Storm of Chaos

by Andy Peloquin

  Weapons gathered to be delivered into the “right hands”. He didn’t know whose hands those were, but he was fairly certain they weren’t thinking about keeping the peace in Shalandra. The crowds he’d spotted on the Slave’s Tier earlier could quickly turn ugly—weapons would only escalate things until the situation became an all-out bloodbath. Innocent people would die along with Indomitables, Keeper’s Blades, Gatherers, and anyone else caught up in the violence.

  People “in place” before nightfall, right after a sundown execution. Executions tended to draw crowds, and the cultists had made it clear that the crowds would be easily riled up. Evren had to agree; he’d seen the hostile looks and angry mutterings that permeated the city. He knew the situation could deteriorate with one wrong word or action—they very nearly had the night of the attack on Suroth’s mansion.

  If the Gatherers wanted to incite violence, they had the perfect storm of chaos—either by sheer rotten luck or their own creation. Judging by their words, he leaned more toward the latter. If they had given whatever evidence led the Keeper’s Council to convict Aterallis, they had manipulated circumstances until it all culminated in one final terrible outcome: civil war in Shalandra.

  That morning, Evren had sworn a silent vow to find a way to improve conditions in Shalandra for the Mahjuri, those condemned to misery, poverty, and starvation. Now, those same people were being played, the flames of their anger and resentment fanned to serve the will of Hallar’s Warriors, the Gatherers, or whoever the bloody hell was pulling the strings. He might not be able to feed every Mahjuri or single-handedly stop an army of Indomitables from rampaging through the Slave’s Tier, but he could damned well fight to prevent a war that could rip Shalandra apart.

  But how? The question froze him in place. He was one man, and the Mahjuri numbered in the hundreds of thousands. He could run through the streets shouting until his voice grew ragged and it would have about as much effect as a worm trying to burrow into a diamond.

  Going to the Pharus or Lady Callista himself would be folly and a monumental waste of time. He’d spend hours trying in vain to convince the Indomitables to let him in. Kodyn and Aisha might have better luck than him, but who knew where in Shalandra they were? Briana was effectively a prisoner in the Temple of Whispers alongside Hailen. While the Secret Keepers wielded some power in the city, they literally had no voice to try to calm the people.

  There was only one person he could turn to for help. A person with some measure of influence in the Keeper’s Tier, the ear of Lady Callista, and the gratitude of the Pharus.

  Issa. His jaw clenched. I’ve got to find Issa!

  Last he’d seen her, she had been marching east along the Way of Chains, escorting a man—likely the Aterallis mentioned by the Gatherers, Hallar’s Warriors, or whatever these people called themselves. In the time he’d taken to find the secret passage, she’d likely have reached the Cultivator’s Tier. Now, with his delay, he’d have to run his heart out to catch her before she arrived at the Palace of Golden Eternity.

  Blackfinger would have to wait. The threat of Ybrazhe paled in comparison to what would happen if the Gatherers could whip up an already-angry crowd. He knew where to find the Syndicate’s hideout, and it would still be there after the danger had passed. But right now, the future of Shalandra hung in the balance.

  Without hesitation, he set off at a run. His steps led north, toward the passage that would take him up to the Artisan’s Tier. There, he had a vague idea of where to find the tunnels to guide him up to the Keeper’s Tier—very likely the same one the Gatherers had used the night they attacked Suroth’s mansion. Only this time, the passages would be used to save Shalandra, not destroy it.

  Even as he ran, the futility of his task weighed on him. Shalandra was enormous, and his chances of locating Issa bordered on impossible. One wrong turn, one wrong decision, and he’d be half a city away from the only person he could count on to help him.

  Yet he had to try. He’d heard every one of the Hunter’s stories—fighting a horde of bloodthirsty bandits, defeating evil demons, slaying stone-skinned monsters, stopping hundreds of thousands of innocent people from being executed. Every one of those stories had one common thread: an impossible situation with no way out. But the Hunter had fought on, too bull-headed and determined to quit. In the end, he had accomplished the impossible.

  That was what Evren had to do now. He faced a terrible evil and had little hope of success. The enormity of his mission threatened to shatter his willpower, to drag him down beneath the burden of futility. But he’d be damned if he gave in to that sense of helplessness. If he did, if he gave anything less than his absolute utmost, Shalandra would be destroyed, and everyone he loved along with it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Issa had never seen anyone walk to their own execution with such grace and calm. Aterallis stood tall, poised, far more composed than anyone Issa had ever seen walking onto the wooden execution platform of Murder Square. Peace and quiet acceptance filled the eyes of the man called “Hallar Reborn” and “Child of Gold”. He had no fear of death. Eternity in the arms of the Long Keeper awaited him.

  The crowd around Murder Square was anything but calm. Men and women shouted angry threats in protest of the injustice or stood quietly with their sorrow, weeping, their tear-rimmed eyes fixed on the man that had preached peace and joy. Aterallis’ disciples tried to keep pace, calling out to their master or hurling impassioned pleas on the deaf ears of the Indomitables.

  Anger seeped into the bones of everyone on the Slave’s Tier that afternoon.

  “This isn’t right!” growled Nysin from a step behind her.

  Issa knew she ought to snap at the young Mahjuri Neophyte—such sentiments would only add to the tension of the situation—yet she couldn’t argue with the statement. Despite the evidence that had been uncovered, it seemed impossible that the man who strode between her and Etai could be capable of such cold-blooded violence.

  But she had her orders. Lady Callista had made clear her decision and the importance of upholding the Keeper’s Council’s ruling. Though it grated on her conscience, she would fulfill her duties. She owed Lady Callista her loyalty and faithful service.

  “Child of Spirits!” came a cry from the crowd.

  “Child of Gold!” another voice echoed.

  “Child of Spirits!” called out a third.

  “Save us from the judgement foretold!”

  The crowd took up the chant, the words echoing from a dozen lips, a hundred, finally a thousand. The sound washed over Issa with near-tangible force. A deep, simmering anger echoed in the cry, outrage at the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades responsible for the execution.

  The cry followed Issa west along the Way of Chains, swelling to a roar as they approached Murder Square. A wall of Indomitables four ranks deep formed a solid barrier of steel and flesh between the platform and the angry crowd. The black-armored soldiers parted to make way for Issa and her company. One group of young Earaqi tried to surge through the gap, to break Aterallis free of Issa’s grip. They were brought down by Indomitables with heavy clubs and solid shields.

  The light of the setting sun cast a rosy glow over Murder Square. But instead of filling the air with a gentle beauty, it seemed to coat the golden sandstone, the rust-colored wood, and the jostling people in a bloody hue.

  Issa’s stomach tightened as she caught sight of the figure standing silent on the execution platform. Even beneath the polished steel war mask and the snarling lion helmet that hid his features from view, Issa would recognize the man anywhere. Those broad, sloped shoulders, hulking size, and thick-fingered hands gripping a six-foot-long flammard could only belong to Invictus Tannard.

  Another man stood beside Tannard, barely tall enough to reach the Invictus’ shoulders. He had the pudgy build of the Necroseti and wore an ornate shawl and ostrich feather headband of black and gold.

  Issa, Etai, and their Indomitables marched their prisoner toward the notched and bloo
d-stained chopping block in the center of the platform. Aterallis didn’t hesitate at the sight of the death that awaited him. He strode calmly up the stairs and onto the execution platform. When they stopped, he turned to face the crowd with a placid, almost contented smile on his face.

  The Necroseti stepped forward, cleared his throat, and unrolled a scroll. The chanting of the crowd swallowed up his reedy voice. He tried again, louder, but the throng drowned out his voice with ease.

  Aterallis raised his hands, and immediately a reverent hush fell over the crowd. Issa held her breath—she’d never seen such power, not even wielded by the Pharus himself.

  The Keeper’s Priest scowled at the entire crowd as he lifted the scroll and read. “Aterallis of the Dhukari, son of Naemedra, Minor Divinity of the Necroseti, stands before you convicted of crimes against Shalandra.” His voice rang out across Murder Square. “The murder, torture, and desecration of a Keeper’s Blade. The murder of ten Indomitable recruits.”

  Angry shouts rose from the crowd. “A mistake!” cried one. “A trick of the Keeper’s Priests!” called another. Soon, the entire throng echoed protests of Aterallis’ innocence.

  Tannard nodded to the two Indomitables that had taken up position by the drums. The soldiers slammed their arm-length drumsticks onto the tight-stretched hides, and a loud boom, boom, boom echoed across Murder Square. They continued pounding the drums until the people fell silent.

  The black-and-gold-robed priest’s face was pinched into a tight frown. “By order of the Keeper’s Council and in the name of Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres of Shalandra, Guardian of Dawnbreaker, Chosen of Hallar, Word of Justice and Death, and Revered Servant of the Long Keeper, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

  The priest seemed to be struggling to keep his expression blank. He failed miserably. Smug contentment stained his pudgy face as he rolled up the scroll and turned to Aterallis. “Does the condemned have any final words?”

  “I do.” Aterallis gave the priest a smile. Issa was shocked to see genuine warmth in the man’s expression. His eyes held no trace of anger, fear, or hostility, simply peaceful acceptance.

  He stepped forward and raised his voice to the crowd. “My brothers and sisters, do not weep for me, and do not let my death drive you to anger. For I go to a better place, a place of peace, joy, and rest in the arms of the Long Keeper.”

  Aterallis’ head turned and his eyes scanned the crowd. Everywhere he looked, crying people fell silent and angry glares faded.

  “Our god has blessed me to spend these days among you. Now, I am being sent to prepare a place for you to join me. The day of the Final Destruction approaches. Be ready, my friends, my family. The Long Keeper comes for us all. He will bear us up in his embrace, where we will spend an eternity in the beauty and wonder that is the Sleepless Lands. Live not for this life, but for the next.”

  A reverent hush fell over the crowd as Aterallis’ strong voice faded.

  Aterallis turned to Tannard and gave him a courtly bow. “Blessed are you who serve our god. Carry out your duty, noble warrior of death.”

  With that, he knelt and laid his head on the execution block.

  “No!” An angry roar burst from the crowd, and three broad-shouldered Earaqi youths rushed the wooden platform upon which their Child of Gold knelt. The light of the setting sun glinted off short belt knives clenched in their fists.

  Ice slithered down Issa’s spine as the nearest Indomitables raised their khopeshes to strike. The three unarmored Earaqi would die in a heartbeat, but their blood would incite the crowd to violence. A few dozen Indomitables and Blades wouldn’t be enough to turn back the tide of death and chaos.

  Issa had never moved so fast in her life. Fear lent wings to her feet as she raced the two steps toward the edge of the platform and leaped. She flew over the spiked helms and upraised swords of the Indomitables, landing with a crash before the charging Earaqi.

  She thrust out a hand. “Stop!” Her voice thundered with all the authority she could muster.

  The three Earaqi skidded to a halt, shocked surprise piercing the anger burning in their eyes.

  Issa faced the youths, determination solid in her stomach and her hands empty. Baring steel would only escalate the tension; she had to find a way to stop the situation from getting out of hand.

  Issa fixed them with a hard glare. “Don’t do this! Don’t make this worse.”

  “Worse?” one of the youths shouted. “You’re about to execute a man who has done nothing but preach peace and justice.”

  “Peace and justice,” Issa retorted, thrusting a finger at their daggers. “Not violence.” She held up her hands. “You heard him speak, yet you resort to bloodshed? That is not the way of the Child of Gold.” She didn’t believe Aterallis’ preachings, yet if she could use his words, his message to avert disaster, she would. “It is only in adversity that our faith in the Long Keeper is tested, is it not?”

  The three Earaqi youths exchanged glances, uncertainty written in their eyes. Hope blossomed within Issa’s chest as their daggers wavered, lowered a fraction. She was getting through to them.

  “There is no need for blood.” Issa shook her head. “This is justice.” Saying the words rankled her to her core; she couldn’t believe Aterallis was guilty, but the Keeper’s Council had sentenced him to death. Much as she hated it, Issa had no choice but to carry out Lady Callista’s orders.

  The Earaqi’s faces hardened, and anger blazed in their eyes. Yet before they could move, another voice—strong, rich, ringing with conviction—echoed behind her.

  “Behold, the messenger of peace clad in the trappings of war!” Aterallis’ voice held no trace of mockery, only approval, even a hint of respect. “Look well, my brothers and sisters, and heed the example of Shalandra’s truest servant. Trained in the way of violence, yet seeking to avert it without drawing weapons. Follow her example, and pursue peace with the same fervency. Let her actions guide your steps, for the sake of this life and the next.”

  Silence hung thick in Murder Square. Not a single person stirred or dared to move. Even the wind fell quiet, as if it, too, stopped its endless roving to bear witness to the fateful moment.

  Three daggers clattered to the stone of the Way of Chains, and the Earaqi youths melted into the crowd.

  Issa turned back toward Aterallis. The man still knelt, but he sat upright, his eyes fixed on her.

  “The Long Keeper chose well,” Aterallis said, a beatific smile on his face. “You are the hope for a better future.”

  The words pierced Issa to the core. Somehow, he seemed to see through her, his gaze piercing the core of her being. She could do nothing, say nothing, simply meet his calm stare in silence.

  “Until we meet in the next life, daughter of Shalandra.” With a nod to her, he once more placed his head onto the execution block and closed his eyes.

  Issa’s gut tightened. This is so wrong. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the man. Suddenly, she understood why the people loved him. Not because he preached grace, peace, and justice, but because he was its embodiment. In that moment, she knew the truth. He could never be the killer.

  Yet it was too late.

  The whole Slave’s Tier seemed to hold its breath as Tannard lifted his sword. Razor-sharp steel shone in the fading sunlight, rays of red-gold casting shadows across the curving metal length. Issa’s ears filled with the slight humming of the vibrating steel.

  A fist of iron squeezed her heart and she found herself unable to breathe. She could only track the movement of the rising blade, hovering above Tannard’s head, a dark, glittering finger of death thrust into the golden sky.

  Steel sang as it fell. A dull thunk echoed across Murder Square. Aterallis’ severed head fell into the basket with a quiet thump, accompanied by the drip, drip of his blood.

  Silence permeated Murder Square, so all-consuming it felt as if every living thing surrounding Issa had died with Aterallis. Her own heart seemed suspended between beats, refusing to continue
pounding in mute farewell to the Child of Gold.

  Suddenly, Murder Square was awash with sound and movement: weeping, shouting, wailing, angry outbursts and recriminations. Issa tensed out of instinct, a hand reaching for her sword in expectation of the rush of angry Mahjuri seeking to take out their fury on the executions. She opened her mouth to order her Indomitables to form a defensive formation and prepare for attack.

  Yet no onslaught came. Instead, every man, woman, and child—Mahjuri, Earaqi, Kabili, and the few Zadii and Intaji sprinkled among the crowd—sat down on the Way of Chains. Their eyes remained fixed on the headless body of the one they had hailed as Hallar Reborn, sorrow etched into the lines of their faces and heads held high in defiance.

  Aterallis had gotten his final wish. The people of Shalandra protested their fallen Child of Gold, but they had chosen peace.

  Somehow, that made it all the harder for Issa to stomach.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ennolar shot Aisha, Kodyn, and Briana a dour expression before stalking from the chamber. Tianath and the other Guardians made to follow, but the spark of Thimara’s life flared to brilliant life within Aisha as the stern-faced Uryan turned to go.

  “Guardian Uryan!” Aisha called out. “A moment, please.”

  The middle-aged woman froze, her spine rigid. When she turned, she fixed narrowed eyes on Aisha’s face. “What?” her fingers asked, a short, sharp motion, her thin lips pressed into a white line. Clearly she hadn’t forgotten what Aisha had told her of Thimara.

  Now, confronted by the Secret Keeper’s stern gaze, Aisha found herself at a loss for words. Thimara’s spirit hummed within her, an urgency and burning desire surging in her chest like a cresting wave. Yet a sense of frustration resonated in Aisha’s mind as Thimara tried to communicate through her. A moment later, an image of the Secret Keeper’s final moments danced in front of her eyes. Aisha found her eyes drawn to the ink-stained parchment beneath the dying Thimara’s quill pen.