House of Blades

by Wight, Will

  In spite of himself, Simon was impressed.

  Malachi rose to his feet at Alin’s words, standing over Petrus. He opened his mouth to respond, but apparently his action was the only answer Alin needed.

  “Simon, move!” Alin shouted, and thrust his hand forward.

  The shadow-chains pressed like ice against Simon’s arms, and the place in his mind where the Nye essence usually rested felt empty. So he did the only thing he could do: he staggered away from Malachi as fast as his wounded legs would carry him.

  Not too soon. A stream of gold light, pure as lightning, blasted from Alin’s palm toward the Overlord in an eruption of violent energy. There wasn’t as much heat as Simon would have expected, but even standing five feet away from the actual strike, Simon felt the force of it catch him in the side and send him tumbling to the tiles.

  A Gate to some red cavern hung in the air in front of Malachi; through it, Simon saw the gold light streak into the distance and blast a crimson stalactite from a far-distant ceiling. But the Gate hadn’t stopped the strike entirely. Only half had passed through into Malachi’s Territory, and the rest had struck the wall above and behind the Overlord’s head.

  A huge snapping sound echoed through the chamber, like an enormous tree breaking under its own weight, and the ceiling of the bedroom behind Malachi collapsed.

  With his wife and children still inside.

  Malachi screamed and took one half-step toward the bedroom, letting his Gate close. But with a pained look on his face, he visibly forced himself to stop and turn toward Alin, trembling with emotion.

  “I won’t let you get away with—” Alin began, but Malachi’s voice cut him off.

  “Shut up,” Malachi said quietly. He began stalking toward Alin, reaching into his purple jacket with one hand as he did. “I’ve tried everything to settle this in a civilized manner. But you just won’t let me go, will you? Fine, then.” And he removed something from his jacket pocket.

  Simon wasn’t at the best position to see what Malachi held in his hand, but it looked like one half of a shallow red bowl that had been shattered down the middle. No, not a bowl. A mask?

  Simon, Otoku warned. That thing is dangerous. No trace of her usual sarcasm remained, which did more to convince Simon of the danger than any whispered warning.

  Malachi pressed the red half-mask against the right side of his face, where it stuck without anything visibly tying it on. The Overlord took a deep breath, and the wind whispered as though the entire room breathed with him.

  “I’ll deal with this as an Overlord should,” Malachi said. His voice was granite.

  Alin didn’t respond, but hurled a blast of golden light. Malachi didn’t shield himself this time; he reached up a hand and snatched the ball of golden light out of the air. Just grabbed it in one bare hand, as though catching a thrown apple. Then he squeezed, and the light popped like a pricked bubble.

  There was a silent explosion of light when he did so, and Simon struggled to stay on his feet, but Malachi barely seemed to notice. “My turn,” he said, and waved his hand in a small circle, palm down. That was all it took.

  A thousand orbs of screaming orange flame, all as big as the one that had chased Simon earlier, rushed down from the ceiling and flowed toward Alin in a burning, howling gale. Even across the room, Simon felt the air slap at him like a hot desert wind.

  And that settled it: it was past time for Simon to be gone.

  Simon turned and glanced behind him. The door behind the throne was unguarded. He could slip away now, and maybe he and Leah could make it down into the city while the other two Travelers fought. But then again...

  In the other direction, he could barely see into the broken bedroom through a half-collapsed doorway and a cloud of dust. The room was silent. Malachi’s family could be dead, or they could be trapped under a thousand pounds of rubble, unable to cry out. Simon had a vision of one of the girls he had seen earlier trying to push a chunk of wood off of her, to move it just enough that she could get a full breath. She had looked only about seven years old.

  I’m an idiot, he sent to his doll, and crept forward to the bedroom. Malachi, standing ten feet away, flicked his eyes toward Simon. For a moment Simon tensed, prepared to summon strength and Azura both. But the Overlord said nothing, turning back to face Alin. Either Malachi trusted Simon, which was a ridiculous thought, or he didn’t consider Simon any threat. Either way, Simon was glad of it.

  The doorway was partially collapsed and half-filled with wood and plaster. Simon knelt and shoved one beam aside; the whole pile creaked dangerously.

  He stood back and considered his options, shooting glances from time to time back at the battle behind him. A gold-skinned man in armor stood over Alin, swatting fireballs out of the air with a spinning staff of pure gold. Malachi waved his hand, and ants the size of wolfhounds crawled out of nowhere and skittered towards Alin, blazing with all the colors of flame.

  If Simon had needed another reason to hurry, he had one now. He pulled his hood up and tightened the cloak around him. The cloak would be no help against anything that either Traveler would summon, but somehow it made him feel more secure. He slipped underneath the cracked doorway.

  Half of the bed had fallen in, leaving it standing on only two feet, but Simon had last seen Malachi’s family huddling at the end of it. He decided to make his way toward the bed, as carefully as possible.

  Can you help? he asked.

  Of course I can, Otoku responded. Run as fast as you can and never look back. You’re welcome.

  A voice like a devil from the blackest pits of Naraka boomed out behind Simon: “YOUR DEATH WILL BE SWEET ON MY TONGUE.” Simon refused to turn around.

  The quicker I find them... Simon said.

  Fine. They’re under the bed.

  Alive?

  They’re not moving. Perhaps they’re simply asleep.

  The wail of the orange fireballs sounded like a chorus of tormented souls. Nobody in the city could sleep through that, Simon said.

  Then they must be dead. What a shame; we’ll have to leave now.

  Take me to them, Simon commanded. And, for once, the doll did as she was told.

  A few seconds later, Simon knelt beside the bed. Otoku said the beam he rested on wouldn’t make the rest of the pile collapse, but all the debris sounded like it would crack at any second.

  He peered underneath the bed skirt and saw three pairs of eyes gleaming at him through the shadows and dust.

  “Are you all right?” Simon whispered.

  “Are you here to rescue us?” one of the girls asked, but her mother shushed her.

  “Leave us now,” the woman commanded. “We will be fine without your assistance.” Even huddled in the dust under a half-broken bed, she glared thunderbolts at him.

  “If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a battle out there,” Simon said. “All it takes is one more hit, and this whole room’s going to fall down on top of you.”

  A monstrous voice shouted something about demanding blood, and another explosion shook the whole room. Dust rained down, making the children sneeze.

  “We cannot get out,” the woman admitted, though her voice still sounded proud. “The bed is blocked on all sides.”

  “What’s your name?” Simon asked gently. The chains slid down his hands like sap down a tree, reminding him to hurry, but if he just called steel and tore the bed off of them, they would be terrified. He might as well try to put them at ease.

  “Without even giving me your name first? Do they have no manners where you come from?” she said, as though she couldn’t hear the battle outside. The room shook again; one of the girls buried herself in her mother’s sleeve.

  “I am Simon, son of Kalman,” Simon said impatiently. “And you are?”

  “Adrienne Lamarkis Daiasus,” the lady declared, and then she announced her daughters’ names, but Simon didn’t care enough to listen.

  “Great, Mistre
ss Adrienne—” she looked a little upset at the name, but Simon didn’t know or care anything about the proper mode of address for a Damascan lady—“here’s what’s going to happen: in a few seconds, I will pick this beam up and hold it out of your way.” He patted the beam he was kneeling on, which was as thick as his waist and stretched from one end of the room to the other.

  “When I do,” he continued, “you take your children and come on out. I can protect you until you can leave the house. All right?”

  “What about my husband?” Adrienne asked.

  “Your husband is doing fine on his own,” Simon snapped, running out of patience. “And I don’t know whether he wants to skin me alive or give me a job, so before I find out for sure, I’d like to take you out of here. All right?”

  Adrienne glared at him one more time before nodding. Somehow, even crouched beneath a broken bed and covered in dust, she made that seem like a generous concession to an inferior.

  Simon shook his head and called steel. What was he doing here, anyway? These three were alive, and he could get killed for this. Malachi’s family was hardly his responsibility. He could just hear Chaka calling him an idiot.

  Simon wasn’t sure he disagreed.

  ***

  As ever, Malachi found wearing the Ragnarus mask a disturbing experience. On the one side, it made him feel like a demigod, pulling enough power from Naraka to level Bel Calem itself. With this mask, he could call enough fire to blacken the sky with smoke and ash, and the strength and energy flowing through him made him feel as though he could bend steel in his bare hands. That feeling was a drug all its own.

  On the other side, his body bore the strain. His skin stretched and thinned as he watched, and even without checking a mirror he knew that gray would soon start creeping over what remained of his black hair. The mask made him blaze with power to dwarf a dozen Travelers, but like everything from Ragnarus, it carried a price. His life burned away every second, like a wick under the flame. Only a few hours in the mask would age him to death.

  But this boy, this arrogant child, may have killed Adrienne. Rage warred with terror at the thought, and Malachi hurled another ball of orange fire from the Furnace. It shrieked as it darted for the Elysian Traveler.

  He had intended to overwhelm the boy immediately upon donning the mask and turn his attention to more important things, but he was proving a tough strand to snap. His gold-armored warrior batted away everything that came too close with its staff, and the boy himself wielded blasts of golden light that forced back everything Malachi could summon. Not enough to threaten him, of course; with the mask on, Malachi doubted anyone short of Zakareth himself could best him in a frontal contest.

  The problem was that Malachi couldn’t call anything too destructive inside his own home. The Elysian may have killed Adrienne in his carelessness, but if he hadn’t, Malachi didn’t want to bring the whole house down around her. Anything he summoned powerful enough to destroy the Elysian Traveler would blow his house in half, so he was forced to stick to lesser powers that he could control. He would win, eventually, but it would be a matter of wearing down the boy’s defenses, waiting for him to make a mistake.

  But the longer this fight took, the more of Malachi’s life leaked away. He was already one, two, maybe even three years older than he had been when the fight started. What would Adrienne say, when she saw him as an old man?

  The Valinhall Traveler would help her, if she could be helped. Malachi had great hopes for that boy, if he survived. Malachi had almost roasted him on pure reaction when he saw the child sneaking along in a black cloak, headed for his wife and children. Logic had restrained his power. Logic, and a feeling. Logically, if Simon had wanted Malachi’s family harmed, he could have just left them there. And Malachi’s instincts told him that a boy who would risk himself to save a captive—even a captive who wasn’t really being held against her will—would only be trying to help.

  He would be a great asset to the Kingdom, one day.

  But that was in the future. For now, this standoff had taken long enough. It was time to be finished.

  Malachi raised both hands and twisted them in unison, the screaming fireballs from the Furnace keeping his opponent too occupied to notice, much less do anything. The wall between Naraka and this world twisted, shrieking in protest. This was one of the few powers he had been warned never to call, except under the most dire circumstances.

  Too bad. He was about to end the fight, even if he had to blast this prophesied savior all the way back to Enosh.

  “Vordreith, Lady of the Just, I call upon thee,” Malachi intoned. His whole body pulsed with agony, but that was a good sign. Attempting this summons without the mask might have killed him; he would accept a little pain. He did not usually have the voice to summon one of the Arbiters, but today the mask’s power carried his request to every flickering flame and dark corner in Naraka. “In the name of my lawful authority, I beg the power to punish rebellion.”

  Vordreith’s response was immediate, a somewhat amused and cultured female voice that echoed in his skull: Putting down rebels, Malachi? You?

  “Please, my lady,” Malachi said. Some of the boy’s golden blasts were getting far too close to the bedroom door. He had to hope Simon had things well in hand there. “The Elysian Traveler is in my home. He may have killed my children.”

  Really, now? Vordreith murmured. Then all amusement vanished, leaving a voice as cold as a snowdrift in Helgard.

  Then break him.

  A swirling ball of fire appeared in his hands, boiling with all the natural shades of fire and beyond: the orange-gold of a blazing flame was streaked with red from a slaughterhouse, yellow from a thunderstorm, blue from an ocean’s depths. The whole immense power of it, borrowed from Vordreith, whirled in a space he could just barely contain in his two hands together.

  Every Naraka Traveler, upon first beginning his training, eats a fruit that protects him from heat to one degree or another. One of the measures of a Naraka initiate’s potential power is how much protection they gain from the ritual. Malachi’s protection was the strongest in generations; the fruit of the obsidian tree had granted Malachi a protection so great that he could wade barefoot through coals without a twinge, and it was a good thing. A hair less resistance, and the burning sphere he held would have scorched the flesh from his hands. Without the protection of the obsidian tree’s fruit he would be dead. And without the power of the mask, he would never have been able to keep Vordreith’s fireball contained; it already would have consumed the heart of Bel Calem in raging flames. His head throbbed with the pain of the effort.

  The challenge now would not be killing the Elysian. It would be doing so without burning his entire mansion down, and maybe his wife and daughters with it.

  Malachi glanced to the right, at the bedroom door. They should be spared the worst of it—enough that it wouldn’t kill them, at least. If he controlled the energy correctly, if he could only do this right, then his family shouldn’t even feel the heat.

  Malachi held the ball of fire in front of him and, with a wordless shout, triggered its power. A stream of fire billowed forth like a dragon’s breath, consuming all in front of it.

  Flames swallowed the golden Traveler whole.

  ***

  Fire gusted toward Alin, blasting apart the gold-skinned giant he had summoned. He barely had time to throw up an arm in a vain attempt to shield his face from the heat.

  He had expected that, if this moment came, he would be able to die content knowing that he had done his best to oppose evil. What he felt instead was shame. He had told everyone that he would be the one to fight Damasca, even dared to think of himself as a hero.

  The Overlord had proved him wrong. After all this, he was just a boy with a head full of pride.

  Alin stood there, cringing and shielding his eyes, for almost thirty seconds before he realized that he wasn’t dead.

  He lowered his arm and flinched involu
ntarily, taking a step back. The stream of flame hung in the air as though frozen, the heat still enough that he felt as though his skin should have caught on fire. It filled the room with a blinding light, so Alin felt he could look at nothing else.

  When he finally pried his eyes away from the fire, he realized someone was standing in front of him, where he had been standing a moment before. It was a young man with golden hair, standing frozen like the fire, with one arm held up in front of his face. He wore a slashed, burned, expensive suit that might once have been blue, and he cringed away from the flame.

  From inches away, Alin stared into his own face.

  Rhalia dashed in from the side, white dress blowing in a wind that didn’t exist. Her golden eyes and hair shone bright with reflected firelight.

  “Rhalia!” Alin said. “What is this? Am I dead?”

  “Close,” Rhalia said with a laugh. “You know, you weren’t ready for this. I separated your mind from your body so that we could talk.” She floated over the stream of fire and hopped up to Malachi. He stood still in his purple suit, one half of his face covered by a crimson mask, mouth still open in a scream. His hands were thrust in front of him, as though he had to push the column of flame forward. Rhalia waved a hand in front of the Overlord’s face.

  “You separated my mind?” Alin poked a finger at his own body, as it stood in front of him. It felt completely rigid, as though his flesh and clothes had turned to stone. “This is amazing! Could you do this anytime?”

  “The longer I do it, the closer you come to frying your brain like an egg,” Rhalia said, spinning around and hopping back toward him. “So let’s make this quick, shall we?”

  “That sounds fine to me,” Alin said. He had never even heard of frying an egg, but it didn’t sound like a pleasant process.

  “You’re in the frying pan now, so I guess I’ve got a choice. Do I let you die, or do I give you something you haven’t yet earned?”