by M. Walsh
He rushed to the other room and retrieved his sword. His home attacked, his friends hurt, and now his family threatened—it was time for blood.
“What are you doing?” Seria asked.
“Troa took Cassie west, right?” he replied. “I’m going to take Dian and try to find him. And I’m honestly hoping I run into the people who hurt him along the way.”
“I’m going with you,” she said. “I can help you find him, and Troa is my brother. If someone’s hurt him, I—”
She didn’t finish. A terrible howl swept through the house, as if a hurricane had dropped from the sky. The fireplace and candles blinked out in an instant, and a familiar cold came upon them.
The front of the house ripped away, and both Deck and Seria were thrown across the room with debris and dust raining around them.
Lord Karvax had arrived.
* * *
“I’m afraid the militia is out of commission.”
Lock always imagined himself a calm and easy-going person. He didn’t share his brother’s hot-headedness or his sister’s stubbornness. He wasn’t one to let his emotions get the better of him, and he was never the type who panicked easily.
However, after finding the remains of Sheriff Rieko and Aster’s militia-men—to his disgust, Lock couldn’t be sure how many were dead; it was that messy—he found himself close to panic.
He stared at the ghoulish man grinning at him and could think of nothing. His blood ran cold with the realization he was unarmed. Even if he had his sword, he thought, what could he do against a madman capable of this?
“I assume you know why I’m here,” the Jackal said, taking a seat at Sheriff Rieko’s desk and putting his feet up. “You’d be wise to tell me where it is.”
“I don’t,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and hide his terror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Jackal frowned. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said. “You see, the brave Aster militia didn’t tell me much, but I did learn of a fancy man with white hair who was part of a fancy family who thought themselves heroes.”
He chewed on his nails, which still had blood on them.
“And as I wonder if this fancy family who thinks themselves heroes has something to do with a certain item I am seeking, who should come into the Sheriff’s but a white-haired pretty boy?” He leaned forward and finished, “Synclaire, yes?”
Lock was sweating. He thought his legs would give out underneath him. He felt a terrible wrenching in his gut, which he interpreted as certainty he was going to die. How could it all go so wrong so fast?
“Let’s not fuck around, boy,” the Jackal said. “Even if you don’t know where the Gauntlet is, I’m confident if I cut you enough, you’ll point me in the right direction. So why don’t you make it easier on yourself and just tell me, all honest-like? Tell me where it is and maybe I’ll spare the rest of your family and anyone else in this shit-hole town.
“That’s the best deal you’re going to get from me.”
A strange thing happened to Lock Synclaire then. He still felt certain he was going to die that night, but listening to the Jackal talk and threaten, his fear gave way to a kind of coldness. He thought of Sheriff Rieko and the deputies who died. He imagined how many other people had already died and how many more could die.
All for some dead sorcerer’s glove.
“Eat shit.”
The Jackal grinned and razor-sharp claws popped from his gauntlets. “Have it your way, hero.”
* * *
Lord Karvax was an imposing man who stood close to seven feet tall. Like his disciples, he wore flowing black robes, and his flesh was a ghastly shade of white. His wrinkled face was grim, eyes pitch black, and he scowled at the dazed Deck and Seria as though they were insects.
“You interfering infidels have caused me enough trouble,” Karvax said. “I have searched far too long to be denied Master Bane’s Gauntlet.”
Deck rose to his feet, clutching his sword and coughing on dust from the ruined house. The arrow wound in his shoulder opened and blood leaked down his arm. He tried to shake out the cobwebs, but the ground seemed to be rumbling beneath his feet. “If you think we’re just going to hand it over—”
“Be silent!” Karvax hissed. “I don’t need you to tell me where it is! I know it’s somewhere in this town, and that is enough. I’ll find it at my discretion. This is vengeance!”
Deck staggered to the nearby stairs, trying to keep his balance. His head was clear, but the ground continued to shake. Seria got to her feet and, although she didn’t have her sword on her, she drew a pair of daggers from her belt.
“You shall pay,” Karvax said—the rumbling growing louder. “For my followers and for delaying me!”
“Deck,” Seria whispered as he realized Karvax was glowing. “Something’s coming …”
The warlock floated into the air and raised his hands. There was a horrific screech as the creature he summoned burst from the ground in a flash of purple fire. Deck’s jaw dropped and Seria turned pale upon seeing the abomination that emerged.
It had the appearance of a scorpion—only ten feet long from its head to the tip of its tail. Four segmented legs lined its left and right side, standing five feet high, and its black flesh was leathery with spikes running down its back.
The tail curved up, and its stinger resembled a scythe’s blade, as did the pincers in front. Its face—for the beast did have a face—consisted of bulging red compound eyes and massive jaws containing razor teeth.
Hovering above the creature, Karvax said, “Kill them.”
The scorpion pounded its pincers on the floor and charged with terrifying speed. Deck and Seria lunged out of the way in either direction, and the foot of the stairs exploded into a cloud of dust and debris behind them.
It was already scaling the walls before Deck regained his senses. He looked up to see the scorpion snarl from above before thrusting its tail at him. The stinger just missed, shattering the floor like china, and when he tried to cut it off, his sword bounced off with a metallic clang.
The scorpion pounced from the wall. Without thinking, Deck fell onto his back and held his sword up. The blade stuck into the creature’s chin, and it hissed with its bulbous eyes inches from his face.
The pincers raised, ready to slice him to shreds, but the scorpion paused when it saw Seria summersaulting toward it. It tried to impale her with its tail while she was in mid-air, but the Eldér managed to evade the stinger and drive her daggers into its back.
The scorpion roared and bucked like an enraged bull. As Seria—avoiding the pincers and stinger—dug her knives into the creature, Deck turned his attention to Karvax.
The sorcerer was still glowing and had his eyes locked on the scorpion. He appeared to be controlling it, and remembering the fight in the cemetery, Deck hoped killing the mage would destroy the monster.
He charged at Karvax only for his blade to hit nothing but air. The warlock disappeared with a swirl of blackness and reappeared near the ceiling, glaring at him with contempt. He tried to think of another way of getting to him, when he heard Seria grunt in pain.
She had done damage to the scorpion—even blinding it—but she was thrown from its back and slammed into the stairs. The monster roared and thrashed about in rage, and even blind, it sought to impale Seria with its tail.
Deck dove in front of her and deflected the tail with his sword. With a harsh roar, he thrust the blade into the scorpion’s head. It howled in fury and slashed him across his chest with its pincer, leaving a ragged wound that would become a lasting scar.
He was thrown aside and tumbled across the floor into the far wall. With his sword still in the scorpion’s head, Deck watched the snarling beast approach with its tail poised to strike. Too injured to stand, he waited for what seemed to be his end.
But Seria leapt off the stairs and brought all her weight down on the sword. It slid through the monster’s head and imbedded into the flo
or. The beast squealed and convulsed before going limp under Seria’s feet.
She had only a moment to savor her victory before Karvax appeared behind her and, without a word, struck her across the jaw with the back of his hand. She was hurled across the room and hit the floor unconscious.
Deck, clutching his wound, teeth gritted and determined to fight, tried to get to his feet. Karvax watched him as the scorpion melted to inky pus—the same look of contempt frozen on his pale face.
“You infidels vex me,” he said. “At every turn.”
Still struggling to stand, Deck said, “Won’t … won’t let you …”
“Be silent, you fool. It will be such a relief when—”
Karvax’s eyes widened, and his face somehow turned whiter as the thick, curved blade exploded from his chest. He managed only a surprised grunt before he was cut in two at the waist by the massive falchion.
“Tell me,” said Vincent Dune. “Was this what you were expecting when you found that Gauntlet?”
* * *
If Lock Synclaire was to take anything from his time in Graylands, it was that he learned a lot about himself and how he responded to pressure. All things considered, in the face of everything he’d experienced since Deck found the Gauntlet, he believed he acted admirably enough.
He took pride in his defiance of the Jackal’s threats. His only regret was he couldn’t back it up with physical force, as he was still unarmed and—killing a single bandit and surviving dark mages aside—a novice in actual combat. Instead, he turned and bolted out the front door with the intention of escape.
Once outside, he leapt onto Aries, and for a moment thought he might make it. Unfortunately, the Jackal dove through the front window and plunged his claws into the horse’s side. Aries shrieked and tried to continue running, but the blades cut open his belly and practically disemboweled the poor animal.
Lock managed to ride another ten feet before Aries collapsed. He was forced to dive off before his leg was pinned beneath the body, and his left arm took the worst of that fall.
He ignored the pain, sprang to his feet, and rushed around the nearest corner. He pressed his back against the wall and rubbed feeling back into his arm.
Hearing the Jackal approach, he resumed running with no idea what he was going to do. It was late enough for the streets of Aster to be deserted. Most of the shops and buildings were closed and dark, but Lock wondered if maybe that was a good thing. For a man to be so brazen as to slaughter the Sheriff and his men, the Jackal would kill anyone else he crossed paths with.
I’m on my own, he thought, his heart pounding. No one’s coming to save me.
He ducked into a random alley. He looked around, hoping he might find some way of losing his pursuer, but the alley was a dead-end and he had no means of climbing to the roofs. His teeth gritted and sweating, Lock sank to closer to the ground. A part of him hoped the darkness of the alley would keep him hidden, but he doubted that.
The Jackal said nothing, but he also didn’t hide his approach. A harsh scraping sound echoed through the street, and Lock knew he was dragging his claws against the building or ground as he walked.
He realized he was being toyed with. He tried to imagine what Seria or Troa would tell him to do, but could think of nothing. He knew Deck would fight, unarmed or not.
Maybe I can catch him off guard, he thought. When he walks by, maybe I can tackle him and …
And what..?
The scraping grew louder as the Jackal came closer. Lock’s legs were tensed and ready to spring. If only he had something—a knife, a shard of glass, a rock—something he could use to defend himself or even distract the Jackal with.
Unable to think of anything better, he pulled his shirt off and clumped it in a ball. Just ahead, the Jackal appeared at the alley entrance. He looked nonchalant and was grinning, as he could see Lock even in the dark.
“No more running, squirrel,” he said. “You can scream, but it won’t—”
In a move that would’ve made Krutch Leeroy proud, Lock thrust his shirt into the Jackal’s face. The distraction, pitiful as it was, was enough. He charged and rammed his shoulder into his gut.
He made certain to use his momentum to drive his enemy’s back into the cobblestone pavement. Frantic, he slammed the Jackal’s head onto the street and punched his face twice with all his strength.
The blows did little to faze the madman, who responded with a demented grin and head-butt which made Lock’s vision flash as though lightning had struck. A gash above his right eye cut open, and he was flipped onto his back.
The Jackal spat blood from his mouth and was back on his feet. He drove his claws down, but Lock dodged the attack at the last second. The metal blades cracked the cobblestone with a spark and gave Lock his weapon.
Taking the shard of rock, he smashed it against the Jackal’s head—though not before his enemy clawed some flesh from his side. The Jackal grunted, blood leaking from his forehead.
Lock, adrenaline pumping and barely feeling the four bleeding lines on his ribs, brought the stone down on his enemy’s head one more time before running at top speed up. He didn’t look back, ignored his wounds, and focused only on escape.
Behind him, the Jackal’s mad laughter echoed—as well as a promise: “I’ll be seeing you!”
* * *
“I have a message,” said Dune, taking a rolled up parchment from his coat. Behind him stood a tall woman and older man—both armed. He retracted the extendable blade of his falchion and continued, “It seems things have … escalated in Seba. I need to return there, so I’m afraid we cannot play this game of cat and mouse, Mr. Synclaire.”
Despite being unarmed, Deck tried to stand, but he crumbled to his knees. His vision blurred, and his mind was spinning. He needed to fight … he needed to check on Seria … he needed to save Cassie … Lock … where was Lock..?
“I’ll leave this with you,” Dune said, holding up the scroll. “But to summarize, we have your sister. She’s coming with us. We have no intention of hurting her, but you need to bring us Bane’s Gauntlet. Bring it to Seba, yourself, and she will be returned to you unharmed.”
“They’re already dead,” he mumbled, feeling delirious. “They’re all dead … it’s all my fault … just kill me, too …”
“What’s he saying?” the woman asked.
“Kid’s in bad shape,” said the older man.
“I realize you’re in no condition to understand me, Mr. Synclaire,” Dune said, crouching in front of him. “But it’s time you gave up the Gauntlet. As a gesture of good faith, we spared the Eldér who was guarding your sister. He fought valiantly. And I repeat: we have no desire to harm her. But that is the extent of our mercy. Make it easier on yourself, your friends, and your family.”
He placed the scroll on the floor in front of Deck and stood.
“The Gauntlet,” he said. “Seba. We’ll be waiting with your sister. This is a far better deal than you’re going to get from Jonathon Gash, the warlocks—if there are any more—or the Jackal.”
Deck barely heard him. He continued muttering under his breath, “… my fault … I killed them … all my fault …”
He didn’t even feel his head hit the floor as darkness took him.
43
When Katrina Lamont was eighteen, the tide of the war in Vigor was turning. By then, she was no whispered rumor or legend. The rebellion was no longer a ragtag band of desperate warriors—it had grown into a true army, and it was driving out all traces of Tyrell and his dark forces. With each passing day, the fulfillment of the prophecy was that much closer.
Katrina herself had grown into a formidable fighter. She was told over and over that she was the Chosen One and rightful heir to the Vigorian Throne. She had regained her father’s sword, and the land was marshaling to her. The people looked to her as they would a messiah, and although that still made her uncomfortable, she would admit—looking back—she believed her own hype a bit.
And this wa
s when she met Armand Tyrell face to face for the first time.
It was in the recently freed city of Epsalon where the Usurper King decided it was past time he faced his Chosen enemy himself. No one knew how he got into the city unnoticed—nor could they figure out how he escaped after. He appeared with no army or bodyguards. He came by himself.
He appeared to Katrina while she was alone … and promptly humbled her.
Their first battle was a disaster. Tyrell dodged her attacks with ease. He toyed with her and could have killed her many times—and he took pleasure in letting her know he could. He showed his disdain by spitting in her face.
Tyrell left her that night, beaten and humiliated. As a parting gift, he marked her with a scar down her back she’d carry the rest of her life. He left her there, his taunts echoing behind him: “Behold the Chosen One! The savior! A broken little girl who is nothing and will die for nothing! Hail Katrina, Princess of Nothing, Leader of None!”
Her wound was tended to, but Katrina said nothing. She answered not a single question and refused to give any explanation of what happened. She wanted only to get away and hide before she could burst into tears.
She locked herself in her private chamber, trying to keep her sobbing quiet so no one would hear. She cried long into the night, and it was Jagger who found her this way. Ever the thief, he snuck into her room through the window.
“Kat..?” he said. “You okay..?”
She sat on the bed, hugging her knees and kept her face buried in her lap. “Go away!” she said. “Please, leave me alone!”
“Kat …”
“Please, Jagger! Just leave me alone!”
He didn’t. Saying nothing, he sat beside her and waited. Secretly, Katrina was grateful he did. She remained there, sobbing for what felt like a long time, but Jagger wouldn’t leave. He offered no empty comfort or hollow sympathies. He sat in silence, waiting for her to open up, knowing she would.
“I couldn’t beat him,” she whispered. “I’ve been preparing my whole life to fight him and … and I couldn’t even touch him.”
