The Silver Portal (Weapons of Power Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  Whatever was true about the land beyond the Grell Barrier, Rawls was real. Though feared throughout Blackstone, he wasn’t why Twig had stopped hunting, but rather what Bareth had said to her and thought of her. She still hadn’t figured out what to do. Scrambling from ledge to ledge, Twig made her way across the city. Possibly, she should worry about Rawls, but she’d lived her life in fear before she found the sword and didn’t want to start her new life the same way.

  Bareth was the only person who had ever cared about her. And the way he looked at her when they’d last met made her stomach turn. He had lost sleep over her—worse, he had lost his smile. She climbed down a drainpipe, crossed the street to another block of houses, and climbed up another. Pockets of starlight illuminated the night sky. Twig hadn’t made any certain decisions as she traveled toward the poorer areas of Blackstone. Could I stalk the streets as the phantom but without killing?

  She descended again and was crossing another street when she heard a shout. She faded into the nearest shadows. The shout came again, more of a scream that time. She drew her sword, realizing she needed to investigate, at least. She used the sword to increase her pace, but not to top speed and only in short bursts, sticking to the shadows.

  A scream of terrible anguish ripped down the alleyway. She bent her head around the corner, peering down at the exact place she’d killed Krawl. Light flooded from the back door of the restaurant, showing Derm, the rain person whose territory she was in, on his back with a knife in his shoulder. Kneeling over Derm was a bearded man twisting the hilt of the knife.

  Though Derm used his fists to defend his territory, at heart he wasn’t a bad sort. Even if not all Takers deserved death, that one did. She sped down the alleyway, stopping to level her sword at the bearded man.

  Seeing her, he released the knife and backed away. “You are as fast as they say.” He wasn’t surprised to see her.

  Twig glanced down at the blood pooling below Derm. The torture had been going on a while. Derm glanced behind her, and she twisted around to see two men running at her. She used her speed to dive to her left. Only after it barely missed her did she spot the net the men were holding between them.

  She came out of the roll and looked around. She didn’t know where they’d come from, but people were everywhere now. One of those who’d initially charged her had tripped over Derm, but several other pairs of men with nets were approaching from different angles.

  Twig gripped her sword more tightly and sped backward as fast as she could. She needed to escape the trap before she was surrounded, but she got only two backward steps in before running into something that seemed to grab at her, knocking her over. A net had been strung up across the width of the alleyway.

  She tried to struggle to her feet, but her legs and arms were all tangled up, and the more she fought, the tighter the snare became. The extra speed only made things worse. She slowed herself down and concentrated on using her sword to cut through the ropes. The pairs of men rushed over to throw more nets on her. As she sawed on as many strands of the net as she could, she cursed herself for being an idiot and letting herself get caught so easily.

  Two of the men pulled the netting taut around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She could only lie there, helpless, while a kick to her arm forced the sword from her hand. She was rolled over several times, the ropes tightening around her until all she could do was wriggle her body like a dying fish.

  The bearded man picked up her sword and slashed it through the air. “Nice blade, but nothing special. Maybe Rawls was wrong about the sword being the source of the phantom’s power. Who would have guessed it was a girl?” He walked over to stand over Twig. “So what’s your secret, bitch? How do you move so fast? And why did you kill my nephew?” He kicked Twig in the face.

  Pain exploded inside Twig’s head, and blood dribbled from her nose. She didn’t cry out. Feeling helpless was worse than the pain. She’d seen his foot coming and could do nothing to avoid it.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” He kicked her again, in the jaw that time. The burst of pain was followed by a distant ringing in her head and a metallic taste in her mouth. She spat out blood.

  “Hey, boss, Rawls said not to hurt him,” one of the other men said.

  “It’s a she,” the bearded man said, “and I don’t intend to really hurt the little bitch, just soften her up a bit. You deserve it, don’t you?” He spat down on Twig’s face and kicked her in the stomach. “That was my nephew’s first job. I promised my sister he’d be safe.”

  The pain felt distant, as if Twig was floating above her body and the beating was happening to someone else.

  “What do we do about him?” a voice asked. One of the men gestured at Derm.

  The bearded man stepped closer and shoved Twig’s sword into his chest. Derm drew one loud shuddering breath then went silent.

  “About who?” the bearded man asked. Then: “Pick up the demon bitch.”

  One man grabbed Twig’s feet, another her shoulders, and they lifted her.

  “A few more for the road,” the bearded man said.

  His fist stabbed out, punching Twig in the temple. The darkness around him wavered. He drew back his fist again, and the darkness collapsed inward.

  Chapter 26

  Mortlebee’s feet dragged wearily behind him as he and Lukin walked into a small village.

  “A tavern. Praise the green angels of the Cabaile,” Lukin said.

  Mortlebee had no idea where Cabaile was or what exactly green angels were, but Lukin had a colorful phrase for every occasion. “How do you know that one is a tavern?”

  The place was even smaller than villages in Tockery, with only five huts in total surrounding a small grassy central area.

  “I can smell it.” Lukin rubbed his hands together with glee as he made a beeline for the biggest of the huts.

  Mortlebee sighed. Lukin had already forgotten, it seemed, about the near drowning followed by almost freezing to death. For a day afterward, Lukin’s fingers and toes had suffered a prickling numbness—Mortlebee wasn’t sure Lukin knew how close he’d come to losing them from frostbite. Never mind frostbite—we both came within a hair of dying.

  However, the next day, numb toes or not, Lukin whistled a tune and made jokes about adventurers as they hiked south through Pizarr. He’d some topaz sewn into his clothes, so they were able to buy boots and new cloaks and food from the first farmhouse they had come across.

  Lukin pushed open the door of the tavern and walked in, and Mortlebee followed, letting the door swing closed behind him. The first thing Mortlebee noticed was the smell, pungent and unpleasant. The second thing was the skulls of dead animals hanging from the walls. The third was the hard gazes aimed their way by three men sitting at the table by the corner. Mugs of ale sat in front of them, so Lukin was correct about the place being a tavern. He’d been incorrect about deciding to enter.

  This isn’t a good idea. Let’s wait until the next village. He aimed the thought at Lukin, who ignored it, of course, striding into the center of the room.

  “Barkeep. Two wines, please.”

  He directed his request toward the room in general. One of the three men stood and walked across to the corner, where a wooden keg lay on its side, leaning downward. The scabbard of the barkeep’s sword slapped noisily against his leg as he walked. Mortlebee glanced at the other two men at the corner table. A second wore a sword, and the third sat with an axe leaning behind him. Appearance-wise, there was very little difference among them, each of them with long, tangled hair and unruly beards. Wild men.

  The barkeep paused by the keg. “There’s no wine.”

  “We have topaz,” Lukin said.

  “I would hope so. We still don’t have any wine.” He reached under the keg and pulled out a dusty glass. He spat in it, wiped inside it with the edge of his apron, opened the tap, and poured a foamy ale. He repeated the process with a second glass, brought both glasses to a table, plonked them down, then re
turned to his table.

  “Don’t you want to get paid in advance?” Lukin asked.

  “I trust you,” the barkeep said.

  The axeman snorted out a laugh. “He prefers blood to coin.”

  The barman shrugged. “Either way works for me. Enjoy your ales, boys.”

  “Yeah, enjoy,” the axeman said. “There’s nothing quite like Antler’s Ale. Looks like horse piss on a winter morning, and it tastes worse than it looks.”

  And your body feels like shit the next day,” the swordsman said.

  “It doesn’t kill you,” the barkeep said, defending his offering.

  “It rarely kills you,” the axeman suggested.

  The barkeep considered. “Exactly. Rarely. Those are pretty good odds. Everyone has to take their life in their hands now and again.”

  “Except boring and sensible types,” the swordsman said. “But those two boys wouldn’t have stepped in here if they were the sensible type.”

  The three men pounded their glasses on the table, erupting in a round of unpleasant laughter.

  Mortlebee sat down at the chair in front of one of the glasses of ale, hunching his shoulders down. When Lukin sat opposite him, Mortlebee leaned in, keeping his voice low. “They are kidding, right?”

  “About which part?”

  Mortlebee was disturbed to see that Lukin had paled slightly. Lukin knew what was happening beneath the surface by hearing thoughts. If he was even slightly worried, then the situation was even worse than it seemed. “It wasn’t exactly a part, more the general impression that they wanted to slit our throats, gut us, and leave us out for the dogs to chew on our intestines.”

  Lukin chuckled nervously. “You exaggerate. They are just bored and slightly drunk. I don’t detect any immediate threat.”

  “We should leave before the threat becomes immediate.”

  “It’s been a while.” Lukin’s fingers curled around his glass of ale, and he licked his lips. “All that running from redbirds and drowning and suchlike adventures can really generate a thirst.”

  He swallowed a mouthful then immediately spat it out onto the floor.

  A roar of laughter came from the corner table.

  “Now can we leave?” Mortlebee hissed.

  Lukin shook his head and took a small sip. This one he managed to swallow. He raised his glass toward the corner. “Just an acquired taste, isn’t it, boys?”

  “If it is, then I still haven’t acquired it,” the axeman said. “And I’ve been drinking the piss for years.”

  Lukin swallowed another sip, his face contorting as if it was the most disgusting thing in the world, yet he said, “I could get used to it.”

  “Why would you?” Mortlebee asked.

  Lukin gestured at Mortlebee’s glass. “You drinking yours?”

  “Of course not. Did you see the apron he cleaned the glass with? After spitting in it. Not to mention your expression as you drink it.”

  Lukin shrugged. “Any other reasons?”

  “Yes. The scrolls of Kale forbid it.”

  Lukin took another sip, making less of a face that time. He did appear to be getting used to it. “What was this Kale guy like, not as a god but as a man?”

  “He’s not a god.”

  “Fine, whatever. I mean, what do you know about the man before he wrote the scrolls?”

  Mortlebee shrugged. Even talking about Kale with Lukin felt vaguely blasphemous. He was likely adding a new sin to his already blackened heart.

  “I figure this Kale person wasn’t born as a wise man of peace,” Lukin said. “He likely saw drinking and fighting, maybe even experienced it himself. He didn’t live in the mountains all his life and just farm rocks.”

  “He wrote the scrolls to show us the way.”

  Mortlebee was surprised that some of what Lukin said made sense. It even echoed the parable of the penitent man in some ways. The penitent man had taken years to return to the fold. He had to experience life first before he could truly appreciate the wisdom in what Kale taught. Mortlebee wondered if he had to do something similar. Perhaps Mortlebee had to live his life without worrying about the scrolls, and only later would they make sense to him.

  “Perhaps once upon a time, Kale was an adventurer,” Lukin suggested. “I know you make fun of me when I talk of adventuring, but I think all the great men started off as ordinary men who were willing to accept the spirit of adventure into their heart.”

  “I don’t make fun of you.”

  “In your head, you do.”

  Mortlebee really wished he knew how to keep Lukin out of his head. “Kale was nothing like you.”

  Lukin shrugged. “Have it your way.” He nodded at Mortlebee’s glass and grinned. “More for me. This shit is strong.”

  Mortlebee watched Lukin drink for a time. Lukin still made faces with each swallow, but they diminished in intensity as the level of ale in the glass lowered.

  “Do you think saving someone’s life creates a bond?” Mortlebee asked. That was something he’d been thinking about. He would have drowned if Lukin hadn’t kept his head above water. And Lukin would have died of cold if Mortlebee hadn’t started the fire for them both.

  “Not at all. Companions traveling together help each other.” He glanced across at Mortlebee. “Though when Ull Axilium grabbed me and your horse took off, I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

  Mortlebee shifted uncomfortably. “Just needed to get the horse under control. You know how poor a rider I am.”

  Lukin slapped Mortlebee on the shoulder. “That I do. That I do.”

  Even if Lukin didn’t feel what happened in the Hatori had changed things between them, Mortlebee did. Before then, Mortlebee had been certain traveling with Lukin was a mistake and was half figuring out a way to escape him. Now—Mortlebee glanced around at the tavern Lukin had taken them into—it was still a mistake, but they no longer had any choice.

  Lukin, catching the gist of Mortlebee’s thoughts, chuckled. “Seeing someone naked does not a sacred bond make. Otherwise, there’s some ladies of the night in Soirbuz who have enough sacred bonds to ascend straight to paradise when they die.”

  The barkeep came over to their table, and Mortlebee and Lukin both turned to face him.

  “Best piss I’ve ever drunk.” Lukin raised his glass and downed the last of his ale.

  “So what are you two doing in this lovely part of the world?” the barkeep asked.

  “Just passing through,” Lukin said.

  The barkeep’s eyes narrowed. “People don’t just pass through. They are always coming from somewhere or going to somewhere.”

  “But each person’s business is their own,” Lukin said.

  “This is my tavern,” the barkeep said. “When you chose to enter, you became my business.”

  “Been in a lot of taverns and never heard that.”

  The barkeep turned back to his two friends. “Did you hear the kid? He’s been in a lot of taverns.”

  “Not many Pizarrian taverns,” the axeman said. “We only let real men in, not dumb kids.” His chair scraped back as he got to his feet.

  “You let us in, so we mustn’t be dumb kids.”

  The swordsman also stood. “We wanted to have a little fun.”

  Mortlebee’s throat went dry. He glanced across at Lukin but didn’t get much reassurance from his expression. His plan to give warning in advance about any escalation by being able to read their thoughts didn’t seem to have worked. And his brand of brashness seemed to be only making things worse.

  Mortlebee was certain the two of them weren’t going to be allowed to just walk out. He stood up. “You are looking for a bit of excitement, right? How about a bet?”

  All three Pizarrians turned toward him, but Lukin was the only one who looked shocked. “A bet? Isn’t there something against that in the scrolls of Kale?”

  Indeed there was. But Mortlebee had already killed someone, and sins didn’t get much worse than that. And when he’d charged Ull Axiliu
m, he’d chosen a path for himself that diverged from the teachings of Kale. He might come back to the teachings, but he’d have to diverge more before it came to that point.

  “I’m from Tockery,” Mortlebee announced to the three Pizarrians. “And this young man,” Mortlebee reached across and put his hand on Lukin’s shoulder, “has been trying to corrupt me.” Mortlebee nodded at the drink in front of him. “I have never drunk a drop of alcohol before in my life.” Mortlebee couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he hoped to give the Pizarrians the bit of excitement they were looking for. “So I propose we bet on whether I can drink the full glass of Antler’s Ale in one go.”

  The barkeep gave a half smile, half scowl. “What are you betting?”

  Mortlebee turned to Lukin, who leaned in close. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “Probably not,” Mortlebee whispered back, “but I figure, win or lose, it’ll get us out of here.”

  Lukin addressed the Pizarrians. “I bet a reluctant topaz kopec on my friend here. Just to see him losing his alcoholic virginity.”

  The axeman stepped up beside the barkeep. “That’s letting them off too easy. It’s only interesting if the stakes are high. You two have more money than that.”

  Lukin shook his head. “That’s most of it.”

  “Let’s see, then. Empty your pockets,” the barkeep said.

  Lukin emptied out his pockets. They counted up the money, and it came to two kopecs and seven shards.

  “Not enough,” the axeman said. “What else do you have?”

  “We lost everything else fording the Hatori.”

  “Fording?” asked the barkeep.

  “Ended up being closer to drowning,” Lukin said.

  “There are shallows near the Fordhaven bridge, aren’t there?” Mortlebee asked.

  The three men all burst into laughter. “You tried to ford the Hatori during the spring flooding?” the barkeep asked once he’d calmed down enough to speak coherently.