House of Blades

by Wight, Will

  He tried to dodge those, ashamed for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint. He had been proud of his abilities; if anything, he should brag about them to anyone who would listen. But he didn’t feel like it. Maybe once he rescued Leah and the other captives from Malachi’s grasp, then he would show his pride. Until then, he was almost afraid that he would look like a pretender, a child dressing up as a warrior of legend.

  Still, the other villagers would not be put off by half-truths and misleading answers. Even if none of them had directly seen him draw on his Territory, they had already seen too much.

  At last, when he could take Chaim and Nurita’s incessant questions no longer, he told them. “I’m a Traveler now,” he said. They looked at him warily, but didn’t gasp in horror or gape in wonder as he had half-expected. They seemed almost...doubtful.

  “What do you mean by that?” Chaim asked, as though testing Simon’s words, trying to find something hidden.

  “You don’t have to compete with Alin, just because—” Nurita began, but she was cut off by the tip of Azura pointing at her throat. Simon stood the better part of ten feet away, holding the blade steady in his steel-infused right hand. With his left, he rolled up his right sleeve, exposing the shadowy chain marks that crawled steadily up his arm.

  A few people did gasp then, at the enormous sword, at Simon’s apparent strength, or at the fact that Simon had called the sword out of midair.

  “You led the ones who attacked the Damascans,” Chaim said. He sounded almost in awe.

  “I didn’t lead anybody,” Simon replied. “It was just me.”

  Most of the bodies around the camp hadn’t been removed or buried yet, simply piled where they were least inconvenient. Chaim looked from one stack of Damascan bodies to another, and he appeared to be doing sums in his head.

  Nurita’s eyes narrowed, and she spoke sharply. “Are you like Alin, boy?” She didn’t sound impressed, but then again, he couldn’t imagine anything grand enough to bend her self-importance.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I think Alin was born to it. I had to learn.”

  “In six weeks?”

  “It’s been a long six weeks.”

  Chaim’s face had frozen into a kind of snarl, and when he spoke he sounded rabid. “Then that Damascan family. You have them. In your Territory.”

  Wary of a trap, Simon nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  Smacking his hand into his fist, Chaim laughed. It went along with the new, cruel cast to his face. “Good. Then we have them trapped. They can’t escape us now.”

  “That family is under my protection,” Simon said. “No one’s doing anything to them.”

  He knew before the words left his mouth that he should never have said it like he did. Simon had never prided himself on skill with words; he tended to think of the right thing to say only minutes or hours after the fact. This would do nothing but provoke the other villagers. Indeed, angry oaths and mutters rippled through the crowd. Chaim looked both shocked and disgusted.

  Simon levered Azura down, driving her point-first into the ground. At an angle, like Kai had always done, because he couldn’t reach high enough to drive it straight down. He hoped this would demonstrate that he was trying to talk, not fight, though it had the side benefit of reminding his fellow villagers that he was in possession of superhuman strength and a seven-foot unbreakable blade. If they brought it to a physical confrontation, there was only one way it could end.

  Chaim, apparently, wasn’t overly worried about his own safety. He stepped forward and grabbed the front of Simon’s shirt in both his fists.

  “You have no idea what they did to us,” Chaim growled. His voice was pitched so that everyone could hear, though Simon suspected that had more to do with the man’s temper than with any desire to perform for a crowd. “Do you know how many we buried when they first caught us? Do you? Do you know how long they’ve had us, what they made us eat, what they made us do?” Chaim shook him, hard. “Watch them kill your daughter, son of Kalman, and tell me how much protection they deserve.”

  Simon had intended to let Chaim vent his bile, but that was enough of that. Not only was the conversation headed nowhere productive, Chaim’s shaking was piling on top of stress and injury, making Simon feel like he was about to pass out again. If the man didn’t stop, Simon might well puke on his shoes.

  Gently, Simon pulled the older man’s hands away. Chaim weighed twice again what Simon did, but Simon’s only concern was that he not grip too hard and crush the man’s wrists.

  “I saw Orlina die,” Simon said. He kept his voice even, but made sure everyone could hear him. “It was right before the same Traveler killed my mother.”

  Dead silence. No one dared to say anything, because many of them had been in the same cave. They had seen what happened.

  “This family didn’t do it,” Simon continued. “No one here did. I killed the soldiers who captured you.” He regretted that, but he couldn’t let them see it. “Some of them ran off, I guess, but we’ll never catch them. And you’re angry, I know that; I am too. But we don’t need to get revenge—revenge doesn’t help anybody. We need to get our people back.”

  A few people nodded. Nurita even muttered something approving.

  Chaim visibly gathered himself, scraped tears from his cheeks, and nodded. He didn’t apologize, nor did he even admit that the Agnos family might not be the correct target for his anger, but he did refocus. “That’s what we were doing when these Damascan dogs found us. We’re headed for Bel Calem.”

  “What do you expect to do?” Simon asked.

  “We won’t know until we get there. Whatever we can. Die trying, if we have to.”

  Simon thought about what to say for a long moment. “Myria can’t afford to lose you,” he said at last. “There aren’t enough of us left as it is.”

  Chaim leaned forward, his hard face intense. “There are ten men and women from our village in Bel Calem as we speak, waiting on His Majesty Zakareth. We can’t afford to lose them either.”

  “All the more reason that I should leave now,” Simon responded. He was losing his edge, getting nervous, debating with Chaim. It wasn’t long since he had obeyed Chaim as he would have an uncle. Chaim had the advantage of age and experience; what gave Simon the right to argue? Especially out here in front of everybody. And Simon was still so tired.

  “By yourself?” Nurita demanded, stepping forward. She even put her hands on her hips, for that added bit of motherly authority.

  I don’t need your help. I’ll be better off on my own, Simon thought. He tried to say so, but his earlier confidence was evaporating quickly. What he said instead was, “I just thought it would be better that way.”

  Chaim shook his head. “No, boy. We’ll follow your lead, but we won’t be left behind.”

  Simon considered just running off—no one would be able to catch him—but the adults seemed to take his agreement as a matter of course. Before he could say anything else, all the villagers were working like ants to shove crates, bags, and boxes into the wagons, clearing away bodies and stripping bloody corpses of armor and weapons.

  Nurita, in her shrill voice, herded and bullied everyone into moving. Not that they needed much encouragement. Their captivity had made everyone eager to get away, it seemed, at least a little farther from where they could be found. The villagers stuck to the wagons as if they contained food, gold, and salvation all at once, and they tossed packages into the back with almost religious fervor.

  He could still get away, leave them behind. But what if there were more soldiers in the area? What if the ones who had fled came back, in the night? He had to escort them, at least, past the forest and a little closer to Bel Calem. After that he could leave them. Or could he? He would have abandoned them in Damascan lands, after all, where every hand might turn against them. Just a little farther, then.

  Simon’s fists clenched, and he wasn’t sure why he felt trapped.

 
; Minutes later, when the oxen were hitched and Nurita called for everyone to fall in by the wagons, Simon followed.

  ***

  “Sunset tomorrow?” Alin said. He raked fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself, trying to see the whole picture. “Then we must act now. If we Travel through Naraka, surely we can make it.”

  Miram shook her head sadly. “Forgive me, Eliadel. The Grandmasters have forbidden it.”

  Ezera, one of the Avernus Travelers that Alin had met once or twice, swept a feathered hat off his head and dipped into a perfect bow. “Do not fear. The Overlord has received our requests for parley, and our informants indicate that he may be willing to spare the remaining sacrifices from your village.”

  Alin was unable to keep the anger from his voice. “There have been seven sacrifices so far. Today makes eight. What are the odds that none of them have been people I knew?”

  “We’ve tried,” Miram said, “I assure you that we have, but we haven’t been able to confirm the identity of the seven sacrifices so far. Even if they were from Myria, there’s nothing more we can do for them.”

  “Malachi is caring for at least one of the Myrian captives at his own personal expense,” Ezera responded, “and we should take that as a very good sign.”

  The Avernus Traveler sounded like he found the whole situation amusing, but that was no surprise. From what little Alin knew about the man, Ezera would sound that way five feet from his own noose.

  “If I am to oppose Zakareth, then let me oppose him while there is still time,” Alin responded. “At least me alone; there is no need to risk the rest of you.”

  Miram and Ezera exchanged a glance. “You are the last we should risk,” Miram said finally. “It is hard to say, but even if Overlord Malachi were to sacrifice all the captives from your village, it would be better than losing you.”

  “The people love you,” Ezera picked up. The two of them sounded almost rehearsed. “You are a symbol of our inevitable triumph and Zakareth’s unavoidable defeat.”

  The light of Elysia called to him, just out of sight, warm at the back of his mind. They wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to force his way through; Ezera rarely saw combat, and Miram would hold herself back to avoid injuring her Rising Sun. He could do it.

  But then what? They had done nothing but treat him kindly, and he would repay them by attacking them. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t get to Bel Calem in time without the aid of another Traveler; Elysia was not the best Territory for Traveling long distances.

  He almost managed to persuade himself that he had no choice. His reasons were good, his excuses solid. Even Leah wouldn’t blame him.

  But the Grandmasters were always telling him what a hero he was going to be. Well, so be it. If they wanted him to be a hero, they would have to live with him acting heroic.

  Alin sighed as though beaten and put on his most tragic face. “Just promise me,” he said heavily, “that you will do everything you can to persuade Overlord Malachi. We don’t have much time left.”

  Ezera relaxed visibly, but Miram looked sad. “Everything we can, Eliadel. And I am sorry.” She squeezed his arm gently; her grip was rough and callused.

  Alin nodded, blinking rapidly, and looked away. He had never been the most convincing liar, but he would have to pull it off today. He sank into one of the richly stuffed chairs scattered around his room and stared out the window, hopefully signaling to his guests that he wished to be left alone.

  They got the message almost immediately; he heard them bow and murmur their respects before escorting themselves out.

  As soon as the doors closed, Alin jumped up and reached out to the blazing star in his mind.

  Golden light gathered in the air, swirled, formed into the misty outline of a distant shining city. Alin stayed focused, drawing in that distant light and pouring it into the doorway. It took less time and concentration than it had when he first began, back when he could barely open a Gate in an empty room with half an hour, but he still chafed at the delay. Someone could wander in at any second, asking after Eliadel’s needs. He wanted to be long gone before that started.

  At last he felt a warm summer-scented breeze blowing from the open Gate. Elysia’s gleaming rooftops and soaring towers loomed in the distance as he stepped through.

  His rooms were in the Grandmasters’ palace, at the exact center of Enosh. So how far did he need to Travel to find someone who would listen?

  ***

  Alin found Gilad exactly where he had expected: sitting on the flat roof of the Naraka Quarters, alone, hunched over a book. Alin felt a small spark of satisfaction; he had nailed his destination in one shot. If only Leah could see him now.

  Gilad stumbled to his feet as soon as Alin stepped out of his golden Gate, his book clattering to the ground.

  “Alin, uh, sir. How can I be of service?”

  “I need to Travel, Gilad,” Alin said, mustering up every crumb of authority he could. “Can you have me in Bel Calem tonight?”

  Gilad’s eyes darted from side to side as if looking for somewhere to hide. He paled. “Eliadel, sir, I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.”

  “So you can, then?”

  “Well, I can. But they said they didn’t want you leaving the city.” Gilad shuffled a little in place, not meeting Alin’s eyes. “If you want to leave, um, I think I’ll have to stop you.”

  Alin briefly pictured himself being hauled back to his room by a blushing, stammering Gilad. He didn’t think he could stand the shame. Gilad was one of the few Travelers in existence with bonds to two different Territories, and everyone treated him with the respect he deserved as a powerful Traveler. Even so, to be beaten and dragged off by someone too scared to look you in the eye...

  Leaning down, Alin looked straight at Gilad, like a big brother confronting a younger. Never mind that Gilad was probably three years the elder, and had been learning to Travel since he could walk.

  “Gilad,” Alin said, “what does this prophecy say that Eliadel will do?”

  “Confront the Evening Star, and stem the tide of blood so the Gate of the Heavens may open once again,” Gilad responded. He didn’t hesitate, and he sounded as if he were quoting.

  “Exactly.” Alin had very little idea of what the prophecy actually said, but Gilad sounded sure. “Now, how am I going to do all that if the Grandmasters keep me here?” Gilad’s eyes darted away again, and Alin pressed his advantage.

  “Listen to me, Gilad. Some people I care about are going to die. They may already be dead. But if they’re not, I owe it to them to do everything I can to save them. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Gilad nodded.

  “Now, I can’t do this alone. I need someone by my side. Someone who will stand with me against Damasca, even when no one else does. Can you do that for me, Gilad?”

  Gilad’s back straightened, and he nodded again, more firmly. He even glanced up at Alin’s face, once. Briefly.

  Alin didn’t let his surge of elation show. He just nodded back, as though he had never expected any other response.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Alin said. “Now, we need to leave as soon as possible.”

  “Grandmaster Naraka has sentries posted on the other side,” Gilad replied. “They’ll let her know if anybody tries to sneak past.”

  “Can you get past them anyway?”

  Gilad issued a weak smile. “They don’t call me a genius for nothing, I guess.”

  Alin grinned back.

  “Then let’s go.”

  ***

  Alin tried to keep the sleeve of his rich blue jacket away from the walls of the cavern, but it was an almost impossible task. The red stone of Naraka had a gritty, sandy outer coating, like a layer of fine ash—come to think of it, that was probably what it was. Regardless, as he followed Gilad through a twisting oven-hot tunnel of stone and ash, Alin found himself trying to keep his clothes away from the walls. The shirt
alone was worth more than anything he had ever owned, and he didn’t want it stained. Though he feared he was far too late for that.

  A rattling screech, like the cry of an angry hawk, echoed painfully through the tunnel. Gilad twisted around to look, though he knew he couldn’t see anything around the bend.

  “Guardians from Bel Calem,” Gilad whispered. “They’ve caught our scent.”

  Almost instinctively Alin breathed deeply through his nose, but all he smelled was singed meat and rotten eggs.

  “On the bright side,” Alin said, “that means we’re getting close.”

  “Hurry,” Gilad responded. “We have to hurry.” He took off running down the tight corridor.

  Alin ran after him, trying not to think about what a new set of clothes like these would cost. In a matter of seconds the tunnel opened up onto one of the huge caverns that seemed to make up most of Naraka. The heat, even compared to the stifling sauna of the tunnel, felt like a slap in the face.

  The stalactites, hanging from the ceiling far overhead, glowed apple-red against the surrounding shadows, giving an eerie impression of bloody stars in a black sky. Wide streams of molten rock—Gilad had called it “lava”—poured in endless rivers from rents in the walls. A lake of lava below rippled and roiled as things stirred underneath the surface. Alin caught a glimpse of black scales and one gleaming ruby eye before he shuddered and looked away.

  Their tunnel led onto a bridge of stone, wide enough for two to walk side-by-side. Technically. Alin was sure that he’d rather try it single-file. At the far end of the bridge, an obsidian pillar stood sentry at the center of its own circular island of stone.

  The pillar, a jagged spike of gleaming black, stabbed towards the ceiling, fiery golden symbols gleaming on one side.

  Gilad pointed straight at the obsidian pillar. “That’s the way out, but it should be...”

  Two brawny men walked out from behind the pillar, readying black wooden shields and long black spears. They were accompanied by a pair of ember-colored insects the size of wolves. They looked like huge ants painted in colors of flame.