The Compass Key (Book 5) (18 page)

“The guards and Grand Counselors refuse to help us!” the halfling shouts, getting everyone’s attention. Flicking a lock of black hair out of his face, he smiles at his audience. “I know what you’re thinking. What can we do that those with power and experience can’t do? I’ll tell you what we can do. We can take the fight to the chaos elves and show them not to mess with the people of Gaia. The guards are following orders and our leaders are too concerned with politics. We have no such obstacles. This battle will be won by us, the people who call Gaia home and refuse to live in fear.”

The crowd roars their approval before a small, feminine hand rises from the back. “How can we fight a group that has magic and trained warriors?”

“We will use the terrain to our advantage and strike at night,” the halfling proudly announces. He takes a quick drink of his ale and licks his moist lips. “Our target with be their ships while they sleep in the dockyard buildings. Setting fire to their small fleet will cut them off from help and supplies.”

“What if they’re guarding the ship?” a deep voice asks from the crowd.

“A trusted source in the griffin riders has told us that the chaos elves don’t guard the ships. Please just trust that we know what we’re doing. The planning has already been taken care of. We only need volunteers to help with the attack tomorrow night.”

“This is going to be trouble,” Timoran mutters into his ale. He puts his mug down and raises his hand for attention. “I should point out that very few of you seem to be warriors. Even if the chaos elves lack guards, your fire will draw attention before you can escape. You will need to stay long enough to make sure the fire takes hold. What do you plan on doing if you are approached by the enemy?”

The halfling stares at Timoran as if he never expected someone to ask a question. He leans down to whisper among his friends, the female orc cautiously eyeing the barbarian. They stop whispering when the halfling notices that he is losing his audience. Hopping off the table, he weaves among the crowd and makes his way to the large warrior. To get at Timoran’s eye level, he jumps onto the bar and lands in a crouch.

“Who are you, big guy?”

“It is polite for a host to introduce himself first,” Timoran replies before finishing his ale and standing. He notices the others are moving to surround him and sighs while patting his great axe. “I am Timoran Wrath of the Snow Tiger clan. I was passing through Gaia and heard that help was needed. I do not play well with guards, so I came looking for a group of rebellious citizens.”

“My name is Onryth Kelledon,” the halfling says. He grins at the barbarian in the hope of coming off more cheerful than he feels. “May I ask how you found out about us? We haven’t existed for very long, so I’d like to know how our name is traveling.”

“Not so much your name. In situations like this, a group of determined citizens always rise up to take matters into their own hands. I would like to help you.”

The female orc steps forward and cracks her knuckles. “I don’t trust him, Onryth. It’s too much of a coincidence that he’s come looking for us. Besides, many of the chaos elves are female and this man strikes me as the type that would never hit a woman.”

“You are correct in that assumption, milady. I would never strike a woman,” Timoran states. He leans away from a wild haymaker that nearly hits Onryth. Stepping forward, the barbarian slams the orc’s head into the bar, using just enough strength to daze her. “Unless she attacked me first. In my tribe, we do not care about gender when it comes to fighting. Women are just as dangerous as the men and should be treated as such. Still, I held back because you are not as durable as the women of my tribe.”

“Don’t antagonize a barbarian, Varti,” Onryth warns
the grinning orc. He gets off the bar and moves her away from Timoran. “I apologize for my friend. Her husband is one of the captive sailors, so she is on edge. Do you expect payment for your services?”

“I am not some greedy mercenary
. I wish to help and bring honor to my clan. That is all a barbarian ever wants.”

The halfling strokes his bearded chin and runs his tongue along his teeth.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. Let me discuss this with my inner circle.”

Timoran nods and turns to request another drink while Onryth and his friends whisper nearby. They occasionally glance at
the redheaded warrior, their excitement at having a powerful barbarian evident on most of their faces. Varti is the only one that looks at him with mistrust and caution, which puts her at odds with the others.

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” she whispers. She angrily pulls at her brown hair and bares her sharp teeth. “We can’t trust a man who shows up out of nowhere.”

“He has the scars, the great axe, and the look of a barbarian,” a dwarf stubbornly contends. “I’ve met barbarians before and he is definitely one of them. Maybe he is a gift from the Holy One. I’ve been praying for help all week.”

“Why would the dwarf god send a barbarian, Tyrus?” a slender elf asks. He adjusts the longsword that is hanging loosely on his belt, accidentally hitting himself in the knee. “The guards have been turning away mercenaries and outsiders. They say it’s to reduce the chance of an escalation, but it could be that they fear a spy.”

“Don’t be daft, Juldan,” snaps a human dressed in dirty clothes. He rubs at his filthy hair and shakes the clumps of dirt from his hand. “Nobody sends a barbarian in as a spy. If you haven’t noticed, that guy isn’t designed for subtlety.”

“I didn’t say he was a spy, William.”

“You implied it.”

“I never imply things.”

“Everyone be quiet. This Timoran has a point,” Onryth whispers, holding out his hands for silence. “With him, we don’t have to worry about the chaos elves attacking. He looks like he could hold them off while we set our fires. I say we accept his offer, but let Varti keep an eye on him when we’re on the mission. Does that sound okay to you, Varti?”

The orc
splits from the group and goes to the bar, taking the seat next to Timoran. She snaps her fingers at the bartender, who glares at her before giving her a mug of ale. She frowns when she sees that half of her drink is thick foam. Putting the sensitive bartender out of her mind, she clears her throat and turns to the barbarian.

“We will accept your help under two conditions,” Varti says, holding two fingers to Timoran’s face. “One is that you stay by me during the mission. The other is that you listen to everything I say. No disobeying my orders.”

“I agree to the first condition, but not the second,” he states. The barbarian slowly finishes his drink while Varti waits for him to explain his reasoning. “I work best when I have freedom. Let me decide my own actions and you will have yourself a better warrior, who will loyally stay by your side.”

Onryth hops onto the bar again and leans over to hiss in Varti’s ear. “You should accept this. The crowd is beginning to lose interest and see us as fools. We’d definitely be fools to reject a barbarian
’s help.”

“We accept your offer, Timoran Wrath,” she quickly announces, extending her hand for him to shake. “Welcome to Gaia’s militia.”

Timoran gently shakes her hand as the crowd roars with approval. He can feel the tension in the room fade away as drinks and food are ordered. After a few seconds, he realizes that Varti is still gripping his hand. He looks into her eyes to find that they are filled with a primal fury, daring him to give her a reason to lash out.

“I swear I’ll kill you if you betray us,” she growls. She is surprised when Timoran gets up, subtly pulling her forward.

“I would never betray an ally. It would cost me my honor,” he whispers into her ear. He lets go of Varti’s arm when he feels her grip loosen. “Besides, I like this little group you have put together. Yes, I can tell that you’re the real mastermind. Mr. Kelledon is merely the voice that people are meant to believe is in charge. Am I right?”

Varti smiles at Timoran, her sharp incisors glinting in the
torchlight. “I guess you’re smarter than you look, Timoran Wrath. If it’s any consolation to your pride, I was going to recruit you anyway. We needed to put on a show for the rabble. Are you going to stay for the celebration?”

“I am sorry, but I have to tend to some business. My boots have seen better days,” he claims while pointing at his mud-caked, shoddy boots. “I will return here tomorrow morning for breakfast.”

Varti nods to Timoran as he puts another gold coin on the bar. He hands the fresh drink to her with a smile before leaving the tavern. Timoran slowly makes his way down the road, keeping an ear out for the sounds of being followed. When he is sure nobody is trying to spy on him, he turns down an alley and heads toward Rainbow Tower.

*****

“So, I need your help,” Nyx nervously says while she sits in the cherry wood chair. She fiddles with her necklace and stares at her bare feet. “I really don’t want to ask because I know you’re busy. Also, I’m supposed to be able to handle these things on my own. The problem is that time is limited and my friends are depending on me. Can you help me, master?”

Cyril leans back in his large chair, his finger gently tapping on his temple. His expression is one of confusion and amusement. He calmly watches the young woman he helped raise from childhood. Shifting in his chair, the great caster leans his elbows on his desk and gently places his chin on his folded hands.

“Why are you so scared about asking me for help, Nyx?” Cyril politely asks, forcing himself not to smile. Decades of practice pay off as his mouth remains a stern line on his dark face. “Furthermore, where are your shoes?”

“I might have incinerated them after getting doused with magical foam for the eighth time this morning,” Nyx answers. She looks up at Cyril with an impish grin that makes her old master chuckle.
“I think you need to increase the potency of the foam again because it isn’t getting the job done for more than a minute.”

“It is good to see some things haven’t changed with you,” Cyril admits, his pale eyes glowing with faint warmth. “Now, explain why you come to me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like a begging child that broke her mother’s favorite magic mirror.”

“I didn’t beg back then.”

“Nyx!”

Nyx abruptly sits up straight in her chair. “Sorry, master. I mean, father. I mean, Cyril. You see the problem?”

“I think I do,”
the dark-skinned caster replies. He gets to his feet and walks around the desk to lean against his desk in front of Nyx. “During our last conversation, I said that we are no longer master and apprentice. So, you don’t know if you still have the right to ask me for my help. Did you forget that we’re also father and daughter? Even if you have met your birth father, I would like to think you still consider me your father as well.”

“Of course I do,” Nyx
says without hesitation. She shifts in her chair and goes back to fondling her necklace. “But I didn’t know if that new relationship put me at the same level as the other apprentices when it came to asking for help.”

Cyril stretches his arm to stroke Nyx’s cheek like he has done countless times since adopting the half-elf.
“I’ve heard you call young Luke a fool, but it seems you have your moments of foolishness too. You can always come to Willow and I for help, Nyx. We will never turn you away. Now, what do you need help with?”

Standing
in front of her master, Nyx feels like a helpless apprentice and she nibbles at her lower lip in frustration. Running a hand through her hair sends a shimmer of flame along the short tresses. Several times she breaks into a series of short breaths as if she is about to have a panic attack. Gathering her strength, she spins around on her toes and bows in front of Cyril with her arms out.

“I need help finding information on the
Compass Key. I’ve never had trouble finding the information that I need. This is frustrating and that magic foam is driving me nuts. I can’t take it any more. I know I’ve only been looking for a day, but I’m out of ideas. Please help me do this, so I don’t fail my friends.”

“Still over the top,
my student,” Cyril sighs while rubbing his eyes. “Did you ever consider that the reason you can’t find information on the Compass Key is because there is none in the library?”

“That means the information is somewhere else,”
the half-elf declares. She rushes to the bookcase behind Cyril’s desk and reads the spines. “Something like the Compass Key wouldn’t be in a public book. You would have it in a safe place like your office.”

“Nyx.”

“Probably your bedroom.’

“Stop, Nyx.”

“Willow has a few books in her lab too.”

“Nyx!”

Black tendrils erupt from Cyril’s chair as its wooden legs thump on the stone floor. It turns toward Nyx and wraps her up in the tendrils, which change into a dull gray metal. One tendril covers her mouth before she can scream, causing the half-elf to angrily curse behind the restraint. The chair recoils its tendrils until Nyx is sitting on the plush seat. As the tendrils disintegrate, the wooden arms creak to life and hug her tightly. Cyril leans over his desk, the sleeves of his robe pooling among the papers and quills.

“It looks like being out in the world has loosened you up. You haven’t acted like this since you were friends with that gypsy girl,” Cyril says before recognition dawns on his face. He nods his head as he makes his way to a cabinet. “That’s the
friend you’re trying to save. I had forgotten her name, so forgive me for not realizing this sooner. Fascinating that you two were reunited.”