Chapter Nine: Unexpected Discovery

  Selriph had spent much of the following day buried in the tomes Vick had granted him. The old man was on business with the Tunnel Rats, gathering supplies; at least, that’s what Rix had told him. Vick would be back soon, likely in the late afternoon. Occasionally, Rix called Selriph out to help the Tunnel Rats with menial tasks, moving crates, and handing out rations. He had to earn his keep, of course.

  The rest of his time was spent buried in The Tome of Arcane Foundation by Varnel the Wise and The Guide to Basic Magical Theory by Gilthar Baulnok. Vick had given explicit instructions: revise the theory of what they had covered the day before, building his awareness of mana flow in practice. The session yesterday had progressed well. Selriph’s aura was now further in check—the remaining time spent to provide the basics on elemental attunement—the section of Baulnok's book Selriph had just finished reading, now stowed in his pack.

  Tomorrow, they were to work on spells that would allow him to muffle his footsteps and heal minor wounds, the last of the major tools he would need to survive once he left the city. Vick insisted that, for anything else, the prodigious teen could have it figured out using the tomes provided for him. Vick highlighted that he would only teach the essentials. By tomorrow night, he was to be long gone.

  Selriph, while not particularly attached to the old man, respected the knowledge he offered and craved more of it. He wished he could stay longer, but every day spent here, so close to the centre of Templar power, increased the risk of discovery. Still, just one more day—enough to gather the essential tools he needed for the long journey to the border—might be worth the risk.

  He brushed aside those thoughts and refocused on his next bout of reading. The Guide to Basic Magical Theory contained a detailed exposition of magical energy, describing it as a pervasive force that permeated the fabric of reality. Selriph absorbed and reabsorbed the profound concepts laid out across the pages. The text delved into the intricacies of magical theory—it explained how mages tapped their internal reservoir of energy to shape their magic into their desired effects.

  As he read on, he came across diagrams illustrating the various schools of magic. The illustrations revealed the interrelationships between different branches of magic. From evoking fire to the enchantment of the mind, to the locating of life energy. One section detailing the concept of magical signatures especially intrigued him. Each mage, the tome explained, developed a unique magical signature through years of practice: a distinct ‘flavour’ of magical energy–identified through advanced scrying or magical devices, no doubt distantly related to the means the inquisitors had at their disposal.

  Just as Selriph lost himself in the web of magical theory, a sudden commotion erupted in the tunnels outside his chamber.

  Hurried footsteps and raised voices echoed down the stone corridors, drawing closer. He quickly set the tome aside, his hand drifting instinctively to the Estoc that never left his side. He listened intently, trying to discern the words amidst the oncoming clatter of feet.

  Selriph knew something was wrong.

  He stood and grabbed his pack, ready to investigate the disturbance.

  Unfortunately, it came to him first.

  The heavy wooden door burst open with a thunderous crash. Two figures filled the doorway, their silhouettes illuminated by the flickering torchlight behind them.

  “Well, well, well... look what we have here.”

  Of course—it was him.

  ***

  [Two days ago, the Templar Compound]

  Brother Varos stood with his emotions caught between embarrassment and fury. A sketch lay on the table; across from him sat another Templar, a captain by rank. The man stared silently at the drawing, the tension thick in the air.

  “You got disarmed by that boy? Let him walk?” the captain said with a razor-sharp voice despite his neutral expression. “That boy could barely grip a blade during training drills, and you are telling me he disarmed you. You call yourself a Templar? An inquisitor no less?”

  The captain’s brown-orange-tinged hair was pulled into a severe military knot. His beard, recently trimmed, bristled as he stroked it in frustration.

  “I encountered him in the sewer tunnels of the northern lower district, near Cuira Market Plaza,” Varos replied. “He reeked of magic. If we comb those tunnels, we’ll find him. He couldn’t have got far.”

  “Ah, the ability to smell the scent of magic. I remember—back in Marrowhold, you led us straight to their blood-pit altar using your abilities. That’s why I signed off on your inquisitor seal when it came. You were precise, reliable. So tell me–how the hell did that trash slip past you?” His eyebrows raised.

  “Because a scent of magic alone isn’t guilt, Captain, you know that much.” He paused, wondering if he had overstepped, before he continued. “The boy had a magic signature, no doubt a strong one, but there was no proof he was using it. He was in rags, unkempt. We cannot apprehend without proof, especially after the Janukas Incident.”

  Varos’s fist clenched. The agonizing screams of his brothers played like a discordant hymn, the twisted expressions of their final moments flashing in his eyes.

  That same image did not seem to give the captain the same pause; rather, he appeared to hold no such sentiment.

  The captain barked a bitter laugh. “So now we let proof slow us down? This isn’t some court debate; it’s a manhunt. We were looking for a boy that fit the description of the discarded waste that bested you,” as he placed his finger on the head of the inked sketch before him.

  Brother Varos tensed, but retorted: “We have a doctrine—my brothers that were with me pleaded as such. We protect the faithful of the empire and bring retribution to the damned and guilty, if we had–”

  “He isn’t innocent; you knew it in your gut. Or perhaps your instincts have been blunted by your time in the capital? You act surgically to remove the warts in the heart of the Empire, and you let it slip away,” the captain said, as he gestured to the sketch on the table before tracing his gaze back up.

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  A chuckle passed through the captain’s lips. “You know, I remember you dragging that cultist out of the cesspit in Marrowhold. You didn’t hesitate then.”

  Varos said quietly, “He was mid-incantation, demonic stench reeking from him. The signs were clear.”

  A scoff emerged from the captain. “And this boy, the little templar sweeper who lost every single sparring match, he managed to disarm you in a sewer, and then you let him go? For that alone, I question if the skill I witnessed was the product of some demonic illusion.”

  Varos retorted—his voice now level. “I did not aim to kill; I feigned a lethal strike to provoke him into casting a spell. He had two opportunities to do so, and both times he met me blade for blade. I admit, his skill with the blade surprised me, but he will not best me again.”

  The right corner of the captain’s lip raised as he let out a puff of air from his nose. “You should have swung to kill then. No one would bat an eye at a deadbeat bleeding out in the tunnels. It’s a fact of life here.”

  Varos’s voice reflected the alarm. “Captain, with all due respect, that treads on our tenets.”

  “And those tenets might be the reason he could already be halfway to Venthar. You said he reeked with as much raw energy as the most senior of holy mages. What if he landed in the hands of the resistance network there?” the captain said as he leaned into his chair.

  Varos protested. “Impossible. The boy can’t navigate the tunnels without aid from the dissidents down there. He would almost certainly have gone to them for help. If we interrogate the Rats, someone will talk. We can persuade them to cooperate.”

  The captain looked up from the table, fingers still tangled in his beard. “Ah, so you haven’t lost your edge; you are right. They will cooperate, and we will know where he scurried off to; his filthy scent will make the rest child’s play.”

  He stood silently and walked over to his gear.

  “You’re going after him yourself?” Varos asked, surprised. “What about the training compound? The trainees are restless after the boy’s escape–your staff are shorthanded after most have been called for the search and questioning of the boy’s former acquaintances.”

  The captain unsheathed his blade; a translucent distortion danced along its edge, examining the greatsword before placing it back in its hold.

  “Let the rabble train themselves. We have our lead, and it will place us on the trail of the boy’s flight. I won’t waste time babysitting half-baked results,” he said as he strapped on his black-adorned chest plate.

  “Come, Varos. You want a chance to redeem your slip-up, don’t you? We have a quarry to find.”

  ***

  [The present moment, the Ratways below Caer Eldralis]

  Two figures stood in the doorway; their attire and bearing left no room for doubt. The first, a burly man clad in the white underarmour of the Templars, wore a black-adorned chest plate, a mark of the Blackguard. The second figure, standing behind him in a white cloak, was unmistakable.

  Selriph recognised the inquisitor. Varos

  But it was the Blackguard officer who held Selriph’s full attention. The one who oversaw his training, or rather, his torment.

  Captain Brytic Thorne.

  “Captain Thorne,” Selriph said, his voice steady despite the surge of dread.

  “Selriph,” Thorne replied, his tone gruff and commanding. “Didn’t expect to find you here, hiding like a common criminal. You deserted your post. Broke your oath to the order. That’s treason.”

  Didn’t expect to find me? Hogwash. There was only one reason they were here, and it wasn’t chance.

  Thorne stepped forward, standing next to the table Selriph had sat at mere moments ago. “And what do we have here—turning to magic, reading forbidden tomes? After all we taught you, you still chose blasphemy? Running away from your duty, for this,” His fingers pressed on the rough surface of the worn tome.

  Selriph’s voice carried with a sharp edge. “You know why I ran. You took the most pleasure in tormenting me. You always had to make it a point that I was the abandoned trash of my father. Prescribed me extra activities, only trash was fit for eh?” His memory flashed to the feeling of leather boots in his face, the sensation of unsanitary water up his nostrils; Above him, Thorne and his fellows’ faces were full of amusement.

  Thorne’s expression darkened; veins bulged in his neck as he clenched his jaw. “You were given a chance, Selriph. A chance to prove yourself through grit and discipline. You squandered it, ran from it.”

  Grit and discipline?

  “You have a very interesting way of building someone through hardship. I did what any sentient person would do in that situation!” He felt the lump in his throat, the muscles in his eye sockets tensing from holding back tears.

  Varos stepped forward. “Your excuses are worthless. You think your sob story justifies desertion? Time to face justice.”

  He raised his hand. Holy energy crackled around the inquisitor’s sigil.

  Selriph’s fingers hovered near the hilt of his estoc. Two of them stood between him and the exit. With Thorne alone, he might have been able to hold his own for a while; He had been studying his bladework in the sparring sessions, and he might have been able to surprise him with the true extent of his skills with the blade. But facing both of them? It was impossible; The moment he locked blades with Thorne, the Inquisitor would also strike, instantly smiting him down.

  He couldn’t win—not against both. Was this the end? Was it over?

  He needed time to find an opening, perhaps a distraction.

  Maybe Vick...

  No, Vick had made it clear; the Tunnel Rats wouldn’t risk themselves against the Templars.

  Selriph exhaled slowly. “So, what now? Are you here to silence me permanently?” He paused, half resigned to his fate, half attempting to stall for time. “Before you do, how did you find me? These tunnels are meant to confuse patrols. Templars don’t come here.”

  Thorne’s eyes narrowed. His right cheek flared as a snarl formed on his face.

  “Oh, the tunnels did give us trouble, no doubt. But we have our ways. We know the location of one of the ratway settlements, and we eventually found our way here. The locals were uncooperative at first, but I had… means at my disposal.” Selriph’s eyes caught the brief twitch of Thorne’s fingers and the half-dried blood on the gauntlets.

  “Said they had a newcomer.” His head jerked to the inquisitor standing two paces behind him. “Varos could sense a signature, said it was faint, said he wasn’t sure,” as he glanced at the inquisitor beside him.

  Careless. His route had been obvious. He just hadn’t expected them so soon.

  Varos stepped closer, the faint golden glow swirling around his fingers.

  “We’re here to collect you for your retribution,” he said coldly. “If you resist, you will die in this tunnel.” His sigil still flared.

  “It almost sounds like you’re giving me a choice,” Selriph said, voice low.

  Thorne laughed. It was cold, humourless.

  “A choice?” he scoffed. “You either come with us, or we drag your corpse back. Either way, you will get one last lesson before your method of death.”

  Varos’s eyes narrowed; the glow in his hand intensified. “Your fate is sealed. Surrender!” he said firmly, figure at the doorway, hands outstretched.

  Selriph’s mind raced. He considered feigning surrender; perhaps then he could escape while in transit. No, that would never–

  Scuffling feet. Echoes coming from the corridor.

  “Selriph? You down here, boy?” a voice echoed.

  Old Man Vick.

  Thorne turned his head at the voice, the only split-second opportunity Selriph had.

  In a flash, Selriph drew his estoc. The blade whipped forward, aimed straight at the face that had tormented him for years.