Chapter 1: The Hunted
Islyr pulled his hood down over his face as he peered through the crowded street. The thick scent of baking bread assaulted him. Thoughts of the last time he had eaten trespassed into an otherwise solid frame of concentration. Eight hours was not too long. He had gone much longer while living at the base of the Abyss. He willed his mind and his stomach to quiet.
The bustle of the town was perfect cover, and the weather had turned cool enough that no one thought a heavy cloak out of place. His sister Selene had given it to him the last time he had visited her. A birthday gift, belated though it was. It was perfect, for it was not so fine as to draw attention, but was warm and expertly made nonetheless. He glanced at his target; a tall man with the honey toned skin that many of the Kerell possessed. Two plainly made rings, bands of deep purple stone upon the index finger of his left hand, betrayed his true nature. He was as dark a thing as contained in any fireside story. The monster would meet the Spirits within the hour.
Next to the first man stood another; a soul not graced by the Spirits. The slave was most obviously Rakaii though no Circlet marred his forehead, for the first man controlled him with ease. The Rakaii cowered in the slightest as his master offered a few crisp words. The chatter of the crowd drowned out whatever was said. By the luck of the Tides the slave’s reply was clear enough to reach Islyr’s ears. “As you wish, master Bothan.”
Bothan. The surname held no familiarity to Islyr. He had hoped, though perhaps not to the point of expecting, that it would. The land of the Kerell was vast, and although he had learned many of the families’ names while enslaved there it would be impossible to know them all.
Master Bothan’s reply was once again inaudible, but the blood that trickled from his Rakaii’s nose was enough to know that he was not pleased that the man had spoken his name aloud. A trapper with only one Rakaii to his name. Either he was very poor at his craft, or he had only arrived a short time ago. Islyr had only heard tell of him a few days past, so perhaps it was the latter.
With the wave of one hand Bothan bade his captive stand outside the bakery as he entered. It was the opportunity that Islyr had been waiting for. He slipped through the crowd; around a passing carriage, between two old women arguing much too loudly about the price of goose eggs, and finally behind two leather clad members of the city guard just as they rounded the corner onto the next street. He glanced inside the baker’s window as he passed. Despite the delicious scent wafting through the cracks of the bakery’s two garishly painted yellow doors Bothan had not stopped to eat. He was questioning the baker rather than making a purchase. The red-cheeked man, much too thin for a baker of any kind in Islyr’s opinion, was no doubt telling Bothan of the man with the ink embedded in his face that had purchased bread there just yesterday morning.
Islyr had purposely shown himself to several of the merchants in town over the past few days. His face was unmistakable. He had offered what was meant to seem like small talk about his plans for the next few weeks. The ruse seemed to be working well thus far, though he held some reservations. Mages were dangerous and cunning. They were untrustworthy. He would willingly take his last breath before allowing them to enslave him again.
The baker’s white cap bobbed up and down as he nodded. The man pushed it back into place with one hand while handing Bothan a rounded loaf of bread with the other. Islyr’s mouth watered at the sight of it. Perhaps eight hours was too long after all. His new life was making him weak. He gripped his staff and headed for the Rakaii.
The slave was oblivious at first; caught up in some inner pain or drowning in self-pity as many did upon being turned to Rakaii. His eyes found Islyr, but they did not truly take note until his feet were swept from the cobbled stone beneath them. The man’s head struck hard, but not with enough force to do permanent damage. Islyr flipped him over, binding his hands with a strip of leather as he did so. He then rolled him onto his back once again.
“Your pain is almost over.”
The Rakaii looked more frightened than reassured. Islyr took hold of his feet and pulled him into the alleyway next to the bakery. This was not the most ideal of the locations that he had set up, which was unfortunate. He should hurry if he planned to make it as far as was needed.
The man struggled as Islyr pulled him along, but he was nowhere near strong enough to break free. “Let me go,” he pleaded in a strange accent that refused to be identified. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” Islyr replied as he forced his mind to remain on the task at hand. “I understand far better than you ever could.” First alley on the left, thirteen paces down, then take the second right.
“You’ll take me too far.” The man looked as if he might soon shed tears. It was pitiful. “You’ll kill me.”
Islyr stopped and glanced at the Rakaii’s face. A small amount of blood leaked from the corner of the man’s dark eyes. “We’re not too far yet,” he replied as the slave writhed within his grasp. “I am well aware of how far is too far.” He pulled him along with more speed.
“Please, you must stop.”
Islyr came to a halt. “This is it,” he informed the squirming man as he tied his feet to a nearby hitching post. It was one of three in the alley, all composed of metal and all rusted in the slightest. He had thought it an odd place for them until realizing that this alley was once a full road. The stone wall that blocked it looked recently built, and the windows of the nearby shop remained shuttered; its doors kept together with boards nailed haphazardly in place. “You’ll stay where you are,” he added. He did not wish to harm the man any more than was necessary, for he seemed fairly innocent. “What is your name?”
“Liren,” the man replied. “He’s coming.”
“I know.” Islyr loosed the key from where it hung on a leather cord around his neck. He sprinted towards the wall, stopping just short of the last hitching post. Attached to it was a chain of metal links. He followed the length of it as quietly as was possible with quickened speed. At the end was a voyager’s trunk; its cured wood bound on the edges and corners with silver metal. The chain led inside it via a small notch that Islyr had cut. He dragged the chest into the light and unlatched the lock.
Cobbles loosened from the dirt as the Rakaii squirmed in attempt to follow Islyr with his gaze. “What is that?” He retched as he caught wind of it. “Is that a corpse?” The disgust in his voice was plainly evident. “Did you kill that man?”
“Yes, it is,” Islyr replied shortly. “And no.” He had killed many people, but this man was not one of them. The city of Watersight was not as safe as most, for the guardsmen were easily bribed. He had found the body, along with another, on the shore of the river that led through town. He unlatched his cloak and pulled it from his shoulders, setting it gently on the side of the alley. It was lucky for the people of the city that he had found the bodies when he did, for they were sleepers, which were easily the most dangerous of bloodsoul. He flipped the lid of the trunk open. It was then that Bothan rounded the corner. He was slower than Islyr had expected. The first shot of flame from his hands was easily avoided.
“The people of this realm are just as dim-witted as I had imagined,” Bothan noted in the language of the Kerell. “You can steal a Rakaii, but it is impossible to escape with one.”
“Not impossible,” Islyr corrected. He readied his staff as he faced the man.
“Fenrir.” Bothan whispered Islyr’s Rakaii name as if saying it with any volume would bring a curse down upon him. If there was any grace left to this world, it would. Of the Tenere-Rakaii that Islyr had killed so far, none had spoken that word. The name severed his concentration with such ferocity that he failed to notice the words of magic that came after it. Flames tore through the fabric of his shirt and into his shoulder.
“I’ll kill him,” Islyr warned. He aimed his staff at Liren’s head.
“He is worth nothing compared to you. I came here to make my fortune, and it seems that I have found it.”
Another burst of flame lit the alley. Islyr was ready. He avoided it with ease. His arm began to throb. The sickly odor of singed hair found him. He looked down to see Liren clutching his head in agony.
Bothan cupped his hands together, muttering furiously. A sphere composed of blue and yellow light grew between his palms. Islyr knew his type. He would injure Marked Ones until they could no longer fight if only to capture them. After all, so long as they could be healed later what did it matter? Islyr kicked at the trunk. His foot collided firmly with side of it, yet its inhabitant did not stir. He ducked just quickly enough to cause the next ball of flame to miss his feet by a shadow’s breath. Heat reached his toes as his left shoe caught fire. He scraped it along a patch of dirt to extinguish it, narrowly avoiding a second attack as he did so. The sphere was aimed higher this time. It sizzled as it blasted a patch of stone from the wall behind him. Time was waning. The city guard would be upon them soon enough. Bothan growled with frustration. Islyr raced back towards him, striking the trunk with his staff as he did so. He glanced towards it. Still nothing. Spirits above, these sleepers were irritating. Perhaps the people of the city were not in so much danger from it as he had imagined. On his next pass he pushed at the trunk with as much force as he could muster, tipping it onto one side. The bloodsoul tumbled out onto the broken cobbles of the alley.
Bothan’s face wrinkled. “And just what to you intend to do with that corpse?” he asked. “Make me retch until I give up and return home?”
Islyr laughed. Bloodsoul did not occur naturally in the land of the Kerell. The few that existed there were ones that his mistress had forced him to create. At last it rattled to life. The bloodsoul lifted itself from the ground with a vibrating groan. Liren screamed. He scrambled as far as he could manage with hands and feet bound. The creature ignored him. Bothan was the most tempting of the three, for bloodsoul seemed naturally drawn to magic. It lunged at the Tenere, forcing him to the ground. Bothan screamed. The bloodsoul bit down upon the man’s shoulder. It tore into the flesh of his arm with its rotting fingers.
Islyr raced to Liren and released his hands and feet. “Trust me,” he urged as he headed for the wall. Liren followed. “Wait for me on the other side,” Islyr ordered. The man nodded in consent, though his eyes were wide with fear. He boosted the Liren over the wall, listening only until he heard the soft thump of his feet striking the ground on the other side. Bothan’s screaming had stopped and all was now quiet. He turned back to where the man lay. The bloodsoul was busily chewing on his hand. Islyr plucked the creature’s chain from the ground. He grasped it with both hands and pulled with all of his strength. The bloodsoul’s head severed cleanly from its neck. It rolled, collecting dirt as growls of anger echoed from the alley walls. Islyr lifted the head from the ground just as it started to roll back towards the rest of the creature. It snapped angrily at his fingers. He tossed it over the wall. Liren would know better than to touch it, and if not then there was nothing he could do for the man. The rest of the bloodsoul began to twitch. Islyr took the brief opportunity to grab it by the legs and shove it into the trunk. He replaced the padlock and snapped it together. It was composed of the heaviest iron that he could find, for he wanted as little chance as was possible that some rogue could break into it. Anyone who did manage to gain access would get what they deserved.
Heavy footsteps and shouting emanated from the far end of the alley. The city guard was finally on their way. By the grace of the Spirits it would take them a while longer to narrow down his location. He knelt by Bothan’s side, avoiding the pool of dark blood that flowed from the mage’s arm to fill the spaces between the cobbles. The man was still breathing, though it did not seem as if it would last.
“What brought you here?” Islyr demanded. “You will tell me.”
Bothan’s face contorted with pain. “What point would there be in speaking falsely now?” the mage asked. “Riches in the form of feral Rakaii. What else would bring a civilized soul to these wilds.”
“But on whose behalf? Did they send you for me?”
“No,” Bothan replied softly. He was growing weak. “It is widely assumed that you are dead. I came here on behalf of the Empress. She offers coin and favor for those who bring back Rakaii. May my death honor her.”
“Your death honors nothing but your greed,” Islyr growled. But it was too late. Bothan’s soul had gone.
Islyr rifled through the mage’s coat; his fingers slipping deftly into whatever pockets he could find. Most were empty. In the largest pocket lay a green silken bag that clinked of coins when he moved it. Next to that was a wax packet of rolling papers and a pouch of tobacco. He took the silk bag, leaving the rest where it lay. The renewed pounding of boots on the soil told him that it was well past time for him to leave. He slipped the Tenere rings from Bothan’s finger.
Upon standing Islyr noticed the bag of bread. He grabbed it from where it lay and plucked his cloak from the ground as he passed it. The fabric did not seem to be scorched. Islyr took the wall at a run, using his staff for leverage as he vaulted it. He landed mostly on his feet. It was not his most graceful attempt by far. He looked back to find Liren crouching beside the wall, clutching his head in his hands. Blood trickled lazily from behind one ear. Droplets clumped here and there in the sandy ground beneath him.
“No time for that,” Islyr said sternly. “Your life belongs only to you now.”
Liren looked up at him. It was a strange sensation; being connected to another as they passed to spend their time with the Spirits before entering a new life. He had experienced it twice now, and each time was etched into his memory. You felt the pain of your master, the wounds, the fear, and then something akin to relief; to freedom in its purest form. A glint of metal in the sun drew Islyr’s attention to the ground nearby. He pressed his fingers around the strange object that he found there. A ring which looked as if it was meant to form around the ear ended in a spike the length of his smallest finger. It was coated in blood. Islyr wrapped it in a spare portion of leather and set it gingerly into his pouch. He then pulled out a strip of cloth. He poured a small amount of ointment upon it and handed it to Liren. The man winced as he touched it to the hole where the device had been embedded.
“Hold pressure on it for as long as you can,” Islyr instructed.
Liren’s face contorted as he attempted it. The man did not speak much, which was fine. Islyr was not much for conversing even when in the best disposition. He removed the bread from the burlap sack and placed it in Liren’s hand. It was still warm.
“Don’t drop it,” he warned. Not that a bit of dirt would make it inedible, but he much preferred his food clean.
A brief survey of the base of the wall revealed the bloodsoul’s head. It rolled back and forth through the dirt in a futile attempt to reconnect with the rest of its body. He grabbed it by a tuft of chestnut colored hair, which threatened to release from the skull as he lifted it, and shoved the entirety into the sack, adding a few stones that had loosened from the wall for good measure.
Islyr pulled on his cloak to cover the burn on his shoulder. It throbbed and pained him all the more with the garment’s pressure. After knotting the top of the sack as tightly as he could manage Islyr motioned for Liren to stand. It was in good time, for at that moment a woman’s scream carried over the top of the wall. It seemed that someone had discovered Bothan’s fate. The commotion on the other side grew steadily as Islyr readied himself to leave. He motioned silently for Liren to follow and headed off.
They rounded a corner and found themselves in a mostly deserted street. Long rows of houses faced a sudden drop the height of several men. It ended in the river, though that side of the road was roped off to make it more difficult for the passer-by to fall accidentally. After checking for observers Islyr flung the bag out as far as he could. It sunk quickly, leaving no trace. A few feet away was an area set up to view the river, complete with several benches of iron painted black and some flowering bushes. It was there that Islyr seated himself. He pulled out the silken bag that he had found in Bothan’s coat and upended it in his free hand. Three silver coins of the realm, a metal key, and a slip of folded parchment. Liren looked on with little interest. The man paced back and forth in front of the bench, twitching at every noise.
“Sit down,” Islyr ordered. “You’ll draw attention.”
Liren sat, but twitched all the same. Islyr unfolded the parchment. It was a bit larger than his hand in both length and width. Something had been scrawled upon it, but blood had muddied the ink. He held it close in attempt to decipher it. Liren bumped into his arm when a carriage passed, causing the page to flutter to the ground. One corner of it landed in a puddle.
“Sit still,” Islyr snapped as he picked it up. He pressed the waterlogged portion to his breeches in attempt to dry it without losing more of what was written.
“I can’t.” Liren’s face was once again pressed into his hands, which still would not stop shaking.
Thoughts of the soaked parchment stilled as the realization of what was truly happening to Liren struck him. “What did he give you?” he asked. Keepers of Rakaii often gave them supplements of herbs at first to calm them and make them more complacent. A great number of the medicines were addictive. He supposed that he could decipher the parchment elsewhere. It smelled as if it might rain soon anyway, and there would be nothing left to read if any more water found it. He shoved the coins back into the bag, but kept the key in one hand. “Where were you staying? Can you tell me the name of the inn?”
“The Piper.” Liren held one arm against his chest with the other in attempt to still it. Islyr pulled the loaf of bread from the crook of the man’s arm before he could crush it. He started off without comment, knowing that Liren would follow.
He had been in town for half a week now, and had always had a mind for directions. Liren looked all the worse as they reached an inn bearing a sign graced by a flute and a dancing mouse. It was a decent looking place. Bright red shutters and a matching door were surrounded by white wooden thatch. “Which room?” he asked as he pulled the handle.
“On the second floor,” Liren replied as they entered. “The one with two circles atop one another.”
The innkeeper was an older gentleman who was as well-kept as his inn. Clean grey hair survived in a little strip above his ears, though at the top there was none. An overly thick book lay open on the desk before him. He squinted from behind rounded spectacles as Islyr passed, but upon noticing Liren he turned immediately back to his reading. It was for the best, Islyr decided as he climbed the stairs.
“It’s an eight,” Islyr commented as they reached the door that Liren had described.
“What?” The man looked confused, which was to be expected.
“The symbol. It’s a number called eight.”
“Well how am I supposed to know that?” Liren was busily clawing his arm. It was beginning to bleed, but he did not seem to notice.
“Because most people do,” Islyr replied as he unlocked the door. “How long has it been since Bothan gave you anything?”
“Over a day,” Liren replied. He stared at the door. “I do remember. Room eight.”
With luck there would be something within to counteract Liren’s dependence. A decontaminant was usually kept on hand for after the Rakaii was trained, though he had seen some that lived nearly their whole lives receiving a dose each day. It was not generally considered to be proper Rakaii husbandry.
The room was tidy, with clean white curtains and a well swept floor. There was a window with a distant view of the river on one side and a small hearth on the other. A voyager’s trunk of belongings lay open on one side of the bed. “Start looking,” Islyr prompted upon noticing that Liren was once again staring at nothing in particular. He pointed to the trunk. “See if you can find anything that looks like what he’s been giving you.”
Liren offered a shaky nod in response and ambled over to search the trunk. Islyr crossed to the window and lifted the parchment up to it. Most of the ink had run and was thus indecipherable, though portions of words were visible nearest the bottom.
…err Temp…
…lask
Cya…
…ren Ely…
…lene Va…
It was a list of some sort, he surmised as he popped a wad of bread into his mouth. It was as delicious as it smelled. Islyr’s attention was pulled away by a soft, shuffling sound. He looked over to see Liren attempting to open a packet of folded paper with trembling fingers. When it became evident that he would not succeed he crumpled it into a ball with his fist and shoved the entirety into his mouth.
“No,” Islyr reprimanded. He pounced on Liren, knocking him to the floor. It was an easy task, for the medication had weakened him. The man coughed and sputtered as he attempted to swallow the packet. Islyr fished within Liren’s mouth in attempt to retrieve it. He stifled a cry of pain as the man bit down on his fingers. Islyr shoved his free hand against Liren’s forehead. The back of the man’s head smashed against floor harder than he had intended. It would bring less damage than swallowing a fortnight worth of medication, in any event. He shoved his free hand into Liren’s mouth once again. This time he successfully caught hold of the packet, soggy though it was. He removed it and threw it upon the bed. A few seconds more and the paper would have dissolved.
“Stay down,” he commanded, shoving Liren again for good measure. The man stared glassily towards the ceiling in either obedience or a daze. Islyr could find no issue with either, so long as he stayed on the floor. He stood slowly, expecting that Liren might try at any moment to clamor for the packet. To Islyr’s satisfaction he did naught but take slow breaths and stare into the beyond. Islyr took the medication from atop the quilt. He was forced to rip the paper apart to open it, coated in saliva as it was. Inside was a portion of rounded, mud colored seeds. They held a mild acidic scent. Cosaria. It was not often used due to the severity of withdrawal. There was nothing, so far as he knew, that could be used to counteract its effects. Liren would have to be weaned off of it. He pinched three of the seeds carefully from the packet and dropped them into the man’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Liren gasped as he swirled them around with his tongue. Islyr ushered him onto the bed. It would take a few moments for him to be able to stand, but he had planned on staying for a short while anyway, to see what could be found.
The door to the room creaked open. Islyr tensed, readying for a fight. He relaxed as the old man from downstairs peered around the door frame, his spectacles reflecting the light from the window. “I heard noises,” he said as he glanced around the room.
“My friend suffered a fainting spell,” Islyr explained as patiently as his temper would allow. “I’ve found his medication, so everything is in order now.” He held what was left of the packet of seeds aloft.
“Ah.” The old man smiled. “It seems to be so. If you have need of a healer let me know. I am acquainted with several of the master level.”
Islyr made his best attempt at a smile. He had been working on it of late, for according to his sister Selene he looked more like a dog baring its teeth. The effort seemed to be sufficient, for the man mirrored the expression and nodded. “Thank you for your concern,” Islyr added as the old fellow pulled his head from the room and closed the door.
“Will I find anything else of interest in there?” he asked, not fully expecting a reply.
“There’s a paper,” Liren mumbled.
“What sort of paper?”
Upon receiving no reply Islyr looked over to see Liren grinning at nothing like an idiot. He moved to the trunk and began to rifle through it, tossing aside things of little interest as he made his way to the bottom. It was clothing, for the most part, though between the layers of shirts with far too much color lay several more packets of folded paper, presumably filled with medicines. At the bottom he finally located a parchment with writing rather than herbs.
“Yes, that one,” Liren commented as Islyr pulled it from the trunk. He was now sitting up, at least. “The symbol upon it.”
Islyr unfolded it. His stomach clenched as he gazed upon the symbol that had been drawn there by an expert hand. It was a serpent dragon coiled around a crescent moon. The list. He knelt upon the floor and pulled from it from beneath the bed where it had fallen. He moved to the desk, upon which a sat a quill and inkwell. There he completed the names upon it.
Viverr Templain
Aurin Fetlask
Cyanna Elyon
Devren Elyon
Time stilled as he stared at the last name on the list. Selene Valenne. The mage was here for the Aranth. He was here for his sister. Islyr shoved both pieces of parchment into his pocket and grabbed his staff from where it rested against the windowsill. If they were coming for Selene then he would be there to protect her.
“Wait,” Liren pleaded as Islyr reached the door.
Islyr sighed. There was a time in the past when he would have left the man and felt nothing. He grasped Liren’s wrist and helped him from the bed. The man wobbled in the slightest, but was far more stable than he had been moments ago. “We can’t stay here.”
“I know,” Liren replied. “But you’ll take me with you? I can’t do this by myself,” He nodded towards the packet of seeds on the bed.
“I’ll help you end your dependence,” Islyr agreed as he took the packet from where it lay. “But after that you will learn to survive on your own.” After a second of thought he grabbed what was left of the bread as well.
“But I have no one,” Liren objected as they descended the stairs. “Bothan killed both of my brothers. They were all that was left of my family.” Islyr caught his arm as he stumbled over the last step. The man’s eyes were damp with tears.
“You’re with me for now,” Islyr assured him. “You have my word that I will not leave you until you’re ready.”
Liren leaned heavily upon him as they made their way outside.
“But where are we going?”
“First you don’t wish to be left alone, and now you’re concerned about where we’re going?” Islyr wondered how long he could endure a traveling companion without losing his temper. “Does it truly matter? Do you suddenly have somewhere of importance to be?”
“I suppose not,” Liren admitted.
Islyr glanced at the man, whose eyes were still red from crying. “I might tell you when we’re closer,” he said. With the luck of the Tides Liren wouldn’t run in fear when the destination was revealed.
The bustle of the town was perfect cover, and the weather had turned cool enough that no one thought a heavy cloak out of place. His sister Selene had given it to him the last time he had visited her. A birthday gift, belated though it was. It was perfect, for it was not so fine as to draw attention, but was warm and expertly made nonetheless. He glanced at his target; a tall man with the honey toned skin that many of the Kerell possessed. Two plainly made rings, bands of deep purple stone upon the index finger of his left hand, betrayed his true nature. He was as dark a thing as contained in any fireside story. The monster would meet the Spirits within the hour.
Next to the first man stood another; a soul not graced by the Spirits. The slave was most obviously Rakaii though no Circlet marred his forehead, for the first man controlled him with ease. The Rakaii cowered in the slightest as his master offered a few crisp words. The chatter of the crowd drowned out whatever was said. By the luck of the Tides the slave’s reply was clear enough to reach Islyr’s ears. “As you wish, master Bothan.”
Bothan. The surname held no familiarity to Islyr. He had hoped, though perhaps not to the point of expecting, that it would. The land of the Kerell was vast, and although he had learned many of the families’ names while enslaved there it would be impossible to know them all.
Master Bothan’s reply was once again inaudible, but the blood that trickled from his Rakaii’s nose was enough to know that he was not pleased that the man had spoken his name aloud. A trapper with only one Rakaii to his name. Either he was very poor at his craft, or he had only arrived a short time ago. Islyr had only heard tell of him a few days past, so perhaps it was the latter.
With the wave of one hand Bothan bade his captive stand outside the bakery as he entered. It was the opportunity that Islyr had been waiting for. He slipped through the crowd; around a passing carriage, between two old women arguing much too loudly about the price of goose eggs, and finally behind two leather clad members of the city guard just as they rounded the corner onto the next street. He glanced inside the baker’s window as he passed. Despite the delicious scent wafting through the cracks of the bakery’s two garishly painted yellow doors Bothan had not stopped to eat. He was questioning the baker rather than making a purchase. The red-cheeked man, much too thin for a baker of any kind in Islyr’s opinion, was no doubt telling Bothan of the man with the ink embedded in his face that had purchased bread there just yesterday morning.
Islyr had purposely shown himself to several of the merchants in town over the past few days. His face was unmistakable. He had offered what was meant to seem like small talk about his plans for the next few weeks. The ruse seemed to be working well thus far, though he held some reservations. Mages were dangerous and cunning. They were untrustworthy. He would willingly take his last breath before allowing them to enslave him again.
The baker’s white cap bobbed up and down as he nodded. The man pushed it back into place with one hand while handing Bothan a rounded loaf of bread with the other. Islyr’s mouth watered at the sight of it. Perhaps eight hours was too long after all. His new life was making him weak. He gripped his staff and headed for the Rakaii.
The slave was oblivious at first; caught up in some inner pain or drowning in self-pity as many did upon being turned to Rakaii. His eyes found Islyr, but they did not truly take note until his feet were swept from the cobbled stone beneath them. The man’s head struck hard, but not with enough force to do permanent damage. Islyr flipped him over, binding his hands with a strip of leather as he did so. He then rolled him onto his back once again.
“Your pain is almost over.”
The Rakaii looked more frightened than reassured. Islyr took hold of his feet and pulled him into the alleyway next to the bakery. This was not the most ideal of the locations that he had set up, which was unfortunate. He should hurry if he planned to make it as far as was needed.
The man struggled as Islyr pulled him along, but he was nowhere near strong enough to break free. “Let me go,” he pleaded in a strange accent that refused to be identified. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” Islyr replied as he forced his mind to remain on the task at hand. “I understand far better than you ever could.” First alley on the left, thirteen paces down, then take the second right.
“You’ll take me too far.” The man looked as if he might soon shed tears. It was pitiful. “You’ll kill me.”
Islyr stopped and glanced at the Rakaii’s face. A small amount of blood leaked from the corner of the man’s dark eyes. “We’re not too far yet,” he replied as the slave writhed within his grasp. “I am well aware of how far is too far.” He pulled him along with more speed.
“Please, you must stop.”
Islyr came to a halt. “This is it,” he informed the squirming man as he tied his feet to a nearby hitching post. It was one of three in the alley, all composed of metal and all rusted in the slightest. He had thought it an odd place for them until realizing that this alley was once a full road. The stone wall that blocked it looked recently built, and the windows of the nearby shop remained shuttered; its doors kept together with boards nailed haphazardly in place. “You’ll stay where you are,” he added. He did not wish to harm the man any more than was necessary, for he seemed fairly innocent. “What is your name?”
“Liren,” the man replied. “He’s coming.”
“I know.” Islyr loosed the key from where it hung on a leather cord around his neck. He sprinted towards the wall, stopping just short of the last hitching post. Attached to it was a chain of metal links. He followed the length of it as quietly as was possible with quickened speed. At the end was a voyager’s trunk; its cured wood bound on the edges and corners with silver metal. The chain led inside it via a small notch that Islyr had cut. He dragged the chest into the light and unlatched the lock.
Cobbles loosened from the dirt as the Rakaii squirmed in attempt to follow Islyr with his gaze. “What is that?” He retched as he caught wind of it. “Is that a corpse?” The disgust in his voice was plainly evident. “Did you kill that man?”
“Yes, it is,” Islyr replied shortly. “And no.” He had killed many people, but this man was not one of them. The city of Watersight was not as safe as most, for the guardsmen were easily bribed. He had found the body, along with another, on the shore of the river that led through town. He unlatched his cloak and pulled it from his shoulders, setting it gently on the side of the alley. It was lucky for the people of the city that he had found the bodies when he did, for they were sleepers, which were easily the most dangerous of bloodsoul. He flipped the lid of the trunk open. It was then that Bothan rounded the corner. He was slower than Islyr had expected. The first shot of flame from his hands was easily avoided.
“The people of this realm are just as dim-witted as I had imagined,” Bothan noted in the language of the Kerell. “You can steal a Rakaii, but it is impossible to escape with one.”
“Not impossible,” Islyr corrected. He readied his staff as he faced the man.
“Fenrir.” Bothan whispered Islyr’s Rakaii name as if saying it with any volume would bring a curse down upon him. If there was any grace left to this world, it would. Of the Tenere-Rakaii that Islyr had killed so far, none had spoken that word. The name severed his concentration with such ferocity that he failed to notice the words of magic that came after it. Flames tore through the fabric of his shirt and into his shoulder.
“I’ll kill him,” Islyr warned. He aimed his staff at Liren’s head.
“He is worth nothing compared to you. I came here to make my fortune, and it seems that I have found it.”
Another burst of flame lit the alley. Islyr was ready. He avoided it with ease. His arm began to throb. The sickly odor of singed hair found him. He looked down to see Liren clutching his head in agony.
Bothan cupped his hands together, muttering furiously. A sphere composed of blue and yellow light grew between his palms. Islyr knew his type. He would injure Marked Ones until they could no longer fight if only to capture them. After all, so long as they could be healed later what did it matter? Islyr kicked at the trunk. His foot collided firmly with side of it, yet its inhabitant did not stir. He ducked just quickly enough to cause the next ball of flame to miss his feet by a shadow’s breath. Heat reached his toes as his left shoe caught fire. He scraped it along a patch of dirt to extinguish it, narrowly avoiding a second attack as he did so. The sphere was aimed higher this time. It sizzled as it blasted a patch of stone from the wall behind him. Time was waning. The city guard would be upon them soon enough. Bothan growled with frustration. Islyr raced back towards him, striking the trunk with his staff as he did so. He glanced towards it. Still nothing. Spirits above, these sleepers were irritating. Perhaps the people of the city were not in so much danger from it as he had imagined. On his next pass he pushed at the trunk with as much force as he could muster, tipping it onto one side. The bloodsoul tumbled out onto the broken cobbles of the alley.
Bothan’s face wrinkled. “And just what to you intend to do with that corpse?” he asked. “Make me retch until I give up and return home?”
Islyr laughed. Bloodsoul did not occur naturally in the land of the Kerell. The few that existed there were ones that his mistress had forced him to create. At last it rattled to life. The bloodsoul lifted itself from the ground with a vibrating groan. Liren screamed. He scrambled as far as he could manage with hands and feet bound. The creature ignored him. Bothan was the most tempting of the three, for bloodsoul seemed naturally drawn to magic. It lunged at the Tenere, forcing him to the ground. Bothan screamed. The bloodsoul bit down upon the man’s shoulder. It tore into the flesh of his arm with its rotting fingers.
Islyr raced to Liren and released his hands and feet. “Trust me,” he urged as he headed for the wall. Liren followed. “Wait for me on the other side,” Islyr ordered. The man nodded in consent, though his eyes were wide with fear. He boosted the Liren over the wall, listening only until he heard the soft thump of his feet striking the ground on the other side. Bothan’s screaming had stopped and all was now quiet. He turned back to where the man lay. The bloodsoul was busily chewing on his hand. Islyr plucked the creature’s chain from the ground. He grasped it with both hands and pulled with all of his strength. The bloodsoul’s head severed cleanly from its neck. It rolled, collecting dirt as growls of anger echoed from the alley walls. Islyr lifted the head from the ground just as it started to roll back towards the rest of the creature. It snapped angrily at his fingers. He tossed it over the wall. Liren would know better than to touch it, and if not then there was nothing he could do for the man. The rest of the bloodsoul began to twitch. Islyr took the brief opportunity to grab it by the legs and shove it into the trunk. He replaced the padlock and snapped it together. It was composed of the heaviest iron that he could find, for he wanted as little chance as was possible that some rogue could break into it. Anyone who did manage to gain access would get what they deserved.
Heavy footsteps and shouting emanated from the far end of the alley. The city guard was finally on their way. By the grace of the Spirits it would take them a while longer to narrow down his location. He knelt by Bothan’s side, avoiding the pool of dark blood that flowed from the mage’s arm to fill the spaces between the cobbles. The man was still breathing, though it did not seem as if it would last.
“What brought you here?” Islyr demanded. “You will tell me.”
Bothan’s face contorted with pain. “What point would there be in speaking falsely now?” the mage asked. “Riches in the form of feral Rakaii. What else would bring a civilized soul to these wilds.”
“But on whose behalf? Did they send you for me?”
“No,” Bothan replied softly. He was growing weak. “It is widely assumed that you are dead. I came here on behalf of the Empress. She offers coin and favor for those who bring back Rakaii. May my death honor her.”
“Your death honors nothing but your greed,” Islyr growled. But it was too late. Bothan’s soul had gone.
Islyr rifled through the mage’s coat; his fingers slipping deftly into whatever pockets he could find. Most were empty. In the largest pocket lay a green silken bag that clinked of coins when he moved it. Next to that was a wax packet of rolling papers and a pouch of tobacco. He took the silk bag, leaving the rest where it lay. The renewed pounding of boots on the soil told him that it was well past time for him to leave. He slipped the Tenere rings from Bothan’s finger.
Upon standing Islyr noticed the bag of bread. He grabbed it from where it lay and plucked his cloak from the ground as he passed it. The fabric did not seem to be scorched. Islyr took the wall at a run, using his staff for leverage as he vaulted it. He landed mostly on his feet. It was not his most graceful attempt by far. He looked back to find Liren crouching beside the wall, clutching his head in his hands. Blood trickled lazily from behind one ear. Droplets clumped here and there in the sandy ground beneath him.
“No time for that,” Islyr said sternly. “Your life belongs only to you now.”
Liren looked up at him. It was a strange sensation; being connected to another as they passed to spend their time with the Spirits before entering a new life. He had experienced it twice now, and each time was etched into his memory. You felt the pain of your master, the wounds, the fear, and then something akin to relief; to freedom in its purest form. A glint of metal in the sun drew Islyr’s attention to the ground nearby. He pressed his fingers around the strange object that he found there. A ring which looked as if it was meant to form around the ear ended in a spike the length of his smallest finger. It was coated in blood. Islyr wrapped it in a spare portion of leather and set it gingerly into his pouch. He then pulled out a strip of cloth. He poured a small amount of ointment upon it and handed it to Liren. The man winced as he touched it to the hole where the device had been embedded.
“Hold pressure on it for as long as you can,” Islyr instructed.
Liren’s face contorted as he attempted it. The man did not speak much, which was fine. Islyr was not much for conversing even when in the best disposition. He removed the bread from the burlap sack and placed it in Liren’s hand. It was still warm.
“Don’t drop it,” he warned. Not that a bit of dirt would make it inedible, but he much preferred his food clean.
A brief survey of the base of the wall revealed the bloodsoul’s head. It rolled back and forth through the dirt in a futile attempt to reconnect with the rest of its body. He grabbed it by a tuft of chestnut colored hair, which threatened to release from the skull as he lifted it, and shoved the entirety into the sack, adding a few stones that had loosened from the wall for good measure.
Islyr pulled on his cloak to cover the burn on his shoulder. It throbbed and pained him all the more with the garment’s pressure. After knotting the top of the sack as tightly as he could manage Islyr motioned for Liren to stand. It was in good time, for at that moment a woman’s scream carried over the top of the wall. It seemed that someone had discovered Bothan’s fate. The commotion on the other side grew steadily as Islyr readied himself to leave. He motioned silently for Liren to follow and headed off.
They rounded a corner and found themselves in a mostly deserted street. Long rows of houses faced a sudden drop the height of several men. It ended in the river, though that side of the road was roped off to make it more difficult for the passer-by to fall accidentally. After checking for observers Islyr flung the bag out as far as he could. It sunk quickly, leaving no trace. A few feet away was an area set up to view the river, complete with several benches of iron painted black and some flowering bushes. It was there that Islyr seated himself. He pulled out the silken bag that he had found in Bothan’s coat and upended it in his free hand. Three silver coins of the realm, a metal key, and a slip of folded parchment. Liren looked on with little interest. The man paced back and forth in front of the bench, twitching at every noise.
“Sit down,” Islyr ordered. “You’ll draw attention.”
Liren sat, but twitched all the same. Islyr unfolded the parchment. It was a bit larger than his hand in both length and width. Something had been scrawled upon it, but blood had muddied the ink. He held it close in attempt to decipher it. Liren bumped into his arm when a carriage passed, causing the page to flutter to the ground. One corner of it landed in a puddle.
“Sit still,” Islyr snapped as he picked it up. He pressed the waterlogged portion to his breeches in attempt to dry it without losing more of what was written.
“I can’t.” Liren’s face was once again pressed into his hands, which still would not stop shaking.
Thoughts of the soaked parchment stilled as the realization of what was truly happening to Liren struck him. “What did he give you?” he asked. Keepers of Rakaii often gave them supplements of herbs at first to calm them and make them more complacent. A great number of the medicines were addictive. He supposed that he could decipher the parchment elsewhere. It smelled as if it might rain soon anyway, and there would be nothing left to read if any more water found it. He shoved the coins back into the bag, but kept the key in one hand. “Where were you staying? Can you tell me the name of the inn?”
“The Piper.” Liren held one arm against his chest with the other in attempt to still it. Islyr pulled the loaf of bread from the crook of the man’s arm before he could crush it. He started off without comment, knowing that Liren would follow.
He had been in town for half a week now, and had always had a mind for directions. Liren looked all the worse as they reached an inn bearing a sign graced by a flute and a dancing mouse. It was a decent looking place. Bright red shutters and a matching door were surrounded by white wooden thatch. “Which room?” he asked as he pulled the handle.
“On the second floor,” Liren replied as they entered. “The one with two circles atop one another.”
The innkeeper was an older gentleman who was as well-kept as his inn. Clean grey hair survived in a little strip above his ears, though at the top there was none. An overly thick book lay open on the desk before him. He squinted from behind rounded spectacles as Islyr passed, but upon noticing Liren he turned immediately back to his reading. It was for the best, Islyr decided as he climbed the stairs.
“It’s an eight,” Islyr commented as they reached the door that Liren had described.
“What?” The man looked confused, which was to be expected.
“The symbol. It’s a number called eight.”
“Well how am I supposed to know that?” Liren was busily clawing his arm. It was beginning to bleed, but he did not seem to notice.
“Because most people do,” Islyr replied as he unlocked the door. “How long has it been since Bothan gave you anything?”
“Over a day,” Liren replied. He stared at the door. “I do remember. Room eight.”
With luck there would be something within to counteract Liren’s dependence. A decontaminant was usually kept on hand for after the Rakaii was trained, though he had seen some that lived nearly their whole lives receiving a dose each day. It was not generally considered to be proper Rakaii husbandry.
The room was tidy, with clean white curtains and a well swept floor. There was a window with a distant view of the river on one side and a small hearth on the other. A voyager’s trunk of belongings lay open on one side of the bed. “Start looking,” Islyr prompted upon noticing that Liren was once again staring at nothing in particular. He pointed to the trunk. “See if you can find anything that looks like what he’s been giving you.”
Liren offered a shaky nod in response and ambled over to search the trunk. Islyr crossed to the window and lifted the parchment up to it. Most of the ink had run and was thus indecipherable, though portions of words were visible nearest the bottom.
…err Temp…
…lask
Cya…
…ren Ely…
…lene Va…
It was a list of some sort, he surmised as he popped a wad of bread into his mouth. It was as delicious as it smelled. Islyr’s attention was pulled away by a soft, shuffling sound. He looked over to see Liren attempting to open a packet of folded paper with trembling fingers. When it became evident that he would not succeed he crumpled it into a ball with his fist and shoved the entirety into his mouth.
“No,” Islyr reprimanded. He pounced on Liren, knocking him to the floor. It was an easy task, for the medication had weakened him. The man coughed and sputtered as he attempted to swallow the packet. Islyr fished within Liren’s mouth in attempt to retrieve it. He stifled a cry of pain as the man bit down on his fingers. Islyr shoved his free hand against Liren’s forehead. The back of the man’s head smashed against floor harder than he had intended. It would bring less damage than swallowing a fortnight worth of medication, in any event. He shoved his free hand into Liren’s mouth once again. This time he successfully caught hold of the packet, soggy though it was. He removed it and threw it upon the bed. A few seconds more and the paper would have dissolved.
“Stay down,” he commanded, shoving Liren again for good measure. The man stared glassily towards the ceiling in either obedience or a daze. Islyr could find no issue with either, so long as he stayed on the floor. He stood slowly, expecting that Liren might try at any moment to clamor for the packet. To Islyr’s satisfaction he did naught but take slow breaths and stare into the beyond. Islyr took the medication from atop the quilt. He was forced to rip the paper apart to open it, coated in saliva as it was. Inside was a portion of rounded, mud colored seeds. They held a mild acidic scent. Cosaria. It was not often used due to the severity of withdrawal. There was nothing, so far as he knew, that could be used to counteract its effects. Liren would have to be weaned off of it. He pinched three of the seeds carefully from the packet and dropped them into the man’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Liren gasped as he swirled them around with his tongue. Islyr ushered him onto the bed. It would take a few moments for him to be able to stand, but he had planned on staying for a short while anyway, to see what could be found.
The door to the room creaked open. Islyr tensed, readying for a fight. He relaxed as the old man from downstairs peered around the door frame, his spectacles reflecting the light from the window. “I heard noises,” he said as he glanced around the room.
“My friend suffered a fainting spell,” Islyr explained as patiently as his temper would allow. “I’ve found his medication, so everything is in order now.” He held what was left of the packet of seeds aloft.
“Ah.” The old man smiled. “It seems to be so. If you have need of a healer let me know. I am acquainted with several of the master level.”
Islyr made his best attempt at a smile. He had been working on it of late, for according to his sister Selene he looked more like a dog baring its teeth. The effort seemed to be sufficient, for the man mirrored the expression and nodded. “Thank you for your concern,” Islyr added as the old fellow pulled his head from the room and closed the door.
“Will I find anything else of interest in there?” he asked, not fully expecting a reply.
“There’s a paper,” Liren mumbled.
“What sort of paper?”
Upon receiving no reply Islyr looked over to see Liren grinning at nothing like an idiot. He moved to the trunk and began to rifle through it, tossing aside things of little interest as he made his way to the bottom. It was clothing, for the most part, though between the layers of shirts with far too much color lay several more packets of folded paper, presumably filled with medicines. At the bottom he finally located a parchment with writing rather than herbs.
“Yes, that one,” Liren commented as Islyr pulled it from the trunk. He was now sitting up, at least. “The symbol upon it.”
Islyr unfolded it. His stomach clenched as he gazed upon the symbol that had been drawn there by an expert hand. It was a serpent dragon coiled around a crescent moon. The list. He knelt upon the floor and pulled from it from beneath the bed where it had fallen. He moved to the desk, upon which a sat a quill and inkwell. There he completed the names upon it.
Viverr Templain
Aurin Fetlask
Cyanna Elyon
Devren Elyon
Time stilled as he stared at the last name on the list. Selene Valenne. The mage was here for the Aranth. He was here for his sister. Islyr shoved both pieces of parchment into his pocket and grabbed his staff from where it rested against the windowsill. If they were coming for Selene then he would be there to protect her.
“Wait,” Liren pleaded as Islyr reached the door.
Islyr sighed. There was a time in the past when he would have left the man and felt nothing. He grasped Liren’s wrist and helped him from the bed. The man wobbled in the slightest, but was far more stable than he had been moments ago. “We can’t stay here.”
“I know,” Liren replied. “But you’ll take me with you? I can’t do this by myself,” He nodded towards the packet of seeds on the bed.
“I’ll help you end your dependence,” Islyr agreed as he took the packet from where it lay. “But after that you will learn to survive on your own.” After a second of thought he grabbed what was left of the bread as well.
“But I have no one,” Liren objected as they descended the stairs. “Bothan killed both of my brothers. They were all that was left of my family.” Islyr caught his arm as he stumbled over the last step. The man’s eyes were damp with tears.
“You’re with me for now,” Islyr assured him. “You have my word that I will not leave you until you’re ready.”
Liren leaned heavily upon him as they made their way outside.
“But where are we going?”
“First you don’t wish to be left alone, and now you’re concerned about where we’re going?” Islyr wondered how long he could endure a traveling companion without losing his temper. “Does it truly matter? Do you suddenly have somewhere of importance to be?”
“I suppose not,” Liren admitted.
Islyr glanced at the man, whose eyes were still red from crying. “I might tell you when we’re closer,” he said. With the luck of the Tides Liren wouldn’t run in fear when the destination was revealed.