by Will Bly
“Was he a good swimmer?”
“Yes,” answered Mirtha. “But the current…” She pointed at the roaring, torch-lit river. The darkness pulsed with the white crust of waves and rapids. Irulen thought for a moment that they might be too close to the river still and risked being swept away by a larger surge. Who knew if the full damn broke, or this was the result of a partial failure?
“Right you are…” He pushed distraction aside and brought the torchlight to Bertrand’s face. Nothing telling. He moved the torch to Bertrand’s left hand. Nothing in particular. Hard worker this one. Doesn’t fit the bill of the aristocracy around here. He brought the light to Bertrand’s right hand. “Hmph.”
“What?”
He made sure and then made double sure. “I think someone killed him.”
“How dare you—his body isn’t yet cold!”
“The answer is on his hands.” Irulen did his best to ignore the fact that Bertrand’s body was, in fact, cold from the river. He turned to the tall man. “When you found this man, was his left hand submerged in the water?”
The tall man nodded.
“The right hand is not wrinkled. Not at all.”
“His right hand was along the bank,” the tall man said.
“Right, but with the dam breakage and the trip from there to here… Even if he landed against the bank face up and somehow managed to have his arm flung onto dry ground, he’d have some wrinkles on his hand. Besides, you also found him face up—drowning victims are most often found face down. He didn’t meet his fate at the dam, nor drown in the river. He was killed here, or nearby, and his body dumped where you found him.”
Mirtha’s voice cracked. “That…that can’t be right. Murdered?”
“Yes. It seems to me that someone feared the surging water enough to botch the job. A little more umph, and the truth would have been sent down the river along with his body. Can I talk to you a moment?”
She looked to the people near her and nodded, and the people moved away.
Irulen decided the time to make a pitch. Remember, avoid the negative. “I’m sorry for your loss. The thing is—this is what I do for work. I solve this sort of thing.”
“Sort of thing? You mean people being killed? What do you solve, exactly? Do you fix the lives that are ruined? You know how to deal with…” She waved a hand. “…this?”
“No… sadly I don’t. But I like to think I bring closure. From there, it’s up to you to find the way forward.”
“Sounds like an incomplete job at best.”
“Perhaps.”
“You want to be paid, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Save the proposition. You want to be paid, yes?”
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
“But you were about to.”
A conflagration of anger rose up in Irulen. He didn’t like being cut off like that. He breathed deep and shrugged. “I suppose you are right. But I am good at what I do—and I have a good team. We even have a lead… a picture. A man my friend Farah saw off the trail to the dam before.”
“Can I see it?”
Irulen hesitated. Handing over the picture jeopardized the chances of being paid.
Mirtha surmised as much. “I’ll pay you fifteen silver.”
It wasn’t as much as he’d like, but it did seem an easy deal. He had a prime suspect and the general area of the crime. “Sounds good.” He rustled through his pockets and retrieved Merek’s picture. “Here.”
She plucked the picture from his fingers and looked it over. She raised her other fist and pressed it against her mouth as she did. “Oh!” Her eyebrows furrowed.
“You know him?”
“He’s Oliver, my husband’s apprentice. His family owns some land down the way.”
“Any reason he might wish your husband harm?”
“No.”
“Would he benefit from your husband’s death?”
She cocked her head at him. “You know what—I guess he would. He would benefit. He’d be the next dam keeper.”
“Does that come with wealth and prestige?”
“I suppose it does. And since you mention it, I think Oliver’s family had come on some hard times… but he wouldn’t. I can’t believe he would—”
“I’m not asking you to. Not yet. I just want to talk to him.”
She turned back to the three men who had helped retrieve the body. “You need to find Oliver—we need to talk to him.”
They nodded and went to search the man out.
Irulen was relieved to see the potential threat of the three men removed. People always get tricky when the bodies start piling up. He walked to the body. “There’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“This wound—where the stick is in him. It has two sharp edges to it. Here on the top and here on the bottom.” He indicated the spots with his pointer finger. “It looks as if someone stabbed him and then put the stick in later.”
Mirtha clutched her stomach. “Someone tried to cover it up? The murder of… of my husband.”
“I am fully convinced. Now, it might be best, for the moment at least, if you withdrew to the comfort of your friends and family. I need to look him over more, and this has been upsetting for you enough.”
Mirtha acquiesced. She walked off a distance to where the crowd surrounded her and comforted her. Finally, Irulen heard the sobs from her he had expected before.
Farah caught up to him with Merek in tow.
“I told you I’d handle it,” he said. “You don’t need to see this.”
“You know,” he said to her, “you don’t have to do this at all.”
“Yes, I do.” She pulled at his sleeve. “Can’t have you getting all stuck in this sort of thing with your condition.”
“What condition?”
Farah pushed at his shoulder. “You know. The darkness. That part of you. That came forth with Gronkle… What happened when you went home?”
“What do you know about it?” He felt fire in his eyes.
“Not much. But I know something’s eating at you. It’s because you’ve been using magic too much and for violent purpose.”
Irulen shook his head. “No. Maybe. Yes. I’m sorry. If I could find a good potion around, it would help keep me more level-headed.”
She pushed him again and smiled. “You don’t need a potion when you have me! Someone has to keep you out of the darkness and in the light!”
“Someone has to hold a light for me, at least.” He forced a laugh. “You’re right, of course. But I have to see this through. Now let me look at the darkness. Bring that torch closer.”
“Go ahead.”
He crouched over Bertrand and looked him over. That wound. Something with that wound. He grabbed hold of the branch that was wedged under the ribs. He pulled quick and hard. It wedged free, and he fell back. Rearranging himself, he threw the branch to the side. A gaping wound looked up at him. His gaze got caught in the circle of blackness where the gore ceased and the unknown began. Zoning out, entering a dream-state, he stared into it. Something else about the wound.
It might have been a few moments, or many moments. Farah let him be, so Irulen remained unsure. But he made his decision. He again shut out the world and pulled up his sleeves. Before Farah could yelp, he plunged his fist into the wound. The river left no warmth. Cold guts wrapped his hand. He moved his hand left and right, searching. Then he moved it up toward the heart, and he found it. He clutched his fingers together and pulled his arm out.
Farah’s face froze, twisted between shock and curiosity, her mouth open and her eyes creased.
Irulen wanted to leave his hand closed but knew he couldn’t. The bones of his fingers creaked as he opened his hand. There, in the middle of his palm, a blood-splattered crystal. Centered within the gem, a dark heart, a black globe like a pearl swallowed by clear glass.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course it can’t just be separate.”
�
�Ithial…” the name passed in a breath from Farah’s lips. “He’s here. Do you think he made a deal with the apprentice?”
“Most probably. But that seems a bit shallow for him, doesn’t it? Convincing the apprentice to kill the dam builder and take his job?”
“But Kay…”
Fear gripped Irulen by the spine as he realized Kay was out in the wilderness alone. “Max! Max!”
Chapter 20: It’s a Wash
Ithial hated improvising. It’s why he carefully cultivated many advantageous relationships at once. He adjusted his machinations with the skill of a siege engineer, finely tuning the weak people who harvested souls for him. Some leverage there, a sprinkle of fear perhaps, a touch of greed. Ithial’s web was finely woven but sophisticated in pattern, and far-reaching in its width. Irulen is the fly in my web, often getting snagged in lines I had spun long ago. That very thing had happened here once before; Ithial had previously spent some time in Luthbrook. It wasn’t long before he identified certain rifts between certain people and pitted them against each other. It always amazed him how lines between humans, once formed, could splinter so easily. Even more amazing was how people could be moved to such violence should they feel righteous enough.
As much as he hated rushing things, losing Quinn forced his hand. If Quinn found his way back to Irulen and his friends, then they might hightail it far away. Even with Ithial’s intricate network of agents and imps it would be hard to track people with no destination but freedom. No, he needed to make a move to keep Irulen properly motivated. Now—where is that orchard farmer? It’s been long enough—Bertrand ought to be dead and the dam broken by now.
He squinted against the darkness. No good. He closed his eyes and summoned his shadow vision. Fuzzy static played along the wrinkles of his forehead. He’d now be able to see the white outlines of people against the darkness. When he performed this type of magic, his eyes glowed blood orange in color—care had to be taken to not give away his position.
Oliver the orchard farmer wasn’t the who Ithial hunted. No, Oliver was the bait for a much more dangerous person. Ithial knew not to take Kay head on—she proved nearly impossible to approach when on her own. However, when she had a bounty in mind, something to stalk, that’s when she let her guard down. A beautifully dangerous specimen, to be sure, but he had known her long enough now to understand everything about her. He was there when her mentor died, and he knew her story. You have power over someone once you know their story. Ithial used Kay to pull Irulen south from Northforge. But now he found her role at an end—she represented more danger than usefulness, and the last thing he wanted was to find her claws leveled at him in a fair fight.
There. He located the outline of the young farmer creeping slowly through a meadow. This was the spot where the road was most open—the spot where the prey would be most visible. There’s my bait, now for the predator.
He thought about the two imps he had brought with him, Flargus and Gremly. He worried they would give away their positions too early. He chose them for their strict obedience and discretion, but an imp can never be a predictable thing. He might as well do business with deaf-mutes. For whichever reason, perhaps their magic, he couldn’t see imps through his shadow vision. He saw the white outline of Oliver like a reversed shadow against the night, but the imps were masked from him.
Another white mass crept from the blackness. Now that was the prowler he waited for. Nice shape, this one. Ithial shielded his glowing eyes and looked through the cracks of his fingers. No sudden snapping of the head or straightening of alertness. She took no notice of him. He dispelled his shadow vision, then moved closer, crouching down, and summoned it again. She looked ready to pounce on the farmer, only a few steps away. Damn faster than I thought. I need to move.
An awkward scream of surprise ripped through the air, half-winded and abrupt. A commotion ensued. The imps have attacked. They were likely no match for Kay alone. Ithial only feared he wouldn’t get there in time. He reached under his cloak behind his back and pulled out a small crossbow—he’d shoot her down with a weapon much like her own.
Flargus yelled and his yell cut into a gurgle.
Gremly followed suit, screaming like a child while pleading for mercy.
Ithial lifted the crossbow and opened his aiming eye fully. She spun to him. He shot. The first bolt winged her left shoulder. He shot again. The second bolt hit her somewhere more solid, maybe in the gut. She fell to her knees. Got ya.
The orchard farmer ran past him in a panicked state.
Ithial shrugged as he turned, lifting the crossbow level once more. That’s the thing about people. When an animal panics, it often zig zags as it runs. When humans panic, many of them run straight lines. He triggered the weapon. The bolt flew true, striking Oliver somewhere on the spine causing him to crumple. Well, that’ll be a long, cruel death. He shrugged and turned back to task.
“Ho! Hey!” he called to her as he approached. “Kalynia! Long time.” He kept the crossbow leveled at her chest. Both the imps lay dead, surprised looks on their severed heads.
“Don’t…” she fought through pain to find her breath, “Don’t you dare call me that.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it? I remember when that mentor of yours called out to you right before he died. I was there, you know, watching Lynette do her thing. You even saw me that day! Would you believe it? But you didn’t recognize me the next time we met—the night Lynette met her end.”
He stopped at a reasonable distance and squatted. His blood pumped hard like beetles crawled through his veins. “You shouldn’t forsake your name. From Kalynia to Kay, really? Such a small secret to make such a big deal out of. I bet your friends will never guess it because it’s so short. They’ll stand here tomorrow, most likely, wondering who you really were or who you might’ve been. They’ll move on and forget you ever existed. Farah and Irulen will live happily ever after. Even Quinn will be better for it.”
She put a foot forward and tried to press up. The action resulted in her falling onto her side and then rolling onto her back.
“It’s a pity, you know. A broken beauty like you. I bet you’d make a nice imp. Maybe even better than Lynette.”
“Get fucked.”
“Maybe I will. I could, you know. If I give you magic and make you my slave.”
“No…”
“What do you think?” Uncontrollable excitement surged through him. “Should I let you die or turn you into one of mine? Which would you rather? Or maybe if Oliver can move his arms I could drag him over and have him harvest your soul. I didn’t plan on it, really. This kind of all just came together. Like a flock of pigeons coming home to roost. You see—I’m improvising today.”
She growled.
He laughed. “Do you know how many pieces I had to move around on the board? How many people I had to bullshit to ensnare you all in this little shithole of a town? Of course you would be the one sent to bring a wayward criminal back into the fold. Of course they’d have you go alone, as confident as you are.”
He let the question swim in silence and continued, “Maybe you shouldn’t be so confident. Or maybe the confidence is fake. Fake like a fairy tale, and you’d know all about fake fairy tales, right?
“I figured you for a crier, you know. Those with hard exteriors and all—they are just softer in the middle, aren’t they? Lynette was a crier, too. I’m not interested in another Lynette. Looks like the choice is made without you. It won’t be long now.”
Silence preceded sobbing.
He smiled. “I knew you’d cry in the end.”
She spit at him too weakly to hit him anywhere meaningful but strong enough to land on his shoe. He thought about the gentle reminder of blood and mucus he’d find when the sun rose. A trophy. He aimed the crossbow at her face. “Good bye, Kal—”
A snap rang through the air. His crossbow triggered and fell from his hands. He grabbed for it but missed as it fell. He raised his hands to his face. His left hand wa
s gone, something had resulted in a perfectly level absence of the front quarter of his left forearm. What? He was leaking. What is this? Pain ripped through him.
“Surprise, asshole!” Quinn wound up and swung at him again.
Ithial ducked to avoid the sweeping blade of an axe. Escape! He hit the ground and rolled out of the way of an overhead strike. He stood and ran, whistling all he could. Air left him mid-whistle. A blow from the back knocked him over, but the whistle still worked.
Ithial’s horse was his last resort. Xander came galloping, his eyes a fiery red. Quinn swung his axe as the horse bore down on him. Horse and brute collided as they both tumbled to the ground. Ithial used the opportunity to conjure fire into his right hand and sear the meat of his left stub. The pain screamed up his arm and splashed against his skull. He shook his head, fighting to keep conscious. A berserker weakened is better than a berserker strong, but the rage...
The horse and Quinn both made it to their feet. Quinn trained all his fury at Ithial. Xander looked staggered. The horse swung his mane to and fro, a stream of silhouetted blood splattered against the glowing sky, lifting his legs high and finding his footing. Quinn’s scream ripped into the night air. He closed on Ithial with speed. There seemed little chance the horse would make it to help.
Not enough time. Ithial grew the heat of his hand again. Not enough to become fire, but it’ll do. He released it center mass on the brute. Quinn howled and tripped onto his stomach, tearing a scar in the earth as he landed.
It proved just enough time for Xander to trot between Ithial and his attacker. Summoning the last of his strength, Ithial pulled himself up with his good arm and kicked Xander onward. The horse took off with a burst of energy that only fear and adrenaline could muster. Ithial managed to straighten himself.
Then a pang of pain shot through his lower ribs on the right side of his torso. It felt precise and puncturing. Damn it. Damn it all! He couldn’t afford to look, but he knew his torso had caught the bolt of a crossbow. He fought to keep the feeling from leaving his arms as he rode.
