by Wight, Will
The man looked startled for an instant, then he laughed and threw himself onto a throne to Simon’s right. Until that moment, Simon hadn’t even noticed the throne; he had been too preoccupied with the bits of charred meat between the monster’s needle-sharp teeth. Now that he did notice, he wondered how he could have missed it: the chair was big enough for three people to sit in it side by side, and made entirely of expensive wood. It was carved with creatures that only existed in the depths of some insane Territory, if at all, and set with purple gems the size of Simon’s fist.
“As ever,” the man said, “my ego gets the better of me. Malachi Daiasus, Overlord in service to the Damascan Kingdom, faithful slave of His Majesty Zakareth the Sixth, our Morning and Evening Star. At your service.” He gave a shallow, mocking bow from his lounging position on the throne. “And you are?”
“Simon.”
Malachi waited for more, and when Simon said nothing else, it seemed to amuse him. He chuckled slightly anyway, and looked at Simon as though at a spirited child. At that moment, Simon realized that the Overlord actually meant to keep on talking. Was he stalling for time? Or maybe he was just so confident that he didn’t see Simon as much of a threat.
On a gamble, Simon let the steel fade from his blood.
Immediately he sagged under his own body’s weight, and the thousand little aches and cuts he had gained in the past few minutes flooded to the front of his mind. Malachi noticed.
“Ah, I see you’re not well,” he said. “A pity. I suppose you didn’t count on being caught this early, did you? Not until you had slit my throat, I imagine.” He drew a finger across his own neck, though by his tone you would think he had just made a joke.
“Slit your throat?” Simon asked. Either the Overlord knew something Simon didn’t, which was actually pretty likely, or the man was making some strange assumptions.
Malachi waved a hand in the air. “Or blasted me apart, I suppose, or taken me away to your Territory. Whichever you prefer. If I hadn’t been warned that you were coming, you might have even gotten me. I had it on good authority that you were in Enosh just this morning.”
The chains were sliding down his wrists now, and the Nye essence was fully recovered. His steel felt shaky, like it wasn’t quite at full strength, but it too would refill before long. If Malachi insisted on having a conversation before the fight, Simon could at least use the time to make sure he was at full strength.
“I’m not here for your life,” Simon said honestly. He just needed to buy some time, but it would be interesting to find out who Malachi thought he was. “In truth, I wasn’t even sure this was your house.”
“You’re dressed like an assassin,” Malachi said, gesturing at him.
Simon glanced down at the black cloak, which settled in place around him. “Any assassin that would dress like this deserves to be caught,” Simon said.
The Overlord smiled slightly, but then his face hardened. “Why are you here, Simon?”
“There’s a girl in your tower. I’m here for her.”
Malachi’s face registered surprise, then something that might have been irritation. His gaze flicked to the red monster, which still stood frozen.
Dodge right, Otoku hissed, and Simon threw himself to the right just before the lizard’s palm crashed down onto the tile. He barely called the Nye essence in time.
Back! Otoku said. Left! Down!
Simon followed her instructions instantly, dodging only as she directed, not even watching the monster. With Otoku’s voice and the essence, he could have avoided its clumsy strikes forever.
Roll, Otoku said, and as he did, he felt the steel reach full strength.
The cold power of liquid steel flooded through him once again, taking from him pain and weakness. Instantly he summoned Azura and jumped forward.
The red creature roared and the temperature in the room rose to oven-hot in the space of a second, but none of that mattered. The power of the Nye made it seem as though the giant lizard was pushing his way through jelly, but Azura danced like a feather in his hand.
His blade passed through the monster’s neck and hardly noticed the resistance. Simon landed in front of Malachi’s throne, knees barely bent, facing the Overlord. The Nye cloak settled into place. He heard two thuds behind him as the head and body crashed separately into the ground, and heat flared at his back. He almost turned to look, but Otoku’s voice told him what he needed to know.
It’s down, she said, and he kept his gaze fixed on Malachi.
“That’s not Elysia,” the Overlord said. He sounded puzzled. “So you’re not...wait. That sword. Valinhall.”
It wasn’t a question, but Simon nodded.
Malachi lowered his eyebrows thoughtfully, though he still seemed confused. “I know someone who would be very pleased to meet you, Simon. Very pleased. Where did you find that?”
Simon ignored him. “I’m just here for Leah. Let me go get her and leave, and we can go our separate ways.”
Slowly, Malachi shook his head. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t let you kill her. I’m sorry. And I very much doubt you’d be able to capture her.”
Now it was Simon’s turn to look confused. “Kill her? I’m trying to rescue her. From you.” Why did Malachi sound as if he was the one protecting her?
Malachi looked as if Simon had slapped him. For a moment he just stared. Then he threw his head back and laughed a full, genuine laugh, as though he wasn’t within easy reach of Simon’s sword. He leaned back against the throne, relaxed, with an easy grin on his face, and Simon realized that his first show of amusement had been an act. This was the real thing. Overlord Malachi had actually let his guard down.
“You’re trying to rescue the princess from the evil Traveler’s tower?” Malachi said, still rolling with chuckles. “I mean no offense, but it sounds a bit ridiculous, when you put it like that.”
I like this man, Otoku said.
“She’s not a princess,” Simon muttered.
“Oh really?” Malachi said, and suddenly he was leaning forward. His eyes were sharp again. “What is she, then?”
“One of us,” Simon said, meeting the Overlord’s eyes. “I can’t leave her with you.”
“And as much as I might want to, I can’t let you take her.” Malachi began drumming the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his throne. “So what now?”
It was going to come to a fight. Simon had been afraid of that from the first. Not only was he not sure that he could win, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Killing the Overlord would make him the most wanted criminal in the realm; even winning the fight would be like trying to get out of a pit by digging deeper. But what choice did he have?
A fat, balding man in red robes stuck his face in the room through a door Simon hadn’t noticed before. One side of the robed man’s face was covered in bruises. He shot a glance at Simon, and his eyes were hard. “We have engaged him in the streets, Overlord. No one has yet reached the house. Are you sure you don’t need help up here?”
Malachi sounded thoughtful, and he kept drumming his fingers on the throne. “I don’t think so, Petrus, but why don’t you stand by in case you’re needed? Over there, perhaps.” He gestured to the side of the room, by the first door, the one through which Malachi himself had entered.
Petrus realized something then, Simon could tell—for an instant the man’s eyes widened and his mouth opened—but he covered the expression quickly in a bow and walked over to stand in front of the door. What had he heard in Malachi’s words? Had Simon missed some kind of code?
It didn’t matter now. The problem remained.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Simon said, and was almost surprised at how much he meant it. The more he thought over his situation, the more he was sure there were no good outcomes.
“As you wish,” Malachi said calmly. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Once you’re safely restrained, of course.”
And he r
aised the palm of the hand he had been tapping against the arm of the throne. It bore a shining red mark.
Simon cursed himself and launched toward the throne in the beginning of a lunge that would take the Overlord’s head from his shoulders, but Otoku cried a warning, and he was able to twist himself aside just in time to avoid a screaming ball of orange flame that shot from Malachi’s hand and blasted forward.
It was screaming in truth, he realized: there were faces inside that ball of fire, like burning ghosts, and just as the fireball was about to smash into the wall opposite Malachi they screamed again, and the fireball changed directions. Back at Simon.
Simon ignored the fire and swung his sword at Malachi with the full intention of chopping the Overlord, his throne, and the wall behind them in half. Simon put all his power and speed behind the blow, and even to his slowed vision, the sword seemed to split the air.
Malachi didn’t even react. A blazing red rent in reality, like a huge red eye, appeared before him so fast it was as though it had really been there all along, and only now had the Overlord chosen to unveil its presence. The crimson Gate hung in the air before Malachi like a shield. Azura continued uninterrupted, but the Gate now stood between the sword and its target. Instead of slicing the Overlord in half, it swung through the empty air of another Territory and continued onward. The force of his own unopposed strike almost spun Simon like a top.
Only a moment after Azura swung clear, the Gate winked shut.
The Overlord had shielded himself with a Gate. Of course, the Gates of Valinhall opened far too slowly to be used in that way, but the thought had never even occurred to Simon. Yet another thing that he should have expected.
Turn around, half-wit! Otoku screamed, and Simon jerked himself around in time to see the wailing face of a fireball within kissing distance. He didn’t duck so much as throw himself to the ground, and the ball of flame passed over his head. Malachi made a lazy gesture with one finger, and the fireball corrected its passage and hurtled toward Simon again.
“You don’t have much experience fighting other Travelers, do you, Simon?” Malachi asked casually, as Simon ran around the room in an attempt to out-pace the fireball. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to kill you, I’m really not. You didn’t do anything unjust, you were only in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once we’ve cleaned up this mess, we’ll be glad to have you on the team.”
Simon finally gave up running in circles. The fireball was apparently tireless, while he could already feel his gifts running out. He stopped and swung Azura at the flame.
The fireball exploded with a scream of agony, and the flare of light and heat was so intense that Simon threw up a hand to protect his face. The second he could see again, he ran as fast as he could. With the strength and speed of Valinhall in him, he should be able to out-pace any reaction of the Overlord’s. He hoped.
But he didn’t run at Malachi. On an instinct, he ran at Petrus.
The old, fat Traveler looked startled, but he had obviously prepared a defense. A swarm of glowing orange wasps, each the size of Simon’s two fists together, raced from the air before Petrus’ red-marked hand. Behind him, Simon heard the cries of another one of those spectral orange fireballs.
Simon drew on the Nye essence to its limits, so that the fiery wasps seemed to crawl toward him. Azura sliced one of the insects in half, but even that strike seemed slow to him.
“Si...mon...” the Overlord called from his throne. His voice sounded odd, not only slowed like everything else, but also for some reason slightly deeper.
Simon flicked another pair of wasps from the air and kept moving forward. Alarm spread across Petrus’ face, but so slowly that it was almost comical.
“Face...me!” Malachi demanded. Was that just the strange effect on his voice, or did he actually sound afraid? “Come...here!”
Azura slashed again, taking the rest of the glowing wasps from the air. But Simon hadn’t realized how close he had come, or else he wasn’t quite used to Azura’s length yet. The blade’s tip drew a ragged slice diagonally down across Petrus’ broad chest, then dug into the Traveler’s left hand at the wrist. With the speed of the Nye, Simon was forced to watch every detail as Azura parted skin, flesh, and bone, as Petrus’ face bunched up in horror. His left hand tumbled to the tiles.
Then the essence flooded out, his lungs warmed, and time resumed its normal flow. Petrus collapsed, staring at his bleeding stump, too shocked to even scream.
But he had left the door unguarded.
Malachi yelled something again, panic evident in his voice this time, and Simon knew he had been right. Malachi had had some special reason to guard this door instead of the other, though he had tried to distract attention from that fact. Was it Leah, perhaps? Did this door lead up to her tower?
He pulled open the door and jumped inside, ducking to avoid the fireball he was sure would be coming.
Nothing happened. No fire. Malachi wasn’t even yelling, though Simon thought he heard running footsteps coming this direction. Simon looked up, intending to take a look around...
...and found himself almost nose-to-nose with a woman in a long purple dress. She was perhaps five years older than Simon, crouched on the floor, wearing a purple silk dress and dangling gold earrings. She held a dark-haired little girl in each hand, pressed against her shoulders. The woman was pretty, maybe beautiful, but her black eyes pressed against Simon like daggers.
“Do it, murderer,” she spat. “If you are that low.”
Simon wondered what she was talking about until he thought to glance down at Azura. The blade was so long that it took up most of the little room—a bedroom, now that he had the chance to look around—and he had barely paid attention when he threw himself in here. Azura’s edge pressed against the woman’s neck, hard enough that blood trickled down the front of her dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
BAD HABITS
Simon jerked himself back as though burned, letting his sword vanish. He almost stumbled as he stepped back, his foot catching the edge of his cloak. It was a miracle he had not killed the woman. Or one of the children, even. His hands trembled at the thought.
“I’m...I’m sorry,” Simon said, because he could not think of anything else to say. The woman’s glare faltered a little.
The footsteps caught up, and Simon turned to face the door. Malachi stood there, fear on his face, clothes rumpled. “Out here, Simon. Let’s finish it out here.” His voice held a strange, trembling mixture of fear, anger, and that tone people used to calm dangerous animals and madmen.
“Your wife and children?” Simon asked.
“No,” the Overlord said, but his face said he was lying. “Servants. They are nothing to us. Just leave them be.”
Simon didn’t know much about life in Bel Calem, but he doubted the Overlord’s servants wore silk dresses and gold jewelry.
“I won’t hurt them,” Simon said. “But I should.” He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it wasn’t calm. The steel faded as well, leaving him aching inside and out. “The Traveler you sent killed my mother.”
Fear flashed on Malachi’s face again, and he held his empty palms out. Simon kept an eye on the one with the red brand. If Malachi so much as twitched it suspiciously, he would attack, never mind that the man’s wife and children were watching. Then Malachi’s face clouded over with confusion.
“Wait. Your village. What are you talking about?”
“Myria village,” Simon said angrily. “Where I’m from. And Leah. Your men came into my home and killed my people.”
“That? This is all over that?” Malachi passed his un-branded hand through his hair. “Seven stones, I have had more trouble over that village...Simon, believe me, I am sorry about your mother. I truly am. But this was just the sacrifice. Everybody pays the sacrifice! It’s only nine people a year, out of the whole kingdom. Every village pays at least once. There won’t be a sacrifice from that village again in your lifetime
or mine.”
“As if that makes it better,” Simon said. He forced his hand to stop trembling.
Malachi licked his lips. “Please, Simon. Let them go.”
Simon held the Overlord’s gaze for a moment, but he was the one to look away first. “I’m not going to hurt them,” he said again.
“Then come out of there. We’ll talk, I promise. And I can get some help for Petrus before he bleeds to death.”
Simon winced. “I just want Leah. Just tell me how to get to Leah, and you’ll never see me again.”
The Overlord kept one eye on Simon, but he had pulled off his belt and was cinching it tight around a semi-conscious Petrus’ bleeding hand. A tourniquet, Simon guessed. “Simon...the door to the tower is behind my seat, just to the right of the window you broke. You passed within five feet of it when you came in.”
Simon nodded and walked out the door of the bedroom, never taking his eyes from the Overlord. He did not trust Malachi’s given word, not really, but he at least hoped to stall the man until his Nye essence had refilled.
“I never wanted this,” Malachi said. He kept tightening the belt around Petrus’ wrist. “This whole thing. It’s a mess. I just wanted them to leave us alone—Enosh, the King, that girl, everyone.”
“You mean Leah?” Simon asked. Shadowy chains slid, slow and icy, down toward his wrists. “She did leave you alone. You kidnapped her!”
“She’s...” Malachi’s mouth twisted. “I can’t say anything else. Just take her. Take her out of my home, don’t look back, and good riddance. But don’t set your hopes too high on her, Simon. She will let you down.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded. But he didn’t get an answer. Behind him, the door blew open on an explosion that rocked the entire house, and the room filled with golden light.
“Overlord Malachi!” Alin yelled, and his voice belonged to a king pronouncing judgment. He looked years older than he had only hours before. His blue suit, already torn, was now shredded as though he had rolled around on a bed of knives. A patch of black ash rested over his heart, and smoke billowed from him as though he had just stepped from an oven. And he glowed. He actually radiated angelic light, making his golden hair gleam like a crown.
