Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  Gilvys stopped short, almost bumping into a man that blocked his path. He glared up in annoyance that turned to disgust as he saw the man’s disheveled nature, but he settled on wide-eyed shock at the sight of the bare blade.

  “Hand over your tals or I’ll gut ya,” the man slurred, his breath heavy with the stench of stale wine. Where in Mythaas were his guards? But he didn’t dare take his eyes off the man to glance back. Before he could unscramble his thoughts to utter a reply, to shout for help or to hand over his coin purse, the robber grabbed his satchel and took a swipe at him with the knife. Gilvys flinched back, then realized that the robber hadn’t attacked him but the satchel’s straps. Forgetting himself, he lunged and grabbed hold of the satchel, gripping it with both hands. He yanked hard, expecting to reclaim the bag, but the robber held tight and was pulled into him. The two collided. For a brief moment, the two men tugged back and forth. Their struggle was drawing the interest of onlookers, and there was shouting from behind. Gilvys considered striking the man but thought better of it. Why was no one coming to his aid? The knife flashed in the fading light and Gilvys cringed back, but again, the assailant did not stab him. Instead, he received a kick to the stomach, causing him to fall back on his rump. The satchel was gone.

  The robber charged down the bridge with knife waving, and the people parted, rushing to get out of the way. Lanz and Dallen barreled past him in pursuit. Gilvys got back to his feet and followed. From the back, he saw the red coat of the robber dart left into a merchant stall. A moment later, his head could be seen moving above the colorful canvas tops of the tents. He was running along the stone parapet of the bridge. Just as Gilvys arrived at the same stall, huffing for breath, Lanz and Dallen had apparently resolved who was to give chase on the parapet. Dallen moved past a frail old man, the clear owner of the stall, and reluctantly climbed onto the stone barrier to gave chase. Lanz resumed going on the pathway. Gilvys looked down at the river below, some four stories down, and decided to follow Lanz’s route.

  Gilvys came upon the scene at mid-bridge. A group of right-minded citizens were shouting and grabbing at the thief. Others were yelling for the watch, two of which were approaching from the other direction. A missed swipe nearly sent the thief over the edge, and the crowd gasped. Another man, a butcher, menaced the rogue with a cleaver, barring his progress. Dallen cautiously drew closer, the bodyguard’s fear of falling clear as the man kept glancing to the water every couple of steps. Lanz had his sword out and was working through the gathered crowd. The robber was trapped.

  The thief looked around, and Gilvys locked eyes with him for a brief moment, then a missed grab by a merchant caused the man to lose his footing. As he teetered on the edge, the crowd held its collective breath… then he was gone.

  Everyone rushed to the parapet. Gilvys heard the splash, and by the time he’d managed to work his way to the edge, the man was already some distance downriver, having been carried by the current. The robber was flailing and thrashing about; like most citizens of Vigil, he did not know how to swim. There were murmurs among the crowd. A few asked if someone should jump in, but several shouted that it was just fate for a thief and in the end, none volunteered. There were more shouts to get some boats onto the water, but they would have to do so from the eastern bank, as the western side was dominated by Casrinndar’s Wall. There was what appeared to be a fishing barge further downriver, but it was too far for the shouts to carry.

  The man disappeared from the surface. The crowd waited and waited as if counting each passing moment. Gilvys was uncertain how long he’d watched, staring intently out over the water for any signs of movement. Boats were launched, but it seemed a futile gesture by that time. The crowd dispersed, walking off or resuming the business of the market, as if the disturbance had never occurred. The sun was fully set by the time he pulled himself away.

  Velledon would not be pleased.

  Kyris signaled his accomplice, a comely young woman dressed rather provocatively for this part of town. She replied with a nod and led her similarly attractive and attired companion to intercept Gilvys’s bodyguards. The moment they engaged the two guards, he stood in front of Gilvys with his knife drawn.

  “Hand over your tals or I’ll gut ya,” he said, doing his best impression of a drunkard. A range of emotions played across Gilvys’s face before settling on wide-eyed disbelief.

  Kyris snatched the satchel, and with a quick a flick of his wrist, sliced the strap. Gilvys recoiled at the sight of the knife but, faster and bolder than Kyris had given the man credit for, the scribe lunged and grabbed hold of the satchel and pulled hard.

  Kyris slammed into Gilvys. The two men struggled back and forth, tugging at the leather bag. Kyris glanced past to see the bodyguards working their way around the girls. Gilvys was proving more determined and strong than Kyris had thought he would be. Caldir had asked that the scribe not be injured, but Kyris couldn’t allow his plan to fail.

  He kicked Gilvys in the stomach, and the man folded and collapsed to the ground.

  Gaining possession of the prize, Kyris ran down the pathway, shouting and waving his knife so that the crowd would clear for him. Thankfully, no one made to bar him. He glanced back to see the two bodyguards closing in on him. He wouldn’t have much time to spare.

  Seeing the proper merchant stall ahead, marked by the green flag, Kyris cut left into it and behind the cloth partition. An old man was waiting in the back, another accomplice. Kyris handed the satchel to him and in return was handed a pretty close approximation of the bag. The old man tucked away the original behind some sacks. The exchange happened so fast that Kyris barely broke his stride. He hopped onto the bridge’s stone parapets that the merchant stall backed onto and began to run. Not two breaths later, one of the bodyguards stuck his head out from behind the tent and shouted at him to stop.

  Kyris carefully trotted at a measured pace, his legs feeling weak due to the height. He was supposed to feign concern of the waters below, but found that there was no need to pretend. The parapets were quite wide and flat, he told himself, yet every time he veered close to the edge, it sent a tingle up his back. He made sure not to get too far from Gilvys and his guards, and he had just started to worry when one finally climbed onto the parapets after him. He could see the other bodyguard and Gilvys running down the pathway. It seemed everyone in the market was looking at him now. As he continued to run, he was surprised to see some merchants, not part of the scheme, grab at his legs. He dodged and avoided plunging into the waters below.

  Up ahead, a large man in a bloody apron was brandishing his cleaver menacingly. The butcher wasn’t on the parapet, but he promised a bloody toll if Kyris attempted to pass. Good, he thought. He glanced back into the crowd and spotted Gilvys watching him. Someone grabbed at him, and Kyris resisted the urge to kick the man in the face. It was now or never. He inched backwards until the heels of his feet were over the edge. He looked down and, though it was all going as planned, he couldn’t help but hesitate. The frigid, brown water below didn’t look very inviting. The bodyguard on the parapet was drawing near. Caldir's man with the cleaver was closing in on the other side. A merchant, another who was not part of the plan, grabbed for his leg. Kyris jerked back, one foot going over the edge. It took all his self-control not to bring the foot back onto solid stone.

  Kyris and Jahna, along with other children of their village, used to swim the creeks and ponds in the backwoods of Gailen. A popular spot for everyone had been a waterfall where rocky ledges allowed one to climb down to various heights besides the cascade of water. The oldest among them would often dare each other to jump from the very top, though none met that challenge. Most launched themselves into the water from one of the lower outcroppings. Jahna and their group of close friends had often jumped from a ledge midway up, which had seemed like an immense height back then, though in truth it was probably barely two stories. Kyris had never jumped, despite much prodding and taunting from the others.

  Jahna would be
so proud.

  Kyris fell, one arm clutching the satchel while the other flailed wildly. He fell backwards so he couldn’t see the water below, only the bridge parapet getting farther away as he dropped. His stomach lurched, and a fear gripped him that he wouldn’t ever hit water but fall endlessly… then the Ryles enveloped him in a wash of brown.

  The chill was jarring, as though the long journey of the water from the high mountains had done nothing to lessen the intensity of the cold from its glacial origins.

  Kyris immediately surfaced, gasped, and thrashed about, making a show of it. He found it wasn’t difficult.

  The crowd above gawked at him, some shouting, but no one jumped in after him. He hadn’t expected anyone to, but one never knew for certain. Hopefully, Caldir’s men would be discouraging such heroics.

  The current was stronger than it appeared from the bridge, carrying him farther and faster downriver than anticipated. Kyris noted the fishing barge’s location, then took several inhales of breaths facing away from the crowd on the bridge, though it was unlikely any could see clearly enough to discern his intent. He bobbed below the surface, then came back up thrashing, once more and again; best to make this look convincing, he thought. Then he sank. It wasn’t hard as the water soaked his coat, aiding in the descent.

  Kyris clung to the satchel, kept his legs straight, and exhaled slowly, sinking deeper and deeper. He was no great diver, and it didn’t take long for his head and ears to start throbbing. It seemed the moment his lungs emptied they burned and screamed for him to inhale. The dark, murky water allowed for no visibility, and he couldn’t tell how much progress he was making or how close he was to the river bottom.

  Finally, Kyris could take no more, and though it meant risking injury from the fall, he entered the Gloom. The water that enveloped him disappeared, replaced by a heavy fog. Unlike normal fog, it had much more weight and pressure to it but not so much as to suspend a man. For the second time that day, Kyris fell, and it was even more disturbing than the first, plummeting through the abyss with no point of reference. But before the fear could truly grip him, he landed, awkwardly tumbled, and came to rest on his back.

  He inhaled deeply, easing the pressure of his lungs.

  The muddy river bottom within the Gloom felt like a plush mattress and most likely saved him from injury. His body had sunk in, but a pressure held him up.

  Kyris had discovered the strange nature of water in the Gloom, yet another inexplicable aberration, years ago quite by accident when he had tripped and fallen into a cistern while running away from pursuers, both human and otherwise.

  Laying at the bottom of the Ryles, a part of him wanted to take a moment of respite; it was strangely peaceful, completely devoid of sight and sound except his own heavy breaths. But there was no time; there never was when it came to the Gloom. He jumped to his feet and took a step forward, then paused. Was this the right way?

  The impenetrable fog blinded him more so than even the murky river water had. Disoriented, he imagined his descent and landing, then picked what he hoped was a southeasterly direction. He began to run, a bit awkwardly, as there was a slight drag to each step. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t be able to see the wraiths appear in this muck. The usual signs of their incursion would go unnoticed, and he hadn’t thought to count, to keep track. How much time did he have left? With every step, he pictured a ghostly talon or claw swiping at him.

  When the ground inclined, Kyris cried out in relief. This had to be the eastern riverbank. He had chosen correctly.

  Whether or not he was in the right location no longer mattered. If he overshot, he would simply have to ride the river down and crawl out in the Warrens, or near the pyre-houses. It was if he was too early that there would be complications.

  Given how long he’d been in the river, he was certain that the wraiths were all around him, obscured by the thick, watery fog. The thought unnerved him and, in that moment, terror gripped his mind. He reached with desperation to the presence, to leap through the doorway and bring back the proper world, convinced that a moment longer would mean the cold rake of a wraith across his back.

  Kyris reappeared in the river, displacing the water. An instant pressure pounded against his head, causing an awful ache. He hadn’t taken a proper breath before coming back, and he fought a moment of panic when he sank down into mud, but after some frantic kicking, he was able to free himself. Blindly, he swam upwards, rising fast. With his hands extended out in front, he cracked them painfully against something hard. The sense of relief he’d felt quickly vanished when he couldn’t discern the proper direction to move towards. Where was the light, he thought in a panic. He couldn’t surface on the wrong side, within view of the bridge. Even if a single person could attest to him surfacing, then the full might of the governor of Vigil would be directed towards finding him.

  Kyris swam left. Then second guessing the choice, moved right. His lungs burned, and the panic gripped him fully.

  What to do? Go back to the Gloom? Face the wraiths, or drown?

  He heard the distant echo of a knock, repeating and steady. Kyris whirled, saw a faint glow, and immediately swam towards it, using his hands to push along the wooden barrier, the roof to his world. His lungs felt ready to burst.

  There, the light. He surfaced and took a huge gulp of air, then something pulled him from the water. Strong hands, he realized, hauled him up and deposited him on the wooden surface of the barge floor like the latest catch from the river. Perhaps he was.

  “Quickly now,” someone said.

  Kyris lay motionless for several long breaths. Finally, he took in his surroundings. He was on the floor of the fishing barge, pulled through an opening at the craft’s center. The light, a quartz lamp, was his indicator of where to surface. A canvas roof obstructed the activity from those on the bridge. Ellse and Tallence came into view dragging a body to the edge of the barge. It was dressed in a red, faded jacket matching the one he had on. The man, whomever he was, didn’t look particularly like Kyris, but a few days in the river would solve that problem.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jantyre ran his finger along the smooth skin of the back, tracing a line down, then up the curves of her shapely rear, and with a flick of his wrist he delivered a sharp slap.

  Sibilla yelped in surprise and perhaps a bit of pain as her olive skin reddened with his hand print.

  “So, that is it? That is your final answer? House Serrathon had nothing to do with the untimely passing of my dear uncle and cousin?” Jantyre asked.

  “You’re still a ward of Curunir,” she said into the headboard. “They weren’t truly your uncle or cousin.”

  “Such hurtful words, Sibilla. Very well… the untimely passing of Rhistell and Alderin, in all ways that matter, an uncle and cousin to me.”

  “Awww, so you were close with them?”

  “No. Not at all. Barely knew Rhistell. The man was drunk more than not, and Alderin was a bombastic prick, much like his father. Answer the question.” He spanked her rear again, this time on the other cheek, earning another yelp.

  Sibilla was lying on her stomach across the bed. She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “No, I told you. House Serrathon had nothing to do with it. We are the most prosperous and reputable house within the league, and House Curunir is… well, less so. What would we have to gain?”

  Jantyre shrugged. “Preventive measures? To stifle our rising prosperity?”

  Sibilla laughed, then flipped over and propped her head up on a pillow. “Rising prosperity? Perhaps. Matron Daratrine is a shrewd woman, but she lacks subtlety, finesse. She conducts business like one of those horned beastmen in the arena, always charging. She has made many enemies. I heard she stole the Gormlan contract from House Maldorian.” At Jantyre’s blank stare, she asked, “Do you pay any attention to the business matters of your house?”

  “Not if I can help it, though it sounds like you’re keeping a close eye on our activities.”


  “It is common knowledge among the league houses. Everyone who cares about the trade would know.”

  “Not really my area of concern,” Jantyre said dismissively.

  “Oh, what is? Bedding the daughters of rival houses?”

  “If need be,” Jantyre said as he moved closer, his arms propped against the bed, supporting his body so it hovered just over hers.

  Sibilla gave a coy, teasing smile. “You know, if House Serrathon did have something to do with the death of Lord Rhistell, what makes you think I would divulge this? We have shared gossip and rumors and… other things before, but you think a little tumble between the sheets and I would betray my house?”

  Jantyre shifted onto his left arm, easing his weight, and pressed his body against her. His free hand caressed up her stomach, then her breast. His attention was focused at where his fingers lingered, and he didn’t answer or appear to have heard the question. His hand then moved up to her face, framed by a curtain of raven black hair. He stared into her dark blue eyes while his fingers wrapped around her neck.

  Sibilla still smiled. They’d played the game before, but his grip tightened more and more. The smile vanished, and he saw her concern turn to fear as her eyes bulged.

  “Jant—” Sibilla started, but that was all she could manage as his hand squeezed further.

  He had one of her arms pinned, but the other was free. She first pulled at his forearms, trying to break his grip, but her efforts were futile. Changing tack, she clawed at his face instead. He pushed down harder, straightening his arms, locking his elbows, and pulling his face back so that she could only barely reach his chin. She tried to buck him, but his body and weight were too firmly placed.