The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  ~from a report to Spymistress Julia, dated 79th year of Exile~

  “We have to get moving,” said Arbalis, looking out into the night.

  “Just a little bit longer,” Eriwasteg said.

  Bloodied, defeated, and lost, Kestel watched the small group amongst the trees, moonlight trickling between the leaves. All present shivered with cold, but none dared risk a fire.

  “We’re still too close to the city,” said Arbalis, his crossbow in hand, peering between the moss-covered trunks.

  “Please, Galeria—just a little bit longer. He might be looking for us right now, he could be—”

  “He’s not coming back, girl,” said Calla. “But that…thing might. It’s time.”

  Eriwasteg’s head flashed up in dark silhouette, her posture defiant until her small form collapsed in on itself. Her shuddering sounds of grief pierced the eerie stillness.

  Kestel watched them, staying back between two trees. His mind remained numb, not even Creven’s soundless voice reached the emptiness. Looking at Eriwasteg brought a sudden pain. He reached a hand out toward her but stopped. Withdrawing into the shadows, he sat immobile. Arbalis enveloped the young woman in his arms. Eriwasteg clutched at the old man’s chest, her choking sobs piercing the night.

  “Why do they keep dying?” she whispered.

  “It’s alright, Eri.” Arbalis leaned in and stroked the young woman’s curly hair. “It’s alright. We’ll stay here for just a while longer. No one’s going to make you leave. We’ll sit here together, quiet as little mice, vere?”

  Sniffing, Eriwasteg’s head bobbed against the old man’s shoulder. Calla’s dim shape shifted and Kestel watched the smaller shadow of the scarred soldier move away through the gloom. Staring into the dark and replaying the events in the library, Kestel realized he had lost track of Calla. He could make out very little in the murk but, nonetheless, shuffled past Arbalis and Eriwasteg. Making his way toward the empty space where he had last seen Calla, Kestel slipped through the boughs to a tiny hollow beyond. The scarred soldier sat against a tree, facing a crack of moonlight seeping through from above. Kestel froze, unsure of what to do.

  Motionless, the light reduced Calla’s face to a jumble of wrinkled contrasts, her dirty blonde hair washed out to a pale silver. A few loose strands hung like spider webs before her face. Her undamaged eye glittered, looking straight into the shadows and pinning Kestel.

  “It’s alright, boy.” She motioned with a nod of her head. “Come here and sit by me.”

  Wordless, Kestel crawled through the heavy brush and leaned against the trunk next to the soldier. The pair sat quietly until Calla spoke, still looking up at the sliver of light.

  “He should’ve run, but I think he realized he was too badly wounded. And Mol always put others ahead of himself—including me.”

  “It was for everyone—”

  The scarred figure silenced him with a shake of her head. “You didn’t know him like I did, Kestel. It’s a pity you never got to—he was a better man than any of us.”

  “Tell me about him,” said Kestel. “Tell me another tale of your adventures together.”

  “Adventures?” Calla smiled. “No. Not tonight. Tonight, I want to remember the man.”

  “Tell me.”

  “How do you sum up such a life? Let me see…Mollis Decimus Agrippa was the son of a famous Exsilium historian, Drusus Decimus. Even from an early age, Mollis showed traces of his father’s talent. He could recall the ancient chronicles of heroes, men, and monsters like they were his own memories.”

  “He had a family?”

  The scarred visage nodded. “Yes, a sister. Both she and her mother died in the Blacksalt plague a dozen years ago. The father survived a while longer, to see his son take on the mantle of Scriptor.”

  “But Mollis joined Arbalis instead?”

  “Yes, he joined the Caducum instead. For me.”

  “For you? Why?”

  “I never told you this story, did I?” She shook her head. “All this time we’ve been travelling together.”

  Kestel opened his mouth, but she started speaking without his urging.

  “Very well. This story takes place roughly eight years ago. Things were very different for me then. I was beautiful and whole, my skin fresh and unblemished, and I had everything I thought I wanted in life. I was a captain in the Citadel Armies, with more than a hundred men under my command.”

  “You were a captain?”

  “Aye. My ancestors were Caelbor, once rich and powerful on the continent, but the family name still carried respect. I had no land to pass on, but I was betrothed to a handsome man. Warm. Intelligent. Supportive of my role. I had friends, promotion prospects—even love.”

  “And Mollis?”

  “Mollis? He was my second in command for a short while. The other Caelbor looked down on keeping an Exsilium officer, but I saw how he could bring any group of men together to create a unit. He was offered a command of his own, but was preparing to leave to take up his father’s work. He should have left. He should have walked away. He’d be alive, and I should have died.”

  Kestel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Mollis and I were charged with taking back Gjomenh, a small town on the border between the Outer Coast and the war zone. Maal had sent a small army there to stage further raids on the northern Outer Coast.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Citadel armies slaughtered the scabies. It was a short, vicious battle, with no mercy for the enemy. Prelate Darius wished to send a message to Maal that any incursion would not be tolerated. We had a small group of scabies holed up in what was left of the town’s inn, when we mounted the final assault. The entire encounter had been a rout and the men had a bloodlust to them. I did too. Instead of waiting to call up artillery, or use fire archers to destroy the building, we decided to rush them—confident our superior armor and weaponry would see us through.”

  Calla licked her scarred lips.

  “Instead, we found one of the Immortals, with that damn acid spewing from his hands. It must have been a sight to see when the building collapsed. The Immortal—” Calla stopped. “You knew the Immortals, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Kestel looked down into the darkness between his feet. “They were as far above us as Maal.”

  Calla snorted. “In any case, the blood-sucker took out the entire building with one corrosive blast. The men closest to him died first, their bodies melting away. Those further back died moments later. And I, who had been closest to the door, was blown across the square like a child’s doll. I should have—I was dying from the poison, screaming in pain, thrashing about like some mad thing, but my faithful second in command rushed forward, picking me up when nobody else could even look at me. He carried me to the nearest cleric, but it was far, far too late to heal my broken body.”

  “Mollis saved your life.”

  “He tried. My body tried to die several more times that night, but I survived, to return to my love and my family.”

  Calla sighed. “But I was in so much pain, and I loathed what I had become. My family and my betrothed rushed to my side, but I was too busy wallowing in my own misery to see it. Little by little, I drove all of them away. My family began to shun their mad, crippled daughter, and the last I saw of Gregory, he—”

  The tangled muscles of her face twitched. Kestel averted his eyes, but couldn’t block out the sound of Calla holding back tears.

  “He was in bed with another woman. That night I tried to open my wrists—I wanted so much for everything to be finished. You may not know this, boy, but for Caelbor, suicide is considered an unforgivable crime against your ancestors, dooming your spirit to wander without rest for eternity. But I lived, and once again it was Mollis who saved my life when all others had abandoned me, bandaging my wounds and nursing me back to health. Afterwards, I wanted to make amends for what I’d done, but it was too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “
Aye. Again, too late. When I awoke two days later, I was told that Gregory had hung himself, seeking to follow me into death out of guilt for his affair.”

  Not knowing what to say, and afraid of breaking the scarred woman’s spell, Kestel remained silent.

  “We Caelbor are a ferociously proud people, Kestel,” the woman said. “When the Old Empire united dozens of different tribes, we were one of the few who managed to retain our original culture. And no Caelbor soldier would follow a disgrace like me into battle.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I was barred from the army, but Mollis found me a position with a disgraced Commander and his motley squad. And then Mollis joined, too—the only Caducum to ever volunteer. To keep an eye on me, and make sure I didn’t finish the job that Immortal bastard started.”

  “And that’s how you came to be at the Amphitheater,” said Kestel.

  Calla turned and leaned toward the younger man. The faint moonlight cast long shadows across her scarred face, making it look like two black holes set into a ragged skull. “I’ve tried to end this worthless wreck of a life twice more since that day. Both times Mollis stopped me. And now—”

  “Calla. Kestel. Where are you? It’s time to go—we’re no longer safe.” Arbalis’s voice beyond the trees halted Calla’s confession.

  Without a word, Calla moved away, leaving Kestel staring at the soldier’s scarred back.

  The next morning, the small group turned north-east, making their way through thick knots of forest and the occasional abandoned farmstead, while avoiding the open plains ruled by Maal.

  The days stretched into weeks, the air became cool and moist, and crisp breezes promised the changing season. The landscape itself changed from proud forests punctuated with rocky hills to gorges that slowed the group to a snail’s pace.

  “Surely we can risk a fire?” Eriwasteg said through chattering teeth, lying in a rocky patch between forest and crevasse.

  “No complaints.” Arbalis grunted, twisting around to find a better position. “That thing is still hunting us.”

  “I was born in lands like this,” said the young woman, her grimy face hard. “Men who bed Leyla the Frost Mistress seldom live to boast of it.”

  “Toughen up, princess.”

  Looking into the shadows falling between the slime-covered trees, Kestel tried to block out the bickering and open his senses to the tiny noises of the dusk. The brief companionship forged in the party had been shattered with the loss of Mollis. Eriwasteg had become frustrated and hostile, quarrelling with everyone to hide her grief. Arbalis said little, save to hint that Mollis’s sacrifice would not be in vain if Kestel took up his appointed role. Calla stalked the night alone, no longer bothering to hide the growing darkness in her remaining eye. Kestel watched the scarred figure as much as he dared and, despite the occasional withering criticism, Calla seemed to be thankful for it—showing her appreciation with tales of the man they had lost.

  Kestel had changed little since Mollis’s death. He examined his mind again and again since Demetros had killed the giant soldier, but after the initial loss faded, nothing but emptiness remained. Even his rage against Maal had gone stale, the desire for revenge lying lethargic in his belly. Sitting and staring into the gray mist, he cast his emotions about like a net, trying to feel something, some sensation of sorrow, or even guilt, but he only saw Mollis’s frame buckling before Demetros’s onslaught. What does this mean?

  It means you’ve spent too long being dead inside, said Creven, his tone grim since the events in Palentanum. And if you are to be a defender of life, then you must learn to be alive.

  I am alive, shouted Kestel in the hollow places of his mind. I just can’t grieve.

  The sound of a branch snapping in the darkness halted the unspoken debate. Kestel held his breath, waiting for another sound to signal Demetros had found them again. The falling night remained silent and unforgiving. Sighing, Kestel shrugged off the sudden fear and went to wake Calla.

  Curling up against the cold, Kestel nursed the last bit of body heat in his chest and fought off sleep. A lifetime on the streets of the Old Capital had taught the ex-scabie a few tricks about staying warm on cold nights. He lay half buried in leaves and branches, keeping an eye on the forest. Kestel’s reluctance was not just due to the monster hunting him. More and more since the events at Eldeway, dreams plagued his slumber—strange visions that mixed past and present.

  They almost always started the same, with Kestel trapped once more with the leather-masked torturers. The dreams melted into strange juxtapositions. One saw him release the hydra, letting it fly free above the city. In another, he saw the beast’s silver body wrecked and mangled on the Amphitheater floor. In a different one, he faced off against a red and gold angel—the latter’s form feminine and beautiful. This person sometimes changed into an androgynous, bone-white figure that hunted him without mercy. He even had a vision about being back in the Ichthyophagi’s shrine, watching blood seep from the metal coffin rising from the deeps. The coffin cracked open, revealing Mollis, lying dead.

  I don’t know what to do, Creven. I don’t know where we are or where we’re going.

  Tomorrow will sort itself out. Sleep.

  I can’t.

  I will watch over you, Herald. Demetros won’t catch you unaware.

  And the dreams?

  They are yours to heed, and you must face them alone.

  Sighing at the weight on his shoulders, Kestel curled into a tight ball and waited for night’s onslaught.

  You’re doing it wrong, Herald. Twist the metal the other way.

  “Shut up,” said Kestel under his breath. “I know what I’m doing.”

  No you don’t, you’re going to—

  “Pox!” The buckle that Kestel was attempting to repair, snapped, scratching his hand.

  I told you so.

  “Shut up.” Kestel sucked on the injured hand, looking through the trees to the noonday sun for some way to fix the damage.

  “Who do you keep talking to?” said a voice.

  Turning, Kestel sighed inwardly at the sight of Eriwasteg.

  Look what you’ve done, Creven. Some help you’re turning out to be.

  If you tried listening to me, then—

  “It’s no use denying it,” said Eriwasteg. “We’ve all heard you. Arbalis thinks it has something to do with your destiny—that you might be speaking to some sort of angel.”

  Ha. See?

  “Calla thinks you’re mad, but I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “What I’m doing?” said Kestel. “I’m trying to fix this damn buckle.”

  “You’ll have to tell me sooner or later.” Irritation crept into the young woman’s voice.

  “I know, I know, but for now I just—have a lot to sort out.” Kestel shrugged. “Could you help me with this? The damn thing twisted and snapped.”

  Eriwasteg smiled. “Men. Here, hand it over.”

  She examined the buckle for a few seconds and then pried open the heavy stitching along one side. She twisted the piece of metal beneath outwards, until it formed an ersatz clasp.

  “It’s cheap metal.” Eriwasteg handed it back. “It’ll probably break again soon, in any case.”

  “Thank you,” said Kestel, impressed. “Who taught you to do that?”

  “My mother,” said Eriwasteg pulling a face. “It was considered part of being a good hearth wife.”

  “You said something like that in the forest when we found you. Was it your father who tried to force you into marriage?”

  “No, my father was a soldier. He taught me everything he knew before…no, it was my mother who tried to marry me off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was the way of the Baavghir. Marriages are arranged by the Ukmahd, the family elders—and they weigh their options by the needs of the group.” The young woman picked her way to a mossy tree and leaned back on her oversized sword, fixing Kestel with deep green eyes. “I spent my chil
dhood listening to my father’s stories about strange and amazing places, where people were whisked off into wild adventures. So after…what happened, I set off on my own.”

  “And you’ve found that adventure isn’t like in the stories your father told?” said Kestel, keeping his tone neutral.

  “But it is!” said Eriwasteg. “I was a prisoner and you saved me, and took me on a quest to save the world. I was part of something, and there was this brave knight…”

  Kestel nudged up beside her on the damp trunk and sipped some water. Glancing sideways, he watched her amber-tinged hands tremble.

  “And then Mollis died.” Tears welled in Eriwasteg’s eyes.

  Mollis’s bloodied face flashed through Kestel’s mind. He tried to think of the children he once lived with on the streets of the Old Capital. He blinked, realizing he couldn’t remember their faces. “Eri. How did your family die?”

  The Baavghirla stared out into the forest. After a long minute, she breathed out. “It happened a few months ago. We were travelling to the Outer Coast, hoping to trade our furs with the islanders. But before we arrived, the blood-suckers attacked during the night. They burned everything they couldn’t carry and killed everyone at the camp—my cousins, my mother, my aunts and uncles. My father was the last to die, holding them off so I could hide.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kestel closed his eyes, still able to hear the trumpets of Maal’s warriors assembled before the Goddess, being sent off to war.

  “It’s oshonnik—a blood-feud forever,” said Eriwasteg, interrupting his memory. “They won’t be able to rest until I’ve paid Maal back in kind.” The young woman’s shoulders shook, causing a sudden pain in his chest. Without a word, he reached over and took Eriwasteg in his arms. She surprised him by accepting the gesture, relaxing into his shoulder to weep.

  “It’s all gone wrong. They weren’t supposed to die.”

  “You’ll survive, Eri,’ whispered Kestel into Eriwasteg’s thick, brown hair. “I know you will. And you’re not alone.”