The Infinite Bk. 02 Ch. 07

Chapter 7:

Pulling Teeth

It was brief, the span of silence after all of the shops and bars had closed, when the city was quiet and still. Then, somewhere in the dark labyrinth, a flash of sparks from the collision of blades. Steel would rend flesh and send blood spraying, every drop catching the light of the moon and glowing like crimson fireflies. Then there were two such fights, then three, and so on, until the scene stretched across the city, with endless strangers swinging away at each other in the highest form of audacity.

The knights and soldiers leaped into action, fanning out to stop the fighting, even if it meant joining in and putting down the combatants like rabid dogs. It was all kept quiet, no one shouting orders or using flashy spells so that the revelers could avoid detection and the knights could keep things from escalating.

But now, a new player was on the board, the Harajin. They moved like a pack of wolves, blending into the darkness and making no noise. Every time they encountered a reveler, death came quickly. So many were slain before they could even draw their weapon or cry in pain.

They came upon a dwarf with an axe. His warrior instinct told him he was being followed, but he saw nothing but darkness every time he looked back. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of looking forward, as the next moment, two sickles were buried in his back, piercing his lungs and robbing him of the ability to scream.

He couldn't even fight back, and his body was hauled away as if he was weightless. This was the specialty of the Harajin. They'd lie in wait beneath the sands like a spider in its den, then sink their hooks into their unsuspecting prey and drag them under the dunes to finish the job.

Next, they came across a tall, lanky swordsman. He was lucky enough to see them approach, not that he could save himself. Two of them attacked him at once, with their billowing cloaks and erratic movements concealing their actions. They both shot past the man with their attacks near invisible to the naked eye.

The first went for the man's raised arm, his sickles slicing through his biceps and sending blood pouring. The second Harajin went for the stomach. Despite the swordsman's chainmail, the tips of the sickles pierced his defenses. His chest was carved open, and his intestines spilled into the street.

The bodies were searched, though Grond knew none of their victims carried the potion. He felt no guilt towards those suffering the pointless violence, only lamented wasted energy. One final act performed on each body: cutting every major vein and artery, done so in a way so that all of the blood would pour out onto the ground. Every victim of their slaughter was drained the same way, left to lie in a pool of gore. It was the custom performed for every kill.

What the Harajin did not know was that they were being followed. The winged beastman, still searching for a viable doppelganger, was taking a break from his hunting and instead resorting to scavenging. He had spotted them while flying through the sky, five figures repeatedly ganging up on one reveler at a time. He'd wait for them to leave, then swoop down and search the bodies. The Harajin only seemed interested in whatever potions their victims carried and left everything else, including letters of recommendation. However, none of the bodies looked like him, much to his disappointment.

He returned to the sky to once more search for the Harajin, but high above the city, where he should have been safe, an arrow pierced his wing. "Shit!" he swore as the pain knocked him out of the sky. The arrow was enchanted with warrior magic, causing it to fly farther and faster than a regular arrow and glow like a tracer round. Even with warrior magic, few archers could make such a shot. He did his best to ignore the wound and resume flying, but as soon as he stabilized himself, more arrows assailed him from below, one missing while the second pierced his other wing, and the third scraped his cheek.

Escape was not an option as a tactic and a matter of pride. The winged warrior could not run from an enemy that had dealt him such an injury. He changed his angle, diving back towards the city and spinning back and forth through the air to dodge the incoming arrows. They were coming from one of the castle walls, where a lone knight stood with his bow in hand. The beastman dropped out of the sky like a missile and turned his nosedive into a kick. His clawed foot began to glow with radiant mana, extending up his leg as he increased the power.

The knight decided to dodge rather than fire another arrow. He made the right choice, as when the beastman struck the castle wall, it was like a meteorite had landed. A dust cloud bloomed, from which the beastman pounced for another kick toward the knight. The knight blocked the incoming talons with his bow, and the beastman leaned in, swinging at the knight's throat with his hand alight with mana.

The knight dodged the attack and pushed the beastman back. They faced each other, the beastman assuming the stance of a martial artist with his talons digging into the stone. He noticed the armor of his foe and smiled. "Gold-rank, huh? I'm guessing Uther would suffer quite a bit if I were to kill someone like you."

"The arrogance of youth, to speak those words in my presence. I am Sir Leuca Aithorn of the Utheric Knight Order. To die at my hands would be too good for you, but you have presented yourself oh so willingly." The cold, condescending voice and the lightness of his steps were unmistakable enough for the beastman to understand he was facing an elf, even if his helmet concealed his face.

"I am Roc, of the eagle tribe, and after I beat you, I'll be able to take down the rest of your order."

"More arrogance." Aithorn relinquished his bow for his primary weapon, a spear with three blades in the shape of a cross.

Atop the castle wall and beneath the radiant moon, their battle began. Roc launched himself towards Aithorn with a pulse of his wings and extended his leg for another kick. The elf sidestepped and jabbed at Roc, slicing the front of one of his wings while moving into his blind spot.

Roc gritted through the pain, touched down, and then used his momentum to spin himself around and hurl a neck-high kick toward the knight. Aithorn dodged the blow, and Roc chased after him, continuing his onslaught of kicks. His wings, which should have gotten in his way, propelled him in and out of the attack range.

Despite being enhanced with mana, the power of his attacks was made redundant as Aithorn blocked and dodged every attempt. Even worse, the elf's counterattacks slipped past his guard and hit their marks. He moved with light steps as if bouncing, and his spear mastery was absolute. He could change his hold and launch attacks faster than Roc could blink, moving in a nonstop blur with Roc's eyes struggling to keep up.

Trying to keep his distance wasn't working. He retreated from Aithorn's reach and dispelled his transformation, causing his wings to retract into his back and his legs to revert to their human appearance.

"Surrendering? You seem to have some intelligence, after all. Very well, I will—"

Roc closed the distance in the blink of an eye and attempted another kick, cutting off Aithorn and forcing him to block. As soon as they collided, Roc delivered a finger jab in midair. The attack, enhanced with mana and shaped like an eagle's beak, should have torn through Aithorn's throat, but the elf lowered his chin to block with his helmet. The steel was crumpled by the blow, just barely protecting Aithorn. It was not an injury, but it was a hit.

Aithorn forced the young warrior back, and Roc didn't even bother waiting to catch his breath. Instead, he leaped forward to unleash another barrage, a combination of trained kicks and powerful jabs. His momentum was keeping Aithorn on his toes, or so he thought. One moment, Roc was flying into the air, about to unleash a kick, and then Aithorn's spear appeared before his eyes as if through teleportation, and he felt the tip slide into his shoulder so terrifyingly easily.

Roc's voice slipped free before he could stop it, a howl of pain, but to be impaled warranted such a reaction. Aithorn was holding the spear with only one hand, strong enough to keep Roc suspended in the air. He instinctively grabbed at anything he could to lift himself and take the weight, accomplishing nothing more than slicing up his hands. He tried to break the spear, but the enchanted weapon was exceedingly durable, and Aithorn was out of his reach.

"You managed to damage my armor. As you can imagine, I'm quite angry, but with myself. That I would let some buzzing fly with half-baked martial arts inflict damage to me... You haven't even named your spells. Perhaps I was too kind in holding back, letting you cling to your hope. I'm just glad that no one is here to witness this humiliation."

"I'm still here, bastard."

Out of moves, Roc conjured his wings, still wounded from before, and gave a desperate flap. It wasn't enough to create distance, just something to get him off the blade. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he jumped back well out of Aithorn's range, though as soon as he stopped, he fell to his knees. He was losing blood fast, as well as strength and mana.

It would be easy to jump off the wall, and while he couldn't fly, he could at least glide and slow his descent and then escape by foot. It was so simple, but that thought only came up so he could throw it aside. Roc's gaze never left his foe, even for the slightest glance. He pulled off the scarf hiding his face and spat out a mouthful of blood, then assumed his combat stance.

"If I must die in battle, very well, but I will not meet death with a disguise."

He reabsorbed his wings and began channeling the last of his mana into his hand as he awaited the elf's response. There was no weakness in his eyes, and though his body shook from his wounds, his form was strong as iron. Pity or respect, Roc did not know which was more unlikely, but Aithorn removed his damaged helm and sat it on the ground. Under the moon's light, his polished armor and platinum hair shined as if he was made from its dust. Mana consumed his spear, and he, too, assumed a stance.

"Then an honorable death will be my gift to you, and my final mercy."

They stared each other down, waiting for fate to determine which moment was worthy. They dared not break eye contact or alter their breathing, and while blood poured freely from Roc's shoulder, the splashing drops were not loud enough to break the stillness. Then, down below, a scream pierced the night like the chime of a bell. The two warriors charged each other, no plan in their minds, only instinct, energized into its fastest form.

Aithorn acted first, thrusting his spear toward Roc. He gripped it in the center, but it shot forward like a piston to his maximum reach. Roc sent his hand forward with all of his mana compressed into this attack. He struck the incoming blade, deflecting it just enough for the center blade to miss his face. One of the side blades slashed his chest, not that there was time to acknowledge the wound. Roc jumped into the air to kick Aithorn's temple, but the elf was faster, slamming his fist into Roc's stomach. The blow knocked him out before he even hit the ground.

----------

They were without sound, the hinges of Cyrilo's bedroom door and the footfalls on the floor. Grond entered the room like a living shadow and approached the bed and the shape beneath the covers. "Madam Cyrilo." He repeated her name until she woke. The moonlight outside was not enough to let her see her guest, so she took her cat form before rising from the sheets, staring through the darkness at Grond.

"I had a feeling you would pay a visit."

"Then you know why I'm here."

"The potion, you want it back."

"It is something of dire importance, something that can't fall out of the Harajin's possession. Therefore, I must return it to Urandil."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Well I do." Cyrilo hopped off the bed and began the long walk across the room to her study. "It didn't smell at all like any of Urandil's other work, so my first thought was that one of you was trying to pull something and I considered just throwing it out the window." Grond followed her into her study, and she jumped up onto the desk. "But I decided to be hopeful and try to identify it, so I took a small sample to look at with the sunlight and the glass tube burst into flames. I survived with only some cuts from the broken glass, but the table underneath was badly burned." She shifted her gaze to a table near the window, now blackened. Beside the spot was the ceramic bottle containing the rest of the potion. "At that point, I was ready to believe that one of you was trying to kill me. With how much pain I was experiencing, I'm sure you can imagine how angry I was."

"It was all a mistake. He gave me the wrong bottle. He even sent other Harajin to warn me and retrieve it." He approached the table and reached out for the potion.

"I realized that was the likely situation when I noticed the flames were black. Black fire, Grond, black as Death's robe. You understand the significance of that, correct?"

Grond's hand stopped as her words knocked his mind out of the conversation, sending it landing with a splash into a pool of memories, memories of his training. He remembered the freezing desert nights and how he and the other children would sit unmoving from dusk to dawn. The teachers would pace around them, armed with cacti branches, and any child who shivered was beaten bloody.

He remembered the bite of the wire slicing his fingers as he and the other children slid down from the cavern ceiling like inchworms. The wire was secured so that it could barely support his weight as long as he only moved up and down, but it would snap if he started to swing. He remembered the smell of blood and viscera as he lay within the scooped-out torso cavities of monsters, unmoving, waiting, as though his target would walk by any second. The smell of the bloating corpse, the wild temperature changes, the animals feeding on his shelter, even the needs of his body; he had to ignore them all for days at a time and not move a single unnecessary muscle.

A shiver triggered these memories, crawling up his spine and chilling his blood. It was those words Cyrilo had spoken, what they implicated, and the fear they invoked towards the bottle just inches from his fingers.

"I understand."

"Those monsters are supposed to be extinct. I don't know how he did it, but Urandil is putting himself and the world in danger if it is fresh. I have half a mind to hand this over to the knights so that the king can finish what his predecessors started. Bring it back to Urandil and tell him I've taken some to hold onto. Also, I want my notes. He's not getting them until I get the potion I was promised."

Grond revealed the scroll Noah had given him and placed it on the burned table. He looked back at Cyrilo, staring at him with her hair on end. "I know this time of year is difficult for us to meet, but from now on, I would prefer you not send that man to pick up deliveries. He shot me in the leg with an arrow because I wouldn't give him the potion. Who was he?"

"I do apologize for that. He was some reveler who snuck in during the night. I was going to report him, then I decided to give him a chance to redeem himself instead. Like you said, this time of year is difficult, so I wanted a degree of separation. Besides, you and Lucius don't get along either. Maybe the problem is on your side."

"How ironic for us both to be cursed. Speaking of which, still no change? When last we spoke, you were excited about a magic amulet that seemed promising."

In response, Cyrilo transformed, but her appearance and voice were far different at night than during the day. "It was a fake. The curse is still active, as you can see."

"Apologies. When does it reset?"

She transformed back into a cat. "Every sunrise, and it's best if I remain in my cat form when it happens. I had high hopes for Urandil's potion, but that bottled venom might be useful in the meantime. You said you had met another Harajin with a message from Urandil. Do they know the bottle left your possession?"

"Yes."

"How will you explain getting it back?"

"Our leader had us scatter to find it, and we'll join up and continue as a group later. I'll just plant it on a corpse and act surprised. If that doesn't work, I'll return it to Urandil in secret, and everyone else will write it off as lost forever."

"Put a little more thought into this. If the elders know what's in that bottle, I doubt they'll be in a forgiving mood. Even your comrades will pay dearly for failing to bring it back."

"I am aware of that. However, the farther away I keep them from you, the farther away I keep them from Castin. How is he?"

"Growing like a weed. He's happy and healthy."

"So no...?"

"No signs of the plague. I check every time I visit."

"That's good. I was thinking that perhaps..." He trailed off, both he and Cyrilo turning to the nearby window. Dawn was still hours away, so why was it suddenly so bright out?

----------

It wasn't the best spot, but it was under a roof. Noah had decided to camp out in the nearby church for the night, sleeping among the rafters like Quasimodo. He found a platform in the back corner, large enough to lie down on, and wrapped himself in his traveling blanket. Unfortunately, while it did keep him out of view, there were far more eyes than he would have liked.

The cathedral floor had become a sea of the homeless, just one of the many locations catching the tourist overflow from the inns. Countless travelers, silent and unmoving, lined up like corpses collected after battle, with only the occasional snore or cough to break the stillness. However, there was tension in the air.

Almost everyone in the church had a weapon within their reach, and most travelers and adventurers knew how to sleep with one eye open. There was no telling when some thief might try robbing or even killing people in the darkness. Every time someone moved or made a suspicious noise, one or two bodies would shift, with every awake person in earshot preparing for battle. For this reason, Noah snuck into the church rather than going through the front door. It was better that no one knew he was there. Up on his perch, he had a perfect view of the late-night Cold War.

The moon cast pools of light upon the floor, each stained by the colored glass windows. They moved across the bodies like searchlights, just bright enough to let Noah see and measure the passing of time. His mind would sink into the shallow seas of dreamless sleep, and then every hour, it would rise from the depths like a whale. He'd open his eyes to survey the silent darkness and then dive right back in.

Another glance picked up movement, someone walking among the sleeping homeless. Noah's tired eyes focused on the stranger as he analyzed every action. The cloak was familiar, and beneath the hood, he could see the white of a porcelain mask. Was that Grond? Was he following Noah? He activated his invisibility just in case and kept watch. But it was strange, for as far as Noah could tell, he was the only one aware of the stranger's presence.

No one else was moving, for no one could hear the silent footsteps or see the black cloak in the dark of night. Perhaps everyone, even the tensest adventurers, had given in to their fatigue and surrendered to the bliss of sleep? No, this person's evasion and stealth abilities were second only to Noah's.

The assassin revealed a corked jar from a hidden pocket and a rag. He pulled out the cork, covered the jar with the rag for several moments, then pulled it away so that a scarab could crawl out and take flight. Noah could not smell it, Grond's scent on the rag, but to the scarab, it was all-encompassing, and now it was searching for the source like a bloodhound. It zipped around the church in winding circles, and though it showed some slight attention to the section of the wall that Noah scaled to reach his perch, it eventually returned to the Harajin, having failed its task. He sealed it back in the jar and then turned to leave.