The Old City

0.72: Boiling Point

Tranaman Undares was, unfortunately, the most paranoid man Vestrael had ever seen. His retinue included not just advisors and translators, but a number of guards, poison testers, and human shields, which walked around him like a field.

Vestrael couldn't hope to get into that group. Even if he mimicked their appearance and voice, they answered a fifty-question test at every shift change to verify that they were who they claimed to be. For all his tricks, Vestrael couldn't cheat that.

The man was a loner, too. He took no concubine in the war camp, nor did he enjoy the company of his men outside of formal meetings. He focused only on the business of war, of destroying Soran.

They'd holed up at Blackfall, a dense forest stronghold that straddled the Black River at the base of its huge, thunderous waterfall. It was so shaded that it felt like night for most of the day; it only got five hours of sunlight on a good day. The frigid mist that rose from the base of the waterfall permeated the entire encampment, casting everything further into the realm of mystery. The world felt different here.

Apparently, engineers had tried to dam the Black River from above, but all efforts had failed. Blackfall therefore had had to be established at the bottom of the cliff, a less ideal strategic location, but one whose built fortifications would serve them well.

"Any ideas for how I can get to him?" Vestrael asked.

The man who'd issued his order crouched next to him, looking through a spyglass. His name was Arturus, and he'd proven skilled enough to keep up with Vestrael. That was good. The last man they'd sent had been so limited that they'd wasted days hunting their target. They'd managed to reach Blackfall in near-record time.

"You're the expert, but I'd say we need something of a distraction."

First Ring Headquarters of the Enforcers.

Ryke began to squirm. Something was wrong. Fear emanated from him like the stench of garbage—wait, no. Ryke had actually shit himself. The brown sludge was running down onto the floor.

"We have been looking for you, Ryke," said the man from the other side of the bars. He snapped his fingers and the gag fell away, having been cut perfectly along the back of Ryke's neck. "Where have you been, son?"

"I do not know, sir. I...I was with the squad when everything went wrong." He looked around. "Were you just here, sir? I thought I was speaking with someone."

"Focus, soldier! Where have you been?"

"I do not know! Have I not been here? Have I not been tortured endlessly?"

"Tortured? Gods, soldier. I only just found you. What have you told them?"

"Nothing!"

The man pursed his lips, disappointment rising in his face like a winter's flush. "I know it has been a challenge, son, but I need to know. We can work out whatever it is you told them, but I need to know."

"I...I do not remember. I think...I think I was in a dark room. not this cell though. Gods, I do not know how long I was there. There were some men. A woman too, I think. But maybe that was just a dream. Please take me away from here, sir. I cannot stand it even one more minute."

"Focus, man! I will free you from this place as soon as you tell me what we need to know."

"I know nothing, sir! They made me forget the days. The only sound I knew was my own breath..." Ryke forgot himself and then looked up at the stranger with fresh eyes. "How long have you been here, sir? Has the campaign begun? Where is the rest of squad nineteen?"