Snake Pit
Away from the lavish city centre to the far corners of Giria, lay districts were the lowest of society tread. The ancient unkempt buildings were little more than shabby piles of brick and metal to house slaves of dead masters or commoners who lost their livelihoods. All unfortunates now lived on these desperate streets of the city. It was always easy to spot the difference between commoners and slaves. All slaves had their hair burnt from their scalps, and tattoos that represented their prior achievements were stripped. It was, unfortunately, easy to become a slave, even younglings at infancy could be bought by masters from their poor parents. Whole families could be bought if their heads of the household died and had no financial backing. Typically, those who perish in the dangerous mines below Giria were always risking their loved ones to such fates, but that held little importance to those who sat on top.
Desperation breeds desperation in these lowly districts. Most people feared travelling along these roads, and for a good reason. Zealots regularly patrolled the streets appearing to keep the peace, but in truth, they were harassing small business owners or particularly attractive slave females or males that met their fancy. Von-wratha was never afraid to wander these roads, she knew all the faces that lived in these districts, and they knew hers, even the zealots knew to steer clear of her. Though assassins working for the oracles were meant to be kept as secrets, in these alleys, there were none – knowledge was more valuable than food in some cases.
As the thugs and pickpockets stepped away from Von-wratha’s path, all that kept running through her mind was her recent assignment. Since she left the Spire, the truth of Nalax had struck her: he was alive. After all these years, Von-wratha hadn’t heard anyone utter his name. It was like he never existed. Nalax had been living somewhere within the walls of Giria all this time, and she could never sense him. If that wasn’t enough of a shock, he was branded as a traitor to the Council. What could he, the good youngling that always obeyed, have done to warrant the oracles sending their worst after him? She wondered. Von-wratha was in the right place to find out the truth and his location.
Her ears picked up a ruckus from one of the many small alleys that lead off the main road. She could hear a couple of voices shouting at one another. Their words were almost unintelligible behind the buildings. Her pacing slowed as she came into view of two large zealots standing over a bleeding slave on the filthy street. The armoured warriors repeatedly slammed their steeled boots into the slave’s hip and gut as their victim cried for help. As the slave curled into a ball, Von-wratha noticed one of his legs was missing, and his metal cane lay bent beside his head. Anger bubbled inside her chest as she watched the zealots lay into the crippled slave; she straightened her back as she walked into the alley.
The three paid no mind at her presence until her finger clicked open the buckle of blades. The zealots swung their massive helmets around, their amber eyes glowed as she remained still with her fists on her snake hilts. Her eyes danced between them, no thoughts or emotions exchanged at that moment. One of the zealots glanced at her daggers and eased back before motioning the other one to follow him out the alley. Their heavy boots clamped against the stone floor before they returned to the main road. Von-wratha looked down at the slave, whose mouth was lined with blue and profusely thanked her for the rescue. She snatched up his cane and straightened the metal before handing it back to him. Without a word to the grateful slave, she turned around and skipped out of the alley before she had to hear him thank her one more time. Von-wratha did not like her people, but she hated the zealots far more.
As she walked across the loose brick street, her eye caught a muddy brown snake coiled in the corner of a building. It was camouflaged well with the dirt covering it. Her footing halted for a moment as she stared at the creature. Its slender body slowly unwrapped and its amber eyes locked up to hers. She recognised this species of a snake whose venom is potent enough to kill a Girian in minutes and tended to attack its victims without provocation. Unfortunately, in Giria’s laws, snakes were not allowed to be killed or harmed, for they were the favoured children of the Twins. She had no time for that. Von-wratha decided to continue her pace and her focus ahead, but her ears picked up the faint slither of scales rubbing against the stone. Adrenaline slowly pumped in her blood, wondering if the snake considered her as a threat.
She turned off the main road into a dark alley where several bald slaves took refuge in poorly constructed huts from the blazing sun. They were wrapped in filthy brown robes, and their faces were blackened by old dirt and years of drink they wasted their lives on. Von-wratha held small pity for them, knowing that they are doomed to live their final years drinking away to a slow death. Those who weren’t born at the top, would forever remain at the bottom.
She looked behind to see if the brown snake followed her, but to her relief, it wasn’t in sight. Her attention turned to two rusted iron doors with small peepholes in the centre. It didn’t take long for her to hear a metallic click and squeak as the doors opened. Two massive arms held the doors open long enough for her to enter.
Inside was a dimly lit room with an orange and scarlet cloth draped over the walls with a long shelf displaying an array of differently shaped bottles containing coloured liquors. Adjacent to the shelf was a long and narrow metal countertop with several people nursing their drinks and murmuring amongst themselves. Her eyes scanned the greater area of the tavern. There were half a dozen old rusty tables scattered across the room and at the farthest wall they were aligned with cushioned booths. Von-wratha’s eyes locked onto a gathering of Girians centred on an enclosure. She strode over, careful not to touch any of the drunk patrons that will be demanding a fight from her. Not that any posed any serious threat – she just didn’t need to have a harsh word from the tavern’s owner again.
As she approached the booth, two large males with heavily tattooed faces came hulking over. “Business?” one said in a deep voice.
“None of yours,” she hissed as her eyes narrowed.
They crossed their armour-clad arms. She caught a whiff of their rancid odour. Her nose turned as if she were standing in an old lavatory. “Have you two ever heard of bathhouses?”
“Von-wratha! Gazan knows that voice,” called a male from behind the guards. Her head swerved past the guards to see a male sitting inside the booth with a couple of females on either of his toned arms.
“Greetings Gazan,” she said with a small nod, her eyes turned up to his cronies, who slid from her way.
“Look, Gazan is finally loved enough to be given his own wooden table. Though, someone owed Gazan some favours and so asked him to sneak this piece from the wood vaults, right under the oracle's noses, ha!” Gazan said, slamming his ring-covered hand over the aged surface.
“I can see that,” she said, forcing a humoured smile.
“Why’s Von-wratha still standing then? Sit with us!” Gazan said as his arms waved her closer. His dull, short black hair was loosely braided on the sides of his head, and his wide squared jaw was thick with a greying black beard. Gazan’s eyes also shone a pretty silver like Von-wratha’s, but there was far more joy behind them. His wrinkled violet shirt was tucked inside his belt that held various types of daggers and the two standard hooked blades like hers. The two of them had attended the Academy, but Gazan had already made a name for himself by the time her Trial had finished.
“Was Von-wratha missing Gazan?” he said wearing a wide toothy grin.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said easing herself into the soft cushions.
“Well, Von-wratha has come to the right place,” he chuckled, leaning into one of the females beside him and planting an aggressive peck on her cheek.
“To kill,” she whispered as her elbows rested against the table.
Gazan whipped his head around, his grin dropped, but the humour in his eyes remained. “Oh, straight to it then, eh? Normally, Gazan demands a few drinks before talking business, but because it’s Von-wratha, she can get Gazan one drink,” he said.
She exhaled. “What are you having?”
“Whatever Von-wratha is having,” he said.
She slowly picked herself up from the padded booth and casually approached the bar with her hand on her snake hilted dagger. A waft of liquor pouring into tin cups and downed by the patron's stinking breath was caught in her nostrils.
“What do you want?” said a gravelly voice in front of her.
Von-wratha’s eyes wandered to a big, dusty bottle on the top shelf, a clear lavender liquid trapped inside that seemed to never have been tasted. “Two cups of that,” she said, not taking her eye from the bottle.
The bartender’s face twisted as if insulted by her request, but his eyes widened when he saw her hand around her snake-hilted dagger. A small scoff escaped his lips as he turned to grab a stool from behind the counter and carefully climbed it. Von-wratha’s lips curled into a smile, she did miss coming to these parts of Giria.
“Don’t fall, bartender,” she whispered, watching him try to remain steady. A part of her wanted to telekinetically nudge the stool and watch him topple over with bottles shattering all around him, but a gentle female voice broke her thoughts,
“Von?” said the voice.
Her head turned to the female beside her; the metal bench slightly vibrated as Blyth placed her bony arms on the surface. Deep green bruises dotted up the skin of her arms, yet her face remained untouched. She wore a tight creamy white shirt that was neatly tucked in her loose maroon leggings, but the black belt that she received from the Academy was barren of weapons.
“Blyth, where are your blades?” Von whispered.
A tinge of blue rippled on her cheeks and her eyes darted to Gazan’s booth. “He has them at the moment,”
“So, you’re still with him?” she said, eyeing her bruises.
Blyth straightened her back and slipped her sleeves over her arms. “Why are you here?”
“Gazan has some information I need,” Von said, watching the bartender struggling to open the dusty bottle, wishing he would hurry.
“What kind?” Blyth whispered, leaning in.
Where traitors of the Oracles would go, Von said, careful to avoid others listening in on their thoughts.
You’re going after the Heralds of Xolrin? she asked. Von-wratha could feel a rush of fear coming from her.
Her attention turned to Blyth; her brows shot up in confusion. “The Heralds of what?”
Blyth bit her lips, and her eyes widened. “You didn’t hear it from me, I want no part in it.”
“What are you talking about?” Von asked, but Blyth had already skittered away from the bar and disappeared to the back of the tavern.
Von-wratha eyed the bartender who had finished pouring the last cup with the purple liquor. “Could you be any slower?” she snapped.
The grizzly bartender’s eyes glared at her before sliding the drinks over. “Will that be all, master?” his deep voice mocked.
Von-wratha clenched her jaw as her palms wrapped around the cold cups and whisked them away from the bench.
“Gazan was getting worried that Von-wratha got lost in here, ha!” Gazan called, tapping the wooden table. She slid one cup over to him before settling back into her spot. She watched him swing the bowl back without scanning its contents and swallow it all within a couple of gulps.
“Gazan keeps telling Blyth to keep quiet, but Blyth always speaks without thinking,” he said looking to the bottom of his empty cup.
“Who are the Heralds of Xolrin?” she whispered.
“Gazan doesn’t know much about that cult, only that the oracles are terrified of them,” he said.
“There’ve been cults before. Why is the almighty Council so scared of these particular fanatics?” Von said.
The smile from Gazan’s eyes faded. He turned to his concubines and waved his arms. They obeyed immediately, leaving him and Von-wratha in the booth. “They’ve been trying to get rid of them for years, but they keep multiplying like spiders. You kill one nest, another sprouts. Some higher-ups have joined, and the Council put big, big bounties on their heads,”
“Do you know which sort of people and where they would be?” Von asked.
Gazan scoffed. “Gazan likes Von-wratha, but if Gazan knew where they would be, Gazan would sew his mouth together. Especially, now,”
Von-wratha furrowed her brows and cocked her head to the side. “I get that, but you’ve got to give me something.”
A wide smile stretched across his muscled cheeks. “The biggest bounty is on one, Gazan hears he was an oracle.”
Von-wratha felt her heart sink to her stomach. Could it be? She wondered.
~
The sun had disappeared behind the canyons on the horizon, but the air was still heated from the day. Von-wratha looked to the darkening sky to see the stars aligned for the coming of the second sun. The streets cleared away from beggars, market owners and zealots. Under the twilight sky they were slowly becoming filled with the scum of the city. Von-wratha was unfazed by this. In fact, there was a level of comfort without having extra eyes on the roads.
Gazan hadn’t revealed much, and she was in no position to probe him further on his turf. Even if she could subdue one of his cronies and extract the cultist's whereabouts from their mind, he would know what she has done and consider her a threat to his bounty. There was a technique she hadn’t mastered, something she was dreading she would never have to use. Girians are born telepaths, but very few are trained to attune their talents. In turn, most wouldn’t know how to block or mask their thoughts from scans, and their minds would leak all over the place. Easy pickings for a predator. Von-wratha sighed as she weighed the dangers of opening her mind to the higher consciousness of the entire city. She struggled to listen in on a room full of people, let alone a population of a million. But what choice did she have left?
She looked to the high rafters of the shabby structures. Reaching a high terrain would aid in her focus. The Spire was idyllic, but she wouldn’t dare return until her task was completed. Her chest tightened at the thought of what Matron Aeos requested. She desperately didn’t want to slay her oldest friend, nor did she want to turn him over to the oracles. Perhaps he would see reason and repent, or he could end his own life – but neither outcome seemed likely.
The darkness had closed in. The light from the skies had vanished, and a faint glow of the lights from the inner city was the only light she could see. A quiet hiss emanated from the path. Her eyes shot to scales swerving in the dark, inching closer. That wretched critter wanted its meal. Von-wratha cracked her knuckles and began pushing herself up on the closest building. The bricks quivered under her weight, feeling like they would give way any moment. She pressed her body against the dusty wall as her foot found a brick sticking out from the structure. Von-wratha felt it crack under her leg. Her heart hammered as the brick began to lose stability. Telekinetic energy shot from her foot, propelling her body up to the roof. She swung around to see the sandy brick shatter on the street.
She stood on the building’s edge for a moment to marvel at the view of the many rooftops of the lower districts. The great Black Walls loomed only a few blocks away with guards patrolling along the spine. Von-wratha carefully stepped on the roof. As she reached the highest point of the building, she sat on the flattest surface and crossed her legs. She breathed in the warm night air and closed her eyes as her mind opened to the mass of consciousness stewing in the city. The thoughts rattled inside her skull, all thinking and chatting about useless things beyond her hearing. She felt her mind getting pulled to every corner of Giria, with no sense or coherence. She tried focusing on Nalax’s thought waves, but her concentration kept breaking under the weight of everyone’s waves.
Von-wratha opened her eyes. The voices grew quieter, but the channel remained open. She took in another breath and pressed her hands against her temples. Her skin was slippery with sweat as she tried homing in on those thinking about the Heralds of Xolrin. The mass of voices dropped down but was still too many.
How many are there? Thought they were all gone, a female voice said.
Those cultists are all traitors, a male said across the city.
Do the Heralds have room for one more member, said another.
All thought paths lead to dead ends. No one seemed to know who the cult’s members were or even find any cultists themselves. Someone or something helped keep their secrets. Von-wratha shivered. Nalax was the only Girian she knew that was strong enough for a psychic cloak. She put her head in her hands, realising how exhausted she was and how little energy she had left for a one-by-one scan. Her thoughts broke when she heard a hiss from the edge of the roof. The muddy snake had made another appearance and moved faster than when she first saw it.
Von-wratha unsheathed her dagger and readied herself to catch the snake should it jump at her. There were no zealots that would see her slaying an offspring of the Twins. A part of her felt excited about the opportunity to cut the venomous critter in half. To her surprise, the snake slowed its approach and curled up her ledge. Its head rose with its hypnotic gaze keeping her eye. Her throat hardened when she heard his voice speaking through the creature. Von-wratha…