Spectyr

by Philippa Ballantine

  These men had been bearing the shame of deaths all around them for weeks—and now they had a very convenient target to blame. One dead Deacon would make a handy scapegoat to drag before their Prince. Dead would be preferable to alive.

  Without a single word of protest, Sorcha sprang to her feet, leapt over Lisah’s body, and ran toward the inner wall. Unlike the Rossin, she couldn’t survive a jump through the window—but fleeing into the city was a very good idea. She was not about to take her chances with the guards or even the Prince—who surely, with the deaths of his women, would be considerably less gracious.

  “Fire!” the chief eunuch bellowed, and the Deacon dived as bullets spat over the chaotic scene. Luckily, the opportunities for these guards to shoot at anything must have been few.

  With her Gauntlet outspread and Voishem blazing on its palm before her, Sorcha leapt through the wall. It was a most inelegant use of her training.

  The sound of bullets spitting against the hardened mud was the last thing she heard as she phased through the wall and tumbled onto the other side. In this situation she had no time to find somewhere to wash off the blood and think. Sorcha knew she had to keep using Voishem until she was beyond the palace and into the city.

  The Deacon dared not stop running, knowing that soon enough the whole city would be in an uproar, looking for the stranger who had gone mad and slain women of the Prince’s harem. Already she could faintly hear the palace alarm bell ringing. While in the grasp of Voishem, everything was dim and out of sync with her eyes. People were reduced to gray shadows, and the palace itself looked more like an artist’s sketch than something real.

  Sorcha knew she had to find the Rossin and stop his rampage at all costs—there simply was no one else who had a chance of controlling the Beast. So she dashed through the palace, hearing screams echo softly in her wake, and the rune she dared not release drained her strength. She was running blind without Merrick’s power to help her and would have to take a gamble.

  Wherever you are, Merrick—come back soon. I need you.

  And with that final thought, Sorcha passed through the thick mud walls of the palace and out into the chaos of the city itself.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Freedom and Fight

  The Rossin was running, and for once it had nothing to do with his need for the taste of blood. The women in the harem had given him his fill, and he was strong on it. Instead he was running toward something just as tasty: revenge.

  His wide paws struck the sturdy mud roofs of the Hive City precisely and loudly. Flocks of shrieking birds fled from their nests as he thundered past them. Citizens below caught glimpses of the lion as he leapt between buildings, and their screams, which would have once satisfied him, now were as meaningless as the squawks of the birds.

  For the first time in a very, very long time, the geistlord known as the Rossin had a mission, and his golden-flecked eyes were narrowed on the target.

  Ahead, close to the curve of the river, was the Temple of Hatipai. Even thinking that name brought a snarl of hatred from the massive chest of the Beast.

  In the thick jungles to the east of Chioma there were snakes that preyed upon other snakes; they were the most feared of the poisonous creatures that crawled in Arkaym. And now, one of those creatures, or at least the geist equivalent, had come home to her lair.

  The Rossin stopped on a wide rooftop at the edge of the city and rested for a moment. In a body of flesh, the geistlord enjoyed the heady rush of blood in his veins and the joy of a heart pounding in his chest. His tongue ran over the curve of white canine teeth and licked over his muzzle, drawing in the last few drops of blood that stained his fur. The Rossin contemplated the last small distance between him and his goal.

  Ahead the palace complex fihed and the long, wellguarded road to the port and markets of the city began. No more rooftops remained to provide him access.

  He was not out of breath or frightened at the prospect of going down among the humans, but he was worried about alerting her that he was coming. The proud head of the Rossin turned to glare once more at the Temple. No Deacon of the Order could have scanned the horizon as well as he did—but if they had been able, they would have trembled.

  Through unearthly eyes that saw better than any human and pierced deep into the reality of this world, he watched a great storm drawing in on the kingdom of Chioma and its Prince. The patterned fur on the Rossin’s head rippled, and he raised his head and sniffed. The odor was of the tomb and lost hopes—the smell of the long dead—something that the Rossin despised but she loved. Hatipai’s adoring followers had no rest, even when they were dead. The self-styled goddess had that much of a hold on them.

  Nearly a thousand years before, it had been the family that bore his name that had, with his assistance, trapped her beneath Vermillion. His lip pulled back from his fangs at the memory of that bright and terrible battle. Now the tables had turned. She was in the ascendant, while the bloodline that had protected him was whittled down to two fragile twigs.

  The great cat felt his ire rise and perhaps a little fear. Hatipai had destroyed many geists and geistlords, and the Rossin had only survived because he had not done as many of his kind had done—relied on faith and worship. It had not been easy to become part of a human bloodline, yet it had proved to be the smartest choice.

  I survived. I triumphed, the Rossin thought, even as the unfamiliar edge of fear began to gnaw at him. Yet there was something else . . .

  He looked east, feeling a tug in that direction and knowing full well what it meant. Only one other possible home for him remained—the sister of this body, the young one, Fraine.

  The Rossin knew very well that it was no coincidence that both Raed and Fraine were here now, so close and in the domain of Hatipai. She might not yet have a usable body, but his enemy had allies, human and otherwise. She always had.

  His huge head swung back toward the distant yet looming Temple. If they found what was hidden there—

  That thought decided the Rossin. Flinging back his head, he let out a thundering roar that bounced off the red mud buildings. It was his defiance and his warning to Hatipai. Her star had not yet risen so far that he could not knock it back down.

  The Rossin sprang down from the building and landed right among a train of camels heading in the opposite direction. They brayed and danced and kicked to get away. Chaos as always followed in the Rossin’s wake.

  Men and beasts in the pack train panicked. Loads strapped to the camels’ backs were flung loose as the animals bucked and spat and tried to get out of the lion’s way.

  For his part, the geistlord hissed, snarled and struck out. The smell of animal sweat and panic mingled with that of heady, iron-rich blood, and for a second he went mad with it. The Rossin bit down and ripped out the throat of a beast that got in his way. The spurt of life into his mouth was a brief joy, but he remembered his goal, whirled on his back paws and sprang up the road toward the Temple.

  The road was busy, packed with merchants, guards and every kind of humanity in between. The Rossin plowed through them, scattering the travelers like chaff. He snapped and bit while he went but did not stop to enjoy the sensation of destruction. His concentration was focused on the road and the Temple ahead. He had to get there and make sure the unholy device of the Ehtia was secure.

  At the gates to the town a squadron of Chiomese guards were able to throw together a defense. They could not have missed the rising screams and roars that marked his coming, and so the portcullis was being lowered behind them and riflemen were ranged on the battlements above.

  These recent inventions were not to the Rossin’s liking, and he bellowed his rage. They responded with a volley of rifle fire that filled the air with buzzing lead. When they struck the great lion’s patterned hide they hurt. They made him snap and snarl, but the pain was fleeting, his body knitting and healing what humanity wounded. The Rossin had fought far more deadly foes than a group of mere guards.

  As swordsmen
rushed out bravely to confront him, the Beast leapt in among them, streaks of his own blood drying in his fur. The guards didn’t stand a chance, but the Rossin appreciated their bravery even as he ripped and shredded them. He tore shields away and clawed through armor, yet many survived. Those who got knocked down or broke and ran, he left.

  The Temple was not getting any closer. The Rossin charged the portcullis, hearing more guards running down from inside the tower. For creatures with such short life spans, they were in an awful hurry to waste themselves under his claws. However, he could not tarry to aid them in their destruction. The portcullis rattled and shook in its casing but was made of stern iron. The outraged guards were yelling and shooting. The noise drove the frustrated Rossin to the breaking point.

  With a heave of his muscular shoulders the Beast flung his whole weight and might against the gate. The metal did not give at first, but his sharp ears heard the sound of the mud brick walls groaning under his assault. Again and again under the rattle of rifle fire the Rossin threw himself against the portcullis, roaring and snarling as he had not since the Break. Eventually the walls could take no more, and around the gate the bricks cracked like dropped eggs. Huge pieces of red earth fractured and flew away in thick shards.

  And then with a massive shrieking groan, the gate toppled. The Rossin came with it as it slammed into the ground. The iron hadn’t stopped ringing and the dust had not even settled before the lion was off and running. Soon he had left the rifle shots and the shouting guards behind.

  The streets in the city were mercifully clear—so the great lion knew that alerts must have been sounded. He took the chance and bunched his muscular haunches under him and bounded through the streets, heading straight for the Temple.

  Luckily, all the main roads led to her place. Hatipai was predictable in that way. All the geistlords who survived as she did had suffered the same arrogance—they began to believe what their worshippers told them. They began to believe they were indeed gods. This weakness made them much easier to find.

  The Rossin leapt up stacked crates in the marketplace onto the red rooftops of the city. Below he could see streams of people running through the streets. They were singing and dancing, waving their hands about and laughing. As much as he wanted to be down there among them, tasting their blood, he knew that his great enemy was near. He could in fact hear her.

  His lip pulled back from his long fangs, and a snarl rumbled in his chest. Her voice ran through the ether. Come to me, my children. I have retur. To her followers it would have been a beautiful balm, a siren song; to the Rossin it was an irritating buzz that set his fur to standing on end.

  So he would save his rage for her and not the foolish humans. The great cat’s claws clenched on the mud brick, and then he leapt across to the next rooftop, following the direction of the crowd below.

  The Temple stood in a square and reeked of faith and desperation—her stock in trade. The large carved representation of her lay sprawled on the roof, and the Rossin could not be sure that she wasn’t smiling. Yet he could not smell her nearby.

  The great Beast roared again. A group of more guards, only half a dozen, were clad in red and standing by the Temple doorway. The Rossin recognized them as Imperial, and his stride faltered. Was he too late?

  The one advantage faith did bring to Hatipai was that she had had and most assuredly still did have plenty of unquestioning followers to do her bidding. She didn’t need to be corporeal or even the littlest bit present at this moment to have her will carried out.

  However, there was still a chance. He bounded up the stairs, sailing over the heads of the astonished guards in a leap that carried him to the doorway. That was when he saw the woman standing in the shadows, waiting.

  The Rossin snarled and brought himself up short before reaching her, because she held in her hand the one thing that he had feared. The foolish Ehtia might have gone, but they had left behind plenty of dangerous devices. Things that even a geistlord might find of use.

  The Ehtia device was a sphere of glass filled with that strange silvery substance—the very one he had helped Onika of Chioma rip from his mother centuries before. They had been uncomfortable allies back then, but both of them were aware that Hatipai would destroy the world eventually. The Rossin had never wanted the world to end. He liked the blood, the flesh and the freedom here. Why Onika had turned against his mother the geistlord did not ask nor care to ask.

  Yet the Prince was not here.

  The dark-haired woman holding the Ehtia sphere had that glazed look in her eyes, the look that the Rossin had not forgotten after all this time. Hatipai might not yet have form, but she had presence in this woman. She held the sphere aloft and smiled at him. It was not a human smile.

  “Too late, old friend,” she whispered, and the voice came from no human lungs—instead it was coming from a very long way off.

  The cat’s head flicked up, looking for the light that would signal she was nearby, but there was none. Hatipai was taking the safer option and remaining incorporeal.

  It was too late; the Rossin realized that. Now the only option was too flee and protect the body and bloodline he had. Swinging around on his haunches, he changed the flesh to his avian form. Wide wings sprouted from his back, and his feline head shifted to that of a massive eagle, but the rest of his body remained that of the lion. The Rossin leapt to the sky, knowing his escape would be a momentary reprieve. If his enemy succeeded, then running would become his only chance. He would find the female Deacon—she might fill the gap left by the now-weak Prince.

  Hatipai had been nothing if not relentless in all the time he had known her. She had shown no mercy for their kind, perhaps even less than what little she showed the humans.

  However, the geistlord was wrong. Immediately and suddenly wrong. This was not beginning of his flight—this was the end.

  The sky darkened in a moment, and the clouds that caused it were nothing natural. It was her followers. Every soul who had worshipped Hatipai filled with an intense hatred of the geistlords. The Rossin’s newly formed wings had only lofted him to the height of the buildings around him when the swarm of spectyrs descended.

  Like diving eagles they shot through him, leaving no physical mark but ripping through the geistlord and taking away a little of his power. It would take more than one to bring down the Rossin—but this was a cloud of them, thicker and more deadly than a thunderstorm. They flew through the geistlord with their anger and their pain and their loss.

  Each one pierced him. He screamed and howled and batted his wings, trying to rise above them, to flee into the open sky. Yet they kept coming.

  The Rossin roared and fell, tumbling back to earth with the cry of a frustrated eagle. Nothing remained to save himself, as he smashed into the ground only a few feet from the steps on which the woman stood.

  The spectyrs were remorseless. Each one was ripping away at his strength, and he was given no choice. He had to flee back deeper inside his host or be lost entirely.

  As the Rossin released control, he heard the woman approach, her boots rapping on the cobble street, and he smelled death wrapping around him. She bent down and whispered into his ear, “You see, old friend, it is as I promised—you will pay for what you did to me.”

  What she meant to do, the Rossin had a very good idea. He didn’t want to, but he did the only thing now possible. Taking hold of the Deacon Bond, he called to the female. Now she was his only hope. She would save him in the name of his host. She had to.

  Voishem was an exhausting rune to hold up by herself, so by the time Sorcha was free of the palace, she was staggering.

  Emerging through the outermost palace wall, she took a ragged, gasping breath. It felt like it was the first she had taken since before the ghast appeared. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her whole body shook. Everything was spinning and out of focus so that she thought she might throw up her breakfast.

  If any Chiomese guards came upon the Deacon now, there wasn’t a
thing she could do about it. They could have sliced her into a million tiny pieces, and Sorcha would not be able to raise a hand to stop them. Even breathing was an effort. Only the firmness of the wall at her back kept her sitting up, which was ironic, after running through so many.

  She pushed her hair back out of her eyes and with numb fingers tried to tuck the loose strands back into the braid. This simple habit gave her a moment to recover herself. When she was done, Sorcha looked about to see where she’d come out.

  By sheer happenstance she’d not directly appeared near any main road. Instead she was in the shade of a guard tower. Perhaps this was not the luckiest place, but when she’d run it had been completely blind, so she was lucky she’d not dropped into a cesspit or materialized over a cliff.

  Cautiously Sorcha flicked her cloak out, and on hands and knees, not yet daring her feet, she crawled to the outer edge of the tower to peer around it. Perhaps it was a kind of arrogance to imagine that all of the palace’s attention was directed at finding her, because what she saw before her implied that the Rossin had also made quite the impression.

  The Beast ad cut a wide swath through the guards and citizens of the Hive City. Bodies were still lying about, as if a very angry small child had cast them right and left while leaving a very large nursery. Except there was blood—lots and lots of blood. As a Deacon, Sorcha had seen plenty of such atrocities. What concerned her more was Raed. He had mentioned that he only remembered flashes of what the Rossin did while in possession of his body—but they were enough to weigh him with guilt and revulsion.

  Sorcha sat back and leaned against the wall for the moment. Losing both men was unacceptable. Though she had no idea where her partner was, she could feel the tug of the Rossin inside her. The rampant delight in blood and chaos was such a heady mix that she had to pull back or be lost in it.