“Do something about that then, my horse.”
A hand seized Ryle’s heart, forcing all the blood up to his head. The room collapsed into shadows and echoing darkness. “Sir?” he heard himself ask.
“Stable him at the traveler houses and rub him down. He needs to be ready at first light.”
The champion turned away with the young woman and headed back to his table. Ryle’s head swam as the tavern tilted around him.
“You want your shot so bad. We ride at dawn.”
CHAPTER 3
Blood ran along his fingers. So bright they glowed.
The guard lay face down, motionless. The hilt of a dagger rose from the back of his neck. Ryle knelt over the guard’s body, and with a wet crunch, pulled his knife free. Crimson painted the man’s paling skin.
Men lay in broken heaps. Their weapons lost with their lives. Blood filled the cracks between the stones. The gate swung, loose and creaking beneath a deep night sky. A wagon with four, broken, interlinking rings branded on its side blocked the opening. A silver keg stamped with the same symbol lay beside it.
A hand touched his shoulder, warm, gentle. “It’s over. Job’s done.” Her voice was soft despite the strain. Then his mother’s face was there. Green eyes behind locks of fiery hair. She smiled sadly. Ryle smiled back.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said.
Her people stood clustered behind her. Golliette cradling her wounded arm. Delya and Lincy looking scared. Brux stood close, his mother’s stoic, silent support. His hand never strayed far from his old mace.
A dark trio rounded the far end of the wagon. His mother’s smile hid behind her eyes.
Mirkther, silent as ever, was in the lead. A sword hilt rose above his shoulder. His cold eyes gleamed like glass, revealing nothing. Ryle never trusted him. How could he trust someone who looked like a dead man?
Garn, ugly as ever, came second. He spit, then swigged from a glass bottle. A short axe, clotted with drying blood, dangled from one fist. Ryle hated him. He carried a soul as disgusting as his personality.
“Can we leave yet?” Garn started to say but stopped as he caught sight of the keg laying in the road. His beady eyes widened.
Ryle’s father, mad as ever, appeared last. Hair wild about his face. Jacket unbuttoned. Hands swinging, crimson stained daggers twirling between his glowing skeletal fingers in fiery silver flashes. Ryle feared him. Because he bade fearing.
“What’s the holdup?” Kilgren snapped, at the sight of Garn standing motionless. When he saw it was the keg, he scoffed and slammed a kick into the silver cylinder, sending it spinning to one side.
Garn leapt back. Mirkther looked on.
Ryle’s father laughed. “You all so scared? Maybe you’d enjoy being turned to stone. Never know until you try.” When no one else joined him in a laugh, his lips curled in a sneer. “Clean this shit up!”
The rest of Kilgren’s crew, veteran Hepa, brutish Kot, sneaky Laird, and the rest of the less senior members, were only now rounding the wagon. At Kilgren’s barked order they hurried to collect the cylinder.
“We’re late,” Ryle’s mother said, her voice strained.
“We wouldn’t be if you’d done your damn job,” his father snapped.
His mother took a tight breath. “There wasn’t supposed to be an entire garrison here. Who screwed that up?”
Ryle’s father glared her into silence and surveyed the courtyard. “My, my, my. Look at this! Someone sure made a mess.” His eyes blazed in the dark and he turned to Ryle. “You get them all?”
Ryle nodded and sheathed his knife.
For a moment, his father almost smiled a real smile. Then his mother gasped as a man with a bow appeared in a doorway, an arrow across the drawn string. The rings embroidered on his chest matched those on the wagon.
Ryle reached for his knife but the air was thick, his motion too slow. Impossibly slow, as if time itself fought against him.
The guard gagged, gasped, then fell with a dagger from Ryle’s father protruding from his throat. His bow twanged uselessly.
Terror welled up from Ryle’s belly like a spring. He didn’t have time to brace himself.
The world flashed white as his father’s hand caught him across the face. He found himself sprawled in the road. He tasted blood and dirt and sour fear. Pain throbbed through his skull.
“Next time you’ll know not to lie to me.”
Ryle’s mother gripped her husband’s arm. “Kil, that’s eno—”
He yanked her head back and leered over her. “Were you saying something?”
She tried to look away, but his grip was firm.
“Rashka!” Brux said, taking a step forward.
Ryle’s father shot the man a fiery look, but it was the smallest motion of his mother’s fingers that stilled him.
Ryle’s father shook his head and turned back to his wife. “Yes, Rashka, speak up. What was that?”
Her eyes clouded. She caressed his cheek and shook her head.
“What I thought.” He pulled her into a kiss then stood her upright. “Gather your people and let’s get the hell out of here. Client’s waiting.”
Ryle’s mother helped him to his feet. Tears filled her eyes. He gritted his teeth, angry at himself for failing them both. She tried to check his cheek, but he shoved her hand away and followed his father into the night. Never quite catching him no matter how hard he tried.
CHAPTER 4
Ryle’s stub of candle threw back the pre-dawn shadows along the walkway running down the center of the low building. The thick smells of horse and hay filled his nose. Because of the holiday, most of the stalls lining the passage were full. He passed a dozen work horses and a few finer breeds on his way to the back where he’d stabled his mare hours before.
Just hours? It felt like days. Moments blurred together, coming and going like fish leaping from a dark pond. This could be his only shot. No one had seen Kilgren in years. The tales had dried up. He’d almost given up and accepted his fate before Lastrahn appeared, asking after him in Pyhrec. He could only hope Lastrahn remained on the bastard’s trail.
Dawn stirred, less than an hour away. He had to hurry. He didn’t want to add a screw up with Lastrahn’s horse to all the other mistakes in his life. Chaff knew it would probably be the one that finished the job his other failures had left incomplete.
Unlike her rider, nerves and nightmares hadn’t stolen Grey’s sleep. She didn’t raise her head as Ryle entered her stall, and she slept through his saddling. When he gathered her reins to lead her out she finally rolled a sleepy eye in his direction as if seeking confirmation that they were riding out at an hour of the morning that shouldn’t exist. He couldn’t blame her. She’d ridden hard for a solid week.
He patted her spotted neck and ran his hand through her pale mane. She wasn’t the snorting charger ridden by most warriors. He grimaced remembering Lastrahn’s enormous fiery beast, only its exhaustion had allowed him to get it stabled. But his Grey was sure footed and tireless. She’d already ridden down one champion for him, and now he was asking her for more.
He fed her the last wedge of apple from his pocket, then led her down the aisle. She followed without further comment as to his insanity.
A bleary stable hand clambered from his quarters as they neared the door. Ryle tossed him his last coin as payment for the night, and with that motion, committed himself to Lastrahn. Ryle’s stomach churned. This is what he wanted. This is what he’d sweated and bled for. He had to make this work. No other options remained to find his father and set his past straight.
Even if he could turn back, there was no more time. Today, in conjunction with the festival, the other new bearers of the swordmark would begin the Markers Bid, the weeklong series of events and tournaments where Houses evaluated the new talent and offered the best petitions for service. He’d abandoned that process to ride south on the Lastrahn’s trail.
After this week, whether he carried the Professor’s mar
k or not, only dregs would remain. Jobs fighting and killing for coin. Duelists. Mercenaries. Might as well result to banditry.
He swallowed bile. He’d die before returning to that life.
Lastrahn’s reappearance was the reason he’d convinced the Professor to let him test for his mark a week early. The risk of his choice gaped like a pit beneath him, his life suspended by the single thread to which he’d tied his fate. One snag and he’d lose everything.
It took a half dozen breaths while gripping Casyne’s pendant to clear his head and shove the darkness away. With each lungful of air he focused on his task. No more failures. Find Kilgren.
He shook himself, and led Grey north for Shelling’s main street.
The rest of the town, as much Ryle could see, lay muted and washed out beyond a thin fog. None of its famed sights were visible in the gray murk above. The simplicity of the place struck him. After five years at the Professor’s school in Pyhrec, such a tiny place felt all the smaller. The silence of early morning pressed on his ears.
He guessed most citizens were using the festival’s first day to sleep in. If not for his pressing business, he might’ve joined them. His eyes felt gritty, and he clung to Lastrahn’s acceptance hours before to keep moving forward.
A couple merchants across the street were up and about, sweeping their stoops. Between their shops, a carriage with a team of horses stood ready to set out for parts unknown. The driver sat listless in his seat. Beyond the carriage, a tall, bald figure wearing a scarf wrapped around his face and a thick, worn coat nursed a cup of steaming tea. Maybe a Southerner, he looked miserably cold for such mild weather. Aside from the driver, the man was alone, and Ryle hoped his sake that he had hired some protection. Ryle knew full well how many bandits stalked these Northern roads.
All along the street the false fronted buildings stood decked out in yellow and black flags. Above the street a wide banner emblazoned with ‘Advent’ swayed in a gentle breeze. Beside Ryle, a shopkeeper carrying a last minute flag emerged, a hammer protruding from her pocket, and nails clamped between her lips. The carriage driver winced and mumbled a curse as she drove the nails into her doorframe.
It was The Day of Gathering. A day to remember those who had pulled together to survive in the Holdfasts. The guts of the world their only succor to the Rending above. Generation after generation had huddled in the dark when the folly of the distant past nearly tore the world asunder.
It was a day to travel and join families for celebration. It was a journey Ryle had never made and never would. Five years had passed since he lost her, and the thought still felt like someone twisting a knife in his chest. Nausea struck him. He still remembered the way his mother’s blood had bubbled up around the blade, the dark stain growing across the front of her dress.
Ryle shoved the memories away and swung up onto Grey’s back. His bruised shoulder ached with the motion and he was thankful for the distraction. He held on to that pain, a pain he could manage, and turned Grey west on to the packed dirt street.
While his mare plodded along, Ryle’s mind pulled itself in a dozen directions.
Lastrahn’s pace departing Pyhrec spoke of some important task, one Ryle hoped involved Kilgren, but he’d ridden south along the Main Road as if unobserved. Now Shelling. What brought him here of all places? A town in the middle of nowhere. More importantly, where the hex had he come from before he appeared in Pyhrec?
Ryle kept picking at it, pouring over the scant details. The fourth bar on the back of Lastrahn’s hand? Maybe something, maybe nothing. The state of his gear, of his horse? No clues. As of last night no bard or squire rode with him. Was that intentional?
Five blocks later Ryle still hadn’t figured anything out, and he forced his thoughts to the task before him. He’d reached the smaller side street he needed and turned Grey on to it. A series of narrow boarding houses, each painted blue on white, rose through the mists. Beyond them he made out the rambling barn where he’d stabled Lastrahn’s charger.
He guided Grey past the houses, toward the large door on the side of the barn. He’d have just enough time to ready Lastrahn’s mount before—
Lastrahn sat outside the last house astride his black stallion.
Ryle’s stomach clenched. Only hours in and he’d already screwed up.
The cut and bulk of Lastrahn’s black coat cast his broad shoulders even wider. Exequor’s great hilt rose behind him. The dark cowl of his coat concealed his face, but Ryle felt his eyes on him. Menacing didn’t describe him in the flat light.
Muck coated rake.
Ryle held on to some small hope and rode toward him.
“Your ass is late.” Lastrahn’s voice ground saw-tooth rough.
Ryle might’ve protested, the sun still lay two fingers below the horizon. But he’d trained with the Professor, and of all the lessons he’d learned, one guided his speech now. “Yes, Sir.”
Lastrahn sat silent until his horse snorted and tossed his head. Then all Ryle got was a shake of his hood as the champion rode past toward Shelling’s main street.
“Stay on his trail. Make things right,” Ryle mumbled to himself. As he swung Grey around to follow, motion caught his eye. Mel, the young waitress from the night before, stood in the open doorway of the nearest house. She held a bunched up sheet around her body. Dark tousled hair hung about her face. Eyes that had admired Lastrahn last night, watched Ryle now.
Lastrahn’s charm with women was nearly as legendary as his sword skills. But this scene didn’t look so charming. Ryle knew the empty look on her face all too well. A young woman left behind. He’d seen it over the cups of morning tea his mother brewed, even if he hadn’t recognized it at the time.
Hopelessness.
It never lasted, before long a smile would curve his mother’s lips. But in the early morning, in the space where truths were hard to conceal, that hopelessness had been there. The emptiness left by another stranger’s departure.
Rather than dwell on another lovely memory from his childhood, Ryle did his best to ignore the heat on his neck and raised his hand in greeting.
Mel closed the door.
As Ryle heeled Grey around, he fished for something positive to hang on to. Anything. He remembered another pale young woman, blonde haired with kohl darkened eyes, standing in a doorway. Also watching him ride away. But the spark in Casyne’s eyes burned like a signal fire. Their message clear, you damn well better come back to me.
Ryle wanted to wince and sigh at the same time. Instead he kept riding.
He caught up as Lastrahn turned west on the main street. Without instructions to go on, he took up position a few paces behind.
West meant away from the Main Road. Ryle’s speculation over Lastrahn and his destination fought against the uncomfortable knot in his stomach. The winner remained undecided.
Ahead the sun stained the clouds magenta before its appearance. Despite the abashed weight that hung around his neck, the colors drew his eyes up, and his breath caught.
Through parting mists, the ancient namesake structures of Shelling appeared. He’d read of these, and similar towers elsewhere that had once scraped the sky itself, but those words did nothing to describe the sights before him.
A forest of skeletal towers rose against the western sky, their floors exposed where walls had fallen away over the decades. Twenty, fifty, a hundred paces high. Each stretched up to jab their tips skyward. Even the smallest of them dwarfed the wooden buildings. The largest could swallow many villages where he’d lived.
The first people to head west from the Seven Cities a century before had discovered the crumbling structures. Explorations unearthed artifacts, valuables, and other materials. A short time later, dozens of factions descended upon the ancient city. Claims staked in those early days remained jealously guarded ever since.
Ryle dragged his eyes back down to the less enjoyable reality of the moment. Lastrahn remained ahead, tall and silent within his coat. Ryle rode as close as he dared, searc
hing for an indication of the champion’s mood and finding none.
As they approached the towers, activity increased until there was no sign of festivities or a day off. Wagons rattled past, hauling bulky canvas-tarped loads. Packs of workers in thick coats, goggles, and leather masks, tramped alongside carrying tools and large pieces of equipment. A hubbub of shouts and creaking wheels rose until the peaceful morning dissipated to a dim memory.
Ryle could guess why they were so busy. War was looming, as it often was out here on the frontier, and that meant artifacts and precious metals were in even greater demand.
Rich men making poor men work on a holiday so they could sell goods to other rich men who would in turn use them to make poorer men kill each other.
He shook his head.
Just before the towers they reached a demarcation. Guards were stationed here, and dozens of dirty, exhausted men in worn clothes crowded both sides of the street. An older man with a clipboard pointed to a few ragged men and then turned back toward the towers. The men he selected hustled after him.
Ten coins said those ragged men were settlers. Only a few had arrived in Pyhrec, but everyone knew of the Directorate’s “resettlement” plans. Their not so subtle attempts to resolve overpopulation by encouraging expansion and sending boatloads of people west from the Seven Cities. Rumor had it that not everyone went voluntarily. Especially not the shipments of criminals who the Directorate forces were more than happy to “re-introduce” by depositing out here and waving good bye.
Lastrahn and Ryle passed the guards without comment, then they were amongst the towers themselves where oily, burning, metallic scents permeated the air. Between the smells and the constant banging and clunking of resources being ripped from the structures, it was another world.
It took an effort not to stare. Not just at the enormous towers, but the amount of activity within and upon them. Each tower, was fenced off and delineated by flags of ownership. Dozens of hard-eyed guards carrying cudgels, swords, spears, and a few bows, manned the entrance points and stalked each perimeter with stern looks upon their faces. In the shadow of each structure people milled in organized chaos. Wagons were loaded with items hauled out by endless streams of laborers, while others worked inside.
Gearspire: Advent Page 3