by Alex Lang
They both nodded.
Kyris reconsidered, eying Grunul. Did he dare let Grunul out of his sight? What if the man was killed trying to secure the horses?
“I’m no cub to be mothered,” Grunul said.
Kyris flushed, embarrassed at being so transparent. Maybe he could dissuade the others still. He turned to face the other three. “We’re going for the horses. I saw a wagon out in front of the stable that might hold Baluras. If—”
“Our course is set,” Brogan said.
Baluras placed a large hand on Kyris’s shoulder and gazed down at him, which made him feel uncomfortably like a child.
“Gratitude for freeing me, though there is no true escape for me within your city. I will stay and fight.” There was a stern determination within his eyes, a finality to the statement. All Kyris could do was nod in response. He almost pitied those who were about to face this mountain of muscle and bone in combat.
“Quiet, someone nears,” Nerisca whispered. He had climbed atop some crates and was peering out a window. Brogan and Baluras moved to the door. Nerisca held up two fingers.
Kyris could hear movement on the other side. The door unlocked, and Brogan swung it open. Baluras’s long arms shot out, pulling two wholly dumbfounded guardsmen inside. One was released to stumble to the ground while the other was wrapped firmly up in the bullcor’s hands.
Kyris closed the door as Brogan and Nerisca descended upon the guardsman on the floor, raining blows with mace and ax. The guardsman screamed and raised his arms over his head in a feeble attempt to protect himself, but the rounded, blunt mace-head found its target, caving in a portion of his skull. Brogan looked up, blood spattered on his face, and locked eyes with Kyris. The look was wild and challenging, as if daring Kyris to say something, anything.
Kyris turned to Baluras, who still held the other guardsman. The man’s eyes were wide with fear, locked on his murdered comrade. Baluras held the guard from behind, one arm wrapped around his body, the other hand over the entirety of his face below his eyes.
“Do we need?” Baluras asked
“No,” Brogan growled.
At that simple affirmation, Baluras began to twist the man’s head to one side. A muffled scream dragged on, then abruptly ended. The beastkin released the man, whose neck was now set to a grotesque angle. The eyelids fluttered briefly, then stilled as the body fell to the ground.
“Well, that’s two less,” Brogan said with a satisfied smirk.
Such savagery was not foreign to Kyris, but he still struggled to contain his reaction. He was certainly not one to judge. But he wondered just who these men were that he had set loose.
A sharp, frantic clanging rang out, an all too familiar sound for Kyris of late. The fire had been noticed. All the escapees gathered by the door now.
“Are we ready?” Kyris asked, hand on the door handle.
The men nodded or grunted their affirmation. He gave the motley group once last look, then threw open the doors.
They rushed out, Grunul and Kohan veering right to the stables while Brogan and his companions headed towards the guardsmen and laborers pouring out of the dormitory. Confusion turned to alarm and dismay at seeing the charging trio.
The laborers ran at their approach, but the guardsmen stood firm. The three escapees plowed into their captors. Baluras skewered a man, then lifted and flung him off his blade as easy as a bundle of hay. A gout of white flame shot forth from Brogan’s outstretched hand, engulfing a guardsman’s head. The fire was a small thing compared to the hungry blazes that keepers could produce from their flamestaffs, but the sight still caused Kyris’s blood to boil. At that moment, he very much wished Brogan had attacked him back at the underground cells. With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the battle and turned to his own task.
Kyris did not run towards the gate but moved in among the contraptions that littered one corner of the compound, using them as cover to get closer without being spotted. The guardsmen posted at the front gates were no longer there, but the two stationed in the watchtower had remained. One of them was responsible for the maddening ringing of the bell.
In the front of the temple-like structure, two guardsmen fidgeted, seemingly torn between the desire to help and remaining at their post.
Kyris made ready to sprint from his cover to the gate when a figure emerged from the temple. What he saw confounded him for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The new arrival appeared as hulking skeleton at first sight, but upon further study, Kyris discerned it was armor, ornately fashioned with pronounced bones. Head to toe, the effect was complete, from a helmet forged as a skull and ribs enclosing the torso, down to the shins and feet. And even in the dim light, Kyris could make out the bluish tinge of the metal, just like that of his shortsword. Loddsteel. An entire suit of it. There was no indication of the person beneath, but Kyris assumed it was a man by the stature and bulk. Another baffling aspect was the weapon the armored warrior held, a warhammer, the size of which contradicted sense. The shaft was thick and one-half taller than the man who held it. The head of the weapon was the size of a large anvil. Such a weapon would be at home in Baluras’s hands, and yet the armored warrior hefted it with ease. He seemed to address the two guardsmen, and they rushed inside the temple. He then set off towards the conflict with no particular rush in his step.
Kyris thought it odd that the guards were not sent to help with the battle. “Gods, what is going on here?”
Too much time had been wasted, and it didn’t take a seer to know that things were about to get worse for them. Kyris ran for the gates, all attempts at stealth abandoned. As he neared to ten paces from the gate, the distracted guards in the watchtower spotted him and shouted. One guardsman raised a crossbow, and Kyris flung a knife at him, more as a distraction than a deliberate attack given the distance and that he was throwing mid-stride. The knife thunked solidly into the wood railing and the guardsman flinched back. Kyris made it underneath the watchtower platform. He could hear them above, arguing, neither eager to descend the tower with an enemy skulking below. That being the case, however, Kyris was also hindered from unbarring the gate without receiving a crossbow bolt in the back. He didn’t see any other options, and a good amount of time had passed since he last used the Gloom.
Kyris leapt through the doorway of his mind, and a shroud settled over the world. A shiver shot through his spine, and he felt that familiar sense of impending danger. Ignoring it as best he could, he ran out from under the cover of the platform and started to climb the ladder.
As Kyris made his way up, he could see the murky form of a guardsman hovering above, crossbow held ready in anticipation of someone ascending. Kyris climbed onto the platform, passing through the body of the man. The other guard was peering over the side with his own crossbow, trying to get sight of Kyris below. This was hardly fair, he thought, drawing a dagger.
At moments like these, when the advantage was so clearly his, when the lives of others seemed so easily extinguished and he felt powerful, he could almost think of his ability as a gift rather than a curse. Almost.
He stepped out of the Gloom and appeared in between them, unbeknown to either one. The two men must have been quite frightened already as neither reacted to the fear of the Gloom.
A kick in the rear sent the guard watching the ladder plummeting over, screaming. The other guard whirled, but Kyris was already in motion; with one hand, he pushed aside the crossbow, and with the other he stabbed with his dagger. Three quick jabs to the neck. The man reeled back, dropping the crossbow, hands going to his wounds, desperate to hold in his lifeblood. In his panic, the guardsman was close to toppling over the wood railing. Kyris helped him along with a shove, sending the guard backward off the platform. Kyris looked down at the bottom of the platform where the two bodies lay motionless. Not one to judge, indeed, he thought.
From his vantage up in the watchtower, he could see the entire compound. The workshop was ablaze now. By all of Shar’s grace, Grunul
and Kohan were mounted by the stables, ready to go, waiting on him to open the gates. Brogan and Baluras stood against the lone armored warrior—a group of guardsmen had gathered but stood back from the prisoners, and Nerisca was nowhere in sight— but they appeared to be engaged in conversation rather than battle. He didn’t take the time to ponder why. All eyes were on them, and none had noticed his fight with the guardsmen.
Kyris descended the ladder in a rush, then unbarred the main gate. After pulling one side open, he waved his arms to signal Grunul and Kohan. As the two galloped over, a flare drew his attention back the Brogan and the rest.
He climbed halfway up the watchtower ladder to get a better view of the conflict.
Brogan and Baluras were moving to attack. More white flames from Brogan’s hand washed over the armored warrior to no discernible effect. In response, the warrior lashed out with his warhammer, knocking the mace from Brogan’s grasp. Another thrust, almost casual, caught the Allithoran in the chest, flinging him off his feet. Brogan didn’t get back up.
The skeleton-clad figure turned his attention to Baluras, and the two exchanged words that Kyris could not make out. Whatever was said sent the bullcor into a rage. Baluras charged with his bloody sword held high.
Demonstrating uncanny strength, the armored warrior gripped the shaft of the hammer near the end with both hands and swung it over his head once. Bringing the arc low, the anvil-like head caught Baluras just below the knee as he rushed forward. The leg, thick as a tree trunk, snapped like a dried twig, and the giant went down in a howl that echoed off the compound walls.
Kyris winced and couldn’t tell if he had heard the sharp snap of bone breaking, or if he had imagined it.
Baluras struggled to rise, but the armored man kicked him in the chest, sending the giant beastkin to the ground again. More words were exchanged, still too low and far to be made out.
Without warning, in much the same motion as before, the warrior whirled the hammer above his head, bringing his whole body into the motion—surprisingly flexible in the armor—and two rotations brought the arc high, directly over his head. Kyris saw the hammer reach the apex of the swing, then it dropped.
Baluras’ head disappeared under the impact, the only remnant the blood and gore that splattered in every which way.
Kyris had seen plenty of violence and brutality in his life; what was done to his family, living on the streets of Yond, in the fighting pits, even what had occurred this very night, and in many of those incidents, more than he liked to admit, he had been the one to do the bloody deeds, but what he’d just witnessed left him stunned. Baluras’s face had simply collapsed.
“Hey!” Grunul called to him, and by his tone and look of concern, it was not the first time. Despite this, Kyris spared another glance back at the bloody scene.
Brogan was not dead, but as he struggled to move, a group of guardsmen seized him.
“If you are done gawking, I think it’s time to go,” Grunul said.
The man, if there was one under the armor, turned to face them, leaving the over-sized weapon embedded partially in the ground, the shaft sticking up a diagonal. Kyris had an overwhelming sense that the eyes beneath the helm were staring specifically at him. He peeled his own away and jumped off the ladder onto Grunul’s horse, holding on as the Marlander spurred the mount, and they and Kohan rode out of the gate.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Then we rode out of the compound as if Night Mother herself was on our heels. Although, I don’t believe anyone gave chase. They had more pressing concerns,” Kyris said, recounting the tale of his escape from the artificer compound the night before to Jahna and Tasi. The three strolled along the manicured path of a park, a swath of green that cut across the Old City districts. The park was just high enough upon the bluff that they could see over the wall and across the Ryles, to the sprawling, seemingly endless rooftops to the east.
“And the other three were killed?” Tasi asked.
“Baluras most certainly was.” Kyris thought of the bullcor’s crushed skull. He had not given the full gory details. “I did not see what happened to Nerisca, but Brogan was recaptured.”
“That’s awful. Will you attempt to free him?” Tasi asked
Kyris’ laugh turned into a cough when he realized, by Tasi’s expression, that she had not said it in jest. “No, I hadn’t thought to. He chose his path.”
“The man chose the path of vengeance and wound up dead?” Jahna said with false bewilderment.
Kyris opened his mouth to retort, but Tasi cut in.
“It’s just… the way you describe their cells and the torture room. It sounds truly terrible,” she said.
Again Kyris began to reply but was interrupted.
“They will question him, this Brogan, about you,” Jahna said.
“I suppose they will, but he knows nothing of worth. He didn’t witness the use of my ability. No one did. We hardly spoke to one another. I freed him, then we went our separate ways. Brogan can supply my likeness, but I daresay, I’m not the only handsome fellow in the city.” Kyris chuckled to himself, and Tasi gave a small shake of her head.
“Could he have overheard things you said? Things said to the Grunul fellow?” Jahna continued.
The group strode a few steps in silence before Kyris hissed, “Vos take me,” drawing dark looks from passersby. “I did mention, only briefly and just the once, Caldir’s name to Grunul. But Brogan couldn’t have heard. He was still within his cell at the time.”
“And what of the other one, the Kalaan? Was he within earshot?” Jahna pressed.
“Nerisca was across from Grunul, but he was in his cell, manacled to the back wall. I can’t imagine anyone heard.”
“You need to have a better imagination, brother.”
There was a time when ‘brother’ was always said by Jahna in an affectionate tone, but of late, it was only ever used as a stamp of disapproval. In this instance, Kyris could not argue.
Jahna continued. “Your sole goal was to free Grunul. Could that alone be telling in some manner?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it might, but that is for Caldir to contend with.”
They walked in silence for a while, Tasi looking off in the distance with a forlorn expression and Jahna hidden under her veil, though Kyris was certain she felt no better.
Hoping to lighten the mood, Kyris offered, “Caldir has made some small progress and believes he might be able to locate Kathmor with his own connections. If so, we won’t need to engage the Whisperer.”
Tasi’s face lit up in a smile. “That’s great news.”
“Did Caldir inquire as to why you are looking for Kathmor?” Jahna asked.
“No. I offered no reason, but it doesn’t take a great leap of thought to figure out why. I told him Kathmor was an inquisitor, after all. Caldir seemed to think it shouldn’t be a problem locating the man, providing the whore-son still lives.” Kyris had tried hard not to even consider that possibility, but it had been many years. “The old script they write in, Caldir has the resources to decode them and he said the keepers maintain extensive and detailed records. I can attest to that.” Kyris had taken great efforts to get into the Path archives, only to learn that he could not read any of what was stored there. “Do you think they have a record of what happened to us stored away somewhere? Did Kathmor make a report of it?”
He was more voicing his thoughts and not expecting a reply, but Jahna said, “Why would it matter?”
Kyris couldn’t immediately put into words why, but it did matter to him. The more he thought on it, the more upset he grew. It was profane to him, vulgar that there should be an account of what happened to Jahna and the rest of his family. The halls of the archive were many and vast. How much butchery and slaughter was recorded and preserved there?
He didn’t voice these thoughts. Instead, they continued to walk in silence. His mood grew darker with every step, and the lingering thought that Kathmor might be dead kept needling him. The man
had been old even back then.
“Kyris?” Tasi asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
He had been scowling. “Yes, it’s just, I… What if Kathmor is dead? I’ve just always assumed he would still be out there.”
“And what if he was? Dead, that is?” Jahna asked.
“He is not. His name was not on the obelisk.”
Jahna huffed. “You hope the man whose life you wish to end is alive so that you can end it?”
“Exactly. He needs to know why his life is about to end.”
Jahna huffed again.
Kyris turned, his temper lost, ready to loose some harsh words, he knew not what, but the sad, pleading look Tasi gave stopped him. He closed his mouth and sighed. What he had hoped would be a pleasant day out, a celebration of his success of the previous night and a step closer to the inquisitor, was once again marred by this wound between him and Jahna that seemed only to fester over time.
Jahna stopped walking, then raised her head as if gazing up at the Spire that loomed over them. The massive structure blocked out the true sun, but they still basked in its oppressive glow. Did she somehow sense the difference, Kyris wondered.
“Let us head back,” he said, wanting to get out from beneath the glare. They left the park and headed towards their lodging with few words exchanged.
“Continue with your report,” Velledon said.
“Well, my lord, we are still investigating and putting the pieces together. The Allithoran outcast was recaptured, thanks to Lord Rexam.” Gilvys gestured back to the Boneclad warrior that walked a few steps behind them. “He is being thoroughly questioned as we speak.”
The three men walked through a dark, stone corridor leading to a set of metal doors. Gilvys held a quartz lamp as the only illumination, and as they neared the doors, he stepped forward. “Pardon, lordships,” he said, then knocked, sending the sound echoing down the tunnel.
