144: Wrath (28 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Xandra reached the upper terrace when the door flew open. Assassins ran into the balcony with weapons drawn, ready for blood.

She landed softly among the collection of movable chairs and serving tables and sprang into action. She flipped one of the chairs up into the air and sent it crashing into the mass of stalkers. They spread out to engage her, and she searched desperately for a way over or around the mass of blades or some way to waste as little time as possible.

She made a dash for the door, but a sideways attack cut her off and forced her to parry and spin away. She ducked another blow and retreated a few steps, catching her foot on one of the low tables. She whirled her staff in a dizzying display of skill and agility, but she was being pressed back. With another dodged blade, the edge of the balcony was only a few steps behind her with the promise of a crippling, if not deadly, fall.

Vor’s vision throbbed and blurred in time with his pulse. His heartbeat slowed to a solid, low thrum that rattled his ribcage, and he could feel his blood thickening. Black veins clouded his eyes, narrowed his vision, and robbed his sight of all color. His limbs grew light, and his breath came in long, slow draws as his lungs held in extra stores of oxygen.

The assassins moved in around him slowly, testing his reactions, none wanting to be the first to try the Dorokti’s skill with a blade. Vor hated assassins. He wanted them all dead. Every last one of them had to die by his hand.

All sound faded but the booming of his heart. He could smell their fear, taste it in the air.

He stood and roared. The sound of it shook his attackers to their very core. One of them cried out and yelled something toward the balcony, but the Dorokti King did not hear it. However, he did see the man’s lips move. Vor had found his first target.

His axe swung out, clipping the man’s head clean from his shoulders. Before the severed skull hit the ground, Vor had cleaved two more assassins from collar to hip. Panic tore through the group. These were men of blood and blade, and the Thieves’ Guild had done its best to drive the thought of fleeing from their minds. With terror-fueled adrenaline, they attacked.

Vor savored each blow, each spray of blood, each mouthed scream, and each hewn limb. The battle consumed his mind, and even his identity faded to a shadow. He was an avatar of death.

Shirmattaa sat back in his oversized chair with his feet kicked up on his desk. He swirled a snifter filled with a dark ale and chewed a stick of haryn. He wore a billowy robe made of extravagant furs that clung to him in all his sweatiest places. The costly mantel looked very out of place in the tepid room, but, no doubt, he was certain that it kept him on the forefront of fashion.

The room was dark save for a small candle and the glow of a large magestone sitting in the center of the desk. On its surface, images of the theatre room danced and played.

 "Come over here, Kiff." Shirmattaa pulled the haryn from his mouth and licked his lips. "Have a seat."

Kiff picked up his board and walked over to the desk, but declined to sit. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back of one of the tall chairs.

"I’m a little disappointed in you, boy," Shirmattaa said. "We had an arrangement, and you strayed from my plan. You’re lucky I was clever enough to devise this situation on the fly."

"First of all," Kiff said, "I’m not your boy. Second, I never really was a fan of our arrangement so I decided to make my own. However, I will be using that portal you’re dangling out as bait for the Iron Butcher."

Shirmattaa stood and slapped his clammy fists down on the desk. "What? Who do you think you are, Underpeltin? You’re a House of Stars assassin, nothing more. You belong to the Thieves’ Guild. I own you."

Kiff ran his fingers around the edge of Shirmattaa’s desk. He put his arm around the bulbous man and forced him back down into his seat.

"I don’t belong to anyone, got that?" Kiff said. "Not anymore."

Shirmattaa reached for the callstone hidden beneath his desk to summon a guardian to protect him, but Kiff’s sickle flashed in the candlelight and pinned the fat man’s hand to the desk.

The leader of the House of Suns cried out and tried to pull away from the pain, but he was stuck. The more he struggled, the more tendons were severed. Finally, he sat still and held his wrist with his free hand lest a tremor cause him any more damage.

"You’re going to be really quiet now and listen to me," Kiff whispered. "You’re going to pull back the House of Stars and anybody else you have in motion, and you’re going to step aside and watch as Kas Dorian and the others leave through your magic gateway."

"You fool!" Shirmattaa yelled, each word spraying saliva into the air. "The Guild will hunt you to the very edge of Traesparin!"

Kiff touched his chin and popped his neck. "Two months until my twentieth year, and I still only answer to ‘Kiff.’ I’m about to become a hunted man anyway."

"Kiff, this… this… it’s not like you. Let’s deal. W-what do you want? What do you need? I’ll get it for you. Anything. How about that girl, the fire-headed lass? Yes, if I know you, she’s your game. I’ll make sure you get first go at her."

Kiff slapped the man across the face, and Shirmattaa’s hand tore a little more from the movement.

"Don’t for one second think that you know anything about me. Now call off your dogs."

"I can’t. I can’t!" Shirmattaa squealed. "It’s beyond my control."

Kiff raised his arm again, and Shirmattaa ducked, tugging once more on his pinned hand.

"Spare me. It doesn’t get any higher up than you. You say hold, and the Thieves' Guild holds."

"I’m telling you, Kiff. You’ve got to believe me. It’s this Calec guy, came with orders directly from Exandercrast. I renege on this deal and I’m a soul slave for eternity. Even if I could pull my people back, Exandercrast has a legion of Ibor warriors waiting on the other side of the portal to ambush anyone who steps through. Those beasts would just as soon eat the flesh from my bones as heed my orders."

Shirmattaa was sweat profusely and blubbered like a elderly woman in the throes of bloodboil, so Kiff had trouble discerning whether that last bit of information was a lie to throw him off course. He decided it was unlikely that Shirmattaa would come up with such a ruse under the circumstances. The man was never known for his creativity.

Kiff leaned over Shirmattaa from behind and pulled the man’s head back by his greasy hair.

"Where is the portal?" Kiff asked.

"Behind the Suns’ banner."

Still holding the man’s hair, Kiff half-turned and brushed the banner to the side. Behind it was a short hallway that ended in a billowing black pane of nothingness.

"Guess that explains why it’s so hot in here," Kiff said. "You’ve got an open window to the lava-flows of Firevers."

"You see," Shirmattaa said. "I was telling the truth. You will all be slaughtered as soon as you step through. There’s nothing you can do about it, but there’s no reason you can’t still profit from the situation. You can retire, take the name Thiefking or Shadowdeath, I don’t know. I’ve heard them whisper a thousand names in your wake."

"Now why in the hells would I want a name like that?"

"Coin then. Whatever you want." Shirmattaa’s mouth frothed with spit and blood. "I don’t know what you Underpeltins look for up here. Gold. Magestones. Anything. I beg of you."

"Now you’re sounding desperate." Kiff released the man and took a step behind the banner toward the portal.

Shirmattaa leaned forward and began working the sickle back and forth, trying to pry it from his hand. The point was stuck in the thick wood of his desk, he was having trouble staying conscious as more, and more blood squirted from the wound with each tug.

Kiff returned and grabbed the blade. "Forgot my knife,".

He jerked the curved weapon up and slashed Shirmattaa’s throat all in one deft motion. With some effort, Kiff hoisted the man’s body from its chair and carried it before him toward the portal.

"This is a really bad idea," Kiff said before he stepped into the shimmering darkness.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Xandra battled forward from the edge of the balcony. She spun, wrapping her long braid around her neck so that no one could use it to pull her back. A new wave of assassins rushed into the balcony, and she felt the floor beneath her lurch under the weight.

Her quarterstaff was a blur of motion, sending several assassins over the edge or knocking them into nearby chairs. For every step she gained toward the door, she lost another then another.

She closed her eyes. "Sorry, Master."

She spun her staff in a tight circle, hand over hand, directly in front of her. A white light grew at its center. Several of the assassins hesitated or tried to get out of the way, but it was too late. Xandra’s eyes went white, and she unleashed her Gift.

A brilliant beam of eviscerating energy lanced out from her hands. Focused through her staff, the beam of white light was wider than an aurochs and disintegrated everything in its path. Thieves’ Guild stalkers were cut down by the ray, as were chairs, tables, and the door out of the room.

Xandra stumbled once from over-exertion then ran headlong into the gap she had created. Beyond the door, a perfect circle had been cut through the stairway, requiring Xandra to leap across an empty expanse and land five steps up.

She continued running until she reached the top of the stairs. The theatre’s antechamber had too many exits. There was no way she could know which way Kiff may have gone. She took a calming breath and ruled out two of the side exits because they opened to stairs leading back down. The door behind the bar was likely a closet or dumbwaiter access. That left only the way forward.

She took a deep breath and prepared herself for whatever might lay at the end of the hallway.

Before she could take a single step toward it, five cloaked individuals entered through the left entrance. They walked in a solitary procession, heads down under dark hoods. Their robes were deep blue with silver embellishments along the cuffs and midseam. Each one bore on his back and sleeves a symbol like a glowing bowl or an eyeless, smiling crescent. Xandra recognized the mark from various other places in the building. It was the symbol of the House of Moons.

For a moment she regretted that Kiff had given them a brief schooling on the Thieves' Guild, for knowing the enemy she now faced only drove her heart further into her stomach. The House of Moons did not recruit thieves and assassins, as did the House of Stars. Nor did they train mages or politicians like the House of Suns. This sect of the Thieves’ Guild was reserved only for elite specialists; only the best, matchless warriors swelled their ranks.

The lead member of their group was a short, thin woman. She held up a hand, extended three fingers, and pointed toward the balcony door. Without a word, the back three members broke off from the group and headed toward the theatre room leaving Xandra alone with the first two.

The leader took off her outer robe and cast it aside. She was a Coranthen, and a fine example of their exquisite beauty. She was shorter than Xandra and had finely woven black hair pulled back into a tight knot. Her eyes were slightly larger than a Peltin woman’s; one of the most distinguishing features of all Coranthen people. Her body was supple and graceful without an ounce out of place. At her smooth hips, she kept two rapiers sheathed on a shimmersilk belt. Their hilts were jeweled with sapphires and black diamonds.

The second House of Moons specialist was much larger. He pulled back his robe revealing the angry countenance and devilish intelligence that could only combine in the face of a Cratin. His chest was that of a muscled Peltin man with a powerful lower torso. His thick legs ended in fur-rimmed hooves that sent tremors through the floor with each step. His bovine head was black as onyx, and his horns were curled forward and ended with golden caps. He pulled out a net in one hand and lifted a trident overhead with the other.

Xandra swallowed hard. There was a very real chance her destiny might end alone in a den of thieves in Odes'Kan.

Vor spat a curse as a blade glanced across his shoulder. His blood bubbled out in thick globs and hardened into a thick scab. He spun and punched his assailant in the ribs and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the man crumpled and fell, gasping for air.

Over sixty assassins lay dead around the Dorokti berserker, and the ground was covered in a thin pool of blood that splashed with each leaping step Vor took across the room. Men dove out of his way, pushing each other forward to buy themselves a moment to get away. Years of conditioning and loyalty to the Thieves' Guild finally broke from the weight of their terror. What assassins could still flee, were doing their best to escape the enraged warrior. He had been stabbed in the stomach and in the leg, cut across the back, shoulder, and face, and had two daggers sticking out of his left arm. Much of the blood that soaked him was his own, though he was not slowed by its loss. As long as he had someone to kill, he would keep swinging his wrath-fueled axe.

There were only a few assassins left, and Vor quickly cut that number down to two. His frenzy would end soon, and his body would take into account the wounds it had been ignoring.

Three cloaked beings dropped from the balcony high above, each landing in a crouch. Vor bit the hand of an assassin and broke the man’s neck as his fury-addled mind assessed the new aggressors. The last House of Stars mercenary used the distraction to disappear behind the stage curtain at a run.

The first to drop his robes was a Peltin soldier. His kept his long auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore a heavy breastplate finely shaped to accentuate the muscles beneath it. He held a broadsword in his meaty hands, and bore a sadistic expression on his scarred face.

On the other side of the room, the second man casually dropped his robe. He was a short, spry Peltin man with dark leather armor and an astonishing array of daggers, knives, and shuriken in bandoliers along his back and chest. He bore a draconic tattoo on his face, and his head had recently known a razor’s touch.

A broad-shouldered Eryntaph stood next to him. His fur was dark brown with red patches at his knees, hands, and feet. He wore his hair in battleweaves drawn tightly around animal bones and fastened at the end in jeweled clasps. He stretched his arms overhead then down to the floor, readying himself for combat. He carried no weapon, but from the look of him, he did not need one.

Vor charged the Peltin soldier, their blades locked, and the battle of strength began.

Polas ducked and rolled as a chain whizzed overhead and crashed through a nearby table.

The gorachna growled and reared back, gathering the chain for another strike. Polas charged with his scimitar leading. He slammed into the belly of the beast, and the sword broke against its hide. Polas tossed the hilt aside and drew his second dagger. He sprinted to the monster’s side and was forced to roll out of its reach as a powerful hand smashed into the wood floor, sending splintered bits of shrapnel in all directions.

Vrihnassk cackled with laughter.

Two skeletons dashed after Polas, swords raised high. The ancient general caught the first by the wrist and snapped its arm off at the shoulder. He took the sword from its bony hand and cast the arm away.

The armless skeleton picked up the discarded limb, and dark energy sealed the shoulder back into place.

Polas swore under his breath as he blocked a blow from the second skeleton. He returned the strike and cleaved the creature’s skull from its neck. The body fell but was quickly rejoined by its departed head and rose again.

Polas was not worried about the skeletons in regards to their skills with a blade or their mindless tactics, but he was worried about his own body. He was tiring, and with each blow, he wasted precious energy better spent on finding a way to defeat the gorachna.

At that moment, the doors to the room blasted open.

Flint stepped through the smoke and ash, using his arm to muffle a heavy cough. "Never fear, Master Kas Dorian. Flint is here."

The gorachna swung one of its heavy chains and knocked Flint into the nearest table.

Polas rushed to his aid. Flint stood and brushed off his vest. His eyes widened, and he pushed Polas out of the way as a skeleton attacked from behind. He grabbed the creature by the eye sockets and transferred healing energy into its skull. The skeletal adversary crumpled into a pile of dry bones.

The Narculd mage standing across the room straightened and turned toward his servant. "Send for Calec! Go now!"

The Peltin man obeyed, fleeing the room as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him.

Flint put his hand on Polas’s back. "Go," he said. "I’ll handle this."

Polas hesitated. "You’re sure?"

Flint charged and tackled two of the undead soldiers, destroying them both with curative magic as they fell to the ground.

"Yes," Flint shouted. "Undead are my specialty."

Polas turned his attention to getting past the gorachna. The beast flung its chain again. Polas dodged, and the hooked end caught on the doorframe. He sprinted forward and rolled between the gorachna’s legs. In an instant, he was back up and kicked off the wall to grab hold of the banister. He pulled himself up and sprang.

The Peltin servant reached the top of the stairs and went pale when he saw Polas leaping for him. He ducked into the doorway as Polas’s blade clacked against the floor behind him.

Flint watched long enough to see that the ancient general made his way out of the room safely, then turned his mind toward the skeletal warriors. The last of the undead creations had surrounded him. He swiftly dispatched them with a whirling tempest of healing energy and readied himself to face the gorachna.