“Did you say Uluvean wood? Uluvea changed to Balenwall long ago,” he interrupted. He’d never crossed the ocean to the South, but he knew enough about history to know that.
“A-ah, yes. It sounds much more mystical when you say ‘Uluvean.’ Sells better with a touch of the dramatic. You two don’t look like you’re from here. Are you looking for a place to stay?” the merchant asked, bowing kindly.
He never trusted this sort of offer. Brat didn’t seem too happy to be reminding anyone of their daughter besides.
“Please… My… my wife has been so somber. It’s coming up on, well, a year after our daughter’s death and I think it would do her good to entertain someone,” the man insisted.
Appealing to emotions now and he could see this was snaring the kid. He moved to decline but those angelic eyes flicked over to him once more. If he believed in magic, he’d suspect that kid’s eyes had the devil’s own magic in them.
“Can we? There’s no way we can make it there in one day and I haven’t had a decent meal in a week!” the kid pleaded.
Normally, that wouldn’t have made a difference, but then his stomach took the opportunity to mount a protest as well. He got this far on instinct and after the trick the kid just pulled with that weird bathhouse, he was ready to sleep on one of these damn rooftops in the rain rather than trust anyone right now.
“Dinner. Then we go,” was all he would agree to.
Despite the mixed feelings, something was nagging him. No, not just ‘something’. The kid had said ‘design’ and there was nothing about that wood grain that qualified. Well-made, glossy with a cherry finish, but unexceptional. Brat had gravitated towards it and the man’s whole disposition had changed. He had gone sugar sweet, but his eyes had stayed shrewd. Not just greed and way too smug…
He thought he had shed the whole ‘running head first into danger’ part of his life years ago, but more than the Flame of Arkhades, this kid was unlocking far more mystery in this city than he had ever imagined.
The merchant had signaled to his workers to keep packing, along with some odd tap of his forehead with one finger then two. He then led them down the street that split the two mismatched districts before heading up yet another street that seemed to peel away into another place that didn’t belong. The homes here were widely spaced, little manors of upper middle class charm. They weren’t cookie cutter houses, although they were all two-story homes, little windows at the foundations hinting at basements below. They had only passed one or two before the merchant had swept his arms towards the walk of his own home.
For the love of the Gods, it wasn’t a palace and the man was already grating on his nerves. The blinding radiance of the sun certainly wasn’t helping. Even with the sun at his back, he could feel it boring into the dark mass of his cloak.
“Please, come along! I’ll hurry on ahead and let her know,” the merchant said, with more excitement than he liked as the man sped towards the entrance and disappeared behind the door. Brat was beaming at the welcome, clearly unused to anyone being that excited to receive them. He supposed a better man would feel sorry for the kid, but Brat had clearly yet to learn that the most slippery ones were full of one-sided warmth.
He held his tongue and let the kid enjoy the moment, however short-lived it might be.
The smell of something cooking was already filling his nose before they reached the entrance. The merchant popped his head around the door in the frame, the curious wife doing the same. The woman looked drained indeed, but with a sort of eagerness to receive them as well, her eyes shrewd and cautious. Anxious to see the kid, eager to get rid of me.
Once more the merchant made a sweeping gesture and stood back to give them entry. Brat leapt through the doorway like a prized calf, preening from the sudden attention of the woman, but he kept himself on alert. He waited for the sound of a lock once the door was shut, but was proved wrong. Creating a false sense of comfort…
The table was already set for them and the merchant ushered them into chairs already launching into small talk.
“I was just telling my wife how much you were admiring my wares!” the merchant began. “Oh, how rude of me! I didn’t introduce you. My wife is— “
“Quite the cook. Do I smell Orendon beef stew?” he interrupted, as the woman smiled at him from where she was already spooning it into bowls.
“What a nose you have! My husband tells me you are not a native, but you seem to know our cuisine,” she returned, setting a bowl in front of each of them before serving herself and her husband.
Brat picked up a wooden spoon and made to shovel a bite, but his hand shot up and caught the kid’s wrist with a snap.
The mirth around the table had halted, the woman mortified, the merchant’s face turning red with concealed anger. Undeterred, he took a bite of his own, keeping his eyes on the merchant then switched his bowl with the kid’s and ate from that one too. The merchant’s eyes had hooded, fighting to keep a sly cordial smile on his twitching lips.
He flicked his eyes towards the kid’s for a moment to nod, then looked back towards the merchant.
“Go on, eat,” he told the kid and Brat said nothing, doing as they were told. He thought maybe he had gone too far and the kid was catching on, but Brat seemed more determined to fill their belly than figure out his game. Then again, Brat was probably pretty used to his shenanigans by then.
It wasn’t some noble act, testing for poison. He’d learned long ago to build immunities. They would still affect him but to a much lesser degree, killing him in large doses just like anyone else. Slow-acting poisons were the sort given to kings or unfaithful lovers, so it was only the quick working ones he ever needed to recognize. There was always a taste or some effect on the senses and he had the ABC’s of antidotes tucked in his custom-made cloak down to a science.
“Where did you say you were from?” the merchant finally asked to break the silence, his voice ill-concealing the insult against him and his wife. That’s not why he’s upset though. He knows he isn’t to be trusted.
“I didn’t. The food is delicious,” he countered, nodding towards the wife. She smiled only with her mouth as she forced herself to take a small bite. You want to ask the kid, but you won’t with me here…
It was more small talk, clipped, the couple having more difficulty choosing words when their minds were clearly filled with questions they wouldn’t ask. They know something about this kid… Problem was the kid didn’t know whatever the hell they thought they knew and no matter what they thought, it was pointless to ask. He had questions of his own that he had far more patience with, ones that the kid actually could answer.
Once finished, the wife had wrung her hands and asked if they would like to take tea in the sunroom. He knew they should leave, but the kid was already following her and he didn’t dare let Brat be left alone.
When they reached the doorway, he knew something was immediately off—the room was bare, nothing but a dirty floor and the faded terracotta walls. She shoved the kid in and he leapt forward to pull the kid back, but she was surprisingly strong and shoved him in too. The door, far too heavy for an ordinary home, clanged shut, the loud click of a deadbolt sealing them in.
Brat panicked and started pounding on the door. He was already inspecting the room amid the hysterical ineffectual cries of ‘let us out of here’ and saw they were well and truly fucked. Barred and sealed windows and a rap of his knuckles on the wall told him they were solid and thick. He sat down, his back against the wall, just watching the kid until they gave up, sobbing as they slunk down on the opposite wall.
It wouldn’t do much good to say ‘I told you so,’ so he kept quiet and met the kid’s eyes. Not yet. But soon. He could still see the irrational look of a caged animal and he needed the kid to think.
There was no use asking the kid anything right then. Brat’s eyes darted around frantically, their little hands sweeping along the dusty floor. He pulled the collar of his tunic up over his mouth as he watch
ed and after a minute, the kid was coughing at the thick clouds they had kicked up into the air. It didn’t stop Brat from pulling up their own collar sheepishly and continuing, those redrimmed eyes now perfectly excused for proverbial dust rather than on the verge of crying.
Brat got to where he sat and gave him a ‘thanks for nothing’ look, conducting their stubborn search around him, a squeal as those little fingers found a groove alongside him.
“Get up! There’s something here!” the kid ordered, with way too much hope for his tastes.
Even if this were a way out, he doubted it was a fortunate accident. Go to the trouble of fortifying a room for imprisonment but overlook a trap door? Not likely.
“After you answer my question,” he insisted, earning a fierce, impatient look born of desperation.
Still, the kid balled their hands on their dirty trousers, kneeling back and jerking their head into a quick nod. At least Brat knew it was better to get this over with.
“What did you see on the dagger’s sheathe?” he asked.
He hadn’t expected the kid to look so confused.
“You mean the symbol? You saw the same thing I did at the bathhouse…” the kid began.
“No, the merchant’s dagger on the table…” he pressed in annoyance.
The kid glared at him like he just said the stupidest thing in the world and it took all he had not to pop the kid in the head.
“You seem to have a hard time naming objects. That was a wooden key, little grooves on the end to trigger the tumblers of a lock. The lettering on it looked like the same ones on the archways of the bathhouse though. Some runic script that probably just says ‘bathhouse.’ Wouldn’t need a key now since there aren’t any doors. Guess he probably just found it lying around…” the kid rambled on.
He knew Brat couldn’t read, runic or not, but let the kid belabor the point. Sometimes a revelation came from rambling.
He didn’t care for names when it came to people, true, but what kind of coincidence was it for keys to look like daggers? The kid was no Rain Maiden, whatever they were, but there was no way the kid wasn’t connected somehow. He had looked closely and had never seen anything resembling runes on the so-called key that Brat had been looking at. No sense in letting the kid know that though.
“Fine. Whatever,” he said, knowing that was all he was going to get out of Brat. He rolled away from that patch of floor and stood to prop his shoulder against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles as the kid swept along the groove. Sure enough, a trap door but ‘trap’ was probably the operative word here.
Brat looked up at him, an admonishing look for making them do all the work.
“Help me lift it,” Brat ordered, straining ineffectually to pull at the crack.
Brat kept trying to lift the heavy plate out of the floor while he dug around in his pack, pulling out a small flat bar, wedging it in and pulling the kid back. He slammed his foot down, catapulting the door up where it banged against the wall.
Brat looked back toward the door of the room anxiously before shooting an angry look at him.
“There’s no way they didn’t hear that!” the kid hissed in that stupidly quiet voice.
“Then why are you whispering?” he returned with annoyance. “I figured they’re even counting on us finding it, probably over the moon that they won’t have to wait.”
“W-why would you say that?” the kid asked nervously.
You already said too much.
“Forget about it. One way out now, so let’s get moving…” he said, dropping to his knees to peer in.
Catacombs. It wasn’t something that he could see; the entrance was dark, nothing but damp black rocks dropping in. There was no mistaking the smell of death. Most people could smell new death, the thick rancid deterioration and putrification of flesh and fluid. Old death was mustier, earthy, like clay or rock, only what used to be organic and living carried a stubborn scent. As if the bones remaining had a will to return to life as long as they still existed. He once had a grandfather that complained about how stubborn his old bones were and realized most people (even his grandfather) didn’t know how true that really was. The easterners burned the bodies of their dead on pyres and the marrow in bones sometimes screamed in protest of their demise.
He dropped in first, not surprised to hear a light splash. He doubted any place in Orendon was ever dry. He looked back up into the opening to see Brat peering down at him, hesitant to join him.
“Waiting for them to check on us?” he teased cruelly. He knew damn well they wouldn’t be, but it did the job of getting the kid going.
How the kid managed to plop down into the water so hard was one of life’s great mysteries.
“It’s d-dark down here,” the kid stammered, jaw clicking like it was cold too, pushing that ridiculous blue hat back in a nervous gesture.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out the Flame. As he suspected it would, it made one hell of a torch. He was too busy congratulating his ingenuity to notice the kid could actually see down the tunnel now and Brat’s piercing scream nearly made him drop it before he spun around and clamped the kid’s mouth shut.
“Catacombs, kid, they’re dead. They won’t bite,” he said. Even though it was an abrupt explanation, it felt uncomfortably close to actually comforting someone.
He started ahead, leaving the kid standing rigid with fear, but after a few steps, Brat thought twice about being left behind there.
“I shouldn’t have told you to come here,” Brat lamented, probably the closest to an apology he was going to get.
“Regrets are useless, kid. Might want to save it for when we get the hell out of here,” he shot back roughly, not thrilled with the fact that he was doing way too much placating for his tastes.
Most catacombs were basically just filing cabinets for people too poor to afford proper burial. This one was a damned labyrinth. Dead ends and tunnels that circled back to where you started.
It was an odd thing for a simple merchant to have in their home, especially since they didn’t bother to take advantage of using it to store any wares. Told him all he needed to know about what he was dealing with. Yet another front for something else.
To the kid’s horror, he started mounting arm bones on empty sconces to mark which way they had been, grotesque hands pointing the way.
Brat got tired and started to lean against a wall when another one of those blood curdling shrieks pierced the air. He spun to chastise the kid but he drew his short sword in an instant. He balked only for a moment at the sight of one of those skeletons, covered in a milky light and the crepe remains of deteriorating flesh. It had latched its bony hand to Brat’s head. Brat lunged away in revulsion, the hat pulling away. Yet another shock as a long tumble of crimson hair spilled out.
Brat cringed in terror as the thing shambled towards them, but he lunged forward, swinging his foot up. His foot crashed against the rib cage, shattering the bones there, but still it reached for the kid. He swung the Flame forward, plunging it into the skull and whatever animated the thing dispersed and it clattered back into an ordinary pile of bones again. He kicked the head away for good measure, satisfied as it exploded into dust on the far wall.
The kid was sobbing now and he offered his hand in a gesture to pull Brat back up. Brat shook their head, cringing away as if he were the bigger threat. He sighed heavily and squatted down beside the kid, but Brat wouldn’t look at him.
“It’s gone now,” he said, not quite sure he liked how accustomed he was getting to comforting anyone.
“It’s not that,” the kid snapped at him unhappily. “My mom… she wouldn’t let me cut my hair.”
He was incredulous. This is what’s bugging the kid? He let out another sigh and stood up, still alert for any sounds of movement.
“Get up,” he commanded and the kid scrambled up, still keeping their head hung down.
He grabbed a hank of the kid’s hair and started sawing at it. The kid’s eyes widened in sho
ck, their mouth bobbing rather like a fish as he sliced it away in great gobs that floated to the floor. It was a horrible hack job, no better than the care he gave to his own and when he was done, he mussed at the kid’s hair. He bent to snatch the hat out of the wraith’s hand and stretched it back over the sorry mop of hair.
“There. Another thing she can hate me for. After I get you out of here,” he reiterated before starting off again.
Again, he heard Brat scrambling to catch up, only the steps seemed lighter and surer. He fought the urge to smile.
It seemed as if they would never get out of this hellhole. More of the wraiths awaited them, but Brat clenched their jaw and stood back to let him break them up. The Flame in the skull seemed to make shorter work of them and before long it was no different than hacking through weeds.
His senses stood on end when a dull orange flickering awaited around one turn. Brat seemed to perk up, probably about to comment that it might be their way out, but he clamped the kid’s lips with a single finger and shook his head. On instinct, he pushed the kid behind him and stepped forward carefully, the kid mimicking his movements but with less success. He rolled his eyes at the sound of bones getting kicked around behind him and the ridiculous whispers of ‘sorry’ like the kid thought that might actually deter them from animating due to the insult.
He knew the form of the merchant, even though the man was clad in a crimson robe with his back turned. Another asinine pose with his hands raised above a flame-surrounded altar, the bones here neatly stacked. All they need is little hats with plastic horns on them. He peeked into the chamber, at least a dozen more of the robed figures there, all chanting some gibberish as the man swept around with histrionic pride. The others followed suit like good little drones. His wife, the workers… This has ‘cult’ written all over it.
“So glad you could join us. May I introduce— “
“Yeah, let’s skip that part. I don’t really give a shit. You are all free to play psycho love cult all you want, but you’re letting us out of here,” he interrupted, flipping around the dagger, not failing to see how hungrily their eyes latched onto it. Like it, do you? Not for long…
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