by Chris Moss
“You talk to me of vows?” said Arbalis, his voice rising to a commanding tone. The old man’s presence seemed to change, sloughing away the disgraced veteran to show the leader underneath. Stepping forward, Arbalis’s eyes flashed. “Do not think that mere peasants, long absconded from oath and station, will bar my way—for my mission is ordained by the Angel itself. I go to awaken the Herald of this Age, who will slay Maal’s hydra and have her empire destroyed. Are there any here who would dare stand in my path?”
The council room erupted into chaos. The councilors rose to shout Arbalis down, but found themselves engulfed in arguments of their own, fingers pointing, and accusations thrown. Some of the guardsmen in the room stepped forward, but others looked confused and questioned each other.
Looking at how proud the old soldier stood made the weight return to Kestel’s shoulders. Arbalis would always expect him to carry out the Prioress’s vision, regardless of what he said or did. He tried to push the emotions away, but the distracting noise around him made it impossible.
“You cannot threaten us!” said Tavkik, but her shaking voice betrayed her. “Our magic—”
“We have been sent by the Prioress of the New Citadel and the Oracle of Eldeway!” said Arbalis. “Do not think your stolen magic impresses me!”
The furious councilors called for the guards.
“Stop!” The youngest council member held up his hands, placating the armed men to hold their positions against the walls. “I believe this old man speaks the truth.”
“And what would you know of it, Haelfel?” said Tavkik.
The councilor, a pale man in light chainmail with black hair combed to perfection, smiled at his fellows. “Simple, noble Tavkik. My master sent word some time ago that a Praetorian had struck a deal with him in exchange for visiting a Shrine in his city. I believe this is that man.”
“You work for Ingvarod the Yagyr?” said Arbalis, his tone incredulous.
“The community of Kom-zamak is one of the associations of which the Yagyr is a patron. I am certain he would not wish his good and dear friends to come to harm, provided you can prove your association.”
“I can.” Arbalis nodded. “Your master may also have mentioned my companions, one of whom was kept as his prisoner, the other, her liberator.”
Haelfel grinned at Eriwasteg. “Ah, yes, the wildcat and the tattooed boy. You two are near legends.”
The other councilors looked less than satisfied, but Tavkik wrung her hands and nodded to Gvarl. “We extend you guest-right, at least until we have come to a decision. We must discuss this matter in private. Tollit will be your escort until then.”
The guards at the door ushered them out of the room. Turning his head, Kestel caught a glimpse of the room in complete uproar, the four councilors yelling at each other. Gvarl stood by the table and glowered.
Once back in the courtyard, Kestel and Eriwasteg looked at Arbalis in confusion.
“Galeria, don’t you think that was a bit...rash?” said Eriwasteg.
“Not really.” Arbalis shrugged. “These people must have been hiding from Maal for decades. Think about what kind of pent-up energy they’d have, forcing themselves away from the rest of the world. I’ve offered them a chance to stop hiding and strike back.”
“Pent-up?” said Kestel. “They’re paranoid. You might have pushed them too far.”
“And what did you mean, ‘stolen magic?’” asked Eriwasteg.
Arbalis snorted. “Since when does a settlement of hill peasants and Baavghir know how to use illusion? Use your eyes, girl. This city is organized more like a military camp than a town. Where are the marketplaces, the inns, the trade quarter? Whoever built this place is long gone.”
Kestel glared at the old man. “What did you mean when you said awaken the Herald?”
“I mean that you have not yet realized your destiny, Kestel. But you will, even if all of us have to die for it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Eriwasteg muttered under her breath, their escort coming to collect them.
Tollit, a short, skinny man with a fuzzy beard and an impish grin, waved at the scowling guards and led his charges toward the tower. “Well, that was a bit of a heave to, wasn’t it?”
He led the trio down to the second terrace where the strange tower dominated. From this vantage point, Kestel could see that the chaotic assemblage of poles and platforms seen from afar, cocooned an older structure of glittering white stone. Hollow on the inside, the structure stood over a deep, bowl-like depression.
“Angel’s arseholes, look at that.” Arbalis whistled, looking up into the wide space above.
The tower’s hollow interior sparkled with an iridescent shine from sunlight streaming in past the fungus-like object seen from the outside. The mushroom dome had dozens of thick, stone-vines crawling through the interior of the tower like veins. They plunged deep into the ground at the structure’s base.
“What is this?” said Eriwasteg. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Even the Halls of Baabuk can’t compare.”
“Kind of you to say so, Miss.” The short man blushed.
“But what is it?” Arbalis surveyed the web of shapes and colors. Above, a tangle of petrified stone-vines covered the interior of the dome, lit via a large central opening.
“Not entirely sure myself,” said Tollit, “but we think that thing at the top is what keeps the illusion covering the city.”
It is, said Creven, his silent voice tinged with astonishment. Herald, this is amazing. It’s taken me hours to sort this out and I still don’t believe it. This tower is channeling the energy of the Aeris without a cleric—it’s a device that can continuously power an illusion!
“This feels...strange.” Eriwasteg held out her hands, her curls bobbing to and fro.
Kestel noticed a slow but steady draught of air being drawn into the tower’s base.
“Ahh, people with Baavghir blood are always good at feeling it,” said Tollit. “Watch this.”
Picking up a stone, the small man flung it as far as he could into the empty space above. Instead of falling back to the ground, the stone flew upwards in the confluence of air currents, wobbling and swerving like a trapped bird before hitting a wall and clattering back to earth.
“It’s the growth at the top that causes it,” said Tollit. “The entire tower is like some sorta funnel, and everything gets sucked in.”
“What happens if—”
Sounds of screaming stopped Kestel. An uproar on the lowest terrace, people panicking in the streets, scrambled up toward the middle terrace.
“What’s going on?” Tollit caught a wool-clad villager trying to run past by the arm.
“A monster!” The shaking man pointed to the lower level. “A terrible beast has found the entrance to the city! If it returns to Maal, then Kom-zamak is lost!”
“Did the Branded Men try and stop it?”
“It killed them!” The panicked villager pulled his arm free and ran with the crowd up toward the safety of the council hall.
A dark shape moved through the narrow streets bringing a thrill of fear to Kestel. Demetros was approaching.
“Don’t panic,” said Arbalis, laying a heavy hand on Kestel’s shoulder. “It was only a matter of time before the creature found us. If we can’t kill it, we can still lead it away from the city.”
“But Galeria, we don’t have a plan!” said Eriwasteg, drawing her father’s sword.
Arbalis turned his back on the approaching commotion and looked up at the rainbow-hued structure looming above them.
“Tollit,” he said. “What happens if something gets too near the top?”
The small man winced, his fuzzy beard bristling. “Ah, you don’t want to see that, Angel bless you, sir. Things get bent, really—twisted—if you catch my meaning.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Arbalis, his voice rising again to a tone of command. “Kestel! Eri! Start climbing. Lead the creature up into the tower, and when it’s high enough, kick
it off into the center. I’ll cover you from down here.”
“We can’t do that!” yelled Kestel. “You expect me to climb up into this...thing?”
“No complaints,” said Arbalis. “Tollit, get me my crossbow.”
Kestel threw up his hands in exasperation, but a fresh wave of screaming rippled up from the terrace. A black and amber figure emerged on the gravel path.
“Hello, Herald.” Demetros eyed Kestel, his lips peeling back to show crooked black teeth. “Did you think you could hide from me?”
The wretched figure looked even more diseased than at the Library, but the rotting flesh kept re-knitting itself back together as fast as it fell apart.
Kestel and Eriwasteg shared a glance then sprinted to the iridescent tower, villagers scattering around them.
“Thanks for staying with me,” whispered Kestel making his way to the nearest shining wall. He scrambled with Eriwasteg up the jagged rock, Demetros not far behind them.
“Just watch my back,” said Eriwasteg.
“I will.”
“You’d better.”
Kestel’s memories superimposed the pitted surface under his fingers into the slick, rain swept walls leading to his hideout in the Old Capital, his body bleeding and sore after one of the countless street fights. When Kestel blinked back to the present, the ground had already left his feet, his instincts taking over the work of shifting his body from one enameled stone to the other. Kestel looked up to check Eriwasteg’s safety before risking a glimpse at Demetros.
“I’ve almost got you, boy.” The misshapen figure laughed from below.
Kestel leaped, experiencing a sickening fall for a split second until the rushing current of air toward the center of the space scooped him up and pushed him across the yawning divide, away from Demetros. The blackened creature lunged off the wall—only to be knocked out of the rushing air currents by Eriwasteg.
“Eri! Get away!” Kestel twisted around, trying to keep the Baavghirla in view.
The young woman landed on the far wall and spun, cat-like, into the void. Flipping her body with acrobatic ease, the currents swept her up, out of Demetros’s reach.
The black and amber creature snarled and pulled itself up the walls toward the young woman, leaping from crack to crack to close the distance between them.
“Look out!” Kestel screamed, but it was too late. The scrambling Demetros grabbed the young woman’s arm.
Eriwasteg kicked and elbowed her attacker. Kestel launched himself into the void, unable to understand Creven’s hurried advice in the kaleidoscope of movement around him. He crashed into Demetros and Eriwasteg, bracing himself against the wall and thrusting the rotting figure back into the spinning ether.
“You’re bleeding,” said Eriwasteg, her voice clear, even in the noise and maelstrom around them.
“I’m fine. We—”
Demetros sailed onto the wall above them, landing with a grunt. The monster dropped onto Kestel. The larger figure’s weight tore him from the wall and into the twisting air. Kestel thrashed against Demetros, but the revolting arms gripping his chest were far too strong to escape.
“This is going to hurt boy,” said Demetros, the words gurgled into Kestel’s ear.
Eriwasteg appeared, landing on Demetros’s back. The repulsive creature growled, but couldn’t shake the young woman, all three tumbling into the howling winds at the center of the tower.
Below you, whispered Creven through the chaos. Arbalis has a bead on Demetros.
Kestel nodded at Eriwasteg and brought his feet up onto Demetros’s chest. The young woman did the same.
“Do you think—”
The rest of Demetros’s words were swept away by the twisting wind, Kestel and Eriwasteg launching toward opposite walls.
A burning crossbow bolt seared through the chest of the rotting figure writhing in the air. The wretched form whirled upward into the tower’s apex—his scream of rage cut off by hidden forces wrenching his body apart. Amber blood stained the upper walls. Demetros flew out of the opening at the top of the mushroom-like dome, shrieking.
Kestel tumbled to the ground, his battered frame collapsing onto the stones. Eriwasteg stumbled over and flopped down next to him.
“Nice work.” She wheezed.
Still too dazed to speak, Kestel nodded, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Above them, a familiar, stocky face blocked out the circular opening of the dome.
“Not bad,” said Arbalis. “Come on, stop lying around. We’ve got to go get Calla.”
The trio staggered into the hall to find three of the councilors wearing worried expressions. Ingvarod’s man watched Arbalis with a secret smile.
“We have come to a decision,” said Tavkik, looking at the group before her. “In view of your actions, it may be possible that you speak the truth—that you seek a way to destroy Maal and her evil, forever. Councilor Haelfel has already vouched for you.”
Haelfel offered a genial nod to the other councilors but received cold glances in return.
“We will grant you safe passage from Kom-zamak on condition that you never reveal its location to the Citadel,” said Tavkik. “Nor will you be permitted to return. However, as a show of good faith, we will release your companion and guide you to the Lernaen Swamp.”
“My thanks.” Arbalis bowed his head. “We will accept your conditions.”
The group left the room and were greeted by Gvarl and Calla, who looked at each other with undisguised hostility.
“Everything clear, Commander?” said Calla, breaking her gaze and falling in beside Kestel.
“Perfect, as always.” Arbalis walked ahead to talk with Tollit and Gvarl.
Kestel narrowed his eyes, staring at the flecks of blood staining Calla’s boots. “Weren’t you in prison when Demetros entered the city?”
Calla shrugged. “When I heard the commotion, I broke out, grabbed one of those brown cloaks Gvarl and his men seem to like so much, then went to the gate to fight.”
Kestel wasn’t buying her excuse. “How could Demetros know where to look to find the hidden entrance to a village protected by an illusion spell?”
Calla smiled, which on the scarred face was almost as chilling as a snarl. “That’s the thing about the Commander—he always plans ahead.” She left Kestel, gazing at her in shock. She ran to catch up with Arbalis and Tollit.
27
The Lady Mantis has again refused to join the League of Nobles, although her excuse is unknown. She has publicly retired to her ancestral home in the south, although the evidence of her economic activities can be found as far north as Ghoschae.
~from a report to Spymaster Harpalus, dated 98th year of the Exile~
Wellyn pushed through the door of The Golden Grape with his Caelbor companion. The lively, crowded bar was filled with dockside sailors as well as the usual mix of traders, merchants, and craftsmen. Wellyn shouldered his way through the crowd, nodding to the innkeeper, and edged past two sailors, one of whom pulled out a fiddle and started an impromptu jig with the tavern maids.
“Damn, Wellerd. This place is packed,” said Wellyn. His short, stocky build moved with the rolling gait of a professional brawler. Approaching middle age had left his wavy blonde hair shot through with streaks of gray and wrinkles around his lips and eyes.
His companion nodded and cast his eyes about the room with professional ease, looking for potential troublemakers. He stood a full head taller than those in the crowded tavern and, despite the heat of the room, eschewed removing his heavy, leather cloak. Wellerd scratched his beard and gestured to a corner table. The current occupants vacated their seats and disappeared into the crowd at the approaching pair.
“Where the hell is this Citadel rat, Wellyn?” said Wellerd, looking around the room. No sooner had he spoken than a bulky figure with dark, soulless eyes shouldered his way through the crowd and stood before them.
“And who might you be?” said Wellerd, twisting around in his chair and placing a hand benea
th his cloak.
“His name’s Gyges,” said a voice from behind them. “He’s here to make sure you boys don’t get any ideas.”
Wellerd spun about, but Wellyn kept his gaze fixed on the hulking figure in front of him. An old, gray-clad Caelbor woman emerged from the throng and sat at the table.
“And who might you be?” Wellerd looked her over for any obvious weapons.
Unfazed, the nameless old woman raised a condescending eyebrow. “Do I frighten you that much? Surely two strapping lads such as yourselves have nothing to fear from a mere woman.”
“I was expecting a man.”
“So was I.”
Wellerd snarled and started up out of his chair, but Wellyn stopped him. The old woman offered a pitying gaze to the tall figure. The man identified as Gyges gave no indication he had registered the exchange.
Wellyn took another look at the pale, old woman. Gambler’s eyes. Watch this one. “Tell me something. We could take you to see the person you seek, or we could knife you and throw your body into the nearest ditch. What’s to stop us? Your silent friend?”
The old woman turned her gaze on Wellyn and whistled. The signal pierced every inch of the tavern, over the din and music. On cue, the mob of sailors at the bar dropped their drinks and pulled out an impressive array of weaponry.
Wellyn struggled to keep his jaw from dropping in amazement. Every eye in the place was turned on him and his companion. He laughed, as if the situation was a clever joke, but his eyes promised revenge.
The woman and her hulking bodyguard rose.
“Come, my lady,” said Wellyn, opening the door. “We must take you to the one you seek.”
Nodding, the old woman and her silent companion filed out and into a waiting carriage. Wellyn’s smile turned grim, climbing with his companion onto the front to take the reins.
If only you knew what Lady Mantis has in store for you, old woman.
“How will your forces be positioned?” Marcus stood at the window and squinted through the narrow gap in the shutters.
