144: Wrath (26 page)

Kiff finished working on his pant leg and stood up. "Surely a big Dorokti King like yourself isn’t afraid of some House of Suns’ cronies," he said.

Vor snarled at the Undlander, but said nothing.

"It’s worth an arrow, at least," Polas said as he returned to the group.

Vor threw up his hands and snorted angrily. "I’ll go sharpen my axe." He walked away and sat on a nearby bench.

"It’s suspicious, yes," Polas continued. "And I imagine they are planning a trap for us, but the amount of time it would save us is more than worth the risk. But we need to move tonight."

"Wait, what?" Flint asked, his eyes wide with objection. "Shouldn’t we wait and recover. I was only able to get a few hours of sleep before we were attacked. I should think we would be better off to rest and prepare for an assault. We need time to plan and ready ourselves."

Polas shook his head. "Every second we waste gives them more time to rebuild," he said. "They sent a lot of assassins after us tonight, and we are the ones still standing. It will take them time to prepare more of their minions for battle."

Kiff pulled his board out of his pack and stepped up. "I’m not so sure about that, but at least we might be able to catch them off guard a bit."

"This is your territory, Kiff," Polas said with a nod. "Lead the way."

Flint’s shoulders slumped. After a moment of sulking, he reached into his pack and retrieved a few sprigs of tekri leaves from a small case. He popped one in his mouth and handed another to Xandra who followed suit. He offered the remaining leaves to Kiff and Polas, but they both declined.

Kiff waved over to Vor, who sat muttering to himself. "We’re ready when you are."

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Lacien of the Shining Feather had flown without rest for the last two days. The expanse of ocean from Nittengret to the Mela Islands provided no safe land to offer respite from his travels. His shoulders ached, and the great tendons that ran along the top of his wings felt like they were on fire. He had kept himself hydrated by drinking from a carried skin of water and had been able to eat a quick meal before being granted an audience with the Melaci High Council, but it took every ounce of determination within him to present an air of power and poise as he made his way through the city.

The Mela Islands towered two kallows into the open sky. The island group was a mere three, and only two of the landmasses held life, the majority of which lived within the earth or perched along the rocky walls. From this lofty berth, the Melaci kept themselves estranged from the rest of the world, and in their eyes, above it. Very few wingless ones had ever been granted a view of the capital city of Soare, and those who came uninvited were often thrown back down.

Soare clung to the western cliff and looked out of the waters toward Cratia. The homes of those with the most wealth or influence were immediately recognizable because they towered highest into the sky and were closest to the coast. This created a stair-step effect that led from fields worked by serfs, to shops and homes of the middle class, to university halls filled with those privileged enough to seek an education beyond primary school, to homes of those with the purest birthright, and all the way up to the highest point in the city, the council chambers.

The Melaci High Council members sat on cushioned thrones or lounged across pillowy sofas. The meeting area was an open-topped amphitheatre built in such a way that the voices of the members, who sat in a circle around the central pulpit, were empowered to add to their sense of influence. Meanwhile, the being on the stand – where Lacien found himself – was forced to talk just below a shout in order to be heard by all.

Each of the councilmen, for they were all men, had pure black wings. This distinction was what separated the upper crust of Melaci society from the plebeians and slaves. Lacien was lucky enough to be born with dark wings, but his still held glints of white from which he drew his namesake. Had he been born with only white feathers, he would have been fortunate to join the Melaci army. More likely, though, he would have been serf to one of the Melaci lords or generals.

"Lacien, you come before us as though you are in good favor." The councilman was plump and dour and looked as though he had not bothered to fly in years, if he even could fly at all. "Were you not banished from our sacred home?"

"You speak truth, my lord," Lacien said. "It is only under the greatest of urgency that I dare break protocol to speak with you now. Matthew the Blue, the Cairtol scholar, has sent me to ask your help in battle. The Legions of the Clouds must be readied. The time for Exandercrast’s fall has come."

"No," said a second council member. The remaining members greeted his declaration with harrumphs of approval. The councilman leaned up from his reclining position and glared at Lacien. His hair was long and silvered, and he had a Sky Shield at his feet, marking him as a former warrior, likely a general. "That battle was ages ago, and all that we are was nearly lost. The answer is no."

Lacien wanted to shout and yell about honor, duty, and the many tenants that the Melaci society was founded upon, but he knew to do so would mean his immediate execution. So, he simply nodded and walked away. He held his tongue in check and refused to let the surge within him rise to the surface. It had been a long shot to come here. Matthew knew it as well as Lacien did, and only out of loyalty to the Cairtol had he dared set foot on the soil of his former home. Matthew would never truly understand the Melaci and their long memories.

He did not lift his head again until he was outside of the chamber and into the open yards that made up the lowest levels of the grand city. It broke his heart to leave again. He turned back to look on his homeland for what would likely be the last time. Despite its many faults, he loved this city, and he loved his people, but knew he would not be granted safe passage if his feet touched down on the island again unless he found a way to restore his name. A further visit might mean his wings, and truly, it was a grace that they were letting him leave at all. Melaci did not look kindly upon traitors.

"You still walk too fast. Are you trying to leave something behind or rushing to find out what lies before you?"

Lacien turned to see a familiar face.

"Why if it isn’t Adrasso," Lacien said. "How fair you, old friend?"

"Better than you, it seems." Adrasso laughed. He was a tall Melaci with wings that reached twenty feet from tip to tip. He kept his red hair in a knot similar to Lacien’s and wore lightweight armor suited for flying long distances. His wings were deep black with a single white slash across the left one.

The two friends grasped each other by the wrist in greeting.

"It’s good to see you," Lacien said.

"You too, Lacien. Come. Walk with me."

Lacien patted his friend on the back as they turned to walk down the hill out into the countryside. On a clear day like this, one could see for many kallows in any direction. The city was built at the highest point of the Mela Islands, and it gave the maximum vantage out over the ocean far below. On cloudy days, the city became even more beautiful as mist settled in over the buildings and sunlight danced between each drop of moisture.

"I couldn’t help but overhear your quandary."

Lacien laughed. "Still eavesdropping on the council meetings, are we?"

"Actually, I’ve made Captain. Now they make me listen."

"Honor to you, friend. It is well deserved."

A rush of wind swept across the high plain and stirred Lacien’s feathers. His mind wandered to times past when the Sword of Varin adorned his hip, when he held his father’s bow and commanded eight flights. Before his Gift.

"Captain of only a few flights, and marshaled by cravens." Adrasso’s voice pulled him back from the clouds.

"Careful with your words, my friend," Lacien said. "You may find the council members have ears outside their chambers. And if they hear you saying such things to a traitor –"

"If you are a traitor to our people, then I am a Coranthen queen. We both know you should be leading the Legions of the Clouds."

"That was ages ago. I am not the man I was before. Wrecked ships and Cratin prisons have broken me, I’m afraid, and the years have taken much from me."

 "Then let us talk of the present." Adrasso ran his fingers through the mist of a low cloud that settled along the trail. "There are not many left, but what soothsayers we have in the local villages say that something big is happening. They have been watching the clouds trying to discern what they can, but like most seers I know, they seem to be lacking on the specifics."

"It is this battle, the one I urged the elders to join," Lacien said.

"I thought as much as soon as I heard you speak of it. How can I help?"

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Polas waited with the others in a dark alley while the Undlander scouted ahead. A small voice inside him said to send Xandra away, that she was too young, and that the Undlander boy was better off chasing small game in an over-crowded city. What was worse, a larger part of him did not even care. He simply wanted to feel Exandercrast’s blood on his fingertips, and it did not matter who or what was destroyed in order to insure his revenge. He would crawl to Exandercrast’s throne if he had to, he would drive a dagger into the Dark Lord’s heart, and he would personally make sure the God of Fear spent the rest of eternity in the hells by dragging him there with his own two hands.

Polas shook his thoughts away. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

Xandra looked nervous. She kept peeking around the corner to check on Kiff only to be pulled back by Vor’s large hand.

"One thing the boy is good at is sneaking," Polas whispered. "Give him time."

Flint dozed against a stack of boxes. Polas marveled at the Faldred’s ability to sleep in any situation.

Polas heard the sound of something falling around the corner, but resisted the urge to stick out his head to see.

Flint startled awake. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," Vor hissed.

A few minutes later, Kiff returned, cleaning his sickle with a scrap of cloth. "I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news."

Polas nodded for him to continue.

"I think I can get us inside, but I won’t be able to do a thing about Flint’s weight."

"What?" Flint said in an indignant whisper. "I’ll have you know I am the perfectly average example of a Faldred man in --"

Xandra choked on her stifled laughter, but Polas did not enjoy Kiff’s misplaced levity.

Kiff put his hands up in surrender. "Alright. The way is clear. Front door’s locked so I’ll have to go in through one of the second story windows. I’ll need you guys right by the door when it opens because I can only dampen their magical wards for so long."

Polas nodded and waved the group forward. Kiff leaped onto his board, drifted up to a high window, and stole away inside.

Minutes passed without a sound.

"I grow tired of waiting for this trap to be sprung," Vor said. He had his axe out and was positioned directly in front of the entryway, readied for any attack that might come.

A lock clicked from inside, and the door creaked open. Kiff stood with his black iron bar held firmly against the door’s latch.

Vor looked disappointed that there was not a legion of assassins awaiting them.

Kiff waved them all inside the room and closed the door.

"For a guild of thieves, they sure don’t protect well against their own kind," Flint said, drawing a shushing from both Polas and Xandra.

Kiff led the group down a shadowy corridor. It turned once to the left and ended at a staircase. He used his board to glide to the top, checked both directions, and returned to the group to lead them onward.

Polas, Xandra, and Vor found themselves at a severe disadvantage. Faldred and Undlander eyes were much better equipped for the task of navigating shadows, and Xandra had to hold closely to Flint as they ascended the staircase.

At the top of the stairs, the group waited as Kiff checked down a hallway to their right. Square columns hugged the walls at even intervals, and the ceiling was paneled with wood planks so that it closely resembled the floor. More than once Polas stumbled over a thick rug or oddly placed table. Vor had to be calmed each time he walked headlong into a decorative plant or small bench lest he unsheathe his axe and destroy the obstruction. He was sighing loudly and continually muttering under his breath about the accursed darkness and their knave of a scout. Several twists and turns later, the dim light of a torch bounced around a corner and trickled down the walls, allowing the group a small range of vision.

However, when Kiff returned and tapped twice more on Polas’s shoulder, Vor had reached his limit.

"Why are we following this assassin into a den of thieves?" he said, the anger in his voice causing it to tremble above a whisper. "We are now so far in and so lost that we will have no choice but to fight to the last once his trap is sprung."

Kiff's right hand flew up and unleashed a volley of throwing-disks right at Vor’s face. All four missed, zipping by his throat and eyes.

Vor shook with fury.

"Control yourselves," Polas ordered. "Vor, you’ve made your position very clear. I will not hear of it again."

Kiff popped his neck and Vor sheathed his axe.

"And Kiff," Polas continued, "remember my words. If you do not make your decision --"

"We need to keep moving," Kiff said. "We’re making too much noise."

Polas set his jaw and nodded. The group, once again, moved forward. They slinked through the shadows around the corner that hid the flickering torchlight.

In the darkness behind them, a hooded man fell to the floor with four throwing-disks lodged in his chest.

Kiff knelt in front of a set of large double doors set beneath a corbelled archway. A half column stood on each side. The left column held the bust of "Shirmattaa L. Mirole - Curator - House of Suns." The sculptor had done a marvelous job of making the pudgy face and rolling neck seem somehow regal. To the right, the bust of a woman with high cheekbones and long, tightly braided hair was labeled simply as "The
Keiren Tah
."

Using a small, hooked needle, Kiff's right hand worked furiously on a set of locks. The keyhole was a minute circle without the usual toothed pattern latch. Instead, it required an arcane key that could catch onto a floating orb inside the lock and rotate it to the proper degree.

It made for very slow progress.

Xandra kept glancing over her shoulder at the shadows behind her, Flint drummed his fingers against his pack, and Vor's breath came in great huffs. It was extremely distracting.

"How much longer, Kiff?" Polas asked.

"This is a difficult lock," Kiff said. "Tell everyone else to stop fidgeting, and perhaps I'll be able to concentrate."

The group stood in a wide hallway with columns adorning its sides. Occasional magestones lit doorways or expensive works of art, but provided little illumination. They were forced to trust in Kiff’s experience with the building and his own keen senses.

Vor drew his axe. The Dorokti Leader had remained silent ever since being scolded by Polas, but Kiff could tell the charade of good faith was wearing thin.

"I think I’ve got it," Kiff said, turning his hand carefully. There was a slight scraping sound followed by a dull thunk. "Damn. Disregard."

Vor reared back and kicked. Kiff barely had time to throw himself to the side as the Dorokti’s foot impacted with the doors below the handles. The wood splintered and latches clanged to the ground as the doors swung inward.

"Lock-picking," Vor said with a snort. "Heh."

"Nice. Next time we’ll send a messenger so they know we’re coming," Kiff said. "It’s a good thing we were sneaking along all this time."

Polas stood in the doorway and ushered the others into the next room. The chamber before him was an immense theatre. Giant, violet banners with argent frays along the sides draped from the ceiling, and their long, silver toggles brushed the floor. Each bore the symbol of the House of Suns sewn in shimmering thread. The room was at least three stories high and had no windows. A grand stage filled the front of the room, complete with billowy, black curtains and a few boxes and barrels that had once played the role of scenery. The only means of egress were the double doors at which the group stood, an assumed exit behind the stage curtains, and a small door high above them in the balcony. Bright magestones lit a strip of carpet along the center of the room, and several more hung over head in narrow tubes.

"Where to now, Kiff?" Polas stepped out of the theatre a few steps. He could have sworn he saw something move behind them.

Kiff pointed casually up to the balcony, but there was no staircase leading to the upper terrace.

"Everyone up for a climb?" he said, gesturing to the large banners.

"Lead the way, pup," Vor said.

A glimmer of green caught Polas’s eye. He hesitated a moment, check the sword at his hip, and took a few steps out of the room toward the light.

He heard Kiff shuffling through his gear in the theatre. "I’ve got a rope if anyone needs it."

With a whir and a clang, a barred gate slammed shut in the doorway, and Polas was trapped outside the room.

Down the corridor, the emerald light flashed again. Polas faltered. He was completely barred from the others. Waiting around would do them little good, and something in him called out to chase after the light.

"Vor, watch over the kids." Polas said and sprinted off into the darkness.