Aric’s eyes swung from the bard to the goons to Torvad. What was happening?
Leth stepped carefully next to Aric. “Should we make a run for it?” he whispered.
“No,” Aric replied, still studying the situation. “I want to see how this plays out.”
Things seemed to be at a standstill. The wall of goons was staring menacingly at the bard holding their boss hostage, seething with rage, but paralyzed nonetheless.
Torvad, gritting his teeth so hard they seemed to be getting even yellower, finally caved. “Step to the wall, boys,” he muttered.
Nothing happened.
“I said get to that wall!”
There were mutterings among the men, but slowly, one by one, they all stepped to the wall furthest from the front door.
“Now tell them to turn around and place both hands on the wall.”
“You’re dead, Darpallion,” Torvad hissed, but another jolt of the crossbow behind his head persuaded him to comply.
As the goons arranged themselves with their hands to the wall, the bard walked backwards, dragging his hostage at his side, locked in a tight grip, until he was standing next to Clea.
“Open the door, sweet face,” the bard said.
The huntress raised an eyebrow. “Captain?”
“Do as he says,” Aric replied. “But next time he calls you something like that, feel free to stick a knife in his eye.”
Darpallion chuckled. “We’re gonna get along just fine. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
The bard allowed the three hunters to exit the tavern. Then, as quickly as his fingers had played the chords of the mandolin, he knocked Torvad to the floor with the butt of the crossbow and ran outside, blocking the door with a chair he stole from beneath a table along the way out.
“Old town is that way,” Darpallion said, taking off. “We can lose them in the tight streets.”
Aric stopped him and aimed a finger in the opposite direction. “The rest of our company is that way.”
“That works too.”
They raced back to the meeting point, the ancient cobble stones too polished and slippery for Aric’s taste. Behind them, the tavern’s door sounded as if a bull was trying to tear it down.
The rest of the company was waiting for them around the corner, at the end of the street, where they had split up earlier. As they skidded to a halt, everyone noticed the newcomer, eyebrows raising.
“Making friends, captain?” Trissa asked.
“You know me,” Aric replied. “This is… Darpallion, was it?”
“Darpallion six fingers.” The bard took a deep, flourished bow. “Master Laureate of the seven instruments by the Lyrical College of Awam. World renowned poet and bard extraordinaire. Composer of many classics, including Tears of Pharyzah and Red Cheeks Nelly.”
“But you only have five fingers on each of your hands,” Irenya noted.
“And Red Cheeks Nelly has to be at least two hundred years old,” Dothea added.
Darpallion straightened up, preening like a peacock as he looked down at the dragon hunters along the length of his long, sharp nose. “The epithet is figurative, of course. And the song may have existed before, but it only became popular after I composed its modern arrangement. Now, are we going to debate my talents all night, or get the heck away from here? That chair won’t hold Torvad’s gang for long.”
“It seemed to be your gang as well,” Aric retorted. “But you’re right, we should get out of here. Can you take us to the local Dawnmother temple? We’re supposed to meet someone there.”
“Certainly. This way.” Darpallion flicked a finger, indicating where they were going, and dashed away.
Exchanging amused glances, the dragon hunters followed.
The temple wasn’t far. Either that or the town of Tabriq was simply very small. Darpallion was careful though, checking every corner for unwanted presences before advancing. The man clearly knew what he was doing.
As they progressed, the stone houses became older and the cobbled streets became narrower. They were forced to hide in shady corners a couple of times and wait out paladin patrols, the astringent tang of urine biting in their noses.
Once at the temple, Darpallion made short work of the lock on the temple’s side door, motioning the hunters inside. Countless candles burned in clusters around the rows of pews. Behind the altar, hanging from the ceiling, was a crimson tapestry upon which Ava stood, clad in white robes, her arms opened as if embracing all who walked into her temple. The most remarkable thing inside, however, was the fresco filling most of the ceiling above the central nave. In it, Ava’s Dawnstar shone down on a group of men, women, and children, sheltering them from an onslaught of dragons, the dark beasts hitting the light and turning tail to flee from the goddess’s power.
Aric scoffed. “Pathetic…” he muttered.
“She can hear you, you know?”
Aric looked down from the fresco. Athan was standing next to him, his prayer flask piously lit in his hands.
“I don’t think she ever liked me to begin with, so what difference does it make?” Aric motioned towards the painting. “You’re a dragon hunter, Athan. You think that’s an accurate depiction of how dragons are killed?”
“How would we kill dragons without Ava’s Glowstone?” Athan asked. “That is figurative. Much like our new friend’s nickname.”
“Then why are we depicted cowering?” Aric looked at Athan, waiting for a reply. When all he received was a short glance, he turned to Darpallion “Speaking of our new friend, I have some questions for you.”
The bard was sitting on one of the pews, bitterly inspecting the crossbow he’d stolen. “Shouldn’t have left my mandolin back at the tavern,” he muttered. “Doubt I can make any music out of this thing.”
“I remember you playing it quite convincingly back at the tavern,” Aric said. “I have to say, I’m rather curious as to why someone would risk their life to help some random strangers.”
“Risk my life and throw away a small fortune,” Darpallion replied. “Let’s not forget I would’ve received a share of the reward.”
“Reward?” Dothea jumped over the pew and sat on top of the backrest, next to Darpallion. “How much are they offering for us?”
The rest of the company approached, similarly curious, forming a tight circle around the bard as if the man was about to perform.
Darpallion smirked. “Enough for an extravagant man to retire on.”
“If the reward was that large, you’d never receive it,” Leth said skeptically. “The Paladins probably intended to kill whoever delivered us to them.”
“Smart man,” Darpallion commended him. “But that’s not the reason I helped. Truth is, I’m with the rebellion, and I’m well aware of everything the Guild has done for the cause.”
“So, what? This is your way of saying thanks for the smuggled dragon blood?” Aric asked.
“We’re on the same team,” Darpallion replied. “I felt compelled to help.”
“Actually, we’re with the Rebellion ourselves now.”
Darpallion spread his arms. “Then we are definitely on the same team.”
“What will you do now?” Clea asked. “Those men will be looking to kill you.”
“I’ll have to leave town.” Darpallion shrugged. “But Tabriq isn’t exactly brimming with opportunity, is it?”
“Well, for now, you can stay with us,” Aric offered. “We should be able to keep you safe enough, for the time being. It’s the least we can do. Unfortunately, we are on a mission, and that will take precedence over your safety. I hope you understand.”
Darpallion nodded. “Where is the friend you’re meeting? I thought you said he’d be here.”
“She,” Aric corrected. “What time is it?” He looked at the candle clock on a column near the altar, but never really took the reading. The click of a door being unlocked echoed across the nave and Eliran’s deep purple robe flowed inside through a small door behind the altar.
“You’re here,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Good. We shouldn’t waste time.”
“What did you find?” Aric asked.
“Not much,” she admitted, starting towards the group. “Astoreth must have…” Eliran froze once she’d drawn closer, eyes locking on Darpallion. “You?”
The bard rose to his feet, a nervous smile playing with his cheeks. “Eli! So good to see you.”
Aric looked between the two of them. “You know each other?”
Eliran lunged forward, grabbed hold of Darpallion’s neck, and took him down to the floor, the bard gasping desperately for air.
“I’ll kill you, you miserable rat!”
* * *
Darpallion massaged his neck, red stripes marking where Eliran’s fingers had nearly squeezed the life out of him. By the time Aric had finally managed to pull Eliran away, the bard had already turned purple.
“I don’t understand,” Aric said. “I thought you said you were a member of the Rebellion.”
“Because he’s a liar!” Eliran thundered, her voice echoing from one side of the vaulted room to the other, the flagstones on the floor seemingly about to crack beneath her feet. “He’s a traitor.”
“I’m not a traitor!” Darpallion protested.
Eliran spun on her heels and aimed a finger at the bard. “You sold out the entire Ashan cell!”
“I was tortured. I cracked.”
“Twenty people were killed because of you that day. I was nearly killed because of you that day.”
Darpallion shot to his feet. “And I’m the one who has to live with it!”
Aric stepped between them, two pacifying hands raised. “Alright, settle down, both of you.” He looked at Eliran. “You know we have more important things to deal with right now. Can you please let this go? He did save our lives.”
The mage clenched her jaw tight, taking in a breath so harsh it looked like fire would gush out from her chest. After an overlong pause, she nodded. “Get out of my sight, Darpallion.”
“No,” the bard replied, his chin raising haughtily. “I’m not going anywhere. I want to help.”
Eliran’s head swung backwards as she cackled loudly. “You have got to be delusional.”
“I can help,” he insisted. “I know who you’re after. It’s that evil woman who took over the port, isn’t it?”
Eliran gave him a stare and Darpallion cracked a smile.
“I knew it! The moment she arrived, I knew what she was. Everyone from gang leaders to the local paladin commander were treating her like royalty. She even hired my gang.”
“Hired your gang for what?” Eliran demanded.
Darpallion’s smile widened. “See. I can help.”
Eliran took a step forward. “You can help by getting the heck away from me,” she said, ice in her voice.
“No. I can help by telling you exactly how to steal whatever is in that crate.”
12
The Victories That Do Not Last
“You sure you don’t want to stop for a moment?” Fadan asked.
“The city’s right over the hill,” Sabium replied. “Why stop now?”
“Because we’ve been riding for two days straight. You must be tired.”
Sabium frowned. “I’m not so old that I can’t ride a horse.”
“A silver Talent he’s been using a pain killing spell the whole journey,” Phaedra said with a grin. She’d been riding behind the two of them since they’d left Ragara, swivelling atop her horse as if she was about to doze off.
“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to say yes when I asked you to come,” Fadan told his tutor.
“I didn’t come because I thought you needed help if that’s what you’re thinking.” Sabium glanced around. The road to Aparanta wound between rolling green hills crowned with cypress trees. Occasionally, a farm would pop up, surrounded by orchards and cereal plantations. “I came for the view. There’s only so much time you can spend in those tunnels before you start losing your mind.” He looked over his shoulder. “And for your information, I haven’t drunk any Runium since before yesterday.”
Phaedra was facing the sun, her eyes closed, basking in the warmth. She simply smiled.
“Well, your old apartment in Augusta wasn’t much better than the Ragaran tunnels,” Fadan noted. “And you didn’t exactly go out much then.”
Sabium’s frown deepened. “I’m a mage and lived right under the emperor’s nose, what did you expect?”
“Sure, but it’s not like you have the Academy’s symbol tattooed on your forehead. My point is, I didn’t even expect you to stay in Ragara.”
“Of course I stayed in Ragara.” The old mage sounded hurt. “I committed to be your magic tutor. Wait… what are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know.” Fadan shrugged. “Maybe you did come to help me.”
Sabium stared at him for a while. “Oh, I know what this is. This is about Alman. You think that I, what, feel some kind of obligation to him? Because he’s dead, I have to join his Rebellion, now?”
“Your words, not his.” Phaedra opened her eyes. “Who’s Alman?”
Fadan chuckled.
“Shut up!” Sabium barked at her.
The prince turned back on his horse to face Phaedra and mouthed, His brother.
She replied with a long, silent, Oh!
They crested a hill and halted their mounts. Down below, the city of Aparanta sprawled, its myriad buildings so jam packed together they threatened to burst through the city walls and spill over the green fields surrounding it. The gates were wide open, a steady stream of citizens entering the city under the watchful eyes of the Legionaries atop the battlements—dozens and dozens of Legionaries, their steel armour plates gleaming under the sun.
“Regret not bringing an escort, yet?” Phaedra asked.
“You’re my escort,” Fadan replied.
“Not if we have to fight all those soldiers, I’m not.”
“We’re here to get those soldiers on our side, not to fight them.”
“What about your cousin?” Sabium asked.
“What about him?”
“Aren’t you going to try to get him on your side as well?”
“We’re not exactly the best of friends.”
“What does that mean?” Phaedra asked.
“Well, the last time we saw each other we were twelve,” Fadan replied. “And I punched him in the face.”
“What?” Sabium snapped. “Why?”
“He lost a game of Lagaht to Aric. Being as bad a loser as he was at Lagaht, he accused my brother of cheating and threatened to take this accusation to my father. Tarsus never needed any excuses to punish Aric, and he could sometimes get rather… creative. So, I prevented Varinian from carrying out his threat.”
“With your fists?” Phaedra asked, smiling.
Something in the way she said it made Fadan’s cheeks grow warm and he found himself suddenly tongue-tied, so he shrugged.
“That was a long time ago,” Sabium said. “You were kids. I’m sure he’s over it.”
“Maybe,” Fadan sighed. “But there’s also the case of him being next in line for the throne after me. Call me a cynic, but I wouldn’t count on his support for my cause.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t either,” Phaedra agreed.
“Alright, then how exactly are we going to steal his Legions?” Sabium asked.
“We?” Fadan echoed, grinning. “I thought you weren’t here to help me.”
“Doesn’t make me any less curious.”
“I have to say I’m equally curious,” Phaedra said. “How does one steal two Legions?”
“The Legions stationed in Aparanta are the fifth and the seventh,” Fadan replied. “Together they make up army group three, which, if I’m not mistaken, is commanded by General Vardrada. She was Intila’s second in the Expeditionary Legions. If she’s half as honourable as him, I think I can persuade her. So, first, we need to find her.”
&n
bsp; “And then?”
“Then the war begins.”
* * *
Hagon pushed a log deeper into the fire, waking it into a frenzy of sparks and crackles. Around them, a veritable city of tents and wagons had grown out of merchants and travellers too stubborn to be turned back by the Legionaries blocking the gates of Capra.
“You know, I always enjoyed the company of sailors,” Doric said, grabbing a wineskin from one of their travel bags. “On dry land, I mean. I was never crazy about boats.” He unstoppered the wineskin and took a whiff. “You can always trust a sailor to know where the drinks are stronger.”
“We should be scouring the wall, looking a for a way in,” Hagon said with a frown.
“What for? So we can get stuck inside the city?” Doric drank from the wineskin and grimaced. “Ugh! This is not the finest red from Campere.”
“We won’t get stuck inside. Drusus will know how to break the blockade. He’s an expert smuggler. Breaking blockades is what he does.”
“How much did we pay for this again?” Doric asked, eyeing his wine with suspicion.
Instead of replying, Hagon snatched the wineskin from Doric’s hands, stoppered it with a smack, then shoved it back into the travel bag. “We should be looking for a way into Capra!”
“That sounds like looking for needless trouble. The Saffya river isn’t the only route to Pharyzah. We could buy a couple of horses.”
“The river is the fastest way,” Hagon argued. “Taking the road would delay us for weeks, even on horse. You want to leave Cassia rotting in a cell any longer than strictly necessary?”
Doric gave him a bitter glare. He had waited over fifteen years for Cassia. Each additional day without her was yet another stab into his ruined heart. Still, making sure he actually got there and saved her was far more important than trying to go faster.
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 18