Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  “I won’t pretend to understand what you and Kyris went through with your family and…” Tasi trailed off, but both knew what was left unsaid; Jahna’s disfigurement and blindness. “But once Kyris accomplishes his goal, we’ll leave the city and everything will go back to the way it was.”

  “If he manages it without getting killed, you mean. Though I fear he’s grown fond of life in the city.”

  “Oh, Jahna. He needs to do this. For himself and for you. You’ll see. Once this is done, we’ll move back to Yond or better yet, somewhere even farther away. We’ll find a little village to live in and leave this stinking city to the Imperium.”

  Oh, Tasi, ever the optimist, Jahna thought, but she simply gave her sister’s arm a reaffirming squeeze.

  “There’s Kyris,” Tasi exclaimed, guiding Jahna forward.

  “Sweet candied plums! Delicious, sweet, candied plums here!” Samul bellowed.

  Several of his fellow vendors shot him dark glares or shook their heads, for they knew the truth of it. His sweet plums were anything but. It wasn't his fault, he bemoaned. The harvest this season had been a bad one. A blight had inflicted the orchard, causing the trees to bear few fruits, and what was grown were shriveled things. The resulting candied plums that he sold came in two varieties; either tough and devoid of flavor, or tough and painfully sour. But what could he do? He still needed to feed his family, so he continued to peddle his wares.

  “Plum jams and spreads! The perfect accompaniment to yogurt and bread!”

  It didn't take long for word to get around the market, and as such, the only customers he had were those not local to the area, visitors, and those passing through. Meager though his earnings were, they were better than nothing.

  Samul sighed, wondering for the thousandth time what he could have done to anger the gods. Surely, he was beneath their notice. He wasn’t the most devout, but he honored the Tesrini gods, gave tithe when required. He also honored old dead gods on occasion, just to be safe. Samul even bore the mark of Rumathil. His hand went to the spot behind his shoulder, where the strange, raised mark had been stitched onto him many years ago. It had been an unpleasant experience, but the money earned had gotten his family through that year. To think that the Sisterhood of Seers would pay good tals to have someone bear their mark. They said in so doing, Samul was serving the great goddess, but nothing had ever been asked of him since, which suited him fine. Still, it was baffling why the soothsayers would want a simple fruit peddler to represent the Seer God. They were said to be seekers of knowledge. What knowledge could they gain from him?

  His face brightened. “Sweet candied plums!” Samul shouted at a trio, two women and a man, as they strolled past. One was barely a woman grown and quite a beauty with golden hair. The woman in the middle had the entirety of her face covered with a dark veil. Perhaps a highborn, he thought, although the attire didn’t seem to fit. The man escorting the two took notice of Samul’s offerings and slowed as the women walked on.

  Samul tensed upon a closer look at the man. Young but a bit rough around the edges, evidence of a scuffle or two upon his face, but at the flash of a friendly smile, he was put at ease.

  “Good day, shopkeeper.”

  “Good day, fine sir. Care for some delectable candied plums this morning?”

  “Sugared plums are a weakness of mine,” the young man laughed.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. Two copper for six.” Samul gestured to the baskets.

  The man happily handed him the money and selected the pieces he wanted.

  “Can I interest you in some jam?”

  “No, this will do. Thank you, shopkeeper, and a good day to you.”

  “A good day to you, too.”

  The man traveled a few paces down the road before he popped a piece of the fruit into his mouth. He stopped, chewed a bit, then turned back with a grimace upon his face as though he just been stabbed.

  Ah, a sour one, Samul thought.

  The poor fellow gave the peddler an accusing look, and Samul cringed, quickly busying himself with sorting his stall.

  Thankfully, the man hurried on to catch up with his companions and didn’t return to demand his money back. Samul let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the brand on the shoulder again. Perhaps the Seers would pay him to place another mark upon his body?

  The seer woke from her trance and smiled. Though she was far away, deep beneath the Halls of Revelation in the temple district, she had just found the assassin of Lord Rhistell of House Curunir.

  “So, now he seeks an elder capable of performing such a feat,” Caldir finished, having related what Kyris wanted and of his experience with the menders.

  Sandamar snorted. “Those he sought out were likely the lowest of the Order, unable to heal something as delicate as eyes.”

  The two were seated in a private parlor of an inn overlooking the Ryles, sharing a drink.

  “Could you?” Caldir asked.

  “Hallowfire?”

  “I suspect, yes.”

  Sandamar was silent for some time before speaking. “It’s a strange thing, hallowfire. It takes to flesh like kindling, but will still burn actual wood. It is fire, after all, but it takes longer, almost as if it’s reluctant to give itself to anything but flesh. I’ve seen my share of burns from my time in the legion. One quickly learns to stay clear of a flamecaster upon a battlefield.” He shook his head. “No, your assessment is correct. It is beyond me. Given the amount of time and the severity of damage, there might only be a few within the Order that could perform the healing. And those few would most undoubtedly hold high positions. I am unsure how any one of them would be persuaded to help. Simple money offers no motivation for those of their station.”

  Caldir sighed. “I expressed the difficulties to Kyris, but he seems determined. The names of these elders and where they might be found are sufficient for our agreement. The rest is up to him.”

  Sandamar stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the brown waters of the river. “I do not like it.”

  “For his sister to regain her sight?”

  “No, you know what I mean. Him. You let your curiosity blind you to the dangers.”

  “Of…”

  Sandamar turned, fixing him with a disbelieving stare. “Do you think there are no more nightspawn? Caldir, the Path may use faith and doctrine as a tool to suit their changing needs, you’ve enlightened me to that fact, but that does not mean true servants of darkness do not exist. Beastmen may not be tainted by nature, but there are those that have fully embraced the Night Mother to such an extent they might as well be her get, and the foul deeds performed in their rituals would curdle your innards. The Vontis and Skaveel may be long dead, but there are others as I’m sure you are well aware, given your extensive collection of old texts. In the uprising of the Three Cities, there were several reports from inquisitors of creatures that ate the flesh of men and wore their faces so that they could hide amongst us. It was said the whole thing was incited by these…”

  “You speak of Yuwons, mimics. A rare thing but well-documented. And a convenient excuse, wouldn’t you say?” Caldir raised his hands in capitulation, not wishing to open another front in the argument. “My point being, much has been written of nightspawn in the past millennium, and despite countless wars and purges by the Path, knowledge of such has survived. Here, we have something unknown, something new, and I believe it warrants further investigation, rather than immediate condemnation.”

  Sandamar started to shake his head, unconvinced.

  “Twice now you have healed Kyris,” Caldir pressed. “You noted nothing strange the first time. What of this most recent administering? Did you sense anything unusual beneath the skin to suggest he was not as he appears?”

  Instead of answering, Sandamar took a swig from his tankard, then asked, “How do you discount that sense of wrongness when he disappeared?”

  “I do not discount it at all. I’m just not so quick to pass judgment.” Caldir gave
a tight smile. They had known each other for many years now, and though Sandamar had changed greatly, had his eyes opened by the hypocrisy of the Path and from his own ordeal, the man was still very much a product of his highborn upbringing.

  A silence settled.

  Sandamar took another swig, then said, “I merely offer a warning.”

  Caldir sighed. “And your concern is appreciated.” He waited a few moments, then asked, “Will you do as he wants and gather the names?”

  Sandamar gulped the last of his drink. “Yes, I will acquire the information. For you.” Sandamar’s hand tightened around the handle of his tankard.

  “Thank you, Sandamar.”

  The big man nodded and said his farewell. On the way out he passed Ellse. They exchanged some quick pleasantries as the fleshmender left.

  Ellse’s gaze lingered after him. “Is Sandamar well?”

  “Our old friend has some concerns regarding our new friend,” Caldir answered,

  She furrowed her brows. “Is it going to be a problem?”

  Caldir gave a noncommittal “Hmm.” He stared out over the water contemplating that “wrongness,” as Sandamar had called it. “Is he here?”

  “Down the hall. Are you sure about this?”

  “Am I acting so reckless that everyone must question my actions?”

  Ellse gave a small cough and looked away, a grin tugging at her lips.

  “Now I understand why some of my peers surround themselves with sycophants. Come, let us attend to our guest.”

  They left the parlor and walked down the hall to a door where Adar stood guard.

  Caldir gave Ellse a reassuring smile, then entered the small room. A lamp and a wooden bowl sat on a low table, which, along with two chairs and a cot in the corner, were the room’s only furnishings.

  The small boy was on the bed, knees drawn up, lodged in the corner against the walls.

  Caldir, very slowly and deliberately, pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat in it. He noted the boy’s neck, the pale skin rubbed red and scarred from a collar.

  Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said, “I will not harm you, little one.”

  The child did not move or make any sign that he understood Caldir.

  “He hasn’t spoken a single word since we took him from the huntsmen,” Ellse offered.

  “You found nothing on him?” Caldir kept his eyes on the child as he spoke. “No crystals or anything that might be a relic?”

  “Nothing.”

  He turned to Ellse. “Very well.” He held out his hand.

  She reached in the bag she was carrying and pulled out a flask, then handed it to him.

  Caldir uncorked the container and poured a dark crimson liquid into the bowl.

  The boy reacted instantly, raising his head, his gray eyes wide.

  Caldir contained his excitement and spoke in a soothing, gentle tone. “It’s for you.”

  Several moments passed before the child shuffled off the bed and climbed into the empty chair. His head poked forward, hesitant, looking down at the contents. He sniffed, then grimaced, moving back.

  Caldir’s forehead creased in confusion. The boy had reacted to the blood, that certainly wasn’t normal.

  “Maybe he’s not fond of rooster,” Ellse said.

  “Perhaps you’re right. The treatise I read didn’t specify. Have Adar bring another bowl.”

  Ellse hesitated as understanding dawned. She frowned but did as instructed.

  The boy didn’t return to the bed. He sat there, waiting and watching.

  A soft knock announced Adar’s return. Ellse answered, retrieved the bowl, and set it next to the other blood filled one.

  Caldir pulled back the sleeve on his left arm, then held out his right hand to Ellse. “Your knife.”

  She shook her head, but again, did as bidden.

  Caldir held the knife to his forearm, then reconsidered and moved the blade to his hand. Uncertain, he looked to Ellse for help, but she just shrugged. The boy stared, fixated and unafraid.

  He sighed, wishing Sandamar was still around, though the Ormossan would not have approved of this interaction at all. Before he could change his mind, Caldir pulled the blade across his palm. He winced and formed a fist, holding it over the empty bowl.

  The boy shifted forward, the grays of his eyes disappearing as the pupils grew.

  For a moment Caldir thought the child might lunge at him or, more accurately, his hand. Ellse must have had the same thought as she shifted her stance next to him. He held up his uninjured hand to halt any further action.

  When there was a small pool of red, Caldir pulled back his hand and pushed the bowl towards the boy. “Go on, it is for you.”

  Upon receiving the confirmation, the boy buried his face in the bowl, two spindly arms braced against the table. He slurped greedily.

  Ellse gave a pained expression, but all Caldir could do was smile. It was as he had hoped.

  “Makors track by scent,” Caldir explained. “It’s said nothing can smell better than the black hounds, but even they would have problems in the city with so many competing odors. You found no implement of scrying. So, to my knowledge that left only the Kurvosh. Blood drinkers. Practitioners of arcane blood rituals. Although, perhaps not so much of the latter for our little friend here.”

  Did the leashers know the truth of what they had on their hands? Probably not, or they wouldn’t have traipsed so casually around Vigil with him in tow, right under the noses of the keepers and inquisitors.

  The boy looked up when the bowl was empty and a thick, grayish tongue rolled over the corners of his mouth, catching the last bits of red.

  Caldir’s eyes darted to Ellse. She contained her revulsion for the most part, but Caldir could see it in the tightening of her lips. This was difficult for her.

  He lowered himself face to face with the boy. Staring into the child’s eyes, he could see an intelligence there, and comprehension.

  “Did you like that? Well, there’s plenty more to be had, though not from me. But all that you could want.”

  The boy smiled, revealing two rows of sharp teeth.

  Sandamar’s warning against nightspawn threatened to surface, but Caldir pushed it aside. Finding this child and Kyris was truly a boon. If he was of such a mind, he could make a compelling argument that Mezu Vos was not the only surviving Ar’Razi god, for surely Lady Shar lived and smiled upon him.

  Now, if he could only bring Kyris into the fold as easily as he’d enticed this boy…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kyris read the note again. A summons by Caldir to meet at the tailor shop. It had only been two days since they’d finalized their agreement. Could the syndicate boss already have a task for him? Kyris looked to the old fisher woman who had given him the note, but she had gone back to weaving her net. She was an agent of Caldir’s, but he doubted she knew anything beyond who to hand the missive to.

  Kyris had been the one to insist on the go-between for communicating, as he didn’t want Caldir or anyone else knowing where he and his sisters were staying. He was to come by the fish market in Dockside every morning to check for messages, but he hadn’t expected one so soon.

  Caldir had offered to arrange accommodations for the three of them, but Kyris had refused. With their new deal, everything was reliant on Caldir, but that didn’t mean he trusted the man. Kyris couldn’t have his sisters under Caldir’s roof. He had gotten lodgings in a river-front district on the east bank. He’d learned his lesson. They wouldn’t be confined in the Old City should something go wrong again. A path of escape had already been plotted. He’d actually planned on acquiring a boat that day, not expecting to receive Caldir’s summons so soon. The man was wasting no time, not that Kyris minded. He was eager to fulfill the terms of the agreement and reap the rewards.

  Strange as it seemed, things could not have turned out better. If he’d escaped, his hand would still be a gnarled mess and he wouldn’t be so close to not only his goal but th
e new possibility of healing Jahna, as well.

  Kyris made his way to the tailor’s shop but walked past the front and the display of fine fabrics in favor of the alleyway entrance. He knocked and was surprised when Ellse answered.

  “Hello, Kyris.”

  For some reason he hadn’t considered seeing her here, hadn’t prepared himself. He stood there, caught off guard, mouth slightly agape.

  She gave him a friendly smile, as though nothing had happened or changed since they’d last talked. “Caldir is not here, but I’ll send a runner for him and he should be along shortly. Come in.”

  Pulling himself together, Kyris gave her a curt nod and walked inside the back room, filled with stacks of fabrics and garments in mid-construction.

  “Wait here,” she said before disappearing to the front of the shop. She returned a moment later. “Right then, let’s wait for him downstairs. Follow me.” Ellse led him to a small, nondescript office with a desk and a couple of chairs. She reached behind the desk and came up with a sword in hand.

  Kyris tensed, but then saw that it was his sword. Baaz’s sword. He had dropped it when Sandamar was rearranging his hand.

  Ellse handed it to him, hilt first. “I believe this is yours. It’s a fine weapon.”

  “Yes, yes it is.” He was glad to have the shortsword back, not just because it was a Loddsteel blade, but it was the only memento of Baaz he had.

  Ellse moved towards the back wall, then turned to him suddenly. “Do you still bear me no grudge?” she asked with a small smirk. At his flat expression, she turned serious. “I am sorry, Kyris. Caldir… and I never meant you any harm.”