it down inside the city unless they live there.”
“What about libraries?” Angus asked. “Are there any on The Rim?”
Hobart shrugged. “I’ve never heard of one,” he admitted, “but I never looked for one, either.”
“There aren’t,” Giorge said. “The wizards live inside the city, and that’s where the libraries are. There’s a Wizards’ School, too, if you’re interested.”
“I am,” Angus said. “It will be a good place to ask about work. I’ll have to talk with them before I decide to join your banner or not.”
“There,” Hobart said. “Do you see it? The lift is rising.”
Angus pointlessly leaned forward in his saddle and studied the wall as best he could. “The thing that looks like a spider crawling up the side of the wall?”
Hobart chuckled. “That’s our way up,” he said. “It’s a pulley and winch system that lifts visitors up and down. You stand on a platform and they winch you up. You can’t get into Hellsbreath any other way.”
If it weren’t for that dome, Angus thought, I could fly in. If I could fly, that is.
“Let’s ride a bit faster,” Giorge said. “I’d like to get there before the next lift goes back up. You know how it is during the day, especially when the volcano is belching out that crap.”
“Yes,” Hobart said, spurring his horse to a light trot. “And there aren’t very many travelers between us and the city.”
“Not many around it, either,” Giorge said. “It might be a long time before that lift drops back down.”
“All right, Angus,” he said, turning to Angus. “When we get there, keep your fingers clean.”
Angus tilted his head and half-smiled. “What do you mean by that?”
Hobart frowned. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but Giorge got in a bit of trouble last time we were here. He climbed down to the city proper without permission. When they caught him, they put him in the dungeon and left him there until we were ready to leave. They don’t take kindly to trespassers, and even less so to thieves. Hellsbreath is mainly a military outpost, and they take their rules seriously.”
Angus nodded. “What rules should I know about?”
Hobart shrugged. “No killing, stealing, trespassing, vandalism, spitting from The Rim, littering….”
6
Just before reaching the lift area, Hobart pointed at a long, narrow, wooden wall with several rings evenly spaced along its length. Each ring had a red, blue, or black scarf tied to it. Hobart rode past several dozen red and blue scarves before coming to a stop before one with a black scarf. He dismounted, handed Angus the reins of his horse, and said, “Stay back.” Then he stepped up to the ring and reached for the scarf.
Giorge brought his horse up next to Angus and stopped, but Ortis rode past him to the next ring marked with a black scarf—about ten feet further—and dismounted.
Hobart’s clumsy oversized gauntleted fingers finally unraveled the knot in the scarf and he gripped the ring with his free hand and tugged. A ten-foot section of the wall slid easily outward, separating itself from the rest of the wooden wall. He took a few steps back, pulling the partition with him until a soft chime sounded. Then he let go of the ring and turned to Angus.
“It’s a stable,” he said. “You can tell which ones are empty by the scarf. A black one like this,” he shook it, “is open for use. The red ones stable the garrison’s horses, and the blue ones are for visitors. There are stables on The Rim if you want your horse with you, or if you’re traveling through the city and continuing south. But if we’re going into The Tween to check out that symbol, we may as well house them down here. It will reduce the price of the lift and make our wait a little longer, but it will be worth it.” He took the reins of his horse and led it around the opening. “Each one can hold four horses,” he said. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but the horses don’t seem to mind being confined like that.”
Giorge hopped off his horse and followed Hobart around the partition. A moment later, Angus shrugged and did the same, wincing from the short burst of pain in his legs as he landed. Behind the partition was a shallow enclave embedded in the city’s wall, just deep enough for a horse to be stabled. “They’ll feed them, brush them down, take them out for exercise—everything they do in other stables. We’ll put a deposit down now and pay the balance when we leave. If we stay much longer than two weeks, we’ll have to send down additional payment to make sure they’re here when we need them.”
“Don’t worry,” Giorge said. “It’s a reasonable rate. But we do need to have a sense of how long we’ll be here.”
“Back to that,” Angus sighed. “I still don’t know the answer. Let’s say three weeks for now, and if I need longer, I’ll send word.”
“Two weeks longer than I’d like,” Hobart grumbled, removing his saddlebags from his horse. “We don’t know how long it will take to find whatever is waiting for us at that symbol, if we can find it at all. It probably got buried in lava centuries ago. But if there is something there, we need to find it before winter sets in.”
“Isn’t winter still a few months away?” Angus asked.
Hobart shook his head and set the last saddlebag on the ground beside his horse. “Not in those mountains,” he said. “It can come early there.”
“It’s the altitude,” Giorge added, removing his own saddlebags. “The mountains west of here are the highest peaks in the region. There’s snow on top of most of them all year round. Hellsbreath Pass goes through them otherwise they would be almost completely impassible all year round.”
“I’ve seen the snowcaps,” Angus admitted as he reached for his backpack and strapped it over his shoulders. Then he turned to the saddlebags. “Do I need to remove all of these?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hobart said, moving toward him. “They’re our horses, and we’ll take care of them. If you decide to join us, we’ll walk you through what to do and fill you in on what is banner gear and what is not. For now, you’ll be our guest.”
“All right,” Angus said, moving back to give Hobart room to maneuver. “I can at least carry some of them over to the lift for you.”
Hobart nodded, adding the saddlebags to his pile. “When we’re ready, he said. He led Angus’s horse into one of the narrow stalls. The stable was surprisingly well-lit, considering that it was embedded in such an enclosed space, and there was a long corridor running along the back of the stalls. A cord hung down in the middle of their section of the stable, and Hobart pulled it. The soft chime sounded again.
“I’m coming,” a man shouted from down the corridor. “Hold your horses ’til I get there.”
Giorge led his horse into its stall and turned to help Ortis with the young colt, Max, who was balking at the confined space. “There, there, boy,” he soothed, patting it on its shoulder. “I don’t like being cooped up either, but it’s only for a few weeks. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Ortis removed Teffles’ body from the last horse before leading the horse into its stall. It was a calm, placid beast, easily managed and content with the directions Ortis gave him.
“Was that Teffles horse before he joined you?” Angus asked.
“Yes,” Ortis said. “Why?”
Angus nodded. “I’d like that one if I join your banner. Would that be all right?”
Ortis shrugged. “Not our decision,” he said. “Teffles bequeathed it to the Wizards’ School.”
It must be trained for wizards, Angus thought. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps they will part with it?”
“I’ll take you with me when I let them know it’s here,” Hobart said. “I believe you wanted to visit there, anyway. It’s in the city proper—you can’t miss seeing it when we get to The Rim—and we’ll have to get special permission from the guards to visit it. I don’t think it will be a problem. You are a wizard, after all.”
From Blackhaven Tower, Angus thought. “Yes,” he said. Will they receive me in the same way Ulrich
did? Will I be looked on as a blight?
A man limped half-free of the shadows and came to an abrupt stop. He stared at Hobart for a long moment, and then began shaking his head. “So it’s you, is it? I thought I recognized that infernal voice. I would have thought the Death Swamps had swallowed you up by now.”
“Not yet, you scoundrel,” Hobart glared. “Why isn’t your corpse feeding the rats?”
“Bah,” the man spat, limping forward and dipping beneath the inner rail of the empty stall. “They’re too smart. They know they’d die of indigestion.”
Hobart glared a bit longer, and then they grinned at each other and deep, rich, belly-laughs rumbled from them both. They clasped hands to forearms and pretended to wrestle for a few moments. Then Hobart wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulder and led him out of the stable.
“It’s been a long time, Hobart,” the man said, nudging him with his elbow. He was a grizzled, dirty, sweat-soaked old man dressed in a worn-out wool tunic whose sleeves had been torn off, and breeches secured to his waist with a frayed red scarf. “You’ll have to let me buy you a beer at Hedreth’s.”
“Now Bandor,” Hobart said, shaking his head. “You know I can’t drink just one.”
“Two, then,” Bandor replied. “How long are you here for?”
“A week or two. Three at the outside,” Hobart said. “Plenty of time to catch up.”
“I’m sure you have stories,” he said. “You always do.”
“Bandor,” Giorge said, politely nodding as he returned from helping Ortis.
“You’re still riding under his banner?” Bandor said, his eyes wide. “I would have thought Hobart would have thrown you out of it after last time.”
Giorge grinned. “They can’t live without me, Bandor. You know that.”
“But how do they live with you?” Bandor retorted, shaking his head and leaning back to look around Giorge. “And that triad’s here, too. That leaves,” he turned to Angus and stared. After a moment he said, as if it were an accusation, “You’re not Ribaldo.”
“No,” Angus said. “My name is Angus.”
“Where’s Ribaldo?” Bandor asked, looking up at Hobart.
“With his gods,” Hobart said. “Or someone else’s.”
“No,” Bandor said. “He was such a fine old man.”
Hobart nodded and let his arm slide from Bandor’s shoulders. “Too old,” he said. “He died in his sleep just over a week ago.”
Bandor shook his head. “That will be my fate, I’m sure. With this bum leg, I’ll never get out of this hole in the wall. They may as well bury me in it now.”
“You’ll never die, Bandor,” Hobart said as he moved to his saddlebags. “You’re too stubborn.”
“Ah, well, if only death were so easily swayed,” Bandor said. “But we’ll all end up like Ribaldo one day,” he added, nodding toward Teffles’ body. “He will be missed.”
“He already has been,” Hobart said. “That’s his replacement. He only lasted almost two days before the wolves got to him.”
Bandor shook his head and looked at Angus. “You’re that one’s replacement, then? You might want to reconsider it if you want to live a while longer.”
“I’m—”
“Let’s just say he’s with us for now,” Hobart said. “Nothing permanent has been established yet.”
“Ah,” Bandor said, nodding. “Testing him, are you?”
Hobart shook his head. “The offer has been made, Bandor, but he has yet to accept it.”
“I may have a more lucrative opportunity here in Hellsbreath,” Angus said. “I understand they have need of wizards, here.”
Bandor nodded, “There’s always room for more skilled wizards in Hellsbreath.”
“We should be getting our things over to the lift area,” Ortis said. “We don’t want to have to wait for another one.”
“Right you are,” Bandor said. “We’ll talk later at Hedreth’s, Hobart. Let’s see, seven horses for how long?”
“Let’s say two weeks,” Hobart said. “If we stay longer than that, we’ll settle up when we leave.”
“Two gold, four silver,” Bandor said as he stepped back into the stall to retrieve the blue scarves. “I’ll even make sure they get the same treatment as the soldiers’ horses. Only the best for you, Hobart.”
“Thank you Bandor,” Hobart said, counting out the coins in his palm. “Until this evening, then?”
Bandor nodded, exchanging the blue scarves for the coin and the black scarves. Before limping away, he turned to Angus and said, “There’s no better banner than Hobart’s. He’s a fair and honorable leader, and he’ll do right by you if you do right by him.” He paused, glanced sidelong for a moment, winked, and added, “I don’t know how many others would have put up with Giorge for as long as he has.”
Hobart chuckled as the scruffy man left, ignoring the feigned, exaggerated pain on Giorge’s face. Then he turned abruptly and said, “Let’s get our gear.” He hurried to the pile of saddlebags and began draping them over his shoulders. Angus joined him, accepted two of the lighter ones, and followed him out from behind the partition. Hobart pushed it closed and fumbled with the blue scarf, eventually tying a shabby but effective knot. When he finished, he turned and said, “Let’s report in.”
“Report in?” Angus asked as they walked toward the lift area.
“Whenever banners arrive at a major outpost, we have to report in to the guard,” Hobart said. “They like to keep track of us in case they need to recall us to duty. We’ll also be reporting on the changes to our membership,” Hobart said. “I’ll put you down as a provisional member; that way, you’ll get the benefits of membership while we’re in Hellsbreath, and if you decide not to join, I can strike your name from the roster when we leave.”
As they approached, Angus studied the people near the lift platform. There were apparently two groups of them: the passengers and the guardsmen. The guardsmen were armed, and several were positioned around the platform in a protective fashion, preventing people from stepping onto it. Perhaps they were concerned that someone would walk off the edge of the platform while the lift was gone or might disturb the complex pulley system? The three remaining guards were stationed near a little alcove where an old scribe sat with a thick tome and small chest. As they approached, the scribe opened the book, picked up his quill, and uncorked his inkwell. Between him and the lift platform, half a dozen passengers waited for the lift to return from The Rim.
“Those are all locals,” Giorge said from beside him. “By the look of the one, he’s a fisherman. He probably has a few fish in that basket of his. He uses that bow to shoot them. The arrows are short and too brittle for anything else. It’s not as easy as you might think. Try it sometime. The water distorts your perception, and it takes a long time to learn how to judge where the fish really is. Until then, you kill a lot of water.”
Angus nodded and asked, “You can tell that by the arrows?”
Giorge nodded. “They are heavier than the normal ones, and they don’t have any fletching. It’s almost like a crossbow bolt. They don’t have to fly far, but do need to penetrate deep enough into the water to kill the fish. He probably has string tied to them so he doesn’t lose them in the river when he misses.”
“Isn’t the river moving too fast for that kind of fishing?” Angus asked.
Giorge nodded. “He must be a bit desperate,” he said. “Most locals wouldn’t risk fishing when there’s this much ash in the air.”
“He could have been caught by surprise,” Ortis said. “Some of these fishermen go out at night.”
“More likely he didn’t have a choice,” Hobart offered. “We don’t know how long that eruption has been going on. They can last weeks, you know.”
“Maybe you should ask him,” Angus suggested. “I’m sure he would welcome the conversation. After all, it may be a while before they send the lift back down.”
When they were within a few feet of the scribe, Hobart sa
id, “Stay here,” and walked up to him.
“The two with axes were probably gathering wood or clearing away debris from the bridge,” Giorge continued, stopping next to Angus. “When it rains, the river rises quickly and catches up all kinds of stuff—trees, branches, boulders, dead animals, whatever. Sometimes a tree will get caught on the bridge supports.”
“It’s too early to clear the debris,” Ortis offered. “The river’s too deep and moving too fast.”
“What about the others,” Angus asked. “They look like the villagers I met on my way to Wyrmwood.”
“We are the Banner of the Wounded Hand,” Hobart told the scribe.
The rickety old man leafed through the tome propped up on his desk. When he found the appropriate entry, he skimmed through it quickly and looked at the group. “You are Hobart?” he asked. “The holder of the banner?”
“Yes,” Hobart said. “And these are—”
“Ortis, Giorge, and Ribaldo?” He frowned and scanned the page again. He looked back at Angus and shook his head. “No, not Ribaldo.” He pointed at the corpse two of Ortis were carrying between them. “Is that Ribaldo?”
“No,” Hobart said. “It’s Teffles, Ribaldo’s replacement. He won’t be on your list, yet. He was added to our roster in Wyrmwood less than a week ago.”
The scribe frowned and drew the quill across a portion of the page in his book. When he finished, he jotted something down and asked, “How do you spell Teffles?”
Hobart frowned. “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “Maybe you can wait until the update comes in from Wyrmwood and make the change then?”
“He was added to your roster in Wyrmwood?”
Hobart nodded. “When Ribaldo’s death was reported.”
“Has Teffle’s death been recorded?”
“Yes,” Hobart said. “We reported it in Wyrmwood on our way here.”
“What is your new member’s name?” the scribe asked, dipping his quill in the inkwell. It was a large glass inkwell that had seen much use.
“Angus,” Hobart told him. “He is a provisional member under the protection of our banner.”
“Provisional member?” the old man repeated, reaching up to scratch his wrinkled brow and darkening the ink-black streak in the tangled mop of gray hair cascading over his shoulders and down his back. He sighed. “That is a complication.”
Hobart nodded. “Nevertheless, I do want it in the records. We have offered Angus a position in our banner, and he is considering it. While he does so, I wish to have him treated as a member of my banner. His decision will be made prior to our leaving Hellsbreath, and we will update the roster accordingly before that time.”
“Very well,” he said. “I will add Angus to your roster and make a note of his provisional status.”
“Thank you,” Hobart said.
“I will need to know how to spell it,” the old man said, and Hobart looked at Angus.
Angus stepped forward and stated each letter clearly as the old scribe’s quill scratched them out. He continued writing for