Edwar Kel took the single lantern down from the wall and they moved through the dungeon. He held the lantern up to the cell’s rusty metal bars, and shapes withdrew from the light. It took a few moments for Cambria to recognize the shapes were human. The prisoners were pale and malnourished, their hair wild and filled with lice. Their healing blood had kept the Descendants alive in conditions where normal people would have died long ago. Cambria gasped at the sight; there must be over a hundred prisoners crammed into these cells.
“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The faces that looked back were smeared with dirt and grime. They didn’t look human. That was probably part of the Faith’s plan. It was easier to justify torturing creatures.
“Ara,” Geyer called. His voice brought her back to the mission. “Ara, where are you?”
The group spread out, peering into the cells, calling Ara’s name. But there was no answer.
Cambria came upon a small cell between the others. It stood empty while the others were packed with Descendants. The floor of the cell was marked with drying blood. Her heart sank. Somehow she knew it; like the sudden stillness when a patient slips away.
Ara was gone.
Everyone in the sanctuary turned to the side door, but nothing happened. Haemon snarled at the moment’s loss of grandeur. Can’t those bumbling guards do anything right? Tension filled the room, and Haemon was ready to charge off the stage and escort the boy in himself when the doors finally opened. Two guards entered, dragging an unconscious shape behind him. Father Claudia gasped at the sight of the lifeless child.
Haemon fumed. What had they done to him? The boy had looked bad the previous night, but he had been fed and rested since then. Surely his blood would have healed him by now. Instead, his guards carried a corpse into the Temple’s inner sanctuary.
“Who is that?” Father Kent’s voice echoed through the domed room.
“This is Carmine’s Descendant boy,” Haemon said, his bluster fading. “With the blood of…Royals.”
The guards lifted the body onto the table. The boy was unconscious; the bones of his rib cage showing beneath a chest that didn’t rise.
“Is he even alive?” asked Father Loren.
Haemon crossed to the table and jabbed a finger at the guard. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in a low voice. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing, Father,” the guard stuttered. “We found him like this. He was hanging upside down in his cell.”
The bones in Haemon’s hands cracked as they squeezed into fists. The boy’s skin was a pale blue. Fresh scars marked both his wrists and across his neck. How could he do this? What happened to all the blood!
Murmurs filled the sanctuary. Father Kent stood in his pew. “We’ve seen enough, Haemon.”
“No!” Haemon barked. Anger twisted his face; brittle teeth scraped against each other. “Sit down!”
More gasps from the insolent Fathers.
This is my moment of victory. I will take it if I have to squeeze every last drop from this cursed corpse!
“Cut him open,” Haemon said to Vorrel.
“Highfather, if he’s even alive…he’s too weak…”
Haemon grabbed the Curor by his robe and pulled him close. “Give me whatever blood is left in his wretched body or I’ll see you bathed in your own dark blood.”
Cambria leaned against the bars of the empty cell. A Descendant watched her from the next cell over. His face was darkened by dirt and a wild gray beard, but the man’s eyes shown clear in the dim light.
“They took him,” the man said. “Not an hour ago.”
“Where?” Cambria asked. She moved to the man’s cell. “Where is he?”
“Cambria,” Geyer called. The old knight shuffled towards them, but Cambria did not back away.
“Let us out,” the prisoner said. “We will help you.”
Geyer frowned at the sight of the man, but there was something there. He must have seen it, too. Some strength beneath the starved body.
“Who are you?” Cambria asked.
“My name…is Tar Shen.”
“Tar Shen?” Spade called. She crossed the dungeon towards them. Her eyes wide as she studied the old Descendant. Her face softened and she leaned pressed against the cell bars. “Is it really you? You’re alive.”
A weary smile crossed the prisoner’s face. “Ressa.” The word escaped his lips in a whisper. “Still fighting the good fight, I see.”
Spade reached in and grabbed the old man’s hand, cradling it in her own. “Until it is finished.”
“Then let that be today.”
Footsteps clattered in the distance. Boots charging down the stairs—lots of them.
“Our friends are here,” Solvan Ra called. The rebel ran to the steel door and pressed his back against it. “Tell me there’s another way out.”
The steel screeched, but Solvan Ra held it closed, leaning against it with all his weight. The other rebels moved to the door, tossing off their cloaks and drawing their weapons.
Geyer and Cambria locked eyes; there was nothing to say. This was the end, and they both knew it. She fell in beside him, pulling the small knife from her belt.
“For Ara,” he said.
“For Ara,” she repeated.
The door cracked open; angry voices yelled in. An army of Temple guards, packed into the stairs.
“Can’t hold it much longer,” Solvan Ra called.
“Open the cells,” Tar Shen said. “We can fight with you.”
“You’ve been in here too long,” Spade said. “You’re too weak.”
Every Descendant in the dungeon stepped forward to the cell doors. There were at least a hundred men and women. Though their faces were sickly and the rags they wore barely clung to their thin frames, there was something in their eyes. A clearness of focus. A hidden strength ready to explode.
“Not anymore,” Tar Shen said.
36
Vorrel switched to yet another vein in the boy’s arm. The small amount of blood he found dribbled through the tube and dropped to the bottom of the glass bottle.
“What’s wrong with your equipment?” Haemon shouted, no longer trying to hide his anger from the watching Fathers. If they had a problem with what he was doing, he would find others to take their place on the council.
“It’s…it’s not the equipment,” Vorrel stammered. “It’s as if all the blood has already been drained from his body.”
Haemon looked from the boy’s blue corpse to the glass bottle. After all, he’d spent to capture this boy, he only managed to extract a few drops of the boy’s blood. Haemon gripped the edge of the table for support. Somebody would pay for this.
“This is an act of Hemo,” Father Shanon shouted, standing in his pew. “He’s stopping this…this blasphemous act.”
Murmurs of descent rattled around the sanctuary; the Fathers were growing bolder in the light of Haemon’s failure.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Haemon,” Father Claudia said. “The council will consider the repercussions of this violation of authority.”
“Violation of authority?” Haemon coughed, not bothering to hide the blood that spouted from inside his deteriorating body. “I am the authority.” Anger stirred in his belly, he coughed up more blood. “Cowards. Is your faith shaken so easily?”
There was a knock at the door, and a Temple guard came in and whispered something to Vorrel.
“What is it now?” Haemon yelled. He could taste the blood in his mouth, but he was too angry to care.
“There have been reports of a skirmish in the outer sanctuary,” Vorrel said. “Someone may have gotten into the Temple.”
Incompetent fools! Haemon turned his anger on the guard, “Well, do your job and find them.”
The guards nodded and left the inner sanctuary. Father Claudia moved to the door, but another guard stepped in front of her.
“Out of my way this instant,” she demand
ed. The guard held his ground. “Haemon, remove your attack dogs.”
“No one leaves this room,” Haemon ordered. He lost his balance and a guard came to assist him as if he were an invalid. Haemon shoved him away. “Back!”
“This is madness,” yelled Father Kent.
The room spun; a distant ringing sounded in Haemon’s head. Everything was crashing down on him at once. His moment of triumph was gone. What had happened? Hemo, what did I do wrong?
It wasn’t over yet. Haemon seized the bottle from the table and lifted it high overhead. The boy’s blood trailed along the glass like a raindrop down the Temple window before finally touching Haemon’s lips. One salty sip. All his calculations and sacrifice, all for this. Haemon smashed the empty bottle on the floor. Energy surged through his body. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. His old bones hardened and his muscles pulled tight, straightening his curved back. For an instant, Haemon felt younger than he had in years.
The room stopped spinning but the ringing was still there. In fact, it grew louder. The Fathers backed away from the sanctuary doors. Temple guards drew their swords. A shout came from outside the room. The sounds of swords clanging on armor.
Who would dare?
The door burst open. Temple guards crashed into wooden pews that were centuries old. In the doorway stood a man with a scar cut into the right side of his face.
“Sorry,” the Descendant said. “Are we interrupting?”
The Descendant rebel moved like the wind. He raced forward, blocking the blow of the nearest Temple guard and cutting another down with a second sword. Then more armed fighters swept into the sanctuary. Metal clanged with metal; screams of panic and pain. The Temple was under attack.
The Fathers ducked under pews as the fighting commenced. A woman fighter locked eyes with Haemon; her gaze betrayed her hatred. She pointed her sword and yelled for others to attack. A slew of dirty, half-naked wretches stormed into the sanctuary. They were scrawny and pale, but they moved with great speed and ferociousness. They leaped onto the Temple guards with their bare hands, gaining weapons with each guard that fell.
These were the Temple’s own Descendants—free from their dungeon cages and attacking with an impossible strength. Aeilus Haemon turned to the lifeless boy on the table. It was all his fault. Somehow he had given away his blood, given his life to the Descendants so that Haemon would never get it. Hemo’s gift, taken away.
The battle spread around the inner sanctuary. Cursed Descendants destroying everything he had built. The Highfather fumed, his newfound strength only fueling his anger. This would not be the end. Haemon would make these heathens pay.
He grabbed Vorrel and pulled him from his hiding spot. “It’s time. Unleash it.”
Vorrel looked back at the battle tearing up the sanctuary. “What about the Fathers…and our men?”
Haemon yelled to be heard over the noise. “Bathe the entire room in dark blood if you have to. I want these Descendants wiped out.”
Vorrel hurried to the backstage door. Haemon took one last look at the battle destroying his sanctuary before following with his own personal guard. He would be back to watch as the dark blood transformed these vermin. But first, he would make them suffer. For he still had one more weapon to use.
Cambria expected the blood that came with fighting—she had seen her share of it as a doctor working in the aftermath of a duel or skirmish—but she was unprepared for the noise. Screams of agony, of rage, and metal pounding metal, echoed through the narrow hallway as Descendants collided with Temple guards. Wounded bodies hit the stone floor then were trampled upon and tripped over. Movement slowed as bodies filled the tight corridor, but was no less violent. Cambria would have covered her ears with her hands if she didn’t need them to fight.
She held a dagger picked up from a dead Temple guard. He had cornered Cambria and tried to run her through when Geyer sliced the man’s throat. He told her to hide, to stay out of the way, but he knew she wouldn’t obey. Not while Ara was here somewhere. Not while there was even a chance he was still alive.
Cambria climbed over a dead Descendant; the man’s intestines were slung out on the floor. Up ahead, the carnage collected an oval doorway, open like a mouth. Fighters of both sides flooded in and out of the doors like blood pumping to and from the heart.
Ara was through those doors, she could feel it.
Cambria stuck to the wall and stayed low, ducking under most of the fighting as she moved towards the doorway. The Descendant rebel, Solvan Ra, swung a wide blow, knocking down two Temple guards and creating an opening in the doorway. Cambria sprinted forward, slipping inside.
The inner room was another sanctuary, with pews circling an open staging area. A balcony hung overhead and above that the high golden dome marking the center of the Temple. Bodies piled up in the sanctuary; the wounded on both sides crawled away, towards the corners of the room. Where fighting was slow and awkward in the narrow hallways, here in the open sanctuary fighters had plenty of room to charge and hack one another to pieces. Cambria’s eyes fell on the stage at the front of the room. Ara. Her heart leaped, then fell just as quickly. His body lay on the altar, unmoving.
No. He can’t be dead.
Something struck Cambria’s shoulder and slammed her against the wall. A guard charged past her. She turned to see Solvan Ra backed against the sanctuary door fending off the attack of two Temple guards. One guard drove his sword into the Descendant rebel’s upper leg. Solvan Ra screamed in pain. He raised his sword to block the second guard’s attack.
Cambria moved without thinking. She charged forward, plunging her dagger into the guard’s side. She twisted the blade deeper into his organs before he backhanded her away. The guard fell to the ground, clutching his side and crying in agony. She’d severed his liver. A sickness rose in her. All this time she had carried a knife and thought of using it on her enemies, those who would hurt her and the ones she cared about.
Cambria dropped the bloody dagger. She couldn’t take the man’s life.
The guard gargled blood and reached for Cambria, seizing her pants. Cambria froze, unable to move as the man’s bloody hand pulled her closer. Solvan Ra plunged his sword into the guard and the man’s hands fell from Cambria like severed branches.
Cambria breathed, life returning to her body. Solvan Ra’s leg gave out and he collapsed. Cambria ran to his side and pulled him away from the door as more Temple guards poured down the hallway. Their swords and armor met the wild attacks of Descendant prisoners, many who were fighting without weapons and holding their own.
Solvan Ra winced as she set him against the wall. “Dry blood bastards,” he cursed, then looked up at Cambria. “No offense.”
“Your quadricep is torn,” Cambria yelled over the noise. “I don’t think you can walk.”
“I can still swing a sword. Help me up.”
Cambria tore a strip from her shirt and pulled it tight around his leg, just above the wound. Blood sputtered out, but Solvan Ra let out only the softest groan. Cambria got under the rebel’s arm and propped him up against the wall.
“We’re doing well,” he said, a smile on his face. “We might make it out of here, after all.”
With the chaos and bloodshed exploding around her, Cambria couldn’t agree. Solvan Ra smiled and said something else but the words were lost as they were hit from behind. Cambria landed with Solvan Ra on top of her. Descendants and Temple guards piled on one another, biting and punching whatever exposed skin they could find. Air squeezed out of Cambria’s lungs, she tried to take a breath, but her chest was flattened from the weight. Red spots dotted her vision. She screamed but nothing came out. Then, the fighting rolled away, toppling in the other direction in a mess of screams and curses. On the floor, not two feet from her, a Descendant prisoner dug his dirty fingernails into a guard’s eye socket until blood fountained over his hands. Cambria groaned and slipped out from under Solvan Ra’s heavy body.
“Solvan Ra.” She turned him over. H
is own sword protruded from his gut. His eyes were vacant. “No!”
A Temple guard stomped over his body on his way through the melee. Cambria scrambled away from the dead rebel. She should run, flee the Temple while she still could. Instead, she ran deeper into the sanctuary, towards the stage. Towards Ara.
A guard stood before her, brandishing his sword. Cambria dove to the ground, rolling under the cover of the sanctuary’s old wooden pews. He turned to pursue her, raising his sword. Cambria scrambled away, bumping her head on the pew, her eyes locked on the heavy metal blade that was about to chop her in half. She should have run when she had the chance. A knife flew through the air and dinged off the guard’s armored back. He spun around to face a charging Spade. The rebel leader jumped into the air, covering the distance between them and coming down with a kick that sent the armored guard flying into one of his own men. Spade landed in with her sword raised for more attacks. She turned to Cambria long enough to deliver a message with her eyes. Get Ara. Then, she spun around, locking swords with another tangle of guards, moving with speed and grace Cambria didn’t think possible.
Fresh blood clung to Cambria’s clothes as she crawled along the wet floor under cover of the pews. She passed bodies scattered on the ground. Some dead, some well on their way. There seemed no end to the fighting and the death toll. Cambria kept her head down and crawled until she reached the front row. She was almost there; she was going to make it.
Cambria passed the front pew and climbed to her feet, sprinting towards the stage. She stopped when she reached the altar. The table was empty. Restraints lay untied on the floor beside it. He was gone.
Cambria turned back to the sanctuary and the bloodshed claiming life after life. Only one other time had she felt so powerless.
Ara, where are you?
The sword passed an inch from Geyer’s head. One inch lower and he’d be dead. Such was the way of things. Fate, luck, it kept some men alive while others died. But there was only so much luck given to a man and Geyer had used his up this day. He was still alive. The attacking guard didn’t get a second chance. Geyer kicked him in the groin and drove his sword up under his chin. One man’s luck was another’s misfortune. The guard was dead before he hit the ground.
Good Blood Page 37
