LOWTOWN

BY LAND

CHAPTER V

“...corrupted fate compels the voice

beyond the sphere of prince’s choice...”

Ansoh Njyae Dynde IV:II

L 2:3:1:4/5, III:IX

Thunder rolled across Sierlyn’s wide avenues, and Kingard burst onto the lowest terrace carved from the mountain. The rainy scent of magic gusted up the street, and he rushed his nauseous companions into a low tunnel at the boulevard’s edge. Ashamed of her weakness after last night’s debacle, Deira squelched a moan and hustled in silence through the rock face. “Sorry,” Kingard offered from the rear. “We’re done transporting, at least.”

Blundering into the darkness, Kigal led them around a curve in the tunnel. “Rest a moment?” entreated the sailor, fumbling for his hip flask to offer Deira a sip. Kingard grunted his consent and sidled past them, conjuring an orb to mirror the afternoon sun. “You didn’t say we’d be taking the tunnels,” Kigal dissented to prolong their halt. “Men die in here.”

“We staged the rebellion from these tunnels,” refuted Kingard with a wave, beckoning them into the bowels of the mountain. “And we couldn’t appear in Lowtown without alerting half the city.” Denizens of the capital ignored the frequent crack of mage transport, but the slums below the floodgate heard only the rumble of Ka Falls.

Escorting Deira by the arm, Kigal minced down the sloping tunnel after Kingard. The shaft steepened, and narrow steps descended in a shallow stairway. “Did the rebels map these tunnels back then?”

“We couldn’t risk a map getting compromised.” Despite his grief at Varyan’s absence that morning, Kingard strove for civility before the empress. “But we gifted each other knowledge of the tunnels. The original layout came from the dwarf carvers, to subvert the Colkh’rak while they receded into the mountain.”

“No kidding,” mused Kigal, absorbing the low ceilings and short stairs with new interest. He’d quit Lowtown as a youth, boating down the Ka to meet his fortunes as a sailor. “I heard rumors of dwarves, but I never bought it.”

Inspired from her stupor, Deira blurted, “Could we entreat their aid? If you had rapport with them–”

“Best leave the dwarves alone,” declined the elf. “They came with the Colkh’rak from the west. No telling whose side they’re really on, my lady.”

Kigal adjusted his cloak’s hood and broke the lingering silence. “I might have friends in the Warren, from back in the Youth. Some of those old pickpockets should still be around.”

“Grishem made children steal for him?” the empress gasped.

“More like he saw clothes on our backs and food in our mouths. He... taught us certain skills, to help kids scratch up a living. And the boys that stayed, they’re still Grishem’s men, loyal as they come.”

Inspecting the tunnel branches ahead, Kingard pronounced, “I founded the House of Grishem to provide for orphans of the Colkh’rak wars. Glad to hear the tradition still holds. But the Grishem I met was barely twenty, with a scar over his eye.”

“A new Grishem?” puzzled Kigal, following the elf down the third of six passages. “And just a lad when I left.”

“Wait, how many Grishems are there?” Deira worried, the distant thunder of Lowtown’s waterfall echoing up the tunnel.

The sailor grinned. “Just one. Grishem’s more a title than a name. It sounds like this new guy was the old man’s best and brightest. Never heard of a Grishem that young before.” Lost to the growing roar of the cascade, their conversation foundered and the slick rocks gleamed with moisture. Sunlight greased the tunnel’s end, and they emerged near the river into the muddy heat of Lowtown.

Above them, the majestic falls crashed through Sierlyn’s wrought iron floodgate. Swollen from the spring melt, the river rose from its banks in a glimmering shelf, curved high over their heads to restrain the torrent. “Incredible,” marveled Deira, her neck craned back to gaze through the sparkling river. “Look how high the floodwaters are.”

“Keep your distance from the bank.” Kigal resettled the hood of Deira’s cloak and guided her after Kingard. “In spring, the current about takes your arm off.”

Dodging crowds through sloppy alleys, the elf navigated to a bland building. He knocked at the door and a slat opened, narrowed eyes glaring at the hooded trio. “Tell Grishem I’ve come to ask for my name back.” The slat closed, and footsteps receded from the door. “Now we wait.”

A few faces appeared at an upstairs window, and Deira cringed under their scrutiny. Twisting her signet ring around her finger, she prompted, “What’s taking so long?”

The door banged open, and a burly guard ushered them inside, locking the door behind them. A smirking mountain elf stood beyond the atrium, his left ear missing and a faerie rune carved into his cheek. “It’s him, Sal. Let ‘em through.”

“Who are you?” pressed Kingard, lowering his hood to regard the thief. Behind him, Kigal and Deira removed their cloaks and ventured from the doorway. “Where’s Grishem?”

The mountain elf grinned. “But I am Grishem, my lord! Surely you recognize your most loyal servant.”

“Cut the act. Where’s Grishem?”

“Right before your eyes.” As Kingard glowered, the thief’s features melted away, and the face of a plains elf emerged. “Was this who you met?” he winked at his astonished guests, flickering into a stooped old man. “Or this?”

“A face dancer!” squeaked Deira, gripping Kigal’s arm.

“A light mage,” Kingard amended. “But that’s mer magic.”

“It’s latent in men,” chuckled Grishem, reverting to a sandy-haired human in his mid-thirties. “Hello there, Kigal. Long time, no see.”

Dumbfounded, the sailor boggled into the sea-blue gaze of his boyhood friend. “Willem, you scoundrel!” he cried, clasping hands with him. Grishem yanked him into a fond hug and pounded him on the back, his golden tan paling against Kigal’s bronze. “I never thought you’d learn to change your face!”

“Best trick I ever learned, brother!” cackled Grishem, commencing a ritual handshake that Kigal matched strike for strike. “You’ve still got it.”

“And what about you?” Kigal shoved his friend with a gleam in his eye. “From a clumsy kid back in the Youth to Grishem himself!”

“What about you?” rejoined Grishem. “How’d a dropout like you join up with Lord Kingard?” Remembering himself, Grishem cleared his throat and turned back to the elf. “I do apologize for my illusion on your first visit, my lord. As they say, never meet a stranger without your face on. When you wouldn’t stay the night, I spared the... oddity for another time.”

Kingard acknowledged the prudence with a sharp nod. “Granted. Now down to business?”

“Of course. Is A’lara unbound, then?” Clapping Kigal on the back to defer their reunion, Grishem waved them into a large room strewn with cushions and armchairs streaked with mud. “Forgive the mess, your highness,” he intoned in Deira’s direction. “We are but humble thieves, after all.”

The empress flushed. “You recognize me?” She hadn’t appeared before the public since childhood.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a good citizen if I didn’t,” he teased, settling her into a wide loveseat. “I’d often wondered if you’d ever come to visit, my lady. They say dark forces are at work on the mountain.”

Sinking to a stained couch, Kingard divulged, “The war is coming, Grishem. The Colkh’rak build an armada as we speak. They’ll beach north of Eastpoint, and we won’t survive without a stronghold.”

“A’lara’s a mite far for that,” concurred Grishem. “Just what are you proposing, my lord?”

“We must rouse the nation!” Deira clamored, shocked at the thief’s lack of terror. “Our enemies have taken the reigns of the empire–”

“And whose fault is that, my lady?” probed Grishem, his eyebrow cocked and his smile kind. “Certainly not mine. Perhaps not yours, either.”

She scoffed. “Your people will die, Grishem. It won’t just be my forces lost.”

The thief stared grim-lipped at Kingard until the elf spoke. “Our best hope is to retake Sierlyn, before the armada arrives. I’ll need men to lead – good men. Trustworthy, loyal.”

“For what, my lord?” The notion of a siege on the fortress stunned him. “To fall on the spears of nine gates?” Watch posts loomed from the face of the mountain, and an iron gate reared from each switchback up the terraces.

“No. We’ll be taking the tunnels.”

“Madness!” Grishem scrutinized the calm in Kigal’s grin. “Unless... you have a map, Lord Kingard?”

The elf tapped his temple. “A map up here, from the old rebellion. There might be new fortifications, but I can gift my map to every man for the job. However, this is secret knowledge of the old White Knights. I need good, decent men who can respect that.”

Grishem rose from his chair to kneel at Kingard’s feet. “My lord and founder, we may be thieves, but we in the House of Grishem are loyal to the end. I will put out the call.” Planting a fist over his heart, he straightened. “What do we face?”

When Kingard gestured to her, Deira relayed the state of the empire. “My high-ranking forces are turned, the lessers loyal to their superiors. The Dark One–”

“Xolyu,” provided Kingard.

“What?”

“Call him Xolyu. He’s flesh and bone; he has a name. Use it.”

Jarred, Deira continued, “...Xolyu returned to Kholl after A’lara’s unbinding, to render a new pair of mindwarps. He left Haisrir in charge. He’s a powerful mage, but each week he shuttles back to Kholl on his dragon. The rest of the opposition were my own forces, before the turning.”

“Between the new Light Master and myself, I believe we can unturn Allanic forces where they stand. Our numbers may grow, if they grasp the reality of our effort.”

Grishem considered the situation with a few slow nods. “That black dragon took off from the palace this morning. Perhaps the fortress is unguarded, for now. If you can unturn the lot of them, why do you need my help?”

“I can sneak in on my own,” Kingard confessed, heart shrinking at the news that Varyan had left for Kholl. “But without a distraction to lure them out, I have no hope of unturning them all. And if anything evil is in that castle, the men must hold their own while I deal with it first.”

“So you need brazen stealth and cunning,” surmised Grishem, “to slip into the belly of the beast and draw out the fangs.” A curt nod from the elf affirmed their strategy, and Grishem eased into an armchair, his face grave. “When do we attack?”

“Tomorrow.”

“No sense letting word spread too far. My men can keep a secret, mind – but the ears of the empire bed with the lowest scum in Lowtown.” Deira’s mouth twisted at the remark, but the thief lord left her no time to speak. “Resh!”

Out of nowhere, a lanky teen slipped to Grishem’s side. “M’lord?”

“Rally the honest for the fight of their lives,” he ordered, springing upright with newfound vigor. “Tomorrow, Lord Kingard leads us up the tunnels to take Sierlyn for our own.”