Part II - Secrets
From the rooftops near the river inlet’s warehouse district, the soft patter of feet whispered across the tiles. Nobody would give the sound a second thought.
Above, the glow of the dawning sun fought a losing battle against the increasing mass of rolling clouds.
Two figures, barely distinguishable in the retreating darkness, leaped from one rooftop to another before scaling the side of a taller building with practiced ease.
Gripping ropes in their calloused hands, the two reached the summit before pausing to gaze out over the sprawling city.
Tims Caulder bent over, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down his neck and soaked into his shirt. Glancing sideways, he shook his head in disbelief. Hawkeyes didn’t even seem to have broken a sweat! He glared in frustration. How did the man do it? He was twice his age!
Hawkeyes turned his gaze back with a mischievous smile playing at his lips. “Tired already?” He studied the sky, gauging the heavens with an experienced eye. “Sun’s not up yet. I think we may still have time to climb one of the Dye Guild towers.”
Tims groaned inwardly. The dye guilds boasted some of the tallest buildings in Sarsda, their wealth allowing such ostentatious displays. The city was a melting pot of diverse merchant guilds and colleges representing countless trades. Buildings ranging from modest structures to towering monuments linked themselves via ornate bridges and tunnels carved into the hillside. Even now, after all this time, the view over the massive city never failed to take his breath away. The architectural marvel of Sarsda was incomparable, a labyrinth so intricate it was easy to lose oneself within its winding passages.
“Let’s rest a while,” Hawkeyes said, lowering himself onto the roof and staring up at the turbulent sky. “We’ll do some climbing again in a little bit.”
Tims sighed in silent gratitude and lowered himself to the tiled roof, letting his arms fling outward in surrender to exhaustion.
His mind drifted back through time, and all he could think was, “wow.” From a childhood of insignificance to this, he knew he didn’t deserve any of it. His head brimmed with so much information; at times he wondered if it would simply burst. Yet he wouldn’t trade this life for any other. This was home.
During his tutelage under King Joshua, one subject had captivated him above all others: the origins of Calmone, the Historian Society, and the tantalizing mystery of the forgotten past. He recalled the many times his morning rides with Averin had carried them past the strange pillar structures carved with ancient, indecipherable runes.
During the reign of King Fester, questions about these pillars had multiplied, each monument standing as a testament to humanity’s collective ignorance.
In almost every province of Calmone, similar ruins dotted the landscape. Nobody could say with certainty how old these places were or what purpose they had served. Beyond this, three long-overgrown highways stretched across the country without explanation, wide enough to accommodate four horse-drawn carriages side by side. If one had to guess, Calmone had once been a powerful empire, perhaps even a dominant one. But these remained mere speculations. No concrete historical evidence had been unearthed. The priests actively discouraged digging too deep into the past, insisting such pursuits paled in importance compared to appeasing the gods.
In Sarsda’s hall of records, the earliest documented history reached back only three hundred years to the reign of King Judd. Without explanation, the records ended abruptly at that point. One needed only to take a leisurely stroll through the countryside to realize the records failed to account for what lay clearly visible before one’s eyes.
So when King Joshua was still a prince under his father’s reign, he had established the Historian Society, a place where men and women could study these mysteries alongside learned scholars and teachers, collecting and preserving their discoveries for future generations.
The memory brought a slight smile to Tims’s face. Rawtis was the season he loved most. Though it heralded winter’s inevitable approach, it also marked the arrival of the Harvest Festival. With the Historian Society’s petition, King Joshua had expanded the celebration into two glorious weeks of festivities, competitions, and an endless parade of vendors from distant lands.
People journeyed from across the entire continent of Elise. Tailors arrived from neighboring Percvam, bringing bolts of the richest fabrics known to the Five Kingdoms. Each year, they earned private audiences with the royal guilds and Queen Anna herself.
Traders from Dacmer transported their renowned cider wines and magnificent desert horses, prized for both prowess and beauty. Dunland, though also celebrated for its horses, was better known for exotic spices that flourished nowhere else in the world.
Then there was Rumeran.
Rumeran sprawled across vast plains and endless forests. Few humans called that remote region of Elise home. Its lands would have faded into obscurity if not for one crucial fact: it housed the ancient seat of the White Council of Wizards. From there, they wielded their power, overseeing the lives of all who dwelled within the Five Kingdoms.
Each year during the festival, delegates from the White Council journeyed to Sarsda, where they maintained an enormous temple. Within its walls, all nine gods of Exodus were represented, each in carefully separated sections, naturally. Everyone knew the nine gods could never agree on anything and frequently incited their followers to bloody war. Humans were little more than pawns in divine games, puppets dancing on celestial strings. As long as priests guided the faithful in their dutiful worship, life continued as normally as possible. Yet nearly everyone harbored some measure of contempt for their capricious deities. They were gods to be feared for their wrath and mercurial temperaments, not loved.
This sobering thought drew Tims back to his fateful encounter with Elyon, the forbidden god. He had always been skeptical of the established order. Why pray to deities who seemed to despise humanity? What genuine rewards did they offer? If anything, the afterlife promised nothing more than an eternity of servitude, no different from mortal existence. The gods were petty creatures who played humans against one another like pieces on a game board. Most people performed their temple obligations and departed quickly, desperate to avoid divine notice.
For him? He closed his eyes tightly against the memory. That single encounter had transformed everything. He could still recall opening the mysterious book one night, his door locked and all lights extinguished save the small lamp by his bed. Fear had gripped him, what would happen if someone discovered him with this strange, forbidden tome?
As he placed trembling hands upon the leather cover, he heard the distinct sound of a latch releasing. Upon opening the book, a title greeted him in elegant script: “The Journals of Dragonblood - A Collection of Writings on Origin, History, Artifacts of Magic, and Prophecy.”
He had nearly dropped the volume upon reading those first words. It read like some fantastical encyclopedia from legend. Yet instinct told him this was no work of fiction. By flickering lantern light, he turned the page to discover intricate drawings, detailed writings, and elaborate descriptions, all connected to an ancient people called “Dragonblood.”
Lying on the rooftop now, Tims found his thoughts returning to the Academy of Black Knights. What was the connection between their Sword Dance, nearly identical to the symbol adorning that mysterious book, and these ancient enigmas? What secrets had been deliberately erased, severing Sarsda’s ties to this nearly mythical race? The journals spoke of Guardians who wielded immense power, protectors of something precious. And most importantly, what did any of it have to do with him?
Stretching languidly, Hawkeyes broke the contemplative silence. “How about a little more running?” He smiled, though his eyes remained fixed on the clouds overhead. His expression shifted subtly, as if something in the sky troubled him.
Frowning, Tims followed his mentor’s gaze, studying the same ominous clouds, uncertain what had captured Hawkeyes’s attention.
“Come,” Hawkeyes said simply. Within seconds he was racing across the rooftops once more, his movements fluid and precise.
Groaning, Tims leaped to his feet and followed, legs protesting every stride.
***
They had jogged for nearly five minutes, leaping across the tightly knit neighborhood where roofs crowded so close together one could almost walk from one building to the next without missing a step.
Suddenly, Hawkeyes dropped from the rooftop, sliding down a drainpipe with practiced ease to the alley below.
Following close behind, Tims watched as his mentor shifted into movements deliberate and controlled. He had spotted something.
Tims scanned his surroundings, senses heightened, trying to identify what had captured Hawkeyes’s attention.
When Hawkeyes paused near the corner, he peered cautiously around the edge.
Close by, a man dressed in fine clothes strolled along the boardwalk connecting several buildings. Even from this distance, Tims could smell the cloying perfume that wafted from the nobleman. The scent triggered unwelcome flashbacks of Kat and the other women at Brad’s brothel in Willow Town.
The gentleman crossed the street to where an ornate carriage waited, its driver sitting patiently on the box. He opened the door with an air of entitlement.
Tims’s trained eyes caught a flicker of movement in the shadows.
Quick as a striking viper, deft fingers flashed steel. In mere seconds, a heavy purse dropped into waiting hands and the pickpocket melted into a nearby alley and vanished.
Tims grunted dismissively. “Serves him right.”
Hawkeyes merely looked at him, saying nothing.
He glared back defiantly. “No. I’m not helping some spoiled nobleman who doesn’t know better. He shouldn’t even be wandering these parts so close to the bridge.” He gestured down the road to where it opened onto the massive bridge spanning the Rock River, the gateway into the Wastelane District, infamous for the lawless crime that festered there.
“Very few things in our line of work are to our liking. Get used to it.” Hawkeyes’s tone left no room for argument.
Tims glared a moment longer before the realization struck, he was failing his latest test. Again. In this line of work, every single day brought new tests, and they would never cease. Testing oneself was how a spy stayed alive.
Cursing under his breath, he took off running. And as usual, Hawkeyes would not follow. This mission belonged to him alone.
---
The thief zigzagged through the warren of alleys, darting from one pool of shadow to the next, never exposing himself for more than a heartbeat.
Tims allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Five years ago, he would have lost this man within moments. The pickpocket’s trajectory made his destination clear. He lived on the other side of the bridge and was almost certainly part of one of the gangs that controlled the Wastelane.
The narrow passage opened abruptly to reveal the backs of riverside buildings, their foundations descending the steep embankment to the water’s edge. To the right, the bridge loomed high overhead, its span illuminated by lanterns fighting against the grey haze that smothered the struggling dawn.
Moving with swift efficiency, the thief sprinted toward the bridge before disappearing beneath its shadow.
Tims knew exactly where his quarry was heading. He had explored these docks during one of his solitary excursions, mapping every escape route and hiding place.
Pushing himself forward, he descended the embankment in controlled leaps, then slowed as the marina came into full view.
Beneath the bridge’s towering span, several large merchant vessels lay moored close to the docks. The inlet extended only a short distance inland from here. He watched as the thief moved with surprising agility, leaping from one ship to the next where their hulls pressed nearly together.
Tims vaulted onto the weathered wooden dock and followed in silence, his footfalls barely audible.
Within minutes, the thief made his final leap from the last vessel onto the opposite bank.
Tims pressed himself against a ship’s mast and held perfectly still as the pickpocket paused to scan his surroundings, ensuring no pursuit. Satisfied, the man scrambled up the far embankment.
The moment his target disappeared over the ridge, Tims sprang into motion. He leaped from ship to ship, then hauled himself up the embankment. Near the summit, he dropped low and peered over the edge.
The sight that greeted him always churned his stomach. Burning barrels provided meager light for a sprawling shantytown of scavenged boxes and crumbling structures. This was the Wastelane District in all its squalid reality, a place where even city guards refused to patrol without a full squad of five or more soldiers flanking them.
The overwhelming stench of human waste, rotting refuse, and despair assaulted his nostrils. Grimacing, he pulled up the scarf he wore and secured it firmly across his nose and mouth.
Pressing forward, he navigated through the debris-strewn streets, following a descending path that led to an even more wretched section of the district. Ahead, an enormous granite wall stretched across the entire area, an impenetrable barrier blocking all passage to whatever lay beyond. High above, blue glowing orbs pulsed with eerie light, casting writhing shadows from the wall down into the streets below.
This was the last place in Sarsda he wanted to venture. He understood perfectly what those orbs signified. Every citizen knew the grim story behind that wall and gave it a wide berth whenever possible.
The imposing granite barrier stood as a monument to the White Council’s ruthless power. Their brutal introduction to the governments of Elise had begun on this very spot. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: standing in the Hidden Grove, listening as the old man spoke his forbidden name. Elyon.
This cursed wall was part of that ancient, terrible story.
When the White Council was still young in Elise, an unnamed king had lived a prosperous life swimming in wealth beyond measure. Growing old and frail, the monarch knew his time was drawing to a close. Drawing on forbidden incantations and powerful wizardry, he invoked the God Elyon in desperate supplication. In his greed, the ruler bargained for extended life.
The god considered this audacious request and asked what the king would offer in return. Since Elyon was jealous and wrathful by nature, he asked the king how far he would go to satisfy the god’s insatiable appetite.
According to the teachings of the White Council, this forbidden god craved nothing less than pain and grief.
The king weighed this terrible bargain in his mind, but the gleaming riches of his treasury clouded his judgment. He had accumulated such vast wealth that he could not bear to part with even a fraction of it.
He struck a deal with the dark god, and his health was suddenly, miraculously restored. Vitality surged through his veins, feeling as if he were a young man in his prime once more.
Knowing that such a bargain came at a terrible price, the king moved swiftly to fulfill his promise.
He enacted harsher laws and brutal enforcement until Calmone’s people were reduced to little more than slaves in their own land.
By chance, the king discovered an unexpected gift. Beyond the blessing of restored health, he was granted the power of words that carried weight and consequence. With these words, he wielded the power to curse, and his curses twisted reality itself to match his malevolent will.
This sudden, terrible power emboldened the king with newfound desires. These desires quickly turned sinister as he remembered his dark promise to the god.
In time, he began regarding himself as only a little lower than Elyon himself. And with such devastating power at his command, he could dominate and conquer as he pleased.
When he finally recognized that his greed had drained the country’s prosperity, his hungry eyes turned elsewhere to neighboring lands. His appetite was insatiable, and his corrupted ambitions began to stretch outward with an army of hired mercenaries.
When the other kingdoms of Elise witnessed the destructive power the king wielded, they sent desperate pleas for the protection of the White Council.
After deliberating, the White Council dispatched a sect of their most skilled war mages to confront Calmone’s corrupted king.
The Battle of Sarsda, meticulously recorded in the annals of kings, raged for a full month as war mages from the White Council clashed against the dark powers channeled through Elyon.
At last, the war mages breached the defenses of Sarsda and, with carefully woven spells of immense power, shattered the king’s malevolent hold on Calmone’s enslaved citizens.
However, the very ground where the king had worked his evil remained saturated with potent black magic. The corruption had seeped too deep that the place could never be cleansed.
A massive wall of protection was erected around the tainted ground. The White Council decreed that so long as the faithful offered prayers in the temple of the Nine, the gods would shield the inhabitants from the lingering evil of this forbidden deity.
Even if someone was foolish enough to attempt scaling the towering walls, a second precaution had been woven into the stone itself. The barrier pulsed with active spells cast by the Pentarch Wizards, the most elite order of the White Council.
That story echoed through taverns across the Five Kingdoms, passed down for generations. Yet in Tims’s heart, he knew it to be one of the greatest lies ever perpetuated. He shivered, knowing full well what even whispering such heresy would cost him if he were discovered speaking against this fundamental doctrine.
A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he focused intently on the darkness near the wall’s base. There, an old drainage tunnel ran the length of the Wastelane district, emptying into the river. The thief clearly knew the bridge guards would be watching for him and had chosen the fouler but safer route home.
Tims advanced several steps into the shadows and drew his sword with barely a whisper of steel.
A head emerged cautiously from the tunnel opening, eyes scanning the desolate street. Satisfied he was alone, the figure hauled himself out of the fetid drain. A bulging bag hung from his waist belt, jingling softly with the unmistakable sound of coin.
Too easy, Tims thought with a predatory smirk. He allowed the young thief to believe he’d escaped unnoticed as the man crept along parallel to the towering granite wall. The pickpocket was about to slip into the next alley when Tims materialized from the shadows directly in his path.
The thief’s eyes went wide with terror.
“Going somewhere?” Tims asked, his voice muffled but unmistakably amused beneath his scarf. He let the sword swing lazily through the air, catching fragments of blue light from the wall’s ethereal orbs.
The thief’s initial shock hardened into a defiant glare. Without warning, he spun and bolted down the alley with desperate speed.
Stepping back with practiced calm, Tims produced a weighted bola from a concealed pocket and sent it spinning through the air.
A soft “whiz” cut through the night before the weapon’s braided rope wrapped tight around the thief’s legs, the weighted ends clattering together.
The thief crashed hard to the filthy cobblestones with a startled yelp. He twisted onto his back, staring up at his captor with desperate defiance.
Tims pressed the tip of his blade to the thief’s throat and the young man went absolutely still, his eyes bulging as he realized death hovered mere inches away.
In one fluid motion, the blade flicked downward, severing the cord that secured the coin purse to the thief’s belt.
Tims withdrew the sword and, with a single curt nod, gestured toward the darkness beyond.
The thief blinked in confusion at the unexpected mercy. Comprehension dawned, and he frantically kicked free of the bola, scrambling to his feet before vanishing into the maze of alleys without a backward glance.
Tims released a weary sigh and bent to retrieve the coin purse. The weight surprised him. It was far heavier than expected. He loosened the drawstring and peered inside, his breath catching at the gleam of gold pieces. A soft, involuntary whistle escaped his lips as he shook his head in disbelief. The fortune contained here could purchase a substantial house in one of the wealthier districts. He could invest in a legitimate merchant venture, establish himself as a respectable tradesman, never again enduring the contemptuous whispers and cruel jests of pampered noblemen who viewed him as beneath their notice.
His fists clenched around the leather pouch as the intoxicating nearness of his dream pulsed in his grip. For one dangerous heartbeat, the temptation to disappear into the night with this stolen gold sang its seductive song through his mind.
An image materialized unbidden in his mind. Her soft auburn hair cascading over delicate shoulders, those beautiful curved lips, and laughing eyes that had once gazed at him with such warmth, all suddenly transformed into a wounded, heartbroken expression that seemed to ask, “How could you?”
In that piercing instant, he knew what had to be done.
Closing his hands firmly about the purse, he secured it shut before strapping it to his own belt. He scanned the shadows carefully, ensuring no hidden watchers lurked in the darkness. Turning his attention toward his destination, he broke into a steady run once more.
---
Hawkeyes’s tall frame slouched against the corner of an alley several blocks from the bridge, casually smoking a pipe while scratching at his stubby beard. His scraggly hair and thoroughly disheveled clothes created the perfect disguise of a street vagrant. Upon seeing Tims emerge from the gloom, he raised an eyebrow in silent question.
Tims tapped the side of his cloak briefly where the purse rested, and Hawkeyes responded with a thin, approving smile.
Nearby, the richly dressed nobleman whose purse had been stolen wrung his hands in agitation, his gaze darting nervously across the desolate street. Every line of his posture screamed that he had no business venturing into the Wastelane.
Tims strode forward with purpose, his glare visible even above the scarf that concealed the rest of his face. He stopped before the anxious man and, in one fluid motion, produced the coin purse. As he pressed it into the nobleman’s trembling hands, Tims spoke in a voice cold as winter steel. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to let the thief disappear with your money. Whatever business brought you here, stay away from the Wastelane unless you’re seeking a swift death.”
The nobleman’s eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion as his fingers fumbled through the contents of the purse. A heartbeat later, he said in an accusing tone, “How do I know it’s all here? You could have pocketed some for yourself.”
Tims’s expression shifted into something predatory behind his scarf. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps you should stand right here in the open and count every last coin. I’m certain all the eyes watching from those shadows would be delighted to help you tally your fortune.”
The nobleman’s head jerked up sharply, his gaze sweeping the darkened alleys with sudden, paralyzing terror.
“Get out of here. Now.” Hawkeyes’s gruff voice cut through the moment like a blade as he materialized beside them. He gave a sharp signal to Tims and melted into one of the shadowed passages. Tims followed without hesitation.
Taking a direct path toward the bridge would have been simpler, but fundamental spy craft demanded they never allow themselves to be tracked. This meant doubling back through narrow alleys, retracing their steps at irregular intervals, and weaving an unpredictable pattern through the urban labyrinth. The practice had become so deeply ingrained in Tims that his feet moved through the evasion routes without conscious thought.
As they navigated the twisted warren of passages, maintaining vigilant awareness of their surroundings, Hawkeyes suddenly halted and tilted his head skyward.
Tims frowned. This was the second time his mentor had studied the heavens with such intensity. He followed Hawkeyes’s gaze upward and finally understood what had captured the older spy’s concern.
High above, the ominous morning clouds churned in an unnatural pattern, rotating with deliberate menace. Thunder growled in the distance like some great beast awakening. Strange hues began bleeding through the storm clouds. Violent streaks of crimson and violet that pulsed with barely contained power.
From across the bridge, a long, mournful clang echoed from the temple towers of Yilos, the sun god. Within moments, other temple bells joined the warning chorus, first from the temple of Kata, the spirit god, then from the twin shrines of Diea and Miea, the moon gods, the alarm spreading through all nine temples dedicated to the gods of Exodus.
Hawkeyes shook his head with grim resignation. “We won’t make it back to the safe house in time. The storm will break within minutes. We need shelter immediately.” His experienced eyes scanned their surroundings before fixing on a weathered building bearing a rickety sign that proclaimed, “Half Blade Tavern.”
With a decisive gesture, he headed toward the establishment’s scarred doors.
Tims’s fingers found the familiar comfort of his sword hilt. Moving through the open streets of the Wastelane was dangerous enough, but the prospect of being trapped inside an unknown tavern, cornered with no escape route, sent a cold thread of unease down his spine.
Yet he recognized the grim truth: remaining outside when one of the balance storms broke was nothing short of suicide.
Drawing a steadying breath, his nerves thrumming with tension, he followed through the doorway and into a murky world of smoke and guttering lamplight.