by Anthony Ryan
“He’s drained,” Nortah observed, noting the man’s pallor and ripping open his shirt to reveal a stab wound to the lower belly. “Our little brother’s work perhaps.”
Vaelin pulled the cloak from the corpse and they searched it for any clue as to Frentis’s whereabouts, finding nothing save some sodden pipe leaf.
“I make it five horses,” Caenis said, crouching to examine the tracks in the mud at the water’s edge. “He fell from his mount when they forded so they took anything of value and left him to bleed.”
“And I thought outlaws were such admirable folk,” Nortah commented.
“Brother,” Barkus said, nudging Vaelin and pointing to where Scratch was busily sniffing the grass on the bank. After a moment the slave-hound raised his head and bounded off, following the line of the river as they ran in pursuit. He paused again a few hundred paces short of the city walls, circling around some deep, parallel tracks ploughed into the earth.
“Cart wheels,” Caenis said. “They hid him in a cart to get him through the gate.”
Scratch was already off again, making for the north gate. The city guards waved them through with puzzled expressions but no words. The Order was never to be questioned. It was no surprise to Vaelin when Scratch soon led them to the southern quarter.
The streets were mostly deserted save for the usual assortment of drunks and whores, most of whom found somewhere else to be when they saw five brothers from the Sixth Order running behind a very large dog. Eventually Scratch stopped, standing tensed and still as he did when he was pointing out a trail when they hunted together. His nose pointed directly at a tavern nestled in a shadowed alleyway. The sign hanging over the door marked it as the Black Boar. Lamplight glowed dimly through the windows and they could hear the raucous babble of liquor-induced merriment.
Scratch began to growl, a soft but chilling rumble.
Vaelin knelt, patting him gently on the head. “Stay,” he commanded.
The hound gave a plaintive whine as they moved towards the inn but did as he was told.
“What’s the plan?” Dentos asked as they paused at the doorway.
“I thought I’d ask them where Frentis is,” Vaelin replied. “After that I expect we’ll find out if we’re as well taught as we think we are.”
The vocal good humour of the inn’s patrons died instantly at the sight of them. A room of mostly unwashed and prematurely aged faces stared at them with a mixture of fear and palpable hatred. The man behind the bar was large, bald and clearly less than happy to see them.
“Good evening, sir!” Nortah greeted him, striding towards the bar. “A fine establishment you have here.”
“Order ain’t welcome ’ere,” the barman said. Vaelin noted the thin sheen of sweat on his top lip. “Ain’t right you comin’ in ’ere. ’Snot your place.”
“Oh don’t fret, my fine fellow.” Nortah clapped the man on the shoulder. “We want no trouble. All we want is our brother. The one who stuck a knife in your master’s eye a few years ago. Be a good fellow and tell us where he is, and we won’t kill you or any of your customers.”
A rumble of anger ran through the crowd and the barman licked his lips, his bald head now shining with sweat. For the briefest second his eyes flicked to his right before snapping back to Nortah. “No brothers here,” he said.
Nortah gave one of his best smiles. “Oh I beg to differ. Tell me, did you know a man can live for several hours, in agonising pain of course, after his stomach has been slit open?”
Vaelin followed the line of the barman’s brief glance, seeing little but the shuffling feet of nervous patrons and a dusty floor, except for a clean patch near the fireplace, a patch about a yard square. As he moved forward to take a closer look a man rose from a table, a muscular man with the broad knuckles and indented nose common to prizefighters.
“Where’re d’you think you’re go—”
Vaelin punched him in the throat without breaking stride, leaving him choking on the dusty floorboards. There was a cacophony of scraping chairs as other patrons rose, a murmur of anger building in the crowd. Vaelin crouched to inspect the patch of dust-free floorboards, which quickly revealed itself as a trapdoor. Well made, he judged, his fingers tracing the joins.
“Got no right here!” the barman was shouting as he straightened. “Comin’ in here hittin’ customers, makin’ threats. Ain’t right.”
There was a loud growl of assent from the inn’s patrons, most now on their feet, many holding a variety of knives and cudgels.
“Order bastards,” one of them spat, brandishing a broad-bladed knife. “Ventured where you shouldn’t. Need cutting down to size.”
Nortah’s sword came free of its scabbard in a blur, the man with the knife staring at his severed fingers as the blade clattered to the floor.
“No need for that kind of language, sir,” Nortah cautioned him sternly.
The rest of the crowd drew back a little and silence stretched, broken only by the knife-man’s keening over his mutilated hand and the rasping chokes of the prizefighter Vaelin had punched. They’re afraid, Vaelin decided, scanning the faces in the crowd. But not scared enough to run. Numbers give them strength.
He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, once, sharp and loud. He had expected Scratch to use the door but the slave-hound apparently saw little obstacle in the window. Shattered glass exploded across the inn, the dark bulk of snarling muscle landing in the centre of the room, snapping viciously at any patrons unfortunate enough to be close by.
The inn emptied in a few seconds save for the two injured patrons and the barman, clutching a hefty cudgel, his chest heaving with fear.
“Why’re you still here?” Dentos asked him.
“If I run without fightin’, he’ll kill me,” the bald man replied.
“One Eye’ll be dead by morning,” Vaelin assured him. “Get out of here.”
The barman gave them a last nervous glance before dropping his cudgel and running for the back door.
“Barkus,” Vaelin said. “Help me with this.”
They jammed their hunting knives into the join between the floor and the trapdoor and levered it open. The hole it revealed went straight down into a dimly lit cellar. Vaelin could see firelight flickering on the stone floor about ten feet below. He stepped back, drawing his sword and preparing to jump. Scratch, however, had picked up a fresh trail and saw little reason to linger. He flashed past Vaelin and disappeared into the hole. After a second or two the mingled sound of shock, pain and Scratch’s roaring growls left them in no doubt he had found some enemies.
“Think he’ll save any for us?” Barkus asked, wincing.
Vaelin jumped into the hole, landing and rolling on the stone floor, coming to his feet with his sword levelled. His brothers followed him in quick succession. The cellar was large, at least twenty feet across, with torches set into the walls and a tunnel leading off to the right. There were two bodies in the cellar, both large men with their throats torn out. Scratch was sitting atop one of them, licking a bloodied snout. Seeing Vaelin, he yelped briefly and disappeared into the tunnel.
“He’s still got the scent.” Vaelin lifted a torch from the wall and chased after the slave-hound.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever, though in truth it could only have taken a few minutes of racing after Scratch before they emerged into a large, vaulted chamber. It was clearly an old structure, finely pointed brickwork arching up on all sides to meet in an elegant ceiling high above. A terrace of tiled steps led down to a flat, circular area in which was placed a large oak-wood dining table decorated with a mismatched variety of gold and silver ware. There were six men seated at the table, playing cards in their hands and a scattering of coins between them. They stared at Vaelin and Scratch in stark amazement.
“Who in the name of the Faith are you?” one of them demanded, a tall man with a cadaverous face. Vaelin noted the loaded crossbow resting on the chair next to him. The other five men all had swords or axes within
easy reach.
“Where is my brother?” Vaelin demanded.
The man who had spoken flicked his eyes from Vaelin to Scratch, taking note of the blood on his jaws, then blanching visibly as Barkus and the others emerged from the tunnel behind Vaelin.
“You’re in the wrong place, brother,” the tall man said, Vaelin admiring the effort he put into keeping the tremble from his voice. “One Eye doesn’t take kindly to—” His hand flashed towards the crossbow. Scratch was a blur of muscle and teeth, leaping the table and fastening his jaws on the tall man’s throat, the crossbow sending its bolt towards the ceiling. The other five men were on their feet, clutching their weapons, showing fear but no sign of fleeing. Vaelin saw little point in any further talk.
The burly man he charged attempted to feint to the left and bring his axe up under Vaelin’s guard but was far too slow, the sword point taking him in the neck before he could begin his swing. Impaled on the blade he goggled, eyes bulging, blood seeping from his mouth. Vaelin withdrew his blade, letting him collapse to the floor, twitching.
He turned, finding that his brothers had already dispatched the other four. Barkus, grim-faced, was wiping his sword blade on the jerkin of the man he had killed, a pool of thick blood spreading over the tiles. Dentos knelt to pluck a throwing knife from the sternum of his enemy, Vaelin thought he may have been blinking away tears. Nortah was staring down at the man he had killed, blood dripping from his lowered sword, his face a frozen mask. Only Caenis appeared unaffected, flicking the blood from his sword and kicking the corpse at his feet to make sure he was dead. Vaelin knew that Caenis had killed before but still found his brother’s coolness disconcerting. Am I not the only true killer among us after all? he wondered.
Scratch gave the tall man’s neck a final twist, snapping the spine with a loud crack. Releasing the corpse, he trotted around the chamber, his nose twitching as he searched for Frentis’s scent.
“This is an interesting structure,” Caenis observed, moving to one of the columns that stretched up to the vaulted ceiling and smoothing his palm over the brickwork. “Fine, very fine. You don’t see craftsmanship like that in the city these days. This is a very old place.”
“Thought it was part of the sewers,” Dentos said. His back was turned to the man he had killed and he stood with his arms tightly crossed, shivering as if chilled.
“Oh no,” Caenis responded. “This is something else, I’m sure. See the motif here.” He pointed out a strange stone carving set into the brickwork. “A book and a quill. An ancient emblem of the Faith signifying the Third Order, a sigil long out of use. This place dates from the earliest years of the city, when the Faith was still newborn.”
Vaelin’s attention was mostly fixed on Scratch but he found himself drawn by Caenis’s words. Looking around the chamber, he noted there were seven columns rising to the ceiling, each with a carved emblem set into the base. “Once there were seven,” he murmured.
“Of course!” Caenis enthused, moving around the chamber to inspect each of the columns. “Seven columns. This is proof, brother. Once there were seven.”
“What are you wittering about?” Nortah demanded, some colour returning to his cheeks. In contrast to Dentos he appeared unable to look away from the body of his slain enemy, his sword still bloody.
“Seven columns,” Caenis replied. “Seven Orders. This is an ancient temple of the Faith.” He stopped beside a column to peer at the emblem it bore. “A snake and a goblet. I’d wager this is the emblem of the Seventh Order.”
“Seventh Order?” Nortah finally looked up from the corpse. “There is no Seventh Order.”
“Not now, no,” Caenis explained. “But once…”
“A tale for another day, brother,” Vaelin told him. He turned to Nortah. “Your blade’ll rust if you don’t clean it.”
Barkus was examining the riches piled on the table, running his hands over the gold and silver. “Good stuff here,” he said in admiration. “Would’ve brought a sack if I’d known.”
“Wonder where they got it all,” Dentos said, hefting an ornately engraved silver plate.
“They stole it,” Vaelin said. “Take what you want but don’t let it weigh you down.”
Scratch gave a short yelp, his nose pointed at a solid section of wall to Vaelin’s left. Barkus moved to examine the wall, thumping his fist against the bricks a few times. “Just a wall.”
Scratch scampered over and sniffed at the base of the wall, his paws chipping away at the mortar.
“A hidden doorway perhaps.” Caenis came over to run his hands over the wall’s edges. “Could be a catch or a lever somewhere.”
Vaelin pulled the axe from the limp hand of the man he had killed and walked over to smash it into the wall. He kept hacking until a hole appeared in the brickwork. Scratch yelped again but Vaelin didn’t need the hound’s senses to tell him what lay on the other side, he could smell it plain enough himself: sweet, sickening, corrupt.
He exchanged glances with Caenis, finding sympathy in his friend’s eyes.
Frentis…Wanna be a brother…Wanna be like you…
He redoubled his efforts with the axe, bricks and mortar exploding in a cloud of red and grey dust. His brothers joined in with what tools they could find, Barkus using a hatchet taken from an enemy, Dentos a broken chair leg. Soon, enough of the wall was gone to allow them to enter.
The chamber beyond was long and narrow, torches set into the walls provided light enough to illuminate a scene from a nightmare.
“Faith!” Barkus exclaimed in shock.
The corpse hung from the roof, its ankles chained and arms secured with a leather strap across the chest. It had clearly been hanging for several days, greying flesh loosened and sagging from the bones. The gaping wound in the neck showed how the man had died. Placed beneath him was a bowl, black with dried blood. There were five more bodies hanging in the chamber, each with their throats cut and a bowl placed beneath. They swayed slightly in the draught from the demolished wall. The stench was overpowering. Scratch wrinkled his nose at the corruption staining the air and kept close to the wall, as far from the bodies as possible. Dentos found a corner to throw up in. Vaelin fought the desire to follow suit and moved from body to body, forcing himself to check each face, finding only strangers.
“What is this?” Barkus said in sick wonderment. “You said this man was just an outlaw.”
“He appears to be an outlaw of considerable ambition,” Nortah observed.
“This isn’t about thievery,” Caenis said softly, taking a closer look at one of the hanging corpses. “This is…something else.” He looked down at the blood black bowl on the floor. “Something else entirely.”
“What would…?” Nortah began but Vaelin held up a hand to silence him.
“Listen!” he hissed.
It was faint, an odd sound, a man’s voice, chanting. The words were indistinct, alien. Vaelin followed the sound to an alcove, where he found a door, slightly ajar. Sword held low, he eased the door open with the toe of his boot. Beyond was another chamber, this one roughly hewn from rock, bathed in the red glare of firelight, deep shadows flickering over a sight that made him stifle a shout of shock.
Frentis had been tied to a wooden frame in front of a roaring open fire. A gag was firmly secured in his mouth. He was naked, his torso marked by many cuts forming a strange pattern on the skin, blood flowing freely down his body. His eyes were wide open, alive with agony. At the sight of Vaelin, they widened further.
Next to Frentis was a man with a knife, bare-chested, his strength evident in the knotted muscle of his arms and the hard, angular lines of his face, a face with only one eye. The empty socket had been filled with a smooth black stone, reflecting a single red point of firelight as he turned to Vaelin. “Ah,” he said. “And you must be the mentor.”
Vaelin had never truly wanted to kill before, never felt a real bloodlust. But now it raged in him, a song of fury blinding his reason. His fist tightened on his sword
hilt as he stepped forward into a charge…
He never knew what happened, never truly understood the paralysis that seized his limbs, only that he found himself sprawled on the floor, his lungs suddenly empty of air, his sword clattering from his grasp. His hands and feet felt like ice. He tried to stand but could find no purchase on the floor, flailing like a senseless drunk as the one-eyed man moved away from Frentis, his knife a bloodstained yellow tooth in the fire’s glow.
“Ho there!” Barkus shouted, charging along with the others. “Time to die, One Eye!”
The one-eyed man raised his hand, an almost careless gesture, and a curtain of fire rose in front of Vaelin’s brothers, sending them reeling back. The fire-wall spanned the chamber, rising from floor to ceiling, an unbroken barrier of swirling flame.
“I like fire,” the one-eyed man said, turning his angular face back to Vaelin. “The way it dances, quite beautiful don’t you think?”
Vaelin tried to reach inside his cloak for his hunting knife but found all his hand would do was shake uncontrollably.
“You’re strong,” the one-eyed man observed. “Usually they can’t move at all.” He glanced over at Frentis, wide-eyed, blood streaming from his cuts, his naked form straining against his bonds with all his strength.
“You came here for him,” the one-eyed man continued. “You’re the one he said would come to kill me. Al Sorna, Blackhawk fighter, assassin killer, Battle Lord spawn. I’ve heard of you. Have you heard of me?” He gave a mirthless smile.
Vaelin found to his surprise he could still spit. It landed on the one-eyed man’s boots.
The smile disappeared. “I see you have. What did you hear I wonder? That I was an outlaw? An overlord of outlaws? True of course, but only in part. No doubt you had to kill several of my employees to get this far. Didn’t you wonder why they wouldn’t run? Why they were more afraid of me than you?”
The one-eyed man crouched, his face close to Vaelin’s, hissing, “You come here with your sword and your brothers and your dog, and you have no idea of your utter insignificance.”
