Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  “Behind you!” Mannahar shouted, but Treven didn’t react, and it was too late. The assassin stabbed Treven in the back with Mannahar's own dagger. Once, twice, but then the black hound, appearing as a monster of darkness and smoke, leaped upon the assassin’s back and pushed him to the floor. The assassin became clear and defined again, seemingly occupying the same space as the shadow hound.

  Mannahar didn’t understand any of this madness, but as more and more things appeared near him, the hungry creatures of black mist, the struggles of others fell away.

  Mannahar fought to control himself. He was no fresh recruit yet to taste battle, he reasoned. He was a huntsman, a veteran of the Frontier.

  He took a swing, and his fist passed through a specter like it was fog. A moment later, his arm felt ablaze, and he cried out, cradling it. Mannahar backed himself into a corner. One of the dark things surged forward, its mouth opened impossibly wide to let out a shriek that spoke of certain death and of such suffering that Mannahar whimpered. He screamed as the thing descended upon him.

  Kyris picked himself off the ground, jumped onto a side table, then leaped, shifting in mid-air. He reappeared and landed on the hounds back. With one arm around wrapped around the beast’s neck, he stabbed and slashed with the dagger in a wild frenzy. The hound bucked, tossing him onto the couch.

  As he regained his footing, he spared the briefest glance up to see Tasi and Jahna in the corner of the room. Tasi held a candlestick holder before them like a club. A meager weapon, but thankfully, the hound had no interest in them.

  The thing whirled on him, bloodied and with some innards slipping out of wide gashes, but that didn’t seem to hinder it any as it growled and prepared to attack.

  “Come on, you miserable whelp!” Kyris tightened his grip on the dagger and leaped off the couch.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Someone whipped the rough-spun canvas hood from his head. Caldir squinted under the sudden light to make out three figures in the dark.

  “This is him? Caldir?” one of them asked.

  A man stepped forward, leaning down to inspect him. Caldir’s eyes adjusted enough to recognize Gilvys, Velledon’s assistant. He saw the lord governor a few steps back.

  Caldir took in his surroundings. He was strapped to a high-backed metal chair in the center of what appeared to be an indoor amphitheater. A single quartz lamp affixed to a stand near him was the only light in the room.

  “Yes, this is him,” Gilvys said.

  Caldir turned back to look at the assistant. He knew of Gilvys of Lasterri, of course. Had studied everything about the man, had Adar dig to find any weakness to exploit. What he had not known was that Gilvys knew of him.

  The assistant stepped back into the shadows, and it was Lord Governor Velledon’s turn to study him. The man stared at Caldir in silence, assessing him with bright blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

  “So,” Velledon started, “was this all a reprisal, of some sort? Settling of a grudge?”

  “A grudge?” It came out as a croak, his mouth dry.

  Velledon nodded to the third man, and Caldir’s face exploded in pain as a fist connected with his cheek.

  “Don’t be difficult,” Velledon continued. “I, rightfully and lawfully, confiscated your relics a few years back and now, this is your… regrettable attempt at retribution?”

  Caldir righted his head with some effort and tried to shake off the daze.

  “Do not strike the head anymore. I need him lucid,” Velledon instructed.

  “Yes, Lord.” The third man went to a small side table and picked up a long, thick needle. Caldir noted that the man wore only a leather apron and trousers, which was never a good sign.

  He realized that Velledon was waiting for some sort of response. He swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. “Ah, yes. Apologies, Lord Governor. It was not a personal vendetta. It was business.”

  The governor chuckled. “I would say it was rather poor business to steal from me, yes?”

  “Greater risk, greater reward.”

  Velledon smiled down at Caldir, then nodded. “On that we can agree. But look where you are now. And for what? If you know anything of what you traffic in, then you know the relics you’ve stolen are worthless to you.”

  Caldir nodded, eyes downcast in what he hoped was dejected acceptance. He could not let Velledon find out what he had planned for the relics, how they were far more valuable than if they had been of the Tesrini variety. After a moment, he looked up to see that Velledon wore an expression of contemplation, as if he’d just now realized what he had said may not be accurate. “Of course, Lord Governor. I will be glad to give the location of the relics… for the release of my people,” Caldir said to distract, as he held no hope of such an outcome.

  “You are in no position to negotiate.” Velledon shook his head as though he were speaking with a fool. “I will have my relics back. Of this, there is no doubt. However, there is also the matter of the vanishing man.”

  Kyris… Of course. So many had witnessed his ability, there was no discounting it now. He and the others would be questioned endlessly for answers they did not have.

  Caldir had known the moment he saw the despair turn to bewilderment on Kyris’s face. It was as though Kyris couldn’t believe it himself, what he was about to do.

  Caldir considered himself a practical man of logic, not prone to sentimentality. He understood Kyris’ reason for leaving them. Their business was concluded. The young man had gotten what he wanted and owed Caldir nothing more. And yet, there was something… Not condemnation, but… disappointment. In himself, as well, for he should have known better. He should have kept the prize from Kyris for a bit longer, until things were more stable. He'd gotten carried away with the elation of recent successes, with Grunul’s return. He’d let his guard down, been careless. Somehow, they knew— maybe they had some other method of tracking Kyris. Maybe they had another Kurvosh, something he hadn’t even considered.

  Caldir had convinced Grunul to lay down his axes instead of fighting to the bitter end, though that had not been an easy task. He’d called upon their history, asked his old lover to trust him and promised that there was another way.

  Because Grunul had listened, Caldir was able to convince Ellse to do the same, but she didn’t need to die with them. Calling on affection of a different sort, that of a daughter for her surrogate father, he begged her to run. She was prepared to fight and die, there was no doubt. Perhaps they all were, except him. Regardless, with her restraint removed, with her touching the primal within just enough but not so much as to lose control, she was the only one with a chance of escape. Given her swiftness, she had dashed past the artificer armsmen and was in the tunnels leading back to the streets above before any of them started to give chase.

  She had gotten away, he believed. He only hoped she did not try to rescue them.

  Perhaps it was all for naught. Perhaps all he had done, in a moment of selfish hope, was doom them all to needless suffering and a slow death.

  Caldir screamed as the man in the apron sank the needle into his thigh. He clenched his teeth, his breath hissing through them.

  “Do not make me repeat myself,” Velledon said.

  Caldir’s mind scrambled to put together what he had missed. Velledon had been asking about Kyris. Before he could decide on what to say or not say, Velledon gave a dismissal wave.

  “I see you do not truly appreciate your situation. It is useless to resist. I will have the information I want. It’s only a matter of time, and which method I wish to use to extract it. I could have a seer scour your mind but, between us, their rituals are rather crude. There’s no finesse, no precision. I might find that you lay with goats and murdered your mother… vile, dark secrets, but not what I am looking for. And the all-too-common consequence of such prying, well… You should be glad that I decided to start with Ortan, here. A much less mentally damaging route. Ortan is quite a skilled fleshshaper, or is it wholly inept? I
can never keep it straight. You will spend some time with him to get acquainted.”

  “Lord Gov—” Caldir started.

  “Enough.” Velledon nodded to the torturer. “When I return, you will tell me everything. You will keep no secrets from me. And if I am not convinced, there’s always the seers.” And with that the Lord Governor turned and left.

  A sound from behind caused him to crane his neck to find the source. Someone moved into view, and he would have jumped if he wasn’t strapped within the chair. It was the imposing and grisly figure of the Boneclad, holding an unsheathed scimitar. Without a word, the armored warrior followed Velledon out. Caldir realized that the man had been behind him the whole time. Gilvys trailed after the two but not before giving him a lingering glance.

  “It looks like it’s just you and me, Ortan.”

  The torturer ignored him, going to the table to peruse the tools of his trade.

  Caldir was no stranger to abuse or pain, but he also knew that anyone could be broken given enough time and pressure. How long would he last before he begged for death? He would eventually talk. It was not a battle he could win. However, he vowed that he wouldn’t disclose everything. There was too much at stake. He had to keep his mind whole. He would parcel out the secrets, make them work for it, make them think he had nothing left to divulge so he would be allowed to die. The irony of it was that he would have preferred the prying of a seer, as Sylmae had taught him tricks, ways to build walls within the mind around the secrets he wished to keep. Perhaps he could hold out long enough to put his training to the test.

  Ortan returned with two more needles.

  “Ah, someone is rather fond of those, I see.” Caldir was proud that his voice hadn’t cracked, but the screaming that followed soon after dampened that accomplishment somewhat.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Kyris fought to keep his eyes open. He waited in an armchair that was far too cushioned and comfortable. The thought he might drift off to sleep, now of all times, was laughable. He slapped himself across the face, feeling the sting upon his cheek. It worked for a short while, but soon his eyelids crept ever lower. He grabbed his left forearm where the black hound had bite into it last night, and the pain jolted him upright in the chair. However, after a few ragged breaths, the fatigue crept up again. He pulled out his dagger, or rather the huntsman’s dagger, and vowed to stab himself if need be.

  There was still some gore on the blade from when he’d plunged it through the black hound’s eye. He hadn’t cleaned it well. That wasn’t like him. Baaz had drilled into him the importance of proper care for one’s weapons and tools. Kyris could see the old man’s disapproving frown now.

  Kyris thought he had never been more exhausted of body and spirit and for the first time, he questioned whether it was wise for him to be here, if he should have waited just a day or two. He had been riding upon a wave of frenzied strength since last night. He and his sisters had escaped the apartment, running in the night, yet again. They heard the howl of another black hound, he was certain, echoing through the street as if the beast could sense that its companion was dead.

  They'd fled upon the boat, traveling downstream on the Ryles.

  His sisters had been dumbfounded, from their own tribulations, certainly, but also from the fate of Caldir and the rest. Tasi, in particular, had a hard time processing how so much could change in a few hours. She’d asked about Adar, then covered her face and sobbed upon learning he hadn’t made it out.He’d only told them the bare minimum, for he was in no mood to talk further on it.

  Even now, what haunted his restless mind most, the one image that intruded over and over, was that of the people he’d abandoned. And more precisely, the one face he had been staring at before the Gloom descended. It was not his fault. He owed them nothing. They were responsible for their own fate. Kyris had repeated these words to himself, as if they were incantations to ward off the stink of culpability.

  The door to the small cottage opened, and an old man entered. He wore a loose-fitting brown tunic over a pair of baggy trousers. He coughed as he closed the door behind him and went to a nearby table, lighting a lamp. His soft-soled boots made a shuffling noise against the wooden floor.

  He had a full head of lank, dirty-white hair now, and the streak of gray in his beard had taken over, turning it drab. He was still tall, though not nearly as towering as Kyris remembered. The skin on his face sagged and was dotted with blotches of discoloration. It was him, but less so.

  At the confirmation of who it was, the weariness that pulled at Kyris was scorched away.

  “Kathmor of House Ganryre.”

  The man whirled around at the sudden proclamation, peering into the shadows. “Who’s there? How do you know me? If you intend to burgle me, you have made a grave mistake.”

  “Oh, and why is that? Have you nothing to rob?”

  The old man sputtered at the indignities. “Do you know what I am?”

  “You mean, other than a pathetic, decrepit whoreson?”

  “I am a scion of Allithor. I am an inquisitor of— ahhhhh!” Kathmor wailed as a knife hilt sprouted from his thigh. The blade hadn’t gone in too deep. Kyris had only flicked it, not wishing to seriously injure the man… yet. Kathmor managed to remain standing, both hands clutching his leg.

  “Inquisitor of ahhh?” Kyris mocked.

  Kathmor glanced to the door of the cottage.

  “Do not move,” Kyris warned, waving another throwing knife, “unless you want a matching set.”

  “Who are you? What is this about?”

  Kyris leaned forward into the light. “Who am I? That’s a question I've asked myself countless times. But it matters not who I am. This night, I’m your end, Inquisitor Kathmor. This night, I’m retribution. I’m justice.”

  Kathmor barked out a harsh laugh. “Bah. Justice, you say. I know you now. You are friend or kin to one that has fallen to holy immolation. A lover, perhaps? If so, then what you intend here will not be justice. Whatever happened, it was Allithor’s will. You strike against me, an agent of the Light, you bring damnation upon yourself.”

  “Oh, you have it wrong, my dear inquisitor. I’m not friend or kin, as you put it. I am one you’d sought to burn.”

  The old man’s confusion turned into dawning realization. Kathmor sucked in a breath. “You? A nightspawn?” The man actually seemed skeptical.

  “You thought it of me as a child but not now?”

  He sniffed. “If you are nightspawn, then you are also a fool. You somehow escaped Allithor’s wrath, and instead of retreating and cowering in some dank hole, where you belong, you come to the bastion of His power? You come within the domain of His light? Oh, the idiocy of it.” Kathmor chuckled to himself. “Oh, you will surely burn.”

  Kyris, his face like stone while Kathmor talked, stared into the old inquisitor’s eyes and grinned. “Will I? Why don’t you give it a go? You’ll find me much different from when we last met.”

  The old inquisitor returned Kyris’s hateful gaze in kind but didn’t make a move.

  “Well, why am I not ablaze? Where’s your little flame-staff, old man?”

  Kathmor continued to glare but said nothing.

  “I’m a foulspawn, inquisitor,” Kyris snarled, his voice full of venom. “My mere existence is an affront to your god. Burn me like you have so many before.” Kyris waited for an answer and when none came, he shouted, “Where are your flames? Answer me, old man!”

  Kathmor dropped his gaze but remained silent.

  Kyris flung himself out of the chair towards Kathmor, who, surprisingly, pulled the knife out of his thigh and swiped. Kyris halted his momentum and ducked back, just in time to avoid the attack. “Oh, the old hound still has fangs.” He laughed. “Are you as skilled with the knife as you are with hallowfire?” Kyris rushed forward, knocked the blade from Kathmor’s hand, and followed up with a fist to the face. He felt the crunch of the old man’s nose breaking.

  Kathmor staggered back until the wa
ll stopped him. Blood flowed down his face. He let out a pained moan, then slid to the floor.

  Kyris walked over, shaking his head in disgust. He loomed over the inquisitor, tapping the tip of his knife against his lips in contemplation. He planted the sharp edge against Kathmor’s other thigh, then applied pressure until the blade cut through fabric and sunk into flesh. The old man gasped.

  “There, now you match.” Kyris withdrew the blade. “Where were we? Right. Tell me, inquisitor, where are your cleansing flames?” Kyris asked, the point of the bloody blade hovering near the man’s face. “Have you lost your wits as well as your vigor to time? Did you forget your staff somewhere? Perhaps I can find it for you. Come now! Here I stand before you, a spawn of Mezu Vos. Burn me!” Kyris screamed the last words, mere inches from Kathmor’s face.

  “I… I cannot. I have no more power. Not anymore. I serve the Light in other ways now.” Kathmor held his hands to nose as he spoke, his voice thickened and muffled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have… lent my gift to the Artificers of Falduin, so that Allithor’s blessing may be spread to the masses beyond Vigil.”

  Again, the artificers. Was his fate intertwined with that damnable organization? “What did the artificers do with your gift? Explain.”

  “The lamps. The quartz lamps and torches. They hold the power of Allithorans, those whose gifts are too weak to be of much use or those… too old to serve further.”

  “How is this done?” Kyris asked, though he suspected he knew the answer already.

  “You would not understand.”

  “Tell me.” He leveled his knife at Kathmor.

  “I…” The inquisitor hesitated, then tilted his head and pulled his tunic aside to reveal his shoulder and upper back. There were inked markings and something inserted beneath the skin. It was more skillfully done or perhaps just more mindfully covered, compared to what he had seen on Baluras, but it was the same thing.