Read Online The Fifth Vertex (The Sigilord Chronicles) by Kevin Hoffman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin Hoffman
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Aerlissa."
"What does that mean?" Cailix asked. Seeing the joy this man got from teaching her showed his weakness. She now knew what pleased him, and so now she knew how to manipulate him and get from him what she needed . She needed power, and power meant survival.
"Aerlissa is a name from ancient history, from a war thousands of years ago. She was a fierce soldier and an even more vicious commander. The name comes from an ancient tongue long forgotten. It means 'bringer of death'."
Anderis smiled again, "Much better than Cailix, yes?"
"Yes, much," Cailix lied. It was then that she decided she would exploit Anderis's weakness. She would learn everything he had to teach, learn how to be a blood witch, and then she would kill him.
7
The gas lamp taunted Urus. It hung atop the arched entryway over the stairs, framing the darkness below, reminding him that few of his usual tricks for compensating for deaf ears would work in the pitch black of the dungeon.
He clenched his fists at his side. The dungeon was a rat's warren of interconnected tubes and hallways on four different levels. The only light in the dungeon came from lamps in sconces, providing just enough amber glow for prisoners to see their food and water. Any enemy attempting to get in or out of the dungeons might die of thirst or madness before reaching their goal.
How do the guards know where to go? Urus wondered.
He crept down the lamplit stairs, wading into the pool of darkness. Taking one deep breath before stepping out of the last ember of light, he stepped forward.
A hand gripped his shoulder, startling him. He jumped and stumbled back, barely avoiding a fall. After recovering his balance, he saw Goodwyn trying his best to stifle a chuckle. He was in full First Fist uniform, red sash hung over his leather jerkin, his suzur slung around his waist, chains resting against the rigid leather guard that kept them from slicing Goodwyn's leg.
"What are you doing here?" Urus signed.
"Helping you," Goodwyn mouthed. Barely visible in the murky light, Urus could see that his friend cradled a neatly folded set of padded armor in his hands. Two heavy spiked maces rested atop the dark brown leather.
"I don't need your help," Urus snapped aloud.
"Really?" Goodwyn flashed Urus a sardonic smile. "You're culled. The guards are as likely to throw you in your own cell as they are to let you speak to a prisoner."
He shoved the bundle into Urus's arms. "Put these on."
For a moment Urus considered refusing out of spite and anger. He hated that Goodwyn always made so much sense. The idea of descending into the dungeon alone really had been a stupid one, but it was worse that Goodwyn knew it.
"With that on you can pass as an acolyte in the First Fist, like me. We might be able to talk to the prisoner that way. They won't recognize you as long as your—" Goodwyn paused. "As long as your chest is covered."
"Far better than my plan," Urus said aloud, pulling the padded leather jerkin over his shirt, its metal studs glinting in the torchlight. The poultice finally seemed to be doing some good as the pain from the branding barely bothered him anymore.
"It was your uncle's plan, really."
Urus froze. "My uncle's? He sent you down here? He doesn't think I'm good enough to do this on my own, does he?"
"It's not like that. He said you had to get in to see some mysterious prisoner and that I could help."
"I don't know why I should be surprised. Lately you get to spend more time with him than I do," Urus signed, hands a blur in the dim corridor.
He picked up the maces, appreciating their weight. He swapped them so the heavier of the two was on his left, his strong side. Satisfied, he slipped them through the loops on his belt.
"Maces?" he signed. "Couldn't have brought something with a little more finesse?"
"I never took you for a finesse fighter," Goodwyn replied with a wide smile.
Urus gave him a look but didn't disagree. As jealous as he was of his friend and angry in
"What does that mean?" Cailix asked. Seeing the joy this man got from teaching her showed his weakness. She now knew what pleased him, and so now she knew how to manipulate him and get from him what she needed . She needed power, and power meant survival.
"Aerlissa is a name from ancient history, from a war thousands of years ago. She was a fierce soldier and an even more vicious commander. The name comes from an ancient tongue long forgotten. It means 'bringer of death'."
Anderis smiled again, "Much better than Cailix, yes?"
"Yes, much," Cailix lied. It was then that she decided she would exploit Anderis's weakness. She would learn everything he had to teach, learn how to be a blood witch, and then she would kill him.
7
The gas lamp taunted Urus. It hung atop the arched entryway over the stairs, framing the darkness below, reminding him that few of his usual tricks for compensating for deaf ears would work in the pitch black of the dungeon.
He clenched his fists at his side. The dungeon was a rat's warren of interconnected tubes and hallways on four different levels. The only light in the dungeon came from lamps in sconces, providing just enough amber glow for prisoners to see their food and water. Any enemy attempting to get in or out of the dungeons might die of thirst or madness before reaching their goal.
How do the guards know where to go? Urus wondered.
He crept down the lamplit stairs, wading into the pool of darkness. Taking one deep breath before stepping out of the last ember of light, he stepped forward.
A hand gripped his shoulder, startling him. He jumped and stumbled back, barely avoiding a fall. After recovering his balance, he saw Goodwyn trying his best to stifle a chuckle. He was in full First Fist uniform, red sash hung over his leather jerkin, his suzur slung around his waist, chains resting against the rigid leather guard that kept them from slicing Goodwyn's leg.
"What are you doing here?" Urus signed.
"Helping you," Goodwyn mouthed. Barely visible in the murky light, Urus could see that his friend cradled a neatly folded set of padded armor in his hands. Two heavy spiked maces rested atop the dark brown leather.
"I don't need your help," Urus snapped aloud.
"Really?" Goodwyn flashed Urus a sardonic smile. "You're culled. The guards are as likely to throw you in your own cell as they are to let you speak to a prisoner."
He shoved the bundle into Urus's arms. "Put these on."
For a moment Urus considered refusing out of spite and anger. He hated that Goodwyn always made so much sense. The idea of descending into the dungeon alone really had been a stupid one, but it was worse that Goodwyn knew it.
"With that on you can pass as an acolyte in the First Fist, like me. We might be able to talk to the prisoner that way. They won't recognize you as long as your—" Goodwyn paused. "As long as your chest is covered."
"Far better than my plan," Urus said aloud, pulling the padded leather jerkin over his shirt, its metal studs glinting in the torchlight. The poultice finally seemed to be doing some good as the pain from the branding barely bothered him anymore.
"It was your uncle's plan, really."
Urus froze. "My uncle's? He sent you down here? He doesn't think I'm good enough to do this on my own, does he?"
"It's not like that. He said you had to get in to see some mysterious prisoner and that I could help."
"I don't know why I should be surprised. Lately you get to spend more time with him than I do," Urus signed, hands a blur in the dim corridor.
He picked up the maces, appreciating their weight. He swapped them so the heavier of the two was on his left, his strong side. Satisfied, he slipped them through the loops on his belt.
"Maces?" he signed. "Couldn't have brought something with a little more finesse?"
"I never took you for a finesse fighter," Goodwyn replied with a wide smile.
Urus gave him a look but didn't disagree. As jealous as he was of his friend and angry in
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