Unseen Secrets

by S. B. Sebrick

  "We're finding out," the veteran decided, tossing the ladle aside. The air shrieked in delight as he drew his sword, his off-hand glowing red with surging heat. The prisoners squealed at the increased temperature and light, reaching through the bars and cackling in madness.

  "Where could he be?" the young guard said nervously, unlocking the cell. Its door turned on rusty hinges, as if shrieking in warning. He pulled out his thick headed mace. He followed the veteran into the cell. "Should we call for reinforcements?"

  "He's already left," the veteran snapped, glancing over his shoulder at the young boy behind him. Through the black shadows, they could see the outline of the cell's stone walls and ceiling. "Can't you see that? He's not here."

  "Not quite," Corvan cackled.

  Before the young guard's eyes, a pair of scarred feet materialized from the shadows, catching the veteran by the neck. The prisoner jerked him forwards with such force the veteran sailed through the air and into the back wall with a bone crushing crack. Electricity flashed across the cell, either by rampant fear or a forced attack on the veteran's part. The prisoner merely accepted the blow, laughing.

  The older guard tried to slash at Corvan, but the prisoner's chains rattled with amazing speed, looping around both his wrists and pulling his arms apart. In a flash of distorted color, the prisoner materialized among the shadows, smashing his knee into the veteran's descending head.

  Finally overcoming his fear, the young guard charged at Corvan, swinging his mace at the back of the prisoner's head. Corvan spun with perfect precision, eyes closed and laughing as he fought. The mace only grazed the prisoner's head, its momentum careering onto the veteran's glowing sword hand. In the following seconds it took for the young guard to realize his mistake, he found the veteran's sword careering towards his neck, followed by the grin of its new owner.

  The young guard retreated, barely managing to parry the blow. A string of pain laced his chest and he could feel warm liquid oozing down his skin. Just as the blade returned for a second, impossibly fast attack, the prisoner's chain drew taught. The veteran howled, his hands still wrapped in the prisoner's chain, shoulder twisted to an impossible angle as it cracked.

  Somehow, the veteran managed a kick at the prisoner's kneecap, throwing off his aim by mere inches as the prisoner threw the blade. The young guard tried to react in time, but the sword sped through the air at him as if hurled by a ballista, not a man. It smashed into his gut, hurling him backwards into the opposite cell's iron bars.

  The young guard grit his teeth and summoned all his focus and rage. Water wrapped around his chest, staunching the wound. His hands glowed red, hot enough to sear flesh and he growled like a cornered animal. He hesitated a moment, considering searing his own belly wound closed. Then the captives behind him caught hold of his limbs through the bars, drinking up his heat in delight. The skin of their faces burned upon contact, but if anything, the extra heat only granted them increased vigor.

  "No. No!" the boy cried, struggling against the other prisoners. He tried to reach for the sword, or burn his attackers, but they only drank in his elemental assault and held his limbs immobile.

  "Thank you for unlocking my cage," Corvan stood free at the open door of his cell, tossing the keys aside that once hung at the boy's belt. He stood tall now, wearing his tattered linen garb as if it were a uniform of state. Before the young guard's eyes, he watched the electrical burns on the prisoner's chest heal and fade.

  "What are you?" The boy demanded. The veteran whimpered in pain, trying to detangle himself from the mess of chains and his own broken bones.

  "A man wrongly imprisoned and mercilessly tortured," Corvan hissed, watching with a sadistic smile as the other prisoners pinned the young guard to the opposite cell's iron bars. "I've left you two alive, to deliver a message for me. Are you listening?"

  "Go to Raejin's lair," the boy hissed. But he could feel his anger draining away. The prisoners were denied heat for far too long, now they pressed their thin faces against his red hands, savoring his warmth. Cold and its concurrent despair crept up upon his mind, whispering of a dangerous prisoner released, his friend lying broken in the opposite cell, his career over.

  "As you wish," Corvan nodded, retrieving his whistle and taking the sword hilt in both hands. "I only require one of you to deliver this message. Your friend will do nicely."

  Corvan jerked the blade free. The young guard screamed in agony, reaching out with his field, commanding all the water he could to staunch the bleeding, but to no avail against so large a wound. He watched his blood pour from his belly in a torrent of pain, only mildly hindered by his command of water. The prisoners' behind him gradually lost their interest, feeling his body's loss of vitality and its coinciding elements.

  Corvan stood over the broken veteran, blood soaked sword in hand. "Guard, you never went out of your way to mistreat me, for which I will give you your life, in thanks. Tell your Harbor Guild in like fashion that I will not forget how they've treated me, these last few months. Tell them, they will soon receive the same treatment. I'm coming for them next. Then the Sight Seeker."

  Darkness closed around the young guard's mind. Suddenly he felt far away, cold and somehow, left behind. Then, he felt nothing at all.

  Chapter 16

  "We have minutes, if that," Kors calculated, glancing down the hallway. "We're pretty far beneath the Harbor Guild, but the Watcher probably told the guards exactly where to find us."

  "Find me something flammable," Calistra ordered, rising shakily to her feet. She gingerly cradled her seared hand by the wrist, teeth gritted in concentration as she commanded nearby water to soak the useless limb.

  "Here," Keevan pointed out, begrudgingly pulling a bottle of oil off the bottom shelf. It was probably for the Rhets among their guards, even the Harbor Guild had to give its weaker members an elemental aid for working torches. As dangerous as it was in Calistra and Kors' company, the Harbor Guild would do much worse to him. Then who would save Bahjal?

  "Break it over the trap door," Calistra ordered.

  Kors chuckled at that. "Indeed. Light it and let's be off."

  Holding the bottle by the neck, Keevan smashed it against the melted lock. Greasy oil covered his right hand and the sleeve of his cloak, as well as the floor of the storage room. Calistra hobbled over to the dark, slick liquid and snapped the fingers of her good hand. Sparks fell, igniting the shipping oil.

  Yellow flames leapt into the air, banishing the subterranean cold. Some oil fell through the melted lock into the chamber bellow, carrying the same burning hues into the Watcher's domain. Keevan gulped. Calistra was right. The guards would have to tend to the fire before resuming their search.

  With Kors in the lead, they ducked into the hallway, just as the Watcher sent another wave of elements into the earth beneath their feet. Dust sprinkled onto Keevan's hair and down his neck. He stumbled on the trembling floor, steadying himself against the wall's cold, rough stones. Instinctively, he switched to his elemental vision, detecting only a faint glow of heat beneath the floor from the Watcher's assault.

  "Douse the eyes," Kors ordered, cuffing Keevan behind his left ear. The blow left a stinging pain in its wake. "The guards will see."

  "Through here," Calistra ordered, guiding them to another side door. Ahead, the stomping of a dozen metal boots announcing the guards' presence, accompanied by shouts of orders and the hissing of various weapons sliding from their sheaths. "Handle the lock, Kors."

  The big Etrendi put his hand against the key hole, drawing water from the surrounding atmosphere into it. A sudden chill filled the air, and Kors pulled a key of ice from the lock, grinning in satisfaction. "There's a trick you'll never see in the courts."

  "No time for gloating," Calistra snapped. Shadows and firelight danced on the wall ahead of them where the tunnel turned.

  "Right," Kors said, unlocking the door.

  They slipped into the dark room, shutting the door behind them, just as the guards round
ed the corner. Again, the earth rumbled and a couple guards clattered to the ground with shouts of alarm.

  "Send a runner to tell the Watcher that's enough!" one guard bellowed in irritation. "If we can't keep our footing, the intruders certainly can't."

  "Yes sir," a young guard answered, clattering back the down the hallway as the floor shook for a third time.

  Keevan couldn't help but appreciate the effectiveness of Calistra's distraction. The burning oil above the trap door would keep sending drops of heated oil or flecks of smoldering wood into the Watcher's field. What would the great sentry think? He'd already blasted the area four times with enough force to slaughter a small army. Keevan could only imagine the chaos that would hit the city at large, its citizens sensing the countless vibrations from each assault and fearing the worst.

  "Back here," Calistra ordered, knocking aside a stack of empty crates, her path lit by the red glow of her wounded hand. Kors hurried after her, digging their way towards the back wall.

  They stood in a different kind of stock room, full of boxes, rope, pulleys and other contraptions Keevan could only assume originated from one of the Harbor Guild's many ships. They were the most secretive of the guilds and few non-members were ever allowed to set foot on their crafts. Saving Keevan as an infant was one of those few exceptions.

  "There," Calistra sighed in relief. "Here's our way out."

  She stood before a small iron grate, barely wide enough to fit Kors' bulky shoulders. Despite the thick dust coating its metal bars, the bolts holding it over the crawlspace were suspiciously shiny. Kors immediately went to work, freezing and thawing water intermittently to loosen the bolts. A thought caught at Keevan, a realization.

  "How'd you know exactly where that grate would be?" Keevan asked. "Neither of you could have gotten within a hundred yards of this place, you're not Harbor Guild material. Zerik has someone in the Guild, doesn’t he? Someone who loosened up the spikes for you. You needed to surface in Harbor Guild territory so I couldn't just turn you two into the palace guards and find Bahjal."

  Calistra sighed. "This one's a bit too smart for his own good, isn't he?"

  "Almost," Kors prodded absentmindedly, his attention fixed on the grate's metal bars fixed in the adjacent stonework. "He is still missing a few pieces."

  "Stop hinting for him, then," Calistra snapped. "We're in enough trouble as it is," She tried to cuff him behind the ear, but bumped her wounded hand against a stack of boxes next to her, hissing in pain.

  "Zerik figured the boy was sharp enough to figure this out," Kors replied emptily. He smoothly pulled one of the iron spikes from the edge of the grate. "There's nothing the boy can actually do but cooperate. He can't interfere in the plan, neither can you, for that matter. So stop worrying."

  "If your plan was so perfect, why did this have to happen?" Calistra grumbled, lifting her smoldering hand into view. Her twisted, misshapen fingers set Keevan's stomach twisting with nausea, even before smelling the scent of melted human flesh.

  "My guess is they don't completely trust you. So severe a wound will weaken your elemental commands, so now we both are at Kors' mercy," Keevan said, folding his arms in defiance. Calistra paused, glaring at Kors in shock, as if realizing a few deeper truths herself. Keevan continued. "Try kidnapping a few more helpless children Calistra, maybe then Zerik's people will like you more."

  "Cut the sarcasm. Bahjal De'Sarthan is far from helpless," Kors muttered, steam rising from the ice around the next spike. "Stop distracting me."

  "She's a Rhet, you're an Etrendi," Keevan replied. "You could have captured her without hurting her so much. I've never seen that much blood at one time."

  "The blood wasn't hers," Kors growled, pulling another spike free. "She seriously wounded three of my men in the brawl."

  "I don't believe you," Keevan said stubbornly. "I've known her for years. She's just a Rhet. Nothing to you Etrendi. You didn't accidently bruise your leg either, I bet."

  Calistra uttered a slight gasp and took a step back in shock. "That's why you made sure I took my father's ring? To make sure I could melt the lock and do this to myself?!" She raised her withered, melted hand to his face.

  Kors rolled his eyes and stood to his full height, holding an iron spike like a dagger. "Zerik knew you were impulsive and powerful, a dangerous combination on any mission. We had to test you. Up until now, you've done your job well and we'll do what we can for your hand when this is over."

  "Why don’t you burn out a limb and then tell me everything will be alright?!" Calistra hissed.

  "Enough," Kors ordered, reaching down and pulling the grate free. He left three inches of ice atop all the fingers of his right hand, like an inhuman pair of claws. "Calistra leads and Keevan follows. I'll bring up the rear. Now hurry, before the guards check this room."

  Whatever her reservations, Calistra restrained her tongue and crawled into the tunnel. It only took one glance at Kors' cold eyes and sharp claws to make Keevan's limited options clear. Somehow, he had to get the upper hand. He gulped nervously and followed after Calistra.

  The narrow passage lacked the smooth stones of the melted tunnels beneath the palace. Here, the tips of other bolts, sharp edges of roughly laid stone and poky bones of dead rodents prodded at them from various angles as they crawled. Thick dust coated his sweating skin and oil-soak hand. Kors kept their pace slow and steady, grumbling at each corner where he could barely make the turns. They passed a couple small grates, too small for anyone to fit through.

  Eventually, Calistra and Keevan were a couple body lengths ahead of Kors. With every few feet, Keevan caught a faint whimper of sorrow. The air behind her felt frigid, but lacked the numbing power one would expect of a crying Etrendi. Oddly enough, he felt sorry for her. Zerik read her well. She would blindly obey until he finished with her, as long as Arnadi paid in the end.

  "Calistra," Keevan whispered. "Looks like we're both in over our heads."

  "Uh huh," The Arnadi heiress sobbed softly. "I just wanted to hurt my father. No one else."

  "Pretty sure I could think of easier ways to do that than burn out your own hand."

  "They were ... sabotage his supplies ... for me. Make him ... laughing stock... of Issamere," Calistra replied, her tears breaking up her words with each haggard breath.

  "If I can get us away from Kors, will you help me?" Keevan asked, whispering so low he feared she hadn't heard him at all. Kors huffed along behind them, cursing at the occasional prodding bolt as he squeaked around another corner.

  "Yes," Calistra murmured. They turned into a straight section of tunnel, the light of two grates shinning ahead of them like candles of a warm house welcoming them home. "But... careful. Kors ... killed. When the mission is ... might have orders to kill me... too. They surely have plans for you though."

  "I have plans for them too, now," Keevan answered, "No one beats my friend and gets away with it."

  Chapter 17

  Keevan fought unsuccessfully against a fierce sneeze. The stagnant air in the tunnel seemed to coat his lungs and tickle his nose to no end. The Watcher's earth-shaking assaults had ceased. Despite the distance they'd crawled, Keevan hadn't heard any voices, nor cries of alarm. None of the rooms they passed were occupied by a single soul. Whatever they're objective, it lay in a secure portion of the palace few could access, if they ever did at all.

  "Stop whispering, you two. Calistra, melt your way through the second grate." Kors barked, shortening the space between them now that he didn't have any turns to worry about. After a moment's hesitation, he added. "Can you manage it without hurting yourself more?"

  "Yes," Calistra answered, though her voice was strained from crying. "It will take a couple minutes though."

  "Then get started," Kors ordered. "I've got insects crawling around in some ungodly places."

  "Alright. Keep your distance, Keevan," Calistra said. They reached the grate and she lay on her side, looking out through the dust coated bars. Even from a body length away, wit
hout his elemental vision, Keevan could see her elemental control slipping.

  Though the metal caught a faint red glow and the dust around it smoldered, the whole tunnel around her flickered with heat from odd directions. Random spider webs or patches of dust smoldered within three feet of her in every direction. Gradually, the iron bars shifted from a dull red to a vibrant yellow. The air around the grate shimmered with heat. Keevan suddenly felt very gratefully they lay in a stone shaft and not a wooden structure.

  Soon, a puddle of molten iron lay where the grate once hung. With a wave of cold to cool the metal, drawing on her despair far faster than she did in the tunnel, she crawled out into the light. Keevan followed.

  They did not look like great thieves of legend, clad in leather and black to hide in the shadows. Instead, they were coated in dust, bruises and bugs. Kors didn't look much better, as he scrambled from the tunnel. His back popped as he stood straight, sighing in relief.

  Glancing down at his feet, Keevan noticed a thin grate looking down onto smooth, molten rocks. They stood just above the catacomb's tunnels. Kors had 'tripped' in order to force Calistra to wound herself in the escape. Keevan shot the big exile a measuring glance. Had he memorized the catacomb's layout as well? Whatever role Calistra played in this heist's earliest stages, the authority Kors pretended she had was no more. They could have easily melted the grate from the catacombs beneath, but for some reason, Kors wanted Calistra maimed in the escape.

  "What is this place?" Keevan asked. They stood in a circular stone room, reaching at least three stories high. A thick stone door on the north side of the room bore thick layers of disturbed dust from recent turning. Drawers and shelves lined every available inch of space, with narrow rusty, ladders welded into the wall at various points. Wide windows above lit the swirling dust around them, giving the impression they stood in a swarm of insects reaching up to the morning light.

  "A Repository," Calistra answered, awed despite her wounds. "It's as old as the city itself, from a time when the Tri-Beings were more capable with the elements than we are now."