Eve of Destruction
Page 42
“They’re flushing him up the ramp,” Rynne said.
“Yeah,” Van agreed. “Look—that first group is baiting the Faceless away.”
Rook grimaced and glanced down to Marek. “Do you have any weapons?”
“What?” the man stammered. “You’re not serious?”
“I take that as a ‘no.’” Rook looked up again. “We might be able to cut them off up there.”
Van blinked, and even Rynne cocked her eyebrow at him.
Rook smiled. “I like having politicians indebted to me. Come on.”
He lunged over the cantina’s meager railing and drew his one-shot pistol mid-leap. Sections of the ramp were still alight with flaming debris, but the path was wide enough to easily maneuver around the rubble. Rook took the lead, knowing the others would follow him even if they thought he was crazy—which they almost assuredly did. And to be fair, they were probably right.
He reached the top of the ramp just as another explosion rocked the area, this time just off to his left. Naen shrieked as the blast narrowly missed him, and his two remaining Faceless guardians lunged forward in a vain effort to reach a small group of Balorite attackers up on the rooftops.
“Death to the Empress!” they shrieked in unison. “Glory to Abalor!”
Rook dove for cover behind a statue, then swiveled his weapon up at the cultists. For all its other benefits, this pistol had pathetic range, but perhaps he could at least spook them enough that they’d fall off…
A sharp thump sounded next to his ear as Rynne fired a shot from her crossbow. It pelted one of the cultists in the shoulder, and the man dropped his weapon and toppled from his perch. Before he even hit the ground she’d already fired a second shot, this one ripping through a second cultist’s leg and dropping him flat. The third and final cultist shifted his aim to face them, and Rook finally squeezed his trigger.
It was, in any measurable sense, far less impressive—but it got the job done. The bullet blew apart a shingle near the man’s foot, and it startled him so much he lost his balance and tumbled over with his companions. Almost immediately, the two remaining Faceless lunged forward and mercilessly hacked the wounded men to pieces.
“See,” Rook said, standing. “I told you we’d—”
The hand of the statue above him shattered, and Rook dropped back into a crouch. He caught a glimpse of three more attackers charging from the other direction, bellowing a mix of insane chants as they fired their crossbows.
“You really don’t pay me enough for this,” Van muttered as he rolled out, shield leveled in front of him. He grimaced and charged, and Rook couldn’t help but wince at each thud as Van’s shield caught bolt after bolt. A second later the three new attackers drew steel to meet the big man head-on, and Rynne slid a fresh cartridge into her weapon before firing another volley of her own.
Rook rolled to his right and pulled the dagger from his boot, suddenly regretting not buying one of those new flintlocks earlier. He popped into a half crouch, waiting for the opportunity to at least throw the screlling thing once Van was clear…
And then yet another barrage of shots whistled over his head from behind. He turned to see Marek and his two henchmen firing away with their hand-held, easily concealable crossbows.
In a matter of seconds, it was all over. The last Balorite group lay crumpled in a bloody pile in the street, Van standing triumphantly over them. And most importantly, it didn’t look like anyone had suffered more than a scratch.
“No one travels in Haven without a weapon,” Marek commented dryly. “And I kind of like the idea of an Assemblyman being indebted to me, too.”
Rook grinned and put his dagger away. Naen was still cowering behind a stone column with his two guards and would probably stay there until some healers arrived.
“You know, I’m not even sure he’s worth it,” Rook murmured, his smile fading. Farther down the ramp, what seemed like a whole platoon of Darenthi soldiers had arrived on the scene, both Faceless and the still-human variety. It was a nearly-averted massacre and yet another chapter in the endless Holy War between the Balorites and Edehans.
“They’re getting bold,” Rynne said gravely. “Attacking the Empress’s people in broad daylight.”
Rook nodded. “They’ve been fighting for a thousand years. I don’t think anyone expected this recent truce to last forever.”
Marek grunted. “Haven—the great ‘City of Unity.’ I wonder if anyone ever actually believed that.”
Rook pursed his lips. “You said you found something.”
“Yes, I did,” the man replied quietly, his eyes thoughtful. “Though it belatedly occurs to me that it might just make things even worse around here.”
“The corpse of the Edehan Messiah?”
“Not the corpse,” he corrected. “The Kirshal in the flesh—and alive.”
Rook eyed the other man carefully. Again, the scavenger didn’t appear to be lying. “You’re serious.”
“It’s something you’re going to have to see yourself to believe. Once you do, we can negotiate payment.” Marek glanced down to the soldiers attending to the wounded and the Assemblyman still crying out in pain. “I don’t want anything to do with this mess.”
Rook nodded and sighed. Change draws blood, the old saying went, and here in Haven it was just as true as ever. A dozen different nations vied for power over Esharia, and within each of them, even one as heavy-handed as the Darenthi Republic, were hundreds of smaller factions with their own beliefs and agendas. Haven wasn’t the city of unity, but it might have been the city of the future—or at the very least a harrowing glimpse at what was to come.
“I think you’re right,” he said softly. Even if Marek was lying, Rook didn’t really want to stick around here much longer anyway. Political favors or not, he’d rather not face the scrutiny of a Faceless inquisition. “I think it’s time you showed me what you found.”
Marek smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
***
Rook had been in the business long enough to expect hyperbole and spot out-right lies. What he was far less accustomed to dealing with was the truth, and that made everything Marek showed him that much more impressive.
“I tried to tell you,” the man said, gesturing towards the storeroom now packed full of open crates containing everything from sculptures to jewelry, “but I guess I can’t blame you for being skeptical. This is the real deal.”
“So it would seem,” Rook commented idly. Rynne had already given him the confirming nod that most of this stuff was indeed genuine, at least as far as she could tell at a glance. Actual Septurian artifacts…outside of temple vaults or wealthy independent collectors, they were almost unheard of.
“You’re welcome to buy whatever else you want, but this is what you came for,” Marek said, leading them over to an open stone coffin. “This is what a lot of people in Haven would kill to see.”
Rook looked down into the coffin, and the knot that had been slowly forming in his stomach twisted like he’d just been stabbed.
Van peered over his shoulder. “You found her in that?”
“Sealed shut,” Marek confirmed.
Rook glanced to Rynne; her face had gone completely white—which meant she had come to the same conclusion he had. Namely, that this was bad. Very, very bad.
The woman inside was tall and statuesque with long red-blonde hair, and she was wrapped in a sari-style dress and halter combination he had only seen in paintings. An intricate pattern of tattoos decorated her bare stomach from beneath her belly up to the folds of cloth covering her breasts, and a striking emerald crystal pierced her navel. It was shaped like a small leaf—the holy symbol of Edeh.
“She’s not breathing,” Van pointed out. “How do you know she’s alive?”
Marek leaned down and placed a hand against the woman’s face. “She’s still warm. There’s some type of magic keeping her asleep. That’s about all I could get from my people—none of them are actual magi.”
“I’ve heard the Vakari don’t believe in the Kirshal,” Marek said. “I think this just might prove you wrong.”
“There are other explanations,” Rook whispered.
“Really? So I take it I should offer this to someone else?”
Rook bit his lip. “I’ll buy it all.”
The scavenger smiled. “I thought you might. Now, let’s talk price…”
“Fifty thousand,” Rook said. “And your word that you leave the city and don’t tell anyone else about this.”
Marek raised an eyebrow. “Fifty? I think you can do better than—”
“More than fifty and my people take it from you—right before they drive you out of town,” Rook warned coldly. “It’s the best offer you’re going to get. I suggest you take it.”
Marek could have protested. Many men would have in his position, even if they didn’t have the resources to defend their prize. He certainly couldn’t ask the city guard for help—the moment anyone outside this room got wind of this, he would lose it all. And of course, if Prince Kastrius ever found out he had sold all these relics…
“Fifty it is,” Marek said. “And don’t worry: I don’t think any of us plans on sticking around much longer.”
“Start packing it up. I’ll have my people come over shortly.”
Marek nodded. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rook.”
He stepped away to give his people orders, and Rook knelt down next to Rynne. “You recognize the markings?”
“Of course I do,” she whispered. “She’s real. It’s all real.”
Van grunted. “You can’t know that for certain.”
“No, but it’s all there,” Rook said gravely. “The coffin, the tattoos, the dress, the—”
“The legend,” Rynne breathed, shaking her head. “The Kirshal, the Restoration, Septuria…”
Van sighed. “So you’re telling me this woman has been stuffed in a coffin for a thousand years and somehow survived? I’m sorry, but that’s a load of drek.”
Rynne glanced up to him. “Of course she survived. She’s carrying the soul of a goddess!”
Van wrinkled his nose and turned to Rook. “You don’t believe that, do you, Nate?”
“I don’t know,” Rook replied softly. “But we’re going to find out.”
About the Author
C.E. Stalbaum has a PhD in Political Science and International Relations from Purdue University. He has taught courses in English composition, international politics, and many other subjects over the years. He is currently writing full-time and lives in Massachusetts.
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