by Alex Lang
GLOOMWALKER
Saga of the Severed - Book 1
Alex Lang
GLOOMWALKER
Saga of the Severed - Book 1
Copyright © 2019 by Alex Lang
All rights reserved.
Published by Alex Lang
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter One
The Silver Sun shines eternal, the saying went, and staring at its white light hovering in the distance Kyris could almost believe that such a thing had always been and always would be.
Living his entire life with just the one true sun in the sky, he was surprised by how quickly he had adjusted to living with two, having come to Vigil barely four months ago. Even on nights such as this one, when work had him skulking about, it didn’t hinder him overmuch.
While the Silver Sun may never set, it did cast long shadows. From such a concealment Kyris surveyed the wide, empty street that butted up against the wall he wished to surmount.
From his earlier scouting days prior, he was surprised to find that no patrol traveled this route. The keepers of the Path preached that Allithor’s light kept the nightdwellers at bay, but he’d never felt repelled, and here he was, about to trespass upon a highborn’s estate.
Kyris moved from cover into the open, feeling exposed as he ran to the wall. There would be no easy explanation if someone came upon him now, attired as he was, holding rope and grapple. He gave the four-pointed hook head two quick twirls, then sent it over the wall. He reeled in the rope, dragging the grapple back up along the other side until its sharp spikes caught hold. He pulled hard, leaning his weight away to test it. It held. Kyris said a quick prayer to Shar and climbed.
Head guardsman Tarhan walked the long, tree-lined pathway leading to the manor house on the Curunir estate. The rains had stopped a day past, though the air was still heavy with moisture, giving the night a biting chill. A patchwork of clouds drifted across Mezu Vur, a bright crescent in the sky, casting pools of fast-moving shadows upon the ground. The Silver Sun shone, too, high upon its Spire far to the south, at the center of Vigil, but at such a distance it was just a floating, isolated beacon. Reassuring, nevertheless.
The front entrance of the manor was lit up by a pair of empowered quartz torches mounted to the wall on either side of the doors. The new creation of the Artificers of Falduin emanated a soft, even light that never dimmed. Held in Tarhan’s hand with pride and reverence was a lantern version of these wonders, bestowed to him by the lord of the estate.
Of late, the rock torches were all anyone talked about, especially amongst Lord Rhistell’s esteemed visitors. Tarhan had overheard much concerning how the marvels would further expand the Imperium’s influence and thus, its borders. If the same protective glow that bathed Vigil could be transported to the fringes of the empire, anything could be possible. Perhaps the Frontier might even be tamed. A new wondrous age was upon them. These grand notions were not Tarhan’s originally, but he would repeat them, nevertheless, with enthusiasm to his drinking fellows and argued down any who said otherwise, calling them fools.
Spreading Allithor’s blessing, however, came at a high cost. Tarhan had nearly choked on a piece of rabbit when he’d been told the price of a single lamp by the house steward; it seemed a resource required for manufacturing the new touches was rare and difficult to acquire. Ownership of these wonders had become a symbol of status and wealth. There were a dozen illuminating the estate grounds, and that wasn’t even counting those on the inside of the manor. Many unfavorable things were said of House Curunir but lacking in coin was never one.
Tarhan approached the front entrance of the manor house. Flanking the ornately carved wooden doors were two guardsman armed with halberds and attired like him in blue and white tunics over mail shirt armor. He nodded and, in unison, they saluted, bringing a fist to chest.
“Carth. Jara,” Tarhan said to the two sentries.
“Captain,” they replied.
“All's quiet?” Tarhan asked, stroking his gray bread.
“Yes, Captain,” Carth affirmed.
“Good, good.”
Tarhan was making his last rounds to all the stationed sentries on the estate. Having already checked on the gatehouse and the outbuildings, the manor was his last stop before retiring to his room in the guards’ quarters for the night.
Carth opened the door for him, and he passed through into the entry hall. Tarhan’s routine circuit of the manor took him through the many rooms of the first floor—the library, the drawing room, the grand hall, the dining hall, the sunroom, and the altar room—always ending with a brief respite in the kitchen before he’d continue upstairs.
He settled at the cook’s table where he partook of flat bread, various nuts, and cheese left out by the cook.
The kitchen door creaked opened. “Tarhan?” a tentative voice asked.
“Aye, Almas,” Tarhan said as an old man entered the white light cast by his prized lantern. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“Same as you, I imagine.” Almas, the house steward, gave a knowing look at the food Tarhan had in his hand.
“You mean Suha didn’t leave these out just for me? Ha, grab a stool.”
The two old-timers of the estate, as they saw themselves, chatted about their daily goings-on, but the topic eventually landed on the estate’s current guest, the lord’s nephew and famed windstrider, Alderin of Curunir.
Almas spoke of the dinner between the uncle and nephew and of how Lord Rhistell had drank three bottle of wine, grown morose, then gone on in length about his own children, who had all been lost through tragic circumstances at the Frontier and at sea.
With the conversation and food exhausted, Tarhan bid Almas a good night and resumed his patrol, heading for the second floor.
“By Allithor’s charred cock,” Kyris cursed under his breath as he struggled with the lock, probing and angling with the pick. He’d never encountered such a complex mechanism before, and it was proving itself to be his better. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he readjusted the angle from his small, hooded lamp to provide better lighting over the safe, hoping it was just improper illumination that prevented him from gaining access. He contemplated returning outside to snatch one of those new rock torches he’d passed on his way in but dismissed the thought. It wasn’t the lighting that was the problem, he knew.
Kyris’ new nemesis barred entry into a safe that was built within a heavy wooden desk, in place of a pull-out drawer and shelves.
A whisper of noise caused him to freeze. The balcony door behind him was ajar from his ingress, and he wondered if the sound came from outside. He waited, motionless, straining his ears, but the noise didn’t repeat itself. Kyris gave the other two doors, the proper entrances of the room, each a glance, and then resumed his frustrating work.
The room was grand, both in size and decor. Mounted heads of animals of all kinds covered the wall to Kyris' left. He was familiar with most of what was on exhibit; a snarling wolf, the feline head of a sand lynx, and a buck with antlers that flared out wide, but some were unknown to him. There was a narrow-jawed lizard with teeth crammed into neat rows within its gaping maw, and a doltish-looking mound of a thing, with a single menacing horn upon its snout. One trophy, tucked near the corner, appeared to be a ram, of some sort, but the features were not quite right. Two large, upturned horns crowned its head, its face frozen in a snarl of fright or aggression. It had beady black eyes that shone whenever the light struck it. There was also an intelligence to those eyes that made Kyris think not all on display were animals.
Beastkin were not a common sight in the fighting pits of Yond, appearing only for special events or during festivals. Kyris had learned not long ago that their fights were not true contests but bloody offerings to appease the crowd. The beastman never won. The pitmasters ensured that.
A door in the same wall acted like a divider, as a wide array of weapons were displayed counter to the mounted trophies. Bows, crossbows, spears, javelins, and hurling axes all hung on pegs and hooks. Kyris felt the implication was that the decorations on the left resulted from the instruments on the right, and that the lord of the manor was a great hunter, indeed.
The wall to his right was lined with shelves packed full of books to such a degree that there wasn’t a single gap among the rows. Kyris got the feeling that the volumes were more decor than well-used library.
On the wall across from the desk that he crouched behind, encompassing almost the entire surface, was a mural of the goddess, Kalaa the Tempestborne. It was the most striking and magnificent depiction of the Storm-maiden that Kyris had ever seen. A beautiful woman with flowing sterling hair, blown to one side by the wind. From her back arched a pair of golden-feathered wings, fanned out like a descending bird. A billowing, gossamer gown clung around her body. The thin material hid nothing and outlined every curve. The Tempestborne held a sword in one hand and a single golden feather in the other, the significance of which was lost on Kyris. In the background, a massive storm raged, lightning interweaving through the dark clouds, casting the goddess in a blue glow. The perspective of the painting was from below, the view of some lowly, ground-bound worshiper gazing up at the divine being. Despite her obvious beauty, there was a sternness to her features, a coldness to her gaze, as though she was judging and weighing one’s worth and mere moments away from proclaiming it lacking.
The painting had transfixed Kyris when he’d first entered the room, and even now he occasionally glanced up from his task, feeling the goddess’s judgmental eyes on him. This distraction didn’t help in his already difficult battle with the lock, and if she were assessing his performance, he couldn’t argue against her verdict.
Finally, an audible click, sounding extraordinarily loud in the silence, but when Kyris pulled on the handle, the safe door still wouldn’t open. Upon closer inspection, he discovered the lock had seized. He had triggered some kind of jamming mechanism with his tampering. Kyris groaned, then gave a sigh of resignation, having reached the limits of his patience. He abandoned his lock picking tools and returned them to his satchel, then dug out a small hand-crank drill. Marlek had asked him to do the task clean, for the theft might not be discovered for days or weeks if there was no outward sign of a break-in, but he also knew when to admit defeat. He would putty over the drill hole and hope no one noticed. Having the prize in hand was better than not having it at all, he reasoned.
Kyris positioned the Loddsteel drill head against the keyhole and cranked the handle, turning the gears. The sharp tip began to spin, burrowing in and creating spiral shavings of metal. He was mindful not to turn the handle too fast and cause undue noise.
All his focus was on the drill and lock, so when the door in the northern wall swung open and a much brighter light blinded him, it struck Kyris dumb.
For tonight’s endeavor, Kyris had garbed himself in his usual work attire, an outfit of dark grays from cowl to boots. Feeling suffocated in his frustration with the lock, he had pushed his cloth face mask down around his neck. He had his short blade sheathed and strapped to his lower back and affixed about his body was an array of throwing knives. Even had he not been caught in the act, there would be little doubt about his intentions.
“Who are you?” a low, hoarse voice demanded in slightly slurred speech.
Kyris dropped the drill and jumped to his feet, facing the intruder. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the light and squinted but was unable to see clearly the figure who had entered.
Without waiting for an answer, the figure moved to the right of the door. Kyris could make out enough to see a bearded man pull a hurling ax free from the wall.
“I’ll teach you—” the man started, taking a quick step forward.
Without thinking, Kyris drew a throwing knife from his thigh sheaths and, in a single, smooth motion, hurled it underhand, an exercise well-rooted from countless hours of practice.
The man's head snapped back, his forward momentum halted. He looked about the room, mouth agape, seeming lost, then slumped to the ground like a sack of grain, the lantern he held clacking loudly against the floor.
Kyris stepped out from behind the desk, another blade out and ready, though it didn’t appear the weapon would be needed. The first throwing knife had struck the face, embedding deep in the right eye. The man, who was of considerable girth, had on a rumpled sleeping gown and looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. A well-groomed, squared beard framed his round features.
Kyris noted the quartz lamp still clutched in the man’s hand, and the many gem-encrusted rings upon that hand. Was this the huntsman responsible for all the mounted heads? If so, those days were long past. Regardless, given where he was, Kyris was certain the body that lay before him was the master of the manor. He had just killed Lord Rhistell of Curunir.
“Oh, Ruma’s bloody eyes,” he whispered at the realization. A titter bubbled forth at the unintended pun. It was a common curse but all too apt for the situation. He clamped his lips tight, unsettled by his own reaction.
He fixed his gaze on the handle of the knife jutting out; an unnatural, obscene addition to the man’s visage. It was an excellent throw but more a cruel trick of Shar than skill, he thought.
This wasn’t the first time he’d killed, nor would it be the last, of this he was certain and committed. But it seemed improper to be so flippant. Or was that Baaz speaking in his head?
His heart was pounding, which was perplexing since he’d barely exerted himself.
Kyris certainly hadn’t set out this night to kill the Lord Rhistell. If the fool hadn’t tried to attack him… But what was a single dead highborn to him? Would a hundred or a thousand more deter him from his path?
The answer, like a soothing balm, cleared his mind and brought him back to the task at hand.
Marlek would have his hide for this blunder, but perhaps he could still salvage things. Kyris moved to retrieve his discarded drill, intending to resume work, but the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the closed door of the study had him grabbing his satchel and rushing for the balcony instead. His hand snaked out as he passed the bookshelves, tossing two volumes into his bag, and then he was out in the cold night air.
The study door flew open, the light framing the silhouette of a guardsman.
Kyris cinched his satchel closed and threw himself over the railing.
As he fled, Kyris spared a glance back and saw the guardsman on the balcony watching him. He took a moment to cover his face with his cloth mask, chiding himself a fool for having it down in the first place. He was halfway across an open field on his way towards some hedges when the resounding clang of a bell rang out, manic in its tempo. Whoever the ringer was, they took to their task with true furor. The clamor would rouse the entire city, Kyris feared.
&n
bsp; He barreled through well-manicured flower beds, darted around decorative stone columns that held up nothing but the sky, and ducked behind the hedgerows that surrounded the late Lord Rhistell’s garden. Voices, shouting commands and demanding answers, came from the direction of the house, but it seemed, for now, his exact location was unknown to the pursuers.
Kyris attempted to retrace the same route he’d used while infiltrating the estate, although at a much faster rate. What had taken him an hour of slow creeping and crawling to traverse, he covered in a matter of moments. He was, however, careful to avoid the pools of light given off by all the enchanted quartz torches, which was difficult given how many dotted the grounds.
As he ran along the hedgerow, Kyris cursed Lord Rhistell for the extravagant manner in which he’d flaunted his wealth, the artificers for creating the damnable lights, and of course, Allithor, for all such profanity-laced tirades of his ended with the Divine Flame. Deep in his blasphemy, he almost missed the sounds of approaching guardsmen coming from the other side of the hedge. The heavy stomp of their boots and the jingle of their armor as they ran were unmistakable. The barrier of shrubbery ended ahead, and their paths would intersect, but neither running back towards the house nor risking the open field was an acceptable option.
He was trapped. The guardsmen would cross over to his side of the hedge any moment. There were only two options now, fight or…
With an effort of will, Kyris summoned forth the cold presence that hovered at the edge of his mind, pictured as a plain wooden doorway with darkness beyond. He leaped at it, and the world blurred and shuddered, wavering for a breath before snapping back into something more substantial but yet markedly different. A jarring sensation accompanied the transition, a feeling of being yanked though he hadn’t moved in the slightest, at least not in any conventional direction. He thought of it as ‘shifting,’ and he scarcely noted the feeling, having become accustomed to it after so many years.
