by Jeff Gunzel
“That’s a good one,” said the little old man seated at their table. “I wish I could have seen his face. Priceless, I say.” A withered hand with long, spidery fingers rose up to adjust his eye patch. A hundred pounds soaking wet, this frail old man looked like the reaper may very well be lurking over his shoulder. He spun around in his seat. “Another round for my friends,” he called to the barkeep in a scratchy voice.
A balding man, whose nose seemed to take up most of his face, set down a mug and rounded the bar. Ignoring the excited shouts from drunken soldiers expecting more ale, he knelt down in front of the old man. “I think your ‘friends’ here have had quite enough already,” he said, trying to keep his voice low. “Any more drink in them and they’re liable to start causing trouble. And trouble is one thing I’m not looking for tonight.”
The old man touched the barkeep on the shoulder. “Well then, good sir, let me assure you that worrying about the behavior of these fine gentlemen here,” he swept his hand around the table, speaking loud enough for all to hear, “is like worrying that the sun might not come up tomorrow. These fine lads serve your king, do they not? I say they’ve earned a drink or two after a hard day’s work.” He pulled the barkeep closer, displaying an impossible grip for such a small man. “So then, let me repeat myself,” he said, speaking softly this time. “Another round, my good man.” The old man’s request carried the distinct air of a threat. With a sigh, the barkeep stood and went off to fetch those drinks.
“Nice fellow, that one,” said the old man with a shrug. “But I fear he may have the attention span of a stone.” The soldiers laughed, half-empty mugs clinking around the table. They liked this old man. He was witty and surprisingly fun for a man his age. But most of all he kept on buying them drinks. That alone seemed to go a long way with this bunch. “Odd he should run an establishment such as this one, yet still be so quick to restrain others from having a good time. Oh well, let’s not talk about him anymore.” He threw his spidery hands up on the table. “I want to hear more about that creature.”
A few of the soldiers stiffened, sharing several uneasy glances. “The girl?” one of them asked.
“Yes...yes,” the old man replied, prodding them on with a twirling hand. “Of course. The one everyone is talking about. You men are on the inside. At least one of you has seen her, correct?” Eyes around the table shifted towards a man with curly red hair and a thick scraggly beard to match. “You?” the old man asked, following their gazes.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her,” he grunted dismissively. The mood was different now, subdued and uncomfortable. They weren’t really supposed to be talking about any of this. The barkeep returned with a tray full of drinks.
The old man shoved a coin into the barkeep’s apron, then turned his attention back to the heavyset red-haired man. “So, is it true what they say? Can she breathe fire? Can she kill a man just by looking at him?” They couldn’t help but chuckle at the silly old man’s wild imagination.
“Well, that’s what they say. If you won’t tell me the truth, I suppose I’ll just have to go on believing these tales,” said the old man. The red-haired man’s eyes shifted around, as if seeking some sort of approval from the others.
“Oh, what’s the harm in indulging an old man? Who am I going to tell? Who would believe me even if I did? I filled your bellies with ale, didn’t I? All I’m asking in return is a tale or two that you’re probably bursting to tell me anyway.”
“Well, since you put it that way,” said the soldier, reaching for one of the drinks. He was feeling rather tipsy, and quite talkative as well. “Those rumors floating around are ridiculous. To tell you the truth, old man, I don’t think she is even all that dangerous.”
“And why is that?” asked the old man, rubbing his chin.
“Well, she cries like a baby for one thing. Never seen a supposedly dangerous captive act so sensitive before.” The large man took a long gulp from his mug.
“And why does she do that?” the little fellow asked, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table.
“Who knows? It depends on the day,” the soldier replied, wiping the froth from his mustache. “Sometimes she’s lonely, other times she whines about how the other slaves are being mistreated. She views them as her friends or something. I honestly don’t know if she reminds me more of an immature little girl, or my nagging wife!” Drunken laughter erupted around the table. The old man forced a smile that never seemed to touch his eyes.
“Oh, but believe me,” the guard said through his winding down laughter, wiping away a tear. “There are certainly times when I don’t envy her one bit. Those hot pokers they put on her back. Quite possibly the strangest form of torture I’ve ever seen.”
“Torture?” the old man said, a visible twitch pulsing in his left cheek. His knuckles went white as his fingernails dug into the wooden table.
“Yes! I’ve seen some crazy things in my day, but never anything like—” A few soldiers around the table silenced him with a look, one slowly shaking his head. “Oh, he’s just an old man,” the bearded man slurred, swaying drunkenly as he threw his hand up.
“Please, tell me more,” said the little man, leaning forward in his chair. “My days are spent wandering around the market, hoping a bird might land so I can feed it. Don’t deprive an old man of a little excitement. I live vicariously through young, strapping lads such as yourself. A discovery like this comes along once in a lifetime. I want to hear everything!” A few soldiers shrugged, reaching for the ring of full mugs at the center of the table.
“Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers as if just remembering something. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a blank roll of parchment. “Tell me about the rooms you keep her in as well. Could you outline me a rough map? It helps me visualize the details during a good story.”
The bearded soldier eyed the old man suspiciously. This was going well beyond a healthy curiosity. “What’s with you, old man?” His eyes narrowed, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead.
Spinning back in his chair, the little man snapped his fingers. “We are getting a little light over here,” he called to the barkeep. “My friends are thirsty.” When he turned back, the soldier was no longer scowling. The promise of more liquor seemed to curb his suspicions.
Another hour passed, the soldiers’ lips loosening further with each full mug. After a time, the stories just began repeating, each version slightly more exaggerated than the last. The old man took that as his cue to leave. He had heard all he needed to hear. With a thank you and a farewell, he retrieved his walking stick from the corner and made his way towards the door. “Hey, old man,” slurred one of the soldiers, wobbling in his seat. He stopped and turned back. “That’s unbelievable craftsmanship. Where did you get that staff?”
The old man leaned it away from his body, taking a moment to admire it himself. Gleaming white with intricate designs carved throughout, the top was shaped like a goat’s head with white gems fit into the eye sockets. “It was a gift from a friend,” he said with a sigh. “Good day, gentlemen.” He turned and left the tavern.
It was late, and the streets were mostly empty. Once he was certain no one was looking, Liam thumped his staff against the ground, muttering a few words. His face bulged, forehead growing and shrinking as his facial features shifted around. His fingers thickened and his legs grew. Within seconds, the frail old man shifted back into the towering white-haired mystic. It had been another night spent deceiving others, another night gathering precious information.
But as far as Liam was concerned, they hadn’t been gathering information quickly enough. It had been weeks now, but truly useful intel had been hard to come by. They knew where she was now and had gained some idea of what the layout of her desert prison might look like. Liam had done a reasonable job playing an innocent old man, simply curious about the dangerous work these hero soldiers were forced to do. Inflating their egos while filling them with liquor at the same time had worked wonders to loosen th
eir tongues.
Meanwhile, Owen had been using a slightly different approach, one that was much more straightforward. Hunting down pit survivors in the slums at night, he had broken many a jaw to get some of them talking. One at a time, four at a time, it made no difference to the hunter, who was largely unchallenged when it came to physical prowess. Tough guys claiming to fear nothing after their time in the pit generally became sniveling cowards within seconds. But more importantly, they talked.
Owen was able to discover things like how closely the guards watched the prisoners, how long they trained outside on an average day—any information that might help them form a plan to break Viola out. Even the most mundane details might prove to be crucial.
But what Liam had discovered tonight proved to be most unsettling. He never thought she was being treated particularly well, but he never dreamed she was being tortured! The details of what that soldier had said were now burned into his mind. He could actually visualize it, which was the last thing he wanted. Nearly running, he moved swiftly through the empty streets, trying to get back to the inn. Thatra and Assirra would be awaiting his return. Two tarrins walking the streets asking questions would attract too much attention and were too easily identified, so they stayed behind most nights.
When Liam got back, he raced up the stairs and burst into the shared room without so much as a warning knock. Startled, the girls whipped their heads around. Drawn maps and written notes were hung all around the room. They had been going over everything they had learned, seeing what matched up and what might have been storytelling so as not to get smacked around by Owen. Upon seeing the desperate look in Liam’s eyes, their blood chilled.
“Liam?” said Thatra, setting down a map she had been studying. “Liam, what’s wrong?”
Out of breath, he just shook his head, not knowing where to start. “They’re...they’re hurting her,” he began. “We have to get to her. We have to get to her soon! There’s no more time.”
* * *
A cool breeze chilled the beaded sweat across her neck and forehead. Eyes closed, Viola took a deep breath through her nose, the grainy dry air biting at the back of her throat. She exhaled, arms rising up over her head, hands clasping together.
Focused on her internal energies, she was one with the world, her mind and body whole for the first time. She inhaled again, arms drifting down near her waist. She twisted her hips and shifted her stance, one arm flowing up in front of her face while the other stayed back. One foot forward, she bent her knee and exhaled. Her slow, fluid movements were poetry in motion. Smooth. Peaceful. She was one with herself, connected with the world around her.
“Begin!” Ozryn ordered.
Her eyes snapped open. There came an explosion of movement around her, wooden swords slicing in from multiple angles at once. Viola’s body bent straight backward as blades whipped past her face. Her hands planted firmly in the sand, body contorted in a full backbend, she snapped her legs up and over, intercepting two more blades with the balls of her feet. The combatants gasped as she landed, completing the smooth back flip. How had all of them missed? Impossible!
Both Nald and Kalmton attacked at once, each rushing at her from opposite sides. Viola dove forward as their blades whiffed, one barely flicking the back of her hair. Knees tucked, she rolled across the sand and sprung to her feet. Feeling their pursuit, she spun back just as their blades came down. Ozryn had warned them not to hold back. They were coming at her with everything they had.
Their swords cracked against something hard, the force of their swings coming to an abrupt halt. Viola grinned at them, their weapons held fast. Her arms were no longer her arms, but flesh blades hard as steel. Trapped just across her face, she slammed her flesh blades together, crushing their wooden weapons like twigs. Splintered shards burst through the air as the weapons practically disintegrated.
Shaking the sting from their hands, both men stumbled back in disbelief. They had heard the stories, even lived with this girl for some time now, but this was the first time they had witnessed her raw ability with their own eyes. It was unreal.
Seeing a clear opening, Salina came up fast from behind. Viola’s ability was astonishing, but she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. I’m sorry, Salina thought, her slashing sword already in motion. Just following orders. The healers will wake you in just a few moments.
With the soaring weapon only inches away from the side of her head, Viola’s body seemed to explode in a blur of black. Scattered flesh whirled about like dark ribbons caught in the wind. Salina’s weapon passed harmlessly right through the living tornado. Pieces of scattered flesh melded together to form a funnel of cawing black birds. The funnel drifted back towards Salina, engulfing her completely. She screamed, dropping her weapon and covering her head. Birds screeched in her ears, their beating wings flapping against her head and arms.
The living tornado drifted right through her before liquid black reshaped itself just behind her back. Salina turned just as two flesh blades crossed her neck, Viola staring her right into her eyes. “Yield,” Viola ordered. Like liquid metal, the flesh blades melted down as they reshaped into arms once more. Salina blew out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding, hands rising to cover her neck. Viola could have killed her easily had she chose to.
“Relax,” said Viola, her smile disarming, a familiar twinkle in those red eyes. “You know I would never hurt you.”
Feeling faint, Salina dropped a hand to her knee. “So the rumors are true,” she said, unable to catch her breath. “You are everything they say and more.”
Viola shrugged, not really sure how to respond. It felt strange to expose herself like this, even if she did consider them friends. After this display, it was likely they would never look at her the same way. But there was nothing she could do about that now. Morphing her body into a cone of birds had never been difficult for her. She had been able to do that for as long as she could remember. But the flesh blades frightened her as much as they did anyone else. Sometimes it had just happened, usually when she felt scared or threatened. It was more a reaction than anything else, much like a blink or flinch. Now she could do it as easily as opening or closing her hand.
But despite all she had suffered through, there was one change Viola was truly grateful for. She no longer suffered from the thirst. Even now with the collar’s shielding abilities lowered by Diovok so she could practice at full strength, she had no cravings for human blood. That alone made her want to sing. It made all the pain and torment seem worth it. She was no longer a danger to humans, and no longer a danger to Xavier. Although it was probably the side effect deemed least important by her captors—they really just wanted her to have total control of her body, to become a weapon with no limitations—it was a special gift to her. Odd to feel gratitude towards those who had made her suffer so.
Viola looked up to the sound of clapping coming from above. “Excellent!” Kuuma called down. “Such grace, such power. Dare I say you are even more deadly than the other one? My dear, you have no limits! The king will be most pleased at your progress.” Still clapping slowly, he turned his attention towards Ozryn. “And you have done a fine job with this bunch. Your reputation precedes you, Ozryn.” Ozryn bowed his head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.
“All of you have come into your own,” Kuuma continued. “I see no reason to delay your futures any longer. The city of Shadowfen has been denied your talents long enough. My children, it is time!”
* * *
The barkeep wiped his rag in circles along the bar, mopping up wet rings left behind by careless customers. Carefully, he washed around the unconscious boy, head down in the crook of his arm. He had been there for some time now and hadn’t stirred in quite a while. “Hey lad,” he said, touching Xavier on the shoulder. “Son, I think it might be time for you to go home.”
When he didn’t move, the barkeep just sighed and shook his head. So young. What could have possibly happened to this boy that made him wan
t to drink himself into a stupor every night? But the barkeep suspected the answer. The man was no fool and had once been Xavier’s age. Expecting no response, he leaned down on his forearms and whispered to Xavier. “When you wake up, boy, you’ll have to tell me her name.” He patted Xavier on the shoulder again. “Only a woman could have done this to you.” He carefully removed a half-full mug from Xavier’s loose grasp and set it under the bar.
The barkeep turned at the sound of the tiny bell just over the door. There stood a royal courier. His suit was red and gold with an image of a black raven embroidered on his chest. With numerous paper rolls tucked under his arm, he marched right up to the barkeep and handed him one. The courier clicked his heels and spun about, then headed right back the way he came. The barkeep was used to their odd behavior. These royal couriers were not allowed to speak with anyone when they went door to door, handing out posters featuring the city’s latest news and events.
The barkeep unrolled the poster and clicked his tongue. With a shrug, he reached under the bar and retrieved a hammer and two nails. Trying his best to be quiet, the light tapping still managed to rouse Xavier from his drunken sleep.
With heavy eyelids, Xavier squinted to see the source of this disturbance. His head pounding, the room spinning, he wanted nothing more than to just throw up and go back to sleep. Blurred vision focused on the paper as the barkeep tapped the second nail on the bottom portion to keep it from rolling back up. After a few blinks, the double images blurred together as one. He blinked again, not sure he believed what he was seeing.
“No,” Xavier whispered to himself. “No, no, no,” he repeated, louder this time.
“Ah, I see you’re up at last,” the barkeep said, giving the nail one last tap. “Why don’t you head on home, lad? Sleep it off and I’m sure you’ll feel better in the mor— ” Xavier hopped up over the bar and ripped the poster right off the wall. “Hey!” the man called, watching helplessly as the young man stormed from the tavern, the crumpled paper clutched in his hand.
