Ascension of Death

by Andy Peloquin

  “I couldn’t risk it.” Lady Callista’s strong voice took on a pleading tone. “I have only a few I can trust fully, so I didn’t want to take the chance that the wrong person would find out the truth.”

  Issa inclined her head. “I know, but—”

  “Every day, Issa.” Lady Callista fixed her with that piercing, burning gaze. “Every day, I wanted to find you, to tell you the truth. But I told myself that as long as you were somewhere, anonymous, you were safe. The day you fought in the Crucible, I recognized the fighting style, but I didn’t truly understand who you were until I saw you up close, at the trial of stone. That was when I knew.”

  A lump rose to Issa’s throat, constricting it.

  “I wanted to tell you that night, and again the night you saved the Pharus from assassination.” Chagrin flashed across Lady Callista’s expression. “But the threat of the Keeper’s Council, the Gatherers, and the Ybrazhe Syndicate was too great to ignore. I had to be certain you were truly safe before I revealed the truth.”

  “But you were going to tell me?” Issa studied the Lady of Blades’ face. She had to know, had to see if Lady Callista ever intended to reveal the truth.

  “Yes.” Not a trace of doubt echoed in Lady Callista’s voice. “The day you were Anointed to the Keeper’s Blades, I was going to tell you everything.”

  A wry grin split Issa’s lips. “I guess we just got it out of the way a few days earlier.” She chuckled, which sent a stab of pain lancing down her side. Though the armor had turned aside the crossbow bolts, the impact left her bruised and sore. Thankfully, nothing felt broken. She could move, albeit with a bit of discomfort. Even the Keeper’s blessing wouldn’t stop the pain fully.

  “We need to get you to a healer.” Lady Callista was suddenly all business. “Get you out of that armor and patch—”

  “No.” Issa shook her head, pushed the Lady of Blades’ hands away. “It’s just a few bruises.”

  “Issa—”

  “Please, Lady Callista.” Issa gripped her mother’s hand. “We’re fighting to save the city. If I can fight, I will.”

  “Of course, Prototopoi.” Lady Callista’s eyes sparkled, a look Issa recognized as pride. Pride in her.

  With effort, Issa climbed to her feet, leaning on the wall for support.

  “How bad is it?” she asked Lady Callista, partially to take her mind off the pain, but mostly out of concern for the threat they faced. “If those creatures are getting into the palace—”

  “Killian and the others will seal the passage in the Terrestra, and Hykos and Aleema will protect the Pharus.” Lady Callista walked slowly, letting Issa set the pace. “I haven’t heard any reports from Ypertatos Ormroth or the Elders that were assaulting the East Gate, but I expect they’ll have holed up the best they can. Same for any Indomitables still in the Fortress.”

  Worry thrummed through Issa. Her trainees—Nysin, Enyera, Rilith, Viddan, all the others—were in the Fortress. If Hallar’s Warriors got the passages open, they could flood the Fortress with a horde of Stumblers. Any smart tactician would either disable their enemy’s fighting force or keep them penned up and out of the fight.

  “At last count, there were just under two hundred Indomitables in the palace, plus a dozen or so Keeper’s Blades,” Lady Callista continued. “As long as the gates hold—”

  “Lady Callista!” The shout echoed down the hall.

  Issa looked up to see a pale-faced, disheveled servant racing up the corridor toward them.

  Fear drove an icy spike into the base of Issa’s spine. Terror filled the servant’s eyes, panic twisting his face into a grimace.

  “Invictus Tannard demands your presence at the wall, my lady.” A dire urgency echoed in his breathless voice.

  “Give me a situation report!” Lady Callista hurried forward. “What’s happening on the wall?”

  “The Stumblers, Lady Callista.” The fear in the man’s eyes gave way to bewilderment.

  “Are they getting over the walls?” Lady Callista demanded. “Have they taken the gate?”

  “No, my lady.” The servant shook his head. “They’ve just…stopped.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sight of the Terrestra’s lush greenery sent Evren’s thoughts to Briana. During the days he’d spent serving in Suroth’s household, Briana had spent much of her time in her father’s rooftop garden. The colorful flowers, exotic shrubs, and towering trees reminded him of her.

  She’d have loved it here, he thought. Hailen, too.

  His gaze drifted southeast. The towering sandstone wall surrounding the palace hid the Temple of Whispers from view, but he had no trouble picturing her seated at the simple desk in her barren, sparse stone room. She had used plants to bring a touch of color and life to the plain chamber, brightening her simple quarters the way she herself brightened her surroundings.

  He’d have to bring both of them here when the turmoil had passed and peace restored to Shalandra. They could enjoy a leisurely stroll through the gardens together, no pressure, no hurry, simply people enjoying a moment of peace. After all they had endured, they deserved that calm.

  All thoughts of peace shattered as the first of the Stumblers appeared through the trees. Foul-looking creatures, the skin of their faces drooping, eyes white and milky, jaws slavering. The monstrosities shambled toward them at a slow, lurching pace. Evren didn’t know if they could see, hear, or smell—he wasn’t certain how the creatures knew they were there—yet his gut tightened when they inevitably tottered toward him and Killian.

  “You’ve got this, right?” Evren asked, shooting the blacksmith a wry grin. “I’ll just hang back and enjoy the beauty while you deal with these ugly bastards.”

  Killian snorted. “You’ve never once struck me as the ‘hang back’ type, Evren.” He unslung his huge sword. “Besides, you want to let an old man have all the fun?”

  “Not a chance.” With a chuckle, Evren drew his daggers. “You go down the middle. I’ll handle any that get past you.”

  “Seems fair.” Killian rolled his broad shoulders and cracked his neck with a loud pop. “Better hope that luck of yours holds, else we’re both in trouble.”

  Killian’s sword led the way, cutting down the first two Stumblers to reach them. Evren darted left, toward a straggler coming at Killian from the side, and drove his right-handed dagger into its bony chest. He ripped his blade free and leapt back, away from the gush of blood. Leaping over the falling Stumbler, Evren charged another pair coming from the east of the Terrestra. Two quick swipes of his daggers opened the creatures’ throats and they sagged, crimson staining the green grass at his feet.

  At least they bleed like regular people, Evren thought. His experiences fighting monsters was limited to ugly brutes like Houl and Annat, but he’d always expected mythical creatures would be a bit harder to kill. The Stone Guardians in the Empty Mountains had slain dozens of Cambionari and Warrior Priests.

  Stumblers, however, were almost too easy to kill. They bled and died like anyone else he’d met, though they seemed impervious to pain. Evren had to go for lethal strikes every time; any wound that didn’t finish the creatures outright barely slowed them down. Yet, their slow, shuffling movements made them vulnerable to his speed. He could dart in, strike, and retreat before their grasping fingers clawed at him. They swiped as slowly as they moved, making them vulnerable to his attacks.

  Yet they had the advantage of numbers on their side. Even as he brought down his fifth Stumbler, ten more appeared from the east, through a thicket of silver birch trees. In the momentary lull, Evren risked a glance over at Killian. The blacksmith was carving through the ranks of monsters like a farmer scything wheat, yet their numbers seemed endless.

  He shot a worried glance west in the direction Aisha had gone. Fierce warrior or not, she fought alone, and wore no armor, wielded only her dagger and assegai. He’d seen her fight enough to know she could handle herself well enough, yet he couldn’t help wondering if he should have let
her go alone. Not with so many Stumblers flooding the gardens.

  Then the nearest monster reached him, and Evren had no more time for worry about anyone else. His only thought was to stay alive and to keep the Stumblers from overwhelming Killian. The blacksmith—the Keeper’s Blade, he corrected himself—had a great bloody big sword, and he’d do the real damage here. Evren just needed to cut down any Stumblers that got around or past Killian’s guard.

  He killed them without hesitation, his daggers punching through filthy flesh, slashing their tattered rags to shreds, and spilling their blood onto the grass. His speed and the ferocity of his attacks made quick work of the monsters, kept him out of their reach.

  But he was just one facing scores, perhaps hundreds. For every Stumbler he brought down, five more lurched into view. He had no choice but to give ground. As the ranks of monstrosities grew, he had to pull back, stick closer to Killian to protect his flanks. His lungs soon burned from the effort of running back and forth, his muscles aching from the endless thrusts and slashes. He brought down Stumblers as fast as he could and still they came on.

  Icy fingers of panic dug into his brain as he saw more Stumblers lurching from Killian’s opposite side. He couldn’t deal with the fifteen or twenty here and stop that new threat from reaching the embattled Blade.

  “Back!” Killian shouted. He, too, seemed to have grasped the danger. Slow the Stumblers might be, but the creatures could overwhelm them, drag them down through sheer weight of numbers.

  “We hold the door to the palace,” Evren called. “That way, they’ll only be able to come at us straight on.”

  Killian grunted acknowledgment and, cutting down one more Stumbler, began to retreat. His gimp leg slowed his pace, and he hobbled only slightly faster than the monsters pursuing him. Evren darted into the gap and drove back the nearest Stumblers. He just had to widen the gap enough for the two of them to reach the safety of the palace’s side entrance. With solid stone walls at their back, they could—

  Dry, rasping gurgles echoed from behind them and a score more Stumblers lurched through a thick bramble hedge. Evren whirled to face them, dread curling like a writhing serpent in his gut. He could outrun them any day. Killian, however, would never reach the palace before they were cut off. They’d be surrounded and at the mercy of the hideous monsters.

  “Go!” Killian called. “Get to safety. I’ll—”

  “Don’t bother finishing that sentence,” Evren snapped. “After everything we’ve endured, you really think I’m going to let you die here, now?”

  “Sentiments like that’ll get you killed, boy.” Killian growled. “You’re no Keeper’s Blade. Best get yourself out of here.”

  “Right after you, old man.” Evren retreated until he stood back to back with the blacksmith. “I don’t need to be a poxy Blade to know our best chance of getting out alive is together. So we fight until we’re through.”

  Killian grunted. “I can’t tell if you’re too stupid or too brave for your own damned good.”

  Evren chuckled. “Take your pick. Either way, we’re getting out of here together.”

  The solid presence of the heavily-armored figure at his back brought Evren a measure of reassurance. He was no coward to run to safety while letting his fellow man die. Even if that fellow man was a fake blacksmith with far too many secrets, one he’d met only days earlier. Just as he had with Daver and Hailen, Evren would stand and fight to the end.

  “For Shalandra,” Killian said.

  “For Shalandra,” Evren echoed.

  The Stumblers swarmed them, a slow-moving tide of flesh and claws that promised only death.

  Evren ducked a pair of outstretched hands and slashed the creature’s belly open. Blood and viscera spilled from the rips in its threadbare tunic, but the Stumbler only fell when Evren drove the tip of his curved dagger up, beneath its ribs and into its heart. He lifted his foot, placed it on the creature’s chest, and kicked it backward. The Stumbler lurched backward, colliding with two of its tottering companions, and the three of them fell.

  But Evren had no time to breathe, to think. He could only fight. Blood sprayed, soaked his face and clothing, turned his hands slick. His daggers moved in a blur, fists pumping like the bellows of a forge. Instinct took over and drove his movements. Every blow, every block, every shuffling step to avoid claws and snapping teeth, he didn’t think, simply acted. The moment he stopped moving, he died.

  He took down two Stumblers with slashing blows, shattered another’s knee, and drove his dagger into a fourth’s throat. But even as he attacked a fifth and dodged a pair of raking claws, Evren knew they had no chance. The Stumbler horde was simply too numerous.

  Clawed hands gripped Evren’s arm, ripping his sleeve. He slashed the fingers away, but in that instant, two more seized him. He stumbled backward, tripped on a patch of blood-slicked grass, and fell hard. The Stumblers collapsed atop him, their claw-like fingers raking holes in his tunic, seeking flesh. Evren tried to fight them off, to scramble out from beneath, but more joined them.

  Their weight pressed down on him, cutting off his breath, trapping his limbs and holding him immobile. In that moment, realization washed over him: he was about to die, buried beneath a pile of undead monsters.

  Faces flashed before his eyes: the Hunter and Kiara, Briana, Hailen. The faces of those that mattered to him more than life itself. If this was the end, he could at least go into whatever afterlife or paradise awaited him knowing that he’d fought to the end. For them.

  Suddenly, the Stumblers atop him began to jerk, thrashing about wildly, convulsing in the throes of a spasm. Evren didn’t know what happened, nor did he care. Growling with the effort, he tore his arm out from beneath one, shoved off another, slipped out of a third’s grasp, and spider-crawled backward, not stopping until he was a good five paces away.

  A shocking sight greeted him. All of the Stumblers around them—fifty or sixty of the emaciated, rag-clad creatures—lay writhing on the ground. Their cries had fallen silent, and the Terrestra was filled with the eerie sound of scores of monsters rustling the grass with their writhing.

  Aisha stood a few paces away, her right hand outstretched, and her left clutching something that hung around her neck.

  Evren’s breath froze in his lungs. Her eyes!

  Her eyes, normally a rich brown the color of Vothmoti kaffe, had gone white. No, not quite white. There was a bluish hue, a strange mixture of light that intermingled with each other like dancing flames. Evren felt the hairs all along his arms stand up; she radiated energy, like the ground after a lightning strike in the Whispering Waste.

  Then Aisha lowered her hand and the light in her eyes faded. Once again, her eyes turned to deep brown, though a few flecks of that blue-white glow remained. The Stumblers stopped jerking and lay still. A thick, permeating silence hung thick in the gardens.

  She did that? A thousand questions slammed into Evren’s mind, but one echoed foremost. How?

  He’d heard all of the Hunter’s stories about the magic of the ancient Serenii, power said to be able to shape the world. But that was something only Hailen was supposed to access as a result of his Melechha blood. And yet, there was no denying that Aisha had done something. She had brought down scores of Stumblers without laying a finger on them.

  If that’s not magic, what in the bloody hell is it?

  Evren tensed as one of the Stumblers nearby stirred and lifted its head. He scrambled to his feet, dagger poised to drive into the creature’s skull.

  “Wait!” Aisha’s word cut the silence.

  Evren paused, jambiya upraised. Her tone echoed with a note of command, far more powerful than he’d ever heard from her before.

  “Don’t kill him,” Aisha said. “He’s still alive!”

  Confusion surged within Evren. What?

  Then the Stumbler turned toward him. A deep olive brown color had returned to its milk-white eyes, and genuine confusion filled the man’s face. “W-Where am I?” The thing that
had been out for Evren’s blood mere moments earlier appeared bewildered. “What…happened?” His voice had a rasping, gurgling edge like dry leaves rustling across stone—the sound of a parched throat. Yet there was no mistake, it was no longer a creature, but a man.

  Keeper’s teeth!

  Wide-eyed, Evren looked around. Of the sixty Stumblers that Aisha had brought down, only three stirred. The rest remained motionless, their chests rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Like they’re …asleep!

  “What the bloody hell?” The words burst from his mouth. His eyes snapped up to Aisha. “What the bloody hell?” It was all he could think to say.

  “What he said,” Killian rumbled. The blacksmith wiped blood from his face and dripping beard, leaving a long, red smear down both cheeks and across his forehead.

  “They’re still alive,” Aisha told him. She had reached down to help up one of the creatures, a woman wearing a simple red Earaqi headband and a shredded kalasiris. “Contrary to what the legends of Shalandra say, these Stumblers aren’t truly dead. Or, they’re not really Stumblers. I think…” She hesitated, her brows furrowed. “I think they were created.”

  Evren’s jaw dropped. “Someone turned people into…this?” He gestured to the bodies strewn across the gardens.

  Aisha nodded. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but dared not, as if afraid of the truth. Or how he’d react to it. “I don’t know how, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re not dead. If they were, I would…”

  “Would what?” Evren’s eyes narrowed. He remembered the way Briana had been cagey when speaking of her research into a plant she’d called Shadow Root, a project for Aisha. There was no doubt the Ghandian had a secret—he’d respected her privacy, knowing she’d tell him when it was time.

  And now is definitely the damned time!