She stifled a shuddering gasp as the Blade’s spirit infused her body. Energy crackled within her, lightning coursing up and down her veins. A barrage of images assaulted her mind, flashing by too fast for her to see clearly, yet each leaving an indelible mark on her soul. The spirit’s name formed on her lips. Shishak, called Queenslayer.
The images slowly faded around her, and she stood once more in the darkness of the Keeper’s Crypts. The two men had disappeared into the darkness—long seconds had passed in the grip of the spirit’s memories—yet she could still catch up.
This time, Aisha didn’t hesitate. Silent as a stalking leopard, she slipped from the shadows of the obelisk and hurried up the stone path after the two men. She couldn’t be more than a few seconds behind them. The call of Shishak’s blade drew her toward the men. She had to stop them from leaving with those swords. The Keeper’s Blades had sworn to guard the Tomb of Hallar, and those swords were the link that held them bound to their duty.
The scuff of boots on stone echoed through the hole in the stone wall. Aisha risked a glance down the crude passage and saw the flash of a cloak disappearing into the darkness. She counted five heartbeats—enough time for the militants to get away from the hole—before slipping into the opening.
At the far end, she caught sight of the two men flitting through the darkness ahead. They moved as silently as their heavy bundles allowed, giving the torchlight to the east a wide berth. Yet the blue-white light of Shalandra’s dead illuminated the crypts, giving Aisha a clear view of her targets.
I won’t let them get away, she promised Shishak. Together, we will—
She just stepped out of the tunnel when a mailed hand seized her throat. A tall, heavily-armored figure whipped her around and slammed her into the wall. Aisha’s head cracked against stone hard enough to daze her. Sparks whirled in her vision and, for a moment, the tombs spun around her. The gauntleted fingers wrapped around her throat cut off her air and threatened to crush her windpipe.
Yet even disoriented and at a disadvantage, she was anything but helpless. She had demanded Master Serpent teach her to fight in any conditions, under any circumstances. The Bloody Hand had drugged her in an effort to render her compliant. She’d trained intoxicated, drunk, gagged, bound, suffocated, and every other impaired state he could devise—all so she’d never be helpless again.
Aisha’s right hand lashed out, thrusting her assegai toward her captor’s throat. Steel clanged on hard steel but her enemy grunted in pain. With her left hand, Aisha reached for the hand latched on to her neck, searching for the fingers. A quick snap of bone would free her from her enemy, and she’d be free to—
“Aisha?” a familiar woman’s voice asked.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kodyn tried not to worry about Aisha going into the Keeper’s Crypts on her own, but couldn’t quite shove the fear out of his mind. He hated the idea of her alone, surrounded by so many spirits, given the physical toll they inflicted on her body. Of course, the threat of Hallar’s Warriors certainly didn’t help. With no one but the dead as back-up, she could find herself in serious trouble.
But, as usual, he couldn’t argue with her reasoning. She had been right to say that they needed to split up. If the building housed the militants and the strangely-named Dayblood and Iron Warlord leading them, he had to find them, perhaps even do something to stymie their plans.
Anger surged within him. When the time came, he would be right there when every last one of Hallar’s Warriors were dragged into Murder Square to stand trial and execution. They deserved no less after all the misery they’d caused. Not only to him, but all of Shalandra.
They had organized the riots that nearly killed Briana and Hailen. They had attacked the temple, staged the assassination attempt in the palace, murdered Indomitables. How much more of the suffering in the city could be laid at their feet?
Fury fueled his muscles as he clambered up the two-story wall, leapt the gap onto the second-floor balcony, and scrambled onto the rooftop. Though this mansion had flat roofs, there were no skylights to offer easy access into the building. It did, however, have a third-floor balcony with sliding glass doors. He’d mastered the art of open latches on sliding doors his first month in House Hawk. Once inside, he’d scout out the place, learn what he could about the bastards, and get out before they knew he was there.
The low hum of voices grew louder as he approached the balcony. He moved closer, careful not to make a sound on the tiled rooftop. As he approached the edge, he dropped to his belly and slithered closer until he could make out the words.
“…incompetent fools can’t even murder the fat Councilors properly!” The first voice was harsh and growling, almost animalistic, yet oddly twisted and garbled with a strange stiffness.
“According to Gallei, they were attacked by the same youths that stymied our efforts to obtain the artifacts.” The second man tended to slur his words, struggling with sibilant sounds.
Kodyn’s blood froze in his veins. They’re talking about us! He inched closer until he could just see over the lip of the flat roof. Just for an instant before ducking down, but in that moment, he caught a glimpse of one of the two speakers.
He was tall, likely the tallest man Kodyn had ever seen, with broad shoulders and a warrior’s build. A hooded black cloak concealed most of his head, but it had been pulled far enough back for Kodyn to get a good look at the man’s face. No, not his face—the polished iron mask that covered him from forehead to chin.
The Iron Warlord!
“The temple must be our first priority,” the iron-faced man rumbled. “Without that key, my plan to claim the circlet and dagger cannot proceed. I will resort to other methods if I must.”
“Your plan?” came the half-slurred reply. The words were tainted with an unctuous layer of servility. “Forgive my presumption, Master, but did I, too, not offer counsel of value in this matter?”
“Your value is clear, Dayblood.” The Iron Warlord’s voice had a dangerous, snarling edge. “Yet do not forget your place is not as my equal.”
Kodyn’s breath caught in his lungs. He had found the men he sought. The leaders of Hallar’s Warriors stood mere paces from him. If only he had a throwing dagger, he could put an end to it now.
“Of course, Master,” replied Dayblood, subservient and cringing. “I could never presume to consider myself your equal, Venerable One.”
“Remember that, as you fulfill my instructions.” The Iron Warlord’s tone grew somehow harder. “Unless you no longer desire the promised reward.”
“No, Master!” Panic tinged Dayblood’s slurred voice. “I will see it done, no matter the cost.”
“Good. I expect nothing less.” The Iron Warlord’s words echoed menace. “I will claim what is mine by right of blood and strength. Drown the city in blood if you must, but get that key! It is the only way to bring on the destiny foretold.”
“Yes, Master.”
A moment of silence elapsed, broken by the Iron Warlord. “You have served me well these months, Dayblood.” His voice had softened a fraction. “The day of your ascension is nigh. Do not fail me so close to my victory. Our victory.”
“My life and soul are yours, Venerable One.”
“Indeed, they are.”
The words sent a shudder down Kodyn’s spine. He didn’t scare easily, but something about that tone of voice, the cold assurance in the Iron Warlord’s tone, twisted his gut.
Boots clacked on the tile floor, the sound fading in seconds. Again, Kodyn inched forward to peer over the edge of the roof. The tall, hooded man had gone, leaving only a stooped hunched figure—the man with the slurring, garbled voice.
Groebus?
Kodyn’s heart froze between beats. He didn’t dare move closer, yet he had to get a better look at the man. He shifted forward a hand’s breadth until he could see the man’s features: bald head encircled by an ornate gold-and-black Necroseti headdress, face twisted and drooping on one side, his spine tilted at an awkward angle a
nd his back hunched forward. There was no mistaking it: it was the man from the Palace of Golden Eternity and again at Angrak’s assassination.
His mind raced. Groebus is Dayblood? Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.
Ennolar’s words flashed through his mind. “Groebus is a minor priest of the Necroseti. He is renowned for his sharp intellect, on par with some of the brightest in our own temple, but his physical limitations preclude him from ever rising high in the Keeper’s Priesthood.”
Kodyn didn’t know what “promised reward” the Iron Warlord dangled before him, but it was enough that Groebus would betray his oath to the Long Keeper and his service to Shalandra.
Anger surged within Kodyn. The bastard!
Groebus had used his sharp intellect to orchestrate all this chaos and bloodshed. He could be the high-ranked Necroseti that opened the way for the Gatherers to attack the palace the night of Arch-Guardian Suroth’s death. He’d likely been the intermediary between the Ybrazhe and the Keeper’s Council, and now he coordinated Hallar’s Warriors attacks on the city. This hunchback was the reason Briana and Hailen were in danger.
The Iron Warlord had made it clear: he had to get something from within the Temple of Whispers, likely one of Suroth’s artifacts, at any cost. The rioters hadn’t yet broken into the Secret Keeper’s temple, and likely wouldn’t get through that steel vault door anytime soon. But something about the Iron Warlord’s words and Groebus response told Kodyn that the two had other plans in motion.
Sunset turned the night cool, but anger burned hot and bright within Kodyn’s chest. His fists clenched so tightly his hands shook.
He peered over the lip of the roof again. Groebus still leaned against the balcony, his pudgy frame hanging oddly given his hunched spine. So weak, so defenseless.
Kodyn’s hand slipped toward his dagger. I could end it all here, now. It would be the work of a few seconds to drop onto the balcony behind the traitorous priest and drive a dagger into his back. Either that, or a hard shove would knock him over the railing for a three-story drop.
Aisha’s words sprang to his mind. “You don’t need to play hero to be a hero. Be clever and think cautiously, like we both know you can!”
This was the clever thing. With one quick attack, he could put an end to one of the ringleaders of the turmoil in Shalandra. Groebus’ death would hamstring the Iron Warlord’s operations. Perhaps even cause them to grind to a permanent halt. At the very least, it would give Kodyn enough time to bring Lady Callista down hard on the true culprits.
His jaw tightened. I’ve got to do it!
Yet, before he could move, a shuffling sound echoed from below him. Heart hammering, Kodyn slithered forward.
Damn it! The balcony was empty. Groebus had left.
The scuff of sandals on stone was close but growing fainter as Groebus limped away. Kodyn set his jaw and drew his blade. The traitorous priest still hadn’t escaped his reach. He could kill the man inside the house as easily as on the balcony.
Without hesitation, Kodyn dropped off the rooftop and landed on the balcony with hardly a sound. Groebus stood inside, just three short steps away, his back turned to the open sliding door. Kodyn’s leg muscles coiled like cart springs, his grip tightening on his blade. He fixed his eyes on Groebus’ back, searching for the spot beside his twisted spine where he would strike. His dagger would punch through gold-and-black cloth, slide between his ribs, and slice open his heart. Quick and dirty, the Serpent way.
He had just hurled himself forward when the door opened. Three militants clad in splinted armor and carrying two-handed flammards filled the doorway.
That momentary distraction saved Groebus’ life. Kodyn’s eyes left his prey for an instant, taking in the new threat. In that second, his blow missed its intended target as Groebus, too, turned toward the door. The movement turned his body just enough that Kodyn’s thrust scraped a shallow wound across the back of his ribs.
Kodyn had no time to alter course. He collided with the priest and the two of them went down in a tangle of limbs. Groebus screeched and howled as his face slammed into the tiled floor, Kodyn’s weight atop him. Kodyn disentangled himself and scrambled to his feet, but the three men were on him before he could draw his short sword. Only a frantic backpedal saved him from being impaled and beheaded by two powerful blows of the long, flame-bladed swords.
He leapt out of the window and retreated onto the balcony, but two of the men gave chase. Their heavy blades hacked at the air, whistling past mere inches from Kodyn’s head, neck, chest, and arms. He gave as much ground as he could, desperately retreating to buy himself time to draw his sword. Yet they pressed him hard. Kodyn didn’t dare tear his eyes from those blades—even a single moment of inattention could cost him his head.
Then his rear foot struck the uneven edge of a tile and his back leg slammed into the railing. His backward momentum nearly carried him over the waist-high balustrade. Only his reflexes and balance, honed over years on the Hawk’s Highway, saved him from plunging to his death.
Yet that moment cost him dearly. He’d barely found his feet before two black steel swords came whipping around, sharp blades aimed at his neck.
The world slowed to a halt around him. He couldn’t duck, couldn’t dodge, couldn’t raise his dagger in time to defend himself. Death had come for him.
A single thought flashed through his mind. I’m sorry, Aisha.
“Wait!” came a garbled shout. “Don’t kill him!”
The swinging blades stopped a hair’s breadth from his neck. One actually sliced a shallow cut into his skin, and blood trickled down to his shoulder.
Everything resumed motion, and Kodyn found himself impossibly still alive. Two blades hovered an inch from his throat, but he managed to draw in a shaky gasp, his eyes flying wide.
Behind the two Hallar’s Warriors, the third helped Groebus to stand. Once upright, the pudgy hunchback shook off the helping hand and limped toward Kodyn.
“Death would be a kindness.” Groebus’ twisted lips pulled into a hideous snarl and hatred blazed in his eyes. “What I have in mind for him will be far, far worse!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The raging crowd saw Issa, Hykos, and the Indomitables at the last second. The rioters had no time to drop their crude battering ram before twelve black-armored soldiers slammed into them. Fury, steel, and the force of their charge tore through the unprepared besiegers like a storm ripping across a dusty field. Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri were knocked off their feet as heavy armor collided with muscle and bone. Swords, clubs, daggers, and farm implements-turned-weapons fell from senseless fingers.
Issa’s sword was a blur of black steel in the fading light, her arms pumping with the steady rhythm of a farmer threshing wheat. Yet her effort went not into killing, but turning her blows to prevent the deaths of her enemies.
These were her people—Earaqi, all her age or a few years older. Even after all the damage they’d done and the lives they’d taken, she couldn’t wantonly kill them. If she cut them down, she’d be no better than them.
She slammed the flat of her blade into exposed heads, rendering her foes unconscious. Her gauntleted fists drove into faces and chests. The heavy pommel and crossguard of her sword shattered hands, teeth, and noses with devastating precision.
Yet, try as she might, she could not avoid killing entirely.
All Shalandrans, no matter how poor, received a basic education at the Institutes of the Seven Faces. That included not only the rudiments of sums and letters, but also the ways of war. Since its founding, Shalandra had always been a warlike city—and now it showed in the skills of its poorest citizens. A snarling, slavering thug swiped at her, his blow aimed at her throat. Issa’s instincts, honed over years in Killian’s forge, kicked in. She deflected his blow and, with the grace of a striking serpent, executed the perfect killing thrust. The man fell back, blood gushing from a broad puncture in his chest.
Pain exploded in her injured right side as so
mething hard clanged off her armor. The steel absorbed most of the impact, but her bruised ribs groaned beneath the blow. Issa had no time to think; she reacted, driving the pommel of her flammard into her attacker’s face hard enough to shatter his jaw. The man gagged on his own blood, collapsed, and was trampled beneath the next two assailants to charge her.
Issa blocked a vicious strike and cut the man down with a savage blow to his leg. Her next enemy rushed her with twin daggers poised to thrust between the joints of her armor. Issa had no choice but to finish him before he killed her.
“Issa!” came a shout from beside her.
She turned toward the call, too late to do anything but watch the sword descending toward her exposed neck. It would strike between her helmet and gorget, she knew, a perfect strike that would slice through flesh, muscle, and spine. Worse, in that instant, she recognized the man about to kill her: Ittell, grandson of Issumo and Poltana, the young man she’d chased around this very same Hall of Bounty as a child.
Steel clanged off steel, striking sparks a hair’s breadth from her face. Hykos’ long flame-shaped blade knocked aside the man’s sword hard enough to send him staggering. A moment later, Ittell fell to Hykos’ thrust. The attack, backed by Hykos’ powerful muscles, punched through the Earaqi’s chest and out his back, hard enough to bring down the Earaqi behind him.
A dagger of horror punched into Issa’s gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. She watched as Ittell fell backward, blood spraying from his mouth. Horror turned to sorrow at the realization that he had been willing to kill her without hesitation. She’d come within a heartbeat of death, but Hykos had saved her.
She had no time to dwell on the rush of emotions. The enemy still outnumbered them four to one. The initial charge had killed or incapacitated nearly half the rioters, but now their momentum had slowed and the enemy recovered. Grim determination hardened within Issa as she set about hewing down her enemies. Enemies that had been neighbors and friends only days before.
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