"Are you all right?" Erik grasped Calen's forearm and helped him to his feet, red plate armour glimmering in the dim candlelight. He looked down at Rendall's lifeless body, his lip curling, then back to Calen, looking into his eyes, checking him over.
Calen nodded, struggling to align his thoughts. "Rist…" Calen turned towards where the man had hung suspended from chains. What if Gold had gotten it wrong? What if Rist wasn't the apprentice? What if he was the prisoner?
The prisoner was now on the ground, Vaeril and Tarmon standing over him. He was naked and unconscious, blood streaking from a myriad of cuts that laced his brittle malnourished body, some long and thin, some broad as though the flesh had been peeled away. His dark hair covered his face, falling over his chest, knotted and tangled with clumps of dirt and blood. "Is he… is…"
"It's not Rist."
Erik's words cut straight to Calen's heart, stealing the air from his lungs. Weightlessness set in his stomach as though he was falling. They couldn't have come all this way for nothing. They couldn't have. Calen's heart thumped erratically. Warmth flooded through from Valerys, the dragon doing all he could to ease Calen's pain, to settle his mind. He stumbled closer to where Tarmon and Vaeril leaned over the body, looking to Erik and then back again. "No… it has to be. Erik, it has to be."
Calen dropped to his knees beside Tarmon, letting out a suppressed grunt as the vibration jarred his legs, knocking some of the air from his lungs. It has to be Rist.
"Draleid."
Calen looked to Vaeril, who knelt on the other side of the man, blood covering his hands and face. Vaeril had a look in his eyes that Calen couldn't place, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Draleid… it's Gaeleron."
"Gaeleron? But…" Calen stared back at Vaeril, then at the unconscious prisoner on the floor. Since escaping Belduar, and stepping through the Portal Heart into Drifaien, Calen had tried not to think about who had made it down the Wind Tunnels – the thoughts would have consumed him, and there was nothing he could have done to help. He had just told himself that the others had made it. Aeson, Dahlen, Ihvon, Alea, Lyrei, Gaeleron.
Vaeril leaned forward and brushed the prisoner's matted hair from his face, pulling it back behind a tapered elven ear. Knots twisted in Calen's stomach. The elf's skin looked so taut and brittle Calen thought it might shatter at a touch. The bones of his face protruded like the teeth of a serrated knife. Calen stared until the pieces began to slot together. The shape of his eyes, the line of his brow, the thin scar that ran horizontal along the elf's right cheek. But even as he knew it was Gaeleron, he still couldn't believe it. The elf looked as though he stood on the edge of the void. "He's been here all this time…" Calen swallowed hard, as he looked down over Gaeleron's scarred and beaten body. The elf's chest rose and fell softly, rasping breaths escaping his mouth. Gaeleron had treated Calen stiffly when they had first met, but the elf had sworn the oath to protect him. He had been proud, and strong. It was he who had first taught Calen the forms of the svidarya. To see him like this… "Vaeril, will he live?"
Vaeril turned away, and Calen saw a stream of tears carve through the blood and dirt on the elf's face. Calen had never seen Vaeril cry. He'd rarely seen the elf show more than a hint of emotion. Seeing him cry was like a hammer to the chest. Vaeril drew a sharp breath through his nose, wiping away tears with his sleeve, leaving blood smears in their place. "Whatever they were doing to him, they kept healing him afterwards." Vaeril ran his hand across Gaeleron's right arm. "The scars here are where they waited too long, and the tissue didn't knit properly."
"Why in the name of Varyn would they do that?" Erik stood over the others, looking down at Gaeleron, his eyes wide, mouth ajar.
"To keep him alive. To spend longer torturing him." The muscles in Vaeril's jaw twitched, his hand clenching into a fist. Vaeril picked up Gaeleron's left arm. The elf had lost his left hand at the first battle of Belduar, but that had been a clean cut. Now the flesh at the end of the limb was knotted and twisted, scarred as though it had been set aflame. "They fused the manacle to his arm. I removed it and healed what I could. If we can get him somewhere safe, I can do more. But we need to leave. Someone will come."
Calen nodded, his heart thumping against ribs, his emotions wavering between guilt, anger, and sadness. Gaeleron had been here all this time. Months and months, he had been tortured and starved. If it were not for Calen the elf wouldn't even have been at Belduar. No, not now. He needs you now.
"Calen Bryer?" a voice croaked.
Calen stiffened. His head shot up, his breath catching in his chest. He knew that voice. It was drier and harsher than he remembered, but he knew it. It just couldn't be possible that he would hear it here. Slowly, Calen pushed himself to his feet, swallowing hard. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips and turned.
Standing before him, brown robes draped over his shoulders, part-dried blood, from where Calen had smashed his head off the stone, smeared over his forehead and eyes, was Fritz Netly.
Fritz Netly of The Glade.
"It is you," Fritz said, looking at Calen, wincing as he touched his forehead. The young man seemed different. His eyes still held the same cold, calculating look they always had, but there was an uncertainty there now, a crack in his arrogance. "It's you," Fritz repeated, but the meaning was different. "You're the Draleid… He never told me why they wanted you, but…" Fritz stopped, realising he had said too much.
Calen's mouth went dry, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword, his breaths growing short. He looked from Fritz to Rendall's corpse to Gaeleron, who lay unconscious behind him. Calen's blood began to simmer. Valerys's mind drifted into his own, rage spilling over. The dragon wanted Fritz dead, his blood coating the floor.
"Were you part of this?" Calen gestured towards Gaeleron. His voice more growl than words.
"Those are the robes of a Circle apprentice." Erik took a step closer to Calen and Fritz, his tone flat.
"I didn't… I mean…" Fritz stuttered, his eyes flashing from Gaeleron to Calen to Erik. He was no longer the young man Calen remembered. He still looked like a snivelling, conniving bastard, but there was a meekness to him now. "You need to under—"
"Were you a part of this?" Calen shouted, his lungs burning, his throat scratching, Valerys roaring in his mind. He hadn't realised he crossed the distance between himself and Fritz before grabbing the man's robes and slamming him against the wall.
Fritz nodded, his eyes darting around, unable to meet Calen's gaze. "I didn't have a choice. I swear it."
"You swear it?" Calen brought his blade to Fritz's throat. "Your word means less than nothing. Do you think I don't remember? You sent an arrow through Rist's leg. You forced us to walk deeper into Ölm. He could have died, and you would have drunk to his memory, pretending it was all an accident." Calen pressed the blade harder against Fritz's neck, drawing forth a trickle of blood. "Swear all you want, nobody is listening. How are you even here? What did you do to worm your way north?"
"Calen, please."
Rage flooded Calen's veins, burning so brightly his hands trembled and his mind spun. Valerys urged him forward, the dragon's fury calling for Fritz to suffer for what he had done to Gaeleron. Calen roared, "What did you do?"
"What… your eyes?" Fritz's voice quivered, purple light reflecting off his face, gleaming in his eyes.
Calen raised his chin, pushing his blade that little bit harder, drawing more blood.
A hand gauntleted in red plate rested on Calen's forearm. It didn't pull Calen's blade away, it simply rested. Tarmon's voice was soft in Calen's ear. "This is not the way."
"You saw what he did to Gaeleron," Calen hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes still fixed on Fritz's. "I know him, Tarmon. He's just like Rendall."
"He is unarmed and afraid."
"He would drive this blade into my throat if it was the other way around."
"But you are not him." Tarmon's words were simple, but they pushed through Calen's rage, causing his resolve to falter. "You do it this way and it will haunt you."
Calen glanced at Tarmon, their eyes meeting. He turned back to Fritz, then nodded, gritting his teeth, pulling his blade back ever so slightly, blood trickling over the steel. "Was Rist ever here?"
"Rist?" Genuine surprise permeated Fritz's voice. He pushed his head back against the wall, trying his best to create as much distance between his neck and the blade's edges as he could. "Why… why would he be here? I haven't seen him, I swe—I haven't seen him."
"They took Rist." Calen leaned forward, leveraging the blade against Fritz's neck. "You better give me more than that."
"I don't… I can't…" Fritz looked down at his dead master. Tears streamed from his eyes, but Calen had a feeling they were more for himself than tears at the loss of Rendall's life. A look of recognition flashed across Fritz's face. "There is something. Master Malkas, he spent time in the room across the corridor. He never let me in…" Calen saw the wheels turning in Fritz's mind. "It could be Rist."
Erik stepped past Tarmon, lifting his visor, leaning in closer to Calen and Fritz. "You better not be lying, or I'll bleed you right here."
"I'm not!" Fritz said, with a touch more irritation than Calen thought he'd intended. "I'm not," he repeated, softer. "I don't know if it's him. But there is someone in there. Someone he didn't want me to see. It's the only reason I can think of."
Calen turned to Tarmon.
The big man nodded. "This place is fairly empty. It should be a while before someone realises we're here." He looked at Fritz. "If you're trying something, I'll kill you myself."
Fritz shook his head, wincing as the steel brushed his neck.
"Vaeril, how is he?" Calen looked at where Vaeril knelt beside Gaeleron, threads of each elemental strand whirling around them both, weaving into Gaeleron's body in twisting patterns and multitudes of combinations. Now that Calen had seen Vaeril heal a number of times, he could follow the threads, but he still had no idea what they were doing. The Spark required comprehension as much as any craft or skill Calen had ever seen, and healing with it seemed to require the same knowledge as a skilled surgeon or city healer. The understanding of precisely how to clean, care for, and heal a wound was vital.
"I'll need a few more minutes, Draleid. All I can do is make it safer for him to be moved."
A lump formed in Calen's throat as he looked down at the crumpled heap that was Gaeleron. He drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, trying to calm his building fury. His fingers tensed around the handle of his sword, the blade still pressed to Fritz's neck. He turned to look the man in his beady eyes. "Take us to the room."
Fritz nodded, the relief clear on his face. "You'll… you'll have to take the sword away."
Calen drew in another long breath, his fingers tightening and loosening on the hilt in quick succession. He pulled the sword away, wiping the blood on his red robes before sliding it back into the scabbard at his hip. "Take us."
"I just need to—" he gestured towards Rendall's body. Calen went to pull his sword free again, but Tarmon was quicker. The Lord Captain grabbed Fritz by the shoulder, his sword lying crossways against the man's stomach. "The key, the key," Fritz said, raising his hands with his palms out. "It's in his robes."
Tarmon inclined his head towards the body, letting out a short grunt.
Fritz scampered towards Rendall's body, kneeling beside it, his brown robes dipping into the pool of blood that had seeped from the corpse. He rummaged through the dead man's robes, producing a thick, iron key.
Fritz led Calen and Tarmon into the corridor, leaving Erik to watch over Vaeril and Gaeleron. The heat of the interrogation room had drifted to the back of Calen's mind, but as he stepped into the corridor, the cool air brushed over his skin. Another pang of guilt ignited in his chest. Gaeleron's been breathing that air this entire time. Every waking moment must have been agony."It's this one," Fritz said, crossing the corridor and stopping before a thick wooden door identical to the one they had just come from, except this one had the numbers one, four, and eight nailed to it. He fumbled with the key, slotting it into the hole and turning until a click sounded.
"Let me repeat myself," Tarmon said as Fritz rested his fingers on the handle of the door. "If you are in any way leading us into something here, I will kill you. And it won't be slow."
Fritz nodded, swallowing hard, then opened the door.
The air was just as dense, hot, and foul as it had been in the other room, the stench of sweat, vomit, and voided bowels thick like tendrils snaking down the back of Calen's throat. Except for the wedge of light that carved its way in from the candles in the corridor, the room was shrouded in darkness. Calen heard the sounds of clinking chains, shuffling, and low whimpers.
"Tarmon, can you pass me a candle?"
Calen could have cast a baldír, but he felt the drain sapping at him. He'd pulled deeply from the Spark when fighting Rendall, and he couldn't risk weakening himself any further in case he needed to fight again – which was, unfortunately, likely.
Tarmon pulled a thick beeswax candle that looked as though it had only recently been lit from its sconce and handed it to Calen. With the candle held out in front of him, Calen stepped into the interrogation room.
"In the name of the gods…"
The light from the candle washed over the stone of the square room, casting shadows about the walls and floor. A bare-chested man, bones stretched his skin, hair grey and brittle, sat with his back to the far wall, his head buried in his knees which were pulled to his chest. He wore a pair of ragged trousers covered in a vast array of multicoloured stains, some dark and red, others light yellow and brown. The man rocked back and forth, muttering to himself, chains around his ankles clinking.
It was only when Calen took another step into the room that he saw the other figure lying on their side, curled up with their arms wrapped around their knees, head shaking erratically from side to side. They wore a tattered dress that looked as though it had once been pure white, embroidered with flowers, but now it was a brownish grey, blood staining patches that had been sliced and cut.
Calen turned to Fritz, fury redoubling. Fritz had always been an arsehole – always. But even for him, this was darker than Calen could have ever imagined. "What do they do to people here?"
"I… I don't know. I've never been in this room before."
"But you knew." Calen had to stop himself from dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. He clenched his jaw and made his way to the man who sat against the far wall. The light of the candle cast shadows into deep recesses of the man's body, where the fat and muscle had wasted away and the skin pulled in tight around the bones. All of a sudden, Calen's time in Artim Valdock's cell felt like nothing. At least, it was nothing compared to this.
"It's all right," Calen said, reaching out to the man, trying to keep his voice as calm and level as possible. The man didn't respond. He didn't even turn his head. He simply continued to rock back and forth, muttering.
Calen leaned in closer.
"Can't… remember… Why can't I? His face…" The man's voice was hoarse and broken as though his throat hadn't been touched by water in days.
Calen dropped to one knee beside the prisoner. The man didn't look like Rist, but then again, how could anybody look like themselves when their body had been broken this badly. "Rist?"
The man twitched at the mention of Rist's name, and Calen's heart jumped. The tiniest spark of hope ignited within him.
"Rist? Is that you? Are you all right?"
The man stopped rocking, his muttering fading. "No…" The man shook his head, his shoulder length grey hair tossing side to side, his gaze still fixed between his knees. "It's not you. It's not. It can't be. He did it again. More things that aren't real." Terror crept into the man's voice, his breaths becoming erratic. "You're not real. You're not real."
What have they done to you?
"I'm real, Rist. I'm here." The man took a sharp breath as Calen rested a hand on his arm. He clasped his hand on Calen's and lifted his head, staring into Calen's eyes. Calen's heart ached as he met the man's wild gaze, dark eyes set in sunken hollows, face gaunt, a thick scar running down over his left eye and disappearing into a blackish-grey, bedraggled beard. It's not him. The sense of loss that swept over Calen wasn't something he could articulate. It left a hollow in his chest and an ache deep inside that flitted back and forth between pain and numbness. All this way. He had dragged Vaeril, Tarmon, and Erik all this way, and they still hadn't found Rist. A flicker of warmth burned in him at the thought of Gaeleron. They had found Gaeleron. That meant something.
"Calen?" the prisoner croaked.
A knot twisted then unravelled in Calen's stomach, sending a shiver through him. Did he just say my name?
"It's not real," the man muttered. He began to shake his head back and forth again, then stopped, lifting his gaze to Calen's once more, a moment of lucidity coming upon him. His eyes widened. "Are you real?"
Calen nodded and took in the man's face again, looking over every mark, every dotted freckle, settling again on the eyes. Tears rolled down the prisoner's brittle cheeks, touching his cracked, blood-marred lips.
"Is my son here?"
The hairs on Calen's arms and neck stood on end. He looked closer. The man's cheeks were sunken, bones stretching his skin like tent poles. His beard was so wild and knotted it covered most of his face, his hair grey and tangled. Calen's eyes settled on the thick scar that ran over the man's left eye, starting an inch above the brow, avoiding the lid, and continuing down his cheek before disappearing into his beard. No. It can't be. Calen had been told the story of that scar many times. Of how it had been an accident – two children sparring with steel swords when they should have used wood. Calen's heart began to beat so loud he could hear it drumming in his head. Thump. A low whistle drowned out all other noise. Thump. Calen leaned forwards and wrapped his arms around the man, careful not to pull too tight on his fragile frame. Tears streamed down Calen's face. He had no control over them, they simply flowed and flowed, snot dripping from his nose.
"Lasch."
As soon as Calen said Lasch Havel's name, Rist's dad broke into sobs, his shoulders convulsing. Lasch Havel had always been hard as iron. Never cold or rough, but it was well known he was not a man whose bad side was a good place to be. He cared deeply for those he loved and bore absolutely no horseshit from anyone else. He had never been anything other than kind to Calen. Whatever Rendall had done to break Lasch's spirit so completely made Calen want to kill the man again. "It's all right. I'm here. I'm going to take you out of here."
It took a few moments for Lasch's sobbing to die down, but he continued to shake, the moment of lucidity he had experienced fading. As Lasch pulled away, Calen had a realization. He lifted himself to his feet and dropped beside the woman in the battered floral dress, pulling at her shoulder gently. "Elia, Elia."
She shook and rocked, just like Lasch, lying on her side, keeping her face buried against her knees. Elia had always been slight of frame, but now she looked so small and frail, she was almost like a child. It seemed only days since she was pinching Calen's cheek before The Proving, her shrill voice rising above all others.
"Elia, it's Calen. I've come to get you out of this place."
The woman continued to rock as though she had no control over the motion, but she lifted her head from her knees. Her face was emaciated and fragile, her skin parchment-thin and pale as bone, her eyes bloodshot. Where once she had commanded a broad, loving smile, her lips were now thin and frail, devoid of all joy. "Calen? Are you really here?" Tears glistened in the candlelight as they rolled from Elia's eyes, streaming down her face, pooling in the crease of her nose, and dripping onto the floor. "It is you…" Still rocking slightly, Elia reached up and touched the backs of her fingers against Calen's cheek. He leaned into her touch. "Don't cry, Calen. It's all right. It will all be all right."
Elia's words caused Calen's tears to redouble, flowing freely as he pulled Elia into a soft embrace. Here she was lying tortured and starved on a dungeon floor, and she was comforting him.
"I'm getting you out of here," Calen whispered, not because he felt the need for silence, but because Elia seemed so brittle that words might break her.
Calen rose to his feet and turned to see Fritz staring down at Elia.
"Is that Lasch and Elia Hav—"
Calen grabbed Fritz by the throat and slammed him against the wall of the interrogation room. He could already see the purple glow of his eyes against the stone wall as unbridled fury swept through him. Even in the back of his mind, Valerys didn't roar or snarl, he didn't carve furrows in the rock. Cold rage held the dragon – held them both.
Gurgling sounds escaped Fritz's throat. Calen squeezed tighter, pushing the man up the wall. "They are your people," Calen growled, his throat scratching. "Yours! They raised you – The Glade raised you!"
Calen's mind flashed to the dream he'd had – or was it a vision of the past? It was near impossible to tell – of Haem standing over the prone body of Durin Netly, Fritz's brother, his blade shimmering in the moonlight, Uraks charging from all sides. Calen loosened his grip on Fritz's neck. "You look after your own, Fritz."
Calen wanted to choke the life from Fritz. He wanted to make him suffer for the suffering he had allowed to happen. But instead, he tossed him to the stone, Tarmon's words echoing. 'You are not him.'
Fritz choked and spluttered as he hit the ground, pulling his hands to his neck, shuffling backwards into the shadow-touched corners of the interrogation room.
"We need to get them out of here," Calen said to Tarmon.
"Can they walk?"
"I don't think so. At least, not fast enough."
"We'll never sneak them out past the guards upstairs. We could put Gaeleron in the armour, but he'd barely be able to hold himself upright, and that would still leave us with these two."
"We're going to have to fight our way out then. I'm not leaving them."
"I never suggested that," Tarmon said, resting a hand on Calen's shoulder. "We'll get them out of here. I can carry him." Tarmon gestured towards Lasch, who still sat huddled against the far wall.
With that decided, Calen opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Earth, channelling them into the manacles around Elia and Lasch's ankles. As he had with the walls in Belduar, he pushed the threads through the manacles, feeling for the weakest points, crushing them. A second or two passed, then the manacles snapped open, breaking into pieces as they hit the floor.
Calen dropped to one knee beside Elia, laying the candle on the ground and sliding a hand under her back, the other beneath her knees. "I've got you. It's all right. It's all right." Elia pulled away at first, but then curled into Calen's chest like a child overtired from a long day. She weighed almost nothing. Elia had helped raise him – both her and Lasch. She had been Freis's closest friend since long before Calen was born. She had cradled him, fed him, and treated him as though he was her own son. To see her like this broke parts of Calen's heart that had only barely stopped bleeding. He shifted her in his arms, trying to make her more comfortable, moving her arm around his neck for support.
Tarmon had Lasch over his shoulder. Even withered and malnourished, Lasch was still quite a bit heavier than Elia.
Calen nodded towards the door, then stopped. "Fritz, you're coming too."
Fritz was barely visible in the flickering candlelight, his face bathed in shadow. He still had one hand clasped to his neck.
"Stay if you want, but you won't live long once the Inquisition realise you did nothing to stop us." The last thing Calen wanted was the conniving bastard with them, but he knew leaving Fritz behind was as good as killing him. And Calen wasn't ready to be that person. He hoped he never would be. A moment passed before Fritz heaved himself to his feet, stepping from the shadows, blood trickling down his neck from where Calen's blade had cut into him earlier.
With Elia in his arms, Calen stepped from the interrogation room and moved back across the corridor to where Vaeril and Erik were helping Gaeleron to his feet. The elf was now awake, but his head hung, knotted hair dangling, arms wrapped around Erik and Vaeril's shoulders. Rendall's bloodied robes were draped around him.
"He can walk as long as we aid him," Vaeril said in response to the question Calen hadn't asked.
Calen nodded. Gaeleron looked like he was half a moment from passing out, but Calen wasn't about to argue. "Once we get back to the entrance, we'll have to deal with the guards and move quickly from there."
"What about him?" Erik nodded towards Fritz, who still stood in the hallway, blood-stained robes pulled tight.
Calen let out a sigh. "He's coming with us."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"No. I'm not."
Tarmon shifted Lasch on his shoulder, looking over at Fritz. "If he tries anything, we kill him." The words weren't spoken to Fritz, but they were most definitely intended for his ears.
Leaving the interrogation room, Calen pulled the map from the pocket of his robes, shuffling Elia to one side as the group moved as quickly as they could down the dungeon corridors. Gaeleron's legs seemed to move more of their own volition than any conscious thought from the elf. Calen didn't even want to try and contemplate what kind of pain Gaeleron had been through since Belduar. So many questions floated in his mind: Had Gaeleron been captured after the battle of Belduar? Or had he made it to Durakdur and the dwarven city had fallen? Were there more down here? No, Fritz would have said it. He would have said anything to save his life. The only thing about Fritz that Calen trusted was his desire to look after his own skin. Keep moving. Save who you can. Focus on what's in front of you.
He pulled the map open awkwardly with one hand. "Fuck."
"What's wrong?" Erik called from behind.
"The map's covered in blood. I can barely read it. I think it's a left ahead."
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as I can be."
Calen turned the corner, stopping in his tracks.
"Why are you stopping?" Tarmon asked, looking at Calen as he turned the corner after him. Then he saw why.
A man stood in the middle of the corridor. He was tall and gangly, with dark skin and wiry muscle, his head shaved clean, a short beard covering the lower half of his face. The man wore loose-fitting linen trousers tucked into leather boots, an unbuttoned black shirt over his shoulders, and a sword strapped to his hip. His shoulders were half as broad as Tarmon's, and he was no taller than Calen, but there was something about the way he held himself that made Calen uneasy.
"You need to turn around," the man said, folding his arms, a look on his face that was more akin to an impatient father than a Lorian soldier.
"We can't do that."
Erik and Vaeril turned the corner behind Calen, Fritz beside them. Calen heard muttering and then the rasp of swords being drawn.
"You're outnumbered," Erik said, stepping up beside Calen, his gaze fixed on the stranger, a sword gripped in each fist. "Step aside. There's been enough blood tonight."
The man gave a half-hearted smile as though Erik had said something that was equally sad and amusing. "You count differently than I do." His gaze passed over Calen and the others, his tongue rolling over his lips. Finally, he gave a shrug. "I didn't come here to shed blood."
"Then step aside." Calen sounded far more confident than he actually was.
"We don't have the time for this," Erik whispered in his ear.
"You're right, we don't," the man answered, taking a step closer. How had he heard?
"I'm ending this." Erik strode forwards, his swords glinting in the candlelight. But as he moved, Calen felt the man before them draw from the Spark, pulling threads of Air into himself.
Calen lay Elia on the ground and leapt towards Erik, opening himself to the Spark. He sent a thread of Spirit shearing through the man's thread of Air, as Vaeril had shown him. The stranger simply raised an eyebrow, giving a downturn of his lip, then drew the sword from his hip and braced himself for Erik's charge. Within seconds the corridor was filled with the sounds of clanging steel.
The man turned away Erik's strikes as though they were nothing, whirling around him, feet moving in a flash. Calen lunged, driving his blade towards the man's stomach, but the stranger spun on his heels, cracking his pommel on the back of Calen's head. Calen stumbled, dropping to one knee, his head spinning, spots of colour flecking his vision. He pushed himself to his feet.
The stranger twirled between Erik, Tarmon, Vaeril, and Calen as though sword fighting was simply a dance, steel glimmering, feet moving in a blur. A thread of Air crashed into Vaeril, knocking the elf on his back, threads of Spirit wrapping around him, moving in a latticed pattern, closing him off from the Spark. Calen tried to slice a spike of Spirit through the man's ward but caught a pommel to the face, followed by something hard to the gut.
As Calen doubled over, he felt Valerys in the back of his mind, pushing him, urging him on. This wasn't like when he faced Rendall. Valerys was scared — terrified. The man who stood before them was far stronger than Rendall – far stronger than anyone Calen had encountered. Calen let the dragon's mind wrap around his, let the rage in. Energy surged through him, and he hurled himself towards their attacker, threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit spiralling around him.
The man sidestepped a stab from Erik, then sliced his blade along Erik's cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood. He could easily have taken Erik's life then and there. Why had he not?
He's toying with us.
Calen struck out with whips of Fire and Air, letting the svidarya flow through him, moving from Howling Wolf, to Eagle's Claw, into Raging Sea. But the man countered every strike without breaking a sweat.
A wave of energy rippled outwards from the man, threads of Spirit and Air spiralling. Calen had never felt a strength like it. Not in Aeson. Not in Therin. Power radiated from him like the light of the sun, blinding to anyone who could see the Spark. Then something was slamming into Calen, hammering against his chest, throwing him backwards, dragging him to his knees. Around him, he could see the same was happening to Erik and Tarmon, with Vaeril still pinned down and warded.
"As amusing as that was, no more games," the man said, moving so he stood in front of Calen, paying no heed to the others. "If I let you go, will you talk to me?"
Calen grunted, struggling against the bonds that held him down, a strange blending of Air and Spirit that felt as strong as mountain roots. His teeth grinding, Valerys's rage still blazing through him, Calen nodded.
"Very well."
Just like that, the threads holding him in place vanished, and Calen fell forward, taken aback by how quickly the man had followed through. He lifted himself to his feet. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
The man studied Calen. "Interesting." He leaned closer. "I've not seen a Draleid develop eyes like that before."
Calen froze. How in the gods did this man know who he was?
"The way you move. The way the rage flows through you. The way the others fight around you. No," the man said, shaking his head. "I can't read your mind, but when you live to see as many centuries as I have, you learn things."
The man's relaxed demeanour unsettled Calen. He was acting as though they hadn't spent the last few minutes trying to tear each other apart.
"You've been betrayed. One of your contacts within the city has informed the Inquisition of your presence here. Luckily, the affinities of The Circle don't work well together – too much bickering. So they haven't passed on the information. They would prefer to take you in themselves. That gives us time. If you trust me, I can show you a different way out of the city."
"I… what…" Calen couldn't get his thoughts straight. Who in the void was this man, and how did he know so much? "Who are you?"
"If I wanted you dead," the man said, ignoring Calen's question, "you'd be dead. If you listen to the air, you will hear armoured boots. One hundred and twelve Praetorians, ten Inquisitors. Many still drunk, others called in from patrol." The man opened his arms outwards as though he had just presented the most logical argument in the known world.
Calen looked at the others. Vaeril was pinned to the ground, encased in a ward of Spirit. Tarmon and Erik were on their knees, threads of Spirit-reinforced Air holding them in place. Gaeleron sat slouched against the stone wall, drawing in ragged breaths. Elia and Lasch were huddled together, shielding their eyes from the light of the candles. Fritz knelt a few feet away, just staring.
He pulled on threads of Air and Spirit, letting them flow through him, then he pushed them out, feeling the vibrations, the currents of air, as he had done in the tunnels below Lodhar – the drift, Falmin had said the Wind Runners Guild called it. The crash of steel on stone thundered in Calen's ears, and he pulled back the threads, thinning them, letting the sound dull. Armour. Weapons. Footsteps. He couldn't tell how many, but they were coming.
"I do not trust The Circle, and I trust the Inquisition even less. As a result, I constructed a small tunnel that leads from here into the storeroom of an empty house within the city. That tunnel is concealed by a touch glamour." The man pulled out a flat disk-shaped rock, smooth as glass. Hues of purple and pink reflected the light, thin veins of white crawling through the rock's opalescent surface "This is the key that unlocks the glamour." To Calen's surprise, the man held out the opalescent purple rock and dropped it into Calen's hand. "You don't trust me. Which is wise. But not conducive to escaping this place. Take the key and go."
"How do I use it?"
"Aeson has truly neglected your education, hasn't he?"
"You know Aeson?"
The man held up his hand. "Know him? Yes. Respect him? Yes. Though I do not believe he would consider me a friend. Either way, funnel thin threads of Spirit into either end of the key, then bring them together at the centre. As you do, picture a lock in your mind. The key will lead you to the tunnel. Once you find the glamour, weave six threads through the key and into the glamour, then open the lock in your mind. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think so." Calen looked at the polished rock in his hand, the various hues of purple and pink shimmering as he turned it. "Why?"
"You look after your own." A knowing smile curled the man's lips, a touch of sadness creasing at the corners of his mouth.
"You…"
"My name is Pellenor Dambren. I was once a Draleid, many lifetimes ago. I made choices I'm not proud of. I did the wrong things for the right reasons, and I've had many years to think."
"You're a Dragonguard." Calen's hand instinctively fell to the hilt of his sword, the Spark blazing through him.
"You'd be dead before you moved an inch."
Calen didn't move, but he kept his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the Spark still flooding through him.
"Yes," Pellenor said with a sigh. "I am one of the Dragonguard. I was set to watch over Inquisitor Malkas, to see what plans he was hatching. And then I found you."
Pellenor took a step closer to Calen.
Calen dropped his hand from the pommel to the hilt, pulling on threads of Fire, but before he could do anything, a tear streaked down Pellenor's face. The man wasn't sobbing, or convulsing, or even showing much emotion whatsoever, but the tear glistened in the candlelight as it rolled down his cheek, and in that moment, Calen saw something true within the man. A grief, a loss that had consumed him.
"Before you came, we thought we were the last. We thought the gods had punished us for what we did. That they had taken the life from dragons in response to our betrayal. And then your soulkin hatched, and everything changed. We're not hunting you, Calen. We've been trying to find you, to protect you. You are the last hope for the survival of our kind." Before Calen could think to react, Pellenor pulled him into an embrace, his arms wrapping around Calen's back. Then the man whispered, "I know you can't trust us, and there are some of us you shouldn't trust. We've left dark history in our wake. I am not here to drag you in chains towards the destiny of our choosing. There is a temple atop the highest peak of Dracaldryr. When you are ready, light the beacon on the temple's roof. We will come. But first, you need to get out of these dungeons."
Calen made to speak, but Pellenor pulled away, glancing towards the others who were still pinned in position.
"There's no time. Take the key and go."
"Why are you doing all this?"
"Because it's what I should have done four hundred years ago. I can't change the things I've done, time doesn't move backwards. But it is never, nor will it ever be, too late to see the mistakes I've made. You go, I'll buy you some time. Draleid n'aldryr, Calen Bryer."
"Rakina nai dauva," Calen responded, the words leaving his lips of their own volition.
Pellenor nodded, then turned and walked back down the corridor in the opposite direction. The threads of Air holding the others evaporated.
Erik, Tarmon, and Vaeril hauled themselves to their feet, panting and shaking off invisible chains.
"Who in Varyn's name was that?" Erik held his two blades in his fists, staring down the corridor where Pellenor had disappeared into the shadows.
"You didn't hear what he said?"
Erik shook his head.
"He created a ward of silence," Vaeril said, stepping up beside Calen, checking him over for injuries.
A ward of silence? How had Calen not noticed?
"Who was he?" Erik repeated.
"He just said he was a friend." Calen hated lying. He owed Erik and the others more than lies, but this was different. While Calen was locked in the cell in Arisfall, Artim Valdock had said many things, but one in particular clung to Calen's thoughts. 'The men and women you protect would see this continent burn, so long as they have their revenge. And they would use you as a puppet to achieve this. They are not your allies or your kin. They are your puppet masters. The Dragonguard are your only true kin.' At the time, Calen had understood the man was trying to get inside his head. Though, there were many truths in his words. But now, seeing Pellenor, hearing the sadness in his voice… it was something Calen needed to think on himself – him and Valerys. Even then, in the back of his mind, Valerys had gone quiet. All the dragon wanted now was for Calen to get out of Berona. "He gave me a key." Calen held out the opalescent stone.
"Calen, that's a rock."
"It's a glamour key," Vaeril corrected, leaning forwards to get a better look. "Like your father used in Belduar."
"We don't have much time. He said one of our contacts has betrayed us and told the Inquisition of our presence here."
"How can we trust him?"
"Erik, trust me. We need to go."
Erik ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth, then nodded. "Lead the way."
Once they had gathered the injured and Calen had Elia curled in his arms once more, he did what Pellenor had instructed. He opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Spirit, weaving them into either end of the key, which he had placed in his pocket. He joined the threads at the centre of the key, and tried to picture a lock in his mind – which was harder than he thought it would be. It was like that time Dann had asked him if he breathed in or out when drawing back a bow string. 'In' was the answer he had come to eventually, but as soon as Dann had asked the question the answer had been nowhere to be found.
Breathe. Think.
Calen took a moment. He thought of home, back in The Glade. He imagined himself approaching the front door, but couldn't picture the lock. He went to his room, to the small chest his father had given him that sat below his bed. Vars had given it to him along with his practice sword. Now that he looked back, there had been little sense to it. What was the point in keeping a wooden practice sword in a locked chest? He supposed it made the sword feel special. Calen pictured the chest's lock. It was brass and rectangular, floral ornamentation along the edge, the keyhole at its centre. The bottom two thirds of the lock were fixed to the chest itself, while the top third was fitted to the lid.
As the lock began to take shape in his mind, the key-stone in his pocket gave off a pulse that sent a low vibration through the Inquisitor robes he wore. The pulse lowered to a thrum, and as Calen lifted his head, he saw a faint purple line of mist extending from where the stone sat in his pocket, outwards, back the way they had come, around the corner.
"Can you see that?" Calen glanced to the others then back at the line of purple mist.
"See what?" Erik asked.
"Follow me."
Calen followed the line of purple mist, moving as quickly as his Spark-drained legs would carry him with Elia draped in his arms. His heart thudded. His breaths were short and ragged, each one burning in his lungs. As they ran, they passed through corridors lit by no more than a single candle and others shrouded in total darkness, but the line of mist remained. Lefts, followed by rights, followed by lefts. Staircases and intersections. Calen's head spun with the number of twists and turns. Gold didn't lie – this place truly is a labyrinth.With each step, they moved deeper into the network of corridors that made up the dungeons. The map in his pocket was so bloodstained it was unreadable. He was leading some of his closest companions on the words of a man he had only just met — a man who admitted to being a Dragonguard. He glanced back. Erik and Vaeril had their arms around Gaeleron, half helping, half carrying him along the corridor. Tarmon ran with Lasch over his shoulder, holding the man in place with his right hand, his left hand hovering near the pommel of his short sword. To Calen's surprise, Fritz was still with them, keeping pace, carrying nothing but his own desire to live. Calen had expected Fritz to skulk off at the first chance he got, but clearly Fritz had considered his chances of living to be better served by leaving than staying.
Then, abruptly, the purple line stopped, disappearing into a wall that marked another corner.
"What's wrong?" Tarmon asked, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his nose, Lasch draped over his shoulder. "Why've we stopped?"
"This is where it ends…" Calen reached out and touched the wall. It was solid, though it felt different. He wasn't sure what that difference was, just that it was different.
"Calen, what do you mean, 'this is where it ends?'" Erik asked. "We're in the middle of fucking nowhere here."
"This is where the trail ends. It leads here." Calen kept his hand pressed against the wall where the line of mist stopped.
"This is the glamour? Well, open it, then. Unless you're feeling a little rusty and need some more sword practice. We can always turn around and fight our way out." Erik shrugged with his free shoulder, giving a half-smile. It was good to see him joking again.
Calen hefted Elia in his arms. Opening himself to the Spark, he did just as Pellenor had instructed, funnelling six threads of Spirit into the keystone and then onwards through the wall. He pictured the lock again, then opened it, hearing a click echo in his mind.
As though it had never been there in the first place, the wall where Calen had held his hand was now gone. Vanished. In its place was a gaping hole that stretched a few feet across and rose about an inch over Calen's head. Through the hole was complete darkness.
"Do you trust that man?" Erik asked, looking into the shadow-shrouded hole.
"No."
"Not that it matters. We don't have many options. Tarmon, you're going to have to crouch."
After about fifteen minutes of trudging up through the long tunnel by baldírlight, Calen emerged into a room that was no bigger than his own room back in The Glade. A few barren shelves stood against the far wall, and a stack of empty baskets sat beside a wooden door that likely led out into the house Pellenor had spoken of.
With a sigh of relief, Calen lay Elia down beside the baskets, brushing a few strands of her brittle, greying hair to the side. Just the sight of her gaunt face, purple-ringed eyes, and cracked lips set a fury in Calen. Elia had always been one of the most kind-hearted people Calen had ever known. At times he had found her unrelenting cheeriness to be irritating, but as he looked at her now, he would have done anything to give that back to her. This was what they were fighting for. This was why Calen would never stop.
"I thought your contacts said there was only one way in or out of this place?" Tarmon said to Erik as he hauled himself out of the long tunnel, laying Lasch down beside Elia. He removed his red plate helmet, letting out a sigh of exhaustion as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Well, they were hardly going to know about this, were they?" Erik stepped through the tunnel after Tarmon, helping Gaeleron through, Vaeril and Fritz following after.
Once they were all through, Calen rose to his feet and leaned back against the door, running his hands through his sweat-slicked hair. He leaned his head back, releasing a long breath. "We need to get to the Raven's Ruin."
"What if the Inquisition are already there?" Tarmon asked.
Calen looked to Erik. "Are there any other passages out of the city?"
"Erik shook his head. "Not that I know of. There used to be one under the locksmith's on the eastern edge of the city, but the empire collapsed it over two years ago."
"Then we don't have a choice. We can't stay here, and we need to get the others out of the city." Calen could feel Valerys scratching at the back of his mind. Come, but stay above the clouds. We can't risk anyone seeing you unless we need you. As soon as the words touched Calen's mind, Valerys cracked his wings and lifted himself into the air, rain pouring from dark thunderclouds and crashing against his scales. "Erik, can you lead the way?"
Erik nodded. "I don't have a clue where we are, but once we get outside I'll have a better idea."
Calen dropped to his haunches beside Elia, allowed himself one last exhausted sigh, and lifted her into his arms once more. He turned to Fritz. "Help Erik carry Gaeleron."
"What about the elf?"
Calen glared at Fritz. "Vaeril needs his hands free in case we run into any Inquisitors. Now shut up and pull your weight, or I'll leave you here to be put on the other side of those interrogation rooms."
Fritz looked as though he was going to argue but then thought better of it and gave a curt nod, taking Vaeril's place beside Gaeleron.
Pale moonlight drifted through the dirt-coated windows of the house beyond the storeroom, which was devoid of any signs of life, empty except for a table, some chairs, and a hearth fire that had clearly never seen the touch of a flame. A trail of layered footsteps marked a path through the dust that coated the floor, leading from the storeroom to the front door of the house. The drum of rainfall beat against the roof, a crack of thunder rolling through the sky.
Erik moved over towards one of the windows, brushing some dirt aside and peering out. "We're not far."
"All right. Let's go, then. Lead the way."
The slapping sounds of feet on wet stone echoed as they made their way through the streets of Berona, the rain pummelling them, skies of dark clouds overhead rumbling with thunder. Except for the odd drunk who gave them sideways glances and refugees sleeping beneath archways and tunnels, the streets were empty. Once or twice they pulled into a side alley as a patrol of city guard passed, but it was quite clear no alarm had been raised, no search called. Pellenor had not lied, the Inquisition hadn't spread news of Calen's presence. They must have wanted him for themselves.
"Up here." They stepped into a narrow back alley, and Erik gestured towards a two-storey building with a sloping orange slate roof, wedged in between two larger buildings. "The door's already ajar," he whispered as they reached the small wooden door set into the back of the fletchery, pulling both his swords from the scabbards across his back.
Calen shifted Elia in his arms, looking down at the woman who was still curled up like a babe born too early, weak and frail. Her head twitched, always to the left, her eyes darting about beneath closed lids. He whispered, "We're almost there."
As Erik leaned his shoulder against the door, pushing it open slowly, Calen opened himself to the Spark. He didn't pull on any threads but kept the strands within arm's reach, floating, pulsating in his mind if he should need them. Now that he was back up in the city, he could feel the thrum of power resonating in the air – that should keep him masked from any mages as long as he doesn't pull on any threads. He felt Valerys's wings beating against the air, carrying him towards Berona faster than any horse or ship could dream of. The dragon soared through the clouds, staying out of sight from any who roamed the lands below.
"It could very well be a trap," Vaeril said, as Erik and Fritz drew up beside him, Gaeleron propped up between them.
"Oh, it's definitely a trap." Erik shrugged. "But there's no other way out of this city with two elves, Calen, and the rest of us looking like we've had a swim in a bloodbath. Besides, we've spent so long in tunnels and wastelands, fighting Fades and madness. I've missed being able to kill the things trying to kill me."
"Hear, hear," Tarmon whispered back, short sword gripped in his free hand, Lasch still lumped over his shoulder.
The bottom storey of the fletchery was lit only by the cold light of the moon that drifted in through the windows set in the far wall that faced out onto the main street. But even in the dim light, the red gleam of Praetorian armour was clear to see. Bodies lay all around the room, upturned buckets of goose and turkey feathers tacked to pools of blood, arrow heads and strips of wood scattered about the place. "We're too late…"
"No." Vaeril dropped to his haunches, looking about the dead. "They're all imperials. Eleven Praetorians and an Inquisitor." Vaeril inclined his head towards a crumpled mess of a woman in the corner of the room lying in a pool of blood and feathers, red robes draped over her shoulders, her left arm severed at the shoulder.
"You're damn right they are."
Calen snapped his head around to the left, towards the arched doorway that sat in the building's dividing wall. Vaeril rose to his feet, dropping into Rising Dawn. Erik ducked out from Gaeleron's arm, drawing his blades, leaving Fritz to take the injured elf's weight. Tarmon raised his guard, readying to drop Lasch if needs be.
A man stood in the doorway, a suit of smooth overlapping green plate covering his body. He had no helm, and he looked as though he had seen five or six more summers than Calen. His brown hair reached his shoulders, and he bore a smile that seemed out of place with the death in the room. A sigil in the shape of a downward facing sword set into a sunburst was emblazoned across the breast of the armour in brilliant white. Calen had seen that strange armour and that sigil only once before: on the warriors at Kingspass.
The man raised his armoured hands. "Easy now. I think there's already enough blood on this floor for one night. I pity the one who has to clean this place."
"He's with us," Gold said, stepping through the archway and past the warrior. "Come we need to get out of here, now. We've been betrayed. Tarka – who you know as Black – was working for the Inquisition the whole time. Seven years he's been with us. Seven years and I didn't see it."
"We can lament later, Surin," the warrior said to Gold. "For now, we need to get the Draleid and the others out of the city. There's more inquisition on their way here now, and I reckon they won't be too happy when they get here."
Surin nodded, a melancholy smile on her face. She inclined her head towards the archway. "Come. The passage out is this way. When Tarka betrayed us, he disclosed the information of our network within the city. Those we could rescue have already escaped."
Calen gestured for the others to follow Surin. Once Fritz and Erik had helped Gaeleron through, Calen stopped in front of the man in the green armour.
"The name's Lyrin. It's good to finally meet you. You're shorter than I thought you'd be."
"You're one of them." Calen shifted Elia in his arms, his eyes fixed on Lyrin, his breath catching in his chest.
"A Knight of Achyron, yes. Like Arden. Or I suppose Haem. Still feels strange to call him that though. Speaking of which, if I let any of these Taint-wielding bastards touch a hair on your head, he'll not be too happy. So we should probably get moving."
Hearing his brother's name spoken aloud twisted a knot in Calen's chest. Why do they call him Arden? Calen pushed the thoughts to the back of mind, where he locked them away with all the others. He nodded, then stepped past Lyrin into the other room where Surin was waiting for him by a trapdoor in the floorboards.
She gestured for Calen to step down into the passageway, nodding towards Elia, who was still curled in Calen's arms. "You'll need your hands to get at least part of the way down. I'll pass her down to you."
Calen turned to Lyrin. He heard armoured feet slapping against wet stone outside. A pulsating red glow shimmered in the dark, refracting off the glass window panes. "Are you coming?"
A smile crept across Lyrin's face. "You go. I've just got a little more redecorating to do. I'll be right after you."