Crussus

The last time he’d run through the halls of the dungeon was all those years ago.

The night he met Tomas.

Before the first rebellion, Crussus had hoped to return to Tantaloo with Tomas in tow. To raise him to be a knight like he was. As long as Tomas also found the idea agreeable. Even if he hadn’t, Crussus had wanted to offer him something more in life. To show him there was still joy in living. He knew he was a hypocrite when he had come to Sange in seek of revenge. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want more for Tomas.

For the boy he had come to see as a son.

When Achai told him Tomas had been taken, he’d lost hope. But Godo’s daughter, that sweet little girl, had come out of nowhere to offer hope again. Was this Tomas really one and the same?

Had his boy become a snatcher?

“Halt.” The voice came from behind. Crussus drew his sword, turning as he did so.

But he stopped when he felt the tip of a blade pressed to his back.

Crussus held his hands up. He couldn’t die here. Not like this. Not when he was so close. Was he followed by one of Varroc’s men? Had he truly grown so complacent after all this time?

“Do not turn around. I have a message for you,” the man said.

“A message? From who?” Crussus asked.

“The correct question is for who. You must deliver it to the High Queen of the Holy Nation of Tantaloo. I will leave it with you.”

A message for the queen? It must be a letter then. But why would someone in Sange want to—

He felt a hand pressed against his back. He started to turn, but the sword pressed deeper into his flesh.

“I told you not to turn around. A moment,” the man said.

There was an infusion of magic. Crussus could feel it coursing through his body. The feeling lasted for only a second before fading away.

And then emotions overwhelmed him. Fear. Anger. Frustration. Anxiety. It felt like he’d just woken up from a bad dream but couldn’t remember it. It was too much. He fell to the ground, sinking to his knees. “What did you do? My mind…”

“As I said, I’ve left a message with you. They are memories repressed by magic. You will remember when conditions are met. When you stand before the queen that you serve.”

Crussus grabbed his face. “Why am I feeling like this? A side effect of the magic?”

“You experienced the memory for a fleeting second. The memory is hidden, but the feelings inside of you, those are your reactions to what I showed you. Consider it motivation to deliver the message quickly. If Tantaloo is to address the threat, they will need ample time to prepare.”

This power was unlike anything Crussus had ever experienced before. A force beyond comprehension. Whatever message that memory contained was serious. If this stranger spoke the truth, and these memories really were his own reaction, Tantaloo must be in serious danger. Something was coming.

“One more thing. A message from someone you once knew quite well. The boy asked me to tell you he is grateful for all that you did for him. That he appreciates you. You showed him how to be strong and gave him the will to keep fighting. For that, he will forever be grateful. I have to go now. I have to see the child before he gets too far.” The man paused. “Thank you, Crussus.”

It hit him in that moment. The identity of the man behind him. Crussus turned around, shooting back to his feet, blade be damned.

“Tomas?” he called out.

But the boy…the man was gone.

Tomas was gone.

“One day, I will find you again. This I swear, my child.” Crussus pressed a fist into the wall.

A noise came from deeper inside the dungeon. It sounded like raindrops. No, it was something living. He covered his face as they emerged from the darkness.

Scalers. A large swarm of them.

Some brushed passed him, ignoring him as they split to avoid him. Others scurried past on the walls and ceilings. He’d thought they were all out in the city already, but apparently the nest hadn’t cleared completely. What were they doing? Where were they going?

They were gone just as quickly as they appeared.

He put any concerns from his mind. If they’d intended to hurt humans, they would’ve attacked him.

He couldn’t worry about this.

Crussus had somewhere to be. He had a message to deliver.

Varroc

His eyes crept open. He gasped for air, but none would come. The rope bit into his neck like the sharp fangs of a serpent. Behind him, his hands were bound tight, and he swayed in the air from his sudden struggle.

A normal person would be dead by now.

So, this is the end, huh?

If only he’d been the one to get the power. If only he’d inherited it instead of his brother. But he hadn’t. Varroc had been forced to rise to the top through sheer force of will.

He’d been unrivaled in battle until the day he’d joined Coelacanth. Then he’d just become another grunt. A weakling at the bottom of the pile.

It was infuriating. Demeaning. It left him hungry for more.

The day that things changed for him was one of his most fond memories.

Varroc barged into the tavern frequented by the guild and found them sitting there drinking their lives away. The bartender spit polished the outside of a glass. Hell, knowing this place, he’d probably spit polished the inside as well. The stools, tables, and shelving were all made of cheap wood. The way the guild fought when they were drunk made expensive furniture a poor investment. But Coelacanth leadership always covered the damages.

After all, they needed somewhere to drink.

A massive great hammer leaned against the bar. One of the few men large enough to wield it sat on the stool beside it.

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A gorgeous blonde woman sat in a booth with her back against the wall and her boots crossed over the table.

Brel and Philomena.

They were the only ones drinking today.

Varroc walked right up and took the seat next to Brel. The large man looked over at him, annoyed, and grunted. Brel turned back and stared at the empty drinking glass longingly. Varroc studied him for a moment. He’d heard of Brel even before they both joined the guild. He used to run with some bandits in the mountains. A member of Coelacanth had wiped them out, and Brel was the only one who put up a decent fight. They’d recruited him. Since then, he’d been reliable.

Philomena’s background was a mystery. But she was strong too. She usually ran solo missions that didn’t pay well enough for the people of higher ranks. She didn’t talk to anyone, as far as Varroc knew.

The three of them all had something in common. Varroc looked at the bartender and slid him three gold coins. He beckoned to the only other patrons in the bar. The bartender nodded and brought a bottle over from the shelf. He poured a drink for Varroc and then went to refill Brel’s.

Varroc could swear even the man’s mohawk was leaning forward in anticipation. The bartender stepped around the bar and went to pour Philomena a fresh glass as well. But she glared at him, then nodded toward the bottle, and finally her table. The bartender took the hint. He left the bottle with her and hurried to the back to give them some privacy.

“So, you two, how’s it feel being weak?” Varroc asked.

Brel turned toward Varroc and blindly grabbed onto his hammer with one hand. Philomena shattered an old empty glass against the table and flung a shard toward Varroc.

Varroc dodged the shard and held a hand up to calm Brel. The glass smashed against the rear wall. “Yeah, I feel the same way. I realized something a while back.” He paused and took a drink. It burned his throat as it went down. “Ah. You know people like us? We don’t make it to the top. We’re good enough to be here, but not good enough to take over all on our own. So, I got to thinking, what if we didn’t do it on our own?”

Brel chuckled and let go of his hammer. He turned toward his drink and took a swig. “I’ve got enough knife wounds in my back. I’ll pass.”

Philomena didn’t say a word. She simply stared at him. Varroc pointed toward the door. “Beyond that threshold is everything you’ve ever wanted. Power. Influence. Wealth. We can have it. All of it. The three of us can take over this guild. We’ve just gotta stick together. You’re right, this guild is so full of betrayal and selfish bastards that everyone is always looking over their own shoulder. But what if the three of us could have absolute faith in one another? A few nobodies at the bottom rung of the ladder banding together. Imagine what we could do? We’re strong, but not enough to go at it on our own. But I’ve got a mind for strategy. If you two will join me, I’ll take us all the way.”

“So, what exactly is your plan? To take one of those coveted spots?” Philomena asked. She seemed amused.

Varroc smiled. “Either they make room for us and add three more. Or we kill all of them and take over ourselves. Either way, I will carve out a space for us. So, will you join me?”

Brel grunted. “My old friends got killed because they were weak. Don’t go dying on me.”

Varroc smiled. “And you?”

Her eyes bore down on him. “I’m curious enough. I suppose I’ll give you a chance.”

Varroc smiled, even as the rope cut into his neck and his life faded. This was it. They’d failed all because of that stupid—

In the empty streets below, a figure approached. His face was smashed in from falling from such a height, but he was still alive. Even if just barely.

The snatcher Merlin had felled.

It held a hand towards Varroc. “The silence is deafening. The influence waning. But I found something you might find interesting. I wanted to share it with you.” The words were inside his head.

He couldn’t even die in peace.

A flash. He saw Brel lying face first in the dungeon in a pool of his own blood.

Another. Philomena was on her knees in the woods. Her arms bound behind her back. She was absolutely full of terror. A man walked around a camp barking out orders. So, the soldier had been telling the truth. She’d have been better off dead. If they were taking her back, they had plans for her. They would make her pay for all of their sins. The torture they were capable of would break her.

He struggled anew with his restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. It was taking everything in him just to stave off death. The will of a man who had been at death’s door many times.

I led them here. They’re my responsibility.

He knew he would die here.

The snatcher smiled, staring up at him. “Suffer for me. Suffer with me. It’s so quiet.”

But that didn’t mean he had to die alone.

“You shouldn’t be so eager to let people into your mind,” Varroc projected his thoughts toward the snatcher.

The snatcher paused. “How can you speak like this? You’re not one of us!”

“Do you know why the dungeon uses you as mouthpieces? It could speak to me through the sphere of influence, too. But it always kept me out. Do you know why?”

Varroc blinked. When he opened his eyes, he was standing in the center of the dungeon. The snatcher was there with him as well. Brel’s body was on the floor in front of him.

“How did you…what did you do? I don’t understand.” The snatcher grasped at its own mutilated face.

Varroc smiled. “I didn’t inherit that power. But if you invite someone like me in, you better be damned sure you can handle the consequences.”

The snatcher took a step back. Behind him, a copy of Varroc appeared. It grabbed the snatcher and bit down on his neck, tearing through the flesh. The snatcher screamed. “How?”

Varroc smiled over his shoulder. “You said you wanted us to suffer together. So, suffer.” He turned back to his fallen friend. Varroc’s body was on the verge of death. He only had a moment.

He placed a hand on the injured man and felt the magic seep from his body.

“You always come when I call you Brel. So, come now. Come and save her.”

He turned to look over his shoulder. His clone, the other Varroc, changed. Its skin became a translucent blue. “I only answered your call because I’ve never tasted a Limbling before.”

Varroc smirked. “And? How’d it taste?”

“Like carrion. It’s odd you always had an affinity for this, but instead, you lusted after the power your brother inherited.”

Varroc groaned. “I’m on the verge of death. Don’t bore me to an even earlier demise. I’d like to stave off hell as long as I can.”

“I’m the only thing keeping you alive at this point. Or rather, my curiosity. So tell me, why did you kill your brother for his power but not see the job through?” The spirit asked. Its hair grew until it reached the floor, and its facial features became its own. The nose was longer, the brows thicker. Still, it remained translucent.

Varroc stood and turned to face the creature. “Finish it? He was the last of his line. It should’ve passed on to me. But it didn’t. You know something?”

“You knew something. You’ve known it all along. But you allowed the dungeon to play with your memories.” The spirit disappeared and reappeared next to him. Varroc’s head turned to look at it. The spirit placed a hand on his shoulder.

Then he remembered. Tan skin. Long wild hair.

The child with unnatural strength.

Kashak.

His brother had a son. The dungeon had stolen this memory from him, locked it away within his own mind. The answer had been within reach all this time, and he couldn’t even remember.

His nostrils flared, and he flexed the muscles on his arms. Varroc roared.

The power hadn’t passed to him because his brother had a son.

It had gone to Kashak.

The power that was wasted on his brother. The power that would’ve allowed Varroc to conquer Coelacanth.

The spirit smirked. “You had power at your fingertips, your obsession with inheritance ruined you. My curiosity is sated.”

Varroc blinked again, and he was hanging from the stone building again. Below him, the snatcher bled in the street from a wound on his neck. The power of a spirit.

He steeled himself. There was nothing he could do now. He wouldn’t give the spirit the satisfaction. He put the revelation from his mind. The days of worrying about that power were over.

This was it. This was the end for him. He whispered his friend’s name. “Brel.”

In his mind, he saw the scene flash by like a memory.

Brel’s eyes shot open, and he sucked in a deep breath of air.

That was the thing about having people you could depend on. Loyal people. It meant even if you lost, the war wasn’t necessarily over. Not as long as you kept a piece on the board.

He would die, but Brel would live. He would save Philo, and they would make the people who forced them to hide in this system-forsaken city pay.

Varroc smirked, and then he passed from this world with only a single thought in his mind.

His companions would burn Coelacanth to the ground.