by Chris Moss
I always hated this place. She squinted in the gloom, cockroaches scurrying between her feet. Julia put a hand on the dusty wall to steady herself before making her way down to the waiting guard.
“What business do you have here, holy one?” said the soldier on duty, a curly-haired Exsilium eyeing her dark robe for any weapons.
Julia examined the young man—clad in chain and leather, he had the look of a common soldier rather than the elite Praetorian Guard. Taking out a velvet pouch, she revealed a small, silver ring, unadorned save for a pair of upswept silver wings bisected by a sapphire. “Do you know what this signifies?”
The guardsman’s mouth dropped open. “Y-yes ma’am. It’s the signet ring of the Praetorian Guard.”
“Which means?” said Julia, letting her voice deepen a fraction.
The young man gulped. “That I’m to obey any orders you give me.”
“Very good.” The old cleric nodded. “Now take me to the cell of Heldar the Brown.”
The guardsman nodded and opened the iron gate behind him, holding it open for Julia to shuffle through.
Angels preserve me. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Bullying underlings at prison doors?
Shaking her head, she walked in silence until the pair came to a plain oak door. Ordering the guard to wait outside, Julia took the keys and shuffled in, peering about in the near darkness.
Unlike Abbeyfort prison, the cells beneath the Citadel were reserved for common thieves and cut-purses too clumsy to ply their trade undetected or unlucky enough to get on the wrong side of a rival. Heldar the Brown was among the latter, sprawled on a small sack of dirty straw in a corner, his long, gray hair tangled and dirty. The old man’s eyes opened to suspicious slits the moment Julia entered.
“I know you’re awake,” said Julia. “Sit up, face me like a man. You know there’s no way out of this cell.”
Heldar pulled himself upright and eyed the old woman with a wary gaze. “What do ye be wanting, woman?”
“I’ve come about your sentence.”
“Life imprisonment.”
“Perhaps not,” said Julia.
“There’s been a change in sentence?”
Julia nodded, not trusting her voice.
The old bandit stayed silent for a long moment, and then expelled his breath in a ragged sigh. “Good. I don’t want to spend me years in this place.”
Julia offered her hand. “Then you will accept your fate?”
Nodding, Heldar took her hand. “I will. Thank ye—ow!” The old man jerked away and sucked his hand. “Why did ye scratch me, woman?”
Sister Julia shrugged. “I must be getting clumsy—forgive me. You will be transferred in the morning.” Without waiting for a reply, the old cleric turned and slipped out the door, locking it behind her before Heldar could say another word.
The poisoned quill, she returned to the lining of her sleeve. The hollowness of her actions washed over her. She held her gnarled hands against the wall for support. Once upon a time, she had been feared in Caelbor’s underworld for cutting the throats of the Citadel’s enemies with ease. Now she struggled not to cry or vomit, her conscience a mirror to her own mortality.
It was necessary. Rowan will search high and low for the bandit who attacked his ship. With Heldar mysteriously escaped from jail, Harpalus will never be suspected.
Thinking about her former student, she came to a bitter realization. Pye wanted me to do this. To show me how weak I’ve become.
Summoning her powers, Julia’s mind expanded into the Aeris, separating itself from the emotional pain her actions had brought. However, guilt still gnawed at her. She grimaced in the darkness and fumbled her way back to the waiting guard.
“In the morning, take his body and have it burned,” she ordered, before the guard could speak. “He will be presumed to have broken out. You were not here this night, and no blame will be attached to you. Understand?”
The young man’s olive skin paled. He nodded, and stepped aside to let Julia pass. On her way through the clean, marbled halls of the Citadel, she stopped to breathe the fresh air, tilting her head back to let the cool night wash the cell’s odor away.
The safety of the Citadel is at stake. It was necessary. She hobbled back to her library, but was no longer quite so sure.
Dashing back into the hallway, Harpalus bumped into Gyges. He stopped long enough to thrust the small barrel into the larger man’s arms. “Take this and the weapons to the warehouse. Don’t open the barrel.”
Harpalus emerged into the rain and sprinted down the Caelbor Lady’s gangplank, scanning the dock. He shoved aside several wharf workers who gazed at his masked face with surprise and fear. Spotting a flash of silver disappearing around a corner, Harpalus freed his remaining dagger and raced toward the alleyway.
A sharp scream and the familiar gurgle of a slit throat slowed the Spymaster to a hunter’s stalk. He peered around the filthy brickwork, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. A pool of blood steamed where it cooled by the body of an unlucky footpad, his scruffy beard already stained red.
“Vae,” said Harpalus, his mind churning.
Edging his way along the grimy wall, the Spymaster pitched his voice low. “Show yourself. There’s no way out of this alley except through me.”
The narrow space filled with melodic laughter.
“Do you really think a masked bandit can hold me?” whispered a voice in his ear, the silver-haired woman stepping out of the shadows beside him.
Harpalus’s reflexes took over, slashing out with his last dagger.
’Ware her speed.
Maal’s agent flicked out her blade like a snake’s tongue, forcing Harpalus back against a wall.
“You’re pretty good for an alley-rat,” said the silver-haired woman, her face covered by a scrap of cloth. “But not good enough.” She struck out again, requiring him to duck another blow.
She relies on speed rather than skill. Harpalus fended off a low slash and edged back down the alley. She has likely never fought a professional with the blade.
Changing his stance, the Spymaster hopped backward, timing his movements to the silver-haired woman’s blows. Her steps became more and more overbalanced. Seeing his opportunity, Harpalus pretended to stumble. The woman slashed forward, but he sprang back like a young sapling and moved past her blow. Turning, Harpalus brought his knee up in a satisfying crunch, connecting with the woman’s abdomen.
Shocked and winded, the woman fell back slashing, her wild movements trailing silver lines in the air. Her pale hair whipped around her face like a shroud.
“Surrender.” Harpalus panted, his ragged breathing heavy in his ears.
“Make me.”
Before Harpalus could react, Maal’s agent turned and ran, the muscles in her neck and shoulders taut. She sprinted toward the wide doors of a warehouse located at the end of the alley.
Is she trying to break the doors down? He gave chase, closing the gap between him and his prey. Rather than try to force the doors open, the slender woman launched herself up the rough frame. Steadying herself against the bricks, she twisted and grabbed the window ledge above her.
Guessing her intent, Harpalus yanked the lock picks from his pocket and set to work on the doors, keeping an eye on the woman’s slow ascent toward the roof. At the moment the heavy padlock clicked, Maal’s agent pulled herself up and over the guttering.
Harpalus flew through the deserted warehouse, racing up the stairs and out onto the roof. Desperate for his prey, he craned his neck this way and that, spotting the familiar silver hair disappearing over an adjoining rooftop.
“Stop!” He clambered out onto the wet tiles, his lungs burning from the effort of the chase across the moonlit roofs. The shallow slopes of the warehouse roofs made the pursuit quick. He skidded before a jump, making tiles clatter to the ground below. Dockworkers, whores, and cutpurses looked up.
The slim woman’s hair streamed behind her like a banner with every leap she took ac
ross the gaping spaces between the rooftops. But no matter how high the drop or wide the jump, Harpalus dogged her every footstep, flinging himself from roof to roof.
Her graceful moves impressed him. Every jump flowed as if it had been rehearsed a dozen times, but his mind still swam with the memory of Sister Amelia, her face blackened and broken. He quickened his pace, the air burning hotter in his chest.
The woman changed direction, slipping from the warehouse rooftops. She disappeared into the jumble of chimneys on top of the homes of those living in the Old Docks.
Cursing under his breath, Harpalus dropped onto the next roof. A poorly-made tile cracked under his weight and went clattering over the side. He winced at the sound and drew into the shadows, peering out into the haze of smoke and steam for a telltale sign that would give his prey away.
Harpalus opened himself to the darkness. Around him the air mingled with the foul odors of the tanneries and dung-heaps, moist sea air mixing on his tongue with the heavy wood-smoke of the chimneys. A myriad of tiny sounds filled his ears. Closing his eyes to mere slits, he waited in the shadows until he heard what he had been waiting for—the sharp noise of badly made tiles shifting under a person’s weight.
Harpalus crept closer to the sound. His eyes glanced from shadow to shadow, approaching a multistoried block of dormitories occupied by the menial workers.
I have you now. Coiling his muscles, he readied himself and sprang forward, dagger ready to swoop down and puncture bare flesh. Instead of pouncing on his prey, Harpalus was engulfed in the feathers and flapping wings of brown doves. Harpalus landed with a jarring impact to his knee. He hacked through the mass of fluttering bodies, trying to right himself. A glimpse of silver hair threw his concentration, and he tumbled toward the roof’s edge, tiles sliding under him in his desperate attempt for a foothold.
Flinging out a hand, the Spymaster caught the edge of an exposed rafter just as his body barreled out into space. His fingers ached at the full force of his weight.
“Now you die, alley-rat,” said a voice from above.
Looking past his quivering hand, hope faded in Harpalus’s chest. Maal’s agent leaned over him, the tips of her silver hair tickling his knuckles. The pair locked gazes for a moment and then the woman brought her foot down on the Spymaster’s hand.
Crying out in pain, Harpalus scrabbled along the stone wall for some kind of anchor with his other hand, but to no avail. Screaming, he fell toward the cobbles, the sound of the woman’s laughter echoing inside his ill-fitted, leather mask.
19
The Baavghir do not have a village as such, but nomadic family groups, or “pritju,” may be connected to sheltered gathering places, strung out along the tundra to the north and deserts to the east. For security, the young men leave home on their fifteenth birthday to live in single men’s camps, ruled by men. The women, or Baavghirla, are considered sacred to the ancestral bear god, Baabuk, and live with their parents in the pritju, ruled by a senior Baavghirla. While a young woman may signal their intentions to their beloved through a request for their intent to hunt with them or by exchanging possessions, it is still up to the family elders to arrange marriage.
~from Traditions and Customs of the Frostmarch, by Sister Ursula,
dated 431st year of the Empire~
“Stand firm!” Arbalis said to the ranks of men around him. Despite their Commander’s order, the soldiers shuffled and gave ground, beaten back by the wild mobs of scabies-men trying to cut their way through.
“We can’t stand much more of this, Commander!” Calla ducked the frenzied swipe of a bleeding warrior, returning the gesture with a fierce blow of her own.
“No complaints.” Arbalis ran a warrior through with his short sword and looked for an escape route. Behind them, the ruined building they had taken shelter in blazed, the fire drawing more scabies to their location.
Towering above the fray, Mollis cleared away the nearest foes with a few sweeps of his blade, but it earned only a moment’s respite for the tiring soldiers. “Vae!” The tanned giant drew back and guarded himself against the Sacred Realm warriors. “Commander, we need an exit, now!”
Arbalis tried to bark a reply but the approach of a sudden light distracted him. Near one of the alleyways, a new figure entered the battle, a sword in one hand and a burning torch in the other. The light cast red reflections on the shining Citadel armor.
Spinning like a whirlwind, the newcomer sliced open a man unlucky enough to get in his way. The torch, he swung in a wide arc, making the scabies scramble to get out of his way.
“This way! Hurry!” shouted a familiar voice.
Calla’s scarred mouth fell open. “It can’t be…”
“It is.” Arbalis ducked a sudden blow and started to move. “Make the most of it. Mollis!”
The big man nodded and started to batter his way through the alleyway, moving like a ship toward a tiny lighthouse. The Citadel soldiers shuffled forward, their unlikely savior ducking and weaving to keep the enemy distracted. Breaking through, Mollis took up position behind Kestel.
“Good to see you, soldier.” The big man waved his comrades into the relative safety of the alley. “Don’t take so long next time.”
The young man laughed, his movements a dance that scattered the leather-clad warriors before him.
Calla joined Mollis and Kestel, and the trio formed a defensive shield, behind which the other soldiers slipped to safety and disappeared into the adjoining streets. Within minutes, the remains of the Sacred Realm force broke off to chase the Exsilium through the maze of ruins.
After scanning the street to make sure they were alone, Arbalis nodded and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Kestel didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“I’m not your Herald, Arbalis. But I do owe you my life, and much more besides. I’ll take you to where you need to go, the place the Fish-eater told us of—but that’s it. Agreed?”
Arbalis looked down on Kestel with a dark expression, trying to weigh what he could expect from the wiry young man. With no other viable options, he sighed and bowed his head in agreement.
On cue, Mollis grinned and turned to Calla, who yanked out a pouch from her belt and handed the giant a silver coin.
Kestel raised an eyebrow. “Betting whether I’d come back?”
“No,” said the giant, still smiling. “We knew you’d be back. We were betting on whether Arbalis would bring you in a sack.”
Kestel laughed and followed Arbalis’s lead into the alleyways of the burning city.
Kicking through the undergrowth, Kestel swore for the umpteenth time, walking into another spider’s web. Trying to turn around, he caught the edge of his pants on a fallen log and winced at the sound of a tear.
“Damn!” He clawed at his eyes, trying to get rid of silky strings covering his face.
I told you to duck, whispered Creven.
“Shut up!”
Bleary-eyed, Kestel looked around for firewood. Despite the ancient trees surrounding him, it was hard work. He scanned the ground around their trunks, hoping to find stacks of kindling waiting to be picked up.
It doesn’t work like that, city boy, said the silvered skull tied against his hip. You have to find some fallen branches and strip them.
“I hate the forest,” said Kestel, under his breath.
After escaping from Eldeway, Arbalis’s squad had travelled east for almost a week, dodging the main roads and winding their way farther into Maal’s Sacred Realm. The stories Calla and Mollis told him of the Laefscead Forest made the place sound peaceful, beautiful, and overflowing with wild game. In reality, the woods ended up being a tangled mess of trees, weeds, and insects—and the only animals he saw, escaped long before he could crash through the spiky bushes to get them.
Mollis had promised to show him a few rudimentary skills for living off the land, but so far, they consisted of fetching wood and carrying water. Frustrated, Kestel slumped against a tree and scratched at his arm. He had r
ubbed up against some sort of hairy vine earlier that had produced an impressive rash.
“Is there anything else that can go wrong?” he said to the forest in general. He leaned back, only to feel a cold blade tickling his neck.
“I’ve known dogs in heat that make less noise than you. Now get rid of the blade. Slowly.”
Slowly, Kestel craned his neck and looked up at his assailant. A cloaked woman held a large sword levelled at his exposed flesh. Her serious expression couldn’t compensate for the trembling in her arm. The sword was too large to be hers. Chuckling, Kestel reached up and traced a finger along the sharp edge.
The newcomer pulled back the hood from her head, spilling out familiar dark curls over amber skin. “Come on. Move.”
Kestel grinned. “Alright.”
Snapping his arm forward, Kestel knocked aside the woman’s blade with his armored wrist and grabbed her arm. He yanked the arm up. The woman yelped and fell forward onto Kestel’s chest. This close, he could make out the details of her face—a soft, broad nose, full lips, dark-brown eyes with a tiny fold of skin resting over the inner corner.
Kestel raised an eyebrow and wrapped his arms around her. “Wouldn’t you be better in a more womanly line of work—a concubine maybe?”
The woman snapped her head forward. Kestel turned just in time to catch the blow on his cheek rather than his nose. When that didn’t work, his opponent brought her knee up. Kestel’s arms went limp, zinging pain dropping him to the ground.
The woman snorted. “Perhaps I should. Looks like I’ve already got you by the balls.”
Blinking away blue spots swimming before him, Kestel grimaced and kicked out. The woman sprang away like a gazelle. He staggered to his feet, but the woman rushed him from behind. Sharpened by years on the Capital’s streets, Kestel was already ahead of the attack. He spun, slamming his elbow into her stomach. She went down in a heap, dropping the blade and holding her abdomen.
“You’re a…fatherless bastard.” She wheezed, glaring up at him.
“Is that an insult?” Kestel blinked in confusion. “We all were where I come from.”