by C. J. Aaron
The scene inside the chamber was something out of a nightmare. There was a stench of stale blood and excrement mixed with a hint of the pungent aroma of death and decay. Ryl covered his nose as he entered. One by one, the others filed in behind him.
The room stretched back thirty meters or so and was nearly half that distance wide. Lanterns at even intervals burned on the walls, illuminating the horrors inside. Leaning along the left-hand wall were angled slabs of wood, with a thick leather harness inset nearly three quarters of the way up each one. The first two were empty. The next twelve contained the naked, shriveled bodies of men and women. Along the wall behind the constraints a trough filled with untold filth was cut into the floor.
The red brands on the right side of their necks stood out against their pale skin.
Tributes.
There were three long tables in the center of the room, and each contained a meticulously arranged series of glasses, vials and implements, the purpose of which Ryl shuddered to think of. Some of the vials were filled with a thick, dark red mixture of what he assumed to be blood.
Three closed doors stood evenly space along the right wall that warranted further examination. At the moment, Ryl’s attention was solely fixed upon the tributes suspended from the wooden slabs.
Behind him he heard Aldren gag as he entered the room. The merchant retched, the splatter of vomit on the floor audible to all.
Ryl hesitantly approached the first of the tributes, noting the brand on his neck.
H1346.
He leaned in close, examining the face. The shell of a man looked familiar, though Ryl couldn't recall his name.
The man's body was shriveled from obvious lack of nutrition. Ryl had no idea to what lengths they had taken, what they'd forced upon the poor man over the cycles to keep his body alive. He noted a small incision in his left arm, just above the wrist. A thin tube of glass tapering to a fine point extended out of his arm. Crimson blood dripped slowly out of the tube into a thin glass vial carefully situated in a small notch in the center of the low table below his arm.
With pain in his eyes, he looked down the row of tributes. Each appeared to be arranged in a similar fashion. Each unwillingly gave up his or her lifeblood, drop after precious drop.
Ryl closed his eyes, settling the nausea that rolled through his stomach. The mindsight scanned the area without warning. Ryl counted the dim glow of the phrenics while he resisted the urge to vomit.
Ten.
The revulsion hit him as he realized the disparity. Two of the bodies suspended on the boards were already deceased. The surge of emotions that tore through his veins threatened to tear him apart. His anger was nearly uncontrollable, the nausea was unbearable. He opened his eyes, turning back toward his companions. They burned with an irrepressible fire.
“Gather the Vigil and the villagers that accompanied us,” his voice was but a whisper, yet it carried a force that shook the room. “Round up the guards, bring them here. I want all to witness what has happened, what they've allowed to befall.”
Chapter 55
Without hesitation the guards were brought to their feet and ushered to the entrance to the warehouse. Ryl met them at the outer door. Though his face was shrouded in the black shadow of his cloak, hints of the fire that burned in his eyes were clearly visible through the darkness.
In a low growl, no more than the whisper, he spoke to the assembled guards. The sound of his voice, while hushed, struck with the force of a tempest.
“Witness the horrors you’ve allowed to proceed unchecked for cycles,” he hissed. “Guilt falls on your shoulders as with the menders who lie rotting in the other room.”
Without another word, they paraded the captive guards through the torture chamber they formerly protected. All had been blissfully ignorant to the horrors happening merely steps away. This was only a stopping point in their tour of duty. A tediously quiet station where they were allowed to grow soft through laziness and boredom.
The capacity to question had slowly been broken generation by generation. The populace had suffered an existence of uninformed apathy. They had unknowingly turned a blind eye to horrors occurring at their doorsteps.
The silence of their revulsion was broken by the voice of a single guard.
“The pitiful herds deserved it, got what they were born for,” his solitary curse was cut blissfully short. A pained groan was followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground as Andr hammered the pommel of his sword into the guard’s head. His unconscious body struck the ground face first unimpeded. A small pool of blood spread from around his nose, while he twitched involuntarily. With side-eyed glances at their downed companion, the rest of the guards willfully removed their uniforms, throwing them in a pile on the stones of the courtyard before being bound by the Vigil and the contingent of villagers.
Ryl sent one of the villagers back with horses from the stable to fetch the village mender. A pair was dispatched on foot with the venomous guard, his unconscious body dragged between the two of them. Serrate’s Mender Caravais was an elderly man; his white garment had been discolored to a pale yellow over cycles of use. His disgust mirrored that of the phrenics as his shocked eyes absorbed the horrors before him.
Under his careful direction, the tributes still clinging to life were carefully removed from their slabs, and the vile needles that leached away their lifeblood removed. Their wounds were hastily cleaned and wrapped. A group of the imprisoned guards were made to dig two graves for the tributes whose lives had expired.
Safely removing the tributes from the chamber was an agonizingly slow process, one which took well into the afternoon. The decision had been made to move the tributes with the assistance of Aldren's wagon and the black carriage of the Lei Guard to the village where the mender could provide them more immediate care.
Their bodies would be bathed and clothed while a means of supporting their nutritional needs was addressed. It was decided that large pots of broth would suffice. The thin nutrient-rich liquid would need to be carefully spoon fed to the recovering tributes until the time arrived that they could do it themselves.
If that time arrived.
The mender was of the impression that their bodies had been drugged consistently over the duration of the cycles they remained hung aloft as they were bled dry. Given time he believed the effects would wear off, yet he had no concept of the time frame or lingering repercussions of the damage their bodies had sustained.
Though the mender strongly suggested that the withered shells of the tributes should remain in the village to recover, Ryl was adamant in his opposition. Their time was nearly up. They needed to make The Stocks before the annual Harvest, now just a week away.
Ryl wiped the sweat from his brow, watching as the last of the tributes was loaded on the back of the black wagon bound for the village a short distance away. Elias’ body had been bound securely and loaded into the final wagon with the tributes. Andr and the Vigil would accompany them back to Serrate.
Before the arrival of the phrenics early that morning, the village had already been teetering on the verge of revolt. The animosity toward the Lei Guard and soldiers camped nearby had reached a crisis point. With the addition of the true knowledge of the horrifying fates of the tributes, this attitude had been pushed over the edge.
One of their own families had been butchered as a result of the ancient policy.
One of their own now waited his turn to suffer a fate like those their mender now cared for.
Ryl shook his head as he stalked back into the main facility. Kaep, Ramm and Vox waited for him at the entrance to the dreaded chamber.
“Ryl, you need to see the Mender too,” Kaep remarked, pointing to the bloody bandage on his left side. He'd forgotten about the wounds on his hand and side, so occupied had his mind been with the horrors of the present.
“We're almost done here, Kaep,” Ryl said. “Let's see what other secrets they have hidden away. I'll see the mender when we’re through.” The
large room had been cleared of the bodies, yet the sickening stench remained. A careful search of the three remaining closed rooms began in earnest. The first, closest to the door was a barracks, two sets of bunks lining each wall. Two chests accompanied each set, their contents amounting to nothing more than neatly folded spare clothing.
The next door contained the apartments of the menders. Each had a narrow bed and a small chest against the right-hand wall, separated by a tall, cloth partition. Their personal effects were trivial; a paltry accumulation of clothing and robes. The desk along the opposite side of the wall contained little of value save a single ledger, scrawled with messages written in a clearly encrypted shorthand. Ryl added the hand bound tome to the contents of his pack, before closing the door, moving to the last room.
The final door was locked. Ryl felt the hint of tingling growing from his left arm. Focusing the woodskin on his right leg, he took a step back before lunging forward, planting his foot in the center of the door. The force of his kick splintered the wood as the door exploded inward.
The room inside was empty, save for the shelves lining the right and left walls. To their right, the shelves were divided in an orderly mass of unlabeled bottles and vials. There were an assortment of different colored powders and a myriad of varied liquids.
To the left, the shelves were separated into equal portions. Nearly all were full; each contained hundreds of small vials. Each vial was roughly the width and length of a finger. Ryl carefully retrieved one from the closest partition. He swirled the contents inside gently. The red liquid inside was thick, coating the sides of the glass. Each divided section and bottle were clearly labeled with a matching number. Ryl looked at the vial in his hand.
H1346.
He carefully set the bottle down as the realization set in. In front of him stood a wall of the most coveted product in all the kingdom—the Blessing of the King.
The lifeblood of the tributes.
His stomach turned. He closed his eyes, pivoting away from the revered elixirs. How many tributes had perished to produce that supply?
As his eyes opened, he noted a single jar he'd missed on his earlier inspection of the opposite shelf. In the shadow of the far wall, well separated from the rest of the unnamed components was a large, clear glass bottle. A thick cork carefully stoppered its top. Unlike the others this bottle was labeled with a single word.
Nexela.
Ryl leaned closer to get a better look at the liquid within the bottle. The thick, black fluid seemed to move with a life of its own, almost curiously probing the edge of the jar as he approached. The tingling feeling grew rapidly in his left arm, reaching a throbbing crescendo. In response, the fluid inside seethed with frantic activity, climbing up the rear walls of the container. As he leaned in close to the vessel, a miniscule hint of the scent of the jar’s contents escaped the porous stopper.
His nose involuntarily scrunched as the putrid smell of rot, decay and of death assailed him.
A hint was more than enough for Ryl’s mind to make the connection.
The scent was that of the blackened evil that roamed the land to the southwest.
The scent was of the Outland Horde.
The realization dawned as he stood staring into the writhing liquid. The connection never before considered was reached. Phrenic and the Horde; the two were connected, just as light is to darkness.
His mind sparked the recollection of theories from phrenics long since passed from this world. Throughout the ages, the two had existed in a balance that ebbed and flowed in gentle waves. Nexela was the antithesis to the alexen that coursed inside his veins. Inside the veins of the phrenics. The two were by nature predisposed to balance each other out.
Something had thrown the balance of power out of line. The scales had tipped dramatically in the favor of the nexela; in the favor of the darkness.
In the favor of the Outland Horde.
The nexela in front of him acted not like a confident survivor, empowered by its combined strength. It swarmed over itself, desperate to flee. There was only fear.
It was afraid.
It was afraid of him.
The room around Ryl lit with the light of the sun. The glowing orb of light and energy raced down his forearm, condensing into a ball in his palm. He paused for a moment.
He could hear the calling from his blood urging him onward, at the same time he could feel the fear from the nexela on the shelf pleading for restraint.
Ryl closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The putrid scent no longer fazed him.
His eyes shot open, blazing with the fire of the sun. He slapped the palm of his fist into the jar of writhing black blood. The blinding lance of light stabbed through the container—the nexela it touched screamed in his senses as they vanished in the blinding light. The cocoon of light closed over the jar freezing for a moment before imploding in on itself.
The glass jar cracked in half at the center. The top half slid off to the side, toppling over, smashing to pieces on the shelf. No trace of the black liquid remained. There was no trace of the stench left in the broken glass before him.
The tingling in his arm had ceased. He looked at the crook of his elbow, noting the second distinct smudge of black on his skin.
Quietly, he turned to leave the room. His phrenic companions stood wide eyed, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and awe.
“What was that, Ryl?” Vox whispered.
“The answer to many questions,” Ryl said bluntly. “The blood of the ancient enemy. Nexela; the darkness that counters the light of the alexen. They’ve found a way to corrupt the shells of the tributes that remained once the last drop of blood has been bled out.”
Kaep gasped, placing her hand over her mouth.
“Vox, start a fire,” Ryl growled as we walked forward toward his friends. They split, opening a path for him to stride through unimpeded.
“Raze this room. Raze this building,” he hissed.
“Burn it all.”
Chapter 56
Flames belched from the door of the storeroom, and the glass bottles popped and spewed flaming liquids across the room. Ryl had stopped at the doorway to the facility’s main, torturous room. The sight of the stained slabs brought the tears unbidden to his eyes. With one final look, he turned stalking from the building.
The heat in the courtyard was intense. Fires raged through the barracks and stables on either side as the complex quickly became engulfed in flame. The air swirled upward. His cloak snapped out to the side in the wind.
Ramm stood outside the broken gate, the reins of four horses in his hand. The mounts were unsettled by the fire, and they struggled to pull away. A loud cracking noise sounded from his rear as the roof over the main facility buckled. The timbers in the center gave way, crashing in upon itself in a cloud of sparks. With his head down he strode through the ruin of the gate, leaving the processing facility to burn to ash.
The fires of change had started. They’d begun to spread. Once they reached The Stocks, there would be no stopping them.
Ryl took the reins from Ramm with a weary smile, easily mounting the startled mare. He spurred the horse forward in the wake of his fellow phrenics. The ride to the village was short; the waning sunlight cast long shadows that stretched out from the crumbling Martrion ruins at their rear to the west. Partway between the facility and Serrate, just inside the treeline, Ryl noted a body, poorly concealed by the wild grasses and shrubs. The uniform of the guard was unmistakeable. The blood that stained the green grasses already swarmed with flies. His hateful rhetoric would never again curse the innocent lives he persecuted.
The village was abuzz with a level of activity, far from its sleepy norm. Those who possessed any skill as a mender were diligently tending to the tributes or wounded guards. Their shriveled bodies were carefully washed, dried and clothed. The mender applied a healing salve to the sores that had been allowed to fester on their backs and arms. Elias was treated separately, kept under restraints and co
nstant guard.
Nearly all the rooms in the small inn were now reserved for the tributes. Pots of broth had been brewed in the kitchen, and the warm liquid painstakingly spoon fed to their starved bodies. Though none regained consciousness through the night, thankfully none of their conditions had worsened.
Ryl happily paid the innkeeper and the mender from the gold they’d carried with them. Mender Caravais’s eyes went wide at the sum; he refused more than half he’d been given. Ryl snuck the coins into a drawer on his desk when his back was turned. In addition, Ryl had purchased food, a supply of bandages, ointment, and several casks of the broth. They replenished their quivers along with a healthy surplus from the stock confiscated from the guards. The remaining weapons were left for the villagers.
The bound guards were moved to an oft used warehouse along the bank of the river. They found themselves under guard of the newly armed militia. Serrate had elected a middle-aged man by the name of Pell as the spokesperson for their hastily formed troop. A fisherman by trade, Pell was clearly uncomfortable with his newly given position, yet he was one of the small group that had followed in the phrenic’s wake as they stormed the walled facility.
Ryl looked up from the table where, he, the phrenics, Andr and Aldren ate quietly. Pell approached through the inn’s crowded dining room, stopping awkwardly a few steps away. They’d chosen the table furthest from the busier than average bar at the inn, not interested in celebrating. They were eager to eat and be on their way at first light. It was only a matter of time before word made it back to the King. To the Lei Guard. Notwithstanding, all agreed that remaining the night wouldn’t put them in any grave jeopardy.