Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  Amina would be safe there. She had to be safe there. Oh, gods…

  Surrender!

  The command thundered through his head, impacting with the force of a war hammer. Rylan reeled, staggering. He shot a hand out, catching himself on the brick wall of the staircase. It took him a moment to realize that the command had come from Xiana through the link. And even then, he didn’t understand what she was asking of him.

  SURRENDER!

  He could feel Keio Matu cringe. Rylan gasped as Xiana seized the magic inside him and wrenched it away from his control, taking it by force. Reflexively, he struggled to wrest control back, but there was nothing he could do. She was fully in charge: of his magic. Of him.

  But that was the way it was supposed to be. Only one mage could control the link. Rylan didn’t know how he knew that—he just knew. It was like he’d known his entire life. So he forced himself to yield, opening himself to her fully. When he did, he was bathed in a sweeping feeling of relief.

  Surrender…

  He understood, now, what was required of him, and he accepted it. It didn’t matter who controlled his magic—or even him. What mattered was that he and Xiana work together as one, without adversity or hesitation. She reached out for his hand. He let her take it, then ran with her down the stairs.

  Gil moved away from the wall toward the center of the room, stepping over blackened corpses spread across the floor like a grizzly obstacle course. More mages started filing into the chamber, emptying the dungeon’s rows of cells where they had been willingly imprisoned. Their magic broke against his light shield, raining sparks and arcing forks of charged current. There were so many mages. Even with the talisman, he was being gradually worn down. There was only so much power the weapon in his hands could deflect.

  He would have to try something else.

  Sweeping the morning star back over his shoulder, he swung it around with all his might as if delivering a physical blow. The mages nearest him were torn apart by the force of the weapon’s strike. The dungeon echoed with the screams of the living and the dying.

  Gil swung the talisman again, sweeping it through the air. Bodies hurled backward, striking the walls and rebounding to the floor, where they lay limp and broken. The ground was covered with blood and char, and the air reeked of both. Gagging, Gil lurched forward, driving the remaining mages backward.

  The air exploded in front of him, throwing him to the ground. He rolled to a stop against the wall, somehow managing to maintain his grip on Thar’gon. He struggled to stand, his vision blurring. The dungeon divided into two red-tinged images that drifted apart and then swam back together again. Disoriented, he staggered forward. Another blow struck him, knocking him to the floor, where he lay groaning.

  Looking up, Gil saw a lone pair of mages walking toward him across the chamber with no trace of hesitation in their stride, as though he hadn’t just killed dozens of others just like them. The sight of the pair filled him with fear, and he scrambled backward toward the corner where Ashra lay unconscious. Another powerful strike shot toward him through the air. This time, he managed to get the talisman up in time to shield himself from the brunt of it. The impact was still almost enough to knock him out. The light shield wavered, spewing sparks.

  Warm liquid bathed his face, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He was bleeding; he didn’t know where from. The chained mages continued toward him, relentless. He knew he wouldn’t survive another attack, even with Thar’gon’s great strength. The two of them linked were far too powerful.

  He raised the talisman defensively and used the wall to help drag himself to his feet. He blinked the blood from his eyes, freeing his vision enough to see his two assailants clearly. When he did, he almost dropped the morning star.

  Rylan.

  “Oh, gods…”

  The sight of Darien Lauchlin’s son coming to kill him froze him rigid with fear.

  But only for an instant.

  Gill gripped Ashra’s hand, squeezing it tight.

  “Vergis!” he cried.

  The dungeon shuddered and was gone.

  Rylan sank to all fours in a room full of his brothers and sisters, all dead or dying. Tears fell from his eyes, and his arms shook so hard they could hardly hold him up. He gazed around at the death surrounding him, overcome by despair. They had suffered a terrible loss.

  All at the hands of Gil Archer.

  He understood fully why Gil had done it. But he still despised him for it. Rylan felt each death as though it were his own, along with all the suffering that accompanied them. Shaking, he rose from the ground. Xiana threw her arms around him, her face a twisted grimace. Rylan hugged her close, weak with relief that she was unharmed, at that moment sharing more intimacy with her than he had ever shared with another individual in his life. They were joined indelibly: in magic, in life, in purpose, in tragedy. He understood her grief, for it was his own. She was the woman he had died loving, and he’d die loving her again. And again. And again—until the earth ceased to spin and the gods fell from the heavens.

  Another man’s thoughts. It didn’t matter. He welcomed them and made them his own.

  Shuddering, Xiana whispered, “Where did he go?”

  “The Lyceum,” Rylan responded, certain he was right.

  “How could he be so powerful, unchained?”

  “I don’t know.” All he knew was that there was nothing more they could do here. Amina was upstairs, and he needed to return to her.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Xiana took hold of the chain and backed away from him, saying, “Your daughter is fine. We need to find the man who did this to our brothers and sisters.”

  She was right. But first, he wanted to check on Amina. He moved toward the stairs.

  The chain between them jerked taut. Rylan glanced back at her.

  “We are needed,” Xiana pressed. “We must go now! We need to hunt this man down!”

  “I’ll come,” he said, resigned. But then he caught the chain so she couldn’t walk away. “Wait!” When she turned to look at him, he asked firmly, “What will happen to my daughter if I don’t come back?”

  Xiana’s expression froze, and then it collapsed in lines of compassion. Dropping the chain, she leaned into him and kissed his cheek. “Then your Amina will be raised by the community,” she assured him. “She will be cherished and cared for. Have no fear for her.”

  He nodded, greatly relieved. He supposed he’d already known the answer. If he died, Amina would be raised by thousands of loving parents. She would grow to be a beautiful woman with an enormous heart and enormous contributions to make. She wouldn’t need his presence to thrive.

  Comforted, Rylan moved after Xiana as she picked her way across the room, stepping over the burned and mangled bodies of their fellows.

  Surrender.

  This time, he obeyed without question, opening his heart and soul to her.

  Gil lay Ashra on his own bed and crouched down at her side. Reaching out, he caressed the bloody cut on her cheek. He’d never hit a woman in anger, and the sight of the injury made his stomach wrench. It disgusted him. He disgusted him. Before war had come to Karikesh, he’d had no idea what he was capable of. Now he did. The events of the past week had made him conscious of the monster sleeping inside himself. He had looked it in the eyes and recognized its nature. He’d turned into the kind of man he’d always hated, the kind of man he’d sworn he’d never be.

  His grip tightened on the talisman, and he healed Ashra’s injury. When he opened his eyes, her skin was smooth again, unblemished. He stroked a hand through her hair tenderly. She’d be sleeping for a while. And when she woke up, he had absolutely no idea what to do with her. Standing up, he looked around. The room contained a dust-covered cedar chest that looked a hundred years old, a wobbly desk, and an iron-framed bed with a down mattress. That was all. There was nothing that could be used to restrain a person who didn’t want to be there.

  He moved for the door but stopped as he got a gl
impse of his image in the looking glass over the washbasin. He stood for a moment staring in revulsion at himself, at the blood and soot that covered his clothes and skin. He reached up and ran a grimy hand through his sweat-plastered hair, knocking off a layer of ash.

  Bending forward, he retched over the washbasin.

  Nothing came up. Gil straightened, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. In the mirror, his eyes were red and scalding, just like the eyes of a madman. He scooped up the black cloak he’d thrown on the floor the previous day. Pinning it on, he looked back at Ashra. He had to leave her there. If she wasn’t there when he got back, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, he left the room and took the stairs down to the level of the main floor, which was swarming with people. He plowed his way through the crowd. The sight of him was enough to clear a path ahead; he wasn’t sure if it was due to the look on his face or his blood-splattered visage. People saw him and backed away with looks of dismay, even people he knew well. Which was fine. No one tried to stop him or talk to him. Even Naia’s secretary had the wisdom to stay in her seat when he barreled past her.

  At the sight of him, Naia’s jaw dropped, and she jerked out of her seat. The advisors hovering around her desk recoiled, their faces full of shock.

  “Gil…” she gasped.

  Instead of responding, he glared significantly at the men and women gathered around her desk. Taking his meaning, Naia motioned them out. As they filed through the door, no one made any effort to hide their overt stares. After the door shut behind them, Gil jerked Thar’gon off his waist and slammed it down on her desk.

  “Take this back,” he growled. “I don’t want it anymore.”

  Naia shook her head. Folding her hands on the desk, she told him, “You can’t blame the weapon, Gil. And you can’t blame yourself either.”

  He wanted to scream. He turned away from her, hands clenched at his sides, and stood glaring at the wall. “I killed a lot of them,” he said, bowing his head. “But there’s still more. They’ll be coming.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I found Rylan. And Ashra…”

  His voice broke. He heard the sound of her chair scraping the floor as she rose from her seat, her soft footsteps approaching. He didn’t look at her when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Gil.”

  He grimaced, clenching his teeth in despair and frustration. “They’re not dead,” he told her. “I brought Ashra back here. But she’s like Payden. She tried to kill me.” His voice was trembling. “And Rylan… they have him chained to some woman. He attacked me, and there wasn’t anything I could do to defend myself. The two of them together were too damn strong.”

  Naia drew in a deep breath, her hand stiffening. “Poor Rylan,” she breathed. “We will have to make him a priority.”

  Gil found himself in agreement. “He’s a real threat to us.”

  Naia’s shoulders sagged. “If he’s anything like his father, I’m sure he is.” She turned and walked with her head bowed back across the room.

  Gil rubbed his eyes, smothered by weariness. He glanced down at the empty chair in front of Naia’s desk, wanting nothing more than to cast his body down into it.

  “What would you have me do, Prime Warden?” he asked, his voice full of lead.

  It took her a moment to respond. “We’ll evacuate the Lyceum. That way our forces can focus on what’s most important. Please see to the defenses of the city, Gil. Report to the Sultan. And don’t tell him you found his daughter,” she added, moving for the door. She paused. “Where is she?”

  “My room,” he said, turning toward her. “Why? What are you going to do?”

  Naia looked at him sadly. “The only thing I can do, Gil.”

  He threw his head back, her words punching a hole in his gut. Rage coursed through his veins like venom, chewing at his insides. If he had just listened to the Sultan in the first place, everything would be different. They would never have lost the Waterfront, and they wouldn’t be on the verge of losing the entire city. Ashra would be whole and at his side, and Naia wouldn’t be making her way upstairs to end what was left of her. With a defeated growl, he scooped Thar’gon off the desk and whirled for the door.

  A thunderous explosion shook the building, knocking him off his feet.

  Large chunks of the ceiling rained down on them, and he was showered by hunks of plaster.

  Naia screamed.

  A wooden beam struck Gil in the head, and his vision went dark. A lancing pain shot through his eyeballs, tearing a cry from his throat. He was encased in rubble. The world was black and lightless, and he couldn’t tell if that was because of his injury or because it really was. He could hear Naia somewhere nearby, choking on dust. Clutching Thar’gon, he opened himself to the magic field and healed the wound in his scalp. A wave of enormous relief rolled over him and almost swept him away. He felt the last, tenuous threads of consciousness slipping away from him.

  “Naia!” he gasped, his voice collapsing in a fit of hacking coughs.

  He could hear her moving toward him, feeling her way through the debris, until at last she caught hold of a handful of his cloak. She started shifting chunks of the building off him, but the ceiling cracked sharply, raining more plaster down on them. Afraid the entire building was going to collapse, Gil clenched her hand, stopping her. She didn’t have time to dig him out. And there was another way.

  Holding her hand tightly, he whispered, “Vergis.”

  The darkness parted, and a thick fog rolled in to encase them. Naia was coughing, lying on her side on the ground. Gil collapsed on top of her, gasping for breath through lungs drowning in dust. He heard scattered shouts accompanied by the sound of running feet. Within seconds, they were surrounded by people. Hands gripped him under the arms, pulling him up. Someone held him upright, barking harsh words at him in Malikari. He didn’t understand what was being said, but just hearing the language gave him relief. The Sultan’s soldiers had found them.

  Breaking free of the man who held him, Gil staggered over to where Naia lay and leaned over her. She was injured, but not badly. He healed her anyway. Then, clutching Thar’gon, he turned and looked back at the Lyceum, its roof visible over a row of buildings. Fire was spreading rapidly, tearing through the roof. As he watched, one of the towers collapsed in a shower of sparks. The sight filled him with panic. He raised Thar’gon.

  “Gil! What are you doing?” Naia gasped, sitting upright.

  “I’m going back for Ashra!”

  He wasn’t sure how, though. He had a good image of what his room looked like, and held it fixed in his mind. What he didn’t know was whether that room still existed at all. But there was only one way to find out. He closed his eyes and uttered the Word of Command that activated the talisman.

  The world jolted, then went black. His lungs filled with scalding smoke that choked him like a garrote. He was immediately assaulted by a blast of heat and horrifying screams. Orange tongues of hell roared violently above him, visible through the charred slats of wood that made up the ceiling. The heat was appalling.

  He whirled to find Ashra balled up in a corner, clutching a wad of blankets around her. Seeing him, she screamed harder, as though the sight of him terrified her more than death by fire. He moved quickly toward her.

  She flinched away from him, shrieking, “You monster! You killed him!”

  Aghast, Gil looked up just in time as part of the ceiling broke, raining hot embers.

  “Please, Ashra!” he shouted over the rage of the fire, reaching out for her. “Take my hand!”

  She edged away from him. More embers showered down on them from above. The entire ceiling was close to collapse. Choking and gasping, Gil realized he had only seconds to get her out of there. If she wouldn’t come, then he’d have to leave her.

  “Take my hand or you’ll die!” he shouted, his voice edged with panic.

  Ashra snarled, baring her teeth, soot and tears streaking he
r face.

  Gil cried out in frustration. Reaching deep inside her, he twisted something there. Ashra’s mouth fell open, and her eyes rolled back in her head. He lunged for her. The moment he got his hand around her arm, the roof broke entirely.

  “Vergis!” he choked.

  42

  A Losing Battle

  Gil staggered as broiling air transformed into cool mist on his face, the roar of the flames replaced by sounds of shouts and distant screams. He moaned against the searing agony of the burns covering his hands. Ashra lay limp in his arms, her face red and blistered, the fabric of her gown smoldering. Quickly, he healed her burns. He thought about healing his own injuries, but then thought against it. There was a chance he’d pass out, and he couldn’t take that risk. He lowered Ashra to the ground gently and knelt beside her.

  He looked up at the slapping sound of boots jogging toward him. The Sultan heaved himself down on the ground beside his daughter, scooping her up in his arms and draping her across his lap.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he growled.

  “I healed her,” Gil panted. “But they put one of their chains on her—she’s not in her right mind.”

  Sayeed grimaced, then bent to hug Ashra close to him. He rocked her gently, as a father would rock his young daughter, stroking her hair. He rose with Ashra in his arms and started walking with her back across the square. The chain dangling from her arm swayed with each of his jolting strides.

  Gil started after them, calling, “Your Majesty! She’s dangerous!”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “That won’t matter to her,” Gil whispered with a terrible, sinking feeling in his gut.

  At that moment, a blazing comet arced down from the sky. An enormous fireball impacted with a nearby neighborhood with earth-shaking force. A fountain of flames erupted high in the air.