14. Forger of Destiny
Chapter Fourteen
Forger of Destiny
One Month Later
Aerilon was the physical manifestation of everything Fane hated: the greed, the opulence, the entitlement. The city’s sapphire mines and trade position meant their coffers were never short of burgeoning.
From his conversations with the Exucendi of Printhouse Tarashír, a third of The Order’s wealth either originated from or passed through Aerilon in the east and Aonar in the West. He had heard the reports of Orinhale, heard the whispers that the princess had been taken against her will and held to ransom, that King Thandred had sent assassins to end King Inthisar’s life.
He believed those reports about as far as he could throw Councillor Vorst, and that man had been well fed from youth. There was something rotten at The Order’s core, something broken and rancid. He would find a way to fix it, and he would start with Aerilon.
Fane opened the door before him, lifted his hood, and stepped into the rain.
Even in the downpour, the streets of Aerilon were packed to the brim with traders and hawkers selling everything: fish, fruit, weapons, tools, jewellery, silks, furs, and a plethora of other trinkets Fane did not care to examine.
Being so close to the Lightning Coast, the city faced near-constant rainfall, and it had been built with that in mind.
The city was constructed on a constant upwards slope, the keep standing highest at the centre, and everything sprawling outwards from there.
Awnings stretched out from the sides of every building, angling towards the centre of the streets which were all sloped towards drains that ran along the street sides.
That water was then funnelled down and filtered into large reservoirs and pumped back up for use in the city.
The water recycling system was perhaps the only thing Fane actually liked about Aerilon.
As he walked, a hooded figure took their place on his right side.
“How was your journey, commander?” Castor whispered.
“Long and peaceful,” Fane responded. “The others?”
“Waiting.”
Castor led Fane through the city and past an inn with a stained-glass window that read “The Honeyed Horse.”
“I swear these innkeepers make an active effort to choose stupid fucking names,” Castor whispered as they passed.
“And these places… I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this is worse.
You know, I saw a hitching post close to the centre that was made from solid gold.
Solid fucking gold, to hitch horses. There’s no world where that makes any sense.
And don’t even get me started on the clothes. ”
Castor inclined his head to three men passing by in vibrant doublets and tailored trousers of yellows and blues so bright they were offensive to the human eye.
“Everyone in this place thinks they’re a fucking flower.” Castor snapped his head around. “Does that man have a fucking bird on his—”
“Quiet.” Fane pulled the tip of his hood, dipping his head as four city guard turned the corner to their left. The guards wore suits of bronzed half-plate, with deep blue tabards, the golden hawk of Aerilon emblazoned across the breast.
They moved quietly from that point until Castor led them to a dark side alley where they found a large, circular slab of stone set into the ground.
The slab was an art piece in itself, carved into a hawk with wings spread and mountains in the background.
Castor produced two hooked metal bars and handed one to Fane.
They both slid the hooks from the bars into two thin holes that had been carved beneath the hawk’s wings.
“One,’ Fane whispered. “Two. Three.”
On three they both bent their knees and pulled upwards. Between the two of them, they hoisted the slab free with relative ease and slipped into the access point it had been covering. Metal rungs had been bedded into the wall, leading down to a small, circular chamber.
They didn’t bother to seal the access point behind them.
It would have been near impossible to shift the stone from below, and Fane did not want to risk using the Spark in case an Aerilon mage was nearby.
This task could not be linked to The Order in any way.
Besides, any guard patrols would likely think a maintenance engineer was simply below working.
Enough dark legends had been spun about the sewers beneath the city that most Aerilonians dared not venture below.
Fane peered at the sliver of light that drifted down through the opening, carving a path into the darkness.
The sewers were black as pitch, the sounds of running water unrelenting.
With one final look up at the sky through the opening, Fane and Castor set off into the dark, the ground ever-sloping downwards.
Once they were deep enough, Fane pulled threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air together and formed a baldír, its white light painting the tunnel with an ethereal glow.
“I’ll never understand what the fucking point of this shit is.” Castor stared at the tunnel walls. Every exposed inch of wall was painted in depictions of battles and ceremonies and landscapes. “Who in the fuck sees these?”
Fane didn’t think he’d seen so many colours in his entire life.
Castor touched his hand against the eye of a horse, one of many depicted in a parade. “That’s a real fucking sapphire. These people are fucking insane.”
“This is what people die for,” Fane whispered, staring about at the paintings. “So much wealth that paintings and sapphires adorn the sewers, while others starve and cities burn. It is due time that those who built this system taste the other side.”
“In Achyron’s name,” Castor agreed.
“In Achyron’s name.” There was not a single thing Fane did in Achyron’s name, but when a wolf joins a pack, it learns their movements. “Come, time is a finite resource, unlike sapphires apparently. Are we far?”
Castor shook his head, and the pair moved deeper into the tunnels.
Eventually Castor stopped at a wooden door banded with strips of steel. He gave Fane a short nod and rapped lightly on the wood. When no sound came from within, Castor rapped a little harder, and the door creaked.
Fane immediately drew more deeply on threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit, feeling their warmth fill his body. He felt Castor do the same as the man stared into Fane’s eyes.
With a deep breath in, Fane nodded, and Castor slammed his shoulder into the door.
Fane launched his baldír past his companion and pushed enough energy into it to cause a burst of blinding light, closing his eyes as he did. As soon as he pulled the energy back, he opened his eyes and whipped threads of Fire about him, ready for whatever lay within.
At least, he thought he was ready.
“Heraya…” Castor stared at the bodies that littered the floor. Nine of them.
Some were too bloodied and maimed to make out their faces, but Fane recognised three – Salia, Tamin, and Roque.
All three were Battlemages Fane had recruited, which meant logic dictated that the six other bodies were also Fane’s recruits.
It wasn’t the loss of Salia and the others that occupied his mind at that moment, but rather who or what could have killed them.
These were nine Battlemages of The Order, all hand selected by Fane and not just for their sympathy with his ideas.
“Who could have done this?” Castor whispered, turning over one of the mangled bodies.
Not releasing the Spark, Fane knelt in the pool of blood beside Roque’s corpse. “Their swords are not even drawn.”
“That makes no sense.”
A shiver ran up Fane’s spine before the words sounded at the door behind them. “They were a disappointment, really.”
Fane leapt to his feet, sliding his sword from its scabbard as he moved to stand at Castor’s side. A man stood in the doorway, a long, hooded cloak draped over his shoulders and casting shadows on his face.
“Battlemages of the Order.” The man’s tone reeked of dismissal. “You used to be better.”
“Who are you?” At any other point, Fane would have sheared the man’s legs from his body and extracted any answers he needed.
Eliminate the threat first – that was often the best course of action.
This man, however, had slaughtered nine Battlemages who had not even been able to draw their swords before being killed.
And from what Fane could see, the stranger hadn’t sustained a single injury himself.
“Oh, I go by many names.” The man pulled back his hood to reveal a head of brown hair, a face that had seen no more than thirty summers, and blue-grey eyes that seemed to shimmer in the dark.
“You know of them, don’t you? With your books.
It’s an interesting path you’ve chosen. Not what I’d predicted, but then again, that is why I like you. ”
Castor glanced sideways at Fane. “Have you sold us out?”
“What?”
“You know this—”
“Oh, be quiet.”
A ripple moved up Fane’s spine, and he lashed out with a thread of Air, knocking a small throwing knife from the air before it bedded into his Castor’s throat.
The knife clinked off the wall and dropped to the ground while Fane turned his attention to the strange man and whipped threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air around himself and Castor.
“Hmmmm… so that is the path we are walking. Not ideal, but I can make it work.” The man stepped further into the room and turned sideways to admire one of the murals, seemingly unconcerned by Fane or Castor.
“Beautiful work, isn’t it? Just a shame nobody ever sees it.
Do me a favour,” he went on, still gazing at the mural, “that lightning you’re planning on throwing in my direction.
Don’t. It doesn’t end well for anyone. Particularly not your friend. ”
Fane threw himself forwards, drawing in threads of Fire, Air and Spirit. He erected a Sparkward, while at the same time unleashing a torrent of chain lightning at the strange man. There would not be a more open and obvious opportunity.
Castor followed with him, lashing out with whips of air strong enough to break bones.