Idmaer was surprised at the singular tear that trailed from his left eye. He had no time for reminiscing or to mourn over something lost. Now was the time for confession, to give the grimoire back and apologize. After that, Edoma would deal with him as she saw fit.
Maneuvering around the shelves and precariously stacked crates, he came to the reading nook. He plopped into the armchair and slid his hand beneath it. A tug of the hidden latch and the secret compartment clicked open. He stretched a little farther and felt cool wooden walls, but no book. Pulse quickening, he knelt down and reached into the compartment with his whole arm. Still nothing.
His mind raced to remember if he had placed it anywhere else, but nothing came to mind. The book had been within the compartment ever since he had taken it from the First Priest's tomb, only removed when he checked on it every so often. He brushed the dust from his robes and pulled the armchair away to reveal the compartment. Still nothing.
He remained calm, remembering the last time he had been inside this room. Three months ago. He'd been searching for a suppression stone, thinking that it would be a good idea to have one at hand should he ever need it. That search had come up empty, but he had remained within the room, drinking a particularly strong firewine. Not long after, he'd taken the book in hand and flicked through its indecipherable pages. Maybe he had placed it somewhere other than the secret compartment?
No, he recalled pinching his thumb on the armchair when he'd put the book back. Afterward, he'd stumbled back to his chambers. But the book had definitely been put back.
Blunt realization came swiftly.
It was gone. The book had been stolen.
Terror seized him. Even though he couldn't read the words on the pages, every time he opened it, he had sensed a great darkness. What had he unleashed?
The ground trembled as he fought to remain calm. The floorboards churned up and down like the tides of the ocean, tripping him.
On his hands and knees, as the floor swayed, Idmaer forced himself to take deep breaths while bile crept up his throat. The ground slowly solidified until it ceased moving. He'd almost lost control. Even he wasn't invulnerable to the spire's malformations, should he lose focus.
Focusing on his breathing, Idmaer scoured the room. The spire assisted where it could until finally, he found a single page beneath a bronze shield. It was certainly from the book. He now remembered tearing the pages out in anger when Edoma had told him she no longer loved him. Even though he had stolen the book from the tomb, thereby preventing Edoma from ever fulfilling her quest, it hadn't been enough to quench his anger.
But where was the rest of the book and the other pages he'd torn from it?
Idmaer opened his mind to commune with the spire. Communication with the spire was primitive at best. It afforded him glimpses into the things it had seen in the places it had eyes. It would be unable to tell him who'd been inside the room, but maybe that wouldn't matter.
He saw an acolyte, his face hidden beneath a cowl, carrying the book. The image faded. He tried to bring it up again, but the spire wouldn't grant him another look.
Idmaer stood. In his mind was the steady resolve that something bad had happened or was about to happen. He couldn't help feeling that somehow this theft was tied to the shattered orb.
Without the book, it would be much harder to admit to Edoma that he'd stolen it. Nevertheless, he would have to tell her what he'd done and how it had been stolen. But first, he needed wine.
39
Fryda
"We can't wait any longer," Jaruman said. It was late afternoon. He had refused to enter the dungeons until Idmaer had left the spire. Unfortunately, Idmaer didn't seem to be going anywhere.
Fryda carried the short spear, and Jaruman's ax shone in the sunlight as they walked through the spire's courtyard. They'd received a few strange glances earlier, but not as many as they might have a few weeks ago. Tension was increasing in the town, and it seemed like every second person was wearing a weapon of some kind.
The spire's entrance hall was empty. Fryda had been expecting Oswin to greet them. Alfric had been a much better porter.
"Remember, the skinwalkers aren't real people," Jaruman said. "As soon as you forget that, you're vulnerable."
"Aren't they in cells? We shouldn't have anything to worry about."
"If something can go wrong, it will. Thankfully, we can kill them and not worry about becoming hosts. The spire is warded. The wraiths cannot remain within a warded zone."
"Do they die?"
He smiled mirthlessly. "Nothing can kill them. They return to the Scorched Lands. If Peoh's still alive when we get in there, don't listen to a thing he says." He opened the door to the dungeons. Fryda followed behind him, the spear held in both hands.
Jaruman lit a torch, and they marched down the steps behind the staircase and through a tunnel until they came to a corridor with prison cells on either side. The first thing Fryda noticed was the deathly stench.
The skinwalkers reached through the iron bars, their talons clawing at them as they passed. Although their talons couldn't reach her, Fryda hunched her shoulders together to make herself narrower.
"They're decomposing," Jaruman said with a grimace. "They feed on lifesoul to remain within this world. Without it, the bodies fade away. If any of them get too close, put your spear through its skull."
Just the day before, she had skewered a man's eyeball, and now she was expected to kill people? No, not people. She had to remind herself of that. Still, she couldn't shake the niggling feeling that some might be like Alfric—still human in some way.
Fryda noticed a charred patch of brick in one cell. It puzzled her, but she didn't wait around. At the end of the corridor, past a dozen skinwalkers, was a cell where the tattooed man sat.
"Never thought I'd see you again," Jaruman said to him.
"Ah, this is quite the surprise. I knew Edoma and Saega made it through the Scorched Lands, but I never suspected you would survive."
"I'm hard to kill."
"Evidently."
Something snarled. Fryda jumped, realizing that she'd come within an inch of being grabbed by a skinwalker. Behind her, a gangly skinwalker was reaching through the bars. Its eyes bulged from their sockets. Thin skin pressed against angular cheekbones. It looked like it was starving. Fryda almost felt sorry for it.
"Who's the pretty lass?" Peoh said.
"Never mind her," said Jaruman. He gently nudged Fryda's back so she was farther from the reaching skinwalker. "What are you doing in Indham?"
"I heard about what happened to Aern. I've come to help you all."
"Did you have anything to do with it?"
"Not a thing. I have my suspicions about who did it, though."
Jaruman's face didn't soften. He seemed to be studying Peoh.
As far as Fryda could tell, the man was telling the truth. But Jaruman had said that he was an excellent liar.
"You look familiar," Peoh said to Fryda. He got up and walked to the iron bars.
"Not too close," Jaruman said, clanking the bars with his ax.
Peoh rolled his eyes and looked back at Fryda. "Your mother was from the North?"
"Yes," she said. "She lived in the Scorched Lands."
"This is quite the reunion. I freed the people who came to Indham from there. The orcs had been holding them captive. They suffered terrible things. It's not a wonder they died."
Before Fryda could react, the walls shook. The floor tilted, and Fryda lost her footing. Arms flailing, she fell backward. A skeletal hand gripped her tunic and pulled her backward. She screamed and reached for her spear, but it was too far away. She gripped the fingers and tried to peel them back, but they pressed into her shoulder, the blade-like nails sinking into her skin. Her screams became terrified shrieks.
Jaruman slammed his ax down and excised the hand at the wrist. He pulled her upright and away from the skinwalker. It snarled but now lay out of reach.
With a grimace, Fryda tore t
he severed hand from her shoulder and threw it against the wall. It clattered onto the stone floor.
"Idmaer must be in another of his moods," Jaruman said, peering up.
"Take me with you," Peoh said. "The lad named Hiroc told me he would tell the Council, but he hasn't returned."
Jaruman eyed the trembling rooftop as dust flittered down from it. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have a key for your cell."
"We can't just leave him here," Fryda said. "Not with the skinwalkers. You said he might save us."
"As long as they're in the cells, he'll be fine."
"You said if something can go wrong, it will."
Jaruman gave her a hard look. "Don't use my words against me."
The door opened at the other end of the corridor. Bertram marched toward them with a torch in hand, followed by two other warriors carrying a skinwalker. The skinwalker snarled and snapped its lupine jaws. Neither warrior seemed pleased to be carrying the monster.
Jaruman gripped his ax. He didn't tell Fryda to pick up her spear, but she did it all the same.
"What are you two doing down here?" Bertram said. Though his face was still in accusation, his eye twitched as he focused on Jaruman. He seemed to be trying in earnest not to look inside the cells. Hanging around his neck was the dragon vial.
Fryda was surprised to see him back in the spire. The way he had been talking when he stole the dragon vial, he should have received passage out of Indham by now.
"That's Edoma's dragon vial," Fryda said to Jaruman, pointing at Bertram's neck. "He stole it from me."
Bertram sneered. "And you stole it from Mother Edoma."
"Give it back to her," Jaruman said.
"No," said Bertram. "I might not be able to sell it, but it's mine all the same."
They stared at each other. It was just like the way they'd looked at one other outside the gates. This time, however, Bertram seemed more worn down.
"I've had just about enough of your insolence," Bertram said. He surveyed Fryda and smiled. "You know, if I can't leave Aernheim, I might as well have a little fun while I'm here." His sword swung free of its scabbard. It met Jaruman's ax with a resounding clang.
The two warriors behind Bertram looked at each other, puzzled, and then gripped their own swords in hand. One darted toward Fryda, but the skinwalker inside the cell grabbed his ankle. The man hit the ground, a taloned hand dragging him to the cell. Blood burst from his neck as the skinwalker tore it open. The other warrior turned to run, but a falling boulder crushed him beneath it.
Suddenly, the dungeon shook again. This time, the tremor was much greater. There was a thunderous sound, and the corridor shifted. The stone floor split with a deafening crack.
A skinwalker leaped from an open cell and attacked Bertram. He turned and drove his sword through the skinwalker's chest. He left the sword and bolted for the entrance. Jaruman reached for him, but only grabbed the necklace holding the dragon vial. The necklace snapped, and Bertram got away as the roof above collapsed, blocking the exit.
A sound like the twanging of a bow came from the cell beside Fryda. The iron bars buckled until they snapped. The skinwalker crawled through the broken bars.
Fryda wasted no time. Gripping the spear with both hands, she thrust it into the skinwalker's chest. She pinned it against a few unbroken bars. She gritted her teeth and twisted the blade, but the skinwalker didn't die.
A sound like rushing wind came from behind her, and the skinwalker's head exploded, showering her in blood and brain matter.
Standing behind her was Peoh. The tattoos along his right arm glowed red. "We'll go through there," he said, pointing at a hole in the wall behind her.
"Why not go the other way?" Fryda saw why that was impossible. Rubble covered the exit.
She gasped. Someone was trapped within the rubble. All she could see was an arm clutching at the air, the rest of the body buried by rocks and debris.
"No," Peoh said, grabbing her arm. "The other skinwalkers will be out of the cells soon."
Fryda tore away from him and leaped over the crack in the floor. By the time she reached the buried arm, tears trailed down her cheeks. She pulled the rubble away until she saw him—Jaruman. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. His eyes were half-open and his breathing was ragged. A giant rock pinned him from the waist down.
"Fryda . . ."
Placing both palms beneath the massive rock's edge, she heaved. Jaruman bellowed with pain, but she ignored him. No matter how hard she pushed or from what angle, the rock wouldn't budge.
Weeping, she turned to Peoh. "Do something. Use your magic."
Peoh shook his head. Blood ran down his arm. "I can't. There's nothing I can do." He glanced anxiously at the cells beside him. A skinwalker burst from one. He extended a hand. The skinwalker's head split open as if an invisible ax had cleaved it in two.
"Quickly," he said, breathing heavily. "I can't fight them all."
"Go," Jaruman croaked.
Fryda cried out as Peoh dragged her away from the only man she knew as father.
40
Hiroc
"You said you weren't called," Hiroc said. He had awoken in the cellar not long ago, the runic glove missing, and his hands and feet bound. Despite how much anger he felt, he wanted answers about the magic Ealstan had used. "How, then, did you use magic?"
It wasn't the best time to ask, but he wasn't going to get a better chance. For all he knew, Ealstan was dragging him to his death. Some unseen force had struck him. It had to be magic.
Ealstan paused and wiped sweat from his brow. "Saega taught me that one doesn't have to be called to use a god's magic. I still needed a runic device. He gave me this." He spun the dagger around his fingers. He tickled Hiroc's neck with the blade. "With it, and with my devotion, Aern grants me his power. He might not have called me, but I use it."
"Aern is dead," Hiroc struggled to say as the dagger's edge pressed against his skin.
Ealstan laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" Hiroc asked. "You said you're devoted to him."
"You really know nothing at all. The carcaern orbs are prisons. Aern was trapped within it. The shatterer freed him." He cackled again, sheathed his dagger, and kicked Hiroc. "Get up."
Taking his time, Hiroc staggered to his feet, a difficult task with his wrists and ankles bound. It took an inordinate amount of time to reach the top of the stairs. Ealstan pushed him through the doorway opposite the door leading to the kitchens.
It was dark outside. Hiroc's head throbbed from hitting the wall, but he couldn't tell whether he'd been unconscious for a few hours or an entire day.
The dumping grounds smelled like rotten meat and sour milk. Mangy dogs sniffed at the piles of filth. Beyond them, red wards glowed. It was the border of the ward circles that protected the Basilica from the wraiths. A few paces away, Oswin was sitting below the signpost, well outside the warded zone.
Hiroc turned to Ealstan. "You have to bring him inside. The wraiths will get him."
Ealstan nodded with a smile. "That's the plan."
Kipp came from the doorway. Bags sat beneath his eyes, as though he hadn't slept for days. His usual smile was absent.
"Sorry I'm late," he said.
"Yes, yes," Ealstan said, frustrated. "Just make sure you tie him up properly."
"What if the wraiths come while I'm out there?"
"Then you'd better be quick." Ealstan handed Hiroc over to Kipp. "I've got somewhere to be. It won't be long now until your little friend in the spire's dungeons ends up like you. Then where will Indham be? Judgment is coming." He whistled as he went back inside.
"Kipp, you can't do this. You've seen the skinwalkers. Don't let me become one."
"I have to take you out there. Ealstan said he'd use his magic on me unless I do."
"You're taking me to my death," Hiroc pleaded as Kipp dragged him over the piles of rotten food.
"Aye," Kipp said, as though he had made the decision long ago.
&nbs
p; When they passed over the wards, Hiroc yanked against the bonds, trying to free himself of the other man.
Kipp hit him over the head, hard enough that his vision became peppered. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."
Kipp dragged Hiroc to the signpost. Oswin lifted his chin. His once handsome face was purple and clumpy, his one visible eye bulging and bloodshot. He licked his swollen lips as he looked at Hiroc. "So they got you, too? Looks like you and I are going to meet these wraiths everyone is talking about."
"It doesn't have to be like this," Hiroc said as Kipp knelt and tied the bonds to the signpost.
"It does." He stood and glanced toward the Basilica. "But I brought something for you." He removed something from his belt pouch and then knelt down again.
Hiroc felt Kipp playing with his hand and then something slipped over it. A glove.
"Ealstan told me to destroy it, but I couldn't. I know you and I haven't always got along, but I don't think you and Oswin deserve to become one of them skinwalkers."
"Then why not bring us inside?"
Kipp shook his head. "I can't do that. Ealstan will kill me."
He obviously hadn't thought this through. Ealstan would probably kill Kipp for giving Hiroc the runic glove. But if he did manage to get away without becoming a skinwalker, maybe he could stop that from happening.
As Kipp ran back into the Basilica, Hiroc realized he wouldn't be able to return there. He needed to get help, someone who could stop Saega from harming Peoh. He couldn't explain why, but he knew with certainty that Peoh had to be kept from harm.
"How tight are your bonds?" he called over his shoulder.
"Too tight to get out of."
Hiroc's were the same.
"They've come," Oswin said.
Hiroc was facing the opposite way so he couldn't see what Oswin referred to. But he didn't have to see it. He knew that Oswin was looking at the crimson wraith clouds.
For his life, Hiroc couldn't think of a way out. The wound on his head had scabbed over, so even if he wanted to use magic, he didn't have any blood to draw from. Not unless he made himself bleed.
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 20