by Jon Monson
Gamila walked around the building, hoping to find another way in. She stopped at a small, barred window near the street level, and dropped to her hands and knees. A man’s whispers could be heard through the bars, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying nor see much of anything.
“Princess, this isn’t safe,” a deep voice sounded behind her. Gamila gasped and fell on her face. Embarrassed and startled, she turned her head to see the most welcome sight imaginable.
“Rashad, how did you know I was here?” she gasped as the large, dark-skinned man helped her to her feet.
“That’s not important,” Rashad answered. “We need to get you back to your father’s palace. Maradon’s streets are not safe this night.”
“Agreed, but first, we need to get in that morgue,” Gamila said, brushing the dirt off her dress. “I have reason to believe the coroner is about to perform an autopsy on a live subject.”
“If I help you with this, do you promise to return to the palace?” Rashad asked.
“Yes, of course, I promise,” Gamila nodded her head. “But please, we need to hurry. We have to find a way in. His massive henchman is guarding the door.”
“I will deal with the man,” Rashad said calmly as he walked back towards the building’s entrance. He strode into the antechamber, where Urg stood guard over the rough wooden door that led to the underground chamber.
“You will let the Princess enter,” Rashad said to the burly guard as he strode confidently past the man. For a moment, it seemed Urg would be shocked into compliance. He recovered quickly, however, and sent his fist flying towards Rashad’s face.
Rashad caught the man’s hand in his own and squeezed. Urg’s eyes bulged as Rashad acted with the speed of a kerton. Turning, Rashad placed his free hand on Urg’s shoulder and twisted the man’s beefy arm until Gamila heard a loud snap.
Howling in pain, Urg struggled to reach Rashad with his free hand. As he did so, Rashad pushed on the man’s back, slamming him into the stone wall. Urg fell to the ground without another sound.
Gamila ran to the door and began pulling on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Apparently, Urg hadn’t been the only line of defense employed by the coroner. Gamila pulled on the door furiously, tears welling up in her eyes.
Rashad grasped her by the shoulders with more gentleness than she expected out of a man who had just incapacitated a brute nearly twice his size. Without a word, he moved Gamila out of the way. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Eyes still shut, Rashad sent his foot careening towards the door.
The wood and iron gave way with almost explosive force, and the door crashed open. Gamila ran past Rashad and down the stone steps, down into the morgue. Her footsteps pounded on the stone as she descended.
Zaytan stood over Byanca, a knife in his hands pressed against her abdomen. The coroner turned, anger and madness filling his eyes. A snarl curled on those thin, flaky lips.
The look on the man’s face was nothing compared to that on Byanca’s. Her eyes were wide open and filled with terror. Anger filled Gamila as she realized the wicked man must have known all along that Byanca still lived.
Blue lines started to glow on the man’s exposed forearms, and Gamila’s hair began to stand on end. In addition to his fascination with death, the man was apparently a Jolt. Fantastic.
Gamila readied her own powers, pulling on that unexplainable well of energy within her chest. Warmth began filling her body as her own fiery Markings came to life, spreading like wildfire across her hands.
Behind her, a shot rang out, echoing in the stone chamber. A red blossom appeared on the coroner’s forehead as an explosion of blood billowed out from the back of his head. Zaytan collapsed, the life drained completely from his face. Gamila turned to look at Rashad.
He stood there, emotionless as he held a smoking revolver. Gamila’s heartbeat accelerated, pounding in her ears as Rashad slipped the gun back into a holster under his robes. He strode down the steps to where Byanca lie strapped to the table.
A Stone began forming on Zaytan’s chest, an electric blue light seeping out of his body. Gamila pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket and wrapped the Stone in the cloth. Jolts weren’t exactly rare, but a Stone of Perun was still nothing to be wasted.
Byanca was now wiggling her fingers and toes, and grunts were escaping from her lips. Gamila didn’t know exactly what had happened to make her appear dead, but it seemed to be wearing off. Rashad undid her bindings and lifted her into a sitting position.
“Byanca, my name is Princess Gamila,” she said, putting her face close to Byanca’s. “If you can hear me, make a sound.”
The woman grunted softly, and Gamila could see comprehension in her eyes. Those eyes spoke of the intelligence contained within. Gamila smiled and moved on.
“I have some questions for you. Grunt once for yes, and twice for no, understand?”
Byanca gave one small grunt in acknowledgement.
“Is your name Byanca of House Cavour?” Gamila asked. A single grunt was her response.
“Did you come here with my brother, Aydiin?”
Again, a single grunt.
“Did a man named Barrick Fortescue do this to you?” Gamila asked.
Byanca’s eyes widened and there was a moment of hesitation. Then, a weak grunt left her lips.
“I knew it,” Rashad said. “I should have killed that man while I had the chance. Now, he’s taken the Stone of Surion.”
Byanca grunted. Then, she grunted again.
“Wait,” Gamila whispered. “Byanca, are you saying Barrick didn’t take the Stone?”
Byanca grunted again. A single grunt.
“So someone else took the Stone,” Gamila whispered to herself.
“Was it Aydiin?” Rashad broke in, coming close to Byanca.
An excited sound came from her lungs.
“So where is he?” Gamila asked.
“I don’t think she can answer that question yet,” Rashad answered.
The three sat in silence for a moment. Gamila’s mind raced to figure out an answer. Rashad sat as serene as he usually did. The soft sound of crinkling paper punctured her thoughts.
Byanca’s hand was fidgeting, and the sound came from her palm. Gamila reached down and forced the woman’s hand open to see a small roll of yellowed paper. She unrolled it and held it up to the light to see the writing that was scribbled on it.
35 Gurbetci Avenue
“Do you know what it means?” Rashad asked as she held the paper for him to see.
“Well, it’s an address,” Gamila said, pulling the paper back as she examined it further. The handwriting was sloppy, and hastily written. Whoever had written it certainly hurried.
Then it clicked in her mind. Gurbetci Avenue was filled with merchants, mostly foreign. The tiny scrap of paper was the biggest clue she could have been given, and for the first time she blessed the name of the man who wrote it.
Chapter 36
The violet and gold robe fell to the ground, now covered in a spray of blood. The gunshot echoed throughout the stone chamber, the robed figures sitting in shocked silence. Then pandemonium broke out.
The chords binding Aydiin disappeared. The heat faded, and his wrists felt suddenly cold in their absence. Aydiin brought his hands up, rubbing the spots where he’d moved enough for the flames to singe his skin – there would be marks, and the pain would be coming shortly.
Overpowering the pain, disbelief and joy flooded over him. In those final moments, he’d reconciled himself to death. Yet now there was hope that death may not be the only escape.
Adrenaline began pumping through his veins, a new strength filling his muscles down to the marrow of his bones. This wasn’t the strength he’d felt moments earlier to make his death meaningful. This night would still end with death, but not his own.
With a whoop and a grin, Barrick tossed him his gun, and then pulled out two of his own. Aydiin caught the weapon, running his fingers over the work of art. Th
e handle felt smooth in his hand, the steel of the barrel cool against his skin.
Barrick’s two revolvers were new, and the steel glimmered in the torchlight of the Silent Chapel. His smile continued as he cocked the hammer on each gun, taking his eyes off Aydiin and into the crowd of violet robes. Aydiin eyed the enigmatic Albonan – a true, unsolvable mystery if ever there were one.
Figures in deep violet robes scurried in all directions. Some were fleeing, making their way towards the single exit. Others moved in to attack, swords or small daggers in hand. All seemed to be moving with a certain amount of panic.
Barrick’s smile grew into laughter as he began discharging the revolvers into the mass of robed figures. He seemed happier than even before this whole mess. Perhaps he had finally truly embraced his insanity.
This can’t be the same man who killed Byanca, Aydiin thought. How much did he really know about this foreigner who had accompanied him on so many of his adventures? He’d spent the past few weeks dealing with the anger, the betrayal. Yet now, he didn’t know what to think.
A large man in violet robes charged at Aydiin, shaking him from his thoughts. There was a battle forming around him, and here he was thinking about whether or not he could trust Barrick. For now, he would have no choice but to do so.
His attacker raised a large scimitar over his head, reflecting the flickering torchlight as the blade came crashing down towards Aydiin’s head. Aydiin rolled to his right, falling off the altar and onto the floor. As he picked himself up, the violet robed figure swung again, aiming to swipe Aydiin’s head off his shoulders.
Aydiin dropped to the floor as the blade came within a finger of his scalp. Flat on his stomach, Aydiin grabbed his revolver and lifted it towards the man. As his attacker brought the scimitar over his head for one last blow, Aydiin discharged the revolver. The violet robe dropped to the floor, blood spreading out onto the cloth.
Rising to his feet, Aydiin pulled back the hammer, searching for a new target. He took aim at another robed man with a hood-shadowed face charging at Barrick’s backside. The crack of the revolver was accompanied by another bloodied robe falling to the ground.
Readying his revolver – there were still three rounds left in the chambers – he placed another shot at a knife wielding attacker. The shot went a little wide in his haste, and the round connected with the robed figure’s shoulder.
Howling in pain, the man staggered. His head turned to look up at Aydiin. The face had the pale skin and strong features of a Neard. His pale blue eyes were filled with the fire of hatred – hatred and determination. Aydiin quickly cocked the hammer and placed another shot at the man’s head.
An explosion of red sprayed onto the floor, and Aydiin forced himself to look away. Lead travelling at high speeds colliding with a man’s head only a few spans away tended to create a scene that made Aydiin retch. As he turned, a body slammed into him, and Aydiin fell to the floor.
Fingers clawed at his throat, and he struggled to keep the strong yet nimble digits away. Dark, crazed eyes stared into Aydiin’s, the determination to see his death evident. A snarl dominated the man’s face as he brought his hands closer to strangling Aydiin.
Then the hands went limp and the life faded from the eyes. Aydiin grunted as he pushed the now-still figure off of him. Barrick stood above him, his revolvers abandoned in favor of a thin rapier. Judging by the bodies strewn around the floor, Barrick was out of ammunition.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” Barrick smiled as he held out his hand to help Aydiin to his feet.
“Which thing in particular?” Aydiin asked, still hesitant to touch the man.
“All of it,” Barrick laughed, and Aydiin grabbed his old friend’s extended hand.
“Where is everyone?” Aydiin asked, surveying the carnage as he rose to his feet.
“Dead or runnin’,” Barrick croaked, pointing to the rush of black robed men in the upper chamber rushing for exits. “I can’t imagine we’ve got long until the others get down here, though.”
“How long do we have?” Aydiin asked.
“Well, there’s no direct way to get from the upper chamber down here,” Barrick said. “And since they’re all Squires, they won’t have ever been shown the way.”
“So we’ve got some time?” Aydiin asked.
“It’s not that complicated,” Barrick sighed. “It shouldn’t take them more than a few minutes to figure it out. Well, for the smart ones, at least.”
So it would only be a matter of minutes before a hundred angry and devoted followers of the Undergods would arrive, intent on ripping them apart. Aydiin began scanning the room, looking for another exit.
“Is there a quick way out of here?” Aydiin asked as Barrick handed him a few more bullets. The man had already started to reload his two revolvers, his hands moving quickly to slip each round into a chamber.
“That one should,” he grunted, nodding to what looked like a closet.
“Secret exit for a quick escape?” Aydiin asked, his eyebrow raised. Barrick nodded.
“I think you’ll find that escape to be of little use,” a voice sounded from behind.
Arathorm rose up from the ground, his violet robes stained with a dark red. The bullet had obviously ripped through his flesh and spilled blood. Yet the man seemed unharmed.
“Don’t act so pleased to see me, son,” Arathorm chuckled, noticing Barrick’s slack jawed stare. “You can’t possibly believe that the Grand Master, the Mouthpiece of the Raven, could be so easily felled.”
Arathorm stepped off the dais, approaching Aydiin and Barrick. His eyes seemed to bore into Aydiin’s soul, picking him apart bit by bit. Yet he forced himself to maintain eye contact with the man.
“I really must congratulate you two,” Arathorm continued as he drew closer, his gaze never wavering. “There were so many pathetic worms who felt they deserved a share of my victory. Now, they’re in the Beyond, and I will have the full extent of glory. I really can’t thank you enough.”
The sound of footsteps became audible as black robed figures began streaming in through the arched entrance at the other end of the chamber. Arathorm only sat and smiled as the room filled with nearly a hundred men who awaited his command. His gaze still never wavered from Aydiin’s own.
“You should feel special,” Arathorm said as the footsteps died down. “The death of most mortals is barely registered in the histories. Yet your death will be different. It will mean something. That should be comforting.”
Aydiin only stared, afraid to let his eyes pull away from that intense grip for even a moment. He had no desire to respond, to give any level of legitimacy to the man’s words. They were utter nonsense, and he wouldn’t justify them with a response.
More footsteps came from the hallway. Aydiin’s heart somehow fell even further. There were just so many members of the Order. He was a fool for thinking he could ever stand against its might.
The powerful crack of a rifle sounded.
A single bullet ripped through Arathorm’s head and the man’s body fell again to the ground. Blood spilled freely, staining the stone floor. Aydiin looked away, towards the source of the explosion.
Men dressed in the colorful robes and head scarves of Salatian tribesmen spilled into the room. The patterns marked them as men hailing from the nation’s interior. It was the clothing of nomads and herders – it was the clothing of Salatia’s fiercest warriors.
Each man was heavily armed with a modern bolt action rifle. Trained in their use, the men were efficiently discharging their weapons into the mass of black robed maniacs. Their faces were set with grim determination.
“I was hoping these guys would show up,” Barrick hollered over the noise as he again raised his revolvers.
Aydiin only stood, too dumbfounded to join in. His brain felt foggy, as if the haze from the gunfire were filtering into his skull. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
The pandemonium of the room was almost
intoxicating. Black robes tripped over each other like ants spilling out of an ant hill. Their only exit was blocked by dozens of heavily armed men. There was nowhere for them to go.
The entire Silent Chapel was filled with confusion. In a matter of seconds, the two dozen tribesmen had decimated the hundred Squires. Now only a few dozen remained, scattered and confused.
Screams and the smell of blood mixed with the gunfire and smoke. Aydiin looked down to see a Squire lying prostate, his shoulder nearly blown apart by a bullet at close range. His face was pale and beads of sweat were forming on his head. He howled in pain – calling for his mother – as his comrades trampled him in their attempt to flee to nowhere.
The sight shook Aydiin out of his shock and he pulled out his own revolver. A rather confused looking young man stood only a few spans away from him, dagger drawn. He looked between Aydiin, the tribesmen, and his fallen comrades. Aydiin sighed, realizing he was just a confused kid.
Yet he was a member of the Order. This sweaty, scared, and pale teenager had devoted himself to the Undergods. For that, there was no forgiveness.
Aydiin raised his revolver and pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into the man’s heart, and a spray of red appeared as life drained from that confused face. Aydiin felt ill.
A howl sounded as three black robes launched themselves towards a single tribesmen. His rifle discharged into one, the bullet knocking the Squire to the ground. The other two were felled by other tribesmen, their aim quick and accurate.
Who are these men? Aydiin thought. The tribes from Salatia’s interior were on the forefront of the insurrection against his father. By all expectations, they should be trying to kill him. Yet here they were, saving him from a fate worse than death.
Shouting came from the outer hallway, barely audible over the din of the Silent Chapel. Aydiin looked up to see another small group entering. His mouth fell open.
Among the group was the most beautiful set of eyes he could imagine. They were like two emeralds set into a porcelain statue. Yet there was a warmth to them that no stone could ever contain.
