Chapter Thirty: Fiery Defiance

  As the crimson liquid seeped through Selriph’s soles, his ocean blue eyes darted around the warehouse as he tried to find any means of escaping this hopeless debacle. The archer trained in the top right corner of his vision, ready to tear another arrow—just like the one that lay embedded in the corpse of the woodsman.

  The boy could whip a flash of steel to cut the arrow mid-air; he’d trained for such a thing.

  But then what? What of the bolts of holy energy sure to erupt from Yuldric and Varos, who stood next to Thorne in the direction of the door?

  An arcane ward could deflect the bolts, but not the one that would erupt from behind him once he began his desperate scamper—from the young inquisitor that orchestrated this masterful trap in the first place.

  Even if those projectiles missed, the group of ‘resistance’ fighters would likely dash towards the door, trapping him.

  With nowhere to go, Thorne would then meet him blade for blade, and he could hardly hold out against the blackguard even on his best day. With three inquisitors, holy magic, and a chorus of steel set upon him, he would be overwhelmed in seconds. And this time, there would be no Old Man Vick to save him from ending up like Hagan—no, worse, a mangled marionette.

  There is no way out…

  Thorne stepped forward, the loud thud of his black-steel treads punctuating the boy’s frantic thoughts. The inquisitors flanked him, their faces a mix of disgust, anticipation, and stoicism. The encroaching tide of steel and faith forced the boy to pace back.

  With each step further away from the exit, his chance of freedom diminished, the gloom of the warehouse consuming his vision like an eclipse to his hope. The ranks now formed a near-perfect arc around Selriph.

  No matter what the boy’s desperate mind could conjure, there seemed to be no way out. Nothing, save for a spell, explosive, any providential burst—a provision fate would never supply—that could knock out all the souls in the warehouse at once.

  Damn it, this isn’t fair! If I had the power, the ability to conjure a storm, I could blow them away, I could—

  Selriph paused, his gaze landing on his pouch. That parchment lay there, all but weightless, but its dormant contents bore a weight, a power far beyond the physical.

  The one of two items Gerey had left to him, the only thing that could save him from this impossible deadlock.

  A spark of a plan began to form.

  The only move he could make. Risky, suicidal, foolhardy. Almost impossible to pull off.

  His gaze landed on Hagan’s lifeless body, his fate spelt out to him: the justice rendered by the bloodied fist of the now-approaching blackguard captain.

  The sight sliced through the fog in his mind like a sharp blade. Clarity, fuelled by pure survival instinct, was born from what could be his last desperate act.

  One last performance.

  “Sir…” voice echoed softly through the warehouses

  The murmured, formal request came not from the chorus of allies around Thorne, but from the boy. Standing alone in the shadows.

  Thorne’s gaze met Selriph’s, his face a mix of surprise and amusement.

  “Permission to speak freely... Sir,” Selriph said, his voice tightening with a long-dormant military precision.

  Confused and wary gazes met his salutation. Inquisitor Dreth’s face contorted into one of full puzzlement, as if he had seen a human-canine hybrid.

  Thorne chuckled. “You may … initiate,” his voice dripping with contempt. “By Thalnor’s grace, you may … speak.”

  Selriph paused, taking a sharp inhale. The image of his plan ran through his mind, one last hastily conjured rehearsal, borne of the desperation of having exhausted all other options.

  Try to come across as genuine. As long as they believe the story, I might be able to do this…

  The pause lingered in the air like an eternity. Broken only by the low, menacing voice of the blackguard captain.

  “Words, now. You cannot delay your punishment by stalling.”

  Selriph stood straight as he sheathed his estoc, hands up in surrender,

  “I wish to bargain for leniency, a dignified execution.” His voice was firm despite the barely concealed tremor on his lips.

  A low rumble of chuckles came from the figures around, their faces contorting into sneers, as in mimicry of the blackguard captain’s facade.

  Among them, the Inquisitor with the eyepatch spoke up. “You have no right to bargain; desertion deserves death. That is by Vireon’s grace.” Varos declared.

  “The old mage in the tunnels, you will execute him tomorrow, I simply wish to be afforded the same … sentence.” Selriph’s voice was low, resigned.

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  Thorne’s voice boomed, “That old man earned his delay of execution because of the information we could render, you don’t have—”

  “But I do.” His voice was flat, factual, as his gaze landed on Inquisitor Dreth.

  Thorne and the other inquisitors blinked their eyes at Dreth, a flicker of curiosity brewing in their expressions.

  “Inquisitor Dreth, I believe you have implied this, but you aren’t truly associated with the resistance, are you…?” A deceptive calm radiated from Selriph’s voice, unsettling in its serenity.

  Dreth hesitated, clearly taken aback by the unexpected query. “How does that matter?”

  Good enough… I can start with this…

  “Because if you did, you could have stopped the… attack. And yet hundreds perished in the act.”

  “Attempting to sow discord is futile.” Yuldric’s voice, cold as the stone, cut through the air. The glint of his sword, a cruel silver tear in the dim light, reflected in the boy’s eyes.

  Selriph’s voice was steady, words hardening like cooling slag. “That's not my point. I am saying that you—the Templars, Blackguards, Inquisitors, and guards — did not know about the attack. Am I right to say that?”

  The unexpected statement caused a wave of silence to cloak the room as people exchanged uncertain glances.

  Thorne was the only one who maintained an air of transactional calm. “You may proceed.”

  Selriph’s gaze met Dreth as he said, “Your information on the tunnels was outdated. I saw your surprise. ” His gaze tilted towards the inert, slumped figure.

  “That map he held. You remember the markings; those were sites where the resistance attacked, from our source. Tamros.” Selriph pointed a finger beyond the inquisitors, in the general direction of the bloodied corpse.

  “Brother Dreth, can you confirm the boy’s statement?” Varos looked over at the younger inquisitor with his one eye.

  “Yes, he speaks the truth, but I hardly see the value of this. He is just stalling for time.” Dreth said uneasily, brandishing his mark at the boy.

  “There is. Did he mention the safe houses? The secret resistance stashes?” Selriph retorted in a low voice, his raised hand pointing at Hagan’s figure.

  Inquisitor Dreth met his colleagues’ gazes, a silent query answered by a quick shake of his head.

  “I offer that information, scribed in parchment, in there,” as he pointed down to the pouch that hung by his side.

  “Why would we entertain that when we could simply pick it off your corpse?” Thorne replied.

  “Because it is in cypher. You just killed the only other person within a stone’s throw who knows how to read it. I can save you time. Then you can be done with me.” Selriph’s voice trailed off in resignation, the sweat beading on his brow the only thing that betrayed his true thoughts.

  He needs to say yes … otherwise… it’s over.

  Thorne shot a glance at the archer, still perched on the elevated walkway. A nod came, bow drawn.

  “If the boy makes any ill-minded ploys, dispose of him. Present your information.” As Thorne gestured with an open palm, a quiet signal for the boy to proceed.

  Selriph lowered one of his hands as he carefully undid the bindings around his pouch. He reached into it, grabbing the bundle of parchment.

  Great, now I just need to…

  Selriph held up the bundle of parchment. Three, maybe four sheets on top of each other, their contents obscured by the surrounding dimness.

  Selriph looked up at the parchment, studying it intently as he began reciting the contents of the first parchment.

  “Safehouse on Nukan Street... in the suburbs… below the tavern. The owner is a sympathiser…” His eyes were in an exaggerated squint, his mouth moving as his voice trailed off.

  “Hasten yourself, heretic.” As Varos lifted his hand, the glow from his tattooed hand pushed back against the oppressive gloom.

  Selriph kept his breathing steady as he covered his eyes with his free hand in an exaggerated gesture. “Patience! I can’t read with that light, please…” as his gaze landed on the parchment once more, seemingly mouthing its contents.

  This is good. The magical signature from his light might distract him from the initial build-up… just keep this up…

  Selriph stepped further back as he continued reading aloud, his eyes still narrowed. “According to this, they also have supplies stashed behind Kaisus’s apothecary in the alley. Who would have thought….” his voice trailing as he held the parchment closer, plastered with confusion as he mouthed another set of silent words.

  “This hardly merits the extra minute you have been graced with. Say something significant or your next words will be your last.” Varos stepped forward, his hand glowing bright with gathered holy energy, fury building in his stance and voice.

  Thorne slowly paced towards the boy, or rather the parchment he held, a tinge of skepticism bleeding through his unreadable expression.

  Just a little more, if I can just say something to distract them for but a moment…

  Selriph closed his eyes for a moment, the image in his mind coalescing, just on the cusp of being conceived.

  “It also says here that … an inquisitor is an informant, that they provided the schematics. I wonder…” his voice was in mock surprise, subtle moments leaving his lips as his gaze landed on Dreth.

  Thorne glanced behind him, seeing the inquisitors exchange startled looks, their momentary shock plain on their faces, as the incredulous notion of the statement made way for the blade of rationality.

  But it was too late, as that gave the boy his last second of distraction. Under his breath, Selriph completed the incantation.

  “You lie; this dog is spouting blasphemy. Silence him!” Varos snarled, pivoting toward Selriph with a raised hand.

  But what met him wasn’t just the boy in shadow—no, a light shone, far beyond the meagre output of his inquisitor’s mark as the parchment burst into flames.

  Thorne’s eyes widened, not in fear, but in understanding. His shout of command drowned in the cacophony of sounds—the surge of footsteps, the brandishing of steel, the flaring of glyphs—a reaction to the growing hum of the forming fireball.

  Selriph felt a wave of coldness travel up from his feet—an inner chill that belied the iridescent flames above him—traversing up body towards his outstretched hand. Symbols ignited, springing from the parchment’s charred remnant.

  The glyphs, now bloated with arcane energy, swirled into a stable orbit around the pulsing mass of flame held in the mage’s open palm, fuelling the growing, pulsing spell.

  Then, Selriph saw it—the burst of light leaving Yuldric and Varos’s hands, along with an arrow let loose from the archer in the walkways, all headed straight towards him.

  That was his cue—or rather, the last threshold he could delay his spell. A crackling pulse hit the boy’s body as he let loose the forming energy, surging towards the faces of his would-be captors.

  The fireball, now just over the size of the Blackguard figure that stood before him, swallowed the arrow, which merely disintegrated into char.

  However, the two bolts of holy energy impacted the outer veil of the fireball, causing the bloated sphere to warp and distort, the colliding energy triggering an explosion that tore through the warehouse with a deafening rip. What was cool, still air turned scorching hot, a concussive blast that ripped everyone off their feet in a blinding orange flash.

  All caused by one final, desperate act of fiery defiance.

  fireball’s damage again?