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.”
Rothia shot a scowl at the Hunter, who still wore the brutish features of the dead Blood Sentinel. “Well, enough chitchat.” She thrust a finger toward a patch of pale blue flowers a few paces from where she knelt in the dirt. “Get a clipping from that one, then bring it here so I can—”
“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.
A pity Ryken is already dead, the Hunter thought. This little charade would have earned him a lot of enemies.
He pushed through the wicket gate and paused as the wave of stench assaulted his nostrils. He drew in a few deep breaths to desensitize his sense of smell—better not to risk emptying his stomach in front of the Elivasti. After a few moments of acclimation, the Hunter sucked in a last breath of semi-fresh air and tromped down the stairs toward the muddy ground of the Pit far below. He made sure his Blood Sentinel armor clanked loud enough to draw the attention of the ten Elivasti stationed at the bottom of the stairs. They turned, went rigid at the sight of the crossed red fists painted onto his breastplate, and quickly hastened to form neat ranks and snap a salute.
“What brings you to the Pit, Detrarch?” asked one of the men. His breastplate bore a single clenched fist painted in white—doubtless the equivalent of a sergeant or corporal.
“Our master’s orders,” the Hunter growled. “He’s taken special interest in one of the prisoners. The woman brought in two days ago.”
“She’s spirited, that filly,” one of the men put in, and he exchanged a broad grin with another of the guards. “Though it seems she’s learned the little lesson we taught her. She’s been keeping quiet since yesterday.”
“The Sage will have her screaming soon enough.” The Hunter twisted his lip into a sneer. Ryken just had one of those faces made for growling, glaring, and sneering. The miasma of stench emanating from the Pit around him lent an authenticity to his expression of disgust and disdain. “Point me to her,” he demanded.
“I’ll be happy to send a couple of my men to accompany you, Detrarch,” the officer put in. “You never know when the brutes will get restive.”
“Especially that one.” The same Elivasti spoke again. “Nearly clawed out Polyn’s eyes, she did.”
The Hunter hefted his Scorchslayer. “This’ll keep her docile enough. The Sage’d prefer her alive, but he didn’t say anything about minding her dead either.”
“Er, sorry, Detrarch.” The officer cleared his throat. “I’ll have to keep that here. Your spikestaff, too.”
The Hunter loomed over the man, Ryken’s face a mask of fury. “Is that so?” he snarled.
The sergeant cowed slightly, but managed to nod his head. “Yes, sir. Warmaster’s orders. Can’t risk any of the natives getting their hands on it and doing something foolish.”
The Hunter cocked an eyebrow. “And how would they do that? Or did you not know these can only be used by someone of Elivasti blood?” He sneered. “No, of course you wouldn’t know that. Our master doesn’t trust you enough to give you one of these. Instead, you get stuck down here.”
The sergeant’s expression froze, and something dangerous flashed in his violet eyes. The Hunter knew he was pushing the man too far. Time to reel it back in a bit.
“But I will let you take this.” The Hunter drew his spikestaff and tossed it to the officer. “Don’t want to risk any of these miserable wretches poking you lot. Now, which of you is going to show me where to find this woman?”
“Engen, Iyadar,” the sergeant snapped. “With him.”
The man that had spoken and the one he’d exchanged glances with stepped forward with nervous expression. “Yes, Heptarch.”
The Hunter turned and stepped into the muck of the Pit without waiting for the two guards to follow. It was the sort of confident thing an elite warrior would do, forcing the men under his command to hurry to catch up. It quickly established which of them was dominant in the situation.
A moment later, the sound of boots squelching through muck grew louder as the two Elivasti guardsmen pursued him. They splashed past him, then slowed to match his pace.
The Hunter noted the comfortable
way they gripped their wooden truncheons, and how the hollow-eyed men and women they passed flinched back from the two men. Clearly they, like Setin and Ardem, had heaped all manner of abuse on the people in the Pit.
A harsh smile spread the Hunter’s lips. Their time will come soon enough.
He knew how to reach the shelter where he’d left Kiara, but he couldn’t let the two Elivasti know. Though he chafed at their slow pace, he had to force himself to pretend that he followed them.
He cast a glance skyward. The moon hung low over the peaks of the Empty Mountains, its entire right half turned red by the boiling cloud. Time grew short—the Withering would be upon them far too soon.
“Our master doesn’t have all night,” the Hunter barked. “He wants this one brought to him before we all die of old age.”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir!” The taller of the two—who the Hunter arbitrarily decided looked more like an Iyadar—gulped out. He shot a glance at his companion—the red-rimmed eyes and pockmarked eyes fit the name Engen—and picked up the pace.
The Hunter followed them through the decrepit shelters, and it took effort to maintain his haughty expression in the face of such misery. The crossing took at least fifteen minutes, even at the hurried pace. The squelching mud clung to his boots, making it difficult to move quickly. The layer of muck grew thicker as they passed a particularly malodorous stretch of heaped mud, offal, and human refuse. The shit pit, where Setin and Ardem’s corpses lay rotting.
His heart leapt as he caught sight of the shelter where he’d left Kiara the previous day. The woman sat slumped against a rickety wall, her eyes closed, a ragged blanket covering her body. The bruises on her face had faded from a deep purple to a mixture of yellows, browns, and blues.
“There you a—” Iyadar started to say.
He never finished his words.
The Hunter drove his gauntleted fist into the base of the man’s skull, and the force of the blow caved in the entire back half of his head. His neck gave a loud crack and gore trickled down his armor as he slumped.
The Hunter spun before Engen could react. His fist caught Engen’s gaping jaw, and the man’s head snapped around. He hit the muddy earth with a splash, face-down. The Hunter took two steps, lifted his foot, and drove his heavy boot into the man’s head. Crimson and grey matter joined the reeking muck.
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