“I’m fine,” Hykos said, but his voice was weak, tight with pain.
“Sure you are.” Issa snorted. She shoved aside his hands and searched his armor for any wounds.
“The blood’s not mine,” Hykos protested. “I just took a bad hit in the leg, that’s all.”
“Way he was limping, looked like a shattered kneecap,” Evren said. “You shouldn’t have been able to walk at all.”
Again, Hykos tried to protest. “It’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Issa’s severe tone reminded Evren of Lady Callista, and her expression grew stern as she set about stripping off the armor protecting Hykos’ legs.
The Archateros hissed as Issa loosened the segment of plate mail covering his right knee, then again as she rolled up his pants. In the red light, the dark bruise looked ugly, the leg swollen.
“I told you,” Hykos said, “it’s not so bad.”
“Sure.” Issa gave a dismissive wave, but a note of relief echoed in her voice. “Next time, let someone else play hero.”
“Hey, one of us had to hold the line.” Hykos managed a wry smile through his pain. “As your commanding officer, I made the call.”
“Next time you make that call,” Issa snapped, “I’ll knock you on your ass and have your unconscious body hauled away. Better that than getting yourself killed!”
Evren cocked an eyebrow. Well, aren’t these two cute? The banter reminded him of the familiar ribbing exchanges between the Hunter and Kiara.
“…doing here, Evren?” The question snapped him back to reality.
“Huh?”
“What are you doing here?” Issa stared at him, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity. “How did you find us?”
“Oh, I saw you coming out of the tunnels before the battle,” Evren replied. “I followed you to the Hall of Bounty. I wanted to pitch in, but my mother always taught me not to get too close to big soldiers with bigger swords. So I hung back until I saw a chance to pitch in.” A grin split his lips. “I’ll take your silence as an expression of your deep gratitude.”
“Right.” Issa’s tone was flat, her expression impassive. “But what are you doing on the Slave’s Tier? Last I saw you, you, Kodyn, and Aisha were on your way to the Temple of Whispers. Did you…” She hesitated, as if afraid to speak the words. “Did you get there in time?”
Evren nodded. “Just barely. And we bagged ourselves a real prize in the process.”
He explained everything that had happened: the capture of the instigator, the results of Kodyn’s “interrogation”, his finding the Ybrazhe’s stronghold empty, and the discovery of Killian’s smithy surrounded.
At mention of the blacksmith, Issa’s face contorted strangely. The expression was somehow different from the last time he’d mentioned Killian around her. Something new, something dark and deep that Evren didn’t quite understand, sparkled in her almond-shaped eyes.
“We’ve got to go help,” Issa said. “We’ve got to get them out of there.”
“Last I saw, the defenses were holding,” Evren said, hoping to reassure her. He didn’t know the full extent of her relationship with the blacksmith, but clearly he was someone important to her. If they weren’t in a tunnel full of Indomitables, fresh out of a battle, he might have taken the time to ask the questions he’d been holding on to since the day they freed Killian from the Syndicate.
“And you’re certain it was the Ybrazhe leading the siege?” Issa asked.
Evren nodded. “I followed one of them, ran into an old friend of mine, an ugly arsehole by the name of Houl.” A triumphant grin split his face. “And he led me back to the Ybrazhe’s new hideout.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Literally a ten-minute walk east of here. And if you can spare a few of your friends, we can deal with them once and for all.”
“Spare a few?” Issa’s brow furrowed. “You want the Indomitables to take on the Ybrazhe, in the middle of this chaos?”
“Yes.” Evren didn’t hesitate. “Right now, the Ybrazhe are so divided among their various targets around the city that they’ve got only a handful of strong-arms guarding their hideout. I’d say with thirty Indomitables, we could round them all up, no problem.” The memory of that lone upper-story window brought a nasty and highly effective plan to mind. “And, very likely, with only minimal effort.”
Issa looked incredulous.
Hykos spoke before she could. “Let’s go.” He started struggling to his feet, heedless of his injured leg. “I’m sure Lady Callista will be willing to spare us the—”
“Us?” Issa rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You think you’re in any condition to fight?”
Hykos’ face hardened. “You know as well as I that the Keeper’s blessing will take care of this wound in no time.”
“But until then, there’s no way I’m leading you into battle beside me,” Issa snapped.
“You lead me, eh?” Hykos raised an eyebrow. “You forget which of us is Prototopoi and which is Archateros.”
“Just like you’re forgetting which of us can barely walk.” Issa met him eye to eye, unflinching. “I’m sure if Ormroth were here, he would—”
“Do what?” A deep, solemn voice echoed down the tunnel toward them.
Evren tensed, a hand dropping to the hilts of his jambiyas. Shadows appeared in the passages from the north, deeper within the mountain. His tension diminished only a fraction as he recognized the armor of a Keeper’s Blade, with two more Blades and a handful of Indomitables behind him.
“Sir!” Issa snapped a salute. “Glad to see you got out of there in one piece.”
“We almost didn’t,” came a quiet snort from the back of the line.
Evren recognized the voice; it belonged to one of the trainees that had accompanied Issa the night they captured Blackfinger.
“What’s going on?” Ormroth demanded.
Issa quickly explained the situation.
“Your prototopoi is right, Archateros,” Ormroth told Hykos. “That leg of yours will heal, but it needs time. Time we don’t have if we’re to take down the Ybrazhe.” He shot a glance at Evren. “Though I find myself questioning how reliable this information is.”
Evren felt a retort rising to his lips.
Issa spoke before the words formed. “Very. He was instrumental in the capture of Blackfinger.”
“Ahh, I see.” Ormroth nodded. “So be it. Issa, take three patrols.” He turned to Hykos. “Archateros, you will escort the wounded to the Fortress.” He held up a hand to forestall complaint. “Your sigil will be needed to open the way into the hidden passages. The moment they are delivered to safety, you and any able to fight will meet me at the easternmost exit on the Slave’s Tier, near the East Gate. There, we will lend aid to those attacking the gate. Or, if the Faces of Justice and Mercy smile on us, we will hold the gate against the rioters.”
“Yes, sir!” Hykos said through clenched teeth.
Ormroth turned to Issa. “Your company of Indomitables performed admirably. Make sure to pass my compliments on to their Sentinel.”
Issa beamed. “Thank you, sir.”
“And your plan proved sound.” He gave her an approving nod and a warm smile. “I can see why Lady Callista regards you so highly.”
Heat rose to Issa’s cheeks and she glowed under the praise.
“Now go,” he told her. “Bring the Ybrazhe to justice and, by the Keeper’s grace, put an end to their vile stain on our city once and for all!”
* * *
The sun had set more than an hour earlier, giving Evren, Issa, and the thirty Indomitables deep shadows to conceal them from the two Syndicate thugs guarding their stronghold. The soldiers had slipped into position within twenty paces of the house unseen.
Evren shot a glance at Issa, who crouched in the darkness beside him. “You’re clear on the plan?” he asked.
Issa nodded. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Evren shot her a fierce grin. “We do this right, we’ll have one less pr
oblem to worry about.”
“Big if.” Issa’s jaw muscles worked. “Anyone finds out we’re here, we can expect trouble.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Evren tried to sound confident. “The Ybrazhe are keeping the area nice and quiet, while all the riots and looting is focused elsewhere. We should be out of here before anyone’s the wiser.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Worry sparkled in Issa’s eyes, and her gaze darted northward, toward the higher tiers.
Evren cocked an eyebrow. “You worried about your Archateros?” He added a little spice on Hykos’ title.
“What?” Issa recoiled. “No!” she said, a little too forcefully.
Evren had noticed the repartee between them and the way Issa acted whenever Hykos was around. There was more there than just trainer and trainee, though he doubted either of them realized it yet.
“He’ll be fine,” she said, though it sounded as if she tried to convince herself. “He’s a Keeper’s Blade. We heal faster than most people.”
Evren cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Issa nodded. “It’s called the Keeper’s blessing. Heals us from wounds that could be mortal to others, and faster than normal. It’s accompanied by an extra gift the Keeper blesses us with at our Anointing.” She patted the flammard sheathed on her back. “And a bond with our blades. I don’t understand it, but Hykos says he’ll explain it more in the days before the Anointing.”
Bond with their blades? The statement sent both of Evren’s eyebrows shooting upward. That sounds eerily familiar.
Before he could continue the line of thought, a pair of Ybrazhe thugs strolled past their hideout. He fell silent, pressing deeper into the shadows, until the patrol moved on. His eyes never left them until they strode up the stairs and into the house.
“That’s the last of them,” he hissed. “Just those two outside and two more in the back, and we’ve got them all.”
Issa nodded. “Then let’s do this.” She held out a hand. “Keeper’s luck, Evren.”
Evren gripped her hand. “Go kick Ybrazhe arse!”
With a fierce grin, he turned and slipped off into the alley. It took him less than two minutes to clamber up onto the rooftop and return to his position opposite the house’s open window. He scanned the shadows below but saw no sign of Issa or her black-armored trainees. His keen ears only picked up the faintest clatter of armor as they got into place.
Good. The Syndicate will never know what hit them.
From within his pouch, he drew out the little bottle of potent uzum brandy he’d filched from the tavern he’d passed a few hours earlier. The effort had cost him a quarter-hour, but it was well worth it. This bottle and the four others he’d stolen from the dead drunk rioters would put a swift end to the Ybrazhe with only minimal violence. After all the bloodshed and death of the previous days, he welcomed the chance for a less lethal resolution.
Popping open the bottle, Evren took a sniff of the liquor. His nostrils recoiled from the strong reek of thrice-fermented grain mash. Uzum was far too potent and noxious to appeal to him, but it would serve his purposes perfectly. He tore off his Earaqi headband and stuffed one end into the bottle until he had soaked it thoroughly, then turned and shoved the dry end all the way in until it reached the bottom.
From within his pouch he produced a flint and steel, courtesy of one of the Indomitables accompanying Issa. He struck sparks onto the thatched roof. The dry straw caught in seconds and quickly grew to a proper fire. The liquor-soaked end of the cloth caught ablaze the moment he touched it to the flame.
Evren took four long steps and hurled the bottle as hard as he could. His aim was true; the bottle flew through the upper window and crashed on the floor of the third-story room.
Seconds later, four more burning bottles appeared in the darkness and hurtled toward the Ybrazhe’s stronghold. Three shattered against the wall, exploding in a fireball that lit up the night and caught the thatched roof alight. The last one shattered against the front door, splashing the two Ybrazhe guards stationed outside. Screams filled the air as the fire consumed the thugs’ liquor-soaked clothes and hair.
Smoke soon engulfed the entire house and streamed from the windows. Less than a minute later, the front and rear doors burst open. Coughing, choking men spilled out of the building, stumbling around blindly. Issa and the thirty Indomitables boiled from the shadows and laid into the men with clubs and drawn swords. Those who fought back or surrendered too slowly died. The rest, fewer than a dozen, were too busy hacking and struggling to breathe to do more than collapse where they stood.
The battle ended in less than five minutes. For Evren, watching from his rooftop perch, it felt almost anticlimactic. The Ybrazhe had hounded him since his arrival in the city, an ever-present threat looming in the shadows, yet this felt like the last gasp of a dying beast. Save for a few handfuls scattered among the rioting crowds, the Syndicate’s back had been broken.
A dull roar behind him caused him to turn, and horror froze his blood in his veins at the sight below. Hundreds of shouting, enraged rioters headed right toward them. The fire had drawn their attention. Within a matter of minutes, they would descend upon Issa and her companies. The throng would overwhelm the meager force of thirty Indomitables in seconds.
It would be a bloodbath.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aisha froze, her grip wrapped around her captor’s pinky finger, a heartbeat from snapping it. Somehow, she recognized that voice. She blinked away the dizziness and struggled to bring the world into focus.
Her assailant was a woman, roughly Aisha’s own age, with high cheekbones, a thick nose, and full lips. It was a face Aisha had seen before: Etai, Issa’s fellow prototopoi in the Keeper’s Blades.
“Aisha, what are you—”
Aisha removed her hand from Etai’s finger and pressed it over the girl’s mouth to silence her echoing voice.
“Hallar’s Warriors!” she hissed. “They’re robbing the tombs of the Keeper’s Blades!”
Etai’s eyes flew wide in confusion and shock. “What?” The word came out muffled from beneath Aisha’s hand.
Aisha removed her hand. “Hallar’s Warriors dug this hole so they could steal the swords buried with your dead Blades. They’re arming themselves for battle.”
Etai froze, hand still locked around Aisha’s throat.
“There’s no time to delay!” Aisha wrenched the girl’s hand from her neck. The Kish’aa called to her, pulling her down the hill, insisting that she pursue the militants hauling away the stolen swords. “You need to call in reinforcements now. You can capture them in the act, haul them off before they get any more—”
At that moment, a man emerged from the tunnel, arms loaded down with another bundle of weapons. He stopped a heartbeat away, his eyes fixed at the tableau of Aisha locked in Etai’s grip. Time slowed to a crawl as he opened his mouth to yell.
Aisha was already moving as the man drew in a great breath. Her fist drove into his throat, crushing cartilage with a grisly crunch. His shout turned into a gagging, hacking wheeze and he staggered back. He released his grip on the swords as his hands flew to his ruined throat.
The clatter of steel on stone echoed loud in the Keeper’s Crypts. Aisha’s stomach bottomed out. The militants looting the Blades’ sarcophagi had to have heard it. They’d either come running to investigate or flee—if Hallar’s Warriors had another exit, they’d slip away.
She drew her assegai and turned to Etai. “We’ve got to stop them!” She tried to count the enemies they faced. With three dead, that only left…“There are seventeen more in there. We can’t let them get away.”
Etai hesitated, her arm still outstretched, her face frozen in confusion.
“Etai!” Aisha snapped. “Those are the graves of your fellow Blades they’re desecrating.”
Those words pierced Etai’s stupor. Her stunned look faded, hardened to grim resolve, and she drew her huge sword. “We hit them hard and don’t stop hitting
until they’re dead.”
Aisha nodded. “That’s a plan I can get behind.”
Shishak’s spirit protested as she raced up the tunnel toward the tombs of the Keeper’s Blades. With effort, Aisha ignored it. We will have time to follow your sword, she told the woman. First, we deal with these bastards.
The first militant appeared at the end of the tunnel. “Deack, you—?”
Aisha ended his question with a spear thrust to the throat. The long, teardrop-shaped blade of her assegai tore through flesh, cartilage, and struck bone. The man sagged, his spine severed, and blood gushed across golden sandstone. Aisha tore her spear free without slowing and leapt over the crumpling body.
Sixteen, she counted.
She knew it was folly to attack alone, with no one but Etai for support. Even in her heavy armor, the Keeper’s Blade would be hard-pressed to defend herself against so many enemies.
But Aisha had the Kish’aa on her side. The spirits had called her here; they needed her to stop Hallar’s Warriors from desecrating their tombs. The blue-white lights of fallen Keeper’s Blades hung in neat rows above their caskets. Stretching out her free hand, Aisha summoned them to her and they came. Power surged through her veins, crackling, sizzling like lightning that flooded her body with energy and drove back any fatigue. The heat of their anger and the burning desire for vengeance stoked the flames in her chest, spurring her onward.
Two more militants appeared up the path, faces confused. They stopped at the sight of her, frozen by surprise. One managed to gasp out a weak cry of surprise before Aisha’s spear punched through his chest. Etai cut the other down before he could half-draw his sword.
Yet that weak cry was enough. Shouts of “Blades!” echoed through the crypt.
“Just two of them!” came another cry from nearby. Aisha spotted a militant rushing toward her, bared steel glinting in the faint light of a lantern. She didn’t wait for him to close the distance. Her right arm thrust out, driving the tip of her assegai at his chest. Two blue-white sparks hurtled through the air and slammed into him. The crackle of arcing energy set Aisha’s ears ringing as the man was hurled backward. He crashed into a tomb with a loud crack and lay still, his neck twisted, his skull crushed.
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