by M. S. Verish
“Can you read’em?” Rourke whispered.
“You need not whisper,” Argamus said. He picked up his cup and took a drink.
“All of it,” Rey reminded.
Argamus waved his hand. “Yes, yes. Oh, they are ridiculous, the names.”
“They are not,” Rey protested. “Ya gotta choose a fighting name. Adds color.”
“Left-hand John.” Argamus smirked, and Rourke laughed. “Silent Sam. The Outlander.” The wizard laughed aloud. “The Outlander? To face one’s self and utter that name….”
“Now that’s just disrespectful,” Rey said. “You can’t laugh. Maybe you oughta go and watch a fight. ‘S no easy victory.”
Argamus straightened. “I do not believe I would enjoy watching two sweat-drenched opponents maim each other at the price of monetary victory.”
Rey shrugged. “You just don’t understand.” He turned away to clean his cups.
“I suppose not.” Argamus nudged Rourke. “Black Dog,” he read, and they snickered.
“Wait, wait—who’s that one?” the brute asked. “On the end. ‘Slike I know ‘im.”
The depiction was of a giant of a man whose lean and bearded face was partially obscured by locks of blond hair that had fallen over his eyes. The figure looked ready to leap into action, and Argamus wondered how any opponent could not be intimidated by the giant’s grim countenance, let alone his size. The wizard squinted at the label. “Who? Talon? The name is a bit better, but I doubt you have any acquaintance with him.”
“No, I swear. He looks like somebody I know. He does!” Rourke insisted, grabbing Argamus’s hand and pointing it at the painting.
As if unable to resist, Rey turned back toward them. “I saw him fight a couple times. As far as I can tell you, he never lost. He was a legend in his time.”
“His time?” Argamus asked.
“Had to have been twenty years ago,” Rey said. “Guess that makes me look kinda old.”
“Ha!” the wizard blurted.
Rey ignored him. “He earned his name by how he fought. He was huge. Broad-shoulders. Tallest guy I ever saw. He’d take his massive hands, and he would pin a guy to the ground faster’n lightning. Really somethin.’” He shook his head.
“So why’d he stop? Get too old?” Rourke chuckled.
“No. He was a troubled fellow. I don’t know that he was ever sober. One day he vanished. I heard he killed a guy—by accident. No one really knew what became of ‘im.”
Argamus finished his drink. “I would hope justice was served.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said and buried his head in his hands.
Rey nodded to someone behind them. “Looks as though you’ve got company.”
Argamus turned, and Rourke peered from behind his fingers.
“Hawkwing,” the brute greeted. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the wall. “That’s it. You. Look—you could be that fighter!”
“Hardly. You have had too much to drink,” Argamus told Rourke. He faced Hale. “Somehow you have managed to find us. However that may be, I admit I am relieved.”
The slight, pale man glanced at the paintings, then back at his companions. “I admit I am not…not yet.” His expression was taut, his breathing quick and fluttery.
“Yer mad, ain’t ya,” Rourke said.
Hale shook his head. “We need to leave. Now.” He pulled Rourke from the stool, but the brute nearly fell to the floor. Without a word, Hale lifted him by the arm and stood him on his feet.
“What is wrong?” Argamus asked, tottering as he gripped the staff for support.
“Other than the obvious? They are here.”
“Who?” Rourke asked, his brow furrowed.
Hale stared at the wizard. “The party in question is seated in the tavern above us.”
Argamus’s eyes widened. “Oh. Dear me.”
“Where are Arshod and Hesun?” Hale demanded.
“Placing their bets,” Argamus mumbled. “I will fetch them.”
“Please. We have not a moment to lose.” He ushered Rourke to the stairs.
“I know you don’t like small places,” Rourke said, turning back as he started to climb.
“Up,” Hale ordered.
“Sorry if we…if we… Ugh. I feel kinda sick.”
“Up, Rourke. Now.”
They made it to the top, only to find the tavern had gone quiet. The five members of the Seroko were standing at their table, surrounded by a group of what looked like townsfolk. Rourke and Hale froze, waiting to see if the five would leave. When one of the Seroko drew a knife, it became clear that there would not be a quiet resolution. One of the townsfolk gave a shout, and the whole of them moved in. In a matter of moments, the tavern was overturned in chaos.
*
“We are not ready to leave,” Hesun said. “We have only just placed our bets. Wait until this fight is over.”
Argamus took a breath. How was he supposed to convince the Jornoans that they needed to leave? No excuse seemed believable enough.
“Fight!” came a cry from the stairwell. “Upstairs!”
The bets were off, the battle over before any victor could be announced. The mass of gamblers moved toward the small stairwell like a flooded river raging at a narrow channel. Argamus, Hesun, and Arshod were carried with the current, bumped and bruised by the shoving, pressing, and tripping of the swarm. They were partway up the steps when Argamus fell. The staff slipped from his grip, and he could feel the feet crushing his arms and legs, the weight of another body smashing atop him as the channel was dammed. I will be trampled to death! he thought, unable to move, unable to breathe.
There was a tug and a forceful upheaval. Shouts surrounded him as he was lifted back to his feet. Arshod and Hesun had a hold of each of his arms. Shaken and winded, Argamus tried to thank them, but his words were lost as they were propelled by the crowd the rest of the way, spilling into the hall and finally to the main room of the tavern.
One chaotic mass merged with another, and there was no up or down, no way to escape the whirlpool of destruction that fed off its own growing momentum. Argamus glimpsed Rourke and Hale pinned against the wall, then he lost them as the remainder of the gamblers filled the gaps in the room.
“This way!” Hesun shouted, plowing through the people as they headed for the door. Once they made it, it was like surfacing from a murky pool, and Argamus gasped to catch his breath. The air never smelled so sweet, and while his body ached, he could move of his own will once more. Arshod and Hesun did not relinquish their hold on him until they made it to the wagon.
“What’s going on?” the wagon attendant asked, peering past them to the tavern.
“Fight,” Arshod said, and the man was gone, heading toward the fray.
“Thank you both,” Argamus said, his hand upon his heaving chest. “I am indebted—” He stopped short when he remembered his staff. “Oh my….”
“This is yours,” Arshod said, handing Whitestar to him.
“Thank the Sovereign,” Argamus said, closing his eyes.
“What of Rourke?” Arshod looked as though he wanted to head back inside.
“He is yet inside,” Hesun said. “But he is an Enforcer. He should be able to make his own way out.”
Arshod nodded, and the three of them waited, eyes rapt upon the tavern door.
*
“On my word,” Hale instructed, “follow me.”
Rourke felt as though his insides were fighting their own battle. “Alright,” he uttered weakly.
“Ready…”
A fat man came barreling toward them. Hale angled his shoulder and stood in front of Rourke. He met the stranger in mid-stride, sending him rebounding back into the crowd.
“That was amazing,” Rourke said. He hiccupped, and swallowed the liquid that rose in his throat.
“Just follow me,” Hale said. He gripped and pulled, moving people aside, his sight set upon the door.
Rourke did his best to follow in his wake, but his w
obbly legs were snared by someone’s foot, and he careened to the side, colliding with another body. He looked up at the angry face, only to realize that this was one of the Seroko—the one who had drawn the knife. Rourke’s guts heaved upward, and he vomited all over the enemy.
Next he knew, he was on the ground, scrambling and trying to control his unruly limbs. There was a sharp blow to his face, momentary darkness, and a throbbing that made his ears ring. When his sight returned, Hale was standing over him, a massive hand atop his assailant’s face. Hale shoved him to the ground and in that same sweep, pulled Rourke up by the arm.
“Are you all right?” Hale asked, half-dragging the brute through the crowd.
“Y-yeah,” Rourke said, dazed.
When they found the door, Hale stared at him. “Say nothing of this.”
“Huh? Whadda you—”
“You fought our way out,” Hale said.
“But—”
Hale opened the door. “Go.”
Rourke stepped into the light, blinking. He saw Argamus and the Jornoans waiting by the wagon, and he quickened his pace. Only when he reached them did he turn to see Hale limping slowly behind him.
Arshod clapped Rourke on the back. “You made it, Enforcer. I did not doubt you for a moment.”
Rourke tenderly touched his swelling eye. “Yeah.”
“Lord Hale, how do you fare?” Hesun asked.
The pale man lifted his head. “This was a grand inconvenience,” he said tightly, dusting off the bed of the wagon before sitting down. He rubbed his ankle tenderly. “I should like to return now.”
“Of course,” Hesun said quietly. “We apologize, though we could not have imagined this would have happened. Will you need a medic? Jamil is trained—”
“No,” Hale snapped. “There has been enough excitement. I must speak with your leader about tomorrow’s venture.”
Hesun nodded, and they readied the wagon for a silent ride back to the Priagent’s manor.
21
The Old Man’s Words
Kariayla watched herself kneeling before the statue of Eruane in the temple. She was a specter in her own mind—a silent witness to a fragmented memory, pieces torn away and hidden from her. The truth was here, and soon she would know what had happened. She told herself that she needed to know—for this was the key to learning what lay claim to her now.
She shuddered when the High Priest approached her other self. Maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see. It would have been easy to turn away, because she already knew what was to come. Could there be a reason why she did not remember this moment? Whether it was her mind or the being inside her that had hidden this piece of her life, it was certainly a maneuver of defense.
His fingers sought her flesh—gently at first, but then the contact became more deliberate. Forceful. He pinned her to the floor, and there was terror in her eyes.
No, I don’t want this. I don’t want to remember. Kariayla shut her eyes, ashamed, horrified, shattered.
“See it. Know that I protect you.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, she dared open her eyes. To see herself laying there, exposed, weak, and contaminated—the sight repulsed her. She moved toward herself and the High Priest, uncertain what she wanted to do, though she was eager to do something. But this was the moment—the moment she had lost. She watched the fear in her memory’s face subside to a blank stare. The earth trembled, and the High Priest froze. A sound like an explosion drowned the silence. The watchful statue of Eruane had cracked, deep veins of darkness parting the marble so that pieces fell away and shattered upon the floor. But the eyes of the goddess watched on.
He had been dazed—too dazed to see her slip the ritual knife from his belt. He had been too concerned over his discovery to realize that she had sunk the blade into his chest, that his last moments were upon him. The surprise was fleeting, like a flicker of lightning before the rain came to wash his life away.
The expressionless mirror of her other self shattered when temple attendants rushed onto the scene. It was replaced by confusion, panic, and then devastation as she realized what she must have done. Though the questions swarmed around her, she had no words, no answers, nothing. For years that void would haunt her, but now she knew….
*
“Stormbringer.”
Kariayla opened her eyes, but once again, she could not remember having fallen asleep. Time had never seemed so ambiguous to her. She last remembered the daylight through the trees, Atrion guiding her along a narrow path, and Ruby trailing behind her. Now the forest was a shade of twilight, and a silver aurora of moonlight wove its way around the shadowy boughs high above them. Ruby was not there, and neither was Atrion. Instead, an old man sat upon a log across from her. His fair and beardless face was creased with indeterminable years, and white hair poked beneath his leafy cap. He was skinny and long-limbed, covered by a worn tunic dirtied or adorned with leaves, moss, and bark. He wore no shoes upon his large, hairless feet, and small plants had emerged from the earth to entwine themselves among his toes.
“Do you know the name Stormbringer?” he asked in a frail and rusty voice. She found his eyes were like windows into a spring meadow, pale and green and bright with early sun.
“No,” Kariayla said. She was still shaken from her reverie, except that it had all been true. “Where are Ruby and Atrion?”
The old man picked up his gnarled walking stick and gestured vaguely around them. “The newborn world had been different. The plants, the creatures, the earth itself—quite different.”
Kariayla rubbed her brow, her head aching. She waited for her visitor to explain himself, but for a good minute, he merely watched her. She grew uncomfortable and tried a new approach. “I came here with my little friend, Ruby. One of the Ilangiel found us… Have you seen them?”
“You are not alone,” he said, pointing a finger as if to accuse her. “You have brought another.”
“Ruby,” Kariayla repeated, growing frustrated. “Please, tell me if you have seen her.”
“The Stormbringer,” the old man said. “‘Eruane,’ as you know her.”
Kariayla gripped the stone in her pocket, her heart skipping a beat.
“She is from the Beginning,” he said. “A spirit among others who decided not to take shape. What is her purpose in accompanying you?”
Her fingers rubbed the smooth surface as she thought of her response. As she had drawn her own conclusions, she built faith in her theories, but the voice had always related the same message. “She is my protector.”
“Is she?” His white brows lifted curiously, and he stretched out his legs. The little flowers around his toes had uncoiled, only to rearrange themselves.
Kariayla wondered if this peculiar man had somehow seen inside her mind to the memory she had just relived. “I believe that she is.”
“In the Beginning,” he said, “there were many spirits. Some remained without form, and others chose a role. The Ilangiel served to shape this world; they chose a form of flesh and blood to be kindred to the mortals who dwell here. The other spirits—” He held out his large, empty hands— “they maintain no relation, and they hold no allegiance. Their purpose is their own. I ask you, why protect a mere mortal?”
“I served her my whole life,” Kariayla said. “From the day I was chosen from my village and schooled in the temple.”
“Not a blink in her existence,” the old man said gruffly. He slowly rose to reveal he was taller than he looked. He propped himself on his walking stick and bent toward her. “You are young, your need for purpose strong. Why risk your life for a magic stone? Why have your friends placed their lives in peril?”
“William said the stone is dangerous,” Kariayla said, feeling as though she had repeated herself time and time again. “We agreed to help take it to a safe place. William said we were the only ones who could do it.”
The old man chuckled. “Safe? You have been misled, child. The Ravenstone will not be safe
r here than anywhere in Secramore. It will draw attention to this forest, endanger all within. ‘Tis safer in the hands of the mortals who know not how to wield it.”
“But William fears the Priagent does know how to wield it,” she said, lifting her hands in exasperation.
“What do you think this man will do with such an item?”
“He…he can control whatever he wishes. He can hurt others…” Kariayla hesitated, the first shard of doubt wedged into her mission. “It can unravel magic.”
“Is magic so prevalent in your world? Have there not been kings who have replaced kings for centuries? Have there been no battles or wars for power or land?” The old man gave a thrust of his hand, and the walking stick in his grip sparkled. “How does this one man differ from the rest? How will he threaten the world where others have bowed to their mortal limitations? Thirst for power, child, is an eternal struggle in the mortal world. Why do you wish to risk your life in this venture?”
“Because…because I want to return home. I want to find redemption, and I can only find it if I balance my crime by doing a great service.” Kariayla looked at the old man, pleading. “I have taken a life.” She unfolded her wings. “These are my shame. I want to go home again. I want it to be the way it was.”
The old man frowned and walked toward her. He crouched before her and lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes. Kariayla found she could not turn away. “’Twas not your crime, child; there is naught for you to redeem. ‘Tis your protector who must answer, but she has remained silent.”
He withdrew his hand and turned away. “As for William, trust not in him. ‘Tis not he who has risked the journey here, and ‘tis not he who endangers his life to recover the Ravenstone. His is a history of greed-driven motives, and he has caused much harm by his meddling.”
She wanted to protest. She wanted to defend the wizard who had shown her kindness. Yet the more she considered their mission, the more William’s story seemed splintered and hastily constructed. He had only suspicions of what the Priagent would do, and he had been unable to elaborate upon the Ravenstone’s power or how the Jornoan ruler would employ it. Did he conjure this mission on a hunch, or did he have another motive? Would he risk their lives without telling them the truth? Arcturus certainly had not been ready to trust him, but Hawkwing’s faith in the wizard’s plans seemed firm enough.
