by David Green
“There are other ways to kill than Evisceration!” Ganton hissed, releasing her.
The ground beneath her feet cracked and she fell to all-fours. Ganton dragged stones from the mud and smashed her to the ground again. Her Second Sight blinked out as the rock cracked her skull. Pain bloomed when she attempted to call her magic. Bile rose in her throat.
The trembling stopped. She blinked through the tears and haze of pain. Zal lay dead and the Banished lay beside him, unconscious. Ganton’s volley had knocked him cold. She looked up at the remaining Sparker as he stood over her.
“No one can know of the Banished,” he whispered. “I act for Haltveldt and Emperor Locke.”
Ganton lifted his hand. A bone-deep weariness washed over her. She wanted to scream as a presence touched her skin, as it tried to force its way into her body. She tried to suck in breath, but the air in her lungs became flame and her vision turned black. Calene’s heart beat once—a slow, laboured creak as her fingers and toes curled. The lids of her eyes peeled back. A single word swam to the surface of her retreating mind.
Mother.
Calene gazed at Ganton, whose cold, blue eyes turned black, just the same as the Shadow Sparker’s. And she saw the leaves moving behind him.
A red-haired woman unfolded from the trees, sword drawn. An elf.
The beggar from the road!
The elf thrust her sword through Ganton’s back. It burst from his chest and blood spattered Calene’s face. The Evisceration dissipated. She gasped and fell forward, holding herself up on hands and knees. Ganton had only touched her for a heartbeat, and not with the ferociousness of the Shadow Sparker’s assault on Vettigan, but she felt as if she’d run fifty miles without stopping. Her bones ached, her sides stitched, her limbs trembling with the relief of being alive.
Ganton dropped to his knees in front of her. They stared into each other’s eyes. He looked confused, crimson bubbling on his lips. The elf swung again and relieved Ganton of his head.
“Thank you,” Calene whispered, looking up at the elf.
She didn’t hear. She stared past Calene at something behind her, horrified.
Calene spun, skidding in the mud. Vettigan still lay where he’d fallen but the Shadow Sparker had risen from the road, limbs buckled, neck crooked, flesh and cloak perforated by splintered bone and stained with blood. Red dripped from its mouth in a thick stream. It jerked like a marionette as it inched towards Vettigan, black tongue lolling across its lips.
Calene reached out with her Spark, shunning the excruciating pain that wracked her entire body, and pulled on any source of energy she could find. Life bolstered her, chasing away the exhaustion entrenched in her soul, fortifying her will, restoring her. She breathed deep and let it loose, a blast of air with the force of a hammer. It slammed into the Shadow Sparker’s body, shattering ribs, rocking it back on its heels. It didn’t fall. Instead, it took another staggering step forward.
Calene hit it again. It twisted as the force glanced its shoulder. She heard the joint pop. Still it came. She sucked a breath through her teeth and threw out everything she had with a scream of fury. The Shadow Sparker staggered, then slumped to one knee. Blood streamed from its face. Her attack had scrambled its insides. But it wouldn’t die.
It lifted its head, stared at her. She recognised the glint of the Second Sight in its eyes. It could see her Spark. It wanted it. Its hand rose towards her.
The elf swept past like a breeze along the forest trail, stirring the leaves in her wake. Calene heard the hiss of her blade cleaving air. The Shadow Sparker’s outstretched hand dropped. It toppled.
Calene slumped into the mud, and saw the Shadow Sparker’s severed head rolling across the road as the darkness swallowed her.
CHAPTER SIX
A MAN OF HONOUR
‘The Elven Quarter? ‘Tis a terrible sight. One day, Avastia will make the Emperor pay for his treatment of the elves, you mark my words.’ - An excerpt from a letter intercepted by Emperor Locke’s Inquisition, written by a disgraced Haltveldtian nobleman.
Things had changed in the days since the Emperor’s proclamation and the abolishment of the Laws of Engagement. The most vocal politicians against the Sparkers’ freedom to act in matters of war had grown quiet. More than one had experienced a change of mind, while others had left Spring Haven for their estates in the country, Master of Coin Uriel among them.
Kade made his way through the bustling streets of the capital, late for a meeting with Bertrand. The pair had scrambled to find support for those in Solitude; even with the relaxing of the Laws, the sheer number of Banished would overwhelm the defenders, and beyond Solitude lay Adhraas. The Emperor had authorised no evacuation. The official word insisted that tales of imminent invasion from the Banished lands amounted to nothing more than scaremongering.
Kade knew of some within the Sparker Order who had outright refused to join the push against the elves since Emperor Locke’s ruling. Bertrand had contacted them, urging them to journey north to lend aid to Solitude. He hoped time favoured them; Kade hadn’t received word from Garet or Zanna since the initial flurry of communication, and his thoughts strayed to Arlo. He worried for every soul at Solitude, but his son’s fate lay in his and Bertrand’s hands.
So long as the Banished hadn’t already attacked and swept the Sparkers away.
Kade smashed a fist into his palm in frustration. Octarian spice brought clarity and certainty at first, then anxiety, anger, fear. He’d lost count of the times he’d snapped and snarled in response to innocuous questions. The exhaustion that followed caused him to sleep late into the morning after lying awake most of the night, and had him jumping at shadows even at the best of times. He bit at his fingernails and tasted the sweet tang of the spice beneath. Enough to make his urge for a real fix grow.
The events since the Conclave meeting, and Nexes’ apparent knowledge of Kade’s past, had him on edge. Glancing at a storefront window as he rushed through Market Street, the major business hub of Spring Haven, the spot between Kade’s shoulder blades itched. He paused and watched the reflections for a moment, certain someone followed him.
It’s the spice, he told himself, hand straying to the hilt of his sword. It’s rotting your brain.
Kade had endured a restless night by even his standards; he’d guzzled Avastian brandy and huffed spice as he packed his travel bags. He’d bought passage on a ship leaving Spring Haven after his meeting with Bertrand; room enough for a company of Sparkers.
Too much room, in Kade’s mind. He’d approached numerous mercenary groups in the city, seeking to buy an army for Solitude. All had refused his advances as the guild masters prepared to take their bands south to join the push against the elves. He couldn’t trump the coin of an Emperor.
“We’ll be in more danger from thin ice and bears than your Banished,” the first man had told him. The others seemed to share that conviction and Kade had ground his teeth through every round of negotiation until his jaw ached.
If only I had proof, he thought, with a sour twist to his mouth, though I doubt it would make any difference. The Emperor and his friends seem fixated on the elves, no matter the cost. It’s almost as though they want Solitude ruined.
He shook his head. Sometimes, the spice made him feel like conspiracies lurked behind every action.
Bertrand had picked an inn near the harbour for their rendezvous, a place named Auntie’s Blessing. Kade wasn’t familiar with it, but expected a certain atmosphere. The docklands were a law unto themselves within Spring Haven; a hive of scum and villainy. Drink, meat, spice, flesh—all had its price. Down here, by the water, it came cheap.
The Emperor turned a blind eye to the murders and the power struggles between the various gangs. Kade reckoned the throne collected its taxes in other ways in those muddy alleyways, brothels and taverns. The constant state of flux ensured no gang came out on top. T
here could be no expansion, no spread of the infection. He appreciated the Emperor’s savvy, as much as it disgusted him.
Kade hated this part of the city. Not just the tense, powder-keg atmosphere and rampant crime, but the Elven Gates and the slums beyond them. They’d sprung up centuries before, as a place to keep slaves under watchful eyes and iron heels. The Empire used the elves for labour—construction, repairs, mining and the like—but the people of Spring Haven didn’t want them as neighbours. They needed homes, if they could even be called that, but the Empire’s obligation ended there.
What better place for filth than a cesspit?
He paused as he reached the giant iron doors leading to the segregated elves. Guards in gleaming armour stood with their backs to the towering walls, and two bright-robed Sparkers sat on stools beside them. A group of loitering citizens hurled abuse—a favourite pastime for many—at any elves passing by, who peered back with black-ringed eyes at the hateful mob before moving on, heads bowed, silent.
As Kade watched, a man, face twisted with vitriol, threw a rock at an elven child who strayed too close to the gate. The projectile struck the child and knocked them down. Blood splashed into the dirt.
“Guards,” Kade shouted, pushing his way toward a bored-looking soldier. “Clear this crowd. Now!”
“Drok off, pretty boy,” he replied, sneering at Kade, “or I’ll rearrange your face until even the wenches around here won’t touch you.”
He’d dressed in plain clothes—to pass unmolested through the docklands—and looked like anyone else living in lower Spring Haven. He drew himself up and moved his cloak away from the hilt of his sword. Its white-gold pommel caught the sunlight.
“I am Kade Besem, a Master of the Conclave,” he said, his even tone filled with icy fury. “Do your duty before I have you whipped. Or better yet, kill you myself.”
The guard blinked, eyes dropping to the pommel before glancing at the Sparker sitting by his side. The magi studied Kade’s face, then nodded at the soldier. Kade felt a vague sense of recognition, but couldn’t place her. He used to have a memory for faces. Before the spice.
“Sorry, sir,” the guard said, lowering his eyes. “It’s the clothes. You look like a mercenary, is all. Begging pardon, sir.”
Kade didn’t answer as the man signalled his colleague to join him. He balled his hands into fists and pushed the impulse to fight down into his gut.
I wanted that fool to give me an excuse, he thought, drawing a deep breath. His anger still bubbled beneath the surface.
“This is fine with you?” Kade growled, turning his frustration on the female Sparker instead. “Children assaulted while you sit and watch?”
The Sparker’s eyes turned cold. “They’re fortunate we give them somewhere to live,” she responded, summoning fire into her hand and staring into the flames, “and we don’t go in there and wipe them out like the vermin they are.”
Kade spat at her feet, and she smirked back. He approached the gate and kneeled, eyeing the stricken elf—a boy, not much older than Arlo.
The child picked himself up off the ground and stared at Kade, a thin, gnarled hand pressed against the wound on his forehead. Blood seeped through his bony fingers. He wore rags caked in filth, blond hair smeared brown with dirt, high cheekbones so sharp they almost poked through his stretched, pallid skin.
“Here,” Kade said, pulling a clean handkerchief from his cloak. His hand shook as he held it through the gates. “I’m sorry. It’s all I can offer.”
The boy watched him, before taking a slow step forward on trembling legs. He snatched the cloth from Kade’s hand and pressed it against his head.
“I hate you,” he mumbled, voice cracked and hoarse. “All of you.”
“I know,” Kade whispered, tears welling as he thought of Arlo trapped behind those bars, in that place. “I don’t blame you.”
Their eyes met for a second, and Kade saw the shadow of his son. Instead of love, mistrust and animosity stared back.
The child turned and staggered away. Kade scanned the slums beyond the walls. He knew the elves lived deeper in the shantytown, but the place seemed deserted now. Elves loved the forests, the rivers, the hidden, beautiful places of the world. Even the finest palace in Spring Haven would have been a prison to them.
Kade sighed. For an elf, only servitude to a wealthy household could save them from the slums, but it still meant slavery. Like Arlo’s mother, Rune.
She’d been a servant in his family’s service and he’d found himself smitten the day he’d returned home from the guildhall to find her working there. It might have been her maturity—he’d still been a boy, more or less, and her ageless in the elven way—or perhaps the way she didn’t seem to find him charming in the least. Different from all the other girls he’d known. Her disdain hadn’t curdled his interest. Instead, it had only made him determined to prove how different he could be. The turning point had come when he’d stopped the steward whipping another slave for stealing bread. Kade had insisted he’d been the thief. Then he’d pilfered even more bread and brought it to her.
He stole any time alone with her he could. Rune would tell him of her childhood home, in the Forest of Mists, before the Haltveldtian Empire had driven the elves further south. Before they’d captured her.
He’d pledged to run away with her, once they were married, and he’d meant it. He’d been ready to leave it all behind—Spring Haven, his home, his career, all of it—but when Rune had fallen pregnant, he’d told her they could trust his parents. That they’d see the truth in their love and provide for their grandchild. Rune hadn’t believed him but she’d stayed anyway.
She’d been right. His parents hadn’t seen the truth. And, when Rune had died, they’d called it a blessing of the gods.
In the years since, Kade’s reputation had suffered as his family circulated stories of a baby left on his doorstep after a night of youthful passion at a brothel. The strength of the Besem name ensured him a place in the Conclave—as the first son, he had a duty to represent his family’s interests—but the role of Liaison to Solitude served as a mark of his indiscretion. His parents hadn’t complained. Kade suspected they’d been the hand to slap his wrist.
His embarrassment didn’t matter. The need to keep Arlo safe outshone his ego. Except that now Arlo stood between Haltveldt and the Banished hordes, and Master of War Nexes knew their secret.
“Be careful what side you’re on,” the Sparker said, as Kade walked past. The fire danced in her hands. “Elves and their friends will get theirs soon.”
###
Kade ducked into an alley and leaned against the wall. The Auntie’s Blessing lay close, but the sun beat down on him and his hands shook. He told himself the experience at the elven gates had unnerved him, and it had, but Kade knew the truth.
I’m an addict, he thought, glancing around to see if anyone watched.
He couldn’t shake the nagging sensation of eyes on him the whole journey to the docklands, but whoever might have been following him didn’t enter the alley.
He took his snuffbox from his cloak and held it to his nose, the container shaking below his nostrils. He breathed the drug’s powerful aroma, let it flood his senses. Within seconds, his strength returned—colours swelled and deepened, and the hubbub from the city sang in his ears like music. He let out a ragged sigh, straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow with his cloak.
“I’ll give it up,” he muttered, concealing the box, “as soon as I save Solitude.”
Kade strode into the Auntie’s Blessing and took in the scene. Drunken sailors drank more, played cards and called for music though the sun had only risen a few hours before. It didn’t matter the time of day at places like this—alcohol, food, music and sex flowed to anyone with the coin to pay. A fight broke out in the corner and one sailor picked up a chair and slammed it across the back of another. A braw
l ensued and Kade moved, unnoticed, towards the warren-like backrooms.
People of all stations and walks of life conducted business in places like this. The brothels drew many from the Conclave and higher society. Wasn’t Kade supposed to know that better than most? Bertrand’s message told Kade to look for room one hundred and eight. The inn had three floors, and the place he needed lay up two flights of stairs.
Kade passed an open window and looked out at the harbour. Sunlight sparkled off the sea’s surface and he could taste salt on the air as seagulls wheeled and shrieked.
Such a beautiful day, Kade thought, walking toward his destination, or is this what they call the calm before the storm?
Knocking once on door one hundred and eight, Kade pushed inside.
“Bertrand, I hope the news is good. I’ve a ship ready to—”
The words died on his lips.
Destruction lay about him; broken chairs and tables strewn across the floor, scorch marks on the walls and blood leading towards the bedroom. Kade drew his sword and followed the trail. He closed his eyes and braced himself as he nudged the door open.
Bertrand’s body lay on a crimson-soaked bed, wide eyes staring at the ceiling and face twisted in a rictus of agony.
Kade heaved and vomited on the floor as he took in Bertrand’s remains. They’d stripped him naked and tied his wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed. Angry cuts and gashes covered his limbs, face and chest. His torturer had ripped his stomach open and his intestines hung from the gaping wound. A dagger jutted from his left eye—the finishing blow—and Kade held no doubt Bertrand would have welcomed it.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His eyes wouldn’t stop watering. The stench of death hung heavy in the room—rusted iron and voided bowels. Kade ran to the window and flung it open.
