Chapter Twenty-Three: Prelude to the Festival

  The leathery and metallic tinge of the bloodied parchment subtly came into Selriph’s nose as they trekked once more through the forest. He was relieved he didn’t have to retrieve the contents from what remained of the bounty hunter; the pouch lay out of sight—a result of the kerfuffle. It allowed Seriph to retrieve its contents without wading through the aftermath—an image that he was trying to forget, but his queasy stomach betrayed him.

  Selriph could feel Hagan’s unseen gaze. His eyes felt like they were boring into him, despite being the leading figure. He and Relia, who were trailing behind, had not said a word since they left their encounter. Hagan’s silent judgment, mixed with perhaps the slightest tinge of fear, was not what bothered the young boy—it was Relia’s pale face of abject reflection that made his heart sink, a churning knot in his gut.

  Selriph sought to distract his mind from the tempest brought about by the reaction of distaste. The much-needed anchor of distraction was the parchment before him, depicting what he had suspected. A sketch of his likeness was on the first, no doubt mass-produced for bounty hunters and other hunting agencies, such as the one they’d overcome with bestial assistance.

  In the ink inscription, the last name at the bottom: Selriph, along with an assortment of other figures at large, dissidents, murderers, political enemies, heretics, and cult leaders in the capital province. Selriph felt both flattered and confused by the unexpected honour of being listed among the most wanted.

  Thorne’s relentless pursuit was only part of the story. Desertion was simply unheard of among the Templar Knights. Unlike other national forces, from common guardsmen to ordinary soldiers, desertion was commonplace. The unwavering loyalty of the Templars, one of the Eldeitian Stratum’s elite branches, was the hallmark of their reputation. A trainee deserting and evading justice for so long? That explained the seemingly extreme reaction.

  Selriph folded the parchment containing the list of wanted figures near the capital and focused on the bloodied parchment, which contained his sketch. The bounty was substantial—a thousand gold pieces—it contained a brief but unflattering description of the runaway.

  Selriph’s gaze fixed on the likely spots, each a logical deduction based on how far he could’ve walked from Caer Eldralis. This implied two things: his pursuers hadn’t expected him to be on horseback—part of his original plan—and they surely wouldn’t anticipate such a rash return to the capital, especially amidst the festival.

  The knowledge on this parchment only reflected the information dispensed to contracted mercenaries, tempering his brief bout of optimism. However unlikely his return seemed, the capital guards would still seek someone resembling him.

  There was one other consideration: that Thorne could predict that Selriph would make a play to free his briefly acquainted mentor. The thought gave him much pause. An image played in his head: He and Hagan, standing before Vick, only for Thorne to be there, waiting in the doorway, a masterfully planned ambush.

  Selriph perished the thought; there were too many unknown factors, ones they could ponder after securing an infiltration route—if one existed.

  One way or another, once the festivities ended, they would burn Vick at the stake during a public execution—if he was even still alive.

  Before Selriph could ponder the gruesome implications any further, Hagan called out from ahead. “Eyes up, I see the city. “

  And there, beyond the thinning canopies of the Shera woods, he could see them. The stone-coloured spires of Caer Eldralis reached up into the clear blue sky above. Beyond the walls, sprawling suburbs extended, a vast urban landscape – the heart of Eldeitian civilisation.

  And leading to it, the main arterial roads, a dotted trail of distant figures sprawling out from the capital.

  Selriph knew those belonged to one thing.

  Pilgrims journeying to Mikus’s Feast.

  The bustle of civilisation echoed around the trio upon their arrival in the suburbs. They were an anonymous current amongst a soft stream of faces—at least, that is what Selriph hoped. His eyes scanned the crowd, hawk-like, searching for any sign of suspicion or recognition.

  Dozens of faces adorned in an assortment of garbs. Some wore the divine livery and colours of the Pantheon. Others adorned in unremarkable linen and cloth, crates of fresh harvest trailing them in laboured steps. A procession of women in black robes, their backs embroidered with divine crosses and symbols, bowed their heads in prayer, each carrying one of five sceptres representing the main pantheon. Ahead, a finely carved wooden sculpture, capturing the precise likeness of a bulging harvest sack filled with grain.

  The occasional group on horseback would come into view—almost framed like portraits against the backdrop of the setting sun—they kept away from the main current of individuals the trio found themselves among. Matching their opulent, handcrafted silken apparel, their micro-gestures perfectly complemented them: the glancing eye, the occasional spit, a hand fanning the air in front of their face, eyebrows furrowed in disgust.

  Such insignificant gestures did little to quell the subdued, drawn-out crescendo building towards the upcoming celebrations. In the clamour of voices, he could distinguish phrases of praise, a child’s excited squeal, the cries of merchants lining the streets—no doubt seeking to line their pockets from the purses of the incoming human traffic.

  The fresh scent of meadows made way for the fragrance of pastries and wood smoke, which masked the odour of manure, the source obvious. As the walking pace gave way to a slow shuffle, people veered off or paused. Selriph spotted an alleyway to the right and subtly motioned for Hagan and Relia to follow.

  Selriph turned his head as they entered the alley, glancing beyond the muscular and feminine figure that had delegated navigation to him.

  No one seems to have taken notice. Good.

  As his feet subconsciously carried him, his mind conjured a mental image of the map he had glanced at while they trekked over the meadow, 2 streets down and then to the left, behind a structure that was a splurge of ink on the map. Underneath it, there should be an entrance to the sewers, their ticket into the city without the risk of scrutiny from guards. A zero-risk strategy.

  Just as expected, it was visible, carved into the stone base of a nondescript building, one among many in the suburbs—a grate, large enough to fit a fully sized humanoid, although a male high-elf would likely have to contort their back.

  Selriph moved to tug at the grates.

  One tug, two tugs. A metallic rattle, its source: a pin, secured by a standard-issue town lock.

  Not again.

  Selriph glanced around. No one was in sight. Perhaps the smell of charred metal would be innocuous among the other festive odours? But there was a risk the smell would waft and make heads turn, and the blackened metal would serve as a testament to their trespass.

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  Then a tap came on his shoulder, sending a mild, startled jerk through the boy. He turned in a flash to see Relia’s face, her black hair hanging freely, flanking her tanned visage.

  “May I…?” She gently motioned for Selriph to move aside—the first words that had escaped her mouth in hours. In her hand was her hairpin—or rather, a thin piece of wire that had held up her hair.

  Selriph murmured, “Sure…” as he shuffled out of the way. As Selriph heard the soft clicking of wire and tumblers. He felt words building behind his lips, but they remained trapped, unable to articulate a way to defuse the guilt that had hummed in the background for hours.

  Eventually, a click came as the lock came undone. Relia pulled the pin; the latch’s twist on its hinges caused a soft creak, opening it and revealing the tunnels beyond.

  The reply finally came through: “Thanks… for a second there, thought I’d had to melt it.”

  Relia turned and gave a subtle smile, although it did not reach entirely to her eyes; she brought herself back to standing as she moved to tie her hair back up, gesturing for Selriph to lead the way.

  The rhythm of his footsteps and the flickering light came in tandem as he entered the dark sewer tunnels below the suburbs.

  Flame mixed with the scent of excrement as they navigated the sewer-ground, ground that would be slick with substances that no one wanted to wade through. The ceiling was just above head level for Hagan as their elongated shadows danced along the grimy, moss-covered walls of the sewer.

  Slightly behind, flanking her for protection, walked Hagan. His gruff, serious face betrayed a hint of discomfort at the tunnels’ stench—a subtle tightening of his facial muscles and nostrils gave him away.

  Relia’s reaction was more profound; her shirt covered her nostrils and mouth, her figure slightly hunched over, fighting the urge to gag, keen to ensure her stomach’s contents did not reverse course once again. Her eyes closed, water brimming to the surface as she took deep, collected breaths, allowing her gut to settle.

  Upon shifting her eyes, a confusing sight met her gaze: the boy leading them seemed unconcerned by the pervasive odour, as if they were taking a simple stroll through the woods they’d left behind.

  Was he simply accustomed to the foul surroundings, as a pig might be to its muck? If so, what experiences desensitised this young soul to the pungent odour?

  Selriph turned and sensed the young woman’s discomfort. As his legs followed the route in his mind’s eye, he produced a small bundle of mint. The scent came with the crushing of leaves as he wrapped it in a piece of linen.

  “Here, this will keep the scent at bay; we can wash ourselves properly with a herbal concoction once we reach the lower district,” as he extended the loin-wrapped mint behind him, eyes still ahead.

  Relia took the cloth, careful not to drop it onto the muck-covered surface they trod on. The cloth met her lips and nose the moment she had a firm grip, a buffer of fragrance, giving her olfactory senses a much-needed reprieve.

  The trio continued in silence; the tunnels widened as they continued their trek, providing much-needed breathing room and patches of clean or at least dried ground to trek over. Around them, age and neglect cracked the walls.

  “Relia, your contact, Sheray. You said they lived near the Tollerton plaza?” Selriph asked as his gaze traced the cracked walls.

  “Yes… Two streets down, once we are in Tollerton, I think I will know where to go,” Relia said, her voice muffled through the cloth.

  “Great, let’s get you there, safe. The only exit seems to be near the Plaza itself, not the best choice. If there are too many feet around, we will find a less conspicuous exit.” Selriph spoke assuredly.

  “How much further, lad? This is hardly nature’s best for my nose.” Hagan’s question came firmly. His low voice, a rumbling tremor, echoed with each heavy footfall in the damp tunnel; the sound was just enough to make the cracked stonework walls shudder. Or at least, Selriph imagined he felt a tremor in the ill-maintained stone.

  “If I’m right, we’re approaching Tollerton from the west, but we’ll need to check our bearings by looking through a manhole,” Selriph said, gesturing towards a sharp right turn. In the corner lay the unrecognisable remains of a long-dead creature, rendered unidentifiable from decomposition.

  Then, a tremor—instantly recognisable—shook the ground just behind the boy.

  He twisted behind himself in a flash, in time to witness the cracks on the ceiling above give way to falling debris, right above Relia.

  As the stone plummeted toward Relia, Selriph twisted his body toward Relia. His hand moved in a haze. The flame disappeared in the movement, replaced by a blue hue. A series of small, arcane disks formed around the falling stone, just mere inches from Relia’s head.

  The woman ducked in an instant, taking a second for her eyes to register the source of the sound and the hum of arcane energy above her. Her head turned, her eyes meeting Selriph.

  Then came more tremors, the cracks tracing the walls like the writings of a drunken scribe.

  The tunnel was about to collapse, with the impending rockfall threatening to cut off Hagan from Selriph and Relia.

  “Hagan, Relia go, quick!” as Selriph stretched out his other hand, this time an earthen brown hue, faintly visible in the darkness, flared as an earthen pillar rose from the ground, erupting through the thin stonework. It slammed into the ceiling with a thud, forming makeshift supports. Cracks branched out like gnarled roots from the point of contact.

  Hagan wasted no time as he entered a dash, avoiding small pieces of falling debris as he made his way past Selriph’s conjured pillar.

  Selriph twitched his head, the signal prompting him to grab the woman, frozen in fear. In his haste, their two figures raced past him, past the corner. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he felt like he was juggling a flaming sword and a ball simultaneously, dual casting his recently acquired terramancy with arcane levitation.

  The unfamiliar sensation of the two spells in his hands stole his attention. The brown energy fizzled as the pillar crumpled, dirt and stone freely falling from the ceiling above.

  Selriph turned around and bolted for the corner. The sound of rumbling earth hit him, the vibrations travelling to his feet as he moved as fast as his legs could carry him.

  As he turned the corner, his legs caught on the slick beneath, and he stumbled onto the ground, slipping and stopping just shy of the corpse—like a silent and static witness to his theatrical stumble.

  Selriph pushed himself up from the ground, his vision filled with the silhouette of Relia and Hagan beyond the tunnel’s gloom.

  “Get up, lad!” Hagan called out.

  Before he could call back, a piece of debris landed a hilt’s length from his hand—any closer, and it would have crushed his bones. The impact startled him upright as he resumed his frantic sprint to his waiting companions.

  His heart hammered against his ribs, gaze darting down below to avoid further slippage. As he felt the reduced intensity of the pounding behind him, he risked a glance at it: a chaotic ballet of falling rock and stone, the ground littered with loose debris—the carcass he had passed now under where it belonged—a layer of dirt. As his eyes finally came close enough to the two figures, he came close enough to make out their facial features—plastered with shock and worry, even through the darkness.

  The sound of collapse came with one final punctuation.

  And then it stopped. Stillness once again filled the cavern, save for the faint drips of stirred moisture.

  The effort left Selriph breathless and burning; he slumped forward, hands over his knees, as he caught his breath. The tingle of adrenaline ran from his fingers to his toes.

  As he finally found the space to allow relief to wash over him, a single thought came through his mind: the sheer absurdity of nearly being buried in earth and rubble—three times—all in just over a week. Like a poetic punchline to his reluctant return.

  In the silence, Selriph heard the light footsteps approach from the darkness—Relia. The sensation of a palm on his shoulder and the face that met him was gratitude.

  “Thanks… if you hadn’t done that, I’d be..” Her voice was barely audible.

  Selriph looked up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “As Hagan said, my knightly duties are to ensure your safe arrival.”

  A silent chuckle came from the muscular figure beyond. Selriph barely caught the faintest hint of approval before it turned away, towards a ladder.

  “Take your time to catch your breath, lad. I will see what’s in store above us,” he gestured his hand up, in a signal for the boy to stay put.

  As the clang of leather on metal rang through the tunnel, with the scent of earthy particles in his nostrils, Selriph reached into his pouch as he drank heavily from his waterskin, the liquid ingested in audible gulps.

  In his hasty chug, he coughed as water entered his windpipe, petted softly on the back by Relia.

  “Slow down, we are in no hurry…” Her voice was a mix of casual admonishment and concern.

  “Sorry…” his words hung in the silence, the full meaning settled between them like a blanket of mist.

  “I know”, Relia met his gaze, quiet understanding between them.

  The heavy clangs coming down the ladder interrupted the unspoken moment stretched between their consciousnesses. The face of its source bore a weight, a mix of horror and confusion.

  “Lad… you are going to want to see this…” His finger pointed upwards, towards the partially opened manhole above.

  Selriph held the query behind his lips. The boy’s brows twisted in a perplexing expression as he grabbed hold of the cold iron.

  Clak Clak Clak

  As he ascended the ladder, he could make out the commotion above. This was expected; they were near the plaza. After all, the festivities were due to begin at sundown. Hardly a dent in their plans, they had alternate exits.

  But then it came, the cacophony of sounds made way for more discernible elements: high-pitched voices, shouts, the signs of panic, muffled through stone and metal.

  He saw it through the gap in the cover. The streets above, bathed in an orange-crimson glow, the plaza a scene of chaos. Templars, guards, and civilians of all walks everywhere. The metallic scent of blood mixed with wooden fumes and the distinct sweet-smoky scent of Runepowder.

  Blood-streaked cobblestones in his vision, bodies chaotically dotted haphazardly, like an archery target by a novice archer. His gaze turned to his right. There, a mere arm’s length to Selriph’s right, were lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.

  This was anything but the festive mood he had expected.

  What in the gods is going on here?!