“What?” Ylia said, looking at the dejected cat in disbelief. “He was an escaped convict! It would be ludicrous to let him stay. Even more so to go with him.”

  Urgal mewled, licked his paw, and lay down in a huff.

  “I have no idea why you were so taken with him!”

  Urgal did not answer. He was now giving her the silent treatment.

  Ylia sighed. There would be no winning the cat over until lunchtime, where she would feed him a portion of Darryl’s spiced chicken—Urgal’s favourite dish. Until then, she would have to accept the feline’s bad graces.

  She set to work. There was much to do to get the House ready for guests. Occasionally, she had visitors at breakfast (they normally required no more than a modest repast before the day’s journey ahead), but for the most part patrons began to trickle in at lunchtime. Darryl and Ellen would arrive before noon to help prepare food, but the initial cleaning and tiding were Ylia’s purview.

  She liked having the morning to herself, taking her time with simple tasks: sweeping floors, wiping tables, polishing tankards (it often seemed that she could never complete the job, that there was a cupboard somewhere generating an infinite supply of dirty ones). In the bustling city of Auroch, Tezada, she had always been a slave to the city’s whims, the city’s clock. She woke when her Wagemaster commanded it. She slept when he commanded it. If more worked needed to be done, she forwent sleep. She prepared food when she was told, how she was told, and she worked with the workers also under the dominion of her Wagemaster whether she liked them or not.

  It was slavery by another name and one of the main reasons she had left Aurelia. Though slaves had been abolished some two-hundred years ago in Aurelia and Yarruk, its bloodline remained in the Wagemasters, who essentially owned those they employed. In Yarruk, the situation was slightly different. Whereas in Aurelia, money bestowed power and authority and prestige, in Yarruk, heritage and class played more of a part. Ylia could never climb to the heights of Yarruk’s social ladder simply because she did not belong to a noble family. But neither did she wish to. She enjoyed wealthy anonymity. In Aurelia, no such anonymity was possible for the financially successful. Too many interested parties, too many treasurers and governors counting coin.

  Speaking of which, her last task before the others arrived was to check and count her coins. At the start of her venture, she had only counted them at the end of the day, but she’d found she was often tired after long shifts, and could sometimes make errors. Therefore, she always counted them in the morning as well, just to make sure the numbers lined up.

  She pulled up the loose floorboard and looked at her stash. The sight of gold always brought her a measure of joy.

  Except when some was obviously missing.

  Where are the two-hundred Demons from last night?

  She had stashed a bag full of the larger coins last night. She was certain of it. Maybe you put them in the other stash. Ylia always kept two stashes in the event of a robbery. She went upstairs, found the false panel in her room, pulled it apart, and looked within. She counted the coins and was sure it was the same total as the night before last. She fished her ledger from a drawer, counted both stashes again, and came to the same conclusion.

  She sat in the middle of the common room—Urgal still sulked by the fire—and wracked her brains.

  Then the answer hit her like the fist of a Wagemaster.

  Telos. She could have screamed the name. “That bastard!” she snarled. “That absolute bastard!” He had been funny, and charming, and she had believed every word of his story—which was no doubt complete fiction. An escaped convict? More like a conman who should be brought to justice!

  It had only been a few hours since he had set out. Maybe should could catch him? She knew it was a vague and stupid hope—the Forest of Yestermere was vast and labyrinthine beyond the small warren of settlements that made up the Forest Towns—but perhaps with Urgal’s help she would be able to follow him?

  She sighed. The more she considered it, the more she realised it was pointless and hopeless. He easily could have reached Midnere and purchased a horse by now. He would be in Gorgosa in three days’ time. She had given him the directions, after all. Even if she could reach Midnere in the next few hours and send a messenger ahead, they would be unlikely to close the Dragonports for her sake, and if they did, Telos could well just disappear.

  “If I ever see you again…” She couldn’t finish the thought aloud, but images of Urgal giving Telos a very bad time of it flashed through her mind. “You bastard.”

  She was startled from her revenge-fantasy by a heavy thudding on the door. She frowned. It was a little early for patrons, and far, far too early for either Ellen or Darryl to arrive.

  Perhaps that is Telos, feeling remorseful for what he has done. She knew it was a vain hope, but she clung to it nonetheless. She got up and went over to the door.

  The hope vanished as Urgal started to growl. She hesitated. The knocking came again, straining the door on its hinges.

  “Open up, in the name of the Crown!”

  Ylia opened the door.

  Six men stood before her. Four of them were dressed in uniforms she did not recognise, domed helmets and bulky black plating that made them look like they were meant for crowd-control. A fifth man wore crimson robes; she did not like the look of his eyes. He looked like he had only recently been created out of mud and blood. She sensed, somehow, it was this man that was causing Urgal to growl.

  But the sixth man was undoubtedly the leader. Rather than a domed helmet, he had a domed head, the shining scalp of a monk. His eyes were crystallised flame. His armour was exceedingly ornate: hooked, barbed, curlicued, etched with mantras and prayers. About his neck shone an amulet of Koronzon. A mace hung by his side.

  “How can I help you—?” Ylia started, but her words were cut off as the leader stepped inside her home and pushed her back roughly. She was used to manhandling, but the casual way in which this was done set her blood boiling. Urgal leapt onto his feet, hissed, and let his hackles rise, which seemed to double his already formidable size.

  Ylia was pleased to see the other men, who had filed into the common room, flinched and backed away from her pet, but the leader shot it only a cursory glance.

  “I am the Warden of Ob-koron,” he said. “We seek an escaped prisoner.”

  The man in crimson robes began sniffing. At first, he sniffed the air, nose up-tilted. Then he fell to all fours and began sniffing along the ground like a dog. The sight repulsed and fascinated Ylia. What in the name of the gods is going on?

  “He was here!” the man in robes said, leaping once more to his feet. Despite looking half in the grave, the man was surprisingly nimble. “Recently.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ylia demanded, trying to gain control of the situation. Her mind raced. Telos, they are looking for Telos. That part of his story, at least, had been true. That softened her towards him a tad.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The Warden ignored her. He walked over to the long bar and the basin behind it. He picked up the two porridge bowls.

  “A breakfast for two, it would seem.”

  “You speak as if I am trying to hide something,” Ylia said. “I have not tried to conceal anything from you. A man was here. In fact, he stole from me. I would very much like to find him too and recover my money.”

  As she spoke the words, she felt bile rising in her mouth. Telos was a criminal who had stolen from her, and yet, these men gave off an aura of pure malice. She did not trust them, nor their intentions. Logic pulled her one way, and intuition the other. The two had always been at war within her. Logic always steered her on the easy path to riches, but sometimes intuition threw up its hand in warnings of unforeseen danger.

  “You harboured a fugitive,” the Warden said. He paced toward Ylia, drawing nose to nose. Urgal growled. “Do you know where he is going?”

  Don’t tell him, the voice of intuition screamed. But Ylia did not want to lose all that she had worked so hard to build. Logic drowned intuition out.

  “Midnere,” she said. “He’ll take a horse to Gorgosa, then fly to Aurelia. That’s his plan.”

  The bile in her mouth was so rank she was tempted to vomit over the Warden’s immaculately polished armour. She held it back with a supreme effort of will.

  The Warden’s eyes bored into hers. She had spent many years studying faces, eyes, and voices. It was an occupational habit—and addiction. The Warden no doubt learned much from looking into Ylia’s eyes, but she learned much from looking into his. Among other things, she saw a man ruthless beyond sanity. Such a man could not be stopped, only killed. Telos was as good as dead. That, too, she had no doubt of. The man was not going to take Telos back to his cell. This man wanted blood.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” the Warden said. He turned to his subordinates. “Now, turn this place upside down.”

  “What?” Ylia felt like her whole body had gone numb. “But I just told you—”

  “What you told me may or may not be true,” the Warden said. “We shall verify it with our own eyes.”

  The men set to work without hesitation, overturning tables, stripping portraits from where they hung on the wall. Within minutes they had found her loose floorboard and pried it open.

  “A stash!” one of the guards said.

  “It is not a crime to save hard earned coin!” Ylia cried, now feeling her numbness transmute to vibrant desperation.

  “Like I said, you harboured a dangerous criminal,” The Warden said. “Your rights are forfeit. These could well be stolen goods. We are requisitioning them in the name of the Crown.”

  “You can’t take them!” Ylia roared, stepping forward. A guard stepped in her way, bludgeoning her with the pommel of his sword.

  Urgal screeched.

  The cat leapt across the room in a single bound, pinning the guard to the ground. Twenty six stone of feral muscle crushed his armour as though it were no more than Qi’shathian rice-paper. Bones snapped audibly. The guard screamed as the metal collapsed and pierced flesh. Urgal roared into his face.

  “Urgal!” Ylia said, clambering to her feet. She would have a nasty bruise above her eye, but nothing more. “No killing!”

  The cat hissed at her, then roared again at the three remaining guards. They had drawn their swords and were circling the beast, blades trembling. The Warden stood calmly, eyeing the great cat as though it were no more than a yapping puppy. The strange man in robes laughed.

  “Now you have compounded your crimes,” the Warden said.

  Urgal growled so throatily the other guards retreated. He seemed more than a mere beast, but a shape-shifted god. The Warden stared him down without fear. That made Ylia cold all over.

  “Call off your pet,” the Warden said.

  “Leave now, and I will overlook you trying to steal from me.”

  “You are a criminal and have harboured another criminal. There is no theft, the money does not belong to you anymore. And we are not done searching this House.”

  “Warden,” the man in robes piped up. “My senses tell me that he is a few miles from here.”

  My senses? What in the name of the gods is he?

  “Be that as it may, there can be no margin for error,” The Warden replied. He turned to the other guards. “Fetch the pails of Daimonsblood. Burn down the House. If anyone hides within, they will quickly come out of the woodwork.”

  “W-Warden,” one guard stammered. “Are we really authoris—”

  The Warden struck him a backhand that could have felled a bull. The man staggered with a broken nose and a bleeding lip. The Warden sneered in disgust.

  “I am the authority. My word is the law. And the law clearly states that prisoners must be apprehended at all costs.” His gemlike eyes fixed on Ylia. “And those who harbour them lose all rights and privileges. Set the fire.”

  “Urgal,” Ylia whispered. “Kill him!”

  The cat hissed and leapt.

  The Warden was a blur. She had possibly never seen anyone move so fast. The mace was in his hand and swinging with the same sublime precision, elegance, and economy that governed Urgal’s movements, that governed the movements of an animal born to kill.

  The head of the mace struck Urgal about the head mid-flight. The force of the blow knocked the animal out of the air. The monster hit the ground with such a resounding thunder the whole House shook and the floorboards beneath cracked. The cat let out a low moan and lay very still.

  Ylia screamed.

  She did not know what overtook her, some red fury spoken of in old tales of madness and revenge. Dremtalon. The Delight of the Wargod. She ran at the Warden, herself like a cat, aiming her nails at his eyes. He scoffed, and struck her with a mailed fist. The blow about the temple nearly knocked her unconscious. She collapsed and lay swimming in and out of wakefulness.

  She was aware dimly of movement. Guards came and went, taking everything out of her stash. Then they returned and poured Daimonsblood out of decanters upon the floors and furniture, lighting torches with flint, throwing the brands down, so that the blackly rainbow liquid shimmered for a moment, then ignited.

  Ten years, up in flames.

  There was no way to prevent the spread of the fire. It raced eagerly across every surface, devoured every timbre as though her whole House were cursed, and the gods themselves laughed at her suffering. You thought you could escape, Talon seemed to whisper. You thought you could escape your sin, but now the flames of justice have caught you!

  She could not think of the past. If she did, she would die here, burn alive with all she had worked so hard to build. She could think only of Urgal.

  With an effort of will that left her dizzy, she began to make her limbs move. She crawled awkwardly, like a baby that was only just learning how. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself. Farther, just a little farther. She reached Urgal, stroked his flanks. He lay still but he was breathing shallowly. Alive!

  She took him in her arms, whispered to him sweetly. The cat’s eyes flickered open and shut, but he seemed to calm at her touch.

  “I won’t let alone hurt you again,” she said, though she felt powerless, utterly powerless. Her whole world was literally burning around her, undone in mere minutes by flame.

  The other guards filtered out, the one who had suffered Urgal’s wrath being dragged by his compatriots; the Warden lingered at the doorway.

  “Tell me, tavern wench, do you read poetry? Or are such things beyond you?”

  Ylia would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her tears. She held Urgal, and watched it all burn.

  “Allow me, then,” he went on. “To share one of my favourite verses from the Ereshiad:

  Thy House, is built of meagre clay.

  My House—”

  “—is built of starlight and the Void,” Ylia finished. “Built of men’s lives, which are Promised Eternity.”

  The Warden laughed.

  “So, you know a little poetry after all. Perhaps, then, there is hope for you yet? Farewell, tavern-wench.”

  He left.

  The flames devoured The House of the Verdant Sun.