The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 02 - The Darkest Hour (10 page)

             
“One cultural upheaval at a time, Xenir. We’ve only just restored the Chosen to our rightful status, let’s not give the scant handful of elders who backed us a reason to overthrow us just yet.”

             
Xenir grunted and walked on. Before long, they reached the oval cavern that was used as the ready room for the northern entrance to the Warrens. Three dirty, pink vermin were on their knees, guarded by two pairs of Xarundi guards. Zarfensis was impressed with their restraint. None of the prisoners seemed to be mauled in any way.

             
“Only three?” Zarfensis remarked to Xenir. “Are these vermin suicidal?”

             
“You were at Dragonfell,” the largest of the humans said, nodding toward Zarfensis. “The quints gave you a right good beating.”

             
A meaty thud echoed across the cavern as the man’s head rocked back on his neck. The force of the High Priest’s backhand raised an ugly welt across the human’s cheekbone.

             
“Learn your place, vermin.” Zarfensis snarled.

             
The man hawked and spat blood onto the floor in front of him. “My place is where the most money is. We have information you may find interesting, for a price.”

             
Zarfensis marveled at the audacity of these vermin. They defiled the Warrens with their presence and then expected to be compensated for their information. They should be happy they were still breathing.

             
“What information could a lowly vermin possibly have that is of interest to the Chosen?”

             
The man smiled, showing a crooked row of bloody teeth. “We know where the Swordmage is. If I were you, I’d want my revenge. I’d want to see the bitch flayed alive.”

             
The High Priest glanced at Xenir. The vermin obviously had no idea how offensive his words were. To compare a human woman to a female Xarundi. It was disgusting. The Warleader’s gaze slid from his and Zarfensis suddenly wondered if he was seeing the Deep Oracle again.

             
There would be time to address that later, he thought. If these vermin actually did know the location of the Swordmage, that could be valuable.

“What is the price for this information?” Zarfensis raised a hand at Xenir’s protest. He understood t
he Warleader’s protest. No Chosen could ever be indebted to the vermin.

“Runedust,” the man said, longing creeping into his voice. “Six vials, two for each of us.” He nodded to his companions.

Dusters, Zarfensis thought, his skin crawling. Now that he looked closely at the vermin, he could see the signs. The tiny pupils, the drawn skin, the broken veins around the nose. These men had been consuming runedust for quite some time. They were desperate. He could smell their need.

Xenir’s nose flared and Zarfensis caught his eye. The Warleader flicked one ear. He had come to the same conclusion at the same time. Dire straits had driven th
ese vermin into the Warrens. A duster with no regular source of runedust was as good as dead anyway. Trading their information for a small fortune must have seemed brilliant to the three of them.

The High Priest drew a vial of glowing blue crystals from the pouch on his belt. He held it level with the vermin’s line of sight, ensuring that the gentle pulse caught his eye.

“A show of good faith,” Zarfensis said, rolling the vial across the floor. The human snatched it up, pulling the stopper with his teeth and pouring some crystals into his hand before passing it to his companions.

Pressing his nose to his palm, the vermin snorted the crystals, not even bothering to pulverize them first. A moment later, the human’s eyes had taken on a pale blue fire that was far too similar to the Xarundi’s for the High Priest’s piece of mind. The tension in the man’s frame seemed to ease and he sighed deeply before speaking.

“There is a human settlement, a city outside the Imperium borders, a mage city.”

“I know this city,” Xenir said. “The vermin call it Ethergate. It is known to the Xarundi as the Hallowed Vale.”

“How do you know that?” The human was visibly startled.

Xenir snorted his derision. “Because, vermin, it was a Chosen city long before the humans moved into our ruins like the scavengers they are.”

The leader of the vermin paused as his companions got into a squabble over the division of the crystals left in the vial. Once they had consumed their portions, he continued.

“The
Swordmage is in Ethergate. We found her on the road to the city and scared off her horse to slow her down, then we came here.”

Zarfensis nodded. “Knowing that the Xarundi possess the rune of death.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Surely this information is worth the price we ask?”

Zarfensis looked at the Warleader, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He trusted Xenir’s council. If they both suspected these men were more desperate than interested in practicing deception, there was a good chance that the information was good. They could have their revenge on the
Swordmage and then retrieve the relic.

“It is,” the High Priest agreed. The human sagged in on himself, almost comically relieved. His addiction to runedust must be staggering, Zarfensis thought without pity. He motioned to the Xarundi guards.
“Dispose of the vermin.”

Even augmented by the power of runedust, three humans were no match for four nearly adult Xarundi who descended on them with claws and fangs flashing. The screams were intense, but short-lived as the Chosen dispatched their prey with deadly efficiency.

“Do you believe the information to be accurate?” Zarfensis watched with grim pleasure as the adolescents ate their fill. Xenir, coming to stand beside him, nodded.

“I see no reason to doubt it. I know of this c
ity. We can dispatch warriors and know for sure if the Swordmage is really there.”

“No, Warleader. I prefer to attend to this myself.”

Xenir nodded. “I suspected as much.” He motioned to the guards, dragging the remains of the humans from the cavern. “At least take them with you. They’re young, but their instincts have proven true.”

“Of course, b
rother. We leave tonight.”

* * *

              Tiadaria arched her back against the chair, he ankles crossed and legs stretched out under the table. A series of pops and snaps issued from her joints and she sighed in relief. There was no way of telling how long they’d been at it. The magical lanterns on the walls used no oil and burned no wax. No consumption meant no way of measuring the passage of time. Without windows, they might as well be isolated from all of Solendrea.

             
They’d been in the library every night for the past four nights and each night, the hopelessness of their endeavor seemed to weigh on them even more. If nothing else, the time together had immunized Tiadaria against Wynn’s logic and reason. She was even beginning to genuinely like the young quintessentialist, even if he did make her crazy.

             
Wynn snapped the book in front of him and sighed as well, not in relief, but in exasperation. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and his eyes with the other. Tia rose, welcoming the opportunity to let blood flow back into her legs. She crossed behind Wynn’s chair and laid her hand on the back of his neck. The only indication that he felt the same shock that Tia felt was a momentary jerking of his shoulders. Then he let out a low groan as she began to knead the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders.

             
His chin dropped to his chest and Tiadaria poked him with her finger. “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me. Turnabout is fair play. When I’m done, you’re going to do me.”

             
“Yes, Lady Tiadaria,” he said sleepily. “Although, to be fair, it could very well be time to sleep. I lost track of what time it was some time ago.”

             
“And nothing to show for it,” she groused, her fingers translating her mood into overly hard pressure on Wynn’s shoulders.

             
“Ow!”

             
“Sorry,” she said, easing her grip on the spot. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

             
“No,” Wynn replied. “I didn’t think you did. I suspect that if you meant to hurt me, I’d know it.”

             
Tiadaria chuckled and Wynn looked up at her questioningly. He was infuriating, eminently logical, reasonable, rational, and he said some of the most unintentionally funny things at times. That he had no idea what he was saying or why it amused her so only served to tickle her even more.

             
“Nothing,” she said, answering his glance. “Just one of my little jokes.” She leaned over his shoulder and tapped the corner of the journal he had been writing in. “What’s in here?”

             
“Research notes,” he sighed. “There are lots of vague clues and clever turns of phrase, but nothing definitive, and certainly nothing that Master Indra can act on.”

             
“Well, if we do end up finding something, we may be the ones acting on it.” Tiadaria was just musing aloud, but Wynn’s reaction was dramatic and immediate. He sat bolt upright in his chair, his spine straight as an arrow.

             
“Don’t even joke about that!”

             
Tia took her hands off his shoulders and nudged her hip between him and the table. He slid his chair out and she half-sat on the edge of the table. “I’m not joking. Whatever has gotten into you?”

             
“You go where you want,” he said with a stubborn lift of his chin. “I’m not leaving the city. It’s safe here. Besides, I’m a researcher, not a fighter.”

             
“You’re a quintessentialist,” Tiadaria pointed out. “Surely you can defend yourself if necessary.”

             
“I…” Wynn’s cheeks went bright red and his eyes dropped to the floor. He was embarrassed! When Tiadaria had still lived among the clan, she had seen that reaction in her brothers when they failed to best rival clansman in combat. It was deep shame. She had felt it standing the council room at Dragonfell, standing in front of the Captain and knowing that she had defied him, and in so doing, disappointed him.

             
“I lied when I told you that I’d never been out of Ethergate,” He blurted, almost in a panic. “I wasn’t born or raised here. I was exiled here, in a fashion.” The pain in his voice eschewed any desire she had to scold him for his falsehood.

             
“What happened?” she asked quietly.

             
Wynn turned his head from her and for a moment Tia was convinced that he would just remain that way, silent and inscrutable. When he spoke, his voice wavered and she realized that his reluctance stemmed from trying to get himself under control.

             
“I told you that both my parents were quintessentialists. We lived in Blackbeach and they were both so convinced that I would be like them that when I reached my sixteenth name day and hadn’t shown any connection whatsoever with the Quintessential Sphere, I think they were devastated. Most children know from an early age. They’ll be able to move something here, conjure something there. Little, harmless things that tip them off to their connection. I never had that. Making the best of things, my parents taught me to be a world-class archivist and researcher. I guess they figured that if I wasn’t going to be like them, they could at least keep me close.”

             
Tia shifted on the desk and Wynn finally looked at her, his face still crimson and his eyes suspiciously wet. She inclined her head, urging him to continue. He took a deep breath.

             
“The other kids picked on me something fierce. It got to be so bad that I’d spend my days in the library, just to avoid anyone else. I got to know some of the most powerful Masters of our age. Masters Jotun and Tanglar, Master Faxon-- so many brilliant minds that I got to study while I was escaping the inevitable cruelties of adolescence.

             
“They caught me leaving the library one night. I had taken an armful of books to do some transcribing and I had promised Master Jotun that I’d be careful with them. They chased me down the long alley behind the library, up against the city wall.”

             
Wynn’s eyes lost focus and Tia knew he was back at the end of the alley. She was torn between wanting to stop him, to spare him the pain, and knowing that if he had come this far, he needed to let it out. She wondered who else, if anyone, had heard his story. Had anyone bothered to listen? Or had they dismissed him as an eccentric and left him alone?

             
“They knocked the books out of my arm and I was so scared. I promised Master Jotun I’d take care of them. They were my responsibility, and these kids, my peers, were kicking them around the alley, laughing and whooping, having a great time. There were four of them. I’ll remember their names of the rest of my life.