His words in the Fortress rang in her mind. “After everything you’ve done to help us, I figure it’s time we had your back.” He’d been the one to find the way up to the balcony. His words of caution had stopped her from leaping over the railing and attacking Tinush and Madani for their treachery. Because of him, she had overheard the threat to her grandparents and Killian. She could save them.
Please let me be in time!
She raced down the stone steps, through the crude stone passage, and back up into the abandoned mansion beyond. Her boots thundered across the tiled floor as she sprinted through the crumbling estate and out the open gate. She refused to slow, to hesitate, despite the darkness of the night beyond. She had no time for delay. The Ybrazhe would storm the smithy at any moment. It didn’t matter that her lungs ached, her legs burned, and pain radiated through her bruised ribs—even a single heartbeat of weakness or fatigue could mean her Saba and Savta’s death.
The burden of guilt grew heavier with every frantic heartbeat. She had made the choice to join the other Keeper’s Blades in their mission to save the city rather than going back to rescue her grandparents. Even after ending the Ybrazhe threat, she had chosen to hunt down Tinush. All for the sake of her city and her oaths.
But would those choices cost her the only family she had? Would their lives be the price she paid in the name of Shalandra’s future?
No! She shoved back against the acid that surged to her throat. It is too high a price!
Evren raced ahead to open the Serenii passages and, side by side, they raced down the sloped tunnels toward the Artisan’s Tier. The glowing gemstones flashed by in a blur of crimson. Darkness pressed in around Issa, filled her mind with images of the Ybrazhe thugs breaking down the walls of Killian’s smithy, flooding into the forge, and wreaking havoc. The red light in the passages turned to blood—the blood of her grandparents.
She ran until she could run no longer. Fatigue, too many days without sleep, hunger, and the pain of her wounds turned her limbs to lead. She tripped, fell hard, and crashed into the wall with jarring force. Agony flared through her sides, fire lancing up her legs.
Stifling a groan, she tried to struggle upright.
“Hey!” Evren was suddenly beside her, his face a mask of worry in the crimson glow. “Hey, pushing yourself is just—”
“My grandparents!” Issa’s voice came out in a hoarse croak. She couldn’t remember the last time food or drink had passed her lips. “Have to…save them!”
“You’ll be no good to them if you die of exhaustion.” Evren pressed her back down. “Here, take this.” From within his a pouch, he produced a crust of flatbread. “At the very least, you need to eat.”
Issa hesitated a moment, but the growling of her stomach made the decision for her. She grabbed the scrap of food and wolfed it down in two big bites.
“I’d offer you water, but I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Evren gave her a wry grin. “Not since the Gatherers poisoned it.”
Issa’s eyes widened, but she had no time to question. The small morsel of food drove back her fatigue...barely, yet just enough that she felt she could run again.
“Tell me about it later,” she said. “We’ve got to get down there!”
Evren tried to protest. “Issa, it’s just the two of us, against—”
“They’re all I have!” Issa’s shout set the walls shaking. “They’re my only family. I can’t let anything happen to them, Evren.”
“So be it.” Evren responded in a quiet voice. “Family’s worth fighting for, always.” He held out a hand.
“I’ve got your back.”
Issa’s throat thickened, but she reached up and clasped his hand, pulled herself upright. “Which way?”
Evren took off down the tunnel ahead of her, leading the way through the darkness. For what seemed an endless eternity, they raced down the dimly-lit passages, Issa following Evren through the maze of twisting and turning corridors. She didn’t know how he knew his way around nor did she care. Nothing else mattered but reaching Killian’s smithy before the Ybrazhe stormed it.
Then they were rushing toward a blank wall—the end of the passage, and the way out. Issa’s heart leapt as the stone wall slid aside and the first gust of night wind blew into the tunnel.
The wind carried the smell of smoke. The Artisan’s Tier burned.
Fire ravaged houses to the east and west, thatched roofs ablaze as the Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri torched the homes of the Intaji and Zadii. The crackling of flames nearly drowned out the shouts and cheers of the mob rampaging through the Artisan’s Tier, the screams of pain, terror, and confusion of those caught in the blaze.
Horror and fear froze Issa in place. The light of the burning city illuminated dark figures racing in all directions. Families fled their homes, clutching children and what pitiful valuables they owned to their chest. Looters followed hot on the heels of their victims or burst into homes not yet caught up in the conflagration. Gangs of armed men surged through the streets, filling the smoky night air with their chants of “Death to the Pharus!” and “Bring on the Final Destruction!”
“Come on!” Evren slithered around her bulky, armored frame and slipped out into the night. “This is the fastest way to reach Smith’s Alley.”
Issa followed him, half in a daze. The city—her city—had been swept up in violence, bloodshed, and death. The Keeper’s Council had their wish. What the fire didn’t cleanse, hunger and illness would. When the Necroseti came with food and supplies to the starving, suffering people of the lower tiers, they would be met with open arms. The people blamed the Pharus for their misery. Madani and his cronies would offer them a solution: remove the Pharus and let the wise, generous priests of the Long Keeper control the city.
It was too perfect. Disgustingly, cruelly perfect. A plan that condoned the death of thousands, the destruction of Shalandra.
And Issa was too late to stop it.
She had fought to prevent the Indomitables from taking out their anger on the Mahjuri and Kabili, but far too many had died or suffered in the turmoil. She had tried to dissuade Lady Callista from carrying out the Council’s orders to execute Aterallis. Yet ultimately she’d followed orders, even knowing that his death would rile up the people. When she had found the Ybrazhe attempting to whip the Earaqi into a frenzy, she had pleaded with her people for peace.
Failure. Time and again, she had failed. She’d thought she could make a difference in the city, thought she could prevent the hardship and suffering witnessed every day of her life. Yet now, as Shalandra burned around her, it seemed her actions had done nothing.
She’d saved the Pharus’ life, but what of the lives of every man, woman, and child that now lay dead on the Artisan’s Tier? She’d rescued Killian from the Ybrazhe, so why couldn’t she rescue the Earaqi, her people, from their manipulations?
The burden weighed on her shoulders, so heavy it threatened to drag her down. The cold, hard words of Invictus Tannard echoed in her mind. “The blade chose you and the Long Keeper marked you, but you must prove your worthiness to serve him every day. Through your deeds, your dedication, your determination. Every time you fail, every time you falter, you insult the Long Keeper and prove yourself unworthy.”
She felt a fraud. She’d stolen into the Hall of the Beyond to join in the Crucible. It didn’t matter that the trials of steel and stone marked her as blessed by the Long Keeper. Through her failures, she had proven herself unworthy to be a Keeper’s Blade.
She was just one person fighting to save a city that could never be saved.
Two faces flashed through her mind: a man’s face, with dark eyes, strong features, and a beard long gone silvery-white; a woman with kindness written in the deep lines around her smiling mouth.
She had failed so many others, but she couldn’t fail them. The two people that mattered to her more than anything.
She’d thought joining the Keeper’s Blades was important. A life of service to Sha
landra, the Pharus, and the Long Keeper had seemed far more glorious than the meager existence of an Earaqi. Yet in that moment, the thought of a life without her Saba and Savta filled her with horror. The armor, sword, and Dhukari rank of a Keeper’s Blade meant nothing if she had no one to share it with.
She’d joined the Blades to give her grandparents a better life. She’d sworn to serve Shalandra knowing that it would be her way to ensure that the wisdom they’d imparted, the honor they’d emulated every day of their lives, continued on long after their deaths.
But her decision to join the Keeper’s Blades suddenly took on a new light. Because of it, she could save them. Even if she’d failed in so many other things, she could prove herself worthy of service by protecting them. To her, they were the Shalandra that mattered more than anything else.
That thought spurred her to run faster. Her heart leapt, vitality flooding her exhausted limbs. Just a few more steps, one more corner until—
A thunderous roar echoed from the street ahead. Issa and Evren sprinted into full view of the smithy, just in time to see the Ybrazhe and their mob attack the wall. Forty men wheeled their improvised cart-turned-battering ram, driving it straight toward the section of stone they had weakened earlier that day. Somehow, her grandfather and Killian had managed to reinforce the wall with wooden beams and supports, but that improvised obstacle wouldn’t hold out beneath the onslaught.
No! Fear froze the blood in Issa’s veins as the cart crashed into the makeshift barrier. Wood splintered and stone collapsed with a terrible rumble, spraying dust and debris into the smithy. The crowd let out a cheer and, with the Ybrazhe thugs driving them on, raced toward the newly-made opening in the wall.
“NOO!” A howl of rage burst from deep within Issa’s chest. She roared into the night, a wordless cry, guttural and growling, like a beast of prey begging to be unleashed. Her hands moved of their own accord, drawing her huge two-handed sword. Raising the flame-shaped blade high, she charged.
She crashed into the rear of the crowd, an unstoppable tide of armor, black steel, and fury. Hacking, slashing, chopping, her blade never stopping as she cut down men and women, Syndicate and rioter alike. Fear for her grandparents imbued her sword with power, fueled the strength of her arms. She no longer tried to pull her blows to spare her enemies. Those before her had chosen to attack, to threaten her grandparents.
She’d kill them all to save her family.
Somehow, Evren managed to keep up with her. He fought with bared teeth and drawn daggers, two steps to her left, just out of striking range of her huge sword. Though far shorter than her and lacking armor, he was a whirlwind of violence, all flying fists and flashing steel. He clung to her shadow, darting in to strike and leaping back to make way for her sword.
With a roar, Issa fought her way toward the opening. In the seconds it had taken her to reach the wall, more than a dozen rioters and Ybrazhe had spilled through. Those attempting to follow were forced to turn and meet Issa’s charge, raising swords, clubs, and daggers in a pathetic defense against her bloodstained flammard.
Yet she faced scores, perhaps even hundreds of enemies. A flurry of blows rained on Issa from all sides, but she was beyond caring. Steel clanged off her armor, wooden clubs thwacked against her sword, and men screamed as she cut them down. She drove toward the wall, a relentless battering ram that hammered through the ranks just as she’d fought her way through the ranks of Tannard’s Indomitables in the training yard. But now she didn’t fight for a flag or to satisfy the Invictus’ cruelty. She fought to save her grandparents, and nothing would stand in her way.
Then she was at the wall, the last of the rioters and their Ybrazhe inciters falling back before her. Without hesitation, she leapt onto the tongue of the cart battering ram, scrambled down the pile of rubble and crumbled stones, and into the training yard behind Killian’s smithy.
There he stood, her grandfather, impossibly tall and strong, clad in the black, spiked armor of a Keeper’s Blade and wielding a huge two-handed flammard. Steel sang the song of death as he battled the men that had surged through the gap in the wall.
“Grandfather!” The scream burst from Issa’s throat. “I’m coming, Saba!”
She fought her way to his side, her huge sword carving destruction into the backs of the rioters and Ybrazhe. A few turned to engage, only to fall with their limbs crushed, heads split, and chests slashed open by the power of her huge sword.
Her grandfather cut down his last opponent, but he had no time to pause. He raced past Issa to engage the next wave of enemies climbing through the gap.
Issa raced to his side and, dropping her sword, seized the yoke of the wagon. Every shred of strength went into the effort, but instead of trying to shove it outward and into the crowd, she pulled it farther into the training yard. Issa roared with the effort of dragging the heavy burden. But slowly, wooden wheels scraped on rubble and the cart pulled toward her, blocking the gap in the wall.
The crowd outside shouted their collective rage, and boots thumped on wood as men clambered onto the wagon bed to attack from above. Issa retrieved her sword and prepared to meet the charge.
“Go!” Her Saba shouted over the roaring of the crowd. “I’ll hold them here. Go find your grandmother!”
Issa wanted to protest, wanted to stay by his side, but she couldn’t let anything happen to Aleema. With his heavy suit of armor and his impossible skill with a flammard, he had a better chance of survival.
“Where is she?” Issa screamed.
“The front entrance, beside Killian!” her grandfather called back, hacking down an enemy with a sweeping blow. “Keep her safe, at all costs!”
Issa had no time to question; the thrill of battle hummed through her body, flooding her muscles with vigor and pushing back her fatigue. Whirling, she raced through the corpse-strewn, bloodstained training yard and into the smithy.
The light of lanterns and the fire burning in Killian’s forge guided her steps. She charged through the low doorway, around the huge anvil, and across the narrow room toward the front entrance. A few youths—Killian’s Mumblers, none older than twelve or thirteen and some as young as five and six—crouched in the shadows of the forge. They gripped daggers, handheld crossbows, slings, and short swords, their faces white.
The sight at the front entrance stole her breath. Killian stood clad in the armor of a Keeper’s Blade, a black steel flammard clutched in his hand. At his side, Aleema wore the black, spiked plate mail as well. She, too, wielded the sword of a Keeper’s Blade with skill that rivaled Killian’s.
The two of them moved in tandem, with the easy familiarity of soldiers that stood in a battle line. Killian struck high and Aleema stabbed low. When Aleema ducked a high slash, Killian finished off the attacker with a vicious thrust to the face. Aleema knocked aside a blow aimed at Killian’s exposed side, drove a boot into the man’s chest, and cut down another enemy while Killian finished off the fallen man.
It was a dance of death, as breathtaking and elegant as it was lethal. Blood and the screams of the wounded and dying hung thick in the air.
A few of Killian’s older Mumblers fought as well, firing handheld crossbows or darting in with razor-sharp daggers. Yet the blacksmith with the crippled leg and Issa’s white-haired Savta held the doorway against all enemies. Two Keeper’s Blades, side by side, a wall of steel and determination.
Issa’s gut clenched as an enemy slipped through their line and managed to get around behind the two warriors. With a vicious snarl, he raised his sword to strike at Aleema from the side.
Issa was there, her sword driving before her in a vicious thrust. Her flame-shaped blade punched through his chest and out his back, slicing flesh and ravaging his organs. The man coughed, spraying blood on her face. Issa tore her blade free and shoved the man backward into his companions, sending them stumbling.
“For Shalandra!” The cry burst from her lips as she leapt into the fray beside her grandmother. Her black steel sword chopped,
cut, and slashed in a blurring wall of steel, bringing down the attackers with deadly force.
“Evren?” came Killian’s voice from beside her. “What in the Keeper’s name are you doing here?”
“Saving your ass again, it seems!” Evren called out. “Now get the hell out of the way if you don’t want to get burned!”
A hand seized Issa’s gorget and hauled her backward, just in time to avoid being knocked over by a metal cart filled with glowing coals and molten metal. Evren drove the handcart straight into the nearest rioters, releasing it at the last second. Red hot liquid and burning embers sprayed across the enemies, showering them with sparks. Screams of pain filled the air.
“Help me get that door shut!” Killian shouted. He leapt forward, his metal-shod boots kicking up coals and bubbling metal. Issa and Aleema charged beside him. Together, the three of them barreled into the staggering, shrieking rioters and Ybrazhe, driving them back.
Foot by foot, one hammering heartbeat at a time, until the enemy once more stood outside the front door. Issa and Aleema leapt back as Killian slammed the huge steel door shut. The metal had been dented and twisted, but it still held firm as Killian dropped the locking bar into its cradle.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Killian fell against the door, gasping for breath. “It’s been too long since I’ve had to fight like that!” The huge sword drooped in his massive hands, yet he fixed Issa and Evren with a massive grin. “Nice of you to show up like that. The bastards managed to get that door open for their comrades outside before we could stop them. Had you arrived any later…” He shrugged. “Let’s just say you’re right on time.”
“Glad to be of service.” Evren swept a mocking bow.
“I-Issa?”
All thoughts of battle fled from Issa’s mind as she heard the familiar voice from her side. She turned to face Savta—the woman that looked like her Savta, yet stood clad in the armor of a Keeper’s Blade, just like Killian. Blood stained her face, gauntlets, and the huge flammard in her hand. Yet there was no mistaking the smile of relief that shone on her grandmother’s face as she threw her arms around Issa.
Secrets of Blood Page 29
