Brennan’s fingers ached to move, to do anything but remain curled over the hilt of his sword. He could barely see Leneah bathed in moonlight, standing in front of the silent, looming mausoleum. The silvery illumination deepened the color of her hair to almost blood-red. The sweat on his skin chilled, and the night darkened around him. A cloud over the moon, or something more ominous?
You’re imagining things, he thought.
He held himself utterly still, muscles coiled and ready to act, as a hooded figure emerged into the garden. The way the newcomer moved wasn’t natural, even for someone well-versed in the arts of stealth. They were far too quick, too silent, almost gliding over the pebbled walkway to stand hovering over Leneah. Brennan’s heart pummeled his ribs, a drumbeat urging him to protect her, to fight. But what would he be facing?
The warnings from earlier in the evening rose into full alarm bells, a shudder racing down his spine so strong he could barely keep himself still. The hooded stranger was not from the Source. None of this was right–the thief begging him to let her finish her mysterious errand, how desperate she was for him to believe they were on the same side…
He believed her. And whatever his talented thief might have gotten herself into, the eerie hooded figure must be beyond anything she’d bargained for. Brennan remembered the last time he’d had the same squirming in his gut. It had been a year ago, standing with an entire detachment of soldiers as temple leymages fought to restrain a rogue aethermage and cleanse a leytemple so corrupt its power brought on unnatural thunderstorms in a two-mile radius.
This was the same type of evil, the same alarm bells rang through his soul. He chewed his lip, mind spinning. He should get to the Garrison and request backup. Or call on leymages who knew how to deal with corrupted aethermagic. But he couldn’t leave Leneah alone to face this.
The masked figure resumed his unnatural gliding stride back toward the shadowed entrance to the mausoleum. Leneah followed, head down, her posture withdrawn. For an instant, her face turned toward Brennan. Had she just nodded at him?
Before he could move, she was gone from his sight. His heart thundered against his ribs. She was in terrible danger, this do-gooder thief. What could he do that wouldn’t make her plight even worse? As he racked his brain, he repeated the words of a protection prayer in his mind. He had to uphold the Captain’s Oath he’d taken upon his promotion. Serve and protect those who could not protect themselves. And that included his thief. It was time to hunt, except now his quarry had changed.
Shaking off any last shred of fear, Brennan left his hiding spot, venturing out into the sparse copse of ornamental evergreens before the neat lawn of the mausoleum grounds. He kept to the shadows, rolling his feet from heel to toe to minimize noise.
He paused for a moment to tuck his cloak under his belt and fold the fabric around his scabbard to quiet any rattling of metal against hardened leather. Not all Valiants learned to use stealth, but Brennan wasn’t just any other soldier. He knew when to be the knight in shining armor, and when to be the hidden assassin.
Now’s definitely time for the assassin, he thought as he crept past the stone guardians flanking the outer perimeter of the complex. His gaze slid over the statuary, beings carved in obsidian or other dark stone and common to the burial temples of Tanahr. They were just tall enough to be off-putting, their featureless, white marble-masked faces always tilted down to those who tread beneath.
The Faceless Ones, manifestations of The Source as Protector of the Dead. The figure who was drawing Leneah even deeper into this mystery looked like a perversion of what Brennan already considered an unsettling symbol.
Brennan scowled to himself. He never appreciated the idea of a masked guardian. He didn’t trust people who hid their faces, unless it was a standard battle helm in a clear fight. That thing, whoever or whatever it was, ushering Leneah into the mausoleum brought forth a fear he seldom felt even on the field of battle.
Brennan was no stranger to death, but those who sought it out or conducted furtive business amongst the hallowed halls of the departed could not be working in good faith.
His bitter thoughts puffed into nothingness as another broken scream tore through the air, then cut off, replaced by muffled sounds of panic. Then, nothing. They’d gagged the poor soul, or worse. Brennan picked up his pace, the peace of purpose flowing through him. Time to be quick, quiet and fierce as the duskcat. To assess, then to act on the threat he approached.
Source help me strike true.
Lizzie Sinclaire 