Geyer fell back against the sanctuary wall to catch his breath and take the weight off his left leg. He’d pushed through the pain for so long he was surprised the leg hadn’t burst open. The battle raged all around him, with a seemingly endless supply of guards descending on the sanctuary. And for every few guards, there was a Descendant. They fought well, moving with such fearless speed the heavy armored Temple guards struggled to land blows. Things were going better than he expected, considering he expected them all to be dead by now.
Spade had brought the best of the Descendant rebels as well. The warriors handled their weapons like trained experts, slicing through one Temple guard after another. As many men as Geyer dispatched, Taro Kine was far ahead of him. The cocky fool and his two swords.
A knife clattered off the wall beside Geyer’s head. He turned to see the thrower fall to the ground, Spade’s sword in his back. She didn’t even give Geyer a nod before she turned to face two more charging guards.
Stupid, Geyer cursed himself for not paying attention. He’d have all the time in eternity to rest if he caught a Temple guard’s sword. Can’t be lucky forever. Now, it was time to fight.
Geyer pushed off the wall and worked his way through the Temple guards towards the center of the sanctuary. Ara’s body had been there when he first entered the sanctuary, but it was gone now. Geyer didn’t know if that was good or bad, but he refused to believe Ara was dead. Callow as he was, the boy had more sense than to get himself killed. If only he’d trained the boy a little more.
“Descendant clots!” a Temple guard cursed as he fought away Descendant attackers. Geyer recognized the man. He wore no helmet, his long braided hair flapping around as he cut through Descendants. One of Bale’s men who’d hunted them in the forest. The tracker. Geyer’s heart beat like horse hooves in his chest as he scanned the room. Where was the Blood Knight?
Before Geyer knew it, he was pacing towards the tracker. The guard turned to him, blood splattered against his tanned face. Was he there that day in the Hidden Wood? Did his sword land the blow that killed James or Maddie?
Geyer raised his sword, pointing at the cutthroat turned Temple guard.
A wild roar erupted over the clanging metal and screams of agony. The fighting slowed; heads turned, searching for the beast. Above, in the balcony that hung over the sanctuary entrance, stood an enormous black shape. Its eyes were red as blood.
Geyer blinked, the air frozen in his chest. This was the demon of his dreams. The one he faced in the nightmares alcohol didn’t dull. This was the monster who slew James Carmine and Geyer’s men. This was Bale, the Blood Knight, in his true form.
The creature leaped off the balcony and descended like a shadow. The floor trembled under his weight. Geyer caught himself, leaning heavily on his right leg. The black armor that covered the creature looked more a part of its flesh than worn. Blades in its hands were not that of any daggers but its actual fingers spread wide like talons. The face was a ghostly gray with black lines running under the skin in dark vein-like patterns.
The demon drew a long sword and in one swing, cut a nearby Descendant in half. He turned and swung again, this time slicing through two Descendants and a Temple guard. His red eyes took in the blood around him, and a smile broke out on his ghostly face. Four more fell dead at the Blood Knight’s hand. Both Descendants and guards fled, toppling over one another, clearing away from the monster.
Cambria scrambled away from the sanctuary, the cacophony of battle fading with each step. So much destruction and bloodshed. Wounded men and women dying, while she ran away. There was nothing she could do; there were too many. She was just one girl.
And she had to find him. Ara, please be alive.
Cambria raced through the Temple hall, expecting to hear a flurry of guard boots chasing after her. But none came. She looked left and right as the corridor split, looking for traces of Ara. He couldn’t have gotten far. Even he couldn’t have healed so quickly from that amount of blood loss.
A faint thud echoed through the hallway. Down the hall to the right. Cambria sprinted to the open doorway.
Cold air hit her like a wall of ice. She skidded to a stop. Bottles of blood lined the room. The blood of a hundred tortured Descendants. Cambria had seen the Temple’s dungeons and the state of its prisoners. All that suffering, to pay for bigger palaces.
Red flashed in the corner of the room. A Temple Curor stood before a large closet of heavy wood and housed his robes and medical equipment. He was bent over, filling a bag with medical with scalpel blades, syringes, cloths, transfusion tubes. Tools designed to heal that had been reshaped to harm by the warped practices of the Faith’s blood doctors.
Cambria stepped into the cold room, her hands balled into fists.
The Curor spun around, startled. Wide eyes looked down a crooked nose at her. “Stop! You can’t be in here.”
A golden heart insignia adorned the breast of the Curor’s robes. This was the Temple’s head Curor; the one that experimented on Descendants. Vorrel.
Cambria stepped forward. “Where is he?”
Vorrel narrowed his gaze. “Who are you?”
“If you harmed him in any way…”
“You’ve come for the Descendant boy, is that it? Well, you’re too late.”
Cambria stiffened. “You’re lying.”
Vorrel cocked his head, a grin on his face. Pleasure at another’s pain. Curors brought dishonor to everything Cambria believed in; everything her parents had taught her.
Vorrel reached back into his bag and drew his scalpel. The sharp blade looked comfortable in his bony hands. “I’m going to cut you open and watch you bleed out just like one of them.”
Though fighting persisted on the outer ring of the sanctuary, those in the center retreated for cover as the Blood Knight killed anything close to it. Its long sword cleaved a Descendant’s arm. A Temple guard scrambling away was snatched up, his head caught in the creature’s claws; his neck twisted with a harsh snap, and his lifeless body fell to the ground.
The long-haired guard laughed as people fled in fear. “Kill them, Bale,” the tracker said. “Kill every last one!”
The Blood Knight’s roar shook the sword in his hands, but Geyer held his ground, leaning on his front leg. The ghostly face turned towards him, black lines running like cracks in the ashen skin. Geyer twisted his sword in his hands; the wheel of fate spun at the hilt of his sword. Good or bad fortune, he was done running. If this was his time to die, so be it.
Geyer pointed his sword at the demon before him. “You remember me, assassin?”
Red eyes bared down on him; nostrils flared. Was there the flash of recognition on the once human face? With long knife-like fingers, the Blood Knight tapped its chest above the heart with long knife-like fingers.
“That’s right,” Geyer said. “Now, I’m here to finish what I started.”
The Blood Knight lifted its long sword and charged Geyer with surprising speed. Geyer barely got his sword up in time. The blow rattled the old knight’s bones, and he stumbled back, his bad leg buckling under him. Somehow, he stayed on his feet.
Geyer had blocked the blade, and it nearly broke his arm. If the creature made contact he’d be cut in half. One mistake and it was over.
The Blood Knight charged again and swung with savage anger.
Focus. Geyer pushed the fear from his mind. Watch its shoulder.
Geyer sidestepped the first blow, got his sword up for the next two strikes but could not hold on. His sword flew from his hands. An unarmed Geyer faced the Blood Knight as it brought its sword back for a killing blow.
“Go on. Do it, you ugly bastard.”
The black figure roared in pain, barring its fangs. The Blood Knight spun around, a line of black blood running down the center of its back.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Taro Kine said, spinning a sword in each hand. He grinned at Geyer. “But I can’t let you have all the fun.”
The Blood Knight swung angrily. Taro
Kine ducked the blow and stabbed his sword into the Blood Knight’s chest. A wound that would have killed any mortal man. But the Blood Knight kept coming.
The smile vanished from Taro Kine’s face as the Blood Knight swung again and again. Taro Kine blocked two massive blows, but the third knocked a sword from his hand. He raised the remaining sword with both hands against the oncoming blow; the sword shattered to pieces.
The Blood Knight rammed its sword into Taro Kine’s side. Then, it swung its claw and batted the Descendant rebel across the room. Taro Kine slammed into the wall and crumbled to the floor, his face matted with blood.
“Nooooo!” Geyer yelled.
The Blood Knight swung its sword back to Geyer. The blade split Geyer at the chest.
Vorrel stepped forward, the scalpel pointed at Cambria. How many veins had he cut open with that instrument? How many people had this monster bled? She should be afraid. She was that same helpless little girl sitting at the riverside while her parents died of gray fever. Hadn’t she learned by now? The world was filled with disease and injustice and so many things beyond her control. But seeing this Curor, this medical fraud who had hurt so many, Cambria was just plain mad.
“That’s a wide head blade,” Cambria said, nodding to the three-inch blade in Vorrel’s hand. “Uncommon in traditional scalpels.”
Vorrel narrowed his eyes, studying her. Still, he stepped forward, wielding the scalpel. She was just a little girl. No real threat.
“A fine point scalpel is superior,” Cambria continued. “It makes a less obtrusive incision in the patient, allowing for swifter healing after surgery.”
A grin spread across Vorrel’s face, flashing teeth that pointed in every direction. Poor dental alignment. Something Descendant blood didn’t correct.
“If you don’t want them to bleed out,” he said. “But that’s the whole purpose of cutting open a Descendant.”
Cambria tensed but didn’t move. The lab door was open behind her but she stayed her ground, watching the Curor approach. The room’s cold air moving through her lungs.
“You see, these animals are difficult to work with,” Vorrel said. “A simple incision starts to close within minutes, then you have to cut them all over again. A Descendant with particularly good blood, you might have to cut eight times in order to fill a full bottle of blood. This blade, however,” he held the scalpel up towards Cambria’s face. “A cut with my blade and that wound won’t be closing any time soon.”
Vorrel swung the blade at Cambria’s jugular. She leaned back in time to feel the air of the blow pass by her skin. The Curor grunted and swung again. Cambria dropped to the ground, the scalpel passing high above her head.
Cambria pulled her own blade from her belt and drove it into the exposed skin above Vorrel’s shoe. The Curor screamed in pain, his scalpel falling to the ground. He hobbled back, crashing into this desk
“Ahhh! You filth! What have you done?”
“I’ve severed your ankle cord,” Cambria said. She holstered her blade and picked up Vorrel’s own instrument. The flat blade was scratched from years of use. “Good thing it wasn’t with this blade.”
She sliced the scalpel Vorrel along the torso, tearing his red robe and opening up his side just above the navel.
“Ahhh,” Vorrel howled and fell back against the closet, lab equipment shattering not the floor. “Now that one will be difficult to seal.”
Whimpering, Vorrel reached for a nearby shelf, his fingers searching for a bottle of blood.
“No,” Cambria said. She sliced his outstretched wrist. Vorrel grabbed at the wound, blood sprayed through his fingers. “No easy cure.”
The Curor’s robe was wet with blood, as was the floor beneath him. Three open wounds, spilling him open. His face was already turning pale from the blood loss. The doctor in her wanted to spring to action, to close the wounds fast. The rest of her wanted to see this man suffer for his crimes.
“Help me,” Vorrel squealed, clutching his wrist. “I’m dying.”
Cambria shook her head. “Not if you’re treated soon. You seal the wounds and stop the bleeding and you’ll live.”
Vorrel bent over, gasping as blood continued to pour from his wrist and stomach. His face now a pale mask of fear.
“You’re the head Curor of the Faith, surely you can tend to some simple cuts.”
Veins protruded from Vorrel’s neck as he gritted his teeth. “You dirty clot!” The Curor charged her, but there was little strength in the attack. Cambria kicked him square in the chest. Vorrel staggered back into the closet, pulling his robes down on top of him. He cried in pain. “I need blood. Give it to me!”
Cambria looked to the shelves of blood covering the walls of his room. There was enough here to buy a kingdom. To save one as well.
The price was too high.
“That’s not your blood to take.”
She grabbed his bag of medical tools and tossed them into the closet with him. “Save yourself.”
She locked the closet door.
Geyer gritted his teeth and looked down expecting to see himself laid open. But the cut wasn’t deep, a single red line across his chest. He was still alive. Lucky, fool.
The only reason the Blood Knight hadn’t finished the job was the Descendants. The freed prisoners didn’t dare get close, but they were hurling knives and shields at the monster. Distracting it long enough for Geyer to recover. The objects hitting the creature didn’t hurt it, but did make it angry. The Blood Knight spun wildly, swinging his sword in every direction trying to attack everything at once. Whatever that creature had been transformed into, it didn’t come with a lot of brains.
It picked up a shield and heaved it across the room, knocking over two Temple guards who had surrounded a wounded Edwar Kel.
“Stop, you idiot,” the tracker said, stepping in front of the creature and waving his arms. “Kill the Descendants.”
The Blood Knight lopped the long-haired guard’s head off with one stroke. The guard’s head flew into the upper balcony.
There was no more time to recover; Geyer had to act now, before the creature killed him and everyone else in the room. He searched the debris around him. His sword lay to his right, at the foot of a shattered pew. Get up. If you can breathe, you can fight.
Geyer climbed to his feet. The creature turned towards him, seemingly happy to have a single target to focus on. The long black sword swung towards Geyer’s head. Geyer saw it coming and slid under the blade. He rolled away from the creature, scrambling on the ground towards his sword.
Still alive. Keep fighting.
Geyer reached his sword and spun, holding it out to the Blood Knight. His heart drummed against the wall of his bloody chest. His muscles ached; he could barely breathe. The battle continued to rage on the outskirts of the room. Despite overwhelming odds, the Descendants fought on. Prisoners who had been starved and tortured for years were overthrowing the most powerful army in Terene.
This was the kind of battle they wrote songs about.
Geyer stayed crouched, his sword extended; the wheel on its hilt spinning slowly, deciding where to settle. “I stabbed you in the heart and you didn’t die,” Geyer said.
“Dieeee,” the Blood Knight snarled in an inhuman voice.
Geyer reached his left hand back to the boot of his back leg. This was it. He’d only get one chance.
“This time, I won’t aim for such a small target.”
With a ferocious roar, the Blood Knight charged, its longsword slicing down through the air. Geyer lunged under the blade and drove his own sword up at the creature, but the Blood Knight was too fast; its left hand caught Geyer’s sword, stopping it mid-thrust. Black blood dripped from the creature’s taloned hand, but it held the sword as if it were encased in stone.
“Eeeat…youuu…heaart,” the Blood Knight growled, pulling Geyer closer to its open jaws. Geyer strained to hold on to his sword with his right hand as he was lifted into the air, the fangs now inches from his face.
Geyer stared into the creatures red eyes. Anything human had gone; there was nothing left but mindless anger.
“Demon or not,” Geyer grunted. “You still only have two hands.”
Geyer swung his left hand up, thrusting the dagger through the Blood Knight’s open mouth and into its brain. Rivers of black blood ran from the creature’s mouth and eyes. It howled in choked anguish.
Tossed to the ground, Geyer’s legs collapsed. The black longsword clattered to the ground. On his back, Geyer faced the sanctuary’s golden dome ceiling. The creature hovered over him like a cloud of death. Then, it crumbled to the floor.
Geyer couldn’t move; there was no more fight in him. He turned his head to face the creature and saw that it was over. Blood pooled from its ghostly face. The fire in its eyes extinguished.
The clash of swords echoed all around him. Descendants fighting a seemingly endless army of Temple guards. Maybe they could still win, maybe it had always been impossible. Out of instinct, he felt for his sword, but his hand came up empty. He stopped searching and simply lay there, his muscles seizing up, consciousness slipping. He’d done his part. He’d killed the monster. Geyer closed his eyes and let fate decide the rest.
37
Ara leaned against the wall for support as he moved down the corridor. His head swam, bordering on unconsciousness, and his legs wobbled like they hadn’t been used in years. Still, Ara pushed himself on, surprised he was still alive.
He had made the Descendant prisoner Tar Shen promise to take every last ounce of his blood—leaving nothing for the Highfather. They tied him upside down against the bars and slit his wrist first. Prisoners passed around his blood in dinner bowls, each one partaking in his blood. He felt his strength squeeze out of him until he could barely stay conscious. Then, Tar Shen had slit his throat.
Good Blood Page 38
