Tannard snorted. “As if that’ll shut the prattling bastards up.”
“When I tell them that a highly regarded Invictus will be leading the charge, they will be content.” Lady Callista shot him a meaningful stare.
“Keeper take it!” Tannard slammed a clenched fist onto the table. “A bloody waste, it is! All to satisfy those pompous—”
“Invictus, need I remind you of the Council’s power?” Lady Callista's tone was hard, edged with a hint of warning. “Their wealth will prove crucial in our efforts to rebuild the city after all this is ended.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you can think of another place to find the needed coin?”
Tannard’s scowl didn’t soften, but he didn’t continue his tirade.
“We may have little love for the Keeper’s Council, but when the time comes, they will do what must be done for the sake of the city.” Lady Callista shot Tannard a stern look. “As must we all.”
Tannard growled a curse under his breath, but said nothing more.
“Executor Mosai, I entrust the recapture of the gates to you, in coordination with my Elders.” She gestured to Invictus Dyrkton and the eight high-ranked Blades that served as Lady Callista’s council. “Do you believe it possible to accomplish that with five hundred men?”
Executor Mosai, a tall, rail-thin man with a dour expression, exchanged glances with his fellow Executors. “The eastern and southern gates, perhaps. But not all three, not against the numbers we face.” He looked to the Elders, who confirmed his words with a nod.
“Then do what you can.” Lady Callista fixed them with a solemn glare. “Hold those gates, at any cost!”
“Yes, Lady Callista.” Mosai and his fellow Executors bowed and strode from the room, with the Elders of the Blade beside them.
“Invictus Tannard,” you will take a contingent of fifty Indomitables to the Hall of Bounty on the Artisan’s Tier.”
Tannard growled in irritation, but acceded with a stiff nod.
“Invictus Dradin, you will take Ypertatos Turhat, Achkat, Breelm, Arroth, and Seris, plus an additional twenty Indomitables, to the Hall of Bounty on the Slave’s Tier.”
Dradin, a greying woman with her long hair tied up in a braid that hung down her back, clapped a fist to her chest. “Yes, Proxenos.” The other Blades, each bearing the three gold bands of Ypertatos around the rim of their lion-fanged helms, mirrored the salute.
Lady Callista turned to one of the few Blades remaining. “Ypertatos Ormroth, you will take Ypertatos Tiaten, Archateros Chirak, Archateros Hykos, and Prototopoi Issa with the remaining thirty Indomitables to the Hall of Bounty on the Cultivator’s Tier.”
“Yes, Proxenos.” The man who saluted appeared to be in his fourth decade, with a confident posture, tight-braided chin beard, and clean-shaven cheeks. “We will not fail you.”
“A word of counsel, Ypertatos.” Lady Callista gestured toward Issa. “Issa may be new, but she was born on the Cultivator’s Tier. She knows the streets far better than most. Her input may prove invaluable in this mission.”
The words shocked Issa, and it took all her willpower to stop her jaw dropping. Heat raced to her cheeks and she flushed beneath the praise.
“Understood, Lady Callista.” Ormroth turned toward Issa with a nod. “I will rely on your knowledge to get us through this.”
Issa was too stunned to find words. She could only stand, frozen in shock.
“As for the rest of you,” Lady Callista said to the Blades she hadn’t mentioned, “your assignments are to lend aid to the Indomitables holding the Defender’s Tier, and to those in the Keeper’s Crypt. Report to Executor Mosai and the Elders for positions.”
Steel clattered as the Blades saluted and trooped from the room.
When the last had gone, Lady Callista turned to those remaining.
“What I am about to tell you is for your ears alone.” Her solemn gaze rested on each of them in turn. “You are those I trust above all others.”
Pride surged within Issa at those words. Lady Callista trusted her as much as men she’d fought and served beside for years.
“The Ybrazhe Syndicate is leaderless,” the Lady of Blades said, her voice quiet. “Blackfinger has been put to the question, and he has been most forthcoming with details of his operation. The Syndicate has orders to attack various locations around the city, but they are not the ones holding the gates. I believe it is the militant Hallar’s Warriors, with the aid of the last surviving Gatherers, that lead this attack. They are the ones spearheading the chaos, using it to achieve specific strategic aims.”
She thrust a finger toward the map spread out on the table. “The gates are critical, which is why I have committed the bulk of our forces to them. Yet this mission, the one I entrust you, serves two purposes. First, to placate the Keeper’s Council and distract them from the fact that I know of their complicity in much of the recent strife. Even now, plans are in motion that will see them dealt with.”
“And the second purpose?” Tannard asked.
“More than four hundred Indomitables are trapped within the Halls of Bounty.” Lady Callista raised four fingers. “Four hundred strong arms that could be better spent elsewhere, should the situation worsen. I am willing to sacrifice the Halls of Bounty if it means we can restore control of the city, and doing so requires more manpower than we currently possess.”
She fixed them with a stern gaze. “Your true mission is to free the trapped Indomitables. If we do not, I fear the city will eventually fall. Hunger and thirst will turn our people ravenous, until they are beyond our efforts to save. I have no desire to see the day when we are forced to slaughter our fellow man in the name of survival, so the city is counting on you to succeed in this.” Her jaw clenched and her eyes darkened. “You attack at sundown.”
Chapter Eighteen
Evren had a split second to act. He threw himself to the side, too slow. The thug’s punch crashed into his shoulder, knocking him backward into the wall. The huge bruiser followed him, fists swinging. Evren had no time to draw his jambiya, barely managing to backpedal out of the man’s impossibly long reach.
The cold, calculating battle sense descended over him as the man brought his fist back for another punch. He had no chance of talking his way out of this one. The Syndicate thug had recognized him. The outcome was inevitable: fight or die.
Evren always chose fight. He drove his fist straight into his opponent’s face. No powerful swing or clever set-up—just a direct jab. The blow crashed into the thug’s nose, not hard enough to break cartilage, but with sufficient force to throw him off-balance. The man’s fists came up to defend his face even as Evren swung a second blow. Evren, expecting that from a seasoned fighter, had only used it as a feint. His follow-up punch struck low, right into the brute’s gut.
It felt like hitting stone.
Beneath the layers of fat, the man’s midsection was heavy muscle. Pain flared in Evren’s knuckles and up his arm. He barely had time to throw a third punch before the thug’s huge fist swung toward him. His blow had minimal effect, but the thug’s counter-strike crashed into the side of his head with staggering force. Evren’s head snapped to one side, barely missing a collision with the wall.
Instinct alone saved him from the next punch. Instead of trying to block, he dropped into a low crouch and whipped out a jambiya with his left hand. The thug’s huge fist sailed through empty air a finger’s breadth above Evren’s head. Sun-baked clay bricks shattered beneath the force of the blow.
Yet the sudden hiss of breath filled Evren with hope. That wild blow had struck the wall hard enough to crack bone. Evren drove his right fist into the man’s chin, an uppercut backed by all the power of his legs, hips, and back and prepared for a follow-up strike with the dagger.
The blow, which had laid out opponents years older than Evren, barely registered. The thug’s head snapped backward with the force of the punch and blood spurted from his mouth as his teeth clamped down hard on his tongue. Yet he recovered
in time to dodge Evren’s dagger swipe and throw a punch of his own. He fixed a sneer on Evren.
“Try again, little rat.” With a sneer, he swung for Evren’s head.
Evren ducked the first and second blow, turned aside a third, but missed the fourth completely. The man’s huge fist slammed into his ribs. Pain flared in Evren’s side and bone protested beneath the impact. Grunting, Evren staggered backward.
Right into the alleyway.
Blood turned to ice in his veins as he realized he now stood in plain view of the Syndicate thugs meeting in the back lane. Yet he had no time to do anything but defend himself as the brute waded into him. The huge thug’s fists pounded at him with the force of twin sledge-hammers. Evren didn’t dare block; a punch could shatter his forearms or crack his ribs. Yet he could only dodge or deflect so many of those powerhouse blows before one lucky one got through.
“It’s the thief!” The shout from one of the Syndicate thugs rang off the alley walls.
A stone of dread settled in Evren’s gut. Shite! He backed up, desperate to keep out of the range of those swinging fists, but the huge thug pressed his advantage. Evren had no chance to bring his dagger into the fight—if he dropped his guard even for an instant, the brute would crush him beneath the onslaught.
His foot caught on something uneven and twisted painfully beneath him. He fell hard, his head striking solid stone. With a roar of triumph, the thug lifted his huge leg to stomp down on Evren.
In desperation, Evren rolled to the side, and a heavy boot crashed into the muck a finger’s breadth from his knee. Evren kept on rolling until he could leap to his feet. His hand darted to his bracer, only to remember he no longer had his throwing knife. All he could do was whip out his push-dagger and hurl it at the man.
The thug dodged the blow with ease. “You’ll have to be faster than that to—”
The throw had been a distraction. Evren hated wasting a good dagger, but vastly preferred it to getting killed. He threw himself forward after the hurled blade. In the instant the man’s eyes went to the flying dagger, Evren dove into a roll between the oak-trunk legs. He came up just behind the thug and took off at a dead run.
“Get him!” came the shout.
Booted feet pounded against stone as the thugs gave chase. Evren sprinted down the alley, his heart hammering painfully against his bruised ribs. Pain flared in his shoulder and face and a sharp twinge lanced his twisted ankle, but he didn’t dare slow.
Against the thug alone, he stood no chance. He’d fought his share of street brawls and bare-handed bouts, typically against people larger than him. Yet the man towered nearly twice his size with the weight and breadth to match. His knuckles were as scarred as Evren’s, the result of years of fighting. Going toe to toe with that brute would only get him killed.
But few people could outrun Evren. The Hunter, certainly; his inhuman speed and strength made him impossible for any normal human to surpass. Aisha, perhaps, with her powerful muscles strengthened by years spent running on the plains of Ghandia. Yet Evren’s legs, though shorter, had spent the better part of a decade running. He would bet his speed against anyone, especially the ham-fisted thugs that gave chase.
He tore down the alley at a sprint, his muddy, torn clothes flying behind him. Each pounding step made his split lip and bruised face ache, sent a stabbing pain through his ankle. Yet he ignored the pain—a bit of discomfort far outweighed a brutal death at the thug’s ham-sized fists.
A sudden sense of déjà vu gripped him, filled him with a surge of anger. He’d spent far too much of his time in Shalandra fleeing an enemy, often the Ybrazhe. He was getting sick and tired of always running away.
At that moment, a memory flashed through his mind. He and Kodyn scrambled onto a rooftop to elude the Syndicate thugs that had just assassinated the Black Widow’s mouthpiece.
A plan—really more of a half-baked idea born of desperation—formed in that instant. He and Kodyn had hid out, then followed the thugs back to their hideout. He would do precisely that. The Ybrazhe might be pursuing him, but with a bit of the Mistress’ luck, they would lead him where he needed to go.
He risked a backward glance. Good! The Ybrazhe were on his tail, though more than thirty paces separated them. Close enough that they would see where he went but far enough back to shake with ease. Pouring on the speed, he darted down a side alley, cut down a back lane, then raced across the Artificer’s Courseway.
Chaos gripped the main avenue, and thick crowds surged east and west, filling the air with their shouts of “Bring on the Final Destruction!” and “Death to the Pharus!” Many simply shouted for the sake of joining their comrades. Most were too busy looting, stealing food, and destroying everything in sight to care about who ruled Shalandra. They cared only about full bellies, warm clothes, and heavy purses.
Evren dove into the thick of the throng, squirming through narrow gaps in the crowd as fast as he could. A few snarled and snapped at him as he elbowed his way past, but few paid him heed. He gasped with relief as he burst free of the mob and threw himself into the alleyways beyond.
A glance back revealed the Syndicate thugs struggling to bull their way through the crowd. A grim smile touched Evren’s lips as he ducked around a corner, out of sight of the Artificer’s Courseway.
Time to take a page out of Kodyn’s book. He raced toward a nearby wall and leapt. Planting his uninjured foot on the windowsill, he hurled his body upward and closed his fingers around the wooden beam of a thatched roof. Within seconds, he had dragged himself onto the thatched roof, scrambled over the ridge, and down the other side.
He lay flat against the sun-baked thatch, panting, sweat mingling with the blood staining his face. Quiet, triumphant laughter bubbled up from his chest. He’d come face to face with death and slipped its grasp once again.
The sound of pounding boots echoed from the street below, and Evren risked a glance from his protective cover. The Syndicate thug and five of his comrades streamed into the alley and fanned out. Their confused shouts echoed like the melodic symphonies of the Choir of Purity.
A fierce smile spread his lips. Now let’s see how you like it when the tables are turned on you, you bastards!
He scrambled over the rooftops as quietly as he could manage, his eyes fixed on the thugs below. The brutes never bothered to look up, but barged into the stone houses and brick hovels bordering the alleyways. With every house they searched, their scowls deepened and the flushes of anger on their faces darkened. Finally, after a full ten minutes of fruitless hunting, they re-congregated at the intersection.
“Damn the little rat!” snarled the first thug. He drove a fist into a wall, shattering clay bricks. “Which way did he go?”
“Probably scurried back to his master by now,” growled Drull.
“Hah!” Vorbus sneered. “No chance he’s getting in there. We’ve got the smithy surrounded.”
Evren was too far away to hear Drull’s response, but the scorn that twisted the man’s lips made his meaning clear.
“Go,” the first brute said, “get back to your posts. One little sneak isn’t going to stop us. I’ll report to Taghban, let him know things are progressing, albeit slowly.”
“See what he knows about what’s going on at the gates, eh, Houl?” Drull stroked his blocky face. “We run out of food, no way the crowd’ll keep up the momentum.”
“Aye.” Houl nodded. “Taghban’ll have a plan.”
Evren had no idea what was happening at the gates or even which gate they referred to, but mention of Taghban pricked up his ears. Almost sounds like he’s the one in charge, the way Houl talks about him. Perhaps one of Blackfinger’s lieutenants had seized the opportunity to step up and take charge in their leader’s absence.
The five thugs left to the north and west, doubtless back to the siege of Killian’s smithy. Houl, however, headed south, deeper into the back alleys of the Artisan’s Tier.
Where are you off to, eh? With a fierce grin, Evren scampered acro
ss the rooftops in pursuit of the big thug. Let’s see where you’re headed. He simply had to follow Houl to whoever Taghban was and, with a generous helping of the Mistress’ luck, he’d find the Syndicate’s refuge.
He’d come within a heartbeat of a painful death by bludgeoning, but good fortune and cunning had turned the tables in his favor.
The hunters had become the hunted.
Chapter Nineteen
For the first time in what felt like ages, Kodyn finally felt as if he knew what he was doing. He’d spent the last days rushing to and fro, dealing with one threat or vicious plot after another. He had begun to feel overwhelmed by the incessant violence, death, and chaos that had gripped his life since his arrival in Shalandra.
But this, at least, he could do easily. The task of scaling a five-story mansion offered the sort of challenge he could tackle. He’d trained the last nine years to do precisely that, and the familiarity of the task brought a sense of comfort. Finally, a problem he recognized and knew how to deal with.
The outer wall proved more stepping-stone than obstacle, thanks to its rough surface that offered an abundance of hand and toe-holds. From there, it had been a simple matter to leap onto the third-story balcony and pull himself up the pillar onto the roof of the fourth floor. Reaching the top of the mansion had taken him less than ten minutes.
Unfortunately, reaching the mansion across the alley, his true target, appeared to be a bit trickier. He’d chosen the adjoining estate for its easy climb and the way its top-floor roof provided a bridge over the alleyway and into the manor that housed Hallar’s Warriors. But he hadn’t reckoned on the gap between the two roofs. He’d have to jump almost ten paces to reach his target—an impossible feat, even with a good run-up. His only hope would be to make a leap to the fourth-floor balcony and land on the broad marble railing. A bloody dangerous stunt, one that could end in broken limbs or a four-story drop.
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