by Brent Weeks
It was open to the outside, and a skulk of foxes had taken up residence in this cozy cave. Which meant that even after Ironfist’s first, horrific encounter, it still—years later—stank of musk and fur. He’d liked foxes, before.
Responsible commander that he’d been, he’d collapsed the tunnel so that there were no secret entrances into the heart of the Prism’s Tower.
But he’d only collapsed the outermost few feet. He could dig through it if he must.
If the Blackguards stationed back here stayed exactly at their stations until they were relieved rather than walking back into the tunnel when they heard their replacements coming, it would be necessary.
He really, really didn’t want to deal with the stench of a fox den and the pains of digging underground. It would add an hour to his night. It was only going to take a few minutes for him to find out.
In a quarter of an hour, the shift changed. At a call from deep inside the passage, the Blackguards outside opened the gate, came inside, closed and locked it behind them—and then walked into the tunnel to meet their replacements, chatting in worried tones about the impending execution and the looming fight.
Good luck, at last!
Ironfist slipped out soon after they passed his hidden room, then slipped out through the gate, locking it behind him.
Thank Orholam. He’d been starting to worry about time.
He walked at a low crouch until he was well out of sight on this cold, drizzly night. The Blackguards might chat with their reinforcements for several minutes, or they might come immediately. He wasn’t going to risk anything. Not tonight.
Only steps away from the boathouse where his objective lay, a voice called out from a shadow, freezing him.
“I never thought you could do this. Not you.”
Cruxer!
Cruxer couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old now, but there was no trace of a boy in his voice or his eyes. His sword was already drawn, tunic dripping with rain. He’d been lying in wait.
“How did you—” Ironfist began. But it was the wrong question. If only he had the Guiles’ golden tongues.
“I went to your rooms to speak with you. Some of your men are still loyal to the Chromeria,” Cruxer said. “They told me you asked one of them to test your old keys on these gates. So I know something’s back here. Perhaps you’re to let in some invaders? Order assassins, maybe?”
“No,” Ironfist said, but he felt a chill down his back at the mention of the Order.
“You’re in the Order,” Cruxer said.
“I . . . was.” Ironfist didn’t consider himself the most emotionally attuned man, but the orange seed crystal against his skin magnified his awareness of currents of feeling—and Cruxer felt as jagged as shattered hellstone, all dark glittery points ready to slice.
“All those years you were commander. They were all a lie.”
“No.”
“You infiltrated the Blackguard for the Order of the Broken Eye,” Cruxer said.
“I thought I could hold them together,” Ironfist said. “That they didn’t need to be opposed. That the old wounds could be healed . . .”
“So you’re a weasel as well as a traitor,” Cruxer said.
And suddenly Ironfist saw that this young man was as hard and unforgiving and as foolish as he himself had been at that age. And as dangerous.
“Cruxer, stop. You’re already in my zone.”
The kill zone was the area inside of which an armed opponent could complete a lethal assault before you could defend yourself. It could be a surprisingly large area, especially for a tall, quick man with a long reach and good training, like Cruxer.
Ironfist wasn’t going to just let him stroll inside the zone, but making a move toward his own ataghan would start them down a path to misery. When blades sing, words fall silent.
“Son, I can tell you everything, but you need to give me time to explain.”
“Time?” Cruxer asked. “How much time does it take for the orange bane to corrupt a man?”
Ironfist was stricken. Shit. He knew about the orange? The seed crystal was barely covered by his tunic’s neckline. If Cruxer saw it, what would he do?
“This isn’t you doing this, is it?” Cruxer said. “The orange bane has changed you, hasn’t it?”
“It has affected me,” Ironfist admitted. “ But—”
“Did it give you the idea to make yourself king?”
“Well . . . maybe. I’m not sure, but—”
“And to demand blood for blood?”
“I—that’s not what you think.”
“Treason and murder aren’t what I think?”
“I’m not going to go through with it! Son, you know me!”
“I know you? Which you? I looked up to you. You were everything to me. Everything I dreamed of becoming. You were the standard I fell short of. And it was all a lie. You’re here opening the gates for the Order,” Cruxer said.
“No, no! This is my vengeance on the Order. They’re the ones who killed my sister.”
“Your sister was insane. A loose cannon in storm-tossed seas. She was trying to kill you. You want me to believe—How about your brother’s death? You don’t blame that on the Guiles?”
Ironfist hesitated. “No. Not—”
“Liar.”
“Fine! I’m furious! But for the greater good, I can let it go,” Ironfist said.
“Like you let your integrity go?”
Ironfist’s chest expanded as he drew in air sharply, his teeth baring.
“Were you serving the greater good when you joined the Order?” Cruxer asked, his voice raw.
“I thought so,” Ironfist admitted. “Things were different then. The Order was just a tiny regional power halfway across the world from here. And they were the only ones who could save my sister. I thought I could keep my vows to them and to the Blackguard—I was all the way over here!”
“Our Blackguard vows include renouncing all other vows. And reporting them.”
“I was a kid! I made a mistake. You’re telling me you’re perfect, Cruxer? You’ve never made any mistakes? I seem to remember different.”
“You’re right,” Cruxer said, his face haggard. “I loved Lucia, and I got her killed. But I decided not to compromise my integrity ever again, and that’s the difference between us.”
Cruxer wasn’t taking his eyes off him. The young man was totally keyed up. And if Ironfist remembered his speed correctly, Cruxer was well within killing distance. Any wrong move Ironfist made was going to end badly. “Son, you have to believe me. I’m here to do the right thing.”
“Through treason and murder?”
“I know it looks bad. It’s a stratagem.”
“That the orange revealed to you,” Cruxer said.
Ironfist felt pierced through. He’d lied to Cruxer already, and the young man had seen through it. If he was caught in one more lie, this would be over. “Yes,” he said softly. “It’s for the greater—”
“Say ‘the greater good’ one more fucking time!”
“Easy, easy. Cruxer, please . . .”
“We’re soldiers! We’re guardians! That’s who we are. We obey! The greater good isn’t for men like you and me to decide!”
“Son, sometimes you still don’t know your ass from your elbow. A man never gets to put his conscience in someone else’s care. Every one of us has to decide what the greater good is.”
Cruxer’s face hardened, and Ironfist knew he’d made a mistake. Cruxer said, “You come upstairs with me now. You cancel the execution and I’ll let them decide what to do with you.”
“I can’t do that. We have to play this my way.”
“Oh, we do?” Cruxer said, stepping forward.
“Yes! Dammit, Cruxer, stay back!”
If Cruxer attacked, he’d lunge with that sword, but Ironfist wasn’t exactly unarmed. People saw the heavy chain on his arm and thought of it as costuming, or a slow offensive weapon if he unslung it. But as it was, tig
ht from wrist to elbow to shoulder, it could also make a bit of a shield.
Ironfist said, “I’m here for Gavin Guile. My contacts told me he’s here. Locked up in a special cell beneath the Chromeria. There’s a hidden entrance out here. I can save him. I’m the only man on earth who can save Gavin Guile.”
“Really? He’s been here all this time?” Cruxer said, scoffing. “Fine, then! Let’s go upstairs, tell Karris.”
“We can’t. The Old Man’s here. If he gets word—and he will!—if he even suspects what I’m planning, he’ll kill Gavin before we can move.”
“Oh, the Old Man of the Desert himself? Him, too? This gets more convoluted by the moment, doesn’t it? But then, lies do that, don’t they?”
“The Old Man’ll be at the execution. I have from now until then to save Gavin Guile, and you are burning precious time here, son.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Cruxer’s eyes.
“We need Gavin Guile or we’re doomed. He’s the Lightbringer,” Ironfist said.
“No, he’s not,” Cruxer said.
“He drafted white luxin at the siege of Garriston. I saw it. I have a piece of it. Here in my bag. I can show you!”
“Don’t you pull anything from that bag! You think I’m an idiot?”
“Cruxer, you know me. Let me explain.”
“Toss me the pistol bag.”
“I’m not tossing you my bag. Just—I will move so slowly. You have every advantage—”
“Slowly. That’s the key, isn’t it? I know something about will-casting now, Commander. Takes a few minutes to will-cast a person if you don’t want them to notice, doesn’t it? You’re doing it to me right now, aren’t you? Bet you’ve got orange seed crystal in there, huh?”
“No, no!” Will-casting?
“Then why are you stalling?”
“Because you’re right on the edge and I don’t want either of us to die for no reason!” Only then did Ironfist realize he’d just lied, sort of. But he wasn’t will-casting with the orange seed crystal. He didn’t even know if he could do that.
He did have it on him, though, barely tucked out of sight in the neckline of his tunic, and if Cruxer saw it, he was going to think Iron-fist was lying about everything else, too.
But as sweat trickled down between Ironfist’s pectorals, he saw Cruxer’s temperature drop, just a little.
“We can save him together,” Ironfist said. “We wait until the very moment of the execution, and we bring him up there with us. He might be in rough shape, but you and I can keep him safe. Against the Order, you understand? We can’t let anyone else get close. I didn’t tell anyone, because we can’t trust anyone.”
“What are the names of the other Blackguards loyal to the Order?” Cruxer demanded.
“Goddam, son. You think they tell us?”
“Yes,” Cruxer said. And the way he said it suggested a door closing, a last chance was passing. Of course he believed that, though. Ironfist had been the commander. He had to know.
“Grinwoody,” Ironfist blurted out. “Grinwoody’s the Old Man of the Desert. The head of the Broken Eye. Hiding in plain sight. As close to power as you can possibly get, but invisible. And if we give him even five minutes’ warning, he’ll spring some backup plan. He’ll escape. He’s smarter than you know. But if I can—”
Cruxer scoffed. “I ask for Blackguards and you offer up one old slave?”
There was no time to tell Cruxer the plan. He wouldn’t believe it anyway. “Son. Everything I’ve done—declaring myself king, everything! It’s all been for this. Only I can save Gavin Guile. Only I can stop the Order. Only I can pay for what I’ve done.”
But while Ironfist kept his voice contrite, level, there was rage rising in him, too.
I can’t let you stop me. This is bigger than you. It’s bigger than me. This is redemption for all my betrayals and failures. This is the future of the Seven Satrapies.
Through the orange crystal, he could feel the war raging in his young protégé, scared, angry, guilty, wanting to believe, and not daring to.
Ironfist was turned the wrong way to see if the Blackguards had already appeared at the gate behind them, but every time Cruxer raised his voice, Ironfist thought, What if one of the reinforcements is Grinwoody’s man?
Even if they weren’t, any of the Blackguards would seize him and take him inside. And if they did that, he would lose everything.
Cruxer said, “You’re listening behind you. You waiting for some of your traitor friends to join you?”
“Cruxer, let me show you. I’m gonna pull the white luxin from this bag.”
But his hand was closed around the pistol’s butt. His thumb pulled the cockjaw back almost to the place where it would click. But he couldn’t cock it. If Cruxer heard that sound, he’d attack.
If he twisted his wrist, he could drop the cockjaw without drawing the pistol from the bag. It would have a very good chance of firing half-cocked. It would be faster even than Cruxer’s sword thrust.
“Don’t you do it!” Cruxer said.
And in the strain on Cruxer’s face, Ironfist saw not the boy before him but Cruxer’s father, Holdfast. Holdfast had been too much older than Ironfist for them to really be friends, but the older man had looked out for him. And when he’d died, there’d been that same expression on his face.
“I’m stopping,” Ironfist said gently.
“You taught me everything,” Cruxer said, his features contorting. Maybe he was beyond backing down now. “You taught me to protect my ward no matter what. You taught me it was better to yell a Nine Kill wrongly than to remain silent and let my ward die. I want to believe you. But you lied before. I can’t give you another chance. I can’t let you kill Kip. He’s the Lightbringer. I’m sorry. I loved you. Now, draw. Please. I can’t kill you in cold blood. Draw!”
But against every instinct screaming in him, Ironfist slowly uncurled his tight fingers from the grip of his pistol. He took a deep breath.
Cruxer’s eyes flicked down, and Ironfist realized that something about his motion had popped the orange seed crystal out of his neckline and into view, where it burned with inner light.
He saw the look in the young man’s eyes even as the orange sent him the feeling: Cruxer felt stricken, betrayed.
Cruxer said, “I believed you. You almost—” And then he lunged with perfect form and incredible speed.
He was even faster than Ironfist remembered.
In the tales, a duel between grandmasters is a wondrous thing. Each arrives in the prime of his powers. Neither is given some unfair disadvantage of injury or being weaponless. In the tales, a duel between grandmasters is a match of intellect and strategy as much as one of pure physique.
This lunge stabbed through Ironfist’s left arm and side even as he twisted. The blade had passed through the center of a link in his great chain as he was bringing it up to block. Then, caught in that chain, the blade flexed hard—and snapped.
Cruxer tried to retreat, but he was off balance from the unexpected forces of the sword catching and then snapping. Ironfist’s shoulder collided with the younger man’s stomach. They went down together.
Ironfist drew a knife even as he was landing on the younger man’s legs.
Slashing for Cruxer’s hamstring, Ironfist cut into his calf instead. He rolled away.
There was no time to gauge wounds. Ironfist scrambled away on hands and knees toward his bag, which had fallen to one side, while Cruxer lunged away to create distance. Blue luxin flashed from Cruxer and hit him, knocking Ironfist over and on top of his bag.
Ironfist rolled and saw Cruxer rising up to one knee to draw a pistol from some kind of holster at his hip.
Lying on the ground, Ironfist pulled his own pistol from his bag, but he was too slow.
The holster gave Cruxer the advantage. He finished his draw and pulled his trigger as Ironfist’s gun was still coming on target.
And nothing happened. Wet from the rain in its open holster, the frizzen di
dn’t spark. Cruxer was cocking the jaw again when Ironfist fired. Powder roared in a burning-white flash that blossomed into a black cloud between them.
But Cruxer didn’t stop. Ironfist had missed. Cruxer cocked his pistol and aimed deliberately.
Ironfist threw himself down again as Cruxer fired.
The concussion deafened Ironfist, but Cruxer missed.
At least as far as Ironfist could tell. Battle was like that. Sometimes you could be dead ten seconds before you realized it.
Ironfist stood, blood gushing from his arm and side. He felt suddenly faint.
He collapsed at Cruxer’s feet.
Tossing his pistol aside, he fumbled toward his bag. He wanted his protégé to know the white luxin was real. He wanted Cruxer to know it was all real. Maybe, maybe Cruxer could save Gavin. Maybe Iron-fist’s lies hadn’t doomed them all.
But with one foot, Cruxer flipped Ironfist over onto his back. He must’ve thought Ironfist was going for another weapon.
Ironfist looked up into the judgment that stood over him.
Then Cruxer tottered. His face twisted with irritation.
Then he collapsed beside Ironfist.
The young warrior gasped bloody foam a few times, a bullet hole in his chest sucking air as his lungs filled with blood.
Ironfist hadn’t missed.
Cruxer made no gestures. Said no final words. And Ironfist couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.
“I tried . . . Oh God,” Ironfist said. “I tried.”
But there was no absolution here.
He pushed himself up to his knees, fumbling to show Cruxer the white luxin—to show his dying eyes that it was true, it was all true. But Ironfist stumbled, couldn’t stand. Suddenly weak, he fell face-down again.
There was a lot of blood. His blood.
It was all going dark. He wasn’t going to make it.
I’m dying, he thought.
He was frightened.
Chapter 91
Karris lay on her face, her body surrendered to the ministrations of Rhoda’s magical hands. It was good to be reminded that the body could be a temple of joy. That there was dancing, and hugging, and pleasing touches, and that life was not only war and death and unconscionable choices.
