Pulling a cloth from his pack, Kaltor wiped his face clean of gore as best he could. The majority of the afternoon had passed uneventfully. The historians still recorded in detail the nature of each artifact, engraving, and scroll they could find. Melshek had placed his mercenaries on first watch over the vault.
"So what is a ‘suitable’ line, then?" Honmour asked defiantly. Jensai smiled ruthlessly, retrieved their empty mugs and headed back to camp. "Useless Shaylisian," he grumbled.
Kaltor chuckled, sheathing his weapons. "How is it you’re the angry one when I just lost a fight and got my armor all bloody?" Honmour pouted sourly but didn’t say anything.
It wasn’t about the girl for me, he thought grimly. Already the sensation of — wariness, filled his mind. The need to run, fight, or keep moving were all connected to this strange sensation of uneasiness, a final warning. At least for a few minutes I was able to forget about this infernal feeling I have.
"Let’s head back to camp," Kaltor suggested. "I want to clean up and see how everything is back there," Grabbing their small travel packs they headed toward the island of tents surrounded by a millennium of devastation. With the setting sun, the majority of the miners turned from their labors with the same intent, apart from the guards in front of the vault.
I will have to keep my eyes open at camp, he decided. Maybe I can spot what’s giving me this feeling. Maybe the bandits are watching us from the trees. A close inspection of the tree line atop the ridge revealed nothing unusual, however. It couldn’t have anything to do with the vault. There wasn’t anything in there but corpses and relics.
Sometimes in the woods, after days without seeing another person, a Varadour’s senses could amplify even further. Their subconscious could sense danger before any one of their senses could register it consciously. The experience could be unsettling at first, knowing a viper hound was stalking you before you could hear or see it. This was a different sensation, though, and somehow he knew that when the moment arrived to realize what this— thing— warned against, it would be too late.
I need to speak with Mom, he decided. Maybe she’s dealt with something like this before.
"You sure we aren’t just trying to eavesdrop on Jensai’s famous line?" Honmour asked. "Maybe I should speak to Taneth about learning to read lips. Now THAT would be a useful skill."
"Just not for the reasons you have in mind," Kaltor added.
"How is learning from my fellow men not a worthy cause?"
"What would Master Taneth do to punish an offender?"
"Oh," Honmour thought with a shudder. "That wouldn’t be pretty."
Master Taneth liked to be poetic in his methods of discipline. After they’d learned to read the emotional and physical state of someone through their tracks, two of Taneth’s students had been caught by their teacher while tracking the king’s serving girls during a summit—a serious invasion of privacy.
Since they’d found it so difficult to keep their eyes from other people’s tracks, he’d taken them for a run, after tying one student’s wrists to his comrade’s ankles, forcing them to hobble after him on all fours like an insect. He also liked to mix in some public humiliation, and had forced them to ‘run’ around the camp a number of times before untying them. They’d never misused that particular skill again. If he taught them how to read lips—
"Yeah, not a good idea," Kaltor agreed.
Their conversation quieted for a moment as they joined the throng of miners anxious for ale, food, and a bath. Many men and women headed down to the river straight away, but those following Kaltor’s and Honmour’s course toward camp had families to visit. As they passed the smaller mining tents, little children squealed in delight, sprinting into their fathers’ arms under the watchful eyes of their mothers standing next to small cooking fires outside their tents.
"Sometimes I miss that," Kaltor said wistfully as they passed the happy reunions.
"What are you talking about?" Honmour asked sourly. "At least your family is here."
"My family is here because there is danger," he replied, kicking a large stone with a sigh. "Because without this vault to present to the king, they could have lost their good standing. Krin is a faith-filled Peacebinder and Gereth is a realist who never put much stock in the Gods. We haven’t been a simple family in years."
"At least you’ve seen them," Honmour said soothingly. "My family lacks the funds to come visit and the influence to get past Master Taneth," They soon arrived at their tent, ducking inside and pulling over a bucket of water they’d requested earlier in case the sparring turned bloody. Kaltor sat on his cot, dipped his cloth into the cool liquid, and started wiping the final traces of gore from his face and armor.
"They’ll still be ready and waiting for you when you come to visit, though," Kaltor offered. "All of them together. Krin and Gereth spend more and more time in entirely different cities. It’s hard to find them in the same one, much less in the same house," Honmour reclined on his cot, putting his travel bag at the foot of his bed so he could raise his feet up and relax a bit, chewing on some dried fruit.
"It will all work out," Honmour suggested through sleepy eyes. "They got the vault open after all, didn’t they?"
"Yes, they did—" Kaltor said, his thoughts lost once again in the feeling of wariness, urging him to either flee or fight. But fight what? "I’ll be back soon," he said, leaving his cloth on the edge of his water bucket as he left the tent. Honmour only nodded with a luxurious stretch.
The camp was full of renewed enthusiasm as dusk finally fell, ending the first day of their new discovery. Messengers and serving girls often crossed the makeshift roads in between the many tents, greeted by celebrating patrons, miners, and guards alike as they entered each tent. Upon his tentative knock on a nearby tent pole, Krin called for him to enter.
Kaltor ducked into the tent to find Krin, Rivatha, and the thief he’d captured the night before, all sitting in a circle around a table drinking tea. A guard stood behind the thief, mace in hand, but his expression kind.
"You may go, my dear," Rivatha said, having finished whatever topic they were discussing. The thief stood, glaring at Kaltor defiantly as she walked past, her guard following as she left. After Krin had had to whip a miner that morning, Kaltor doubted the guard was meant to keep the thief within the camp, but to protect her from other attackers.
"Why exactly is she still alive?" he asked curiously.
"We’re going to arrange a meeting with the Bandit Lord in the interest of saving lives," Krin said, adjusting the tassels on her Peacebinder shawl. "She’s a perfect emissary for the job."
So, Mom hopes to use her to bring peace, he thought. I suppose that’s a worthy goal.
"Plus, if we are invaded in this region, his forces have extensive experience looting, stealing, and remaining hidden," Rivatha added. "With a little incentive, we could perhaps send them after our enemies," Her hair hung in elaborate ringlets, and her dress was trim for travel, but elaborately embroidered. She seemed the exact opposite of Krin in almost every way. How they maintained their friendship was a mystery to him.
I sometimes forget how decisive Mom is, Kaltor thought.
"How are you, Rivatha?" he inquired. "Is Melshek enjoying his newfound wealth?"
"Oh, I can’t tell you how relieved we are!" she beamed affectionately at the thought of her husband— or was it his success that brought so much contentment to her eyes? "He was so tired this afternoon he went straight to sleep. I imagine he will be up most of the night, though, once he wakes from his nap," She and Krin snickered.
Married people, Kaltor thought, rolling his eyes bitterly, trying to ignore the adolescent feelings of jealousy. He had more serious concerns to occupy his time. If they start lecturing me again about the injustices of not being able to marry while I’m training—
Glancing out the tent flap, Rivatha suddenly stood. "Oh my, I hadn’t realized the time. Excuse me Krin, Melshek will be awakening soon," She quickly left, only pausing to deposit Krin�
�s tea cup on the small table before her.
It’s odd to see her without at least one attendant, Kaltor thought. They must have been discussing something else as well— something a little more sensitive.
"What’s wrong, my son?" Krin asked, motioning for him to take a seat. To her credit she didn’t offer him any tea, a brew he’d never liked as a child.
"You’d mentioned earlier," he said slowly, taking a seat across the table from her. "Sometimes the Gods communicate through our feelings?"
"Yes," she replied patiently. "If we are listening and willing to do their will."
"So, what happens if we feel it but don’t do it?" he asked, toying with his dagger hilt nervously.
"Well, assuming it’s a genuine communication and not just a worry you ignored—" Krin said, leaning back and gazing off into space. She could recall the entire Peacebinder oath and nearly every script leaders of her religion had written on the subject. She was skilled in ancient languages because her position sometimes required such knowledge to understand some of their older religious texts.
"Explain what happened," Krin said.
Kaltor briefly recounted the day’s experience at the vault and the uneasy feeling he could not escape, while Krin pursed her lips thoughtfully, sipping from her tea cup as he spoke. After he’d finished she went to her desk and pulled out a stack of papers. She picked her way through the bundle until she found the passage she wanted, and committed it to memory.
"You’re not the first one to bring such a question to me," she replied, reclaiming her seat opposite the tiny tea table.
After a moment’s pause, as if remembering something long forgotten, she continued. "There are dark powers in this world as well as light. What you did you did for your family, which is a very selfless reason. Perhaps dark powers wanting us to fail are trying to distract you from the benefit of what you are doing."
"So, it’s nothing to worry about, then?" Kaltor asked. Wish I’d have paid more attention to those lectures you gave me as a kid whenever I misbehaved.
She set down her tea and tousled his hair. "Stay on your guard, of course. An alert Battleborn is far healthier than a carefree one. But if something evil lay in that vault, I’m sure we would have figured it out by now. Historians have been in there all day without incident."
Kaltor nodded in agreement, feeling a little better. I’m sure she’s right, he thought. Everyone in camp couldn’t be happier, right now. What I did must have been a good thing.
"Thanks, Mom," Kaltor said with a relieved sigh. "Sorry to take up your time with something so trivial," He stood to leave.
"Nonsense," Krin said with a dismissive wave. "If it involves you, nothing is inconsequential. At least I get to see my son again," She hurried around her table, hugging him goodbye. He set his chin on her head and soaked in her scent, a mixture of pine oil, freshly pressed parchment, and peppermint tea. Moments with his parents were rare, and he tried to savor those memories.
I’ve missed this, he thought. When we find Keevan, will we be a family again?
"Thank you," he said, before leaving the tent.
His steps felt — lighter somehow. Night was falling over the camp now, the sun having finally buried itself behind the tree-lined mountain ridges. Torches and small cooking fires illuminated the many miners gathering with their families and friends, sharing stories or just getting ready for bed. Out of habit, Kaltor used his skin vision, seeing even the unlit regions of the camp in black-and-white as energy resonated from his skin, bounced off his surroundings, and returned.
A few drunken couples stumbled among the buildings in the distance, ducking to avoid the guards assigned to patrol the more delicate areas. In the distance, Melshek’s mercenaries relinquished their post to another group of guards outside the vault door. Sneaking in there without being seen would be difficult for a Battleborn, impossible for the average layman. Behind him a familiar voice laughed, and he saw Melshek walking from his tent to the wooden inn, already swarming with patrons.
Odd— Rivatha didn’t think he’d be leaving once he woke up. I wonder if they got into an argument, Kaltor theorized. Hope the barkeep has a lot of ale saved up.
Tossing his tent flap aside, Kaltor ducked into their tent. Honmour lay partially awake on his cot. Jensai stood on the other side of the tent, removing his armor. Again he felt a rush of unease, wariness— feelings he just could not ignore completely. "Let’s move our cots near the center pole," he suggested. "In case someone tries to get in through the canvas like I did this morning with Melshek."
They both glanced curiously at him for a moment, eyeing the tent’s thin walls with mutual distrust. "Good idea," Honmour replied. "Wouldn’t want some drunk stumbling through my tent wall tonight. I might kill him before realizing he’s not an attacker."
"It’s a good idea," Jensai said approvingly. "We should practice making ourselves as secure as possible now, so if we’re called to war we’ll already be used to it," They all grabbed their cots and pulled them into a triangular shape around the thick pole holding up the tent roof.
"Might want to prepare the ground too," Kaltor thought off-handedly. "Melshek’s mercenaries just headed toward the tavern. If they get drunk enough they might actually try something."
Each of them withdrew pouches of crushed glass from their packs, sprinkling their material along the edges of the tent walls. Maybe that’s what I’ve been feeling anxious about, he wondered. We did put them to shame at the vault door this morning. It only took us two tries. They tried at least five times and failed totally.
"Speaking of getting drunk," Honmour said, trying too hard to sound nonchalant as he lay back on his cot again. "What happened to our mugs and that serving maid?"
"Both are back at the inn," Jensai grumbled, leaving his armor on the ground atop his pack and wrapping his travel blanket around his shoulders. "Apparently that barkeep is quite the slave driver, especially if it means keeping his daughter from the arms of a — ‘mercenary,’ I think he called me," Kaltor chuckled a bit at that, picturing Jensai in his battle array sparring against the grubby man, cleaver in hand.
"There’s a fitting target for us," Honmour grunted. "A lifetime of ale to the man who wins over the hearts of the barkeep and his daughter!"
"Good luck with that, my friend," Kaltor replied sleepily, pulling his blanket over his shoulders. Honmour and Jensai continued to bicker, but fatigue constantly pulled his eyes closed. The anxious feeling started to fade.
Was it because the dangers, whatever they were, had passed? Or did those sensations weaken because they’d crossed some unseen point-of-no-return? The time for warnings had passed, apparently.
Finally, I feel normal again, he thought with a content sigh. I can finally get some sleep.
Dreams of freedom, family, and friendship gently tugged him into sleep's warm embrace. Even as his consciousness slowly ebbed away, leaving his friends’ bickering and the day’s anxious emotions behind, a simple observation pierced his consciousness.
Despite the shouts of drunken patrons coming from the tavern, he could feel the occasional Varadour in that direction use his or her power erratically. The person would draw fully on his or her abilities in one massive struggle, then fall completely silent.
I’m sure it’s nothing, he assured himself groggily. Perhaps the mercenaries and Melshek are playing some kind of Varadour drinking game. I’m sure everything is fine.
Nothing will go wrong tonight.
Chapter 9
Glass crunched beneath a pair of unwitting feet.
Kaltor awoke, but did not move, though his hands tightened around a pair of daggers. A peek through his skin vision revealed three men slipping into his tent through a freshly cut hole in the canvas. Even in the black-and-white vision, he could see the veins on their necks and arms bulging and black.
What in the Gods is that? he thought. They drew their weapons and crept toward each occupied bed.
Kaltor rolled over, keeping his back to the enem
y, and released the Varadour energy in his body in four bursts. Short, then long, long, then short. Though they did not move, Honmour and Jensai paused in their deep breaths for a moment, awakening to the code Taneth had taught them for emergencies. Kaltor could sense minute discharges of Varadour power from each of them as they used their own skin vision.
The assassins with bulging veins did not pause in their plans. If they recognized the subtle code they gave no sign. Each man paired off to an occupied bed. The largest of them, whom Kaltor recognized as one of the mercenary leaders called Theldren, raised his sword with both hands over Kaltor’s head. All three men took a deep breath and plunged their weapons downward in perfect unison.
Exploding into a backward roll, Kaltor rolled from his right shoulder toward the mercenary’s blade, parrying its downward thrust with his left hand dagger. Even as his parry pushed the surprised attacker off balance, Kaltor’s right hand dagger dove firmly into his exposed neck. The man crumpled to the ground instantly. Jensai and Honmour finished off their attackers with equal ease.
"What happened to them?" Jensai whispered, rolling his attacker over with his spear to expose his black blood, bulging veins, and expression of pure hatred even as he lay dead. "I thought that wine of theirs was a cheap brand, but I didn’t think it could do this!"
"Questions later," Kaltor cut in. "We have to split up and raise the alarm. Honmour, go wake Melshek. Jensai, make sure the bandit princess is still alive. I’ll wake my parents."
"I don’t think they could sense us using our powers," Jensai said. "They totally did not sense us waking up. Use that to wake the Varadours."
"Agreed," Kaltor said, strapping on his extra throwing blades. "Move!"
They tore into the night, Varadour power blending the colors of their bodies with the moonlit, rocky paths for camouflage. Drawing on his skin vision as well, Kaltor used as much power as he could without revealing his true nature. A few other Varadours in the camp sensed his exertion and woke, drawing on their powers to peek into the night, curious.
Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1) Page 9