Will you tell him? Altier asked, kneeling before Elin. You watched it all. Is that not how it always is? Always the coward.
“Get out! I have no part in this. I saw you. I felt you. I did not will it. It is you.”
“Get a hold of yourself!” The unfamiliar voice of the knight called out. “Who are you talking to?”
It will not be much longer now. How many more will die for your hubris?
The cloaked man was gone, and the dull glower returned. Ser Johnathan sat with a puzzled look on his face.
“My nightmares, old friend. I have dreamt of a cloaked man with crimson eyes, in the bowels of some dark cave or mountain. I thought I saw him, then.” Elin rubbed his eyes. “To see my own daemons. I need rest.”
“I would not be so sure of that,” the knight remarked, pained. “That seems like the advisor to the imperator. None of our informers can get close enough to him, but they say it feels like his gaze burns away your soul. Two eyes, a deep-set crimson. Cloaked, as you describe. They call him the Faceless Shadow.”
What was it that Joshua said? He took him.
Elin knew that Joshua and Alicia were figments; grey illusions without meaning. Yet in the dream they were so real, the eyes were theirs as naught ever was. Still, what could he do? The Voice stripped him of knighthood, but no declaration unsaid his vows.
Would Alicia, Joshua, and Timothy have wanted me to keep them? The words. My vows.
They… are what remains, and the truth of this cloaked advisor.
“What of Trecht or the islands?”
Ser Johnathan sat back, smiling wanly. “Trecht is shut away from us. What they are up to is anyone’s guess. Though on account that the Isilians are not slowing down, I suspect they are sitting back, pleased to wait for a resolution. Islanders are likely the same. Only Mother God knows what Damian is thinking.”
“I cannot lead you on three fronts, if it comes to it.”
“I doubt overmuch that would come to pass. The tyrants from the islanders, they are as bold as scum go, but they are not fools. Same for the king. If Prince Adreyu were king, he might have taken care of the lord commander for us, close to sovereign waters as they are,” the knight sighed. “Alas, he is not. King Tristifer will be content to sit and wait, if he does aught at all.
“We would need the Voice’s blessing.”
“Leave her to me.”
“My sword and armour?”
Ser Johnathan stood, unlocked the gaol, and handed him Judgment in the worn, old scabbard. Elin drew it out a few inches, and the steel shone in the faint light, sharp as ever.
“Stored a suit of crystalline plate in the undergaoler’s chambers,” the old knight remarked. “Keep the visor down. We shall meet the clergy ere the sun rises.”
“You would have me stand before them all?”
“That I would. Do no one any good if it done privily. While you been enjoying the forest for three years, I have been fending off these vipers. Trust to my judgment.”
The gaol left behind, Elin could not help but see crimson in the distance. Whether it was the glower of burning torches, blood, or the cloaked man’s eyes, he did not know.
But he intended to find out.
Chapter Seven
Gateway to the North
Rafael spurred his stallion forward, cresting the rise.
The walled township of Talin was nestled on the plain below. He could make out no more than the grey stone, but the last rider to return spoke of a cowed, despondent people. There was no sign of Dalia’s vaunted Order of Light either. The absence gave him pause, filling his mind with suspicion.
Ashleigh joined him. “Does it not unsettle you, Lord Commander, that we have seen naught? Wild as these lands are, I expected a token force in this township, important as it seems to be. We may be walking into a trap.”
Rafael avoided the wilds of the Northlands as much as he could, but the forests stretched nearly to the edge of the coasts, forcing a southern march along its borders. The forests were dark and twisted; a shifting labyrinth that heralded blood curdling cries in the night. He realized tales of the beast tribes were not easy to dismiss in the shadows of the night, so close to their dens.
Yet, clear of the northern forests, he was sure there should have been some sign of Holy Dalia’s stalwart defenders.
“I have not forgotten about it,” he replied. “Whatever awaits us, we will face. Lucas will root out whomever nests in there.” He thought none other was more suited to the task. “He enjoys his work.”
Ashleigh sighed. “Too well.”
Rafael looked at her quizzically. “You do not have to like the man.”
“It is not a dislike,” Ashleigh said, shaking her head. “I know what it is that we must do. There just has to be another way.”
How I wish there was, Rafael thought, leaving the concern unaddressed.
“My riders returned moments ago,” Ashleigh spoke up. “There are no foes within a day’s ride. It is almost like the priesthood has abandoned the north.”
“And the Sister Cities?” He knew his legions would march southward afterwards, and the Sister Cities would be troublesome. “Are they defended?”
“No, not that they could see. They are good men, Lord Commander. They ventured as close as they could. I trust them.”
As do I. Rafael could not fathom Ser Johnathan Falenir’s strategy. The Dalians knew that they sat at their doorstep; they should have passed into the Northlands by now, and met battle in the open fields. Yet it seemed that they were withdrawing, sacrificing the people, awaiting a battle within Dale’s White Walls.
To think they call us impious.
“What of the riders sent to Serenity?” Rafael asked, putting his mind to matters he could resolve.
“None,” Ashleigh professed, shaking her head. “There is still time. It is a long journey to Serenity, deadly to those who do not know it. They just need more time.”
I hope so.
There was a sudden movement to the south of the town, and a small group of horse rode towards him. “That will be Ian,” Rafael called out. “With me.”
He cantered down the rise, leading the sentinels to the green plain. Ian closed with a small retinue of his own.
“Lord Commander,” Ian said, turning his horse around. “We have the magistrate outside the town hall.”
“Good,” Rafael replied, setting his horse to a trot. “Did Lucas discover aught?”
“Little has he uncovered. He is disappointed.”
“I am sure he is. Tell me of the magistrate, and who else I should concern myself with.”
“Wilson Ronan is his name. An old man by all accounts, stubborn and pious. He spends as much time in church as he does behind a desk. Words alone will not break his resolve.”
I suspect no less. “Who else should we concern ourselves with?”
“There is a priest, and two priestesses. Near zealots from what we can tell. I do not know their names—they would not give them. They seem a solemn, serious lot. Not of a tremendous import, though there is one other that we cannot find.”
“One other what?” Rafael asked sternly. “I thought Lucas was thorough.”
“That he assured me,” Ian admitted, oblivious to Rafael’s discontent. “Some of the lesser clerks spoke of a spindly, dark haired man who goes by the same of Daskin. Not of the town, either: a travelling merchant who seems to have settled. He may know of what we seek, Lord Commander.”
“And why has he not been found?” Rafael rounded upon Ian.
“Lucas cannot find him, but he is here, somewhere.”
I am sure he is.
The stone walls of Talin were ten feet high, a dulled grey, and a pace thick. Rafael thought that they were walls to ward off wild beasts, not to keep men out. The oaken doors were of even height, and when pulled back, revealed an uneven, cobbled road.
Stone houses lined to the left and right, cramped together on wide, clean cut greens. The people of the township huddled by the
road, pushed back by his own pike, though looking at him with weak, wide eyes. The children hid behind their mother’s skirts, near at tears, and the men scowled. He avoided their cursed eyes.
The short road opened to a market square. The last of the hawker’s tents were pulled down by his own men-at-arms, and the pubs, taverns, and shops were cramped together in a large circle, broken only by the adjoining roads. He looked down the eastern road, and it was much the same as the south: townspeople bunched together, looking on.
“Ashleigh,” Rafael called lightly. “I want them all gathered in the square. The pike all around. No one gets close to the walls.”
“I will see to it, Lord Commander.”
Rafael looked to Ian, whose eyes dropped.
I like it less than you do.
Rafael ordered a dismount at the far northern end of the square, and walked up the worn, forked road. To the west was a squat church wrought of marble that shone in the early morning sun; its sole steeple rose above the double oaken doors. His own sentinels stood by the doors, swords drawn.
To the north was the wide, three floored town hall, fronted by a tall clock tower. It was like the rest of the town: a dull grey, but it towered over the homes. Upon the flat green stood a large man in a loose green shirt and brown trousers. The man was balding, but for a few wisps of black hair. Three others stood further behind, donning the white and silver robes of the Faith. Rafael’s own sentinels surrounded the four Dalians, swords drawn.
“Magistrate Wilson Ronan I trust?” Rafael asked, addressing the large man.
“I have no words for the likes of you.”
Ian and the sentinels shuffled behind, and Rafael heard steel scraping against leather. He put a hand in the air. “This does not need to be bloody.”
The sentinels still bared six inches of steel, and the man’s large, dark eyes darted back and forth. “You are their commander?”
“I am Lord Commander Rafael Azail of the Sentinels of Umbrage. I speak in the name of Imperator Argath Diomedes, and herald the will of the Mountain.”
The magistrate spit. “Leave us. We are good folk.”
“You will see my will done, or your folk will be good and dead.”
“Magistrate.” The robed priest stepped forth, and the priestesses looked ahead hesitantly. “Mother God will preserve us, but against these we can do little.”
The magistrate’s face turned sick and disgusted.
“So be it,” he declared. “What is the will of the Mountain?”
“We will conduct our affairs privily, Magistrate.” Rafael declared.
“Of course you will.”
The magistrate lumbered into the town hall, and the priests followed behind. Ian shouted commands, before following Rafael, a retinue of sentinels in tow.
The town hall was empty, and chairs, tables, and desks were a strewn in a struggle, but there was no blood. The magistrate lead Rafael past a tall desk, down the carpeted walkway, and up two flights of stairs. The upper level was narrow but clean, before ending with a wide chamber at the far end.
The southern wall was an enormous clear window that looked down at the town below. There was a long ornate desk, and a tall whicker chair that Rafael sat in. He turned and looked out the window, and saw the people were all cramped into the market square, with his pike all around them.
Labourers and traders. Husbands and wives. Mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters. Sinners and absolved. Naught to do with the history betwixt the theocracy and imperium. Curse you, Argath. Curse you.
“Would you care to look out your window, Magistrate?” Rafael asked, his words strained. “I would like you to see the people of your town.”
“Aye, I saw them,” the magistrate replied dismissively, eyes downcast. “We all saw them. You need not remind us of that.”
The priest and two priestesses flanked the magistrate to either side, shuffling their feet and keeping their heads down. Their eyes fluttered, and Rafael saw naught but cursed judgment.
If it is not my sin, it would be another’s.
“Ian,” Rafael said offhandedly, leaning back in the chair. “Place the parchment down upon the desk. Magistrate Wilson, have your pious sheep take a look at the drawing.”
The men and women grunted, but they did as instructed. He stared solemnly at their eyes. The priest and priestesses stared blankly at the caricature of the Animus Stone.
They are ignorant of this treasure.
Magistrate Wilson could not hide his knowing. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and he quickly wiped it away with a handkerchief. The man’s palms were moist, and he tried to dry the perspiration on his trousers.
“You know of it, Magistrate?”
“That I do,” he declared, looking back at Rafael. “It passed through here not long past.”
“From what direction?”
“South I think, going north. Where I do not know.”
“But you know who would.”
Magistrate Wilson stared blankly before answering. “That I do not. Knights carried the stone, ne’er raising their visors. Did not speak either, not after we were done looking at what they brought. They had a missive from the Voice herself: said that we were not to bother them on their business. I am a loyal man to the Faith; I do not question decrees from the high priestess.”
Rafael did not know what he expected to learn on the whereabouts of the relic, and where it was bound, but the Voice’s decisions confused him more than Ser Johnathan’s strategy.
Surely they know we are in the Northlands. Even if they are unaware of the value we place upon the relic, to send it north still...
“What of the merchant Daskin?” Rafael inquired, pressing to learn more.
The magistrate shuffled his feet, and peered out the window. “What of him?”
“Are you woefully unaware of your predicament, Magistrate?” Rafael declared sternly, looking to his sentinels at the door. “Bare your steel, sentinels.”
“You promised safety!” the priest shouted, stepping towards the desk. “Do you have no honour?”
Dalians do like to bandy that word. “It is not my honour that has been compromised. I ask again: what of the merchant Daskin?”
The priest stared blankly. The magistrate stood in stubborn silence, fidgeting.
Let us see what sort of man you are, Magistrate.
“Yarin.”
The tall sentinel strode forward, shoving the magistrate aside, and cleanly thrusting his steel into the gut of the priest. Blood puddled on the ground, and Yarin pushed the dead priest away, cleaning his blade on the white robes.
I did not want this.
The priestesses cowered in corner, holding each other. Magistrate Wilson was on his rump, horror upon his face, hands shaking. “Y-you slew him!”
Rafael looked down at the magistrate, guilt churning inside. “Those priestesses in the corner. They know very little about this Daskin. You know of him, and where the man is.” He did not want to do this, nor did he enjoy it, but it was necessary. “What of the merchant Daskin?”
The magistrate lumbered to his feet, and staggered into Yarin. “Lord Commander asked you a question,” the sentinel remarked, pushing the large man back toward the desk.
Before the magistrate could speak, the door flung open, and Lucas pushed forward a scraggly, black haired man who held his hands together, rubbing them. Ashleigh followed behind. “We found him hidden. Not hidden well enough.”
“It took you this long to find this wretch?” Rafael asked. “Your mind and sword has need of a whetstone, Lucas.”
“Bloody rat knows the ins and outs of this town, Lord Commander,” Lucas declared brazenly. “There was a hidden door in some accursed alleyway. Rooted ‘im out, not the worse for the wear as you will see.”
“What concerns me is what he knows,” Rafael said as he glanced over to the magistrate, who eyed the newcomer with jarring familiarity. “Daskin, then. We have much to discuss.”
The newcomer moved hurriedly,
his eyes darting to and fro. “You are not Dalians.”
“No, we are not,” Rafael said, leaning forward. “We are from the imperium. You see the drawing in front of you. I need to know where that relic is.”
“You will never find it—”
“Daskin, you—” the magistrate crumbled to the floor in a heap. Lucas’s
left gauntlet dripped with blood.
“Do you see the dead priest, there, by the window?” Rafael asked, and Daskin leaned over and looked, though his frenetic temperament did not change at the sight. “That is the cost of disobedience, by you, or others. I would rather my time not be wasted.”
Daskin did not raise his eyes, speaking to the floor. “I saw it. My boys, they told me of it coming. I and the magistrate, we saw those knights.”
“Why would you be called to the affairs of knights?” Ashleigh asked, her brow knitted. “What does a merchant have to do with such affairs?”
“My lady sentinel,” the merchant stammered. “There is much that I see to. Naught goes north without my leave. I can get goods to places that others cannot. It is common for peddlers, priests—even knights—to seek my services, such as they are.”
“Did these knights ask for a guide?” Rafael asked.
“They did,” Daskin said. “They took me aside, they did. One of them. The man was enormous, spoke deep and guttural. He said to me, ‘the coasts are all but gone, we need a path through Sherin Forest.’
“’Sherin Forest?’ I asked him. ‘None passes through there and comes out alive. Every trader knows it is certain death. The coasts are much safer. No beasts. No feral frights. I can guide you through there.
“That did not please him. He breathed very heavy, Lord Commander, was it? Yes, he breathed heavy, and stared at me through those slits. Them eyes, they seemed inhuman to me. Then he spoke, ‘Sherin Forest. We know that you have braved the forest for Sebastien Tiron. A guide now.’
“I did not know what to say Lord Commander. It was true that there were many shipments from Dale to Serenity in the north. It was satchels of herbs, but no satchels weighed as heavy as these. I did not question it though. Sanctioned by the Voice, and all. Dispatched one of my lads, and informed the magistrate.”
Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1) Page 8
