“You turn around now,” Noffa said, “and go tell our boss that she ain’t getting any of this back until we say so. If she wants to see her precious claim again, she better send one of her flunkies down here to unlock this door, and maybe we’ll leave her enough to keep a roof over her head.”
Tillence’s keys jingled as Lastrahn pulled them from his coat.
A gasp went up among the men. A couple started forward before they caught themselves.
Noffa licked his lips. “You here to negotiate then? Is that it? You here to make a deal?”
Ryle wasn’t an expert on negotiating, but he thought ‘making a deal 101’ said don’t show all your cards in the first five seconds.
Beside him, Drailey took a deep breath, but not over the situation in the room. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw set, as if preparing herself for something.
Uncertainty swirled in Ryle’s head. He gripped the spear tighter.
“I have a deal for you,” Lastrahn said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll hand over the keys. As long as you’re unconscious by the time I reach that door,” he said, and walked toward them.
Muck.
The men arrayed before Ryle eyed each other and glanced over their shoulders, uncertain of what to do.
Ryle felt no different. He was there to assist the champion, to protect his back. But beside Ryle, Drailey had placed her hand on the wall and closed her eyes. He couldn’t leave her side.
Muck muck muck.
“What?” Noffa said.
“It’s not complicated,” Lastrahn said. “I want you, face down on the floor.”
Confusion swept out like a wave, with Ryle caught up in it like everyone else. He’d seen crazy before but this was something else.
“What kind of nonsense is this?” Noffa asked. “How about you hand the hand the keys over and we won’t send you back to Till on a board.”
Lastrahn kept walking.
“I paid for one item behind that door,” the champion said. “That’s all I want. The rest of you can have everything else in there and in the rest of the claim for all I care. My only condition is that this fat sack of shit doesn’t get a single coin of it.”
Noffa sneered, confident.
“You don’t want to share a portion with this bumbling idiot,” Lastrahn said. “He got you into this mess.”
Noffa’s smile faltered. The blonde man and the dark skinned man shared a look and glanced between the Noffa and the champion.
Beside Ryle, Drailey went very still and suddenly more than tension filled the air. The hairs on Ryle’s arms and neck stood up. What the hex?
“Or what?” Noffa asked.
Lastrahn snapped his fingers.
Drailey hissed through her teeth. The sound turned to a growl, a hum, a throb that pulsed in the air.
What—
A crackling pop filled Ryle’s ears. His skin itched, his teeth vibrated in his skull. He smelled burning, like hair on fire.
Light snapped into existence all around the room.
The eyes of every man in the room went wide as the hoods over the tables glowed, the glass balls dangling on wires seared sun-bright.
Ryle squinted against the sudden glare, baffled, off balance.
Then the ceiling exploded.
One by one the glass balls burst. The hoods sprayed sparks in all directions. Burning embers and shattered glass poured down atop Noffa’s men. Some cried out, others scrambled for cover.
Drailey’s eyes were open now, her irises glowed like hot copper.
Muck sucking rake. Drailey had done all of it. She was a blasted ongine.
Amidst the cascading sparks, Lastrahn’s voice rolled out like angry thunder. Like a blizzard wind, chilling Ryle to his bones.
“Or I kill anyone who gets in my way.”
Ryle was on the champion’s side and he wanted to drop his weapon.
Lastrahn stopped before Noffa as the last of the lights winked out plunging the room back into dim shadows.
Ryle blinked through burning afterimages. Drailey sagged against the wall, her breathing heavy. Her eyes no longer glowed, but she was smiling again.
“Choose,” Lastrahn said to the blonde man.
Noffa opened his mouth, and the hollow clok of a spear butt catching him in the back of the head cut him off. His eyes rolled up as he fell, then he was dragged away.
The rest took place like the most ordinary of business transactions. Albeit one with a lot of spears and swords. Drailey joined Lastrahn at the steel door. Wide eyed men stayed well back from her.
The blonde unlocked the door with Tillence’s keys and Lastrahn and Drailey went inside. Ryle caught a glimpse of glass cylinders as tall as men. Some were shattered, but a couple were filled with strange metal shapes like human skeletons.
Despite Ryle’s burning curiosity he kept his attention on their opponents. No one made a move, but their eyes said not everyone agreed with this choice.
Ryle couldn’t say he blamed them. Since Noffa had hit the floor he’d long since decided there was no greater plan. This was no diversion or deception by Lastrahn. So long as he got what he came for, he would let them have the rest.
He’d known Lastrahn was powerful and fierce in battle. He now had to add ruthless to the list. The champion had handled the situation with brutal efficiency and in a more direct way than Ryle had ever considered.
While a part of him admired the strategy, his stomach twisted hot and sour. No matter what Tillence had done, no matter the champion’s need, Ryle couldn’t justify this. Not even if it was in the service of finding his father. She’d be ruined. He had no doubt of it. These men would strip this claim clean and probably get away with it. Who would stop them?
We should, rang through his mind. He was supposed to be on the other side now. He’d never thought it would be all sunlight and gleaming chargers, but he felt a chasm gaping between that ideal and the choice Lastrahn had made. The thought wouldn’t stop burning in his mind like a painful spark.
When Lastrahn and Drailey emerged from the room minutes later, the first looking satisfied, and the other resolved, Ryle followed them in silence.
Just as the guards had agreed, no one hassled them, or said anything as they backed from the room. By the time they reached the door, they were all but forgotten, and with a cheer, the men rushed through the unlocked door, pushing and shoving each other to be first into the vault.
Ryle wished he could say he felt as jubilant about the whole thing.
CHAPTER 8
“So how does it work?” Ryle asked.
He stood at the rail in front of Tillence’s office, scratching Grey’s muzzle and blinking away fatigue. Now that all the adrenaline had bled away, his limbs felt hollow, drained. At least his shoulder had stopped aching.
Drailey stood beside him, wiping a black stain from her palm with a handkerchief. Inside the office, the shouting continued. Ryle was relieved Lastrahn had gone in alone. He still felt unsettled over Lastrahn’s “deal”.
“How what works?” Drailey asked.
Ryle didn’t know of a good way to ask what he wanted to know. “How you work.”
She raised one eyebrow, and his collar heated, but she smiled and waggled her stained fingers. “How this works?”
Ryle nodded.
“This whole business is new to you. Isn’t it.”
“It that obvious?”
“The look on your face when those lights came on.” She laughed softly.
Ryle turned away, embarrassed.
“Everything’s new to someone,” she said, not unkindly, then continued. “To answer your question, I don’t know.”
He’d expected some complex answer from her.
She shrugged. “Not exactly anyway. We all know that back before the Rending, the people possessed craft beyond what we have now. Some of it, some of the oldcraft, we’ve pieced back together from various sources and a lot of trial and error, but other skills are simply gon
e. Lost to the destruction of that time.” Her face clouded over for a moment, as if this loss of centuries past personally pained her. “A few objects created back then, a few artifacts, survived. Some came through intact, like that big ass sword of Lastrahn’s. But most were broken, damaged, smashed, what have you.”
She waved her hands around, taking in the square, the rotting shells of soaring buildings. “Other pieces remain but don’t work because whatever powered them was lost in the Rending. They had sources of power back then besides wood, coal, oil, steam. We’ve seen scraps referencing them. Bits of documents, sometimes there are whole passages in books. Entire industries and infrastructures devoted to this power were lost with everything else.”
As she talked, she warmed to the subject, and soon she was punctuating her words with hand gestures, her eyes intent. Ryle had heard some of it before, but smiled inwardly at her enthusiasm as much as the information. For once he was almost glad for her education.
“It turns out we can generate some of this power. Don’t ask me how. No one’s figured it out yet.”
“We, meaning ongines?”
She shook her head. “Most people can to one degree or another. It’s why prosthetics work. Something has to power them and most people don’t want to lug around a boiler.” She pointed to the dagger at his belt. “That’s another example.”
The sunlight lost its warmth. Ryle’s scarred hand itched.
“I haven’t seen Exen work in years. Mind if I take a look?”
He really did, he felt dirty just touching the blasted thing, but he disconnected the sheathed dagger from his belt and handed it over.
She nodded her thanks and inspected the sheath then drew the dagger a finger’s width to observe the blade in the sunlight.
The steel was spotless, he’d made sure of it, but it didn’t matter. It never did. The blood stains never really came off.
She smiled. “This is a really nice piece. Excellent craftsmanship. Do you have the other half of the set? There’s usually an accompanying item, maybe a bracelet, the wielder wears. Usually draws on blood for energy.”
Ryle’s wrist ached. His scarred left hand burned. “Just that.”
“Pity. Still, must be valuable.” She handed it back.
It was worthless chaff, he wished he could’ve thrown away years ago. Ryle made himself take it and strap it back to his belt. His sweaty fingers made the task difficult. Before she could say anything further, he turned the conversation back.
“So everyone can do this? I don’t see most people causing sparks and exploding lights.”
“I said to some degree. A few of us can generate more than others. It might be a kind of internal flaw in our makeup, but really, we don’t know why. We just can.”
He’d lost interest in the topic, Drailey’s questions about his dagger had seen to that. The chance to talk with an ongine didn’t come around every day though. He drew on some of that focus the Professor had taught and cleared his mind enough to consider her words.
Most stories described ongine power as mysterious. She made the strange ability sound as routine as sharpening a sword, but he remembered the way her eyes had glowed, the crackling energy plucking every hair like invisible fingers.
“Are there many of you? Many ongines?” he asked.
She chuckled. “Hell of a title. People started out calling us on engines, because we can turn stuff on, and wham, ongines, or ongineers, if you want to sound more official.” She shook her head. “There are a few of us around. More back east where oldcraft and artifacts are more prevalent and people need our talents.”
“You never wanted to go back to the Seven Cities? You’d probably make more coins back there.”
She smiled, brittlely. “Not all of us have that luxury.”
Her expression made him feel bad he’d made the comment. He guessed this had something to do with her sister, but it felt intrusive to ask about someone he didn’t know. He took a guess at a happier subject. “You learn all this at university?”
Laughter burst from her lips. “There something wrong with that? You pluck that little tattoo on your hand from thin air?” Ryle’s cheeks heated. “You learned your skills and I learned mine. I just used a pen instead of a sword.”
He felt bad over the impression he’d carried of her all morning. She wasn’t anything like those he’d avoided back in Pyhrec. She was just as smart, probably smarter, but she wasn’t lording it over anyone. He’d been doing that to himself. Before he could apologize, she continued.
“But this? What I do? No such luck. They don’t exactly teach this in school. Like I said, I read a lot of books. Endlessly.”
“Really?”
Her eyebrow quirked. “You know of a better way? ‘Books are the quintessence of thought. The distillation of knowledge gained through toil and drawn from the aether into physical form by sheer will. So that what we gain apart may be known together.’”
Ryle was struck by a wave of surprise, but this time he smiled. “Jehella,” he said. “That’s one of my favorite passages of hers.”
Drailey’s mouth fell open.
“What? You don’t think sword swinging brutes crack open a book from time to time?”
In all honesty, Ryle had little time for anything but sword swinging. Whenever he could though, he tried to read. For all the dirty tricks his mom had taught him, one gleaming element remained untarnished: the importance of knowledge above all else. His mother had survived on wits and knowledge and proved to him time and again that knowing how the world worked was just as important as knowing how to chop it apart.
A loud crash rattled Tillence’s building behind them. Ryle winced.
Drailey ignored the sound. “Sure. When you’re not busy cracking skulls,” she said and winked.
Ryle couldn’t help laughing. “Since you’re so well read, have any suggestions?”
She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. “You read Quinten’s On Principles?”
“Part of it, I found a half burned copy and picked my way through what was left.” Ryle’s chest twinged. He tried to not focus where he’d found that book, or who had burned it. Or how much that memory made him feel cold and alone.
“Here.” Drailey reached into her satchel and pulled out a familiar thin volume. She handed it to him.
Ryle’s fingers itched to flip through its pages. “I couldn’t.”
“Go on. I’ve read it so much I’ve practically memorized it. It’s just a spare copy anyway.”
He hesitated for a moment then took the book. The scent of its old pages wafted up. Blast he loved that smell. “Thank you,” he said. “I haven’t gotten anything this nice in a long time.” He doubted she knew how true that was for him. Ryle’s throat ached a bit.
She waved him off. “Books are one thing I have a lot of.”
“Must be wonderful.”
“It is,” she said, and her smile looked bright and genuine. “Just tell me what you think the next time I see you, and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal.”
Any further conversation was cut off by a final booming outburst from inside the office, and then Lastrahn emerged. He looked remarkably calm for the racket Ryle had heard.
The champion’s presence smashed what had turned into an enjoyable moment and the weight of Ryle’s situation descended across his shoulders. He slipped the book into his saddlebag and prepared for whatever Lastrahn would demand next.
Lastrahn gathered his chargers’ reins and swung up into the saddle. “Let’s go.”
Half a league later, they passed the last of the towering husks. Overhead, the sun, having long since burned off the morning mists, glared down upon them as it began its slide toward evening. Ryle loosened the collar of his jacket and took a swig of flat water from his canteen. He tried not to dwell on what had gone down in the basement of Tillence’s claim, but his heart hung heavy in his chest. She would surely be ruined, and no matter how he twisted the events like a thread in the wind, h
e found no way to justify that. He hoped whatever Lastrahn had gained was worth it.
The towers gave way to a ragged plain of parched, red grasses, and he shifted in his saddle. He’d seen this rust colored grass before, in the last place he’d called home. Scruffy patches had dotted the alkaline plains that stretched to the horizon. Not many leagues separated him from that place in the west. Maybe two hundred if he was lucky, but it felt much closer.
He’d always known he’d have to return some day. Back to this land where too much blood and too many tears had been spilled. Even five years before, when he rode east, broken, bleeding, and helpless, he’d known that to be true. There was no way out of it, a road with a single destination. Ryle would never be free from his father until he set things right.
When Kilgren vanished, Ryle had despaired of finding him, but now, as unreal as it felt, he was following Lastrahn toward the bastard once more. He was sure of it.
After a few dark minutes, Ryle shook free of the memories to see row upon row of soaring metal trees running away to the east. Each spaced the same distance from its neighbors.
After the Rending, the first men to return to these lands had called them the spinning orchards. They were clearly not natural, but he saw the aptness of that description. A metal “trunk”, two paces across and thirty high, stretched up to a few thin “branches”. None contained more than five limbs. These were all straight with most hanging down at rigid angles that looked somehow sad to his eyes.
The books said strong winds would spin the limbs, and cause the trees to rotate and follow the wind’s direction. Ryle could only imagine such a sight.
A minute later they reached a dusty track, ten paces wide, running north to south. In both directions, it would eventually circle Shellings’ towers and rejoin the Main Road. From there continuing northeast would lead back to Pyhrec, and southwest to Del’atre.
They pulled to a stop. To the north a wagon train beside a ramshackle warehouse was being readied for departure.
“Where you headed now?” Ryle asked Drailey.
She nodded southwest. “Back to the Del. Can’t stick around here.” She bit the words off and for the first time Ryle wondered what her assistance had cost her.
Gearspire: Advent Page 7