“God dammit,” he muttered under his breath.
“Good people of Undermyre.” The Crow’s voice carried across the hall. “It is now, as it has always been, the esteemed privilege of myself, as well as that of the Thirteen, to have been honored by you, charged as we are, with the defense and management of our humble home.” The Crow turned and smiled darkly at Madigan before going on. “Indeed, many things have occurred of late that have threatened our way of life. Our peace, as we have it, has been long and prosperous.”
Given the decay into which the city had fallen, Madigan was inclined to disagree.
“But ancient threats have reawakened. And, as such, ancient defenses have returned. The Borne, thought long-dead, have reemerged from the reaches of the Ways.”
A low murmur emerged from the crowd. The Crow quieted them instantly.
“It is true, the Borne live on despite the absence of their Guardians, brought low by the cruel madman, Dorian Valmont.”
Another murmur raced through the crowd. The Crow let this one build, a thin smile creeping to his pale lips.
“Yes,” the Crow said finally. “I speak of Dorian Valmont, for he, the trickster, the bringer of death and ruin, he is the threat of which I speak.”
Madigan expected outcries from the crowd, something out of a Hollywood movie, but instead the people grew silent.
“With his mindless slaughter, his ceaseless quest to bring about the unmaking of all that is made, he will undoubtedly come to our gates. He will take from us all that is ours until he holds dominion over the peoples of Undermyre and beyond.” The Crow took a beat. “Unless we stop him.”
The Crow raised a hand and gestured. Again, all eyes turned to Madigan.
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Madigan searched the crowd, but Ynarra was nowhere to be seen. Shifter stood to the right of the Crow’s chair and an armed retinue of guards surrounded him. The space to the left of the Crow’s seat, however, was vacant. He sighed and approached, feeling the hundreds of eyes watching him, studying him, scrutinizing him.
“I present to you Madigan Thorne, heir to the Master of Blades, defender of Undermyre, Shadowborne.”
There was no fanfare, no eruption of applause, only the continued focus on Madigan. What the hell do they want, a parlor trick?
“The Borne live on,” the Crow continued, “and they live on in service of the Nordoth. Undermyre, my friends, is safe.”
“The Borne live on,” came a voice from the middle of the crowd. It carried across the packed room, echoing against the walls, and yet the words were spoken softly. “You make it sound as though you had no part in their destruction.”
The Crow’s face, a moment ago so calm and composed, twisted in rage. Every single guard in the room tensed. Across from him, Madigan heard Shifter curse. What’s this all about? Madigan scanned the crowd for whomever had spoken—something about the voice had seemed familiar. Will? No, not Will. But . . .
The crowd parted in hurried, stumbling awkwardness and the speaker stepped forward. As their attention turned to the man, the people closest to him began to tense and press against those who were moving more slowly. Madigan’s hackles rose even before the man unwrapped the scarf that hid his face.
No, god dammit. No!
As ever, Dorian Valmont wore black. A long, weathered jacket with a high collar hung nearly to his knees. When the scarf was removed fully, his dark hair, flecked with blonde and hints of grey, fell to his shoulders. Mad could see the piercing blue eyes of the sorcerer even from this distance. He was armed with a sword on his hip, but what struck Madigan the most was the way the man’s Shade moved with him. It seemed . . . sick. It was slow and its movements were thick—engine sludge and old oil. It bore none of the sinuous, ephemeral flow he had grown so accustomed to.
Silence followed the initial cries of dismay. The guards had all drawn their weapons, but none took so much as a single step toward Valmont. The man himself was smiling, letting his eyes linger on various aspects of the hall as he scanned it, even nodding politely to those who, by chance or sheer madness, happened to meet his eye.
Mad’s throat felt tight. Will was right. This man is evil.
“Dorian,” the Crow said in a neutral tone. His smile was polite and professional, but the look in his eyes was pure murder. “Cth’nal feq quar’n.”
“Cth’nal feq quar’n, Crow.” Valmont’s smile was languid, lazy, and altogether unnerving. Madigan shuddered. “For now.”
“Be about it, then.” The tightness in the Crow’s eyes had eased and now Mad could only see an impatient boredom. “Play to your audience.”
Valmont’s smile deepened and he stepped forward, away from the fearful mass. Madigan kept his Shade in a low cloud, pooled almost invisibly around his legs. He tensed, ready to spring as soon as he saw an opening. Valmont’s gaze snapped to him and back to the Crow, and he gave a low, musical chuckle.
“This is no show of strength, old friend. My quarrel with you ended long ago. I am here but out of necessity.”
The Crow waved a dismissive hand. “Fel’naq, Dorian.”
Valmont’s face fell. “As you would have it, then. My aims now are as they have ever been. It should, therefore, be no surprise to you why I’ve come.”
The Crow sighed. “All these years and you still pursue them?” He shook his head. “You always were tenacious.”
“I require the Nordoth.”
Bushy eyebrows rose in amusement as the Crow eyed the man. “Do you, now?”
Valmont said nothing. His sluggish Shade bubbled and popped around him. Gods, it’s like a walking pestilence. Mad felt disgusted just looking at it. What the hell did this guy do to himself?
The hall darkened and the crowd stirred nervously. He’s pulling, Madigan realized. The goddam bastard is pulling. Without really knowing why, perhaps only to spite the man, Mad began to do the same.
Valmont sneered and snapped his attention to Madigan. For a second, he looked so familiar that Madigan was caught completely by surprise. I know him. What the hell? Where from? His train of thought was quickly interrupted, however, as the sorcerer easily ripped Madigan’s control away. Valmont surged and released, sending a thunderous boom throughout the chamber. People cried out. The soldiers finally snapped to action, holding their weapons aloft and bearing down on Valmont. The man snickered and brushed his hand absently against the air. His Shade swept out and collided into the soldiers, sending every single one flying into the crowd beyond them.
Goddam, he’s strong.
“Enough,” the Crow barked. “I see your disregard for oaths has not changed.”
Valmont raised a lazy eyebrow and spread his hands before spinning in a slow circle. “It appears to me that everyone is back on their feet.” His smile held just a hint of cruelty. “There is no death to be seen.” The smile widened, as though he were laughing at his own private joke. “Trust me, I would know.”
“Trust you?” Madigan spat the words. Damn you, you goddam bastard. Trust you? You killed my goddam grandfather. “No, I don’t think anyone here is that stupid.”
The sorcerer looked once again at Mad. “Ah, the Shadowborne. I’ve heard just so much about you. I certainly hope that the stories don’t disappoint.”
Heard about me? Mad set his jaw and forced himself to meet the cruel blue eyes. “I’ve heard about you too, Bloodbane.”
Valmont raised an eyebrow. “From our mutual friend, is it? No, of course not.” He smiled and tilted his head. “Ah, yes. Jervin Thorne.”
“Do not speak his name.” Mutual friend? It can’t be. Madigan fought to keep the quivering anger from his voice, to keep it cool and steady. Don’t let him goad you. “You’re not worth half what he was.”
Dorian chuckled. “From the reports I gathered, half of him was all that remained in the end.”
Madigan’s rage got the best of him. His Shade roared to life. He flew down the steps and was very nearly upon Valmont before the Crow roared, “Stop!”
&
nbsp; The force of the command drove Madigan to his knees. His ears rang and, for the briefest of moments, he found himself struggling to move.
“Enough, I said!” The Crow swept his cool gaze from Valmont to Madigan. “Has it become such, with the Borne? Do you intentionally disregard your allegiances? Your oaths?” He sneered. “Another outburst, Valmont, and you shall be cast from these halls.” He turned his gaze to Madigan. “And the same goes for you, Shadowborne.”
Madigan froze. There’s that damn word again, cast. He was only a short distance from Valmont. The man was even paler up close, the look of someone who hadn’t seen the sun in years. He could see blue veins beneath the drawn skin. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Despite his power, there was something sad about him, something detached. Madigan glared, angry at himself for the brief moment of pity. Of course he’s detached, look at what he’s done to the world. Plus, he looks like a goddam corpse. He stood down but did not drop his guard.
“Speak, Dorian. Tell us what you’ve come to say.”
Valmont let his eyes wander from Madigan to the Crow. “I am not one to repeat myself, old friend.”
“The Nordoth, is it?” Madigan said. He could feel the anger bubbling just beneath the surface, the rage building within him. “Like hell. Get the hell out of here.”
Valmont snickered and shook his head. “Does this child speak for you, Crow?” The Crow said nothing. “Perhaps I need to explain further. I was not asking. I was informing.” Valmont turned his smile to the crowd. “I require the Nordoth and, being gracious, am giving you fair opportunity to move elsewhere.” He stepped back and walked in a slow circle as he spoke, pinning his gaze amongst those who were present.
“Hear me, denizens of Undermyre. The stories you have heard of me are false, lies spread by those who would deem themselves your master.” He spread his hands out, palms up, and bowed his head. “I am no one’s master. I am one of you, one of the people. And for you, the people, I grant this kindness: one year.”
The liar speaks his lies. Madigan clenched his fists.
“One year, I give you. One year to recognize the error of your ways and join me in true freedom. I speak to the people as one of the people.” He returned his gaze to the dais where the Crow sat silently, watching. “Take back your city from the rulers who have driven you into this state of disrepair and join me. Join me in creating a better world. Join me in freedom.”
Without another word, Valmont turned and strode toward the doors and the guards who barred them. Madigan glanced at the Crow quickly. The hunched man gave him a slight nod but said nothing. The nod was all Madigan needed.
“Valmont,” Madigan shouted. The figure, still being given a wide berth by the crowd, paused and turned his head back to Madigan. Mad clapped his hands together and fueled his Shade into his noctori. It crackled to life with a radiating pulse that he had never before felt from the blade. Absently keeping the blade fueled by his Shade, he surrounded himself in the rest and dropped into a ready stance. “You and I have unfinished business.”
Valmont turned fully round to face him. Deep within his impassive rage, Mad felt terror course through his body as the dark man’s eyes locked onto his. The Shade oozed out of him, clawing and pulling at the floor while Valmont returned to the center of the hall, his unblinking gaze fixed on the young Shadowborne.
“Another time, I think.”
Before Madigan could react, Valmont’s Shade surged out. Madigan stared in horror while the Shade filled the room, rising to the ceiling, pressing to the walls—coming straight for him. It’s not possible. No one has that much range.
The vile darkness crashed into the crowded room. More than simply colliding with them, it covered them like tar. Madigan heard Shifter shouting orders. He glanced back and saw the Crow being hurried from the room by the commander. Then, the room descended into darkness. Valmont’s Shade took Madigan.
Muffled screams and the sound of snapping bones turned Madigan’s stomach. He couldn’t see anything. He was surrounded by a darkness so pure, so absolute, that sight, light, seemed like a distant memory. Panic crept into him but he fought it down. Not today, Valmont.
He abandoned the noctori and drew his Shade back into him, balling up the fear and panic and rage into his center. Steeling himself, he surrounded the wild emotions with his Shade, pouring its power in on itself, folding the darkness over and over like a blacksmith working a blade.
Madigan pulled at the darkness that covered the room. It fought back at him, biting, tearing at his insides, white rapids crashing against rocks. Madigan was stuck between the two. Dammit, Ileta, where are you when I need you? Spurred on by the thought of his teacher, Madigan roared. The necrotic darkness was in his mouth, his nostrils. It was earthen bile, tasting of decay and sickness. Nevertheless, Madigan pulled.
A flicker. A faint crack. A black that was not so black. Some distant part of his brain, acting purely out of survival, clawed at it. He pulled and pulled more of the darkness into him and the crack widened and the faintest flicker of light appeared, blinding and terrible. Then, with a crash, the whole world came down around him.
Madigan inhaled fresh air like a drowning man surfacing at the last moment of life. The foul taste was still in the air, but the thick, oppressive darkness was gone. Every part of him hurt. It was as though his body had been sapped of its strength, leeched away by Valmont’s putrid darkness.
Valmont.
Madigan’s eyes shot open. He winced against the light but frantically pushed himself to his knees. He whirled, scanning the room. He was surrounded by bodies on the ground, some groaning, some weeping, some uncomfortably silent. But nowhere was Valmont to be seen.
Madigan cursed. His bones felt like they were on the verge of breaking. He coughed and doubled over from the pain. The salty, iron taste of blood filled his mouth. What in the goddam hell was that thing?
“One year, is it?” The Crow’s words were filled with disappointment. Madigan struggled to turn his head, to find the man as he spoke. He was once again seated in his high seat with Shifter at his side. “Well. It looks like our young Shadowborne here has much to do in that time.”
Madigan cursed. Or at least he meant to. Instead, he coughed once more. The room was spinning, again. The light was dwindling to a focused pinprick. Stars danced around the edges of reality.
He crashed to the ground and remembered no more.
33
The Shattered Ways
How in the hell did I end up here? Will pulled hard and drew the cutlass from the chest of a cultist before turning and using Flint to shatter the oncoming blade of another. Is this really what you wanted for me, Grandda?
His body ached more from habit than from true fatigue, the blood fangs saw to that. The joint line of Seekers and Lightborne was holding, miraculously. The Necrothanians were giving ground slowly as Will’s forces pressed them into the tunnel. But with every enemy that fell, more arrived to take their place. The ground grew ever more uneven, corpses piling on the blood-slick ground.
Will and Rienne stood alongside the Seekers, pressing deeper into the cavern. The Lightborne, having come up far deeper within the network of tunnels thanks to Cephora, were not far off. Will could hear their assault and battle cries. They’d been right; the tunnels were key to invalidating the superior numbers of the Necrothanians. But they were running on limited time; he could also hear the fiery blasts from the Borne diminishing.
Used up. He grimaced as he took down another cultist. The batteries are almost tapped.
There seemed to be no end to the enemy. It was like a hive. The scouts and exterior encampment had only been the drones. Now the threat had grown, they were swarming. We need to end this soon. We need to find out what these damn bastards are searching for.
Shyldd battled nearby. Driving his cutlass through the chest of a cultist, Will could not help but wonder how much use he and the other Lightborne actually were to this group of death dealers. In this proximity, his Flare would
have done more harm than good. And watching Shyldd battle, Will was not even certain that his grandfather could have overcome the large man. His every blow sent a body flying backward. He wielded his longsword with the control and grace of a master. He was a wall in and of himself, allowing no cultist to gain ground.
Will grit his teeth as he barely managed to parry an incoming strike. Just have to keep pushing. He fell back a few steps and allowed the Seekers to fill his position. The Seekers moved expertly amongst each other. They cut through cultist and reaper alike with barely a pause between targets. Watching them fight, Will was reminded of his grandfather—the speed, the seemingly omniscient deflections and counter cuts. The very walls were an asset to them, a weapon in and of themselves as the warriors launched themselves from them or sent bodies crashing into them. They were naturals to the fight.
Yet they were not impervious to damage. He saw their fatigue wearing on them, saw the blood pouring from bodies. He cursed. Despite the Seekers’ skill, at least eight had fallen so far. The Lightborne seemed to have lost a similar number. It was hard to tell exact numbers in the chaos of battle. The number should have been insignificant in the wake of the death wrought by their hands, but still the Necrothanian hordes came on. The number of dead enemy did little to even the scales.
The number of dead. Will whirled and scanned the area. Enemy bodies were strewn about, bloodied and trampled in their recent deaths. Very recent deaths. Glancing back at the Seekers, Will sheathed his weapons and drew his blood fangs. He knelt and began draining bodies. He tugged at the flows from the bloodstones, bringing forth the energy transference stored within and sending it out amongst the nearby Seekers. Looks of surprise shone upon their faces, but none of the pain that Rienne had experienced when he used the fangs to heal her.
It’s working. Gods, it’s working. Will stared in awe as he wove the flows amidst the Seekers, an energizing boon. Renewed, the Seekers fought with doubled ferocity. He desperately wished he could do the same for the Borne, but to do that to them during the course of battle was to guarantee their failure. No, for now they would have to suffer their wounds.
Borne Rising Page 35
