The Summer was beginning to wind down and Falcher felt the time passing. He’d been gone for a month if not longer. He’d been trying to find safe passage out of Huma but after the library fire, security was so tight that even the sewer exits had guards. New Haven, as he’d learned the city’s name to be from Gabriel, was already on edge from the Suranites before his arrival. The library was a gift to the city from the capital, fully funded and supplied over a millennium. This only made Falcher’s guilt worse.
During his extended stay, Falcher had gotten close to Gabriel, learning some of the good ‘hunting grounds’ available in the city. The docks, despite all the cargo, were the least guarded areas. With Gabriel’s help, he’d managed to keep himself fed. Gabriel also introduced Falcher to the larger network of homeless and forgotten residents of the city’s underground, including a way-in into the criminal syndicates.
The criminal syndicate was a loose coalition of crime gangs and mafia that acted as a pseudo-government for the downtrodden. They provided the means and the resources while keeping the surface of the city from bringing out the guillotine. The hub of the syndicate was located inside the sewer systems and much like the above-ground market, had a market of its own.
Gabriel was leading the way, minding his footing to not fall into the sewer waters. “The city above barely even remembers these sewers,” the man said, “I did some reading a few years back, apparently during the Age of Man, these sewers almost hit capacity. Spoke of something called a waste treatment plant.”
Falcher had wrapped his cape around his head, trying to keep the eye-watering stench out of his nostrils. “I don’t think it’s working anymore.”
Gabriel laughed loudly, “Hah! It hasn’t worked in a few thousand years. It was broken beyond repair during the Age of Monsters and I guess they couldn’t replicate it. Most of that gunk is sludge, not water, so unless you want the world’s nastiest diseases, I’d stay out of it.”
“I wasn’t planning on getting a facial with that grime,” Falcher countered.
“The syndicate market is just up ahead, through that divider.” Gabriel pointed to a very out-of-place-looking stone brick wall with an iron door on both platforms, on either side of the stationary river of sewage. Gabriel walked up to the iron doors, picked up a peculiarly placed red brick, and used it to knock on the door.
Flacher was standing patiently behind him but eyed the door. It was littered in dents and the ground around it plastered in red dust. The brick was a dedicated knocker.
Gabriel banged the brick against the door in a rhythmic pattern, signaling some sort of code. The shutter on the door opened, revealing a pair of bestial eyes behind it. “Gerald Hamp,” he said.
The eyes from behind the door threw a glance in Falcher’s direction. “Who is he?” The eyes asked with a heavy guttural voice.
“ Newcomer,” Gabriel paused for a moment to think. “Frank Thompson.”
The shutter closed and the door was pulled inward, opening the entryway to them. The pair walked inside and the door was closed behind them. Falcher turned to look at the beastfolk and the door guard was an eight-foot minotaur wearing only a patched kilt. He was broad-shouldered and built with enough muscle to crush coal into diamonds. Nothing short of the spitting image of a guard. Falcher then noticed he was falling behind and picked up pace to match Gabriel. “What’s with the false names?” He asked.
“You never use your real name down here. That’s how this place stays alive, any names are wholly untraceable so no one gets tied to anything.” Gabriel explained, “I know a few people down here who might be able to help you escape.”
The market for the criminal syndicate almost mirrored the above-ground market. Instead of stalls with food and common everyday items like clothes and tools, they had black market weapons, freshly harvested organs in ice chests, second-hand luxuries, and what looked to be stacks of very legal-looking papers. Gabriel led him to a side room that was carved out of the existing sewer tunnels, through a set of draped rugs. Inside were five nude humans, actively in the middle of prayer. They were kowtowing, and chanting in a language unknown to Falcher.
Standing before them in a shrine of gore was a gutted deer with its antlers broken off and its chest cavity stuffed with slow-burning herbs that smelled of a kitchen. Placed in three stone bowls were the deer’s heart, lungs, and entire digestive tract.
A sixth human, clothed in black robes, suddenly started chanting from the side of the altar, previously unnoticed by Falcher’s otherwise keen eyes. It held a tarnished brass thurible and with each swing, the smoke from burning incense billowed out of it. The chanting stopped and the room was quiet as the sixth werewolf, a Thurifier as Falcher deducted from her robed attire, set down the thurible and wrapped the intestines around its neck and held the heart in one hand and the lungs in the other. It turned around, back to the altar, and in a horrifying display, chowed down on the organs. Blood smeared all around its lips. The human threw back the hood, showing their brown skin and yellow eyes.
Falcher knew well where he was now. The gored deer, the heavy herbal incense, and the ritualistic sacrificing all pointed to one cult, the Cult of Sura and he was in their chapel. These were werewolves who were praying. His mind raced back to the night he encountered the werewolf and how it claimed he ruined their plans. He secretly hoped these ones didn’t know about him.
The woman in the robes raised her arms up high, “Siblings, we have an unexpected guest,” she spoke with a formal tone similar to a priest of the Odissian Pantheon. “Gabriel!” She sounded almost excited to see him again.
Falcher was even more confused when she ran up to hug him. He averted his eyes when the robe fell off and gave a nudging cough. The robe she was wearing but now laid strewn across the floor, was a black cloak with no clasp and she was holding on herself with one hand.
Gabriel let out a chuckle, “it’s good to see you again, Sierra.”
Falcher coughed again, louder, and pointed to the cloak, still trying to not place his gaze upon a very nude woman.
“It’s alright, Falcher. I guess you didn’t know Suranites are also nudists,” Gabriel awkwardly chuckled.
Falcher took a deep breath and spun on the pads of his foot. Standing before him at chest height, somewhere around five foot eight inches, was a brown-skinned human with dusty charcoal-colored hair and body proportions that would make her highly desirable to most other humans. She had a giddy smile with a muscular arm wrapped around Gabriel’s neck.
Sierra held out her other hand, “I’m Sierra, an acolyte of Sura.”
“Falcher, a wolf-kin in service to Oakengrove,” he replied. The other five nude humans stood up almost in sync. They were all male and well beyond just toned but had defined muscles worthy of crushing stone into powder. They all were seemingly equally surprised to hear the Father of the Forest’s name.
Sierra quickly turned and dismissed them, “This is a conversation for private ears. Go, brothers.”
The men gathered up their clothes, dressed themselves, and departed.
The acolyte’s proper demeanor left her the moment the men were gone. Her shoulders relaxed and she leaned on Gabriel further. She pinched his cheek affectionately, “Why have you brought a Florist to my shrine?”
Gabriel batted away her hand, “He needs to escape the city, and the city guard has the external sewer exits locked down.”
Sierra removed her arm from him and walked up to Falcher. “A man dressed this fancy, is a servant to the Father of the Forest? Count me impressed.” She walked around him, eyeing him from top to bottom. “Specialized in the nobleman’s art of fencing no less. Are you sure you’re a Florist?”
Falcher crossed his arms and raised a brow, offended by the implications. “And what would a corpse muncher know about Oakengrove?”
She let out a cackle and slapped Falcher’s shoulder, “The wolf has a bite, I like him.”
Gabriel then spoke, “So, I may have left out a detail or two. Sierra is my partner. She’s a dedicated Suranite with a heart overflowing with compassion.”
She walked up to Gabriel and patted his cheek, “You know just how to flirt.” She then picked up the discarded cloak and hung it on a wall hook. “So you need a way out of the city.” Suddenly, her voice was back to its previous formality and down to business. “I may have some sway in that matter, but what’s in it for me?”
Falcher turned to Gabriel, unsure of how to answer but got only a shrug of the shoulders in response. “What do you need?”
“I’ve heard rumors of a two-legged wolf who burnt down the library last month. I’m not going to point fingers, but it hampered our efforts to shake things up. The city garrison has been more aggressive than usual and if not for the Syndicate, everyone in these sewers, and everyone above who relies on them, would have been lost. Who do you think makes it easier to scavenge the warehouses at the docks?”
Gabriel held out a hand to calm her. “Be nice to him, please.”
Sierra took a deep breath, “If you want a path out of the city, I can make it, but I need something the city guard stole from us, the whole reason we’re in this nightmare of a city to begin with. Sura’s Hunting Horn was stolen a decade ago and recently, we figured out where in the hells it’s been,” She spoke with a heavy exasperation of relief. “The only downside is that it’s locked up in the palace proper, on display as a war trophy of the governor.”
Falcher leaned back on his feet, resting his hands on his hips. “What’s stopped you from getting it?”
“Paladins of Torcall. Y’know the whole human supremacist spiel?” She asked rhetorically. “Those fuckers are the reason behind it. They’ve been blessed by him and benefit from curated genomes. These are superhumans who move in the heaviest plate available as if it were linen clothing. On top of that, their ‘god,’” she said, speaking with a finger gesture of air quotes. “Is the archnemesis of Sura and his blessings are specialized in hunting abominations. Usually we werewolves, but it also extends to vampires and other were-creatures. You are a beastfolk so their holy smite won’t do shit to you.”
Falcher rested an uneasy hand on the hilt of his rapier. “Are you certain of that? I would like to see the next dawn.”
Sierra bobbed her head side to side, “Mostly sure. I’d be willing to bet good money on it if that helps.”
It wasn’t the greatest odds but Falcher was willing to take it. “Alright, what are we looking at for a window of opportunity?”
Falcher wasn’t a fan of the operation being a solo mission. Offset to the north side of the metropolis was the palace. Built entirely out of stone bricks, concrete, and other lesser-known building materials, the palace stood as an imposing fortress ever vigilant. It had its own set of twenty-foot tall walls and manned machicolations. The single entrance point was a set of ten-foot-tall wrought iron reinforced, solid hardwood doors and those too had four paladins stationed in front of it.
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The sewers ran beneath the fortress but nearly every outlet had been sealed up. The last remaining manhole was fortunately buried in bushes within the courtyard, negating the troublesome fortified wall. He stealthily lowered the manhole cover into place and hid in the bushes. With the help of Sierra, he’d gotten a fresh change of clothes. The new set was an all-black Gambeson suit, making him almost invisible in dimly lit rooms. The courtyard was dimly lit, having only candle-lit lanterns that barely emitted enough light to justify their purpose beyond decorations.
Through the center of the courtyard was a pristine brick road that led from the gated entrance to the doorstep of the palace itself. Weirdly, there were no guards within the courtyard itself, only on the walls. The exterior surfaces of the castle itself were too smooth to scale and the windows couldn’t be opened. With little difficulty, Falcher made his way to the front doors of the palace. A pair of hardwood with wrought iron reinforcements stood in front of him. He pulled on the handles the doors opened easily and quietly.
He slipped in between the doors and closed them behind him. The interior was well lit with lanterns nearly everywhere. The main entrance room had three doorways, one in each direction. Falcher moved along the wall to the left door, pushed it open, and peered around the corner. It was a less lit-up coat closet. Capes, capelets, cloaks, and heavy outdoor robes all hung up in the walk-in closet. He sighed in relief and moved to the doorway across from the entrance. It took only a moment to realize that it wasn’t a doorway but rather a hallway that likely traveled all the way down to the throne room and central gathering hall.
Slowly walking down the hall, he passed a set of side rooms with plush vintage couches. These rooms were not illuminated; a perfect hiding spot to disappear into. A few feet further he arrived at T-junction. To his left and right were long hallways with red jute carpets tacked to the stone brick flooring. He thought about it for a moment. He’d only been told what the item was and that it was in this palace but not where inside. The ground floor was unlikely to house valuable treasures, meaning he either needed to go towards the third and fourth floors or into the basement levels. Fortunately, spiral stairs flanked the doors in front of him and he quickly ran up to the second floor.
The stairs continued upward but also were completely open to the second-floor landing. The landing pad was made of higher-quality marble bricks and looked even cleaner and better-lit. A gut feeling told him to check out the second level and thus he hopped off the stairs and skulked about. Massive suits of shiny plate metal armor stood motionless on their stands, holding six-foot halberds. The armor displays were propped against a stone brick wall in the center of the floor, dividing it into two hallways on either side. Another set of double doors sat between the statues. Looking in either direction, he realized that there wasn’t a single guard around.
He approached the door and popped it ajar. Peering inside, he saw what looked like a debate hall. A set of tables and benches in the middle facing each other, a throne at the head of the room, and along the walls were stone benches. These were either for spectators or other politicians. The room was dimly lit with a handful of wall sconces active. He closed the door and looked down the right hallway. Above a few doors lining the hallway were wooden signs written in common. “Office of Post, Ministry of Legalities,” He paused and stuck out his tongue in disgust. “If there ever was a job that everyone hated, that would be it right there,” he mumbled to himself.
The third door all the way down the hallway had “Department of Finances” written on it. He thought about it and it seemed like a plausible location to have a treasury vault or records on something that valuable. He took a leisurely walk down the hallway. It was unsettling to see the entire interior vacant and devoid of even guards. Then it occurred to him. They were too busy guarding the walls and sewers trying to keep the world outside, not what’s inside away from the valuables.
He walked up to the door and rattled the handle. It popped open easily enough allowing him to step inside. It was another hallway into a T-junction with even more doors. He flopped his head to one side and groaned audibly, “Bloody bureaucrats. I need a fucking map to traverse this place.”
He walked up to each door and opened them. All the rooms were paper-pusher offices with stacks of papers, filing cabinets, and overflowing trash cans. Except for one door. That door opened into a micro-closet with a solid iron door on the opposite end. Falcher’s curiosity peaked. The door had a large sliding iron rod around a fist thick with a locking mechanism that held it in place. The rest of the rod was plunged deep into the brick-and-mortar.
However, there was something weird about it. Beneath the iron rod was a weathered triangular protrusion with nine unlabeled buttons on it. Pushing on the buttons however did nothing. They simply made a subtle little click. He knelt down and looked at the underside of it. Holding it together were four nails with rounded heads and indentations in the shape of intersecting beams. From his pocket, he produced a locksmithing kit but none of his tools matched it. “Weird,” he scoffed and focused back on the beefy padlock that held the iron bar in place.
A few very dedicated minutes and three lockpicks later, the padlock popped open. He removed it and slid the iron bar out from its hole in the wall. The metal dragged and screeched horrendously in its cast-iron sleeve. The door was heavy and hard to push but it did open. A glance inside revealed a treasure trove of assets. Stacks of gold and platinum coins, looted items, traveler trunks, storage chests, and all sorts of miscellaneous items filled the room. Lining the walls were items with auction tags strapped to them, including a very large ivory horn with a metallic band around the opening. It was mounted to the wall. He scanned the room, looking for traps but saw nothing obvious. He checked the backside of the door and unsurprisingly, there was no handle.
He grabbed a chair from one of the offices and used it to prop the vault door open. With a few short strides, Falcher successfully retrieved the horn from the wall.
Then some coins clattered to the floor.
Falcher slowly turned his head to look behind him. The door was still open with the chair propping it up. Something in the room changed. It felt warmer and more humid. He felt eyes on him. The horn had a strap on it and so he slung it over his shoulder. Then he heard the coins sliding again. He snapped his head towards it and flattened his ears.
Slowly creeping into the doorway was one of the chests. The colors of the chest looked off. The wood texture seemed to writhe in place as if some optical illusion. He narrowed his eyes, staring directly at it. His hands gripped the rapiers. “Mimics…” he muttered. “two feet across, one back, two tall, approximately eighty pounds. It’s a juvenile.”
The chest’s lid parted slightly from the lower half, revealing a massive mouth and fangs on the inside. Slender tendrils crept out from the sides of it and a pair of eyes opened at the two latches on its face. It too was hesitant to make the first move. It seemed to know better. It appeared to have been trained.
Falcher drew both rapiers from their belt frogs and readied himself. He lowered his center of gravity, priming his hind legs. Then with a hard push, he lunged across the room with both blades held out in front and aimed for its eyes.
The mimic slammed the lid shut thinking the wolf-kin was going for its mouth and internals. It was wrong. The pair of pokey rapiers pierced the eyes, blinding the creature instantly. The lid snapped open all the way as it screeched in pain. Falcher let go of his rapiers and grabbed its barbed tongue. He yanked hard on it and with some finesse, brought his leg up and around, driving the lid closed onto the tongue. He sat down on the lid, keeping its mouth closed, and yanked the tongue upward, severing it. Then he cast it aside.
The mimic was crippled. The tongue was its most important weapon, the one guarantee it had to keep its prey trapped. Its arms, a set of eight tendrils, four per side, flailed about, trying to knock its attacker off its jaw. It wrapped a tendril around the wolfkin’s leg and pulled, sliding him off.
Falcher grabbed the hilt of the rapier closest to him and ripped it out, taking the deflated eyeball with it. Then he plunged it back into the eye socket, driving it deeper in. The creature screamed in pain again but only briefly. Falcher stood up and dusted himself off, taking both his rapiers to hand. He side-eyed the dead mimic and scoffed. “I’m impressed they could train one of these. At least that’s the only one.”
Then he froze and the hairs on his neck stood up. Coins clanged to the ground behind him. He slowly turned his head and saw another six chests facing his direction and were twitching in excitement. “Oh hell no.”
The wolfkin rushed out of the vault and kicked the chair aside. He bashed his shoulder into the iron door, slamming it shut, and then slammed the locking bolt into place. “Nope, nope, nope, nope…” he repeated aloud. He hated mimics. His mind recalled another danger-close encounter from yesteryear. However, within the same split second of recollection, it was gone again. Hoping he hadn’t made too much noise, he moved about the palace as stealthily as he could, slowly making his way to his escape tunnel.
His walk back to the main quarters of the Syndicate was a quiet one spent admiring Sura’s Hunting Horn. It was a well-polished and maintained ivory horn with gold trims and embellishments around the bell of the horn. The mouthpiece was made of brass but it was discolored from what he only assumed to be frequent usage. It was no larger than his forearm and it could be very easily mistaken for a regular sounding horn. As he admired it in all of its exquisite beauty, he heard a whisper from his shoulder.
He spun about on a dime, drawing one of his rapiers out in a single swift motion. He saw nothing in the sewer tunnel, however. “Who’s there?” He called out.
A slow but enthusiastic clap came from the dimly lit part of the tunnels he’d just walked through. “Bravo,” echoed a female voice. It was soft, and delicate, but hung itself on a sense of pride. “Count me impressed,” She said. “You got in and out without so much as a hiccup. How?”
Falcher’s eyes frantically darted in every direction. The voice sounded like it was coming from all around him. “Who are you?”
“A spectator, a supporter, a fan.” The voice cackled.
Falcher saw a form approach him. It was tall and slender, looking like a human woman but with big fluffy canine ears on top of the head and a large poofy tail swishing behind her. He stiffened and kept his rapier pointed forward. “I ask again, who are you?” Beneath his breath, he cast a boon upon himself.
She raised her tone to boisterous levels and held her arms up high as if walking down center stage. “Who else, darling? The Queen of the Werewolves herself. I am Sura.” Each step towards him revealed more of her in the dim light. She wore form-fitting black clothes with a brown shawl that sported a standing collar, and a black half-kilt at her waist to compliment the black pants and boots. The few bits of brown were the belt and decorative trims on the clothes. Her skin shimmered as if made with obsidian. She had wolf-like clawed hands with more fur on them.
Falcher lowered his blade. He recognized the name and knew fighting a lesser deity was a poor decision. “To what do I owe this honor, madam?”
Sura casually walked up to him, her smile wide with glee and her brown eyes traced the horn. “To reclaim my most valuable possession and in return, lend you some aid.”
Falcher sheathed the blade but kept a hand wrapped around the horn. “I snatched this on the request of your servants within the Syndicate hub. Surely it’d be most beneficial to get it from them?”
She scoffed and laughed like he’d told her a good joke. “It matters not who gives it to me but I will say this, even if it pains me to, those werewolves were cowards. They fear the false god Torcall and his paladins. They do not deserve the privilege of laying eyes on my beloved horn.” She said sternly with a strong hint of disdain for her followers.
“Given what they’ve told me, I’m not surprised they’re hesitant.” He paused mid-sentence, hearing the clacking of claws behind him.
It was the group of werewolves that he saw earlier in the shrine. They came to a screeching halt at the site of Sura and all fell flat to their stomachs.
Sura gently pushed Falcher aside and grumpily approached her devout followers. The tone of her voice changed from friendly to harsh and hostile. “You mutts couldn’t do a simple task that I asked of you! You claim to serve me with all your beings and yet you hesitate at the first sign of opportunity and hire an outsider! Damn all of you!” She waved her hand and a green aura was pulled from each of them, removing their werewolf forms and leaving behind naked and weakened humans. “You all are undeserving of my gift. Now get out of my sight!”
The men scrambled over each other and fled without so much as a second thought. Falcher was impressed and slow-clapped in response.
Sura took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, and turned back to Falcher with the same pleasant smile she had before. “I assume now you believe me?”
Falcher nodded and handed over the horn. “It’s not so much that I didn’t believe you, but I don’t trust this city to not have its thieves.”
Sura took the horn and slung it over her shoulder. “This city is horrible. Scum and villainy are everywhere, corruption, while beneficial for myself and others, is everywhere. I want to get my children out of here but this city in particular is making an ass of itself, pardon my language.”
Falcher picked up on her frustration. It was the same frustrations he had. He produced two thick textbooks from his bag, “I’ve been trying to get out of this city for weeks with these books. I’m trying to get home to Oakengrove.”
Sura’s ears perked up and twitched. “The Tree Father is back?”
Falcher nodded. “That’s why I’m here actually.”
Sura’s toothy smile grew ten times larger, “I was so worried when I heard he’d disappeared, where’s he been all these years?”
Falcher shrugged and placed the books back into his bag. “Just the reason I’m here. He wants knowledge, to find the reason behind what happened.”
Sura’s smile faded. She knew something that she wasn’t letting on.
Falcher pressed the matter, “What have you heard?”
Sura’s ears dropped in sorrow. “Only that he died. Some of us gods have met up a few times over the past millennium to chat about things. I was hoping the rumors were wrong but it seems my hope was misplaced. At least he’s back.”
“Can you help me get out and back to him? I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you again if you two are as close as you make it out to be,” Falcher said, trying to bribe her and to some success.
“Teleportation is not in my magical arsenal but I can manage an escape plan. I owe you that much for getting my horn back. Besides, I want to get back at these humans,” she replied, giggling at the thought of revenge.