Spurred on by the thought of the execution, he began to run, memories of Delisar chasing him toward the Smear.
40
The Wrath Blade
Amid the cries of the dead and dying, the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the march of booted feet, and jangle of armor, Leroi strode through the mansion on Jarina Hill. Ever since Curate Selentus had parted with his knowledge Leroi had waited. He had bided his time, struggling to hold back, struggling with the urge to confront the king, with his need to march on House Jarina.
And now was his chance.
Selentus’ reasons for unveiling his secret were beyond the count, but they mattered not. Too much of the story sounded like truth. Backed by the queen’s word, the revelation could not be denied. He pictured young Jaelen again, closing his eyes for scant moments, his body quivering as the image of Elaina superimposed itself over that of her son. Confronting her had revealed that the nightmares she suffered were of her ordeal, each of them seeming so real she had begun to believe them to be true.
Anger bubbled up at the thought, anger that this beast of a man, this creature, who without his title was little more than a dreg, would dare lays hands on Elaina. The thought sickened him. With it came more rage, such that he saw red. Wrath lent him strength, and with it he would slay all involved. If the Gods were just, today the king would fall to Hagarath and Fiorenta. If not, Leroi swore to see the deed done himself, no matter how long it took. But right now, at this very moment, his focus was solely on Shaz.
Men came at him, but they were nuisances. Whether to a sword or a meld, they fell. He left many screaming, bodies shriveled, armor melted as the fire of the Wrath Blade consumed them. Others avoided him, preferring to engage his Blades. He smiled cruelly. Witnessing a man clothed in flames could have that effect.
“Shaz!” he shouted, voice carrying above the din. “Show yourself you raping beast. Face me and pay for your crime.”
“Crime?” a soft-spoken Marish drawl asked. Shenen spun. Dressed in black, scarred face and arms masked by shadows despite the daylight, Shaz stood next to an archway. “All I did was repeat what your kind has done to those in the Smear for centuries, what you did to my sisters. It hurts, doesn’t it? The best part is that not once did she complain. She begged for it.”
Roaring, Leroi attacked. Flames lashed out from him, extending across the distance. Shaz was gone in a blur of darkness, like night leaping from one spot to another.
Leroi gritted his teeth, eyes tracking his enemy. Again and again he struck, the fire curling from him in the form of an unfurled whip, an extension of his Alchemist and Caster abilities. Shaz appeared to split, two forms darting in opposite directions. With a thought Leroi divided the end of his flame whip, changed its trajectory, and sent it hurtling after both.
As his meld met the resistance of both forms, a sense of satisfaction passed through Leroi. It changed to surprise the moment both blurred images burst into smoke. Realizing his error, Leroi banished his whip, instantly applying the properties of an iron shield to the nimbus of soul along his back, infusing it with the strength of a Dracodar’s scales.
Something slammed into him from behind. He was flung across the room, hurtling toward the wall. Transferring soul from his back to his front took nothing but a thought. He crashed through the wall amid a roar of tumbling rocks, broken wood, and debris. The taste of blood in his mouth was a reminder that despite his strength and the armor under his clothes, he could be hurt, even killed.
Calm yourself, fool. Your rage is a tool to be used wisely, not flailed around like some willful child.
Dust coiled in the air like a fine brown and white mist as he stood. He was in the middle of another room, this one larger than the first. Shaz stepped through the opening, smoke wrapped around him in a shadowy cloak.
“I’ve seen that skill before,” Leroi said.
“You should have. My father was known for it. He trained many of you nobles who made it to the rank of Blade.”
“Your father is Gothien the Shadow Blade?”
“Was.”
Leroi cocked his head to one side. Gothien had grown too old to serve in the armies or train the young ones. He’d been allowed to retire to a farm northwest of Keshan Dark.
“Ah, like so many others before you, you’re oblivious to the ruthlessness employed by your line of kings and by Far’an Senjin itself.” Shaz grimaced, the expression making an already morbid face even more grotesque. “Or you simply wish to play dumb.”
“What do you mean?” Leroi opened his vital points wide, drawing on the brunt of his soul. The power suffused him. Shaz was no untested student, but a melder of skill who would not be overwhelmed by sheer strength. Leroi had underestimated the man at the outset. He refused to make the same mistake twice.
“Your kings make believe the Blades are free men when they reach a certain age, giving them lands and titles.” Shaz’s lips curled. “Have you ever visited one of those homes? No? Well, if the Blade lasted long enough to have children, the wisemen paid him a visit, in the company of Blades, of course. They would test the man’s children, and if those children showed the needed strength in soul they were treated in the same manner as those on the Day of Accolades. I watched, hidden away as they took my brothers who would later die in wars. As for my father who once served the king loyally? Butchered and made a part of the Soul Throne to feed power to those who sit upon it.”
Leroi opened and closed his mouth. He meant to deny Shaz’s claim but he couldn’t. He’d felt the incredible power given off by the throne.
Shaz cracked his neck from one side to the other. “So, now you understand. I had to see you nobles suffer for what you did to my father; I had to see you kill each other, destroy the kingdom you coveted. Father gave his all and still it wasn’t enough.”
Despite his simmering anger, a part of Leroi felt for the man. “Neither my daughter nor I played a part in your father’s fate, so why her?”
“Opportunity?” Shaz shrugged. “You are all to blame, the nobles, the dregs, everyone. So, she deserved what she got. If it was up to me it would have been worse.” He licked his lips. “I can’t wait to take her again. And the next time I will let her know who is giving it to her when she yells to for me to go deeper.”
Leroi’s rage surged, the redness in his vision growing white. His single whip became a hundred. He would strip this monster’s skin from his body, peel back every layer until nothing but red was left.
41
Ripples In A Pond
“He’s moving,” Winslow said through the ice that caked his mustache. He stopped under an alcove and pulled back his hood. They’d been making their way toward the Ten Hills when the tiny glob in his mind that represented Keedar changed location. Before they left Martel’s house the men had showed him a map of Kasandar. With his knowledge of its streets he’d pinpointed Keedar’s former location on Jarina Hill. The map was now part of an image he could dredge up, the meld he used on Keedar a small dot on its surface.
“Where to?” Keshka asked.
Winslow squinted out into the swirling snow. “Heading south, across the city.”
“Deadman’s Gap,” Keshka declared with a hint of finality.
“Why there,” Winslow asked.
“It’s the execution site.”
A knot formed in Winslow’s stomach. He tried not to think of his father or brother, but he failed miserably. All he could picture was not only Delisar’s death, but also Keedar’s.
“We’re here.” Martel pointed at a sign, partially covered in hoarfrost. It read: Misori’s Stables, best horses in the Quarter. He was wearing the full uniform of a marshal of the watchmen, forest green with a red stripe down the sleeves, a pin on his breast declaring his station.
Within minutes the four of them were racing through Kasandar, cloaks billo
wing out behind them. They avoided the main avenues out of the River Quarter while weaving their way through the flow of traffic toward Deadman’s Gap. Winslow expected to be stopped at any moment, but the watchmen they met simply waved them on, some even clearing the way.
When they encountered the massed crowds several streets before the Gap they worked their way around them, circling until they’d crossed onto the opposite side of the avenue that separated the Smear from the rest of Kasandar. The din of voices was such that Winslow could not hear whatever it was Keshka was saying. When the others dismounted, he followed suit. Keshka indicated for him to lead. A sense of urgency cloying at him, Winslow took off at a run, focused on his brother’s location.
As they drew closer, Winslow slowed, noting the presence of Blades sprinkled among the crowds of bystanders. He dipped into an alley. The others followed.
“That building across the way. He’s somewhere in it.” Winslow nodded toward the ten-story brick structure.
“The roof,” Keshka said. “He’ll be on the roof.”
Winslow allowed himself a smile as he remembered Keedar’s recollection of his love for Kasandar’s rooftops. “It’s like you can see the world from up there. See how the city came to be, and everything else around it. One day, when all this is done, I’ll draw a picture of how it looks.”
“Martel, you stay down here. Winslow and Stomir, with me.” Keshka headed across the street. He acted like any other person trying to attend the execution.
Winslow did his best to imitate his uncle, but his heart beat faster with each step. Martel spoke to one of the watchmen near the structure, pointing farther down the street. The guard nodded and hurried in that direction. Martel took up the man’s post.
By now the tracking meld was pulling Winslow, a huge knot in the back of his mind. They entered the building’s lamplit interior, made their way to the stairs, and ascended. Winslow’s heart beat faster the higher they climbed.
They were perhaps four flights up when the sound from the crowd changed. No longer was it shouts of approval. He could distinctly hear screams. The building shook with the noise of thousands of running feet.
“Hurry,” Keshka yelled. They ran the rest of the way to the roof.
They burst from the dimly lit, stuffy interior into the open air of the rooftop. Winslow shielded his eyes against a gust that pelted him with snow. Below them was chaos, people running in every direction, the surge of bodies moving outward like ripples in a pond. Over the din came the clash of steel on steel.
At the edge of the roof, facing Deadman’s Gap, Keedar crouched in dirty leathers and furs that were collecting a coat of white. Winslow followed the direction of his brother’s gaze.
Up on a platform at the Gap, five men fought. A woman and the Ebon Blade stood off to one side. Soul spilled from the combatants, its luminance brilliant. Three shone more than the others, and it took only a moment for Winslow to comprehend that those three were the king.
Loathing surged within Winslow, stronger than any he’d felt when he thought Ainslen was his father. He wanted to leap from the roof and charge Ainslen, plunge his dagger into the king’s chest. This man had taken his past from him, his family.
Family. A corpse on the lower platform drew Winslow’s gaze. It was headless. He gasped.
“Father,” Winslow whispered, voice distant to his own ears. “Oh, Gods, they killed him. No. No. No.” Although he had not known Delisar well or for long, it still felt as he’d lost a part of himself, as if a hole had been carved into his stomach.
“The man they executed,” Keedar said, “was not Delisar.”
At first the words did not register, but when they did, they resonated with truth. The gut-wrenching sensation of a loved one’s death became a faint glimmer of hope. “If that isn’t him, then where is he?” Winslow scanned the frenzied mass of people below, trying to calm his emotional tumult.
“If he still lives, Delisar is most likely guarded by the same type of melders who wounded me,” Keshka said. He was staring at the battle on the platform. “Stomir, take them to one of our ships, and then to the Blooded Daggers as planned. Tell Martel to ensure no one stops you.”
“I came this far,” Keedar said, voice soft. He too had eyes only for the king and the men below. “I won’t abandon Delisar now.” He stood and faced Keshka, expression defiant.
“The melders I speak of wield the quintessence.” Keshka regarded Keedar with a gaze that could break rocks. “They almost killed me. Both Delisar and myself taught you better than this. Bravery is one thing. Utter stupidity is quite another. You will go with Stomir. The question is if you wish to do so consciously or not.”
“I—”
“Before you say another word, take a look at the men down there.”
Slowly, Keedar diverted his attention to the battle. Winslow followed his gaze. The men fought with a speed that made them little more than blurs of violent action. One man was some eight feet tall by Winslow’s estimates, muscles bulging. The soul emanating from them was incandescent, a vibrant radiance that scoured their bodies. He’d never witnessed such power.
“Those men are all infused with Dracodar soul,” Keshka said. “Pair that with their experience of melding. Do you think you could best them?”
A long moment passed before Keedar answered. “No,” he finally said, shoulders slumped.
“If, and I say if, because the king’s power is an ominous sign to the contrary … if Delisar lives, men as powerful as those three will have him in their custody. Take in what you see below. Remember it. You must strive to surpass their skill in order to prevent men like them from breeding our people like cattle.” He paused. “Now, go. There is much for you to do in the days and weeks to come.”
“You’re not coming with us, are you?” Keedar asked, attention still riveted on the platform.
“No. I have something to see to.” Cold determination resided in Keshka’s voice.
Keedar turned away from the roof’s edge. He strode up to Keshka and threw his arms around him. “Be wary of the shackles they use. It inhibits soul. Only by using lumni was I able to escape. Make sure you return. I cannot afford to lose two fathers.” The wetness in his brother’s eyes brought tears streaming down Winslow’s face.
42
The Wind Blade
King Cardiff unleashed a constant barrage of attacks from the two versions of himself. Not once did he falter or relent. Despite his numerical advantage he could not allow the counts the offensive. Facing both of them at once would be too much. Luckily, his replicas needed no defense. They were pure soul. Any cut or stab incurred from Hagarath or Fiorenta amounted to nothing more than a slight dissipation of the thick essences from which they were formed, immediately replaced by a new infusion.
Yet, he had not landed a killing blow. Blood dripped from a myriad of small wounds on both counts, but their faces were masks of determination as they fought. Neither appeared particularly weakened, while Ainslen could feel his strength ebb with each sustained meld. The power within him still felt fathomless, but the soul itself was depleting like any other.
No. Not like any other. Faster. If Delisar experienced this, how was it that he’d fought so long on Succession Day, particularly against Sorinya? Ainslen shook off the thought. He would address it later. For now, he must concentrate on his foes. This fight had to end soon, and in spectacular fashion for it to have the desired effect. That meant embracing risk.
Ainslen leaped toward Hagarath with all the speed of the wind at his disposal, his manifested sword glowing white. He was a storm that whipped and spun from a multitude of directions. When he launched this attack, the king sent both his replicas at Fiorenta’s giant form.
Hagarath’s own red soul blade rose to meet Ainslen’s in a blur of movement bettered only by the greatest Magnifiers. No metallic ring echoed when t
he weapons clashed, just a steady reverberation like bundled lathes striking each other, playing a rhythm only another swordsman would hear or appreciate. Each parry made it appear as if Hagarath had several arms. The count shifted and ducked to avoid a few cuts, the long single braids of his beard and hair flying about him like rope.
Faster and faster Ainslen attacked, his sword an extension of his arm. Gone was the thrill he experienced when he battled Jemare. He was cold, a shell, this battle a means to an end, the coming death an example that had to be set. He added Sorinya’s strength to his strikes, driving his opponent before him.
Until Hagarath simply stopped.
The count stood there, face a sweaty mask, turning away each stroke as if they were mere practice swings. At the last moment Ainslen changed a slice into a thrust with a twist of his wrist. Instead of parrying, Hagarath shifted slightly, the blade plunging into his shoulder. They were so close Ainslen smelled the stink of the man’s breath. The smile became a grin. Hagarath’s free hand delivered a blow to the king’s midsection.
Ainslen just managed to augment his frontal defenses with the entirety of his soul. Still, despite protection that could withstand an avalanche, the punch flung him backward across the platform. Body twisting in midair, he stuck out his hand, magnified by soul, and pushed off the wooden surface into a neat somersault, reversing his direction. He landed on his feet. Ainslen coughed, mouth thick with the bitter taste of blood.
Across the way, Hagarath pointed his red sword at the king. The wound in the count’s shoulder was already closing, metal glinting through the layered clothing. Squinting, the king made out scales. Hagarath’s fusion with his recently acquired Dracodar remains had completed, accounting for the increased power he displayed since Ainslen defeated him on Succession Day.
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