Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Ryle was in the saddle and laying his heels into Grey’s sides before the cry faded.

  Grey leapt forward, alone. Lastrahn lagged behind. Ryle’s stomach roiled but and he forced himself to look back. The charger’s breath was labored and he limped heavily, favoring his right leg. Lastrahn urged him on to no avail.

  The fog billowed, writhing, surging around the trees. Black tendrils whipped up from the surface, churning and slicing the air. And above it, the eyeless terror swirled, surrounded by a glimmering storm of black eyes upon the wind.

  As one, they came, and the remaining threads of Ryle’s frayed nerves demanded he rush ahead, but Lastrahn’s dragging pace demanded he stay. Ryle gritted his teeth and reigned Grey in until he rode beside the champion.

  Lastrahn didn’t say a word this time; silent resignation cast his features in a stony mask. He probably knew the situation better than Ryle did. All Ryle saw ahead were more trees. All he heard behind were a hundred impossible creatures frantic to end their lives.

  Their horses’ hooves beat the forest floor in a broken rhythm. Ryle’s neck and back throbbed with every impact. Cracks and shrieks rang through the trees in their wake. Rushing closer with every passing moment.

  “Sir?” Ryle managed to gasp.

  As if his question had made up the champion’s mind, Lastrahn hunched his shoulders and heaved a sigh. “Here.” He tore some leather straps free and tossed Ryle his saddle bags and bedroll.

  Ryle caught them awkwardly. A bad feeling twisted his insides. “Sir?” Ryle asked again.

  Wet slapping sounds filled the air. The crashing of branches. The hiss of raging breaths.

  “Hang on tight.” Lastrahn leaned forward, made a soft noise and then something sharp flashed in the moonlight. His horse made a choking sound.

  Without warning Lastrahn was airborne.

  Ryle didn’t have time to curse before Lastrahn landed astride Grey’s haunches behind him. Grey, despite her smaller stature, barely stumbled as she took the champion’s weight.

  “Ride, dammit,” Lastrahn said.

  The champion’s charger snorted and tumbled to the ground.

  Ryle’s chest hurt, but he gave Grey the lightest kick and she bolted forward. He did his best not to hear the shriek of triumph as the beasts fell upon Lastrahn’s dying horse or the wet tearing sounds as they dug in.

  Eventually the sounds faded.

  The trees stretched on after that, but they were trees alone. Only Grey’s hoof falls and their breaths filled the silence.

  After a league, Lastrahn called a halt and hopped down. Ryle dismounted as well, giving Grey a much needed break. She had never slowed, but her sides heaved. He patted her neck and stroked her admirable flank.

  For an uncomfortable moment he thought Lastrahn would demand his mount, as was the champion’s right, but he only strode off. Ryle took Grey’s reins and set off after him.

  Silent hours passed, and eventually, as the sun clawed its way up over the lip of the world, they emerged from the trees.

  Ryle swung down from Grey, nearly fell, and then sagged there for a while looking over a world finally free of dark terrors and cold screams.

  Clumps of short, scrubby grass, yellowed by months of summer sun, spread before them. This wasn’t the Vita Valley, not yet, but it was still the first real grass he’d seen in a week. A puff of wind carrying dusty scents rolled up. He tore his mask free, took a deep breath, and sighed.

  After a couple minutes of rest, Lastrahn continued on and Ryle wearily followed him. A hundred paces later, they descended a slope and left the forest behind.

  He finally felt it safe to speak. “What the hex were those things?”

  “Power attracts other predators, scavengers. Things looking to snap up the scraps falling from her table.”

  Lastrahn said no more on the subject, and Ryle didn’t want to pursue it any further. They’d already made him draw his dagger and break one oath. If he ever thought of those hex blasted creatures or the terrifying woman at their heart again it would be too soon.

  A half hour later, they crested another rise and found themselves on the edge of a shallow valley. Near the western horizon, he spotted a house, and then another farther away. Between them, sagging structures, impossibly tall but drooping now, like giant, broken skeletons, soared over everything. These ancient remnants had survived all alone out here. Perhaps that was why people had settled here. Maybe some valuable bit of the past hung on.

  There had to be some good reason. They were far from the protection of any city or outpost to risk farming. City guards were generally useless, but they at least made attackers think twice. This might still be considered Murden land, but the nearest city of any strength lay at least a hundred leagues away.

  Out here bandits roamed thick as locust. He could name a half-dozen bands who usually frequented this area. Or at least had years before, if any of them had survived this long.

  A low wall encircled the farms, and a watchtower between the houses provided some protection, but the location wasn’t ideal. Hills to their north, and a long rise to the south would mask approaches from both directions. That’s how he’d do it. Creep in from the south and—He winced, some habits never really laid down and died, no matter how often he strangled them.

  Ryle hoped they would stop at those farms. Maybe barter breakfast, a bath, and a barn to crash in. He badly needed all three. His stomach ached and enough skin stung that it had become a constant background throb. At least he no longer felt blood flowing under his shirt.

  But Lastrahn steered them away. Ryle grudgingly let the idea go and trudged after him. Grey was tough, but she deserved a long break. She’d carried him, both of them, out of a hex of a situation.

  Half a league farther south, Lastrahn stopped atop a hillock in the yet standing corner of a tower. Down one side of the hill lay the smashed bits of an enormous pipe. Ryle couldn’t guess what it had been used for.

  The remains of a dozen fires marked the place as a stopping place for travelers. The reason everyone chose this spot soon became clear. A small well of fresh sweet water was dug into the top of the mound.

  The cold shock of it roused Ryle enough to get a small fire going. They were so hungry, neither of them wanted to wait for hot food, but after the chill of the forest they needed more warmth than the infantile sun yet provided. Huddled around the tiny flames, they chewed through their portions of jerky and hard biscuits without comment.

  With that done, Ryle drew water for Grey and dumped oats into her feed bag. By then, Lastrahn had dropped against one wall, and wrapped his coat about himself.

  “One hour,” Lastrahn said.

  Ryle found his blanket and collapsed by the fire. The world slipped away before his eyes fully closed.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, ain’t you?” Kilgren asked. He stood with Garn and Mirkther.

  In the cold hollow moment before dawn, the flames crackled behind the farmhouse’s windows. A body lay sprawled on the steps. Another a few paces away.

  The shadow of a figure, lined in flames, stood before it all. “You’re late,” the figure said in an icy voice.

  “Kil, what’s going on?” Ryle’s mother asked, voice straining.

  Behind them, the wagon they’d seized came to a stop with a groan. Horses stamped and neighed. Brux hopped down and came up beside Ryle’s mother.

  The figure peered at her then stepped into the light of Garn’s torch. The man was tall and lean. His face angular, his jaw pronounced. His head was bald, but stained crimson. His eyes were impossibly dark, but gleaming.

  A Praeter.

  Ryle’s mother gasped.

  “Who’s this?” the Praeter hissed.

  Kilgren shrugged. “You said do whatever it takes.”

  When the Praeter scowled, fear crawled up Ryle’s ribs.

  “Do you have it?” the Praeter asked.

  Kilgren smirked. “Of course.”

  Inside the ho
use, the flames grew brighter. Glass shattered. The structure groaned.

  The Praeter was still staring at Ryle’s mother. She swallowed, and her eyes dropped to the body in the dirt. They widened. “This place was supposed to be deserted!” She spun on Kilgren. “What is going on? And why is there a damn Praeter here?”

  Ryle distantly heard his heart pounding.

  “What’s it matter? I thought you just wanted to get paid,” Kilgren said.

  “Not with Praeter coins! You can’t give that to them.” She jerked her head toward the wagon. “You know what they’ll do with it!”

  Kilgren’s lip curled in a way Ryle had learned to fear. “Where do you think it came from in the first place? Besides, what’s it really matter? So we lower the surplus population a tiny bit. Boo damn hoo. You have no concept of what’s really going on. I’m wiping things clean. All of it.”

  “Kil—” Ryle’s mother started, but the farmhouse windows shattered. Glass exploded across the yard.

  Everyone ducked, but the Praeter didn’t flinch. “Time’s almost up,” he said. “And there aren’t enough inside. Not for them.”

  “I know,” Kilgren said. He was staring at his wife, his eyes distant.

  “You know what that means,” the Praeter said. “No threads can remain uncut.”

  “Better get to cutting then,” Kilgren said, and smiled. It was a ghastly, terrible smile. Like a skull stripped of flesh.

  The wagon creaked, and a sound like the wind through bare trees reached Ryle’s ears. A scream followed.

  The world tilted as Ryle spun. Golliette lay sprawled in the dirt, she stared, unblinking at the night sky. Delya slumped in the wagon seat. Lincy was screaming beside her. A figure moved in the wagon. A lean figure with a bald head. A nasty smile cut a white crescent through the shadow of their face.

  Fear suddenly rushed through Ryle like a winter wind. Stronger than he’d ever. He wanted to cower into the dirt. He barely managed to scramble for the knife at his belt. His fingers were so clumsy and slow.

  Too many sounds hit him at once. Screaming. Crackling flames. The groaning house. Garn barked a sharp laugh.

  Ryle yanked his dagger free.

  Brux gasped behind him, and Ryle spun back, unsure of where to look, of what to do.

  “I never liked you,” Kilgren said, shoving the bigger man off his knife. Brux’s blood coated Kilgren’s glowing hand, and the knife in it. Brux’s mace crashed to the dirt. His fingers twitched loosely before he followed his mace down.

  Ryle’s mother reached for her husband, screamed something. The Praeter loomed behind her.

  Ryle lost sight of her as fire roared up around him. He fell, smoke in his eyes, in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. He couldn’t see.

  Somewhere his mother was screaming.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ryle’s eyes snapped open on a smoldering campfire down to smoking ashes. He coughed, then coughed again as smoke poured across his face. His skin was damp with sweat, his clothes and blanket clung hot. His neck burned, and his shoulder ached. He sat up and swatted the smoke away.

  Sunlight glared into his face. He groaned and grasped his head between shaking hands. After that dream it might’ve been better to stay awake. With every step toward Kilgren the nightmares were getting stronger. As if he were walking back into his past. They hadn’t been this bad in years, and he still had leagues to go.

  Even if he survived long enough to find Kilgren, would that make a blasted bit of difference? Maybe the wounds were too deep. His sins too grave . . . Blast, but he just wanted his body to stop shaking like he was a kid again.

  Bloody images kept flickering past. And now, Kilgren wasn’t even the worst of them. Those black eyes were burning into him again. Torchlight gleaming across his shiny bald head. He rubbed his thumb across the scar on his palm, and forced air in and out, trying to use the Professor’s techniques to beat the fear back.

  Maybe it was this place, the farms, or maybe Judith had touched him more deeply than he thought. Throughout all his darkest memories his mind had been wise enough, or frightened enough, to not conjure images of him. The Praeters eyes collapsed to dark pits again. Another wave of fear blasted through Ryle and he gasped.

  Muck sucking bastard.

  It was about that time Ryle remembered where he was, and who was with him. His head snapped up.

  Lastrahn sat against the wall, flask in hand, his eyes hidden in the shadows of his cowl. Only his were lips visible, and they twisted in what might’ve been a smirk, or a smile. Ryle couldn’t tell.

  He desperately hoped he hadn't talked in his sleep. “Sir—”

  A short chop of Lastrahn’s hand cut him off. His master pointed up over the wall, then took another drink.

  Ryle was in no mood to move, but he forced himself from his blankets and crept forward with the closest thing to stealth his stiff limbs could manage. At the wall he peeked over the top.

  A hundred paces away, a pair of wagons and a line of a dozen horsemen moved north along the plain. They were all armed.

  Ryle cursed under his breath as he pushed through the clinging dregs of sleep, and took stock. Swords, shields, spears, and many bows, both recurved and flat. Bits of mismatched armor.

  They could’ve been hunters, or some local militia, but they weren’t. He knew that before he saw the skulls dangling from the wagons’ wooden sides, or the stained tarp straining over a large, uneven object in one wagon. From the outline it was apparent that an engine of war lurked beneath.

  Ryle’s temples throbbed as he searched for an indication as to the bandits’ allegiance. Then he found it, a four-headed snake crudely stitched across the back of a couple jerkins. The Basilisk Brotherhood. A bunch of dirty backstabbing louts. Just the sort disgusting Garn or ugly Kot would’ve signed on with if Kilgren hadn’t found them first. Not the smartest bunch, but the kind who’d club you in the head just in case you had something worth taking.

  Their target out here was all too clear, and they were coming from the south. The farm watchmen would never see them coming. It was just as he would have done if—he slammed the door on that thought.

  Ryle ducked behind the wall, cursing under his breath as he worked through his options. He and Lastrahn would have a hex of a time against that many men. Especially as they had only one horse between them, and he still had no sword. He returned to Lastrahn’s side. “What’s the plan to handle these scum, Sir?”

  Lastrahn took another drink. “Take a seat.”

  “Sir?”

  Lastrahn’s posture didn’t change. He took another swig from his flask. Ryle reluctantly crouched beside him.

  “I thought you were listening back in that parlor.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then tell me where we’re going.”

  What the hex was this? He wanted to discuss things now?

  “To Del’atre, Sir.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Ryle pictured the bandits closing on the farms with each passing moment. If he and Lastrahn had a chance to stop these bastards they had to move before they gained too much ground.

  Lastrahn continued to wait.

  Kilgren. Vastroth. Gearspire. The idea was insane. Even for Lastrahn. Even for the House of Reckoning.

  The Professor’s precise words echoed in Ryle’s ear, don’t swing in the dark, and don’t guess. Know, always know.

  “You’re following Kilgren to Del’atre.” Maybe it was the exhaustion, but the flare of heat at his father’s name felt small inside his chest.

  Another swig. “That much was obvious. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

  Ryle was paying attention enough to notice Judith almost killing the champion. He kept his voice calm and moved on to the insane part. “You’re looking for information on Gearspire. Because you’re planning to ride there and enter the tower.”

  A small nod. “Then you understand why you’ll stay put and shut the hell up.”

&nb
sp; A cold sweat broke out along Ryle’s brow and it had nothing to do with Lastrahn’s rebuke. The faint sound of the bandit’s horses had faded. They’d soon prepare for their assault. This wasn’t like Patton. They weren’t too late. Not yet. “Sir, those people out there.”

  Lastrahn’s lips twisted. “You know about Gearspire. You know what it is. You know who dwells there.”

  “Sir—”

  “Tell me.”

  They didn’t have time for this!

  “Gearspire is a huge tower in the west, at the edge of the Blastlands overlooking Helador. Its design is supposed to be complex beyond the understanding of all men except Vastroth. He unlocked the tower’s secrets and now dwells there. That’s what I know, Sir.”

  The plain remained quiet. Would they hear anything when the bandits attacked? The idea carved out Ryle’s innards like a cold knife. His mouth felt dry.

  “Tell me about Vastroth.”

  Minutes slipped away, draining Ryle’s energy. He collapsed back against the wall. Words came to his lips on their own. “I’ve heard dark stories. Rumor has it he’s a sorcerer. He can cut down foes with a word, spread winter with a touch.”

  Lastrahn nodded. “Stories often begin in truth. What else?”

  Why was Lastrahn forcing him to recite all this? What could he possibly hope to gain? Meanwhile the bandits closed on the farms, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Ryle clenched his fists tight, felt the scar against his fingernails. One more reminder of his failures. “He once had friends in the Directorate, but was later exiled. He traveled west, maybe all the way into the Blasts. Eventually he unlocked Gearspire and settled there. They say he rides an actual wyvern.”

  “A black one, and the only one I know of outside the Blasts,” Lastrahn said.

  At any other time Ryle would’ve been curious over that comment, but right then every word was another reminder of their inaction. “Everyone says he destroyed the peace summit at Helador.” He shouldn’t have said it, but the words slipped out. Maybe an accident, more likely because he was beyond tired of Lastrahn’s inane questions.

  The champion turned his head then so Ryle could see his eyes. They burned as they fell on him. “Then there is no misunderstanding. You know who we face. You know what he’s done.”