Unbroken Chain (single books)

by Jaleigh Johnson

  The shadar-kai in the bed next to his was sitting up, half hanging over the side of the bed. He clutched the frame, his body jerking in spasms, one leg held at an unnatural angle, as if he wanted nothing more than to shed the appendage. He’d been wounded in the thigh, like Ashok, and the wound had reopened, filling the bandage with blood and sickly yellow pus.

  “Help … me,” he whispered.

  Ashok glanced at the door. The voices were still speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  “I ask you!” The shadar-kai’s voice rang against the walls. Outside the door, the voices fell silent.

  Ashok backed quickly away from the door and went to the shadar-kai. He pushed the man back onto the bed. “Be quiet,” he hissed. He didn’t want the guards to investigate the noise. They would see he was awake, and the interrogation would begin. He needed more time.

  “Who … are you?” the man said. His glazed obsidian eyes searched Ashok’s face, but Ashok could see his concentration fading in and out. Only the pain kept him conscious.

  Only the pain, always the pain.

  “I’m the one you begged for aid,” Ashok said. He touched the edge of the man’s wound, probing skin that was on fire. “Your leg is rotting. You need a prayer, or you’re going to die.”

  “Only She … can help … me,” the man said, his teeth chattering. “Lady Beshaba! Hear me!” he called.

  Ashok kneeled by the bed and grabbed the back of the man’s head, pressing his other hand against his mouth to form a vice. “If you don’t stay quiet, you won’t draw your next breath. Do you believe me?”

  Dazed as he was, the man nodded. A hint of fear worked its way through the fever pain.

  “I’m going to uncover your mouth,” Ashok said, “and you’re going to answer my questions. Convince me you’re telling the truth, and I’ll let you live. Understood?”

  Another nod.

  Ashok removed his hand from the man’s mouth but kept a grip on his skull. “Are we still in the Shadowfell?” he asked.

  “The Shadowdark,” the man replied.

  “Near the Aloran Tor?”

  Confusion. “I don’t know what that is.”

  Ashok jerked the man’s sweat damp hair. “You’re lying. The black mountain-a yawning maw pointed to the west.”

  “Y-Yes,” the man said. “We call it Dark Crest.”

  “Who is ‘we’?” Ashok said. “Where is this place?”

  “Ikemmu,” the man said as his shoulders jerked. His mouth twisted in a smile that stretched uglily over his teeth. Ashok thought he was on the edge of delirium. “You’re in … Ikemmu,” the man said. “The Watching Blade … sees all.”

  He raised his hand and swiped the air as if reaching for something. Ashok followed the fevered gesture and saw, above the lanterns, an enormous sword carved into the wall. He hadn’t noticed the sword at first, but looking upon it fully, the weapon seemed to fairly swallow the room with its presence. It drew in the shadows and light, forcing Ashok’s eye to focus on it wherever he stood in the room. Everything else diminished in its presence.

  The wall around the carving had been bricked in faint red and shaped to form a shield beneath the sword. The brick and the lantern glow combined lit the whole scene afire. A strange, disturbed sensation crawled along Ashok’s spine. He had an errant thought: the sleeping shadar-kai weren’t alone in the room. They never had been. Someone else was there watching, waiting.

  Ashok shook off the feeling. The man’s delirium was starting to affect him. He was wasting time.

  “How big is this place?” he demanded. “How many guards?”

  The man tried to speak, but his teeth were clamped so tightly together that gurgles and foam were all that came out. The shadar-kai’s eyes rolled up in his head, and his body jerked in violent spasms that rocked the bed. Ashok could barely hold him.

  The door opened. Before Ashok could react, a slender, bald shadar-kai entered the room and walked briskly over to them. He wore a black tabard embroidered with a smaller rendering of the carving on the wall. Ashok went into a defensive crouch, but the cleric ignored him and took the spasming man by the shoulders. The wounded shadar-kai stared past him, his eyes eaten up with the sword on the wall.

  “Arnare, do you hear me?” the shadar-kai said. “Arnare, we’re losing you. You must reconsider your decision. You must let me heal you.”

  The man tried to jerk free, but he had no strength. “She will come.”

  Impatience ticked the cleric’s face. “We’ve sent for the Beshaban clerics once a bell for the past day. They’ve not responded. By the time they come it may be too late.”

  The man’s head lolled to the side, as if he couldn’t support its weight. “Then that … is my fate. Beshaba’s hand. No … other.” With a surge of strength, the man shoved the cleric away. “None.”

  Ashok watched the exchange in wary silence. He knew he should have run, or attacked the cleric while he was distracted, but confusion rendered him immobile. Why did the cleric waste time speaking to the man? he wondered. He should have healed or killed him instantly.

  Sighing, the cleric let the fevered man sink back on the bed. He pulled the blanket up over his shivering body.

  “A waste,” the cleric murmured. His gaze rested on Ashok. “You’re awake. Are you in pain?”

  The cleric took a step toward him. Ashok bared his teeth and lunged at him.

  “Back,” the cleric said calmly, raising a hand.

  A massive weight slammed Ashok in the chest, driving him back against the wall. Dazed, he slid to the floor. When he looked up, the cleric continued to approach. Weaponless, Ashok put his hands up in front of him.

  “What have you done to yourself?” the cleric demanded. He pointed at Ashok’s bleeding wrist, the crescent-shaped bite wound.

  Ashok ignored the question. “Who are you?” he said as his blood dripped onto the floor.

  The cleric clasped his arms behind his back, but Ashok wasn’t appeased by the gesture. He stayed in a crouch, an animal cornered. I’ll take your eyes first, his stance promised.

  “I am a servant of Tempus,” the cleric said. “You were brought to His temple because your wounds were life-threatening. I bandaged and treated them with herbs, but you still need healing. I was waiting for you to awaken so I could ask your permission.”

  “My permission?” said Ashok, a snarl building in his throat. “You ask a slave’s permission before you put the knife to him?”

  “You’re mistaken,” the cleric said. “There are no slaves here, no torturers.”

  “Aren’t I a prisoner?”

  The cleric shook his head. “Perhaps someday you will see how we treat our prisoners,” he said. “No, you are here at the behest of Uwan, Lord of Ikemmu, Watching Blade who guides us all.”

  Ashok felt his gaze inadvertently drawn to the sword carved on the wall.

  The cleric followed his look. “Tempus’s hand,” he said. “Will you allow Him to heal you, through me? I swear no harm will come to you.”

  No harm. Ashok knew better. The magic would bore into his brain, expose his enclave’s secrets. No, he couldn’t let that happen.

  Ashok turned to the wall. He would bash his head on the stones. One quick impact was all it would take.

  “No!” the cleric cried, too late.

  Ashok slammed his head into the wall. He collapsed on the floor, his vision hazy. The cleric moved above him, but his face seemed very far away. His lips were moving; Ashok could barely make out the words.

  “Forgive me, but I cannot let you die. Father of Battle, touch your warrior,” the cleric chanted. “Give him the strength to fight anew and the wisdom to see the folly in harming this most perfect vessel. Tempus, bless us both.”

  The cleric fell silent. He had one hand on his chest and the other on Ashok’s head. A serene quiet overtook his visage, as if he were waiting patiently for someone to whisper a secret in his ear.

  Between one breath and the next, Ashok felt the
sharp pain in his head and wrist subside to a dull ache, and then his vision slowly cleared.

  When Ashok looked at him in confusion, the cleric said, “Now do you believe that I will not harm you?”

  Cautiously, Ashok rose to his feet. He sat on the edge of his bed and stripped the bandages from his thigh and shoulder. He wiped away the herb concoctions and saw that the wounds were healed.

  “You need more sleep,” the cleric said. “To replenish your strength. My name is Natan. What may I call you?”

  Ashok hesitated, then gave his name.

  The cleric nodded. “Where do you come from, Ashok?” he asked.

  So the interrogation begins, Ashok thought. He stayed silent, watching carefully as the cleric wadded up the soiled bandages and straightened the blankets on Ashok’s bed. Briefly, he went to check the fevered man, and his face creased in disappointment.

  “He won’t last to Pendron,” Natan said. “Blood-thirsty Beshabans.” He threw the bandages on the floor in disgust. “Fight your enemy-never neglect your own.”

  A feeling like hot iron swam in Ashok’s chest. He stared at the dying man, whose entire body lay rigid, as if he were already a stiffening corpse.

  “Just do it,” Ashok said. “He’s helpless. He won’t fight you.”

  The cleric looked at him in mild surprise, then shook his head. “That is not His way. A warrior has the right to choose his own death.”

  Ashok turned away. The chamber door stood slightly ajar, beckoning.

  Natan saw where he was looking. “Do you come from the empire, Ashok? Is that where you will run?”

  “No,” Ashok said. “I’ll run far across the plain until the Aloran Tor is a black hillock in the distance, and the Mire River runs dry. I’ll hide in the kindling forests and bury my trail in the trees. You’ll die in the wilderness trying to follow me.”

  Natan sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “As you wish. Though the path to the surface is not an easy one. Stay here at least until the next bell chimes. By then you’ll be rested enough to travel.”

  The cleric moved from bed to bed as he spoke, checking the other wounded. He lingered next to one, his hand on an older shadar-kai’s chest. After a few breaths, he shook his head.

  “Another waste,” he said, “a prayer unanswered.”

  Natan went to the door. “Bring a litter in here,” he called out to someone. “This one is gone.”

  Ashok tensed when two more shadar-kai clerics entered the room, but they paid no attention to him. Between them, they placed the limp body on the litter and carried it solemnly out of the room.

  Natan watched them go and turned to Ashok. “We have not harmed you. Don’t waste your life. Rest here, and then we’ll talk more.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Ashok said.

  The cleric looked at him for a long time in silence. “No,” he said finally, and left the room.

  Natan locked the sickroom door behind him, though he sensed it was a futile gesture. If Ashok wanted to, he could tear the door off its hinges.

  The clerics set the litter with its burden on the floor.

  “Well, my lord?” Natan asked. “Do you believe he is a friend or a foe?”

  The body on the litter opened its eyes and sat up. Uwan stripped the fake bandages off his arms. “A rough beginning,” he admitted. “But I still believe the will of Tempus brought him here. He will serve Ikemmu.”

  “Or doom it to the fire,” Natan said. “He believes we are the enemy.”

  “Not surprising,” Uwan said. “You were right. He comes from the Shadowfell.” He looked at Natan. “We can’t let him leave the city.”

  “Keeping him here might be difficult, my Lord,” Natan said. “He gave his name, but he will answer no questions. It is only a matter of time before he attempts to escape.”

  “He was practically feral when he awoke,” Uwan said. His face turned thoughtful. “I lay in that bed because I wanted to get an impression of him, unfettered by any outside influence. I haven’t seen that reaction in a long time. I’d forgotten the desperation, the lack of control, how it transforms and imprisons a body.”

  “Like a hound himself,” Natan said. He hesitated then added, “But it seemed that he showed pity for Arnare in his fever.”

  “At last, something to thank the Beshabans for,” Uwan said. He picked up his discarded armor and donned the shadowmail vest. “We have to earn his trust by giving him ours. When he wakes next, give him food and let him leave the tower.”

  “Alone?” Natan said tightly.

  “I’ll send Skagi and Cree to watch over him,” Uwan said. He belted his greatsword at his waist and threw the black cloak of rank over his shoulders. Tempus’s sword cut the fabric down the middle in silver embroidery, the blade a phantom of the weapon at his belt.

  “What if he tries to escape?” Natan said.

  “I fully expect he will.” Uwan smiled. “It promises to be an interesting day.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ashok descended a spiral stone staircase. His prison was a tall tower. At the bottom of the stairs there was a guarded door. A shadar-kai woman in plate armor with a helm and hood covering most of her features stood at attention beside the exit.

  Ashok hesitated, his hands aching for his chain and dagger. The familiar weights were absent, held by Natan and the rest of his captors, but they’d given his bone scale armor and shirt back to him, along with his boots and cloak.

  Natan had told him he was free to leave the tower. Did the cleric truly expect him to believe that they were going to let him walk freely out of his prison into the open air? His captors were playing with him, giving him a taste of freedom before they tightened his chains.

  He would make them regret their foolishness.

  Cautiously, Ashok approached the door. The guard stepped aside and opened the door for him herself. Momentarily stunned, Ashok recovered quickly and darted outside. The guard shut the door behind him. He stood alone in an unfamiliar courtyard, at the brink of a city for which he had only a name.

  His black eyes transitioned without effort from the light of the tower to the lantern-lit expanse of an underground cavern. Roughly twenty feet ahead of him were the remnants of a stone dwelling. Two of its walls had collapsed, leaving a small space and plenty of shadows to conceal him. Ashok ran to the dwelling and crouched among the ruined stones.

  From his hiding space he beheld a crescent-shaped guard wall in the distance, a thirty foot high stone barrier that abutted steep walls to the north and south. Shadows grew from the guard wall and moved-teleporting from one end to the other like ghosts.

  He counted sixty guards, though it was impossible to get an accurate number from such a distance. He knew of only one other shadar-kai enclave that occupied such a defensible position in the Shadowfell.

  Ashok reached inside his armor. Long ago, when he’d assembled the pieces of bone, he’d attached an extra strip of leather to the inside of the breast to form a pouch. Too small to hold a weapon, he used it instead to conceal secrets, anything he didn’t want his brothers to find. Now he removed a strip of soiled bandage he’d taken from the sickroom. Natan had left the cloth wadded up on the floor. He crouched and picked up a piece of blackened slate from the ground.

  Clutching the slate in his hand, he slid his finger along the sharp edge. It opened a small wound that brought a familiar, welcome sense of focus. It was not enough pain to set his heart racing or cause a surge in his veins, but even the small wound was a pleasure. He smeared blood between his thumb and forefinger, and used the latter to ink the number of guards and the height of the wall onto the bandage.

  If he could somehow lay his hands on parchment and true ink, he would be able to draw a map of the city. When he managed to escape, he could determine how far the city lay from his own lands, and how far down. The information would be useful to his enclave when determining how much of a threat Ikemmu posed. Once they had all the necessary intelligence, his people would gather, and together
they would strike at Ikemmu with all the strength they possessed. Annihilating an enclave of Ikemmu’s size would be a triumph such as Ashok’s people had never known.

  It would bring them back to life again.

  He slid the bandage back into the pouch and cautiously ventured out of hiding. The guard wall embraced hundreds of the low, blocky stone buildings like the one in which he stood, some of which had been hollowed out or collapsed by fire. Others had been repaired and were now occupied. Smoke curled from chimneys askew, and torchlight brightened the narrow avenues between structures.

  The torches made Ashok pause. With their light it was brighter down here than on the plains of the Shadowfell, where the shadar-kai were most at home. There should be no need of torches.

  He saw figures moving between some of the dwellings. Ashok backed into the shadows and crouched down to observe them. A dozen or so were shadar-kai. Small figures moved beside them-dark ones, Ashok thought. The diminutive humanoids had ratlike faces and moved in quick, furtive spurts. They scuttled along behind the shadar-kai, watching for threats from the shadows and from each other. They dressed in black and carried long, curved daggers with black hilts. Some wore scimitars at their belts.

  But not all of the figures Ashok beheld were small. He fixed his attention on the other creatures that moved in the torch light.

  Warm-skinned, some dark and others light, they possessed strange eyes that were several colors at once in a face. They wore long beards, or none, and their flesh was smooth. Ashok tasted their scent on a sudden draft that blew down through the open end of the cavern-skin and hair redolent of wood smoke, food and sweat. But it was an odd, effusive smell-not the reek of a being native to shadow.

  The shadar-kai walked among the strange ones with weapons sheathed, but many did not make eye contact with the warm-skinned beings.

  Ashok remembered the lessons his father had taught him, about his own heritage and the races that existed in the world alongside the Shadowfell.

  A world he’d never seen.

  “Human, dwarf, tiefling.… ” Ashok whispered the names he could remember as his vision tried to adjust to their appearance. His prison was growing stranger and stranger.