Crimson Ring Chapter 8

“We have what we need,” said the First Sword, turning away from the pair of peacekeeper high alchemists that had arrived in answer to the amber smoke sent up to signal for the necrologue.

The pair of high alchemists nodded and turned toward disassembling their hastily erected mobile station. One alchemist pulled free the network of tubes that had fed the potent alchemy into veins on the corpse’s arms, neck, chest, and back of the next, at the start of the spine. The other alchemist began valving off the beakers and flasks lined atop the tray just beside the corpse.

For Breeze, the cleanup took far too long. Now that the first sword had finished questioning the disgusting pig of a man, Breeze didn’t want to listen to the residual ravings of his reanimated mind as he slowly repeated the last sentence before the first sword called an end. She raised a hand as she tapped her affinity, then clenched a fist. The corpse jerked as its eyes bulged from its head and blood sprayed from his nose and ears.

The aeromancy hung thick in the air for a long moment, and then Breeze threw her arms wide as a current of wind scooped her from her feet and swept her out of the building through the hole in the wall.

Raven frowned as he watched the mage disappear from the room. It was an unsettling display of control that sent the man back down the silent path. While her affinity was relatively weak, the precision was like nothing he’d seen before. She would need to be careful showing such a technique in the presence of Kulthenians or Sai’jans, as unlikely as that might be. She would need to be even more careful with such frivolous use of her sorcery, lest the madness take her eventually and Carrion sends another member of the Bloody Murder.

As the others filed out, Raven lingered a moment, staring down at the alchemists in the green and white robes of their profession, watching as they finished deconstructing the mobile lab they had built up around the corpse.

He found it impossible to settle the crawling of his skin. A necrologue. He’d seen countless dead bodies—many of which were made that way by his own hand, and had more than a few encounters with the undead, but he’d seen nothing like this. The way the alchemists first turned the corpse over and severed what was left of the spinal connection to the brain was confusing at first. It made sense moments later when they turned the corpse back over began administering their alchemy. That first ragged intake of the corpse’s breath was perhaps the most disturbing. And then there were several minutes of garbled grunts and distorted wails. Raven knew what was left of the thing’s body would be thrashing about if it still had any control.

A pat on his shoulder took Raven from his thoughts and back to the present moment. He turned to see Mixer standing just beside him, looking at him under droopy eyes. “First time, huh?” Mixer said, nodding back toward the charred corpse. He smiled wistfully. “I remember mine. Barely had enough of the body left to perform the log. The poor bastard got locked in a basement and devoured by rats. Don’t really know if it was the rats that killed ‘em or being chained to the clay wall with no food or water.” He shivered. “That stench…puked for days. Had nightmares for longer. I say all that to say, now after years of experience—and I’m talking hundreds of necrologues,” He turned to the corpse and smiled, “it never gets any easier.”

Raven stared at the man. “Was that supposed to be helpful?”

Mixer gave Raven an incredulous look. “Helpful? No. I stopped only to tell you the team isn’t going to wait around for you, recruit. Get a move on it or you’ll be walking back to garrison.” Mixer turned and hurried after the rest of the unit.

“What have I got myself into?” Raven mumbled under his breath as he followed Mixer out.

Mixer turned to look over his shoulder. “The best strike team in the entire corps. That’s what.”

They exited the building and sure enough, his camel was gone. With a shrug, he turned and followed behind the staggered line of team Dark as they made their way toward what Raven now saw was the armored carriage at the far end of the street. He’d seen those carriages plenty of times as a kid. They were far too much trouble to steal. For starters, very few people in Bhadesthan had much experience with horses. And those horses were tethered to the armored wagon with reinforced bolts. The wheels were secured with rods that folded down from the high underside of the carriage and also reinforced by the same heavy bolts. And those bolts all required a tool unique to each team to disencumber. All this combined to make the mobile fortresses as secure as anything could get left unattended in the outer ring.

The team was more than halfway to the carriage when a man exited a dwelling at the far end of the block. The man kept one hand on the shamshir at his waist. His eyes shifted in all directions as he first set out at a walk, then picked up his pace to a jog directly toward First Sword Abon at the head of the column. 

“Spirits below,” Raven hissed. “How bold were these people?” 

More movement from his side of the street saw another two men come out from a building far closer, this time on the same side of the street as the team. They, too, made to intercept the first sword. 

Raven clenched his teeth and picked up his pace to a trot, hands slipping his knives from his waist without conscious thought. More people filed out of the buildings, a half dozen, and then a dozen, and then more. Raven picked up to a run, passing member after member of the team, until someone stepped in front of his path and raised a hand to forestall him. It was Rail. 

“Sheath those pretty knives, tough guy.”

Raven skidded to a stop, hackles raised as yet more people flowed out, now converging on the team in a gathering crowd. He saw it now, though. The looks on the people’s faces. They were not hostile. Not a trace of aggression. They almost seemed—Raven squinted—reverent. 

Slowly, Raven eased his knives back into their sheaths and allowed his body to settle. He couldn’t relax, not after the frenzy he’d just experienced. He settled instead for a state of alert readiness as the crowd gathered.

Rail flashed a bright smile. “There you go, sweetie. Try and keep those knives sheathed why don’t you?” She spun and continued on down the street.

As the people drew yet closer, Raven noted the word used most frequently over the hushed voices. Peacemaker. It was what they called the first sword, an honorific. Hope was clear in the eyes of every person who approached, nearly all gathering simply to give thanks.

First Sword Abon slowed, allowing the people to reach him while he was still about halfway to the armored carriage. They surrounded him, dozens upon dozens, and then flowed with him. 

It looked almost as if—Raven blinked in realization—they provided the first sword an escort. The people of the outer district, the people with the reputation of being nothing more than cutpurses and street toughs, protected a senior field officer of the corpse.

The first sword waved the people closer and offered many the water and rations he carried on his belt, encouraging the other members of team Dark to do the same. The first sword talked. He listened. But it didn’t appear to Raven’s eye a thing of pride or ego. The man seemed genuine.

It was a scene at odds with everything Raven thought he knew of the districts. This close to a peaceman of rank and none sought to take advantage of his obvious vulnerability. It would be so easy. Given the density of the press of civilians, someone likely could knife the first sword, with no member of the team being able to positively identify the hand. Yet no one did. The crowd was content to flow with the first sword on the slow approach toward the carriage. They waited until the first sword and the rest of strike team Dark loaded into the back of the enclosed wagon, Breeze taking up the reins through a narrow slit in the front, and pulled off. 

The civilian escort continued alongside the slowly rumbling carriage the full way out of the district. 

It wasn’t until then, watching through thin slits in the reinforced wood and metal planks of the carriage, as the last of the civilians turned away to return to their homes, that Raven finally turned his attention to the members of strike team Dark. An air of somberness hovered over the members of the dust and sand caked team that lined the benches on opposite sides of the wagon wall. No one spoke.

Raven cleared his throat. “Hey, Sword.” He waited until the first sword snapped his gaze to him before continuing. “Mind filling me in on what this was all about? And the implications of that necrologue too, for that matter. Seems like I need to get brought up to speed quick and fast.”

“The Crimson Ring is the answer to both. What went on here today and the details of the necrologue are about her.”

This was no doubt the one Carrion sent him to eliminate. But doing so would be a delicate thing. He would need to find and eliminate her before the team closed in on her location. But to do so, he would start from the same base of information they had, which complicated matters.

Raven frowned. “Who?”

“The Crimson Ring. She has proven to be a cold, callus threat to Bhadestan’s peace and has undermined many of our gains here in the outer districts. Sabotage. Extortion. Murder of peacekeepers, of civilians. Plain and simple, it is fear that she stokes. The fear within both the civilians and the peacekeeper corps alike.”

“I’ve seen my fair share of criminals,” said Rail, leaning back against the wagon wall and crossing her arms. “Big, mean ones. Desperate ones, too. And ugly ones—lots of ugly ones. But this Crimson Ring is different.”

“Of course she is,” snapped Mixer, who sat directly across from Raven.

“Shut it,” Breach said. “Don’t need to hear your alchemically rotted rambling now, Mix.”

Mixer swelled, puffed out his chest. “Absolutely not. Not any more. You three bruits can’t order me around. Not any more. We’ve got another alchemist now.” Mixer jabbed his thumb in Raven’s direction a few times, then turned to him. “Was a nasty imbalance here on the team. Been tellin’ the Sword for months now we need an even amount of strikers and alchemists, to keep the balance and all. The man is thick as oak, though. Won’t listen to any reason.”

A growl of frustration rumbled from First Sword Abon. “You do realize I’m sitting right here, Mixer?”

Mixer snapped his head from Raven to the first sword, then to Breach with confusion plain on his face. “Of course you’re sitting right there,” Mixer turned to Raven with an exasperated look on his face. “See what I mean? The man’s brave as any corpsman I’ve ever known, but not the brightest, if you know what I mean.”

Raven made to steer the conversation back to the Crimson Ring, but Mixer shot up a hand. 

“Anyway,” Mixer pointed at Raven. “You’re here now. So there’s two of us now. Now we’re even with those strikers.”

“Strikers?” Raven asked. “You mean Breach and Rail?”

“Right you are, recruit.” Mixer leaned back on the bench and laced his fingers behind his head. “Right you are.”

Rail rolled her eyes. “We’ve got an alchemist that can’t count. Spirits below.”

Mixer’s face turned into a scowl. “My maths are better than everyone else’s here on the team.” He turned back to Raven. “See them three strikers…”

“There you have it,” Rail said. “Three of us strikers. Two of you alchemists. Idiot.”

Mixer shrugged. “Well, there’s you, Breach and Titan, right?”

Rail nodded, gesturing with her hand for the man to make the obvious connection.

Mixer nodded. “And then there’s Raven and me.” He shrugged. “The way I see it, our man Raven here does the work of two corpsmen with those knives and munitions and muscles. I’d say he counts as two men.”

For the first time since loading into the back of the wagon, the mountain of a man named Titan slowly picked his gaze up from the wagon bed and turned his attention to Mixer. “Enough talk from you.”

Raven cleared his throat. “Well…so that we’re all on the same page here, I know my way around the use of alchemy just fine, but I’m no alchemist.”

Every head in the wagon bed turned to him, eyes wide. This time, it was the first sword that spoke. “Team Dark comprises three strikers, a squad mage, and two alchemists. Are you telling me you do not brew your own munitions?”

Raven felt the weight of their gazes on him, but would not turn away from the reality of his skill set. They would either accept him and his talents or they would not. If he needed to, he would find this Crimson Ring on his own. 

Raven blew out a breath. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

Mixer deflated. “You telling me you don’t cook up your own brew? So what does that make you?”

“A striker,” said the first sword Abon. “Something we will need to change as quickly as possible. I’ll put in for your transfer as soon as we return to garrison. Will take a week or so to process. In the meantime, you’ll remain with team Dark.”

Raven clenched his jaw. He now had a timeline. “Understood, Sword.”

The First Sword raised a finger. “There is one item of extreme concern. Regarding the potency of your munitions.”

Raven frowned. “And what of them, Sword?”

“The efficacy of that munition you used back there was more powerful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

Mixer cleared his throat. “And by that, he means the most powerful he’d seen next to my brews. But I focus on healing, see. Not the destructive types. Which makes ours a delightful combination—or, I guess it would have made ours a delightful combination, had you actually brewed your own.” He took on a wistful expression. “Me, healing and defense; you fire and destruction. Big booms and big heals—no big booms and bigger heals!”

“Enough, Mixer,” said the first sword. He turned his attention back to Raven. “As I was saying. Powerful alchemy is tolerated on my team if created by your own hand. Since you admit you’re no alchemist, its stands to reason then that you did not create your munitions.”

Raven frowned, not liking where he thought the first sword was headed. 

First Sword Abon leaned forward. “It means, Raven, the only way you could have possibly gotten hold of that munition—high alchemy—was through illegal channels.”

Raven’s brows rose in realization. Somehow he’d forgotten, foolishly, that he’d been in the presence of, and indeed now embedded within, the Sovereign Cities peacekeeping corps. The Bloody Murder had the strongest alchemy in the world, thanks to Coragyps’ genius and Carrion’s resources. And yet he used the high grade munition without discretion.

With a creeping fear, Raven crossed his arms and tried what he knew was clutching at thin air. “It was my understanding that once the oath is taken, all past offenses are forgiven.”

“That is true,” said first sword Abon with a nod. “It is for that reason and that reason alone that you will not be arrested and escorted to the holding cells beneath the garrison. However, I will not abide any member of my team to cheat the system. You will not carry black market alchemical munitions on this team. When we make it to garrison, you will immediately turn all you have in as contraband.”

Raven breathed through the spike of irritation at the edge of command in the first sword’s tone. “Sword, I won’t be a part of this team beyond the week anyway, it would seem. Couldn’t I just hang on to them? If it matters all that much to you, I could stash them someplace until I’m transferred from the team. I’m sure most units won’t care one lick if I carry a load out of high grade alchemy.”

First Sword Abon leveled Raven with a flat stare. “Based on your train of thought, corpsman, you would not have made a good fit for my team, anyway.” He held out his hand. “And I cannot trust you to do what is right with your contraband. Hand all you have over now.”

Raven stared at the First Sword’s outstretched hand, then to the faces of each member of strike team Dark. He considered for a long moment what he ought to do. Carrion had made it clear there would be no resupply. Yet, to deny this command might mean choosing violence in the enclosed space of the armored wagon. Worse, it meant he may never get to leverage the unit’s knowledge of his target.

With a growl of frustration, he unslung his bandoleer and handed it over to the first sword. The gold and black elixirs that were his supporting alchemy he kept in his waist pouches, along with the activator agent. All were just as illegal. Probably more so. But the first sword would need to pry them out of his dead and cold hands to get them from him. Should he discover them, of course.

Thankfully, the team leader accepted the bandoleer and turned away without another word. A tense silence settled over the team and lasted until the sound of snoring pulled Raven’s attention around to Mixer, who had fallen asleep seated straight up on the bench.