Heir of Hope (Follower of the Word Book 3)

by Morgan L. Busse

  Caleb studied the words along the top and wondered what they said. If Nierne were here, she would probably know. However, his curiosity was not strong enough to question Simon.

  Simon moved his free hand along the door, stopping halfway down. With the key in hand, he pushed the end into the hole and twisted to the right. There was a small click. He turned the handle and pulled. It opened silently.

  Simon tucked the key back into his cloak.

  The tunnel inside was smooth and made from stone. The floor went down at an incline, into darkness. Nierne had said there was natural light inside the catacombs. Apparently one had to reach it first.

  Simon stepped inside, followed by Caleb. The air was noticeably warmer, and did not move, not like the wind outside. “Well, the torch is gone.”

  He looked up. Sure enough, there was a bracket where a torch would have hung.

  “Looks like we’ll have to walk in the dark until we reach the crypts below.”

  “Wait. Maybe not.” Caleb held his hand up. There wasn’t much light to his palm.

  Simon looked at his hand and scoffed. “And how exactly is that going to help?”

  Caleb bit down the growl inside his throat. If Simon wanted light . . .

  He brought his hand across his chest and opened his fingers. He concentrated on the heat brewing inside his chest. The heat flowed from his chest, down his arm and to his mark. He slowly brought his hand back across his body. The blade emerged from his palm with a blaze of light.

  Murmurs sprang up behind him. He ignored them.

  He extended his hand until the hilt formed, then wrapped his hand around the handle.

  The white light from Veritas lit up the tunnel. He could see every corner and every indent in the walls.

  “Of all the Celestial Halls,” Endre said behind him.

  The rest of the voices were unintelligible, only a low hum behind him.

  Simon simply stared at the sword dumbfounded.

  “Enough light for you?”

  Simon frowned and turned away.

  Caleb grinned. He should probably be more gracious, like Lore, but it was worth the look on Simon’s face.

  Simon led the way down the tunnel. Dust flew up and hung in the stale air. The men’s boots barely made a scuffling noise on the stone floor. Good. They knew how to walk quietly. Even Simon.

  After a couple minutes, a room opened up from the tunnel. The first of the catacombs. Simon stopped just before the doorway. He turned and addressed the men. “We are now entering hallowed halls. Do not touch anything. Do not move anything. These are the burial grounds of our most distinguished patrons.”

  Caleb fought the desire to roll his eyes. In other words, these men paid a lot of money to be buried here, so don’t break anything. Nothing ever changed. Men wanted to live forever. But since that was impossible, they wanted their remains to last as long as possible.

  Simon entered the catacombs first, Caleb close behind. An eeriness filled his being, driving away the sarcasm from moments before. A pale light came from shafts built into the ceiling, bathing the room in a ghostly light. The room itself was small, made from grey stone. Three rows of shelves were hollowed out of the stone. Each shelf held a white box, the length of a man and two feet high.

  Caleb looked to his left. Same three shelves, same white boxes, only there was a doorway in between the shelves. Same with the right. Doorways that seemed to lead to more small rooms like this one, filled with white boxes.

  His stomach churned. He hated the dead. They reminded him of his nightmares—his victims, their pale faces, their outstretched hands, his dagger clutched between their fingers, poised to stab h—

  “Caleb!”

  His mind came rushing back, his heart beating faster now.

  Simon stared at him. “Do you feel something? Are there shadows here?”

  He spread out his senses again. Far off, at the edge of his perception, he could feel it. That bitter coldness that accompanied the Mordra.

  “Yes. But far off.”

  “In which direction?”

  Caleb went back inside himself, feeling along the life-river. “To the right.” He pointed to the corner of the room. “That way.”

  “Should we head toward it, or let it come to us?”

  “We should start making our way toward it. We might as well deal with it now.”

  Simon nodded and headed toward the doorway to the right. The other men shuffled nervously, waiting. Caleb growled and followed Simon.

  Of course the men were afraid. They didn’t possess a weapon that could banish shadow-wraiths. And they had lived in fear of these shadows for over a year.

  But still a part of him was annoyed. The old Caleb.

  Love them. Be compassionate.

  They entered another room. Snuffed out candles and dried flowers lay along the edge of one white box. Another had a rolled up parchment tied with a dark ribbon in front of it. Cobwebs fluttered in the corners.

  Caleb shuddered, thankful for the light from Veritas.

  In the next room, the air grew musty and damp. He could feel the shadow now—and another one. “There are two of them.” His voice bounced off the walls and coffins.

  Simon stopped and looked back. “Can you take on two shadows?”

  He stopped as well. “I don’t know. I’m still new at this.”

  Simon folded his arms and muttered something.

  Caleb closed his eyes. Word, give me patience. He took a deep breath. What if he couldn’t take on two? What if he had led these men down to their deaths? He didn’t desire that, not even for Simon. Definitely a change from a year ago.

  Please help me, Word.

  Something shifted inside of him. He kept his eyes closed, feeling. “They are moving now. We should stay in this room and let them come to us.”

  “And what should we do?” Endre said behind him.

  He opened his eyes and turned around. He surveyed the room. It was small, with the same shelves and white boxes. Could the shadows move through walls? He wasn’t sure. Better to put himself between the men and the shadows.

  “Stand over there, beside the farthest wall.” He pointed across the room.

  “And what are you going to do?” Simon said as he walked around Caleb.

  Caleb turned back around and lifted his sword. They were almost here, their cold presence like an iron band around his heart, constricting it. He stared at the corner. “I will do what I can. Just stay out of the way.”

  Chapter

  40

  The first raindrop hit Lore’s nose the moment he set foot on the piers.

  Next to him, Cargan cursed. “Even the weather is against us today.”

  Lore didn’t bother saying how bad the weather was going to get. Instead, he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head and rubbed his chest. A shudder passed through his body and his eyes began to change. The storm was brewing both above and within his veins.

  Cargan led the men, over a hundred, along the docks. The wind kicked up and the ships bobbed on the choppy waters. Another drop came down. They stayed as close to the walls as they could, dodging old crates and barrels now decayed from spoilage. White bird droppings dotted the wooden planks.

  “Wouldn’t want to be out on the sea in this storm,” a man said behind Lore. “My pa was a captain, could read the weather almost as good as an Avonain. The clouds, the wind, they all foretell a storm is brewin—”

  “Cut the chatter!” Cargan glared at the men. The one who had spoken hung his head.

  Lore quietly cleared his throat.

  Cargan turned on him. “What?”

  “The men are nervous. Yelling at them is not going to ease the tension.”

  “And attracting enemies will only make things worse. Which do you want?”

  Lore pressed his lips int
o one grim line. Cargan might have been a night watchman or whatever he was back before Thyra was taken. But he was no leader, even after months of leading these people. Hopefully that senator—Regessus—would lead the people after all this was over. He seemed to have more of a heart and a gentleness that these people would need in the coming months. Assuming they actually took Thyra.

  The rain grew steadier as they reached the western gates. Cargan stopped and looked at the wall, then the gates. “Let’s see, the red district would be . . .” He looked both ways, along the wall. “This way.” He passed the gates and kept going along the docks.

  Lore glanced up. The wall stood at least three stories high, with the usual arrow slits and merlons. The gates were tightly shut, bolted from the inside.

  But the wall didn’t seem to be in good repair to his trained eyes. He wondered when the last time was that Thyra had been in battle. Being on the coast and blocked off by the Great Desert, had it grown too comfortable to see danger? Would the same thing have happened in the White City? Would Lord Gaynor, or Lady Astrea, or the council have seen the danger in two men who walked into their city?

  Cargan slowed, his gaze darting up above, and then along the wall. Lore imagined the man was picturing the inside of the city, and where they were in correlation to it.

  “Right about . . . here.” He stopped. A few booths, more crates, and a couple barrels lined the wall. About twenty feet away the docks dropped off into the ocean. He moved his head back and forth, his face darkening by the minute. “I don’t see it. Maybe we should have brought the little whore to find the door for us.”

  Lore’s blood, already agitated by the storm, caught fire at his words. “Nierne is not a whore!” He forced the words through gritted teeth. He didn’t bother to look behind and see if the other men had overheard Cargan. “She is a woman, and a scribe. And if it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t have a hope in taking Thyra back.”

  Cargan turned and glared at him. “And how do you figure that?”

  Lore flexed his fingers, but kept his emotions in check. “She is the one who found the Eldarans and brought them back.”

  “And she did a shoddy job of it. One was captured and one is a filthy Teman—”

  “Who is risking his life to save your city. Now . . .” Lore took a deep breath and let it out. The storm raged inside his veins. He could not afford to let it control him. “We have a mission to fulfill. But if you continue to slander my friends, I will leave.”

  “Me and my men are the only chance you have at entering the city and finding your Eldaran.”

  “I don’t care.” He stared at Cargan. The rain pattered against his hood.

  Cargan narrowed his eyes. “You would really leave us?”

  “I would.”

  “Fine.” Cargan waved his hand. “I’ll watch my words.”

  “Then I will follow you. By the way”—Lore looked past Cargan and back toward the wall— “if I kept a door hidden along the wall, I would not have it out in the open where anyone could find it. I bet we will find the door behind one of those booths.” He pointed at the nearest booth. A faded sign swung from a beam with a picture of a fish.

  Cargan’s face turned red, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned and went around the booth to the back. Lore followed. The inside of the shack was dark and stank like mold and old fish. Barrels lined the city wall. A counter in bad need of washing divided the shack from the outside.

  Cargan pulled the barrels away from the wall. Sure enough, there was a door. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. “Well, well. The wh—er—scribe was right. There is a door here.”

  Cargan pulled the door open. Both men looked inside. A tunnel led through the wall into the city. Lore could barely see the other side, but he could see it, so there would be no need for a torch.

  “Let’s get the men and go.” Cargan turned and stepped out of the shack.

  Lore peered down the tunnel one more time. Finally, he had reached Thyra. He touched the wall with his fingertips. “I’m coming, Rowen.”

  The rain answered with a downpour across the wooden shingles above.

  The first shadow entered through the doorway to the right. Caleb held Veritas up, his breath coming out in frosty waves. Well, that answered that question. Looked like they couldn’t pass through walls.

  Red eyes shone from its smoke-like body. Clawed hands appeared at its sides. It shielded its face from the light from Veritas.

  Before the shadow could move away, Caleb stepped forward and swung out. The shadow screamed when the blade touched its body. The sword rattled. The scream grew higher in pitch, like a banshee cry.

  Caleb wrapped his other hand around the blade. Sweat broke out across his forehead. The screams echoed inside his head, punctuated by the rushing of blood through his mind. A thought tried to surface, but he had no energy to think.

  The smoke body became a funnel as it was sucked into the blade. The shadow’s claws reached for his face, but he was just out of reach. Its arms disappeared into the blade. His own energy felt like it was being sucked inside. He gripped the blade, willing the shadow to disappear.

  Someone yelled behind him.

  “Just let me finish.” He could think of nothing else, see nothing else, other than the red eyes as they disappeared in Veritas’s light.

  The shadow vanished.

  Caleb sank down onto one knee. It took a moment for him to realize his breath was still frosty and his skin was cold. He had forgotten about the other shadow!

  He stumbled back up and turned. The men had backed up into a corner, yelling, and climbing on one another to get away. Victor, however, was already inside the shadow’s smoke body. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the stone floor.

  Caleb lifted his sword and with a roar charged the shadow. It looked back at him with ruby eyes and short fangs, its claws curved over Victor’s body.

  He swung Veritas again and struck the shadow just below the fangs. The fangs sank back into its body and a black hole appeared. The shrieks began, so high that Caleb winced at the sound. Veritas drew on the strength inside him, pulling the shadow into its blade.

  The shadow clawed at the air. A tiny rupture appeared at the point where his blade connected with the shadow.

  His eyes widened. There was a world there, another one, as black as a moonless night. The shadow’s hands and arms disappeared into the rupture, its eyes focused on Caleb.

  Caleb glanced at Victor, then back at the shadow. A wave of raw energy rose inside him, flowing along his arm and into the blade. The blade responded by glowing with white brilliance. “Go now, wraith!”

  The shadow disappeared into the rupture, and the crack sealed.

  Silence fell across the catacombs. Caleb collapsed onto the floor, his breath short gasps, his chest burning.

  “Victor?” Simon spoke behind Caleb.

  He lifted his head.

  Victor lay on the floor, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. Simon knelt beside the man, checked his pulse, then brought his hand across Victor’s face.

  Char, the young guardsman, glanced at Victor, then at Caleb. “I thought you said you could keep us safe.”

  Caleb lay panting on the floor. He did not have the energy to answer Char. Instead, he stared across the stone floor, Veritas beside him, still clutched in his hand and illuminating the room.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Why, Word?

  The air moved, and the flowers along the edge of the lowest coffin fluttered to the ground. You cannot save everyone.

  Then why am I here?

  To save those you can, and leave the rest to me.

  Caleb lay on the floor a moment longer, then struggled up until he was sitting. The others ignored him. He brought his hand across his body and let Veritas sink back into his mark.

  Only when its li
ght disappeared did the others turn and look at him. The room was now bathed in the pale light that shone from a shaft high above them.

  He couldn’t save them.

  Trust me, Son of Truth.

  How? This was not the time for a crisis of faith. He was on a mission. He had a job to do.

  But those gathered were looking to him for answers. Simon covered Victor’s body with his own cloak. Char stood with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. Endre glanced around at everything but him.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were ash in his mouth. He had failed. He shook his head. He had never failed before. Is that what it meant to be a Guardian? Sands, what good was it to guard mankind when people could slip through his fingers and die?

  “We knew the cost when we came here,” Simon said quietly.

  “That doesn’t matter. A man is still dead because of me.”

  Simon looked up from Victor’s body. “Are you God, Caleb?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “We knew there would be casualties if we tried to take Thyra back. Victor knew that. We all did.” He tucked the last bit of his cloak beneath Victor’s body. “You are still a man.”

  “A Guardian,” Caleb said through gritted teeth.

  “Who is under the authority of the Word.”

  Caleb stared at Simon. What had happened to the man who days before hated the very air he breathed? He did not recognize this scribe before him. He would expect Simon to be more like Char over in the corner, brooding and angry at him for letting one of them die. Not this spiritual sounding leader.

  Simon looked down at Victor, now shrouded by his own cloak. “I will come back for him and bury him later.”

  Caleb clenched his hand so tight that the light from his palm was extinguished. “So you’re fine with this?”

  Simon sighed. “No. I’m not fine with Victor’s death. Death was never meant to be a part of our world. But it is, and so we must accept that it comes, and not always according to our time. You saved the rest of us. And Word willing, we will save the rest of Thyra.”