Zoshi batted Crumpet off his chest, and looked back at what he had seen. The man was still there, sitting, pinioned by a spear, like an insect on a cork board, right through the chest. Crumpet flapped into the air, and swooped, landing lightly on that spear. The bird waited on his new perch.
Zoshi scrambled to find his lantern. He stuffed the moss back inside the tin as if he were gathering his wits. The man had not moved
The boy swallowed, and stood, and edged closer. The man was like the other not-quite-human corpses that were perfectly preserved: sharp ears, high cheekbones, tall and thin, and pale as snow. A curved sword rested across his thighs, and an elegant hand rested lightly on its hilt, as if the man were simply waiting to be nudged awake.
“Remove the spear,” Crumpet rattled.
Zoshi shook his head—too lost and lonely in the dark to wonder when he had started speaking crow.
“Spear,” the bird croaked.
Again, Zoshi shook his head, and took a step back. Crumpet took flight, right for him. He threw his arms over his head. Talons latched onto his little lantern, and ripped it from his grasp. Zoshi spun around, watching the blue light as it bobbed and finally disappeared, leaving him in the dark. His breath caught. The rasping, breathing chain filled the stillness.
“Crumpet?” he whispered. It came out as a squeak. Aware of the dead man at his back, he quickly looked that way, and wished he hadn’t. He could see the man perfectly in the blackness, as if the shadows were too afraid to touch that pale skin.
Terror ripped from the boy’s throat. “Crumpet!” he screamed, and kept screaming, until his voice went hoarse. Zoshi started to move forward, but stopped. He couldn’t remember a direction, even up or down.
“Spear,” a voice croaked from the dark.
Desperate and confused, he no longer cared; Zoshi needed light. He couldn’t lose his guide. “Come back and I will.” His voice was a thready whisper, but the bird heard it. A dim blue light wavered in the void. It grew closer, and Zoshi nearly wept when Crumpet landed by the dead man, lantern still clutched in his beak.
“Please don’t do that again.” Zoshi hurried closer. “I’ll take the spear, and we can leave, is that it? It’s a key?”
Crumpet hissed out a Yes, and the boy believed him.
Keeping as far away from the man as he could, Zoshi gripped the very end of the spear haft, and tugged. The spear slid free.
The next moment landed him on his back. Pain came next. He brought up his hands, all raw and dark. Before the burns could settle in his thoughts, a heavy weight thudded onto his chest. Stunned, he looked up at the crow. A beak filled his vision, stabbing at his face. Something popped. Terror screamed through his body, and he thrashed, clutching his face. Warm liquid leaked between his fingers. All his nerves were aflame.
The boy rolled away, pressing his hand to his eye. He staggered, and fell, shocked and betrayed. Zoshi dug in a pocket, and pressed a rag to the pain. He blinked. One eye worked. The bird had not taken both.
In the blurred light, Zoshi saw the crow stuff a bloody mess between the man’s pale lips. It was Zoshi’s eye.
As soon as the gift was delivered, Crumpet burst into cool blue flames. A wind swept through the cave, and a howl of triumph followed. The angular man gasped, and sucked in a long, savoring breath. Wreathed in blue fire, the man stood, unbuckling his breastplate. The armor with the hole over his heart fell to the ground, and the remnants of his tattered padding turned to ash. Zoshi watched in a dream-like haze as the hole in the man’s chest knitted together. When flesh was mended, a flawless man towered over him. He was tall and lithe and perfectly formed—pale and hard as a statue.
Zoshi could not breathe. He tried to move, but he was frozen. The man’s eyes held him in place. Two silver pinpricks ringed with blue. The man smiled, a slow curving of his long lips. He stepped forward, closer to the boy, until he stood right over him.
“The blood of innocents is ever so potent, human.” It was a voice from dreams, of nightmares, and the faint whispers that lingered under beds. Long fingers reached towards the boy, and shock finally rescued him. Zoshi’s one remaining eye rolled back in his head.
Chapter Forty-Six
“The gate will break soon,” Eiji reported.
Tharios stood in the wide tunnel, gazing at the bobbing lights that illuminated the darkness for the diggers. The steady clink of pickaxes and shovels filled the hollow passage. A ragged, dirt-covered man staggered behind a mining cart. Eiji recognized the Wise One as Jaelin Featherpalm. He was little more than a scribe. His careful hands were now bloodied from hard labor.
The wheels squealed, and her fingers twitched. She’d like to slit the man’s throat for not oiling the wheels. Jaelin quickly looked away from the two. Even if he hadn’t been silenced with a weave, the man was too cowardly to lift a finger against them. She hated what the Wise Ones had become. Now, she and Tharios were so close. Soon, the Order would be respected—feared.
Tharios waited until the squeaky wheels faded. “Draw back and seal the King’s Walk. It doesn’t matter if they breach the bailey gates. We can pick them off in the hallways.” As he spoke, Tharios’ fingers traced the barbed stave in his hands. He held it precisely, as one would hold a thorny rose. Still, a trickle of blood curled down the shaft. His once fine hands were now marred with cuts. Powerful artifacts often came with a price, and this one was no exception. She wondered what other price it would demand.
“And if they breach the King’s Walk before the Shadowed Dawn?”
Tharios looked at her then, his face illuminated by a glowing Orb of Light. She swallowed a gasp. His face was no longer impassive, but stretched and worn. The priestess had wounded him, and raising the dead had exacted its own price, but this was more.
The gnome rocked to the balls of her feet, ready to skip back and dodge the madness that lurked in his shadowed eyes.
“If,” he stressed, “that should occur, then we will move more provisions into the tunnels and seal the entry points. Let them wander in the maze.”
Eiji glanced at the darkness. She was a gnome, and the majority of her kind labored underground as slaves. She held no love of the dark. Summoning the Lore, she sent a Whisper fluttering to the ears of Yasimina. Abandon the gate, fall back and seal the King’s Walk. And to be thorough she ordered a guard to relay the message.
As the guard disappeared up the tunnel, a horribly scarred human female trotted from the dark. Zianna. Taal’s apprentice. “The diggers have broken through, Archlord.” The apprentice’s croaking words were like a crossbow trigger, shooting Tharios towards the end of the tunnel.
Ragged, filthy slaves watched Tharios passing in silence. The tunnel sloped sharply, and then narrowed. At its end stood a solid wall of stone—but not quite.
Tharios gestured, directing an Orb of Light closer. A single crack opened to darkness. “Break it,” he ordered.
“Sir, we need to shore up the sides first,” the overseer said.
“Open it,” Tharios repeated. His tone left no room for argument. Eager to make up for his insubordination, the overseer hopped forward, grabbed a pickaxe from a slave, and started widening the crack himself. Dust and rock choked the air. Eiji wove a quick rune, summoning a breeze.
Hours passed, rock fell away, and for the first time in over three thousand years, a path was cleared. When the dust settled, Eiji cocked her head. Something whispered from the dark.
Tharios gestured at the Orb of Light. It drifted forward, pushing back the darkness. A man stood in the tunnel. Pale and ethereal and angular in every way. His white hair gleamed in the orb’s light.
Eiji drew her blade, and threw, but where it hit—where he had stood—was empty. The man had moved, a mere step to the side, faster than she could follow. He now held her knife in his hand.
The man’s lips curved, slow and savoring, and where her first thought had been Marsais, she now saw the truth of her error. This was not the madman returned, but a Fey—one of the phantoms
come to life.
“Tharios,” the Fey’s voice lilted from the dark like a song. He walked closer, stepping fully into the light.
Tharios slapped his hand on a fiery tattoo. Flames sped down his arms in a flash, and a wave of heat arced towards the pale man. In the fire’s wake, Tharios unleashed another volley. Inky tendrils of energy twisted in the air: Bloodmagic and the Gift hissed and spit at each other. The devastating weaves hit the Fey, but the runes shattered, drifting in front of the Fey like frayed threads. Impossibly, the Fey gathered up the mangled remains, and thrust out his palms.
Eiji dove to the side, and Tharios threw up a Barrier. The tunnel shook, and rocks tumbled from the ceiling. Eiji rolled into a ball, covering her head.
In the settling dust, the Fey began to laugh; it was like ice slipping down her spine. Eiji swallowed down a cough, and sprang to her feet, knives in hand.
The Fey looked at her with cold eyes. He shook his head. The message was clear. Slowly, Eiji lowered her weapons.
Tharios staggered to his feet. He was bent over double, clutching his stomach, coughing and gagging. Black bruises outlined every vein of his body.
“Is this all that is left of humans?” the Fey asked. “All they have learned in over three thousand years?” He gave an odd trilling of his tongue, the human equivalent of a cluck.
Eiji did not reply. Slow realization began to dawn, and the rising light stilled her tongue. Tharios reached the conclusion before she did.
“Forgive me, I thought you were an enemy,” Tharios gasped.
“I’m sure,” the Fey purred, taking a step forward. “Not even a thought for me. Not one thought.” With every word he neared, and Eiji and Tharios retreated. Everyone else had run. The Fey’s bare feet whispered over stone, and the remnants of flame and crackle of power clung to his flawless skin. “Who whispered to you, who taught you, who fed your dreams?”
“I thought you were dead,” Tharios defended. There was a note of begging in his tone. “Forgive my oversight.”
“Dead, no; broken, yes. A small matter for a god.”
“Let me serve you,” Tharios said, dropping to his knees. He held out the stave—an offering of power.
The Fey leaned close. “Oh, you have already done my bidding, Tharios.” His voice chilled, and his words whispered like a breeze through the tunnel. “Your thirst for power blinded you, and I played you like a puppet.” The Fey moved his fingers in a whimsical fashion and Tharios twitched.
Realization lit Tharios’ eyes.
“Yes,” the Fey hissed. “As Karbonek once used me; I used you.” Quick as a snake, the Fey reached out, wrapping long fingers around Tharios’ hand—the same that clutched the stave. “A lesson from the wise, human. There is always someone stronger.” The Fey squeezed, driving Tharios’ flesh into the barbs. Blood activated the stave, and Tharios screamed.
Air swept past the gnome’s ears, and a howl of wind stole her breath. A portal snapped to life in the tunnel. Eiji squinted past the dust and rock, and looked through the crackling vortex of energy. It wasn’t the Nine Halls, it wasn’t the Isle of Blight, or Somnial’s realm—it was the arena pit.
Sickly, greenish fog rushed through, and with it came a barrage of gleeful whispers. The arena shield crackled and twisted, and surged through the portal. The backlash traveled up Tharios’ arm. The Archlord of the Isle dropped dead, a burnt and blackened crisp. The Fey plucked the stave from a brittle hand, and gave it a twirl, stepping towards the gnome.
Eiji dropped to one knee and bowed her head.
“Very wise of you, Eiji.” Looking up, her eyes betrayed surprise. “Oh, yes, I know you. I know every breathing thing in this cursed Spine—every crack and crevice. And now, my dear gnome, we will clear this infestation of humans. Do you have any objections?”
She shook her head.
“I thought not. You and I will get along splendidly. And don’t worry, we’ll have help.”
Eiji looked to the fog. It flowed down the tunnel, into the black, as if blown by a wind. “Who are you, sir?” she asked. Her voice was thready, and it made her sick to hear the fear in its depths.
“Pyrderi. Pyrderi Har’Feydd.” With a twirl of the stave, the very first Fey, the defiler who had tainted the Lindale and spit in the face of the Sylph, swaggered out of his prison.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Footsteps echoed on the stone. A large number of them, not from inside the Spine, but from the other side of the King’s Walk. Morigan glanced at the other Wraith Guards, whose cloaks had shifted to resemble the Isle colors. The warriors were ready to defend the passage.
Yasimina led the pack. She exhibited a decidedly yellowish tint. While she had nearly killed Morigan, the traitor had not escaped the battle unscathed.
“Prepare to close the gates,” Yasimina ordered.
Morigan silently cursed the Fates. The traitors were falling back. She half-turned towards the lever, trying to keep her face averted. The helm offered some ambiguity, but if Yasimina were to actually look, the Wise One would surely recognize her old mentor.
A long line of soldiers marched past. The river of armor ended with the Quartermaster as the tail. He stepped in and nodded. “Close it,” Kreem ordered.
Morigan turned fully towards the lever. It was likely her braid that gave her away, because a sharp intake of air signaled recognition. But Morigan was already spinning. She jabbed her spear at Yasimina. The tip hit what felt like rock, sliding to the side of the woman.
Yasimina skipped back, and Kreem rushed forward. Morigan brought up her shield, deflecting a sword stroke that jarred her bones. The Quartermaster was a large man, but Morigan was short and stout, and she used that to her advantage. She stepped into his long reach, and drove her shield upwards, catching him under the chin. The big man staggered back and a Wraith Guard took up the fight.
Morigan focused on the chanting woman. She hurled her spear at a charging attacker and shouted the Lore, tracing a crude water rune. A fine mist drifted in the wide hall. On the tail of that simple weave, she hurled a bind that bounced off Yasimina’s Barrier. With a deft stroke, Morigan severed the bind midway. The mist churned like a whirlpool, and with a thrust of her hands, she pushed the gathered water towards Yasimina. It was slow enough, harmless enough, that Yasimina did not bother adjusting her own shield. She was too busy weaving. The water passed through Yasimina’s Barrier, soaking her to the bone.
In answer, a barrage of weaves flew through the air—as sharp and lethal as a scythe. Morigan shifted her focus, ducking under what she could not deflect. Pain blossomed across her temple, arms and legs, and a breath later, a lightning bolt rocked her back a step. She absorbed the energy with a grunt, unhooked her axe, and charged.
Morigan chopped with her axe, and it hit the slower woman, but the edge didn’t bite; Yasimina’s armor weave caught the blow, sending her reeling backwards. That was all Morigan needed. She let her axe fall from numb fingers, and with a word and a weave behind her shield, touched the air over Yasimina’s skin.
The air chilled. Slowly, Morigan’s weave crept over the woman, seeping through the runic Barrier and into her flesh. The water on Yasimina’s skin froze, and she gasped, heart racing and sputtering with cold. The Unspoken screamed out a final word to cinch her own weave, and numb fingers hurled a backlash that shattered Morigan’s Barrier. The inky whip caught Morigan around the throat. It squeezed and tugged, and she drove her head into the woman’s face.
Skin frostbitten and black, Yasimina fell to the floor, but the lash still held tight. Morigan staggered, fighting for breath, tugging at the filth around her neck. Spots danced in her eyes, and all around, a battle raged. A blade flashed, but it wasn’t for her. A Wraith Guard plunged his sword through Yasimina’s heart.The Blood Ritual unraveled.
Morigan sucked in a sharp breath, snatched up her axe, and backed into the corner near that single lever. Swallowing, she forced her tongue to work and her throat to swallow, shaking loose the lingering attack. Hois
ting her shield, Morigan joined the other Wraith Guards, defending the corner against a wash of red-banded soldiers.
To the uninitiated, battle was chaos. Vision narrowed to a tunnel, the heart hammered against its cage, and the body rid itself of everything that hindered survival. The air reeked of piss and bowels, of blood and death, and time slowed to the immediate.
Morigan was not uninitiated; she was furious, and she stood in the chaos with a clear head. Her vision sharpened, her senses heightened, and she saw each man and woman as a piece of flesh waiting to be taken apart.
The Healer hewed and hacked until the floor ran red with blood. In the blur of limbs and cries, a note inserted itself into the song of battle. A rush of armor and boots. The red-banded guards looked to the King’s Walk, to Thira leading a line of reinforcements, and each and every traitor turned and ran.
The bailey gates had fallen.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Night faded to grey, and grey burst with gold. In the dawning light of a new day, Isiilde stopped to catch her breath. She hugged her shivering body, tucking her hands under her arms. Stopping reminded her of every bruise that had blossomed on her body through the long night. She walked on, breath misting the air, keeping her eyes on her toes.
The group was ragged and tired, and grief hung heavy around the humans. Although Acacia betrayed little, always stoic and proud, Isiilde had come to understand the Knight Captain. It was the little things that hinted at her emotions—a word not spoken, the slight downturn of her lips, and the determination that showed grimly in her eyes as she limped down the path.
The dead left a void, and the silence brought them out of the shadows. Isiilde could almost see Kasja walking beside her forlorn brother. The thought unsettled her. Did spirits linger?
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 30