“As if you don’t,” Lastrahn said.
“This is Del’atre,” Glad said with a smile. “Even the pigeons have schemes. I was only surprised you reached Hartvau so easily.”
The pain in Ryle’s face as he slurped down more soup said there’d been nothing easy about it. He kept quiet.
Lastrahn shrugged his wide shoulders.
“Indeed,” the mediker said as she put away the last of her instruments.
After the food and water, Ryle’s body still wasn’t happy, but his stomach recalled the contract on his head, and he got upright without swaying.
“It was good to see you, Glad,” Lastrahn said as he stood.
“Want me to pass on anything to Elderow the next time I see him?” she asked.
Ryle still couldn’t get over it. These people knew the characters in the stories he’d read. Some of them were those characters. He walked among those he’d been taught to fear. After a week of riding with Lastrahn it still felt impossible and no less dangerous.
The champion’s eyes focused on her with an intensity Ryle hadn’t expected from her comment.
“You could’ve told him yourself if he hadn’t ridden off in an all fire hurry last week,” she added.
Lastrahn’s lips quirked. “Tell him, he knows where to find me,” the champion said and stepped past her.
Glad shook her head this time, and Ryle headed for the door.
“And you,” she said to him as he passed. “You take better care of yourself.”
“What an idea,” Lastrahn said.
His tone sparked the heat inside again, but Glad rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen a fight or two in your day. You didn’t do so bad for yourself,” she said, and winked.
Ryle almost smiled, but Lastrahn’s snort killed that feeling as he disappeared into the dark hallway beyond the door.
“Thanks—” Ryle started, but he had to stifle a yawn that turned into a wince as pain stabbed him in his jaw.
Glad eyed him. “You’re not heading to bed, are you?”
Bed. The word was like something from a fever dream, but he knew Lastrahn well enough to not even consider the idea. “Bed? What’s that?”
She sighed. “Boys and their quests. Here then.” She extracted a thimble wide silver vial from her bag and pressed it into Ryle’s hand.
“If you’re in a bad way this will get you through to the other side. But only if you’re really caught between the cogs. In your state, it won’t do you any favors. You’ll hate yourself in the morning if you drink it now.”
Ryle didn’t have to ask what the vial contained. Wisps of a scent like those from Drailey’s flask tickled his nose. He wanted to throw up at the idea of drinking it.
“Thanks.” He paused. “Keep an eye on Drailey. She’d never admit it, but she could use any help she can get.”
Glad blinked in surprise but nodded. “I always do what I can. She’s had a hard life.”
Ryle wanted to hear more, but once again, Lastrahn was waiting. He nodded and joined the champion in the hall.
He vaguely recalled being carried down this passage after the fight. The bloody streak leading to the doorway confirmed it. He remembered little after that, but having a huge man use your head for a snare drum would do that to you. He rubbed his temple to get the hot poker scrambling his brain to take a break.
Hartvau’s big, tattooed henchman, the green one this time, waited with a lantern. Lastrahn stood beside him.
“Go back to the inn,” Lastrahn said to Ryle. “Glad can get you back up to the street while I go see our friend.”
The mediker paused as she stepped from the room and closed the door.
“Chaff to that,” Ryle said.
Lastrahn gave him a blank look. Glad stifled a smile.
For once Ryle ignored the champion’s stare. “I almost got killed for this meeting. I’m going, Sir.”
Maybe Lastrahn saw he was in no mood to argue, or agreed he’d earned it. Or maybe, more likely, he didn’t care either way. Whatever the reason, he didn’t fight him on it.
“Ulan, take us to Hartvau’s guest.”
They descended one stone staircase, then another.
Ryle’s heart beat faster with every step. His hands trembled from more than exhaustion. He’d had the fight to distract him before, but now he realized how close he was. Closer than he’d ever been since that night.
He didn’t know what he would do or say. Not with Lastrahn watching. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Lastrahn wouldn’t care once they had the answers he sought. The champion had fought his father for longer than he’d been alive.
For once it might’ve been good that no sword hung at his hip.
Ulan stopped before an unmarked steel door secured by a heavy beam. A dull clunking emanated from within.
Ryle’s heart pounded in his chest and wouldn’t slow down.
The big man effortlessly pulled the beam free, handed Lastrahn the lantern, and took a seat on a wooden chair a few paces away.
Lastrahn looked down at Ryle where he stood trying to compose himself. His master’s eyes were as hard as he’d ever seen them. This was it. This was why they’d come to Del’atre. What Ryle had spent years sweating and bleeding for. He straightened his shoulders, and met the champion’s gaze.
Lastrahn opened the door, and they stepped inside.
The room was a bare rock-walled cell four paces on a side. Pitch black aside from their lantern. That continuous thunk, louder now, beat a slow rhythm in Ryle’s chest. Smells of shit and piss clung thick in the air. His stomach roiled.
Their light fell on the cell’s occupant where he hung, chained, spread eagle to the wall. After Ryle fought down the urge to throw up. The only fevered thought in his mind was, No, this can’t be how it ends.
CHAPTER 38
Not much remained of the man before them. Not much that wasn’t broken and unrecognizable. His bones had been shattered and left to mend crooked. Part of his scalp and one of his eyes were missing, and from the way drool leaked between his lips, Ryle guessed most of his teeth as well. His hands and feet were short a few digits, he forced himself not to count how many, and one of his hands looked like it had been reattached backward.
Through all the wounds and atrocities though, one burning thing was stood out clear.
It wasn’t Kilgren.
Ryle wanted to scream and cry. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles throbbed. He fell back into the wall and slid to the floor.
He should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. He’d had no guarantees. No certainties. He should’ve known even Kilgren’s death wouldn’t be simple to solve. Not with his blasted Father.
Lastrahn peered at the man on the wall, a man Ryle had once known as Mirkther.
Ryle could tell his father’s former lieutenant still lived as his chest rose and fell, but even that simple movement was not accomplished on his own. The dull repetitive sound Ryle had heard came from above where an enormous wooden disk, like a water wheel turned on its side, slowly rotated. This connected to a series of gears and pulleys arranged around Mirkther’s body. From within this complex tangle, brass tubes ran behind him. He dared not think what the pipes ran after that, but whenever the giant wheel clunked, the prisoner’s chest rose in a grotesque impression of life.
Any doubt Ryle had had about Hartvau or Vastroth burned away in that moment. This was not reconcilable with any humanity he knew. This was something else. Something he’d never before witnessed. Not even in Kilgren’s presence.
Beneath the horror, and the gutting disappointment, a cold, hard anger filled his chest. A determined rage. His quest had ended here in failure, but something else remained. The knowledge that truly evil men existed, and that they needed to be dealt with harshly and with finality.
He knew then that once he’d confirmed his father’s fate, he’d use his skills for one more task. He would deal with Hartvau and put an end to this grotesque madness. He scratched the b
astard’s name in tall letters in his mind, right below Kilgren.
With that thought driving him on, Ryle pulled himself back to his feet and joined the champion before the prisoner.
Poor, chaff blasted Mirkther. Ryle’s heart ached. He’d never hated him, not like his father or muck sucking Garn. Sure, the man was a vicious, cold-hearted killer, but at least the assassin had shown some scrap of decency in a world that demanded none. Ryle had seen him spare women and children when he didn’t have to. Seen him disable a foe when he could’ve taken their life. He’d even hidden Ryle once when Kilgren was in the midst of a drunken rampage.
Now this. No one deserved this. Well, maybe his father, but even then, Ryle couldn’t really wish such a fate upon him. A quick death would cleanse his stain from the world just as effectively.
Lastrahn’s face looked as grim as Ryle’s thoughts. The champion clenched and unclenched his jaw. His eyes burned. His sword hand balled into a tight fist. “For her. For her,” he muttered himself.
Ryle only just registered Lastrahn’s words. Had he been talking the whole time? Was he speaking of the hostage in Gearspire? Or the woman he’d lost—this Selendre that Drailey had mentioned.
Lastrahn took a deep breath, hung the lantern on the wall, and walked to the center of the room. He knelt and placed a white clay jar the size of a child’s fist on the floor. A blue wax ring sealed the jar’s lid.
Ryle crept closer, a single character or rune Ryle had never seen before was stamped into the side of the jar.
“Hold your breath,” Lastrahn said as he stood.
Ryle knew by then not to ask questions. He sucked in a lungful of air and Lastrahn stomped on the jar.
The clay shattered, but instead of the expected crunch of ceramic, a force slapped Ryle softly in the chest. He stumbled back, his ears popped, and he shook his head. Mirkther’s gasping breaths continued, driven by the clunk of the wheel on the ceiling, but all the other tiny sounds from the underground were gone.
“That will keep anyone from listening in on our conversation.” Lastrahn glanced back at Ryle. “You can breathe now.”
Ryle released his breath and took a new tentative one. A subtle shift had occurred in the air. A bit more pressure perhaps? It felt unsettling, but no more so than the rest of the blasted night.
It was optimistic of Lastrahn to speak of conversation. They’d get nothing out of Mirkther. If the man ever regained consciousness, it would only be to scream, and even that much would be a feat. Hartvau had known this. The prick had let him fight and bleed knowing they’d get nothing in return.
One more reason to wring his blasted neck.
Ryle stood at a loss, but the champion did not. As Lastrahn faced the broken man, he pulled an item from within his coat. A wire wrapped jar. The sight carved Ryle’s innards out with a dull blade.
Back in the crone’s parlor Lastrahn had foreseen this moment. During their mysterious, oblique conversation he’d insisted on a solution; on something that gave her pause.
“What would disturb someone like her?” Ryle had wondered as he sat in Judith’s parlor. Now he had his answer.
Of all the old crafts and mysteries, this was one he knew of and wished he didn’t. He’d read of this dark relic in an ancient rotting book. The damp smell of its pages, the strange tang of its ink washed over him. He’d shivered as he’d read of it, and he shivered again now.
Bottle Boys, were one of the darkest and most bizarre creations ever conceived. Even before the Rending all civilized groups frowned upon their existence, much less their use. As Ryle lay sight upon one, he understood why.
The hand-long jar of thick glass was capped in metal and wrapped in crisscrossing copper wires. A leather mask, similar to their travel masks, was nestled among the knobs and copper tubes protruding from the cap.
A translucent viscous liquid filled the jar. To say Ryle saw anything inside would be incorrect, and yet there was something. When the light caught the glass just right, he got the impression of movement.
He suppressed another shiver. Perhaps in this terrible place it took something equally terrible. Nothing else that night had gone well, or been accomplished with any shred of decency. Why would this dark pit be any different?
After a long pause, Lastrahn lifted the mask, and secured it over Mirkther’s nose and mouth. The weight of the jar pulled the former bandit’s head down to his chest, making the scene all the more grotesque, but stayed in place when Lastrahn took his hands away.
“I don’t know if this will work. It isn’t meant for . . . this.”
“They’re for dead bodies,” Ryle whispered through dry lips, recalling the decaying passage from the ancient book.
Lastrahn turned, surprised. Whether from Ryle’s knowledge, or that he’d spoken at all, Ryle couldn’t tell. The look in his master’s eyes struck him numb. They were empty, hollowed, void of light.
After a long tense moment, Lastrahn returned to Mirkther, and opened a valve on the side of the mask. The jar emitted a soft hiss, like a match plunged into water. A moment later, a yellowish liquid leaked out around the edges of the mask. Lastrahn stepped forward with a curse but the oozing stopped before he did anything. After a full minute, as if following instructions, he twisted the valve closed.
The lantern on the wall flickered. Ryle’s breaths contrasted against the ragged sucking sounds emanating from Mirkther’s ruined body. His heartbeat thudded in time with the groaning wheel.
Mirkther’s eye snapped open, and Ryle jumped in his skin.
The prisoner’s head came up, swinging from side to side, good eye wide and staring. A low, gurgling moan bubbled up from his throat before his chest heaved hard, and the sound dried to a keening wail.
Ryle’s hair tried to pull itself free of his arms and the back of his neck. Lastrahn’s face remained unmoved as Mirkther thrashed against the wall. He wondered again at the desperation driving the champion.
“What have you done?” Mirkther asked. Only the voice wasn’t of the man Ryle had once known. The voice was too young by far. Bottle Boys, were named that for a terrible reason. For children no one could provide for. Souls put to a different use by brutal men.
Ryle’s heart sought a grave to hide in.
“I am not alone. I should be alone and I am not. There is someone here. Someone with me. This is not right.” Mirkther’s chest rose and fell with the endless thuds of the wheel above. His words rose and fell with them, every word a wheeze, every pause a gasp.
Judith’s concerns rushed through Ryle, and he tried not to contemplate the dark violation they’d made.
The prisoner’s one eye, filled with rage, sadness, and pain, turned on Ryle. He held his breath, almost expecting recognition. He found none.
“We have questions,” Lastrahn said. “We need you to answer them, Pequa.”
The eye snapped back. “I am not alone. This is wrong. Why have you sent me here? It is not empty. There is another. There is pain.” Tears rolled from that lone eye across a ruined cheek.
A hot lump grew in Ryle’s throat, and he dug his nails into his palms. The stench in the room burned his nostrils.
Lastrahn forged on. “We have questions, Pequa. Answer them and you may leave this man’s body. I have spoken your name.”
The tears slowed. Rage filled the eye again. “Ask.”
“This man went to a place called Gearspire. I need to know about that place.”
Mirkther glared at the champion. “If you would force me into discourse, then I require the name you wish me to address.”
Lastrahn’s jaw bunched. His scars stood out pale against his skin. “You will ask him.”
“A name!”
“His name is Mirkther,” Ryle didn’t look forward to explaining how he knew this, but something good had to come from this.
The eye faded, lost focus. His head lulled to the side.
Lastrahn looked at Ryle, his eyes wide.
Ryle swallowed. “He was there that night. When my mo
ther died.”
Lastrahn glared hard, but seemed to accept the answer.
After a dozen heartbeats Mirkther’s head snapped back again, the eye refocused on Lastrahn. “He knows of this place, but does not wish to speak of it. The pain began there.”
Lastrahn crossed his arms over his chest. “He must tell us of this place. There’s a woman there we must reach. You cannot leave until he answers.”
More anger before the head lulled again. Another pause, another return.
“He saw the woman, but will not speak of her. He is scared. It hurts him too greatly. He wants no more pain. There has been too much.” The remaining fingers of his good hand—the one that faced the correct direction—splayed wide. Long, broken nails clawed the air. His other hand thrashed like a fish on a line.
Vomit crawled up Ryle’s throat. He choked it back. Pain was something he understood too well. Not just the pain of training, of injury, but the deeper, bottomless pain of despair. Of being broken, and alone, and hopeless, and feeling only the cold dark stretch around you. Of seeing only one way out.
He was back there in that night. Bloody, near death, his hand throbbing slow and angry. His family shattered by his father and his own failure. His future a stomach churning hopeless void. He’d seen the way out, and by only a slim margin had he held on, clinging to a shred of hope that carried him to morning.
Ryle shuddered, not from the memory, which slowly faded, but because he saw no hope here. No escape for this man other than the one he himself had once turned from. He understood the solution. It left him gagging and breathless, but in the dark, it alone was their only bargain.
Ryle tentatively placed a hand on Lastrahn’s arm. His head snapped around.
“If he tells us what he knows we will make sure no one hurts him again.” Ryle hated that his voice shook, but he pressed on. “We’ll end the pain.”
Confusion rose and fell from Lastrahn’s eyes. “We can’t offer this. Hartvau wouldn’t let it go.”
“I don’t care!” Ryle shouted. “I don’t give a blast what Hartvau wants. We can’t let this stand—” His voice broke.
Gearspire: Advent Page 33