Hungry Heart - Book 5 - Ch. 13 (Patreon)

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Chapter Thirteen – Trials

Shapeshifter.

Varg stopped and listened carefully. Had he imagined that voice he had heard just now? He shifted into his wolf so that he could use his superior sense of smell to track even the slightest whiff of a draft or anything that could guide him down the long corridor toward freedom outside the underground of Coinvale.

Shapeshifter.

No, it wasn’t his imagination. His eyes weren’t the best when it came to walking in darkness, even when he was in the body of his wolf, but his ears and sense of smell were unrivaled, leaving all modesty aside. He could tell that the voice was coming from somewhere in front of him, but he didn’t know whether to trust it or not.

It looked like there was no other way but forward, which meant that he needed to march toward the source of the sound without any questions asked.

The voice was neither male, nor female. For all he knew, it could belong to a creature made of mud and evil, as was the rest of the underground where a place as horrible as the Market of the Damned existed.

His thoughts traveled back to Vetor and his strange behavior. There could be two explanations for what the curator had done. One was that he wanted to send Varg here to die. If a way out was impossible, then that would be his fate. But Varg didn’t believe that to be the truth. Vetor seemed troubled that the guardians had sent a shifter down to the market and, like a bureaucrat given a task he had no idea how to handle, he had chosen to shift the responsibility further down or up the chain of command.

The voice kept beckoning him and Varg began running toward where it seemed to come from. If there was something needing doing here, he would make sure it was done. A strange voice in an underground labyrinth – as the hallways opened in many different directions – had to act as a guide, and even if it was evil that governed it, a shapeshifter wasn’t like any other being. He would face it head on and see what it was made of.

He stopped when he almost hit a wall. He sensed something changing to his right and heard the grumbling of the earth under his feet. That was all he could grasp before he started falling. He soon hit the ground and was up on all his four paws in the blink of an eye.

Before him, a large room lay, and it looked, for lack of a better word, like a courtroom of sorts. Behind a large pulpit, a small head could be glimpsed along with a gavel the creature impatiently plied to demand silence.

“Silence,” a squeaky voice demanded, unnecessarily.

Varg moved forward. The rows of benches were empty, and at a closer look, it appeared that the judge in charge was a man well into the winter of his life. He had to be small in size because every move he made was laborious and he appeared to have to strain to do the simplest of things. He smacked the gavel impatiently again.

“Silence.”

“Who are you?” Varg asked.

The old man pushed himself over the pulpit to look down at him. “A customer,” he said with delight. “I mean, a culprit.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Varg said pointedly.

“That is what they all say,” the judge replied. Tufts of white hair guarded the sides of his face, while the crown of his head was smooth and white like paper. Heavy wrinkled eyelids hung over his eyes, most likely affecting his sight. “Name and occupation,” he bleated.

“My name is Varg. I’m a wolfshifter.”

“I asked you your occupation, not what you were born,” the judge said impatiently. “And I’m asking the questions here,” he added as an afterthought.

Something of his manner seemed familiar to Varg, but he couldn’t place it. He calmly waited for the judge to continue his accusations.

“Oh, yes, shapeshifters are not allowed here,” he eventually said after he fiddled with some papers on his pulpit. “That’s why you are condemned to serve at the Market of the Damned. Go back the same way you came and knock. The curator will take over from there.”

“If shapeshifters aren’t allowed here, why did your guards think it was a good idea to send me into this underground prison?”

“They must have made a mistake. Did you conceal your true shape?”

“No,” Varg said and showed his teeth. “My true shape is dual. As you must know if you are as smart as you pretend to be.”

He jumped on the pulpit, right in front of the strange judge. The small old man squeaked and tried to get away, but as he fell from his high chair, he turned into a ball of fur.

“Vetor,” Varg said and went after him quickly.

The curator, however, seemed to be fast and rolled out of the room and through a door in the wall that shut right in Varg’s face when he reached it.

So, the curator wanted to find a loophole to have him judged and sentenced to the same fate as that of the unfortunate souls below. Varg shook his head. Just like a regular desk hugger. He had met very few of them in his lifetime, but a city the size of Coinvale needed such employees, presumably.

What had just happened, despite its strangeness, gave him a clue as to what Vetor was thinking, the curator of the Market of the Damned. The guy considered Varg a hot potato and was trying to deal with him the only way he knew how.

It could also mean, Varg pondered, that there could be trouble if a shifter roamed the place without being made part of the miserable crowd down in the market. And it meant, he thought with a smile, that they had something to hide, Vetor and whoever else was running this underground prison.

But what? He sniffed the air again. Vetor would most likely try his hand at ensnaring him again. A swift thought crossed his mind. Hadn’t Vetor shapeshifted just earlier, to impersonate that old judge? It was a detail to remember.

***

Claw and Toru had left at the crack of dawn, leaving him alone. Duril knew that it didn’t matter how much he worried. Worries wouldn’t help Toru in his quest, while his laying low and remaining inside would. He didn’t like it one bit, but Toru had the bearshifter with him, and Claw was as wise and cunning as they came. There was hardly a better companion for the young tiger now faced with a difficult quest, seeing how his body and its many strengths were denied to him.

Toru had great strength in his heart. But that didn’t mean that the puny body, as he called it, couldn’t be destroyed. That was what worried Duril for more than one reason. What would happen to Toru’s soul if the body it inhabited got injured? And what would happen to Mako, the lad that had unwittingly lent his mortal shape to a tiger?

He needed to stop having dark thoughts. It was for the better if he concentrated his mind on something useful. At times like this, writing always helped him find peace, so he removed the large tome from his bag and, after asking the server that came to clean the table after breakfast for some ink, he set himself to work. After all, he needed to put everything down while his memory of recent events was still fresh.

The server had watched him curiously for a moment, since Duril still kept the cloth wrapped around his face to conceal his tusks. He had blamed it on a health condition, while assuring the personnel at the inn that he had nothing contagious.

When a soft knock interrupted his task, he wondered if Claw and Toru were back so soon, as it wasn’t even lunch time yet. But they wouldn’t knock, would they? That left only the people at the inn wanting to ask him whether he needed anything else. Since he had been quite clear about not requiring their services, he felt a new sort of dread. Could it mean that they had been followed, even if they had paid attention that no one was after them?

“Come in,” he said, as it was the only way to find out, and escaping that room was impossible on such short notice.

“You have a visitor,” the server from before announced after making a short bow.

“A visitor?” Was that a nice way for the server to say that Duril was wanted by the local police, those dreadful guardians that had already taken Varg?

“Yes. He is a scholar, just like you,” the server said and waited until Duril gave a brief nod.

He was so startled when Misar Sogou stepped into the room and closed the door swiftly after himself with a thank you meant for the inn server, that he knocked over the ink bottle and saved barely half of it in time.

“Mr. Duril,” Misar Sogou said quickly and raised his ink-stained hands, “please allow me to offer my apologies.”

“What do you mean? And how--” Duril stopped, not knowing how much to reveal or how much was possible for Misar Sogou to know about his and his friends’ current situation.

“I have my means of finding out things and I am, after all, a writer and hence a puzzle solver.” Misar Sogou examined him with keen, hopeful eyes. “Are you ill, Mr. Duril?”

Duril removed his face cloth with a sigh. “No. But if you knew enough to find me here, that must mean that you know why I’m here and why I have to conceal my face.”

“Yes,” Misar Sogou admitted. “The fragments of the Heart of Tradeweaving are disappearing at an alarming rate from households all over Coinvale. Soon enough, it will be a matter that can’t be ignored either by the guardians or by the Council of Merchants.”

Duril struggled to ignore the jolt of unease coursing through him at the sound of those words.

“I am here to help you, Mr. Duril,” Misar Sogou said energetically, linking his hands together as if in a plea. “You must know Tigris, right?”

“How… I mean, what?” Duril mumbled.

Misar Sogou surprised him by kneeling at his feet and touching his knee tentatively. “I am here to swear allegiance. I know that I am going against the Rules of Harmony and who knows what else, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I can’t allow fear to stop me.”

“You are mistaken,” Duril said, searching frantically for a lie, something that never came to him naturally. “I don’t know--”

“You knew about the printer,” Misar Sogou said quickly. “And I saw Tigris there, and it happened right after I showed it to you and your companion. Then, when people started talking about their homes being plundered with nothing but a fragment of the Heart of Tradeweaving disappearing, I started thinking. They said something about a traveler with a missing arm and orc tusks, accompanied by a dancing bear, and although I know nothing of a bear, I knew right away that it had to be you, Mr. Duril.”

That was the sort of reasoning that was difficult to counter. Misar Sogou was correct in his assumptions. Duril found no reason to continue lying, but it was important that he measured and weighed the young lad at his feet. Misar Sogou had no idea what he was getting himself into if he truly wanted to help. On the other hand, if he was here to lay a trap for Duril and his friends, that would be bad. In that case, Duril was determined to sacrifice himself and take everything upon his own person if the guardians came running to his hiding place.

“Are you Tigris, Mr. Duril?” Misar Sogou asked innocently.

“No,” Duril said, shaking his head. “Please, stand, you have no reason to kneel in front of me.”

“Of course, it can’t be you.” Misar Sogou got to his feet and his eyes roved around the room, stopping at the large tome still opened on the table. It was too late for Duril to close it, and when the famous storyteller of Coinvale took a step back, he was just as startled as his visitor. “You must be Orco? How could I be so blind? And Tigris… is Mr. Toru, right?”

Duril rubbed his forehead in disbelief. If someone who was as much an airhead as Misar Sogou seemed to be had put two and two together so quickly, that meant that others wouldn’t encounter any issue doing the same.

“And Lupus… who is… Mr. Varg, right?” Misar Sogou snapped his fingers and then slapped his forehead. “I cannot believe it… all the heroes are here, in our city… But where did you get a dancing bear? And where is he right now?”

“That’s one hero that hasn’t yet made it into your stories,” Duril said.

Misar Sogou looked like a child who’d just been told that fairytales were real. “Another hero?” he whispered. “There will be so much for me to write. So many new adventures. You’ll share them with me, won’t you, Mr. Duril… I mean, Mr. Orco.”

“No, Duril. That’s my real name. Orco, I’m afraid, is something someone else came up with. Are you sure you’re not the one who gave us new names?”

“I collected the various legends and put them together. But, if you are here, along with a fourth hero, that means… that means…” Misar Sogou began pacing the room while his mind worked feverishly at some new tale taking shape in his thoughts, “there is an adventure taking place here, in Coinvale?”

“Adventure is a way of naming what’s happening.” Duril set his jaw hard. “Does your father know all this? Have you shared your theories with him?”

Misar Sogou shook his head. “No. And I advised him to take a break because he seemed tired. He trusts me about these things. I also told him that we were too harsh with our guests. Where is Mr. Lupus… Mr. Varg, I mean?”

“You don’t know?” Duril asked.

Misar Sogou shook his head.

“I assume it was your father who alerted the guardians about the Rules of Harmony being broken by our group. Four guardians in black armor came to take him. He is imprisoned somewhere.”

“Imprisoned? For a cup of tea?” Misar Sogou seemed flabbergasted by such a strange thing.

“Yes. Or maybe not only a cup of tea. Young man,” Duril said, “do you realize what’s happening in this city? Do you have any idea why we have been risking ourselves to get those fragments?”

“No, not at all,” Misar Sogou admitted with candor written all over his face. “But I bet you can tell me.”

“Please, take a seat,” Duril said with a sigh. He didn’t know how much of an ally he could make out of the young storyteller, but at least he could convince him to keep what he knew a secret so that Toru could continue his quest without having those dark guardians on his tail so soon.

Misar Sogou seemed to prefer to sit cross-legged at his feet. Duril began talking and observed the play of emotions on the face of his only listener: astonishment, disbelief, happiness upon hearing one triumph or another.

“So, the Heart of Tradeweaving is… bad?” the young lad whispered once Duril fell silent. “But if normal people can’t touch those fragments without getting hurt, how did we touch them when we put them into our machines and devices?”

“Did you touch them directly? For instance, you,” Duril said. “Did you directly touch the shard fragment? Did you put it inside your printer?”

Misar Sogou seemed to ponder over the question. “I think I did, but only briefly. I could tell that there was great power trapped inside it. But there were people from the Council of Merchants present, along with a blacksmith they brought from the mines of Sheparon, where the Heart of Tradeweaving was found. He was the one who put it inside my printer. Yes, I’m pretty sure now that’s what happened.”

“What can you tell me about this blacksmith? What did he look like?”

Misar Sogou stared at the ceiling while patting his lips with his index finger. “I can’t quite tell you because his face was covered by a special helmet. Risks of his trade, the merchant who came with him said. But he was short and stocky, that I can tell you. He had hands as big as this,” he gestured. “We see all kinds of people here in Coinvale, and he looked to me as he should, seeing his profession and his place of origin.”

“The mines of Sheparon? Have you ever been there?”

“No. I don’t travel a lot, unfortunately. My mind does all the traveling for me,” he said, patting his temple. “I am happy that way.”

Duril thought briefly of how much he would enjoy a peaceful scholar’s life once their adventures were over. But there was no point in thinking of times ahead when there was so much danger all of them were facing now.

“Misar Sogou,” he said, “you understand how important it is that Toru finds all of the fragments, right?” He hadn’t told the young man everything, such as Te’cla’s role in complicating things, or the sand boat pilots being messengers.

“Yes,” his visitor nodded eagerly. “You have my full support, and I will help you. Please just call me Sogou, Mr. Duril,” he said respectfully. “I know all the businesses and houses in Coinvale that have a fragment of the shard working for them.”

“Toru can feel them, anyway, but I am sure that such knowledge can be helpful. How many pieces are there, do you know?”

Sogou appeared to run calculations in his mind. “There are nine hundred and ninety nine fragments in the city.”

“So many?” Duril asked, astonished by that number. “It will take Toru many days to find them all,” he added, worry creeping into his mind again. “He’s barely gotten to a dozen or so. The city will be in an uproar about the mysterious disappearance of the shard fragments. The guardians will be in high alert.”

“Is there no possible way for me to help? If I showed you where a fragment is, couldn’t you take it out of the device it is in, Mr. Duril?”

“Only Toru can. The shards only react to him and the presence of others in his body.”

“Hmm,” Sogou murmured and pressed his chin against his fists while he leaned forward, the look of a sage on his young face. “Here is another idea. We could chip them out of their places, with plenty of material left around them so that we wouldn’t have to touch them directly. How about that?”

“I never thought of that,” Duril admitted. “Do you believe it will work?”

“It is worth a try. Imagine Mr. Toru’s surprise when we welcome him back with a bag full of them. That would make things a lot easier. I will get a hammer and a chisel and everything else we need,” Sogou said with determination and got to his feet.

“There’s a lot of danger involved. It was hard enough for Toru to get in and out of those places, and we still stumbled upon problems.”

“I know,” Sogou said. “But Mr. Duril, with a helmet on your head, and the right clothes, you could easily pass for the blacksmith that installed them in the first place. We’ll say that we need to check them because of all the malfunctions happening lately.”

“It’s not malfunctioning that’s causing all of the trouble, though.”

Sogou shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll manipulate the truth a little. The thing is, this way, we will convince people to surrender their shard fragments of their own accord.”

“Okay, so I will have to dress as the blacksmith. Where will I get all that I need for that disguise?”

“Leave it to me,” Sogou said proudly.

“What about you? Won’t these people think that it’s weird that their storyteller is getting into this sort of business?”

“I will disguise myself as well,” Sogou said. “I may not be a shapeshifter, but since I get into the minds of so many characters when I write my stories, I’ve developed quite a knack for turning myself into all sorts of people. Sure, I only did that in the privacy of my office, but I have all the motivation necessary to make this work. We will save the world together, Mr. Duril,” he said with the excitement of youth.

“Everything will cost a lot,” Duril said and began searching for his purse.

“And I am a famous writer,” Sogou reminded him. He pulled a fat purse from one large pocket and wiggled it in front of Duril. “I have the means, and what better way to spend my fortune than on a real adventure that will make me an even greater author?”

Sogou was self-interested, which worked just fine for Duril.

“All right, I agree with you. But make sure to cover your hands, too, as part of your disguise. I suppose that the high-profile merchants in this city don’t have ink stains on theirs.”

Sogou laughed good-naturedly. “You make a great point, Mr. Duril. I will buy an expensive pair of gloves worthy of a merchant.”

“Won’t all these purchases you make draw unnecessary attention to yourself?”

“I buy all sorts of things to inspire me in my work. And there were plenty of people traveling here with interest in trade of their own. I will strategically place my orders so that nothing appears out of the ordinary.”

“All right. It seems to me that we are getting ourselves in over our heads, but I do want to help Toru, and this plan seems as good as any.”

Sogou rubbed his hands in delight and then stopped. “Can you really forgive me, Mr. Duril, for the role I played in having your friend, Mr. Varg, caught by the guardians? I don’t believe I can forgive myself.”

“If this plan of yours works, consider all of your debts paid,” Duril said. “Do you happen to know where the local prison is? I assume that’s where the guardians took Varg.”

“I don’t know, but I can ask.”

“Please do. That’s another quest we can’t afford to overlook.”

“And I will help you,” Sogou promised. “A prison escape is something I’ve been wanting to write for a long time.” When Duril looked at him with a quirked eyebrow and a small smile, he cast his eyes down in embarrassment. “But that’s not the only reason I want to help you. Even regular people shouldn’t sit idly by when heroes fight. All would be a lot better in the world if we didn’t just wait for others to do the fighting for us.”

“That is a generous view of life,” Duril agreed. “But I will tell you this, Sogou. As soon as I sense that it’s too dangerous for us to continue with your plan, I will tell you to stand back. I can tell you want to protest, but this is not negotiable. We can’t allow ourselves to put others in harm’s way. It would defy our purpose.”

“Spoken like a true hero, Mr. Duril,” Sogou said with a reverent sigh. “But I can be a hero, too. A smaller one, but still. And then, I’ll have stories to tell until I’m old and grey.”

TBC

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