Four men were standing in the doorway of the common room, casting sneering, superior looks across the people inside. They wore black fur-lined cloaks thrown back defiantly to reveal black surcoats emblazoned with two golden masks, one angry and one laughing. Underneath the coats were steel breastplates with swirling lines inlaid in brass, both metals polished to a dull gleam. Matching greaves and bracers adorned each man’s limbs, and each wore a short sword upon his belt and carried a shield on his back adorned with the same design on their surcoats. Dormael was dumbfounded to see the men here in Gammeritus, in the entire Sevenlands for that matter.
They were members of the Cult of Aeglar.
The Cult of Aeglar, as most people called them, was dedicated to the eradication of magic and all magical things. They spent most of their time kidnapping wizards and pressuring political powers through force of arms. Their real purpose was to remake society into what they believed to be an acceptable image: every land, every person in service to their God Aeglar the Trickster, and all things magical dead and erased from the earth.
The man in charge of the Cult members ran his eyes over the room and settled on Dormael and D’Jenn. His lips rose in a sneer of disgust, and he led his men to sit off to the side of the room, glancing meaningfully over at the two wizards often. Dormael cursed under his breath.
“One day we’re going to have to find out how they sense us so easily,” Dormael cursed, “what are those bastards doing here?”
“Expanding would be my guess,” D’Jenn replied in an equally dark tone, “probably trying to recruit from the populace, though it doesn’t seem as though they’ve had much luck. Those four are all Alderaks. It’s amazing that they would walk about so freely here; there’s a Conclave chapterhouse right in the middle of town.”
“The Culties must have set up their own chapter somewhere out on the countryside then,” Dormael mused, “they wouldn’t be bold enough to set one up in the city, so close to a Conclave house, especially considering the fact that most Sevenlanders loathe them.”
“Certainly,” D’Jenn agreed, “Still, I’m glad we ran into them here, and not out there in the hills where no one would be around to see what happened.”
“We’ll have to be more on our guard, then, on the way north from here. I’m willing to bet that we haven’t seen the last of them,” Dormael sighed grimly.
“Agreed,” D’Jenn grumbled, “And their presence here doesn’t bode well in the larger picture, either. They’ve always been nothing more than a nuisance, but if they’re setting up chapters here in the west…”
“Something must have changed,” Dormael finished the thought, “Perhaps they aren’t so content to haunt the fringes any longer. Perhaps they’re beginning a…war of sorts…on the Conclave.” Dormael sighed and took another pull from his mug, and waved it at the skinny serving girl to indicate it was empty. She nodded in a businesslike manner and kept moving about the common room, checking on her patrons. He sat his tankard down on the table with a dull clanking noise and stretched his neck as he began to speak more quietly. “D’Jenn, there was something else I wanted to mention. I had another dream a couple of nights back.”
“You mean…a dream about the armlet?”
“Yes,” Dormael nodded.
“Let’s talk about it later then, perhaps tomorrow when we get on the road. There are too many eager eyes and ears upon us just now,” D’Jenn cautioned.
“Of course,” Dormael consented. After that the conversation died down between the two of them. The appearance of the Cult of Aeglar had unsettled Dormael more than he liked and he could tell from D’Jenn’s scowl that it had done the same to him as well. Dormael’s shoulders began to itch with an uneasy feeling, as if he could feel the gazes of the Cultists boring into his back.
After an hour had passed, the four members of the Cult of Aeglar rose to leave, shooting menace-filled glares backwards at Dormael and D’Jenn as they passed outside into the cold night outside. Dormael sighed and shook his head, and D’Jenn hissed in disgust.
“They’ll have left someone to watch the inn,” Dormael pointed out quietly, “I doubt they will let an opportunity like us pass them by so easily.”
“So let’s take care of the watcher,” D’Jenn said, “or worry about a skirmish on the road outside of town, and with Bethany to worry about as well.”
“If they laid a hand on her…,” Dormael gritted his teeth around the words.
“We’ll have to see that they do not,” D’Jenn countered.
Dormael nodded in agreement and signaled the serving girl over to refill his mug once more. The cousins drank their ale in silence for the next half hour or so, the low murmur of patrons conversing and the metallic chinking noises of eating utensils scraping against plates filling the room like a cloud of smoke. D’Jenn finished his drink and smacked the mug hard upon the table in a gesture of finality.
“Shall we?” he offered.
Dormael only nodded in reply.
Together, Dormael and D’Jenn strode towards the door of the Kneeling Mare, their boots scraping against the dusty stone floor. They drew their deep-hooded Sevenlander cloaks about them as they passed from the somber light of the inn’s common room into the cool darkness of night outside in the street. The light from the open doorway spilled across the street as if it were liquid tipped from a glass, illuminating their shadows in a rectangular halo of radiance before it faded into a sliver and then nothing as the door banged shut behind them.
Dormael regretted for a second that he had left his quarterstaff in his rooms, but shrugged it mentally away. He had the magic of course, and if he absolutely had to use it, he did have a dagger tucked into the inside of his left boot – an emergency weapon he kept just in case.
D’Jenn turned left down the street, his boots clicking against gritty cobblestones. Dormael followed his cousin closely, pulling his deep hood down lower to shield his face from a light sprinkling of cold rain that began to fall. He put his hands deep into the sleeves of his cloak and rubbed them together against the chill.
The night was especially dark with the rain clouds obscuring the moon and the tiny pinpoints of stars. Yellow light shone along the sides of the street from the odd window here and there, but for the most part Gammeritus was blanketed by the black of chilly darkness. Dormael smelled smoke and horse dung, wafts of spicy meat from the door of a tavern mixed with musty sweat as a man passed them on the street, and the steely tang of the rain falling from the sky.
The street sloped gently up the hill before them as they walked in the general direction of the inner wall and High City, but the rain was too light yet to make the going slick and treacherous, only cold and uncomfortable. They passed two large crossings where shops had been closed up for the night, one a tailoring business that had a painted sign hanging from a nail in the door that read “Closed for the evening – sew you tomorrow.” Dormael shook his head at the joke.
It was only after coming within sight of the inner wall that Dormael finally identified the man following them. He stayed well behind them and kept to the darkest parts of the street, ducking into alleys now and then and disappearing, only to come out again in their wake later on. He hissed lowly so that only D’Jenn could hear him, and when D’Jenn looked at him Dormael’s hand flicked from the sleeves of his cloak to speak to him in the Hunter’s Tongue.
One, and well behind us.
D’Jenn gave an imperceptible nod and kept walking. Dormael tensed himself and watched his cousin from the corner of his eye. D’Jenn had the lead now, and whatever he did Dormael would have to follow him quickly.
Suddenly D’Jenn turned down a dark and narrow alleyway, his cloak seeming to slide into the shadows within. Dormael followed him, and as the gloom embraced him he changed his posture immediately. D’Jenn was hurrying to the end of the alley where it branched off to the right and left, making the shape of a “T”. Dormael dashed after him, and reached the intersection just after D’Jenn. Dormael went to his r
ight and put his back against the inner wall of the alley, sliding away from the entrance. D’Jenn made a hissing sound to get Dormael’s attention, and Dormael looked across to the opposite wall where his cousin stood.
You stay here; when he comes around the bend surprise him. I’ll jump him from behind, his hands signed. Dormael nodded once, and D’Jenn turned towards the wall. Dormael felt the telltale tingling along his arms as D’Jenn opened his Kai and, using the magic as they had when they scaled the wall at Ferolan Castle, began to climb his way to the roof of the building. Dormael opened his own Kai, and drank in the sensations that the magic always seemed to amplify for him. The night seemed suddenly brighter, bluish-purple light washing everything in a way that lit up the darkness of moments before. It wasn’t that Dormael could see in the dark; it was simply that with the magic enhancing his senses, his eyes could catch the moonlight that filtered through the rainclouds above when they could not before.
A shuffling step sounded from the alleyway behind him and Dormael pressed his body a little closer to the wall of the building he leaned against. He slid slowly away from the mouth of the intersection, stepping lightly so as not to make noise. He didn’t want to be within knife reach when he startled the man that shadowed them. Tensing himself for the confrontation, Dormael gathered the magic about him, ready to immobilize the man and hold him in a clench of magical energy. Simultaneously, he slid his magic into the darkness around him and pulled the shadows around his body like a second cloak. The man would not see him right away, only a confusing lump of dark that his eyes would probably slide right over without notice. Time seemed to stretch out, and butterflies rose in Dormael’s stomach in anticipation of the critical moment.
A foot appeared around the side of the building, followed by the rest of the man it was attached to. His black fur lined cloak told Dormael that it was indeed one of the Cultists from the inn, and the enhanced moonlight in Dormael’s eyes caught the glint of one of his polished steel greaves. The man glanced quickly in Dormael’s direction, and then turned his body in the other direction as if to hurry down the alleyway away from him. Dormael smiled and let his magic loose upon the unsuspecting Cultist. He had him.
Something, however, went wrong.
There was a sound like a quiet thunderclap, a low crack followed by a fading rush of noise like wind rushing into Dormael’s ears. Dormael felt mentally stung, as if he were slapped across the face, only the “face” was his Kai. The Cultist was pushed a few steps in the opposite direction, and Dormael was likewise tipped from his feet into a stack of crates that he didn’t notice were behind him. He groaned in surprise and pushed himself back into a standing position just in time to see the man turn in his direction with a grim smile on his face. Dormael fumbled for the dagger tucked into his left boot as he heard the man free his short sword from his waist.
Cursing, Dormael threw himself into a sideways roll, abandoning his attempt at his weapon as the man came charging forward and swung his sword in a horizontal arc aimed for Dormael’s throat. He felt more than saw or heard the sword pass over him, and he knew that he had barely avoided a mortal wound. He tried once again to clench at his Kai, but the magic was flailing wildly around him, sliding through the fingers of his mental touch. Somehow, the man had Splintered his spell.
The Cultist uttered a grunt of effort as he flowed into his next attack – an overhand swing aimed right at Dormael’s head. With no time for finesse, Dormael jumped from his crouch to the side and scooted just out of reach of the man’s sword. Now he was on his back, propped up on his elbows and completely vulnerable to the Cultist’s next strike. The culprit took a step towards him to make the killing blow.
Shawna’s training kicked in, and Dormael threw all his weight into a straight kick aimed at the inside of the man’s knee. He felt his boot hit soft flesh and the edge of the steel greave that must come up to guard the front of his joint. His attack worked, however, and the suddenly off-balance Cultist cried out in pain and surprise as he fell sideways to the ground in a clanking heap.
Dormael brought his knee to his chest and pulled his dagger free of his boot. He clenched it point-down as rolled to his feet and was barely able to dance away from the upended Cultist as the man slashed wildly at Dormael’s feet. The Cultist was no amateur himself, and in the few seconds that Dormael took to get out of his sword-reach, the man had rolled over in the opposite direction and gained his own feet.
The two of them stood there for a tense moment, Dormael crouched slightly holding his knife and the Cultist moving his sword in a low arc. The Cultist gave a few feinting steps to Dormael’s left side and Dormael tensed in expectation, turning to try and go inside the man’s attack. It would have been a mistake.
Dormael saw the man spin in the opposite direction as they started to come together, and he knew in that instant that the sword in the Cultist’s hand would bite painfully into his exposed back. He tried to turn towards him, tried to meet the sword arm at the elbow, but it felt like he was moving through jelly. His chest went cold with sudden fear.
Then there was a crash, a noise of splintering wood, and Dormael felt light stinging pains across his back. He heard the Cultist’s armor clang against the wall behind him, and his sword clatter away. Then all was silent. Dormael turned a surprised look in the Cultist’s direction.
The man lay in a heap against the wall behind Dormael, his arms and legs splayed out in an unceremonious position underneath a shattered wooden crate. His sword laid a few hands away where it had apparently flown from the man’s suddenly limp grasp. A dark pool of wet blood was slowly spreading underneath his body.
Dormael let out an excited breath and realized that his heart was near to bursting with anxiety. He bent and replaced the dagger in his boot sheath and wiped a hand across his clammy forehead, trying to get his breathing under control. He heard boots hit the ground behind him and looked up to see D’Jenn standing in the alley.
“He almost had me,” Dormael commented, gesturing weakly at the crumpled, dead Cult member.
“Indeed he did,” nodded D’Jenn, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you before. I wasn’t sure what to do after your spell seemed to Splinter over him. I had to think quickly, and the crate was the best I could come up with.”
“Well it worked,” Dormael exhaled, “and I’m damn happy that it did. I’d have a sword buried in me right now if it wasn’t for you and that crate.”
“I thought that perhaps if we couldn’t use magic directly on him…,” D’Jenn shrugged and gestured at the shattered wooden box, “then maybe we could simply use it to throw things at him.”
“Amateurish maybe,” Dormael commented, “but still just as effective.” The magic was still spinning intensely around Dormael, though not as intense as before. He released his Kai and the night was once again plunged into blackness. “How do you think he did it, coz?” Dormael asked, standing up once again.
“Well,” D’Jenn mused, drawing out the word slowly, “He wasn’t using magic; we’d have felt him doing that. Perhaps…,” D’Jenn walked over to where the Cultist lay against the wall and reached down to touch the steel greave upon one of his limp shins, “Perhaps it has something to do with this armor here. They were all wearing it…I thought for a second that I felt something from it when you released your spell on him, a reaction of some sort.”
“It could be that,” Dormael agreed, “But where would the Cult of Aeglar get an Infused item like that? And if they all wear them…that would be a terribly powerful Infusion to lay on something, and a terribly expensive one too, if you catch my meaning.”
“There’s definitely something going on here that we weren’t aware of,” D’Jenn commented, “Something that the Conclave isn’t aware of as well. We would have received messages.”
Dormael nodded his agreement as D’Jenn reached underneath the man’s leg to undo the buckles that held the greave in place. He tugged it free and buckled it to his belt underneath his cloak. Brushing his hands, D’
Jenn stood and sighed loudly as the rain began to fall in earnest around them. The rainwater began to puddle and mix with the man’s thickening blood, causing it to eddy in strange patterns within the clear water.
“If the armor is indeed the answer to this riddle, we should study it and make a report when we reach Ishamael. The Mekai will want to know of this,” D’Jenn stated.
“As for now, though, let’s leave Gammeritus behind. I don’t want to have to answer any tough questions from the city officials about this. Not that I think we’d be in any trouble, I just don’t want the delays that such a thing would cause us,” Dormael said.
D’Jenn nodded, and turned from the dead man. Dormael sighed and took a few steps back down the alleyway, realizing that his kick to the man’s knee had bruised the bottom of his foot where he had struck the man’s steel armor. It left him with an irritating and painful limp, but a limp was better than death any day. Moving out into the streets of Low City, the cousins made their way back to the Kneeling Mare, leaving the dead Cultist and the events of the evening behind them in the rain-soaked darkness.
****
Chapter Fourteen
Veltasi, Veltasya, Veltastajum
Dormael was soaked to his bones. Their leave taking of Gammeritus had been tense but otherwise uneventful. No signs of pursuit had followed them, but D’Jenn insisted on haste, stopping to camp only after they had ridden north for hours, and the gray haze of twilight shone above the eastern horizon. Dormael didn’t begrudge him the decision, but the weather didn’t want to cooperate with their party. Rain poured from the sky in a heavy downfall that showed absolutely no signs of clearing up anytime soon.
The land north of Gammeritus began to slope more and more as they travelled, transitioning from long grassy plains to the rolling foothills that eventually rose into the Runemian Mountains to the north and west. Trees were still mostly low and stunted here, and so the party had camped underneath a monstrous boulder that thrust from the side of a hill like a bone from a broken leg. The horses had been tethered around the corner from their campsite, their tack and saddles dragged underneath the overhang in an effort to keep them as dry as possible.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 41