Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  Zane said nothing, his fury rising.

  “It’s quite simple really. You lead the rat to food. And when the vermin’s gone, you squash his nest and burn it all. Every. Last. Rat.” In Zane’s core, something burned. But Salamander continued, voice slick as oil, “But there’s one fatal flaw. How do we get that little rat to smell the cheese and take the bait? Well, that was even simpler.” Salamander’s gaunt face twisted, eyes glittering. “We needed to get a rat of our own…”

  Zane put the pieces together and he felt the hairs on his neck rise. “Trev,” he breathed in fury.

  “Darkeye minion to the bone that one,” said Salamander with a grin.

  “Trev will find a traitor’s death at the end of my dagger, just like you.”

  “Sadly not,” Salamander said darkly. “It is fitting that in the end I should be the one to bring back your corpse and claim the reward on your head.” The man’s hand lifted, and a molten ball of fire formed from thin air, growing like a blister. Zane retreated, feigning fear, circling the man, and moving back slowly. Salamander continued stalking forward.

  Zane’s heart thumped, watching that fire. “Why me? What does Darkeye want?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t care to ask. Your head on a pike is enough for me.” Another step.

  “Why would he take Hannah? Just to lure me?”

  “Oh, surely you know. The girl is an Untamed.” Zane continued to back up. Salamander gave an oily sneer and added, “She will make a fine addition to our stock.”

  Zane spoke confidently, simply. “I will kill you. You will live for now, but one day I will wipe that look from your face, and watch as you die, afraid and confused.”

  “Silence!” Salamander bellowed, spittle flying. “You abandoned those you love, and now you will die!” The ball hovered, emanating heat, making sweat run down his ruddy features. He cried, throwing the fire. Zane dashed. He had positioned himself close to the bank of the river. It was paces away. The fire roared, gaining on him as he dove.

  The fire streaked by him, igniting his clothes. At the same time, he pierced the water. The fire raged above him, a muted roar. It lit the river, and sent torrents of water into the air, rocking him like a boat in a storm. But he pushed forward, and the water carried him quickly downstream. Still, he swam harder. At last, after what felt like an hour later, he came up, gulping for air. Quickly, he stilled his breath, waiting to hear the splash of another, to see if Salamander had followed, but there was no sign. The man couldn’t swim, he figured—most of Farbs couldn’t. What need was there in a land full of sand? He almost wanted to breathe a sigh of success, but Salamander’s words sunk beneath his flesh, filling him with dread and more anger.

  Hannah, a part of Darkeye’s clan. The thought was somehow more terrifying than her death.

  He pushed it aside, continuing on.

  After a while, he debated leaving the river and returning to the tunnels, but the stream was taking him where he wanted to go. And through the murky water, he spotted torchlights bobbing in the dark tunnels. The forms of men were big and wide, moving in organized packs much larger than anything like the Lost Ones.

  Darkeye’s brutes, he knew.

  And so he stuck to the river, letting the warm waters take him deeper. He kept his head low, breathing through his nose as he skimmed the water’s surface. Occasionally, a lantern or torch passed too close and he dipped beneath the water, holding his breath and swimming until the currents carried him onward.

  Zane hated being submerged in water. Give me dry, desert heat over damp, humid weather any day. Besides, being surrounded on all sides felt all too similar to being trapped and suffocating. He couldn’t stand to be restrained. But for now, he was glad for its shelter.

  At last, he reached Sanctuary. He saw more fires, and the grand cavern ahead. Suddenly, he heard cries and moans, cutting through the air. He stiffened.

  He was too late…

  Voices rose above the gurgle of water.

  “Should we hide?” the man asked. “Salamander tol’ us Zane maht be comin’ to save his lil’ los’ rats any moment now.”

  “And? What’s yer stinkin’ point?”

  The big man shifted uncomfortably and answered, “He’s no slouch, Vurpil, nah’ like these vermin.”

  Vurpil laughed. “Oh yeah? What’s he gonna do? Take us both?”

  “But them rumors—’aven’t you ’eard? They say he’s made of shado’ and fia’.”

  “That don’t make no sense,” said the smaller one brazenly. “Which one is it, shadows or fire?”

  Zane grabbed the bank’s ledge and walked out before them. “Both.”

  The brutes froze, eyeing the dripping man before them as if they were dreaming.

  He felt his anger form, hardening him, forging him. His blood was a torrent of fire. He reached for his dagger behind his back and… He stiffened. It’s gone. It must have fallen out when he dove into the river. Both men saw that look in the flickering torchlight. They grinned and attacked at once.

  Vurpil, the smaller of the two, swiped with a spiked bludgeon, aiming at Zane’s head with a wild cry. Zane ducked beneath the man’s strike, rushing forward. Using his momentum and his funneled anger, he punched the smaller brute in the stomach. Hard. Vurpil doubled over as the air was knocked from his lungs and his cry was squelched. The man tried to rise, but Zane’s fists crashed into his hunched back, sending him to the ground. The other, bigger thug was charging with his sword upraised. Zane slipped the strike as it came down, narrowly missing his back, and then he kicked the bigger man in the chest with all his ferocity. The man flew through the air, splintering the nearby torches, and landing with a grunt. Zane approached. The big man moaned, rubbing his chest—likely several of his ribs were broken. He coughed, and sputtered, “Oi’ knew you were some kina’ blasted demon…”

  Zane bent and grabbed the torch from the ground as the man continued to groan and blather.

  “But Darkeye ain’t human either. Not even mortal.” He cackled and sputtered more blood. “You… Even you don’t stand a chance. Him an’ Salamander’ll wipe you and yer pathetic kin off the face of this damned earth…” Zane rose, approaching. The man’s eyes grew wide and wild. “DO YOU ’EAR ME?!”

  Zane didn’t break stride as he kicked the man in the face, knocking him out and moving on. He entered the camp and desolation hit him.

  Fires like before lit the cavern, but these were not cooking fires. Tents, bedrolls, and all else burned as far he could see. The dead littered the ground—both Darkeye’s men and Lost Ones. Mostly Lost Ones.

  He found himself moving, eyes filmed, as he took in corpses he had just seen living and breathing. Now they looked into another world. Zane had seen death, but this was different. He saw a little boy. His torch tumbled from his grip as he dropped to his knees.

  Rygar…

  The boy’s blond hair was tousled, his too-small clothes torn to tatters. In the boy’s crumpled fist something glinted. Gently unpeeling Rygar’s frozen fingers, Zane saw the fat silver coin he had given the boy. Nearby, he recognized another little body—Dasher. Fire and sickness boiled inside of Zane, and sadness threatened to overwhelm. He closed Rygar’s wide, lifeless eyes with one hand. With his other hand, he closed the boy’s fist around the coin. Whispering a prayer, he grabbed his torch and moved on. Smoke saturated the air, stinging his eyes and burning his nose. Beneath it all, he smelled the metallic stench of blood. He quickened his pace, making his way up the Healer’s Terrace where he found what he had been dreading… He shied his gaze, sucking in a thin breath. Slowly, he looked back, taking in the fallen man’s white robes with their dirty-brown hem.

  Father was dead.

  Zane opened his mouth to bellow his anger, but in the last moment swallowed it. Instead, he breathed a tumultuous breath, avoiding the vacant stare of the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. Arm trembling, he uttered another soft prayer and closed Father’s eyes. Quietly, Zane rose, moving
to the water. A mantle of fury, deeper than he’d ever known, came over him as he dropped the torch with a hiss and submerged himself in shadows. Breathing in the darkness, Zane turned, eyes latching onto a destination far beyond. He knew what he had to do, where he had to go—to a corner of Farbs where the deepest shadows and all dark news resided.

  He moved. Water still dripped from his clothes as he strode, feeling a strange power rumbling inside him. He moved up a smaller tunnel, having to crouch as he pushed forward. A part of his rage wanted, no demanded, that he take the main tunnels out. The path they expected of him. It beckoned him, begging him to lose himself, to kill without abandon. But his anger was his to control, and he would not let it consume him. He would not risk himself and die, only to let Hannah be lost to the hands of Darkeye and his men. He would see her to safety, no matter what, and vengeance would be served.

  But there was only one place to find his answers, only one place that would know how to storm The Lair of the Beast and live. It was still a fool’s task, but he would not fail.

  Maris’ Luck waited.

  Then Darkeye would meet his torrid wrath.

  A Bet of Blood

  GRAY SAT IN THE CORNER OF Maris’ Luck.

  Thoughts of the man returned like a dream.

  They were close, huddled over a flickering fire as the white storm assailed them.

  Kail was the cause of that storm. More than that, now he knew why Kail had sent the storm—to ward off Vera and protect them as they reached the Shining City. But that wasn’t known back then, and the memory consumed him once more.

  He watched Maris. The man sat quietly, and Gray took in his characteristic white hair spiked up like a flame, his timeless, moss green eyes and sharp features. Most intriguing to Gray, Maris had a perpetual quirk to his thin lips, as if always in on some dark joke that all the world was blind to knowing… Huddled against the cold, the Ronin cradled a steaming mug between his frayed, fingerless gloves and shivered. Even so, he found it odd that the man could be cold, could feel things like others. The stories had made it all a big, confusing pile of truth and fiction in his head. A Ronin. He was immortal, was he not? Maris caught him looking and, nervously, Gray turned. “You make a man unnerved with a look like that,” the Ronin murmured, his breath misting in the cold air.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like I’m not really alive. Like I’m something from the stories.”

  The words were too close to the truth. He searched for words but found none, and at last grew silent. Gray poured his gaze into his dark brew as he waited for the awkwardness to dissolve like thawing ice. It wasn’t that he didn’t have questions. If anything, he had too many, but where to begin? He wanted to ask if the man was immortal, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, so he asked his next burning curiosity. “The others,” he whispered, “do you miss them?” Maris had left the other Ronin to aid Gray in his path—a path where survival seemed less likely day-by-day, where there was little doubt that the Ronin were gone forever.

  But Maris’ answer cut beneath the wind. “I shall see them again… one day.”

  The way he said those words… So certain.

  The wind picked up, Kail’s litany, as if in answer, and Gray looked back into his dark brew.

  He returned to the moment.

  That time… so long ago. Gray felt like a different person from the confused, insecure boy, but how long had it really been? Months at most. Now here he sat in Maris’ Luck, an inn named after the legend. He felt an odd vacancy, missing the man, and yet…

  He found himself gazing at Darius, and was reminded of Maris’ smile. Yet where Maris’ smile held little warmth, as if hardened over the centuries like weathered stone, Darius’ held mirth. The Ronin of leaf’s words echoed in his head: “I shall see them again… one day.”

  Suddenly, Ayva spoke, drawing him back to the world and the dark inn.

  “I don’t like these looks,” she said as the men eyed her. “They are worse than the others.” She was at his side, again feigning drinking. Despite the fact that he sat between her and the rest of the packed inn, lecherous men still leered at her. He hated it, wanting to touch Morrowil, but he remembered Darius’ words back in the alley. A single flame could cause a fire… or something like that. Either way, better not to antagonize these men and cause more trouble. Besides, many of them looked like they could fight—again it was Kirin’s knowledge, but he agreed with it, eyeing their surly looks and dark blades. He wondered if he would even win that fight, especially with his power not working. That thought grated on him, but he tried not to think about it as his eyes surveyed their surroundings.

  Maris’ Luck was clearly a place where only the darkest thieves congregated, though there was a strange energy in the air. Much of the inn was cast in a fog of pipe-spoke. Beneath that, half-broken tables and chairs crowded the inn. Sordid men filled them, scratching their scruff, exchanging dark whispers. Collectively, it created a drone of noise.

  Gray watched as a short little server with a red apron wobbled up to a table, plunking down two dented cups of ale. The dwarfed man had avoided their table entirely. It wasn’t a good sign. There are no women here, he realized. Suddenly, Gray felt eyes on him, hot and burning. His neck tingled, and Kirin wanted to touch Morrowil. He looked around, searching for that specific gaze. A cloaked man sat at the black ash bar. Behind it was the innkeeper. He was a wiry old man with a face like a corpse and eyes that looked to have seen more death than a grave keeper. His hand scrubbed at the same dirty spot with an even dirtier rag. His other hand was missing—a smooth stump in its place. All the while the innkeeper watched them with a dark scowl. Was that the gaze he felt?

  At least Darius seemed to blend in. He’d pulled his collar high around his neck and wore a sour look. He didn’t seem to be faking it. Still, compared to the rest of the inn, he was a pup in a wolf’s den.

  Suddenly, there was a cry and a man crashed to the floor, shattering a chair.

  A dagger protruded from his back and dark red blood pooled.

  Gray froze in disbelief.

  “Is he…?” Ayva breathed.

  Darius ribbed him with an elbow and whispered hard. “Look away, both of you. Just act normal!”

  “Normal?” Gray retorted, anger rising. “Are you still drunk? A man was murdered before our eyes!”

  Darius let out an even breath. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but this was the plan, remember? Ezrah is waiting. If anyone knows how to enter the Citadel and get him back, we’ll find him in this foul pit.”

  “Then we do nothing?” Ayva questioned.

  “Not if you want to live,” Darius hissed in reply. “Do you think you can take all these men? If so, then I’m not the one who’s drunk. If we get into a fight, we won’t do Gray’s grandfather any good.”

  The other men were already settling back into their chairs, laughing and playing cards as if nothing had happened. The dead man just laid there, the puddle of blood growing.

  Ayva sank back into her chair. “It still doesn’t feel right.”

  “Then mind telling us your plan?” Gray said, trying to be calm.

  “It’s coming right now,” the rogue announced.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ayva asked.

  “You lot lost?” A rasping voice asked.

  Gray looked over his shoulder to see a man, smaller than he anticipated, but no less threatening. He was a hand or two shorter than himself and slender as a blade. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing lean, muscled arms covered with bright-white scars. He wore simple rags, aside from a fitted black vest with silver trim that Gray figured looked respectable at one time but now was fraying at the seams. Something he must have stolen, Gray assumed. On his vest’s upper right corner was a badge—a bloodshot eye on a field of black. At his hip dangled a dozen different shaped daggers—curved, straight, and jagged. The man’s face was lean, as if someone had boiled the fat from it for food, leaving only skin and bo
nes. His sunken jaw muscles worked as he chewed on a long wooden toothpick, and a single hollow eye gauged them like scraps of meat. The other was covered by a red eye patch.

  Darius took a long, leisurely sip of his ale. “Lost? Hardly. This is the best ale in town. How could we pass it up?”

  “You must be the clown,” the man snarled, one eye squinting. Darius tipped his head as if in thanks. “I’ve a jest for you then. What’re you gonna do when I take that pretty thing at your side and have some fun with her?”

  Three more men rose from a nearby table and joined the foul man’s side, looking ready to do the deed right there. Each wore a similar badge, if less ornate. “She is pretty, Adorry. Both my eyes aren’t as keen as your one, but you weren’t lying after all!” said a fat man rubbing his mouth with two fingers—the other three of his fingers were missing.

  “Lay off, Bones—she’s mine first,” said a smaller man, sidling forward.

  Gray felt his hackles rise. Ayva’s leg touched his. It was shaking. He grabbed her hand. Luckily, her face was smooth, almost indifferent—he didn’t know how she did that. Gray touched Morrowil, but it would be useless in this cramped space. He saw the scene unfold in his mind, imagined kicking the table onto the three men and cutting into the leader first… But what then? They would be swarmed like bits of food beneath a host of ants.

  Darius, however, ignored them all.

  Adorry raised his hand, stopping the smaller thief before he reached Ayva. “Speak,” he said, leaning forward. Darius said nothing. Adorry slammed his hands down on the table, spilling Ayva and Gray’s ales across the splintered wood. “I’m talking to you,” he hissed.