Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  On the way out of the room, Hannus paused and frowned, as if only just remembering something. He touched Aldric’s arm, and they halted, Aldric just outside the room, Hannus a step inside.

  “I was told you were given a relic to bring with you,” Hannus said cautiously.

  “I was,” Aldric said, equally as cautious. “Though it wasn’t given to me to bring here. It was given to me for my personal use.”

  He knew the relics were a favorite gossip subject among the priests. Through centuries of guesswork, the Church had surmised the relics were ranked in some indefinable way, and priests had to prove themselves to gain access to different experiences. While the dreams the relics brought weren’t secret, talking about what you’d experienced was discouraged and could lead to harsh punishment.

  “The missive said the relic was one of the rarer ones, from the time when Nysrog walked the earth and gathered his filthy cabal of sorcerers. I would like to borrow it. For a few nights, at least.”

  What Hannus was suggesting was against the strictest rules of the Church. Aldric steeled himself to reply.

  “The relics granted to priests are for their own use and not to be given to anyone else. Such an act is a serious crime against the Church.”

  “Traditionalists!” exclaimed Hannus. “I suppose you got that from Roald, Menselas bless him. Such a stickler for the rules. Those of us with a more progressive leaning prefer collegiality and sharing. I would have thought someone of your reputation within the Church would want to get off on the right foot here.”

  Aldric fumed inside. What the archbishop wanted was unconscionable, and he knew it.

  “I’ll consider your request,” he replied tersely.

  “Good,” Hannus said with a thin smile. “But not for too long. Now, let’s go and see this settler.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The settler was the old man Aldric had seen weeping in the church. He was standing by the great doors, a scruffy hat crumpled in his hands. His rough-spun clothes were patched and stained, as though the dirt was ingrained into the fabric. They were wrinkled too, as if he’d been sleeping in them. Up close, Aldric could see the man was fit for his age, his bearing solid and strong. A man used to physical labor, face and hands weathered by the sun.

  He shook the old man’s hand, then gripped his shoulder. “I’m here to help,” he said, meaning it. “Hopefully, it will only take a day to get the men ready, and then we can get you back to your settlement.”

  “Another day?” the man said. “I’ve been here too long already.”

  “My good man,” Hannus said, “you can’t rush these things. Sending a few mercenaries instead of a full team of warriors won’t do much to help.”

  “What’s your name?” Aldric asked.

  “Neb.”

  “Well, Neb, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to keep your settlement and your people safe. The Dead-eyes came on a moonless night, correct? If they’re going to come back, they’ll wait for another one. They don’t attack in numbers unless it’s full-dark.”

  “Well, I still need to get back. We can’t spare any hands at the settlement. You look like you can handle yourself. We’ll need more of your type.”

  “And you’ll get them,” Hannus interjected. “Just remember the deal we struck. We need everything of interest you found outside the ruin, and no exploring inside either. Leave that to the experts. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to pass the door.” He looked outside at the darkening sky. “It’s getting late, and Magister Aldric here has an early start, don’t you, Aldric?”

  “Yes. Meet me in front of this church at midday,” he said to Neb. He should be finished with the healers by then.

  “Excellent,” said Hannus. “I’ll bring your companion from the other Church at the same time, and you can all get acquainted. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time for my prayers, and then I have some urgent business to attend to.”

  Neb watched the archbishop’s retreating back with an expression Aldric couldn’t identify.

  “Where are you staying?” Aldric asked.

  Neb’s eyes shifted to his. “About. We couldn’t spare much coin.”

  Aldric took a few silver royals from his purse. “Here.”

  “I don’t need no charity.”

  Aldric pressed them into his hand. “Take them, from the Church of Menselas. Get a good night’s rest and some hot food into you. We’ll be leaving as soon as possible, and I want to travel hard. Do you have a horse?”

  “No. Walked here.”

  “I’ll get you one.”

  “I don’t need no—”

  “It’s not a gift; it’s a loan from the Church. I’ll take it back with me. As I said, get some rest. And meet me here at midday tomorrow.”

  He left the settler standing alone on the steps, his hat scrunched in his grip.

  Chapter Twelve

  One Step Forward

  NIKLAUS STRODE THROUGH THE darkness and drumming rain. Only a few others were walking the streets, the downpour keeping most at home or at work, waiting for a lull. He wore an oilskin coat and a wide-brimmed hat, both of which had served him well over the many years since he’d taken them from a dead man. His boots were soaked, but the workmanship was of good quality, and his feet remained dry.

  The tavern Eckart the Lost had told him about was up ahead. Niklaus ducked under the awning above the door. This had better be the right place, or Eckart would become as lost as a corpse floating in a canal.

  No, Niklaus admonished himself. I need him.

  At least the necromancer had been of some use so far. His work was progressing well, or so he said. And he’d been able to tell Niklaus of a scholar who had delved deep beneath the city and recently found an artifact that might assist with Niklaus’s task. With the expedition Matriarch Adeline wanted him on leaving soon, Niklaus had to follow this lead up now and make sure the business was concluded before he left Caronath. He’d likely be gone weeks, which was annoying, but what did he have if not time?

  From inside the establishment came the sounds of merriment—the hum of conversation and laughter. After the chill of the rain, the warmth of the place hit him like a wave. Against one wall was a large brick fireplace, though now only smoldering coals remained. A scruffy man with a bristly beard bent over them to ignite a splinter of wood, which he used to light a cheap corncob pipe. The atmosphere was humid and stale, and Niklaus’s nose wrinkled at the stench of unwashed bodies, smoke, damp wool, and stale beer. Dirt had been swept into corners, and the stained tables shone with grease and spilled drink. Most of the crowd was in a cheerful mood, drinking, carousing, gambling, and pawing the whores. There were rowdy thugs from the dark back streets of Caronath; travelers with accents from distant lands who’d come to the city for unguessable purposes; mercenaries sporting too many weapons and scars; and seductively clad prostitutes whose laughter rang false to Niklaus’s ears and never reached their hard eyes. A few card games were in progress, coins neatly stacked in front of the participants. He suppressed the urge to join one.

  In the corners of the room, small groups of men hunched over their drinks and spoke in low whispers, ignored by the rest of the patrons. A person’s business was their own, and in this tavern the city guard rarely appeared, except to collect bribes. A man sitting alone at a side table caught Niklaus’s notice, and he let his gaze slide casually over him, as if he didn’t observe anything out of the ordinary. The man was huge, and the hands clasped about his mug were deeply tanned and calloused. All brawn and not much brain, if Niklaus had to guess. A slight twitch of his head when he’d noticed Niklaus had given him away. Someone with an interest in me. Well, he’d find out what soon enough. Then perhaps there’d be another corpse added to Caronath’s many other deaths tonight. Murders happened all too frequently in cities, especially in the poorer districts.

  Niklaus’s gaze turned to the tavern keeper, a scarecrow of a man with a thin smile plastered on his gaunt face. Pale skin attested to the fact he spe
nt most of his time indoors, no doubt busy with the tasks required to run such a dive.

  Taking off his hat, Niklaus made his way to the bar and signaled to catch the tavern keeper’s attention.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “I’m here to see Ikel.”

  A man known for his nefarious connections and access to almost anything you wanted to get your hands on—even extremely rare artifacts of power looted from ruins that most of these scum would kill for, though most of the men in this bar would be too terrified to go near a ruin.

  “What drink?” The tavern keeper spoke as if he hadn’t heard Niklaus’s request.

  “A beer. Something pale. With no bugs in it.”

  Taking a tin mug, the man filled it from one of the barrels behind the bar and placed it in front of Niklaus. “That’ll be a gold royal.”

  Niklaus paused. Obviously, he was paying for more than the drink. A gold royal would buy the entire barrel. He clicked a gold coin onto the counter and slid it toward the tavern keeper. A stranger standing next to Niklaus glanced at the coin, then away.

  The tavern keeper’s pallid fingers picked the coin up and tapped it on the counter while his shrewd eyes considered Niklaus. After a few moments, he sniffed and jerked his head toward a heavy curtain covering a doorway next to the bar. “Back rooms. Third door on the left. Knock three times.”

  Niklaus nodded and drained his mug. To his surprise, the beer was actually quite tasty. He licked foam from his lips and pushed his way past a few of the tavern’s patrons. A stocky mercenary wearing a scuffed leather harness festooned with blades glared at him, but looked away when Niklaus returned the stare. Most dogs knew their betters when they came across them. You didn’t live long in the business if you misjudged people.

  The hallway was quieter, the thick material of the hanging deadening sound and filtering out most of the stink.

  Niklaus knocked on the third door three times, waited a moment, then entered.

  An old man clad in homespun trousers and coat sat on a low chair behind a desk. Next to him was a brazier filled with glowing coals. He glanced up as Niklaus entered, then went back to making notes in a thick ledger. His liver-spotted skin was a greenish-brown, but despite his age his black hair was still thick, though trimmed short. Perhaps he dyed it.

  “I take it you’re Ikel?” said Niklaus.

  The description matched: the man’s Illapa blood showed in the color of his skin. The Illapa were a usually passive race of people who lived in the forests and worshiped nature and weather or some such nonsense. From what Niklaus recalled, they were fond of smoking hallucinogenic herbs and fungi.

  “Indeed I am.” Ikel pointed the end of his pen at an empty chair against one wall. “Please, sit.”

  Niklaus placed Ikel’s accent as from the Pristart Combine in the far south-west, a very long way away. But that wasn’t surprising. Caronath was a lure for many opportunists. His manners were a contrast to his rough clothes, but Niklaus well knew you couldn’t judge someone based on their appearance. One of the deadliest killers he’d known was a man only a hair over five feet tall, with a thin frame and a boyish face that made mothers offer him cookies and milk.

  Niklaus perched on a corner of the chair. Her sword on his back was awkward sometimes, like now. But he would never leave it behind or remove it.

  “My name is Niklaus du Plessis.”

  “I’ve heard your name before. The priestesses of Sylva Kalisia don’t seem to know what to make of you.”

  That Ikel knew this gave Niklaus pause. Not many in Caronath knew of him or his involvement with the goddess. Ikel must have little birds everywhere, telling him all manner of secrets. A dangerous man.

  “The priestesses are flustered by what they can’t control,” he replied. “They like to keep everything in a box they hold the key to, or on a leash.”

  “Indeed. And you look like a man who would chafe at a leash. And perhaps bite the person holding the other end.” Ikel cleared his throat, then took a sip of water from a crystal goblet. “Forgive my abruptness, but my time is limited. Can I help you with something?”

  “I’m looking for the scholar Valter. I’ve heard rumor he’s been unearthing some … intriguing items. But I can’t find him. I’m conducting my own research and hope to gain his insight, as well as view any special items he might have in his possession.”

  Ikel gave him a considering look. “Pardon me if this seems discourteous, but you don’t exactly have a scholarly look.”

  Usually Niklaus would remain silent in such a situation, encouraging Ikel to underestimate him, but he had nothing to fear from this man. And this was his best chance to find Valter.

  “I have a particular interest in the cataclysms,” he began. “And have qualifications from the Arcanum in Riem and the Thaumaturgy School in Kroe. I’ve studied The Epistemologies of Eilwyn extensively and The Annals of Terrant.”

  Dissecting or critiquing either of these thick multi-volumed works was usually a lifetime’s endeavor for a scholar.

  “Eilwyn, eh? A thoughtful woman. A scholar’s scholar.”

  Niklaus inclined his head. He knew from personal experience that her version of some crucial moments in history were incorrect, but there was no point arguing.

  “So, tell me,” continued Ikel, switching to ancient Rho-uric, a later variant of Skanuric, “what do you believe happens after death?” His accent was atrocious, and he faltered slightly as he searched for the next word.

  He looked at Niklaus expectantly, waiting for him to plead ignorance. No one who hadn’t studied for years at one of the prominent universities would be able to speak, or read, Rho-uric. It was spoken only by scholars, as many of the surviving histories were written in the later variant. In his clumsy testing of Niklaus, Ikel had revealed a detail about himself.

  “Really, Sur-Ikel,” Niklaus replied in flawless Rho-uric, using the common form of address, “was it too hard to imagine I am telling the truth? Enough of these games. Either you can lead me to Valter or you cannot. Which is it?”

  Ikel switched back to the common tongue. “My apologies, Niklaus. Please forgive me. Despite my precautions, a few fraudsters find their way to me. I was merely trying to ascertain your legitimacy. I see now that you are genuine.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Valter is known to me, but I must tell you he values his privacy.”

  “I can pay well.”

  “Good. That’s good. But coin isn’t the only consideration. However, I think Valter wouldn’t mind meeting with a knowledgeable researcher such as yourself.”

  “Then let us make arrangements. And by the way, when most people die, they are consumed by maggots and worms and become dust. It is impossible to construe a mind that continues in an afterlife. But for a very slender few, there is godhood.”

  Ikel smiled thinly. “That’s two theories. Neither of which I ascribe to.”

  ~ ~ ~

  It was almost midnight by the time Niklaus reached the hills behind Caronath. They were thinly treed and scarred by swathes of deforested areas and canyons. The Crystal River, fed by snowmelt from the high Ymaltian Mountains far to the north—the home of Margebian, the so-called Witch of Winter—cut a twisted path through north Caronath and then flowed east to spill into the Trackless Ocean. Named for its clear waters, which swelled in the spring and summer months, the river was the lifeblood of the city, providing a plentiful supply of water, along with fat salmon in the winter months. Niklaus had only lived a short time in the city and already he was heartily sick of the fish.

  Niklaus looked around, making sure to keep his guide in sight—a half-wild mountaineer supplied by Ikel who talked to himself and constantly chewed cravv leaves that stained his lips and teeth black. The guide, Grogan, wasn’t long for this world at the rate he consumed the addictive narcotic. It was a wonder he could still walk and talk coherently. But he knew his business, Niklaus had to admit. They’d traveled along barely discernible trails into the hills, which were honeycombed with tomb
s, some of which descended to the cities buried by the cataclysms underneath Caronath—or so the rumors went.

  Only the hills closest to Caronath were still used for burials, a few miles north of the city, and the paths and tombs farther out around here were abandoned. The people of Caronath rarely interred riches with their dead, only burial clothes and occasionally jewelry hardly worth a few copper royals. So there was nothing to tempt grave robbers. Besides, the ghouls and Dead-eyes, and worse, kept away anyone intent on making mischief. Not many citizens of Caronath would brave the inhuman custodians that had made the abandoned tombs their homes.

  The late hour didn’t bother Niklaus, who seldom slept these days. But at Matriarch Adeline’s request he had to meet an archbishop of Menselas early in the morning, so hoped his business with Valter would be relatively quick and easy.

  “This way,” Grogan said gruffly.

  He led Niklaus along more tortuous trails and over rock slides. Fortunately there was enough light shed by the waning red moon, Jagonath, to prevent them tripping over stones and branches. Soon they were traversing a narrow path up a cliff face, with a dark drop of unknowable depth to their right. Niklaus’s boot skidded on a loose rock, and he gripped the cliff with one hand for security. Then the path widened, and they emerged onto a wide ledge. Shadowed openings arose from the cliff face, hand-hewn and rough, carved through the rock by long-dead slaves to house their masters’ corpses. Iron gates had kept the tombs free from invasion by wild animals and creatures of the night, though many of these were missing now or hung on rusted hinges, having been forced open at some point.

  Grogan looked around, as if expecting to see whatever monster that had the strength to rip asunder the iron gates. Niklaus’s guess was a pack of ghouls, or a wraithe on arcane and unknowable business.

  Each opening was pitch black, darker than the night around them, and the air stank of moldering decay. Scurrying sounds came from inside one of the tombs, along with a soft shuffling. Niklaus moved away from the doorway, and his boots crunched on fragments of bone scored by tooth marks.