by Alan Baxter
“Oh shit indeed.” Gryl gestured toward the cot with his sword, droplets of blood spattering the covers at the motion. “Have a seat, Surathanan. You and I have much to discuss.”
The slaver did as he was told. “And here I thought I’d seen the last of you in Feln, Prodigy.” He shook his head, chasing away his malaise and replacing it with a practiced grin. “You do know the empress herself sent for me, do you not? And I’m certain she expects me to arrive whole and hale, all my sundry bits and pieces intact and in their proper place. I imagine she would be quite vexed to learn you’d done me harm.”
“You overestimate my concern for the empress’s feelings.” Gryl answered the slaver’s grin with one of his own, pressing the tip of his sword against Surathanan’s collarbone. A dot of blood welled beneath it, standing out against the man’s tanned flesh before running south to stain his rumpled tunic. “But, if it eases your worries, I don’t intend to kill you. At least not as long as you answer me truthfully and keep your glib tongue in your mouth otherwise.”
Surathanan chuckled. “And I’m to take you at your word, Avan? Three men are dead, hardly proof of your restraint and honor, if we’re to be honest.” He waved his arms about, gesturing in turn to each of the knights cooling in their cots. “Their only crime was their gods-awful snoring. Annoying, certainly, but not worth being murdered over.”
“Five men actually, as there’ve been a couple on the way here” Gryl told him. “And I can easily make it six if you’re so desperate to sail the seas of Avraxas, but we both know you’re rather fond of your existence, shallow as it might be. Tell me where she is and I’ll leave you to greet the sunrise. If not…”
The slaver raised his hand in surrender. “No need for all that now. Better you’re the empress’s problem than mine.” He exhaled slowly before continuing. “Your dear Jacquial is being held in a makeshift gaol, built in the cellar of a prominent businessman here in Amberton. Kertol Mallister is his name, if I recall correctly. I hear he’s a cousin of Empress Patah Re Shah, or a nephew or some shit. Hard to keep track of who beds who in royal circles these days.” He shrugged. “Regardless who spat him out, he is not without influence. He has his own men to guard the property, not to mention the dozen knights tasked to ensure Jacquial reaches the capital without delay. His home’s quite the fortress, or so I hear. Haven’t been there myself. You’re not likely to get anywhere near your precious thief friend before they cut you down.” Surathanan grinned. “But, by all means, don’t let that discourage you. You’re up for a challenge, aye?”
Gryl ignored the jibe. “You can point me to this Mallister’s house?”
“I can indeed, especially if it will hurry you on your way.” Surathanan glanced about the room, looking from body to body. “Your handiwork is beginning to smell and I’d like to find less… ripe accommodations before the empress’s men bring word of your death and usher me into her presence.”
“Tell me then.” The slaver offered the directions without hesitation, going silent as soon as he finished, his last act of smug defiance. The prodigy nodded and took a step toward the door, only to stop and turn back, raising a finger and waggling it at Surathanan. “Oh, one more thing…”
“What is it now? I’ve told you all I damn well—”
Gryl twisted at the hips and drove his fist into Surathanan’s jaw. Bone collided with bone and the slaver went stiff, collapsing on the cot, eyes buried deep in their sockets.
“I haven’t forgotten your role in Valtus’s disappearance, in case you were wondering,” he told the unconscious man. “And while I said I wouldn’t kill you, I suspect you’ll be sorry I didn’t once I turn you over to his father, Delvin. That old priest harbors secrets; dark ones. Ones I suspect are best left hidden, though I imagine he’s quite eager to make an exception and cart them out.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be you.”
Gryl hoisted the slaver over his shoulder and left the dead knights behind, seeking someplace to secure Surathanan until he could return for him. Dawn was fast approaching and Gryl had yet to accomplish his task. If it didn’t happen soon, it never would.
* * *
Mallister’s manse was just as Surathanan described it. A wall twice Gryl’s height encircled the property, and crooked and jagged barbs protruded at all angles from the top, leaving no room for a would-be intruder to avoid losing blood on the way in. The only entrance was barred by a great iron gate and the mechanism to open it was hidden, well out of reach behind the wall’s double-hand-span thickness. Three men paced beyond its bars and Gryl was surprised to see their eyes so clear, so aware, at this hour. A fourth and fifth prowled the area outside the wall and made it clear that Mallister had spared no expense when it came to his security. These were no peasant militia men. Still, the empress had Jacquial imprisoned in the house and it would take her entire army to keep him from her.
His first thought was to storm the property, knife the men at the gate, and race for the house, but if Mallister could spare a handful of men for the gate in the middle of the night, Gryl could be certain there would be a dozen more between it and the front door of the manse. Even if he were to win through, it would give the empress’s men inside time to mobilize or flee and neither suited his needs. Stealth was the order of the day. He only hoped he had time for such cautiousness.
Gryl circled the property, slithering through the shadows, dodging the guard who patrolled the grounds nearest him, and leapt to the wall as soon as the man was out of sight. Rusted steel points bit into the prodigy’s hand as he grasped the lip of the wall, cutting through his glove and slicing flesh. The barbs punctured deep but his Avan masters had long since bled him of pain, leaving him to feel nothing more than a vague pressure at the point of each puncture. Blood oozed from his wounds as he pulled himself up the wall by the one hand, leveraging himself at the top and taking a moment to bend a few of the other barbs flat. Old and weathered, they gave in, one snapping with a brittle pop and two more creaking aside so their tips bit into the stone of the wall, their sting muted. Gryl scrambled the rest of the way up, balancing in the narrow space free of metal spikes, and surveyed the property.
A well-manicured garden covered the majority of the yard alongside the house, leaving only a couple horse-lengths of open space on either side of the makeshift wilderness. Walkways of white marble, gleaming in the moonlight, spread serpentine throughout the greenery, seeming to run everywhere and nowhere at the same time, a labyrinth of white amidst the green. Trees and shrubbery cast deep shadows over the remainder of the lawn and, while the garden offered Gryl plenty of cover on his way to the house, it also offered Mallister’s men a dozen opportunities for an ambush. Still, outside of skirting half the property to avoid it, risking being seen by roaming sentries, there was no other way to reach the pair of sunken doors he’d spied near the rear of the house. With all the windows barred by iron rods, that seemed the most likely entrance to the cellars.
Gryl cast one last glance in search of hounds and, seeing no sign of any, dropped over the wall. He landed in a crouch and raced for the garden, only drawing breath after he was safe inside its verdant sanctuary. The wind rustled the leaves and set the branches to swaying but he could hear nothing beyond the willowy serenade of the trees; no shuffle of hidden feet, no anxious hands creaking against leathern grips. Still he waited to be certain, counting the moments in his head and cursing each and every one of them before determining he was alone in the garden. The warble of insects returned. Only then did he inch his way forward, following the winding marble pathways in the direction of the manse. To his surprise, he reached the other side without event. He hunkered down to observe the house.
Two more of Mallister’s men stood guard within the recessed archway, if their efforts could be seen as such. Unlike those at the gate, these men could just as well have opened the door for Gryl and ushered him inside for all the dedication they showed. They hunched between the twin ston
e pillars, backs to him, hiding from the chill wind, neither watching anything save for the shuffling of their feet.
“Might well as be waiting for the grass to grow,” Gryl heard one say, his voice drifting across the field.
“Better this than what those poor bastards down there are stuck doing,” the other man said, gesturing toward the doors as a great puff of gray smoke billowed from his mouth. “Least out here we can sneak a smoke and a nap and don’t need to be nowhere near her.”
“Aye,” the first agreed. “You’re right about that, Arlen. That twat is right evil. Wonder what she’s hiding under all that—”
Gryl darted low across the open field and launched a dagger, their words driving his hand as if it had a will of its own. He wondered of his feelings for Jacquial while the blade sunk into the sentry’s neck, steel grating against bone. The man toppled, surprise etched across his features as Gryl took the broad stairs three at a time. He dodged the falling sentry and thrust his sword through the eye of the remaining guard when he turned to watch his companion tumble away. The man grunted and went still and Gryl shook his corpse from his blade, letting it crumple onto the landing. He stared at the bodies and sighed. Myr Eltara had stolen his desires just as she had his agony, his childhood castration assuring that, and yet here he was, carving his way through Amberton for a woman he could never love.
The heat that stung his cheeks spoke otherwise.
Believing it better to act than contemplate such uncertainties, Gryl rifled the bodies and opened one of the doors, peering inside. A short landing met his gaze, another set of steps plunging downward just beyond. Nothing moved in the guttering light of the lanterns hung on the wall on either side of the entryway. Gryl dragged the dead men inside and sealed them in, before plunging down the dark stairwell, blades at the ready.
The air was cool inside the cellar and he could taste moisture with every breath, the harsh winter having settled into the bones of the house. He eased down the last of the steps and pressed his back to the wall. Three passageways jutted three different directions but there was no mistaking the way he was to go, only one path illuminated with more of the lanterns dangling from bronze hooks. He stared down the other two corridors and listened for any signs of activity but heard nothing. For all of Surathanan’s bluster regarding the empress’s relative, Mallister had made it easy on Gryl.
Too easy, he felt.
He drifted down the hall, every muscle tensed, his pace falling in sync with his heartbeat, and still nothing leapt from the darkness to challenge him. That was worse than if something had. His lungs ached, desperate to expel the stale air he held captive as he crept along. Only when he thought his chest might explode did he hear the shuffle of footsteps ahead; slow, scuffing movements speaking of boredom more than a reaction to his presence. Gryl drew closer to the archway at the end of the tunnel and spied a row of gray bars just beyond. Barred windows against the back wall let slivers of moonlight into the chamber, assuring him he’d reached the dungeon at last.
A sharp sniff sounded just inside the archway and Gryl stepped inside, took the barest of an instant to aim, and stabbed the sentry. Blood spewed from the man’s neck and spattered Gryl’s face with warm dots. A twist of his wrist and a hard yank freed his sword and finished the guard, his head lolling, half-severed. He died without a sound.
“I’d expected someone to attempt a rescue, but I hardly expected you.”
Gryl turned to see Jacquial, the lord of the Guild Infernal, lounging atop a wooden stool inside the barren cell. She stared out at him from beneath wild, raven locks. She hardly looked a prisoner, dressed in her customary plain black tunic and loose-fitting pants clasped tight about her ankles, swallowing the soft leather boots beneath. Only the slight gauntness in her cheeks and the sallow pits beneath her emerald eyes spoke of her predicament.
“Toad sent word of your… predicament, a regiment of knights having come to collect you and Surathanan in the middle of the night. He thought it best that I tempt the empress’s ire rather than the guild. Seemed a reasonable request.”
She smiled, chasing the shadows from her features. “My uncle is a fool if he believes the guild won’t suffer for this no matter who was sent.” Jacquial rose and came to stand at the cell door, shaking her head.
“A well-meaning fool, at least.”
“He is that.” She rapped her knuckles on the bars. “How about we catch up another time and you get me out of this hole before the empress’s dogs realize what you’re about.”
“Too late for that,” a sharp voice said from behind them.
Gryl spun to see a sleek figure in silver blocking the only doorway, a group of knights gathered at her back, the swooping raven sigil of Shytan standing out stark against the black and red of their tabards. Chainmail gleamed in the open spaces beneath, naked steel wavering with impatience.
“By order of the empress, Patah Re Shah, lay down your arms and surrender, Prodigy. You will not be given another opportunity to comply.”
Gryl exhaled slowly as realization washed over him. It had been a trap all along, Surathanan offering the guild lord to the empress, certain Gryl would follow, fool that he is. This gleaming knight had been who the guards spoke of outside, not Jacquial.
“Who are you?” he asked the armored woman, playing for time.
“She’s one of the empress’s Exemplars, her personal guard,” Jacquial answered for the warrior, her words heavy with the burden of apprehension. The sound gave Gryl pause. “She is runesworn. It is rumored they cannot die.”
The woman stepped forward, her slim white blade, mystic sigils woven in gold along its lower half, leading the way. Gryl could feel its essence in the marrow of his bones, his scars throbbing at its closeness. The Exemplar’s eyes glistened like stars through her helm. Her armor looked as if it were crafted of cloth, flexing easily with her every movement, yet there was no denying the authenticity of it, the sheen of fine steel reflecting the dim light. Gryl had never seen such exquisite handiwork and he wondered at its resilience.
If only for an instant.
Not one to offer advantage to a foe, or to believe one couldn’t be slain, Gryl darted low and went to disembowel the woman. She met his attack and turned it aside with casual ease, countering with a speed that made him feel as if he were clawing through a mire. Her blade etched a long gash down his biceps and sent him stumbling back to avoid a second blow.
“You’ve made a poor choice, Prodigy,” she said, though the excitement in her voice told him this was what she’d wanted all along.
He wasted no breath on words, launching himself at her once more. He feinted high and swung low, slipping a dagger out from the sheath at his back as he did. The exemplar stood stoic, parrying his strike with a flick of her wrist and knocking his dagger aside as he tried to jam it into her armpit. Her forearm collided with his nose, the crunch of cartilage reverberating in his skull, only to be followed by a kick to his midsection. Gryl crashed to the stone floor, losing his dagger at the impact. He mouthed a silent prayer to Anklor for allowing him to retain his grip upon his sword. He clambered to his feet as the Exemplar advanced with slow, predatory steps. Even though he couldn’t see her face beneath her helmet, he could sense the smile she bore. The malice shined through.
He lashed out again, letting instinct guide his motions, but the woman was simply too fast. Steel met steel and he was thwarted again and once more as he attempted to counter. Her free hand caressed a sigil on the blade as Gryl retreated, and he swore he saw sparks as the sword began to hum, its steel seeming to blur, leaving a gray trail in its wake as she advanced. Gryl whipped his sword up to parry the blow only to realize too late that was what she intended him to do. The weapons clashed once again, only this time there was no resounding clang. Instead, a sharp crack filled his ears and Gryl felt his sword break before he saw it. Vibrations shot through his palm and numbed his fingers, sending st
riations of lightning the length of his arm. His blade, cut clean, left nothing but a useless couple of inches protruding from the hilt. He was drawn to stare at its impotent edge, unable to look away.
Molten fire churned in his gut and Gryl realized his hesitance too late. He twisted and threw himself backward, tearing the Exemplar’s sword loose of his flesh. Blood spilled from the wound and he stumbled to a knee. Pain, the likes of which he remembered only in the haze of his nightmares, scalded his nerves and brought tears to his eyes. He gasped, struggling to draw breath.
“Don’t kill him!” Jacquial shouted, banging her fists against the bars. “You don’t need to kill him.”
“But I do.” The Exemplar drove a boot into Gryl’s chest, knocking him to the ground once more. Only then did he release his hold on his ruined sword and draw another dagger. The silver knight gave him no chance to use it.
She stepped in and cut a crevice across his wrist. His hand spasmed and popped open of its own accord, the dagger falling away from numb fingers. Jacquial screamed but Gryl barely heard her as the knight carved a bloody trough along his chest. He howled only to catch an armored fist in the mouth, burying his voice beneath the crunch of broken teeth. Gryl slumped, barely aware he’d fallen to his stomach. Cold stone pressed against his cheek while the Exemplar cut gory pieces from his back. Blood pooled on the floor and every breath gave birth to crimson bubbles as an unfamiliar agony flooded his senses.
Unable to lift his head, his nose and mouth filling with his own blood, he dragged his arm to his face and forced it under his cheek. He moaned as his face slipped inched upward, struggling for breath as warm fluid gushed from his open mouth. It ran across his slashed wrist, the white of his nearly-severed tendons clearly visible in the gash.
“Wait!” he cried out, little more than a whisper, waving his one good limb at the knight behind him.