Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

  The black knight's ring – forged in RuseDamage + 10% Item = Nefarious

  Hurrying out, I sought out the one called the clergyman.

  Light spilled from the room, a shroud of flickering amber. Gathering my nerves, I stepped in. The clergyman and Snipper were seated at a sturdy, bloodstained table. They were sitting around a dinner of sliced meats and bread and had a pewter goblet of wine each. For all the world, they looked like two scribes taking a break from the business of recording time.

  The room itself lacked the grizzle of Fasten’s. No rack, no gruesome implements of torture. Instead, its shelves were laden with numerous bottles, bowls, and sprigs of dried leaf. There were pestles and mortars, large wooden spoons, dog-eared tomes that looked like they’d been leafed a million times.

  “What?” Snipper growled. “Never seen an alchemist’s place of work?”

  The clergyman grunted. “I doubt she’s seen an alchemist like me.” It was a proud boast as if he relished his reputation. “Killing, my dear chandler, is an exact science.”

  It was then I spied Mezzerain.

  They had him tethered in an alcove, an iron collar around his neck, attached to a great chain, each link as fat as a fist. He avoided my gaze, choosing to stare at the floor.

  “Take this beast, Chandler. How would you tame him?” The clergyman pushed a guttering candle to me. I grabbed another base from my box, setting a candle within and lighting it.

  “Not my business to know, sir. Stab him with a stabber?” I started to scrape the old base of its tallow.

  The clergyman chortled, a laugh with a complete absence of any humor, more filled with the reticence of someone who’s just realized they have to kill you, but who’s secretly looking forward to it. “A stabber,” he repeated, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “First, Chandler, you have to put the animal down.” He pointed to a second candle. “And that one.”

  He stood, commanding the room, demanding its spotlight, and he selected a vial of turquoise powder. Tapping some out onto a long spoon, he approached Mezzerain, who let out an unearthly growl and strained at his leash, his eyes briefly meeting mine.

  The clergyman bent slightly, bringing the spoon to his lips and blowing. Mezzerain strained, his eyes rolled, and he collapsed like a bag of bones.

  “Tamed,” he said, glancing at me.

  “Be gone,” growled Snipper.

  I moved to the door, pushing it closed.

  “I think not,” I said, and I pulled my hood back.

  I had a new plan.

  The clergyman’s eyes grew wide, half circles of sagging flesh hanging down from them, his jowls matching, and mouth agape.

  “You?” he said, with more than a measure of derision. “You are what we hunt for?”

  “You’ve found me.” I walked the table’s perimeter, pushing at Mezzerain’s limp body. “How long?”

  Snipper made a bolt for the door. I flicked out my hand and sent a gray bullet on its way. He dropped like a stone: no flash, no bang, just a neat hole in the back of his head and a burst of crimson on the door’s wood. Nothing more. Efficient, the word that rang around my mind.

  I sat opposite the clergyman, who was thumbing a rune and muttering a few words. He looked across the table at me, sweat running rivers down his forehead, dripping from his reddening cheeks. He didn’t protest nor did he grovel. No, he was better than that. His eyes roved the shelves, and I realized his intent just a fraction too late.

  A bottle crashed behind me, toppled, and smashing on the bench. A sweet smell bloomed all around me, my head swimming. A smile crawled onto the clergyman's lips.

  I searched desperately for my healing magic, for some counter spell, but found none. The poison choked my mind—the clergyman blurring, becoming two, then three, and more. I reached into my loins, to the source of my mana, and desperately forced it out. I squeezed it into my wilting body and let it run wild through my tainted blood. My collapse steadied, but I let my body slide nonetheless, let it slip from the chair and slump onto the stone-flagged floor. I fell close to Mezzerain, suddenly understanding my new magic and knowing I didn’t need those fancy spells.

  My combined manas cleansed me of the poison even as the clergyman stood over me. He had a manacle in his hands, a chain draping from it, and I knew he wanted to turn me into his dog, to leash me like Mezzerain. I watched it, studied it, burrowed into its iron and agitated it. My mana was drawn toward the collar as if it were desperate to do my will. The iron suddenly glowed orange: orange and white as the mana filled it, its energy overflowing.

  The clergyman screamed, a piercing, dire scream of true pain as his flesh began to roast, to bubble, and blister. He tried to drop the manacle, but it stuck fast. I snapped my mana away, standing, kicking the pathetic priest backward. The manacle’s chain snapped taut, ripping the last of the flesh from his fingers. He went down, holding up his bones, and looking at the remnants of his hands, looking at their charred bones.

  “A mistake,” he said, his lips quivering. “They will feel your magic.”

  “Let them,” I said, temper tainting my voice. “Your death will be fast if you tell me how to rouse Mezzerain.”

  He cackled at that, a long, rasping cackle. It was the drawn-out laugh of a man who knew his humor had little time to be heard. “You have all this power and no clue how to wield it. The Dancer will make short work of you.”

  I put a silver bullet in his forehead. It was definitely all the magic I needed to understand to put him down.

  Kneeling by Mezzerain, I inspected his leash, finding its substantial lock and looking around the room until I spied its key. Releasing him, I poured my light mana into his flesh, praying it would cleanse and not kill him.

  The big man opened his eyes, a sight that made my heart flutter in hope.

  “Water,” he gasped.

  I conjured my water bottle. He drained it. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  He shook his head. “Both dead?” Then he looked over at the clergyman, saw his hands, the perfect hole in his forehead. “We need to free the others.”

  “Melinka and Vassal are looking.”

  “The others down here. I recognized Fasten’s cries.”

  “Fasten’s dead. Short story but too long for now.”

  Mezzerain accepted it. “The other?”

  “Alive.”

  The big man pushed himself up, a monumental effort like he rose from the dead, the clergyman's attention plain to see. “You got any healing potions?”

  Of course I did, just never remembered them. I tossed him a couple. He rolled Snipper over. “New favorite magic trick?” he asked, pointing at his forehead.

  “Oh yes,” I replied.

  He grinned, and my Mezzerain returned. “A candle boy?”

  “Chandler, actually.”

  I shed my garb. I’d said enough “sirs” for one day.

  “So you intend to fight your way out of Kyrie?” Mezzerain asked me.

  “Do you think you’d pass as a chandler?”

  He pursed his lips, grunted, and then looked around the room for a weapon, settling on my snuffer. “That’ll do.”

  Easing the door open, we shimmied along to the cell with the bag of bones in it. Cutting him down, sitting him down, I bled some mana into him, unsure of how or what I was supposed to do. I tried imagining him well—it was my best guess. He would either perk or glow white hot.

  Fortunately, he perked a little.

  “Come back for me? What was it, my charm?”

  He tried a smile, but his head sagged.

  “Your stench,” I replied, none too kindly.

  “Of all the people,” Mezzerain spat.

  “Who is it?”

  “Morgan of Elderwood. A fine bastard in his day.” True hatred leached from Mezzerain.

  “Leave him?”

  Mezzerain scoffed, “Bastards can be useful.” He picked him up. “Where to?”

  “The candle room.”


  I guessed we were fighting our way back. I was happier about that.

  Skanks fell victim to my third bullet. It was my most satisfying yet. I let the other off after he pulled Skanks into the cells and handed over the keys. Locking them in, we marched up the steps with all the confidence of two who were doing the combinium's work.

  The first friendlies to recognize Mezzerain ushered us along corridors, shading us from the combinium's patrols, but their efforts were soon undone: shouts, calls for our heads, coming as we darted down corridors and then ran across the keep’s courtyard.

  Crossbow bolts fizzed over us, skidding off the cobbles. I fired my magic, toppling a few and watching them tumble theatrically. My blasts were deadly accurate, making our pursuers hesitate.

  We’d nearly made it to safety when the combinium's roving eye smashed me in the gut, making me double over in pain.

  Mezzerain vanished into the crowd, bundled along, engulfed by Kyrie’s resistance. I fell to my knees, agony ripping through me, making me hurl like some possessed child. I saw him—Akkadian—saw his twisted face, his expected kill now close.

  I scattered some more bullets at my pursuers then turned my attention to him, but before I could return a burst of magic, another of his blasts riddled my body with his black magic.

  I pitched forward, flapping like a landed fish, trying to regain control. Reaching into my pocket, I slipped the black knight's ring on, spinning onto my back and blasting upward, searching out my aggressor, wanting to wipe the smile from his sallow face.

  A dozen spear points bore down on me, growling faces at their ends. I imagined their heads gone, blown apart by a disc of gray power, and the instant I let that thought fly, so their heads exploded as one, bloody stumps spewing crimson as their bodies pitched backward.

  Spinning around, challenging anyone to come close, I caught sight of the black tower’s top and sent a tsunami of thought toward it, blasting those priests back and smothering their fire with my rage. I felt the pressure building, my temples throbbing as I forced more and more power up into that dread tower. I felt its warmth, heard the screams of the priests. Akkadian’s shouted spells limped toward me. His power was feeble compared to mine.

  The tower began to glow, to smoke. The first priests jumped, but Akkadian remained true, trying desperately to counter me. My last vision saw resignation color his expression as he fell to his knees and the tower’s top exploded out, black smoke billowing up in some magical mushroom cloud.

  But my mana emptied before I could complete my destruction, before I could topple that tower. My power snapped back inside me. Stunned silence surrounded me. I stood, one arm out, beckoning any of the surrounding soldiers forward, circling, meeting each’s eye in turn.

  They backed away from me, retreated a few yards, and then they ran.

  They missed their chance. I was out, truly out, feeble.

  I walked from that courtyard, my shoulders back, my chin jutting out, power radiating from me, with only me knowing how truly vulnerable I was at that moment—how empty I’d become. “The candle room,” I whispered as a hand reached out to me. “Take me to the candle room.”

  “Was that Mezzerain?” the peasant asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to hold my steely determination in place.

  “And you?”

  “Alexa. Alexa Drey. Now, take me to the candle room.”

  “Does Valkyrie live?”

  I stopped, turning back to the square. Expectant faces looked at me, confused expressions mixing with hope-filled ones.

  “Today!” I shouted. “Today, Valkyrie rises!”

  At first my proclamation was met with silence, but then anger-filled cheers rang out, and a mob was born, and the chaos began.

  They bundled me out of the square, barging and pushing me along a corridor, the way beginning to look familiar, a door opening, and I spilled through. Pog rushed toward me, stopping a yard away.

  “Going for the abattoir look again?” Melinka asked.

  Chapter Seven

  The Ruins of Rakesh

  Sutech Charm was in a bad way. They’d beaten him black and blue as they tried to extract information he didn’t have. His back was awash with a whip’s kisses, his sides bruised to purple. The ferocity of his interrogation shocked me, though I didn't know why. I’d witnessed the clergyman's subtle brutality firsthand. Sutech told me he healed fast and felt pain less than most. I had no clue if it was bravado or the truth, so I plied him with plenty of health potions.

  We left that castle, shrouded by its mayhem. I said nothing to anyone, withdrawing into myself as I came to terms with the destruction I’d just unleashed. Behind us, the combinium's tower was aflame, Castle Kyrie in an uproar. Revolution needs to be planned for. It’s not instant. Now, a mob of vengeance-filled Valkyrians filled their boots with revenge. Soldiers swung, priests were burned, collaborators torn limb from limb.

  I sat in the back of the ice cart, numb to it all, spilling out when we arrived at the dwelling, barely helping at all. Melinka tended to Morgan of Elderwood. Iceman finally shed his persona and became Joss the Nine.

  “You can lead,” Mezzerain said as he wiped his fourth bowl of soup clean. “Joss the Nine is legend; he is the resistance.”

  “But Joss the Nine doesn’t wield power like I’ve seen today—all would get behind her.” Joss the Nine pointed at me. “How does one person come to have so much?”

  “You haven’t told me the truth about Billy Long Thumb,” I suddenly said. “You can’t have. I can’t judge him.” The words came out of my mouth; I spoke them, but they seemed distant. I looked at Joss the Nine. “You have more power than me. My power destroys. Yours might rebuild this place. My power is death: yours may be life.”

  Joss the Nine knelt by me, reaching up, cupping my cheek. “Do you know how many lives you saved today?”

  “I killed.”

  “No more than their daily tally. To build, you have to destroy first.”

  “Who are you? Everyone speaks your name like a protection—whispered words—Joss the Nine.”

  His eyes widened, a great smile underneath. “Joss the Nine,” he hissed. “Resistance, persistence—nine years old when they came—been fighting ever since. The priests can’t find him. The captain’s soldiers fear him. The Cers fall, sliced by his blade. Joss the Nine, invincible, immortal…” He cocked his head. “Irresistible?”

  Silence held while he awaited his answer. Pog began giggling; Melinka joined in. I pushed him away. “Not irresistible but close.”

  He roared, spinning around, and grabbing a flagon of wine. “I’ll take that. Seriously, though, I’m a rumor. Most haven’t met me and would be sadly disappointed if they did. Take today, for instance. To you and me, it was The Alexa Drey Show, but by the time the second ale is drunk, Joss the Nine would have been standing by your side. Joss the Nine would have fought his way through to you, rescuing you, dragging you away to his mythical hideout in the forest.” He shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”

  “So all would get behind me but only because I’d have your blessing.”

  Joss laughed again. “You don’t survive as long as I do without knowing when to retire to the shadows. So”—he turned to Melinka—“how’s our traitor doing?”

  All eyes turned to Morgan of Elderwood. Melinka looked up. “Our collaborator will mend and be back to his boisterous self in no time, no doubt with a pre-primed tale of woe.”

  Morgan of Elderwood groaned.

  “And I take it your affiliations did you no favors?” I asked Sutech.

  Sutech Charm pulled at his shoulder, stretching his back. “Fate has dealt me a cruel hand. I find myself in quite the position. They…they failed to recognize my treaty with them.”

  Joss jumped to his feet. “With who?”

  “The combinium.” Sutech stared up at him. The man looked tired, resigned, ready to give a proclamation that would do little to improve his situation. “Back in Mandrake, I am Ruse’s ally and in
league with the combinium.”

  Joss’s chair flew backward, a knife in his hand, his shoulder dipped. “You bring a traitor into my midst?”

  Mezzerain stood, blocking the way. “Hold!” His voice was like thunder. “This man’s under my protection. Here, he is nothing, but in Mandrake, he is mine enemy. That divide will remain sacred, especially after what he did. You know what our chivalry demands!”

  Joss was nigh foaming at the mouth.

  “What did he do?” I asked the question that was hovering on everyone’s lips.

  Mezzerain pushed Joss back. “He saved the boy Pog. He saved Pog, and that alone earns him a reprieve until we pass through those mists again.”

  “How?”

  “Do you want to tell them?” Mezzerain asked Sutech.

  “No. I want no favors. My choices are my own.”

  “And you chose to save the biggest threat to Ruse rather than let him die. It tells me that your heart is not closed to us yet.”

  Sutech grunted. “Like I said, fate has chosen a strange path for me, and my mind is always open, never closed.” He stared at Joss the Nine, and in that moment, I saw the calculated, fearless killer. In many ways, he could have been Cutter’s brother. “Besides, I’m allied to Valkyrie more than you cared to mention. Roland Caine swells my ranks, and I’d imagine, commands my forces at this particular time.”

  “He ran back into the mists when I didn’t appear,” Pog suddenly blurted. “I cracked my head on a piece of ship’s mast, knocked me out cold. Sutech found me, steered me out.”

  And just like that, I owed my mortal enemy, leader of the Lowland armies and commander of the Forbane. If any of this was Star’s doing, I made a silent vow to hunt her down, up all the streams of Talayeh—the whole lot of them. “Yeah, well,” I said. “We’ve got to find a way back before we have to worry about anything.”

  Joss looked around the room. “Well, you can make your choices tomorrow: tonight we run.”

  “Where to?” Melinka asked.