by Chris Moss
The Baroness’s face collapsed. “No! Please, I can help you—I swear!”
Julia faltered, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. “I’m too old for this,” she whispered.
No, you’re not, answered another part of her mind—an older part—one made of steel that had slept far too long. Do what is necessary to protect the Citadel. No hesitation.
Julia stepped forward and opened the Baroness’s throat, drawing the cut up into a sharp curve that sent blood spraying over the walls of the room. Julia wiped the blade clean and walked out of the room—leaving Lady Mantis flopped on the floor. Gyges fell in behind her.
Harpalus resisted the urge to gasp, forcing his body to continue after the fleeing figure before him. His agents had herded the red-and-blue-clad figure toward the Spymaster but had left the kill to their leader.
Damn my pride, Harpalus thought, his ribs twinging. His eyes stayed focused on the running man, but he heard the footsteps of his agents in the alleyways. The few drops of undiluted Bloodwyne from Typhena’s lips still throbbed through his body, making him acutely aware of the bloodlust in the agents surrounding him.
If I stumbled, would they change targets? If the Prioress asked Julia to send them against me, is this how she would do it?
The thought of his own men descending on him, like crows on a scrap of flesh, unsettled Harpalus enough that he barely avoided the empty shopkeeper’s stand the fleeing man upended in his flight. Pushing his injured frame faster, the Spymaster looked for some way to close the gap between them.
Harpalus scooped up a fragment of pottery from the upended stall and threw, wincing at the pain that shot through his shoulder. His aim was a little off, but the heavy shard glanced off the guardsman’s back with enough force to make him halt.
The Spymaster’s spinning mind assessed the situation. Without Gyges to protect him, he was no match for Rowan’s soldier in a fair fight. Ducking into an alleyway, Harpalus wormed his way through a gap in an old wooden fence and circled around the stone building.
“Where are you?” yelled the Caelbor soldier, spinning and looking down the alleyways. “If it’s a fight you want, come out!”
Harpalus grimaced and pressed himself flat against the dirty stones, waiting for his target to turn his back. The panicked soldier turned into a blustering rage.
The Spymaster took a deep breath, pulled out the knife at his side, and launched himself from the shadows. Aware of watching eyes, he focused on his form—his stance, the angle of his blade, his attack from behind––perfect. With Typhena’s drug still humming in his ears, a wave of savage joy accompanied his lunge. He buried the knife deep in the man’s side.
Bellowing, the guardsmen spun about and threw himself on the Spymaster, bearing his lean form to the ground. “Damn you! I’ll kill you!” The pale figure pummeled the struggling Spymaster.
Harpalus refused to waver, his time imprisoned by Typhena leaving him with a realization of just how much pain he could withstand. The Spymaster grinned, scrambling through the grim of the street for his knife. He shoved the gleaming point into his attacker’s eye.
Rowan’s soldier rolled over with a moan, and Harpalus pulled himself up. His agents stepped out of the shadows, their eyes bright and gleaming. The Spymaster looked around at the hooded and cloaked figures, seeing feral expectations.
Without a moment’s thought, he pulled out his second blade and stepped toward the wailing soldier, with dark bodies closing in around him.
28
Analysis: Inconclusive
The pattern of Maal’s attacks against the northern lands near Baavghir remains random. The best scenario is that Maal wishes to keep the Baavghir occupied so that they will not expand west. However, this does not account for entire seasons where Maal has ignored the Baavghir completely.
~from a report to Spymistress Julia, dated 86th year of the Exile~
The next week was a tense one for Kestel. Apart from the fear of Demetros’s return and the constant nightmares of hydras and angels, Arbalis’s group had been joined by two of the inhabitants of Kom-Zamak. He had been eager to leave the hidden settlement as quickly as possible and was happy to see that Tollit had volunteered to lead them to the Lernaen Swamp. Gvarl, however, was not a welcome addition.
“I won’t risk you islanders getting captured and giving away Kom-Zamak’s location,” he said. The Branded Man emerged from the illusion of a cliff face that marked the entrance to the town, shouldering his pack. “So, you’ll either succeed in this quest or I’ll kill you myself.”
“Draw your sword anytime you like,” said Calla with a cold smile. “Let’s find out what happens.”
Arbalis managed to break up the confrontation, but the space between Kestel’s shoulders prickled every time the scarred man stepped behind him. The small group travelled farther inland, veering southeast away from the hills and down into Fenland—the scattered forests and ruined settlements giving way to braided streams and stretches of peat bog.
“The water comes from the hills, and beyond that, the mountains,” said Tollit, helping Kestel scramble up the muddy banks of a small waterway. “The mountains feed into the Ghenreim River farther east, but around here it all empties into the Lernaen Swamp.”
Wiping mud off his hands, Kestel thought of asking Eriwasteg if she had travelled through these regions before, but thinking about her family made the words die on his lips. The young woman had barely said a word to him since leaving Kom-Zamak. Kestel figured it had to be from Gvarl’s obvious contempt for the runaway Baavghirla.
Approaching swampland slowed the group’s pace to a crawl. Tollit took the lead. The cold, wet air meant thick fog in the mornings and evenings, and the group had to pick their way through small patches of twisted trees and muddy tussock grass woven among stretches of brackish water. Kestel soon learned how to sleep on a pallet of scrounged wood and spend every evening drying his clothes by the fire. Eriwasteg showed him how to protect his face and arms against the constant swarms of mosquitoes that bred in the gray water.
“Why are you staring?” She wiped a thin layer of mud over her face, hiding her honeyed skin under the muck. “I’d rather look like this than catch a fever.”
“I don’t care how you look,” said Kestel, earning a hard look from the young woman.
Nice work, genius, said Creven.
“I mean I have no idea about travelling in a place like this.” Kestel held up his hands in protest.
“Well, alright then.” Eriwasteg looked out into the morning mist of the quagmire, hiding a small smile. Walking away, the young woman took out her father’s sword and examined it. “Kestel, do you have an oil-cloth and whetstone I can borrow?”
Kestel frowned. “Don’t you have your own? Or have you been borrowing Arbalis’s set?”
Eriwasteg sighed and trudged toward the front of the line to catch up with the stocky old soldier.
From behind, Calla whispered to him in a low voice. “Kestel.”
“What?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Ahead of them, Kestel spied a dark shape looming out of the fog. Called forward by Tollit and Arbalis, Kestel approached, the form coalescing into a giant, standing stone. Twice as tall as a man, the stone’s rough, rectangular shape was covered in strange, interlocking carvings.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Arbalis wiping away some of the moss colonizing the hollows of the carvings. “What about you, Eri?”
“No, never.” Eriwasteg looked up at the intricate designs. “It must have taken an army to drag it out here and raise it.”
“I’ve seen this before.” Gvarl emerge from the mists, followed by Calla. “Or, at least the carvings.”
“He’s right.” Tollit traced the outline of a thick-armed figure surrounded by geometric glyphs. “There are similar designs on the sides of the Rainbow Tower at Kom-Zamak.”
Kestel leaned in for a closer look but blinked in confusion. Hidden beneath the moss and dirt was
the same iridescent shine, with a carving of a figure raised above the surrounding symbols. The figure had no head, just a rough approximation of eyes, nose, and lips set into the creature’s chest.
“What is this?” Kestel stood, looking for some kind of logic in the design. He shook his head in frustration, succeeding only in dislodging droplets collected there.
It is like the tower at Kom-Zamak, whispered Creven. The silvered skull glistened with moisture. I wish you could see this. Instead of powering an illusion spell, it’s lighting a path that only those sensitive to the Aeris can see. It’s a beacon.
“A beacon?” said Kestel in surprise.
Gvarl and Tollit stared at Kestel in confusion. They opened their mouths, but Arbalis waved them into silence.
“It’s the reliquary, isn’t it?” He stepped forward, expectant. “No lies now, boy. We need every bit of help we can get.”
Kestel nodded and held the piece of silvered skull in his hand, wiping a few droplets off the shiny surface. “His name’s Creven. He speaks to me sometimes. Right now, this stone is lighting a path through the swamp, but only he can see it.”
“This is ridiculous.” Gvarl threw up his hands in disgust. “Do you really expect me to believe—”
“Shut up,” said Calla, slapping the Branded Man across the back of the head. “Kestel, is it true? Have you really been receiving the wisdom of a great Saint?”
“Actually, he’s a pain in the ass.” Kestel winced at Creven’s protest. “Well you are!” He glared at the piece of skull.
“Enough!” said Arbalis. “Kestel, take the lead with Tollit. Find us a path through this swamp. And if the Saint speaks to you, then listen. There’s too much at stake for excuses, Herald.”
The weight of the old man’s expectations hung on his shoulders. Kestel bowed his head and trudged into the dank water.
A few hours later Kestel sat in the shadow of another beacon stone watching his boots dry near the fire. The group had passed two more stones. From the look of all the dead vegetation and sulfurous fog, they had to be approaching the center of the swamp.
Wrapped in a blanket and perched on a hastily cut pile of wood, Kestel watched the smoke rise to meet the fog. His mind drifted back to the old, dark nights on the streets of the Old Capital, huddling with a small group of companions around a fire made from salvaged wood, cooking whatever rodents failed to escape their traps, and setting out chipped bowls to collect rainwater for the next day. Beside him, Eriwasteg chatted with Tollit, the pair seeming to be the least affected by the gloom and decay around them.
“So, where did the Branded Men come from, anyway?” said Eriwasteg, wiping her father’s sword clean and examining it for signs of rust.
Tollit shrugged and placed another toad on a skewer over the fire. “Well, to cut a long story short, ’bout fifty years ago, the Bitch Goddess sent her beastie to the town of Bramm—the last real resistance this side of the Frostmarch. Those what survived were mostly burned and scarred from the battle, and their children vowed they would take revenge.”
“Then why is Gvarl so angry at us?”
“His people were kin to the Baavghir, Miss, but lived under the Citadel’s protection. When Musmahu destroyed their home, the Citadel withheld their forces. They still hold a grudge.”
“So, you gave them a place at Kom-Zamak?”
“In exchange for their protection, yes, but they live all over—including your home, Miss, and yours, Praetorian. Watching, waiting.” Tollit shrugged. “Mind you, they give us all the info we need to avoid Maal’s troops—and yours.”
“What about the Yagyr?” Arbalis leaned back against the iridescent stone, wrapping his crossbow against the damp.
“Him? Well, he’s the newest member of our circle. Old Tavkik hates him. But he does provide us with weapons—”
“Our weapons,” said the old man, his voice, a growl. He secreted the weapon back into his pack.
“Yep, your weapons,” said Tollit, lacking any shame in his tone. “We put ’em to good use, too.”
“Against the scabies?” said Arbalis.
“No, the dark ones. The Chonoroq.”
“The who?” Kestel blinked in confusion.
Eriwasteg threw her head back and laughed. “Children’s stories.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but they’re not. Not round here, anyway,” said Tollit, his voice tightening.
Arbalis looked up and frowned, the firelight highlighting the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “Calla should have fetched Gvarl back by now. Kestel, have a look and fetch them back before we lose the last of the light.”
Kestel groaned and pulled his still-damp boots on, trudging away from the tiny circle of warmth and back into the darkening mist. The dank water seeped into his boots. He silently cursed the Silver Prioress, Lychra Maal, and any other power that had seen fit for him to be wandering through the foggy mire near nightfall. Around him, the swamp bristled with life, despite the fetid water and rotten trees. Kestel waved away a cloud of mosquitoes, listening to a chorus of frogs hidden in the mud and something else struggling in the mist.
He came upon a small mound of mud and matted reeds, with Calla clutching her leg and groaning. Next to her lay the silent body of Gvarl, face down in a black muck turning red.
“What happened?” Kestel thrashed through the reeds and pulled the woman up. The hood fell away from her face and he saw how pale her skin was against the scars.
“He got me, boy,” whispered Calla, her lips tinged with blue. “He’s been picking at how Demetros got into Kom-Zamak since we entered the swamp, and he must have figured it out.” The scarred woman coughed hard.
Kestel put his shoulder under hers and half-walked, half-pulled Calla back toward the camp.
“The bastard tricked me—” Calla’s head lolled on Kestel’s shoulder. “—said he had caught some game in a trap. Instead, he led me into a nest of black snakes. That way no one would ever know, see? I still managed to take the bastard before the damn things bit me.”
“Arbalis will know what to do. Someone will have an idea...” Kestel stopped bothering to explain. Calla, barely conscious and breathing hard, couldn’t support her own weight.
“Somebody help!” he screamed.
Minutes later, Tollit, Eriwasteg, and Arbalis emerged from the mists to carry the comatose figure back to the fire.
“This is bad.” Arbalis pulled up Calla’s unscarred eyelid. “Tollit, do you have any ideas?”
“She’s been bitten several times,” said the small man. He pulled up Calla’s trousers, revealing a line of ugly, blue blotches around the ankle. “At this rate, she won’t survive the night.”
“I won’t allow it,” said the stocky, old soldier. “Eri, boil some water. Tollit, we’re going to bleed the wound.” Arbalis drew his knife.
“Galeria, no!” Eri reached forward and put a hand on Arbalis’s arm. Arbalis’s thunder-like expression made the young woman blanch, but she swallowed and kept speaking. “Commander, that never works, especially when it’s this bad. My family’s method was to bind the whole limb, tightly as possible, and try and keep the wounded warm.”
Arbalis frowned but raised an eyebrow at Tollit.
“It’s true.” The little man nodded, droplets flying from his round beard. “But you can also suck out the venom—”
“Then there’ll be two people poisoned!” said Eriwasteg.
“Not if you drink something oily first. Make a tincture of…”
Helpless to do more, Kestel knelt by Calla, letting the others argue over the best treatment. The soldier’s breathing remained labored and her head lolled in Arbalis’s lap. Kestel reached out and took the woman’s scarred hand, fighting down a wave of frustration.
“There’s something that might work,” said Arbalis, cutting across Tollit and Eriwasteg’s argument. “The Physilli, from the southern continent, eat the flesh of the snakes that bite them. They believe the blood protects the creature from its own veno
m.”
“I’ve come across similar stories,” said Tollit. “It’s only a ghost of a chance though.”
Eriwasteg kept silent, but her expression showed she disagreed.
“Calla said she was bitten by a black snake,” said Kestel, looking hopeful at Tollit. “She and Gvarl found a whole nest of them.”
Tollit looked aghast. “Gvarl! Is he alright?’
“He didn’t make it.” Kestel looked at Arbalis. The old man’s eyes flickered to Calla’s empty sword sheath, and he gave the young man a slight nod.
“We need to focus on the living,” said Arbalis, his voice hard. “Tollit, what kind of a snake did this?”
The small man wrung his hands, looking down at Calla’s supine form. “Well, if it was a black snake then it’d be a Musmakan, the little-hydra. You only get ’em in this swamp and they’re as deadly as they come. And a whole nest of them, I mean, I—”
“I can handle this.” Eriwasteg rose, checked her belt knife, then looked out into the darkening mist. “You stay and look after Calla. Kestel—would you come hunting with me?” She grabbed a nearby blanket.
Arbalis and Tollit looked at the young woman in surprise.
“Absolutely.” Kestel climbed to his feet and took a faggot from the fire. “How much time does Calla have?”
“Not long enough!” said Arbalis.
The pair headed into the murk.
The light had failed by the time Kestel and Eriwasteg made their way through the mire, back to the body of Gvarl.
“Asshole.” Kestel extricated his boot from the mud to kick the bloodstained body.
“Don’t!” Eriwasteg placed a warning hand on Kestel’s shoulder.
A dark shape slithered out of the Branded Man’s cloak and back into the matted reeds, making Kestel jump back in surprise. He held the burning limb out in front of him, its flickering light only cut through the fog enough to illuminate Gvarl’s corpse and the edge of the reeds.
“Kestel, how much longer is that fire going to last?” whispered Eri.
