by C. J. Aaron
The room he entered was set up much like the facility outside Martrion, though stretched to a much greater scale. Large tables lined with chairs dominated the chamber. Even in the low light, the details of a small lounge of sorts was set against the wall far to his right. Ryl grabbed one of the lanterns from the table, swinging the light to shine on the opposite side of the entry. The glow of the lantern cut through the gloom of the thickened air, illuminating the open door. Inside the narrow room beyond, he could clearly see the cook surface of the kitchen and pantry he expected to lay beyond.
A choking cough from the doorway behind him distracted his survey of the initial chamber. Andr had entered the room; the mercenary held a hand over his nose, attempting to dampen the smell. The others bottlenecked at the doorway behind him; their faces were locked in similar expressions of disgust.
“Bring me Vox,” Ryl ordered. “Pull the guards at the outer gate to the corners of the building closest to the door.” Near the back of the pack, Millis nodded quickly before sprinting from view.
Ryl returned his attention to the room at hand. He held the lantern out in front of his body, stretching the range of the limited light. Their arrival at the previous facility had been unannounced, catching the guards unprepared. Food was still steaming and drinks had been scattered across the tables as they had abandoned the meal with urgency at the sounds of alarm from outside. The facility here, though abandoned, had been left in relatively neat order. Chairs were situated neatly under the tables, though all were pushed to the side, forming an alley leading to the door at the rear wall.
Ryl recalled the force it had taken to remove the thick metal reinforced slab from its hinges. He doubted that the entrance here would be any less sturdy. The reinforced door was cracked open; a ring of keys swung noiselessly from the lock, though no measure of wood or steel would have prevented him from entering the inner chamber. The anger within burned white hot.
He scanned the area before him, though he was unconvinced he’d find anything different. The vision that dawned before him was as bleak as he had anticipated. He recognized the glowing signature of Vox entering the facility.
“I’ll need your light.” Ryl repressed the momentary regret at the force of the words. The rage inside his body quickly dwarfed the emotion. Vox, if he noted, gave no indication that the terse command caused any insult.
Ryl stormed forward with Vox in tow. A ball of flame was swelling rapidly in the phrenic elementalist’s hand; the brilliant while light easily overpowered the feeble glow of the lantern. Ryl’s progress remained steady as he barreled into the door. The massive panel surged inward, slamming into the wall behind it with a thunder that echoed through the hollow chamber.
The gust of thick, revolting air poured out of the chamber, crashing over him like a wave. Ryl could feel the density as it rushed past. The scents, given time to ferment as they were confined inside the facility, choked out the breathable oxygen. The vile aroma was potent; he clamped his mouth shut for fear of ingesting the taste.
It had been little more than a moon since he’d smelled anything close to its like. They’d had no way of properly burying the mangled remains left behind by the devastation of Cadsae Proper. The sun had turned the remains rancid. Fire had been their only means of remedying the situation.
The odor of death here had nearly solidified the air. A gagging sound accompanied one of his companions at his rear. He judged them not. Likely others would join suit before the inspection of the facility was complete. The anger burning through his veins distracted his senses. Though he felt the revulsion with every fiber of his being, anger overwhelmed all other sensations.
He let the wind swell around his tattooed right arm as he stormed into the darkened chamber. The breeze expanded outward from his body, meter by meter, cutting a trough through the stench that choked the air. The turbulence inside the radius of the wind that whipped around him provided a noticeable measure of relief, though the stench was still thick. His heartbeat raced as the light swelling from Vox’s flame illuminated the scene within.
The interior of the chamber was massive, easily three times as large as the facility at Martrion. The exterior facade of the complex consisted mainly of large slats of wood, bleached to ashy gray. A thick wall of stones, bolstered by hefty wooden supports, protected the devious interior.
The scale of the operation in Leremont dwarfed that of their previous facility. Ryl’s anger, already swelling to an untenable level, grew unbearable. Along the wall to the left, angled slabs were arranged in a line, vanishing into the darkness beyond the illumination of Vox’s light. A second row lined the middle of the chamber. The slabs leaned against each other, forming a sickening pyramid.
Most slabs were still occupied.
Ryl needed no mindsight to confirm that they were all deceased. The conditions of their bodies and the profound odor were telling enough.
At Martrion, the refuse of the prisoners had been contained to the trough cut into the floor that lined the edge of the room. Though the vile channels were in use here, the floor was filthy, covered with the rotting, sticky remains of what had once been pools of blood.
Ryl moved hesitantly toward the closest lifeless body suspended from the wooden gurney. The man’s head was slumped forward, his chin resting against his chest. His haggard, decomposing skin, though splattered with filth, was pale white, pulled tight over his bones. The brand on his neck stood out, a dark red blister against the alabaster flesh.
H1339.
The man had languished in a state of perpetual torment for over a decade. The tragedy of his existence lingered long before his confinement in The Stocks. His name was unknown; his life defined by the number burned into his neck. Death was likely a glorious release, an end to the torture that had consumed most of his life.
Ryl moved slowly down the aisle, his stomach churning as he viewed the remains of the tributes. Long absent were any signs of life. Like the facility at Martrion, along the side of each of the tributes was a small table. At the previous facility, a needle and tube had been inserted into their arm to collect the slow, steady trickle of their blood. Here, the implements had been removed; their remains were strewn across the room with little care. Where the needles had been, large slits were gouged into their arms, allowing the blood to flow freely.
The effects were dramatic.
The mess was excessive. What had caused the change in the process? Ryl’s stomach churned at the thought that sprang unbidden into his mind. The disaster of the room, the condition of the tributes spoke to haste, a rush in the process honed to a revolting precision over a millennium. Had this been a response to their destruction of the facility hidden in the shadows of the Martrion ruins?
The wave of self-remorse that crashed over him was crippling. His progression through the room ground to an abrupt halt as he scanned the lines of slabs that stretched into the gloom of the chamber. Had his actions sealed the fate of those who languished here? The chill that rushed through his body tempered the fires of anger that had churned uncontrollably through his veins.
Ryl slumped forward; his hands fell to his knees. His breaths came in ragged gasps. The overpowering odor his anger had kept at bay choked him. He struggled to contain the contents of his stomach. The darkness inside clawed further into possession of his body. The battle between the dreaded whispers and the alexen all too quickly became one sided.
The pressure of a single hand rested gently on his back. Ryl turned his head to find Andr standing at his side.
“None of this was your doing, Ryl.” Andr’s intuition was correct with his assumption of the weight of the darkness that crushed him from within. The doubt, the fear, the guilt sought to snuff out the flames of hope. Within moments, the raging inferno of anger that boiled his blood was extinguished, smothered by the icy chill of remorse and despair.
“You need not bear the weight of blame, for it belongs on the shoulders of others,” the mercenary continued, though his words were choppy,
broken between the small breaths as he too struggled in the putrid air. “This is a product of Lunek the Third, of Leiroth, of Lord Kagran and all who have accepted their greed regardless of the costs. It is they who deserve the blame. Not you.”
Ryl remained hunched over for a moment as the words ricocheted through his mind.
“They never had a chance,” he whispered as he rose slowly to an upright position. The eyes that met with Andr’s were haunted, lost.
“Their lives will be mourned, as will the others who’ve fallen prey to the kingdom,” Andr commiserated. “Yet those who remain undiscovered, those whose Harvests are yet to come will now stand a chance as a result of your actions.”
Their gaze held for a few moments. The normally calculating eyes of the mercenary were hardened by determination, saturated by emotion. They darted between him and a point behind them near the entrance of the facility. Ryl needed no visual or phrenic confirmation to understand the object of his focus.
Cray stood just inside the doorway.
Ryl nodded as he turned his attention from the mercenary’s penetrating stare. The logic was clear. He cared not for the notoriety for his deeds. If a personal prize was ever to be his for the asking, anonymity would be his request. The freedom of the unawakened, of future generations from the horrors on display throughout the festering remains of the facility was the true measure of success.
His eyes traveled from the mercenary to the rows of slabs that held the naked remains of the tributes. There was little more he could do for them; he’d failed to reach them in time. The breath caught in his throat as his eyes paused on the brand of the unfortunate soul a few a few meters away. He rocked back on his feet, as the numbers burned into the man’s neck were all too familiar.
H1350.
Ryl had been harvested a cycle early. He’d shared the fate with two others, a shockingly low number for the annual festivities. There was but one other male to be pulled that cycle.
“Laj,” he gasped. His heart thundered in his chest; a pit formed in his stomach.
With a single stride he reached the side of the tribute he’d called a friend. Laj’s eyes were half open; the lifeless orbs, sunken and shriveled, stared into nothingness. Ryl frantically scanned the area with his mindsight, pleading to find any trace of alexen. He placed his hand on the neck of his friend.
No traces of a heartbeat registered. No hint of alexen shined through the sterile image. A single pinpoint, nothing more than a fleeting wisp of black, registered in his vision. He’d scanned the facility before, yet the fragment had been overlooked, likely a product of its size and potency.
“I’m sorry, my friend.” Ryl choked back the emotion as he stepped back from the body. Though the alexen and his anger raged through him, he felt dead inside. He knew not what lay ahead for the tributes they’d saved from the facility at Martrion or what would remain of the Lei Guard after the Erlyn released them from her grasp, yet they would have a chance.
A chance at life.
A chance for a future.
“I know what it is they sought.” Ryl’s voice was cold, devoid of emotion. “Bring the light. Follow me.”
Ryl moved down the aisle, his attention focused ahead, tracking the minute hint of blackness that scarred the empty vision of his mindsight. The sticky footsteps of his companions followed in his wake, echoing through the expanse of the crypt. At the far end of the row, another stone wall materialized from the gloom, denoting the end of the facility. The alley between the elevated bodies turned to the right, though the wall was free from the slabs. Ryl crossed over a small section of wood, an elevated platform over the trough that had been cut through the floor. The distant, staccato, hollow echo of dripping liquid sounded from the drain cut into the base of the wall.
He had lost count of the number of deceased tributes he passed. The majority of the slabs were occupied; the ones that weren’t were still stained, a vicious reminder of the lives that had lingered in perpetual torture on their surfaces. The wall of the facility ahead was devoid of slabs; long tables lined the perimeter, though they were separated by several doorways. The facility at Martrion had shared a similar design, the doorways along the wall granting access to the private chambers of the menders and the quarters for the Lei Guard. Save for a few items—bloodied needles and tubes, a broken glass container, and balled-up scraps of parchment—the tables were empty. The doorways all stood open, though little could be discerned of their interior.
Ryl had little care for their contents. The object of his attention was located through the last door in the row. Like the others, the doorway stood ajar; the light from Vox’s flame illuminated a staircase leading straight down into the earth. He stopped as he reached the threshold of the door, turning to face his companions. With the exception of Ramm, Millis, Paelec and Nielix, the remainder of his companions had followed him into the facility. Without exception each of their faces had blanched; their skin was pale from the shock. Tears streamed down the faces of the three unawakened. They had likely noted the body of Laj. He had been a friend to all. Though most of their faces were hidden, the brands on the necks of the deceased were a powerful image to those who lived with the similar mark. Each cycle contained losses, some closer than others, though painful nonetheless.
“Collect anything that will burn,” Ryl growled. “There’s nothing more we can do for them. I’ll not leave them here to rot. Let this facility be their funeral pyre.”
The anger that surged through his body burned white hot. It boiled the blood in his veins as the alexen matched his fury, yet he felt disturbingly detached. The wound cut by the devastating reality that they encountered in the facility had severed his ties with the sorrow. The misery was so complete, so overbearing that he lost all sense of it. He felt numb.
Ryl allowed no questions as he descended into the shadows of the stairwell. Vox followed a few steps behind while the others moved to complete the grim task that lay ahead. Several meters down, the staircase ended in a narrow landing. It doubled back on itself, leading further underground, below the floor of the facility above. The odor here grew more potent as the heavier scents settled in the lower reaches of the complex. It stifled the fresh air, hanging over the room with a thickness that was visible.
It wasn’t long before the staircase ended in a narrow hallway leading further under the facility. The floor and ceiling were constructed of stone; his footsteps echoed as they bounced off the walls. Several meters ahead, a doorway opened into a new chamber lined with shelving. Ryl paused as he entered the subterranean storeroom. Compared to the expansive facility above, the room was small, yet it stretched nearly ten meters across. The walls were lined with wooden shelving that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. A few rows were evenly spaced across the middle of the room. He let his vision crawl across the chamber. Though he knew what had once inhabited these shelves, they were all barren.
Ryl closed his eyes, letting his mindsight paint the picture that he needed to see. On the floor above, the signatures of the phrenics and the unawakened moved steadily to complete their remorseful task. The room before was devoid of any glow, yet the pinpoint of darkness remained to his right. He opened his eyes, scanning the area of his desire.
Along the far right wall, a set of shelves had collapsed. Their wreckage was strewn about the floor, as the guards who had been sent to look for the missing vial had likely torn through the pile in search of their prize. They had been close, yet their eyes had failed to see what Ryl’s phrenic mindsight could illuminate. With the light of Vox’s steady flame, he sifted carefully into the wreckage. The slight tingling sensation growing in the crook of his left arm signaled that his efforts would soon produce.
Ryl carefully lifted the final section of the ruined shelving. Aside from the splinters of wood and dust collected throughout the ages, the floor was bare. He could feel the frustration within his body grow, as the vision in his mindsight was consistent. He examined the broken section of the shelf that he had prop
ped up against the pile of rubble. The piece was once a portion of the lower shelf; a small angled support reached up from the leg that had bent and splintered. A glint of light reflecting off glass caught his eye.
There, concealed among the twisted, fractured wood, a small glass vial was secreted away.
Impulsively, Ryl reached for the object with his left hand. The tingling in his arm swelled as his fingers approached. At the last moment he stopped; his hand hovered a finger’s width away from the vial. The subtle glow of his skin had gone unnoticed under Vox’s overpowering light. He retracted his hand, reaching instead with his right.
The equalizing power that flowed from his left arm throbbed in anticipation. He felt a wave of regret as he collected the narrow vial with his right hand. The thick, viscous fluid inside reacted with an uncanny intelligence. Though there was nowhere for it to flee, it flattened itself against the interior of the vial. Ryl held the glass aloft, letting Vox’s light illuminate the object.
“You’ve found what they were looking for,” Vox commented softly. There was a cautious curiosity to his voice. “What do you mean to do with it?”
Ryl paused for a moment as he observed the black, writhing liquid sloshing inside the vial. He had been so blinded by the anger, so determined, so focused on the search for the missing elixir, that he’d not given much thought to what he’d do if he found it. Everything about the small glass cylinder was repulsive. It represented the most vile sentiments of the population. Sentiments where the sacrifice of children was commonplace. They were worshiped for the unknowing power that the select few contained. In his hands he held a fragment of the life of a tribute.
Of a friend.
The moisture welled in his eyes as the face of Elias flashed into his mind. The crooked smile and the wink, even in the darkest of moments when all hope seemed lost, brought a smile to his face. Moments, fragments of images from his life, from the lives lived by the countless phrenics who passed before him flashed into his mind.
