Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  His interest, aside, he wondered if he shouldn’t have killed the man, regardless of Aolwyn’s insistence against it. The apparition had been just as surprised and engrossed as he had concerning the assassin, which in of itself was an anomaly. In the many years since her… manifestation and attachment to him, she had only been focused on one thing—directing him towards his destined role of freeing Kalaa from her imprisonment. That she would express interest in another was… odd, he felt. Perhaps she thought the man could further their goal, which he had to admit was intriguing, if complicated.

  Jantyre had been worried when the Boneclad arrived with more men. But when it became clear the assassin had vanished for the last time—only evident after long, tense moments had passed, during which the apprehensive and skittish armsmen who had borne witness to the ability yelled at their newly arrived fellows to be wary of being stabbed in the back by a phantom—he’d been surprised but relieved. If the assassin had been captured, if such a thing was even possible with the man’s power, it could have led to some uncomfortable questions. Despite orders to attempt a bloodless apprehension, he had shot an arrow into the group to disrupt those plans. He had also severed the connection on his end by eliminating Jaspar, the go-between for him and Marlek. In an effort to be thorough, he had gone to the tavern, the Chalice, thinking to do the same to the criminal, but Marlek was already gone. Smarter than he looks, that one, Jantyre thought.

  His plan to acquire his own family’s sigil medallion so he could lead a supply caravan to the fabled ruins of Tesra had been foiled at the onset by the very man who seemed supremely suited for the task.

  If Jantyre could find this vanishing assassin, convince him or, more like, force his cooperation by some form of leverage, surely he could prove useful. There were a lot of unknowns with that route, but the idea seemed fitting. The assassin owed him, after all.

  Although, he was somewhat unsettled by the strange power. Jantyre was confident in his own abilities, but did he want to make an enemy of a man that could materialize from nothing… like Aolwyn did? Was the assassin somehow half-spirit?

  It was an interesting thought, but it was pointless, as was planning for the assassin’s help, unless Jantyre could find the man.

  He gazed down at the street, watching the people go about their day, lost in the trivialities of their meaningless lives. So few ever looked up. He watched a man in a ridiculously large hat walk in front of the empty store. He gave a small shake of his head. Highborn and their fashions.

  It was time to report back to Daratrine. The woman was livid that the banded efforts had not yielded the desired result, and that the lord governor had not allowed her access to those that they did capture. She had tasked Jantyre with finding some trail to follow, whether it was where the governor was holding the prisoners, where the hired huntsmen had disappeared to, or, better yet, a clue to the assassin’s whereabouts.

  Jantyre hadn’t succeeded on any of those fronts, but in truth, he hadn’t really tried.

  He stood and walked to the side of the roof overlooking an alley. He inhaled deeply while summoning forth the celestial wind. Once he could hold no more within his lungs, he stepped off the roof and fell leisurely towards the ground. He brought forth another gust that cushioned and gentled the landing

  He strolled off, wondering how he could steer his matron’s wrath in a direction that would benefit him, instead.

  Kyris emerged from the sewers out of the same grate he had used the first time. He’d spent the morning searching the dank tunnels for any sign of the ratkin but had found nothing. He didn’t know if Lo would be able or willing to help, but the ratkin had mentioned some kind of connection to Kohan. Really, he was grasping, but he had no other ideas of how he could locate or discover the fate of Caldir and the rest. He should have asked Lo when he had the chance, but his thoughts were not on the others then.

  He’d returned to Jahna and Tasi earlier in the day and told them that the deed was done. The news had been met with muted acceptance. He hadn’t offered the details, nor had they asked. Tasi had given him a short embrace, then left him alone with Jahna, as if the two of them needed to speak on the matter further, to share some special words to consummate the event.

  Perhaps once, but certainly not anymore.

  He and Jahna used to plot vengeance together, a game of sorts, a ritual of theirs before sleep. They’d talk of all the ways Kathmor would be made to suffer. In many scenarios, Jahna was present when Kyris defeated Kathmor in combat. The inquisitor would beg for forgiveness and wail in regret for his misdeeds. No mercy would ever be granted. In some of these fantasies, Jahna would even have a dagger to administer the deathblow. But somewhere along the way, over time, their little game became less frequent, eventually stopping altogether. Kyris had thought it only natural. They were growing up. Talk and make-believe was fine for children, but the time had come to make such things a reality. It was time for him to make it a reality. He hadn’t ever considered that Jahna might have lost her hate. Perhaps it wasn’t lost so much as displaced by something else. Perhaps by the home and safety that Baaz had provided, a semblance of a peaceful life.

  But that hadn’t been enough for him. Even with the act complete, it was not enough.

  Jahna knew killing Kathmor would bring him no peace. She’d most likely always known, but he’d been too stubborn, resolute, and dense to be swayed. Despite it all, the hollowness he felt, the gnawing guilt of abandoning Ellse and the others, the danger he had brought upon his sisters, a part of him still believed that it was a necessary thing that had to be done.

  He couldn’t quite reconcile the conflicting thoughts; that a wholly unsatisfying, seemingly pointless task had to be completed, regardless of the cost.

  There was a nagging little voice that said that if he had only done it properly, not stabbed the man in the chest but drawn out the suffering more or thought of sending the bastard to the Gloom earlier, then it would have been worthwhile.

  He knew that was not true, that no amount of pain he inflicted on Kathmor would bring him the satisfaction he wanted, yet it was a falsehood he couldn’t let go of.

  The silence had dragged between them.

  “Tomorrow,” he’d said. “We’ll set out. Back to Yond or somewhere else. Wherever you and Tasi want to go.”

  “We’re leaving?”

  “Yes, of course. As I always said we would.” He had stressed the last part, feeling indignation at being doubted.

  “It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I thought perhaps you would wish to pursue the others,” Jahna said, her cadence clipped, as though she had to force the words out.

  “The others?”

  “Yes, Caldir… and Ellse.”

  “I…” Kyris had stared at his sister’s veil, unsure why she would bring this up. “I don’t know where they are, or if they are even alive.”

  Jahna hadn’t replied, letting the silence speak for her.

  “Are you suggesting I go after them?”

  “No, brother. I was merely… curious.” Another long pause had settled before Jahna let out a heavy sigh. “Do you care for these people?”

  He’d hesitated a moment, for some reason reluctant to put voice to it. “Yes,” he said. Though he had not known them very long, they had made an impression on him, and it wasn’t just his attraction to Ellse. He admired Caldir. The man had honored their agreement and shown him trust. Grunul and Kohan had endured such pain, and yet they hadn’t let it destroy them. Kyris wasn’t sure he could say the same. They all deserved a better fate. “But I made a promise to you and Tasi. Is it not your desire for us to leave here?”

  “Since when has what I wished for been important?” Jahna’s hand shot up. “No, I apologize. That was uncalled for. To answer your questions… Yes, brother. I very much wish for you to keep your promise and for us to leave this very moment. However, I also know you. I know that if you don’t try to discover what happened to your… friends, then you�
��ll regret it. That regret will turn into scorn, for yourself and perhaps for those who prevented you through obligation.”

  “I would never—”

  Jahna had stopped him again with a raised hand. “Be that as it may, why find out?”

  “You are advocating that I endanger myself?” Kyris asked with equal parts mirth and disbelief.

  “You’ve risked your life countless times for Kathmor…”

  “I didn’t risk my life for him. I did it to kill him.”

  Jahna had waved away his protests. “I see little difference. If Kathmor was at the mercy of a pack of wolves, you would fight off the beasts so that you could kill him with your own hands. Did he suffer?”

  Kyris was surprised by the sudden question. “Yes. No. I… it wasn’t enough. I could have ten lifetimes, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

  Jahna nodded. “The man is dead, and we will speak of him no more. Brother, I don’t want you to risk your life ever again, but if you want to save them, if you can save them, I would understand if you had to.”

  Kyris held and squeezed Jahna’s hands, then embraced her. “Thank you,” he’d whispered. He leaned back and said, “For better or ill, whatever the fate of Caldir and the rest, when this is all done we will leave for good.”

  Jahna tilted her head as if she wanted to say something, but instead, she’d simply patted his hand.

  He had rushed out with no plan other than contacting Lo, in hopes the ratkin could somehow track down Kohan.

  Now, he headed to the tailor shop, thinking that there might be clues there. Perhaps a few artificer armsmen had been left behind as guards, and he could persuade one to share information.

  Kyris turned onto the street where the tailor shop was located. He was somewhat disguised as a highborn in an embroidered, high-collared jacket and a large, wide-brimmed hat that was currently the popular style. Wrapped in canvas and poking out of his satchel was the broken relic spear. He had resolved never to be without the weapon whenever possible. He walked past the store without slowing, breaking stride, or even a sidelong glance.

  It was gone. Everything had been taken out, leaving behind an empty shell as though the shop had never been. Even the hanging sign out front was missing. There were no guards that he could see, but perhaps some were in the corridors below.

  Kyris stopped and looked up, thinking he’d detected movement along the rooftops across the street, but there was nothing. But as he resumed walking, he did catch sight of someone watching him from an alley across the way.

  The enemy had left a scout to watch the storefront. His first thought was to turn on the next corner and run. However, the scout could be just as useful as a guard, he reasoned. Thus decided, Kyris ducked into another shop along tailor’s row, and before the man behind the counter could turn around to address him, he shifted. He dashed back out through the intangible door and across the street to the alleyway where he’d seen the spying figure. It was reckless, he knew, to be so causal with entering the Gloom, but time was of the essence. If Caldir and the others still lived, he feared it wouldn’t be for much longer.

  Kyris turned into the alley and saw with satisfaction that the cloaked and hooded figure was still surveying the tailor’s shop. He drew his dagger and reappeared behind them.

  A leg shot out from beneath the cloak, taking him in the gut. He folded and stumbled back. In a heartbeat, they tackled him to the ground, pinning the wrist and hand that held the dagger. He was trying to bring a leg up and draw a knife with his other hand when a voice, mere inches from his face said, “I’m shrewd to your trick.”

  Kyris eased back a bit and stared unbelieving at who was atop him. The voice had been hers, but harsher. The face, too. The cheekbones more pronounced, her jawline broader, and her teeth… which she was displaying, were definitely sharper.

  “Ellse?”

  “I should tear out your throat, coward,” she said in a low growl.

  Kyris was stunned, unable to process what he was seeing. “How?”

  “How. You want that to be your last word?”

  He tried to raise, but she kept him pinned.

  “Ellse, please, let me explain.”

  “What is there to explain? Your actions speak quite clearly.”

  Kyris eased back, offering no more resistance. What could he say? Explain how he had seen Lord Rexam cave in a bullcor’s head, or that the wraiths were swarming in the Gloom and if he had stayed, he would have been just another sword arm. He could explain he had been waiting eight years to kill a man and why he couldn’t die back there, not until an old inquisitor went first. But all that didn’t change anything. He let out a heavy breath. “I abandoned you and the others. And if by some divine twist of fate I was given another chance to live that moment, I’m not certain that I would do any different. Kathmor needed to die and nothing… nothing, not you or anyone else came before that. Kill me if you want, but know that I am here now to help, if possible. If the others still live, I will do anything I can to free them.”

  Kyris stared into Ellse’s eyes, brighter and more golden than they ever been before. She was weighing his fate, and he decided that he would abide by her judgment.

  She pushed herself up and walked away a few steps. Her back to him, she said, “You are not who I had thought or hoped you would be. But if you are offering to help, then I will not refuse. And since we are being forthright, know that your life means nothing to me. I will gladly put you before a blade to save any of the others from a bruise.”

  Silence stretched between the two.

  Kyris finally rose to his feet. “I can accept that. How will we find them?”

  Kyris sat across from a small blond boy. The child looked as if he had just gotten over an illness—he was very thin but had a healthy flush to his cheeks, and his large gray eyes were bright and attentive. At first Kyris hadn’t known why Ellse had brought him to see the child, but then he remembered. It was the boy that had been on the bridge with the huntsmen.

  Ellse had led him to the house of a woman in Caldir’s employ who had been caring for the child.

  “This boy, Caldir calls him Andorr, was how the huntsmen were able to track you.” Before he could ask how, Ellse continued. “He had a taste of your blood.”

  “That’s impossible. We’ve never met before now.” Kyris eyed the child with concern.

  “I don’t know the specifics, but Caldir was clear on this aspect.”

  Kyris crouched down and looked at the child. He gave him a hesitant smile that Andorr mirrored, pulling back his lips to reveal needle-like teeth.

  “Umm, how does this help us now?” he said.

  Ellse gave a smile, a feral one that lacked all the charm of her previous offerings. “Can you help us find Caldir?”

  The boy gave an enthusiastic nod.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Answer me.”

  In his daze, it took Caldir a moment to realize that the lord governor was speaking to him. He’d been pulled from his cell, dragged to the amphitheater, and strapped to the chair again. It seemed it was time for another session with Ortan. At the thought of his torturer, Caldir searched the chamber with languished swings of his head, but the lord governor was only accompanied by two guardsmen at present.

  Could he endure another session? He didn’t know what secret he had left to tell. No, that wasn’t true. He had told the lord governor everything that been asked of him, but he’d offered no more. In the frenzy of pain and suffering, it had been tempting to give away all his secrets in hopes of stopping the agony. Why hold anything back? Did he still have hope that he would leave this place alive? But there was more at stake than just his life. Much more.

  He dropped his chin against his bare chest. Somewhere in the last two or three days—had it only been that long? It seemed an impossibility—he’d lost his clothing except for his tattered trousers. His chest was a mix of bruises, oozing wounds, and healing scabs. Caldir had been beaten, cut, and stabbed, then healed by Ortan�
��s mockery of mending. Velledon had been right; whether the torturer was unskilled at fleshshaping or if it was purposeful, the results were the same.

  “Answer me!”

  What was the question, Caldir tried to ask, but the words didn’t form, which was probably for the best. Something about a missing relic. Taking a deep breath and with a colossal effort, he pulled himself together and raised his head to meet Velledon’s stare.

  The lord governor, for his part, reeled in his anger, then sighed. “I will ask once again. To what purpose would you keep one relic from me? A broken one, at that. Do you know something of it? Its origin?”

  Caldir gaped at the man in confusion. What was the man talking about? Everything had been separated into three stashes, and he had revealed the locations of them all.

  Lord Governor Velledon must have read his expression. “Are you too addled? Was this just an oversight?”

  Two men walked into the amphitheater, and it took Caldir a moment to recognize them through his fog. Gilvys and Lord Rexam. The Boneclad was without his helmet, but there was no mistaking that Loddsteel mail. The man’s features seemed carved from stone by unskilled hands. Caldir had studied the Boneclad out of professional curiosity. He knew that all members of the Host were integrated with their armor, but each had their own unique aesthetics.

  The lord governor leaned close to draw his attention back. “You think you’ve known suffering these last few days? I assure you, Ortan has barely begun. Think on this.” Turning to the new arrivals, “What is it?”

  Gilvys hesitated, glancing at Caldir.

  “Do not worry about him.”

  “Of course, my lord. The archon has summoned you for an audience.”

  Caldir noticed the lord governor stiffening.

  “To what purpose?”

  “I believe all this talk of a nightspawn running loose in the city has reached his ears. And with so many armsmen and an Allithoran dead, all are looking for answers,” Gilvys said.