D’Jenn’s mind, however, kept returning to Victus.
The man would not get weaker if left to his own devices. D’Jenn knew without any shred of doubt that this would be the best time to strike, before the deacon could put his plans into motion. The Mekai was a wise man, but he was no prophet, no muse. He was just a man.
A man who was soundly outmaneuvered, D’Jenn reminded himself.
He clenched his jaw together as everyone continued deeper into the tunnels. Dormael and Shawna strode ahead of him, speaking in low tones and keeping watchful eyes on Bethany. Allen walked behind them, weapons clinking all over him. D’Jenn wondered for the hundredth time why the man wouldn’t just pick one or two that he liked. The bubble of light—with Lacelle and the scholars—shone ahead of them, pushing back the darkness in the ancient corridor. No one was paying attention to him.
D’Jenn couldn’t stand it any longer.
He reached into his cloak, and ripped Vera’s letter from inside. The paper was thin, but still in good condition. D’Jenn closed his eyes for a bare moment, steeling himself for what might lay within. After the moment had passed, he ran his eyes over the letter. His hands shook as he read Vera’s last words to him.
D’Jenn—
I don’t know if this will ever reach you, though I hope it will. You might hear a lot of things about me—about all of us. How we’re traitors, or maybe that we had gone rogue, I don’t know. None of it is true. I don’t have long, and I don’t know if someone is going to find this and destroy it. To the Hells with them. Victus is not who you think. He killed some of us already, I’m sure of it, though I can’t prove it. I’m going to try, though. I hope it’s me that tells you this, and not this letter. If not, know that I always loved you. I always will. If I’m dead and you’re reading this, then get out of Ishamael, D’Jenn. Run, and never come back.
There was no signature, but he recognized Vera’s flowing script. There was a smudge on one of the words that made it barely legible, as if from a drop of water, or a tear. D’Jenn folded the letter carefully, placing it back in his cloak. It was more difficult than he thought it would be, with his hands shaking so much.
“Dormael!” he said. His cousin turned, a knowing look on his face.
“Somehow I knew that you were going to do this,” Dormael said. “You know what the Mekai said.”
“I know what he bloody well said,” D’Jenn growled. “I don’t agree. Since I’m now an outlaw, I think I’m going to start acting like one. He killed them, Dormael—all our friends. He killed Vera.”
“I understand, coz, but what if the Mekai was right? What if you’re killed?”
D’Jenn shrugged. “That’s the risk we take. You know that. Give me a pebble, and make sure everybody gets out of here alive.”
Dormael gave him an opaque look, but finally nodded his head. He reached into his purse and drew out a pair of copper marks, opening his Kai to weave a bit of magic into the coins. D’Jenn and his cousin often performed this spell using pebbles, which would allow them to find one another. Once Dormael was done, he flipped one of the marks to D’Jenn.
“That should do the trick,” Dormael said. “If you live, and the mark doesn’t work for some reason, just look north along the river. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Don’t die up there, Warlock,” Shawna said. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.” She surprised him by wrapping him in a quick hug. Dormael gave him a silent nod, which D’Jenn returned. Allen walked up and held out one of his hand-axes, proffering the hilt to D’Jenn.
“Take it,” he said. “It will be better for the sort of killing you’re looking to do than that big, clunky thing.” Allen gestured down at D’Jenn’s mace, then held out his hand to receive it.
“Thank you,” D’Jenn said. He switched weapons with Allen, and hefted the axe. It was light, and the head was bearded. He slipped it through the loop on his belt, and clasped arms with the gladiator.
“Don’t die,” Allen said, giving his hand a firm shake.
“It’s certainly not in the plan,” D’Jenn said.
“How do you mean to avoid the Mekai’s sleeping spell?” Dormael asked.
D’Jenn smiled.
“With a little something we picked up along the way.”
**
Abdiel’s feet were killing him, his heels flattened under all the weight he had carried during the day. Unloading crates at the river docks was back-breaking work, and nothing fit for a skilled man like Abdiel. Him, a talented smith, forced to move bloody crates for a pittance of bronze per week. Even the dockman—Rulan, the fat fucker—made three silver marks a week. Abdiel’s pay was robbery, plain and simple.
Let’s move to Ishamael, Jalien had said, there is opportunity there, and we’ll live in the grandest city in the Sevenlands! The only opportunity Abdiel had found was six bronze marks per week for listening to Rulan’s voice screaming, his mouth chewing, and his chest heaving with overworked breaths if he actually had to get up from his seat at any point during the day. Three silver marks per week, and all the bastard did was yell at everyone else, and shove mounds of food down his gullet.
Oh yes, he thought, the grandest city in all the Sevenlands.
Every day he came closer to kicking that fat bastard into the river.
It was all for Jalien, though. Abdiel loved her like nothing in the world—and she knew it, too. All it had taken was a batting of the eyes, a turn of smile, and a night of pleasure the likes of which he may never see again. The next week they had been off to Ishamael, leaving Gernholdt forever behind them.
Though part of him resented the work he had found, Abdiel was a lucky bastard, and he knew it. The object of his desire actually returned his love. He could spend his days suffering under Rulan’s horseshit, that was fine.
His nights would be spent curled around Jalien, and those were worth a million days with Rulan.
Jalien had been the innkeep’s daughter, and the prettiest girl in the village, too. Abdiel had always prided himself on that. The prettiest girl in all the village, and she loved him. They’d been betrothed for an entire season, but hadn’t been able to keep their hands from each other. When Abdiel got Jalien pregnant, they were wed early amidst the scandal. Jalien hadn’t been able to take the talk, and didn’t want their daughter Selah to be an outcast when she grew old enough to play with the other children. The thought of the town ostracizing their daughter had been more than she could take, even though she had taken the whispers of her former friends for almost a year by the time she wanted to leave.
The truth was, Abdiel hadn’t needed much convincing. He had been a smithy’s apprentice back in Gernholdt. He’d been sure that he would be able to find work as a journeyman here in Ishamael, especially if anyone got a look at his work. His hands could work steel like they’d been made to do it. In Gernholdt, Abdiel would have been condemned for the rest of his life to building wagon wheels and shoeing horses. He might have been able to mend one or two weapons in his life, but he’d never learn how to make them. He grimaced down at his hands, as if they were to blame for the rotten luck.
Grandest city in all the fucking Sevenlands.
The reality in Ishamael was that the Smithing Guild controlled every smithy in the capital—setting prices, making rules, and deciding whom to endorse. They’d told him that there just wasn’t a high demand for smiths in the city, and their positions for journeymen were all filled. They had told him with condescending smiles that since his endorsement couldn’t be verified by Guild documents, he was out of luck, at any rate. Unless he wanted to make a contribution to the Guild, and receive the test from a Guild member—then, of course, his skills could be verified.
He didn’t really mind the fact that they doubted his ability—he’d expected as much. But he’d hoped that his work would speak for itself, and he’d be able to get a job on his merits, instead of the weight of his purse. Abdiel hadn’t had any money to give them—not after the move, or the first month�
�s rent at a decrepit apartment building just north of the Conclave of Wizards. The Smithing Guild had given him empty smiles, pats on the shoulder, and told him to come back when he’d saved the money.
He’d heard them laughing as they slammed the door in his wake.
None of the smiths in the city would hire him under the Guild’s nose, and there wasn’t much work for anything but tradesmen and whores in Ishamael, unless one was a skilled worker endorsed by their Guild. The best Abdiel had been able to find was six marks a week and Rulan’s displeasure. With that bloody fortune, he could just keep everybody fed if he went without food two days a week. It wasn’t the best thing in Eldath, but it was what they had.
Jalien had dreams of setting up an apothecary, as her passion was for plants and such. Abdiel gave her what little money he could save so that she could buy seeds and pots, and maybe sell a few herbs and such at the East Market someday. He wanted her to be happy, and he’d save the money for the test eventually. If he worked hard enough, maybe he could even talk Rulan into giving him more coin per week.
Maybe—one could hope, after all.
The Conclave came into sight as he rounded a corner, the towers rising into the night against a full moon. Abdiel walked these streets every night on his way home, moving north through the East Market and skirting the edge of the Conclave grounds on his way back to his own district. Though some of the surrounding areas were poor, the presence of the Conclave kept criminals off the streets. Abdiel wasn’t sure if it was out of fear of the wizards, or respect for them.
As long as he made it home safe every night, he didn’t care.
The streets in this part of the city were dotted with entrances to the tunnels underground. In odd alleyways there would be a stone staircase leading downward, with an iron gate locked over the entranceway. Down the street he was walking, just on the other side of a main thoroughfare, Abdiel saw something crouched above one of the staircases that filled his guts with ice.
Abdiel thought it was a man at first—just a man that was crouched over in an odd fashion. Maybe he was a Lirium addict, or a cripple. Then, the thing moved, sliding over the ground in a wolfish gait that made the hair on the back of Abdiel’s neck stand on end. It prowled back and forth at the entranceway, sniffing at the air like some sort of hound. It had long, thin arms that clacked every time they struck the stones under them—the result of the claws that stuck from its fingers. It was cloaked in heavy winter wool, and had a scarf wrapped around its head.
Abdiel froze at the sight of the thing, his breath locked in his chest.
What in all the Six Hells is that thing?
He took a slow step backward, praying that it wouldn’t turn and see him. He tried to step into the shadow of the two-story building on his right, creeping backward with his eyes locked on the creature down the street. His heart pumped fear into every limb of his body, and he could hear it pounding in his ears.
He froze again as he bumped against something that had the distinct feel of flesh.
Abdiel turned, fear ratcheting down on his throat as he regarded the thing behind him. It was larger than he by a good margin, its limbs long and distended. It had the distinct smell of rotting flesh hanging about it, and it twitched as it moved, with muscles spasming in random places. It was cloaked in dirty cloth much like the other one, with an old scarf wrapped around its head. Two burning pinpoints of red light shone from eyes frozen over with death.
The thing leaned forward and sniffed at him, crooning in its throat. Abdiel was frozen with terror, his limbs unresponsive to his mind’s desperate calls to flee. Fire was burning through him with every terrible heartbeat, but his body was frozen. The thing rose back on its haunches, and turned its head to the side, regarding Abdiel with a cold, lifeless stare.
He felt the warm piss run down his leg, cold before it got to his ankles.
Cold, long fingers clamped around Abdiel’s throat like thin bands of iron, and he felt his breath cut off. The thing had moved so damned fast that Abdiel hadn’t had time to utter a cry before his throat was locked in its grip. He felt his feet leave the ground in the same instant, kicking the air with desperation. He struggled, but it availed him nothing. He may as well have struggled to bend metal with his bare hands.
The creature shook him—a single, violent movement that sent a hot explosion of pain rending through the back of Abdiel’s neck. After that, his body was just gone. He couldn’t feel it, but in an odd way, he could still feel its weight hanging from the creature’s grip. When the thing reached its long, distended fingers into Abdiel’s belly, he only felt a vague tugging sensation, and the sudden loss of weight accompanied by the sound of his guts plopping into the alley.
The creature dropped him right into his viscera, and bounded across the street to join the other creature. Abdiel couldn’t move, but he had happened to land in full view of the things down the street. He smelled his own guts, could feel their warmth against his cheek. He tried to suck in a breath, but no air was able to fill the hole in his chest. Abdiel lay like a discarded pile of meat on the cobblestones, struggling to keep his eyes open.
He watched the creatures bend the metal gate that led into the tunnels, and crawl into the sewers. A gang of people came into sight, sprinting for all they were worth, and followed the creatures underground. Abdiel tried to remember the face of his daughter, her laughing smile, the way Jalien felt against him. He watched his blood spread into the street, and struggled against the darkness that pulled at his eyelids.
Jalien will be expecting me anytime now.
His last thought was the cold acceptance that Jalien would be expecting him forever.
**
“Is there a river down here?” Bethany asked, listening to the sound of running water that permeated the sewers with a constant whisper. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. “A stinky river.”
Dormael echoed Bethany’s sentiments.
Everyone sat huddled under Lacelle’s magical light, taking a break from their walk through the tunnels. They had passed from the ancient corridors beneath the Conclave and into the sewers under the actual city—at least, Dormael thought that they had. The tunnels beneath the city were like another world, and he had long since lost his way. One stone hallway looked much like the rest of them—a deserted tunnel, locked in perpetual shadow.
Dormael thought that the tunnels they currently walked through were part of an access system built alongside the actual sewer, probably for maintenance purposes. There was no effluvia-filled river running through these tunnels, though he could hear it nearby—and smell it, of course. The stink was bad enough to make him want to resist breathing.
“A river of shit,” Lilliane sighed between gulps from her waterskin. She favored Bethany with a smile. “Did you use any of the latrines on the Conclave grounds? Any of the public toilets in the city?”
“Well, I had to,” Bethany said. “It’s not nice to ask about it, though. It’s gross.”
Dormael held back a snicker at the serious tone the girl had adopted.
“Well excuse me, little princess,” Lilliane said. “I hadn’t realized your royal bottom was so special. In any case, dear—this is where all the shit and piss from the entire city comes. It all flows right down to this delightful place.”
“Why?” Bethany asked.
“Sanitation,” Lacelle said, riding over Lilliane’s comment and giving the woman a warning glance—probably for the profanity, but Dormael didn’t know. He hadn’t spent much time in the company of Philosophers, so their habits were unknown to him. He had never viewed the rest of the Conclave with the sort of disdain that some of his Warlock friends did, but he still hadn’t bothered to make friends with many wizards outside his discipline.
It was odd, but Jev, Lilliane, and Torins were starting to grow on him. Even Lacelle had begun to make light conversation here and there, proving that despite all previous evidence to the contrary, the woman wasn’t made of ice and indignation. Bethany had begun to ask
questions, and the four Philosophers couldn’t help but start teaching. Dormael found himself listening in, though he pretended distraction.
“There was a time in our history that great things were achieved,” Lacelle said. “This city is testament to that time—these sewers, even more so.”
“How?” Bethany asked.
Lacelle smiled. “Ask any man or woman on the streets of any city in the world about wondrous things, and they’ll probably mention a few different places—Tauravon, the Great River City; the bridge between East and West Lodinburg in Shera; or the Keep, in Thardin. No one will mention the sewers of Ishamael, though they are a feat arguably as complex and wonderful as anything in Tauravon.”
“How?” Bethany repeated.
“Well,” Lilliane put in, “in Tauravon you’ll find bridges that go underwater, architecture that seems impossible, and more beauty than anywhere else in Eldath. But none of that provides a constant source of clean drinking water to the huddled, stinking masses. In Ishamael, that’s what we have. It’s the real benefit of living here.”
The woman’s expression fell in the wake of her words. The other two scholars looked at her, but none of them said anything. Dormael sympathized with them—he was feeling the loss of his home, too. The tunnels, however, were making him too anxious to pay much attention.
“Maybe we can go to Tauravon,” Jev said in a hopeful tone. “Certainly the Mage Tower will take us in. They’re our allies, after all.”
“You can’t go to Tauravon,” Dormael said. All eyes turned on him. “You can’t go to the Mage Tower, you can’t go to your families, you can’t seek refuge with any of your known acquaintances. Victus will find you there, and none of you have the skills to see him coming.”
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