“Not them,” Evren cut off. “Them!”
Three pairs of eyes turned in the direction his finger was pointing: at a patrol of Indomitables marching westward along the Artificer’s Courseway.
It took Issa and Etai less than a minute to convince—order, more accurately—the Dictator of the Indomitable patrol to join them. Lady Callista Vinaus’ name lent their commands extra weight.
“There’s another patrol ten minutes behind us,” the officer said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s the closest we’ll get to reinforcements on the Artisan’s Tier for now. Most of the Executors, Sentinels, and Protectors are up on the Keeper’s Tier preparing for the new Councilor’s grand procession. Or down on the Slave’s Tier keeping an eye on the crowds around that Aterallis fellow.”
“Twenty Indomitables are more than enough to handle thrice that number of thugs,” Issa said.
The remark elicited beaming smiles from the black-armored guards—all around the same age as Kodyn. They straightened and gripped their sickle-shaped swords, the spark of determination glimmering in their eyes.
Issa turned to Etai. “Run ahead, find that patrol, and meet us at the miller.”
Etai saluted and ran off.
“Kodyn and I will scout ahead,” Evren told Issa and the Dictator. “Keep an eye out for Syndicate watchers.”
“Good thinking.” Kodyn punched a balled fist into his palm. “If we can hit them unawares, their numbers won’t matter.”
“Go,” Issa said. “We’re two minutes behind you.”
Evren turned to Kodyn. “I’ll take the Artificer’s Courseway and come at them from the south, you take the alleys from the west, yeah?”
Kodyn cocked an eyebrow. “You’re giving me the approach that goes past the tanneries?”
Evren gave him an innocent smile. “Praamian like you’ll stand out in a crowd a lot more than I will.”
Kodyn scowled. “Sure, that’s it, not that you’d rather not wade through that Keeper-damned stink.”
“Just being practical.” Evren shrugged, but he couldn’t stop a hint of a smile from twisting his lips.
Kodyn didn’t look pleased but he nodded his assent. “Fine.”
“Two minutes behind you!” Issa called after them as he and Kodyn raced eastward along the Artificer’s Courseway.
Evren’s body protested as he ran. He hadn’t had a proper drink of water in hours, and his last meal had been the scraps he’d taken from Hailen’s plate the previous evening. Yet the sense of urgency spurred him onward. He had to get to Killian before the Ybrazhe killed him—and, given the way their encounter with Annat had gone last night, he wouldn’t be surprised to find the Syndicate thug slit the blacksmith’s throat.
Not if I get to them first!
Kodyn ran along beside him, looking equally weary yet equally determined. When they reached Trader’s Way, the Praamian headed north and ducked into a side street that ran parallel to the Artificer’s Courseway. Evren continued along the main avenue, threading through the dense early morning throng crammed into Industry Square.
He scanned the crowd as he ran, eyes wary for anyone who looked out of place: rough-looking men stationed on street corners rather than guarding a specific shop or stall, people standing and obstructing the flow of traffic, or crowds giving a too-wide berth to thugs with scowling faces and heavy hands. They were easy to spot because they stood out from the normal flow of a dense-packed place like the market.
Though he caught no one out of place, he refused to be lulled into complacency. Every step closer to Miller’s Alley brought him nearer the Ybrazhe’s hideout. Only idiots would fail to post guards or watchers. Thus far, the Syndicate had proven themselves too competent to make that mistake.
His vigilance paid off as he came in sight of Miller’s Alley. He spotted the watchers instantly: a bull-necked fellow and a sharp-eyed man with a rat face and the nervously twitching fingers of a pickpocket.
Their presence confirmed his suspicions—the Syndicate was keeping an eye out, yet it also filled him with relief. If Killian was dead, the Ybrazhe would have abandoned the hiding place and taken the watchers with them.
The two had taken up position on a corner in the shadow of an overhanging awning. They did a piss-poor job of blending into the crowds, and people shied away from their fists and the batons hanging at their belts.
Evren, however, proved far less incompetent at evading attention. He kept his head down, his posture slumped, hair hanging around his face to hide his features. With his dark skin, red Earaqi headband, and nondescript clothing, he was just one more face in a faceless crowd.
Right up until he passed the two thugs. The moment he slipped out of their field of vision, he slithered around behind them, drew his dagger, and chopped at the thin pole supporting the awning. The wood cracked beneath the force of his blow and the awning collapsed. The crossbar caught the taller man square in the face and rapped the second soundly atop his skull. Blood gushed from the big thug’s nose and he staggered backward, colliding with the wall. Evren rushed him and punched him in the fork of the legs as hard as he could. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he sagged atop the unconscious form of his smaller comrade.
Evren grinned. Two down. A part of him wondered if he should kill them. They wouldn’t regain consciousness in time to give warning to the Ybrazhe in the mill, but they could still join the inevitable fight, attack from behind, or, even if they fled, cause problems down the line.
The arrival of another Indomitable patrol, with Etai at its lead, saved him from having to make a choice he’d regret. Two Indomitables bound the unconscious thugs as Evren continued on down Miller’s Alley, in the direction of the miller’s shop where he’d found the Syndicate torturing Serias.
A sense of urgency thrummed within him. Time was running out—for Killian and them both. Every second’s delay could give the Ybrazhe a chance to kill the blacksmith. If they didn’t get to the palace in time, Angrak would escape justice.
He spotted two more watchers but trusted that Etai and her Indomitables could deal with them before they raised alarm. Once he passed them, the way to the mill’s front was clear. The Ybrazhe seemed to want to maintain an innocuous appearance on the outside. However, Evren couldn’t help worrying about what he’d find inside the mill.
Evren stalked closer and slipped to the south side of the building, to the still-open chute he’d looked in the previous night. There was no mistaking the figures of Annat and a handful of his thugs—Evren counted fifteen within sight, but there could be more in the shadows.
And Killian, tied to the same millstone where Serias had been tortured the previous night. Dried blood caked his face and upper lip, but he gritted his teeth against a cry as two thugs slowly crushed his hands beneath the millwheel.
Evren’s gut clenched as Annat drew a knife and pressed it to Killian’s throat. He didn’t waste time worrying about whether or not the Syndicate thug would follow through on his threat. He leapt to his feet, crossed to the door of the mill, and kicked it open.
“Indomitables!” His shout echoed in the mill. “Two patrols, right behind me.”
Again, the thugs in the room whirled toward him, hands dropping to their weapons. Yet they froze at the sight of him—just one young man, the same one that had pulled the farce on them hours earlier.
This time, however, Evren didn’t flee. He stood his ground, eyes fixed on the thugs arrayed in front of him. Another ten or twelve bull-necked men hovered in the shadows of the mill, making nearly thirty with the original fifteen.
“It’s the kid from last night!” shouted one of the thugs.
Recognition flashed in Annat’s eyes and he turned to Evren, a sneer twisting his lips. “We won’t fall for that again.”
Evren breathed a silent sigh of relief as the dagger moved away from Killian’s throat. The blacksmith had looked up at the sound of his voice, and a questioning glance filled his eyes.
“Take him!” Ann
at snapped. “He’s stupid enough to try the trick twice, he’ll learn what happens when you mess with the Ybrazhe Syndicate.”
“Trick?” Evren shot the foremost thugs a curious glance. “What trick?”
“With the Indomitable patrol,” put in one who had particularly dull, thick-looking features. “Last time, you made us think—”
“Oh, I remember.” A fierce grin split Evren’s face as he drew his jambiya. “This time, though, it’s no trick.”
That was when Issa burst through the door. Wood splintered beneath the force of Issa’s charge. She barreled into the mill, sword drawn and held at the ready. Anger burned in her eyes as she caught sight of the blacksmith.
The Keeper’s Blade never slowed her charge. She reached the first Ybrazhe thug and cut the stunned man down with a vicious vertical chop that plowed devastation through his collarbone, ribs, and heart. The man crumpled and slid free of her blade, and she swung for another thug, who had regained his wits fast enough to raise his baton. Her upward slash opened a deep gash in his stomach, chest, and forearm.
Then the second Blade, Etai, charged through the door and joined the battle. Her black steel blade hewed off a leg, and the thug screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at the crimson fountaining from what had once been his knee. Together, the two black-armored figures carved their way through the nearest thugs, their swords flashing in deadly tandem.
A roar of rage snapped Evren’s attention back to his own safety. The dim-witted thug charged him, a spike-studded club gripped in his huge fists. His eyes narrowed as he brought the weapon swinging toward Evren’s head.
Evren flowed to the side, dodging the blow, then struck out with a quick slashing blow that opened the side of the huge thug’s neck. Crimson fountained into the air and the man stumbled, sagged, and fell to the flour-covered floor.
Another thug charged, this time wielding a short sword with far more proficiency than brute strength. Evren was forced to bring his second jambiya to bear, turning aside the vicious strokes rather than blocking. He couldn’t hope to match the huge man’s strength but he had speed on his side.
When the thug overextended his next thrust, Evren dragged the jambiya’s curving edge along the man’s forearm. Steel parted flesh with ease, eliciting a scream. A quick uppercut snapped the thug’s jaw shut on his tongue. The man’s screams doubled as a piece of soft flesh fell from his bloodied mouth.
Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. A fist of iron squeezed Evren’s heart as he caught sight of Annat charging toward Killian, dagger poised to strike the bound blacksmith.
Evren would never reach Killian in time, but he couldn’t let the man die. They needed the information he had, but it was more than that. He owed the blacksmith for giving him the position in Suroth’s household—because of Killian, he’d come in contact with Briana, Kodyn, Aisha, and Issa. He had allies now, maybe even friends, and the blacksmith had made that happen, albeit indirectly.
He did the only thing he could: he threw one of his jambiyas. The curved daggers were made for hand-to-hand fighting, but the Hunter had forced him to drill at knife-throwing for hours each week. Evren knew the weight and balance of the twin blades to perfection.
The jambiya left his right hand the moment before Annat drove his dagger into Killian’s throat. The blade spun through the air and buried into the Syndicate thug’s side. Annat cried out and fell to the side as if punched by an invisible hand. The blade fell from his hands to clatter to the floor beside Killian.
“Evren, behind you!”
The blacksmith’s warning shout snapped Evren around, just in time to raise his left-handed dagger and block a club strike. The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder and wrenched his wrist, but he managed to deflect the blow. His right fist came around in a perfect hook that caught the thug in the side of the head. The man sagged to one knee, stunned, and Evren finished him with a pommel strike to the temple.
Whirling, he searched the miller’s shop for Annat. The man had staggered to his feet, one hand clutching the dagger buried to its hilt in his side. Blood dripped from the wound in his side and stained his tunic and shendyt, yet he seemed unwilling to accept that he was dying. He drew another blade from within his clothing and raised it to strike at Killian.
The blow never landed. Evren leapt toward the wounded thug and drove his left-handed blade into the thug’s stomach. Annat fell back with a cry, but Evren seized the hilts of both jambiya in a firm grip. The two daggers pulled free of the thug’s body with a quick sucking sound as Annat collapsed. He lay on the ground, groaning, clutching his gut, blood tingeing his mouth and spilling from his lips. With a final hate-filled glare for Evren, his head fell slack to the flour-covered floor. He lay still in an ever-widening pool of crimson amidst a sea of white flour.
Evren stared down at the thug. He felt no pity, no remorse at the man’s death. Annat had tortured Serias and Killian; doubtless he would have killed both had Evren not intervened. He had been the one to alert the Gatherers to the location of Briana’s house.
If anyone in this room deserved death, it was most definitely Annat.
Evren flicked the blood from his daggers and wiped the crimson from his face. Two long steps took him to Killian’s side, where he crouched, blades held at the ready, defiance burning like an inferno in his stomach.
Come and get it, you bastards!
Chapter Forty-Five
Relief washed through Issa as she saw Evren’s thrown dagger punch into the Syndicate thug’s side. The sight of the bloody blacksmith had driven her into a rage—she owed everything to Killian. The blacksmith had spent years training her to fight, even against her grandparents’ wishes. He was the one who had prepared her for the Crucible. She was only a Keeper’s Blade because of the blacksmith.
But that wasn’t all. Throughout the years, Killian had been kind to her. A stern teacher and relentless instructor, yet never cruel like Tannard. He pushed her to her limits without demanding the impossible. He’d never tried to convince her to join his Mumblers or pressured her into helping him collect his secrets. He had seen something in her and fostered it. She owed so much of who she was as a person and a warrior to the blacksmith with his heavy beard and devious mind.
An Ybrazhe thug charged her, sword driving toward her chest. Her armor could take the blow but she never let it land—Killian had taught her better than that. Her flammard swung around in a neat arc, knocking the man’s sword aside with the strong swing of the blade while opening his throat with the tip. She lifted a boot and drove it into the man’s chest, sending him stumbling into the thug behind him. A quick thrust finished the fallen man, and Etai brought down the next thug to charge.
She risked a glance at Killian and found the young man, Evren, crouched over him protectively. Good. He’ll be safe.
Evren was no warrior or soldier—he fought as dirty as any Earaqi, though his skills at bare-handed combat rivaled even Hykos’—but he could more than hold his own. Though Issa didn’t know the connection between the two, one look at Evren told her he’d fight to protect the blacksmith.
Issa turned her attention back to her enemies, her sword swinging to cut through a thug’s upraised club and exposed throat. All around her, the sound of clashing steel, piercing cries of agony, and furious shouts echoed in the mill. Yet between Etai, Kodyn, Evren, and the Indomitables, they had all but routed the Syndicate. Heavy muscle and brute strength failed to protect the thugs from heavy steel swords. Twenty of the Ybrazhe had already fallen beneath the onslaught. A few had tried to flee out a back exit, only to find themselves confronted by the three Indomitables Issa had set there against just such a possibility. Black-armored soldiers cut the cowards down before they recovered from their shock.
The battle within the mill ended in a matter of minutes. The Syndicate thugs refused to surrender, throwing themselves against the Indomitables with furious roars and wild swings of their clubs, knives, and short swords. One managed to slither through the window a
nd escape, but the rest fell where they fought. Death before betrayal—it seemed the Syndicate and the Gatherers had more in common than anyone expected.
Silence hung thick, tense, an eerie absence of life after the chaos of battle. The stillness shattered a second later as the groans of wounded men echoed in the mill.
Issa studied the battlefield as if through the eyes of a stranger. Eighteen of the original twenty Indomitables still stood, though most bore wounds. One black-armored figure lay silent and still, eyes wide, blood pooling from a gash in his throat. Another sat slumped against the millwheel, his lips tinged with red spittle, a dagger still embedded between the underarm joints of his armor. Two of his comrades knelt beside him, gripping his hands as he struggled in vain to cling to life.
A grunt from her right brought Issa’s head snapping around. Etai struggled to tear her flammard free of her last kill, her blade likely embedded in bone. Beyond her, Kodyn crouched over another fallen thug, wiping his straight long sword clean on the dead man’s clothes.
“Let’s get you out of this.” Evren’s voice came from the huge millwheel. Issa dashed around the stone-and-wood structure in time to see the young thief cutting Killian’s bonds. The blacksmith gave a loud groan as Issa heaved at the tie beam, lifting the crushing pressure off his hands.
“You took your time getting here,” Killian told Evren. “Hope I didn’t disturb anything important you were doing.” He winced as he flexed his fingers. None appeared broken, but the flesh had been skinned off by the millstone and dark purple bruises had begun to form around the joints.
Evren’s face creased into a scowl. “I take it that’s your version of ‘thank you’. So you’re welcome.” He helped Killian to stand, eliciting a wince and hiss from the blacksmith.
Killian opened his mouth to speak, but cut off as he caught sight of Issa. “Issa, is that you?”
Crucible of Fortune: An Epic Fantasy Young Adult Adventure (Heirs of Destiny Book 2) Page 39