by Chris Moss
“I have gathered you all here to discuss a threat to the Citadel.” Julia leaned on the wooden table, looking at the collection of faces both old and new. Many of her former agents were still active, and several had brought younger agents they felt could be trusted.
“As you know, Lord Rowan has been preparing for an armed rebellion against the Citadel, one that will be enacted in the next few hours. What you do not know is that Rowan had help from a traitor within the Citadel itself—Prelate Darius.”
She had expected the gasps of shock from around the table and silenced them with a wave. “We are running out of time. You all know me. After my retirement from the position of Spymistress, I retreated from this life, confident that Harpalus would serve satisfactorily as Spymaster. However, his string of recent failures has caused me to call his abilities into question. When Gyges first came to Caelbor ten years ago, Harpalus uncovered the plot and identified the killer’s handler within a single night. But now we have waited for months with no results, while both the Prelate traitor and Maal’s new agent have moved unchecked.”
“He hasn’t been the same since his capture,” said one of the agents. “We’ve all seen it.”
“Is it possible he has been compromised?” whispered a young man looking down at the table, as if the words alone would summon the spidery figure.
“Harpalus’s loyalty is above question,” said Julia in a tone that brooked no questions. “However, his judgement may be impaired. I am asking you to stand with me against the current Spymaster and neutralize the threat as quickly—and quietly—as possible. When we have brought Maal’s agent and Prelate Darius to the Prioress in chains, we will then be in a position to examine Harpalus—and help him, if his ordeals have damaged his ability.”
Julia paused to let the full import of her words sink in. She could already see some worried glances being exchanged around the table. “Will you stand with me? This will be our only chance, and we must leave immediately.”
For a tense minute no one spoke. Julia hoped they couldn’t see the bright ball of anger she held in her chest. While she maintained a calm exterior, she wanted to scream and bang her fists on the table.
How dare he! How dare he! I raised the dockyard thief from the dirt, and when I needed him the most, he betrayed me! And then I stepped aside for him to save the organization from failure—oh, how he must have laughed…
Oblivious, Tomlin adjusted the bow slung over his back and nodded. “I’ve watched how this organization has changed under the current Spymaster’s command. We weren’t always so anxious, or so violent. I don’t know if we’re trying to eradicate the criminal gangs of the island or compete with them. I’ll stand with you, Mistress.”
“So, will I,” said a middle-aged woman with several knives strapped to her vest.
One by one the assembled agents nodded, voicing their approval or rapping on the table. Julia let herself breathe out—her nerves as taut as a bowstring. She grimaced at the trembling in her hands and squeezed them into fists, not allowing herself the luxury of fear.
Do what is necessary to protect the Citadel. No hesitation.
“Thank you—all of you,” she said. “Let’s move.”
The memory of the small-group’s confidence in her brought Julia a small boost of assurance. She felt her way along the rough-cut walls of the tunnel, her reverie broken by a whisper.
“What can we expect in the tower, mistress?” said one of the younger agents gripping his sword. Julia tried to smile but the effort was probably wasted on the tense, anxious group.
“Above us lies the main approach to the Seaward Tower,” she said with a calm she did not feel. “A death trap for anyone trying a frontal attack.”
And when Pye fails, I will be the one to drag Darius before the Prioress. Then, we will have a long discussion about what really happened ten years ago.
Despite the urgency of the situation, her mind kept returning again and again to the night Gyges had attacked the Prioress, looking at every spider-web-thread of information and tracing how her protégé had subverted her plan. Her emotions roiled inside her so much that she almost walked past a bricked-in passage.
“Here,” she said, her tone harsher than she intended. “Marten, did you bring your tools?”
“Do you even have to ask?” A middle-aged Caelbor stonemason stepped forward, the muscles in his shoulders bulging in the flickering lamplight. The agent unslung a hammer from his back and, as the others stepped away, he swung the heavy tool into the wall, grunting as the bricks tumbled down.
Julia blinked and examined the hole. Beyond lay another tunnel lined with a thick layer of dust and old cobwebs. She smiled.
“And no one else knows about this way in?” said one of the agents with a cough.
Julia’s smile turned grim. “Oh, I still have a few secrets of my own. Now, let’s go say hello to Darius.”
“How are we getting in?” said Harpalus, looking up at the broken masonry of the blocky structure.
“It won’t be easy,” said Marcus, peering at the men guarding the iron portcullis. “The Seaward Tower is one of the oldest defensive structures on the island.”
The Spymaster gave the tall stone building, which had once served as a watch house against raids, a wary look. While the League of Nobles had restored or improved the old Caelbor buildings on the island, the tower had been considered too far removed from the new centers of power for habitation. Standing on low rocks overlooking the southern seas, the crumbling building had lain abandoned—until now.
“The guards are Exsilium. I don’t suppose you can just order them to stand down?” said Harpalus.
“I doubt it—look at the uniforms. They’re wearing the red-lion crest of Darius’s family. Those men only take orders from the Prelate.”
“Can we rush the gate?”
“No, the guards would just drop the portcullis and pick us off with arrows. I thought you knew all the secret ways around this island. Isn’t there a hidden tunnel or something?”
“To a dilapidated watch house that hasn’t been used in decades? No. You’re going to have to talk us into the front door.”
The shadows couldn’t hide the creases in Marcus’s grimacing face. “I don’t like the odds.”
“They’ll get a lot worse for you if you don’t.”
“You don’t have to threaten me.” The armored figure sighed and rose, stepping out of the rubble. “But only you and I are going. Any more and it would attract suspicion.”
Harpalus nodded and followed the General. A prickling on his neck had his hand drifting toward his knife. He stepped into the pool of light illuminating the tower’s entrance.
I probably have three arrows trained on me already. I wonder if I could step behind the good General in time if this doesn’t work?
“Halt! Who goes there?” said a red-clad figure near the portcullis.
Marcus stopped and raised his hands. “It is I, General Dio! I come with an urgent message for the Prelate!”
“Then speak your piece and return to your position. I will see to it that the message is delivered!”
Marcus shook his head. “I cannot. This man…” pointing at Harpalus, “...possesses knowledge of vital importance to the coming conflict. He has told me he will speak only to the Prelate.”
“This had better work,” whispered Harpalus, watching the red-clad figure turn and speak to an unseen figure behind the portcullis.
“Be prepared to get under cover if it doesn’t,” whispered Marcus.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I already plan to.”
The Spymaster lifted his gaze, blinking into the torch lights surrounding the gateway. A shiver ran up his spine at the deepening silence. Finally, someone spoke.
“Enter, General! Be quick—there may be others watching this place.”
“No, surely not,” Harpalus whispered, confident his sarcasm would be missed. The pair walked under the stone archway. A whistle came from the red-clad watchme
n the moment they passed by. The iron portcullis groaned in reply, slowly lifting out of its socket and into the archway above. The cramped room beyond the gate barely had enough space for the two Exsilium who latched the iron ratchet by the entrance. Marcus nodded to Harpalus and motioned the two watchmen over. The Spymaster wandered over to the guards manning the winch.
“Sir,” said one of the figures facing Marcus, “we need to know—”
“I’m truly sorry,” said the armored figure, his tone grave.
“What do you—”
Marcus slammed his gauntleted fist into the guard’s temple and drew his sword on the remaining soldier.
The two men before Harpalus raised their voices and tried to draw their swords, but the Spymaster was already upon them. He ducked a clumsy blow from the nearest guard, spinning and shoving his elbow into the red-clad figure’s throat. Drawing his long knife, he rammed it into the other guard’s belly.
“Knights! Attack!” Marcus swept his sword forward until he had his opponents back pressed against the wall. Harpalus turned and looked across the drawbridge. Heavily armored figures erupted from the darkness, thundering toward the portcullis. Sharp hisses from above answered their cries. Knights staggered and fell to the ground, arrows sprouting from their necks.
General Dio swatted his opponent’s sword away and slammed his armored shoulder into the hapless guard. The red-clad figure sprawled unconscious down the damp stones, but a second group of the Prelate’s men surged into the cramped space.
“Protect the Prelate! Stop the traitors!” A guard raised his bow before rushing into the fray with his fellows.
“Push them back!” yelled Harpalus, ducking a vicious swing and grabbing the guardsman’s red tabard. “Don’t let them get a clear shot!”
The remaining knights roared and charged forward, not swinging their swords, but forming an unstoppable wall of armor that bore down on the knot of soldiers like a siege engine. Harpalus wrestled with his opponent for a moment longer before the knights bowled over the top of them, pushing the red-clad soldiers back into the narrow stairway.
“Gyges!” The Spymaster risked a quick look behind him—Gyges’s bulky frame amongst the fray brought a wave of relief. “Get over here!”
He turned back to the fight only to have another soldier leap toward him. Pain exploded through his head, his skull slamming against the wall.
“Gyges!” he yelled again, but the only response was a searing pain in his forearm. The Spymaster gasped and looked down at a deep wound spurting blood. Harpalus reacted on instinct, ducking low and stabbing at whomever stood in front of him. He saw a flash of red and someone screamed. A familiar bulky shape knocked the yelling figure aside. Gyges helped the Spymaster up and Dio appeared from the scrum, his silver armor covered in blood.
“You’re wounded,” he said, voice almost lost in the clamor.
“It’s nothing.” Harpalus bent down and grabbed a torn piece of red cloth.
“Can you fight?”
Harpalus looked past the fighting and saw another group of Darius’s soldiers tumble through the doorway in the stairwell above. “It doesn’t look like I have a choice.” He tied the cloth around his arm, tightening the knot with his teeth.
Marcus grimaced and raised his voice so it thundered up the narrow stairs. “Knights! Pick yourselves up and take this tower!”
32
It is said that the Ancient Gods of old were constantly at war, raising monsters in their own image. However, the dominance of Musmahu the Black saw the Gods either perish or flee beyond the known borders of what is now the Empire. While various scholars have set out to track down the remains of these creatures, none of the beasts have ever been found.
~from ‘Ancient Tales’ by Scriptor Rhone, dated 693rd year of the Empire~
“We need to start moving,” said Arbalis, pulling himself up and retrieving his sword. The bronzed veteran’s voice was steady, but Kestel could see the old man’s shoulders shaking.
“How can you say that?” Eriwasteg spun around and glared at the old man with tear-stained eyes. “Calla might still be alive. She might be down there somewhere, waiting—”
Arbalis gripped her shoulders and shook her, his face twisted in anger. “Calla is dead!” He gave the young woman another shake. “She died so we could get to the Sepulchre. Now move!”
“Don’t yell at her!” Kestel struggled to his feet and staggered over to the pair. “It’s not her fault!”
Arbalis’s face buckled, the old man letting go of the young woman as if burned. He turned away but Kestel put his arm around Eriwasteg’s shoulder.
“Let’s go,” said Kestel, seeing the silent storm of lights below them spreading out. “Whatever is down there is getting closer.”
The group collected their meager belongings and ran, descending into the cacophony of lights.
At a sharp bend in the path, Arbalis halted. “You two find a place to hide here, while I look for a more circumspect way forward.”
Kestel and Eriwasteg crouched behind the rubble of a fallen stalactite. Shivering, Kestel closed his eyes and listened for sounds of the old soldier’s return, but it only brought memories of Calla’s death. He shook his head and looked at Eriwasteg who was digging through Calla’s discarded pack.
Kestel swallowed. “What’s in there?”
“Whetstone. Smallclothes. An old copy of The Life of Aedron, and this locket.”
Eriwasteg proffered a small chain, from which a tiny silver clasp hung suspended over Kestel’s hand. Kestel fingered the metal surface, curiosity driving him to open the locket, revealing a small painting inside.
“It’s a man,” whispered Eriwasteg in surprise. Leaning back onto Kestel’s chest, she peered at the tiny blonde face. “Who is it?”
“Her betrothed,” said Kestel, taking a blanket from Calla’s pack and wrapping it around them. “He died many years ago. It’s why she joined Arbalis.”
The young woman shook her head.
“I never knew,” she said, her voice sounding sad. “All this time, and I knew nothing about her life before she found me.”
Kestel leaned his chin on Eriwasteg’s shoulder and let the silver clasp swing from his hand.
“Do you ever think about how your life might have been if you’d made different choices?” said Eriwasteg, her eyes following the swinging silver chain.
“Not really.”
“Good. Neither do I.”
Her quick affirmation made Kestel re-examine the question. He dropped the locket back into Calla’s pack. “When I worked for Maal, I knew exactly what my purpose was. I had a position, and I was good at what I did.”
Eriwasteg remained silent, leaning her head back, cheek resting against Kestel’s neck. Taking her silence as a cue, Kestel closed his eyes and let his mind drift back.
“I miss the children I grew up with,” he said. “They were like my family. If I hadn’t taken that soldier’s armor, I would never have left them, but I was so angry—”
Something wet rolled down his neck. Feeling Eriwasteg’s shoulders shaking, he realized the young woman was weeping.
“I miss…I miss rounding up the goats in the morning to be milked,” Eriwasteg said. “I miss sitting by the fire pit with my mother and sisters while we spun wool and talked. I miss Father kissing my mother or sneaking me away to teach me—” A small gasp escaped Eriwasteg’s lips, turning into a loud sob. “I miss my father. I didn’t want him to die.”
Kestel held her close. Eriwasteg turned, pressing her face into his neck to hide the tears, but her body shook with every breath.
“We’re all going to die here,” Eriwasteg whispered.
“No, we aren’t.” Kestel held her close and buried his face in the young woman’s hair.
“Mollis did. And Calla, and Tollit, and all the men that Arbalis used to lead. Why should we be any different?”
“I’ll die before I let anything happen to you.” His chest tightened, the words ringing true to
the bottom of his soul. Taking Eriwasteg’s head in his hands, he brushed away the damp curls and lifted her face to kiss her. Eriwasteg’s hesitation lasted only a heartbeat, the warmth of her breath playing across Kestel’s lips. She pressed her lips to his and stroked his face, pulling her body closer.
“Don’t leave me, Eri,” he said.
“I won’t.” The taste of salt came from Eriwasteg’s tears streaming into her mouth. “I promise.” She kissed him harder, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around his neck.
Kestel relaxed his grip, stroking the curve of her back until his hand slid under the leather jerkin. The young woman trembled at his touch. He tore off the heavy garment, exposing her thin woolen undershirt. Eriwasteg moaned and raised her arms. Heart racing, Kestel placed his hands on the young woman’s honeyed skin and lifted the garment—
“What in all the Angels is going on here?”
Kestel twisted about to see Arbalis’s grim face.
“I thought I heard a problem,” said the old man. He shook the condensation from off his broad shoulders just as fiercely as his tone.
“Nothing more practice couldn’t fix,” said Eriwasteg, straight-faced.
“Angel’s arseholes, you will. Kestel, you get outside and set a watch while I get some rest. It might cool you down a bit.”
Kestel’s eyes narrowed, but Arbalis’s expression was not one to be argued with. Squeezing Eriwasteg’s hand, he shuffled past the old veteran and toward the cooler air of the larger cavern.
This reminds me of a joke, said Creven. What’s the most sensitive part of a man’s body when he’s wanking?
Go away, Creven.
His ears. Get it?
Shut up!
Why are you angry at me? I didn’t interrupt. Although I could offer you a few pointers—no, alright, point taken. Drop the rock and put my skull back, please?
Hours later, the old veteran led Kestel and Eriwasteg through a series of rock falls and flooded chambers. Avoiding the sparkling light stones, they descended farther into the labyrinth of caverns. Up ahead, a network of moving lights, the pattern coalescing into a web with pulsating columns of light at its center.
