As Iron Falls

by Bryce O'Connor

  —Ergoin Sass

  As the light in the corner room the Monster had been sharing with Syrah Brahnt winked out, Na’zeem couldn’t help but feel his heart jolt with anticipation. He calmed himself at once, taking a breath of cool evening air to steady his excitement, and continued his wait.

  For four days now, he and his men had been patient, studying the comings and goings of the Laorin with keen eyes from the roofs and corners and awnings of the buildings all around the temple. Na’zeem hadn't risked setting disguised watchers on the place, concerned someone would notice the sudden presence of one or more distinctly tanned Southerners lingering about the temple’s entrance. It had been harder to convince himself not to set a tail on the atherian and his woman as they’d taken their leave into the city every day, but in the end he’d opted not to for the same reasons. His mistress’ crippled puppet had been all too clear that Raz i’Syul Arro was not a man they could expect to trap by conventional means. If the lizard so much as caught a whiff of Na’zeem or his men, the Monster would vanish, and it would be next to impossible to find him until he chose to make himself known again.

  And so Na’zeem—ever a patient man—had set his shadows to the task of gathering all the information they could, and waited. Now, as more lights went out behind the slatted shutters of two more rooms, he could feel the time fast approaching.

  Na’zeem crouched, still as stone, in the darkened recess of a mortared chimney on the roof of the building adjacent to the temple's east wall. The Moon was bright tonight, She and Her Stars shining down from a black heaven speckled with tendrils of thin clouds. All about him, in a dozen different directions, he knew his men lay in similar wait, each having taken their places as the day died. It had been two hours since, two hours of watching the temple steadily still from one minute into the next, like some squat, large animal slowly falling to sleep. More candlelight in windows faded and winked out, a few of the dozens of eyes closing in slumber. Ten more minutes passed, then thirty, then another hour, then two. Finally, as the Moon began to approach Her peak in the sky, the last room went dark, leaving only the flicker of a single torch along the bottom floor near the temple’s main doors.

  Allowing another twenty minutes to pass as a precaution, Na’zeem finally set his tongue against his teeth. In a careful pattern he gave several quick, sharp chirps, exactly like a cricket in the night.

  Then, with no more sound than a breeze against the slate slats beneath his feet, Na’zeem darted down the rooftop, took hold of a gutter-pipe along the corner of the building, and slid earthward to the alley floor.

  By the time he reached the ground, Ehmed stood ready at the front door of the temple, a small crossbow in his hands, the bolt attached to a length of rope two other men held loosely behind him. As he darted quickly forward, Na’zeem watched a fourth shadow move to knock quietly on the door.

  By the time he was vaulting over the low stone wall that wrapped around the garden at the front of the building, the door had cracked open.

  The Laorin kept a single watcher at the door after nightfall, presumably to greet any faithful who might come seeking their “Lifegiver’s” grace after dusk. It had been the same boy each of the last three evenings, a tall youth with a splash of freckles across his nose and curly brown hair that fell over a pinched set of blue eyes.

  Ehmed didn’t even have to correct his aim, the crossbow raised to exactly the right height well before the night watcher had so much as heard the knock.

  There was the dull clunk of the firing mechanism, and the bolt took the boy through the throat, snuffing his life out in near-total silence as he made to peek out into the night. Before the body could fall back under the force of the shot, though, the two men who’d been waiting took hold of the rope which had zipped through their hands, heaving on it quickly.

  Barely a drop of blood had hit the stone floor on the inside of the temple before the watcher’s corpse was hauled out and stowed quickly among the thick flowers and plants of the garden behind them.

  Then, like black water seeping through a crack in a wall, Na’zeem led their foursome inside, knowing as he did that all around the temple other shadows were crawling up the walls and dropping from the rooftops around them.

  Tana Atler awoke with a start she couldn't explain. She thought, at first, that it was perhaps early morning, and that the dim light filtering through the slats of her closed window was simply portent of the overcast dawn of a rainy day. As she sat up in bed, however, she realized quickly that that wasn’t likely. There was no bustle outside the door of her High Priestess’ chambers, no noise and rumble of the temple coming awake around her. When her eyes had cleared, too, she saw very distinctly that it was still moonlight streaming in through gaps in her shutters, and she frowned.

  Inexplicably, she had a bad feeling. It was as though Laor himself had driven her up from her dreams, seeking to wake her.

  Suddenly nervous, Tana lifted a hand and willed her magics into life with a thought. Instantly the room was aglow with white light, every bit of the lingering dark driven away by the wave of flames balled into an orb above her palm. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, but when they did she blinked and cast about, seeking some explanation for her apprehension.

  When she was sure she was alone in the room, Tana relaxed a little, letting the magics fade until the light was nothing more than a guttering flame, like a candle in her palm.

  Still… Something didn’t feel right.

  Kicking off her covers, Tana threw her feet over the edge of the bed and found her boots quickly, slipping into them. Standing up, she retrieved her staff from where it waited, propped against the wall to her right, then made her way carefully to her door in little more than her nightgown. The feeling of disquiet intensified with every step, as though something dreadful waited for her out there on the walkway.

  When she stood before it, she let the magics die completely, took a breath, and wrenched the door open.

  Nothing.

  Tana blinked, then stepped across the threshold of her small room. Everything seemed normal, quiet, the only light coming from the single torch left alight by the door of the temple below, encouraging any who might need Laor’s guidance to feel welcome at any hour. She glanced around, up and down the walkway, but heard nothing but the gentle whistle of the wind against the walls and roof. Steadily, her unease died, and she relaxed.

  Did I have a bad dream? she thought to herself, trying to recall if it had perhaps been some nightmare that had woken her.

  Then Tana noticed the chair, empty and still, by the front door.

  Where is Toman? she wondered, confused, peering over the railing at it. It wasn’t like the young man to leave his post until he was relieved in a few hours. The acolyte was dependable and firm in his faith, and wouldn’t have been dragged away unless it was necessary.

  The feeling returned, sharper and colder with fear, and Tana turned back toward her room, intent on donning her robes and rousing some of the older Priests and Priestesses.

  When she did, though, she froze.

  Before her, the room waited, a dark maw into nothingness save for the light of the moon shining across her bed through the open window. For a moment, Tana couldn’t understand what had petrified her so, her conscious thoughts racing to catch up with her own mind. She stood, tense and unmoving, until terror rocketed through her like a lightning bolt.

  The window. The open window.

  The two seconds Tana Atler spent stricken, staring at the dim brightness of the night outside as she scrambled for some rational explanation, cost her her life. She’d just decided to shout a warning, just started to lift her free hand to blast the room with ivory fire, when the darkness before her seemed to melt outward. In a flash a man took form from the blackness, tall and lithe, the curved shine of a knife glinting at his side. He was on her in a blink, and Tana only had time to glimpse the coldness of his grey eyes between the wrappings that covered his face before t
he blade took her just beneath the sternum, ripping up and into her, through lung and straight to her heart. The High Priestess only managed a single, shallow “Gah!” of surprise and disbelief before the pain roared outward from her chest, swallowing her whole. As her mind fell victim to shock and horror, Tana made out a second figure clawing out from the shadows, this one moving with the speed of a snake for the steel staff that had fallen from her limp fingers, catching it before it clattered to the wood and granite of the walkway. She felt rough hands grab her under her arms, dragging her back into her room. Her head flopped, and she was forced to look back in agonized denial at the thick stain of red she left across the floor.

  Then the men dropped her unceremoniously onto the cold stone, and the last thing Tana Atler saw before blood began to pour from her mouth were the paired figures silhouetted against the light of the hall, closing the door and leaving her to die, alone and shivering, in the dark.

  CHAPTER 11

  “There comes a point in every great man’s life where his reputation outstrips any of his intentions. A general who learns to desire peace will find it difficult to outrun his past deeds. An assassin pained by the lives he’s taken will never earn the forgiveness of his victims. Eventually, even those with the best intentions may fall prey to their own legend, discovering—on the very day they wish to put down the sword—that their very name prevents them from ever truly sheathing that blade…”

  —The Art of Sword & Shield, by Kelo ev’Ret

  It wasn’t anything in particular that roused Raz from his slumber. It wasn’t a noise, or a movement, or the shout of voices. Rather, Raz thought it was the utter stillness about him that had pulled him into consciousness, dragged him up from sleep, still seated on the floor by Syrah’s bed.

  Everything was silent. Nothing stirred. There wasn’t so much as the distant sound of snoring in other rooms, or the faintest rumble of the faithful mumbling in their sleep.

  The world around them, it felt, had died.

  For several long seconds Raz sat, unmoving and listening, his eyes on the floor. His crest twitched in unease behind his neck, like the rising hackles of a wolf, and he was about to push himself up to his feet, thinking he’d take a look out in the hall, when he smelled it.

  Blood.

  Raz was up, the gladius hissing out of its sheath even as he turned toward the bed. Syrah woke violently as he pressed a hand over her face, just as he expected her to, her body tensing and bucking as soon as he touched her. Now without her wrappings, both eyes rolled in fear and anger as they flew open before fixing on him, one healthy and shining, the other dead and dull and white in the crevice of the vertical scar that bisected it. She looked terrified, as though he were a nightmare made real, but Raz didn’t have time to feel sorry for her.

  “Syrah,” he said in a desperate, quiet hiss. “Don’t speak, just listen. Something's wrong. Get up and get dressed. Now.”

  Instantly the fury and fear vanished, replaced by wide-eyed alertness. For a heartbeat after he pulled his hand away from her face Raz was afraid she would protest, maybe refuse to move until he told her what was going on, but the woman only threw the covers off and got quickly out of bed, moving to where her robes hung on the back of the chair by the escritoire beneath the open window.

  “What is it?” she finally whispered as he heard her struggling to pull the clothes over her head. “What’s happening?”

  Raz didn’t answer immediately, his eyes narrowing at the faint light of the jamb beneath the door again. He was listening hard now, and it seemed almost that he could hear the patter of footsteps all about them, so quiet he couldn’t be sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him.

  The smell of death, though, still lingered in the air.

  “Get your things,” he said, starting to turn toward Syrah, intent on developing a plan of escape. “Someone’s in the temple. We need to—”

  He never finished the statement, his blood running cold as time seemed to warp and slow about him. There, her white hair gleaming like a silvery waterfall in the glow of the Moon, Syrah stood. She was watching him with nervous anticipation, waiting for him to tell her what to do, her hands clenched by her side. Her eyes were wide, less fearful than firm, and her jaw was tense and set.

  And behind her, crouched like some terrible bird of prey on the sill of the window, was a man garbed in dark layers, the curved dagger in his raised hand gleaming wickedly in the evening glow.

  Raz moved like a whip, so fast he didn’t even have time to raise his sword. Syrah gasped and started to shout in surprise as he shoved her aside unceremoniously just as the figure struck. The blade took Raz in the arm, lodging in the roped muscle of his biceps, and he roared in pain and anger even as he thundered into the writing desk, smashing it to pieces.

  His right shoulder, though, caught the assassin squarely in the chest, blasting him back out of the window with such incredible force that the man smashed into the wall opposite the temple with a screech of pain before tumbling in a crumpled, unmoving heap to the alley floor.

  Instantly, the sound of footsteps all around them became distinct, attracted by the sound of the fight.

  “Syrah!” Raz roared, whirling toward the door and tearing the dagger from his arm. “Out the window! NOW!”

  In an instant, Syrah was at his side. There was a flash of magic, and Raz had to dodge as the Priestess’ staff flew over the bed from where it had been resting against the far wall, zipping by him and into its master’s hands.

  “But the temple!” Syrah was saying in anguish. “What about Tana and the rest of the—?”

  Just then, though, the door slammed open, and they were both bathed in a broad line of dim firelight from the walkway.

  With it, pouring in like black water against the glow, came a flood of writhing shadows.

  “GO!” Raz howled again.

  Without waiting to see if Syrah had listened, he leapt forward, blades flashing.

  It was like fighting smoke, the shapes of the men—or what he assumed were men—slinking in and out of the dark, whispering beneath almost every slash and lunge he threw at them. They were silent even as they moved, like the dead themselves had risen to haunt him, seeking his end in the night. They shifted about in a whirl, flickering and keeping away from the illumination of the open door, making it hard for even Raz to make them out. Sometimes he thought there were only two, sometimes five, sometimes ten. He couldn’t tell, the shapes constantly flowing around each other or melting back into the darker corners of the room. Most men would have died a dozen times over in the two or three minutes Raz battled the shades, victim to the slashes of blades coming from every direction.

  But Raz i’Syul Arro, the assassins soon discovered, was a much greater task than any of them had anticipated.

  Raz roared and snarled as he danced, compensating for his opponent’s own attempts to surround him by never staying still, never giving them the chance. He rolled and leapt and dashed, his blades gleaming as they whirled around him in a never-ending wail of razored steel cutting through air. For a time he couldn’t do more than keep them at bay, even then suffering several shallow stabs and slashes he wasn’t able to completely duck or parry. He fought only to survive, to avoid the silvery flashes of the men’s curved knives and swords. Even from the depths of the battle fog Raz wished he had fought to keep Ahna close to him, fought the Laorin and their foolish fear of even allied steel. He was starting to worry that his gladius and the borrowed dagger wouldn’t be enough, that there were just too many men and he was bound to tire before all of them did, when he began to see the pattern, began to see the form in their ghostly choreography. This was a unit, a phalanx of blackened shades. This was a brethren of killers, each as familiar with the other as he was with himself. Ordinarily, Raz was sure this would have meant a certain end to whichever life the group chose to set itself upon, the comfortable, familiar rhythm working with such terrifying efficiency there could be no escape.

  Against the Dra
gon, though, this meant only that it was nothing more than a matter of time before the advantage changed.

  Ducking and rolling under the high slash of one man’s blade, Raz allowed for another few engagements to assure himself that he was right. His eyes flicked this way and that, sharper than man’s in the limited light, keeping pace with a number of the shapes and the patterns in which they were moving.

  This moment of assertion cost him a narrow gash along the ribs, but he made well sure it was worth it.

  Over the course of four seconds, the tide of the battle shifted.

  Raz feinted forward, making as though to leap into the middle of the room, but in midair he put a foot on the sturdy corner-post of the bed that had been Syrah’s and shoved sideways, changing direction. For the first time he heard a noise from the men who surrounded him, a single hiss of shock from the one he was suddenly lancing toward.