Execution- Part 5

Tilum trudged through the familiar underbelly of High Ripple with his broom in hand. On his back was a loaded canvas bag. As boys, Tilum and his smaller, older brother had mapped out every dank hole, every drainage pipe, every grate— and made it their home away from the world. Tilum didn’t understand people. The expressions they bore, the shifts in their voices. It was all very overwhelming for Tilum, especially in a bustling city like Ripple. Bars and dining halls were a nightmare of confusion, he avoided them all together. Tilk was the only person in his youth that ever tried to understand him, including their parents. When Tilum was 13 and grew to a massive size, his parents had turned him out. They had been very upset by something, and he remembered his father saying "I can't handle this insanity anymore! Our son is an invalid, and now he will eat us out of our home. I don't trust you. I don't want you." Tilk refused to let Tilum go on his own, so they left home together. And together they had made the sewers Tilum’s haven away from the din.

His feet pushed up dirty water and shit, a smell he’d grown to know but never appreciate. There were alcoves about though, respite from the filth. Places where they would sometimes go, places where they kept things they valued from prying eyes. Surrounding him was the stomach churning sound of tiny rat claws scampering and scratching on stone, though the noise was their only betrayal of presence in the pitch black obsidian surrounding him. Tilum didn’t need a torch though. He meticulously counted the strides in his mind, pushing almost effortlessly against the current that reached to his ankles.

“200, 201, 203…”

He muttered into the darkness as he walked.

On step number three-hundred & fifteen; he turned left, took two more and stepped out of the water. He bent over and unrolled his pant legs, removed his shoes and socks, then proceeded down a long corridor barefoot. On step sixty into the round hallway, he reached out his bulky hand at waist level and found the iron door handle.

On the other side was a small area about two meters wide, in it’s center was a rusty ladder that went upwards into a hole in the ceiling. He unslung the canvas bag and removed a few items. The first was a torch, he lit that with some flint from his pocket and placed it in the sconce nearby. The room inherited a warm glow from the flame, and Tilum’s massive shadow danced on the opposite wall. Next, he pulled out a pair of dry socks and shoes, pulled them onto his feet, and laced them up. The only remaining item in the sack was the gauntlet that Bill had given him a week prior. It was larger than his brother's, but other than that it was identical in every way. There were two settings on the weapon, as Bill had demonstrated; one for a constant spray of flame, and another that shot a fiery orb at a greater distance. Tilk was convinced that it was pure sorcery, regardless of Bill trying to explain the concept of something he called “Mystical Design”. Tilk brushed off any explanation saying. “You can call it what you like, makes no difference to me. But that? That’s looks like witchery. Plain and simple.”

Tilum believed he had understood better. As he ascended the ladder, he ran through the explanation in his head for the seventh time today. Tilum found that he could remember every word someone had spoken, as long as he was allowed to focus solely on the words at the time. By casting his gaze at the floor, and avoiding people’s puzzling faces, he was able to view their words as clearly as he did the flooring beneath him. He stored Bill’s words easily without the need for such a ritual. Listening, and speaking for that matter, was much easier with the strange draconic being. His face was nearly always blank, his tone was usually quite flat, and he allowed much time for silent thought. Perhaps it was because Bill wasn’t as human looking, that he wasn’t so difficult to comprehend.

“These tanks here,” Bill pointed at them. “One contains simple kerosene, while the other is a mixture of my devising. When you trigger the tube to open,” Bill twisted the switch on the back and a small hiss escaped. “The kerosene is converted into a gas and escapes. To activate the flame, you press these four fingers into your palm.”

A orange sized fireball launched out of an opening on the knuckle. “The two materials mix, causing combustion. To switch to a constant stream, simply tuck your thumb in to your palm before your press down, and it will engage the tube to allow consistent flow.”

They had both practiced the process in a cave opening on the north shore of Ripple. These very sewer systems led directly to the cavern, it was a favorite sun bathing spot for the crocodiles who inhabited the subterranean catacombs beneath Ripple. As heat and light exploded from the gauntlet, the giant lizards had hissed and retreated quickly into the murky depths of the lake, or returned to the back of the cave.

The weight of the weapon was now slung on his broad shoulders as he climbed. Tilum had tucked the handle of his push broom between the bag and his back, and the thick straw bristles scratched at the nape of his neck. When he reached the top, he pushed open a heavy trap door, and emerged into a grey concrete room.

The space he was in was much larger than his previous confinement. Around him large metal tanks churned and pumped water to and from the large tower above. Tilum took a few minutes to check the room. Moving silently around the tanks, listening for any sign of another person there with him. Finding nothing, he checked one of the gauges on a nearby cistern. Normal water pressure. He pulled a metal, hairpin clip out of a round wheel and spun it tight. The needle on the gauge began to move clockwise, the pressure building.

Tilum turned away from the vat was approaching the stairwell out of the basement, when a loud *crack* from the pump room he was leaving stopped him. He bolted around the wall and waited, listening intently. He stood, his back to the wall, the stairs to the first floor on his left, and peered around the wall into the room. He was expecting to see that the tank had, somehow, exploded already. Instead, Bill was standing their. Expressionless as always.

Tilum relaxed, and gave a little wave of his hand.

“Hello, Tilum. Is everything ready?”

Tilum nodded. He indicated to the sabotage he had just rendered, gave another nod.

“All set. Ten minutes.”

Bill made a low guttural sound, approval in Draconic circles, confusing in others.

“Let’s go then. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to be quiet, but until the tank explodes and floods down here, we need to move undetected. The element of surprise is crucial.”

Tilum imitated Bill’s guttural sound of approval, but said nothing else.

Instead, he pulled the broom from his back and put it bristles down on the floor. For a brief moment Bill expected him to start sweeping the steps; rather, he placed one massive boot on the wood part of the head, and began twisting the handle with both hands. The tanks whirred their ambient sound as Tilum unscrewed it, and eventually pulled the two pieces apart. He raised the shaft of wood to reveal that the corkscrew threading gave way to a freshly sharpened tip. He then turned to the steps, and like a ghost, floated to the top of them without a sound. Before he disappeared from view he turned towards Bill at the bottom of the stairs, and gave another small nod.

Bill nodded back.

Tilum was familiar with this room, he had cleaned it once before when there was a scuffle that had left a man’s brains on the floor. Along the walls of the space were several units of shelves, about three meters tall, with large patches of leather & fabric on them. Around the room were several tables, workstations equipped with various tools. This is where the guards uniforms were made and maintained to their high standard. Tilum could hear voices on the far side of the room. He quietly approached.

The two men were at a work table. The man sitting was listening intently to the soldier standing across from him blather on about something.

“I’m betting on Merick, and I’m betting large, son. Believe me, I’ve lived a long life and seen thousands of fights. Tomorrow is already written, and you are making a mistake. There’s not a chance that Merick loses. Not one.”

The tailor chuckled.

“Despite that. I think I want to put sixteen marks on Bellamy.”

The guard shook his head disapprovingly.

“Your fucking livelihood, son. Don’t tell me tomorrow that I didn’t warn you about it though, when you reach into your pocket and hand over a hard week’s work…”

The guard stopped, noticing a change in the tailor’s expression.

“What’s got you spooked?”

The guard turned around to Tilum a few meters away and gave a start.

“Fucking arse tits! You? I swear, you move about like death itself. What are you doing here, freak? Did somebody lose their dinner down here or sumthin?”

Tilum said nothing, but slowed a little in his approach. Then stopped an arm’s length away. Staring. Saying nothing. Holding the staff in his hand, pointed side down. He stood with his feet at shoulder’s width, waiting.

The tailor cleared his throat.

“Hey. What happened to the rest of your broom?”

The guard’s eyes flashed down to the custodian’s feet.

“Yeah, whole lot of good that’ll…”

His eyes widened as he noticed the sharpened point, he started to reach towards his sword.

Tilum calmly but swiftly brought the tip of the staff up, and jammed it forcefully through the man’s neck. He choked on his last words as blood bubbled from his lips, and he slumped over. Tilum braced his foot on the corpse’s neck, and jerked the makeshift spear free.

The tailor sat stunned, mouth open.

Tilum raised his finger to his lips.

“Shhhhhh.”

He closed his mouth. Something else approached from behind Tilum, it was Bill. Fiery eyes danced at the tailor where he sat, as the wizard emerged from the shadows completely. Tilum still stood, blood dripping from the staff. The pairing of them petrified the man.

The Dragonborne one spoke, the other stood silent.

“Time to go to sleep, close your eyes.”

Trembling with fear, he slowly complied. Sweat drenched his forehead, mixing with the tears he squeezed out of his eyes as he closed them.

“Please. Oh, please.”

“Sleep”

Bill said softly in his native tongue.

And then, darkness.