Path of Shadows

by Ben Wolf

As Aeron said it, a series of grinding and clanking noises sounded from the ceiling in the room beyond the doors.

  Mehta immediately ushered Kent out of the room, unsure what was happening and unwilling to take any chances. Kent didn’t resist this time.

  The Blood Mercs gathered around the entrance to the room, but on the safe side of the doors, and watched.

  From the ceiling emerged a series of objects, and the floor in the new room shifted and moved as well. It opened on both sides and receded into the walls, leaving only a narrow path in the center. Where the floor had receded, rows upon rows of ice-forged spikes protruded from a subfloor, framing in the central path.

  Double-edged, ice-forged sickles lowered from the ceiling, attached to matching chains, and they began to swing like pendulums at inconsistent intervals. Beyond them, spikes raised and lowered from the floor beyond them, also randomly.

  Next, massive, curved blades lashed out from the sidewalls and sliced at the center of the path, and giant ice-forged orbs on rotating stands spun around and around. Near the middle of this new set of perils, the floor opened and closed in a handful of spots, eager to swallow up anyone or anything that came near.

  At the far end, another set of doors awaited them, inaccessible except by facing down the gauntlet of dangers first.

  “What in the third hell is this?” Garrick asked.

  Mehta wanted to reply, “Training,” but he held his tongue.

  As a Xyonate, he’d gone through a similar gauntlet of perils, though far less deadly and far more predictable.

  A series of vexatious traps and obstacles had filled one room of the Xyonate sanctuary where he’d been trained, each of them operated by hand cranks. His fellow Xyonates would operate them as instructed by the Xyonate clerics—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and sometimes erratically.

  The purpose of the room and of that training was to teach agility and maneuverability under pressure. As a result, like so many Xyonates before him, Mehta had mastered those skills. It appeared he might have to prove which of those skills he’d retained since his training days.

  “They are traps,” Kent replied. “Just as Mehta’s grandfather warned us.”

  “He could’ve been a bit more specific about the kind of traps,” Garrick grumbled. “I was expecting some arrows or maybe a giant boulder chasing us down, not an obstacle course from the frozen hellscape of my nightmares.”

  “You have nightmares about obstacle courses?” Aeron asked.

  “I have nightmares about everything,” Garrick replied.

  “Huh,” Aeron said. “Mine usually involve showing up to my next wyvern patrol naked.”

  Wafer chuffed and bobbed his head, perhaps in agreement.

  Mehta didn’t sleep much, but when he did, the faces of many of his victims over the years tended to visit him. He’d acclimated to it to some extent, but after his first few commissions, it had kept him from sleeping much at all.

  By now, he’d sifted so many people that he couldn’t remember everyone, so the faces had blended together into a meaningless swirl. Another casualty of his early years were the faces of his parents. He couldn’t remember them, either.

  He couldn’t recall having any actual nightmares or dreams ever in his lifetime, but he certainly had concerns and even fears. These days, those concerns and fears centered around Ferne, Palomi, and Grandfather, and to a lesser extent, his Blood Merc brothers.

  So the sight of a bunch of deadly traps didn’t faze him much. It was just another set of obstacles to overcome. And when he did, he’d be that much closer to helping Aeron rescue Kallie and sifting Lord Valdis in the process.

  “This is foolishness. We’ll just fly across,” Commander Brove said.

  “Be my guest.” Kent motioned toward the obstacle course. “I presume it is not magic that runs this device, so when you arrive on the other side, try to locate a switch or some other mechanism to disable the gears that turn this contraption.”

  Commander Brove didn’t speak at first. Instead, he motioned for one of his wyvern knights to come forward. “Darvies.”

  The female wyvern knight who’d attacked Mehta back in the cavern with the ice wall drifted forward. She was one of only two remaining female wyvern knights in the party.

  “Fly across,” Commander Brove ordered. “When you are safely on the other side, motion to me, and I will send your comrades after you.”

  She nodded and stole a furtive glance at Mehta.

  “And take care to avoid those blades coming out of the walls,” Commander Brove added.

  Darvies nodded again and urged her wyvern forward with a sharp, determined sigh. Neither she nor the wyvern looked pleased about the prospect of going out there, but they went all the same.

  One of the things Mehta had gladly left behind along with his life as a Xyonate was the idea of blind obedience. The Xyonate clerics had drilled the idea into his head that above all else, his life meant nothing except as a weapon in Xyon’s arsenal.

  The clerics sharpened and honed the weapons of Xyon then sent those weapons out into the world to strike at a variety of targets. Political rivals, wealthy lords and ladies, fathers who refused to die and sons too greedy or too cruel to take power, young men bent on marrying the daughters of men far above their station.

  The list went on forever, and there was always another commission—that is, until the thirst had gained too much control over Mehta. Then it all came to an abrupt end, and the clerics tried to commit him to everlasting service in Xyon’s army.

  Nameless, faceless, and with absolute obedience, Ghazal had said.

  But Mehta couldn’t do it. Some part of him wanted to live, and so he’d chosen to live. And he’d chosen to never follow anyone blindly again, whether they be mortal, god, or anything in between.

  Darvies hadn’t made that choice, and now she and her wyvern flew toward the obstacles slowly, skirting the right side of the path.

  But as they approached the first obstacle, a trio of scythes slashed down at Darvies and her wyvern, and three bursts of red accompanied a feminine scream and a reptilian wail. Darvies and her wyvern plummeted out of the air and smashed into the spikes below, and they went silent forever.

  A chorus of gasps and murmurs sounded behind Mehta, but he remained silent. He’d seen more than his fair share of death in his lifetime, but the sight of Darvies and her wyvern going down sent a sick twinge through his stomach nonetheless.

  It was a cruel, unnecessary death. Despite having survived the initial attack by the frostbloods and the dangers that had followed since, Darvies had blindly followed Commander Brove’s orders, and now she was dead because of it.

  Commander Brove huffed. “Do I have a volunteer to try again, or must I appoint someone to the task?”

  Mehta turned back. From his vantage, the ceiling scythes were unavoidable, and if they were on one side, they were doubtless on the other side as well. Anyone who volunteered to fly through the course was volunteering to die.

  “They’re not going, Commander,” Raqat said. “Not after seeing that.”

  “So you will openly defy my orders yet again?” Commander Brove stared at Raqat. “Will you include your repeated insubordination in your report to the emperor as well?”

  “I will include mentions of your repeated cowardice and failed leadership in needlessly sending good soldiers to their deaths,” Raqat fired back.

  “That’s the third mention of your cowardice today, Commander Brove,” Aeron interjected. “I’m beginning to sense a theme.”

  “You can burn in Xyon’s furnace for all I care, traitor,” Commander Brove snapped. “Your opinion means less than that of the dumbest Featherwing in the corps.”

  “But his doesn’t.” Aeron pointed to Raqat. “He knows you’re a coward. And soon the emperor and General Cadimus will, too. But maybe if you fly to the end yourself and shut these weapons down, you’ll have redeemed yourself enough to avoid disgrace.”

  Commander Brove’s face reddened as
everyone—every single wyvern, knight, and all four of the Blood Mercs—stared at him.

  To Mehta, Aeron’s reasoning was sound. The surest way to prove oneself not to be a coward was to do something brave. But apparently, Commander Brove didn’t agree.

  “I will do no such thing.” He fumed at them all and pointed at Raqat. “I am the commander and the ranking officer of this mission, and in the name of the emperor, I order you to conquer this course.”

  “In the name of the emperor, you can take your command and your rank and swallow it with a chalice full of wyvern piss,” Raqat growled. “I am taking command, as you are unfit to lead, and I will not force any who side with me to sacrifice themselves in this gauntlet.”

  Before Mehta’s eyes, four of the remaining wyverns drifted over and sided with Raqat, but two of them stayed by Commander Brove’s side. Still, the count remained in Raqat’s favor—five against three, including Commander Brove and Raqat themselves.

  “You have a majority,” Commander Brove conceded, “but it is not unanimous. Your power grab has failed. Submit.”

  Garrick stepped forward, still holding the poleaxe. “Draw your weapons, and we’ll make it unanimous.”

  Kent, Aeron, and Mehta joined him alongside Raqat and the other wyvern knights, altogether too overwhelming a force for Commander Brove and his last two loyal followers to hope to defeat.

  “Come, Leatherwings,” he grunted to his two comrades. “We will find our own way out of this abyss and leave these seditious usurpers to their collective doom.”

  As Commander Brove’s wyvern began to turn away from them, Aeron called after him. “Larcas.”

  Commander Brove stopped and stared at him.

  “I mean what I said. After I save my sister, I’m coming for you.”

  “And I meant what I said, traitor,” Commander Brove replied. “You do not frighten me.”

  With that, he glided toward the temple entrance, and the two wyvern knights followed. Mehta heard him mention something about heaping honor and rewards upon them for their loyalty, and then they were gone.

  “Well, that’s one distraction out of the way,” Raqat said, “What do we do about this gauntlet?”

  “I cannot shut it down with my magic,” Kent said. “I tried while Darvies was flying out there. The mechanisms did not respond, no matter what I did. So it appears we must face it.”

  “What I want to know is how your grandfather and his friends got past this the last time they were here,” Aeron said.

  Mehta shrugged. “Maybe this is new.”

  “Or perhaps the taking of this dagger triggered the gauntlet’s emergence,” Kent suggested.

  “I guess that could make sense,” Aeron said. “Could be any reason, really. Or maybe they had someone good enough to make it through.”

  As the discussion continued, a rash decision arose from Mehta’s heart, and he spoke it aloud.

  “I’ll go,” Mehta found himself saying.

  They all looked at him.

  “You sure?” Garrick squinted at him.

  Mehta’s eyebrows rose slightly, and doubt seized his chest. If even Garrick had reservations about him going in there, perhaps Mehta ought to reconsider. Either that, or Garrick was finally starting to like him.

  But whether Garrick liked him or not, Mehta knew he was the only one who stood any chance of getting through. After all, he’d trained with equipment similar enough to this gauntlet—except the Xyonate version rarely killed anyone. These ice-forged weapons wouldn’t show any mercy.

  He only had one shot at it.

  “Be careful,” Aeron said. “We need you to help us get Valdis.”

  Reinforcement by companionship, belonging, and a greater sense of purpose. Mehta recognized Aeron’s words as a tactical move to inspire him to succeed. The Xyonates had used similar tactics as well.

  But Mehta also understood that Aeron wasn’t saying it out of cult-like devotion. He’d actually meant what he’d said, so the inspiration meant more than a calculated statement ever could.

  “I believe in you.” Kent clapped his hand on Mehta’s shoulder. “You have often exceeded my wildest expectations for what should be physically possible. I have no doubt that you will do so again.”

  Reinforcement by flattery with an emphasis on capability. Another inspiration tactic. Also genuine this time, as compared to his experiences with the Xyonates. Effective because it reminded Mehta of what he’d already endured to get to this point.

  “Don’t get killed, idiot,” Garrick told him. “We need someone in this group to brood in the darkness, and no one’s half as good at it as you.”

  Negative reinforcement and failed attempts at humor. Garrick meant well, and Mehta certainly understood the idea of negative reinforcement’s effectiveness as a motivational tool, but it didn’t alter his confidence one way or another.

  The last person who’d used the tactic on him was High Cleric Ghazal, now dead along with the rest of the Xyonates from their sect, all except for one who had gone his own way at the end. Regardless of whether Garrick actually thought Mehta was an idiot who brooded too much, it wouldn’t affect his performance going forward.

  He stepped up to the path and faced the gauntlet of weapons before him and touched the triangle pendant that hung around his neck—the symbol of the goddess Laeri. Ferne had insisted he keep it, even after he’d returned to his village.

  He uttered a silent prayer to her, asking for strength and guidance and protection. It couldn’t hurt, right?

  As he finished the prayer, he wondered if, in a situation like this, he should’ve prayed to Xyon. After all, he ruled over death itself. Or maybe Mehta should’ve petitioned Fjorst since they were in his temple.

  But he’d already said the prayer to Laeri, and regardless of whom he prayed to, it was still his body that would risk death in this trap. He doubted any deities would intervene or even care, whatever the outcome.

  Equally as strange, his thirst hadn’t elected to make an appearance. Whether it was disinterested because this obstacle course didn’t involve sifting anyone or whether it was deliberately hiding, Mehta didn’t know, but he didn’t care, either. Except in the throes of battle, it was only a distraction anyway.

  He glanced down at the bloody, frozen forms of Darvies and her wyvern lying amid the spikes next to him. The sight should’ve filled him with doubt and fear, just like the other random bones scattered throughout the gauntlet itself and elsewhere among the spikes, but their fates had no bearing on his.

  Only his actions and choices mattered. Only he could determine what would become of him.

  And he would.

  So Mehta tucked the pendant into his garments, shed his cloak, exhaled a breath, and approached the gauntlet.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mehta slipped past the first sickle without incident, but had he been anything less than perfectly trim and upright, the second one would’ve cleaved him in two. He’d passed the first weapon of dozens, and he’d already miscalculated and hesitated. He should’ve timed it better and rushed past more of them in one shot.

  He waited for his moment, watching the next sickle with his eyes and measuring his next step, and then he made his move.

  WHOOSH. The second sickle slashed past his face, little more than inches from his nose. Had the space between them gotten narrower?

  He stayed perfectly still, thankful for the adequate grip on the bottom of his boots. The path was still made of ice, like the rest of the temple, and one errant slip would get him killed just as quickly as any other mistake.

  The third sickle sliced past him again, and the force of it cutting through the air sucked him forward, off-balance. He used it to his advantage—mostly because he didn’t have a choice. Mehta made it past the third sickle, slipped past the fourth as well, and dove beyond the fifth and final sickle.

  He slid to a stop just in time to avoid the first of many spikes that shot up through the floor at him with a clack. Mehta caught himself on i
ts side with his boot, and he pushed himself up to his feet and brushed the cold off of his bare arms. The spike retreated beneath the floor again.

  The spikes didn’t follow any discernible pattern and popped up seemingly at random, moving the ice aside as if it were water. Even stepping where spikes had just protruded wasn’t a safe strategy, as more than once the same spike popped back up immediately after receding into the floor.

  If Laeri was with him, now was the ideal time for her to intervene, as he couldn’t rely solely on his own skill. He took his first step.

  Clack.

  A spike shot up next to his foot, scraping against his boot, between his legs. He cursed and staggered back, away from the patch of spikes, back to the beginning.

  He cursed again. Taking this obstacle slowly meant inviting disaster.

  Mehta uttered another quick prayer to Laeri, reconsidered Garrick’s assertion of him being an idiot, and bolted into the spikes.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  Spikes jabbed at his every step.

  Clack. Clack.

  He half-danced, half-sprinted through them, his eyes only fixed on his next footstep, never anything beyond.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  Ten feet from the end of the patch, he sprung off his legs into a flying leap and cleared a dozen or so other spikes in the process. His feet hit the ice and slipped out from under him, and he landed hard on his rear-end, still very much in the range of the spikes.

  The impact stung, but Mehta didn’t have time to linger and lament it. He jerked off the ground.

  Clack.

  The spike would’ve killed him in the most embarrassing way possible if he hadn’t moved.

  Clack.

  Another one just missed the meat of his left hand—it shot up between his splayed thumb and forefinger as he braced himself to stand again. He pushed off of that hand, got to his feet, and darted forward. This time, his next leap got him clear of the spikes, and he took a moment to sit on the ice.

  The cold felt good on his sore rear-end, but thus far, that was the only harm that had come to him. It could’ve been so much worse, and it nearly had been several times, but he’d escaped any lasting harm.