The Lord Collector

Anthony Ryan

The following story takes place in the same world as my novel Blood Song, the first volume in the Raven’s Shadow trilogy. I wrote it because I wanted to more fully explore characters who appear in Blood Song and the sequels Tower Lord and Queen of Fire. Readers familiar with my work are sure to recognize a certain pale-eyed, raspy voiced Sword Master of the Sixth Order and those curious as to the origins of the Tower Lord of the Southern Shore will find answers here. The tale takes place at the mid-point of the timeline described in Blood Song, a time when King Janus, with typical ruthlessness, is in the process of further consolidating his grip on the Unified Realm.

~

“Where are they, Varesh?”

Varesh Baldir was a tall man, somewhere past his fortieth year, thickset with a copious unkempt beard that partly concealed the weathered features common to those who eked a living from the shore. His heavy brows furrowed as he stared at Jehrid, eyes lit mostly with hate and fury, but also betraying a momentary flicker of fear.

“We counted near two score corpses on the beach after you lured that freighter to its death,” Jehrid continued, sensing a fractional advantage. “I know the code as well as you. Blood pays for blood.”

Varesh took a deep breath, closing his eyes and turning his face out towards the sea, hate and fear fading as his brow softened under the salted wind. After a moment he opened his eyes and turned back to Jehrid, mouth set in a hard, unyielding line, and his tattooed fists bunched, jangling the manacles on his meaty wrists.

Silence is the only law, Jehrid thought. First rule of the smuggler’s code, drilled into him over many an unhappy year. This is a waste of time.

He sighed and moved closer to Nawen’s Maw, an unnatural bore-hole through the rocky overhang on which they stood. Varesh’s chain traced from his manacles to an iron brace set into the top of a stone resembling an upended pear, a wide rounded top narrowing to a flat base. It had been carved from the pale red sandstone that proliferated on the southern Asraelin shore and made the buildings here so distinctive. One of Jehrid’s first acts upon assuming his role had been to hire a mason to fashion the stones, insisting they be at least twice the weight of a man and shaped so as to allow them to be easily tipped into the maw. When complete, he had his men arrange them in a tidy row atop the overhang; a clear statement of intent. He had begun with twenty, now only five remained, soon to become four.

Jehrid rested a boot on the stone, glancing down at the waves crashing on the rocks far below. The terns had already begun to gather, wings folding back as they plunged into the swell, eager for the fresh pickings below. This shore had ever been kind to scavengers. The diving birds were the only sign of the six men he had already consigned to the Maw, Varesh’s kin: four cousins, a brother, and a nephew. Last of the Stone Teeth, a brotherhood of smugglers and wreckers that had plagued this shore for more than three generations. Before kicking each boulder Jehrid had asked Varesh the same question, and each time the leader of the Stone Teeth had stood silent and watched his kin dragged to their deaths. Varesh’s only child, a daughter of notoriously vicious temper, had fallen to a crossbow bolt when Jehrid led his company into the smuggler’s den, a narrow crack in the maze of cliffs east of South Tower, crammed with sundry spoils looted from the Alpiran freighter they had enticed onto the rocks a month before. One of Varesh’s cousins had allowed wine to loosen his tongue upon visiting a brothel in town the previous night, and Jehrid had always found whores to be excellent informants.

“My mother once told me a story of how the Maw got its name,” he told Varesh in a reflective tone. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Your mother was a poxed bitch,” Varesh told him, voice quivering with rage. “Who whelped a traitor.”

“It’s not natural, you see,” Jehrid went on, his tone unchanged. “Nawen, or Na Wen to give him his correct name, was captain and only survivor of a wrecked ship from the Far West. A lonely old fishwife took him in, though he was quite mad by all accounts. Every day he would come here and chip away at the cliff with hammer and chisel. Every day for twelve years until he had carved a perfect circular hole through this overhang. And when he was done…well, I assume you can guess what he did next.”

Jehrid stiffened his leg, tilting the stone towards the maw. “No-one knows why he did it, for who can divine the mind of a madman? But my mother was wise, and judged it an act of revenge, a desire to leave the mark of man on the shore that wrecked his ship and killed his crew.”

He gave Varesh a final questioning glance. “Life in the king’s mines isn’t much,” he said. “But it is life. I know the Stone Teeth allied with the Red Breakers to wreck that ship. Things must have come to a desperate pass to forge an alliance between hated enemies. Settle some old scores, Varesh. Tell me where their den is.”

Varesh spat on the rocks at Jehrid’s feet and straightened his back. “If I find your mother in the Beyond…”

Jehrid kicked the stone, sending it tumbling into the maw, the chain rattling over rock as it snapped taught. Varesh had time for only the briefest shout as he was drawn into the hole, bones cracking as he rebounded from the sides, followed by a despairing wail as he plummeted towards the crashing waves.

“Make a note for the Royal Dispatches,” Jehrid said, turning to his Sergeant of Excise, a squat Nilsaelin recruited as much for his facility with letters as his skill with a crossbow. “Varesh Baldir, leader of the gang known as the Stone Teeth, executed this day with six of his cohorts. Execution carried out under the King’s Word by Jehrid Al Bera, Lord Collector of the King’s Excise. Append a list of the contraband we recovered, and be sure the men know I’ll check it against stores.”

The sergeant gave a brisk nod, wisely keeping silent. Like most of those recruited to the Lord Collector’s service, he had quickly gained an appreciation for Jehrid’s intolerance of even the most petty theft. “You are paid twice the wage of the Realm Guard for a reason,” he had told their assembled ranks the morning he flogged a former Varinshold City Guard for helping himself to a single vial of redflower. “Greed will not be tolerated.”

“Rider coming, my lord,” another Excise Man called, pointing to the north. The rider wore the uniform of a South Guard, a youthful recruit as many were these days. The new Tower Lord had been punctilious in enforcing the King’s order that his command be purged of the lazy and corrupt, though it left him in sore need of guardsmen.

“Tower Lord’s compliments, Lord Al Bera,” the young guardsman said, reining in and bowing low in the saddle. “He requests your presence with all urgency.”

“Another wreck?” Jehrid asked him.

“No, my lord.” The guardsman straightened and gave a wary smile. “We have…visitors.”

#

Tower Lord Nohrin Al Modral greeted Jehrid with an affable nod as he entered the chamber but failed to rise from his plain, high-backed chair. Although they were technically of equal rank Jehrid took no offense at the absence of an honorary greeting. He had known this man as captain and, later, Lord Marshal throughout his years in the Realm Guard and was well acquainted with his former commander’s disdain for useless ceremony. Also, Al Modral was only two years shy of seventy and his legs not so sturdy these days.

The plainness of his chair, and the mostly bare audience chamber where he received visitors, were a stark contrast to the previous incumbent. Former Tower Lord Al Serahl had maintained a richly decorated chamber and greeted visitors perched atop a tall, throne-like chair, so tall in fact he required a ladder to ascend it. He had been a small man, narrow of face with a prominent nose, and Jehrid recalled seeing a resemblance to a suspicious parrot the day he and Lord Al Modral had walked in six months before, unannounced and bearing a warrant of arrest adorned with the King’s seal. The full company of Realm Guard at their back had discouraged any unwise intervention from those South Guard present, despite the pleas of the unfortunate Al Serahl who screamed himself quite hoarse before tumbling from his lofty perch in a tangle of robes fashioned from the finest Alpiran silks. When Jehrid led him to the gallows, his clothing had been much more modest.

“It seems we have occasion to celebrate, Lord Collector,” the Tower Lord said, gesturing at the three figures standing before him. “The Faith sees fit to lend aid to our cause.”

Jehrid went to one knee before the Tower Lord before rising to survey the visitors. The tallest wore a sword on his back and the dark blue cloak of the Sixth Order, returning Jehrid’s scrutiny with impassive pale eyes. His closely cropped hair was flecked with gray at the temples, and his features had the leanness typical of the Faith’s deadly servants. Jehrid knew him from a best forgotten foray into Lonak territory, though he entertained no illusions the brother would remember the boy-soldier who stood staring in blank amazement as he cut down three Lonak warriors in as many seconds.

“Brother Sollis, is it not?” Jehrid greeted the pale-eyed man with a bow. Deadliest blade in the Sixth Order, he pondered as Sollis inclined his head. Come south to battle smugglers. Does the King think so poorly of our efforts he begs aid from the Order?

“This is Brother Lucin and Sister Cresia,” Sollis said in a dry rasp, nodding at his two companions, both wearing the dun colored robes of the Second Order. Brother Lucin was a thin, balding man somewhere past his fiftieth year. It seemed to Jehrid that his apparently serene expression was somewhat forced, his features tensed as if holding a mask in place. Sister Cresia seemed to be little more than sixteen years old, honey blonde hair tied back from youthful features, her slight form concealed within robes worn with evident discomfort. Unlike Lucin, she felt no need for a false air of serenity, returning Jehrid’s gaze with a barely suppressed scowl.

Second Order, Jehrid mused inwardly. What use have we for missionaries here?

“Our visitors come on a special errand, Lord Al Bera,” the Tower Lord went on. “Regarding the Alpiran vessel wrecked last month. I was explaining you had the matter well in hand. You have finished with the Stone Teeth, have you not?”

“As of this morning, my lord,” Jehrid replied. “Though the Red Breakers remain elusive. Perhaps another week of investigation will root them out. My agents are busy, promise of rich reward always stirs them to greater efforts.”

“A week is too long,” Brother Sollis stated. “With luck, our assistance will assuage any delays.”

“The help of the Sixth Order is always welcome, brother,” Jehrid replied before casting a pointed glance at the two missionaries. “However, I confess myself at a loss as to the aid offered by your companions. No offense, good brother and sister, but the hearts of the Red Breakers will not open to the Faith, regardless of how many catechisms you cast at their ears.”

Sister Cresia’s half-scowl twisted into a smirk, her voice betraying a faint note of contempt as she looked down, muttering “Got more than catechisms to throw at them.”

Brother Lucin gave her a sharp glance, saying nothing, but the severity of his gaze was sufficient to make her lower her head further, sullenness replacing contempt. “My apologies, my lord,” Lucin said to Jehrid. “My pupil is barely a week into her first foray beyond the walls of our house and knows little of the world or, it seems, common courtesy.” He glared again at Cresia who kept her head lowered, though Jehrid saw her hands were now clasped tight together, quivering a little.

This girl’s no more a missionary than I am, Jehrid thought. What do they want here?

“The ranks of my Order are filled with varied talents,” Brother Lucin went on. “The missions test our bodies as well as our Faith. I myself was a hunter before I felt the call to don these robes.”

No you weren’t, Jehrid surmised from the briefest glance at the brother’s spindly arms and lined but unweathered features. I doubt you spend one more minute out of doors than you have to. However, he merely nodded as the brother continued, “Sometimes my brothers in the Sixth have occasion to call on my tracking skills, when their own talents are otherwise occupied.”

“We need to see the wreck,” Sollis said.

“There’ll barely be anything left,” Jehrid told him. “A month of tides will have cleansed the shore of timber, and the sands of tracks.”

“Even so,” Sollis said, meeting his gaze, pale eyes unblinking.

Jehrid had been a soldier for twenty of his thirty-three years. He had fought Lonak, outlaws, heretics and, though he preferred not the dwell on it, Meldeneans, and knew himself to be the equal or superior of most men he was likely to meet in combat. But this one was different, for he had never forgotten seeing him fight. Nevertheless, he had ever been a slave to his temper and resentful of those who sought to stir fear in his breast, a long dulled sensation, summoning ugly boyhood memories and unwise notions.

“May I ask,” he grated, turning to face Sollis squarely, “what interest you have in this particular wreck?”

Sollis angled his head slightly, expression unchanged apart from a narrowing of his eyes. Jehrid felt his temper quicken yet further at the knowledge of being assessed and, no doubt, found wanting. Fortunately, the Tower Lord intervened before he could give voice to any anger.

“It seems there was a passenger aboard,” Lord Al Modral groaned, levering himself out of his chair with difficulty, hand trembling on the heavy staff he was obliged to carry these days. Jehrid knew better than to offer assistance, the old man retained a surfeit of pride and had a temper of his own. “A passenger of some importance, eh brother?”

“Quite so, my lord,” Sollis replied, blinking before switching his gaze to the Tower Lord. “One King Janus is keen to recover.”

“Every soul on that ship perished on the rocks or drowned in the surf,” Jehrid said. “The Alpiran merchants in town saw to the bodies and did what they could to glean names from their belongings.”

“The passenger we seek was not among them,” Lucin stated in an emphatic tone Jehrid found near as aggravating as Sollis’s appraising gaze.

“They’re all dead,” Jehrid repeated. “You come here on a fool’s errand…”

Lord Al Modral’s heavy staff thumped onto the flagstones. The old man’s legs might be failing but his arm remained strong. The echo birthed by his staff resounded through the chamber for some seconds before he spoke again, “Brothers, and sister, the Lord Collector will be more than happy to escort you to the wreck and render any and all assistance required. Please leave us whilst we discuss other matters.”

After the trio had made their exit the Tower Lord moved to the stained glass window set into the chamber’s south facing wall. The window was the only vestige of the deposed Lord Al Serahl’s love of expensive ornamentation, conceived to celebrate a battle, and an atrocity, he had taken no direct part in. It was a floor-to-ceiling wonder of expert craftsmanship, lead and glass of various hues rendered into an ascending narrative. At the bottom many ships sailed from a harbor, marked as South Tower by the lance-like structure rising above the docks. The middle panes depicted a vicious sea battle that failed to conform to Jehrid’s memory. Most of the Meldenean fleet had been absent that day and the pirates hadn’t been able to muster even a third of the ships ascribed to them here. Unlike the sea battle, the window’s upper panes were entirely in keeping with Jehrid’s memory: a city…burning. The late afternoon sun was clear of cloud today and painted the scene across the chamber floor in vivid detail, leaving Jehrid unable to escape its dreadful spectacle and the memories it provoked.

“More than ten years on,” Lord Al Modral said, nodding at the window. “But it seems like yesterday sometimes. Then there are days when it’s just a dim memory, like a fragment from a nightmare you can’t quite shake.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Jehrid said, keeping his gaze lowered. He hated the window and had in fact petitioned for its destruction. The Tower Lord, however, had far too much respect for the arts to allow it.

“Before…this,” Al Modral waved his staff at the burning city. “I recall a captain less inclined to anger.”

“Ten years is a long time, my lord,” Jehrid replied, resisting the impulse to close his eyes. Whoever had crafted the window had somehow managed to capture the exact shade of flame that had consumed the Meldenean capital, though fortunately, there was no art that could recreate the screams.

“Nevertheless,” Al Modral went on. “I think the King would prefer his Lord Collector keep a clear and level head during this mission.”

Jehrid blinked, forcing himself to focus on the Tower Lord. “Of course, my lord.”

“They arrived unannounced, bearing missives from the Aspects of the Second and Sixth Orders, but no royal warrant. Curious, don’t you think? Given that they come on royal business.”

“Certainly, my lord. Sufficiently curious to require them to wait whilst we seek clarification from court.”

Al Modral shook his head. “Life as a Lord Marshal taught me many lessons, Jehrid. Lessons you would do well to learn if, as is my fervent wish, you are to succeed me one day in holding this Tower. Today’s lesson is twofold. First, the folly of obstructing the Orders, the Sixth in particular. Second, the value of information. I should like to know the identity of this passenger they seek, and the nature of their business on this shore.”

Never reckoned him a schemer, Jehrid thought. But the king gave him the Tower for a reason. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

“Good.” The Tower Lord placed a hand on his shoulder as they turned and moved back to the chair, the old man more willing to accept aid now there were no witnesses. “And, if this passenger is still alive we know full well who holds them. With the Faith’s help, mayhap you’ll finally find what drew you back to this shore.”

He settled back onto his chair with a sigh, his hand slipping from Jehrid’s shoulder like a limp rag. “Do you think it’ll be sweet when you finally taste it, my fierce and implacable friend?” he asked. “They say vengeance can be bitter.”

“It could be wormwood and I’d still drink until my belly bursts.” Jehrid stepped back, dropping to one knee before rising to deliver an impeccable salute. “By your leave, my lord.”

#

Shelter Bay was a misnamed, rocky notch in the shoreline some thirty miles west of South Tower. It was formed of a hundred yards of beach flanked by tall bluffs. At high tide the sea became a fury of roaring breakers, churned up by the plentiful rocks lurking beneath the surface. They only became visible at low tide, a dark maze of jagged reefs making this such a favored spot for the wrecking gangs.

They had set out from South Tower the previous evening, Jehrid riding with twenty of his most trusted men. Brother Sollis rode with the two missionaries and a dozen brothers from the Sixth Order. They had camped in the dunes overnight before proceeding to the bay where, contrary to Jehrid’s expectations, the tides had contrived to spare some vestige of the Alpiran vessel.

She had been named as the Selennah by the Alpiran merchants who came to lay claim to whatever cargo Jehrid might recover, an archaic term but within his grasp of Alpiran: Voyager. An old ship, but large and well captained, though not well enough to resist the lure of the wreckers’ false lights. Jehrid assumed a junior mate must have had the watch when they neared the shore. A veteran sailor would have known better. Three of her arched beams rose from the waves like the bared ribs of some scavenged beast, all that remained of a freighter that had sailed the Erinean and beyond for three decades.

“And you found no survivors at all?” Sister Cresia asked, eyeing the wreck with little sign of the sullen frown she had worn throughout the journey.

“The sea is ever an efficient assassin, sister,” Jehrid told her. “Though there were a few with their throats cut, fingers hacked off. Wreckers don’t like to leave witnesses behind, or their jewelry.”

Her features gave a twitch of mingled disgust and anger which Jehrid found himself liking her for. Some sense of justice behind the scowl, it seems.

“Best if we three proceed alone,” Brother Lucin said, climbing down from his horse with a discomforted wince. “My…skills work best without distraction.”

“The sand is bare, as I said it would be,” Jehrid pointed out as Sister Cresia and Brother Sollis followed Lucin to the beach. The balding brother merely waved and kept laboring through the dunes. Jehrid watched the three of them approach the shoreline. For a time Lucin walked back and forth with Sollis and Cresia in tow, pausing occasionally to point at something on the sand before stroking his chin in apparent contemplation. Jehrid had never been one for plays, but he knew a performance when he saw one. Tracker my arse.

After some further mummery, Lucin came to a halt, turning his gaze out to sea. He stood still for some time, back straight and arms loose at his sides, seemingly uncaring of the waves lapping around his feet and dampening the hem of his robe. Abruptly, Lucin jerked as if in pain, clasping himself tight and doubling over. Sister Cresia came to his side in evident concern but he waved her away. Even from this distance Jehrid could see his hand was trembling.

“What is this, my lord?” the Sergeant of Excise murmured at his side, swarthy features bunched in suspicion.

“King’s business!” Jehrid snapped, though in a low voice. “Still your tongue.”

He watched Lucin say something to Brother Sollis before slumping with a weary shake of his head, kept upright only by Sister Cresia. Jehrid saw Lucin wipe at his nose before turning and raising a hand, now free of any tremble and pointing firmly west. It was too far away to tell for sure, but Jehrid could have sworn the brother’s hand was stained with blood.

#

They followed the coast until the sky began to dim, Brother Lucin riding in front with Sollis at his side. Jehrid found it odd that Lucin barely glanced at the ground as he led them in apparent pursuit of the wreckers’ trail. He had no guess as to where the brother was leading them; this stretch of coast was mostly bare of the caves or inlets beloved by smugglers, distinguished by tall cliffs and narrow stretches of shingle where only the most skilled or foolish sailor would seek to ground a boat.

Lucin and Sollis eventually came to a halt after ascending a steep rise over twenty miles from Shelter Bay. Jehrid trotted his mount closer as Lucin indicated a point a few miles ahead, a narrow channel cutting into the shore where waves broke on a series of tall sandstone columns, each shaped and honed by centuries of tides and wind so that they resembled a line of jagged swords.

“There,” Lucin said.

“The Blades?” Jehrid asked, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. “You think the Red Breakers are sheltering in the Blades?”

“You know this place?” Sollis asked.

“Everyone raised on the southern shore knows this place, and they know to avoid it. It’s completely unnavigable, even at low tide.”

“The channel leads to a waterfall, does it not?” Sollis pressed.

“It does. Pretty enough place but the walls are too steep and damp to climb and free of caves, which is why it’s of no use to the Breakers.”

He saw the brothers exchange a glance before Sollis gave a small nod. “Not caves,” Lucin said. There was a wariness to his voice, conveying the sense of a secret shared only through dire necessity. “Tunnels, built many years ago.”

“By who’s hand?” Jehrid asked.

“The Orders have a long history, my lord,” Lucin replied. “And there are builders in our ranks as well as trackers.”

“That farce you played on the beach,” Jehrid grunted with a laugh. “Why not simply tell me of these tunnels back in South Tower?”

“We needed to be certain. And now ask for your discretion.”

Jehrid glanced again at the Blades, the silent monolithic swords rising from ceaseless white fury. He recalled his first sight of them one frigid morning years ago, shivering at the rail as a large man pulled him into a warm hug and reeled off a list of foolhardy sailors who had ventured too close to this channel, among them his great uncle, dashed to ruin during a desperate gamble at evading the Lord’s bounty-men. “That’s how they kept law in those days,” the large man had told him. “Put a bounty on our heads and set the scum of the fief on our tail. We fought a war to win this shore, boy, though you’ll not find it in any history. Now we have a king, things are more civilized, but blood always pays for blood.”

“What’s in there?” Jehrid asked Lucin.

“Something that will remain hidden,” Sollis stated before the tracker could answer. “With your assistance, for which the Faith will ever be grateful.”

Jehrid had never been particularly scrupulous in his observance, but he had been raised in the Faith and the myriad dangers of a soldier’s life had often found him holding to it with fierce conviction. Also, he had an obligation to honor Lord Al Modral’s desire for information. “You know of a way in?” he asked Lucin.

#

Wary of lookouts, Jehrid insisted they approach on foot and in darkness. This scarcely troubled the Brothers of the Sixth, who moved with an unnerving silence and sureness of foot, or his own men, well accustomed to finding their way across darkened country. Brother Lucin and his pupil, however, were not so attuned to stealth.

“Quiet!” Jehrid hissed at Sister Cresia as her foot contrived to find a rabbit hole, provoking a frustrated yelp. He saw her eyes gleam in the dark as she rounded on him, no doubt ready to deliver a retort, but a nudge from Brother Lucin was enough to still her voice.

Jehrid could hear the waterfall now, a low, steady rumble drifting across through the small copse of trees where they lay. The narrow but fast flowing river that fed the waterfall gurgled past fifty yards to their left, a clear track to their goal, but guarded. They were only the dimmest shapes in the gloom, wisely denying themselves a fire but well wrapped against the chill, four in two pairs on either side of the river, each hefting a crossbow and moving in tight circles, one never straying from the sight of the other.

“Easy targets,” Sollis whispered at Jehrid’s side, his bow already in hand, a gull-fletched arrow notched and ready.

“Wait,” Jehrid murmured as Sollis turned to signal his brothers. “There’s another. One you can’t see. It’ll be the youngest, small enough to be easily hidden. Kill these and he’ll be blasting a horn a second later.”

Sollis’s lean features remained impassive, though a slight tightness in his voice told of a marked impatience. “This matter requires resolution,” he stated. “One way or another.”

“Their prisoner, if they truly have one, will die the instant that horns sounds.”

“The matter requires resolution,” Sollis repeated in the same clipped tone.

Not here to rescue, Jehrid realized. Only to silence.

He returned his gaze to the sentries, then scanned the surrounding grassland. This was not his usual hunting ground. Smugglers and wreckers tended to keep to the east, close to the main roads leading to northern towns. Where would he have put me? he pondered, eyes roaming the dim country. The falls are loud enough to mask all but the strongest blast. He would need me close…His gaze came to rest on a small mound near the edge of the spray-damp ledge next to the falls. It would have been easily taken for just a clump of grass in the gloom, but the shape was subtly wrong, the lean of the grass not quite the correct angle for the wind. He grows careless with age.

Jehrid turned to his sergeant, nodding at the loaded crossbow in his grip and beckoning him closer. He lay at the sergeant’s side and pointed out the mound. “You have it?”

The sergeant braced the crossbow against his shoulder, settling his cheek against the stock, fingers poised on the lock. “Clear as day, milord.”

“He’ll stand when the others go down. Don’t miss.” Jehrid inclined his head at Sollis. “As you will, brother.”

Sollis raised a hand to make a series of complex but rapid signs, seven brothers immediately rising in response and moving to the edge of the copse. They crouched in unison, arrows nocked and bows drawn, all without the barest rustle or creak of straining wood. There was no further instruction from the Brother Commander, he simply drew, aimed and sent his arrow into the chest of the left-most sentry, the man caught in mid-fall by another arrow before disappearing into the grass with barely a groan. Six more bowstrings snapped as one and Jehrid had a scant second to witness the demise of the remaining lookouts before a slim figure jerked upright from the tell-tale mound, a long sailor’s horn raised, back arched as he drew breath. The sergeant’s crossbow snapped and the slim figure had time for a spastic final twist before collapsing from sight.

Jehrid surged to his feet and sprinted for the falls, sparing a glance at the sentries to confirm none still moved and coming to a halt beside the one with the horn. His features were pale in the gloom, youthful prettiness rendered slack and ugly in death. There was something familiar about the set of his eyes, the smoothness of his brow stirring yet more unwelcome memories. Aunt Tilda’s eyes, Jehrid thought, scanning the boy’s body. A good mother would have spared him this.

“Just a boy,” a voice whispered at Jehrid’s back. He turned to find Sister Cresia staring at the corpse, eyes wide and face white. Something glimmered in her right hand, something sharp judging from the way it caught the meager light. She blinked, noticing his gaze and quickly concealed her hand in her robe.

Jehrid crouched and lifted the boy’s limp arm, pulling back the sleeve to reveal two black circles tattooed into the flesh alongside three vertical lines. “Two wrecks and three kills,” he told Cresia. “Youth is not the same as innocence, sister. Not on this shore.”

Brother Lucin led them to a notch in the cliff edge where a series of narrow steps had been carved into the rock, so weathered and softened by the seaward winds as to be barely visible. The climb down to the ledge below was short but not without peril, the damp steps and gloom making for some unnerving slips, though luckily there were none in their company sufficiently clumsy to completely lose footing, a deadly mistake judging by the roiling waves visible below. Sollis drew his sword and took the lead as they proceeded towards the falls, the cascade of water arcing down like a fluid glass curtain. The Brother Commander held up a hand to halt them in place and moved on alone, disappearing into the gloom behind the curtain. A second later came a faint sound of clashing steel then Sollis reappeared and beckoned them forward.

Behind the falls the ledge opened out into a grotto, much of it fashioned by hand judging by the worn but plain chisel marks on the rock. Sollis stood at the grotto’s deepest point, running his hand over the rock as if in search of something. Another sentry lay nearby, sword in hand and blood streaming from a deep gash in his neck. Jehrid was impressed he had managed to draw a blade before Sollis cut him down.

Lucin moved to Sollis’s side and peered closely at the rock, fingers probing for something. Eventually, he grunted in satisfaction and moved back, murmuring something to Sollis which Jehrid could barely catch, “Locks from the inside.”

The older brother gestured at Cresia, leaning close to her as she came forward, his words too soft to hear above the tumult of the falls. Jehrid saw the girl give a reluctant nod before moving towards the rock, laying both hands against the damp stone, her form becoming still, face blank with concentration. She remained like that for some time, the two brothers standing by with evident impatience. Eventually Lucin moved to whisper a question at which the girl turned to him, face flashing anger as she voiced a harsh rebuke. Jehrid expected the brother to respond with some form of admonishment, but instead he merely sighed and moved back, gesturing for Sollis to follow.

“Our sister may be young,” Lucin said, moving to Jehrid’s side. “But is well versed in ancient lore regarding these tunnels. To open the entrance requires pressure in one particular spot. She’ll find it soon enough.”

Jehrid’s gaze lingered on the girl, noting she had resumed the same statue-like stillness, her hands flat and unmoving on the rock. Abruptly she stiffened, leaning closer to the wall, eyes closed and head cocked at a slight angle. Her features betrayed a brief spasm before she stepped back, flexing her fingers, and a three foot wide section of rock swung inward to reveal a narrow passage. The sister stepped back, face paler than before though lit with a triumphal grin as she offered them a bow and bade them enter.

#

The width of the passage would permit only one entrant at a time and Sollis insisted on taking the lead. Jehrid ordered his Excise Men to remain and guard the entrance before taking his place at Sollis’s back, expecting some objection. However, the Brother Commander merely glanced at him and drew his sword before disappearing into the passage. Jehrid followed with Brother Lucin and Sister Cresia at his back. He had suggested they remain with his men but they merely shook their heads and fell into line, faces tense but, to Jehrid’s eyes, not so fearful as they should be. The passage was dimly lit with torches set into the walls every twenty paces, guttering in the breeze from the entrance. The walls were roughly hewn, displaying only the most workmanlike skill in their fashioning. Whoever had crafted these tunnels had displayed scant interest in artistry.

Sollis set a slow pace, keeping his steps soft to prevent any betraying echo. Jehrid noted a slight downward slope and a gradual but increasing curve to the walls, indicating they were following a spiral course deep into the bowels of the rock. The curvature of the passage became more pronounced the deeper they went, obscuring the way ahead sufficiently for Sollis to flatten himself against the wall and move forward in a sideways shuffle. He stopped at the sound of voices, softly spoken but echoing well in the tunnel. There were two voices, both male, engaged in some form of argument, the words indistinct at first but becoming clearer as Sollis began to inch forward once more, now moving in a crouch, sword-grip reversed so the blade rested against his back. He stopped when the voices became clearer, turning to Jehrid with a questioning glance.

Jehrid felt his hand dampen with sweat, knuckles suddenly white on his sword handle. Two voices, older men, one he knew, though it had been many years since he heard it.

“…speak to me of promises,” it said, a rich voice possessing the broad vowels of the shore-folk, but colored by a faint note of scorn. “Promises were made to me also. Promise of gold and jewels. Instead we risk much to scavenge no more than spices and silk. A tidy profit, to be sure. But hardly worth drawing the Lord Collector’s eye.”

“Gold will be forthcoming,” the other voice replied. It was mostly toneless but with an odd accent, the vowels distinctly Renfaelin but the cadence similar to the harsh babble of Volarian sailors. “When you give me what I came for. And don’t forget, without me you would have had no wreck to plunder.”

Jehrid frowned in surprise as the other voice fell silent. Since when did he ever fail to find a rejoinder?

After a pause, the first voice spoke again, this time betraying a discomfort barely masked by angry defiance. “We’ve talked of this enough. She’s mine. And she stays mine until you pay.”

There came a sound then, so harsh and grating Jehrid took a moment to recognize it as a laugh. “What do you imagine you are, little smuggling man?” the second voice enquired when his mirth had subsided. “What cards do you think you hold? You are no more than a maggot feasting on the dead before the tide comes to wash you away. You have seen what I can do. Give me the woman unless you would like another demonstration.”

A long, frozen pause. Now for blood, Jehrid decided. The insult and the challenge were too great to ignore. Jehrid could picture him standing there, face stricken with fury, fist no doubt clamping hard on a dagger, his other hand clutching a cudgel. ‘The Dance of Hard and Sharp’ he had called it; the traditional smuggler’s fighting style. In an instant all would be chaos and confusion. The perfect moment to attack. Jehrid inched closer to Sollis, readying himself for the rush.

So it was with no small amount of shock that he heard the frigid silence broken by the first voice. “Bring her.”

He’s afraid. Jehrid found he had to contain a gasp of amused realization. He’s actually afraid.

Footfalls echoed through the tunnel then another long pause, silence reigning until they returned. “Ah,” the second voice said, now tinged with a tense anticipation. “I was expecting someone…older.”

“She carried the amulet you described,” the first voice said, hard and sullen. “Worthless bauble though it was.”

“Show it to me.” Another pause, then a satisfied chuckle. “Worthless to you perhaps, but not to her.” The voice switched to Alpiran, coarse and harshly accented, but still fluent enough for Jehrid to follow. “Isn’t that right, my dear? It must have taken a remarkable effort to earn Rhevena’s Tear at your age. Most don’t until they’re nearing dotage. Is your gift so powerful? I imagine not, since you remain bound by this scum.”

A female voice, tremulous but also defiant, the cultured accent contrasting with her interrogator’s grating vowels. “Free me, and I’ll be happy to show you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, honored lady. I’ll shortly discover its nature for myself.” There came the scrape of a blade being drawn as he switched back to Realm Tongue. “Hold her still.”

Brother Lucin came forward in a rush, his steps drawing a loud echo from the stone, the bleached concern on his face betraying a desperate urgency. “He will do it!” he hissed at Sollis. “We cannot delay.”

An enquiring shout came from beyond the curve; Lucin’s footfall had not been missed. Sollis straightened, reversing the grip on his sword and glancing at Jehrid. “Secure the woman and take her out of here. Leave the others to us.”

Then he was gone, blue cloak trailing as he charged from sight. Jehrid surged after him, the multiple echoes of the brothers’ boots like thunder as they followed. Beyond the curve, the passage opened into a large chamber, near twenty feet across with bunks covering the walls and several side channels leading off in various directions. Standing in the center were three figures, an olive skinned woman of perhaps thirty years of age, her arms bound behind her back, and two men. The man on the right was of middling years and unkempt appearance, his wiry frame clad in ragged, threadbare garb.

But it was the man on the left that captured Jehrid’s attention. He was older, of course. Hair now gray and thinning when it had once been thick and dark, face clean-shaven and lined with age, though he stood just as tall as Jehrid recalled and his waist seemed as free of paunch as ever. As expected, he had armed himself with a cudgel and dagger, swirling to face the intruders in a crouching stance, lips drawn back in a snarl, one that faded as he caught sight of Jehrid.

“Cohran Bera!” Jehrid called to him as he charged clear of the tunnel. “Stand and await the King’s Jus—!”

He ducked as one of the Red Breakers sprang from the shadows on the left, something fast and sharp cutting the air above Jehrid’s head. Another appeared on the right, axe raised to swing at Sollis and falling dead a heartbeat later as the brother’s sword delivered a single expert thrust to his throat. The Breaker confronting Jehrid was clearly a traditionalist, coming at him with a cleaver in one hand and a cudgel in the other, aiming well-timed blows at his head and legs. Jehrid sidestepped the cudgel, swayed back to evade the cleaver and brought his blade up and down to hack through the Breaker’s hamstring before he could recover for another swing. This smuggler was not easily cowed though, despite being forced to one knee and yelling in pain, he managed another lunge with the cleaver before Jehrid’s sword point sank into his chest.

Jehrid spun, sword levelled at Cohran Bera, now moved to the center of the chamber, eyes locked on his. “You’ve grown,” he said in a low growl before turning and issuing a shrill whistle. Only a bare second’s delay then a tumult of pounding boots, a dozen or more Breakers appearing from the side tunnels at a run, all armed. Four went down almost immediately, tumbling to the floor as the brothers’ throwing knives flickered in the torchlight. Those who managed to get close enough to exchange blows were scarcely more fortunate, most falling in the space of a few sword strokes though the momentary confusion allowed their leader time to run for the nearest passage, three survivors at his back.

Jehrid shouted in frustration, a familiar red tinge coloring his vision as he started forward. It was the woman’s shout that stopped his pursuit, his gaze swivelling towards her, now standing rigid and head drawn back, the wiry man’s fist in her hair, his other holding a thin-bladed dagger to her throat. Jehrid had time to catch Cohran Bera’s final glance, oddly somber and lacking in hatred, before the shadows swallowed him.

“Oh no!” the wiry man barked, addressing his words to Sollis as the brothers quickly surrounded the pair, closing in with swords levelled. He jerked the woman’s head back further, the edge of his blade pressing hard against her skin. “I require your consideration.”

Sollis held up a hand to halt the brothers, lowering his own sword to take a single step closer. Jehrid noted Sollis’s free hand twitch as it caught something that slipped from his sleeve. “Release her,” Sollis commanded in a flat rasp. “If your life has value to you.”

The wiry man replied only with another grating laugh. Jehrid frowned at the genuine humor he heard in that laugh, and the lack of any real hostility on the man’s face. For all the world he seemed no more than a man responding to a particularly well executed prank. “Ask him,” the wiry man said, nodding to Brother Lucin emerging from the passage with Sister Cresia at his side. “What value does his Order place on life? Did they bother to warn you what you’d find here? I’ll wager they didn’t.”

It was Brother Lucin who spoke, face grim and gaze steady as he regarded the wiry man, his voice now possessed of a cold, unwavering note of command. “Kill him.”

“Brother…” Jehrid stepped towards Sollis but the brother had already begun to move. His left hand seemed to blur, something small and metallic catching the light as it flew free. Jehrid shouted in alarm, knowing a killing blow might cause the wiry man’s arm to tense with dire consequences for his hostage. Sollis, however, had chosen his target well. The throwing knife sank hilt-deep into the wiry man’s wrist, the knife falling from his spasming grip. The woman twisted, tearing herself free and falling to the floor. Jehrid quickly moved to her side, sword pointed at her now prostrate captor.

His gaze met Jehrid’s for a moment, bright with pain and fury, then softened as it shifted to the throwing knife embedded in his wrist, and he began to laugh anew.

“Kill him, brother!” Lucin commanded in a yell, his voice suddenly shrill with panic.

Sollis moved to the wiry man, sword drawn back, then stumbled to his knees as the floor shuddered beneath his feet.

“You put too much trust in these deluded mystics, master,” the wiry man said, blood now streaming in rivulets from his nose. “Far too much trust…”

A great booming sound shook the surrounding rock, a jagged crack appearing in the floor, stretching the length of the chamber. Jehrid saw Lucin grab Sister Cresia’s arm and drag her towards the passage as the chamber shuddered again, the floor becoming a jumbled matrix of cracks, the brothers reeling from multiple fountains of shattered rock. The wiry man was laughing again, writhing on the shuddering floor in uncontrollable mirth, blood now streaming from his mouth and eyes. Sollis lurched towards him, sword raised for a slash at his neck…and the chamber floor exploded, stone shattering all around into a fog of dust.

Jehrid had time to catch hold of the woman before the floor gave way beneath them, air rushing past his ears as they plummeted, swallowed by the welcoming dark.

#

The docks once again, his only reliable dream. It was always the same. The same pier, the same hour just before nightfall, every detail perfect and vivid even though the memory was over twenty years old.

He crouched behind a wall of stacked barrels in a quiet corner of the South Tower docks, peeking out at the end of the pier. There were people there, dim shadows glimpsed through twilight mist, four standing and one kneeling. The kneeling figure was bound, face concealed with a sack tied at the neck. Even so Jehrid knew whose face lay beneath the sack, knew without any shred of doubt the face of the woman who knelt with head bowed in numb expectation of her fate. Just as he knew the name of the man who drew a knife and stepped to her side.

He turned away then, knowing what was coming, reeling through the streets as his gorge rose to spill his guts on the cobbles. His treacherous ears caught the sound of a body tumbling into harbor waters, the splash carrying well in the clammy air. He ran, through the streets and the city gate and out into the fields beyond, blinded by tears, running until his lungs turned to fire and his legs gave way. He lay out in the fields until morning, and when the sun rose to wake him with its warmth, he got to his feet and started north. The road was long, and he grew to know hunger and danger as close friends for the wild country was ever rich in threats, but eventually, a thin, ragged boy staggered into Varinshold and sought entry to the Realm Guard.

“Has to be your real name, boy,” the sergeant told him, quill poised over parchment, a somewhat wicked glint in his eye as he added, “King Janus wants only honest Guardsmen…”

He awoke to the taste of blood, iron, and salt stinging his tongue and provoking a convulsive retch as his senses returned. His dulled vision, hampered by eyelids that now seemed to be fashioned from lead, could see almost nothing save a faint impression of tumbled rock, though the sound invading his ears prevented any return to slumber; a muted but continuous, echoing torrent of rushing water.

“Not alone after all,” a voice muttered nearby, a female voice, speaking in Alpiran.

It took a moment before he made her out, crouching in the gloom, on her knees, arms still bound and eyes pinpoints of light behind hair hanging in damp tendrils over her face.

Jehrid paused to spit the blood from his mouth, tongue exploring where his teeth had left a ragged impression on the inside of his cheek. “Nor, it seems, are you, honored lady,” he replied in his coarse but functional Alpiran.

She straightened a little in surprise, then spoke in accentless Realm Tongue that put his Alpiran to shame, “Would you mind?” She turned, crouching to proffer her bound wrists.

Jehrid realized his hands were empty, his sword no doubt lost somewhere in the fall. He fumbled at her bonds, grunting in frustration at his shaking hands, forcing himself to draw a series of deep breaths until the tremble subsided, though the cause was obvious. He laughed. He bled and he laughed…He did this. He brought down the chamber. The mystery of it all was absolute, but for one signal and reluctant conclusion: The Dark.

The woman gave an impatient sigh and Jehrid mumbled an apology, shuffling closer to work on the binding cord. The knots were well crafted and it took a protracted effort before the cord came loose. She issued a loud groan of mingled pain and relief, slumping forward with hands cradled in her lap, a soft curse coming from her lips. The words were mostly unfamiliar but he caught the name Rhevena among them.

“Rhevena’s Tear,” he said aloud, remembering the wiry man’s words. “Goddess of the shadowed paths, is she not? Protector of the dead.”

The woman’s posture became guarded, her hand moving unconsciously to her bare neck. “I thought your people had no truck with gods,” she said.

“Knowledge does not equal worship.” Jehrid took a moment to flex his legs, confirming the absence of broken bones or torn muscles, though they did ache considerably, and his hands bore several painful scrapes. He levered himself upright, taking a closer look at their surroundings. They were in a narrow passage, the walls even more crudely made than the tunnel under the falls, dampened by a constant trickle of water. He stood at the base of a steep gravel slope, formed no doubt from shattered rock and providing enough of a break in their fall to prevent a bone-crushing landing. To the right the passage was completely blocked by fallen stone, leaving only the leftward course, illuminated by a faint, bluish light.

“Can you walk?” he asked the woman.

She nodded and got to her feet, ignoring or failing to notice the helping hand he offered. “Your comrades?” she asked, peering about.

Jehrid glanced at the wall of stone blocking the passage, then lifted his gaze to the black void above. How far did we fall? “I doubt we’ll see them again,” he said.

He took the lead, the dim luminescence growing as they followed the passage, the sound of rushing water increasing with every step. “You were held here for days,” Jehrid said. “Have you any knowledge of these tunnels?”

“The route from my cell to the main chamber only. They were careful with me, my hands were always bound.”

He found it odd Cohran would have exercised so much caution and restraint in confining her. Wreckers rarely took captives and the fate of those that did fall into their hands was never pretty. “You are so dangerous then, honored lady?” he asked, dropping into Alpiran once more.

She frowned and shook her head, gesturing impatiently for him to move on.

“That man, back at the chamber,” Jehrid persisted, halting to face her. “He paid them to take you, didn’t he? Paid them to wreck the ship carrying you. Why?”

A mix of anger and grief passed over her face before she mastered it, meeting his gaze with stern resolve. “Did your father teach you Alpiran?” she asked, once again keeping to Realm Tongue. “You speak it with much the same accent. He told me he had been a sailor in his youth, learning many tongues and sailing to many ports. You have much the same face and the same bearing. He is your father, is he not?”

Jehrid found himself mastering his own surge of anger. “In name,” he muttered, turning and continuing along the passage.

“And what is your name? You have yet to tell me.”

“Jehrid Al Bera, Lord Collector of the King’s Excise. At your service, my lady.”

“Lord Collector…He spoke of you, said you would come one day. The thought seemed to make him sad. Now I see why.”

Jehrid felt an abrupt need for a change of subject. “And your name, lady?”

“Meriva Al Lebra.”

“Al Lebra is an Asraelin name.”

“My father was an Asraelin sailor, obliged to forsake his homeland when he met my mother.”

“Obliged?”

“She was a junior priestess to the temple of Rhevena in Untesh. Paying court to her required a certain…adjustment in his beliefs.”

“He forsook the Faith for marriage?”

“For love, my lord. Has not love ever forced you to an extreme?”

There was a new note in her voice, clearly mocking but also gentle enough to remove any anger from his reply. “I have always found hate a better spur to useful action.”

The passage soon grew wider and a dim glow appeared ahead, the pitch of cascading water deepening further. They found a body a few yards on, a slumped, cloaked bundle of twisted limbs. “May the Departed accept you, brother,” Jehrid murmured, crouching to peer at the man’s face, recognizing him as one of the archers who had taken down the sentries above. He was plainly dead, features drained of all color and his head pressed into his shoulder at an impossible angle. However, he had somehow contrived to retain hold of his sword.

“The Sixth Order,” Meriva said, her tone soft but Jehrid could hear the fear it held. “You answer to them?”

“I answer to the King.” He hefted the sword and held it up to the sparse light. An Order blade, he thought, seeing the tell-tale pattern in the steel, a facet of their secretive forging arts. The strongest and keenest blades in the Realm. Doubtful they’ll let me keep it.

“Then why are you here with them?” she pressed.

Jehrid bent to remove the brother’s scabbard from his back, a difficult task given the contortions of his body. “I came for the Breakers,” he grunted, turning the corpse over and working at the buckles. “They came for you.”

She made a small sound, half a laugh and half a groan. “To rescue me, no doubt.”

“Their mission is their own.” He tugged the scabbard free and buckled it on, around the waist rather than the back, sliding the blade in place. He straightened, staring at Meriva until she met his gaze, eyes shrouded and posture guarded, as if she might turn to flee at any second. “I will allow no harm to you,” he told her. “But I will have the truth. Why do they want you?”

She sighed, her stance becoming a little more relaxed, though her gaze told of a lingering mistrust. “To hear the message I carry…Or ensure my silence.”

“You carry a message? From who?”

She looked down, clearly fighting a deep reluctance. Jehrid stood and kept his eyes locked on her face. It was a favored trick when dealing with reticent informants, stillness and silence always stirred the tongue better than outright threats. “From the gods to the godless,” she said eventually, raising her gaze once more. There was still fear there, but also an overriding defiance. “I have said all I will say. Now, I suggest we move on. Unless you intend to stand and gawp at me forever.”

He held up the only other weapon found on the brother’s body, a hunting knife of good steel. “Do you know how to use this?”

She hesitated and reached for the knife, clasping it tight. “No. But I will, if needs must.”

#

Twenty paces on the passage opened out into a cavern, the ceiling lost to the darkness but the walls speckled with pinpoints of light, each no brighter than a match but combining to provide a clear view of the spectacle before them. A torrent of water arced down from the black void to continually replenish a broad pool in the center of the cavern. Jehrid saw there was a slow but definite current to the waters, his gaze tracking to the right where the cavern narrowed into another passage, water foaming as it was channelled deeper into the rock.

“There must be a fissure,” Jehrid mused, gazing up at the cascade. “Siphoning off the river waters before they reach the fall.”

He watched Meriva peer at the cavern wall, her fingers playing over one of the pinpoints of light, tracing dark tendrils across the surface. “Some kind of lichen,” she mused. “Fed by the water and giving off light as a reward.” She paused, then added something in Alpiran, voice pitched low in reverence as if she were reciting a catechism, “May the goddess accept my thanks for her beneficence.”

Jehrid was about to take a closer look at the channel on the right, assuming it led out to sea, and therefore might offer some avenue of escape, but paused when Meriva clasped his arm. She pointed at something in the pool, something limp and man-sized, trailing a blue cloak as it drifted in the shallows.

Jehrid plunged into the water and waded towards the body, heaving it over to reveal a lean face and graying hair. Sollis’s eyes remained closed but his features twitched as Jehrid took a firmer grip on his shirt and began to haul him from the pool. Still alive, he thought with a certain grim resignation. Of course he is.

Meriva helped him drag the Brother Commander clear of the water and away from the damp rock fringing the pool. They rested him against a relatively dry patch of wall where Meriva pressed a hand to his forehead. “Chilled almost to the point of death,” she said. Her eyes went to Sollis’s right arm, his hand dangling from a twisted wrist. “And that’s certainly broken.”

Jehrid nodded agreement and reached for the brother’s forearm, squeezing hard. Sollis came awake with a shout, trying to raise his right arm as it sought the empty scabbard on his back. He tried vainly to rise, ice numb legs giving way and leaving him flailing against the rock.

“It’s all right,” Meriva said, casting a reproachful glare at Jehrid as she placed a calming hand on the brother’s shoulder. “We are friends.”

Don’t be too sure, Jehrid thought, watching the realization dawn on Sollis’s face, the lean features tensing against the pain and a sharp calculation returning to his eyes.

“My brothers?” he said, gaze switching from Meriva to Jehrid.

“We found no others alive,” Jehrid told him.

Sollis closed his eyes momentarily, face as immobile as the stone behind him. When he opened them again there was no grief, no sorrow, just firm decision. “I need a sling for this,” he said, patting his broken arm.

Meriva tore a strip from the brother’s cloak to fashion the sling and tied it in place, Sollis gritting his teeth against the pain as she pulled it taut. They helped him upright and moved to the channel at the far end of the cavern. Jehrid peered into the gloom beyond the foaming waters, seeing no ledge or other means of navigating such a treacherous passage.

“We could just jump in,” Meriva suggested. “Trust the gods to see us safely free of this place.”

Sollis gave a rasping grunt that might have been a laugh, drawing a scowl from Meriva. “They have preserved us this far,” she said.

“Blind chance has preserved us,” the brother replied, though his tone softened as he regarded the channel. “Though, in truth I see little option.”

“The current is too swift,” Jehrid stated. “And the course may well lead further underground before it reaches the sea. If we aren’t dashed to pieces we’d most likely drown. And if we were to make it out, we’d find ourselves flailing amid the Blades in the dead of night.”

He turned away from the channel, eyes roaming the cavern and finding a patch of dark a good way back from the pool where the glowing lichen didn’t cling to the walls. He moved towards it, far enough until the shadows swallowed him. He could see nothing ahead, just blank emptiness, his hands finding only air as he reached out to explore the void.

“If we had a torch,” he murmured. “A candle even. Just the barest flicker of light…”

And the black turned white. It was so sudden he found himself reeling, stifling a shout of pain and shielding eyes now streaming with tears. He blinked and cautiously looked again, finding the way ahead illuminated, a soft beam playing over the rock like a shaft of sunlight caught by a lens. The beam moved, revealing a tall, broad passage leading away from the cavern. Jehrid followed the course of the beam, tracking it back to Meriva, standing with her arm extended and light streaming from her hand, held out flat like a spear-point.

The Dark, he thought, feeling his mouth hang open in an appalled gape. Free my hands and I’ll show you…Light born of the Dark…This is impossible.

His gaze shifted to Brother Sollis who seemed markedly less shocked than a servant of the Faith should be, standing back from Meriva with evident surprise but also a certain grave acceptance. Perhaps he knew what he would find after all.

Meriva walked towards Jehrid, arm still outstretched, the light beam bobbing as she moved. He saw a wary impatience on her face as she came to his side, avoiding his gaze and nodding at the way ahead. “I can’t do this forever.”

#

She kept a few steps ahead as they moved, a slim silhouette framed by the light she cast forth. It gave off no heat, no threat that he could see, and yet Jehrid found he had to force himself to remain close to her as Brother Sollis struggled on behind.

There can be no room for the Dark in a Faithful soul, he recited inwardly, recalling a sermon from a Second Order missionary his mother had once dragged him to. The Dark, as practiced by the Deniers who lurk in our midst, brought the Red Hand down upon us. Never forget this, and always be vigilant. Only evil can come of the Dark.

There is no evil in her, he knew, watching Meriva guide them on, her impossible light playing over the jagged vault of the passage. So then, he wondered, his gaze going to Sollis’s hunched form. What truth is there in the likes of him?

Meriva came to an abrupt halt, shoulders sagging a little and her light flickering as she tried to hold it steady. “Something there,” she said in a strained whisper. Jehrid moved to her side, his eyes tracking the faltering beam to some kind of mound. A mound that glittered.

Meriva issued a pained sigh and lowered her hand, darkness descending as her light died, though the glittering mound was still visible, lit by the faint orange glow of multiple torches.

“Give the brother your knife,” Jehrid told her, stepping forward and drawing the Order blade. “Stay behind us.”

He paused to meet her gaze, seeing a great fatigue there and a trickle of blood falling from her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then blinked and wiped the red tears away.

“Does it hurt?” he asked her.

She smiled faintly. “It…tires me.”

“Wasting time,” Sollis grunted, taking the knife from her and moving on.

They kept close to the passage wall, though Jehrid knew their presence would surely have been betrayed by Meriva’s light. The glow of the torches revealed another chamber as they drew closer, a crafted place like the one from which they had fallen, the floor worked to a smooth surface and the walls shaped into a circle. In the center sat the mound, glittering metal clustered around a tall stone column. Moving closer they saw silver plate stacked amid bronze figures and tangled jewelery, here and there the tell-tale gleam of bluestone, all shot through by chains of silver and gold, shining like gossamer threads.

“Gold and jewels,” Meriva said, plucking a necklace from the mound and holding it up for inspection, three rubies set in a gold chain. “And still he wanted more.”

“He was ever a miser,” Jehrid replied. “And what miser doesn’t want more?”

However, it wasn’t the riches that most captured Jehrid’s attention, it was the seven-sided stone column about which they were piled. It rose from the center of the mound to a height of about twelve feet, etched all over with writing of some kind. Jehrid had learned his Realm letters at an early age, and could read Alpiran with sufficient effort, but these markings were unfamiliar, and the stone that held them clearly ancient. However, it did possess a form of decoration that made some kind of sense, a series of emblems carved into the top of the column on each of its seven sides. He began to circle the stone, finding each emblem to be different: a flame, a blazing sun, a book and a quill, an eye, an open hand…He paused at the sight of the sixth symbol, a figure holding a sword, deep holes where its eyes should be. A blind warrior. Just like the one that sits atop the gate to the House of the Sixth Order, or the medallion every brother carries around his neck.

“So the Faithful truly have builders in their ranks,” Jehrid said, turning to Sollis.

Sollis said nothing, his stance unchanged and face as impassive as ever, though Jehrid noted he had managed to remove the scabbard from the knife. “There are six orders to the Faith,” Jehrid went on, moving so he could view the final emblem, a snake and a goblet. “But seven sides to this stone.”

Sollis merely returned his gaze and said nothing.

“These words.” Jehrid jerked his head at the letters etched into the column. “What language is this? What do they mean?”

“It’s Old Volarian,” Meriva said. “The tongue spoken by the first Faithful to come to these lands.”

“Can you read it?” he asked her, keeping his gaze on Sollis.

“It’s been many a year since I had to.” She placed a foot on the pile, dislodging a cascade of treasure as she leaned closer to inspect the letters. “The calligraphy is unfamiliar and the dialect strange. Far more archaic than any form I’m familiar with. But, I think…” She paused, lost in thought as Sollis and Jehrid continued to exchange stares.

“It’s a narrative of some kind,” Meriva said eventually, metal jangling as she moved to read more of the inscriptions. “Though it doesn’t fit with any history I know, and much of the phrasing makes little sense.”

“Read aloud what you can,” Jehrid told her.

“‘Armies clash beneath a desert sun…Blood flows in rivers, spilt by lies…The One Who Waits will face the Hope Killer’s song…’”

“Stop!” Sollis commanded in a flat rasp, now turned so that his good arm was closest to Jehrid, shoulders lowered into a crouch, the knife now gripped tight.

“My lady,” Jehrid said, backing away, sword levelled at the brother. “Please get behind me.”

Meriva hesitated for a second, then rushed from the pile, scattering trinkets as she placed herself at Jehrid’s back.

“Something that will remain hidden,” Jehrid said. “At what cost, eh brother?”

Sollis gave no response, moving to maintain the distance between them as Jehrid fought down the unwelcome memory of his skirmish with the Lonak all those years ago. Sword against a knife, he told himself, trying to stir a confidence he knew to be misplaced. And him half-crippled. But the memory was compelling, and still he backed away.

“What do those words mean?” he demanded, playing for time. “What is this place?”

“It’s my home,” a new voice cut in, rich and vibrant as it echoed about the chamber. “And you were not invited.”

Cohran Bera stood perhaps twenty paces away, cudgel in one hand and long-bladed knife in the other. On either side of him stood two Breakers, perhaps the only survivors of his once fearsome band, both armed with crossbows. Jehrid whirled to face Cohran, nudging Meriva behind him, still painfully aware of Sollis’s proximity but knowing this to be the greater threat for the moment.

“Fifteen of your cousins died today,” Cohran told him. “You bring the Sixth Order to my door and destroy what took a lifetime to build. Have you no words of contrition, my son?”

“Fifteen wasn’t enough,” Jehrid replied, feeling a familiar, unwise sensation building in his breast. The dim figures at the end of the pier, the sound of a body falling into the harbor…“And don’t call me that.”

“Deny your blood all you want, my lord.” Cohran’s face contorted as he spoke the title, like an ardent Faithful voicing heresy. “But I look at you and see no difference from that vicious little shit I pulled from a hundred dockside fights. The King chose well in you, a man who delights in slaughter and calls it justice.”

“As opposed to a man who slaughters innocents to build a pile of riches he’ll never spend.”

“Riches.” Cohran’s voice softened a fraction as his gaze went to the mound of plundered treasure. “No. Power, boy. Power enough to buy a king’s boon. He promised me, you see. Back when the wars raged as he built the realm. ‘Soldiers need pay,’ he said. ‘Bring me gold, and there will be no more bounty-men. Bring me enough and one day, perhaps, I’ll make a lord of you.’ And, when he’d built his realm, paying his guardsmen with the riches plundered from this shore, what did he do? Have the Tower Lord spout empty promises at me for twenty years until he could send you.”

Liar! Jehrid found the accusation dying on his lips as long-held suspicions tumbled into place. Al Serahl’s lengthy and corrupt tenure in the Tower, tolerated far longer than anyone could have expected. The smugglers and wreckers able to buy immunity from the South Guard for years whilst in the north even the most petty corruption earned a swift execution. The King took a loan from the shore, Jehrid realized. And now considers it paid, in me.

“Doesn’t have to happen, boy,” Cohran went on, nodding at Sollis. “With this one gone, there are no other witnesses to gainsay whatever tale you choose to tell.” He turned, gesturing behind him where the torchlight played on a series of irregular steps cut into the stone, ascending to a ledge far above.

“It’s a steep and winding path,” Cohran said, “but it’ll take you out of here. Keep the woman, if you like. I suspect she’ll have little to say about all this. You have secrets of your own do you not, my dear?”

Meriva moved to Jehrid’s side, face set in a mask of determined fury. “Yes,” she said. “I have secrets, but this one I’ll share.”

Her arm shot out, straight and true, hand once again like a spear point. Jehrid closed his eyes as the light blazed forth, birthing an instant scream. When he looked again he saw the man on Cohran’s right on his knees, crossbow forgotten as he clutched at his eyes, shrill panic and pain issuing from his mouth in a continual torrent. The Breaker on the left gaped at his fallen cousin for the briefest second, then at Meriva, his crossbow swinging towards her in a fear-born reflex.

Brother Sollis moved in a blur, doubling over as the knife flew from his hand, swift as an arrow as it described a perfect arc ending in the Breaker’s skull, the blade sinking in to the hilt. The Breaker remained upright for a heartbeat or two, mouth twisting around gibbered words and an odd, puzzled frown on his brow. Before collapsing, he managed to work the lock on his crossbow, the bolt missing Sollis by a clear foot before rebounding from the stone column and skittering off into the darkness.

Jehrid saw it all in the scant seconds it took him to close with Cohran. The Breaker chief was shaking his head in confusion, eyes moist and bleary, but some brawler’s instinct provided sufficient warning for him to duck the slash Jehrid aimed at his head. He growled and whirled towards Jehrid, club and knife whistling, a large man of middling years moving with all the grace and speed of a youthful dancer. Jehrid parried the knife, ducked the club and knew in an instant Cohran was doomed. He was a killer and a fighter, perhaps the most deadly ever seen on this shore, but he wasn’t a soldier. He had never faced a charging Lonak war band or hacked his way across a Meldenean deck. He fought for status or money but never truly for survival. He had never seen battle, until now.

Jehrid anticipated his next attack with an ease that almost brought a laugh to his lips, the knife slashing at his sword arm whilst the club arced up for a strike at his chin. An attempt to stun and disarm, not to kill. Jehrid leapt and kicked before either blow could land, delivering the tip of his boot to the center of Cohran’s face, nose and teeth breaking under the impact. Cohran back-pedalled, trying to gain space for a parry. Jehrid slashed the knife from his grip with a quick swipe of his looted sword and drove a second kick into Cohran’s guts, doubling him over. He tried a final, ineffectual blow with the club, Jehrid catching his wrist and twisting until he heard a crack, the club falling from useless fingers.

He stood back as Cohran stared up at him, face showing neither anger nor defeat. But pride. “Quite a dance, eh son…”

Jehrid drove the iron tine of his sword into Cohran’s temple, sending him unconscious to the floor. “Don’t call me that.”

He turned at the sound of an echoing scream, seeing the blinded Breaker sprinting away into the darkness, his cries continuing to resound through the caverns until they were cut off by a faint splash. He found the pool, Jehrid surmised. Carried out to the Blades, blind and mad. Nawen’s Maw would’ve been a kinder end.

He went to Meriva, now on her knees, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He placed a finger under her chin and gently lifted her face, now so streaked with blood she might have stepped from a slaughter pen. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked to Sollis, now bending to retrieve Cohran’s fallen knife. “Will either of us?” she whispered in Alpiran. “This place, those words. They were not meant for our eyes.”

Jehrid straightened, watching Sollis as he stood regarding Cohran’s prostrate form. For once the impassive mask had gone, a somber frown creasing the brother’s brow. “He taught you to fight?” he asked after a moment, his gaze still lingering on the fallen outlaw.

“Yes,” Jehrid said. “But war taught me more.”

Jehrid detected a faint note of regret in Sollis’s voice as he spoke again, “The pupil always steps from the master’s shadow.” Abruptly Sollis raised his gaze, all expression fading from his features as he briefly glanced at Jehrid and Meriva before gazing up at the winding steps with a critical eye. “Dragging him up there will be impossible. We’ll bind him to the column, send your men for him later.”

Jehrid gave a wary nod. “As you wish, brother.” He bent to take Meriva’s arm. “Can you walk, my lady?”

She sighed agreement and began to rise, then froze, her gaze snapping to the pile of treasure as it issued a jangling rattle, displaced metal sliding as something stirred beneath it. “No…” she breathed.

Something exploded from the mound in a fountain of glittering treasure, something wiry and dressed in rags, revealing pale flesh marked by many wounds, a feral grin shining in a face caked in dried blood. It screamed as it stumbled free of the pile; triumph, rage, and madness filling the chamber. A tremor thrummed through the rock beneath Jehrid’s feet, both he and Sollis pitched onto their backs by the force of it, powdered rock spouting as cracks rent the chamber floor from end to end.

Jehrid saw the blind Breaker’s crossbow lying barely five paces away and lunged for it, shouting in alarm as the rock beneath him lurched anew. The ragged thing issued another peeling laugh as a fresh crack opened to swallow the crossbow. Jehrid saw Sollis cast Cohran’s knife at the laughing wreck of a man, but the juddering floor made it an impossible task, the spinning blade missing its target by a handspan.

The tremor faded as the ragged thing staggered, eyes tracking over them in evident satisfaction before settling on Sollis. Blood flowed from its mouth in a thick stream as it spoke, “Sorry to lose you so soon, brother. I always did find your cruelty so…entertaining.” He sighed and raised his arms, head thrown back and his smile blazing anew. “I will miss this g—”

Something small and sharp streaked down from above, moving faster than any crossbow bolt or arrow, issuing a small whine as it sliced through the air to spear the ragged man through the eye. He staggered again, head swivelling about in confusion. Jehrid saw something metallic embedded in his eye, a dart of some kind, the needle-like point protruding from his skull as he reeled about, arms flailing like a drunk fighting imaginary foes. Another dart streaked down, a puff of red vapor spouting from the man’s bony chest as it tore clean through his torso, drawing a piercing note from the floor as it rebounded and spun away into the shadows. The thing groaned and collapsed onto the mound, limbs soon slackening in death as blood streamed in rivulets across the gleaming metal.

Jehrid turned at a huffing sound, seeing Brother Lucin clambering down the crude stairway. Sister Cresia followed behind. “Brother,” Lucin greeted Sollis on reaching the floor, a little out of breath as he moved towards the mound of riches, barely glancing at Jehrid or Meriva. Jehrid saw he wore a different face now, or more likely, felt no more need to conceal his true visage, free of any false serenity or deference. The face of a very serious man.

Lucin took a moment to survey the body slumped on the pile, eyes lingering on the blood-caked features though Jehrid saw no flicker of recognition. His expression grew yet more serious as he raised his gaze to the seven-sided column. “All too real,” he muttered before turning away, addressing his next words to Meriva in Alpiran, no doubt assuming that Jehrid couldn’t understand his meaning. “You have a message for me, honored lady.”

Meriva took hold of Jehrid’s proffered arm and hauled herself upright, wincing from the effort. “Yes,” she said, voice heavy with fatigue. “The answer is no.”

Lucin lowered his gaze in evident disappointment before inclining his head at the column. “You read that, I assume?”

“Some.”

“Then I hope it provided an inkling of what your refusal will force us to do.”

“The decision was not mine. I merely carry the message. The Servants have spoken. Your war is not our war.”

Lucin merely shook his head with a sigh. “It will be.” He nodded at Sister Cresia, now standing at the base of the stairway. Jehrid’s gaze was immediately drawn to the brace of darts clutched between her fingers, darts that were identical to those that had dispatched the ragged man, though he could see no device on her that could project them with such force. However, any doubts that she had been the author of his end vanished at the sight of her face, bleached white and gaze fixed on the body laying amid the bloodied treasure.

“The first is always the hardest,” Jehrid told her. She stared at him with moist eyes, no sign of a scowl on her brow. He saw that her hands were shaking.

“Sister,” Lucin said with a note of impatience. “This matter requires resolution.”

“No.” Sollis stepped in front of Cresia, though his gaze was fixed on Lucin.

Jehrid saw Lucin’s throat working before he found the nerve to reply. “Our Aspects are in agreement regarding the import of this mission…”

“Do not make an enemy of me, brother.” The words were softly spoken, little more than a whisper in fact, but they seemed to linger in the air, caught by the cavern walls and repeated until they faded to a hiss.

A new voice came echoing down from above, the words indistinct but Jehrid recognized his sergeant’s Nilsaelin brogue. “Lord Collector! Are you well?”

“Your men were kind enough to escort us,” Sister Cresia said, the darts now vanished from her fingers and a distinct note of relief in her voice.

Jehrid’s eyes tracked from Sollis to Lucin, noting how the elder brother’s gaze was now averted.

“Quite well!” Jehrid called back, glancing at Cohran’s still unconscious form. “Get down here! And bring rope!”

Cohran Bera stood gazing out to sea, a breeze stirring his thinning hair. It was a fine morning, barely a cloud in the sky and the rising sun a bright shimmering ball on a mostly becalmed Erinean. He favored Jehrid with a fond glance as he came forward, then offered a respectful nod to Meriva. She failed to respond, arms crossed tightly beneath her cloak, face rigid. Jehrid had invited her out of courtesy, as the wronged party she had every right to witness the proceedings, though he had hoped she might stay away. She has seen enough blood.

Sollis, Cresia and Lucin could be seen on the crest of a nearby hill, all on horseback. The Brother Commander’s arm still rested in a sling, the bones set and bound tight by the Fifth Order mission in South Tower, though the scabbard on his back remained empty.

“I’ll get another when I return to the Order House,” he said when Jehrid offered him the blade he had taken from the dead brother.

“I can keep it?”

Sollis shrugged. “It’s just a sword, my lord. We have many.” With that he strode to his horse and mounted up. Jehrid surmised this was the only farewell, or thanks, he was likely to receive.

“Cohran Bera,” Jehrid began in formal tones. “You stand convicted of murder, theft, piracy, suborning the Realm’s servants, and evading the King’s Excise. Accordingly you will be executed under the King’s Word in a manner deemed fit by the Lord Collector. As you have profited from the deaths of so many by casting them onto this shore, such shall be your fate.”

He stepped forward and rested his boot on the pear-shaped stone to which Cohran had been chained, gaze fixed on Nawen’s Maw as he tried to summon a face from his memory, one he thought he would never forget, One he hoped would be witnessing this event from the Beyond. And yet, though he strove to recall the dim figures at the end of the pier, seeking to stoke a hatred he had nurtured for more than twenty years, today he couldn’t find it. Why won’t she come? Surely she would want to see this.

“At least look me in the eye as you do this, son,” Cohran said.

For a moment Jehrid found he couldn’t lift his gaze, as if some invisible hand gripped him in place.

“You must have questions,” Cohran went on. “Ask me and I’ll tell you.”

“You will earn no reprieve,” Jehrid told him, still unable to meet his eye.

“I know. But perhaps I’ll earn my son’s regard.”

Jehrid closed his eyes for a second, his boot slipping from the boulder, a great weariness pressing down as he stood back. He forced his eyes open and faced his father, seeing the fearsome wrecker now vanished, leaving behind the man he recalled from childhood, the prideful shine in his eyes as he beheld his son.

“Why did you kill my mother?” Jehrid asked him.

Cohran’s smile faded slowly, the depth of his regret plain in the sagging, weathered features. “She was taking you away,” he said. “She had grown tired of this life of danger and distrust, and fearful of the future. For she knew one day you would become what I am. She sold us out to the Tower Lord’s men, not knowing they worked for me. She thought she was buying a new life in the north, with you. You know the code, Jehrid. Silence is the only law. And so I killed her, because my kin expected it, and because I needed to keep you with me…But you left anyway.”

Jehrid’s gaze returned to the stone, though he found he had no strength to lift his boot.

“It’s all right, son,” Cohran said. “Truth be told, I’d rather it was you than any other. Blood pays for blood. Let’s get it done.”

Jehrid was aware of the eyes of his men, all gathered to watch their Lord Collector’s nerve fail. But still he had no strength today. Not for this.

“The ship you wrecked was called the Voyager.” Jehrid turned to find Meriva at his side, face pale but determined as she stared at Cohran, suffering no reluctance to meet his eye. “Crafted in the yards of Marbellis near thirty years ago, funded by the honorable trading house of Al Lebra. For many years it was captained by my father and, when he became too old to bear the hardships of the sea, by my brother. He was a good man, an honest sailor who rose to captain at a young age, respected by his crew and loved by his family. When word reached him that I must sail to this shore, he insisted it be the Voyager that carried me, unwilling to trust the task to any other.”

She stepped towards the stone, placing her foot on it, gaze still fixed on Cohran as she grated in Alpiran, “I watched your scum slit my brother’s throat, you piece of filth!”

Jehrid turned away as she shoved the stone into the maw, hearing the rattle of chains and the crack of breaking bones. But no scream. No, Jehrid thought. He never would.

He waited for the faint splash, then turned to his sergeant. “Return to the Excise House. Double rum ration tonight.” He glanced at Meriva, now staring down at the Maw as if frozen in place. “I’ll be along directly.”

He paused to watch Sollis turn his horse and ride away without pause, although his two companions lingered a moment. Jehrid found he didn’t like the way Brother Lucin’s gaze rested on Meriva, sensing far too much calculation behind it and experiencing a sudden wild desire to seize the brother and see him follow Cohran into the maw. Fortunately, it seemed Lucin sensed his intent for he gave an inexpert tug on his horse’s reins and quickly disappeared from view. Sister Cresia loitered a moment longer, Jehrid gaining the impression of a smile as she raised a hand to offer a tentative wave. He waved back and offered a bow, seeing her laugh before she too rode from sight.

“It wasn’t truly a man, was it?” he asked Meriva. “That thing we left in the tunnels.”

She shook her head. “In truth I have never encountered its kind before. But I suspect whatever humanity it once possessed withered away long ago, and the world is enriched by its passing.”

He nodded and pulled something from the pouch on his belt. “I believe this is yours, my lady,” he said, holding up a small amulet; a single bead of amber set in a plain silver mounting. “Cohran…my father had it in his pocket.”

Her gaze finally rose from the maw, a small smile curving her lips as she took the amulet. “My thanks, my lord,” she said, lifting the chain over her head.

“Rhevena’s Tear,” he said. “Am I wrong in assuming it to be worn by all those…similarly gifted?”

“Different gods have different servants, carrying different signs. Though we all endeavour to serve a common interest.”

“An interest best served by refusing whatever the Seventh Order required of you?”

“Seventh Order? What’s that?” He saw her smile broaden as she moved away, going to the horse he had lent her. “Will you escort a lady home, my lord?”

“Gladly. Though only as far as South Tower. I’m sure the Tower Lord will meet the expense of finding a ship to take you home.”

“South Tower is my home now. At least for the time being. The House of Al Lebra has many interests here. It was my stated reason for coming. It would seem odd if I was to depart so quickly, don’t you think?”

“Certainly.” He mounted up and fell in beside her as they followed the clifftop trail towards the distant tower. “Tell me, have you ever heard the tale of how Nawen’s Maw got its name…?”

Below the overhang the terns were already circling the spot beneath the maw, making ready to dive into the waves and claim the fresh bounty, for the southern shore had ever been kind to scavengers.

About the Author

Anthony Ryan was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven’s Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale. For news and general wittering about stuff he likes, check out Anthony's blog at: http://anthonystuff.wordpress.com