Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) Page 15

  “So, is your current assignment here within our fine city?” Breila asked at the conclusion of his story.

  “Cadsae Proper is a stopping point, yet our destination lies elsewhere,” Andr replied cryptically.

  Breila took another large sip of her wine, finishing her glass. She stood, liberally refilling hers from the tankard on the table. She circled behind them, topping off both of their goblets, before returning to her seat. She swirled the glass in her hand, gazing into the spinning liquid for a moment. When her head rose, her eyes fell not on Andr, but upon Ryl.

  “And what purpose does your young friend serve in all of this?” She inquired. “That he accompanies you on the current task for your mysterious lord, I understand. He hasn't the look of a sell sword. And by that, I mean no offense.”

  “I assure you, none was taken,” Ryl replied politely.

  “In truth, it is I who am in the service of our young friend,” Andr admitted. “Innocent as he may look, I assure you he is more than capable.”

  Breila’s eyebrows raised slightly at the comment. Her eyes studied Ryl for a few moments.

  “Well, Ryl, if Andr vouches for you, then my doors will be open for you,” she said with a smile. “What is it you need from me? As flattered as I would be, I know the visit isn't purely social in nature.”

  “Unfortunately, it isn't. Though it is truly a wonder to see you again,” Andr replied honestly. “Our needs are few. We are looking for lodging for a few nights.”

  “If that is all, I can easily oblige,” she said with a small chuckle and a wink. “Would you prefer lodging with the comforts of companionship?”

  It was Andr's turn to laugh at the comment.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “We'd prefer lodging that was slightly more discreet if you still have any available.”

  “I've tried for cycles to get your stubborn mercenary to take me up on the offer, yet the answer has always been the same,” she spoke to Ryl with a grin. “Take a lesson from him, my young friend.”

  As she took a large sip of her wine, Ryl was surprised to see a flash of unbridled emotion register across her face. The moisture that welled up in the corners of her eyes disappeared after a long blink.

  “You're one of the last of a dying breed, my friend,” Breila responded. “Your usual room has sat vacant nearly as long as you have been gone.”

  “Thank you, Breila,” Andr said with a genuine show of emotion that Ryl rarely witnessed from the hardened mercenary. “Over the last cycle, I've come to realize that there is far more at work in Damaris than meets the eye. There are far more wonders in this world. And there are more people left worth fighting for.”

  “Please make no mention of it. It is I who am forever in your debt,” she acknowledged.

  Ryl watched as a profound look passed between the pair. Andr nodded his head subtly, and a small smile encroached on the corners of his lips.

  “What news from the city over the past cycle?” Ryl asked politely, changing the conversation. “I’m afraid we've been out of touch for quite some time.”

  With her lingering gaze still resting on Andr, Breila leaned back, resting her head against the high back of her chair. She stroked a long gray lock of stray hair absently with her free hand.

  “The city has been in a nearly perpetual state of upheaval since the last Harvest,” she sighed. “The unexpected actions of the captain caused quite the tremor. We still feel the reverberations today. There were those who called for his head.”

  “Was the captain deposed?” Ryl asked curiously. He tried to maintain a straight face and an even keel. He was determined not to let his emotions get the better of him.

  “Had not the news of the recently deceased Master reached the populace in time, it’s likely he would have,” Breila related. “There are still rumors that say it was the captain himself who buried his blade in the master and his henchman. Others say it was a vengeful spirit. I’m afraid none can say for sure. When the truth surrounding the disappearance of the previous sub-master leaked as well, the revulsion spilled over.”

  Andr exchanged a quick glance with Ryl as Breila continued.

  “A rift has formed in what had been a complacent city. A distinct split defined by the sentiment toward an unseen few. The captain made his stance crystal clear when he shook the hand of the final tribute of the Harvest. His stunt gained him immediate notoriety. He became a hero to some, a pariah to most. Lucky for him, a good portion of the guard he captained stood beside him, whether for sentiment or loyalty sake.”

  “What did the King have to say about it?” Andr inquired.

  Breila chuckled quietly to herself.

  “The King was furious as were a large number of the nobles,” she acknowledged, her eyes wandering as her voice trailed off on a tangent. “Their agitation has required calming. We’ve never been busier catering to the pillars of society as they drowned their sorrows in the comfort of deft hands.”

  Her eyes refocused as she looked between Ryl and Andr, continuing her tale.

  “The previous master, Delsith, had shared a similar sentiment as that of the King,” she confided. “Their undying hatred toward the tributes held nearly no bounds. The city has become unsafe for those who openly express mild or indifferent sentiments toward the tributes. Ridicule amongst their peers is commonplace, and so to—to a startling degree—has been violence. The message from the King has been clear. The assaults have gone unprosecuted, conveniently buried behind layer after layer of political clout.”

  “Has the captain not sought for their persecution himself?” Andr asked.

  “He has,” Breila explained. “As a result, a handful of his more vocal supporters have vanished under increasingly disturbing circumstances. The King appointed a Councilor of The Stocks, a vile man by the name of Sir Maklan to oversee the area before the situation grew further out of control.”

  She shook her head at the mention of his name. Ryl looked on curiously as anger grew momentarily in her eyes.

  “That man is a monster. Most of the girls are too terrified to go near him when he comes calling. He has a penchant for violence and a superiority that knows no bounds,” she hissed. “He quickly blamed the disappearances on dereliction of duty and their cases were closed. There was no question that their faces will never again be seen among the living. The captain has been all but stripped of his authority. While he retains symbolic command over the guard and the title of Master of The Stocks, he’s merely a figurehead. All meaningful orders now originate with the councilor.”

  Though he was not entirely unsurprised, the news unsettled Ryl. The simple act of a handshake, though only the tip of the iceberg as far as his deeds had been concerned, had been a tipping point for so many. The captain had to have known that his action would draw the ire of the nobles and the King, yet he had done so willingly.

  Ryl was awash with conflicting emotions. On one hand, he was energized that the support for the captain had been profound. He knew that not all would change their minds so easily. That the captain had surrounded himself, surrounded the tributes with those who were loyal, or even shared a similar sentiment with him, was encouraging. The possibility that the captain had groomed a force even larger was exhilarating.

  On the other hand, there was a deep sense of revulsion. Blood had been spilled over a simple handshake. The act had cost innocent men and women their lives. They had been slaughtered for the sin of standing up for what was right. He struggled to quiet his racing mind.

  A single handshake between two men had caused a ripple effect.

  In two days, they would give them something that would shake Damaris to its core.

  Chapter 18

  The conversation with Breila had turned to lighter subjects. Ryl found that he enjoyed time spent with the pair, though his own curiosity was roused as no further light was shed on their previous dealings. They bantered like siblings separated by time—laughed over stories, lamented changes and mourned over acquaintances lost to
o early.

  Though she had not been directly asked her opinion on the matter, Ryl was confident he knew where she stood in relation to the tributes. As unexpected as the friendship was, he welcomed any additional support behind the cause.

  Ryl knew not how for long they had been enjoying her company, yet he knew the hour to be getting late. For the majority of their impromptu meeting, he’d savored the sense of freedom from the weight of destiny and of purpose—he was merely a free man enjoying the good company of friends over wine and food. Regretfully, the night had to end.

  There was much that needed to be done.

  Breila daintily stifled a yawn with the palm of her hand, rising from her seat at the table.

  “Andr, my friend, I’m afraid that I must excuse myself for the evening,” she said as she puckered her lips into a slight frown. “Though I grow weary, I have enjoyed myself more tonight than I have in cycles. My heart is lighter knowing that you’re still alive.”

  She moved gracefully from her seat at the table crossing behind the large desk near the back of the room. She reached into a drawer behind the desk, retrieving a small object which she clutched in the palm of her hand. Ryl and Andr had risen by the time she returned; they stood patiently waiting. She held her hand out in front of her body, a single silver key rested in her palm.

  “I trust you know where your room is?” she asked with a smile.

  “Aye, that I do,” Andr replied quietly.

  She extended her hand, flipping it over, placing it gently onto Andr’s. She maintained contact with the merchant for a long moment.

  “Please grant me the kindness of a ‘farewell’ before you depart,” Breila’s voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll have instructed the staff to let you both come and go as you please.”

  She stepped forward, wrapping her thin arms around Andr’s neck, pulling the mercenary into an embrace. She left a single kiss on his cheek.

  Turning to Ryl, she spoke kindly. There was not a hint of insincerity in her voice.

  “Ryl, I know not what you have planned, though I know the heart of the man that stands beside you and the opportunities he pursues,” she lectured. “I’ve seen enough cycles to know there’s something about you that I can’t explain. You have Andr’s trust and friendship, so too you have mine. See him safe through your endeavors.”

  “Until the end, Breila,” was all Ryl could reply.

  Her embrace was heartfelt yet brief. She left him with a gentle, motherly kiss on the cheek.

  Moments later, Ryl followed again in Andr’s wake as they descended the plush red carpeted staircase, retracing their steps toward the tavern. Andr had explained quietly that their lodging was outside of the main building, hidden in the alleyway through the rear exit to the stables. Though the hour was late, there were still several women lounging in varying stages of undress scattered throughout the room. A single man, his head held down to disguise his face, was being led by the hand up the stairs on the opposite side of the room.

  The bouncer merely nodded his head as they exited into the entryway. They quickly retrieved their weapons, leaving the key in the small silver lock.

  “Let’s make for the room and some rest,” Andr said quietly, speaking only loud enough to be heard over the noise from the tavern. “The hour is late; the others have surely left the farm by now. We’ll have much to do tomorrow.”

  The tavern was still crowded as they exited the quiet, tranquil calm of the inner sanctuary. The duality between the two was even more startling than it had been on the way in. The heat and stench of the room was overpowering. The cacophony of sounds rang in his ears.

  He followed deftly in Andr’s wake as they eagerly made their way through the crowd toward the side exit. Ryl was anxious for the relief that the outside air, though tainted, would bring. They weaved their way around a group of intoxicated revelers. The party was in the midst of singing some incoherent variation of a drinking song. Ale sloshed from their tankards as they careened about with little regard for those around them. Ryl's eyes traveled beyond the group, cataloging the myriad of debauchery that occurred in every corner of the large room. As his eyes roved the crowd, a figure on the opposite side of the wall caught his eye.

  The man was alone, leaning heavily against a vertical support that carried the load for the balcony of the floor above. Like many others in the room he was dressed in the apparel of a guard, though his uniform shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a well-worn tunic below. His head bobbed slightly, modeling the effects of the tavern’s potent brew. The tankard in his hand was held carelessly, and small drops splashed over its rim as he fought to remain afoot. His eyes however, though they moved with polished discretion, couldn’t hide their true intent.

  Ryl knew the face instantly. Though their interactions had been brief, he’d left a lasting impression in his mind. His honest confidence and casual attitude were hard to mimic. He was known as one of the most skilled fighters in the guard service, yet his autonomy and ability to blend in were uncanny. There was a definite purpose—rather than careless drunkenness—to his current action.

  Ryl reached out, grabbing Andr by the shoulder, pulling him to a stop. He leaned in close, whispering loud enough to be heard over the commotion of the room.

  “I know that man,” he said, inclining his head in the direction of the intoxicated guard. “That's Cavlin. One of the captain's confidants. Something's not right.”

  Ryl hurriedly scanned the crowded room. His attention was drawn again, this time, not to the man but to the group of cloaked figures that approached from his rear. They were nearly as far away as Ryl and Andr, though there was no mistaking their target.

  There were six in the group, and all walked with a purpose. There was no sign of intoxication in their determined strides. Ryl picked up the glint of steel as the light bounced off a naked blade. The man in the lead had a knife held backward, the flat edge flush against the sleeve of his forearm.

  “I can see. His is a face I remember well,” Andr replied. “What do you intend to do?”

  Until that moment, Ryl hadn't considered a course of action. He had no intention of letting Cavlin be another casualty in the growing rift. Not like this. Not by a knife in the back from a cowardly assailant.

  Not if he could help it.

  Not today.

  Without a word he moved in the direction of the unknowing guard, understanding Andr would follow in his wake. They moved through the crowd with an ease greater than that of the approaching party, covering nearly the full distance between themselves and Cavlin well in advance of the approaching assassins.

  Ryl kept his head down to avoid the watchful eyes of the guard. He paused as they neared the edge of the, long, crowded communal table that remained between themselves and Cavlin. They halted their approach close to the center of the table. Cavlin leaned against the beam just off the opposite corner of the head of the table to their left. The approaching assassins stalked their prey from the right.

  Their fractured line of attack had spread out, no longer weaving its way through the crowd like a serpent. They moved in a crude triangle; the knife wielding member at the apex. The patrons in their path parted as the formation menaced their way through the crowd.

  As the stealthy assault reached the opposite end of the table to their right, Ryl whispered into Andr's ear.

  “I’ll meet you out front, my friend. Stay with him,” he breathed. "Now, push me."

  As soon as the words had left his mouth, Ryl wheeled suddenly around, grabbing Andr by the shoulders. A flash of confusion registered in his friend’s eyes. Ryl snarled as he yelled over the din of the crowd.

  “Your son was a worthless herd,” he shouted at the mercenary.

  Ryl saw the fire erupt in Andr’s eyes as the mercenary threw him forcefully toward the long table. Anticipating the action, he was able to twist his body, accentuating his forward pace with a force greater than the shove itself. As he spilled through the patrons beside the long table, he harde
ned the woodskin on his chest and shoulders. His body slammed into the heavy wooden furniture.

  The impact was jarring. Ryl hooked his arm beneath the underside of the table, flipping it, as he allowed the momentum to carry him over. Tankards of ale toppled, shattering as they stuck the floor. Their intoxicating liquid spread outward like a flood across the filthy ground. The table and its surrounding patrons spilled to the floor.

  Ryl tucked his body at the last moment, throwing himself into a controlled roll. His seemingly wild tangent carried him directly at the legs of the lead assassin. The instant his feet gained purchase on the ground, he surged forward. Leading with this shoulder, he scythed through the legs of the assassin. The man yelped in surprise as he spilled to the ground taking several of his companions with him. Through the noise, the clatter of the metal dagger on the ground was a welcomed sound.

  The tavern exploded into chaos.

  Drunken nerves, lubricated by the alcohol, were so easily incensed that by the time most knew a fight was upon them the identity of the perpetuator was immaterial. Ryl’s controlled feint succeeded in knocking down all but one of Cavlin's would-be killers. He sprung quickly to his feet, melting away into the melee.

  Cavlin had spun round with an agility that defied his faux intoxication. His eyes narrowed as he saw the blade clatter to the ground. The sole assassin remaining on his feet whipped a knife out from inside his cloak, snarling as he leapt over one of his companions who struggled to regain their footing. Cavlin launched the nearly full tankard in his hand with pinpoint accuracy, striking the knife wielding attacker square in the face. A splash of blood mixed with the amber liquid and shards of pottery that sprayed outward from his head.

  Ryl shadowed Cavlin, several steps to the side and his rear as he made for the door. The entire room was now on their feet. The sounds of breaking wood and pottery mingled with the shouts and curses as fights broke out across the tavern. Ryl moved easily amongst the rush of humanity heading for the exit. On the opposite side of Cavlin, he saw Andr duck a punch as he moved in a parallel tangent toward the door. The intensity of the riot grew in their wake.