Chương 14

Death is easy. That should not have happened. Harker froze in the shadows on the side of the square, more than halfway toward the south gate. He was nearly directly across from where the Illwrought and Grim Company fought blade and claw. Refined muscle met stitched flesh, painting the cobbles black with ichor. Then the gatehouse had erupted. Harker pulled back, hiding further in the shadow of an abandoned vendor stall. Too much Water could have unpredictable results, but Harker had no clue it could do that.

The covered cart had been tricky to rig up, what with the corpse he'd tied to the top, but that was just the initial distraction. Beneath the latched top of the cart, he'd built up a fire with pieces of debris that were burning in the street, as well as the wooden baubles he'd soaked in his own Water. For added effect, he'd emptied as many of the oil ampules as he could. It had already started to burn merrily when he'd shoved the cart down the hill.

"Get back!" One of the mercenaries leapt out of reach of a tendril of liquid light. It was ghostly, more of a reflection than a true limb, but it tore through the air and gatehouse with equal ease. As if the Sea itself had manifested through the oil and flame. It was the perfect distraction, and Harker wasn't one to look twice at good fortune. He darted between the stalls, taking advantage of the thickening shadows beneath the Sea's blue-green light. A scarf wrapped his features.

He'd stolen it from another corpse, and it was speckled with their blood, but he didn't have time to be picky. The mercenaries shouldn't know his face yet, and Harker was going to keep it that way. Step by step, he made his way toward the south gate. While the explosive cart was holding the mercenaries' attention, it was the Illwrought that were the real test. When he'd sent the cart down the hill they'd chased after without a second glance toward his hiding spot. They're following the scent of my Water.

Expelling so much under the cart, corpse, and its contents had confused them. Good to know.

"Second Depth—Rime Rend." The captain sliced through the nearest Illwrought, a wave of frost leapt from his blade and bisected the beast before chunking into the foe behind it. The first died instantly, and the other fell back, its rear leg severed at the knee. Whips of shadow slashed into it, dropping the wolf-stag onto its side before soldiers sliced into it with axes and longswords. Second Depth! Harker couldn't believe it. No one in the Vale was First Depth, let alone Second.

Yet powerful Talent or not, it couldn't stop all of the monsters. More Illwrought leapt from the rooftops. A thing covered in bony quills launched itself into a man with a massive shield. He held it at bay, the hardened earth spikes stabbing into its chest even as the Illwrought launched its quills outward, stabbing through several other mercenaries in the process. Another creature spat fire into the crowd, but a woman with a halberd smashed into the creature's snout.

The flame was diverted into the cobbles, splashing outward in molten waves that were stopped by smothering shadow. Four more emerged, with one of them launching a salvo of twisted tusks that the mercenaries parried. Harker pulled back as they thunked into the stall he hid behind, throwing himself into a roll as the acid vomit of another beast splattered against the square. It forced him into the open, but in all the chaos, no one even noticed him. In moments, he was through the gate.

He took off at an angle, getting away, pulling away from Vale and toward the Gallant River. Trees crowded its banks, wood and root to ward against its erosion; it was the only portion immediately outside the south gate that offered any cover. Still, he had to pass through the cleared terrain beneath the empty sky. He loped through the pre-dawn dark, staying low and keeping an eye back toward walls. The river was coming up quickly, but the gnarled turn of roots hadn't broken the smooth field yet.

If he could make the trees, then he could vanish. Where do I go? Haver Hill? Runnel? The other towns weren't any safer than Vale, not from mercenaries or Stitchers. How far would he have to run? Adrenaline coursed through his veins for now, but soon the weight of exhaustion would drag him down—if the Water bursting from his chest didn't do it sooner. The Sunken Cities might have answers, but that was in the Gnarl, further than Harker had ever travelled. He— He almost tripped over the corpse.

"No…" Harker stopped, boots inches from the hunched body of a middle-aged man. Beside him were dozens of others, entire families even, all of them savaged by tooth and claw. Cut down as they tried to flee the Vale.

"He—help!" Jeren? The young man was half hidden by a thicket. The thorns had cut him up, but far worse was the damage to his belly. Blood pooled around him, much of it dried, and all of it a foul, blackened color. Infected. Harker knelt down, pushing the thicket away where he could. He's breathing. The wound is —his eyes flickered across it.

"Jeren. I'm here. Sovereign's Sight!" Water gushed from him, painful as ever, and Harker tried to cut it off almost immediately. It choked off, the Lock in his palm clenching shut against the flow, but it sent a shock of visceral agony up his arm that was only amplified by a sudden, complete awareness. Stolen story; please report.

"Hnnrgh." Harker's changed Talent spread around him for at least a foot in every direction, and even that blackened the edges of his vision. His head swam and his gorge rose, but Harker kept it down. Barely. Jeren's wounds were the worst Harker had ever seen. There was no path forward.

"I-I have yarrow root for the pain and…and bandages." Harker fumbled for his pack. He couldn't bring himself to lie.

"Hold on." A surprisingly strong hand gripped Harker's wrist, halting him. Harker met Jeren's eyes and for once, the older boy didn't look angry. He was scared.

"I'm here," Harker repeated, and something in the boy shifted. Neither of them moved, but a faint dropping sensation overcame Harker. When it settled, Jeren was gone.

"Ancestors hold you." Harker reached out and closed the boy's eyes. He sat back, and for a moment, there was only him and his breath misting in the cold air. The dregs of his changed Talent tugged at him. Soil beneath his knees, the snow gathered beneath the thicket, and the scent of spoiled blood. A thousand different details that breathed through the world, vying for Harker's attention. He pushed them away, unable to look away from Jeren's unmoving form. He'd lost patients before, but this felt different.

More raw. A trickle caught his senses. A noise that was also light, it fluttered across Harker's ears and eyes, prickling against his skin like a faint, warm breath. Jeren's forearm was laid across his chest, limp and lifeless, but a haze of Water clung to it.

"The Chartermark…" The unique network of interconnecting lines had lifted entirely from Jeren's arm. The reverberations of his Talent fed him the scent of brine, a deep rush of gurgling foam, and the brush of an unfathomable shadow. That darkness clung to Harker, tracing the outside of his limbs as waves murmured in his ears. Whispered to him. Harker blinked. The mark hovered above Jeren's arm, like scum atop a pond.

It wavered at the edges, like a figure seen through curtains of rain, but it was unchanged from its previous shape. Harker couldn't say how he knew that, only that there was a pattern in the odd curving lines, like a language he'd never learned but could now read. Talent: Accuracy Scope: Minor Depth: Surface The Chartermark is an identification tag? That made sense. How else would the Nine Spires know what their students could do? Harker licked his lips. The Stitcher had said the Vestige would kill him…

and that the Nine Spires Academy could save him. That's so far beyond the Gnarl. In the southern seas. What if the Stitcher was lying? What if he wasn't? The Spires were legendary, the birthplace of so many powerful Talents that merely listing them all would take days. If they couldn't save him, no one could. But if Harker were going there, then he needed a Chartermark. And if they would kill him for this Vestige he bore, then he needed a disguise. His Talent sputtered out.

Just as swiftly, Harker shoved his arm into the floating light. Pain followed, bright and sharp as a scalpel. The pattern of lines sank into him, cutting through his flesh without blood or viscera. Immense and immediate, the pain faded only a second later, leaving only a tracery of silver across his forearm. Excellent. It's unchanged. The pattern had not shifted in the slightest, and now that it was attached to him, Harker could sense those basic details even without his Talent. Wait.

The silver lines flared at his wrist, and slowly stained themselves a distinct shade of gold. Almost unchanged. An Illwrought howled and a thrill of fear pushed Harker to his feet. He gave Jeren and all the rest of the townsfolk a final nod of his head. Sink swiftly. He couldn't afford to dawdle any longer. If the spire was going to save him, then he had a long way to go. Ona slashed into the last of the Illwrought, strangling away its vile false life with her Talent.

It fell a heavy mass of inert flesh—another corpse to add to the pyre. Harlan sheathed his sword.

"Report!"

"None have escaped us, Captain." She spooled her whips at her waist.

"Every Illwrought in the town died here tonight."

"You're sure?"

"The corpses match the initial count." Harlan grunted. A high probability of a full wipe.

"Very good." Sir," Maddock was over by the cart. It and the gatehouse were charred remnants of themselves. In their midst was a corpse, torn asunder by Seaspray.

"Dead, sir." Harlan ground his teeth. The boy was gone, and with it, their only lead on the treasure. Their client would not be pleased.

"Wait," Len stepped forward. He'd left his pack of jars and tools behind for the fight, but his belt hung heavy with oddments and tools, typical of a thaumist. Strange guages and glass implements passed through his nimble fingers as the prodded the broken corpse. He paid special attention to the face and the blackened teeth within.

"Features are hard to determine," Len said, adjusting his spectacles.

"But the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been in a normal blaze. Curious. The Seaspray ameliorated the effect, washing most of the damage outward."

"Your point, Len?"

"By all accounts, the survivor from the Drop was young. This person is at least in their thirties… and a woman." Harlan's head snapped toward the gate. A trick! A grin crawled its way across his face, and Len backed away.

"Sir? I don't like that look…"

"Collect your things." They could make up for lost ground after all.

"We move immediately." A fire raged in the northern parts of the Vale. Among others, the mayor's house was gutted and burning, choking the square before it in blackened smoke. The Charterstones still stood, inert as ever, but now streaked with soot and bathed in a ruddy light and a rain of embers that had long since driven everyone away. Muir stood amongst them, accompanied by the last of his Illwrought. They sat next to him, calm even as embers burned into their fur, red eyes fixed on their master.

"The Grim Company," he growled.

"I will remember them." Muir had felt it as the last of the Illwroughts he'd sent were murdered. His face was curled into a sneer, his over-large fangs bared to the air and his skeletal hands dug hard into the fur of the creatures beside him. They yelped in pain.

"The boy cannot run for long," he muttered.

"It will tear him apart before he makes the mountains." The Vestige was nearly his. He simply had to go pick it up. The mercenaries, however, had proven to be more trouble than they seemed. They were after the Vestige as well, though he doubted they knew its value, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered trying to save any of the town. He simply must kill them before they discover the truth. Muir's hands smoothed the fur of his beasts.

"It seems we must make a few contingencies."