by Devin Hanson
“You believe me?” he asked.
“I do. And more. You should know, since you are involved now whether you wish it or not. Trent is an Incantor, a corrupted alchemist who consumes the hearts of men and beasts to gain his twisted power. We came to Ardhal to kill Incantors if we could.”
Travis had expected disbelief from Iria, protests and demands for proof. What he didn’t expect was for Iria to nod and agree with him, then label Trent as a monster out of campfire horror stories. Incantor! Just the name made the hair on his arms stand up. The preparations of the wardens took on a new light.
“You go to kill Incantors now, tonight?”
“We have the location of one of their hideouts. We expected Trent and his first captain to be there, but with Trent miles away, we have a much greater chance of success. There are still several alchemists to worry about, but with only a single Incantor, we may just succeed.” She smiled, widely this time with the good cheer he remembered Iria having. “Thank you, Travis. Your warning came in a timely manner.”
“But wait, you can’t be serious!”
“Oh, we are very serious,” Iria said grimly, her humor dropping away as if it had never been. “Every Incantor we kill now means dozens, hundreds of innocent lives we save in the future.” She planted her hands on her hips. “But what are we to do with you?”
“Sorry?”
“You know too much, Travis. At least until we leave Ardhal, you cannot be allowed to tell others of what you have learned here tonight.”
Travis scowled. “Take me with you! I can fight.”
“Not against these enemies,” Iria said gently but firmly. “I cannot spare a warden to watch over you. If you truly desire to help, remain here. Keep the inn safe until our return. After we deal with Lameda and his alchemists, we will discuss what to do with you in the future. But know that if you run, wardens will find you eventually, and that will be the end of you.”
Travis swallowed. It wasn’t so much the death threat that got to him, he had those regularly enough. It was the calm and slightly sad way that Iria delivered it, a statement of regrettable fact rather than bluster or bravado.
“I meant everything I said,” Travis replied firmly. “I will remain here, if I must. For you. And for the people of Ardhal.”
“Very well. Get dry, then, Travis Bellwether. If you are to be an ally, I would not have you die of the cold and wet.”
Iria got up and quickly moved up the stairs. The wardens made way for her with respect. Travis watched her go and laughed to himself at his earlier worry over her safety. In this den of lethal war dogs, Iria was a wolf.
Jules hurried back up the stairs when she saw Travis in the common room talking to Iria. What was he doing here? Annoyed at the necessity that kept her out of sight, she paced the hall while the wardens finished preparing for the assault against the grain tower. A lot of the focus was around a clay-like explosive, an invention of the Maar, the ignition of which required a dynamotive spark to trigger.
She had seen the explosive in action when the wardens had cooked up a new batch and was surprised at the power of the explosive. For its weight, it was significantly more destructive than the black powder she used in her revolver. She had toyed with the idea of replacing the charge in her revolver cartridges with the explosive, but the requirement of the spark to set it off made it impractical. Besides which, after seeing how powerful it was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hold a gun charged with it, lest it misfire and take her hand off at the elbow.
With her attention on the wardens downstairs, she didn’t hear Andrew come out of their rooms until he caught her elbow. She started and looked up to find him smiling down at her.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“You. You’re wearing a hole in the floorboards. What is it?”
“Travis Bellwether is downstairs. He’ll recognize me if he sees me, so I’m stuck up here while the wardens prepare.”
“Travis is here?” Andrew’s brow furrowed in thought. The humidity in the air had turned his curly hair into a wildly disarrayed explosion. Combined with the serious look on his face, Jules couldn’t help but smile. “I better go and– what?”
“Nothing. You were saying?”
“I should go and find out what he wants and get rid of him if I can.”
“He was talking to Iria.”
“Iria! Hah! The man’s got it bad for her. I’ll go down and see what I can do.”
The look of seriousness faded, to be replaced by a boyish grin. Andrew had two personalities, or perhaps two facets of the same personality. One was the Speaker, serious, grim, capable of the harsh necessities of war. The other was the Andrew that she had fallen in love with, cheerful, intelligent and caring. The trip to Ardhal had driven the Andrew she loved away, to be replaced almost wholly by the Speaker.
Seeing Andrew smile again made Jules happy. For a few minutes, he could be just Andrew Condign.
Andrew hadn’t made it to the head of the stairs before Iria came bounding up them. “I have news,” the warden announced.
“Something from Travis?” Jules asked.
Iria nodded, saw the grin on Andrew’s face and flushed a little. The color was almost entirely hidden by her tan skin, but it was unmistakably there. “It is about Trent,” Iria said primly. “Travis has just arrived from the airship construction docks. Trent is there, transmuting the iron engines.
The smile fell of Andrew’s face and the Speaker was there once more. “Then Lameda is alone.”
Iria nodded.
“And what of Bellwether?”
“He will stay here and watch the inn while we are gone. He wanted to come, but I refused it.”
Andrew nodded sharply. “You trust him?”
“In this, yes. He witnessed Trent feeding. It threw a fright into him he will not recover from quickly.”
“Good. We must strike now, while their forces are split. Alert the wardens, we leave within the minute.”
Iria bowed and hurried back down the stairs. Jules watched her go with mixed feelings. The warden was a friend, honorable and brave. Yet it could be argued that Iria was almost solely responsible for Andrew’s transformation into the Speaker. It wasn’t fair, of course, Andrew was his own man, but Iria had almost completely lost her gentler self. Jules feared that if Andrew stayed around Iria much more, the man she loved would fade away to be wholly replaced by the Speaker.
She frowned to herself as Andrew hurried down the stairs after the warden. She had to find some way to get Andrew alone for a while, get him back into contact with himself. Not for the first time, she wished she could speak with Ava. The dragon would know what to do.
Andrew had been gone only seconds before Adnan jogged up the stairs. “Lady Vierra, the way is clear. We are moving out.”
“Thank you, Adnan.”
Throwing her hood up anyway, Jules followed the warden down the stairs. The common room was empty except for a drowsy maid wiping down a table. Jules hurried out into the rain, keeping her head low. There was no telling who might recognize her, even the maid might remember having once seen the Lady Vierra in passing, and make the connection.
The rain hammered down, big, heavy drops that drummed against the hood of her oiled cloak. Her armor seemed to vibrate as the downpour struck it. The wardens had split into three groups of four, the first of which was already disappearing into the rain. They would scout ahead and make sure no ambush was waiting for them.
The second group carried packs containing the clay explosive, coils of wire and the dynamo plunger necessary to set it off. After giving the scouts a count of twenty, the next group of wardens headed out into the rain.
Movement to the left caught Jules’s attention and she squinted into the downpour, finally making out the towering figure of Eric Ryan. He had a dozen of his lawmen with him, their leather coats repelling the rain. Despite the cloud cover, none of them besides the constable himself looked comfortable being out of doors.
Jul
es stepped forward and greeted Eric. “Constable, what can we do for you?” she called.
“It is late at night,” he replied, “Movement is restricted lest you draw the attention of dragons.”
Jules glanced up pointedly. “There are no dragons flying above Ardhal this night,” she shot back. What was his point? Did he intend to stop them from attacking the grain tower?
“You have some new information,” Ryan said. “I thought we had to plan to take down two, ah, alchemists.” He glanced at the lawmen at his side.
“Only one. We received news that the second is otherwise engaged.”
“So, you intended to make the strike without me?”
“We intended to act quickly. If you wish to aid us, you may come. But this is an alchemist fight. Swords will have no part in it.” Jules saw the way the lawmen exchanged glances. They had come to show the flag, as it were, to make sure the Duke’s Law was upheld. Getting caught up in Guild business was not what they had bargained for.
Ryan saw it too, and his jaw hardened. “I am coming with you.”
“You are welcome to.” Jules pitched her voice to address the lawmen. “Any of you who desire may come as well, but we cannot protect you. If you come, it will be at your own risk.”
Of the group, only four stepped forward with the constable. The rest ducked their heads, muttering excuses.
“We waste time,” Iria called.
Ryan nodded and turned to his men. “I don’t think any less of you for staying. This is a fight I don’t want any part of, but I have to see it through. There are other murderers out tonight. Keep your eyes open and your heads down until morning.”
“I am glad to have you with us, Constable,” Andrew called. “Forgive our haste. We will not get such an opportunity again.”
“Come on then,” Jules beckoned, and she set off down the street.
It was telling, Jules thought as she ran through the rain, how very differently the lawmen moved. The wardens ran with a light foot, each step placed with care. They barely made any splashes as they ran, and moved with economy of motion, completely soundless beneath the falling rain. Andrew ran easily alongside Iria, his footfalls almost as quiet as the wardens’. He moved as they did, smoothly and without effort. Six months of training had brought him a long way.
In sharp contrast, the lawmen ran in straight lines, their arms pumping, breath labored, heavily-booted feet loud on the cobbles and sending up splashes almost every other step. Ryan moved a little better than his lawmen, but he was growing old and it showed in the effort he had to put in to keep up with the wardens.
The run to the outskirts of the city took them a little over ten minutes. The lawmen were panting and gasping for air while the wardens still breathed easily.
Iria waved them to a halt and they stepped into the lee of a curved roof. Ahead of them, barely visible through the rain, the grain tower loomed into the night. Like all Salian buildings, it was disguised as a natural rock formation. To the human eye, it was clearly a construct. No rock sprouted directly from the earth in that manner, yet it carried enough characteristics of a natural outcrop that the dragons didn’t mark it as being a human building.
Clever use of molded plaster and carefully planted trailing vines blurred the edges of the tower and the outbuilding at its base. The tower itself was around twenty yards tall and roughly cylindrical. An ox-powered conveyor belt hung against one side in evident disrepair. The outbuilding was a single story with a high, arching roof, with windows placed to suggest a loft on the inside. Faint orange light from a fireplace lit the interior, visible through weather-cracked shutters.
The scouts were nowhere to be seen, but the second group of wardens were busy taking items from their packs and intently working in the light of a hooded lantern.
“What’s the plan?” Ryan asked, still breathing hard from the run but recovering quicker than his men.
“The wardens are preparing a surprise for whoever is in the building,” Jules explained about the explosive vaguely, uncertain herself of how it worked. “Are you sure that building was abandoned before tonight?”
Ryan nodded. “Perfectly. Those shutters would have brought a dragon had anyone been living there regularly, and one of my men confirmed with the archives. It is not in use.”
“I don’t know how big an explosion the wardens are planning on. Would anyone be terribly upset if we destroyed the tower?”
Ryan frowned, but shook his head. “If it means capturing or killing these murderers, it’s a sacrifice I’m more than willing to make. The duke will reimburse the owner.”
Jules frowned but didn’t comment. It was a common misconception among commoners that nobility had endlessly deep pockets. The duke might pay to have to tower rebuilt, but the funds spent would mean higher taxes next year or other public projects put on hold. Even a city as wealthy as Ardhal couldn’t absorb lost infrastructure without consequence.
Besides, Ryan was right. Stopping the Incantors was worth destroying the tower several times over.
One of the wardens detached from the group and ran toward the outbuilding in a low crouch, slipping from bush to low wall to tree. Even knowing he was there, Jules had a hard time keeping track of his position. There was the faint gleam of a wire on the ground in his wake, the lead to trigger the explosive charges.
Andrew made his way to her side. He had the distant look in his eyes that showed he was deep in concentration, building the Rune Song in his mind. That he was moving around with his eyes open suggested he was only refreshing his memory of frequently used Sayings.
“The wardens are nearly ready,” he said quietly. “Is there a position you would prefer?”
Jules shook her head. Her stomach was tight with nerves and she touched her pouch where the sharp edges of the dragon scale pressed against the leather. “No. Somewhere by your side.”
Andrew nodded. “I suggested splitting us apart for this, but Iria wouldn’t hear of it. We may need the skill of both of us combined to overcome Lameda. She was confident the wardens could deal with the other alchemists. Our target is the Incantor.”
Jules lifted her head and felt the rain on her face. Sometime in the last couple minutes, the downpour had eased off, and now only a light drizzle came down. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, it shouldn’t be long now. Iria sent a pair of wardens to try and catch their sentry off guard.”
“Let’s get closer.”
Together, Jules and Andrew approached the outbuilding, moving in a careful crouch, keeping to the stray bits of cover. Moving with them, the wardens closed in on the Incantors, bows held under cloaks to keep their strings dry for as long as possible.
Jules felt the tight hum along her nerves that always preceded combat. In a way, this was the first time the wardens would be executing the purpose that had brought them out of Nas Shahr: to hunt down the corruption of the Incantors wherever it may be and bring swift death to those who would engage in its dark practices.
The wardens had proven themselves capable time and again. So why did she have the sinking feeling that everything was about to go horribly wrong?
Chapter 12
No Retreat
As the wardens crept toward the grain tower and its outbuilding, the rain started to pick up once more. Lightning flashed, followed by the distant rumble of thunder. To Andrew’s left, an owl hooted and Andrew tensed. Visual contact.
When the wardens had first arrived from the deserts of Nas Shahr, their traditional birdcalls and animal-noise signals were hopelessly obvious. Rather than being lost in the expected clamor of the desert night, the cries of the desert hawk and other birds only drew attention to the wardens. It hadn’t taken the wardens long to rework their signals with sounds that would be heard in the woods and meadows of Salia.
The faint thwip of a bowstring came from the left and the tinkle of broken glass was audible over the driving rain. Andrew held his breath and started counting off seconds. He got to twenty without an alarm sound
ing and released his breath with a whoosh.
Moving carefully, Andrew crept forward, moving slowly and keeping as much brush and tree branches between himself and the outbuilding as possible. The endless lessons from Iria ran through his mind. Six months of practice and drills had hardened his body, but this was the first time he was putting any of it to use in the real world.
Iria’s lessons came back to him in odd spurts. Move slowly, sudden movements tended to catch the eye. He fought the urge to stand up and look at the outbuilding, knowing his face would stand out in the night. Wind gusted and he took care that his cloak wasn’t flapping.
Closer now, he could make out the interior of the outbuilding through the partially shuttered windows. It seemed to be a combination workshop, living space and storefront. The same ox-driven capstan that powered the conveyor belt could be put to use turning a heavy grindstone. There were stacked casks of grain against one wall and a station where cloth could be sewn into flour sacks.
One of the windows had a neat hole punched through the glass. The firelight danced with renewed vigor as a draft from the broken window gusted through. They didn’t have much time now before someone woke up to investigate the draft and discovered the slain lookout.
Andrew reached the tree closest to the building and crouched behind it. A few seconds later, Jules joined him. He felt his heart speed up as adrenaline started running through him. The Rune Song sat in the back of his head, a combination of prepared Sayings and the deeper meaning of the dragon language prepared to give nuance to his alchemy.
A pair of wardens ghosted forward, barely visible shadows that slipped through the grass toward the outbuilding. Jules tapped his arm and pointed. Squinting into the rain, Andrew followed her finger and saw the oiled-canvas bundles tucked against the wall next to the door. They must be the satchels of explosives the wardens had prepared. Now that he saw them, he could make out the faint gleam of a pair of wires running back into the surrounding woods.
For the moment, Lameda and his alchemists were unaware of their presence. The more targets the wardens could eliminate before the alarm was sounded, the better their chances of survival were. To do that, though, the wardens would have to get closer, perhaps even inside the outbuilding.
