Heirs of the Fallen: Book 03 - Shadow and Steel Page 15

  “She has saved me, but only as I have saved her, on occasion. Past good deeds cannot erase present wrongdoing.”

  “We will speak of this later,” Damoc growled. “For now, concentrate on our task.” Only after Nola nodded agreement, did he release her, and set out ahead of his clan.

  As time had seemed to slow when first he had ventured into the Throat, it did so now. They had passed what he judged was the midway point, when a brief rumble filled the corridor, fading slowly.

  Damoc signaled a halt, sure that buried under that noise he had heard a voice. When the silence persisted, he waved them forward.

  The first time he journeyed into the Throat of Balaam, he had been searching for his eldest daughter. He found instead a breeding ground at the corridor’s end, a place rife with demonic spirits, Alon’mahk’lar, and fires spread across a seemingly infinite plane. Countless women and older girls had been held captive by invisible bonds across that endless expanse. All had been stripped bare, and they had gazed about with deluded, lustful eyes….

  A night had not passed since that he did not relive the horror of those wanton expressions, or the dismay and revulsion he had felt upon witnessing the captives crying out for the brutal touch of Alon’mahk’lar. At the center of all that ruthless madness, the Fauthians and the Faceless One had overseen the loathsome ritual.

  Remembering filled him with fresh fear. He could not let that happen again, not to anyone, and not to Belina. Damoc sped up until he was running.

  The rumbling came again, and this time Damoc was sure he heard words. A moment later, a feminine scream raced down the corridor to meet them, and knew her voice as he knew his own.

  “Belina!” he bellowed.

  No answer came.

  He and the others flew down the corridor.

  Moments later, a figure appeared far ahead, running toward them. Damoc halted everyone with a warning shout. Movement to one side drew his eye, and he found one of his men raising a bow and drawing back the string.

  “Hold, Kasem!”

  The man cast him a confused look.

  “It may be Belina,” Damoc explained, and noticed that Kasem’s eyes flicker toward Nola, before he grudgingly lowered his weapon. When Damoc glanced her way, Nola stood peering down the corridor, as if she had noticed nothing. The downturned corners of her mouth told a different story.

  “Father,” Belina cried, sliding to a stop. “The Faceless One has Leitos!”

  Damoc, blinking back tears of relief, tried to embrace his daughter, but she pushed him away. “There is no time. We must save him!”

  He despised her senseless devotion to the youth. When he spoke, that hatred burst out. “Cease this deluded nonsense! We did not come for an outlander who has chosen to cast his lot with the Fauthians. We came for you.”

  “He is not one of them,” Belina insisted, putting a pace between them. “It is as I have always told, he came to destroy the Faceless One!”

  “The Faceless One cannot be killed,” Damoc scoffed.

  “I told him as much, but he refused to listen. Believe me, his loathing for our enemies is as strong as our own. In that, he is an ally—but also a fool who believes he can defeat the Bane of Creation, by himself. Please believe me, if only this once. We must help him.”

  “No,” Damoc said, refusing to acknowledge the nagging in the back of his mind that told him his refusal was a grave error. “We must leave.”

  “I will not,” Belina said defiantly.

  “You will heed me, child. One way or another.” As he spoke, he searched the faces of his companions for support, and found one face missing. His heart became a frozen lump in his chest. In a croaking voice, he asked, “Where is my daughter?”

  Feet shifted uncomfortably, but no response came. But he knew the answer. All eyes turned to look down the corridor, just as Nola vanished into the cold burning light of the Throat of Balaam.

  “No!” Damoc called, but it was too late.

  Nola had not come to rescue her sister, but to hunt.

  Chapter 28

  Adham looked at his hand, moved his fingers. Not long before, that hand had rested a foot from the stump of his wrist. After Adu’lin had chopped off the appendage, he had healed him the same way he had healed Ke’uld’s leg. “Only to gain favor of the Lord of Light and Shadow, do I do this,” he had said.

  It sounded like a favor Adham wanted no part of.

  Adham’s father, Kian Valera, had seldom spoken of the abilities he had briefly held after being exposed to the shattered Well of Creation—but then, how often did a man need to hear the tale of bringing the dead back to life, before it stuck fast in his mind? Somehow Adu’lin, and maybe others, had gained the same ability for healing, despite being half a world away from the Qaharadin Marshes and that forgotten temple, which had protected a secret never meant for humankind to uncover.

  A mystery of which I’ll never learn the truth, Adham thought now, raising his head to look at his companions. All the remaining Brothers were bound and blindfolded, unlike himself. He guessed Adu’lin wanted to torture him with the illusion that, if he tried hard enough, freedom might be attainable. The presence of armed Fauthians ensured that if he tried to escape, however, he would not get far.

  I have lived a good and long life, Adham told himself. If it ends here and now, I am ready. He eyed Adu’lin standing beyond the ring of pillars, speaking in a quiet voice to some of his men, and vowed he would not die alone.

  Adu’lin approached. “My men have caught those you freed.”

  “You are a poor liar,” Adham scoffed. “Had you captured them, they would be here, with the rest of us.”

  “Had they not fought,” Adu’lin countered, “you would be correct. But fight they did, bravely, ruthlessly … futilely. A pity none survived.”

  At this, a few of the trussed Brothers gasped.

  “You lie,” Adham said again, but with less conviction.

  He had hoped Ulmek and the others would get to their weapons, and then return to teach these spawn of serpents a brutal lesson in the arts of war. But some hours had passed with no sound of fighting, and no alarms raised. He imagined Ulmek’s stony features gone slack in death, and his throat clenched.

  “Believe what you will,” Adu’lin said. “The truth will become known to you soon enough, after I finish what I began this night. I think you will find it—”

  At that moment, a guard glided near and spoke urgently into Adu’lin’s ear. The Fauthian leader’s face contorted for the barest instant, then smoothed to its usual bored indifference. No matter what mask he wore, Adham knew something troubled him deeply.

  Adu’lin spun away, taking the guard with him, and signaling others to join him. Adham strained to hear, but could only make out some concern about a throat, or some such. Adham hoped the throat they were speaking of was a Fauthian’s, and that it had been cut.

  Adu’lin sent his men off with a word, and moved deeper into the shadows. He spread his arms and bowed his head, like a priest of old honoring a god, and began muttering under his breath. Adham felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, and a breath of damp ice teased over his flesh, as the words became clear.

  From the darkness between the stars,

  Came He, the Lord of Light,

  To deliver peace and safety upon all lands.

  Praise the Faceless One,

  He who suffers the unworthy.

  Praise the Faceless One,

  He who blesses the contemptible.

  Bow to His wisdom,

  Bow to His righteous judgment.

  Praise be to the Merciful One,

  Praise be to the Lord of Light and Shadow.

  After a few moments, Adu’lin ceased his supplications, and returned. He grinned down at Adham, revealing a malevolence that Adham had never before seen on the man’s face. From a leather purse hanging at his hip, he produced a handful of cords. From each hung a stone of protection. “As I was saying, Izutarian, I think you will find what I h
ave in store for you and your companions enlightening.”

  Chapter 29

  With the Faceless One’s cruel laughter hounding him, Leitos rushed across the plane, its surface erupting with fire and crawling with demonic spirits. He ran as hard and fast as he had ever run in his life.

  As in coming, he seemed to travel no distance at all, though he could make out the archway where he had left Belina, and that azure glow guided him. And then he saw a feminine silhouette emerge from the light, and come straight for him.

  “Go back!” he cried, waving his arms. She did not heed him.

  He cut off when a great arc of twisting flame rose between them. From its highest point, some steaming, pestilent liquid began raining down.

  Leitos slid to a halt, searching for a way around, but in every direction leaped roiling flames, and from those fires oozed terrible creatures of mist and shadow.

  Seeing no other way, he ducked his head and ran into the ghastly deluge. Hot drops splattered over him, reeking of sickness. He gagged, bent over and retched a thin drool of spittle, but never did he cease going forward.

  The tacky rain fell harder, forcing Leitos to squint. Where that fluid touched bare skin, a burning itch spread outward, until it seemed that he had been flayed from head to toe with stinging nettles. The stench intensified, stealing his breath, blurring his vision. And still he ran, a slogging shamble where every step seemed to stick to the ground, before pulling free.

  Without warning, he burst through the other side of the rain, staggering, his skin afire. He swiped a hand across his eyes, fearing he would go blind if even one drop of that damnable wetness dripped in them.

  Suddenly remembering Belina, he cast about. Instead of Belina, came the last woman he had ever expected to see. He told himself that her presence was impossible, but in this place of infinity, the domain of the Faceless One, who could say what laws could be bent, or shattered entirely? It struck him that none of this was real, and that she was but an apparition, a memory plucked from his dreams and placed here, in this realm of nightmares. A single thing bound all those ideas together, and that was the guilt he felt, now and forever, for killing her.

  She loomed closer, green eyes ablaze with unforgiving malice, her face as beautiful as he remembered.

  “Zera,” he gasped, “I am sorry.”

  Her sword, rising to strike, paused, and a look of shock crawled over her features. “Dare not speak that name,” she hissed, the tone of her voice different than he remembered.

  Leitos snapped his eyes shut, then opened them. This young woman before him resembled his first and only love, but she was not Zera. She had not her years, and by her garb and the long bow slung across her back, she was Yatoan. A mingling of disappointment and relief flooded him. “We have to get out of here,” he said.

  The girl smiled darkly. “Only one of us will leave.”

  “What?” Leitos said, alarmed. He took a careful step back, glanced over his shoulder to find Mahk’lar gathering like a great knot of entwined serpents, growing more numerous within that arc of fire and venomous rain.

  “If we do not flee,” he said urgently, looking back at her, “we will die. We can deal with your concerns later, once we are free.”

  “You are my sole concern, Leitos,” she said. “And by that, I mean your death is all that matters to me.”

  One moment she stood rigid, the tip of her sword aimed at his heart, the next she swept in for the kill, her flashing blade alight with a thousand flames, her grace making Ulmek’s poise and skill seem clumsy by comparison.

  Her first strike slashed toward his neck, and he leaned out of reach, barely. The tip nicked the skin of his throat. She reversed her swing with a flourish, and again her blade cut him, leaving a shallow scratch along his raised forearm.

  “Where is Belina?” Leitos demanded, thinking to distract the crazed girl with what must be a familiar name.

  “Safe,” she said in a clipped tone.

  Fury burned in her eyes as she advanced, her whirling strikes coming faster and wilder. In moments, despite his best efforts, her steel had marked him with a dozen shallow scratches. Having failed to cut him down, or even wound him gravely, her anger grew hotter.

  “If you wanted an easy kill,” he taunted, knowing it might well prove deadly to do so, “you should have set yourself before a bush, and chopped at its branches.”

  With an inarticulate scream, she attacked in an unrelenting flurry, the blade blurring before his eyes, nicking him here, slicing him there. Leitos dodged and danced and darted like a serpent, ever a hair’s breadth from death. He knew he could not keep it up for long. He had to end this.

  She abruptly lunged, emerald eyes burning like matching portals of hate. Leitos twisted, and the sword tore through his robes, skimming his ribs. Before she could draw back, he stepped close, wincing as the keen edge sliced deeper. That sacrifice was his only defense.

  His fist pistoned forward in a short, brutal hook, and slammed against the point of her chin. His unexpected attack caught her off guard, snapping her head to the side. Eyes fluttering, she fell. Leitos grunted harshly as the sword, still clutched firmly in her hand, reversed its track along his ribs. By the slow trickle of blood down his side, he guessed the wound was not deep, and so not deadly.

  Behind him, the sounds of the Mahk’lar grew louder. He tugged the sword from her now limp fingers, and thrust it into his belt. He debated whether or not he should leave her behind, then decided that was no option. He caught hold of one arm, and heaved her over his shoulder. She was slight but solid, and while he had grown stronger in the last year, he still bowed under her weight.

  Leitos shambled toward the corridor, his footing more sure with each step. Soon he began trotting, then running. The girl bounced on his shoulder. Doubtless she would awake to aching ribs—not to mention a bruised chin and splitting head—all of which, to his mind, was more than fair trade for the wounds she had inflicted upon him.

  As the cries of the Mahk’lar increased, he slipped through the tingly veil, and then into the archway’s welcome glow. He had not traveled far when he caught a glimpse of his hand and arm wrapped around the back of the girl’s knees. A revolted groan slipped past his teeth. His skin was welted and inflamed under a wriggling mass of gray, spiny worms with large heads and sharp, pinching jaws.

  Reining in his disgust, he gently placed the girl on the floor. Only then did he tear off his belt and outer robe, and set to scrubbing away the squirming grubs, a horror-stricken moan lodged in his throat. The creatures made plopping sounds when they fell to the opal floor tiles, and quickly dissolved into thin air, leaving behind greasy smudges. He shook out his hair so forcefully that his teeth rattled, then went still, waiting to feel if any more of the worms remained. If they did, they had stopped moving.

  The girl mumbled and raised a shaking hand to her chin. Leitos debated pummeling her again, but decided against it. He donned his robe and stuck her sword in his belt. The girl grunted when he slung her over his shoulder again, but did not struggle. He had not taken a first step when a low hissing sound alerted him to something rushing up from behind.

  Leitos spun, drawing the sword. A seething mass of Mahk’lar filled the corridor, some driving toward him on misty limbs tipped in cracked yellow claws, other coming on webbed feet, or pulling with thrashing tentacles covered in weeping boils. Scores of eyes pinned him, orbs dead-white and dusky amber, or sunken pits filled with glints of baleful scarlet. Beneath all those hues flashed glimmers of dull silver.

  Leitos turned and ran, the girl’s weight forgotten. For every pace his legs took him, the demons gained ten. He ran harder. Their rank odor, like acrid smoke and decay, poured over him. His lungs revolted, refusing to draw in that taint. His chest ached for breath, his vision darkened at the edges. If they caught him, so much as touched him, he would—

  Frigid, crackling fire raced over his neck and down his spine. The held breath gusted from his lungs, as a waving tentacle thrust through
his neck, as if his flesh were no more substantial than vapor. The ebon tendril waved before his face, dividing even as he sprinted along, became a hand crossed with raw fissures. Things moved within those red-rimmed folds, much like the worms that had savaged his skin. As that hand dropped onto his face, the darkness of the Mahk’lar’s essence was blasted away by surging veins of blinding silver, as if lightning were flashing within his skull. The host of Mahk’lar overtook him in a blinding rush, enveloping him, making him part of their whole. An involuntary shout erupted from his throat, and a high-pitched shriek sounded from the girl.

  And then the demonic spirits were past him, rushing down the passage. His head cleared quickly, and the tingling cold faded. Chest heaving like a bellows, he ran on.

  The girl shifted on his shoulder, but whatever she had suffered at the touch of the Mahk’lar kept her docile. Distantly, he hoped she had not been driven mad … unless that madness kept her from wanting to slice him to ribbons.

  Not much farther along, Leitos stumbled to a halt before a handful of Yatoans strewn across the shimmering floor. Some had curled into tight balls, weeping softly, or were babbling gibberish. Some stared straight ahead, jaws slack, strings of drool wetting their lips.

  Damoc, looking stricken but not incapacitated, leaned over a girl propped against the wall. Leitos swallowed dryly when he recognized Belina.

  “Let the visions pass from your mind,” Damoc murmured, using the corner of his cloak to wipes sweat from her brow.

  Belina’s eyes flickered to her father’s face and away. Her gaze skipped over Leitos, then swung back, widening. Her mouth worked. A rattling came from her throat, and she tried again. “Leitos?”

  “Forget him,” Damoc said irritably.

  “He is alive,” Belina gasped. “He brought Nola back to us.”