“What do you need, friend?” the farmer calls as he comes near.
“I wish to tour the city ahead, but I understand it to be crowded. I need care for my horse.”
“I can manage that,” the farmer replies, holding his hand out toward the horse’s reins. Rael reaches into his robes, fumbling about for coins, and upon hearing the jingle the farmer holds his hand up, palm out. “No need for that now, friend. Pay me when you return for the animal. If you don’t pay or don’t return, I’ll claim the horse as payment.”
“Fair enough,” Rael replies, and he hands the reins to the man. As he walks away, he hopes the robe obscures the sounds of his armor or at least that the farmer thinks nothing of it.
Rael turns east and heads for the city, the road nearly to himself. He sees a few persons out and about various farming tasks, and none of them pay him any mind. Up ahead in the distance is wagon, no doubt driven by a merchant headed for Byrverus from who knows where, and as he crosses the miles on foot, more and more people join him on the road. Some seem to be foreigners, or at least out-of-town merchants, but most are locals in the process of transporting goods or food from here to there. By the time, Rael reaches the massive city walls, the press of people is so thick that Rael comfortably disappears into the middle of it.
He moves his eyes across everything he sees, while being careful not to gawk. Rael wants no undue attention, whether from thieves or otherwise. Fortunately, the sights, sounds and smells of the largest city in the Shining West are not too unfamiliar to him. Byrverus is little different from Martherus, which he visited on several occasions in service to the merchant Pret. It’s simply huge, and the immensity of the city is what tends to draw one’s eyes.
At a glance, Rael appears to just follow the crowd filing through the wall’s gates as it flows through the city streets, into giant intersections and across markets and bazaars. As some people stop to buy goods or hawk their own, the river of bodies thins only to be rebuilt as other denizens of the city join. There are few people here that draw attention, almost all being Westerners, but even the occasional Northman or Tigolean doesn’t catch the eye of those around. Rael supposes that only a Loszian magically appearing in their midst would surprise these people.
Rael simply allows himself to be led for miles into Byrverus, as if a giant and invisible thread attached to his chest slowly and steadily tugs him along. As the buildings grow in height around him, the number of people traversing the streets seems to decrease. He passes through an inner set of limestone walls with battlements, likely one of the city’s original outer walls before the city outgrew it, and he finds himself in a wealthy neighborhood. Small estates line the cobblestone road to either side, and there is no trash or waste in the street here as there is elsewhere. The persons he sees here walk with purpose, and they all appear to be either wealthy or of some importance.
The homes and other buildings in this part of Byrverus are not as tall and imposing as the outer portion of the city, and this allows him to see two large buildings up ahead. He only catches glimpses of one, which appears to be a castle or palace of some sort with two or three spires or towers. The other, however, dominates the skyline ahead – a huge edifice of white rock in the shape of a rectangle standing on end. Rael knows from the stories that it is Garod’s largest temple in Rumedia, and he silently hopes that it is not to that place he is being drawn.
The street opens up ahead into a beautiful plaza that is several hundred yards in either dimension, and it is paved with marble and feldspar. Small gardens, perhaps five feet square, and gilded fountains about the same size are placed throughout the plaza to break up the monotony of the marble. To Rael’s left over a dozen marble steps lead up to the gargantuan temple, and its main doors are open to form a gaping mouth of sorts over eight feet across. A statue of Garod stands on a pedestal about halfway up the steps. Again looking up at the temple, a building the size of which he has never seen, Rael almost laughs aloud with the idea that perhaps Garod’s priests overcompensate for a certain shortcoming.
Thankfully it is not to this monstrosity that Rael feels pulled, but instead to the palace across the plaza from him. The palace could only belong to the king of Aquis, or the queen for Rael is not really sure who rules the nation currently. He starts across the plaza, woefully aware that all of the palace’s doors and gates are shut, and he spies armored soldiers outside of these doors as well as on the battlements above. He also feels watched for the hairs on the back of his neck stand, or would stand if not for his armor.
Rael increases his pace, not so much to appear that he is in a hurry, just that he moves with purpose. He exits the plaza through the northeast corner, between the palace and temple complexes, and he quickly finds a shadowy corner into which he can slide without being noticed. There are few people here anyway, so he closes his eyes as he leans back against the palace itself. Rael cocks his head sideways as he focuses on the pull in his blood, feeling it as it… as it… He feels as if he is standing on his head and spinning as nausea settles into his stomach heavily. Rael opens his eyes to find he still leans upright against a wall, and the sick feeling dispels somewhat. Whatever calls to his blood is down under the palace itself. Does the palace of the good monarch of Aquis, the High Priest to Garod, have a dungeon?
Rael wanders through the city streets to consider his predicament, all the while his blood calls him into and under the palace. From what he can tell, the main hall is largely open to the public, but he assumes that soldiers would prevent him from exploring the palace beyond that, especially if he tries to work his way into some sort of jail or dungeon. His first instinct, likely driven by the burning in his blood, is to simply enter and then hack down anyone who tries to prevent him from finding what he seeks, but he quickly pushes the feeling aside without any real consideration.
No, this requires more subtlety. Every city Rael has seen from Tigol to Akor has two sets of rulers. Those in their castles, palaces or estates rule officially, but there is always a seedy underbelly somewhere. In his experience, criminals rarely act completely alone. There is always someone who takes a share for allowing the cutpurse to operate on a certain street, the whore on a particular corner – a boss. He has seen so many inns and taverns that seem to have a dark corner where a mysterious stranger waits and watches all.
As Rael walks, he watches the estates around him shrink in size until they turn to more conventional homes and shops. He continues walking as the grade of stone used in these buildings turns from perfectly squared cuts of granite and limestone to less perfect, irregular shapes – the cast offs from the more well-funded construction efforts. The paved streets turn to cobblestones and then remnant gravel held together by old hardened tar. The frequency of stone buildings begins to lessen, replaced by cheaper timber.
Rael knows he has reached the right part of Byrverus when, in the afternoon glow of the sun, he sees whores standing brazenly on the street attempting to lure prospective clients. He sees a cluster of these women, and some men, in front of a large but poorly kept building with a faded sign showing two flagons of spirits knocking into one another as if invisible hands brought them together in a toast. He gives the whores a wide berth as he circumvents them for the door, ignoring their jeers and catcalls.
Inside is a tavern like any other he has seen with its smoky cooking fires, bar and sparsely attended tables. However unlike most, this one is not well lit, as if its denizens prefer gloom and shadows to light by which one can see well. Rael saunters cautiously up to the bar that runs wall to wall on the main room’s left side. He wrinkles his nose slightly as his eyes pass over remains of food and drink that have yet to be wiped away, not to mention old stains of spilled drinks long past. A tall and thin black haired man with a full ear to ear beard stands on the other side as he dries pint sized cups with a filthy rag. He has pale skin, which is not uncommon for a Westerner, contrasting severely with the black of his hair.
“What’ll ya’ have?” asks the barkeep.<
br />
“Whatever is popular,” Rael replies.
“You got coin?”
Rael reaches into a small sack tucked into his sword belt and takes a coin in between his middle and fore fingers. He nonchalantly drops it on the wooden bar, and the silver coin clinks as it bounces slightly, almost stands on its edge and then rattles as it spins and settles to rest on one side. The coin vanishes almost instantly with a swipe of the barkeep’s hand, and the man sets to dispensing a brownish gold liquid into a newly dried wooden cup.
As he sets it in front of Rael with a thud, he says, “Here ya’ are then. That’ll cover you fer this one, but you’ll need more.”
Rael takes a sip and finds the drink foul, but then he has never cared much for the ales and meads that people commonly drink. “I have more,” he replies, “but I seek information.”
“Information costs,” the barkeep replies, suddenly more interested in his rag.
Rael drops a gold coin on the bar and says, “I need someone who can help me with something… discreet.”
“Says a man who wears steel under his robes. Even if I knew such things, how do I know ya’ don’t work for the crown? Or worse – the priests?”
“Are they not the same thing?” Rael asks genuinely. “Suffice it to say that I have no love for either. I need to –”
“Don’t,” the barkeep interrupts with a raised hand. “Ya’ say ya’ can pay? Leave me four more of them, an’ don’t tell me nuthin’. There’s a door over there. Ya’ see it? Knock four times, an’ explain to him what ya’ need. I’m not sayin’ he can help, but that’s who to ask.”
Three hours later, well after dark and with a near empty purse, Rael finds himself in a vacant alley behind the tavern. He can see little with the only light coming from the stars and a half-moon overhead, and the place reeks of decaying garbage and human waste. He waits quietly, unmoving so as not to attract attention, listening to the scurrying of rodents and stray dogs and cats. He starts when the squealing of metal hinges pierces the air as a door opens somewhere nearby and then slams shut. He can barely make out the black outline of three forms as they come silently down the dark alley, and he rests his hand on his sword as it cross his mind that he has been double crossed. As they approach, he realizes that two of them carry a large, heavy load between them which they set on the ground with a soft thud as they near him.
“Are you him?” whispers a shadowy form as the two load bearers back away.
“Yes,” answers Rael.
“Then come here. You’ll find what you need inside.”
“Inside what?” asks Rael, and he cautiously approaches. The figure does not answer, but he doesn’t have to, for as Rael comes near he sees that the load is in fact a huge chest. The dark figure, a man of short stature Rael is sure, lifts the chest’s lid to reveal a suit of plate armor complete with a blue doublet declaring the wearer to be a captain of Aquis.
“That should get you where you need to go,” the man whispers hoarsely.
“So I must don this. What of my own armor? Do I dare leave it with you?”
“Honor among thieves,” snorts the short man, but he must have somehow sensed Rael’s consternation. “This was not cheap to acquire, and you paid handsomely for it. You have until midnight tomorrow to return it. If you don’t, we claim yours as extra payment.”
“I assure you that I’ll be back.”
“Come before sunup or wait until after sundown. Don’t come during the day,” urges the man.
“I am not stupid,” Rael replies.
Rael does not hesitate to don the armor, replacing it with his own inside the chest. He keeps his own sword for it is a relatively plain longsword and scabbard, the kind of which that is common across the West. His shield he considers for a long moment, for he feels somewhat naked without it strapped to his left arm. However, when he looks at the blue gem set in its center, he realizes that he dare not chance someone within the palace recognizing it. It seems like slim odds, but he does not care for games of chance when the odds are in his favor.
As he places it inside the chest, he notes the thief’s interest and says, “I would be displeased should anything befall this. I will pay you something extra upon my return if it remains in good order.”
Rael drops the full visored helm over his head and wastes no time marching his way out of the alley and into the city street beyond. Close to midnight, there are few people out and about. Those with legitimate business have already finished it, and most of the whores and thieves have already found their marks for the night. Those few eyes that do settle on him see a soldier of Aquis, a captain no less, and it is not the first time they have seen such a man paying a gambling debt or visiting a whore.
He needs not retrace his steps or try to remember how he arrived here, for his blood pulls him where he needs to go, and somehow Rael knows that it will bring him back to wherever the cutpurses take his armor and shield. He furrows his brow slightly for, even as he again arrives at the great plaza separating the temple and palace, the calling in his blood is somehow less urgent. He hadn’t noticed that as he conducted his business, the burning urge has lessened to a distant call.
As in the slums, few people move about at this time of night, and Rael mostly just sees guards at their various posts. Two of these he approaches directly as he crosses the plaza for the palace’s main doors. For a moment, his step almost falters as trepidation begins to seep into the plate armor like a cold rain, but he wills himself to continue on, hoping that he looks as if he is supposed to be there. As he nears the guards, Rael prepares himself to either fight or his life or run for it, but neither comes to be. The two guards salute their pikes crisply and then pull the heavy iron banded oak doors outward just enough to allow him passage.
As the doors close behind him with an echoing bang, he finds himself inside an antechamber about twenty feet in depth and ten in width. On the far side is another set of doors just like those he just passed, and a rich red runner about six feet wide connects the two sets. Rael does not stop his march, idly wondering how they keep the carpet so clean and vibrant in the wake of how much traffic this room probably sees, and he continues straight for the second set of doors and its pair of guards. Halfway across, the two plate armored guards salute just like the outside pair, and one knocks heavily on the oak door behind him. This set opens away from him, revealing a massive throne room.
Rael endeavors not to gawk as he enters the huge hall, for it is larger than any he has ever seen before. But it is more than just sheer size. Marble columns at least six feet thick rise to a vaulted ceiling far above, and plush burgundy carpets cover the floor. Tapestries of silk and satin adorn the walls, mostly displaying symbols of Garod and Aquis, but a few depict a beautiful young woman in white robes. Lastly, marble steps lead up to a dais upon which sits a ten foot tall throne that could only be made of solid gold.
“Is something wrong, sir?” asks a guard from behind him, and Rael realizes he has been standing there taking in the sights of the hall.
“Uh, no. Sometimes I just forget how incredible this place is,” Rael lies, and he hopes it sounds convincing.
“I understand, sir. That’s why I enjoy the night duty. I get to enjoy the beauty away from all the people.”
Rael turns to see two soldiers standing at attention before the closed double doors behind him. These carry swords on their hips instead of long pikes, and they wear half helms instead of the full plate visored helms of those outside. The one who spoke appears quite young with just a hint of fuzz on his face below the helm. A young man who joined Aquis’ armies and guards the throne room, Rael thinks. A true believer.
“I apologize, sir. I did not mean to disturb you,” the young soldier stammers, taking Rael’s gaze as a sort of consternation.
Rael begins to answer, but he isn’t sure what would be appropriate. Instead, he turns on his heel and marches to his left, across the hall and toward a corridor on the far side. As seems so often to be the case, Rael h
as no idea exactly where he is headed, but he’ll know when he gets there. Torches here and there light the halls just enough to make them easily passable, but not so much as to disturb any denizens behind the closed doors. He occasionally passes guards stationed outside certain doors or at certain intersections, and Rael just keeps moving past them as they salute or stand at attention. No one stops him, and Rael can only assume it is because they must have good reason to stop an officer who is clearly set upon some task or another, even at this late hour.
The Dahken finds himself standing at the top of a dark stair leading downward, though not far for he can see the bottom of them. Flickering light from torches dances in the gloom below, and having found no other way leading down from the palace’s ground level, Rael begins his descent down the shallow stone steps. He takes great care as his feet do not fit fully on the steps, and he is distinctly aware of the limitations to his vision from the helm. At the bottom, he finds a prison like any other with black iron bars stretching ceiling to floor to divide up the room into cells. A few torches flicker smokily, and Rael cannot see very far into the depths of the apparently empty cellblock.
A wide framed and solidly built Westerner, only about five and a half feet in height, stands quickly from a plain wooden table seemingly made from six foot long planks, and a heavy ring of keys jingle as he does so. He wears black leather pants and boots, as well as an open black leather jerkin over a plain wool tunic. His solid, round face shows the beginnings of lines, common to those nearing forty years in age, and based on the shine on the top of his head, most of his hair has already fallen out. He has completed the process by shaving the rest smooth.
“Sir!” the gaoler almost shouts. “I didn’t know to expect anyone this evening. How can I assist you good sir?”
“I would just like to look around,” Rael replies, hoping he sounds natural.
Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Page 13
