House of Blades Page 26

  “...guarded, yeah, I was going to say guarded.”

  Alin touched the golden light in the back of his mind, and everything seemed to brighten. He knew he was probably glowing, but didn’t bother glancing at his own skin to check.

  “Gilad, what are those things?”

  The Naraka Traveler didn’t look at him. He kept flexing his right hand as though working out sore muscles; Alin knew that palm carried his Naraka brand. Was it paining him, or was he preparing to use it?

  “Itasas tribesmen,” Gilad said. “Oh, wait, you mean the bugs? The natives call them kush’na, but that roughly translates to ‘flame-walkers.’ They can walk on the lava, you see.”

  The tribesmen stopped at the end of the stone bridge, shields forward and spears pointed at the ceiling. One of them called out, in a thick, awkward accent, “Stop. Turn back. Go away.”

  “Can you open a Gate right here?” Alin asked.

  “No. You can only open a Naraka Gate at certain points. Trying here could kill us both.”

  “Then can we turn back? Go around?”

  The shrieking cry came again, echoing from the tunnel behind them.

  “No time,” Gilad responded, and began to run forward onto the stone bridge.

  Filling his palm with the deadly gold light of Elysia, Alin followed.

  As one, the two flame-walkers let out a burbling hiss and skittered forward. Gilad pulled a red stone from his pocket and tossed it into the lava far below.

  What was that supposed to do? The ant-monsters were still coming. Gilad hadn’t done anything!

  He hurled the gold light in his palm. It felt oddly heavy, and instead of blasting the flame-walker apart, it just knocked it back a few steps. He felt awkward and strained, though an attack like that should have taken barely more effort than throwing a brick.

  “What’s going on?” Alin asked, panicked. “I should be stronger than this!”

  Gilad studied the lava below, ignoring the approaching flame-walkers, but he answered the question. “The Territories are far apart. You can never call up your full power in somebody else’s Territory.”

  They only told him that now? He had counted on the power of Elysia to protect him in other Territories, but now he might not even have that!

  The flame-walkers were only a few paces away, rippling with heat and ember-colored light. They hissed again, and Alin felt his skin crawl.

  “Do something!” he yelled. Gilad, watching the lava, smiled and stretched out a hand.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Something ripped from Gilad’s outstretched hand, an almost-invisible ripple that expanded from his hand in a blast of silent thunder. An invisible wall passed through Alin, and he flinched back, but he felt nothing. When the wave of Gilad’s power met the flame-walkers, they staggered back—startled, not injured—and hesitated for a moment, but then continued forward. The ripple shook dust from the walls, and the nearby lava threw up waves as though a strong wind had passed overhead.

  Alin waited a handful of seconds for something to happen. If Gilad said he had done something then Alin trusted him, but as far as he could tell, the Naraka Traveler might as well have spit from the bridge.

  Then something burst from the ocean of lava far below. It looked like a hawk, but a hawk built entirely out of campfire flames. Its eyes were bright coals, its beak white-hot, and sparks drifted from its spread wings. It let out a searing cry as it shot from the lava, and it snatched one of the flame-walkers in its blazing claws.

  Only then did Alin realize that this hawk was the size of a horse.

  It snatched up the flame-walker and kept flying, releasing the creature to splatter on the ash-covered rocks that surrounded the lava ocean. Then it banked away for another pass.

  The flame-walker had stopped facing Alin, turning to hiss at the hawk instead, but Alin had no desire to play fair with a hellish creature from another world. He blasted it in the stinger with a pulse of golden light, knocking it from the bridge.

  One of the tribesmen had turned toward the hawk, shield raised and spear held at the ready. The other charged across the bridge, heading for Alin, spear lowered.

  “Gilad!” Alin yelled, but Gilad had practically collapsed, holding his head between his hands.

  “Took...too much...sorry,” Gilad said through gritted teeth. Blood leaked from one of his nostrils.

  So it was up to Alin to deal with this man, was it? If he could have called on Elysia’s full power, he wouldn’t even be worried. As it was, though...

  It took far too much effort to pull gold light from Elysia, like ripping out a stubborn weed. Each time he tried, he felt as though he had dragged a bag of rocks uphill with one hand. And when he did finally get a ball of golden light, it splashed harmlessly on the charging man’s shield.

  In sheer desperation, Alin reached deeply into Elysia, straining himself to the limits, for something that he had once called without thought: a golden sword of pure, translucent light.

  It formed, finally, just half a second before the tribesman reached him with his spear. Alin stabbed the sword forward.

  Then there was a rush of flame and heat, and the tribesman vanished. Alin blinked for a moment, clearing his eyes, before he saw the man tumbling through the air toward the lava below. The hawk, soaring overhead, screamed its triumph, and flew off deeper into the caverns. It vanished behind a falling stream of lava.

  The bird must have flown by and snatched the man up just before he could attack. Alin shuddered. The bird could just as easily have taken him, and he would have never had time to react.

  Sword in hand, Alin turned to meet the next tribesman, but he was gone too. He couldn’t have left, since this bridge was the only passage between the obsidian pillar and the rest of Naraka, so that left two options: either he had opened his own Gate to the real world, or the hawk had gotten him too.

  Either way, the bridge was clear.

  Alin pulled Gilad to his feet, and together they hobbled over to the gold-marked black rock that stretched over Alin’s head.

  “Can you get us out of here now?”

  Gilad didn’t answer, just began whirling his right hand in a complex pattern. Alin took that as a yes.

  Just as the Gate opened, cool air flooding out and soothing Alin’s singed skin, he heard the sound of a hunting horn.

  Reluctantly, fearing what he would find, Alin turned away from the Gate to look back across the bridge.

  More tribesmen, blackened shields and spears in their hands, emerged from the tunnel that Alin and Gilad had used. They had another crowd of flame-walkers with them.

  Great.

  Alin wrenched a bolt of light from Elysia, ignoring the strain he felt in his mind. He hurled it forward, striking one of the ant-creatures with enough force to toss it from the bridge. The wind from the open Gate behind him felt cool.

  “Gilad, come on! Gate’s closing!”

  Gilad ducked behind the obsidian pillar, gasping for air. “If I do...they’ll just open it again. They’ll be after you...in seconds.”

  “Get that hawk to do it!” Alin said.

  “I might be able to call it back without a second summoning stone,” Gilad responded, “but it’ll take time.”

  “Then we fight together,” Alin said. He tried to sound determined. “At least until you can manage something.”

  The Naraka Traveler shook his head. “Too risky. Grandmaster would kill me.”

  “I won’t—”

  Alin was going to say, ‘I won’t leave you,’ but Gilad apparently got tired of listening. He spun, faster than Alin would have suspected he could, and kicked Alin in the gut.

  Breath whooshed from Alin’s lungs, and he stumbled backwards into a cool so sudden that it felt freezing.

  Through the Gate.

  Even trying to suck in air through aching lungs, Alin could only focus on one thought: he had to get back. Back through the Gate, back to help Gilad. He lunged
forward, but the vision of the smoldering red cavern faded like smoke in the wind.

  Finally Alin’s lungs filled, and he shouted in frustration, passing a futile hand through empty air.

  “Um...sir?” A voice said, behind him. “May I see your pass?”

  Only then did it occur to Alin to wonder where he was.

  Now that he took the time to notice his surroundings, Alin realized he stood in a room like some dark cathedral. He stood in the center of a circular room, roofed in a high vaulted ceiling, encircled by a dozen smooth pillars. Everything—floor, roof, pillars, walls—seemed made of the same red-streaked black stone. It had the effect of making the room look like it had survived in the aftermath of an enormous fire.

  Alin turned to face the voice, trying to think of something to say. But the pale man in the purple-and-brown uniform barely seemed significant next to what stood behind him: a tall jagged pillar of obsidian etched with golden runes. An exact twin to the one in Naraka.

  The pillar, and the lack of furniture in the room, told Alin what he needed to know: this room had been built for incoming Naraka Travelers.

  “Sir?” The pale man asked again, a quiver in his voice. “Your pass?”

  Well, that could be a problem. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff his way past without a pass, so he might as well try playing it straight.

  “I don’t have a pass,” Alin said. He shrugged. “Do I need to buy one, or...”

  Malachi’s officer cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, glancing from side to side. From the edges of the room, two more soldiers that Alin hadn’t noticed stepped forward. Unlike the officer, these carried swords. And they loomed.

  “Without a pass, I can’t let you out of here,” the pale officer said. “I am ordered to bring you straight to the Overlord’s Master of Household. Come along peacefully, and everything will be sorted out soon.”

  The two guards already had hands on their swords, and they looked ready to charge him at any moment. Sweat glistened on their faces. The officer took one barely noticeable step back towards the obsidian pillar.

  Abruptly Alin realized how he must look. He had stepped out of a Naraka Gate, smoking and covered in ash. His once-fine blue clothes had been charred and sliced until they looked more like battle-scarred rags than an actual suit.

  To the guards, he probably seemed like he had walked through fire, fought a battle, and torn open a portal between worlds to escape unscathed. And he might be an enemy.

  Of course, all of that was more or less true.

  “Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” Alin said. He turned and walked toward the door as if the armed guards didn’t exist.

  “Stop, in the name of the Overlord!” the officer said. “I’ve already sent for the other Travelers. Just stay where you are.”

  Once more, Alin tapped into the light of Elysia. To his relief, it remained as easy as ever on this side of the Gate. Part of him had worried that his difficulty in Naraka had been some failing of his, and not just because the Territories were distant.

  Golden light rose from his skin like glowing smoke. The red-black walls gleamed as the room brightened. Malachi’s soldiers flinched in unison.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Alin said. “Keep quiet, or I’ll have to come back.”

  He walked forward again. Nobody stood in his way.

  Alin marveled at their reactions. Had it only been this spring when he would have reacted the same way, helpless in the face of a Traveler? He rarely thought about those days anymore. What had he ever done before that could compare with the things he could do now?

  Storming the Overlord’s stronghold with his powers, rescuing a maiden from the hands of a tyrannical Traveler. He should be afraid, he knew he should, but he wasn’t; he was excited.

  Who could stand up to him now?

  An old balding man with a potbelly stumbled through the open front door, one hand marked with the glowing red rune of a Naraka Traveler. “Stop right there!” he wheezed, waving his palm to begin a pattern that would call upon his Territory.

  Alin summoned golden light and blasted the man back through the door. He had to step over the old man’s senseless body on his way out.

  No one else tried to stop him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  MIDSUMMER'S EVE

  358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

  24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

  1 Day Until Midsummer

  Simon lay in the rumbling wagon bed, head pillowed on a burlap sack of grain.

  “How am I supposed to find them anyway?” he said. “It’s not like I can just walk up to the Overlord and ask him.”

  Otoku’s laugh was like chimes in the wind.

  Poor child, she murmured in mock sympathy. Maybe you should let Chaim tell you what to do. He can keep you in a box and take you out when he needs someone to swing a sword.

  “I can’t leave them here, and I can’t talk them out of going. So I might as well go with them. We’ll all be safer that way.” He wasn’t sure he believed it, but he thought he sounded certain.

  So you go forth to battle lying on the back of a wagon. The brave warrior, napping his way to battle!

  Simon rolled onto his side and glared at the doll. She was a little smaller than Caela, with a red silk dress and long black hair. Her painted face looked similar, as though the same artist had designed them both, but where Caela’s face was locked into an expression of peace, Otoku looked upon the world with an eternal smirk.

  “Did you make fun of Kai like this?”

  Otoku’s smirk suddenly looked like a grimace, and despite the shaking of the rickety wagon, Simon would have sworn she shuddered.

  Kai never understood when he was being mocked. He just hugged us, and cradled us, and stroked our hair. It was awful.

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  He stroked our hair. We need brushed occasionally, of course, but he’s not a nine-year-old girl. There is no decency in his soul.

  “Well, I always thought he was insane.”

  You don’t know the half.

  Over the creak of the wagons came the crack of a whip, the lowing of oxen, and the call of a man’s voice. A few other Myrians scrambled onboard the wagon, crouching down next to Simon and the boxes.

  “What’s happening?” Simon asked, sitting up.

  A girl of about eleven years answered in a whisper, “We’re at Bel Calem, Master Simon. They’re looking in the wagons.”

  “Looking for us?” Simon asked immediately. He reached out a hand, preparing to summon Azura.

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t think so. Master Chaim and Mistress Nurita are talking to them. I think they just want to see what we’re up to.”

  “If we’re not in danger,” Simon whispered back, “then why are you hiding?”

  The girl’s face darkened. “I don’t want them Damascans knowing what I look like. Not till it’s too late.” Her hand drifted down to her side, where a cheap dagger was tucked into the length of rope she used as a belt. She gripped the dagger hard.

  Though he didn’t quite understand why, Simon felt his heart clench.

  A couple of Damascans in brown and purple uniforms glanced into the wagon, took in the suspicious Myrians, and let the canvas fall shut with bored faces. It seemed they really didn’t care who came into the city.

  If that was true, though, why check at all?

  After a few more minutes of rumbling along, the wagon lurched to a halt. Chaim stuck his head in, motioning for Simon to come join him. Simon hurriedly snatched Otoku up and followed. The other villagers hiding in the wagon gave Simon odd looks.

  Behold the conquering hero, Otoku murmured, dashing off to war with his favorite doll.

  Don’t flatter yourself, Simon sent back, careful to keep from speaking aloud. You’re not my favorite.

  Otoku made a sound that, even in her drifting, breezy voice, sounded like a ‘
hmph.’

  Just give it time, she said.

  The walls of Bel Calem were not as big as Simon had imagined: scarcely a dozen feet tall and not wide enough for sentries to walk atop them. That was something of a disappointment; he had always pictured grand walls big enough to block out half the sky. At least they were made of stone.

  The group from Myria waited just outside the walls, though the gates stood open. Chaim had circled their three wagons as best he could, giving them some degree of privacy from the city. The oxen grazed on the sparse field outside Bel Calem, while industrious boys and girls removed their yokes and rubbed them down.

  “They didn’t want strange oxen inside the walls,” Chaim told Simon, as soon as they were clear of the wagon. “Made us leave the animals outside. Don’t care what we do, though.”

  The bulk of the group from Myria, maybe thirty or forty all told, milled around in the center of the circled wagons. Simon followed Chaim closer.

  Chaim turned toward Simon and clapped his hands together. His smile was fatherly. “So, Simon,” he said. “What now?”

  Seemingly half the crowd turned to hear Simon’s answer.

  With all the wit Simon could muster, he said, “What?”

  Nurita joined Chaim from the crowd, a stern look upon her face and voice pitched to carry. “We’re on the Overlord’s very doorstep,” she declared, and the crowd murmured agreement. “You are our strongest sword. We have only to strike.” Simon felt a twist of unease at hearing such words spoken openly a few feet from Bel Calem’s walls.

  “So...where do we go?” Simon asked. In his head, Otoku started laughing.

  Chaim gestured vaguely. “Couldn’t you just do something to find them? With your Traveling?”

  “I don’t think so. Once we find out where they are I can fight my way in, but until we do...” Simon shrugged self-consciously. “Any ideas?”

  Nurita scowled at him, obviously disappointed. Chaim just looked baffled. But they recovered quickly, taking suggestions from the rest of the crowd. Soon they were discussing a plan that involved somehow finding where the captives were hidden, somehow forcing their way inside, and then somehow escaping without being torn to pieces by summoned beasts.