Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  The instant he was over the threshold, he fled the Gloom.

  Kyris chided himself for being careless. He should have checked for laggards or guardsmen first, but the fear still got the better of him at times.

  Catching his breath, he noted the lingering smell of coal smoke and metal in the air. The large room he had entered was brightly lit by more quartz lamps. This section appeared to be where the lamps were constructed. Big, open boxes lined one wall, full of crystal rocks of all size and colors, yet to be enchanted. A pile of wood handles sat in one corner. Empty lantern enclosures crowded a tabletop. Partitions marked individual work stations and walls separated this part of the building from the rest, but there was no ceiling other than that of the overall structure, a peaked roof nearly three stories up. The factory was a single, long hall, and the only thing that obstructed the view from one end to the other was a massive metal chimney that rose up like a pillar. Kyris had a clear view yesterday of the forge and smithy that surrounded the chimney and knew it to be in the direct center of the building.

  As Kyris slowly moved through the room, a light of a different hue from the standard wall lamps caught his eye. It was a small crystal, roughly the size of his thumb, seemingly left out at a workstation. The soft light it cast had a yellow tinge to it, and a thin chain was attached to the rock at one end. Thinking such a trinket might be useful, Kyris looped the chain around his belt until the crystal hung near his hip. It might be an annoyance if he had to run but having both hands free more than compensated.

  The value of the small crystal light did not escape him. Surveying the room, he wondered at the amount of tals that were simply affixed to the walls. There must be a fortune in quartz lanterns stockpiled somewhere near. Perhaps this facility merited a return visit.

  Although, there were easier targets, to be sure. Acquiring money had ceased to be a problem once he’d accepted his ability. Many a hungry night could have been avoided if he had simply been braver and employed the Gloom sooner. As it was, his pilfering kept him and Jahna fed and got them off the streets of Yond. Now, everything accumulated was for the one goal.

  When this was all over, he would amass riches so that he and his sisters could live out their lives in luxury. All the sacrifice would prove worthwhile.

  Moving closer towards the center of the factory, he exited the lamp assembly area and came upon a new section of the building. No partitions were set up here, but he could still discern several separate work areas. Each such area was dedicated to the manufacturing or modification of some different tool or weapon. A suit of armor hung from a stand while another area had swords of all kinds laid about. The items, varied as they were, all seemed mundane. Reminding himself of his purpose there, Kyris moved forward, deeper into the building.

  The air was still warm when he entered the forge. It seemed familiar given how long he had gazed at and studied it the day before, and yet there was a complexity that could not be appreciated from afar. Hammers of all sizes, chisels, tongs, and many other tools he couldn’t name were neatly arranged and arrayed, hanging from hooks or held up by pegs. Half a dozen anvils that perpetually rang throughout the day sat quiet next to the massive forge, the coals within still softly aglow. Kyris marveled at a container of sorts, big enough for him to crawl in, secured and suspended by a metal band and hooks. It was etched with runes and glyphs. A crucible, he realized, though unlike any he seen before.

  Continuing on, Kyris entered another wide, long hallway that seemed to run the entire remaining length of the factory. Double doors alternated on either side. Checking the first room he came upon, he found it stocked with barrels full of coal. In the next room, his heart leaped when he saw the neat stacks upon stacks of ingots on the floor, but the light and closer inspection revealed the solid bars were of iron and not gold or silver. The room after that held more barrels, their contents a mystery, but there was an acute acrid smell in the air. On and on he searched, each room holding some material or supply, this part of the warehouse seemingly dedicated to storage. This was Kyris’s thought until he came upon the last door in the hallway.

  In the center of this room was a wooden contraption. It was a table of some sort with leather straps and chains dangling from it. On one side and underneath, there was an assembly of gears and a lever. Upon further scrutiny, Kyris thought that perhaps the mechanism moved or rotated the table top. There was also a roped pulley system attached to the ceiling.

  What were these lamp-makers about?

  There were no additional furnishings, and the only other thing of note was another door at the far end of the room. Somewhat perplexed and disturbed, Kyris moved past the table to inspect this last door. Picturing the layout of the building, he thought himself near the corner. There was no where else left to go.

  Would Grunul be here, behind these doors, in the very last place he looked? And if not, what would he do? Leave to return another night, or continue on to one of the other buildings? He had been so certain when he saw the kitchen staff lugging the pots.

  “Vos take me,” he cursed, feeling like a fool.

  Kyris grabbed the door handle and pushed. The door didn’t budge. It was locked. This was the first locked door he had encountered since he’d started his search. His spirits lifted at what he considered a good sign.

  After a quick inspection, he went to work with his picks. It was a relatively simple thing, and he had it unlocked quickly and without trouble.

  Easing the door open, the light from the small crystal at his hip illuminated an empty room. Kyris was about to utter the curse he had notched and ready, damning all the gods, dead and new, when the sight of a wide opening within the floor of the far corner halted his blasphemy.

  He drew his shortsword and crept forward.

  Stone stairs descended some two stories down, the bottom being well-lit.

  Kyris tucked the light crystal dangling at his hip into a pocket and took the first step.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At the bottom, the corridor continued and disappeared into the dark. Kyris noted the floor, walls, and ceiling were all of the same uniform blocks. These were not old ruins rediscovered. The construction was new, especially in comparison to Caldir’s underground lair.

  Only a few paces in, another hallway intersected on the right. A single quartz lamp was affixed to the wall near him.

  Feeling exposed, Kyris darted forward and peeked around the corner. The passage was short, ending in a small antechamber with an iron-barred gate in the far wall, and darkness beyond. The gate was ajar. He caught a whiff of the familiar stench of human waste.

  He ducked back, contemplated the implications for a heartbeat, then rushed in, always one to seize upon any favor Shar was willing to dole out.

  Taking up position to one side of the gate, he waited with his shortsword held high, ready to thrust. No sound or hapless guardsman came through, only more of the foul odor. He gave the antechamber a sidelong glance; it was furnished with a single table and two plain stools. Another enchanted quartz was ensconced on the wall. A pair of thick manacles hung on pegs below it. Atop the table was a half-empty bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. It was a wonder to Kyris how anyone could eat with the smell of piss and shit so thick in the air.

  After several more moments, Kyris relaxed his tense shoulders and lowered his arm. Leaning slightly, he looked through the metal gate. The light from the quartz did not penetrate far within the space beyond, and he could only make out more stone floor. He pulled out the light crystal he’d pilfered, then eased the gate open further. The hinges squeaked, dragged out like a long note from a minstrel.

  Kyris froze and waited, but there were no shouts of alarm or sounds of approaching boots on stone. Not wishing to agitate the gate more, he slipped through the narrow opening.

  The crystal at his hip illuminated the wide room in its glow, if only just. Seven sturdy iron-braced wooden doors lined the walls, three each on the left and right and one situated at the end, opposite the me
tal gate. All had hatches installed at head level. Kyris grinned. When he’d caught the smell earlier, he had been hopeful, but it could have been the sewers. There was no doubt now, however, that he was in the right place.

  He unwrapped the light crystal from his belt and held it his free hand, then approached the first door on his right. The metal clacked as he unlatched and slid open the viewing hatch. Holding up the crystal, the enchanted light shone across a straw-stuffed cot in an otherwise empty cell. It was small, perhaps six feet wide and nine to the back wall.

  Six more doors. Deciding to proceed around the room from right to left, Kyris moved to the next door and repeated the process.

  A man, roused by the light, glanced up from where he lay on the cot. A chain secured to the wall clinked as he held a manacled arm up, shielding his eyes. He had some sort of leather mittens on both hands and was wearing a plain gray shirt and matching trousers. His stringy yellow hair hung in his face, and by his thin bare arms, it was obvious that this was not Grunul, given Caldir’s description of the Marlander.

  Kyris closed the hatch and moved to the next cell. He didn’t want to talk with the other prisoners, though he had suspected there would be more than just Grunul. That the cauldrons had held much more food than necessary for one man had not escaped him.

  In the next cell, he found an old man, deathly gaunt with a tangled nest of wild white hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor against the back wall. He was not chained and did not wear the mittens. Arms up over his eyes as the prisoner before, the old man untangled his legs and began to rise. Again, Kyris slid the hatch shut. He didn’t want to engage with anyone other than Grunul. This task was too important to get distracted.

  Kyris spared the antechamber a glance. Whoever had left their meal unfinished was bound to be back soon. He contemplated lying in wait for them but decided that determining whether Grunul was here proved the priority.

  The single door at the end of the room was next. Having inspected three cells now, Kyris thought he knew what to expect, but what he saw caused him to jerk back from the hatch.

  A horned giant sat upon a stone throne.

  Hesitantly, he leaned forward and peered back in. It took a moment for him to process the scene, as if his mind were unwilling to accept the enormity of the man within, but his initial impression was mostly accurate.

  The cell was much larger than the others and yet the beastkin still looked oversize to be within, as the room simply was not made for someone of his proportions. Seated, the giant was two heads taller than Kyris, and that was with his horns sawed short and blunted. If they hadn’t been, Kyris could imagine the horns piercing the ceiling. Kyris marveled at the bullcor, a bull-man hybrid, a notorious variant of the beastkin. He’d heard of them, of course, but the only time he had seen one was a statue, the bullcor underfoot of some Tesrini champion. Now, seeing a real one, a living one—by the shallow rise and fall of his chest—Kyris found the statue to be laughable and Sandamar’s helm to be a pale comparison. This beast was a juggernaut. What warrior could stand before it? And yet, here it sat, chained and manacled to a makeshift seat of stone blocks.

  Unlike the previous two prisoners, the beastkin was shirtless, though bandages wrapped portions of his muscular chest and abdomen. The parts left uncovered baffled Kyris, and even after some examination he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. The brown hide-like skin appeared to have been branded with symbols and patterns, but it was the strange, bulging shapes underneath the flesh that disturbed him most. A metal muzzle with a bit obscured most of the lower face.

  Kyris whirled at an unexpected sound.

  “You’re not Drogy. Who are you?” the prisoner from the third cell, the old man, asked. A frail arm hung out, and his face was pressed against the hatch opening. Kyris realized he must not have secured the latch.

  “Who are you talking to, Kohan, you senile old fool?” a man’s voice called from a cell across the way.

  “There’s someone here,” the blond-haired prisoner from the second cell chimed in.

  “Quiet, or you’ll draw the guards down on all of us,” Kyris hissed.

  This silenced the prisoners but only for a moment.

  “Did you kill Drogy?” the old man asked.

  “Is that the guardsman?”

  “It’s what I call him.”

  “No, there was no one here when I arrived.”

  “He’ll be back soon,” called the same man from across the way, opposite the old man’s cell. “You should kill him when he gets back. Better yet, let me out, and I’ll do it for you.”

  “Are you Grunul?” Kyris asked.

  “I’m Grunul,” the old man said.

  Kyris eyed the wild-haired old man. “I thought you were Kohan.”

  “Who gave you such a notion?”

  “Who are you?” a new voice, male and calm, asked. The speaker was across the way from the blond man’s cell.

  Kyris moved to the door and looked through the hatch. He saw a bearded man sitting on a cot, with one arm manacled to the wall. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and his gray shirt seemed strained containing him. The sleeves of the shirt covered his arms. He had no leather mittens, and Kyris couldn’t figure out why there was a difference in the men’s restraints.

  “Grunul?”

  “As I said before, who are you?”

  The desperate hope that had infused the voices of the others was absent with this man, Kyris thought. “A mutual friend sent me.”

  “I find that unlikely.”

  “Let me see your arms,” Kyris said. The others were talking, but he ignored them, focused on this man. Several long moments passed. Kyris was about to repeat himself, hoping he wouldn’t have to enter the cell, when the man raised an arm high, letting the wide sleeve fall away to reveal thick, ropey swirls of scar tissue visible even in the dim light.

  Kyris smiled at the sight. He had found the Marlander. “Caldir sent me,” he whispered.

  At the mention of the name, the man’s head jerked up. Kyris could not decipher the expression. Was it hope? Anger? Fear? Some combination of all those?

  Grunul huffed. “About time,” he said softly.

  Kyris looked to the antechamber. The guard could return any moment. Again, he wondered if he should lie in ambush, but he didn’t like the idea of waiting around idly. Crouching, he held the light crystal to the lock on Grunul’s cell door. It was a simple thing. Easy to pick. He glanced over his shoulder to find the old man watching him with interest. Kyris didn’t like having an audience while he worked. Deciding that leaving evidence of his passage was no longer a concern and that speed was more important than stealth, he pulled out a hammer and chisel from his pack and went to work.

  The hammer was padded with cloth to dull the sharp ringing, but the sound still echoed in the confined space, and each strike felt like an invitation for discovery.

  “What’s going on?” the blond man asked.

  “He’s freeing the Marlander,” Kohan replied.

  “Free me next. My house is rich. They will shower you in gold,” the blond said.

  “Let me out!” the man who had offered to kill the guard earlier demanded in a growl.

  “Quiet or…”

  “Or what?” came the same hard voice. “What worse can you do to us?”

  Kyris had no reply. What worse could be done other than leaving them? He reminded himself to stay focused on the task; these men were not his concern. As he worked on the lock, he could feel the old man’s eyes burrowing into him from behind.

  “Brogan has a point,” the old man said.

  “Yes, we have nothing to lose. We’ll shout and draw the guards down upon you if you do not free us,” the blond man said, resorting to threats.

  Kyris ignored them all and continued to work.

  “You do not intend on freeing the others?” came Grunul’s voice from the other side of the door.

  “Caldir sent me for you. Besides, your neighbors here are not exactly engendering my goo
d will.”

  “You do not know what they’ve been doing to us.”

  Kyris paused, thinking of the room he had found above and the strange condition of the bullcor. “No. No, I do not.” Glancing around at the other cells, he said, “Those are a lot of locks to work through…”

  “I see Caldir sent his best.”

  Kyris sighed. “Fine. If you aren’t in a rush. Besides, if I did leave them, they’ll likely tell the guard you’ve gone the moment he’s back.”

  Another strike wedged the sharp edge of the chisel beneath the corner of the metal plate covering the lock interior. He put the tools back in his bag in exchange for a pry bar which he used as a lever to peel the plate off. Kyris jammed the bar inside, smashing the components. It was so much simpler to wreck locks than to pick them, he thought with a wry smile.

  Kyris entered the cell, and Grunul rose from his cot to meet him. The man was of the same height as him but broader, heavier.

  Marlanders were a people subjugated decades ago. The borders of their land once marked the Frontier, but since then, it had become part of Imperium, the Frontier having been redefined.

  Grunul, for his part, studied him in return as if assessing his competence.

  “Stranger, please, if you free me—” the blond man called out.

  “Enough,” Kyris interrupted, louder than he had intended. Stepping to the doorway of Grunul’s cell, he addressed all the prisoners in a harsh whisper. “I will free any who wish it. But know this. The compound above is crawling with guards. With this many of us, there's bound to be a fight, and there's no guarantee you won’t end up back here or killed.”

  His warning did nothing to dissuade them. The man in the cell next to Grunul’s sounded eager at the opportunity.

  “Very well. I’ll— Quiet.” He’d heard something.