Chapter Twenty-Eight: Failing Mind

  Selriph found himself climbing down the ladder. The scent of rust and the cloying stench of sewage wafted into his lungs. As he descended, his long shadow swayed in the faint blue light emanating from his hand.

  When his feet touched the grimy floor of the sewage tunnel, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a parchment scribbled with charcoal.

  In his hand lay a roughly sketched map of the tunnels in his general vicinity. The map crudely depicted various landmarks: the statue of Saint Juna, the imperial high courts, and the Font of Kaelorn; no doubt flooded with pilgrims wishing to be blessed in its holy waters.

  This time, he scanned the drawing with meticulous care, as though seeking a detail overlooked in his previous three attempts.

  His brow furrowed as he paced southwards, past a myriad of corpses—critters, rodents, even the unrecognisable remains of a humanoid with an angular skull. Possibly lizard-kin, its ribcage still held an arrow.

  Right… Then about fifty paces, passing under Gederon Avenue… and we should be at the eastern section of the prison.

  Selriph paused, turned ninety degrees to the right, and lowered his parchment.

  The sight before him deepened his scowl, now twisted further with confusion: the sight of collapsed stonework met him, gashes of exposed earth running along the wall and down to the ground below him.

  The wall’s condition did not surprise him.

  After all, this was his handiwork.

  It was the fact that only solid earth met him where he’d expected a hidden tunnel.

  “I don’t understand? Isn’t this the place where Derren said it would be?” His question disappeared into the tunnels, leaving him in confused silence.

  His mind flashed to the moment Derren pointed to the map. The words were ringing in his ears like the stinging ring of the reveille bell—the dreaded signal of the start of the day, a universal source of displeasure for Templar initiates.

  “A maintenance tunnel is hidden behind a false wall near here.”

  The image was lucid as a waking dream in his mind; the finger pointed just northwest of the manhole cover he had just checked.

  The exact location he was standing at right now—at least, that is what he thought.

  Yet, no maintenance tunnel existed, as far as he could discern.

  Overwhelmed by what he witnessed, Selriph’s thoughts whirled in an attempt to understand. Had he misremembered? After all, he hadn’t properly scrutinised Derren’s claim, or it might not have been exact—he simply had to look around.

  Selriph paced along the grime-streaked walls, studying them intently. He scanned for any sign of a false wall—a subtle variation in the stonework, a misplaced brick, a hidden indentation—anything to unearth what Derren mentioned.

  Still, nothing. The dirty and old stonework stared back at him like a mocking, silent witness.

  A wave of embarrassment washed over him; he had prided himself on his keen mind, yet the possibility of his making a mistake, either by false recall or a lack of clarification, crept into his mind. The timing could not be worse; the success of the entire infiltration depended on his arcane abilities to overcome the metal obstacles.

  Lost in thought, he evaded confronting his error. He dreaded going to the docks, confessing his failure to locate the tunnel, and facing Hagan’s certain rebuke.

  Selriph inhaled sharply, the stench in the air hitting his long-acclimatised olfactory senses. A sinking feeling started to form in his gut.

  Not from the odour, not even from the possibility of his mind making his mistake.

  No, his attention shifted; he considered an alternative, partly to shirk responsibility, but mainly due to the persistent doubt that had been preying on his mind since their encounter with Derren.

  Derren’s statements flashed in his mind, replaying like verses from a dramatic text.

  “I had been browsing in Tollerton—been on sick leave since yesterday.”

  Why would the guards grant him sick leave only to let him roam the Tollerton district? That does not add up.

  “We will escape the same way you came, through the tunnels.”

  Hang on… how did he know we came through the tunnels? We never mentioned it to him.

  The cogs were starting to turn, like a crude machine poised to assemble a conclusion in his mind, one that he could not bear to watch.

  Another piece, another flash of auditory information. Not from Derren, but from Tamros.

  “You’ll want to avoid this section. Flooded just last week.”

  “Yeh folks, curious ones.”

  Selriph understood that the people he called “folks” were, in all probability, resistance fighters, employing the tunnels for covert navigation of the city.

  This, however, suggested the resistance had current information on the tunnels, the only way his intelligence could be so accurate.

  Which made the next statement that played in his mind stick out like a splinter in his thoughts.

  “Never heard of that within our cell. Perhaps we draw from different sources. “

  Growing dread formed, the muscles in his chest tensing. After all, Tamros’s information likely fuelled the resistance activities in the city; the map he glimpsed marked the plazas—centres of celebration for Mikus’s feast.

  How could it be possible that Derren and his fellow freedom fighters drew from a different source of information?

  The more he thought about it, the more the notion unravelled, like a shoddy tapestry.

  It just doesn’t make sense.

  The coincidental meeting, the overt friendliness, the inconsistencies—now laid bare.

  Selriph found himself back at the exposed wall once again, almost acting as a mural that spelt out a truth skilfully buried.

  Pointing to one simple conclusion

  A truth so simple it, written in the forge work of that sword he had grasped in his hand.

  Derren was not who he claimed to be.

  In an instant, Selriph found himself on a sprint.

  Gasping for air, in stark realisation and exertion, his heart racing with an odd rhythm, he ran through the tunnel, his boots pounding the soggy stones.

  He chased the hope of fixing his mistake, not from a lapse in memory, not from a lack of attention.

  But a mistake born from a painfully delayed realisation.

  Before the consequences were brought to bear.

  As Selriph once again climbed up another set of rusted ladders, he expected the sight of streets to meet him. Instead, he found himself in near darkness—the only light coming through a few cracks.

  The faint blue light illuminated his unexpected surroundings. The sewer’s stench gave way to the briny smell of seawater; the sounds of scurrying rodents and sloshing water, illuminated faintly by the cracks above.

  To the best of his knowledge, he found himself in an abandoned boathouse. The pier sat unused for what seemed like years. Selriph paced through the building. Crates and caskets long picked clean. Tools and planks lay scattered haphazardly. A door was ahead, dimly lit by the sunlight that filtered through.

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  The moment Selriph reached the doors, he tugged on the grimy, rusted handles. Resistance met him—not unexpected, metal jingled just beyond the crack in the doors, enough for him to reach his hand through.

  Selriph abandoned any pretence of subtlety as he squeezed through the gap, the old wood rubbing against his wrist. His hand felt the abrasive texture of the chains just beyond.

  With a sharp inhale, he willed a blistering, fiery flame to life in his outstretched hands; whiffs of black smoke carrying the odour of charred metal wafted through the gap. His hand burned as if next to a blacksmith’s furnace.

  The metal clinked beyond—no doubt a result of the forge-worthy heat, the wood around Selriph’s hands smouldered, causing the boy to snatch his hand back through the crack, the rough wood leaving an abrasive gash running from his upper forearm to his wrist.

  “Ow, dammit!” Selriph muttered low. As he witnessed little flames forming at the door gaps. He stretched out his other hand, glowing red with arcane energy, shot out, not to fan the flames higher, but to subdue them. The red hue spread out like a thick blanket, smothering the flames, preventing them from spreading.

  Selriph waved his hand in his face as he coughed, the fumes catching in his windpipe. With a firm push of his hand, the metal beyond yielded like sand in a child’s fort.

  Selriph’s eyes narrowed as the light flooded into the dim interior. He was met with the sight of a street, equally abandoned as the old boathouse he had found himself in, and another equally dilapidated building on the other side—a warehouse of some kind. The boy stepped out, and he scanned left, then right.

  No one, in that case…

  Selriph placed his hand over the gashes on his wrist and forearm as a soft blue-golden light formed over the wounds, and he imagined his energy giving life to the wounded flesh; the red rawness of the wounds gradually made way for the fresh pink of mended flesh, restored by the life-giving energies of his healing spell.

  He pulled his cloak over his head as he accelerated into a brisk stride. His arcane senses came to bear, with one mission in mind:

  To locate the woodsman and their overly friendly acquaintance, no doubt gathered somewhere among the rows of abandoned structures that dotted the old docks.

  Selriph, his cloak pulled tight against the damp chill of the docks, navigated the labyrinthine maze of rotting pilings and discarded nets. Around him, the mundane rhythms of dockworkers, stray animals, and the ever-present seabirds. Some bore tattoos of a life at sea, now a thing of the past, rendered impossible by the strict regulation of seafaring personnel.

  As he passed into a row of warehouses, the heavy stench of long-rotted fish guts and decaying wood hit his nose. Selriph kept his focus as his arcane energy reached out, feeling the signature like nebulous, shapeless collections of energy beyond the walls.

  One figure, sometimes two. Maybe a collection of them. But none familiar, none bearing the telltale sign of Hagan’s signature, touched by his life in the Shera woods.

  Just as Selriph’s search seemed fruitless, he felt it, a concentration of life, like a pooling mist beyond it, something about it felt strange, out of place compared to the hum of energy from the rest of the local denizens he had passed. Brighter, somehow more alive.

  And in that mass, beyond a behemoth of thick, dark oak planks bolted together and held along an overhead rail, was a familiar signature, forest-touched.

  There he is.

  Selriph turned his full attention to the physical world before him, his fingers clutched tighter around the metal handle as he heaved with a grunt of effort. The wood did not move, locked by some unknown mechanism beyond.

  Selriph’s impatience began brewing as the briefest contemplation of blasting the door down with lightning flashed in his mind. His better judgement prevailed as he called out.

  “Hagan! I’m here, let me in!”

  For a moment, silence, any semblance of the faint commotion he had heard, paused as if Selriph’s call had consumed all sound and activity within.

  And then came faint murmurs and mumbles, barely audible from beyond the wood.

  And a minute later, the metallic clangs beyond the door as the thick panel steadily moved to the right, revealing a muscular figure just beyond.

  “Lad…? What in blazes are you doing here? You should be waiting for us down here!” Hagan’s voice was mixed with surprise and confusion.

  Selriph said nothing as he silently pushed past Hagan, his eyes immediately landing on the slender-faced man, bandages drawn from neck to arm.

  “What games are you playing at you snake!” as Selriph drew his blade in a flash, brandishing it directly at the man, eyes wide in surprise and hands up in mock surrender, the crate that hung from his hang crashed in a thud as it echoed through the space.

  “Whoa, easy there, friend. What’s got into you?” Derren stepped back.

  Around him, Selriph saw three, no, maybe five figures staring at him with a medley of bewilderment, surprise, and confusion, as if a demon-possessed person from an asylum had waltzed in.

  “You know what’s gotten into me! No tunnel. I searched the area you pointed at! Nothing. Don’t try to hide it. You aren’t who you say you are. Who in the hell are you?!” Selriph’s voice rang through, firm and accusatory.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about! The tunnel should be there! Maybe I pointed out the wrong place,” as he lowered his hands, reaching for his pouch.

  “Don’t move!” Lightning crackled in his off-hand, causing Derren to flinch, hands shooting back up in the air.

  Before Selriph could take another step towards the young man, he felt a strong grip form around his elbow, causing the sparks in his hand to fizzle out. He turned to see the Woodsman man over him, his brows furrowed in a mix of anger and confusion.

  “Stand down, boy; you are acting like a crazed drunk.” Selriph traced the hand that grabbed his towards the weapon that hung around the figure’s waist, a hand firmly gripped on the hilt of the sickle, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

  “Hagan, he is not who he says he is! There is no maintenance tunnel. He knew we had come through the sewers despite our not telling about it.” His voice came stuttered, a result of the barrage of information he could scarcely assemble from his racing thoughts.

  Derren called out, his voice rising in defensive protest. “Maybe I pointed in the wrong place! Nothing to get worked up over; maybe it’s because our maps are—”

  “Hogwash!” Selriph’s face snapped towards Derren. “Tamros received his information from the resistance acting in the city, how could you not know?!” Selriph exclaimed, inflecting upwards in accusation.

  “Calm yourself, boy. Tamros is hardly the only source of information out there.” Hagan’s grip tightened around Selriph’s shoulder, his voice stern.

  “No, Hagan, you don’t understand. Tamros’s information was used to launch the attack during Mikus’s feast. Same markings!” Selriph’s eyes widened in a plea towards the woodsman.

  Derren’s voice dropped, becoming low and diplomatic. “Rymar? He likely kept that secret. My friends here knew nothing of his terrible plan.” He gestured to the figures surrounding them—some hunched over crates, others with hands hovering over weapons, one even brandishing a bow, eyes fixed on the boy.

  All of them met Derren’s words with a tacit nod of approval.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Derren; the only one acting up is you. Drop your weapon before you hurt yourself.” Hagan’s gruff voice came through in its entirety, a low roar of command.

  “I…” Selriph’s voice caught in his throat as he lowered his blade.

  Am I going mad? Is he really just…?

  “But … how did he know we came via the tunnels? We didn’t mention it to him?”

  “Boy, how else would we have come? You said it yourself — guards looking for your face. His guessing means nothing.

  Selriph’s mind raced. Derren’s claims were all plausible. Was he losing his sense of rationality, his unchecked emotions driving him to the brink?

  It remained only a hunch. Something about Derren seemed off; he could not put his finger on it. Everything felt too rehearsed, too convenient, too friendly.

  Could that have been a figment of his imagination?

  As if answering his thoughts, Hagan’s voice became low, almost menacing. “This young man and his friends here are risking everything to free our friends, our comrades, and you…”

  Hagan paused. A wave of realisation washed over him, like a wave on a beach, unearthing a long-buried secret in the sand.

  He paced the band, hand releasing from Selriph’s shoulder. “Get lost.”

  Selriph’s eyes widened, face plastered with confusion. “What…?”

  “I said, get lost. That’s what you want to do, right? To run, like the coward you are.” The voice remained gruff, but the telltale shakiness cut through.

  “That’s all that matters to you, a pampered brat with no grit. No sense of duty or camaraderie. Just wanting to run, to chase after an easy life buried in books.” He spat to the side, a voice full of disdain.

  “Nothing matters to you, not even friendship. That’s why you left Vickthar. Hell, you probably stood with me then only because it was convenient for you.” His face was a deep scowl, voicing seething with venom.

  “I didn’t.. I did so because—”

  “Silver-tongued brat. Nothing is precious to you except yourself. Go, we don’t need you,” as he pointed to the half-opened door, the orange light of evening fading in.

  Selriph felt tears building in his eyes, his mind no longer coherent as he let his gaze trace to the floor, pacing towards the door.

  He heard footsteps behind him, a soft shuffling as the observers exhaled, their anticipation released.

  “Hagan, friend.” Derren’s voice came as a placating whisper. “Don’t be hard on the boy; he has had a rough few years. He probably doesn’t mean what he says…”. The words faded off as Selriph’s consciousness flooded his attention.

  Selriph paused dead in his tracks. Not from the unexpected words of sympathy that came from Derren.

  But from its content.

  “Rough few years…”

  The words played like a haunting melody in his mind. His memory flashed to the suffocating experiences within the walls of the Templar Compound.

  How does he know about that?

  Selriph moved, his actions guided by some incomprehensible concoction of thought and fury, brought about his unease, the emotional aftermath of Hagan’s scathing dismissal and sheer unchecked instinct.

  The boy spun, blue arcane energy flaring in his hand; a concentrated blast hurtled toward the figure approaching Hagan in a gesture of placating comfort

  Derren’s eyes widened as he instinctively brought up his bandaged left hand to meet him in a shielding gesture.

  But it was not flesh that met the bolt.

  Instead, a bright hue flared from the bandaged arm as the blue bolt slammed into the hastily formed barrier of energy.

  Derren stumbled back from the blast as the crack from the impact of energy echoed through the chamber.

  “Derren!” Hagan exclaimed as he ran over to the young man, who was slowly staggering up.

  Then Hagan stopped abruptly, as if he had seen a ghost.

  His gaze landed on the glowing energy around Derren’s hand. Or rather, its source.

  A glyph written in a tongue incomprehensible to the woodsmen.

  But all too familiar to the runaway.

  The mark of an Eldeitian Inquisitor.