C. Sebastian Nutt
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Chapter 170 - Passing in the Night
🕑 Added 2025-05-24 18:02:01 +0000 UTCThere is a color to the night. Ferro wonders how he never truly noticed it before, the deep violet of the heavens that somehow crosses a boundary to bleed back into red. The city itself seems abuzz with his passage, the way before him parting, people pushed almost unconsciously aside by the force of his advance down the street. The traffic clears, just a little at a time, as night fully takes the rows of dark brick into its embrace. The dirt vanishes in the cover of dark, the unsightly people slipping away into holes and narrow passages to last out the night away from watchful eyes.
Whimsy strikes him, compels him to take his passage from the street and to the rooftops. The impulse is so strange, not foreign, for it comes from deep within, but its attraction is too much to turn away from. As the first stars begin to peek out through the firmament above, he stands atop the highest structure in the neighborhood, a cool breeze tugging at his clothes as he surveys the city. Danfalla, laid bare beneath the violet-red sky, soaks in the starlight, steel interlacing between the dark brick giving form to the buildings. Atop the charred chimney of a steel refinery, he leans out into open air, one hand digging into the smokestack hard enough to crack stone, the other riding the breeze.
A laugh sneaks from his lips, the sound harsh, the connections in his throat so aged with disuse that it surprises him at first. He shakes, clutching his neck, the absurdity of being afraid of his laughter drawing more out of him. It comes burbling up like a bucket of manic panacea drawn from a well long thought dry. The raspiness gives way to a full voice, his body shaking with the force of unabashed emotion flowing through. He clings harder to the smokestack as his chest spasms, doubling over as he leans against it, unable to stop his shaking, unable to stop a few tears slipping loose and rolling down his cheeks.
“It’s gone,” he whispers, staring down at his hand, his fingers unable to stop trembling. “The fear is gone.”
As if the noticing makes it so, he feels as if a boot is lifted from his neck, the grinding of the heel against his throat so ingrained that the feeling of its absence makes him collapse against the smokestack. He hangs, the whispering breeze his only company for several minutes. His forehead grinds into the brick of the stack, the scratching drawing unnoticed cuts across his brow, the cold trickle of his blood pooling on his face helping to bring back his control.
His mind turns inward, searching for it, the source of the change, but the search doesn’t take long. It was her. He felt it then, her desire to end his life, to squash him into paste beneath the force of her indignant anger. People wanting him dead was nothing new; he’d lived with that his whole life, but she was different. She stepped on his soul, right on it, and…he didn’t like that; he didn’t want that. Wanting to put an end to it, to prove that she couldn’t do that…it was the first thing he wanted in longer than he could remember.
He breathes, pulling away from the smokestack, staring up at the red heavens. As breath pools in, his lungs expanding, it feels as if it is the first breath of his life. The vice squeezing him shut vanished. The waxing moon shines down with its pale light, and as Ferro stares up at it, his sense of exaltation in the moment wanes. The mania wrestling the sane parts of his mind fights against it, but the weight of the world comes back, far less now, but not gone, never gone.
“Just a few more days,” he promises the moon. “Then, I’ll have it again. I can feel it.”
Forty minutes later, Ferro rides a painted pony down the left side of Names Way, the road leading toward the northern exit to the city where a gate will bar their way. On her own pony, a woman rides along next to him. Ferro sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, far too pale skin that makes her red lips look almost bloody–off-putting. The eyes are the only saving grace to her face, in his opinion, orbs of color peeking out from the thin face, far too narrow. He will never understand why people find elves so attractive. They all look like they are allergic to food and strain of any kind.
“How do you do that?” he asks as the city gate comes into view. A bar is thrown across the heavy doors, all entrances and exits to the city are strictly prohibited after sundown. The northern garrison stands tall beside the gate, the housing for all the guardsmen on this side of the city. Likely, there are generals and other important people in attendance for the night.
“Do what?” The voice of the woman is high and prim, but Ferro still catches Morello’s spirit in the words.
“Change how your shoulders sit,” Ferro says, looking again at the elven maiden next to him. “Usually, you slouch.”
“It’s called payin’ attention,” she says.
“You only talked to that Primrose girl a few times,” Ferro says. “You picked up her shoulders from that?”
“Her name was Priscilla,” Morello corrects, saying nothing to the shrug he earns from Ferro in return. They both understand the name is largely unimportant at this point. “If ya opened those gray peepers of yours a little wider once in a while, you might pick up somethin’.”
“Maybe I might,” Ferro replies.
“And stop that grinning,” Morello snaps. “It’s creepy.”
“I’m grinnin’?” Ferro touches his face, feeling the upturn at the edges of his lips. True enough; he was. Strange, he always felt so tired just showing any kind of emotion, the burden of the effort never quite measuring up to the small task, but just now, it felt like more of an effort to stop than keep going. “My mother always said I had a good smile. Just about the only nice thing she ever said.”
“Well, your mother’s a liar.”
“Was a liar,” Ferro corrects. “No truer words have I ever heard. Thing is, I hardly ever have a mood to smile, but everyone calls me creepy and strange for that. Now, you tell me that it’s creepy to smile.”
“Maybe you just have one of those faces,” the elven girl says.
“Then, if it’s all the same, I think I’ll keep on with the grinnin’.”
Morello tsks, rearing in the horse. The small gesture so perfectly encapsulated the character of the girl he portrays that Ferro almost believes he truly is riding next to some rich elven girl for a second, almost. “This is close enough.”
Ferro reins in his horse, leaving it to linger next to the other one as Morello climbs down. Why they are bothering with horses in the first place, he has no clue. It never would have occurred to him before today to wonder, but he wonders now.
Morello reaches into the saddlebag of one of the horses, pulling loose a ball of iron that fits in his hand. “I need to explain this?”
“It’s just about throwing it as far as I understand,” Ferro says, taking the offered ball of iron. To most eyes, the small runic markings criss-crossing the ball like a piece of cobweb would be lost in the dark of the night, but beneath the crimson sky with its peeking stars, he sees them easily. “Lumina got these from those warehouses?”
“These are just what was grown on the far acre. There’s a lot more back at the house,” Morello confirms. “You ready to make some noise?”
Ferro looks along the line of the road toward the garrison at the end of the way. Two sentries stand sentinel outside the closed doors, the left one squinting up the road toward where they linger. “Would be a shame to ruin such a fine night.”
“Shut it.” Morello fetches three more of the balls from the saddlebags, passing a second one over to Ferro. “Boy, you need to learn to enjoy yourself sometimes.”
“I’m starting to figure that one out.” Ferro hefts the iron ball, looking back to where the two guardsmen at the door converse, one pointing up the road in his direction. “So, you just throw it?”
“I hope you can aim,” Morello says. The elven girl holds up the iron ball, her arm beginning to swell and tear the sleeve of the fine black travelling coat she has on. Lashes of muscle rip from the skin, wrapping around and around, creating an arm that would belong to a skinless giant. “You handle the gate.” The limb ripples more as Morello pulls back, two orbs clutched tightly in one massive fist, elven eyes trained on the military building just beside the gate.
Ferro looks to the gate itself, tossing a ball of iron up a few times, catching it. “Don’t reckon I can miss that.”
Morello’s arm swings forward like a catapult, the two iron balls crossing the distance between them and the building in a fraction of a second. Two holes appear in the side of the building, broken brick and dust only starting to scatter, before an explosive blue light blows out all the windows in the building. Silence follows for a moment. The two men at the front door of the building stare at the side of the building, watching as the wall and roof begin to collapse inward. They only have a moment to stare before a second duet of exploding light knocks them from their feet, a second pair of iron bombs colliding with the gate and rending it to pieces.
Ferro whistles, watching pieces of the gate crumble inward, collapsing to the ground where they smolder with blue fire.
“Get on your horse,” Morello barks at him, already moving back toward the other horse, the giant arm shrinking away to become a delicate and pale appendage once more. As Morello comes up next to the horse, a knife appears in white fingers, cutting open the saddlebag, allowing an iron ball to slip free and roll down the curve of the road. “Oops.”
“Time to leave, I suppose,” Ferro says, climbing atop his horse. It takes some serious cajoling to get the animals to run past the burning wreckage, but they manage, racing out into the night, heading northeast.
Dovik watches the procession approach the open gate of the keep. Twelve men and women, clearly abused and staring at the ground, are marched into the keep’s interior. They are led toward the cells awaiting them in the nearby complex by twenty or so armed men, Jor’Mari at their lead. Dovik looks on from a windowed nook high in the castle’s interior, noting the bedraggled appearance of the new prisoners, estimating their lowly stations by the manner of their dress, wondering what might be happening to them in those cells.
This is only the newest addition to the castle’s dungeon; they come sometimes three since the horrific spectacle in the north district of the city was discovered. Dovik can only be glad that Jess agreed to stop going out with Jor on these raids of his. He worries for his friend, but his friend makes him worry for everyone else as well.
“You can come in,” Illigar’s voice from a cracked open door pulls Dovik’s attention away.
He uncurls from the nook he sits in, crossing the lavishly decorated room to make it to the office Illigar has taken residence in for the past few days. The man hardly leaves the castle anymore, disappearing into hushed conversations at all times of the day. Dovik pulls an envelope from his shirt pocket as he closes the door behind himself, setting it on the desk in front of Illigar as the older man takes his seat.
“Did you have a difficult time reading it?” Illigar asks, not bothering to open the envelope. He knows the contents, given that he was the one who penned the orders inside.
“A difficult time understanding them,” Dovik says. “May I sit?”
Illigar gestures toward a chair opposite his desk. “Be all means. I felt that I made my position on questioning orders fairly clear when this operation began. Do you plan to quit the 4th as well?”
“As well?”
“Your companion, the duke’s son, transferred to the 5th army this morning. It would seem that he is more comfortable working under his brother.”
Dovik shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“Seems that way.” Illigar rolls a pen on his desk with a pointer finger, relishing the sound of the metal scraping against the leather mat atop the wood. “What parts of the marching orders can I help you understand?”
“The part where we leave the city in pursuit of an enemy we have no intelligence about. Our scouts are dead. The scouts of the 5th are dead. I’ve heard that a backup unit from the 2nd was sent to augment our forces, but they have yet to arrive. With a moniker like “The Sage” I would expect you not to lead men where you have no foresight,” Dovik says, letting more of his true feelings bleed through than he intends.
“From any other up-jumped young man with less experience than sense, that insult might be easily dismissed. Given I know your father, I will credit your understanding with what it is do. Still, it amounts to little. You heard of the attack on the northern gate the night before last? The attackers were seen heading northeast, the direction that most of the scouts who were killed in the hidden massacre were preparing to head. The attackers were seen being snatched up by a huge flying beast, likely one of the powerful ones from the beast tide itself.”
“I have heard that,” Dovik says, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Do you believe it?”
“There were enough witnesses to make it credible,” Illigar says.
“But do you believe it?”
Both men pause for a moment as Illigar sits back in his chair, staring at the young man in front of him. “Why do you ask?” Illigar eventually says.
“Things have been sitting wrong with me for a while. I keep thinking about it, over and over, but I can’t answer the question. Why kill those scouts and then stake them out where everyone would find them, and why kill Charlene along with them? If this is an attempt for the throne of the duke, it doesn’t make sense to announce a conspiracy in this way. If this is a vendetta against Charlene and Jor, why kill the scouts? Why did they want everyone to know?”
“Those are the same questions I have been asking. Have you found answers?” Illigar asks.
“None that makes any sense.”
“In my experience, when the answers you come up with sound outlandish, it means you are missing the proper context.” Illigar stops rolling his pen, contemplating Dovik for a time. “What do you know of why your father sent me here?”
Dovik sits forward in his chair. “The Guildmaster sent you here?”
“I’ll take that as nothing,” Illigar says. The man nods to himself, grabbing his pen and making a note in the open journal in front of him. “I assumed so, but it is always best to confirm. Do you wish to be brought into my confidence? I would recommend against it, the knowledge has proven deadly already.”
Dovik squints at the man. “You know why they killed, Charlene. Is this about the woman she encountered, the one who can control beasts?”
“So, she really couldn’t keep a secret.” Illigar’s eyes turn hard, the air around him twisting. “You have three seconds to show me your soul presence, or I will kill you.”
“What?”
“One.”
A blue light expands from Dovik’s skin, spreading just a hands-breadth away before stopping in the air. “Here.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Is this what you needed?”
The intense stare in Illigar’s eyes only turns more steely. “Answer my questions truthfully. If you lie, it will be the last thing you do.” Illigar retrieves a small device from his pocket, setting it on the desk and turning it on. A field of shimmering energy surrounds the two, cutting off all sound from the outside and vice versa. “Is your name Dovik Willian?”
“Yes.” The cold whisper of sweat washes over Dovik’s skin as Illigar leans forward in his chair. He realizes that the man isn’t looking at him, not really; he is watching Dovik’s aura, pulling impressions from its slow shift that Dovik can’t even guess at. He realizes then that the sage must have some way to discern truth from lies by reading the soul presence of an individual.
“Are you now or have you been under the compulsion of magic since the time we returned to Danfalla?”
“No.”
“Do you know the identities of those behind the murders that took place or those that are responsible for spawning this beast tide?”
“So, people are behind it,” Dovik says.
Dovik knows that he doesn’t blink, but somehow, Illigar is in front of him, his mind entirely missing how. The man holds his finger against Dovik’s forehead, the nail of the digit cutting a line in his skin. Just then, Dovik imagines that it is a dagger pressed against his head; only a dagger would be less dangerous.
“No,” he answers quickly.
Illigar continues to stare at him, watching the dance of his aura for a moment longer, before pulling away and walking around his desk once again. The man pulls a piece of silk cloth from a drawer in the desk, tossing it to him. “Clean yourself off. You can put your aura away if you like.”
Dovik catches the white flag of silk and presses it against the cut across his brow. “What was that about?”
“I needed to be sure that you aren’t one of them,” Illigar says.
“One of whom?”
“That is the biggest question of all,” Illigar says. “I don’t know who they are, these creatures responsible for creating this beast tide, the ones directing its movements and watching from the rear. I only know one thing for certain, one thing that your late teammate confirmed for me, and what I imagine they killed her for, we are dealing with monsters, not men. They appear to be highly intelligent, motivated, and crafty monsters, but they are not people, not anymore at least.”
Illigar stands, grabbing his journal from his desk and snapping it closed before sliding it into his pocket. “If you want to know more, follow me. I have an appointment with the Court Mage and Master of Weights. More will be discussed there.”
Still reeling from the tidbit of information he received, Dovik flashes out of his chair, appearing in front of Illigar, forcing the man to stop. “Wait, you know why Charlene was killed? By monsters? Are there monsters in the city?”
“I suspect so,” Illigar replies, looking down at the young man. “Now, are you coming?”
“Lead on.”
