by J. M. Topp
‘No need to threaten me, Elymiah. I have made a promise, and I intend to keep it,’ said Coda, standing up and dusting himself off. ‘We need to find ourselves horses.’
‘The stables,’ said Skigg, who, having sheathed his oversized weapon, pointed a tiny finger out of the room.
Lord Bearohd’s son was true to his word. Theodric found four warhorses in the stables, and despite a shield maiden’s protest, he brought the horses to the group. He handed the reins of a brown-patched chestnut to Elymiah.
‘I will ask that you listen to me, Elymiah. I know how to get into the castle without being detected. Those will be the routes Lord Bearohd will have used to attack the Veledred. We must hurry,’ said Coda. Elymiah nodded and mounted her horse. The others did the same, and they raced down the road to Karagh Muín.
Beyond Me
EYMEG PUSHED THE double doors to the Soothing Sunlight Tavern open. The tavern was a modest-sized house on the corner of Saint Florent and Thoroulund Street. Inside, the tavern smelt of pumpernickel and ale. Yellow candles flickered as Eymeg allowed the night air to enter along with him. Wall workers, plaster and dirt still crusted on their faces, occupied two tables in one corner of the tavern. Eymeg brushed past them without a glance. A few Aivaterran guards sat at a table on the opposite side from the workers. They were without helms or weapons that Eymeg could see, and they spoke in hushed tones as he walked past. Only one turned to look at him. The rest ignored him completely. The tavern keeper, undoubtedly Mónika, stared at Eymeg from behind a large oakwood counter with arms crossed over her chest. He sniffed and made his way to the bar.
‘What’ll it be?’ asked Mónika, leaning her elbows on the counter.
‘Beer or whatever you have.’
‘Special today is Milton’s Spice,’ piped the tavern keeper.
‘One mug,’ said Eymeg, setting a silver coin in front of her. The tavern keeper snatched the coin and put in her pocket.
‘That’ll get you three.’
‘Keep them coming,’ said Eymeg as he sat on a wooden stool at the bar. Mónika poured the beer and set the mug in front of him. Without letting the beer settle, Eymeg put the cup up to his lips and drank deeply. The beverage had a salty, acidic taste, but he swallowed the spiced beer anyway.
‘Where you from, traveller?’ asked Mónika, again putting both elbows on the large counter before her. Eymeg swallowed and coughed, wiping the beer from his lips. He looked at her. Mónika had beautiful locks of raven black hair, accentuating her even-darker eyes. She would be rather fair if not for a scar on her forehead, a contrast of white on her pale skin. She wore a brown dress with a white shirt beneath. Eymeg saw a glint of danger in her eyes. One that he very much liked.
‘I hail from far away,’ he said as he put the mug to his lips and drank some more.
‘The Isles of Brume?’
Eymeg nearly spat out the beer. He coughed and looked at Mónika. ‘How did you figure that out?’
‘You think I’ve always been a tavern keeper?’ she asked. ‘You’re Veledred. I can tell by the way you keep your ears perked like a cat. You daemon hunters are a rare breed indeed.’
Eymeg squinted his eyes. ‘Interesting. That accent. Saltkire Hold?’
‘Ah, so you are from the Isles,’ she said with a satisfied grin. Eymeg sucked his teeth and grinned at her. His manhood stirred in between his legs.
A man with black mutton chops on his cheeks and a jovial smile almost as wide as his face lumbered in behind Mónika, carrying two large barrels underneath his arms. The black hair on the top of his head was shaved into a mohawk. His eyes sparkled brightly beneath his bushy brows as he stood behind Mónika.
‘Where to, sweetheart?’ he asked with a thick foreign accent.
‘On the other two barrels there, love, by the trays,’ she said. ‘Don’t make any more; I don’t know if we will be able to finish our stock by the end of the night.’
The man nodded and set the barrels where Mónika had told him.
‘That’s my husband Bruno,’ she said, pointing at the large man. Eymeg nodded at Bruno, saddened for a moment that Mónika was spoken for. He downed the mug and tapped it for her to fill it once more.
‘What’s your business here in Aivaterra, Veledred?’ asked Mónika as she poured beer into his mug.
‘I don’t know anymore.’
‘Ah, a lot of that going around here.’
‘What happened?’
‘You haven’t heard? The daemon army arrived in the night almost without warning. A thick fog descended over the plains, and they were at our gates before the city watch sounded the alarm. There was a one-hour siege around the city, and then the walls simply crumbled down. It was as if the daemons commanded it to fall. They entered Aivaterra freely. What’s curious is that no daemon set foot on Saint Florent street. We were spared the daemons, and the barrels of blackstones that were hurled into the city afterwards by the Hallowed Masters never landed over our houses. Curious, isn’t it?’
‘Soothing Sunlight was untouched?’
‘Aye, it was. Oredmere seems to look over his people. I’ve almost become a believer too,’ said Mónika with a wink. Eymeg smiled as he downed the beer. Bruno came around and hugged Mónika from behind, kissing her cheek.
‘Not here, love. We have customers,’ she said, patting his arm, her face turning red.
‘Let them look. They might learn a thing or two,’ the burly barkeep said playfully in a deep voice, but then he let go. ‘I have to chop more wood, my dear. Your son is doing really well.’
Mónika smiled and began to wipe the counter down, turning to Eymeg. ‘We took in one of the Weserith refugees, a boy. He is such a help to us, even in his young age.’
‘There will be plenty of orphans roaming around the streets before this is all over,’ said Eymeg.
‘Did you come here by yourself?’
Eymeg hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Poor choice, friend. This city is rather dangerous at night,’ said Mónika. Just then, the double doors to the tavern opened, letting the cold breeze enter. Three men in Aivaterran guard armour entered. Eymeg turned his head slightly. He focused on the last of the three men to enter the tavern. A golden medallion bounced around his neck. Eymeg’s eyes widened, and he turned back to his mug.
‘Friends of yours?’ asked Mónika with a whisper, seeming to have noticed his reaction.
‘Not exactly,’ said Eymeg. He put the mug up to his lips and chugged the entire drink down. His throat burned, but he didn’t care. He tapped the mug, and Mónika poured his third.
‘…It would be a shame for her to find out her father was someone like you,’ said the voice in the back of Eymeg’s head.
Goddamn it, Jolien.
There was no point. Jolien was no real help to him. She would only drag him down. Eymeg clenched his jaws together. She was a bitch anyway. He drank deep and set the mug before him, alcohol dripping down the edges of his mouth. Bubbles rose to the top of his dark beer.
It’s not right. He wiped his face with his sleeve, belching loudly.
Really? Is it a right or wrong thing now? Just piss poor luck on her part. It could have been me, and I wouldn’t have complained. I wouldn’t have asked her to come to save me, argued Eymeg to himself. I will find an alley to sleep in and then search for Andre on the morrow. Without me being wanted, I can roam the streets at my leisure.
He tried to smile at his roughspun good luck, but something was stopping him from enjoying his buzz. But it should have been me. I was the one who took the life of that lord. Jolien is innocent.
Something nudged his elbow. He turned to see a red-faced Gosfridus, whose eyes burned with anger. ‘So this is what you went to do?’ spat the serf.
‘I told you we would be splitting ways once we reached Aivaterra, didn’t I?’ Eymeg scowled. ‘It was just bad luck. Not my fault.’
‘She was our friend.’ Gosfridus fought tears in his eyes, and his lips were thin as a thread.
�
��You put a knife to her throat,’ chuckled Eymeg, shaking his head.
‘A butterknife,’ said Gosfridus, frowning more than Eymeg thought possible.
‘Listen, let me buy you an ale, Gosfridus. I would think it’ll be your first, right?’ Eymeg winked exaggeratedly at the young serf.
Gosfridus bit his lip. ‘You listen. I’m going to find a way to free Jolien from the prisons. You know where to shove your ale.’ With that, the boy turned around and, dodging a falling drunken man, exited the establishment.
‘So? Fuck her,’ whispered Eymeg. Mónika glanced at him, but she kept her silence.
He sipped his beer and then glanced behind him—at the man with the medallion around his neck. The man’s voice carried, and Eymeg couldn’t help overhearing his obnoxious voice.
‘…Three times, I tell you. She tried so hard but just couldn’t shake me off!’ said the man. Eymeg recognised him as Ysgremiah. He sat at a table surrounded by his guard, all with mugs in hand.
The squinty, black-eyed man laughed above his beer, bringing it to his lips for a sip here and there. ‘That’s not counting the black eye he gave her. Kinda brought down the entire mood for us all.’
‘What mood? It was an alley, not a brothel, for fuck’s sake,’ said one of the guards.
‘Good luck trying to find a brothel in Aivaterra, mate,’ said Ysgremiah.
‘Maybe King William could lift that ban the Hallowed Masters placed on the city.’
‘Watch your tongue. You don’t want word to reach the Hallowed Masters that their guard is speaking ill of them,’ muttered Ysgremiah.
‘I mean it, Ysgremiah. Maybe King William isn’t so bad. He seems to know what he’s doing,’ said the young guard.
‘On the short leash the Hallowed Masters have tied to him. He is completely powerless. It’s said he and that special guard of his never leave his bedchamber. He is there day and night, not even allowing his handmaidens to bring him food.’
‘What do you mean not even for food? Of course he is brought food. He would be dead by now otherwise.’
‘I hear he consorts with witches, and his own personal guard is a product of magic,’ said Ysgremiah, fingering the medallion at his breast.
His guards all groaned in unison. ‘Ysgremiah, drink up. You sound like a Weserithian, talking about magic nonsense.’
Ysgremiah frowned and downed the contents of his mug. ‘A pox on the lot of them. Who do they think they are? This is our land. I never asked them to come here. Did any of you? They should have stayed in Weserith and died like men, instead of running like cowards.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Eymeg noticed movement, and a sudden silence descend on a corner of the tavern. Four builders glared at the Aivaterrans with disdain. A bald one with thick shoulders spat on the ground, but the Aivaterrans didn’t notice.
‘I have to agree with you, Ysgremiah. Those bastards are a stench enough on our city. They got lucky they weren’t all corralled to Yorveth,’ said a guard.
‘Now that is a fitting place for Weserithians if you ask me,’ said another with a sour look on his scarred face.
The bald man in the corner stood up. ‘Care to say that a little louder, sparrow?’
Instantly, Ysgremiah and the other Aivaterrans around the table stood up. The Weserithians rallied behind the bald man.
Ysgremiah laughed. ‘You Weserithians shouldn’t be here. The Hallowed Masters allowed you to stay in exchange for work, yet you are treated better than the slaves we hold to train knight-captains. A shame really. I was there at the Lyedran Valley when the floods decimated you Weserithians. It truly is a pity the floods didn’t wipe every one of you out.’
The bald man grabbed his tankard and drank from it. Beer spilt from the edge onto the man’s shirt. He downed the drink and then wiped his lips.
‘I was at the Lyedran Valley as well. You Aivaterrans got lucky the waters got to us first, but not today.’ The bald man lunged at the man with the medallion and slammed his iron tankard over the Aivaterran’s face. The Weserithians turned the table over and rushed the Aivaterrans. Ysgremiah gave a shout and, with fists raised, rushed into the brawl.
Bruno walked in with a handful of lumber.
‘A brawl?’ he asked as a smile spread onto his face. ‘About time we had a good fight!’
‘No, Bruno,’ warned Mónika, but it was too late. Bruno dropped the pile of wood and pushed his sleeves up his arms. He leapt into the fray, swinging his massive fists and slamming chairs over men, a large smile spread across his face.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ said Eymeg, standing from the bar stool. Mónika shook her head and spat. Eymeg made his way to the door, dodging punches and stepping over knocked-out men. Ysgremiah had blood streaming down his face, but he was kicking the bald Weserithian in the stomach. Eymeg yanked Ysgremiah by the cloak and tore the chain from his neck. He looked Eymeg in the eye in shock.
‘You son of a—’ began Ysgremiah.
Eymeg grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Ysgremiah stayed on the floor, unconscious. Eymeg slipped the medallion into his pocket and exited the Soothing Sunlight Tavern, leaving the chaotic brawl behind.
‘THERE’S NO POINT,’ said Eymeg to himself. ‘She’s already dead.’
He was met by torrential rains and winds the moment he stepped out of the tavern. Tornadoes had been spotted on the plains, but none had sped in the direction of the city just yet, as far as he knew. Darkness loomed overhead, and there was very little light, save for the heath fires in some of the houses on Thoroulund Street. As he walked, something was tugging at his thoughts, more than anything had before. He shook his head as a thick spray of water rained down over him. He grabbed his cloak and pulled it over his shoulders close to his neck. ‘What is wrong with me?’
He touched the medallion in his shirt. It was curiously warm as it bounced close to his chest. Eymeg didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the thought of being alone, but he stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at the moon hovering beside a tower cornered by dark clouds. A creaking of rope caught his attention, and he looked up. Bodies swayed in the wind. Lightning lit up the sky for a moment, searing through the heavens. Eymeg stared at their faces. Men, women, and even children hung from parapets and towers. Signs on their chests read: Heretic. Their iris-less eyes stared back at Eymeg, and their mouths were agape. The exiled daemon hunter stumbled and fell to his knees. He sat down in a puddle and stared at the bodies hanging from the towers. Jolien would end up beside them, most likely, if there were anything left of her by dawn. He shook his head and looked down to the end of the street.
‘Dammit, Jolien.’
THE AIVATERRAN DUNGEONS were located at the base of a destroyed chapel Eymeg had visited only once before in his travel with his father long ago. It had been a chapel where knights were baptized to be knight-captains. When he had visited the chapel dungeons, however, he’d been helping Artus put someone in the cells, not get someone out. Eymeg unslung his bow and his quiver full of arrows and set them behind a wooden barrel. He would not need arrows inside a dungeon. He scratched his head and smiled. The warm, tingly feeling of alcohol crept up the nape of his neck. He stumbled and laughed to himself as he made his way down the street. It opened up to a vast square where a tower stood crookedly. Maybe he should look for Gosfridus, but then, dwelling upon the thought just a little bit longer, Eymeg realised that the boy, though an enthusiastic idealist, would probably slow him down. Then another question nipped at him. Why was he doing this? Jolien meant nothing to him. She was just a travelling partner who had suffered ill luck. The moon was beginning to set, casting a long shadow behind Eymeg.
Two guards in silver armour stood beside the gate that led into the dungeon. Eymeg unslung the halberd from his belt and gripped the broken polearm.
He only saw the two guards. Fortunately, no knight-captains were in sight. He straightened his back, put the halberd beneath his cloak, and approached with a cu
rt sniff. He bowed before them.
‘What do you want?’ asked one of the guards with an annoyed grimace. His scraggly beard cast odd shadows on his face, but his eyes sparkled brilliantly.
‘Why, to visit a prisoner, of course,’ said Eymeg, slurring his words as much as he could.
‘And what, pray tell, would give you the authority to enter the premises and visit a prisoner?’ asked the other guard, who was apparently much older and most likely wouldn’t be much trouble to Eymeg.
‘I have business with a prisoner.’
‘You’re drunk. Go on, get on out of here, or I will strike you down where you stand,’ said the older guard, putting his hand on his sword.
‘The Hallowed Masters have given permission to me to enter,’ said Eymeg. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
The guards looked at each other and began laughing. ‘I suppose you have proof of this,’ the older one said. ‘Perhaps some sort of signet or parchment.’
‘I suppose you don’t know then. The woman you brought into your custody, of which you accuse of murdering a lord, is a strix,’ said Eymeg with a sparkle in his eye.
‘A strix?’ asked the younger guard. Now his attention was piqued.
‘A vampire.’
The guards glanced at each other.
‘Don’t listen to him; he obviously had one too many beers.’
Eymeg ignored the remark. ‘I am certain you’ve heard by now that Lord Fastolph had a problem with a vampire. He must have sent letters begging for aid before his untimely death.’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked the older guard.
‘You see, Lord Fastolph asked me to help. I am a Veledred.’
‘A what?’
‘I hunt daemons for a living and sometimes pleasure. Sure, I may have had one too many to drink. I needed strength to face this creature head-on. Liquid strength, if you know what I mean. Thing is, the creature evaded me and ended up sneaking into Aivaterra, the holiest of cities. The Hallowed Masters have recruited my help in the interrogation of this creature.’ Eymeg once more bowed before them. ‘The symbol I wear stitched on my coat is the three wolves of the daemon hunters of Karagh Muín in the far south of the Isles of Brume. I was sent to interrogate the vampire.’
