For him.
“Not many . . . tens. Of them, only three are Keepers. There may be others in the wastes. There are many clans, spread over vast distances.”
Gamzegul looked concerned. If the vormag knew what Amerdan had planned, it’d look a lot more worried.
“And Talon Xarlas is a Keeper, I take it?”
Gamzegul nodded.
Amerdan couldn’t stand it anymore. Dotty squirmed against his skin, whether to warn him from taking this path or encouraging him, he couldn’t tell. She was silent.
He tucked his trinket back inside his shirt. Patience was usually his strength, but after running from the battle, then all this hiding while he thought, he itched to do something. Sometimes patience could work against you. He’d already slipped up once. And if the vormag figured out he wasn’t an Old One before he made his move, then it could get messy . . .
“Take me to Xarlas. Now.”
CHAPTER 27
Halfway up the riverbank, Gazija disturbed something.
A strange-looking furry animal scampered up the trunk of a tree, sharp claws offering purchase on the rough bark. It stopped when it reached an overhanging branch, huddling down and regarding him with wide, fearful eyes. He studied it in the moonlight. It wasn’t like any animal he’d seen before, but then again, so much here was different. The nocturnal creature, along with everything else, was a reminder they didn’t belong.
So much strangeness. No wonder some of us go mad.
If the trauma of losing all you were wasn’t enough, this world grinds you down. And the way we were forced to survive . . . Gazija almost retched at the thought. Not me again, he cursed determinedly. Never again.
Quiss had wanted to follow him on his walk, but Gazija had dissuaded him with excuses about needing time to think. What he really needed was certainty. To know he was following the correct path, had made the right choices. But as he knew all too well in his position, sometimes the only choice was between two bad options. Evil ones, some would argue.
His people saw him as a savior. But Gazija knew he was nothing. He’d brought a terrible fate upon them. One that gnawed at him every waking moment.
He began breathing hard. He was climbing a shallow rise to the crest of a hill. Hardly even a hill, but to him it was hard going. His canes didn’t seem to be helping as much as they had when he’d first started using them. He was about to curse the wretched sticks but stopped. It was his body he should curse. Such a short-lived thing, it was, prone to all manner of repulsive ailments.
At the top of the hill, Gazija rested for a long while, letting the breeze cool him down and dry his sweat. At least some sensations were familiar, but they brought with them memories of what once was. What they’d all lost. Even pleasant recollections burned to ashes.
Turning to face the river, he fixed his gaze on the wharves and ships. Most of his people were down there. And he had a choice to make.
He reached into a pocket and pulled out the crafting he’d taken from the sorcerer Caldan. Garnet eyes stared out from the brass face of the figurine. An automaton, he’d called it. Both mechanical and sorcerous. A creation capable of moving on its own, and even of following rudimentary commands. The young man probably hadn’t realized how close to coercive sorcery some of the workings were. One of Caldan’s earlier masters might have, though few of them really had much of an inkling. They thought such sorcery was an abomination, while others used it only to subjugate. Ignorant, superstitious peasants.
Gazija had replaced the hardened ink Caldan had used. It was too easily chipped or scratched. Now, fine grooves were etched into the metal, using delicate destructive sorcery, following the patterns of the ink exactly. To the original runes, Gazija had added his own sorcery of such complexity and power, it was able to alter the original purpose and change the very nature of the object. Between the runes and shapes, far too small for a naked eye to detect, was Gazija’s most subtle addition: coercive sorcery, but unlike any even he’d practiced before.
It might work. It might not.
He wouldn’t know until it was tried. But the risk of failure was so very great . . . and the consequences could be devastating. They could scarcely afford to lose another.
Gazija sat on the grass, evening dew soaking into his pants. There he remained while the moon tracked across the night sky.
CHAPTER 28
Felice tripped over a skull and stumbled, pressing a hand on a wall to steady herself before jerking it back, covered in cobwebs. The skull rolled across the stone and shattered, scattering bone fragments brittle with age.
“Cursed ancestors!” Izak exclaimed at the noise.
“Keep your voice down!” Felice whispered.
Izak glared at her and brushed his hands against each other in an attempt to rid himself of his own strands of spiderweb. “If I’d known we were going to descend into the bowels of the earth through forgotten crypts, I’d have brought a lamp.”
“We’ll just have to make do. The assassin says he knows a way through the sewers and old tunnels, and we just have to trust him.”
Izak muttered something too low for Felice to hear.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Ahead of them, the assassin paused, yet again waiting for them to catch up. Their only light was a sorcerous crafted globe he’d revealed. It was tied to a piece of leather cord, and he’d flung it over his shoulder so it rested in the middle of his back, just below Felice’s eye level. It seemed either the assassin knew these tunnels intimately enough to travel through them blind, or he could see without the illumination, and it was for their convenience. As disturbing as the latter thought was, it showed he cared about them enough to provide the light for them.
Izak leaned in close and spoke in her ear. “I’ll wager you ten gold ducats he’s going to kill us.”
“You don’t have ten ducats. And besides, he’s gone to an awful lot of trouble so far. If he was going to kill us, you’d think he’d have done it by now.”
“True.” Izak pulled at his goatee. “Perhaps we’re in for a lot worse. Five ducats says he delivers us into Kelhak’s hands.”
Felice grinned. “I’ll accept that wager. If you win, you can’t collect.”
“I’ll just have to be content with knowing I beat you.”
A low grumbling came from the mountain of rags, and they both stopped talking.
Felice looked across the tunnel to the wall on her left. Bones were stacked neatly in rows forming patterns, with skulls on top. Sightless sockets had watched them pass for the last hour. Far beneath Anasoma were many forgotten crypts, and the ones they traveled through now were ancient. When stone corridors ended, a rough-hewn tunnel through rock or earth led to the next. Someone had spent a great deal of time connecting them all. It must have taken decades; and by the look of the work, it had been completed a long time ago. A thick layer of dust had settled in the newer tunnels, giving rise to the idea that they hadn’t been “new” for a long, long time.
“I’ve heard rumors about creatures inhabiting the oldest, deepest tunnels.”
Felice snorted with amusement. “Izak, those rumors are used to scare young children into obedience, or for late nights at the inn, when you’ve had too many drinks.”
“I knew a man who knew a woman who was down in the sewers. She was a young thief, exploring—”
“Hearsay,” interrupted Felice. “Reason and evidence, please.”
Izak made a show of patting himself down, then looked at her with mock surprise. “Oh, I must have left it in my summer house.”
A faint sound impinged on Felice’s awareness. Not unlike a snapping of cloth in the wind. A breath of air brushed her cheek. Ahead of them, the assassin had disappeared. On the stone floor ten paces ahead was the sorcerous globe.
“Felice,” Izak breathed, voice laden with dread.
He’d drawn his knife again.
“Wait,” she said.
There was a side tunnel up ahe
ad—a section of the wall that swallowed their light. She heard another ripple. There was a faint shriek, like a scalded cat. It lingered for a few moments before it was silenced abruptly.
Izak’s breath came in rapid gasps. “Not good. This is not good.”
Felice held up a hand, trying to remain calm, despite her heart in her throat and a voice inside her head telling her to grab the light and run. “Stay calm. I said wait.”
Another snap of cloth. A movement of air. A shadow stepped out of the side passage. The assassin.
She took a few steps back and looked up at him. His head almost brushed the ceiling. He was a tall man, with a remarkably silent step. A valuable trait in his line of work. He faced them, which left the sorcerous globe at his feet and his hood lost in darkness. It was only then that she noticed the blade in his hand, dripping something dark onto the stones. Droplets spattered next to the globe. It had to be blood, but . . . it wasn’t red. It was black. Her eyes traveled back to the blade, and she noticed a pattern of runes etched into the metal close to where it disappeared into the rags. It was smith-crafted, or a trinket.
“Beware. There are . . . creatures here . . . in these oldest, deepest tunnels.”
Felice locked eyes with Izak. He gave her a pleading look, all but shouting for them to go back. She shook her head.
“Assassin, what are these creatures you speak of?” Felice peered into the recesses of the man’s hood, trying yet again to discern his features. To no avail. The blade was gone, and she hadn’t seen him move.
“Forgotten ones. Scavengers.”
“How do they survive down here? Do you know?”
There was a long pause.
“Others . . . dispose of corpses . . . down here.”
Again, the man’s eerie habit of repeating their words. It was both irritating and disturbing. He probably meant people who wanted to get rid of bodies left them in the tunnels. Thugs and criminals, thieves and murderers.
Abruptly, the assassin turned, rags swirling, and started off back down the tunnel. Hardly any dust stirred with his passage. Felice and Izak followed, and after what could have been one hour or three, he stopped them again. A waterskin dropped to the floor.
“Drink,” he said.
Felice picked it up and unstoppered it. She was desperately thirsty, and they were woefully unprepared for a trip such as this. She didn’t like feeling unprepared, or at another’s mercy. She sniffed at the mouth of the skin, then took a tiny sip. Thankfully, it contained water, but she hadn’t known what to expect. So far, this had been weird enough to make her question the simplest things. She drank greedily and handed the waterskin to Izak.
“We are . . . almost there.”
Felice frowned. By her calculations, they had a long way to go, even if time had slipped away from them. Their route had been relatively straight, with no crowds to navigate, but they couldn’t possibly be close.
“We can’t be. How much farther is it?”
“Some hundreds . . . of paces.”
“Some? Does that mean?”
“Three hundred.”
No. Impossible. “That’s—”
Metal chiming on stone interrupted her. Two daggers had dropped out of the man’s rags onto the floor. Both were thin, with blades as long as her hand. But . . . they were covered in patterns. She peered closer, leaning forward. Vines, or possibly a tree, with the hilt as the trunk, each pommel a ball of twisted silver wire. Felice bit her bottom lip. Were they trinkets?
“Take . . . for Kelhak.”
She bent over and picked up both daggers. There was no mistaking them now: trinkets, for certain. The silver alloy that wasn’t quite silver. Both daggers would have collectors salivating and eager to empty their coffers of ducats to own them. She examined the pommels closely. There was something familiar about them. Through the strands of wire, she could see each enclosed a gem, clear, possibly a diamond.
Savine.
The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. Rebecci had trapped Savine in a crafting like this.
A chill swept through Felice, much like when an opponent’s Dominion strategy all of a sudden became discernible to her, and she realized her position was precarious. Somehow, they’d traveled a far greater distance than was possible. The assassin was tall. In fact, she’d never seen a man of his height before. Wielding a smith-crafted blade, possibly even a trinket. The man’s need for trinkets as payment. His reputation. And two blades, which could only have one purpose, if her reasoning was correct.
This man, this . . . assassin was a sorcerer—but something more. And they needn’t have paid him. He wanted them here. More than that, he would be doing this even if they hadn’t asked him.
Pignuts.
“You have your own reasons to kill Kelhak, don’t you?”
The rags stirred. “Rebecci and I. We agreed.”
“What did you agree?”
The ragged hood above her leaned forward. “It is a lich. An inhibitor. It dominates.”
It, not he. The assassin’s choice of words increased her already disturbed state of mind. It was as if he thought Kelhak wasn’t a man. Except she’d met Kelhak; they’d played Dominion, and she thought he was. The term lich meant nothing to her.
And now this . . . assassin—and, it seemed, Rebecci—thought Kelhak was similar to Savine.
“Kelhak,” Felice said. “He’s not what he seems, is he? He’s not Kelhak. Something has taken possession of him.”
“Already . . . said.”
Behind her, Izak hissed with surprise. There were layers here she wasn’t aware of. And as reticent as the assassin was, she had to tease information from him. “And we’re not really killing Kelhak, are we? We’re going to capture whatever possesses him.”
If she was expecting a response from the assassin to show she was correct, she was disappointed. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.
“Why do you need us? I would think you could get to him unawares far easier than we could.”
He said nothing, but it didn’t matter—she hadn’t become a spymaster without piecing together clues. We’re a distraction. No . . . anyone would do for that. He isn’t certain he’ll succeed. We’re insurance. Which means we have currency. Rebecci planned this . . . She knew she might be killed. “Answer this, then: What stake do you have in all this? Because if you don’t answer, we’re going to turn around and leave.”
“About time,” Izak muttered.
Felice waited. She snorted in disgust and made to leave, placing the daggers back on the ground. The assassin spoke, breaking the silence.
“My master commanded me.”
“Who is your master? Where is he?”
“Gone. Dead.”
“And you’re still following his commands?” Felice asked.
Without a hint of movement, the rag-clothed man seemed to expand, almost filling the tunnel. A hum filled the air, not quite out of her hearing. Felice swallowed. She felt the menace the assassin exuded. It was a palpable force, with a weight, and she steeled herself as it washed over her.
“Do not presume. The master was wise beyond all others.”
Felice studied the assassin. An idea seeded in her mind, sprouted, and grew. No . . . Yes, it fits. She staggered, steadying herself with a hand. The walls closed in on her. She struggled to draw breath. Breathe, damn you, she castigated herself. Weakly, she began to laugh. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.
Izak said something, his words unintelligible.
Don’t let it crush you. Pull yourself together.
Eventually, her mirth bubbled away, leaving her half smiling, half grimacing. She knew what the truth was. Knew with the crystal clarity that only one gifted in Dominion could have. There was no doubt.
“You’re a . . . a . . .” Felice waved her hand, uncertain of what term to use. “A construct from before the Shattering. But you’re not jukari or vormag . . . What are you?” By the bloody ancestors, the creature has to be thousands of years old
! What does it know? What could it reveal to me? It was all she could do to quash her hunger for knowledge.
“I am made, yes. But more than that. I’m alive. I am a talon.”
Felice nodded, even though she had no idea what most of that meant. “You’re following your master’s dying wishes. He perished in the Shattering.”
The creature stirred. Now Felice didn’t want to see inside the hood.
“As did all sorcerers.”
All? No, that couldn’t be. “That’s not true. There are sorcerers alive today, working their craft, and have been since the Shattering.”
“Not like the Old Ones, the liches. The sorcerers you know were born afterward.”
History was vague for hundreds of years after the cataclysmic event. No written works from the time survived. If it were true, what had caused every sorcerer in the world to die?
“How did they die?”
“My master killed them.”
The answer hit her like a hammer blow. The enormity of it. Both the wickedness and scale of such a task. But was it evil, or had it been necessary?
“Why did he kill them?” Felice whispered.
“They were accumulating power. It was evil. All of them had become liches, and they had to be stopped. Exterminated.”
There was that word again. The creature, talon, had used it to describe Kelhak. Lich.
“What is Kelhak? What is a lich?”
“They take. Collect. Accumulate to gain strength. They imprison others . . . Eventually, all they feel is hunger and a need to survive.”
Bloody ancestors. Savine. Rebecci’s crafting. People’s souls, their essence, could be extracted.
And used.
Felice briefly covered her face with her hands, then rubbed her eyes. “Kelhak absorbs the life force of others, presumably to keep him alive. He’s also a powerful sorcerer. How can we hope to defeat him?”
“Yes . . . and yes. Kelhak is many, and many are Kelhak.”
A lich. Pignuts. Another realization hit her. “How many wells does he have?”
“Many.”
Felice sighed. “I see. And what does he, it, inhibit?”
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