Vigil's Valor: 46 – Band of Unreliable Misfits, Assemble!

The work went quickly, but for the plan I had in mind, there were a lot of moving parts. If any one of them hit a snag, chances were good we would end up dead. But that was a problem for future Boyd. Present Boyd only had to worry about executing each task. About putting one foot in front of another.

Convincing Barmin and Stefana to help us take down a group of rogue Vigils, backed by what basically amounted to a cult was the first real hurdle. I didn’t tell them everything—I trusted those two about as far as I could throw ’em—but I did sprinkle enough breadcrumbs to pique their interests. Bramin was all for getting vengeance on behalf of Akser, “Nobody takes out one of ours without swift and bloody retaliation,” he’d thundered, slamming his meaty fists against the table.

Stefana, clearly the brains of the operation, was a little more pragmatic. Upholding the reputation of the Society was important, sure, but she wasn’t going to tangle with the Citadel out of the sheer goodness of her heart. She changed her tune quickly enough when Kerra offered to pay five hundred gold Kelkadian Crowns to retain the services and support of the Society. Doing a little rough math in my head, that worked out to damn near a million bucks. For a payout like that, Stefana declared she’d fight Raguel himself if that was what we required.

Kerra and I also needed to assemble the rest of our team, but we couldn’t risk leaving the Drunken Crow until all of the pieces were in place and we were ready to confront Telent, Amherst, and the others in person and put an end to this for good. So instead, Stefana sent runners on our behalf. Most were grubby faced kids, who could go anywhere without drawing undo notice. Thanks to the extensive network of eyes and ears the Society had in place, even getting word into the Citadel wasn’t much of a problem.

Stefana provided me with several sheets of parchment and a writing quill, which I used to dash out a series of letters.

The first were to the only Vigils I was entirely sure I could trust. Colin, Marina, and Berk. Leading three freshly ascended Vigils into a battle against an order of religious zealots was a terrible idea, but I needed backup and I knew for a fact they weren’t part of the Order of Immolation. They’d been with me and Kerra on assignment far from the walls of Wildespell when the last of the murders had happened. But, more importantly, they were too new and useless for anyone to bother recruiting into a murderous cabal.

When shit invariably went down—which it would—Berk and Marina would be right there on the front lines with me, fighting for their lives. Marina would act as my ranged spell support, while Berk would serve as an offensive damage dealer. I had a different job for Colin, though. A job that wouldn’t be on the front lines, but which was no less dangerous or important. He would need to find Renholm and deliver my fourth note, which contained a set of detailed instructions for the newly evolved Pookah.

Then Colin would need to make sure Renholm followed the instructions I’d sent along to a tee. A job far more difficult than fighting and killing an Aberration.

The fact that so much was riding on Renholm’s shoulders left me feeling nauseous, but there was no way to get around it. What would be, would be, I told myself, sealing the letter and handing it over to one of the Society couriers.

Getting into the Citadel with the two most well-known thieves in the Sprawl was going to be tricky even for the Society of Vicious Whispers to pull off. Smuggling a package or a message past the checkpoints was one thing. Two Vigils, a Steelborn thug, and an unscrupulous sorcerer, was another. The four of us together would raise every single red flag. I was confident Telent wouldn’t go to the Custodians—no doubt he was still trying to keep his crimes under wraps—but I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d be keeping an eye out for me.

I had another plan for that particular problem.

Once again, I found myself grateful to have friends in low places. I scribbled off another three notes and pushed them into Bramin’s huge hands, knowing they’d end up with of the Citadel’s kitchen boys.

The final note was the easiest to write but also the one that gave me the most apprehension. It was to Telent.

I know about the kid. I know about the Sacrament of Oblivion. I also know how blackmail works. Or is it Coercion? I always get those two mixed up. Either way, you’re fucked. I’ll admit, you did a good job covering your tracks, but not good enough. I’ve assembled enough evidence to implicate you and unravel your entire shitty scheme.

Unless we can come to a private agreement.

Thing is, I don’t necessarily disagree with what you did. The Citadel does a lot of good in the world, and the crown was going to make it more difficult for everyone. As far as I’m concerned, you did what you had to do. Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m only doing what I have to do to ensure I don’t end up like Dogan.

Meet me at midnight tonight in the Nexus Simulator. Come alone. And don’t try and dick me. All that evidence I’ve assembled? I’ve given copies to couriers scattered all over Wildespell. If they don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, they’ll deliver all the incriminating information I’ve assembled to the Custodians, the Society of Vicious Whispers, and the diplomatic delegations from the Virtarun Empire and the Kelkadian Crown—who are both in town, thanks to the “surprise” coronation party. Good luck trying to keep the lid on that.

See you soon.

I read over the note and grimaced. I didn’t have a single piece of hard evidence. Just rumors and speculation. I also didn’t have any couriers standing by in case things went tits up. It was all one big bluff. But Telent didn’t know that. And if this didn’t draw him out, nothing would. I rolled up the parchment, sealed it with a hot blob of wax, then handed it over to Bramin.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” I said, standing. “We’ve got a ride to catch.”

***

Miko, the wizened old man who ran the Citadel stables, creaked to a halt in the alley behind the Drunken Crow a few hours later with my crumpled note clutched in one grimy hand. He’d come through like the absolute GOAT he was.

With his help, getting into the Citadel was far easier than I’d anticipated. Admittedly, it was also a lot grosser than I’d anticipated. He’d arrived in a large wagon, heaped to the brim with fresh manure. Hitched to the front was none other than Darksilver—the orneriest, meanest horse in all of Wildespell. I fed the massive steed a few Jetru berries that Miko had brought along and rubbed his nose with my free hand. It was good to see the giant murder machine again. He whined softly, nuzzling my palm like the good boy he was.

“Make sure you bite anyone that tries to stop us,” I whispered while scratching the side of his jaw.

He snorted and flicked one ear in unspoken understanding.

Miko loaded me, Kerra, and my two thiefly recruits into the wagon bed. Then he spread a thin layer of hay over the top of us and buried us in mounds of actual shit. Unfortunately, that wasn’t even the nastiest thing I’d done this week. Between the fetid fish paste I’d lathered up with in Sarugia and Renholm exploding all over my room, being buried alive in fresh cow pop was third on the list. A sure sign that my life had gone completely off the rails.

As awful as it was, the reeking stench was worth it.

Miko was well known by every guard in the Citadel, so most waved us through with a nothing more than few friendly words or a minute of idle chitchat. A Vigil at the inner gate stopped us briefly. Darksilver immediately tried to maul him to death for his trouble. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear it all. The frantic clop of hooves, the snap of biting teeth, the terrified screech of the Vigil. Darksilver was a legend in his own right, and no one wanted to fuck around and find out where the giant Mortka-breed stallion was concerned.

Still, the Vigil was dedicated, so he flipped back the canvas tarp covering the wagon bed. He took all of one look at the stinky cargo, then waved us through as fast as possible, eager to get away from Darksilver and the eye-watering reek.

We off loaded in the stable and after a brief word of thanks to Miko, the four of us slipped into the servant passageways that snaked all throughout the Citadel.

Our guides were waiting for us within.

Rebecca was a kitchen porter who worked in the attendant’s mess hall and did a little bit of everything. Food prep, cleaning workstations, busting tables, washing dishes. She was in her early thirties but looked like a woman twice her age. Life had not been gentle to her, but despite that, she had a brilliant smile and a spirit that refused to break.

Lena was one of the Citadel supply clerks, responsible for ordering and restocking everything from sheets and blankets to candles and silverware.

Both knew the ins and outs of the labyrinthine servant passageways that twisted and zigzagged through the Citadel. The guards and Vigils never ventured into those narrow corridors and why would they? They were the masters of this place so there was no reason for them to scurry around, unseen, like rodents. But that served us well. We could get exactly where we needed to go and no one would be any the wiser. Rebecca and Lena had also brought rough clothes—scratchy woolens and threadbare linens—that we could swap into.

The simple disguises weren’t quite as good as Cunning Glamor, but with my head down and a heavy cloak wrapped around my shoulders, most people wouldn’t take a second glance.

“Good luck, Boyd,” Kerra said. She reached out and gave my hand a firm squeeze. “Don’t get killed.”

She pulled her hand back before I could reply, then turned and followed after Rebecca with Bramin and Stefana following close behind. If everything went according to plan, the next time I would see the three of them was when we sprang our ambush against Telent. Hopefully that wouldn’t also be the last time I saw her.

I turned on a heel and followed Lena in the opposite direction, climbing higher into the Citadel instead of descending into its bowels. Lena had me carry several heavy wooden crates, filled with various supplies. Or, at least, they would’ve been heavy for anyone that didn’t have supernaturally enhanced strength. I had to actively slouch and pretend to strain against the weight of the boxes as we passed by a handful of other servants. After climbing several flights of stairs and taking a series of twists and turns, I ended up shouldering my way into the Steel Griffin.

The entrance bell tinkled overhead with a brassy cry.

The shop was empty, except for Pascow who was sitting behind the counter, apparently snoozing.

He startled at the sound of the bell and blinked open bleary eyes. He took one sleepy look at me, “Think you might be in the wrong place there, young feller,” he said. “I’m not expecting any shipments today.”

I closed the door behind me, blocked the entry with the heavy crates so no one else could enter, then flipped the sign to Closed.

“Just what in the bloody hells do you think you’re doing, lad?” Pascow growled. His stool screeched as he stood.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then pulled back the rough spun hood covering my head and concealing my face. This was by far the biggest gamble. I liked Pascow, trusted him even, and I thought the feeling was mutual. But he was also a Sage-Class Vigil and well-connected to the Citadel and the Custodians. I didn’t believe he was in cahoots with the radicals from the Order of Immolation, but I also didn’t know if he would believe what I was about to tell him.

Even if he did, the favor I had for him was a big ask.

Would he willing turn on his brothers at my word? I didn’t know.

But I needed his help. Or, barring that, I needed his silence and his altar. I had to re-spec before I squared up against Telent and getting into any of the chapels without someone noticing was impossible.

“Boyd?” Pascow asked, a note of surprise in his voice. “What in the bloody hell are you doing in that get up, lugging around those boxes?”

“I’m in trouble,” I said, deciding that the only way forward was to lay all my cards on the table.

Pascow may have been a Builder, but he was first and foremost a Vigil of Truth who’d unlocked a Master Mentalist Legacy ability. If I lied to him, he’d know it in a second. But I wouldn’t lie to him even if I could’ve gotten away with it. If my plan failed and I ended up dead, word would eventually get back to the powers that be that he’d helped me. That could mean big trouble for him down the road and I refused to do that to him. He had a right to know what the stakes were before he decided to get involved.

So I told him. Told him everything.

About the prince. The suspicious timing of the king’s death. About my discovery at Tiers of Delight and the Wil O’ Wisp waiting for me in the Etheric Plans. I told him about the Sacrament of Oblivion, Arbitrator Nazer Maux, and his ties to the Order of Immolation. He asked occasional questions as I spoke, but mostly he listened. When I finally finished telling him about my plan to confront Telent and root out any of his potential accomplices, Pascow dropped onto his stool with a heavy thud.

Dazed, he ran a gnarled hand through his disheveled and thinning hair.

“Well lad, that’s quite the barrel of worms you’ve opened now, isn’t it?” he said, voice oddly detached. “I … I don’t even know that to say. I’m just an old man. A builder who putters around in the forge, making weapons and armor I’ll never use…” he trailed off and looked down at his age-worn hands. “I don’t know what you could need from me? I suppose I could swing a hammer, but a fat lot of good it’ll do against a trained fist of Vigils.”

“You told me once the other Vigils don’t respect you,” I replied. “You said they turn their noses up at you and think less of you because you’re a Builder. Never mind that you’re also a Sage and that the majority of the armor and weapons they use is the work of your hands. Not me. I do respect you. I respect your passion, I respect your strength, and I know that you love the Citadel. You love it enough to do the work no one else is willing to do so that Raguel’s mission can be accomplished in the world.

“Well now Raguel’s work is here,” I continued. “It’s cleansing the Citadel that you’ve sworn to protect. Raguel has tasked me with rooting out a corruption that has infiltrated these walls and I need your help now. I need a Builder, but I also need a fighter. I can’t be sure what I’m going to face when Telent shows up, but I know I’m going to need every able body I can get to pull this off.”

He licked his lips and flexed his hands again. A complex war of emotions played out across his leathery face. Anger, bitterness, fear, resolve.

“You have my hammer, my forge,” he finally said, “and the use of any materials you need. But I ask again, what good would an old man like me be in a battle like this? The last time I fought a Mortka was on my training assignment after passing the Ascension. Sage or not, I’ll be just shy of useless.”

I offered him a vicious grin. “That’s where I think you’re wrong. Let me tell you about a weapon that might be new to you. It’s called a machine gun and I want you to help me build it…”