by Davis Ashura
“You keep saying 'the Kumma' instead of referring to him by his name,” Dar'El interrupted. “Why?”
Solair nodded. “I was just getting to that part,” he explained. “The Kumma gave me the address of where I should deliver the bow if one became available. He gets ready to pay me then, and he takes off his gloves. That's when I saw it,” Solair said, giving a pregnant pause and glancing about. “He was wearing a big ring, ironwood with some kind of shiny inlay. It was the ring of an 'El, and it bore the tiger sigil of House Wrestiva.”
“You're certain?” Satha whispered in her weak voice.
Solair nodded. “I'm certain. And when I finally caught a good look at his face, I could tell who it was. He's wearing a beard, but it's him. It's that naaja bastard, Hal'El Wrestiva.” Solair bobbed his head in apology to Jessira. “No offense intended, miss.”
“None taken,” Jessira replied.
Dar'El stood. “You have the address?”
Solair slipped him a piece of paper. “Here it is, in his own handwriting.”
“Thank you,” Dar'El said, offering a faint smile. “You have been most helpful. One of the servants will see you out.”
After Solair left, Rector straightened from where he'd been leaning against a wall.
“You think he's telling the truth?” Dar'El asked.
“I do,” Rector said. Before bringing Solair to the House Seat, he'd already thoroughly interrogated the Duriah. He had sensed no lies from the man. Rector was certain that this was the opening they needed to bring down Hal'El Wrestiva.
“What about the handwriting from the address,” Satha began. “Is it Hal'El's?”
Dar'El nodded.
Jaresh offered a wolfish grin. “Then we have him.”
Bree looked to Rector. “Why did you bring Solair and his information here instead of to the City Watch?” she asked.
“Because the Magisterium decided that Dar'El was to have direct oversight of my search for Hal'El,” Rector replied. “And I need more warriors to take him down. The men I would have called on are all at the Inner Wall.” He looked to Dar'El. “You're the only one who can get them released to my command.”
“A number of warriors were given the day off today,” Jessira said. “Some were of House Shektan. We should be able to round them up.”
Rector smiled in relief. “Excellent. Is Rukh or Kinsu amongst them?” he asked.
“I don't know about Kinsu,” Jessira began, “but Rukh's time off begins later in the afternoon, which means he'll arrive too late to join your band.”
Rector tried to keep the disappointment from his face. In all of Ashoka, only Kinsu and Rukh were as good as Hal'El Wrestiva with a blade. He would have felt better if one of them were amongst his party.
Dar'El clapped his hands, bringing the meeting to an end. “I'll send runners to gather some warriors,” he said to Rector. “Take a few guards from the House Seat as well. I want you ready to go in two hours.”
Jaresh stood. “I'll go with you, too.”
“Thank you,” Rector said in appreciation. Jaresh had the soul of a warrior.
Jaresh moved to Rector's side and studied the stacked-stone exterior of the restaurant to which the Duriah had sent them. A sign above the entrance proclaimed the name of the place: Tranchers. It was likely the surname of the owner. Narrow mullioned windows opened out to the street, and the building shared a wall with a larger structure to the right. A pencil-thin alley ran to the left.
If there was an entrance out back, they'd need to make sure Hal'El didn't escape that way.
Before Jaresh could complete the thought, Rector had gestured to the ten warriors accompanying them, and five of them raced off to the rear of the building.
“Are you sure this is the address?” Jaresh asked dubiously, glancing at the small, unobtrusive restaurant in Hart's Stand. “This isn't how I would have pictured Hal'El's lair.”
“This is the place,” Rector said in assurance. “This is the address the bowyer gave us. The owner was likely paid a great deal of money to keep quiet and allow Hal'El to hide out in the cellar.”
“The cellar?” Jaresh asked in surprise. “Hal'El never struck me as someone who would allow himself to be humbled enough to sleep in a cellar.”
“Desperation drives men to do all manner of things,” Rector said, “and Hal'El is desperation personified.”
Rector's words sparked an unformed twinge of worry within Jaresh. “Hal'El would do anything to gain revenge on those who exposed him as the Withering Knife murderer.” He spoke slowly and carefully, speaking aloud his thoughts as he tried to formulate what had him growing increasingly anxious. “He would hate them above anyone else.”
Rector bent his head as he considered Jaresh's words. He frowned, and a look of concern replaced his prior surety. “Or the one who led the hunt for him.” Rector blanched, and they shared a dawning look of horror. “The Shektan House Seat is all but undefended,” Rector said. “Most of the warriors meant to guard it are either with us or at the Inner Wall.”
“We're not going to find Hal'El here,” Jaresh said. Sweat broke on his brow, and a shiver of fear wormed down his spine. “We have to get back to the House Seat.”
Rector nodded. “We'll do a quick sweep first,” he said. “Very quick.” He gestured to the warriors still with them, and they barreled into the restaurant.
Jaresh entered the building with the others, hoping that his burgeoning suspicion would prove to be a mistake, hoping he was the victim of an overactive imagination. Seconds later, though his fear was realized. The cellar and the other rooms within carried no sign that Hal'El had ever stayed there.
Rector led them back to the House Seat at a dead sprint.
In all his life, patience was a virtue that Hal'El had never needed to master. He was a man of action and movement, of purpose and drive, of decision and execution. Yet, for what he intended today, patience was what was needed. The waiting and stillness required by that soothing but tepid principle would lead him to what he'd been working toward for so long: revenge upon Dar'El Shektan.
From his vantage point, he could see into the study of his hated enemy. He was too far off to make out much more than a few bland shapes moving about. One figure, though, was unmistakeable—that of the crippled Satha Shektan as she was wheeled about in her chair. Hal'El smiled, knowing her grievous injury had caused Dar'El great anguish.
He shifted about then, relieving an incipient cramp but careful to make no motion that could give away his position. He was secreted away in a tree, unsuspected and unnoticed, upon the very grounds of the Shektan House Seat. He held a Blend, rough and ready—he would never master that Talent—but thus far, it had been enough. No one had seen or sensed him enter the grounds, and no one saw or sensed him now.
He was confident that he remained undetected. He'd scouted this position many times in the past few weeks, always with no one the wiser. No one knew he was here, waiting like a tiger on the unwitting deer.
And from here, he'd memorized the patterns and movements of Dar'El Shektan's day. He knew when and where Dar'El tended to have his meals, when and where Dar'El would break for the morning and the afternoon, and when Dar'El would wheel his crippled wife outside for her daily time in the gardens.
That time was now.
Hal'El had allowed himself to be identified by Solair Tumblewash, the Duriah bowyer. And, of course, Rector Bryce had hustled the man over to the House Seat so he could repeat his testimony. By now, Dar'El had heard it and even now, was likely sending a party of warriors to the address Hal'El had supplied to the bowyer. A surprise would await them when they arrived. The address would take them to a small restaurant in Hart's Stand. It was one Hal'El had once controlled as the SuDin of the Sil Lor Kum but not his true safe house.
The deception was all part of Hal'El's plan to get Dar'El alone. Frustratingly, the man rarely was. There were always other warriors about, more than Hal'El could take on by himself. But with the undeniable lure of fina
lly capturing him, all those others should hopefully be gone by now.
Hal'El's breath came quicker.
Over a year he'd been waiting for this moment. Over a month since the battle for Ashoka had begun. A little less than a week since the fall of the Outer Wall. And two days since his offer to the Magisterium to give them all the information he knew of the Fan Lor Kum in exchange for clemency had been summarily rejected.
Worse, Hal'El had carried out the promise he'd made to the Queen: he'd marred Ashoka's Anchoring Stone—harmed it, in fact, much worse than he had intended. It was supposed to have been a slight slice, nothing more, but the Knife had proved impossible to control. The black blade had slid soundlessly across the misshapen lump that had anonymously protected the city.
That single cut had turned into a deep gash, and while the weapon was biting into the Anchoring Stone, Hal'El had felt something inside him tear. The perfect, crystalline pool of his Jivatma had roiled into a whirlpool and grown dark. Terror had filled his mind at the sight, and he felt himself dying. Too late, he had learned the truth. It was the Knife. Murder with the evil weapon had connected it to Hal'El in ways he had never suspected. Priming was what the Queen had labelled it. The blade had stolen his Jivatma, tapping into it, corrupting it in order to destroy the Anchoring Stone.
With a harsh cry of effort, Hal'El had managed to withdraw the Knife, but the damage had been done. The Oasis had been weakened. How much, Hal'El didn't know, but events proved it must have been substantial. The Oasis and the Outer Wall had fallen less than a week after Hal'El had cut the Stone.
As a result, the city was now doomed, and it was all Hal'El's fault. He had done this. He had led Ashoka to ruination.
Hal'El wasn't a man to hold on to many regrets, but what he had done to his home, what he had done to this place he loved above all else, was something for which he would never forgive himself.
And now, at this late date, vengeance was all he had left. Vengeance that he had been forced to set aside for weeks while his Jivatma recovered. Vengeance that would now finally arrive.
He fingered the Withering Knife sheathed at his side, pondering whether to kill Dar'El with it. It would likely be more painful that way, and Hal'El would also gain the Jivatma of his hated enemy, but . . .
With a grimace, Hal'El withdrew his hand from the Withering Knife. The stolen Jivatma wouldn't be worth it. Sophy Terrell was already in his mind. How much worse would it be if Dar'El was there as well? It would be a nightmare.
Movement in Dar'El's study snapped Hal'El's attention back to the here and now. The room was emptying, and he sat up straighter. Soon, Dar'El should be wheeling Satha outside. Any moment now . . .
Hal'El waited with bated breath. He prayed this would be the day he could finally avenge Varesea.
A door opened, and out came Dar'El and his wife. Hal'El frowned. With them were two others. Women. His frown deepened as he sought to identify who was with Dar'El and Satha. His brow unfurrowed when he recognized the two women.
Bree and Jessira Shektan.
Even better.
Hal'El would cause Dar'El even greater grief than he had dared hope. This afternoon, he'd kill nearly everyone Dar'El loved, and Dar'El would be forced to watch while he did it.
Hal'El took careful aim with his bow.
A low whistling sound ended with Nanna stumbling backwards and crying out in pain.
Without thinking, Bree Shielded. She conducted Jivatma, using it to heighten her senses. Her body tensed, ready for whatever was to come.
“Someone's Blended in that tree!” Jessira shouted. Even as she pointed, a figure shimmered into view as it released its Blend.
Nanna staggered to his feet. His teeth were clenched in pain and an arrow protruded from his left shoulder. His sword was held steady in his right hand. “Protect your amma,” he ordered.
The figure from the tree dropped to the ground. A man. He was shrouded in camouflage clothing with his hood thrown forward to hide his face. He cast aside his bow and quiver of arrows as he sauntered arrogantly toward them.
Bree's mouth went dry. Though she couldn't see his features, she knew who this assassin had to be.
A moment later, her suspicion was confirmed.
The figure pulled back his hood. Hal'El Wrestiva. “Does your shoulder hurt?” the traitor taunted Nanna. “You know what happens next. Or you could simply kill yourself and save me the trouble.”
“If I wanted to kill myself, I would scale the heights of your ego and crash down to the depths of your intelligence,” Nanna answered.
Hal'El snarled. “Your clever quips won't sound so clever with my sword down your throat,” he said. “You'll die at my hands. It is how matters between us were always meant to end.”
Bree conducted more Jivatma from her Well. Where were the guards? With a sickening realization, she remembered they were gone. They had accompanied Rector to the address supplied by the Duriah bowyer.
Hal'El drew his sword and almost before they could react, he was on them.
He crouched beneath Jessira's swing and spun and leapt. Somehow, he almost ended up behind Bree. She twisted about, trying to keep Hal'El in front of her. Jivatma fueled her movements, but the fragging traitor shifted too quickly for her to follow. In comparison, she felt like she was moving through mud. He was fast, faster than anyone Bree had ever faced, maybe even Rukh.
Almost lackadaisically, Hal'El slammed an elbow to Bree's jaw. Her eyes rolled up, and she stumbled away from him. Her balance was gone, and her legs wouldn't bear her weight. She fell heavily on her bottom.
Thankfully, Hal'El disregarded her when he sighted Jessira stepping in front of Amma. He smiled sardonically. Bree tried to right herself but couldn't as Hal'El dashed forward. He blocked Jessira's downward swing and snap kicked her in the gut. She flew through the air, and Hal'El was now unimpeded to attack Amma.
But Nanna was there. Bree tried to force her mind to function again. Nanna, weakened and hindered as he was by the arrow in his shoulder, couldn't last long against Hal'El. Bree regained some semblance of composure and surged to her feet. She moved to support Nanna.
Hal'El now faced them both. He moved smoothly, sinuous as a snake, fluid as water. He blocked blows, sliding aside from others, spinning and maneuvering. During it all, Bree never got the sense that he was challenged in any way. He was consummately skilled.
Just then, Jessira arrived back in the fight. Now it was three on one, and Bree felt a surge of hope. She risked a glance at Amma, who was watching the battle with a rapt look of fear.
If possible, Hal'El was now moving even faster. He slipped aside Bree's thrust, and she blocked his return parry. He moved with her motion, flowing out of her range. He smashed aside Nanna's horizontal stroke and delivered a hilt to the forehead in response. Nanna fell back.
Again Hal'El twisted aside and avoided Jessira's thrust, but his own struck straight into her thigh. It was a deep wound and blood flowed freely. Jessira grimaced in pain, but she stayed on her feet until Hal'El kicked her feet out from beneath her.
Hal'El turned away from Jessira and Nanna, and Bree was suddenly faced with the entirety of his focus. She conducted more Jivatma and her heart pounded adrenaline even as she sought to relax and fall into the movement of muscle memory that Durmer had so often emphasized. It worked for about seven strokes, but then Hal'El cut past her defenses. His sword sliced a line across her ribs. Another across the back of her arm. Blood dripped to the ground. A kick to the head had Bree nearly poleaxed.
She watched dimly as Nanna attacked then, but Hal'El easily countered him. The traitor moved confidently. He walked Nanna down, stepping through a series of increasingly desperate strokes. Hal'El slipped a reckless swing, punched Nanna in the ribs, and followed up with a thrust to the shoulder that hadn't taken an arrow.
Nanna cried out in pain, and his sword fell from his hand. Hal'El stepped inside, and swept Nanna off his feet. He leveled his sword.
“No!” Amma cried out.<
br />
Hal'El towered over Nanna. He seemed to say something, but Bree couldn't hear whatever it was. Her heart hammered a staccato rhythm. She was certain Nanna was about to be murdered before her eyes.
Bree finally managed to right herself. She disregarded the fire burning from where her ribs and arm had earlier been sliced open. She dismissed any pain or fear. There was only need, the desire to protect those she loved. It was hard to hold the sword steady, but she forced herself to do so anyway.
Jessira clawed her way back to her feet at the same time, and together, they faced Hal'El.
He turned to them and laughed in their faces. “I'll kill the ghrina first,” he said, sounding clinical as he spoke to Nanna. “Then your wife and finally your daughter. Your death, though, will be the last. I want you to be able to truly appreciate the final, tortured moments of your life as I kill everyone you love.” He grimaced in hatred. “You should have never sought me out or murdered Varesea.”
Bree tightened the grip on her sword.
Normally the streets of Ashoka would be bustling with business right now. Mid-afternoon should have seen many people out on errands and tasks, talking, gossiping, and laughing. The city had always been alive with optimism and life, but ever since the invasion, especially the fall of the Outer Wall, a pall had settled over Ashoka. Dread had replaced hope, quiet fear had taken the place of hearty boisterousness, and a foreboding sorrow had cloaked even the sunniest of skies. There was a sense that a gloaming hung unmoving over Ashoka, that even in the midst of summer, winter's twilight grasp was reaching for the heart of the city.
Rukh recognized these changes as he and Aia trudged through the traffic on Jain Stoop. The road wasn't especially crowded, but people still stepped aside for him and the Kesarin—mostly for the Kesarin. No matter how often Aia and her brothers were seen wandering through Ashoka, the great cats remained an intimidating sight. People still eyed them askance and moved just a little faster as they passed by or even darted into side streets to evade the presence of the Kesarins.
