Speak to the owner of the Fine Pointe Tavern. He will give you further directions, the note read.
Crash could vaguely remember the Fine Pointe. Despite its highbrow name, it was a dirty little pub on the waterfront at the south end of town, or the “sunken end,” as the citygoers called it. He had lived in Delbar for several months, back when he first left the Hive. It was a good place to get lost, filled to the brim with criminals, lowlifes, and unknown faces from exotic lands. He had once entertained the thought of catching a ship overseas, perhaps to the distant kingdoms in the West, where they said the deserts stretched on endlessly and the jungles were deep and fierce.
But he had gone to Crowns instead, the King's city, where he had been contracted to kill Volcrian's brother, ultimately sealing his fate.
Crash slid out of the hotel room and down the hall, taking a separate staircase meant for hotel workers only. It led him down three flights, past the kitchen and out into the stable yard. None of the workers glanced in his direction. Dressed in smart blue uniforms, they ran back and forth, carrying buckets and tack or hay for the horses.
He stepped out onto the street and headed toward the “sunken end” of town. True to its name, the city of Delbar was built on a slight incline, with the streets wending at a vague, downward slant. Because of this, the debris and refuse would wash down to the “sunken end” with each rain. That included human scum, as well.
He walked until the ships by the dock became low and grungy, some withered by age or abandoned in disrepair. The further he went, the shabbier the houses became, until he passed hollow buildings with roofs built from reed mats. The people changed too. The bright colors became washed out, the clothes were rattier, older. Barefoot children ran along the street, carrying sticks and rope, shouting and playing. Eventually he found his way to a small tavern, propped up between a shipping yard and an abandoned warehouse.
He entered the dark building. The tables were mostly empty, the chairs propped up on top of them, as it was still early in the day. A few waitresses sat in the back of the room, passing a bottle of wine around and chatting quietly, perhaps sharing the latest gossip before work. He headed directly to the bar, where the tavern owner sat with a tankard of ale, his stock inventory spread out before him.
“We're not open,” he grunted as Crash stepped up to the bar. “Come back at sunset.”
“I'm not here for a drink,” Crash said. The man glanced up. He was definitely human, bordering on fat, with frizzy gray hair and a large handlebar mustache gracing his upper lip.
He gave Crash a narrow look. “Then you seem to be confused,” the man said. “This is a bar, pup. Now go back to your boat and wait for sundown. I don't like pushy people.”
Crash threw the letter on the table. “I've come about this.”
The man continued to frown. He picked up the letter and unrolled it, carefully bending back the paper so it would stay open. Scanned the text. Then he glanced back at Crash, apparently less impressed than before.
“You ain't jokin'?” the tavern owner asked seriously.
Crash shook his head.
The man rolled his eyes. “Damn superstitious nonsense,” he blurted out. “Well then, let me see it.”
Crash hesitated, not expecting the request.
“The weapon, kid. Let's see what you got.”
He didn't like it. Though he doubted the tavern master truly knew what the hilt was, he didn't want to risk putting it out in the open. The Shade could be watching at this very moment, perhaps disguised as one of the waitresses. Crash glanced at the back corner discreetly, surveying the four women; they wore low-cut, sloppy dresses, their hair piled on top of their heads. It was impossible to tell which one might be a spy—all of them looked suspicious.
He didn't know much about the Shade; only children's stories, leading back to the War of the Races. Supposedly, assassins of the Hive might also be part of the ancient Order, though they would never admit to it. There were many different colonies of assassins and the Shade stretched through all of them, a secret society of fanatic believers, servants to the Dark God. Some said that the Order had even pervaded the human world, infiltrating those with money and power.
He knew one thing, however—if the Shade was made up of assassins, they were all highly trained.
He set the bag on the table slowly, thoughtfully. Knowledge of the hilt would put Sora and the others in danger, but he didn't seem to have much choice. He would have to be careful on his way back, take plenty of detours, make sure he wasn't being followed.
He opened the bag and quickly brought out the hilt, allowing the tavern master to look at it, though he didn't set it on the table. Then he shoved it back in the bag before anyone could catch a glimpse. He could already feel eyes on the back of his neck.
“Hmph,” the man said. “Not exactly a sword. But all right. Here,” and he handed Crash a small, folded slip of paper, closed with a wax seal. “I'll let 'em know you're in town. They'll meet you at the bell tower in two days. Here are some further instructions.”
Then the man turned back to his books and continued his accounts, ignoring Crash as though he didn't exist.
Crash turned and glanced around the room again, but none of the waitresses' eyes met his. He left the pub quickly, dodging out into the streets, submerging himself into the deepest traffic possible. No one followed him, but he kept an eye over his shoulder, looking for anyone who might lurk in the overhang of a building, or perhaps trail at a distance. He saw no one.
But he could feel it in his gut. Someone—or something—was watching him.
* * *
Far away—fields and fields away, as a matter of fact—a silver-haired figure arrived at a large town. The outer walls were strung with hundreds of bells, which shimmered and clanged with each gust of wind. He wanted to stuff cotton in his ears. The sound was disgusting. It jarred his teeth. Made his fangs hurt.
Volcrian dismounted at the city gates and entered the town slowly, hood lowered, shuffling close to the ground. To a stranger, he would have appeared ridiculous—but he was scenting the area, picking up hints and traces of another visitor, a female, the same scent he had followed through the fields....
“Hey!” a voice hailed him. “You there! Halt! We inspect all visitors who pass through these gates.”
Volcrian turned, still bowed low to the ground, and opened his arms graciously to the approaching guard. “Sir,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “I am but a humble servant of the Goddess, here to worship at the Temple.”
The guard, a dark-haired young fellow better suited for farm work, looked him over. He couldn't have been more than eighteen. “I'll be the judge of that,” he said, with an unexpectedly hard tone.
Volcrian grinned again, then stood up straight. He was a few inches shorter than the lad. “You still offer refuge to travelers, do you not? I request a night in the Temple and provisions. I am a starving wanderer and I need rest.”
The boy looked him over again. His appearance, at least, would echo his words. He knew his cheeks had grown more gaunt from the road, and his eyes were dark and sunken from nights of restless sleep. He had been having strange dreams of late... odd, worrisome dreams of being smothered in the earth, his arms locked to his sides, twisting and turning, full of rage.... Etienne, he had thought. It is Etienne rolling in his grave, unable to rest until his killer was dead.
And yet, there was another darkness that accompanied his dreams, something that crept into the corners of his eyes, flaking like dirt.
Sometimes, he heard laughter.
“Well, you appear unarmed,” the lad finally said, breaking Volcrian from his thoughts. “If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the Temple. It's safer this way. We've been having... riots....”
Volcrian had hoped that the guard would leave him alone, but it appeared he had no choice but to follow him. Oh well, perhaps he would get free provisions and a place to stay the night. He was tired of sleeping on the cold, hard ground... and hi
s horse wasn't much of a companion.
As they entered the town, Volcrian could see what the lad was referring to. People packed the streets, some of them setting up tents on the sidewalk, passing out food and rations amongst each other. They all appeared thin, sickly, some with skin that was covered with sores and blisters, or nails that had turned black. The sound of voices was even louder than the cacophony of bells outside.
He avoided their stares, focusing solely on the road in front, keeping his crippled limb close to his side. The people were superstitious in these parts; they wouldn't trust the disfigurement, and it seemed like a disease was already spreading. Dirty humans, he thought. Disgusting. They live in their own filth.
They reached the Temple after almost half an hour of navigating the busy streets. Volcrian took to covering his face with his cloak, trying not to breathe in the sour smell of the sick people. Their hot breath and heavy sweat was a thousand times worse to his sensitive nose. The Temple towered above the rest of the houses, a domed roof with ornate gold designs running along its border, and a golden emblem at its peak. Even more bells and whistles adorned its walls, howling and whirring at each stroke of wind. Volcrian ground his teeth together. He couldn't stand the noise—how could anyone sleep with that racket? His fist clenched so tightly that his muscles cramped. His nails dug into the palm of his hand, drawing blood.
They paused at the Temple's front gates, which were made of wide golden bars. Her smell was everywhere, and he had to stop himself from dropping to the ground, pressing his face against the walls and breathing in her essence. Yes, his prey had visited here... and as he took in the air, he could smell something else, a darker scent, crisp and spicy. The aura of the assassin. But were they still in the city? He sniffed again, pulled the air through his quivering nostrils. No, the smell was several days old... but he was catching up.....
The soldier pulled a tassel that hung next to the gates, and an especially large bell started to swing back and forth, chiming loudly. Volcrian winced. How could they discern one clang from the next?
But somehow, they did. After a few moments, the gate opened. A young woman, obviously a priestess, stood there. From her plain robes, he knew she was new to the Order, perhaps recently promoted from acolyte. He doubted she even knew the Song of the Four Winds yet. Volcrian was unimpressed.
“This traveler claims he is on a pilgrimage,” the soldier said, cocking a thumb in Volcrian's direction.
Volcrian curled his lip. The irony was killing him; he supposed he was on a pilgrimage of sorts. A far more lethal kind, though. “Show some respect,” he snorted. “I have traveled far to be here.”
The young priestess looked him over. Her brown eyes were wide and sincere, but he saw something flicker across her expression, something he didn't like. “Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Volcrian. I come from the north,” he said. “Across the mountains. I have traveled far and I am in need of rest.”
The woman continued to regard him with that strange expression. “You are no pilgrim,” she murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You bring no sage, no herbs as offerings for the Goddess,” she said. “We don't cater to common thieves or riffraff. Find another bed for the night.”
Volcrian was shocked. Then his eyes narrowed. “Turned away by the Goddess herself?” he said in disbelief. “Hypocrite. Her Winds guide all things.”
“But not you.”
He took a step forward, suddenly forceful, set on making his way through the door—but the priestess put out her arm, blocking his path. Something about her closeness made his skin crawl. He bared his fangs. “Get out of my way,” he growled. “I have asked for shelter and I shall receive it! I have traveled far, looking for three companions of mine. Perhaps you have seen them? A girl....”
“There is a dark aura around you,” she said, cutting him off, her voice hushed. Then she turned to the soldier with the dark hair. “Bring help. Evict him from the city.”
The soldier stared at them both, wide-eyed. “Really?” he stuttered, as though she had said a foreign word.
She nodded sharply.
He continued to stare at them for a moment, then stumbled away. He turned and ran down the street in the direction of the guardhouse.
Volcrian watched him go, a sneer of contempt around his lips. He was a Wolfy mage—no jail could hold him. He turned back to the priestess. “You're afraid of me,” he murmured, and took a step closer to her. He felt power surge through his blood, flood his veins. Her heartbeat called to him; he could see it in her throat, practically taste her blood. He wondered if her blood would be different from the others, sweeter, full of the potent blessing of the Goddess. Or perhaps, it would be bitter and cold.
“Stand back!” she said, putting her arm out again, blocking the door. He felt the power in her words; she spoke with the authority of the Temple, but it merely shivered across his skin. He hardly flinched. “Come no closer, demon!”
He laughed. Laughed! “Hah! Demon, am I? You are sadly mistaken, my dear. I am a Wolfy mage... and I have need of blood.”
“I see what you are,” the woman whispered. “And you are a demon. There is darkness around you. Your wrath surrounds you like a red cloak. You must turn away from this path. It is devouring your soul.”
Volcrian laughed again. What fun! A priestess who thought she knew something about magic. Stupid human. They would never understand the Wolfy race; his power thrived on the very essence of life. It couldn't be cursed. He was above curses, above nature, above stupid superstition!
But, if they insisted on treating him this way, then he might just have to become a demon....
“There he is!” a voice cried from behind him. He turned around on the steps, looking down at a cluster of guards who had assembled, swords drawn and shields at the ready, and rolled his eyes. Simpletons. Did they truly think weapons could harm him?
With a sickly glint in his eye, he grinned at the guards. “So you think you have me outnumbered,” he said. “Well... you are sadly mistaken.” Then he reached behind him, grabbed the priestess, and bodily dragged her before him. He yanked her arms behind her and clutched her throat with his crippled hand, grasping her under the jaw, cinching her wind pipe. Pain shot down his limb, the muscles cramping and contorting, but strangely enough, it felt good; like an addiction, he needed more. For a moment, he imagined that the limb was even stronger than his regular hand. He could feel her quiver in his grasp, the warmth of her skin, the desperate shallowness of her breath. She was like a rat clutched in the talons of an eagle, fully aware of her fate.
“You called me a demon,” he growled. Hatred surged in him. It had become a constant companion, this wrath. Always roiling beneath the surface of his skin, leading him, egging him on. He submitted to it now, bowing his head. He would not stand in his own way. “But I am nowhere near as evil as the demon I hunt.”
Then he clenched his fist, crushing the woman's throat, feeling her bones snap in his hand. His long nails, like talons, buried themselves in her skin. Blood ran across his fingers, down his wrist, into the sleeve of his shirt. A shimmer of electricity shot through him, a bolt of lightning, every nerve coming alive.
He dropped the body to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Unconsciously, he licked the blood from one of his fingers. When he looked back to the soldiers, he felt nothing but power. He could sense their hesitation, see the horror on their faces.
“Now,” he said, “where are we going?”
* * *
Sora woke up with a stiff neck and even stiffer legs, but she felt wonderfully lazy and content. From the shadows in the room, she could tell that the sun was low in the sky. It had been only a few hours since she had fallen asleep, but she felt completely refreshed.
She stood up, looking around the empty room. She wondered where Crash had gone, and whether or not Burn and Laina were back. Then she let out a deep sigh. It was good to be alone. Do I remember seeing a bath
around here somewhere?
She tapped on the door of her room, wondering if Laina was inside. When no one answered, she opened it and looked around. The beds were still untouched and the room was empty. Her eyes landed on the bathtub in the corner and she grinned wickedly. No one was around—the perfect time to take a bath! She dashed to the tub, suddenly paranoid that people would arrive at any second.
Upon inspection, Sora had to admit that it was the cleanest tub she had ever seen, barring her manor, of course. It stood on four porcelain feet upon a patch of white tile. Towels were hung over its side. But... how to fill it? Her eyes lingered on the brass pipes that arched over one side, where water was obviously meant to pour out. Now... how did she turn it on? She had never seen running water before.
She stood back and studied the odd metal mechanisms. Then she tapped one of the pipes and stuck her finger up the spout, wiggling it around a bit. Nothing happened.
Then she noticed the handles. With the utmost caution, she twisted one of the levers and leapt back in surprise. Water squirted out of the pipe, whining and hissing like a wounded animal. When she stuck her hand under the flow, she found it to be icy cold. Horrible! Quickly, she shut the water off, then fiddled with the opposite handle until it turned on. A steaming torrent spewed forth, so hot it could have boiled a lobster. She turned that one off too, then stood back to think. How in the world do these things work? The water was either too hot or too cold!
After several minutes of pondering in silence, Sora finally decided to turn both faucets on at once. This worked a bit better, and after a tweak or two, she found the perfect temperature. With a victorious smile, she left the bath to fill on its own.