Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  He’d gotten close. So blasted close. He’d almost found him.

  Balrod leaned in and growled, “You took my holiday. I’m taking your pretty face.” He reared back, aimed his club for Ryle’s head.

  At least the end wouldn’t hurt like the rest of his life.

  A vicious grin stretched Balrod’s face and he drove the iron for Ryle’s skull.

  “Time!” Lastrahn’s voice rang with command through the cavernous space.

  At some point Ryle had closed his eyes. When he opened them all he saw was the burning shape of the iron club a finger’s width from his forehead. His sweating skin was baked dry in the waves of heat pouring from it. He dangled there, admiring the craftsmanship of the old weapon until Balrod released his grip and Ryle splashed to the floor.

  “Yes, time,” Hartvau’s voice echoed Lastrahn’s, but he didn’t sound pleased.

  Ryle sagged against the pillar, coughing and spitting up blood and wished everything would stop hurting. He eventually realized some of the ringing in his head was the roar of the crowd. Their man had won, after all. Maybe he had accomplished his goal. Though at the moment he couldn’t remember exactly what that was.

  Hartvau’s voice cut through the din. “Ladies and gentlemen, did you enjoy the show?” More clinking of glasses and wild cheering followed. “What a tremendous display from these warriors!” Enthusiasm returned to his voice as he heard his guests’ approval. “Our young warrior from the north fought to a draw. A feat against such seasoned opponents. Three on one to the bell. The Del hasn’t seen such a spectacle in years.” Ryle was present enough to know Hartvau was laying it on thick. Only a madman would count that as a draw, but the crowd ate it up.

  “Food and drink are coming around, and the band will start playing soon. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” With that, Hartvau disappeared into the crowd on the balcony. Applause followed.

  Be entertaining. Somehow Ryle had survived and pleased the crowd. He hoped it was all worth it. He forced his head up, looked around for Lastrahn.

  As the applause faded, a gruff voice filled the space left behind.

  “A draw? I almost killed him!” Balrod, stood below the balcony, yelling up at the rich guests. “Everyone saw it.”

  Hartvau reemerged, his pale face stiff. “Ten minutes, Balrod. He lasted ten minutes against you. Bloodied you in fact. You must admit that’s an accomplishment.”

  The crowd murmured their agreement.

  Balrod spat, eyes wide. “He scratched me because I toyed with him. If I wanted him dead, you’d be cleaning that boy up with a sponge!”

  The crowd murmured again, not all of the voices disagreeing. It hurt to admit it, but Ryle didn’t know if he could’ve matched him even if he fought first.

  “Why didn’t I fight Lastrahn? You can see I’m shaking at the thought of facing him.”

  Whispers and whistles flowed around the area.

  Hartvau raised his hands. “Balrod, you’ve had your match.”

  “That wasn’t a match! This whelp doesn’t deserve to clean my boots. I still want a fight. A real fight. I want Lastrahn!” Balrod’s hands were shaking, his eyes strained in his face. Black spittle flecked his beard.

  The crowd roared at this comment.

  Where was Lastrahn?

  Soon the throng carried Lastrahn’s name along in an echoing chant. Balrod waved his arms egging them on.

  A moment later the crowd quieted. Lastrahn stood on the balcony beside Hartvau.

  Balrod spread his arms wide. “The man of the hour. You up for a fight, champion? Or does your aide do all your fighting so can drink, and screw little girls?”

  The intake of breath from the audience was audible.

  Lastrahn’s face didn’t show anger, or even concern, and he didn’t so much as look in Ryle’s direction.

  Bastard.

  “Then again, maybe you don’t have it anymore. Is that it? You as old and broken down as I’ve heard?”

  Ryle’s head floated, detached and ringing, and the past week spooled out like a ball of yarn. What had Lastrahn done? Intimidated a bunch of thugs, bribed a bunch of others. Ambushed a few soldiers. Then he’d nearly gotten killed in a drunken brawl.

  In fact, had there been a day when he hadn’t seen Lastrahn drinking? And hadn’t the champion been drinking with Hartvau only moments before?

  Lastrahn glanced at the crowd still brimming over with energy. Were his eyes glassy? Lastrahn looked to Hartvau. The dark haired man shrugged and stepped back.

  Ryle swallowed and his damaged throat ached. Drailey had said Lastrahn wasn’t the same. Hex, he’d never been what Ryle expected, not really. What had happened to him at Helador?

  Lastrahn leapt off the balcony, and landed the four pace drop in a crouch. When he stood water trailed from his fingertips, his hair hung loose about his face. The move was impressive, but had he stumbled a hair as he rose? Fear rolled up from Ryle’s guts.

  Balrod snarled. Lastrahn ignored him and retrieved Ryle’s sword from where it had landed. He flicked the water from the blade with a sharp snap of his wrist, and checked the balance. He grimaced.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was dealing with,” Ryle muttered to himself. Then watched anxiously along with the rest of the crowd as Lastrahn faced Balrod across the pool.

  Lamplight glimmered across the water’s rippling surface. Dancing patterns wavered along the arched stone ceiling, across Lastrahn and his opponent. Ryle hadn’t noticed before, he was busy staying alive, but the setting was magical. At that point he noted he’d probably lost too much blood.

  Through the haze crowding the edges of his vision, Ryle watched the two warriors square off. For a long moment no one moved. The crowd didn’t breathe. The room froze with tension.

  When Lastrahn spoke, his words were clear. “Get ready. Your real fight is coming.”

  Balrod smiled his wide, vicious smile and swept his club out behind him in a wide arc through the water. Steam rose around his massive legs.

  The champion’s long steps were casual, assured as he crossed the pond. He looked in control. The sword in his hand swung loose by his side as if he strolled along a beach. Balrod crouched, ready. Ryle stopped breathing along with the crowd.

  As Lastrahn stepped into range, Balrod snarled and whipped his club down over his head. The strike was a blur with all of Balrod’s strength behind it. Ryle’s chest seized. Lastrahn had misjudged the distance.

  Balrod missed.

  Ryle couldn’t tell how. Lastrahn didn’t dodge and Balrod’s aim looked true, but somehow it wasn’t. The blow slammed down a hairs breadth in front of Lastrahn. The impact was still echoing through the chamber when Lastrahn planted one foot atop the club, the other on Balrod’s thigh, and buried his sword hilt-deep through the big man’s throat.

  Ryle blinked.

  Lamplight gleamed along the steel now protruding from the back of Balrod’s neck. Lastrahn twisted the blade over with a turn of his wrist. The handle of the giant’s iron club splashed into the water. A hiss of steam rose from where it fell.

  As blood gurgled from between Balrod’s lips, Lastrahn heel turned on the man’s leg and hopped down. Balrod pawed at his throat, and fell over in a heap.

  The crowd was silent, too stunned to cheer or speak. Hopefully they’d remember to breathe at some point.

  Apparently Lastrahn hadn’t lost it. At all.

  The champion crouched in front of Ryle, and shook his head. “Well, that was something.”

  “I think it deserves couple bandages,” Ryle said with a thick tongue.

  Lastrahn pulled him to his feet. Men rushed from the crowd toward Balrod’s twitching corpse. The champion nodded toward them. “You should’ve just done that.” A smirk rode his face.

  Maybe it was the blood loss, or the adrenaline dump, or the insane situation he’d put Ryle through, but he really wanted to punch his master square in the face.

  He settled for passing out.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ry
le’s skin was hot. His bones were cold. Pain ran up and down his arm in pulsing waves. He couldn’t feel his fingers.

  He opened his eyes.

  A man crouched before him in the darkness, the dying flames cast his silhouette in shifting crimson. He stared down at a stiff figure in the dirt, but now, he looked up and the light fell on Kilgren’s face; his eyes burned like the flames. “You’re worthless. You know that? I mean look at what you’ve done to her. Such a damn waste, and it’s all your fault.”

  Ryle’s eyes were too dry to shed any more tears. His guts too hollow to move. His mother’s body in the dirt didn’t stir.

  “But you know what?” Kilgren asked. “I blame himself. I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

  A silver blade filled his hand and his shape filled the darkness. Fire, and blood, and steel. Burning eyes. The sharp edge of his knife cut the night.

  “Someone’s coming.” Mirkther’s lean, scarred face. Eyes cold and emotionless as a corpse.

  “So?” The blade hovered at Ryle’s throat. He closed his eyes, and welcomed the sharp pain. Doubted he’d feel it at all.

  “It’s the House of Reckoning,” Mirkther said.

  Kilgren snorted, and the steel kissed Ryle’s skin, promising an end. “Useless fools.”

  “Lastrahn’s leading them.”

  The knife, froze. Icy cold. Ryle willed himself to push into it, to end it now. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

  “How far?” Kilgren’s voice carried a tone Ryle had rarely heard.

  “Not far enough.”

  “Our clients?”

  “The surviving one? Already gone. He took the cylinders and the body.”

  Ryle’s moment of release passed. The knife was gone.

  “What about him?” Mirkther asked.

  “Leave him to die with his bitch of a mother. They deserve each other,” Kilgren said.

  Laughter faded. The world faded. Ryle’s pain faded. Everything slipped away, but a single name branded into his thoughts. A name that caused fear among the fearless. A name that madmen fled before.

  A named Ryle had once feared.

  A name he could use.

  A name he had to find.

  Lastrahn.

  CHAPTER 37

  Water dripped in the dark. Voices echoed on stone.

  “He’s looking better.”

  “He’ll live. Give me that jar.”

  Cool fingers moved along Ryle’s side. Something warm touched his skin. Something that stung. He groaned and opened his eyes. Flickering light threw dancing shadows across a brick ceiling.

  Bricks . . . the cistern?

  He groaned again and sat up. Or tried to.

  A firm hand stopped him. “Wait,” a woman commanded.

  He was too tired to argue. The fingers kept moving, the sting faded. Something sticky and tight stretched across his side.

  “Alright,” the woman said. “He’s patched up. I’d say plenty of water and rest, but I’d be wasting my breath with your sort. So at least keep him from doing anything like that again for a few days until he pulls himself back together.”

  With teeth gritted, Ryle sat up far enough to brace himself on an elbow. His head pounded with every heartbeat, and his shoulders ached in protest. He squinted his eyes against the pain.

  He lay on a padded table in a small brick room almost identical to the one he’d occupied before the fight. A lamp sitting on a table covered in instruments, bandages, and bowls, lit the space. He looked down to inspect his wounds and found himself naked.

  He gasped and covered himself with one hand, and gasped again as fire shot through his wrist. As much as it hurt, he kept his hand in place while he searched for something to cover himself.

  The woman laughed. “Men. Only bashful when it’s cold out. I’ve seen it all before, you know.”

  A tall, ebony skinned woman with short black hair stood at the end of the table wiping her hands on a white cloth. She wore khaki pants, and crisp white jacket. Her outfit, and the golden cross with a wavy horizontal bar pinned to her lapel, said she was a mediker.

  Amusement lit her eyes. Ryle blushed. He didn’t know if her being his mother’s age made it better or worse.

  “Good for you,” Ryle muttered, and pulled a towel from the table over himself.

  She laughed again and tossed the cloth she’d been using into the corner where it joined a pile of others, most of them bloody. He didn’t have to guess whose blood stained them.

  Lastrahn, seated in the opposite corner, and dressed his great black coat again, snorted. “You might be experienced, Glad, but I don’t know if he is.”

  Ryle’s face lit like a furnace, but her name rang a bell in his head. Not that his skull needed any more ringing. This was the mediker that Drailey had mentioned.

  Hex of a small world. With more than a little hissing and gasping, he turned his back on them to inspect his wounds.

  She knew her business. He’d been bandaged enough times to know. Weave wraps were wound tightly around his left biceps and across his hip. After training with the Professor he was all too familiar with them. They were uncomfortable and expensive, but their unique composition would help his body stitch back together. The wounds pulled when he moved, but they felt secure, and hurt a lot less than he’d expected. She must’ve given him something to dull the pain.

  He was especially relieved to find that his right arm still felt intact. His wrist ached, but he could wiggle his fingers, and make a fist, if he gritted his teeth. Doing that hurt too, maybe even worse than his wrist. Probing with his fingers revealed a swollen, misshapen feeling across half his face. Chewing would be fun for a few days. But the hollow ache in his chest stood out more than anything. Balrod, the disaster at the end. Had they lost their chance at the meeting? He tried to remember those last moments, but a painful, smeary blur came back. He glanced over his shoulder. Lastrahn’s face gave nothing away.

  Ryle swallowed that worry and looked for his clothes. She hadn’t been kidding about the cold. Goosebumps stood out along his skin.

  His pants and small clothes were a piled in with the bloody rags, but his shirt, jacket, and a new pair of pants lay folded at the foot of the table. More importantly he found Casyne’s pendant laying atop them. He slipped it over his head and held it gently for a moment before getting dressed. Each motion generated a brand new ache or pain, but he eventually made it.

  The pants were too big by a fair bit, but they were clean and functional. His shirt still demanded a wash, and his jacket was a dusty, scuffed mess, but at least he wasn’t naked any more.

  He found his boots beside the table and shoved his feet into their battered interiors, then stood, and his body immediately collapsed beneath him. Only by hanging on to the table did he keep himself upright. After a couple minutes, while the mediker watched with concern, Ryle managed a couple steps. As he carefully planted one foot after the next, the events of the past few hours came back to him, and fresh anger filled his chest.

  He’d had enough dark rooms and bizarre inhabitants. He ignored Lastrahn, and staggered toward the door. He wanted fresh air and open sky, even if it was the one above Del’atre. He made it three steps before the mediker cleared her throat and cut his trip short.

  “Easy, bruiser. Give yourself a few minutes.” She pointed toward a small table beside Lastrahn.

  A cloth covered bowl sat there, and Ryle smelled chicken and herbs. His neglected stomach answered the call. Ryle lowered himself into the chair across from Lastrahn. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, Glad’s look said he wasn’t leaving until she said so. The flat look in Lastrahn’s eyes grated against the hot feeling inside his breastbone. He turned to the food and did his best to ignore the champion.

  Beneath the cloth was a bowl of fatty chicken soup, a cup of water, and a smaller, empty bowl. Glad was clearly a veteran mediker.

  He took a couple deep breaths of the steam rising from the bowl, then lifted the cup of water to his lips. The water both
stung and felt wonderful in his mouth, but he knew better than to drink it. He swished it around and spat a bloody mess into the empty bowl. He repeated this until the water came out clean, then he downed the rest. Glad produced another and took the nasty bowl away. He drained that cup too and started in on the soup. The salty broth stung his mouth even more, but tasted as good as it smelled. Only the scalding temperature made him slow down and sip each spoonful. After a bit his stomach loosened its grip on his spine.

  Once he was eating, Glad packed her instruments into a black leather case. “Hartvau seemed pleased when he came to see you,” she said.

  Hartvau had been there?

  Panic over that freak standing above the table while he lay naked, struck the back of Ryle’s neck. He shot the mediker a look.

  She shook her head. “Before I worked on you.”

  The thought was marginally better, but enough so to resume eating.

  “As pleased as that bastard can be,” Lastrahn said.

  “It sounded like you got what you needed,” she said to the champion.

  Ryle felt Lastrahn watching him. Against any desire to do so, he forced himself to stop eating and look up.

  “I did,” Lastrahn said, and dipped his head toward Ryle.

  That was probably as close as he’d get to a thank you. Ryle nodded back. He figured he deserved a hex of a lot more, but right then, it was enough to lessen his urge to leap across the table at his master. That, and he really wanted to finish his soup.

  “How did you manage a meeting with Hartvau?” she asked.

  “With enough leverage, anything’s possible. You just have to know what someone wants.” Lastrahn said.

  Blast, Lastrahn was starting to sound like his mother. This night was apparently bound to just keep getting weirder.

  The mediker chuckled. “Back in town for one day, and you’re already playing the game again.”

  Ryle frowned, but his soup had cooled and he shoveled it in. Lastrahn had seemed familiar with the crowd, with the people in Hartvau’s special seats. There was so much about the champion he still didn’t know.