“Montby told you about my experience, and showed you pictures of the bodies stacking up. The evidence is irrefutable.”
“No.” Meth looked right back at Cirgal without flinching. He recognized the posture, and knew the rogue was attempting to subtly intimidate him. A few months ago he might have let the older man get away with it. But he was a wizard now, a fledgling one to be honest, but it was still further than most men got. He’d cut off his own index finger and watched it regrow. He’d been to the great desert to the south, seen the fabled skeleton warriors, and brought back an inexplicable girl. He was no longer just an untested young man, easily pushed around.
“You dispute the conclusion?” Cirgal backed away, immediately seeing the antagonism his proximity was generating. He shifted his weight to hide the hilt of his rapier, trying to appear less threatening without any obvious movements.
“I dispute the assumptions. I’ve seen what may be evidence. I trust neither you nor Montby. It could all be fake. I do trust Vetch, and she’s sure the Houndmaster is dead.”
“That simplifies things. Let’s forget about the Houndmaster then. Let’s make a deal instead. Montby wants both you and Vetch out of the city. I want the same, because going along with Montby’s orders gives me a chance to get what I want.” Cirgal decided to play a hunch, and reveal more than his employer would have liked.
“Montby doesn’t want the elf and birdman nosing around and asking questions. The same pair that Vetch has become so friendly with. He could easily just have them killed, but for his own reasons he eschews that option. He wants me to spin some yarn that will get them behind an expedition to the City of Light. Once there, we’re to steal an artifact from the catmen’s primary museum. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, because it gives me a chance to steal something else that I need.
“I know you and Eltore are planning to betray Montby and take over his organization. I could turn you in right now, and watch you die. Or… we could work together. What is it that Meth wants? What makes it worth your while to work with me instead of against me, to help me get everyone out of the city without arousing too many suspicions?”
Cirgal’s sudden reversal chilled Meth far more than brandishing the rapier ever could. The man just admitted that he was willing to condone treachery, even abet it. He’d just placed himself under the same threats as he hurled, and he didn’t seem bothered at all. Which meant either he was too stupid to realize the leverage that could be held over him, or he honestly didn’t fear Montby’s wrath.
Eltore, Montby, Cirgal, and possibly even an indestructible creature from legend. These were the characters Meth had become entangled with in such a short span of time. He could either remain passive, and let them move him around at will until he became expendable, or he could take an active role. His only chance was to choose the latter, to embrace the machinations swirling about and make them his own, to play them more skillfully than any of the others, and stay one step ahead.
Binding himself to Cirgal, at least until he could figure out this man’s place in the scheme of things, would be a start. “First I’ll need my own spell book, so I can continue studying without Eltore. You understand that those things are magic, not just any collection of pages will work, right?”
Cirgal smiled mysteriously. “I’m not a caster, but I bet I know far more about magic than anyone you’ve ever met. It’ll be a while before you have anything you can teach me on that subject.”
“Okay then. I’ll also need help procuring a familiar, to increase the amount of energy I can channel. Most mages use an animal, but I saw a technique in one of Eltore’s books that I would like to try instead. It’s unorthodox, and more than a little morbid. I’ll need an assistant who isn’t at all squeamish.”
Cirgal cocked an eyebrow. “If it’s the old floating skull trick, consider it done.” He saw from the lad’s brief flicker of astonishment that he’d guessed correctly. Now was the time to cement the deal, to bring the younger man past the point of backing out. Now was the time to make him think he’d contributed already, that he was integral to the scheme no matter what he did.
“But first, I’d like your advice. The girl will follow you willingly, I believe. The birdman is looking for Wardens, whatever those are. I’ll tell him they’re known to visit the City of Light. But what do I tell the elf boy? He’s come to the conclusion, correctly, that his teacher is here. His whole reason for existence at this point is to rescue the man. It won’t be easy to convince him to turn around and head in the opposite direction, after coming this far.”
The two men sat in silence for a long minute while Meth considered. “The elf isn’t anything special, is he? Not a great wizard or warrior?” When Cirgal shook his head, Meth continued. “And where is his teacher? Or where does he think the man is, at least?”
“It seems pretty obvious Montby has him. Why else even care?”
Meth thought that Cirgal knew the answer for certain, and wasn’t just deducing it logically, but he would leave that bit of trivia for another time. “The answer’s obvious. Make a deal with him, like you are with me. Promise him that if he helps you steal whatever you need in the City of Light, you’ll help him free his teacher. Tell him you need an elf to vouch for you to the catmen or something.”
“That could work.” Cirgal shifted his weight again, pretending to be deep in thought. In reality, the younger man had come up with the exact same solution he’d already implemented. Mathus should be explaining things to the half elf right about now in fact.
Mira heard the footsteps at about the same time she smelled the perfume. An instant later, she could smell the body odor masked by those over-handed chemicals, and she could hear far more than just steps. Weight, speed, distance over, all pieces of a pattern unique to each individual.
She knew it was only Alyse, one of her coworkers, but an animalistic instinct screamed danger. This animal had been silent while Mathus beat her, slumbering peacefully through the harmless blows. But it was awake and screaming now, sensing something was out of place. Was Alyse like her? Impossible! Mira would have known if anyone else were other than he or she seemed. She’d seen through Cirgal in an instant, after all. And yet, this instinct had never been wrong before. Those footsteps meant danger.
Mira reached for the single book in her room, a guide to the most common religious customs, and flipped it open. If necessary, it would take only a second to reach through the illusory pages to the vials of blood hidden inside. Whatever the nature of this threat, she was prepared. She had something that would give her the edge she needed.
Alyse’s face appeared in the doorless entryway, harsher than Mira had ever seen it before, and she instantly knew that the other woman had seen through her. Somehow, Alyse knew what she was.
“Tell me about Cirgal. About his character.”
That caught her by surprise. Not that someone was asking about Cirgal. She hadn’t really expected the interrogation to end so easily, not even when the demon hybrid decided to reveal himself. But to ask about his character, rather than looking for objective information? That wasn’t the style of Montby, or anyone working under his command.
“I don’t serve Montby, never had,” Alyse said while Mira hesitated. “And I’m not reading your mind either. You never drop your guard, and my strength lies elsewhere. Evocation, you usually call the field.” Her clenched hands began to glow as she spoke, sending waves of heat pulsing through the room. There was no doubt that she could ignite the entire structure in an instant if she chose.
“A sorceress? Here? Why reveal yourself to me then?”
“We’re both masquerading here, successfully so far. Both for our own reasons. But it’s a dangerous game we play. I don’t need to tell you how ruthless Montby is, and how quickly he’ll eradicate us if we slip up. I have allies, but none that could get to me in time. You have Cirgal, wrapped around your finger I imagine, but no assassin is a match for Montby’s forces. I’ve contemplated approaching you for a long time.
“This recent development has decided it for me. Cirgal is being sent out of the city to guard someone. I want to know what will happen if he gets a better offer. Will he stand aside and let the boy die, or does he have any set of principles he can be counted on not to break?”
Mira laughed, partly at the other’s mistakes, but mostly to draw attention away from her hand while she palmed her chosen vial. It was the blood of a Null Generator, painfully pricy to acquire, but it was the one thing that would save her now if the sorceress became hostile. And hostility was a definite possibility, because she was about to hear something she wouldn’t like.
“You’re wrong. I have no leverage on Cirgal. If anything, he has it on me. He saw what I was long before he was ever spotted here. You suspect you know my true nature. He knew it, and he was prepared to openly trade the things I needed most. In exchange, I give him information. He can replace me easily, but I can’t say the same about him.
“And I can’t give you anything reassuring about him either. He’s obsessed with power, but only in a very specific way. All he cares about is finding a way to kill the True Demon Gonzogal. If Montby gives him the best shot at finding it, he’ll follow orders. If better odds turn up elsewhere, his allegiance will shift like the wind. So you see, you’ve come here and revealed yourself for nothing.”
Those hands still glowed, but Mira was far faster than this woman. And she was strong, strong enough to survive the initial blast, even if the entire room was turned to ash and charred splinters. She tensed for movement, even while forcing herself to appear calm. And then she caught the scent, so faint it had been overshadowed by everything else.
“It’s the half elf isn’t it? The fool that came in with the Raptoran, and spent half an hour serenading the clientele? Attached already? You’re growing soft, which isn’t good for business, which isn’t good for your cover is it?”
“Don’t be absurd. The boy is important, even if none of the halfwits down there could see it. While he played, the face of Gloria appeared in every lit candle. The renegade goddess has once again chosen her bard. Do you have any idea what she could do if harm came to him?”
Mira filed this claim away for later scrutiny, labeling it as something intriguing enough to confirm or disprove. But Alyse was blushing, her pheromones giving away that she was more flustered than angry. “Does the name Farisil mean anything to you?”
Alyse shook her head, and Mira continued. “It’s a long shot, but I might know someone with leverage over Cirgal, who might be persuaded to intercede should he ever turn against the boy. But it will cost you. For starters, I want to know what you’re doing here.” Alyse began to open her mouth, but Mira hissed for silence. “Tongues can lie. I have some special paper…”
Cirgal shook his head as he left Meth and his familiar behind. “Don’t tell the others I’m a magic user. Let me figure out what to tell them.” Those had been the lad’s last words. If nothing else, he would likely prove interesting.
“Cirgal.”
The thief whirled, his hand automatically reaching for his rapier. His first thought was that he’d been addressed by a beggar, and beggars usually traveled in tandem with pick pockets. Far better to just start killing now, than risk losing something important to hands almost as deft as his own.
It wasn’t a beggar of course. Judging by the outfit, or lack of one, the man worked for Montby.
“Let me come with you.”
Cirgal shook his head, glancing around in case this conversation was merely a distraction. “You don’t even know where I’m going. I don’t know you. How many other reasons do you want?”
“I’m Jon. So now you know me. And I know that you’re the only one around here who isn’t afraid of Montby. Everyone jumps at his every whim, hating themselves for it, but too afraid to defy him. I don’t want to stay here, until I’m too old to make enough money for him, and finally end up shambling around Nightcross. You can get me out. Let me travel with you, please. Wherever you’re going, and whatever you’ll want me to do, it will be better than staying here.”
Cirgal barely suppressed a laugh, despite himself. “If that’s really your name, it must confuse the record keepers. I’ll bet they get client and employee confused from time to time. Totally irrelevant to my plans of course. You’re most likely working for Montby right now, attaching yourself to act as his spy. And even if you weren’t, what use could you be to me?”
“Think about it this way, if Montby does intend to saddle you with a spy, shouldn’t it be one you can keep an eye on in return? If you shove me away, someone else will just have to follow you. Maybe someone sneakier and craftier. Someone you won’t spot right away.
“As for what I can do for you, I can be your voice. I can talk almost anyone into almost anything. Ten seconds ago you were fully set against taking me with you. Right now, you’re already wavering. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Hours later, a very strange party made its way through the city gates. It wasn’t the oddest assortment Cirgal had ever led, but it was close. And his mission wasn’t the most complicated endeavor he’d ever attempted, but again, it was an easy runner up.
Montby had shown him a weapon from the time of the Talnac Empire, a short rod that could unleash blasts of energy powerful enough to vaporize even Gonzogal. One shot, and the True Demon would be dead. Cirgal would inherit all his forces, finally proving himself in the process.
Montby was clever though. He made sure to point out that only one of the rare surviving members of that ancient race could use such a device. So even if Cirgal could break into the secret armory and steal it, it would be useless to him.
But Montby knew where a Talnac could be found. He hinted that one was even working for him, watching him from within the city and thinking all the while that it had kept its identity a secret.
Bring back the artifact Montby desired, and Cirgal could have both the weapon, and the Talnac.
But there was a whole host of catches. Keep the half elf, Hyacinth, alive. The same half elf that was about to mount a suicide assault on Montby’s decoy dungeon. So Cirgal told the elf boy that he needed him. He needed Hyacinth to assume a fully elven identity and vouch for him when it came time to entering the City of Light. In exchange, he promised to show the boy how to enter the real dungeon, when they returned to Tralgar. Cirgal supposed he had a few weeks before they arrived at catman territory, plenty of time to figure out what he would say when the boy learned the truth, that his presence was less than pointless.
Montby had provided several magical amulets that would get their wearers through the city shields. They worked by distorting any attempt to read the user’s mind or personality. The cat magic would see any wearer of the amulet as perfectly peaceful, completely devoid of inner darkness. Cirgal knew he’d need one of the amulets. So would the young mage, Meth. What about the others though? He needed to have them figured out long before then, or everything would unravel when they reached the city shield.
Then there was the birdman, Aelthi, who had taken the young elf under his metaphorical wing. He was looking for something called Wardens, though he didn’t seem to know exactly what they were. So Cirgal had told the avian that Wardens were elf-like creatures living just beyond the city of the catmen. That turned the birdman into an asset for now, someone who supported Cirgal’s decisions and leaned on Hyacinth to accept the deal. But again, as soon as they reached the City of Light, Cirgal needed a good story prepared, or the Raptoran would realize he’d been duped.
There was the girl, Vetch, who also needed to be protected. She was a strange one, but she trusted Meth. Her cooperation wouldn’t be the problem. The problem was the Phryxian Houndmaster that was hunting her. It would kill them off if Cirgal wasn’t careful, and might even if he was.
There was Jon, the male prostitute who might be reporting back to Montby. Cirgal wasn’t sure if he could use him as an expendable body to save himself and the others, or whether he needed to keep him alive as well.
To make things more complicated, Meth had chosen “John” as the name of his familiar. He’d told the girl, Vetch, the truth. Cirgal could see that much, by the way they whispered to each other. But he’d fabricated a story for the other three.
John, nothing more than a floating skull, and been covered by a helm tied to draping sheets. The whole absurd structure was stuffed with rope and cotton to vaguely resemble a man, and tied to the saddle of the cheapest horse Cirgal had ever seen. John had even been armed, though Cirgal knew the sword was only for show, and any damage he did would be through magic alone.
Meth had proclaimed that John was a knight, and he the lowly squire who spoke for him. John had taken a vow of silence, though Meth didn’t know why.
It was ridiculous. It was laughable. It was the most insane attempt to hide magical ability that Cirgal had ever seen. And it appeared to be working. Aelthi, Hyacinth, and Jon accepted these weird claims without batting a single eye.
Cirgal had to keep these strangers bound to a single purpose, and safe, all while achieving his own mission. He understood how it had come about, but that didn’t help him. It was too complicated. Too many different parties were trying to tack their own agendas onto an existing plot. The potential for deviation increased exponentially as the task grew more complicated.
But they were passing through the gates now. They’d get out of the city at least. He could say that much, that he’d gotten them out of the city before the Houndmaster slaughtered them all. He’d be out in the open, where whatever happened, he could at least run.
And then the girl spoke, and Cirgal’s stomach plunged as he realized something. Everything would derail far sooner than Montby or the arrogant fey, or even the conniving True Demons could possibly imagine.
“Hey! I know you! Torbred!”
Gurdabar was high above the valley where the warriors of his clan massed, climbing even higher when the attack came. He was ascending the sheer side of Mt. Garthan, attempting for the third time to scale an unbeatable face. The first two times his eventual fall had nearly killed him. This time, he was far higher than before, far past the point of survivability. It was success, or death.
Rage came easily to the orcish race, blinding fury that could be harnessed to serve one well in battle. Channeled properly, the bloodlust was as likely to keep one alive as get one killed. It transformed a poorly armed and often poorly fed soldier, into a terrifying berserker. By dropping all semblance of defense, a raging orc could demoralize his opponents before the first clash of blades.
Gurdabar had not been content to follow that particular warrior pathway however. He believed, as did a few others, that the strength and vitality of the rage could be tapped into, without having to first surrender control. A warrior with the power and ferocity of the rage, but with the mind and discipline of a human knight, such a combination would be unstoppable on the battlefield.
So Gurdabar trained himself according to the dictates of the Hada Thura, the elusive warrior monks of the mountains. They were dismissive of an orc, unconvinced he could ever master their techniques, but they gave him the same opportunity as any other.
Climbing the mountain wasn’t about physical strength, though it took plenty. His toes and fingers strained from having already accomplished a dozen impossible tasks, and still he required more of them. But the true test of the mountain was mastery over the mind, control over emotion.
Any orc could best fear by giving in to rage. But the brute madness that kicked aside all other thought and feeling was transient. It would subside long before the fastest climber neared the peak. No, to climb the sheer face required sustained concentration and careful planning. It required not giving in to the omnipresent bloodlust. And that meant making the climb with full knowledge that to fall was certain death.
Painful, inglorious shattering, was what likely awaited Gurdabar. He knew that, couldn’t not know it, and he had to retain his composure despite that knowledge. If he did so, if he someone made it to the pinnacle alive, the monks that waited for him would initiate him to the next circle of their brotherhood. They would, hopefully, teach him their secret for running down the mountain.
Just when his whole body began to shake from exhaustion, he found a ledge that had been invisible from below. It was only a foot wide at its largest, barely enough to sit upon and rest with his screaming back pressed against the cold stone of the mountain, but it was enough.
He sat there, sucking in great gulps of thin mountain air and looking into the valley below. His mind was completely empty, simply absorbing the sensations and accepting them, devoid of judgment. Then the invaders poured into the narrow canyon mouth leading to his clansmen, and his tranquility was broken. Far above the conflict, he could only watch.
Scouts had spotted the approaching force, and signaled long in advance of its arrival. Climbing the jagged peaks all around their camp was nearly impossible, even for an orc, so the massed warriors knew their enemy would have to try a direct assault through the lone pass.
If the scouts had reported a larger force, the defending Yesha clan would have bottled the invaders at the narrowest part, raining arrow fire from above while ranks of spearmen held their ground to the last. Only one in ten of the orcish warriors were trained to fight in formation like that, forming phalanxes like the humans of the plains regions, but one in ten would be enough. With the rest hurling anything they could wrap their fingers around, the defenders could make any attacking force trade casualties at a rate of five to one or greater, until they finally broke through.
If the attacking force were much greater, the spearmen would give their lives to buy time, while the rest of the clan sealed the path behind them, and then made their way out of the valley as individuals. Most would survive the climb and escape, enough to reform at their designated rendezvous to fight again. If they recognized the attacking clan, they could raid its undefended territory, stealing enough women and children to soon replenish their ranks.
But this attacking force was smaller, outnumbered at least three to one. So the defenders pulled back from the potential choke point, allowing the enemy to pour inside the valley. There, the defenders would surround them and use their numbers to the maximum advantage. The foolish invaders would have no where to flee, and would die to the last.
The first part of the plan went flawlessly. The attackers, wearing an assortment of colors and designs that corresponded to no known clan, charged straight to the center of the valley. Yesha spearmen flowed behind them, cutting off retreat. Then the rest of the Yesha warriors formed into concentric rings, completely encapsulating the small cluster of raiders. A hundred orcs raised their javelins to hurl, while hundreds more advanced with swords and axes drawn.
Then it happened. A hooded figure stepped apart from the rest of the invaders. He pointed at the advancing Yesha melee warriors, and even from far above, Gurdabar could see that something was wrong. It was a distortion in the air, like the ripples caused by a hot day, or the blurred lines of an angry ghost.
A dozen orcs exploded, their bodies blasted to pieces no larger than standard coinage. The hooded figure pointed again, with both hands, and two more groups of attackers turned to red mist. Then he spun around, pointed at the opposite side of the valley, and didn’t even wait for the rumble of sliding earth and rock.
A hundred orcs charged for the wizard, coming from all directions. Their rages overcame their fear of magic, their terror of such unholy destruction, and onward they rushed.
The invading orcs stood aside, forming into defensive lines, but leaving gaps that led straight to their mage. It was unheard of, but perhaps they too were horrified by such dishonorable death. Perhaps defeat was preferable to victory, if it meant such monstrous magic could be stamped out.
The brave warriors swarmed from all sides, unimpeded save for one more set of blasts that reduced their number by a dozen. Then they blotted out the figure, and Gurdabar could only assume it had been quickly dispatched.
Movement continued far longer than should have been necessary. And when details began to resolve themselves, it was clear the orcs had settled into close quarters battle with no common wizard. They were being flung back with superhuman strength, one or two killed by bare punches and kicks every second. The bodies began to outnumber the living, and finally, Gurdabar could see the foe they faced. Its hooded cloak had been ripped to shreds and lay mostly scattered upon the blood-soaked ground.
It was the demon, Gonzogal, pure black with a heart to match. His hide was just as invulnerable as legends claimed, still unbroken despite scores of impacts from heavy iron blades. The surviving warriors began to retreat, and the demon allowed them to run. No more shockwaves tore through their ranks.
“Warriors,” the demon addressed the psychologically broken army. Through some magic, Gurdabar could hear him clearly, despite his distance.
“You fought well, with the bravery and ferocious natures I’ve come to expect. Warriors like you deserve spoils for such conduct, and spoils you may yet have. Yesha clan is no more. But you need not die today. Join my clan.
“Join my clan, and fight for pay. Join an army, the sort of army such stout warriors deserve. Join an army with ambition, a force the humans don’t dare mock. Fight for me, and I’ll pay each of you with gold. And spoils. Spoils like only your ancestors have ever dreamt of. Join me, and march on Tralgar.”
Gurdabar heard a faint sigh and turned to his right, spotting an old man sitting on the ledge not ten feet away. The man was dressed unlike the monks Gurdabar had previously met, but the orc never doubted he was one of them. Who else could have plopped down on the ledge, barely winded.
“Most of them will join. A few will slip away later of course, but most will stay for the gold. After a demonstration like that, resistance seems rather futile.”
Gurdabar recognized a test when he heard one. “The wise ones say no attempt is futile, while we still live. Even if I alone carry the colors, Yesha clan will still live.”
“But to what purpose,” the old man asked. “It is defeated and dishonored. Why retain its name?”
“It can be redeemed. If I strike back, and do enough damage to the demon’s army, Yesha will have its honor restored. It may yet rise.”
“You’ll need to advance your skills far beyond what you can learn here, if you expect to succeed. You will need to move on to the next phase of your training.”
“Of course teacher. I am ready,” Gurdabar answered.
“I am no longer your teacher. But I will tell you where to find your next instructors. They’re called Wardens.”
Torbred cringed when he heard his name, instantly recognizing the voice. The peculiar accent, though not particularly heavy, was unmistakable. The girl was harmless, and even somewhat interesting in an odd way, but for Torbred she was a harbinger of ill luck.
Less than a week ago, had it really been so short a time?, Torbred had a dull and promising career as a gate guard. He was the youngest living guard to have command over an entire gate and all assigned infantry. All he had to do at this point was keep his mouth shut, stay mostly sober, and collect his regular paycheck.
Then this girl showed up, and his life began to unravel.
Actually, if he were being honest, it had begun at least a week earlier. Someone tampered with his duty roster, enabling an entire shift to be filled by compromised men. Torbred knew that the criminal who called himself Count Montby had infiltrated the guard. Everyone knew that.
So Torbred transferred men and randomized his rosters like any good leader, making it almost impossible for an event like this to happen. It wasn’t beyond possibility, but it was unlikely enough that none could accuse him of incompetence should such a statistical fluke occur.
But someone tampered with his orders, replacing every single copy that left his hands. He didn’t realize until after, that half a dozen soldiers were low level Montby stooges, and the one in charge for that shift was a ghost that no one had ever even heard of.
It looked like some sort of power struggle among Montby and his gang. According to witnesses, it was obvious that a catman had attempted to sneak a prisoner into the city. A few palms had been greased, and a few heads were supposed to turn the other way.
But something had gone wrong, and the prisoner had escaped, or so it seemed. In all, it was a relatively minor disturbance, that had undoubtedly cost Montby and his gang far more than any slave sale could recoup for them. But it had made Torbred look like a fool.
He had been given extra shifts as a simple gate watchman, and his roster had been temporarily placed under the control of an advisor from another gate. It was embarrassing, but at least he hadn’t suffered a permanent demotion.
But his very first shift at the gate came the day Eltore and his retinue marched in. Montby’s necromancer, dressed all in black on a sweltering day, but cool as ice like usual, had walked in with just a nod. Torbred just nodded in return, as did the rest of the men. They wouldn’t bother asking for a signature. There was no way the man could be anyone else.
A stream of soldiers filed in next, slowly making their marks on the official record and giving all the standard answers to the bland, pointless questions.
The final two were the only ones who didn’t fit. A young man who at first looked like a businessman or merchant to Torbred’s untrained eye, and a skinny girl with short hair that might have been trying to pass herself as another young man. Until she spoke of course.
She couldn’t help introducing herself and asking Torbred’s name. There he was, holding the ledger and trying not to pout, and that bizarre girl just started talking to him out of nowhere, asking unfathomable questions about the city without order or pause. Each fired off before he could do more than half answer the last.
The young man with the girl glared during this, and Torbred heard him muttering under his breath. If it had been the standard half whispered threats, Torbred would have ignored it. But he caught enough to realize those weren’t the typical generic words mumbled harmlessly a million times a day. The man was reciting spells to himself.
So he was a mage, a young one. And he had the gaze of a psychopath. Torbred had seen it often enough in indoctrination training to know it. It was the gaze of a man who had been kept in check only because he’d never had power. This was a man who thought nothing of killing anyone in his way, who had only recently gained the ability to actually do so.
And he was staring at Torbred with eyes full of jealousy, reciting all his spells and trying to decide which were called for. Torbred wasn’t a threat of course. He had no interest in stick girl. All he wanted to do was make it through the day and crawl beneath his blankets. But how could he convey that?
The problem with psychopaths was that they thought everyone else was the same at heart. The man would never trust Torbred, would take anything he said as confirmation of his suspicions. Every denial would just be more evidence against him. So he kept his posture relaxed, and his answers to the girl terse to the verge of rudeness.
And eventually a handful of soldiers came back to make it clear they were tired of waiting. The young mage whispered something, and the girl went through the gate without a fight, but her eyes said she was considering it.
And Torbred realized something in that moment. Every one of those sweating brutes was almost as scared of that skinny girl as they were of Eltore. What in The Nine Hells had Torbred just barely escaped from?
Now, less than a week later, here she was again. What were the odds that she’d leave the city when he was again on watch? One in three actually. Which made something spring back to mind, standing out now as something far more sinister than simple caprice.
He’d gone to one of Montby’s brothels after a grueling double shift. That had been a mistake, but a forgivable one he believed. He was exhausted physically, but even more taxed mentally. He had two full days before returning to duty, and all he wanted was to kill his thought processes for a while. Heavy drinking could do the trick, but there was another way that lacked the hangover.
It wasn’t his first time at the establishment. If you lived in Tralgar, and were over the age of ten, you’d been there at least once. But it was his first visit since joining the guard, and he supposed in hindsight that probably meant something. He just didn’t know what.
So he’d gone, and he’d been drugged. He woke up without a single memory, or a single coin. And the thing was, it was worth it. He’d killed a day, gotten a sort of mental reset that cleared most of the stress-fog from his head, and all for the meager coinage he’d carried on him. All things considered, it was a bargain.
Until he returned to the barracks, still sluggish from whatever had slipped into his system, and found the notice on his bunk. The roster he’d last viewed had been “altered by some unidentified miscreant.” According to the corrected version nailed to the wall beside his pillow, he no longer had another day before returning to duty. He had minutes.
The next half hour sped by in a blurry haze, but Torbred made it into his uniform and to the gate. If he were a handful of minutes late, then so was the man taking roll call for that shift, because he slid into formation with seconds to spare. After that, it was just a simple test of endurance. All he had to do was stay on his feet for the next eight hours.
Until he heard the voice.
“Torbred!”
Interesting people attract more interesting people. That was something Torbred remembered hearing once, and the current scene appeared to prove it. Gone were Eltore and the scores of effectively identical soldiers. The girl, and her scowling, jealous companion, had picked up a far more diverse retinue.
There were a couple men who looked relatively normal at first glance, the mouthpieces Torbred guessed. Then there was the half elf who looked completely overwhelmed, like a farm boy seeing the big city for the first time. Make that a farm boy clutching a harp, of all things. There was the birdman, whose appearance in Tralgar was news in itself and had already swept the city. Then there was the manikin on the nag, crudely dressed up to look like a paladin Torbred supposed. A regular knight certainly wouldn’t be wearing such a billowy tunic, painted in random religious symbols.
Torbred didn’t know who the fake cavalry was supposed to fool, unless it was meant for the birdman and the elf, who both appeared completely oblivious as they fired off questions at the silent absurdity. Questions which were answered by none less than the girl’s psychopathic companion.
Maybe, despite all its inertness, the rider hadn’t always been lifeless. Maybe that would be Torbred’s fate, if he said the wrong thing in front of mage. A simple innocent remark, taken the wrong way, and Torbred would have his life force drained away. In its place, he’d be stuffed with straw. Then a sheet would be thrown over his slack face and he’d be tied to the second cheapest pony in Tralgar.
The questions began without preamble, fired off with no discernable train of thought just like before. Torbred tried to repeat his posture of indifference that had seen him through the last encounter, more than a little aided by exhaustion so deep he actually wobbled on his feet.
Torbred barely listened, but a few facts made it through his partial mental barricade at the ears. For every question, the girl tossed in at least one statement, most of them seeming to be just as random as her queries at first. Over time, a pattern emerged however, and Torbred became vaguely aware that several members of this strange party had personal quests.
“And we’ll meet the Wardens after we visit the City of Light, after which they’ll help us deal with the creature that killed Aelthi’s kin. Then he can return home with honor. It’s all very complicated, as I suppose a quest has to be, otherwise…”
“Talk to the Farisil siblings.” He didn’t know why he interrupted. He didn’t even know who the Farisil siblings were. Yet he continued, as though under a spell. “They live in the woods just a few days west of here. They’re part dryad, and they hear things. If you need help finding the Wardens, ask them.”
Torbred clamped his teeth shut in horror, but despite his shock he couldn’t completely rouse himself from the strange torpor that had suddenly fallen over him. He was more akin to a distant observer than the man currently in charge of his mouth.
“Thank you Torbred! Can I tell them you sent me, if they ask?”
The girl was practically being shoved through the gate by her companions, and Torbred felt immense relief. He used every scrap of control his still possessed to keep his lips pressed together and simply nod, not even sure what he shaking his head in agreement to.
The moment passed, and the party was safely outside his jurisdiction, causing him to think he might just survive after all. His fatigue was lifting, probably due to the adrenaline rush of surviving pure terror, and he expected he could keep his feet through the rest of his shift after all.
“Since when do you hobnob with dryads and shit, Tor?”
Torbred wasn’t sure who asked the question. It didn’t even matter. What mattered, was that he’d spoken as though under a spell, conveying information he didn’t even have. It wasn’t hard to deduce that something had happened the night before, in Montby’s establishment.
He tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t being targeted by malicious forces. Someone had used him to anonymously pass a message. That was all. They’d found him exhausted, drugged, and penniless in the back of a brothel. A state of perfect susceptibility to suggestion. He’d been used for a simple task, because he was expedient. And if the duty roster had been tampered with? That was surely done after the fact, to get him onto watch to pass the message. The job done, there was no more need of Torbred, and no reason to fear him either. He’d be left alone.
It was all coincidence. Just an atrocious string of luck. No sinister forces had it out for him. That was the simplest explanation.
It didn’t matter, some inner voice told him. The string hadn’t ended yet. It had only just begun. Run, it said. Forget everything you’ve built for your life, and run. And you might just survive, the voice told him. He almost heeded it, abandoning his post and running randomly into the wilderness.
With courage he hadn’t known he possessed, Torbred stood his ground against his fears. Soon, he would wish he hadn’t.
