by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 40
The door at the end of the hall exploded inward. Wooden planks and metal fasteners flew through the air toward Abass, but with the dew in him, still strong, he moved faster than the shrapnel, batting aside the pieces that came too close to him. Then, in a heartbeat, the storm of debris passed.
Qatal stood in the stairwell where the door had been, a long, nasty gash across his chest.
“Have you found her?” he asked.
Abass shook his head. “What happened to you?”
“Salt-blade,” Qatal spat. He rubbed his face wearily, leaving smudges of drying blood. “Tair bless us, the uppermost floors are empty, but the last two have been guarded. Heavily. And two salt-blades.”
“Two?” Abass asked before he could stop himself. Tair fend, he had barely survived one, and somehow Qatal had handled two—along with other soldiers.
“Whatever they have here, they don’t want anyone finding out.”
“Not much to see,” Abass said. “Dead people, half-buried, but not that many. Nothing like the pits under the temple.”
The clank of metal and shouts echoed up from the stairwell, but Qatal just shook his head and said, “Let me see.”
Abass gestured toward one of the open doors, and Qatal stepped to the doorway, moving with that strange grace that was somehow different from what Abass saw in Eyl or Fadhra. Qatal grimaced and sniffed the air, leaning into the cell.
“Nasty stuff,” Qatal said. “They’ve mixed something into the soil; smell it?”
Abass sniffed. Underneath the rot and the rich loamy smell of soil, under the bile and dried blood, he smelled something different. Pungent, somewhere between a rotting egg and the cutting scent of urine. “What is it?”
“Father take me if I know,” Qatal said. “Maq might—”
He cut off as a squad of eses, all wearing light chain over their green robes burst into the hallway. The eight men hesitated for a moment, and Abass realized that to them, the hallway was dark. The two in front held leather sacks in one hand, instead of the small wooden shield that the other eses carried along with their short swords.
“Watch out for the flasks,” Qatal whispered and threw himself into the cell.
The eses turned at the sound of his voice and the first threw his leather sack. Abass tried to speed himself up, pulling at the ebbing dew, but it slipped away from him, and the sack flew toward where he stood.
Abass threw himself after Qatal.
Behind him, he heard a wet plop and the tearing of cloth. Heat and purple light flared behind him. He struck the dirt hard, landing half on top of the body of a decaying old man. Abass scrambled to his knees, heat singeing his back and legs, and crawled further, but the heat followed him.
Out of the corner of one eye, Abass saw Qatal move. The blond man landed on top of Abass, slapping at Abass’s legs and back, grabbing handfuls of dirt and rubbing it on Abass’s clothes. The dirt was cool against the heat. Abass realized what Qatal was doing and flipped onto his back, smothering the flames in the dirt.
When he looked up, Qatal was gone, but the sounds of fighting echoed from the hallway. A viscous, purple flame dripped from the stone and the wooden door, sizzling and spitting like hot tar. Abass pushed himself to his feet. The skin on his back and legs tugged strangely when he moved, but he ignored it for the moment. Qatal needed help.
Abass threw himself through the door, past the blaze, and he could feel the dew retreat inside him as he passed the strange fire. He hit the floor, tucked his shoulder and rolled onto his feet.
Qatal stood with his back to the wall. He held a fat esis by the wrist, twisting the man’s arm back, while he used the esis’s shield to keep the man from freeing his arm. The other eses were spreading out around Qatal, swords and shields at the ready, except for the lone esis with a leather sack.
Abass darted forward, slamming into the nearest esis—a tall man with black hair—and knocking him to the ground. Abass spun, not as fast as he would with the dew, but fast enough to catch another esis on the jaw with his fist. The man’s eyes glazed and he took a step back.
The other eses were moving quickly now, though, dividing between Qatal and Abass. Qatal had somehow gotten the esis’s sword, and half the blade was buried in the fat man’s gut. Qatal kicked the esis off the blade in time to parry the strike of a blond esis nearly as tall as Qatal himself.
The purple flames had died quickly, the shadows of the hall deepening, until only a few sputtering seams of fire still gnawed at the wall. Dew surged back into Abass, driving back the darkness, numbing the pain in his back and legs. He stepped forward, letting the dew flood over him.
Two eses approached him, swords drawn. Time slowed, but not as much as it should have. It was enough. Abass stepped toward them, ducking under a slash intended to sever his head, side-stepping a thrust. He brought one arm down across the first esis’s forearm. The bone splintered. Dimly, Abass heard the man scream.
The scream reverberated in Abass’s ears, like a bee caught in a jar. It pounded inside him, a drum to match Abass’s heart, stoking the fury that the dew brought on. Abass could think of nothing but killing. He backhanded the wounded esis, and the sound of the man’s neck cracking put an end to his cry.
Abass’s heart pounded as though it would break his ribs. The dew surged and receded, washing over him, then drawing back to leave him dry. Time started and slowed like a choppy wave. The dew was running out; cold sweat beaded on Abass’s skin. He needed another piece of dew, but the urge to kill was stronger. He knocked aside the other esis’s sword, but the receding dew made him stumble, and the blade scored Abass’s side, slicing deep.
Dew surged. Abass punched the esis, and the straw-haired man’s face crumpled under the blow.
Abass turned, shaking, heart like an Istbyan war drum. Qatal slid past another esis, his blade drawing the finest bloody line across the man’s throat. With a groan, Abass dropped to his knees. He wanted to kill, needed to kill. The stutter of the dew was secondary. He crawled forward; the fat esis still lived, in spite of the terrible wound. Abass could kill him, at least.
Qatal stabbed the last esis and caught the leather flask before it hit the ground. Then Qatal blurred, and suddenly he was kneeling at Abass’s side. “Get a hold of yourself,” Qatal shouted, shaking Abass by one shoulder. “You need dew, and you need to find Fadhra. There are more eses coming.”
His words pulled Abass back to himself. Hand shaking, Abass scrabbled with the knot on the pouch at his waist. He drew out one of the small, flexible amber cubes and popped it into his mouth. Almost instantly it broke into that rich, deep liquid that coated his tongue and throat, and a heartbeat later he felt the dew flood back into him. His heart slowed, the world around him smoothed.
He stood, shaken. “Tair fend, what’s happening to me?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Qatal said. “Find Fadhra and get out of here. She was supposed to start at the bottom. Father take them!” He shouted in sudden anger. “Everything has gone wrong. Hurry, find her. I’ll meet you back at Maq’s.”
Abass shook his head. “Come with us,” he said. “You can’t do this alone.”
Something caught the edge of Abass’s vision. He glanced up. A man wearing a sky-blue vest and loose brown trousers stood in the doorway. He stood at least as tall as Qatal, but he was almost twice as wide, and every inch of him looked to be muscle.
“Looks like the decision isn’t ours,” Qatal said. “The tair has stationed one of his Renewed here.”
The man in the vest smiled and stepped forward; he moved with the same curious grace as Qatal. “Our god will be most unhappy with you,” he said. “He did trust you once, Qatal, but when you offered your wife, he became worried.”
Qatal shook his head. “Our god became worried when he realized that I did not swallow his lies as easily as Balat and Ayde.” Qatal stood. His face and his white-blond hair were dark with dried blood, a deep wound ran across his chest, and Abass saw sev
eral smaller cuts on Qatal’s arms. In a moment of utter surprise, Abass realized that Qatal was going to defend him. The thought left Abass speechless for a moment.
“Go find Fadhra,” Qatal said. “Now.” Then, he darted forward, moving with a speed that only Abass’s dew-enhanced vision could capture.
The Renewed remained motionless. At the last moment, with a speed that blurred even to Abass’s sight, the Renewed side-stepped Qatal’s charge and slammed both fists into Qatal’s side. Qatal flew at a diagonal and crashed into the corner of the hall. The wall cracked as he struck it, and chips of stone fell from the ceiling to land silently on the bodies of the eses.
Qatal simply shook his head and charged again, scooping up a shortsword as he ran. The blade trailed alongside him, sparking as the metal raced across the stone. If Abass had not been watching, he would not have noticed the slight skip as the blade sliced through the leather flask.
Both Qatal and the Renewed were moving faster than any man should, their actions compressed into the space between heartbeats. The Renewed struck Qatal again, and this time Abass heard a grunt of pain. The new angle, though, sent Qatal flying, head over heels, toward Abass. Qatal hit the floor hard and slid until he rested at Abass’s feet.
That was all the time it took for the sack to ignite. Purple flame, thick and sticky, sprayed up into the air. Great gobs of it sprayed onto the Renewed, clinging to skin and cloth with equal tenacity.
The Renewed shrieked, clawing at his flesh, only managing to spread the fire. He staggered, speed and strength gone out of him as the strange fire exerted its effect.
Abass could feel his own dew retreat, burrowing down inside him. He pulled Qatal up and slung the blond man over his back. Abass staggered toward the door at the other end of the hallway and pushed on it. It was locked.
The Renewed’s screams echoed off the stone; the noise was terrible. The stench of burning flesh and hair filled the air, and Abass coughed as acrid smoke crept into his lungs. He glanced back.
Somehow the Renewed, covered with the clinging, gelatinous flame, stumbled toward them.
Abass reached deep down and found the dew. He clawed at it, pulling it up, forcing it through him. It slid away, retreating from the strange flames the way it had from the salt-blade, but Abass pulled harder. The dew burned him, scorched his veins and flesh from the inside, as hot as the purple fire, but sudden strength flooded Abass. With a scream—half pain, half triumph—he kicked the door open, the shattered halves falling inward, and plunged into the stairwell beyond.
With two quick steps Abass reached the stairwell and jumped. The fire in his veins calmed as the stories plummeted past him, and the dew returned to normal, but Abass still wanted to scream from the pain that lingered. As the sound of fighting reached him over the whistle of rushing air, Abass redirected his fall by pushing off the stairs, and he hit the next landing. Qatal slid from his back with a groan.
They had fallen almost to the bottom of the building; only a few floors remained below them. Eyes shut, breath coming in rapid wheezes, Qatal lay on the stone landing. Abass knelt down next to him. The pain in his veins had faded, disappearing as they left behind the purple flames. With the strength of the dew, Abass scooped Qatal up and moved him away from the stairwell. Qatal’s breathing slowed as Abass lifted him, and color reappeared in Qatal’s pale, handsome face. Abass moved toward the door that led off from the landing; he needed to find somewhere defensible. The screams from above had cut off, but there would still be the eses to deal with.
“Put me down,” Qatal said.
Abass looked down in astonishment; his brother-in-law’s voice was firm and clear. Qatal looked up at him, eyes wide and taking in their surroundings.
“Down,” Qatal said, gripping Abass’s arm hard.
Abass set him down.
“Tair watch over us,” Qatal said, pressing one hand to his chest. “I’ve never had to fight another Renewed before. I wonder how many lives he’s had poured into him.”
“Unless you want to ask him yourself,” Abass said, “we need to hurry and find Fadhra.”
A thud shook the floor and sent dust trickling down from the ceiling.
“Too late,” Qatal said. He nodded over Abass’s shoulder.
Abass turned. The Renewed stood there. The vest had been burned away, and much of his chest and face were burned beyond belief. Raw, red flesh showed through the cracked, black burns. Part of his jawbone shone in the weak light, white against charred flesh. Any other man would have died of those wounds. The Renewed, however, stood on the landing, massive and, to judge by the look in his eye, maddened by pain.
“This time do what I say,” Qatal said. “Run!”
Qatal sprinted ahead. The Renewed moved this time to meet him. Neither man ran as quickly as before, but Abass noticed that the Renewed was much, much slower now. Perhaps even slower than Qatal.
With a roar, the Renewed swung one massive fist at Qatal. The force of the blow would break the slender blond man in half. Abass knew he should lunge forward, try to do something, but he was rooted to the ground—terrified of this monstrosity that had survived being burned alive.
At the last moment Qatal leaned back, his momentum carrying him forward as the Renewed’s fist passed overhead, the force of its passage stirring Qatal’s white-blond hair. Somehow, Qatal was faster. Abass stared in amazement as the blow that should have split Qatal’s head in half instead carried the Renewed in a circle, off-center as he overextended himself.
Qatal regained his feet behind the Renewed and kicked the giant man in the back. The crack of snapping bone filled the hallway, and the Renewed staggered forward a step. The Renewed turned his back on Abass and faced Qatal, massive fists flying.
Just as Abass was about to launch himself forward, a woman’s scream reached them. Angry, full of pain, it echoed off the stone. Fadhra.
“Go!” Qatal shouted. Somehow he slipped past the Renewed’s blow, but the Renewed caught Qatal’s fist as he countered. “Now!”
Abass turned and ran for the stairwell. The dew ebbed as he ran; shadows blossomed around him, crawling down the stone walls. With ever-increasing speed, his heart began to pound painfully against his ribs. Abass reached down and slid another cube of dew into his mouth, grateful for that burst of intense richness against his tongue, and the fire that blossomed in his belly. Full of dew, he burst through the locked door, splinters filling the stairwell.
The scream came again. Below him. Abass leapt, air racing past him. He landed on the ground at the bottom of the stairwell on one knee. Fire—normal, red-orange fire—blazed in the hallway ahead, filling doorways and racing along tapestry-covered walls. His vision compensated instantly. Among the flames he could see men in green robes and chain circling Fadhra.
With the speed of dew, Abass blazed into the room. The flames scorched his skin, but the dew soothed the pain. Less than a heartbeat into the room, though, Abass’s speed faltered, and the dew retreated. The pain of the heat flashed back into Abass’s awareness. A salt-blade. One of the bastards’s had a salt-blade.
Abass ran toward the eses. One of the men, shorter than the rest, darted in, his shortsword raking across the back of Fadhra’s leg, and the dark-haired woman stumbled to one knee. A blond esis stepped forward, short sword raised for the kill.
With a grunt and a flash of pain in his shoulder, Abass hit the man hard and sent him tumbling into the next man. Two more men fell in the jumble. Abass hit the ground and rolled to his feet face to face with the short esis. The man blinked in surprise. With a quick grin, Abass slammed his booted foot into the inside of the man’s knee, and the short esis fell with a howl.
Ducking as a blade swept toward him, Abass grabbed the short esis’s sword and rolled. He came to his feet again and blocked a fat, red-headed man’s blade. The red-headed man stepped in. He was bigger than Abass, stronger, and Abass’s arm trembled.
Abass stumbled back, the red-head’s blade barely missing his face. Abass thrust, bu
t his reach was too short, and all he earned was a cut on the inside of his forearm as the red-head parried and countered. The esis attacked again, and Abass caught the blade with his short-sword, only to find himself forced back again.
The wall met his retreat. Heat scorched the side of his face as flames spread along the tapestry at Abass’s back. The red-head’s mouth drew into a tight line. He slashed again. Abass had no choice but to intercept the blow. With a clang, the blades met, and the shock rippled up Abass’s arm.
Slowly, the blades crept closer to Abass’s face. His arm shook as he tried to force away the red-head’s blade.
With a look of amazement, the red-head jerked forward and straightened, as though trying to stand on the tips of his toes. His arm went slack and the blade fell to the ground. Abass swung, and his blade took the man in the throat, leaving a red line as it passed.
The red-head tottered for a moment and then fell. Fadhra, her pretty dark eyes wide, stood behind him, a bloody knife in one hand. Two deep cuts ran across her chest, and ribbons cloth hung from her black shirt. Two more men lay on the ground behind her.
“You alright?” Abass asked.
She nodded, then started to fall.
Abass caught her as her eyes rolled up in her head. “Fadhra,” he shouted, slapping her cheeks. She stirred, but did not waken.
Heat washed over Abass, but the dew still hid within him—a well of power he could not tap. He lay Fadhra on the ground as gently as he could and began searching, turning the dead men over, rifling through pockets and boots, searching for the salt-blade that was canceling his dew. Not only did he need the dew to carry Fadhra and escape, but Fadhra might need it to survive.
Nothing. All the blades were steel. Smoke filled the hallway now, making the room spin around Abass as he tried to breathe. Then a thought struck him.
He searched the bodies again, this time looking for wounds. He found it on the third man. The salt-blade had been driven almost entirely into his body, but the hilt had snapped—leaving less than a finger’s width of shimmering blade sticking out of the corpse. Abass tugged at the blade, but he couldn’t get a grip on the thin metal. Coughing, lungs burning, Abass wiped sweat from his brow and looked at Fadhra.
She lay still, her chest barely rising and falling. Desperation gripped Abass. He turned back to the blade and, wincing as the shattered metal sliced his hand, he pushed the blade the rest of the way into the man’s body.
As the last bit of glittering salt-blade disappeared beneath cold flesh, the dew surged back into Abass—and with it, that bestial rage. Abass forced the bloodlust down and focused on Fadhra. With the dew back, he swung her easily over one shoulder and looked for an escape.
Flames raged, and he was grateful that the dew did something to alleviate the smoke and heat that, otherwise, would have left him unconscious. The fire hid any exit from the hold, and so Abass sprinted, fueled by dew, toward the stairs. He launched himself up the stairwell, feeling the dew pound in his fingertips, as he flew toward the roof.
He landed easily on one of the stone ledges and shifted Fadhra’s weight. Smoke filtered up through the stairwell, but the air was fresher here—although still heavy with the scent of rot and earth. Although Abass could still hear the crackle of the flames, all those floors below, he heard nothing else. Qatal’s fight with the Renewed must have ended, and if Qatal still lived, he could be anywhere. Abass shook his head, still unable to believe that Qatal had saved him from the Renewed. Eager to be free of the hold, Abass leaped, hurtling up through the stairwell until he came to rest on another landing.
A few more jumps carried him to the top of the stairs, and it was only a matter of moments before Abass had kicked open the heavy steel door—the bar bending, and then snapping, under his repeated blows. Then he was on the roof the hold, the fresh night air sweeping over him, the world around him lit by the strange, noon-day twilight that the dew gave. No sign of Qatal on the roof or the vast clearing that surrounded the hold.
Abass gave a single look back at the stairwell. He could go back and search for Qatal. The bastard had tried to save his life, if nothing else. With a glance at Fadhra, though, Abass made his decision. Qatal was still Qatal, no matter what had happened that night. He needs me, for now, Abass realized. That was why he had saved Abass. The way one would conserve a tool. It was the only thing that made sense.
Cradling Fadhra in his arms, he sprinted to the edge of the roof and threw himself out into the darkness.