The God King (Book 1) (Heirs of the Fallen) Page 10

  “So much for collecting his gold,” Azuri muttered angrily. “Unless you plan to murder him?”

  Kian did not answer. He was wondering if he and his friends ought to go back the way they had come.

  Bresado took that option away.

  “Join me,” the lord marshal ordered, his voice as croaky as the boy’s had been.

  Footsteps echoing, Kian led his companions. On either side of the guttering torches, rusted chains and manacles hung from the ceiling. Rotted barrels spilled all manner of corroded irons and pincers. The memory of suffering hung in the air like a stench.

  Kian was almost happy to come into the brighter light offered by Bresado’s lamps. Almost.

  “My lord—”

  “I’ve been expecting you, Kian Valara,” Bresado interrupted in his clogged voice. He wore black robes over red leather trousers, and high black boots. And with his girth, he wore it all poorly.

  “Expecting me?” Kian muttered. Merchants and many Aradaner highborn knew of him, as his services were widely sought, but how could Bresado have known he was coming here?

  Despite the chilly air, Bresado’s shaven scalp glistened like a wet egg. He idly fingered an inlay of the charging boar of House Rengar set in the table’s surface. The boar’s ruby eye held more reason than the lord marshal’s squinty stare.

  “My lord,” Kian began again, “what happened here?”

  Bresado grinned. “Death.”

  “What manner of death?” Kian insisted.

  Bresado squinted. “After the faces of the Three died and the Qaharadin began to burn, a host of Mahk’lar scaled the walls. Men fought and died, and the demons glutted on blood.”

  With a madman’s bemused stare, Bresado studied Kian and the others. He began to chuckle, then doubled over and retched. As he straightened, Bresado licked his lips, as if savoring the taste of his own vomit.

  “It is again as it once was,” he went on, “as it should have always been. But we were betrayed by Pa’amadin, and our own makers.”

  “We?” Kian said.

  “Pa’amadin?” Azuri added.

  “Whose makers?” Hazad demanded.

  Bresado’s crazed grin grew wider, revealing a few stubs of rotted teeth. “We are the first of the Three, come again to our ancient homelands. We have been loosed from Geh’shinnom’atar to reclaim our birthright.”

  “We’ll get no answers from this madman,” Azuri said, taking a step back.

  Before Kian could do the same, Bresado leaned forward, holding him with his glare.

  “I know what you hope for, Kian Valara, but you will never gain what you seek.”

  “What do you think I seek?” Kian asked, thinking, I should have listened to Hazad and Azuri.

  “Why, you seek to supplant the master of the Mahk’lar, the Life Giver. If you can leave here with your life, you may succeed, for he is no true master of the Fallen.”

  “I know of no one named the Life Giver,” Kian said. “Of El’hadar, I leave it to you. As for my life,” he finished, drawing his sword, “I’ll keep it safe.”

  Bresado lurched out of the chair with an explosive grunt. “We shall see.”

  “Gods good and wise,” Hazad cried, eyeing the darkness beyond the torches. There was movement all around, indistinct shapes lurching toward the light.

  “Come, my children,” Bresado invited, “and take your fill.” He looked as if he had more to say, but at that moment his skull cracked apart, disgorging a flood of grave worms and something like boiling pitch, and from that grisly stew some tapered appendage snaked out to lash the air.

  The trio had not sprinted half the distance back to the stairwell before the lurching shapes beyond the torches spilled into the light. Forced into a three-sided formation, Kian and the others pressed forward against a host of creatures no larger than children—

  Sudden understanding flooded Kian. Save the boy who had guided them, he had seen no children among the corpses aboveground. As the demon in the swamp had possessed Fenahk, the Mahk’lar here had taken the bodies of El’hadar’s children. But they were children no longer.

  “Look out!” Azuri cried, as the demons scrambled closer, long talons on their hands and feet rasping over the stone floor.

  Kian swung his blade into a spiny, wedge-shaped skull. A faint blue spark flared from his hands, raced up the sword, and black flesh parted and bone crunched. Kian wrenched his weapon loose, and sank a sidearm blow into the demon’s neck. Before hitting the floor, the creature’s melting body released an inky shape that rejoined the shadows. A frantic thought came to Kian. That’s its soul.

  Azuri screamed behind him.

  Kian chopped at another twisted face with eyes shining like silver coins. A brutal kick sent the dissolving creature rolling. Kian wheeled, searching for his friend.

  The mercenary lay face down on the floor, fighting to get a Mahk’lar off his back. Hazad stood over him, struggling with another demon. Ducking Hazad’s frantic sword strokes, Kian grabbed the creature on Azuri before it could bury its teeth into his neck, and flung it aside.

  Leaving Azuri to get up on his own, Kian caught hold of the demon trying to devour Hazad’s face and wrenched its head back. Its neck snapped, and he flung it to the floor. Hazad slashed the creature’s chest. The blow barely cut its black skin, but that was enough to release its soul.

  With all three of them up and armed, they fought their way to the stairwell. Kian did not hesitate to shove Azuri and Hazad ahead of him.

  “You cannot fight them alone,” Hazad bellowed.

  “There’s only room for one. Go!”

  Kian backed up the steps after Azuri and Hazad, his blade slashing and stabbing. Soon he was panting, and sweat was pouring into his eyes. But he could not stop fighting, no matter how terribly his arm and shoulder ached. To rest, even for a moment, would mean his death.

  The farther up they went, the dimmer the torchlight became, until vanishing completely. Now dozens of dancing silver eyes provided an eerie light that mingled with the weakening flares of blue fire arcing from Kian’s strikes.

  Soon his swings grew more feeble, and those blue sparks died altogether. Whatever power he held to kill the demon’s failed. He drew his dagger. An extra blade helped keep the creature’s at bay, but not much. It will end soon, he thought with a black calm, wondering what he had done to deserve such a terrible end.

  He abruptly stumbled and sat down hard. Seemingly of its own will, his sword came up. Biting fangs screeched over steel, and Kian fought to hold the demon back. More clambered over the top of their kindred, pressing in close.

  “We’re at the door,” Azuri called.

  Kian tried to retreat, but there was no breath in his chest, no strength in his legs. Sword and dagger crossed before him, Kian’s arms shook in a failing bid to keep the tide of demons from swarming over him.

  Then Hazad was there, roaring an Izutarian battle cry, chopping at the Mahk’lar like a man hewing wood. His fury drove the beasts back, allowing Azuri drag Kian out of the stairwell. Hazad came close behind, his wild swings hammering at anything that came close. Azuri shoved Kian aside, and he fell against the wall, gulping breath.

  Between the two of them, Azuri and Hazad slammed and barred the door. On the far side, a terrible howling went up, and heavy thuds shook the door in its frame. The Mahk’lar might have begun as beings of spirit, but they were now limited by their flesh.

  “This won’t hold for long,” Hazad said.

  Kian let the two men half carry him along the dark corridors. When the sound of splintering wood echoed behind them, Kian found what was left of his strength, and they trio ran until coming to the doors leading into the courtyard.

  Outside, dusk was old and ready for the grave of night. And there waited the boy, off to one side of the horses. His eyes glinted in the thin, ruddy light, and he smiled broadly. Something wriggled from between his lips.

  “We are leaving,” Azuri snarled. “Stand aside!”

  The
boy’s mouth opened, spilling grave worms. “Noooooooo!”

  Azuri’s thrown dagger sliced across the boy’s throat and bounced away. The wound seemed slight, but he pitched over onto his back.

  “Gods good and wise,” Hazad rasped. “Have we fallen to murdering children!”

  Azuri leaped astride his horse. “He was a demon!”

  Hazad stared at the boy, whose flesh was beginning to melt. Kian helped Hazad into his saddle.

  “That was no child,” Kian said, ignoring the wispy darkness oozing out of the corpse. “Never believe that.”

  Hazad nodded absently.

  Kian climbed onto his horse. “We make for Izutar.”

  “Oratz is twenty miles from here,” Azuri countered.

  “Twenty miles in the wrong direction,” Kian said.

  “Do we not have enough honor left in the three of us to at least warn the Aradaners about what they will soon face.”

  Kian wanted nothing more than to head straight for Izutar, but Azuri was right, as much as he hated to admit it. “Very well. If we ride hard, we’ll be there before dawn.”

  A hellish baying pushed out from the Black Keep, and the trio wheeled their mounts and fled.

  Chapter 14

  Ellonlef kept her head down. The speed of the galloping warhorse brought tears to her eyes that cut tracks in the dust on her cheeks. Thoughts of escaping had begun to fire in her mind when an arrow hissed out of the night, striking her mount in the front shoulder. The horse trumpeted in pain, stumbled, then regained its stride, hooves thundering over the roadway. Its muscles trembled under the saddle, but she would run it to death before she halted, even if it only bought her a few moments to make ready to defend herself.

  Up ahead, off to one side of the road and silhouetted against the smoky horizon, loomed a rocky outcrop. The shouting Bashye warriors at her back drove her to jam her heels into the horse’s flanks. The mount surged forward.

  As the rocks grew closer, the Bashye fell farther behind. Ellonlef kicked her feet free of the stirrups, cradled her bow to her chest, and rolled out of the saddle. The shock of the hitting the hard ground knocked the wind from her lungs, but she came up running, needing to reach cover more than to breathe.

  Within a few strides, she knew there was something wrong with one knee. Her run became a lurching stumble, but she kept on until reaching the boulders.

  The wailing battle cries of the Bashye grew closer, and Ellonlef ducked behind a large rock just before the warriors raced by. She had hoped there were only three or four, but she counted at least twice that many.

  When the drumming of hooves began to fade, she started climbing up through the boulders. She had to get to high ground before they discovered that she was no longer riding the horse they pursued.

  The agony in her knee flared with every step, but Ellonlef kept on until it gave out. In the stillness of the night, she leaned against the rough curve of a boulder, biting her bottom lip to stifle a whimper. She ran cautious fingers over the bulge under her dusty robes, and hastily pulled back. Breathing hard, she continued to search out wounds. There were dozens of painful lumps, but she felt confident that she had suffered no broken bones. Another quick check told her the dagger sheathed on her hip was secure, and that most of the arrows in her quiver were unbroken.

  Feeling a little better, Ellonlef tested her weight on the bad leg and nearly screamed. At that moment, she would have happily carved out the eyes of every one of the filthy bastards hunting her. Not out of vengeance, but because of their sheer, blind stupidity. The world was coming apart, but still the single-minded brutes persisted in hunting down anyone they thought weak enough to defeat.

  “But I was no easy prize, was I?” she growled into the night, mortified by the hatred in her heart.

  The Bashye had come at her soon after she left Oratz, which lay many leagues north of Fortress Yuzzika. It had taken them little time to kill off her string of horses. She could not say how long ago that had been, but it felt like an eternity.

  The horrors that had waited at both Yuzzika and Oratz filled her mind, despite her need to seek higher, safer ground. Even now, long after seeing the first strew of flyblown corpses in and around Fortress Yuzzika, she shuddered in revulsion. She had initially believed some great battle had occurred, leaving corpses sprawled everywhere for the carrion eaters to squabble over.

  She had held that belief until reaching Oratz.

  The inhabitants of Oratz had not perished long before she arrived. The dead there, scattered over the ground outside the walls, had all died from ragged gashes to their throats. The blood that had poured from those gruesome wounds had left behind wide fans of drying blood, which meant the men’s hearts had been beating as they died—

  A faint noise drew Ellonlef’s attention to the north. She cocked her head, listening to the sound of hooves coming nearer. Though she had known the foolishness of hope, some small part of her had believed she would escape.

  She swiped angry tears from her eyes and resumed her climb up the small mountain of boulders. She vowed to open her own veins before letting the Bashye turn her into a broodmare, but before that, she would make them suffer. Vengeance was not in her nature, but a sense of justice demanded that the Bashye pay for their assault against her, and no doubt countless others before her. Whether the world was coming apart or not, justice would have its place this night.

  By the time she had climbed as high as she could, the renegade warriors had passed by going south. This time they came back sooner, riding slow and looking over every inch of sandy ground to either side of the road. For all their vileness, they were excellent trackers. Soon they would find where she had leaped from her horse, and not long after they would guess that the rock pile was the only reasonable place for her to hide.

  Ellonlef studied her surroundings, gauging her defenses. She stood in a wind-hollowed basin of stone with a sandy floor. Behind her, a sheer sandstone face rose up another dozen feet. To either side, slanting boulders fell away. To the front, the haphazard path she had taken would funnel them into a single line.

  A grim smile turned her lips. They would be cautious, for she had already thinned their numbers while firing arrows from the back of a galloping horse, but they would come, and she would be ready.

  She counted her arrows out, stabbing each one into the sand between her feet. There were eleven arrows plus the broken one, which she tossed aside.

  Down below, one of the Bashye gave an excited call. Settling down to rest her knee, Ellonlef watched to see what they would do, unconsciously loosening her dagger in its sheath. All of her actions were second nature, for the Sisters of Najihar were trained in everything from history to healing to battle. Even after nine years of being locked away in the relative safety of Krevar, the training she had received was still with her. To be sure, she was not as polished as she had once been, but she was far from helpless.

  The Bashye gathered together, and Ellonlef’s heart fell. Now that they were still, she counted eight of them. By their greater size, two looked to be of Izutarian heritage. One spoke in an unmistakable Falsethian lilt. The rest could have been Aradaners, Tureecians, Kelrens, or a mongrel mix of all five bloods. These men would give her no quarter. The few people who’d ever escaped from Bashye camps told of captured men and women being stripped naked, collared, and leashed like dogs. Women then became breeders, while the men were castrated and forced into slavery.

  The Bashye spoke quietly, all pointing in different directions, but deferring to the shortest man among them. He alone seemed to be gazing at her place of refuge.

  Ellonlef weighed her options, and quickly decided on a course that would force them to react to her, rather than the other way around.

  Moving slowly, she nocked an arrow to the bowstring. Taking account of her higher elevation, she drew the fletching to her cheek and took aim. The bowstring made an insignificant popping sound when it slipped off her fingers. Invisible in the night, the arrow sped along its deadl
y course and struck the man in the throat. He flailed about, gagging.

  All the men scattered, save one. He tried to drag his leader to safety. Ellonlef’s second arrow took him in the back, high up and on the left side. He shrieked and fell to the ground, clawed along for a few paces, then went still.

  Now there are six.

  For a long time, the only sound was the sighing wind carrying smoke out of the Qaharadin Marshes. In the dark sky, a shower of falling stars flared and were gone.

  A hissing volley of arrows forced Ellonlef to dive to the ground and cover her head. No shafts struck her, but a few fell close by. She was about to praise her choice of a defensive position, when she heard the soft but unmistakable sound of sandals scraping over stone down below her. She crawled forward, keeping her head low until she could peek over the edge.

  Prickly sweat sprang from her skin at the sight of three men working their way up the tumbled boulders. Even as she thought to raise her bow, they began firing arrows in her direction.

  She ducked down, shafts clattering around her. Through a split in the rocks she saw the three other Bashye begin to climb. It took seconds for them to rush past their fellows, stop a third of the way up, and start firing their own arrows. Only then did the first group of archers lower their bows and begin climbing. Once they were halfway up, they began lobbing volleys again.

  A few more staggered jumps like that, Ellonlef thought, and they’ll have me.

  Desperate to slow them, Ellonlef raised up and fired off two arrows of her own. Neither struck their mark, but did give her assailants pause. After firing another pair of arrows, she ducked back behind cover.

  She thought the situation could not get worse, but then she heard a harsh rasping noise, like steel scraping over stone. A fire-arrow whooshed up and up, then plummeted. It landed harmlessly behind her, but the dancing flames reflecting off the face of stone, the same that she had counted on to defend her back, now acted as a dull mirror, increasing the light and casting it in all directions.

  She popped up and managed to launch another arrow before they pinpointed where she was, but again her shot flew wide. Someone shouted a mocking insult, even as arrows began streaking toward her. The stony funnel she had planned to use to her advantage had become a deathtrap.