by Chris Moss
“The leather-skins have overstayed their welcome—”
“Oh, I’m sure some of them are useful, but—”
Harpalus’s meandering pace led him back to Lord Rowan.
“Well?” He stroked his long moustache and smiled. “What is your estimation of this little clique?”
Harpalus took a small sip of the wine and stared out at the assembled powerbrokers. “I think you’ve selected a bunch of fools who’ll believe anything they’re told, as long as they think it’s fashionable.”
Lord Rowan’s smile grew almost wolfish. “I should remove your balls for that, but you are quite correct. Trust me—such people are worth their weight in gold. Stay and listen. I may have a use for you after all.”
Stepping forward, the imposing figure clapped his hands for silence. “My friends! I welcome you all back to my home. I wish you to know that you are always welcome here.”
The old man gave a genial nod to the smattering of applause offered. “However, that does not mean all the visitors to our land are equally welcome.”
A few sucked in sharp breaths, but one or two clapped louder and many nodded their heads.
“Too long have foreigners walked on the soils of Caelbor!” said Lord Rowan. “Too long has our ancestral land been under the yoke of an outdated institution! I tell you, a new order is coming, if only we have the courage to reach out and grasp it!”
This is open treason. Surely, he’s not that bold? Looking around the room, the Spymaster saw excitement in the faces of Rowan’s guests, and one or two of the younger men even cheered.
“Very soon, my friends, the time will come for you to make a choice.” Lord Rowan’s eyes glinted in the firelight like gems. “Our preparations are all but complete. The next tide brings with it the tools by which we shall wrench ourselves free, and walk once more as lords in our own land! Will you stand with me?”
This time, without hesitation, the small crowd roared their approval. Several men, merchants and nobles alike, drew and waved their swords as if to attack right away. Harpalus looked around in confusion.
This isn’t right. You don’t stay a noble or a Merchant Major by being stupid. Something’s affecting these people.
The Spymaster looked down at his cup, a slow suspicion creeping through his mind. Taking another sip, he tasted the thick liquid, looking for the sour aftertaste that signified some kind of drug. Instead, he tasted something different, a sweet cloying in his mouth like something long dead.
So, that’s what Maal’s agent has been doing.
“Bloodwyne? The old fool has been feeding them Bloodwyne?” Julia waved her cane around in fury. “Call out the Praetoria, right now. It’s time to drag that bastard before the Prioress in chains.”
“Tempting,” said Harpalus looking out of his office window at the harbor. “But not yet. If we take him now, I won’t know the full extent of the traitors amongst the nobles. I also haven’t found Maal’s agent—and we still need to know why Sister Amelia died.”
“Does Rowan know the effects of Bloodwyne addiction?”
“Probably not, although he knows he’s taking a risk. Possession alone would get him executed and not even the League of Nobles would lift a finger in his defense. But it is the perfect intoxicant to get all the influential people on Caelbor to agree to anything you want.”
“Maal has been providing Rowan with Bloodwyne.”
“And in exchange they’ll happily split the contested lands between them.”
“Until they double-cross each other. How’s he getting the angels’ forsaken stuff in?”
Harpalus stroked his short beard. “He’s smuggling it in through the docks and a lot more, besides. Weapons, most likely.”
“Did he make any offers to you?”
The Spymaster snorted. “Of course not. He’s not stupid. He thought I was amusing, a jumped-up little Merchant Minor trying to play with the big boys. But I can send a few eyes and ears down to the harbor before the next tide.”
“You’d better. Trust me—these events have a way of spiraling out of even your control.”
Turning to look into the old cleric’s worried eyes, Harpalus couldn’t deny she might be right.
17
Three main arteries to (unintelligible) pressure. Requires a total of four pressurized layers, to be constructed on site. Requirements for steel can be requisitioned via (unintelligible for the next paragraph). Total cost estimated at 6M gold (imperial standard). The cost of the artificer will be paid through (the rest of the written text has been damaged by water).
~from notes given to Emperor Seraphis by the Canidae artificers,
dated 381st year of the Empire~
“So much trouble over this old place.” Anud led the soldiers down a slick, slime-covered stairway. Arbalis and his men did not utter a word, but the warrior continued his monologue.
“This shrine lies long forgotten and suddenly a man from the Outer Coast wishes to see it.”
“An Immortal?” said Arbalis, frowning into the gloom.
Anud shrugged. “Who knows? He carries nothing my master wants, so he dies. Then the Immortal came, and he is far cleverer. He woos my master with gifts and—” Anud’s eyes flashed in the dark. “—shapely women. But the Yagyr is cleverer still, and knows what is valuable to the bloodsuckers is valuable to you, so he waits. Then the Immortal got impatient—very bad, and lots of our people died.”
“Then we came,” said Calla, as moody as ever.
“Yes, beautiful one.” Anud squeezed through a crack and waved his arm at the space beyond, grinning at Arbalis’s group. “Here we are.”
Kestel expected something like the Citadel on Caelbor, an immense hall with arching pillars and elegant artworks, but instead the room at the bottom of the stairs was like a forge for some undersea god. The cavernous space was built deep in the bedrock beneath the city itself, though slimy walls and the salty tang in the air told him the sea could not be far away. Huge chains had been strung around the room, red with rust and bearded with slime. They held hulking weights and counterweights, hanging above their heads like silent guardians.
“What’s this for?” Kestel tried to recognize the logic of the intricate structure above him.
Anud scratched his neck. “A pulley system, I think. I poked around down here when I first came to Eldeway. See where it leads?”
Following the tanned warrior’s finger, Kestel followed the chains to where they spun together like thread, weaving down into a massive steel structure that took up the center of the room. The main edifice was a cylindrical tank wrapped in bands of steel and copper. The top tapered into smaller pipes, crowned with a series of thick rings from which chains spewed forth. Strange devices, rusted and decayed, hung about the walls. Behind the main body, three smaller overflow tanks crouched in the shadows and wept a steady red stream of rust and seawater.
A grimy window fitted into the front of the main structure drew Kestel’s gaze. Made of some type of translucent ceramic rather than glass, the porthole revealed a milky view of the seawater within the tank. Edging forward, he pushed his face up against the porthole and craned his neck, gazing down as far as he could. Unlike the weathered exterior, the inside of the tank was smooth and clean, and sank below the floor into darkness. A number of thick, crimson chains spiraled up from the abyss, like sea serpents crawling out of their nest.
Calla whistled, the sound bouncing off the pendulous weights. “How does it all work?”
“Harpalus says it’s a tunnel of sorts,” said Arbalis, his tone grave. “Leading down to where the Fish-eaters lie.”
“A kingdom under the sea?” said Mollis, his voice full of wonder. “I heard stories of it as a boy. How did he know this was here?”
Calla snorted. “Bah. That one would tell you he was an eighteen-year-old Caelbor virgin if it’d make you do what he wants.”
“No, it’s impossible,” said the olive-skinned giant. “It’s only a myth.”
“A kingdo
m under the sea?” said Calla.
“No, an eighteen-year-old Caelbor virgin.”
The two soldiers chuckled, and even Anud joined in, but everyone stopped dead at the horrific shriek that pierced the room. Arbalis, Mollis, and Calla dropped into fighting stances, their backs to the walls. Anud and Kestel ducked into the shadows.
“What is it?” yelled Kestel, looking to where Anud crouched.
“You tell me, young one!” said the spearman. “This has never happened before!”
“Look up!” Mollis pointed to the weights above them. The rusted blocks swayed as if buffeted by a storm, flakes of rust showering down. Unseen forces twisted and pulled at the rusty chains connecting them. After years of disuse, the metal pulleys had rusted solid, causing a deafening grinding of the old chains against reluctant gears.
“Back!” Arbalis waved to the others in the room. Kestel hadn’t gotten far before the roof surged like a red ocean, the great weights rising and falling according to some long-forgotten design. Ducking and weaving, the group barely managed to reach the door before several of the metal blocks tore free of their moorings and came crashing down, gouging great rents in the stones below.
“What’s happening?” Kestel leaned close to Arbalis, looking up at the red storm of activity.
“It’s the pulley system.” The old veteran wheezed, drawing further into the relative safety of the door. “Something is coming up that tunnel.”
The chains now spewed forth green slime that showed no signs of waning. Ears covered, Kestel watched hypnotized, as more shackles wound out into the darkness. The chains slowed, the squealing abated. Along with a flood of black water, something dark rose up behind the grimy porthole.
“Angels preserve us,” whispered Calla. Above them, the chains groaned a warning, but the soldiers checked themselves and stepped toward the center of the room.
Stop.
Kestel flinched. Was that you, Creven?
Don’t look at me, said Creven, sounding just as confused as Kestel. That was something else.
“What the seven hells was that?” whispered Arbalis.
“You mean you heard it, too?” said Kestel.
Stop. Only one may approach.
Anud blanched and made a sign to ward against evil. “What magic is this?” He searched for the source of the voice.
“It’s in the pipe,” said Mollis. “This, I think, is for you to do, Kestel.”
Kestel’s eyes flickered toward the tunnel, but the muscular figure placed himself between Kestel and the exit.
Damn, damn, damn! I should have lost them in the streets. Kestel needed an escape, besides the one that required him to attack his companions. He cast about for any other options, but met only stony glances.
Resigned, Kestel nodded and inched toward the central steel tank. The others in the chamber remained silent, but Arbalis gave Kestel a nod in passing.
And damn you, too. Kestel’s anger flared.
A metal coffin filled the milky view port of the central structure—twice the size of a man, made of steel, and banded with lead. The sarcophagus had a matching viewing window.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Kestel couldn’t help but press his face to the glass, trying to make out some shape in the cloudy water beyond. “Anyone there?”
Yes.
Behind the window fitted into the coffin, a human-like head and shoulders emerged from the milky gray. Squinting to make out some sort of shape, Kestel tried not to flinch at the alien creature in the tank. The corpse-white, rubbery head of the creature had creamy bulbs where the eyes should have been. The creature’s forehead sloped back into a series of bulbous sacs, lined with bony, blood-red ridges. Kestel couldn’t see a jaw, but tentacle-like filaments fluttered in its place, stirring up the dirty water. The creature uncoiled a boneless arm ending in two rubbery digits.
Greetings, transient.
“What the hell are you?” Kestel drew back, despite himself.
I? I am. That is all.
“Are you one of the Ichthyophagi?”
The creature floated in the misty water.
Words. Your words, transient. We remember the name your kind will call us. But you are not here for those words.
Ask him about Maal, urged Creven.
The Ichthyophagi in the tank recoiled in surprise, disappearing into the milky water before re-emerging near the view port. Another transient? Your time is over. Why do you not sleep and dream like the others?
“What are you talking about?” said Kestel, frustration creeping into his voice.
Words, said the Ichthyophagi. Your kind is transient. Awake for a brief moment. Then some drift away on the currents beyond your eyes. Some stay, to sleep and dream.
“And you?”
We watch the currents.
“What currents? You mean the sea?”
Creation. Past. Future. Beyond. All are currents in the Greater Sea. Some twist away into the darkness, others eddy and flow back and forth into the same shapes. Watch.
A cold sensation hit Kestel in the back of his head. He reached to touch the spot, but his vision clouded. Staggering back, he clawed at his eyes in panic. I don’t want to go blind!
You are not. Watch.
Kestel’s vision cleared and he looked around the chamber. Arbalis and the others disappeared, and the demolished doorway that took up one of the walls lay open to a brick-lined tunnel beyond. The rest of the room remained in ruins, although the weights that fell during the Ichthyophagi’s ascent had also vanished. Hearing footsteps, Kestel slipped into the shadows. A pale woman entered the chamber, casting glances over her shoulder. She drew back her hood and Kestel’s heart lurched.
“Lychra Maal!”
The self-proclaimed Goddess of the Sacred Realm appeared not to notice Kestel, looking about the room and clutching her robe. Being this close to her again brought a rush of confused feelings to Kestel. She walked toward the central tank, her beauty evident, even concealed by the grubby robes she wore. Watching her pass, Kestel was overwhelmed with memories. The daily rituals she led, presiding at extravagant celebrations, or speaking before adoring crowds with the phalanx of the Divine Guard watching from all sides. He had thought her so perfect, so wise, his body still wanted to drop to one knee.
Kestel caught a glimpse of her sky-blue eyes and it jerked him back to the Amphitheater, chained down and bleeding, with the object of his worship looking down and congratulating Demetros for his betrayal. The old anger clawed its way up from his belly, making Kestel’s hands tremble. He drew his sword and stepped out behind his former leader, trying to keep his sword grip steady.
“Turn and face me, Maal.” Kestel said, his voice raspy. Lychra Maal paid him no heed, walking toward the central steel structure. Letting his emotions take over, Kestel raised his sword.
“Don’t turn your back on me!” He brought the blade down on the golden head. The sword passed through Maal as if through smoke.
You’re having a vision of the past, idiot. Creven’s voice dripped with sarcasm. You’re not really here.
Startled by the voice, Kestel regained his composure, though still shaky from the encounter. He followed Maal to the middle of the room.
The tank in the center of the chamber contained the metal coffin, but the water was clear and the tank did not weep red water across the stones. Unsettled from his first exposure to the tank’s strange occupant, Kestel turned to face Maal. He leaned in close to Maal’s face, playing with this strange, new freedom, looking for some glint of recognition in her eyes.
Stop being such a perv, said Creven.
“Be quiet,” said Kestel wishing the vague sense of guilt would go away.
Before his unseen companion could counter with a snide remark, Maal stepped forward and raised her hands to the steel tank. “Fish-eater! I would have words with you.”
Words, came the sonorous reply from the direction of the tank. What words would you speak to us?
“You know what I wa
nt.”
The current of your actions is dark. Many have died for you to get here. More still may die before you are through.
“But I seek your wisdom. Tell me!” Unlike the controlled power of Maal’s voice at the Amphitheater, Kestel noted this version of Maal sounded more like a scared child than a great leader—as if she somehow stood…smaller.
You seek power, not wisdom. I see you, through the currents that wind about your existence. I see the darkness in your soul. I see the fear of your own mortality. I see you weeping into your sheets at night, pondering your own aging body.
“I want to escape it. I don’t—want to die.” Maal’s lips trembled.
Everything dies.
“Not me.”
Transition is your nature. I see the currents of the Great Sea, stretching away into infinity. You see only your own darkness.
Kestel couldn't believe it. Maal lost her composure, hugging herself and blinking away tears. “Then help me.”
The unseen occupant of the tank remained silent. Maal sniffed and wiped her face on the edge of her robe.
I remember what is to happen next. The words will be granted as you have begged for it. Go to the Sepulchre of Musmahu and choose your future wisely.
As if doused with water, Kestel’s vision cleared. Looking around, he saw the rusted and rubble-strewn chamber. He turned back to the Ichthyophagi.
“It was you,” he whispered. “You showed her where to go. You sent her to bring back the hydra, so its blood could give her long life.”
I gave her the choice. Her actions are her own, just as yours are, Herald.
Kestel gasped at the sudden weight on his chest and shoulders title brought, squeezing the air from his lungs. “Don’t call me that!”
You were marked.
“I am not a game piece for some old woman. My life belongs to me. I’m not beholden to anyone, neither the Citadel nor the scabies—I mean Sacred Realm.”
Words. I see your fears twist and curl, always shifting the currents of your future. The men haunting your dreams still hurt you, and you can never recover what was lost. Many have died for you to get here. More still may die before you are through.
