144: Wrath (23 page)

The light that lived in Polas’s eyes died out, and the dam that held his heart in check ruptured. Vengeance and hatred flooded his soul, and he roared into the night sky like a life-bonded Ampen gone feral.

He drew his brilliant, white blade and stood, his eyes clouded with tears. He swung a perfect stroke at the heart of the tree, but his sword stuck fast in its side. He stopped, confused, and jerked the blade back. He attacked with all his fury, and was only able to chip tiny divots away at the thick bark.

Finally, exhausted, he collapsed forward and dropped his weapon. It stuck, hilt to the sky, into a thick root. The world spun around him.

Polas tore his mask away and sucked in huge gulps of cold air. He mindlessly watched a trail of black ants crawl into a hole at the base of the tree, and he listened to the wind and the distant sounds of the city. He felt the crisp night air upon his skin, and he looked up into the sky, to the Traveler’s Star and wished he could not see or hear or feel anything ever again.

He wished that his world was over, but it could not be. Not yet. Not until he held Exandercrast’s heart in his hands. Not until he tore his son away from the Dark One’s grip.

He spat upon the ground and drowned an unlucky ant in his contempt for the God of Fear.

Polas stood slowly and staggered off into the night, leaving the Blade of Leindul behind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Flint did not like being forced to act without time to make adequate preparations. He knew better than to expect delay when they were under assault, but it still irked him that he had not thought to plan for this contingency.

Xandra ran to the window to make sure no assassins were preparing to break through, and she made one last check of the roof across the street before returning to Flint’s side.

Flint hurriedly secured his belongings into his pack. He made sure that all his scrolls were tucked away neatly in their fire-resistant containers and pulled out a strip of jerky while he had the bag open.

Xandra raised a single eyebrow at him.

"What?" he said. "I’ll need energy if we are to do battle."

Xandra laughed, and Flint managed a grin despite the direness of the situation, until three small, silver orbs rolled under the doorway. One of them stuck under the Nalunis skull, but the other two spun into the middle of the room. The orbs popped and began to issue a thick, white smoke into the room.

"
Sahnrak
!" Flint yelled, drawing an admonishing stare from Xandra. "Sorry."

  Flint watched Xandra grab her quarterstaff and move to the side of the door. There she pulled a white scarf from her pack and tied it around her head, covering her eyes. His own eyes would at least be able to pick out shapes within the smoke, but he knew she needed to focus her other senses to have any chance in the impending fight.

Flint chanted, and the tops his fingers began to glow.

A small explosion shattered the door and the top half of the skull, and assassins stormed into the room through the breach, wearing arcane goggles to negate to the effects of the smoke. Flint coughed twice and tried to maintain focus on his spell.

"
Jeahn aerehnayahs kahkranahah
!"

A gush of flame with wings like a falcon shot down the hallway, setting ablaze any and all it touched. At the end of the hallway, it exploded, and the fire licked its way up the walls and toward the ceiling.

Cloaked in a veil of smoke, Xandra danced between assailants. She dodged, parried, and struck, all while blinded by the scarf. Her movements were graceful and unhindered by thought or tactic. She simply moved and trusted her body completely. She could feel the stir of smoke when an assassin leaped toward her. She could hear the whir of blades and the step and slide of padded feet. Her quarterstaff spun wide arcs around her to knock her enemies aside and came in close to guard against each opposing strike.

She lost herself in the battle, in its freedom, and into the hope of triumph that grew with each defeated foe.

Flint scooted himself into a corner and did his best to go unnoticed. He was afraid to use too much fire in the crowded room and knew that he and Xandra had little time to escape with the blaze already growing down the hall. The smoke in the room turned black as the flames crept closer and closer.

An assassin found him and jabbed a dagger into his shoulder. Flint cried out, but bit down on his tongue in an effort to regain his composure. He grabbed the attacker by the wrist and spat out a jumble of arcane words. Seconds later the man’s arm was ablaze with a hungrily spreading fire.

Flint did his best to discern the smoky shadows from one another, but he was reluctant to blast away lest he strike Xandra in his efforts.

"Call," he yelled.

"Mark," Xandra replied from somewhere to his right.

Flint poured out a fountain of flame from his palms toward the left side of the room. Shadows dove for cover or fell beneath his assault.

A blow cut a shallow line across his back and spun him around. Flint gritted his teeth and burned the assassin down with a short flash of brilliant fire.

"I’m too old for this," he said. "Call!"

"Mark," Xandra replied, this time from the far side of the room near the window.

Flint unleashed a head sized orb of flame that bounced twice into the center of the room before exploding. The blast shook the entire building and took out a section of the roof. The smoke began to billow out into the open night sky.

Xandra dispatched the remaining assassins as the room cleared. Soon, only she and Flint remained standing.

The Faldred conjured healing energy over his bleeding shoulder. The wound knit itself back together leaving behind only a small crimson stain on his cloak. He had more trouble with the gash across his back. His thick arms could not quite reach the exact spot, so he was forced to waste a considerable amount of excess energy to make sure the cut was completely healed.

Xandra removed her blindfold and beamed with pride. "Did you see me, Master?"

"You did very well, Xandra," Flint said. "Now let’s see if we can’t catch up to the others."

Vor was slower than the wretched assassins, but he was stronger by far. The ground around him bore witness to his power, soaked in the blood of those felled by his mighty axe. He had already slain nine of his enemies and now faced off against four. The truth was, however, that he was wearing down. Fighting without entering his frenzy was sensible at times, but it meant that he could tire as easily as those he faced.

He took a dagger to the bicep and spun. The trouble with daggers was that you had to get too close to your enemy. Vor gripped the assassin that had stabbed him by the face and jammed a thumb into the man’s eye socket. The assassin shrieked and fell away, clutching the open hole in his head, and Vor fell upon him with his axe and ended the man’s misery.

Across the courtyard, Kiff used height as his ally and tried to stay out of reach as much as possible, but the assassins carried various ranged weapons and launched them with skilled aim, keeping the Undlander on the defensive any time he took to the air. He weaved through their ranks, cutting hamstrings, slashing throats, and hacking along the spines of his Thieves’ Guild brethren. Six of the assassins lay dead or dying by his hand and only one more sought to destroy him.

He dodged a bladed projectile and drove his board straight down at his foe. A half-moment before colliding with the assassin, Kiff leaped into the air doing a fully extended flip. His board continued on its course and smacked into the assassin’s chest. It proved to be a minor distraction, but a distraction was all Kiff needed. He landed and thrust his right arm out. With a flick of the wrist, his sickle tore open the man’s stomach.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The night brought with it a chilling wind, but Polas took no notice. The lights of Odes’Kan glowed in the distance behind him, and the shattered moons lit his path in dull blues and greys. He stumbled over rock and limb, past burrow and tree, and across field and knoll with no clear destination. Hopeless footsteps carried him forward, always forward, into the darkness.

A burrowl hooted a lonely song that drifted over the plains. Polas fell to his knees and lifted his eyes to the heavens, searching for the star, Lahngrole. The stars around it twinkled, but Lahngrole’s light was a constant.

"This is beyond what I can bear. I can go no further."

The heavens gave no reply but the gentle rush of wind through the trees and the howl of a sennen wolf. Polas knelt, waited, and felt the faith that once carried him smolder as wrath and heartache filled his loins.

Around a low hill, a voice cried out and was answered by a crash and a clatter.

Polas sat very still, trying not to hear.

"Help! Someone, help!" The voice was chalky and rattled with rheum.

"You shut your wind, old man."

"Let go of the cart," shouted a third voice.

"Dammit." Polas slammed his fists into the ground. It was none of his business. He had no call to interfere and no need to move from his spot ever again. He could let the voices play out, let the suns and moons rise and fall, and waste away until his body became one with the soil. It would be easier than anything he had ever done before. But his flesh betrayed him, and he rose to his feet.

He had seen it one hundred times before; the thugs and the dregs of a worthless town, preying upon the weak. An old man leaned against a tiny cart pulled by a sickly mule. He used his elbows to guard his face and tried to hide behind the cart’s wheels with his chest curled over his knees.

Two ruffians stood before him, one a dark-skinned Peltin with a hide jerkin laced over his hairy chest and a rusty longsword in his grip. "We’ll be having that pouch on your belt, too. Don’t be trying to hide no coin from me," the Peltin said, pointing his sword toward the old man’s waist.

The other man was a Yarsac. His four legs were thick, and his dappled body glistened with sweat. A curly, black beard wreathed his face, and his hair was like a tangled briarbush. He held a crossbow in shaky hands and wore a quiver of bolts on his side. "We don’t want to hurt you, so just walk away. There’s no need for us to use these." He waved his crossbow back and forth to accent his words, and his back legs hooved at the soft ground with loud thuds.

"Dammit, Fost, would you stop swinging that thing around?" The Peltin man slapped the Yarsac’s crossbow away when it waved a little too close to his face. "And you." He stepped forward and pushed the old man to the ground with his foot. "You best do as he says. I ain’t so soft. I’d just as soon gut ya and be done with it."

Polas tried to convince himself to walk away. It was not his problem. One old man did not even matter.

"Stop." Without thinking, Polas’s hand drifted to his hip, but found his belt bare.

The two men turned, and the Peltin took a step toward Polas. "Who in the hells are you? Keep walking. You ain’t got business here."

Fost laughed. "Careful, Liam. Looks like he’s running an invisible sword in that sheath of his. I hear they’re real sharp."

The duo shared a laugh, and Polas swore under his breath. He did not even have a dirk in his boot, for all the good it would have done him against a crossbow and a longsword. He slowly let his hand fall and took a few steps toward the cart and the cowed man. "The two of you need to move on to other fields."

"Or what?" Liam did a quick flourish with his sword. "You got an army hidden in your arse?"

Polas only had one shot that he could see. He might be able to take them both unarmed, in fact, he likely could, but there was too much ground to cover and the Yarsac had the crossbow trained on him with a much steadier grip now that it was not an old man in his sights.

"I am Polas Kas Dorian." He reached up slowly and removed his mask. "The Iron Butcher."

"Now there’s a harrow’s tale," Liam said. "The Iron Butcher returned from the grave to protect old men with his invisible sword. In the stories, you sword was always red with the blood of children and glowed in the dark."

The Peltin’s words were strong, but Polas could tell his burns unnerved the man.

The Yarsac’s front hooves pushed back, and it looked as though he might bolt at any moment. "Don’t come any closer."

Polas had to make a decision. He could try to rush the men on the chance that Fost would miss his mark, or he could try a different tactic. He took a slow step forward and began a countdown in his head. He only had to make the Yarsac miss once, and he would have time to close.

Three.

Fost cast a nervous glance to his ally, but the Peltin’s eyes were focused only on Polas and his empty hand.

"Don’t think we won’t gut you and this grey-hair both," Liam said. "I don’t care who you think you are. You’ll bleed same as everyone else."

Polas stepped forward again and closed his fist around the stained mask.

Two.

A breeze stirred Fost's wiry hair, and his hind legs twitched. Polas readied himself.

"I won’t think twice, mister," Fost said, his voice quivering.

One.

Polas flung his mask at the Yarsac and spun. He heard a twang and felt a biting pain in his shoulder, but ignored it as he began his charge.

Fost was looking down, attempting to reload his crossbow quickly but bumbling the task. The Peltin man dashed back toward the cart.

Polas came in low as the Yarsac finished reloading. With a feint left, he swung under the crossbow's sight, leaped up onto the man's equine back, and struck him in the back of the skull. The man's forelegs collapsed, and he fell to the ground, and Polas fell with him. He hit the ground hard but did not stay there. In one motion, he rolled, scooped up the loaded crossbow, and stood.

"Drop it." Liam held the old man from behind with the point of his sword pressed against the man's ribs. "You're a brave
kaifer
, I'll give you that, but this one dies if you take another step."

"If you hurt the man, my bolt will find your heart, and you both will have lost."

"Hells take you, hagspawn!" Liam spat at Polas and turned to look back at the cart. "This here's my loot now and --"

With a click and a whir, the man fell backward, and his sword clattered to the ground.

Polas tossed the crossbow aside and stepped over the unconscious Yarsac to look down on the Peltin man. His bolt had sheared through Liam's eye at an angle, and its point pressed at the skin above his ear, causing a sharp bulge in his hair.

Then the ache of his own wound caught him, and his neck and back burned. The broken shaft of a bolt dug a deep red line across his shoulder. Polas thanked Hope for the surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the pain, but he knew he had been lucky.

"Thank you, sir," the old man said. "I don't have much in the way of thanks, but anything I have is yours as you have helped me keep my life."

Polas managed a tight-lipped smile as he picked up his mask off the ground. "I have no need of any payment. Get to the city safely and take no more journeys alone after dark, and I will be repaid."

The old man knelt and felt the earth around him until his hand found Liam's sword. He pried the Peltin's fingers from its pommel and held the blade out in front of him. "At least take the sword. You have won it from him."

Polas finished tying his mask and tried to pull the bolt from his shoulder. His effort only caused the wound to tear further. He grimaced and had to stop for fear of passing out. "I have no more need of blades. Melt it down or cast it aside, I do not care, but I'll have no part of it."

"You're wounded." The old man stepped forward gingerly, using the sword to test the ground before him. "May I?"

Polas nodded and stooped to allow the man to reach the wound. "I would appreciate it."

"It's doesn't seem so bad. Hold tight for a moment, and it'll be done."

Polas closed his eyes as the old man pulled the bolt free of the gash. He closed his eyes and waited for the immediate pain to wash away. When there was nothing left but a dull ache, he straightened. "My thanks."

"You're right about this one. The blade's too heavy and nicked along its edge. Probably should be melted down, yet worse swords have been used for better purposes and better swords forgotten." The old man turned and found his way back to his cart. He scratched his mule behind the ear and loaded the weapon in the back. "But, I suppose I'll take it with me. Swords are made to be used, after all. And used they will be, for good or naught. What good is it for a swordsman to deny a sword? And when the foe comes to him with his own sword, does the swordsman expect the blade to remember him and have mercy?"

Polas bent down to check the Yarsac. The man was still breathing, but he would not wake soon. "You speak in riddles."

"Do I? My apologies." The old man climbed onto his cart and stared at Polas with glossy, white eyes. "I only mean to say that I, until now, had no sword. You have given me one, and I thank you, but I do not know how to use it, and I fear I am too old to learn. It is much better suited to your hands, calloused and hard as they are. And even if you do not hold it, your hands will not soften or return to their youth. You can do things with this blade that others cannot or will not, and sometimes Hope requires a sword."

Polas watched as the mule pulled the cart over the low hill toward the distant lights of Odes'Kan. Something about the old man was familiar to him, but he could not place it. It was not until he could no longer hear the squeaky wheels or the rattling goods that Polas realized his shoulder had no wound.

He stood and wondered for what could have been an hour and finally made up his mind. With heavy steps, he returned to Odes'Kan and to the path he had started so many years ago. Only, his sword was gone. There was nothing but a notch in the root where Polas had left the blade. He would have to find a new one, though he imagined it would not serve him as well as the last one had.