The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  “Be quiet! The men over there—” He pointed into the shadows. “—want to know how to kill the hydra so they can start a war. Tell them and let me go.”

  You already know how Musmahu is to be defeated, Herald. You must take up the mantle of Authority and summon the Angel of this Age.

  “But why me? I don’t want this! Give it to one of the others to do.”

  It can only be you.

  “You can’t make me. I can walk out of this room and go anywhere I want.”

  That is correct. I present you with a choice, just as I did Maal. Think of the mighty current that has swept through your world because of her choice.

  “That is not my problem.”

  You wish her death. Did you not just try to strike her down?

  “I’ll have my revenge on Maal, but I’m not going to be someone’s puppet to do it.”

  The choice is yours. If you wish, follow in the footsteps of the one who came before. Go to the Lernaen Swamp and seek out the Sepulchre of Musmahu.

  Kestel wanted to protest more, but the alien creature drifted back into the milky fog. With a deep groan, the metal coffin sank down into the darkness. Unsatisfied, he beat his fist on the view port. The shifting weights above forced him to dart back to the walls.

  “Damn you!” he yelled, giving the rusted pipes around him a last, futile blow. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  What you are meant to do, Herald, said Creven.

  Kestel grimaced. Don’t you start that crap again, Creven. I’m not your savior, or anyone else’s.

  He stiffened at the approach of someone behind him. Of course, it had to be Arbalis, his polished armor a stark contrast to the rusted and pitted metal around him.

  “I suppose you heard all that, did you?” said Kestel, not even bothering to hide his bitterness.

  Arbalis nodded. “I heard enough.”

  “I’m not your Herald, Arbalis.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Kestel drew back, surprised. “But you said—”

  “No, you’re not.” The bronzed, old soldier’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting him off. “You will not be the Herald until you stop whining like a child!”

  Kestel clenched his jaw. “Don’t you tell—”

  “Silence! I have listened to you complain ever since I pulled you out of the hydra’s jaws, and you’ve never even asked about the men that it cost me. You think your life has been so bad? Some of those soldiers had families.”

  “I never asked for their help, or yours! And you only saved me because your Prioress thought I was useful.”

  “She saved you for a purpose. Now I want you to live up to it.”

  “Don’t think you can force me. The moment you spout that Herald nonsense again, I’m gone.”

  Arbalis leaned in close, his face a mask of poorly-concealed rage. “Then, wherever you go, I’ll find you. You promised me I could depend on you, boy, and I’ll see to that, even if I have to stand over you every damn step of the way!”

  Mollis and Calla took their positions beside their Commander, not threatening, but rather declaring where their loyalties lay. Looking up at the trio, Kestel laughed, scorn in his voice.

  “Don’t think you can threaten me, old man. You’re on my side of the ocean now, and I’ve lived on streets like this my entire life. The moment I choose to, I’ll leave, and there’s no way you can keep your eyes on me forever.”

  On cue, Mollis and Calla stepped forward. Arbalis waved them back, but his face had turned into a stillness that somehow seemed worse than one full of rage.

  “You’re pathetic, boy.” Arbalis emphasized the last word. “I truly thought you were better than that. We saved your life, took you in, and gave you a new start. I had hoped you might start acting like a man, but obviously I was wrong.”

  Despite his anger, Kestel almost gasped. He hadn’t expected Arbalis’s words to cut so deeply. Taking a deep breath, he managed a sneer. “Have we finished here, Commander?”

  “Yes.” Turning away, Arbalis walked back to the passage.

  Mollis gave Kestel a cold look and turned to follow the bronzed veteran. Calla didn’t even glance in Kestel’s direction. Anud shrugged and slipped back into the shadows, leaving Kestel alone in the dripping room.

  “Finally,” Kestel said, but couldn’t shake off the hollow feeling inside. The contempt in Arbalis’s voice still rang in his ears. He turned to the nearest fallen weight and gave it a savage kick.

  You made the wrong choice, said Creven.

  “Piss off.” Kestel gripped the metal straps of the block as if he could tear them with his bare hands. He expected some sort of acerbic reply, but Creven remained silent, leaving him with nothing but the steady drip of seawater and the clenching pain in his chest. Perhaps, Arbalis had been right.

  A few hours later, Kestel slouched over the stone ruins of a balcony above the remains of Eldeway’s central avenue. Around the city, fires burned, and the sounds of running battles floated up from the streets below.

  “Why should I care?” Kestel yelled to the night air. “It’s my life. I don’t owe anyone.” Looking down, he followed the progress of a battle between the Exsilium and Sacred Realm forces. The scabies, recognizable by their dark leather and wild fighting style, had gained an advantage over the smaller Exsilium force, made up of common soldiers clad in chainmail and steel helmets.

  A small group of Praetoria entered the fray, bottling up the tide of scabies until the superior numbers of the Sacred Realm soldiers pushed them back. Squinting and leaning forward, Kestel realized one of the armored soldiers had a familiar crossbow strapped to his back.

  Arbalis! Kestel’s heart raced in his chest. He started forward, but his pride reined him back. “It’s not my problem.”

  His sword hand twitched at the ringing sound of swordplay, but he stood rooted to the spot, the Ichthyophagi’s words rising up out of his memory.

  The men haunting your dreams still hurt you, and you can never recover what was lost. Many have died for you to get here. More still will die before you are through.

  Kestel blinked away tears and listened to his own voice in his memory begging for someone, anyone, to help him.

  He looked down at Arbalis and his men. This time something inside slipped away, like an old scab peeling off to reveal fresh skin beneath.

  “I won’t walk away.” Kestel surveyed the battle again, but this time like a hawk sizing up its prey.

  About damn time. Creven’s voice, suddenly in his head again.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Kestel’s mouth. You ready, Creven?

  The dead have nothing left to fear.

  Laughing, he drew his sword and kicked off the edge of the balcony, launching into the battle like an avenging angel.

  18

  Analysis:

  Imports to the Regal Estate are increasing, ostensibly to service the recent influx of minor nobles. This is also part of the current trend toward Caelbor contracts. However, the shipping of soldiers to the Capital continues to breach the Arrius Agreement by writing off the extra guardsmen as trainers, personal bodyguards or the like. It appears that the League of Nobles are gathering their resources.

  ~from secret report to Spymaster Harpalus from Abelard, secretary to Dockmaster Pollio, dated 100th year of the Exile~

  Dirty water sloshed against the jetty where Harpalus hid, watching his prey. Perched amidst the pylons and service jetties beneath the main wharf, the Citadel’s Spymaster examined the boat before him. He rechecked his followers for the night’s operation, his mind spinning.

  Gyges sat next to him in complete silence, his grizzled, hairy face blank beneath the black bandana Harpalus had given him. Harpalus wore similar garb, topped with a felt cap lined with boar tusks. Two dozen Exsilium and Caelbor lounged around them—sailors, dockworkers, and local cutthroats Harpalus considered reliable. All were dressed in nondescript clothing––they could blend into the dockyard crowds if Harpalus’s plan went w
rong. His thoughts drew him back to last night’s conversation.

  “And nothing will go wrong.” Harpalus stood at his window, looking out at the roiling fog beyond. The sun had already set, but the appearance of his old mentor had forced him to stay in his office.

  “Something always goes wrong,” said the old cleric, picking at her worn, black habit. The Spymaster couldn’t help noticing how her eyes flicked toward Gyges when she spoke. “You don’t need to be there personally. You’re taking too many risks.”

  “You never took enough,” said Harpalus, twisting the knife into the old woman’s past failures. “Besides, Gyges will protect me, won’t you Gyges?”

  Gyges’s scarred visage snapped to life at the mention of his name. The man paused, as if the answer had to be considered from all angles. “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure you have the right ship?” The old woman sounded skeptical.

  Harpalus motioned to the papers strewn about his desk. “The Caelbor Lady has worked on smuggling operations with the Rowan family before and has been visiting our ports regularly—too regularly—over the last three months. My informants report she drew twelve feet when she last docked, but her official manifests declare she was only shipping grain from the continent. Most grain ships draw only nine feet. She’s either running dangerously full for such a mundane cargo, or the captain is supplementing his usual shipping schedule.”

  Sister Julia’s brows furrowed. “Do you really think Lord Rowan won’t hunt you down as a suspect? You were at his party—and whatever else he is, Rowan’s no fool.”

  “Ah, my dear Aunt,” said Harpalus, his dark, glinting eyes looking out at the evening mist, “I’ve already arranged for a suspect. And since you are so concerned, I have a task for you.”

  The arrival of a scout brought the Spymaster back to the present, the agent’s greasy hair dripping from the light rain. The man’s grin showed off his missing two front teeth, the remainder yellowing and black.

  “The rain’s driven most people inside, y’r honor. We’re ready t’ move.”

  Harpalus nodded and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it’s time. Affix your masks and remember, kill any who draw a weapon on you, but let a few of them escape. Otherwise, how will they know it was the infamous Heldar the Brown and his men?”

  The chuckle made by the assembled criminals sounded grim. They wrapped the brown leather masks Harpalus had given them around their faces and checked their weapons. None of the men used swords—cudgels, daggers, and axes were just as effective at close quarters and attracted less attention.

  In silence, Harpalus affixed his mask and followed his men as they spread out along the small service jetty used by tar caulkers to tend their ships. Looking out at the wooden bulk of the Caelbor Lady, a strange sensation struck Harpalus, as if had crept up on some enormous beast, its sides rising and falling in slumber.

  Harpalus shrugged off the feeling and found a handhold, pulling himself up the ship’s side with Gyges close behind. He spied one of the ship’s watchmen. A split second later, the figure gave a muffled yelp, his body yanked into the darkness.

  Scrambling over the rail, the Spymaster surveyed the scene before him. It wasn’t much of a battle. Most of the men guarding the ship were below, and Harpalus’s operatives had already subdued the watchmen. Harpalus whistled and motioned upwards, sending a handful of men clambering up the rigging like rats. Scanning the docks for any witnesses, he motioned for another group to follow him down. Gyges hovered behind him like a dark curse.

  Let’s hope my luck lasts. Harpalus made his way into the ship’s hold. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom, he peered into the tiny cabins, stopping in front of the captain’s door. Pulling a few slender pieces of metal from his pocket, Harpalus picked the lock in silence. The Spymaster motioned for the cut-throats to stand ready. He burst into the room, daggers in hand, looking for any bodyguards. He found none.

  “What the hell?” yelled a deep voice from the small pallet set into the corner. Before anyone could react, a pale, silver-haired woman clambered out of the bed, wrapping the sheet around herself. The pudgy, tattooed man she left behind laid there, looking stunned at the intruders.

  “Who the hell are you?” The captain of the Caelbor Lady tried but failed to cover his genitals with one hand, while scrabbling for a weapon on the bedside table. “Guards! We’re under attack!”

  Pox. Harpalus flung one of his daggers at the hairy chest.

  The captain fumbled to catch the blade but missed. The steel plunged deep into the man’s side and he fell back gurgling.

  Spinning away, the Spymaster nodded at the sobbing young woman in the corner. “Someone watch them. The rest of you—follow me.”

  A tangle of blue and red uniforms sprang from the hold and flooded the tight hallway.

  “For Heldar!” Harpalus raised his remaining dagger. The men around him growled and charged, filling the space with weapons and flailing bodies.

  Slicing his way through the motley crew of dark leathers and colored uniforms, the lean Spymaster ducked under a clumsy sword-blow. He grabbed hold of the man’s arm and pushed the sword deep into the timber walls before shoving his own blade into the soldier’s ribcage. Harpalus wrenched the dagger free and slammed it back into the flesh of the guard fighting a cut-throat next to him. Working toward the hold, he noticed one of the guards had found a pike. The soldier crouched at the narrow door into the hold, with two more swordsmen standing beside him.

  Backing up, Harpalus motioned for a few men to keep them busy and called out for Gyges, pointing toward the three Caelbor soldiers. “Quickly, we can’t afford to waste time.”

  The giant, still holding a pale, skinny guardsman, slammed the youth’s head into the wall and lunged forward. Reaching out, he caught the pike and jerked it toward him. His thick hands moved in a blur, yanking the weapon out of the guard’s hands, and slammed the wooden shaft back into the young man’s ribs. The blue and red clad guard sobbed and curled over. The other two soldiers sprang forward in a desperate attempt to impale the scarred figure bearing down on them.

  The way Gyges drew a small, worn blade from his belt, moving slowly in comparison to the frenzied rush of the few remaining men, fascinated Harpalus. Just as their swords were about to touch him, Gyges twisted, reaching out with one meaty hand to knock the offending sword arms away. A small blade flashed, and the soldiers stumbled back, clutching their throats.

  I never saw his hands move. Harpalus watched blood spurt over the walls.

  The Spymaster looked about—examining the prone bodies to make sure no threats remained. Cold tingled up his lean back, as it always did after a life-and-death struggle. The smell of blood and sweat tasted sharp in his mouth, leaving his belly strangely ravenous.

  “Toss the wounded into a cabin and lock it. You know the bargain—take whatever you can carry, but deliver the marked goods to the empty warehouse behind the sign of the Magpie.” Motioning to a cut-throat who wasn’t bleeding too much, the Spymaster pointed to one of the corpses. “Set a watch. Get into one of the uniforms and wait up on deck.”

  The assembled men nodded, but not without a few muttered oaths from those who lost fellows in the brawl. Ignoring them, Harpalus set Gyges to guard the door and descended into the darkness of the hold.

  Lighting an oil lamp, Harpalus examined the cargo laid out before him and considered where he would hide smuggled weapons.

  Sealed compartments, counterfeit walls, even secondary hulls built beneath the keel. He hopped over piles of grain sacks. And yet, it’ll almost certainly be in wheat sacks, two layers beneath the grain.

  Pulling aside a few bags, the Spymaster noticed sand pouring out of the sides of one. Disappointed by their lack of inventiveness, he tore open the sack and revealed several bright swords tied within. The Spymaster took out a lump of red wax and warmed it against the side of the lamp before marking the bag with a red smudge. He made his way along the line of hessian sacks until he reached grain again.
r />   Satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, the lean figure returned to the exposed weapons and drew one of the blades. He held it up to the light and tested its balance.

  Beautiful. He admired the brilliant shine of the metal. Too beautiful… Examining the maker’s mark set into the crosspiece, Harpalus gasped and dropped the blade. Set into the sparkling metal was a red wolf’s head, mouth open and baying.

  The Canidae’s head! These blades were made by the Master Artificers!

  “Impossible,” he whispered. “The Canidae have been loyal to the Citadel for centuries. Even if they had started working for the League, every blade is accounted for by the Citadel’s auditors.”

  Which means…the list of traitors grows deeper still.

  Now even more apprehensive, the Spymaster double checked that he had marked all the smuggled weapons and started for the door, but an internal twinge of something out of place stopped him. Re-examining the hold, he wandered over to the water barrels stacked against the ship’s side. One stood much smaller than the others.

  Hidden in plain sight. Pulling the cork from the hole in the top of the barrel, Harpalus leaned over and took a careful sniff. A familiar smell greeted his nostrils.

  Bloodwyne. The captain must be Maal’s contact—Sister Amelia’s killer.

  Racing past a surprised Gyges, Harpalus pushed aside the men and burst into the captain’s quarters. Harpalus’s dagger was missing and the captain lay in a pool of blood, his throat slit from ear to ear and his mouth hanging open in shock. Looking around, he saw his agent had met a similar fate. The man’s clothes were gone and the window-shutters to the docks beyond were open.

  “Angel’s arseholes!” His mind raced.

  It was the woman!

  The cloying smell of the Citadel’s dungeon wafted around Sister Julia. The black-robed cleric kept going, hobbling down the winding stairs.