On The Edge of Blades (Chapter 2.5)

Water dripped down like tired rain from the ceiling. The small cell was cramped and humid, and the air reeked of rot and decay. Syra lay on the cold cell floor an old and worn doll, her hands twitching mindlessly as she slept.

Voices echoed down as faint traces of conversation. Syra wiped the sleep from her eyes, and as she did, the voices grew louder. Soon she could hear the beginnings of words and sentences, but the conversation was too soon replaced by heavy footsteps.

The stairs leading to the cells beneath the guildhall were not lengthy, yet each of the footsteps felt like the swing of an executioner’s axe. The Hunters had brought her to the hidden dungeon days ago and since she had had no company save for that of her own questions. 

“Why did you do it?” Syra recognized the female voice that pierced the darkness and cursed her luck.

 “I said, why did you do it?” Even the darkness failed to mask the woman’s irritation.

“I wish we would not play this game.” Syra sat up, “Tell me Lirael, what is it that I have done?”

“You betrayed the guild; you betrayed your honor. You are worse than Pythmé.” Syra noticed the uncomfortable tension in Lirael’s voice as she stumbled over the word.

“You are no citizen of The City. After what you’ve done, you’ll be lucky to spend the rest of your days in a cell.” Lirael did not move from the darkness.

“I know this city better than you ever will Lirael- or should I say Lady Turgour?” Syra stumbled for words, there was a toxicity, a venom, in Lirael’s tone that was reminiscent of her noble origins.

“Was that why you hated me? Was that why you betrayed the guild- was it jealousy? Did you think that you could be a noble?” Lirael flipped a dagger around her hand.

“I am no traitor.”

“Then, tell me, who stole your blade from the guild? Who injured the guards?”

Syra’s questions had been answered and replaced.

“Listen, I didn’t do it. I left the guild months ago; I was living in the forest alone. Aren’t you ever tired of being used like a tool? Have you not realized that the killing has solved nothing, changed nothing?”

“You, Syra pride of the Bladebound Guild, done with fighting. You had all this time and you couldn’t come up with something more believable.” The woman let out a half chuckle as she leaned against the moist stone wall.

“Believe what you want, but it’s true,” Syra responded.

“Was it true all those years ago? When you bested me in front of the entire guild? When you left me broken? When their cheers drowned out my suffering? What did conflict solve then?”

“I was doing what I had to. I didn’t know any better. I’m a person like you, not a Pythmé, a person, and Lady Turgour, people change. ”

“Not you, you won’t change…” Syra heard nothing more than footsteps as she left the room…

Syra paced around the cell. Silence had found her all too easily and had proven itself unshakeable. She wondered why it had been Lirael? She was no interrogator, and no one would have forced her to come. Perhaps she had chosen it herself.

Nonetheless, the short conversation had solved nothing.

“I’m not a traitor to the guild.” She ran her fingers against the cold iron bars, “I didn’t steal my sword.” And she thought, I am no Pythmé.

The dungeon was empty as if its occupants had died long ago, and her questions echoed and reverberated through the dim chambers. Her only escape from the monotony had been to sleep, and her dreams offered little solace…

Hundreds of disfigured faces screaming through the blackness. Before she had left they had not tormented her so. They had been stray thoughts, twinges, but now it was almost as if the faces were real. As if they always had been. But even the faces would fade eventually in to blackness and-

“Wake up.” There had been little noise to predicate the command, and Syra was asleep when it came.

“Who are you?” She raised her head slowly from the cold floor.

The man was dressed in black robes and hood similar to those that she had worn. He held a sword in the darkness. A chipped and black blade that blended with the shadows like paint. Silently, he lowered the sword to the ground and kneeled, fiddling with a set of thin metal rods. In a faint click the padlock opened.

“How did you do that,” Syra stuttered as she watched the cell door swing open.

“Come with me.” The man lowered his hand.

“Who are you?” Syra pulled herself from the floor.

Silence…

“Do I have a choice?” Syra’s hands twitched.

The cell was open and felt odd as if someone had stripped it of its purpose. It was little more than a hollow room now, and the space between Syra and the man’s outstretched hand felt like nothing.

“There is always choice.”

“…” Syra’s mind spun in every direction looking for words. If she were to stay she would rot away in prison or die swiftly by execution. Neither fate was appealing, and the man would not kill her- at least not at once.

She was running out of time. Syra knew the system, she knew there would be no fair trial only a verdict. The guilds would show no weakness. But if she took his hand, if she went with him, she would be a traitor. She was running out of time.

“I am no traitor,” she whispered.

“No. Most traitors betray themselves.” His voice was calm as if he could see the future written in the stars.

Syra walked closer to the man. He was right. She had left the guild; she was nothing to them. She would only betray herself by dying in a cell. She grabbed his outstretched arm.

“Let’s go.”

The pair walked up the stairs. The man wore black robes with hundreds of little pockets undoubtably concealing small weapons and various items. Syra meanwhile was framed in a torn ripped and dirtied leather tunic that fought to stay on her shoulders.

The man pushed the heavy door open, and they strode through. The prison sat beneath Bladebound guildhall and Syra knew the area was well guarded. Yet, the small hallway was unpatrolled.

“Where are they?”, she asked.

“They’ll be back soon enough, don’t worry,” he replied.

He led Syra through the hallway. The man’s eyes constantly sifted through the shadows and he moved as if the ancient hallways were nothing more than old friends. As they climbed through the twisting and vacant catacombs beneath the guildhall, Syra saw artifacts of the guild that she had never seen before: timeless paintings, old tapestries, a broken fountain.

“Where are you going?”, Syra asked, “I’ve never seen these passages before.”

They were heading away from the guildhall, yet Syra had no clue as to where. She remembered a few of the lowest ranking members had left to patrol the lower regions, but that was years ago. The guilds were from the upper layer; there was nothing for them beneath the ground.

“No one has, not in a long time.”, He slowed.

“Clearly.” Syra looked up.

The roof had collapsed above the pathway, and the way forward was blocked. Syra walked up from behind him and pushed on one of the slabs. It did not move.

“Be patient.” The man crossed his legs and sat on the ground. His sword floated above his open palms and his eyes were closed.

“What are you doing? They’ll be back soon, we need to go.” Syra paced back and forth as the man meditated.

“Listen.” The worn man had not moved.

Syra leaned up against the wall. She heard nothing at first because the room was quiet, but as the silence stretched like sticky tar a sound met her ears. It was faint at first as if she was imagining the trickling. But it grew louder and louder until the room sounded as if a river roared just above.

“What is this?” Syra voice barely overpowered the torrent of noise in her head.

The man rose from the ground and the noise rose in a mighty roar to meet him. Even the air itself seemed to vibrate back and forth like a ship amidst a stormy sea of sound.

He touched the hilt of sword, and the noise vanished into silence. Gingerly, he removed a small pouch from one of his pockets. Holding the pouch like one would hold a piece of priceless art, Theseus dumped its contents to the floor. A grey sand crisscrossed on the ground in thin lines.

Almost reverently the man stared down at the grey powder. Coming back to reality, he let the tip of sword drag against the stone floor. The weapon brushed against the ground, sparks flying back and forth. And, one of the sparks landed.

The room flashed brightly, Srya protecting her ears from the explosive noises. Eventually though, the dust settled enough for her to see the blockade of smooth rocks fall into the ground…

“What kind of magic was that?” Syra squinted through dust and the dull rays of tired sun that creeped through the reopened exit.

“Not magic- Powder, almost impossible to find nowadays, but very useful,” he replied, walking out of the catacombs.

A dull light percolated from above the ancient quarry, and Syra watched the empty worn streets looking for movement. The passage had spilled into an intermediate layer of The City. Like so many intermediate layers, it had been forgotten for the levels below and above.

There were no large structures only small pueblos carved from the stone. Syra walked away from the hole and into the chiseled and forgotten world.

Inhaling a breath of thick dust, she coughed, “How old is this place?”

“Old enough.”

He grabbed two pieces of cloth from his robes. One he wrapped around his face and the other he handed to Syra.

The cloth was soft and flexible, and Syra tied it into a loop across her mouth. It worked well, but the occasional particle would still drift through.

Syra stepped out past the man whose dark hood enveloped his face. The pair sauntered through the worn street. Syra had never seen this place but it felt familiar. Perhaps it was the emptiness?

“What do I call you?” Syra asked, the adrenaline of escape having just faded.

The man opened his mouth slowly and deliberately, as if thinking about what to say before responding.

“Theseus.”

A strange name, Syra thought, but he was a strange man so perhaps it fit.

They were walking through the cramped layer and Syra could feel a faint numbness in her legs. With her blade she never needed much physical strength. Now, without it, she could feel every muscle in her legs working to keep her moving forwards.

The layer seemed to stretch for forever, and Syra could scarcely find her feet in the darkness. Her hands rested calmly by her side, but her eyebrows were furrowed in concentration.

It was quiet beneath the earth, save for the occasional drop of water from the ceiling above. But, as Syra listened closer she heard something else, a faint hissing.

“Be careful”, Theseus’ voice echoed in the darkness, “They are here.”

“What?” Syra moved a hand towards her waist where her sword would have been. She knew the rumors of monsters in the abandoned layers but had never given them credence.

“Quiet.” Theseus was pouring an oily substance across his sword.

Syra froze. Something was crawling up her leg. It felt like small needles pricking her as it ascended- it was on her back, her spine, he neck, it was going to strike. Syra tried to shake it off, but it would not leave her. The creature moved against her neck, Syra felt a burning sensation, and a faint thump echoed through the cavern as the creature fell to the floor.

“Begone.” Theseus’ blade was enveloped in green fire. Hundreds of grotesque creatures scurried from the sweeping blade of heat. Their pale bodies and toothpick legs darting away in fear, but as soon as the blade past they would charge forwards.

Syra stood with her back against Theseus. The faint hissing had risen to a frenzied crescendo of shrieks as the creatures ran from the glowing blade.

“What are these things?” One of the creatures darted underneath and Syra pinned it to the floor with a boot.

“They’re Remnants, torn and twisted creatures. In the abandoned layers you’ll see worse, these are little more than pests.” Theseus fanned the sword, and the creatures hissed as they scurried back into the darkness.

Theseus extinguished the burning blade, walked into one of the cramped buildings, and lowered himself to the floor. Syra followed him into the dark and empty stone pueblo. The man leaned against one of the walls and pulled several small candles from his robes. And as the waxy green light drifted through the darkness, Syra could see the drops of sweat dripping from Theseus’ face.

He had removed his hood, and his cheeks were aged and worn like the chiseled rockface that surrounded them, “Your wondering why you’re here?”

“I haven’t wondered anything in a long time.” Syra wrinkled her nose as Theseus lit more of the sulfur scented candles.

“I brought you here because this city needs people like us. People willing to leave everything they’ve ever known, people who change.” Theseus brushed a grey strand of hair from his face and stared solemnly into the darkness.

“The City does not need me, like a hog does not need a butcher...”

The room was quiet and damp like the rest of the layer, and a small ledge was carved into the wall. On it, shards of discolored pottery waited for those that had left them long ago.

“Forget the past.” Theseus’ voice reverberated, “I’m giving you the chance to fix everything. If you work with me, if you learn, we can-”

“Can we bring them back? The children? Can your magic stitch together their rotten corpses?” Syra stuttered overcome by emotion. “Can you breathe life into them?”

“No, but we can save the-” Theseus was interrupted.

“Then, you can fix nothing.”

“We can save the ones that still live, the ones yet to be born. Does that mean nothing?” Theseus’ voice was thin and tired, but his every word carried unspoken weight.

Syra lowered herself to the floor and sat across from Theseus, “I don’t know if I can help you.”

“You can.” Theseus pulled out a small container of jerky and another of water, “Now get something to eat, we’ve got work to do.”