“B-But,” Garnos struggled with the words, “the people in the Pit are—”
“Starved, abused, tortured.” The Hunter spoke in a low growl. “They have watched their friends and family being fed to Khar’nath or being beaten to death by men like Setin.” He clenched his fists. “Those with nothing to lose have nothing to fear.”
“It is madness, yet perhaps…” Garnos’ brow furrowed as he digested the thought.
The Hunter, seeing the crack in the man’s protests, drove the point home. “All we have to do is open the gate, and they will do the rest. If you had a chance for freedom, wouldn’t you fight, no matter how weak you were? Even if it meant you could die, would it not be worth it for the sake of the rest of your people?”
After a long moment, Garnos nodded. “I would fight until my last breath.”
“Then this is your chance.” The Hunter gripped the man’s shoulder. “For four thousand years, the Elivasti have inflicted this horror upon the world. For five thousand, you have served the will of the Abiarazi. Now is the time to break the chains that have held you bound. This act will not erase the stain of your past, but perhaps it is a step toward atonement.”
Long ago, he’d scoffed when Father Reverentus offered him a chance to atone for the death of Brother Securus, the Beggar Priest he’d been tricked into killing, and all the other lives he’d claimed. He had accepted the priest’s mission to kill demons out of vengeance for Farida and the beggars murdered by the First of the Bloody Hand. Yet, the farther he’d come on his journey, the more appealing he found the idea of redemption. Too many had died for his hands to ever truly be cleansed of blood, but he could try to balance out the scales.
“You can make a difference,” the Hunter continued. “You can put an end to the suffering you and your kind have caused for millennia. Your service to the Abiarazi can end, right here, right now.”
“But our oaths—” Garnos began.
The Hunter cut him off with a slash of his hand. “Were sworn out of fear. Fear can drive men to do all manner of things, things they often regret for the rest of their lives. But do not let that fear hold you back from standing up. As you said, you are but one man amidst many. I have learned that one man, the right man, can bring about great change if he is willing to risk everything.”
It sounded so strange to hear the words coming from his mouth. They were the words spoken by the mighty heroes and kings of legends when facing overwhelming odds or fighting an unstoppable evil. He was no hero, his legend that of an assassin, an inexorable bringer of death. Yet, in this situation, in this place, a killer was needed where heroes and kings would falter.
“Your oath to the Abiarazi is meaningless,” he said, an edge to his words. “Once, the demons held dominion over your kind. They held the threat of annihilation against you and used that to twist you to their bidding. Yet you have seen the Sage, the man you call master. He is as human as the men and women inside that pit. He surrendered the last of his Abiarazi power to cross the Empty Mountains. He has no control over you other than what you give him.”
Garnos’ expression grew pensive, a frown twisting his lips.
The Hunter straightened. “I am Bucelarii, descended from the Abiarazi, bred to serve and die in their name. Yet I fight, because I have seen what will happen to this world if I do not. You can do the same. Rise up and overthrow the masters that have held you enslaved for millennia, just as I have. The time has come to push aside that fear to do what you know is right. With your actions, you could bring about a new day for the Elivasti. A day when you no longer call demons, Serenii, or even the gods themselves masters. You have a choice, and with it, you determine the future of your people.” He narrowed his eyes and held up his hand. “So tell me, Garnos of the Elivasti, what do you choose?”
A long silence stretched on as Garnos digested his words. Hesitation mingled with fear in the man’s expression, but a hint of something else, something harder, shone in his violet eyes. Grim determination slowly replaced the timidity, and his face cemented into a firm, tight-lipped frown.
“We fight.” Garnos clasped his hand, and there was real strength there. “I choose hope.”
The Hunter returned the grip, and a thrill of excitement coursed through him. It felt so strange to be in this position. For thousands of years, he had wandered Einan, lost, aimless, like a blade of grass blown in the wind. Those winds—call them fate, destiny, the gods, or random chance, he didn’t care—had brought him to Enarium at this very moment in time. So be it. He would do what he must. For Hailen’s sake, for Taiana and his daughter, for the humans and Elivasti alike.
“I trust you have a plan of some sort?” Garnos asked.
“Open the gates, let the people out.” The Hunter shrugged. “Seems straightforward enough to me.”
Garnos scowled. “All that speech, and you don’t even—”
“Last night,” the Hunter cut him off, “when I walked out of the Pit, I saw the windlass that opens the main gate. It will take the two of us to get it open.”
Garnos held up a finger. “Then, don’t forget the seventy guards holding the stairs and the gate. Plus, there are always a handful moving around the causeway. We could be looking at a hundred or more armed men to stop us from opening the gates.”
“Which is why we need a distraction first.” The Hunter gave him a wry grin. “If the prisoners attack from the inside, it will keep the guards occupied long enough for us to deal with the ones within and throw the gate wide.”
Garnos shook his head. “Then that is where your plan falls flat.” He sighed. “As you said, the people within the Pit are beaten, starved, and abused. My fellow Elivasti have contrived all manner of cruel torments to break their spirits and shatter their will until nothing but hollow husks remain.”
The Hunter couldn’t argue with that. The hollow-eyed, haunted looks on the faces of the people he’d seen within Khar’nath had proven Garnos’ words true. They had been broken, yet perhaps not beyond the point of repair.
He drew in a deep breath. “I do not believe all of them are truly husks. The inevitability of death can sap the will from even the strongest heart, but a chance for life can provoke even the weakest to action. Tell me, if it were Rothia in there, or your children, what would you do if shown the promise of freedom?”
Garnos hesitated, then nodded. “I desperately want to believe you are right.”
“Believe it, and they may, too.” The Hunter gave him a wry grin. “Better a bit of faith than simply assuming our plan is guaranteed to fail, right?”
Garnos snorted. “You certainly know how to build a man’s confidence.”
The Hunter shrugged. “We all have our skills. Mine all involve killing, and I’m very good at it.”
A smile tugged on the corners of Garnos’ lips. “So what now? How do we do this?”
The Hunter shot a glance up at the sky. The sun had fully set, but the deep, swirling red cloud to the north seemed to glow with its own inner light—a furious, stygian brilliance that seemed even more ominous in the darkness
“The Withering occurs at noon tomorrow,” the Hunter said. “That gives us a few hours to put our plan into motion so we can stop the Sage before he activates all the Keeps. What time does the guard shift change?”
Garnos frowned. “The fourth hour of the morning, two hours before dawn.”
The Hunter clenched a fist. “Then we’ll make our move at the third hour, when the guards are exhausted from a long watch.”
“When you say ‘make our move’, what precisely do you mean?” Garnos asked.
“Simple,” the Hunter said with a grin. “Open the gate, and kill anyone who gets in our way.”
* * *
“Rothia?”
The gardener looked up as Garnos approached. “Ah, Garnos, there you are. I thought you were going to help me with these clippings.”
“I wanted to, dear,” Garnos replied in a solemn voice, “but Detrarch Ryken needed to speak to me.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to, Rothia.” Garnos shook his head. “The Detrarch needs me for something important.”
“But you’re off duty.” Rothia shook her head, which set her grey-flecked braid whipping around her face. “You’ve finished your shift for the day.”
“A special assignment, dear.” Garnos knelt beside her. “One only I can do.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up and her lips twisted into a frown. “Special assignment for a Blood Sentinel? This can’t bode well.”
Garnos leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Her face turned ashen, and she jerked back to stare him in the face. “Why you?” she demanded, her voice hard.
“Because it is the right thing to do, my love.” He lifted her mud-stained hands and pressed a kiss to them. “We have spoken of this for so long, and now is the time to act.”
“But Garnos—”
He silenced her with a kiss. “I have been a coward for far too long. No longer.”
She gripped his head in both of her dirty hands. “You return to me, you hear?”
“As always, my darling, I obey in all things.”
He gave her a long, slow kiss, filled with a tenderness and passion that could only come from years spent in love. When he pulled away, moisture seeped down her age-lined cheeks. He wiped a tear away, kissed her forehead, then whispered something to her.
“I will see it done.” Rothia’s eyes went to the Hunter, and for the first time he saw no disdain there, only concern. “Anything happens to him, I’ll hunt you down and show you the business end of my trowel.”
The Hunter’s lips twisted into a grin. “Consider me sufficiently cautioned.”
“Now, off with you.” She waved them away, then turned so they wouldn’t see her wiping her cheeks. “We’ve all got important things to be about.” Her back was stiff, her shoulders rigid, but she didn’t turn to watch her husband walk away at the Hunter’s side.
“What did you tell her?” the Hunter asked as they strode out of the glasshouse.
“To gather those like us, those who hate what we’re doing to those poor souls in the Pit, and bring them up here. Perhaps there is a chance for some of us to survive the inevitable bloodshed.”
“A wise plan.”
Once the prisoners within the Pit were freed, they would seek vengeance on anyone who resembled their captors. In helping the Hunter, Garnos had all but accepted that many—perhaps most or even all—of the Elivasti in Enarium would die. Hopefully, Rothia could save a few up here on the roof garden.
He shot a glance at Garnos. “You know the part you must play, yes?”
Garnos nodded. “I will be ready at your signal.”
“Trust me, you’ll know when it’s time to make your move.” A thought occurred to the Hunter. “Are there any of your fellow guards that you think can be trusted to help?”
The Elivasti’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps,” he mused. “I will ponder on it as I prepare myself.”
“Good.”
Garnos drew in a long breath, then gave the Hunter a nod. “See you on the other side, Detrarch Ryken.”
“May the Watcher smile on us both.” The Hunter inclined his head. He watched the Elivasti hurry through the garden and disappear from view. He knew what he asked of the man, and what Garnos risked.
A brave man. If only bravery would be enough to survive what came next.
He cast a glance at the opia bushes still visible through the walls of the glasshouse. He’d come here for the berry needed to cure Hailen, but right now, he had to focus on stopping the Sage. If what Garnos says is true and there is a potion for the Irrsinnon, I will return for it, once I have dealt with the demon and the threat of destruction is passed. He’d have to trust that the effects of Enarium would hold off the Irrsinnon a few hours longer.
His eyes traveled toward the eastern wall of the garden, which stood nearly twice his height. Beyond that wall, an army awaited him. He just had to get down there and somehow convince broken men with shattered spirits to do the impossible.
But first, I’ve got to find Hailen. He couldn’t risk the boy getting caught up in the bloodshed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Hunter’s gut tightened as he glanced down the corridor of the fifth floor of Hellsgate. It was empty, not a soul in sight. The Elivasti posted outside the double doors to the Sage’s chambers had disappeared, along with everyone else. The entire floor seemed to have emptied out.
He drew in a deep breath through his nose and grunted at the familiar scents on the air. Hailen’s clean, innocent smell—a smell that reminded him of a cool breeze after a heavy downpour—was accompanied by the odor of rot and decay that marked the Sage as an Abiarazi. The scents had grown faint; the demon and the boy had passed through here no less than half an hour earlier. Worse, they led downstairs.
The Hunter rushed down the stairs, his armor clanking with every step. The fourth floor had been emptied as well, and the third. He saw no one until he reached the second floor and ran into an older Elivasti wearing simple clothes and carrying a bucket of water.
He seized the passing man. “Where did they go?”
The Elivasti shrank back. “Where did who go, sir?” Fear set his voice quavering.
“Our master!” the Hunter barked. His face—still wearing Ryken’s features—twisted into a snarl as he glared down at the man. “And the rest of the Blood Sentinels?”
“I-I don’t know!” The man wilted beneath his glare.
“Then point me to someone who does,” the Hunter growled.
“A-Ask at the front g-gate,” the Elivasti stammered. “Th-They ought to know.”
With a snarl, the Hunter released the man and strode down the stairs. Though he ached to rush after the Sage, he had to maintain his façade of Detrarch Ryken, at least while he remained in Hellsgate.
Eight blue-armored Elivasti stood guarding the racks of weapons lining the chamber at the bottom of the stairs. They snapped to attention as he approached.
“Where are they?” the Hunter roared. His voice echoed off the stone ceiling and walls, and he fixed a baleful glare on the two men.
“Where are who, Detrarch?” one of the men managed to spit out. His companion’s face had gone pale.
“Our master! The boy. The rest of the Blood Sentinels?”
“They left, not half an hour ago, Detrarch.” The man exchanged a confused glance with his partner. “Didn’t you get the order to march?”
The Hunter seized the Elivasti by the front of his blue armor and lifted him off his feet. The man was a hand’s breadth shorter than the Hunter.
“I’ll ask the questions here,” the Hunter snapped.
“O-Of course, sir.” The Elivasti swallowed and a bead of sweat sprang from his forehead.
The Hunter spoke in a low growl. “Where did they go?”
“To the Keeps, Detrarch,” the man said, a note of panic in his voice.
“Did he have the boy with him?”
The man’s head jerked up and down in a terrified nod. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Good. How many others?”
“A-All the Blood Sentinels,” the man stammered out. “P-Plus another hundred or so.”
The Hunter released the man, who barely managed to keep himself from sagging on trembling knees. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving a pair of wide-eyed Elivasti standing at the front gate.
Fear for Hailen clenched in his gut, and it took every shred of willpower to stay focused on his mission. He ached to go after the boy, to take down the Sage while he was out in the open, but he couldn’t hope to fight through an army of Blood Sentinels. To have any chance of success, he needed an army of his own.
>
He went over the directions Garnos had given him to reach the entrance to Khar’nath. First, he’d have to go through the interior of Hellsgate. Beyond the weapons chamber, he passed into a smithy, where pounding hammers filled the air with a deafening clangor. A side door led him through a series of narrow corridors that connected the smithy to the various storage rooms where the metal and wood for making spikestaffs were stored.
He put all the swagger he could muster into his stride, and he fixed everyone he passed with a baleful glare. Purple-eyed men and women scurried out of his way.
After the storage rooms, the Hunter reached a door that exited Hellsgate and led into the broad tunnel toward the huge gate barring entrance to Khar’nath. As he approached the gate, he shot a glance into the barracks. Fifteen men lounged within, their spikestaffs leaned against tables or the wall as they ate, drank, or gambled. Another fifteen stood guard at the gate, just as Garnos had predicted.
The Elivasti guards snapped to attention the moment they caught sight of his armor and Scorchslayer.
“Detrarch Ryken, sir!” A man whose armor bore two crossed white fists saluted. “I thought you’d gone with the rest of the Blood Sentinels.”
“I don’t give a damn what you thought,” the Hunter snapped. “I just care that you get that gate open for me now.”
The man’s thick black eyebrows knitted together, and he ran a scarred hand over his bushy beard. “Detrarch—”
The Hunter hefted his Scorchslayer in a casual grip and pointed it at the man’s head. “I trust the next words out of your mouth will be the order to open the gate.”
The Elivasti cut off mid-sentence, swallowed, and turned to the two men beside the wicket gate with a nod. “Open it.”
The Hunter lowered the Scorchslayer. “Never question our master’s orders.”
“Yes, sir,” the man spat. “Sorry, sir.” His spine was rigid, his face a mask of barely-restrained fury.
The Elivasti seemed to function similar to a company of mercenaries or soldiers, with a formal chain of command. To the rank and file, especially those stuck guarding Khar’nath, the Blood Sentinels would be the despised elites that believed themselves better than everyone. They would obey but hate every minute of it.
Darkblade Savior Page 22