She had expected his touch to be ice-cold, but it was hotter than Thamias’s flames.
“I barely remembered your face,” Karlus finally spoke. His voice was frail and echoed like glass. “But you look just like her.”
Thamias’s anger took the best of him. With a firm strike, he jerked his father’s hand away from Ahna’s face.
Karlus barely laid eyes on him. He took a few steps back to examine her whole. Only then did Ahna notice the iron taste of blood in her mouth. She had finally bitten through the flesh of her inner cheeks.
Karlus took a deep breath. “You return after all these years expecting access to the Circle.” Now his voice was loud and booming across the basalt halls. “Where is my son? Is that failure of a Sharr really dead?”
Thamias boiled from within. He could not bring himself to answer, so Ahna had to.
“He’s been dead for longer than decades,” she declared.
Karlus sneered. “I heard of a dokkalfar cleansing on the surface. Since when have the higher kingdoms become so similar to our world?” He did not let them answer. “I’ve summoned Prime Veraniel for you, Meriel. She will take you to the Circle’s Tower.” He then paused and finally looked at Thamias. “And why have you come here?”
Thamias had unsheathed his sword. Unconsciously, he raised the point of the blade, shaking, brandishing it like he no longer knew how to wield a sword.
Karlus simply waved it away with his hand clasped around the blade. He leaned in and murmured, “It’s incredible how much you look like him. How he must have hated you...”
His muttering was almost a low and controlled growl.
These words would normally have brought the worst of worsts out of Thamias, but not this time. He was frozen. His boiling blood had solidified into veins of ice. And right now, Thamias hated himself more than anything else.
Ahna was dead afraid either of the two would erupt. Thamias had a firestorm in his eyes. Karlus’s had turned to a hollow blackness that could not be defined. Her brother had not noticed it, but the veins across Karluss’s face were spreading even more, engulfing his glare.
What had he exactly become?
Ahna feared the worst, but an unrelated question hovered in her mind. Prime Veraniel...that name was so familiar. She could almost see a face attached to it. Like a distant ghost. She could hear the name in her mother’s voice. Had Skaiel mentioned this person in her vision?
Prime Veraniel’s voice brought all the memories back.
“Meriel...” Veraniel murmured like she was relieved of a century-old pain. “Thamias...”
It was like all the tension in the room dissipated into the cracks in its walls. Ahna and Thamias simultaneously turned to the woman who had cared for them when they were younger than they could remember. Veraniel had been their caretaker and their mother’s confidante. She was a powerful magic-user, and she was exactly who Ahna needed to find.
She was old. Older than Karlus, nearing six hundred. Her time would come soon, for sure. Her long and wavy black hair had turned white. Her dark blue eyes were almost as grey as a winter’s sky. Wrinkles adorned her face with a wise veil that had seen lifetimes pass.
As much as they wanted to, nobody hugged. They simply stared at each other like they were frozen in time.
Until Ahna spoke again. She had no time to waste. As much as this reunion incurred a war of emotions inside her, her sense of duty finally won. “I need access to the Orator.”
Veraniel’s eyes first opened wide in surprise, then she relaxed her posture and cleared her throat. “What could you possibly need from the Orator?”
“You know exactly what I need,” Ahna said. She need not explain. The Orator was the gateway to the Hollow Earth. It was all just simple math.
Ahna instinctively turned to Karlus, seeking approval. She hated that she had just done that.
Karlus was grinning. “The last time you were in the Orator, you returned bloodbound.” He chuckled softly like he was mocking her and Thamias. Or maybe endorsing them.
Karlus then sent a nod Veraniel’s way. The old Prime Mage turned around and motioned for Ahna to follow. Thamias urged himself into her path, but Karlus stopped him. He was to stay behind.
“I’m coming with her,” Thamias declared.
“My generosity has its limits,” Karlus retorted. “You are to stay here.”
Thamias wanted to protest, to follow Ahna wherever she went and make sure she would be safe, but her eyes begged him not to argue. He conceded with an absent sigh, defeated. He expected Karlus to stay with him, but instead, the Duke of Mal was marching in the two women’s direction.
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked in consternation.
Karlus laid eyes on him again before turning back around. “Make yourself at home.”
Thamias did not see his face, but his voice had a vile ring to it. He watched Ahna and Veraniel exit the hall, followed by the Duke of Mal, his father. Ahna cast one last glance at Thamias, her eyes pleading for him to stay put and wait for her. He would. He had nowhere else he could or wished to be. Thamias let himself drop to the hard stones of the throne’s platform. He exhaled deeply and buried his face in his hands, lashing out the loudest of screams.
When he opened his eyes, Jules smelled the dusty air of old stones. It invaded his nose like smoke, and the scent of rusted iron was embedded in it. This was not the stench of a battlefield. He tried to move, only to realize his arms were up, his wrists chained to the ceiling of whichever room he stood in. It was official—he had been captured. He tried to turn his head, to peek over his shoulder, but the pain in his skull made itself loud and clear. Jules winced and growled at the same time.
“Ah, the bastard’s awake!” a voice exclaimed right next to him.
A large man in black armor, one who had probably been tasked with watching him, stood from a chair and went to the door. Jules could now see the room better, thanks to the torchlight hovering above the man. He was in the center of a somewhat circular room. Behind him was some sort of dent in the wall because he could hear distant sounds of the outside like it was right next to him. He heard shouting panicked voices, like something awful was going on.
Memories slowly returned as the man in black armor knocked three times on the door and shouted, “He’s awake!”
Two more men entered the room. They scowled at Jules. They were definitely City Watch guards. All three had skin paler than his own, which made them look either sick or like ghosts. These were definitely from further up north, or so it seemed.
The one in the middle spoke first. “Let’s make this simple,” he began. He had a stern voice, but it had tiny tremors to it. That man clearly had something on his mind that troubled him. “The only reason why we didn’t kill you is because of that weapon you had.” While this guard spoke, his friend waved an arcane pistol around. “Where did you get this? Are there more? How many of your Wolves are in there? What else are you planning?”
Ah, so this was a torture session. Jules rolled his head back, closing his eyes, smiling. He found the situation quite amusing, oddly enough. He could not stop himself from chuckling loudly, which was rewarded by a fist to his stomach.
Jules was in time to tense his muscles. He had sensed it coming.
“Which question do you want me to answer first?” he asked between chuckles, which earned him yet another fist.
It was his watcher that was hitting him. The main guard stood stern in front of him while the last one played around with the arcane pistol.
Jules coughed out some blood this time, but he was still laughing. His gaze slowly moved to the guard that held the pistol. “If you keep touching that, it might explode in your hands,” he warned with a grin.
The guard’s posture stiffened. He did not let go of the weapon, but it was evident that he wanted to.
“Answer the questions,” the main guard said.
Jules rolled his eyes back to his interrogator. “This is an Academy weapon, my friend. They’v
e been working on these for years now. How funny is it that it was developed without your knowing?”
The guard was not amused, and Jules received a fist to the face this time. Now, his blood had begun to boil. He could take being hit in the stomach, but nobody ever touched his beautiful face. Jules’s grin turned into a vile sneer. He gathered a mix of blood and saliva and spat it on the sandy floor.
“Is that the best you can do?” he taunted.
Multiple strikes rained upon him. He was able to set his mind onto a single thought so he could ignore the pain, one memory. That had always been part of his training to become the soldier he was today. Torture would never get anything out of him. Because in that moment of stillness, when his brain latched onto one simple image, Luky’s image, he felt nothing.
The guard let him go, his fists trembling. He was out of breath, and Jules was as silent as a stone. The guard looked more disturbed and shocked than Jules ever would.
Silent chuckles came from Jules’s lips and morphed into laughter.
The guard had had enough. He darted to Jules and grabbed his hair in his hand. He pulled it back so Jules would look him dead in the eyes.
“Why the Bastion?” the guard growled, clenching his jaw. “What is your next move?”
Jules’s eyes flamed with scorn. “It’s not hard to do the math.”
The guard released him, angered by Jules’s attitude. He had begun to lose himself and the walls of pride he had built. Jules could now see the panic and doubt in his cold brown eyes. Whatever the Wolf Pack was planning, the guards had absolutely no clue. And it was terrifying them.
Good, Jules thought. He could use and abuse that.
“There’s no turning back from this,” Jules recited like a sinister melody. “The people are done with this sick regime—”
The guard pointed a warning finger at him, interrupting Jules in his speech. “You are terrorists! Your ideals are based on a deluded notion of freedom.” He was spitting as he barked his words. “You will be the end of the people of Bravoure!”
“How dare you speak to me of terror? Anyone you deem an enemy of the state gets slaughtered by your hands!”
There was silence. All three guards stared at Jules, voiceless, clueless of what to say next.
Jules grinned, showing his teeth. “I’ve been tortured by dokkalfar many times. Whatever you call this, I call it foreplay.”
It was like his words pierced through their shield. They were going to make a move when, all of a sudden, shouts and screams came from below them. They heard slashes and cuts, and then, the sound of cracking bones...and crackling flames. Beyond the door was a wave of scorching fire. They could feel how hot it was from where they stood. The guards squirmed together, readying their swords, prepared for whatever blazed behind the door.
The door was pulverized by a shockwave of heat and flames, and among the rubble was a face Jules had not seen in months. He was tall, wearing a long silver archmage robe, a hood covering his pure blond hair. His eyes were flashing red. With a wave of the hand, he flung the guards back, and they against the opposite wall one by one.
Jules compulsively laughed. “Holy fires of Hell, Luthan!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen you be so savage.”
Luthan held an emotionless expression, but there was a smirk hiding in there. “I don’t have time for pleasantries,” he declared, like he did not care for anything anymore. He stepped to the side, turning around to watch the door, while another man entered the room.
It was Berius, Luthan’s son. That one was in ranger leather armor, a bow strapped to his shoulder. Berius hurried to Jules with a set of keys and quickly unchained him. His face came really close to Jules’s, and their eyes met. For a fraction of a second, Jules caught himself counting the golden shards in his emerald eyes.
Berius’s smile brought him back. “I didn’t know I was going to rescue such a handsome man,” he said, winking at Jules.
Once he was unchained, Berius helped him upright and threw one arm around his shoulders. Luthan purged the halls with hellfire, making room for them to escape. They rushed down the spiral stairs of the watchtower, both supporting Jules so they could leave as fast as they could. Once they had touched ground, Luthan completely eradicated part of the tower’s wall, and the three disappeared into the night.
13
Hope
The War Room was an upgrade from the Gold Monk’s speakeasy stone tables. At the back of the Bastion’s entrance hall was a chamber the guards used for gatherings. There was a large oakwood table at the center of the room, where Cayne now stood carrying a sword wrapped in a linen sheet. She was pensive, biting her lip, calculating in her mind what was to come next. Azera Condor stood beside her. She was silent and did not wish to disturb Cayne, but her heart was pounding louder than her anxious breathing.
The door opened, and before the clan leaders joined them, Cayne caught a glimpse of the halls of the Bastion. It was messy. People were scattered around, either wounded, restless, or both. They had managed to smuggle some supplies out of the tunnels, but they had also lost many fighters. However, hope was not lost. Because from every vein of the Bastion, Wolves had plucked weapons and blacksteel armor for themselves.
The attack had stopped for a few hours now. It sounded like most City Watch guards or Bravan soldiers had retreated. It would not be long before they would come back armed to the teeth and prepared. Cayne knew they had to move fast if they wanted to take the city once and for all.
The Wolves had fought well. They needed to use this energy to fuel their next rally.
Helena and Noah were first to enter the room, tailed by Anir. They each placed themselves at the table, not sitting, just standing, waiting. They did not look at Azera or acknowledge her presence. She was a mere effigy to them. A statue and symbol of something they wished changed. Azera felt her presence was unwanted. She stood from her chair and headed for the exit. Cayne could manage on her own, and she was only in the way. It would be best if Azera left the fate of Bravoure in this woman’s hands, which were more capable than her own had ever been.
Cayne watched Azera leave with a pinch in her heart. She wanted to tell her so much, to hug and assure her that everything would be all right in the end. But she did not. She was frozen, and Azera left the War Room.
Luthan and Berius entered as the monarch left the room. They carried a staggering Jules, who absolutely insisted on not needing a chair. He had just been treated by one of the clerics—he could stand just fine! But it was useless to argue with a Hyehn, let alone two. Berius fetched the nearest seat, and Luthan forced Jules in it.
Before the door closed, a sindur cub surged out of the shadows and immediately jumped on Jules. The wounded man winced and cried out but still held Luky firmly in his arms.
Cayne looked at the two, wanting her share of the relieved hug, but there was a catling and a large table between them. She was so happy Jules was safe, though the man was in bad shape, and she could not bear having him here now.
“You need to rest,” she commended. “You look like crap, Jules.”
Jules motioned for her to stop worrying. He shook his head, holding a hand to his stomach as if to support himself. Luky slid out of his arms but stayed close, his head on Jules’s lap.
“I’m fine,” Jules growled. “Just...pitch me in on everything, please.” He swirled his finger around like a rolling wheel to keep Cayne talking.
Cayne’s gaze bounced between Luthan and Berius in search of help to reason with the wounded Jules, but both shrugged simultaneously like they had tried a dozen times before.
“I’ve lost some of my men,” Noah began, solemn, bringing the attention to the oakwood table. “We are in mourning.”
Cayne looked down, and the rest mimicked.
“How long should we wait, Falco,” he continued, “Before we take the Castle of Gold?”
Anir, the one who always kept still, spoke next, “I’ve lost men and women too. It was a quick battle, but my men ar
e shaken.”
They were right. The soldiers out there, motivated by the promise of something better, had seen their brothers and sisters in arms die. Most of them had never been at war. Cayne had never been at war, and the loss of her own weighed heavily on her shoulders. She could consider the Wolf Pack lucky that the Bastion had fallen with such ease.
Helena’s gaze veered to Cayne. “How long should we wait?”
Everyone was looking at Cayne Falco, waiting for her answer. Since when had she become their leader? Cayne had this nervous urge to laugh out loud, incredulously, like the world had lost its mind. But she needed to stay here, anchored at this moment. There was another battle to be fought.
“We need to use the momentum of victory to our advantage,” Cayne declared. “They are like headless hens retreating in panic. We can’t give them time to regroup and barricade themselves.”
“So you want us to take up arms again and strike now?” Helena checked, her tone sardonic. “The entire city is on fire right now.”
“People are rioting in the streets,” Noah added. “If we go out there now, we risk tons of civilian casualties.”
“That’s why we attack at dawn.” Cayne came up with that decision as she said these words. “Let them squirm while they try to herd an angry mob.”
There was a moment of pause before anyone else said anything. Each of them pondered Cayne’s words, weighing the risks against the potential gains. Anir finally gave the group a firm nod, and the rest followed.
“Falco speaks true,” he stated. “They will spend their night fighting in the streets. In the morning, we will be rested and ready to fight.”
Noah’s eyes landed on what Cayne carried. It was as if everyone had noticed it at the same time, and they looked at it with curious frowns. Cayne mechanically flipped it around to look at it better herself, then she looked to Luthan with a raised eyebrow.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 17
