moving under his skin like a sack of broken sticks. The strange pads and paws of the Broken Ones had somehow set him to rights. For a moment, he considered that he might be a thing made, just as they were.

“You are a broken thing.” The UnderKing’s words echoed in his ears. In the vast silence surrounding him, the imagined voice was deafening.

Boltac took a step towards the less-dark darkness. It was unnerving to walk blindly. He slid his foot across the floor, expecting a pit, or a knife in his back, or any one of a thousand injuries or tortures or traps that his mind conjured in the absence of anything to look at.

Even moving at a snail’s pace, Boltac broke out a cold sweat. But inch by inch, he moved forward. After a time he could not measure, he realized that the unseeable floor beneath his feet was sloping upward. But to where? How far had he fallen? There might have been no such thing as a bottomless pit, but there were surely deep, deep holes in the earth.

He came to a wall and felt his way along it in the dark. His hands clung to every fissure and rough place with greed and desperation, as if he could fall off into the darkness and be lost forever. As he walked, he was overcome with the hopelessness of his position. He was miles underground and could wander forever–or at least until dehydration killed him–without ever finding his way out.

“Follow the light?” Boltac called out. “Hey! I’m talking to you. I know there’s something out there… in here… whatever…” he said, assured at first, but his voice trailing off at the end. He thought for a while about all the somethings that could be out there in the darkness. Maybe yelling was a bad idea. Maybe breathing was a bad idea. Maybe everything was a bad idea.

Boltac laid his head against the wall and fought back tears. As silent sobs wracked his body, his necklace of charms made infinitesimal jingling noises against the stone. Did he have a ward against being trapped underground? He’d have to get one of those. When he got out of here that would be the first thing he would do. Surely those barbarous, tanned Southroners had a God of the UnderDark or some such. Who did the UnderKing worship, Boltac wondered? Somewhere,
somebody
had to have a charm against this kind of thing, and Boltac would find it.

Wiping his tears away with what remained of his sleeve, Boltac pressed on. A few steps later, he found an opening in the wall and in it, stairs. As he climbed, he realized that the steps were cut for a creature with a smaller stride than a human. It made climbing them even harder than climbing regular stairs. But even though his legs cramped and his lungs burned, he climbed. Not quickly. Not as a young man like Relan might, but slowly and without stopping.

When the sound of Boltac’s footsteps rising from the UnderDark had faded, Samga spoke to the UnderKing. “I told you he was not the one.”

“It is not done yet,” said the UnderKing.

“He’s no Chosen One. He cannot release us from The Master.”

“Maybe it is not the one who is Chosen who can save us, Samga. Maybe it is the one who
chooses
.”

“I have been away too long,” said Samga, turning to leave his King.

“I will await his return for a time.”

“Of course,” said Samga, “All you ever do is sit in the dark and wait.”

Samga followed his own scent-trail back to the secret fissure he would climb back to the Wizard’s dungeon. He had thought he was out range of the UnderKing, but all of a sudden his voice was there beside him.

“It is not all sitting and waiting, Samga. The darkness is where an Orc can look inward; here, there is nothing else to see.”

“We were made hollow. We are empty inside.”

“It is not done yet,” said the UnderKing, knowing that those words were always true.

Boltac stumbled through darkness for what felt like days. The stairs ended in another darkened level. Again, he felt his way towards the lighter darkness. He stumbled into walls. Once he almost fell into a pit. His nerves became numb to the constant strain, even as his hands cramped with the effort of extending outward as far as his fingers could reach. Eventually, the ache reached all the way to his shoulders.

He was on the verge of giving up, when he felt a faint stirring of air. It was not the stale reek of the depths. It was light and sweet, like a cool drink of water on a hot summer day. His lungs drank it in greedily, and he followed the scent and movement of that impossible breeze.

He rounded a corner and then he saw it. Light. Not the brightness of a new day dawning. Not even the faint light of a candle guttering its last spark in a pool of melted tallow. It was, perhaps, the faintest light a man can see. But compared to the void from which he had come it was a beacon to light his way. He hurried and fell. Got up and fell again. Climbed stairs using his hands and feet. Then a passage to the left, more stairs and there it was: a chink in the wall. A pure beam of sunlight in this darkened place.

He followed the beam to its source, a hole in an ancient stone door choked with vines on the other side. After a struggle with the stone, he was able to pull it open. Grass, vines, and sod fell in as he pushed his way out into the sunlight and open air.

He saw that he was high on the side of a mountain, facing east; the light was the sun shining through the forest canopy. Near him, a spring burbled down the slope. Boltac drank greedily from it. It was so clear and cold it made his teeth ache. When he splashed it upon his shaven pate, the shock of it sparked through him an emotion that was very much like hope. Realizing he was alive, free, and in the light of a new day, Boltac laughed as he had not laughed for years.

A short walk in the sunlight, a gentle stroll downhill and around the base of this mountain would put him on the road back home. He had it on good authority that some people even enjoyed such walks in the woods.

And then what? Sell what was left in his store. Buy a boat and head south? A leisurely drift down the river Swift. Some fishing along the way. Bonfires on the riverbank at night.

And then what? A shop or trading stall in Yorn or in the swamp-ringed Squalipoor? Surely he would not stop in Shatnapur? That would be too close to Robrecht. Too close to memories. Too close to…

And then what? Build a business again. Make back something of the fortune he’d lost. He could do it. Wasn’t he a lucky man? As he thought this, he jangled the necklace of charms and wards. A lucky man. Luck earned with hard work and the money it had brought.

And then what? His ease in old age, perhaps a place to put his feet up? He wasn’t too old to dream of a family. A vineyard, something productive, not too far out of a city, but away from the bustle. And then, as an old man, the busy-ness of his life complete, he would put his feet on the hearth, sip the wine that was too good to sell, and he would have time to think.

To think of what? Boltac looked back toward the stone door through which he’d escaped. To think of Relan falling to the stone floor. The look of confusion on his face that said, “But this can’t happen. I am the Hero!” To think of Asarah, lost to him. As lost to him as if she were dead. But her scream, her wails, crying for him. Would he not hear that screaming echo for the rest of his life?

He turned away from the door. “No. It was a bad deal from the beginning, but you got away with your skin. It’s a sunk cost, Boltac. Take the hit and walk away.” He nodded to himself as if that ended the argument. Good. Sensible. Mercantile. Just a bad deal. But when he went to walk away, his feet moved in the wrong direction, back toward the door, toward Asarah and Relan, Glory and Treasure, Wizard and Orcs…

He stopped himself. “Who am I kidding?” he asked the bright new day. “I’m just gonna get myself killed. I’m not the Chosen One. Who chose me? Who ever
would
choose me? I’m not a Hero. I don’t have broad shoulders or Shining™ Armor. I’m not even young anymore.”

He fingered the necklace thick with charms and got an idea. It was a bad idea. But then, this whole thing had been a bad idea from the get-go. Boltac made his decision. He drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “You make your own luck,” he said to no one, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt.

He took a deep breath of fresh air. He said goodbye to the trees and the green grass and the water pure and dancing through the rocks. The clouds parted and the sun was too bright. He squinted and bade a silent last goodbye to the world. Then he headed back into the darkness. It was a bad deal all right, thought Boltac. But he had made it, and he wasn’t going to break it.

Was he putting his life at risk? Sure, thought Boltac. But that was nothing. It wasn’t just the sum of all his yesterdays he had put up to finance this ill-advised expedition. It was the promise of all his tomorrows. Unless he saw this thing through, there would be no ease by the fire. There would be no pleasure in shrewd trading and crisp profits. There would be no living with himself.

And Asarah? thought Boltac. She Loves me not. But I Love her still, Gods help me; I can do nothing else. A thought surfaced in his mind: I guess that makes me some kind of Hero. As he closed the door behind him, he answered his mind’s foolishness with a skeptical, “En-henh.”

It was harder to go back. Now he could appreciate how stagnant the air really was down here. Each step still brought fear, but they were now robbed of hope and anticipation: he knew what awaited him at the bottom of the pit. So he followed the dark, sinking in the blackness, this time following his own compass of stale fear and dry death.

When at last he came to the gigantic, silent room, he stood listening for a time. He heard nothing, but took a chance anyway. “I know you’re there,” he said.

“You have returned,” said the UnderKing. “Why?”

“I need to find a way up.”

“We told you, to find your way out, you must follow the light.”

“Not
out
, back up. Into the mess. And with all the crap the Wizard has thrown down this hidey hole, you can’t tell me there’s not a friggin’ torch down here somewhere.”

“But this is the UnderDark,” said the UnderKing. “The Kingdom of Things Discarded that Wish to be Forgotten–”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s one hell of pitch for tourism, but if you want to me to take on this crazy Wizard at the height of his power, I gotta get up there first. For that I need light.”

In the darkness, a light appeared. It was a torch, and though it was soaked in oil and burning well, the darkness did not give up easily. It pressed in on all sides. As the torch was lifted, Boltac saw that it was Samga who held it. To his left, wearing a crown of bent and twisted metal, stood a simpler, cruder version of an Orc. The UnderKing closed his eyes and shielded them from the light with his claw. His features seemed drawn in crayon, simple and plain. A moon face, mere holes for ears, and a scribble for a mouth. His simple symmetry was interrupted by a leg bent underneath him, twisted as if it had shattered in a fall and never properly reset.

“Uh,” began Boltac, then realized that the emptiness of the pit was anything but empty.

At the very edges of the feeble light cast by the torch were creatures keeping to the dark. Some walked, some crawled, some shambled, all moved silently and whispered in unison: “Release. Release. Release.”

Boltac tore his eyes away from the shapes in the darkness and looked at Samga. “Why are you helping me? Why do you betray your Master?”

“Do you have a Master?”

“No.”

“Do you want one?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. This is my King,” Samga nodded towards the UnderKing. Then he looked up and said, “He is my captor.”

“Okay, well. Good enough for me. Now, let’s talk about how we are going to do this. We need to be patient. Take our time. Make no mistakes. We’re only gonna get one shot at this guy.”

Samga’s expression did not change when he said, “He has bled the boy dry to lure the Flame, and soon will sacrifice the woman. By so doing, he shall weld the Flame to his power.”

“What?”

“It is blood Magic. The force that binds mother to child, father to son, and clan to clan. Very old and very powerful,” said Samga.

“You forgot
very
crazy,” said Boltac.

“He hungers for power and cares not how he gets it.”

“En-henh. Okay, no offense to your hospitality here, King, but we need to get a move on. I’m late for an appointment to do something stupid.”

Not opening his eyes, the UnderKing said, “Blessings be upon you, One who has Chosen.”

“En-henh. I see what you did there.”

As Samga walked away, the broken ones skittered out of the range of light. Boltac followed. He didn’t feel lucky, but at least he didn’t feel broken anymore.

When the Wizard returned to his sanctum, Asarah crept as far under the table as her chain would allow. She sat wide-eyed and frozen like a rabbit who hopes the fox does not see her.

But at that moment, Dimsbury had no attention to spare for her. As soon as he entered the room he was drawn to the Flame. He muttered to himself, “Brighter. More resolved. But how can this be?” Dimsbury looked around the chamber. He waved a hand at the wall sconces, and they burst into flame, overpowering the uncertain Magic Flame and filling the room with an honest, if sooty, light.

A glance down revealed the cause. From Relan’s body, a rivulet of blood flowed across the floor to the dais on which the Flame sat. “Could it be?” Dimsbury asked. He bent, dipped his fingers into the blood, and held them above the Flame. As blood dripped downward into the confluence of Magic, the Flame was transformed through a brilliant range of hues, and seemed more substantial at the end of it.

Dimsbury turned to what was left of Relan and said, “You’re not completely useless after all, what a pleasant surprise!”

The Wizard wasted no time in having Relan strung up by his ankles over the Flame. What little blood remained in the poor boy dripped into the cool, hypnotic light. The Flame lapped greedily at the blood and became more focused and defined with each drop.

Asarah wept at the gruesome sight. She wept for Relan, who had tried to be a Hero and had failed. And now the stuff of his life was drained out to… it was horrible. She wept for herself, surely about to meet the same end. And yes, she wept for Boltac. He was no Hero. He was not equipped even to save himself. But still, he had come for her.

She had forgotten her earlier words, but now they came back: “But that’s how she
knows
that he truly Loves her.” Boltac wasn’t a prince. This wasn’t a storybook or a saga, but he had come for her. It was not what she expected from romance, but it was true. Or had been. Now Boltac was dead, never to return. And she had been so cruel to him.

Grief piled upon grief and sorrow upon sorrow. But she was so afraid, she dared not give voice to her pain. Silent tears streamed down her face as if they could flood the interior of the earth.

When Relan’s blood stopped flowing, Dimsbury swung him away from the Flame and hacked the cords holding him up with a knife. The lad’s body fell to the floor in an awful heap.

Without looking at Asarah, Dimsbury addressed her in a voice loud enough to make her jump. “My dear, I have good news and bad news!”

She did not answer. She did not even move.

“The good news is that I no longer require you to be my cook.”

All thought left Asarah. She screamed.

“Seize her!” Dimsbury commanded. The screaming was perfect, thought Dimsbury. It was all according to form, the way such things were to be done. But the Orcs did not move towards her. This wasn’t right at all. It made her scream seem pointless and silly.

Exasperated, Dimsbury exclaimed, “Her, there under the table. Grab her. Her. THAT ONE!” He made wild, uninterpretable thrashing gestures with his hands. “The screaming one!”

The Orcs finally got the idea and seized the woman. As they dragged her out, she struggled so violently that she knocked herself unconscious on the table leg. As Dimsbury watched the Orcs tie her feet to the ropes that would dangle her above the Flame of Magic, he wondered aloud, “Where is Samga? He was here just a minute ago.”