“We made them… movable,” Virex pressed out between gritted teeth, and against the pain. “But it was not for… improving defense. They used the… the… mobile ward not as a shield but as a weapon of conque —”
A small jet of blue fire erupted from his chest and shook his whole body, making him cry out loudly in pain.
“Stop! Don’t talk! You’re killing yourself!” Kraghtol shouted helplessly and understood in that moment with terrifying clarity that this was precisely what the guild master was trying to do. Virex’s voice was little more than a whimper when he continued, regardless.
“We are not protecting ourselves. We are waging war. And Holen and I… we found it all out. But he put us under contract not to tell anyone, and we…”
Kraghtol looked at Virex desperately. Most people would have passed out from the intense pain that had to be shaking the guild master’s body now, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. But somehow, Virex still powered through. The contract mark was spewing and stuttering like fat dripping into coals. It was too late, the healer’s apprentice realized, and almost all on its own, he heard himself ask.
“Who? Who ishe?”
“He —”
The guild master coughed up blood that didn’t stem from his stab wounds before trying again.
“He’s… the… K —”
This time, it wasn’t just a jet, but a blue lance made of fire that pierced through the ravaged body of the guild master, which arched up one last time, his eyes making one last pained contact with Kraghtol’s, before collapsing to the ground lifeless, the word unspoken.
Kraghtol felt his bloodied hands open and close helplessly as he stared at the body in front of him. He had seen death before, but not like this. Not so… violently. Part of him wanted to throw up, and another part of him was frozen in place, unable to move ever again.
A noise came from downstairs, and Kraghtol’s survival instincts kicked in. The attacker was still in the house! And someone — Kraghtol couldn’t possibly say if it had been the guild master, or himself — had cried out! He needed to get outnow!
He had half turned to leave when he remembered Virex’s words. Right. Key. Lockbox. The desk drawers were hanging in their frames, ravaged, empty. If there had been a key, it had been taken already or was somewhere in the mess on the ground. He just didn’t have time to search.
His gaze was drawn to the corpse on the floor again, and he noticed the contract marks on the man’s body fading one by one, leaving behind only unblemished skin bloodied red by his wounds.
With an act of will, he brought himself to turn around, run through the corridor, back into the workshop. Cabinet. How was he supposedto open the false bottom? He didn’t have time. Green fingers made a fist and splinters flew as he punched a hole in the thin wood. There it was: a metal lockbox. Kraghtol grabbed the sturdy case and put it under his left arm when he noticed something else. Right next to where he had punched a hole into the bottom, there was a small oiled linen bag that had toppled by the force and spilled a bit of its contents. The half-orc recognized the smell before he could draw the visual connection. Activator powder. Giving in to his impulse, he grabbed the bag, stuffed it into his pocket and turned to climb out of the window.
He froze. Hair rose on his neck, and he shivered. Aside from the dim glow of his pendant, the room was dark and silent, but something didn’t feel right.He was not alone.The feeling was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. A faint association with an icy cold was all that came to mind, and he didn’t have any chance to ponder it any further as the blade of a dagger swung at him from the darkness.
In the instant he saw the reflection of light on the metal, he dropped to the ground, which saved his life; instead of his throat, the blade only cut through some of his dark hair. He stumbled back until he felt the cabinet against his spine. He had seen a glimpse of the weapon, but the one wielding it was still clad in shadow, hidden from his sight. Panicking, he looked left and right. It was too dark, but he should at least be able to make out the silhouette of his attacker! Why couldn’t he see anything?
Another swing, this time from the right, and even though this time he had been waiting for it, he only barely dodged the blade. A chair scraped across the floor, just from the direction the swing had comefrom. The attacker still made sounds! Few of them, but it was better than trying to see. Risking it all, the half-orc closed his eyes.
How was he supposed to hear anything with the sound of his heart beating so loudly in his ears? There, to the left! His eyes flew open, and he launched his larger body against the darkness, hitting something cold. Steel cut through his clothes, glancing against his side and scraping skin. He had collided with a person — a person whowas stillinvisible to his eyes — but it felt more like jumping into a chilly pool of water than a warm body.
Even with his injured shoulder, he was still bigger and stronger than his opponent, and for a moment, he wrangled them down to the floor just fine. A split second later, however, he felt a knee in his groin, which made him double over in pain, and the cold figure slipped away from under him. Just before they could escape, his right hand instinctively grabbed at the air in front of him, while the rest of him was busy trying not to pass out from the pain in his balls. He felt fabric.
It was positivelycold, and silky to the touch, but it was there. Not thinking about it any further, he pulled with all his strength, and felt the fabric shift. Suddenly, a face appeared in front of him, and suddenly, he knew where he had felt that creeping sensation before. It had been on the night of the solstice, in the dark alleys. And this face belonged to the woman Dean Quenning had been talking to.
Now that he could see the face, he could guess where the rest of her body was. It wasn’t really invisible, as he had first thought, but just blended very well into the surrounding darkness. It was her cloak. The unnaturally cold cloak somehow made her disappear into the darkness, and he had just pulled it off her head. The realization hadfrozen him for a second, and the woman tried to rip the cloak from his grip. He didn’t let go and, for a heartbeat, both of them tugged at the fabric with full strength, until it ripped loudly. Both of them stumbled back one or two steps, and the attacker blended back into the shadows as she got her head back under the cloak.
The window was right next to him now. Not waiting for her to recover and aim her next stab better, he heaved himself out of the barely visible rectangle into the night air, shoving the cool piece of fabric into his pocket to have his hand free. It was less of a climb and more of a guided fall, but as soon as his aching legs touched the ground, he ran.
He ran without sense or goal, not caring about the occasional person on the streets seeing him, and only when he arrived at the tailor shop did he realize he had been running to the place he had called home for the last few months. He was trembling all over his body and felt sick to the core. What did he just witness? Everything felt so surreal, like one of his nightmares, and yet, the blood on his hands that was not his own was irrefutable proof it really had happened.
Valir was in his room when he entered, dozing. Of course he was. That’s what they had agreed on, in the living room of the Hawkes, ages ago. He had said he would wait for his return because he was curious about how it went.
Now, the noble just stared at the blood-covered half-orc, who couldn’t get a word out and was shaking like a leaf. Kraghtol knew how it must have looked like, and the sickness intensified.
“Virex is dead. It wasn’t me,” he brought out, and then he threw up.
Chapter 11
Truth
The noble’s disgust was hard to miss, but Kraghtol could hardly care less. Neither did he care about his bedsheets that were getting dirty from red blood and black soot as he sat down because he didn’t trust his legs to carry him one minute longer. He was still shaking and only realized when Valir repeated his question.
