Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  The boy hesitated only a moment, then reached out his hand and gripped the blade of the sword. His tongue oozed out of his mouth over the bloodstain, shattering the facade of a normal child.

  The tongue was reminiscent of a Laki sand grub, he thought, if the grub was ten times its normal size, a dingy gray, and covered in a sickly film. As the boy’s tongue moved over the stain, the moisture smeared it. The boy recoiled and scrunched up his face.

  “I… I don’t think he likes the taste,” Treven said, astonished.

  “Well, this isn’t a snack. Have it get started,” Mannahar said.

  Treven nudged the boy, who seemed to understand as he continued cleaning off all the dried blood from one side before proceeding to the other. Mannahar found the sight repulsive, and not for the first time questioned his judgment.

  They had encountered the boy nearly a year back while tracking an escapee to the coast. They had feared the slave, a savage from the Frontier, would give himself to the sea rather than be returned to the quarries. In the end, they had captured him upon the shore. Desperation had driven the man near the brink but not so much as to welcome Iolas’ embrace. It was there they had seen wreckage. What was left of a ship was strewn across the rocks. It was madness to sail the Shorn Sea, and the yawning, broken pieces of the vessel were proof of this.

  It was amongst the debris they’d found the boy, corpse-like, more dead than not. They took him, more as evidence of the wreck than a show of mercy, in case they encountered the Imperium guards that patrolled the coast. It was later that night that they discovered the truth, when woken by a cry to find the boy latched onto the slave like a leech, that this was no ordinary child.

  His first instinct had been to run his sword through the little monster, but the others had swayed him. There might be value in handing the foulspawn to the keepers, Treven had said. A public execution with the huntsmen there to share in the acclaim.

  The slave had survived, and it was on the long trek back to Vigil that Mannahar had noticed the strange fixation the boy had for the savage. When they stopped at a town and the group had separated, the boy would stare at the walls as if seeing through them. Bloodsense, Mannahar would dub it later. They had underestimated the foulspawn back then, and the slave did not survive the trip back to Vigil.

  Despite the tals he’d earned from the foul thing since, at times he still wondered if he should have follow his instinct.

  But then where would he be? The boy had been the impetus of Shar’s favor and was essential to House Altor’s resurrection. Between the hounds, the boy’s bloodsense, and the resources of having tals to work with, his band hadn’t failed a hunt since the boy had drained that slave. Never mind that if anyone outside their little band were to find out, they would be drowned in the Ryles.

  The boy finished cleaning every bit of blood from the saber, then sat back on his rear and closed his eyes. The boy's eyelids slowly peeled open again, then stared past them as if seeing something far away. He raised a finger, pointing off to what Mannahar thought would be southeast.

  “Far?” Treven asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Close, then?”

  The boy nodded.

  It wasn’t precise, but they’d long ago established what was considered far and near, as the boy was a mute.

  “Ruma’s bloody eyes,” Mannahar cursed.

  “Back to the city, then.”

  Mannahar nodded grimly.

  “Right now?”

  It’d been a long day. They had just gotten back to camp before being summoned again to the Curunir’s. Now that the boy had gotten a taste, there was no escaping them.

  “No. Get the boy cleaned up. We’ll leave at dawn.”

  It felt good to away from the estate, to be active in the pursuit, even if he had doubts as to the value of the Rumathilan ritual.

  Corvales surveyed the chamber, sparse save a small table with some bottles, bowls, and crystals. Apparatuses of seercraft, he supposed. There was also a sturdy iron chair mounted to the floor, but he didn’t linger on that. He was anxious and impatient, searching, though for what he couldn’t say. He shut his eyes, and the sight of Alderin’s corpse laid out upon the table came unbidden. Next was Rhistell’s face with the gaping socket. They haunted him. With an exasperated grunt, he opened his eyes to see the seer watching him. She had said something, asked a question.

  “You were told of the possible damages that this procedure may inflict?” the Rumathilan seer repeated.

  “Yes, yes,” Corvales replied dismissively.

  The seer, covered from head to toe in the traditional hooded gray robe of her kind, nodded and continued with the preparations. She seemed young, though it was hard to discern what age exactly with only her eyes visible. She might have been pretty, and he was wondering at the figure beneath the drab garb when his musings were interrupted.

  “Pardon, my lord, but what damages?” Captain Tarhan stared wide-eyed at Corvales, then strained to either side trying to glimpse what the seer standing behind him was doing, but the straps wouldn’t allow it. The guard captain was seated in a high-backed iron chair, his ankles and wrists restrained by leather straps.

  Corvales looked down at Tarhan but didn't answer.

  “Please, lord, I served your brother and House Curunir loyally for over twenty years.”

  Corvales nodded. “And in this you will continue to serve.”

  The seer moved around the chair, double checking all the straps. She tightened the one across Tarhan’s forehead, firmly securing his head. Retrieving a bowl from a side table, the seer dipped a finger in, then painted a symbol upon his forehead in a foul-smelling, black, oily substance.

  The captain’s fright seemed to escalate by the moment.

  The seer held a strip of leather to Tarhan's mouth. “You will want to bite down on this,” she advised.

  Tarhan stared at the leather as though it were a viper, then looked to Corvales, pleading.

  “Do as instructed, Captain Tarhan,” Corvales ordered.

  Tarhan bit down on the strap, his face tightening into a grimace.

  The seer set the bowl on the table, then soaked her hands up to her wrists in the black fluid. “Now, Mister Tarhan. I want you to think of the night of the murder, when you last saw the assassin,” she said. The seer placed her hands on the sides of Tarhan’s head, pressing her fingertips into his temples. Viscous liquid dripped down his face. The seer took a long moment, steadying her breathing. Tarhan, on the other hand, seemed in near panic, though whether from the anticipation of what was to happen or an effect of what the seer was doing, Corvales could not tell.

  The seer closed her eyes, and Tarhan suddenly calmed and followed suit without any verbal commands. At first, it appeared as though nothing was happening, but then moans and groans issued from behind Tarhan’s gritted teeth, growing in volume. His body started to thrash, struggling against the restraints.

  Corvales took a step back, then moved to the rear of the small chamber, just to be safe. He wasn’t at all sure what to expect.

  It struck him then that he was deep within a temple of Rumathil of the Countless Eyes. What strange rites and rituals were being performed even now in other chambers like this? A sense of unease crept up his back, but he fought it down. The Seer Sisterhood was harmless. Diviners, observers, and annalists. Nothing more.

  Corvales attributed his disquiet to unfamiliarity. He’d only ever known the workings of Kalaa.

  There were two schools of thought among the highborn families; those that commingled the divine bloodlines, and those that honored a specific god. His family was of the latter group, honoring Kalaa exclusively. They did not mix with the others, and as such, only had scions gifted by the Storm-Maiden.

  The family founder had been a powerful scion of Kalaa, and he’d believed if they stayed true to her that this would earn them her favor, which in turn would result in more scions for the family and those of greater power. Families with mixed bloodlin
es had mixed loyalties. Scions of Allithor were required to walk the Path of the Divine Flame. Those of Ormoss, the Mending Order. Godblood females of Rumathil joined the Sisterhood, while those ofLodd became Makers. And for those blessed to wield the celestial wind, there was the Order of Stormcallers. Staying true to Kalaa meant she and the family always came first.

  That was why Corvales had bristled when his mother had first told him about this ritual, just as he had when she’d told him of the leashers. Outsiders shouldn’t be involved in their family affairs, though Rumathil, at least, was of the Tesrini. To use the Bound…

  But, in the end, his mother was right to do so, as usual. This little ritual cost a fortune, but no expense would be spared, or avenue unexplored, in their pursuit of finding the killer of Rhistell and Alderin. He just hoped it wouldn’t bankrupt the family in the mean time.

  Oh, what a ruinous night, he almost moaned out loud. Alderin, the pride of the house, the only scion child he had sired, was truly gone. Rhistell had sought comfort at the bottom of a wine bottle with the loss of his sons, and they were not even godbloods. Corvales vowed not to be so weak. He could also have more children; it was not too late. The future of the house couldn’t be left in the hands of pretenders such as Jantyre. That man was no true Curunir, and never would be, married in or not. Why would Kalaa bestow her blessing on a whoreson gutter rat?

  A light flickered from a crystal on a bracelet the seer wore, one he hadn’t noticed until now. The silver jewelry was half covered in the black ooze.

  The eyes of Tarhan and the seer shot open simultaneously.

  “I see...” the robed woman muttered, barely audible.

  Tarhan screamed, as his and the seer's eyes rolled back in their heads.

  The captain slumped to the side as much as he could within the restraints, and the seer staggered back a few steps before recovering.

  Corvales gave the woman a moment before demanding, “Well, did you get it?”

  “Yes, I have the face of the assassin.”

  “Tell me what they look like.”

  The seer hesitated as if considering, then did as commanded.

  “That’s it, a young man? No distinguishing marks or features? How will this help locate him?”

  “It is not that simple. There are no guarantees, as we made clear to Matron Daratrine. We cannot just locate him, but tonight, we will perform another ritual. One that will pass on what I have seen to all my sisters. Every seer and acolyte within the city will know this man. Should any of us cross paths with him, it will be as if we’d seen our own brother or father. We will instantly recognize him.”

  “But someone has to come across him? You anticipate stumbling into him in the streets?” Corvales asked, incredulous.

  “Rumathil sees all… We have methods of expanding our sight. Beyond that, I cannot say more to an outsider. Be assured, if the assassin is still within the city, we will find him… eventually.”

  Sounded like wasted tals. What was Mother thinking?

  Corvales snorted in disgusted amusement, but nodded. He strolled to the exit of the room. Pausing by the doorway, he asked as an afterthought, “What about him?”, indicating the limp form of Captain Tarhan. The piece of leather had dropped from his mouth and drool dripped down his chin. “Is he addled for life?”

  “He has been touched by Rumathil. That can have everlasting effects for those not of the blood. Only time will tell.”

  Corvales nodded, turned and left.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I wouldn't fuss too much. Scars have a rugged appeal on men, or so Tasi tells me,” Jahna said from the doorway of the room.

  Kyris wasn’t surprised that his sister knew he’d been inspecting himself with Tasi’s hand mirror. Their mother used to say that those who shared a womb had a bond of not only blood but of spirit, too.

  He and Jahna had shared such moments of connection when their thoughts aligned, or one knew the other’s mind without a word or gesture shown. Although, it had been a long time since they’d been so in harmony.

  Jahna’s words struck Kyris, a reminder that his sister had never seen his face as it was now, not with her eyes. Did he look very different from when she’d last seen him? The timid, frightened boy of eleven was long gone. She used to feel his face with her hands, probing softly with her fingers, expressing mock sympathy over his supposedly grotesque features. This, too, had not occurred in a long time.

  He often used to wonder what Jahna would look like without the scars. Most likely, quite the beauty, he thought. As a boy and as her brother, he had never given such things much consideration. Jahna was simply his sister. But now, looking back upon his memories, he could see things in a different light, could appreciate that Jahna had been a lovely child. Vibrant and fearless, outgoing and warm; always charming the adults of the small village where they’d grown up. She would have taken after their beautiful mother, he was certain.

  Kyris turned back to his reflection. He was in dire need of a shave, except for a streak of smooth, raised skin running from cheek to jaw where the wraith had raked him. It was much improved from a few days ago. All his injuries were, from the cut he’d received from the windstrider to the small lump on the side of his head, covered by his short, rough-cut hair——a gift by the mysterious female warrior. He traced the wraith’s touch with a finger, feeling an uncharacteristic worry for his appearance, but the concern was quickly quashed. Just another scar to add to the others, each a reminder to be better. He was no highborn obsessed with appearance. To hear Tasi tell it, all their comeliness and regal features were the result of menders.

  He set the mirror down. “Well, if that’s true, I’m well on my way to becoming the most appealing man in the city.”

  Jahna gave a small laugh, little more than a chuckle, but it lightened Kyris’ heart and brought a smile to his face. It seemed like ages since he’d last heard it.

  “It’s a shame the same can’t be said of a woman,” she offered, killing his smile. She paused, as if sensing the shift. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sour the mood. It… just came out.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  Kyris had spent the better part of two days resting in bed, and now he was eager to move about. He extracted himself from the plush mattress with some difficulty, thinking he could get used to such luxuries.

  He made his way across the room, stretching his arms and rolling his neck as he went, then sat at a small table. Jahna, having already familiarized herself with the new space, walked over, pulled out a chair, and eased into it.

  Kyris shook his head in admiration, remembering his anxiety at being blindfolded by Caldir.

  “Where’s Tasi?” he asked.

  “Out, getting langor roots to brew.”

  Kyris yawned and stretched some more. “Not sure that’s necessary. I feel… great.”

  When he’d woken up from his fight, he was laying on a cot in a small backroom of what ended up being a tailor’s shop in the Halcyon district. He was battered and sore but without any serious injuries, much to his surprise. He had thought, or rather felt, that there would be some cracked bones. Caldir had not been present, but a man, who’d introduced himself as Wilen, Caldir’s attendant, had been. Kyris was instructed to rest for two days. He was then given an herbal draught to drink. Wilen said it would aid in his mending, and he had gladly complied. Kyris didn’t think Caldir had let him wake just to poison him. Whoever had brewed that draught must have been a brilliant herbalist because the bruises that dotted his body were all but healed.

  His spirits were bolstered, as well, for Kyris was to meet Caldir later that night to receive his first assignment.

  “You’re in a fine mood for someone who was just beaten senseless,” Jahna said.

  “To be clear, this was all part of the plan.”

  Jahna tilted her veiled head. “It was your plan to get beaten senseless?”

  Kyris shot her a glare he hoped she would be able to sense. “It wasn’
t exactly like that, and it was no worse than a bad day of training with Baaz. But yes, the end result is what I’d hoped would happen. This was a good thing.”

  “Oh, I’ve often said you needed a good whack on the head, but please do explain, dear brother, how this is good.”

  “Caldir didn’t kill me. He was impressed enough by my performance that I have been accepted among their ranks.”

  Jahna gave a small shake of her head.

  “What?”

  “You could have died, and yet you speak of it so casually.”

  “Jahna,” Kyris started.

  “What of the debt? Ten thousand tals is an outrageous amount.”

  “Well, yes. But the man does have a point. I botched the job. Jahna… please trust me. Overall, this is a fortuitous turn of events. I will ingratiate myself with Caldir. Then he’ll introduce me to the Whisperer.”

  Jahna snorted. “If such a person even exists. And if so, you assume Caldir is capable of making the introduction.”

  “They exist, and if Caldir isn’t well-connected enough, I am certain he can lead me in the right direction.”

  “Why can’t you ask him now, then?”

  “The man has no reason to do me any favors. I’m indebted to him, and yet to prove myself. I could probably pay him for the service, but what coin will I have for the Whisperer, then?”

  The door in the outer room opened. “I’m back,” Tasi announced.

  “Great, just in time,” Kyris called.

  “And why is that?” she asked as she entered the room.

  “I'm famished. There’s a square I saw across the bridge that had some stalls with interesting offerings. Or we can go to a proper eating house. When was the last time you got out, Jahna?”

  “Tasi and I went on a walk just yesterday. You two go on ahead, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll lay down for a while.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Tasi asked, concern in her voice.

  “I’m fine. Just tired. Go on, I will be fine. I think I can manage laying in bed by myself without burning the place down.”