Dusk had fallen in earnest and aside from a few dark alleys they passed through on their way to the square, the streets were practically abandoned. This surprised him more than the others, though from Kyra and Avans’ occasional whispers, both of them had noticed the peculiarity as well. Abandoning his recitations for a moment, Elias dropped back and nudged Lucasta with his elbow.
“Where is everyone?” he murmured. “The streets seem like the city’s deserted.”
“They are afraid,” she explained, voice softening as they rounded a corner and passed by a pair of beggars. Both of the vagrants slumped as if dozing but their extended hands remained cupped expectantly. “During the last war, the primarch’s soldiers roamed the streets and pressed into service males of any age. Such a thing will happen again soon, if it has not already begun.”
“But, surely the women—?”
“Dan Tien is unkind to elven daughters.” A hard edge crept into Lucasta’s words. “Especially now. Experienced soldiers are valuable and Tereus is reluctant to punish those who serve him, regardless of how vile their crimes.”
Something in the matriarch’s tone told him it would be unwise to press for more details. Not that he would have anyway. Though Elias had been too young to comprehend such things during the previous war, he knew only too well the sorts of abuses that occurred when the powerless crossed paths with the powerful. The notion alone was enough to make him shudder. His sole consolation was the fact that he could cast aside whatever guilt he might have felt for slaughtering Tereus’ unsuspecting agents.
Unlike the Sunset Tower, the South-Central garrison was only a single story. But, instead of rising upward, the squat, sturdy fortress expanded horizontally. It looked to be roughly square, but each of its outer walls stretched for more than a hundred paces, dominating the surrounding structures despite their height. Like the tower, the only breaks in its outer shell were a few slender windows, too narrow to pass through, and an immense, iron door. This one, however, was double-sided and far more massive. So massive, in fact, that Elias could tell at a glance that if both halves were to be thrown wide, the gap would have been large enough for at least four elves to pass through without their shoulders ever touching.
The streets surrounding the garrison were broader as well. And although they were similarly deserted to the countless others they’d passed or navigated, Elias couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling of eyes watching him as they cautiously made their way across toward the gatelike door.
“Remember,” Kyra whispered as they approached. “If they ask you to—”
He shushed her. Then, despite his racing heartbeat, he turned and grinned with a confidence he did not feel in the slightest.
“Don’t worry,” he mouthed. “It’ll be fine.”
Kyra looked doubtful, not that he could blame her. For the second time in as many hours, they were about to march into an enemy stronghold without anything but bluffs and improvisation. But then, Elias had spent much of the past decade surrounded by sheriffs, two-faced aldermen, and every manner of ambitious political lackey. In some ways, he was more at home than if he’d been welcomed as a proper ambassador.
He knocked on the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
There was no peeking slot to be opened, but when the overlarge door cracked opened after a moment, the expression of the elf on the other side was identical to the first at Sunset Tower. The guard’s eyes widened in alarm as Elias drew back his hood. And for a split-second, he looked ready to slam the door shut.
“Bial no Elias, Sha’nijur lo Dan Tien,” Elias said. “Jal’no eh’katten lo Cotora.”
The elf hesitated. Then, just as his fallen comrades had, he warily swung the door wider.
“Lo Cotora?” he echoed. Fidgeting, he waved them inside.
Elias felt the guard’s suspicious gaze follow him as he stepped through the door. The chamber beyond was part hallway and part atrium. Though smaller than most receiving rooms he’d seen, a handful of chairs and decorative tapestries indicated that visitors were expected to wait. Five normal-sized doors filled the gaps, two on either side and one at the far end of the boxy, rectangular hall.
The elven guard was eying the trow nervously, one hand on his scabbarded saber as they filed into the room. Clearing his throat, Elias impatiently quirked a brow and gestured to the closed doors.
“Tievan?” he snapped.
The elf scowled and yanked the door shut as the last of the trow stepped through. He did not bother to secure the locks. Instead, he stomped toward Elias and pointed at the door at the far end of the hall.
“Cotora no—” he said.
The rest of the elf’s words were lost as the trow pounced. The first to move seized the elf from behind, clapping a hand over his mouth and hauling him backwards off his feet. With their hoods up, Elias couldn’t see which of the trow had done it. But it was Lucasta who dealt the killing blow. Flinging herself atop the thrashing elf’s chest, she thrust her knife into the unguarded flesh where chin met neck. The elf gurgled behind the silencing palm and his heels kicked frantically at the stone floor. Then, slowly, his struggles ceased.
Lucasta did not rise until several seconds after the elf had stilled. Wiping her hands and knife clean on the corpse’s shirt, she met Elias’ eyes briefly before adjusting her hood to hide her face.
“Move,” she whispered.
Elias wasn’t about to argue. He shifted his scabbard to a more accessible position beneath his cloak and matched Lucasta stride for stride as she headed for the indicated door. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled it open.
The room beyond was not actually a room, but rather a pair of staircases. The upward one gave him pause for a moment until he caught a glimpse of distant starlight. Before he could say a word, Lucasta snapped her fingers and one of the trow bounded forward and stalked silently up to the roof. The descending stairs were slightly wider and lit by lanterns at increasingly regular intervals. Although there was no sign of any elves from what little he could see of the lower landing, Elias’ ears tickled slightly with the not-quite-perceived sound of distant conversations.
He looked at Lucasta, but the trow matriarch advanced without acknowledging him. Kyra did, however, as did Avans. Both of his companions had just enough time to offer grim smiles before the current of trow at their backs urged them forward onto the stairs.
Elias descended quickly, grasping the hilt of his sword and struggling to move quietly. With so many feet and aged wood comprising the stairs, it seemed impossible that their arrival would go unnoticed. But that was precisely what happened, at least in part.
True to Rhona’s prediction, the basement room held nearly two dozen elves. Several sat at or stood around a pair of desks that had been shoved together and conversed in quiet tones as they examined papers strewn across the tops. Another half dozen sat around a larger, semi-round table joking and laughing with a far more boisterous air. Several of the seated elves shook or cast dice onto the table surface and each instance prompted exaggerated groans from one or more of the participants and nearby onlookers.
It was not the gamblers who startled Elias the most, nor the number of elves crowded into the surprisingly small chamber. Rather, it was the cages that alarmed him. Two walls of the room were lined with row after row of floor-to-ceiling cells, many of them occupied. The most fortunate prisoners were confined to the largest, though their naked, wasted frames and haunted expressions suggested that many had not even bothered to rise from the ground in days. Less fortunate were those who had been crammed into the smaller cells. These were stacked atop one another and their dimensions were so cramped that those inside were forced to stoop. Many of the larger males in particular could not climb to their knees, much less stretch or stand.
There were dozens of captives. And as much as Elias wanted to avoid witnessing their misery, he forced himself to scour the cages. To his dismay, there was no sign of any trow, much less Gilla or Barneis.
“Tanah!” the elf pleaded. “Na’konara, tanah!”
The caged elf’s voice was hoarse and quiet. Elias didn’t understand her words but he recognized her tone without even trying. As did one of the elves seated at the dice table. He turned to glare at the captive, spotted her outstretched arm, and followed it to where Elias and company stood. With a cry of alarm, the male leapt to his feet.
“Jijah!” Elias snapped. Stepping forward, he turned his head and indicated his rounded, non-elven ears. “Bial no Elias, Sha’nijur. Jal’no eh’katten lo Cotora.”
The elf hesitated, as did many of the others who had surged to their feet or reached for weapons in the wake of the first male’s outcry. It wasn’t much, just an instant’s uncertainty. But it was enough.
Snarling, the trow at Elias’ back charged. They drew their weapons as they ran and before the elves had a chance to respond, four of the six gamblers had been cut down or run through. The rest reacted quickly, snatching up weapons to defend themselves
Elias drew his sword. The chaos of sudden violence was disorienting, especially in such a small space, and the screams and cheers of the dying and imprisoned respectively were doubly so. Stalking forward, he hunted for the right opportunity.
It didn’t take long. One of the nearby trow cried out as his arm was severed at the elbow. Swordless and clutching the bleeding stump, he staggered backward and tripped over a discarded chair. He fell, cried out again, and threw up his remaining hand to ward off the finishing blow.
Elias dashed forward as the elf readied an overhead slash. His foe spotted him at the last moment and tried to dodge aside but Elias’ thrust tore through his chest in a spray of arterial blood. Sputtering in pain, the elf fell.
Turning, Elias hunted for the next enemy but found none. The four surviving elves sheltered together in a corner of the room, outnumbered and surrounded. Only two of the trow had fallen in battle: the one Elias had avenged and a shuddering female who grasped a kneeling Lucasta’s hand for comfort as the matriarch staunched her bleeding side.
Then he spotted the door. It was small, innocuous, and the same color as the stone walls, which might have explained how he’d missed it at first glance. But, now that he’d spotted it, Elias felt his gaze drawn to the thing like a distant mast on an otherwise featureless horizon.
“David!” he called, pointing and risking a brief glance away.
“I see it.” Avans was at his side in a moment, bloodied sword in hand. “Now? Shouldn’t we wait and—”
“Now,” Elias growled. He couldn’t say precisely why it felt so strongly against delaying. But the urge to move was in him and he was in no fit state to refuse.
Avans shrugged. Together, they picked their way through the dead and dying. One of the surrounded elves fell with a shout as they moved and a chorus of unintelligible profanity made further conversation impossible.
“Ready?” Avans asked, grasping the knob and preparing to heave it open. Between the shouts and the pounding blood in his ears, Elias barely heard him. He nodded.
Avans pulled the door open and Elias flinched as an arrow whizzed past his head. He felt the wind of its passing but didn’t even recognize what had happened until he turned to look. Astonishingly, the arrow had not splintered or ricocheted. It had passed through the bars of a cage on the far side of the room and embedded itself in the stone wall.
But the surprises didn’t end there. Glowing fingers of ghostly blue light arced and crawled along the haft of the arrow like streaks of far-off lightning. They looked almost to be exploring, stretching and connecting to things nearby—the wall, the fletching, even the head of the unresponsive elf slumped over in the cell.
Eyes wide, Elias turned back to the adjacent room. It was roughly the same size as the first, if a shade longer, and was filled with yet more cells. Unlike the first, however, the new room held only a single elf.
Cotora scoffed in disgust and cursed as she tossed her bow aside. It landed inaudibly, but momentarily lit with more of the luminescent strands as it bounced. The light faded quickly. Cotora, however, only brightened. Every inch of her exposed skin glowed as if lit by an unseen moon. Given the lack of lanterns, the effect was both intimidating and something of a necessity.
“Elias Sha’nijur,” Cotora said. Her supernaturally illuminated eyes narrowed. “I remember you.”
Elias stepped warily into the darkened room. He felt eyes watching him from the cells on both sides, some of which were lit by Cotora’s magic. Others seemed to glow on their own. They didn’t worry him much. Not only were the elves’ prisoners unlikely to attack him, but he also couldn’t imagine Cotora debasing herself enough to rely on their help. Plus, having discarded her bow, both of her hands glowed bright and empty.
He stalked forward, sword gripped tight, but had gone only a few steps when Cotora dropped to her knee. For just a second, she looked to be surrendering. Then, with a grimace, she pulled a long, hooked knife from her boot. Yet again, the glowing fingers began to arc and writhe. This time, however, they connected to both Cotora and something dark at her feet.
“Too far,” Cotora growled. “Stop.”
Elias slowed but did not stop.
Growling, Cotora seized a handful of Gilla’s hair and drew her head back. The trow’s eyes were swollen but open and a weak, pained moan spilled from her lips as Cotora pressed the knife to her throat.
“Stop,” Cotora repeated.
Elias stopped. It was more the sight of Gilla than Cotora’s command that had done the trick and he cursed himself for not spotting her sooner. Between Gilla’s dark skin and the paltry light filtering in from the other room, it would have taken Rhona’s eyes to spot her in time. But, even so, Elias’ chest ached with self-reproach.
“Good. Drop sword or she dies.”
Elias shook his head. Slowly, carefully, he returned his blade to its scabbard and crossed his arms.
“Why don’t you surrender, instead?” he suggested. “You’re alone and outnumbered. Or do you really want to die that badly?”
Cotora sneered and pressed her knife more firmly against Gilla’s throat. As if responding to her attitude, the glowing fingers thrashed and arced with greater intensity.
“Outnumbered? Yes,” she said. “Now. But you are loud. More come soon. You die. Traitors die. I live.”
Elias didn’t reply right away. He sought Gilla’s eyes, but the trow’s eyes were mostly lidded and in no fit state to communicate anything. Returning his gaze to Cotora’s face, he ground his teeth and shook his head.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “Maybe you’re right and maybe someone comes. But we know how your kind treats prisoners. And if we’re all going to die here, well… she stops being much of a hostage.”
For the first time, Cotora hesitated. Her face didn’t lose its sneer, but a certain alarmed wariness subtly changed the manner in which her face glowed.
“Not important,” she said. “I release the trowe, you kill me. I know this.”
“You’re wrong. All we want is to leave Dan Tien with Gilla. It might be easier to do that if you are alive.”
For a moment, Cotora said nothing. She fidgeted, glancing around the dark, narrow chamber. Then, with a haughty, disgusted sigh, she lifted her still-arcing blade away from Gilla’s throat.
“Good,” Elias said, more relieved than he thought possible. “You can keep—”
At that moment, Gilla struck. She moved with the suddenness of an adder, thrashing and rolling beneath Cotora’s knee. And, before either of them had a chance to react, she lunged for the off-balance elf’s knife.
“Gilla!” Elias roared. He charged toward the pair, drawing his
sword as he ran. It wasn’t far, but he knew instinctively that it would take a miracle to reach them in time.
Cotora glanced at him, her eyes aglow and crackling with wicked cunning. Then, with an almost casual motion, she kicked Gilla hard in the chest. Unnatural sparks flew as her boot connected and the trow was knocked back against a row of cells. It wasn’t a sound victory, however. In the chaos, Cotora’s knife flew from her grasp and slid toward a darkened corner. Its luminescence faded quickly.
Cotora spun, cursing in her native tongue. Her head snapped this way and that, first hunting for the knife then confirming that Gilla had not risen to resume her attack. Last of all, she turned to face Elias. Her arms hung at her sides but not in defeat. Snarling, she flexed her fingers into makeshift claws. Instantly, the glowing of her arms doubled—tripled in intensity. Large, flickering tendrils of sorcerous lightning crawled and leapt from her limbs, stretching and writhing as they connected with cell bars and the stones beneath her feet.
It was too late for Elias to stop. He’d covered too much distance and was moving far too fast to halt now. So, rather than collide bodily with the elven witch, he lifted his sword.
Cotora laughed once as she lifted her arms.
Pain unlike any Elias had ever felt before tore through him as the glowing fingers struck. It blinded him, drove the air from his lungs, and turned his legs into clumsy, unresponsive weights. Screaming, he fell. He felt Cotora stumble and fall as well, but the pain did not alleviate for even an instant, much less long enough to feel some fleeting satisfaction from having knocked her over.
Writhing, he heard Cotora rise. Her words seemed to travel a great distance before they reached him. And, even when they did, he understood their meaning more as vague impressions rather than actual communication.
“Stupid human,” Cotora hissed. “You think—”
The pain vanished, replaced by a terrible, burning ache that faded much faster than its intensity suggested it ought to have. Elias opened his eyes, but his vision was full of bright flashes that swam blindingly before him. He heard the sound of Cotora’s struggles several seconds before he saw them. The torturous strands of light buzzed and crackled as they arced randomly. The cell bars clanged and thudded as the heels of Cotora’s boots kicked desperately against them. Most satisfying of all were the elf’s strangled protestations as she fought.
Ambassador (Conqueror of Isles Book 1) Page 17
