Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  “Should we consider evacuating?”

  Startled, he turned to see Naia standing in the doorway. He wondered how much of the confrontation she’d overheard. Probably all of it.

  Rising from his seat, he answered, “How can we evacuate? There’s too much knowledge and too many artifacts here we can’t risk falling into enemy hands. There’s no way we could get it all out in time.”

  Naia lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow. “It might be prudent to start.”

  She was right, Gil had to admit. He nodded in defeat. “I’ll put the acolytes to work.”

  The Prime Warden gave him a sharp nod then left, closing the door. Gil gave the whiskey decanter a regretful look, then collected his things and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Looking up, he was surprised to find Ashra seated on a bench across from his office.

  At the sight of him, she popped up and hurried over to his side. “I heard what my father said to you,” she said, keeping pace with him stride for stride. “You should listen to him. He is a great commander.”

  “His priorities don’t align with mine,” Gil said, turning a corner.

  “His priorities are not the issue,” Ashra insisted. “If my father says we are spread too thin, then we are spread too thin. That is fact, not opinion. You must listen to him!”

  “I don’t need to listen to—”

  A small crowd of mages spilled into the hallway, dragging two men in their midst, the walls echoing with the sounds of shouts and wailing. They stopped as soon as they saw him, letting the men they were wrestling with sag to the floor. The men were chained together, just like the enemy mages he’d confronted. At first, Gil thought they were both mages of the Khar, but then he realized he recognized one of them.

  It was Payden, the man whose chess game he always liked to ruin. Payden’s eyes were wide with fright, his face pale and blotchy. He clutched the man chained to him as if terrified. His companion was an enemy mage, with grayish skin and black hair, his features sharp and foreign.

  “What’s this?” Gil asked, starting toward them.

  One of his men—Emerton— rushed forward to meet him. “We rescued Payden, sir! But we can’t get the damn chain off. It’s some kind of artifact.”

  Approaching the two men, Gil knelt beside them. He raised his hand to touch Payden’s face, but the man jerked back. The way he was staring at him, Gil didn’t think Payden recognized him. The gray man chained to him whimpered.

  “Is he dampened?” he asked, nodding at the Khar mage.

  “Oh, yes,” Emerton answered.

  Gil withdrew his hand. “Payden. Can you hear me?”

  At first, Payden didn’t respond. He stared at him with an intensely confused expression. At last, his eyebrows netted together, and he issued a little gasp.

  “Archer?”

  Gil nodded. “It’s me. Gil.” He raised his hand again, wanting to probe the man for injury. But Payden flinched back, terror in his eyes. Gil asked, “Do you know where you are?”

  Payden looked around as if seeing the tiled hallway for the first time in his life. He looked like a man just waking from a coma. “The Lyceum?”

  “That’s right.” Gil smiled, then nodded at the gray men. “Who’s your friend, here?”

  “His name’s Almir.” Payden clutched the man next to him harder. The Khar mage was trembling, obviously terrified. He looked like an animal caught in a trap, ready to chew off its own foot. Payden stroked the man’s hair tenderly.

  Gil glanced back at Ashra, beckoning her forward with a jerk of his chin. Maybe a woman’s gentle presence would help calm them down.

  Turning back to Payden, he asked, “Is Almir dangerous?”

  Payden shook his head vehemently. “No—no, he’s my friend!”

  Emerton said, “He’s one of their mage-slaves.”

  Muttering soothingly, Ashra reached out and cupped Payden’s face. He let her, even though he trembled at her touch. Ashra closed her eyes, delving within him. After a moment, she released him and looked at Gil.

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him physically,” she said.

  Gil rose and peered down at the two chained mages, contemplating the situation grimly. Payden had been a prisoner of the enemy for two days before he’d been rescued. What they’d gotten back didn’t seem like the man Gil remembered. They’d done something to him. He rubbed his eyes wearily, thinking of the way their mages had invaded his own mind from across the water. If they could do that, from that distance, he couldn’t imagine what it would be liked physically linked to them.

  A shout from Ashra was the only thing that saved his life.

  Gil dove to the side, avoiding a lance of white-hot energy that pierced the air where he’d just been standing. He broke his fall with the palms of his hands and rolled over, scrambling upright. He reacted before he could think, hurling a thunderclap of air back at the enemy mage.

  Three men dogpiled Payden, who screamed piteously, thrashing about on the floor. The gray man lay flat on his back, unmoving. Ashra started toward him, but Gil stopped her with a raised hand. Climbing to his feet, he moved forward to examine the man himself.

  The enemy mage was dead. Gil hadn’t meant to kill him, but it didn’t matter. His death had reduced Payden to a gibbering mess. He fought and bucked, howling and weeping.

  “You killed him!” he screamed through his sobs. “Why? He was dampened! It was me! Oh, gods, it was me!”

  Three men were having a hard time holding him down. Gil stared at him in disgust, uncertain what to think. This wasn’t Payden. At least, not the Payden he remembered.

  “Get that chain off him and get him downstairs,” he growled. “Keep him warded and under guard.”

  “I told you, we can’t get the damn thing off!” Emerton protested.

  Gil stared down at Payden, already sick of his new rank, feeling his insides grow cold. “Then cut his hand off.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Aye, I’m serious.” The order twisted Gil’s stomach in knots, but it didn’t matter. One glance at Payden reaffirmed his decision. The man was squirming on his belly, clutching and kissing the dead man.

  Gil turned and strode away, shoulders slumped. When Payden started shrieking, he closed his eyes against the sound, wishing he could close his ears as well. The shrieks faded, replaced by soul-shredding sobs and howls.

  “No! Don’t take him from me! Don’t take him!”

  Gil blew out a long, weary sigh but kept walking.

  Ashra caught up to him before he reached the door. He opened it, stepping out into the light of morning, and just stood there as the door closed behind him, cutting off the sounds of Payden’s suffering. He lingered there on the threshold a while, gazing out across a sky choked with smoke, the sun reduced to an orange halo. He tried rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes, but it didn’t work

  At his side, Ashra said, “How could Payden have grown so attached to that man in such a short amount of time?”

  Still staring out across the burning city, Gil responded, “Obviously, they did something to him.”

  Ashra’s gaze followed his. “Let’s hope with that chain off, he’ll return to himself.”

  Somehow, Gil doubted that he would. He’d looked deeply into Payden’s eyes and didn’t have a lot of hope for him. He turned to Ashra. “Thank you, by the way. I think you saved my life.”

  She smiled softly. “I think I did. And you’re welcome.”

  He studied her face. A week ago, he’d considered this woman an enemy. At the time, he hadn’t known what a true enemy was. He’d been a self-righteous ass, and he owed her an apology. He reminded himself to give her one later, if they lived.

  Ashra at his side, he walked down the steps and out into the debris-littered street, then set his course westward toward the Kazri Souk, where his battlemages were holding their line by their fingernails. It was time to rotate some back to the Lyceum for what rest they could get. Tired mages were
dangerous mages. They needed enough sleep to keep their wits about them.

  They worked their way down a street lined on both sides with soldiers. Ash rained down from the sky, alighting on his cloak. More ash collected in the street like fine drifts of gray snow. Around them, the city was eerily quiet. The fighting had stopped, and an uneasy stillness chilled the air with a looming sense of anticipation.

  They arrived at a small cluster of black-cloaked men and women crouching behind a hastily constructed barricade made of overturned wagons and stacked furniture. Gil was greeted by weary faces and irritated glares. Not many of them liked him, but he didn’t care.

  “New rule,” Gil announced as he stopped in front of them. “Nobody gets taken alive. No matter what.”

  25

  The Lonesome Ghosts

  Rylan stared back across the pockmarked plain the way they had come. He could only see the area right around them; after that, the gases thickened and became opaque. He saw nothing moving in the fog… until he did. In the distance, ghostly shapes manifested within the clouds of roving mist and angled toward them, their images blurry as if distorted by waves of heat.

  “What do they want?” he asked. Whoever they were, they had seen them and were headed in their direction.

  Xiana took a step backward, her expression suddenly fearful. “They’re territorial,” she whispered. “They protect their salt mines.”

  Which meant they probably wouldn’t hesitate before killing two outsiders who had strayed into their territory.

  “Come on,” Rylan growled, bending to pick up his packs. “You’d better start praying, because they look like they know this place a lot better than we do.” With that, he looked down and made a guess, choosing between two paths that led deeper into the fog, away from the approaching people. He caught Xiana’s hand and led her after him, picking his way carefully around the margin of a pool, his feet crunching deep into brittle layers of salt.

  On the other side of the pool, the gases in the air thickened again. From behind them came another mournful cry. Rylan quickened his pace, his eyes blurry with tears clawed from his eyes by the caustic fumes. He had a terribly sour taste in his mouth. He brought his arm up to his face and coughed, the action stinging his throat worse.

  “This isn’t working,” he said hoarsely.

  He could feel himself starting to panic. Pulling Xiana forward by her hand, he randomly chose a different path. Very quickly, it became apparent that it was the wrong choice. The air was scalding. Rylan hurried around the edge of the nearest pool, searching for a break in the mist. He didn’t see one. Choking, he scrambled over salt-crusted hummocks and climbed onto a ridge that ran between pools.

  Xiana staggered and fell to her knees, wracked in dry coughs.

  Rylan glanced behind and saw the figures moving after them through the fog, much closer now than they had been before. He caught Xiana under her arm and pulled her to her feet, then struggled forward, supporting her weight. Leaning into him, she coughed into his shirt.

  “You must find a path,” she whispered, her voice raw and weak.

  Gripping her around the waist, he pulled Xiana along with him. Together, they wound their way around green pools until they arrived at a narrow, ribboning salt path. The air there was clean. Xiana collapsed against him, wheezing and gasping. Rylan sank to his knees, desperate to catch his breath. The acid in the air had scorched his throat raw. He could hardly see through the tears in his eyes.

  There was a crunching noise behind them.

  Startled, he surged to his feet and turned to find a man holding a spear standing at the edge of the pool behind them. The man was wrapped in gauzy cloth, almost like a shroud. Hauling Xiana to her feet, Rylan stumbled away, turning onto a winding path that snaked between pools. Steam erupted from a crack in the ground ahead, forcing them to change direction. Coughing, Rylan picked out a new path, glancing back for sign of their pursuer. He couldn’t see him.

  Xiana staggered and dropped where she stood. With a growl, Rylan lowered himself down next to her, shaking her gently. Her eyes were closed; she was unconscious. Glancing up, he saw a large group of men coming up behind them, while another, smaller group approached from the opposite direction.

  Gritting his teeth, Rylan heaved Xiana over his shoulder and rose unsteadily to his feet. He took a lurching step forward then stopped. Both paths ahead were blocked by cloth-enshrouded forms. He turned slowly in place, looking from one gauzed face to the next as an intense feeling of defeat ran over him like cold water.

  The strength drained from his body. He sank to his knees, spilling Xiana onto the salt. Vaguely, through the tears in his eyes, he made out the forms of men encircling them. They were speaking a harsh, guttural language he’d never heard before. Something stabbed him in the side, perhaps the butt of a spear shaft.

  He raised his hands in the air.

  There was a shout.

  One of the men surged forward, hefting his spear and pointing it threateningly at Rylan’s chest. At the same time, others closed in, leaping over pools or scurrying around the perimeter, converging from all sides. Resigned, Rylan looked up into the dark eyes of the man standing over him. He raised his trembling hands higher.

  A cord slipped around his neck. It jerked him backward, away from Xiana. The rope tightened, strangling him. He fought with the rope, twisting at the end of it. But he didn’t have the strength to fight long. He collapsed to the ground, where he lay gasping on his stomach as the world darkened, the taste of blood and salt in his mouth. Someone drove a knee into his back, pinning him to the ground. Another person bound his hands.

  Rylan lay still, sucking in long, rasping gasps of air.

  One of their captors stooped and picked up Xiana in his arms.

  “Thomak!” someone growled.

  A boot kicked his leg. Rylan turned his head and stared up with bleary eyes at the enshrouded man looming over him. The man repeated the command, gesturing brusquely. Rylan didn’t need a second kick to get him moving. He rose, trembling and panting, to his knees. Prompted by the threat of a spear, he struggled to his feet. A hand closed around his arm like an iron shackle, forcing him forward. Rylan complied without resistance.

  He followed the line of cloth-enshrouded people, winding back through the maze of bubbling pools. To his relief, the air stayed clear; their captors knew which paths to take and which to avoid. His throat ached and his lungs wheezed; he could only breathe shallowly. Dizzy and exhausted, he staggered after the man ahead, hastened by a spear carried by the man behind.

  The trail they followed rose slowly out of the acid-fed plain onto a sprawling lava flow. There, on the dark and broken rocks, Rylan’s strength gave out. He stumbled and fell, collapsing forward. Dimly, he was aware of the man behind him prodding him with a spear, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t catch his breath. The prodding became gouging.

  It didn’t matter.

  His eyes were closed, and he was already slipping away.

  He awoke to a throbbing headache. Rylan stared, blinking, into a crackling fire that blazed only twenty paces away, showering the night air with streams of sparks. He lay on his side within a ring of people clothed in gauzy robes. They were camped around the fire, some eating, others lounging on woven mats. Still others sat in a circle across the fire from him, laughing and passing a long-stemmed pipe. The air smelled of burned dung.

  With a groan, he rolled onto his back and was surprised to find himself staring up into Xiana’s eyes. She bent over him and touched his face with a look of intense concern.

  A hand reached down and caught him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him backward onto his haunches. He crouched, staring up into the hate-filled eyes of a brown-skinned man whose face was veiled in linen. The man barked something at him that Rylan couldn’t understand. He struggled, fighting against the man’s harsh grip.

  “Be still!” Xiana hissed.

  Rylan stopped struggling and stared into the unblinking eyes of the man who held
him. The eyes hardened, and the man growled another string of harsh syllables.

  Xiana said, “He wants to know what tribe you belong to.”

  “Tribe?” Rylan didn’t dare look away from the man.

  “They think you are Uratu,” Xiana said quickly. “They are a people in the north with milky-gray skin.”

  She said something to the man in the same harsh language. The man released Rylan with a growl and, making a sharp and angry gesture, moved away. Rylan sagged back in relief.

  Xiana scooted closer, leaning into him. She whispered in his ear, “They think you are a demon. I don’t think they’ll hurt you if you do as they say.”

  That startled Rylan. He glanced back at the people settled behind them, guarding them.

  “What about you?” he whispered.

  “They do not fear me,” she said under her breath. She was looking at the ground. Not at him.

  He glanced across the fire to a small group of women. One of the women wore a sleeveless robe, displaying skin mottled with patches of discoloration. Another woman pushed aside the veil that covered her face, revealing features gnarled by disease, twisted into a profile that was barely recognizable as human. Understanding shot through Rylan, followed instantly by fear.

  Lepers. They’re all lepers….

  “Listen to me,” Xiana whispered. “If you can get away, follow the field lines to the north. They will lead you back to Daru.”

  It took a moment for him to register what Xiana was trying to say. His eyes shot toward her. “What about your necklace? Can’t you use it to get us out of here?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t work here. The field lines swirl into a vortex over this area. It blocks it.”

  Rylan cursed.

  One of the robed men rose and walked over to stand behind Xiana. Rylan looked up into the man’s veiled face, his eyes probing the shadows beneath the gauzy layers of fabric. What he saw were browless features spattered with bumps and nodules, nostrils bulbous and distended. His stomach recoiled.