“Me, too,” echoed a second voice.
Issa’s gut clenched as she recognized the two speakers. Enyera and Rilith, both Earaqi caste, the fastest of her trainees.
Enyera shot Issa a tight smile. “Issa will agree that there’s no one faster than us.”
Ormroth turned to her with a questioning gaze, and Issa nodded.
“So be it,” he said, his tone solemn. “You will accompany—”
“I’ll be damned if I let you two go and do something stupid without me,” came Nysin’s voice.
“Or me,” Viddan echoed.
The two Indomitable trainees pushed their way to the front.
“Begging your pardon, sir.” Viddan looked Ormroth in the eye, though he stood a foot shorter than the Blade. “We may not be as fast as these two, but we know our way around the lower tiers as well as anyone.”
“We’ve got the best chance of ducking out of sight and getting to safety.” Nysin shot a wink at Issa. “Besides, we’re some of the only Indomitables who know how to find and open these tunnels. Makes for a quick getaway if we find ourselves in trouble.”
To Issa’s surprise, the rest of her small company of trainees pushed to the front, volunteering for the dangerous task. Pride and gratitude mingled with worry for their wellbeing. They truly had the most perilous assignment of all.
Ormroth contemplated for a long moment, a little smile on his lips. “Your bravery does you credit, all of you, but I can only spare four of you.” He turned to Tiaten. “The choice is yours.”
The Ypertatos settled on the four that had volunteered first.
Ormroth turned to Hykos. “Archateros, you will accompany me with the bulk of our forces, while Issa will accompany Archateros Chirak to—”
“With all due respect, Ypertatos, Issa is my Prototopoi.” Hykos’ spine was rigid, a stubborn cast to his jaw. “Despite the dire circumstances, it is still my duty to oversee her training. With your permission, I would have her accompany me.”
Warmth flooded Issa, and she flushed to the roots of her hair.
Ormroth’s lips pressed together, though Issa couldn’t tell if he frowned or smiled. “Very well, Archateros. Archateros Chirak will join me in the primary assault, and you and Issa will lead the flank attack.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hykos saluted.
Ormroth inclined his head. “So be it. You have your orders. May the Faces of Justice, Vengeance, and Mercy smile on you this night.”
* * *
A fist of iron clenched Issa’s chest as she caught sight of the mob surrounding the Hall of Bounty. Close to three hundred raging Earaqi, Mahjuri, and Kabili swirled around the front entrance, shouting, screaming, and waving weapons of steel and wood. Thirty of the rioters had turned a Mahjuri handcart into an improvised battering ram, which they drove over and over again into the wooden door.
To her relief, only half that number stood between her and the barred side entrance. However, she had only eight Indomitables—a Protector, two Dictators, and five Neophytes. All bore the hard eyes, grizzled faces, and unwavering expressions of veterans. Yet even with her and Hykos added to the mix, they were still outnumbered fifteen to one.
Not the sort of odds any sane person would favor, Issa thought. Yet, the circumstances were anything but sane. Shalandra had gone mad and their only hope of restoring order and reason was to fight.
From her position in the shadows of an alley, she had a clear view of the front of the Hall of Bounty. She would be ready to move when Ormroth and his men executed their part of the plan.
Her gaze went to Hykos, who stood silent and solemn beside her. She wanted to ask why he’d insisted on fighting beside her. It could be argued that theirs was the far more dangerous and desperate role.
Yet a part of her was glad he had spoken up. His calm was infectious, his strong confidence a comfort. She had a passing acquaintance with Chirak, but had spent the last weeks training with Hykos. She knew his fighting style, his speed, his abilities, even the way he walked and ran. When it came down to a desperate battle for their lives, there were few people she’d rather have at her side. They could count on each other no matter what.
Her mind flashed to the faces of her new friends: pale-skinned Kodyn, the fierce Aisha, the swarthy Evren, Lady Briana, and the young Hailen. She hadn’t seen them since they parted ways earlier that morning.
Keeper, protect them in this madness, she prayed. The Face of Mercy had smiled on them before; she could only hope their good fortune held and they survived the turmoil.
The sight of movement on the street beyond the mob drove all other thoughts from Issa’s mind. Even in the early evening gloom, she recognized Enyera and Rilith. The two trainees leaned heavily on each other, staggering and swaying like drunks. Blood stained their faces and they carried no swords.
A moment later, Tiaten emerged from the shadows behind them, half-carrying the sagging forms of Viddan and Nysin. Nysin gave a loud, theatric groan.
“Help!” croaked Enyera. “Help us!”
Their call turned only a few heads, but that was enough.
“Indomitables!” came one shout.
“Keeper’s Blade!” another voice echoed.
More and more throats took up the cry as the mob turned toward the staggering, apparently wounded soldiers. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the battering ram continued unabated, but the cries of “Break it down!” quietened for a heartbeat as the crowd sought out new victims.
A shout shattered the moment. “Get them!” A deep-throated roar erupted as a mass of rioters turned away from their siege of the Hall of Bounty and raced toward the wounded soldiers.
Get out of there! Issa shouted in her mind. The five of them were a diversion, but if they didn’t flee soon, they’d be victims.
Her shoulders tightened as more and more of the Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri abandoned the siege to pursue the soldiers. Tiaten and the four Indomitable trainees turned and tried to hobble away, but that only incited the crowd to greater fury. Roars of triumph echoed from a hundred lips as armed rioters charged their wounded prey.
A new cry pierced the darkness. “For the Pharus!”
Twenty-odd figures burst from the shadows of the alleys near Commoner’s Row and crashed into the pursuing mob. Disorganized, spread out, the rioters had no coherence or opportunity to defend themselves before the black-armored soldiers hit them. Their cries of victory turned to horror, pain, and terror as the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades cut them down.
“For Shalandra!” Ormroth’s roaring cry echoed above the shrieking, panicking throng.
The Indomitables and Archateros Chirak took up the call, until the words “For the Pharus! For Shalandra!” echoed all along Commoner’s Row. The black-armored soldiers hewed through the rioters, their sharp blades and grim resolve more than a match for flesh, rusted steel, and fury. The disciplined Indomitables, led by the steadfast Ormroth and the impossibly strong Chirak, cut a swath of terrible destruction through the mob.
“Bring them down!”
The cry, which came from the nearby side entrance, sounded as music to Issa’s ears.
Yes!
Hope surged within her as half of the besiegers abandoned the assault—at the urging of men in splinted leather armor—and raced toward the battle on Commoner’s Row.
Seventy-five to ten? Issa’s gauntleted hands balled into tight fists. Those are odds I can deal with.
Her plan had worked. The way to the east entrance wasn’t clear, but she had faith in her men’s ability to battle through.
Pain flared in her right side as she drew her two-handed flammard, but the familiar weight of the steel brought a sense of comfort. It felt like forever since she’d held it. She pushed back against the discomfort in her wounded body, her resolve growing as hard and sharp as the sword in her hand.
She shot Hykos a questioning glance. He smiled and nodded, as if to say “All yours.”
With a fierce smile, Issa hissed the command. “Brin
g the bastards down!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A blinding wall of blue-white light met Aisha as she stepped out of the secret tunnel and into the Keeper’s Crypt. The spirits of Shalandra’s dead clustered around the huge, ornate tombs erected in honor of the Dhukari.
Aisha glanced around, trying to get her bearings in the underground tombs. Torches shone off to her right, far in the distance, their glimmer only barely visible between the mausoleums, obelisks, and sandstone statues. That would be the entrance to the Gate of Tombs, the opening that led from the Citadel of Stone into the crypts. Guards would be stationed there, which meant the militants she sought would go as far in the opposite direction as possible.
The pull of the Kish’aa drew Aisha away to the west, deeper into the Keeper’s Crypts. Though she could see no movement in the tombs, nothing to guide her toward her targets, she trusted the spirits to lead her.
The dead had cried out for vengeance, filling Aisha’s mind with glimpses of men unearthing graves. Hallar’s Warriors desecrated the tombs of Shalandra’s dead. She had no idea why, but the spirits’ relentless demands spurred her to break into a run.
Aisha’s heart leapt to her throat as a quiet shuffling, scraping sounded in the darkness behind her. She ducked behind a huge marble obelisk, pulse racing. The noise echoed somewhere in the distance, far enough that she didn’t have to worry about being overtaken. Rather than drawing closer, it seemed they moved away from her.
What was that? Her mind flashed to the Ghandian legends of the adze, a shape-shifting creature that could drain a human of blood and feasted on the organs of wayward children. Or the Okanele, death-bringers and soul-stealers, monstrous creatures that served the will of the wicked Inzayo Okubi.
Shalandra had its own legends of the Stumblers, creatures neither dead nor alive, but souls trapped between life and death, spirits bound to their bodies by dark magics. Yet Aisha knew the truth: they were simply legends and myths. Such creatures didn’t exist.
All the same, she didn’t stick around to find out what lay hidden in the darkness behind her, but moved quickly north, following the spirits’ guidance. Relief flooded her as the sounds faded into the distance.
She followed the urging of the Kish’aa through the ornate tombs of the Dhukari. Marble-tiled mausoleums stood next to figures of pure jade, obelisks cut from midnight-colored onyx, and sarcophagi glittering with hundreds of precious gemstones. One pair of gold-plated, eerily lifelike statues caught her attention. The plaque at the base read, “Lord and Lady Damuria of Voramis”.
Silence and shadows surrounded her. The soft blue-white light of the spirits illuminated the darkness, turning the crypts as bright as midday. Yet in the brilliance, the utter stillness of the tombs seemed all the eerier.
The Kish’aa guided her steps, but Aisha remained fully alert. She’d spent years stalking the Night Guild tunnels or creeping through the shadows with Kodyn; she knew how to stay wary even when no visible threat presented itself. Danger always came when it was least expected.
Nothing but solid, dust-covered stone met her eyes. Through the darkness, she caught a glimpse of a stone wall in the northwest. She had no idea how far into the mountain the tombs had been cut, but she guessed she’d found the northern edge.
But something in the distance caught her eye. She sucked in a quiet breath as she spotted a hole carved into the wall. The opening was large enough for her to pass through upright. Blood turned to ice at the sight of light flickering on the other side of the hole.
She had found Hallar’s Warriors.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aisha slipped through the hole in the wall. The crudely carved passage ran for ten paces before entering another section of tombs beyond. These, however, lacked the ornamentation of the Dhukari memorials outside, but were simple rectangular sarcophagi carved from a stone somehow blacker than onyx. Row upon row of them had been laid out in neat, almost military precision.
The light of oil lamps and lanterns guided her westward, deep into the tomb. The chink, chink of metal striking stone grew louder with every step.
Tension knotted her forearms, and she gripped the wooden handle of her arm-length assegai. Her heart raced, pulse pounding in her ears. Even though she knew the Kish’aa would warn her of danger, as they had in the past, her instincts screamed of peril all around.
Then, in the distance, Aisha caught sight of the militants. Twenty of them, men and women alike, moved furtively among the black sarcophagi in pairs. But they made no move to open the casks and pry out the bodies inside. Instead, one of each pair clambered atop the casks and gripped the crosses that sprouted from the lids, while the other used a hammer and chisel to chip away at the mortar.
Mortar crumbled and the sound of clattering stone echoed off the high ceilings. A moment later, one of the men pulled the cross free with a ring of steel on stone. Aisha’s breath froze in her lungs. Those aren’t crosses. They’re swords!
Long swords, long enough to be wielded with two hands, with flame-shaped blades made of black steel.
The swords of the Keeper’s Blades.
Her jaw dropped. The purpose behind the militants’ actions suddenly crystalized in her mind. Hallar’s Warriors didn’t simply desecrate the graves for the sheer horror of it—they collected weapons to arm themselves for battle.
Keeper’s teeth! Aisha’s eyes roved the black sarcophagi standing solemn guard in the tombs. Scores, perhaps hundreds, had been stripped of their swords, leaving only midnight-colored casks with empty slots where their blade should rest.
The Kish’aa clustered in this section of the crypts so thickly they lit up the darkness as far as Aisha could see. Hundreds wore the black, spiked plate mail of Keeper’s Blades, yet most—thousands upon thousands—could only be the spirits of those slain by the swords. Aisha had first seen it on the journey to Shalandra, when she saw the sword wielded by Ypertatos Ormroth. Somehow, the black Shalandran steel bound the souls of their victims for all eternity.
Suddenly, the flashes she’d seen from the spirits in the militants’ hideouts made sense. Hallar’s Warriors had worn these swords, stolen from the vault reserved for the fallen Keeper’s Blades. Each of those weapons offered the power of the Kish’aa, the thousands killed during the Blades’ life of service.
Hallar’s Warriors cared nothing for the spirits; they wanted the swords to wield against their mortal enemies. These weapons, the tools used by the Keeper’s Blades to protect Shalandra, would be the city’s downfall. Yet the bound Kish’aa imbued those weapons with far more power than normal steel. Aisha had seen the devastation caused by the swords wielded by a Keeper’s Blade and backed by the energy of the dead.
The spirits within her—the slain Keeper’s Blades, champions of Shalandra—tugged her toward the men and women desecrating the grave. They filled her head with images of battle: glorious horseback charges into walls of spearmen, blood-soaked ground and piles of corpses, a rush of triumph and bloodlust as steel sang the terrible song of death.
With effort, Aisha forced her body to remain motionless. No, she insisted. I am not a Keeper’s Blade. I have no armor, no army at my back. She stood alone against twenty militants. This was a battle she could not fight, even with the spirits at her side.
Yet she knew she had to do something. She couldn’t stand by while Hallar’s Warriors robbed the graves and armed themselves to kill more innocents. And the call of the Kish’aa echoed loud in her mind. Their demands for vengeance, for justice threatened to shatter her skull.
A call from nearby sent her ducking for cover. “...those swords to the old man, then the East Gate,” a man’s voice said.
Two militants hurried in her direction, each carrying a fabric-bound bundle in their arms. The objects within the bundles shifted with a metallic clank. The sharp tips of a dozen flammards poked through the cloth wrappings.
Again, Aisha felt torn. The dead needed her help here, but she couldn’t let Hallar’s Warriors disappear with all those wea
pons. Those swords, backed by the power of the Kish’aa, could kill hundreds. The militants would make the terrible situation in Shalandra far worse.
A trail of spirits moved along in the wake of the stolen swords. Keeper’s Blades and their slain enemies alike fixed empty eyes on the blades tethered to their souls. Their wailing sounded so loud Aisha thought her eardrums would shatter.
One Blade in particular caught her eye. A strong, broad-shouldered woman, with hair cut short around her temples and one long braided lock hanging down her back. Her clothing appeared ancient, her armor nothing more than a single solid breastplate.
The spirit of the woman turned empty eyes toward Aisha, her mouth pleading. Aisha’s hand went to the pendant around her neck. The moment her fingers touched the Serenii stone, the cries of the Kish’aa turned from incoherent wails to a cacophony of pleading, demanding, insistent voices. Aisha recoiled beneath the tumult, tears streaming down her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she forced her mind to focus on the voice of that one Blade.
What do you want? she asked the spirit.
The Blade’s response was lost in the discordant cries of the dead. Aisha drew in a deep breath, gripped the pendant tighter, and tried again.
Tell me what you want, servant of Shalandra.
This time, the woman’s voice pierced the cacophony. To defend in death even as I did in life. It is my duty as a Keeper’s Blade.
For a moment, the spirit seemed torn in two. One second she drifted back north, toward her grave, the next floated after the men that had stolen her sword.
Defend what? Aisha asked.
The Tomb of Hallar, the Blade answered. We are forever bound. Despite her words, she seemed desperate to retrieve her sword.
Aisha sucked in a breath. She’s literally bound! The swords were more than just weapons; they bonded to the Blades in life and death.
Give me your power, she commanded, and I will help you retrieve what has been stolen.
She could feel the hesitation, the indecision warring within the spirit. Duty tore the Blade in two; service to her city and her bond to her sword threatened to split her apart.
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