Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Boy’s Gaze

  Selriph and Hagan once again found themselves in the stench-filled tunnels of Caer Eldralis. Water dripped in irregular rhythms, each plop echoing like a ticking clock—in a discordant rhythm with their footsteps.

  Once more, they were in a band of three. This time, however, Relia was gone, replaced by their newest, unexpected acquaintance.

  “I’m Derren,” he said amiably. Walking behind Selriph, he turned towards Hagan, who followed behind.

  “Hagan. This here is Selriph,” the woodsman replied after a heartbeat’s pause, his voice still rough but lacking its usual edge.

  “Yes, I know his name; his posters are all over the guard’s quarters—quite a bounty on his head,” he remarked, as if commenting on the weather.

  “Then we are lucky to have run into you before your guard friends,” Hagan replied, the edge smoothed slightly with a hint of casualness.

  “Yes, fortunately, I recognised you. I had been browsing in Tollerton—been on sick leave since yesterday.” His palm landed near his collar, just where the bandages were visible.

  Hagan’s eyes lingered on Derren’s dressings longer than expected, a small twitch near his brow betraying something—concern, perhaps.

  Selriph glimpsed the expression peripherally; the concern reflected there mirrored the same he had given to Relia and himself in the fortnight they had known him.

  “Those assholes following Rymar did a number on me during their little stunt. Was not part of the plan,” his inflection tinged with the slightest hint of irritation.

  “So, the resistance cell you support is not responsible for the attack?” Hagan asked, curiosity brimming in his voice.

  The resistance cell, based towards the northwest. Their current heading.

  “Gods, no. We wanted to blow up only the stockpiles of fresh harvest; to send a message. Not whatever abominable chaos that madman pulled—so much needless bloodshed...” His gaze traced down to his bandages.

  “Had to pull out the wounded—some were in terrible shape; not sure if they were alive….” Pain twisted his face as his eyes closed, seemingly caught in the grip of a memory too unbearable to witness.

  Hagan’s expression shifted. For a moment, the usual hardness in his face gave way to something quieter.

  “That charismatic scoundrel made off with our runepowder supply, leaving us neutered. But didn’t think he and his fanatics would pull off something like this,” his voice intoned with disdain.

  “And now what…? You want to break your friend out? Seems a little contradictory, no?” Selriph’s voice cut through, laced with scepticism, like a poison-coated dagger.

  “Rymar and his entourage aren’t my friends. But there are others, some who blindly followed. Not to mention the dozens of us who got captured in the ensuing crackdown, our location given away by those who broke.” His voice was heavy with resignation.

  “No one could withstand interrogation by those bastards. You cannot blame them.” Hagan’s voice softened. His hand, clenched and hanging by his sickle, relaxed.

  “We don’t blame them. That’s why we are going to rescue them, every single one of them, including the swathes of innocents caught in the crossfire.” His voice firmed up doggedly.

  A faint nod from Hagan, the gruff expression on his visage making way for the slightest sign of approval.

  “And what exactly were you planning to do with those extra souls?” Selriph’s voice held a mixture of genuine curiosity and pointed inquiry.

  “Give them refuge outside of the city. We will escape the same way you came, through the tunnels,” as he gestured to the surrounding walls. “After the injustice brought on them, some might even join us.” his voice inflected with optimism.

  “Tunnels are difficult to navigate, dangerous as well, not to mention damp and dirty.” Selriph’s memory flashed to the recent collapse and the image of Relia’s protest written on her face.

  “Good, we will be in your capable hands. I am sure you could use your magical abilities to make them easy to navigate.” An almost unnerving casualness permeated Derren’s voice.

  “That is not how my ma—” Selriph interjected in protest, only to be cut off by Hagan.

  “Then we have the same goal. Say what you need; the lad will handle it.” Hagan declared, tapping his belongings in a reassuring pat.

  “Excellent. Now for the task at hand: freeing our friends. What progress have you two made?” His voice piqued with inquiry.

  Hagan hesitated while reaching into his pouch, pulling out a piece of parchment. “This mark here... runs beneath the prison. We think.” His gaze locked onto the area circled in red ink. “There might be three possible ways in, but…”

  “But you couldn’t determine which, if any, would take you to your friend?” Derren interrupted, his voice carrying an undertone of understanding.

  “Yes, young man. You wouldn’t happen to know…?” his voice trailed off, letting the question hang in the air.

  “We do”. Derren’s voice was clear with affirmation. “If I may?” as the resistance sympathiser reached his hand out in a silent request. Hagan nodded as he handed the map over to him.

  Derren looked over the parchment, his expression flickering between recognition and subtle surprise.

  “Interesting, different from what we have. Where did you get this?” he asked, eyes lifting to meet Hagan’s.

  “Merchant down in the Shera Woods, has an entire network of information. Surprised you did not get it from him,” Hagan mentioned, tinged with a pinch of mild surprise.

  Selriph blinked. The woodsman was rarely this forthcoming. Information like that—names, locations—he guarded like a coin. Yet now he spoke with an ease that felt almost unnerving.

  “Never heard of that within our cell. Perhaps we draw from different sources. Who is this contact?” He asked casually, voice lifting at the end.

  “Name’s Tamros. Works at a trading post on the southern edge of the woods. Can’t miss it, info’s as solid as any,” Hagan said, with a touch of something dangerously close to pride.

  Now he’s just handing it over?

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Selriph stopped, his boots scraping the slick stone. Turning back to Derren and Hagan, standing side by side, no trace of tension in their bodies. He found the sight striking and unnatural after such a brief acquaintance.

  “You were about to give us information about an infiltration route.” His voice came, a simple, declarative statement, as if unearthing a long-buried fact. Selriph’s hand tightened hard around the leather-wrapped hilt of his blade.

  Derren froze, and his eyes darted down towards Selriph’s blade. “Ah yes, forgive me.” Derren held up a placating palm. A subtle flicker of fear came as his shoulders tensed, no doubt stemming from the fear Selriph would hold him at bladepoint once more.

  Derren fumbled with the paper, tracing lines around it before turning it to face Selriph. “Here, this should be it. It runs near a secret maintenance tunnel, just below the main cellblock. You can access it through the sewers, conveniently enough.”

  Everything about this is too convenient…

  “We have people who can stick to the shadows, deft with their hands. But we cannot get past the security grates. Warden probably knows it can be used to get in, blocked off by two layers of iron bars.”

  “And you need someone to break through?” Hagan asked inquisitively.

  “Yes. With our supply of runepowder exhausted, we cannot craft the reagents to get through solid metal,” a subtle note of resignation softening his voice. “I know I have talked big chicken with the infiltration route, but if we cannot enter. We are still stuck.” His voice trailed off awkwardly.

  Hagan said, “We have such on hand, and these,” as Hagan gestured his smaller pouch open, revealing several bulbs filled with liquid.

  Derren’s eyes flashed in recognition. “Sleeping potion? Throwing vials? Impressive supplies indeed.” His gaze was transfixed on the white liquid, as if witnessing a tantalising delicacy.

  “You have thought this through—disable any guard patrols, then get your friend out.” He opened his palm, a silent request for the object.

  “Exactly; we just need a way in.” Hagan swirled the liquid before placing it into Derren’s waiting hand in a gentle motion.

  The boy’s knuckles clenched. It did not escape his notice that Hagan was more than willing to share the details of this ‘extra’ stash of supplies with Derren; one that Hagan had not kept even Selriph privy to.

  The resistance fighter returned the vial to Hagan. “Back to the primary matter. Even with runepowder, I notice you don’t seem to have the components for Alken’s ooze. How were you planning to bypass the locks? Or the grate, for that matter…?”

  Hagan gestured at the figure who was leading them.

  Derren gave a look of confusion to the woodsman before understanding dawned on his face. “Him…? You mean he can break through locks? With his magical abilities?”

  “No, more than that. He can melt through steel with his sorcery. Imagine that.” A subdued awe underscored his emphasis.

  A wave of irritation washed over Selriph at Hagan’s casual utterance of Selriph’s magical abilities. A surge of unwanted anger simmered, almost forcing the boy to draw steel in an uncontrolled reflex.

  He wasn’t blind to its source; something about this irritated him, or rather, uneased him—the sheer convenience of the timing.

  They had an infiltration route; they could break Vickthar out on their own, without the danger that came with infiltrating a larger group.

  His gaze flickered to the sword that hung at Derren’s side, the hilt betraying its workmanship—standard guard issue.

  The only way that the plan could fall apart was if Derren was not who he said he was.

  And there was one way to make sure that risk did not come to pass: silencing him.

  Permanently.

  For a moment, the thought played in his mind: the swift drawing of steel, two steps, a clean pivot. A honed strike aimed at the young man’s neck from with his estoc, and a bolt of lightning to disarm any desperate parry, ready to spark to life in his other hand.

  Then, as quickly as the image flickered in his mind, a wave of disgust washed over him; the sheer bloodlust that he had indulged in, the same feeling he felt when his lucidity returned after the encounter with the bounty hunter.

  What in the hells am I thinking?! If Derren turns out to be someone simply fighting for a chance at a free life?

  His mind flashed with Derren’s impaled form.

  That would just be blind murder.

  His grip on his blade loosened.

  All for what? A paranoia-induced hunch?

  He composed himself to rationalise. Hagan’s reaction was natural, after all. They had been grasping at straws, with no actual plan of entry, distracted further by the chaos during the opening of Mikus’s feast and the unwarranted detour to the Library.

  Enthusiasm, even at the expense of caution, was expected—presented with a chance to rescue Vick, which began to crystallise with this fortuitous exchange of information.

  Selriph knew he should share his excitement. After all, rescuing Vick meant further training, a full repertoire of abilities at his disposal for his journey.

  Derren had been nothing but forthcoming. Despite his affiliation with the guard, he claimed true allegiance to the resistance. He could not sense any outright deceit. Every word he said was true.

  Or rather, everything he said seemed plausible.

  Yet something pricked at him. His memory flashed to Yuldric and Varos’s visages, tinged with scepticism and doubt. The irony of him somehow filling the Inquisitor’s role was not lost on him. Something gnawed at him; this felt wrong, off.

  Yet, all rational indicators pointed to a simple conclusion: He was being paranoid. His unease likely stemmed from the foolhardy plan he’d been forced into, coupled with his deep desire to get as far away from the city as possible.

  Selriph took a sharp inhale, letting his mind clear.

  No reason to get worked up. I promised Hagan I’d help. I took the responsibility…

  Besides … what choice do we have…

  As the thoughts began to pass, his awareness returned to his immediate senses. The footsteps behind him had paused as he noticed Hagan’s voice calling out from behind him. “... Boy? Lad? Selriph?!”

  Selriph jerked upwards in surprise, his gaze landing on Hagan. “Sorry, I lost myself in thought. What is it?” The two men paused at an intersection in the sewer tunnels. Bewilderment plastered Hagan’s face.

  “Didn’t catch a word of that, did you?? Stay focused, lad, we need your mind here if we want to rescue Vickthar.”

  “It’s okay, Hagan, when I was the lad’s age, my mind would float off into the distance too. Just tell him again.” Derren replied, his tone soft and placating.

  “Fine, listen closely, boy. You head that way,” as he pointed to his left, to a tunnel leading northwards.

  “Wait, what? The direction to the docks is this way!” Selriph pointed his thumb behind him, in the direction he had been travelling.

  “You really were off in your world, weren’t you?!” An exasperated sigh came from the woodsman.

  “Change of plans. You head to the prison.” Hagan’s voice was plain.

  Selriph’s brows contorted, one arching high, the other furrowing low. “What? And what about you two?” intoned with surprise, almost close to alarm.

  Derren spoke calmly, almost soothingly, to Selriph. “We head to the docks first to come up with a plan. It’s the best way to go about it.”

  “I…” Selriph’s voice caught, unable to muster a retort at the statement.

  “A maintenance tunnel is hidden behind a false wall near here,” Derren said, pointing to a location on the parchment.

  Selriph appraised it, noting that it was just northwest of a marked manhole. The location was likely somewhere in the eastern segment of the complex.

  “Got that boy? I assume with that noggin of yours, you can memorise where it is? Me and the young man here need the map to navigate these parts.” Hagan carefully took the parchment from Derren’s hand.

  Selriph felt his initial irritation, his previous mental whirlwind, making way for something else, something heavier.

  He saw them: two men standing shoulder to shoulder, united in silent purpose. A shared commitment drove them towards their comrades’ rescue.

  With him on the outside, an outsider, an outcast, like he always had been.

  He bit his lip. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.

  What followed was a simple, tacit nod.

  “I understand.”

  His boots rasped on the damp stone, the cold air heavy with the scent of mould and silence.

  Into the waiting darkness of the tunnel, the icy sting of isolation enveloped him in an embrace.

  Like an old friend.