“What was that? Do ya think something was trying to get out?”
“Don’t you start,” came another voice. “Those tales of the Nora are just stories. For someone who boasts to the lasses that he’s the bravest man alive, you sure are a coward.”
Ferran sighed as it became clear that they would not investigate further. The vigilantes’ footsteps retreated until he could no longer hear them. Moving deeper into the tunnels, he felt safe enough to use a firestone to light the way. Just like the other tunnels, there were markings on the walls to guide workers and travellers to their chosen destinations. He racked his brain and recalled the sign for the cathedral. This one was a circle overlaid with a triangle. Holding the firestone to the walls, he quickly found the right markers and followed them through the tunnels until he reached an iron-runged ladder. He rubbed his hands together and began to climb. The metal rungs were covered in wet moss, but his gloves were more than up the task of preventing him from slipping.
Above him, was an iron manhole cover. With a grunt, he slowly pushed upwards, his magic-enhanced arms easily lifting the heavy cover. Once removed, he carefully placed it onto the cathedral’s marble floor and hauled himself out of the hole. Now in a crouch, he paused and listened. The smell of burning incense wafted into his nostrils.
The interior of the cathedral always impressed him. High beams laced with gold rose into the high ceiling, and thousands of scented candles flickered in alcoves that lined the walls. The floor was made of marble, serpentine and various offer precious stones, but it was the huge mosaic of Niveren that dominated the easternmost transept. The god hero was depicted in a suit of shining armour, and in his hands was the golden sword, Asphodel. Ferran stayed low as moved towards the central aisle, using the pews for cover. Thousands of people could fit into the cathedral if needed, but events that saw such turnouts were rare. Only the coronation of a king was guaranteed to pack the place out.
At the end of the central aisle was a large stone, the King’s Stone. Trentian stood next to it, conversing with one of his followers, a priest by the look of him. Ferran stealthily moved closer until he could overhear their conversation.
“Double the guards at the palace. No one is to be allowed entry into the King’s Spire unless they have my express permission,” Trentian said.
“You look troubled, Archbishop. Is the king in peril?” the priest asked, genuine concern in his tone.
Ferran shook his head. Trentian had even his clergy fooled, it seemed.
“Perhaps. Do not worry, brother Ertus; I shall do all in my power to keep the king safe.”
“Archbishop … I must ask,” Ertus added hesitantly. “The other clergy and I are uncomfortable with what is happening in the city. These people you have gathered to be your vigilantes; we have heard troubling things about them. Unprovoked acts of violence, attacks on innocent people, wielders being burnt alive simply for existing. Me and the others are no lovers of wielders, but under the law they are only breaking it if they use their powers outside of Caldaria. Now it seems that anyone with even the most tenuous link to magic is being persecuted. It is … it’s intolerable.”
Trentian glared at the priest until Ertus looked away, unable to hold his gaze.
“Do you doubt my leadership, Ertus?” Trentian replied angrily. “I assure you what has been done is necessary to protect this city and the realm. Now, leave me be – I have matters to attend to, and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Of course, your holiness, I meant no disrespect,” Ertus said as he bowed. The priest walked off, leaving Trentian alone before the King’s Stone. He glanced about to make sure nobody else was present. Ferran ducked deeper into the shadows. Satisfied that he was the only person there, Trentian spat on the stone.
“A boy should never have been made a king,” he snarled.
If there had been any doubt remaining that the archbishop was a traitor, that act proved it. Trentian strode off towards his private chambers, and Ferran followed. The cathedral was poorly lit, and the flickering candles cast plenty of shadows for the Nightblade to move through undetected.
The archbishop went through a doorway that led to the rear of the cathedral. One vigilante stood guard outside. Ferran paused. The only way to Trentian was through the door; he couldn’t risk the guard raising the alarm. For all he knew, there could be dozens of vigilantes in that section of the building. Using a nearby column for cover, he pressed his back to it and peeked around the side.
The old lure trick should work, he thought. He pursed his lips and let out a low whistle.
“What the?” the vigilante exclaimed in surprise.
The man drew the dagger from his belt and headed towards where the sound had come from. Ferran tensed and waited. Once the vigilante was close enough, he sprung from the shadows, a gloved hand covering the man’s mouth, stifling his cry. With his other hand, he summoned his tourmaline sword to life and stabbed it deep into the man’s stomach. The vigilante went limp. Careful not to make any noise, Ferran gently lowered the body to the ground and drew his blade over the man’s throat. He had to be certain he was dead. Once that grim deed was done, he dragged the corpse into a nearby unlit alcove. Hopefully, no one would discover the body until the morning. With the guard removed, he dashed over to the doorway and slipped through.
Ferran brushed his way passed a thin curtain that divided the private quarters from the rest of the cathedral. Like the rest of the structure, the area was dimly lit; only a flickering candle offered any illumination. He listened. Gentle snoring came from the priest’s quarters to his right. Those he would ignore, for now. He needed to find out just how deep Trentian and the N’gist conspiracy went. If it were revealed that the entire Chantry was in on it, then that would be another powerful enemy to add to the ever growing list. Up ahead was a heavy oak door; carved on its surface was the golden seal of the archbishop.
Being careful not to make any noise, Ferran slowly turned the door handle and pushed it open. Luckily for him, the hinges had only recently been oiled, so the door opened without a sound. He slipped inside the room and closed the door behind him. Trentian was pottering about in a side room. From what Ferran could see, the old man was disrobing and getting ready for bed.
Trentian shambled out of the side room oblivious to the black-clad Nightblade stood in his bedroom. The archbishop was now wearing a simple loincloth to cover his frail age-ravaged body. Ferran smiled cruelly.
“How long has it been since you sold your soul to Danon?”
Trentian jumped and swore loudly. He spun around, his eyes wide in fright.
“Answer the question, Trentian. There is no point denying it; I heard you speaking with that N’gist cultist down in the passageways.”
Trentian’s faced paled. Ferran kept a hand on the hilt of his sword; despite the man’s old age, he did not know just how much of a N’gist he was. All were dangerous, especially when cornered.
The fear in the old man’s eyes was replaced with malice. His face contorted into a vicious sneer.
“How long? How long, he asks? Forever is my answer. Always. I won’t deny it to you. Do you have any idea how hard it has been pretending to be something I’m not for over fifty years? Pretending to worship the false idol Niveren, crowning idiots to be kings.”
Ferran glared at Trentian. Such venom and hate was in his voice. A part of him felt respect for the creature before him. To have remained undetected as a traitor for so many years was no easy feat.
“Cliria came to me when I was just a young man,” Trentian continued as he sat heavily on the bed. “Back then, I was something of a cad. Gambling, drinking and whoring were my pasttimes, and you know something Nightblade, I was bloody good at it too.”
“I was always good with people. I could convince them to do anything with a bit of nudging. And the lies I told – well, let’s just say I was good at that too. Cliria found me and showed me the power of Danon and the N’gist. She told me that my talents could be of use to her,
and so I did all she asked of me. I joined the Chantry and quickly rose up the ranks until I was made bishop. Thirty years had passed by then, you see; to any observers I was a devoted man of Niveren. One night she came to me and told me that my time had come to serve my true master. The Crimson Blades assassinated the Archbishop Ion, and thanks to the influence she had on the court I was elected his predecessor.”
Ferran shook his head. How long had Danon been scheming? How long had Cliria worked to bring the world to its current chaotic state?
“She wanted the mages out of the picture. So, I delivered my Sermon of the Damned,” Trentian continued with a smile. “It was my proudest moment. I was serving my true master, and yet convincing everyone else to his bidding under the name of Niveren.”
Ferran clenched his hands into fists. The Sermon of the Damned had been the speech that had reintroduced the persecution of the magic wielders. It had been made before he’d been born; it was the reason why the Witch Hunters had slaughtered so many people, including his mother.
“Thousands of people died because of those words. Both wielders and the innocent alike. You’re telling me that Cliria commanded you to do it?” he growled, anger in his voice.
Trentian smirked.
“Vilify the mages, she said. Eliminate those who could oppose the N’gist, she said. The Witch Hunters, and now my vigilantes, have done their jobs well. Those mages that we didn’t kill turned to us with open arms and joined our ranks. What better way to recruit your enemies than to have them so vilified and so hated by those they were supposed to protect.”
Stormglade had been full of mages that had joined the N’gist for the very reasons Trentian had listed. Ferran had seen them with his own eyes. The true scale of Danon’s schemes struck him like a lightning bolt. Centuries in the making and so intricate that it would have been impossible for anyone to discover or understand.
“Do you not see, Nightblade? Everything has gone to plan,” Trentian continued, a sickening pride in his tone. “The realm was weakened long ago by the greed of its rulers. The assassination of the royal family triggered the War of the Claimants, dividing it even more. As the barons squabbled amongst themselves, we carried out our schemes without interruption.”
“You’re wrong. We will find a way to stop you,” Ferran replied coldly. Channelling his magic, he summoned a fireball to life in his left hand. The room instantly got warmer as a result of the magical flame. At seeing it, Trentian’s eyes widened.
“You have the blood of countless innocents on your hands. Including my mother’s,” he added with barely contained rage. “You and your kind enjoy burning people alive; now you will share that fate.”
Ferran raised his arm and unleashed the fire. The fireball struck Trentian, igniting the bed on which he sat. His screams of agony were near deafening as he was burned alive. The smell of cooking flesh filled the chamber, but Ferran did not care. He watched for a moment before he turned his back and left.
His mother was finally avenged.
16.
The King’s Spire, Sunguard
The vigilante slumped to the floor unconscious, Sophia’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. She and Hannah had used the passageways under the city to emerge in the heart of the Spire’s gardens. Vigilantes were patrolling the grounds; the man now lying still at her feet was the third they had silently dispatched. Moving quickly, they stayed low using the tall bushes that lined the garden’s perfectly manicured lawns and pathways. To their right stood a tall marble fountain that sprayed water high into the air and produced enough noise to mask their footsteps.
Across open ground, loomed the King’s, Spire. The moons were high and large in the sky, providing enough illumination to reveal that two more sentries guarded the main entrance. Sophia swore under her breath. The Spire had been designed to be impregnable. There was only one way inside, and the escape tunnels were magically sealed, making an entrance via that route impossible.
Hannah tapped her on the shoulder.
“I think I can help,” she said eagerly. Sophia raised an eyebrow as the young woman reached into the satchel that she always carried. She pulled out a small bag of yellowish powder and smiled.
“It’s Doza powder from the Dozy plants that grow in the forests of Caldaria. A very powerful knockout drug. We use it in the medica on patients,” she explained. She handed Sophia her staff and shrugged off her cloak. Underneath she wore a linen shirt and pair of leather trousers with knee high boots. She pulled a pin out of her hair and let her blond hair fall loosely about her face.
“My mother always used to say that we women have a natural advantage over men. Use those charms whenever you need to if you have no other choice, she’d say.”
Sophia shook her head in amusement.
Hannah gripped the bag tightly and hid it behind her back before stepping out onto the path. She walked towards the two vigilantes, making sure to add a seductive swing to her hips as she did so. She fluttered her eyes and smiled sweetly as the two men spotted her.
From her vantage spot, Sophia watched as the men approached Hannah. She couldn’t make out their conversation, but it looked like the vigilantes were responding to her flirtations. The men laughed, and Hannah giggled.
“So much for being devoutly pious …” Sophia muttered.
Hannah pulled the bag out from behind her back and reached into it.
“Do you want one of my treats?” she asked sweetly.
The men nodded eagerly. Hannah smiled.
She opened her hand that held the powder and raised it to her lips. With a sharp blow, the powder flew into the faces of the vigilantes. They cried out in surprise, but within moments they collapsed to the ground, sound asleep.
“Huh, that worked,” Sophia said, impressed at the young healer’s ability. She hurried over to them. Sure enough, both were snoring loudly. She grabbed the legs of one and gestured to Hannah to take the legs of the other. Together, they dragged the snoring guards into the garden and dumped them in a hedge.
“Hopefully no one will find them until we are long gone from here,” Hannah said. “The powder should last until then at least.”
She put her cloak back on and picked up her staff. With the main entrance now unguarded, they cautiously opened the large arched doors. They opened with a squeak, but no one came to investigate the noise.
Slipping inside, they stuck to the shadows. Burning braziers provided flickering light, but as it was late at night and most of the staff were asleep some had burnt themselves out, creating pockets of darkness. The palace was silent. Sophia recalled the layout of the structure. The ground floor of the Spire was where the barracks and throne room were located, with the servants’ quarters on the second floor and the government offices above that. The king’s private quarters were located near to the top
Sophia froze as a bell began to toll in the distance. It was the city’s alarm bell. Quickly, she grabbed Hannah’s hand and pulled her deeper into the blackness. Panicked shouts and the sounds of men putting on armour and arming themselves came from up ahead. Soon, soldiers and vigilantes rushed past their hiding spot, their weapons and armour clanking as they went.
“There’s been an attack on the cathedral!” one of the soldiers shouted.
Sophia’s heart skipped a beat. Ferran! Hannah squeezed her hand. The soldiers charged out of the Spire and headed towards the cathedral, leaving the Spire relatively undefended.
“Ferran will be okay, Sophia. He’s diverted the entire garrison away from us,” Hannah said, trying to reassure her friend.
Sophia nodded. “You’re right. He’ll be fine. Come on, let’s get to the king.”
Confident that the Spire was now defenceless, they moved quickly through the palace. They reached the spiral staircase without incident and bounded up the steps. Drowsy servants had emerged from their rooms on the upper floors, but none of them stopped the two women. After a tiring climb, they reached the king’s floor. Stepping through the arched doorway, they
found themselves on a wide marble tiled landing. The banner of the king hung on the wall, and a thick oak door stood at the far end. Two grim-faced vigilantes were standing guard. Unlike the soldiers, they wore only light armour and held long spears that they held across the doorway.
“Now what?” Hannah asked as she took a peek down the corridor.
“We don’t have time to fight them,” Sophia replied as she unslung her bow off her shoulder. “Once the soldiers secure the city, they will come back here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the main garrison weren’t already on its way.” She took two arrows from the quiver on her hip and placed them carefully on the cord. She’d only get one shot before the guards were on her. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself and stepped out into the corridor. The vigilantes shouted in surprise at seeing the Witch Hunter.
“Stop right there!”
Sophia went into a crouch, raised her bow and angled it onto its side. Without thinking, she released and sent the arrows shooting down the corridor. One veered off to the right, while the other went left. It was a shot only a master archer could have pulled off, and Sophia was one of those. The arrows struck both targets in the throat, dropping them to the ground.
She then hurried over to the bodies and began to search their pockets, doing her best to avoid the blood pooling onto the floor.
“Aha,” she exclaimed as found a set of keys on one of the guards. “Keep watch.”
Hannah nodded and took up position in the doorway, her staff held at the ready. She would be able to hear anyone approaching up the steps. Sophia went over to the door, and one by one tried the keys on the chain. The first two didn’t fit, but the third did. The lock turned with a satisfying click.
Quest for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 3) Page 12
