A terrific explosion thundered across the plain. Black smoke bellowed from the end of Cragyn’s Hammer. An instant later, something whistled overhead, then struck the obelisk behind them. Black stone sprayed outward; the obelisk teetered for a long moment, then collapsed to the ground, with a cloud of dust.
“It works!” Mol Khah exulted.
“What happened?” she asked, overwhelmed by its power.
“Magicks beyond your comprehension, woman.” He clenched a leather-gloved fist in triumph. “No castle or city wall can stand before Cragyn’s Hammer.”
No, she thought with mounting concern. Nothing could. And that included Balsalom. Mol Khah wouldn’t leave the weapon unguarded. If she moved tonight, a sizeable garrison and this weapon would remain outside the city to cause mischief. It had taken long enough to put together the infernal weapon that he might well leave it here until the time came to move it west along the Tothian Way.
Mol Khah spent the rest of the day shooting his weapon, rejoicing like a child with a new toy. It took two hours after every use to clean out the tube and ready it for another shot. The iron balls cast by the weapon demolished some of the most beautiful monuments in the Tombs of the Kings.
Afterwards, Kallia retreated to her rooms and considered. One of Saldibar’s spies, an old slave woman who came to empty her chamber pot in the morning, passed along the news of a second army of several thousand men and horse marching west from Kilgalah. They would arrive in a few days. Saldibar didn’t know if they would bolster Balsalom’s garrison or continue west to join Cragyn, but Kallia didn’t dare let them draw close enough to throw themselves in the fray. No, she would have to risk Cragyn’s Hammer, hoping Mol Khah left insufficient men to guard it.
After she took dinner, Kallia opened the curtains and lit a single candle, the signal to act. And then she waited, counting the bells from the merchants tower. It was eight bells. Two more hours.
The city was quieter than a few days earlier. Mol Khah’s men had released all of the crickets in the palace. They silenced street musicians in the city, even going so far as to destroy instruments and banish them from Balsalom. Cragyn’s army craved silence. They had not yet, however, quieted the guilds’ bell towers.
Nine bells chimed and her heart began to pound. Another hour and Saldibar would come for her, the signal would go out to begin the revolt. Her stomach churned in anticipation. Once things happened, they would happen quickly.
Mol Khah had allowed her use of the tower apartments again. The garden rooms kept her from seeing the city, but they also stood amidst dozens of other rooms: apartments, kitchens, state rooms and servants’ quarters. But the tower rooms sat on the fifth and sixth level of a tower with a single entrance to guard. Here she would stay until Cragyn’s pasha summoned her.
She waited impatiently. Too soon, the door opened. She turned, half-expecting to see Saldibar come early. Instead, Mol Khah stood in the doorway, a long scimitar in hand. Blood clotted the blade.
“Come,” he ordered. “Quickly.”
Kallia’s stomach clenched. “What happened? What are you doing with that sword?”
He strode to where she sat next to the window and grabbed her by the arm. “Assassins, you fool. What did you think? Two men from Ter, angry that the master killed that wretched brother of yours. The second man is confessing everything on the wheel right now, the first, regrettably, did not live that long.” He dragged her toward the door “There might be others inside the palace. You’ll be safer in the garden rooms.”
So it wasn’t Saldibar’s blood staining his sword, as she’d feared. But this coincidence ruined everything. The revolt would begin, but she would be left inside the palace. And Saldibar, rather than leaving her to die, might foolishly call off the attack. Mol Khah would savage the city.
“No!” she said, pulling away. “If there are assassins, I’m better off here.” She made a quick decision that she knew she might regret. “The garden rooms are riddled with secret passageways. It’s more dangerous.”
He eyed her with a sideways glance, hesitating. In the distance, the merchants tower rang. She counted. One bell, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Eleven. One extra chime, unnoticeable unless you counted. And throughout the city, men did count. The signal had come, the revolt began.
Mol Khah decided. “No, I’ve got a hundred men guarding the garden rooms. Secret passageways or no, and you will show me where these are, all of them, you will be safer below.”
He dragged her away, and her heart sank. He led her down the stairs, where two armed men joined them. From here, the dark wizard’s vizier led her to the garden rooms. A second frightening thought crossed her mind. Mol Khah’s men would be on the lookout for more assassins. He would station someone in the tower rooms to see if anyone came. And someone would. Saldibar. She had to warn him.
A desperate idea came to her. Twenty or thirty men stood outside the doors of the garden apartments, ready to protect her from assassins. She counted them quickly in her mind.
As Mol Khah threw open the door to her rooms, she let panic slip into her voice. “No! Don’t kill me!”
“What?” he snorted. He glanced back at his men. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Yes you are,” she cried, struggling against his grip. She appealed to the men standing outside the doors. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s bringing me here so an assassin can find me and kill me. Then he’ll claim he tried to prevent it.”
The soldiers shuffled nervously at her theatrics. None would act, but that wasn’t her intent.
“Let me go!” she cried, striking at Mol Khah’s face with her free hand. And then, as she had hoped, his temper flared.
He jerked her around and threw her to the floor. She made no effort to protect herself, but let her face slam into the flagstones. Her vision blanked for a moment when her head hit.
“I’m not going to kill you!” he raged. He dragged to her feet and threw her toward the bed pillows. Lights swam in her head. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”
He turned to storm away, but she said, “Wait, please.” He turned. Blood trickled from her nose, running down her lip. “Tea. Please, have someone bring tea for my head. Medicinal tea, please.”
Mol Khah grimaced and clenched his teeth. She could see that he wanted to strike her again. “Very well,” he said at last. He slammed the door behind him.
She turned and looked at her surroundings. As she’d feared, and this had necessitated her plan, the room was stripped of furnishings, including candles, lamps, or anything else that might provide light. It was almost completely dark in the room, once they shut the door. Saldibar would reach the tower rooms within the next few minutes and panic when he didn’t find her.
Kallia waited anxiously for someone to bring her the tea. It came a few minutes later, and she was relieved at who brought it to her, not an unknown physic, but a servant girl.
She’d seen the girl before. Her name was Chloye. The girl’s mother’s sister had lived in Kallia’s father’s harem; both women were purchased from a caravan of slavers. Chloye had bright red hair, attesting to her Eriscoban heritage. She set down the tea and the burner and brazier on which to cook the healing herbs.
“Never mind that, Chloye,” Kallia said, rising to her feet as soon as the door shut behind them. They were alone in the room.
“But khalifa—may you live forever. Didn’t you send for me?” She glanced around, clearly frightened by the darkened room.
Kallia put her hand on the girl’s arm. “I have no time for that. Please, listen carefully. What I’m about to do, you must say was an accident. It is important. Can you do that?”
Chloye eyes widened in fear. She shrank back as if afraid that Kallia meant her harm. The khalifa picked up the brazier, carried it to the bedding and tipped it over on the blankets. Flames spilled out, nearly stifling in the blankets before catching hold. Kallia waited while the flames spread. Chloye looked terrified, but s
aid nothing.
When the fire jumped to the curtain, Kallia threw her wash basin on the bedding, dousing some of the flames, then cried out, “Help! Fire!”
Men rushed into the room and attacked the fire with cloaks and swords. It had grown too large for simple measures, choking the room in smoke. Men ran for buckets of water. Others dragged the two women into the hall. Mol Khah came striding down the hallway, alerted to the news. He saw Kallia and drew his sword.
“It was an accident,” she pleaded.
He eyed her for a moment, then glared at the serving girl. “Well?” he demanded of her.
The girl shrank under his glare, and Kallia thought she would be betrayed. What a fool she had been to take such a chance.
At last the serving girl looked up. “I’m sorry. I tried to put in the herbs and tipped over the crucible, and then I couldn’t put it out in time, so the khalifa—”
Mol Khah pushed them aside in disgust and looked into the room. Kallia, surprised at the girl’s initiative, squeezed her hand in gratitude.
An oak beam crashed from the ceiling, scattering flames through the room. A soldier cried out, pinned in the smoke and fire. Mol Khah ignored him, but shouted instructions to the men arriving with buckets of water. Kallia slipped back from the chaos, then turned and ran.
She met soldiers in the hallways, running toward the fire, and shouted at anybody else she saw to run and help. Let the confusion spread and attract people as long as possible. When she reached the tower rooms, three men met her with drawn swords.
“What are you doing?” one of them demanded. “The pasha said—”
“Never mind what he said,” she said, panting. “There is a fire. He wants everyone to help.”
The man who’d spoken looked at her suspiciously. They made no move to leave, but put away their swords. “Fire? What kind of fire?”
She ran to the window and threw open the curtains. “That kind of fire, you fools.”
From the tower, they could see across the gardens, where smoke poured from two of the windows. Men and women rushed through the gardens with buckets of water, throwing them through the windows. Some staggered backwards, overcome by smoke. There was not yet any organization to the efforts in the gardens, unlike the order Mol Khah had imposed inside the buildings. Convinced at last, the soldiers turned and ran. Kallia stood panting for a moment.
“Well done khalifa—may you live forever.”
She turned to see Saldibar standing behind her. How he had climbed the stairs past the guards, indeed, where he had hidden while she ordered the men down to the fire, she didn’t know.
“Where did you come from?
“I can’t tell you all of my secrets. Look, there’s no way we’ll get out of the palace that way. Come. Five more minutes and Mol Khah will discover something worse than a fire.”
They hurried from the tower, making their way toward the gardens. A soldier spotted them, and recognizing the khalifa, rushed to intercept them.
“You!” he shouted at her. “The pasha—”
Before he could finish, Saldibar sprang forward, pulling a knife from his robes. The man grabbed for his sword, shouting in alarm. But before he could bring his weapon to bear, Saldibar plunged his knife in the man’s gut, then rammed it underneath his rib cage. The man stared in wide-eyed surprise, opened his mouth, and slumped to the ground. Saldibar pulled out the knife and they ran. Kallia’s stomach turned at the sight of the soldier still twitching where they’d left him.
Saldibar led her to a statue of a winged horse, overlooking the rose garden. Kallia had sat astride the horse as a young girl, and pretended that she was riding to the cloud castles, escorted by a flock of griffins. “Help me,” Saldibar said, leaning his weight against the statue.
She pushed, and to her surprise, it rocked onto its side, revealing a dark gap underneath. They redoubled their efforts, and the statue tipped over. A staircase dropped into the ground. Lights flickered below, men with torches.
Kallia and Saldibar climbed down into the catacomb, while the men pulled on an iron handle on the underside of the winged horse, pulling it back into place. They stood underground.
She looked at the passageway through which they walked. It stretched ten feet overhead and six feet in width. “No wonder assassins find it so easy to infiltrate the palace.”
Saldibar looked embarrassed. “I built the staircase and hid it beneath the statue myself. But the passageway is far older. Part of the old palace. Come.”
She followed, but her interest still wasn’t satisfied. “What old palace?”
“Syrmarria also had a palace on this site.”
“But I was always told that nothing remained of the old city but fragments of the old wall and a few broken towers,” Kallia said.
“Nothing remained on the surface, no, but many of the old roads and foundations lay buried beneath the rubble. Balsalom was built on top of this rubble. When I excavated the statuary garden for your father, my workmen discovered this passageway; I ordered it covered at first, realizing that it led in and out of the palace and provided a risk to the khalif. But when I explored these catacombs, I discovered their true origin.”
He might be right. Kallia saw side doorways, some blockaded by rubble, others opening into dark holes. They entered what looked like a courtyard, partially excavated, with wooden beams propping up the ceiling.
They traveled by torch light for several minutes before emerging through a door into a small house. A man sat on the floor, weaving a rug. When they stepped into the room, he sprang to his feet, leaving his loom. It was Fenerath, the guildmaster. Somehow they’d climbed in elevation until they’d come against the back wall of a house.
“Hurry,” he said. Fenerath opened a chest on the floor, retrieving a nondescript brown robe that he tossed to Kallia.
She looked down at her robes of fine silk embroidered with geometric designs and knew she would be recognized immediately if she wore these clothes. The men turned their backs to give her privacy while she changed. But she still felt unclean from what had happened the night she had married the dark wizard. It reminded her too much of when Mol Khah had torn her old clothes from her body. So instead, she simply pulled the robe Fenerath gave her over her other clothing. They went outside.
The sound of battle filled the air. They stood in the midst of the Weavers Quarter, three hundred yards from the wall on the north side of the city. Men fought on top of the city wall with swords and maces. The Veyrians in black and crimson had the upper hand, better armed and equipped and commanding the better strategic position. Men from the watchman guild streamed up the stairways to the wall, but many were armed only with truncheons or short swords. And Cragyn’s men didn’t panic, but gathered into tight clumps that drove back the watchmen.
Four men battled a giant on the other side of the street. The watchmen were armed with pikes, but the giant swung a cudgel and kept the men at bay. He knocked one to the ground, then finished the man with a single, crushing blow. Three more men joined the fight, but another giant came running down the street.
The road on which they stood led directly to the palace, sitting atop the hill, where it could overlook the city. Several small battles raged in front of the palace gates. The garrison inside had already discovered the revolt and grappled with the watchmen, trying to force them out of the way so they could get into the streets. Scores of watchmen rushed to plug the gates, but more Veyrians joined the battle every moment; unless the watchmen secured the walls soon and brought reinforcements, the enemy garrison would break from the palace and the battle would end in defeat.
A roar sounded in the distance. She recognized the sound immediately. Cragyn’s Hammer. So they hadn’t taken the siege weapon; it battered at the walls.
All around, she saw evidence that her plan failed. There were hundreds of watchmen, even people from the city who’d gathered old weapons and kitchen knifes to overthrow the hated enemy. But they had no leader, and in the face of Veyre’s ov
erwhelming superiority in discipline and arms, the revolt was doomed. She saw the looks of horror on Fenerath and Saldibar’s faces mirrored on the walls and the streets, on the faces of the people holding Mol Khah’s men inside the palace.
She knew what she must do. The time had come to stop hiding, to stop letting others sacrifice their lives while she kept herself safe. She stripped off the brown cloak that Fenerath told her to wear. Gathering her strength, Kallia ran toward the men at the palace gates. Behind her, Saldibar cried for her to stop.
Guardsmen looked up from their fighting as she approached. Murmurs of recognition passed through the combatants on both sides. Kallia grabbed the scimitar of a fallen man and pushed her way into the men at the palace gates.
Saldibar caught up with her, and took her by the arm. “You can’t do that. You’ll be killed.”
When she answered, it was as loud as she could speak. “I am going to live or die with Balsalom. Now move out of my way. Hold the gap!” she cried to the men ahead of her. “Don’t let them through.”
Shouts passed through the group. News of her presence passed to the walls, to the battles in the streets. Resolve stiffened all around her. Saldibar looked at her with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
She meant her words, pressing toward the front of the battle. But the guardsmen moved to block her from the fighting. She shouted for them to let her past, but they refused to obey.
Kallia had no illusions what would happen if she reached the fighting. She had been trained in swordsmanship, and had learned enough to know that she would be quickly overwhelmed by a larger, better-trained opponent. And should she reach the fighting, she would be attacked immediately.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 296