Chapter 101: Sentinel’s Capstone
Alasdair ducked beneath the iron gate of the Menagerie where a few of the Stonepetal Sentinels awaited him.
“Nothing, sir,” the closest to Alasdair said immediately.
“Nothing?” Alasdair repeated. He raised up both hands, kneading his gauntlets together anxiously. “Gods be damned… where would he have put the accursed thing?”
“We searched everywhere. All the rooms, every corner… not a thing,” the Sentinel confirmed, shaking his head.
“Damn it all,” Alasdair muttered, ducking back out of the Menagerie and into the balcony of the second floor. He leaned against the railing, staring out at the soaked floor. Even despite the blood having washed through the place, traces of the battle where Argrave had supposedly conjured enough magic to kill everything within sight lingered. According to Ossian, despite his display of power, Argrave seemed able to use magic—a veritable bottomless well of power well befitting a prince of Vasquer.
Yet even still, something did not feel right. A deceiver remained a deceiver. Even their efforts to prove the contrary were merely grander shows of deceit. Alasdair knew this well, because he was a deceiver himself. Though he played the part of the honorable Master Sentinel, well concerned for the welfare of those beneath him, he truly only cared for the position of Grandmaster. He had wasted his youth in this doomed knightly order—at the very least, he would be its master before his death.
Alasdair watched the blood, his old and scarred face tense beneath his stifling plate helmet. After a time of staring, his face relaxed, eyes locked on the blood. He knelt down, retrieving a rock with a frown on his face. He dropped it, and it impacted with the floor a story below. Ripples spread out—quick and shallow, but present.
“Mixed with water… It’s not just blood,” Alasdair said aloud in awe as he came to the answer.
At once, he moved to the stairs, rushing down them as quick as his heavy armor would allow. He walked out to the door, out into the city of Nodremaid, ignoring the confused cries of the Sentinels behind him. Moving alone in the Low Way was ill advised, but Alasdair was too overcome with excitement to allow his caution to control him.
He rushed to the side of the platform, leaning out and staring across the canals. As his eyes took in the sights, he started to realize something.
The flow is different. The sluices have been moved.
The realization brought a smile to his face, though it could not be seen beneath his helmet. The Sentinels beneath him, concerned for his well-being, caught up to him.
“Alasdair, sir,” one called out, not overloud because of their location.
“One of you, return back to the lower levels. Gather everyone serving beneath me,” he commanded, removing his sash of stone roses around his chest. “Use this to ensure their obedience. The rest of you… we search the city, checking the sluice control points for the severed head.” Alasdair turned his head back to the canals, where the water rose especially high. “Argrave is no prince. He used the floodgates to create an overflow.”
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“Someone approaches,” Galamon informed Argrave, stepping in front of him.
They were in the final hallway out of the lower levels, and towards freedom, ostensibly—once they were on the road towards the Crimson Wellspring, their days of dealing with the Sentinels would be over. A fight awaited them to claim the artifact, but despite his weakened state, Argrave felt extremely confident it would be easy.
“Someone?” Argrave pressed.
“A lone armored footman—a Sentinel,” Galamon told Argrave.
Argrave considered this. “Alright. Let’s keep going. Tell me of anything more.”
They proceeded forward, Argrave readjusting the backpack on his back. Their food rations were greatly reduced, and it felt much lighter than before. Still, he kept a slow pace, being careful not to overexert his lungs.
Galamon looked back. “He has a sash bearing stone roses.”
Argrave frowned. “You mean… another one, besides the one on his chest?”
“Aye. It has near twenty.”
Argrave didn’t know what to make of that. Fortunately, Anneliese supplied, “These sashes are a sign of command, as you told me,” she looked to Argrave. “If so, it would be given to a subordinate to deliver an order with their authority.”
“I see.” Argrave looked at the ground, then at Anneliese. “So… Alasdair has something important to get to the rest of the group. My cover story’s been exposed, maybe.”
Both said nothing, but that was answer enough for Argrave. Even still, he spent a long while deliberating on the matter before giving his answer. This person might be delivering an order that could compromise a lot of their future progress. He might not be, though.
“Stand aside, let him pass.”
“What?” asked Galamon incredulously.
“Let him pass a bit,” Argrave amended. “Then… deal with him. In whatever way you deem… most efficient,” Argrave finished bitterly.
Galamon nodded slowly, then patted Argrave on the shoulder as though to reassure him the choice was correct. Argrave didn’t feel any less terrible about it, though.
Soon enough, the Sentinel approached. Their party of three stood aside, Galamon even giving a polite nod to the Sentinel as he jogged past. As much as Argrave didn’t want to watch, he didn’t dare look away considering the potential danger. Perhaps he should have, though—Galamon grabbed the Sentinel’s helmet with one hand and quickly dispatched him by jamming his enchanted knife into his neck. The Sentinel struggled only once before dying. It was hauntingly similar to the way Galamon had killed the one outside the Low Way.
“…I believe we would be best off hiding the body,” Anneliese suggested. “Argrave cannot move especially quickly anyway, and it only benefits us. We can dump it into the canal.”
Argrave nodded, and then moved forward. “Not wrong… I’ll try and hurry. Alasdair is probably looking for Garm. He can take care of himself, but… we’d still better be quick. Quick as I can manage, at least.” He touched his chest, then rolled his shoulder, pulling the heavy gray duster over his shoulders. Galamon hefted the body over his shoulder, then moved forward.
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Alasdair entered into one of the sluice control rooms. He had been examining the way that the sluices were set up, and by his estimation, this one would be pivotal had Argrave genuinely flooded the lower levels with the canals.
The sluice control room was narrow and simple, made of stone and filled with an unpleasant mildew. It was dark, no light prevailing. In the center, three rusted chains descended down below. Alasdair looked into the hole, and he could see rushing red water just beyond it. The sluices could be raised and lowered in this room.
Alasdair walked about, scanning the room as best he could in the lack of light. He felt along the wall, trying to feel things out. The only source of light came from the doorway. The light of Nodremaid was faint outside, but it was doubly so within buildings.
Eventually, he came to a turn wheel quite similar to the one just before the Menagerie. Alasdair tugged at it, and despite the fact that it was quite old, it moved easily—evidence it had been used recently.
He heard footsteps behind and lowered himself. Soon enough, both of his men entered into the room, and Alasdair stood quietly.
“No luck?” Alasdair inquired.
“No, sir,” both replied asynchronously.
“We’ve searched all of the other nearby sluice gates,” one followed up.
“Then search this one,” Alasdair pointed down. “Carefully. Considering everything, this place is the most vital. If anywhere, I suspect the head will be here.”
They entered deeper, combing along the walls and heading for the back. Once the two were deep enough in, a light flickered at the entrance. An arrow shot out, glowing in the light. Alasdair, reflexes trained for decades against vampires and Guardians, nimbly ducked behind the sluice controls, and a burst of fire scorched where the arrow struck the stone.
“Find cover,” Alasdair directed calmly. “They’re here. They have enchanted arrows.”
Alasdair breathed out silently as his Sentinels moved to obey. The situation was desperate, he knew, but he had survived much worse. He drew his sword from his waist, holding it at attention.
“Argrave,” Alasdair called out. “That abominable head of yours—I have it. It’s in my hands,” he bluffed.
“My head is still attached to me, last I checked,” a familiar hoarse voice rang out at once.
“You want it back. You want to gain access to all of the places within the Low Way, take all its treasures for yourself,” Alasdair continued. “I can take that away.”
Another arrow shot out, and Alasdair shrunk away. A yelp of pain sounded out in the distance alongside the crackle of electricity, and Alasdair clenched his teeth tight. That warrior the boy brought along isn’t for show…
“Rolf?” Alasdair questioned.
“I’m… fine, sir. My left arm is shot, though.”
Alasdair grit his teeth, taking better cover. Damn it all. Why are they out so quick? Thought it would take an hour, minimum, for them to find what they need… Nowhere to escape… think, damn it.
“Fire another shot, I kill the head,” Alasdair bluffed once more.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you will,” Argrave said, sarcastic voice betraying his utter lack of belief.
“Fine, I’ll do as you did. Flood the lower levels. Everyone will come here. Your ruse will be broken.”
Alasdair pivoted forward, grabbing the turn wheel for the sluice. Remaining in cover, he started to raise it once more. The chains groaned in protest. The sound disguised the sound as another arrow fired out, but Alasdair managed to avoid being hit narrowly, a trail of magic whizzing by his hand.
Just as he started to hear a torrent of water rushing by below as the sluice rose, Alasdair felt hot pain on the back of his head. The blow did little damage on account of the helmet, but Alasdair staggered forth. As if expecting this, the gargantuan elf rushed forth, already swinging his blade. The blow seemed to fall short, so Alasdair stepped back. A blade of wind leapt out, and Alasdair, panicked, raised his own to block it.
The blade of wind struck Alasdair’s sword, and the ferocity of the enchanted weapon’s attack knocked the sword out of his hand. The elf still rushed forth, charge undeterred. Alasdair fell to his back and thrust his feet out, trying to stop the charge as a pikeman might stop cavalry. Alasdair barely saw the curved greatsword flying towards his face before it pierced his neck, sliding beneath his helmet.
The elf pulled out his blade mercilessly, stepping past Alasdair. Alasdair’s head fell back as he clutched at his neck. In his last moments, he tried to search out what had struck him. Had one of his own betrayed him? The very idea filled him with an indignant wrath.
Then he saw it. A brown-haired head, impaled on a stake. Its cold black and gold eyes stared down at Alasdair as he writhed. He reached out for it in vain, and it watched passively. When Alasdair’s hand finally grew near, he felt the last bit of strength drain from his body. He watched as magic swirled about the head, a blade of wind appearing right above his eyes.
“Die, mutt.”
The blade descended, and darkness took Alasdair, Master Sentinel of the Stonepetal Sentinels.
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