Of Shadow and Sea (The Elder Empire: Shadow Book 1)

by Will Wight

Tristania turned her head this way and that, scanning the entire cauldron. Her eyes moved to Shera’s tunnel…and slid right past.

  Shera exhaled in relief. Too close. That had been too close.

  I’ve blown my best chance. She’d escaped by the edge of a nail, and now she would have to wait for another shot. Something else had to distract them, draw their eyes from her position.

  With forced patience, she waited once more, watching as Naberius worked the saw with the intensity of a father saving his only child. His face was flushed, sweat soaking his hair, but he grinned like a hero accepting an award.

  The battle above the crater began to quiet, and Shera found herself worrying for the Consultants. Had they been silenced? Were they forced to retreat? Would she have to escape with the Heart on her own?

  She’d been forced into worse situations over the years, but none of them were circumstances she would care to repeat.

  Two tendons left between Naberius and the Heart. Shera clenched the bronze shear in her right hand. Soon, now.

  This was her last chance.

  The first wire broke, leaving only one left. Naberius was panting now, working the saw feverishly, as Tristania circled him as though expecting an attack from any angle.

  As soon as he gets it free, Shera thought. They would be distracted by their success, looking to protect the Heart instead of themselves. As long as she could kill one of them in that period of confusion, she could get away.

  When the last tendon snapped, Tristania turned her attention to Naberius for an instant. Confirming for herself that the Heart of Nakothi was free.

  With no intention of stopping, Shera ran.

  Compared to the battle before, the cauldron was eerily quiet. No gunshots, no screams, only a few distant shouts. One man’s voice broke the silence once again.

  “Naberius!” Calder Marten yelled. “They’re after the Heart!”

  Shera should have killed him when she had the chance.

  Commotion kicked up all around her, but one good thing had come from Calder’s scream: Tristania looked up the ledge, toward his voice. Not back toward Shera.

  She slammed into the Silent One knife-first, driving the blade with the full force of her body.

  Tristania grunted as the air was forced out of her lungs, the invested blade slicing through her coat where the bullets had done nothing. The fabric held up better than Shera had hoped, blunting the strike, and preventing her shear from penetrating more than an inch.

  Still, blood soaked the Witness’s back, and she stumbled on her partner as Shera’s charge bowled her over. The wound likely wouldn’t be fatal, but Tristania wasn’t the goal—Shera kicked her out of the way and bent down for Naberius.

  He raised a pistol, which Shera knocked contemptuously from his hand. She turned her blade to the fist gripping the Heart, intending to cut it free.

  It was at that point that she realized something she hadn’t before.

  She was surrounded by Children of Nakothi.

  Something like a man-sized centipede made from scraps of skin and bone hissed, rearing up on its hind legs and striking at Shera, its rotting jaws wide open. She managed to slide away and slash at its exposed underbelly with her shear.

  Milky white fluid spilled from its severed throat, and it curled up like a dead spider. A child-sized imp, its skin as blue as a drowned corpse, hauled itself up from an open wound in the flesh of the island. It hissed as it saw her, baring black fangs.

  Behind that monster, a menagerie of bones and rotting parts shambled around, engaging Watchman and Consultant alike. Calder Marten slashed at a headless white gorilla on the edge of the crater, and a Shepherd fired a pistol blindly at a huge bat that looked like it was made of stretched human skin.

  This was not the first time Shera had seen creatures such as these.

  As the Emperor had once explained, the Dead Mother’s Children were born when Nakothi’s power bubbled up and embedded itself in human remains. In a way, their bones were invested with power like an object held Intent. In the days of the Elders, when Nakothi ruled a portion of the world, she would shape the Children for specialized purposes, designing perfect workers out of once-human parts.

  Shera had known it was too good to be true when she heard that the attacks from the Children had slowed down. They were waiting. Waiting for the humans to free the Heart.

  What she didn’t understand was why. Surely they were here to protect Nakothi’s Heart…but if that were true, why hadn’t they attacked earlier?

  Another piece of the picture clicked together.

  A giant beetle, its face like a dried corpse and its shell formed of long-bones lashed together into armor, clambered up on Tristania. She placed her hand against the shell and white light detonated inside the monster, blowing it into pieces. Shera herself had to leap over something that looked like a four-armed hairless monkey, driving her knife down through its spine to silence it.

  But Naberius was completely unharmed.

  He jogged away, Heart cradled in his arms, and the Children of Nakothi streamed around him. A few sniffed curiously at him, which made Shera wonder exactly how far his newfound immunity would take him, but none attacked.

  They wanted the Heart to get out. If anything, they were here to cover Naberius’ escape.

  That made it even more imperative that Shera stop him.

  Her left hand dropped to the pouch at her side, pulling a spade free and whipping it forward. The steel embedded itself into the Chronicler’s calf, dropping him to his knees with a pathetic cry.

  She stalked closer, intending to finish him and take the Heart herself.

  Something slammed into the ground behind her, and she turned.

  Urzaia Woodsman loomed over her, grinning his gap-toothed grin. He held a black hatchet in each hand, and the gold hide wrapped around his arm gleamed in the sunlight. He stalked toward her, muscles rippling between his patchwork leather armor.

  Shera crouched on the balls of her feet, moving her knife forward into a guard.

  I don’t have to fight him. I have to get the Heart.

  Urzaia spun the hatchet in his right hand. “I am Urzaia Woodsman. I am the cook for The Testament, under Captain Calder Marten.”

  He didn’t attack, and Shera realized he was waiting for her to introduce herself. If that was what it took to distract him, she’d play that game. “Shera,” she said.

  His smile widened, and he reached out his hand, absently driving a hatchet-blade into the skull of an approaching monster. White fluid sprayed from every joint in its body at once, and it fell apart like he’d torn it to pieces.

  Awakened blades, Shera noted. Don’t get cut.

  “Is this not better?” Urzaia said. “Let us fight. No tricks.”

  Not if she intended to live until sunset.

  Shera drove forward, striking before his last word faded, driving the blade up into his gut.

  With shocking speed, he knocked her wrist aside with the back of his fist, turning his body sideways and kicking her in the hip before she could react. His foot hit her like a hammer, sending her spinning away.

  She landed on her feet more out of luck than skill, her hip straining as though her left leg had tried to tear itself free of her body. Her right wrist had gone numb, and she fully expected crippling pain soon. The shear was already shaking in her grip.

  So this was what it meant to fight a Champion.

  Urzaia roared so loud that it echoed from the crater walls. He leaped toward her with both hatchets raised. She rolled underneath him, side-stepping as though she meant to come up behind him.

  Then she moved toward her real target: Naberius.

  The man was still crawling across the moist ground in his blue suit, Heart clutched in his hand and living dead creatures swarming around him. Shera made it two steps closer to him before a demonic rabbit hopped in front of her, body held together by bones and tendons instead of skin. It hissed, revealing a mouth full of fangs.

  She was
ted a precious second driving her shear through its flesh and then shaking it free. By that time, she had to spin and catch Urzaia’s hatchet on her invested blade.

  It felt like trying to catch a collapsing tree. Her hip flared with pain and gave out, driving her down, and her wrist screamed at her.

  He didn’t seem focused on forcing the weapon down. In fact, he pulled the hatchet back, looking vaguely disappointed.

  “I thought you had another weapon,” he said, nodding toward the second of her shears. “You should release it.”

  Shera was beginning to come to the same conclusion. She never drew her second shear because the level of Intent bound in the blade distracted her. She could never get over the impression that the weapon was laughing at her. In a fight, that half-second of disruption could kill her, powerful blade or no.

  And all the Intent invested in her second shear wouldn’t mean anything if she couldn’t cut him in the first place.

  She moved her left hand as though she meant to reach for her shear, but flung a spade instead.

  The gladiator didn’t even blink as he slapped the dagger out of the air with the flat of his hatchet. “Not that one,” he said. “The big one.”

  “I can’t fight you,” Shera said honestly. “If I had to kill you, I’d rather do it while you slept.”

  Urzaia’s smile faded. “I am sorry for you.” He stepped forward, an axe in each hand.

  Then a figure in black landed between Shera and her opponent, knees bent, bronze blade in each hand.

  “Urzaia Woodsman,” Meia said. “My name is Meia. Pleased to meet you.”

  The Izyrian looked over her shoulder to Shera. “You see? These are manners.”

  Shera couldn’t understand why Meia had landed in front of the man instead of behind him. She could have killed him already; what was she thinking?

  Without looking away, Meia kicked a skinless dog with her heel. It flew back, over Shera’s head, and slammed into the side of the crater. Urzaia’s eyebrows raised.

  “Shera is not a fighter. That’s my job.” She crouched, holding her shears ready.

  Casually, Urzaia stepped forward and tested her by flicking his hatchet down. She caught his black blade on her bronze, and not only held him off—she actually forced him back.

  The gladiator started to laugh. “Yes, yes! Come!”

  They were insane. Both of them. Shera was surrounded by insanity. Resigned, she circled around the gladiator and palmed another spade.

  Crazy Meia might be, but Shera still had to back her up.

  ~~~

  Meia met a hatchet with each of her blades, forcing Urzaia’s arms wide apart, then spun to plant a kick in his chest. The Kameira in her blood roared, reinforcing her body with strength and delivering enough force into the blow to knock a door off its hinges.

  It didn’t matter how strong he was: a kick like that would shatter his ribs and send his body tumbling over backwards. She had him.

  It was like she’d kicked a mountain.

  He grunted, his feet only shifting backwards a few inches. Nothing shattered or broke beneath her foot.

  That wasn’t possible. Her ankle flared with pain—the kick had almost broken her own bones, and she was enforced by all the power of the Alchemist’s Guild. Soulbound or not, he should have at least taken a step backwards.

  That’s a Champion for you, she thought. Their physical enhancements were Guild secrets, but she had no idea they would hold up so well.

  Urzaia brought his fist, still clutching the grip of his hatchet, down on her leg, but she was quick enough to pull back. She lunged forward as soon as her foot hit the ground, driving her right-hand shear at his ribs.

  He countered with insulting ease, backing up and slapping her blade aside with his own. Urzaia raised his second hatchet, drawing it back too far for a simple blow.

  He’s throwing it, Meia realized, and raised her second knife to guard.

  But Urzaia didn’t complete the motion. He moved to the side, sweeping the hatchet in a circle instead of throwing it.

  It knocked Shera’s spade from the air. How had he even known it was coming?

  Whatever his Soulbound power was, Meia wanted it.

  She took advantage of his confusion to slash at his shoulder, though she succeeded only in slashing the strap of his leather breastplate before she had to retreat. He advanced on her, driving a black blade down at her forehead.

  Meia raised both shears, catching his hatchet on her two crossed weapons.

  That was when her own body betrayed her.

  Power surged in her muscles, but it pulled in different directions. Anger urged her to throw her knives aside and use her claws to tear out his throat, savaging him with tooth and nail. Fear flooded strength to her feet, encouraging her to run. Animal cunning activated her eyesight, looking for easier prey. Shera could fight this one; she would take advantage of the opening to hunt elsewhere.

  Shera noticed Meia’s conflict and took the chance to throw another spade at Urzaia’s back. He had to knock that dagger away as Shera engaged something like a blue-and-white mantis with bone claws.

  Motion caught the corner of her vision, and Meia leaped. She landed on the shoulders of a heavily muscled, headless gorilla…but she didn’t stay there. She launched off, using the monster as a platform to flip over Urzaia’s head and drive both shears down at the base of his neck.

  All of Meia snarled in triumph. I have him.

  With some sixth sense, Urzaia had to have felt her coming. He opened his hands, letting his hatchets fall to the ground, then seized her by the wrists.

  She fought with as much desperation as agility, wrapping her legs around his neck until she straddled the back of his head. She focused her strength on her legs, tightening calves against his throat, cutting off his air.

  Just die, she urged.

  But he didn’t oblige her so easily. When Shera moved to stab him, he caught her, slamming her into the side of the crater. Then he allowed himself to fall backwards.

  Meia had time to realize she was falling before she hit the ground hard enough to drive all the air from her lungs.

  For the first time since her sparring matches with the Emperor, she was overwhelmed with a depressing realization: he was simply better than she was. Stronger, faster, more skilled at open combat. And his powers, whatever they were, worked in complete synergy. She constantly struggled to keep her body focused in the same direction as her mind.

  Shera had the right idea. This wasn’t the time for battle, it was a time to kill the target and leave. Meia knew that, but she’d let her own strength seduce her into a fight.

  Fortunately, Shera had never taken her eyes off the goal.

  As soon as Meia’s eyes cleared, she saw Shera’s black hair rushing through the crowd of Children. Calder Marten lifted the Heart of Nakothi from Naberius, holding it out of the Chronicler’s reach.

  Urzaia shouted and struggled to save his captain, but this was where Meia’s strength could actually come in handy. She tightened her grip on him, arms and legs both, and refused to let him rise to his feet.

  He didn’t have his hatchets, so all he could do was pound blindly with his elbows and fists, trying to break her hold. It was like being pelted with bricks, but Meia’s powers would heal this much in seconds.

  She had to keep him away from Shera.

  ~~~

  Calder spun at the very last instant, perhaps alerted by his Reader senses, and caught her shear on the edge of his cutlass.

  Shera fought viciously, no words, launching spades and needles whenever she caught a gap, trying to keep him on his back foot. All she needed was one opening, then she could take the Heart and leave.

  “Where’s my wife?” he asked, voice burning, but she ignored him, sweeping a kick at his ankles. If she knocked him over, she could kill him and take the Heart.

  Her injured hip gave out as she tried to recover from her kick, and she stumbled, still half-crouched.

  Oh no. He w
ouldn’t miss this opening.

  And he didn’t.

  He cut her on the injured hip, blade sliding up to her side, and she ground her teeth to keep from screaming. She lunged at him, movements clumsy, and he kicked her in the ribs.

  Calder shouted another question, but she didn’t hear it. Her mind was filled with pain.

  But a distant, cold, detached part of her recognized the opportunity. Her shear moved weakly, slashing at his leg. He was able to step back enough to avoid a more severe injury, but the blade still opened up a wide gash across his shin.

  He screamed, flailing his sword, trying to keep her at bay.

  And Shera knew: this was the time.

  She reached her left hand behind her back, gripping her second blade. She could swear she heard laughter, and she couldn’t tell if it came from the sheath on her back or the Children all around her.

  The laughter rose to a crescendo, shrieking in her ears, and she froze.

  She hated this blade. It remembered the Dead Mother too closely.

  Shut up, Nakothi, Shera thought, and pulled her second weapon.

  She advanced on Calder, both shears ready, ignoring the pain in her hip. As long as she stayed focused, she could kill him.

  But his eyes were glued to her left hand, expression horrified. “What is that?” he asked.

  He was a Reader—she’d almost forgotten. To him, the Intent in this blade had to be blinding.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she used that moment to attack.

  He turned her right-handed strike with the edge of his sword, but that was more of a feint than anything. With his blade out of position, she swung her second shear.

  In Shera’s head, Nakothi laughed.

  The knife cut through his sword in a shower of sparks and red-hot metal, sending the top half spinning to the ground next to a corner of his coat.

  Shera stepped closer, closing the gap with him as he staggered away. A voice in her head whispered his earlier question: Where’s my wife?

  A memory of something that had never happened filled her mind—Shera plunging a knife into Jyrine Tessella Marten’s throat, feeling the blood flow down her wrist. As though it were natural, she answered him.

  “She’s dead,” she said.