Advent of Eternity - Chapter 86 (Patreon)

Cyll turned back to the door, wiping the blood off his hands with a sigh. He locked it and lowered the wooden post at the door’s side, barring it. He wrapped the dead doorman’s shirt around one end, pulling it as taut as he could. It wasn’t the best locking mechanism, but it would buy a few seconds if he needed it to.

Shaking his head, Cyll ambled into the darkness. The stairwell deposited him in a short hallway that led to a wooden door. Cyll crept up to it and peered through the keyhole, shifting to get a better view.

On the other side of the door was a large room, akin to a warehouse. Dozens of cages filled it, and most of them had people locked within them. Half a dozen men milled about the room, chatting in low tones.

The duo he’d trailed – at least, he was fairly sure it was them – tossed something out of his vision. Based on the thud, he suspected it was the bag they’d been carrying.

Cyll’s brows lowered in anger and his lips pulled back. Slavers. He’d been locked up for hundreds of years, and now he’d run into two groups of slavers in less than a month. Time had dulled many things, but his hatred for those who dealt in human life was as sharp as it had been the day he’d been locked away.

He studied the men’s movements for a few minutes. It was difficult to get exact information on their numbers because of the tiny keyhole, but he was fairly sure there were between ten and twenty men.

The occasional whimpers and from the caged people only fed his fury even more. Not a single one of them tried to cry out for help, though. Cyll suspected the ones that had were already permanently silenced.

A group of this size was a serious problem. Normally, the best move would have been to return to the inn and get the help of the others. That wasn’t an option anymore – Cyll had killed the doorman. As soon as someone left and found out he was dead, they’d be gone, the people they’d captured with them.

Cyll straightened, brushing his beard out and controlling the fury on his face. He wouldn’t have much legroom to work, and it had been quite some time since he’d really gotten down and dirty.

He turned back, heading up the stairs to the doorman’s corpse. Digging around in the area, he quickly found what he was looking for folded up in his pockets – one of the bags the men used to ferry their targets around.

Cyll stuffed the man into the canvas and slung it over his shoulder with a grunt. Then he returned to the door and pushed it open, striding inside confidently.

He’d underestimated how big the group was. The warehouse went far further to the side than he could see through the keyhole, and there were easily twenty five people sitting or standing in the area.

“Who are you?” a man asked, placing a hand on a sword at his side.

“You hired a mercenary. I showed up,” Cyll replied, dropping the bag at his feet with a careless shrug. “Where’s my money?”

“What are you talking about?” the man asked. Cyll’s complete lack of fear put him off guard, and he glanced back at the people milling about. “Did one of you idiots bring in a third party?”

“Does it matter?” another man asked. “He’s got a delivery.”

“Which you’ll get when I receive my coin,” Cyll said, cracking his neck. He couldn’t tell how many of the people were Path users. He didn’t have his sword yet either. It was possible some of the caged people could help, but he doubted it.

“Who hired you? How did you find us?”

“Because I got hired, moron,” Cyll replied. “Some asshole called Black.”

“That’s clearly a fake name,” the criminal said.

“Screw me, then. I don’t ask questions. I get jobs done,” Cyll said, kicking the canvas bag lightly. “I really don’t care about this shit you morons have going on. Just pay me and decide if I’m getting a second job or if I’m visiting the whorehouse instead.”

“How big is the delivery?” another man asked, walking up. “No reason we can’t expand, Riker. If he works, he works.”

“You really trust some random old asshole that waltzed in here?” Riker asked. “He could be a plant!”

“What idiot would walk into a warehouse full of armed warriors with such a shoddy story? If he’s lying, it sounds like he came up with it a few minutes ago. I can think of a dozen better reasons to drop by,” the new man said, rolling his eyes. “If something is strange, the most simple solution is probably the correct one. Ocean’s dagger or something like that.”

“I didn’t go to school. Stop quoting your stupid philosophies at me,” Riker growled. “How much were you promised, mercenary?”

“One gold,” Cyll replied.

“That’s it?”

“I work cheap. Provided you actually pay me.”

“And what if I don’t?” Riker asked. “After all, I’m not the one that hired you.”

More of the slavers turned to watch the confrontation. None of them looked too concerned, but several were definitely ready for a fight.

Cyll picked the bag back up. “Then I take this out and dump it into the ocean.”

“Hold on now,” the new man said, raising a hand. “No need to be hasty. You do realize you’re not in a position to bargain, right? You might be best just handing that over and leaving this place with your life.”

“And then you’ll never get another delivery from me,” Cyll said with a shrug. “I trust you’re clever enough to tell what a good investment is.”

“Maybe we aren’t,” Riker said, drawing his sword and pointing it at Cyll. “Hand the bag over.”

“You know, this happens every once and a while,” Cyll drawled. “Someone doesn’t appreciate my talents. Then I have to show them. Excuse the demonstration, folks.”

Twenty six. He’d counted them during their little chat. There were twenty six enemies.

“Is that a threat?” Riker’s sword lowered toward Cyll’s chest. The other man sighed and stepped back, shaking his head in annoyance.

Cyll stepped forward as Riker thrust the blade at him. He turned his chest, letting the blade whistle past him harmlessly, then drove his fist into the other man’s chin with all the force he could muster.

Riker’s head snapped back and Cyll swept the man’s feet out from under him. He grabbed Riker’s head as the man fell, slamming it down into the ground with a sharp crack. Bone broke beneath Cyll’s palm and Riker went limp.

“Oop. There we go,” Cyll said, brushing his hands off and standing up. “I hope you’ll excuse that. He started it.”

“Gods. You kill him?” the other man asked, drawing his own blade.

“Put that away,” Cyll snapped, his voice laden with authority. “This idiot attacked me first, and after I did you a favor. Did any of you even like him?”

A few seconds passed. Then a sharp bark of laughter slipped out from one of the spectators.

“He was an asshole. Maybe the mercenary did us a favor. Less people, less money to split.”

“Just give me my gold,” Cyll said. Twenty five, now. Slavers never did tend to care for each other’s lives much, but he doubted that particular trick would work a second time. Still, every single kill now would be important.

“Here.” A slaver flipped Cyll a gold coin. “You’ve been paid. Hand the goods over.”

“All yours,” Cyll said, nodding to the bag. “Need any more targets snagged? I wasn’t really given much information, just a person and a location. Anything in particular we’re looking for?”

“You trying to join up?” the second man who had spoken asked, starting toward the bag. “We aren’t exactly recruiting, but I think a capable warrior like yourself could find himself at home with us.”

“Depends. Answer my question, then we’ll see.”

“Guildies,” he said. “We’re lookin’ for guildies, especially their children.”

“Hm. Making a move on the city?” Cyll guessed. Now was the best time to get information, after all. He doubted they’d be willing to talk much in a few minutes.

“Confidential information. We’ll have to talk with the boss if you really want to join,” the slaver said. “He’ll be around soon enough. Just sit your ass down and, after you pay the fee for killing one of our members, I think he’d be thrilled to have you aboard.”

“Hm. I’m interested,” Cyll said. The man walked up to the bag at his feet and knelt to open it.

“Quick question,” Cyll said, putting a hand up.

The man paused, glancing up at him. “What?”

“What’s the fee for killing twenty six of you?”

His knee shot up into the slaver’s nose with a crack. The man cried out, falling onto his ass. Cyll slammed a foot into his chest, grabbing Riker’s sword from the ground and slamming it through the man’s throat.

Cries rose up as the slavers that had been ready for a fight loosed arrows at Cyll. He grabbed Riker’s body, using it like a shield before diving at the next man. They went down in a tangle of limbs and his head hit the floor hard.

The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and Cyll dove off, tackling the next man. Cyll stole his blade, driving it through another slaver’s gut and ducking behind him to avoid another dozen arrows.

Knell’s words rang in his head as Cyll swung his stolen blades like an angel of death. The longer they thought he could die, the better his chances would be. He dodged a strike that he normally would have ignored and blocked an arrow that would have only left a glancing wound.

The clang of metal and the thunk of bodies hitting the floor mixed with the screams. Cyll roared with laughter as the slavers rushed to surround him. A sword carved across his back. He threw himself back, dodging another attack and knocking the man who had cut him off balance.

He twisted, vaulting back so that an arrow meant for his chest struck the slaver behind him instead. Cyll spun, whipping his leg around and kicking another slaver in the head. The man crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut.

Sixteen.

A sword went through his gut. Cyll snarled, grabbing its wielder’s hand and pulling them closer. The man scrambled to let go, but Cyll was faster. He wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and snapped it with a sharp twist.

Fifteen.

An arrow slammed into his chest, knocking him back. Cyll ripped it out with a snarl. A man lunged at him. Cyll blocked the strike and slammed his elbow into the other man’s cheekbone. He spun him around, blocking two more arrows with his body before discarding the corpse.

Fourteen.

A blade slammed into his chest, punching through his heart. Cyll staggered. Then he fell to his knees and pitched forward, crumpling to the ground.

The only sounds left in the room were the cries of pain from the wounded and the anguished groans of the slaves, whose freedom had just collapsed before them.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” a man said. “He killed damn near half of us. Shit. What the hell are you idiots doing?”

“You’re the one that shot Jones,” another man spat.

“The guy was off his rocker,” the first man said. “He just went insane! What the hell was in that bag? And shit, someone clean this up before the boss gets back.”

“You clean it up,” someone else said. “I signed on for an easy job, not whatever this was. It was supposed to be snatch and grab, not a bloodbath. Thank god I hate all of you.”

“Eat shit, Terry.”

“Screw you, Timon.”

Someone walked over to Cyll and flipped his body over. Cyll’s stared up at the unfortunate slaver, whose eyes widened in realization.

“Hello,” Cyll said. He drove his head up into slaver’s face, breaking his nose. He snatched the sword from the man’s hands and drew it across his throat before he could react, then dove at the next bandit.

Screams rose up anew. None of the slavers were ready for his return, and the seconds of sheer terror that spread through their ranks cost them dearly.

In just seconds, Cyll killed five more men. Two died to his blade, one died to his own, and the other two met their end as Cyll slammed their skulls together, killing them with a single violent crunch.

“It’s a demon!” a man screamed, running for the door. Cyll hurled his sword at the man. It struck him in the shoulder hilt-first, doing absolutely nothing.

Cyll cursed and dove at the man, slamming him into a wall and catching an arrow in the back in the process. He ignored it, snatching the sword from the ground and killing the man before throwing himself back into the fight.

The only advantage the slavers had possessed was their numbers, and now they were dwindling. Their morale broken, the remaining men split and sprinted for the door. Cyll’s bloody grin grew wider.

He grabbed a bow from the ground and fired an arrow. It slammed into a retreating slaver’s back, knocking him to the ground. Cyll fired another arrow, but it went wide.

“Huh. Beginners luck, I guess.” He grunted and tossed the bow to the side, sprinting at the retreating bandits.

A man screamed, raising his hands in surrender. Cyll ripped his throat out. He cut down three more men as they tried to dive past him through the door. One man managed to fling himself out the door and onto the stairs while several more tried to execute a synchronized attack on Cyll.

He let out a bark of laughter, letting all the blades strike him as one. There was no need to hide his abilities if they weren’t going to live to tell the tale. His blade swung, and more men died.

Cyll turned and darted back up the stairs. The only bandit that had escaped was fumbling with the wooden lockbar that he’d tied with a shirt. He spun, his eyes wide with terror as Cyll stalked toward him.

“Please! I’ve got a wife and–”

Cyll thrust his sword through the man’s chest and into the door behind him. He ripped it out, then threw the man back down the stairs.

“I’m sure she’ll thank me,” Cyll said to the slaver’s corpse, stepping on the man’s back as he walked back into the cellar, his wounds healing. He pulled blades from his chest, dropping them to the ground as he walked.

He strode back into the warehouse, where dozens of people watched him with awe and fear in their eyes.

Cyll walked around the room, executing the last few people that had survived his administrations. Then he turned, studying the room.

“Oh, shit,” Cyll said. They’d seen his abilities. “Oh, Cap is going to be so pissed.”