Rendall drew in a deep lungful of sweltering, shit-and-vomit-tinged air. Sweat slicked his brow, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his red robes folded and laid neatly on the long wooden table at the side of the interrogation room, his sword and weapons belt on top. The dim light of the candles set into the alcoves about the room cast flickering shadows across the stone. He tilted his head back, rolling his neck from side to side, releasing the aches and stiffness in a series of cracks.
A small, leather-wrapped journal; a pen; an inkwell; and an open canvas wrap were sat across the top of the table by his side, while a red leather satchel lay at his feet. Reaching down, Rendall touched his finger against the cold steel of one of the many knives that rested in sewn-in pockets of the wrap. Many of the other Inquisitors preferred to use brutal contraptions such as racks, wooden horses, thumb screws, or spiked iron collars. But not Rendall. There was nothing personal in those implements, nothing… intimate. Rendall did not consider himself an honourable man. He would be a fool if he did. There were only two types of honourable men: those who sought to blame a higher cause for the atrocities they committed, and idiots. No, Rendall was not an honourable man. But he did believe in respect, and if he was going to break someone's soul, he owed them the respect to do it with his own hands. This elf barely counted as 'someone', but at the same time its resilience had impressed him – irritated him, but impressed him.
Rendall lifted the leather-wrapped book, opening the strap that held it closed. He flicked through the blood-marred pages, coming to the most recent entries.
Day 9
Sensory Deprivation: Nine days in total darkness and absence of sound.
Physical method: Skin peeled along the entirety of right arm. Salt rubbed into wounds.
Results: Prisoner did not speak. Prisoner did not scream.
Day 23
Two days since previous interrogation.
Sensory Deprivation: Twenty-three days in total darkness and absence of sound, with the exception of seven visits for interrogation (previously documented).
Physical method: Forced water inhalation. Right hand placed in boiling water. Skin peeling of upper back, left calf, and left cheek.
Results: Prisoner did not speak. Prisoner did not scream.
Note: Prisoner shows beyond average resistance to interrogation methods. New tack to be taken. Increased duration of sensory deprivation to be used. Fourteen days without break.
Day 37
Fourteen days since previous interrogation.
Sensory Deprivation: Thirty-seven days in total darkness and absence of sound, with the exception of eight visits for interrogation (previously documented).
Physical Method: Forced consumption of Dreamviper venom. Continued hallucinations for approximately eleven hours. Prisoner showed extreme discomfort, exhibited fear response: shaking, shivering, and grunting.
Results: Prisoner did not speak. Prisoner did not scream.
Rendall sighed, tapping his finger on the paper. He closed the notebook and set it back down on the table. Even then, the only sounds Rendall heard were the clinking of chains, the slight pop and crackle of candles, and the low grunts of the elf as it hung in the centre of the room, a manacle clamped around its right wrist and a glob of metal fused to the stump of its left hand, both chained to the panels on the ceiling. Its ankles were chained to the two panels on the floor, pulled tight so it had little room to wriggle. A thick blend of blood and sweat coated the elf's body, streams of crimson running from freshly peeled patches of skin to drip onto the stone floor.
Rendall's apprentice stood to the elf's left, sliding a sharp paring knife along the creature's ribs, peeling flesh away cleanly. He wasn't usually one to admit it, but the young man was coming along well – Rendall might even have said he was a natural. The first few days he had choked and gagged simply from the air in the room. The sight of peeling flesh had caused him to empty the contents of his stomach more than once. But after a few weeks, he took to it like a duck to water. Rendall would make an Inquisitor of him yet.
"You know, despite what you might think, I don't enjoy torturing you." I do enjoy the challenge though.
Rendall's voice echoed against the walls of the square room. He looked into its eyes. He had let it keep both its eyes to enhance the effect of the light deprivation, but seeing how little progress they had made, that would have to change. Despite the admiration Rendall was developing for the creature, he could not afford to take any longer in extracting information. News had already swept across the continent of what the Draleid had done at Kingspass, and it didn't take a Scholar to know that the burning of Arisfall was the boy's doing as well. The Grand Inquisitor had already let Rendall know that his failure to provide anything useful from the elf was reflecting poorly on the Inquisition.
In that analogy, Rendall was a mirror. And in the Inquisition, any mirror that reflected poorly was shattered. Rendall had no intention of being shattered. "You will not survive this. You know that, and so do I. I simply cannot make that happen. But what I can do is make you a promise. If you tell me everything you know of the Draleid, I will end your life quickly. The pain will be gone. The darkness will dissipate. The emptiness in your soul will fill. If you do not tell me, I will take your eyes and leave this room. I will never come back. I have wasted too much time on you already. But I will ensure you are kept here hanging just as you are. You will be fed and watered every day. I will ensure that your miserable life is as long, painful, and hopeless as it can possibly be."
Calen's breaths trembled as he ran his hands over the red robes that sat on his shoulders and fell over his chest and legs, stopping just shy of his ankles. The rainfall had continued from the night before, each drop drumming against the hood of the borrowed robes, cold as it trickled down his face. He could hear Gold and Black talking but paid no heed to their words. He clenched his jaw, memories taking shape in his mind. Rendall's cold eyes. The long red cloak knotted at his shoulders. The steel breastplate that bore the Black Lion of Loria. Rendall Malkas. At last Calen had learned the man's full name. The full name of the man who had not only killed his father, but was the cause of everything.
Rendall Malkas. Farda Kyrana. Artim Valdock.
Calen's anger bubbled, sifting through the inferno that was Valerys's fury. Miles away, the dragon's chest resonated with a deep rumble that threatened to turn to a roar. Calen felt the rock of the cliffside part beneath Valerys's talons, the heat resonating from his body. The dragon wanted to burn Berona to the ground. He wanted to hear Rendall's screams, hear his skin crackling. It was all Calen could do to hold Valerys back.
He will die by my hands. I will look into his eyes as I pull the life from him. Once again, Calen remembered that death could not be beautiful. He knew killing Rendall would bring him no peace. His father would not be returned from Heraya's embrace. Neither would Ella, or their mother, or Faenir, or any of those killed when Rendall brought his men to The Glade that day. They were gone. No, Rendall's death would not bring peace, and it would not bring back those Calen loved. But Calen didn't want anything to come of Rendall's death. What he wanted was simple. He wanted Rendall to die knowing that it was Calen who held the blade, that the lives the man had taken had come to take his.
"Calen? Are you listening?" Tarmon's hand rested on Calen's shoulder, the man's eyes fixed on his. Tarmon was garbed head to toe in the red plate of the Inquisition Praetorians. It was strange to see the Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard in the armour of the enemy. The man was already a titan, a head taller than most others, shoulders carved from stone. But in the gleaming red plate, Tarmon looked like death itself had taken physical form and come to claim the souls of the living.
Calen nodded, his mind still replaying scenes from that day. Rendall's sword driving through Vars's chest, the look in Vars's eyes, Freis's screams. 'No, no, no…' The memories burned in him, wrapping his soul in flames, hardening his heart. I will kill you today.Erik and Vaeril stood beside Tarmon. Erik was also garbed in the red plate of the Praetorians, while Vaeril stood with his hands before him, manacles around his wrists, his hair matted to his head by the rain, ready to play the prisoner.
Gold nodded to Black, then turned towards everyone gathered in the alley around the corner to the entrance of the Inquisition headquarters. She looked at Calen. "One last time, repeat the plan to me."
"Once we get to the main entrance, the guards and the clerk are inside the doors. We know Rendall and his apprentice are currently within the Headquarters, and from what your contact has told us, they are likely in the interrogation halls as we speak. I will pose as Inquisitor Halsen, an Inquisitor originally hailing from Argona, only recently raised to full Inquisitor. My Praetorians—" Calen gestured to Erik and Tarmon "—and I have just captured an elf who was found poisoning the water supply of Dunmarken, a town forty miles north of Berona."
"Do we really need all this back story?" Erik asked, rolling his eyes.
"Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it," Gold replied. "Now remember, as I was unable to get the number of the interrogation room Rendall is currently using, you will need to find it. It is not uncommon for Inquisitors to trade prisoners and other pieces of information between them. You have promised Rendall this elf in exchange for information on the movements of rebels near Elkenrim. That should be enough for them to give you the number of the interrogation room he is currently using. Once you're inside, any Praetorians guarding the corridors will likely leave you alone. They don't often question the movements of Inquisitors. According to my sources, there are no more than twenty Praetorians currently set to guard the dungeons. Nobody ever tries to break in, and without a map, anyone who breaks out is usually dead for a week or so before their rotting bodies are found. Do you have the map?"
Calen patted the pocket of his new robes, feeling the folded map within.
"Good. Now if your friend is in there, and assuming he is fit to move, I have divided another set of armour between these two packs." Gold handed a large bulging pack to both Erik and Tarmon, which they each slung onto their backs. "If he puts that on, there shouldn't be any questions getting out. Where are you to meet us once you're out?"
"At the back of the Raven's Ruin fletchery," Tarmon said with a nod.
Gold had shown them the fletchery on their way to the Inquisition headquarters. Aeson's network had built an underground passage out of the city beneath the fletchery, much like the passage Calen and the others had used beneath Oliver's Apothecary in Camylin. Regardless of whether they were able to leave through the city's gates, using the underground passage was simply cleaner.
"All right, we best get moving to make sure everything is in place. I wish you luck." Gold gave Calen a slight bow. "Whatever happens, it was truly an honour to meet you."
Black nodded to the group, following Gold down the dark, rain-pummelled alley, disappearing into the shadows.
Calen drew in a deep breath. The others were looking to him: Erik and Tarmon in their ruby red plate, Vaeril with streaks of rain running down his face, manacles clasped at his wrists.
"I know this has been said already, but thank you. I cannot explain what this means to me, to have you here by my side. To bring Rist back." And to kill Rendall.Erik lifted the visor of his red helmet, a look in his eyes that said more than any words ever could. "If we can't protect the ones we love, we're no good to anyone. I wasn't sure if coming here was the smart choice, and it likely wasn't. What we're about to do certainly isn't. But it's the right choice. Where you go, we go."
"I can't believe I'm saying this." Tarmon lifted his own visor, turning up his lip at Erik's words. "But young Virandr here took the words right out of my mouth. Let's get this done."
Calen turned to Vaeril, resting one hand on the saturated shoulder of the elf's cloak, the other hand checking his manacles. "Are you sure you are all right?"
Vaeril gave a sombre nod. "They are unlocked, and the key is in my pocket either way. I am with you Draleid… Calen. I am with you." Vaeril turned to Tarmon, who carried Vaeril's white wood bow, sword, and pack. "Try not to lose those."
"I'll do my best, master elf."
The entrance to the Inquisition headquarters was a large rectangular structure of dark, almost black, stone that rose twenty or so feet from the ground, stark next to the smooth white stone buildings around it. It held no windows of any kind, and the door was built from sturdy oak banded with Iron. Long red banners with a black trim, bearing the Black Lion of Loria, rippled in the breeze on either side of the doorway, their ends splitting into two points.
Calen filled his lungs with rain-damp air. He let the air sit in his chest, settling himself. Two emotions warred within him: fear and anger. Fear that Rist might not be in the cell and that Calen might still not be strong enough to fight Rendall. Anger at everything that twisted man had done. As his hand began to shake at his side, a warmth flooded over him from Valerys. The dragon shared Calen's fears and stoked the fires of his fury, but at the same time, Valerys gave him a sense of calm. Valerys might not have been standing by Calen's side, but he was with him. They were one.
The rain hammering down against his robes, Calen walked towards the door of the Inquisition headquarters, Tarmon and Erik following him with Vaeril marching in between them.
The heavy, iron-barred door creaked as it opened, the sound echoing down the long corridor on the other side. The corridor was rectangular in shape, crafted from the same near-black stone as the outside of the structure. Thick candles sat atop sconces along the walls, each candle alternating sides – beeswax, judging by the bright, warm glow. The air was thick and heavy, tinged by an unpleasant odour that Calen couldn't quite place.
The corridor stretched on for thirty or so feet, the sound of Erik and Tarmon's armoured boots echoing against the stone. A small rectangular room sat at the corridor's end, no larger than the kitchen of Calen's home.
Two Praetorian guards stood on the opposite side of the room, on either side of an arched stone doorway that fronted a stairwell leading down into the ground.
A man in red plate sat at a sturdy wooden desk on the left side of the room, his helmet placed atop a chest behind him. Stacks of paper, a pen, an inkwell, and a large beeswax candle sat on the desk, the candle's flame bathing the man's face in a warm light. He looked as though he had seen no more than thirty summers, with long black hair tied at the back; sharp, angular cheekbones; and skin as fair as any Calen had seen. He sat scribbling away in an open ledger, tssking at something on the pages within. At the sound of the footsteps, he lifted his head, looking as though he were about to admonish whoever was interrupting his work, but all irritation vanished as he set his eyes on Calen. He sat up straighter. "Welcome, Inquisitor. Light of The Saviour illumine you."
Calen's mind scrambled for the appropriate response. They had gone through the plan meticulously, but somehow a simple greeting had slipped through the cracks. After what felt like a full minute but was in fact only a second or two, Calen settled on precisely what he thought an Inquisitor might do. He frowned and grunted, which only seemed to make the man sit straighter.
"Inquisitor Rendall Malkas, he is here?" Calen kept his eyes locked on the man's, doing all he could to exude an air of authority that he did not naturally possess.
"I emm…"
"You emm?" Calen frowned.
"My apologies, Inquisitor, I've not seen you here before, and you look so young, I—"
Calen opened himself to the Spark and pulled on thin threads of Air – he could already feel the Spark being used somewhere below, far enough away that it barely registered, but he could feel it. He pressed the thread of Air against the man's throat, just enough for him to feel it – just what he figured an Inquisitor would do when questioned.
The look of helplessness on the man's face didn't make Calen feel powerful, though; it made him feel like a monster. And at that moment, he understood why Dahlen had reacted the way he did when Calen had used the Spark during their sparring. Against the Spark, Dahlen was helpless, just as Calen had been when Rendall had killed Vars. Just as helpless as the Praetorian was now. The thought of it sent a shiver through Calen's spine; it repulsed him. He released his hold on the Spark.
The man swallowed hard, reflexively touching his fingers against his throat.
"Inquisitor Rendall Malkas?" Calen repeated.
"Yes, he is here," the man stuttered. "You have business with him, Inquisitor…?"
"Inquisitor Halsen." Calen nodded towards Vaeril. "I've an elf for him. Found this wretch attempting to poison the water in Dunmarken."
"Another elf?" The man narrowed his eyes at Vaeril, his lip curling in disgust. "Horrible creatures altogether." He held his stare on Vaeril for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Yes, yes. Inquisitor Malkas is currently performing interrogation in room one-four-seven. Room one-four-nine is available, Inquisitor." The man opened up a broad cabinet that hung on the wall behind, picking out an iron key and handing it to Calen, inclining his head in deference.
Calen took the key and slid it into the pocket of his robes. Another elf?
As the man lifted his head, his eyes met Calen's, his brow furrowing. Calen had no doubt the man had just noticed the strange purple hue of Calen's irises. He looked as though he was about to say something but remembered the threads of Air against his neck earlier and thought better of it. "Will you be requiring an additional escort? I can have Lars or Ulrika accompany you." The man gestured towards the two guards who stood at the entrance to the stairwell
"That will not be necessary." Calen gestured for Erik and Tarmon to follow him as he moved towards the stairwell.
"Umm… Inquisitor, the log?"
Calen froze. Act like you know what you're doing. He took a moment to let himself think, steadied his nerves then turned, letting out an irritated sigh. "I have more important things to be doing." He put on the firmest voice he could muster, lifting his chin.
"I'm sorry, Inquisitor. But everyone must sign in. You know this. Inquisition rules." The man's voice trembled. Even here in the heart of Loria, garbed in the red plate of the Inquisition Praetorians, a man was still just a man. A man doing what he was told. A man who knew the power of a mage.
Calen held out his hand, trying to look as unimpressed as he could. "Quickly now. Stop wasting my time."
The man gulped, dipping a pen in the inkwell, then handing it to Calen while sliding a ledger across the desk. Calen took the pen and signed his false name in the ledger, noticing Rendall's entry just above his and an empty space for the exit signature.
Inquisitor Rendall Malkas and apprentice. Interrogation Room 147.
Calen's gaze lingered on the name, letting it sink in. Rendall is here. Up until that point it had been a hope. But now it was confirmed. The man who killed Calen's dad was in the dungeons.
Calen pushed the ledger back across the desk, handing the pen to the Praetorian clerk on the other side, then turned and made for the stairwell, a fire smouldering in his heart.
Rendall stood with his arms folded, his head tilted to the side as he watched his apprentice peel the sharp blade along the elf's inner thigh. The elf twitched and grunted, the muscles in his jaw spasming, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Rendall had never encountered a living creature with this level of resolve. Nothing and no one — elves, humans, Jotnar, and dwarves alike — had ever endured the sheer quantity of pain Rendall had inflicted on this elf. Months in almost full sensory deprivation. It was quite extraordinary. He had seen others attempt to do as much, but their minds had scrambled, and they had been left as pale shells of what they had once been. But even before him now, the elf's unwillingness to break was as clear as it had been on the first day.
Rendall happily would have spent months longer testing the resilience of the elf's mind. He would have cherished the opportunity to break it down to its constituent parts, to examine it, to comprehend what truly gave rise to the creature's fortitude. It wasn't a species-based quality. He was sure of that. He had broken a number of elves in his time. This one was unique.
"Slower," Rendall said, clicking his tongue off the roof of his mouth, frowning at his apprentice. "The goal isn't to remove as much skin as possible, it is to prolong the pain, to peel back the layers of hope. You must understand this fundamental thing."
"Yes, master." The young man nodded, drawing in a deep breath as he continued his work. At first, he had been cocksure and brazen. Rendall had broken that out of him – not all of it, just enough to eliminate undeserved hubris. A man must be broken down before he could be built back up; that was something Rendall believed with his whole heart. This apprentice would make a good Inquisitor. He was still a little skittish when it came to carrying out the hands-on work, but he took it in his stride. He was willing to do what needed to be done.
Rendall stepped closer, clutching the elf's sweat-soaked hair between his fingers and lifting its head back. The creature didn't open its eyes. The muscles in its jaws twitched and spasmed, while its breaths, though ragged and weary, were slow and steady, almost meditative. Truly fascinating.
It was unfortunate this would be the last day of interrogation. But Rendall knew when to cut his losses. Still, it was good practice for his apprentice. Best to put these last hours to good use. He pulled his fingers from the elf's hair, letting its head drop, hanging loose.
He dropped his hand into his trouser pocket as he walked back towards the table with foldable wheels that held his notebook. His fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. A smile touched his lips. It was the flat rock that his daughter, Ara, had found on the coast that morning and insisted he take it for 'protection'. Which was of course ridiculous, but he humoured her. When the mind of a child was so easy to please, it made little sense not to do so. She had also managed to find an almost identical stone to give to Forina as well, Efialtír bless her tiny heart.
Rendall moved the stone between his fingers, hesitating when he sensed something, a tingle as though someone had drawn from the Spark, faint, but noticeable. Within the Inquisition headquarters, and particularly down in the interrogation halls, the thrum of the Spark that vibrated through the city was non-existent. There weren't many Inquisitors still within Berona's walls that night, and he had expected most of them would be busy drinking their coin away. Perhaps it was Markova or Yerrick. Those two were partial to interrogation after a few drinks. Either way, it wasn't his concern. Another hour or so and he'd leave the elf to wither away. Or perhaps he would go back on his word and allow the creature a quick death. Rendall was sadistic, he knew that, but he wasn't a monster.
The air in the dungeon's corridors was far cooler than that of the city, the blazing heat above kept out by the stone walls and the soil that surrounded them. But even so, the unpleasant odour that Calen had smelled in the antechamber had grown even more pungent as he descended into the dungeon itself.
Calen held the map in front of him as they moved as swiftly as they could through the maze of corridors. Even with the map, it was no easy task. The stairwell dropped fifty or sixty feet into the ground, likely more. According to the map, the Beronan dungeons were a sprawling network of tunnels and chambers that dug even deeper into the ground and spread out for quite some distance. It was difficult to tell on paper, but it looked as though the corridors overlapped each other, rising above and sinking below like the weaves of a wicker basket or spider's web.
The western section of the dungeons contained kitchens and living quarters, with many vents rising to the surface, each marked by a small black circle with a line through it. Below the living quarters were offices or studies of some kind, while the northern section held bathing rooms and privies that drained into the River Horka.
What Calen was interested in was the eastern section that contained an even more convoluted mess of corridors: the interrogation halls. The clink of Tarmon and Erik's armoured boots reverberated off the stone, drumming in the tight corridor. Every corridor and chamber looked as though it had been hewn straight from the rock, smooth to the point of seeming polished. Just like the tunnel that had taken them into the back of Belduar, the Beronan dungeons must have been cut using the Spark.
Many of the corridors were lit with thick, slow-burning beeswax candles set in sconces that cast a bright light over the stone, but many others were shrouded in darkness, the sconces empty or candles extinguished. That made sense. It was likely the candles were only lit as they were needed, otherwise at least a score of attendants would be required to maintain the candles day and night.
As they moved through the network of tunnels towards the eastern section of the dungeons that held the interrogation halls, Calen couldn't help but feel a slight pang of panic as memories of the tunnels below the Lodhar Mountains flashed in his mind, the endless walking, the kerathlin, Valerys's panic. These corridors were not much different. They twisted and wound unceasingly, some ending in stairwells that sank further into the earth, only to rise on the other side. The deeper they travelled, the more Calen was aware that without the map, there was no chance they would be able to find their way back out.
As they walked, the sensation of someone drawing from the Spark grew stronger. It wasn't constant. It only tingled every few minutes as though whoever was drawing from the Spark was doing so in bursts.
After a while, the heavy wooden doors set into stone on either side of the corridors had begun to bear numbers.
"Even the numbers are jumbled," Vaeril whispered as he touched his hands against a set of steel numbers nailed to the wooden door on his left, his hands now free of the manacles. Two-two-three. "Every door in the last section started with five. The one before started with nine. All of these doors start with two."
Calen looked at the map, running his finger along the corridor network connecting interrogation room two-two three with the number of the room the clerk had given him: one-four-seven. "It's this way."
Just as Calen was about to set off down the corridor, the creaking of a door echoed.
"What's that elf doing walking free?" A woman garbed in red robes stepped from one of the interrogation rooms about ten feet ahead on the right. She looked no more than forty summers. Her speech was slurred, and her robes were dishevelled. Blood marred her gaunt, sun-darkened face. She had clearly spent the earlier part of that night drowning her sorrows in ale. She stumbled, shaking her head as though trying to loose the dizziness that held her in its grasp, then narrowed her eyes at Calen. Her body tensed, a moment of lucidity crossing her face. "You're no Inquisitor. How did you get in here, and where did you get that map?" The woman pulled a sword from a scabbard beneath her cloak, stepping towards Calen. Vaeril, Erik, and Tarmon moved to intercept her.
She opened herself to the Spark, and Calen darted forwards, pulling his sword free from beneath his cloak, already closer than the others. The Inquisitor made to swing for his head, but he brought his blade up, the clang of steel ringing in his ears. She stumbled backwards, and Calen slammed the coin pommel down into her face, teeth snapping, blood pouring out over her lips and chin. As she hit the floor, Calen felt her draw in threads of Spirit and Fire.
Calen was quicker though, Valerys's rage burning through him. He dove after her, driving his blade through her gut until he felt the steel crack against the stone beneath her, jarring his arm. The woman let go of the Spark, blood spluttering from her lips and pouring from the wound in her gut, streaming out around Calen's sword.
Calen's hands were trembling on the hilt, his jaw clenching, teeth grinding. Valerys's anger suffused him, and he let it in. He twisted the handle of the sword and pulled it free as the Inquisitor's chest stopped drawing breath. Guilt twisted in his chest as he rose to his feet and looked down at the lifeless body before him, blood pooling on the stone. Anger quickly devoured his guilt — that woman had just been torturing someone.
Calen moved to the door the woman had come through, resting his fingers on the handle.
"We need to do something with the body," Tarmon said from behind him. "Not much we can do about the blood, but if someone finds the body here, they will raise the alarm immediately."
Calen pushed open the door, a wave of heat hitting him like a brick wall. The stench of shit, vomit, and blood, caused him to gag. He took a moment, holding the back of his hand to his mouth, then lifted his head to look around the room. Flickering candles illuminated small alcoves in the walls.
For a moment, the anger that had flooded Calen's veins vanished, a shiver rippling over his skin, coils of dread twisting in his stomach. The body of a young man lay strapped to a long wooden table, iron clasps around his wrists, ankles and neck. Long, razor-thin cuts laced his naked body, blood smearing his skin, dripping down his side and pooling on the floor. Fingers were missing on both hands, and smoke rose from where eyes had once been, now twisted messes of scarred and burned flesh. Calen was relieved that the young man no longer drew breath, for the pain he must have endured would have been otherworldly. How could someone do this to a living thing? How could anyone inflict this kind of torture?
Calen's hands trembled, the fingers of his sword hand clenching around the leather-wrapped hilt. "May Heraya harbour your soul," he whispered through gritted teeth.
"Can we put the body in here…" Erik's voice trailed off and he audibly gagged as he looked into the interrogation room. He turned his head away, closing his eyes. "What in the gods?" He hocked phlegm from his throat and spat it on the stone, looking as though he were going to vomit. "These Inquisitors aren't even human."
"Leave the body where it is," Calen said as he turned from the room, glaring at the corpse of the dead Inquisitor, his lip curling, all guilt burned from him. "She doesn't deserve to share a room with him. If they come, they come."
Calen opened himself fully to Valerys as he stalked down the cold stone corridor towards interrogation room one-four-seven. He let their minds drift together. Let their hearts beat as one. Even separated by miles, they were one. Energy rippled through Calen, crackling. In his mind's eye he saw Rist lying on that table, mutilated, broken, dead. Every second he wasted, increased the odds of that outcome. He would not waste a second more.
A shiver ran down Rendall's spine, and he turned away from his apprentice, who was cleaning the knives and instruments before packing them into the cloth wrap. His gaze fell on the door. Someone else had drawn from the Spark. Someone close.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.
Rendall strode across the room to where his sword and belt lay atop his robes. He lifted the belt and fastened it around his hip, sliding his robes around his shoulders. "Hurry up, just toss them into the satchel."
"But master, there's blood all over them. They'll rust if I don't—"
"You think I don't know what blood will do to steel?" Rendall grabbed the young man by the throat, turning his head so their gazes met. "Toss them into the satchel, now. And if you ever question me again, I will take your tongue. You don't need it."
Of course, that was an idle threat. The young man would be of a little use without his tongue. An Inquisitor who couldn't ask questions was less than useless. But he didn't need to know that. He simply needed to obey.
The sensation of someone drawing from the Spark ignited in the back of Rendall's mind once more, except closer, much closer. He saw threads of Air whirling, and then the door was lifting from its hinges, iron snapping, bolts flying free from the rock. The door hurtled across the room, slamming into the wall on the far side in a metallic thud, stone dust spraying, light from the corridor carving into the dimly lit interrogation room.
A man stepped through the doorway, a curved elven blade in his right hand and the red robes of an Inquisitor draped over his shoulders, though it was clear he was no Inquisitor. His eyes pulsated with an ethereal purple light that misted outwards like steam wafting from the surface of a frozen lake, fury carved in the lines of his face.
Rendall pulled on threads of Spirit, weaving them around the man, warding from the Spark. But the intruder drove a spike of Spirit through the ward before it formed and sent a whip of Air crashing into Rendall's chest. Rendall's feet lifted, and he was careening through the air. He wrapped himself in threads of Air, but pain still twisted up his spine as he crashed against the wall, his fingers barely managing to keep their grip on his sword hilt. He dropped to one knee, shaking his head, then pulled heavily from the Spark, letting it flood through him as he rose to his feet.
And now, you die.
Cold fury blazed in Calen's veins as Rendall rose to his feet. In his mind, he could hear Valerys roar, the dragon's rage burning within him, consuming everything. Two bodies, one soul. The man who had brought the empire to their village stood before them. The man who had killed their dad.
A figure hung from chains in the centre of the room, head drooped, hair tangled and knotted, blood streaming from a myriad of cuts. In the dim light, Calen couldn't make out who it was.
A young man in brown robes stood beside a rickety table between the prisoner and Rendall. He pulled a gleaming knife from a cloth wrap atop the table and lunged towards Calen. It's not Rist…Calen waved his hand and sent a whip of Air snapping at the young man's legs, knocking them from under him, his head hitting the ground with a crack. He didn't move. Calen fixed his gaze on Rendall, power surging through him, the Spark hot in his veins. Finally.
Rendall sent a whip of Fire at Calen, but Calen turned it away with threads of Air, walking forwards as the flames flickered from existence. Calen dropped into Striking Dragon, wrapping both hands around the hilt of his father's sword. Then they crashed together.
The forms of the svidarya flowed through Calen like a raging river, steel crashing against steel as Rendall blocked strike after strike, the vibrations jarring Calen's arms. All the while, Valerys's rage seared Calen's muscles, energy crackling across his skin.
Rendall slammed a thread of Air into Calen's gut, sending him stumbling backwards. The Inquisitor followed after him, his blade moving in a blur of steel. A metallic clang rang out as Calen caught the blow, his blade sliding along the Inquisitor's, snagging at the crossguard. Calen remembered Aeson's teachings. Each part of the sword is a weapon, forget that at your peril. As Calen's blade hit Rendall's crossguard, he angled his blade straight ahead, then pushed off his back leg.
The manoeuvre caught the Inquisitor off guard, steel slicing across his cheek, drawing blood, but as the man leaned away from the blade, Calen flicked his wrists back and threw all his strength into his arms and shoulders, ramming the coin pommel into Rendall's jaw. He crashed into the wall behind him, blood pouring from his mouth, dripping over his lips and down his chin.
Calen heard Tarmon, Erik, and Vaeril scrambling into the room, armoured boots pounding against stone. He ignored them, lunging towards Rendall. The Inquisitor had recovered and turned Calen's blade aside with a quick flick of his wrist. Then pain exploded on the side of Calen's head, stars flitting across his eyes as Rendall's fist connected. He staggered backwards, the Inquisitor closing in, his fist dappled with blood. They exchanged another flurry of blows, and Rendall's steel sliced through Calen's robes, burning across his shoulder, then raked across Calen's forearm, causing him to lose his grip on his sword.
Tarmon and Erik charged Rendall, but the Inquisitor hammered them with a thread of Air, knocking them into Vaeril.
"Who in The Saviour's name do you think you are?" Rendall growled, stepping towards Calen. The man slammed threads of Air down on Calen's shoulders, driving him to his knees. As he stood over Calen, Rendall paused, his eyes narrowing, recognition flashing across his face. "It's you."
Calen looked up at the Inquisitor, taking in the man's face, the light of Calen's eyes casting a purple glow across Rendall's skin. Rendall's feet shifted, the rippling movement of his body signalling an impending swing of his blade. Time crystallized, Calen's vision narrowing until he saw only Rendall. Energy overtook him, Valerys pushing his strength into the bond, roaring, his talons gouging furrows in the rock of the cliffside upon which he was perched. Only rage burned within him.
Calen let the Spark surge through him, just as he had in the Burnt Lands. He drew in thick threads of Air, shaping them into a sphere and slamming them into Rendall's chest. The Inquisitor careened through the air. Even with the threads of Air Rendall wrapped around himself, cracks still spread through the stone as he crashed into the wall.
Calen rose to his feet as the Inquisitor dropped to his knees.
"You killed my dad." Calen's voice didn't tremble; it was clear and true.
Drawing in ragged breaths, Rendall lifted his head, his black hair saturated with sweat, blood dripping from his lips and streaking his face. A choking laugh escaped his throat. "If I'd known what you'd become, I'd have killed you too." He spat blood onto the floor. "Better late than never."
A red glow radiated across the stone as Rendall pulled a sharp-cut, pulsating gemstone from the pocket of his robes. It was the same as the one Artim Valdock had used in Drifaien. The one that allowed him to use magic that Calen couldn't see: Blood Magic. Calen's upper lip curled reflexively.
A blur of movement came from Calen's left, and Vaeril launched himself towards Rendall, blade glinting in the mix of red and purple light. Memories flashed through Calen's mind. The Fade taking Ellissar's head. Artim Valdock snapping Lopir's neck. Ice spears punching through Falmin's chest. He would not let it happen again. Calen lunged forwards, roaring as he did, using threads of Air to pull his sword from the ground, wrapping his fingers around the hilt as he moved.
The Spark thrummed in the air around Vaeril and Rendall, threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit whirling and twisting, steel crashing against steel as the elf struck again and again.
Calen moved into Charging Boar, his blade clattering against Rendall's. From the corner of his eye, Calen saw Erik and Tarmon moving towards them, but the room was too small to make use of their numbers. Rendall pivoted, turning away a swipe of Vaeril's blade, a plume of black fire erupting from his hand, the red gemstone glowing in his fist. The elf threw himself to the ground, his sword clattering as the black fire roared over him.
Calen lifted his leg, pushing threads of Earth into his bones, wrapping his foot in threads of Air. He unleashed a guttural roar, hearing Valerys's thunder in his mind. The Spark burned within him, searing his veins, but the pain only pushed him onwards. Using all his might, he hammered the flat of his foot into Rendall's chest, pushing with threads of Air.
A violent snap of bones filled the room as Calen's foot connected, sending the Inquisitor once more slamming backwards into the wall, the cracks spreading further. Rendall dropped to his knees, his sword still clasped in his right hand, the gemstone glowing in his left. He let out a spluttering cough, sprinkling blood over his lips.
The gemstone began to glow ferociously, but Calen snapped at the Inquisitor's arm with threads of Air, knocking the gemstone free and pulling it into his own grasp. He could feel the stone calling to him, pushing at the edges of his mind, oily and twisted. Calen pulled on threads of each elemental strand, feeling their power radiate through him, then channelled them into the stone, crushing it, breaking it, snapping it. He squeezed his fist as hard as he could, and a burst of red light flashed from his palm, slivers of bright crimson piercing the gaps in his fingers. The light died, and the stone shattered, broken fragments dropping to the floor.
Rendall let out a howl, throwing himself to his feet. He swung his blade at Calen's head, his movements desperate. Calen met the swing with the strong of his sword, knocking Rendall's arm back. Turning the blade, Calen swept his sword across Rendall's chest, slicing through the Inquisitor's robes and the shirt that lay beneath, carving a bloody gash into the flesh. Calen drew his sword arm back and grabbed the man by the shoulder. He pulled Rendall towards him and drove his sword into the man's chest. He felt blade bite into flesh and grate against bone, a thump signalling that the crossguard had hammered into Rendall's sternum.
Calen shook as he pulled his head back, looking into the eyes of the man who had killed his dad. "He was unarmed…" Calen stared into Rendall's eyes, his voice cracking, hands shaking, chest trembling.
Rendall made to speak, but he coughed and spluttered, blood coating his lips and dribbling down his chin.
Calen pulled his sword free, and the man dropped to the ground, landing on his knees, then falling onto his side, blood pouring out onto the stone.
Calen released his hold on the Spark, feeling the drain spread through him, dragging the energy from his bones. He dropped to his knees beside Rendall's lifeless body, voices a dull drone around him. He drew in slow breaths of dense, hot air, blood and sweat tacky on his skin.
Vars was still dead.
Calen looked at the intricate spirals that ornamented his blade – the blade Vars had given him. Blood coated the steel, Rendall's blood. As Calen knelt there, weary in both body and mind, the voices of Erik, Tarmon, and Vaeril swirling around him, only one thought filled his head: Rist.