Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

  She felt her heart harden as she made her decision.

  "Who can stand?" she said. "Azjbel? Jasleen? Heal yourself if you can and get up. We're going after them." A twisted body in grey robes lay sprawled in the mud a dozen feet away; she sprinted to it and turned it over, saw the ruins of Rayonth's face, and blanched. A howl of grief rose up in her chest and she seized it, cut it off, and crushed it into a gleaming core of rage.

  "I can." Azjbel struggled to his feet.

  "I'm . . . I'm here," Ylise gurgled. "But it hurts. Oh, God, it hurts―"

  "If you can speak, you can pray," Lyseira said. "Akir isn't done with us tonight." Her rage drove her eyes south, following the enemy soldiers as they vanished into the Colmon streets. "Or with them.

  "Listen to me, all of you. If you called the greater Godsflame against the troops—if Akir used you as a vessel of vengeance—heal yourself and follow me. We're going after them. Everyone else, work on the others—especially the troops. Follow us if you still can. Shaviid?" The name hung in the air like an omen. Again she forced the quaver from her voice. I won't accept your death right now. I won't. "Shaviid?"

  "I hear you, Mother," he said from the dark, wincing. "I'll take care of it. Go." Her heart tried to break with gratitude, her eyes to well with tears. She hated herself for this choice. She forced her head to nod.

  "Arwah!" she called. "Men of Keswick! If you can still fight, follow me. If you can't, wait for the Kesprey to heal you, then join us. The Church thinks this is finished.

  "It's not."

  Without waiting to see who was following her, she started running south.

  iv. Seth

  Seth had the presence of mind to grab a longsword from a dead soldier and toss it to Kai as he reached the door.

  "What did you do?" he asked. "How did you get past the protections?"

  "I don't know," Kai grunted, the Mal'shedaal howling their grief behind him.

  "Stairs," Retash said again, darting down the left turn of the T. The fire that had filled it just moments ago was gone.

  They raced down the hall, through a litter of broken soldiers and spilled weapons, to a locked door. Retash drew a breath, focused, and shattered the lock with a targeted blow; then they were into the stairs beyond, winding through darkness broken only by a single glowing gem between each landing—clericlight, guiding the way to their escape.

  Seth took the lead, pushing several steps ahead while Retash supported Kai, whose wounds were slowing him. When they reached the tenth floor, the bells started ringing. Long, angry tolls punctuated by lighter, jangling ones: an alarm.

  "Ignore it," Kai said. "Keep going. We have to get to the ground."

  "We can jump from a higher level," Retash answered. "I can carry you—you won't be hurt."

  Kai nodded, grunting against the pain in his shoulders as he fought to keep his footing on the dim stairs. "How high?"

  "Third or fourth floor. If we―" Retash cut off, and Seth spun around to see a shadow materializing from the darkness, its blade blazing.

  "Here!" Vhesus roared. "They're here!"

  Retash grabbed Kai and shoved him through the nearest door as Vhesus bore down, his blade streaking the air with flames. Seth shouted his master's name and started up the stairs—but another shadow breathed into existence before him, and a third beyond it, flanking Retash.

  "Master!" Seth shouted. "Behind―!" But a blast of nothingness took him in the chest, heaving him from his feet and sending him tumbling down the stairs. The Mal'shedaal that had attacked him faded again into the stair's shadows, only to rematerialize standing above him, blade poised for the kill.

  Seth kicked away from the wall on instinct, and the blade speared into his ribs instead of his heart. He siloed the pain, ignoring it as he skidded down two more steps and finally managed to gain his feet.

  Just beyond the advancing shadow, he saw Faerloss cuff Retash's head against the wall from behind, leaving a smear and spray of blood. The Preserver stumbled, dizzied for an instant—and Vhesus opened him hip to hip. As his guts spilled onto the stairs, Faerloss finished with a savage jerk of his weapon that severed Retash's spine and lanced into his heart. The Preserver's corpse collapsed to the stairs as D'haan forced Seth around the bend and out of sight of it.

  "You will die for this," D'haan seethed. "You and everyone who came here."

  There was no way past him. Any attempt would only get him killed. "Retash!" Seth screamed. "Kai!"

  "Don't worry," the darkness in front of him whispered. "They'll have him soon." He took two steps backward, up the stairs, his sword dancing. Seth dove down the stairwell as lightning shot from the blade and into the wall behind him, showering him with rubble.

  The stairwell was a death sentence. He burst through the next door he saw, into a hall with a fine burnished oak floor and a small crowd of servants on midnight errands. They saw him and gasped, flattening their backs to the wall, and he dashed past them, chasing the meandering halls for safety. D'haan launched a Detonation behind him, setting the floor ablaze and igniting the air with the screams of burning servants, but missing Seth.

  Another corner, then another, the ringing bells pursuing him at every turn. A second stairwell which he dared for two levels before retreating back into the central tower, where a half-dozen Scarlet Guard started at the sight of him. He became empty and leapt, gliding over their heads as they gawked, and hit the far side of the hall running. Another short hallway, another quartet of doors, and then a strange open lobby where a trio of golden, chest-high gates blocked a set of empty shafts. A man stood to one side, stunned—before he could shout a warning Seth smacked his head against the wall, dropping him.

  The clatter of the Scarlet Guard drew closer, their cries closing in. Seth glanced at the three shafts, each with two pairs of ropes stretched taut in the darkness. There was no time for questions. He jumped one of the gates, grabbed a rope, and slid into the dark.

  Apprehension rose in him at being in the dark again. Visions of Mal'shedaal swam in the shadows. But light came soon enough—another lobby like the first, with another attendant, this one's back turned as he peered into the hallways for some glimpse of the tower's emergency. Seth slid past him, and then another, disregarding the rope burns on his palms as he plunged ever farther.

  Finally he reached an empty lobby, its floor dull grey stone and its gates made of mere pine. Cellar, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. He'd lost count of the floors a long time ago.

  He leapt the gate and darted into the hallway beyond, ignoring the seething pain from his broken rib and his burning hands. He invoked the emptiness to keep them at bay, but a maelstrom battered the windows of that serenity.

  Dead. All dead. Every last one.

  It was possible Kai had escaped, but he couldn't believe it—if Retash hadn't been able to face two Mal'shedaal, there was little chance Kai could have. Seth was the only one left, the only one who could bring back word of—

  Oh, God. Iggy. He remembered his friend vanishing into the dark, just like Elthur before him. Ah, no, no . . .

  But this pain, too, he wrestled under control. Shoved it into a back chamber in his mind with all the clamors from his body.

  And forced himself forward.

  v. Melakai

  He lurched back to his feet in the hallway where Retash had thrown him, starting back for the stairs to help, and a swarm of Scarlet Guard surged around the corner beyond. One of them pointed at him and shouted. Two hurled daggers while the others charged.

  He parried the first missile—a miracle, with his agonized shoulder—and the other went wide, a second miracle in as many seconds. He fell back, raising the blood-slick sword in his hands to parry, frantic to get back into the stairwell and help Retash.

  Then he heard Seth's wail of anguish. He knew at once what it meant. A crack of thunder followed it, a boom that shook the tower.

  They were gone. It was just him, now.

  The squad of scarlet soldiers was nearly upon hi
m. Already, a Mal'shedaal emerged from the stairs, its black gaze fixed on him.

  He lifted his sword and felt purpose seize him. The same motions as before, the same desperate need. As he lifted the sword toward the ceiling and the Mal'shedaal howled with fury, his vision tore in half. Everything shattered. A waterfall of pain ripped through him.

  And he was somewhere else.

  Darkness and silence, his panicked breath the only interruption to the quiet. As his eyes adjusted and he waited for the pain of being torn in half to subside, he took in shapes shrouded in dusty dropcloths, lurking like gravestones. No windows.

  A storage room.

  He crept to the single door, put an ear against it to listen, and could just make out the distant, frenzied jangle of the tower's bells. No bootsteps. No voices. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself for the worst, he wrapped one hand around the knob and slowly turned. It was unlocked: a third miracle. The hall beyond was nearly as dim as the room behind him, though with the door open he could now make out the low murmur of voices from the left, along with the glow of light farther down.

  I could just stay here. Hide until the alarm dies down, sneak out later. But the Mal'shedaal had already found them once; he had no idea how. He wasn't safe here. He might never be safe again.

  He closed the door and retreated back into the storage room, gripping his sword. He tried to summon a memory of the motions he'd made with it, of whatever bizarre invocation had let him cross through solid stone, but chasing after it felt like trying to remember the details of a dream. For whatever reason, that power was once more beyond reach.

  He grunted and tore off a strip of one of the dropcloths, then fashioned a simple bandage for his shoulder. It wouldn't do much for the wound, but it might at least curb his bleeding, so he wouldn't leave a trail. As he worked, the arguments for waiting chased each other through his mind. The draw to stay was powerful, the illusion of safety compelling. But he knew they were wrong. The only way out was to keep moving.

  He forced himself back to the door, hesitated just long enough to listen again for footsteps, and slipped into the hall.

  The babble of conversation faded as he hurried to the right, where he reached a T-intersection decorated with a broad window. He glanced both ways and then, seeing no one, crossed to the window. Peering out, he saw the greatest miracle yet: he was nearly at the ground floor. Three, maybe four stories separated him from the square—still too far a drop, but much closer than he would have dared hope.

  He pressed up the hallway, scanning for signs of stairs. As he came to one intersection, he heard a pair of voices talking about the alarm and ducked into a doorway just in time to see two initiates scurry past him, deep in gossip. When he at last reached a stairway, he again had to dodge aside as another squad of Scarlet Guard barreled upward, shouting.

  Madness, he thought as he listened to their clamor fade above him. This is madness, this will never work, this—

  He slipped the door closed behind him and rushed into the stairwell, pressing as fast as he could without breaking into a noisy run. Halfway to the next level, he heard the door he'd just come through open again behind him, admitting a pair of arguing servants that started slowly down the steps. He ignored them and kept heading down, finally reaching the door for the next level, and pushed on. Another level and he heard them open the door to exit the stairs, still arguing. One more, and the stairs ended. Ground floor.

  Akir, if I actually survive this, I'll join the Kesprey. There was no way he should have survived this long; they had to be starting a floor-by-floor search, had to have every ground floor exit covered. Their panic and disorganized response were the only reason he still lived, he was certain, but that luck wouldn't last forever. Heart thundering, he forced himself to pause at the door and listen again before opening it.

  The first floor gleamed with clericlight. Voices echoed from every passage. But in the instant he came through the door, he saw no one.

  He took the chance and kept moving, hoping to find a window or a servant's entry. Again, he heard a looming group of voices and darted through a side door into a small office. Again, his fortune held: the room was empty.

  And it had a window.

  "Oh, sehk," he breathed. "Oh, thank Akir." Without a chanter to get him back over the wall, there was no guarantee he'd survive the streets of Tal'aden. But his chances would be far better out there, and the farther he could get from this bloodbath, the better.

  He padded to the window and started searching for a latch—he wanted to avoid the noise of breaking the window, if he could—and heard a shout from the hall that curdled his blood.

  No. It can't be. He froze, listening, his heaving breath like a wind tunnel in his ears. And it came again.

  "Kai!" Seth's voice, hoarse and distant. "Help!"

  Kai turned back to the door, trembling. Everyone heard that. If I go now I'll just get caught too.

  He's a smart kid. He wouldn't have shouted if it wasn't safe. And he wouldn't ask for help unless he really needed it.

  His eyes darted back to the window. It did, indeed, have a latch.

  Sehk on him. He wasn't even supposed to be here.

  But he came. He fought with you. The mission might have failed if he hadn't.

  He gritted his teeth, whimpering—and turned back to the door. "Sehk," he spat. "Sehk a-sehking-kiir, sehking bitch's scorched sehking tits." He grabbed the doorknob and froze, panting. "Scorch your sehking self, Kai. If you're going to do this, sehking do it."

  He threw the door open and ran.

  "Kai!" The shout came again, just down the hall and around the corner, he thought. He burst around the bend to find Seth sprawled on the floor, one leg broken. "Oh, thank God," the boy said. "Hurry!" He held up a hand.

  Kai ran to him, offering his good arm to pull him up. "I found a way out, just back there." He grabbed the boy's hand. It was clammy and cold—far too cold. "What happened?" he asked.

  But as the words left his lips, he knew.

  "You killed Her," Seth answered dully. His fingers elongated, digging into Kai's hand. "And you're going to die for it." As his face melted into darkness, his body giving way to a black cloak that shrouded him like midnight, a blazing sword exploded from Kai's stomach. His weapon clattered to the floor, his hand moving of its own volition to grasp uselessly at the black blade jutting from his gut. Already the fire was spreading, tiny red sparks catching at his jerkin and his flesh, the first ravenous licks from a bonfire.

  It was beautiful, he thought, in its way.

  28

  i. Lyseira

  The buildings of Colmon rose up around her, every street looming like the maw of a nightmare. Xavier wasn't here to lead them this time, so she did her best to pick her way through based on memory and the position of the moons. It wasn't the same route they'd taken earlier, she knew that much. She just hoped it was fast enough.

  The sounds of battle accosted her sooner than she'd expected. She rounded a corner to see a battle sprawling across the temple square.

  She recognized Jacobsford's cavalry and soldiers. A handful of old Church clerics. They were outnumbered, but their opponents bore no heraldry, wore no uniforms. They fought with pitchforks and spades, used barrel heads for shields. And drifting between them were clerics of their own, men and women who healed the wounded and a few who called Godsflame. Finally she saw someone she knew, and her heart ignited with hope.

  Tollin.

  Where have you been? she wanted to shout. We needed you. But her questions didn't matter. He was here now.

  She threw a glance back, prepared to dive into the fight alone but hoping she wouldn't have to. Azjbel waited just behind her. Harth had somehow joined them, too, and a scattered few of his surviving Arwah. The silhouettes of more support—soldiers and, she hoped, Kesprey—trickled toward her down the dark street, running to join the fight as they got healed.

  Turning back to the battle, she saw Tollin's men holding the line, their superior numb
ers and healing support keeping the enemy at bay for now. But it wouldn't last. The Jacobsford troops might be outnumbered but they were also armored and skilled, some of them still mounted.

  She decided to handle that problem first.

  With a whispered apology to Iggy, she brought down a narrow spear of Godsflame into one of the cavalrymen. The horse reared and screamed, pitching its rider and galloping for a side street. She picked another mounted soldier out of the crowd and did the same to him as Azjbel stepped forward and followed her lead.

  "No war chants!" Harth ordered. "Ves only—our people are in there!" A volley of brilliant darts erupted from behind her, flashing into the Jacobsford soldiers.

  The enemy's rear rank realized they were surrounded. They turned back to handle Lyseira and the others while the front rank dealt with Tollin's militia. They were disciplined, orderly. A horn sounded and they rushed into a charge—fifty men or more, aimed directly at her. Second thoughts—irrelevant and late—bombarded her.

  Then she realized that pulling into a charge meant the enemy had left themselves vulnerable to war chants.

  Harth drew a blast of lightning straight across their line, punching a hole through the middle of it. A Detonation went off, lobbing soldiers like pebbles.

  But this time the charge didn't break.

  "Sehk," Harth said from behind her, and lobbed another spell. She called another greater Godsflame. Maybe twenty men survived the onslaught—but they were still coming.

  She tightened her grip on her staff, prayed to Akir for safety, and braced herself. She didn't have time for another miracle before the frontmost enemy fighter reached her. She saw the hunger in his eyes, the terror, as he burst into her circle of clericlight.

  Before he could reach her, the first of Xavier's healed soldiers crashed into him with a clang and screech of steel.

  Another joined him, and another. Lyseira and Harth fell back, taking their people with them, and she saw Xavier galloping up the alley, healed and very much alive. Shaviid rode behind him. At the sight of the two of them, a thrill of hope shuddered through her. "Tollin!" she shouted to them, pointing toward the square. "Tollin's holding them back!"