144: Wrath (19 page)

Polas was the first through the opening, and the others followed closely on his heels with weapons drawn.

"Reyce, it’s good to see you," Polas said.

"Um," Kiff said, "can I have my knife back?"

Xandra and Flint stared in horror as Reyce slid the sickle from his back. The blade scraped, and Polas heard a few pops, but it came out clean.

Vor snorted in disdain, but the others continued to stare in disbelief.

Polas was unfazed. "I could tell there was something wrong about you when we first met, my friend. How long have you been counted among the dead?"

"Wait, you’re dead?" The Undlander stared down at his bloodless sickle. "That’s cheating."

"Death found me not long after you went missing," Reyce said, completely ignoring Kiff. "I’ve been the lifeless steward of the guildhall ever since."

"That explains how you knew so much about Lynnc and the others," Polas said.

Reyce nodded.

Someone was still around from Polas’s age. Around but not truly alive. Polas was rocked by a sudden image of Calec, pale flesh, sunken eyes, and cold blood. Matthew had said the boy was alive, though. Surely he would have made the distinction.

"I admit I am quite relieved you have come at last," Reyce said. "Though I do not actually need rest, I fear my heart is weary of these years with dry blood in my veins."

Flint curled his bottom lip and drummed his fingers against a scroll case.

Vor's eyes scanned the rooftops and alleyways, and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

"I agree with Vor," Kiff said. "I'm sure these revelations are wonderful, but maybe they could take place, oh, any place else."

Reyce nodded. "You’re right, of course. We should leave the streets. There are, no doubt, more eyes searching for you than my own."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Nittengret was a salty mix of sea traders and settlers locked in by the expansive ocean that separated Maduria from Cratia. The air held a constant chill that became icy when the wind swept from the west. The city was arrayed as though all the buildings and shops were fighting for a better view of the coast, the bravest of which ventured out onto the waters on floating docks. Boats loaded down with crates and barrels, passengers and sailors, slipped in and out of their berths on the two-mile long dock. Carts and wagons filed in from the mainland, bringing furs, meats, wine, and any number of assorted textiles.

Lacien landed on the eastern outskirts and worked the tired muscles in his neck and shoulders. His feathered wings glistened with mist collected from flying among the clouds. Nittengret was the last stop before the Mela Islands. Only ocean lay in the vast expanse between the two cities, and he needed food and rest before the long flight.

He moved his bow from its cradle against his chest to rest on his left shoulder and unlatched the lid of the leather quiver strapped to his right thigh. He checked the short sword on his hip and tightened his bracers. Lacien was not expecting trouble, but Nittengret was a free territory that answered to no government and saw all types of rabble pass across its docks, including many Cratin traders, and there was no great love between the Melaci and the Cratin peoples.

A large inn stood on the very edge of the coast, half of its bulk jutting out over the waves. The Fisherman’s Hole was a favorite haunt of sailors who had no boat of their own to sleep on because it rocked along with the motion of the tides. Lacien was not terribly fond of the tavern, but it was one of the few places in town where one could repose cheaply without being forced to share a bed with roaches or worse.

He stepped across the threshold and into the stale, misty air of the downstairs bar. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim haze, and he stumbled over a young Cairtol who staggered out of the bar with drink in hand.

"Watch it, Winger!"

"Apologies," Lacien said, but the Cairtol was already stumbling away down the street.

The tavern was full, but not crowded. It had booths along the wall and a few tables strewn about the room. A section of the floor opened up near the bar to the gently lapping waters below. The floating chairs and stools were prized seats and were always full of sailors who swore that the bobbing motion made them better at holding their ale. A small sign hung above the open water with the word "Overlook" scrawled across it in jagged letters. Waitresses were forced to make short jumps from the wood planks that made up the tavern’s floor over to the alcohol-laden raft that held the bartender. A bright kitchen hid behind a closed door near the back of the building, and a spiral staircase led to the tenant rooms above.

Lacien made his way over to an unoccupied table and sat, leaning forward on his elbows. The seating in the bar was not designed with Melaci in mind, and while he could recoil his wings against his back, it was still quite painful to lean back against them.

A small lantern illuminated the middle of the table, and he found himself lost in its flickering flame, thinking of what might await him in the homeland he had been forced to leave. His title, his lands, and his rank in the army had all been stripped from him for refusing a single order, and his life had been in a tumultuous tailspin ever since.

"What can I do for you, honey?" The waitress was a thirty-something Peltin girl barely on the right side of plain. She wore a short skirt and a tight-fitting corset. A dirty towel and a coin box hung from a sash around her waist.

"Boren cuts and water, please," Lacien said with a tired grin. "And a room if you have it." He pulled out a few coins from the pouch around his neck and laid them on the table. "I’ll be checking out early, so I’d like to pay up front, if that’s alright."

"Fine by me, dear," she said. "Boren cuts and water, coming up, and I’ll check on that room for you."

Lacien watched her leave, his mind drifting once again into the past five years of his life.

"Your eyes are wandering where they don’t belong, stranger." A tall Peltin man with athletic arms and legs and a chiseled midsection, dropped the handle of his warhammer on Lacien’s table and leaned against it, causing his biceps to coil into hard knots.

Lacien did not lift his head, but gave the man a cursory glance before returning to his thoughts.

"Hey," the man continued, "I’m talking at you, winger. You see my friends over there?" He pointed to a dark corner of the bar where a massive Cratin with deep black fur and matching horns sat beside a comparatively runty Dairbun with a gap-toothed grin and shells weaved into his beard. "They don’t like you sitting this close to ‘em."

Lacien looked up to see if the waitress was returning with his drink yet. "Then maybe they should move."

The man’s lips curled, and he waved his friends over to his side. "Boy, I don’t like your attitude."

The waitress returned and nervously slid Lacien his glass of water. "Your cuts will be out shortly, sir, and we’re getting a room ready."

The Cratin pushed her out of the way as he approached the table to stand next to his friend.

The Peltin man spat in Lacien’s cup. "You wingers are all so high and mighty, thinking you’re so much better than everybody."

Lacien poured the water out over the floor and watched it trickle along the planks and into the opening beside the bar. "Sometimes we are." He slowly lifted his head and ran his fingers through his raven hair. His eyes glowed with an iridescent emerald light.

The Cratin and the Dairbun stepped back, and the Peltin tripped over himself as he bolted upright and had to be caught by his friends to keep from falling into the Overlook.

"We didn’t know you was a Gifted!"

Lacien closed his eyes and took a calming breath. When he opened them again, they were his normal sky blue. "It shouldn’t matter."

"Y-yes, sir," the Peltin man said. "S-sorry, sir."

The trio gathered up their things and hurried out the front door.

Lacien spent the rest of the evening under a mix of anxious and admiring stares until he was finally shown to his room for the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Reyce had put together some makeshift cots for the group in the old mess hall. A few mage-lights and a single window kept the room comfortably dim for both conversation and rest.

Flint spent his time examining the statues of the generals while taking detailed notes in his journal. Kiff sat on the edge of the Nalunis skull while Xandra studied the artifact. Polas, Reyce, and Vor stood near the door discussing all that had transpired within the city walls in the last week.

"I’ve never seen the Thieves’ Guild this overtly active before," Reyce said. "It’s like they are being pushed by an external force. All three houses are working in tandem, and that almost never happens."

"So there actually is a Thieves’ Guild? I assumed the boy was exaggerating. Why haven’t the city officials stamped out such an organization?" Polas asked.

"Because most of them are members," Kiff said. "Not to mention it would mean a lot less coin in their pockets."

Vor huffed. "And what do you know of it, boy?"

"Yes, tell us more about the organization, Kiff," Reyce said. "Tell us how you know all about the Thieves’ Guild’s inner-workings."

Kiff stood and shrugged. "You go ahead. While you’re at it, why don’t you explain to them why you keep covering up that tattoo on your wrist?"

Reyce glared and pulled back his sleeve. "I make no attempts to hide it, assassin. It is the mark of the House of Suns, the most respected branch of the Thieves’ Guild."

Vor glowered and unsheathed his axe.

"Early in the Guild’s formation I could sense its potential for power," Reyce said. "I knew that it would be important for me to be informed of their dealings. The surest path to that information was to join them. I have long since severed my ties with anyone within the Guild who knew about me, but the knowledge I have gained has been invaluable to my own survival and to ensure that this hall still stands.

"I watched as this city became enslaved to its corruption. I have seen kings deposed and government officials bought and sold. And I have seen a brilliant young assassin rise through the ranks of the House of Stars."

Reyce turned an accusing eye on Kiff.

"Brilliant?" Kiff said. "I like to think I try harder than most, but you flatter me."

Xandra’s jaw dropped open.

Flint closed his journal and set it down so that he could be prepared in case things became heated. He let his mind slow down and take in every nuance of those around him on the chance he would be forced to intercede.

He watched Vor’s lips curl back in a twisted grin while his eyes widened with the first drops of bloodlust.

He saw Kiff’s left foot slide out a fraction of an inch and saw the Undlander’s calf muscles coil.

Flint’s eyes followed as Reyce slowly slid his lifeless hand into his robes and palmed a gold-hilted kukri between his cold, white fingers.

It was then he realized he did not know whom he wanted to stop.

"I knew the pup was traitorous," Vor said. "Come, feel my axe’s bite, and let’s be done with this charade."

"Stand down, Vor," Polas said, placing a hand on the Dorokti leader’s shoulder.

Vor shrugged Polas’s hand away and stomped toward Kiff, his teeth grinding and eyes darkening.

"Polas, I am not your dog to leash," he said. He spun the end of his axe and took another few steps, halving the distance between himself and the Undlander. He snorted and lifted his axe overhead in preparation for a charge.

"I said stand down."

 Vor hesitated, and Flint took the moment to ready a spell: a small blast of flame that, if placed correctly, should knock everyone on their backsides.

The Dorokti growled. "I will not see this mission destroyed by your lack of foresight as it was the last time."

Polas kicked the back of Vor’s leg, forcing him to his knees. The Dorokti turned blood-swelled eyes toward Polas who punched him square in the face. Vor fell forward and caught himself on all fours. He spat out a mouthful of his black blood and wiped a trickle from his snout.

"This is neither the time nor the place for blood to be shed. I tell you again, stay your anger," Polas said.

Flint stood frozen, unsure if he should even breathe lest he further burden the tension hanging in the air.

He noticed that Kiff remained on the balls of his feet, ready to protect himself, but interestingly, the Undlander’s weapons were still sheathed.

Vor lowered his head and his shoulders shook. Flint held his breath, waiting and watching as the dark clouds drained from the Dorokti’s eyes. The warrior’s breath was still ragged, but his rage was contained.

The room sat in weighty silence. Flint took a few steps over to his student, who fidgeted with her quarterstaff.

"Perhaps we should see this as a boon," Flint said, shattering the stillness. "We have two gentle-beings with us who have knowledge of the inner-workings of our detractors. I think we should be able to use this advantage to unravel any webs they may have spun for us. I, for one, would welcome any information they can offer us to use as mark-pieces in our stratagem."

Polas nodded. "You’re right. But we also need to rest. We’re all on edge, but I think we have avoided trouble for now thanks to both our allies’ interventions. We should be cleared to rest for at least this night, and we can get an early start tomorrow."

Polas set his sword against a cot and scratched at his scarred face. The others milled about for a moment, but everyone was too wound up to get ready for bed. Kiff paced back and forth a few times before slipping out of the room, and Xandra followed shortly after with a book in hand.

Vor clung to his axe as he stared out the lone window. He was the king of a proud people, and Flint could tell that backing down did not sit well with him. He scratched his snout and rubbed his axe blade against one of his horns, his thumb twitching against its handle.

Polas sat on the end of his cot and began unlacing his boots, while Reyce brought a stack of horse blankets for the groups' warmth.

The caretaker dropped one by each of the cots and left the rest in a pile near the statues. "Will you require anything else this night?"

Flint decided it was time to have a talk with the man regarding the ramifications of undeath and its effects on the soul.