Chapter Twenty-Seven: Whispers in the Dark

“They are not humans, nor relicts. Though they wear our skin, we are not the same. The darkness has corrupted them. They answer only to the Forsaken One.”

—The Doctrine of Wyd

Caerlon was one of the more livelier towns Alend had seen, bordering on city status. It was several times larger, taller and more packed than Felhaven, so much so that he almost felt claustrophobic as they walked through the stone walls.

A cobbled road ran from one gate to the other, winding through multi-storeyed shops and tenements on either side. Small gardens and patches of grass littered the roadsides and the storefronts, weathered to sickly shades of brown and yellow. Half-melted snow crept down the rooftops and onto the ground while frost covered the windows and lampposts in a white sheen.

The town was rife with the chatter of townspeople as they went about their daily business. The guards strutted in ones and twos, donned in thin layers of chainmail that were more for show than for anything else, swords swinging by their hips, striking up conversation with groups of blushing Mistresses. Merchants chatted to each other from across their stalls. Farmers rang their bells while their pack-horses waited fitfully beside wagonfuls of produce.

Caerlon was the last town before the wilderness, marking the edge of the High King’s territory. Few people ventured past it. It was the end of the line, the last stop on the Royal Road. Alend’s memory of the place was faint; the last time he’d been here had been with Rhea as they’d ventured off the edge of the map in search of the Sleeping Twins. He’d been focused on fleeing back then, running away from the legacy of the Thorens and the iron fist of the Uldan House. Now, after finally escaping, he was walking back into the beast’s lair.

They left their horses by the stable, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Talberon had turned his cloak inside out so the patches faced inwards, but it did little to divert the pairs of eyes that had turned towards them. Even in a town as populated as Caerlon, it wasn’t hard to spot a visitor. They had an air about them, an uncertain way of walking that only came from having to navigate unfamiliar paths. Besides, Alend was a big man, almost as big as Talberon was old. Both big and old people drew attention to themselves in this part of the world—especially when one of them carried such a fine sword.

“Keep your head down,” Talberon murmured, drawing his cowl across his face. “And don’t look anyone in the eye.”

That was easier said than done, but somehow Alend managed. They stopped at the darkest, dingiest inn they could find, a ramshackle building of two storeys that looked like the slightest gust of wind could blow it over, and stepped inside. The interior was just as Alend had expected—an ill-lit room that smelled of spilt ale and piss, held upright by mouldy pillars and beams that were slippery to the touch. There was a counter in the bar directly in front of the entrance, the only well-lit area in the entire building. A lantern hung from a beam above it, casting an ominous glow on the knobby innkeeper and the cabinet of dusty drinks behind him.

“What brings you to the Drunken Peddler?” the innkeeper asked. He had a strange way of talking, only moving a corner of his mouth at any time. Now that Alend was closer, he realised the man’s face was pocked and scarred everywhere from the forehead to the chin, no doubt from countless knife fights and alleyway brawls. He immediately scanned his surroundings, raising his guard.

“How much for a room for two?” Talberon asked.

The innkeeper took them in, from their travel-stained clothes to the lines of fatigue across their faces. “Dinner and breakfast or no?”

“Dinner,” the Druid confirmed. “No breakfast.”

“Five silvers.”

Alend’s brow twitched. “Now hold on—”

“Three,” said Talberon.

“Our prices aren’t negotiable,” the innkeeper insisted. “Take it or leave it.”

Talberon placed a hand on Alend’s arm, flashing him a stern look. “Very well, then.”

He counted five silver coins and slid them across the table. The innkeeper snatched them up, chomped on them with blackened teeth, then nodded to himself and produced a half-rusted key from under the counter. “Room thirteen, upstairs and second door to the left. Dinner will be at the sixth hour.”

Talberon nodded and took the key, and together they went to one of the tables and sat down. Alend glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. There were still a few hours until sundown.

“This is robbery,” Alend hissed. “Five silvers for a place like this? It wouldn’t be worth more than two at most.” He glared at the innkeeper over his shoulder. “I don’t trust the owner, either. He looks like the type who’d slit our throats in our sleep.”

“I know,” Talberon said in a low voice, “but we’ve got no choice. Have you seen the looks they’re giving us? Before morning comes we’ll be the talk of the town. There’s no use in drawing more attention to us. Better to save some coin and stay in one of the less popular spots.”

Alend looked over his shoulder just as a group of men turned away. It was true. What little customers the inn had were seated in the corners of the room, staring at them from the cover of darkness. They spoke to each other in hushed tones, heads and bodies turned away from them, but their eyes were always watching.

“Remember,” said Talberon, “our goal is to get you to Aldoran. Nothing else matters. If you’re lucky, they’ll talk about us for a bit and then we’ll be gone. If you’re not, someone will recognize you and then the next thing you know, you’ll be on an express carriage to the Uldan Keep.”

“Wasn’t that the point? I thought that was where we were going.”

“You’ll be going there, alright. In pieces.” Talberon leaned in closer across the table. “High King Aedon still wants your head, Alend. You’re a Deserter. You’re worth a small fortune, dead or alive, even if you’ve disappeared off the face of Faengard for sixteen years.”

Alend frowned. “Isn’t the King the one who sent for me?”

Talberon tugged at his beard. Alend paled.

“I thought Aedon had finally decided to forgive me,” he said.

“You know how he is,” Talberon murmured. “He’s a stubborn man. If I told him the last of the Thorens was you, he would have rather faced the Oathbreaker himself in single combat than welcome you back.”

“You fool,” Alend spat, his face darkening. “You’re only delaying the inevitable. He’ll lock me up and have me executed at this rate. There’s no talking sense into that man.” He knitted his brow. “Wyd almighty… and here I thought you had it all planned out…”

“Trust me when I say this, Alend. He’ll change his mind when the time comes. I’ve read it on the Wind.” He raised an arm towards one of the serving girls, gesturing for a drink. “As long as we reach Aldoran in one piece, and by ‘we’ I mean you, things will work out. Just focus on laying low and not drawing any attention from bounty hunters, relicts, or even worse, the Faceless.”

Alend’s mood soured even more as the girl placed two frothing mugs of ale on their table. It was far from the best ale he’d ever tasted, but it was better than water at the very least, and didn’t taste like melted snow. His thoughts turned to Sanson, the father of poor young Merrill who was now an orphan. Alend had thought he’d known the butcher, having lived practically down the street to him for well over a decade. He still remembered when Sanson’s face had melted during that skirmish on Founder’s Eve, when his eyes and ears had fallen off, when his true self had been revealed. When had the butcher left behind his humanity and taken on the path of a Faceless? How long had he been lying in wait, watching Alend’s family and reporting back to his master? How long had the plan to attack Felhaven been in motion for?

Those were things Alend would unfortunately never know. There was no use dwelling on the past—what was done was done. He just hoped Ein and Cinnamin were still safe and sound at the village, under the protection of the charms Talberon had given them.

The Druid downed the rest of his mug and stood up, drawing his cloak about him. “I’m going to look around town and stock up on anything we need,” he said, taking out the tome he always carried with him. “I’ll also need to update the entry in the Archive. It’s been a while since a Druid last set foot here, and I expect they’ll want to know how Caerlon’s dealing with the Great Winter.”

“Should I just stay here, then?” Alend asked.

“That would be a good idea. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Go to bed and barricade the door, then sleep. It’ll be good for that wound of yours.”

“How will you get in if I barricade it?”

“Leave the window open.” Talberon scoffed and then slammed the empty mug back onto the table, making his way out of the inn. Before he knew it, Alend was alone and the eyes were back on him. He sighed, took another sip from his mug and closed his eyes.

Alend was no stranger to the taverns, having frequented them more times than he could count in his days as a Kingsblade. He’d learned the art of listening, not just hearing but filtering out noise and picking apart only specific conversations that were of interest, and he used that skill now.

“—she has a big pair of jugs, that young Mistress—”

“—have you heard? Old Master Pat finally sold his prized cow yesterday—”

“—dreadful things, those mudcrabs. At least they keep our bellies full—”

He hadn’t expected to hear much else, but he continued to tune in to the town’s gossip. By the sounds of it, Caerlon was faring better than Felhaven, but not by much. They had access to the Royal Road, which allowed for trading of supplies between cities, but the underlying problem was still there—the entire world was pressed for resources.

“—have you heard? Raginrok had another avalanche. Came right close to destroying Darmouth, it did. Clipped a couple of houses on the outskirts.”

Alend’s ears pricked. Wasn’t Darmouth the place his brother had fallen, according to Talberon? He shifted on his seat, moving all his focus to the conversation between the two scrawny traders by the corner.

“The peddlers say terrible things are happening on the mountain. The Darmouthers are convinced their god has returned to the Throne of the Heavens and is unsatisfied at the world, unleashing his wrath upon the village.”

“A god,” the other chortled. “We’re three ages too late for those.”

“You don’t believe in the Pantheon, then?”

“Of course not. I laugh at those believers and their petty temples, preaching to each other to try and convince which god is best. The only thing that exists is luck, skill, and a man’s hard work.”

“Wise words,” the trader said, taking a break to drink, “though some say Wyd is luck itself. What do you think is causing the disasters, then?”

“A little man at the Summit of the World stomping on the ground.” The other man shrugged. “Burn me, the hell if I know. Some monster woken out of hibernation, probably. A remnant of a past age. There’ve been rumours all over the countryside about those. Some even say the relicts themselves have returned and are scouring their way across Faengard to Aldoran.”

If only you knew the truth, Alend thought. He closed his eyes and saw a flash of fire and smoke. Adeir had been literally a day’s travel from Caerlon and the townspeople didn’t even know it was gone.

“At the heart of each rumour lies a kernel of truth. You know what I’ve heard?”

“What?”

The trader on the left looked around and leaned in.

“A peddler told me this: they say Faenrir the World-Eater waits at the Summit of Raginrok.”

The other man slammed his palm on the table and stood up, drawing the attention of every other man in the room.

“That’s horseshit,” he said. “A demon wolf that doesn’t stop growing?” He lowered his voice, grumbling. “It’s been great catching up with you, but I think it’s time I went home.”

“I’m serious,” the trader said. “Not too long ago, they sent a small taskforce to slay him. A Kingsblade, a Druid and a handful of war heroes. None of them returned.”

“Peddlers aren’t to be trusted. Half of them are looney old men who still think we’re in the Age of Magic.” The man turned on his heel and briskly left the inn, slapping down a few coins on the counter along the way. Quiet chatter returned to the room once more. The trader remained at his seat, drinking.

Alend glanced at the clock and made up his mind. He left his seat and strode over to where the man drank alone, pulling out the stool and sitting down. “Young Mistress,” he said, waving towards the nearest serving girl. “Two mugs of ale for the Master and I, if you’d please.”

The trader lifted his head as the girl poured them their drinks with a bored expression. He had a gaunt look about him, one that made him look five years older than he actually was, and his hairline was beginning to recede. His clothes were faded and hung loosely off his shoulders. In short, he looked like he’d once been well-fed and had stumbled across some hard times—just like everyone else in the world.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, touching the handle of the mug as if it were made of lava.

“A chat is all,” Alend replied. He brought the mug to his lips and took a sip. “Tell me more about the King’s strike force. Do you have any names?”

A dark look crossed the trader’s face. “Didn’t you hear?” he asked. “It’s all bullcockery. Faenrir doesn’t exist. He died like everything else from the Age of Legends.”

“I don’t care about Faenrir. I want to know names, specifically the name of the Kingsblade that accompanied them.”

The trader eyed Alend carefully before taking a long swig from his mug. “Thoren,” he finally said. “The peddler mentioned his first name, but I forgot it. Makes sense, though. Kill two birds with one stone. If Thoren slays the beast, the kingdom gains reassurance that the right man is on the throne. If Thoren dies, that’s another contender for the throne out of the way.”

“Is Aedon still concerned about being overthrown?” Alend asked. He was met by a suspicious stare. “High King Aedon,” he corrected himself.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the trader asked, running his eyes across Alend’s large build. When Alend didn’t answer, he continued. “The masses are on the brink of rioting. They blame the King for the Great Winter. Other parties have stepped into the picture, promising to put an end to it if he relinquishes the throne to another House. The people want Sir Gilfred Leonhart, the Golden Beast to take over, as much as he holds his honour. Kingsblade Thoren was just another obstacle, albeit a minor one, that he needed out of the way.”

“Bastard,” Alend muttered. By the sound of it, Aedon had only grown more fearful in his old age.

“Thoren had no followers anyway,” the trader continued. “His blood and honour was stained by his brother several years ago, when he betrayed the King and fled his duties. No one wants the brother of a Deserter on the throne. If you ask me, I’m glad he’s dead. It was probably only a matter of time before he went turncoat too.”

Alend was up before he knew it, grabbing the man by his collar. The mug between them tipped over and rolled off the edge of the table, shattering in a mass of ceramic fragments and spilt ale. The inn fell silent once again, all eyes turning towards Alend. There was a brief pause before the serving girl hurried over, a broom and dustpan in hand. She shrank from Alend as if he were a relict himself.

“Al'Ashar’s eyes and ears,” he said, releasing his hold on the man. Standing at his full height, he towered head and shoulders above everyone else. So much for keeping my head low.

Alend eyed the staircase leading to the second floor and then shook his head. He needed some time to think. Leaving two coppers on the counter on the way out, he folded his cloak around his shoulders and tried to make himself as small as possible.

Alend’s walk took him off the main road and into the darker districts of Caerlon, between the high-rising tenements and under the wooden walkways that spanned between them. The buildings here were noticeably less well-maintained, stained with all manner of dirt and grime, patches of dull moss and ivy oozing from cracks in the tiled roofs. He took careful steps through the alleyways, sidestepping the stagnant puddles, avoiding the eyes of hopeful beggars. Wet clothes hung from lines far above him, billowing dry in the air.

“Edric,” he sighed. “You were always so naïve.”

There had been a time when he, his brother and the High King had been friends, brought up together in the same castle, learning the same lessons, playing the same tricks on the servants. That had been long ago, over thirty years gone now. As Aedon had taken on the crown, so too had his character begun to change. He grew from a boy into a man, drifting further and further from the brothers, shaping himself to fit the mould of a King, while Alend and Edric became Kingsblades—the King’s own hands, elite warriors of the realm who carried out his work. Although at first they’d remained close, the sheer weight of responsibility had taken its toll on Aedon, poisoning his mind with the fear and paranoia that so many monarchs experienced. Alend had seen it coming from a mile away. Edric, being the believer he was, had firmly believed their friend to be different.

Now he was dead, and Alend had nothing left of his brother but a ring and a sword.

You should have come with me, Edric.

That night had been clear in his mind, the night when he’d made up his mind to break the Oath and flee. He would have been killed either way—if not sent on a suicidal mission like Edric, then assassinated. Though Aedon himself hadn’t sunken so deep into paranoia at that time, there had been a thousand other strings tugging on him that had. Alend didn’t regret taking on the title of Deserter. To House Uldan, it meant Deserter. To House Thoren, it meant Survivor.

Oh Aedon, he thought. What have you done to yourself? The world is crumbling around you and you’re still concerned with petty court politics.

He heard the splash of a puddle and turned around. He’d wandered into a dead end of some sort, where the path ended right before the outer wall of the town. Tenements rose above him on either side like tombstones under the misty skies, rotting and leaking with filth and residue rain. He was in the slums of Caerlon.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, hand resting on his blade.

Three figures emerged from the opening of the alley—a towering man with a pot belly, a shorter man with a ring in his nose and a woman with closely-cropped hair and a pierced ear. Alend evaluated the three in the span of a second and dismissed them as petty thugs.

“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” Pot-belly said, continuing to advance. Ring-nose and Pierced-ear flanked him on either side, blocking off his escape route.

Alend glanced upwards just as two window shutters slammed closed. It didn’t look like any of the locals wanted to take part, and he didn’t blame them. In places like these, street thugs probably collected “taxes” from those in their territory. More often than not, the poor residents wouldn’t even have enough to feed themselves.

“A day without snow is almost as good as it gets,” Alend agreed, still keeping his tone civil. “What can I do for you fine Masters? And you too, Mistress.” He straightened his shoulders, drawing to his full height in the hopes of intimidating them. The hilt of his blade was visible for all to see. He didn’t miss the flash of uncertainty that passed through Ring-nose’s eyes.

“That’s a fancy sword you’ve got there,” Ring-nose said, coming to a halt.

“Thank you.” Alend grasped his blade and unsheathed it, bringing the fiery Rhinegold into the cold. The woman with the pierced ear stepped back.

“Is that Rhinegold?” she murmured.

“You’ve a fine eye for steel, my lady,” Alend said. “I’m sure you know what this means?” He hefted it in his hand, taking a step forward. She was panicking now, turning to the two men for guidance, but their eyes were fixed on the sword. There were two types of people who carried a Rhinegold blade—those who could afford it, and those who could use it. The thugs would need to take a gamble now. The wrong guess could mean death.

“We’re not here for the sword,” Pot-belly said. “We’re here for your life, Thoren.”

The moment Alend realized they knew his name, the two men attacked. They were armed with serrated daggers, just long enough to be concealable beneath the clothing by the hip or waist, and they attacked with perfect coordination, coming at him from either side in synchronized movements. The woman drew her knife a heartbeat later and jumped in after her comrades.

Alend parried both strikes and sidestepped, slamming his shoulder into Ring-nose. The thug grunted and latched onto Alend’s cloak, yanking it towards him.

“Shit,” Alend grunted. He ripped the cloak off his shoulders and forced himself backwards. The garment would only slow him down in the fight. With a quick pivot, he cut deep into Pot-belly with all the force of his arm, shoulder and hips. Pain flared through the wound in his stomach and he almost dropped his sword. Talberon was not going to be pleased, but at least he’d taken down one of the—

The man with the pot belly smiled, even as his blood and guts spilled onto the floor. Alend frowned, blocking a feeble strike from the woman. “What the hell—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Ring-nose attacked, dagger flashing towards Alend’s throat. Alend swerved and countered with a chop to the wrist, cutting through the tendons to the bone beneath. Blood spewed from Ring-nose’s hand. His dagger dropped to the floor with a clatter, but he too smiled.

At that point, the woman lost all interest in robbing Alend and reeled backwards in a mixture of confusion and horror, slipping and sliding on the growing pool of blood on the ground. Ring-nose picked up his dagger with his other hand. His slashed wrist flopped uselessly by his side.

“Wyd almighty,” Alend panted.

Pot-belly charged him and he stepped to the side, redirecting him with all his might. The thug slammed into the wall and pried himself away without batting an eyelid. Ring-nose threw a clumsy strike that Alend blocked easily, following through with a slash to his other wrist. The dagger clattered onto the ground once more. Ring-nose might have been under some abnormal spell that allowed him to continue fighting, but it didn’t look like that spell improved his actual skill. Alend ducked a bloody swing by the man and, pulling him forward by the ring on his nose, slashed open his neck. A geyser of blood spurted across Alend’s cheek. The thug howled and sunk to the ground, clutching at his throat, flopping like a fish out of water.

“The Master… I see him…”

Ring-nose’s face began to smoke. The skin melted off his face and his nails extended, lengthening into yellow claws the colour of rotting teeth. His eyes shrivelled and grew black in their sockets until they resembled dried fruits. With one last cry, they rolled out of his face completely, his ears dissolving into two lumps of flesh that dribbled down the sides of his head.

“A Faceless…” Alend paled, and his eyes met the woman with the pierced ear. She was looking back and forth between Pot-belly and the creature on the ground, mouth open in terror. Pot-belly ignored her, chopping down at Alend with the entire weight of his body in his arm.

“Run!” Alend cried, gasping as he blocked the attack, a shockwave rattling through his forearm. “Get the guards! Get help!” Sharp pain tore through his abdomen, and something wet tricked out. Disengaging, he shoved the thug away and backpedalled to the wall. The woman took one last look at the creature and fled, screaming down the alleyway.

“You won’t escape,” Pot-belly said. “Lord Al'Ashar is all-powerful. Even with the Druid by your side, you are far outnumbered.”

Alend clutched at his stomach. He’d manoeuvred himself to a better position through their exchange. The path down the alleyway was open.

“The Fire take me,” he said, struggling catching his breath. “To think that in this day and age, there are still those who follow the Oathbreaker…”

Even though he’d seen Sanson with his own eyes, he still couldn’t believe it. The Faceless were as much a myth as the relicts were. What was more frightening was that they’d all been human, once upon a time in their lives.

“We were always there,” the man breathed. Blood continued to stream out of his stomach. “As long as there are men, there are Faceless. Just as you follow Wyd, we follow the Oathbreaker.”

“Demons,” Alend said, sweat beading down his temples. “You’re not men, you’re demons. The moment you make a pact with Al'Ashar, you no longer belong to our race. You’re just a demon in the skin of a man.”

“Demons to man, just as man is a demon to the earth.”

Alend took off, sprinting down the alleyway. He heard Pot-belly behind him, lumbering into walls and crates full of rubbish on each corner. Pain lanced through his body with each step. His throat was dry, his heart racing uncomfortably fast. He hadn’t recovered enough to fight all out again, especially not against an enemy that felt no pain. So what if he had Rhinegold? Against a human body, it was the same as iron.

He felt a hand grab his vest, bringing him to a crashing halt. They tumbled across the moist ground, hard cobble banging into shins, wet earth trickling into ears, melted snow soaking though fur. Grubby fingers reached for his throat. With a cry, Alend threw a blind thrust and felt his sword dig into something soft. Hot blood spewed over his torso and he pulled, hard. The man wrenched the sword from his armpit, a lunatic glint in his eyes. He was bleeding everywhere, staining the cobble red, the Rhinegold blade digging through his fingers and scraping against the bone. He pulled himself forward on his other hand like a crimson water hag from the depths of Hell.

Kalador… help me…

Pot-belly’s eyes widened as someone pulled him off in a squelching of boots and crinkling chain. Alend saw a hand covered in mail, a shield and a sword.

“Caerlon Town Guard! You’re under arrest!” came the voice. The thug rolled over and grabbed the guard, pulling him down to the ground. He was but a boy, barely a man, with little to no muscle on his body. His chainmail did nothing to protect him from Pot-belly’s strength.

“Run away,” Alend yelled for the second time that day. “Call for reinforcements!”

The guard let out a surprised gasp as Pot-belly wrapped his arms around him in a deathly tight grip and squeezed. Alend hammered at the thug’s neck, but it was so thick his blade nearly became stuck.

“Help… me…” the guard was turning blue now, struggling to draw his blade. Pot-belly bellowed and there was a crunch, and then he was rising as the guard fell limp to the ground. The thug’s head hung at an odd angle from his neck where Alend had half-severed it. Alend made to escape once again, but slipped on the slick stones and thudded onto the ground. The wound in his stomach tore open and he groaned in agony.

Pot-belly advanced, an evil grin spreading across his face. He took two steps and then fell to his knees, his legs no longer supporting him. Even so, he didn’t falter, shambling forward with his ruined body. Alend scraped his way down the alley, the sword still in his hand, struggling to keep two arm-lengths’ worth of distance between them. His hands found a gutter and he pulled himself up to his feet, head spinning. There was blood all over his body. At least half of it was his own.

“Al'Ashar…!” the thug called. His lips were pale and trembling, cold sweat forming on his body. “Lord Al'Ashar…!” His eyes quivered in their sockets, seeing a spot past Alend. Pot-belly’s nails grated against the cobble and then came away. In their place, yellowed claws began to grow. Alend thrust the sword point-first at the ground and leaned on it, using it as a support to limp forward. Pot-belly’s movements behind him grew wild and erratic as it lost more features, its eyes shrinking, its skin melting.

Then, a door opened in one of the buildings. A man extended a hand from the shadows, speaking in an urgent voice.

“Come with me,” he whispered, reaching out to Alend. “Quick!”

Shouts and cries rang from the end of the alleyway. The rest of the Town Guard was coming, their leather boots pounding against the ground, their chain shirts ringing. Alend took the man’s hand and heaved himself into the darkness. The door swung shut behind him.

A moment later he heard the Faceless scratching against the bottom of the door, hissing in a voice like rusted nails.

“You cannot run forever,” it croaked. “The Master will find you… and he will destroy the twig that protects your realm…”

“Come,” the man said, dragging Alend down the corridor. “We have to hurry!”

The scratching and whispering continued all the while. It was the only thing Alend could hear, and it wasn’t until the guards arrived in a storm of steel that he allowed the darkness to take him.