Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  He sighed, giving into defeat. There could be no hating her. Whatever she’d done, she’d done it because she thought it the right thing to do. He couldn’t fault her for that.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll do it.”

  Xiana smiled warmly, a trace of pride glinting in her eyes. “We’ll do it together.”

  Rylan considered her smile carefully. “Answer me one question. Was there really poison in the cup you brought me in the cage?”

  Xiana glanced down, her features sagging. “Yes,” she admitted. “I wanted to be sure the man I would join with was human enough and strong enough to stand at my side. Had you proven to be anything less than what you are, you would have been executed.”

  Rylan nodded slowly. He could accept that. He caught her and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her tenderly. Forgiving her wasn’t a choice. It was something he couldn’t help. He stroked a hand through her hair.

  She pulled back from him and smiled. Turning, she walked across the room to the cabinet that sat against the far wall. She opened a drawer and produced a dark bronze outfit and, handling it carefully, held it out for him.

  “I had this made for you before we left for Suheylu Ra,” she said, putting the garment in his hands. “The cut is called kamatzu. It is worn only by deizu-kan.”

  She watched him dress, showing him the proper way of lacing the tunic up the front. From within the cabinet, she produced the sword given to him by Sayeed. Rylan pulled the blade halfway out of its sheath and held it up, feeling a surprising amount of sentiment. The Sultan had taken him in as family without hesitation, without even coming to know him. Never before had he known such generosity. Sheathing the blade, he buckled the scabbard to his belt.

  Xiana smiled. “Come here,” she whispered, and moved into his arms.

  Rylan kissed her tenderly, sliding his hands behind her head and letting her silken hair spill through his fingers. Her warm breath sent tingles down his back. The other man within him awakened and stirred.

  Too soon, their lips parted.

  “Where exactly are we going?” Rylan asked.

  Xiana responded, “Back to Karikesh.”

  “Why Karikesh?”

  Xiana lifted a long knife from the cabinet and slipped it inside the folds of her yori.

  “Because that’s where Shiro is.”

  36

  The Resistance

  Gil stood on a balcony overlooking the Waterfront. The building behind him was old, perhaps as old as the foundations of the city. Its stone walls were blackened by fire, and the entire front had collapsed, revealing a lattice of shattered rooms that now stood open to the air. Across the canal, all was quiet in the North City. The sun had set, and fires glowed randomly throughout the fallen districts, casting eerie orange glows dispersed between long swaths of gaping darkness. The screams that had echoed across the water for days had finally quieted. Only an unnerving silence remained that was somehow more chilling.

  Far to the north, the massive structure of the Alqazar Citadel rose high above the blue rooftops of the Andibar Quarter. The fortress’s Calazi-style towers made it easy to spot, each terminating in a filigreed dome. The citadel was an enormous stronghold that warded the Lion’s gate. Gil had thought it destroyed in the initial assault on the gate, but each of the citadel’s four domes still soared magnificently above the city, lit by the flickering glows of the fires.

  Across the canal, the broken Promenade swarmed with soldiers of the Khar. Their engineers had swiftly improvised a new bridge to span the canal. Right below him, on the southern bank, a new enemy encampment was slowly and inexorably expanding into the Malikari-held districts. To reach the North City, he would have to make it past both Khar encampments and the broad waters of the canal, which would have been impossible before yesterday.

  Now he had a way.

  He looked down at the silver morning star in his hand that gleamed with a soft inner light. It was a weapon unmatched by any other. While most artifacts were imbued with a single character, two at most, Thar’gon had been infused with at least five. It was designed with battle in mind and housed abilities invaluable to a commander. There was an amplification character that magnified the power of its wielder, as well as a motive character so powerful it had pulverized the Well of Tears. It was imbued with both light and shadow magic, giving it the ability to attack and defend at the same time—an unheard-of combination. And, perhaps most importantly, it could function as a miniature transfer portal, only one much more versatile. It could instantly transport its wielder anywhere within a short distance, just so long as the destination could be fixed as a vivid image in the mind. Thar’gon was also responsive in a way no other artifact had been able to imitate. It had a way of sensing its owner’s physical needs and compensating accordingly. It couldn’t keep a dying man alive, but it could keep him walking until his heart stopped. If the talisman had other secrets, Quin hadn’t made note of them. But Gil wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Vergis,” he whispered, tasting the Word of Command that activated the talisman’s transfer spell. In his hand, Thar’gon glowed eagerly in response. Nothing happened; he wasn’t thinking about a destination. But if he had been, he wouldn’t be standing on the balcony any longer.

  He looked out over the fallen districts to the north. The buildings across the water weren’t all that far away. If he knew the interior of at least one of them well enough, he could use Thar’gon to transfer into one. Unfortunately, he didn’t. His gaze moved further north and stopped at the dark outline of an ancient tree whose branches loomed above the rooftops of the surrounding district.

  One of the parks in the Damali Quarter had a tree that was quite distinctive: an ancient oak larger than any other, with sprawling branches that writhed as if tormented, groping toward the ground like thick, moss-encrusted arms. A marker in front of the tree proclaimed it the “Alliance Oak” and claimed the tree was more than one thousand years old. There wasn’t another tree like it in the city, and probably not in the world. When Gil closed his eyes, he could envision it clearly, as though he were standing right in front of it.

  A slight breeze fanned his hair, smelling of smoke. He glanced up at the unnatural clouds that strobed with a murky light deep within their depths. He remained there for minutes, until he felt his resolve solidify. Then he closed his eyes and raised the talisman, holding it up as if readying for battle. In a way, he was.

  “Vergis,” he whispered.

  The world lurched.

  When he opened his eyes, Gil was staring up at the branches of the Alliance Oak, its silhouette like a convoluted fracture in the sky. Off balance, he put his hand out to catch himself. He took a staggering step forward, tripping over an exposed root. Behind him, someone shouted.

  Frigid panic shot down his nerves. He was standing in the middle of an occupied district with a weapon in his hand. Another shout made it clear his presence had been noticed. Glancing around, he didn’t see any people. The park appeared empty. But he could hear them. The sound of running feet echoed off the city walls.

  Gil sprang forward. Clutching Thar’gon, he sprinted toward the street, making for a dark gap between buildings: the opening of a thin alley. He dodged into it, roughing his hands on the brick wall as he swung around the corner. Feet splashing through puddles, he dashed through the shadows of the alley until it ended abruptly at a block wall.

  Gil cursed, whirling around. He listened behind him but heard nothing. There was a chance he’d slipped his pursuers, though he doubted he’d be that lucky. Frantic, he groped along the wall of the building next to him until he found a locked door.

  He kicked it open and scrambled into the dark interior, almost tripping over something on the floor. Instantly, he was hit in the face with a nauseating odor. He summoned a mist of magelight that revealed dark walls streaked with darker stains. The floor was strewn with possessions and overturned furniture. Looking down, he saw that the object he’d tripped over was
the prone body of a dead man.

  Gil jolted back from the stiff figure as everything in the room seemed to come into focus all at once. The streaks on the walls weren’t shadows at all, but dark stains of splattered blood. The body at his feet wasn’t alone; an entire family had been slain here. Across the floor, the body of a woman lay slouched against a wall, her arm wrapped around a dead child. Another body lay prone in the opening to a hallway.

  The smell was intense. Gil made a strangling noise and staggered into the hallway, stepping over the corpse. The hallway wasn’t very long. He turned into a bedroom scattered with broken furniture. The bed had been disassembled, the mattress upturned to block the window. One of the walls had been ripped apart, creating an opening into a dark room on the other side.

  He heard something from behind him: the squeak of a door.

  Gil let go of the magelight and stumbled forward, scrambling through the hole in the wall. Weaving a shadow web around himself, he felt along the walls, picking his way carefully through the darkness. From the other side of the wall, he heard soft voices. Whoever they were, they knew he was there.

  He shrank back against the wall, relying on his shadow web to keep him concealed. Ragged seconds scraped by. Then someone crawled through the hole in the wall and entered the room. A man rose upright, holding a lantern in front of him that cast a murky glow, revealing a small space covered by rugs and littered with filth. Another man emerged from the hole behind him.

  The space was too small; someone was bound to bump into him. Biting his lip and holding his breath, Gil stepped away from the wall and edged past the man with the lantern. As soon as he was past him, he crept quietly and quickly toward the door.

  The man behind him gave a shout.

  Holding tight to the shadow web, Gil plunged forward. He stumbled blindly down the dark hallway until his groping fingers found a door. He fumbled with the latch, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Someone careened into the wall behind him. Gil kicked the door open and spilled into the street, stumbling to his knees. His pursuer burst out of the building. Falling to the ground, the man scraped up a fistful of dirt from the street and threw it at him.

  Gil looked down in horror.

  The dust revealed his form beneath the shadow web.

  Something crashed into him from behind, slamming him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. A man pinned him down while another grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head back and pressing the sharp edge of a blade against his throat. Gil reached out from within and grasped the magic field. The man flew off him and slapped into a wall.

  “Stop!” a woman’s voice bellowed. “He is unchained!”

  Gil surged to his feet, scrambling back away from the five people who surrounded him. An old Malikari woman moved toward him, robed in black and carrying a butcher’s cleaver in her hand. The sight of her was so surreal, that for a moment all Gil could do was stare at her. She stopped within feet of him and stood examining him with shrewd gray eyes.

  “What is your name?” she demanded. Her face was quilted with wrinkles, leathery and liver-spotted. Unruly snarls of gray-streaked hair defied the bun she wore at the back of her head.

  Gil stared up at her, his hand clasping the hilt of the morning star. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, muttering hoarsely, “Gil Archer.”

  The woman scowled harder, deepening the creases around her eyes. “And what are you doing here, Master Gil Archer?”

  Gil’s eyes scanned the walls behind her, searching from building to building for signs of soldiers. He couldn’t believe the commotion in the street hadn’t drawn any yet. He looked back at the woman, not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. She was Malikari, which meant she was supposed to be on his side—but that didn’t mean she was.

  He bit his lip and held fast to his silence.

  The woman gazed at him for a moment, then eventually shrugged. “Just understand one thing, boy: whatever happens, we cannot let them have you. So I hope the reason you’re here is important. If it’s not, then turn around now and swim back across the water.”

  She stared at him harder, her fierce eyes digging into him as if trying to excavate his intentions. When he didn’t respond, she tossed back her head and made a frustrated noise in her throat.

  “So be it,” she grumbled. “Then you will come with us.”

  With that, the men surrounding her converged on Gil. A man with a beard caught his arm and guided him firmly toward the side of the road. The woman fell in next to him and walked at his side.

  “The streets are not safe,” she snapped roughly. “Your presence here puts us in danger.”

  Gil resisted the desire to jerk his arms away. “I don’t want to involve you,” he said. “Just let me go my own way.”

  The woman made a tsking noise with her tongue. “Whether it was your intention or not, you have already involved us.”

  Before he could protest, the man holding his arm wheeled him toward an open doorway, thrusting him inside. They guided him up a damaged staircase to the third floor, then out onto a walled rooftop that had been a cooking and gathering space. They crossed the roof and climbed over the wall, then dropped down onto a narrow ledge on the other side. The man let go of him and made a short leap to an adjacent rooftop, then turned back and waved him forward.

  While Gil stood staring at the street below, the old woman climbed nimbly over the wall and jumped across, continuing along the next rooftop without looking back at him. Gil bit his lip and jumped, landing hard. The man smiled and clapped him on the back. They followed the woman along in the lee of the wall, stooping forward and using the wall as cover.

  A high-pitched shriek cut through the night.

  “Get down!” the woman hissed.

  The man pulled Gil into a crouch, shielding him against the wall. Looking up, he saw a winged creature circling above them with the wings of a bat and the body of a snake. It shrieked again, its cry like the screech of a barn owl. It dipped a wing and banked, gliding away.

  The woman whispered, “You cannot trust the streets or the skies. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  Gil glanced up again, then followed her across another rooftop and back into the interior of a building. Inside, there was a narrow hallway with many doors. The woman knocked on each door as she went by. No one answered. The hallway ended in a dark stairwell that carried them down another level. This time when the woman knocked, a man stepped out into the hallway and greeted them with a smiling face. The woman gave him a warm hug, holding him tight and patting his back.

  “What word have you?” she asked, then stood listening as the men spoke at length to her in Malikari. The man’s wife came out, carrying a cup of tea, which she offered to the woman. Gil stood to the side, utterly bewildered, watching the scene unfold. The gray-haired woman stood nodding, sipping her tea, the man’s wife interjecting every other sentence. Eventually, the conversation came to an end. Cheeks were kissed and the teacup returned to the hands of its owner. As Gil followed the old woman down the hallway, he glanced back to see the couple still standing outside their door, smiling and waving.

  “What did they say?” he asked.

  The old woman answered without slowing her pace, “The corner bakery was destroyed this morning. The baker and his entire family were killed, may Isap accept their souls. That was the last bakery left in this quarter of the city. The people are frightened there will be no more bread.”

  Gil followed her into another stairwell. “What will they do?”

  The woman shrugged. “Who can say?”

  He followed her down more stairs and into another corridor, this one below the level of the street. There, she stopped and knocked on another door. It opened and a young woman appeared. A joyful smile lit up her face. She stepped forward to hug the old woman and kiss her cheek.

  The man motioned Gil curtly forward. “Come!”

  Gil followed her into the room, nodding his greetings a
t the woman guarding the doorway. The rest of their party trailed them inside and positioned themselves along the walls. Gil stopped in the center of the room and looked around at his surroundings. They were in a residence crowded with people, some looking badly injured. The smell of blood was strong in the air, as though the walls had been washed with it. The floor was layered with rugs, and a few lanterns provided an anemic light. A man slouching against a wall coughed, the sound of it wet and rasping.

  The old woman guided him into the next room, which was little bigger than a storage closet. “Wait here,” she said. “I will be back.”

  She left him alone with the bearded man who had guided him across the rooftops. For the first time, Gil realized the man was wearing a short sword strapped to his belt. He snapped his fingers and motioned for Gil to sit. Then he left. Gil sank down on the rug-strewn floor and set his weapon down beside him, leaning back against a wall. He was tired, more tired than he’d realized. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and sleep.

  The man came back holding a slice of bread and a cup of wine. He sat down next to Gil, offering him the food and drink.

  Gil waved his hand. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  “You must eat,” the man insisted, stuffing the strip of bread into Gil’s hands.

  Gil understood. He was familiar enough with Malikari traditions to know that the sharing of food and cups was an offer of friendship. He accepted the bread with a smile of gratitude, biting into it immediately and chasing it down with a mouthful of wine. It was made of coarse grain, gritty with sand from whichever mill had ground it.

  The man offered his hand. “I am Judhi ul-Calazi. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Gil Archer.” He clasped the man’s hand and nodded back in the direction the woman had disappeared to. “Who is she?”

  The man smiled. “She is Uma Halabi.”

  “Is she your leader?”