Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  Adrenaline surged through him as Seam unmercifully bashed the goblet over his attacker’s skull. The once pristine vessel bent, curled, and finally caved under the blows that connected. A primal energy overtook him as his defense transitioned into savagery. The robed spy slumped over dead even as Seam continued his rhythmic, grotesque assault. Exhausted, Seam finally fell to the floor. His hand refused to let go of the goblet. Where the man’s yellow eyes had been, there was only a void, a crimson cavern of blood and death.

  When his consciousness returned and the shock wore off, Seam began to question. What just happened? How did he get in? He thought to himself as he struggled to breathe, his lungs were ragged. He gripped at his side, where blood was seeping from his wounds. He forced himself back onto his feet. He took one look back at the bookcase, ensuring that the tome was secure and staggered back to the throne room.

  Upon entering, the nobles who were still in congress saw their wounded leader and sounded the alarms. A medical team rushed in and surrounded Seam as he lay shivering on the floor, the pious face of the soon-to-be king as white as a ghost. They stripped off his royal robes and began treating the wounds that were freely bleeding. A frenzied mass of bodies rushed in on him, but the medical staff skillfully pushed back the crowd as the surgeons examined Seam’s multiple injuries.

  Once the head surgeon announced the wounds were not fatal, the crowd breathed an audible sigh of relief and thanked Aleph for the good fortune. Royal guards thundered into the sitting chamber and dragged out the dead assassin. They stripped off the dark linen wrappings the attacker wore. He was a Rihtian by race; undoubtedly a slave assassin sent by the Grogans.

  There were many nobles and palace officials who spoke to Seam, assuring him, praising him, but everything that was said seemed to pass through a fog, unable to penetrate the king’s consciousness. He saw them clearly and heard them, but could not listen or understand. A doctor pulled out a syringe, and he felt a strange sense of calmness spread through his body.

  Seam sat on the throne of Lotte, holding his aching side. He winced with each breath. The pain throbbing between his ribs was a constant reminder of how quickly he nearly joined his father within the depths of the royal catacombs.

  “My liege, the Preost ambassador is here.”

  “Send him in,” Seam whispered.

  A tall, ebony-skinned monk approached the throne. He wore a long, flowing linen robe and carried an ironwood staff. He bowed his head and raised his hand with the sign of Aleph.

  “Blessings on you, High King. I am Wael, the Preost ambassador to your country and Mastermonk of my Order. We are honored to be a part of your upcoming coronation. It will be a beautiful ceremony, and we, the monks of Preost, wish you a long and prosperous reign.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Wael of Preost. The monks have long been strong allies to our Realm. What brings you to my court this day?” Seam spoke with bated breath as he pushed each utterance out from his bruised lungs. Each breath, each movement, reminded him of his assailant and the look of brutal determination in the yellow eyes that tried to end his life.

  “I come to ask that you and your Kingdom enter into peace talks with the Groganlands.”

  Seam could not believe the outright boldness of the monk. “Unacceptable. We do not negotiate with a people who have made sport of butchering Lotte’s sovereigns.”

  “My king, I am not unaware of the challenges the Grogans have created for your new kingdom.”

  “Challenges?” The soft-spoken nature that Seam presented to Wael evaporated. “Challenges? You must mean atrocities, monk. How dare you step into my court and try to force parlay with these Grogans, the same ones that, if it weren’t for us, would burn your sacred forest to the ground? Do you not see my burning countryside? Do you not remember burying my father, and do you not see the blood still seeping from my own wounds?” His exertion made him double over in pain. “No, there will be no peace until Rhuddenhall burns to the ground,” he whispered, “and I will not discuss this further with you. You are dismissed.”

  The tall monk stood staring into the High King’s eyes. He bowed his head. “Then I will take my plea to the Grogans. Aleph wishes only for peace and forgiveness to fill these lands. May he continue to bless you, High King. I take my leave.”

  Seam rolled his eyes as the monk turned away and left the court. He called for a recess, and he excused himself from the High Hall.

  Once again, Seam found himself in the royal sitting room. He stood over the place where he had taken a life, remembering the shock of having to crush another to ensure his own survival. He gazed through the room noticing that there were no traces of the encounter, as if nothing ever happened. Whoever cleaned the sitting room deserved a promotion. Even the silver goblet had been replaced with an identical twin. On the desk a new datalink had been installed at his request. Seam ran his finger over the power switch, and the screen came to life.

  The gray-eyed man stared back at him, as if he had been waiting, sitting patiently at the other end of the datalink for Seam to come online.

  “You...” Seam growled.

  Hosp smiled and chuckled. “Seam, I told you to be prepared. Everything needed to be convincing. I’m sure you understand. It is no small task to keep our populaces at war with one another.”

  “Be prepared?” Seam growled. “Prepared for what? To be killed? How dare you even think of such a charade? I have no business trusting you. Not after what I have been through!”

  There was a pause over the datalink as the two men stared at each other, locked in silence.

  Seam was first to speak. “It makes me wonder why I shouldn’t send word to the Grogans. Perhaps to Willyn Kara herself about your plans to coup the Sar’s throne.”

  Hosp showed no sign of aggravation, but Seam noticed how his pupils dilated at the sound of the name Willyn. He struck a nerve.

  Hosp spoke, his voice clearly agitated but controlled. “Go ahead, High King, and send word. But I guarantee you that your people will learn how you orchestrated your father’s death. They will learn how you had him murdered in cold blood, just so you could sit on the throne and call yourself king. Imagine how they’ll treat you when they learn of your lofty ambitions? They will not stomach a royal murder, my friend, so think about your actions before your anger leads to your own death.”

  The threats were volleyed, leaving the two men silent once again.

  “You told me you would send a runner to me, not an assassin. I was unprepared. Had you told me, I would have not been so badly injured.”

  Hosp quietly answered the king after clearing his throat, “Rest assured, Seam, there will be no further surprises.”

  “I am willing to overlook this transgression and keep this alliance intact, but I need to know that you will send communication to me when the plan changes.”

  Hosp responded earnestly, “The plan had to change. Our intelligence knew that we needed to facilitate another attack. The Preost monks can be swift catalysts for peace in both our Realms, and your people have already begun to forget the name of Camden.”

  Camden’s name caused Seam to wince.

  “To continue the war effort we needed to throw more kindling on the coals. I sent you my worst assassin, Seam. Though he was able to poison Camden, there was no chance he would succeed in attacking you. His loss was calculated, and I knew very well that he posed you no danger. I didn’t inform you and for that I apologize, but to do so would have compromised the authenticity of the situation.”

  Seam paused and stared at Hosp’s viper eyes. They reminded him of the man that tried to kill him. He swallowed. He remembered the words he read before the assassination attempt. Division is necessary. Not for binding. For preserving. He smiled, knowing that Hosp would soon play a grand part in what was to come.

  “All right, Hosp. So what’s next?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The crack of bones popping against cool concrete whistled through the prison cell as Willyn stood over
a soldier groaning in agony. An inferno of rage burned within her, and her jaw locked as she ground her teeth in a feeble attempt to rein in the fury threatening to take control. Don't kill this man. Keep it together. Amid the screaming sirens and flashing red lights, her mind strained to focus. The entire compound had gone midnight black. Someone cut the power, leaving only the emergency systems to flicker and flare in unison to the chorus of sirens. Willyn's mind, too, was dark, clouded by all that had just transpired. Hosp’s flagrant attempt at a power grab floored her. Normally, Hagan would have taken care of sniveling leeches like Hosp, but instead Willyn had to shoulder the political burden she never wanted while her brother lay dying from an unknown poison. She was so close to answers, to be able to bring him back, but now the unthinkable had happened. Grift had escaped.

  The thought of Hagan snapped a resolute purpose back to her mind, and Willyn looked down at the pistol in her hand. She paused and hammered it back into its holster. Hosp has to wait. Shepherd cannot. I have to find him now.

  A strange clarity set in. One thing at a time, Willyn. Stop one, then the other. I have to know what he used to poison Hagan. Her eyes focused back on the young whelp lying on the floor whimpering before her.

  She stooped over and lifted the soldier to a sitting position as she looked into his hazy, distant eyes. He was injured but still conscious, and he fought to focus on his General.

  “Officer, I need you to tell me what happened right now.” The young guard stammered and held his arms up to shield himself.

  "I swear to the gods, I don't know how he escaped," he groaned.

  Willyn’s arm sprang for him in an instant, ratcheting across his throat. "The gods won't help you if you don't tell me what happened." The idea of un-holstering her pistol flittered through her mind, flushing her with the intoxicating sense of power. She steadied herself and bore into his eyes as he shook with fear.

  "Tell me what happened now. That is a command, officer.”

  “Yes…yes, General.” His voice staggered out slowly as he weighed his words. “We received… received transfer orders for interrogation. While switching out his bindings he attacked us.”

  “Where did he go?”

  The soldier lifted his finger and pointed to the door. “Out and he veered to the right. I saw it, to the right. I don't know how he did it, but he disappeared! I swear!”

  Willyn looked over her shoulder to the cell door behind her. She had come from the left, the direction of the stairs and the elevator. There was no exit to the right. There was only one entrance.

  Willyn stood back to her feet and addressed the officer as she exited the cell.

  “Get back to your station. Do not raise a public alarm. I will call in my elites.”

  The battered warden stammered to find the words, “I am...I am afraid that I’ve already sent out an alert. Grift’s face will be on every datalink in the city by now.”

  It was enough to make her scream. “You idiot! We are in a time of war! We can’t incite a panic!”

  Fury pulsed through her veins. Such incompetence. She breathed in, focusing her energy. The general inside her directed her to attention. Hagan. He is all that matters. Let the people think what they will. Just get Grift. She let go of the ineptitude of the guards. She let go of the people of the Groganlands and their perceptions. I can fix this. I just have to get Grift.

  Without a word she left the guard lying on the cell floor and raced down the hallway, her flashlight bouncing from wall to wall. The answer to the question of Grift’s escape came when her eyes landed on the open ventilation return. The rail line.

  Grift never intended to use the stairs. He was trying to make his escape underground through the winding labyrinth of rail lines beneath the city. Willyn radioed back to the command center.

  “Fire up the emergency generators and reset the power. I need access to the nearest datalink immediately!”

  Her command was met with a quick response and the lights shuttered back to life. Willyn raced to a datalink panel and furiously pulled up a map of all the rail line access points.

  Her cold blue eyes scanned the colored map. The tracks that run to Lotte cut straight through the western part of the city. He’ll take that route back to his country. Fear flew through her as her mind connected the dots. Time was slipping away for her to find a cure. Hagan would die if Grift escaped. He was the only one who knew the true nature of Hagan’s poisoning.

  She called into her radio one more time, “Halt the line cars from running. I need two platoons of men to sweep both lines that run toward Lotte’s borders. Update me as soon as you have them in place. I’ll be there shortly.”

  The radio crackled back, “Understood. Units are being dispatched now.” Willyn’s heart pounded and her mind raced. How could this assassin be so good? How could he make us look like fools?

  Willyn raced to her quarters to prepare herself. If Grift had so easily taken out her prison detail, she knew she could not take any chances. She slung open the doors of her battle locker and strapped on an armored vest. She snatched up clips for her pistol, hoping she would not need them. As she put the clips on her belt, she glanced back over her equipment. Deep within the locker sat a quiver of javes. The long spears were made from a light titanium alloy and were equipped with a range of different functions. Some in the quiver were standard, razor-tipped at the points, used for hunting, while others held special properties. Some were configured to be explosive, incendiary, or even as advanced as utilizing heat-seeking technology. She picked up the quiver and strapped it over her free shoulder. She had been lucky to have taken him down once with her rook, but to enter the tunnels erased any advantage she had before. Her face was grim when she left; she bore the face of one going back into war.

  One man at a time. One problem at a time. Get Grift. Save Hagan. Nothing else matters.

  Willyn arrived at the opening of Tunnel 1AAE, the primary entrance for all of Rhuddenhall’s underground rail cars. She sat as the engine of her rook hummed around her. She stared into the darkness before her, wishing that Grift would simply step out of the shadows to surrender and end this pointless game. The smell of damp moisture and stale air wafted out of the large entrance, causing her to scowl. Gods above, what a day, she thought to herself. Her militia stood ready at the entrance when she arrived, at attention, waiting on her command.

  “Leave your rifles outside. If you fire live ammunition inside the tunnel you risk ricocheting and killing yourselves. Just take in your shock rods, taze nets, or pulse rifles. Make no mistake, I want Grift alive.”

  The platoon obeyed without a word, dropping their rifles and pulling out smaller weaponry and nets from their ruck packs. Willyn pulled out a jave and led the party into the darkness.

  “Lights on, soldiers.”

  Willyn flipped a switch on her battle armor and a shoulder mounted light fired to life, sending its beams bouncing down the deep channel ahead of the party. The pinpricks of light seemed to get swallowed in the sea of black that flooded the tunnel. A single line of rail ran through the middle of the underpass, and there was a clearance of ten feet on each side of the enclosure. With each step, Willyn could feel the low, barely audible echo of her movements hum within the concrete cavern, echoing deep into the depths. In silence, she split one half of the detail to stay on the left of the tracks while the remaining party came up the right. The wall of men followed her, dutifully marching further into darkness, stopping at regular intervals to listen and look for any signs of Grift. The only movement within the tunnel was the slow gusts of horrid wind wafting over them, bringing foul odors of mildew and rot up from the subterranean labyrinth.

  Willyn could not contain her disgust. "Gods, what is that?" It smelled foul, like something died, and with each step the stench grew in strength and presence. She had smelled death in all its forms, but something about this was uncanny. It made her uneasy. The militia marched on through the darkness, ignoring the sound of dripping water and the low moans of rot
ting wind blowing through the tunnel. Even though she was flanked by thirty soldiers, she could not shake the feeling of being alone, her focus and determination preparing her for her next inevitable confrontation with Grift.

  The group had pushed more than a mile into the tunnel system with no solid leads. After an hour of marching they found nothing and Willyn began to worry. The hair on the back of the neck stood up, and her blood hammered through her veins. On the battlefield she had long learned to trust her intuition, and she had a palpable sense that something was wrong. There was another waft of air, but it was ice cold and reeked of putrefied flesh. This air is not coming from the other end of the tunnel. Willyn bounced ideas through her mind, calculating the origin of the odor as she worked not to show any visible signs of distress toward the men.

  “Steady, soldiers,” she whispered. She could feel them, their nervousness, their anxiety; it all let off an invisible energy within the darkness.

  Thoughts blasted through her mind like red hot rockets slicing through the night sky. They were terrible and impossible to ignore. Grift was not in the tunnel, and she concluded that her initial assumptions about his strategy were off. His guise worked, and now Willyn was nowhere near her target. None of that mattered because her mistake landed her into a trap. His trap. She quickly realized that soon they would have to either fight or run. Her mind tried to prepare itself, but the answer came up short. Fight what, Willyn?

  A strong gust of wind pushed in from the group’s right side. An opening. A vast chasm had been dug out from the side of the tunnel. Willyn signaled for her men to focus their lights on the void with a flick of her wrist. The cold light fell into the tunnel. In the distance, a man stood alone in the dark.

  Willyn’s heart jumped at the sight. She had not expected this. The man showed only his profile towards the party and was slumped over, failing to acknowledge either Willyn or the other soldiers. It was as if they were invisible to him. He was old and very unkempt, and his chest pulsed in quick, shallow breaths as he stood up slowly, rolling one visible eye toward them, unblinking in the harsh light. He did not bother to move his body to turn and face them. Though he was too far away for Willyn to distinguish any telling facial features, it was apparent that something was wrong with him.