Knight Sylvestre
Location: Inquisitional CollegeCompletely at a loss, Cyril could find few choices but to follow the convincing strangers into the building he guessed must be the Inquisitional College. It was like nothing he'd ever seen; cleaner than a castle yet less grand than the cathedral of Malingurd, and more functional-looking than either, it awed him into silence with its sight alone. He didn't feel it necessary to lean upon his halberd like a walking stick as he ascended the steps just in front of its wide-open doors, but he indulged regardless. The inside, too, proved to be as utilitarian and professional as the exterior. Looking to either side, he spotted numerous hallways and closed doors, as well as a few desks, but barring any way but forward were the type of hanging rope barriers that one might expect to find outside a theater or hotel. They directed the new arrival forward, toward another pair of doors through which eked a bright whiteness. Instead of the usual double-door fare, they appeared to be saloon shutters, and around them the walls gave the impression of sudden renovation made to accommodate something of uncommon size. As badly as he wanted to pause to take in the interior, the Barnabys stood at the far end of the entrance hall beckoning, so he soldiered onward. One clinking, uneven step after another, he made his way after them, marveling at how little the stab wound in his foot seemed to matter now. Only when he reached the door did he realize he still held his shield, and after shouldering it, he placed his arm against the door, took yet another deep breath, and pushed.
He found himself in a great circular atrium, its walls embellished by mosaics and the edges sporting numerous potted plants. Still holding his lantern, Barnaby -standing about fifty feet ahead- gave a sweeping gesture across the place. “Here we are, Sir Boniface. This place is where the journey to a better world begins. We're not allowed to interfere with the tournament, of course, but I assure you that you have my own best wishes. Your desire is a noble one most worthy of granting. Would you find a podium, please?”
For a moment, Cyril stood still, but the sound of the odd doors moving behind him galvanized into movement. A moment later he stood behind a podium—one of thirty-two, though he didn't bother to count, arranged in a circle around a carpeted, lower region of the floor in the atrium's center. Above, an intricate ceiling of domed glass supported by steel girders that shone even in the stormy twilight made for a lot of overhead space. Cyril felt small, but the steady influx of new people into the atrium gave him something else to focus on.
First inside was a young woman in ceremonial attire that Cyril didn't quite recognize, though his eye was drawn more readily to her lack of an arm. Two little girls flanked her on either side, stopping a respectful distance behind her as she found her way to a podium as well. The knight found himself giving an approving nod, thinking,
she looks tough, but I could take her. Something clicked in his head, and with a start, he realized that every new entrant not sporting a lantern was not just a competitor, but a complete mystery.
Wait, what am I thinking? These are people from who knows where, with what kind of abilities. I can't afford to underestimate a single one. Next he laid eyes on a soldier-looking type with a spring in his step, his odd gear and unnerving presence bringing a frown to Cyril's face.
He's got a gun too. More than one! Good God, I hope I'm ready for this. I need every advantage I can get. So thinking, he reached up and put down his visor, covering his face with a visage of metal.
One by one, the competition arrived. Cyril hardened his heart as he beheld frightening warriors, more armored gunslingers, people with inhuman features, and a good few monsters. In only a handful of minutes, his mind blew again and again, like the chain explosion of natural gas in a mineshaft, to witness beings beyond his imagination.
And these are my opponents. He gave a teeth-gritted sigh, more resigned than fearful.
I'm dead meat. This is a death even faster and more certain than Malingurd. Then, shaking his head, he chuckled ruefully.
Whatever. My cause is worth dying for. If I'm gonna go out, it's gonna be like a hero. Looking around, he noticed the Barnabys standing behind him just as the little girls did for that one burly shrine maiden, and wondered what they were waiting for. Not for the first time, he glanced at the object on the podium before him. By touch, he'd already affirmed that it wasn't a real heart. At least, the part he'd prodded
felt like rubber, and the little cog-filled window in the middle felt like glass. He did feel sure that he would find out soon, however.
Within twenty minutes, the atrium was not quite so empty anymore. It contained thirty-two contestants, some of them rather large like the walking machine and the immense, brutish ogre, as well as the recruiters who'd gone to get each one. There was so much variety and detail in the scene that Cyril couldn't possibly comprehend it all. Instead, he focused on one individual at a time. A remarkably busty woman who appeared to be made out of slime caught his eye for obvious reasons, but after observing with a dry smile that she looked even more lost than he felt, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He briefly examined a pirate, a skeleton, and some kind of well-endowed dragon woman, but before he could move on from that last figure, a voice resounded through the atrium.
“Good evening.”
He looked toward the source of the low, authoritative voice, noticed for the first time that the atrium had a second floor in the form of a ringed walkway near the glass, and discovered an old woman flanked on either side by College staff holding a megaphone. Before he could surmise that she was someone important, she continued.
“I'm sure there are many questions. No matter how much I say, my answers will only bring more, so I won't try your patience. You've come to the City of Echoes, a mysterious place, where time and space are convoluted. Even I don't know what you'll find. There may be dragons, demons, gods, or giants, treasure or torture, but I do know there will be fighting. You're here to lay claim to your one wish. To that end I direct you toward the items set before you.”
Spotlights from above turned on suddenly, illuminating the artificial hearts. “They are called phylacteries. Keep them on your person, and guard them well, for they will keep your souls. Your objective is to acquire the souls of all thirty-one of your opponents and to find the Wishing Machine. If one of you dies, your killer's phylactery will absorb your soul. There are other ways, but I can sense I'm going on too long already.”
Gingerly, Cyril picked up the heart. An hour ago, telling him that this macabre little instrument would bind to his soul would have earned a genuine derisive scoff, but this entire turn of events would still have been bizarre for a delirious nightmare. He pulled out the phylactery's wire and hung it around his neck, beneath his armor.
“In a short moment, you will enter the city. Your first opponent is in the same area as you, but it may be some time before the fight begins. You'll know, courtesy of our announcer, when an official duel is about to start. Do not attack a competitor against whom you're not matched up, and do not mess with College staff, but other than that you have free rein in the city. There's a lot to discover. Good luck to you all.”
Before Jonathan O'Connor reached the second-floor landing, Felicity became aware of the footsteps on metal stairs and turned to face him. His gray eyes held bad tidings, which did not bode well given the imminent departure of the contestants. With a furrowed brow she asked, “What's the situation?”
Jonathan clasped his hands together and took in a sharp breath before responding, “Everyone is in position. No lanterns were lost. However, there were two fatalities. Gurbanox killed Manfred Thöger, and Actaeon killed Cedric Fetter. Additionally, Mr. Van der Sloot is reporting some kind of break-in in the Vault during the staff's absence. The gate had been opened, an artifact stolen, and the gate closed. Whoever did it is an employee, has been passing as one, or has an insider.”
“What was stolen?” The director's voice had become a cobra's hiss.
The silver-haired man wore an indifferent look, but his voice could have cut glass. “The Vessel. And whoever it was left this.” He held up the ledger. On the front page, where the names of every competitor resided, a thirty-third had been hastily scribbled:
Garbage.
“Ngh!”
Spinning around, Felicity leaned onto the railing and scanned the atrium with wide eyes. As she looked, searching desperately for someone who seemed out of place in a sea of beings who did not belong in this world, O'Connor murmured, “Whoever has taken it could theoretically cast their lot in with the Crucible. The Vessel does manifest and store souls, after all. Oh, the look on poor Rosenvalt's face when the x-ray showed where her soul appeared...”
“Quiet, Jon. The fog machines are seconds away from starting, and even if I called off the toss, we'd never find the culprit in that mess.” Venom welled in her voice, but the director pursed her lips and calmed herself. In an instant, her professional composure returned. “No matter. As soon as he picks a fight, we'll know who and where. Then we can deal with him. As for Gurbanox...” She sneered. "He will learn we can bite back, starting with his seed. Put him on track against the hunter. The wretched hound will have his comeuppance soonafter."
All around the atrium, vents in the floor beneath each podium began to spew out a thick white fog. As the clouds surrounded each contestant, so too did tension and anticipation fill the air; the tournament was about to begin.
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