144: Wrath

by Dallas E. Caldwell

  She continued running until she reached the top of the stairs. The theatre’s antechamber had too many exits. There was no way she could know which way Kiff may have gone. She took a calming breath and ruled out two of the side exits because they opened to stairs leading back down. The door behind the bar was likely a closet or dumbwaiter access. That left only the way forward.

  She took a deep breath and prepared herself for whatever might lay at the end of the hallway.

  Before she could take a single step toward it, five cloaked individuals entered through the left entrance. They walked in a solitary procession, heads down under dark hoods. Their robes were deep blue with silver embellishments along the cuffs and midseam. Each one bore on his back and sleeves a symbol like a glowing bowl or an eyeless, smiling crescent. Xandra recognized the mark from various other places in the building. It was the symbol of the House of Moons.

  For a moment she regretted that Kiff had given them a brief schooling on the Thieves' Guild, for knowing the enemy she now faced only drove her heart further into her stomach. The House of Moons did not recruit thieves and assassins, as did the House of Stars. Nor did they train mages or politicians like the House of Suns. This sect of the Thieves’ Guild was reserved only for elite specialists; only the best, matchless warriors swelled their ranks.

  The lead member of their group was a short, thin woman. She held up a hand, extended three fingers, and pointed toward the balcony door. Without a word, the back three members broke off from the group and headed toward the theatre room leaving Xandra alone with the first two.

  The leader took off her outer robe and cast it aside. She was a Coranthen, and a fine example of their exquisite beauty. She was shorter than Xandra and had finely woven black hair pulled back into a tight knot. Her eyes were slightly larger than a Peltin woman’s; one of the most distinguishing features of all Coranthen people. Her body was supple and graceful without an ounce out of place. At her smooth hips, she kept two rapiers sheathed on a shimmersilk belt. Their hilts were jeweled with sapphires and black diamonds.

  The second House of Moons specialist was much larger. He pulled back his robe revealing the angry countenance and devilish intelligence that could only combine in the face of a Cratin. His chest was that of a muscled Peltin man with a powerful lower torso. His thick legs ended in fur-rimmed hooves that sent tremors through the floor with each step. His bovine head was black as onyx, and his horns were curled forward and ended with golden caps. He pulled out a net in one hand and lifted a trident overhead with the other.

  Xandra swallowed hard. There was a very real chance her destiny might end alone in a den of thieves in Odes'Kan.

  Vor spat a curse as a blade glanced across his shoulder. His blood bubbled out in thick globs and hardened into a thick scab. He spun and punched his assailant in the ribs and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the man crumpled and fell, gasping for air.

  Over sixty assassins lay dead around the Dorokti berserker, and the ground was covered in a thin pool of blood that splashed with each leaping step Vor took across the room. Men dove out of his way, pushing each other forward to buy themselves a moment to get away. Years of conditioning and loyalty to the Thieves' Guild finally broke from the weight of their terror. What assassins could still flee, were doing their best to escape the enraged warrior. He had been stabbed in the stomach and in the leg, cut across the back, shoulder, and face, and had two daggers sticking out of his left arm. Much of the blood that soaked him was his own, though he was not slowed by its loss. As long as he had someone to kill, he would keep swinging his wrath-fueled axe.

  There were only a few assassins left, and Vor quickly cut that number down to two. His frenzy would end soon, and his body would take into account the wounds it had been ignoring.

  Three cloaked beings dropped from the balcony high above, each landing in a crouch. Vor bit the hand of an assassin and broke the man’s neck as his fury-addled mind assessed the new aggressors. The last House of Stars mercenary used the distraction to disappear behind the stage curtain at a run.

  The first to drop his robes was a Peltin soldier. His kept his long auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore a heavy breastplate finely shaped to accentuate the muscles beneath it. He held a broadsword in his meaty hands, and bore a sadistic expression on his scarred face.

  On the other side of the room, the second man casually dropped his robe. He was a short, spry Peltin man with dark leather armor and an astonishing array of daggers, knives, and shuriken in bandoliers along his back and chest. He bore a draconic tattoo on his face, and his head had recently known a razor’s touch.

  A broad-shouldered Eryntaph stood next to him. His fur was dark brown with red patches at his knees, hands, and feet. He wore his hair in battleweaves drawn tightly around animal bones and fastened at the end in jeweled clasps. He stretched his arms overhead then down to the floor, readying himself for combat. He carried no weapon, but from the look of him, he did not need one.

  Vor charged the Peltin soldier, their blades locked, and the battle of strength began.

  Polas ducked and rolled as a chain whizzed overhead and crashed through a nearby table.

  The gorachna growled and reared back, gathering the chain for another strike. Polas charged with his scimitar leading. He slammed into the belly of the beast, and the sword broke against its hide. Polas tossed the hilt aside and drew his second dagger. He sprinted to the monster’s side and was forced to roll out of its reach as a powerful hand smashed into the wood floor, sending splintered bits of shrapnel in all directions.

  Vrihnassk cackled with laughter.

  Two skeletons dashed after Polas, swords raised high. The ancient general caught the first by the wrist and snapped its arm off at the shoulder. He took the sword from its bony hand and cast the arm away.

  The armless skeleton picked up the discarded limb, and dark energy sealed the shoulder back into place.

  Polas swore under his breath as he blocked a blow from the second skeleton. He returned the strike and cleaved the creature’s skull from its neck. The body fell but was quickly rejoined by its departed head and rose again.

  Polas was not worried about the skeletons in regards to their skills with a blade or their mindless tactics, but he was worried about his own body. He was tiring, and with each blow, he wasted precious energy better spent on finding a way to defeat the gorachna.

  At that moment, the doors to the room blasted open.

  Flint stepped through the smoke and ash, using his arm to muffle a heavy cough. "Never fear, Master Kas Dorian. Flint is here."

  The gorachna swung one of its heavy chains and knocked Flint into the nearest table.

  Polas rushed to his aid. Flint stood and brushed off his vest. His eyes widened, and he pushed Polas out of the way as a skeleton attacked from behind. He grabbed the creature by the eye sockets and transferred healing energy into its skull. The skeletal adversary crumpled into a pile of dry bones.

  The Narculd mage standing across the room straightened and turned toward his servant. "Send for Calec! Go now!"

  The Peltin man obeyed, fleeing the room as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him.

  Flint put his hand on Polas’s back. "Go," he said. "I’ll handle this."

  Polas hesitated. "You’re sure?"

  Flint charged and tackled two of the undead soldiers, destroying them both with curative magic as they fell to the ground.

  "Yes," Flint shouted. "Undead are my specialty."

  Polas turned his attention to getting past the gorachna. The beast flung its chain again. Polas dodged, and the hooked end caught on the doorframe. He sprinted forward and rolled between the gorachna’s legs. In an instant, he was back up and kicked off the wall to grab hold of the banister. He pulled himself up and sprang.

  The Peltin servant reached the top of the stairs and went pale when he saw Polas leaping for him. He ducked into the doorway as Polas’s blade clacked against the floor behind him.

&nbs
p; Flint watched long enough to see that the ancient general made his way out of the room safely, then turned his mind toward the skeletal warriors. The last of the undead creations had surrounded him. He swiftly dispatched them with a whirling tempest of healing energy and readied himself to face the gorachna.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Polas ran as hard as his limp would allow. He could hear the servant beyond his vision, panting and wheezing as he sprinted through the shadows as though a drakken were on his tail. Ahead, dim light filled an open doorway and illuminated the end of the hall.

  Polas slowed as he entered through the arched double doors. The room had a glass ceiling and was full of verdant plants and trickling fountains. Through the translucent windows, the first rays of sunlight sparkled over the horizon while the moons finished with their nightly chore. The mixture of orange and deep blue light danced across the sky blurring the lines of light and darkness.

  A stone path led from the doorway to a large fountain in the center of the conservatory. In front of the fountain, Calec Kas Dorian stood with his dark blade drawn. He was slightly shorter than his father, though the strength in his posture hinted at a vitality that Polas had lost long ago. He removed his helmet and shook out his blonde locks. His eyes were piercing blue, like ice on a winter flower.

  The Peltin servant stumbled over the last few steps and ended up on all fours in front of the Guardian of Exandercrast. "Master Calec, you have to save us. He’s here! The Iron Butcher is here!"

  Calec flicked his blade and loosed the man’s head from his shoulders. The body fell, and a river of blood poured out between the cobblestones.

  Polas had seen countless deaths before, but this simple murder shook him to the core. He wanted to vomit. Had his boy truly been reduced to little more than an executioner and a thrall to evil’s will? His breath caught in his lungs. His boy. So much of him wanted nothing more than to embrace his son, to pull him back from the grip of despair. He held his arms out to the side, palms open, and his sword clattered to the ground.

  "Calec," Polas started. "I don’t have words."

  Calec stood motionless, and hatred rolled off him in waves.

  "Son." Polas took a hesitant step forward. "I-I’m so sorry. For everything that has happened. To you. To your mother. To Leyryl. I never intended. I never thought. I was trying to give you a better life."

  Polas fought back tears. The loss of his wife and daughter weighed on him heavily, but seeing his son, here, as an emissary of all that was evil in the world, it nearly drove his soul from him. He stopped and tried to think of anything he could say or do to end this nightmare.

  "I’m sorry I left you, son."

  Calec raised his sword and charged his father.

  Shirmattaa’s fat belly was the first thing to penetrate the portal’s shimmering veil and enter into the land of Waysmale. An arrow thicker than a man’s arm greeted the dead man and pierced through his unbeating heart.

  Kiff pushed the body forward and rose straight up on his board. The air was hot and dark, and he felt like he was swimming through the thick gloom. His goggles fogged over, and he was forced to discard them along with his mask. His eyes were solid black, capable of absorbing every possible point of light and even converting ambient energy into vision in the darkest places. His face was pale and long with strong cheekbones and an understated chin. He had smooth, youthful skin marked only by a thin scar on his bottom lip and another beneath his left eye. He smiled at the Ibor gathered around him.

  "Some ambush," he said with a laugh. "I expected at last fifty of you hagspawn, but I guess this will have to do."

  Below him, clinging to rocks and climbing up the trunks of gnarled stone-trees, were twenty-one Ibor warriors. The largest of them was eight feet high. Ten vicious horns sprouted in a fan-shape on each side of his skull running back from his brow, over his ears, and down to his plated neck. His shoulders were like hardened armor, though he wore none. Like the rest of the Ibor warriors around him, he wore no clothing of any kind. His stony form was as a perfectly chiseled sculpture, and he stood atop a large boulder holding a massive longbow that was taller than he was. With a growl and a grunt, he cast it aside and flexed his clawed hands.

  The creature roared a few words in the guttural Waysmahli language. The gathered Ibor shared a laugh, no doubt, at Kiff’s expense.

  "Sorry," Kiff said, "is there a reason all of you are naked? I’m just here for a fight."

  He pulled the bladed whip from around his waist and cracked it out to the side. It answered with a resounding snap. Kiff beamed. "Yes."

  The Ibor leader snarled. He pointed a finger at the Undlander and barked a command to his soldiers. They sprang into the air and spread their wings, but they could not reach Kiff at his current height.

  "Aw, now that’s cute," Kiff said. "Me, I prefer flying, but gliding is great too. Don’t be ashamed, you’re all doing great."

  He looked up at the cliffside and thought of how easy it would be to escape, to run and never look back. He could find a city or a port, or he could cross an ocean if he had to, and he would be free to start over again. Or he could fly to the edge of the world and leave all of Traespairin behind. No more worrying about a name or a past or a future.

  "Alright, here we go." He drove his board down in the surging mass of stony wings. Every being had a weak spot, and every suit of armor had a gap. The Ibor, as strong as their hides were, could be no different. It was on Kiff to find those weaknesses and exploit them, or at least make enough of a dent in their numbers to give the others a fighting chance.

  A halo of flame surrounded each of Flint's hands, and he opened up with a volley of blasts at the gorachna’s chest.. The rings of fire pulsed with each blast and launched fiery orbs at his command. The beast ignored the flares without as much as a single hair singed. Flint shrugged and took cover behind a toppled table.

  He stopped himself from uttering a curse. "Of all the rotten luck. The first time I see a mythical gorachna in person, and I have no time to journal it."

  The Narculd necromancer ducked a swinging chain and almost choked on his laughter at the Faldred’s plight. Flint lobbed a blast his direction that sent the Narculd scurrying over to a corner.

  "Your arcanis is insignificant," the Narculd taunted. "You are no match for the power of Vrihnassk."

  Flint shook his head and did his best to ignore the overconfident sorcerer. "Think, Flint. Slow down and think. When facing a gorachna one must take into account its thick hide and fire resistance."

  He stood and clapped his hands together, dousing the flames they held. The gorachna curled forward, the spikes on its back bristling with incendiary secretions. The creature shuddered, and four of the largest barbs launched from its back.

  One of them pierced Flint’s shoulder and pinned him to the wall.

  "Sahnrak," Flint hissed. "Forgot about those."

  He gripped the chitinous spike and yanked it out of his shoulder. The wound ignited from contact with the searing liquid produced at the barb’s tip. Flint closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He waved a hand over the open wound and used his magic to heal it.

  The gorachna swung both of its chains overhead. They broke through rafters and rained wooden debris across the room. It swept them around the room in a wide arc, forcing both Vrihnassk and Flint to drop to their bellies.

  Flint rolled onto his back and watched as the chains whizzed by him once again and crashed into a table a few feet away.

  He clapped. "I’ve got it." He stood and stared at the beast. His hands glowed, and steam issued from the top of his bald head. "Let's see if this works."

  The Peltin soldier was on his knees gasping for air after receiving a blow from the butt of Vor’s axe directly to the chest.

  Another of the fighters, the dark-clad man with the array of blades, distracted Vor’s addled mind with a few well-placed daggers.

  The man ran up the wall to dodge a swing of Vor’s axe and flipped over the Dorokti’s hea
d. He unleashed a flurry of tiny blades as he somersaulted through the air. Each one sank deep in Vor’ back on either side of his spine.

  The Dorokti King chased the man across the room, repeating the previous encounter. This time, however, when the man kicked off the wall, Vor reached up, grabbed him by the ankle, and slammed him down face-first into the stone floor. His nose, teeth, and jaw shattered with the impact, and his throat and sinuses filled with crimson fluid. He gagged and coughed, but could do nothing to keep himself from drowning on his own blood.

  Vor eased the man's parting by driving his axe down into the back of his head. The body shook one last time as Vor removed the blade.

  The berserker turned to find his next victim. His own inky blood congealed around his mouth and at his elbows. Thick streams dried on his back and mixed with the gore of his enemies, blending in a matted swirl of ruby and sable.

  The Eryntaph brawler charged him from the side, knocking him to the ground. He held Vor’s wrist high over head, keeping his axe out of the grapple. The two rolled over bodies and onto the damp floor; each struggling for dominance. The Eryntaph had a slight edge in strength, and Vor found himself pinned. His fury filled him. He lashed out with his teeth, bit deeply into the Eryntaph’s shoulder, and was rewarded with the crunch of clavicle and a scarlet spray.

  "Damn you, Fallen."

  The Eryntaph released his hold on Vor’s axe and slashed him across the face, driving a deep wound that nearly dislodged an eye. Vor swung down, his axe finding the Eryntaph’s spine above the hips. The being’s legs went limp, but he continued to slash at Vor until his claws exposed the Dorokti’s skull.

  Vor kicked up, threw the Eryntaph over his head, and rolled back to land on top. He head-butted the brawler - his powerful horns caving in the creature's forehead - and did not stop until the Eryntaph lay still.