Page 59 of Captive
Oakspear gestured subtly, change direction, north northwest. Nodding, Boarstaff trusted his judgment without question.
One scout paused, head tilting as if catching scent. The entire party froze. Oakspear's hand found Boarstaff's wrist in the darkness beneath the trees, fingers pressing against the groove of an old training scar, a wordless reassurance from that first real battle years ago.
The scout eventually moved on. Only when the patrol disappeared did Oakspear signal it was safe.
"Good call," Boarstaff whispered.
Oakspear nodded grimly. "They've changed patrol patterns. But the overall defenses remain as your prisoner described."
They continued through enemy territory, every step requiring perfect coordination. As midday approached, the citadel's spires appeared in the distance, copper and brass gleaming dully through the trees. Their objective waited within those mechanical walls.
"The extraction must be swift and silent," Boarstaff reminded them. "Locate the child, disable guards, retreat immediately. The midday rotation should give us our window."
Oakspear moved to Boarstaff's side. "I still think this is foolish," he whispered. "But let's make sure we all come back."
His hand rested briefly on Boarstaff's arm. Not just protection. A promise.
"I won't let anything happen to you," Boarstaff replied.
"It's not me I'm worried about." Oakspear glanced toward the citadel. "This feels different. Like you're willing to risk too much."
Before Boarstaff could answer, the signal came. Time to breach the citadel.
Though the sun stood high above them, vampire magic kept the citadel's spires shrouded in eternal twilight that deepened with each step closer. They moved through the outer defenses using Sebastian's intelligence, slipping past mechanical scouts during their rotation patterns. The air changed as they crossed into the citadel grounds proper, thinner, processed, carrying the metallic tang of brass and regulated temperature that felt wrong against orc skin.
The citadel's western entrance loomed before them; its surface polished to mirror-brightness. Boarstaff pressed Sebastian's blood vial against the access panel. The mechanism clicked and hissed, steam venting as ancient locks disengaged. The door swung open with barely a whisper, revealing corridors that pulsed with copper veins embedded in obsidian walls.
By the time they reached the inner corridors, Boarstaff flattened himself against a wall, pulse hammering as brass-enhanced guards passed meters away. Their footsteps rang with mechanical precision, perfectly synchronized. He counted—one, two, three, four—holding his breath as they marched past, so close he could smell the oil that lubricated their joints mixed with something else, old blood, processed and recycled through their systems until it barely smelled human anymore.
Three minutes until the next patrol. Three minutes to reach the improvement chambers.
"Now," he whispered.
They moved. Forest grace against mechanical precision, slipping down the stairwell Sebastian had described. Down one level. Two. Copper veins in the walls growing thicker, pulsing with a rhythm that seemed almost alive.
A distant alarm sounded, shrill and mechanical.
"Discovered," Oakspear breathed, moving to shield Boarstaff's flank.
"Different area," Boarstaff replied, his shoulder brushing Oakspear's briefly.
But alarms meant heightened security. Decreasing chances.
Pain lanced through Boarstaff's skull as he collided with an unexpected obstacle. A maintenance panel jutted out where Sebastian's map had shown clear passage. The crash echoed. Sensors clicked. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, warm and sticky.
Oakspear steadied him with a hand at his elbow, wiping the blood away with rough efficiency.
They passed a viewing window and froze. The sight beyond stole the breath from Boarstaff's lungs.
Dozens of humans suspended in glass tubes, their bodies pale and motionless. But it was worse than just unconscious victims. Some were still aware, eyes moving frantically, mouths opening in silent screams behind the glass. Brass components attached to their arms and necks extracted blood at carefully regulated rates, the crimson fluid flowing through transparent tubing into collection vessels below. One man's gaze locked with Boarstaff's through the glass, pleading, his fingers twitching against restraints as if trying to signal for help.
The chamber hummed with mechanical efficiency, a sound like the distant drone of insects but colder, more precise. The smell that seeped through the sealed door was overwhelming, antiseptic mixed with copper, decay, and something sickeningly sweet that made Boarstaff's stomach turn. It was the smell of slow death, of life being drained drop by measured drop.
One warrior, young Stonefist, doubled over and vomited, the sound sharp in the corridor. Oakspear grabbed him, hand clamping over his mouth, but it was too late. The smell of bile mixed with the chamber's stench.
"We can't save them," Oakspear whispered harshly when another warrior moved toward the door. "Not now. We get the child and go."
They moved on, leaving the feeding chambers behind, though the image of those frantically moving eyes would haunt them all.
