“What do you mean it’s lost?” Captain Mor demanded upon their return to the barracks.
D’Arden had been planning to break the news to the captain, but the boy had spoken up as soon as they entered. The Arbiter shook his head and spread his hands in defeat. “There is nothing that can be done. There is no one left alive in the Heights, Captain Mor. Not a soul that still lives… naturally,” he amended, remembering the man strapped to the chair in the house.
For a moment it appeared that Captain Mor would retort, to say something harsh and hostile and accuse D’Arden of giving up too easily, but then he simply collapsed into his chair, looking broken and wounded. “I cannot believe that it has gotten so far,” he whispered. “How could this have happened?”
There were many things that D’Arden could have said, but few of them would have been properly diplomatic. Instead, he said carefully, “Mistakes have been made. A greater mistake may yet be made. You must immediately quarantine the Heights before any of the creatures in there are let loose in the city, and this must be accomplished before sundown today. Though they may have been lying dormant, they have now been awakened and will not wait long before seeking to feed.”
Though he might have expected Mor to argue, the captain did no such thing. Instead, he merely nodded assent. “Very well. I’ll have my men barricade off all of the gates to the Heights immediately. No one will go in or out from here on until this entire situation is resolved.”
“Good then,” D’Arden said with a small sigh. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I will now take my leave so that I may rest. It has been a long few days and I seek the comfort of your inn.”
“Was the boy a bother?” Mor said, jerking his thumb at Mikel.
“Not at all,” D’Arden said graciously. “In fact, I would very much like it if you could spare him to accompany me on the next part of my investigation, once I awaken from my rest.”
“Of course, master Arbiter,” Mor said graciously. “Anything that you require shall, of course, be yours.”
So you would provide me, then, with an army of Arbiters to purify this gods-forsaken place? D’Arden thought inwardly, but said nothing.
“Thank you, Captain,” he chose instead to say, and gave a slight bow. With only that, he turned and left the room, leaving Mikel and the captain behind him.
Once again on the streets of Calessa’s trade quarter, he made his way up the short dead-end street and back to the main square where his inn lay. He approached the door and went inside, giving a curt wave to the publican, who gave him only a sharp nod of acknowledgement as he passed by.
Ascending the stairs both exhausted and energized with purpose, he crossed the long hallway to the room with the number on the door that matched the number etched into his key: thirty-seven. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door, revealing a small but serviceable room with a bed, table, two chairs, and a fireplace that lay cold but could quickly be revitalized with a few logs from the pile that sat beside it and a spark.
This is going to be far more difficult than I thought, he said to himself as he placed two pieces of wood on the fire and lit them with a wave of his hand. They came to life almost instantly, a merry blaze springing up and beginning to warm the icy chill that had pervaded the room, despite the bright sunlight outside.
He stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together before the flames to warm them. The insidious cold had even crept its way between the thick fabrics of his sword gloves, which had kept his hands warm through a driving snowstorm once, long ago, a much farther way north from here. Hunting evil in the snowbound tundra of the far northlands had been his first, and his least favorite, assignment as a fully named Arbiter. The cold here was indicative of more than just a long winter, and it would rob this place of the last sparks of life if left unchecked.
He did not intend to let anything like that happen.
Once the room had warmed to his liking, he sat on the sparse bed and crossed his legs before him. He did not need to sleep, only to wait for a few hours in a trance to refresh himself completely, and even less than that if he had a manna font nearby to draw from. The one that he had visited in the chapel a few blocks away was too far corrupted to draw upon, though, so he would have to rely on the earth itself to deliver his power to him.
D’Arden drew forth from its place on his belt the tiny, perfectly round, pointed and tapered blade that thrummed with a soft blue light, looking very much like a heartbeat. The heartblade pulsed in his hand with its energy, and he sighed. With only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the front of his shirt and positioned the tiny blade just below the chest muscle on his left side. There was a tiny amount of pain as the perfectly sharpened instrument pierced his flesh and the muscle, and then just brushed the outside of his heart. He held his breath tightly, because any slight movement in the wrong direction could slice open his heart and send him to an early – and quite embarrassing – grave.
The hyper-concentrated manna within the heartblade released in a flash, and he felt the warmth and the ecstasy wash over him. He pulled the tiny dagger free from his flesh, and the wound healed as the blade exited, sealing immediately with the fresh power contained in the heartblade. It would recharge itself in time, though it might have more difficulty without direct access to a pure manna font. The heartblade was very important, and several failsafes had of course been written into its design. As the pain faded, he settled in for his regenerative trance.
He would have said a short prayer to the gods, but the last time he had seen someone do that, a magical gate had opened in midair, great beastly tentacles had reached through the opening and dragged the man through bodily, screaming and fighting and yelling and cursing the whole time. All those around him had simply averted their eyes, for they had known what was happening, and he had simply been left to stare, dumbfounded, watching as a man was snuffed out by those whose favor he sought.
It was not wise to speak to the gods.