To the oceans with demons and wizards both, Ashok was going to bring this house down if he had to ignite those barrels by rubbing two sticks together. He clashed against the demons, but they were between him and his goal. Claws struck at his armor. An elbow knocked a dent in his helm. He was brutally kicked back against the wall.
The demons were no longer getting in each other’s way, they were working together, taking turns striking at him, giving him no lulls to take advantage of. It was almost as if the presence of the large one was somehow making them more organized. There was a shield on the wall, bearing the symbol of the Lost House. Ashok snatched it up and ran his left arm through the straps.
It didn’t matter if he was mortally wounded in the process, but he had to reach that powder. He shield slammed the lighter of the two demons, trying to drive it out of his way. He knocked it over, and then drove the other one back with a hard thrust to the gut. It didn’t break the skin, but it was close, and the demon was forced to move back. That small gap was all he needed.
Ashok ran for the barrels.
Sikasso was still disappearing and reappearing around the big demon. He couldn’t damage the thing, but even though demons had no expressions, he could tell it was infuriated. Ashok certainly had been when facing such trickery.
Unfortunately, Sikasso must have realized what Ashok was trying to do, because this time when he came out of the darkness, it was at his side. The wizard’s sword glanced off his shoulder plate. Ashok turned in time to catch the next blow with his shield.
“I won’t let you do this,” Sikasso spat.
“You can’t stop me,” Ashok said as they crossed swords.
“No, but he can,” the wizard vanished.
The big demon was heading right for Ashok.
He dove to the side as a giant fist pulverized the stone floor. Rolling, he barely managed to avoid being crushed beneath a massive foot. He came up on his knees, shield between him and the incoming foot.
It kicked him across the great hall.
Ashok hit the far wall and bounced off.
His helmet had been torn off. Bones had been broken. The shield had been snapped in half. When he tried to stand, his knees buckled beneath him. He had to turn the Heart of the Mountain to controlling his wounds, or the sudden rush of internal bleeding would have dropped him.
He was nowhere near the barrels.
The three remaining demons were moving toward him.
Sikasso stepped out of the shadows on the balcony above him. He shook the spent demon hide from his hand and it crumbled into ash. “A noble effort, Ashok, but it was all for nothing. The demons will kill you, but eventually they’ll have to return to the sea. Then my people will come back. We’ll rebuild. We’ll find more gifted children and bring them here. The strong will replace those we’ve lost, and the weak will be our slaves. We will survive this. It’s what we do.”
Ashok coughed up blood. “Evil.”
“Perhaps.”
The demons were cautious in their approach this time. They’d already lost two of their nearly indestructible number to the Protector, and the wizard was an unknown power to be reckoned with. They probably didn’t understand that Sikasso would merely flee, and that Ashok was now too broken to be a threat.
But he would fight to the end, because that was his way. He’d landed near a fireplace, so he used the stone of the hearth to pull himself upright. At least he would die on his feet.
“One question, Sikasso. Did Grand Inquisitor Omand promise you Angruvadal?”
“That’s what matters to you now?” The wizard studied him, visage grisly, skull gleaming through the pattern of holes on his face. “He did.”
“Why?”
“Because Ashok Vadal is a name that invokes terror, he will use your legendary crimes to justify a war of extermination against all the casteless.”
“There are millions of them.”
“I don’t know why Omand wants what he wants, but what I do know is that long after this demon digests you and shits you out at the bottom of the sea, the Lost House will still be committing atrocities in your name…After how much you’ve offended me, I might even do them for free.”
The demons were closing. The two smaller ones spread out to the sides to cut off his escape.
“Farewell, Black Heart.”
There was a flicker of light at the opposite side of the great hall. Someone was standing next to the powder barrels. He couldn’t tell who it was, and he couldn’t sharpen his vision without releasing his wounds, but then the light grew as the match was used to light an oil-soaked rag.
Through blurry eyes, Ashok recognized the one-eyed slave, Dattu.
Sikasso’s patchwork head snapped up. “What are you doing?” He reached for some demon bone hanging from his belt to blow out the fire. Only before he could grab hold of the magic, a knife blade pierced his hand and pinned it to his hip. “Aaaaah!”
Ashok’s aim had been perfect. Now that was worth calling upon the Heart, he thought as the sudden blood loss overcame him. Knees buckling, he collapsed into the cold ash of the fireplace.
“No!” Sikasso screamed at his disobedient slave. Without another hand to pull it free, all he could do was try to tear his hand through the blade. “I command you to stop!”
But Dattu just shook his head and said, “No more.”
He dropped the flaming rag onto the barrels.
The giant demon was a black silhouette shielding Ashok from the brilliant flash. Then everything was wiped away.
Chapter 47
Thunder boomed across the swamp. Jagdish turned around in time to watch a massive plume of fire rise into the sky and roll into black smoke.
Running from demons or not, all of the Sons stopped to gawk. From their position they could only see the roof of the Lost House. Much of it had just been blown off, leaving only the main beams looking like the ribs on a skeleton. The rest of it was raining out of the sky as fiery debris. It was awe inspiring. It was such a destructive power that no wonder the warrior caste had given up on trying to conquer the island of Fortress.
And then it hit him like a punch to the gut what this meant. Ashok was dead.
“Now that’s a worthy death,” Jagdish said, and really, what more could a warrior ask for? It would be a crime to waste such a magnificent sacrifice. Ashok had given his life to protect this woman. Jagdish didn’t know what oath Ashok had sworn to, but getting her out of this awful place was the least he could do in honor of his memory.
“All right, men. Blowing up a wizards’ house full of demons is the sort of thing they’ll sing songs about for generations, but those songs will never get written if we don’t survive to tell the tale.”
But they seemed too stunned to move, staring back at the fire, eyes wide on their dirty, exhausted faces. Even Gutch, struggling beneath the weight of sacks full of notes, seemed shocked. Only the slaves they’d herded along with them seemed not to care, but they looked so blank and dimwitted that he doubted they cared about much at all.
A few of these warriors had fought Ashok in Jharlang. And their tales had grown in each telling, as they’d told the newer recruits about how Ashok was a superhuman warrior drafted by their gods, who could duel whole armies. At this point they probably believed in Ashok nearly as much as their damnable Forgotten. He was the greatest warrior in the world. It was like they’d actually expected him to survive this suicidal last stand, kill five demons, and come walking out of the fire, no worse for wear, so that he could lead them to glory like their strange prophet girl had declared he would.
Maybe, in a way, Jagdish had held onto the same naïve hope.
“I know you’re tired, Sons of the Black Sword. Ashok had a mission. Now it falls upon us to fulfill it. We have to keep going.”
No.
The word was inside his head, louder than the explosion which had ripped apart the Lost House.
Turn back.
Jagdish wasn’t alone. Men shielded their ears, or cri
ed out in fear. Even the befuddled slaves seemed to have been woken up by the great and terrible voice. The Somsak and the workers from Jharlang recognized what it was right away, and had gone to their knees before Thera. The surprised slaves nearly dropped the stretcher.
The prophet sat upright, her eyes glowing as the strange power took over.
I am not finished with him yet.
Getting his own words past the power intruding into his mind was incredibly difficult, but he had to speak the truth. Jagdish grimaced. “What if he’s finished with you?”
Had Ashok not done enough? The man so despised living as a criminal that he yearned for death. These gods were fickle and selfish. In the exceedingly unlikely event he had survived, why couldn’t they just leave him be?
Then all of mankind will perish.
The gods made a compelling argument, as they pounded his brain like a drum.
Turn back.
The noise in his head cleared. The eerie light faded, and Thera once again appeared to be a normal woman, seemingly confused about what had just happened.
“Oceans, woman, you could have just asked nicely.”
Thera lay back down, exhausted. “I truly don’t get much say in the matter.”
His ears were ringing as Jagdish rubbed his temples with his fingers. There could still be demons lurking up there, but if there was any chance Ashok lived, then they’d bring him out. “Alright, lads, you heard the…I don’t know what. Let’s go.”
Before they’d made it twenty feet, Jagdish realized they were completely surrounded.
He held up one fist, but it was too late. Figures appeared from the swamp all around them. Not demons thankfully, but men, dressed in furs, hair long and wild, exposed skin covered in mud and white ash. Only with the number of arrows and spears aimed his way, these men didn’t seem any friendlier than the demons.
The Sons lifted their weapons. “Hold,” Jagdish warned. They were outnumbered, and since their approach had been so stealthy that even the Somsak hadn’t seen them coming, he didn’t know how many more were out there that he couldn’t see. They couldn’t afford this fight. “Easy.”
The ashen faces had been smeared in a way to resemble skulls, white cheeks and foreheads, with dark hollows around the eyes. The casteless on the barges had warned them about a tribe of wild men who lived in the swamps. Jagdish had dismissed it as a rumor started by the barge master to keep his foolish non-people from wandering off. Apparently, Jagdish had been the fool.
He tried not to sound nervous. “Hello, friends.” Jagdish lifted both hands to show they were empty and that his sword remained at his waist. “We’re just passing through.”
One man approached, the mud sucking loudly at his boots. He was nearly as big as Gutch, only without so much as an ounce of fat upon him. His head had been shaved, so the skull effect was rather complete all the way around. Charms of bird bones and alligator teeth hung from a cord around his neck. He stopped a few feet away from Jagdish, and spoke, voice low and guttural.
“Which of you killed the old god in the graveyard of demons?”
That question was nonsense to Jagdish, but Thera raised her voice. “I did.”
“Then the gods have gone to war again.” The wild man gave them a savage grin. “Excellent! The Mother of Dawn warned us this day would come.”
Chapter 48
Rada had discovered there was one nice thing about hiding out in a Historian’s fort…Books!
Vikram Akershan had an excellent personal library. Apparently each time his wife went to visit her family, she’d returned with a copy of whatever was the latest mass-printed volume circulating in the Capitol. Plus, he had several hand-scribed works, two of which she’d never seen copies of before. One was a collection of essays about great house politics from the mid-600s, and the other was a guide to Akershani-style sword fighting. She had no clue if any of the technical information was correct, but the illustrations were lovely.
Vikram had granted her access to his study. She’d built a warm fire in the hearth that provided plenty of light to see by. It was the middle of the night when she heard the polite knock at the door. As was her custom whenever she’d found something new to read, Rada had simply lost track of time. Her father had often found her half passed out over a book in some corner of their estate. Go to bed on time, girl, he’d order. Or you’ll be too cranky to read tomorrow.
The advice remained sound. She just had a hard time following it.
Rada carefully put her reading glasses in their case for safe keeping. When she answered the door, it wasn’t surprising to see the master of the estate. Vikram had probably finally grown tired of her taking up his couch, and was going to throw her out. Before she could greet him, the Historian shook his head, and held one finger to his lips, silencing her.
He kept his voice at a whisper as he closed the door behind him. “I just received a message from the observatory. Inquisitors came by asking for directions to this estate. My friends sent them up the wrong trail, but that will only buy us a little time.”
Rada cringed. They were going to have to run again. “I’ve got to wake Karno.”
“First I must show you something.”
Still not fully trusting the Historian, she hesitated.
“I’ve sent a slave to wake the sleeping giant, but the Protector Order doesn’t know about this. They can’t know about this. The Law enforcers are not among the knowledge keepers. That’s limited to a few of us, a handful of you Archivists, and the Astronomers.” Vikram went to his bookshelf, moved his family genealogy out of the way, and pushed against a specific brick. It made a click. Then he pulled against the shelf and the whole thing swung open like a door.
Rada gawked at the secret passage. There was a flight of stairs leading downward. She’d read about such things, there were even rumors of there being tunnels like this hidden inside the Capitol Library, but she’d never actually seen one.
“Your father learned about this when he was promoted to his current office. I’m justifying my decision to show you because I can only assume that he intends for you to someday take his place. If the Inquisition kills me tonight, someone else will need to keep it safe. When Karno told me about the Inquisition’s bounty, I sent a message to my Order requesting aid, but I’ve not heard back from them yet. My wife, wonderful woman that she is, lacks the temperament, and my children are too young to take up my obligation. So if I’m dead, it must fall to you.” Vikram picked up one of the candles and started walking. “Are you coming or not?”
Anything that provoked her curiosity that much made for an easy decision. Rada grabbed another candle and followed him into the dark.
Vikram hurried down the stairs. Even though she was much younger, she had to hurry to keep up. Then she realized that the old man was wearing a belt, and from it hung a scabbard holding a forward-curving sword. Apparently that illustrated guide to sword fighting hadn’t just been a decoration. Come to think of it, she’d not looked at the bound genealogy, but she was beginning to suspect that Vikram hadn’t always been of the first caste. But why would the judges have obligated someone born of the warriors to be a Historian?
The stairs had to be ancient, far older than the house which had been built on top of them. They went down for a long time, carved straight into the rock of Mount Metoro.
“What is this place?”
“The museum has locks and guards, but since everyone knows it’s filled with treasures, thieves still find a way in. The greatest vault of all is secrecy. No one tries to steal something they don’t know is there.”
Vikram’s candlelight kept getting further away. They had to have gone down at least three stories worth of stairs before it stopped. When she caught up, there was a large door there, made of a shiny metal unlike anything she’d ever seen before. The Historian’s symbol had been painted on it in red.
“What lies beyond this door is every bit as important as every book in the Capitol Library.”
She dou
bted that very much, but since Vikram seemed so intense, she didn’t scoff aloud.
“This is history. Real history. It’s the reason I’ve spent the last twenty years living in this awful desert. If the Inquisitors capture me, you must take it from here and keep it safe until it can be turned over to another caretaker. You can’t tell the Protectors. You can’t even tell your fellow Archivists. And above all, whoever it is who is trying to kill the casteless, you can never let this fall into their hands. Our people have lost far too much already. Swear it. Swear you will protect our history.”
Vikram was beginning to scare her. He looked haunted in the flickering light, but always too curious for her own good, Rada nodded anyway. “I’ve already made a solemn oath to protect our knowledge. I failed once, but never again.”
“That’ll do.” The door made surprisingly little noise as Vikram swung it open. “Come then.”
She’d not known what to expect, but it was just a room, about the same size as the study that hid the entrance. It had been cut from the red stone of the mountain, perfectly square and smooth, rather impressive actually, considering how deep beneath the surface they were. However, there was nothing inside, no treasure chests, no shelves full of relics, no valuable scrolls…Just what appeared to be a small hole in the center of the floor.
So the Historian’s big secret was a room with a drain? She’d been so nervous that she actually laughed aloud.
“Look at it again,” Vikram suggested.
Rada did. The thing in the middle wasn’t a hole…It just looked that way because it was so incredibly black that her eyes had tricked her. As she stared, she realized it was darker than shadows. Darker than night. In fact, as she watched, the perfect circle seemed to hungrily devour the light of their candles.
“Black steel…” she whispered. It had to be four or five inches across, and an inch thick. “That’s got to be worth a fortune.”
House of Assassins Page 42
