The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

Musmahu’s thrashing came within an arm’s reach of crushing Kestel’s tiny frame. With a thunderous crack, the pyramid began to collapse, breaking his chains free from the stones.

  Mustering the last of his strength, Kestel pulled himself over to the edge of the platform. He stared at the pandemonium below and tried to wipe the blood from his eyes. Musmahu’s struggles had spilled over the screaming crowd scrambling to get out of the silver beast’s path. Demetros and the soldiers tried to keep order, but the sheer volume of the mob had split them into small knots of armored men hacking their way to freedom. Lychra Maal and her entourage were nowhere to be seen.

  Before Kestel’s world went dark, an arm reached across his vision and wiped away the thick clot of blood on his forehead. The strong arm then wrapped him in a dirty cloak.

  “Mollis, you’re carrying him,” a gruff voice called out. “Castor, you’re with me. Let’s move.”

  Kestel tried to find the source of the voice, but glimpsed only a vague figure with a large crossbow strapped to his back. An attempt to speak met with a large meaty hand clamped over his mouth.

  “Just stay quiet, lad. You’ll be fine. Ready?”

  A beefy figure picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. Kestel’s struggles did nothing to change the situation. He let himself flop, giving into his blurring vision. The silver hydra, curling and twisting as it rolled over the screaming crowd was the last thing he saw.

  Kestel’s bearer shifted his grip, bringing him back to consciousness. His vision remained blurry, along with a double dose of pain from the tattoo and hydra’s blood on his brow. Casting his gaze about, he saw long, narrow halls, and the trail his rescuers had left in the thick dust carpeting the ground.

  “W’ter.” Kestel gasped, his voice thick with a swollen tongue.

  “He’s awake,” said a deep voice from somewhere beneath him.

  “Alright, put him down. We should be safe for the moment.”

  Still as boneless as a fish, every cut and bruise on Kestel’s body protested at being dumped by a pillar.

  “Wh—” Kestel licked cracked lips. “Who are you?”

  “That’s the question we were going to ask you, boy,” said a voice. Someone raised a leather flask to Kestel’s lips. “Here, drink that slowly or you’ll puke it back up.”

  Freeing his hands, Kestel rubbed his eyes and took a good look at his rescuers. All three had dark, olive skin and carried themselves with the confidence of professional soldiers. The largest, who had carried him over his shoulder, stared down in amusement. The second, a smaller man with thick, curly, brown hair, ignored Kestel, keeping his eye on the long corridor. The third man, old, fat, and bald, clutched his crossbow and eyed Kestel. He did not look happy.

  “A dozen men, do you understand?”

  “What?”

  “A dozen men,” said the old man, his bronze skin wrinkling in a grimace. “I’ve lost a dozen men, good men in this damn rescue, so I’ll ask the questions. Who are you?”

  Confused, Kestel struggled to a sitting position. “You mean you don’t know?” Taking a closer look at the trio, he noticed their dirty brown cloaks covered something glinting in the foggy morning light. Armor. New armor, complete from head to toe. He gasped. “You’re ironsides from the Citadel!”

  His savior growled. “Then you’ll also know we have travelled a long way, and I have little reason to keep you alive if you piss me off. Now, who in the burning hells are you?”

  Kestel blinked, trying to find his bearings. “I’m Kestel.”

  “Kestel who?”

  He shrugged, having no answer for that. “Just Kestel.”

  The bald man held his gaze for a second and then relented. “Fair enough. Looking at the marks on your body, I’m surprised you made it this far. This large lump of flesh is Mollis, and the curly one’s Castor.”

  Mollis nodded and gave a wave, but Castor continued his watch.

  “Who are you?” Kestel said, too tired to feel any fear, though he still eyed the old man’s crossbow.

  “I’m Arbalis Secunda Galeria, of the Praetoria of the New Citadel, or as you like to call us, the ironsides.” Arbalis hesitated and scratched his jowly chin. “We really don’t know why you’re important to the Silver Prioress, but it’s our job to deliver you to her, hence our little stop here.”

  Kestel reached for the water flask and took another swig. “Where’s here?”

  “You don’t know?” Arbalis looked surprised. “You’re sitting on holy ground, my little scabie. Well, the holiest you’ll find around here, anyway. This is the Old Citadel.”

  “The old ruin?” Kestel tried to pull himself up. “No one’s been in there for years.”

  The old man’s grin turned wolfish. “You’re right. How do you think we got in so easily?”

  “They’ve found us.” Castor motioned for everyone to stand. Arbalis nodded.

  Kestel tried to find his feet but failed, sliding down the pillar. The old soldier’s wave turned frantic. Mollis sighed and scooped Kestel up.

  Taken by surprise, Kestel struggled in the large man’s grasp. “I can manage on my own.”

  “No complaints,” said Arbalis. “You’re too weak to run, and it’ll probably come to that.”

  A knot of Maal’s soldiers rounded the corner at the far end of the hall, their rusty and mismatched armor rasping against the boiled leathers of their uniforms.

  “Vae!” said the old man, appraising their pursuers. “There’s too many of them to fight without risking the lad. Castor, slow them down.”

  The curly-haired soldier nodded and launched himself at the attackers. Mollis scooped up Kestel, cradling him in his arms, and followed Arbalis through a doorway. Emerging into an enormous hall—long since looted—limbless statues and violated tombs flashed past Kestel on their way through the debris. Above him, Kestel spied gray clouds, a morning fog seeping in through a massive, broken dome.

  “This is where it happened,” Arbalis said jogging beside Mollis, “a century ago, above us.”

  Kestel shivered, imagining Musmahu crashing through the dome, the white and golden feathers shaking and erect. He remembered, too, the hideous scars on the hydra’s body. “We have to save it,” he whispered.

  Arbalis’s brow furrowed before ducking into an alcove. “Mind his head, soldier.”

  Mollis grunted and shifted his grip on Kestel at a set of narrow, descending stairs. Rather than descend into the darkness, Arbalis squeezed through a large crack in the wall. Mollis dropped Kestel and helped him through, before squeezing in himself. The air inside the curved, brick walls stank of something long dead.

  “Smell that, boy?” said Arbalis, a tired smile spreading across his face. “That’s the smell of freedom. At the end of the drain is the river and our boat.”

  After the clamor of the arena, the tunnels were almost silent, broken only by slushing footsteps and echoing breaths. They continued downward, wading through the slime covering the tunnel floor. Nearing water level, the air grew misty. Kestel found himself growing calm, losing time as the circle of light behind the fleeing men receded into the mist.

  Am I dying?

  The pathway ended at an old iron grate, many of the bent and rusted bars mere stubs set into the slimy rock. Reaching down behind a pile of stones, Arbalis produced a lamp and tinder. Once lit, he waved it in the early morning fog. In the anxious silence, a long wooden boat materialized out of the haze, a matching lamp at its prow held by another cloaked soldier. The slim figure gave a low whistle.

  “Where are all the others?”

  Extinguishing his lamp, Arbalis grabbed the boat rail and hauled himself in. Mollis handed Kestel over the side and followed, his large form belying a surprising agility.

  “Where are they?” said the soldier again.

  Arbalis put his hands over his face, the fatigue plain in his voice. “All dead. We lost ten at the arena. One more on the way through the Old Citadel.” He looked up. “But we got him.”

  Kest
el, fighting to stay conscious, watched a pale, wiry figure lean over and cast an appraising eye over him.

  “Bit small, isn’t he?” the hooded figure said. “I’d have thrown ’im back.”

  Mollis chuckled and took the oars. Arbalis just shrugged and moved to the other end of the boat.

  Overcome by sleep, Kestel failed to come up with a suitable reply. No one seemed to care. The boat slid into the morning mist.

  2

  Despite our best efforts, the situation remains unchanged. Although we retain control of the western coastlines, when we push into the interior our forces are systematically destroyed by Musmahu. Nor can the Canidae artificers prevail, despite providing us with the improved ballistae. The IV, X, and X11 legions have failed to report in, and we fear the worst.

  ~from a report to the office of the Silver Prior by Commander Ancialus,

  dated 18th year of.Exile.~

  Kestel awoke to the smell of stew. Its enticing aroma curled through his dreams until he pulled himself into wakefulness. Though still dark, he could make out the curved, wooden sides of a ship, larger than any he had ever seen in the Capital’s port. Under him lay rugs, splayed across several bags of grain. He didn’t appear to be tied or chained up, and several fresh bandages wound around his head and chest, greasy with a peppery-smelling ointment. He probed his forehead with a hesitant touch. Will this scar for life?

  Leaning on a wall for support, he walked on wobbly legs through a lit door, emerging into a wide hold, empty save for a few men dishing out their rations. Kestel recognized Mollis towering above the others. When the large, olive-skinned man noticed Kestel, he grinned.

  “Look Commander,” he said waving Kestel over, “the hibernation has ended.”

  Arbalis looked over his shoulder at Kestel’s approach. “About time—you’ve been asleep for almost two days. I considered throwing a bucket of water over you. Here, eat.”

  Still groggy, Kestel picked his way through the crates and sacks to sit on one of the soldier’s bundles.

  He took the steaming bowl, keeping an eye on his captors. He recognized the skinny, hooded figure from the boat. The figure avoided looking at Kestel, intent on the steaming bowl in their hands.

  The brusque cook made sure everyone had their fill. He glanced at Kestel from the corner of his eye. “Damn scabies.” He wandered off with a sour look on his face.

  “So, what’s a scabie?” said Kestel, raising an eyebrow at the cook’s retreating back.

  The wiry soldier pulled back a hood and glared at the young man. “Scabies is a disease found in a sheep’s arsehole, caused by useless mites that sit around all day sucking blood. Only way to deal with them is to eradicate the infestation.”

  To Kestel’s surprise, the pale soldier was a woman, maybe in her forties. The hideous burns down half her face and neck hid her age. The trauma had also cost her an eye. The remaining orb, almost lost in the scarred and twisted skin, glared at Kestel. Mousy, blonde hair framed the ravaged face, pulled back in a tight plait.

  Kestel coiled his muscles and leaned in, looking the scarred woman in the eye. “You know, I’ll wager you get all the men with those good looks of yours.” He flashed a mocking smile.

  The woman snarled and reached for her dagger, but Kestel had already snatched Arbalis’s own blade from its sheath. He used his other hand to grab the blonde plait. Twisting savagely, Kestel held his blade a hair’s breadth from the single, green eye. Mollis’s knife tickled his throat. For a moment, everyone stood frozen. Mollis frowned, holding a steady hand near Kestel’s neck, but Kestel kept his gaze locked on his opponent.

  Arbalis broke the tableaux, jumping to his feet. “Put those weapons down, you festering son of bitch! Calla, you too!”

  Kestel could not understand why, but he found himself obeying, though he never let his gaze stray from her scarred face. Mollis backed off and Arbalis reached in to snatch back his dagger.

  He leaned over and whispered in Kestel’s ear, “Do that again and you’re a dead man.”

  “Then why am I here?” said Kestel.

  Mollis bundled a glowering Calla out of the room.

  “Damned if I know,” Arbalis said with a shrug. “But for the moment, I want you to join us and fight for the New Citadel.”

  “Sod off.”

  “Don’t reject my offer out of hand, lad. I know this might be a shock, but the Golden Queen you worship as a Goddess is—”

  “A lying whore?”

  The bronzed soldier looked at him in astonishment. “You mean, you know?”

  “That she did nothing when I was falsely accused, then fed me to Musmahu because she thought it would amuse the crowd?” said Kestel, his voice hollow. “Yes, I got the hint.” As much as he tried to control it, he couldn’t stop his weakened body from trembling.

  “Well, well...” Arbalis scratched his bristly chin and gave Kestel a measured stare. “Get some rest, boy. When you’re strong enough, I’ll see what we can do with you.”

  Kestel’s lips couldn’t frame a reply to the label “boy” fast enough. Overcome by sleep, he stumbled back into the darkness of the hold.

  Kestel remembered little of the next few days, the passage of time a blur of hunger, fitful sleep, and watchful faces. Mollis found him on deck for the first time, leaning on the rails of the ship, his moody gaze staring over the water.

  Slouching down beside him, the big man smiled. “Ever seen the sea before, lad?”

  “Not like this,” Kestel said, not paying much attention to the man beside him. “It’s all so big.”

  Mollis nodded, pointing toward a dark line on the horizon. “The land you see east of us is the continent, of which we control the coast.”

  “Will Maal follow?”

  Mollis chuckled. “The scabies haven’t had a navy for years, just the barges that cross the river.” He gave the ship’s rail a proud thump. “This, my lad, is the good ship Actuarius, fastest in the fleets of Caelbor.”

  “And that’s where we’re heading?”

  “Hmm-hm—an island, or islands really, that’s home to the New Citadel.”

  “The ironsides?”

  “That’s just scabies’ slang, boy. What you call the ironsides are two groups. The Caelbor are the native people of the islands and the coastline, like Calla. The Exsilium are my people, those from the inner continent who fled Maal and Musmahu to take shelter on the islands a century ago—including the clerics of the Citadel.”

  Kestel frowned. “So, these Exsilium and Caelbor groups fight side by side against the Godd—Maal?”

  “Side by side?” An odd smile pulled at Mollis’s lips. “If only life were that simple. War is in the air, Kestel. What you call the Sacred Realm is on the brink of collapse, and the most powerful Caelbor landowners are eager to get rid of their guests, including the New Citadel they pretend to swear allegiance to.”

  The pair remained silent for a while, staring at the distant shorelines, the ship moving gently under them.

  Finally, Kestel turned and faced the bronzed soldier. “Why do they want—what are they going to…why me?”

  Mollis remained silent, still watching the horizon. “I really don’t know. But we were given instructions to find you. Not just someone being executed—we could take our pick if we wanted—but you in particular.” He turned and faced Kestel, his heavy jaw tight with unease. “We knew exactly when, where, and what you would look like.”

  Kestel stared up at the larger man in amazement. Mollis just shrugged.

  “Try not to get too worked up about it. We’ll find out soon enough. By the way,” he said eyeing Kestel, “why are you still wearing that bandage around your head?”

  Kestel looked away to hide his grimace. “It’s not healed yet.”

  “Pfh. You’re fine.” The bronzed soldier reached over and yanked the dressing off.

  Kestel jerked backward. Underneath, his olive forehead wasn’t scarred, although he still had several purple bruises. The tattoo, however, was even
more obvious on the now, healed skin.

  Mollis regarded it with a critical eye. “The beast’s blood hasn’t scarred you much. You’ve probably built up an immunity—bloody awful looking tattoo, though.”

  Kestel looked away, keeping his head low. “Everyone can see it.”

  Mollis snorted. “Everyone can see Calla’s scars, too, but she doesn’t get prissy about it. Stop being so vain.”

  Kestel stayed silent and refused to lift his head.

  The big man sighed. “Come on, you’ve done enough moping around. Let’s pull out the staves and see how much practice you need.”

  Now he attacks my ability? Kestel sprang up. “I don’t need practice!”

  Mollis laughed, showing round, white teeth. “Prove it.”

  Three days later the Actuarius sighted home. The ships plow through the dark waves no longer bothered Kestel, even with Arbalis putting him through his paces.

  “I can barely move in this thing!” said Kestel, his voice muffled by the ill-fitting armor.

  Two bare-chested sailors circled, looking for an opening.

  “That’s the idea, boy.” The old veteran stood with Mollis and Calla. “I’m going to build up your endurance. You can’t rely purely on speed, but you do have the armor’s defense—use it.”

  Kestel swallowed his arguments and sized up his opponents. Seizing an opportunity, he feigned a clumsy attack at one, letting the armor take the responding blows. He turned on the other, trying to move behind him. Trusting the armor at his back, Kestel felled the sailor before him with a well-aimed blow to the waist. The other, he took care of with a metal-sheathed elbow to the ribs. His enemies dispatched, Kestel pulled off the uncomfortable helmet and spied Mollis’s grin. Calla growled and handed over a bag of coins to Mollis.

  “Acceptable,” Arbalis said, though his tone sounded far from pleased. “You men, take a break. Kestel, come up here and have a look at this.”

  Kestel shook hands with the two bruised sailors. These ironsides have such strange habits. The custom over, he clanked up onto the forequarter, joining Mollis and Calla.