by Chris Moss
“What d’you think you’re doing?” hollered Eriwasteg.
“I’ll think of something.” Kestel scrambled toward the three figures. Arbalis, lost in his struggle to hold on, could do nothing to help Tollit. Demetros brought his mottled hand up to the small-man’s throat, bringing Tollit’s screams to an abrupt end, red spraying over the rocks.
Focus, came a voice from deep within Kestel, from Creven or his own mind, he wasn’t quite sure. The moment the trio was in reach, Kestel took hold of Demetros’s leg. The mottled creature’s rank smell and sticky-to-the-touch flesh made him want to vomit. Kestel gritted his teeth and wrenched, pulling the revolting creature from the rocks. The last he saw of Demetros was a pair of orange and gray eyes widened in shock, the mottled figure tumbling down the rockface. Tollit’s bloodied body followed, slamming into Kestel with bone-jarring impact.
Dazed, Kestel’s hands began to slip, but Arbalis’s shout brought him back into focus.
“Hold on.” Kestel pulled himself up the rocks and grabbed the old-man’s arm.
Arbalis found a foothold. Kestel wedged himself into the jagged rockface and took a minute to catch his breath. His hands shook and a bright ball of pain radiated in his shoulder, but a tired grin stretched across his face. He watched Arbalis climb down and collapse into the arms of Eriwasteg and Calla.
“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you, boy?” said a gurgling voice from below.
“Oh damn,” Kestel said, watching Demetros’s twisted form scrambling back up the rocks to Kestel’s side, his bloodied hands leaving dark-red smears on every rock he touched.
“Run!” yelled Kestel, watching the abomination closing in.
“We won’t leave you!” said Calla.
He had no choice but to climb down past the monster stalking him. His desperate movements pushed his fatigued muscles to their limit. The misty air made distance hard to judge. Searching for his next handhold, the blue light reflecting off the rocks shifted to dark red.
You can do this, said Creven, urging him onward. Come on.
I’m too tired.
You’re almost safe. Don’t give up.
A clammy hand wrapped around his wrist, grasping for a second before it slipped off.
“Help me!” The sensation of the hideous figure’s touch propelled Kestel another body-length down the jagged rocks.
“They can’t help you now, boy,” said Demetros. “You failed. Now, you’re all mine.”
“Kestel!” screamed Eriwasteg from below. “Duck!”
He blinked through the red and silver storm erupting from the light stone below, his heart pounding at the sight of Demetros’s rotten hand reaching out. Something shot up out of the kaleidoscope and slammed into the revolting creature. Demetros slipped from the rockface, disappearing into the deep.
Kestel half-climbed, half-tumbled the rest of the way down to the ledge, too tired to even care about the rocks scraping against his skin.
“Pull him up!” said a voice too far away from his consciousness to know who spoke. “Get him away from the edge.”
“Where’s the monster?” said another voice. “I can’t see it through the lights.”
“It must have fallen over the edge. Just put him down. Kestel—Kestel, are you alright?”
He blinked, recognizing Eriwasteg’s dirt-covered face.
Relief filled her expression. “Kestel, you’re safe. Just sit and rest for a while.”
Kestel tried to smile. “We made it.”
“Not all of us,” said Calla, from near the edge. “That thing—”
“Get back!” Arbalis clutched his crossbow and dug through his pack, looking for another bolt. “Get the swords, now!”
Dragging himself to his knees, Kestel leaned on Eriwasteg. She yanked her father’s too-large sword free and raised it.
A mottled arm emerged to clutch the ledge in front of them with sickening resignation. “Don’t you get it, Herald?” Demetros dragged himself up over the cliff. “You can’t kill me.”
“Let’s find out.” Arbalis pulled his sword from his backpack and attacked. Demetros batted the blade out of the old-man’s hands and shoved him to the ground as if he were a child.
“I am a God.” Demetros stood over Arbalis in a maelstrom of red and silver lighting. “I am the spirit of your nightmares, your every fear and every horror.”
“You want to see horror?” Calla dropped her sword and drew herself up before the skeletal figure. “You don’t know what horror is.”
Calla tore off her wools and leathers. The pulsing lightning illuminated the burns running the length of her body. Seeing the full extent of the scars, Kestel realized how painful every movement must be for the soldier.
Demetros hissed like a snake, bringing his hands up in readiness. Calla’s roar was even stronger. She launched herself at the mottled figure’s midsection, her dirty blonde hair streaming out behind her. Demetros howled in rage, realizing too late what Calla intended. The wrestling figures were gone, leaving only Calla’s tattered woolen jerkin dangling from the ledge until it, too, slipped into the abyss.
31
Take Golmen and a dozen men and protect the intersections leading from the Wayfarer’s Square. Lead as many as you can through the backstreets, and keep them away from the tanners. Do not return to me if a single one of Rowan’s men gets through.
~instructions to an agent from Spymaster Harpalus,
dated 100th year of the Exile~
Unseen from the wide, graceful streets at the front of the building, refuse lined the alleys behind Prelate Gato’s mansion. A ragged, old man wandered among the mounds, scratching his face with one hand and rifling through a rubbish heap with the other. Finding nothing, the man pulled down the scraps of his pants and relieved himself. No sooner had the liquid hit the heap, than a bulky figure emerged from the midden and shook himself off. The beggar took one look at Gyges and quailed, scuttling back into the night.
“Get back in your pile, Gyges. I don’t care who pisses on you,” Harpalus said from the shadows.
Gyges nodded and pushed himself back down into the rubbish, but his shoulders stayed slumped. Harpalus nodded from his own pile and turned his attention back to the servant’s entrance.
Sweet Angels, I hope Rowan’s messenger comes soon. The Spymaster watched the iron gate that barred the way into the small courtyard beyond, trying to block out the smell of the trash. He had to shake off the nagging feeling that, perhaps, Julia should be waiting at a fallback position—just in case.
She’s intruded too much already. He dismissed the thought at the sight of a hooded and cloaked figure opening the gates and hurrying out into the night.
What in all the Angels? He’s leaving to meet someone? Surely, he knows we’re getting close. After the attack today, he must be getting desperate.
“Gyges, follow him,” whispered the Spymaster, rising and wiping garbage off his jerkin. Following the cloaked figure, Harpalus’s hands twitched toward the daggers in his sleeves.
This is the traitor who is responsible for Amelia’s death. He waved his agents back into the shadows, following his prey past the opulent plazas frequented by the island’s upper classes. Another part of his mind started connecting the small details, looking for anything in the old reports that he could have missed.
His position as Head of the College would easily allow him to falsify the weapons statements and arrange for one of Rowan’s trading companies to carry them. His public life has always been safely neutral, neither opposing nor supporting Rowan’s actions. His Caelbor ancestry would make him popular with the native-born, but he’s never openly opposed the Exsilium. But how did he escape my agents for so long? Surely there must have been signs—unexplained absences, strange visitors, new locations added to daily routines.
The hooded figure stopped for a second and looked over his shoulder. Harpalus stopped and pulled Gyges back into a nearby alleyway, putting a finger to his lips.
&nbs
p; The Vutai has almost certainly got him addicted to Bloodwyne by now. He recalled the conversation he overheard in the tunnel beneath the Chapel. But what was it that Rowan offered him to make him turn? Gato has never been a contender for the title of Silver Prior, and he would be intelligent enough to realize that Rowan would be pulling the strings if it were offered as a reward.
The hooded man ducked into a large building that took Harpalus a second to recognize.
The Horse and Rider—a cheap tavern with ideas above its station.
Harpalus snapped his fingers at Gyges, jogging around to the back of the bar and drawing his knife. The sounds and smells of the bar filtered into the alley via the open backdoor. The open square of light flickered with the kitchen staff, going about their duties. The Spymaster didn’t even slow his stride, flying into the steaming room and grabbing the nearest uniformed waiter.
“Which room is the Prelate in?” He slammed the servant against the wall, holding the dagger close to the man’s neck. The other staff yelled and dropped their platters, moving back at the sight of Gyges squeezing into the room to take up position next to Harpalus.
“Answer me!” Harpalus gave the servant a shake. “He’s not worth dying for.”
The young-man’s eyes watered, and he tried to back farther into the wall. “U-upper floor, s-sir. The third room on the left.”
Harpalus let the blade linger for a second more and then started moving, stalking into the noisy tavern with Gyges following behind. The pair received several curious glances from the lavishly attired patrons, but Harpalus’s mind remained focused on the man he had spent months trying to capture.
“Gyges, wait here,” he said, halting by the third door.
It will not be you who captures the traitor. He readied himself for whatever lay behind the wooden frame. Not that meddling old woman, or any bungling agent, I will be the one who drags this man before the Prioress.
The Spymaster took a deep breath and kicked the door hard. The cheap wood buckled under the pressure and then burst open with the second kick.
“Nobody move!” Harpalus raised his dagger and looked about the small room.
The space was almost bare, save a fireplace, a table with half-full bottles of wine, an upturned chalice, and a fur-backed chair inhabited by a motionless old man.
Angels preserve me, they’ve killed him.
Prelate Gato’s sudden grunt and snore brought an equal measure of fear and confusion to Harpalus.
“What is going on here…” Harpalus rounded the table and hoisted the Prelate up by his shirt. “I said, what is going on here?”
Prelate Gato opened red-rimmed eyes and looked at the Spymaster. “W-Who are you? Go away, I want to be alone.”
“Why are you here?” Harpalus gave him a shake to make sure the sot didn’t fall back to sleep.
“To get away from all the rubbish I have to put up with every day,” the Prelate said. “Selfish, ungrateful bastards—e-every one of ’em. Look at what the Citadel’s done. Every-everything. We gave the Caelbor savages art, culture, history. And the E- Exiles? They’re just as bad, acting like they own the place, turning the native-born against the Citadel. Let me tell you…”
Harpalus dropped the old man in disgust and looked about the room. The Prelate continued muttering, his lolling head and drifting voice heading toward sleep.
He spotted a small bag on the table and took a careful sniff. Goa seed. He isn’t the traitor. He’s a damn drug addict. Harpalus backed out of the room, his mind skimming through the pieces of evidence, bringing him to a terrible conclusion.
“That backstabbing, old bitch.” He pushed past Gyges, running for the stairs. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” said Gyges, lumbering along behind him.
“To see our good friend General Marcus,” said the Spymaster. “I think he has some explaining to do.”
Uneasy soldiers sat in the lamplight, clutching their swords and looking warily at the night beyond the small window. General Marcus Dio sat with his back to the wall, trying to empty his mind, but his dark face was a mask of worry. The Old Docks, spread out below the third-story window, seemed to hold an eerie quiet, as if the entire city waited for the coming battle.
Somewhere in the next room, a shutter slammed against its frame. The men in the room leaped up and drew their swords.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Marcus, rising from his chair to give his men a hard look. “Are you soldiers or boys? It was just the wind.”
His armor clanked as he stalked out into the corridor and entered the next room. The space was unlit save the moonlight spilling in from the open window, illuminating the maps and message slips spread out upon the desk. Marcus flipped through a few of the papers, then moved to the window to close the shutters.
“Lovely night, isn’t it, General?”
Marcus snarled and spun about. Unseen hands grabbed his arms and held him in a vice-like grip. A knife tickled his throat.
“I’ll only ask once, General Dio. Why did Prelate Darius betray the Citadel?”
Marcus waited until Harpalus stepped into view before answering. “You smell like a privy. What have you been rolling in?”
“There are four Prelates with the power and authority to forge weapons requisitions,” Harpalus said, his knife steady on Marcus’s throat. “Three men and one woman. Both Rowan and Maal’s agent referred to the traitor as a man, so it can’t be Prelate Niena. Prelate Gato isn’t the traitor, unless he’s the best damn actor I’ve ever seen. So, that leaves Prelates Millner and Darius. But, which one could it be?”
Marcus opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue when Harpalus pressed the knife edge harder against his skin.
“At first, I thought Prelate Millner,” said the gaunt figure. “He’s a Caelbor and has some sort of new hold on the Aeris. Rowan would be willing to give him anything for that kind of power. But when I listened in on Rowan’s conversation, he sounded surprised when he heard of what Millner could do. That only leaves one option.”
“The truth is more complicated than you know,” whispered the General. “I wanted to tell you. Truly, I did.”
“You knew.” Harpalus pressed the knife until it drew a tiny droplet of blood. “You knew Prelate Darius had betrayed us, even while you planned strategy with me. Yet, you said nothing.”
“I also said nothing when he ordered me to capture the old woman as the head of the Spymasters. And I doubt you would have traced the arms shipments from the Canidae without my help.”
“Time to stop hedging and pick a side,” said Harpalus, his voice hard as steel.
General Dio gave Harpalus a defiant stare. “A single word and I could have two dozen knights in this room.”
“A single move and I can cut your throat out. Start talking. Why did Prelate Darius start arming Rowan?”
The armored figure stiffened and then dropped his head in shame. “It started out as a good plan. Negotiate with Rowan, make him think Darius wanted the position of Silver Prior.”
“Including giving him superior weapons as surety.” Harpalus let the knife fall away. “How did he do that? I found no traces in his paperwork.”
“Because he didn’t—I organized it all for him. We never wanted Rowan to get this far. We were planning to expose him in the act of treason, to shame him in public and put a check to his aggression so we could focus on the larger war. But somewhere along the way, Prelate Darius changed. He became obsessed with Rowan, disappearing for hours at a time, while I provided evidence he was with me.”
“What was he doing?”
“He told me he had found some ancient secret to not just bring down Rowan, but Lychra Maal herself. He became willing to sacrifice anything for it—even this island.”
Typhena... So, she did feed him the information about the Shrine.
“But now, he’s changed the plan,” said Marcus, his voice bitter. “He wants to go through with Rowan’s rebellion, to become Prior of the Citadel and lead a holy war again
st Maal—after he double-crosses the League of Nobles. That’s why he ordered me to capture the old woman. He knew that someone in the Citadel was getting too close to the truth.”
“So, you betrayed the Citadel,” said Harpalus.
Dio’s head snapped up as if stung, the shame in his eyes melting into a white-hot fury. “I am no traitor.” He strained against Gyges’s grip. “I followed Darius’s orders. My heart lies with the Citadel.”
Leaning close to the General, Harpalus spoke in flat tones. “You know that we can only defeat Rowan’s rebellion if our forces work together. Prelate Darius will be relying on you to take control of the Citadel while he directs things from a safe distance. Which means that right here, right now, you get to choose who will rule the Citadel tomorrow morning.”
“Says the man holding a knife to my throat.”
Harpalus grin lacked any humor. “Every choice has consequences.”
“There’s no need for threats,” said Marcus, sounding truly tired of the whole thing. “This madness has to stop.”
“Then, take me to Darius.”
“Knights!” Marcus’s expression turned grim. “Change of plan! We’re going to the Seaward Tower!”
Julia nodded to the agent holding a torch beside her, leading a small group down the tunnel. The passage, rough-cut into rock, forced the dozen or so men and women that she had gathered into uncomfortable proximity.
“Watch for anyone following us,” said an agent from the rear of the group. “If these tunnels have been discovered, then we may be walking into a trap.”
The familiar voice made Julia smile. Tomlin was one of the older agents from her tenure as Spymistress, an ex-hunter from the Outer Coast who showed an uncanny knack for predicting his opponent’s next move. He had been the first one Julia approached, gathering together as much of her old inner circle as she could find in a forgotten office, deep within the Citadel.