Ry’s and Em’s apprehension turned to sheer bafflement. “No way?” Ry said. “But Gorths… Gorthorns are…”

“Vicious beasts of war?” Rakash asked. “Blood-hungry killers? Weak-willed swamp dwellers? Please. Do all no-breeds believe every rumor sent their way? Will you believe me if I tell you our children munch crab shells for breakfast?”

“But…” Ry said. “We’re at war?”

“Countries clash,” Rakash said. “Leaders squabble.”

“Your people hate us!” Ry said. “You’re attacking our country!”

Rakash sighed. “I have held this same conversation with no-breeds four times by now. Experience has shown me that convincing you of my people’s nature is impossible, and not worth the effort.”

Ry struggled to find his words. He looked much like a baffled child.

War-free utopia, huh? I thought. My day only got more absurd. Yet somehow the argument before me sounded homely. I observed from the side, sensing no opportunity to join in. That suited my clueless ass just fine.

Em spoke without her usual composed aura. “Are you really a Gorthorn?”

“No,” Rakash said. “I’m a salmon carp cleverly disguised as a priest of Lashan.”

“Oh,” Em said. “That… was a lie?”

“Of course I am a Gorthorn,” Rakash said. “Is the Krose education so lacking that my description gets mixed with oversized gremlins?”

“I’m sorry,” Em said. “It’s just… You… Your eyes looked scary in that corner.”

Rakash snorted. “I tend to sulk when left in a dark cell with no bed for several nights straight. My apology.”

Em readjusted her posture, looking as honest as she could with her hands tied. “We apologize for the misunderstanding. You clearly aren’t the monster my mother warned me of.”

“I wish I was,” Rakash said. “Life would be a whole lot easier if I could kill on a whim.”

“But Gorthorns are at war with us!” Ry said with a frown. “This is a fact. It can’t all be lies.”

“It is true that some members of my kind hold disapproval towards yours,” Rakash said. “Some are not as patient with discrimination as I. But believe me, few of us fuel fights through hatred. My tribe certainly doesn’t. We are deserters.”

“What do you mean?” Ry asked.

“Not every Gorthorn wishes to see themselves killed by Krose steel,” Rakash said. “My tribe deserted the military and escaped our country. Thousands have done the same. A move which has turned us all into prime commerce for these poachers of yours.”

Ry’s scowl deepened. “What you’re telling me is that everything I’ve heard of your kind are lies? That every one of our war masters’ experiences is false? That your kind has never harmed a soul?”

“We harm plenty of souls,” Rakash said. “Gorthorns are human, despite our differences. Humans kill each other. This should not be a revelation.”

Ry opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Ra… Rakash?” Em asked. “Please forgive our insults. Few Krose have talked with Gorthorns before.”

“Oh, worry not,” Rakash said. “I have dealt with far worse. I thank you for the courtesy of not thrusting daggers at my face.”

“If I may ask…” Em hesitated. “Do all Gorthorns speak the way you do?”

“Like how?” Rakash asked.

“Like, um… wittily?”

“Gorthorns are intelligent enough for speech,” Rakash said. “If that is the question you are asking. Few bother to learn Krose, however. Those that have love to use the language for its intended purpose. Which is to confuse natives with insulting rhetoric.”

Em offered an awkward smile. “Seriously?”

Rakash sighed. “Do you really require textbook answers? Gorthorns excel at expressing compassion through language. It is the strength of our language. Insults and bitterness are qualities we pick up after isolation in Krose cells.”

“The Krose are taught that Gorthorns are incompatible with compassion,” Em said.

“That does sound like something no-breeds would learn,” Rakash said. “Yet, your friend right there speaks the language just fine. Has he not told you more about us?”

My brain jumped at being involved in the conversation again. Em and Ry glanced at me, suspicion remaining.

“Not close friends, huh?” Rakash asked. “Lucky for us, there’s plenty of time to get to know each other.”

“Rakash?” Em asked. “I’m truly sorry for our ignorance. Forgive us. For the time being, um, may we work together for a mutual goal? I doubt you sit here out of choice.”

“A sharp observation,” Rakash said. “Yet there is no work to be done. If escape is what you’re after, I am afraid I cannot provide. Not without my staff, and not while the Warden guards these cells.”

“Staff? Warden?” Em asked. “Please explain.”

“Staff. Is that not the correct word?” Rakash asked. “The magic shaper.”

“I know what a staff is,” Em said. “I’m asking… are you a mage?”

“I am a wielder of the power to heal,” Rakash said. “My old no-breed companion claimed your kind calls us ‘support mages.’”

“You’re a mage?” Em gushed. “Seriously?”

“Why the surprise?” Rakash asked. “The man before you is a wielder too. Far greater than I am.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“Sorry,” Em said. “I just didn’t know Gorthorns could be mages.”

“You will find me of little use,” Rakash said. “My offensive library consists of haphazard attempts sustained only by the strongest of staves. Even at my best, I cannot harm the Warden.”

“And the Warden is?” Ry asked.

Rakash stared back at him. “My dear no breeds. Before I tell you anything else, I recommend abandoning the escape.”

“And why is that?” Ry asked with a frown. “Answer the damn question.”

“The Warden is a behemoth in black armor. The worst of killers I have ever seen. Were you to dispatch a fleet of him on the border, I say the war would be as good as over. The Gorthorns would surrender. You three were captured without as much as a touch of his assistance. He will get involved. Your hopes for escape are slim.”

Ry and Em shared glances. “Black armor?” Em asked. “Rakash? Who exactly are our captors? The masked men were not the church’s servants.”

“These poachers call themselves the cultists of Azetoth,” Rakash said. “A nasty bunch. The monster stories you tell of Gorthorns are true in the case of Azetoth and his peers.”

Ry and Em froze. “No,” Em said. “You must be wrong. The cult can’t be at the church!”

“My tribe has clashed with this group for a year now,” Rakash said. “Not one of us was saved from their cells. You would think we’d recognize our captors by now.”

“Are you for real?” Ry asked. “The cult of Azetoth?”

“I wish I was not,” Rakash said.

Ry’s scowl turned to me. “Cill. You’ve led us to the cult. The cult’s fucking cells.”

“I…” I said with dry lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“What does the cult want from us?” Em asked.

“If you were Gorthorns,” Rakash said, “they would want slaves and people to abuse. But as you are their own kind, I have not the slightest clue.”

“We are simple trespassers,” Em said. “Surely they will let us go?”

“So hoped the previous no-breeds,” Rakash said. “May Lashan bless their graves.”

Em and Ry stared at each other, both looking concerned.

“Are we in trouble?” I asked, my heart starting to beat again.

“Are we in fucking trouble?” Ry said. “What does it look like? Yes, we are in trouble, thanks to you and your lying letter. I shouldn’t have…”

His words trailed off as footsteps approached. A whole bunch of them. Rakash detached herself from our group, moving back to her corner. The sensible conversation had started to calm my nerves, but my brain took no less than a second to fill with pressure again.

Rakash, as fearful and competent as she appeared, claimed she couldn’t even dream of escaping against these cultists.

Four figures entered the room. The two masked men, the Priest Keeper, and a cowled old man.

“My, my,” the cowled man said. His robe was similar to the Priest Keeper’s but distinct through the red lace web woven over the sleeves. “Visitors at odd hours. A priest’s favorite.”

We faced them through the bars. If there was a plan, I did not know how to follow it. I put on my best face and attempted to stay composed, though I knew I looked like a toddler on the first day of daycare. I hoped if I didn’t do anything stupid, I wouldn’t be punished.

“Not royalty this time,” the man said, facing Ry. “Not even a raid party sent by the guild, but bottom dweller adventurers. I hear you visit on behalf of… unusual business.”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Ry said. “We are in the wrong house.”

“You lied in an attempt to sneak in,” the cultist said. “You know of the catacomb’s outer entrance, and you forced your way in despite orders to stay out. This intrusion was by intention. Try to claim you’re here to catch rats, and I’ll skip straight to clipping your fingers off.”

“We thought we had the right house, sure,” Ry said. “But we were clearly wrong. If you could be so kind—”

Something hit Ry in the forehead with a whoosh. A projectile the size of a pebble from the Priest Keeper’s staff. It hit hard enough for my heart to jump, but the impact didn’t seem to faze Ry’s consciousness.

“Answer what was asked, intruder,” the Priest Keeper said, pointing at him with her staff.

“Ask him!” Ry cried, gesturing at me with his head. “He’s the one who led us here! I don’t know shit!”

The cowled man eyed me for a moment. “A wealthy outsider ordering adventurers. Interesting. For twenty years I have received visitors, and not once have I seen shirts woven as smoothly as yours. Tell me, where do you come from?”

“America, sir,” I said. I would have loved to lie, but I lacked the knowledge to dream of anything believable.

“America,” the man repeated. “That is not a house nor country I am aware of. I can only presume it’s wealthy enough.”

The man took a step towards me, close enough to the bars that a crazier inmate could have flicked a wrist at him. “Outsider. I offer you ten seconds to lay the names of every influential legislator who we might find displeased to see you harmed. With them we may negotiate your release.”

Words got stuck in my mouth under his gaze. My brain stumbled on the few cells still running. The rope tying my hands seemingly extended to my thoughts. I had no idea what I could have possibly said to save myself.

“Nothing?” the man said with a laugh. “Then, I have no choice but to treat you as any ordinary intruder, wealthy or not. Tell me, outsider, why have you three broken into the catacombs?”

I licked my lips. The weight in my throat made it hard to speak. “We are looking for a teacher…”

“Perfect Krose enunciation,” the cultist noted. “Impressive for a man of your look. If only your lies were as proficient as your speech. I will repeat my question.”

“It’s true!” I said. “Jordan Feryah. He’s a teacher, no? We were told he’s in the area, and that he could teach a recent awakener. So, we hoped, um…”

The man stared at me. “You wished to avoid the slave contracts through an illegal unlicensed teacher. How did you know of Jordan Feryah’s hideout?”

“Darko, sir,” I said. “The Wyvern Slayer. He gave us the information.”

“I see,” the man said. “How considerate of the Wyvern Slayer. The catacombs were indeed Jordan Feryah’s lab one year ago. Unfortunately, your precious Wyvern Slayer has slightly outdated information.” He turned to the Priest Keeper. “The story sounds plausible enough. Examine her chords. How severe is her Corruption?”

The Priest Keeper nodded. The masked men unlocked the cell doors, then dragged Em out of the cell. The Priest Keeper examined her tied hands much the same way Remy had examined mine. The process took ten seconds, during which I was too afraid to speak up and clear up the misunderstandings.

Examination done, the Priest Keeper frowned. “He lies. The girl has no chords to dream of.”

Questioning eyes drew towards me.

“I… I’m the one who awakened.”

“Interesting,” the man said. “Examine him.”

So they did. The masked men snatched me with rough hands. I stumbled on my feet. The men didn’t care, dragging me and my limp foot. They held me with my back facing the Priest Keeper.

The Priest keeper’s cold touch tickled my tied wrists. An experience that I would have called uncomfortable two days ago, back when I hadn’t been tied down and threatened by cultists. My tolerance for discomfort had doubled within the last few hours.

The Priest Keeper gasped. She stood and stepped backwards. “You… No…”

“What is it!” the cowled man asked.

Through long breaths, the Priest Keeper said, “Call the emergency. Now. The Founder will want a word with this man.”

The man frowned. “Azetoth departed days ago. He’s bound to have reached Vulusen by now. The Archpriests will be furious for interruptions.”

“They will kill us if we don’t call,” the Priest Keeper said. “This man… His mana chords are Hallowed!”

[Cillian Bermeyer]

[Level one]

[Recent awakener]

[Abilities: Fireball, Carillia’s assistance]