Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael (15 page)

“That should get you where you need to go,” the man whispers hoarsely.

“So I must don this.  What of my own armor?  Do I dare leave it with you?”

“Honor among thieves,” snorts the short man, but he must have somehow sensed Rael’s consternation.  “This was not cheap to acquire, and you paid handsomely for it.  You have until midnight tomorrow to return it.  If you don’t, we claim yours as extra payment.”

“I assure you that I’ll be back.”

“Come before sunup or wait until after sundown.  Don’t come during the day,” urges the man.

“I am not stupid,” Rael replies.

Rael does not hesitate to don the armor, replacing it with his own inside the chest.  He keeps his own sword for it is a relatively plain longsword and scabbard, the kind of which that is common across the West.  His shield he considers for a long moment, for he feels somewhat naked without it strapped to his left arm.  However, when he looks at the blue gem set in its center, he realizes that he dare not chance someone within the palace recognizing it.  It seems like slim odds, but he does not care for games of chance when the odds are in his favor. 

As he places it inside the chest, he notes the thief’s interest and says, “I would be displeased should anything befall this.  I will pay you something extra upon my return if it remains in good order.”

Rael drops the full visored helm over his head and wastes no time marching his way out of the alley and into the city street beyond.  Close to midnight, there are few people out and about.  Those with legitimate business have already finished it, and most of the whores and thieves have already found their marks for the night.  Those few eyes that do settle on him see a soldier of Aquis, a captain no less, and it is not the first time they have seen such a man paying a gambling debt or visiting a whore.

He needs not retrace his steps or try to remember how he arrived here, for his blood pulls him where he needs to go, and somehow Rael knows that it will bring him back to wherever the cutpurses take his armor and shield.  He furrows his brow slightly for, even as he again arrives at the great plaza separating the temple and palace, the calling in his blood is somehow less urgent.  He hadn’t noticed that as he conducted his business, the burning urge has lessened to a distant call.

As in the slums, few people move about at this time of night, and Rael mostly just sees guards at their various posts.  Two of these he approaches directly as he crosses the plaza for the palace’s main doors.  For a moment, his step almost falters as trepidation begins to seep into the plate armor like a cold rain, but he wills himself to continue on, hoping that he looks as if he is supposed to be there.  As he nears the guards, Rael prepares himself to either fight or his life or run for it, but neither comes to be.  The two guards salute their pikes crisply and then pull the heavy iron banded oak doors outward just enough to allow him passage.

As the doors close behind him with an echoing
bang
, he finds himself inside an antechamber about twenty feet in depth and ten in width.  On the far side is another set of doors just like those he just passed, and a rich red runner about six feet wide connects the two sets.  Rael does not stop his march, idly wondering how they keep the carpet so clean and vibrant in the wake of how much traffic this room probably sees, and he continues straight for the second set of doors and its pair of guards.  Halfway across, the two plate armored guards salute just like the outside pair, and one knocks heavily on the oak door behind him.  This set opens away from him, revealing a massive throne room.

Rael endeavors not to gawk as he enters the huge hall, for it is larger than any he has ever seen before.  But it is more than just sheer size.  Marble columns at least six feet thick rise to a vaulted ceiling far above, and plush burgundy carpets cover the floor.  Tapestries of silk and satin adorn the walls, mostly displaying symbols of Garod and Aquis, but a few depict a beautiful young woman in white robes.  Lastly, marble steps lead up to a dais upon which sits a ten foot tall throne that could only be made of solid gold.

“Is something wrong, sir?” asks a guard from behind him, and Rael realizes he has been standing there taking in the sights of the hall.

“Uh, no.  Sometimes I just forget how incredible this place is,” Rael lies, and he hopes it sounds convincing.

“I understand, sir.  That’s why I enjoy the night duty.  I get to enjoy the beauty away from all the people.”

Rael turns to see two soldiers standing at attention before the closed double doors behind him.  These carry swords on their hips instead of long pikes, and they wear half helms instead of the full plate visored helms of those outside.  The one who spoke appears quite young with just a hint of fuzz on his face below the helm. 
A young man who joined Aquis’ armies and guards the throne room
, Rael thinks. 
A true believer.

“I apologize, sir.  I did not mean to disturb you,” the young soldier stammers, taking Rael’s gaze as a sort of consternation.

Rael begins to answer, but he isn’t sure what would be appropriate.  Instead, he turns on his heel and marches to his left, across the hall and toward a corridor on the far side.  As seems so often to be the case, Rael has no idea exactly where he is headed, but he’ll know when he gets there.  Torches here and there light the halls just enough to make them easily passable, but not so much as to disturb any denizens behind the closed doors.  He occasionally passes guards stationed outside certain doors or at certain intersections, and Rael just keeps moving past them as they salute or stand at attention.  No one stops him, and Rael can only assume it is because they must have good reason to stop an officer who is clearly set upon some task or another, even at this late hour.

The Dahken finds himself standing at the top of a dark stair leading downward, though not far for he can see the bottom of them.  Flickering light from torches dances in the gloom below, and having found no other way leading down from the palace’s ground level, Rael begins his descent down the shallow stone steps.  He takes great care as his feet do not fit fully on the steps, and he is distinctly aware of the limitations to his vision from the helm.  At the bottom, he finds a prison like any other with black iron bars stretching ceiling to floor to divide up the room into cells.  A few torches flicker smokily, and Rael cannot see very far into the depths of the apparently empty cellblock.

A wide framed and solidly built Westerner, only about five and a half feet in height, stands quickly from a plain wooden table seemingly made from six foot long planks, and a heavy ring of keys jingle as he does so.  He wears black leather pants and boots, as well as an open black leather jerkin over a plain wool tunic.  His solid, round face shows the beginnings of lines, common to those nearing forty years in age, and based on the shine on the top of his head, most of his hair has already fallen out.  He has completed the process by shaving the rest smooth.

“Sir!” the gaoler almost shouts.  “I didn’t know to expect anyone this evening.  How can I assist you good sir?”

“I would just like to look around,” Rael replies, hoping he sounds natural.

“Of course!  A surprise inspection!  You’ll find everything clean and tidy, I promise you that.  I just spent the last two days sweeping up every speck of dust in the whole place, even the lower levels!” the gaoler brags loudly.  “Take a torch, sir.  There are none lit beyond this point.”

Rael sees three torches – one is in an iron stanchion next to the gaoler’s table, and the other two rest in wall sconces.  He takes one of the latter and turns to head into the dark corridor made by a row of barred cells on either side.  The gaoler moves to join him, but Rael motions with an outward hand that the gaoler need not attend him. 

“Very well, sir,” the gaoler says, returning to his bench at the table as Rael disappears into the gloom.

As he passes empty cell after empty cell, he notes that the gaoler certainly takes pride in his cleaning, for in fact the entire place is nearly spotless.  Rael lifts the plate visor on his helm, glad to be rid of the stuffiness inside as the slightly cooler air reaches his face.  Silently, he vows never to wear a helm again. 

And then he stops.  He can only just feel whatever it is he seeks, and it feels as if it is just below him.  The gaoler mentioned lower levels.  Rael continues to head down the cell block, picking up his pace substantially.  He wants to run, but stops himself from doing so only for the fear of making so much noise that the gaoler may grow suspicious.  Eventually, the cells end at a natural stone wall, into which is set more downward leading stone steps. 

These Rael descends with almost reckless abandon as they exit into another corridor with more iron barred cells on either side, but this place is different.  The level above appeared completely man-made, but this level appears to be a natural cave smoothed by human hands all around.  And again, the gaoler clearly spent a fair amount of time here with his broom, for there is no dirt or dust to be seen.  Rael nears one of the cells, somehow knowing that what he seeks will be in one of them, and these too have been recently cleaned.  Rael moves up the left side of the cell block, checking each and every cell in turn, and finding each and every one empty and clean.  That is, until he is at least a hundred feet into the prison’s second level.  He peers into one of the ten foot wide cells and again finds it empty, and as he is about to move onto the next, every hair on his body stands on end.  It’s near.  It’s in the next cell.  He knows it.

When he moves to the next, his eyes fall on the crumpled form of a young man that lays still on the floor.  Rael makes no noise as he watches the figure intently until he is sure that its chest does not move.  He kneels as close to the bars as he can and reaches through them, just barely catching the corpse’s tunic in his gauntlet covered fingertips.  Rael pulls at the fabric slightly until he can take an entire clump in his fist, and he pulls the body closer to the bars.  The face that stares back at him is one barely out of manhood with scraggily brown or black hair on its cheeks and chin, but it is neither the age that draws Rael’s attention, nor that the man’s head is bent at an unnatural angle on its neck.  Even in the flickering orange light of his torch, he can plainly see the grayish tone of the young man’s skin.  Another person might have taken this for the natural discoloration of a corpse, but the Dahken recognizes the even gray skin of his own race.

Rael hangs his head and stares at the floor with the realization that he is too late.  Again. 
I should have stormed in and killed any in my way
, he thinks as he makes his way back to the upper level of the dungeon.

“Did everything meet your expectations, sir?” the gaoler asks proudly as Rael places his torch back in its sconce.

“I am afraid so,” Rael replies, and he sees the puzzled expression on the gaoler’s face.  For a moment, Rael wonders as he approaches if the puzzlement is for his answer or the fact that he had left his visor up to reveal the gray of his face.  Can the Westerner even see his face with the two torches burning behind him?  Rael asks, “What happened to the prisoner below?”

“Oh him.  I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to dispose of him yet.”

“That is not what I asked,” says Rael, his tone cold.

“I tried to move him to clean his cell.  He attacked me.  I didn’t mean to break his neck, but the priest who brought him said he was to die in there anyway.”

“What was his crime?” Rael asks as he moves in close to the gaoler.

“I don’t –,” the gaoler begins, and his eyes go wide as he sees the gray of Rael’s face, the same gray skin of his victim below. 

With a speed belying the solid bulkiness of his frame, the Westerner tries to escape around the far side of his table, but Rael’s sword whistles as it cuts the air.  The man cries out as it slashes across his back, red welling up through the leather jerkin.  He falls to his chest, flips painfully onto his back and scoots backwards across the floor away from his attacker.  Rael calmly and with deadly silence just follows, hovering over the Westerner until the man bangs his head painfully on the iron bars of a nearby cell.

“I’m sorry!  I was only doing my job!” the bald man pleads.

Rael sheathes his sword, heedless of the blood that will soon grow sticky on the blade if it is not cleaned, and the Westerner breathes a sigh of relief.  He has no time to react as Rael slams the bottom of his foot directly into the man’s face.  He does not need the strength of a wound to crush the man’s nose and cheekbones with the first such blow, only the weight of his body and the steel sabaton that encases his foot.  The skull cracks against the bars behind it, and Rael finds himself holding onto two of the bars as he stomps his foot into the gaoler’s face over and over until nothing but a bloody pulp remains.

Rael suddenly realizes that he can’t breathe, and his heart beats so fast as to feel like it is but one long beat as opposed to many.  He drops to his hands and knees, growing faint.  His breathing and heartbeat slows, but he begins to cough as his Dahken blood betrays him.  Bloody spittle flecks the stone floor near his face, and Rael grows angry at the inconvenience of it.  He has no time for this, for he has no idea if anyone, or how many, heard the commotion; echoes of his sabaton clad foot banging on iron bars sound in his head.

He wills his mouth to close, stifling the coughs as they come, and again climbs to his feet.  He looks around the room carefully and locates a pair of buckets in the far corner.  As Rael stands over them, he sees that the gaoler clearly used one to relieve himself, but the other contains water.  This one he takes and pours it sparingly over the lower part of his leg and foot, gently washing away blood and bits of flesh and bone.  Once the water runs out, he inspects himself as well as possible, deciding that all of the obvious signs of his struggle are gone.