“Del?” she heard Tarlak ask. He sounded as if he were just waking up from a deep sleep. “Del, no, what did you do?”
The pain shifted, curling through her body, attacking her lungs, her heart, her throat. Her eyes burned, and she closed them, unable to shake the image of two obsidian vipers latching on to her eyeballs. Face to the ground, she shuddered as the rain fell upon her, and she’d have given anything for that water to wash away her consciousness.
Feeble child, the prophet’s voice echoed in her mind. A man or woman can die from pain, if it is great enough. The mind breaks, unable to handle such levels of torment. That fate awaits you, Priestess. I will drag you to the very brink, and then beyond. You’ll die screaming, pissing yourself like a newborn babe as you claw out your eyes. By the end you will be a broken husk, a fitting testament to Karak’s fury. This city may not be mine, but I have waited for centuries, and I can wait for centuries more. But how long can you endure? Days? Hours? Minutes …
The pain heightened. It didn’t seem possible that it could, but it did. Despite her closed eyes she saw a thousand exploding spots fill her vision. While only a dozen had bitten her brother, now she felt as if there were a thousand sinking in their fangs, flooding her with their venom. Every inch of her skin was on fire, every bone in her body aching, every breath she took seeming certain to be her last.
You feel the fires of the Abyss, feeble child. No mortal can withstand their caress.
She heard Tarlak calling for her, distant, unimportant. Rational thought seemed lost to her, her mind able to focus only on the terrible, all-encompassing pain. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know her own name. And then she felt herself go numb, fully numb, as the presence of the dark god bathed her mortal form.
There is still respite, he whispered, his voice deeper than the prophet’s. Even in death, there is time to reach out your hand …
The momentary respite from the pain allowed her to gather her thoughts, and she let out a single, pitiful laugh. If it was possible to stun a god, she felt she’d done it, for neither Karak nor the prophet spoke his ugly words in her mind. Gritting her teeth, she coalesced her thoughts so she might voice her denial. The effort was incredible. The mere act of opening her mouth meant enduring a thousand beestings across the muscles of her tongue and throat, but she would not be silenced.
“No.”
Every shred of her will, every last remnant of her power, she poured into that single word. With everything she would deny him. With everything she would fight the cruelty he sowed, the darkness he fostered. The pain returned, as furious as ever, but she clung to that word, assigning to it her very identity. Her name was Delysia, and even if she was but a feeble child, she was not Karak’s child, and would never be.
Death comes for you, Priestess. My time for games is ended.
The prophet’s voice.
“No.”
She was on her knees now, her awareness returning. It was raining, her clothes were wet, her hair sticking to her face. Wave after wave of agony coursed through her. She beat her fists against the hard stone of the road as she screamed it out again.
“No!”
Light shone from her fists, and when she struck them again, the stone cracked, spider webs racing for hundreds of feet in all directions from the blow. She heard a ringing, high-pitched and piercing, but it felt wonderful to her ears. Lifting her hands, she watched smoke drift off them, spreading into the night air for only a few feet before dissipating. Ashhur’s power flooded from her chest to her extremities, and she reveled in its presence. A whisper, and she returned her vision to the realm of gods.
The snakes crawled about her body, but they were twisting in pain, mouths opening and closing in feeble attempts to bite. Clasping her hands together, she lifted them above her head, then flung them down as she stood to her full height. Light flashed from every inch of her skin, and she heard the cursed things shriek, then cease to be. The tendrils connected to the prophet snapped and withdrew, curling like the legs of a dying spider. And then, with a sudden intake of air, her sight returned to normal, and it seemed her ears resumed working again, for she heard the patter of the rain with sudden, startling clarity.
“Never,” Delysia whispered as she dropped to her knees, chest rising and falling as she gasped in air. “Never yours.”
“Del!”
She barely had time to brace herself before Tarlak flung his arms around her in a hug. Despite every muscle in her body feeling sore, she laughed and pressed her face against his chest.
“I’m all right,” she whispered.
He pulled back, kissed her forehead.
“And it’s a good thing, too,” he said. “Because if not, I’d have killed you for pulling such a reckless stunt.”
Awareness continuing to grow, she saw the remnants of the battle all around her, the gathering soldiers, many of whom stared at her with a mixture of fear and awe. Crossing her arms over her knees, she pressed her head against them and let herself finally cry, the tears as much for relief as they were a reaction to the trauma she’d just endured. Tarlak held her for a few moments, and she sensed he had something he wanted to say. Given the many who lay dying all around her, she had a feeling she knew what. That he would ask it of her, trust her to endure it despite all he’d seen, warmed her tired heart.
“You’ve already done so much,” he told her. “But there’s still more to do if you can manage it.”
“I know,” Delysia whispered, head lifting from her forearms. Tears were in her eyes, and she wiped them away. There would be time for weakness later. “Help me up, will you?”
Rising to his feet, he grabbed her wrist and pulled. When she stood, she felt her exhaustion fading, burying itself deep down until it could be dealt with later. Brushing strands of red hair away from her face, she staggered to the wounded. Her first few steps were weak, and she nearly stumbled. When she reached the nearest, a man bleeding from a horrible stab to his stomach, she dropped to her knees and put her hands directly against the tear in his flesh.
“Stay still,” she said, hoping her hoarse voice could be heard over the rain and commotion.
It seemed he heard, either that or her presence was enough to calm his cries and make him lie still. Closing her eyes, Delysia prayed the first of what she expected to be very many prayers. Holy light shone around her hands, she heard a distant ringing, and then she opened them to see the wound healed, the blood drying and flaking away from the fresh white scar.
“Thank you,” the man said, and he looked ready to kiss her.
Delysia smiled at him, tried to stand. Her legs quickly betrayed her, and she fell back down onto the hard stone. Within seconds Tarlak was there, grabbing her arms.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just … stay with me in case I’m not, and see if you can bring the wounded to me instead.”
“Sure thing,” Tarlak said, and he shouted out the order. As the injured men lined up, some limping, others being carried, Delysia dropped back to her knees and began to resume. Brug joined her and Tarlak from further up near the gate, and he tapped the wizard in the side with a gauntleted hand.
“Ready to go back to the tower and guzzle down something incredibly alcoholic?”
“Sorry, Brug,” Tarlak said. “I don’t see much reason to celebrate.”
“The city’s safe, and we’re still alive,” Brug said. “Sounds like reason enough to celebrate to me.”
Delysia put her hands onto the stump of a man’s left arm, felt the bone and blood moving underneath her fingers. It’d take a lot of time to heal, time she didn’t have. Deciding to simply seal the wound, she offered a quick prayer, then motioned him away. While waiting for the next injured, she glanced over her shoulder, looking back at the rain-soaked city, a city filled with deathtraps bearing the four-pointed star. A city whose fate Haern fought to wrestle from the hands of a maniac.
“We’re not safe yet,” she said softly, and it seemed the thunder rolled in agreement.
CHAPTER
33
Haern glanced over his shoulder as he knelt before Muzien’s corpse, saw his father standing on the far side of the rooftop. There was no reading that hard face, that impassive stare, but it seemed he had nothing to say. Turning back to the corpse, Haern sheathed his sabers and then began to search the body. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, just something magical, perhaps bearing the four-pointed star to signify its link to the tiles that remained scattered throughout Veldaren. Once it was in his hands, the city would be finally be safe, so long as Tarlak and the others held the gates …
“You won’t find it,” Thren said.
Haern froze, and he felt dread race from the center of his chest to his extremities, constricting his neck, tightening his gut. Slowly he rose back to his feet and turned to face Thren.
“What do you mean?” he asked, already fearing the answer.
From underneath his shirt Thren pulled out a golden amulet that hung from his neck by a long thin chain. Carved into its surface was a roaring lion, Karak’s favored symbol. There was no need to explain. What else it could be?
“How?” Haern asked, his voice low, still hoarse from the kick to his throat.
“Luther gave it to me before I killed him,” he said. “As well as the word needed to activate it.”
Haern dared not move, not until he knew what this change meant. His father controlled the fate of the city, not Muzien? Then the deception, the lies, claiming Muzien held it and not him …
“Why would Luther give it to you?” he asked.
Thren twirled the amulet in his fingers, drops of blood from his nose dripping across its gold.
“Because I was strong enough to do what must be done,” Thren said. “The king’s throne hides ancient doors to ancient worlds, and that prophet at our gates would doom us all if he reaches them. If the gates fell, I was to destroy everything to spare Dezrel from enslavement to Karak and his priests. Those tiles were never meant for evil, Watcher. They were meant to do what must be done to protect all of mankind. I would think someone like you would understand that. After all, how many have you slaughtered in the name of ‘protecting’ the common folk of Veldaren?”
Haern felt his mind reeling.
“But Muzien destroyed several other tiles,” he said. “He knew.”
“Only too late,” Thren said, slipping the pendant back underneath his shirt. “His pride blinded him, and at last he paid the price.”
“Why did you lie to me?” Haern asked. “Just so I’d help you kill Muzien?”
“I lied so you’d see what we could accomplish together,” Thren said as he slowly paced before him, the rain pouring down upon his bruised face. “I wanted you to realize how even the greatest fall before our combined might.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Haern said, and he shifted, trying to keep his muscles limber. “Our time together is over.”
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” Thren said. “I was Muzien’s heir, and with his death at our hands, my right to rule will only be reinforced. The Sun Guild may be crushed here, but all throughout the west, the remnants will eat each other trying to decide on a new leader. I can rally them, unite them, while you remain here, the city of Veldaren yours to rule and protect as you see fit.”
“I won’t do it,” Haern said, shaking his head. “I want nothing to do with the guilds.”
“Then what is it you do want?” Thren asked.
“Peace, for those who live here.”
His father laughed, and he stretched his hands out wide as he gestured to the city.
“What do you think Muzien brought?” he asked. “All the guilds, he subjugated. The Trifect, he cowed. The king, he terrified into inaction. We had peace, a peace broken only by our hands. That is the way of this world. The strong rule the weak, and we are the strong. Your pretended truce only upset the balance of things, but it’s gone now, and through this chaos we might give birth to something better. Something proper.”
He jammed a finger at Haern.
“If you want peace for Veldaren, then take it. Help me rebuild the Spider Guild, and I will appoint you its leader as I travel west. You’ll never defeat them all. You’ll never make this city safe, because for every greedy bastard you kill, two more are ready to pick his corpse clean. But if you lead them? If you control them, decide their truces, and strip power away from all other pretenders? Then this city will know peace. It will be by your hands, and under your name.”
Haern heard the words, the insidious logic, and he had no answer. All he did … what was the point? Was it for revenge against his father? If he wanted peace, if the result was all that mattered, then what reason did he have to reject such an offer if deep down he believed it would be work? Lord of Veldaren’s underworld, without the need to prowl the rooftops and slaughter so many to maintain his fearful reputation …
“What more could you want?” Thren asked, and Haern could hardly believe the pleading he heard in his voice. “Assume the throne you were always meant to have. There is no one better deserving of such a crown. The Spider Guild is yours. Veldaren is yours. Take it.”
Haern wanted to. He felt the future hovering before him, tantalizing in its possibilities. With but a word, he could finally rule the underworld. No more prowling. No more games and bribes. The peace Muzien had forged, Haern could make it last. With Thren as his ally, who would dare resist them? Even the Darkhand had fallen. The fear inspired by the Watcher would rule supreme, overcoming Thren’s, the guilds’, the king’s … if only he stood at his father’s side.
His father. Haern looked to him, and he felt a thousand memories rush through him. His lessons. His training. A childhood of books and loneliness. And in it, he remembered how Thren had clutched in vain at power, bit by bit slipping through his fingers. The way it had driven him. The sacrifices it had cost him. Delysia had opened Haern’s eyes to a better world, and his father’s arrow had shown him the underworld would swallow that better world if given the chance. If truly forced to decide, which would Haern embrace?
In his mind’s eye he saw himself in a future where he ruled Veldaren, cloaked in gray, a Spider on his chest and bloody swords in his hands. In that future there would never be a day when the city no longer needed him, not after he lifted it in his hands and declared it his. In that future there would be no difference between him and his father.
Haern faced Thren, and he gave an answer he should have given the very moment the question was asked.
“No,” he said. “I am a servant, not a king. I will never take your place.”
Thren remained perfectly still, and he swallowed as if nails were in the back of his throat.
“So be it,” he said, clutching the amulet through his shirt. “If I cannot have a legacy to continue beyond my death, then let my very death cause all of Dezrel to shudder.”
Panic spiked Haern’s heart as he realized what his father meant to do.
“Wait!” he shouted.
“For what?” Thren asked. “You heard Muzien. I have nothing left, and I am too old to build anew. Even if I reformed the Spider Guild, it’d never be what it once was, especially not with you lording over everything. I would rather the city learn, once and for all, the punishment it must suffer for turning against me. Better it as ash than in the hands of others.”
“Stop it,” Haern said, taking a careful step closer. Thren appeared dangerously unhinged, the most emotional Haern had ever seen him. Even the day he’d come home after Marion’s death, he’d not looked so broken. “This is insane!”
“What other way is there? What other legacy might I hope to have? This path I’ve walked has cost me everything: my friends, my wife, my children. I have no family, no heirs. Even my own son, he’s lost to me now…”
“Your son…”
He dared not question it, dared not doubt. The game was at its end. Haern slowly reached up to the sides of his hood. Pulling back the soft cloth, he peeled away the protecti
ve shadows, revealing his blond hair and naked face. He said nothing, only stared at Thren as his father stared back, jaw trembling, hands shaking. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke, and when he did, his voice shook with rage.
“My son,” Thren said, tears falling from his eyes as he spit out the words, “died in a fire. He died betraying everything I ever taught him. What it meant to live, to rule. What it meant to be family. Don’t you get it, Watcher? I have no son. He is lost to me, and is never coming back.”
Still silent, Haern lifted his hood back over his head as water rolled down his face.
“Give me the amulet,” he whispered. “Then get out of my sight.”
Thren shook his head as he drew his swords.
“If you want it, you’ll have to cut it from my neck.”
The warm night suddenly felt so very cold.
“Don’t make me do this,” Haern said. “Please, it doesn’t have to be this way.”
His father settled into a stance, short swords held at the ready before him.
“Since the day you first scrawled your mark, this was meant to be. Damn my cowardice for waiting so long. My life or yours, Watcher. Draw your blades.”
Haern did so, settling into the very same stance as his father, left hand out, right hand held back for a parry or thrust.
My life or yours. So terribly simple.
Thren burst forward, both blades pulling back to swing, and Haern felt his instincts taking over. He met the charge, refusing to let his father establish any momentum. Their blades connected, Haern blocking the combined strike, then digging in his left heel and sweeping with his right. Thren leaped over the kick, tucked into a roll when he hit the ground, then shot back out of it. Both short swords thrust for Haern’s waist, one coming in much faster than the other so Haern could not parry both aside with a single blade.
A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance Page 36
