by Lawrence, J.
“What do you mean?”
“This last one happened right here in the hold. He didn’t cover it up, which meant that something either happened to upset his plans, or that it wasn’t planned at all.”
“Which brings us back to your theory.”
“That, I think he is right here in the Hold.” The concern in his eyes nearly took the strength from her knees.
“What? Are you mad? One of ours?”
“Why not? Think about it. Our people have the run of the village. He goes there, does his thing, and comes back.”
“Just as likely he is a slave and happened to be in the hold when he saw a pretty girl and couldn’t help himself.”
“By all accounts, she was a toothless old hag. Hardly the victim of choice.” He paused, uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I would like to have a few of my men added to your guard.”
“The First guards the Ontar.”
“I know. I found this clutched in the other hand.” Tristan pulled out a white cloth and began unfolding it carefully in his palm.
Lisella Ontar couldn’t take her eyes off what he lifted from the cloth. Between his thumb and forefinger dangled a long crimson thread.
“Weave.”
“The finest.” He added, “The triple braiding is reserved for only the First.”
“One of mine?” Her eyes shot up to his. “Impossible. Who knows of this?”
“You, me, and a few of my men.”
“Keep it that way. This must be done quietly. No trial.”
Tristan’s icy glare told her he had no qualms with the task. He had changed so much from the youth she knew. From lighthearted jokester to Captain of the Guard. By the gleam in Tristan’s eyes the killer might plunge into the next life missing a few fingertips of his own, First or not.
A thought slithered out from one of the dark holes in her mind. Some of the First had taken the blood of the dra. The blood transformed them into unequaled living weapons. They were incredibly strong. They were faster and more agile than cats. On top of that, they healed from incredible wounds that would kill other men in mere moments. More and more of the First would be transformed in the coming weeks. She hoped Tristan found this madman before he partook. There was no telling what a man like that would do once…
“We’ll manage.” He said with cold menace. There was no mistaking the disgust that flitted across his blue eyes at the mention of the Bloodborn.
“There is more?”
“Another time, Mistress.” As Tristan turned to go, Lisella grasped him by the arm. Beneath the sleeve of his crimson uniform, lean hard muscle twitched in response. The shock of heat that radiated up from her fingertips made it hard for her to breathe.
“What is it?”
“We can’t find my little sister.”
“I didn’t know you had one.”
“She’s young. It was after we…” He sucked in a breath before he continued, “With a maniac like that running around, I don’t know what I would do if he…” A coldness swept across Tristan’s eyes that made Lisella pause.
“She’ll turn up.”
“I hope so. She wasn’t one to run off.”
Lisella’s heart throbbed. Her throat ached, clenching a bit at the pain she saw in his eyes.
“Once we rule, the Bloodborn will put an end to this sort of monster.” She announced. Instantly she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Why did this man continue to throw her off balance so?
Tristan darkened.
“What is it?”
“Do you really want to know what I am thinking?”
“We are old friends.” She smiled encouragingly. “Tell me.”
“I guess I don’t see much difference between what the killer does…” He paused to look into her eyes, “and what has to happen in order for the Bloodborn to receive their gift.”
Lisella swallowed, knowing all too well what he was talking about. Only when the dra ingested burnt human flesh could its blood be used to create the Bloodborn. She still had her qualms with the whole process but what was she to do? Ignore her family’s destiny to rule? The world was ruled by individual kingdoms. They had been killing each other for eons as each vied for power. With the fist of the Bloodborn she would crush all opposition. Lisella Ontar would usher in a new era of peace and prosperity that would last for thousands of years. The sacrifices of a few were the necessary payment for what the dra offered.
“Empires demand blood, Tristan.”
“As does he.” He said, gently pulling his arm free, eyes lingering on her hand for an instant before he bowed his leave.
Chapter 24
Jenita
How in the world Elycia had the time to get all the way down there in the midst of all her other work was beyond her. Yet, now that the lucky girl was gone, free at that, the task had fallen to Jenita.
Jenita didn’t like the cistern room. There was something about the way the light cast wavering shadows as it reflected off the water. It was dank and cold and smelled of mildew. In spite of the fact that few people travelled down there, she always got the feeling that she was being watched. The place gave her the shakes so bad that whenever Jenita heard an odd sound, she had all she could do to keep from running all the way back up the tower, even though she already knew it was probably just a rat.
She peered ahead into the dark. Great. Someone had forgotten to light the torch in the cistern room.
There wasn’t time to head back up for a striker. As it was, she was barely going to have the tea ready for lunch. Jenita would just have to fetch the water in the near dark.
She inched her way along, feeling the side of the cool cistern walls as she tiptoed toward the dipping platform that she knew was on the other side. She flinched as her toe struck something hard and it slid across the stone floor in a spray of sparks. It had startled her so much that she threw her bags into the air as a little screech escaped from her throat. Jenita laughed at her own timidity.
“Glad no one saw that…” She said to herself. Then it dawned on her what she’d kicked. “Ha, it’s my lucky day.” She added as if someone was listening and bent over to pick up the striker with a slightly renewed sense of confidence.
Jenita flinched when a door slamming echoed down from one of the halls. She made it back to the wall mounted torch so fast that the sound of her voice was still echoing back to her when she scraped the striker across the stone wall. The pitch soaked torch burst into life in her hand.
That was odd. No one forgot to light the torch. Someone must have put it out recently. The handle was still warm to the touch. Usually the torches were left burning all day.
At least she’d feel a little better about being down there all alone soon. Whoever had come through that door was walking her way. By the sound of the heavy footfalls and the chink of his armor as he walked, it was one of Ontar’s guards.
Jenita didn’t want to be caught dawdling by a guard when she should be working. She set the torch back in its mount and quickly headed back over to the other side of the cistern to find the bags she’d dropped.
As she scurried around the corner she saw something on the floor. Jenita’s eyes went wide and she covered her mouth with the corner of her smock. She’d nearly stepped on… her. As she stared at the broken body of a girl, the scream still frozen in her throat, a soldier in crimson stepped into the cistern room. She pointed helplessly at the body, finding it hard to breathe.
The girl’s face was completely smashed in. Her arms and legs were twisted into misshapen unnatural angles. Her smock was pulled high, exposing her. She ran for the soldier, spooked that whoever had done it might be still around. Lucky her that the big man had been coming her way down the corridor when he had.
Jenita looked up at the man, thanking him profusely.
The torch light raked across his face, exposing the pucker of a long thin scar that ran across his forehead.
Chapter 25
Di’Ghon
With his leg twiste
d at a grotesque angle, his back bent, and his face screwed in idiocy, most made a habit of not noticing Ghile. In fact, the more he tried to get their attention the less they paid. So he probably didn’t need to wait until no one was around to see him head off into the shadows.
Yet, you could never be too careful.
The old storage room was never used, except by the rats, one of which scratched into a crack behind a sagging barrel when he entered. The room stank of mold, old wine, stale spices, and rat urine.
The Guild dispatched him here so long ago. At the time he half thought it some strange punishment. Being sent to a remote hold high in the Anwarian Mountains with instructions that were as unbelievable as any he could have possibly imagined.
“Locate meldstone. Report.” It was hardly the kind of thing a man with his… talents… should be sent to do. It was insulting. Hadn’t he served the Guild well? He had lost count of the number of lives he had snuffed out at their whims. But, not even he would dare question his masters. If they wanted him to count the threads on a blanket in a sea of piss he would do it, and live to keep his mouth shut about it.
It was such an easy assignment that he had expected to be here for a few days… With the stone figurine, finding the meldstone was a simple thing. Whenever it was near the stone, it vibrated. The closer you got the more violent it shook. Child’s play.
Once he found the vast chamber filled with arches and a dais carved of meldstone, the largest piece he had ever seen, he sent word onto his masters. With the mission complete, he expected to be moving on right away. After all, someone had to have need of dying somewhere. Instead, his instructions were infuriatingly clear.
“Wait. He comes.”
That was all that the missive said. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind who they were looking for. The inborn that could activate that chamber would be incredibly powerful. The Guild always wanted them, sometimes dead, sometimes alive.
So he waited, stuck in the same role he started in, as a twisted idiot.
For years.
When the messenger finally activated the chamber, calling the dra in the process, which had been quite a surprise, he had already been here so long that he half expected whoever was on the other side of the messages to have died long ago. Maybe they had. But the Guild would continue on. Each generation passed on their mission to the next, for thousands of years.
Ghile closed the door behind him and counted a full one hundred. He’d been holding up the charade so long that sometimes he found himself in character even when alone. This was not one of those times. Every second he maintained the illusion of weakness was an eternity that he was finding harder and harder to bear. Finally satisfied that he wasn’t followed, he let the disguise uncoil and took a delicious moment to feel himself stand erect before he pulled out the message.
As he read the note his eyes danced over the elegantly written words with delight.
Bring him to Di’Ghon. Make haste.
He stuck the message back into his breast pocket and slid out into the hallway, leaving the moldy storage room to the rats again. He giggled. Soon he would be leaving the entire hold to the rats.
A maid in a crimson stained laundress smock smiled politely when she saw him dragging his leg out of the shadows. He got her distracted attention with a garbled apology for bothering her.
“Hello, Ghile.” She actually used his name and looked him in the eye. Two things that rarely happened... She tilted the huge basket of laundry she was carrying, getting a better grip on it.
He stammered, playing the part of having a hard time speaking.
“Ghile, what is it? They’ll beat me if I’m late.” The laundresses had one of the worst jobs in the hold. Most of them were the sort not fit for any other duty. As ugly as the woman was, with a face covered in misshapen moles, some of which had curled hairs jutting out of them, it was no surprise why she had been chosen for the duty.
“Gots a message for the Caller.”
“The Caller? You’re too late,” She said hefting the basket and getting ready to be on her way. “Thaniel left Ontar Hold yesterday. Lucky one he was.”
“What?”
“Hey…” The puzzled alarm on her face was palpable.
In an instant he realized his mistake. He was standing erect, something that the wretch, Ghile, could never do.
He needed to leave this place before it got him caught.
The woman, as ugly as she was, was one of the few who tolerated him. Perhaps it was her own severe unattractiveness that made her acutely aware of how people usually treated him. He couldn’t imagine she was treated much better. That would explain the simple act of respect she afforded him. Hoping he could avoid having to hurt the woman, he coiled up like it had all been a fitful spasm of some kind.
Yet, in a glance he knew it wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t buying it in the least. While she would never be able to fathom the whole truth of who or even what he was, he couldn’t have her talking. He didn’t have time for the sigh that he felt somewhere inside his gut.
She paid attention to him. How rare was that? Now look what it was going to get her… Damn.
Luckily, there was no one else in the hall to see what needed to happen next.
Before she had the chance to even ask how he had managed the miraculous transformation he slammed his fist into her throat and clamped his other hand over her nose and mouth.
She was a strong girl. One who desperately wanted to live.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered into her ear as he dragged her into the old storage room. “You just weren’t lucky.”
She rained punches and kicks into him in a desperate effort to free herself from his grasp. He liked her for that.
“Good girl. Give me hells.” He said smiling. “You don’t deserve this.”
It wasn’t long before her kicks and punches lost the power her rage had given her. Then her eyes glazed and her body went limp. He waited, trembling in the stench of the old storage room. Then, once he was sure that she was dead, he laid her down gently behind the old sagging barrel.
She was twice the fighter Darla had been. That putrid woman whined like a whipped puppy, begging for her miserable life with promises of silence and favors. All before he even touched her. Weak human.
He had always thought himself as having scruples. Hadn’t all of his killings, at least for the most part, been necessary for one reason or another? This one was too. It was. Yet, he was the one who had slipped up. She had only been good enough to notice... How truly unlucky that was for her.
The woman’s eyes, already glazed over in death stared up at him, the expression of betrayal to be her last. He looked away as a scratching sound came from behind the barrel and the rat he saw earlier slipped out of a ragged hole and scurried on top of the body. As if laying claim to his prize, it pissed on the woman’s chest. Then the wretched smelling thing began sniffing hungrily at the woman’s crimson stained fingers.
“Not lucky.” He snarled at the rat. Then he snatched up the nasty screeching creature and threw it against the far wall with a satisfying crunch.
In seconds, another appeared…
In the end, he stuffed her into the barrel, breaking as little of her as he had to in order to get all of her in. At least it would hold the rats off… for awhile. It was all he could do for her and would have to be enough. He didn’t have time for anything else.
“Well… M-Mess-Messenger… looks… li-like you are g-going to Di’G-Ghon.” He chuckled as he slowly twisted into his Ghile stance, before he slid back into the darkness.
Chapter 26
Stones
Lars Telazno pulled up on the reins of his grey. She was an old horse, one that he should have sold a year past. She didn’t seem to mind the break and immediately bent to pull some grass that was sticking up through the slush. Gabril’s mount danced and kicked in protest. The big black steed was all muscle and vigor, and the meanest piece of horseflesh Lars had ever seen, which was probably why
Gabril liked it.
“What now?” Gabril called back over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me that old nag is lame. I told you to buy a decent horse. You never listen. You’re not riding behind…”
Lars stopped listening and lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and feel.
He stared through the heavy pines into the bright blue sky overhead. In spite of the heat, or rather because of it, he shivered. The Anwarian Range was all wrong. The age old weather pattern had shifted. The Anwarian Range winds had blown steadily for as long as the weather had been recorded in the halls of his guild. They were supposed to blow almost perfectly east, traveling over the frigid Black Sea, over the Three Sisters, the Anwarian Range, and the Barat Sea, barely touching the Isles of Di’Ghon and the top of Oryk, before crossing the Black all over again. A never-ending spiral of stabilizing weather that covered the mountains with a steady supply of snow. In nature’s perfect balance the moisture made its way down into the lowlands. Brooks to streams, streams to tributaries, which eventually flowed into the mighty Y’Nag Rivers. They fed the lakes and rich plains, supporting life for kingdoms. Now, the winds were gone. Just not there anymore. It seemed impossible. Now northerly hot winds raced up in their place, coming straight from the Gniom Waste, a vast barren desert with sands so hot that it burned through your boots.
This time of year the pass should be waist deep in snow. Yet, everywhere he looked water ran in rivulets. Drops rained from the trees. He imagined thousands of years of snow and ice trickling down the range. It all had to go somewhere. He couldn’t fathom how much water must already be racing down the mountains. Were the plains already flooded? It couldn’t happen that fast… Could it?
He fished out his pouch of meldstone, fingering out the small blue one from the six pieces he had. Outside the walls of Di’Ghon it might possibly be one of the largest collections in all of Arth. Twenty years ago, it wasn’t unusual for even a new member of the Order to have that many at one time. Lately however, it was rare for even a single piece of it to leave the Temple at all.