The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  Kestel stayed ahead of them, moving toward the main square. Calla had recoiled at the smell of the dark leather scraps on her body, taken from the group who had attacked them in the forest. Mollis opted to go bare-chested, as nothing came close to fitting him. Arbalis looked forlorn without his usual sparkling armor. Kestel, however, found a familiar comfort in the clothes, although he wrapped a scrap of cloth around his head to hide the hated tattoo.

  I still think stripping the bodies of those dead soldiers was rank, Creven said. Even I never stooped to that.

  Better than trying to take it off them when they were still alive, said Kestel.

  “Do you have any sort of a plan?” Calla gave a wary look down every alleyway.

  “None, whatsoever.” Kestel turned away, sensing a trace of anxiousness in the woman’s voice.

  It’s the acid test, whispered Creven. They’re putting their safety in your hands, now.

  I know. Kestel looked at the ruins around him. His survey of the city of Palentanum brought mixed emotions.

  Blocks of once-grand houses stood hollow or reduced to near-rubble, with ragged holes where doors used to be. The windows had been replaced by wooden struts, roofs patched with thatch. The smell of dust and sweat mixed with the reek of feces and stale urine emanated from the alleyways. Rubbish blew along the streets, or piled up in corners. Fire pits filled with ash and old bones lay like wounds in the broken cobbles. Dogs scurried amongst the debris, starved and mangy, nosing for scraps. Naked babes with matted, straw-colored hair wandered from shadow to shadow, tagging along behind young mothers who already carried the hard, worn look of those abused by life.

  “This is what you grew up with?” said a small voice behind him, snapping him out of his reverie. Kestel turned and faced Eriwasteg who had reluctantly wrapped up her father’s sword and donned the mismatched scraps from the scabies that had attacked.

  Mm-mm. Some girls do look good in leather, don’t they? said Creven.

  Shut up. Kestel tried to shut the irritating voice away.

  “Pretty much,” he said to the young woman, his wary gaze fixed on the streets.

  “No wonder you left.”

  Kestel bit back an acerbic reply, seeing once again the decay surrounding him. “I never left. I was taken by soldiers who were bigger and stronger than me. And after a while, I just—learned not to think about it.” But it’s like home.

  Looking at the street gangs scurrying through the alleyways or playing amongst the debris, brought a strange sensation to Kestel, and highlighted just how foreign those he travelled with were to him.

  Nearby, a group of three large boys backed a girl against a cracked wall.

  “Go away,” the emaciated figure said, holding up a rock at the leering boys.

  “Are you going to make us?” said the largest of the group, stepping forward and grabbing at the girl’s ragged clothes. Before he could tear the girl’s clothing off, he gasped and fell to his knees. Watery, red blood spilled from his mouth, his hand clutching his side.

  Kestel stepped back and glared at the other boys, who took one look at his size and weapons and hared into the nearest ruin. The girl stared at Kestel in wide-eyed terror.

  “It’s alright.” Kestel smiled. “They won’t hurt you anymore.”

  The scrawny figure yelped and scurried into the ruins without a backward glance. Kestel sighed and wiped his blade clean on the body before walking back to the waiting group. The few onlookers on the street marked the death and hurried away.

  Eriwasteg gave Kestel an odd look, brushing back curls from her amber cheeks to watch him from the corner of her eye. “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s just something I had to do.” Kestel frowned and looked away.

  Eriwasteg walked beside Kestel in thoughtful silence, keeping her gaze on the stones between her feet. “I’m sorry, by the way—for the other day, when I called you an animal.”

  Uneasy with her apology, Kestel shrugged his backpack. “Do you still think I’m a scabie, Eri? Because I was. I did…terrible things when I served them.”

  Eriwasteg’s mouth twisted into a frown, but she kept her voice neutral. “I was told you were once part of Lychra Maal’s palace guard, but was betrayed by your comrades. Is that how you got that scar on your forehead?”

  “The person—the Goddess—I spent my life serving betrayed me, and yet I carry the traitor’s mark.” Kestel turned his head away from the young woman’s gaze. “She took everything from me. Everything. That is why I’m here, to pay her back in kind.”

  “The others suggest there is another reason.”

  “Well there isn’t,” said Kestel. “At least I have a reason to be here.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.” Eriwasteg’s voice turned cold and brittle as frost. “You weren’t there when Maal’s soldiers came for my family. You didn’t see what they did—” Eriwasteg’s voice cracked and broke off, the pair walking on in uncomfortable silence.

  “Look, I’m...sorry,” he said, looking at the rubble strewn ground. “I just...lash out whenever this comes up.”

  “Why?” said Eriwasteg, her voice finding a neutral tone again.

  “Because I loved her, I guess. I was nothing before I served as part of her guard, and I liked to think I had a purpose—like I was part of some great plan.” Turning his face toward the alleyways, Kestel sighed. “But she didn’t care about me, even when I was begging her to save my life.”

  “But you saved my life.” Warmth seeped back into Eri’s voice. “Even after what I called you.”

  Turning, Kestel looked up to see a smile blossom between her amber cheeks. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She looked away. “Mollis told me what they did to you in Maal’s prison.”

  Kestel tried to smile in response, but the pain of that dark place flashed across his memory, robbing the moment of happiness. Casting about, he tried to switch topics, but Eriwasteg had gone silent again, her face creased with worry.

  “I wanted to ask you more about Mollis.” Eri’s nervous gaze sought his from the corner of her eye. “What is his life like, back in Caelbor? Does he have a home, wife, a family?”

  “I don’t think so—he’s never mentioned it.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “I never asked.” Though the truth, admitting it out loud made Kestel’s ears burn. “But I can if you want.”

  “No!” The Baavghirla’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare! Just forget I said anything.”

  “Fine,” said Kestel, but the young woman had already dropped back behind Arbalis and avoided looking at Kestel or Mollis.

  Ahead of the small group, Mollis turned and pointed to the broken skyline. “The town square is just ahead. The library should be the building on the other side—that one, I think.”

  Forcing his confused feelings down, Kestel found a hollow doorway and ducked into the shadows of the limestone building Mollis pointed out. The others followed after. Inside, the rooms remained somewhat undamaged but empty, save a few smashed metal racks.

  “These look like storerooms,” said Mollis. “I think we need to go further up.”

  The bulky man took the lead and headed up a flight of rough stairs, heading farther into the dilapidated structure. He pointed out various aspects of the library to those following, his bare olive chest flickering in and out of the shafts of sunlight pouring through the roof.

  “…designed by Leo Fredaris, which means the layout is essentially the same,” said Mollis, smiling at the bare rooms and vandalized walls around him. Stopping at a wide archway, its doors long since removed, he turned and beamed at Kestel. “Here we are…redomitius. The map lies across the central floor. I want you to see it first.”

  Nodding, Kestel stepped into the long hall, but as soon as he did, something twisted in his stomach. A scent of something long dead pervaded his nostrils. Something’s not right, Creven. What’s going on?

  I don’t know, said Creven.

  Kestel tried to shru
g off the strange sensation and took a look around the huge space. The oval room’s great tables now lay in heaps of twisted metal and shattered kindling. The maps that once hung from racks around the walls were long gone, save one—a mosaic stretching the entire length of the floor.

  Bending down, Kestel swept at the thick layers of dust obscuring the details of the map. The others spread out across the room, wiping away years of grime to uncover the secrets beneath.

  “Here,” said Eriwasteg, looking up from the far corner of the room, smiling. “I recognize this.”

  “What is it?” Wincing, Arbalis got up off his knees and wandered over.

  “The Halls of Baabuk,” said the young woman. “Part of my homeland.”

  “Which means the Lernaen Swamp will be closer to the middle.” Calla pointed across the floor, to the other side.

  Grinning, Mollis got down on his hands and knees, his furious scrubbing raising dust. Kestel and Calla squatted down to join in, a restless, childish energy to their work. Each watched the others’ progress, trying to be the first to uncover what they sought.

  “Mol, I think you should see this,” said Calla.

  Shuffling over to the scarred figure, the giant’s face wrinkled in concentration. “The shapes of these buildings match those of the memorials to the dead erected at Suseworf, pre-dating the founding of the Empire. And this—” He traced the outline of the blocky letters. “—are Farise scribe’s symbols. The upper symbol represents a god—the lower symbol a snake.” The large man stood up and beamed at Kestel. “This is it, Herald. The Sepulchre of Musmahu—the resting place of the hydra after being defeated by Aedron.”

  “But how do we get there?” Arbalis frowned at the mosaic peeking through the dust.

  “Simple,” the large man said. “The Lernaen Swamp is represented only as a formless mass of tiles, and I daresay its shape has changed over the last few centuries. But these symbols I spoke of, representing memorials? They form a line—a path through the swamp into the Sepulchre.”

  “Do we approach the swamp through these hills to the north, or follow the river to the east?” Calla stared hard at the marks in the dust.

  “Up the hills,” said the bulky figure. “The river is too close to the Capital—”

  A dark shape dropped from the arches above. From Kestel’s perspective, everything happened at once—the screams, the struggle, and the flash of deep-red blood that sprayed from the giant’s mouth.

  “Mollis!” Eriwasteg tore her father’s sword free from its wrapping and faced the bleeding figure.

  Calla and Arbalis drew their swords and dove into the fray, tumbling and thrusting to contain their attacker. The nameless horror attacking Mollis was faster still, weaving between the swords like a child at play and striking out with hook-like hands. Kestel ducked past a dark, clawed limb and thrust his sword into the figure’s midsection.

  The attacker stumbled back, allowing the group to see what they faced. The creature was a man, or at least man-shaped, but the diseased skin hanging from a skeletal frame appeared a motley color of black, brown, and yellow. The gouge across the belly oozed deep amber.

  The creature’s hairless skull and bloated, golden eyes darted about the room. Looking at the soldiers, the attacker laughed, the noise a liquid gurgle from a crushed throat. “You can’t kill me, Herald.”

  Arbalis and Calla drew close to Kestel, who examined the lean, pock-marked face of the figure. He had seen the same self-satisfied smile before, standing over him as the hydra circled. “Demetros?”

  The creature staggered back in surprise, but a spark of recognition came into the swollen, amber eyes. “Kestel?”

  Kestel’s former comrade snapped his head back in laugher.

  “Oh, this is perfect,” said the horrid creature. “Kestel the traitor, Herald of the ironsides.”

  “You betrayed me. You left me to die.” Kestel’s anger flared deep in his gut, but the strangeness emanating from Demetros kept him from attacking.

  “And now, I get to beat you again, you little prick—starting with killing your new friends.” Demetros’s blackened grin split even wider, exposing the yellow flesh beneath. “But I might save the girl for later.”

  “You’re a monster,” said Kestel, though the mottled figure forced him backward.

  “I am eternal.” Demetros’s amber blood dribbled from the split flesh of his throat and face. “Beyond even the Immortals. And, as for you, Herald—”

  Thick arms dragged the mottled figure back, Mollis’s blood-stained face rising over Demetros’s shoulder like an angry god.

  “Kestel, run!” The giant twisted, throwing the skeletal figure against the nearest wall. The impact shook dust from the arches above, but Kestel saw crimson blood pumping fast from the large soldier’s side. On the far side of the room, Demetros slithered up and cackled at the Praetorian’s defiance. Building up speed, he lurched toward Mollis.

  “No,” said Kestel. “I won’t leave you! Not again!”

  “Go!” Mollis turned his olive back on Kestel and lumbered toward the dark figure. “Remember your word—find the Angel!”

  Before Kestel could reply, the two figures met, their collision sending dust and blood spraying over the room. Kestel picked up his sword and started moving toward the struggle, but a wheezing Arbalis put a meaty arm around his chest.

  “Time to go, boy.” He dragged Kestel toward the door. “Move!”

  Struggling, Kestel saw Eriwasteg being dragged away by Calla. The scarred soldier’s other arm hung from her shoulder at an unnatural angle.

  Arbalis leaned close to Kestel’s ear. “You cannot win this battle, Herald. For now, all you can do is survive. Now go.”

  Kestel strained against the old man for a moment more, his anger bursting at the sight of the weakening Mollis. How many more times will I have to do this?

  At least once more, said Creven. Avenge him when you can accept the Authority to do so. For now, run.

  Turning away, Kestel followed the others out into the streets. He lost himself in the milling crowds, his eyes filling with tears.

  23

  Every control can be broken, although there is more to this art than mere deprivation or pain. The man on the rack must choose to relinquish his secrets—they are rarely forced from him. The secret is to bring about this choice.

  ~from ‘Twilight instructions,’ by Spymaster Carr,

  dated 42nd year of the Exile~

  Harpalus awoke in chains, his head ringing and his body throbbing. Fool. He could almost see Sister Julia shake her head in disappointment. Who said she had to lace the drink with only Bloodwyne?

  Fighting his sluggish thoughts, he watched Typhena walk into the room, dressed once again in red silks and delicate gold chains. A confident smile tugged at her lips.

  “I know who you are,” the woman said, her voice low and husky. “You’re the alley-rat who chased me through the docks, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a merchant from—”

  “Silence.” She punctuated the command with a sharp slap across his face. The Spymaster tried to take control of his thoughts, but the nearly naked woman grabbed him and held his face close.

  Despite himself, Harpalus breathed in her scent, their sexual episode still fresh in his memory. Typhena would use it against him.

  “That’s right.” She sneered. “You are nothing—nothing but an object that belongs to me.”

  Harpalus, unable to move, tried not to let his gaze linger on the woman before him—her soft curves punctuated by gold silk—the confident pose, the way she reached down…

  The fire consuming Harpalus’s body stopped the moment her hand withdrew. Harpalus groaned at the loss.

  This isn’t right. Trying to focus, he became aware of the sickly-sweet taste coating the inside of his mouth. His mouth lolled open in shock. He had been force-fed Bloodwyne—a far greater concentration than the small doses he had experienced in training.

  Bloodwyne. His subconsc
ious parroted the lessons drilled into him years ago by Julia. Drug derived from the blood of Musmahu, collected by Maal and distributed by the Bloodmaster caste. Used as a food replacement and as a means of controlling the population of the Sacred Realm. Known effects: sedation and openness to suggestion in small doses, changing to hyperactivity and uncontrolled lust in larger doses. Extremely concentrated doses are inferred to be part of the creation of the Immortal caste. Highly Addictive.

  “You still desire me,” Typhena said, her purring tone breaking through his fragmented thoughts. She walked across his vision, showing the full movements of her sinuous body. She grasped his balls—not in pain—but with complete control.

  “Y-yes,” he said.

  “Yes, is not good enough.” Typhena released her hold on him. “From now on, it’s yes, my lady, do you understand?”

  “I am—”

  Another swift backhand cut Harpalus’s words short. He gritted his teeth and tried not to make a sound.

  “Yes, what?” She leaned in close to his lips.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good.” She pulled away and turned her back, cold and unforgiving. “Every time you make a mistake, I will punish you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Somewhere within him, his old training tried to reassert itself. Appear to give in—play her game, but play it better than her. Wait until you can escape or trick her into releasing you. Then eliminate her. Staying silent, he waited to see what she would do next.

  Typhena lounged in a cushioned chair in full view of her prisoner. A confident smile on her lips.

  “So—who sent you to find me?”

  Harpalus raised a defiant eyebrow. “Why would I tell you that?”

  Snarling, Typhena snaked forward and punched him hard in the belly. Air exploded from Harpalus’s lungs, his midsection, a ball of pain. He hung in his chains, gasping for breath.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.” The woman leaned in and whispered. “You belong to me now—I can make you feel pleasure or pain as it suits me.” She repositioned herself on the chair. “Who sent you?”