Chapter Thirty-One: A Plan’s Fruition

  The last thing Selriph could remember was the blue burst from the conjured arcane barrier before the flames engulfed his vision. Now, he sprang from the ground, rifled back into consciousness—not from a noise, not from the scent of charred smoke in his nostrils. But from the scalding stone floor pressed against his cheek.

  He jerked up; his eyes met a horrifying spectacle, like some infernal painting from the Daryth estate: a man engulfed in flames, surrounded by dissolving demons, bodies disintegrating in the golden holy flames.

  That image chillingly mirrored the surrounding reality. He had caused this inferno; the warehouse, and figures consumed by the flames, fuelled by his arcane powers, brought to life by the author of the scroll of fireball.

  Selriph struggled to his feet, his legs like congealed jelly, his vision spun like he had had an ale too many. The toxic fumes weren’t the only cause; the parchment’s inscription was not meant for someone of his experience. Yet, the spell not only took form, but burnt to its completion. It’s full of destructive power unleashed, albeit unrefined, a chaotic blaze, a testament to his immense, if raw, potential.

  Around him, the heat seared his face as he struggled through the smoky gloom, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The fumes were like acid in his lungs, adding to his delirium.

  He could hardly make out the surrounding carnage: the lifeless figures sprawled haphazardly, the metal plating of the ‘resistance fighters’ warped by the heat, their bodies collapsed clumsily near the walls and wooden supports. The white robes of the inquisitors scorched black, the barest signs of life. Their divine prowess likely saved them from the otherwise lethal output of the 4th-tier spell.

  In front of him was the figure of the blackguard, his greatsword held in front of him, blade buried in the stone. The captain breathed heavily, holding himself in a kneeling position, lungs heaving from the smog. His already battered chest plate now showed a fresh tapestry of blistering scorch marks.

  What the… how is he…?

  Only his greatsword remained unscathed, glowing translucently with its enchantment, the near-invisible barrier a buffer against the scorching blaze, a partial answer to Selriph’s internal confoundment.

  Through the haze, Selriph could swear he saw Thorne’s face lock onto him, somewhere between disgust and begrudging respect—now an obstacle to most intuitive means of escaping this inferno: the door through which he came.

  To his left, Selriph could just about make out the partially burnt-through wall of the warehouse; the scene of the street beyond barely filtered through the gaps. The support above threatened to collapse, trapping his only other path of escape.

  And yet, his gaze landed back on Thorne, very much alive, lethargically bringing himself to his feet.

  He had to stop him—kill him now. That way, he could leave this debacle, Caer Eldralis, having rid the hound that had been on him. Permanently.

  Selriph reached out with his hand, blackened and red from heat and soot, willing the arcane energies into his hand in a purple glow, a bolt of lightning aimed at Thorne’s face.

  Instead of the familiar surge of arcane energy, a surge of nausea met Selriph, causing him to wretch and cough. His body threatened to collapse; the fireball had taken its toll on his magical reserves, and he was in no shape to cast the blow that could deliver sweet deliverance to the source of his tormentor.

  Damn it all, at a time like this…

  Selriph’s eyes darted to the wall as he made a hasty but clumsy shuffle over. In the corner of his vision, he saw Thorne’s mouth moving, no doubt in some mix of curses and desperate commands, muted by the sound of deafening splinters, cracks, and pops of the burning warehouse around them.

  He could only hope the flames would consume the rest of his would-be captors. His absolute focus narrowed to the meagre opening ahead. The walls were charred a deep, sooty black, and the merest fissure hinted at the breathable air beyond.

  With his arcane energy all but depleted and no means to crawl through the meagre crack, he had only one option: He took a deep breath—as much as the sooty fumes would allow him—and charged straight, left shoulder leading towards the wooden obstacle in front of him.

  He hit it hard, as if he were hitting solid stone. He had half expected to have to muster this herculean effort twice. Instead, the splinter of wood came as a perfunct apology—one accompanying the duplicitous package; the searing sensation that bloomed through the left side of his body.

  His eyes squinted shut from the heat, and he felt his body break through, splintered, searing hot wood tearing into his exposed skin.

  In the next moment, he stumbled as the cool evening air met his skin, a sudden, shocking balm on his burning flesh. Selriph tottered away from the burning silhouette of the warehouse as he fumbled in his backpack, searching for the texture of glass.

  As he rounded the corner, his eyes caught the gathering figures near the warehouse, no doubt drawn to the commotion caused by the aftermath of his unplanned encounter with the Templars. Selriph’s fingers finally landed on the anticipated texture of smoothness in his hands as he swiftly pulled out its contents from his bag: the healing potion Hagan had given him.

  Seriph hastily uncorked the vial, downing it in desperate gulps, much like a drunk with a fresh mug of ale. A wave of warmth, soothing, not scorching, ran through his body, the soft hue tingling as his thermal injuries made way for fresh flesh.

  The rejuvenation gave him enough strength to carry his body, scorched cloak, and garments—tattered and scorched—billowing in the wind. Towards the abandoned boathouse.

  Into the tunnels, one last time...

  To finally part ways with the cursed city of Caer Eldralis.

  The tunnels’ musty interior enveloped Selriph, the air heavy with the smell of decaying matter and damp stone, a chilling dampness clinging to his skin. The scent served as an ironic comfort to his racing mind, wrought by the brutal images of the events in the warehouse.

  The wet, sludgy footfall that echoed through the tunnel where Selriph walked immediately triggered the same auditory memory he had of the blackguard’s gauntlets impacting bone, the slush of crimson that spewed from his blow. That played vividly in his mind, almost as if they were coming from the cold, haunting gloom in the surrounding tunnels.

  Hagan’s gone… we played right into their hands…!

  As the image of the limp body stuck in his mind, he felt an indescribable mix of sadness but also relief, like the chains that had bound him to the city above had evaporated, a tight feeling in his chest finally lifting.

  The man who dragged him into this debacle died, perhaps at the cost of one or two inquisitors, along with their deceitful revenue.

  Thorne’s fate, unknown, but knowing his tenacity, it was likely he would have made it out of the flames. A part of Selriph hoped beyond hope that he had somehow succumbed to those flames, a poetic end to the cursed blackguard.

  He knew fate would not be so kind. After all, it had already cursed Selriph with its deepest maledictions, layered upon years of suffering and unfortunate twists of fate.

  Deep down, he knew Thorne would survive, even if, for the moment, he momentarily indulged the wistful notion of witnessing karmic justice prevailing.

  As Selriph’s body guided his raging mind on a rough southerly vector towards safety, he rounded another bend, his eyes immediately drawn down to the prints in the slick—three pairs of them, caked and crusted in the day since he and his companions came through.

  The reeling youth's eyes widened as he finally understood: this is how that inquisitor had tracked them.

  Damn it all! We were careless.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  His jaw clenched into a deadlock as he followed the trail in the slick, no doubt leading him back to whence it came.

  No… There was no way we could conceal our entrance, but when he showed up…!

  His fingers darted to the hilt of his estoc—reminded of the moment he held that damnable inquisitor at blade’s length, the thought of silencing him that he had dismissed.

  The instincts that gnawed at him, telling him that this city infiltration was foolish, that Derren’s fortuitous appearance was all but too convenient, now proven correct in hindsight at a terrible cost.

  If I had killed Derren then…!

  His mind played out a fantastical scenario in his head as he continued wading through the tunnel: perhaps Hagan would still be alive, that they’d find a way into the prison, one brought about by an expression of terramancy that mirrored the capabilities of the person they sought to save.

  Selriph paused in his tracks, looking back, feeling into his pouch for his remaining supplies: the potion of invisibility still on him, along with the knowledge of Vick’s location still nestled within his mind.

  Maybe I could still salvage this… they’d never expect—

  Then Selriph felt a sharp sting on his cheek, his hand reflexively hitting his face, snapping him out of the fallacious notion.

  There was no salvaging this; by all definitions and parameters, they had failed spectacularly.

  Ahead, Selriph finally saw the faint moonlight at the end of the tunnel and the grate they used to enter the city. The obstacle that was undone by the only consolation of this debacle: the woman he saved from the rapids.

  Then, a sinking feeling drew around his abdomen as he neared the grate, the genesis of their trek into the tunnels beneath the city.

  If they tracked us from here, Relia … even Gerey…!

  Selriph froze at the grate. His mind toyed with the thought of turning back at least once more, to warn Relia and the old librarian of the noose that would close on them, courtesy of any survivors from the warehouse blaze.

  He gripped his hands, his fingers curling around the openings of the grates.

  No, no, enough. I cannot be bogged down with this anymore.

  Then the words came out of his mouth, riding on the mist of his exhale.

  “I should have just kept running…” his voice shaking, brittle like chalk, bordering on a sob.

  Then he pushed the grate open, the sombre monument of his folly—one that witnessed the entrance for the two that stood by him, and now only one would emerge back out of its jaws.

  The air of the suburbs met him, the quiet acting as the faintest consolation for the lack of immediate pursuit. Selriph stuck to the side paths. The faint candlelight of people retiring for the day and the faint murmurs of private conversation hung like the wires above him.

  As he wandered through the suburbs, a strange feeling loomed over him as he took in the hushed surroundings around him. The darkness of the night sky, with the three moons overhead casting a faint but comforting light.

  The scene conveyed an indescribable sense of delayed irony that washed over the fugitive’s mind; the images of his original plan played like a long-forgotten tune: the Templar compound, crossing into the lower district by the toll of the midnight bell, the suburbs.

  And just up ahead, the final keystone of that aborted, granularly detailed plan, now at the cusp of its fruition.

  The stables.

  It won’t be long before they are on my tail again. Got to get on horseback, put as much distance as possible.

  The smell of manure hit Selriph’s nostrils, hanging in the cool autumn air of the stables. Ahead, silhouetted against the backdrop of the faint lantern lights around him, was a figure—no doubt the stable hand. A loud clunk reverberated through the silent stable as the figure began his rounds, his head constantly swivelling. Every movement suggested careful assessment. He could hear the soft snuffles and the rhythmic munching of hay from within the stalls.

  Selriph walked up carefully to the fenced gate, approaching the figure cautiously. His voice was meek, polite. “Sir… apologies for troubling you at this hour…”

  Turning, the stable hand saw the boy, silhouetted in the dim light. The salt-and-pepper beard hung halfway down his torso, his ragged clothes hanging loosely, eyes slightly widened.

  He dismissed the boy with a curt, “Closed for the day, lad; come back tomorrow,” but his lingering gaze betrayed a deeper concern for the boy’s condition.

  “Please, I have a coin. I just need a decent steed.” Selriph said, his hand reaching into his pouch, the soft, audible clink of metal backing his words.

  Selriph’s mind drifted as the awkward silence settled between him and the surprised stable hand, who stared at the boy, curious assessment in his eyes.

  “How much is in there?” His statement was brief.

  “Fifty, enough for—”

  “Going quite the distance, eh? With that coin, I reckon I won’t be seeing my girls back in their stalls for a good long while,” his reply intoned upwards, as his gaze landed on the collection of horses, silently witnessing the conversation.

  The boy answered his question with silence, affirmation without words.

  “Whereabouts? Am I going to expect them back?” His gaze turned serious, with an underlay of concern in the man’s voice.

  Selriph’s heart raced; this was a query that he didn’t want to answer. It risked giving a trail to his flight.

  He knew the alternative was to procure a steed unlawfully, but that would have led to the same issue: a descriptor that would be spread throughout the lands—a fugitive, deserter, riding a horse that fit the descriptor of whatever mount he nicked.

  Yet the alternative—one that he was attempting now—was by no means foolproof. After all, prying mouths from the guard could easily unearth the same descriptors.

  Selriph looked up at the man, the coin pouch clenched tightly, as if seeking comfort in the weight of the gold.

  “Far away, finding family, home. Don’t expect them back.” Selriph answered, the half-truth of his words trailing into a hollow whisper, devoid of any resolve.

  The stablehand’s eyes raked over him, no doubt assessing the condition of the boy and the words that escaped his mouth. Selriph’s hand switched slightly towards the hilt of his blade—he swore he witnessed a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes, or perhaps it was a figment of his imagination.

  A cold breeze stirred the dust in the stable, mingling with the earthy smell of hay and horses. The man’s head shifted between Selriph and his animals.

  “Say, if someone comes asking for a boy in your… state. What answer do you want falling on their ears?” The man’s right eyebrow raised expectantly.

  That should be obvious. The only reason for this is…

  An invisible nod of understanding came from the boy as he reached into his pouch. His hand felt through the texture of the various items — the remaining parchment, linen, the cool, smooth feeling of the glass vial—before landing on another pouch, one made of cowhide.

  Coins and something else clinked together inside. The faint smell of dried blood clung to it, undoubtedly from its former, mutilated owner, whose remains were almost certainly picked clean on the forest floor.

  Selriph tossed the first offering over the fence. The waiting man snatched it from the air with surprising grace as Selriph vaulted over, then slowly approached. The man’s eyes were already lost in the pouch’s contents, visible through the gaping drawstring.

  “Leave the other one there; I’ll get what you need,” he said, gesturing towards the small, round wooden table next to a stool next to a silver-maned horse.

  Selriph traced the man’s movements, trying to discern if the coin he had willingly parted with would keep the man to his vow of silence.

  He knew in all reality, it would take someone with a fraction of Thorne’s persuasiveness to extract the relevant information from the stable hand.

  The point of the gesture, if there even was one, was to postpone the alarm, at least for tonight, buying the boy just enough time to escape the capital without immediate pursuit from the guard.

  Selriph stared blankly at the pouch that lay on the table, his mind drifting towards his next course of action. His train of thought was broken by the sudden neigh and trot that came to his left.

  Emerging from the shadowed silhouettes of the stables stood a Gulper horse, its jet-black coat melding with the surrounding darkness.

  Selriph could have sworn the horse’s expectant gaze held a hint of curiosity as it sized up its new master. The stable hand handed the reins to Selriph as he paced over the coin pouch.

  “Should serve you well enough, lad. Regulars won’t be askin’ around for a girl of this shade...” he murmured, his eyes lingering on the horse, an undertone of sadness amidst his affection.

  Selriph gave a silent nod as he paced to the horse’s side, the horse’s tail wagging, almost eager at the prospect of bearing someone’s weight.

  “She seems… obedient.” Selriph tested his weight on the stirrup, the horse seemingly unfazed by the tug on the saddle.

  “Nightwind here is a good girl, just keep her fed, and she won’t complain much.” The stable hand ran his hand through the silvery, almost silken texture of the horse’s mane before giving it one last affectionate pat.

  Selriph tested his weight on the horse, his legs slightly loose on the stirrups—something he could fix later. He grabbed the reins of the horse, steering it towards the exit of the stable.

  Ahead, to his left, to the south, he could see the near pitch-black farmlands and open fields, dotted with the features of farmhouses, lines crossing the landscape, and fences barely visible in the moonlit sky.

  Selriph turned around to the bearded man. “I trust the payment is… sufficient?”

  “This?” the man said, holding up two pouches. “Not payment, but a generous donation from a regular.” His gaze remained fixed on Nightwind, not the boy.

  Selriph, satisfied, shifted his weight, pressing his legs gently against the horse’s flank as it settled into a steady pace.

  The golden lights of Caer Eldralis faded behind the boy.

  The place that was his home.

  The walls that were his prison.

  The site of his folly.

  To the faint promise of a life beyond, the first step taken on his gruelling path to freedom.

  [END OF VOLUME 1–Fleeing Caer Eldralis]

  two interlude chapters coming next week (trust me, they are far from filler!) After that, Volume II will start!

  tolerated read it to this point, thank you so much for getting this far, it means a lot.