Three weeks of training under Triss's brutal tutelage had not turned Galen into a warrior. It had, however, honed his reflexes and strengthened his muscles a little, and as the hands dragged him deeper in the shadowed alleyway, Galen fought back as best he could.
With practiced sharpness, he jammed his right elbow into his assailant. Somewhat to his surprise, it connected solidly, eliciting a satisfying grunt of pain. Next, he kicked off the ground, butting his head into his attacker's chin and knocking him off balance. As his attacker stumbled, Galen shoved hard, and the man (for from his size and the gruffness of his voice, Galen judged his opponent was male) fell, taking Galen along for the ride.
Galen landed on top, and landed hard, but whoever held him stubbornly refused to let go. Instead, with Galen on his back and now with nothing to leverage himself against, the other man quickly gained the upper hand.
He grabbed Galen and rolled, trapping him face down in the dusty path, then pinned him there with a knee between his shoulder blades. The burlap knapsack he'd fashioned provided a little cushioning, but the pressure still hurt and made it difficult to breathe.
"Stop struggling," a voice hissed in his ear, and Galen groaned as he recognized the unpleasantly familiar tones.
"What the hell, Darek?" he rasped, spitting grit from his teeth. "Let me go!"
He attempted to raise himself despite the knee in his back, but Darek shoved him down again so his face scraped in the dirt.
"Ow! Darek, what the—!"
"I said stop struggling!" Darek whispered harshly, and yanked his hands behind his back, binding his wrists with a rough, scratchy rope. "And be quiet. You should be thanking me."
"Thanking—!"
"Shhh!" Darek shoved him again. "What about 'be quiet' do you not understand? Shit."
Galen heard a tearing sound and then gave a muffled yell as Darek forced a wadded strip of cloth into his mouth and bound another strip over it, gagging him.
"There," Darek hissed, finally taking his knee from Galen's back and hauling him to his feet. "That oughta hold you. Now come on."
He shoved Galen in front of him, down towards the lower end of the alleyway, in the opposite direction from Harrald's house.
Galen resisted, but Darek was larger, stronger, and far better trained. All he did was piss Darek off, and at the corner of the alleyway, Darek shoved him against the nearest wall and breathed hot, foul-smelling words in his ear.
"Listen, you little fuck," he grated, "I'm saving your whoreson ass. You show your face out there, and those people will murder you. They think this is your fault—and Harrald's. They figured he must be the one hiding you, so they set his fucking house on fire."
Galen gave a muffled cry of alarm, but Darek just shoved him harder into the wall.
"Shut up. He's fine. The Bitch took him into custody for his own protection."
Galen sagged with relief, recognizing the nickname some members of the Guard gave Triss—mostly those jealous of her skills and success.
"Meanwhile," Darek continued, "I figured if you weren't a burnt corpse already, the quake would draw you out of whatever rat-hole you've been hiding in, and that you'd head straight for the old man's house. Lucky for you, I guessed right. You're worth a lot more alive than dead, and I want that money."
As if heeding his own words, Darek loosened his grip a little and stopped crushing Galen into the wall, allowing him to breathe.
"Your foreign friends are waiting near the docks," he said, aiming Galen towards the end of the alleyway again. "I'm gonna take you there, trade you for your weight in silver, and then they're gonna take you fuck-knows-where. On the other hand, if we're caught, you're gonna die very publicly, and I'm still gonna take the credit for catching you. Got it?"
Galen could hardly give a reply. Between new and old pains, a weariness that made his bones feel like lead, the gag stifling his breath, and the dizzying effects of whatever he'd done to heal Behn, he could barely stand. This seemed to suit Darek just fine, and he took his silence as submission, shoving him along to the end of the alleyway.
There he paused, peering left and right, but the street at this level was silent and dark. Pushing Galen before him, they crossed diagonally to the next alleyway.
So they proceeded, level by level, down the sloping hill of Dern, until they reached the great wall at the bottom. There, in the shadows behind the last row of houses, which abutted the wall, Darek paused and released Galen, who dropped to his knees in the damp grass.
There was no fight left in him. He struggled to breathe through his nose with the gag filling his mouth; lights flickered in the darkness that edged his vision, and he felt faint and ill. He was half aware of Darek kneeling on the ground nearby, brushing a layer of dirt and leaves aside to reveal a round iron grill.
Taking a strangely shaped tool from his belt, he fitted it into a flat keyhole and twisted it. Some mechanism clicked, and Darek pulled the iron drain cover aside with a loud, metallic scrape. He paused, listening. Dogs barked, distant shouts and screams drifted on the night air, and the red-orange glow of flames lit the sky; but in the immediate vicinity, all was still. The people who lived at the lowest levels of Dern were too poor and too overworked to be roused by much; if their own houses had not collapsed and were not on fire, they slept on.
Satisfied the noise had not drawn attention, Darek grasped Galen's arm and hauled him to his feet again, pushing him towards the dark hole in the ground.
"Down," he whispered.
Galen shrank back. He wasn't afraid of underground places the way Triss was, but Behn's basement was one thing; the sewers were another.
Darek shook him impatiently. "You can climb down, or I can throw you down. Your choice."
Galen chose to climb—or to try. With his hands bound, he relied on Darek to steady his upper body while feeling for the iron ladder rungs with his feet. Fortunately, the descent was short, and six steps down, Galen's feet touched solid—if slimy—ground. He blinked in the pitch-blackness, then winced as Darek lit a match. In the flare of the small flame, he saw a tunnel with a curved roof and a channel cut into the floor, through which wastewater flowed sluggishly.
The smell was unpleasant, but not as terrible as Galen had imagined; in fact, he felt a movement of cool, fresh air on his face, coming from further down the tunnel.
"This way," Darek said, his whisper amplified by the tunnel, and tugged Galen in the direction of the breeze.
They moved slowly, careful of the slippery stones, and Galen leaned heavily on Darek, not wanting to fall. Rounding a curve, he saw a glow of pale blue-gray light coming from another tunnel that connected at a right angle. The water from both arms of the main tunnel joined here before being funneled out into the river.
A gate of thick iron bars blocked the exit, but once again Darek took the strange tool from his belt and fitted it into a slot. This time, he grunted and struggled with the rusted mechanism, his whispered curses echoing like the flutter of bat wings in the dark, but at last he prevailed and the lock clicked. The gate swung open on creaking hinges, and Darek seized Galen again and pulled him through.
A few yards ahead, the relative brightness of the open air greeted them. Dawn remained several hours off, and stars dotted a black sky. The sounds of distant chaos barely reached them, and the night would seem peaceful if not for the occasional shriek or rumble of collapsing stone. Darek released Galen as they emerged from the drainage tunnel, and Galen fell to sit heavily on the damp ground. He saw they were just a little way past the end of the quay, around a bend from the bay, and a few strides from the water's edge.
Trying to catch his breath, Galen sucked in clean air through his nose as best as he could with the wad of soggy fabric in his mouth. His head ached, his eyes stung, and his muscles trembled. The exertion of the forced march had warmed him a little, but as soon as he stopped moving, the bone-deep cold returned, and he shivered violently. To his surprise, Darek did not immediately haul him back to his feet. Instead, the other youth stood still for several moments, then gave a soft whistle, like the call of a bird.
An answering whistle came from the shore to their left, and a figure emerged from the dark. Galen recognized the stranger from his trim figure and graceful gait, and from the long sword belted to his waist. In the dim light, he could just make out his expression as he drew near, his eyes raking over Darek first, then him.
"He is unharmed?" he asked, addressing Darek.
"Far as I know," Darek answered. "Caught him tryna get back to the old man's house, just like I thought."
"I take it he did not come willingly."
Darek snorted. "Does it matter?"
"I suppose not. Good work, and thanks. May you go in peace."
The stranger held out a small sack of rough cloth, which jingled as Darek snatched it. He tore it open and frowned. "Where's the rest?"
"It's all there. Count if you like."
"Thrynians may not be known for their smarts, but I can count past ten, m'lord," Darek sneered. "Pay up."
The stranger seemed surprised. "I'm sorry, but the offer was twenty silver crowns for information leading to our quarry. As you've gone above and beyond, I've doubled it. It's more than generous."
"Now, look here," Darek said, raising his voice. "The deal was two thousand crowns, not fucking twenty. I want the rest."
The stranger laughed. "Two thousand? Where in all hells did you hear that? Rumor's been at work, it seems. No matter; you are mistaken, and forty crowns is reward enough to betray a friend. I suggest you take it and go."
As he spoke, the stranger set his hand to the hilt of his sword, drawing it a few inches from its scabbard.
Darek stood rigid with anger, and for a moment Galen wasn't sure what he would do. He was headstrong and foolhardy, but not terribly brave, it seemed. Fuming, he backed away, stuffing the jingling sack inside his shirt.
"Fine. But you'll regret it. No one takes Darek for a fool, especially not some shit-scum foreigner."
With that, he retreated into the sewer tunnel and disappeared.
The stranger looked after him a moment and sighed. "I imagine the irony escapes him," he said, as if to himself, and then knelt by Galen's side and removed the gag from his mouth.
Galen retched and coughed as he drew a too deep breath, and the stranger set to work untying his hands. He swore softly as the tight knots proved difficult to undo in the dark.
"Hold still," he said, and drew a short knife, working the blade carefully back and forth across the tough fibers of the rope. "Are you all right?"
"Are you serious?" Galen rasped.
The stranger snorted softly. "Believe it or not, yes. This is not at all what we intended. If only we'd arrived earlier... But so it goes. Can you walk?"
Galen didn't answer. He felt confused, tired, angry, frightened, cold, and unwell. He wanted to go home, and yet he knew he could not. Darek might be the biggest dick in Dern, but he hadn't lied on one count: if the townsfolk caught him, he would not fare well.
"Here—lean on me," the stranger said, and helped him up. "You'll feel better once we're aboard ship. There's a warm bed waiting for you, and all the explanations you desire."
"My father..." Galen whispered, resisting a little and looking up at the high wall. "I can't leave him."
"I fear you must," the stranger said. "When things grow calm again in Dern, and when we reach Jana Val, you may send for him, or send the means to provide for him instead. For now, there is no time to waste."
Defeated, Galen let the stranger lead him along the shore. A little way ahead, a small boat was moored to the stump of a long dead tree, and the stranger helped Galen into it and took the oars. Galen sat in the bow, shivering, as the man untied the vessel and rowed them away from land and out onto the dark river.
As they rounded the bend and came into view of the harbor, Galen lifted his head. There seemed to be a great deal of commotion, and it took him a moment to understand what he saw. As it dawned on him, he made some sound of surprise and distress, and the stranger stopped rowing and twisted in his seat to look as well.
He swore.
In the distance, the great Sakkaran vessel was in flames, its rigging lined in fire. Even as they watched, a mast snapped, and the ship canted to the side.
The stranger began to row with strong, determined strokes, directing the little boat towards the inferno, and Galen cried out in alarm.
"What are you doing?"
"My people may be aboard. I must help."
"But the fire—!" Galen gasped as a strange new phenomenon lit the night.
Like shooting stars, a dozen or so lines of fire shot from shore, arcing high into the sky. Galen wasn't sure what he was seeing until they started to come down again.
"Arrows!" he shouted, lunging to grab the stranger's arm. "They're shooting at us!"
The stranger looked, let the oars drop from his hands, and swore.
"Well, fuck. I do believe I hate this town."
Then, as a burning shaft hit the bottom of the boat between them with a thunk, and a handful of others struck the darkened water with a hiss, the stranger lunged, grasped Galen around the middle, and threw them both into the river's cold current.