Kalanon's Rising (Agents of Kalanon Book 1)

by Smith,Darian

  Brannon made his way through the crowd, collecting his team and pulling them into a small side room to regroup and share what they had learned.

  “What do you mean, Fressin’s dead?” he exclaimed, after Taran spoke up. “How, in the name of the Hooded, did we lose another suspect in custody?”

  “I don’t know,” Taran said. “I think he must have had a suicide pill. I could run some tests if you like.”

  “Blood and Tears.” Brannon sighed and shook his head. “No. We’ve bigger problems right now. What about the tests you were running on the other victims?”

  “Oh, they all had loredin in their systems. It’s safe to say they were killed in the same manner as Prince Keldan.”

  Brannon swore again. What possible connection did Morgin, a small town undertaker, have to a murderer in Alapra, a place he’d never been? It seemed clear that Morgin was responsible for the killings here in Sandilar, but there was a missing piece that connected all the murders together. How had he known about the Djin rituals, and why had he decided to perform them? Was Fressin somehow involved? Aside from Brannon’s own team, Lady Latricia, and Ambassador Ylani, the assassin was the only person who had been in Alapra at the time of Keldan’s murder, then made his way here.

  “First things first. Do we have enough spirit bags to keep this building safe?”

  Ula nodded. “Your apprentice and I hide the last of them before you come back.”

  “Good. How effective will they be against this thing? We met it at the manor, and it claimed it was getting stronger. We managed to get the pouch I had to drive it off, but, it was a close thing.”

  Ula’s eyes widened. “If you drove it off, the spirits must like you very much.”

  “That’s great,” Brannon said, “but will they do it again?”

  “Not you.” Ula shook her head and pointed to the Nilarian ambassador. “The spirits like her.”

  Every face in the small room turned to look.

  Ylani shrugged. “I’m sure the spirits liked us both,” she said.

  “Really?” Brannon said, with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks so much.”

  “The point is, can a pouch be used like that again?” Ylani said.

  “No likely.” Ula’s dreadlocks swung side to side. “Spirit bricks are for protection of house. Djin houses made of mud—earth. Kalan houses are different. Pouches should work for a time, but not made to work outside.”

  “Great.” Brannon’s scar itched. “Anything else we should know?”

  “Is definitely living Risen?” Ula asked.

  Brannon nodded. “Oh yeah.”

  The Djin woman lowered her face. She clutched her arms, her fingernails scratched at her forearms and she cursed softly in her own language. Finally her words changed to Kalan. “A kaluki in a living body brings far too much power from the other realm. It will seek to bring others from their realm and destroy this place entirely. But first it must fight the other inhabitant of the body. Kaluki in a dead body is always kaluki. But a living Risen is sometimes kaluki, sometimes human. Until, at the end, human gone and it is always kaluki. Then it have full power. So far, humanity keep it weak. Soon, it be truly strong.”

  “If that was weak,” Ylani said. She didn’t finish.

  “Won’t there still be someone controlling it?” Taran asked. “Like you did when you raised Prince Keldan.”

  Ula shook her head. “No one control a kaluki in a living body. A day, maybe two, then the kaluki have total control. Then it open the doorway.”

  “So how do we stop it?”

  “We cannot. It would take the Priory of Gradinath to stop it. Here, there is only me.” The Djin woman’s skin was gray. “We be fools in our pride. This thing be our people’s sacred duty to guard against. We never think it could happen anywhere but Djinan. All our people guard against it, but now I face it alone.”

  “Not alone,” Draeson said.

  “Okay,” Brannon took a deep breath. “We need to act fast to protect ourselves and Tomidan. I don’t think there’s much humanity left in him now, but let’s take advantage of it while it’s there. Jessamine and Taran, I want you to start clearing all these extra people out of the inn. Unless they’re related to Roydan in some way, they’re safer in their own homes. Ula, double-check your protections and see if you can think of anything else that will help. If you can get a message to Gradinath, do it. Draeson, you and the mayor seem to have a . . . special bond. I’m going to need you to talk to her.”

  Draeson stood. “Talk to her about?”

  “The fact that a kaluki is taking over her son.”

  The mage sat down again. “Morgin is the Risen? Morgin? The dorky undertaker? Wait, what could he have against the royal family?”

  “He’s not after the royal bloodline,” Brannon said. “He’s specifically killing Roydan’s bloodline. He’s Roydan’s bastard and he wants to be heir to Sandilar.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” said a voice from the doorway. Brannon turned to see Mayor Shillia, her fingers still on the handle. “My son is already an heir to Sandilar. Roydan has acknowledged him. He’s third in line after Keldan and . . . oh.” Her eyes went very wide and she covered her mouth.

  “After Keldan and Tomidan,” Brannon finished for her. “Both of whom were targets of attacks.”

  Shillia shook her head. “My son wouldn’t do that.”

  Brannon thought of how he’d last seen Morgin, hissing and covered in blood. “Have a seat and talk to Draeson,” he said. “The rest of us will give you some space. If you can think of where he might be . . . well, the sooner we find him, the sooner we can clear this up.”

  Shillia walked slowly to the table. Brannon waited until she had taken a seat, then ushered the others out of the room. This was not a conversation he wanted to be part of. Let Draeson handle it. It would be the least of his penances for sleeping with the woman while Latricia died. He pulled the door closed behind him while Taran, Jessamine, and Ula spread out on their various tasks.

  Ylani touched his shoulder. “You seemed very much the battle commander I’ve read about, just now,” she said. “You’re a good leader. You gave everyone a task, but I didn’t hear how you’re actually going to deal with the situation.”

  “Really, ambassador?” Brannon looked at her, the false confidence leaking away from his face. “Well, my nice little political murder case has turned into an invulnerable monster bent on destroying us all. You’ll forgive me if I take a few moments to adjust my strategy.” He turned to walk away.

  “Brannon.” She caught his arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I’m on your back. I just want to help.”

  Brannon watched as the room began to clear. Taran and Jessamine, aided by a few of the armed guards, were herding people toward the door. Brannon hoped he was doing the right thing sending people away. If they kept Morgin’s main targets here, this would be where he would come. And if he managed to get past their protections, Brannon wanted as few potential innocent victims as possible.

  The room felt very warm. In the hearth, a fire crackled gently under a large cauldron of stew.

  “If you really want to help,” he said, “tell me about what you did back at the manor.”

  Ylani shifted. “What do you mean?”

  He looked her in the eye. “Getting the spirit pouch to work—how did you know to do that?”

  Ylani chewed her lip. “I . . . ” She hesitated. He waited. Finally she spoke. “Sometimes I know things. I just do.”

  Brannon snorted. “Really? That’s your answer? What does that even mean?”

  “I . . . ” She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  Brannon shook his head. He needed to keep his mind on the job. The Nilarian ambassador was a confusing distraction he did not need. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Brannon,” she began, but stopped.

  Jessamine and one of the remaining manor guards had joined them. “Sir Brannon Kesh.” The man rested his hand on his sword hilt and stood t
o attention. “We’ve had word from Sandilar Manor. We need to talk.”

  “I’m sure we do,” Brannon said. “But now’s not the time.”

  The guard’s fingers wrapped around the hilt. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Jessamine frowned. “What’s that smell?”

  As soon as she said it, Brannon smelled it too. A scent like crushed almonds and burnt copper. He blinked. The air had taken on a greenish tinge.

  The guard’s eyes bulged and his breath came in gasps. “What have you done?” he said, then slowly slid to the floor.

  Jessamine was swaying. The remaining people in the common room began to scream and point. “The fire!”

  Brannon felt his body becoming heavy. So very heavy, like bundles of wet wool. He turned to look at the fireplace. Beneath the cauldron of stew, the flames were low, almost guttering, and from them poured a steady stream of green smoke.

  Brannon had barely a moment to register that they were being poisoned and then the world went black.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Sound trickled back first. The half-heard wuffing of a dog, the squeak of hinges, someone moaning, footsteps. Then it was feeling. The floor beneath him was hard and cold. His tongue felt gritty and tasted foul. Something touched his arm and he groaned, not wanting to wake up. Not wanting to move. His insides moved anyway. A moment later, his stomach heaved and he vomited.

  “Ah, there it goes,” said Taran’s voice. “This is going to get very messy.”

  Brannon opened his eyes to see the priest crouching beside him. The smell of vomit was sharp and stinging. He rolled onto his hands and knees and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What happened?”

  He looked around the room. Here and there, others were waking up as well. Many, as he had done, regurgitated the contents of their stomachs onto the floor. A smaller number stood or sat, looking drawn and dazed, but conscious and able to move. Clearly whatever they had been poisoned with was not lethal.

  “Koroleen,” Taran said. He had a damp smear down the front of his cowled priest’s tunic where he too had vomited. “It was taken from my supplies.”

  Brannon pushed himself up into a sitting position, carefully monitoring his stomach. “What’s koroleen?”

  Taran blinked. “It’s a poison when ingested and a strong sedative when burned. I use it as a reagent in some of my experiments . . . it’s not good for the, ah . . . ” He made a circling motion with his hand over his abdomen.

  Brannon raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

  “It passes quickly.”

  Brannon glanced across to where Ylani lay, still unconscious. “Is there any danger from it?”

  The priest shook his head. “The vomiting comes after waking. Everyone comes out of it in their own time. As long as no one chokes, they should be fine.”

  Brannon nodded. Choking would be a very real danger for anyone who vomited while unconscious. “We should check on everyone just to be sure.”

  He climbed to his feet. The dog he’d heard earlier was one of Draeson’s wards. It was a white dog with black spots, standing with its head down and its tail between its legs. It guarded the front door of the tavern—a door now hanging crookedly on only one hinge.

  He crouched beside Ylani and turned her onto her side, carefully moving her hair away from her face. “Find Jessamine. If she’s awake, get her started on making sure anyone still unconscious is in a safe position. This could be good experience for her. I’ll check on Draeson and Shillia.”

  Taran didn’t move.

  Brannon looked up. “What is it?”

  “Jessamine was taken. So was Tomidan.”

  “Hooded Blood.” He stood up and stared across at the broken door. “He came for them. Tommy because he’s Roydan’s last heir. Why Jessamine?”

  Draeson’s voice came from behind him. “Because he’s sending you a message. That you can’t protect your own.”

  Brannon sighed, looking around at the unconscious and semiconscious people, broken furniture, and vomit. His stomach felt hollow. “He’s right. I’m used to enemies I can keep track of. Enemies I at least have a hope of matching physically and that face me head-on. Not some demon-enhanced, poison-throwing, superpowered freak with delusions of grandeur and a plan to take over the world. That, I’m out of my depth with. He’s right.”

  Taran blinked at him. Draeson said nothing. At his feet, Ylani moaned, stirring at last.

  The heat in the room was stifling, like fingers clawing at Brannon’s throat. The acrid smell filled his nostrils. Memories flooded into his mind of broken, bleeding men and women. The smell of fear and feces and rotted meat. This was his legacy. His past and his future. War with Nilar, war with demons. It was all blood and death and horror.

  He was Bloodhawk, the avatar of war. How was he supposed to stop it?

  “Brannon?” Ylani’s voice was weak.

  His throat closed and he turned and walked away. A hand reached out to get his attention. Words followed him, but there was a ringing in his ears and he blocked them out. His steps quickened and he hit the broken door at a run, bursting free of the building that had seen so much death.

  He had trusted this inn to be a sanctuary—had built up its defenses as best he could—and still Morgin had reached in and taken what he wanted.

  Fresh air hit him like a wave, crashing over him, pulling him down. Halfway across the courtyard he stopped, bent over, his hands braced on his knees as he drew in great gulps of air.

  Footsteps sounded on the cobblestones behind him. They slowed as they came closer.

  Brannon didn’t look up. “Just leave me alone for a minute, okay?”

  There was no reply.

  “Hooded Blood, Wolf, Tears, Ahpra’s bloody tits, Draeson, I didn’t ask for this!”

  “I know,” the mage said quietly.

  Brannon took another two slow, deep breaths and straightened up. “I didn’t even want an apprentice, you know. I told Master Jordell it was a bad idea. Now that poor girl has been kidnapped because of me. I’m responsible for her and for my best friend’s grandson and they’re both in the hands of an enemy I don’t know how to fight.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “What do you mean, I do?” Brannon turned to glare at the magus. He tugged at his sword. “You think this is going to make a bit of difference to that thing? That Risen? I saw what he did to the men at the manor. A sword isn’t going to cut it anymore.”

  Draeson shook his head. “You might feel responsible for those two but what happened is not your fault. It’s the fault of an idiot who chose the wrong path to power in order to take what wasn’t his.” He gripped Brannon’s shoulder. “It happens. But you’ve been dealing with powerful people and putting them straight your whole life. The Nilarians, the king—me.”

  Brannon snorted. “Really? You’re bringing that up now?”

  Draeson shrugged. “You were right to tackle me about my behavior. I should have been more . . . professional. But the point is, what are you going to do about this one.”

  Brannon looked away. Someone had rehung the sign where Caidin Ray’s body had been found, but the post still bore a dark stain. “I can’t let him win. If Jessamine and Tommy are still alive, I need to get them back.”

  “And?”

  “Ahpra’s Tears, Draeson, do I have to do all the thinking around here?”

  The mage laughed. “It’s what you’re good at. I never would have thought it in the old days, but that kaluki-possessed boy has underestimated you. You’re not just the Bloodhawk anymore. You’re the best of that and more. You’ll find a way.”

  Brannon traced the line of his scar with his fingers, from his earlobe across his cheek. It was a reminder that even the weakest opponent can strike a blow if the circumstances are right. He had a team of some of the best experts in the country. Surely they could do better than a teenage boy trying to avenge his father.

  Draeson gave his shoulder another squeeze and let go. “Are you ready to go back insi
de now?”

  Brannon took a deep breath and blew it out again. “Yeah. Let’s get this suicidal rescue mission on the road.”

  He turned his head and a movement caught his eye. Mayor Shillia slipped from the shadow along the side of the inn and hurried toward the road. She tugged her coat around her as she walked.

  Brannon frowned. Why hadn’t she walked out the front door? Why was she leaving at all?

  “Draeson,” he said quietly. “How good are you at following people without being seen?”

  “Excellent,” said the mage. “Why?”

  He nodded toward the mayor. “Because I need to know where she’s going.”

  Draeson frowned. “You think she knows where her son is?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Brannon watched Shillia’s back. “Morgin must have had an accomplice to get rid of the first batch of spirit bags and slip the koroleen into the fire. She’s been here both times.”

  Draeson went very still. “My . . . distraction on the night Latricia was killed. You think that was deliberate?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope to Ahpra and Valdan that it wasn’t.” He jerked his thumb toward the road. Shillia was out of sight. “There’s one way to find out.”

  “All right,” Draeson said. He sat down on the cobblestones and crossed his legs.

  “Ah, she’s getting away.” Brannon tapped him on the shoulder and pointed.

  “Ssh.” The mage closed his eyes and held out his hands, cupped together. Light shone out from between his fingers, then faded. When he opened his hands, a small brown moth was sitting on his palm. He blew and the moth flew away.

  “What does that do?”

  “The moth tracks Shillia and I can track the moth. But I have to keep it focused on her.”