Storm of Chaos

by Andy Peloquin

  He occupied himself in the Hunter’s favorite training activity: sword forms. Or, in Evren’s case, dagger forms. Shorter, sharper movements, more brutal, favoring speed over the elegant grace required to wield a long blade. Evren’s twin jambiyas sliced, hacked, and slashed at the empty air. Every strike cut down the faceless men and women responsible for murdering so many Shalandrans.

  When he finished his forms and still the Secret Keepers hadn’t come, he moved on to shadow boxing. The jabs and punches loosened stiff muscles and set blood rushing through his body. As his hands and feet settled into the motions of combat, his mind began working at the problems facing him.

  First, there was the matter of the Blade of Hallar. He brought to mind every twisting, turning corridor marked out on the Secret Keepers’ map. He’d only managed to commit half of it to memory before dozing off, but the image was sharp, clear in his mind. When the time came to sneak into the palace and enter the vault, he’d know the route as well as he knew the hidden ways into the derelict warehouse he shared with the Hunter, Kiara, and Hailen back in Voramis.

  On to the next problem. He settled into a series of movements that combined low kicks with uppercuts and cross-punches.

  The Azure Rot was bad, but it seemed the Secret Keepers would soon have things firmly in hand. Once they uncovered the source of the poison, they could determine its type and formulate an antidote.

  The matter of Killian returned to plague him. The man wasn’t just a blacksmith, that much was clear the moment he’d found him leading the Mumblers. Yet thiefmaster couldn’t be the only other title to his name, either. He thought like a spy or courtier and fought like a warrior, but had the innate nobility of a commander.

  Then there was the matter of his connection to Issa. Killian had greeted the Keeper’s Blade with a familiarity that went far beyond casual acquaintances. Too many pieces of that particular puzzle for him remained missing for him to understand, yet he couldn’t help wondering who the hell Killian really was beneath his blacksmith’s apron. He’d have to ask Issa about it the next time he saw the Keeper’s Blade.

  If she’s not too busy killing Gatherers and Hallar’s Warriors, that is.

  That name, Hallar’s Warriors, had stuck in his mind after Annat had mocked it. He couldn’t be certain if it was another name for the Gatherers or referred to another group of people entirely. Yet either way, warriors indicated some sort of militant or martial intent. Unless they served Lady Callista in secret—which Evren highly doubted—their objective could only spell more trouble for Shalandra.

  So who in the fiery hell are they? The question nagged at him for long minutes.

  The arrival of the Secret Keepers cut off his training and snapped him from his thoughts. Beside the purple-haired Tianath came a man and a woman, both middle-aged, bespectacled, and with faces as stern and somber as their Guardian’s.

  Motioning for him to follow, they strode toward the vault-like door and exited the Temple of Whispers. Tianath nodded to the two Secret Keepers at the entrance, who returned her greeting with a reverent bow.

  The first rays of morning light had begun to peer over the eastern horizon as they emerged onto the Artificer’s Courseway. Guardian Tianath turned her steps east, toward Commerce Square and Trader’s Way. Evren had no idea where exactly the Hall of Bounty stood, but he trusted the Secret Keepers would take the most direct route. They wanted to stop the Azure Rot as much as he did.

  It took the better part of two hours to reach Trader’s Way and descend through the Cultivator’s Tier to the Slave’s Tier. Instead of traversing the Way of Chains, however, the Secret Keepers ducked into a side street that led westward, deeper into Mahjuri territory.

  Horror churned in Evren’s gut. Every street they passed was clogged with the dead and dying. Men, women, old and young, they lay in the gutters, leaned against golden sandstone walls, or simply collapsed in the middle of the narrow lane. Blood trickled from the eyes, mouths, noses, and ears of the dead, a stark contrast to the blue blisters dotting their lifeless skin. The living were little better off. Noxious pus oozed from their cracking scabs, and their eyes were bright with fever. Gruesome sapphire fingers threaded the veins of their hands, necks, and faces, the disease clawing at their bodies until it consumed them completely.

  The death toll had far exceeded the twenty Mumblers in Killian’s safe house. He lost count at two hundred and fifty, and the stink of decay hung so thick in the air Evren struggled to keep down his meager meal.

  Keeper’s teeth! Evren could scarcely breathe—not out of fear of miasmas, for he knew poison wreaked this terror, but because of the fist of iron squeezing his lungs. We have to solve this now, before everyone in the Slave’s Tier winds up dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of crashing wood, shouting Indomitables, and panicking men and women sent horror rippling through Issa. Dread sank like a stone in her stomach as she approached the street where Samril had seen the black cart with the broken wheel disappear.

  Chaos and violence consumed the Slave’s Tier.

  Black-armored soldiers kicked in doors and stormed homes, hauling out men, women, even screaming children. Protests of innocence fell on deaf ears as the Indomitables kicked, punched, and clubbed the Mahjuri, demanding information about the missing Indomitables and the slain Blade. No answers were forthcoming, but that only intensified the soldiers’ search. They did not hesitate whatever means, no matter how ruthless, to find their comrades.

  Issa had managed to keep three patrols of Indomitables under tight rein. Here, however, two full companies—more than a hundred and twenty heavily-armored soldiers—rampaged through the Slave’s Tier.

  Issa whirled on the two Dictators accompanying her and pinned them in place with a stern glare. Dictator Quen’s face was solemn, tinged with horror, but Issa could see the eager light gleaming in the other Dictator’s eyes. He’d learned nothing from nearly condemning an innocent man to die—on the contrary, the fact that he hadn’t been permitted to take out his anger on Samril only fueled the fire of his rage. Someone had harmed his friends and comrades and he, like all the others, was out for blood.

  “Dictator, take your men and secure the Hall of Bounty!” Issa barked a command.

  The soldier scowled. “Sir, this is where we will be hunting the Gatherers. My men and I should be here, where we can be of the most use.”

  “You can be of use protecting the food stores that feed this entire tier,” Issa growled. “And that’s an order, Dictator.” She narrowed her eyes. “Will that be a problem?”

  The officer’s face hardened and, once again, his jaw took on that stubborn cast. Issa steeled herself for the inevitable argument.

  Years of training won out over the Dictator’s personal desires. “Yes, sir.” He saluted her rank as a Keeper’s Blade, despite his disdain for her personally.

  The Indomitables under his command exchanged angry looks, their eyes roaming over their soldiers tearing through the homes and hovels surrounding them. Yet they, too, fell in line at their Dictator’s command and marched off, away from the tumult to obey.

  Issa breathed an internal sigh of relief. Neither of the Dictators had realized that she was just a trainee, or had thought to question her commands. Her black Shalandran plate mail, the two-handed sword strapped to her back, and the golden band across the forehead of her snarling lion helmet cloaked her in an armor of authority. Even then, she hadn’t been certain the Dictator would obey. Issa hadn’t wanted to use violence to ensure the man followed her orders, but she wouldn’t have hesitated.

  Too many innocent lives hung in the balance tonight. Hundreds could wind up dead if the situation escalated further.

  She turned to Dictator Quen. “Dictator, I’m going to need your help getting this under control. Can I count on you and your men, or should I send you to guard the Lower Wellspring?”

  The woman looked almost queasy as she studied the turmoil. “Yes, sir! We follow your commands.” She snapped a
crisp salute, mirrored by her Indomitables a moment later.

  “Good.” Issa nodded. “We’re only going to be able to stop this one house at a time, one patrol at a time.” She clenched her fists. “Anyone questions you or resists your orders, you send them to me. Understood?”

  Again, a smart salute. “Yes, sir!” Dictator Quen barked out orders to her men, and the ten Indomitables spread out toward the nearest swirling knots of soldiers and struggling Mahjuri.

  The woman hesitated a moment before leaving. “You know you’re asking the impossible, right?” she asked, her voice pitched low. “They’re like hounds let out of their kennel, and they have the scent of blood.”

  “If we don’t get the leash on them now,” Issa growled, “more people could end up dead. And not just Mahjuri.”

  She gave the woman a knowing look—Dictator Quen had to have noticed the simmering anger, hostility, and unrest that gripped the lowest of Shalandra’s tiers. The low-caste Shalandrans resented the Indomitables’ iron fists and wanton brutality. Starved, pushed to their limits, they were a heartbeat from snapping. If that happened, it would take far more than steel armor and sharp swords to protect the Indomitables from the angry Mahjuri, Kabili, and Earaqi. Ten thousand men and women wore the black armor; close to two hundred thousand were condemned to live on the lowest tiers.

  Resignation echoed in the Dictator’s voice. “Yes, sir.” With a salute, Quen hurried away to follow Issa’s commands.

  “As for the nine of you,” Issa said, turning to her patrol, “I need you to find that cart. Talk to anyone who’s willing to speak, but don’t waste your breath trying to stop their rampage.”

  Nysin, Rilith, Viddan, and the others of her trainee patrol glared at her. She could see their desire to help the Mahjuri, to try and protect the innocents being harmed by the Indomitables’ fury. Yet Issa needed them to focus on the mission Lady Callista had given them.

  “That cart leads us to the Gatherers,” Issa told them. “It’s up to you to find it so we can put an end to this madness before it gets out of hand. Hurry!”

  She would do what she could to stop this madness, even if she did it alone.

  The nine trainees saluted and broke off into groups, hurrying into the nearby alleys and side streets in search of the cart Villasa had overheard and Samril had seen. She spared a moment to send up a prayer to the Long Keeper. May the Faces of Justice, Mercy, and Vengeance shine down on me and strengthen my arm. Not only so I might avenge Kellas’ death, but so that I can do right by the people suffering here.

  Slowly, Issa drew her two-handed sword and stalked toward the nearest group of Indomitables. The four black-armored soldiers wielded wooden clubs, striking at a Mahjuri too bloodied, bruised, and starved to fight back. Their demands for answers met only silence—they’d bludgeoned the man into near-unconsciousness—yet that only fueled their fire.

  “Enough!” she roared. “Where is your Dictator?”

  The soldiers whirled to face her, a sneer on their lips. Insolent retorts died unspoken on their lips and fear filled their eyes as they caught sight of her. She stalked toward them, flame-bladed sword drawn, a solid wall of black Shalandran steel, fury blazing like Dalmisa’s volcanic heart within her.

  “Sir!” The Indomitables saluted. “Dictator Umild is two houses down, searching for Gatherers and collaborators.”

  As if on cue, a high-pitched shriek of mingled pain and terror echoed from the house the Indomitables had indicated. The four Indomitables exchanged a glance. A hint of delight shone in their eyes, replaced a moment later by something resembling shame as they remembered Issa’s presence.

  “You four, come with me!” Issa’s voice cracked like a whip.

  “But, sir, this man was—”

  “Now!” Issa roared. She held her sword ready to strike—anger and bloodlust had driven them beyond reasoning, but if they wouldn’t answer to her authority as a Keeper’s Blade, she would beat them into submission just as they intended with the nearly unconscious Mahjuri at their feet.

  The Indomitables actually flinched, reaching for their swords, but stopped as rationality kicked in. They faced a Keeper’s Blade, one of Shalandra’s elite warriors, servants of the Long Keeper, the Pharus, and Lady Callista Vinaus, their commanding officer. Though Issa had no established place in their military hierarchy, all Indomitables knew to follow an order given by a Keeper’s Blade.

  “Yes, sir!” The two soldiers clutching the Mahjuri’s robe released him, letting his bloodied and beaten body fall to the street.

  Terror drove the man to his feet. He stumbled off down the road, groaning with each step, but he cast a venomous glance over his shoulder at his tormentors. Issa’s gut clenched—she’d seen that hatred and resentment in too many eyes tonight.

  Issa stalked toward the house where the soldiers had indicated they’d find Dictator Umild, and she let out a silent breath as the tromp, tromp of the four Indomitables’ boots echoed behind her. She wasn’t certain what she’d have done if they hadn’t followed her—attacking an Indomitable could only worsen the situation and set the Alqati against her rather than obeying orders.

  The shrill scream echoed from within the hovel again, cut off an instant later. Issa raced up the steps and rushed through the door. The sight that greeted her sent a chill of horror down her spine.

  A Mahjuri man lay on the floor, eyes staring wide and unseeing. Blood poured from a gash in his head and pooled around his lifeless body. Beyond the corpse, two black-armored Indomitables wrestled with thrashing figures. Mother and daughter struggled against the men that held them pinned down, hands clasped over their mouths to stifle their screams.

  Issa charged.

  She swung with all the force of her fury, and the flat of her blade clanged off the back of the first man’s helmet. The blow knocked him forward and he collapsed atop the struggling teenager. Whipping around, Issa brought the pommel of her two-handed sword down on the base of the second man’s skull. She kicked the unconscious man off his victim, sending him crashing against the wall. Before the first man could recover and stagger upright, Issa drove her boot into his face. His head snapped back and he fell beside his senseless comrade.

  The two women scrambled away from the two prone Indomitables, eyes wide in terror. They cringed back from Issa, weeping and clutching each other.

  “Peace,” Issa said in a soothing tone. “You are safe.” She reached out a hand, but the two women fled screaming from her. They raced out the back door—the door they’d been trying to reach when the Indomitables attacked—and disappeared into the night.

  Every fiber of Issa’s being wanted to execute the two unconscious Indomitables where they lay. They were murderers, attempted rapists, men who sought to use the power of their position and physical strength to take what they wanted from the weak. They were the lowest of the low and everything the Mahjuri, Earaqi, and Kabili hated about the Indomitables.

  It took all of Issa’s willpower to lower her sword. She rounded on the four Indomitables. “Arrest them,” she said, her voice a low growl.

  Shame burned in their eyes, their expressions chagrined.

  “Sir—” began one.

  Issa cut him off with a shout. “Arrest them!” Her roar cut through the din and set the walls of the hovel rattling. “You saw with your own eyes. They are guilty of attempted rape and murder.”

  The four men made no move but hesitated, their eyes darting between Issa and their senseless officer.

  Issa stalked toward the men. “Unless you want Lady Callista Vinaus herself to hear of your actions this night, you will arrest them this instant.” Rage burned in her belly—not a hot rage, but a cold fury, as unyielding as the glaciers of the Frozen Sea and as destructive as the Four-Bladed Winds. She raised her sword. “Now!”

  The men snapped into motion. They tugged the pre-knotted arresting ropes free of their belts and set about binding the unconscious Indomitables’ hands.

  Dictator Umild awoke first. Groaning
, he tried to move, only to find his hands bound behind his back. “What in the Keeper’s name is going on?” he roared, squirming around to face Issa. His eyes went wide at the sight of her black armor, two-handed sword, and snarling lion helmet. “I don’t know what you think happened here, but—”

  “Silence!” Issa drove her boot into his face. “You will have your chance to plead your case before the Pharus.”

  The Dictator sagged in his bonds, his head striking the stone floor with a loud thump.

  Issa turned on the four Indomitables. “Take them to the Pharus’ dungeons. If anyone asks, tell them Issa of the Keeper’s Blades ordered it, by order of Callista Vinaus herself.”

  The four men exchanged glances—the name of the Lady of Blades lent her all the authority she needed. They dragged the senseless Indomitables to their feet and hauled them toward the door.

  “Know this,” Issa growled, “if I find that you failed in this duty, I will come for all of you, personally.” She bared her teeth in a snarl. “Not even the Pharus himself will be able to save you from my wrath.”

  The four men gave awkward salutes and hurried from the hovel.

  Issa stalked out into the night after them. Shouts, screams, and angry snarls of rage echoed in the darkness around her. The sound of crashing boots and crying women and children set Issa’s hands trembling with rage. The violence and chaos hadn’t diminished—if anything, it had gotten more out of hand in the minute it had taken her to deal with Dictator Umild. She had saved two lives, but how many more had died in that time?