Trz’yel cackled wildly. His eyes glowed with savage glee.
“She hanged herself a month later when she realized she was pregnant with either a Crell child or her father’s. You, on the other hand, received a special commendation from your superiors, and now twelve years later you are a respected captain with a wife and family of your own.” He paused, his eyes locking with the helpless and terrified man. “Tell me, Captain Durech: does your wife know what you did during the war? Does she understand what kind of monster you really are?”
Durech’s eyes watered. His lips twitched. Ethan moved within an inch of his skin.
“All that, and if you had simply told me the truth I might have shown you a bit of mercy.” The amulet in Ethan’s hand glowed more strongly now, and the demon continued to cackle. “But you lied to me, Captain. You weren’t even man enough to confess to your crimes. And for that, I will see you suffer for the rest of your wretched life.”
The demon pounced, and Durech’s screamed echoed throughout the building. They would never truly stop; even when his voice went still and his will was no longer his own, deep inside his mind he would still be shrieking in terror, trapped in a private little hell of torment and pain. Even when he died, impaled upon a paladin’s blade, the horror would follow him to the Void and beyond.
These powers might indeed kill Ethan, but not before he had his revenge. Revenge for the victims of Lyebel. Revenge for those who had suffered in tyranny and despair. Revenge for his wife and king.
Ethan smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
“If the fall of Borden was not a loud enough signal to the world, the fall of Izaria should have removed all doubt—the Crell are coming, and they will not stop until they control all of Torsia. My brothers and sisters, let us no longer make excuses. Let us no longer hide behind our fears and our doubts. The Crell will come for us, and we will face them alone. It is time to make one brutal, decisive strike that will change the course of history forever.”
—General Ethan Moore to the Hands of Whitestone before the attack on Geriskhad
Despite the rampant rural devastation wrought by the Ash War, most major Galvian cities had survived the fighting largely intact. In the far north, Cergar had suffered a breached western wall, but the circumstances of the day had spared it from serious aerial bombardment. In the south, Dreen had taken heavy damage to its port, but the invading naval forces had managed to capture most of the city’s key defensive positions without leveling its major structures. Even the capital of Ashenfel had only suffered a few days of aerial attacks before King Whitestone had been assassinated, which in turn had caused the majority of the city’s defenders to surrender or flee altogether.
Lyebel, however, was different. Two major battles had taken place inside the city walls, including the war’s blazing finale. The final release of power by the Crell Imperators had wiped out thousands of soldiers on both sides in an instant, and most of the city’s buildings had been reduced to rubble. What remained following the war was little more than a burnt husk of what had once been a thriving port metropolis—one of the largest and most impressive in all of Torsia.
The Crell were obsessed with rebuilding it. Even though half the native civilian population had died or fled to neighboring countries, the Sovereigns had decided to forcibly relocate its own citizens here. After five years of reconstruction, Lyebel looked like a city again. After ten, it was once again a walled, bustling port with a population of several hundred thousand, even if Solarian trade embargos kept many of the docks empty. The Crell had done everything they could to make sure the city looked like it had never fallen in the first place, and they continued to blame the bulk of the destruction on the “reckless misuse of the Aether” by the Alliance.
To this day, Jason wasn’t sure who had scored that final blow, but a part of him believed it might have actually been the Solarians. Intellectually, he could understand their reasons: Crell forces had been relentlessly pounding the forward fronts, and many Alliance Councilors had believed they would lose a drawn-out conflict once the Imperium took Lyebel and crossed the border. Emotionally, however, the realization wasn’t something Jason found easy to deal with. For a long time he wasn’t willing to accept that their “allies” would kill thousands of Galvians and even many of their own troops like that. If they had, it suddenly made the line between the Alliance and the Imperium almost imperceptibly thin.
But regardless of what had actually happened a decade ago, the city he was now looking at was not the same Lyebel he had visited as a child. The brown stone walls and wooden houses had been replaced by gleaming white battlements and stone buildings. The Crell had dragged tons of limestone over 800 miles from home just to rebuild the city in their image. And they hadn’t just made superficial color changes, either: the architecture in most of the districts was drastically different. It simply didn’t look like Jason was still standing in his home country, and as always he was forced to look away in disgust.
Selvhara, Tam, and Gor were camped out nearby, tending to the horses or just taking a few moments to relax. The journey had been rough on all of them, pushing their mounts and feet hard while barely taking time to sleep. Even Sel looked tired—a rare occurrence—though he figured it was more the gravity of the situation than the drain of travel. Riding hard was one thing, but expecting a Crell patrol to jump out of the bushes every five minutes was even worse.
“Sarina is taking too long,” Gor commented as he fitted the last horse with a feedbag.
“It hasn’t even been an hour yet,” Jason said, turning his gaze from the city to the cloudless sky. “She said it might take a while.”
The chagari grumbled but said nothing else. Tam hadn’t moved from his huddled position on the grass in several minutes, so he was probably unconscious. Sel was down by the edge of the river filling up their canteens and drying herself off from a swim. They were all waiting for Sarina, who had gone off to make contact with the rebels and see if they had a way to smuggle the whole group into the city. Striding in through the main gates seemed outright suicidal at this point; even strolling into range of the watchtower scouts seemed risky at this point.
Nearly three hours later, just when Gor was about to steal the gold and run off into the forest, Sarina finally returned. “Get everything packed up,” she called out as she approached. “It’s time to go.”
“What in the hell took you so long?” Gor growled. “Did you have to fight through half the city guard?”
“Not exactly,” she murmured. “Come on, we’re going in underground.”
“Have the rebels been digging tunnels or something?” Tam asked groggily, his head still propped against a bedroll.
“The old sewer system is partially intact. The rebels have an entrance cleared out not far from here we can use.” Sarina turned to Selvhara. “Can you keep the horses calm? The path is a little rough, but it should be wide enough.”
“They’ll manage,” the druid promised. “Do the Crell know about these old tunnels?”
“They do. They had to build over them during the reconstruction,” Sarina explained, “but they don’t patrol them or anything. Many of the passages are collapsed, and there isn’t supposed to be any real entrance. Our people use them to move around from time to time, so it should be safe.”
“Good enough,” Jason said. “Let’s get moving.”
Half an hour later, they reached the ruins on the riverbank south of the city. Before the war, this had been a poor residential section of the city, complete with rickety wooden houses and a smattering of granite buildings. Even the latter hadn’t survived the first siege, and nothing here had been rebuilt; at this point it was mostly grown over with weeds, bushes, and even some trees.
The old sewer “entrance,” if it could really be called that, was little more than an upturned pipe about ten feet in diameter. The end of the tube was intentionally covered in debris, but the five of them were able to sweep it aside easily enough. Once they did, it
was obvious that this entryway saw fairly regular use. The rebels had wedged stone and wooden blocks along the pipe to make rudimentary grips and steps. Maneuvering the horses through cramped quarters wasn’t easy, but thankfully the incline wasn’t overly steep. Selvhara’s magic took care of the rest: she soothed the beasts’ minds and convinced them to cooperate without too much of a fuss.
“This would be the perfect place for an ambush,” Gor commented when they had descended the pipe and started moving down the old stone corridors.
“Closed quarters, slippery footing, poor lighting…yeah, that about does it,” Jason agreed.
“I was referring to the odor,” the chagari said. “I couldn’t smell a brigade of groll down here.”
Jason smiled and wrapped his scarf more tightly about his face. “Sound travels far in here too, so let’s try to keep it down.”
“It’s safe,” Sarina assured him. “Trust me.”
He nodded silently, but noted the firm grip she kept on her crossbow. The others were just as alert. Unless there really was an entire brigade of groll hiding down here, he almost pitied anyone stupid enough to try and mess with his fully united group.
Almost.
***
It took Kyle Adar the better part of twenty minutes to maneuver his way from the current Resistance headquarters to General Moore’s safe house, but even if it had taken him two hours he doubted it would have been enough time to mentally prepare himself for Ethan’s reaction to the latest news. Highlord Dracian and his encourage were due to arrive at any moment, but now Adar’s scouts had just made contact with Sarina—apparently, she had stumbled across some of her old friends in Taig, and now she had brought them with her to Lyebel.
Including Jason, General Moore’s only son.
Adar had made the scout repeat her report three times before he believed it. As far as he knew, Jason and Ethan hadn’t spoken in probably five years. The day Jason said he wanted nothing more to do with the Resistance, Adar had almost thought that his father would run him through. Personally, Adar himself didn’t hold any malice against the young man—Jason was a good kid, and this gruesome business of theirs certainly wasn’t for everyone. When it came right down to it, Jason simply wasn’t a soldier, and Adar and most of the others had been able to accept that. Ethan, of course, had not.
But the biggest problem right now was that General Moore was supposed to be dead. He had allegedly perished at Tibel along with most of the rest of the Hands of Whitestone, or so nearly everyone believed. Jason couldn’t learn that his father was alive, and neither could Highlord Dracian. If they did, it could potentially ruin everything.
And then, of course, there was the tiny problem that the Resistance was summoning demons.
Adar winced even as he turned into a back alley and approached the safe house. He had always known that sooner or later Ethan’s various “pacts” would come back to haunt them, but everything was metastasizing so quickly it was difficult to keep up. Highlord Dracian and his entourage could arrive in Lyebel at any moment, and once they did Ethan’s possessed Crell soldiers would launch their attack. Assuming the paladins survived—and Adar prayed that they did—then they would storm into the Resistance headquarters believing that the local Crell garrison had been infested. Adar would need to play along and keep the truth out of their reach, and now he would also have to hide Ethan’s presence from his own son…
It was nearly too much to handle. But one way or another, they had to figure out a way to make it work. And that would start with Adar telling Ethan that his son was here.
Sighing quietly to himself, he made his way up the withered stairs and knocked on the sturdy wooden door at its summit.
“Enter.”
Adar stepped inside. “Sir, I have news.”
Ethan looked up from his desk. The room was empty and quiet as normal, and it appeared the general had been reading through reports. Given the paladins’ imminent arrival, however, Adar knew that Ethan wouldn’t stay still for long. A warlock couldn’t completely control a demon in possession of another person, but he could share part of the creature’s senses. Ethan would undoubtedly check to see how his pet was doing during the fight.
“Has the Highlord arrived, then?”
“Not just yet, sir, but there is another group interested in speaking with us.”
Ethan frowned and turned in his chair. “Another group? Who?”
“Friends of Sarina Zharrs,” Adar said. “Including your son.”
The general’s face didn’t exactly twitch, but his eyes seemed to sink into his head. For a few moments, he remained completely silent…but then he finally shook his head and grunted.
“Interesting timing,” he muttered. “Did she say why my son wanted to speak with you?”
“Not precisely, sir. Apparently she ran into them in Taig—she claims they were in a serious confrontation with the local Crell forces.”
“Jason probably broke some salvage laws,” Ethan muttered in disgust.
Adar licked at his dry lips. “Selvhara is also with them, sir.”
This time Ethan’s face definitely twitched, and he actually turned away from Adar completely. “I had heard she went to find him again after Tibel. I guess the rumors were right for once.”
“I told Sarina to bring them into the city,” Adar said. “I wasn’t sure how else you wanted to proceed from there.”
“Find out what they want. We’ll make a decision once we know more.”
“And what if they’re here to help? What if they want to join us?”
“I find that highly unlikely,” Ethan muttered. “Most likely he’s here seeking our help, and we’ll have to decide whether or not it’s worth providing.”
“I’m sure Aidan and the others will be happy to see him and Selvhara. It’s been a long time.”
“I’m sure they will.”
Adar swallowed and licked at his lips. “With the paladins arriving, this timing could be awkward. We’ll need to be very careful.”
“It shouldn’t interfere with anything, not if we’re careful,” Ethan said. “Now if there’s nothing else, I have an attack to coordinate.”
Adar nodded. There were about a thousand other things he wanted to say, of course, but the general had always been a private man. He had never wanted to discuss his son before, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss the return of his old mistress. Not now, probably not ever.
“I will keep you apprised, sir,” he said.
Just before he left, Adar glanced back over his shoulder. Ethan was no longer reading the reports. He was staring straight ahead, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
***
As it turned out, Jason’s concerns about the underground approach were unfounded. The slippery terrain was annoying, and the overpowering odor refused to abate, but they didn’t encounter any trouble in their two-hour trek beneath the city. Sarina led them through several different sewer pipes before they were finally spit out into a broken, rubble-strewn neighborhood somewhere within the city’s notorious docks district.
“This whole area is still basically ruined for several blocks in all directions,” Sarina said, answering their unspoken question. “The Crell haven’t been able to get workers in here in at least a year, so everything just stays broken.”
“Please tell me the rebels haven’t resorted to killing random civilian laborers,” Jason whispered. “Not even my father would go that far…probably.”
“The laborers in this city aren’t civilians—they’re slaves,” Sarina corrected. “Most of them are chagari and groll, for but some Galvian citizens. And no, we don’t murder people that don’t deserve it.”
“How benevolent of you,” Gor sneered, his eyes and nose scanning the area. “Now where are we going?
“Not far,” she said. “Just a few blocks north. Let’s go.”
Once they escaped the ruined neighborhood, the dock district itself was as bustling as any port city Jason h
ad ever been in. Ships from all over the world were nestled tightly together along the cramped piers, and their crews and sailors spilled out everywhere. The local shops and merchant stalls were thriving, and at a glance most of the citizens seemed reasonably happy. There was no visible indication that this was a Crell city—no guards, no banners, nothing.
“If the local garrison is too scared to patrol this area,” Jason asked breathlessly, “why in the hell does this place look so orderly?”
“We police this district now,” Sarina told him, a thin smile tugging at her lips. “We may not wear tabards or uniforms, but the people know we’re always nearby.”
“Impressive,” he said, and meant it. He couldn’t help but feel incredibly out-of-touch; the last time he had been around any of the rebels was in Ashenfel five years ago, and the situation had been completely different. Even at the height of their success, the Resistance had still been scared to move about on the streets anywhere in the city during the daytime. Now they ostensibly policed the most important district in the entire city.
Jason couldn’t understand how or why the Crell leadership tolerated this. When they had pinned the location of the Hands in Tibel two years ago, they had dispatched half the city’s garrison and annihilated the rebels in one fell swoop. What was stopping them from doing the same here?
A few minutes later they approached an old, three-story wooden building that had definitely seen better days, and Sarina signaled that they were in the right place. “Adar is waiting for you inside,” she told them. “We have stables nearby where I can take care of the horses.”
“I will handle the cargo,” Gor proclaimed. “You go and deal with these…people.”
The Godswar Saga (Omnibus) Page 26
