by Anthony Ryan
Jehrid felt his hand dampen with sweat, knuckles suddenly white on his sword handle. Two voices, older men, one he knew, though it had been many years since he heard it.
“… speak to me of promises,” it said, a rich voice possessing the broad vowels of the shore-folk, but coloured by a faint note of scorn. “Promises were made to me also. Promise of gold and jewels. Instead we risk much to scavenge no more than spices and silk. A tidy profit, to be sure. But hardly worth drawing the Lord Collector’s eye.”
“Gold will be forthcoming,” the other voice replied. It was mostly toneless but with an odd accent, the vowels distinctly Renfaelin but the cadence similar to the harsh babble of Volarian sailors. “When you give me what I came for. And don’t forget, without me you would have had no wreck to plunder.”
Jehrid frowned in surprise as the other voice fell silent. Since when did he ever fail to find a rejoinder?
After a pause, the first voice spoke again, this time betraying a discomfort barely masked by angry defiance. “We’ve talked of this enough. She’s mine. And she stays mine until you pay.”
There came a sound then, so harsh and grating Jehrid took a moment to recognise it as a laugh. “What do you imagine you are, little smuggling man?” the second voice enquired when his mirth had subsided. “What cards do you think you hold? You are no more than a maggot feasting on the dead before the tide comes to wash you away. You have seen what I can do. Give me the woman unless you would like another demonstration.”
A long, frozen pause. Now for blood, Jehrid decided. The insult and the challenge were too great to ignore. Jehrid could picture him standing there, face stricken with fury, fist no doubt clamping hard on a dagger, his other hand clutching a cudgel. ‘The Dance of Hard and Sharp’ he had called it; the traditional smuggler’s fighting style. In an instant all would be chaos and confusion. The perfect moment to attack. Jehrid inched closer to Sollis, readying himself for the rush.
So it was with no small amount of shock that he heard the frigid silence broken by the first voice. “Bring her.”
He’s afraid. Jehrid found he had to contain a gasp of amused realizsation. He’s actually afraid.
Footfalls echoed through the tunnel then another long pause, silence reigning until they returned. “Ah,” the second voice said, now tinged with a tense anticipation. “I was expecting someone… older.”
“She carried the amulet you described,” the first voice said, hard and sullen. “Worthless bauble though it was.”
“Show it to me.” Another pause, then a satisfied chuckle. “Worthless to you perhaps, but not to her.” The voice switched to Alpiran, coarse and harshly accented, but still fluent enough for Jehrid to follow. “Isn’t that right, my dear? It must have taken a remarkable effort to earn Rhevena’s Tear at your age. Most don’t until they’re nearing dotage. Is your gift so powerful? I imagine not, since you remain bound by this scum.”
A female voice, tremulous but also defiant, the cultured accent contrasting with her interrogator’s grating vowels. “Free me, and I’ll be happy to show you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, honoured lady. I’ll shortly discover its nature for myself.” There came the scrape of a blade being drawn as he switched back to Realm Tongue. “Hold her still.”
Brother Lucin came forward in a rush, his steps drawing a loud echo from the stone, the bleached concern on his face betraying a desperate urgency. “He will do it!” he hissed at Sollis. “We cannot delay.”
An enquiring shout came from beyond the curve; Lucin’s footfall had not been missed. Sollis straightened, reversing the grip on his sword and glancing at Jehrid. “Secure the woman and take her out of here. Leave the others to us.”
Then he was gone, blue cloak trailing as he charged from sight. Jehrid surged after him, the multiple echoes of the brothers’ boots like thunder as they followed. Beyond the curve, the passage opened out into a large chamber, near twenty feet across with bunks covering the walls and several side channels leading off in various directions. Standing in the centre were three figures, an olive skinned woman of perhaps thirty years of age, her arms bound behind her back, and two men. The man on the right was of middling years and unkempt appearance, his wiry frame clad in ragged, threadbare garb.
But it was the man on the left that captured Jehrid’s attention. He was older, of course. Hair now grey and thinning when it had once been thick and dark, face clean-shaven and lined with age, though he stood just as tall as Jehrid recalled and his waist seemed as free of paunch as ever. As expected, he had armed himself with a cudgel and dagger, swirling to face the intruders in a crouching stance, lips drawn back in a snarl, one that faded as he caught sight of Jehrid.
“Cohran Bera!” Jehrid called to him as he charged clear of the tunnel. “Stand and await the King’s Jus—!”
He ducked as one of the Red Breakers sprang from the shadows on the left, something fast and sharp cutting the air above Jehrid’s head. Another appeared on the right, axe raised to swing at Sollis and falling dead a heartbeat later as the brother’s sword delivered a single expert thrust to his throat. The Breaker confronting Jehrid was clearly a traditionalist, coming at him with a cleaver in one hand and a cudgel in the other, aiming well-timed blows at his head and legs. Jehrid sidestepped the cudgel, swayed back to evade the cleaver and brought his blade up and down to hack through the Breaker’s hamstring before he could recover for another swing. This smuggler was not easily cowed though, despite being forced to one knee and yelling in pain, he managed another lunge with the cleaver before Jehrid’s sword point sank into his chest.
Jehrid spun, sword levelled at Cohran Bera, now moved to the centre of the chamber, eyes locked on his. “You’ve grown,” he said in a low growl before turning and issuing a shrill whistle. Only a bare second’s delay then a tumult of pounding boots, a dozen or more Breakers appearing from the side tunnels at a run, all armed. Four went down almost immediately, tumbling to the floor as the brothers’ throwing knives flickered in the torchlight. Those who managed to get close enough to exchange blows were scarcely more fortunate, most falling in the space of a few sword strokes though the momentary confusion allowed their leader time to run for the nearest passage, three survivors at his back.
Jehrid shouted in frustration, a familiar red tinge colouring his vision as he started forward. It was the woman’s shout that stopped his pursuit, his gaze swivelling towards her, now standing rigid and head drawn back, the wiry man’s fist in her hair, his other holding a thin-bladed dagger to her throat. Jehrid had time to catch Cohran Bera’s final glance, oddly sombre and lacking in hatred, before the shadows swallowed him.
“Oh no!” the wiry man barked, addressing his words to Sollis as the brothers quickly surrounded the pair, closing in with swords levelled. He jerked the woman’s head back further, the edge of his blade pressing hard against her skin. “I require your consideration.”
Sollis held up a hand to halt the brothers, lowering his own sword to take a single step closer. Jehrid noted Sollis’s free hand twitch as it caught something that slipped from his sleeve. “Release her,” Sollis commanded in a flat rasp. “If your life has value to you.”
The wiry man replied only with another grating laugh. Jehrid frowned at the genuine humour he heard in that laugh, and the lack of any real hostility on the man’s face. For all the world he seemed no more than a man responding to a particularly well executed prank. “Ask him,” the wiry man said, nodding to Brother Lucin emerging from the passage with Sister Cresia at his side. “What value does his Order place on life? Did they bother to warn you what you’d find here? I’ll wager they didn’t.”
It was Brother Lucin who spoke, face grim and gaze steady as he regarded the wiry man, his voice now possessed of a cold, unwavering note of command. “Kill him.”
“Brother…” Jehrid stepped towards Sollis but the brother had already begun to move. His left hand seemed to blur, something small and metallic catching the light as it flew free. Jeh
rid shouted in alarm, knowing a killing blow might cause the wiry man’s arm to tense with dire consequences for his hostage. Sollis, however, had chosen his target well. The throwing knife sank hilt-deep into the wiry man’s wrist, the knife falling from his spasming grip. The woman twisted, tearing herself free and falling to the floor. Jehrid quickly moved to her side, sword pointed at her now prostrate captor.
His gaze met Jehrid’s for a moment, bright with pain and fury, then softened as it shifted to the throwing knife embedded in his wrist, and he began to laugh anew.
“Kill him, brother!” Lucin commanded in a yell, his voice suddenly shrill with panic.
Sollis moved to the wiry man, sword drawn back, then stumbled to his knees as the floor shuddered beneath his feet.
“You put too much trust in these deluded mystics, master,” the wiry man said, blood now streaming in rivulets from his nose. “Far too much trust…”
A great booming sound shook the surrounding rock, a jagged crack appearing in the floor, stretching the length of the chamber. Jehrid saw Lucin grab Sister Cresia’s arm and drag her towards the passage as the chamber shuddered again, the floor becoming a jumbled matrix of cracks, the brothers reeling from multiple fountains of shattered rock. The wiry man was laughing again, writhing on the shuddering floor in uncontrollable mirth, blood now streaming from his mouth and eyes. Sollis lurched towards him, sword raised for a slash at his neck… and the chamber floor exploded, stone shattering all around into a fog of dust.
Jehrid had time to catch hold of the woman before the floor gave way beneath them, air rushing past his ears as they plummeted, swallowed by the welcoming dark.
The docks once again, his only reliable dream. It was always the same. The same pier, the same hour just before nightfall, every detail perfect and vivid even though the memory was over twenty years old.
He crouched behind a wall of stacked barrels in a quiet corner of the South Tower docks, peeking out at the end of the pier. There were people there, dim shadows glimpsed through twilight mist, four standing and one kneeling. The kneeling figure was bound, face concealed with a sack tied at the neck. Even so Jehrid knew whose face lay beneath the sack, knew without any shred of doubt the face of the woman who knelt with head bowed in numb expectation of her fate. Just as he knew the name of the man who drew a knife and stepped to her side.
He turned away then, knowing what was coming, reeling through the streets as his gorge rose to spill his guts on the cobbles. His treacherous ears caught the sound of a body tumbling into harbour waters, the splash carrying well in the clammy air. He ran, through the streets and the city gate and out into the fields beyond, blinded by tears, running until his lungs turned to fire and his legs gave way. He lay out in the fields until morning, and when the sun rose to wake him with its warmth, he got to his feet and started north. The road was long, and he grew to know hunger and danger as close friends for the wild country was ever rich in threats, but eventually, a thin, ragged boy staggered into Varinshold and sought entry to the Realm Guard.
“Has to be your real name, boy,” the sergeant told him, quill poised over parchment, a somewhat wicked glint in his eye as he added, “King Janus wants only honest Guardsmen…”
He awoke to the taste of blood, iron, and salt stinging his tongue and provoking a convulsive retch as his senses returned. His dulled vision, hampered by eyelids that now seemed to be fashioned from lead, could see almost nothing save a faint impression of tumbled rock, though the sound invading his ears prevented any return to slumber; a muted but continuous, echoing torrent of rushing water.
“Not alone after all,” a voice muttered nearby, a female voice, speaking in Alpiran.
It took a moment before he made her out, crouching in the gloom, on her knees, arms still bound and eyes pinpoints of light behind hair hanging in damp tendrils over her face.
Jehrid paused to spit the blood from his mouth, tongue exploring where his teeth had left a ragged impression on the inside of his cheek. “Nor, it seems, are you, honoured lady,” he replied in his coarse but functional Alpiran.
She straightened a little in surprise, then spoke in accentless Realm Tongue that put his Alpiran to shame, “Would you mind?” She turned, crouching to proffer her bound wrists.
Jehrid realised realized his hands were empty, his sword no doubt lost somewhere in the fall. He fumbled at her bonds, grunting in frustration at his shaking hands, forcing himself to draw a series of deep breaths until the tremble subsided, though the cause was obvious. He laughed. He bled and he laughed… He did this. He brought down the chamber. The mystery of it all was absolute, but for one signal and reluctant conclusion: The Dark.
The woman gave an impatient sigh and Jehrid mumbled an apology, shuffling closer to work on the binding cord. The knots were well crafted and it took a protracted effort before the cord came loose. She issued a loud groan of mingled pain and relief, slumping forward with hands cradled in her lap, a soft curse coming from her lips. The words were mostly unfamiliar but he caught the name Rhevena among them.
“Rhevena’s Tear,” he said aloud, remembering the wiry man’s words. “Goddess of the shadowed paths, is she not? Protector of the dead.”
The woman’s posture became guarded, her hand moving unconsciously to her bare neck. “I thought your people had no truck with gods,” she said.
“Knowledge does not equal worship.” Jehrid took a moment to flex his legs, confirming the absence of broken bones or torn muscles, though they did ache considerably, and his hands bore several painful scrapes. He levered himself upright, taking a closer look at their surroundings. They were in a narrow passage, the walls even more crudely made than the tunnel under the falls, dampened by a constant trickle of water. He stood at the base of a steep gravel slope, formed no doubt from shattered rock and providing enough of a break in their fall to prevent a bone-crushing landing. To the right the passage was completely blocked by fallen stone, leaving only the leftward course, illuminated by a faint, bluish light.
“Can you walk?” he asked the woman.
She nodded and got to her feet, ignoring or failing to notice the helping hand he offered. “Your comrades?” she asked, peering about.
Jehrid glanced at the wall of stone blocking the passage, then lifted his gaze to the black void above. How far did we fall? “I doubt we’ll see them again,” he said.
He took the lead, the dim luminescence growing as they followed the passage, the sound of rushing water increasing with every step. “You were held here for days,” Jehrid said. “Have you any knowledge of these tunnels?”
“The route from my cell to the main chamber only. They were careful with me, my hands were always bound.”
He found it odd Cohran would have exercised so much caution, and restraint, in confining her. Wreckers rarely took captives and the fate of those that did fall into their hands was never pretty. “You are so dangerous then, honoured lady?” he asked, dropping into Alpiran once more.
She frowned and shook her head, gesturing impatiently for him to move on.
“That man, back at the chamber,” Jehrid persisted, halting to face her. “He paid them to take you, didn’t he? Paid them to wreck the ship carrying you. Why?”
A mix of anger and grief passed over her face before she mastered it, meeting his gaze with stern resolve. “Did your father teach you Alpiran?” she asked, once again keeping to Realm Tongue. “You speak it with much the same accent. He told me he had been a sailor in his youth, learning many tongues and sailing to many ports. You have much the same face, and the same bearing. He is your father, is he not?”
Jehrid found himself mastering his own surge of anger. “In name,” he muttered, turning and continuing along the passage.
“And what is your name? You have yet to tell me.”
“Jehrid Al Bera, Lord Collector of the King’s Excise. At your service, my lady.”
“Lord Collector… He spoke of you, said you would come one day. The thought seemed to make him
sad. Now I see why.”
Jehrid felt an abrupt need for a change of subject. “And your name, lady?”
“Meriva Al Lebra.”
“Al Lebra is an Asraelin name.”
“My father was an Asraelin sailor, obliged to forsake his homeland when he met my mother.”
“Obliged?”
“She was a junior priestess to the temple of Rhevena in Untesh. Paying court to her required a certain… adjustment in his beliefs.”
“He forsook the Faith for marriage?”
“For love, my lord. Has not love ever forced you to an extreme?”
There was a new note in her voice, clearly mocking but also gentle enough to remove any anger from his reply. “I have always found hate a better spur to useful action.”
The passage soon grew wider and a dim glow appeared ahead, the pitch of cascading water deepening further. They found a body a few yards on, a slumped, cloaked bundle of twisted limbs. “May the Departed accept you, brother,” Jehrid murmured, crouching to peer at the man’s face, recognising him as one of the archers who had taken down the sentries above. He was plainly dead, features drained of all colour and his head pressed into his shoulder at an impossible angle. However, he had somehow contrived to retain hold of his sword.
“The Sixth Order,” Meriva said, her tone soft but Jehrid could hear the fear it held. “You answer to them?”
“I answer to the King.” He hefted the sword and held it up to the sparse light. An Order blade, he thought, seeing the tell-tale pattern in the steel, a facet of their secretive forging arts. The strongest and keenest blades in the Realm. Doubtful they’ll let me keep it.