Just a little more, he thought. That will be enough to wake Mom. Kaltor turned a corner and found three more vein-bulging attackers, pinning down a guard. One held his mouth shut while the others stabbed mercilessly.
Time to raise the alarm, he thought, screaming aloud as he dove on the first attacker. Both daggers rose and fell three times before his opponents could even react. By the time they lunged toward him, Kaltor’s first victim lay lifeless on the ground. For a brief moment, he froze, recognizing the serving girls.
You brought me dinner last night.
Their screams were shrill and piercing, and their daggers dripping from the guard’s blood. Their tainted veins surged and pulsed with each enhanced step as they lunged toward him.
They’re faster! he observed, dancing backward as they swung in toward his blurred frame. Throwing a dagger into the thigh of the woman on the right, Kaltor spun to his left, deflecting the other girl’s dagger arm and plunging his blade into her heart.
The final woman jerked the dagger free of her leg with an angry hiss and sprinted forward. Kaltor charged into her, surprise interrupting the rage in her eyes. He managed to catch hold of her weapon hand just as his shoulder smashed into her diaphragm. Lifting her upward, he rolled her across his shoulders, through the air, and twisted her arm fiercely as she landed.
Her arm snapped from the collision with the ground, air exploding from her lungs and her weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. In seconds, Kaltor had wrapped his legs around her waist, arms clinging tightly around her throat, cutting off her air supply. She arched backward uncomfortably, trying to reach him with her finger nails, only to claw uselessly against his leather armor.
"Talk fast," he advised. "Or I break your neck."
Without another word the girl threw back her head and unleashed a high pitched shriek so loud he thought his ear drums would burst. Similar shouts resonated throughout the camp, accompanied by the feelings of Varadours drawing on their powers. The excavation site was turning into a blood bath.
"I don’t have time for this," Kaltor grunted, ending her cry of alarm with a gut-wrenching snap. Got to get to Mom and Dad!
Varadour power and adrenaline surged through his system now. His enhanced senses brought the open fighting in the street to him in disturbing detail. His enhanced hearing honed in on the shrieks of alarm, snapping bones, and cries of the dying.
Sprinting through the crowd, Kaltor carefully watched the desperate melee around him. Each time one of the black-blooded people gave him an opening, he dove in, slicing as many hamstrings, sword arms, and throats as he could reach, but did not deviate from his course. He reached his parents’ tent just as both their broad-shouldered guards sank to the ground under five opponents.
A blast of blue Sight Seeker energy rocketed through the open tent door, sending one man rolling on the ground, clawing at illusionary foes. A bow snapped repeatedly from within the tent, sending feathered shafts hissing through the air with impressive frequency. Their attackers grabbed their fallen comrade, lifted his body as a human shield, and charged through the entrance.
Gereth and Krin screamed as all five enemies spilled into their tent, four still combat-capable. Kaltor dove in from behind, hamstringing the first two as he somersaulted past. They stumbled to the ground, feebly swinging their sword and mace toward his blurred body.
The last two attackers held their human shield in one arm, trying to reach around him with their spear and mace toward Gereth and Krin, their backs totally exposed.
How strong are you two? he thought. Ramming both daggers downward into their backs, Kaltor flipped around, facing the hamstrung attackers with his hands on his dagger hilts to support him.
The last two tried to turn toward him without dropping their human shield, but with a jerk of his dagger and a flash of Gereth’s, they were impaled and dropped to their knees. They kept trying to finish off their main targets, crawling desperately across the ground despite their gaping wounds and rapid blood loss.The two hamstrung attackers tried to rise and stumbled toward him, but, using both daggers for support, Kaltor fired fierce kicks into both men’s skulls.
"Hold them!" Gereth ordered, diving to the right side, Krin to the left. Sight Seeker energy tormented their minds and volleys of arrows pierced their flesh, until Kaltor finished off the last of his attackers with a final dagger slice to the throat.
"I recall telling you not to open the vault, Dad," Kaltor said dangerously as he wiped the gore from his daggers.
"What’s going on?" Gereth demanded. "What’s wrong with them?"
"Aside from the bad blood and homicidal tendencies?" Kaltor asked sarcastically, kicking one man over to better expose his black veins and oozing wounds.
"What’s—?" Krin gasped as she saw one corpse’s face. "It’s a Perversion!"
Kaltor recalled the legends from before the Crippling. Mere childhood stories repeated in order to scare children from wandering into the dark on their own. People touched by the Abyss itself to do its will, he thought, barely restraining the urge to vomit. This is what the feelings were warning me about. I started all this.
"We have to secure Melshek, Rivatha, and the bandit princess," Gereth said.
"Honmour and Jensai are on it," Kaltor said uneasily. "But there is rampant fighting in the streets. That’s where we’re needed right now."
"Mark them for me," Krin ordered. Kaltor and Gereth peeked carefully through the tent flap before exiting. Orange and red flames sputtered upward from many tents and buildings. Small groups were forming up and down the street, struggling for survival or blood.
Miners in little more than their underclothes fought desperately with whatever weapons were on hand in their tents. The black-blooded attackers were partially armored, and many swung two-handed axes and maces with the ease of a child swinging a tree branch.
The surrounding area glowed blue as Gereth surveyed the scene through a Sight Seeker’s eyes. "Center right," he said. "Their backs are to us."
"Got them," Krin said, drawing another arrow from one of her dual quivers. "Keep them off me," Her first arrow, guided by Varadour-enhanced strength and senses, sank into one large, black-blooded victim right above his chainmail shirt, impaling his throat. Her second shot was of equal lethality.
Familiar shrieks of alarm sounded and three small, black-blooded figures charged across the street. Seriously? Kaltor wondered. Even kids?
Without hesitation two ten-year old boys leapt six feet into the air while a girl dove for his ankles. The moonlight glistened eerily off the forks and kitchen knives in their hands. Sight Seeker energy rocketed into the air-borne children as Gereth selected his targets.
As the bottom child lunged toward Kaltor’s legs, a thin strip of drool fell from her mouth. With a grunt of disdain, the assassin dove into the child’s arms, trusting his leather armor to keep her little kitchen blades at bay.
He caught hold of her head in both hands. She tried to stab his chest, but her arms were too short. Her panicked strikes sank into the hardened leather armor of his forearms, digging through it with alarming speed. He hesitated a moment. I’ve never killed a child.
She continued to howl and claw at him, leaning forward in an attempt to even use her teeth. It was as if Haven itself were suspending her before him, rubbing his face into his own sins like one would a dog into its own urine. This is my fault, he thought numbly. This is because of me.
"Enough," he snarled, though his anger was directed more at himself than her. Holding her a safe distance with one arm, he drove his knee into the side of her head, blasting her into unconsciousness. With a sigh of regret he caught hold of her arm, pulled it up between his legs and twisted fiercely, breaking it at the elbow.
Through his Varadour vision he watched Gereth pummel the two boys with waves of blue energy from each hand. As he overwhelmed their minds, he walked up to their twitching bodies and slammed his mace into their faces, his expression cold.
They haven’t trained me to
kill children, Kaltor thought, grabbing the girl’s legs and other arm, repeating the joint-breaking process. "Be thankful I left you alive," he whispered.
He stood back from the girl’s immobilized body and paused. Silence filled the camp. Black-blooded people fell to the ground without apparent cause. The miners approached their bodies cautiously, flipping them over.
It was the girl’s lack of breathing that caught his attention. He leaned down toward her and saw her veins, still and solid, like clay. He leaned over and put his fingers to her throat, trying to find a pulse. The blood in her arteries and veins had hardened into a thick, jelly-like substance, too thick for the heart to move.
That was quick, he thought, shakily. Way too easy. For a moment, he couldn’t pull his eyes from the dead child at his feet. The coagulated blood held her limbs frozen at their impossible, broken angles. She looked like some bizarre sculpture from a sadistic stone carver.
"What in the Great Abyss was that all about?" Krin asked, shaking the fatigue out of her fingers. Her eyes did not leave the bodies of the two boys lying next to her husband and even in the dark, her face was haunted with a green tinge, just on the point of vomiting.
Kaltor moved his gaze to the ground, trying not to look into the children’s dead eyes, unsure he could ignore the guilt within him if he did. He felt like screaming and screaming, never stopping. Yet he knew even if he could voice his remorse for a thousand years it would not make up for the deaths he’d caused this night.
"It must have happened during the night," Gereth said. "Everything was normal when we went to sleep."
"What happened in the vault?" Kaltor demanded. "Did anyone take anything?"
"Of course not!" Gereth answered. "We made it clear any stealing would result in the entire camp losing a portion of their share. Everything was recorded and left with a double guard at the entrance overnight."
"Wonder if they are still alive—" Krin said, pausing suddenly as she and Kaltor froze, eyes unfocused, sensing the energy use of one Varadour in particular. Short-short. Short-short. Short-Short. "Over by Melshek’s tent," Krin said. "Is that a message?"
"Honmour," Kaltor whispered. "Let’s go!"
They passed the healers’ tent along the way. Wounded gradually limped in, relief-soldiers scrabbling to meet all their needs, their powers overseen by what few Sight Seekers could be spared. Most were scrambling around the camp, shouting for survivors to take buckets and head for the river. Others ran straight to the burning tents and pulled them apart to prevent the flames from spreading further.
Throughout the camp Sight Seeker eyes illuminated the darkness like pin pricks of afternoon sky punching through an ocean of black clouds. Kaltor could sense Varadours moving from tent to tent. He heard them all calling the names of friends and loved ones, some with hope, others in mourning.
"Maybe you should stay with the healers," Krin suggested to her husband. "They need an experienced leader," Already a few arguments echoed across the street as two Sight Seekers argued over a patient’s fate.
"What about you?" Gereth asked.
"Other Peacebinders will be gathering at the church," she said simply. "They need a leader as well," She shouldered her bow, pulling out a blue sash and wrapping it around her forehead, marking her status among her followers. Instantly a few miners’ faces lit up with hope and headed in her direction.
"I need to talk to Melshek first," Gereth replied. "We have to figure out what started this. We can’t risk another attack while half our men are wounded," He snapped his fingers, calling a teenage boy over. He whispered something about the vault and the boy scampered off into the night.
"‘Half’?" Kaltor asked incredulously. "Have you even been counting?"
Gereth gulped, glancing back toward the healers’ camp. The wounded were already spilling out into the street, the tables already full. A few good men were already looting their own tents, gathering bed rolls for the wounded, while a few Varadours returned from the night with healing herbs in hand.
"If the rest of the camp is like this, three quarters of the survivors will need healing," Gereth said simply. "Maybe twenty percent of them are still in fighting condition. Even a bandit raid could be a serious problem now," A shout from Melshek’s tent pulled their attention away from the camp.
"Kaltor!" Honmour called. Emerging from a large number of people limping toward another healer’s tent, he struggled under the weight of a large cook. "I’m glad you’re okay," Black blood covered his arms and face, and he limped slightly as he walked.
"Same to you," Kaltor replied. "Did you get there in time?"
Honmour’s facial expression darkened. "I managed to save Rivatha," he said. "But Melshek wasn’t even there."
Krin rushed to Honmour’s side, Varadour energy filling her body as she summoned the strength to support the cook’s weight. "I got him," she said, joining the line of miners struggling toward another healer’s tent.
"What do you mean?" Gereth cut in.
"Rivatha was up half the night waiting for him," Honmour said. "It was all I could do to keep her from charging into that meat grinder to try and find him."
"Oh no," Gereth said, his face pale and his tone hollow. They all turned toward him.
"What is it?" Kaltor asked slowly.
"Melshek took something from the vault," Gereth admitted. "A necklace. He said it marked him as a king. He seemed very excited about it. He called it his share of the treasure."
Both Kaltor and Honmour lunged at Gereth, knocking his legs out from under him and pinning him to the ground. "What was your share?!" they both demanded, thinking the same thing.
"I hadn’t decided yet!" Gereth promised, squirming under their iron grip. "You know me, my son. I always think things through very carefully before I choose something so important! I was trying to understand if any of the items were Varadour weapons!"
A few passersby handed over their wounded to others, drawing their weapons and coming closer. "Is he mad as well?" one of them asked. "I can behead him for you."
"Let him go!" a woman called from within the crowd. Rivatha appeared, her eyes swollen from countless tears and her voice trembling with fatigue. "Enough people have died tonight. Look at his skin. He’s not sick!" Kaltor and Honmour looked at each other, sighed in relief, and helped Gereth to his feet.
"Alright, Rivatha," Kaltor said. "What happened to Melshek?"
"I wish I knew," she said humbly. "He got back last night from the vault. He was very excited. Said he’d found a treasure that could make him king. He called his mercenary friends to celebrate at the tavern. Some of my handmaids went to attend to them."
A chill ran down Kaltor’s spine and hovered ominously somewhere around his stomach. Pretty sure those were the women I killed outside our tent, he thought. Melshek’s mercenaries were the first to attack us. Is that where the trouble started?
The messenger boy burst through the crowd, hurrying to Gereth’s side. "The guards at the vault are fine," the boy reported. "They weren’t attacked at all in the night. They want to know if they’re better needed here."
Gereth shook his head. "Tell them what’s happened. Tell them something in the vault may have caused it and not to let anyone in there until I can examine it myself. Also, go find the Battleborn Jensai and have him find us. He’ll be with the thief woman we captured," The boy nodded and hurried away again.
"That makes no sense," Honmour replied. "If this were some kind of disease or weapon from the vault, the guards would have been the first to be hit."
"Unless an object from the vault triggered it," Kaltor said. "Let’s see what’s left of the tavern."
They worked their way toward the northern portion of camp. All around them, tents were collapsed or still smoldering from being set aflame.Wagons were overturned, their contents trampled into the dirt. What few actual tents still stood were covered in debris. Kaltor glanced toward the wooden buildings on the northern side of the camp. Broken glass, shattered wood, and the occasi
onal black-blooded corpse littered the ground.
"That is downright unnatural," Honmour said as they reached the tavern. "Look at it!"
It was the lack of damage that made it stand out from its neighbors. Not even a splatter of black blood touched the walls or doorway. Kaltor’s insides took hold of that ominous feeling again, tied his intestines in knots, and sent them scurrying around his stomach a bit. "Not one window pane is broken, either," he observed, drawing both his daggers. "Let’s have a look."
Waving Honmour over, the two of them crept up to either side of the door. Gereth and Rivatha tried to follow, but the two assassins waved them away. Best leave the scouting to us, he thought. Rivatha is exhausted and I’m still not sure what to think of Dad just yet. He’s not dangerous, but he’s part of the reason I opened the vault in the first place. I don’t want him guarding my back. Kaltor pushed the door open with the toe of his foot while Honmour peeked around the corner, short sword in hand. He signaled that the room was empty.
Kaltor entered first, dual daggers clenched tightly in each fist, feeling light-headed. Small pools of crimson blood lay on tables and floor boards, contrasting oddly with the unbroken surroundings. They worked their way around the first table, which was covered in stains from the food and ale of the previous night. The chairs were unbroken but not pushed into the tables, as if the room itself were recovering from a wound.
They never had a chance to close up for the night, he observed. But whatever happened here wasn’t an all-out fight, and it was fairly recent. The blood pools are much fresher than the food stains, he estimated. They must have happened later on.
They both circled one table, with a perfectly circular blood pool in its center. There was no fighting here, Kaltor thought. Otherwise the blood would be everywhere. Aside from that, everything seems normal.
A few coals still clung to life in the fireplace, glowing ominously among the wood’s charred, black remains. They reached the end of the hall, where a counter separated the customers from the kitchen. Warmth still radiated off the stove. A few open pots exposed long over-cooked soups and meats. The same blood pools gathered here on the floor and counters, perfectly circular with just a touch of splattering, is if poured into place.
Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1) Page 10
