CITY UNDER THE SEA

By Ernie Moulton

The level of an inland sea, the Mistal Sea, is sinking several inches a day. Mista is asked to try to find out the cause. When he starts investigating, he is presented with a tale of a city buried under the sea. There are clues to its location, and he organizes a band of adventurers and searches for the c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Summit House
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957054957

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nacia -- Discovery of a Legend

The slim young woman pulled her horse off the road into a dense copse, and leaped to the ground. Midnight was faster than any other horse she knew, and she made a light load for him. Still, one could not simply run forever. She dropped the reins to the ground and whispered into his ear, Still! He would not leave that spot, or make any noise unless he was directly attacked. She worked her way back through the brush to the edge of the road, and waited.

She did not have long to wait. The bandits chasing her were making no attempt at stealth as they galloped after her. She nocked an arrow and waited until they came into view. There were only three. Good. There had been five. She was sure she could take down two with arrows, and if the last one still wanted to fight, well, he would not like the taste of her sword.

She drew a bead on the lead bandit as soon as she could see clearly—about 200 yards. Too far for a clean shot, but it gave her time to measure his speed, and then lead him. She loosed her arrow when he was about 100 yards away, and quickly nocked another and loosed it. Both hit. The first bandit went down, and did not move again. The second, however, was only wounded, and now she had two men ready to kill her, and she knew that they knew where she was. She moved ten feet down the road toward them. They would be expecting her to run. Sure enough, they stopped, and listened, expecting, no doubt, to here her thrashing through the brush. That was a mistake they would have no time to regret. She took careful aim at the bandit who was still unhurt. By the time her arrow took him in the throat, she had the second launched at the wounded man. Again, the snap shot only wounded him, but he had had enough. He had just seen his four companions fall, and he kicked his horse into a run—away. He wanted to live.

When they had spotted her traveling alone at night, she had seemed like an easy mark. Her fancy clothing and fine horse said she was also wealthy, and would not know how to defend herself. They were wrong on all counts. Naciaboa d’Longi Nanashand was a bard whose fame was just beginning to spread. She wore her flame-red hair long and loose, and always wore clothing to enhance her own figure, and set off her hair. Her favorite color was bright green—matching the green of her eyes. Tonight she had on a blouse of shimmering, iridescent silk and black mannish trousers. The short sword strapped to her side looked more like a jeweled toy than the serviceable weapon it was. They had failed to see the short-bow strapped to her back.

The other piece of information that they could not have known, was that Nacia had survived on the streets and alleys, with no place to call home, for eight years before she finally made enough of a name for herself to earn coin singing in the taverns and inns. She had turned her back on her hand-to-mouth existence as soon as she could, but she had not forgotten how to fight. Her friend Mista had repeatedly warned her that if she continued to travel alone, she would come to an untimely death. She had come closer tonight that she liked to admit. But she smiled to herself as she went back to Midnight, Nacia lives again.

Now, she was tired, very tired. She had planned to ride on into Elven Gate—another two hours—but she really did not feel like making the rest of that ride tonight. Not only that, she no longer knew exactly where she was, the chase having left her slightly disoriented. Still, it was not safe to camp in the woods. As she mounted Midnight, she saw a gleam of light further into the woods. Whoa. More bandits?

She brought her horse into a slow walk, moving as quietly as possible toward the light. Just a little light… Suddenly, she came into a clearing with a small hut. The light was a gleam escaping from one shrouded window. She hesitated. This could be anything from a simple woodsman’s hut to a bandits’ hideout to a witch’s hut. Drawing her courage and her sword, she dismounted, and stood silent a moment, listening. She looped Midnight’s reins loosely over a low limb, and whispered to him, Still. He would wait, but he could break and run in case of attack. She walked into the clearing, and standing to one side of the door, called, Ho! Anyone home?

No one answered. She called again. Deciding that the lack of an answer probably meant the occupant was afraid, she called, I mean you no harm. I am a tired, lost, traveler, and need a safe place to sleep.

The door opened a crack, and an old man peered out. Taking a chance, she sheathed her sword quietly, and raised her hands and stepped into the light. I am alone. I warn you, I can defend myself, but I mean no harm.

The man opened the door, and said something in a whispery voice, a voice so low she could not hear what he said. She stepped closer. Sorry, old man, I could not hear you.

I know, he said. I will offer you haven for the night. But come in quickly, lest someone spot this light.

She stepped through the door carefully, looking for anyone hiding inside. The one-room hut held no surprises inside, except for the smell. She almost gagged on the smell. Next to the door was a slop bucket, which had obviously been used for this man’s waste, and never been emptied. A single candle burned on a low table in the center of the hut. She turned to the old man, as he closed and latched the door. She moved over to the window, and repositioned the shroud so no light escaped. Aren’t you afraid I will attack you?

He laughed. It would gain you nothing, and cost me nothing. I have nothing for you to steal, and I am near death anyway.

He hobbled back to his bed. Nacia believed him. The other smell was the smell of sickness, even death. Well, I told you truly, I mean you no harm. I am too tired to travel further, but did not want to sleep in the woods. After a moment, she asked, How do you survive alone?

I did not always live alone, and was not always weak. It is a long story.

At the word, story, her ears perked up. She was getting used to the smell. She had slept in barns, which smelled worse. But at least the barn was open to fresh air. The air in this closed hut was hot and stuffy. But she could endure anything for a story. I am a bard, and I am always looking for stories. I sense that your story is most unusual. Would you tell it to me?

He was quiet for a long time. As he started to speak, he was racked by a coughing fit. Then, in a voice even more weak than before, I would tell you my story, but you would have to swear never to repeat it.

She snickered—but she saw that he was deadly serious. What good would it do me to hear the story if I can’t tell it? she asked. I could change the names and places, and sing it.

No! You cannot tell this story.

He lay back and closed his eyes. Nacia thought he was asleep. Suddenly, he roused, and cast a spell. Magic, she thought in panic. I should have expected something like this. What was that? she asked sharply.

He lay silent for a long time, then, I cast a truth spell. I need to tell this story, but I need to know something about you. And I need to know you are being truthful. First, your name and city?

Nacia, of Phaliston. I call Phaliston home, but I travel and sing for a living.

Yes, Nacia, I see that. I am called Banosh Laurangulp. I too am a bard. Was. I am 35 years old. And I will probably die before many days have passed.

Her eyes widened. You can’t be 35. More like 75.

No. 35. He closed his eyes. After awhile, he opened them again and looked at her for a long moment. Then, again, he was wracked by a fit of coughing. This is why you do not want to tell this story. You will want to pass it along before you die, but only to someone you can trust to keep quiet. I have no choice but to trust you.

But—

No, I too am a bard, remember. I know you feel you have to sing the story. But, I must warn you, it may be the last song you sing. Let me tell you my story, while I still can.

First, my personal story is not important. I had a story, and wrote a song. I sang it last week, in an inn somewhere, and when I woke up the next morning, I was here, prematurely aged, and on the point of death. My voice was gone. Gone. Like it is now. Somebody did not want that story out. I don’t think they meant to maim me—I believe they left me for dead. If you sing it, the same thing will happen to you.

Her eyes were solemn. I’ll be careful. But, please tell me.

He told her a story. It was so far from anything she had ever heard before, that she had difficulty believing. But at the same time it had the ring of absolute truth. Some time ago, I became friends with a priestess—said she was a priestess of a religion which is not known to exist today. A year ago, she looked me up to tell me this story. She said she was only supposed to pass it along to another priest or priestess who would succeed her. But the person she had trained had been killed, and she was wounded, and on the point of death. She made me swear never to tell anyone else. She knew I was a bard, knew I could not keep that promise!

Just as you knew I could not keep my silence.

Yes. But the story cannot be lost. You must choose one person you can trust. He lay back, too weak to continue.

In ancient days, what is now the Mistral Sea was a broad, rich valley. It was watered by three rivers flowing in, and they were all joined into one, flowing out. Farms flourished along the river bottoms, and cattle grazed the hillsides. Gold and precious stones were found in the mountains, and the rivers were deep enough for navigation. He stopped and lay back again, his voice so weak she could hardly hear. After a few minutes, he roused and continued.

"Pharmanston was the capital city of this whole area, located where the three rivers joined. It was a trade center and cultural center as well as the government center. It was a very rich city.

"A man named Malinster was chief sorcerer for the King, and Grand Vizier of his court. Malinster also was the most influential sorcerer in the entire realms, and his school of wizardry was famous throughout the entire realms. As time went by, the search for power became an end in itself, and eventually, power corrupted Malinster. He became an evil mage, intent only in increasing his own power. He continued to support the king, but only because it was in his own self-interest to do so.

Malinster and his school developed a magical engine which could draw energy from the atmosphere and channel it into lightening bolts and firestorms of sufficient force that no army could stand against it. Pharmanston became the most powerful city in the realms, and began to extend its rule outward. The secret of drawing power from the air has been lost. Most people do not even believe that it is possible. He had to stop again. This time, he was quiet so long, that Nacia was afraid he would not be able to continue.

After a while, he asked her to get him some water. He drank slowly, and waited a bit before continuing. "Among the people opposing Malinster, was a magician named Ashimoph. He also had a school that was famous in the realms, and he was working on a device of his own, a mirror that would reflect the lightening energy. The primary purpose was defense, of course, but it also became a counter-attack, by reflecting the energy back on Malinster and Pharmanston.

"Eventually the two sides came to war. Mage wars are always frightening, but when they can control as much energy as they did—it was the formula for disaster. Malinster forced his machine to the limits, and sent a tremendous blast at Ashimoph. No one remembers where Ashimoph was, but it must have been somewhere in the valley. Ashimoph was able to reflect the energy blast, but imperfectly, and his keep was destroyed. Malinster had sent a second blast at Ashimoph and the two energy forces met. Somehow they reacted with each other, and the resultant blast leveled the city of Pharmanston. It also caused an earthquake, which opened a deep crevice in the floor of the valley and raised new mountains on the southern rim of the valley. The rivers that drained the valley no longer flowed out, and eventually the valley became the Mistral Sea. In time, the sea became deep enough to cut a new channel and a gorge through the mountains to the south, which we know as the Lithiss.

The magicians of the day did all they could to reverse the process, and prevent the flooding of the valley. They did develop a magical engine which could force water to flow uphill, and thus prevent the flooding of the valley by draining the sea, as the rivers had once done naturally. It took an incredible amount of energy, however, and they were not able to keep the engine in operation. They did slow the flood, but could not conquer it, and eventually the engine itself was flooded and the valley became a sea. He lay back and closed his eyes again, clearly exhausted. He breathing was shallow, but he appeared to be asleep.

Nacia leaned forward. That can’t be all?

He roused. "No. Just give me time. With the flooding of the valley, the culture also perished. The great plains and farmlands were gone, the major cities had been flooded or destroyed, and the culture perished. No one knows where this great engine was located, and no one is sure of the location of Pharmanston or of Ashimoph’s school.

However, the chief religion of the day—we don’t even know what it was—took steps to preserve what they could of the culture. It was evident that all would be lost, as barbarians began to sweep in from the north, monsters became bolder, and other cities began to exert power. The religion became a secret cult, and then passed out of known existence. They prepared a map of the area, and gave a piece of it to secret groups in separate towns. The separate groups continued in secret, hardly daring to meet each other. Each cell lost contact with any others. The strange bard did fall into sleep at this point.

She let him sleep for a while. There had to be more—there was nothing in this story that someone would kill for. It was a fascinating story, and it did fit the fragments of legends she had heard from time to time. After a while, she roused him, asked if there were more.

He beckoned her to lean over—he could not raise himself up. Just this, he whispered. This priestess was a member of the cult, but she would not tell me the name of the cult, or the names of any other members. She did say that they had agreed to hide their maps somewhere in their cities or keeps, and the maps would tell the story of the civilization that destroyed itself, and where the important cities were. They were to remain secret until civilization had been rebuilt. She did not believe that the time had come to reveal their location—if she even knew. She said that one map was secreted somewhere near Elven Gate, but she would not tell me where. She also said she thought there was one near Phaliston. He passed into a sleep of exhaustion.

She tried in vain to rouse him again. Where are those maps? she asked. He made no response.

Nacia sat spellbound. After a few minutes, she said, That’s an incredible story. It’s the maps they wanted to kill for. Where are they?

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. That is the story you must not tell. But, I say again, it cannot be lost. Choose a successor you can trust absolutely, and pass it on. I should not trust you, but I know I have only hours or days to live. I don’t even know where I am. He lay back, exhausted.

Nacia leaned over, and said, I don’t know exactly where we are, either. Somewhere in the woods, near Elven Gate. The gods must have sent me to you. I discovered this house quite by accident. She did not see the inconsistency in saying the discovery was ordained by gods, and that it was accidental…

He opened his eyes again. Listen, he whispered. I wrote a song, and sang it once. Find what I wrote, if you can, but I think it has been destroyed. I can no longer sing it.

He closed his eyes one last time, and after a few minutes, his breathing slowed, and he passed into sleep or a coma, Nacia could not be sure which. She could not rouse him again.

She took the offal bucket outside, and made herself a bed in the far corner of the hut, but her mind was racing. She could not sleep. She looked around. There was no food or water in the hut, and no scrap of paper or parchment. Nothing at all but the bed the strange bard was lying on and the single small table. She thought they must have left him for dead.

Eventually, she dozed fitfully. When dawn came, she saw that the other bard had died in his sleep.

Chapter 2

The Return of the Warrior

A lone rider halted his horse at the top of a small rise, and looked slowly all around. Cato momCato sat on his horse for a long time, lost in thought. From the knoll he could see the sweep of the valley to the north, grasslands that stretched as far as he could see, with trees bordering the streams and rivers, and occasional isolated stands of trees. Yet, valley was perhaps not the right word. The mountains that guarded the eastern and western reaches were separated by no less than a hundred miles of prairie and steppes. The hills beyond the fields and pastures folded on themselves, and eventually led to forests and then to mountains in the distance. He could just see the blue of distant mountains to the east. The rolling pastures reminded him of the plains at home. It was early spring, and the lush green of new grass reflected his mood—wanting to start something new. It had taken several days to ride down the valley from his homelands. He could have moved faster, but he was in no hurry—he was not going anywhere in particular. Cato had just needed to get out and roam again.

A plainsman from the far north, and youngest son of a tribal chieftain, Cato had small chance of succeeding his father. He had left home the first time at 17, to make his way in the world. After a year or so, he had returned home, worldly wise, and with a fortune in spoils. He had tried to be a good local son, but home life seemed tame. Times were relatively peaceful, so Cato had decided that he needed to go out into the world again if he were to amount to anything. He had packed his belongings in a saddle pack, mounted his horse, and ridden south. Leaving the home again was not easy. Life on the plains was hard, but there was much comfort in knowing the ways of the people he lived with, knowing the patterns of life there.

His appearance and manner caused many to think him a barbarian. The horse he was riding added to this perception, being larger than many had seen at 18 hands. He wore buckskin jerkin and breeches, with a chain mail shirt over it. His riding boots were made to fit by a tribal cobbler, with the tribal totem—the black panther—carved into the sides and dyed black. He had a bastard sword strapped to a broad belt at this right side, and a long sword on his left. He had a huge two-handed sword strapped to his back. His long, wild blonde hair was bound with a bright red cloth band. His piercing blue eyes looked down for no man, and were set wide in a rugged face tanned by sun and wind. He chose to go beardless, and his jutting chin gave him the look of a man who walked wherever he wanted—people unconsciously stepped out of his way. His frame was well proportioned. He did not look big—unless you were standing next to him.

Cato was quick to point out that his tribal life, though simple, was in many ways more civilized than city life. People lived close to the land, and most believed that the gods were active and interested in what people did. Therefore, people were honest and trustworthy. They cared about their friends, and helped where help was needed. Justice was swift, and often the whole tribe participated in both the trial and punishment of a person accused of a crime.

Cato turned his horse, and looked out to the south, overlooking the seaport of Phaliston. He had been there before, but it had been some years, and much had changed. The old town looked much the same from here, hiding behind its high stone walls. He did not remember the falls on the river just before it flowed into the sea—maybe they were excavating foundations for a new spate of building.

It was good to see traffic on the road into and out of the gates. The last time he was here, the gates were closed and guarded against marauding hordes of ogres, trolls and numerous other monsters. The sweet smell of wood smoke was heavy on this late spring evening. A number of small farmsteads had fields already turned in preparation for spring planting, but the evenings were still brisk enough to warrant a fire in the fireplace.

Again, he looked back the way he had come, through open pastureland. Cattle were gathering here and there and he saw an occasional hawk. The last time he was here, there were no cattle, no farms, no cultivated fields, no tended pastures. Cato would not have stood his horse on this hill so casually in those days; probably would not have topped the hill at all, without checking first for an ambush. At that time, he had joined the group who helped clean out the monsters that had infested hill and plain, farms and city. He was glad to see that the city had prospered in the last few years, and had not returned to its former plight.

Slowly, he turned back to the South. Phaliston sparkled in the late afternoon sun, and the clear air following a thundershower put everything in sharp relief. But, it was more than a physical appearance. Buildings looked fresh and clean, normal city grime having just been washed off by the rain. People were bustling about late afternoon chores. Traffic on the roads into and out of the town was moving briskly. One ship stood out from port for an unknown destination across the Mistral Sea. He had an undefined feeling that this was a happy place, that everything was going right.

Not like the last time he was here. Three years ago, this place had been little more than ruins. There were a few hardy people determined to keep the town alive, but even they had begun to despair. Thieves and bandits had taken up residence in one whole section of the city. Monsters roamed at will. An evil mage had taken over the ducal palace, with the intention of making the city a playground for his pets.

Now, it looked like enough people had moved in to keep it clean, and start a complete rebuilding of the town. Once it had been a thriving seaport—perhaps it would be again.

His horse shifted under him, reminding him of the passage of time. Galdur was a large horse, but Cato was 6 foot 8 and weighed over 300 pounds. The horse was also carrying all his armor and gear. The weight itself was not a problem for Galdur, but standing in one spot with that weight made him restless. Cato had raised Galdur from a colt. He could never explain it satisfactorily, but the bond between them seemed tighter than most.

Cato shook himself, and came back to the present. Time to move on. As years passed, those times seemed like glory days. But he knew that every one of their little band had come close to death more than once. He rode down slowly toward the main gate. A real gate, and with guards. Maybe times were still not secure…

Cato momCato was returning now to this scene of former danger and glory. He probably would not meet any of his old companions, but his restless spirit was driving him in search of adventure again. Even his home plains seemed tame by comparison to his adventures around Phaliston. Surely something was happening that he could become involved in here. If not, then he would ride on. No point in returning home. No place there for a third son, even if he were a warrior in his own right. Had they been at war—but they were not.

There were two guards on the gate, and neither looked like he had been off the farm long. The guards at the gate passed him in, but warily. This was peacetime for Phaliston, but any town this close to the wilds must be constantly alert. The guards noted Cato’s great size, and took note of the two-handed sword strapped on his back, and took him for a barbarian. They knew that any barbarian could be dangerous, and went on alert.

No fighting in town, you hear? You break the peace and the guard would as soon kill you as arrest you. Got that?

No fear. I’m not here to cause trouble. But I am looking for trouble! Ha. Let them figure that out. The guard started to say something, but thought better of it. He waved his sergeant over and pointed out Cato to him, as he rode into town. The guard captain watched a moment, thoughtful.

He looks familiar, somehow. He stood with his hand on his chin, thinking. A man that big did not pass without notice, but he could not remember where he might have seen him.

Oh! I think… he said, and paused. Ah! Got it. You know that statue they raised to the Liberation Heroes? Doesn’t he look like one of them, the giant?

The younger guard slapped his forehead. You’re right, Sarge. He does look like that one. Guess he won’t be any trouble. I didn’t think we would ever see those guys back. I don’t believe half the tales I’ve heard, anyway.

Believe it, son. Those that lived here before the Heroes came was just surviving, and barely that. I wuzn’t here myself—nobody cum to town then, it warn’t safe. But I seen what they done. There was only a handful of them heroes, but they sure wiped out a heap of monsters. Cleaned this town up. Even cleaned out the countryside. I heard they killed a dragon up in the hills, but I’m not sure I believe that.

Well, just the same, I’m not getting in his way. He turned back to his post, then looked back once more at Cato riding into the town. Maybe I’ll stand him a drink, if he will have it.

Cato urged his horse into a slow walk up the street approving the many changes in evidence. The streets were paved with paving stones, and in good repair, and clean. Ruins had been rebuilt, and shops were doing a bustling business. Taverns were open for the evening trade, and shopkeepers were beginning to close down for the day. There was a general spirit of well being. But there was an undercurrent of something else. Cato could not be sure, but there seemed to be a spirit of fear here also.

Suddenly, he stopped short. Someone had erected a statue at the intersection of Main and Park Streets. One of the figures was himself! All of the old gang was there. Guess they liked what we did, even if they didn’t really want us to live here.

Mista. Don’t know if that was really his name, or we just called him that because he seemed to be in another world. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought that he was reading my mind many times. Njondac. Looks as fierce as any dwarf I ever saw. They got that right. Sharra Darkling. Beautiful. Guess she just thought I was a dumb brute. Never really talked to me. That’s okay. She was too good with her magic for me. Jasmine. Wonder what her last name was, or if that was really her name at all. Just Jasmine. Nice hands. Without her healing gifts, I wouldn’t be here today. None of us would. Swung a mean mace, too. Couldn’t get close to her though. Couldn’t break her ice. Like she saw right through me. Penny. Too bad about her. Must have been a thief once, but wouldn’t talk about her past. Never stole anything in camp that I know of. Like she was running from something. She could pick a lock and find those traps like nobody I ever saw. So little, I could pick her up with one hand. Did, a couple of times. . Sneaked up on one too many, got herself killed. Really too bad. It was fun while it lasted, but I guess I’ll never see days like that again. Oh, Well. Hmm. They missed Bargum Badluck. Least we called him that. Thought he was a sorcerer—didn’t last long. Guess he really shouldn’t be here.

His mind flashed back to his first visit to Phaliston. He could still see the faded sign hanging by one nail on the side of the Town Hall: Wanted A Few Good Men to Clean out Nests of Monsters. The sign echoed the spirit of the city.

Cato remembered that experience clearly. Ha, he chuckled, they didn’t know a good man when they saw one. He had gone inside to inquire about the task, and they had laughed in his face. One man would not last 30 minutes after dark! Go see the Duke, if you are really interested, but you really need a large band of men… if you can find them. Again the clerk laughed, disdainfully.

Disconsolate, he had walked down to the only tavern still open, the Red Moon. He had not passed a single person in the streets. Windows were broken and boarded up. The tavern door had been splintered and repaired. There was one other person in the room—a man who had appeared to be about 40, but had a shock of white hair. Cato had asked if he could join him, and ordered an ale. Mista was his name, a mage wishing he could do something about the town.

As they had talked about the sorry state of affairs, and the seeming inability for anyone to do anything about it, they had been joined by several more strangers. Some had made rude comments, and walked off. But by the end of the afternoon they had formed a band of eight people who had all wanted to do something, and then had gone to see the Duke. Duke Spicewood was not impressed. But they had taken the assignment, and in the course of the summer, they had cleaned out the town and the surrounding area.

As Cato was thinking about his old comrades, a group of boys gathered to watch. What is that?’ I don’t know, and I don’t care! Looks like the giant in the statue. Nah. You’re just imagining. Never saw anybody that big. Hope you never do again, neither. He ain’t nothin. Probly all fat. You want to find out? Nah, that’s okay. You go axk him. He’s a barbarian. They’re cannibals. Nuhuh. They ain’t neither. Are. Pop said.

Cato looked up and saw the group, thought to ask them if the Rim Inn was still in operation. As he turned his horse in their direction, they all scattered and ran. Well, he chuckled, One thing hasn’t changed.

Harbor Street was an exception to the bustle of prosperity in the rest of the town. There was almost no traffic, and Cato did not see any ready explanation. The last time he was here it was lined with waterfront taverns, where a brawl could be started at a careless word or gesture. Now, there were two ship-supply shops open, and a warehouse at the end of the street. There were several taverns, but none was open. The street was clean, but there was no business being carried on. Curious, Cato turned west again and rode up Nobles Street.

Hey, man, I got a girl in here just your size. You’ll never forget this one!

Cato urged his horse into a slow walk. Not looking for anything in particular, just re-living old experiences. There was a wall rebuilt, a house restored. Here an inn rebuilt. He turned north up Silver Street. There the park to the west was even restored. Have to visit it tomorrow, see what it was supposed to look like, instead of a haven for monsters. After a few blocks, he came to the livery stable, now restored and in business. He tossed the proprietor a gold coin. I want a clean stall for my horse. All right if I sleep in the hayloft tonight?

The stall I got, but you’ll have to find an Inn to be sleeping. This place is locked and guarded at night.

Thanks, but there isn’t a bed that could hold me. He hung his saddlebags and tack behind the horse, and took out the few things a thief might want, and put them in his backpack.

At the intersection of Back Street and Silver, he came to Dimitri’s Silver shop. Good, looks like the old man is still in business. Dimitri! I have some silver for you!

Who calls? A short, thin man with white hair and full mustaches came out of the back room, rubbing his hands on his apron. Cato! Son of a seagoing biscuit eater! You look as mean as ever.

Well, old man, good to see you too.

So what do you have? As Cato took out two rough bars of silver, weighing about 2 pounds each, Dimitry said You guys trade with the dwarfs? This looks like some of theirs.

No, we don’t trade with the dwarves. Some of the boys found a mine up in the hills. We use some for trade, but most is made into jewelry. See? He turned and showed the clasp on his backpack, a solid piece of silver make to look like a wolf head.

Oh, nice work. You want to sell that too?

Nope, can’t go home without this. I want you to make me a filigree comb for my mother. Don’t know about the rest. Can you just hold it until I go back home? Also, I could use a dozen silver arrowheads. Never know what you might run into around here.

After a few minutes of genial haggling over price, Cato put a bag of arrowheads in his backpack and left. If I don’t come back in a month, assume I’m dead, he called as he left the shop.

As he walked on through the town, he did come to a familiar tavern. At least some things were the same, he thought, as he paused at Bloody Moon Tavern. The tavern was largely as he remembered it, But it had a new roof. It was built of fieldstone, with a frame upper story, and it nestled in the corner of two city walls. The windows were tall and narrow, made of stained glass, all a translucent red. A new moon was set in each window, of a darker hue of red, hence the name. It had always been a popular place, and that also had not changed. It was shortly before sunset, and already the evening crowd was beginning to gather. This had once been one of the better Inns in town, and Cato hoped it still was. Cato was never comfortable sleeping inside walls, but he had been forced into spending a few nights here while he was a member of a group on a quest.

They have really fixed this one up. Bet the meals are as good as ever. He was not looking for a room—he would not sleep inside of town walls if he could help it. But… He stepped up to the open door. It was a double door, but his shoulders measured the doorway. Out of habit, he ducked his head and stepped inside and to the left, so he would not be a target while his eyes adjusted to the near darkness inside. Cato began to scan the room for anyone he knew -- friend or enemy.

Chapter 3

Chandri LaFreet.

She wished she were dead. The day was dark, the house was dark—with black blinds over all windows—her heart was dark. The house stank like a charnel house. As far as she Chandri knew, the only other person alive in this house of death was a magic user, and he was rarely there. He had promised to teach her magic, but had only taught her a minor spell so far, one to create a small flame. Enough to light a pipe—if she smoked—or start a fire in the fire place—if there were any wood.

Dead creatures all around. Undead, she corrected herself. She could not understand why anyone would want to bring dead people back to a half-life. Not a real life, not alive, but the body or spirit forced back into some kind of life. Most of them had no mind at all—just bodies and/or skeletons activated, and controlled by the magic user she had come to hate and fear—Anithog, he called himself. She shuddered. Why did he want all these dead creatures around? Almost like he was building an army. Not just bodies, either. Zombies, Ghouls, Wights, Ghosts, Ghasts, Shadows, and other things she could not even name. None of them wanted to be here—they only wanted to rest in peace. The ones who had any mind at all hated all living things, and were always trying to frighten her, to touch her, to manifest unexpectedly. It must have given them some kind of perverse pleasure to see her shriek and cower.

He had found her in the woods somewhere, lost and starving. She did not know where, did not even know where she was now. In a house, in the middle of a forest, with no roads leading to it. She wondered how it had even been built here. No one could get here to work on it, no one could deliver equipment and building materials, no one even knew it was here, as far as she knew. But this Anithog had found her, given her some water and food, and offered to bring her into his home, and teach her magic. She had liked and trusted him immediately—which surprised her, since she had learned long ago never to trust a man. But she did trust him, and came here with him. Now, knowing a little more about magic, and seeing how he controlled the undead creatures, she realized she must have been charmed.

He had not taught her magic, had not even taught her to read. She had painfully taught herself some reading. She knew her letters, and could piece out a few words. But that was not really reading. And she had wanted to be able to at least read.

She could not understand why he wanted her here. Mostly he ignored her, and when he did send for her, he wanted her to wear only undergarments—a chemise and panties, or a serving apron, or a cotton shirt. Never naked, but never decently clothed. He liked to sit and look at her while he talked about things she did not even understand. He always sent a shadow, who would suddenly manifest in her room, and indicate what she was to wear. She shuddered, even thinking about it.

He would look at her, his eyes devouring her, sometimes for hours. Yet he never touched her—he just liked to look. She did not know why. She was not even pretty. Her legs were thin—chicken legs -- her hair a dirty blonde, and thin so it hung limply on her head. Her green eyes were set too far apart, and her lips where thin. She was short and skinny, standing 5’ 3", and weighing barely 90 pounds. She was only sixteen and had not had enough to eat for as long as she could remember. Yet, he looked and looked. She tried to shrink back, to hide. But he insisted on skimpy clothing that was never enough to completely cover her. When she had resisted, the shadow wrapped her in its coldness. It was incorporeal, so could not really touch her, but somehow, it did, and her whole arm or leg would grow numb from the cold. She only resisted once.

She could not even escape. There was an invisible barrier around the house that she could not pass. Even if she could, she had nothing to wear. You could not get very far wearing nothing but a thin cotton shirt, or a chemise. Sandals to wear in the house, but they would not serve for tramping through the woods. He had taken her heavy clothes and boots, when she arrived, on pretense of having them washed for her. She had not seen them again.

Now she was sitting alone in her room, on a black day, in a black house, and in a black mood. She wished she were dead. Even the clothes she had on were dirty. She was dirty. She could not get water, and the zombie that brought pails of water in from time to time slopped most of it out before it got to the house. She hated even to drink that water—but it was all she had. She had tried to wash her shirt in it once, but then she had had to drink the dirty water, until it was gone.

She had endured this for six months, but did not know how much longer she could last. Nothing to do, nothing to read, or even learn how to read by practicing the words she knew. Just sit in a corner and wish she were dead. She couldn’t even pray—she knew no god well enough to pray. She pulled aside a curtain, and looked out. Startled, she was a man at the door. A tall man, with clean features and white hair, standing in front of the house and talking to Anithog. He was wearing ordinary clothes. Maybe this was rescue. How had he even found the house? No matter. She ran to the front room, or tried. Her door was locked. Panicky, she threw her body against the door again and again, until it crashed open, and then ran to the front room. Both men were surprised at her sudden appearance in the front door of the house.

Well, what do we have here? asked the man in a quiet, cultured voice. I thought you said you lived alone?

He waved his hand, deprecating. This is nothing. A waif I found in the woods, and rescued from sure starvation, or being eaten by wild animals, or worse. I will send her on when she gets her strength back.

I’ll be glad to take her with me, if you like. We need to be getting back before the rain hits, the man said, looking at the sky.

Thank you, but she is not up to strength yet. I was going to teach her magic, but she seems to have little aptitude. Turning to Chandri, he said, Show him some fire, dear.

Chandri obediently produced a flame for him.

Good, said the man. Can you do anything else?

She shook her head, mutely, and let the fire die.

Think you could learn, if you put your mind to it?

Her eyes widened. She glanced at Anithog, afraid to answer. Then, Yes, I’m sure I could.

Well, would you trust me to teach you?

Chandri did not know what to say. He looked like a decent man, but then she had been sure that Anithog was her savior. She might be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Her eyes grew wide, but she did not say anything.

Forgive me, said the man. You don’t even know who I might be. That is a very unfair question to ask, isn’t it? My name is Mista, and I run a school of magic in Phaliston. There are 15 students, and 3 teachers in the school at this time. There are a couple of students with me, out in the woods—two girls and two boys. It is a general school, with a focus on magic. In other words, I teach basic skills, such as reading, and math, and then teach whatever kind of magic you might have an affinity for. The real reason for school is to learn how to function in this world, and how to control your magic. So, if you have magic, we can teach you how to use it and control it. If you really don’t have magic, we will discover that. You obviously have some magic—you did make fire. If you can do that, you can do more.

Yes! And I can read, a little.

Anithog said, with a sneer, Yes I have seen you pick out a few words. But it was a waste of my time to try to teach you magic. You surely had trouble leaning that little cantrip.

Then you would not mind to see her go? What is she to you, only a waif you found? Or is there more?

No, nothing to me. He waved his hand. She was a derelict. I should have just ridden on, and left her to die, but I really could not do that to one of god’s creatures.

Mista turned back to Chandri."Well, what do you say, then?

Would you? Oh. She clapped her hand to her mouth. I have no money.

Anithog spoke, his voice dripping sarcasm. Not worth your time, sir. She has very little aptitude. Can’t even read—in spite of what she says. Always thinks more of herself than she is worth. And I certainly cannot afford any tuition you would charge. Thank you for showing an interest, however.

The man, Mista, looked at Anithog. As he stared, his hazel eyes changed to a steely gray. To Chandri, it seemed like he was looking right through Anithog. Could he see the lies for what they were? Was this man really going to rescue her? Or would he just take her and make her a different kind of slave. There had to be more to life than slavery.

After what seemed like an eternity, the staring contest ended. He turned back to Chandri. What is your name, dear?

Chandri. Chandri LaFreet.

Would you like to go to a real school, Chandri?

Oh, yes!

Good. Get your things, and let’s go. Turning to Anithog, he said, I won’t charge any tuition. I would rather take the time to help someone develop their talents correctly, than bicker over money. When she learns enough to start earning money, then I will reconsider. As I am sure you know, the things you pay for become much more valuable to you.

But—

You did say she was not showing much promise, right? Surely you have more to do than tutor one person. She will fit right into the school, and having other students should help her learn."

He shrugged his shoulders, Whatever. Take her if you will.

Turning to Chandri, Ready, dear—Oh, you are still here. Change your mind?

Yes. I mean No. Her words tumbled out. I want to go.

Well, get you things.

Suddenly realizing how exposed she was, she turned red all over. I—I don’t have anything else.

Mista’s eyes widened. Nothing? Hmmm… well, we’ll have to do something about that. Maybe one of the girls has a coat or something. He reached out a hand to her, and then turned to Anithog. Any problem, sir?

There was nothing he could say. He had already belabored the point of her imputed worthlessness. It would not do to admit his perversion to this stranger, who seemed to be more than he showed. No, no problem. I expect you will get tired of her soon, though. Don’t send her back here. He looked hard at Chandri, as if to say, ‘I will see you back here.’

Chandri took Mista’s hand and trotted out beside him, eager to leave, and not really believing she was free. As soon as the house was out of sight, she stopped and dropped Mista’s hand. You said there were others with you? I don’t want them to see me like this.

Hmmm. Well, let’s do something about that. By the way, was that you I heard crashing around inside that house?

She colored, slightly. "Yes. My door was locked, and I wanted out."

Did you leave anything in your room that you want?

No. Yes. But it don’t matter. I wasn’t letting you our of my sight.

Hmmm. Thought so. I wish Sharra were here. She could do something. He called, Alice. Would you come over here? Leave the others.

A few minutes later, a short somewhat dumpy girl of 15 appeared in the clearing. Alice, meet Chandri. Do either of you girls have something to cover her with? I have just rescued her from a pit, and she will be coming to the school.

Alice looked Chandri up and down, her lips unconsciously turning down. Yeah, I see. I’ve got a light jacket… but it’s not very long. But, hey, it’s better than nothing. Here, she said, untying the jacket from around her waist.

When they rejoined the others, Mista made introductions all round. Then he turned to Chandri. We are free of that house. I don’t know how you got there, or how he kept you—but it was obvious to me that he was lying through his teeth. You are free. Your life is yours, to do what you will.

Fear came over her face, her eyes grew round, and her lip trembled. But you said—

Mista smiled gently. I remember what I said, dear. You are welcome to come into my school, and we will teach you. It will not cost you a single gold piece. Ever. However. I also meant what I just told you. You are free. You do not have to come back with us, unless you want to.

Mista thought for a moment, then, Whatever else you may want, I do want to take you to town, get you a room and a bath, and some clothes. After that, then you can decide what to do next. I will not force you to do anything—it is time you had your life back.

Chandri colored. I know I must smell bad—

Mista slapped his forehead. Sorry, I say the dumbest things. You look like you have not seen water for weeks. I did not mean that to be an insult—I am sure you were a prisoner, and had no choice. Forgive me?

She nodded, eyes wide. That was something she had never heard. I know I am dirty. He would not give me any water, except to drink. And even that was dirty. Tears stood in her eyes. So close, and now he was cutting her loose. But, if you don’t want me, I don’t know where I will go.

Oh, boy. Me and my big mouth. He shook his head, and laid a hand on her arm, noticing that she shrank from his touch. Look, I’m not throwing you out. That was the last thing on my mind. I just want to set you free—you don’t know what free is, do you. Ahhh. He slapped his forehead. I should have known. Well, you will learn that, too. I want to give you the tools you will need to make your own life. First thing is reading. Some basic instruction in how to make good decisions for yourself—so you can be free and stay free. Some basic lessons in ethics—you have to have that to be a trustworthy magic user. Then Magic, if you indeed do have a talent. There is nothing I enjoy more than finding a bird in a cage and setting her free to be all she can be. That is why I am a teacher. He withdrew his hand, not wishing to cause her more discomfort.

But… But, it will cost you—

He smiled and waved his hand. It won’t cost me anything except a little time and trouble. And I’ve got time and trouble to spare. You are welcome to as much of my trouble as you want, and I’ll be glad to see it gone. He smiled again. Come on, now. Let us take you back to town, and get you cleaned up. Do these people look like prisoners?

She looked at them. No, they were not prisoners. Okay. But you have horses—

Mista shrugged. You can double up with one of us. With me, if you like, or one of the others. Your choice.

She looked around at the others, all younger that she was. She knew she was dirty, and probably stank—but she had lived with her own stink so long she really did not know. I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind.

No problem. He spread a spare saddle blanket over his saddle, and the rump of the horse. You ride?

No.

Okay. He mounted. Al, help Chandri up behind me. Good. Arms around my waist, and hang on. Let’s go kids.

It took about half an hour to get used to the ride. He kept the horse to an easy walk, but she kept feeling like she was sliding off. She unconsciously tightened her arms around Mista. She relaxed a little once she had gotten used to the motion, and asked in Mista’s ear, Why are you doing this? Really?

Startled at the sudden question, but not really surprised, he thought a minute, and then said, Let me ask you a question, first. Have you ever known a good person?

Her turn to be startled. Was he reading her mind? No. she whispered. Never.

Yes, I thought so. I can’t read your mind, by the way. But something tells me that you are hungry for companionship, lonely, and have never known a single person you could trust.

Yes. All true.

I want to help.

Why? fear gnawing at her stomach. What did he really want?

Because… I don’t know how to say this. He was quiet for a minute. I see a person there who is strong, smart, and can make a valuable contribution to this world—trapped in a scared lonely child.

I’m not a child.

Yes, you are. But adult at the same time. How old are you?

I think I am 16.

"Yes, about what I guessed. But you have never been allowed to really grow up, have