Slithering Maze 34: Boring Conversation Anyway…

Medilus 2, 1278: Maybe imprisoned beneath the Shackle in Arth Prayogar. It’d been a long night…

Author’s Note: Kingdom of the Slithering Maze is a serialized fiction story that is a part of a collection called the Windtracer Tales. It follows the adventures of Tela Kioni and her crew dealing with expeditions in and around the world of Awldor. There they hunt down lost, and possibly lethal, relics of the Ancient Order, a near-mythical kingdom lost to the centuries old cataclysm, the Great Collapse.

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Previously: With a desperate moment calling for a desperate plan, Tela leads Kiyosi and Skarri over the top of the sliding rooms. Leaping from one to the other they outpaced the fire salamanders, but not the skeletons. Delayed by the undead, their lead vanished—but not their determination. A last-ditch effort severed one of the support ropes, giving them the break they needed to race for the exit. But instead of safety or freedom, they found a greater threat—the lich, Rima Nimad—who took Tela captive…

Medilus 2, 1278: Maybe imprisoned beneath the Shackle in Arth Prayogar. It’d been a long night…

“No—!”

I snapped awake with a full-body jerk, nearly falling off the rope cot. The stench of forlorn sweat and wet livestock yard rose off the yellowed mattress like a rancid caress. Panic fogged my head; I had no idea where I was.

It lasted only a few seconds until my sideways understanding of the world snapped back into place. I’d been tossed into a dark, half-lit stone room that had bold aspirations of civility. But old dungeon cells were like that, even the nicer ones—this just wasn’t one of those.

My eyes tracked a limp shaft of sunlight leaking between gray metal bars high on one wall. It wasn’t much, but for my altered eyes it was plenty; not that there was much to see.

I pushed up onto one elbow, scrubbing a hand along the side of my face. A brisk cold radiated off the brick walls, which the gray-green mold in the corners didn’t seem to mind. I swung my feet to the floor, listening to the distant rattle and rasp of wagons beyond the barred window.

A choir of aches sang today’s laundry list of complaints—and I’d added one or two new verses.

“I can’t believe they took my boots,” I grumbled, wiggling my toes against the stone floor. “All I did was kick that skinny mage twice in his pride, before I stomped on his tail.”

Drawing a breath, I winced at the new bruises along my ribs.

“Even my hair hurts,” I exhaled. “So, they took my boots, socks, and vest, along with my bag and whip, too. I’m surprised they didn’t stick a sackcloth bag over me. They must be new to this ‘humiliate a prisoner’ thing.”

I looked down at my bare feet, then up at the barred window. Memory of the trip from Toshirom Ifoon rolled in like morning fog—insults, then questioning, and finally a brawl once I got loose. I gingerly touched a scrape on my cheekbone.

“If they hadn’t outnumbered me, I could’ve taken them,” I grumbled. “At least I dropped two of Rima’s bruisers before they tied me up again.”

I clasped my hands in front of me, rocking a little from leftover nerves.

“They didn’t ask me anything,” I whispered to the bricks. “Not really.” Slowly, I pursed my lips, staring at the strips of weak sunlight. “At least Kiyosi, Skarri, and the others got away.”

A thread of tired relief and sadness worked through me, warring with my aches.

“My plans really are terrible. Maybe splitting up was a bad idea.” I chewed a little at my lower lip. “No, it was fine. Maybe Ki’s right, and I need to quit charging off to play human bait.”

I shook my head.

“All right, damn it, get it together. Wallowing in a problem isn’t solving it. Get up,” I ordered myself. “The only time you can’t escape is when you don’t try.”

I shoved to my feet, stretched my back, then looked at my oppressive brick surroundings.

Methodically, I paced the cell. It wasn’t so small that I’d need to step outside to change my mind, but I wouldn’t have passed up the offer. The brick was a dark, quarried gray—older than the yellow-sandy clay Arth Prayogar loved to use. Green-gray mold kept me company in the corners, and fuzz had claimed damp patches of stone.

“The floor’s pretty wet. I could be near the Ordess River,” I murmured, keeping my bare feet away from the fuzzy green spots. Carvings at knee-height decorated the walls—crude centaurs, half-forgotten symbols, and other things whispering a desperate need to be remembered. Besides the rope cot, the only other feature was the swollen wooden door with its own tiny barred window.

“Charming. This has to be Shendril Fortress.” I slowly shook my head. “How in the nine watery hells did they get me into the Shackle without the Trade-Wardens stopping them?”

Out in the hallway, I heard rats trading rumors in the dark. After another look around my cell, I glanced between the door and the window. The window won my attention. I stalked across the grimy floor to the back wall, jumping up to grab the bars.

They were plain, solid iron bars mortared into brick. I pulled myself up for a better look.

My window wasn’t really one. It was a stone shaft that angled up to somewhere above ground. I could almost see clouds at the top of the shaft.

“No wagons or people, so it’s not opening at the street,” I mused. “The brick at the top looks more like Arth Prayogar’s usual baked clay. So… the Shackle is built on top of an older building. That could mean loose bricks, and any number of forgotten servant’s tunnels.”

I shifted my grip to the bars on my right, trying for a better look up. As soon as I did, one gave a little under my weight—barely the width of a finger. I stared at it, dumbfounded, then peered close, heart hammering my ribcage.

The bar itself was solid—round, thick as two fingers, and freckled with rust. But the mortar was less secure. One tug, and the lower end worried the weathered mortar to powder, making a shallow rut of dust and hope. Carefully, I brushed aside the grit and smiled.

“Someone tried to fill the gap between the old and new bricks, but it’s still a bad fit. If I can just wiggle this, maybe I can work the bar free.” I braced my bare feet against the wall, tugging at the bar. “That might give me a hole big enough to crawl through.”

A muffled jangle of keys and heavy footsteps from the hallway interrupted my plan.

I dropped down from the barred window, brushing at the mortar dust on my clothes. It didn’t come off, but smeared with the existing soot, sweat, and other grime. Grumbling, I crossed over to my rope cot with its questionable mattress, flopping down with a frustrated sigh. I tried to appear dejected and forlorn, but I suspected I looked more like a feral woman raised by wolves ready for a meal. That last part wasn’t far wrong.

Keys rattled with a metallic echo as the stained wooden door swung outward. A broad-shouldered man with shaggy tan hair, a gray quilted leather jacket, and a fresh scowl glared at me. He didn’t seem moved by my attempt at forlorn. So I leaned into feral with a thin smile hinting at kneecap-biting violence. That made him step back.

“M’Lady Nimad?” he stammered in a low, scarred voice. “Are you sure about this…?”

Rima Nimad appeared in the doorway as if summoned, idly gesturing at her retainer’s chest. The lich looked much the same as before—only this time, there was less blood splatter on her charcoal clothes and blood-red shirt. Rima strolled inside as if for afternoon tea with a knife-sharp smile across her bone-pale face. The air chilled around us.

“Oh, it’s fine, Charles. Tela just woke up on the wrong side of the ruins.” She lightly waved a hand. “Close the door. She doesn’t actually bite.”

“Yes, m’lady,” he rumbled.

Charles brought in a stained chestnut chair, setting it just inside the cell. Then with one last narrow-eyed look at me, he returned to the hallway and shut the door. With a casual smile, Rima sat down as if gracing the chair with her presence.

“At least, I’d prefer you didn’t bite my retainers,” she said casually, folding her hands in her lap. “I have precious few with me in this frustrating city.”

Really, as conversation starters went, it was as good as any.

“As long as they keep their fingers to themselves, I won’t bite any off,” I replied. “So, is this where you torture me until I answer your questions?”

Rima arched a delicate black eyebrow. For a moment, her eyes wandered over me, taking in my disheveled, barefoot condition.

“Hm, no,” she said flatly. “I don’t condone torture. It’s rather useless and a waste of time. I prefer negotiation.” The lich tilted her head, a predatory gleam flickering in her eyes. “Which of my people did all of… this?”

I met her gaze, jerking my chin toward the door.

“Mostly your combat mage,” I replied bitterly. Slowly, I rubbed my hands against my thighs. “The donkey’s ass took my boots, bag, and all… probably in revenge for what happened in the Mandami Hills temple.”

“Sherkus?” Rima’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. “Well, he does have a mean streak. It seems I need to stomp on it again. You’ll have most of your things returned.”

We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Finally, I sighed.

“While I appreciate the concern, you’ve tried to knife me before. So what do you actually want?”

Rima crossed her legs, smile sharpening. “Same as anyone, Tela… peace and order.”

I scowled. “A little blood and fear, too?”

The lich shrugged.

“A little fear is healthy,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “It keeps the powerful obedient and the reckless polite.”

“You mean you do,” I countered.

“If a city benefits from my ambitions,” Rima replied, studying her nails, “is that truly a crime?” Her eyes slid to me. “By the way, I’ve browsed your journal. Interesting reading. You’re quite good at what you do.” She folded her hands in her lap again. “I had an idea this morning. What if we leave the past where it is, and start fresh as collaborators over the Iraxi?”

Traps came in all shapes and sizes; I’d triggered enough to know.

“Oh, so this is where you murder me with blood magic, then bring me back as a lich? Life eternal as your mindless whatever? Baron Marius tried that. Didn’t work.” I wiggled fingers at my face. “Got the messed-up eyes to prove it. Just like I told him, the answer’s no.”

The lich sighed as her smile melted.

“Be reasonable, Tela. I’ve my own retainers and Herd Tolvana scouring the city for your friends. They’re here somewhere, and I know they have the Iraxi crystals. Once I catch them, they won’t walk away—unless you agree to work with me.”

It was my turn to grin. While it probably wasn’t smart to goad an ancient undead creature like a lich, sometimes I couldn’t help myself.

“I get why it’d be hard to find Ki… trust me, he’s damn hard to catch. Mikasi? Skarri? Sneaky when they want to be. But one of my friends is a minotaur. Your retainers can’t find a minotaur in a city of centaurs? Are you kidding me?”

Rima wasn’t smiling. Since I never know when to quit, I pushed on. I crossed my legs, mimicking a little of her pose.

“Since we’re chatting… why did you Gatekeepers trap fire elementals in crystals then leave them out for the viprin tribes? It didn’t wreck the Ancient Order—it forced them to join the viprin tribes to stop the nightmare you unleashed.”

The lich narrowed her eyes with a sour expression.

“I’ll admit my brethren and I… miscalculated. But in all fairness, it wasn’t the whole fire elemental. My process extracted the essence of the elementals, imbuing them into the crystals.”

My jaw fell open, eyes wide.

“You ‘liched’ two fire elementals?”

Rima sighed, lightly waving a hand at the idea.

“Roughly. It mostly worked. If I can get the Iraxi back, perhaps I can… adjust… the two in there. Give them some guidance so they won’t possess whomever is wearing the bracers so… painfully.”

“No,” I growled, fists clenched. “Those elementals should be set free. The journals, crystals, and all belong in a museum… not used to topple kingdoms.”

Rima studied me for a moment, then exhaled as she stood.

“Well, I see we need time to think. If you agree to help me, I will call off Herd Tolvana and your friends will stay unharmed.”

I shot to my feet, quivering with rage.

“Auditor Elkerton won’t call it off. He’s out for himself, planning on taking down anyone in his way—especially you. Acts like he’s got the means to do it.”

Rima Nimad’s face went still, eyes glittering.

“Hm, is that so?” The ghost of a smile returned. “Well, either way, think about my offer. Oh, and please don’t ambush anyone bringing you food. It’s not helpful.”

After a soft knock on the door, Rima breezed out of my cell with Charles in tow, carrying the chair. The door shut like the seal on a tomb. My heart sank. I could’ve sat down on that horrid mattress and sulked—overthinking all my mistakes.

Instead, I ran for the loose bar in the window, frantically grinding it against the broken mortar.

“Come… on…!”

After a few minutes, the bar popped loose, sending me to the floor. I caught the rod before it hit the stone, and none too soon. Keys jangled in the door’s lock.

Anyone would’ve expected an ambush from beside the door, so I didn’t hide there. My only other choice was under the rope cot, which wasn’t a lot better. I dove under as the door opened. A lean figure in travel-worn boots casually walked inside.

I rushed from hiding, swinging my iron bar with all I had. My intended victim shrieked like a siren before a meaty, fur-covered hand caught the bar, stopping it in mid-swing.

“Garrik?” I blinked in surprise, then focused on the furry hand. “Atha?”

“I told you she’d try to cave my skull in!” the elven thief snapped, glaring at me.

Atha ignored him, letting go of my iron bar. A warm smile spread over his broad minotaur snout like morning sunshine.

“Windtracer! This is no place for hyu. This is boring place… not nearly deadly enough. Come. Let’s go. Guards are having a good nap to rethink their lives.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but hugged Atha instead—Garrik, too, but mostly Atha—hard enough to leave bruises.

“Okay,” I breathed. “On the way out, can we steal my boots and bag back?”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

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