“Why would we do that?” Yosrick asked. “It’s powerful magic. We need all the help we can get on this quest, especially now. I will carry it, strong of fortitude as I am.” He puffed up his chest.
Endira gave a wan smile. “Very well. I think Nera would rather have us use whatever tools we need rather than let some evil creature of the Deep Roads acquire it.” The elvish dagger, Lightslicer, remained clutched tightly in Nera’s right hand.
Yosrick scooped up the bone dagger with a bolt of cloth and tucked it into a pouch on his belt. He was careful not to touch it, Endira noted.
“Let us gather Athyzon’s and Nera’s bodies together,” Idrimel said. “I will bless them, and we can send them on their way to the afterlife.”
It took the three of them to lift Athyzon’s corpse and bring him to the cleared spot where Idrimel would perform the ceremony. Once they had gently laid the big warrior down, they discovered yet another shock.
A large pool of dried blood stained the ground where Nera had fallen, but her body had disappeared.
“Ye gods!” Yosrick cried. He drew his hammer and raced over to where Nera’s body had lain. He crouched and studied the ground. “Cursed carrion eaters waste no time in feasting.” He glared into the darkness, but all was still.
The three of them peered into the darkness but could neither see nor hear any sign of scavengers. Endira concentrated for a moment but could detect no significant signs of life in the immediate area other than the three remaining companions.
“No scavengers are around that could’ve taken her so swiftly. I think—”
“Her deity has called her home,” Idrimel finished. “Perhaps the gods are not yet done with Nera.”
The three of them were left to ponder that possibility.
Chapter 19
A fierce grin spread across Arron’s face as he studied the scene of destruction around him. The grotesque basalt statue of Shaol had been smashed to pieces. A desiccated, headless corpse of one of Zaefir’s thralls lay on the ground, and shattered bones were strewn everywhere amongst the rubble. A thin layer of ash covering the floor stirred in small puffs at Arron’s footfalls. The stifling presence of evil that had previously suffused the manor was gone. After a brief search, he knew Nera had taken the Bracer of Fellraven.
“Good on you, lass. Sorry to have missed this one—must have been a hell of a battle. I reckon your new friends must’ve helped you take down that bloodsucking bastard.” Pride swelled in his heart at his sister’s resourcefulness. “Zaefir the Formerly Undying but Newly Deceased. I like the sound of that much better.” He chuckled to himself. “I don’t know where you are off to, but it’s good you are away from Nexus. This city is about to collapse on itself much like a rotten melon fallen off a farmer’s wagon.”
He tried to suppress the worry he felt at the recent revelation she had an impostor in her group. He suspected Lassiter was somehow behind it after their last encounter in the dungeon, of which he could only remember bits, as if through an inebriated haze.
Arron thought back to the bizarre conversation he’d had earlier with Sven, barkeep at the Zombie. After searching Nera’s hovel and other usual haunts in a vain attempt to find her, he finally had some luck when he stopped at the Zombie.
***
“Arron!” Sven called out when he walked in the tavern. “Looking a bit worse for wear since the last time you’ve stopped in, my friend. Ale?”
The half-elf sat at the bar and nodded. “Course I’ll have one, mate.” He looked over the loose-fitting tunic and breeches covering his thinner frame—a result of the past week spent rotting in the Magehunters’ dungeon.
After getting out of the sewers, he’d stopped by the home of a washerwoman he knew. The woman had held her nose when he knocked on her door, covered in filth. He’d offered her some coin from a thin purse he’d managed to filch, but the kindly woman wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she ordered him to strip down and wash himself from a basin of hot water. She burned his filthy clothes and gave him an old but clean tunic and breeches her youngest son had once worn. Before leaving, despite her protestations, he’d rewarded the woman generously for her kindness. The city was in rough shape, from what he’d seen and heard, and times were especially tough for the common folk.
Arron patted his flat, empty stomach. “I didn’t need that ale belly anyway—would only slow me down,” he said with a chuckle.
Sven finished pouring a tankard and placed it in front of him. He eyed the half-elf for a moment. “You should get some food in yer gullet, too. Supplies are running low, but I’ve got some day-old bread and a bit of stew from earlier left over.”
“That sounds great. Haven’t had a decent meal for some time, mate.” Arron plunked down the six coppers remaining of the clink he’d taken from the slim purse, figuring it plenty for the leftovers and a healthy tip for the barkeep.
Sven took a pull of his own ale and eyed the coins. “Normally, I’d be asking for three times that, times being what they are and all,” he said apologetically.
Arron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That tough lately? Can I get you back? I’ve got to stop by the guildhouse anyway, and I’ve got a small stash of clink there.”
Sven sighed and pocketed what Arron had put down. “Aye, I’m afraid it’s that bad indeed. All trade is halted since the Machine died. Prices have shot up fivefold. By tomorrow, will likely be sixfold. Everyone’s barely holding on right now. Can’t afford to charge less, and nobody can afford to pay what I do charge.” He gestured at the nearly empty common room. “I’ll cover the rest this time, my friend. You and Nera have brought in so much business over the years, it’s the least I can do.” He went to the kitchen for a couple minutes and returned with a hard heel of bread and a large bowl of lukewarm stew with a layer of fat coagulated on the surface.
Arron thanked him and stirred up the stew. He dunked the hard bread and took a bite. It tasted delicious after having eaten nothing but hard scraps of moldy bread and the occasional bowl of cold gruel in the dungeon. “Speaking of Nera, have you seen my sister? I’m trying to find out where she’s been of late.” He tried to hold down his worry after having found her hovel ransacked and occupied by squatters. “I’ve been a bit… indisposed, unfortunately.”
“You mean since night before last?”
“She was here night before last?” Arron took a large spoonful of stew.
“Aye, with you. And the rest of your group.”
“Come again?” Arron looked at him in surprise. He had just escaped from the sewers that morning.
“You shittin’ me, lad?” Sven’s eyebrows nearly retracted into his thinning hairline, and he looked at Arron as if unsure whether he was serious or jesting. “You walked in, had a big reunion with your sister, drank some of my ale, and then everyone left about an hour later. I saw it clear as day. Oh, and Nera fainted or something. Too much ale, I reckon.”
It was Arron’s turn to stare dumfounded at the barkeep. “I met Nera and some others… and she passed out from too much ale?” A bad feeling started to form in Arron’s gut, and it wasn’t from the food and drink. Nera could almost drink a dwarf under the table. And someone was magically disguised as me!
Sven looked confused. “Aye, that’s what happened. Did someone hit you over the head? Or maybe you drank too much yourself after leaving.” He shrugged, clearly at a loss.
“Nay… something isn’t right. Something bad has happened.” He thought back to when he was locked in the dungeon. Lassiter had done something to him, broken his mind somehow. Arron had thought he had been hallucinating, seeing his own face staring back at him, but realized that must’ve really happened.
Doppelgänger. The thought struck him like a bucket of ice water. That bastard is a doppelgänger. The unusual creatures from the outer planes were monsters common to bedtime stories used to frighten young children.
Arron shoved the stool back, ready to race off after Nera. “Tell me what happened. Where did she go? Who
was with her?”
Sven made a calming motion with his hands. “Whoa, just a minute there! Finish your food and ale. You’ll be in no condition to help her if she’s in danger by running off half-cocked without any food in your belly.”
Arron took a deep breath and sat back down. He realized Sven had the right of it—running after them half-starved and without any gear would be foolish. The trail had been cold for almost two days. He cursed the Magehunters. His escape path through the sewers hadn’t allowed him to try to recover his weapons before escaping.
Forcing himself to eat another bite of the stew, he asked, “Do you have any idea where Nera went?”
“All of them had their gear packed as if they were going adventuring. So that wasn’t you with them? An impostor, then?”
Arron nodded grimly.
Sven went on to relay what he had witnessed over the past few days. Nera had been in with an elf and a dwarf, and several other companions later joined them, to include a pair of plane-blessed Solites and a gnome. Sven remembered the plane-blessed duo clearly, particularly the beautiful woman. He had the look in his eye that Arron knew came from infatuation with a woman of surpassing beauty. On the second occasion Nera and her companions had met at the Zombie, the Arron impostor had showed up, to his sister’s great surprise. After she had recovered from passing out, they’d gathered their gear and left for some “staging area” that Sven had heard them mention.
None of them seemed familiar to Arron, based on their descriptions. He was surprised Malek hadn’t been with them since his sister seemed to have taken a fancy to the mage.
“You didn’t see a mage with them?” he asked. “Younger human fellow, dark-brown hair, blue eyes. Awfully green.”
Sven thought for a moment. “Aye, I think your sister was playing a lad by that description—out to take his coin, I reckon. Don’t remember him too well, though… That was probably about a week or so ago by now.”
“Odd, since they’ve been spending time together.” He had a bad feeling that Malek’s sudden disappearance might have had something to do with the rumored battle at the fortress and then the stopping of the Machine, scraps of information he’d heard from snatches of conversation on the street. Malek was heart-set on finding this master of his… Sounds as if events spiraled out of control and Nera was caught up in it.
He hurriedly finished his food and ale and thanked the barkeep.
“If you see her come by, tell her she’s in danger and beware the impostor. I’ll stop by each evening around the seven o’clock hour to see if she’s been by.”
“Aye, I’ll do that. You go take care of your sister, mate. I’d hate anything ill to befall her.”
As would I, he thought grimly. Surely, nothing good could come of Lassiter impersonating him.
***
The only idea Arron had been able to think of to get off plane since the mages were being arrested and forced into hiding was the manner in which Nera herself had gotten away. Since he knew she had likely escaped Nexus, he needed to get off plane himself. He didn’t know if she was being somehow coerced to take those others with the Bracer or somehow duped into it, but he worried about her.
I’ve failed in my duty of protecting her. That thought compelled him even more than simple worry over her well-being.
Arron made his way out of Zaefir’s crumbling estate. He paused, concealed in the shadows beside the gate as a squad of mercenaries jogged down the street toward the noise of some disturbance in the distance. Having only a vague idea of where to turn for help, he hurried through the fairly calm Noble District, sticking to the shadows when he could, but hardly anyone was on the streets. His goal was to return to the High Market and find Zar Jurrik, a Torumel that he knew in passing. Whether the creature would care to aid him or instead have him tossed out on the street was another matter.
A riot appeared to be on the verge of breaking out when he reached the edge of the Noble District. Guards patrolled the barricades they had erected, trapping the common folk in the High Market. Arron took a side street running parallel. When he was out of sight, he quickly leapt and clambered atop the eaves and onto the roof of a low building. He climbed to the roof of an adjoining two-story building and crossed the roof until he neared the wall dividing the districts. After a running jump, he was able to scale the wall. Once he clambered atop it, he sat there for a time, frozen by the view.
Nexus was burning. Flames had broken out in several places, likely in the slums judging by the approximate location. He hoped the fires would be put out soon. If not, the poorest of Nexus’s citizens would be in grave danger. A squadron of the Watch skirmished with the mob at the opposite end of the High Market.
Arron made his way along the wall and dropped down onto the awning of an abandoned stall below. The red-and-white cloth tore under his weight, but it stopped his descent so that he bounced off and nimbly landed on his feet.
To Arron’s dismay, the small shop Zar Jurrik had occupied on a narrow side street just off the market had been looted and burned. There was no sign of the Torumel or his guardian.
Damn… I’m about out of bloody ideas. Suppose I’ll try the guildhall although I’ll have to be careful since it appears they sold us out. They might have some idea where the Torumel relocated to. If Zita is around, she may have some word of Nera.
The thought of facing his former lover made him uncomfortable, but he would do what was needed to find his sister. Remembering his stash of coin and gems left behind in the vault made up his mind. I hope those bastards haven’t already stolen it.
“Nexus is cursed!” A shrill voice drew Arron’s attention. “ʼWare, the gods have damned Nexus for the wicked ways of its ruler! The time of judgment is at hand! If you haven’t made your peace with the gods, you’d best do it anon! The hordes of the Abyss shall be unleashed. Countless thousands will be slain! Every man, woman, and child will burn in hellfire!”
Near the edge of the High Market, a doomsayer in tattered brown robes stood atop a wagon with a broken wheel. His cries carried over the nearly deserted remains of the market. The man’s eyes were wide with the fervor of madness, his hands wildly gesticulating in the air as if fending off the demon hordes. A small crowd had formed, listening to the man’s rants. Arron’s keen eyes also spotted a squad of the Watch observing the small gathering with disapproval.
I’d wager this gets put down before I make it to Skylark Lane, even.
Arron made his way across the edge of the market to the winding lane that culminated near his guildhall.
“I call on every hale man and woman to rise up against the wickedness of the Pale Lord, lest we all be damned!” the doomsayer shouted. “What say you, my friends?”
“Oi! Get down from there, you! That’s enough of your heresy.” The sergeant of the Watch squad pointed at him, and a pair of his men raced over to the wagon. “You rabble best be on your way, or I’ll have you arrested for fomenting rebellion!”
The crowd needed no further encouragement—they swarmed away much like cockroaches in a dark room fleeing the light of a lantern.
“Lackeys of the Pale Lord! You are complicit in his wickedness! We shall all pay the ultimate price! You’d best—oof!”
One of the Watchmen grabbed the man’s ankle and yanked hard, jerking him off his feet. The doomsayer landed heavily on his face before he was dragged off the wagon. The sound of his cries was swiftly cut off by the rhythmic rising and falling of the guards’ cudgels.
The authorities can’t have madmen stirring up open rebellion, no matter their claims may have a grain of truth to them.
Arron broke into a jog and, after several minutes, approached the guildhall. He paused to survey the alley leading to the entrance from across the street and was glad he did. After just a few minutes, rogues began filtering into the alley, first individually, then in pairs and trios. He recognized a few, but none of them would he consider trustworthy—quite the opposite. They were the least loyal and the surest bets to turn on th
eir mates for a few coppers.
Shortly after the near score of rogues had stopped flowing into the alley, shouts of alarm and the ring of steel met Arron’s ears. He reached for his sword and dagger and cursed when he remembered he was unarmed. Not knowing what else to do, he ran across the street toward battle.
Damned arseholes—of all the times to try to overthrow the leadership of the guild, when Nexus needs stability the most. The thought barely crossed his mind before he realized the reason for the coup attempt was exactly because of the instability in Nexus. He and Nera hadn’t spent much time around the guild in the past year or more since having gotten arrested and put to work in the foundry, but he still had friends there, and he would be damned if he planned on letting them be cut down by these disloyal curs.
Arron rounded the corner toward the guildhall. The door had been forced open. A pair of rogues lay bleeding out on the street outside the door. Arron recognized Urnov, a veteran rogue he and Nera had gone on a couple jobs with in the past. The man was reliable and trusted, but he didn’t look as if he’d last much longer with a vicious stab wound to the gut.
“Urnov!” Arron knelt over the man.
“Arron,” came the surprised reply. “Just a bit too late, mate.” He groaned as the effort to speak caused more blood to leak from his wound.
“Hang on. I’ll find help.” Arron wondered if he’d be able to find a healing potion or some other beneficial magic in time.
Urnov waved him off. “It’s too late for me. Try to save Zita before it’s too late.”
“Aye, I will. Have you seen Nera about?” Arron watched the guildhall, where sounds of combat were coming from deep inside.
“Nay, but heard she was the one that offed Rollo in his sleep. Talk to Zita—she’s now in charge.”
“Hang on. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Arron clasped Urnov’s hand. He took a step away before he spotted Urnov’s short sword lying on the cobblestones a couple feet away. He noted the quality craftsmanship as he snatched it up before racing inside the hall.
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