Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

The nearest soldiers lay sprawled a half dozen paces away, as if cast down upon the stones. Kot lay awkwardly among them. If he still breathed it was with very shallow breaths. Ryle hoped not.

  Lastrahn straightened as he approached, but it looked like the hitching post did most of the work keeping him upright.

  “Sir?” Ryle asked.

  “I’m fine,” Lastrahn said roughly.

  Ryle doubted that. A sheen coated the champion’s face and even in the poor light he could tell some of it was from blood. “What happened?”

  “Sons of bitches tried to ambush me,” he said.

  “No, what happened to them?” Ryle gestured to the nearest body. He thought it was smoking.

  Lastrahn shrugged, but his eyes looked uncertain.

  A door opened, the sounds of the party swelled. Ryle winced before he heard the expected words.

  “What in the hell? Hey! Get out here! There are bodies!”

  Sounds of screeching instruments and raised voices followed.

  Lastrahn shoved off the post, swayed, but stayed upright. Ryle took a half step to help him before his master’s glare killed that idea. “We have to go,” Lastrahn said.

  The sour smell of every drink Lastrahn had consumed washed off of him, overwhelming the harsh scent in the air. Ryle had expected as much, but a fainter scent caught his nose. For a heartbeat he smelled lavender coming off Lastrahn’s coat.

  Ryle frowned.

  “Now!” Lastrahn started for the inn, angling away from the main doors. Ryle dropped the borrowed sword and hurried after him. He wasn’t about to start stealing again over some hunk of cheap steel.

  Townsfolk were rapidly filling the courtyard. Most making horrified sounds.

  They didn’t have much time before—

  “Someone get the guards!”

  “You have two minutes to clear your room and meet me in the stables,” Lastrahn snapped.

  Ryle’s stomach twisted, but he wasn’t about to argue. Sounds of alarm were going up, pounding feet were rushing away to get help that would soon be asking very pointed questions they didn’t have time to answer. The only certainty in his mind, as he ducked around the corner of the inn, was they had another hard night ahead.

  CHAPTER 18

  They slipped out of Taggerloft in the predawn dark via the eastern gate. A bottle of liquor produced by Lastrahn had displaced the sleepy Murden guards’ mistrust long enough for them to open the doors.

  Ryle doubted they’d remain as calm when they heard that Xaviel had violated the neutrality of the town’s central hill.

  Xaviel, or whoever the hex was working for them now thanks to Kilgren.

  He wished they didn’t have to leave town so quickly. After seeing Kot and Hepa, he was certain Kilgren had sent men into Xaviel’s ranks. His mad fingerprints were all over it. Something was going on here, and once again Ryle couldn’t do a blasted thing about it.

  As they turned south onto the plain, the town lights blazed against their backs, smashing their shadows into the inky void ahead.

  South. Oh, muck.

  Ryle bit his tongue for a minute before forcing himself to speak. Lastrahn was going to love this. “They know we’re riding south, Sir.” Or they would once they asked the right drunken woman.

  Lastrahn’s head turned a fraction. Despite the near total dark he’d pulled his cowl up after they left the city and now rode, swaying atop his new mount. A silent, grim monolith in the night.

  Ryle braced himself for the cursing he’d receive, but Lastrahn only jerked his horse to the right, steering them west toward Xaviel lands. It was either suicidal or brilliant. Ryle followed without comment.

  As the minutes passed, Ryle’s thoughts wandered back through the dark. To the end of the fight in the courtyard. Lastrahn had been in a bad way and then a moment later all his opponents were down. He was possibly the most dangerous fighter in the realm, but Ryle couldn’t reconcile the two moments. The strange smell and loud crack stood out in his mind. What in the hex had happened?

  And why did he smell like lavender?

  Ryle kept glancing back into the dark, watching the town’s lights dwindle. Soldiers, only some deserving of it, lay dead or wounded. Joyous townsfolk were now a mob. All because of them. Because of Lastrahn. He expected to see torches spring up on their trail like a swarm of sword wielding fireflies, but they never did.

  Dawn found them resting their horses in the lee of a small fold upon the plain. By some stretch of fate, both horses had escaped the dark with no broken legs or thrown shoes.

  If Ryle had had any questions about their location, the flat morning light stripped them away.

  Taggerloft had remained intact. This place had not. The shattered remains of a dozen farms, divided by narrow roads and stands of burned trees dotted the landscape. Churned, smashed fields filled the space between them.

  They were at the edge of what had once been Xaviel’s borders. Somewhere around here, their most recent conflict with Murden had ended two years before. The last battles before the dispute burned out. Literally. Rumor had it Vastroth was involved there as well. That he forced both sides to go home or he’d sort it out himself.

  What had once been a point of contention between two Houses now lay in ruin, abandoned by both sides as their influence waned. Like patches in a quilt pulling apart. Leaving dark gaps and torn stitches behind. And it had only grown worse as Kraczaw took forces west, leaving even more spaces outside of anyone’s control. Leaving more space for the Kilgrens of the world.

  Looking out at the broken plain, Ryle had never felt the fourth day of the festival so clearly, the Day of Decision. A small group had long ago decided that they could no longer go on living down in the dark. That ten generations since the Rending was long enough. They had decided to escape the holdfasts, and see the land above.

  Xaviel and Murden, for much less noble reasons had torn this land apart again. Had made a decision that caused the surrounding ruin. In this choice he saw no reason, no winner, only madness.

  Their ancestors had crawled back out from beneath the ground, longing to see the world they’d left behind. Centuries of strife endured below ground and then centuries more above rebuilding. And for what? For this destruction? Two years of food gone while people starved. Two years of families homeless while boats of new settlers arrived every day.

  If Xaviel and Murden, and later Vastroth at Helador, had proved anything, it was that a few mad men pulling the strings could bring everything crashing down. And they had so many bastards to choose from. His father right there among them. Ryle was too tired and disgusted to shudder.

  A flock of dark birds, probably crows, rose in the distance. Their black wings, swirling and blurring against the gray morning sky, matched his mood. His eyes felt like they were full of sand, his skin was sticky with dried sweat and blood. He splashed water across his face. It didn’t help.

  Lastrahn remained silent. His cowl was still up and his goggles had joined it as the sun rose. He gnawed a strip of jerky where he crouched against the earth.

  Ryle swallowed the last of his biscuit, and though his palms sweated, he forced himself to break the fragile silence. He couldn’t take another six hours of churning thoughts. “What happened, Sir?”

  Some unseen bird, chirping out on the plain, was the only response he received.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  Lastrahn spit a glob of half chewed jerky into the grass. “Cut the shit.” He took a sip from his canteen. “This doesn’t change anything.” Lastrahn didn’t sound out of it any more. “You did your job. Good for you. Don’t expect me to clap.” Lastrahn’s goggles couldn’t conceal his stare. “You keep doing your job, and stop making stupid mistakes like giving away our damned route, then maybe someday you’ll be more than a snot-nosed wannabe with a mark on his hand and a chip on his shoulder.”

  Ryle felt hot, cold, and hollowed out all at the same time. It took an effort to keep his hands from clenching. At that moment, he didn’t
much care if Lastrahn was a champion. Yeah, he’d made another mistake, but however mad Lastrahn was, the champion hadn’t saved his own ass. Maybe Ryle hadn’t saved him either, and maybe he didn’t know what the hex had happened back in town, but Lastrahn hadn’t escaped on his own.

  “You haven’t earned shit yet. Don’t you forget it,” Lastrahn added.

  Ryle’s head throbbed with pain and anger. He’d asked for this opportunity, but he was getting blasted tired of Lastrahn holding it over his head at every turn. His breath hissed through his teeth. Lastrahn’s gaze didn’t waver.

  The champion was never going to thank him. For anything. That was clear. He thought maybe he’d at least earned a break in the abuse. Then again, did any of that muck matter? Did he deserve any better? He had a lifetime of sins to make up for, and no other way to do it.

  Besides, after their narrow escape in Taggerloft, no matter what Lastrahn had said, the champion might just need Ryle if he was going to save the rest of the blasted realm from the destruction around them.

  Ryle swallowed his pain and pride. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then finish eating, and shut the hell up until I say otherwise,” Lastrahn said and fell silent.

  At some point around mid-day, after Lastrahn turned them south-east, they crossed from Xaviel land into Del’atre’s territory.

  There was no border, but the charred grass gave way to green, and bustling farms replaced the crumbling husks. Soon those farms multiplied until they carpeted the land in patches of lush green and golden brown.

  They’d reached the edge of the Vita’s abundant influence. Soon they’d begin their descent into the fertile valley that ran along its banks.

  A little while later, as the sun slid past its apex, a patrol emerged from the Southern horizon. At least twenty-five armed and armored soldiers, riding north along a narrow track. The blue and green pennant of Del’atre snapping from a raised spear told Ryle that, for once, they weren’t raiders.

  Instead of hailing the patrol, Lastrahn led them behind a stand of trees, where they waited for the force to pass. Ryle didn’t bother asking why.

  The rest of the day remained much the same. Grim, tense, silent. They avoided farms and patrols alike, and pushed their horses and themselves to the brink and stayed there. That night, they didn’t make camp until thick clouds obscured the moon. There was no fire.

  Ryle collapsed in his blankets, spent to his bones, sore to his soul. He was glad when sleep took him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Ryle couldn’t breathe. A silken cord crushed the life from his throat.

  Above him, dancing firelight gleamed off the Praeter’s bald head, masking her face in shadows. Her eyes burned bright, her slice of ivory smile never wavered.

  Ryle’s dagger was gone, lost in the dark. His hands clawed against the cord in her grip. His feet scrabbled in the dirt. Escape eluded him as the sounds of fighting raged in the distance.

  The dead and dying surrounded him. He’d seen Lincy, his mother’s best friend fall before the taller Praeter; the thin man smiled when he cleaved her head from her shoulders. Garn had clubbed Brux to death when he tried to rise, blood from the gash Kilgren had made still pouring down his chest.

  Of his mother or his father, there was now no sign. Ryle might be the last. And he was failing. His hands felt weak, and clumsy. Sounds faded, light followed. Quiet dark beckoned.

  Then a voice he knew. Ryle pulled his eyes open.

  His mother rose out of the dark above the Praeter. Silver flashed in her hand. She’d found Ryle’s dagger somewhere and pressed it to the Praeter’s throat.

  “Let my son go,” she hissed.

  The Praeter’s grip loosened. Ryle tried to gasp a warning, but found no air.

  The Praeter snapped her head back into his mother’s face. She cried out, fell. But dropped Ryle’s knife, and he caught it.

  When the Praeter turned back, he drove the dagger through her skull with both hands. She didn’t have time to look surprised, only fell limp across him. Ryle gasped, finally sucking air down his bruised throat.

  Hands pulled the body free, and his mother scooped him up. Her cheek was bruised, but she smiled and hugged him close long enough for him to one draw one long breath with his face buried in her soft hair. Then she was ripped away.

  Kilgren’s laughter filled his head. Ryle scrambled up on empty legs, ripped his dagger free of the Praeter’s skull and chased after his parents.

  He was always a step behind.

  CHAPTER 20

  They reached Del’atre after a day of hot, dirty riding. A sea of humanity stretched to the horizon beneath a smoky haze.

  Thousands had flocked to the city’s wealth over the years, or been sent here from the east. When the jagged peninsula that held the city could no longer contain them, they’d settled as close as they could. This had resulted in at least a league of buildings filling the plain with no discernible plan other than squeezing in next to their neighbors.

  Beyond this jumbled chaos, situated on the final fork of the Vita River—the grand tributary that bisected the realm running from its Directorate controlled head waters in the east to the frontier in the west—rose Del’atre itself. Packed into the collapsed remains of a mountain that extended southwest into the river, the yet-standing crater walls and remaining spires of rock formed the city’s defenses. Tucked out of sight beyond them, the city itself would descend down toward the great bay.

  From such a distance, only the highest points of the city were visible. A hill rose at the center of the city, the old heart of the mountain Ryle supposed. Mansions filled its crown, and rows of inns and apartments lined the slopes below. To the east, tight against the river, soared the largest of the city’s three fortresses. The Father Anvil, as it was called. Dark and brooding, the enormous building, carved from the largest spire of the old mountain, loomed over the river, sheltering the city behind its iron girth.

  His mother had described Del’atre as, “Brilliant chaos concentrated into its purest, most enchanting essence.” After hearing her speak of the place he thought he knew what to expect, that he understood what he and Lastrahn faced. He was wrong. It was all he could do not to stare.

  “Few cities are like old Del’atre,” Lastrahn said.

  “I thought it would be bigger,” Ryle said, forgetting his irritation with his master.

  The books described the city as large and confusing, but what Ryle could see in the distance looked small, if impossibly crowded. The peninsula couldn’t measure longer than a league in any direction. The remains of the crater upon it, maybe half that.

  “Del’atre is bigger than it looks. The city only shows you what it wants you to see.”

  “How will we find Hartv—him, in all of that, Sir?”

  “With someone that powerful, locating him isn’t the problem. Reaching him is another matter.”

  “What’s the plan for that?”

  Lastrahn’s eyes remained on the city. “Get ready,” he said.

  Instead of dwelling on his typical lack of an answer, Ryle adjusted the last of their acquisitions from Taggerloft, a worn and stained cloak, across his back. Lastrahn already wore a similar, if larger, garment, and Exequor was wrapped and tied along the side of his saddle.

  Ryle pulled his hood a little further over his face and grimaced. The thing itched and stunk of stale sweat and something like wet dog. He did his best to ignore it.

  Lastrahn’s insistence on secrecy confused him, especially here. Since the earliest days, Del’atre had housed a bastion for the House of Reckoning. He’d been bracing himself to ride in there, where fate only knew how many people might know of him. Instead Lastrahn had insisted they enter the city concealed.

  It could mean any number of things. Dissension in the ranks. Traitors. Or maybe Lastrahn, having been gone for so long, simply didn’t know what awaited him in the city. Whatever the reason, Ryle had to keep his eyes open. He had the distinct feeling their mission would grow only more complex o
nce they entered the crowded streets ahead.

  Was he ready? Was it possible to be ready for this?

  “Ready, Sir.”

  Smoke from hundreds of cooking fires filled Ryle’s nose and blurred his vision as they rode in among the tangled maze of rickety walls. Every few houses he had to duck to avoid the clothes lines strung between them. Smudge-faced children peered through gaping windows. Ratty dogs, and a few cats, darted around the legs of their horses. Lastrahn’s mount shied more than once.

  Everything stood in a confusing jumble. Pale new timber mixed with burned wood, rusted metal, and slag heaps of stone. Sometimes all three on the same building.

  Most structures didn’t even look permanent. More than once, Ryle saw what had recently been a wagon, serving as a residence, storefront, or bar. One shack was constructed of old tables tops nailed to one another. Then, to throw everything off, he’d see a full two or three story house planted amidst the transient chaos. As if it had washed there on a tide of scattered junk and never pulled free.

  A single road, the last stretch of the Main Road, led to the city. A couple lines of wagons, surrounded by hard-looking riders, rumbled along to one side. Foot traffic filled the rest of the space. Most of the travelers looked worn and tired as they shuffled along.

  The stink of rot, sweat, and human waste filled the air as Lastrahn led them through whatever passages he could find. Some narrow, others clogged with refuse. Ryle breathed through his mouth to keep from gagging. More than a few voices called after them, offering food or guidance in exchange for coins. Others watched with hard eyes, fingering the hilts of their daggers and the hafts of their spears. They all looked away after a glance. There was easier prey elsewhere.

  The further they rode, the more beggars appeared. Young and old, some crippled or wounded, each with a bowl or hands extended. Ryle sensed other’s behind him. His heart went out to them, but he had no coins or time to spare.

  Del’atre was not a walled city per se—the river provided most of its defense, and the ancient shell of the crater the rest—but a wall had been erected across the crack in the mountainside where the peninsula joined the mainland via a thin, crooked stretch of land. A narrow gate at the center of the wall controlled access into the city.