Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (21 page)

“Yes, my son,” Jerahd answered. “We’ve stopped them. Prevented the ritual. That priest was about to sacrifice himself. That would’ve been the final element, assuming the prayer had been completed.”

Havlah stared at where the priest’s body was in the pool. The water was too dark to see through, but he could see slick blood rising to the surface, expanding into a great swath of dark blue. His father led him up the ledge.

As they walked, their feet stomping heavily with exhaustion, something strange occurred to Havlah. He looked back into the pool. There was the splotch of blood, still spreading in the middle of the pool. Havlah couldn’t quite figure out what seemed odd to him, but something felt out of place. He blinked and shook his head, wishing his mind were not as tired as his body.

They walked higher along the spiraling ledge, and Havlah’s view of the floor below became more complete. The island of blood was still growing from the center of the cave water, threatening to expand forever. It engrossed the protruding limbs of the other fallen warriors, spreading past the half-submerged bodies of Geldr on its way to the walls. Havlah stopped walking.

“Father,” he said absently. “…Isn’t blood thicker than water?”

Jerahd looked at him curiously.

“Yes, it’s –” Then he noticed what his son was looking at. The priest’s blood now formed a giant, dark blue blob that nearly spanned the entire surface area of the pool.

“Then why should it float to the surface?” asked Havlah. 

Jerahd stepped up to the edge next to his son and looked down. A few other Disciples saw it too, and stopped to look over with them.

“Perhaps it’s not blood,” said Jerahd, astonished at the sight below. “Perhaps it’s….”

And just then the edge of the dark blue swath reached the shore, and in the blink of an eye the entire pool turned jet black. Jerahd, Havlah and all the others who were watching forgot to breathe. A low rumble shook the cave from somewhere far below.

Everyone froze.

“What was that?” someone called out. But there came no answer, because no one dared speak it.

The cavern quaked with another rumbling, this one more violent, and the inky black pool of water rippled, undulating outward from the center – exactly where the body of the priest had fallen.

The Disciples had to brace themselves when the room trembled for a third time, even more savagely than the last. A torch rolled off the ledge and fell into the pool, but when it hit the liquid, instead of snuffing, it exploded in a great ball of red flame. A few Disciples cried out in surprise.

There was one last rumbling which sounded like the whole world was shattering apart all around them, and bits of rock shook loose from the ceiling. Several Disciples were thrown from the ledge by its force and fell to the glassy water below. Those that landed in the water did not surface again.

The shaking subsided just as the pool erupted with a powerful fountain of black water, blasting straight up into the air so high and so hard that it rammed the ceiling and washed back down the walls.

Afterward, there was silence again.

The Disciples picked themselves up, rattled and unnerved by the inexplicable geyser. They took stock of themselves, looking around in confusion. Havlah felt his father’s hand under his arm helping him stand up. His legs could no longer muster the strength on their own.

All around, standing perfectly still along the edge of the spiraling earth ramp, he saw Disciples staring down at the floor of the cavern. They looked unhinged, their faces a mixture of wonderment and abject terror. Havlah dared himself to approach the edge and looked over….

Standing out of the water, dead center, was the slender form of a man. His skin was a ghastly pale white, blanched beyond natural means, and he was marked all over with blue, worming veins beneath his skin. He wore only a dingy loincloth and was slumped over with his head down. A thin veil of ratty hair obscured his face.

Havlah looked around at the Disciples scattered on the ramp. They were completely focused on this man – transfixed by him.

Then the man in the pool raised his head –
slowly
– as if the movement were his first in centuries.

Dark pits beneath his forehead, sunken and shadowy, contained two tiny, glowing eyes. His face was gaunt with starvation – skin stretched tight across sharp bones. But the most disturbing feature of all was his smile.

His thin-lipped mouth curled into a sickening, stomach-wrenching grin, borne out of some mysterious, baleful pleasure. He eyed the Disciples with sadistic hunger.

But Havlah saw no more, because at that moment his father jerked him backward by the collar of his thobe.

“We’re going, now!” he said, and pulled Havlah up the ledge toward the chute leading back up to the cave. As they fled, Havlah heard the cries of Disciples as they lunged back into the pool. Everyone, save he and his father, ran back down.

“Father!” protested Havlah. “Why are we leaving?! Let us fight!”

His father didn’t respond, but when Havlah saw the faces of the Disciples passing them, he understood. They were going to their deaths.

Their eyes met Jerahd’s and, in that tiny moment, something solemn and immeasurable was exchanged between them. There was no question about what to do. No need for discussion. Jerahd was to retreat, to try and save his son. The rest were going to hold off the man in the pool for as long as they could.

Havlah couldn’t see over the lip anymore as his father tugged him along, but he could hear very clearly the hostility raging below. Swords rang out, battle kiais shrieked through the air, and bodies crunched against unyielding stone. The horrible noises only increased as the boy and his father rounded the cavern, sprinting for the hole that led back up to the great hall above.

At one point Havlah broke from his father’s grip and stole a glimpse over the edge. He saw the form of the pale man again, bent and motionless, only now he was standing atop a hill of bodies. Valan bodies.

More Disciples rushed at him from the ledge and the pale man extended an arm toward them. But Havlah’s view was cut off when Jerahd grabbed him and pulled him back away from the edge. Havlah heard awful smacking sounds, like wet slabs of meat being crushed between boulders. He winced, and the screams curdled his blood.

Just as they were arriving at the stairs inside the chute, three Disciples appeared next to Jerahd and Havlah. They had been hurled from the pool below by a force so unimaginably tremendous that their bodies smacked fatally into the ceiling. One was sturdily impaled on a stalactite, and remained skewered there as the other two fell back down, bags of shattered bone. Sprays of blood marked where they had hit.

Horrified, Havlah locked eyes with the quivering Disciple impaled on the ceiling. The face of the man lifted towards him, and when his mottled hair fell away, Havlah recognized him. It was Gezia. But Jerahd’s hands were around him, and Havlah was thrown onto the stairs inside the pit.

“Come on!” he hissed, pushing his son up the crooked steps.

The sprint rounding up to the chamber above seemed only to take a couple seconds, measured in heartbeats. A handful of Geldr were there to meet them by the entrance to the caves, having finally found their way through. They grinned at the oncoming pair, greedily licking their lips in anticipation of an easy meal. But they were not prepared for Jerahd’s wrath, and he dispatched the lot of them in the space of an exhale.

Havlah heard more harrowing screams from the pit before he was plunged back into the lightlessness of the cave maze. Once there, all he knew was the hand that led him forward. Jerahd pulled him at a frightening pace through the blackness. They were running.

The familiarly terrifying elements were all still there: the freakish wheezing of chilly air, the phantom screeches and moaning, and the occasional ambushes in the dark. At least this time Havlah didn’t have the opportunity to contemplate them.

When they were attacked, Havlah’s father released him, and he crouched to the ground while the sounds of sightless fighting clanged around him. Geldr howled and thundered, and Havlah heard their blades meet his father’s.

More than a few times something or someone would stumble over him in the darkness, but they were dead before they could find him again. In complete blackness Jerahd dueled the creatures, and after only a few moments at the longest, the crumpling of bodies would signal the end of the skirmish, and Havlah would feel his father’s hand around his once again.

Then they would run.

Reeling, Havlah’s mind scrambled to retain its sanity. He had just bore witness to impossible events of incalculable importance, and endured the most physically demanding trial of his life. He had fought in his very first war,
and
got a glimpse of the truth within the mystery surrounding his father and the Disciples – the details of which his father had never shared with him. It was no help to be sequestered in total darkness and dragged through further peril.

Unable to cope, his mind began to shut down. His whole body stalled. In the hazy half-awareness that followed, Havlah passed through the remainder of the network of caves behind his father like a specter. Time passed him by in an incoherent blur as though he had fallen asleep and was dreaming.

When next he opened his eyes, they were in the anteroom again.

Back in the firelight of the torches, Jerahd looked like a gleaming angel to Havlah. He shone brilliantly in the feeble light. He was radiant, iridescent. He looked tall and strong, too – bristling with incredible power. How could he be so unphased by their ordeal? In that moment, Havlah was never prouder to be the son of this man – this holy, blessed individual.

The Disciple of Votoc.

But when Jerahd looked upon his son, his face fell. Something was wrong – Havlah could read it in his eyes. Jerahd was looking at Havlah’s torso, so Havlah looked there as well. All he could see was bright, glimmering red. His chest and stomach were covered with red.

The room was beginning to spin so Havlah fell to his knees. He grabbed at the red with his hands and found that it was blood.

But whose blood?

Jerahd was on the ground with him, his hands prodding him all over. Somewhere far away, Havlah could hear a voice speaking to him. It was very quiet, but familiar. When Havlah tried to ask his father about it, he found that his own voice sounded just as distant. He saw his father’s lips were moving, and then he knew… it was
his
voice Havlah heard.

Father’s speaking, but I can’t hear
….

While looking into Jerahd’s gleaming eyes, the torchlight dimmed around Havlah. It was getting dark – but not dark like in the cave. This was a friendlier, calmer darkness.

Then he felt himself drift off to sleep, and his father’s voice faded away.

When Owein awoke, he was pleasantly surprised not to find himself deathly ill with fever. The previous night of stalking through the pouring rain was a surefire way to catch sickness from the mythical pet of Dolus, an infectious rat called Tir. The animal spirit, being especially agitated by the rain, was said to rove the world at night along with other ghostly horrors, spreading ailments wherever it went. He was lucky to dodge it.

Owein stepped from his bed to find his clothes. He remembered how, in his late-night exhaustion, he had simply dropped his clothes on the floor. The soles of his feet told him most of them were still damp. He cursed softly to himself and crossed the room to light a fire. He filled a kettle from his water barrel and hung it over the infant flames.

After some tea, he told himself, he would go shopping. His primary concern was food, since his home was currently empty of it. Also, taking note of the heap of damp garments on the floor, he thought some new clothes would be in order too. That might distract him long enough until he could meet with Benzo again and see what he had learned. One day was not much time for information gathering, but Owein was anxious. He would pester Benzo every single day if he had to, until he got some answers.

The kettle was whistling.

In the shopping district of New Gresad, Owein first treated himself to lunch at an inn – a full meal of beef soup and bread with a fat mug of ale. New Gresad was famous for its bread, but the best beer, he had to admit, came from Cengan. Once properly fed, he was then free to traverse the shops that lined the Royal Promenade at leisure.

Along that boulevard was the posh shopping area of the city, home to some of the most exclusive stores in Gresadia. One could find the finest clothes at the ritzy haberdashery, Catega Relacorbren, or the rarest gems and jewels at Pothobor Zasum.

A boy selling a gazette on the corner cried out the latest news: Gresadia has declared war on Divar, and the church has excommunicated the Empire. The Empress has established a new Church of Gresadia, and the largest armada ever assembled sails south to war…. Owein ignored him, content to amble mindlessly through the trendiest part of town. He wasn’t paying attention as the boy shouted about some industrial tycoon who had been abducted in the night, or about the dangerous fugitive on the lamb. He was oblivious even to the sound of his own name as the boy called it out.

Owein meandered his way over to the cheaper shops, having fairly little interest in ostentation, much unlike the rest of Gresadia. He purchased a waistcoat, dark brown and scarlet with a highly detailed embroidered pattern, almost like paisley. It was close fitting and buttoned nearly all the way up to his collar, which, the salesman assured him, was the latest fashion. With it, he bought two shirts and a new pair of breeches.

Satisfied, he strolled home, taking the long way through the clean neighborhoods of the peerage. He passed expensive townhouses along the narrow branches of the river that crisscrossed New Gresad in watery avenues. He stopped at a street grocer before returning home, picking up a loaf of bread, some cheese and a handful of eggs.

He washed back at his apartment, changed into his new clothes, ate dinner, and set out to find Benzo.

He first stopped at the Praeshuc Marloth, the most likely place to find Benzo at any hour. But he wasn’t in, and the bartender said he hadn’t seen him since yesterday. Next was Benzo’s apartment, a large suite he had to himself about halfway up a squalid skyscraper.

The hotel was the only high-rise in Jof
district, and it was certainly not impressive. An ancient relic of the early days of New Gresad, it still bore the evidence of antique luxury beneath its crumbling exterior. In its day, it was surely one of the most proudly opulent edifices in the city, poking high above the low roofs of the western neighborhoods, a staunch and defiant counter to the explosive growth of towers on the eastern end. But now, darkly tarnished with age, its majesty was replaced with a tone of foreboding rot and the sad reality of eventual and unstoppable decay.

Owein glided through its shabby lobby, heading right for the lifts. The copper accents of the décor were green and drab with oxidation, having been neglected the careful maintenance needed to retain their original grace. The lift’s doors were black iron, the primitive kind, bubbly and rugged. The sound of the cables straining to haul the heavy box skyward was unsettling, and Owein found himself gripping the rail with both hands.

When it reached the seventh floor, the doors squealed open and Owein stepped out into a dreary hallway. The carpet must have once been rich and expensive, but now it was stained and faded, even moldy in places. The wallpaper peeled at every corner, and great chunks of it were missing in places.

He found Benzo’s door and knocked. He heard stumbling from the other side, as though he’d startled someone, then felt a presence looking at him through the peephole.

“Benzo, it’s me, Owei–”

And the door flew open.

“
Shh!
” Benzo hushed him. He looked frightened and nervous. He stuck his head out of his room to look up and down the hall, then grabbed Owein by the lapel of his new vest and yanked him inside.

Benzo’s apartment was a stark contrast to the rest of the hotel. It was lavishly decorated, and amply furnished with modern niceties. There was fresh carpet on the floor, bright paint on the walls, and sweeping velvet curtains on the windows. The main room of his apartment was the parlor, a very large space with a bar stocked full of liquor in one corner, a couple plush sofas, and even a piano. Benzo couldn’t play piano.

The low evening light from outside cast dramatic shadows. This residence seemed more appropriate for a moneyed lord than a sheisty trader of odds and ends.

“What’s going on, Benzo? What’s the matter with you?”

“Quiet. Quiet!” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. “Did anyone see you come in here?”

Owein became very serious.

“No. I don’t think so. Why, what did you find out?”

“Keep your voice down! Anyone could be listening.” He led Owein to the bar and began fixing a couple drinks. Owein saw through an open door into Benzo’s bedroom and noticed an array of clothing flung across his bed.

“What’s that about?” he said. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah. I am. And so are you.” He handed Owein a beverage and clinked his own glass against it before draining it in one gulp.

“
Nieva
, Benzo, will you just tell me what you know?!”

“Look, I – …Here, have a seat.” He led Owein to one of his sofas and they sat facing each other.

“This afternoon I spoke with… well, actually it’s probably better if you don’t know who, but I spoke with a good friend of mine. And I asked about you.” Owein listened intently, his drink untasted in his hand.

“And?”

“And he’s heard your name come up. Somewhere. Somewhere up the chain.
Far
up the chain. Somewhere bad.”

“Where?”

“He couldn’t tell me exactly, –”

“What do you mean he couldn’t tell you?!” Owein was nearly shouting.

“Easy, easy! Quiet down. You know how these things work. He’s got friends to protect just like I do. He put his neck on the line just by telling me that much.”

Owein leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let out a big sigh.

“Now look, I trust this guy more than I trust my own mother.” Owein gave him a look. “All right, good point. More than I trust
you
. Okay? I mean I’d trust this guy with my life, with
your
life. In fact I already am.”

“Well, what did he tell you?”

Benzo’s eyes softened a little. He hesitated for only a second.

“This.” He picked up a newspaper from a low table and handed it to Owein. He pointed to a list of names under the heading, “Outlaws of the State.” There, at the top of the list, Owein Maeriod read his own name.

“
Cizeeth
….”

“Exactly. It’s not just the Navy, Owein. The whole
mlec
Empire is looking for you.” Owein sat back on the sofa, deflated, and his arm autonomously brought his drink to his lips. Benzo leaned in towards him.

“Did you happen to get a look at that warrant?” he asked quietly.

“No. I didn’t read it.”

Benzo eyed him earnestly for a while.

“Well, my guy tells me whatever you did must’ve been pretty bad. Owein, that warrant is signed by the Empress herself. The
Empress
.”

“
Gweith
.”

“Yeah,
gweith
is right.”

“But what’s the crime?!”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Not my guy – not even you, evidently. But my advice to you is this: lay low. Go into hiding. Move away. Stay there. Don’t come back – don’t even look back. Nobody stays on that wanted list for very long, Owein. One way or the other….” Benzo got up and walked toward his room.

“So why are you leaving town?”

“Me? I thought we weren’t talking about me. That’s none of your
mlec
business. And you’re not coming with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Owein got up to return his glass to the bar, finishing it along the way. “Hey… Benzo,” he said. His friend stopped to face him. “Thanks. I guess I owe you that drink.”

“I’ll hold you to it. Do me a favor, though, will you? And, eh… don’t get yourself killed.”

“You either.”

“Good luck, Owein.”

Owein nodded and went out the door. Benzo watched him go. He heard his footsteps travel down the hall outside toward the lifts.

“You poor bastard…” he said to himself. “You don’t stand a chance.”

When he turned around again to go into his room, his heart seized up at the sight of a man standing perfectly still by his bedroom window, staring at him.

He was dressed in a tightly fitting coat, laced up with far too many buttons. The collar was drawn up over his face and buckled there, concealing his identity. An old, musty tricorn perched on his head, its ends sagging from years of wear. A pistol and bandoleer were slung across his torso, and two swords hung from his belt. The blades were of a foreign design, being too wide and too curved to be Gresadian. He saw a braded ponytail ran down his back.

Between the brim of his tricorn and the top of his collar, Benzo could see the man’s eyes were epicanthic, and he was trying to remember what ethnicity that could be when the stranger spoke to him.

“You are Benzo,” he said.

“Who are you?” he replied, his voice dripping with such fear that he couldn’t hope to suppress it entirely.

“Where is Maeriod?”

Benzo hoped to the gods his expression didn’t give anything away. He was genuinely perplexed by the question, and tried to augment that emotion so as to mask any that might betray his friend. Had this man really arrived only seconds too late to know?

Could he really have just missed him?

“Who? Owein?” he said, attempting to personify incredulity.

“Where?”

“Perhaps you should try his place. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“You lie.”

Then again
, thought Benzo,
maybe he knows after all
. He swallowed, growing more certain by the second that this conversation would be his last.
Those eyes
…
something about those eyes
….

“You met with him last night,” the man said, and the tinge of an accent came through his voice more clearly.

“That accent of yours,” said Benzo. “Where does it come from? Saria?” Then it clicked. “Wait a minute… don’t I know you?” The man didn’t move a muscle. “Yes… yes. I know who you are. You work for the Tricorns, don’t you? What was it…? Tolora! You’re Tolora, aren’t you?” Benzo saw the reaction, though it was very slight. “What an honor it is to meet an assassin of your caliber. Tell me, is it true that you’ve never missed a mark?” He glared at Benzo.

“Where is he now?”

“Now? As in, right at this very minute? How should I know? He just said hi last night, that’s all.”

The man gripped the hilt of his sword. “If you don’t answer me,” he said plainly, “I will kill you very slowly.”

An ominous revelation bloomed in Benzo’s mind. “Wait…” he said. “Why are you looking for Owein?”

When Tolora moved, Benzo was already sprinting out of the bedroom. He hurled the door close as he went, but the assassin was incredibly quick, and covered the distance between them in just a few strides. His sword made a single slash through the air and Benzo cried out. He felt a searing pain burn behind his knees, and lost control of his legs. He fell hard into the back of one of his sofas and rolled onto the floor.

Tolora was on top of him in the next instant, and pressed the shorter sword against his throat. The ponytail wound around his shoulder and dangled to the floor.