The would-be thief groaned, breaking the connection.
Kipra's eyes hardened, her teeth clicked together, and she thrust out her jaw. "What are you doing here, Ark?"
"I came to see you."
"Obviously. Well, you saw me, so go away."
"Where were you before he took the blade?"
"It's none of your business, but I was waiting."
The voice's thread trembled. It asked in a quiet, subdued tone, as if it somehow feared the answers:
-What will he think when her face twinkles in that torchlight, her smooth cheeks tight with a sneer? The only way for my world to advance is for it to learn. I must teach them emotion. I must teach them to love.-
Irreor held back a frown, and spoke to himself more than the voice. She's always been difficult to deal with, always made things as complicated as possible. This is no different, but why does she have to look at me like that?
"I can't go away," he said. "Bran told me not to come tonight, but—"
"Bran is smarter than you ever gave him credit for."
His gut rocked like a ship in a maelstrom. She was right. The blacksmith saw far more than Irreor ever acknowledged, but now wasn't the time for that discussion.
He swept out his finger to point at the exhausted people littering the courtyard. "I didn't have a choice. These people, this city—I'm here for them, not you."
And that lie burned.
She flinched—a mere twitch of her nose, the briefest turn of her head—then snorted. "This place is beyond needing a hero. It's beyond redemption."
He remained silent, and they stared at one another, neither willing to bend or break. She must've thought him pompous and egotistical, even tarnished with a hint of narcissism. She might've been right. And yet she'd disguised herself with bitterness, hiding from herself as much as her sister.
He didn't have time for this.
"Not a hero. That's for someone else." He shrugged, and the words spilled from his mouth easier than he'd imagined. "I'll be a leader, nothing more or less, and I want you to help me retake the city. There's no one I trust more with a blade, and, after seeing you tonight, I believe it now more than ever. You could've killed him, but you didn't. Why?"
"I don't need to explain myself."
"No, you don't." Irreor approached her, but she stepped away. He offered a sarcastic smirk as he knelt to check the unconscious man's pulse. "I've killed men, have you? No, don't answer that. You didn't kill him because you knew you didn't have to."
She remained silent.
-Killers won't be born. They'll be bred from the malice of their mothers and fathers, from the knife those bastards use to slice open the boy's back, or the hole he'll name a palace. But not in my world. No, not in my world.-
Irreor forced her to meet his eyes. "I wouldn't have let him spit out two words. I would've torn open his throat and thought nothing about it. You're the balance I need."
It was true, in a way—he probably would've killed this man. Another corpse on the street hardly mattered after what he'd seen. Countless more would follow.
Still, that didn't make it easier.
He'd been too innocent last time she'd seen him, and the last year—the past weeks in particular—had passed beyond her sight. She couldn't have understood he'd become a killer.
-An abandoned warehouse on the southern side of the city, once owned by a lumber exporter—that's where they'll meet. My general will lay out his plans, and he'll give them an ultimatum. They'll join him or watch their city rot.-
"Think about it tonight." Irreor said. "There's an old warehouse on the southern side of the city. You know the place?"
She gave a hesitant nod.
"Be there after the sun rises three days from tomorrow. Listen for an hour. If you're not interested after that, well, then I won't hold it against you. You're free to do as you wish."
He marched from the courtyard, wondering if she still stood there watching as he left. That was a nice thought. A futile one.
She'd rather ram a knife in his chest.
-My people will sleep, my world will thrive, and I'll be at peace. I never knew I could find that. But I'm so close to seeing my instrument defeat Abennak.-
Ah, so close.
And so far.
Irreor turned down a poorly lit alley that ran beside an alehouse. The sound of mirthless laughter spilled from within its walls, and the air stank of stale ale and bile. The alley stretched across the southern tip of Farren, a starlit channel of clay bricks, heaped garbage, and abysmal stench. It was the easiest path back to Bran's forge.
-Will he save them?-
"That's up to him, but doubtful." Irreor murmured.
The sound of a scuffed boot, ten paces behind him, startled him from his contemplation. Danger filtered through the starry night and tickled the hair on the back of his neck, and he, without turning, focused his attention on the three men who followed him.
The patter of their boots drew closer. Eight paces.
Bran had warned him Farren was dangerous, but Irreor hadn't truly believed him. So what if Crest had taken the city? He'd take it back. So what if bands of thugs roamed the streets? He'd cut them down. With or without Kipra. Alone or with a host of friends. The city was his, period.
Five paces.
At three paces, he ducked his head and pivoted into their midst.
Chapter Thirty
Sparks showered from the bricks to Irreor's left.
He ripped the Synien free of its sheath and pivoted again. He backhanded the dagger into the chest of a bearded man, then continued his roll to position that man between himself and the two remaining attackers.
The wounded man, Irreor's dagger jutting from his chest, dropped a longsword and flopped forward onto the filthy stones. The impact drove the Synien's tip through the back of his armor, trapping the weapon. He twitched and grasped in a heap of filth, then lay still.
Irreor's drawn longsword reflected moonlight.
The other attackers hesitated for only an instant. A large, muscular man with a massive spiked cudgel moved to Irreor's left. A gaunt man with two shortswords slid to the right.
These fools didn't know what they were doing.
The large one shifted his weight and hunched his shoulders. He flipped his cudgel between meaty hands, the odor of soured sweat seeping from his clothes. They were both guards. They wore loose, long-sleeved uniforms emblazoned with the kingdom's symbol.
Crest's men.
The gaunt assassin's voice rasped through the alley. "Anyone would recognize your face, Ark. But we found you first, so Crest will feed us for a month. Two, if we're lucky."
"Not if you're dead," Irreor said.
He darted toward the man with the cudgel and tucked his sword close as he rolled under an overhand swipe. He rose and snapped his blade across the back of the man's knees to slice cartilage and sever tendons.
The man shrieked and fell backward. He squirmed on the ground, cursing through clenched teeth and struggling to rise.
Irreor separated the man's head from his shoulders.
-It will be a sight to see a Kilnsman in action. They'll be the best of the island, but my general will stand as their champion. I'll gift them with natural agility and a ruthlessness to execute their training.-
I'm busy. Go bother someone else.
The voice's thread thrummed as if it chuckled.
A shadow along the wall hissed, separated and launched at him. Two blades whisked wide and angled toward his neck. Irreor rolled beneath the attack, pulling the decapitated man's dagger free as he did, and sprang to his feet.
Crest's guard glanced at his friend's headless corpse, and his face paled in the moonlight. Yet, despite the fear, his shortswords shone in his callused, steady hands, and he half-crouched as he stepped over his dead companion.
Again the shortswords whisked wide and angled in. Irreor flicked his sword and dagger to intercept the attack, then shoulder-charged the smaller man.
The gaunt gua
rd stumbled backward, but instantly recovered and launched forward with a flurry of attacks. Shortswords swept high and low, left and right, searching for an opportunity to plunge home.
Irreor countered each twist of the man's blades.
"Once, I might have let you live," Irreor said, "but I'm no longer that man."
Farren's guard snarled as he sprang forward, dipped his blades toward Irreor's chest, but retreated with a quick shuffle. The man’s weapons dropped a fraction of an inch, and Irreor shot forward. He pivoted under a wild swing and rammed his dagger into the exposed neck.
Blood spurted around the steel as the guard spat a curse. Crumpled.
Irreor cleaned his blade on the first man's uniform. He flipped the corpse over to retrieve his Synien, wiped that blade as well, and sheathed both. Cool air caressed his skin, and a burst of laughter rumbled from the alehouse.
The voice's thread continued to thrum and quiver as if it chuckled.
"You're happy?"
-I'm happy because you didn't save them.-
It rarely answered his questions. It was more of a distant murmur—a glimpse at strange thoughts or plans that he could never decipher—but hardly an awareness that could hear him.
Irreor forced himself to ask the next question. "Why?"
-You're the man I want you to be.-
"What if I don't want to be that man?"
Silence.
Chapter Thirty-One
"You think she'll come?" Bran asked Irreor.
Irreor allowed his friend a smile, but remained silent. Kipra would come or she wouldn't. It wasn't his choice.
They navigated Farren's predawn hours, keeping to the shadows while making their way to the warehouse where they planned to meet Eenan Ark's old officers. In the distance, Farren's Spire towered above homes and shops, and the barest hint of orange stained the eastern horizon, extending a merry blanket across the city. Yet that budding brightness was small consolation for the dust that wiggled inside their clothes and nostrils.
This day would prove hot and itchy and miserable.
For the past three days, Irreor had remained hidden in the Stonehands' shack—not because he'd been afraid to leave, but because he'd needed time to gather his thoughts and plans. So he'd relied on Bran to carry messages and acquire information, working his friend deep into the nights.
Circles now drooped beneath the blacksmith's eyes, and he walked with a slumped, exhausted gait.
Irreor shifted a heavy bag from shoulder to shoulder. It contained coins to pay for anything they may require, and also his Keeper armor. Maybe coins and a Keeper would be enough to succeed, but not many men were willing to risk their lives for Farren. So far, only a few of his father's old officers had gathered, with a smattering of young, eager boys. The older men might have understood what they would encounter, but the younger certainly didn't.
They'd find out soon enough.
Bran carried a round, cloth-covered pot, a thick soup prepared by his mother for the men. She'd recovered these past days, at least enough to cook.
'You're going to find the man who murdered my husband and took our home?' she'd asked. 'Make him pay a little?'
Irreor had simply nodded.
Bran had protested her getting out of bed, but she'd stilled him with a glare and snapped, 'I'm not sitting in this void forsaken bed while you do what you're doing. Least I can do is make you something to eat, and you'll shut your mouth and eat it.'
The blacksmith had shut his mouth and eaten it.
They turned a corner, hesitating at the sight of the warehouse. Long, flat planks stretched from top to bottom, nailed to the outside, weatherworn by years of sun. One hundred paces square, the building held enough space for bunks, planning and training—everything they needed. It sat in the southeastern section of Farren, far from Crest's base of power.
"You sure about this?" Bran asked. "People sleep wherever they can find a place, so there's bound to be someone inside."
"You're afraid of homeless beggars? I thought you'd changed?"
"I have."
"No, we'll go in and wait for the others. It's empty."
"How do you know?"
In that moment, Irreor considered telling his friend about the voice. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it. The blacksmith had always supported him, always trusted and rarely judged him, even when he'd abandoned Farren to find another life. And yet, the words, the truth he'd never admitted to anyone, swirled atop his tongue, then vanished.
"Trust me," he said.
Bran rolled his eyes.
The first ray of sunshine struck Farren's Spire, and Irreor strode ahead of his friend to wrench open a sturdy double door. He waited as the blacksmith slipped inside and lit a torch.
Seconds passed.
Bran lifted the torch to shine it down a long, empty row. Monstrous walls of dusty timber stretched to the ceiling, which stood more than twenty paces above their heads. Small windows at the very top allowed a hint of the morning's light, but otherwise silence and stillness and darkness filled those barren rows.
"See?" Irreor said. "No one here."
Puffs of dust lifted and settled as they stepped around stacks of timber and, once they reached the far wall, the blacksmith placed his pot of soup on a tall wooden step. They plopped down, waiting for the others to arrive.
Something screamed in the distance.
Irreor snatched his Synien from its sheath. "Demon-damn, what was that?"
"A wounded animal, maybe even a child. Damned if I know. It's been that way for weeks now—one minute complete silence, and the next a scream to turn your blood to ice. We've gotten used to it." He shuddered. "I've heard words in those screams. You must've heard it these past days?"
"No."
"No?"
"Bran, I've never heard it."
The blacksmith frowned. "You remember when Kipra told you about the people that look like they're made of parchment?""
"Thought she was crazy. I still do."
"They're worse now. They crackle when they move and their eyes seem like they're drawn with charcoal. There are more of them, lots more."
Irreor shoved his Synien back in its sheath. "You want me to say the island is overpopulated? Fine, I'll admit it. But I'll not admit to something foolish. What's this have to do with that scream?"
"You don't see it?"
"No."
"I was watching the forge with nothing to do but sit and wait. A man stumbled up to me three nights ago, opened his mouth wider than I'd thought possible, skin flaking from his face, hands clenched at his side. Irreor, it wasn't right. He spoke with a boy's voice." Bran shook his head and muttered, "He said, 'He'll be my instrument.'"
Irreor pressed his lips together, uncertain what to think. Kipra had told him about the parchment people last year, but this was altogether different. Bran had no reason to lie about his story. It wouldn't prove anything.
"I told Kipra," Bran continued. "She said—"
"Tell me about her."
Irreor cursed himself for the sharpness of his tone, but this was what he'd become. It didn't matter what someone said at the forge or in the night. Nor did a child's scream matter. Not really.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything." Irreor leaned against a pile of timber, clasped his hands over his stomach. "I've been gone an entire year. There must be things I'm unaware of. Has she met anyone?"
Bran choked on a snort. "Kipra? No, she's never met anyone."
"And her sister?"
"Still in the brothels on the northern side, or so I hear. Irreor, her sister works for Crest. Not just works, but runs much of his business. Kleni returned to Master Steel's shop once—just once—to demand coins. She's done it to all of us, and we all paid. We didn't have a choice."
Irreor whistled. "I'll bet that went well."
"Hardly. Kipra tried to drive her sister away, but her father wouldn't let her. He paid. He said he didn't want to let Kipra hurt her own sist
er. I can understand a little of why he did it."
"You told Kipra that?"
"I'm no fool. Something burns inside her, something I've never understood. Sure, her sister is a whore, but her hatred goes deeper. It doesn't make sense. You care for her, don't you? More than you've ever admitted, I mean."
"Probably not."
"Lies are whispers in the night, and I don't hear well."
Irreor's chest tightened, but his friend's words reminded him of what Kipra had said—he'd never given Bran enough credit. The man still feared confrontation, that much was obvious, but now it seemed he forced himself to endure it.
"I'll use you more than I'll use anyone," Irreor said. "I apologize now if I seem harsh. I don't mean it, but I don't have much choice. Leaders rarely do. The things I'll do won't be easy. I—"
"You change topics quickly."
"I meant it."
"I know, and I'll do my part." Bran dropped his chin to his chest, swirling his fingertip in the dusty floor. "You really can't see how Farren has changed? Maybe the entire island is like this now, so you've just grown used to it. The Parched Ones are real, but you won't believe that, will you?"
Their candle guttered and died.
The warehouse lightened as more and more sunlight streamed through grimy, cobwebbed windows. Puffy clouds drifted overhead as the city awakened—the feeble laughter of children as they passed, the rare squawk of a chicken, the rarer bleat of a goat, and the faint, pine-smoke scent of a fire burning somewhere in the distance.
After an hour, the sound of footsteps approached the front of the warehouse.
Irreor nudged Bran, and the man's eyes fluttered open. Both rose to their feet and edged back to a narrow shadow near the back wall. They peered down the long rows of timber.
Someone muttered a curse, his voice deep and harsh, and flint struck steel.
A dim glow flickered to life, revealing Pernik Sylis, who was once Eenan Ark's highest ranking officer, and consequently one of the men Irreor had demanded. After his father died, this man had settled any remaining affairs, planned the pyre day, and wept unabashed tears as Eenan Ark burned.
He also knew the city better than anyone.
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