Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2)

by M. E. Vaughan

  “Rah, you’re a murderer, but then I’m a murderer and n’one’s huntin’ me…‘least not very well.” He gave a playful look over his shoulder and Rufus quickly assessed his situation. He was at a heavy disadvantage. The assassin’s shield was sound and protected him completely, whilst Rufus’s own was wavering and weak. Pain was robbing him of crucial concentration. What was more, his magic was limited by the proximity of the buildings around him and his own exhaustion. If the fight escalated, he risked drawing attention to himself and alerting the local authorities to his presence. The alchemists who hunted him were one thing, but Rufus had no desire to hurt the innocent town guards who would be obliged, by law, to arrest him on sight. The assassin, armed as he was and with no similar restraints, had the advantage.

  The Magi gritted his teeth. His only choice was to run. Half-naked, barefoot and exhausted, the odds against him in combat were too great. His odds of escaping, unfortunately, were no greater.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “You ask some real brainless questions.”

  “I try.”

  “Rah, but if you’ve quite finished dawdlin’ the point so your little younglin’ can fly, then perhaps we can cut to the business and I can get after him whilst you dry off in the Pit? Lest he loses himself in the wood and meets somethin’ worse than I.”

  All the hairs rose on Rufus’s body. He dropped his forced stance into a defensive. The assassin was after Joshua as well.

  “I won’t let you!” he snarled.

  “Eh?”

  “You won’t touch a hair on his head. I’ll kill you before you do!”

  “Woah—easy now, snake eyes! I’m not some pleasure-seeker scoutin’ the nursery—don’t be pointin’ your sharp at me.” The assassin, for the first time, seemed offended.

  “I’ll make you regret ever taking this contract, assassin!” Rufus’s anger drove his hopelessness away and his shield strengthened with his resolve. Orbs of flames appeared in both hands, burning brightly despite the rain.

  The assassin whistled between his teeth, eyeing the fire that licked harmlessly over Rufus’s skin. He raised his hands, as if to negotiate.

  “I really don’t think you’re seein' the order of things here. You’re not supposed to sun-kiss me. Seems like you’re hoppin’ a little too far along the steppin’ stones. Take a minute now, breathe and consider your cards—I’m the least of your troubles.”

  “At this time, you hold prime position.” The flames around Rufus’s hands grew white hot, the rain around him dissolving into steam. Their positions were shifting, Rufus into an offensive and the assassin into a wary defensive.

  “You’re makin’ this difficult for me,” the assassin said, his tone dropping. Rufus didn’t reply, the fire extending up his wrists to his elbows. The Lemra’n sighed. “What’s a man to do? Everyone’s a-gone a hibernatin’ and left me with a quarter-wit. I’ll have some words to pick and chew when this is done, mark me. Put those suns down, Merle, and clear your trap of smoke. Look at me. Now look around you. You’ve nowhere to run, so stop bein’ a muscle about it. Stubborn’s good and an’ all, but you’ve got no rock to cling to.”

  When Rufus gave no obvious sign of surrender, the assassin threw his hands irritably into the air.

  “Just give in, you high-mined tommy boy. Don’t make me cut you.”

  “Come at me, if you dare,” Rufus snarled.

  The assassin’s face twisted into an impatient scowl, as he slowly began to circle around looking for an opening.

  “You’re startin’ to try me.”

  “And you’re starting to speak coherently.”

  “You know what, I said I savvy’d you—I take it back.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Rufus replied, his shield growing as his mind focused. The assassin gave a defeated shrug and from his back retrieved a short bow, which he began to string.

  “Right, that’s it—you’re losin’ a leg,” he declared, as if it were a reasonable exchange. Rufus confidence withered a little. He wasn’t certain of the speed of his reflexes. It was possible he could burn the arrow before it hit him, but that might not stop the arrow head itself from reaching him. If he were in the woods, he might have been able to make the earth rise around him in a protective wall but the cobbles below him were more difficult. He’d never been an expert on the manipulation of pure stone.

  His only chance was to knock the projectile off course by using a burst of air. But the assassin had been clever with his timing. It was nearing the eleventh hour and Etheus’s power was waning as the Air God’s star set. Rufus might be able to divert the first arrow, but the one that followed would be up to chance. He set his teeth hard into his lip, worry weakening his shield again.

  An arrow shot over his shoulder, clattering between the cobbles at the assassin’s feet. The assassin grunted and stepped back, startled. Rufus looked around, his heart in his mouth. For a terrible moment, he thought his brother had returned to save him. Instead he found the whore from that afternoon. She stood on a balcony above them, reloading a crossbow, which she trained on the assassin again, her eyes ablaze as she shook out her mane of dark hair.

  “You stay where you are,” she said, and Rufus sagged with relief. The assassin cocked his head and slowly put his hands in the air.

  “Piss-pox and plagues, is this a joke?” the assassin laughed in disbelief. The whore smiled, her crossbow never leaving its mark.

  “’fraid not, slit-throat. Lay your bow or I’ll pin you good.”

  “Put it down, woman,” the assassin said darkly. “This has nothin’ to do with you—go back to your mirror!”

  “Nothin’ personal, lover, just been paid to see him through.” She glanced to Rufus. “Go—your son can’t have gotten far. I’ll hold him off.”

  “Thank you,” Rufus said.

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go, pretty one,” she tittered, her eyes trained back on her target. “Was looking forward to spendin’ more time with you. Never mind. If you’re ever in need of some company, my name is Emerald Colombe. I’ll come, if you call—for the right coin, of course.”

  “Thank you, Emerald.” Rufus bowed his head, then with a quick look back at the assassin, Rufus seized his boots and dove after his brother into the night.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, ever do that again, Rufus!”

  Joshua was bowed over the saddle, his entire body raking with sobs. Rufus reached for him, but Joshua turned sharply away, face hidden in the crook of his elbow. From beneath his arm, Rufus could see the Prince’s mouth twisting, his arm jerking in time with the deep, uprooting sobs.

  Tying the horse to a branch, Rufus dragged Joshua down from the saddle and held him fiercely, pressing his face into Joshua’s wet hair. The pair shivered violently.

  “I’m sorry,” Rufus croaked. “But this is the way it’s always been. I face the enemy, and you hide.”

  “No, it’s not the same!” Joshua cried. “You don’t face them—you don’t fight them! We’ve always run from them!”

  Rufus flinched, but it was true. It was one thing to overpower men in the spur of the moment, as he dodged between the trees and ambushed them, but Rufus was no warrior. He’d only ever faced one person in open combat and Arlen Zachary hadn’t really been trying to kill him, of that Rufus was sure.

  “It’s different now.” Joshua was furious amidst his fear. “The Kathraks wanted to capture you before, now they’re trying to kill you! I can break you out of a cell, but I can’t bring you back from the dead! You should’ve let me help! I could’ve helped!”

  “I’m sorry, I wanted to protect you. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “You can’t promise that,” Joshua hiccupped, his voice strained and high.

  Rufus’s resolve sank and he fought back his own sobs at his brother’s misery.

  “You’re right—I can’t,” he admitted. “I won’t even promise to try…” his voice lilted up and broke off.

  “Don’t leave me b
ehind!” Joshua wailed. “Don’t die and leave me alone!”

  “You wouldn’t be alone, Joshua. There are people who care for you, people who would—”

  “No!” Joshua pulled violently away and his voice pierced Rufus to the core, eyes burning blue and glowing with magic. “You’re the only thing I have! Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, Papa. Please don’t leave me. Please…” His voice broke off as Rufus pulled him urgently back in, heart thundering.

  “I won’t,” he said. “I promise, I promise I won’t leave you. I won’t. Never. Please don’t cry. I’ll never leave you. As long as you need me. Please don’t cry Joshua. Please,” he sobbed, collapsing to his knees in the mud. “We’ll find a safe place…”

  Joshua nodded jerkily and reluctantly released Rufus, allowing him to stand. Rufus went to their saddle bags and pulled on a long tunic and his cloak, the fabric sticking to his wet skin. Dressed, he helped Joshua back onto the horse and, climbing up after him, he untied the reins and pushed it on into a trot. They needed to find shelter and, when they did, Rufus would build the biggest fire he could.

  As the night fell into its full glory, Harmatia settled into sleep. The castle lay still as its occupants floated through the privacy of their dreams. But for some, who’d been trained to keep vigil over the night, the habit wasn’t so easily shaken.

  Having removed himself from his perch, Zachary descended into the castle and went to the chapel. It was an ornate, round room with ten alcoves carved into the stone and a painted, domed roof. Each alcove housed an altar, each with a statue of one of the ten True Gods: Malak, Etheus, Prospan, Haylix, Penthar, Hexias, Septus, Octania, Athea and Notameer. Directly opposite the door, and against the far wall, was a large statue of Aramathea, the mother of the True Gods, depicted as she often was, with a blindfold, pearly tears seeping out from underneath. She held a sword up in one hand, and in the other, a baby.

  The walls were decorated exquisitely with the depictions and silent stories of the gods. Above Penthar’s altar, a great battle was being fought between the Warrior God with his six swords, and the Wild Hunt—the Fomorii forces of darkness. In contrast above Haylix, the goddess of children and youth, there was a depiction of a young woman, lounging in a field of white flowers, weaving them into a garland.

  Athea and Notameer, stood either side of Aramathea, were decorated with contrary but echoing images. Above each, a shapeless, human figure stood emblazoned with light. For Athea, it was a sunset, casting a fiery red hue around the silhouette, whilst for Notameer it was a sunrise, bright and golden. It was a depiction of the Children of Aramathea: those born at precisely six o’clock at night, or six o’clock in the morning.

  It was said that the Children of Aramathea were the living vessels of the gods themselves, walking the earthly plain. Those born at sunset were Athea reincarnated—passionate, emotional, with fire raging in their blood. Whilst those born at sunrise were Notameer—just, thoughtful and patiently calculating.

  Zachary had known one of each. It was strange to think that his bookish brother Rufus, so fond of knowledge and so pacifistic, had been the vessel of Athea all along, whilst Belphegore, leader of the Magi, warrior and founder of the Night Patrol, was the incarnation of Notameer. It spoke in abundance on the complexity of the gods, so easily misunderstood by the humans who tried to interpret them simply.

  But Zachary hadn’t come to the chapel to think about that. Instead he sat before the more modest statue of Septus, the God of Healing. Zachary knew that his master had been down before him, because a customary red candle had been lit on Septus’s altar. Red candles were to commemorate the dead.

  It hadn’t been long now since Morgo Edwin, previous leader of the healing sect, had passed away. In his careful attendance to others, he’d contracted a dreadful illness of his own. His final hours were a confusion of fever and pain, where he gabbled and talked in incessant panic. The sickness itself, which had come on suddenly, hadn’t spread to any of the other Magi. Zachary had heard whispers of poison, though the physicians who’d attended Edwin—his own apprentices—had denied anything of the sort.

  Zachary and Belphegore were with Edwin in his final moments. Edwin had been the greatest and truest friend to Belphegore, whilst to Zachary he’d been an uncle and protector throughout his youth. His loss weighed heavily on the pair of them. Zachary could only imagine what it had been like for his master to outlive a friend he’d served so diligently with for decades. It would be akin to Zachary losing Marcel—a thought which he couldn’t abide.

  “Edwin,” Zachary huffed softly. He sometimes liked to come and speak with the man, though he held no true belief that his former guardian could hear him. “Harmatia still misses you, old friend. I wouldn’t mind your council. To be frank, I don’t like or trust your apprentices.” He snorted to himself. “Yes, yes, I know—I am being stubborn. Alas, men are not so easily trusted these days.”

  He studied the red candle intently, willing it to give him some sort of reply. Unbidden, Edwin’s final minutes came back to Zachary. They’d not been happy ones, and though great cares had been seen to diminish Edwin’s suffering, no one had been able to quail his confused panic.

  “It was wrong. We should have never done it. It was wrong,” Edwin had gabbled and Belphegore had cast everyone else from the room, lest they hear this confession.

  “Belphegore, my ambition clouded me. It’s all clouded. And now I will be punished. The gods will punish me.”

  They’d tried to assure him, to put him at ease—a man such as Edwin, who’d dedicated so much of himself to the care of others could never be condemned to anything but the highest paradise. And yet, none of their words had brought him peace, only more agitation. He’d gripped at them desperately.

  “We should have never brought him back. That thing—it’s not human! It’s not our King. We should have let him lie. My friend, I was so obsessed with my need to revive the lost, I negated the consequences…and now I will suffer for it. As we all will suffer. My friends, heed me! There is darkness. There is madness in his eye. He will raise us to the ground—his only commitment is to the dead now. We should not have brought him back. We should never have brought him back!”

  Zachary dispelled the uneasy memory with a sharp shake of his head and clenched his hands tightly together. He almost wanted to shush the silent room, as if Edwin’s dying words might still betray him.

  A sound from the corridor alerted Zachary to someone’s approach. He rose to his feet and silent as a ghost, darted between the pillars, hiding from view. As he shrouded himself in the darkness, Zachary wondered why this had been his first instinct. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong…

  Spying back into the chapel, Zachary relaxed as Emeric appeared in the doorway, peering into the dark room curiously. Zachary almost stepped out to greet him but was immediately overcome with by a desperate childishness that rooted him to the spot. He watched Emeric come into the room, looking suspiciously around.

  Emeric—ever superstitious, Zachary thought to himself, as Emeric eyed the caskets of ashes lining the walls above them. In Kathra, it was considered bad luck to keep the remains of the dead on the same level as the living, as these were the tethers of spirits. Best to bury them or scatter the ashes, else phantoms may be attracted back.

  Emeric sniffed dismissively and turned to leave.

  Zachary grinned and whispered after him. “Emeric.”

  In the domed room the sound circled eerily, becoming a loose line of syllables. Emeric froze, his shoulders set. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Zachary let silence settle uneasily over the room. Emeric breathed out slowly and gave his eyes a cursory rub, shaking his head with a soft mutter.

  Zachary allowed a pause, and then recommenced his spooky chatter. “Emeric. Em-er-ic.”

  Emeric’s entire body grew rigid as he spun around, trying to find the source of the sound. The reverberation made it difficult to pin, and Emeric twisted, his hands slowly raised in defence. See
ing his chance, Zachary quietly removed his shoe and, taking careful aim, threw it at him. It struck Emeric in the base of the spine.

  “Etheus blind me!” Emeric cried, scrabbling back against the wall and Zachary exploded with laughter.

  Emeric recovered from the shock and pushed himself straight with a growl as Zachary emerged from his hiding place.

  “Your face!” Zachary chortled.

  “That wasn’t funny,” Emeric said, massaging his chest.

  “You thought I was a ghost.”

  “I should have known,” Emeric replied sharply and Zachary cackled, dropping back onto a bench. There were tears in his eyes. “This is what I get for worrying about you.”

  “Sorry.” Zachary wasn’t in the least. Emeric scowled and came to join him at the bench, kicking over his shoe. Zachary put it back on.

  “Where have you been all night?” Emeric asked, with an accusatory air.

  “Oh, here and there. I went home a while.”

  “No you didn’t. Marcel and I crossed paths with your housekeeper—she was asking after you. Seemed to think you might be ‘up to mischief’, as she put it.”

  “A totally groundless assumption,” Zachary sniffed. “How did you find me then?”

  “We chanced upon Lord Odin,” Emeric said. “You know, I don’t think that man sleeps at all—he was in the middle of work. He said he’d seen you and suggested you’d either be here, or in the library swapping the scrolls around again.”

  Zachary sniggered to himself. “Oh, he knows me so well.”

  “It’s late, Zachary.”

  “It is, yet here you are.”

  Emeric gave a wry smile, shaking his head. “Old habits,” he admitted. “I can’t seem to sleep any more until dawn. It might, however,” he continued, surly, “also have to do with the fact that at three o’clock, instead of being in bed, Marcel and I are out looking for you.” Emeric turned to the altar of Septus. “Were you here for Lord Edwin?”

  “None of your business,” Zachary growled, his good humour draining away. He didn’t like to talk about Edwin—it left a bitter taste in his mouth.