Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (8 page)

Chapter 6: Halfway to Justice

“What was once joined may never truly be separated, only broken.”

Kreiger Darkflame, Priest of Torr

5854 – Thon – Jordar – Lasin

“How long has it been since I have walked these streets?” Cyril muttered as he wandered through Edgewater and looked at the carvings of the stone quay. The priest thought about the history in these streets and stones. The region had a bloody history, and it all tied into the very church that Cyril planned on saving, even though it had rejected him. The port of Edgewater was not far from Red City, which was named for its violent history after the fall of the Olde Kingdom. The priests of the Church of Jonath from Silver Castle and Silver City (both which were built by Jonath while he was still a mortal), ruled it jointly. That kingdom had once spanned a thousand kilometers, from Royale Bay to Silver Bay. It reigned in the time before the Slim Desert to the west was created from battles of wayward magics. The Olde Kingdom had been destroyed almost four hundred years ago by the very sort of evil that was creeping back into the land today. The stories of undead armies and dark magics came to Cyril. Once the Olde Kingdom had fallen to the hordes of undead and magic controlled by greed, and only Silver City remained to continue the fight for the side of justice, good, and law.

Cyril would find a way to bring that back, and to protect the land from the encroaching evils. It was his fault that the church was crumbling, and his fault that his brother had been lost to the dark forces that were creeping into the land. He might not have been able to save the one person who meant the most to him, and he may not have been able to warn of the corruption of the institution that he had dedicated his life to, but he would find a way to save everything else. Even if it meant his own death. That would be a small price to pay to atone for his sins.

He stared at the stone braziers, pock marked by centuries of weather, that lit the docks. The shorter ones were set alight every dusk. Cyril wondered about the carvers, their lives, worries, fears, loves, and triumphs. It was the people that made a kingdom great, not the monuments that men leave behind. There were three different height braziers. He ran his hand across them, feeling the cool living stone underneath his fingertips. A pillar carved to represent a hero, a mighty ruler, or some magical beast supported each brazier. Every third one was shorter, about chest height on most men. Beasts supported these. Creatures that once roamed the plains and mountains, such as gryphon, dragon, manticore, winged horses, and other mystical animals all held huge stone bowls that contained a combination of wood and coal on their backs. The men supported taller pillars, three times the height of a living man, and were another two thirds of the carvings along the stone docks. 

The height of the third type of braziers had been immense before they were vandalized, centuries ago. A few were intact, but not many, and even those were eroded or damaged beyond recognition. They had been gods. Before the time when The Traveling God took the gods away for a century, people had carved the gods’ likenesses to hold the lights that would guide ships and men safely to their destinations. Cyril stopped beside a column that had once been the image of his own god, Jonath. He ran his fingers across the cracked surface with reverence, thinking how it was appropriate that it was made of stone since Jonath was the god of the element of earth. But he was also the god of judgement, and from the center point in the quay the statue that once held a brazier ten meters in the air could look over the bay and judge men with impunity. He moved on, watching the people and buildings.

“How long has it been?” Cyril wondered again, and sighed. He stopped, turned, and watched the waves lap at the ancient stones. The sting of salt and fish reached his nose as the storm pushed refuse back to the shore. The dark water reflected light from a brazier wider than his outstretched arms. He was unsure what he was asking about this time. “So many things have come and gone,” he mumbled as he ran his fingers through his thin brown hair, “My brother Cyrus gone, the Talisman here, magic gone then returned, but so different than it was before. How many people dead? How many Kingdoms fallen? All in such a short time, at least by history’s standards.”

The street was almost deserted of people. It was the beginning of a chilly autumn night, and Cyril wrapped his cloak around him. The wind picked up as the storm rolled in from the sea. The few people out moved about their business, heads down, wanting to be inside before the squall began to batter the city. Voices called out, trying to sell their last few fish to people rushing home, and others tried to call passersby into warm taverns. Lightning flashed over the Sea of Seron and spray showered the street as the breakers became fiercer.

Cyril’s muttering didn’t attract much attention, but his being alone did. People did not travel alone in this part of town, and never unarmed. Cyril stood out. He dressed as a scholar may, simple but well-made clothes. No weapon showed at his waist and no bodyguard stood behind him. This made him either crazy or dangerous; either way people noticed and gave him wide berth. Most people did at least.

Cyril had seen the silhouette on the roof. It had shown itself before the clouds covered the full moon, as it leapt the ten-yard span from one rooftop to another. It was huge if it was a man. It was following him, but not hunting him, yet. The cleric was not an expert on such things but his instincts, and the protection of his god, had served him well in the past. He knew the God of Justice favored him. Cyril grew up in the lands that Jonath had been born to and walked before claiming his right of divinity. The priest drew strength from that. That alone allowed Cyril not to fear whomever, or whatever, followed him. No one, man nor beast, would stop him from his mission.

He turned his back on the rooftop shadow and thought of his brother Cyrus as he stared at the inlet with its bobbing ships. Cyril wished the sea had claimed Cyrus, but the gods had other plans for Cyril’s twin. He was always the action to Cyril’s thought. Where his twin stood tall and strong and went through an obstacle, Cyril would find a way around it. Everyone, especially women, liked Cyrus. He was fun and charming, where Cyril was quiet and studied books instead of raising tankards. They worked well together but never took the same path, though when working with one another they never left anything incomplete.

“What’s the point?” Cyril mumbled as the first icy drops of rain hissed as they hit the brazier. He stood in the rain a bit longer, brooding and watching the rain bounce on the water. The docks around him grew slick, and he turned to go to a tavern. He was not foolish enough to stay in a freezing rain, no matter how much Jonath favored him. His brother would have stayed, but he was not his brother. Not at all anymore, or rather his brother was in no way himself anymore. Through that odd bond twins share, Cyril could still feel Cyrus at times. It had grown less frequent, had an alien feel, and was always faint.

Cyril dwelled on this as he made his way to ‘The Loose Goose’, a not-too-seedy dock pub that served a variety of spiced wines and baked fowl. He saw a flicker of movement on the roof as the figure moved to follow, a huge hulking shape darker than the stormy night. Cyril wondered if it was Cyrus, come to kill him or turn him into whatever his brother had become. It didn’t matter; he would complete his mission then go find his brother. The priest hunched his shoulders under his cloak, and moved away from the docks.

In a few blocks, he pushed his way into the smoky interior of the pub and squinted at the dim interior, which was bright compared to outside. The smell of stale beer and pungent tobacco filled the room. A layer of smoke from pipes and oil lamps hung above the room. A rim of frost had collected on his moustache and ice on his short cloak. He stomped his booted feet and shook out his cloak by the door, where a puddle had been created by previous patrons. Cyril stood up straight and still did not stand very tall, a bit taller than most women and a bit shorter than most men. He’d been in this rundown seaport for over a month now, and nodded to the few people that acknowledged him as he looked for a table once his eyes adjusted. The bar had seats, but he was not in the mood for the conversation that the drunks would push upon him, so he took a seat at the end of a long public table. He hunching his shoulders and stared at the minstrel singing above the din of the patrons. He made it apparent that he was not in a social mood.

He could see the door and most of the room with a slight turn of his head. He watched the polished metal mirror behind the bar occasionally for movement behind him. The serving woman brought him a goblet of the thin red wine he preferred. Elade knew him well enough, even though he was relatively new here. She smiled through her missing teeth, and played with her red hair with streaks of grey. He ordered some stew, bread and cheese from her and sent her away.

His mind wandered over the people he knew here. Most had common names or old names. You could tell a stranger by their name. Regions tended to follow patterns for naming their children. He saw one he knew, a dark curly haired lad. He did not know his name, but he had seen him often recently. Cyril needed something specific and he wasn’t sure how to find it. So he had put the word out on the street and he knew someone would come to him soon enough. He watched as the boy came towards his table, and with a quick prayer to his God for guidance, Cyril gestured for the boy to sit.

“You the one who needed the belt buckle?” the dark haired boy asked as he sat and Cyril nodded. “It will cost you one hundred and fifty gold kords, is that a problem?” The lad leaned back in his chair, one hand under the table and the other picking at the wood on the back of the chair next to him. Cyril leaned forward putting his elbows on the table and shook his head, indicating that it would not be a problem.

“How quick can you get it for me?” Cyril asked. “I am not sure where it is, but I have tracked it to this town. All I know is a jewelry merchant had it when he came into town.”

“You don’t even know where it is? That could be a problem, but I should be able to find it. It will cost you extra though. Fifty gold kords should cover my expenses. Is that agreeable?” The boy looked at Cyril nonchalantly, a look that made Cyril feel this boy had more years of experience than most men twice his age.

“No, that is no problem,” Cyril said as he reached into his pouch and dug out a fingernail sized blue gemstone and slid it across the table. “This should retain your services and loyalty until the task is completed, lad.”

The boy leaned forward, covering the stone with his hand as he glanced around the room to see if anyone was looking. “You trying to get a knife in the back, friend? I like you, but don’t think for a second I would take a blade to protect you.” He slid the gem off the table and dropped it into his pouch.

“My name is Cyril and I am not worried about a stranger’s blade. My god protects me,” Cyril explained as he drew a highly polished solid silver medallion of Jonath, a pair of scales balanced on the center point of a three-pronged trident, from inside his shirt. “He has much bigger plans for me, I assure you.”

“Maybe so, but there is no need to put his protection to the test, is there now?” the younger man asked as he looked around. No one had noticed the exchange.

“What is your name, son, and is there anything I can do to help you?” Cyril asked.

“I’m a girl. Have you been celibate so long that you can’t tell the difference anymore?” she said with a smile. “My name is Gruedo, and I work solo. I don’t want to end up face down and dead on some tavern’s table because I trusted someone, no offense.” Gruedo stood up to leave. “I will have it before the sun rises,” she said, turned, and strolled out of the tavern into the shadows of the night.

Lord Jaeken stared at the portrait of his twin sons, an ache in his chest. He had done everything he could to give them a good life. He had raised them alone; his wife had died during childbirth and he had never remarried. He had given them freely to the church so they could have the best education and opportunities. They had flourished. Cyril had endless libraries to explore, and Cyrus could be the lad of action he always dreamed of being. They learned from the finest tutors and weapons masters in the kingdom. He held a crystal snifter in his hand as he leaned on the mantle of the grand fireplace; looking up at the oil painting he had commissioned ten years ago; the year they had gained church position. Jaeken had run his business without heirs, letting them achieve their dreams at the sacrifice of his. He had planned to set it up so the business was self-sufficient and would continue to bring them money long after his own death. He had been so proud of his sons. Now he had lost them both.

Turning back to his guests that had made themselves comfortable in the drawing room after dinner, he gathered his thoughts. Sipping on his whiskey, he looked at the silver candelabras that lit the room, the plush velvet divans and armchairs, and the rich décor. It all meant nothing now. The gathered group spoke in hushed tones, unsure what was to come next. Small talk throughout the meal had told him he had chosen the right people. When he made the requests, he knew the names could never be revealed and the dinner would have to be small. What he was doing could be considered treason, but he would right the wrongs he had created by not listening to his sons.