Corran went right; Rigan went left. They had never fought a beast like this together, but years of working side by side allowed them to anticipate each other’s moves. Corran’s staff landed on the creature’s thick skull with an audible crack. The beast howled, but kept on coming. Corran leaped out of the way a heartbeat before sharp teeth snicked on the air where his leg had been.
“Hey, ugly!” Rigan was no swordsman, but he had carved up enough corpses in the mortuary to know how to use a knife. He jabbed the beast as it charged, managing to throw himself out of the way before it could trample him.
Corran was back on his feet, staff twirling. This time, he caught the creature under the chin with full force, stunning it enough for him to thrust his sword hilt-deep into the monster’s side. The creature bellowed, but showed no sign of flagging.
The brothers slowly circled the monster as it eyed them, deciding which looked like weaker prey. It leaped toward Rigan much faster than something its size should have been able to move, and he stumbled back, trying to stay out of the way of its jaws. Sharp claws raked across his left shoulder, opening four bloody gashes.
“Rigan!” Corran was already moving. Use your magic! He urged silently.
Rigan jabbed the knife in his right hand into the monster’s neck, hard enough to go all the way through and out the other side. The creature took another swipe at him, but Rigan rolled clear. Corran barreled toward the beast, landing with his full weight on its back and bringing his staff down across the creature’s spine just behind the skull. With a wheeze, the monster collapsed, Corran riding it as his staff cracked down again, with bone-splitting force. He raised his sword and sank it hilt-deep into the creature’s flesh. That’s for Kell.
Corran did not rise until he had yanked his sword from the monster’s side and brought it back down with deadly finality, cutting off the head. He got to his feet, staring at the creature’s body and the spreading pool of black blood. “I don’t think it got here by accident.”
“Maybe we interrupted something,” Rigan said, getting to his feet. He looked around warily, and Corran wondered if he, too, had the sense that they were not alone.
“Or maybe we ruined the chance to pin the blame on someone or something else.” Corran’s voice was dangerously cold. A hunger for vengeance filled him, a need that went down to his bones. Monsters had taken his mother and killed his lover. Now, Kell was dead. Rage boiled Corran’s blood, bordering on madness.
If it helps me get the job done and avenge Kell, then madness is welcome.
Three guards emerged from the shadows on the other side of the warehouse. “Well, look at what we’ve got here,” one of the guards said, his voice slurred by drunkenness. “New recruits.”
“Was that your pet monster?” Corran demanded.
The men laughed. “Wasn’t nobody’s pet, but it was damn useful, ’til you killed it,” the guard said. He nudged the body closest to him with his boot. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. The fun was over way too soon.”
Fury replaced grief as Corran and Rigan launched themselves at the drunken guards. The men drew their swords, only to find that their attackers were past the point of fear. Corran’s staff moved in a blur, disarming one guard with a bone-crunching smack to the wrist and then slamming the weapon into his forehead hard enough to crack his skull.
Rigan fought with two long knives, the worn, familiar grips comfortable in his hands. As Corran went after the second guard, Rigan stalked the third.
“You’ll hang for killing a guard,” the soldier blurted once he realized that their ‘easy prey’ intended to fight to the death.
“There won’t be any witnesses,” Rigan grated.
Corran wondered if his brother’s magic could kill all of the soldiers at once, and remembered that the last time he lashed out, it had brought the roof down as well. Magic might be his last resort, but right now, Rigan’s rage and grief demanded a physical outlet.
The guard snarled and came at Rigan in a drunken fury, and Rigan’s knife laid the man’s left arm open down to the bone. The sword opened a gash on Rigan’s shoulder, but he was too focused on vengeance to feel the pain.
“You’re going to bleed like Kell did,” Rigan promised in a low, cold voice.
A few feet away, Corran eyed his new opponent with the emotionless practicality he had learned fighting monsters. The soldier was skilled with his sword, despite being drunk, but Corran blocked him with his staff at every move. As he watched, fear gradually dawned in the man’s eyes.
Finally, Corran rushed the man with a succession of jabs and swings that sent the guard stumbling backward. He knocked over the lantern, and the oil spread. Flames licked at the debris scattered across the floor. The guard’s boots lodged on the body of one of the dead Wanderers and he tripped.
“Damn you!” The soldier yelled as he landed flat on his back in the dark, pooled blood. The fire behind Corran lit the warehouse in flickering light and shadow.
Corran’s staff swept the sword from the soldier’s hand, breaking his fingers and knocking the weapon out of reach. The next blow to the stomach made the guard spit up blood. Corran fell on top of the man, pinning the guard’s wrists with his knees. He clasped his hands together and slammed them across the man’s face with all his might.
“You killed my brother.”
A whimper was all the guard could manage with a broken jaw. Corran’s next blow snapped the man’s head to the other side. “You made him suffer.”
The guard gave a guttural bleat. Corran’s bloody fists beat against his face once more. “You did it for sport.” Corran leaned in closer. “I’m an undertaker. I know how to take a body apart. I could do it while you’re still alive—and make it last a while.” He saw terror and pain in the guard’s eyes. “Did you make him beg for his life? Did you enjoy it?”
“Mercy!” the guard managed, blood bubbling with each breath.
Corran swung his fists again with his full might, feeling the man’s neck snap with the force of his blow. “That’s as merciful as I get tonight.”
Only then did Corran register that Rigan was not with him. He looked up, and saw that his brother had the last guard up against the warehouse wall, pinned a foot off the floor. Rigan’s hand was in the center of the man’s chest, limned with a faint yellow light.
“I’m sorry I killed your brother!” the guard babbled, terrified.
The look in Rigan’s eyes bordered on madness. “Kell. His name was Kell.” Rigan did not move, but a thin trickle of blood started from the guard’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” the guard shrieked. More blood leaked from his nose, then the corners of his eyes. Rivulets of blood ran from both ears.
Rigan tightened his hand over the guard’s chest. Corran watched in horrified fascination as droplets of blood-sweat formed on the soldier’s forehead. The guard gave an incoherent cry, twisting against the power that held him, but Rigan’s stony expression never wavered.
“I said you would bleed like he did.” The knife in Rigan’s left hand moved too fast to follow, opening a thin, sanguine line across the soldier’s throat. He clenched his right hand, as if to stop the guard’s beating heart, and in the next instant, the man’s corpse slumped to the floor and the golden light winked out.
Corran rose to his feet, still staring. Rigan closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He staggered, and looked like he might collapse. His face was pale, and his hands shook. He took a shuddering breath and collected himself. Then he bent and retrieved his second knife, and turned toward Corran. Both of them were covered in blood. Corran tore off a piece of his shirt to bind the gashes on Rigan’s leg.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Corran said. Smoke filled the warehouse; the fire had spread too far to extinguish.
“Get Kell,” Rigan replied. “I’ll cover us.”
Now that the fight was over and vengeance won, Corran’s whole body trembled with the aftershock, as grief and pain surged through him. He bent to pick up Ke
ll’s body, cradling him in his arms, and headed for the door at the rear of the barn.
“They’ll know someone killed the guards,” Corran said. “The others will come looking.”
“Not for a while. Not until they can sort out the bodies from the fire—if there’s anything left,” Rigan replied. “Come on. We need to take Kell home. We have work to do.” As they slipped down the dark alley, the warehouse behind them burst into flames.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“TRY HARDER.” MACHISON’S words came out as a snarl.
“You’d do best to remember your place,” Blackholt replied. The temperature in the room dropped as blood witch’s magic rose. The Lord Mayor felt gooseflesh rise on his arms, and a real and terrifying chill in his veins.
“You work for me.”
“And we both serve Crown Prince Aliyev, for as long as it pleases him,” Blackholt replied. “He gave you use of my services because he knew you needed my help to keep the city under control. To maintain the Balance.”
Machison reined in his temper. If Blackholt realized he and Valdis had conspired against him, he did nothing to show it, or to suggest that anything had weakened his power. “Could you read anything from the filthy Wanderer I brought you?”
Blackholt turned part way to look at Machison, his expression a mixture of amusement and disgust. “Wanderer blood is rich with power. But I learned nothing.”
“Nothing?” Machison nearly roared in frustration.
“Did you expect a manifesto?” Blackholt mocked. “Some kind of itinerant peddler conspiracy?” He did not bother hiding his contempt. “The Wanderers are a threat because they exist. Magic is in their blood, passed on to their children and bastards. They don’t do magic, they are magic. They’ve had generations to perfect it.”
“And you don’t see that as a threat?”
Blackholt chuckled. “Why do you think the Wanderers… wander?
Why they’re reviled wherever they go? Oh, there are the rumors about stolen children and thieved chickens, but those things happen regardless. It’s because they’re the last of an old race, and old magic protects them and curses them; legend has it, Eshtamon’s magic. They may even affect the Balance. The Wanderers can’t be eliminated, but they are condemned to never find home.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about legends and dead gods,” Machison railed. “If they’re a threat, then they can wander elsewhere.” Blackholt shrugged. “And you have set your guards on them, have you not?”
“Yes. You know that.”
“Did you count the cost?”
Machison’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“In the legends about the dead gods, Ardevan cursed them to be hunted and reviled with no place to lay their heads. Eshtamon couldn’t break the curse, but he gave them cunning and the magic to outwit their enemies and avenge their losses.”
“You didn’t bother mentioning this before.”
“You didn’t ask. And after all, it’s only legend.” The blood witch’s back was to Machison now, but the Lord Mayor could hear the smirk in his voice. They both knew the commoners still revered the Elder Gods, even while they made token offerings to the Guild deities. “So do they pose a danger?”
Blackholt gave him a bemused look. “If they didn’t before you sent the guards to purge them, they surely do now.”
“And the marks they scrawl on the walls? What of those?” “A secret language, steeped in old magic,” Blackholt replied. “A code, to warn and direct one another. Sometimes a curse on their enemies. Maybe more. They haven’t exactly been... cooperative about explaining it.”
“Then I’ll have the guards paint them over, or scrub them off.” “Magic is not so easily dispelled. Once marked, such sigils cannot be easily expunged.”
“What of the hunters’ blood? They’re not Wanderers. Mere rabble. What did you read in them?”
Blackholt rounded on him, eyes cold. “Do you think blood is like a parchment, that can be unscrolled and read at will?”
“I suspected you were a fraud.” Machison took a risk goading the witch, but anger drove him on.
“You want to know what I read from the hunters’ blood?”
Blackholt countered, lifting an orb streaked with brown, dried blood and holding it out toward the Lord Mayor. “I read defiance. Anger.
Fear for their families, and an abiding hatred for the monsters… and the one who sent them.”
Machison’s head came up sharply. “They know the monsters are sent?”
Blackholt fixed him with a stare. “They suspect. And when they learn the truth… it will go badly for you.”
“And it won’t for you?”
“My patron won’t allow it. Nor will my magic.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Your fate is linked with mine.” Machison watched as Blackholt turned away, and wondered anew whether the blood witch felt the tendrils of control that Valdis assured Machison now existed. Perhaps so. He’s surly, but a little less full of himself than usual.
“What of the other rogue witches?” Machison pressed. “I am watching them.”
“Watching them! Why do they still exist?”
“Because they respect the truce,” Blackholt replied. “Your truce, or have you forgotten?”
“Times change.”
“The witches Below have little power, barely hedge witches,”
Blackholt said. “A few healers, a seer or two, and the rest can conjure fire or read omens. Nothing that poses a threat. Only four have any true ability, and two of them are my men.” He paused. “But there is a newcomer… someone who bears watching.”
“Who?”
Blackholt shrugged. “That remains to be seen. It may be nothing.
His power may not develop, or it may kill him. Or he might become an asset.”
“You’re playing with fire. Have him killed and be done with it.” Blackholt chuckled. “Now if I made a habit of that, where would the princes of Darkhurst find witches for their employ? My men are watching the newcomer. If he shows promise, they’ll subdue him, remove him to where he can be controlled. Tutored. And the healer is gifted, though certainly not a threat. He could be useful.” Machison heard what wasn’t spoken. Broken. Bound. It made him look at the blood witch in a new light. Do you serve willingly, or does Aliyev hold your leash even more tightly than I do?
“Making assumptions is dangerous.” Blackholt’s voice was cold and sharp, like the edge of an icy knife. Whether the witch could read Machison’s thoughts or was just a good guesser, he got his point across.
“See that they don’t cause problems,” Machison ordered. “And if this ‘newcomer’ of yours proves useful, tell Aliyev—or Gorog—that I expect a bounty for providing him.”
“Keep your part of the bargain and Aliyev will give you his gratitude, which is worth even more. Fail, and it really won’t matter.” Machison bit back a retort, refusing to rise to the bait. He turned and stormed up the steps, though the blood witch gave no indication that he noticed the Lord Mayor was gone.
* * *
“WE’VE MADE A sweep of the wharfs.” Jorgeson’s voice was level, all business; that cool, emotionless tone he took when he wanted Machison to remain calm. Machison hated it, even though he also respected Jorgeson’s control.
“How many?”
“A dozen, give or take a few. The guards were careful to let the monster finish the prisoners off, to cover the disappearances. We lost eight guards in the process.”
“If the guards were ‘careful,’ they would still be alive.” Machison’s voice was a low growl.
“The danger with snatching men from the street is that someone might notice and go looking for them,” Jorgeson answered. “Especially in a city like Ravenwood.”
“Hunters or Wanderers?”
“Could have been either. Wanderers might have traced their kin’s magic, although they don’t usually fight unless cornered.”
“Taking that many should have let them know we wan
ted all of them.”
Jorgeson nodded. “Still. They’ve survived because they run more than they fight. For the good of the group, even if they lose individuals. Prudent.”
“Hunters?”
Jorgeson frowned. “Unclear. Two of the guards who weren’t killed in the fire died from sword strokes. But one had his heart crushed from within.”
“How is that possible?” Machison asked, feeling tendrils of cold fear wrap around his own heart. “Magic? Are the witches helping the hunters?”
Jorgeson paused. “If magic killed the guards, then it’s got to be Wanderers or witches, and both have reason to hate the guards.”
“There must be retribution.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Set the witch-finders on their trail. Pull in your informants. If you’ve got a suspicion about someone being a hunter, seize them and burn out their home. Blame it on the witches. It could be Wanderers, but why take a chance?”
“Blackholt might not take kindly to that.”
Machison glowered at him. “Leave him to me.”
“This will cause… unrest. You’re in the middle of trade negotiations,” Jorgeson cautioned.
“So would an uprising. Better that our trade partners see we can maintain control. Secure the harbor, assure that trade will not be interrupted.”
“The hunters we arrested may be Guild members,” Jorgeson said. “Go after too many of their members, and they’ll protest—take their cases to the Merchant Princes, maybe even the Crown Prince.”
“And risk the trade agreement that will put gold in their pockets? Not likely, no matter how many of their members they have to sacrifice. The Guilds profit by scarcity. Wipe out one Guild family, and another moves in to fill the void. So long as we don’t damage their ability to meet their trade obligations, and the treaty preserves their quota of exports, they might see it as an ill wind that blows good.” Machison gave a feral smile. “And as for the Merchant Princes, so long as they don’t miss a payment from the Guilds or their trading partners, a little blood won’t bother them.”
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