"We are both almost out. Our funds are gone. We either fade away or take the risk," Gereth said simply, nodding toward the vault door. "This is the risk. Without this your mother and I can’t live in the capital. We can’t use the spy network," His eyes watched carefully for eavesdroppers. "We can’t be certain your secret is truly safe, or find your brother."
Kaltor stared at the ground, grumbling like a viper hound with a thorn in its paw. "Dad," he said simply. "Why didn’t you tell me? I can take an extra job or two for the king. If I work alone I won’t have to be as — careful, about my true nature."
"We have to keep up pretenses," Gereth pointed out, his tone growing more desperate. "You must finish your training first. It’s only another year. With the proceeds from this site we can handle that," Blue light shimmered from the door as a Sight Seeker started combining the Varadours’ wills, also to no avail.
Kaltor stopped arguing, trying to compare his inexplicable feelings of dread with the hope in Gereth’s voice. He watched the small army of miners shouting encouragement, chanting in time with each pulse of energy smashing against the door.
"Imagine not needing to live in hiding anymore," Gereth whispered. "A weapon in hand from the Age of Tears. You could live openly as the Remnant of the Varadour power. Kings will bow to your will. Whole countries will pay you respect. You may even find a cure for Blood Breaking! You could unlock your link and find Keevan. That’s all your mother and I want for you. For both of you."
With a groan Kaltor drew a throwing blade, twirling it between his fingers. The culminating emotions left his technique sloppy and he slit two of his fingers, forcing him to pocket the blade and suck at his wounds. Honmour and Jensai glanced his way, sharing sympathetic smiles. They respected his instincts, even if he did not know the true origin of those feelings.
But imagine if I could tell them, he thought. If I could live without fear of being overwhelmed by assassins or chained to some king’s every whim. I could protect my family, maybe overcome the Blood Breaking— Find Keevan. The world could do nothing in the face of TWO Remnants.
"Okay, father," Kaltor relented. Gereth smiled, eyes full of hope. "I want you to combine our powers. If the four of us open the vault it will help Taneth’s reputation as well," He pointed a bleeding finger at his father’s face. "This will be short, though, so there should be no risk of emotional blending."
Gereth laughed and patted his son’s shoulder affectionately. "Everything will be fine, son. I promise," He walked forward, tapping Melshek on the shoulder and whispering in his ear. To the crowd he announced in a booming voice, "The prince and I will make the attempt!"
The crowd applauded, and the last contestants stepped aside as Gereth motioned for Kaltor, Honmour, and Jensai to join him. Four powerful Varadours and one Sight Seeker to link us, Kaltor counted. That should be enough to avoid suspicion that I’m a Remnant. The Varadours entered first, each placing a hand on either side of the door, careful to make sure some part of their fingers or palms touched the hand-shaped engravings on the vault door.
Gereth pulled from his belt the same pins he’d used during Kaltor’s healing process, this time sticking them in the nape of each man’s tunic. "Okay, on my order all four of you will push. Force your power through your arms into the hands on the door."
Kaltor took his position right in front of the vault, leaning down with a shoulder against the door so Melshek could reach over him. Honmour and Jensai stood on either side in similar positions.
"Now," Gereth ordered. The entire passageway seemed to shudder as Varadour energy blossomed inside the small space. Insects in the rocks sprinted away, their flight fueled by the culmination of so much energy. Kaltor felt his will extend through his arms and into the stone.
His own power pushed with the three others’ as they all fought their way through the mysterious metal. Closing his eyes, Kaltor could feel his power pushing against something behind the wall, something only sensitive to him, the Remnant.
"It’s a lock, Gereth," Kaltor grunted, trying to ignore the sensation of his stomach leaping from his chest as the ominous feeling culminated into a final crescendo. To keep my family safe and find Keevan, he rationalized. That’s the only reason I’m doing this.
"Good call, my son," Gereth said excitedly. Kaltor could feel his father’s power pushing theirs in different places and angles, like a thief trying to pick a lock. "Together, now!"
With one final heave of effort, their combined wills, under Gereth’s guidance, connected with something behind the wall. There was an audible click, and slowly the doors opened with a stone-grinding groan of complaint. A wave of dust, mold, and decay wafted through the opening.
Kaltor’s eyes widened curiously as his skin vision allowed a clear black-and-white glance at the doors. These walls aren’t even an inch thick, he thought. What kind of metal is this?
The crowd’s shouts of success echoed eerily within the chamber, and Melshek bolted back up the passageway to the surface. He was so excited it took him three tries before he could articulate his next command.
"You all will be given a share!" he promised. "Gather your tools, torches, and wheelbarrows. We will continue digging while the pieces are recorded," The miners continued to cheer as their voices faded into the distance.
"Shall we?" Honmour asked, taking a step inside. "It’s not like the dark is a problem for us."
He was right. Through his skin vision Kaltor could see clearly. The feeling of warning was gone now, replaced with a dull, numb sensation. Perhaps it was nothing, he thought as he turned his attention toward their find. Just my imagination.
It was a single room, with four thick columns to help support the large structure about it. An altar protruded from the floor, covered in odd-looking objects too caked in dust to recognize by the eye alone. They were set before a raised, oval container.
Watching for bricks or levers that could warn of traps, they eased their way inside. A few historians entered as well, but to their credit they held their distance. Were such devices to go off, only a fully trained Varadour had the reflexes to escape with any certainty. After a few paces, they managed to get to a better angle from which to see the room’s center.
"Well, it looks like you were right about one thing, Honmour," Jensai said, pointing forward. "Dried-out corpses aren’t very dramatic. Surprisingly pretty, though," They followed his gaze and saw the box before the altar. A body was engraved upon the top of the coffin.
Her expression was not peaceful, but full of disdain. Though her features were sharp and exotic. Even though it was only a sculpture, the artist obviously had talent. From certain angles it seemed an actual woman lay there, dressed in an evening gown to make her gender obvious. Some of the jewelry she wore even looked real.
"That face is going to bother me, though," Honmour admitted. "It’s like she’s angry I’m still alive and she’s not. Though it would be nice if she were," he added with a sly wink.
"Spread out," Kaltor ordered. "We just need to make sure there aren’t any traps, then let the historians do their job. No souvenirs," Working his way around the altar, he realized the walls were full of weapons, tools, scrolls, and the like.
It’s a store room of some kind, he thought. Centered on the burial of a noble woman? Perhaps they were superstitious about the afterlife and wanted to leave her spirit an ample supply of weapons and knowledge? A few more men trickled in through the large doorway, tall torches in tow, making the objects seem to dance and sway in the flickering, yellow-orange light.
Kaltor circled around opposite the door, facing the far wall. He closed his eyes, drawing completely on his skin vision. The energy resonated from his skin in every direction, bouncing off the surrounding objects and returning, giving a clearer image than his two eyes ever could in such weak light. The floor and ceiling were perfectly flat with no engravings, mortar, or even grooves in between individual pieces. This entire room is one solid piece of whatever this is, he realized. What kind of metal
is this?
"Um, guys?" Jensai said. "Has anyone taken a closer look at the altars?"
Kaltor focused his vision behind him, at the foot of the coffin. The legs of the altar were thick and bulbous with odd curves he at first thought were decorative engravings. He took a step closer. A thin fabric covered what he thought was a table, with a handful of select items atop of it. But with a final step he saw the truth.
"Okay, that’s a little weird," Honmour said.
"Bodies," Kaltor said aloud. "Petrified somehow?" Two historians started jotting down notes as fast as possible, their eyes turning blue as they drew on Sight Seeker power to pierce the darkness themselves. Some of the better trained ones could pick up on environments affected by a Varadour’s skin vision.
From beneath the sheet he could see the people curled up to form the "leg" of each table around the altar. Most had their faces buried between their arms, but one was visible. His mouth was open wide in agony, teeth exposed and eyes bulging. A thin, straight line cut through the body at an odd angle, exposing itself around the spine and back as the body’s natural curves broke from the spear’s uniform direction.
"By the Gods!" Jensai swore. "They’re pinned in place by spears coming up from the floor!"
"Creepy," Honmour added. "Was this some kind of torture?"
"If so, this entire room was part of it," Kaltor said. "The ceiling, walls, and floor are one solid, unbreakable piece," He shuddered as he imagined what the scene must have looked like, sealed in by an unbreakable metal, pierced and held in place by spears of it welded into the floor as they died.
Something very bad happened here, he decided.
"I think I’ve had about enough of this place," Jensai said. "The historians will have to be careful before they move each individual piece, but I’d rather not see any more of this."
"Fine by me," Kaltor agreed. "Let’s get out of here."
Something’s not right here.
*****
Finally, Taguari grunted to himself as the Varadours left the room. Get out of here, you idiots!
Another wave of black mist rose from the floor, unseen by the mortals present, lunging toward their faces in spears of corrupted energy. From beneath the floor, voices howled in victorious hunger. With a flash of his sword, another thin line of Celestia cut across the room, severing the tentacles of spiritual energy, holding the assault at bay.
Creatures of the spiritual plane could not be seen by those trapped in their short, temporal existence. Even the Remnant had no idea what kind of battle his actions had caused. So intense was the assault, Taguari had to drive his sword into the floor, igniting the metals surrounding the room and holding the black energy against the floor beneath thin white ropes of light. It writhed like a wild beast bound and gagged.
"You can’t possess anyone anymore!" Taguari said triumphantly. "Haven’s power will always overcome you. Our Maker protects the mortals from your influence. We are their Haven from the Abyss at the world’s core."
The black energy threw itself into an odd cycle of spasms and relaxation, until, from within the teeming surges of chaos, laughter echoed. The historians, ignorant of the chaos surrounding them, slowly worked their way along the walls as they recorded the vault’s contents.
Despite the power holding it in place, the energy swirled around the altar, bubbling upward until a spirit-woman sat upon it. Her skin was grey and withered, her eyes red and sunken as if from a fierce disease. Strands of Celestia still held her in place, but she sat with regal poise, watching Taguari calmly.
It was that calm, calculating gaze that set Taguari’s teeth on edge. Most spirits, the few times they could escape the Abyss long enough to walk the earth, did so in fits of emotion strong enough to temporarily burst free. She was different. Her sanity was intact, and her position the consequence of centuries of planning and plotting. It was her face carved in the coffin and her remains contained therein.
"You’re new to this," she observed. "I saw all of Haven before I came here. You were not among them," Taguari held onto his sword tightly, senses alert for any efforts to break his hold and possess one of the historians before he could react.
"The power binding you doesn’t come from me," Tagauri reminded her. "It comes from the Maker himself, through Haven. You can’t break its hold."
With a sly smile the woman glanced down at her bonds and sighed. "You newly resurrected beings are always so cocky. You never understand the full meaning of the rules of engagement."
I understand well, he thought. It’s unfortunate I can’t just kill you and be done with it. She nodded toward the open doorway.
Melshek entered, eyes full of enthusiasm, trying to see the entire room at once. The historians grinned at his reaction and opened their mouths as if to warn him to stay back, then thought better of it and went back to their work. It was not long before Melshek stood next to the altar, entranced by the carved figure on the top of the coffin.
"You want to know the flaw of the power you wield?" the Abyssian asked confidently. "You cannot directly influence the decisions of those you protect."
Prince Melshek’s fingers ran along the sculpted edges of her stone body engraved on the face of the coffin, looking in awe at the bodies prostrated around her. "Witness our true power, Haven-called," she said. "Witness the fruits of a single prince’s decision."
Taguari’s sword trembled in his hands. The laughter from the mists itself amplified as more spirit bodies burst from the coffin, like a fountain from the Abyss itself. What have you done, Kaltor? he mourned. Why were my feelings of warning not enough? He watched the prison continue to vomit up spirit after spirit from the Abyss itself.
I hope you’re ready for this boy, he thought. You will be the first they come for.
Chapter 8
Jensai’s spear point lunged hungrily toward Kaltor’s heart. With a twist of disdain he caught the weapon with his dagger and pushed it out of line with his body, swinging inside his opponent’s reach with his other blade only to meet Jensai’s hatchet with a dull thud.
Leaping backward, Jensai tossed his hatchet with all his strength, only a few yards from his target. Kaltor did the same thing, throwing a dagger into the air long enough to toss a thin throwing blade and catch his first weapon before it fell out of reach.
Varadour power surged in both of them, amplifying their reflexes as they each twisted past projectiles, steel clanging against the stones behind them. Jensai redoubled his efforts, charging forward, both hands on his spear shaft, stabbing forward in a series of quick strikes.
Each blow landed on the edge of Kaltor’s defenses, pushing his ambidexterity to the limit as he used both hands to deflect each attack. Stupid steel-tipped spear, he thought. Makes it so much harder to reach around and get a piece of him! The barrage continued relentlessly, Jensai’s eyes brightening as he clearly saw the extent of his opponent’s reflexes. A confident smile slowly blossomed on his lips as he struck again and again.
Can’t be so defensive. Got to get that spear away from him. Taking a step back as if he were surrendering ground, he threw both daggers at his opponent.
Jensai stepped back, pivoting to avoid the projectiles, still keeping his spear in between them with one hand. His eyebrows rose in surprise as Kaltor’s hands tightened on his spear shaft, throwing him off balance with a determined jerk.
To his credit, even Kaltor’s strength could not pull his opponent’s spear from his hand. Instead, Jensai leapt forward, bringing up the butt end of his spear still in his fist and twisting it viciously toward Kaltor’s face.
Jerking the business end of the weapon toward him, Kaltor pinned the shaft beneath his arm’s and chest’s leather armor, forcing them into an odd version of tug-of-war. Got you! he thought in triumph as his free hand leapt to the throwing blades sheathed across his bicep.
Dropping all strategy, Jensai lunged forward, tackling Kaltor. They tumbled painfully across the rocky ground. The spear clattered on the stones nearby. Kalto
r managed to pull the blade from its sheath and, holding its base in one curled fist, he tried to stab his opponent as they rolled, all the while using his free arm to block any attempts to grab one of the throwing blades sheathed around his biceps.
In mid-roll, Jensai grabbed him by both wrists, forcing his hands apart long enough to bring his forehead smashing down into Kaltor’s face. Salty, crimson blood burst from his nose and mouth as Kaltor’s lip split from the blow. The disorientation was momentary, but enough. When his thoughts cleared moments later, Jensai held one of this own throwing blades to his throat.
The small, rocky street echoed with the sounds of Honmour clapping his hands approvingly. "Not a bad spar," he commented. "Can’t imagine what it would be like to see you two fighting over a girl."
"Alright— enough, enough," Kaltor grunted, holding his face as he dispatched Varadour energy to hasten the healing. The blood coagulated quickly but still covered his face, neck, and chest armor. The setting sun outlining him from behind made the scene particularly imposing. "You get to take our mugs back to that cute serving girl."
"It’s only fair," Jensai said defensively, as he retrieved his spear and hatchet. "Not only did I beat him, but she liked me the best."
"Actually," Honmour interjected, waving his freshly sharpened blade matter-of-factly in their direction. "I would have had the best chance of getting her down to the river. I just lack the suicidal tendencies necessary to take on either of you."
Jensai rolled his eyes. "‘My daddy works for the Town Watch’, is not a suitable approach Honmour. You sound like an eight year old having his first heart-dream," He scooped up Kaltor’s throwing blades and daggers, tossing them at his friend’s feet.
Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1) Page 8
