Harbinger, A Gearspire Story

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  A short hallway opening into a kitchen. Water stained walls, smudged floorboards covered in scattered papers. Blood. Smeared along the wall at arm height. Streaked across the floor. Drag marks through the papers leading deeper into the space.

  A tall, lean man, illuminated from behind, stepped into view at the end of the hallway. “Keb, I told you to be quiet!”

  “Oh, he is that,” Ryle said.

  The man’s face flashed from a scowl to surprise. His right hand dropped to his belt.

  Ryle stabbed him through the heart.

  The Professor would rate the engagement as marginal at best, but Ryle had given him a warning. It wasn’t his fault the man was so blasted slow.

  Ryle kicked the man off his sword as he stepped into the kitchen. Korvey’s space was divided into three rooms. A living and painting area on the left, the kitchen with a small window currently full of afternoon sunlight on the back wall, and a tiny bedroom on the right.

  Korvey’s typically tidy home had been upended. The kitchen was a mess, papers and utensils scattered everywhere, the room’s sole table overturned. A shattered tea pot lay in a green puddle beside a small cast iron oven.

  The whole thing felt like a smash and grab. Emphasis on the word smash. Korvey’s few valuable possessions, most related to his occupation, resided in the living area. Ryle was turning in that direction when motion caught the corners of both his eyes at the same time.

  Well, muck. Two talkative intruders, and one silent friend. Those were always the ones to worry about.

  “Blake?” A brutish, bearded man appeared from the living room, a short sword already raised in his gloved right hand. That left silent and probably deadly in the bedroom, and at Ryle’s back if he engaged the bearded man.

  It was a tempting chance to take, finish one man and then attack the remaining foe, but he’d been trained better than that. As the intruder caught sight of him, Ryle skipped back into the hallway.

  A snarl twisted the man’s features for an instant before his mouth collapsed into an oh of surprise when the slim hilt of a dagger appeared in his shoulder. The same dagger that had nearly punctured Ryle’s spine.

  The man fell back cursing into the living room. Ryle ducked, and spun, searching for the professional killer. A second dagger thudded into the wall beside Ryle’s head. The angle of the impact lent itself to a single line of attack from a patch of shadows in the far corner of the kitchen. Ryle charged.

  A flash of movement, a silver glimmer. Ryle swatted the knife from mid-air with a twitch of his sword. Another step, a deep breath, the smell of blood filling his nose. A slim man dressed in brown pants and vest blurred through the sunlight streaming in from the back window, short blades trailing from both hands.

  It was a solid attempt at surprise, but Ryle’s sword was already in position, his kenten locked down tight. He flicked the first knife away with the edge of his sword, dodged the second strike and spun into a counter. The thug twisted past the blow and ducked away from Ryle’s follow-up, trying to put some space between them.

  Ryle was having none of it. He drove forward, sword probing, forcing the man to defend. The killer was good, his knives kept moving, throwing up a darting steel shield. Ryle didn’t care. He was pissed and in a hurry. That blow to the other thug’s shoulder would slow him down for only so long, and two-on-one in the cramped confines of the kitchen sounded like a hex sucking bad idea.

  Ryle feinted left then lunged right. As predicted the killer dodged past, reversing their positions, even throwing in an impressive diving roll. It would’ve worked well, except for the sunlight streaming in through the window. As the killer came to his feet the sunlight caught him full in the space. He squinted, jerked back, knives instinctively slicing the air, making a calculated guess.

  It was a guess Ryle had already predicted. He ducked, spun under the sunlight and came up on the other side. The killer saw the moment fast enough to turn, and catch Ryle’s blade through the neck.

  The man’s eyes snapped wide, his mouth gaped. The knives fell from his hands with a clatter. Ryle snapped the blade over, finishing the job. By the time the body hit the floor, Ryle was already moving on.

  The last thug met Ryle in the doorway to the living room, face twisted in pain, one arm hanging uselessly. An urge to ram his sword through the man’s chest gripped Ryle with iron claws, but within his kenten the logic of the moment prevailed. He restrained himself enough to only slice the man along the forearm, disarming him, and smash the pommel of his sword into the man’s temple. The man collapsed boneless to the floor.

  Ryle swept the room with his eyes. When no more threats appeared, he sheathed his sword and let his kenten drop.

  Fatigue washed over him like a warm rain, clouding his thoughts, dropping weights back upon his limbs. His pulse hammered in the side of his neck, his chest heaved with deep breaths.

  He gave it a moment, while his body recovered from the shock of the violence, and the familiar trembling following the rush of adrenaline. Once he had his breathing back under control he confirmed the other two were dead and gave each of their faces a good look. He’d never seen either man before. Either could be one of a thousand thugs in the city, and the pockets of both were empty. When his inspection was complete he stalked through the apartment, sweeping each room, confirming no other opponents lurked out of sight. That’s when he found Korvey’s body in the bedroom.

  Ryle’s gut clenched. They’d worked Korvey over before they killed him. His face was swollen and bloody. His left hand was clutched tight against his chest. A crimson blot over his heart soaked through his usually pristine white shirt. Probably the killing blow.

  Beside him on the floor amidst scattered papers lay a strange contraption the size and shape of a large, thick book. Only it was constructed of metal and a keyhole stood out from its cover.

  Ryle didn’t let himself ponder this for too long or pause to inspect his fallen friend, there would be time for that soon enough. First he had to get back outside, if he knew Casyne she wouldn’t wait much longer.

  He pulled open the door and found Casyne crouched on the stoop, examining the still unconscious lookout. She’d found some rope somewhere and tied his hands to the railing.

  “I don’t recognize him,” she said.

  His thoughts stumbled as he stepped from bloody disaster inside the apartment into the sane quiet world. Where children still played down in the plaza and a man across the way carried a basket of laundry to his home. Ryle pulled the door shut behind him, trying to figure out what to say.

  He’d seen death before. Hex, thanks to his bastard of a father, he’d lived with it his entire bloody childhood. In the darkest days, he’d learned to accept it without regard; careless bravado muting the pain like milk across a burn. Soothing it only long enough to find the next patch of danger to distract him.

  Casyne though resided in a different world. In many ways, it was just as hard and wild as his own, but he didn’t know how she’d take the scene inside. Tough or not, this was something else. Those stains of violence rarely befouled the streets his beloved trod.

  His mind was still searching for words when Casyne looked up. Once again, she was ahead of him. Her face paled as she saw his expression. “Korvey?”

  He shook his head.

  Casyne’s eyes clouded but her jaw firmed. After a couple heavy breaths, she stood. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Then let’s find out.”

  She tried to push past him but he held the door closed. “Cas.”

  She tried again, but Ryle stood firm. “Casyne.”

  She looked up, eyes flickering between pain and anger.

  “It’s bad in there. They . . . tortured him. Three of them.”

  She ground her teeth before forcing the words out. “Are they dead?”

  “Two are.”

  The flat cold that smothered the sunshine in her eyes, hollowed out Ryle’s chest. “Then let’s get some answers.
”

  This time when she tried for the door, he let her go and followed her inside.

  He stayed quiet while she took in the scene. Pain flickering across her features, tension building in her shoulders the deeper they went. When they reached Korvey she paused, sucking in short breaths through tight lips. Pain burned through Ryle’s chest at the sight. He didn’t know if he should hold her close or let her work through the moment. He settled for standing ready if she needed him.

  After a minute, she knelt beside Korvey’s body. Her fingers shook but she gently touched his swollen cheek, and softly stroked the hair back from his forehead. With a tenderness that squeezed Ryle’s throat tight, she scooped Korvey’s left hand from his chest. When she felt the state of her dead friend’s fingers she uttered a choked cry, and began sobbing.

  Even a pace back from Korvey’s body, Ryle could make out the swollen fingers extended at wrong angles, the ruined knuckles.

  “Bastards. Tried to. Take. His gift.” Her shoulders jerked through short, sharp gasps.

  Ryle clenched his fists and reconsidered his decision to leave any of the brutes alive.

  As if the thought were a long-lost key, a door cracked open in the back of his mind and a deep chuckle slipped out. A laughter that reveled in fire, pain, and chaos. A sound he hated above all others in the world. A voice he knew all too well. He slammed the scarred door shut and tried to ignore the way his hands still shook after the laughter had died away.

  A rustling sound in the living room drew Ryle’s attention and he spun away from the tragedy before him. It was a struggle to keep the anger at bay but by the time he entered the living room he had a tenuous grasp on it.

  The last thug was moaning and struggling to rise, blood running along both arms. Ryle allowed himself the satisfaction of kicking the man’s legs out from under him and then stomping down on his chest, pinning the man in place. He coughed and moaned a few words, but Ryle barely heard them, the jagged sounds of Casyne’s sobs were stilling ringing in his ears.

  With a rough swallow, Ryle managed to force out words. “Who sent you?”

  The man groaned, and swatted at Ryle’s boot. This lasted until Ryle slid his sword free and laid the tip against the man’s throat.

  “Who. Sent. You.”

  The man stilled, glaring up the length of steel, but kept his lips pressed together.

  Ryle pushed the blade up under the man’s jaw. Blood welled against the steel. “I can make you talk.”

  The man gasped softly but said nothing, his eyes still hard. The faint scars along the man’s brows, and the crook in his nose said he’d been through fights. The way he handled the wounds he’d already received without complaint said he’d felt pain before. They added up to a difficult situation. How far would Ryle have to push the man to get answers? An echo of manic laughter rolled through Ryle’s mind.

  Ryle moved the tip of his sword to the thug’s wounded shoulder, and locked eyes with the man. He tried to make his face hard, but inwardly he cursed. Talk blast it, don’t make me do this. The man kept glaring. Ryle steeled himself and shifted his sweating palm on the grip of his sword.

  “Ryle?” Casyne’s steps followed her voice into the room.

  Ryle’s stomach turned over. “Wait outside. I’ll have answers in a minute.”

  “Like hell.” She stopped beside him, face a grim mask, then hissed in a breath when she saw the man at Ryle’s feet. “Who’s he?”

  “I’m about to find out. You should wait outside.”

  Her eyes were still blazing, and for a crushing moment he thought she’d kick the man, or say she wanted to stay. Or worse yet, she’d walk away and leave him to his task. But of course, this was Casyne. Even angry and hurting, she was still the woman he loved.

  She laid a hand on his arm and kept it there until he glanced over. Despite the pain in her eyes, she smiled and squeezed his arm and leaned in close. “You know you don’t have to kill your way out of every problem, right?” Her voice shook but the sarcastic tone pushed its way through the anger inside his skull. Blast but she knew how to get to him.

  After a couple hard breaths, Ryle forced himself to nod.

  She patted his arm and knelt beside the man. “Looks like coming here today was a mistake, wouldn’t you say? In fact, I’d say that me being here is the only reason you’re still alive. And I really want you dead. That man in there? The one you beat and killed?” She paused, the tendons in her neck standing out. “He was one of my best friends. But he was a gentle soul and he wouldn’t want any more violence in his home. So, you hold very still or I’ll leave you here to him.” She nodded toward Ryle and he shot the man his hardest, flattest stare.

  For the first time the man’s eyes lost a bit of their edge.

  “Good, I’m glad you agree.” With that she began rifling through the man’s pockets, being none too gentle in the process. The man winced more than once while she patted him down and threw his lapels aside.

  This man’s pockets were not empty and Ryle cursed. He’d worked with professionals for too long to consider the stupidity required to carry anything of value on a job like this.

  Once Casyne had collected everything, she retreated to a worn padded chair in the corner. It was Korvey’s favorite place in his home and the one he always insisted guests occupy. Ryle’s throat hurt a bit more.

  While Casyne rifled through her findings, Ryle kept his boot pressed tight against the man, watching him for any reaction, but seeing none.

  Before Ryle could wonder how long this might take, Casyne uttered a heavy sigh. Her head was down over a couple sheafs of paper she clutched in her hands. Her hair obscured her face, but whatever she’d found etched pain across her back in broad strokes. After a long moment, she rose and walked back across the floor. Her face was calm, but it was a fragile stillness. A thin wall keeping back an unstable torrent. She clutched wrinkled pieces of paper in both hands, the rest of the man’s belongings were scattered in the corner.

  “Bastard,” she spit.

  “What?” Ryle asked.

  “He works for Paundon.”

  Ryle stomped down instinctively. The man gasped and coughed. Ryle took his time decreasing the pressure.

  “You sure?”

  She gestured toward the man with the paper in her left hand. “This tells him to ‘go find that silly poof of an artist and ask what he saw. Make sure he talks.’”

  Ryle stomped down again, letting his boot land on the man’s throat. This time he ignored the brute’s gasping and kept as much weight as he could in place.

  “Paundon signed it?”

  “No, but I’ve seen his stamp before.” She held up the paper. Back to back boars’ heads in green wax adorned the bottom of the page.

  “I thought Paundon’s sigil was four interlinked boars?”

  “Cowardly ass-sore like him has a few. Depending on how ‘official’ the request. I’ve seen this one before.”

  Ryle wanted to ask where she’d seen one of Paundon’s unofficial sigils, but this wasn’t the time, not in front of this piece of muck on the floor.

  “Amateur move.” Ryle sneered at the thug under his boot. “Bringing that paper.”

  “Or he was in a hurry.” Casyne rubbed her thumb along the wax sigil.

  Ryle cursed inwardly but didn’t let it show in front of Korvey’s killer. “It say what they were looking for? What exactly Korvey saw?”

  Casyne crumpled the piece of paper still in her right hand, stared down at it then looked up at Ryle. “Step off him,” she said.

  Ryle raised his eyebrows.

  “He won’t move.” She glared down at the man who was still gasping and sputtering. “Will you?”

  The thug shook his head.

  Still confused, Ryle took his boot off the man, leaving him to suck in shuddering breaths, but kept the tip of his sword in the vicinity.

  Without taking her eyes off Ryle, Casyne extended the other sheet of paper to him.

  The room fell awa
y to a dim void as he took the paper with numb fingers. The torn scrap was smudged around the edges with blood or link, but to Ryle it gleamed like a beacon. A single subject had been scratched across it with shaking strokes. It was still entirely recognizable. A downturned sword with scales hanging from both sides of the cross bar.

  It took some period of time for Ryle to find words again. He wasn’t sure how long, but Casyne remained still until he spoke.

  “The House of Reckoning?”

  It didn’t make a bit of sense. How the hex had Korvey found them? Ryle had been trying to track them down for a year and come up empty. He’d prowled through taverns, dives, and worse places. He’d talked with every traveler, hustler, and two-bit low life he could find. And found nothing.

  “Ryle . . .” Casyne’s hand was on his arm, he brushed it off. What had Korvey told this bastard about them?

  He crouched over the thug, grabbed the man by the hair and laid the edge of his sword across the man’s sweating throat. The man went very still.

  “What did he tell you about Reckoning?”

  Nothing but heavy breaths.

  “Tell me.”

  The man’s eyes darted between Ryle and Casyne.

  “She can’t help you. Tell me. Now.”

  He pressed the edge of his sword in, forcing the man’s head back until his neck was taught, his pulse visibly pounding in his throat.

  Still he remained silent.

  “Ryle.”

  “Tell me!” He slammed the man’s head off the floor. “Tell me!” He smashed the man’s head down again. The thug groaned, his eyes glazed.

  “Ryle!”

  His breath roared in his ears. His heart beat against the inside of his ribs. Sweat ran down his hand. He the sword squeezed it tighter. The scar along his left palm dragged against the grip’s wrappings.

  He couldn’t hold back the laughter when it came this time. Like a maelstrom it tore through his mind. Kilgren. The reason he had to find the House of Reckoning. The only group who could stop him. Who could bring his father to justice. Ryle’s left hand ached.