Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“This is what I’m supposed to give you.” He tosses the bag to my feet and it lands with a rustle. “Along with some provisions.”
Over at his galley, he takes two loaves of fresh bread, and a bladder of what could be water, milk, or mead, and stuffs it all into a woven sack. Back with us, he pushes the comestibles at me and I struggle to keep ahold of them and what he’s already insisted I take.
“This way,” Mr. Lewis tells us.
The blank wall he goes over to makes no sense—until he lowers his shoulder, and pushes a narrow, hidden aperture open. As lantern light pours inside, I see … absolutely nothing. It’s a black hole, as if what’s been revealed is a tear in the fabric of time and Anathos itself.
“There’s a torch on the left.” Mr. Lewis pulls his sagging pants up over his belly, but as he has no waist, they slip right back into place under his girth. “You can light it with this.”
He presses some matches into the mercenary’s hand, then looks back and forth between us. “Well, go on then. Get out of here—”
“Where does the tunnel end up,” the mercenary demands.
“Not here. That’s all that matters—”
The man of war steps in to him, and I notice the dagger is back in his grip. Mr. Lewis sees the weapon as well—just as outside the private quarters, voices announce that a contingent has entered the pub proper.
The mercenary deepens his tone to an order. “Where.”
“It goes under the village wall and then the moat.” Mr. Lewis puts both his hands up, as if the knife is pointed at his chest even though the weapon remains at the mercenary’s side. “I don’t know because I’ve never been down it. But my father told me that it is the way out for her. When you’re inside and I close the panel, you throw the switch by the lantern and it’s done. No one can get in there. Ever.”
The voices get louder and there’s some thumping, like fists are beating on the bar counter.
Turning away from the men, I square off at the black void. Then before I can think too much, I extend my foot—
A powerful arm bars my way. “I go first.”
There’s the threatening sound of metal on metal as the mercenary draws his broadsword from its sheath. Leaning into the darkness, he reaches to the left, and his opposite hand comes out with the torch. Instead of using the matches, he goes to the hearth, and lights it from the embers that are glowing there.
The flames crackle in their seat as he reapproaches the darkness and steps inside without hesitation.
I envy his confidence.
Pausing on the threshold, I look back at Mr. Lewis, though not into his eyes. “That’s why you never wanted me to go out, especially if it was night. You were protecting me.”
“Don’t get sentimental.” His stare shifts to the portrait of his wife. “I was just doing a job. Now will you leave. Finally.”
Pain as familiar as that voice in my head lances through my chest. Did I honestly expect anything else from him, though? From anybody here?
As I enter the tunnel and Mr. Lewis closes the panel on my hooded face, I know deep in my soul that I will never, ever see him again.
And I’m the only one who cares.
Part Two
The Quest Begins
A Gathering of Skills.
Fourteen
The Tunnel.
As our only source of light licks and spits in the darkness, the agitated illumination brings the mercenary’s hard features and long black hair out of the void. In my fear, I nearly meet him in the eyes, and only the habit of a lifetime stops my gaze at his nose.
To the left of the torch’s empty bracket, there’s not only an ancient lever set into the sloppily mortared stone walling, but several lengths’ worth of dirt-encrusted pine boards that are taller than I am. As the din out in the pub rises so much that we can hear the cacophony even in here, I imagine the angry villagers bursting into those private quarters and somehow sensing our presence. Dropping the load I’m balancing at my feet, my hands reach forward without any command from my mind, and I grip the cold, corroded metal. Murmuring some kind of prayer, even though I don’t know whether to the crescent moon or fate itself, I pull—
I get nowhere with the switch, and vacillate between feeling trapped and wanting to run out of this dank, oppressive chute and being utterly panicked that I can’t protect myself by locking us in. As I try again, the mercenary’s free arm extends past my head. His palm locks on to the handle below mine, and the way he pulls the thing down so easily galls me to my core.
A rumbling starts, like underground thunder that’s off in the distance. And as some kind of momentum is gathered, vibration comes up through the uneven dirt floor and dust wafts out from those pine boards beside us—