by Chris Moss
“You will not be returning with us, sir?” said the soldier, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
“No,” said Arbalis, “we’ve other business in this angels-forsaken city. Try not to get into too much trouble on your way back.”
Taking their packs from the rubble, Arbalis and his squad took their leave of the Exsilium soldiers and walked farther into the heart of the ruined port. The deeper the group penetrated, the greater the extent of damage to the city, with entire blocks reduced to piles of ash and rubble. No other signs of life could be seen beyond the occasional ruin with boarded windows, rubbish middens half-hidden in alleyways, and torches flickering in darkened rooms.
The bronzed old soldier stopped. “There’s movement in the building ahead,” said Mollis.
“I know.” Arbalis stepped forward. “You boys in there, come out! We request an audience with the Yagyr!”
Armed men emerged from every crack around them, and Kestel found himself surrounded by a ring of bows and swords.
Arbalis scanned the assorted bandits until he spotted a tall warrior with charcoal-colored skin who readied his long-bladed spear with practiced ease.
“Greetings, Anud. Take us to your master.”
The spearman laughed—his red tongue distinct against his dark skin and hair. “Frankly, I hoped you’d all kill each other and save me the trouble.” His heavy accent, Kestel couldn’t place. “But now you’re here, so why shouldn’t I just slit your throats?”
“Because we have an entire army of men at the docks who would love an excuse to burn your festering little rat-hole to the ground,” said Calla. “Stop pissing about and take us to the Yagyr.”
For a moment, the bandits raised their weapons, but Anud chuckled and relaxed his hold on his spear. “Why not? I can always kill you later, beautiful one.”
Led through a series of passages with rubble everywhere, Kestel stayed close to the others. The path twisted through the sewers below street level. At other times, they passed through the empty shells of old warehouses. Eventually, the armed men escorted their guests down into a wide basement.
Kestel guessed the space to be an old butcher’s cold room, although the ceramic tiles had long since fallen from the walls and floor. A channel of water remained. It flowed along the edge of the room, keeping the space cool and moist. A metal framework for hanging carcasses ran through the main area, supported by a dozen thick timber posts. To one side, thick, iron bars had been installed to form a makeshift prison. Masonry and other rubble had been piled in the corner, forming a rough dais framed with moth-eaten velvet curtains.
Anud barked orders to his men, switching with ease between half a dozen different languages. The dirty figures fanned out around the basement, taking up positions by the door or perching in the sprawling metal frame. Around the wide space, more ragged thugs sprawled in old chairs or benches, murmuring amongst themselves or ogling the young, slim women lounging about the dais.
Kestel shrugged uneasily, aware of eyes on him, watching for the first sign of weakness. Arbalis, however, seemed more interested in the barrels and weapons piled up along the far wall.
“Ingvarod!” the old soldier said. “You’ve come into a small fortune of late.”
The velvet curtains twitched and a deep, gravelly voice gave a chuckle. “Yes, Dame Fate has been kind to me this last month. Do you like what you see? I might be willing to sell it off for a decent price.”
“Those swords and spears are Exsilium. How did you get them?”
“A ship wrecked on my turf. Its contents belong to me.”
“And you wouldn’t have had anything to do with its wrecking, would you?” said Arbalis.
Ingvarod laughed again. “My turf, ironside, my rules, or do you forget our understanding?”
“Sinking Exsilium ships was not part of our arrangement, Yagyr. You don’t hinder us, we don’t send an army down your throat.”
With a flick from Anud’s finger, every weapon in the hall unsheathed, but if Arbalis noticed, he gave no sign.
“Speaking of arrangements, Yagyr, you wanted the Immortal and its forces dead,” the old soldier said. “They are. Now there’s something we want from you in return.”
The velvet curtains moved again and a bare-chested man emerged from the shadows. Mollis had explained to Kestel earlier that the Yagyr descended from a tribe that once ruled the far eastern rivers of the continent, until they were all but wiped out by the Old Empire.
A pale, solid man, Ingvarod had a curly black beard. Scars and puckered skin broke up the thick blanket of hair covering his chest and shoulders. Stretching out his arms, the young women around him swarmed to dress him. Although a tattered leather jerkin and belt of throwing knives were not difficult to arrange, Ingvarod grinned and took his time tying up the straps. He nodded toward his second in command. “I suppose Anud didn’t take your weapons off you?”
“He’s still breathing, isn’t he?” said Calla.
The hairy figure chuckled. “Good point. What do you want?”
“A relic from the Old Empire,” said Arbalis. “We need to see the shrine that’s buried under the city. You might have come across it before—it would seem but a strange assortment of old pipes and stone.”
“That old place?” Ingvarod brushed a calloused hand against one of his concubine’s cheeks. “Isn’t that a strange thing? That Immortal also wanted to explore my territory. What is it—some sort of weapon? A treasure?”
“None of those things,” said the bronzed veteran. “It doesn’t hold anything you can use or sell. We merely wish to see it.”
“So why shouldn’t I just kill you now and see how much the blood-suckers are willing to give me to see this shrine?”
“Because, unless my men and I are returned to the docks by nightfall, unharmed and with the information we require, the Citadel will see this entire dung-heap of city levelled to the ground.”
Kestel, Mollis, and Calla prepared to draw their swords. Anud raised his hand and men sprang from their seats with weapons ready. Arbalis continued, his tone unfazed and full of malice.
“Ingvarod, you may see no difference between us and the scabies, but here’s an important one. I’m here—they’re not. And while the hydra might not travel this far from home to burn your city, the Silver Prioress certainly would.”
Ingvarod remained silent for a moment and then smiled. “It’s that important? Tell me, ironside—what do you need the shrine for?”
“To learn how to destroy Maal.”
“Ahh, good, no more armies on my turf. So, Eldeway would then be left alone?”
Arbalis glowered at Ingvarod. “Yes. It’d be all yours.”
“Ingvarod, Lord of Eldeway…” Ingvarod grinned, his great, curly beard rippling. “I like it. I’ll send some men to check that the path is clear.” Without prompting, Anud nodded at a knot of men. They slipped out a small passage cut into the rock.
“Until then, you will wait here with us,” said the hairy figure, motioning toward a cracked, wooden table by the prison cells. “Wouldn’t want you wandering off and getting hurt now, hmm?”
Kestel and the others took a seat. Arbalis, Mollis, and Calla faced away from the prisoners, but Kestel couldn’t help his curiosity. Inside, two women lay on threadbare cushions, a third crouched in the corner.
Catching his eye, a tall, dark-haired, voluptuous woman shifted, cocking her leg provocatively. “See anything you like, Master? Why don’t you come in and join me?”
Seeing the golden torc around her pale throat, Kestel recognized the woman as one of the Vutai concubines. He and other members of the Divine Guard had often watched the sultry figures from afar, laughing and teasing the Immortals.
“You’re a long way from the Capital,” he said, trying to hold a hand over the hated tattoo on his forehead without making it too obvious. “How did you let yourself get caught?”
“We weren’t. Shala and I are gifts.”
Opposite her, a pale beauty stretch
ed and flipped her golden hair to nod at the third girl crouching in the opposite corner of the cell. “She’s new. She won’t play with us, though.”
Looking at the cell’s other occupant, Kestel called out. “What about you, then? Are you a concubine—some Immortal’s little plaything?”
The woman flashed Kestel a venomous look, her amber-toned skin a stark contrast to the milky hue of the Vutai. “Piss off, pervert. Come near me and I’ll cut your little soldier off.”
The heat of her reply made the other men turn around.
Behind them, Ingvarod lay back on the dais and grimaced. “Watch yourself, she’s a wildcat. She’s already slashed up two of my men. Why do you think I caged her?”
The imprisoned woman sprang against the bars, shaking them with clenched fists, as if she could tear her way free. “You’re soldiers from the Citadel, aren’t you? Kill this bastard and get me out of here.”
Kestel turned to Arbalis, but Mollis’s meaty hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“We’re not here for a rescue mission,” the big man whispered, his face sad but resolute.
Seeing no help forthcoming, the woman pressed her face against the bars. “Free me. Please.”
“I can’t,” Kestel said under his breath.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me here.”
Kestel turned back toward the prisoner. Younger than the other women, she couldn’t be much more than her nineteenth year, with dark, black curls and skin the color of honey. The woman’s accusing gray-green eyes bore into Kestel. She rattled the bars of her cage in frustration, trying to hold back tears.
Watching her brought the clammy touch of remembered pain creeping across Kestel’s chest. He tried to force the memory away, but found himself back in Maal’s dungeon, chained and bleeding, with nothing but humiliation and rage to keep him alive. Head spinning, he stumbled to his feet.
Every eye in the room turned to him. Mollis and Calla tried to grab his arm, but Kestel shrugged them off and kept moving.
Up on his dais, Ingvarod slipped out one of his daggers and twirled it between his fingers. “What d’yer want, boy?”
Kestel pointed. “Her.”
Be careful, said Creven. If you push him in front of his men, he’ll just kill you.
“What’s the profit for me, ironside?” said Ingvarod.
“Perhaps I can provide some sport for you and your men,” Kestel said, considering Creven’s advice.
The room burst into laughter and, a moment later, Ingvarod joined them.
“You got stones, lad.” He chuckled. “Very well.”
With one fluid movement, Ingvarod spun and flung the knife the length of the room. It buried itself in the wall, a finger’s breadth from Anud. The dark warrior didn’t flinch, but slipped out of his leather vest and hung a large keyring over the quivering blade.
Up on his dais, Ingvarod grinned. “There’s the key, boy. If you can get past Anud, it’s yours. Take off your armor and weapons.”
Kestel slipped out of his chainmail and passed his sword to Mollis. The giant nodded in understanding, but Arbalis’s dark expression promised a stern rebuke later. Calla surprised him by leaning forward to speak.
“Anud fights with a spear, but don’t think you can just duck past him. He’s quick on his feet and kicks like a mule.”
Nodding his thanks, Kestel sized up his opponent. Anud indeed wielded a long spear and was not heavily built, but he had thick shoulders. He also had a light step for someone so tall. The way Anud’s hazel eyes never left him, made Kestel’s stomach drop like a stone. This wasn’t the kind of professional who lost by underestimating his opponent.
Any more bright ideas, Creven?
Aye. Don’t get killed.
The ex-scabie growled and edged sideways.
Without warning, Anud darted forward, testing Kestel with a few quick feints. Kestel ducked and twisted away from the blows, but each evasive move forced him back against one of the thick, wooden support posts. Seeing an opportunity, Kestel scrambled up into the metal framework above. The rusted struts creaked at the added weight. The handful of men perched up in the trusses cheered at Kestel’s progress. Anud leaned on his spear and nodded.
“Not bad.” He jabbed his spear upward, snaking it beneath Kestel’s feet.
Kestel’s pulse raced, but he managed to hop from one frame to another, staying just ahead of the darting weapon. His thoughts blurred. He wanted to let his instincts take over, but Creven’s voice whispered in his ear.
Don’t—he’s too good. You need to focus.
Nodding, Kestel sprang away from the far wall and the key, drawing Anud out of position. Keeping one eye on the timing of the dark warrior’s strikes, Kestel presented himself to the man below. Anud took the bait and thrust his spear. Kestel twisted aside at the last possible moment. Forced into a sharp change of direction, Anud’s spear wedged between the struts. Kestel’s opponent looked up in astonishment and tried to pull his weapon free. Unable to do so, the dark-skinned warrior jumped and grasped the metal framework with both hands, twisting himself up like an acrobat onto the metal struts. Righting himself, he reached down and yanked his weapon free. Kestel leaped forward and grabbed the weapon behind the spearhead.
The cheers of the men around the room reached a fevered pitch, the sound hammering through Kestel’s bones. The taller warrior winked.
“Down you go.”
Shifting his weight, Anud twisted around and Kestel dropped like a stone through the rusted metal frame. He took several of the struts with him before landing on the floor. Dazed, Kestel lay for a moment and listened to the roar of the crowd, looking at the odd sideways view of Mollis and Calla yelling for him to get up.
Anud landed with ease at Kestel’s feet and sent the spear whistling toward his head. Summoning his last reserves of strength, Kestel ducked sideways. The spear whispered past his cheek and lodged between the cold stones. Anud growled and kicked out, but Kestel caught the man’s leg between his own and twisted, dragging Anud over with a shocked grunt.
The men around the room yelled for the dark warrior to get up, but by the time Anud found his feet and freed his weapon, Kestel had hobbled across to the far wall. With a final burst of speed, Anud leaped forward, jabbing his spear into Kestel’s unprotected back.
Kestel gasped at the contact but felt no pain. Anud stood motionless, pressing the spearhead against his opponent’s skin but not yet drawing blood.
The eyes of every man in the room turned to Kestel’s hand, which had lifted the keyring from its resting place.
Anud withdrew his weapon and bowed. “You fight well, tattooed one. The maiden’s belongings are in the gray sack by the crates.”
The silence in the room, save Kestel’s ragged breaths, exploded into a chorus of cheers, yells, swearing, and fights.
Ingvarod’s eyes gleamed with anger, but he cocked his head and yelled, “Take her, boy. She’ll either make you a man or geld you.”
Ingvarod’s men laughed and Kestel collected the woman’s belongings, which included a sword that seemed far too long for the slim figure to wield. Limping back to his companions, Mollis and Calla gave him a clap on the back. Arbalis shrugged.
“You hurt, lad?” he said, his manner as stiff as always.
“No, just a sprain,” Kestel said. “Listen, I—”
“Later.” Arbalis pointed to the prison.
Nodding, Kestel moved to unlock the prison gate. He kept his eyes on the young woman crouched and ready in the corner. Even with the door open she stood tense for a long moment, then ran forward and snatched her belongings.
Kestel tried to speak, but the woman turned and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him down for a hard kiss on her mouth. Kestel pulled back in surprise, but the prisoner had already moved past him to the door.
The bandits around the room hooted with laughter, and one ruffian, foolish enough to goose the woman, received a swift kick between the legs. The men laughed even h
arder.
Stunned, Kestel looked to his companions. Arbalis and Mollis stayed silent. Calla only shrugged.
Ingvarod clapped, calling his men to attention. “Enough. The scout has returned, and the place you and your companions are looking for is safe. Anud—take them.”
The tall, dark spearman slipped his leather vest back on and bowed his head, perspiration slick on his chest. “Come gentlemen. The fun and games are over now, yes?”
Arbalis nodded and followed Anud to a large crack in the wall, but stopped at Ingvarod’s gravelly voice.
“Arbalis, you remember our deal, ’ay? You’re still a long way from home.”
The bronzed veteran nodded and followed Anud into the gloom.
16
When a man acquires everything he wants, gratitude is the first thing he loses.
~from ‘Philosophy of Society,’ by Cleric Naerie,
dated 745th year of the Empire~
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Harpalus eyed the old woman before him.
“I always knew Gyges and I would meet again.” Sister Julia leaned on the mahogany cane she always carried. “Bring him in.”
Harpalus nodded and called for Gyges to enter, but worry still plucked at his mind. She looks weaker than usual today. I hope my mistakes don’t age me so.
The ex-prisoner, legendary among the criminal classes of Caelbor, looked battered and worn from his time at Abbeyfort, but, nonetheless, entered the room like a warrior.
No, not a warrior—a hunter closing in on his prey.
“Gyges, this is one of the places you’ll be spending your time. You are not to touch anything or anybody who comes in—unless I tell you to.”
Gyges nodded, his eyes drifting about the cluttered office until they came to rest on the bent figure of Julia. Harpalus stepped between them. “Gyges, this is Sister Julia, who also works—”
“I remember you,” whispered Gyges, his eyes dark. “I was chained up by soldiers and being led away. You were crying.”
Julia held out a hand to stop Harpalus before he could reply. “What do you remember, Gyges?” She met his steady gaze with her own.
