Defeat. This room carries the stench of defeat thickly, like a carcass rotting in the sun.
Her father, the Engineer, huddled off to one side with Fellraven and Lenantos in private discussion. She was irked at not being invited, yet she could still hear snatches of their conversation.
“…will be destroyed along with all of the second legion on Halionus if we don’t act,” Fellraven was urging the Engineer.
He waved the words aside. “That is of no concern right now. I mean to strike a telling blow at the heart of my brother’s forces. One bold surprise attack, and we can wrest Nexus away from his control. Once he is cast off his throne, his powers will wane considerably…”
Indistinct conversation followed and then Fellraven’s voice: “But if he catches wind of this, it could end in utter disaster! I smell a trap… I sincerely doubt he would leave himself that wide open.”
The Engineer gave them a grim smile. “In that event, I will have my ultimate card left to play. Lenantos, is all in order?”
The pale, black-robed artificer bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yes, Lord, the Tellurian Engine is secure and functional. All has proceeded according to plan, even exceeding expectations. We only await your orders for activation.”
“This is good news, indeed!” Fellraven exclaimed. Upon seeing curious glances in their direction, he lowered his voice again, and Nesnys could no longer hear him.
The Engineer queried Lenantos once more about something.
“Voshoth is barred entry from all but one portal,” the artificer replied in low tones, but his clear excitement caused his voice to carry. “And that one lies in the heart of the Hall of the Artificers. Not even the Nexus of the Planes is mapped to Voshoth. Once your command is given, I shall activate the Engine, and it shall begin to energize. Very soon, the balance of power will tilt in our favor.” His eyes held the fervent gleam of fanaticism.
“That is well, my loyal servant.” The Engineer clapped Lenantos on the shoulder. “Stand fast and await my word. Activate the Engine upon my order, and only upon my order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Lenantos replied. “We stand ready at a moment’s notice.”
The scene faded in Nesnys’s mind, and her thoughts returned to the present. She regarded the unusual portal once more. “Voshoth… Therein lies my father’s last and ultimate weapon. I have but to open the portal and claim the Tellurian Engine. Victory is within my grasp… Lord Shaol shall be pleased, and that cursed sister of mine soon will find herself without a throne, ruler of a dead city cast off in the void.” Excitement swelled inside her, and she yearned to throw open the portal at once to activate the Engine, but she knew Shaol wanted to seize Nexus first, if possible, and use the great machine as a last resort.
“How is this portal activated?” she asked the automaton. “With the Artificer Ring?”
“Yes, Master. All but Voshoth can be accessed so.”
“And Voshoth?”
“That requires the control rod.” As the construct said it, she saw an empty slot in the obelisk where the control rod would be inserted.
“Where is this rod?”
“Traditionally, the Overseer kept it in his possession at all times.”
“So I must find our old friend Lenantos, who is likely long dead, and discover what became of the rod.”
She waved for the automaton to accompany her and backtracked, retracing her steps through the facility. “What became of you and your order, Lenantos?” she muttered to herself. “Reveal to me your secrets…”
Chapter 15
The village of Mitterwel had seen much better days. Creel remembered it as a bustling little town along the trade route to Llantry with a couple comfortable inns, several stores, and a market. Now it was a grim occupied settlement. Several nearby buildings were blackened ruins, having burned down to the foundations. A squad of Nebaran soldiers huddled beneath the eaves of a tavern out of the freezing rain, which had begun that morning and not let up since. They were monitoring the road into town, watching Creel and his companions approach.
A massive oak tree across the road from the tavern was laden with a dozen or more bloated corpses hanging from its expansive boughs. Muttering occasionally amongst themselves, a murder of crows darkened the bare branches like leaves, watching as they passed by.
“Friendly-looking town,” Ferret remarked, the first words she had spoken all day.
Creel grunted but didn’t reply. He remembered boisterous children shouting and laughing as they played on swings suspended from the branches of the hangman’s tree on the last occasion he’d passed through, many months earlier. The only merriment now was likely from the crows claiming whatever tender vittles remained from the corpses though even they were subdued by the wretched weather.
“Perhaps we should pass on by,” Taren said, warily glancing at the troops.
“We need supplies.” Creel eyed the soldiers askance, but they didn’t seem too eager to accost a few travelers in the freezing rain. “Llantry is still over a week away even if we cut through the forest. Taren, keep your cowl pulled low. I’ll leave the three of you to thaw out after we get some warm food in our bellies while I go purchase some supplies.”
Nobody argued with that, cold and soaked as they were. Creel led them past the tavern with the loitering soldiers. The main street consisted of a number of small shops and businesses, but those that hadn’t been burned looked locked up tight—whether against the weather or the unwelcome occupiers, he couldn’t say.
The Cracked Kettle was an inn he had stayed at in the past. It was a bit run-down but cheap, with fairly clean rooms and decent food. The common room was half filled, and all eyes went to the drenched companions when they stepped inside. The folk seemed to relax a bit, likely upon realizing they weren’t Nebarans. A fire blazing in the hearth warmed the room nicely, and the air smelled of savory roasting meat. Creel’s mouth watered at the scent. He led the group to a table near the back and gestured for Taren to take the seat in the shadow of a post. Creel took a chair to one side, turning it slightly so that he could keep a wary eye on the room. The crowd looked to be mostly locals and a few travelers, judging from the packs and gear lying around.
“Get ya something?” A plump barmaid with red cheeks looked them over disinterestedly.
“Four helpings of whatever the meal of the day is,” Creel said, knowing it would draw undue attention to exclude Ferret. He was confident that the rest of them combined would be able to squirrel away her portion. “And mulled wine to go around.”
“Just water for me,” Mira said, speaking up for the first time in hours. She sat huddled close beside Taren.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged as the barmaid went off to get their orders.
They sat in silence, too weary to speak much after the long days on the road. Since the comfortable night spent in the country cottage, the past few days had been uneventful although they’d slept outdoors and the weather had grown colder. They’d been able to evade one Nebaran patrol and, other than their dwindling supplies, hadn’t encountered any difficulties.
The barmaid returned with their drinks after a few minutes. The mulled wine was poor quality, but it warmed the belly nicely, as Creel knew it would.
“Will we stay here?” Ferret asked. “Would be nice to have a warm bed for a change. For you three, I mean.”
She must have noticed how worn out we are from long days on the road and slim rations.
Creel was tempted to agree, but with the soldiers posted in town, he didn’t want to spend any more time there than absolutely necessary.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Taren said before Creel could answer. “I’m all for it once we get back into Ketanian-controlled territory.”
“How much farther could they have possibly advanced in the past week or more? They seem to be moving remarkably fast, for an army.” Mira looked at Creel.
He shook his head. “Aye, so they are. I wasn’t expecting the Ketanian f
orce to crumble so damned fast. I would’ve thought someone would be competent enough to muster a determined defense. But, judging from that fiend we faced in Ammon Nor, the emperor’s general must have had more nasty surprises to unleash on the king’s army. I reckon their morale must be broken pretty badly to have fallen into such disarray.”
The barmaid returned with their plates of food. Taren immediately dug in as if he were starving. Ferret seemed to eye her plate wistfully but didn’t touch it.
Creel pressed a few extra coppers into the barmaid’s hand. “Have you had any recent word of the fighting?”
Her expression turned glum, and she glanced nervously at the door. “Aye, just this morning, a merchant was in here complaining that those bastards seized his shipment of weapons he was taking to Ammon Nor. Said he was lucky they let him go with only a solid beating after they seized his goods. That was a day north of here, he said. Seems the Nebarans are spread out to block travel to both Carran and Llantry. Chokin’ off the supply lines, I reckon. Yet the worst news he brought was rumor that King Atreus was slain on the field. Both princes died too, and the army was defeated.”
Creel looked at her, shocked. “The king is dead?”
“Aye, ’tis as I heard it, but who can know for sure?” The barmaid kneaded a rag nervously in her hands. “May the gods watch over us all.”
By the gods, how have they been defeated so easily? Creel remembered meeting the king himself nearly ten summers earlier, when called upon to solve a problem with a restless shade. He had seemed a fair and honorable monarch, level-headed and capable.
The whole of Ketania will likely fall now, the heartland lying wide open before them. It all depends on the ambition of the emperor and his generals.
“Ill tidings, indeed,” he said, distracted as his mind was already racing, trying to anticipate how best to reach the capital. Need to get to the Llantry woods and slip through that way. Keep off all the roads and hope it’s not too late if they seek to sack Llantry next.
“Can I get ya anything else?” the barmaid asked.
“Nay, thanks, lass.”
Creel turned to his meal. The bread was stale, and the stew was overly salty, but after having seconds from Ferret’s portion, which he split with Taren and Mira, he had a full belly and felt renewed, the chill driven from his bones.
After finishing his stew, he drained the last of his wine and pushed his chair back. “I’m going out for supplies. You three wait for me here. Eat and drink more if you like, but lay low and keep out of trouble.” He slipped some more coins on the table in case they wanted anything else.
They nodded, and Creel pulled his sodden cloak back on and stepped back out into the sleet.
***
Mira was warm and comfortable for the first time in weeks, save for the brief interlude at the cottage several days past. The fire crackled in the hearth, and her belly was pleasantly filled. She felt her eyelids drooping and quickly roused herself. Taren appeared to be deep in thought, head resting in hand. He had pushed his cowl back at some point. Ferret could have been a statue staring into the hearth.
Mira barely noticed a man get up from his seat near the door and step outside after a nervous glance around the room.
A few minutes later, the door burst open, and a squad of Nebarans trooped inside, hands on the hilts of their swords.
“That’s the one—there in the back!” A skinny man with a pockmarked face pointed right at Taren.
Ferret started, sitting bolt upright, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Taren looked over, and Mira saw a weary resignation in his eyes.
“We don’t want no trouble here.” A man wearing an apron stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “You all take your business outside.” He looked nervously from the Nebarans to Mira and her friends. The frightened barmaid was peering out from behind him.
“You there! Come with us at once.” A soldier with the look of a seasoned veteran stepped forward and beckoned brusquely at the three of them.
“What is this about?” Taren shifted his chair slightly.
Mira scooted hers over, ready to spring into action.
“Come with us, and we’ll discuss it outside.” The veteran, whom she assumed was a sergeant, drew his sword. “I won’t tell you again.”
The skinny man piped up. “There was a fourth one. He left a few minutes ago.”
“If he comes back, we’ll deal with him then.”
“Taren?” Mira asked softly. “I can take them.”
This was a chance to make herself useful. She noted the six Nebarans were spread out a bit although they were still clustered near the door, which would prohibit them from effectively using their numbers against her.
Taren squeezed her forearm and nodded. “Be careful.”
She shot him a quick smile then turned and rose, hands in the air. The inn was too cramped to use her quarterstaff effectively, but she didn’t think she’d need it.
Mira was halfway across the room when the sergeant barked, “You two also—let’s go! Take this one.” He stepped aside so that his men could grab Mira.
Several customers seated at the nearest tables rose and scrambled out of the way.
Mira extended her hands as if for the Nebarans to bind her. When she was abreast of the sergeant, she put all her weight on her right leg then launched a side kick at the sergeant. The man didn’t have time to react. Her left foot slammed into his gut, lifting him off his feet and knocking him flat across the nearest table. Tankards of ale and platters of food flew, shattering on the floor, while the diners could only stare in shock.
The next soldier nearest her gaped, frozen in the process of reaching for her. Mira grabbed his arm and twisted, pulling the man forward and tossing him over her hip. His head smashed into the seat of a chair, and he lay still.
The next two men rushed her at once. Mira ducked the slash of a sword. The second man tried to flank her, dagger drawn. She chopped his wrist, and the knife flew from his hand. Lashing out with a fist, she struck him in the jaw and sent him staggering back and tangling up with the men behind him.
The swordsman stabbed at her again. Mira leaned back as the blade snaked past her chest. With her right hand, she seized the man by the forearm and drove the palm of her left hand into his elbow. The joint cracked, and his arm bent backward. He cried out, sword tumbling from nerveless fingers. Her next strike, to his head, sent him into the tangle of soldiers, and at least two of them tumbled to the floor.
The only soldier still on his feet avoided the tangle, his sword raised high. Mira leaped over the fallen men, her foot driving into the standing soldier’s chest and launching him backward to slam into the wall, where he slumped to the floor.
Two of the men on the floor scrambled to their feet. The first dove for her, seeking to tackle her to the ground. Mira sidestepped, seizing his arm and yanking him around to slam his head into one of the inn’s wooden pillars. She ducked behind the post, which shuddered when the other man’s sword hacked into it. His blade stuck for a moment, enough time to allow Mira to unleash a spinning kick to the side of his head.
The sergeant roared in outrage, having recovered only to find all his men down. With sword in hand, he charged. Mira kicked a chair up at him. He batted it aside and swung at her. She ducked, and the sword thudded into the same wooden post, lodging deep.
Before he could pull his blade free, she surged forward, driving a knee into his stomach and following up with an uppercut. The sergeant reeled backward, leaving his sword embedded in the post. He tripped over one of his downed men and fell.
The sergeant tried to get back up, but Taren came up from behind him and brought Mira’s staff down on his head with a wooden thunk. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell back, unmoving.
Ferret cried a warning and pointed behind Mira.
She had already sensed one of the other soldiers back on his feet. The man cried out and flung himself at Mira, arms wide to
try to tackle her to the ground. She smoothly ducked under his arm, spinning and driving a kick into his back and propelling him forward with greater force.
The soldier careened into the post then bounced off and fell to the ground. Mira blinked in confusion when his head floated in the air a moment… then it slowly rolled forward and tumbled to the floor with a wet sound. She realized he had run into his sergeant’s blade, still embedded in the post, at full force, beheading himself. The steel was dripping blood onto the floor.
She felt a gust of cold air as the door was opened, and she whirled to face another attacker.
But it was only Creel. He looked around wide-eyed for a moment, taking it all in, then sighed loudly. “What did I say about keeping out of trouble?”
The soldier nearest the door groaned and struggled to rise to his hands and knees. Creel planted a boot in his face, and he dropped back down, motionless.
“Nice work, Mira.” Taren gripped her on the shoulder, and she patted his hand. “I guess this means we’d best be off again.”
“Aye,” Creel grunted. “Get your gear.”
Mira looked around at the townsfolk, who’d scattered to the edges of the common room. As the shock wore off, the crowd looked pleased.
“Way to show those dogs! The scum had it coming—’bout time someone handed it to ’em.” A gaunt, bearded man was grinning and began clapping his hands. Murmurs of appreciation grew, followed by a further smattering of applause.
Mira felt a warm feeling burgeoning, and it only grew further when Taren smiled and nodded at her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Ferret lunged forward and stopped the skinny man with the pockmarked face from fleeing out the door by a fistful of his tunic. She lifted the struggling man a foot off the ground. “Dak, this bastard is a spy.”
Creel stared hard at the man. “That so?”
“Th-they made me! Told me who to w-watch out fer! Said they’d harm me family!”
“So you’re from around here?” Creel asked.
“Aye, I live to the west edge o’ town.”
The Way of Pain Page 14
