by Phil Tucker
Kethe raised her blade and clasped it with both hands. Makaria continued to approach, his visor still up, face stern.
“Forgive me, Lady Kethe.”
In that moment, he attacked. Kethe felt a pang of horror and fell back in disarray, fending off his strokes with desperate parries. His strength was terrible, and each blow sent a shock up her arms. He cleaved down from the diagonals with such speed that she couldn’t regain her balance; she fought to simply parry left and then right and then left again, never able to raise her sword completely. Her heels caught at the rocks and she nearly fell. She had never fought anybody this powerful and fast. A great overhead blow knocked her sword aside and he rammed his shield forward, smashed it into her chest and knocked her sprawling onto her back.
Just like that. It had taken him less than five seconds to drop her. Kethe fought back a groan and thanked the Ascendant she’d managed to hold on to her blade. Makaria stepped back, giving her room to rise. She tasted blood and rose to a crouch.
Makaria wasn’t even breathing hard. He watched her carefully, sword held at the ready.
How is he so calm? Brocuff’s words came back to her: I’ve seen some real killers in my time. Men to whom fighting was as natural as breathing. You can mark ‘em out in a battle when you know what to look for. When everybody is gasping like fish out of water, leaping around and waving their swords like fools, these men are as calm as you please. They’re in control of themselves. And as a result, they’re aware. They’re masters of the battle
Kethe felt herself defeated before even swinging her blade. He was dominating her with just his presence. Furious, she let out a cry and lunged forward, spearing her sword straight at his face.
Makaria’s sword flicked across in a neat parry and he stepped back, but Kethe kept after him. A slash at his neck, three quick chops at his side, a stab at his thigh and then a reverse slice at his face. He blocked most of them with his shield and parried the others with his blade, but still he stepped back, giving ground before her onslaught.
Her fear fed into her anger and became a white bonfire in her soul. She thrilled to feel her confidence return. She pushed herself, swinging harder and faster. Over and over she slashed and cut, and Makaria continued to retreat, blocking with his shield and now actually forced to duck and dodge.
She was a conduit. He might be an accomplished Virtue, but she could touch that selfsame fire. She let it burn her, consume her, exulted in her strength, embraced the battle fury that was her curse and her blessing. With a scream she smashed his shield aside. Makaria’s eyes widened in shock, and Kethe whipped her sword up high and clutched it with both hands, ready to bring it down with all her strength and smash his helm in twain.
Somehow, impossibly, Makaria recovered his balance and planted his boot straight into her chest, putting the strength of his hips behind the blow.
Her breath exploded from her lungs, and she flew back to crash onto her shoulders a good five yards away. She rolled, a rag doll, and came to a stop face-down, a searing cut opened on her cheek. Her head rang, and she couldn’t inhale. Her gut was an aching void, her lungs frozen in a permanent spasm. She tried to crawl to her knees, but it was hard to move, hard to do anything but fight back the panic.
Makaria stepped up and gently rolled her onto her back with his boot.
Her sword was gone. She lay on the rocks heaving and retching. The white fire in her soul had disappeared. The stars overhead grew vague and diffuse as tears flooded her eyes.
Makaria appeared over her, the moon behind his head, his face dark. “This is… unexpected. I can sense the white fire burning in your soul. And with such strength.” He hesitated. “Perhaps this is why the Ascendant guided me here. Perhaps finding you was the true reason behind the Grace’s command. If I spare you, will you swear to put aside your blade and come with me to Aletheia?”
Kethe blinked away the tears. Her lungs finally unlocked and she inhaled furiously, a desperate wheeze that brought life back into her body.
Makaria waited, poised, sword held at the ready. Could she lie to a Virtue?
“No,” she whispered. “Never.”
Makaria pursed his lips in disappointment and nodded. “Very well. I pray we meet in our next lives.” So saying, he swept his blade high and then brought it scything down to take off her head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The screams of men dying had grown muted and then stopped altogether. Audsley sat hunched before the map of Mythgræfen Hold and its local environs, Aedelbert clasped tightly in his lap, staring into the middle distance in shock. He could hear a lone man begging weakly from above. It was driving him mad.
“Mother? Mother, please.” The man’s voice was barely audible, but despite himself Audsley strained to hear his every word. “It hurts. Ah, it hurts so bad. Someone, please. Please!” The man’s voice rose to a shrill scream of anger and terror and then dwindled away into a sob. “Mother,” he began again. “Mother?”
Audsley bolted to his feet and strode out into the central chamber where Iskra was standing, hands clasped together, staring up at the dark stairwell. Aedelbert flitted up to land at the top of the dead gate. “This is intolerable, my Lady.” Audsley’s voice shook. “That man…”
“I know,” said Iskra softly, not looking at him.
“Hello?” The man’s voice was devoid of hope, but still he called out. “Hello? Someone? Water. Please. Don’t leave me here. Hello? I don’t want to die.” Again his voice was drowned in sobs. “I don’t want to die,” he said, and repeated it again and again.
Audsley paced back and forth, running his hands through his thin hair. He felt furious. Couldn’t the man die in dignity and silence? Did he have to torment them down here with his pleadings?
“Calm yourself, Magister,” said Iskra.
“Calm myself? My apologies, dear Lady, but I find this situation intolerable. Not only must we wait blindly here in the depths to learn the outcome of this battle, but we’re to be subjected to this aural torture?”
Iskra looked over at him at last, pity on her beautiful face. “Have you forgotten your training, Magister? School yourself.”
“Yes, yes.” He sighed and straightened his back. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into the form of a triangle. He was being irrational. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he was approaching Ascendancy with trepidation. That was normal human weakness. Audsley thought of the glimmering, limpid waters of Nous, how they reflected wavering light across the ceilings of the drowning rooms. Ascension is mine own responsibility; though the Ascendant loves me, it is by my own word and deed that I rise and fall through the cycles of immortality…
“Mother!”
“Oh, by the bleeding Black Gate!” Audsley tore off his spectacles and set to cleaning them furiously on the edge of his tunic. Aedelbert chirped, but Audsley refused to be soothed. He rammed his spectacles back on. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Mother!”
“Enough! I’m going to go reason with him.”
“Reason with him?” Iskra stared at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Yes, well, if not reason, then at least give him some water.” Audsley turned to the stairwell. “If he’s one of ours, I shall bring him down to tend to his wounds. A most charitable deed, yes? If he’s not, then—then I’ll—” He mimed thrusting a knife, then dropped his hands in despair. “I’ll drag him a little farther away so we can’t hear him.”
“Audsley.” Iskra stepped up to him, her face grave. “You’ll risk revealing our location if you go upstairs.”
“Oh, kill me now, it hurts, it hurts!”
Audsley drew himself up as tall as he could. “My Lady, I cannot sit down here and listen to that man die. It is driving me insane. I shall employ the utmost discretion, I promise you. And think—we’ve not heard fighting for minutes now. The action has most surely moved out into the courtyard, if not the causeway, as planned.”
Iskra frowned and then nodded. “All right. But
be careful.”
Audsley felt a pang of fear quiver through him. Was he really going to go up? He’d sworn to hide behind the table throughout the duration of the fight. Now he was going out into the open?
He steeled himself, gave a nod, and turned to the steps.
Combat was ghastly. He’d always known it had to be a sordid affair, what with men opening each other up with their weapons—and the Ascendant knew that had to hurt—but to actually hear it? The screams? The clash and clangor of swords on shields? The yells, the curses, the weeping? Ghastly didn’t do it justice. Bestial? No, beasts were above waging war. Though some were rumored to engage in organized violence, such as the infamous Zoeian crimson ant, which would apparently sweep out over the land like a crawling carpet, clashing with an opposing hive with both building up into a glistening wall of gnashing pincers…
Audsley blinked. He’d reached the landing at the very top of the secret steps. Aedelbert was at his heels. Frowning, he leaned forward and tried to spot the locking mechanism. He wrinkled his nose as he focused, brushing his hair back. Where…? Aedelbert chirped and blew out a tongue of flame. “Ah, there we go. Thank you. Now, go downstairs. It’s dangerous up here.”
Aedelbert stared up at him with obvious disdain.
“No, I’m serious. Go down, now. If I have to battle for my life, I can’t be worrying about your safety. Down!”
Aedelbert gave a sulky chirp and then leaped from the top step, wings stretching out so he could glide back down into the darkness with a flick of his tail. Audsley sighed. It would take him at least a week to get back into Aedelbert’s good graces. Ah, well.
Carefully he reached out and laid his fingers on the latch. The dying man had gone silent. Had he died? The darkness around him was jellied. He strained to listen. Was that a yell in the distance? How was the fight going? Even if the dying man were truly dead—the Ascendant guide his soul—shouldn’t Audsley engage in a little sly reconnaissance? Get the lay of the land? He saw himself returning below, perhaps wounded lightly but dramatically on the upper arm, his clothing scuffed, to report back to Lady Kyferin in a bold and dashing manner.
He bit his lower lip. He’d take a peek to see what was going on. If he saw anything dangerous, he could slink back through the door and be back downstairs with Lady Kyferin in the blink of an eye.
Audsley inhaled and held his breath. He thought of his younger self performing that ridiculous waltz on Fisher’s Landing back in Nous, too terrified to dive into the azure waters below. He could go back down now, return to the shadows as he’d always done. The man had gone silent after all. Nobody expected him to go out there. In fact, it was foolishness to risk discovery! What was he doing? He could go below and use this time productively. Read a scroll. Begin the long and laborious process of apologizing to Aedelbert…
Audsley pressed down on the latch and pulled the door open a crack. Heart hammering away, he peered out into the chaos of the storage room. Embers from the explosion glimmered here and there like swamp lights. Bodies lay strewn across the floor. Sticky apples were everywhere underfoot. Everything was still. He could hear now the distant cries and yells of the battle. It was still ongoing.
He gulped and opened the door wide. He’d peek out into the courtyard at the very least. Maybe climb up to the battlement to catch a bird’s-eye view…
A shadow detached from the wall and stepped before him. Audsley saw dark plate armor, a torn cloak, a visored helm and a naked blade in hand. His throat clamped shut so that he could only squeak as he tried to slam the door closed. The knight punched the swinging door with such force that fragments of stone fell from the facade and the door smacked out of Audsley’s hand to swing open again.
“There. Thank you, Magister.” Audsley knew that voice. Terror was pulping his stomach, kneading it with such force he couldn’t do more than gurgle. The knight stepped forward. “I knew Tiron had gone in through here somewhere. Cunning wretch. What’s below?”
“Ser Laur?” Audsley backed away, unable to tear his eyes from the blade.
“At your service.” The knight pushed up his visor and Audsley saw his cruel eyes. “Where’s Iskra?”
“I won’t—” Audsley let out a cry as Ser Laur suddenly smacked him across the face with the flat of his blade. He threw up his arms and staggered back. “Stop that! How dare you—”
Kitan stepped through the doorway and with a growl kicked Audsley in the gut. Audsley staggered back, tripped on the first step, and fell into the darkness. With a cry he tumbled down the steps, knocking his elbows and back and head on sharp edges, unable to stop himself, slipping and clattering down till the curvature of the wall finally stopped him.
Sobbing, he tried to rise, but Kitan was there. The knight placed a boot on his shoulder and shoved him again, and down Audsley went, wailing piteously till he spilled out into the central chamber, heaving for breath, dizzy and stunned. He crawled away from the descending knight. “Iskra!” he cried. “Hide!”
Iskra did no such thing. She was standing in front of the dead Gate, a slender blade in her hand. Where had that come from? She glared at Kitan as he stepped out into the torchlight.
“Ah,” said Kitan, ignoring Audsley completely. “You don’t know how delighted I am to find you at last, dear aunt. I was so sad when Tiron told me he’d killed you already.”
“For some reason I find that hard to believe, Kitan.” Audsley was impressed. Iskra’s voice didn’t even waver.
“Oh, believe me, I was distraught. You see, I’d wanted to kill you myself.” He smiled. “A little morbid, I’ll admit, but there you have it.”
Iskra took her blade in both hands. “You always were a degenerate.”
“Yes, it’s true. By normal standards.” Kitan began to advance, completely unconcerned with her blade. “But, come. I’ve been trained to kill since I was a boy. Is it so strange that I enjoy actually doing so?”
Audsley clambered painfully to his feet. “A true knight doesn’t—”
“Shut up,” said Kitan evenly, never taking his eyes from Iskra.
“A true knight,” said Audsley, stepping quickly between Iskra and Kitan, “is noble and does not fear death, and—and—”
Kitan stopped, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing? Do you want me to kill you first?”
“Audsley,” said Iskra. “Step aside.”
“No my Lady. It is my honor to defend you.” He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He drew himself up. He didn’t even have a knife. “You won’t go one step farther, you Ennoian thug.”
Kitan laughed. “What? Do you honestly expect me to respect your higher station? You fat, blubbering, effeminate idiot?” He smacked his blade across Audsley’s shoulder, causing him to cry out. “Pathetic. Look at you.” He smacked Audsley again, and then stabbed the tip of his sword into Audsley’s thigh. “Let’s hear you bawl, Magister. Let’s hear you beg.”
The pain was shocking. It was really, incredibly, intensely overwhelming. So this is agony. Audsley let out a strangled scream and stumbled to one side as his leg went weak.
A terrifying yowl filled the chamber, raucous and feral, and a streak of winged flame descended upon Kitan from on high. Kitan yelled in surprise and backed away, slamming down his visor as Aedelbert swooped past him, lashing him with a whip of crimson fire.
“What the Hell—”
Iskra didn’t wait. She lunged forward, left foot gliding over the smooth stone floor, and stabbed her slender blade at Kitan’s neck. While she was no warrior, she had grown up amongst knights, and surprise was on her side. Her form was smooth, her control admirable, her aim true.
Kitan parried her strike with such force that her sword leaped from her hand to skitter across the floor and fetch up against the wall. “Enough of this,” he growled, and backhanded her.
Iskra didn’t make a sound. She stumbled back and fell to the ground, the skin of her left cheek split open.
Audsley felt fury, genuine, palpitating fury, blossom in his ch
est. He screamed incoherently and ran forward to bull-rush Kitan against the wall. The knight glanced at him with disdain and swung his blade at Audsley’s head. Instinct made Audsley throw himself to the ground, but he still felt the side of his scalp erupt in wet, fierce pain. The room spun, and he hit the ground. Was he dead? No. Dying? He didn’t know. His head… He reached up to touch the wound. It was wet and messy. He could barely think. Was he dying?
He heard Iskra cry out, partly in anger, partly in pain. Audsley blinked away his tears. Where were his spectacles? He levered himself up onto one arm. Aedelbert landed beside him and hissed in terror. He wanted more than anything in the world to comfort him, but there was no time. He could just make out Kitan. He was a blurring mass. The knight was wrestling with Iskra, pinning her by the throat to the ground.
“I wish we had an entire evening to enjoy this,” he gasped. “But I’ll wrest what pleasure I can from—ow! How dare—”
Audsley heard the sound of Iskra being struck again. Trembling, he moved forward, forcing himself to do so silently. He blinked furiously, but couldn’t make out details. Where had Kitan’s sword gone? He was holding a dagger. For what? Detail work? Anger and icy disgust curdled within Audsley, and he decided there and then to die before letting this beast go any further.
A gray shape darted past him, as silent as a ghost. Aedelbert. His firecat stopped alongside a long shadow and exhaled a sliver of fire so as to draw his eye. Kitan’s sword! Audsley crept up another step and scooped it up with both hands.
Kitan must have heard him. The knight turned to look up, his face a pale smear. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Audsley didn’t waste any time. He brought the sword down with all his might and heard the crash of it smacking Kitan’s armor. It was like striking a wall. The sword bounced aside and Audsley nearly fell.
Kitan lurched to his feet. “All right. Now I kill you. Come here, fat man.”
Audsley backed away, swinging furiously in great empty sweeps. This was it. He was going to die. Please, let it be quick. “Run, Iskra! Run!”
