Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 71

Ryffin was going to be the death of him.

But that would be a damned good way to die, thought Marches as he stepped up beside the alchemist facing the abyss that was the entrance to Silver Knife Square, now shifted to the back of a run-down pub down in the squalor of the lower district.

All the poor (only figuratively) sorcerer ever wanted was to do his job in the peace and quiet of his beautiful tower up at the palace, and occasionally have breakdowns, clutching a bottle of strong Velan wine and scribble sad poetry on rainy nights, but this wonderful man had barged into his life after years of disappearance, and whisked him off to an adventure he'd never dreamed of having.

And so here he was, dressed not in silk robes but coarse wolf-hide cloak and common attire, about to step into the most notorious part of the city to purchase an item that may or may not be a banned narcotic. The previous hour of journey from the palace had passed in a blur, the only clear image was of Ryffin at the doorstep of his tower, from where usually troubles came into his otherwise peaceful workspace.

"You ready?" asked Ryffin now as he slipped on the Quarleen mask he'd borrowed from Farren.

"Why don't I get to have one of those masks?" he grumbled.

"Ah, Sergeant Linder said he had another, but he left it in his office--" Ryffin said with a mischievous air, "--which is simply a coincidence and not part of a devious plan to murder you in the dark."

Marches gulped, not at all terrified. "Must you be so needlessly ominous?"

Quarleen's wooden smiling face peered down at him the next moment, Ryffin's words coming muffled from behind as he finally took a good look at him, up and down. "Gotta say this attire looks rather nice on you. I'd almost believe that you are a hardworking man who does not complain of sore joints every now and then."

Looks rather nice on you. Rather nice. He said nice-- Marches' heart fluttered, but he grumbled some more in response. "Poking fun at the pain of a suffering man. Marvellous, Ryffin Wellis."

The alchemist answered with a hearty, ringing laugh, free like the racing wind, spontaneous like a mountain stream--and fingers locked with his, hands tightly clasped. The next moment, he was pulled into the inky darkness of the enchanted alleys as Ryffin lunged forward with a start.

For the first few moments Marches saw nothing but darkness because his eyes were squinted shut for fear of the virulent magic trying to burn his flesh off. But when none such dreadful thing happened and he opened his eyes just a crack, he still saw nothing but black, for such were the enchanted alleys to the naked eye.

Shivers ran down his spine, the story of the Royal Sorcerer emerging into his mind. These cold stones underneath his feet, these alleys forever plunged into darkness--through this place had the Royal Guard marched to put to death one of his predecessors. A ghastly severed head swam into his mind's eye and he grasped Ryffin's arm ever tighter.

Much to his horror, Ryffin halted in his tracks right in the middle of...well, the abyss. Marches collided into him. "What on earth?"

"Look at these runes, Ellanher," he said, reaching up to the damp walls--at least Marches thought he did, because he could see nothing. "Aren't these just...wonderful?"

From the rustle of clothes, it seemed Ryffin was running his fingers upon the walls. "These runes come from an ancient language spoken by the first peoples of this land, you know. From it came the tongues we speak today."

Marches wondered if he should interrupt him to remind that he had no mask to see the wonders he was talking about before a chuckle sounded in the dark.