Lamplight glimmered off steel the color of midnight as Hallar’s Warriors rushed them from all directions, swinging long swords, clubs, and flammards looted from the tombs of the fallen. At the sight, Etai loosed a wordless war cry and rushed the nearest cluster of militants. Swords clanged off her heavy armor with bruising force but her own blade, wielded by strong arms and backed by her fury, slashed fabric, leather, and flesh with terrible ease.
Aisha never stopped moving, her boots pounding silently on the sandstone floor as her eyes scanned among the sarcophagi for enemies. The blue-white light of the spirits illuminated this crypt, and the power of the Kish’aa thrummed within her veins. Enemies leapt toward her but fell to the tip of her assegai and the burning energy of the enraged dead. The fallen Keeper’s Blades flooded her mind with their eagerness for battle, blood, and vengeance.
One by one, Hallar’s Warriors fell before Aisha and Etai. The lightly-armored men could not stand before the heavily-armored Blade, and their armor proved useless against the energy that crackled from Aisha’s fingertips.
And suddenly, there were no more. Aisha skidded to a halt, gasping, lightning sizzling through her veins and fire setting her legs and arms ablaze. She scanned the crypt but found no more enemies standing. Etai grunted and tore her huge two-handed sword from the chest of the last militant.
A thick, all-consuming silence hung in the tombs, broken only by the hammering of Aisha’s heartbeat and the roaring of the Kish’aa. The spirits within her had tasted the rush of battle one last time and were stirred up to fight, only to find themselves with no enemies to defeat. Their dismay and fury threatened to overwhelm Aisha.
Then came a groan. Weak, tinged with pain, yet very much alive.
The pile of corpses at Etai’s feet shifted slightly. A man hauled himself from beneath the body of a dead comrade. Blood trickled from a gash in his head and a gaping wound along his side, but he still lived.
Etai leapt back, sword poised for a quick thrust. The wounded militant could do nothing more than lie there, helpless, as the Blade prepared to finish him off.
An idea sprang to life in Aisha’s mind—really more of a vague notion, born from the memories of Shishak the Queenslayer.
“Wait!” Aisha called out.
Etai didn’t look away from the wounded militant, but her sword remained frozen in place.
“Take him alive, and bring him to Lady Callista.” The words poured from Aisha’s mouth, driven by the spirit of the slain Blade. “If she can get him to talk, she may be able to figure out what they’re planning with those weapons.”
Etai lowered her bloodstained flammard. Eight blue-white figures, all Hallar’s Warriors, had now been bound to the strange black steel. The sight sent a shudder down Aisha’s spine. Those swords held so much power, power that the Keeper’s Blades didn’t know existed. In the wrong hands, they could wreak terrible destruction.
The young Blade knelt beside the wounded man. “Help me tie him up and—”
“No, I need to go.” Now Aisha gave in to Shishak’s insistent demands. “I need to follow the others, find out where they were taking the swords.”
A look of puzzlement flashed across Etai’s face, but she nodded.
Aisha turned to go.
“Aisha.” A strange note echoed in Etai’s voice.
Aisha glanced back at the young Blade.
Etai’s gaze fixed on her, a look of wonder in her eyes. “What you did…” She seemed at a loss for words. “What…was that?”
Aisha grinned and gestured to the black stone casks around her. “You have your fellow Blades to thank.”
That only added to Etai’s confusion, but Aisha had no time to explain. Whirling, she raced toward the opening in the wall and sprinted down the crude passage toward the main section of the crypts. Her free hand went to the pendant at her throat and the voices in her mind sharpened.
Which way? she demanded of Shishak. Where do I find your sword?
The Blade known as Queenslayer guided her south, through the tombstones, mausoleums, obelisks, and sarcophagi of the Dhukari. Ornate tombs soon gave way to casks as simple and plain as those belonging to the Keeper’s Blades, though made of sandstone instead of shalanite. The handles of the Indomitables’ khopeshes protruded from the tops of the casks, though here and there, Aisha caught sight of empty holes where Hallar’s Warriors had stolen the weapons.
Next came a stone forest of obelisks, all replicas of the Swordsman’s temple. The sight of hammers, anvils, rulers, compasses, mallets, chisels, and other artisans’ tools indicated that she’d reached the level of the Artisan’s Tier.
When they reached the simple stone coffins and sarcophagi of the Earaqi, the spirits within Aisha tugged her east, toward the exit. It seemed Hallar’s Warriors had another hideout on the Cultivator’s Tier. Either that, or some new mission awaited them in the lower tiers. Whatever the case, Aisha would find them.
She trusted the spirits to guide her, so she asked no questions when Shishak led her not toward the main gates that opened onto the Cultivator’s Tier, but instead to the hidden entrance into the Serenii tunnels. They only traveled the tunnels a few hundred paces, exiting out into the now-dark night. When Aisha glanced westward, she found the huge gates to the Keeper’s Crypts locked and barred. Hallar’s Warriors were using the secret passages to enter and exit the sealed tombs. That explained how they got the looted weapons into the hands of their men.
Yet something nagged in the back of Aisha’s mind. If their main base is up on the Keeper’s Tier, in the mansion where we found the assassin or the second one they led us to, why are they bringing the swords down here? It made no sense.
Shishak’s spirit led her farther east, deeper into the Foreign Quarter. Aisha allowed herself to be pulled along, her mind racing as she tried to figure out the reason why Hallar’s Warriors came here with the swords. Perhaps they had a secondary hideout here, a fallback in case their main stronghold on the Keeper’s Tier was raided. After all, most of them were Earaqi, so they knew every street and alley on the Cultivator’s Tier.
To Aisha’s surprise, the spirits pulled her south, across Commoner’s Row, and down a side street. Confusion furrowed her brow. They’re here, in the Foreign Quarter? That made even less sense—only outsiders had homes and shops here, and any Shalandrans living here would stand out.
Her jaw dropped as the spirits drew her down a side alley, just in time to see two dark-cloaked figures carrying heavy bundles march toward a familiar building. The one-story house stood in the shadow of the southern wall. Above its door hung a wooden board that displayed a crudely carved eight-tipped star.
The symbol of an Umoyahlebe, the same symbol her father had inked into his arm.
Hallar’s Warriors had come to the home of Imbuka, the Spirit Whisperer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A fist of iron squeezed Kodyn’s chest, constricting his lungs and cutting off his air. Fear threatened to paralyze him, render him helpless. He’d come a heartbeat from death…again.
With effort, he pushed back against the surging terror. “You know, when you say things like that, you really give the impression that you’re an evil bastard.” His voice sound far less shaky than he felt, edged with a sardonic bite. “People might think you’re up to some sort of villainy with these warriors of yours.”
“You think I care?” Groebus took a menacing step toward him, and his face twisted in pain and contempt. “If I gave a damn about what people thought, I would never have gotten where I am now like this.” He limped closer, one awkward step at a time. “I’ve been ignored and demeaned since the day I was born, but that didn’t stop me from rising in the Necroseti. I learned long ago to ignore the words of empty-headed people too consumed by their good looks to see beyond the skin.” He thrust a slim finger at Kodyn. “People like you!”
“Wait, you think I’m good-looking?” Kodyn batted his eyelashes. “I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.” He leaned into the auda
city; it masked his true feelings, the lingering fear that sapped the strength from his legs.
Groebus sneered. “When I’m done with you, there’ll be nothing left. Mightier warriors than you have fallen before me. My mind is more powerful than your body will ever be!”
“See, there you go with that evil bastard talk again!” Kodyn shook his head. “I say we all sit down over a nice bottle of wine and talk it out. Really unpack those feelings and—”
“The time for talking is done!” Groebus snarled. “You have interfered with the master’s business for the last time.” A contemptuous smile twisted the right side of his face, making the drooping, paralyzed left side seem somehow more monstrous. “Your friends will soon follow you into endless undeath!”
“Would you mind if I asked a question first?” Kodyn asked. He sounded flippant, but his fear-numbed mind struggled to find a way to escape.
Groebus ignored him. “Take him to my laboratory.”
Kodyn swallowed the reflexive surge of acid to his throat. Nothing good ever follows words like that. Armed with just a dagger, he couldn’t fight through the three heavily-armed men surrounding him. He faced a three-story drop, death by sharp steel, or whatever foul atrocity Groebus had in mind for him.
But instead of giving in to his rising panic, he pushed back against it, fought down his rising gorge. “I guess I’ll just ask anyway.” He had to buy himself time, find an opening to break free. “What, exactly, do you mean by endless undeath? Does that mean you’re going to make me immortal or invincible somehow? I could really go for—”
Groebus gave a dismissive wave. “Silence him.”
The largest of the militants drove a fist into his face. The blow struck with the force of a runaway cart, rocking Kodyn’s head backward and sparks flooded his vision. Kodyn collapsed in a boneless heap, his dagger clattering across the balcony as his body struck the tiled floor. The fall was pure theatrics for the sake of his enemies; people tended to be less cautious around unconscious captives.
Yet the blow had shattered something within him. He felt as if everything holding him upright, propelling him forward, had simply broken. No physical damage, but a destruction of his will. He lay on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, face aching from the punch, his spirit crushed.
Boots clacked on the tiled floor, growing louder as someone else approached. “The master awaits,” came a new voice, “and grows impatient.”
“Of course.” Groebus’ voice took on the servile, oily tone he’d adopted when speaking to the Iron Warlord. “Give him the draught. Once the Basilik’s Kiss has taken hold in his mind and body, throw him in with the rest of the herd.”
The words sent an involuntary shudder down Kodyn’s spine. He had no idea what the Basilik’s Kiss would do or what the “herd” was, but even less desire to find out.
Groebus’ shuffling footsteps quietened as the hunchback limped from the room. Kodyn did his best to remain limp, pretending unconsciousness as the two militants relieved him of his sword and daggers with rough hands. Seizing his arms, they lifted his immobile form and hauled him off the balcony. He hung between the two men, boots scraping along the tiled floor behind him.
He tried to lift his aching head, to open his eyes, but a strange lethargy settled over him, an icy numbness that seeped into every limb. His arms and legs seemed unwilling to react to his commands. Just as they had after his fight with Handsome.
He’d come close to death then, too. Sheer luck had saved him from being killed by the assassin. He’d tried to shrug it off, but now he found himself struggling to get past the realization that only fortune—and Groebus’ spite—had stopped him from being killed. His mind and body felt paralyzed by fear. He hung limp in his captors’ grips not only as a pretense to lull them off-guard, but his limbs seemed incapable of movement.
Aisha was right. The thought slammed into his mind. I threw myself into this situation, and I nearly wound up dead because of it.
He’d wrestled with guilt and anger since Sid’s capture and near-death in Praamis. It had only worsened after Suroth’s murder. With every new threat to his friends, the feelings had grown larger, harder, burning with an intensity so bright he could ignore them no longer. They had made him reckless, driven him to do things he would never have done during his years as a Hawk.
And now they had led him here. Captive of Hallar’s Warriors, dragged off to face some unknown horror. The numbness turning his limbs to lead felt like his mind’s way of saying, “Enough!” He’d pushed too hard for too long; this brush with death had simply been the final crack in what was already broken.
Life had pushed him to his limits, placed on his shoulders a burden so heavy it seemed he could not escape. So much death, pain, and loss. Not only his own, but that of his friends, the ones he loved most. He had wanted to fight, to kill, to return the hurt inflicted in an effort to protect those he cared about.
That was what had broken on the balcony—not his willpower or courage, but the unyielding walls of anger that had grown within him. He’d used it as shield to defend himself and a sword to wield against his enemies. Deep down, he had reveled in the anger. It gave him something to cling to, something to propel him forward in this unceasing battle.
But now he saw the truth. The truth Aisha had tried to tell him back in the Serenii tunnels, that his mentor and mothers had warned him about for years.
Anger was more than just a driving force; it was a drug, more addictive than any narcotic or opiate. He’d believed the fires of his fury could burn away the fear and worry he felt for his friends. Yet those fires had consumed him from the inside out, melting away so much of who he truly was until nothing remained but a reckless, rage-driven hothead. The sort of fool who would throw himself into the middle of danger without a second thought.
Not for the sake of protecting others, despite what he’d told himself. He’d attempted to kill Groebus out of fury at what the man had done, plain and simple. There was no justice in that act, but vengeance, plain and simple.
Vengeance, tinged with petty spite, had been the chief motivator behind all the torment Bryden, his House Master, heaped on his head over the years. Bryden’s anger at Ilanna had driven him to take out his indignation on Kodyn. Kodyn had loathed that about the man, hated the way Master Hawk persecuted him all because of who his mother was. He’d sworn never to be like Bryden.
Yet in letting his anger and hate run rampant, he’d become exactly what he hated. He might try to convince himself that he did it for the sake of others, but that was a lie. He did it because it felt good to hit back, to make someone else hurt as he did.
The realization crashed down on Kodyn with staggering force. Yet it also restored sensation to his limbs, pushed back the numbness. He knew the truth behind his actions, the thing that had impelled him on his collision course with danger. But now that he understood, he knew how to correct it. He simply had to refuse to give in to the anger. The pain of loss would remain, but he couldn’t let guilt or rage be the force that drove him. He had to find another reason to fight.
He fought for friends, for family. Briana. Evren and Hailen. Issa. Aisha. The people he cared about needed him. And they needed him alive. Throwing himself into danger would only add to their hurt, fear, and anxiety. The time would come when he would need to risk his life for their sakes—and he’d be ready when it did—but the best way to make certain he could comfort and protect them would be to actually be there for them. That meant fighting and thinking smart.
Starting with getting the bloody hell out of here.
Kodyn flexed his toes and found his body once more responded to his commands. The ache returned to his jaw. He opened his eyelids just enough to see some of his surroundings. Twisting his head would alert his captors that he had returned to consciousness, so he had no choice but to study the mansion’s interior with his head hanging down.
The two militants were dragging him down a staircase decorated with gold and black ceramic tiles. Fr
om the corners of his eyes, Kodyn could see marble railings, but not much more. The sounds of booted feet, clanking armor, clattering weapons, and low conversations echoed from all around him. He guessed anywhere from ten to fifty militants moved throughout the building.
Too many to make a break for it. If he tried anything now, he’d be captured immediately. They’d probably shatter a few limbs to make him docile for whatever horror awaited him in Groebus’ laboratory.
Best bide my time until I’ve got a better chance to escape, he decided.
At the bottom of the grand staircase, his captors dragged him into another gold-and-black-tiled room, then down a narrower, lamplit hall. The fancy flooring gave way to bare stone as he was hauled down another set of steps, below the level of the street. Kodyn suppressed a shiver—he’d spent enough time in House Scorpion to know that underground laboratories tended to be gloomy, poorly lit, foul-smelling places.
His captors descended two full flights of stairs. The light changed from the soft orange glow of lanterns to a harsher white that could only come from alchemical lamps. Hard stone met his gaze, but his ears picked up few sounds of movement from below.
Perfect!
Once he reached the quiet of the subterranean room, he might have a chance of breaking free quietly enough that the militants above wouldn’t hear. Sneaking through all the commotion would be tricky, but if he was lucky and cautious, he could manage it.
A thick wall of caustic stench told him they’d reached Groebus’ laboratory. The noxious odors of alchemical potions twisted his nostrils and set his stomach churning as his captors dragged him through a doorway and into a new room with stone floors. Through his peripheral vision, Kodyn caught sight of the legs of tables and stools along one wall. Along the other, glass bottles and jars, clay urns, and leather pouches adorned wooden shelves.
Secrets of Blood Page 24
