The chillingly beautiful Gecataten, the sober stones of Dehmaz, the withered and sinking in rot Kerbe and the balefully majestic Nigbau deep in the desert.
The wyvern lands to the southernmost side of them, where the world ended. The stench of Godseye Isle on the monstrosities-filled Galith to their west and the mighty mercantile cities of the Kaletha Triarchy at the continent’s shores. The Sinking Isles of the crafty, freedom-loving Gish in the Scalding Sea, or the lonesome Hissing Coral Cay, and finally beyond Abrakas Gullet -far to the southeast— the horrors of the Split Isles, where the curious, savage Harpies flew uncontested and time stood frozen.
Taranir O’ Aurelien
Circa 3401 IC, the Third Era
-
Nienke let out a sigh as she observed the locals making their way towards Emerald River and Moonhaven’s Bridge along the busy River Road. Here, the lush wine vines intertwined with palm trees, forming a beautiful canopy that lined the busy path. The intoxicating fragrance mingled with the scent of sweat from the heavily laden animals departing from the East Gates, tantalizing her senses, while the dense shade provided a welcome relief for her dark skin, allowing it to breathe freely.
Alternatively, she could have chosen of course to visit the sandy beach in the city like the rich locals or take Silvio’s word at face value about ‘the fabled better side of the coast’ and accept his invitation. Ari, now in his thirties, still wore yesterday’s gloomy expression. He had it on since Nienke had told him about the encounter outside the hostel, and even after they had ‘opted’ for the safest choice to rest their tired animals.
“A decadent city, we should have stayed well-clear off,” Ari, her father’s old squire commented, his thick dark-blond beard a matter of pride for him, as much as the longsword and armour he carried on their horses. “Full of whores, two-faced sycophants and foul-mouthed drunkards. The worst of Lorians,” Ari continued crooking his mouth.
A Lorian himself.
“Ser Ari of Croton,” Nienke teased, using a palm to shade her strikingly jade-colored eyes. “Are you not a full-blooded Lorian?”
“You know, what I mean. Silvio’s world is dangerous. Fascinating, but dangerous, even evil.” Ari murmured making Uher’s sign and then walked to the edge of the busy road. He stayed there briefly and then returned near their grazing in the shade horses.
“Come on. You can’t be jealous of him. He’s not much older than a boy and at the end of the day they did know my father, right?” Nienke said, gathering her long white hair to knot them behind her neck. “Is that a lie, what that creepy old man said?”
“You are not much older than a girl too,” Ari retorted, suddenly even more brooding than before. “And it isn’t a lie. But just because their roads met once,” her now sober companion murmured with a grimace, as if reminiscing of something that had left a bad taste in his mouth. “It doesn’t mean they were good people, Nienke. I can’t speak of him, but for everyone else… With their big fake words and tall tales. Their bloody riches and the absence of any sense of morality woven into the fabric of their souls. It’s an evil bloodline, in all its iterations, and those loyally serving them have done some pretty horrible things. Even if I told you and yer father had forbidden it, you wouldn’t have believed me.”
Nienke narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a baby anymore, Ser Hoof,” she snapped with a pout, using a moniker he hated. “I’m all grown up.”
“Aye, that you are,” Ari agreed with a grimace. “But even so, and just like it was for your father, you’re all that I have.” Nienke puffed out and got up to slap her pants clean with her hands in frustration. Ari waited for her to calm down and then added. “You are not to see the Nattas’ spawn again.”
“What about Bianca?”
Ari crooked his mouth, then grunted. “Her too.”
-
Rhys Vardran
Alchemist’s Trail | the barrel
Part III
-Unforeseen turn of fate-
The immaterial shades turned into a solid basalt floor, a screaming second later. Rhys had felt his skin boil for that brief moment and the cool blackness that followed was comforting as he tumbled inside it. Thinking they still stood in the thick shade casted by the Stonemaze Peaks Mountain Range, Rhys rolled on the cold basalt floor and stopped painfully bend over a knee in order to suck air inside his also hurting, but badly mauled -on top- chest.
“Gaaah!” Rhys exhaled and groaned at the same time, sweaty face and bloodshot eyes snapping right and left in order to discern where the alchemist’s camp had gone…
Rhys, Bekare said in a soothing voice.
…or the moons and the plaguing stars on the sky!
He got up with a grimace and used the scimitar to find his way inside this dark cave. This wasn’t the backup exit point Rhys had memorized before leaving the camp. Nor where the assassin had aimed —just behind the advancing Inquisitors– so as to surprise them.
Fuck, Sudi and Saul just got shafted hard, Rhys thought, realizing that all this missed time was sure to doom his party. You can’t get more fucked than this!
Rhys, let’s get out of here, Bekare suggested in her calm manner.
“Out of where? Is this a cave? How about we start with the simpler facts!” Rhys bellowed irate, afore he could control himself. Then the sword’s tip clanged on a wall and he put a hand on it. Smooth solid rock followed after the deeper cave-like part they had landed into. The floor underneath his feet remained a flatly-cut basalt that made his steps echo inside the seemingly ceiling-less domed area.
Don’t make too-much noise! Bekare hissed inside his head.
“Eh,” Rhys grunted and stumbled forwards, keeping his hand on the wall’s surface as a guidance tool. “Is this the dwarf caves?”
You mean whether they were at some point in the distant past? Bekare asked in a lighter manner.
“No, I mean right now!” Rhys grimaced, hearing his voice echoing inside the darkness.
I don’t know. Maybe? Bekare replied. Why should we even care?
“Stop talking,” Rhys snapped as he’d caught the glimpse of bright light further up ahead. “There!” He pointed. A lightstone? The thermolampe? “What’s this then?”
A corridor leading outside. Bekare murmured.
“A what?” Rhys grunted and hurried near the lit up spot. “Fuck,” he cursed upon reaching the turn leading to an inclined, but straightforward, very narrow corridor with the strongly glowing exit -or entrance at the end of it. “How did you know? You’ve been here afore?”
Of course. We discussed it already! Bekare protested.
“When was that?” Rhys barked, whilst walking fast. “Is this the entrance to the dwarf city? WHAT IS THIS GOD DARN STRONG AS FUCK LIGHT?”
You need to calm down. Remember when we talked about the place I grew up? Bekare said as the hurrying Rhys reached the end of the corridor and then burst out furious.
The bright sunlight hurt his blurry eyes something fierce –Oras Hells! and the basalt floor turned into unstable desert terrain under foot. A proper desert this, devoid of vegetation and reaching as far as the eye could see in all three directions. The massive mountain’s sides on his back to the east. Actually there was something to the northwest, barely visible through the desert heat, the faltering Rhys had missed at first and only spotted after his aching eyes adjusted to the strong sunlight. A series of black spires and other much larger bizarre structures of pyramidical shape, rising out of the desert’s flat terrain like malignant growths. Everything seemingly made out of hard black basalt.
“Damn,” Rhys rustled coming to a stop, his boots sinking a bit in the pebbled golden sand. “The sun is up. How the fuck is the sun up, woman?”
It’s normal, I think? Bekare guessed. All things considered.
What things ye silly lass…? Wait a minute…
Rhys had opened his mouth to admonish her pathetic attempt at dodging, but noticed one good-sized, very-gleaming black rock rolling away from the tip of his boot and stooped lithely in order to scoop it up in his fist.
Is that obsidian? Well, ain’t this a bloody nice find! Rhys pursed his mouth and then pocketed the heavy rock in his satchel. He then stared at the alien topography with increasing despair, until he recoiled sideways -almost going down head first, upon hearing a terrible distant screech rip through the skies above. The edgy assassin twirled spastically, forgetting his mauled chest, the treasure riddled terrain and stared intently at the brightly lit blue dome over his head.
“What was that thing? Oras Hells! What’s going on here, gods darn it!” He hissed and out of the dancing haze came a strange rectangular carriage, shaped like a simple black box covered with mauve sheets, drawn by two giant white draft horses. The driver, a dark-skinned human clad in long white robes, pulled at the reins and stopped the carriage, probably because he’d heard the flying creature initially, but then noticed the snarling comically Rhys appear twenty meters away and the man’s eyes opened up wide in disbelief.
Baleful Nigbau and its obsidian Ziggurats, Bekare whispered sounding more-emotional than awed and a spasm ravaged Rhys’ scarred face, the assassin’s gold smile that had unnerved the driver, widening nervously. Rhys, this is the Desolate Atolls Basin, the ghost in his head murmured. The mountain behind us, Oracle Peak, the edge of this world and the gate to the next.
The shocked Rhys blinked slowly, eyes teary and skin burning from the strong sun and the numb Issir driver let go of the reins, then grabbed the edge of the couch in order to climb down. A voice was heard and the silent man stopped in his tracks next to the shrouded carriage, with his eyes set on the also frozen assassin.
The portal, Rhys hissed, with another violent tick marring his face, mouth slowly closing and the nervous smile disappearing.
Was gone, Bekare admitted. I had to lie to get us out of there.
How? Rhys asked, gulping down and feeling sweat rivulets dripping down his clenched chin.
Raza was a powerful Zilan wizard, Bekare explained. A side door was heard opening at the sides of the large carriage and those draped mauve covers shifted. Magic is heavily inhibited inside the Shadow Realms, but this accursed warlock found a way to pull it off. He had an ungodly amount of time and mayhap a foot already wedged out. That Varg wasn’t dead. I think, he’d brought it in there still breathing from outside to use as a medium or to camouflage his essence. He had to in order to avoid detection.
Great, Rhys thought. He didn’t know you could do that.
Then again who would want to prolong his stay inside hell?
A numb Rhys raised his hand and used a dirty index finger to scratch at his right temple, whilst a wrapped in linen bindings leg appeared out of the carriage’s covers, then another. Both feet touched the ground. Then a cloaked tall female figure, stepped forward, with the sound of metal beads clinging with each stride. She came to a stop next to the human driver and perceived the tensed Rhys in uncomfortable silence.
Don’t speak yet, Bekare stopped Rhys, who had opened his mouth and the assassin grimaced angrily, before complying. Your blood says, this is Ninore, the bold Monireh’s pupil. She’s an Amazon of Gecataten, the Necropolis of Farsouth, on Annas-Kelon River’s west shores. The Amazons are Princess Abisare’s bodyguards.
Rhys hadn’t heard shit and the unnervingly silent, cloaked female Alafern returned his intense stare with dispassionate eyes, behind the thin veil. The desert wind blew sand over their feet and the giant –very muscular- horses snorted, shaking their heads, as the moment dragged.
We must know their intentions first, to not offend them, Bekare explained. We already sort of did marching through sacred ground, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
Rhys wasn’t. The irritated assassin would have preferred to fight that freak than jump blindly and land in the arse end of known universe.
He’d used the term ‘known’ loosely there.
Abisare is good friends with Prince Dirsamis, who rules the Necropolis of Nigbau. Some say Dirsamis was so enamored with little Abisare, he gave her the blood prematurely, Bekare whispered. But this happened a bit before my time and they patched things up since then.
Aha! When was it then? Your time? Rhys asked, seeing Ninore’s eyes following each micro-expression on his sweaty face, as if she was trying to read his thoughts.
She indeed tries, but I can confuse her for a while, Bekare explained. As for my time, it was some millennia into the distant past, just before the rebellious Prince Atraharsis was killed and the river isle city of Kerbe was left to rot without its surviving inhabitants, per the Council’s decision.
Rhys had no idea, what she was talking about. While important to Bekare, the additional memories didn’t really help him figure out a way to break their current stalemate.
Context matters, you idiot! Rhys cursed himself.
I know Raza, because I was the first Alafern to encounter him, Bekare elucidated further. That incident made young Bekare famous enough to elevate her status with Lord Serapis and Prince Atraharsis, but it also forever banished the curious girl from her homeland, she added bitterly.
Rhys thought her homeland sucked on a donkey’s wrinkled arse –as far as he could see to give her the benefit of doubt- but decided not to make a big fuzz about spilled milk and hurt her feelings.
Can we get back to Jelin? Rhys asked and took a step forward.
Do you remember still, where you wanted to come out? Bekare asked and Rhys nodded that he did because he was a darn professional, which made Ninore raise her thick –for a woman- brows tauntingly. Stay silent and diplomatic, Bekare advised quickly, and Rhys showed the heavy-browed Ninore his empty hands.
Then asked brusquely.
“Is the Princess here?” Like he knew what the hells he was talking about.
A Rhys Vardran specialty.
The carriage’s side door cracked open again and another shrouded and wrapped alike a mummy female Alafern stepped outside. She walked to the right side of Ninore, leaving a two-meter gap between them.
Is that Abisare? Rhys queried, looking at the equally imposing female’s face through the dark veil. There’s a fine undead mare fer sure!
That old hag is Monireh, Bekare gasped either impressed or jealous. The Princess is here!
Rhys grimaced and noticed a spiked metal ball dropping on the ground next to Monireh’s right leg, tied with a steel chain. A nasty flail. Not that there was a nice variant. Ayup. Rhys went to scratch his nape and casually retrieved two small throwing blades fastened there.
Just in case.
“I’ll speak with him,” a voice was heard from inside the carriage and an equally wrapped protectively small-bodied female came out of the carriage to stand in the gap left between the two Amazons and the silent driver.
As a matter of fact, no one had uttered a single word to them, other than the girl.
Is that her?
Aye, Bekare whispered.
“I salute, Princess Abisare!” Rhys boomed and bowed sharply, taking the opportunity to flick the blades under the edge of his torn sleeve at the wrist. “And ask permission to depart her tall presence… respectfully.”
Rhys! Not funny!
“Where will you go, human?” The child-looking Princess queried in a deep sensual voice and in well-versed Common, other than butchering the ‘human’ word that is, perhaps on purpose.
Or as a condescendingly delivered threat.
Little bitch, Rhys’ stare told her. Look, the sun is up.
I rule yer fucking world!
Rhys! Bekare moaned a tad pretentiously. That was so mean!
So what? Rhys retorted.
She is much too ancient to call her little! Bekare chuckled, confirming the assassin’s suspicions that the ghost had a mean streak in her.
“I studied the human tongue,” Abisare added seeing Rhys unresponsive. “Am I being understood?”
Sure ye are, but given enough time, Rhys thought unimpressed, even the stupider kid can learn a couple of words.
“I was fixing of going back where I came from,” Rhys grunted and flashed her a pair of twin golden fangs marred by cracked lips and a bit of caked blood, afore he added to dispel any misunderstandings. “Jelin.”
“Ah,” Abisare said, her small girly mouth splitting in a naughty manner, upper lip raising to reveal a set of more elegant and thinner Alafern fangs of her own. “You came through the Shadow Realm gate.” Rhys nodded and the undead creature asked right away, in a much more sober manner. “How did you find the gate, human?”
Bekare showed me, the ghost whispered.
“Name’s Rhys, Princess,” the Assassin countered with a confident leer that caught the group of Alafern and their ‘mute’ human companion unawares. “Bekare showed me the way.”
He had used the Alafern’s knowledge already with Luikens and while Rhys didn’t always understand what Bekare was telling him, the girl was usually right.
Monireh glanced in Abisare’s direction, but the veiled Princess —a term used by the Alafern ruling ‘families’ for their four Doyen— showed remarkable restraint or she just doesn’t know who Bekare is.
She does, use Lord Serapis’ name.
Who’s he then? Rhys asked.
He controls the League of Forsaken Killers, Bekare replied.
Lar O’ Talas Dagnir has one as well? Rhys grimaced under the Vampirs silent scrutiny.
You’re not one of a kind, Rhys! Serapis is my mentor. We were exiled together!
Ye want a price for that? Rhys retorted. Because you’ll get nothing!
“Is the name Lord Serapis more familiar?” Rhys asked and while the small in body and less so in years Princess remained inhumanly reserved, Ninore flinched and then glanced towards Monireh, who had a severe scowl on her veiled face, before turning to the Princess.
“Mournful Elegance, could it be?” Ninore whispered and Monireh hissed to stop her from talking.
“I haven’t heard news of Serapis,” Abisare intervened in a stoical manner. “In eight centuries. Young Bekare, I vaguely remember, for she is… missing for far longer than that,” the Alafern paused, and Rhys felt a sweat rivulet trickling down his forehead, before adding. “So long ago as a matter of fact, your human perception can’t really comprehend it.”
“I’ve seen them both,” Rhys grunted, with Bekare screaming in his head.
No Rhys. Don’t add extra stuff, the blood is talking to them!
Tell the ruffian to shut up then! Rhys growled inwardly.
“I’m not sure,” Monireh hissed and glanced at the Alafern Princess. “Whether he’s truthful or not. Perhaps, we open the veins… taste the blood directly from the source, your Grace?”
Rhys grimaced and glanced at the aloof human listening to their exchange with complete apathy. What the fuck is wrong with you, my dude? He wondered. Rip the veils away, they can’t stand the sunlight!
Are you a plinth-headed doofus or what? Bekare hissed. He’s a blood-fused familiar!
Stolen novel; please report.
Shut yer hole Beka! You’re standing on thin ground girl!
“Listen here, ladies,” Rhys grunted, returning his attention to the unnervingly still, fully-covered like mummies females, “I’m a Shadow Walker. Serapis asked me to investigate the whereabouts of Rosa…” Raza Sapthan, a still insulted Bekare corrected him. “Raza Sapthan… caftan, whatchamacallit and I did. Now, I’d like to return home, as I’ve plenty of unfinished business and I’m sure ye do as well!”
“What? Lies! He came here to spy on your visit!” Monireh hissed, but Abisare shushed her with a gesture and took a step forward. A small step, and Rhys noticed the princess wore a pair of soft leather shoes with no heel.
“While the human you mentioned is long dead,” Abisare said. “Your knowledge of matters far beyond your lifespan is extremely intriguing, Rhys.”
Rhys pursed his mouth, then grinned to showcase his expensive denture. “Raza is a Zilan witch last time I checked, disturbing as all fucks, and he ain’t dead, but hiding in the Shadow Realms burrowed inside a still-breathing Varg. You might want to check yer sources, Princess.”
“This is impossible,” Monireh hissed. “A fanciful tale weaved by this human—”
“Monireh,” Abisare stopped her, but Ninore voiced her own disbelief as well.
“Your Mournful Elegance. A soul without a body withers away or moves on. The Aken Zargatoh showed us the trespasser’s body. It was real. It was dead and it’s vile blood silent,” Ninore noted and Abisare raised her small arm to silence both her bodyguards, seemingly irritated by their back and forth.
“You are both missing the point,” the Princess scolded them, sounding preternaturally calm. “How does Rhys know? A tale it may be is, but its components are too rare, too remote, for a human to find and fashion into something… anything coherent and this is coherent. For an already tethered soul can withstand death if it left something of his behind,” the princess stopped without further elaborating on the matter. Then Abisare searched in silence into the assassin’s eyes. Her scrutiny lasted a long moment and it made Rhys very uncomfortable as the interest in the Princess eyes came seeped in a fiercely erogenous flavor.
Covetous little bitch! Bekare was heard cursing in his head.
“Where is Serapis?” Abisare asked and Rhys shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.”
“Princess,” Monireh protested. “He may be trained to hide the answers.”
“The blood is not lying. He doesn’t know,” Abisare argued. “Can you bring a message to him?” She asked.
“It might take a while to locate him, Princess,” Rhys replied. “Many years even, which I don’t have to spare, nor I’m inclined to waste.”
“I have years to spare, and time to waste,” Abisare insisted in her serene voice. “I trust you shall find Serapis, and deliver my reply.”
“What is it?” Rhys asked crooking his mouth.
“Tell him, the Princess shall listen to his case. He was right,” Abisare replied. “But the others would need proof. You are free to go, Rhys.”
“Alright. Proof of what though?” Rhys queried unsure. “You’re not setting me up, eh?”
“Not this time, but I won’t say more.”
Proof of rebel Prince Atraharsis demise. Alafern politics take a lot of time to resolve, Bekare whispered. It’s a long story, but she’s telling the truth.
Rhys nodded. “Good,” he murmured and the Alafern females exchanged a series of confused stares at the change in his demeanor. “Jovial primordial miladies,” the assassin said once again finding his charming deep voice and confident manner. “It’s been far from a pleasure, but it went way better than I expected!”
Silent Dark desires! Stop talking and just get us out of here, Rhys! Bekare screeched fearing he’ll blow up all their hard-earned progress and the sweaty under the strong sun Rhys, started slowly walking back towards the ancient cave temple they had come out from.
While the assassin kept a watchful eye for the Alafern in case they changed their minds and came after him, the undead creatures didn’t.
-
Wim Luikens
There is no way this would work, Wim thought after that aggressive bastard Sudi, the insane assassin and the grumbling Nord Saul disappeared in the darkness hugging their campsite. It is a simple matter of numbers and the absence of a definitive advantage in firepower.
Sudi’s group just didn’t possess any.
“This won't work,” Wim said to the anxious Grin. The last of Sudi's associates had been left behind to guard Luikens, and was now keeping an eye on the darkness for any unusual sounds.
“Better stop talking, Mister Luikens, and don't even think about fleeing,” Grin shot back, moving to grab a spear from the horses. He then dragged it over to a boulder that stood upright, facing north.
“Fear grabs us and doesn’t let go,” Wim pressed on, glancing at the barrel left beside the two unused saddles and bags. It contained various tools, purses and innocent-looking ampules. “Numbers are important, and you know it. They will fail, and soon the inquisitors will come looking for me—”
“That's enough. Quit talking,” Grin growled from his position, shooting a glare in Wim's direction. Wim let out a sigh but persisted.
“We both know Sudi bit more than he can chew. As for Saul? He’s a mercenary. The Nord will run. You know that,” Wim insisted.
“You know shit. I’ve seen the chief fight many a times,” Grin retorted and clenched his jaw nervously. “Sudi won’t give up unless he’s dead and as for Mister Rhys… you well know he’s a dangerous son of a bitch and then some. I say, they have a fucking chance.”
“No, they don’t,” Wim reasoned and looked inside the barrel for anything useful that wouldn’t risk having him killed as well. Always a risk the cure can be more lethal than the disease. “They’ll come here, Mister Grin. Aye, they will. And we’ll be butchered like cattle before the sun is up, or more like nailed on those boulders!”
I’ve got a lot of vitriol. And the better corrosive variant at that, but it seems not too useful right now. Still, you never know. If only Sudi didn’t take the explosive powder. Eh, Wim bit the inside of his lip. He’d quickly perused the contents of his barrel and then stared at the thermolampe thoughtfully.
Hmm.
“So be it,” Grin argued, but Wim could now hear the fear in his voice. “They’ll be tired and injured, Luthos be willing. Mayhap, I surprise them in the dark.”
“You can’t and they won’t retreat. They want what I know, but it is useless to you,” Wim insisted. “Don’t die for nothing. Listen, we can slip away still. I know where the city’s entrance is. Once inside the dwarf tunnels, we can wait the night out. Take our chances in the morning.”
“We are not hiding in no darn tunnel,” Grin retorted. “Step away from the horses, Mister Luikens!”
“Hey, at least give me a weapon,” Wim griped and showed him his empty hands, after he pocketed the ampule with the acid that is. “I want to protect myself.”
Grin grimaced, secured the straps of a shield on his left arm and then turned to reply, but was stopped by a garish voice that ripped through the dark wilderness all around them.
“WIM LUIKENS!”
Wim pursed his mouth and exchanged a glance with Hoof, who had stood up holding his swollen head.
“Don’t say a word,” Grin whispered.
“A weapon,” Wim insisted, speaking as low as he had, although it was pointless. The Inquisitors would soon fall upon their campsite following the path between the boulders whether they spotted them or not. The light of their torches could already be seen approaching.
“WIM LUIKENS!” That rough voice roared again. “COME FORTH!”
Grin pointed at the saddlebags and the alchemist stopped over the one belonging to Rhys. He picked a shortsword with a straight blade and sculpted grip, whilst Grin repositioned behind one large standing boulder, ten meters from their horses.
“SHOW YOURSELF!”
Wim grimaced seeing the first Inquisitor appear, well-illuminated by a lit torch and walked near the tensed Grin, just as the governor’s minion replied.
“Luikens is not here,” Grin yelled and the two Inquisitors stopped, about three meters apart from each other. The second one dropped the torch to the side and raised a loaded crossbow. “He slipped away,” Grin continued. “Into the dwarf city.”
“The dwarf city,” the first inquisitor rustled, with a side glance to his colleague. “Praise Uher, why should we believe you?”
“Don’t care whether ye do,” Grin retorted. “Tell yer friend to lower that bow.”
“I’m brother, Bas Reims,” the Inquisitor barked. “This is brother Egger. Do you fear the gods, son? Uher is watching.”
“I ain’t yer son,” Grin spat and signed for Wim to stay hidden. “But the men you killed were my friends.”
“A man who defends a known apostate,” Reims retorted austerely. “…is a vile apostate unto himself! Repent! Drop your sword and ask for forgiveness! The god stands merciful.”
Untrue, Wim thought looking at Grin’s tensed back behind his thick glasses.
Fierce determination crept up on his damp face and Wim, his jaw still swollen from Sudi’s punch, advanced alike a seasoned killer and thrust the sharp blade directly at Grin’s armor bindings. Expecting more resistance, Wim was rather taken aback when the shortsword sank in with a dull thud, piercing through Grin’s ribs, much to the latter's misfortune. He’d always pictured murdering to be much more difficult.
“Ergh,” the stunned Grin gasped, a violent shudder coursing through him as he staggered sideways. He let his shield fall to the ground and took a few unsteady steps into the open before dramatically collapsing onto his back.
No screams or groans. He just lay there shuddering and making strange gurgling sounds.
Most peculiar.
In the dramatic silence that followed, the intrigued Wim stood frowned, genuinely surprised he’d managed such a successful blow. Coming about, he cast a glance sideways towards a nearby rock where Hoof was hiding. The boy stared at him in complete shock, more-scared than impressed for some reason, and the alchemist had to wave his arm to reassure the youngster everything was fine.
Younglings are easily spooked.
“Brother Reims,” Wim said next in a dispassionate voice and walked out from behind the boulder. He took care to avoid the bleeding out with irregular spasms Grin just in case the dying man had a final swing of the sword in him and then raised both his arms in a peaceful gesture. “Take me to Vellers. I shall talk to the 2nd Brother,” he told the scowling Inquisitor.
“Vellers is dead,” Reims grunted. “Sande De Hove leads the brotherhood.”
A setback then.
Hmm.
Wim grimaced, his glasses fogging up. The alchemist removed them and used his coat’s sleeve to clean the surface, afore he put them back, pushing them up the bridge on his nose with an index finger.
Reims waved his sword threateningly. “Approach. Keep those hands where I can see them.”
“I’m unarmed, Brother Reims,” Wim assured him. “Totally harmless. A man of letters.”
Brother Egger who stood a couple of meters back scoffed in disbelief at Wim’s reply, while his colleague almost lost his temper completely.
“Devil’s spawn! That’s what this poor fool thought!” Reims retorted angrily and pointed at the dying Grin.
Irrelevant.
“Fellow brothers of the Church,” Wim Luikens started more cautiously this time and took a couple of steps forward. “We are in the middle of nowhere. For this we can all agree, yes? Isn’t it obvious that the tale of this remote encounter we can fashion ourselves?”
“Thou two-faced snake! Uher shall burn your apostate’s forked tongue!” The visibly frustrated Reims barked. Goodness me! For what, you fanatic? Wim wondered. “Where is Benedict Stam and Luna Rosman, accursed faithless dog?”
“You are frustrated. I can understand it. De Hove is a rather difficult man to have as a boss and I had my share of those. The man stand murderous in his ways! Pray tell me. Does he run the Archive also?” Wim asked in a calmer, openly friendly manner, whilst dodging the difficult question.
“Sebastos does. The boy lucked in the Black Duke’s favor,” Reims replied curtly. “Studies your work and experiments. He has the brains for it.”
“A surprise you’ll trust him with the task. Probably why you found yourselves in your current bind,” Wim reasoned. “Am I right?”
“No you are not! Sebastos found a way to make holy light,” Reims rustled and signed for him to approach more. Wim did, but stopped a meter from the torch Reims had dropped in order to arm himself with a dagger, when Grin had faltered out of his cover.
Hah.
Found the holy light he says. The boy doesn’t know where his cock is!
Do you take me for an idiot?
“This was a pathetic attempt to fool me, Brother Reims. Let us be truthful here since we are both men of god.” In the broader of terms. “The boy is still a zealot, I’ll give you that, but not that smart and a pair of tits away from blowing you all up, for goodness sake!” Wim scoffed and then pursed his mouth annoyed.
Bas Reims smirked. “Ha! Sebastos is a saint, bathed in Uher’s light. It took him just two weeks to crack the formula and no one died in the attempt. You are not that special. Now, where is your abominable accomplice, Benedict Stam and that renegade harlot, Luna Rosman?”
Hmm. If they indeed have the formula for the liquid nitro, then they need Ben for the Deliverer. Wim thought, not bothering with the inquisitor’s outburst. Both he and Luna thought Wim lacked in people’s skills. Trivial but whatever. So Stam had organized and controlled the engineering teams as he could get the most out of a group. The majority of the engineers of course had been killed during the battle for the capital and its bridge.
“They were killed with the others. Blown to smithereens. Both of them. A tragedy for the academic world,” Wim replied, giving it a bit of flavor and pursing his mouth sadly. “But fear not, for I can help you with the designs too.”
The alchemist delivered the latter with a smile to further reassure the Inquisitors on his good intentions and willingness to cooperate.
“He’s lying,” Hoof was heard and Luikens recoiled, much annoyed and equally surprised. He turned his head and glared at the boy, who stepped out into the open again. “Mister Wim, is a bad man.”
“Shut up, you uneducated fool! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wim admonished the youngster, feeling a little hurt at the boy’s blatant betrayal, after all Wim had done for him.
Alas, this realm is heading for Oras gutter.
“Stam went to the far North,” Hoof hissed, returning his disappointed stare angry.
What is the matter with you? Why would you do this? Luikens wondered and breathed out in order to calm down. It was very frustrating. “Have you lost your darn mind? I’m your best hope of walking away, my lad,” he asked the teenager genuinely saddened.
“Where in the North, boy?” Reims asked with a gesture for Egger to go near Hoof and search him for weapons.
“Hoof,” Wim warned, still trying to make him see reason. “A man without secrets stands as useless as roadkill.”
Say no more, you young fool!
“That’s enough, Luikens,” Reims grunted. “Speak up, boy!”
“Stam went to Fetya,” Hoof blurted out and backed away from the much taller Egger, who walked up to him with large strides. “To the Crull lady.”
Ah. You opened the door to violence, Wim shook his head disappointed. Then raised a hand to fix his oily hair, and sneaked the other in his robes pocket to find the ampule.
It’s on you, boy.
“Wim Luikens,” Bas Reims declared soberly and Wim started retreating towards the horses. “Achmagister Kelholt, asked Brother Reynard to make certain you return to Midlanor in one piece and breathing. His holiness is old in years and feeble of mind. Uher shall forgive him.”
Wim glanced behind him, but he was still a couple of meters from their bags and the horses. Under the pale moonlight not much could be seen from where Bas stood confidently, but the alchemist needed a distraction.
“Brother De Hove fortunately wasn’t of the same opinion and sent young Reynard on another mission, more suited to his skills,” Reims continued. “He then ordered all other Inquisitors to make sure you pay for your vile behavior in the worst possible manner. The Church doesn’t need you anymore, Luikens. Consider yourself excommunicated,” he added and then started moving towards him with large strides.
Wim pursed his mouth frustrated. “I found the Alchemist’s Stone,” he hissed and Reims halted unsure. “The throne will need gold to rebuild after the war is over,” Wim continued and the scowling Inquisitor licked his lips, considering his words.
“In the process, I learned a couple of more things and lucked into certain revelations,” Wim Luikens said and Reims grimaced. “Ask the boy, whether I’m telling the truth and Clodius, the tavern owner.”
“Bas?” Egger asked holding Hoof by the collar.
“Where is it? Flucht’s Stone?” Reims asked and raised his large sword to point it at Wim’s chest.
“I have it right here,” Luikens replied and Hoof screamed in panic.
“Rhys has it! He’s lying!”
“Who is Rhys?” Reims grunted and Hoof fought against Egger to answer him.
“The man with the golden teeth! He came after you!”
Reims narrowed his eyes and then glanced at Wout Egger soberly.
“We saw such a man inside the tavern,” he told his colleague.
“We did. But the kid is lying this time, Bas,” Egger replied. “That freak wasn’t there. Just the other two.”
Interesting, Wim thought and got the glass ampule out of his pocket, while Reims glared at the stunned Hoof angrily.
“A deceiver deserves no mercy,” Reims decided soberly. “Slay the kid, Wout.”
“Bas,” Egger protested.
“You have your order, brother!” Reims boomed and a voice interrupted him coming from somewhere to their north.
“Youth deserves twice the mercy,” the voice declared coming closer and now Wim could hear a horse’s hooves on the ground. “More teaching, than punishment.”
A large stallion came out of the darkness, and its rider brought it to a stop pulling at the reins, whilst standing tall on the saddle. An Issir wearing an open knight’s helmet, clad in a long but worn-out monk’s cloak over heavy armour. Wim thought the religious markings on the metal plate reminded him of the Order of the Golden Spears.
“You shall not harm the boy,” the stranger told the two tensed at his appearance Inquisitors. “The punishment must fit the crime the scriptures say, else Uher’s Light shall be cast upon all who deliver harm in his name. Let him go.”
“This isn’t your business, Ser,” Reims grunted, turning to face the stranger.
“I agree. This is the Devil’s business,” the man replied in a levelheaded manner.
“I have orders from the leader of the Inquisitors to deal with Luikens and his conspirators. The boy knows too-much,” Reims expounded, grimacing in frustration.
“What could a boy know?”
“He’s trying to cover up the Church’s involvement,” Wim said and the stranger looked his way attentively. “I was acting under orders, good knight. He who gives the order stands equally guilty of the sin!” Reims turned his head to glare at the leering alchemist furious.
“You rotten bastard. Do you really think you’ll get away? Shut your vile mouth!” Reims hissed, but Wim shrugged his shoulders and the knight dismounted five meters behind him.
“You are out of line, brothers in god,” the knight told them warningly. “Thine current path is an unholy path, Uher frowns upon. I have seen it manifest in good men afore. Stand down and ye shall be spared. Stand down and ye shall be forgiven.”
“Devil’s business,” Reims murmured under his breath and glanced at the conflicted Egger, who let go of Hoof’s collar sending the boy on the ground. Then the Inquisitor reached for his sword.
The stranger did the same unsheathing a fine longsword and relaxed in an open stance, his cloak billowing in the chilly evening’s breeze. Wout gulped down and reached for a shortsword with his left hand under the Issir knight’s compassionate stare.
Without another word Reims moved and it signaled for his colleague to move as well. They intended to attack the Good Samaritan from both sides and cut him down quickly, but Wim took a step forward after Reims whilst calling out the senior Inquisitor’s name and spoiled their plan.
The blameless shall be given their well-deserved chance to save their life! Wim uttered a chant of his own making, elated at the afforded opportunity.
“Here it is, Brother Reims!” Wim said and the advancing on the knight Bas paused in alarm. He twisted around and swung with his sword at Wim, but the alchemist had stopped out of reach of the blade.
The sword whooshed well-short of Luikens and the bespectacled man’s arm came down right after. The glass ampule traversed the short distance almost unseen and shattered in a thousand tiny pieces on the collar of Reims’ armour, splashing its contents all over the Inquisitor’s face.
“ARGGH!” Bas growled, suddenly totally blinded and probably feeling his nose, eyes and mouth, along with most of the skin on his face and neck start boiling. The Inquisitor faltered trying to wipe the caustic liquid from his face, but large melted pieces of skin came away instead, leaving a gory mess behind.
Wim rushed towards the bags while the Knight clashed with Egger several meters away and looked for another weapon to use. Reims gurgling moans of hellish agony could be heard for several moments, while more pieces of boiled and all but dissolved skin kept dropping as the inquisitor collapsed on the ground shuddering violently.
“Stop!” Hoof yelled and rushed him with a small hammer, fittingly used to nail horseshoes. The boy swung and hit Luikens’ out-stretched forearm, but the alchemist had grabbed the heavy thermolampe with the other and nailed Hoof right above the ear with his own wild swing.
The boy faltered and went down with a twirl, leaving the grimacing in pain Wim standing amazed at how he’d yet again managed to defeat another opponent so easy.
Wim reached and took the small hammer from the moaning Hoof’s hands, thought about whacking the boy once more on the head with it, but Egger went down to the knight, halting him. The alchemist had caught the end of their duel out of the corner of his left eye and stood up quickly, keeping the hammer near his right leg.
“Where is the boy?” The heavy-breathing knight asked from about ten meters away and Wim raised his throbbing left arm reassuringly.
“He’s fine. Took a fall.”
“What happened to Reims?” The knight asked as Wim approached, fixing the glasses on his face with one hand, hiding the hammer with the other.
“I tried to stop him from attacking you, good Ser,” Wim said with almost-candid despondency. “Used whatever I had available unfortunately. A small dose of thrice-fortified, highly corrosive oil of vitriol.”
“Uher’s mercy. You are Wim Luikens,” the man said with a tensed glance at the gruesome sight of Reims ruined face. The front half of his skull had caved in, while flesh and blood could still be heard boiling with foul vapors raising from the atrocious wound. “The man Kelholt kept in the tower.”
“Against my will, Ser.”
The Knight pursed his mouth and glanced at the cut down Egger. “We must pray for these men’s souls.”
“We should,” Wim agreed nervously, fearing Hoof might wake up and start accusing him of murder or worse again.
“One of yours survived. I don’t know whether he’ll make it or not,” the man continued with another stare at Bas Reims gory face.
“Thank you,” Wim said.
“You need to atone for your sins, Mister Luikens,” the Knight told him sternly.
“I was going to turn myself in,” Wim assured him, but before he could say something more believable, the tall Issir noticed Grin laying in a pool of his own blood.
“Was it them also?” The knight asked and Wim nodded.
“Grin is long dead now unfortunately. A brave soul that tried to protect me,” the alchemist said. “Do you have a name, my good Ser?”
“Call me Shane,” the Issir replied. “We’ll check on him and the boy. Then we’ll head back to help the man I left behind. He was badly wounded, but perhaps the gods have seen enough death for one night.”
With that Shane walked near the fallen Grin, sheathed his longsword and lowered on a knee beside him. Wim glanced towards their horses to see whether Hoof was still unconscious, and seeing that the boy was still next to their bags, he approached the kneeling Shane.
“He’s still conscious. Barely. Poor soul,” the knight murmured and Wim frowned, not liking the development. “He lost too-much blood. Hey, can you hear me?” Shane asked the pale Grin, lightly tapping at his face with a hand and searching for the wound with the other.
“Ergh…” Grin whispered and Wim grimaced now worried.
This could turn awkward fast.
“Where is the wound?” Shane queried and Grin’s blurry, bloodshot eyes moved enough to spot the sullen Luikens standing over the knight. A spasm marred the gravely injured man’s pale face.
“He…Ehr…lookout…” Grin gasped struggling to get the words out and Wim sighed, then glared at the dying Grin accusingly for forcing him to act yet again. The alchemist raised the concealed hammer high, and then downed it with all his might on Shane’s helm. A loud clang was heard and it reverberated in the night reaching as far as the base of the mountains, whilst fat sparks erupted from the now dented helm and Shane rolled to the ground with a groan.
“Ah, damn it,” Wim cursed and stood over the ogling Grin with the hammer. Once more must surely do it, he told himself downing the tool and hitting Grin right between the eyes, the hammer’s flat side sinking into the cracked skull. Blood, pieces of bone and brains splattered Wim’s clothes as he recoiled to escape the gory spray.
“Look, what you forced me to do,” the angry alchemist accused the now fully-dead Grin and walked near the still stirring knight with the bloody hammer. He kicked Shane on the back to send him down and then stooped over the fallen knight determined to finish the nasty job.
Had Grin died earlier, Shane could have lived. Sure, Hoof had to perish as well in order for the story to hold, but the boy was already too-far gone and had turned on Luikens. Wim had done all he could to help Hoof.
The boy’s trail ended here, whilst Luikens’ still had ways to go and things to do.
Rightfully!
“I’m sorry, it has come to this. You are a good man,” Wim told the trying to stand knight raising the bloody hammer again and caught out of the corner of his eye something strange.
Yet not completely unfamiliar.
The shades near their horses sort of breathed, then split alike a parting curtain revealing the mouth of a cave or a dark entrance behind and out of it, a manic-looking disheveled Rhys appeared, bleeding from what looked like a nasty bite to his left thigh. The crazy-looking assassin halted momentarily, ogling eyes skimming over the dead bodies sprawled all over their camp, and stopped on the numb Wim Luikens standing over the stirring knight with the raised hammer.
Without a second thought, Rhys reached in a half-torn satchel he carried —too-fast for the dazed at his sudden appearance Luikens to even realize— got something out and then hurled it snapping his arm once at the frozen alchemist.
Wim instinctively made to move out of the way, sly-ducking forward to ruin the assassin’s shot, but that vile bastard had timed his reaction perfectly and Luikens’ lowering head lined up to get struck right at the lower jaw by something extremely rough and very solid.
It looked like a very-black metallic rock with a striking silver-sheen on it. Rare silver-rich obsidian? The stunned Alchemist wondered, actually feeling the lower-part of his jaw breaking apart in real time and then completely detach from his mauled face in an explosion of blood.
Ugh.
Unforeseen turn of fate, a baffled Wim mused, afore he blacked out unable to withstand the horrid agony.