He came first to The Stygian, but found it burned to the ground. A casualty of Varlak’s men, no doubt. A few walls still stood, blackened like skeletal fingers reaching skyward but there was naught else.
Soon he came upon the Duchess’s villa and proceeded to look inside again, this time scaring off a pair of young looters who were attempting to carry a stained silken divan out the back door. They dropped their prize and ran at the sight of him. Scouring the villa revealed no more clues to Nicene’s whereabouts.
Not far away, Varlak’s tower loomed with jets of flame belching forth from the top like dragon breath. The feature was itself only ceremonial and an ego boost for wizards to hold sway over the more superstitious among the city folk. Still it could not be discounted that those skilled in the dark arts had unholy pacts with demons that gave cause for the commoner to fear them. The Sellsword had no such fear, but a healthy respect for things the alchemists could conjure; the Dragon Powder for one.
Attempting to assault Varlak’s seat of power was too much this morning, besides he told himself, Orlov had gone to the grave swearing that his master did not have the woman. The Sellsword decided that to find Nicene he would have to find Anaias, who was surely in hiding. Who would know where to find him? He would have to scour for any living lieutenants for that answer.
He made his way toward the Temple of Dyzan. The looming edifice was just as impressive the second time around. The green copper roof, shiny with rain and the marble columns granted a sense of majesty in a city that had none. As he went up the steps a pair of bald, orange-robed priests came out the doors with their hands raised.
“None may enter that wish violence upon those inside. They have requested sanctuary,” said the first.
“We will die protecting them if we must, but sanctuary is inviolate,” said the other, with a swish of his wide orange sleeves.
The Sellsword raised his palms to them. “I seek to harm no one, but am looking for a woman I think may have sought sanctuary here.”
The two priests looked to each other, then one spoke. “Will you let us observe your heart? Your aura?”
The Sellsword smirked. “What do you do?”
“We look at you with our spiritual eyes,” said the other.
“You just look?”
They nodded as one.
“All right then, go ahead and look.”
The two stood just three paces away and while one concentrated with closed eyes, the other stared intently at the Sellsword, though it seemed more like he was looking through him rather than at him.
The one with closed eyes spoke. “His heart is troubled. So much obligation, so much strife. But there is nobility there. An indomitable fortitude along with curious motivations. There is deceit and truth hand in hand as bride and groom.”
The one with eyes wide open said, “His aura is golden blue with flaring red flames that jet like a lion’s mane.”
Then they bowed and pointed their flowing sleeves, with hands hidden inside, toward the temple doors. “May you find that which you seek,” they said in unison.
The Sellsword nodded to them and went inside. He had not expected what he saw. The inside was littered with bodies. Many were wounded and being looked after by other priests, both male and female, though some of the occupants simply looked like displaced refugees. There was nary a path between them throughout the colossal chamber. He scanned his eyes over the dark bodies and guessed that Nicene would not be among them. He strode up and down the pews to be sure but then went to the corner tower and its spiral staircase.
When he reached the top, there was no one there except a wizened old man, bald but with a long grey beard. He sat cross-legged upon a fine silk rug before a smoking bowl of incense. He was dressed much the same as the younger priests, but he had some brocades on his vestments denoting him as a Lama or something similar enough. “Sorry to interrupt you, I was just looking for someone.”
He turned to go but the Lama said, “Sit.”
The Sellsword grimaced, but came back inside the chamber and sat where the holy man directed opposite himself.
“You have traveled far?” asked the Lama, as he dropped more incense into the bowl.
“Yes,” answered the Sellsword hesitantly.
“You need not fear answering my questions. You don’t know me, but I am your friend as I am to all men.”
The Sellsword smirked. “Noble, but not everyone is willing to be a friend.”
The Lama smiled. “This is true, but so long as I try, I do not regret the effort.”
“I can appreciate that.”
The Lama bobbed his head a moment then asked, “You are a sellsword, I am told. A man skilled with the blade and tactics. Weapons and warfare have been your trade. A man who has made his living off the bloodshed of others? And now you come to our city. You are the Sellsword?”
The Sellsword grimly nodded. “I am.”
“Will you answer my question? What is the purpose in killing? To snuff out the light that the creators have endowed us with seems the most carnal of acts. The most heinous. Once done it cannot be undone. It is final, closing us off from this realm forever.”
“Are the priests of Dyzan pacifist or just blind to the nature of the world they live in?”
“Please answer the question, but yes, we are pacifists.” He nodded sagely.
“Your boys out front said they would die to protect those that sought sanctuary.”
The Lama nodded. “And they would have, but they would not have harmed another person to do so.”
“Then their noble sacrifice is pointless.”
“To die for another is never pointless. I see that you still cannot answer my question however. It is sad and, much like all who wield the sword, shortsighted in its far-reaching consequences.”
“Hold on grandfather, I have an answer that gives me my own clean conscience. I master violence and killing so that I may protect and defend those that cannot from those would hurt them. I have been many things in my time, killer and sellsword among them, but I have my own moral code that I do not break and among them is that I do not murder. Kill, yes, but murder an innocent? No.”
“A noble sentiment, but one I fear is too simplistic. Attitudes must change for the world to return to harmony. Men must be willing to lay down their lives and change for it to finally come to pass.”
The Sellsword grinned. “I hear you, but for now I’d rather make others lay down their lives than let them take mine or an innocent’s. The day you dream of, grandfather, is far away.”
“Perhaps, but I can make every day draw nearer.”
“In that we are agreed.”
“In your trade, what of mercy?”
“Mercy cannot rob justice.”
“Do not then let justice be remiss in mercy,” he said, raising a gnarled finger skyward.
“The way of the warrior is balance.”
The Lama gave a solemn nod of appreciation and said, “You have more depth than I bargained for and so I am grateful. I believe you are seeking a woman who has visited our temple frequently are you not?”
“I am. The Duchess Nicene.”
The Lama gave another nod, saying, “I know her. She is not here.”
“Do you know where she is? I hope for her safety.”
“I can seek for her,” said the Lama. He then crossed his arms and put them over his folded knees, closing his eyes. He almost seemed asleep. The smoke that permeated the room grew dense and undulated. The border of the smoke became snake-like, writhing dragons that crawled end-over-end upon one another in a continual mass that teased the eye, moving n all directions, yet confined to the space of a great picture frame.
The Sellsword watched in amazement as shapes in the center became apparent and the grey shrouded image of Nicene appeared. She sat at a table with a goblet in hand, near her was Anaias and Uriel the assassin. This did not give the Sellsword comfort, but she seemed relaxed. “I see her, but I don’t know where that is.”
“How do I find the entrance?”
“That, my friend, is not in my circle of knowledge. I only know that many entrances are near the wall.”
“Thank you,” said the Sellsword, and he stood to go.
The Lama nodded once again and returned to his serene pose, enveloped in the billowing cloud of incense.
***
Heading to the wall that encircled the city, the Sellsword saw more destruction blanketing Aldreth. Shops had been looted and carts overturned. Some business and homes now looked like fortified hovels with the inhabitants watching warily from the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Still, some folk tried to carry on as if it was business as usual. A hawker called that he had potatoes for sale while another claimed he had the best roast dog in town.
A big, strapping woman with gray hair peeking out of her bonnet sat on a bench with a box of shoe laces on her lap. The Sellsword walked past her without a word when she hollered at him. “Buy a pair of shoe laces, you god-damned cheapskate!”
He turned in surprise at her indignant plea. “You would catch more sales with honey than salt, old woman.”
She brandished a crutch. “Old woman? You need me to beat some manners into you?”
He stepped back but chuckled. “I surrender. How much?”
“A silver dinar,” she said with a smug satisfaction. A pair of paladins came around the corner, almost bumping into the Sellsword and old woman. They quickly turned to go the other way. The Sellsword watched suspiciously, wondering if they were reporting on him, but it was soon apparent they were simply avoiding the old woman instead.
She shouted, “Look at those two dirty, high-toned sons of bitches! I’m not good enough for them to talk to when they meet me on the street. When they had me over to the city jail last week the two of them begged for me to sleep with them all night!”
A few onlookers laughed out loud and the paladins hurried away rather than endure her catcalls.
“What’s your name?” asked the Sellsword, as he handed her a silver dinar.
“I’m Shoestring Annie. What’s it to you?”
“You’ve lived in Aldreth a long time?”
“Since the year of the cat. That will be another dinar for stupid questions.” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers in anticipation.
He dropped another into her hand. “Could you tell me how to find the tunnels beneath the city?”
“What are you? Some kind of rat?” She then put a finger to one nostril and blew out with the other.
He held out a gold crown.
“Now you’re talking my language, stranger.” She pocketed the coin and pointed. “Go to the fork in the road. The red brick building. There is an inn. Go to the back room and open the closet. Go down the steps and you’ll be in the tunnels, sure enough. Don’t mention my name though, and I make no guarantees that someone in there won’t beat your ass. But you’re a big boy with a sword, you can handle yourself I think.”
“Thanks Annie.”
“Don’t mention it. And I mean don’t mention me, keep your damn fool mouth shut.”
He followed her directions and not far away found an inn made of red brick with a sign overhead that read, The Dew Drop Inn. He went inside and a woman sweeping the floor of the deserted inn asked, “Do you want anything in particular? I have red bourbon.”
“The back closet?”
“Who sent you?”
“A mouthy old woman.”
She pointed to the back saying, “Watch your step.” She went back to her sweeping.
A red door was easy to miss against the back wall, cluttered with drooping shelves, covered in cooking accruements and drinking vessels. He opened the door and darkness invited. The sweeping woman appeared at his side. “Pull up the trap door,” she said.
There was an iron latch on the floor, embedded into a groove cut to be just the right size. He gingerly lifted the thick door, but there was no trap, no waiting blade, or bolt from the gloom, just steps downward.
He went down the steps and a torch flared murkily farther down the tunnel. At the bottom, he looked up as a shadow stole the light above. The woman looked down. “I have to shut the door.” She closed the trap door and darkness clasped the Sellsword to her bosom.
Walking toward the torch, he sensed a breeze coming from the opposite end of the tunnel. The outline of a door was illuminated a bit down the way. He reached the door and pushed open to yet another tunnel that was rectangular and lit with a trio of oil lamps held in sconces along the wall. He went along this passage until it curved and opened into a wider chamber that evidently had been part of the mining work as it was held up by similar timbers. A door hung open at the far end and he went through. Now he could hear the sound of many voices. Another curve in the tunnel and he faced a pair of men. They started at his presence.
“Master Anaias is in the back of the room. Past the gaming tables.”
The Sellsword nodded to them and went through the doors. It was a big chamber with a very high ceiling. Stalactites hung ominously like teeth. Either he had gone deeper into the ground with the sloping tunnel than he realized, or farther toward the mountain than he expected, and the city had elevated allowing the vast roof. Despite the damp air, there were fine furnishings and regalia spread throughout making it look similar enough to the now destroyed gambling hall of Anaias.
Men laughed and drank while losing money. Far to the back upon a raised dais were tables and the Sellsword could see Anaias’s gleaming bald head, and his shock of a red goatee. He made his way through the mass of gaming tables and reveling gamblers. He reached the red carpeted stair and was halted by one of the hulking guardsmen he had met previously.
“Not so fast, you.”
“I need to speak with Anaias.”
“Not unless he wants to talk to you first, and he didn’t tell me he was expecting anyone. So, bugger off.”
The Sellsword’s two fingers shot out and took the brute right where the throat meets the collarbone. He dug the fingers down and brought the huge man to his knees, then his own knee to the guard’s face. The man crumpled.
“Honestly,” rasped Anaias, leaning over the railing of the dais, “you could have just said please, let me speak to your Lord.”
“He was rude.”
“Uh huh. How many men of mine have you broken now? I’ve lost track and yet you keep coming back and damaging them more. I don’t have an endless supply.”
“Where is Nicene?”
Anaias gave a cruel smile. “I thought she would be with you. Maybe she is back at her villa. She is so comfortable in that big lonely mansion. I figured you would be keeping her warm.”
“She is not there.”
“That is odd. Who knows where she could be then. She keeps such strange company these days,” said Anaias. Uriel was beside him and gave a guffaw.
“I was told she was here,” said the Sellsword.
“Who told you?”
“The old Lama in the temple of Dyzan.”
“There is no Lama in the temple of Dyzan, just priests,” said Anaias. He looked to his men for reassurance on the matter, and they shook their heads in agreement that there was no such person.
“Was she here?”
“She left,” said Anaias, hotly. “Change your tone, my friend.”
“Where did you two go before the Dragon Powder destroyed your tower?” pressed the Sellsword.
The wizard snorted. “I should ask where the hell you were. How did you survive? I thought you were dead. I lost a lot of people last night.”
“You’ll lose a lot more if you don
’t tell me the truth.”
Anaias laughed in his hoarse whisper. “You think you can threaten me, now? I’ll bury you. I spoke the truth. I don’t know where she is, and you better mind yourself. This is my house!” He directed the Sellsword to look behind him. Several men held flatbows pointed at his back and six or seven more had swords drawn. “You’re lucky I’m in need of good men with swords. Now get the hell out of here until you can learn some manners.” Anaias’s whispered shout might have been humorous in any other situation, but with bolts and blades backing him up, the Sellsword deferred.
The Sellsword made his way slowly out of the chamber. One of the guardsmen directed him toward a different exit than the one he had entered. He went through the doors, passed a pair of guardsmen playing cards, and found himself in another tunnel that led on a long straight passage that ended at yet another stairwell. This led up, through another trapdoor and he found himself in one of the ruined towers along the wall. He gritted his teeth and slammed the trapdoor back down.
He cursed himself for losing his temper with the wizard. He should have remained calm, he might have found out more if he had appeared indifferent. At least Anaias didn’t suspect he had anything to do with Denae. The wizard likely believed that she and Brantus had perished in the blaze. Just as well, now there would be no one to pursue the woman and her family. But what now? Where was Nicene and how could he turn this twisted opportunity to his advantage?
He pondered a long drowsy moment. He was sure the Lama had been real, but the incense did have a dreamlike quality to it. He didn’t even remember leaving the temple. He was just suddenly on the street. Was he missing anything? He searched his belt and pockets. Nothing seemed to be missing, but it was an uncomfortable feeling to have missing time.
He had more questions now than he had started with. He went down the parapet to a crumbling stair and back into the city to continue the hunt.
20. The Bear and the Bull
Unsure of where to begin, the Sellsword walked the streets of Aldreth, keeping a vigilant eye out. A big red-headed man caught his eye as he was handing out crusts of bread to small boys dressed in rags.
BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy Page 16