Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  Kyris was surprised to find that Marlek wasn’t alone. A slim, dapper man, with graying black hair combed back from a high forehead, lounged in the chair across from him. The stranger's blue eyes flashed with interest as he openly studied Kyris, and his thin lips were set in a small smile. He wore a simple tan long-tunic with matching pants, a red sash about his waist, and half-boots. Rather standard attire, but the rich fabrics, the quality leather, and the precise fit spoke of ample wealth. A merchant or banker, Kyris guessed, a prosperous one.

  Kyris smiled, comparing the two men. Marlek, a pile of muscles dressed in much the same manner as he decorated his office, bold and gaudy, and the stranger, sharp and impeccable, the signs of his affluence subdued but evident if one paid attention to the details.

  “What’re you grinning at?” Marlek glared.

  “Nothing,” Kyris replied, assuming a flat expression.

  “What part of ‘this has to be done quiet’ didn’t you understand?”

  Kyris was thinking of the best way to reply when Marlek continued on, “Well, hand over the medallion. Maybe something can still be salvaged with the client.”

  Kyris gave the merchant a sideways glance, wondering why Marlek was being so free in front of this man. Looking back to Marlek, he gave a small shake of his head.

  “For gods’ sake! I send you to retrieve one item, one little item. I tell you exactly where it is and even give you the schedule of the guards. How could you not get that right? Instead, you slaughter half of the Curunir line, and you don't even have the medallion!”

  Kyris tried to interject, but Marlek's tongue-lashing rolled right over him. “When you botch something, you don’t do it by half measures, that’s for sure. By Vos, was this all some kind of trick? You do all those other jobs right just to lull me into giving you something grand, then you bungle it on purpose? Is that it? You looking to ruin me, Kyris? You’ve some nerve, showing up empty-handed.”

  There was a pause as Marlek, red-faced, took a heavy breath, and Kyris quickly offered, “Should I not have come back?”

  “Shut your mouth. Me and Caldir here were just discussing what to do about this mess… and what to do with you.”

  “Oh.” Kyris had thought the merchant some business associate or client. He examined the stranger again with new eyes.

  “Tell me, how did you manage to kill Alderin of Curunir?” The man, Caldir, spoke for the first time. His voice was clear and his words painfully articulated, which spoke of a highborn, or the pretense of one.

  Still, more than a simple merchant. Was this man an agent of the Curunirs? Had recompense been arranged and he, already betrayed? Kyris tried to recount how much time had passed since coming into the room, wondering if he could still pass through the shadow-form of the door if he had to escape to the Gloom and run. Trying his best to appear relaxed, he looked to Marlek and then back to Caldir before answering. “By Shar’s grace alone.”

  Caldir smiled. “So modest. I find modesty is not that common a trait. Most are all too quick to lay claim or boast of their accomplishments.” Caldir took a sip from a cup, eyes fixed on Kyris all the while.

  “I wouldn’t want to set expectations I can’t meet.”

  Marlek snorted.

  “Then you are wise, too,” Caldir said. “Another trait I rarely find. And let us not forget the other casualties of your attempted theft. What was it, Marlek, two guardsmen and the Lord Rhistell?”

  Marlek grunted in affirmation.

  “Though it doesn’t appear you escaped unscathed.” Caldir traced a line down his own face. “Is that a burn on your cheek?”

  Kyris gave a shrug, sending a stab of pain through his shoulder, but he managed not to grimace.

  “Did anyone surviving witness your face?” Caldir asked.

  “No,” he lied without hesitation.

  “Tell me, are you a religious man, a follower of the Path?”

  This question caught him off guard, and he paused before saying, “I’m no heretic, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Ah, a traveler of the Path that prefers a detour here and there?”

  Kyris scowled in confusion.

  “How else do you reconcile thieving from a highborn house? Rather damning for the spirit, wouldn’t you say?”

  Kyris fought down the derisive remark that leapt to mind, that the destination of his spirit had been determined at birth. Instead, he said, “Spiritual fulfillment does not fill the stomach.”

  Caldir nodded with a smile. “How pragmatic. Do you possess a relic?”

  Though he was prepared for the abrupt change in subject this time, the absurdity of the question caused him to bark out an incredulous laugh. However, when Marlek and Caldir simply stared at him, stone-faced, the laugh petered. They were serious.

  “You think me a Tesrini scion?” he asked, not having to fake his disbelieving tone. The gods of Tesrin had crafted relics for their children alone. Only they could unleash the power locked within. The one time Kyris had held a keeper’s staff—out of morbid curiosity to see if the divine tool would burn him—he had felt nothing but cold, inert metal. “I have no relic, and I’m no scion. Of any god, least of all one of Tesrin. If I was, I’d be up the bluff, in Sunsridge or Arcdell. I wouldn’t be living the life of a thief.”

  “Not much of one last night,” Marlek grumbled.

  Caldir nodded and gave a knowing smile as if he had gotten more from Kyris’ answer than what was spoken. “Well, know that if you were a scion of… any greater power, you can disclose it to us. Know that we,” Caldir made a gesture towards himself and Marlek, “are not the strictest adherents of the Path’s doctrines, or even of Imperium laws, as you may have deduced by now, being under good Marlek’s employ.” He said the last with a genial smile.

  Kyris shook his head and raised his brows, hoping to convey that he would confide, if only he had such a secret to reveal.

  Caldir was suggesting Kyris was an outcast, or worse, a nightspawn of Mezu Vos. The man was right, but also a fool if he thought such an admission would be given so freely. And to be so casual with his own words, to repudiate the established powers of Tesrin. Such utterances in the wrong company would mean a slow death in a gibbet cage.

  He had prepared himself to beg Marlek for clemency, but he hadn’t anticipated this, being questioned concerning his lineage. Both men stared at him, waiting for a confession that would not be forthcoming.

  Kyris remained silent and returned Marlek’s gaze, avoiding Caldir’s.

  The uncomfortable silence dragged.

  This is getting ridiculous, he thought, then Marlek’s eyes shifted ever so slightly to the right, to the green door, the door that Kyris had never seen opened and had no idea what or who lay beyond. Marlek seemed to realize his small gesture had been noted, and a subtle but palpable change occurred. A new tension hung in the air, one that spoke of imminent violence. Kyris became acutely aware that he had no weapon, and that Marlek had one hand hidden behind the desk. The spot between his shoulder blades itched. He held the dark doorway close in his mind and his own eyes shifted, searching for something that could serve as a weapon.

  Caldir cleared his throat. “It’s understandable if you’d rather not—”

  “The only blood in my veins is Ar’Razi,” Kyris cut in, using the name of the original people of the land. “I managed to defeat the windstrider by Shar's grace only. Even scions run afoul of her fickle ways, apparently.”

  Caldir placed two fingers upon his chin and studied Kyris as though he were a painting upon the wall.

  Kyris had had enough. If he’d been betrayed or if they intended violence, so be it. “Marlek, discounting last night, I’ve done well by you, haven’t I? I know that I blundered, but I’ll make it up, and then some. Give me another chance.”

  “Oh, you’ll make it up, all right, don’t you worry about that. You’ve made a proper mess of things, and you’ll do your part to make it right.” Marlek looked to Caldir, who gave the big man a single small nod,
then he continued, “I had high hopes for you, Kyris. High hopes. But now, you're worthless to me. I can't use you…” Marlek let the pause drag out. “But maybe Caldir here can. You, Kyris of Yond, are no longer my responsibility. From now on, you’ll answer to him.”

  At that, Marlek waved a dismissive hand at Kyris, signaling an end to both the meeting and their working relationship, it seemed.

  Caldir rose from his chair and clasped Marlek’s hand. “Until next time, old friend.” He retrieved the onyx-wood cane leaning against his chair and left the room.

  Kyris followed Caldir out, dumbfounded. It felt as though he had just been handed off like some unwanted livestock. But to whom? Was Caldir part of the Graves syndicate, or some other organization?

  Both of Marlek’s henchmen gave Caldir a deferential nod, almost a bow.

  Kyris had just enough presence of mind to retrieve his weapons from Gres. Out in the street, in front of the tavern, Caldir turned to him.

  “Kyris, the deaths of two notable highborn will have far-reaching repercussions. I loathe starting our relationship insulting your intelligence, but years of experience in this field of work necessitate that I give the following warning— you might be tempted to flee or hide, but someone will find you. I cannot guarantee you absolute safety from the hounds that will no doubt be unleashed, but I daresay you stand a better chance with my help than without. Use this to arrange for new lodgings.”

  Caldir pulled out a fold of notes, withdrew a single one, and handed it to Kyris. It was a hundred tals and way more than needed to rent a room, unless one’s taste was truly extravagant.

  “I would like to meet again tonight for a proper interview. Be at Fawn’s Gate Square, in the Halcyon District, just after fifth bell. A carriage will be waiting, one with a green flag. Kyris, I believe it very fortuitous that we have met, and I sincerely hope you will accept this offer. It has been a pleasure.”

  Kyris watched as his new employer strolled away, cane tapping on the cobblestone. He tried not to take the warning personally, which amounted to a veiled threat. He turned to go but caught a figure in loose-fitting trousers and tunic joining Caldir to walk beside him. Undeniably female, with close-cropped dark hair. She glanced back, and their eyes met for a moment before the pair was swallowed by the crowd.

  “The deafening thrum of wings foretold their approach, in numbers so great they shrouded the sun. The twisted hordes of the Nightbringer were upon them, as a dark tide of death did they crash against the keep walls.

  Velloras rallied the Godlings to defense. The Stormcallers of Kalaa swept away the winged-horrors with celestial gales, to break their hard black shells upon the mountainside. With boulders of ice did Iolas’ Mistwalkers crush those that sought to scale the walls. Armed with the swords of Lodd-blessed steel, the Bladedancers cut down any that set foot, or hoof, or claw upon the battlement. And finally, Allithor’s children, Velloras and his fellow Flamebearers, rained the alabaster hallowfire upon the flesh of the foul and corrupt. Scores upon scores, the burnt dead heaped into high piles.

  The assault on that day was repelled, though with each rise of a new sun the onslaught renewed, and with the break of each dark tide more and more Godlings were brought low. To the brink they were tried, till the Menders of Ormoss could mend no more, and Rumathil’s Seers saw only doom ahead.

  On the dawn of the hundredth day, with but two score men left, the defenders prepared to meet the tide one last time. The Godlings would fall, and the fiery glory atop Spire Ondrin would be extinguished, to bring the endless night one stride nearer.

  Velloras spoke to his fellow Godlings as Seer Helayri witnessed and committed-

  ‘Before this day is done we shall join our fallen brethren and return to ourMakers. But this day is not done, and nor is our toil. Upon the twisted get of Mezu Vos we have wrested a heavy toll, but there is yet more to amass. For every foulspawn slain is one less for our brethren to hunt down tomorrow. For every one cut down and burnt, we have seared within their beastly minds a fear of the Divine. For every corrupt spirit sent to Mythaas is a reminder of the fate that awaits the rest.

  Though Spire Ondrin will fall, no foulspawn will look upon Spire Aelyn or Spire Elaith without knowing the cost. None with their tainted blood will walk beneath the Divine radiance without crying out in anguish.

  Thus will be our legacy. Raise your heads, brothers and sisters. We meet our death and rejoice.’

  The hordes of Mezu Vos smashed against the inner gates one last time, and Velloras and the defenders could impede their progress no longer, and mere breaths before the dark tide would wash over them, Divine inspiration did strike Velloras… So Velloras baked a loaf of sweet bread and offered it to the foulspawn, who were famished from so much fighting. Delighted by the gift and the act of kindness, all hostilities were ended and everyone became fast friends. Jahna! Are you even listening?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I’m sorry, Tasi. Something about sweet bread?” They were in the front room. Tasi sat near the opened window, using the daylight to read one of the books Kyris had pilfered.

  “He’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Tasi reassured, assuming that Jahna had been worrying about her brother.

  Every time Kyris left them on some errand or another, she worried, but just then she had been thinking of Yond, how her brother used to read to her in the courtyard of their home. Those were happier times, prior to Baaz’s death. The years spent as his wards were peaceful, unmarred by strife, desperation, or violence. Violence directed at them, at least. Baaz had run a fighting academy training gladiators, after all.

  Despite Tasi’s grandfather’s past and profession, he was a good man, kind-hearted and wise. He’d loved Tasi more than anything and seen that she was educated, and the same went for his wards. He'd presented options to them, though there was only one path Kyris would accept.

  Her brother had convinced Baaz to train him under the pretense of becoming a soldier or merchant guard someday, but the intensity in which Kyris had pursued the art of combat fooled no one to his true desire. Nevertheless, the old man had continued to teach him. He’d also been the one to teach her wood carving, though that had not been anyone’s first choice. Attempts had been made to educate her on sewing and knitting and the musical arts, but none of them had proved successful. She did not have the patience for the former or the ear for the latter. Carving and whittling a piece of wood, though. That she loved.

  For years, they had simply… lived, the shadow of the past forgotten for a time. Perhaps only for her, though. In truth, it had all been leading to this. Even if their guardian hadn’t succumbed to illness, Kyris would have left, perhaps on his own, even, to come to Vigil.

  “Do you want me to keep reading? I was just getting to the good part,” Tasi said.

  Jahna smiled under her veil. “Given the title of the book and Velloras’ famed accomplishments, I think it’s safe to say the man did not perish that day.”

  “I know that! But how did he manage to survive?”

  “Through the grace of Allithor, of course,” was Jahna’s sardonic reply.

  The door creaked as it opened, and Tasi’s sigh of relief told Jahna that Kyris had returned.

  “It went well?” Tasi asked.

  “No bloodshed, and I got paid. Well… somewhat.” Kyris related his meeting with Marlek and the mysterious Caldir.

  When he was finished, Jahna asked, “Aren’t you concerned about his interest in you?”

  “Not at all. It’s understandable, really. He thinks me scion. He apparently doesn’t believe a common man could defeat a windstrider.” Her brother snorted. “It’s rather insulting.”

  “A common man did not,” she reminded him.

  “That’s not the point. It was his insistence it couldn’t be. Does a blade not cut scion flesh the same? I assure you, a stab to the right parts will kill anyone.”

  Jahna sighed. “As lovely as that visual is, what if he suspects your lineage runs darker?”

  Kyri
s didn’t immediately reply but then said, “Regardless of what he thinks, he won’t find out anything.”

  Tasi asked, “What do you think he wants with you?”

  “It’s not me specifically, outside the fact that I killed a windstrider.”

  “Then more work of like kind can be expected?” Jahna asked, fearing the answer.

  “Perhaps.”

  Jahna was glad that her brother didn’t sound eager by that prospect, if nothing else. “By your own account, the Gloom was the only reason you were able best the windstrider. What if your new employer expects such results on a regular basis?”

  “Well, I’m obviously not going to demonstrate that for him. I’ll just have to adjust his expectations.”

  “By showing him you are not as gifted as he’d hoped?”

  Kyris gasped in mock offense. “I like to think myself gifted in many ways. I’m quite handy with a blade, if you haven’t heard. My goat stew was much praised by all. And, and… huh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, regardless, I’m sure Caldir will see the value of keeping me around.”

  “And you told him already you weren’t a scion?” Tasi asked.

  “Yes. If only all men could be taken at their word.”

  Jahna shook her head. “But your intuition says he doesn’t believe you?”

  “I would wager he doesn’t.”

  “Then all the more reason not to meet with him tonight,” she pressed.

  “Don’t worry. Caldir is intrigued, and as long as he is, there’s no immediate danger.”

  “You take this too lightly,” Jahna snapped, growing tired of his glib attitude.

  “And you worry overmuch,” her brother shot back. He let out a heavy breath, then walked to the window. From the sound of his voice, he was looking outside. “It wasn’t openly stated, but I got the impression that Caldir is more senior within the syndicate. Don’t you see? This is a blessing. I had thought to rise through the ranks by exemplary performance, but it seemed a blunder worked much better. Caldir might be the exact person to provide access to the Whisperer. ‘Shar lays a twisted path,’ as the saying goes.”