by Ben Wolf
Aeron’s mouth unhinged from his jaw.
Before he had the chance to speak, Faylen held up her palm to silence him. “As long as you remain quiet.”
He nodded, and as Faylen glanced around the cellblock, Aeron noticed her slightly pointed ears—the second-most obvious indication of her half-elf, half-human heritage.
The others nodded too, including Mehta, who’d emerged from the shadows at last. Faylen focused on him the longest.
“And no killing anyone. Not even Commander Brove,” she said. “These knights are my comrades, my friends. You will leave and disappear to wherever you were heading, and that’s all there is to it.”
Mehta’s stony visage didn’t change, and he didn’t reply.
“Crystal?” Faylen asked him.
He gave a subtle nod. “Clear.”
Satisfied, Faylen set to quickly and quietly unlocking their cells.
“We need our weapons back,” Kent said.
“You can get new ones,” Faylen replied as she unlocked Garrick’s cell last.
“I fear that will not be acceptable.” Kent held out his hands, and Faylen produced a smaller blue key that unlocked his shackles. He took hold of them to ensure they didn’t fall to the floor.
“I can put you back in your cell, if you prefer,” she said.
“Try it,” Garrick muttered.
Aeron shot him a glare, but as usual, Garrick paid him no mind.
Faylen squared herself with Garrick as if ready to give it a go, but Kent gently took hold of her arm instead.
“We are not trying to be difficult or ungrateful. One of our weapons is the key to finding our quarry and safely recovering Aeron’s sister,” he explained. “So when I say we need our weapons back, I do mean that we need our weapons back.”
“They’re locked in an armory. There are a dozen sleeping knights between here and there. You’ll never get past them undetected.”
“I can,” Mehta said.
Everyone looked at him.
Since they’d all joined forces back in that pub in Xenthan, Mehta had rescued them from the reptides in the dungeon in Muroth, expertly assisted Aeron and Kallie’s escape from Valdis Keep, and in general proven himself to be lethally reliable. As such, Aeron was inclined to believe him without hesitation.
“It’s impossible,” Faylen asserted, her voice still hushed.
“No, it isn’t,” Mehta said. “Not for a Xyonate.”
“Former Xyonate,” Garrick pointed out.
Mehta stared at him blankly.
“What? You always correct me whenever I call you a Xyonate.”
Mehta shifted his focus back to Faylen. “I can do it. And I must. We need our weapons back.”
“If we enter the wilderness unarmed, we are as good as dead,” Kent said. “Especially if the knights catch up to us.”
“You’re a mage. You’ll be fine.”
“Then they are as good as dead.” Kent motioned toward the others, but Aeron could tell by his tone that he was exaggerating for effect. “I have witnessed Mehta’s capabilities firsthand. He can get the weapons back for us.”
“Aeron’s spear is in Commander Brove’s private quarters,” Faylen said. “Not even a Xyonate—or a former Xyonate, or whatever—could get that one back.”
The thought of leaving that beastly spear behind soured Aeron’s stomach, but they hardly had time to argue about it. Every moment spent chitchatting about weaponry was another moment Kallie got closer to Lord Valdis.
“I can get another spear,” Aeron said. “I’ll make do. Just need a long stick with a blade on one end, and I’ll be fine.”
Faylen fumed, but she finally gave in. “Whatever. I’ll take you to the armory, but then you’re leaving, and that’s final.”
“I could just sift them all instead,” Mehta suggested. “Then we wouldn’t have to bother with sneaking around.”
“We already discussed this,” Faylen hissed. “Absolutely not.”
Mehta shrugged and motioned her forward.
As they headed for the cellblock door, Aeron uttered from behind, “Mehta?”
Mehta turned back, and so did Faylen.
“Grab my pack, too.” Aeron rubbed his lower back. “I really need a shroom.”
The doorway to the armory didn’t have a door anymore, though Mehta could see splinters of wood hugging the corners where the walls met the floors. Probably all that remained of the door.
Perhaps squatters had burned it to keep warm years before, or maybe the armory had been breached, and the door had been obliterated in the process, leaving splinters as the only indication it had ever existed at all.
Those splinters, combined with other wear and tear on the walls and floor, suggested that a battle had raged in the fortress at some point, but not recently. Perhaps even decades or centuries ago.
No guards were posted inside the armory. After all, why bother guarding when all the prisoners were locked in cells?
Instead, all the other knights lay on the floor, asleep, surrounding a fire pit with dwindling flames in half of it. Blankets covered their bodies, and the faint rasp of ragged breathing against the winter air sounded from within.
It all suited Mehta just fine. Smaller fires meant deeper shadows, and he’d need darkness to hide if any of them woke up.
As promised, Faylen left him alone at the entrance to the armory and then retreated around the corner with Kent, Aeron, and Garrick.
That also suited Mehta—in many ways, he was better alone, and he certainly preferred to be alone unless he didn’t have any other choice.
He entered the armory with silent footsteps and sought out the nearest dark shadow capable of concealing him. His enchanted vision identified eleven soldiers, each of them outlined in green whenever he wasn’t looking too directly at the fire.
They were all grunts—Leatherwings, like Aeron had been, most likely. They had to share sleeping quarters, but if Commander Brove had his own private quarters, then perhaps any other officers along with them did, too.
Mehta’s enchanted vision also pinpointed the locations of several of their most crucial items and weapons. Most of their travel gear lay in a pile, still packed but separate from their weapons across the room.
It made sense—the Govalians meant to take them back to Govalia. Even atop wyverns, that journey would take several days. Better to force the prisoners to carry their own packs and otherwise fend for themselves along the way—sans weapons, of course.
Mehta reached the packs first. Given their weight and relative bulkiness, with Garrick’s dwarfing all the others, he figured on two trips to get them all back. He slung the first two packs onto his body, one on his front and one on his back, and crept through the sea of snoozing soldiers.
His footfalls barely made any sound, even with the packs on his body, though he took extra care to move in smooth, fluid motions to keep any of the packs’ contents from making noise.
None of the soldiers even stirred. He set down the first two packs—his own and Aeron’s—at the corner where Faylen had hidden with the other Blood Mercs, and then he returned to the armory for the other two.
Unencumbered, Mehta made it back to the packs twice as fast now that he knew what path to take. He put Garrick’s huge pack on his back and slung Kent’s pack to his chest, and then he made his way back toward the door.
Again, he progressed slower than he had coming into the room, but knowing his path sped things up—until one of the soldiers rolled over and sprawled one of his arms out, right as Mehta was stepping into that space.
Had it been a half-second later, Mehta would’ve stepped squarely on the soldier’s arm. As it was, he barely managed to push off his back leg just a bit harder, and in doing so he made a small leap over the new obstacle in his path.
He landed with a faint scuffing noise, and something in Garrick’s pack clinked. Mehta froze and surveyed the room.
No one else was moving.
Rather than wait to be sure, he re
sumed his silent trek back to the doorway and released the two packs into the care of their rightful owners.
Now for the weapons.
He approached the armory doorway again and scanned the room. As Faylen had asserted, Aeron’s spear was nowhere to be found. Commander Brove probably still had it.
But he located the rest of their weapons, including the walking stick and the dagger concealed inside it. It leaned up against the back wall of the armory next to what appeared to be Kent’s sword and Garrick’s flail and battle-axe. A wooden cabinet of some sort stood next to them, also along the back wall.
Mehta found it interesting that the Govalians had bothered to bring the walking stick at all. Were it his decision, he would’ve left it behind in the cave. More efficient.
The precise location of Mehta’s knives remained a mystery. They weren’t anything special—just two simple iron blades with wooden hilts wrapped in black fabric—but they were his. He was used to them, and he could wield them like a shadow demon. He didn’t want to leave them behind.
As he eased toward the weapons and the walking stick on the far side of the room, he kept watch for his knives. His enchanted vision outlined everything in green lines, so one way or another he would see them if they were still around.
He retrieved the walking stick first. Without it, they stood no chance of defeating Lord Valdis. If nothing else, this one god-forged weapon might be the only guaranteed way of killing him, and if it led them to other, more powerful weapons, so much the better.
He carried it along with Kent’s sword, one in each hand, and his thirst sparked to life. He was holding a perfectly good sword, albeit in his left hand instead of his right, in a room full of enemies who’d captured him and intended to see him brought to trial and, ultimately, execution.
And they were all asleep, totally oblivious to him.
The thirst begged for their blood, leveraging the logic and the opportunity of it against his promise to Faylen not to harm anyone.
It urged, By the time she finds out, it will already be too late.
Sift them now, before they catch up to you later.
Take the potential for uncertainty out of it.
And, with less tact, Paint the armory walls red with their blood and pave its floor with their entrails!
He ignored them all, even though the thirst persisted its cries with every step.
Though right-handed, Mehta was just as capable with his left hand as with his right. Holding the sword in his left hand meant virtually nothing when it came to effectiveness.
He’d trained endlessly to shore up any and all potential weaknesses, including honing the lethality of his non-dominant hand. It would not hinder him from felling these knights if he chose to do so.
But he resisted the screeches in his soul calling out for violence, to be sated with death, and instead wove his way back to the armory doorway in silence. Around the corner, Kent took the walking stick and the sword from him with a small nod, and then Mehta returned once more to the armory.
Retrieving Garrick’s weapons proved a more complicated task. The fire crackled, casting his long shadow against the back wall as he approached Garrick’s weapons.
One of the knights near him stirred.
Mehta dropped flat to the floor, pretending to be one of them. He was exposed, in a spot with no shadows, so getting low was his best option at the moment.
The knight rolled onto his back and sat upright for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, still facing away from Mehta’s position, and seemed to be staring at the fire.
Mehta dared not breathe as he waited to see what the knight would do next. The knight wasn’t a big guy—he was built like Aeron, like the rest of the wyvern knights, but Mehta’s only means of defense at the moment were his own two hands.
He had the advantage, for now, if the knight were to turn around and notice him, but one yelp would alert the entire room to his presence. Normally, a weaponless Mehta could handle almost anyone in combat, but facing eleven knights while unarmed was a far bigger problem.
The knight yawned and stretched his arms with a sigh.
Mehta silently prayed to Laeri that the knight would just lie back down and go to sleep. If he didn’t, it might necessitate a savage, yet precise response from Mehta.
To Mehta’s relief, the knight did lie back down, and within minutes he was snoring again. As Mehta rose to his feet, he noticed something glinting at him in the firelight from the top of the wooden cabinet along the back wall.
He moved closer and recognized the unmistakable shape of one of his knife blades sitting atop the cabinet. Mehta knew every curve, every angle of that blade. He would’ve recognized it anywhere. A smirk curled his lips.
The cabinet threw his theory about squatters having burned the armory door at some point, because why wouldn’t they have also burned this cabinet, too?
As long as Mehta got his knives back, the fortress’s history didn’t matter.
The top of the cabinet was too tall for Mehta to just reach up and grasp the knife, but its doors opened, and he managed to step on the edge of a rack holding a row of spears. It gave him enough of a boost to take hold of the first knife, and his prowling fingers soon found the other one next to it.
Mehta quickly stuffed them into the sheaths concealed within the folds of his clothes. If he ended up needing to fight his way out, his knives would be backup, last-resort weapons at best—especially against eleven trained opponents.
He pulled one of the spears from the cabinet, thinking of Aeron, but he immediately put it back. It wasn’t weighted well at all. The second one he grabbed felt much better, so he kept it with him as he headed for Garrick’s weapons next.
The battle-axe leaned against the wall with its red handle facing up and the axe head on the floor. As Mehta took hold of the handle, his thirst intensified once again, but this time with an unnatural decisiveness and fury that startled him.
The instant his fingers clasped around the battle-axe’s red handle, his blood boiled with rage and mayhem, threatening to burst through his skin and claim the lives of the knights around him without a moment’s hesitation.
His teeth burned from the inside out, and he clenched them tightly. His eyes widened as his vision took on a deep red hue.
He released the battle-axe immediately and stepped back, stunned. The weapon teetered and began to fall.
Mehta’s boot lashed out and caught the handle before it could smack against the stone, then he eased it to the floor silently.
Garrick had explained the weapons’ origins to him, but Mehta hadn’t truly grasped the extent of their dark properties. It could’ve been a fatal mistake for everyone in the vicinity—perhaps even his fellow Blood Mercs. Based on that small taste of what those weapons would do to him—or through him—he didn’t ever want to find out.
When paired with his already insatiable thirst, the weapon’s pull was too strong to resist. If he hadn’t let go when he did, the combination would’ve overwhelmed his will and taken control. He could feel it.
So how would he get them out of the armory if he couldn’t pick them up with his hands?
Chapter Fifteen
At first, Garrick wondered why Mehta was taking so long to get back out of the armory, but when he finally emerged with a spear and the phantom steel weapons, it made sense.
Instead of carrying the battle-axe and the flail in his hands, Mehta had speared the underside of the battle-axe’s blade with the spearhead while balancing the flail’s chain on the opposite end of the spear’s shaft.
How he’d even managed to get them arranged like that, Garrick didn’t know. He might’ve been impressed if it weren’t so strange.
Garrick reached for the weapons, starting with the flail. As soon as he took hold of it, dark power rushed into him, urging him to attack anything and everything around him. He steeled himself against the effect and quickly fastened the flail to his hip.
He repeated the action with the battle-axe, deny
ing the violent urges once more. As he fastened the battle-axe to his belt, he caught sight of Mehta exhaling a subtle, relieved sigh.
Garrick looked at him and whispered, “What’s wrong with you?”
Mehta just shook his head, silent, and handed Aeron the spear.
“Are we ready?” Faylen whispered, still holding the torch.
Mehta nodded, and so did Garrick.
She led them through the fortress corridors and halls until they reached the main entrance—a large doorframe without a door, just like the armory had been.
Garrick huffed. What good were towering, sturdy stone walls without a functioning door to seal out enemies?
Beyond the doorframe, a snowy courtyard beckoned them forward, barely visible in the dark sky. Before any of them could head out of the fortress, Faylen stopped them and held up her hands. She passed the torch to Kent, who took it without a word.
“Just because the wyvern knights are asleep doesn’t mean their wyverns are as well. When you leave, move quickly, be silent, and try to stay low.” She looked at Garrick. “Especially you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he grunted. “I’ll be fine.”
“Go now, before anyone realizes you’re gone,” she said.
“You’re not coming with us?” Aeron asked.
“No,” she said. “I must fly a different path from yours.”
Aeron’s expression sagged with sadness. “You can’t go back to the corps. They’ll execute you for treason. Nilla, too.”
“I’m not going back,” Faylen said, “but I can’t go with you, either. There’s something I must do, and I cannot let anything interfere, no matter how much I want to join you.”
“Faylen, I…”
Garrick stood there, watching. Part of him wanted to give Aeron a firm nudge and a reminder that the sooner they got going, the sooner they could save Kallie.
Another part of him wanted to nudge Aeron to speak his mind to the poor girl. He’d kept her waiting long enough, though she’d more than returned the favor.
“I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but I need to say something,” Aeron said. He stared at Faylen, and she stared back at him. “I need you to know that—”
