by RG Long
Another scurry of footsteps and the sound of a door closing.
They waited. The high priest sat there, making notes with a quill on a piece of parchment that was laid out in front of him. Usually, as far as Serinde knew, when men did this, it was with furrowed brows and hard expressions. Like all of their mental faculties were being used to focus on that one sheet of paper.
Not this man.
He looked absolutely jubilant. Like everything he had ever wanted had come true.
Serinde didn’t know the plan. She didn’t know if Silverwolf had a plan to tell her. It didn’t matter. Silverwolf had leaped from her hiding place and thrown her hands around the neck of the high priest before Serinde could even properly react.
“I want to know three things from you,” she had said. “And I expect that every answer you give me will be a lie, but I’ll ask them all the same.”
A look of pure horror was covering the High Priest’s face. His hands went immediately to his neck, trying to pull Silverwolf’s away. Serinde had taken a step out of the curtains and drawn her knife. She wanted to make sure she was ready for any guards who might have come back through the door.
“Did you know I still had breath in my lungs? Who did you sell me to?”
Serinde paused as she had been moving from behind Silverwolf to the side so she could get a good look at both the priest, the door, and SIlverwolf’s face. The assassin was a mask, devoid of emotion. Her words sounded angry and hurt, but her face was passive. Still.
“And why did you give away your own daughter, you sorry excuse for a man?”
Silverwolf’s fingers tightened around the throat of her father. His eyes went wide as he gagged for breath.
“Answer me, father, and I may not kill you slowly. Call the guards, and I will definitely strangle you without a second thought of my own life. It’s not been much to think of.”
Relenting just enough to let him breathe, Serinde heard a terrible gasping sound as the man’s airways opened back up.
“I...” spluttered the older man, looking much less pompous than he had just a moment ago. “I never sold you, Ella.”
Ella? thought Serinde. So she had a real name.
Silverwolf’s fingers wrapped around his throat again.
“That is not who they call me now,” she said with a snarl in her voice. “They call me the Silverwolf. I am an assassin. I kill for coins, you old fool. I once slit a man’s throat as he lay next to his wife heavy with child. For a king’s ransom, mind you, but this is who I’ve become. A sellsword. A hired killer.”
Serinde took a step closer. The priest was no longer fighting Silverwolf’s fingers. Instead, his eyes were bulging, and pathetic gagging noises were coming out of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.
“Now answer my questions.”
Another gag and cough followed as she let up on her grip and he took in life-giving breaths. The next time he spoke his words were so garbled that Serinde could barely understand him.
“I gave... Gave you away to hide you. To protect. To Gerriander Ottobon. A family friend who promised me he’d take you somewhere safe.”
“You sold me as a slave, you wretch,” Silverwolf replied. “I was on a ship headed for Galin as soon as the carriage left the castle.”
“Galin!” the priest exclaimed. “No! That’s not... But there must have been some mistake!”
“Give me one good reason to believe you.”
“Gerriander lives!” the priest gasped, as Serinde saw Silverwolf’s muscle tighten and her fingers squeeze. “He told me you were safe! He lives in the east still. He can tell you what he told me!”
Serinde waited for Silverwolf to make the killing strike. To produce a knife or sword from a hidden sheath and end the old man’s life. If he really had sold her into slavery, a fate which she said she only narrowly escaped, then even Serinde could see a need for revenge.
But the assassin didn’t move.
Her fingers didn’t close down harder, and she didn’t take a hand away for a blade.
What was causing her to stop in her act of revenge?
“Lord Regis?” came a voice from the door. And before Serinde had turned around properly, a spear was flying past her ear and straight into the heart of the high priest.
As she climbed down from one perilous foothold to the next, Serinde replayed the scene over and over in her head. Silverwolf ready to choke her father to death for the sin of selling her off, freezing when he had offered a reason to believe him.
Not a reason, really, a name.
Serinde’s hand slipped as a stone that she had been holding onto let loose from its mortar and fell a dizzying distance to the ground below. She felt a moment of terror before righting herself and grabbing onto a different stone. Praying it would hold, Serinde put her foot on the ledge that they had edged across to get to the high tower.
It would be balance and footwork from here on out.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as she saw Silverwolf’s back walking across a long stone path that was the top of a high roof. “About your father.”
This had to be the roof of the magnificent temple sanctuary. Underneath them was a giant room with a great statute of the Ladis god: Decolos.
But thoughts of what lay beneath their feet drifted away as Serinde caught sight of Silverwolf. She had spun around at her words, a hand on a knife.
So she did have a few more blades hidden in her sleeves.
“Never mention what you saw to anyone,” Silverwolf said through snarled teeth. “I have no father. I have no name but what you call me by.”
Serinde looked at this woman she had traveled beside for so long. She saw red in those eyes. Not a rage-filled type of color that usually came with the desire to kill.
These eyes were red for other reasons.
Serinde nodded her head.
“As you wish,” she said.
Silverwolf huffed and turned around, continuing on their journey. Serinde knew they would get out of Prommus without many problems. The city was now focused on the route of Isol and pursuing the army away from its borders. Together they would sneak out of the city and continue their quest to find Yada and retrieve their stolen goods.
And in the meantime, Serinde had many things to think over.
Not least of which was of Ella, the girl who turned into the Silverwolf.
24: Shoes of the Weary
Jurrin wasn’t sure about everything that had been happening over the last two days. On the one hand, he was very concerned for Miss Olma and the new appearance she had taken on. With it came an attitude that seemed entirely not her own. While the Olma before the barn incident was quiet and reserved, this Olma was rambunctious, almost reckless.
She jumped from rock to rock, not appearing to tire or grow weary after a full day of walking. Jurrin felt like he had lead in his shoes. By contrast, Olma was restless and pacing the campfire at the end of the day. Jurrin could tell it made Holve anxious to have her so active. The older man hardly slept at all as he watched her moving and running about. Jurrin tried to keep his eyes open and help watch, but sleep overtook him.
He had slept next to Galp and Gorplin. The two seemed an unlikely pair, but they bantered back and forth often. Galp was a talker, even more than he was, which surprised Jurrin. He had known Urt to be quiet and reserved. Who knew a Skrilx could talk so much?
Gorplin argued with Galp every step of the way. He told him he talked too much, or that he was wrong about the rock types that they were encountering, or that his measure of a distance of a mountain was off by so many miles.
The two got on better than Gorplin did with most.
Jurrin felt a type of kinship with them as well. They were all members of a race that just didn’t exist here on Ladis.
Well, Jurrin thought as he looked up at Szabo leading their group. All except him.
Jurrin had thought he might get along with Szabo, but the two hardly had any time to talk. Holve and Ealrin kept the halfling talking n
early nonstop about all the goings on of the Theocracy and Isol. He was a wealth of knowledge and the two men lapped up every bit of it.
Miss Rivius and Ferrin kept to themselves at the back of the group, always within calling distance but not too close either. Jurrin wondered if Blume and Olma worried them. Blume had gotten a bit of her powers back at her disposal for a moment, but it had taken a heavy toll on the group.
“I’m sorry about Mister Maccus,” Jurrin said as they picked their way through a rocky mountain trail. Szabo said his contact lived up in a cave high up on the side of the mountain. It had been a lucky circumstance that it was out of the way of the army. Jurrin could look out and see the banners of Juttis as they marched east and south, walking towards the city of Prommus. They were specks on the horizon now.
Jurrin turned back to look at Tratta as she climbed up behind him. She hadn’t looked very well since the barn and Jurrin couldn’t tell what seemed to be bothering her more. The woman had appeared to be so hard and well-traveled when they first encountered her. She was not a picture of defiance anymore. Her hair was unkempt, and her eyes were red and puffy. Jurrin could have sworn he heard sniffles the night before.
He couldn’t blame her.
He had shed his own tears over friends he’d lost.
“Miss Tratta?” he asked again, trying to catch her eyes. “Are you alright? I know Maccus was a cousin of yours. I’m sorry that he’s gone.”
Tratta shook her head and focused her eyes on him. She blinked twice before swallowing and looking at him.
“Hmm? I couldn’t hear you, ya know?”
“I’m sorry about Mister Maccus,” Jurrin repeated. “He seemed brave and strong. I know he was family to you. Are you ok?”
Tratta sniffed once before continuing to climb up the hill past Jurrin.
“I’m fine,” she said, patting Jurrin on the shoulder. “Thanks for askin’ though.”
She moved on ahead of him and continued to follow after Blume and Olma. Jurrin had a distinct feeling that she wasn’t as well as she said she was.
“Keep an eye on her,” a voice said from behind Jurrin. It made him jump a bit. Ferrin and Miss Rivius had closed the gap much more quickly than he had anticipated. “She’s been a bit distraught.”
“And not without cause,” Miss Rivius said, her arms crossed. “That girl...”
Jurrin looked at them both with wide eyes.
“Miss Blume? She didn’t mean any harm. Just that terrible ring from Isol. No wonder she’s been a mess. And poor Miss Olma. Who knows what’s gotten into her.”
“I am precisely worried about what has gotten into her,” Miss Rivius said.
Jurrin didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He didn’t have to. Szabo called them from further up the path.
“Just up here!” he said, motioning with his hands. Jurrin could see him waving down at them, just before he passed behind some rocks and a scrawny bush. Wrapping his arms around him and wishing his coat was a bit thicker, he continued walking up the path, thinking on Tratta and Miss Rivius’ words.
Olma had changed.
Not least of her changes was the fire red hair that came down past her waist and the black markings that seemed almost alive on her skin. She jumped down from the rock she had been perched on and began walking the way Szabo had indicated. Miss Rivius and Ferrin gave her a wide berth, but Jurrin walked up to her.
“How are you feeling, Miss Olma?” he asked her while trying to get his feet to continue along the path. He was certainly feeling the day’s climb and strain on his legs.
“I don’t have a care in the world,” Olma replied. “Not one. Did you know I could do this?”
Before Jurrin could respond, Olma had jumped up into the air and was almost as high as the men stood before coming back down gently onto her feet. She hardly even disturbed the rocks on the ground.
“Miss Olma!” Jurrin exclaimed. “How did you do that?”
Olma shrugged her shoulders and continued to walk up the path.
Jurrin closed his mouth. He had left it hanging open at her feat and followed behind. Whatever had come upon Olma was certainly something that needed more explanation than Jurrin could offer.
They were the last to arrive at the cliff Szabo had taken. All the other members of their party were looking back towards the plains they had come from. Jurrin didn’t need to turn around to see what was on their minds. They all stood watching the army of Juttis.
“What do you think it means?” Jurrin finally asked. “Think Prince Dram is in charge of them?”
“Most definitely,” Holve replied. “And it means he’s going to claim the throne of Prommus. Whether or not he’ll find one there is beyond me. Yada’s forces should have made the trek there by now.”
“And if they do find a Prommus under siege or one already occupied by Isol?” Miss Rivius asked. “What do you suppose then?”
Holve sighed.
“With what we saw in your own home, Miss Rivius,” he replied. “I don’t know the extent of the damage that could be done.”
Jurrin took in a big breath. He had seen Prince Dram’s magic. Or whatever it was. It was terrifying. And if he wasn’t the only one who was capable of such feats, then the army of Prommus would have its work cut out for them.
And so would Isol.
“All this war,” Jurrin said. “It hasn’t really solved anything yet, has it?”
“What’s that, Jurrin?” Holve asked.
“We’ve seen so many people go to fight. Androlion. Rophilborn. Now Prince Dram and Miss Yada.”
He shook his head.
“So many people dying for little gains. Oh, the last two times have been alright in the end, but still, so many dying.”
Jurrin imagined all the people who were marching off to war to fight others battles. What would it gain them? They had all they needed in Juttis. At least it appeared that way to him. Why take more when you had what was sufficient?
“So many deaths,” he said again, shaking his head and failing to find words to describe what he felt adequately.
“Let’s try to see if we can’t save one then, shall we?” Szabo said, having already turned his back on the scene of Juttis’ army marching south. “The cave is this way.”
Szabo started walking, and the rest of the group followed him. Jurrin was just behind Ealrin and Holve.
“Think his friend will be able to help, Mister Ealrin?” Jurrin asked with real concern. He liked Olma. He hated to think about something going wrong with her. Something more wrong than what seemed to be going on around all of them, anyways.
The suns were finishing their descent after a long day’s journey. Jurrin could feel the waking up mountains all in his legs. He hoped they could stop here for the night. Provided the lodgings were better than a bare patch of dirt, he may just be convinced he was staying in a lovely inn or even a palace.
“I hope so,” Ealrin said, looking over at Holve. “I really hope so, Jurrin.”
Jurrin looked over at Holve too but saw that the man kept this eyes on Szabo. Maybe he didn’t trust him yet. Jurrin couldn’t exactly blame him. They had only met the halfling two days ago. Then again, they had trusted others on much less.
The air began to cool significantly as they started walking not up, but down. Jurrin looked up and spotted an opening in the face of the mountain. A little cave entrance that was covered in vines. Jurrin wouldn’t have been able to see that there was anything there at all behind the vines, save for the fact that they startled and moved slightly though there was no breeze on the mountain.
The cold air was coming from the cave.
Strange, Jurrin thought. The whole rest of the mountain side was utterly devoid of vegetation. How could those vines grow without any water or proper care?
“Mister Holve, remember those nasty creatures down south?” Jurrin asked, remembering being in a lake in a cave much like this.
“I do,” Gorplin said, puffing out his chest and raising the dagger
they had found for him. “And I’m keen to get some fighting in if I can. Galp hasn’t stopped talking this whole way about rocks, and I need to break something.”
“Not rocks,” Galp corrected and pointing excitedly off to the side of the path they were on. “Indigenous species! Just look over there!”
“BAH!” Gorplin shouted. “I hope there’s something to beat down in there.”
“No monsters. An old man, maybe. Just in there,” Szabo said, pointing inside the cave. “My friend Cecil.”
“Cecil?” Ealrin asked, looking over at Szabo. “Seems like a proper name for someone who lives in a cave.”
“Yeah, just make sure you look at his left eye,” Szabo said, indicating his eye with his finger and giving a wink. “Ignore the right. It’ll lie to you.”
“I heard that!” came a shout from inside the cave. “And I’ve got company. Take your shoes off before you come in. Mind your manners!”
Szabo chuckled before turning back and heading inside the cave.
“Same ole’ Cecil!” he said, taking care to remove his shoes before disappearing underneath the vines that covered the entrance of the cave almost completely.
“He was serious about the shoes, ya think?” Tratta asked as she stepped forward, looking at the undersides of her shoes as if examining them for dirt. All of their shoes were in the same condition: torn and dusty from the miles of walking they had done since arriving on Ladis.
“He was!” came a shout from within.
25: The Potion Master
The voice coming from inside the cave didn’t sound old, Jurrin thought. Just grumpy.
With a shrug, he began to take off his shoes and watched as the rest of their group did the same. The only two who hesitated were Holve and Miss Rivius.
“Not very ladylike,” she said under her breath as she removed her shoes and placed them neatly beside the pile everyone else was throwing theirs into.
Holve waited until everyone else had taken theirs off before removing his own. He sighed heavily upon doing it but removed his shoes quickly before turning to walk into the wall of vines.
