Vol.6, Ch.3, P.7
With feverish haste, I hauled the two unconscious men away, and stuck them between some hedges and shrubbery hard-by. And as before, I bound them in their own belts and shredded shirts. As for the neck-nicked fellow of the two, I did not leave him to bleed dry, but had the charity to stanch his wound. A foe though he was, he hardly deserved so slow and merciless a death, especially after singing for me like he’d done. Afterwards, I scurried off, with the intelligence I’d wrung out of him still ringing in my mind.
Namely, the studitōrium… Indeed, that central complex seemed as defensible a spot as one could wish for here in Merkulov. As I’d seen prior when passing through it on my guided way to the parley, the studitōrium was a veritable labyrinth, being a cluster of colleges and facilities for sundry research, with each building boasting no fewer than four high floors. Altogether, they formed a fortress of sorts: easily manned and not-so-easily marauded. Doubtless an ideal command post to replete with sentries, if that now-bandaged bloke’s to be believed. And as well: a most appealing candidate wherein to send and store the soot-steel.
Even hence was the studitōrium hard to miss. Over the surrounding schoolscape it loomed, like a mountain glaring down upon the lowly hills bowing at its feet. But all the same, that made for easy orienting. Setting it as my next destination, I went on my stealthy way.
“Better I take the alleys… It’s fewer eyes to fret about,” I murmured as I got on, treading what safe and out-of-sight paths I could find.
By this point, I’d got rather used to stealing and sidling about this school. There was no shortage of enemies to miss, sure, but puzzling out their posts and patrols had become quite manageable. It certainly helped that Merkulov was immense, offering mazes of buildings and many a blind spot to sneak between. And employing them all to full effect, I forged ahead, waring myself all the while.
“No!—bad. Bad spot,” I soon gasped, and quickly couched back behind a corner. It was a wide and open lane crossing I’d come upon, the cobblestones whereof were weathered and rutted by daily traffick. Likely this day found it well-trodden by enemy feet, too, I imagined. And as if to prove it, thereupon presently appeared a team of men.
“This way! Move, move!” barked the bloke at the head of them. Five they were: one leading, four following. The latter bore together on their shoulders something passing peculiar: a sizeable plank of wood, sundered at its ends as if broken off from the rafters of some great building. But strapped to it was the real strangeness: a cocoon of canvas, crudely covering something large that lay atop the plank itself.
“Huh…”
I watched the men more closely. Whatever that thing was that they were lugging, it seemed long and straight in shape. But that it must be covered and carried atop something else meant clearly that it wasn’t to be touched directly. And the four carriers themselves bore consideration, as well. To judge by their laboured breathing and profuse sweating, it was evident that even their combined sinews were struggling to carry the cargo.
And last but not least, there was the leader of them, whose two hands were bandaged. From this distance, one could not tell without a strained eye, but sure enough, those wrappings of his were only very slightly ablood. No slash wounds those were, not from what I could tell, but rather… burns, maybe?
My brows furrowed as I formed my conclusion: that upon that plank, canvassed and coiled in rope, was the soot-steel. Indeed, the enemy had done as I predicted, discovering and making off with my weapon.
…Or so I should’ve liked to believe. There was something to the way they were going about it. It was… too out in the open, so to speak. Wouldn’t they rather be more secretive about it? More secure and all? They wouldn’t dare let too many eyes catch it so easily, now would they? Especially with this sicarius yet on the loose? And what’s more, five men. Five. That’s far too few for safe transport, by my measure—but all too enticing a bait, all the same.
My thoughts fluttered and fought. On one hand, this stank of trickery. But on the other, if that really were the soot-steel under wraps, then now was the best time to snatch it back, whilst it’s being whisked away and before ever it’s put under lock, key, and watch. After all, I had but to get my hands on the black hilt, and those five men would prove none too much a mess to clean up.
Still, my mind lingered on that number. Five… just five to find the sword? To work out how to haul it? And not to mention execute the plan without so much as an armed escort? Nay, something was amiss, for certain.
Suspicious, I looked about. And then, I found it: a ways past the marching men, right about the crossing lanes, there grew a swathe of bush and tree—an excellent cover for an ambuscade. Too excellent for my comfort, in fact; there could well be one or two score men couching therein at this moment. Albeit there was no clear sign to prove it.
“…Nay. They’re there, all right. Stalking, prowling…”
…And waiting for me to come crashing in. And given as precious a bait as the soot-steel, I was rather inclined to humour them.
But, there it is: contrary to my first conclusion, this was all a snare set especially for Rolf the rat. But to go through all the trouble… dear me, I must’ve struck a tender nerve, indeed. Having slipped their grasp no few times today, they must’ve had to rethink again how thick of a threat I was.
“But what of those burns…?”
Right enough, there lingered yet the leader’s lesions. Of all that was on display, that one seemed to me the only thing sincere. There was no faking the pained stiffness of his arms, nor the sickly blister stains on his bandages.
I thought on this. As far as I was aware, the enemy did not know of the soot-steel’s “severities”, nor aught specific about the weapon, for that matter, save that it is an unmaker of magicks. Why, even to the first point were only a handful of Hensenites privy: that to touch it is to be burnt, and that to transport it requires enterprise. But it appeared a harsh lesson or three had been learnt by this lot, when they’d found the sword whilst this fugitive was busy elsewhere stealing, stalking, and interrogating. Indeed, look at them now, putting their knowledge to evil practice.
Swift these men were. Swift and smart. And so must that bait of theirs be counterfeit. Why else have their scorched man lead so loudly, but to persuade me otherwise? Nay: it was rather some slab of mere masonry on that plank, I reckoned. The genuine article itself must be getting on along some other route, and doubtless in more secrecy and much more security.
And the studitōrium was it? Well, these men afore me were headed arse-opposite that way, and rather slowly, at that, as though to draw me away from that complex—as though to convince me that the soot-steel was destined elsewhere altogether.
But sure enough, I was convinced: to the studitōrium it was, then. There would I find the real black blade. And so, giving the men and their snare one last look, I left them to their parade, and headed off to the heart of Merkulov.
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