Drowning at Dusk Ch. 06

I howled out his name as I staggered to my feet. He turned, eyes wide, and a cryptwolf leaped up from behind him. Lescorik stepped in, mace raised, and bashed the creature aside, only to bellow with pain and fury as another cryptwolf went for his legs, driving him to the ground.

A tide of other undead rushed the fallen mercenary. I charged as best I could, hoping to clear a path for Dazyar so he could make it to Xelari. Blood leaked from my wounds, and my sword-arm remained strong and swift despite my injuries.

Cleaving and slashing, I made it through the half-broken formation, grabbed Dazyar by the arm, and shoved him over the bodies of fallen mercenaries and undead.

"To Xelari!" I shouted in his face, then turned and slashed open the skull of a creature that had pinned Lescorik to the ground.

As the cryptwolf fell away, I noticed the great rents and tears in Lescorik's armor, the growing pool of blood beneath him, and the stillness in his eyes.

There was no time to lament the brave mercenary's fall; I spun, hacking down another undead. I grabbed the outstretched arm of another risen corpse, yanking it off of a mercenary it had grappled. Varanthir finished the thing off with his spear, glanced down at Lescorik, cursed, and danced back into the fray.

Dazyar sprinted across the beach, skidding to the sand at Xelari's side. Her hand rose.

At least she lived.

For now.

Kivessen leaped past me, burying both knives in a cryptwolf's neck. Leaving the weapons there, he bent down, scooped up Lescorik's mace, and caved in the ribs of a risen corpse. He let out an agonized, grieving howl, and moved to stand between the teeming mass of undead and his fallen comrade.

I joined him, confident that it was better to fight than to stand uselessly at Dazyar's side while he tended to Xelari. Sunlight gleamed off the elven blade as I carved through a dusty neck, and I twisted to slice through a cryptwolf's outstretched paw. Kivessen brought down Lescorik's mace, putting the beast down for good.

Spear-thrusts, axe-swings, and sword-slashes finished off the rest. Exhausted, bloodied Tombflayers flopped to the ground, while others knelt to tend to the wounded.

Of the twelve mercenaries who had set out with us to Pyrewatch, only four still had the strength to stand. Varanthir stood above his wounded and lifeless comrades, blood dripping over his glowing runic tattoos. Kivessen panted, eyes staring off into the distance, then knelt beside Lescorik's body, and placed the mace back in the dead man's grasp.

I glanced up at the sky as old prayers to Venkaya came to mind. Pleas for leniency, calls to ask the god of death and mercy to convey fallen souls to a blissful afterlife.

Words from another life.

Placing a hand to slow the bleeding from the bolt in my hip, I limped back over to Dazyar and Xelari.

By the time I made it over to them, Dazyar had broken off half of the crossbow bolt and used his healing magic to staunch the bleeding. Her chest rose in trembling, ragged breaths, and her eyes stared up at the sky: glazed over, nearly lifeless.

"I've done all I can," Dazyar said, staring down at his bloody fingers. "She's stable for now, I think. Stopped the bleeding, and she's breathing. But weakly. Barely. We'll need a better healer to remove the bolt, or I'll need time to replenish."

I fell to one knee beside her; Dazyar winced upon seeing the bolt in my hip.

"Which means I don't have anything left to heal you with, either."

"I'll live."

I rested a hand on Xelari's shoulder and glared across the sea. Synrik's ship was fading against the skyline, and I had half a mind to jump in the water and start swimming after the bastard.

After a few moments of glaring, I sagged down onto the sand, used my knife to hack off most of the bolt protruding from my thigh, and wrapped up the wound to slow the bleeding. Varanthir soon joined us, and handed me a vial of glowing green liquid.

I downed it without delay. The veins of my arms pulsed with magical light as the healing potion coursed through me. The pain in my hip faded, and the magic ate away at the bolt and sealed up the wound. I flicked away the corroded remnants of the bolt, reapplied the bandage, and looked to Xelari.

"Will that work for her?"

"Too deep, I fear." He glanced over at his fallen subordinates; Kivessen was already laying them out in neat little rows, covering their pale faces with their cloaks. "The healer we brought with us fell, but we have others back at the barracks. They can help. For a price."

"Naturally." I looked up at him, noted the deep scratches in his cheek, the shards of bone jutting from his armor, and the calm but distant look in his eyes. Cold. Collected. Seemingly unphased by the carnage inflicted upon his company. "I'll honor the contract. We hired you to secure Pyrewatch, and you did. Might be more silver in it to hunt down Synrik, wherever he went off."

I winced as I caught his gaze drifting back toward the dead yet again.

"I'm sorry about the fallen, I really am. If I'd known the extent of his forces here-"

"We all knew the risks. Nobody signs up for this life unaware of the possibility of meeting a bloody end." He looked at Lescorik's covered body. "Hard to think of a better way for Lescorik to go down, though. Never saw him as an old man." Varanthir closed his eyes. "Never saw any of them as old, in fact."

***

Hours later, I sat on the balcony of our room at Sergayl's Songhouse. Xelari, with the bolt removed by a skilled and expensive Tombflayer healer, slumbered in the bed behind me. She hadn't stirred or made a sound since her fall.

That bolt likely would have claimed my life, had she not stood in its path and unleashed her magic.

I'd saved her life against Reynard's undead construct, and she'd returned the favor.

A favor. Is that how she'd viewed it? Or had something else entirely spurred her to that decision? Regret, perhaps. After all, it had been her reckless charge across the beach that had put her in that dangerous position, causing me to rush out after her.

Every few minutes I tore my gaze from the darkening skyline to check on her. She took in slow, steady breaths, with no other signs of movement. I sipped on my tea; intent on staying up through the night, I didn't want to dull my senses with wine or mead.

Someone knocked softly on the door. I rose, drew my knife, and padded across the room.

"Yes?"

"It's me," said Dazyar, his exhausted voice barely making it through the door.

I opened it to allow the bleary-eyed bard inside. He shuffled over to a chair beside the bed and flopped down.

"You should go out. Get a drink, some food, some fresh air. I'll look after her," he said.

He had a point; I wasn't of much use sulking at her side.

And I had work to do as well. Someone had to have tipped off Synrik, and I had a damned good idea of who it might be.

Without a word, I collected my armor and runestones, which brought a frown to the bard's face.

"I said you should get a drink. You're gearing up for another fight."

"Of course I am. I need answers."

He chuckled joylessly, shaking his head.

"From whom?"

"Patrigan. Or that little niece of his. It's no coincidence that Synrik had a friendly ship arrive right in time. They had to know we were coming."

"Don't you think they would have prepared a more competent ambush if they knew beforehand? It was bad timing, that's all."

My eyes narrowed.

"Of course, maybe Patrigan wasn't the one who sold us out," I snapped, my wits and senses dulled by exhaustion and grief. I regretted the accusation as soon as I'd made it, and flinched at the pain erupting in his dark gaze.

He rose to his feet, scowling, balling his hands into tight fists.

"Are you out of your accursed mind, Esharyn? I fought with you on the road to the city, tracked down Reynard, nearlydied fighting him, and nearly died on Pyrewatch, too. Without me, you wouldn't have gotten close to Patrigan at all, and Xelari would bedead. She'd have bled out on that beach were it not for me. I could have used that healing music on a dying Tombflayer, but instead I savedher." He jabbed a finger at the unconscious dusk elf.

Wincing, I stepped back, shook my head.

"I'm sorry, Dazyar. I didn't mean it. I'm just lashing out, for lack of better targets."

He took a deep breath and sat back down.

"I can sympathize. Gods know I've nearly snapped at you a half dozen times since we returned. Just...don't go cutting Patrigan's throat just yet. Investigate if you have to, but don't draw us into yet another fight we can't win."

Nodding, I crossed the room over to him, and knelt in front of him. I rested both hands on his knees: a reassuring touch, not a lustful or inviting one.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "Not just for what I said. I'm also sorry for not thanking you. I know she wouldn't have made it without you."

"I admit to a certain fondness for our wicked dusk elf friend," he said with a weary smile. "So I was glad to help. Now go. A drink, a meal, some fresh air, and some investigating, if you must.Subtle investigating, preferably."

I flashed him a grin.

"Subtle. I promise."

***

I found Patrigan's niece Rowela less than an hour later, slipping out of a bookstore in the Deadcrown District, carrying a large scroll-case. With my shadow-rune active and with my vantage point upon the roof across the street, she had no chance at all of spotting me.

She wandered northward, and I kept pace, hopping from roof to roof with silent grace, activating my sight-rune to watch out for obstacles and to keep a close eye on her movements at all times.

The apprentice steward paused at another bookstore, huffed in disappointment upon seeing that it was closed, and then wandered a few more blocks before arriving at a silversmith's shop.

She went inside, and remained there for almost half an hour. When she emerged, she had a cloth bundle in her hands.

A curious shopping trip.

Rowela had mostly stuck to the main thoroughfares during her night out, leaving me no opportunity to accost her. But when a group of drunk young men stumbled out of a tavern, she veered down an alley that cut between the busier streets, and I seized my chance.

I leaped, bracing my feet off an inert lantern-post before hopping to the next roof. Another whisper-quiet leap brought me down directly into Rowela's path.

She squeaked with fear and shirked back, her light blonde curls falling over her thin, pretty face.

"Esharyn," she said, her eyes wide and frightened beneath her spectacles. "You gave me quite the fright. You won't believe this but-"

She gulped as I drew my knife.

"How did Synrik know we were coming?"

"What?"

"A boat, Rowela. He had a boat arrive to whisk him away mere minutes after we landed. No coincidence."

She took a step back. I followed.

Laughter rippled on the street behind us, and I cocked my head.

"They won't be able to help. ButIcan help. If you help me. Who sold us out? Your uncle? Someone else on his staff?" Another step closer. "Or was ityou?"

"No one. Well, not intentionally, at least."

My eyes narrowed.

"Explain."

"My uncle was worried about innocents going to visit the island and getting caught in the middle of a fight. Even though the island had been sealed for Synrik's investigation, we'd gotten reports of other ships still sailing close. So he put out the word to the dockmasters to check if other ships were sailing there. I fear his precautionary measure may have somehow tipped off Synrik."

That was believable enough. Synrik's network of corrupt friends had gotten wind of the steward's order, and had likely seen that as a warning of an incoming attack.

I sheathed my knife but kept my hand on the hilt, and took a single step back.

"I was actually going to come look for you, after I finished up here tonight," she said after a deep breath, and brushed an errant blonde curl from her face.

"Oh?"

"Another watch patrol arrived at Pyrewatch, saw the signs of battle. The patrol found scores of slain undead, signs of fighting, but no sign of Synrik. They informed my uncle at once, and he's been wanting to speak to you."

"Synrik escaped. Killed a lot of good people in the process, too. Nearly killed Xelari, and she still hasn't recovered."

"I won't pretend to have any sort of fondness for the woman given how she treated me at the theater, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry that we couldn't find another way to keep people away from Pyrewatch, and I'm sorry that this city is so damned corrupt that an innocent attempt to help ended up warning Synrik."

"Why were you looking for me? Just so your uncle could get an update on how things went wrong?"

"Not just that, no. Some other evidence came to light, and I was conducting further research." She raised the pouch in her hand, and tapped the scroll-case. "Can we go somewhere else to chat, though?"

"Plenty of taverns."

"I don't like taverns. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many leering eyes."

I managed a chuckle.

"Some people like the leering eyes. But I understand. Somewhere you have in mind?"

"The Forest of the Broken Palace is nice this time of evening."

I nodded and followed along, and within a few minutes we arrived at a small, cozy little park that had sprung up from the corpse of the old royal palace. Oak trees rose from moss-covered ruins. Wildflowers and vines covered the piles of crumbled statues. A handful of other people wandered through the moonlit park: lovers on evening strolls, no doubt. I'm sure to the passersby, Rowela and I were just another pair of smitten souls looking for a place to kiss or cuddle.

We sat down on a bench made of old battered marble, and she emptied the pouch between us. Dozens of silver coins spilled forth. Frowning, I picked one up and turned it over, noting that it lacked the usual symbols of modern Commonwealth coinage. Instead of a stylized depiction of a city and a natural landmark of the country, it instead displayed a crown on one side, and a figure seated upon a throne on the other.

"Old royal coins?" I asked. "Thought these were banned once they killed off the kings."

"They're banned for trade, but not for private collections or historical displays. These are replicas, which I purchased from that silversmith so I could show them to people as part of my investigations." She withdrew another coin from beneath her jacket: it was far more weathered than the replicas she'd spilled upon the bench. "While you were launching your assault on Pyrewatch, my uncle had one of his few trusted officers search Synrik's office at the barracks. They found a book on the history of Pyrewatch, a record of burials there, and a pouch filled with old royal coins. Real ones. Not replicas."

"Synrik collects mementos of the old regime. How does that help us?"

"See the marks beneath the crown?"

"Yes. Four of them."

"It means these coins were minted in the fourth decade of a king's reign. King Kelrin, the last king of Arkostead, ruled for forty-one years before he was deposed."

"So these were a late minting, then. Right before the revolutions and the rise of the Commonwealth."

"Precisely." She laid out a scroll on the bench. "This here is an account of the revolution that overthrew Kelrin, specifically from those who stormed the palace and found the vaults empty. Kelrin's sons emptied the royal treasury before they fled."

"Synrik found the lost royal coins, then." I cocked my head. "In which direction did Kelrin's sons flee?"

"North, along the coast. They retreated with a few survivors of the royal guard and as many mercenaries as they could muster, and were harried all the way by the rebel militias. They made their stand beneath the walls of a castle called Amberkeep. Kelrin's sons and their most loyal supporters fell, and the rebels laid waste to the castle and returned to Arkostead, never finding the lost royal treasure trove."

I twirled the coin between my fingers.

"Synrik fled north. Just like Kelrin's sons. Given the coins he found, do you think Amberkeep may have been a hideout for him?"

"It's certainly possible. All of the evidence is circumstantial, though."

"But it's better than nothing." I picked up one of the replicas. "Can I take this? In case I need to show it around, too."

"Of course."

"And what else did you dig up? Any other connections or allies that Synrik may have had? Any clue as to what he was after or why he betrayed the city or wanted my friend dead?"

"My uncle's men also found a quill among Synrik's effects. A high-quality one that Patrigan's late wife had made for him, which all but confirms that Synrik was the one behind the burglary of those documents you found on that dead necromancer Reynard. As for other allies...nothing concrete. My uncle's men also found several used wax seals and open envelopes in Synrik's office, so he's been in constant communication with others for some time. Other conspirators, perhaps."

"Within or beyond the city?"

"I assume from beyond. If they were in Arkostead, why send letters? They could have just arranged for discreet meetings like this one," she said, gesturing at the quiet moonlit park.

In silence I gazed out over the ancient, moss-covered ruins.

"I'm sorry for scaring you. Just wasn't sure what to think. I assumed the worst."

"Understandable. I, too, would have leaped to ugly conclusions had something bad befallen my uncle."

"At this point, I'd wager your uncle is safe. Synrik, whether he's at Amberkeep or somewhere else, is going to be more worried about Xelari and I."

"Be that as it may, Patrigan hasn't given up. He may not be able to openly utilize the city watch due to concern for their corruption, but he'll continue the hunt. Synrik lied to him, deceiving him into sending an assassin after Xelari, distracting him from the true threat lurking here in the city."

"And what other help can he offer, then?"

"A bit of coin, at least. And I don't just mean silver replicas."

"I'm less worried about money. What I need is information."

"I've given you all that I've uncovered."

"What about Synrik's accomplices? Surely you have some notion of which other corrupt officers are friends with the bastard."

Rowela swallowed, gave a slight nod.

"A few, yes. They may be corrupt, though I highly doubt they're involved in necromancy. None of them have fled the city since Synrik did. If they were involved in more nefarious activities, I imagine they would have scampered off as well."

"Even if they're not necromancers, they still might know something useful."

"Corrupt as they may be, they are still officers of the watch."

"Exactly. And given how corrupt and compromised the watch is, your uncle likely won't be able to take any action against them through official means."

"I'll not give you a list of names and incite a murderous rampage."

"I won't kill any of them," I said, spreading my hands. "Stab a few in some non-lethal spots, sure. Break a few noses, crack a few ribs. Absolutely. But what I want is information. Not just blind vengeance."

Rowela stared at me for several moments. With each breath she took, the steel intensified in her dark brown eyes.

"No. Enough people have been hurt as it is. If you can find concrete evidence that other corrupt officers are involved in the necromantic schemes, then I can relay that evidence to my uncle, and in turn the Lord-Protector's knights can deal with the issue."

Irritated as I was with her intransigence, I couldn't help but be impressed by that steely backbone.

"Fine." I rose from the bench, placed my hands on my hips. "Tell your uncle that I'll try to gather more evidence. With minimal bloodshed, at least here in the city. But if I can track Synrik to Amberkeep and get concrete proof of what they're up to..."