Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  “Because I agreed to take responsibility for you, for the mess you created.”

  Kyris started to speak, a retort ready on his tongue.

  Caldir held up a hand. “Oh, I recognize it was not all you. Marlek had his own part in it. Sending a newcomer like yourself on such a task. He should have known better. Regardless, I will make sure that neither the Curunirs nor the watch find you, and in turn, find us. You do understand that you did not only make yourself a target by your actions, but our entire syndicate?”

  “Why am I still alive, then?” Kyris asked, as if indifferent to the reason.

  Caldir smiled. “You seem to be a man of some talent and skill. I am a believer that true talent should be acknowledged and properly utilized.”

  As he’d suspected, the man still hoped to reveal him to be a scion.

  “Now,” Caldir continued, “are you clear as to why you are here? Do you agree that you are in my debt?”

  Kyris nodded. “I suppose so, put in that light.”

  “I’m glad. I figure the amount of ten thousand tals as fair recompense.”

  Kyris’ mouth dropped open. “I can’t—”

  “No, no, of course not. I don’t expect you to pay this sum at the moment.”

  Kyris scowled but held his tongue. He had valuables stashed away, but they were intended for the Whisperer, not to be extorted. In any case, he felt Caldir had other plans beyond wringing tals from him.

  “Fifty percent of your earnings will go towards paying off your debt.”

  Kyris balked. It would take years to work off that sum. It amounted to servitude.

  “Do not worry, it won’t take as long as you think,” Caldir said as if reading his thoughts. “You will find those in my direct employ are paid well.”

  “And what sort of work would that be?”

  Caldir considered the question before answering. “My segment of the organization is a bit more nebulous, more flexible. The jobs we take from clients and our brothers within the syndicate entail a wide range of activities. I like to think of us as… problem solvers.”

  Kyris almost snorted. He was certain the ending of a life was the resolution to the kind of problem Caldir referred to. As he’d told Jahna, he'd expected it. Caldir thought him a good candidate given his performance at the Curunir estate. If the man only knew the true extent of what he could do. His ability made him especially well-suited for this type of work, though he had avoided such in the past, partially because of Jahna and Tasi.

  Kyris had no delusions about himself. He was no paragon of the old virtues. He’d seen his share of death, been the cause of it, and was determined to mete out more to his sworn enemies, but to do so indiscriminately or at the will of another? That didn’t sit well with him.

  But what could he do? Refuse and run? No, not before he found out if Caldir could get him in contact with the Whisperer. He was too close to his goal to retreat now.

  Caldir stared at him but said nothing, as though understanding he was deliberating within himself. The silence stretched.

  Finally, Kyris said, “Very well, but I do have a request.”

  Caldir’s expression tightened, but he gave a single nod for Kyris to continue.

  “I work alone. I'll do whatever job you set before me, but I do it by myself.”

  Caldir’s eyebrows rose, clearly interested in an explanation, but then he smiled. “Duly noted, although I cannot make any guarantees. I will keep it in mind and try my best to accommodate. Will that be acceptable?”

  After a long pause, Kyris nodded back.

  “Very good. We’ll be at our destination soon.” Caldir withdrew a black cloth from his coat pocket. “If you would please indulge me in this,” he said, giving the cloth to Kyris.

  Kyris looked at the fabric, then back at Caldir. He’d come this far. The man wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to stab him while blindfolded… he hoped. Kyris tied the cloth around his eyes, all the while holding the presence of the Gloom at ready. If he heard anything suspicious, Caldir would be in for a surprise, he resolved.

  Blinded, he had nothing to note but the sound of the carriage wheels going over the cobblestone streets. He tried to imagine where they might be; which district, which direction had they gone? Had they crossed a bridge? He had noticed none of the details when he was talking with Caldir. The only thing he knew for certain was that they had not traveled further up the hill.

  Time stretched in the dark, and Kyris was taken aback by how vulnerable he felt. Only the knowledge of a certain escape allowed him to calm his nerves and to accept the situation. He could throw off the blindfold in an instant, but what if the darkness was not so easily remedied? This was Jahna’s life. A life where she had to rely on him and Tasi in order to survive. Kyris didn’t believe he would be strong enough had he been the one blinded.

  The carriage came to a stop.

  “We are here.”

  The door to his right swung open, movement and weight shuffling.

  “Take my arm, I will guide you,” Caldir said from outside the carriage. “It is not far.”

  Kyris did as he was bidden. Again noting the strange situation, with Caldir playing the role he and Tasi did for Jahna.

  He felt the transition of stone to wood floor, heard a door closing behind him. They were indoors. Caldir led him forward as more doors were opened and closed.

  He felt helpless, and it angered him. The urge to throw off the cloth was strong, but he suppressed it. This was what Jahna experienced every day. He could accept it for a short while longer.

  Finally, Caldir said, “You may remove your blindfold.”

  Sliding the cloth off, Kyris blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light of Caldir’s cane. They stood at the edge of a small landing, with a long flight of stairs leading down into darkness. Glancing behind, he saw only a wall.

  “This way,” Caldir said, heading down first with his cane held out front.

  The air became chilled and musty as they descended.

  At the bottom, another door opened into a stone corridor. Caldir led him through a series of chambers and intersecting passageways. It became clear an entire complex was down here, but still, he didn’t expect what they came upon.

  The light of Caldir’s cane shone on two large, ornately crafted copper doors, green with age.

  “If you could hold this for a moment?” Caldir asked, passing the cane to Kyris. With his hands free, he pushed open the doors to reveal a grand, oval-shaped chamber, lit brightly by braziers fueled with burning logs. Kyris’ attention was drawn upwards as he walked in. The ceiling arched smoothly into a dome, at the apex of which was a dark, circular hole, a chimney or vent. A mural had once decorated the curved surface, though now only patches of imagery could be discerned. A hand, a portion of a sword, the paw of some animal. The rest had fallen away, revealing the brickwork beneath. Railings of a second level lined most of the chamber, except for the space above the two entrances. Kyris understood the purpose instantly. They were for an audience, space to stand and observe from above.

  Six alcoves lined the wall where statues, or what remained of them, sat upon pedestals. All the heads and faces of the sculptures had been smashed. At the far end of the room was another set of copper doors.

  Caldir stopped in the center of the room and looked to Kyris, who had remained at the entrance. Even if he hadn’t grown up in and around them, Kyris would have recognized this chamber for what it was; an arena. Though he never seen one quite like this.

  He walked forward, taking everything in. To either side of the entrance were racks of weapons, wooden ones for sparring on the right and the more lethal steel variety on the left. The majority of the floor looked to be a mixture of packed dirt and sand, except along the walls where it was paved stone. A thick rope marked the border between the two.

  When he reached Caldir, he gave the man an inquisitive look.

  “It’s our little training yard, or in your case, the proving ground. I merely discovered
and claimed it for my own. As to the chamber’s original owners…” Caldir looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, “well, I do not know. Although, I daresay the intent is rather obvious, and in that I have not deviated far from its original purpose.”

  At that moment, men walked into the room from the same entrance they had just used. They wore cloth masks over their faces. The newcomers were unarmed and garbed in heavy, padded, quilted-cloth jackets. All except for one. The last figure to enter the room was a woman, and she did not wear the sparring jacket. Instead, she had on a loose tunic and trousers, and her hair was cut short around her head. A mask covered her face, as well, but Kyris knew it was the same woman he had seen with Caldir on the street.

  “Right,” Caldir said. “I trust my intuition, but that does not mean I do not want to see it for my own eyes. You will find a large assortment of wooden practice weapons against the wall. Pick whatever you like, and then we will start. Oh, and be so kind as to set your knife aside. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  A test, then. He could not have wished for a better trial.

  Kyris couldn’t help but feel excitement and nostalgia at the sight and smell of the chamber. He smiled at the memories of the many years of his youth spent in just such an environment, albeit not underground. Odd, how grueling the training had been at the time and yet how fondly he looked back upon it now.

  A few of the masked men stared at him as he passed, and he wondered if they’d mistaken his smile for cockiness. Then again, perhaps that wouldn’t be completely incorrect.

  Hanging on pegs next to the rack of wooden weapons were padded cloth long-jackets identical to the ones worn by his soon-to-be opponents. He lifted one and examined it, feeling the weight, then decided against it, favoring mobility. Kyris glanced over at the woman and, upon further consideration, he removed his own coat and hung it on a peg. He had to make a proper impression and convince Caldir of his worth. A few bruises would be of no concern.

  Kyris walked over to the rack of wooden weapons and selected two daggers; they felt proper, indicating that they were weighted. He tucked the daggers in his belt. Next, he selected two shortswords that most approximated the weight and length of his own blade.

  Readied, he walked to the center of the room, ignoring the looks from the masked opponents. He took a moment to kneel, picking up a small bit of sand and working it through his fingers. He smiled again. It even felt like the same sand from Baaz’s training yard.

  The woman walked over to stand next to Caldir at the side, while the remaining four went over to the rack and selected their own weapons. It seemed she would not be participating. He wondered what role she played but then admonished himself for getting distracted.

  The four, now armed, surrounded Kyris, though still giving him a good amount of room on all sides. Kyris assumed a fighting stance, armed with a shortsword in each hand.

  “Let us start things off slowly,” Caldir said, and at that, the man directly in front of him attacked.

  His opponent was around his same height but stocky, had long, dark hair tied back in braid, and armed with a wooden longsword. They tested each other with a few tentative short lunges and jabs. Shuffling forward and back, trading half-effort swings. Then a lazy thrust turned into a full charge as the man attacked in earnest.

  Ready for such a move, Kyris retreated, dodged, then met the follow-up strikes with his own. After two loud clacks of wood clashing, he scored a solid hit on the man’s arm.

  Easing back, he waited, unsure of how things were to proceed. Would he fight one of the others now?

  The man rubbed his arm through the padded coat, rolled his neck, then stalked forward wearing a deep scowl as if to say that he was now serious.

  Kyris raised his shortswords in a defensive guard, but he heard movement behind him. Turning, he dodged just in time to avoid a club swing from one of the others. Following through with the motion, he dove to the side as the wooden longsword from the original attacker swept through overhead; another narrow miss. Kyris hit the ground, rolled over one shoulder, and came up swinging like a madman just to keep his opponents at bay. They backed off a step, and without pause, wishing to give them no time to think, Kyris charged, attacking with both swords in a flurry of swings and strikes. Being conscious of his audience, he put on a dazzling display of swords-play, perhaps a bit beyond what was necessary, and scored several strikes on the new club-wielding assailant; a blow to the forearm caused the man to drop his weapon.

  Kyris eased back only to see a third attacker begin to circle, looking to flank, as the second man retrieved his club from the ground.

  If scoring a hit meant nothing but the entry of another opponent, then there was only one course left to him. On purpose, he left his back exposed towards the new combatant, and the third man took the bait. Kyris sensed the approach and whirled, hurling one of his shortswords. The wooden weapon spun through the air and struck the man on the forehead with its hilt. This was not a tactic of which Baaz would have approved, tossing one’s weapon away, but he wanted to put on a show for Caldir. Kyris drew a wooden dagger from his belt and met the remaining combatants, still at three as the last one joined. The newest entry was armed with two hatchets. As Kyris fought, he was always mindful of positioning himself as favorably as possible, constantly maneuvering so the opponent he was engaging would be an obstacle to their companions’ line of attack.

  Kyris had spent many years of his youth training and sparring with some of the toughest and meanest pit fighters that Yond had to offer, and he’d had a short stint as a participant within those same pits. But it wasn’t the training and experience that made him extraordinary, according to Baaz. His mentor had once said, in a rare moment of candidness and praise, that Kyris had a true gift for fighting. That he demonstrated a keen awareness, an uncanny sense for anticipating an opponent’s move and reacting to it as a matter of reflex. It was, the old man had confided, why he had kept training Kyris, even after it became apparent Kyris’ true goal was not simple soldiering. Baaz even suggested, half-jokingly, that perhaps it was a god-given gift, a blessing by one of the dead deities of the Ar’Razi. He’d been right, of course, except Mezu Vos was not dead. She was the last of the Ar’Razi gods, having murdered all the others.

  “What do you think?” Caldir asked of Ellse standing next to him.

  “He is… very good, if a bit showy.”

  “But?” Caldir asked, sensing there was more.

  “I feel like he’s holding back.”

  “Well, that bodes well. If this is him holding back, I would like to see him come unbound.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll draw him out,” Ellse said, as yet another masked fighter fell to the floor.

  Two combatants were on the ground, one clutching his shin, the other still dazed from the blow to the head.

  Kyris now focused his strikes on the unprotected parts where the padded armor did not cover. He only had the single practice shortsword in hand now, having flung all his other weapons away. Facing the opponent with the hatchets, the man managed to catch Kyris’ sword, locking it in place between his weapons. Anticipating an attack from the last remaining combatant, Kyris abandoned his sword, dropped low, and kicked the legs out from beneath the Hatchet-man. He turned and saw the last assailant recovering from a wide swing. Stepping in close, Kyris pinned the man’s sword arm against his own body, then punched him squarely in the face; once, twice, the third punch finally downing the man.

  “Enough,” Caldir said, as Kyris was preparing to kick the downed man, losing himself in the furor of the fight.

  Kyris stopped as instructed. His breathing was heavy, and he tried to get it under control. Barring the events at the Curunir estate, he didn’t often have the need to exert himself so. It generally meant something had gone very wrong when he had to. Surveying the room, he tried his best to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. Four opponents defeated in a straightforward sparring match, the likes of which he hadn’t had i
n many years. Perhaps he’d become too reliant on the Gloom.

  Caldir gestured to the weapons rack, and the woman strolled over and selected a quarterstaff.

  The original attackers moved off of the fighting floor, two helping one man unable to stand on his own. Kyris retrieved his shortswords and met the masked woman at the center of the arena.

  “Do you need a moment to recover?” she asked, her tone light and teasing.

  “No, I’m just getting warmed up,” he retorted.

  Judging by the crinkling at the corners of her eyes, Kyris thought she might have smiled.

  She gave a causal spin of her staff, then asked, “Would you like to select another weapon?”

  She had a point. He was at a severe reach disadvantage against the staff, and though he had fared well enough against the Curunir guards, he got the sense things wouldn’t unfold quite the same with this opponent.

  Baaz had trained him in all varieties of weapons, but in recent years he had only used dagger and shortsword. He couldn’t rightly lug around a polearm while sneaking through the city.

  Kyris looked to the weapons rack in consideration. There were no shields, so the proper choice was another weapon of similar reach.

  He had fought four, and now he was to fight just the one. The implication was obvious; she was better than they were.

  Could she be a scion? Perhaps the syndicate boss already had one in his employ. If so, it would make sense to test him this way. Would he have to contend with hallowfire, or more celestial wind? The thought of the former made his pulse race, and Kyris had to make a concentrated effort to calm himself. Could he defeat a scion without entering the Gloom, just as he had claimed? As long as he put up a good fight, Caldir would have to accept the possibility he had gotten the better of Alderin by skill and Shar’s grace, alone.

  The masked woman began whistling a jaunty tune.