Gearspire: Advent
Page 36
He gritted his teeth and ran.
Some moments later, Ryle stumbled to a stop, out of breath and in pain. He almost didn’t believe the sight of the red hand on the lintel above the door.
The door was set into a ramshackle affair of boards loosely resembling a tower, that stretched up to the vault of the streets some ten paces above.
Almost there. Keep moving.
He pulled himself upright and tried the handle on the door.
Locked. Of course. At least Lastrahn had shown him one useful thing.
He sighed, reared back, and slammed his boot into the latch. It cracked and the door swung open.
Inside he found stairs. A lot of stairs, switching back upon themselves as they climbed into inky darkness.
Burning hex. Would the night never get easier?
Ryle sagged in the door frame and patted his pockets again. This time he found the vial he needed. He balanced it in his palm and eyed it suspiciously.
Nigh magical effects aside, he rated brew as a narrow step above sauce. And only because it didn’t cause hallucinations and eat your face out from the inside. At least, as far as he knew.
A tremendous cry between a scream and a roar exploded in the streets from back the way he’d come. Whether he still held his center or not the sound pinned him to the wall, squeezed his organs into a small hard knot. He stood there panting in sharp breaths.
Just as fast as the cry had started it was cut off. As if by a sharp knife.
Ryle had no doubt someone had just perished, but was it to his benefit or detriment? What sound would Lastrahn emit when he was finally overcome?
Chaff, he didn’t want to think about that.
Whatever it meant, he was sure that someone would soon arrive, and he didn’t want to be there to greet them. Not unarmed.
Ryle swallowed hard, popped open the vial of brew and tossed it back.
Sauce might’ve been better. He gasped and choked. His eyes watered. Every small, discreet, intimate place in, his skull burned. His vision whited out for a moment as the pain squeezed his eyes shut. Then it was gone, and he was left shaking, but only a little, and that cleared with each passing moment.
Blast the stuff worked frighteningly well. His exhaustion was down to a distant pressure, the pain to a low roar. It was enough. For now. But how long did he have? A mouthful from Drailey’s flask hadn’t lasted more than fifteen or twenty minutes, so he might have thirty from the shot he’d just taken. Ryle wrapped his center around himself like a cloak and charged up the stairs.
At least the door at the top wasn’t locked. He shoved it open and stepped out into a dark torrent. Ryle blinked in confusion as fat drops of rain pounded off his face, soaked through his hair and started in on his jacket. The sensation was so refreshing that for a moment he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of cool fresh air on his skin. He considered taking in a mouthful of the rain, but he remembered this was Del’atre and thought better of it.
Water poured from the night sky in heavy sheets, slicking the cobblestones and limiting his vision to twenty paces in any direction. The heavy clouds had finally unleashed that storm they’d been holding back.
Squinting through the rain, Ryle got his first good news of the night. He was in the Granite Blossom’s courtyard. He’d emerged from an unmarked door beside the stables.
He darted through the rain, trying to make out details through the deluge. The inn’s courtyard was empty, its windows dark. It must’ve been later than he thought for the inn’s guests to already be asleep. Especially tonight.
Halfway to the inn’s door he spotted an orange glow off to one side. Firelight through a partially opened door. After a moment’s consideration he turned toward it.
A small shanty stood beside the stables. Probably for whoever was designated to watch for late night guests.
Ryle peeked in. Simeon and Oliver hunched over a glowing brazier, warming their hands. Ebi lay curled atop a pile of feed sacks in the corner, fast asleep.
Ryle pulled the door wider and stepped inside.
Simeon started then relaxed, until he got a look at Ryle’s face. His eyes opened wide. “What have you been up to?”
The brew and his kenten had done such a good job that Ryle had forgotten about the pain in his jaw, the tight sensation across the side of his face. Even his hip and arm were distant aches.
Oliver looked on without comment and took another drag on the smoke between his lips. A milder, yet familiar scent from Hartvau’s rooms scratched at Ryle’s nostrils.
“You don’t want to know. Really,” Ryle said then paused trying to collect his thoughts. “Place looks dark. Has everyone already turned in?”
“The Blossom’s not exactly a den of debauchery. There were a few folks drinking earlier. They’ve all gone upstairs. Oliver and I were just taking a few minutes before we turned in ourselves.”
Ryle couldn’t decide if this helped or hindered his situation, but finally settled on the former. He didn’t need more screaming, drunken partiers getting in the middle of everything. What he needed was . . . “Are there any weapons around?”
Simeon shook his head. “Ferrel doesn’t allow them.”
Ryle wanted to ask how the hex they protected themselves.
“We have this,” Oliver said, and offering an iron fire poker.
Ryle took it. Desperation, that was his name.
“Why?” Simeon asked.
Ryle squeezed the hunk of iron, taking some solace in its solid heft.
“Trouble’s coming. You two take Ebi, and anyone else around, and take cover. Don’t approach any strangers or come into the inn.”
Simeon’s face paled as Ryle spoke. “What about the guests?” he asked.
“There’s no time. Just go.”
Ryle stepped to the door and Ebi stirred in the corner. The boy cracked opened one eye and peered about. “What’s going on?” He saw Ryle, and his eyes sprang wide. “Are the Praeters here?”
Kid was a blasted genius.
Ryle swallowed and ducked back into the rain before he had to lie. He could only hope Simeon got the kid somewhere safe before all hex came down on the inn.
Rain pounded his head and shoulders. He cracked the inn’s door open and slid inside.
The great room was dark. Only a single lamp burned on a table at the center of the room. He swept the room with his eyes. Nothing stood out, and yet, the hairs shifted on the back of his neck. His stomach twisted.
Lastrahn’s sword was so close, just up the stairs, but something held him back. Something felt wrong about the stillness, something tangible, yet he couldn’t place his finger on. It felt stupid, cowardly, but his instincts demanded silence. Instincts that had kept him alive thus far.
Ryle crept along the right wall, holding the poker up, and his center firmly in place while he strained his eyes and ears in the dark.
He heard nothing but the rain drumming on the roof. Saw not a flicker of movement. Cold water ran down his cheek and the back of his neck. The floor was slippery beneath his sopping boots.
The wall ended at the stairwell. He glanced around the corner and found only shadows. He took a breath and started up.
He wasn’t sure what the hex he was expecting. Maybe for Abaal to be waiting with a sneer on his face. For Foriix to magically burst from the dark to choke him with her blasted chain. At that moment it all seemed possible.
He reached the second floor hallway. Ryle gripped the poker, and stuck his head out. Shadows and closed doors ran along the hall. A bit of light filtered in through the window at the far end.
He continued to the top floor. The wooden treads creaked faintly under his boots, but he could barely hear them. The rain was even louder here, pounding out a mad barrage upon the shingles. Not far above now the rafters groaned in the dark.
Ryle’s hands tingled on the length of iron, his grip slippery from rain and sweat. He uselessly wiped his palms along his wet pants then stepped into the top floor hallway.
After a couple deep breaths he crossed to it.
Their door was still closed, the room on the far side sounded quiet and undisturbed. He turned the knob as silently as he could, and eased the door open, stomach knotted, throat tight.
Rain beat against the windows on the opposite wall. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room but they felt familiar, expected. Their beds lay undisturbed, their gear upon the closer of the two where he’d dumped it a day before. Exequor gleamed where it stood beside Lastrahn’s bed against the far wall.
Ryle stepped through the door, and the windows exploded.
CHAPTER 41
Shards of glass pelted Ryle’s shoulders and the arm he’d thrown up across his face. Each one striking exposed skin like a razor sharp breath of air.
He’d had an instant’s notice. The flickering of a shadow beyond the windows before they erupted into the room. He pressed his back to the wall and risked lowering his arm enough to see.
Foriix crouched in the ruined window frame. Rain lashed her back, sprayed water into the room. Crackling sparks leapt from her, like blue embers from a forge. Shadows masked her face but her eyes burned through the dark. Twin glowing sapphires staring death at him.
Ryle’s center quivered, but held the gnashing fear at bay. He’d beheld many terrifying sights, most in the last few days, and only Lastrahn in all of his fury matched the scene before him. He sucked in a cold, wet breath, and pushed his mind out into the room. Forced the thoughts to move in his skull.
He should run. She’d proven herself more than deadly already, and the hunk of iron in his hand wouldn’t count for muck all against her. He wanted to run, his stomach was crawling up into his ribcage at the sight of her.
Training cast in Kilgren’s rough voice advised this situation was suicide; dictated that he should retreat and find a new angle of attack. That wasn’t a good sign. If his mad father advised retreat, Ryle knew he was well and truly mucked.
Only he couldn’t run. Not anymore. Lastrahn needed Exequor, and besides where would he flee to? Back into the inn full of sleeping guests? The inn where Simeon and Ebi hid far below? Two men had already died tonight because of him. He refused to accept any more.
The champion said he needed his sword. And Ryle said no one else was dying for him.
He took a deep breath, and closed the door.
Foriix’s lips peeled back, cutting an ivory snarl into her shadow blackened face. And she came for him.
Ryle’s center gave him time to move. But just barely.
He whipped the fire poker up in time to deflect the first blow, but not the second. Her chain ripped past his right cheek. It burned like he’d been slapped with a hundred needles. He growled and jerked away.
Foriix rushed in behind her attack, a twisting, shifting silhouette. He glimpsed enough to dodge the kick she drove for his head, and he thrust the poker at her stomach. Only she wasn’t there. Somehow, she was crouched against the wall.
She twisted again, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head. Lights exploded across his vision and he reeled back into the corner. The wall fetched up hard against his back, then crackling whistles filled the air. Still dazed, he dropped into a crouch. Steel impacted above him, showering plaster upon his head.
Footsteps rushed across the floorboards. Ryle slashed the poker left, then right, hoping to catch a shin. He struck only air. Foriix danced back, chain rattling.
He clung to his center, pulling in every detail. Every shift of shadows, every creak of wood, every drop of water splashing across his face from the gaping window. His body was still intact; he was still moving. He leapt to the attack.
Sweeps of steel dangling from fingers cut the dark. Chain wrapped arms absorbed his strikes then tried to smash his bones.
Their positions reversed and the rain lashed the back of his neck. The little light slipping in from outside washed across her, and Ryle suppressed a gasp. Cuts crisscrossed her arms and chest, the side of her face, the bridge of her nose. A bite mark, bruised and bleeding, stood out on her cheek. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth and dripped from her sharp chin.
The Skivers had taken their toll, but she was still kicking his ass.
His face must’ve given this all away, because she suddenly snarled, and closed on him again. They circled, struck. Glass crunched under his boots. The rattle of her chain punctuated their breaths and the howl of the storm. The rafters creaked and groaned.
Rain splattered across her bloody face. Blue sparks leapt from the impact of each drop of water. Crackling fireflies conjured and banished in an instant. Her lips tightened each time, as if in pain. It might just be the advantage he badly needed.
Ryle timed a strike to one of the sparks, slipped a jab through, and felt the poker catch flesh. Foriix grunted, but the hunk of old iron wasn’t a real weapon, and she knew it. She gladly took the blow in exchange for whipping her chain across his ribs so hard that he was hurled against the wall. Lathe and plaster snapped, his ribs nearly did likewise; only the padding in his jacket saved him.
Ryle lost all his air as he crashed to the floor, and his poker tumbled from his hand. He maintained a claw hold on his center.
Foriix stood before the windows, twirling her chain, throwing crackling drops of water out into the room. Her body as tense as a coiled spring.
Ryle sucked in a painful breath and climbed back to his feet.
“Again, Squirebrat?” she hissed.
Ryle brought his hands up, he hadn’t gained a pace on Lastrahn’s sword. Exequor still rested in the corner at the far end of the room. He had no illusions she’d let him reach it. And now he was unarmed.
He stepped forward, and she snapped the chain for his skull faster than a striking snake. He dodged and lashed out with his fist. The blow grazed her ear, then her chain wrapped tight around his arm.
Oh, muck.
Foriix spun. Ryle spun. Then he was flying over her back toward his bed and his pile of gear. He missed the mattress, and hit the floor on the far side with a bone shaking crash, all his gear toppled off after him. He lay stunned, gasping and panting.
Above him the ceiling, rattling with the fury of the storm, slipped between rain-dappled shadows, and a smudged gray blur as his vision faded. That was never a good sign.
Ryle blinked hard, and with a groan, managed to roll over, scattering his gear. Using the bed, he pulled himself up to his knees. His mouth tasted of copper. Odors of sweat, blood, and hot metal tinged the air.
Foriix spun her chain through slow, lazy circles. Fat droplets of blood fell to the floor. Her eyes flashed. In the dim light from the window she spat. “I waited five years, Squirebrat. And this is the best you can do?”
Ryle gripped hold of the blanket on the bed as the room tilted around him. Her battered face, lit by crackling flashes of light, looked all the more menacing when she sneered. “If not for your sad mother, I don’t think you would’ve stood a chance last time. Too bad you let her die.”
Ryle’s hands shook, his face felt flushed and frigid at the same time. Deep down he knew she was right. He’d surprised Foriix last time, struck a lucky blow. He had no such advantage now. It was only a matter of time. Without a sword, he couldn’t match her. He couldn’t come close. Nausea spiraled up through his gut, seeking release. He dropped his head against the edge of the bed.
“Going to cry now, Squirebrat? Then get it over with. I want to finish you and get back to your master. I want a bite of the main course before Abaal chews him up.”
Ryle gagged against the rage. The fury over his own helplessness. This was his shot to do something good, to stop a real monster and he’d done nothing but take beating upon beating, slow Lastrahn down and disappoint him time and again.
If only he had a blasted weapon!
He glared down at the floor through blurring vision. His sword belt lay crump
ed on the floorboards. His dagger caught a shaft of moonlight. Ryle’s breath caught as a mad laugh pressed against the back of his eyes, and plucked at his throat. He clenched his teeth.
He’d kept the dagger for one purpose, to remind him of his failure. To remind him to never go back. He’d sworn not to draw it unless he plunged it into Kilgren’s chest.
An oath’s no good if you’re dead. Hated words came, and others followed. There’s no perfect technique for every situation. Not out here. You balance your actions against the need and move the hell on.
“Time’s up, Squirebrat. Prepare to greet your dead bitch of a mother.”
The hostage. The invasion. Vastroth. His father. Casyne waiting for him in the north. He wanted to see her sunny smile again. Maybe more than anything. Even if for one last time.
The Praeter came for him.
Muck it. Ryle scooped the dagger up in a reverse grip with his left hand, and pressed his wrist against the metal sheath, which unfolded with a click, wrapped around his wrist, and snapped shut, forming a metal bracer. He didn’t even gasp as the metal teeth inside the bracer bit into his skin, as his blood welled up hot against the cold steel.
He pushed himself to his feet. The knife felt familiar and sickening at the same time. The scar in his left palm grated against the smooth grip. He held onto his center with everything he had to keep the fury and loathing away. His bones itched as lines etched into the band around his wrist began to glow with brassy light. The same light flowed out through his left hand, as if lit from within by ghostly fire until he glimpsed the shadows of his bones under his skin.
Foriix whipped her chain in a long arc for his throat.
Ryle deflected the chain off his trailing blade, spun the knife to a regular grip and leapt forward with a stab to her chest. Ocher light trailed in the blade’s wake as its edge filled with the aura pulsing from his hand.
Foriix danced back, eyes narrowed. Her chains whipped through twisting patterns, beating aside the strikes he sent for her.
The dagger was shorter than the fire poker and so much lighter that it felt like a razor sharp extension of his hand. Just like he’d been taught. He wanted to spit at that thought.