The girl looked at her and rubbed her eyes before she snapped to full wakefulness and gazed around her.
“Where are we?” she asked and her pitch rose in excitement. “Are we out?”
“You could be,” said a familiar voice although it was gentler and richer now. “Very soon, this could become a reality.”
A tall silhouette appeared in the doorway to the balcony, slender yet strong and with long, almost delicately tapered limbs.
The Thulian stepped forward and both hands tightened around the haft of her weapon as she moved to stand between Zoria and the figure framed in the dying light.
“At what cost?” she demanded and bared her teeth.
“Vengeance,” the Voice said with an outward sweep of its arms. On the cliffs below, the waves crashed with a thunderous roar.
“I’m right here.” She snarled and slid one foot forward as her weapon rose into the third position in the Handmaiden’s wards. “You’re welcome to try.”
Atlacothix threw back its head and laughed, a resounding, buttery sound that despite herself, she couldn’t help but like.
“Not for me, little lioness,” it answered as its outstretched arms sank slowly to its sides. “The death of my children is nothing so terrible. It is their honor to do so but as I said, I am not speaking of myself. My price will be you wreaking your vengeance upon those who have wronged you.”
She narrowed her eyes to slits within her helm and her mind roiled with very early memories, warnings of the treachery of Tzitohn and their ilk. While not true lords of the Kingdoms, they were still cunning and dangerous and ever eager to take advantage of desperate humans.
And they were indeed desperate.
“I don’t understand,” she said without lowering her guard. “Speak clearly or my ax will start answering for me.”
The dusk-framed figure shook its head.
“So hostile and so brutish.” Atlcathoix sighed as though with an old and heavy sorrow. “I remember a time when the keepers of this Gatehouse would bid me sit and sup with them, offer me a slave to possess should I desire it, and even be willing to accommodate me in other ways. There was communion and even friendship between your kind and mine.”
“And I remember what that communion results in.” Ax-Wed snorted and twitched her head over her shoulder. “The last one you communed with isn’t cold yet.”
“My children are not what they once were,” the Voice said as the silhouette shrugged. “Debasement and our compromised situation have resulted in something…less than ideal, but they have still proven useful. They’ve kept me strong despite my exile and have now driven you to me.”
“They’re monsters!” Zoria snapped and leaned around the warrior woman to glare at Atlacothix. “Filthy beasts!”
“They are what they have had to be to suit my purposes,” the Voice replied coolly. “But I make no excuses for them. Their baser needs and desires have only grown more needy and odious as time wears on.”
A demon’s words are webs, Ax-Wed recalled as she stared at the figure. The longer you speak, the more easily they ensnare.
“Back to the matter at hand,” she said with a slight rise in her voice and sharpness in her tone that would brook no argument. “Speak your offer plainly, Tzitohn, or prepare to test the edge of Thulian sylver.”
A slow, rolling chuckle rose and fell away like an answering tide.
“Very well.” Atlacothix sighed again. “The fact is that I have not remained in your realm out of my over-fondness for your kind but rather because of what lies above us.”
One long finger unfurled to point upward.
“Jehadim—or more precisely, the royal line of Jehadim—has garnered the protection of one of the Cherubash and this has inhibited my effort to escape this prison. I need you to help me by killing the prince, who happens to be the one who is to blame for you being here.”
The Thulian gaped, for the first time utterly at a loss.
“What is a Cherubash?” she asked and disliked how foolish the question made her feel but also knew that not asking would be even greater folly.
A pause stretched on as the Voice seemed at a loss for words.
“You are a daughter of Xhulnth, aren’t you?” it demanded. “You can’t tell me you know nothing of the Enemy?”
“Enemy?” Ax-Wed said with a shake of her head. “Enemies of Thule?”
“The Bright Host?” Atlacothix pressed. “The Long War? The reason the king only has one damned eye!”
She shrugged and fought the urge to laugh. While she knew she should have been worried about what this ignorance would do to her chances of escape, seeing the ancient evil so out of sorts was more than a little funny.
“But you do know Thulian incantations,” the Voice said and almost seemed to speak to itself. “Which I suppose is all that is necessary.”
“What is a Cherubash?” she repeated. “If I am going to go up there and kill the prince, I need to know what I’m up against.”
That drew another laugh from Atlacothix but this one was cold and mocking. All the former warmth vanished.
“You’re not going up there you little fool,” the Voice declared with a sneer. “You will use the Gatehouse to turn Jehadim to dust.”
Zoria gasped and the blood drained from Ax-Wed’s face.
“What?” she asked softly. “Why would I do that?”
Another silence followed, this one angrier and tenser as though the Voice was taking its time to formulate a calm reply.
“Because if you destroy the entire city, you get the prince and his meddlesome guardian will leave,” Atlacothix said with openly forced calm. “I, as one of the glorious Kingdom, cannot work the Gatehouse and even if I were to try, the Cherubash would stop me the same way it thwarted whoever you called on when you first arrived and attempted to make a sacrifice.”
Something twisted painfully in her chest as she recalled the plunging dagger and the great wings and the denying voice.
“What is he talking about?” Zoria asked and something strained and skittish edged her voice.
“She was dying,” Ax-Wed said as she turned halfway to regard the girl. “I was granting her an end to her pain before those creatures came back. She asked me to so I gave her Morah’s peace.”
The girl stared at her and for only an instant, the Thulian saw something which cut her deeper than any blade—disappointment. It was only there for a moment before the girl’s face hardened and her eyes were merely glossy jewels set in a pretty mask.
“Morah is not Tzitohn,” she declared and hated the trembling in her voice as she turned to glare at Atlacothix. “She is a goddess, patron of the Handmaidens.”
“We can bother with a lecture on the circles of influence within the Kingdom some other time,” the Voice replied irritably. “What I need to know now is whether you will help me by incanting the spell which will destroy Jehadim and thus set me free.”
Her stomach churned as she thought of what she was about to say—to even consider what it would mean—but as best she could tell, there was no other option.
“So we destroy Jehadim. Then what?” she asked and steeled herself with each word.
“Ax-Wed, no!” Zoria cried but the Thulian refused to face her.
“Quiet, girl,” she snapped and deliberately avoided the eyes that bored into the back of her helm. “You will make a compact with me to promise us safe transport to the surface—me and the girl.”
“I don’t want any part of this!” her companion shouted but neither of the negotiating parties paid her any mind.
“Of course,” Atlacothix answered smoothly. “With the Cherubash, it will be a small matter to use the Gatehouse to place you wherever you like. I could even deliver you both to the very steps of your family in Xhulth if you wished.”
Ax-Wed shook her head at the suggestion.
“Mahliknet will be fine,” she replied. “So how do we do this?”
“How can you even talk about this?” Zoria sobb
ed.
She whirled to look at the girl and seemed to loom as tall as the specter in the doorway.
“When did anyone above ever do anything for you?” she asked in a rumbling voice. “When its rich men made you a whore while still a child or when its streets made you like an animal searching for scraps? When has great and beautiful Jehadim done a damned thing for you?”
The girl stood defiant. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she could not find any words to speak. Despite the silence—or perhaps because of it—Ax-Wed deflated as her shoulders sagged and her head lowered.
“Please.” She sighed and the mailed veil tinkled as she stretched a hand toward the girl’s shoulder. “Please trust me.”
Zoria twisted away from the outstretched hand and the rejection drew a low groan from the warrior woman that she beat back with a growl.
She’ll understand before the end, she told herself as she turned toward Atlacothix.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Excellent,” the Voice all but purred and added quickly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to drop the comforting glamours to avoid disrupting the magic but I’m sure it’s nothing you aren’t used to by now.”
There was a sound like a storm wind blowing up from the sea but rather than the fresh, cutting scent of tempest-tossed sea spray, the smells of blood, corruption, and soot blasted across her senses. Behind her, Zoria gagged and then became sick at the sight that emerged when the seaside solarium vanished like a mirage.
Ax-Wed stood upon the alchemically enriched stones, her mind overlaying the memories of her father taking her on tours of the old Gatehouses in Xhulth. The basic layout seemed to be the same with an altar stone rising out of the center of a stone basin a dozen strides across and a single arched walkway leading to this angular assemblage. Over the altar on chains of bronze hung the Eye of the King, the black disk through which potent sorceries were worked and the Kingdom contacted. But where the other Gatehouses had seemed pristine places, so sterile it was hard to imagine slaves being offered on the immaculate stones, this courtyard was a slovenly abattoir.
Scattered everywhere underfoot were charred bones, putrefying meat, and other things less distinguishable but no less foul. The white walls were spattered and smeared with effluence, and where the stone didn’t seem cracked or crumbling, there were spans of indentations that suggested great raking claws. The basin seemed filled with blood mixed with a tarry substance that thickened and streaked it with black veins. These dark seams glimmered with malevolence as the blood sloshed slowly in a sacrilegious tide. Overhead on chains, green vagris where they were not blackened with soot, hung the Eye of the King, its black perfection riven with several deep cracks.
Rising out of the putrid pool was an abomination of the deep, its swollen body wrapping down and around like a vast eel. A mouth lined with rows of fangs as long as her hand twisted into a leering smile. Atlacothix, the Wallower of Souls and Quencher of Souls leaned forward. Its fetid breath drew tears from her eyes and with an ungainly flex of its bulk, it rose behind the altar.
“Come now, daughter of Thule,” the oceanic voice called to her, the beauty of it all the more perverse for its source. “Let us do great and terrible things together.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“This ends tonight,” he said softly as he took the badge of office into his hands.
Though he’d reached some level of comfort with the heavy staff, Guuhal’s hands still longed for that offered by lance and saber. He had wielded the staff of the humble guards of Jehadim since Hasriim the Great’s victory but his fingers had not forgotten the honest strength of good steel or stout war shaft. Like many of the disbanded Lancers, he’d entombed his weapons in a cave a few miles out from the city and he now told himself that if he survived this night, he would go to that abandoned armory and see if anything was still serviceable before he took to the road.
“They couldn’t save Jehadim,” he muttered as his gaze swept up and down the length of banded wood. “But perhaps you can redeem what is left.”
The Hazarbed turned and looked across his room. He knew that whatever happened this evening, it would be a long time before he slept in such a fine bed or enjoyed such excellent wine. Not for the first time since he’d reached his decision, he wondered if he had what it took to live outside the Citadel. He’d kept himself trim and vigorous, but he knew it demanded more than simple fitness to survive outside the world of courts and the nobility. After so many years in the palace, he wasn’t certain he had what it took but for all that, he was certain of one thing. Prince Tarkhind had to die.
First the strange excavations, then the bartering with the creatures and using the likes of Crim to meet their demands, and now this business with using more miscreants to try to kill caravan masters and clan princes. And all the while, the ruler of Jehadim seemed to slide deeper into madness, ranting at things that only he seemed to see.
“I hope you can forgive me, Turlihnd,” Guuhal whispered as his hand tightened about the staff. “But the son you left the throne to is gone and if Jehadim, is to survive he must join you.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled the scent of his clean linens one last time before he took the first steps that carried him out of his room and into his mission.
The Hazarbed knew that with no heir, the city would be thrown into chaos but also that there were enough cousins and the like. He was certain that when the dust settled and the knives were tucked away, a new prince would sit upon Jehdim’s throne and things would return to what they had once been. For half a moment when first considering what he must do, Guuhal had thought about trying to ascend the throne but had dismissed the thought quickly. Not only would it sully his motivations for what he must do but given his preferences in affection, he’d be unlikely to ever produce an heir and his reign would thus not bring stability to the city.
No, it was the gallows or the road for him after tonight.
With no hesitation in his stride, he swept down the corridor and his long legs carried him down the hallways to the prince’s chambers. Still, he attempted to harden himself with every step. He would make it a quick blow or maybe two. That would be all it would take.
“Hazarbed!”
Guuhal froze and his heart seized in his chest with the certainty that his thoughts had somehow been heard. He whirled and his feet slid into a strong stance as he prepared to go down swinging. But instead of a flurry of vengeful blows, he only saw Naiman Khani scuttling toward him, his eyes watering and his face a mass of bruises.
“Hazarbed!” the sniveling royal guardsman repeated. “You need to come quickly.”
His heart was still in the process of trying to catch up the beats it had missed, but he turned away from his informant and tried to force his voice to remain even.
“Not right now,” he said. “You can make your report tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow will be too late!” Khani cried, his voice on the edge of cracking. “Tonight—”
“Whatever it is,” he cut in, his tone icy. “It can wait.”
Naiman gaped like a fish and his trembling lips twitched as he stared with huge, tear-filled eyes.
Something like pity rose inside him at the sight of the man he’d used and was now casting aside to face whatever shameful fate waited for him as an exposed spy among his brothers. With a growl in the back of his throat, he buried those weak thoughts and turned away. His feet struck the polished floors with a determined stride.
He’d only taken three steps before Khani’s voice rose, strident and panicked.
“Alborz is starting a rebellion!”
Guuhal halted and stood for a moment as he tried to force his mind to accept the intrusive, world-altering information.
“Alborz was removed from command and placed in the dungeons of the Gold Quarter barracks,” the Hazarbed said slowly as though attempting to jog the man’s memory. “The Gondbed is keeping him in custody until the prince can decide what to—”
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br /> “Don’t you think I know that?” the frantic guard interrupted. “Every last guard of the Citadel is already heading there to free him and from what I hear, more than a few of the Gondbed’s men will join them. Even in the Gold Quarter, people have heard about what is happening.”
He felt as though the floor was about to slip out from under him and he would be spun toward the ceiling. Using his hold on his staff as an anchor for his senses, he forced himself to think.
“Well then,” he muttered and his brow knotted as his free hand drew out a pinch of bluegum and tucked it into his lip. “So they spring Alborz. Then what? They storm the Citadel and capture the prince?”
Khani blinked rapidly and shrugged helplessly.
“Damn you, Naiman, think!” Guuhal roared. “They must have said something or at least given some indication of where they were going after Alborz was set free.”
The royal guard’s face bunched into an even less attractive contortion of bruises but the pensive contortion didn’t yield anything but a fearful shake of his head. He was ready to give the man a fresh contusion across the side of his head when Khani suddenly looked up and something besides terror shined in the man’s eyes.
“Evidence!” he said and at first, he spoke so quickly that the Hazarbed struggled to understand him. “They said they would need evidence for the trial. That’s why it had to be now—tonight—because this was when they could get that evidence.”
A mad laugh rose in his chest. Surely Alborz wasn’t so insane as to think he could put Prince Tarkhind on trial? But was that any more insane than the commander of the royal guard assassinating the ruler of the city in his bedchamber? Could it be that this turn of events would be a way to save Jehadim and not send a reluctant Hazarbed to avoid a noose by living life as a vagabond?
But what evidence? Guuhal suddenly remembered what was bound for the Citadel this evening.
“Bring the prince to the eastern postern door,” he instructed as a plan formed in his mind. “Tell him it is a matter of his safety and if that isn’t enough, give this to the men guarding him and have them drag him to the postern.”
Circle In The Deep (The Outcast Royal Book 1) Page 26
