by Alex Lang
What came next took more effort to control.
A shiver ran through him, and a part of his mind screamed for action; to run, to hide, to lash out at something, anything. He ignored it, as best one could ignore the sense that a horrible death was imminent. He'd expected the onslaught, as it happened every time he entered the Gloom, but the fear still gained a foothold. Kyris supposed it was akin to plunging into icy water; no matter how he’d fortified himself, no amount of foreknowledge or mental preparation could counter the effects of the cold, not completely. Over the years, he'd found that the best way to fight the dread was to stay focused on the task at hand, and there was always a task.
Kyris took in the dimmed surroundings. A normal night was now something bleak and ominous. Murky and oppressive. The clouds above were an impenetrable barrier blocking out the light of Mezu Vur and the stars. A haze hung over all. The once-colorful petals of the garden flowers were dull and muted, and the pools of illumination created by the quartz lamps were reduced to small circles, their brightness weakened and battered down. The hedgerow that shielded him appeared as a blurry wall of indistinct, subdued green. Even the silvery glow of the false sun was so dampened that it was barely discernible. The last, Kyris didn’t mind in the least.
The brisk night air was now something stronger, sharper, a chill that penetrated beneath the skin. Regardless of the time of day, weather, or his attire, the Gloom was always teeth-clenching cold.
Within the Gloom, the cold presence in his mind changed. It was still a doorway, but now it led to somewhere bright and warm, and to return light back to the world, all he had to do was repeat the process and step through. Even now, against all reason, it was tempting to do just that.
There was another presence felt only on this side, under the oppression of the dark, a distant intangible speck, lacking any well-conceived form. This was both by nature and because Kyris wished never to venture there again, thus he avoided thinking on it.
The Gloom may have suppressed light, but it annihilated sound. The rings of the house bell were silenced. The guardsmen, who were steps away on the other side of the hedge, could no longer be heard. All sound had ceased, save for his own heavy breathing. He hadn’t noticed the smell of the moist soil and nearby lavender until they, too, were absent.
Four figures rounded the corner of the hedge a few of paces in front of Kyris. Their features and silhouettes wavered, making it difficult to discern details, but there was no mistaking them for anyone other than the estate guardsmen with their tunics and weapons. As the group came to a stop, their forms coalesced ever so slightly, becoming a little more defined. The movement of the guardsmen was fidgety; they brought their weapons up and jerked their heads every which way, searching, as though they’d foreseen an ambush, but their eyes passed through Kyris.
They had expected to find him, he supposed, or at least for him to be within sight since there was so little cover. The Gloom had also affected them, if only briefly. The dread seeped out, like a scent, unsettling all who caught the merest whiff. But whereas the assault on Kyris was constant, it would only be a passing flutter for the guards. No doubt, it would have been laughed off as nerves if not for the heightened situation.
Standing in front of the four guardsmen, unseen as the air, Kyris looked them over. Two of them held crossbows, the other two, halberds, in addition to the swords at their hips. The decision to use his ability had been the correct one, even though it set the candle burning at both ends. He didn’t have time to waste fighting these guards.
Kyris ran headlong towards the group, then through them. Parts of his body passed through two of the guards. An arm thrown up in mid-stride went through one guardsman’s shoulder. His whole left side displaced the right side of another’s body. There were no ill effects to them, or him. He felt the slightest pressure as if walking through a curtain of soft, gauzy fabric that soon gave way. The guards did not react to his intrusion. No one ever did. It was as if the guardsmen were shades of themselves; the form resembled the source, but couldn’t be held or affected.
Kyris continued running towards the tree he had picked out as a marker earlier. Once there, the stone wall that encompassed the Curunir’s city-estate was less than fifty paces away, and the path was clear. He made a mad dash, keeping his eyes locked on his goal. There was still time, he told himself.
Reaching the estate walls, Kyris wished he could run through them as he had the guardsmen, but that particular trick could not be repeated here. The wall was still well-defined and detailed, as solid as stone should be. For reasons unknown to him, only when an object or person had moved did it become an insubstantial shadow-form. Since the masoned stones of the wall likely hadn’t moved since the day they were stacked one upon another, there was no going through it.
Kyris performed the same mental leap, this time passing through to the light, which was a less taxing effort. There was a constant pressure within the Gloom, a force that seemed to build in strength the longer he remained and, given enough time, he had no doubt he would be expelled. He had never stayed long enough for that to happen.
The world blurred once again, but this time, coming back into focus with color and vibrancy. He felt the same momentary jarring. The sudden sounds of the night insects and the house bells, still clamoring though much quieted by distance, were a welcomed change from the eerie silence. His tension and sense of dread eased, as did the chill. Crouching down, sheltered in the wall's shadow, he concentrated on slowing his breathing, which was heavy and loud from both running and the effort of using his ability.
Kyris searched until he came upon the bush where he’d stashed the rope and hook on his way in. Tossing the grapple over, he reached the top in short order and pulled himself up. Straddled on the wall, he hesitated a moment, considering whether to retrieve the rope, but decided against it. He didn’t have time to be coiling rope. Holding onto the edge of the stone wall, he lowered himself down the other side until his arms were fully extended, then dropped the rest of the way, landing on his feet just as someone yelled, “Halt!”
Kyris glanced skyward and mouthed yet another curse to the gods.
Chapter Two
Two estate guardsmen ran towards him with a boy holding a lantern trailing behind. The men carried halberds and wore long mail shirts beneath their tunics. The boy appeared to be a stable hand woken and pressed into the search.
Kyris considered his options. Opposite the Curunir estate, across a wide road, was the wall of another highborn estate. The stonework stopped around waist level with the remaining upper portion being ornate iron rods crowned by spearhead adornments. He could climb that with little difficulties but perhaps not so fast that he wouldn’t be stabbed or hacked by the guards’ halberds.
He could turn and run, but his planned escape route lay behind the guardsmen, in the direction they had come. At the corner, down a small road, was the grated entrance to a drainage canal that opened into the river Ryles. He'd tied a small skiff there.
It seemed he would have to deal with the guardsmen. As the two men neared, they slowed their trot to a stop, and Kyris examined them. One wore a deep scowl, his expression scrunched as if he’d just smelled something foul. The other wore a wide grin revealing jagged and crooked teeth. There was an avaricious gleam in his eyes, as though Kyris were draped in gold coins. The boy stood a good distance back, face ashen and eyes wide.
Kyris decided the danger posed by the two guardsmen did not warrant entering the Gloom. He couldn't allow anyone to witness his ability, so it would mean the same end for them either way, but there was the boy to consider.
“We don't have to do this, brothers. Let me pass. Say you did not see me, and we’ll all sleep in our beds this night.”
Despite his words, Kyris dropped his satchel and placed his right hand on the hilt of the shortsword secured at his lower back. His left hand drifted over a throwing knife within a thigh sheath.
“The only place you'll be going is the bottom of the Ryl
es, assassin,” the guardsman wearing the scowl said, spitting out the last word. His companion grinned even wider.
The two advanced, their halberds, a combination of an ax and spearhead affixed upon a six-foot pole, held out and ready. They branched slowly to either side of him.
Kyris burst into motion, flinging a knife at Toothy-grin and drawing his shortsword to bat aside Scowler’s halberd. A ping of steel marked the knife being deflected off a mail sleeve.
Kyris lunged at the scowling guardsman, forcing the man back as he tried to bring the sharp point and edge of his weapon to bear. Toothy-grin, no longer grinning, came to his companion’s aid.
Kyris whirled, danced aside a thrusting attack, then grabbed the shaft of the halberd with his free hand. He pulled at the weapon and jabbed with his sword at the same time. The guardsman gave up his hold on the halberd and hurled himself backward, falling to his rear, his eyes bulging at how close he’d come to being stabbed in the face.
Before Kyris could take advantage and finish the man, he heard Scowler’s approach and dove into a roll to avoid another attack.
Still low, Kyris kicked out sideways, catching Scowler in the shin and knocking the man off balance. Another kick sent him stumbling to the ground.
Toothy-grin drew his sword and moved in, but seeing the odds momentarily evened, Kyris leaped to meet him in a flurry of quick strikes, his blade lashing out faster than the guardsman could block or dodge. He landed several blows but none powerful enough to penetrate the guardsman's mail armor. Nevertheless, he kept the guard on a frantic defense, preventing the man from retaliating.
Frustration and growing panic plain on his face, Toothy-grin lunged forward in a reckless thrust. Kyris stepped inside the attack, and a quick outward swing with his shortsword drew a thin line across his opponent's throat. The blade, Loddan-forged and always keen and well-maintained, cut without resistance, and for a few quick heartbeats nothing happened. The slice was deep, but there was no spray of crimson as Kyris had witnessed before in the fighting pits. Instead, a bright cascade of blood flooded from the wound, followed by a gurgling, choking sound.
Scowler let out a battle-cry laced more with desperation than ferocity. The guard charged him with an overhead chop. Kyris shuffled aside, ducked low to avoid the follow-up swipe, then stabbed at the man's extended foot, the blade cutting through boot and crushing bone. Scowler yowled but managed to remain standing as he began a limping retreat. Kyris, gripping the hilt of his shortsword with both hands, thrust with all his might and weight, the Loddsteel breaking through the chain links of the armor and slipping into the flesh beneath, just under the last rib. The blade sank in deep as Kyris leaned into Scowler, their faces mere inches apart. He watched as the pain played across the guardsman’s face and the final realization reached the eyes. Kyris yanked the blade free, and Scowler staggered a step, then crumbled to the ground.
Kyris turned away and his eyes fell on the boy, still clutching the lantern, who seemed not to have moved a hair's breadth during the whole messy ordeal. He knew what he should do. The boy hadn’t seen his face, but there was still much that could be… extracted.
“If you’re able, do not go back to the estate,” Kyris said. “They will question you and, likely, none too gently. Disappear, if you can.”
It took the boy a few moments to realize he was the one being addressed, his eyes lifting from the dying Scowler to Kyris.
“Do you understand what will happen to you if you go back?”
The boy gave a single, small nod.
Kyris motioned with his head. “Good, then go. And I’m sorry.”
Needing no more prompting, the boy ran.
Kyris retrieved his satchel and intended to do the same but stopped. He turned back to the bodies of the guards, wondering if the keepers would judge these two worthy and grant them a sending by pyre. He held his fist over his heart and gave a slight bow to each body, a gesture of respect for the defeated. Even if peace in the blessed realm of Aithel was not meant for him, he wouldn’t begrudge the guardsmen their prospect at paradise.
Movement drew Kyris’ attention, and he spun with his shortsword up.
Near the stone wall of the Curunir estate a man rose from a crouch, in his hand a thin saber still in its scabbard. He wore no armor, unlike the guardsmen, but instead a hard leather duelist’s jacket. Embossed across the chest, in fine detail and luminous gold, were two large, outstretched wings.
The man had long, dark hair tied back. His features were handsome, if a bit sharp. His posture and haughty glare told Kyris all he needed to know, but surprisingly, there was also curiosity in his expression.
“How peculiar. You honor those you murder?” the man asked.
Kyris did not reply as he assessed his new opponent. Anger flashed across the highborn’s face, no doubt seeing his silence as insolence.
“It was their duty to bear arms. I hold them no grudge,” Kyris offered.
A disdainful, humorless laugh was the highborn’s response. “How very magnanimous. I am sure their spirits will be allayed to know that. What of my uncle? Did you extend him the same grace?”
Kyris frowned. “Your uncle? Who are you?”
“Do not play the dullard with me, assassin. I am Alderin, scion of Kalaa, champion of House Curunir, a windstrider of the Auric Order.”
Kyris didn’t need the long introduction. All was evident at a glance.
“Ah, yes.. Well, if it's any consolation, it was not my intent. It was an…” Kyris was about to say ‘accident,’ but that didn’t seem wholly truthful to his own ears. “It was not what I had set out to do this night.”
The highborn raised his eyebrows at this. “Oh. Was someone else your intended victim? Was I?”
“No. No one was the intended victim. That’s what—”
“I see you think me the dullard now.” Kyris opened his mouth to reply, but Alderin cut him off. “Who sent you?” At Kyris’ hesitation, the highborn waved off the question. “Protect your masters. It matters not. In truth, I ought to thank you. With my uncle dead, you have put one step closer to his estate.”
“Ah, touching. Well… thanks aren’t necessary. I'll be off, then.”
The windstrider smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I am afraid not. Must uphold the family honor, you know. Vengeance and such. Blood for blood.”
“I can appreciate that,” Kyris said, discarding all levity.
“I am glad I have your approval,” the highborn replied with obvious derision.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Alderin’s face hardened. “Yes. And you greatly overestimate your ability if you think this will be a contest of equals. I saw your fight with the guardsmen. You have some skill as a street brawler, but you will be no match for me.”
“You watched the fight, and you didn't help?”
The windstrider shrugged. “As you said, it was their duty to protect this estate, and I did not wish to rob them of the bounty that I had offered. And I was interested.”
“I see.” Kyris flung a throwing knife at the windstrider, hoping the same attack that had ended the life of the uncle would bear similar results with the nephew. His hopes were dashed when Alderin gave a contemptuous wave of his hand and the knife went tumbling off course.
“I have seen that trick already, little viper.” Alderin reflected calm and utter confidence as he drew his sword, discarding the scabbard.
“Well, I wager you haven’t seen this one before.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then brought forth the doorway within and leaped through, entering the Gloom. A darkened, hazy copy of the surroundings presented itself. Silence reigned, and the sense of dread descended, smothering him. It was reckless to entered the Gloom so soon, but it was best to finish things quick.
Despite his bravado, he was concerned. He didn’t know what to expect from a scion of Kalaa. He had never fought nor seen one in combat before. The fighting pits in far off Yond didn’t often see highborn on its bloo
d-splattered sands. They were said to command the celestial wind of Kalaa. They served aboard the ships of the imperial fleet and merchant leagues, ensuring no sail ever went without gust or gale. And in tales of old they rode on the backs of giant eagles and summoned storms and called down lightning. From his experience, boasting about the prowess of one’s ancestors seemed a blood-trait, inherent to all highborn. As such, Kyris was sure the truth was far less grand, but then again, he didn’t plan on finding out.
Alderin became a blurred shadow-form, but Kyris could still discern his smug expression transforming to one of shock at his disappearance. The windstrider dropped into a defensive stance, jerking his head left and right. With the spike of fear that Alderin no doubt felt, it was unlikely he would lower his guard any time soon. The man was saying something, though shouting threats, issuing a challenge, or pleading for mercy, Kyris had no way of knowing.
Kyris drew a dagger from his boot to match his shortsword and ran towards his opponent, intending on circling behind, but the windstrider was swinging his saber in wide arcs, and a strange wisp of light-bluish fog swirled around the man's body. Alderin waved his hand in a flowing motion, and the fog stirred, rushing back and forth as if to his will.
Kyris stared, wondering if he was seeing the celestial wind from within the Gloom. A surge of the bluish fog washed over him to no effect.
Kyris started to smile, but it withered at the sight of a dark, quivering shape a few paces away that was not there a moment before. It disappeared, only for another black mass to flicker into existence a moment later. This time, he could make out a face and arms and hands, clawing at the air. He was out of time. The wraiths had arrived.