“Do not be afraid,” the man said.

  Telos could hardly reply, could hardly think. A moment ago, he had been blinded and suffocated by the most intense agony he had ever known. Then, all of a sudden, it had ended. And there, before him, stood a shining figure, a figure that at once seemed to be formed from the flames and utterly transcendent of them, the way that Daimonsblood, when mixed into water, remained separate from it while still colouring the mixture with its shimmering rainbow-black splendour.

  “Do not be afraid,” the man repeated again. His voice was soft and feminine, despite the angularity of his features and the power of his aura. His clothing was strange to Telos: golden silk wrought into robes that cascaded in multiple tiers, revealing only the thinnest sliver of skin down the torso. He had seen its like only once before, in the vaults of the Royal Palace.

  “You’re Sumyrian!” Telos said.

  The man smiled and nodded once.

  “Yes, I am Sumyrian. I stand at the foundation of Sumyr. My name is Danyil.”

  Telos’s mind reeled. Sumyr was a land of myth, the place where the Gods had first set foot upon Erethia 3600 years ago, or so the legends said. Its present day inhabitants were not human, for their ancestors had commingled with the Gods, and the offspring of such unions were half-divine, gifted with strange powers. Or so the legends ran. Sumyrians were rarely seen outside of their homeland. Telos had only half-believed the stories until now.

  “W-why are you here? Or am I dead already?”

  Danyil laughed, and the sound was like bells chiming in some distant, peaceful monastery. The hairs on Telos’s flesh might have stood on end had not they been blasted from his body by the first kiss of the flame.

  “You are not dead, Telos Daggeron. Far from it. I am here because we have been watching you and certain others for a long time. You possess certain skills, skills of stealth and theft, that we greatly prize. There is a task we have in mind for you, if you would be willing.”

  It was Telos’s turn to laugh. The fires still raged all about them: frantic, mad, like ravenous eels swarming a bloodied slab of meat. Yet, they did not touch either Telos or his mysterious visitor.

  “I am not sure whether you’re aware, but I am a little busy right now.”

  The Sumyrian smiled.

  “Indeed. We shall deliver you from your predicament. You must follow our instructions very carefully. Will you then promise to fulfill the task we would set before you?”

  “I presume that if I refuse, you shall abandon me to the fire?”

  “There are others we must contact, and swiftly.”

  “Then you have your answer.”

  Danyil smiled.

  “We thought that you would say that. Very well. Your task is to seek out a weapon, an old weapon, half-forgotten even by our scribes and historians. Nergal, it is called. You must find it and bring it to Sumyr.”

  “Why?”

  “Bring him up!” a voice screamed above.

  Danyil sighed.

  “We run out of time. Do as we ask, and you will be rewarded. The Warden is about to raise you out of the pit. If you are to escape, you must do exactly as we instruct.”

  Telos nodded. He knew a lifeline when he had been thrown one.

  “Your bonds are weakened just enough. As you crest the lip of the pit, you must swing your full weight forward. The pulley will break, and you will have a few brief moments to use the chain to arrest your descent over the side of the tower. You are an agile man; we are sure you can do it. But you must act at once. The Gods are with you, Telos, so do not fear! Now, we must go.”

  “Wait!”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  But the Sumyrian had vanished, flames filling the space where he had formerly shone.

  Telos felt the chains about his wrist and ankles tightening, felt his body being pulled unnaturally upward. The heat of the fire had returned but it was lessened every second as he was dragged with great speed up the blackened chute. He heard panting breaths, muttered and shouted words. Had they seen what Telos had seen? He’d presumed the interaction had taken place within his own mind, but from the sound of their voices, it seemed they had witnessed the conversation. He hoped they did not know what came next.

  As the cold night air assailed Telos’s skin, he realised the fire had burned off his clothes. Steam still rose from his scorched flesh. In one or two places, black welts marked him. Like birthmarks, he thought. He felt strangely clear-headed, strangely clean.

  And then he was in the open air, breathing the almost bitter purity of it. A crow called somewhere, awake in the dark. An owl hooted. He felt serene even though he was technically still in captivity and grave jeopardy.

  That jeopardy was emphasised even further by the mace in the Warden’s hand and the look of rage upon his face. The amicable mask had slipped, and what remained was like some effigy to the Dark One, the bleak stone statues erected in the dismal plains of Memory whose faces showed immortal disdain for all living things. Koronzon, the Hateful One. Telos had seen only drawings of the effigies in a book he found in the Vaults, but even in illustrated form they sent chills through him.

  “Who were you speaking to? What magic was that?” the Warden spat.

  Fear, Telos thought. He’s afraid.

  The chains holding Telos groaned. He felt himself slipping downward as one of the rings began to strain. Telos realised that it was the fire—the very method of his undoing—that had weakened them. He smiled then and the Warden actually stepped back. Telos saw the crenulated wall beyond him—it was only a few feet to make the jump. This was the moment, the opportunity. A thief always knew when to strike.

  He kicked out his legs as far as they could go in their bonds, focusing on his internal core. He had been trained in the art of gymnastics from an early age, a background that came in handy given his subsequent profession. Though he had forgotten much of the art, one thing that remained with him was the notion of focusing on the internal centre of weight, a weigh that could be moved purely with thought and attention.

  He swung back, then forward. The Warden’s eyes widened.

  “Stop—”

  The chain snapped as though it’d been no more than a thin thread. Telos flew forward.

  And smashed face-first into an upraised crenulation.

  The Warden’s sheer surprise was all that saved him. Telos blinked away pain and confusion and realised his bonds were loosened. He sprang to his feet, still partly encumbered by loops of chain.

  The Warden came forward, mace swinging. Telos ducked back and the mace struck the stone wall, shattering it as though it were no more than crumbling sand. What a weapon, Telos thought. He took the chain and looped it around the Warden’s neck, then cinched it with a sailor’s knot he’d practiced possibly a thousand times, so often his fingers remembered the movements of their own accord. For a moment—much less than a second—they were practically nose to nose, and Telos was forced to drink in the fire-bright eyes of the mad prison officer. Telos would have loved to have said a witty one-liner, but nothing came to him, and the other guards were closing fast. He kicked off. The Warden yelped. Telos fell backward over the edge of the tower. The chain spooled and then snapped taut. The Warden screamed.

  Telos hadn’t intended to kill the Warden. Although he was above the law, he regarded murder as a heinous crime. He’d meant to incapacitate the Warden and use him as leverage—and that is exactly what had occurred.

  The Warden fought with the edge of the tower battlements, trying not to be dragged over the edge. The other guards gripped him, pulling him back. Meanwhile, Telos used the Warden as his anchor, scarpering down the chain-length as quickly as his famished limbs could carry him. When he reached the end of the chain there was still a twenty foot drop. For an ordinary man, it might have been death or injury, but Telos’s mother had often joked he was more cat than boy. He let go of the chain and placed a foot on the wall. The bottom of the tower was thicker than the top, the angles less sheer and steep, which helped. One step, two, three, then he pushed off, somersaulting. He landed on the grass two-footed.

  But the momentum was too much, carrying him forward into a roly poly. He went over four times before the momentum finally dissipated and he rose on aching ankles and sore knees. He was agile, but not getting any younger.

  And then it hit him. Free. I’m free. He stood beyond the prison walls. He had escaped Ob-koron. He alone had done it!

  “Archers! Archers!” The Warden screamed, having finally extricated himself from Telos’s net.

  Telos gazed upward at the Warden, who leaned over the tower wall. Even at this distance, the hatred burning in his eyes was visible, more violent, more scouring than the black flame itself. A sudden inspiration came to Telos. He was not truly free, for guards would shortly be in pursuit, but something needed to be done before he made good his full escape.

  “Here’s what the Gods say to you, Warden!”

  Telos bent over and spread his arse-cheeks as wide as they could go, giving the Warden and all his cronies an exquisite view of his moonlit posterior.

  He could not see the Warden’s face, but he could only imagine the fury such an obscene act had inspired. An arrow thudded into the ground between Telos’s legs, the rush of wind past his testicles telling him there had been mere inches between him and life as a eunuch in the Jade Empress’s court. Laughing now, he straightened and sprinted. More arrows thudded into the soft earth around him, shot from one of the prison’s towers. He heard barking voices, cries, a bell ringing. He let the laughter ring from him in answer as he sprinted fast as the wind down the slope—towards the Forest of Yestermere.