As Zeriel approached the front of the church, a field of heavily disturbed earth on his right caught his eye. The remnants of a wooden fence that once surrounded the area lay in pieces around it. That was once the church garden, used to grow food for the priests who lived there and the poor of the city who couldn’t feed themselves.
He shook his head and continued toward the doors to the church. They were made of thick vertical hardwood planks connected by long hinges that spread out into swirls at the edges that turned back on themselves. A large knocker in the shape of a snarling razorcat head warned those who came to do the church harm. As usual, he ignored such warnings. Zeriel grabbed the ring in its mouth and used it to rap on the door. The sound echoed through the hall behind it and left a heavy silence in its wake.
Several minutes passed before Zeriel reached for the knocker again, but the door cracked open and pulled away from his hand.
A man peered out and leveled a steady, if baggy-eyed, gaze at Zeriel. He was late in years and wore a red robe with a red sleeping cap that barely restrained his long, curly hair. The priest wore an irritated look on his face. “You took all the food already, what else could you—” He cut short when he finally let his eyes focus on Zeriel. “What can I do for you, son?”
“I need refuge for the night,” Zeriel said. He softened his voice to appear as non-threatening as possible.
The man inspected him more closely. “Where have you been all this time?” he asked, leaning to the side to see past Zeriel.
“I’ve been hiding out in the Northern Gate District. I knew the slaves wouldn’t look for me there, but eventually the rats realized I was the only food left.”
The priest gave him a knowing look. “What are you, new at this?”
Jekjarah laughed behind him. “He saw through you in seconds. You really are a terrible assassin.”
Zeriel stiffened at Jekjarah’s comment. “I’ve never taken refuge at a church before, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’ve met your kind before, passing through like a sudden gust of wind, leaving only the dead in your wake.”
“If you know who I am,” Zeriel said, “then you know what I’m here for.”
The priest shook his head. “You won’t find any information here.”
Zeriel maintained eye contact and let the silence stretch.
The priest sighed and said, “Fine,” then opened the door and stepped to the side. The inside of the church was lit dimly by a small number of white vine lanterns, their light diminished in the vast space. For Zeriel, those few lanterns were enough to light the inside as if the sun shone from the ceiling.
Past the door and beyond the entrance were the standard four rows of pews that formed the church’s nave. To the left and right of the pews were sweeping arches that formed the nave arcade with depictions of the four natural elements carved into them.
More carvings of the deific elements covered the arches and above that the gods of virtues were depicted in the stained glass along the top of the walls.
At the head of the rows of pews stood four altars in the form of tables backed with a shelf that held carved renderings of the four gods. On the altars were various offerings piled high enough to obscure those depictions.
Despite the beauty of the architecture and pious displays, there was an emptiness to the place that emanated from the Northern Gate District, through the vibrancy of the Square’s gardens, then finally to this church.
The priest stepped beside Zeriel as he took in the sight. “I’m the only one left. Most of the priests escaped during the riot. I thank Ded every day that the slaves, then the bandits that rose up in their wake, left this place mostly unmolested. In the beginning, that gave hope to the few of us priests who stayed behind. We should have known that hunger would eventually overpower respect, even for the gods themselves.
“They came for the garden a few weeks ago. The rest of the priests snuck out of the city a few days after that.”
Zeriel looked at the man and saw a hint of sadness on his face. “Why did you stay?”
The priest met his eyes, tears welling up in them. “Some things in this world are worth risking our lives to preserve. If this isn’t one of those things,” he gestured around him, “then what is?”
This man seemed genuine. As misplaced as Zeriel thought his faith was, it was clear he cared deeply for this place. He wondered how it would feel to care that much about…well, anything. “I’m sorry for waking you,” Zeriel said to the priest. He turned to leave.
“I wish I could have at least fed you,” the priest said. “The Slave King rations the food now, handing it out each morning—to those still alive, that is.”
Zeriel paused and looked back at the man. “Where does he do that?”
“City Hall. In the Guild District.” The man’s face was steady.
Zeriel nodded. He reached into the thin pack he had strapped to his back and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He set it down before he turned to leave. “Thanks for the information.”
“Wait,” Jekjarah said as Zeriel stepped out the door and walked away from the church. “Did you just give that man all the food you had left?”
“He needs it more than I do.”
The hallucination stepped in front of Zeriel. He walked backwards without any care for what was behind him. “Like hell he does. Aren’t you about to execute another infiltration and assassination? Hunger pangs are going distract you and put the entire mission in jeopardy.”
“My mark’s not a real king and won’t have trained bodyguards. Besides, I’ve gone without food before a kill many times. Not to mention, I’ve got powers now. How hard could it be to get through a few self-important slaves?”
Jekjarah shook his head and faded away as he said, “You’re going to die.”
Zeriel left behind the bright colors of the District of Virtues for the barren wasteland of the Northern Gate District. He wasn’t always free of the voices in his head, but at that moment they chose to let him walk in peace. It was as euphoric as a temporary reprieve from chronic pain, or the sudden release of stress you didn’t notice was there. The subtle white light of the Leif District became visible to the south, and Zeriel had to fight himself from finding the closest piece of rubble to sit on and never move again. Perhaps the silence would last forever if he didn’t walk into that light.
The mission wouldn’t wait for him though, so he continued until the rubble was replaced with affluent houses built one against another. Waist-high stone walls separated the small spaces in front of the homes. Turned over remains of house gardens sat with other detritus that had accumulated over time. The lanterns here glowed dimly from pots hung on the tall poles that framed the cobblestone street. Their vines reached almost to the ground, mostly dead and burned from neglect under the hot sun of the prior light month.
In a few of those gardens, Zeriel found discarded clothes, half-buried in the dirt. They were soiled and covered in holes, which was perfect for what he was planning. He collected items as he went until he accumulated a complete disguise perfect for the next phase of the mission. He slipped between the homes and out of sight where he could change into his new outfit: A thick, brown wool shirt over brown trousers held in place with a frayed rope for a belt. He went without shoes. Barefoot seemed to best tell the story of someone who’d struggled in the streets of Shyal over the last few months. A few handfuls of dirt rubbed in his face completed the look. Satisfied, he stuffed his assassin’s leathers into his bag and headed toward City Hall.
By the time Zeriel exited the Leif District and entered the Guild District, he decided on the more nuanced parts of his disguise. He walked with a limp and tested out the accent of one of Shyal’s street urchins. Some of them had managed to live to adulthood, never losing their unique speech pattern. Udulets, they were called, mostly to mock their childish verbiage. They were ruthless beyond measure. Made necessary by the nature of the streets that raised them. Even those in the underbelly of the city avoided them at all costs. It wasn’t likely the slaves would dare approach him in such a disguise.
“Please, don’t’a ‘ave some food? I be big emp’y, sir,” Zeriel said to get his mouth warmed up for the accent and slang. His tongue widened in his mouth and touched his molars, which is how he knew he was close to accurate.
Jekjarah winked into existence just ahead. “If only you were even the slightest bit convincing with that act.”
“Egh! Q’it ya ‘plainin. Time ta be big helpful, naw?” Whenever he took on a disguise like this one, Zeriel spoke to Jekjarah and his other voices in the open. His insanity lent a credence to the disguise that he couldn’t have faked. Many times in the past it had covered mistakes that might have otherwise gotten him discovered.
“Right, right,” Jekjarah said, waving a hand. “Tell me when we get there. I can’t stand to watch you when you do this.” He disappeared unceremoniously.
The Guild District was well-kept when compared to the last two districts. The lanterns were bright here, and the streets were cleared of soil and debris. At closer inspection, the district looked like someone doing the bare minimum to keep things functional. The cobblestone of the streets had water, mud, and other waste deep in its cracks. The larger pieces of dirt and debris were swept to the side to build up in the alleys and against the walls of the buildings.
The people huddling in the streets gave away the charade. Men without shirts to wear showed skeletons through their skin as they shuffled about. Women joined them with gaunt faces that hinted at a similar skeletal figure beneath their makeshift robes fashioned from bed curtains, sheets, and drapes. Some slept in the street, unconcerned about what might happen to them. Others groaned and cried in the night air, their mouths torn at the edges from the drug they hadn’t taken in weeks. It all mixed together into an atmosphere of desperation, covered in a layer of despair. That put Zeriel on high alert. People were most dangerous when they had nothing to lose. Hopefully his disguise would hold and keep the residents at bay.
He arrived at the City Square, and while he expected this place to be crowded, he wasn’t prepared for exactly how crowded it was. It seemed the majority of those left in the city had coalesced there. A blanket of humanity covered the square. They slept on top of each other on the cobblestone and inside the dried-out stone of the large fountain in the center. On top of the fountain stood the likeness of a woman made from mud, reinforced with shattered wood that protruded outward in all directions. Her outstretched arms bore shattered manacles on her wrists, and the words The Liberator were carved into mud at her feet.
Guards defended City Hall’s doors. They were portly men who carried wide-bladed, curved swords and were surprisingly alert despite the early hour. They stood behind a wooden barrier, haphazardly assembled from the dilapidated wood of the buildings that surrounded the square. The priest had said the Slave King handed out food from City Hall. Knowing that, the scene made sense. As logical as it was, the palpable blanket of depression in the area, coupled with the odor of unwashed and decaying bodies, was almost too much to bear.
Zeriel stepped through the square, but finding a hidden spot clear of bodies in front of City Hall proved to be impossible. He eventually made do with the roof of a one-story building a little south along the main road.
“Why’d they even send you here?” Jekjarah said as he stared out at the square. “These people will all be dead in a matter of weeks.”
“It doesn’t matter. The job is the job.”
Jekjarah scoffed at that and disappeared.
Zeriel settled into the quiet murmur of his voices and watched City Hall for the next few hours. The moon—which traveled the sky from south to north each day—rose over the southern wall of the city indicating morning had come. The bodies in front of the hall stirred at the moon’s light. Some moved through those still asleep on the cobblestone. They stole anything of value from those not conscious or able to stop them. Scuffles broke out when someone would fight against their robber.
Others pressed against the barrier in front of City Hall. People awoke like the coming of rain—a few here and there at first, then increasingly more until they’d all awoken. As the crowd grew, they flooded toward the barrier and abandoned their squabbles and thievery to jockey for position as close to the barrier as possible.
The crowd evolved into a single organism. Chaotic movements unified into an undulating mass. Their cries melded into one desperate voice that didn’t pause or take a breath. Seeing this, the guards drew their swords, which kept most of the crowd from rushing the barrier. One of the guards banged on the doors, his eyes locked on the crowd. The action excited the organism and caused waves of movement to gain speed through it. Its voice increased in pitch and volume.
The doors burst open, and thirty men flooded out. Each one dressed as a Shyal city guard. Some of the uniforms were too big for their wearers, others too small. They seemed to have chosen them at random, then refused to trade for a better fit.
Their display was clearly meant to impart awe and fear in the crowd, and for the most part, it did. To Zeriel, though, they just looked like children playing city guard.
The crowd organism settled into silence and subtle waves of anticipation flowed through it. A man, taller than the other guards around him and dressed in a helmetless set of golden plate armor, stepped through the doors. The armor he wore had intricate patterns worked into it, and the edges of the plate flared out into elaborate wedged flourishes. Jewels were inlaid into the patterns of the plates which made it sparkle in the light of the white vine lanterns of the square. As impressive as it looked, there was little protection a ceremonial suit of armor like that could have provided.
The crowd cheered and pressed into the barrier further, requiring the guards to shore it up and drive them back. The man in the golden armor raised his hand and the square fell silent.
“Today is the eighty-sixth day since The Liberator helped us win our freedom.” He pointed to the statue in the square and the crowd cheered. They fell silent again when he dropped his hand. “And it’s the eighty-sixth day that I, King Mandias, ensure all among us can live full lives with our freedom! Now eat and be made full!”
Another cheer rose from the crowd. Then, as if on cue, another group exited the hall and parted around the Slave King as he walked back inside. Each new person carried a basket of a different kind of food. Zeriel watched as they threw the food at the crowd as one would throw food at a captive wild animal. The organism descended on it and roiled forward as it tried to taste a small piece of this man’s scraps.
Within moments the food was consumed, the servers and guards had retreated into City Hall, and the crowd had devoured every crumb. The once congealed organism of humanity disintegrated, its remains spreading through the streets of the Guild District.
Zeriel climbed down from his perch and into a back alley. He stepped into the street to mix in with the other dispossessed masses. Forced to push against the flow of bodies, he made his way to the square. The aftermath of the chaos lay strewn on the cobblestone in the form of trampled scraps of vegetables and fruit. Some of the most pathetic of the city’s residents picked at the leftovers and fingered them into their mouths.
A smashed bit of tomato caught Zeriel’s eye, and it took a quick motion to grab it from the street before someone else snatched it up. The tomato was clearly rotten. The smell could have given it away on its own, but close inspection revealed the telltale black spots ringed with white mold.
“This might be the easiest assassination job you’ve ever accepted,” Jekjarah said as he stared at the rotten scrap. “They don’t have more than a few weeks before they starve themselves to death.”
“My guess is King Heyman doesn’t want to be seen as a cold-hearted tyrant,” Zeriel said, “which is why he hasn’t sent troops into the city.” A few of the people near him who dug at the stones for the last specs of food looked at him warily and scuttled away.
“If he’d sent his troops in at the beginning, wouldn’t he have avoided all this suffering?” Jekjarah asked.
Zeriel fixed his eyes on City Hall and walked north through the streets in a circle around it.
“What about all those soldiers who would have died in clashes with the city’s defenses? What about those who would have died fighting a strong, well-fed force of slaves whose morale was bolstered by their recent victory?” The north wing of City Hall had no doors, but there were two floors of windows that could serve as entry points if nothing better presented itself.
“Look down that alley.” Jekjarah pointed at something at the edge of Zeriel’s vision.
He followed the hallucinations gesture and saw the pile of corpses hidden there. If his eyes hadn’t become so sensitive to the light, he wouldn’t have seen them, and the darkness of the alley would have only exuded its foreboding effusion. Instead, it portended things to come.
“How many more alleys do you think are piled high with bodies?” Jekjarah asked.
“Just a moment ago you argued to let these people starve to death and be done with it. Now it sounds like you want to help them.” The hallucination was often contradictory. As a reflection of his own mind, Zeriel knew it was the outward manifestation of his own conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Turning a corner to the south gave him a view of the back of City Hall. There were utility doors and servants’ entrances across that part of the building. They were all boarded up but for the largest set of doors at the center of the building. The doors were guarded by two out-of-place boys who couldn’t be past their seventeenth year. Their uniforms hung from their thin frames. Zeriel’s eyes locked on them as he continued southward, watching them for their level of alertness.
One of them saw him as he drew closer and grabbed his sword. “Oi! Ya get’n taa close now.” His accent gave him away as a street urchin, about to graduate to Udulet.
The other guard perked up, eyed Zeriel, and readied his sword as well. They both put on their most intimidating faces, but its effects on Zeriel were as weak as a kitten’s high-pitched mewling.
“S’rry, sirs,” Zeriel said, skittering away with his head bowed. “I mean naw danger.”
“I mean danger if I sees ya ‘gain.”
“Yas sir.” Zeriel said, then picked up his pace and continued southward until he made another left turn around the corner of the south wing of the building.
Jekjarah appeared in front of him. “Found your infiltration point, then?”
“Looks like it.”
“What next? Wait for night fall?”
“Yes,” Zeriel said as he turned his gaze southward. Masses meandered through the streets, but conspicuously avoided the one heading further to the south. Each person who walked by looked down that street, then nervously hurried past.
“You’re not honestly thinking about going there, are you?” Jekjarah said.
He met Jekjarah’s eyes. “Why is everyone avoiding that road?”
The hallucination looked at the road, then back to Zeriel. “While interesting, it doesn’t have anything to do with your mission. And you don’t actually want to know what’s down that road. You’re just looking for an excuse to see her.”
“Can’t it be both?” Zeriel said as he turned to make his way through the intersection and down the road no one else would travel. “It can be both,” Jekjarah said, “but it’s not.”