War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) (16 page)

“You had that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The serious one.”

“That’s just my face.”

“No, really, are you all right?” she asked. “I would understand if you are not. I am not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I am hunting the Angel of Death with an alchemist who wants to raise the dead,” she said calmly. “Nothing is right with that sentence.”

“Yeah, I know.” He paused. “So she kills people. She kills everyone.”

“No, not exactly. Azrael is not a murderer. She said it herself, she cannot kill people on her own. She is more like a gear in the machine of the universe. She does not create death. She
is
death. It is not something she does. It is something she is.”

“I guess. Still, she killed Kaleb. And Yusuf, and Nahom, and all the others.” He squinted at the sparkling glare dancing on the surface of the Leyen ahead of them.

“In a sense. But you cannot blame her for that.”

“No, I don’t blame her.” He paused. “But somewhere in her head are those memories. The memories of their deaths.”

Veneka nodded.

“She knows what Kaleb was thinking and feeling when they tied him to that stake and set him on fire.” Zerai spoke very quietly, not trusting his voice to stay steady, but it did. “She knows what his last moment was like.”

“Do you want to know what it was like?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“If she was standing here, would you ask her?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I could live with that.”

“Mm. You have not talked about Kaleb in a long time.”

Zerai tried to remember the last time he had mentioned the dead prince.

Months, at least. But then, why would I talk about him? That’s all in the past. Another life. Another world.

“You miss him.”

He nodded, but then smiled at her. “You know, I don’t really miss him now. He’s gone. He’s been gone for years. And that’s fine. I think I’m just still sad about that whole time, about how many of them…” He trailed off, not trusting his voice or his eyes to remain clear, and he needed to remain clear and strong. He cleared his throat. “So where are we going, anyway?”

“There.” Iyasu pointed.

At the edge of the river stood a tall house, three stories of pale gray stone with flat walls and square corners, and at one end stood a square tower that rose two stories taller than the roof, and a man paced across the top of the tower. At the base of the house there stretched wide green lawns with bright white walkways snaking around small, circular gardens of yellow flowers filled with blue butterflies. And all of this was visible through a massive, black, wrought iron fence topped with a line of shining spear-tips.

“What a lovely little villa,” Edris said. “I wonder if the good prince would appreciate the company of a skilled singer for a month or two.”

“I’m sure he would,” Iyasu said. “He does love music. And art. And food.”

“Be still, my jealous soul.” Edris grinned.

“And you really think we can convince him to depose Darius?” Zerai asked. “Because so far you’ve made it pretty clear that this prince hates the idea of wearing that crown, and with his streets running red with the blood of his own people, I can’t imagine he’s feeling eager to come out and play with his dear cousin.”

“And depose him how?” Veneka asked. “This is a very nice house, but there is not a single soldier guarding it. There is no one at the gate. How many men are still loyal to Faris?”

Iyasu peered up at the tower at the southern end of the house. “One.”

Zerai looked up at the man on the tower. “That’s his guard? That one man?”

“Yes.” Iyasu approached the closed gates of the estate. “And let’s hope he’s in a good mood today.”

“Why?”

An arrow screamed down from the sky and slammed into the earth between Zerai’s feet. The falconer grabbed Veneka and Iyasu to pull them behind a stone pillar as the three djinn scattered to other hiding places. Edris followed Petra, though not nearly as quickly. Zerai felt his heart pounding and his blood boiling with adrenaline as he looked down at the arrow standing in the ground. It was a huge black arrow, longer and thicker than any he had seen before, and bright red feathers stood long and tall in its fletching. The head of the arrow could not be seen at all, as the arrow had shattered two paving stones in the road and buried itself in the earth.

Iyasu stood up slowly, still in the shadow of the pillar. “That’s a good sign.”

“How is that good?” Zerai asked.

“If he wanted us dead, then all of us would be,” the seer said. “That arrow could have easily pierced all three of us.”

Zerai looked at the missile again and was forced to agree. “So you know him?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“And he’s very good with a bow.” Iyasu stepped out into the light with his empty hands raised as he looked up through the iron fence at the top of the stone tower. “Jengo! It’s Iyasu Sadik!”

“Is that such a good idea?” Zerai whispered. “I mean, you did put a murderer on the throne. This Jengo might not be very happy to see you.”

“He’s not terribly concerned with court politics,” Iyasu said, still standing in the sun with his hands raised. “Jengo’s from the south, somewhere near the coast. He says he used to be a king himself, once upon a time, but he hated the politics of it, so he left. As you can imagine, he and Faris get along very, very well.”

Zerai peeked out and saw the archer atop the tower. “He’s just standing there.”

“Deciding whether to kill me, probably,” Iyasu said dully.

“I think you should get down,” Veneka said, holding out her hand to him.

“No.”

Zerai watched as the archer raised his bow. “Iyasu!” He lunged up from behind the pillar and tackled the seer to the side as a second massive arrow shrieked down at them. It sliced through the falconer’s calf and he felt his leg buckle an instant before the rest of his body began to fall. 

The young seer tried to catch him, but he stumbled and they fell together onto the hard paving stones in the middle of the open road.

“Zerai!” Veneka ran to his side and grabbed his leg. He could feel the blood running down his skin as the wound burned and ached, but all of that swiftly faded as the healer worked her gift upon him.

He wanted to push her away, to tell her to get back behind the pillar, but she was already fixing his leg, and he knew she only needed a moment before he’d be able to stand again. The moment passed and he shoved up to his feet, feeling as sound as ever except for the sickening sensation of the blood pooling and caking in his right boot.

And then he heard the third arrow shrieking at him.

He looked up instinctively, wanting to run, wanting to leap, wanting to push the others aside. But there wasn’t time. He blinked and saw the black speck in the air. He blinked again and the speck became a shining arrowhead with a tail of red feathers just an arm’s length away.

My death…

He blinked a third time. The arrow was still an arm’s length away. It stood motionless in the air with a thin tendril of stone wrapped around it.

Zerai looked down and saw the elegantly spiraling sculpture of rock reaching up from the ground to grasp the arrow, and then he looked back at Samira standing at the corner of the house behind him. The djinn cleric frowned at the house for a moment, and then she strode out into the sunlight.

A black arrow bolted down at her head, but she flash-stepped to the side and let the arrow strike the ground as she walked on. A second and a third arrow fell screaming at her, but each time the djinn woman moved out of its way with a blurry dash to the left or right and so she reached the iron gates without a hair out of place.

Zerai and Veneka pulled Iyasu back behind the pillar.

“No, no, we can’t fight our way in there,” the seer said as he tried and failed to shake their hands off him. “Faris is a friend, and he needs to stay a friend if he’s going to help us save Maqari and Elladi.”

“He needs to hear what you have to say first,” Samira pointed out. “And he won’t hear you until we get in there.” She touched the iron bars of the fence and they gracefully bowed and arched away from her, forming a round opening for her to walk through. An arrow whistled at her, but she tilted her head and let it fly by her ear, barely rustling the scarf on her head.

“Don’t hurt Jengo,” Iyasu called out to her. “Faris will never forgive you if you do.”

“All the more reason for it to be me who hurts him instead of you,” she said. “I don’t care whether this coward prince forgives me or not. As long as he helps me to bring Azrael to Naj Kuvari, I will be satisfied. Petra! Bashir!”

The blurry form of Petra streaked past through the bent fence, and a moment later Edris Lumah jogged up to the others behind the pillar with a weary and annoyed look on his face.

“Bashir!” Samira called again.

Zerai looked back and could not see the alchemist anywhere among the deserted houses along the road leading up to the prince’s estate.

“He’s gone,” Iyasu said. “I just saw a flicker of his cloak down the road. He’s heading for the city.”

“He must be going after Azrael again,” Veneka said. “Good. Better out there than here with us.”

Zerai frowned.

That poor bastard, trying to bring his wife back from the grave. It’s crazy but…

He glanced at Veneka.

It’s not that crazy.

“I’m going after him.” Zerai peered through the fence at the two djinn women and saw them dashing across the lush green gardens as a storm of arrows fell all around them. “It looks like Samira can handle this. Stay here until it’s safe, and then go talk to the prince.”

“While you do what?” Veneka grabbed his arm. “You are not as fast as a djinn or as strong as an angel. And there is a whole army out there too, in case you have forgotten. I am not letting you get yourself killed for that lunatic.”

Zerai took her hand off him and he kissed it as he looked into her eyes. “I’m not going to get killed, I’ve got too much to live for. I’ll be back soon. I love you.”

“Zerai, he is gone, you will never find him,” she said.

“Yes, I will.” Zerai looked up and saw the pale wings of a familiar raptor high above him. “I’ll have help.”

And he turned and ran. A moment later he was several houses and turns away from the estate’s gates, and a moment after that he slowed down to scan the ground for fresh footsteps and other signs of the alchemist. Seeing nothing but the scuff marks of the hundreds of people who had fled the neighborhood just days ago, Zerai took the heavy leather glove off his belt and pulled out the small lure inside it. Spinning the lure over his head, a warbling whistle rose into the air and after a few moments a white falcon swooped down and perched on his gloved fist.

“Nezana.” He stroked the head and chest of his old friend, wondering how many years the bird had left. He was only somewhat certain that they had been together for eight years, and he had no idea how long a saker falcon could live, let alone an albino.

With no scrap of cloth or hair or food to tell Nezana what their prey looked like, Zerai realized he would have to trust to luck and instinct that the falcon would seek out the only fleeing creature nearby, and that nothing else more dangerous than the djinn alchemist was lurking in the deserted neighborhood.

“Go! Hunt!” He tossed the falcon into the air and watched the bird wing higher and higher into the pale morning sky. And then he started walking west and north, angling slowly toward the armored gates of Tagal.

This is stupid. All alone, against a djinn, an angel, and an army? One of these days I really need to start listening to Veneka.

He glanced up from time to time, noting that Nezana seemed to be drifting and circling closer to the gates of the city. He grimaced and kept his hand on his sword.

As he came closer to the huge stone doors of the city of Tagal, Zerai slowed until he was creeping through the shadows with his body pressed against the sides of the houses, his eyes searching the tops of the city walls for archers and searching the ground for tracks.

I wonder if the hunters use dogs here? Or maybe something else?

Finally he reached the last corner of the last house along the main road leading up to the gates, and he stopped. Just a stone’s throw away rode a dozen grim-faced merchants with heavy sacks and small chests hanging on their camels’ rear ends. And in the shadows of the open gates Zerai could see at least four men with spears and swords stopping each person who entered the city.

There’ll be more than four. Much more.

Frowning, he glanced around for a sign of the lost alchemist, but there was nothing to see. The ground was a riot of tracks from whatever had happened in and between the houses, and all Zerai could tell was that many men in heavy boots had trampled over the prints of bare feet and soft sandals, and he hope that those gentle shoes had all found their way to safety before the boots arrived.

Nezana flapped down and landed heavily and clumsily on the roof of a house just down the lane. Zerai watched his old friend peck and tug at the loose thatching of the roof.

Could it…?

He pushed away from the wall and crept back down the lane, still clinging to the shadows, and when Zerai reached the door of the house where his falcon was busy tearing at the roof, he drew his sword. He pushed the door open, paused, and then stepped inside.

Bashir sat in the far corner, his back resting against the wall, his huge bag resting between his knees. In the darkness he was almost invisible, except for a single shaft of sunlight that fell across his hand on his bag.

Zerai put his sword away and sat down across from him.

“I assume Samira is…?” The alchemist gestured to the closed door.

“No. Just me.”

Bashir nodded.

“Why didn’t you slip into the city?”

“Too many guards.”

“Even for you?”

“Djinn may be as swift as the wind, but we aren’t as thin. There are too many guards in the gateway, too many horses, too many things blocking the path. And all it would take is one of them to grab hold of me.”