A head poked through the glamour, a curious goblin. Then it disappeared. When it returned, it brought friends with it.
“Hurry up,” Whitney said.
Kazimir spoke the words of entry, sliced his hand, and placed the bloody palm against the doors. Symbols carved into the wood—an ancient version of Breklian that pre-dated even Kazimir—lit up red like life-fluid flowing downward. Rock ground against rock and the doors opened slowly.
“Everyone in,” Kazimir said. He spun and loosed three knives from his bandolier at once, taking out a cluster of goblins. They slid dead to Whitney’s feet, who stared, dumbstruck. Kazimir heard the ping of the goblin darts against the Citadel. He grabbed Whitney by the back of the shirt and yanked him inside.
Once everyone was in, Kazimir and Sigrid followed. The doors slammed shut and utter darkness surrounded them.
“What do we do? What do we do?” Whitney said. He was frantic over the Lightmancer’s condition.
“What happened?” the dwarf asked.
“Grimaur got her across the chest,” Whitney answered. “She’s completely paralyzed.”
The dwarf swore. “There a torch? Anything?”
“No,” Kazimir said without compassion. “This place was not designed for mortals—even mountain-dwellers such as yourself. The darkness is magical. Just stick close.”
“Kazimir,” Whitney said, “She’s going to die if we don’t do something.”
“Apart from giving her my own blood, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Then do it!” Whitney shouted. “The plan doesn’t work without her.”
“That would begin a process I am sure neither you nor she would desire. She will survive until we get to the main hall. There, we will be able to treat her. The Lords may not be mortal, but they’ve been alive long enough to know how to cure any and all ailments.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Whitney asked.
Kazimir’s gifts allowed him to see everything, even in the darkness, including Whitney lurching forward, and his foot hovered over a near-bottomless pit.
“Stop,” Kazimir said. “You don’t understand the dangers within.”
Whitney shrugged off his hand. “We have to go.”
“Whit… boy, I think it’s time we listen to him,” the dwarf said. “We’re in his realm now.”
The thief stopped.
“One more step,” Kazimir warned, “and you will be dead along with the woman you carry.”
“Good riddance,” Sigrid remarked. She remained at the exit, crossbow loaded, ready to fight anyone or anything. She had a long way to go to sate her bloodlust.
“If you want to live, stay right behind me,” Kazimir said. “Sigrid make sure none gets lost.”
She snarled a response. Kazimir would have to work hard to tame this one.
Leading them through a labyrinth filled with fatal drops like the one which almost claimed Whitney, Kazimir said, “This maze zigzags throughout the whole of the mountain. There are one-hundred-forty-three dead ends, and only one way leads to the Citadel.”
“And you’re sure you know the right one?” Whitney asked.
“Indeed.”
It was only a few minutes, but the thief couldn’t help himself. At every turn, he asked if they’d arrived yet, or told Lucindur to hang on, or begged Kazimir to hurry. In all his centuries, Kazimir never imagined he’d bring strangers to the Citadel, let alone the likes of him. The thief was lucky his presence was necessary to weaken Nesilia’s control over her host.
Kazimir knew enough about demonic possessions. Even when the host’s personality and will seem to vanish, they are never fully gone. He had to hope being possessed by a goddess was no different.
Eventually, the maze opened into a spacious antechamber. Kazimir knew only he and Sigrid would be able to see it.
The room was simple, but elegant—like everything Dom Nohzi. The walls were ancient but were smooth and inlaid with simple, geometric design—every shape perfectly symmetrical and balanced. Red velvet couches sat upon intricately designed rugs. However, this was just the entry to the true Citadel.
“Why’d we stop?” Tum Tum asked.
“Kazimir, we can’t take our time with her like this,” Whitney added.
“Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice.
“Skryabin,” Kazimir said and broke free from the human chain he was leading.
He clasped forearms with the upyr, another like him. She wasn’t one of the first generation, but she’d earned the right to dwell within the Citadel.
“We have a mortal with a fatal wound,” he said. “She needs aid.”
“I’m more concerned about why you would dare bring mortals here?” she spat. “Their kings hunt us. Their fear blinds them to balance.”
“Skryabin, you know me," Kazimir said. “These beings are no danger to us. I need them.”
“Since when do we need the help of… mortals?” The very word seemed to sicken her. It had once had the same effect on Kazimir until the Lords cursed him to Elsewhere for his failure and trapped him with one.
“I will not ask again, Skryabin. They are the key to our salvation—all of us. I will explain once they are safe. Now, lift the darkness and get the Glintish one help.”
Skryabin groaned, then whispered in Breklian.
Kazimir barely perceived it, but he knew the mortals would be glad for the shift and the ability to see as a roaring blue flame sparked to life in the room’s stone hearth.
“A grimaur slash,” Skryabin said, moving toward Lucindur and identifying the wound without having to look for more than a second.
“A grimaur slash,” Kazimir confirmed. “There are hundreds of them filling the pass beyond the veil, hidden by fog, and goblins, too.”
“Prishka,” Skryabin called, snapping her fingers twice. “Get this woman treated.”
“Will she be okay?” Whitney asked the woman called Prishka, a younger upyr with hair like silver who rushed over.
“If you give her here,” she said. Then she grabbed for Lucindur, easily hefting her with supernatural strength.
Whitney grabbed the Lightmancer’s hand as she was pulled free. “You’ll be fine, Lucy,” he promised. Then he turned to Kazimir and asked, “Right?”
“She will,” he said.
“I’ll make sure of it,” the dwarf declared. With Aquira still recuperating atop his shoulder, he followed behind Prishka, who carried Lucindur into a room to the right of the hearth and closed the door. When they were gone, Skryabin motioned for Kazimir to be seated on one of the couches.
“We have much to discuss,” Kazimir said.
“That we do.” Skryabin snapped again, and a shirtless man with a cuff around his throat hurried in from behind Whitney.
“Iam’s ghost!” Whitney blurted, startled.
The man’s body was covered in scars, most concentrated at his neck. He looked emaciated, his eyes bulging from within rings of exhaustion.
He held a tray with two ruby-encrusted goblets filled with blood. He passed one to Kazimir and another to Sigrid, then quickly shuffled out of the room. Sigrid’s goblet was drained, and she was licking the rim before Kazimir had even taken a sip.
“This fresh?” Kazimir asked as he took a sip. He moaned. “Ah, yes. I’ve needed this.”
Whitney gagged. “Really?”
In addition to housing the upyr, the Citadel stocked many hopefuls—upyr-worshiping mortals who would do anything for the chance to become one of the Sons or Daughters of Night, including frequent drainings which left them weak and helpless but kept the upyr well-nourished. They were like the cattle men milked for sustenance.
“What game are you playing at this time, Kazimir?” Skryabin asked. “This mortal is worthless.” She nodded toward Whitney. “But I know the instrument on the Glintish one’s back. Do not think me a fool.”
“That is the least of our worries, Sister,” Kazimir said. “Have you not seen?”
Skryabin bit her lip. It wa
s a nervous habit, but one Kazimir quite enjoyed watching. His carnal desires were mostly for blood. Mostly.
“You have seen it then…” he uttered.
Skryabin nodded. “It means nothing, though. The gods play their games. It isn’t for us to meddle there.”
“Shog in a barrel, what are you two on about?” Whitney asked.
Kazimir looked over to the thief. He didn’t answer him, but addressed Skryabin, eyes never leaving Whitney. “We have to gather everyone. All the Children. Every ally we have. We must call them in immediately.”
“You know they’ll need a good reason,” Skryabin said. “They aren’t all so eager to bend our purpose as you.”
“You’ve seen. When you close your eyes. You know what this means.”
“Come now, you’re not—”
“I have seen what’s coming," Kazimir interrupted. “I have seen it with my eyes, and it is unlike anything we’ve faced before. This will make the Culling look like a rose garden.”
“Seen what?” Whitney insisted.
“There’s a war coming,” Kazimir replied.
“Yes, we all know that,” Skryabin said, unimpressed. “There always is. The foolish ways of men will never stop just because one king dies.”
“I don’t mean war the way men war,” Kazimir said. “I closed my eyes.”
“And?”
“Do it,” Kazimir said. “Do it now, all the way.”
Skryabin hesitated. It was a high request. For mortals, blinking was such a habit they scarcely even notice it. A sane upyr, however, rarely did so. Even then, to allow both lids to touch until there was only darkness was to invite horrors.
After a deep sigh, Skryabin slid her eyelids shut.
As she did, Kazimir whispered, “The old gods are coming.”
Skryabin sucked in another unneeded breath.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Whitney asked for the third time. He grabbed Kazimir by the arm. Sigrid snapped forward and bore her fangs in his face.
Kazimir regarded him, and Whitney removed his hand slowly, releasing a nervous chuckle. “You’ve got to give me something,” he said.
“Elsewhere is… empty,” Kazimir said, barely able to get the last word out. It could mean the end. It could mean nothing. He wasn’t sure, because he’d never seen it like that.
“Empty?” Whitney said. “What does ‘empty’ mean?”
“Has that word ever meant something different to you?” Kazimir retorted. “It is empty. As in, nothing is there except the wianu.”
XXVIII
The Daughter
Mahi watched her father and Babrak wrestling on the ground, spilling blood on the sand of an arena that had seen more than its fair share. Mahi’s own blood even, as she fought against nearly one hundred others to claim the al’Tariq Afhemate. And yet, now that she’d drowned and been one with the Current, what a waste it all seemed to be.
One by one, the bravest of her people threw themselves into Tal’du Dromesh for glory and honor, and one by one, all the best Shesaitju died.
She scaled down the barrier of rocks. Bare feet sliding across the jagged surfaces, she wondered what she was capable of now. Her body felt different… the sting of sharp stone against her soles, the wind against her skin. It was there, the sensation, but… different. She still needed to breathe. Yet, there was a sense of all-encompassing calm pervading her being ever since the Siren plunged into her heart. She knew she should be afraid of the scene before her. There was the father who’d created her, bloodied and dying in the sand, and next to him, the monster who’d caused so much pain.
Underwater, in that strange haven of ruins, filled with strange voices which she could now only remember in fractured segments, it’d almost felt like an eternity had passed.
Before, she'd been constantly reminded that she was just a young woman.
Too female to fight.
Too young to lead.
It all felt silly now, as if she’d lived many lives before. The memories of every Caleef dating back more than a millennium to the God Feud hovered in her mind, just outside of reach. She couldn’t see their pasts; it was only a feeling, like she’d experienced indescribable loss, and more than just that of her village, Shavi, and Jumaat. Her entire people, they were hurting so much. They had been for a very long time, even before Liam. All they’d ever known was blood.
“It can’t be…” Babrak said, more blood bubbling on his sand-covered lips, red saliva dripping to the ground.
“Stop this,” she said. She kneeled beside her father and Babrak and peeled them apart. They were in too much of a state of shock to do anything about it. Both rolled onto their backs, deep wounds oozing from their respective torsos.
“My daughter…” Muskigo rasped. He reached out and stroked her cheek. His touch usually brought with it a sensation of warmth and safety. Now, there was nothing. She could still feel the touch, but it was different. Everything was different.
Armor and weapons clanked. When she looked up, a legion of warriors and Serpent Guards stopped at once. The tongueless guards were the first to fall to their knees and kowtow. Mahi rose to her full, impressive height, her bare skin coated in black, the nature of the nigh’jel blood making her shimmer in the moonlight. It was faint, but they all seemed to notice. A second later, the warriors bowed to her as well.
“Mahraveh…” Muskigo whispered weakly. He crawled for her. “My daughter…” She’d known her father as many things, but weak or dishonorable were never any of them. She had no idea how long she'd been underwater, but already, it seemed he’d forsaken everything he believed in. The old ways and the new. He’d attacked Babrak in Latiapur and was about to be killed by the warriors in front of her.
She walked away from him, and he collapsed while grasping for her ankles. The warriors parted for her, Serpent Guards rising without requiring orders, surrounding her on all sides, weapons armed.
“My Caleef, you return to us,” one of the warriors said. “What should we do with them?”
Mahi glanced back. Both her father and Babrak clung to life, barely. Clutching at their wounds, watching her—the two greatest military powers in the Black Sands, looking pathetic, letting an old grudge drive them to horrific ends.
Is this all over me? she wondered. So much remained foggy.
“Clean them up, and keep them alive if you can,” she said.
The man looked nervously to a few of the others. “But Muskigo, he—”
“Is a fool. We all are.” Mahi turned away and crossed the arena. The Serpent Guards followed her, helping her over the rubble of a collapsed portion of the arena’s arcade, no doubt more of a mess caused by her vengeful father.
It was night, but it didn’t take long for people to crowd the streets. One woman dressed in a bright purple sarong noticed her, then another. Shesaitju poured forth from their homes and fell to their knees, offering prayers. Mahi studied each of them, genuine adoration written on all their faces. These were the same people who may have shirked her for being a female warrior, or for siding with her father in the rebellion against the Glass Kingdom. Men who would have seen her naked body and felt only lust, didn’t show it, not now.
Blooming green light drew her focus upward. Nigh’jels were being spilled down the grand steps up to the Caleef’s palace, lighting her path. ‘A river of the old souls,’ the sages would call it—of Caleefs past inviting her into their shared home.
As she ascended, step by golden step, they all flocked her. Sages offered words of prayer so quickly she couldn’t even keep up with what they were saying. Afhems’ and warriors’ faces touched the earth before her. All the way up the stairs, into the sparse forest of blackwoods in the courtyard, thousands worshipped her for nothing which she did on her own.
Suddenly, she understood why Caleefs could wind up scared and diffident like Sidar Rakun. She understood how young kings like Pi Nothhelm could make drastic mistakes and invite monsters into their home. Nobody knew how to wake up one day, w
orshipped by all.
Why me? she wondered as she stopped in the grand entrance to a magnificent home she’d never wanted.
Everything felt like a blur until she stood in the palace. Why would the God of Sand and Sea choose her to carry his essence when she thought such things?
“Mahi!” Bit’rudam ran over, his feet pounding the gravel. No sooner had he thrown his arms around her, his slender fingers grazing her back than a Serpent Guard shoved him. He hit the ground hard, and nearly a dozen spears angled up against his throat. He raised his chin, not daring to even take a breath.
It took her a few moments regarding his pleading expression to remember who he was to her. “Release him.”
At once, the Serpent Guards returned their blades to their sides. Mahi had only been an afhem for a short time, and it was nothing like this. It wasn’t that they listened, it was how quickly they did so. Not a moment’s hesitation, as if they knew her desires before they even escaped her lips.
“It can’t be,” Bit’rudam said, a tremor in his voice. Murmurs filled the grand chamber. Mahi ignored them all. She extended a hand to help him up, but he didn’t dare move. She stood, waiting until he finally found the nerve to accept her aid. As he reached his feet, he studied his hand as if expecting black paint to rub off.
“A woman has never—” he began.
“Done a lot of things,” Mahi interrupted. She scoured all the columns, engraved and painted with legends of old. A thousand years of warrior afhems and conflict. “Man, Woman, afhem, markless, Caleef… all of these titles. I think I finally understand.” She started walking again. Serpent Guards spread the doors to the throne auditorium wide. Beings of the sea, small and large, had already been sacrificed around the hole she’d fallen through.
Mahi couldn’t keep track of how many markless servants came at her on approach. She was only grateful that the guards were there to keep them at bay. Seeing that portal in the floor made her whole world feel crowded. Falling, knowing she was going to die, slamming into the sea.
Not falling… pushed.
It felt like so long ago, but the wound was still fresh.
War of Men Page 37
