Daughter of War
Page 24
She got as close to the auras of the slaves as she could, and found a small room with a control console remarkably like the ones in the laboratory. Next to the console, a section of the wall stood blank and waiting, clearly designed to be a door.
Among the controls and switches, a large red button took up the centre of the console. She put her hand gently on it, preparing to push down. Just as she put a little pressure on the button, she faltered; she realised she would have to take the slaves above ground at some point.
She stopped, and ran from the room, a half-thought plan burning in her mind. She sprinted through the corridors, keeping track of the turns she made, until she found one of the dead soldiers. She grabbed his corpse, and his severed head, and ran to the nearest room. It was a storeroom filled with bags and boxes of foodstuff, but she ignored the contents and focused her attention on getting the soldier's armour off his body.
A minute later, she sprinted back to the control room, dressed in blood-splattered demonic armour. Luckily the red and orange mostly hid the blood, but she was beyond caring about that. She brought her fist down on the red button, and the door rumbled open faster than she anticipated. Stepping over to the entrance, she paused, transfixed by the sight in front of her.
Over a hundred people filled the room in front of her, most of them turning a gigantic horizontal wheel around endlessly. As she stepped into the dark, candlelit space, all eyes snapped to her. Two things happened almost immediately; the people turning the wheel sped up noticeably, and anyone not pushing it started sprinting for the doors. She had expected a panic, even maybe the beginning of a fight, when she revealed herself in the Ermoori armour; but for the slaves pushing the wheel to work even harder... It took her a few moments to gather herself.
"STOP!" Her voice echoed through the cavernous room.
They stopped, staring at her with weak, pale faces. A tense silence filled the room. Behind her, the light in the small control room switched off suddenly. The slaves stared at her as though they'd never heard a person talk before. She didn't have time for their shock; the alarm was bound to bring more soldiers at any moment.
"I am here to help you," she said, "you are slaves, and I'm here to set you free!"
A moment of silence filled her with doubt. Did the slaves even want to leave? In the silence, an idea came to her, and she removed the helmet. Gasps and cries filled the huge room.
"They're not monsters!" A voice shouted over the shocked gasps of the crowd.
"It's just a girl!"
"What does she mean, slaves?"
She raised her arms, and the crowd stilled.
"We must move quickly if we're going to get out of here, there were dozens of soldiers guarding this place, and there are many more on their way!"
The room filled with intense murmuring, every slave trying to have their say, most talking to each other but many shouting at her. She couldn't understand a word of it; there was far too much noise. Several of the slaves started moving towards her, and once they stood before her without getting killed, others followed. There were still questions being asked, but the crowd milled at the entrance into the guard's corridors. Elana turned to lead them out, but one of the slaves nearby called for her to stop.
"Wait." he said, "what about the others?"
"What others?" Elana said.
"This is just one wheel room. There are ten, with over a hundred workers in each one. Then there are a hundred sleeping halls, for all the Tyrans who are in between shifts." Without waiting for Elana to reply, the old man turned and shouted to the people at the back of the crowd.
"Go and get everyone, now!"
She hadn't realised how many of them there were. This place must have been the size of a town at least. Panicking now, she nodded and waited for the slaves to run off and gather the others. The wounds in her side and her leg pulsed, and she felt blood slowly dribbling down her leg. It had started warm, but was now cold and sticky. She replaced the helmet on her head, closing her eyes and trying to collect herself. She was losing strength, magic, and time.
Mara
They sat in the study of a modest home in Dawnton. Though lovely, it was even smaller than the Watson mansion. Mathys must have been making good money; why did he live in such a tiny home? A comfortable chair stood in the corner, and a straight-backed working chair faced it.
Mathys, sitting as straight-backed as the chair itself, looked at her with an expression of genuine concern. If her father had ever worn it, she would have thought of it as a fatherly expression.
"We need to be very careful," he said, "Riffolk is the most dangerous man in Ermoor, and he wants us both dead."
"You said you could take me to safety."
He nodded.
"And I can, but we need to sort some things out first. With Riffolk being publicly dead, his finances belong to you now. It puts you at both an advantage and a disadvantage. You can use his money to achieve things both him and the Twelve wouldn't have wanted, but it also means you'll be the target of anyone who wants that money for themselves."
"You mean not just Riffolk?"
"Not just Riffolk," he agreed, "there are dangerous people in Ermoor, Mara. Thieves, spies, assassins, criminals. And the Twelve Crowns themselves."
His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. When they first entered the room, Mathys lit a candle, and its small flickering glow was the room's only light. It was scented, and the smell was sweet and heavy, like nothing she'd smelled before. There was a weight to it, and it seemed to settle in her lungs, slowing her breathing. Her eyelids drooped, and despite her fear, she couldn't concentrate on Mathys' words.
She couldn't remember feeling this exhausted in her life. He cleared his throat, and though she heard it, she was too far gone. His hand closed around her wrist, gently but firmly, and he pulled her to her feet. She followed him, her eyes still drooping, until she stumbled and he picked her up. After a long walk, he laid her gently on a soft mattress. She fell asleep before she felt a pillow under her head.
She woke in flickering light, and the smell of Mathys' candles clung to her nostrils, making her dizzy. She was in a cosy bedroom, in perhaps the most comfortable bed she'd ever slept in. After the incident with Riffolk at his mansion, she'd been utterly drained. But now, sitting up and stretching, she felt brand new. Knowing there would be no more examinations, no more cold scientific stares, made everything sweeter.
She left the room, looking around the cramped hallways for signs of Mathys. For such a small house, the hallways were quite long, and the ceiling high; Mara found herself walking down one hallway for what felt like an entire street.
She wasn't in the house Mathys brought her to. It looked similar, but at the same time very different. For one thing, the walls and roof were lined with shiny black metal plates. Richly polished wooden beams ran up and down the hallway roof, and a soft carpet covered the floor. For another, there were no windows at all.
As she walked, she stared at everything. The black plates were covered in strange runes, carved into the metal. They were beautiful, but somehow scary. A strange, uncomfortable energy seemed to emanate from them, as if they followed a rhythm her body couldn't match. She jumped as soft music floated down the hall, from a candlelit room ahead.
Mathys stood before a cabinet with his back to the door, hunched over something in his hands she couldn't see. A slow, sad melody played from the teleradio in the corner. Hanging from the walls, filling every available space, were countless weapons. Things she'd never seen nor even imagined hung from hooks on the wall.
Blades, guns, coiled ropes, and things she couldn't even describe. A cabinet next to the one Mathys stood before held a mannequin dressed in black plated armour with a dark grey hooded cloak. Under the hood of the cloak, a mask she recognised instantly stared at her. The Spectre of Ermoor! She looked at Mathys again, beyond words. As gently as she could, she stepped back, moving back out into the corridor a bit at a time.
"Don't leave."
He held a gauntlet, armoured and covered in what looked like machinery. It was the kind of thing that could only have been made by Riffolk. Screaming, she fled down the hallway, running as quickly as she could. She managed less than half a dozen steps before a strong hand grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.
"Mara, I know how this looks," he said, "but you need to trust me."
Gathering her energy, she conjured a bolt of lightning, focusing it around her fist, and punched him as hard as she could. He grunted and flew backwards into the wall, and she ran again. She couldn't think, couldn't tell where she was. Mathys is the Spectre of Ermoor.
The stories she'd grown up hearing as a child flooded her mind, all at once, melding and overlapping. One fact underlaid them all; there was a spectre in Ermoor, and had been since the city was built. A protector, a ghoul that sought vengeance against those who did wrong.
It couldn't be a person. It couldn't be Mathys. The Spectre had been around for almost two thousand years; there was a chapter devoted to him in the history textbook she'd seen when she was at school. Of course she hadn't read it herself, but there was an illustration that had given her nightmares when she was little.
"Mara!"
The voice wasn't human. Ahead of her, a sudden cloud of fog exploded into the hallway, completely obscuring the way ahead. She kept running, and cannoned into something unmoving. Her momentum completely halted, she fell to the floor, and through the fog the Spectre loomed above her.
Riffolk was terrifying, but she understood his magic and his guns. The Spectre, Mathys, had taken a lightning fuelled punch and still managed to appear before her in a puff of fog like something out of a nightmare. Faster than human. Stronger. She wasn't sure she could win this fight, and that was even with the powerful magic at her command.
"Mara," the voice was gentler now, though no more human, "I need you to trust me. I'm not going to hurt you, but you can't leave. You're not safe."
Arthor
If he was going to survive, he needed to have the Twelve on his side. He had to go all-in. Total loyalty. As soon as Mathys left his office, he sent a signal to them. A button under his desk was linked to some kind of alert which was monitored by the Twelve; it told them when he had something worth reporting. He didn't understand how it worked, but they were always able to meet him within an hour of the button being pushed.
He left as quickly as he could, heading straight to the secret entrance into the meeting chamber. The walk took a little while, and he strolled through alleys and streets, cycling back sometimes, going at a leisurely pace despite his chaotic heartbeat. He wore a dark cloak, his military uniform folded neatly in a draw in his office. All important protocols to keep from revealing any of the Twelve's secrets.
The entire time, all he could think about was Mathys. If he was truly moving against the Twelve, it would mean a lot of deaths. Possibly Arthor's, possibly Mathys', but certainly many more before that. He'd seen the Spectre in person once, back before he knew who wore the mask. It had been terrifying.
It was no less terrifying now that he knew who the Spectre was; if anything, knowing Mathys was capable of such brutal and seemingly impossible things made it even more terrifying. Now, as he walked carefully through the city towards the Twelve, he couldn't help suspecting that Mathys was nearby, watching and following.
A deep shadow filled the chamber, almost as deep as the silence. Arthor stood in front of one of the Crowns, trying his hardest not to fidget. Again, he thought, only one of them bothered to show up. Finally, the Crown spoke.
"The Spectre... interesting. Very interesting. You're quite certain?"
"Yes. He is going to move against you soon, possibly has already started."
"Thank you for your concern, Lord Commander. We are safe, but if he is a threat he must be eliminated."
It is for the best. Mathys will not stop until you and the Twelve are dead.
Arthor's chest tightened, a weight growing in his stomach. They knew he was loyal now, he had to hold on to that. But to prove it, he'd given Mathys' life. It was him or me, he thought, and Mathys has no wife or children, no family to protect or continue his name. The thought was meant to comfort himself, but instead the weight in his stomach twisted and burned.
Mathys was perhaps the best person he knew; strong, dedicated, loyal, intelligent, and devout. He'd worked all his life, tirelessly, for the betterment of Ermoor and its people.
No. He is plotting against you. He is going to destroy what you have worked so long for. He already sabotaged you, lied to you by pretending to be me.
"I know!" Arthor shouted. He couldn't help it. The Crown recoiled a little.
"I'm sorry. My emotions are running high lately."
"Ah, yes. You and Mathys are close, aren't you?"
"We've known each other a long time."
"I see. I'm sorry, Lord Commander."
"So am I."
A short pause followed, and Arthor could have sworn he saw the Crown give a slight nod before continuing.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, "but the Commander made his choice. Call for an announcement at Rookfell Square as soon as possible, and announce to the public that Commander Mathys Corby is hereby sentenced to death."
The stage at Rookfell Square was massive. An open area, backed by a wall of navy blue banners with the symbol of the Twelve Crowns in blazing white on each. In front of him, thousands of people watched and listened as he told them of Mathys' crimes. Some were invented in his meeting with the Twelve the night before, some were real.
Printed photographs of Mathys were plastered everywhere. A reward had been set, an outrageous amount, for information leading to his capture. An even larger sum would go to whoever captured and brought him to the Lord Commander; dead or alive.
The entire time he spoke, he felt exposed. Mathys had nothing to lose now; no reason not to attack. But no attack came. The crowd reacted to his accusations the way the Twelve knew they would; anger and outrage and demands for justice. Mathys wouldn't be able to set foot on the street without a mob coming after him.
He is trying to destroy everything we are working towards.
Hearing the voice inside his head while standing in front of thousands of people was a uniquely terrifying experience. Stop, he thought, panicking, if I react I'll be branded a lunatic in front of all of Ermoor.
Everything will be okay.
It was the first genuinely reassuring thing the voice had ever said to him. He could breathe again, and the crowd seemed far less dangerous than it did just a moment before. He gave the stage to Commander Barton, and left as the new Commander addressed the crowd. As he stepped off the stage, out of view of the people, the voice started again.
Mathys
Mathys reeled, his stomach twisting and burning. A public order for his death; he expected that from the Twelve eventually, if they found enough evidence; but coming from Arthor himself? Nowhere is safe. He ran over rooftops, back to the safe house; though calling it that felt wrong now. The Twelve, to his knowledge, had never known the real identity of the Spectre. But no one had ever known the real identity of the Twelve before, either; Mathys couldn't rely on secrets any more.
He had no idea what Riffolk was truly capable of. Before the mess he found himself in, he'd never have thought the scientist capable of murder or assassination. He'd long suspected some foul play on the part of the Overseer, but the methodical brutality he'd witnessed was beyond anything he could have imagined.
With so much cruelty, so much intelligence, and now unlimited power, both as the 'Twelve Crowns' and as a wielder of magic, Riffolk had become an unstoppable force. And now Arthor was allied with him too. Mathys' training would make no difference against such a threat. Mara was barely a month into her training; there was no way she would be ready to fight if they stayed in Ermoor. His on
ly choice was to disappear, and make a plan.
Tarsium was the obvious choice, but they had to disappear for a while first. His task force had begun searching the swamplands, but were called back after the Twelve—no, Riffolk—finally realised how useless the search would be. It didn't take long; Ermoor, or at least the continent outside of the city, was the size of Shanaken and Tarsium combined. With at least half of that gigantic land mass being swampland that was difficult to cross at the best of times, there was no way Mathys and his men could have found the creature. It was the perfect place to hide.
Elana
Finally, the room had filled with every slave in the underground city they called Tyra. There were so many that they filled the tunnels leading into the rest of the city. Elana gestured, and strode into the now dark corridors. The slaves could see perfectly, and their footsteps behind her gave her strength; she was moving with purpose again, in front of a veritable army.
She sprinted through the dark corridors, thousands of footsteps rushing behind her. The entire place was as dark as the stone tunnels leading out from the room where she'd saved the slaves from. They're here, she thought as she ran, they've arrived and they've shut off the lights to scare us. But even as she thought it, Shadow Magic showed her the corridors, and there were no Ermoori soldiers; at least not too close. She looked above and saw thousands of them milling around certain areas, trickling downwards one at a time, into the underground corridors.