Chapter Five: The Capital

The city welcomed them with open arms, its vast walls extending on both sides seemingly stretching into infinity, towering as high as several men standing atop one another, constructed with massive blocks of stone. In the middle, the entrance gate rose, possessing more wood and metal than several houses of incredibly wealthy individuals. Along the walls were countless watchtowers, each with high and slender windows from which archers and crossbowmen could comfortably and precisely aim. Above each tower, the flag bearing Adelia's emblem, the eagle, waved proudly in the breeze. Sullivan felt himself diminish in the face of the city's imposing immensity.

As the troops, led by the lieutenant and himself, drew closer to the gate, the door began to swing open, seemingly moved by an unseen force. Sullivan imagined that the massive portal was being operated by numerous unseen soldiers stationed somewhere, imbuing the entrance with an air of magic. Once the slow and silent procession finished, the door closed behind them.

Now inside the city, they found themselves on a broad street paved with cobblestones, where people of all kinds bustled to and fro, engrossed in their own affairs. The grand houses flanking the street exuded an aura of opulence, and the distant scent of the sea drifted with the wind.

"We part ways here," the lieutenant said. "Farewell and good luck on your journey."

"Until we meet again," Sullivan replied. "It was a pleasure conversing with you. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

Sullivan and Draven shook hands, bidding each other goodbye. Without further ado, the men of Adelia, led by the lieutenant, began to ascend a steeply sloping street in pairs. In a matter of moments, they disappeared from sight.

Suddenly, Draven forgot about the army and refocused his thoughts. He had a destination to reach. Waste no time, he resumed his march towards his original destination, heading for the old Drunken Saber Inn, where, if all had gone well, his friend Helars would be awaiting him.

He remembered that the inn was situated in the city center, at its highest point. To reach it, he started walking through a series of narrow streets, expecting fewer pedestrians and a quieter atmosphere, which he preferred while walking. Adelia, he recalled, always had two types of streets - the wide avenues filled with hustle and bustle, where hundreds of merchants loudly advertised their goods, and the narrow, quiet, and sleepy lanes like the one he was strolling through, where sometimes they twisted, sometimes not, sometimes ending in dead-end courtyards, and sometimes imposing long, tiring slopes.

The elegant city of Adelia had not lost an iota of its proud visage. The houses were just as he remembered them - tall, slender, and uniform, mostly two or three stories high, with neat and rectangular shapes and sloping roofs. The fact that they were all connected gave the impression, at times, of wandering through the internal paths of an incredibly large house.

He relished the solitude of the walk. The streets of Adelia, he remembered, had always been of two types. There were the broad avenues, bustling with people and merchants, and the narrow, quiet alleys like the one he was currently walking through, where he could easily find the peace and quiet he preferred while strolling.

While navigating the city, he stumbled upon a peculiar sign. The sign urged Adelia's inhabitants to report any turlok sightings in the province, urging them to note their number and exact location.

He wondered how many such signs could be scattered throughout the city. They must be in the thousands. How much longer until he reached the Drunken Saber? The streets had grown eerily quieter, and the distant sounds lessened.

He began to wonder if his long absence had caused him to forget the way when suddenly he stumbled upon a familiar small plaza. The plaza was adorned with bushes of various kinds and a solitary towering eucalyptus tree. Across from the plaza stood a vibrant wooden building that no one could overlook. His journey had finally come to an end. The building had the same five floors as always, with an abundance of windows facing the four cardinal points. The entrance door was broad and ancient, just as it had been before. Above it hung a sign larger than two large tables, bearing an emblem intricately carved like a coat of arms.

Sullivan felt deeply happy to have arrived at a place that was familiar to him like few others, a place where he had spent countless joyous evenings in times past. Unable to contain his overflowing eagerness any longer, he hurried inside and was immediately engulfed by the tremendous bustle that only the most popular tavern in Adelia could generate.

The hall stretched widely both lengthwise and crosswise, with multiple platforms and mezzanines, populated by a multitude of tables where people of all kinds conversed, murmured, laughed with peals that seemed to dwarf whispers, or played dice or cards with the focus of scholars studying in a cloister. Among them, young waitresses with slender bodies, long and shiny hair, skillfully weaved between people and furniture, carrying trays with frothy jugs of black beer, each one the size of a small bucket. At the end of the room, many men were drinking seated on stools, and in a corner, a band of musicians played cheerful symphonies with the lyre, flute, and lute that resonated everywhere, filling the air with joviality.

Trying not to be trampled, Sullivan began to make his way through the crowd, searching everywhere for his friend. The din was loud, and the number of people was overwhelming, making the task seem almost impossible. Suddenly, however, he spotted a young man sitting at a table on the right that caught his attention. To his delight, he realized the young man had long blond hair tied at shoulder length, blue eyes, a cheerful gaze, and an indelible smile on his face. The young man was enthusiastically talking to a smiling employee who looked at him and laughed while playing with a strand of hair.

It was clear that the search had come to an end. Sullivan walked over to the table.

"Hope I'm not intruding," he said, taking a seat. "But I'll take the liberty of settling in here and asking your kind friend to serve me some of the excellent black beer of the Drunken Saber."

"Not an intrusion at all," said Licantropo. "I was telling... - he squinted, as if trying to remember something, and turned to the waitress - "I hope you'll forgive me, my memory doesn't seem to be functioning as usual today."

The waitress widened her eyes, pretending to be offended.

"Fresia."

"Fresia, who was waiting for a great friend, a truly genuine friend, someone who is like my bones, if I may make the comparison, because I imagine it's possible to live without bones, but it would be quite sad, whereas I have my bones and I know I can count on them, and that until the end of my days, I can take that for granted, if you understand, and also, if Fresia has a friend too, which is likely, it would be good to invite them both to the Drunken Saber, someday when Fresia doesn't work, of course, and why not, chat and expand the circle of friends. I do have good ideas, that's indisputable."

The young woman apologized and left, taking her smile with her.

"Five years is quite a while," Licantropo commented.

"Long for some things, short for others..."

"But here we are after all."

"Here we are after all."

"Just a few more winters."

"Just a few more winters."

They burst into loud laughter, too loud, an exhausting and prolonged laughter. Then they stood up from the table, embraced each other, and continued to laugh, looking at each other and laughing even more. Finally, as they returned to normal, and took a breath again, and returned to their seats, the waitress arrived with Sullivan's jug. Without allowing her work to be interrupted for the second time, she apologized while looking Licantropo in the eyes and then swiftly headed toward a plump man who seemed to urgently need her attention.

"Well, Sullivan, a farmer from the province, was thinking that..."

"Well, Licantropo, to whom I never gave silly nicknames, if there was one thing I hoped for, it was that you wouldn't call me that again."

"If there was one thing I hoped for, it was that you'd remember how much I detest interruptions."

"I didn't forget."

"Like the one a few moments ago when you were talking to Fresa."

"You mean Fresia."

"Fresia, same thing."

"The strawberry is a fruit, the freesia is a flower, and the name of a waitress."

"I didn't spend years and years in the countryside."

"Any city child knows that. You can see freesias in any garden, you can see strawberries in hundreds of shops. And I myself invited you on a certain occasion to taste a harvest."

"It would be interesting if we could have a better conversation."

"As you wish."

"Sullivan from the Dark Fortress, Licantropos of Barak. That's impressive. Are you absolutely and completely sure of what you heard in the camp? Would you swear by the sky of this province that you heard correctly?" Azemir leaned his arms on the table and took a deep breath.

"I heard accurately. Yes. They talked about a leader in Barak, I have no doubts about that. They didn't say that the leader was a Shin Itak, if that's what you're asking. They didn't say it explicitly. But... There isn't much to think about. It's not difficult to deduce that..."

Sullivan shook his head, then stopped as if struck, then shook his head even more emphatically than before.

"What do you know about the city's army?"

"The little that Lieutenant Licantropo told me," Azemir replied. "After seeing Adelia's soldiers fighting in the crater, I confirmed that they are still as skilled and disciplined as ever. They aren't many, but they are worth many more than they are. With them and with Belger leading them, the city will remain safe."

A silence fell. Sullivan seemed to be thinking many things at once.

"If there was anything I didn't expect when leaving the island," he said with a sigh, "it was to find myself in such, let's say, alarming circumstances, to say the least."

"You're not the only one," said Azemir. "I also believed that the danger had ended along with my training, and that only the rest I so badly needed awaited me. Until recently, my only ambition was to return to this province for some peace. But everything started to become strange since the morning the fog appeared. After what I found out at the White Owl, and after the battle in the crater, all my illusions weakened incredibly. Maybe..." Azemir interrupted himself.

Sullivan seemed to be looking at something with great amazement.

"What's that over there?" he said, astonished. Azemir turned on his seat and looked toward the small window pointed out by Sullivan at the top, almost against the ceiling. Through it, many small creatures, like dark birds, could be seen flying in the night.

"We'd better go up and take a look," Azemir said.

Sullivan took the staff, and they left the room. After running quickly through different staircases, they reached the rooftop of the inn. From there, the summer night stretched in all directions, embracing the entire city; the moon, showing itself in full, radiated a white and bright light, illuminating countless roofs and other terraces. Just above Azemir and Sullivan, far away at a great height, there was an immense number of black spots swirling in the skies.

"What is this?" Sullivan said. "What's happening?" Azemir managed to see them better and felt even more shocked.

"They are bats," he said in a low voice. "Many, too many. It's not common to see so many together in a city."

The spectral ring spun quickly over their heads. Looking more closely, Azemir discovered that, from time to time, one of the bats broke away from the group and dove down, entering the city and disappearing from view. Others seemed to come from the streets and return to the ring, joining their companions.

"You say they never behave like this?" Helars asked. "Never?"

"In the countryside, you can see them every night," Azemir replied. "But all they do is cross the sky or flutter about, when they don't just stay still. They never move in groups. And it's rare for them to come close to the city."

"There must be an explanation for that, Helars. You must know," Draven insisted.

His friend merely rubbed the bridge of his nose. Draven approached the window and looked through it. Everything seemed as if nothing had happened. The tip of a pine tree, tugged back and forth by a tired wind, was barely visible.

"I've never seen anything like it," Draven said. "Those bats were several times larger than they should be. How can something like that be possible?" He turned to his friend. "You're a wizard now. You must know something about it."

Helars settled into his seat and slowly uncrossed and recrossed his legs in the opposite direction.

"Perhaps, Draven."

"There must be an explanation."

Helars didn't answer. Almost everything around them was silent, with only the cheerful symphony of the musicians' band reaching them, its lively tones subdued by the thick wooden walls that barely let any sound pass through.

"Didn't anyone else see them?" Draven wondered aloud.

"Maybe it only lasted a moment, nothing more."

"So it was some kind of mirage...? A magical illusion?"

"No, I would have noticed it instantly."

"But it was the work of a spell."

"That's possible," Helars replied. "I don't have a single conjecture. And I'm not ready to make a statement yet."

"But they come from somewhere else and were transformed."

"Perhaps."

"That they come from somewhere else?" Draven asked. "Or that they were transformed?"

"Both," Helars replied. "In that case, where they come from and who altered them is knowledge that is beyond our reach. At least for now. Besides... why would someone want bats flying over the city? The whole thing makes me distinctly uneasy. Even more so in the city of Adelia." Helars fell silent for a few moments, seemingly surprised by the gravity of his own words. "I wonder what we should do."

A myriad of answers crossed Draven's mind; only one of them seemed genuinely sensible.

"Let's go see General Belger," he said. "Who else could we turn to? My teacher isn't here, and neither are yours. Belger is wise and can see far, and he always agreed to talk to me when it was necessary. If we talk to him, I have no doubt he'll listen attentively."

Helars seemed to reflect on the proposition for a moment.

"Yeah, that could work," he said suddenly.

Draven sat on the bed and rubbed his face. "We don't have any other options," he said wearily. "There's no wiser man in Adelia than Belger. And since there's nothing else to do today, it's better to sleep. You never know how long it will be until we can do it again."

Helars nodded without saying a word. They stashed Draven's staff and the Adelian sword he had obtained in the crater in a corner. Then they extinguished the candles, and darkness settled into the room.

With fatigue, Draven turned on the bed to lie on his side. He gazed into the darkness, relaxed, and tried to find peace. Then, attempting to forget the endless worries that besieged his mind, he swam among the tides of sleep, leaving far behind the problems of the real world, until he fell asleep completely.

"Draven!"

He woke up.

"Draven!"

It was his friend's voice. Had it already dawned?

"Get up, Draven! The morning is advancing, and we have a long way to go to the Blue House."

Helars handed him the brown tunic. "Yesterday, I was going to ask you how long you've been wearing this, Draven. It makes you look like a monk, although, of course, you have too much hair for that, and it's too unkempt. To be honest, you always look like now, like you've been pulled out of bed, if you'll excuse the observation. Fortunately, your thick hair doesn't go past your neck. Otherwise, you'd scare more than one person."

Confused, Draven sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes.

"I was thinking..." Helars said, with a hand on the doorknob. "What's the way to the Blue House? These years of absence made me forget the streets and paths of Adelia."

"Fortunately, I have a better memory than you," said Draven, trying to dress. "I know a shortcut to get there, although it has some tough hills."

"We can try it," Helars replied. "Although, of course, for that, we'll need a good breakfast. A good breakfast has tea, has toast, has jam, and many more things like that."

They had breakfast happily, talking about the past; as soon as they were satisfied, they paid the innkeeper for everything and left the Drunken Saber Inn. They walked through the streets of Adelia to the north, through narrow and quiet paths.

"There is bound to be an explanation for that, Helars. You must know it," his friend replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sullivan approached the window and looked through it. Everything looked as if nothing had happened. The tip of a pine tree could barely be seen, swaying faintly from side to side in a tired wind.

"I had never seen anything like it," said Sullivan. "Those bats were many times larger than they should have been. How can something like that be possible?" He turned to his friend. "You're a magician now. You must know something about it."

Helars settled into his seat and slowly uncrossed and recrossed his legs in the opposite direction. "Perhaps, Sullivan."

"There must be an explanation."

Helars didn't answer. Almost everything around them was silent, except for the cheerful symphony of the band, its lively notes muffled by the thick wooden walls that barely let any sound through.

"Didn't anyone else see them?" Sullivan wondered aloud.

"Maybe it lasted only a few moments, nothing more."

"So, it was some kind of illusion...? A magical thing?"

"No, I would have noticed instantly."

"But it was the work of a spell."

"It's possible," Helars replied. "I don't have a single theory. And I'm not daring to speak yet."

"But they come from elsewhere, and they were transformed."

"Perhaps."

"That they come from elsewhere?" Sullivan asked. "Or that they were transformed?"

"Both," Helars answered. "In that case, where they come from and who transformed them is knowledge beyond our reach. At least for now. Besides... why would someone want to have bats flying over their city?" Helars fell silent for a moment, surprised at the gravity of his own words. "I wonder what we should do."

A myriad of answers crossed Sullivan's mind; of all of them, only one seemed truly sensible. "Let's go see General Belger," he said. "Who else could we turn to? My master isn't here, and neither are yours. Belger is wise and can see far, and he has always agreed to talk to me when needed. If we speak with him, I have no doubt he'll listen to us attentively."

Helars seemed to ponder the proposition for a moment. "Yes, that could work," he said suddenly. Sullivan sat up on the bed and rubbed his face.

"We don't have any other choice," he said wearily. "There's no wiser man in Adelia than Belger. And since there's nothing else to do today, it's best to sleep. One never knows how long it will be until we can do it again."

Helars nodded without saying a word. They set the staff and the Adelia sword Sullivan had obtained in the crater against a corner, then extinguished the candles, and darkness settled in the room.

Tired, Sullivan rolled over in bed to lie on his side. He gazed into the darkness, relaxed, and tried to find peace. Then, trying to forget the endless worries plaguing his mind, he swam among the tides of sleep, leaving the world's problems far behind on the surface of those waters, until he fell completely asleep.

"Sullivan!"

He woke up.

"Sullivan!"

It was his friend's voice. Had morning already come?

"Up, Sullivan! The morning is advancing, and we have a good stretch ahead to the Blue House."

Helars handed him the brown tunic. "I was going to ask you since when you wear this, Sullivan. It makes you look like a monk, although, of course, you have too much hair for that, and too disheveled, I must say. Thankfully your thick hair doesn't go past your neck. Otherwise, you'd scare more than a few."

Confused, Sullivan sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes.

"I was thinking..." Helars began, his hand on the door handle. "What is the way to the Blue House? These years of absence made me forget the streets and paths of Adelia."

"Thankfully, I have a better memory than you," said Sullivan, attempting to dress. "I know a shortcut to get there, although it has some challenging slopes."

"We can try," Helars replied. "But, of course, for that, we'll need a good breakfast. A good breakfast has tea, toast, jam, and many more things like that."

They had breakfast joyfully, talking about the past; as soon as they were satisfied, they paid the innkeeper for everything and left the Drunken Saber. They walked through the narrow, silent streets of Adelia heading north, through narrow and quiet paths.