by M. Walsh
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you I’m part of the rebellion.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Even before I jumped in, you were pretty impressive against those orcs.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to blush.
“Me and the guys I run with,” he said. “We prefer to steer clear of the war. But that don’t mean we have any love for Tyrell.”
“Awfully brave of you, though. Helping me against a pack of orcs and Black Mage.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I don’t mind … wait, what..? Orcs and what..?”
“The Mage,” she said. “I was attacked by orcs and a Black Mage.”
The color drained from his flesh. “I didn’t see any Black Mage last night.” He continued staring at her with widening eyes. “You were being chased by a Black Mage?”
Before she could reply, the ceiling of Jagger’s loft tore open with a pitched screech. A great gust of wind threw them both against the wall, and a cloud of smoke and dust filled the room.
The world seemed to darken, and a cold wind passed as a tall figure dressed in a black robe floated in through the hole in the ceiling. He looked at Katrina and Jagger with a pale face and eyes that glowed with evil intent.
“Is being chased, my boy,” the Mage said. “Present tense.”
Jagger was on his feet before Katrina. With a wave of his hand, the Mage had him lifted into the air and pressed against the far wall. The warlock grinned, his eyes turning solid black as Jagger squirmed, and materialized from his cloak a thin sword that looked like it was made of dripping ink.
Gritting her teeth, Katrina tackled the Mage before he could plunge the weapon into Jagger’s heart. They crumbled onto the table, shattering it beneath their weight. Still weakened, she offered no follow-up attack or defense as the Mage threw her off him. She landed across the room and screamed from the pain in her ribs.
The Mage stood over her with his dripping blade, but was stopped when Jagger stuck a dagger into his side. The Mage roared, and with a wave of his hand, Jagger was thrown through the window.
Katrina saw him land on the roof below and tumble down to the street. While the Mage tended his wound, she jumped out as well. Her landing wasn’t as graceful as she would’ve preferred, and she crumbled to the ground alongside Jagger. Despite her injuries, she forced herself to her feet and ran, dragging him along with her.
“Are you kidding me?” he shouted once his senses returned to him. “A Black Mage?! Who the hell are you?!”
He was still a kid then, he would tell her years later. Dumb and without a care in the world. He’d assumed she would heal up and be on her way. It didn’t occur to him he might have bitten off more than he could chew saving some strange girl from orcs.
They eluded her assassin and began what became a journey to find her allies in the rebellion. Along the way, the two of them faced more attacks from the Mage, along with gargoyles, more orcs, and assassins. Eventually, they defeated her pursuer and Katrina was reunited with her allies.
They were kids on their own against the world. It was an adventure. The kind they would tell stories about—the young rebel Princess and the unknowing but honorable thief on the run from the forces of evil.
As much as he complained about the mess she’d gotten him into—because he blamed his situation on her—Jagger stayed by her side every step of the way. He saved her life more than once, and she saved his right back. Deep down, as much as he tried to hide it, he had a good heart. One that didn’t allow him to abandon her.
Along the way, Katrina learned Jagger was an orphan taken in by a band of thieves who were the closest to a family he knew. She told him her real name and who she really was. Although he never said it outright, once he knew who she was and what she was meant to do, his sword was hers.
When she was reunited with the rebels, Jagger accepted their thanks and gratitude and returned to his life as a thief. But not before promising he and Katrina would meet again.
It was around then she started to think she might love him.
* * *
Katrina awoke on a cot in a stone cell. She wasn’t hung-over, but she felt like it. There were no windows, leaving the dungeon dim and musty. The heat was almost smothering and the humidity so thick, she could barely breathe. Her head was throbbing, and her entire body felt sore.
Despite being caught off guard, she managed to put up a better fight than even she expected. Were she younger and still her in her prime, she might have gotten away. It took all four men to overwhelm her. They had to use their clubs on her, and even then, she came close to escaping. But she was pinned down and knocked out after fighting for what felt like a long time.
“I see you’re awake,” Carmine said, appearing outside her cell. “My men tell me you put up quite the struggle last night. I’ll be looking forward to your performance tomorrow.”
She sneered, knowing where she was. Through the heat, she picked up the faint stench of sweat and blood and knew she was in Gain’s fighting pit. She sighed and realized Scifer’s talk of Carmine’s slave trading was a warning.
“So this is how you run things here?” she asked. “You kidnap random people and force them into slavery?”
“You know what they say,” Carmine said. “Graylands is for people who want to disappear. And slavery is an effective means of disappearing.”
“So does everyone get thrown in your pit here?” she asked. “Or am I special?”
“Most end up fighting,” he said. “Blood-sports tend to go through competitors very fast. It’s a constant demand.”
“And what makes you so sure no one is going to come looking for me?”
“Who would that be? By all means, tell me. This Jagger of yours, who you can’t find and probably doesn’t even know you’re here? Scifer Olc, or whatever he calls himself? You said yourself you don’t know each other. You’re no mercenary. No soldier. Will you be missed, Rien?”
She hated to admit it, but he was right. She all but advertised she was lone drifter with no connections.
“Of course,” Carmine continued. “If I believed you would accept, I might have offered you a more … shall we say, intimate position by my side.” He grinned, revealing his crooked yellow teeth. “You are, if I may say, a truly stunning woman, Rien. Rough around the edges, perhaps, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“Stick with your first instinct on that one.”
“As I thought,” he said. “No worries. Your match tomorrow won’t be to the death. I hope to get much use out of you. And who knows—if you’re skilled enough, I may take you with me to Seba.”
“I’m so honored.”
“You should be,” he said. “I’ve paid my dues in this shit-hole long enough. I have friends in Seba. Arrangements have been made. Once my business in the north is resolved, soon … very soon … I’ll take my rightful place among Seba’s elite.”
“This means what to me?”
Carmine frowned. He looked like he wanted to say something, but waved his hand and walked off. “Rest well, Rien,” he said. “Tomorrow’s your big debut.”
Left alone, Katrina sighed and sat with her back against the stone wall. She tried to control her breathing. Her hand was shaking again, and she felt her heart pound. But it wasn’t another panic attack threatening to take hold.
Coldness swept through her. It was the same coldness that came to her in Jacob Daredin’s dungeon. The coldness she carried with her through the winter until that night near Devon. That should’ve frightened her, but she felt nothing—not even the craving for a drink. All she could think of was Jagger and how many other people forced into slavery on the orders of Dean Carmine.
Was this the fate that befell him? Was he pegged an easy target by Carmine’s slavers? If he was, did he end up in this fighting pit? Was he dead already..?
Day turned to night. A small meal was served, and Katrina ate without complaint. She rested on her cot and saved her strength. She would not believe Jagger was dead.
He was out there, and she needed to find him. She would not let Carmine or any of his would-be pit fighters stand in her way.
And she would not let them get away with this.
Just wait, Carmine. I’ll give you a main event you won’t believe.
20
Lock awoke from what little sleep he got feeling terrible. It was past noon, and the bright sun made his eyes ache. He remained in his room another hour, trying to find the motivation to move. That growing pressure he felt on his neck was worse than ever.
He drifted downstairs to the kitchen and found Seria sitting alone. He glanced at her, and she seemed exhausted, too.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But I’d like to skip sword training today. Even if it wasn’t so hot out, I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Pouring a glass of water, he asked, “Where’s Cassie?”
“She’s already at the lake,” Seria said. “Troa and Deck are out riding.”
He nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. Getting out of the house had a certain appeal. It wasn’t just malaise—he felt ill. He looked at Seria and she appeared under the weather herself. Despite spending the previous day in the sun by the lake, she was pale.
“You talk to Troa at all?” he asked.
“I did,” she replied. “This morning in the stable. The horses were spooked.”
“Seems everyone is on edge these days,” he said. “How have you been sleeping lately?”
“I haven’t. I keep having nightmares. I keep feeling like … as though …”
Without thinking, Lock said the words: “There’s something wrong with the house.”
Seria’s eyes narrowed, looking concerned. “It wasn’t like this when we first arrived,” she said. “Something has happened, and I can feel it’s getting worse.”
“Ever since Deck came back last week,” he said.
“Troa mentioned that.” Seria frowned and put her hand to her chest as if her heart was hurting. “But Deck wouldn’t …”
“Wouldn’t what..?”
Seria was deep in thought. After a few moments, she said, “There’s something in the house. Something … I don’t know.”
Lock leaned against the counter, trying to think—which he found surprisingly difficult. He felt tired, groggy, and had a headache. What could Deck have gotten into while he was gone that day? And how could it affect their home?
He remembered his nightmare, thinking past the dead bandit, and focused on the house. He shut his eyes, feeling his head throb, and tried to remember what it was about his dream. He was in the house, and there was something intangible he couldn’t put his finger on. It felt like it was focused on …
“The cellar,” he said. “We need to check the cellar.”
* * *
Coming as no surprise, the stench from the massacre was even worse than the last time. It wasn’t just the stink of meat rotting in a summer sun—it had been joined by something far worse. Something putrid and foul like an open sewer. When Deck and Troa reached the valley, it became clear the new stench was the troll’s rotting body.
The dead men were where Deck left them. Decay had set in, and it appeared some coyotes or wolves had been at them. A layer of dirt and sand covered them. The troll, however, was bloated and only beginning to rot. Its greenish skin had faded to a shade of gray, and hundreds of flies filled the air around it.
Troa looked over the scene, covering his mouth and nose. “Foul,” he said. “Absolutely foul.”
Deck never considered himself a spiritual man, and he never gave much heed to cryptic mysticism and magic—but he knew he’d be a fool to think his troubled sleep had nothing to do with the gauntlet he found. He suspected from the moment he found it in the darkness of the troll’s cave: the gauntlet, whatever it was, was a source of evil power.
He had hidden it in the cellar and decided not to tell anyone until he figured out what it was and what to do with it. But he wasn’t blind to everyone else’s troubled sleep. The gauntlet was having an effect on the house, and he’d need to tell someone sooner rather than later. It was just as well, he figured, because it was evident Troa and Seria were catching on something was wrong.
For as long as he’d known the Eldér, Troa almost never raised his voice. He always spoke in a calm, almost monotone manner. He was formal, fastidious, and orderly. If anyone could offer reasonable council or advice, it would be Troa. After they rode beyond Aster’s wall that morning, Deck told him.
It was the first time he’d ever heard the Eldér curse.
Troa dismounted and approached the bodies and smashed wagon. Deck remained on Dian and spat on the ground. He wanted to head back to Aster and didn’t see the point in being here. The smell was even worse than he imagined, and the heat wasn’t helping.
Troa looked over the scene, checking each body. Outwardly, he remained as calm and stoic as ever, save for the look of disgust on his face. After inspecting the troll, he approached the cave. He didn’t go in, instead staring at it for some time.
“What were you thinking?” he asked, turning to Deck.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It was an impulse.” Troa’s face tightened, looking like a teacher after his student said something stupid. “Put yourself in my position. You’re riding around and you stumble across this. You don’t want to figure out what it was for? Why it happened?”
“I think there is a world of difference between that and what you did, Deckard,” said Troa, rubbing his forehead. He sighed and continued, “So what exactly is this gauntlet you found?”
“I don’t think it was already in the cave,” he said. “Whatever it is, I can’t imagine it sitting here, waiting for someone to get it. Also, if these men had gathered to get it from the troll, I don’t think they would’ve died. I don’t think they even knew a troll was here. They were caught off guard.”
“So you believe they were transporting the gauntlet and the troll attacked them?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I think the troll … it must’ve …”
“It sensed the gauntlet,” Troa said. “Just as you did. Just like we have.”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead again. He inspected the ruined wagon, and sifted through the shards of wood. His face was strained, and Deck thought the stench was getting to him.
“There’s no gold here.”
“Maybe the troll took it into the cave, too,” said Deck. His tried to limit his breathing due to the stench and was giving himself a headache from the effort. “There’s nothing here. Let’s head back.”
“You left your sword in the troll,” said Troa.
“I know,” he said. “It’s a shame. I—”
“Get it out.”
“Excuse me?”
Troa looked at him, and although he remained calm, Deck could see the heat, smell, and situation had driven the Eldér to the limit of his temper. “Deckard,” he said. “Do you not realize what is happening?”
He apparently did not, so he didn’t answer.
“If someone attempted to pay a significant sum for what seems to be an evil artifact,” Troa continued. “Has it not occurred to you this someone will be curious what happened to his or her money and the gauntlet?”
“I suppose …”
“I don’t need to remind you your sword was custom-made at the behest of your father and cost him a large sum of money. If someone comes here and finds your sword, they can deduce it is the sword of a rich man. If they can figure that out, they can figure out what town its owner is residing in.”
“Okay, I get it—”
“If they can find the town,” Troa continued, sounding angry. “It would not be difficult to learn it belongs to you. Now tell me, Deckard, do you want the kind of people seeking an evil artifact knocking on the door of your home?”
Deck sighed and dismounted. “You made your point,” he muttered, approaching the troll’s body. He stopped within feet of it and gagged. The buzzing of flies was a loud, constant static in the air.
“Gods,” he grumbled. “This is going to be terrible …”
* * *
Lock felt it as soon as he opened the cellar door. There was a rush of cold like something had reached out from the darkness and snatched his heart. He turned to Seria and saw she felt it, too. As absurd as the thought might have seemed to him, looking into that darkened cellar, he felt it in his blood: there was something evil down there.
“What the hell did Deck bring into our house?” he said.
He started down the stairs, when Seria grabbed his shoulder. “What if it’s alive?”
“What..?” he said. “Like a demon or something?”
Seria nodded, and he saw actual fear in her eyes. He looked back into the cellar and wondered. Lock was no skeptic—the idea of being skeptical in a world where the Dark Lands are literally across the border was ludicrous. But he never in his life imagined coming face to face with the Black or anything of that nature. Standing there, he realized just how sheltered he’d been his whole life.
“No,” he said, though he didn’t think he sounded convincing. “Whatever is down there, I don’t believe Deck could or would bring an actual demon into our house.”
Seria was quiet. For only the second or third time since he’d known her, she didn’t seem the wise, ageless Eldér warrior. She seemed like an ordinary person in over her head, just as he was.
“You’re right,” she said. “But there is something down there. Something …”
“Evil,” he said. “Do you think it’s dangerous? Should we go in armed?”
She was quiet again, and he could see she was seriously considering that question. “No,” she said. “If it’s not a demon, there’s no need.”
There were windows in the cellar which, given the sunny day, allowed light in. However, as Lock and Seria descended the steps, he noticed it seemed darker than normal—as though curtains were on the windows or the sun had been covered by clouds. The unnatural, cold feeling grew stronger as they went further.
It’s only been down here a week, he thought. How much worse would it get if we left it down here? Would it spread throughout the house like some kind of sickness?