by L J Andrews
Isa dragged her thumb across the cutting edge of the dagger. She wasn’t a fool to fall for tempting language, but the razor edge bleeding into her thumb helped keep her focus sharp. If Kish wasn’t murdering women, he was claiming them for his own pleasure. Isa’s body was a weapon, not something to sell in return for his protection. Kish provided ample protection, but it required souls as payment.
“If you fancy the female, bargain with Hadeon,” Abalon said and knocked over his chair as he launched to his feet. His knobby fingers whitened as he leaned all his weight on the tips and trained his glare on Kish who remained still as marble.
Isa ignored the warning glance from Joshua and bolted to standing. The tip of her dagger pierced the smooth tabletop when she stabbed the weapon in defiance. “I am no one’s to be bartered, you pretentious bas—”
“That is enough, Isa,” Hadeon’s cool rasp silenced her rant. A crushed larynx as a young man left his voice haggard, yet frighteningly persuasive. “There will be no bartering, but you are wasting our time.” Isa lowered to her chair the same instant Hadeon straightened at the head. “The Ladroa Guild is able to defend the Gulf of Tjuvar, yes?”
Kish’s cavalier grin faded. Isa’s lungs caught fire as the tiny muscles pulsed in his square jaw and the hidden darkness peeked through his gaze in the lanternlight. “We’re agreed.”
Hadeon continued without so much as a nod before his eyes swallowed Abalon. “And the Phantom Guild?”
Abalon’s serpent tongue sloshed against his thin lips. The two Phantoms on either side of their master tapped black hilts, their dangerous eyes never leaving Hadeon. Abalon wasn’t one to take orders, but if the Phantoms believed subtleties could intimidate Master Hadeon, they would be painfully mistaken. On instinct, Isa’s grip positioned on her dagger, readying to splice a heart should the Phantoms make war today. Joshua must have agreed—for once—when his fingers twitched near the sheath on his hip where his curved scimitar rested.
It seemed as if the council room submerged in the bowels of the North Sea, the walls crushed around them as the endless battle of who truly led the discussion mounted between Hadeon and Abalon. Kish flicked his whimsical, flawless brows at Isa when Abalon huffed and lowered his head. Heat flushed in her cheeks and she quickly turned her attention to the Phantom leader instead of the perfect curl of Kish’s grin.
“We will take Mörk. As we know, Bale is comfortable in the wetlands,” Abalon conceded.
“Perfect,” Hadeon muttered, sinking against his chair in earned regality. “Then the Tyv will take the Guld Jungle and the border between Jershon and the Noble Passage. We are the largest of the guilds, it seems only fitting we cover more terrain. Above all, Kawal must not enter Thieves Waste.”
“Why are we not slitting the snake’s throat as should have been done the first time,” a Phantom hissed.
Abalon struck the back of his man’s head with such force Isa wouldn’t have been surprised if the phantom’s eyes bugged out. “You do not speak.”
Hadeon seemed pleased at the exchange, his gaze turning to Joshua, leaving Abalon’s initial request unanswered. With a beckoning flick of Hadeon’s finger, Joshua crouched at his master’s side. “You and your men will infiltrate the Noble Passage. Bale has cozied up with Kawal. He will view himself untouchable among those routes and is sure to take them. I expect you to keep the risky reputation of the route alive, Joshua.”
Joshua smirked, gliding his finger along the diamond hilt of his prized sword. “Always, Master Hadeon.”
“Shall I go too, Master?” Isa asked. She winced at the clear plea for acceptance buried in her tone.
Hadeon thumbed his chin long enough perspiration from his scrutiny beaded across her pale forehead. “No, Isabelle. I have a different need for you. Something, I think your particular skills will be useful for, but it will take time to prepare.”
Isa returned a stiff nod, her fingers threading in her lap. How could her skills not suit the Noble Passage with Joshua? Given her history, Isa couldn’t think of a greater place to lead an ambush. Joshua, with his steel-soles—he’d get his Tyv platoon killed. She knew what to watch for, how to strike, where glittering goods were hidden. Not Joshua.
The act was clear: punishment for not killing Bale was trickling down all this time later. For the first time since her solo attack, Isa embraced the doubts her entire guild kept on the tips of their tongues. She simply never imagined Hadeon succumbed to her shortcomings the same.
“What shall the beauty be doing?” Kish asked when it was clear her exchange with her master was over.
Hadeon peaked his fingers in front of his chin and smirked. “We shall council on Bale, but there are no requirements we share all our intentions between guilds.”
Kish didn’t frown, like the slick villain Isa knew him to be, he laughed. Each white tooth sparkling like a fresh sea pearl. He shrugged, but Isa could see the venom in the emerald shade of his eyes. “Very well, Hadeon. I suspect we’re finished here. If you don’t mind, we have an entire gulf to protect.” The Ladroa Guild stood as one. Kish adjusted his black tunic and thick strap holding his gilded sword. The motion stretched the material across his broad chest so the spice of his woodsy aroma taunted Isa’s nostrils. He paused before leading his two thieves out of the council room. “Oh, and Hadeon, don’t expect my guild to hold back as you instructed your delightful thief. If we catch a scent of Bale—or any noblemen nearby—the gulf will run red. You understand.”
Hadeon said nothing but offered a knowing nod to Kish.
The Tyv master was powerful. Hadeon was dark in a sense that no one knew the extent of how far the man would go because there were only rumors on how far he had gone in the past. Hadeon never confirmed, nor denied anything. Isa once heard her master had killed no man—using his cunning and silver tongue to persuade and steal. Other rumors were that he had wiped out entire villages with the aid of the vicious sea barons for spoils. Isa could believe both. Despite his influence and mystery, Hadeon would always respect the individual guilds and their own paths. He believed if a guild slaughtered, they would reap the consequences whatever they be. He would not institute law on another master.
Isa released a prickly breath when Kish abandoned the tower. His presence was desirous and terrifying in one breath. The Phantoms made no announcement they were leaving, they bid no farewell, before stalking out of the council room, leaving the three Tyv thieves in somber quiet.
“Joshua, leave me with Isabelle for a moment.”
Joshua glimpsed at her, his eyes narrowed, but absent of the frustration he’d carried before. She seethed toward her fellow Tyv—Joshua believed the same as Isa—she was about to earn her lashes. Though, he could have buried some of the pleasure in his ridiculous face.
Joshua’s steel boots silenced just outside the door where Isa knew he would stand watch until the end of time should Hadeon ask. Her master shifted, the wood of his seat groaning beneath his weight. Hadeon’s black robe slipped from one shoulder and revealed his solid bicep. Isa didn’t know Hadeon’s age, she suspected he was old enough to be her father, but it didn’t matter. His strength rivaled any man in the guild.
“Isa, what are your thoughts on your first council?”
“I’m grateful for your trust in attending, Master.”
Hadeon’s beard twitched when his lips curled up. “There was a purpose.” Isa swallowed and kept her eyes trained on a natural crack in the wooden table as Hadeon rose from his seat. Peering through a cloudy window, her master seemed to be admiring the blanket of stars. “I wanted you to know what allies our old friend Bale has made since your last meeting.”
“You aren’t angry I didn’t kill him?” Her pulse quickened.
Hadeon lifted his gaze. “What were the instructions, Isa?”
Swallowing several times to wet her swollen tongue, Isa straightened her shoulders. “The House Johab wished for the return of their family ring—still on Bale’s finger, Master. There were no calls for his death
. Only…suffering.”
Hadeon nodded. “Do you trust the demands were met?”
Was this a fool’s question? Isa nodded after a pause. “Yes, Master. I do.”
“Then I don’t wish to hear your whimpering and doubts for another moment, Isabelle. If you fulfilled the run, let it die. No looking back, girl. If you cower under scrutiny, perhaps I have overestimated your strength.”
“No.” Isa snapped to her feet with the spark of temper boiling in her veins. “I am not weak.”
Hadeon chortled, and Isa flushed for shouting at the only man who truly frightened her. And awed her—Hadeon’s presence could be confusing.
“Then prove it,” he said. “I have a new run, something unique, Isa. And it plays right into the purpose of this council. You will not be joined by any other member of the guild. But I warn you, this is so dangerous it will take at least a year of preparation and training. There are powers in our world, Isa, powers that threaten lives and freedoms. You must become a master of disguise like many in the guilds. You believe in the voice of rays—”
“I used to,” Isa said.
Hadeon furrowed his brow but didn’t press her. “Well, even still, you must train yourself to awaken your own voice of power. I shall believe in the rays for you, and I will not rest until yours come to light. Your life, our entire guild, and anyone you may know lost to the Bloodlands will depend on your success, or they will lose their lives. Slowly. Are you willing to accept? You have certain instincts and qualities that make you ideal for such a task, but I cannot risk it on anyone.”
She shuddered at the request. What could be such a danger that even Master Hadeon could lose his life? “Disguises? You mean I am to go on a shadow run?”
Hadeon nodded. “This remains between you and I.”
“Who is the payer?”
Hadeon squared his shoulders, folding his fingers behind his back. “I am.”
Chapter 7
Cyprus Cliffs
Air so dry it was a challenge to take a breath scorched down his throat. Roark groaned and rolled onto one shoulder. Clearly, someone had staked a fire stoker through the center of his skull. Flashes of shadows and orange sun assaulted his eyes as he blinked his crusted lids open. Red cliffs trapped him on either side. A polluted haze surrounded the gray sky, and brittle trees and shrubs dotted the barren earth.
Roark shifted to sitting but found heavy pressure around his wrists. His senses absorbed the iron shackles around his ankles and hands once the fog in his head cleared. Now, Roark was awake. Ignoring the shooting agony down his spine from heavy boots against his body, Roark peered through rusted bars making a canopy over a waste-coated wagon.
“I thought you were dead.”
Roark whipped his head over his shoulder and fury collided with anguish when he studied the broken features of the boy.
“Furv.” Roark scooted as close as possible. Furv’s lip was spliced and one eye was swollen shut by a greenish bruise. His lips were white and chapped. How long had the boy been without water? By Roark’s parched tongue and throat he could estimate nearing two days. “Where are we? What have they done to you?”
Furv’s lip quivered, but no tears welled. The despondent glaze in his once-vibrant gleam was harrowing. “Brutes and…trappers say they are selling us, Ro. I…don’t know where we are. We went through bits of the jungle, then up. We’ve gone straight up forever.” Roark forced his attention from his friend and took in the landscape.
“We’re in the Cliffs, Furv. I’d bet my life we’re going to the Cy cliff dwellers.”
Furv’s battered, sunburned skin paled. “But…but they’re barbaric. I’ve heard they eat their own people. They t-t-toss slaves over the edge…”
Roark silenced the stammers with a sharp look. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Furv. They are people the same as you and me, I’m certain of it.” Though if Roark was being true with the boy, he’d heard many similar tales of the Cy folk.
“Where do you suppose they…took Agnus?”
Roark closed his eyes and took a rough breath. “I don’t know.” More that he didn’t want to know.
“I can’t…I won’t survive, Ro.” Furv clutched his chest once his breaths deepened. “Ouma, she hit me, but she was so old it hardly hurt. These people…”
Roark shifted back in the wagon. His shoulder had been dislocated, but he tensed through the fire shooting down his back and up his neck. “Listen to me, Furv.” He waited until Furv’s amber eyes lifted. “You are going to survive this. I’ll make sure of it. You are strong inside and you must hold onto the strength that I see.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in rays.”
Roark scoffed. “Maybe I don’t, but you do, and I see those rays in you, Furv. I hear them. Power; a strong spirit—”
“Shut up or you’ll lose your tongue.” Roark and Furv startled and ducked at the same time when a loping brute banged the edge of his blade against the bars. This wasn’t the same giant who’d taken Agnus. This one was worse. The tips of his jutting teeth had rusty stains from blood. The club in one thick hand could smash Roark’s skull without effort, and scars lined his skin as proof this brute was unafraid of pain.
Furv’s chin trembled and Roark nestled nearer to the boy, so the shackles pulled against his injured shoulder. His voice was hardly a whisper, but Roark made certain Furv heard. “You will survive, Furv. There is no other option. I won’t let you give up.”
“Stay with me, Ro.”
“Always.”
An hour longer in the stifling heat added a thick muggy layer of humidity. The more distance the wagon chased the more desolate the area became until Roark caught sight of the iron gate protecting a stone valley surrounded by towering bluffs, caves, and sharp cliffs.
“Welcome to the Cyprus Cliffs, rats. Special request from Bale to introduce you to your new home.” The brute gurgled and hooked his thumbs around his thick, black belt.
Roark and Furv pressed their foreheads against the hot bars to watch as the grinding cranks of the gate spurred to life and rumbled along the earth. Puffs of sand and dirt exploded from the hinges and the thundering movement sent a few smaller boulders tumbling into the canyons below. With a crack of a whip the tusked oxen pulling the wagon drove on. Roark couldn’t offer comfort to Furv now, he was too enraptured at the odd civilization he’d only read about. All along the bluffs were dwellings built in the stone. Some stacked on top of the other in rocky stories until at the top of the tallest ledge a manse made from stone bricks and clay tiles overpowered the entire valley.
The wagon rumbled on and Roark caught sight of a few small heads peeking out the windows of the cave homes. The children of the Cy were altered young. Little girls with piercings spanning the entire shell of the ear, and thick gold bands on their wrists to signify future marriage and obedience to their husbands. Their waists were corseted with bone wraps to ensure slender bodies and high busts.
According to Roark’s studies years ago, Cy boys earned their first piercings a year from birth. At age three the lobes of the ears began the stretch. Roark stared at the boy peeking from his stone hovel. His skin was layered in dust, his hair cropped short, and his lobes as open as a copper. Roark would guess he was nearing six.
The two oxen pulling the wagon took a sharp right and Furv slammed into Roark’s bruised, subluxed shoulder. He didn’t curse the gods of the Mount. They wouldn’t listen anyway, but Furv didn’t need Roark’s temper on a day such as today. The team halted behind a second, spiked metal gate that slammed with another rocky shudder at their rear.
Roark tensed as they stalled in an alleyway of cliffs. On either wall were cages holding men built into various-sized caves. They peered through crags, bars, and iron doors, and watched the new arrivals with hungry satisfaction.
Trappers and their brutes surrounded the wagon and uncoupled the back latch. A lean trapper with two braids growing off his chin stomped toward Furv. With haste the man switched back the lock on Furv�
��s restraints and tugged beneath his shoulder.
“Come on rat, up you go.”
“Ro!”
“You’re alright, Furv,” Roark said as he covered his neck with a palm so the boy wouldn’t catch his racing pulse. A second trapper mimicked the first and tugged on Roark’s shoulder. He cried out. The trapper kicked his shin. Roark kept quiet through the anguish.
Furv was curled over his knees on the dusty stones at the foot a man. The man was draped in thin linen robes that hardly covered his bare chest pierced with spikes and chains. His eyes narrowed, and as he walked toward the lead trapper the small cloth covering his groin flapped and revealed more piercings Roark couldn’t ever scrub from his mind. The trappers tossed Roark at the feet of the man and silence settled like a lead weight dropping through the center of the sea.
“I am Lord Tama. Lord, master, and ruler over the Cy people. And just what have you brought me?”
“Two sturdy ones, milord,” a trapper said with a swift smack to Roark’s head.
Tama lowered to his haunches and peered into Roark’s eyes. He seemed to be breaking through his soul, but Roark never blinked. Then Tama turned to Furv. “This one is young. Skinny.”
“He’ll be good entertainment for the champions,” another trapper muttered.
Tama nodded and patted his palm on Furv’s jaw. It wasn’t hard, more a tap, but Furv whimpered and hung his head. “Can you fight boy? Or would you die the moment someone swung a sword. By his red burns on his skin, I’d say Zaharan?” A trapper nodded at Tama. The Lord cringed and clicked his tongue. “Weak fighters. I suppose I could put him in the practice ring for training. The bruisers would kill him eventually, but at least a few weeks of practice would be worth the price.”
Furv trembled. Roark cleared his throat and spoke the Cy tongue without error. “If you seek a fighter, I can fight. Leave the boy to other duties. I can fight.”
Lord Tama tilted his head, intrigued. “This one speaks without trouble.” The man chortled and lowered to haunches once more. “You’ve understood everything spoken?” Roark nodded. “That does take a bit of the fun from the surprise then. Do you understand what the Cy people do to fund our city?”
