by Alec Hutson
Xin leaped backward, trying to put some space between them. The man in black followed, his eyes flat and hard.
“You know the counters,” he said in words that dripped with cold fury. “But you’ve changed their edges. You . . . slaves . . . have lost the elegance, the beauty.”
Another dazzling combination, two slashes that Xin turned aside, then a lightning-quick jab that almost skewered him. He spun away, feeling the blade lightly score the side of his cuirass.
He needed to get closer, to try and counter the advantage in reach the man in black received from the length of his strange, cracked sword. But it flickered like a striking serpent, so fast that Xin knew if he made only the slightest mistake that it would be the end of him.
And Nel knew it, too. Xin spared a glance at her; she was still held frozen by the swordsinger’s spell, but the glistening tracks of tears scarred her cheeks.
Again the man in black surged forward, and again Xin fell back before him, desperately warding away his flashing sword. The fourth form of The One Who Strikes, shifting fluidly into the seventh, then the first, then the fourth again, all done with an effortless grace that would have awed Xin and his Fist brothers if they’d seen it in the Pits. Cut and slash and thrust, Xin only a moment away each time from having the sword bite deep into his flesh.
But a pattern was emerging: the same forms, the same combinations, just done with blazing speed. He could not hope to keep up for very much longer . . . his only chance was if he could guess what was coming next and use that to his advantage. Third, second, third, sixth. Ninth, first, second, third, sixth, first. The swordsinger always followed the second form of The One Who Strikes, a downward slash, with the third, a quick thrust. It was a devastating combination – twice it had nearly caught Xin, and really only blind luck had allowed him to throw himself from the blade’s path each time.
If he could just survive until he used the second form again . . . Xin parried the curving blade, trying to make himself appear a fraction slower and goad the swordsinger into returning to the sequence that had almost finished him.
There! The second form, sword slicing down, but before the man in black could halt his strike and thrust out, Xin spun inside his guard and slashed. His stubby Fist sword bit deep, raking across the man in black’s ribs, and the swordsinger stumbled back holding his side, his eyes wide with shock. Xin followed him, stabbing his swordarm, but the man somehow kept holding onto his sword’s hilt as he collapsed against the wall. His blade wavered as he tried to hold it up; blood was already starting to pool on the stones below him, dribbling steadily from underneath his shirt. Xin lunged forward, but with a last effort the man in black took a faltering step and threw himself to the ground directly behind Nel.
When he touched the edge of her shadow he vanished.
Xin spun around, searching the other patches of darkness created by the corridor’s flickering torches. But the man in black was gone, and as if to assure him that this was indeed true Nel suddenly drew in a shuddering breath and fell to her knees. Xin hurried to her side and helped her stand.
“Keilan,” she gasped, clutching at Xin’s arm. “We have to follow that paladin. Gods, you were amazing.” She grabbed behind his neck and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him hard. After a long moment she let him go, flashing one of the lopsided smiles he loved so much. “You’ve earned more than that, but that’s all we have time . . .”
Nel touched his arm lightly, turning it so she could get a better look at something. “Are you all right?”
Xin glanced down. A spot of blood had appeared on his shirt. “Barely a scratch.”
Nel frowned and rolled back his sleeve so that she could see the small cut on his forearm.
“This one is fine, it’s nothing.” He looked away, peering into the shadows, wondering where the man in black had vanished.
“Xin . . .”
The concern in her voice made him look again. Spidery black lines were creeping under his skin, spreading from the tiny wound. He watched in numb fascination as they reached his wrist and branched out into his palm.
“Oh!” he cried, slipping to his knees. His arm was so cold; it felt like he had thrust it through the ice of a frozen pond. So cold it burned like fire.
“Xin!” Nel was screaming from very far away, shaking him. Something black pooled in his eyes, rising up to blot the light, and he was falling backwards from a great height.
He reached out, grasping desperately for Nel’s hand, and he felt strong fingers close around his wrist. They were too rough to be hers, calloused by endless hours of swordplay. Xin knew whose hand it was. He smiled.
His brother Delon pulled him further into the blackness.
Crouched in the shadows, Alyanna peered between the wooden spokes of an ox-cart’s wheel and silently cursed her luck. Across the courtyard from her a pair of guardsmen stood near the deeper blackness cast by Saltstone’s wall, their hands on the hilts of their swords as they watched the night warily. Behind them, she knew, recessed farther back and hidden from her vantage, was the rift leading back to the imperial gardens. It must have escaped notice in the swirling chaos of the attack, or this whole courtyard would be crawling with guards. Still, the two that were here were more than she could overcome in her weakened state.
Alyanna let out a long, shuddering breath and rested her head against the wheel. The pain in her chest swelled again, and she coughed as quietly as she could into her hand, speckling her palm with blood. She suspected that the grating ache in her side was a broken rib, and that it had punctured her lung. It was getting harder for her to breathe, and every time she allowed herself a ragged cough more blood was coming up. That was not her only injury, either: her ankle throbbed, and she had been forced to half-run and half-hop during her frantic dash back through the fortress.
Then again, she supposed it was a minor miracle that she still lived. She had collapsed the floor beneath her as her wards were breaking atop Ravenroost, falling into the empty chamber below in a shower of dust and stone. Her faltering shields had taken the brunt of the impact, and then before the queen could follow she had scrambled for a window and thrown herself out into the night. She had hoped that she could muster the strength to fly, but when she had tried to summon forth the sorcery she had found herself completely hollow, drained of every last shred of power. Plummeting through the darkness, the cold night air washing over her, she had almost resigned herself to death. It would have been over in an instant, bone and flesh shattering on flagstones, the darkness finally rushing up to claim her.
But that was not who she was. Somehow, as the ground swelled larger below her, Alyanna had found a tiny reserve of untapped power. Not enough to allow her to climb again into the sky, but she had managed to slow her descent so that when she struck the ground she had not died or slipped into unconsciousness. Still, the fall had broken bones and driven the wind from her. Climbing to her feet and hobbling through Saltstone had been one of the most painful experiences of her long life.
Yet she had done it, through sheer force of will. And now she was just a hundred steps away from freedom – but how could she slip past the guards without sorcery? Alyanna reached deep within herself, hoping beyond hope that she could scrape together enough power to cast even a tiny cantrip that might distract the Dymorians. But there was nothing. She would have to rest and let the well of power inside her refill with the Void’s sorcerous dribbling. Perhaps if she pretended to be a terrified scullery maid she could get close, and then dash for the rift . . .
She saw the guards stiffen. They shared a quick glance, and then relaxed as a ragged creature darted across the courtyard, legs and arms flailing in a mimicry of a child’s awkward running gait. The Chosen. What was it doing here?
One of the guards crouched down and reached out a hand to corral the Chosen, evidently thinking it was some refugee from the kitchens fleeing the chaos in the fortress.
The Chosen grabbed the guard’s wrist in its tiny hand and pulled hard. Pain and shock filled the guard’s face as he was yanked forward, his shoulder wrenched from its socket. In the same motion the Chosen thrust its other hand into the guard’s stomach, ripping out a handful of his entrails.
He slumped forward, screaming as the demon surged past him towards the other guard, who was now desperately fumbling with his sword. The Chosen took two quick little steps and leaped, clawed fingers sinking into the man’s shoulders. The guard let go of the hilt and tried to pry the creature loose, but it was fastened tightly, and it took only a moment for the demon’s mouth to find and tear out his throat. The Chosen leaped away, landing on all fours like some predatory beast. The guard collapsed, blood spurting from his ravaged neck.
Alyanna found she was holding her breath, her fingers clutching the wooden wheel-spoke so hard that splinters had broken off in her hand.
The Chosen slowly stood and turned to face where she was hidden. It gave her a blood-spattered smile as it chewed and swallowed what it had torn from the guard’s throat, then raised its childlike hand and beckoned toward her.
It wanted her to come with it.
Her thoughts, coldly analytical even when swamped by pain and stress, considered what this meant. She held no control over it now – in retrospect, Alyanna wondered if it had ever actually been bound to her, since the day she had first stolen away the chest from the warlock’s tower in Tsai Yin. When she had commanded it to strike down the queen atop Ravenroost the creature had effortlessly slipped its leash, suggesting that it could have disobeyed her at any time.
Why had it and its siblings pretended to be her servants? And why did it want her to come with it now?
The queen. If Alyanna was captured, then the queen would certainly interrogate her and discover that the Chosen existed. She might even contact the warlocks of Shan, and inform them as to where their wayward demons had gone.
The Chosen turned and sauntered into the shadows that concealed the rift.
Alyanna considered her choices. If she stayed here, the queen and her magisters would discover her, and she would be captured or killed. But if she passed through the rift and returned to the imperial gardens she would have to contend with the Chosen. Would the demons kill her? Enslave her? Could they be allies? She had not mistreated them. Perhaps they could come to some accord.
The guard whose entrails had been torn out by the Chosen had regained consciousness. He began to keen, a high-pitched wailing that sounded more like an animal than a man. Alyanna glanced at the passageways that emptied into the courtyard. The sound would bring others here, and soon.
She made her decision. Climbing unsteadily to her feet, Alyanna began limping towards the dying guardsman and the rift beyond him. He did not seem to see her as she passed him, his bloody hands clawing at the stone as he writhed in agony.
A shout came from behind her. Alyanna glanced over her shoulder and saw guardsmen spilling from a doorway, all wearing the red cloaks of the queen’s elite warriors. Two women in robes were with them as well, and Alyanna stumbled faster as she felt their sorcerous reverberations. Her ankle shrieked with pain, and she blinked away tears, her breath coming in ragged gasps. One bolt of sorcerous energy, and she would be finished.
She passed into the shadow of the wall and found the rift. Within it she could see the looming quartz monoliths of the garden and bright stars burning in the sky. Incantations rose from behind her, prickling her skin as the magisters formed some sorcery. With a final effort she leaped forward through the rift, throwing out her arms to break her fall. Jarring pain blossomed as her elbows struck the ceramic tiles of one of the garden’s many paths. Alyanna rolled onto her back, fumbling for the riftstone in her pocket. She had to shut the portal. Her fingers closed around the small white circle and she tried to summon the tiny shred of sorcery necessary to use the riftstone. At first there was nothing, nothing at all, but she continued to strain, and in her desperation she found a spark deep within herself and channeled it into the stone.
The portal rippled and vanished.
Sobbing in relief, Alyanna rolled back onto her stomach and lay her cheek down upon the cool tiles. She had survived. She should have died a dozen times that night, yet she still lived. And where there was life, there was hope.
She needed to get back to her pavilion. There she could collapse among pillows and silks, and have the concubines fetch healers to tend to her.
Alyanna tried to stand, but her body betrayed her, and she collapsed again. Fine. She would crawl, if she had to.
Grunting in pain, Alyanna dragged herself through the grass. Silken sheets. A silver bell to summon strong wine. Graceful hands to massage her aching body. A soft lap on which to pillow her head.
Soon. Soon.
She crawled through a stand of shimmering ghostweed, which made her face and arms prickle. Beyond the grass she found herself in a bed of faintly-glowing nightblossoms, and she tried her best to avoid the thorned stems of the flowers. Suddenly her hand fell upon a silken slipper, and she glanced up in alarm. A huge dark shape towered over her, occluding the stars. Who could this be? A gardener, perhaps, tending to the nightblossoms?
“Help me . . .” she whispered.
Robes swished as whoever it was crouched down beside her. In the faint light of the nightblossoms she saw a pale face, round as the moon, with uptilted black eyes.
Wen Xenxing.
What was the black vizier doing in the gardens at night?
“Oh, my lord,” she gasped, reaching for the hem of his long robe. “Please, I fell and hurt myself.”
“Did you, Alyanna?” he said in a voice dripping with wry amusement. “And where did that happen?”
“The quartz sculptures. I . . . I tried to climb them.”
The black vizier clucked his tongue. “In the dark? How very foolish. I would have expected more wisdom from someone as old as you.”
Coldness settled in her chest. “What are you talking about, my lord?”
Wen Xenxing seemed to ripple in the light of the nightblossoms. It was just a momentary tremor, but in that instant she glimpsed a monstrous scaled face, one of its cheeks reduced to a glistening patch of burned flesh.
The genthyaki. Alyanna moaned.
A huge grin split the face of the false vizier. “I always wanted you to crawl before me.”
“The Chosen. I told them to kill you.”
The genthyaki wagged a plump finger in front of her. “Ah, you did not. I remember your words very well, for they are seared into my memory. ‘You may do as you wish’ you said, and so they did. The Chosen had another use for me, to take the place of this empire’s black vizier. Unfortunately, I don’t believe they have such a use for you. You’re too dangerous, you see.”
The false vizier reached down and cupped her chin in his hand. “But I begged a boon from them. I asked them to give you to me, for a little while at least. And they said yes. So now, mistress, you are mine, until your body or soul breaks. I should warn you, I’ve dreamed about this moment for a thousand years.” He tenderly wiped away a tear as it trickled down her cheek.
“Now, let us begin.”
He passed through the dark and silent city, keeping to the puddles of light beneath the streetlamps. In the gloom, the buildings rising up around him had transformed into leering faces, the pockets of deeper blackness created by recessed doors and windows becoming gaping mouths and eyes. Eyes that watched him and judged him. It was as if the city knew of the crimes he had witnessed this night, the innocent lives Demian and his brother assassins had brutally ended with their monstrous powers. He had seen the bodies of the servants and guardsmen sprawled in the corridors of Saltstone as he had fled carrying Keilan. Murdered by the kith’ketan.
Senacus knew the stain was on his hands, as well. He had led Demian through the fortress, following the thread that had b
ound him to Keilan ever since he had first touched the boy in his village, all those months ago. And then he had abandoned the girl who had saved his life and nursed him back to health after the horrors of Uthmala, leaving her to the mercy of a shadowblade. No, something more than merely a shadowblade. Something worse.
Now he was stealing away like a thief in the night, the boy
(the innocent)
slumped in front of him, wrapped in a shawl, so weak and drained he would have slipped from their horse if Senacus had not been there to steady him. The striking parallel between this moment and that day on the road to Chale could not be ignored. Was Ama giving him a second chance? The possibility of redeeming himself for losing the boy once before to the Crimson Queen’s servants?
If he believed that, what was this terrible, gnawing guilt he felt?
Senacus watched the shadows, half-expecting Demian to materialize from the darkness. But he did not. The assassin had not joined them in the inn’s stables, as he had said he would, and when the tenth bell had come and gone Senacus had struck out into the city without him. Chaos would grip Saltstone for a while still, but he knew he needed a significant lead if he was to have any chance of reaching the Gilded Cities before the hunters caught up.
“I saw him.”
The voice was thin, reedy. For a moment Senacus didn’t realize who had spoken, and he glanced around wildly. But then Keilan shifted slightly, his head rising, as if he was just coming awake.
Senacus reached out and gripped the boy’s arm. Not hard, he meant it to be comforting.
“Who did you see?”
“Him.”
Perhaps the boy was delirious. Senacus didn’t know what the boy had suffered that night, but something terrible had happened before they had found him slumped in the corridor.
“The man in black.”
A chill stole through Senacus. He was speaking of Demian.
“That is impossible, Keilan. I traveled from Menekar with him to find you.”
