by Jon Monson
Aydiin looked up and noticed for the first time that each man was wearing a harness. Barrick clipped himself onto the rope. Then he turned back to look at Aydiin.
“Don’t be too gentle with him now,” he said with a sneer before jumping and sliding down the rope.
Aydiin’s stomach fell as he realized the brilliance of their escape. It would take them far away before anyone would be able to follow. The Jandarm would climb all those stairs only to find Byanca’s corpse.
“Let’s not take any chances with you either,” the large man who had been securing Byanca smiled. He pulled out a wooden cudgel and brought it down on the back of Aydiin’s head.
Chapter 35
The heavy and somber beating of a drum reverberated through Aydiin’s entire body as his mind again embraced consciousness. His eyes fluttered open to see the stone archways and windowless walls of a subterranean chamber illuminated by the flickering orange light of torches. The oily smoke seemed to fill the entire room, and Aydiin’s eyes began to water.
He was lying flat on his back, arms and legs spread out as if he were a star fish. The stone surface he rested on was less than comfortable, and his body felt stiff and sore. Adding to that discomfort, there was a heat around his wrists and ankles, and he looked up at his hands.
Chords of white hot flame wrapped around his wrists, and he assumed similar bindings secured his ankles. Somehow, the heat didn’t burn, but he had the feeling that if he moved even slightly, that might change rather quickly. The thought gave him little comfort.
He directed his gaze upwards to see dozens of black robed figures seated several spans above him. With hoods drawn, faces engulfed in shadow, the specters felt like apparitions come to haunt his dreams. Yet he knew this was no dream.
Looking down at his feet, he saw the same fiery chords binding his legs to the stone surface. Looking beyond, he wasn’t surprised to see a few dozen violet robed figures occupying row after row of wooden pews. They sat, awaiting patiently.
I’m surrounded by hundreds of insane followers of the Undergods, Aydiin thought in horror. The drum continued its steady rhythm, the beat reverberating through his head and chest.
Then the pounding ceased and a deafening silence filled the chamber. Aydiin almost feared to breathe deeply. The sound would be too much.
“Tonight will long be remembered,” a voice croaked behind him. “And you are blessed by the Great Raven to be a part of it.”
Aydiin looked behind him to see a raised dais with a podium. At the podium stood a violet robed figure with his hood drawn. The robe was fringed in gold.
He would recognize that voice, that posture anywhere. This was the man from the blood circle. This was the man who took Marcino.
“Before us, we have the remnant of the false gods who for so long oppressed mankind,” the voice continued. “Those creatures who called themselves Divine, yet withheld their powers from mortal men.”
“We hold the last remaining threat to our promises of eternal paradise. We hold the key to unlocking the Great Lord from his imprisonment. We hold him!”
The robed figure pointed to Aydiin and nearly shrieked the final words. The weight of a hundred glares fell upon Aydiin, and he wanted to squirm. He wanted to crawl away, to be anywhere but here. Yet that wasn’t an option.
I’m going to die, he thought. The realization slammed into him. There was no escaping his fate.
No tears came to his eyes. His mind seemed to accept that his death was imminent. In that moment, he felt only calm acceptance.
At least I’ll be with Byanca. The thought came to his mind unbidden, which felt more comforting than any hopes of rescue or escape.
Despite the insanity of the past weeks, he really had come to love that fiery Genodran. In such a short time, she had become his world. Now, she was gone - and he would be joining her soon.
Deep in the back of his mind, he knew that his death meant the end of all creation. He knew that he should fight, even though fighting meant death. Lying here also meant death. Something about the man’s voice seemed familiar – beyond hearing it in the Doge’s Palace. There was something about the way he massaged every syllable, placing emphasis on certain words. It was less of an accent and more of a personal style of speaking.
“This victory – this final victory - will be made even sweeter as we will be inducting a very special initiate into the ranks of the Knights,” the man said, lifting his hand, gesturing towards the back of the lower chamber. “Brother Barrick, you may join us now.”
As the man said Barrick’s name, Aydiin recognized the voice. The man was no other than Arathorm Fortescue - Barrick’s father. He felt like a fool for taking this long to make the realization.
As his old friend walked into the room, his hood pulled back, anger roared in Aydiin’s chest like a savage lion. New found strength flooded into his bones, his muscles – not the strength to live, but the strength to give his death meaning.
If he were to die tonight, he decided that he would take Barrick with him.
The traitor’s face looked haggard. His skin was pale and bags had formed under his eyes. The eyes were what struck Aydiin more than anything.
There was no look of joy in those brown orbs, only exhaustion. He seemed ready to be finished, to rest. Yet there was also a grim determination in that stare.
“Brother Barrick has earned this great honor tonight – his ingenuity and determination were key to victory,” Arathorm continued. “As an old friend of our guest, it is only fitting that Barrick be the one to end his life.”
Barrick approached, growing closer to the stone altar. His eyes – those sad yet determined orbs – made contact with Aydiin’s. Out of his robes, Barrick drew a revolver.
A collective gasp sounded from the hooded figures, the sound echoing throughout the stone chamber. Still there was no murmuring, no other sound beyond the dying echoes. Aydiin had the feeling that Barrick had just done something unexpected.
“Brother Barrick, you know that firearms are not allowed in the Chapel,” Arathorm called out, his voice filled with anger.
Yet Barrick ignored his father. His eyes stared into Aydiin’s, and Aydiin found that he could only stare back. His face continued to look exhausted, completely unchanged by the shock caused by the production of the revolver secured in his trembling hand.
The gun was of fine craftsmanship, although an obviously older model. Only a glance was required for Aydiin to realize it was his own gun – the very firearm he’d used since he was a boy. It seemed fitting.
“That is an abomination,” Arathorm called out again, stepping down from the dais and approaching his son. “You will hand that over to me or you will face the consequences.”
Barrick again ignored his father, raising the weapon towards Aydiin’s chest. His thumb cocked the hammer, the steel barrel trembling in his unsteady hands. His finger hugged the trigger, the occasional twitch coming close to discharging the weapon.
“Son, give me the revolver,” Arathorm said, now standing less than a span away. He held his hand out expectantly.
The look of exhaustion fled from Barrick’s face. His eyes seemed to grow brighter, a hint of the old Barrick. A wide smile spread across his entire countenance, barely concealing a boisterous laughter.
His right eye flashed a quick wink as the smile grew wider. Barrick pulled up the revolver and redirected the steel barrel towards his robed father. With a crack, his twitching finger pulled the trigger.
◆◆◆
Byanca awoke with the worst headache she could remember. Her vision felt foggy, as if she had consumed far too much wine. As her eyes opened, she could barely make out her surroundings in the silvery moonlight filtering in through a high, barred window.
The room was seemingly hewn out of sandstone, the high window indicating her position underground. The outline of rough stairs led up to a wooden door. Flickering of lamplight was just visible through a small crack between the door and the stone floor.
Terror coursing through her veins, Byanca screamed, but no sound left her lips. She began kicking, but her legs wouldn’t obey. There was nothing she could do but move her eyes.
Through the frustration, something amazing occurred to her – she was alive. The memory of Barrick discussing the terrible poison was clear in her mind, along with the pain of the needle being jammed into her neck. Something was wrong, but she was most certainly not dead.
She could feel the cold stone of the table bearing her weight. She could feel the warm, stale air drape over her. Worst of all, she could feel – rather than smell – the stench of death in the room.
Looking to her right, she saw another table that was likely similar to her own. A white cloth had been draped carefully over a lumpy form. Byanca knew without even looking that it was a body.
She was in the city morgue.
Voices sounded from outside the rough door that separated her from the warm lantern-light. One belonged to a man – it was masculine, yet smooth and oily. The other belonged to a woman – feminine, yet with the strength of steel. The voices grew louder.
“I’m telling you, Princess, that you’re not allowed in there,” the man’s voice cried in exasperation.
Princess? Byanca had studied Aydiin’s family enough to know there was only one princess in Salatia. The voice belonged to Gamila, her sister-in-law.
“And I’m telling you that you’re mistaken,” the feminine voice punched back. Byanca already liked her new sister. “That woman is alive – I would swear to it in front of a magistrate.”
“I know what you think you saw,” the man’s voice responded, calming slightly. “These kinds of things happen occasionally with bodies that have been poisoned. Involuntary tremors of the muscles – it’s all very scientific. Too much for your mind on a night like this.”
“I know those things can happen,” the woman responded. “And I’m ordering you to let me see that woman before you pull her organs out.”
“Princess, please be reasonable,” the man’s voiced pleaded. “Your father would have my head if he knew I let you in. These are the corpses of criminals – they’re unclean. My career – and my life – would be forfeit the moment you set foot in that room.”
“I promise not to tell the Sultan,” the woman pleaded. “I have to see that woman.”
“This woman was found dead at the scene of the most horrendous crime in the history of our nation,” the man shouted. “My answer is a resounding ‘no’, and that’s final.”
“If she’s dead, then she’s likely not a criminal,” Gamila responded.
“I’ve explained myself, and now you must be excusing me,” the man sounded intent on ignoring her. “If you want to come back with a contingent of guards and force your way in, then be my guest. However, I’m assuming they all have other priorities on a night like this.”
“Don’t make me do that, Zaytan,” the woman threatened. “This will be your last mistake.”
“So be it,” the man scoffed. “Urg, please ensure that Her Royal Highness doesn’t disturb my work. Princess, I bid you a good night, and I most certainly hope you find your way back to the palace without any incident.”
The door opened amid Gamila’s continuing protests, and the outline of a rather slender man became easily visible. He closed the door quickly, drowning out Gamila’s voice. His footsteps echoed in the stone chamber as he approached Byanca.
“Fool girl,” the coroner whispered to himself as he lit a match. The orange flame illuminated a gaunt face, wrinkled with age and the sun. Dark, wrinkled skin drooped, as if it were tired of holding its weight after all these years. The man’s eyes were darker than his complexion, and he pushed a lock of thin, greying hair out of his face as he put the orange flame of the match to the wick of a kerosene lamp.
Warm lamp light filled the room. Byanca’s initial look at the man’s face had been accurate, and her impression of the man changed little with the additional light.
Byanca again tried to scream and found her body a little more responsive. A rush of air left her lungs along with a quiet grunt. The man looked at her, unsurprised.
“I was wondering when you would start to regain consciousness,” the man said, pulling out a pocket watch and checking the time. “A little slower than I had anticipated. Of course, there is too little data on how humans react to certain substances.”
The man put his watch away and began pulling out an array of very sharp looking knives. He placed them on a small table next to Byanca’s, looking at each one individually. He had the air of a butcher readying his tools before a particularly difficult task.
“You’ll be happy to know that your friend Barrick Fortescue made arrangements for you to be brought to me,” the man said as he inspected a rather wicked blade. “He left me a letter, explaining the situation and that you should be released as soon as you regain consciousness.”
He set down the knife and his dark eyes locked onto Byanca’s. A smile began spreading across his face, displaying a disgusting row of yellow, rotting teeth. He strode over to her, bringing his face close her own.
“Yet such opportunities are so rare, they must be exploited,” he whispered, his breath hot and moist on her skin. The smell was indescribable. “The body of a healthy young specimen such as yourself, just coming out of a drug induced coma – it’s a rare treat.”
Byanca could feel her heart begin to pound. This man – did he desire her sexually? Why would he have all these knives?
“I usually only get to see organs after someone has been dead for hours,” the man continued, moving away from her and back towards his knives. “Due to certain laws, I’ve never had the privilege of slicing into living flesh. I’ve never had the pure joy of seeing a beating heart send life-giving blood throughout the entire body.”
The man shivered in ecstasy while panic spread throughout Byanca’s entire body. She commanded her limbs to move.
Her hands obeyed, if somewhat sluggishly. Yet it was to no avail. As soon as her arms obeyed, the cold sensation of iron met her skin. She was secured to the table.
“Oh, don’t worry, my sweet,” the man cooed. “The pain will be intense, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. But soon, it will be all over. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep you alive for much longer than a few hours.”
The thin man picked up a scalpel and folded back the cloth that covered Byanca’s body. He looked at her abdomen with a lust in his eyes that she knew was not sexual. She could see his hand press the blade against her skin.
Her senses were still dulled from the drugging, but she could feel the cold of the steel pressing against her stomach. She closed her eyes, and readied herself for the pain that was to come.
◆◆◆
Gamila grunted in frustration as the coroner’s burly assistant stepped in between her and the door that led to Byanca. Gamila had recognized her from the description alone, and the brief glimpse she’d had as the Jandarm carried the body had been enough to confirm any suspicions. The woman lying on a cold stone table only a few spans away from her was the wife of Aydiin.
She looked into Urg’s face, hoping to see a sign that he would be willing to disobey his employer. Yet that face was completely impassive, and she immediately knew the answer.
Zaytan was the city’s coroner, and had been for what felt like an eternity. It was his job to perform autopsies and his skill had aided in several murder investigations. Yet the man’s intense fascination with corpses had always unnerved her.
Urg’s job was to assist and protect Zaytan. The man was large in every dimension. His dark skin bulged with both muscle and fat, a combination that made the man almost immovable. Gamila had never spoken with either man for long, but she doubted Urg’s ability to re
ason.
“Urg, by order the Sultan, I command you to step aside,” Gamila growled, lifting herself up onto her toes in an attempt to not feel so dwarfed by the man. He responded with a grunt and a slight smirk.
Gamila spun around on her heel and exited the building as quickly as she could. Ideas began flooding into her mind, and she rejected each just as quickly. Something more than an idea would be needed to get past that man.
She considered using her powers and incinerating the insolent man, but Urg was a well-known Wave-crafter. The man’s abilities were far from legendary, but she didn’t doubt that he would be able to best her in a duel. No, she would have to find a different way in.
As she exited onto the street, the noise of not-so-distant rioting demanded her attention. Torchlight was visible a few streets away. The sound of shattered windows and the cries of the injured filled the night.
News of the Stone’s theft had travelled quickly, and people were responding in what Gamila felt to be a strange way. She’d been at the palace when her father had been notified. The city had immediately been put under a curfew, and no one was allowed to be on the street.
That, of course, only ensured that everyone would come out to see what had happened. Gamila wasn’t sure how it started, but the entire city seemed full of rioters. Gangs, small and large, roamed the city streets, looking to vent their frustrations.
It was as if a dam had burst. The pent up emotions of the city’s inhabitants had been held in check by the Great Stone of Surion – the ever present and visible reminder that Sultan Oosman ruled by a divine mandate. He could oppress them, he could rob them, and that was his right. They didn’t like it, but they had to tolerate it.
Now, all that sentiment was exploding in a burst of terrifying power. Commoners and even some nobility were out, seemingly intent on destroying the city. The Jandarm had retreated, joining the Sultan’s Guards in defense of the palace. The rest of the city was being left to its fate.
