by RJ Blain
Lord Priest Tsordin’s words meant nothing if he couldn’t find someone to pass the word to.
He couldn’t even muster the strength to get angry at the Danarites or even at himself for his failure.
Someone entered the tent and footsteps approached the cot. It wasn’t hard to keep his body limp. His muscles didn’t want to move, and his eyelids felt weighed down.
“We must be quick,” a voice whispered in Mithrian. “It’ll begin soon, and it’ll be our hides if we’re late with him.”
How could he have been so blind to it all? Had the signs been there, in his missives? How had he missed the alliance between the Danarites and the Mithrians?
Had Danar bribed the Captains of the junta to aid their cause, or had an industrious company seeking wealth gone against Mithrias’s neutral status? It didn’t even matter, not anymore. What mattered was how so many mercenaries, all prepared for war, had gotten so far into Kelsh without stirring the ire of the Kelshite army.
It left another option: Garint had spoken the truth, and Kelsh’s King turned against his people.
Someone wrapped him in something warm and heavy before he was lifted. The rain struck his forehead before the dusty scent of cloth was draped over his face.
The scent of a wet and lathered horse taunted him as he was thrown over the animal’s withers. As soon as he was secured, the rider kicked the horse into a gallop. The rain seeped through the fabric until its weight pinned him in place as much as the mercenary’s hold on him did.
The horse’s hooves splashed through mud and water, then the beat of the animal’s stride changed to the clatter of horseshoes on stone. He lost track of time before the horse halted. Hands grabbed at him and pulled him down from the horse.
“Take him inside. Let’s get this over with,” someone whispered, once again speaking in Mithrian. Wood creaked and the patter of rain ceased. He wasn’t carried far before descending down rickety stairs.
Kalen was dumped on the ground. A manacle clamped the stained sleeve of his robe to his wrist. His fingers tingled.
“Secure the chain and let’s get out of here.” Feet retreated up the stairs followed by the slam of a door and the click of a lock securing in place.
Kalen cracked open an eye. The guttering light of a dying torch did little to pierce through the darkness. Shadows danced on stairs that didn’t look fit to hold his weight, let alone the weight of a man. They rose to a trap door in the ceiling, and were flanked by a pair of rails crafted of shaved branches lashed into place. A long chain linked his manacled wrist to a spike driven into the crumbling stone wall.
The groan escaped him as he struggled to sit up. The wet cloak still draped over his shoulders, tied into place. The hood covered most of his face. He lifted his hand to brush it back, and the chain rattled. His hand shook from the little effort. Despite the heavy layers, he couldn’t stop from shivering at the cold and the damp.
With a sputter, the torch died and darkness fell over the cellar.
“Hellfires!”
~Run.~ The First ordered. Its presence surged through him, and the chill that settled into his bones evaporated underneath the onslaught of heat that seared through his veins. Kalen’s breath quickened.
He was halfway up the steps before the compulsion faded. His knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed against the rail. It bowed out over the cellar floor. The weight of the chain dragged his arm downward, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t lift it back up. He slumped down onto the steps and the manacle caught on the splintering wood.
Someone groaned in the darkness of the cellar. The stench of rot flooded his nose. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged. A dry cough wracked through him. The sense of spinning unbalanced him, and he slid down the stairs.
Arms caught him, and pulled him into an embrace. Kalen struggled against the grip but couldn’t escape. Digging his heels into the hard-packed, dirt floor didn’t even slow him. His muscles quivered, but he couldn’t force himself to move. His breath came in rasped gasps.
The First’s presence seared through his head and his skin tightened and ached as though he was being torched from the inside out. The darkness receded to a haze of gray lit with auras of red, yellow, and orange. A pale blue fog outlined seven figures lying on the ground. Black tendrils rose from them, stretching out in search of something.
The arms tightened around him. Kalen stared down; his body was a blend of yellow, orange, and red, with icy blue creeping up his hand and wrist to where the manacle bound him. The person holding him had no color at all.
Darkness stretched over his eyes and Kalen leaned back with a hiss of surprise. One of the tendrils hovered and waved. Its end split into two, then four, then six ends that writhed and tasted the air with the same flicking of a serpent’s tongue.
Something pressed against his neck, cutting down to his left shoulder before digging into his chest. His pained scream was silenced by something wet and slippery forced into his mouth. It writhed, flexing and digging its way down his throat.
Kalen thrashed and struggled to draw breath. His lungs burned and he convulsed until he couldn’t even manage to twitch his finger. Coils wrapped around his head and shoulders, holding him in place. Agony rolled over him in waves. He wasn’t even aware of the thing pulling out of his mouth until cold air hit his lungs. His gasped breath wheezed. He gagged and coughed. The arms let him go and he hit the ground hard. A cord wrapped around his throat and tightened. He panted, unable to find the strength to struggle.
The darkness engulfing him terrified him almost as much as being restrained. He managed a single jerk, but his captor—captors?—held him still.
Hands rolled him over. Fingers forced his mouth open, pressing something hot and wet against his lips. Warm liquid flooded into his mouth. The metallic tang of blood choked him. He spit, choked, and shuddered. His stomach heaved in rejection.
~Drink!~ a voice demanded. It wasn’t the First; there was no emotion to the word, nor imagines to accompany it. Instead, the sense of the sun’s warmth and the chill of the night battled in the confines of his skull.
Fingers tangled in his hair and jerked his head back. Again, blood was forced into his mouth. A hand shoved his chin up and fingers sealed his lips shut. The grip on his throat eased.
Kalen’s lungs demanded air, but instead, he swallowed blood. His stomach heaved with the need to vomit. His vision darkened and the strange auras were extinguished, leaving him in the dark. He drew several breaths before he was once again forced to drink.
Time lost meaning as he writhed and struggled to escape. A great weight pinned him down, and when he was allowed to gasp for breath, the stench of rot threatened to overwhelm him. He was dimly aware that he screamed, but all he heard were rasped wheezes and the rustle of his clothes as he tried to pull away.
He was released. Kalen collapsed and lay still, unable to do more than pant. His stomach heaved, but his throat and mouth remained dry, for all he tasted a hint of bile among the blood on his tongue.
A light streamed in through a crack in the ceiling. Kalen squinted. The trapdoor opened and a lantern illuminated seven corpses, eyes long-since glazed. The first signs of rot marring their pale fresh. His eyes widened. They were faces he recognized.
They were the Kelshite boys sacrificed on the Danarite altars. An eighth body lay alongside him. Foresk. Glazed, dead eyes stared into his, and bright red blood oozed from smiling lips.
~~*~~
Kalen drifted in and out of consciousness. His throat burned with each breath. It was easier than he expected to force his eyes open. The steady glow of a lantern illuminated the cellar. His heart skipped several beats.
The memory of blood on his tongue struck him hard. He lifted his hand to his mouth. There was no evidence of blood left on his fingertips, and the tasted faded away to nothing. The effort of sitting up left him gasping and wheezing for breath.
Had it been a hallucination? He blinked and rubbed at his eyes. If a ma
nacle had been clamped around his wrist, it and the chain attached to it were gone. He twisted around. The rickety staircase he remembered still led up to a trapdoor, but instead of a torch, a lantern hung from the wall.
Several links of chain hung from a spike driven into the wall. He stared at it, then down at his wrist. The sleeve of the robe had been torn off to reveal the shirt he wore underneath. Two black marks ringed his arm with a pale streak beneath and lines of red spread down his hand and up his arm. The tips of his fingers tingled when he bent them.
It was tempting just to lie down and sleep. He reached out for the rail, struggling to stand. A cold sweat dripped down from his brow, and his legs wobbled beneath him.
The corpses were gone. Shallow holes stained with dark fluids pocketed the cellar floor where they had rested. The stench of decay hung in the air, and a second scent tickled at his nose; pungent, acrid, and it reminded him of serpent eggs rotting in the sun.
Something plopped onto the rail next to his hand. Kalen jerked away, staggering to the other side of the stairwell. A glob of black fluid bubbled before oozing off of the wood to the ground. Steam rose from the trail it left behind and clouds of thick, black smoke drifted from the growing hole in the soil.
Kalen looked up.
His blood rushed out of his head and drained to his feet. Plastered to the ceiling in cocoons of black were the shapes of people. He couldn’t force himself to draw breath and he sank down to the stairs. Tears burned in his eyes.
There was nothing childlike about the figures anymore; blackened, tattered remnants of clothes clung to shapes barely intact enough to identify that they’d once been human. Serpentine appendages stretched from where fingers had once been, and they were tipped with talons. They scratched at the ceiling.
Globules dripped from them and a thick fog roiled over the cellar floor. Shuddering, Kalen pulled himself up each step until he pressed his back against the ceiling next to the trap door.
Whether they hadn’t noticed him or chose to ignore this presence, Kalen wasn’t sure. He was unable to tear his eyes from them, and his heartbeat fluttered in his chest. He lifted his hand to his mouth and swallowed several times. It didn’t calm his stomach or erase the taste of bile, but he managed to stop himself from gagging.
He pushed against the trap door. It rattled and he heard as much as felt the lock holding it closed. The metal clattered, the wood bouncing under the pressure of his shoulder. Muttering curses, he peered at the keyhole, but the shadows obstructed his view of the mechanism.
The thud of feet overhead froze him in place. Kalen drew in a breath, held it, and shuffled to the very edge of the staircase with his back braced against one of the supporting poles of the railing. Snatching at the hem of the robe, he yanked it upward to reveal his bared feet and eyed the first step. If the door was opened, if he could just trip whomever descended, he might be able to escape.
If he could force himself to run. If his trembling muscles didn’t betray him. If, if, if.
Voices murmured over his head, and the lock clicked. There was a grunt, and the door was thrown open. It thumped as it hit the floor of the room above. A black boot descended, the hem of a pair of brown trousers clinging tight to a large, muscular leg. The figure hesitated. Kalen’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. He forced himself to draw several long, deep breaths. The boot slid across the stair and lifted to descend.
Kalen thrust his foot out and struck for the ankle. With a low, deep cry, the figure plummeted down the stairs. Chainmail flashed in the lantern light, and a sword bounced down the steps. A hand thrust down from the room above to snatch at the man’s back. Another foot stepped on the first stair. With a grin, Kalen kicked out again.
The two tumbled down together. Adrenaline surged through him, and Kalen darted through the opening. Two more brown-clad figures with coats of chain armor reached for him. He ducked between them, kicking as he spun around. Pain jolted up Kalen’s leg at the cracking of his heel against a shin. The cloaked, hooded figure let out a startled cry and staggered.
The other man was taller than his companion by at least a head and dove for Kalen. Light gleamed on a pair of sheathed weapons hanging from the tall figure’s belt, drawing Kalen’s gaze. Throwing himself between the man’s legs, he rolled, skidded to a halt, twisted around, and struck out with his hand. His fingers closed over the hilt of the smaller of the two weapons. Yanking back with all of the strength he could muster, he pulled it free of the sheath.
It slid out with no resistance. He fell back and landed hard, his startled cry came out as a rasp. The two men struggled for balance at the edge of the cellar stairs. Without waiting to see if they fell, Kalen lurched to his feet, running out the door into the rainy night.
~~*~~
With the same slippery agility of a serpent, the child dove between Breton’s legs. Maiten struggled to keep his balance on the edge of the trapdoor. With a low curse, he grabbed Maiten’s arm and jerked the other Guardian back to safety. They fell together in a heap. The air rushed out of his lungs when Maiten’s elbow cracked into his ribs.
Maiten groaned and muttered a few curses. “What… who was that? Bah, he’s gone now. Ceres? Varest? You alive down there?”
Breton groaned and shoved Maiten off of him. A pair of groans answered Maiten’s question from below. “I think he was a Danarite. Looked like one of their priest robes.”
“Look down here,” Ceres called. Breton scrambled toward the edge of the cellar entry. The light of a lantern illuminated part of the room below. Five or six steps down, the stairs disappeared into a thick fog. Ceres emerged and the surface of the mists rolled like waves of wind across the plains.
Varest appeared at his brother’s side. “I don’t think anyone’s down here. Can’t see my hand in front of my face in there, though.”
Ceres climbed out of the cellar covered in dirt and mud. “If there were any prisoners down there, they’re gone now, I think. Looked a little young to be a priest, though.”
“A priest in training, perhaps?” Breton shrugged his shoulders.
“Why would they lock one of their own in a cellar?” Maiten asked.
“Good point,” Breton replied. “Well, he’s gone now.”
“Are you sure he is a he? The Danarite robes I won’t argue with, but I think I saw blonde hair under that hood of hers. Same color as Verishi’s. Aren’t the only blonde in Danar those handmaidens?” Maiten asked.
“I didn’t catch more than a glimpse of him —her?— but I think Maiten’s right. She definitely had blonde hair,” Varest said. There was a pause, and Breton got to his feet to look down at the Guardian. Varest was staring at the railing. “Something strange is going on here. Look at this.”
Breton looked at the stairs, then at Varest. A shiver ran through him, and he tried not to look too hard at the unnatural fog. “Why don’t you get off of the stairs before they collapse?”
“They’re just swaying a little,” Varest replied. Ceres climbed out. “Give me a knife.”
Breton reached down, pulled a knife out of his boot, and passed it down to Varest. The Guardian scraped the blade against the rail. Breton heard the sharp intake of breath. The Guardian rejoined them, holding the knife as far from his body as possible. “This look familiar to any of you?”
Breton’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. A thick black substance coated the blade. The metal steamed and bubbled, turning into black fluid before dripping to the floor. The wood hissed as a dark stain spread over the planks. The process took less than a minute, and all that was left of his knife was a twisted ruin of bubbled scrap. The leather wrapped around the hilt remained intact. Varest tossed the ruined weapon aside.
The blade shattered into several pieces.
“Just like Father’s sword,” Ceres whispered.
Breton dropped his hand to touch Gorishitorik. He drew in a sharp breath and patted the sheath.
No sword.
“Hellfires!”
“What? W
hat is it, Breton?” Maiten asked. When he didn’t reply, his friend hurried to his side. “Breton?”
“She… she stole Gorishitorik,” he moaned. “I was wearing it when I came in here. I’m certain of it.”
All three of the Guardians stared at him with mouths hanging open and wide eyes.
“It’ll be all right if Father doesn’t find out, right?” Ceres asked in a whisper.
“Don’t just stand there like fools,” Maiten hissed. “After her!”
Breton ran for the door.
~~*~~
Kalen stumbled into the narrow confines of an alley. The walls of the buildings were so close together that he had to shuffle into the gap sideways. The overhanging eaves protected him from most of the rain. It wasn’t until the alley opened to junction with a larger alley that he halted to catch his breath.
Unlike the street, the alley was nothing more than packed dirt. The rain accumulated into puddles that pooled to over his ankles. Muttering curses, he leaned the sword against the building and struggled to escape the drenched cloak and robes.
“I hate this kingdom,” he muttered, first ducking his head through the collar of the cloak before struggling to escape the suffocating weight of his sodden clothes.
By the time he managed to wiggle out of it, he was hot and gasping for breath. He drew his arm over his brow and gulped down fresh, cold air. It burned in his throat and lungs. Letting out a low, hoarse groan, he reached for the sword and lifted it up. It felt good in high hand; not too heavy, not too light, short enough he could use it effectively, but not so short it couldn’t be useful, even against taller opponents with longer reach.
The leather wrap was layered in a braided pattern so his grip remained firm even in the rain.