Book 5: Chapter 29 - A Heart to Heart (RAW)

In the hush of the mindful spirit, one discerns the seed of wrongdoing: it is that which sows discord within and among us, warping our compassion into malice. The vigilant soul does not banish darkness by force, but by the gentle illumination of self-reflection. Let each step in enlightenment be also a step in kindness, lest we become that which we resist.

The proud heart that shuns reflection draws breath from its own illusions, birthing corruption in every act. Therefore, let us be guardians of thought, watchers of action: for if the smallest cruelty is left unchallenged, it sows a harvest of sorrow.

- The Human Question by Gideon de Salavia 378 AC.

I matched pace beside Larynda, making a somewhat grim procession—a battered warrior in battle-scarred black-and-gold armor, a young mage in soaked robes riding a giant donkey, and an unconscious elf draped over a pack animal. Occasionally, Patches gave out a bray of protest, requiring a tug on the reins to keep her moving.

We had trudged a few hundred paces when the young girl’s shoulders drew taut. Lifting my gaze from the muddy ground, I saw a band of Al-Lazarian soldiers riding atop their reptilian steeds out to greet us. They fanned into a loose semicircle, led by Captain Tikirit, who anxiously twirled his oiled black mustache. He halted some yards away. I caught the strain on his face; it spoke to me of worry, shame, and reluctance.

“We saw the eagle riders withdraw,” he said stiffly, his voice tight. “We’ve come to escort you safely inside, First Tamkar.”

First Tamkar of Sultana Aelayah, a hollow title. The words sounded bitterly empty coming from his mouth—like the Sultana’s own power, so very hollow. Anger coiled in my chest anew, but I forced it down. There was a war on, but unfortunately, unreliable allies were better than no allies at all. The time for revenge would come, and soon.

“Well, Captain,” I rasped, my voice raw. “I appreciate the gesture. How very brave of you.” The sarcasm hung in the air like a drawn blade.

Tikirit’s men exchanged uneasy glances. A few looked shame-faced; others dropped their eyes, refusing to meet my glare. Larynda let out a contemptuous sniff but held her tongue.

“Our intelligence on the elves’ capabilities was… is incomplete,” the Captain offered, clearing his throat. “Direct intervention seemed—ill-advised.”

“And you think doing nothing was the better choice?” Larynda snapped, surprising me with the heat in her voice. She waved a hand at us. “We nearly died out there!”

She had said what I was thinking, so I kept my stony silence. The Captain’s mouth clamped shut, and with a curt wave, he directed us to follow.

Tikirit’s mouth tightened, but he did not answer. Instead, he waved for us to follow as he turned his horse around. The soldiers fanned out around us, forming a protective escort. I found it almost laughable, given how belated this help was, but I clenched my jaw and kept moving. I had bigger priorities than humiliating Tikirit here and now.

Al-Lazar’s towering walls loomed nearer, ramparts made slick by the artificial rain that trickled over the battlements. By the time we reached the main gate, even with my high Constitution, my limbs felt leaden. My entire body needed rest.

As we passed under the portcullis, I saw a number of the soldiery gather around us. Some stared with a mixture of awe and dread at the battered elf woman on Patches’s back. Others looked at me with wide eyes, the foreign black menace. I offered them no reassurance.

Larynda slid off the donkey, nearly stumbling, her knees buckling from general exhaustion. I steadied her with one hand, though I nearly lost my balance as well. 

A pair of City Guards approached gingerly. “Shall we take the prisoner, samasa?” one asked, eyeing the unconscious foreign woman warily.

For a moment, I contemplated accepting. But, this hostage was battle-prize mine, not Al-Lazar’s. “I will take her to whatever holding cells you have and you will guide me there. These are orders from the highest authority, namely myself. Do not gainsay me if you wish to live.” My voice was low and menacing, carrying the weight of threat.

Tikirit raised a hand to say looking as if he wanted to say something but shook his head. 

I had had enough. “You wish to say something, Tikirit?” I challenged, eschewing the use of his rank. “You would do well to remember that you, and your men, owe your lives to me.”

His men looked guiltily again at each other, looking small even atop their fierce mounts.

“I will not fight you on this, Gilgamesh,” he said with another shake of his head. “Show the First Tamkar where the cells are so we can secure the prisoner. We must salvage something from this day,” he commanded wearily.

The guards nodded hastily, gesturing for me to follow but I ignored them. That was it, I had truly reached my limit.

I did not throw Zariyah, I merely touched the flat pommel of the magical dagger. The vessel weapon flew from my hand, straight and true. It stopped and hovered a hair’s breadth away from the Captain’s eye.

He stood frozen as I made my words known to these rats who walked like men. “I am First Tamkar of Al-Lazar, and you Tikirit are nothing more than a mere Captain. And, if I say you are to die, none will deny me,” I uttered coldly, my voice flat and as cold as winter.

Inspiring me, a sharp notification glimmered in my mind’s eye;

You have gained 10 experience points.

Other rats, it seemed, were busy.

“If I order you and your men to walk upon fire, you will do so gladly with joy in your hearts for to do otherwise would be to invite calamity. Am I clear?” I threatened.

Tikirit’s jaw worked furiously, whether from rage or terror I could not say, nor did I care. “Clear, First Tamkar,” he ground out, voice tight. It was a shame really, I expected him to lash out at me.

“Then you and your men are dismissed. Report to the Minister of War that I am safe, the abilities and disposition of the enemy, and that I have a valuable captive. Well, what are you waiting for?” I barked, making them move to carry out my orders as I called my dagger back to me.

I heard muttered accusations of sorcery and dark arts as they departed—fools, ignorant of what true power is.

The elf on Patches groaned, half-conscious. She spat a few slurred words in her melodic native tongue before collapsing again.

“And you two,” I said to the City Guards, pointing at them in turn. “One of you will lead us to a secure place for the prisoner. The other will fetch a healer—and a skilled questioner.”

***

We were beneath one of the towers along the city walls near the gate from which we had entered Al-Lazar. There, the unconscious elf lay on the cold stone floor, her breathing shallow yet steady. A foreign Cleric—draped in golden and silver robes—had labored over her for what felt like an eternity, amber light radiating from his hands as he mended the worst of her wounds. He was a level eighteen Cleric of Kaes-Loka, the god of hearth and herd, and although his magic was decidedly inferior to my own, it served its purpose. Once finished, he had the gall to bow with both hands extended, an obvious plea for payment.

“Send your bill to the city,” I told him, my voice flat.

For a moment, anger flickered in the Cleric’s eyes, but he swallowed it under my glare. How brazen of him to demand coins when the future of Al-Lazar itself hung in the balance.

When the cleric finally departed, I took a moment to consider the elf. Manacles of iron now bound her wrists. Though still unconscious, her chest rose and fell in a more comforting rhythm than before. Part of me heard the metal’s silent call for a fiery liberation—but I pushed the urge aside, for now.

Between Larynda’s powers and my own, I was able to clean much of the viscera and grim that had accumulated upon me. But, it was a far cry from being truly clean. And, though my Health had been fully restored, and my Mana was nearly replenished, mental exhaustion lingered in the corners of my thoughts like an unwelcome shadow. It was my mind, not my body, that craved rest.

Time crept forward at a snail’s pace. I waited for the questioner, half-tempted to begin the interrogation myself. Larynda, evidently bored, had slipped away to attend to whatever occupied her when we were apart. Perhaps it was for the best; I did not want her present for what would transpire next.

Eventually, the soft echo of footsteps against yellow stone caught my ear. An elderly man, bent with the passing of the years, descended the winding steps clutching a large leather bag to his chest. Behind him followed  Farzan, Al-Lazar’s Minister of War.

My friend gave a curt nod, then beckoned the old man to step forward. The newcomer approached, appearing every bit the unassuming grandfather.

“First Tamkar, Gilgamesh,” he began in a wavering voice. “I am—”

“Farzan, good of you to come,” I interjected, cutting the old man off and greeting the Minister of War in a single breath.

“I am relieved you are safe, Gilgamesh,” Farzan replied, a grave expression marring his usually composed features. “Do not judge Tikirit too harshly. He serves Al-Lazar in his own way, balancing many interests. His was a simple decision based on simple arithmetic.”

“What are the lives of two score soldiers compared to that of the First Tamkar?” I spat back.

The Minister of War merely shook his head.

Farzan sighed regretfully. “I have brought Master Malik here with me, he has been recommended for his skill. If they prove similar to their darker cousins, he should also be familiar with their physiology. You do not have to be here, Gilgamesh. There is a meeting soon on how we should deal with the aerial threat… surely you would serve better there?”

As he ignored me, so too, did I ignore him. “We need the girl broken and pliant, but importantly coherent. It is a fine line to walk,” I said, my voice cool and unyielding. “And Farzan, I merely want to see what passes for an interrogator’s skill here. Blood and horror do not scare me if that is your worry on my account. I have witnessed the insides of countless men before.”

But not, ironically, of women.

“Yes, I am Malik Al-Qureshi, if it pleases you, Samasa. Doctor and Alchemist of some skill. I have served many of the Holder Houses extricating sensitive and delicate information from incalcitrant subjects. This one, I can make sing,” the questioner claimed with a servile smile.

I studied him again. He was disturbingly ordinary, his demeanor so casual it was almost surreal—his tone no different than if he were discussing the weather. Malik had the unremarkable air of a local doctor, the kind you would trust with a few minor ailments. And yet, it was always these types—the ones who blended seamlessly into the crowd—who proved the most dangerous. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

“As a man of science, I wish to observe your methods,” I replied with a shrug. “Under the questioner’s hand, desperation drives many to say anything to end their suffering. The real challenge is not extracting words, but sifting through the lies to uncover the kernels of truth. That, I believe, is the true art.”

“I must admit, I can understand killing a man on the battlefield—it’s clean, direct. But this… this is something else entirely,” Farzan, the Minister of War, muttered, raising his hands in a gesture of distaste. “You have a far stronger stomach for such things than I, Gilgamesh. And a woman like this… what a waste.”

“We shall see if such waste can be minimized,” I replied coolly, my gaze shifting pointedly to Malik. He met my stare with a knowing inclination of his head.

“I have always believed that the threat of suffering is often far more potent than suffering itself,” I continued. “One is a reality, constrained by the questioner’s skill. The other is bound only by the limits of the subject’s imagination.”

It was a lesson I had learned well. Breaking Idris, Sultana Aelayah’s Vizier, had taught me the subtler intricacies of of the application of pain—how to make a man compliant. Since coming to this world, pain had become a close and familiar companion, both in the poetic sense and in the most visceral of ways.

Farzan cleared his throat, as though trying to dispel the suffocating tension in the room. “I have pressing matters to attend—countermeasures against those giant eagle creatures, among other things. Gryphons we can handle in small numbers, but these new beasts… Let me know what you learn.” He turned a sympathetic gaze on me and the old man. “Gilgamesh. Malik. I leave this to you.”

He left with the same measured haste he’d arrived with. Once Farzan’s footsteps vanished up the stairs, the old man—Malik Al-Qureshi, as he had been introduced—turned to me and bowed slightly, that same mild smile twisting his thin lips.

“Well then, shall we begin?” I asked, my gaze settling on the old man.

“Certainly, samasa,” Malik replied with a smile, his tone eerily pleasant. “It is always a pleasure to work with someone who truly appreciates the craft.”

The elf lay unnaturally still—too still. A practiced deception, no doubt, clinging to feigned unconsciousness in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.

I studied her with more than just my eyes.

Lelinae Zansforen

Health: 326/435

Stamina: 4/47

Mana: 2/19

Elemental Outcry (lvl.5)

Renewal of the Grove (lvl.5)

So that was why the elf had survived. Renewal of the Grove sounded like your typical healing spell. But, I did find it odd that she was at low Mana. I was of the mind that elves did not need to use their own magical reserves, instead drawing upon the ambient energies around them. Perhaps, it was a limited skill or talent among their kind. Oh well, we would all find out soon enough.

Malik rummaged through his large bag with exaggerated care, pulling out one grisly implement after another—each tool more sinister than the last. Metal hooks gleamed dully in the torchlight, followed by needles and small, sharp blades.

I stepped forward towards the elf with a dark purpose.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” she hissed, eyes snapping open in a half-lidded glare.

A cruel smile tugged at my lips as I looked down at her. “We shall see about that,” I murmured, noting her defiance. “We Dayspawn pride ourselves on overcoming challenges. Lelinae Zansforen.”

My gaze fell on her widening eyes, savoring the fear I found there. My mind drifted to the possibility of testing a theory I had long entertained: What would happen if someone was continuously injured while under the effects of Greater Heal? For instance, a blade stabbed deep into bone and forcefully kept there? 

I hypothesized the results would be delightful.