Viktoria's Shadow: Jael

by Ysobella Black

  The hilt of the blade over the mage’s chest burned hot, and Jael lunged, opening a slice across the mage's ribs.

  Inedel screamed, but stuck as he was, couldn’t avoid the slash.

  “Was that the right one? Are you feeling more chatty now?”

  Eyes closed, chest heaving, Inedel didn’t answer.

  Jael’s second blade’s hilt burned hot, and he opened a slice on Inedel’s left arm.

  The mage writhed and his eyes bulged as the magic of a second spell snapped.

  “Anything you feel like saying?”

  “I can’t!" Inedel laughed. "You’ll kill me if you keep doing this.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll keep my cuts shallow, so no more talk of me killing you. I have questions. You have answers. Tell me about the other mages.”

  Inedel’s head sagged. “I can’t.”

  “Well, feel free to let me know when you can. You can save yourself a lot of pain if you tell me which spell to cut off you.”

  Jael let his blades track spells over the mage’s skin, prepared to strike and slice through every spell the mage wore. As magic flowed and Inedel screamed, Jael cast his mind back, reminding himself of what had started it all for him 3,500 years ago.

  FABA’S STRIDENT, NEVER-ending litany of complaints blurred into a mind-numbing monotone that Jael’s brain processed and dismissed as meaningless noise. Thankfully, with the stables as his destination, she would stop hounding him. She hated the horses even more than the small house he’d left her in.

  He hurried down the narrow street between modest residences of narrow, beige bricks and turned left at the corner. Right led to the larger mansions and the life Faba thought she’d be getting when she married him. He used to revel in what she wanted being so close and so far out of her reach. Now he was just weary of their constant fights.

  A sigh gusted out of him as he entered the stables and greeted the lone black and grey horse. More spirited than the other mounts, this horse had endurance and liked speed. Father and the members of his Council had already saddled the rest of Jael’s horses for the journey to the columned audience hall in Apamea.

  Jael would just as soon leave all the politics and negotiations to the others, but Father still hoped to convince his son to return to the Council. Jael wanted no part of that, but had agreed to this one meeting.

  The soldiers of the white-eyed men coming across the Zagros Mountains from the west targeted women and girls with dark hair and light eyes — called them Asiptu, witches, and murdered or took them away to an unknown fate. He wanted to hear the discussion and make sure Maescia was safe.

  He removed the blanket from the horse’s back and went to retrieve a saddle.

  “Don’t go, Jael.” Faba startled him with her presence in the stable, placing one hand on his arm, the other lifting her white pleated tunic and green over-skirt out of the dirt. “These men cannot be trusted. You can’t believe anything they say. We should leave this place and find a new home.”

  Jael let the saddle rest on its stand and faced his wife. “They’re attacking villages and cities one by one. The only chance we have is to show them our six tribes are united and want peace. The Magi of the fire sanctuary will be there.”

  “If you do this, we will die.”

  A shiver ran down his spine. Sometimes Faba had a way of saying things that made her words feel like prophecy. “Don’t worry foolishly, wife. If I don’t go to this meeting, we’ll die. We won’t be spared if we run and they find us.” Jael caught sight of his daughter peeking around the corner of the stable. He’d do anything to save her. Even go back into politics. She wasn’t aware of any danger, and he lowered his voice. “I’m going to negotiate peace. We are under a truce. If we cannot come to an agreement with them, we’ll talk about leaving when I return.”

  Though vicious, these men weren’t numerous. Showing a strong front had to be the way to end this.

  Realizing he’s seen her, Maescia rushed forward and leapt at him. “Habu, Abu!”

  His heart always gladdened at her sing-song declaration that she loved her father. Soon she would think herself too old for such plain statements of affection. “Habu, Hibu.” He caught Maescia and swung her around as she laughed.

  “Where are you going, Abu?”

  “To a boring meeting. Nothing a little girl would be interested in.”

  “I’m not little anymore!” She touched the medallion on a cord around her neck. “Will you bring a gift?”

  Last time he left the village, he purchased matching trinkets for her and Faba from a woman with amber and emerald green bi-colored eyes. She’d pressed the silver triangles into his hands, saying they would hold his love. He didn’t know about that, but Maescia adored her new necklace and never removed it. Faba wore hers at their daughter’s insistence.

  “If you let your mother treat your hair while I’m gone, I will give you another shiny present when I return.”

  Maescia, uncharacteristically stubborn about her hair, threw a fit every time he brought up the idea. The elixir had cost him a fortune, almost everything he had, but if the overture of peace didn’t work, his girls would no longer have the looks that marked females for death or maybe worse. Faba’s hair was a dark brown rather than black, but better they both had light hair for now. If he knew of a way to change their eye color, he’d do that too.

  Small fingers touched his hair. “But we won’t match anymore.”

  “Just for a little while. When I return, I can change mine too, if you want.”

  Shoulders slumped, Faba trudged out of the stable.

  A lump formed in his throat. Why couldn’t she see this was best? The men of the village weren’t soldiers. They weren’t even fighters. There’d never been a reason to learn. Peace would keep them safe, as it always had.

  Located on the Great Khorasan Road, between the Dasht-e Kavir desert to the east and the mountains to the west, their city, at the base of Mount Alvand, was an important stop for merchants and travelers. Strangers around had always meant prosperity.

  Maescia’s too sharp eyes watched her mother go. “Bantu isn’t happy.”

  “No, she isn’t.” Faba was frequently unhappy with him, though. The life she had wasn’t the one she wanted. And, he suspected, neither was the husband. “Be good for her while I’m gone.”

  Maescia kissed his cheek, and he set her down. While she ran off, he saddled his horse and rode out to catch up with his father.

  BUILT IN THREE NESTED rectangles, the meeting hall in Apamea was the largest for miles around. The outermost formed a peristyle, a broad covered walkway that went around the entire complex. Slightly smaller, the next provided living quarters and offices for the Magi. Twelve twenty-foot columns lined each side of the enormous innermost chamber and led to a pitched ceiling.

  Jael recognized leaders and their contingents from five other tribes, but there were more he didn’t. The room was crowded, but none of the Magi were present.

  And what was Bashaa doing here? The man had rarely been seen since Faba had married Jael five years ago. His childhood friend had changed. He’d lost weight, so he was more broad than fat. There was a cruel lift to his mouth, and his brown eyes, once open and friendly, held a calculating gleam as he scanned the crowd, tugging his thick beard.

  He’d never been part of the Council and had no authority to negotiate on anyone’s behalf. Yet he sat at a long table in the front of the room next to several men with white hair and eyes, pointing skinny fingers at attendees in the audience and murmuring to his companions. That was where the Magi should be sitting.

  The heavy doors at the back of the hall boomed shut and everyone fell quiet, waiting expectantly for the white-eyed men to start the meeting.

  They, however, remained silent, expressionless faces staring over the crowd’s head.

  The men murmured in undertones and shifted uneasily until someone called out, “We’re here under a truce. Do you intend to honor it?”

  “Why are you destroy
ing our homes?”

  “Why are you killing our families?”

  Finally, one white-eyed man near Bashaa stood. “We are here to protect the land from witches.” The words, given in a monotone, were the only thing he offered. He took his seat and stared ahead impassively.

  “What about reparations? You burned our village!”

  Jael winced. The pain in that man’s voice was real, but that probably wasn’t the best way to negotiate with these invaders.

  “We are here to protect the land from witches.” A different man with the same flat voice repeated the sentence.

  “My wife was no witch!”

  “Neither was my mother!”

  Accusations, arguments, and demands for answers flew throughout the afternoon. The white-haired men remained unemotional, not offering excuses for what they’d done. The only reason given to protect the land from witches.

  Zealots. There was no winning with someone who refused to see logic.

  If there was no intent to negotiate, and these men were determined to kill women they thought were witches and those who protected them, why had they agreed to the meeting? A sinking feeling took hold in the pit of Jael’s stomach.

  “Something’s not right,” he murmured under his breath, unable to stay here for the pointless arguing anymore. Where were the Magi?

  When Father nodded, Jael made his way through the increasingly uneasy crowd to one of the side exits between the columns.

  High windows on the outer wall let in fading afternoon sun, illuminating a series of doors to rooms lining the inner side of the second rectangle — the living quarters and offices of the Magi.

  In the still air, a small sound, the barest hint of a wheeze, caught Jael’s attention as he passed one of the doors.

  He stopped, straining to listen. When he heard nothing, he pushed opened the . The smell of blood overwhelmed him. Now he knew why the Magi of the fire sanctuary hadn’t attended the meeting. Their bodies lay in a heap on the floor. He doubled over, hand covering his mouth, stomach rebelling at the bloody sight. So what was this meeting today? A trap? A diversion?

  Maescia.

  Jael turned to leave, staggering a step when a hand locked around his ankle. Yanking free, he glanced down. One of the Magi, bronzed skin ashy with blood loss, held out a hand. The front of his orange tunic glistened red.

  Crouching, Jael pressed his hands to the Magi’s chest, trying to staunch the flow.

  The man seized the front of Jael’s tunic instead, pulling him close. “Alamut.”

  “What?” Jael’s fingers slipped in the warm blood on the Magi’s chest and he swallowed hard. There was nothing he could do here, but it felt wrong to leave the man to die.

  “We are fallen,” the Magi whispered. “Alamut. Old Man... Mountain.”

  “The assassins?”

  The Magi nodded once, his grip slackened and his head lolled to the side, wide eyes unseeing.

  Jael leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the audience hall, careening into the crowd. He snatched Father’s arm and propelled him through the throng toward the exit at the back, shouting to be heard over the arguing. “Get out! They killed the Magi!”

  That sent the white-eyed men into action. They rose from the table and unsheathed swords, bellowing for their guards.

  The audience erupted into outraged and disbelieving chatter, pushing and shoving, becoming a mob as they tried to make their escape.

  Dashing past closed doors, Jael barreled through the exit to the outside.

  Pale soldiers armed with spears and bows waited in a line. Jael burst past them before they could react to his speedy exit, dragging his father with him. They stabbed and shot arrows into the crowd. Shouts and screams filled the air. If everyone here for the meeting died, there would be no leadership anywhere to stop the white-eyed men and their army. Someone had to get to Alamut. Jael somehow found more speed as they raced down the street.

  Father’s hand fell away as he cried out in pain.

  Jael spun. An arrow jutted high on his father’s back and protruded from his chest.

  “Go!” Blood welled from his lips, and Father waved as he collapsed to his knees.

  If you do this, we will die.

  Faba’s words haunted his mind. Everyone was dying.

  Something stung his neck, and he cried out as an arrow zipped past him. He slapped a hand to the injury. Blood slicked over his fingertips.

  Maescia. He had to get to his daughter.

  An impact to his thigh numbed his leg, and he faltered. He reached down, yanked out another arrow and stumbled on, reeling around a corner to the right, then left, and barged into the stable.

  Jael lurched to his horse and swung up bareback, grasping mane instead of reins. “You like to run. Run!”

  Powerful muscles surged beneath Jael and it was all he could do to hold on as the beast hurtled out the doors and through the city.

  As afternoon gave way to twilight, the darkened sky only served to highlight the white smoke smudged all across the horizon.

  The horse, given his head while Jael simply hung on, covered three hours of distance in half the time, each passing minute a slice into his soul.

  BURNING. EVERYTHING was burning. His panting horse reared, nearly throwing him. Jael didn’t try to force him through the flames. He dismounted and ran toward his home, hoping against hope it had been spared, or that Faba and Maescia had escaped.

  It hadn’t, nor did he see them in the crowd of shocked, empty-eyed survivors. Nothing had been spared. Every building burned along with his home in the razed village with unnaturally hot, white-colored flames.

  He should have been here, not off trying to negotiate with their attackers. The false promise of peace had lured him and most of the other men away, leaving their homes unprotected and vulnerable to this betrayal.

  Bashaa. He’d been with the white-haired men. He must have known this would happen.

  Uncaring of the heat, Jael sank to his knees in front of the conflagration of his home. The same flames that burned down his world around him forged his soul into something cold and molten, and when the flames burned out, his soul cooled to steel.

  When he could, Jael sifted through the ashes, all that was left of his life before, and found two silver medallions. The cords that once held them had burned away, but the medallions had somehow survived intact. The woman and the girl who had worn them hadn’t. Two charred skulls lay near the medallions. They, like all the other women with dark hair and light-colored eyes, had been targeted and killed.

  He found his horse, and after checking to make sure the animal didn’t have any burns or injuries, mounted. Guiding the horse northeast, in the direction of Alamut, home of the Old Man of the Mountain, Jael refused to look back.

  THREE DAYS IN THE SADDLE. He remembered to care for the horse, but his dry throat and empty stomach reminded him he had basic needs too. Even if they seemed unimportant.

  Two women stood in the road, and Jael urged his horse to a stop.

  Both tall, one wore black leather pants and vest, long hair in a single braid down her back. She carried a staff and bow and arrows. “This him?”

  The other woman nodded. Dressed in a dark grey tunic and pants, she bristled with weapons. Three swords and a mace on her back. Who needed four weapons when a person only had two hands? Silver handles of knives, or something else, he couldn’t tell, jutted from her black boots. “Headed to Alamut?”

  Jael felt naked. All he had to protect himself was a tree branch he’d used as a club on a bandit trying to rob him of the one thing he had left. He’d let the man take his horse, but when the thief wanted the medallions too, Jael’s rage made him see red. Then there was red. Blood on his hands and an unmoving man at his feet. So much blood on his hands lately.

  He took his horse back, along with the bandit’s gear, and continued to Alamut. The road only went to one place. No harm in admitting his destination to these women. He nodded.

  As she walked a few ste
ps closer, oddly bi-colored irises met his eyes in an amber-green gaze. “You.” The woman who sold him the medallions and said they would hold his love. “Who are you?” Djinn maybe. The stories said them to be mischievous and apt to waylay travelers. He’d never heard of one armed with so many weapons, though. Or at all.

  “I’m Zax.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the woman in black. “She’s the Amazon.”

  The Amazon inclined her head.

  “So, Alamut? The Old Man of the Mountain is always looking for a few good men.”

  “Who isnae?” the leather-clad woman asked.

  “Amazons.” Zax nodded, as if sure of her answer. Then she frowned at her companion. “Oh. Never mind.”

  The Amazon snorted.

  Zax unsheathed two of her swords, and Jael tensed.

  The curved silver blades that she spun in her hands captivated him, but not as a threat. Jael couldn’t take his eyes off them as they cut through the air. His fingers clenched as jealousy surged. He didn’t know how to use them, but could feel those hilts in his palms. Maybe he was about to become a bandit.

  “You like them?” Zax tossed the swords in the air, catching them by the blades and offering them to him hilt first.

  “You’re just... giving me these swords?”

  “Is that not clear? I thought I was being clear. You can’t be an assassin without your trademark weapons.”

  All he wanted was to avenge Maescia and Faba. Then he could die and join them. Maybe manage to be a better husband and father in the afterlife. “I’m not going to be an assassin.”

  Zax glanced over her shoulder at the Amazon. “Are the kids calling it something else these days?”

  The Amazon shook her head.

  “I don’t understand you.” That didn’t stop him from taking the scimitars, though. For the first time in the days since Faba and Maescia died, something like hope sprouted in his heart.

  “I get that a lot.” Zax sighed. “Listen. We know a thing or two about revenge and vengeance. By all means, go to the Old Man of the Mountain. He can teach you to kill humans well enough. There were some involved in the deaths of your family, so those skills will serve well enough when you track them down.” Her eyes caught his, and when she spoke, he felt her words in his bones. “But when you’re ready to kill the monsters, find us.”