by Jon Sprunk
He caught them by surprise, but for every warrior he took out of the fight, two more jumped in from the back. The shadows jabbered at him from the edges of the alleyway, but he couldn’t risk loosing them with Keegan and Liana so near. A spear jabbed out of the second rank. Caim threw himself sideways, but the point cut through his jerkin and drew a line of fire across his ribs. Backing away, Caim pressed his elbow against his side. He didn’t want to give in, but his choices were simple: deny the urge and die, or let loose the blade and maybe have a chance.
It wasn’t a choice at all.
He flung his right-hand suete in the face of the nearest soldier and reached up. The sword flew from its scabbard. When his palm made contact with the smooth hilt, the alley blossomed to life as if it were bathed in a cascade of moonlight. Every crack in the ground was magnified, every surface gleamed with silvery light. The walls around him seemed higher and straighter. Even the bricks under his feet changed, becoming broad and smooth like sheets of polished obsidian. The sword pulsed in his hand like a living thing, pulling at him. His injuries and aches forgotten, he didn’t hold back.
A sellsword-an officer by the yellow slashes emblazoned on his breast-fell back over his own heels as the black sword knocked off his helmet. A tremor ran up the blade into Caim’s hand, and he knew, without fully realizing how, that the sword had pierced the steel-and-leather cap to taste blood.
Two mercs jostled forward to cover their leader’s retreat. Caim didn’t give them a chance to get set. He pressed hard with sword and knife, slashing at any target within his reach. He sliced open a man’s wrist, deflected a sword thrust, and the merc fell against the alley wall clutching his neck.
Everywhere the black sword cut, it left a trail of black-edged wounds. He tried using it mainly for defense, but the ebon blade wouldn’t let him rest. It dragged him forward in one brutal attack after another, hardly ever deigning to parry an incoming blow, so that Caim was forced to use his left-hand suete as a main-gauche. And then he stopped even that, preferring to use the knife to slit open bellies and cut up bearded faces. Blood spilled over him, ran down his arms, and spattered his face. He forgot about Keegan and Liana, forgot about his injuries. All that mattered was the next kill. When the mercenaries fell back, Caim didn’t need the sword to compel him to press his advantage before it dried up. He dipped under a wild slash, lunged, and bulled through their front line. His feet moved of their own volition, taking him back and forth and side to side in a lethal dance where one misstep would be his last. The grind of steel and flesh, bone and blood, shrieked in his ears like church bells. The stones became slick beneath his feet as he rode the cyclone of destruction that was his calling.
The officer stepped up to him holding a hand-and-a-half sword. Caim grinned and lashed out at the warriors on either side, and then launched himself straight ahead. Their swords collided in a sharp clang. Caim beat aside the high chop and almost stepped into a clever stop-thrust to the knee that would have ended the fight right then and there. He leapt back in time to save his leg, but ran into someone behind him. Keegan! The youth was panting as he beat at the weapons of the mercs on Caim’s flank. Caim wanted to thank him, but a warhammer swung at his head. He spun away, into the path of a downward-sweeping sword. He deflected the blow off the edge of his suete, but the black sword jumped forward despite the precariousness of his position. The officer stood firm. Caim gritted his teeth as the point of the bastard sword sliced through his leather jerkin. He threw himself back before he was skewered.
A warrior fell on Caim’s left, and he circled in that direction. Only three mercs remained on their feet. Keegan was doing his best to hold off the others, but he was hard-pressed. The black sword quivered in Caim’s hand like a hound on a leash. Shadows crowded the alley’s dark places. At the merest thought, they would blanket the alley. And there was something else, an insistent presence on the fringe of his awareness. The shadow beast? He wasn’t sure, but he had enough problems on his plate. The first was to end this battle before reinforcements showed up.
Caim feinted and took a merc spearman through the throat with a long lunge. So much for sparing him. Before the others could react, Caim launched himself at the officer. His weapons became blurs of black and silver. The officer gave way as his guard began to falter. With a spurt of anticipation, Caim broke through. Blood jetted across his jacket as the tip of the black sword caught his foe below the navel, punching through the scales of his armor and the leather backing underneath. Caim didn’t stop until the blade was sheathed to the cross-guard in the man’s body. The officer’s eyes bulged as they stood, only inches apart. Before he could make a sound, Caim slashed across his neck with the knife.
Caim’s whole body trembled as he stood over the dead men. Keegan leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard and studying Caim. His short sword was bent midway down the blade. Liana knelt beside her uncle, but Corgan was dead. Watching these people, Caim knew he should have felt something, but a terrible anger boiled inside him, blighting out every other emotion. His hands tightened around the hilts of his weapons. He wanted more blood; the lust grew into a pain in his chest. Shadows gathered in the eaves of doorways and window bays.
“What did you do?” Keegan dropped his useless sword. His face had become darker and grimmer, the face of a stranger. “He’s dead! Because of you!”
“Shut up!” Caim hissed. “Do you want to bring more of them down on our heads? Pick up your weapon and see to your sister.”
Keegan knelt and put his arm around Liana. While they embraced over the body of their uncle, Caim chewed on his tongue. The black sword quivered in his hand as tiny voices whispered in his head.
Blood! Blood! Take them now!
Caim drew a ragged breath. A drop of blood fell from the tip of his suete knife. He watched it fall. When it hit the ground, he knew he would strike. His muscles tightened, anticipating the sudden explosion of activity. Heat suffused his groin.
The droplet gathered speed. It would make a glorious splash on the grimy stones. The sword thrummed in his hand. He lifted its blade.
Stop! I’m not going to -
A blinding burst of light flared in the alley. Caim staggered back against the assault to his vision. Someone gasped-he thought it might be Liana. A violent sound wrenched at his skull, iron hammers beating on brass kettles. The lights dimmed to the intensity of three small suns, and then the three coalesced into a single star held up by a meaty hand.
Hagan held a lantern over his head. “Keegan, get up.”
Liana threw herself into the old man’s arms. “Papa! Uncle Corgan
…”
Caim leaned against a brick wall. It was hard to breathe. He blinked against the harsh light. Blood throbbed in his temple. A shudder ran through him as he realized what had almost happened, what he’d almost done. What was happening to him? Caim stood up straight. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he felt like himself again. He turned to face them.
“Stay where you are,” Hagan said.
Caim noticed the seax in the old man’s other hand, and suddenly the situation felt a good deal less hospitable. He found his other knife and put his weapons away without bothering to clean them.
“He saved us,” Liana said, still clinging to her father. “Keegan and I would have died if not for him.”
Hagan looked to Keegan, who nodded wearily. “All right. Keegan, you go first. I expect your friends have set up a meeting spot?”
With a quick glance at Caim, Keegan headed down the alley. Liana looked like she wanted to stay, but Hagan shooed her on ahead. As he stood there, Caim felt the power of the weapon strapped to his back. He was beyond exhausted, like the life had been drained from him. His forearm ached worse than before.
Hagan held up his lantern as he turned to leave. “Come on, son. Before my children walk into another muddle.”
Caim gazed down at the slaughter he had wrought. With the shadows gone, he breathed easier. The bodies could have been a ju
mble of blood-splattered dolls. But they weren’t.
He picked up a spare sword from one of the corpses and trotted after the others, following the pale lining of Liana’s cloak through the twisting streets.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
J osey shivered as she stood before the sitting room’s massive stone hearth. No matter how close she got to the flames, she couldn’t get warm. She was drained down to her toes, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. Hubert and Hirsch were still out in the night, tracking the assassin. Josey instructed the officer on duty to keep her informed if they sent news. That had been almost two candlemarks ago, and still no word.
Her eyes wandered down to the wadded square of parchment in her hand. She started to crush the parchment between her fingers. He made his choice. We both have to live with that. She could toss it into the fire and forget about him. Or could she? She looked into the flames, wishing they would tell her where he was.
The door opened, and Josey slid the parchment into her pocket. Her other hand felt for the stiletto hidden under her gown. She pulled it away when Amelia entered. A bitter smell filled the room as her maid placed a silver tea service on a sideboard. She brought over a steaming cup.
“Here, Majesty. This will warm you up.”
Josey took it with a grateful nod and turned back to the fireplace. She’d left the theater in the company of Duke Mormaer and his guards only to find that the carriage house had been set on fire. Though he might have, Mormaer didn’t abandon her there. Instead, he formed his guards into a square with her in the center and started marching through the crowd of shouting, torch-waving protestors. Stones and small pieces of wood pattered off the guards’ armor, but that was the worst of the violence they’d seen on the long journey back to the palace. The imperial residence had never looked so good. When they reached the gates, Josey tried to thank the duke, but he brushed off her gratitude, telling her in a cool voice, “What you are trying to do in the east is ill advised.”
She knew at once what he meant. Somehow, word had gotten to him about her plan to end the war with Akeshia. It didn’t make her feel any better that one of the most powerful lords in the empire considered it a bad idea. Then again, he hadn’t said he would oppose it.
The tea was a bit on the strong side and didn’t sit well with her nervous stomach. She must have made a face, because Amelia raised her eyebrows.
“Too hot, my lady?”
Josey shook her head, but set the cup back in its saucer.
Amelia stood beside her. “They’ll be fine, Majesty. Don’t worry.”
“I know. I just wish we would hear something soon.”
They both turned as the door opened. Josey let out a deep sigh of relief as Hubert walked in. He looked a mess. His face was slick with sweat, his face and clothes smudged with mud. He went over to the table and poured himself a cup.
Josey couldn’t wait. “What happened?”
Hubert belted back the tea in a single gulp. Wincing, he poured another cup.
“We tracked it all through Low Town. Merchant Ward. Tinkers Avenue. Even through the Gutters. But we lost the trail down by the river near Horman Point.”
“Where is-?” she started to ask, but then spotted the short figure in the doorway. “Master Hirsch.”
The adept entered with a slight limp. Like Hubert, he was spattered with mud and other, less identifiable, substances. Now that Hubert said something, Josey could make out the smells of the river on them.
“Do you believe the assassin’s wounds were fatal?” Josey asked.
Hirsch shook his head as he accepted a cup from Hubert. “The thing was moving too damned fast to be dying.” He took a sip and made a face.
“We have,” Hubert said, “something more immediate to worry about, Majesty. We’ve lost control over several key parts of the city.”
Josey opened her mouth, and then shut it. His words didn’t register for a moment. “What are you talking about? We encountered unruly crowds on our way back to the palace, but nothing the watch won’t be able to contain.”
“It’s worse than that. All the watch stations south of the Processional have been torched. We don’t know how many dead, but the numbers may be substantial. Reports of missing gentry are growing as riots have broken out in several neighborhoods. Fires are spreading in many of the lower wards. Not the docks yet, but it won’t be long if we can’t stop it.”
Josey imagined the scene outside the quiet palace grounds. The riots that had shaken the city just months ago when she and Caim fought to win her throne had destroyed nearly a third of the city. She’d toured Low Town and seen the aftermath for herself firsthand, and been moved to tears by the plight of her most vulnerable subjects. To imagine that those same people roamed the streets of Othir tonight, taking up arms against her, was like a hammer blow to the heart. She grasped for a solution.
“I could address the people,” she said. “Explain the situation and ask them to return to their homes until the crisis is over.”
Hirsch stirred a finger in his cup. “Wouldn’t work. Those crowds would tear you and your guards apart as soon as listen to you.”
Hubert frowned at the adept. “I’m forced to agree, Majesty. It’s too dangerous for you to go out in public.”
She swallowed, not wanting to believe what she was hearing. But she had seen it herself, in the eyes of the crowd. They hated her.
“How long would it take to summon the nearest garrisons?”
Hubert set down his cup. “That would be Parvia and Wistros, but most of the levies from those lands have already been dispatched to the west. We can send riders to recall them. In the meantime, I suggest that we secure the city gates and the docks. With the granaries still under construction, we need the daily shipments of grain to continue or face the possibility of widespread famine.”
Josey nodded, still numbed by the news. “Yes, as you say, Hubert. I put this matter in your hands.”
Hubert bowed and left the room. Amelia hovered at Josey’s shoulder. The events of the evening-the carriage ride, the attack, the flight back to the palace-came crashing back to her, and her legs trembled as if about to give out.
“Master Hirsch,” she said. “Thank you for your courage this night. Ask for anything, and if it is within my power, I will grant it.”
The adept hitched his thumbs in his belt. “Well, lass, I’m not one for collecting payment until a job is done. That creature is out there somewhere, but I’ll get it.”
“I trust you will. If you’ll excuse me, I shall retire for this evening.”
“Aye.”
Josey peered over her shoulder as she and Amelia walked to the door. The adept stood before the fireplace with a silver flask in his hand. His eyes were almost closed, and his lips moved as if he were praying. Josey couldn’t make out the words, but something about his expression unsettled her. Could she really trust him? Or anyone, for that matter? The chimerical killer could be anywhere. What if it was leading her away to her death right now?
With a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the hallway, Josey let Amelia pull her from the room.
Stepping out of the interrogation chamber, Sybelle peeled the layers of half-melted skin off her fingers. A rush of cool air rustled her hair as the guards closed the door, shutting out the moans of the prisoners inside.
The session with her other prisoners, though enjoyable on a personal level, hadn’t produced the results she desired. She had pried loose the location of several rebel safe houses within the city. Safe houses. What a droll phrase. No place was safe from her reach, not within this city, not in all of Eregoth. After sending troops to roust these locations, she set to prying loose the information she needed most of all. Where was the scion? But the rest of her time was wasted. She wiped off her bottom lip and sucked the coppery liquid from her finger. Well, not entirely wasted.
The enchantment she had used to break Caedman Du’Ormik’s will was irresistible, but it left holes in the memories of its v
ictims, so she had turned to other avenues to fill in the blanks. Yet the captives Soloroth brought in were shockingly ignorant about the long-range plans of their leaders. She didn’t know why she had expected more of these half-clothed barbarians.
The clack of boot heels echoed down the corridor as a young man in sleek leathers approached. When he presented her with a cylindrical tube, Sybelle expected news from her commanders about the raids.
Instead, the messenger said, “From His Highness.” His tone was deferential, but his eyes roamed her body before they settled on her face. “I am instructed to wait for a reply, Your Ladyship.”
With a look she knew would send the boy’s pulse racing, Sybelle broke open the tube. A thin scroll of parchment slid out into her hand. Its message was brief and to the point. Erric had found out she’d ordered raids inside the city without his consent. He wanted her to return to the palace. The last words burned in her mind.
At once.
She crumpled the note into a ball and froze it into ice with a thought. She turned back to the messenger as the note shattered on the floor.
“Tell His Majesty I will return when I am finished here.”
The man departed on swift steps. Sybelle ran the tip of her tongue across her teeth. What was keeping Soloroth? She had expected his report not long after she sent him out with the duke’s soldiers.
As if in response to her thoughts, a gargantuan shadow rose against the wall at the end of the corridor. The jangle of metal filled the stairwell as the black peak of a massive helmet appeared. Conflicting emotions quivered inside her breast at the sight of him. Soloroth was the flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, but something else lurked within his steel-clad chest. While he served her dutifully, Sybelle didn’t fully trust her son. Someday, he would seek to supplant her, and on that day she would have to kill him. Until then she kept him on a tight leash. But watching him approach now, she had to wonder how secure was the collar she’d fastened around his soul. Dried blood coated Soloroth’s metal gauntlets, his breastplate, even the armored plates protecting his legs. It looked as if he had bathed in it.