Evren recognized the temperament of the crowd at once. They were angry, shouting, pressing toward whatever held their attention or attracted their ire. Any second, things could turn far uglier and break out into savagery. With a crowd of this size, easily five or six hundred men and women wearing the red and black headbands of the city’s lowest castes, it could become a riot in the space of minutes.
He had to get through the crowd now before it turned violent. If it ignited into a brawl, he’d never get past in time to reach the Keeper’s Tier before dark.
Gritting his teeth, he slithered through the crowd as fast as he could without jostling or elbowing too many people out of his way. Even one wrong shove could be the spark that lit the fuse of the throng’s fury. Most of the people he passed were too focused on shouting at the line of black-armored soldiers guarding Death Row that they barely paid attention to him, though a few hurled angry curses at his retreating back. Evren ignored them and kept pushing, struggling, slipping through any gaps he could find.
Come on, come on! Fingers of panic crept into his brain. He could feel each second passing by too quickly. He’d never make it to the mansion in time, not at this pace. Yet he couldn’t move any faster through the densely packed throng. It felt like swimming upstream against a current determined to sweep him away, suck him under.
An iron fist gripped his heart and squeezed the air from his lungs. The emotions seething within the mob thickened the air until Evren was gasping, clawing for each breath. It took all his willpower to keep moving, keep searching for the holes in the crowd. He had to get through!
As he approached the front of the crowd, he found his progress slower, the people packed tighter together. The sound of their rhythmic chanting grew deafening.
“Child of Secrets, Child of Gold,
Child of Spirits, bring the judgement foretold!”
Evren’s brow furrowed. They’re shouting those words written on the walls. He had no idea what the words meant or why the crowd would chant them, but he could worry about that later. Right now, he had to focus on getting out of this throng in one piece.
It seemed an eternity before he burst free of the crowd. Sucking in a great breath, he stumbled toward the Indomitables. The line of men stood steady, their man-high, seven-sided shields planted firmly on the stone street. Their faces were grim, yet a hint of nervousness flashed in their eyes as they studied the angry throng.
“I need to get through!” Evren shouted at the nearest soldier, though the angry chants drowned out his words.
“Back in line, Kabili!” roared an Indomitable. “I won’t tell you twice!”
Evren’s brow furrowed, but before he had time to react, someone shoved him from behind. Thrown off balance, he lurched forward, right at the line of Indomitables. He didn’t have time to see the vicious strike, much less dodge it. Pain exploded in the side of his skull. One moment he was on his feet, the next he lay on the ground, his head ringing and the world spinning dizzily around him.
Gasping, Evren blinked away the stars whirling in his vision and pushed himself up onto one knee. He hit me!
Anger pushed away some of the vertigo as he pressed a hand to the wound on his forehead. Blood trickled from a cut right beneath his scalp. Yet, a part of him realized that something was off. His mind struggled to understand what it was. The skin was severed but his skull hadn’t been crushed. He prodded the bare flesh of his forehead.
Bare flesh! Suddenly, he realized why the Indomitable had called him slave and struck him. He’d taken off his red-and-gold headband to evade the thugs’ notice and forgotten to replace it. Only the Kabili slaves went around Shalandra bare-headed.
His fingers were clumsy, his movements jerky as he pulled out the headband and knotted it around his forehead.
All around him, the shouts of the crowd turned ugly, threatening. Fruits, vegetables, even a few metal and clay trinkets rained down around Evren, some landing dangerously close to him and the Indomitables. Even in his disoriented state, Evren recognized that it would only take one hit on a guard’s shield or helmet to turn things ugly.
Headband in place, he staggered upright and stumbled left, away from the Indomitable that had struck him. A few paces down the line, he tried again.
“Please!” he shouted, and motioned to his headband. “My master will be expecting me.”
The Indomitables before him exchanged glances. “Hurry!” called one and beckoned for Evren to pass.
Gasping, Evren stumbled through the gap and away from the raging crowd. Relief flooded him, followed a moment later by a surge of acid to the back of his throat. He recognized the symptoms of a minor concussion—he’d taken more than his fair share of blows to the head during his days bare-handed fighting in the Master’s Temple. Yet he swallowed the rising vomit and forced himself to stagger onward up the hill.
A dull throbbing engulfed the entire right side of his face. He winced and wiped blood away from his forehead, but the touch set the world spinning once more. A wave of dizziness seized him and he was forced to find a seat at the edge of Death Row for fear of collapsing. He breathed heavily, sweat streaming down his face, and clenched his jaw against the nausea.
Hailen’s face spun through the dizzying images before his eyes. Smiling, bright, friendly, those strange violet eyes of his sparkling with mischief. Evren couldn’t let anything happen to Hailen. The Hunter and Kiara would never forgive him; Evren would never forgive himself.
He didn’t know how long he spent seated, slumped against the golden sandstone wall—it might have been five seconds or five hours—but finally the dizziness and sickness passed enough that he could lever himself to his feet. The analytical part of his mind took stock of the injury; as long as he didn’t lose consciousness, he should be fine.
I’ve got to keep going, he told himself over and over. I’ve got to get to Hailen in time.
Twice more—that he could remember—he had to pause in his ascent of Death Row to let the nausea and vertigo pass. Each time, the effects grew noticeably less, his brain recovering from the jolt. Even the headache began to dim until he could move faster without fear of emptying his stomach
The journey to the Keeper’s Tier, which had taken him just over an hour before, now seemed to take an eternity. Evren risked another bout of dizziness to glance at the sun and found it had dropped dangerously close to the horizon. Night would fall within half an hour. He had to hurry to reach Suroth’s mansion before Samall and his conspirators went for Lady Briana.
His heart leapt as the gate of the Keeper’s Tier came into sight. The guards took one look at his headband and let him through, though not without close scrutiny. He knew he looked a sight—bloodied forehead, staggering like a drunk—but he didn’t care.
He half-ran, half-shambled east along the Path of Gold. I made it!
His relief died a moment later when he spotted a group of dark-robed figures slipping down the alley that led to the rear entrance of Suroth’s mansion. The tradesman’s gate swung open and Samall appeared in the archway, a small lantern in his hand. At his low hiss, Kuhar and more than twenty other figures in dark robes slipped from the shadows and raced toward the back way in.
Evren had arrived too late.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Issa’s two-handed sword carved a deadly arc through the air. The Shalandran steel blade hacked off one assassin’s arm at the shoulder and plowed through his ribcage before biting deep into his spine. The man screamed and collapsed, sliding off Issa’s sword as she stepped back into a Silver Sword guard stance. The next assassin that came at her died with her sword tip through his stomach—the same thrust Tannard had used on her in the mock battle earlier that day.
“Assassins!” she shouted again. Not out of fear for her own safety, but to alert Kellas, Etai, and the other guards protecting the palace. If there were other assassins, she needed to sound the alarm at once.
Six robed figures charged in a rush. Issa knew what they intended—close the
distance and get inside the reach of her flammard, where their long swords and daggers could give them the edge—but that knowledge did little to help her. Though she took one down with a quick cut that opened a gash in his throat, the other five closed the distance before she could recover. Their long swords and knives flashed at her chest, arms, throat, face, and legs.
Her Shalandran steel armor saved her life. Blades rang on her gauntlets, breastplate, and helmet, hard enough to knock Issa back a step. She allowed herself to be driven backward—she had to keep her face, the only vulnerable body part, away from their blades. And she needed to clear space to swing her sword.
Her quick upward cut caught one of the assassins in the stomach. Issa heard a clang of steel on steel followed by a cry of pain as the Shalandran steel hacked through whatever armor the man wore beneath his robes. Issa whipped the pommel of her sword into the face of another opponent. Teeth shattered, cartilage crunched, and blood gushed from his nose and split lips.
Issa hissed as one dagger carved a slash across the bridge of her nose, and responded by driving her shoulder into the assassin’s chest. The spikes in her armor punched through his armor and slammed against bone. In the second it took the man to recover, Issa straightened, released her grip on her sword’s hilt, and seized it by the blade. The heavy steel pommel, hilt, and crossguard clubbed the man into unconsciousness.
She whirled to face the remaining two assassins, flammard held in the half-swording grip popular at the Academy of the Windy Mountain. The heavy sword could do enough blunt force damage to shatter an enemy’s skull, and the shortened grip on the blade made it as versatile as a club or mace.
She drove the pommel into one man’s gut, whipped the crossguard into the other man’s face, and dragged the razor sharp edge across the first’s throat. Even as the assassin collapsed, hands clasped to his gushing neck, Issa reversed her grip on the sword and brought the blade spinning across in a blindingly fast horizontal strike. The steel blade separated the man’s head from his shoulders like a hot knife through tallow.
Issa found herself alone, surrounded by eight dead or dying men, and her heart sank as she saw the remaining seven assassins racing down the corridor. Without hesitation, she leapt over her dead enemies and gave chase.
Determination spurred her on—she had to get back to Etai and Kellas before they were overwhelmed by the attackers. Her marvelous segmented plate mail made barely a sound as she ran, the weight almost negligible after long days spent running and training fully-armored. By the time she reached the main corridor, she had closed within ten yards of the assassins.
Her stomach clenched as the clash of steel echoed from her post, followed by a cry of pain. Etai!
Issa charged around the corner in time to see the remaining seven assassins join the five already attacking Kellas and Etai. Six more corpses lay at the Blades’ feet, but Etai was stumbling back, a hand pressed to a bleeding wound in her cheek. Her one-handed grip on her sword sufficed to block the next attack, but Issa could see that the two assassins would break through her guard at any second.
Three dark-cloaked assassins kept Kellas tied up, though the Dhukari youth seemed to be holding his own. However, with their backs against the Council Chamber’s double doors, they couldn’t retreat.
Issa couldn’t get to them in time, not with the seven assassins in her way. All she could do was buy them a split second.
“For the Long Keeper!” The cry burst from her lips with every ounce of strength she possessed.
It worked. The seven assassins nearest her whirled, blades sliding free of their sheaths. But the five locked with Kellas and Etai made the mistake of glancing over their shoulders at the new threat. Kellas seized advantage of the momentary distraction to hack down one of his enemies and finish off one of Etai’s.
Issa’s sword, backed by all her strength and the force of her charge, sheared through an upraised arm, laid open the assassin’s chest, and carved a deep gash into the thigh of the assassin on her left. The two men fell with cries of pain. Issa strode through the widening puddle of blood to attack the assassins behind the dying men. Two more assassins fell to her twin hacking strokes, and her armor turned aside one lucky blow aimed at her chest.
Kellas’ sword punched through the stomach of the rearmost assassin. Issa’s heart leapt as she saw Etai cut down another.
Three enemies remained, and as one, they reached within their cloaks. Issa caught a flash of glass as the nearest assassin drew out his hand—she severed his arm with a backhand stroke before he could throw it at her. Etai dodged the glass object thrown at her, and it shattered on the gold-enameled door behind her with a loud crash. A moment later, the Mahjuri girl drove the tip of her flammard into the man’s chest.
Issa’s blood turned to ice as the third assassin drew out the glass object and prepared to hurl it at Kellas. The Dhukari youth had gotten his feet tangled in the arms of a fallen assassin, and his eyes had left his enemies for that single second.
Issa never hesitated. Her desperate one-handed blow shattered the assassin’s forearm. The limb bent at a terrible angle, and the glass object fell from useless fingers. Issa removed his head as the glass shattered on the ground.
The moment the falling body struck the pool of liquid seeping from the glass vial, a loud hissing filled the air. Issa felt her meager lunch coming up at the stink of charred flesh—not burned by fire, but eaten by something as corrosive as the sulfuric acids used by Killian to pickle his steel and remove impurities.
She leapt backward. “Watch out!” she called to Kellas and Etai. “That stuff in their glass bottles was acid!”
Etai gave the body a wide berth, but Kellas stared down, wide-eyed and pale-faced, at the bubbling, smoking mass of flesh that had once been an assassin. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to her.
“Y-You…saved me?” Confusion knitted his brows.
“Why in the bloody hell would you do that?” Vitriol dripped from Etai’s words. She fixed Issa with a disgusted look. “After all he’s done?”
Issa shrugged. “He’s a Blade.” Sure, an arrogant, hot-headed prick. But the Long Keeper had chosen him just as he’d chosen her and Etai. As Tannard had told them, the Long Keeper did not make mistakes.
The sound of clashing steel from down the eastern corridor snapped her into motion. “Stay here!” she shouted as she turned and sprinted away. “Hold the door and make sure the Keeper’s Council is safe!”
Even as she turned into the intersecting corridor, Issa knew she’d find assassins sneaking around to the Council Chamber’s side entrance. The Pharus, the Lady of Blades, and the Keeper’s Council would all be within. All targets for assassination gathered in a single room. Her only hope was that the two Blades guarding that side entrance would hold long enough for her to reach them.
But when she sprinted around the corner, Issa found only one figure locked in combat with the six assassins assaulting the door. A woman, bare-headed, long hair hanging loose around her shoulders, yet clad in the black plate-mail of a Keeper’s Blade and wielding her two-handed flammard. Five corpses lay on the ground around the broad-shouldered, well-muscled form of Callista Vinaus, Lady of Blades.
Issa couldn’t help marveling at the lethal grace of the Proxenos. Lady Callista finished off two of the assassins before Issa took a single step, and another fell a heartbeat later. But the sight of two assassins reaching into their robes spurred Issa to greater speed. She brought her flammard’s tip slicing across the backs of the two rearmost enemies’ necks. The Shalandran steel hacked through flesh, blood vessels, and bone. The assassins flopped forward, spines severed.
And then there was only Lady Callista, alone in a pool of blood, the bodies of fifteen assassins at her feet. Sorrow clutched at Issa’s heart as she spotted the acid-twisted corpses wearing black plate mail among them. Those unfortunate Blades hadn’t received warning in time.
Lady Callista seized Issa’s arm. “Protect the Pharus!” she commanded. “Leave the a
ssassins to me.”
“Yes, Proxenos!” Issa saluted, but Lady Callista had already stalked off bare-footed through the puddles of blood.
Issa sprinted into the Council Chamber and found a scene that would be laughable if not for the corpses littering the floor. The six Necroseti of the Keeper’s Council huddled in a corner, pudgy faces twisted in fear as their eyes fixed on the ten dead bodies near the door. Judging by the positons of the bodies, the assassins had managed to get through the Blades and within five paces of the massive marble table dominating the room before they’d been taken down. Nine assassins and one figure in dull brown had died here.
Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres stood in a wary crouch, bloody dagger gripped in his hand. A fierce light shone in his eyes as he saw Issa enter the room.
“What’s happening out there?” the Pharus demanded. “How many have fallen?”
“I know of just two casualties, My Pharus.” Issa held her sword in a firm grip. “But don’t worry, Bright One. They’re not getting through me!”
The Pharus actually straightened and gave her a calm smile, a strange expression given the blood staining his face. “I can see that.”
With grim determination, Issa turned toward the door, ready to cut down any assailants who entered. Her commander had given her an order; she’d die before she failed now.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aisha glanced nervously at the sky. The sunset shades of purple, gold, and orange had given way to dull grey-blue as the daylight faded. Where is he?
Kodyn had been gone far too long. The meeting with the Black Widow should have taken him no more than two or three hours—including time to reach the Artisan’s Tier and make the return journey. The fact that he hadn’t yet returned worried her. He was more than capable of taking care of himself, yet he was alone, weaponless save for a few daggers, and in an unfamiliar city.
Heirs of Destiny Box Set Page 34