They moved inside the old shop, both of them stooping under the door frame. The owner had a wide variety of items, from things that probably passed for fashionable here to others that were far more utilitarian. Elade busied herself with a selection of traveling boots while Tevek found the owner.
She didn’t understand a word of the conversation, but it was obvious after a few moments that the two men knew each other. The owner was an older man, certainly past his sixties, with the hardened eyes of someone who had seen a great deal of suffering in his lifetime. Elade casually checked both floors of the shop to make sure no one else was present, then came back to stand next to them. The man regarded her with an odd expression but said nothing. Tevek would have probably switched to Crell or Ikaran if the man was capable or willing to speak either, but he was probably averse to speaking Crell out of pride. Not speaking Ikaran would be rare, though, especially for a merchant; it had become the unofficial trade language of Torsia over the last few centuries.
The whole conversation took only a few minutes, and Tevek eventually offered him a small pouch of gold coins. The man tried politely to refuse, but Tevek insisted, and after a brief embrace the two of them were back on the street.
“Sorry about that,” he told her, glancing about the streets. “Gurel’s not particularly social.”
Elade shrugged. “There are worse crimes, especially in a place like this.”
Tevek nodded distantly and angled them down a narrow street. “I saved his wife during the war, helped them get out of the city. Gurel isn’t a soldier by any stretch of the imagination, but he helped us out in other ways whenever he could. I had a feeling the rebels would try and get in contact with him eventually.”
“Ah,” she said quietly. “So what did he have to say?”
“He has a contact not far from here. He tosses a particular sale sign in his window when he’s picked up news the others might want. With any luck, someone will see it quickly, and he can arrange a rendezvous before nightfall.”
“That sounds easy enough.”
“Hopefully,” Tevek murmured. “I told him we would be at a diner about five blocks from here. We’ll just have to sit and wait.”
She nodded fractionally, sweeping her gaze about the area. As far as she could tell, no one was paying them any undue attention. “At least we’ll have a chance to try the local cuisine.”
“Galvian food is terrible. You’ll probably be eating your rations in no time.”
Elade grunted under her breath. “Then you’re definitely buying. Lead the way.”
***
When no one from the Resistance had come to meet with them after an hour, Tevek started to grow worried. When no one arrived after two, he was seriously starting to consider leaving Lyebel altogether. They couldn’t just sit in this café forever; they were already drawing more looks than he was comfortable with, and eventually one of the Crell soldiers would come by and start asking questions...
“Something wrong?” Elade asked in between bites of her bread.
“I’m just a bit distracted,” Tevek whispered, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Ever since they had crossed the border he had felt his tension level rising. Just being here in Galvia again was making him jump at shadows. It was hardly the proper behavior for a knight, especially the Highlord. “I have a lot of memories of this place, few of them good.”
Elade nodded and returned to her food. Despite his earlier warnings, she had probably sampled half the menu by now. She insisted that the food was far better than what they were used to at the Citadel, but Tevek knew she had to be faking it. Authentic Galvian cuisine tasted like stale bread wrapped in wet paper.
Still, at least the gross taste on his tongue had helped keep his mind from dwelling on the past. He had first set foot in Lyebel thirty years ago as a newly-promoted knight, and he had aided King Whitestone’s soldiers in capturing a pair of renegade Unbound. It was during that mission he had met then-Commander Ethan Moore, the man who had ultimately started the ill-fated Ash War. Together, the two of them had killed hundreds of Crell soldiers inside these walls over the years. Now Ethan and King Whitestone were gone, and the new Lyebel was barely recognizable.
Tevek flinched, realizing his guard had dropped. He swept his gaze back across the crowds of people in the street, most moving sullenly about their daily business. But one stood out: a middle-aged man crossing the street who kept glancing furtively in their direction.
“I think we’ve found our contact,” Elade said.
Tevek nodded. The man on the street wore a long, dark red coat over black trousers and a white shirt with enough decoration to suggest someone comfortably situated in the merchant class, probably a shop owner of some sort. His brown hair was long but well kept, and his beard was neatly trimmed. A few moments later he stepped over to a corner shop and started perusing a selection of baubles, but not before favoring them with another meaningful glance.
“Time to move,” he said. He tossed a few coins on the table, slung his hunting bow over his back, and then set out. Elade followed right behind him.
Once they had closed within about twenty yards, their contact casually turned away from the shop and continued on his way. He walked briskly but calmly, checking to ensure they were following only when he turned a corner. Tevek and Elade kept their distance, and no one seemed to be paying them any unusual notice. Within a few minutes they had left behind the main streets and crossed into a residential section. As the number of citizens thinned out, the man took an abrupt turn into an alleyway between buildings, and he was waiting for them when they rounded the corner.
“Well, I’ve certainly seen worse disguises,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned against a brick wall.
Tevek forced a tight smile. “We’re not used to skulking. “
“No, I suppose not,” the man said, returning the smile. “It’s not every day we get a visit from one of the most famous men in the world.” He extended a hand. “The name’s Olson, by the way. The boss sent me to bring you in.”
Tevek shook his hand firmly. “Glad to meet you. This is my partner, Dame Devarath.”
Olson’s expression flickered. He obviously hadn’t been expecting a non-human, but he nodded politely nonetheless “My pleasure. The boss will want to see you right away.”
“And who is this ‘boss’ of yours?” Elade asked.
Olson paused as if debating whether he should speak the name aloud or not. “His name is Adar. I’m sure the Highlord will remember him.”
“Kyle Adar?” Tevek stammered. “He’s still alive?”
Olson nodded. “He runs this show. He wanted me to bring you in as quickly as possible.”
Tevek whistled soundlessly. The last time he had seen Kyle, he had been a young man still grappling with the death of his king and the conquest of his homeland. He, like Ethan Moore, had been a member of the prestigious Hands of Whitestone, an elite group of Bound men and women who served as the king’s inner circle. Galvia had been a traditional monarchy, ruled over by a single king, but the Hands had provided a measure of stability and assurance to the people—they were explicitly selected from differing regions of the country in an attempt to account for multiple perspectives. After the war, Ethan had assembled the survivors as a part of his crusade to drive the Crell out of Galvia, but Tevek had thought they’d all died at Tibel two years ago.
“You know, it’s lucky you knew old Gurel,” Olson commented. “No offense, but the two of you stick out like a pair of groll at the winter ball.”
“We heard the rebels run half the city,” Elade replied. “Was that an exaggeration?”
“Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. The Crell still control the main gate and the Merchant District. We need to head into the docks before we’re safe. It shouldn’t take us more than half an hour or so.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“It shouldn’t be, not if you stay close,” Olson said. “Lyebel’s a big city, and I assume you didn’t tell anyon
e you were coming.”
“No one that would tip off the Crell, anyway. Besides, we’d heard they were afraid to move against you.”
The man grunted. “I wouldn’t go that far. They’re certainly back on their heels, though. Not really sure why, honestly. They have enough grunzen on the street to do whatever they want most of the time.”
Tevek nodded. It was a Crell derogatory term, meaning something along the lines of “grunt.” The locals had co-opted it years ago. “Well, lead on.”
The trio set off with Olson taking point. They mostly wove through the southeastern residential district before passing into the docks. The district was huge; it spread for nearly four miles along the river. Given the rumors of how firmly the Resistance controlled the area, Tevek wasn’t surprised when patrols seemed sparse. He wondered if Adar had simply bribed the local commanders or the Crell were legitimately afraid to travel in their own city. Olson kept them in alleyways and side streets, avoiding as much traffic as possible without being too obvious about it. It hardly seemed to matter; no one paid them any particular heed, and neither he nor Elade spotted anyone tracking them.
Tevek was almost willing to concede that he had been entirely too paranoid when a familiar warning tingle abruptly tingled down the length of his spine. The Aether stirred around them, and he slowed his gait and stretched out his senses to confirm his suspicions.
Demons. There were demons in the city.
Tevek froze in his tracks and turned to Elade. She had already stopped several feet behind him, her hand dropping to the handle of her blade as her eyes darted about the alleyway. Neither of them saw anything, but they both knew the monsters were lurking nearby…
With a flick of his wrist, Tevek summoned his shield onto his arm. The translucent blue-white disc shimmered angrily as he turned to Olson. The man’s face was a mask of confusion.
“What’s going—?”
Olson never finished the sentence. A barrage of crossbow bolts sprayed down from windows above them, and Tevek instinctively dropped into a crouch and raised his shield. Most of the bolts splattered harmlessly against the Aetheric disc, but one slipped past and clipped him in the shoulder, piercing his light armor. Tevek winced and lurched to the side, at which point a second shot slid through the back of his left leg.
“Elade! Go!” he cried out.
He needn’t have bothered, of course. The vaeyn was already moving.
Diving towards one of the long shadows on the opposite end of the alley, Elade narrowly dodged another volley of crossbow bolts. The shadows seemed to swirl around her like a plume of thick black smoke—and then suddenly she was gone. But Tevek knew he didn’t need to worry about his partner; he needed to worry about Olson.
The man had flatted himself on the cobblestones in panic, but the shots obviously hadn’t been aimed for him. Tevek’s first instinct was to rush forward and try to shield the other man, but that could easily backfire—the shots aimed for the paladin could then easily strike Olson. But if Tevek took off in the opposite direction, he doubted that the shooters would suddenly spare the man’s life. No, there was only one real option: the wooden door ten feet in front of them to the right. If Tevek could smash his way inside, they would be shielded from the marksman, and he could tend to his wounds while Elade hopefully confronted their attackers directly.
Clenching his teeth, Tevek lunged forward. With his shield still angled to protect his head and torso, he reached down with his right hand and swept Olson off the ground. The man cried out in terror, but Tevek ignored it. The Aether coursed through his muscles, bolstering them enough to easily carry a two hundred pound man in one hand. A moment later, just as another volley ricocheted off the paladin’s shield, he lowered his shoulder at the door and rammed it with every ounce of strength he could muster.
The wood splintered around him. He flipped inside almost uncontrollably, not expecting the frame to give so easily. He smacked the floor with a dull thud; the impact was enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He tilted his head to see Olson scrambling to a corner, his face scratched from wood chips but otherwise fine. Another hail of bolts pounded what was left of the door frame, but the angle was far too high for them to be any threat. Tevek focused on breathing and exploring his surroundings.
“Ah, Mr. Dracian, I believe,” a calm male voice said in the Crell language.
The paladin glanced up. Standing on the other side of the one-room floor were three men, all heavily armored and draped with city watch tabards. The two on either side had swords drawn; the man in the middle wore his on his belt, but his right hand shimmered with orange-white flame.
“Welcome back to Lyebel, Highlord,” the man said, smiling. “We’re so glad you decided to honor us with your presence.”
A gout of flame sprayed from his hand.
Chapter Sixteen
“Fear a paladin for the swift death they’ll bring. Fear a shadow knight for the swift death you will wish you had.”
—Naz’ale, a demon
Trz’yel forced Durech’s body to blink again once his eyes started to sting and water uncontrollably. It was such an annoying limitation, just like most other functions of a human body. Swallowing wheat and animal parts into his mouth twice a day was bad enough, but it was the little things he found the most irritating—breathing, blinking, defecating, and the like. In theory, Durech’s body should have been able to handle many of these functions itself, but the more control a demon exerted, the more the possessed body shut down. More than anything, it was a sign he needed to relax.
But Trz’yel had no desire to do so. His own hunger was rising and threatening to overwhelm his senses. He could smell the paladins approaching, and he yearned to feast on their torment. The thought made Durech’s body blink and breathe again.
“Are you…all right, sir?” the man to his right asked, a stupid expression on his face.
“I’m fine,” Trz’yel replied through Durech’s lips. “Pay attention to the street.”
The soldiers were all fools, but for the moment they remained an unfortunate necessity. Their team consisted of four men in total including Durech, and each had their crossbows trained on the alley below awaiting their commander’s order to fire. A second group was hiding below inside the lower level of the adjacent building. They were the “net,” so to speak, who would catch the paladins in the event they tried to flee.
“Our tracker says they will be here soon,” the man to his left warned. Beil was his name; he was a Bound, and their only way of communicating with the second team below and their tracker in the streets.
“Steady,” Trz’yel said. “Only fire on my mark.”
Right on queue a trio of figures rounded the alley corner. The knights had disguised themselves—poorly—and their escort was standing roughly ten feet in front of them. Trz’yel signaled for his men to take aim.
“Aim for the big one,” he said, leveling his own crossbow. If either of the knights survived their opening volley, Trz’yel wanted it to be the vaeyn. He had tasted plenty of humans during his time in this realm, and he grown bored with them. A vaeyn, on the other hand…now she would be a true delicacy. To bend the will of one who had taken pleasure in destroying so many creatures of the Void…
Trz’yel avoided licking his lips, and instead counted silently to himself. He just needed to wait for them to move a few more feet…
“They’ve stopped,” Beil said.
The soldier was right. The knights had stopped dead in their tracks near the center of the alley; they must have sensed Trz’yel’s presence, even from here, and he hissed between Durech’s teeth.
“Fire!”
He pulled the trigger. The bolt should have spliced the human knight’s head in half, but an instant before it impacted a shimmering disc of Aetheric energy flashed into existence on his arm and harmlessly deflected the shot away. Growling, Trz’yel continued to fire as quickly as the weapon could reload itself, but he knew it might have already been too late. The vaeyn ni
mbly flipped away into the nearby shadows and vanished, and a second later the human knight lunged forward and swept up their escort in his burly arms. With a bestial roar, he crashed through the closest door and into the adjacent building.
“Oh, shit,” one of the other soldiers hissed. “Secondary target is gone!”
“Hold the doorway in case they attempt to double back,” Trz’yel hissed, struggling to control his fury. The paladin’s stench was overpowering now; it burned his nostrils and caused his mouth to water. They were close now, so very, very close…
“You have one chance,” a strangely accented, female voice said from behind him. “Surrender, and you will be spared.”
Trz’yel spun on a heel. The other paladin stood in the doorway behind them, a glimmering silver sabre in one hand and shimmering blue energy shield in the other. The demon roared and hefted up his crossbow to fire—
“Too late,” the paladin said.
The room exploded in a brilliant white blast of energy, and Trz’yel screamed. The light seared Durech’s frail human eyes, and the demon was tempted to claw them out just to stop the pain. But even as the familiar sounds of battle raged around him—the clattering of steel, the smashing of glass— Trz’yel knew he didn’t need to rely on the pathetically weak senses of his human host. He could smell the vaeyn near him, and he could see the trail she left in the Aether as she moved.
The demon ignored his human senses and concentrated fully upon his own. The room became bluish mist, as thick as a cloud of billowing smoke, and he could see the outline of his soldiers as they fought in vain against a superior opponent. Trz’yel knew little of human combat forms, but even he knew they were doomed. A few pitiful city watchmen had no chance against a paladin, and Trz’yel knew that he didn’t either—at least, not if he fought conventionally.
Fortunately, demons rarely did.
Trz’yel drew his sword and lunged forward. The paladin stepped away from her last opponent as he collapsed with a gurgled shriek, and she whipped about her weapon in preparation for another attack. The demon hacked wildly as he dove in, and she easily parried away his blows and then punished him for his recklessness. Her blade pierced his chest, sliding in virtually all the way to the handle as his momentum carried him forward. The blow was mortal, at least to Durech’s feeble body. But that didn’t matter. It had served its purpose.
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