by Rosie Scott
One of the slaves didn't seem to be fazed at all, however. His black eyes were on Calder, and they were full of animosity. Unlike his brethren, he did not cease his attack. He held a longbow before him, an arrow at the ready. He waited until Calder was nearly to him, and released the arrow.
Calder barely flinched as the arrow hit him just above the heart. Though the slave had attacked him, he didn't defend himself with any of his spells.
Why? I started to hurry to my friend, confused at this altercation. The nearby slaves were just as intrigued by this exchange as I was.
Calder finally reached the rogue slave, slamming the other man back into the rocky wall with both hands so hard that one of the shelf mushrooms on it close to them cracked and fell to the ground, eliminating one source of greenish-blue light. My friend leaned in close to the slave's face, and declared one word.
“Azazel.”
The other man didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed as he hissed back, “Alastor.”
“That's not my name anymore,” Calder retorted. My interest piqued at this new information.
“Isn't it?” Azazel replied. “Then tell me what you go by now, so I may continue to curse you to hell.”
“Calder.”
Azazel laughed cruelly. “What a fucking downgrade. What idiot names himself after water? Oh, forgive me. It does fit you. Water is so good at running, much like you and your asshole of a friend—”
Calder punched Azazel straight in the face before any of us had seen him move his arm. “Don't you ever speak ill of Koby,” he hissed, enraged.
Azazel's lower lip was split from the punch. He shook his shaggy black bangs from his face, before he spit blood over Calder's clean shirt. “I will speak ill of whoever the hell I want to. Both of you are backstabbing bitches and deserve what's coming to you.”
“Calder!” I yelled, watching my friend prepare for another punch. “Necklace!”
Calder hesitated, his back rising and falling as he huffed out breaths of anger. Instead of punching the other man, he reached up to his chest. Azazel's eyes flicked from me to the jewelry in Calder's palm.
“Will that curse me?” He asked, sarcastically.
“This was Koby's key,” Calder breathed, attempting to calm himself.
“Ah. So that was the reason Nerezza couldn't find it anywhere,” Azazel mused dryly. “They blamed me for your escape, you know. They thought I'd stolen the key with my spells and let you both free. Didn't matter that it didn't make any sense. They thought they could beat that key right out of me.”
“Koby and I didn't mean for that to happen. I promise you,” Calder mumbled, his tone more tortured than before.
“Like hell. I was the reason you two learned of the escape route at all. What was the plan, Calder?” Azazel's tone was mocking. Calder let the other man go from the wall, before walking toward me, and ripping Azazel's arrow out from his chest. As I started to heal the wound, Calder kept his eyes downcast.
“It's been over sixty years, Azazel. I don't remember the plan.”
Azazel huffed. “Yeah. It has been that long, hasn't it? How is freedom, Alastor? I haven't gotten to experience it yet, myself.”
Calder said nothing, not even to correct Azazel's slip of his old name. Even when his chest wound was closed, he did not turn to face the other man.
“The plan was for all three of us to run together,” Azazel finally stated, his voice weighted with raw emotion. “I shouldn't be surprised you don't remember it. You and Koby were so attached at the hip that neither of you were ever concerned for anyone else.” There was a pause. “I worked in that whorehouse for just over one hundred years, and I never felt more used than when I'd found out you and Koby took my plans and ran without me, leaving me to take your beatings.”
“I'm sorry,” Calder managed, desperately.
“Sorry isn't going to bring me back nearly seven decades of my life, Alastor.”
“I am Calder,” my friend insisted.
“Yeah, whatever.”
Calder frowned, before turning back to Azazel, who still stood at the wall, his light periwinkle skin glowing green along the right side of his face from the mushrooms a few feet away.
“Not a day has gone by where I haven't regretted leaving you there,” Calder admitted, his tone heavy with shame. “Koby and I were restless. Impatient. The coast was clear when you were with a client. We ran.” There was a pause. “We both regretted it as soon as we saw the surface, because it was the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen, and we both remembered that conversation we had with you when you'd claimed no beauty was left in the world.”
Azazel only stared. His black eyes were cold, but nostalgic. He clearly remembered the same conversation well.
“Koby started planning that same day to come get you and the others out,” Calder continued. “It was all he ever talked about. 'Hey, let's learn a trade,' he'd tell me. 'We can make a ton of money and hire lots of mercenaries,' he'd say. He had this grandiose plan of coming back down here and freeing everyone, because he was such a fucking optimist.”
“Was?” Azazel prodded.
“Yeah. Koby's dead,” Calder replied, coldly. When Azazel offered him nothing, Calder went on, “Every damn day Koby would talk about this, reminding me of the wrongs we'd committed against you. So I've thought about you every day for over sixty years, Azazel, and I've regretted my decision to leave you every time.”
Azazel was quiet for a moment. His black eyes moved from Calder, to me, and then to Cerin, before he gazed down the main street of Thanati. “Why are you here? If Koby was the one who wanted to come back and he is dead, what brought you here? Who are these people?”
Calder exhaled, the breath shaky as it blew through his lips. “I'm here to carry out his will,” he said simply, before glancing back to me and those behind me. “This is Kai Sera, my ally. This is our army. Thanati is freed.” Calder turned back to Azazel, who was trying to take in all of this information at once. “And lucky you, you've just wandered into my first liberated city. As far as I'm concerned, you are free.” He paused a moment before adding, “I'm sorry I'm late.”
Twenty-six
The cavern walls flickered with the orange light of a campfire set up just yards inside of the northern entrance of Thanati. All of the major players of our group sat around it, eating and planning. Ricco had just come back from visiting Kyrin, and he sat down a few seats away from me with a huff, the scents of ferris smoke and grease following him.
“How is he?” I questioned, leaning past Cerin and Nyx to catch his eyes.
Ricco shrugged. “These wounds are healing,” he said, motioning to his torso, as if to call attention to his own scars. Then, moving his finger to his head, he added, “These are not.”
I nodded, concerned. I had fully healed Kyrin, and he had been resting for nearly two weeks by this point as we worked in Thanati. My life energy could not heal the mental anguish the man had experienced. Illusion magic could temporarily calm Kyrin, but it could not fix him. His mind was permanently broken. As Rico watched the fire, the flames reflecting off of his black eyes, it was clear that Kyrin was not the only one affected.
My eyes moved to Azazel. He sat across from me at the campfire, intensely staring into the northern tunnel. I inwardly wondered why he stayed with us. Calder had informed him he was free to leave. Perhaps that was why he was so far removed from our conversation. Maybe he was thinking about simply getting up and dashing to the surface exit. He'd had plenty of time to do so since his arrival here days ago. In our talks with the other slaves who had been in his group, we'd been informed that they were a hunting party. One of the women of their group went missing, so they came looking for her. Apparently, one of our guards in the tunnels had come across her and killed her.
The slaves had told us that Azazel was the best archer Hazarmaveth had access to. It was part of the reason why he'd been able to escape his life as a mate, and secure a rare position of some freedom with the hunting parties of the u
nderground. Given the other slaves' praise of his abilities with a bow, it was clear that when he'd shot Calder the other day, he had meant to miss his heart. Despite Calder's apologies and honesty to him, Azazel was still full of resentment for their past, and that didn't look like it would ever change. Still, he hadn't killed Calder despite having the chance. I admired that, and found myself hoping he would stay with us until Quellden.
Azazel's eyes stayed still on the tunnel, even as he reached to pull the bow from his back. It was a demoniacally beautiful weapon, made of both steel and wood, though it was entirely black and charcoal gray. As the orange light of the fire flickered by the upper and lower limbs of the weapon, I noticed they held eerie designs. Carved into the wood itself were screaming men, starting with elves and humans nearest the grip, until the faces decayed into skeletons near each end. All of them screaming, all of them tortured. It was as if the bow had been forged by Hades himself. I wondered if Azazel had forged it, or if the dark designs were simply more popular with the Alderi. I didn't feel like asking him, since he hadn't been one for conversation thus far.
Next, a black arrow was pulled from his quiver. Jayce and Calder were carrying on a conversation to my left, though it was muted as I watched the archer prepare his weapon, oblivious to my stare. Azazel raised his bow toward the tunnel, and nocked an arrow. His eyes were unyielding and unblinking. I glanced over to the tunnel, myself. I saw nothing, save for our own guards at the entrance. Even with his Alderi eyes, I didn't understand how he could see so far.
The bow was tilted back, raising his aim. Azazel's jaw tensed, and then the arrow was loosed. My eyes followed its arc through the air and into the tunnel, where the blackness consumed it. The guards at the entrance noticed the flying ammo, before throwing their gazes our way, confused. I heard nothing, and couldn't see where the arrow had landed if I tried. Perhaps the archer was just bored.
Then, Azazel put his bow back in its place, nonchalantly. He reached out toward the tunnel with his left hand, as if wielding a spell. I saw no energy. I heard no energy. I glanced back to the tunnel, watching and waiting. Finally, a small black lump slipped out of the darkness, sliding over bumpy rock as it slowly made its way to us. I frowned, confused. It wasn't until it was only a few feet away that I could see what it was. It was a dead rat, shot right through the lungs with a black arrow.
Azazel dropped whatever spell he'd been using, before he leaned down from his chair to pick the animal up. He ripped the arrow from the tiny corpse, wiping the ammo clean on his pant leg, before sticking it back in his quiver. Readjusting in his seat, the archer then grabbed a weapon from his belt, holding the corpse between two parted knees as he began to butcher it.
I studied the new weapon, because I'd never seen anything like it. It was like a dagger, only it was curved like a hook. In the middle of butchering his prey, Azazel glanced up, having felt my stare.
“You ever eat rat?” He questioned, his voice monotone.
“Can't say I have,” I replied.
Azazel glanced back up, finding that Cerin was also staring. He raised an eyebrow toward the necromancer, as if to repeat his question.
“Not yet, but I have a feeling I'm about to,” Cerin finally stated.
One side of Azazel's lips curved upward, amused. “It is the most delicious meat of them all,” he proclaimed, separating the animal's flesh from muscle with exacting precision.
“Better than scorpion?” Nyx asked, having tuned in to our conversation.
Azazel raised an eyebrow. “Mm...don't know. I've never had scorpion, myself. Been too busy hanging out in shackles to travel.” He flicked his eyes down to Calder, though the other man was still in the midst of his own conversation.
I didn't really wish to think or talk about the scorpions of Nahara. It brought up too many bad memories of Theron's death. I decided to change the subject. “Speaking of Naharan things, your daggers look like they're inspired by Naharan design.”
“These?” Azazel lifted up the weapon, letting it shine in both the light and slickness of blood. Like his bow, it was black, the blade curving outward much like Cerin's scythe. Etched upon the handles were flames. “These aren't daggers.” He reached to his opposite side, pulling another weapon just like the first from a sheath, before standing to hand the clean blade over to me from over the campfire. “These are karambits.”
I took the blade he offered and turned it over in my hand, studying it. It had a hole near the end of the handle, and the grooves for the fingers were on the inside of the weapon instead of the outside.
“How would you even hold this for battle?” I asked, confused.
Azazel took a moment to grasp the karambit he still held, putting his pointer finger through the hole of the handle and holding the weapon with the rest of his hand over the grooves. With his hand closed, the curve of the blade pointed upward, past his knuckles.
“Wicked,” Nyx commented, impressed.
I chuckled, trying to mimic the move. I ended up getting it right, but it felt awkward in my hand. “Doesn't this make fighting...backwards?”
Azazel pointed to both sides of the karambit. “It's double bladed. Slice with one side, gut with the other. It's hard to explain, unless I use it.” He raised one eyebrow at me. “Volunteer?”
I laughed softly, handing the blade back over to him. “Maybe some other time.”
“You mind if I take a look at it?” Anto asked the Alderi, from the seat next to him.
“Sure.” Azazel handed the blade over to the orc.
“You ever see those in Nahara?” Cerin asked.
“Maybe once, from a distance,” Anto replied, looking over the weapon. “It seems familiar, but these are rare, are they not?”
Azazel shrugged, pulling rat skin from meat, and throwing it into the fire. “I can't say. I'd assume they are pretty exclusive to the underground. They're quick. Agile. Brutal.”
Anto nodded. “I'd like to make some of these, while we're here.”
Azazel punctured the rat with the tip of his blade, before holding it over the fire. “You're a blacksmith?”
“I am.”
“You can borrow that, then,” the archer offered. “Use it as a model for the others until we leave for Hazarmaveth.”
I eyed him. “Are you coming with us?”
Azazel's eyes stayed on the cooking meat. “I'm still here.”
“Happily?” I questioned. When Azazel met my gaze, I tilted my head toward where Calder sat, still talking with Jayce.
“I am not here for him.”
“You are staying to aid in his war,” I pointed out.
“This is not just Alastor's—Calder's—war. From what I've heard, it's yours, too,” Azazel replied. “Besides, I am unlike him. I've never wanted anything more than freedom, but I'm not willing to leave my brothers behind to get it.”
“If it weren't for Calder, none of us would be here,” I said, defending my friend. “I understand his actions in the past hurt you, but more recently, they have helped you.”
Azazel turned the rat over, letting the other side start to cook. “Give me sixty-five years or so of freedom, and then maybe I'll care.”
I quieted. Nothing I could say had the power to erase Azazel's pain or experiences, so I decided to drop it. I understood both his position, and Calder's. If I'd been enslaved for over one hundred and fifty years, I might have run the first chance I got, much like Calder. But I also could not imagine planning to flee with others in my same situation, just to be left behind. I sympathized with both men, but I could not fix the issues of their past.
“Azazel.” Out of all of the people who could have said the name, I hadn't expected it to be Calder. He leaned forward, looking down the other seats to the archer.
“Alastor,” Azazel replied dryly, twisting the cooking meat over the fire.
An impatient exhale blew through Calder's nostrils. “Can you please call me by my name?”
“Tell me first why you changed it,” the archer sa
id, his eyes on the browning meat.
The others fell quiet. Calder blinked a few times, perhaps trying to find his words or confidence. “I changed everything about who I was in the underground. The name no longer fit.”
“Every time I cut my hair, I don't change my name,” Azazel mused.
“I didn't cut my hair. I lost it when I gained the powers of shapeshifting.”
Ignoring Calder's correction, Azazel said, “You are ashamed of who you are. You not only ran from your promises and your brothers, you run from your past.”
Calder's jaw clenched, and he made it a point to look away from the archer and back into the fire. “Whether that is true or not, that won't change what you think of me, or why either of us are here. Belittling me in front of my friends solves nothing.”
Azazel did not respond. He brought the rat back from the fire, before starting to tear strips of meat off of it. One at a time, he offered pieces to Cerin, Nyx, Anto, Jakan, and I, before he started to eat from the rest. I waited until I heard Nyx mumbling compliments over the meat until I tried it. It was surprisingly succulent, and tasted almost like pork.
“Kai.” I turned my attention to Calder, and he continued, “Maybe you are the better person to ask Azazel for help with our planning.”
“You don't need to ask me for my help,” Azazel retorted. “We'll be going into Hazarmaveth with intentions of taking it over. It'll be dangerous. My brothers will be at risk. I'd be stupid not to give you guys what information I know about the place.”
“That's all I was going to ask,” Calder mumbled.
“How large is Hazarmaveth?” I asked Azazel.
“Twice as large as Thanati,” the archer replied, gazing down the main street through the city's depths. “Higher ceilings, too, which make room for larger buildings. Better lit than Thanati, though, because the fungi is rampant. Hazarmaveth is deeper in the earth than here. Wetter. It has a river which runs through it from the northwestern end to the southeast, and that is where it is busiest. Apartments mostly make up the southern end of it. All of the services, businesses, social gatherings, and assassin guilds are in the northern end of it where the rivers are thickest. The guilds there serve Eteri, because one could technically get to the surface within hours of leaving the city, since the exit is just to the north of it.”