House of Blades

by Wight, Will

  So Malachi tended to his servants personally, and with no concern for his appearance. That was a level of compassion Leah had never expected from the man.

  Still, as she rested in her rooms at the top of one of Malachi’s towers, Leah could barely shut her eyes without visions of the bloody Tree intruding. The seal on the Incarnations kept them safe, and the blood of the sacrifices maintained the seal. But that Tree of Ragnarus had been...gruesome. Barbaric.

  Leah had never questioned the necessity of the sacrifices before, but her Lirial training taught her to look at problems from every angle. This time, she did not like what she saw.

  What power was this that kept them safe? Could it be trusted? And if this was what it took to get the Incarnations sealed, how much worse would it be if they ever escaped?

  It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  PLAYING WITH DOLLS

  Simon called Nye’s breath into his lungs, a rush of cool power that hummed in counterpoint to the steel flowing through him. He leaned back, letting Ansher’s arrow fly past his face. He felt the wind as it passed him, and the Nye essence slowed the scene so much that he could see the individual ripples in the arrow’s brown-and-white fletching as it brushed by his nose. He thought he could reach out and pluck it from the air, but he just watched as it flew by and buried itself in the wood of the wagon behind him.

  Erastes thrust his sword forward in a move so smooth it would have done Kai proud. Simon twisted to one side, pulling the doll from his belt in the same motion. Carefully he placed her on the bed of the wagon, right next to Ansher’s arrow. He didn’t want her digging into his back while he fought, but neither would he risk her getting hurt. Broken. He had meant broken, of course, not hurt.

  Out of sheer reaction he turned, evading a return slash from Erastes that turned into a three-part combination pushing him away from the wagon. Heat on his back told him the older man was trying to maneuver him into the bonfire.

  He could have dodged Erastes’ sword all night—or at least until the Nye essence ran out—but two soldiers joined him, moving to flank Simon on his right and left. On top of which, Ansher sent another arrow in his direction. Simon almost impaled himself on Erastes’ sword trying to dodge the missile.

  Simon thrust his hand out and summoned Azura.

  It appeared almost instantly this time, a seven-foot length of steel shining along its slightly curving surface. One of the soldiers stumbled back at its appearance, inches from a fatal stabbing, and the other took the opportunity to swing a sword down at Simon’s head. Simon swept Azura around in an arc so fast it looked like a solid sheet of shimmering steel. It sliced neatly through the soldier’s sword, sending the weapon clattering to the ground in two red-hot pieces.

  He almost ran the man through out of sheer reaction, but something in him stopped. He was still strangely reluctant to kill these men. This was too different from training in the House, where everything was inhuman or else indestructible. The thought of actually ending a life, now that he was face-to-face with it, seemed almost incomprehensible.

  Then Erastes was thrusting his sword at Simon’s ribs. He tried to get Azura in between them, but his blade was far too long, and he was forced to dodge and leap back to put some distance in between them. He brought Azura down, trying to force the captain back, but the man raised his sword to intercept. Simon waited for the Dragon’s Fang to cleave through this sword as it had done to others, but Erastes’ blade met his with a clang like two bells clashing.

  And both swords stopped. The impact ran up the right side of Simon’s entire body, threatening to make him drop his sword. If not for his daily training with Chaka, he might have actually done so, which would have been both embarrassing and fatal.

  Only now, with his blade still locked against Erastes’, did he notice something odd in the other man’s weapon.

  It shone with a smooth mirror-brightness that no natural steel could match. Most swords had dings, dents, places where use in combat had scraped them up. But the steel of Erastes’ sword was flawless. Like Azura.

  Simon stopped putting pressure on the older man and pulled his blade back. If he had pushed harder, he would have overpowered Erastes and split him down the middle, supernatural blade or no. But what was that sword? Was Erastes a Traveler as well? If so, why didn’t he use any other powers?

  A blaze of pain burst in his left shoulder, and Simon screamed, twisting to avoid whatever was hurting him. Another soldier had snuck up behind him, and this one had a spear. He had scored a hit along Simon’s shoulder, probably aiming to skewer him through the heart.

  Simon slashed Azura one-handed through the spear, slicing it neatly, but more soldiers rushed in to fill the gap, each carrying a long cavalry spear. Other foot soldiers poured in, threatening to drown him in sheer numbers.

  Images filled his mind, of men reduced to meat, of blood flowing into the sand. He didn’t want that. But he wanted to die even less.

  Overwhelming numbers pushed him onto the defensive, forcing him to keep up a constant circle of defense just to avoid being crushed.

  Okay, he thought. Maybe I need some help.

  A smug female voice, distant as a whisper, answered. All you had to do was ask.

  Despite his danger, Simon had to stare between the line of soldiers at the doll he had left sitting on the distant wagon. You can talk. Why didn’t you say anything before?

  Back, to the left.

  What?

  A spearpoint sliced his skin just over his left kidney, and he barely managed to sidestep before it gored him. As it was, the spear still drew a line of fire across his left side.

  Told you, the voice continued. Turn right.

  Simon followed the instructions this time and spun Azura to the right, slicing through another sword. And the top half of one soldier’s head. He collapsed to the ground in a limp spray, blood spurting from his exposed brain.

  No! Simon cried silently. I’m trying not to kill them.

  The doll sounded baffled. Why?

  I...I don’t know.

  A whispered sigh. Then, Jump back. Over the fire.

  Simon pushed against the ground into a ten-foot-high jump that easily cleared the bonfire. A trio of arrows swept through the space where his chest had been a moment before.

  He landed in a half-crouch on the hard-packed dirt, waving Azura in front of him to keep his enemies back.

  How are you doing this? he asked the doll.

  We hear the voice of the wind, she responded. We speak to you the words of the air, to keep you alive. This is how we advise you.

  So...you tell me how to dodge? Simon asked.

  We speak the words of the wind, she replied loftily. How you interpret them is up to you. And my name is Caela.

  Caela, he thought to her. Nice to meet you.

  Then he attacked.

  He shattered another weapon, reversing his strike at the last second to take the spear’s owner across the chest with Azura’s dull side. The impact slammed into the man, sending him tumbling into the sand. It would probably injure him seriously, maybe kill him, but Simon felt better.

  He knocked the next soldier off his feet with another reverse sweep of Azura, but that was the last chance he got. The rest of the soldiers with melee weapons backed off, and a line of archers stepped forward.

  “Fire,” Erastes shouted. Twelve archers loosed an arrow at the same instant, all centered on Simon.

  You have to stop worrying about their safety, Caela sent. Simon drew as deeply as he could on the Nye essence, until it burned his lungs with ice, until it seemed as if he and the arrows both were all but frozen in midair. For some reason, it didn’t seem to affect the speed of Caela’s speech.

  Not now, please, Simon thought. Help me out of this first.

  If I do, you’ll only die. Unless you’re willing to kill them.

  I don’t want to, he said.

  Adm
irable. But childish. They’re enemy soldiers. This is a battlefield. If you hesitate, you will die. And then who will save your friends?

  The arrows drifted closer. And though they appeared to float on a gentle breeze, Simon knew they would puncture him like a skewer through a roasting boar.

  Please, just help me out of this.

  Then I want your promise that you’ll fight with everything you have, Caela said. Her distant voice sounded firm. The innocent people depending on you deserve nothing less.

  I promise, Simon said. What choice did he have?

  So Caela gave him his instructions. When the arrows got closer, he leaped, twisting his back and spinning at exactly the correct angle.

  The fletching on one arrow brushed his arm, but that was all. He landed, and the Nye essence flooded out. He should have had a little while more, but he guessed he had used up the essence by drawing on it so deeply. For some reason, the steel remained as strong as always, giving no signs of running out. Maybe it would last longer now—he should ask Caela.

  Simon heard some of the arrows clattering to the ground behind him as time resumed its normal course. The archers in front of him went pale in the face, like they saw their own deaths approaching, but their training held them and they brought arrows to strings for a second volley.

  Simon didn’t give them a chance to loose.

  He lunged, and his first strike shattered three bows. Two of their bearers crashed to the ground as Azura’s tip snagged their armor, but the third lost his hand at the wrist. His scream wrenched Simon’s spirit, but this was neither the time nor the place for regret. He stepped to the side and struck at the archers on his right. Azura pierced through the belly of the first soldier, but the two behind him dived away to safety.

  That was when the more heavily armed soldiers stepped in with their spears and swords, leaving the bowmen to retreat for safety. Without essence, Simon wasn’t fast enough to dance with them as he had done before. But he was still as strong as all of them together.

  He ruined them. He cut them down like a farmer harvesting wheat, and it tore him apart inside. Every time he sprayed blood in the air, Simon’s stomach twisted, but he did not let up. He spared anyone too injured to fight or those few who retreated, but the rest he killed.

  As he pulled his sword from men helpless to defend themselves, he realized that he had spent most of his life without seeing real violence. Only the day his father was killed. And the night his mother died.

  How far he had come.

  Finally Erastes stepped forward, stepping calmly over the bodies of his men. His face was set in stone, and his gleaming sword left a silver streak in the air as it rushed for Simon.

  Without enhanced speed, Simon got a better taste of what a swordsman the Damascan captain really was. Simon had him by a good three feet of reach and ten times the older man’s strength, but he was still the one to step back in front of Erastes’ relentless advance.

  Somehow the Damascan got close enough to take a tiny slice out of Simon’s ear. How had he done that? Simon had barely seen him move. A sinking feeling grew in Simon’s gut as he realized Erastes had capitalized on the weakness of Simon’s seven-foot blade and stepped inside its range. Simon’s steps were awkward at best, and only Caela’s stream of advice and his experience sparring with Kai kept him from getting impaled in the first handful of seconds.

  Simon tried to call on the Nye essence again, but it wouldn’t come. Erastes was smarter, faster, and more experienced. Not to mention that Simon’s own sword was getting in the way. What was he supposed to do?

  Lose the dead weight, of course, Caela sent. If it’s not helping you, lose it. Obviously.

  Simon almost panicked when he realized what she meant, but then he took another cut from the old soldier’s flashing blade. If he didn’t try something else, then he was about to die.

  He let Azura vanish.

  As soon as it did, Erastes lunged forward, thrusting his blade toward Simon’s head. Just in time, Simon grabbed the older man’s wrist.

  The point of the sword shone an inch from Simon’s eyes. It was hard to look at anything else. It just looked so sharp there, a bare second from splitting his eye in two.

  I told you it would work, Caela said, sounding quite pleased with herself.

  Erastes strained with all his might to push the sword forward. With Benson’s steel flowing through him, Simon barely noticed.

  That almost killed me, he thought in Caela’s direction. He still couldn’t take his eyes from the sword, even as he stepped around it, keeping his grip on the captain’s wrist.

  Caela’s laugh sounded like the rustle of trees.

  At last Simon turned his attention to Erastes, who by this time was trying to pull back. Without success. Simon’s chain-shrouded arms might as well have been made of iron; he could feel the power coursing through his muscles, and the chains that had encircled his limbs now snaked past his shoulders and on to his back. His steel was running out now, finally, but he guessed he had about a minute left. He should use that time wisely.

  Simon planted a foot against Erastes’ chest and pushed, kicking the older man backwards. Erastes’ gray eyes went wide as he stumbled back almost ten feet and fell flat on his back, lying with the top of his head inches from the dying fire. His back arched as if he were in great pain.

  The captain had lost his shining sword, which now rested in the dirt beside Simon’s feet. He ducked down to pick it up, holding it in his left hand as he advanced on the fallen Damascan.

  Without thought he reversed the sword in his grip, holding it so that the blade pointed down. Like a dagger. The soldiers should be willing to surrender once their captain was defeated. One more death, and he could take his people out of here.

  Andra came flying out of the flickering shadows and threw herself on top of Erastes, who writhed and gasped for breath on the ground.

  “Please stop!” she begged. “Don’t do it. Don’t, Simon, please.”

  Simon froze. Her skirt shone bright red in the dim light. She evidently hadn’t had a chance to change since escaping from the cave; her clothes still bore the scratches and stains of their combat. When he had saved her life.

  “I’ve known him all my life,” Andra said, her voice thick with emotion. “Don’t do this to him. He’s our friend.”

  Simon pointed with his stolen sword, suddenly so angry he could scarcely contain it. He stabbed the weapon in the direction of the captives’ wagon.

  “Those are my friends,” he said. “Look what he’s done to them.”

  A small sound made him look over, and he saw Lycus holding a sword that was far too big for him. He held it pointed shakily in Simon’s direction. Tears streamed down his face.

  Caius pulled his son back before he could hurt himself. Or before Simon could hurt him. The thought speared him, and the realization of all he had done, all the people he had hurt, fell on Simon like a great weight. The sandy ground ran sticky and brown with the blood of dozens of people. He was surrounded by the groans of the dying and the stench of the dead. He had done that.

  Then the steel flooded out of his body. His strength left him, replaced by an empty weakness that threatened to knock him flat on his back. Erastes’ sword suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and only a supreme effort of will kept him from dropping it in the sand.

  Not now, Simon told himself. Later. The others need your help now. The thought got him moving, and he stepped past Andra without a word. He walked over to the captives’ wagon in complete silence. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized Ansher’s weathered body curled up around a seeping throat. He had tried and failed to stem his own bleeding wound with both hands. Simon refused to look at the body directly, instead focusing on putting one foot forward, then the other.

  He passed a few uninjured soldiers, but they didn’t try to stop him. Most of them either ran off into the shadows or curled up behind their weapons. That sight almost
made him feel better.

  When he reached the wagon, he swept the corner of the canvas aside. It was the stink that hit him first, the odor of dirt and waste and unwashed bodies. The captives hadn’t been given a chance to wash themselves or their clothes, then. The second thing he noticed was the space. The Myrians were packed into the wagon, lashed to one another with chains and rope. They were crammed closer together than livestock, so that they barely had room to sit, much less lie down.

  The sight stunned him. He had never seen animals so mistreated, much less humans. Men and women he had known all his life. Most of them were men, he noticed, but there were some women among them. He picked out Nurita, Leah’s aunt, immediately. Alone out of all the others, she looked like this was a minor inconvenience. Seeing her expression, Simon was almost surprised she hadn’t talked the Damascans into setting them all free.

  For a moment the sight of all of them like that stunned Simon into silence. But the captives apparently felt no such restrictions. At sight of him they all burst into a flurry of questions, pleas, advice, and general noise.

  “Who were they fighting?” one boy asked.

  “What are you doing here?” asked another, old enough to be Simon’s grandfather.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “You should get out of here!”

  “Do you have any food?”

  Chaim elbowed his way to the front. He obviously didn’t have much strength left, so he wasn’t as intimidating as usual, but people made as much room as they could.

  “Get out of here, boy,” Chaim said hoarsely. “I don’t know who they were fighting out there, but they’ll be back, and you don’t want them to come for you.”

  “The fight’s over,” Simon said. He wasn’t sure how much to tell them. “They lost. Now show me your hands.”

  Chaim looked confused, but he pushed his hands forward. They were tied at the wrist by a double loop of thick hemp rope. His wrists were coated in enough dried blood that Simon suspected that his bonds rubbed constantly through his skin.