House of Blades Page 34

  As soon as he thought he was hidden well enough, Simon called steel and summoned Azura, not even dismounting before stabbing his sword in the air and concentrating on the Valinhall entry room, cutting slowly through the invisible curtain between worlds.

  He drew steadily down, keeping his focus, even as shouts and unspeakable noises came closer and closer behind him. It had to be all the way to the ground, or it wouldn’t be big enough, and a partial Gate would never hold for long enough to get the mounts through. In less than a minute he was almost there; the bottom of the Gate was down to the bear’s chest. It was already wide enough for him to ride through, and the smell the wood and dust of the House cut through the hot desert air. Just a few more seconds.

  A sharp-edged steel disc came spinning into the canyon, narrowly missing giving Simon his first haircut in months. It slammed against the canyon wall, rebounded without regard for the laws of the natural world, and came spinning back at Simon’s face.

  Simon jerked Azura up and slapped the spinning steel disc out of the air with his blade. It flew over his head, wavered, and vanished into the wind before it was entirely out of sight.

  But the Gate hadn’t been completed. It shimmered like heat haze and blew apart.

  Simon’s heart blew apart with it. Escape to Valinhall had been his best hope for survival. Now...

  Things crowded into the canyon entrance: tall bird-like creatures made of sharp-edged metal, something like a man made entirely out of boulders, a small swarm of flaming ants the size of dogs. Above him, on the top of one canyon wall, a dark Gate opened, filled with a swarm of swirling rocks. A silver Gate leading into what seemed to be a forest of swords opened on the other.

  “In the name of Overlord Deborah, put down your arms,” a man shouted from the dark chaos of the rocky Gate. He wore all brown leather, though Simon had difficulty seeing more at that height, and more leather-clad figures were following him through the Gate. Many more.

  “By the authority of Malachi, who is lord over these lands, surrender for judgment!” a woman called from the Gate of steel. She was wearing what looked like chainmail, and had several others following her.

  “Catch me first!” Simon shouted, which was about as much insolence as he dared; he felt like he might throw up. Then, before he could think much about it, he hopped off the white bear and drew Nye essence to match the steel already rushing through him. As fast as he could, he ran farther down the canyon.

  A crack like thunder rang in his ears, and Simon looked up to see that a huge chunk of rock had broken off from one side of the canyon and was falling—slowly, or so it seemed through the veil of Nye essence—falling to block the canyon in front of him. Maybe on top of him, if he was unlucky.

  He started to slow, but Caela practically shouted at him. No! she screamed. Forward! Go faster!

  So Simon ran faster, not daring to look up, afraid to see a hundred tons of stone crashing down on his head. The canyon was filled with a noise like giants knocking down a stone wall with hammers the size of horses, but Simon kept his eyes fixed on the end of the canyon. Even as a shadow grew wider overhead.

  Finally the great chunk of rock slammed into the ground. Behind him. He was nearly knocked off his feet by the impact, saved only by the grace of the Nye. At last, he turned to look.

  That end of the canyon was blocked off by a massive slice of rock wedged in between the canyon walls. No one would be following from that direction.

  Of course, Simon reminded himself, that still leaves the ones on top.

  The men and women on each side of the canyon—one group in shining mail, the other in dull leather—had simply walked forward to see if he survived. When they saw that he had, they began shouting. Creatures made of stone crawled out of the canyon sides, or else formed themselves from fallen rock.

  His ears were still ringing from the noise—in fact, he wondered if they were not bleeding—but he still heard a short roar from one of the bears. He turned and, to his surprise, saw that all three bears had survived. One was shoving his nose into Simon’s back as if anxious for him to move on.

  That sounded like a good notion to Simon, who turned back forward to continue running.

  Only to stop almost immediately. The canyon opened mere feet in front of him, spreading out into a broad bowl. The bowl was huge, big enough to hold all of Myria, with walls even higher than the ones through which he had just passed.

  The bowl held no shelter. No place to hide. And, to his frantic eyes, no other way out.

  Simon trotted toward the center of the bowl, leading the bears, releasing Azura and both his gifts as he did so. Best to give himself as much time to recover as possible.

  “Should I surrender, do you think?” Simon asked.

  As far as they’re concerned, you just killed an Overlord, Caela said. She didn’t sound smug now, though she didn’t sound as grave as Simon thought the situation deserved. The only thing waiting for you is a long questioning followed by a swift death.

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.” Simon swallowed, hard. “A fight, then?”

  Only as much as it takes for you to get away.

  “I could escape into the House.” The walls were crawling with summoned beasts now, some made of rocks like the ones he had fought in Orgrith Cave, others made entirely of shining steel, still others blazing with flame.

  They’re not going to give you time to open a Gate, Caela warned him. As soon as they see you try, they’ll attack.

  Simon’s breathing quickened, and he jogged a little faster for the center. Maybe he could make it to the far side, and then...there was no ‘and then.’ Then he would either have enough time to open the Gate—in which case they would pry it open and come after him—or he wouldn’t, in which case he would die immediately.

  They won’t give you any time, Caela repeated. So you’ll have to earn it. Stop here.

  Simon stopped, not quite in the center of the canyon. The three armored bears faced away from him, ringing him as best they could. Trying to protect him, even now.

  You are a member of the Dragon Army, Caela said. A Traveler of Valinhall. Kai never told you what that means.

  It wasn’t a question, but Simon responded anyway. “No.”

  What Valinhall Travelers are best at—where they excel—is in combat with other Territories. No other Territory better equips its Travelers for battle than yours. No one is more ready for this fight than you are.

  “That’s not saying a lot,” Simon muttered, but Caela ignored him.

  You have only one chance. You have to get to the Travelers on the top of the canyon before they realize what you’re doing. You have to hit them so fast, so hard, that they either die, run away, or hesitate long enough for you to retreat into the House. That is your battle plan.

  A silver javelin launched through the air, aimed straight at Simon’s chest, but one of the bears reared up and knocked it down before it could reach him. The gold-armored beast roared its defiance.

  The summoned creatures were closing in now. The silver-bladed bird shrieked, and when it did, dozens of other monsters made horrible sounds in concert.

  “Can I do it?” Simon asked. His hands shook.

  You’re about to, Caela said, with enough confidence in her voice that Simon almost believed her. Head straight for those Travelers, and carve through anything standing in your way. Wait for my signal.

  The shadow-chains twisted down his arms, hard and cold. Simon raised the hood of his cloak, cutting the glare from the sun.

  Five seconds from now, Caela told him.

  Four. One of the bears leaped to meet a rock golem, and the two went down in a whirlwind of dust and claws. Simon crouched on the balls of his feet, holding out one hand, ready to summon Azura.

  Three. A fiery ant the size of a wolfhound scampered in to try and bite Simon’s ankle, but before he could react, the insect was crushed by one of the steel bird’s talons.

  Two. The bird put
its metallic beak inches from Simon’s face and let out another earsplitting shriek, trying to intimidate him.

  One. The beak drew back, preparing to strike like an uncoiling viper.

  Now.

  His power filled him, Azura flashed into his hands, and he leaped.

  Not much chance that he would escape this canyon alive, but Leah and Alin would get to safety. That was what mattered. The surviving captives had made it out, and the one who captured them in the first place was dead.

  Everyone was going home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  AFTERMATH

  358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

  24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

  The Day After Midsummer

  Alin hobbled toward his rooms, covered in a frankly ridiculous number of bandages. If he took off his clothes, leaving only the bandages, he would still be decent for company. He looked like a body prepared for burial.

  None of his wounds were that serious, anyway. Sure, when he had first returned to Enosh he had been covered in such a collection of burns, scrapes, and bruises that the Asphodel healer had called him ‘seared and nicely tenderized.’ But the people of the city—the Travelers, at least—had treated him as if he were suffering from half a dozen life-threatening injuries.

  Not that he had any right to complain. The Enosh Grandmasters had been torn between relief at his safe return, fury that he had risked himself in such a way, and delight that he had managed to kill an Overlord in the bargain. It made meetings with them very confusing, such that at times he didn’t know if he was being scolded, praised, or condemned.

  The real problem, to them, was that he showed no signs of repentance. In his mind, the situation was very simple: he had taken a risk and it had paid off. Spectacularly, in his opinion. The man ultimately responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen Myrian villagers had paid with his life. Alin had heard that Malachi’s wife Adrienne was managing the realm, though the Kingdom would soon appoint another Traveler as a replacement Overlord. Even so, the world was undoubtedly better off without Malachi Daiasus.

  So no, Alin did not regret what he had done.

  Except for one thing.

  At Alin’s repeated insistence, Grandmaster Avernus had sent out fliers scouting the wilderness between Bel Calem and Enosh. Within a day, the fliers had found the canyon where they suspected Simon had died.

  With every speck of his remaining authority, Alin had demanded to ride out and see the site himself. The canyon itself was filled in with rubble, but the bowl-like depression at the end was even worse. It was packed with corpses and worse. The sandy ground was littered with empty armor, shattered rocks, torn and charred bits of flesh.

  Alin had walked among them, surrounded by a half a dozen Avernus Travelers on huge white eagles, each prepared to fly him away at the first sign that one of these apparently lifeless bodies wasn’t. He had seen Narakan flame-walkers torn up in grisly piles next to nameless beasts of razor-sharp steel from Tartarus and mounds of bleeding stone from Ornheim. The canyon walls had been cracked and pitted, ravaged with black burn scars, and the piles of alien corpses were dotted with something worse: human bodies. Travelers, maybe a dozen all told, lying up on the canyon walls or smashed and crumpled among their summoned beasts.

  They were all dead, most decapitated or impaled. On top of that, no one had seen a body matching Simon’s description, nor any of the gold-armored Elysian bears. The canyon bowl was a layered chaos of grisly parts, so that it would take weeks to sort everything out, but some of the Avernus fliers had very sharp eyes.

  Alin had felt a great surge of hope when they had failed to find a body, but the Grandmasters spoke more realistically. Even the most careful search could fail to find a body on a battlefield like this, they said, and when Travelers were involved the situation got much more complicated. They could easily have been taken into Ornheim or Tartarus and died there. Or worse, they could have been taken back to Cana alive.

  He had refused to listen to them at first, but as the days stretched on with no word, he grew less and less convinced. What if Simon really was dead?

  If so, he had died in Alin’s place. If Alin was really full of valor and patience and whatever the other Elysian virtues were, he should have been the one to stay and die for the other two. But he hadn’t done it. Simon had.

  Simon had sacrificed himself for Alin, but Alin hadn’t been willing to do the reverse. In truth, he hadn’t even thought of it; he had been too focused on getting back to Enosh. That was the thought that gnawed at him, waking and sleeping.

  Until he pulled open the door to his bedroom and saw that it was filled with bears. Three white bears, each covered in golden armor.

  They had shredded his bed, pulled his curtains down, and one of them gnawed on his most comfortable chair.

  One of them made a sympathetic sort of whining sound when he saw Alin, and they all three padded over toward him.

  Alin laughed.

  ***

  Leah strode into the interior of Ragnarus still wearing the simple brown peasant costume that had been her uniform for the past two years. She liked to be better prepared for these meetings, but her father’s orders had been explicit: as soon as possible, he had said, which meant as soon as she could be alone.

  She stood in front of a stone wall, with heavy wooden torches burning an unnatural crimson at the far right and the far left. Taking up most of the wall was a pair of silver doors, closed now, and carved with the face of a one-eyed bearded man who scowled in disapproval. Only those descended from the first King of Damasca, those of his blood, could open the Gate to get to the Territory, but that wasn’t enough of a restriction for this place. It demanded a higher price.

  Leah scowled to see the doors closed. He should have left the doors open for her. But then, her father probably thought it would be good for her to pay the forfeit herself. It would strengthen her, he’d say, or some such nonsense thing.

  With one motion, Leah pulled a knife from her belt and slashed it across the pad of her thumb. The cut burned, but she had endured worse already today, and likely would tomorrow. She pressed the blood to the center of the door, into the old man’s beard.

  In truth it didn’t matter where on the door she put her thumb, so long as her blood made contact with the silver. But she liked to imagine she was messing up the man’s beard. As a child, she had pretended that was why he was scowling.

  The doors swung soundlessly open, revealing a long hall lit only by those oppressive crimson torches. This hallway was made almost entirely of marble—walls, columns, and shelving alike—and it stretched over a hundred paces to the back, where another portrait of the one-eyed man glared out from the far wall. The marble was probably white, though in this light it could have been red and no one would ever have been able to tell the difference.

  Between the columns on either side of the hall stretched marble shelves, each labeled in gold. And sitting on these shelves were weapons.

  Racks and racks of weapons the color of blood, each hungering for use. Crying out for life.

  Leah hated this place.

  Two men stood in the middle of the hallway, not speaking to one another. The first was Indirial, her father’s oldest confidant and most trusted servant, who leaned with his arms crossed against one of the marble shelves. Indirial was supposedly in his fifties, but he seemed at least ten years younger, and fit for that. He wore a medallion openly on his chest—a gold coin with a nearly black amethyst embedded in the center—and tattooed chains snaked up his arms to above his elbows. He always cut the sleeves off his shirts, to keep those on display.

  Today, he wore a black cloak tied loosely around his neck. He kept the hood thrown back, and the cloak fell open enough to keep his bare arms in full view.

  That combination, the black cloak and the chained arms, struck something in her memory.

  When Indirial saw her, he flashed a grin, though he did not re
lax his stance. Indirial was always cheerful, and always vigilant.

  “Your Highness,” Indirial said, bowing very slightly at the waist. Overlord of Cana, and second only to the King himself, Indirial needed bow to no one. That he did so anyway did not lessen his authority.

  “Indirial,” Leah said, bowing back. She didn’t need to bow either, but she liked to match his manners. “You’re looking well. How is your daughter?”

  “Won’t put the sword down,” Indirial said with a laugh, “despite everything I tell her. In spite of my best intentions, I think we’ll make a swordswoman of her yet.”

  Leah smiled; it was easy to do, with Indirial. One tended to forget that he would kill anyone his King commanded him to without hesitation. Even, should it come to that, the King’s daughter. “My condolences,” Leah said, “and congratulations.”

  Indirial laughed again, but the sound died out quickly, and neither of them picked the conversation back up. Leaving Leah no choice but to turn to the second man in the room.

  A muscular man of sixty-two, he held a spear in both his hands, holding it up to the light and inspecting it as though all of Ragnarus’ weapons were not flawless. He appeared not to have noticed that anyone else was in the room, though Leah knew that in this case appearance deceived. His hair was entirely gray, his clothes worn casually, though they were expensive enough to buy a herd of horses. A thick scar ran from the top of his left eye socket to the bottom. The injury that had given him that scar had taken his left eye as well, and left something in its place: a smooth, round stone that gleamed bright red even in this ruddy light.

  Zakareth the Sixth, King of Damasca and Cana, Lord of the Morning and Evening Star, turned to stare at his daughter. One eye was sharp and blue—the same blue as her own—but the other burned with scarlet flame.

  She wanted to shiver, but self-control and long training kept the impulse in check.

  “Father,” Leah said, bowing much more deeply than she had for Indirial.

  “Report,” Zakareth said, his voice deep as a thunderstorm. He returned his gaze to the spear in his hands.