Chapter B4C28 - City of Darkness

Chapter B4C28 - City of Darkness

The great wall of Kenmor loomed in the distance, so wide it was difficult to see the curve as the carriage approached. Tyron sat, tense, eyes darting from his hands folded in his lap to the open window. Rain drizzled down, spattering through the opening and onto his cloak, but he paid it no mind.

There was a pall over the land, a shadow that didn’t seem to solely be due to the low-hanging clouds. The side of the Emperor’s Way, the road that ran through the centre of the city, was lined with people. Some travelling in groups, moving away from the capital, others huddled in small tent gatherings, looking lost and hopeless.

The purge was ongoing, and nowhere were the effects felt more strongly than here, in the beating heart of the province. Upstodatee from n(0)/ve/lbIn/.(co/m

Tyron could see it in the hollow expressions of the people as his carriage rolled past. These were people who had lost loved ones, lost homes, been driven out from their communities by fear and false accusations.

In each and every one of them, Tyron saw a potential soldier. Right now, they were fearful, terrified, aimless. They had suffered at the hands of the empire, but couldn’t imagine striking back against it. They sought to ride out the trouble, or endure it, as best they could.

It wouldn’t be long now until the word of rebellion spread across the province. What would happen to these people then? Would they continue to cower? Doubtless many would, but some, some would fight.

“Not much further to the checkpoint, Master Almsfield,” the carriage driver called back.

“Thank you, driver,” he said, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Getting back into the city wouldn’t be easy, but he’d expected that. Had planned for it.

Nothing about his return had been easy. It had been a terrible risk to use the rift from Cragwhistle and return to the Oldan estate, but neither could he afford to travel for weeks across the province. Emerging from the ritual site had been nerve-wracking, but thankfully, he hadn’t found any marshals, or a small army of priests waiting for him on the other side.

Getting from the estate to a village where he could hire a carriage had been another thing entirely. The house was likely nothing but a smoking ruin at this point, and he wasn’t so foolish as to try and see it. Instead, he’d had to pick his way through the forest, for days, emerging to the south and finally managing to connect to a road.

He heard the driver slowing the horses, pulling back on the reins and Tyron steadied himself. It wasn’t long until there was a knock at the side of the carriage and as a lantern was held to the open window, shining a light inside.

“Mind stepping out of the carriage, sir?”

“Lukas Almsfield, Arcanist.”

“Master Almsfield, if you would.”

Tyron nodded and the marshall stepped back, allowing him to emerge into the rain. The checkpoint straddled the highway, a series of hastily constructed buildings on both sides of the road. Teams of marshals, with priests mixed in amongst them, moved from carriage to carriage, inspecting every individual, every pack and every parcel.

Interestingly, there were far more people moving out of the city than into it.

There were four marshalls outside his carriage, each of them tense, hands never far from their weapons. Tyron noted their shaky nerves with interest. Something was driving these men and women, pushing them to the edge of their nerves.

“Status ritual please, sir.”

“Of course.”

Masking his nerves, Tyron pulled back his cloak to reveal the knife sheathed at his waist. When it was indicated he could withdraw it, he did so and made a neat slice on his thumb.

He was presented with a page pinned to a thin slate and noted how the water ran off the paper without soaking in. Enchanted, and in quite a clever way. As he pressed his thumb to the paper, he didn’t bother trying to disguise his professional curiosity.

“Is the array on the back of the slate?” he asked as his blood flowed onto the paper.

The marshal shrugged impatiently.

“I don’t know anything about it except that it works, sir.”

“Can I take a look after?”

“No, we need to keep the line moving.”

When his status was finalised, they withdrew the slate. Two marshals watched him as the other two took the sheet away and inspected it closely under a burning torch. After a few moments, they returned.

“Everything seems to be fine. Just wait here a moment and a priest will be along shortly.”

“A what?”

“A priest,” the marshal repeated impatiently before waving over another officer to watch him as the four moved down the line to the next carriage waiting.

“Flynn? Bone and Blood, what are you doing?”

His apprentice lay flopped onto his side, unable to move, and Tyron stared down at him in consternation.

“And where the hell are your pants?”

“M-m-master Almsfield?” a timid voice called from deeper into the room. “Is that you?”

“Cerry?” Tyron asked, sending his globe higher.

Wrapped in a blanket, his former store attendant saw him in the dim light and burst into tears, her loud sobs filling the workshop.

Only then did Tyron notice the changes in the room. A pallet and bedding, a chamber pot, water and food tucked away in the corner. Clearly, something had happened here.

“I’m going to my room,” he announced wearily as he released his grip on his apprentice. “Flynn, put your dick away and make yourselves presentable. Then we can talk.”

His own room was just as dusty as downstairs, and Tyron cursed as he resigned himself to tidying the place up. At least none of his possessions had been messed with. Since the place appeared abandoned, it was almost a miracle it was unrobbed. Even the reputable parts of Shadetown weren’t above a little petty crime when the opportunity afforded itself.

Ten minutes later, a clearly embarrassed Flynn and Cerry joined him just as he finished wiping down his small table and chairs. With a gesture, he invited them to join him as he sat with a sigh.

“Let’s not waste time,” he stated. “I can see that something has gone very wrong, which led you to close down the store and take up residence upstairs. Out with it. You wouldn’t have hidden here if you didn’t want me to help you.”

Flynn, shame faced, looked down at his lap, and it was Cerry, barely holding back her tears, who spoke first.

“I-I-I’m sorry, M-m-master Almsfield. I j-j-just d-didn’t know where else to turn!”

She broke down again, sobbing into her hands, and Tyron turned to Flynn impatiently.

“What happened, Flynn? Talk to me.”

The young man gathered his courage and slowly brought his eyes up to meet his teacher’s.

“It was... ahem... it was Cerry’s... ah... Awakening. She... She was g-given... an illegal Class.”

Tyron’s eyes sharpened, then he sighed and softened his gaze. He brought up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. This was his fault... in a loose sense. The Old Gods had unleashed chaos when they’d decided to interfere with the Awakening stones, right as a purge was under way. Clearly, Cerry had been caught up in the crossfire and Awakened something the Priests would not have wanted to see. So, they’d closed the store and had been hiding her here ever since.

“I’m amazed you weren’t found. Hasn’t anyone checked the store?”

Flynn nodded.

“A few times, but we managed to hide Cerry in the supply crates.”

“Ah, they needed you for the keys. You knew when they were coming.”

Again, his apprentice nodded.

“Well,” Tyron muttered, “this is going to be a pain. Let me say this first, I’m not going to turn you in, Cerry.”

Both of them stared at him, hope and surprise warring on their faces.

He smothered a wry smile.

“It would be difficult for me to do so, considering what I am.”

He pushed himself up from the table.

“I’ll make some tea. This might take a while.”