by L. L. MacRae
Jisyel also hugged Selys, though Calidra shook her hand. Neither raced off to the ship despite the horn blow.
Varlot let out a grunt—though of soreness or frustration, Fenn couldn’t tell—and pushed his way through the snow. ‘Where are they? We weren’t late?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Selys asked, her voice clipped. ‘Varlot, you ought to stay off the wine if you want anything you say to make sense!’
‘Be quiet, woman. I’m trying to look!’
Fenn pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not what he had in mind when he’d asked the former general to come along with them. Calidra had spoken poorly of his habits—gambling and drinking—and now Fenn could see why. ‘Varlot, I’m counting on you. We both are. Who knows what’s waiting for us on the mountain. Maybe have some water and—’
He cut himself off as a pair of uniformed men approached from one of the buildings on the edge of the outpost. Inquisitors. Already, his fingers were shaking.
‘Inquisitors? Here?’ Jisyel had been starting to make her way to The Duschtet, hand in hand with Calidra, but they whirled around at the Inquisitors’ approach.
‘You two should get back to the ship. We’ll be fine.’ Selys rested her hand on Fenn’s. ‘Relax, Fenn, it’ll be okay. Just get your papers ready.’
‘Halt right there!’ One of the men barked, slightly further ahead than his colleague. ‘No-one comes in without an inspection!’
‘I am Selys Ioran, Priestess of Neros, on a pilgrimage for my spirit.’ She gestured to Fenn. ‘This is my apprentice. He and I—’
‘By the spirits, I don’t believe it! Londa! Londa, hurry up will ya? The bloody pigeon was right! It really is Varlot Keir!’ The Inquisitor laughed, now jogging towards them, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
Calidra and Jisyel loitered nearby. ‘If you need my word to help against them…We aren’t in Bragalia, but I speak with the Laird’s voice.’
Fenn gaped. The Inquisitor had known Varlot was coming?
‘Wow, the years ain’t been kind to ya, Varlot,’ Londa said, catching up with his colleague. He was the shorter of the two men, with a stocky build and broad shoulders. They both wore fur-lined cloaks and heavy boots, and moved easily through the snow.
‘Londa. Barlen.’ Varlot nodded to the two men, then clasped their hands in greeting. ‘I shoulda known you two would get stuck at this outpost. Have you been here since the war?’
Barlen laughed bitterly. ‘Uh-huh. Pretty sure my arse has frozen off. Good thing we get a nice, cosy carriage to Eastbrook for a bit.’ His gaze fell upon Fenn, and he sneered.
Varlot grinned broadly. ‘Aye, and some decent wine I hope, too? Nothing worse than a dry journey to Eastbrook!’
‘What is all this hogshit?’ Jisyel shouted.
Fenn looked from Varlot to the two Inquisitors. They knew each other, clearly. Perhaps they were even friends.
‘If you’re done with your familiarities, perhaps we can get going?’ Selys made her way past the three men, dragging Fenn along with her.
‘Selys, you can get on if you’ve business to attend to for your spirit,’ Londa said, stepping aside so he no longer blocked the path for her. ‘But the Myr-touched traitor comes with us.’
‘Nonsense. He’s no traitor. He’s my apprentice,’ Selys replied.
Both Inquisitors chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, he’s being taken from your care by order of the Iron Crown.’ Barlen pulled out a sheet of parchment from inside his cloak and opened it up. ‘A writ for every lost soul found. They’re to be brought to the capital immediately. No exceptions.’
‘I think you’ll find the duty of a priestess is above Queen Surayo’s desires.’
Her words killed their laughter. Barlen returned the writ to his pocket and stepped forward, towering over Selys. ‘Look, priestess. I don’t care what you think, I got my orders. Varlot here has given us a good tip. Gonna get well paid for this, and that’s the end of it. Now, run along, before you get yourself arrested, too.’
‘On what charges?’
‘On the charge of pissing me off.’
‘Varlot? What is going on?’ Calidra snapped, dagger in hand as she stalked towards them.
Shock and fear rooted Fenn to the spot. The two Inquisitors were armed. They knew who he was. And Varlot had been the one to tell them. His voice broke. ‘Varlot? How could you?’
‘Lad, it’s nothing personal.’ Varlot didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at any of them—just kept his gaze on the Inquisitors.
Fenn drew the sword Varlot had given him and raised it up. ‘After I trusted you! You were helping us!’
‘And for what? I do honest work for honest money. And after everything I’ve been through? Everything I’ve done for this country? After what I’ve lost?’ He shook his head, his lip curling. ‘I helped you, Fenn. Thought I was doing the right thing, you know. Thought after everything, I was where I was supposed to be. That good things would finally come my way.’ He snorted. ‘Instead, I get that Bragalian woman accusing me every two seconds, I get the priestess taking my coin, and I just wonder what’s the point.’
‘Varlot…’ Fenn whispered.
‘That’s no excuse to betray Fenn to the Inquisitors!’ Calidra yelled.
‘Calidra! The ship!’ Jisyel called.
Varlot stepped away from Calidra and gave her a dark look. ‘But just like everything else, it was for nothing! I’ve bent over backwards for you all, done everything you asked and more, and what do I get? Fuck. All.’
Fenn lowered his sword slightly, guilt creeping in. He had kept Varlot there on the promise of money—a promise he knew full well he might not be able to keep.
Varlot’s voice softened to a growl. ‘I’m done with having everything thrown back in my face. I carry on as I am, and I’m just wandering from town to town, drinking myself to death. Alnothen was right. I should be buried in the ground.’ He rested his hand on his axe. ‘This way, I’m helping my queen again. My country! This way gives me a new chance. A shot at new life. It gets me back to where I should’ve been before…’ Varlot sputtered, trailing off.
‘Before what?’ Fenn seethed.
‘Before he killed his wife and infant son,’ Selys’s voice was flat. ‘Alnothen had you banished for what you did, didn’t she? The lives you took. Were you thrown out of the army for that? Or did you have enough conscience to leave before they found out?’
Varlot reddened. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, woman!’
‘It isn’t my place to judge, I’ve already told you that. But I now see your true colours.’ The priestess glared at the two Inquisitors standing beside Varlot. ‘You know what Fenn and I must do. Go back to the capital if you must. See if it cleanses your guilty conscience more than your actions thus far. Do not impede us. We are helping the queen. You are acting as selfishly as you ever have.’
Varlot glowered.
The horn blew twice.
Fenn gazed at the ship. Calidra and Jisyel would have to run. He could run, too. Leave Varlot, forget Selys’s idea, and get away while he had the chance. There would be some other Myr he could get to. Or perhaps another way to this one that didn’t involve going through Varlot and a pair of Inquisitors hungry for gold.
His stomach turned.
‘Don’t you go getting any ideas, lad,’ Barlen growled, following Fenn’s gaze. ‘We have authority to stop that ship, even if you run for it.’
Even in the short distance from the ship, the sound of creaking chains as the anchor was slowly hoisted up echoed loudly. He had no doubt the Inquisitors could stop the ship. He couldn’t let that happen—it would stop Calidra from finding her sister. ‘Calidra, Jisyel. You need to go.’
‘But look at what’s happening!’ Jisyel gestured towards Varlot and the Inquisitors.
‘I know. But there’s no time. I’ll be fine.’
Calidra looked at him for another second, then up at the ship. She shook her head and sheathed her blade in a huff. ‘Varlot, yo
u’re a bastard. I don’t care what you’ve done for your country. Fenn deserves better.’
Jisyel tearfully pulled at Calidra’s sleeve, and the two of them sprinted back to the ship, kicking up snow.
‘Last chance. Step aside and let a priestess of Neros and her apprentice through.’ Selys stood beside Fenn, her stance wide. Ready to fight.
Varlot watched Calidra and Jisyel leave, his face growing redder by the second. He drew his axe and batted Fenn’s sword away as if it was a minor inconvenience. ‘I was a general. Your word means nothing! Londa. Barlen. You want your gold or not? I ain’t going back to the queen empty-handed.’
Fenn stepped back as the Inquisitors drew their swords. He couldn’t believe it. He should have listened to Calidra. Should never have trusted Varlot after what he’d been accused of doing.
Selys pulled out her glaive and twirled it once. ‘We need to get away, quickly,’ she whispered, her voice so low Fenn could barely hear. ‘We run for the mountain on my signal.’
He didn’t nod, didn’t want to move. His heart thundered in his chest and his headache pounded with the rolling emotions. He wasn’t sure his legs had it in them to run—but he had no choice. If he didn’t, he’d be taken away.
Torsten’s cruel gaze lingered in his mind. There was no way he would allow it.
Varlot, Londa, and Barlen surged forward as one. An axe and two swords against a glaive.
Selys moved faster than Fenn would ever have thought she could, her glaive a blur of silver flashing in the dusk. Crack. It knocked a sword away. Crack. Skittered along the edge of Varlot’s axe, sending sparks high into the air.
One of the swords went flying, and Londa raced after it, clutching his bleeding wrist.
Selys planted her foot down and drove the tip of her glaive into the small of Barlen’s back. He writhed away at the last second, the hooked blade slicing into his cloak.
‘Assaulting an Inquisitor, that’s what you’re gonna be arrested for, priestess!’ Barlen fumed. ‘Even your spirit won’t be able to save you from that!’ He shot forward, his sword slashing across her shoulder.
Selys didn’t reply, didn’t even wince as the steel cut into her flesh. Her every movement was methodical, calculated. She spun in place, whirled her glaive around, and slammed the butt of it into Barlen’s exposed temple. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Fenn’s hope soared. He could hardly believe she’d taken on all three of them and come out victorious—without badly harming any of them, either. He was in too much shock to grin, but relief flooded him as the immediate danger passed.
Varlot stood with his feet wide apart, panting heavily. He held his axe high, ready for Selys to attack him. His own cloak had been sliced a few times, but he wasn’t injured.
‘Fenn and I are going now.’ Selys said, though she turned her head to check whether Londa had retrieved his sword yet and was returning to the fray. She lowered her glaive. ‘Varlot. If you have any heart left. Don’t follow.’
Varlot sputtered, but nothing intelligible came from his lips.
She grabbed Fenn’s hand. ‘Run.’
26
The Chase
Apollo
Darkness surrounded him. Apollo was naked save the chains that wound along his wrists, ankles, and torso. They locked him to the ground, digging into his flesh but not quite drawing blood. He could stand but not take a step. He could pull on them, twist them, but they would not break. No matter how much strength he forced into his limbs, he was trapped.
There was no light to disrupt the darkness, and he felt no hunger, fatigue, nothing that would indicate the passing of time. He didn’t know if he’d been there ten seconds or ten years.
There was only pain.
Relentless, unending pain.
It pierced his skull like a hot knife; searing ice driven into his forehead and left there to fester. He could just about open his eyes against the agony, but he was so lost in darkness that it didn’t matter.
‘You understand why Nestol is called the Spirit of Pain?’ Torsten’s amused voice floated in the air, an indeterminate distance above Apollo’s head.
At the mention of the creature, Apollo saw it. The thing had attached itself to his body, clawed limbs digging into his skin as it held itself in place on his chest. Its flesh was milky and translucent—a worm-like creature with no discernable head, hardly even alive. Just the sight of it filled him with a repulsion so great he bent the chains around his ankles trying to get away. But the metal held him fast, and the creature sank its blade-tipped appendage into his forehead once again.
Apollo was barely able to breathe.
It wasn’t a worm or maggot. It was a leech.
Memories raced through his mind. Sights, sounds, smells. The Iron Guard in the palace, motionless beside the queen. Griffins in the courtyard, pacing up and down on their massive taloned feet. The dying man outside Toriaken’s shrine, blood pouring down his cheeks. His own plans to escape Nadja—looking at potential hiding places in the mountains, thinking of the hidden paths he knew to be there. His wild, panicked thought of moving to Olmir with Malora and Renys, where the Iron Crown couldn’t follow. The scent of sweet, buttery fudge in Foxmouth.
More images flashed past, ever faster. Places he knew, had been. The Grumpy Fisherman. Customers ordering sardines for breakfast, the rattle of cutlery in a dozen hands. Early morning fishing with Renys on their little boat, her laughter lighting up the dawn. Late nights with Malora in his arms, moving together, skin against skin, the taste of her…
He twisted his head away, biting his lip to keep from screaming.
He couldn’t let Torsten see. Couldn’t let him know every detail of his life.
The creature on his chest grew heavy, its swollen body pulsing as it plucked his dreams and secrets and fears and desires from him like a mosquito growing fat from cow’s blood. It drew everything from his mind, carving deep into it, leaving no thought unturned.
Apollo writhed, trying to get away, but the chains kept him locked in place—his mind an open feast for the creature Torsten had unleashed.
His memories went further back, careening through the years in a matter of seconds. Renys’s birth. Buying the dilapidated tavern. Seeing Neros burst forth from the seafront in Foxmouth in a rare appearance. Sailing back across the Lasseen Ocean, wounded and bloody, but alive. Paragos’s Eternal Blizzard. A Myrish spell chanted…
Apollo screamed and pulled back, forcing all his strength into the movement. His mind was laid bare, stripped of every wall, his every hidden thought ready to be pulled from him.
‘No!’ The scream burst from his throat, fuelled by agony and terror in equal measure.
An enormous explosion threw him to his knees. Sharp pain laced through his arms and legs, grounding him to reality, and the darkness faded as if sucked away by a wind he couldn’t see.
When he opened his eyes, his breathing haggard, Apollo found himself back in the circular room. Dead and dying people were all around him, their dark blood staining the stone floor. He looked around, bleary-eyed, trying to get his bearings.
Torsten and the creature were both gone.
Looking down at himself, he was almost surprised to see he was still fully dressed. There were no chains around him, either.
Apollo stood up straight and was immediately accosted by a wave of dizziness. The pain of his broken nose returned, intense, but the blood on his face was sticky and drying. He’d been there a while.
He took several breaths, waiting for his vision to focus. Where was Nestol? How much had that thing seen? Taken?
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Apollo remembered Torsten had taken the creature from the wooden box beside the door. Determined, he staggered across the small room to peer down at the source of his pain. His nose throbbed with every step, but the intensity of what he’d been forced to experience was already fading.
He frowned. The box had been resealed, its lid locked in place.
Apollo whirled around, only to find the iron dagger gone. Torsten would have needed it to unlock the door which was—
He blinked. The door was ajar.
He couldn’t believe it.
Another explosion tore through the building and threw him to the cold stone floor again. He braced against the impact, saving his teeth from chipping. Dust and pebbles fell from the ceiling, covering his hair in a layer of white. What in Neros’s name was going on?
Something terrible. It had to be.
Torsten never would have left mid-torture, otherwise.
He could get out, steal a horse and get back to Foxmouth as quickly as he could. Grab Malora and Renys, and get away. Olmir was a good idea. Probably the best one they had.
Apollo was about to race off when a thought struck him. He peered back through the doorway at the wooden box that held Nestol. It held whatever images and knowledge it had plucked from his mind. There was no chance he was going to allow the Iron Crown access to any of it.
It needed to be destroyed.
And fuck it. If it screwed with Torsten, all the better.
Apollo picked up the box. He’d half-expected the thing to be nailed to the floor, and thanked whatever spirit had decided to bless him with some luck. Box wedged under one arm, the creature within hissing but unable to get out, Apollo elbowed the heavy door open and peered out into the gloomy corridor.
He couldn’t hear anything, nor see anyone.
He glanced back at the other prisoners Torsten had tortured. Some were alive, but in varying states of shock. Most would be dead within hours. ‘I’m sorry. If I can get help, or someone to come back for you, I will.’
Even though none seemed aware of his presence, let alone his words, it was necessary to acknowledge their suffering. With nothing else to say, and time likely against him, he exited the room and raced down the corridor towards the light.
His booted feet pounded on the stone floor, and it didn’t take long before the first splints of soreness shot up his legs. Apollo ignored the twinges. He could rest when he was free.
