Bringers of Doom

by Blake Arthur Peel

  I approach the cell labeled ‘9’ and step inside, pausing only briefly to take a breath to steady my nerves. I have never interrogated a prisoner before, let alone a hardened assassin from a crazed organization of religious fanatics. Closing the door behind me, I regard the man in front of me chained to the wall.

  The assassin has been relieved of all his possessions, wearing only his dark trousers and a sleeveless black shirt. His boots are now missing, and his ankles and wrists are shackled to thick chains bolted to the wall, giving him barely enough slack to move. He looks up as I enter, his narrow face twisting into a look of hatred as he recognizes me, his dark eyes narrowing and his lips turning up into a sneer.

  “Come to gloat?” He asks, his voice raspy and low. “Or have you come to get me to talk?”

  Clasping my hands in front of me, I adopt an emotionless mask mimicking the High Magus. “Talk,” I reply evenly, trying hard not to wring my hands nervously.

  The assassin hawks phlegm from the back of his throat and spits on the ground in front of me. “I think you’ll find me a rather uncooperative conversationalist.”

  Ignoring the insult, I step forward, careful not to step in the man’s yellow spittle. “All I want to know is your connection to the Harbingers. Are you part of their organization?”

  The vile man wheezes a laugh, his still-wet black hair hanging lankly in front of his face, partially covering his eyes. “Nobody simply joins the Harbingers,” he says between chuckles. “Have you met those people? They’re bloody insane. But they pay well, so I don't ask questions.”

  “Where can I find them?” I press, taking another step forward. I know that I must be getting dangerously close to where he can reach me.

  His laughter turns sour, mouth turning down into a snarl. “I’m not telling you anything, mage. You can go straight to the Eleven Hells for all I care.”

  I eye him for a moment before letting out a disappointed sigh. “I thought you might say that.” I reach into the pocket of my robes and grab the vial of truth serum, holding it clenched in my fist.

  The assassin’s eyes flash. “What are you going to do, torture me?” He barks another laugh. “Do your worst, girl. There’s nothing you can do that they can’t do worse.”

  “You’re probably right,” I acknowledge, using my other hand to pull the talisman from around my neck. “I don’t think I would be very good at torturing you, even if I wanted to. Fortunately, there are other ways for me to get what I require.”

  I begin to channel, filling myself with as much source energy as I can handle before pointing my finger directly at the assassin's face. "Ceangail ceann an fhir!"

  Blue light shoots from my fingertip, crossing the distance between us in the blink of an eye and wrapping itself around his head, shoulders and neck. The man lets out a ragged scream, but it is quickly muffled as radiant magic wrenches open his jaw and begins filling his mouth, momentarily gagging him. In just a few seconds, his upper body is completely immobilized, my magical lashings holding his head up at an angle, mouth opened wide.

  Walking up to him, I pull off the cork of the vial with my teeth and pour the truth serum down his throat. He sputters and gags, but is unable to spit the liquid out because of my spell.

  I wait a moment before stepping back, pocketing the vial and releasing my grip on the spell. He gasps and slumps forward, breathing heavily and grimacing.

  Did it work? I wonder to myself silently, looking at his limp figure and suddenly worrying that my spell might have harmed him. There is only one way to find out, I suppose.

  “What is your name?”

  The assassin stirs, weakly lifting his head up from his chest and looking up at me, dazed. His expression quickly returns to one of hatred, but then he speaks, spitting out his reply like a curse. “Zared Dahl.”

  It worked! I realize, smiling broadly. Now, time to get to the bottom of this. “Why did you and your companions try to kill me?”

  Again, he looks strained, as though he is trying to resist speaking, but the words still come spilling out. “Because we were paid to by the Harbingers.”

  “You were told to kill me specifically?”

  He shakes his head. “No. We were paid to guard the crypts.”

  “Why?”

  I can see the veins in his neck popping out as he tries to resist. “Because of the dead. They did not want information to spread about their former brothers and sisters. They want to keep their organization secret.”

  Then I was right, I think with self-satisfaction. There are elites within the city that are part of the Harbingers, with enough money to hire paid mercenaries. But why all the secrecy? I was able to find information about them from a book in the library. Surely their organization is not completely clandestine.

  Questions. More questions and not enough answers.

  Starting to become frustrated, I continue with my questions, using a more direct approach. “Where are the Harbingers hiding?”

  “I don't know. They never shared that information with me.”

  “Do you know how to contact them?”

  It looks like the assassin’s eyes are about to burst from his head from strain. “Yes,” he hisses.

  “How?”

  “My associates and I are supposed to have a meeting with them. Tomorrow night at midnight in an abandoned alehouse in the Merchant Quarter. It is called the Golden Barrel.” He gasps, and his head drops down to his chest once again. He is panting like he is exhausted.

  “Good,” I say at length, turning to leave the man to his confinement. “I think that will be all for now.”

  As I open the door, the assassin calls out to me, his voice sounding pained. “They’ll kill me, you know that? And it won’t be a quick death. Once they find out I told you, they will come after me.”

  I pause before departing, then say over my shoulder, “Then you’d better hope I can put a stop to them before that.”

  Then I leave, closing the door behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Owyn

  The smell of smoke fills my nostrils as I guide my horse into the Grand Lodge, my hand straying down to my father's hatchet while I search for enemies.

  The compound, which had once resembled a war camp, now looks more like a war zone, with debris strewn about and the cries of the wounded filling the air. Pillars of smoke billow up from a handful of burning buildings, and laid out in the middle of the main courtyard is a line of bodies, most of which wearing the distinctive dark cloaks of the Nightingales.

  The battle, if it had been one, appears to be over.

  “Eleven Hells,” Talon mutters as he pulls his horse up next to mine, regarding the scene in front of us with a look of concern. “It looks like we weren’t the only ones who had a run-in with the Nightingales.”

  “Eleven Hells is right,” I reply, nudging my horse forward and pulling the litter into the clearing.

  A ranger woman steps out in front of us, a bow slung over her shoulder, and she raises a gloved hand, indicating that we should halt.

  “Ho, apprentices,” she says, eyeing each of us in turn. With her bulbous nose and heavy brow, she looks more like a man than a woman. “Where are your masters?”

  “What’s happened here?” I ask instead of answering her question.

  She sighs. “Bloody Nightingales attacked us a few hours ago. Killed our scouts and took us by surprise.”

  I look over her shoulder at the line of bodies on the ground. It appears like there are two dozen of them laid out, but there may be fewer. “Is everyone alright?”

  “It looks much worse than it actually is,” she replies with a shrug. “A handful of casualties and a few scorched buildings. Of course, even a single dead ranger is too many. It seemed like they were testing our strength more than anything else.” She spits out the corner of her mouth into the dirt, then fixes me with a hard stare. “Now, out with it. Where is your master?”

  I gesture to the corpse on the litter behind me at the sam
e time Talon says, “Dead.”

  The ranger glances at the body and visibly pales, her eyes flashing with recognition. “Light rest his soul. Rickard Shaw was a good man. Take him to the Medicine Hall, where he can be properly cared for and laid to rest.”

  She steps back and waves us through, and Talon and I ride our horses into the Grand Lodge.

  Everywhere I look I can see the grim faces of my fellow rangers picking up the pieces after the battle. Lines of men and women with buckets of water work to put out the fires, and other work to gather dropped weapons and other odds and ends, to bring the encampment some semblance of order.

  From what I can tell, it seems like less than ten rangers died in the fighting, a fraction of those lost on the other side. Still, as the hard-faced woman noted, a single loss of life on our side is a tragedy.

  We pull up our horses in front of the Medicine Hall, a squat building with a low roof and a painted red sign marking it as a place for healing. Women in white aprons rush out to meet us, their clothing and hands stained with blood, and we help them unload the body of Ranger Shaw.

  Talon watches them take him away with a forlorn look in his eyes, an expression that seems all too familiar to me. Perhaps, I think, some work will help take his mind off of his loss.

  I approach him and place a hand on his shoulder, then say gently, “Those men look like they could use our help putting out the fires. Let's go.”

  He nods, and together we go join one of the lines of rangers putting out a fire on a barrack building. We haul water from the well, handing the buckets off to others who dump them on the flames. It is long, grueling work, but it also helps both of us to forget our troubles for a time.

  Hours pass, and finally things at the Lodge seem to be calming down. All of the fires have been extinguished, and we hear word that meals are being prepared for everyone in the Mess Hall. We follow the train of weary rangers and find a table right next to the hearth. Just like everyone else we are travel-stained and exhausted, and even though the hall is packed, it is oddly quiet, as if everyone is in mourning over the Nightingale attack.

  A large man with hairy knuckles ladles us each a bowl of vegetable soup and hands us a hunk of crusty bread. We take the proffered food and eat mostly in silence, brooding as we fill our stomachs and rest from our harrowing day.

  After several minutes of quietly stuffing our mouths, Talon speaks up.

  “What do you think we should do next?” He asks around a mouthful of soup.

  I take a gulp of water before replying. “We need to speak with the Master Warden and the other Wardens as well, if we can find them. I need to let them know that this wasn’t a simple Nightingale attack.”

  Talon pauses for a moment before responding. “Do you think that they’ll believe you?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I told them about the Emberwood when I first arrived and they seemed skeptical. But we have to try.”

  He nods and then returns to eating his meal.

  Before long we are done, and we get up to leave the Mess Hall, stepping back out into the smoky courtyard in the middle of all the log buildings.

  There are still those picking through the wreckage, apparently trying to clean up the camp as best as they can, but for the most part things are quiet. It's as if everyone at the Grand Lodge is holding their breath.

  Steeling myself, I begin heading toward the Main Hall with Talon in tow.

  A pair of rangers stands guard in front of the doors, different men than had been there before but still armed to the teeth. They regard Talon and I suspiciously as we approach.

  “What do you want?” One of them asks gruffly, putting a hand on his sword.

  “We need to see Master Warden Thorne,” I reply, holding out my hands to show that I am not a threat. After an attack on their base, these men would no doubt be a little more jumpy than usual. “It is a matter of great importance.”

  “He’s busy,” the other guard replies, his voice matching the angry scowl on his face. “Now piss off, both of you, before I tell your masters to give you a proper flogging.”

  “My master is dead,” Talon says, some heat entering his voice. "His is missing. We need to get in there now."

  The guard’s expression does not change, and no words of sympathy are offered.

  “Look,” I say at length, taking a step closer and lowering my voice, “we just came from the woods. We have information that is vital to the attack, and we need to speak with the Master Warden about it. What we know could save lives.”

  The guard hesitates, and he looks to his companion who gives him a slight shrug.

  Finally, the scowling guard concedes. “Leave your weapons,” he says, gesturing to my bow and hatchet. “And no funny business when you are inside. If either of you even breathes wrong, I’ll not hesitate to run you through.”

  My expression darkens, but I hand over my weapons. Talon does the same, relinquishing his short swords.

  The guards take them and lean them against the wall, then gesture for us to enter.

  We step past the two rangers and enter the same dimly-lit hall I had been in not two days before. The long, wooden chamber contains only crackling braziers, and despite the fact that it is otherwise devoid of people, I can hear voices coming from one of the back rooms.

  Nodding to Talon, I make my way to the back of the hall, pausing before a closed door with light emanating from beneath it. It sounds like there is a heated debate occurring on the other side.

  Hesitating for just a moment, I knock, causing the voices on the other side to fall silent.

  "Enter," comes the deep-voiced command, and I push open the door and lead both of us inside.

  Gathered around a wooden table stands Tamara, along with the Warden Gareth Carr and a handful of other men that I realize must be Wardens as well. At the head of the table sits the Master Warden, Thomwell Thorne, his eyes covered by the same strip of black cloth as he leans forward and rests his hands on the table. Beside him, I recognize his sniveling assistant, Advisor Creed.

  "Who is it?" The Master Warden asks, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted.

  "Owyn Lund," Tamara says warily, her eyes flashing with surprise before narrowing in suspicion. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "We've come to give you important information," I reply, trying not to be intimidated by this room of important people.

  "Light, boys," Gareth Carr mutters, taking in our bedraggled appearance. Both of us are still caked in dried blood. "You look like the Hells themselves. What happened?"

  Everyone looks at us expectantly, aside from Advisor Creed, who looks outright hostile.

  I take a deep breath before responding. "Rickard Shaw is dead."

  "Shaw?" One of the Wardens says in confusion. "Did he have two apprentices?"

  "I gave him charge of Apprentice Lund a couple days ago," Tamara explains. "They went ranging in the Ashwood after that, near the Southwall foothills." She turns to regard me, her expression hard. "What happened?"

  "Nightingales attacked us on the road," Talon blurts out earnestly. "They killed my master, and would have killed us as well, but we managed to fight them off."

  This elicits curses from around the table.

  "You see?" Advisor Creed hisses, leaning over to the Master Warden to address him directly. "The rebels were not only brazen enough to attack our base, but they have assaulted our rangers on the road as well. They must be dealt with swiftly!"

  "They weren't Nightingales," I interrupt, causing all eyes in the room to turn on me.

  Tamara raises an eyebrow. "Not Nightingales?" Her tone is skeptical.

  "No," I affirm, shaking my head. "They had the appearance of Nightingales, but it was not them who attacked us, or the Lodge for that matter."

  "Then who was it?" Asks another Warden, a grim-looking man with a long nose.

  Here we go, I think, preparing myself for what I know is about to come. Taking another breath, I answer. "They were mind slave
s."

  Strangely, the room is completely silent after my revelation. There is no snickering or laughing as I have come to expect. Instead, everyone regards me as if they are expecting more of an explanation.

  I continue.

  "When I gave my report the other day, I mentioned that Nightingales were among the host that attacked Forest Hill. These were not ordinary people; their minds had been taken from them. It is a common trick that demons use to repurpose our troops against us. The Nightingales that attacked displayed the same signs that the mind slaves had in the Emberwood. It means that there is a demon behind these attacks."

  Several of the Wardens whisper to one another, but Tamara and the Master Warden remain conspicuously silent.

  Advisor Creed snarls. "Not this again about the demons. We have a real threat on our hands, Master Warden. Real people are dying. We can't waste any time chasing fairytales on the word of some apprentice–"

  "Were the Nightingales behaving strangely?" I interrupt, looking each Warden in the eye. "Did they fight without fear and ignore pain? Was there something odd about their eyes?"

  Nobody responds to my outburst, but I can see that my words may have struck a chord. Several of the Wardens look perturbed.

  "Enough of this," Thorne says, speaking up for the first time since we entered the room. All eyes turn to him as he apparently considers his next words. "Thank you for bringing us this information, apprentices. We will take it under consideration. Rickard Shaw was a good ranger, and we will see that he gets a hero's funeral. However, we cannot sit idly by while rebels and insurgents openly attack our people. I will not stand for it."

  Looking smug, Creed leans forward and points to a spot on the table. Only now do I realize that there is a map spread out before everyone, depicting the region in great detail.

  "Our scouts have discovered a Nightingale war camp hidden in the foothills of the mountains," Thorne continues, his tone solemn but determined. "We will gather every able-bodied ranger in the Grand Lodge and retaliate with full force. Only then can we deter any more attacks from happening."