144: Wrath (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Baden had been waiting for hours outside the cave. The forest was getting dark, and he began to wish he had an overcoat with him. He closed his eyes and folded his hands to cast a warming spell as a gentle breeze brought frostbumps to his arms.

His plea to the Archons had only taken minutes, but their deliberation dragged on and on. Unfortunately, his own arcane skills were limited to minor magical tricks and prestidigitation. He would have loved to have the skills in concealment and illusion to be able to hide amongst them and listen in on their conversation. Though they likely would have detected him easily with their own arcane powers had he tried.

The Yarsac paced around trees and leaped from place to place to keep himself from falling asleep. Gentle moonlight danced against the forest’s leaves making the world seem deceptively peaceful.

There would be peace soon.

A hooded figured appeared from within the cave. He carried a lantern and wore billowing white robes. Like the rest of the Archons, he was a Sontauch; resembling a cross between a Peltin man and a lizard. He was tall, over six feet in height, and rail thin. His face was narrow with large eyes, and slick, blue-green scales covered his body. He was the Archons’ Proclaimer, and he carried with him their decision.

Baden’s heart raced. The Archons were the Protectors of Light, the Hearers of the Words of Leindul, and the Disciples of Hope, and soon they would join in the fight against Exandercrast.

"The Archons have come to a unanimous decision," said the Proclaimer.

Baden stepped forward and realized he was holding his breath.

"They will not assist in your foolishness," said the Proclaimer. "Their lives are too important to throw away in such a futile effort."

"You can’t be serious," Baden spat. "This is everything the Archons say that they seek. This is the Hope that all free beings of the world so desperately need. How can they do nothing?"

"Little Yarsac," the Proclaimer replied, "your understanding is so limited in scope. The chief aims of the Archons are to protect the people and execute the will of Leindul. They have decided that this doomed quest is not the will of the God of Hope."

"They have decided?" Baden said with derision dripping from his voice.

"Be at peace, little Yarsac. The Archons have also decreed that they will allow you to continue with your plans. They will not interfere."

"Why you condescending hagspawn!" Baden bellowed. "Go back to your Archons and tell them we don’t need their permission. Exandercrast will fall in this age without their help!"

Baden stormed away from the cave and through the dark forest as fast as his hooves would carry him. Once he reached the forest’s edge, he slowed. The chill of night had left his body and was replaced by hot disdain.

He cantered along the edge of the forest, looking out over once fertile land that was despoiled by the minions of Exandercrast ages ago. Billowing grey clouds hid the moons’ light and left him a lonely shadow on the barren expanse of the once verdant plain. Lightning lanced through the sky, illuminating scorched earth; bolt after bolt ripped through the heavens and struck the sterile soil. The ground still bore witness to the power that had destroyed it, and only the hardy tanglebrush grew up from the red dirt. A great ravine cut across the landscape where the earth had split under the weight of death. It was said that the bloodshed during the Breaking was enough to fill the nearby Lake of Misery two times over. When it had all finally absorbed into the ground, the clouds sought to lap it up, unleashing their tongues of lightning incessantly across the plain. Only the damned and the lost ever dared to enter the toxic land.

Baden closed his eyes and stood still upon the hard, red ground. He tried to control his heartbeat, to control his anger and disappointment, but his soul raged like the lightning-laced clouds.

"How does Leindul expect any of us to do anything for him when his elect do nothing? How does he expect me to care when he allows fear and death to win time and time again?"

As he looked at the remnants of destruction around him, he tried with all his might not to care, but found his sorrow and pity ran too deep. A bolt of lightning flashed mere yards away from where he stood, and the clap of thunder knocked him to his knees. His eyes fell upon the ravine, and the grief within him weighed so heavily on his soul that he longed to cast himself into its embrace.

He shook his head and wove an arcane pattern with his fingertips to cast a spell to lift his spirits and combat the magic of this place. Baden was a Yarsac, a race once called the Field Lords. He stood and shook away his fears, nodded to the stormy sky, and ran.

Lightning danced all around him, and more than once he felt his hair and fur rise. But he was driven. If he stopped to hear the crack of thunder, he would grow faint or slip, and then he would die; one more meaningless death added to the scores before him. Baden was not for death. He would not be caught idle. He would outrun death, and faithless prophets and endless chasms would not stop him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

In Odes’Kan, plans were moving splendidly. Shirmattaa had sent word for all of his local assassins from the House of Stars to be readied. They were masters of deception, thievery, infiltration, and ambush. They were also a dime a dozen, and Shirmattaa had no qualms about throwing them by the handful at any problem. Next, he would call in what specialists from the House of Moons were in the area. He doubted it would be many. The House of Moons was a very exclusive sect of the Thieves’ Guild, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in ability. They were inimitable warriors and specialists; each elite member possessed a skill or strength that was not duplicated by any other member of the entire Guild, and a few were even rumored to be Gifted.

Shirmattaa’s house, The House of Suns, would provide them with resources and a home field advantage as long as everything went according to plan. Its members were the cities politicians, judges, and – sometimes – religious leaders. The town’s prostitution and slave trade was also run by the House of Suns, and Shirmattaa took pride in personally training new hopefuls for work in the brothels.

Calec had remained in the city to oversee the operation. Shirmattaa thought the son of their quarry would be a wonderful piece of bait to dangle out on a wire. The House of Suns' agents were experts in dropping tidbits of information in the right places to bring in the biggest game. They should have no problem leading Kas Dorian by the nose.

Of course, there would be sacrifices, but Shirmattaa would make sure that the majority came from the House of Stars. They always had eager new recruits anxious to earn their way into the Guild, and they would make excellent, expendable ambassadors.

Thankfully, Calec had sent the Ibor warriors back to Waysmale to prepare things in Firevers. Shirmattaa was tired of feeling like dressed mutton under their hungry gazes. They were too large and menacing for his taste, and they were hardly more intelligent than a pack animal. Little better than the Fallen in Shirmattaa’s estimation. He was not sure why Exandercrast needed them to prepare things in Firevers, but he guessed that the Nalunis was just sewing in every field. He respected that.

Shirmattaa looked up at the woven draperies that hung behind his desk, and his heart swelled. The Thieves’ Guild, and more importantly his House of Suns, was about to grant a favor to one of the most powerful beings to ever exist, if not the most powerful. He could only dream of the glory and reward that such a service would bring.

He sat back in his cushioned chair and jammed a wad of tam-grass into his cheek. Its smooth flavor swirled across his tongue, and its delicacy helped him to relax into a mind-twirling numbness. He giggled softly in his empty office.

Everything was working out perfectly. From what he had learned in the past few days, he doubted all this effort was necessary. Better to be over-prepared though. He had already received word that one of his agents had bought Kas Dorian’s trust and that the general would be back in a few days time. All Shirmattaa had to do was wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Members of the Ginakti clan spent the last few days preparing much of the fangtooth meat for reserves, but more than enough was set aside for a feast to honor their king. A great bonfire burned on the eastern edge of the mobile village. The Seer and others danced around the fire while a small group played music on drums and strings. The makings of a celebration were beginning as hunks of meat were seared and shared amongst the ever-growing group of Dorokti.

Polas sat in a place of honor next to Vor. The two talked like old friends as Polas recounted stories of Vor’s ancestors and their strength. A few of the children were gathered in a circle around them on the ground to listen to the tales with wide eyes and gaped jaws.

A short distance behind those gathered sat Xandra and Kiff. Xandra watched the festivities unfold with excitement in her eyes. Kiff was busy rubbing the crushed remains of a juice-filled plant on his bruised right hand. He struggled with the task, his left hand too stiff to grip the leaves properly.

"What are you doing?" Xandra asked.

"What? Oh, just using a little crushed voru to reduce the swelling," Kiff replied.

She laughed into her hand. "You look like you could use a little help."

"Um, sure," Kiff replied. "Thanks."

He passed her the shoots, and she began to rub them gently against the back of his hand.

Xandra looked up, caught his gaze, and flushed. She pressed the wadded plant against the spot, wrapped it quickly with a damp strip of cloth, and pushed his hand away.

"Ouch. You're about as gentle as a rock viper."

"It looks like you might have a broken bone," she said, forcing her attention back toward the crowd of Dorokti.

"Oh, I’m sure it’ll be whole," he replied. "A little bruised is all.

Xandra spotted Flint moving through the edge of the crowd with a book, pen, and a few choice cuts of the fangtooth steak.

"Master," Xandra yelled after him, "come take a look at Kiff's hand, will you?"

Flint lumbered over to where they were sitting. He took a large bite of the mutton and dropped his belongings on the ground.

"What’s he gonna do?" Kiff asked.

Flint wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "My Undlander friend, fire is not the only magic I have mastered," he said. "I am also one of the Hollow Mountains’ most gifted healers. It is, after all, why I’m called the White-Handed."

"Don’t worry yourself," Kiff said as he pulled his hand back.

"Nonsense," Flint insisted.

He grabbed Kiff’s wrist and pulled it toward him. The Faldred closed his eyes and chanted. Once he had gathered energy in his palm, he released it slowly over Kiff’s hand like milk poured out over honeyed grains. The bruises and swelling remained unchanged.

"I don’t understand," Flint puzzled. "It doesn’t seem to be working."

"Yeah, that’s something the Iron Butcher and I have in common," Kiff said. "Magic doesn’t work so well on me. Though I have to admit, his resistance is a lot more impressive than mine."

Xandra was confused. "Magic doesn’t work on you?" she asked. "Why not?"

Kiff held up his left hand and motioned to the metal bar on the back side of his forearm. "Black iron. Negates most magic, and in my case that means anything that would affect my body in any way. Well, not in any way. It doesn’t really protect me from much unless it takes the hit directly. It does stop arcane poisons, most deteriorating spells, and – unfortunately – pretty much all types of healing."

Kiff held his arm out for Xandra's inspection. For the better part of two years, it had been his shame, but he had grown accustomed to it. Her hands were gentle and soft against his, and he could not help but admire the subtle strength they held.

"I thought that was some strange weapon you carried," Xandra said.

"No. That’d be something," Kiff replied. "I mean, yeah, I guess I do use it that way sometimes."

"Why don’t you just remove it?" Flint asked.

Kiff stared at the Faldred for a moment unsure if he was serious.

"You know, I’ve never thought about that," Kiff replied, his voice rife with sarcasm. "Here, let me just…"

He proceeded to pantomime removing the bar in various different ways. He tugged at it, tapped it against a rock, and gnawed on the bar until Flint got the picture that it was not actually going to come off.

"You know what? It’s stuck," Kiff said. "That was a good idea, though."

"Is that why you don’t use your left hand?" Xandra asked; a hint of concern replaced the usual judgment in her eyes. "How did you get it?"

"It’s a long story," Kiff said, hoping the issue would be dropped.

Xandra stared, waiting for him to continue. Flint, however, was already distracted by his meal.

"About two years ago, I belonged to a mage near Hymar."

"Belonged?" Xandra interrupted.

"Yeah, I belonged to this mage. The guy was a diviner, a soothsayer of sorts, but not a very good one. He was good enough to make a fortune off being in the right place at the right time and to win gold off drunks at the local taverns, but nothing really potent.

"So one night this guy has a dream that a dual-wielding assassin will someday come to kill him. The next day he wakes up and decides to make sure I couldn’t hold two blades anymore. He calls in his alchemists to attach this beauty to my wrist."

Kiff paused for a moment, head down, lost in his own memories. He flexed his fingertips, subconsciously testing the limits of his restraint.

"They were smart, too. If I close my fist or try to remove it, the blades imbedded in my arm will punch though, and I’ll bleed out. You’ve gotta respect anybody that fiendishly brilliant. Fused it to the bone, so it’s not coming out unless I lose the arm. And I’m not willing to bet on a mage being able to regenerate it if I cut it off."

"Kiff, that’s awful." Xandra reached for his hand, but thought better of it and withdrew.

Kiff shrugged.

"What… what happened to the mage?" Xandra said.

Kiff pulled one of the sickles from its holster on his back. He held the blade in his right hand and closed his fingers gingerly around the hilt. "With his dying breath he cursed me as a soul slave." He pulled up the sleeve on his right wrist, revealing the mark - two parallel spikes joined together at the top - magically burned into his skin. "The funny thing is, I probably wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t taken my hand. I guess sometimes prophecies make themselves."

Kiff stood and kicked a stray pebble. "That food looks pretty good. I think I’ll go see what I can scavenge."

He walked away, but not in the direction of the fire.