“I’ll snap your neck next, unless you recall your weapon,” the guard commanded.
The dagger began working its way out of the dead man’s head. Torhan, realizing the dagger would never reach him in time, conceded. “Have your men stop their...aggression toward me and let…go of my arm,” he said through gritted teeth.
The guard ordered his men to stand down and did as he was told. After the dagger wiggled free, it returned to the scabbard, but the sheath remained glowing green due to the hostility of the men around him.
“We need to disarm you. Will the dagger attack my men if they do?” the big guard asked Torhan.
“As long as you don’t hurt me.”
He nodded to another guard who walked over, removed Torhan’s weapons and placed them in a sack, then bounded the prisoner in chains.
“Captain, what about the scabbard?” he asked.
“Leave it. Take him to the healer for mending and then throw him in jail,” the captain ordered and left.
When he was gone, one of the other guards stood over Torhan and produced a small club.
“This is for my friend who you killed,” he said and cracked Torhan over his head, knocking him out cold.
The man smiled, not knowing it would be his last, as the scabbard commanded the dagger to defend its master. In the next instant, the dagger came to life, stabbed through the sack until it was free, and attacked the guard. The others, knowing better than to help, watched helplessly until their comrade lay dead. They carefully removed the dagger from the scabbard and placed it into a metal coffer, this time locking the lid in place. They were careful not to hurt Torhan as they carried him away.
Katara had just finished her dinner when she heard a loud knock on her door.
“Who is it?” she said from the eating area.
“OPEN UP!” someone shouted back at her.
Katara made haste to the door and asked again, “Who knocks this time of the evening?”
“If you don’t open up the door, we’ll break it in.”
Katara hesitated, then did as she was told. As soon as the door was opened, guards pushed their way past her, carrying an unconscious person in chains.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“Mend this fool,” the guard said and threw the unconscious body on the ground and unchained him.
“What’s wrong with him?” Katara asked.
“Broken arm, ribs, and a rather large gash across his head,” the snickering guard boasted.
“On whose orders?” Katara was clearly not amused by his comments.
“Captain Strom’s, that’s whose orders!” the guard said and slapped her hard across the face, snapping Katara’s head to the side and causing her eyes to water. “And make it quick, we’ll be outside.”
The guard stormed out of her house with the rest of his men following closely behind.
Katara was seething and about to grab her mace, run outside, and bludgeon the guard to death when the prisoner stirred. She regained her composure and helped the semi-conscious man over to her mending table.
“Where am I?” he asked weakly.
“My name is Katara, and you’re in my home for healing.”
“What happened?”
“I’m guessing that you ended up doing something that the guards didn’t care for.”
Before Torhan could say anything further, he lost consciousness abruptly and Katara went to work on his battered body. First, she applied her secret ointments all over his wounds and then placed his arm into a sling. During the procedure, Torhan mumbled information about Grappin and Priest Abiathar, causing her to stop more than once to listen. She didn’t know what to make of this information and wished he would wake up and explain it to her.
“Hurry up!” the guard shouted from outside.
She tried to wake him, but it was useless. His head wound must have been far worse than she anticipated. She began searching him for any relevant information that might tell her who he was or what he was doing in Mirkin. Her search turned up two notes that were tucked away within his armor. Just then, the guards entered her house, and she quickly hid them.
“We have to go, witch,” the antagonistic guard snapped. Some of the other guards brushed past her and chained Torhan again.
“Be careful, his wounds need healing,” she warned.
“Be careful! Do you know what he’s done?” the guard barked at her. “Don’t guess, I’ll tell you. He killed over a dozen citizens. I wish we could serve justice right now,” he said and hoisted him over his shoulder, gave her an angry look, and left.
****
Katara poured some tea, sat down, and placed both letters in front of her on the table. The first one was marked with her name, which she thought was odd that a stranger carrying a note addressed to her would end up in her house. The other one had what she thought was the stranger’s name. She broke the waxed seal of the one addressed to her and read the note:
Katara,
If you’re reading this note then it means the stranger named Torhan made it to Mirkin safely. He told me that he wanted an audience with Priest Abiathar but wouldn’t say why. I have a sneaky suspicion his intentions are far greater and deadlier to our cause, so try to uncover why he is there. If he jeopardizes your mission, stop him. We are counting on you.
Regards,
Brother Pien
She picked up the other note, carefully unfolded the parchment, and read it several times.
When she was through, she realized that she had more questions than answers, Was Torhan an assassin sent here to eliminate Priest Abiathar or is he a puppet for this person named Grappin? Grappin mentioned there are wards in Mirkin, but where are they? I never sensed them in all my time here. If Grappin did indeed have a guardian, then he must be a high priest of some sort, but why would a high priest command the death of another priest, unless he was evil?
Katara knew what she had to do, so she finished her tea, walked into her bedroom, removed her diary from the locked chest, and penned one final entry into her journal. After she was through, she hid the untitled book somewhere deep inside of the chest and locked it. With that taken care of, she slipped into her perfectly fitted chainmail, secured her sling and father’s oak mace on her side, and wrapped a dark-colored cloak around her body, using the hood to cover her head and conceal her identity. She extinguished the candles and left her home.
Her first order of business was to find out where the wards were and the best place to start was around the temple. Taking a deep breath, she reached into her pouch, grabbed her lucky trinket, and turned the rock several times in her hand. It was a ritual she did before every mission to gather her courage. When she felt at peace, she started her trek down the dark street.
The guards arrived at the three-story jail, shoved Torhan through the doors, and pushed him up the stairs to the second floor. After opening the door to the corridor, the guards ushered him down the hallway until they reached the far end. Torhan noticed the other cells were empty.
“This is your new home,” one of the guards said, laughing.
Several guards pointed loaded crossbows directly at his head, while another unfastened his chains and roughly jostled him into the cell, slamming the wooden door shut behind him. Another guard stuck his face right in front of the square hole with the tiny bars and told him to enjoy his stay, then he led the rest away.
When they were gone, Torhan surveyed his room for a way to escape. He checked the floorboards, the door, and the tiny window that allowed a small amount of light to filter into the room. All of which didn’t yield any hope of escape. Sometime later, he gave up and lay down on the creaky wooden bed in the corner. Despite being uncomfortable, he fell asleep within minutes.
****
When he woke up, he was first disoriented and nervous, because he didn’t know where he was, but moments later, his memories returned, and he calmed down. He lay there thinking about his predicament and cursed himself, as this was t
he second time he’d been accused of a crime.
A few moments later, the door down the hallway opened, and someone came lumbering toward his direction. Torhan sat up just as a guard appeared at the cell door.
He looked through the window. “Hey, dirt, by tomorrow the magistrate will either lock you up for a very long time or have you hanged, drawn, and quartered. I prefer the latter of the two.” He opened the small feeding door. “Here’s your food,” he said and pushed the tray of food into his cell. The tray landed onto the floor, spilling its contents. He closed the little door and left laughing as he walked away. Torhan wanted so bad to get his hands around his arrogant neck and choke the life out of him.
A few hours later, the door down the hallway opened again and Torhan quickly sat down in the back of the cell with his head between his knees. The guard opened his cell door.
“Hey, scum, what are you still doing awake?” he said.
Torhan looked up, didn’t answer, and put his head back down. When the guard failed to get a reaction out of him, he became enraged.
“HEY, SCUM!” he shouted.
Torhan continued to ignore him, not bothering to raise his head in acknowledgement. He knew the guard was losing his patience.
“If you don’t answer me, I’m going to…” the guard’s voice went silent.
Torhan looked up and saw him frozen in time and the cell area entrenched in grayness. A bearded, cloaked figure materialized from out of the shadows, took hold of the guard’s head with both hands, and with one quick jerk snapped his neck around. Torhan rose to his feet, watching in horror at the brutality of his actions. The Chromos Lord dissipated the grayness and stepped into the room.
“Let me introduce myself,” he began, “my name is Yourie, and I belong to a special race of creatures called the Chromos Lords, or as some have labeled us, Shadow Warriors.” Yourie stepped a little closer and continued. “Our race has studied the gradual effects of time, and now we are able to bend and, as you have already discovered, manipulate time itself. We mean you no harm, so please tell me your name.”
“So you mean me no harm, huh? Then why did one of your friends try to kill me?”
“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding? I’m locked up here because of this misunderstanding.” Torhan was growing angry. “How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard after the guards seized you.”
“What do you want with me?”
Yourie smiled. “Just an answer to the obvious question.”
“Which is?”
“How are you able to resist our powers?”
Torhan knew that as long as he kept it to himself, he was safe. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he calmly said.
“We would, because only demons can resist our powers, and I know you are not one in disguise.”
The Chromos Lord slid back his cloak so that Torhan could get a glimpse of the pair of short swords strapped to the sides of his body. The scabbard remained silent during their exchange of words, so he knew, for the moment, he wasn’t in danger.
“You never did tell me your name,” Yourie pressed.
“My name is not important.”
“Come to think of it, you’re right. I don’t need to know your name. So after you tell me how you’re able to resist our powers, I’ll be on my way.” Yourie grinned and slid his right hand over the hilt of the sword on his left.
Torhan’s scabbard started glowing. “It appears you’re lying to me, so let’s drop the charade,” he challenged.
“That’s interesting, why does your scabbard glow?”
“It warns me when someone wants to harm me.”
“And why does it do that now? I mean you no harm,” Yourie said sarcastically.
Torhan was trapped with nowhere to go and no weapons for protection.
“I’ll ask you one more time. How are you able to resist my powers?” The Chromos Lord was clearly agitated.
“I don’t know how I am able to resist them, so I can’t help you.”
“I have a strange feeling that scabbard might have something to do with it, so why don’t you remove it and let’s see if you still can resist my powers.” The Chromos Lord’s eyes started glowing red. “We can do this the easy way or the hard wa…”
Yourie was in midsentence when suddenly his eyes went wide with sheer terror as a dagger was pushed through his throat. He gargled on his last words incoherently and slumped to the ground dead.
“I guess it’s the hard way.” The humorous statement came from a man dressed in black leather with his face covered in soot. “What? You don’t recognize me?”
Torhan shook his head.
“I guess you wouldn’t with my face covered the way it is.” He wiped the blade on the dead man’s cloak, sheathed the weapon, and removed some of the soot away.
Torhan finally recognized him. “Molech,” he exclaimed, feeling somewhat relieved to see him.
“In the flesh, my friend.” He bowed slightly as if they were introduced for the first time. “So this is where you’ve been hiding?” He straightened and looked around the cell.
“I wish I was.”
“Well, it doesn’t appear you’ll be living up to your part of the bargain, does it?” he said in a sly voice.
“Not from in here I can’t.”
“What did you do? You don’t look the type to commit a crime to warrant your arrest, but then again.”
Torhan didn’t like what he was implying. “Let’s just say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Again?” He chuckled. “If I allow you to escape will you still be going to Snowdrift? Because if not, I’ll lock the door and leave.” Before Torhan could respond, he continued, “And I’m sure the guards won’t take too kindly to the bodies in your cell.”
“I’ll need my weapons first.”
“Do you mean these?” Molech reached outside of the cell, produced a sack, and handed it to him.
Torhan opened the bag and started equipping himself with his wares. “I need one more day in this town first. Is there any chance that I won’t be accused of the deaths of these men?” He asked even though he knew the answer.
“I don’t think so. You’re getting quite a good reputation, wouldn’t you say?”
Torhan frowned.
Molech reached out and grasped his broken arm. “Allow me,” he said.
Torhan nodded.
Molech applied a strange-looking salve to it. “It should mend your arm; give it a few minutes before moving it.”
Torhan felt a strange sensation race up his arm. “What is it?”
“Don’t ask.”
“How do I get out of here?”
“The passage has already been cleared for you.” Molech smiled sinisterly.
Torhan searched the sack again. “I guess you didn’t see the gem or the rest of my coins, did you?”
When there was no reply, he looked up, and to his surprise, the thief was gone.
****
After his arm felt normal, he left the cell and cautiously descended the stairs. He soon discovered what Molech meant when he said the passage was already cleared. There must have been a dozen or so guards all of which were slashed or stabbed to death. He thought briefly about searching them for coin but opted to leave instead, not wanting to risk being caught.
Katara arrived at the temple just as nightfall descended upon the town. She spoke several low to mid-level chants, and when they failed to detect the wards, she used the one that was taught to her by a powerful priest. She was halfway through when a very faint glow began to appear around the building. She was surprised to see wards of this magnitude and stopped chanting. The ward’s glow dissipated, and she began chanting again. By the time she finished, the initial wards were wrapped within other wards creating a circumference that stretched too far for the eye to see.
What could Abiathar be afraid of that he needed to create powerful wards? I’d never imagined he had such po
wer or maybe… someone helped him? she thought.
She followed the wards from end-to-end and realized the entire town was one big giant maze of them, the last of which ending at the entrance to the city. Quickly, she traversed her way back to the temple and went around the back. With the help of the small footholds in the stone, she climbed over the ten-foot high stone wall and ran to the side of the building and up the stairs. She tested the door and found it locked.
Gazing to her left, she saw a large window with a ledge wide enough to give her ample footing. She climbed onto the small wall surrounding the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and jumped for the ledge, grabbing hold of the windowsill. She swayed a few times, then pulled herself up. Once situated, she knew the darkness behind her would shroud her presence, so she took her time as she peered through the beveled window.
Inside the backroom, a short, stocky, robed figure was in the process of lighting the candles. Once he was finished, he barred the doors leading to the main service room and left through the doors in the back.
Katara waited a few minutes before trying to open the windows. To her disappointment, they were locked. She was about to break the glass and drop down into the room when six acolytes entered carrying an unconscious half-dressed man. They placed him onto the large oblong table in the center of the room, bound his arms and legs, placed a gag into his mouth, and surrounded him. After uttering a few muffled words, the acolytes lowered their hoods and produced long knives. She thought about intervening but decided that uncovering the greater plan was priority. She watched as the acolytes chanted something in unison and one-by-one plunged their daggers into the man’s stomach. As soon as the first blade bit into his flesh, he began thrashing about. His horrified screams were muffled by the gag and glass as they continued to stab and slice their victim until his stomach laid opened and he stopped moving. The acolytes reached into his cavity and began removing his organs one at a time. His still beating heart was first to be placed on the table, it was followed by his lungs, liver, intestines, and kidneys. After that, each servant grabbed an organ, held it high into the air, said a few words, and began consuming it.
A Demon's Quest the Beginning of the End the Trilogy Box Set Page 33