“We tread where no man has for hundreds of years,” the emperor said. “Ruins from the Shattering, long sealed. Ancient.”
Caldan didn’t need the emperor to tell him this. They could all feel it. Age was all around them. In the air they breathed. In the dust covering the floor.
“There may be treasures,” the emperor continued. “Items far more valuable than gold or gems, trinkets and devices from before the Shattering. But we must leave them. We’re not here for wealth.”
Of course he’d want them all for himself, thought Caldan. Gazija had warned him of this.
The emperor turned his gaze to Felice, then to Caldan, and finally to Quiss. “We’re here to fight our way to Kelhak, a lich, a sorcerer corrupted by the very power he thought to control. There can be no quarter. No hesitation. It is him or us. Everyone else around him is a distraction: his Silent Companions, his sorcerers. Our only goal is Kelhak.” The emperor raised his voice further, as if heedless of who heard him. “For if we fail, the world tumbles into another Shattering. And this time, there will be no returning from oblivion for humanity. We kill Kelhak, or we fall. There are no other outcomes. Be vigilant. Be wary. Strike first, and strike hard. Hold nothing back. There are no innocents where we travel.” He stepped into the pitch-black entrance, his sorcerous globe chasing away shadows that had been there so long it felt like they had substance.
ARMORED INDRYALLANS SWARMED them without warning. Caldan’s wolf hadn’t sensed them approach and had only caught a glimpse of steel in the darkness before it was too late.
Pouring from narrow side passages, their attack was swift and brutal. Huge men slammed into, and through, the mercenaries. Some mercenaries held their line, but others scattered while hacking at their opponents or crumpled under the onslaught. Mold and the other two Protectors managed to shield themselves in time but fell to the stone floor under crushing blows from massive axes and swords. Shrieks and howls and curses bellowed around them—all from the mercenaries, for the soldiers attacking them made no sound. Kelhak’s Silent Companions, realized Caldan.
The stench of lemons and scorched metal filled the air. Caldan opened his well and covered himself with his shield. Nearby screams rang in his ears. He drew his sword just in time to parry a blow from a looming Indryallan. Its blade crashed into the ground as he sidestepped, sending sparks flying. He slashed desperately, opening a gash between armored plates. The man hopped back, dead eyes staring, and didn’t utter a sound.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Selbourne wrestling with his opponent. Greatsword abandoned, the mercenary plunged a dagger deep into flesh. Around him, though, his soldiers dropped under the vicious assault. Blood spurted and bones broke. The ferocity of the Silent Companions was terrible to behold. Swords hacked and slashed as if raised by tireless arms. Some mercenaries managed to wound and even down Companions, but more of Kelhak’s men crowded in to replace their dead or injured fellows.
A dark shape flitted among them like a giant swallow. Rags flapping, glittering blades protruding from somewhere among its clothes—the talon. Swords struck where it had been an instant ago, and its own blades carved through flesh and leather and armor as if it were gossamer.
Flashes of radiance came from the tunnel to Caldan’s left, where the warlocks were. The emperor, along with Alasdair and Florian, had left to assist them when the fighting started. The sorcerers had insisted on staying separate from the rest of the group, and now he knew why: so they could use destructive sorcery without fear of injuring or killing their own comrades.
He swallowed and focused on the man in front of him, but part of him wished he had more control of his own abilities, like the other Touched did. To kill someone somehow felt fairer if you did it with a sword or other weapon.
Caldan charged, while sending his wolf to savage another Companion. He swung his sword low in a feint, then twisted it in an upward arc. Flesh parted as his blade hacked through mail and into the man’s waist. He yanked it out, blood covering the metal, then his opponent’s greatsword slammed into his shield, rocking his head to the side. Caldan stumbled, ears ringing, vision hazy. He fell to one knee, sucking in air and raising his sword weakly over his head for the expected follow-up blow.
But the blow never materialized.
Caldan lurched to his feet and shook his head. His opponent lay dead in front of him, sporting multiple wounds from Selbourne’s blade—and to his surprise, Felice was withdrawing a dagger from the man’s neck.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Do what you need to.”
Caldan shook his head. He’d been worried that she would be out of her depth here, amid the carnage, but she had proven him wrong.
He turned back to the battle and saw mercenaries clutching at terrible wounds, while others lay sprawled across the ground, eyes lifeless and staring. Silent Companion corpses were littered around them, but the men were big and strong and were hard to take down. Aidan, Caitlyn, and cel Rau were close together, and, as evidenced by the dead on the floor, were an effective team. Flashes and explosions of sorcery came from farther down the tunnel, which turned a corner—the emperor and his warlocks, who were focused on the Indryallan sorcerers supporting the Silent Companions. Mold and the Protectors had rallied and were fighting hard, but they couldn’t take on many of the Companions at a time, and more were coming from the side passages, casting long and eerie shadows in the illumination of sorcerous globes.
There were too many. With the warlocks tied up countering sorcery, the Companions knew it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed their opponents.
And Kelhak would have won.
No!
Caldan’s trinket ring jabbed into his finger as the heat in his blood rose.
But sword work wouldn’t suffice here and now; he needed to do more. Caldan focused on his multiple wells. It was about time he pushed himself. If he didn’t, then it would all end here.
His control of his wolf was cut, and it took a few moments before he realized Gazija had taken it from him. The construct darted among the Companions, sparks of virulence leaping from its metal skin. When they struck, armor and flesh blistered and smoked, and men fell writhing to the ground.
A wild grin twisted Caldan’s lips, and a growl sounded from deep in his throat.
He reached his senses out to Mahsonn’s crafting in his pocket.
The Bleeder had been able to control bursts of extremely focused destructive sorcery because of his ability to manipulate many strings. Caldan knew he couldn’t let loose his novice destructive sorcery. Though he could likely kill many Companions, it was too unfocused, and he’d probably kill many of the mercenaries as well, even warlocks, if they got in his way.
He needed pinpoint control. Powerful sorcery woven around allies.
Caldan linked to the crafting, split his well into two strings, then four, eight, then sixteen. His mind recoiled, and the strings became slick, threatening to slip from his grasp. He grappled with them; it was akin to trying to hold on to greased snakes. They squirmed and coiled, as if desperate to evade his grip, but he managed to settle them down. To his relief, once he corralled them, they quieted, even feeling less slippery. He was getting better at holding on to them, more practiced.
Sixteen strings. From what he sensed of Mahsonn’s crafting, it would be enough.
Caldan connected all of them to the linking runes imbued in the crafting. His power and awareness flowed through its pattern as he tested it, figuring out its design through the shaping runes, buffers, and anchors. There were many loops forged separately, yet all working in harmony with each other. Complex transference runes merged with controlling loops.
And the pieces of the design clicked into place for Caldan.
He filled the crafting with the corrosive power of his well and focused his will.
The air vibrated, humming like a swarm of bees. Dozens of whiplike tendrils, visible only to his sorcerous senses, lashed from him. Caldan curved them around the mercenaries and into t
he Silent Companions assaulting them. These men would die as Breyton the Quiver had on their way to Riversedge: by hundreds of tiny cuts.
But something different happened.
Companions spun and twisted, as if scores of invisible sword blades slashed them. Dark blood sprayed. Limbs were severed. And for the first time, some made sounds. Anguished howls ripped from tortured mouths were silenced as throats were sliced. Hands clutched at leaking entrails before they themselves were severed.
Caldan almost let his strings slip from his grasp, so surprised was he at the carnage.
But in an instant, it was obvious to him what had happened. Mahsonn had only a constricted well. His sorcery was limited by it. Caldan’s innate power was much greater. So were the results.
What would happen if he joined more of his wells to the crafting? Two or three or even more?
He walked forward, around the two fallen Companions. Selbourne was already rushing to fight more of the creatures, but he needn’t have bothered. They would all be dead soon.
Somewhere to his right, Caldan sensed Quiss and his people add their sorcery to complement his. Incredibly complex waves crashed around allies and broke over enemies. Companions disappeared in puffs of swirling smoke, while dense shields protected the fallen.
Caldan opened another well and added its caustic fire to his own. In the gloom, Aidan, cel Rau, and Caitlyn traded blows with Companions, while Felice pressed her back against a wall. Caldan unleashed more destructive sorcery, spraying his whips across mail and plate and leather. Metal and flesh parted, and men fell, splattering crimson stains across the stones. The Companions were cut down and were replaced, only for the new soldiers to disintegrate under his onslaught. Some twitched and writhed before they ceased to breathe, while others blew apart in bloody chaos.
A Companion stood over a fallen mercenary whose broken shield lay at her feet. The mercenary raised a despairing arm as an immense sword was about to split her head open. Caldan lashed the Companion, who flew backward and crumpled into a heap.
Three Companions hacked at two Protectors, who stood over Mold’s inert form. The Protectors warded off the blows, tiring rapidly under the assault. Caldan directed his sorcery past them and into their opponents. Blood spattered across the Protectors’ shields, and Caldan moved on, walking as calmly as he could through the dead and dying littering the flagstones.
He opened a third well, directing its surging energy through his strings and the Bleeder’s crafting.
Companions jerked and shrieked and died in their dozens. They were no match for his focused sorcery. He released volley after volley, weaving it around mercenaries.
Silent Companions fell, their lives snatched from them by Caldan’s carving tendrils.
As he killed, and the mercenaries found themselves saved, some yelled their thanks, while some backed away fearfully, knowing as Caldan did that what he was doing was a terrible thing.
But it needed to be done, if they were to survive.
Caldan walked among the dead, followed by the survivors. Glittering fire whipped and curled in his vision, slicing into flesh, through bone, spilling blood and viscera—and he knew that those watching without sorcerous ability saw nothing of what he did. Only men flayed and carved like meat in a butcher’s shop.
And soon there were no more Companions standing.
Caldan ceased his relentless march and swallowed. The glittering lights in his sorcerous senses faded to motes, then to nothing.
At first, he was filled with euphoria.
Such power I possess! What can’t I do, with more training and practice? With guidance from Quiss and Gazija, I could soon surpass the warlocks, if I haven’t already. Except . . . Quiss and Gazija wouldn’t allow it—and for good reason.
Or was it? Couldn’t he achieve far more good with his power than others had? Or was that the path the emperor walked?
Was that the path Kelhak once walked?
A hand tugged at his sleeve. Felice.
She gazed at him in horror, and her bottom lip quivered. Shame, sympathy, or disgust? He couldn’t tell.
“Enough,” she said. “Please, Caldan.”
He drew a deep breath, grounding himself in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I had to. I’m . . . done.”
“I know,” Felice said. “I know you had to do it. They’re all . . . dead now.”
Caldan turned to find Aidan and Caitlyn both staring at him, expressions blank. Behind them, mercenaries clutched weapons and shields tight, eyes wild and terrified, as if they expected the same fate that had befallen the Companions.
“It’s all right,” he said to them.
A few nodded, some muttering among themselves, looking around at the blood-splashed stones. As Caldan’s wolf padded over to him, they made superstitious signs of warding.
Then the emperor laughed. And Caldan realized he’d left them so that he could see how Caldan and Quiss reacted. He’d wanted to gauge their power. The sound of his mirth sickened Caldan, and he turned his face away, but not before catching a glimpse of the emperor’s expression.
Lust and greed.
Then Caldan noticed the Protectors were missing. Where were . . . There. They crouched over the fallen figure of Mold.
Caldan rushed over to them. He reached Mold’s side just as they straightened, helping the master to his feet. A trail of scarlet leaked from Mold’s mouth, and one eye had rolled up into his head, leaving only the white showing. One bloodied hand still held the trinket sword, red metal runes shining on the silvered blade.
“I’m fine. Leave me!” Mold cried. He blinked, as if the sight in his remaining eye was bleary. One of the Protectors offered him a vial, which he drank from. After a moment, Mold straightened. An alchemical stimulant and painkiller, Caldan surmised.
Mold peered around him at the destruction Caldan had wrought and shook his head despairingly. “What you did to the Indryallans . . . how? You’re what we’ve spent our life fighting against.”
“I am,” Caldan said, unperturbed. “But then again, maybe not. Because in another time, I might have become a warlock. And then you’d be taking orders from me.” He held up a hand as Mold began to protest. “You know it’s the truth. They’ve held knowledge back from you, about what they know of sorcery. They don’t respect the Protectors. But that argument’s for another day. Right now, here, we work with what we have. If we don’t, the lich will destroy us all.
“Just know that, for today, we can’t be enemies.”
Mold stared at him, revulsion warring with . . . sadness?
He might actually be starting to understand. Right now, though, all I care about is him not trying to stab me in the back.
Turning away from the Protectors, Caldan saw the mercenaries gathering behind him. While they’d waited, they’d been listening to every word he’d said. Many of them were injured, their fellows bandaging them up as best they could. And flasks were being handed around. Caldan guessed they contained oil of the poppy, as the mercenaries took only a small sip before passing them on.
To the side stood Felice, Aidan, and Caitlyn, along with the swordsman cel Rau. A few warlocks, along with Florian and Alasdair, had returned from the darkened passages where they’d battled their own Companions and sorcerers. Some were also injured; a number were supported by two of their brethren as they stumbled back to the main group. Drool trickled from slack mouths, and sightless eyes stared about them. Wounds of the mind, Caldan deduced. Fighting Indryallan sorcery was perilous for the weaker sorcerers among the warlocks.
Aidan caught Caldan’s eye and nodded to him, expression bleak.
Caldan drew in a ragged breath. There would be worse to come.
THE TUNNEL THEY followed ended abruptly, opening onto a subterranean thoroughfare. Rubble was strewn in front of them; bricks lining the opening had fallen from crumbling mortar, one of the few signs they’d seen that the place was deteriorating. Before the Shattering, they’d certainly built things to last.
Geometricall
y perfect square pavers lined the road, the gaps between them thinner than a hair. What stone they were made from, Caldan couldn’t tell. Perhaps it wasn’t a natural substance at all, but a product of superior technology, or even sorcery.
Beyond the light their torches and sorcerous globes provided, the road stretched away in either direction, eventually fading into obsidian darkness. Their group congregated close to one another, as if their very nearness warded off the strangeness of the place.
Caldan understood what they were feeling, for he felt it himself. Their civilization, for all its advances and luxuries, for all its searching and knowledge, didn’t compare to the time before the Shattering. They’d come here on a quest to prevent a second Shattering, but they had been confronted with the fact that, for all its supremacy, for all its accomplishments, a far greater civilization than theirs had succumbed to the very same forces they were to confront. They thought they had a chance to succeed. But this desolate, buried city told them otherwise.
The walls on either side of the road were blank, devoid of the images and symbols that decorated the side passages they’d traveled through so far. Their lights reflected against the polished rock walls, echoing from one to the other until they faded to nothing.
Word spread from the emperor up ahead: a short break, moments only.
A scrape reached Caldan’s ears, and he turned. One of the mercenaries was attempting to scratch something into the paving stone at his feet with a dagger.
The man cursed, then looked up at everyone staring at him. “I can’t mark it,” he said, and shrugged. His words echoed around them, and several of the mercenaries flinched.
“There are tracks in the dust,” Aidan said as Felice approached from the gloom in front of them.
Caldan looked over to where Aidan pointed. Many booted feet, coming from their right and disappearing down the road to their left. Was it Kelhak and his retinue? Or was it someone—or something—else?
“We follow them,” Caldan said. “Whatever they’re looking for, they can’t know its exact location. Not after all this time. They’ll have to search for it. Probably split into smaller groups. We can weaken them.”
A Shattered Empire Page 52