“Before any of us,” Skagi said.
“Caravan approaching!” called another voice.
It was the Sworn’s voice that rang out over the wall. The woman raised her arms. In her left hand she held a black-hilted longsword. She made a gesture with her right hand, and the blade burst into purple flame.
“A warning?” Ashok asked.
“To any who would threaten the caravan or the city while the portal is open,” Cree said. “It’s under the witch’s protection now.”
Ashok watched the portcullis go up and the doors slowly begin to open. Beyond them, a rutted path ran for a hundred feet or so and abruptly ended at a cavern wall. A raised stone arch was set into the wall, and on the keystone was the carved sword of Tempus, its blade pointed down toward the ground.
The witch’s sword flashed, and the stone arch glowed in answer. As they watched, a line of horse-drawn wagons rumbled through the active portal and approached the city. Their drivers shouted greetings to the guards on the wall.
Ashok’s heartbeat sped up. Though it was suicide to make a run for the gate, his body trembled with the need to act. He’d been contained too long. The time to escape was while the witch was watching the caravan, when all their attention was focused on that portal.
“And no one is watching the wall,” he said.
The brothers turned as one, but Ashok whipped his chain above his head and vanished, his wild laugh echoing in the air.
He teleported to the top of the wall, reappearing in his wraith form, half walking, half flying. The wall was eight feet thick at its widest point, just before the gate. Beyond lay the portal to the Shadowfell and freedom.
For a breath, Ashok’s ghostly presence went unnoticed by the guards, whose attention was fixed on the caravan.
As substance returned to his flesh, Ashok began to run along the wall. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Cree and Skagi appear simultaneously behind him. The hunt was on, and he reveled in the danger.
“Alarm, alarm!” Skagi cried. “The wall is breached!”
Instantly, the warriors on the wall fell into formation, a single line of impenetrable shadows facing Ashok that were bow and spearmen, sword bearers and scouts, led by the bald witch with the flaming sword. She turned with a furious expression to see who had dared breach her line.
The witch’s gaze fell on Ashok. Her lips pulled back over her teeth in a wicked smile as she pointed the flaming sword at him. He thought he could feel the arcane heat.
“Take him,” she said, a command that carried up and down the line.
The warriors nearest Ashok surrounded him in a half circle, giving him no room to run except back into the city. Ashok struck out with his chain, tangling it with a warrior’s blade. He jerked the man forward and punched him in the face. The warrior went down on his knees, exposed, but Ashok had no interest in killing him. He was focused on the hole the man had left behind. Other warriors tried to close the gap, but Ashok freed his chain and whipped again—two quick attacks that slashed across armor, ringing sparks and distracting them just enough for Ashok to plunge through the gap.
He had nowhere to go but the open air.
Behind him, one of the warriors grabbed the loose end of his chain, intending to snap him back, Ashok thought, like an animal on a tether. He dropped his end of the chain, drew his curved dagger, and jumped. He teleported in midair, aiming for the caravan and its horses.
Ashok landed beside one of the wagons. He had only a few breaths before his wraith form solidified. At that point, he could expect arrows to rain down from the wall and pin his corpse to the ground. If he could get to a horse first, use it as cover, or find a hostage …
A scream tore through the air. The sound, at once deep and shrill, the scream of a dying warrior, pierced the veil that held Ashok’s spirit form. His ears rang, and a wave of terror rolled across him. The cry froze Ashok, scattering his thoughts like ashes.
He pivoted to stare at an iron cage tied to the lead wagon. Behind the bars a black, equine shape towered over him, its hooves striking bronze sparks against the metal. But there were no shoes on the beast to make the fire. Its flame came from within.
The nightmare swiveled its head in the confined space to stare at Ashok through slitted, crimson lights—eyes that had no whites, no room for emotion. But its presence, the aura of terror that bled from the creature conveyed enough. Steam clouds rose from its nostrils, and within the dark cage, fire ran up thick strands of mane, turning them to gold, the horse hair swallowed by embers.
Ashok, caught by the crimson-eyed menace, didn’t realize that his form had solidified. He raised his hands, his fingers flexing, when he realized the truth. He looked up at the wall. The shadar-kai archers had their bows trained on him, as he’d expected. But they didn’t fire. The witch was among them, coldly furious, but she held a hand in the air, staying the attack.
Skagi and Cree appeared in front of him. Insubstantial, they caged him with the nightmare at his back. Ashok backed up a step and halted, aware of the nightmare’s presence like a blade out of reach. Steam kissed the tender flesh between his shoulder blades.
“You won’t kill me,” he said to their spirit forms. He could hardly believe it himself as he looked up at the line of death on the wall, the witch with her flaming sword and barely contained wrath, ready to send the fire down and smite him. He thrilled to the moment, how close he’d driven them to the kill, and his heart pounded with exhilaration. “You’ve been ordered not to kill me—by Uwan,” he realized. “Why?”
The wraiths became flesh, and Skagi raised his falchion. “You don’t know what you’re doing, little Blite. Come with us now, if you don’t want—”
“It to hurt?” Ashok said as he opened his arms and stared down the warriors. “Come ahead. Come ahead!”
Cree was on him from the side. Ashok dodged the first katar and looked for the second, but it wasn’t in Cree’s hand. Ashok twisted, trying to find an opening to get around the man, but Skagi darted in from the left and grabbed him by the throat. With his empty hand, Cree got him by the right forearm. Together they drove him back against the cage bars.
Iron bit into Ashok’s flesh, sending numbing waves down his spine. His skull sang with pain, and cloying ash filled his nostrils. The nightmare whinnied its terrible shriek again, but Skagi and Cree did nothing more than wince. Ashok let his knees buckle as the dark horse reared, striking its hooves against the cage bars inches from Ashok’s head.
“No you don’t,” Skagi said, not loosening his grip. “It’ll take more screams than that to break you, I’ll bet any sum.”
Cree grabbed Ashok’s shoulder, and with Skagi’s hand still at his throat they turned him to face the nightmare.
Blood crusted its withers, and the fetlocks kicked up ash when the creature stamped its feet. Forced to face the menace, Ashok clicked his tongue, as he might to a riding horse.
“Well met, slave,” he said, his lips cracking in the dry, hot air. “They caught you too, eh?”
Steam hissed, making his eyes water. Sound rumbled in the nightmare’s chest. It paced forward, bones clanging against iron, and Ashok was lost in the crimson radiance of its eyes. The light fed the fires in its mane, burning but never destroying.
“He should be unconscious by now,” Skagi said. His voice was barely audible for the roaring in Ashok’s ears. He fought the palpable terror emanating from the nightmare’s body.
It is an unreasoning fear, he told himself. It doesn’t come from you. Don’t let it infect the flesh …
Straining against the hand at his throat, Ashok threw his weight backward into Skagi’s body. Caught by surprise, the man stumbled. Ashok jerked his neck free and sucked in air, but the respite didn’t stop the roaring. The nightmare filled every corner of his vision. He couldn’t find his feet to run.
There was a sharp rap on the back of his skull—a katar hilt, Ashok thought: the young one was too fast. Ashok fell on his side on the hard ground. He looked up, a sli
ding glance filled with shadar-kai warriors, Neimal the witch, and the nightmare watching the scene from its cage.
So close. He’d been so close to freedom, only to have it snatched away by that creature. He knew of the nightmares, had heard them screaming on the Shadowfell plain. He had even seen one running down its prey from a distance. But nothing had prepared him for the feeling of hopelessness and terror.
Ikemmu. City of towers. Beacon in the Shadowdark. Home of nightmares. What was this place? he thought, as he slid towards unconsciousness.
The nightmare’s crimson eyes were the last thing he saw.
CHAPTER
FOUR
IN THE DREAM, HE SLEPT ON THE GROUND NEXT TO THE DREGS OF a fire and breathed the leftover greasy stink of cooked game. They weren’t supposed to light fires so deep in the caves, because the ventilation was poor. Ashok knew he’d be punished for it, but his muscles, weak from fighting, had craved the fresh meat to nourish him.
Ashok opened his eyes in the dark. He heard footsteps coming down the passage.
Which one was coming?
Ashok sat up, the dying embers illuminating his body. There was no armor to don—he wore the bone scales in his sleep. He kept his chain wrapped around his hand, and his dagger rested nearby.
All ready.
Which one would come?
He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d first gone to sleep, but his body felt stretched thin, un-rested. That was how they intended it, of course, his unknown enemy. The odds were better if Ashok was distracted by fatigue.
Keep sleep elusive, his father had told him. Attrition will win you a battle, and a higher place in the enclave.
But Ashok had eaten the meat. His foe had eaten none.
He heard the footsteps distinctly—a heavy tread and a bulky form filled the tunnel. Lakesh.
“I’m here, brother,” Ashok said. His voice echoed down the tunnel. “Would you speak with me?”
“I would,” Lakesh said, “with steel. I’d rather you’d not woken at all.”
“Then turn and go back to your bed,” Ashok said. Hope danced like a spider through his chest. “Speak with me in the morning, and use words.”
“I can’t do that.”
Ashok released a breath and tightened his chain. His brother stepped into the chamber.
Big. Slow. A waste of flesh.
Instead of a hand, his brother held out a sword. Fever-bright eyes, trembling hands—Ashok recognized all the signs. His brother was ready to move up in the hierarchy, to replace Ashok as their father’s favorite.
“I need this, brother. I’m the eldest.”
Ashok stood. With the smoky fire between them, his brother’s body seemed a mirage in the flickering light.
“I need this,” Lakesh repeated.
Ashok understood that need all too well. The need to earn a higher place in the enclave, the need to please their father, all wrapped up in the constant need to keep their souls from fading.
They were slipping away faster as the years passed. Soon no amount of infighting would keep them anchored to the world. Would the shadows consume them, or would they destroy each other first?
“Come ahead,” Ashok said.
Ashok awoke on the wrong side of Ikemmu’s wall, lying in the middle of a rutted road. Distantly, he heard caravan wheels rattling, but it might have been the gusting wind. All sounds were watery echoes while the nightmare’s scream rang in his ears.
Skagi and Cree stood over him. Ikemmu’s four towers formed a backdrop like bars. Remembering Lakesh, and expecting an attack from the warriors, Ashok went for his weapons—gone again—and tried to spring to his feet. A wave of dizziness assaulted him, and he stumbled.
“Easy!” Skagi barked.
Cree reached toward Ashok. Viciously, Ashok batted his hand away. He came up to his knees, prepared to fight from the ground if he had to.
Cree stepped back and raised his hands. “We’re not going to attack you,” he said.
Breathing hard, Ashok tried to regain his balance. The warriors watched him; Cree looked ready to grab him if he fell again.
Why would they help him up? An image of Lakesh coming for his death while he slept went through Ashok’s mind. Surely it was a trick to slip a katar between his ribs. But the warriors could have done that at any time while he lay unconscious.
Ashok managed to get to his feet, and Skagi again held his weapons out to him.
“You’ll live,” he said. “Sometimes the nightmare’s screams make a body dizzy if he’s not used to them.”
Ashok took his weapons. It took him a breath to orient himself from the dark cave to the open spaces of the city. The dream had been so vivid that the wide expanse put him on edge. He was vulnerable out here in the open.
When Ashok felt steady enough, he turned to Cree and Skagi. “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked. He remembered the burning sword and the line of guards. The witch had wanted to kill him. He’d seen her barely controlled fury. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s not for us to say,” Cree said.
Ashok clenched his fists in frustration. He almost wished they would attack him, torture him. Those things he understood. But to be held and not harmed, free and not free—it made no sense to him.
“Where is the nightmare?” he asked. The echo of its scream was still in his head, and provided a momentary distraction.
“They’ll take it to the pens for the Camborrs to break,” Skagi said, “though Olra may be taking on more than she can handle this time.”
“You train nightmares?” Ashok said, and a wave of excitement threaded though his muscles.
“We train anything we can break,” Skagi said. “If you’d left any alive, we’d have taken your hound friends.”
“But only those who’ve got the rank of Camborr—that was the name of the shadar-kai who first started taming the beasts—know how to train them without being ripped to pieces,” Cree said.
“Is that what you are?” Ashok asked. “Camborrs?”
Cree shook his head. “We only just entered Tempus’s service. We’re warriors in training. Someday we’ll serve the city in His name.”
“And Uwan is your leader,” Ashok said. He looked over the stone buildings to Tower Athanon in the distance. “I want to see him.”
Ashok knew he would be denied, even expected the warriors to laugh at the request. So he was shocked when Skagi said, “Good—he wants to see you. He knew you’d try to escape. But you got us in the piss and bitter with Neimal for letting you run amok on the wall, so thanks for that. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to burn you down when you’re not looking.” Scowling, Skagi drew his falchion and pointed to the tower. “Let’s go,” he said.
The warriors fell in behind him. Ashok noticed Skagi kept his blade in his hand and Cree’s palms rested on his katars’ hilts. But Ashok had no intention of running again.
As they walked, Ashok was aware of the eyes that gazed out from the stone dwellings: shadar-kai, dark ones, and the startling other races that walked with them. Ashok kept his body tense in case of an attack.
When they approached the fence around Tower Athanon, Ashok saw weapon racks leaned against the bars. A hundred or more shadar-kai milled around a training yard, sparring or talking in groups.
Skagi pulled open the gate at the same time Ashok heard the tolling of a massive bell in the distance. He turned and saw the bells at the top of Tower Makthar, half hidden between four stone spikes, a black crown that speared the shadows of the cavern ceiling.
“The Trimmer bell,” Cree explained when Ashok stared at the bell in confusion. “You were unconscious a while.”
“What purpose does it serve?” Ashok asked.
“The bell?” Cree said, looking surprised. “Time. It’s second bell. We mark six intervals of the day. How do you mark time where you come from?”
Ashok didn’t reply. He thought of his chamber deep in the caves of the enclave. He had never marked time,
not formally; he functioned according to the needs of his body. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was tired, he slept—when he wasn’t defending himself from being killed in his sleep. His father and the other leaders of his enclave decided when patrols and hunting parties went out. Maybe they had marked the passage of time in some way, but he saw no purpose to it himself.
Hearing the bell, the shadar-kai in the yard formed up in ten lines facing the tower. With shoulders perfectly aligned, they stared straight ahead, unmoving, until the bell stopped tolling.
“Over here,” Cree said as he and Skagi led Ashok to a section of fence off to the side of the formation.
A doorway at the base of the tower opened, and a shadar-kai man stepped out.
“There he is,” Cree said, his tone reverent. “Uwan.”
Unhelmed, Uwan had long, silken white hair and wore a suit of shadowmail and a black cloak. At his hip rode a greatsword. He looked not much older than the shadar-kai who stood at attention before him, yet he had an air of calm that the others did not possess.
The shadar-kai reached maturity at various ages, according to their temperaments. The wildest offspring, those unable to focus, might reach thirty winters with their minds not fully developed. Others who were able to better channel their manic tendencies might be fully matured at twenty. Uwan was obviously a case of the latter.
The leader stopped in front of the lines. Above his head, the unblinking white eye shone down on the scene.
“Welcome, my new recruits,” he said, his voice carrying over the crowd of shadar-kai men and women. “You are here this day because you all share a common desire.” He paused, his gaze roving over the gathered throng. Briefly, his eyes passed over Ashok but did not linger. “Do you know what you all have in common?” Uwan asked.
Silence from the gathering.
“None of you?” Uwan asked. With his hand resting on his great-sword’s hilt, he paced up and down the lines. He stopped in front of a young man. “You,” he said. “Tell me why you have come here.”
The young one gazed up at Uwan, wide-eyed and stuck. The intensity of his leader’s gaze numbed him silent.
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