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Keys of Candor: Trilogy

Page 40

by Casey Eanes


  “Legion’s Teeth?” Willyn stooped and picked up the blade. She yanked the knife from its red scabbard, her eyes flickering over the desert light that danced on the edge. She held it in her hand, allowing her mind to test the blade’s weight. The inscriptions were unmistakable, the hilt crafted into an exquisite form by the painstaking polishing of a razorback’s tusk. She leaned in, her heart hammering. There, burnt into the bone handle was the mark of her father, their father, Wodyn the Great.

  The blackened, burnt image of the boar brought tears to her eyes, but Willyn did not weep. She threw the dagger onto the sandy alley and roared, “This heirloom proves nothing!” Painful memories washed over her. Of long days spent in a dank, dark Elumite prison. Of searching endlessly for Grift Shepherd. Of Luken rescuing her and delivering the worst news possible.

  Luken. Willyn closed her eyes and forced herself to focus. Luken...he had told her. He had told her that Hagan had died. A thought crystallized in her mind. Luken would not have lied to me. She opened her eyes, leveling her gaze on the stranger.

  The Grogan picked up the discarded blade, his jaw locked in anger. He shook his head and held the dagger. “How could you? I have traveled hundreds of miles to find you and deliver Hagan’s message, only to have you disown your own brother, the Sar!” The Grogan spat at her feet. “You are not worthy to serve him.” He took a step closer and sized her up. “You are not worthy of any of us.”

  Willyn had read his eyes. She dodged the blade’s path not a moment too soon, the dagger’s tip a mere inch from her face. The man screamed at her, cursing, “You are a traitor! TRAITOR!”

  Willyn dodged several incoming jabs of the dagger, batting the man’s arm and pushing away. Instead of running away she dashed straight toward her attacker. She slid underneath his legs as he screamed, swinging the blade in front of him like a madman. He was too late. In a flash she had slid underneath him and leapt up on his back, rocketing her boot across his groin. The man yelped, crumbling in a heap, groaning. Willyn rode him to the dirt, slamming her elbow into the back of his neck. He fell limp beneath her, and the dagger fell from his hand.

  She thought it was over until she found herself flying through the air as her assailant pushed himself up, throwing her off with surprising force. She fell, face to the sky, just as the man turned, lifted his heavy boot, and stomped on her chest. Her lungs collapsed from the blow and she heaved for breath. Pain exploded within her as the man threw his fist at her, colliding with her jaw. She accepted the blow and countered with a sweep of the man’s legs. He fell and Willyn pounced again, the rage within her boiling over.

  She grabbed the man’s throat and squeezed as hard as possible. The attacker looked at her with wild eyes and smiled like a madman. Willyn pushed every ounce of energy she had into her grip, and she saw the life of the man leave him, his corpse still bearing the insane smile. She held him there in the alleyway until she was sure it was over. The maniac was dead.

  She shook her hands free, her whole body trembling. She rubbed her mouth, the pain of the punch still throbbing in her jaw, her eyes catching the blade he had presented. She stooped down and took the dagger, her mind still refusing to believe that it was real. She wrapped the weapon deep within her linen robes and left the alley without another glance at her conquered enemy. The hot desert air washed over her as she made her way back to the crowded station of Baggers lining up for work permits. Her hands shook with fury, but she allowed the shock of the encounter to wind its way through her. It would pass in time. As her survival instinct diminished, Willyn began to question what had just happened. Could Hagan truly be alive? No. That could not be true... It was a trap. Either Seam or Hosp is trying to draw you out. To play you for a fool. The answer was a sound one, but it did not satisfy the questions boiling in her mind. Where did they find his dagger?

  Willyn turned the options in her mind: she could search for the mirror or break free and seek the truth about Hagan. She stood lost in her thoughts when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She turned, ready to fight, only to be startled by the booming laugh of the giant Bri.

  “Why you play hide and seek here? Not very safe!” He slammed a friendly pat on her back that felt like a donkey’s kick and leaned in to her ear to whisper. “You remember? Monk said you stay with me?” He stared deep into her eyes to confirm she understood. “Don’t run off again.”

  Willyn nodded, but said nothing. Bri looked at her suspiciously. “You look like you roll around in desert sand. Why would you do this?”

  Willyn shrugged her shoulders and opened her mouth just as the rail car whistle blew.

  Bri’s eyes pinched in the desert sun and dismissed the question. “No time. Doesn’t matter. We must catch our car to the Teeth. We have only a three-day journey!”

  Willyn cringed as she fell in line with the other crowds of swarming Baggers funneling into the tight quarters of the railcar.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sound of pickaxes echoed through a dark, lonely mineshaft. Silhouettes moved through the shadows, no words passing between them. The miners at the end of the shaft were covered in dark soot from head to toe and heaved deep breaths through their thick masks, drawing in pure oxygen. The six men had no fanfare or ornate titles, but they were thrilled to be hand-picked to quarry into the lost pits of Legion’s Teeth.

  The six had been digging for months, clearing collapsed tunnels and snaking deeper within forgotten veins that had long been drained of their valuable ore. The never-ending tunnels of bedrock had been a monotonous blend of black and brown, but one man’s pick broke away a large boulder and revealed a new color: gray. The men nodded at one another and focused in on the cement below. Within a few hours, they had chipped away at the barricade and a blast of stale air pushed past them, escaping from its sealed chamber.

  “Light it up, boys,” said the foreman as he motioned for two of the miners. “Drop in the light rods and back away.”

  The two men lowered in small light rods and flicked them to life. A serpentine crack of light shone up below the men.

  “Back up!” The foreman’s voice was stern. “I will inspect.”

  One of the two miners squinted his eyes and glared down at the light.

  “I said back away, son!” The foreman pushed forward as the young miner glared into the crevice.

  The subordinate looked up and glanced at the other men before speaking. “There is nothing down there but some old mirror.”

  A loud CRACK rang out and the mineshaft exploded with a violent light as a bullet crashed into the curious miner’s skull. The foreman lifted his pistol and continued to fire on the other men until five bodies lay at the feet of their superior. He cursed and hurled the pistol to the floor as he kicked the corpse of his first victim.

  “I said to back away!” He screamed. He glanced at the carnage and pointed to the other four men strewn out across the rocky floor. “Their blood is on your hands! I said to back away.”

  The foreman took a deep breath and looked overhead, examining the shaft above. He shook his head and screamed one last time as he wiped the blood that had spattered on the visor of his mask. He knelt and looked down through the opened crevice.

  The miner flicked open the datalink on his wrist and dialed out. Gray eyes and a pale face met him on the other side of the screen.

  Hosp’s voice was filled with anticipation. “Any news?” he hissed.

  The miner stumbled over his words. “Surrogator. Target has been located.” The man looked over his shoulder as he swallowed and continued. “Cleanup is needed.”

  Hosp leaned forward in his chair. “Cleanup? What happened?”

  “I did as I was instructed. The target was compromised so I eliminated the breach of intel.” The miner answered flatly, his face white as a ghost.

  Hosp’s lips curled as he nodded. “Very good. Your next crew will help lift the target out.” His grin inched wider as he squinted. “And don’t worry. They will be disposable as well.”

  Se
am rested his head against the massive mahogany throne towering behind him as he stared over the expanse of Candor. He smiled, knowing that his view was unlike any other on the Continent. He rubbed at his wrist where the six keys were locked tightly to his arm. It comforted him to feel them there; he could feel the power they were driving through his veins. He sat quietly and observed the world laid out below him. There was nothing beyond his view or grasp.

  He turned and addressed the shadow lurking in the corner of the room. “Bronson tells me you are quite skilled at tracking and hunting. You are Cyric, correct?”

  The man nodded, only his steel blue eyes peering out from behind the scarf pulled around his neck and face. “I am.”

  “Yet you have cancelled your contract?”

  “I have my limits, and I never cancelled anything. Your helper and his requests breached my contract.” The stranger peered out over the landscape. “But I know we aren’t here to speak about that. You need something new.”

  Seam chuckled and sat forward in his chair. “You would be correct. I have a new proposition for you and it will pay far more than any of your former projects combined.”

  The man stepped forward. “I listen when credits are involved. Name your price and your target.”

  “One million credits,” Seam deadpanned. “Bring me the Mastermonk, and you will have one million credits.”

  Cyric tilted his head and paused at the mention of the Mastermonk. “Wael?”

  The name made Seam shiver, his memories snapping back to the questioning he endured next to his father’s casket. What is your duty to Aleph? He shoved the memory away and spoke, “Yes, Wael of Preost. I need him brought to me...alive. I am far too pressed with other matters to bother chasing him down, but I want him contained.”

  Cyric shook his head, weighing the job. “I was raised up to believe it was not wise to interfere with the affairs of monks.” He pulled down the scarf covering his face, revealing a grin. “But for a million credits I can bend.”

  “Very good,” Seam answered. “Now, we are done here. You are dismissed. I don’t want to see you again until you have the Mastermonk.”

  “One question, sir. Is this the only mark? It’s well known there are other profitable bounties out for Willyn Kara and Grift Shepherd.” The High King’s face grimaced at the sound of their names.

  “I have others in my employ. Focus on the monk.”

  “Very well,” whistled Cyric as he turned to make his exit, quiet as a shadow.

  A chime rang through the vast throne room. Seam lowered himself into the plush throne and shifted in his chair as he whispered, “Enter.”

  The large door swung open and Bronson stepped into the throne room. His face was thin and pale. The dark circles under his eyes were proof enough that he had not slept for days.

  “What is it, Bronson?”

  Cyric offered Bronson a nod as he slipped through the open door. Bronson sneered as the bounty hunter brushed by him and disappeared down the hallway.

  “Sire, the…” he stammered, his mind in gridlock. “The...Synod. They seek an audience with you.”

  Seam glared at Bronson as he stepped down from the elevated podium holding his throne. “Send them in.”

  Seam turned his gaze toward the three as they walked through into the immense hall. Arakiel stood a foot taller than any man in Zenith, his face like a chiseled mountain. Huge muscles moved underneath the simple robe he wore, and in his hand he bore a gigantic iron spear. His sisters followed him, flanking his sides, moving in one accord.

  Abtren radiated with such authority and grace that her presence still made Seam’s heart pound in his chest. Her countenance was that of starlight on a clear night; magnificent, deep, and incalculable. She wore a white gown that glistened with gold thread, reflecting the rising sun just over the horizon. Her eyes were like hot embers, burning with a wild power. Seam did his best not to linger over her countenance.

  Nyx, newly released from her glass prison, wore a dark gown of flowing purple. Long ringlets of black hair fell from her head, flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall of midnight. She was striking, resembling her sister in all manner of movement and composure. All, that is, except for her eyes. When Seam stared into them it felt as though he might turn to stone. She had no irises. Her cool, glacier eyes had long since transformed since her release. What was once the color of ice had given way to dark deep pits of sable, the colors of an impenetrable abyss.

  Arakiel glared at Seam and slammed his knee to the ground. His voice was gruff and with no adoration. “Keeper. We have much to discuss.”

  Seam smirked at the sight of the hulking warrior-god on his knees. “Lord Arakiel, speak freely in my hall. Your counsel is most welcome here.”

  Arakiel stood and his voice boomed through the hall as he barged through any formalities. “It concerns our brother, Keeper. My sisters and I, we are...concerned.”

  Seam laughed and replied, “Bastion is...”

  Abtren cut him off. “This does not concern Bastion, my lord.” Abtren glanced at Seam, her kaleidoscopic eyes filled with trepidation. Seam glanced at Nyx. Her face was somber, matching Arakiel’s concern.

  Seam’s mind clouded with questions. “Then what, exactly, does this concern?”

  Arakiel looked at his sisters and leveled his gaze back on Seam, his thunderous voice full of malice. “It is a matter of one person. Isphet.”

  “Isphet?” Seam let the name roll in his mouth. He knew the name. The last Serub to be released. He marveled at the fear painted on the three Serubs’ faces as they spoke of their kin.

  Nyx took a step toward Seam and spoke. “Isphet is gathering strength, High King, and we don’t know how. We have felt his presence magnify, and we feel him stirring with a new vigor. Arakiel says that he was imprisoned in the forests of the land you call Preost. His power is–”

  “You speak out of turn, sister,” Arakiel growled. He stood over her, his fist tightening around his spear.

  Nyx cut him with her cavernous eyes and said, “I will not hide the truth from the Keeper, Arakiel.” She glanced at Seam. “I welcome my freedom from my glass prison. The truth is that Isphet is a threat to us all. His powers, left unchecked, could bring about our ruin. All of us.” She stared at Seam, and his heart filled with revulsion. “Someone is working with him, High King, without your guidance. We must hurry, Left unchecked he could–”

  Seam held up his hand to wave off Nyx’s warnings and clicked his tongue. “Let him gain strength. If need be, I will drain all of his power from him once I am ready for him to be released. Let us not forget the power bestowed upon me.” He held up his wrist that bore the precious Keys of Candor. “None shall oppose my will.”

  Arakiel stepped forward and proceeded with his case. “You are a fool to think you can understand our power, whether you bear the Keys or not. You did not shape this world with your own hands. You did not–”

  Seam stepped up to the hulking brute. His hand burst forward and grasped Arakiel’s throat. The chiseled form of Arakiel began to wither beneath Seam’s grasp as the fury in Seam’s eyes raged.

  “You are right, mighty Arakiel. I did not shape this world in the beginning.”

  Arakiel’s tight olive skin faded and slacked from his frame as he pawed at Seam’s arm. The god’s red eyes were like a raging fire plunged beneath a torrent of water. Seam held tight as his nostrils flared.

  Abtren stepped forward. “Stop! High King, you must release him. He is not your enemy!”

  Seam cut his eyes at Abtren, his hand still clamped around Arakiel’s throat. “Is he not? Anyone who opposes me is my enemy.” Seam glanced down at the husk of a warrior in his hands and sneered. He shoved the withered god to the black marble floor. He stood over him and wiped his hands.

  “The world and all within it is under my grip now, Arakiel. I shape it and mold it as I please. Mind your tongue, mighty warrior, if you value your freedom here.”

  Seam clasped his hands together and lea
ned forward as he sat on his throne. “I may not know the entire history of this world, but I do know my destiny and my power. I do not fear Isphet. He will fall in line. Just like his siblings.”

  Arakiel lay on the floor, gasping for breath like a fish out of water as Abtren stooped down to pull him to his feet. Nyx simply stared at Seam, her face a mix of adoration and worry.

  A warm sensation ran through Seam as he sat on the throne. It was hard to describe, an electric current of power that riveted through him after he absorbed Arakiel’s strength. He drew in a deep breath.

  “What we must focus on now is your other brother, Bastion.” Seam pointed toward the eastern horizon. “Arakiel has told me he is locked away within the stretch of mountains known as Legion’s Teeth. I am ready to bring him home.”

  Seam stared out toward the horizon and tried to make out the silhouette of the distant mountain range. The arid deserts of Riht stretched over the eastern horizon and obscured even the massive grandeur of the Groganlands’ red, steep mountains.

  Seam turned back to Arakiel, Nyx, and Abtren and smiled. “We will leave Isphet for last. I have special plans for his recovery.”

  Abtren leaned her head to the side and cut her eyes to the window before replying. “If I may ask, High King. What exactly are your plans?” Her voice wavered with an intoxicating cadence, rattling through Seam’s mind like a siren’s song.

  Stay strong, Seam thought to himself. Despite the keys, interacting with the Serubs was like swimming with sharks. It wasn’t wise to linger in their presence any longer than necessary.

  “You will know soon enough, Abtren. Our time is done here. You are all dismissed.” Abtren nodded and stooped down with Nyx to lead her brother out of the throne room.

  As they made their way out, Seam’s voice echoed through the chamber. “There is one more thing. I need to speak with Nyx. Alone.”

 

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