Faces of Betrayal: Symphonies of Sun & Moon Saga Book 1
Daniele Cella & Alessio Manneschi
Prologue
The prisoner, Shin, staggered under the sharp jerk of the rope around his neck. He fell to one knee, grunted, and pushed back to his feet as The Hangman hissed at him. Shin pressed on, his brain muted to the pain, to the darkness, to the impending sense of doom.
Behind him, the haunting spires of the prison-city Iskawan pierced the sky like black needles. Mist shrouded the rest of the marshy world in dull patches, like a bruised gray blanket. Not even a lone bird called from the deep forest beyond, hidden in the same darkness that swathed everything in the devouring void of The Nothingness.
The awkward, dissonant shuffle of two other Vakums followed behind Shin. Leading the way was a muscled bald man, a torch held just above his left shoulder. This was The Hangman, the man who ran the underworld of Iskawan.
The feeble light of his fire cast a pathetic circle around The Hangman, and didn’t extend much farther. The shifting shadows moved, giving way to a tattoo of a furled left hand on his thick neck - a sign of punishment. From The Hangman’s right hand, three ropes fell, each connected to a Vakum.
“Come along, dogs,” The Hangman called jovially with a sharp jerk of each rope.
The Vakums stumbled along silently, their eyes dull and their lips unmoving.
Despite the pervasive darkness and the strange mist swirling at his feet, The Hangman seemed to know where to go. His head jerked to one side, then back to look at the ground again. Under his breath, he muttered constantly. “Marsh on the right. Marsh on the left,” he sang. His voice reverberated through the strange space. “Follow the call of the loon to your next doom. A-ha ha!” His strange, gritty laugh sent a chill through the night.
On and on the Vakums plodded, working their way down the worn, single path and through the marshlands. Water seeped up, sloshing about their ankles. Always, the ropes pulled and tugged, crimping their necks and jerking their spines until, suddenly, they stopped.
The Hangman paused, head tilted back. Looming above was the wide mouth of a cave, big enough for two men to pass on either side.
“Right to it, as expected with a genius mind like my own,” The Hangman said, slapping his own chest with a bare palm. The sound sent a crack through the night. “You stay here, like the dogs you are, Vakum filth! I will attend to business inside and ensure the comforts of my future at your expense, of course. A-ha ha!”
He tied the three ropes to a tree with a burly knot. The two prisoners in back fell to their knees, then their sides, eyes closing in weary resignation. Shin remained on his feet, staring at the blank mist.
The Hangman stood before the entrance again, legs spread, staring into the gloom. Out of the darkness drifted a voice, brittle and hard at the same time.
“The Hangman. We have been waiting for you. Please enter.”
The Hangman remained in place. He set his fists on his hips, making his thick shoulders appear even greater. “No. You will come outside to see what you’ve purchased at the possible expense of my very important life.”
A squeak followed. Four figures stepped out of the mist encircling the cave, eyes glittering, faces drawn. Black robes hid their shoulders and everything but their eyes. One of the four figure sat in a dilapidated chair with wheels on the bottom. He was an old man, with skin wrinkled and pruney as a raisin. Long, yellowing nails extended from the tips of his fingers.
“As arrogant as ever.”
The old man’s tinny voice rang through the marsh. It was loud despite its feeble quality.
All other noise ceased. The occasional flash of a fairy fire illuminated the background.
The Hangman didn’t back down, even though they had moved a few steps too close. His hand twitched on his hip. He licked his lips.
“Arrogance and confidence are not the same thing,” he said, but his voice had become a bit too deep. “I brought the goods you requested.”
The old man’s eyes darted to the prisoners, eyeing Shin first. “I see you brought three Vakums as specified, yes, but these are almost dead. They’ll provide little power to me if their life force is almost gone.”
“They’re alive.”
“Not by much.”
The Hangman swallowed. “I met the terms.”
“Barely.”
“Taking three was a high risk! I can’t guarantee steady numbers like this. Discovery comes on swift wings when a trail remains, and three missing Vakums will leave a trail eventually.”
The old man waved a dismissive hand. “You will figure it out.”
The Hangman’s nostrils flared but he remained silent.
“Give him three vials.”
“Three?” The Hangman repeated.
The old man nodded once. One of the hooded men next to him stepped forward, three glass vials of amber liquid in his palm. The Hangman plucked them up instantly, and quickly slipped them into a pouch tied to his pants. His eyes shone with new, eager light.
“I appreciate your unexpected generosity.”
“I know your love of Amber Lotus, The Hangman.” The old man held up a spiny finger. “I will continue to reward your efforts well. One vial per Vakum. A man in your position could use a little more vigor in his work, I imagine.”
“Improved alertness always helps a prison guard. Although the heightened stench is a poor side effect of such a lovely liquid.”
“Please me, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“In what way?”
“You’ll receive as much Amber Lotus as you earn. We’re willing to invest in those in whom we believe. Escape from Iskawan will be your eventual reward, of course.”
The Hangman blinked. He paused a moment, then broke the strained silence. “I will return with three more Vakums at the next appointed time.”
The old man’s thin lips broke into a smile. He steepled his fingers together, staring at him.
“Indeed.”
Shin passed from the fog into an even greater darkness.
Upon entering the cave, the darkness waned slightly as flickers from wall torches danced along the cave’s sides. Stalactites dripped from the top of the damp enclosure, dribbling onto a sandy floor. The all-pervasive darkness continued, cut only now and then by torchlight. All three Vakums stumbled forward, propelled by the hands of a new master.
One of the three hooded men drew them deeper inside, the ropes trailing from his unseen hand. His robe hung heavy on what appeared to be bony, slightly stooped shoulders. Leading the group, the wrinkled old man sat with his chin high, plunging further into the darkness on his creaky old wheelchair.
Soon light cut through the darkness. Shin drew back, his dulled eyes barely registering the change. In the back of his mind, a distant, fleeting thought flickered light, but it faded, a mere wisp. Behind him, the two Vakums made no inclination that they’d noticed the light.
The rope cut into Shin’s neck and he stumbled, catching himself with pitiful, automatic steps.
The group continued, passing under an arch. The ceiling disappeared, giving way to a soaring space. Torches lined the walls of the cave here, illuminating the dank space with dull light.
Even with so many torches to light the room, their power was weak, and the light barely reached the shadows.
Shin glanced at a nearby torch and blinked. The distant tendrils of thought attempted to return, only to fade into nothing but gray wisps in his mind.
The old man rapped his palm on the wheelchair. “Come!”
One of the hooded men stepped forward, bent at the waist. The old man beckoned him closer with a crook of his finger.
Words slipped in and out of Shin’s mind, vague as the path of a fly.
“Prepare . . . solitary . . . knife . . . begin.”