by Hugo Huesca
“Well, it may be full of Starevosian rebels,” Ed said. “Or with life-draining undead. Hell, the Inquisition could be there waiting, their bonfire already lit up.”
She pursed her lips playfully and fixed her hair again. “The Inquisition? In that case, we better not keep them waiting. I hear they don’t have the best of tempers.” She stood up. “Shall we?”
There were no assassins or Inquisitors in the room—not that Ed and Katalyn looked for them. As soon as he closed the door behind them, Katalyn slipped her hands behind his neck and locked them in place. Their lips found each other’s in the shadows of the barely lit room. Her kisses were blazing hot against the cold air of Undercity and carried with them an aftertaste of fruity ale and peanuts. Ed could feel her respiration against his neck. The hair of his skin stood on end, and he encircled her waist and pulled her closer. An unexpected barrier came between them. The chest pieces of their leather armor. Ed frowned, and his fingers searched for the straps of Katalyn’s armor. He felt a ticklish sensation run down from his chest to his leg as his spiderling—whose presence he had forgotten—ran away from a sudden and unwelcome movement. It scuttled across the room and hid under the bed in only a few seconds. Ed ignored it.
She laughed and raised her arms to give him a better angle. “Best of luck. Sometimes not even I can get the damn thing to come off.” Her tone was amused, but her eyes glinted with expectation.
Ed found one strap, undid it, then discovered with dismay a cluster so confusing that it’d require divine intervention to sort out. He considered using a knife to undo them, then immediately discarded the idea, because Katalyn wouldn’t enjoy having her armor destroyed. Instead, he decided for a more reasonable tactic:
“I’m going to need another set of hands here,” he told her. “Unless you don’t mind spending the entire night waiting for me to undress you.” He took away her coat and threw it onto a nightstand.
She grinned, kissed him again, and her hands disappeared behind her back. As she fumbled with her straps, her back arched, and Ed was treated to the view of the taut muscles of her abdomen, lithe and powerful, and the soft lines of her neck while she turned her head to get a better view of her work.
Ed forgot what he was waiting for. He pinned her against the wall and kissed her hungrily, her hands trapped behind her back. Their breathing grew ravenous, demanding. A moan escaped from her parted lips, and Ed’s pants became suddenly too tight, unbearable. With one hand, he fumbled with his trousers, and he slid the other under Katalyn’s armor, found her breast, and grabbed it firmly, hot and soft against his own skin.
Katalyn quivered under his embrace. “Cold hands, asshole!” she whispered angrily, but Ed’s hand grew warm quickly enough as it traveled down over her breastbone and caressed her abdomen and the small of her back. She freed one of her arms and slid it across his shoulders, using it to lift herself above him. He carried her weight—barely realizing he was doing so—as her hair cascaded over his face, filling his nose with her intoxicating scent. She hugged his waist with her legs, drawing him so close against hers that it was almost painful.
Ed’s lips traveled down her neck, then he bit it softly, which drew a mesmerizing moan from her. Her chest piece fell to the floor with a metallic tingling of knives, and she went to work on his as he fumbled with her shirt with all the dexterity of a drunk thirteen-year-old boy.
Under the bed, the red eyes of the spiderling followed them with disinterest, probably wondering if the female would bite the male’s head off after mating was over. Above the bed, past the frosted window, Undercity’s nightlife ebbed like a living organism. Fights broke off and died, sailors sang obscene songs at the top of their lungs, and Thieves whistled innocently as they hustled the streets.
Close to Stormbreaker Harbor, people slept during the day and lived by night, which made it a heavily desired hunting ground for vampires and revelers alike. The screams, the growls, the songs, the lovemaking, the death-throes and the laughter, all conspired to drown the noises coming from one of the upper rooms of the Galleon’s Folly. But even for Stormbreaker Harbor, there was a time when people needed to sleep, or at least hide in their coffins when the sunlight drew near.
When that time came, a few hours before sunrise—when the sky was still dark, but the stars were discreetly fading away—it found Ed and Katalyn, spent in bed, hiding under a mountain of blankets, the bedsheets drenched with sweat.
He was lying on his back, doing his best to get his breathing under control, while she rested her head against his chest, her own rising and falling with the rhythm of heavy sleep.
So, that just happened, he thought dumbly, in that mental space seconds away from unconsciousness. He glanced at Katalyn’s wavy hair, which covered most of his field of vision. He felt like remaining very, very still, as not to wake her.
On the other hand, his ass itched. Straw mattresses provided the most uncomfortable rest he had ever had in his entire life. He considered his options. Katalyn was sleeping atop his right arm, which was falling asleep more and more by the second. His left was, sadly, opposite of the itch, so he’d have to shift and turn to reach it, which would wake her up—
The door opened and smacked against the wall. The noise was like a cannonball, which thankfully drowned Ed’s scream. Katalyn jolted awake and tried at the same time to vault over the bed and reach for a knife that wasn’t there. Instead, she fumbled with the bedsheets and fell face first to the floor, like a rabbit caught in a horned spider’s web.
Ed saw the lamplight outline two human silhouettes.
Oh, shit, he thought. I forgot they were coming back.
“Oh, shit,” mumbled Alder. “I forgot you guys were here.” He sighed and shook his head. “Well, too bad. We have no money to rent another room.”
The Bard stumbled inside, one hand over Kes’ shoulders, half-carrying the mercenary, half-dragging her. Something icky dropped against the floorboards with the exact sound of jelly smacking against wood. Ed did a double take and realized Alder and Kes were covered, head-to-toe, in slime. Alder’s was green, Kes’ was a mixture of blue and yellow. Their clothes were soaked, and their boots sloshed with each footstep.
“What the hell happened to you two?” asked Ed.
“Is that slime?” Katalyn mumbled, somewhere inside the heap of sheets in front of the bed.
Kes was muttering angrily, barely conscious, one eye closed and her eyelid covered in a blob of yellow slime. She coughed, moaned, and tossed her longsword to one of the other straw bunks nearby while angrily cursing Alder. Her words were either unintelligible, or in a different language, or both.
“Really, lady?” Alder said with a grunt as he summarily dropped her next to her weapon. There were no other bunks. “I carry you all the back here and I have to sleep on the floor?” He studied the room, probably searching for rats.
“Did you get into a fight?” Ed asked.
Alder turned around so Katalyn could usher herself back under her bedsheets, then he spread his coat and jacket over the floor to make a makeshift bed. “Actually,” he said, sloshing through each syllable. “We agreed never to mention it again.” He wearily slid out of half his remaining clothes, did his best to clean out as much slime as he could, then lay himself to sleep.
“What are they soaked in?” Ed asked Katalyn, in a whisper.
“I—I’m not sure,” the Thief said. “There are a couple possibilities, each of them either disgusting… or terrifying.” She refused to elaborate.
“Sorry, Ed,” Alder mumbled groggily. “You know how it is. What happens in Stormbreaker—” The Bard choked on a bit of green slime. He made a gagging noise, then whimpered, and finally fell asleep with the tiniest hint of a grin on his lips.
19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE PORTAL
Nicolai’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Brondan,” he said, as the elf slid inside the warehouse like… well, like a Thief in the night. “What a pleasure to see you. We’d start
ed to wonder when you’d show up.” Nicolai went to meet him, arms outstretched, and embraced Brondan briefly. As he did so, he made sure to check the elf’s pulse, which skyrocketed in response to Nicolai’s proximity.
Smart man, Nicolai thought as he pulled away. This time, his grin was genuine.
Brondan sniffed loudly. He was pale and sickly looking, his eyes red and bloodshot. “Sorry, Nicolai. I would’ve come up sooner, but I almost fucking died last night. Fell into freezing water, you see.” He gestured at his boots with a pained expression. “Lost my boots as I swam out, and then lost two fingers because of the walk home.” The elf drew a flask of a mid-strength restoration potion and took a long swig out of it. “I’m mostly standing because of this potion. Tastes like piss, you know. And so damn expensive…”
I don’t care if you lost your entire lower body, you idiot. “Fingers can be replaced, my friend.” You should have come sooner. “Now, go ahead and tell me what happened.” I already know most of it anyway; your own people report better than you do. Brondan’s usefulness was quickly coming to an end—more so now that the Guild had realized that it was Brondan who had been funneling funds out of their coffers and siphoning them into Nicolai’s.
Nicolai wouldn’t kill him, though. For all his ails, Brondan had been a part of his family, and he was a Starevosian. Third generation. It had to count for something, and Nicolai always tried his best not to kill a Starevosian unless he had no better option. Of course, that won’t stop me from letting the Guild catch up to you.
The Thief sniffed again and gave a wet cough. A speck of saliva hit Nicolai’s face, and he had to restrain himself from breaking the elf’s neck. “The Guild’s informants found out that a group of three individuals bypassed the city walls last night. It matched what you told us about a Dungeon Lord’s range of capabilities, so I went to take a closer look; brought three other Guild members with me for good measure. It was Edward Wright, with two others: a Bard and an elf mercenary—perhaps avian, I didn’t see her sheet—”
“Go on,” said Nicolai, who couldn’t care less about the race of a random mercenary. He was busy boiling with anger. You idiot. You damn idiot. So you knew a Dungeon Lord was prowling about and you confronted him with only three others? He couldn’t believe that people like Brondan were even capable of getting out of bed in the morning. The Thief thought that his decent Mind ranks made him smart, but he lacked the Spirit to realize when he was being an irrational idiot. To kill a Dungeon Lord, you use overwhelming force, and hit him hard before he realizes what’s going on. He can give his last monologue after you break all the bones in his body.
“Almost killed him, Nicolai,” the elf said, puffing out his frail chest. “Should have seen me.” He made a gesture with his thumb and index finger. “Came this close, but the cowardly dung-eater cast a spell on me when I was distracted, right when I had him.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Big of you to call a man a coward after you ambush him in the night. Then again, according to your own friends, you had the gall to stop and have a chat with him before attacking him. Why buy sneak attack at all if you’re too stupid to use it in the first place? If Undercity ever grew rich enough to garner the attention of the legendary Assassins Guild, the poor, stupid Thieves were going to bite the dust hard and fast.
“The others managed to give him the slip,” Brondan went on. “Barely survived. That Edward Wright is ruthless, I tell you. Ruthless. No honor at all, cursing me while I was distracted.” Brondan shook his head and spat out a greenish blob. “Berrick the shoemaker says Wright is staying at the Galleon’s Folly tonight. With none other than Katalyn Locksmith.” Brondan’s face was red with anger. “Berrick says he saw them all over each other before they headed upstairs. That fucking whore!” he exclaimed, crossing his arms. He spat again, not even trying to conceal his anger. “She mocks me—us—and ruins our ritual at the catacombs and then fucks the Dungeon Lord!”
Nicolai couldn’t help but roll his eyes. It was a well-known bit of Guild gossip that Brondan had pined over Katalyn for years. Rolim believes you’re only swayed by money, friend Brondan, he thought. He’s always thinking the best of people. Still, he took notice of Katalyn’s relationship to Edward, mainly because it added her to Nicolai’s list of twenty.
“We should go get them,” Brondan said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “They’re vulnerable now, easy prey. We can bring the rebels, and the wraith, and they’ll never know what hit them. Then you can do whatever you want with Wright,” he added hopefully.
Nicolai’s patience was running out. This time, his words carried an edge. “An animal fights harder when cornered, friend Brondan.” He passed a hand across the elf’s shoulders and ushered him farther into the warehouse. As they passed, members of the rebel group saluted Nicolai. Most of them were headed his way, but waited to let him pass. “I’d rather not have Edward Wright go all out inside a Starevosian city… no, not even Undercity. If he lost his calm during the struggle and used his Dark powers, the Inquisition would know a Dungeon Lord was present in the city.” He tightened the grip on Brondan’s shoulders—he was walking so fast that the elf had to jog or be dragged along. “They’re watching Starevos after what happened in Burrova with Ioan—” Who was a better man than you’ll ever be “—and our… tool. If they decide that Undercity needs a cleansing, not even the riches of the Brewers Guild and the local Militant Church would dissuade them.” They would burn it all—Stormbreaker Harbor and Mullecias Heights alike.
“But,” Brondan said, “if we ambush him—”
Anger surged like a red-hot iron through Nicolai’s veins. “The lives of fifty thousand of my people are not up to gamble!”
Brondan whimpered and tried to escape Nicolai’s touch. For a second there, the rebel had lost control, and his body had rippled as the parasite stirred inside him. With an effort of will, Nicolai let the elf go and fought to calm his heart-rate, and thus, the thing he carried in his innards. You’re dead, he told it, sternly, as if willing it to believe the fact. Dead. You’re only a tool, that’s all. A tool whose power is mine to command. Still, he took out his own flask and drank heavily from the tranquility potion it contained.
The dead parasite slept again.
“My apologies,” Nicolai said as his body relaxed. “These are trying times for everyone.” He slowed his gait to let Brondan catch up to him. The elf did so, but kept an arm-length between them. “Attacking Edward Wright inside the city is too risky. It’s also unnecessary. Preparations are done and over as of now. The circles are complete, and the rituals are almost finished—they wait only for my command.” He patted the longsword fitted to his belt, adding emphasis to his words. “We’ll overrun Wright’s dungeon on his home turf with overwhelming force, and put him and all his minions to the sword before he even realizes what’s happening. He’ll never see us coming, Brondan… and we’ll do it without the Inquisition ever finding out about his existence.” The prospect ushered forth a wave of pleasure so intense that Nicolai feared it’d awaken the dead parasite again.
The wails of the damned rose in intensity as if reacting to his words. Nicolai and the Thief reached the central section of the warehouse, a nest of empty iron cages, dozens of them, each fitted with straw bunks and feeding trays. The air was heavy with the smell of human shit and fear, and some cages were marred with dry, crusty blood.
Brondan gagged at the smell. “Wetlands!” he swore.
“A sad affair,” Nicolai said sadly. “But a necessary one. Rest assured, not a single man or woman captive here had a single drop of Starevosian blood in their veins, and we are keeping their suffering to a minimum.”
“Ah,” Brondan said, covering his nose with his sleeve. “Gods, that makes it all better.” He scowled and fixated his gaze on the floor as they walked.
Nicolai chuckled without mirth. The summoning circle came forward and the congregation of rebels in red capes revealed themselves past the rows of empty cages. Funny. I hadn’t thought you capa
ble of sarcasm. People are so full of surprises.
A CHANT SPREAD across the summoning circle, arcane words practiced through weeks and weeks of repeating the incantations. When Nicolai stepped inside the chamber, the chant grew in intensity, and a flutter of excitement spread across the faces of the rebels, most of whom were covered head-to-toe in their red capes. At their feet, the summoning circle glowed with purple lines of power—softly at first, but Nicolai knew it’d gain power soon.
About fifty naked men and women—mostly human, but a wide variety of species was present—lay tied inside the circle, surrounded by the rebels, their eyes wide with fear, and their mouths gagged. Nicolai saw lines of slobber coming down chins, pools of urine spreading across the magic circle—thankfully it wouldn’t mar the ley lines—and the trembling and whimpering of old and young alike, muffled screams and mad pleading drowned by the rebels’ chanting.
Rolim oversaw the ritual from one corner of the room. Unlike the rebels—who were lightly armored if they were armored at all—Rolim wore a chain-mail hauberk over a studded leather chest piece, with plate bracers and greaves over his arms and legs.
The burly warrior shot dark glances at every rebel who dared fumble a word of the complex eldritch language. Even the smallest mistake produced a feedback effect and tendrils of purple lightning that surged above the circle and filled the place with the smell of ozone and sulfur.
“We’re ready to send the first wave,” Rolim told Nicolai when the rebel leader reached him. “On your order.”
Nicolai nodded, pleased. “Where is our resident Diviner?” he asked, looking around.
At a gesture of Rolim, two rebels at the opposite end of the chamber brought the Diviner to Nicolai. The spellcaster was in a sorry state, the edges of his tunic stained with dirt and grime, and his face as pale and sickly looking as Brondan’s. Just like the elf, Manfred could barely keep his sight away from the sorry scene inside the magic circle—all those men and women whose lives they had spent, or would spend, in the name of the cause.