Blood Storm: The Books of Blood and Iron (29 page)

His eye fell on the long, L-shaped building that had received all the clay. Where the dwarfs lived and worked. Willem laughed, overjoyed again.

Destroy the prince’s army. He had always planned to do that. He only had to think
bigger.

Below, Willem caught a glimpse of a familiar pudgy shape crossing a courtyard. Punsle. Now that Willem could Twist, he was amazed that he couldn’t see how to do it before. Willem reached through space, feeling for the
route he wanted. It was like bending the branch of a tree toward himself, stepping onto it, and letting the branch snap back into place, sweeping him along with it. Willem Twisted and popped into the air two feet above the courtyard a little behind Punsle. A little breathless, he dropped to the ground, scattering a startled flock of acolytes and possibly scarring them for life. Quickly, he drew his hood over his new ears. The time would come to reveal his true self, but not yet. At least his voice hadn’t changed.

“Summon the Whitecaps!” he barked at an acolyte who hadn’t fled quickly enough. “Tell them to meet outside the manufactory at once!”

The acolyte scurried away.

Punsle whirled. “Excellency?” His blue and white robes were even more impeccably maintained than Willem’s. You could shave with the creases in his sleeves. “When did you return? And you’re . . . you’ve . . .”

“Not now, Punsle.” Willem tried to straighten his own robes, short as they were. He drew himself up. “Bar the gates and seal the entrances. We’re going to war.”

Punsle recovered himself. “Yes, Excellency,” he said as if Willem had just ordered a plate of chips for dinner. “Against whom, Excellency?”

“The prince. I’ve committed treason, and it’s time to make our move.”

Punsle’s expression didn’t change, which was one thing Willem liked about him. “I thought we were moving next month, Excellency, when the golem army was fully completed.”

“Plans have changed.”

“As have you, Excellency,” Punsle apparently couldn’t help saying.

“The Tree tips, Punsle.” Willem wrapped his cloak
about him like a suit of armor. “We can drop with it, or control the fall.”

“As you’ve said, Excellency. Do you need anything else?”

Willem was already striding toward the L-shaped building. Behind his back, Punsle snapped out orders to acolytes and priests, principals and primatures. Word spread quickly, and activity burst over the complex like water from a broken dam. The followers of Bosha lit fires, set pitch to boil, opened weapon stores, checked traps and barbicans at the entryways. In the distance the main gates grumbled shut, adding to the tension and urgency that already rode the air. Swords came out, and troops of armed Whitecaps in their pale leather armor scrambled toward the manufactory. Willem drew the hood on his cloak farther forward to hide his face as they joined the stream of men. None of them seemed to recognize Willem, or wonder why a priest of Bosha was wearing robes that were blatantly too short for him.

“The sea washes everything toward us, Punsle.” Willem turned aside and entered the building through a side door with Punsle in tow while the Whitecaps hustled to the courtyard in front.

The moment Willem entered the building, a sick nausea nearly brought him to his knees. Clangs and thuds echoed through the great hall and bounced off the ceiling three stories above them. Smells of wet clay and wood smoke tanged the air, and through it all mixed the horrid, acid smell of hot iron. Iron had never bothered Willem in the slightest before this, and he had forgotten how difficult it made life for the elves. A headache ground at the back of his eyes.

He straightened. This was nothing. He would move forward, iron or no iron.

All the windows were bricked up, and the only light fell from a few torches and a pair of glowing forges—more iron—that also heated the room to sweat-inducing levels. A small mountain of clay sat in one corner. On the wide floor, a dozen golems stood motionless as chess pieces, their azure eyes staring eerily at nothing. Four dwarfs—two for each forge—moved among them, their sensitive eyes protected from the sun by the manufactory’s thick walls. Parts for more golems were stacked on worktables amid tools Willem still didn’t recognize. Some of the tools were sharp and, of course, made of iron. Willem forced himself not to step away. He was stronger than this.

Behind them all, against the far wall, a much taller shape crouched beneath the high ceiling. Scaffolding made a spidery lattice all about it. Truly, Willem mused, the troll boy thought he could see the truth, but even the truth could be wrong.

One of the dwarfs recognized Willem and scuttled over. His twisted spine bent him so far sideways he had to look up to hold a conversation. “Excellency?” he mumbled.

“When will the golems be ready?”

The dwarf coughed. “Hikk is only now carving runes on their thoraxes, and then we’ll need blood to bring them to life.”

“They aren’t alive,” Willem spat. “Nothing men create can live.”

“As you say, Excellency,” the dwarf said in a tone that made it clear Willem was wrong in every way possible but who nevertheless decided how far the purse might open.

“How long?” Willem repeated.

“Hard to say, Excellency. Weeks still, I’m sure.”

Willem ground his teeth through the awful iron headache. This was a problem. The Fae had trapped the Stane underground for centuries, something that had driven them
to poverty, hunger, and desperation. They had become so desperate that they had chained up Death in an attempt to harness her power and escape. Control of Death herself. Willem couldn’t help admiring it, even if it had failed. But thanks to that greasy half troll, the Stane had been released, and Willem had spotted an opportunity. Impoverished people were always willing to work, even for scandalously low wages. If you did the math right, you could even find ways to make
them
pay
you.
You just paid them in scrip they could only spend at the stores you owned, then pushed the price of food so high they had to borrow against future wages just to stay alive. A number of trolls had found themselves in the temple’s debt this way. In some ways, it was better than slavery.

Dwarfs, however, were different from trolls. They kept their eye on the gold, and they knew how much their labor was worth. It also wasn’t worth it to threaten torture or beatings. Dwarfs, Willem had learned, would go through a great deal of discomfort if it meant holding on to gold. Or silver. Or even copper. But in some ways, that made them easier to handle.

Willem gestured at Punsle, who produced a purse from under his immaculate robes. He opened it to show the soft, gleaming gold within. The dwarf sucked at his teeth.

“How long?” Willem asked pleasantly.

“We can have the dozen running about in a few days,” he said.

“And the other project?” Willem said.

The dwarf looked longingly at the purse. Punsle obliged by jingling it. But the dwarf shook his head. “You can offer me a roomful of gold, and it won’t change a thing. We can’t do what we can’t do. The problem is the blood.”

“The blood,” Willem repeated slowly.

“Golems need Stane blood to get started,” the dwarf
said. “Giant or troll or dwarf. A smear is enough for them”—he waved a hand at the dozen golems— “but for this, we need a lot more, and that takes time.”

It was always about the blood, Willem thought. Blood for the troll boy, blood for the golems, blood for the shape magic. Everything came down to the blood.

“How do you usually get the blood?” Willem pulled the cloak off and handed it to Punsle, who accepted it without comment. Then Willem pulled off his robe.

The dwarf didn’t seem to notice, either. “Cut my palm.”

“I see.” Dressed only in an undershirt, Willem hooked a large washtub with his foot, dragged it over, and pointed over the dwarf’s shoulder. “Does that water pump work?”

The dwarf turned his head. “Sure, Excellency. Why d’you—”

Willem snatched a knife from the table. The hilt was wrapped in leather, but still the iron burned his hand like acid and his knees wobbled, though he ignored both sensations. One slash opened the dwarf’s throat from side to side. Willem flung the dreadful knife aside even as the dwarf gurgled and collapsed. Gleaming scarlet, Willem held the corpse so the dwarf’s blood gushed into the washtub.

“Will that be enough, do you think?” Willem asked.

“I’m sure of it, Excellency,” Punsle replied.

T
he heavy sewage in the bay caked Aisa’s gills with filth. No wonder the merfolk avoided Balsia. Disgusted and worried both, Aisa flashed through the water with the longboat in tow so fast they left a wake. Danr and Talfi clutched the gunwales hard enough to leave permanent finger marks. People on ships and fishing boats and rafts turned to stare at the sight, but Aisa was beyond caring.

They reached the docks in moments. Danr and Talfi climbed onto the dock, round-eyed and white-knuckled, while Aisa pulled herself onto the wood and wrung the awful water from her hair.

“Your facial tattoos came back when you changed,” Danr said. “They make you look so . . . fierce.”

She touched her face. The ridges and the seed pearls had indeed returned. Relief swept her. She had forgotten to check when she first changed back into her . . . was the mermaid her true form? Or was her human shape her true form? Perhaps it did not matter. In any case, she had kept her face.

“Can we talk about that later? We have to reach the Obsidia house,” said Talfi. “Ranadar and Kalessa are—”

Aisa reached into her memory. Her power was growing. She no longer needed the blood of an animal to change into it. The shape of any animal she had seen or touched seemed to form in her mind, and flowing into that shape seemed ridiculously easy, if somewhat tiring. Her shape melted and reformed. Tears pricked the back of her eyes even as her eyes changed their shape. Ynara had sacrificed everything so Aisa could have this power. Aisa had shared it, and Ynara and her grandmother had died.

No,
whispered a voice in her head, and she couldn’t tell if it was her own voice or Pendra’s now.
Your grandfather shared the power, not you, and more people died than were fated to. Can you wield the sickle without flinching?

Why must we give up blood for gain?
she cried out.
Why must we lose before we can win?

But there was no answer. Her shape finished changing, and she stood on the stones as a roan horse.

“Fantastic!” Danr said. “Aisa, I could kiss you.”

“I’d pay a dozen silver fingers to watch that, but we’re in a hurry.” Talfi leaped onto her back, and Danr followed. Aisa snorted at how ridiculously light they were. She bolted forward. Talfi clung to her mane and Danr clung to Talfi as she cantered up the docks, gathering speed. It felt strange running with four legs, but she quickly got the hang of it. Air rushed past her nose and ears. Exhilarating!

“Make way!” Talfi shouted at startled pedestrians. “Move aside!”

They passed out of the docks and into the slave market. Rows of slaves were still chained within the pens. An auction was going on. The stench of the pens and the shouts of the auctioneer slammed into Aisa, and it became impossible for her to run another step. She skidded to a stop.
Danr and Talfi nearly went over her neck. Unbalanced, they slid off.

“Hey, what—?” Talfi asked.

Before she could think more, she took back her human form in a small explosion of light. The noise of the market stopped, and everyone, slave, slaver, and customer alike, stared for a moment. Then pandemonium broke out. Most of the customers stampeded away. The slaves shouted in their chains. Naked and uncaring, Aisa snatched a knife from the belt of a slaver who was too stunned to react and ran into the closest slave pen. She held the blade above her forearm.

“What’s happening, Aisa?” Danr asked behind her.

Aisa turned to him—

—and he was wielding the Iron Axe. Blood dripped from it. It spread across the slave pens—no, it was the elven city of Palana—no, it was the Garden. Aisa forced the tip of the knife against her skin, but she flinched and her knees weakened. She relived the violence, tasted the fear, felt the warm blood. The tip of the knife refused to move.

“I cannot,” she said hoarsely. “I cannot do it.”

Can you wield—

“Shut up!” she barked.

The slaves stared at her from their chains. Talfi ran up. He had pulled his tunic off, and he flung it around Aisa’s shoulders, though it only partially covered her. “What’s going on? What can’t you do?”

“I . . . I want to share the blood and the power. But I cannot.”

To her relief, Danr didn’t question it. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” Talfi’s face was red now. “We have to reach the Obsidia house. Now!”

“This’ll only take a second,” Danr said. He snatched Aisa’s knife and scored his own arm with a fresh wound, even though his chest was still oozing. Blood trickled toward his fingers. Without heeding the filthy straw or the hard cobblestones, he dashed into the first pen and, by chance, knelt face-to-face with the women Aisa had treated that one day. The women cowered. Danr spoke to the woman who had flung water on Aisa after Aisa had refused to help her escape.

“You . . . you . . . ,” the woman stammered. “How . . . ?”

“Do you wish to see if you are a shape-shifter?” Aisa asked over Danr’s shoulder.

“Yes,” the woman said.

Danr dabbed a bloody finger on the woman’s mouth, then turned to the next woman to ask the same question. The first woman, meanwhile, howled and twisted in her chains. In a moment, she became a wolfhound, which easily slipped the fetters. The hound gave Danr a grateful look and sprinted away.

“My blood and the blood of anyone who tastes my blood might let you change shape, or it might kill you,” Danr called in a voice that rang through the pens. “Share it! Share it all and you’ll be free!”

But now the slavers recovered their surprise, and they objected to the idea of someone freeing their prize stock. Several of them closed in on Danr and Aisa. One of them grabbed Aisa by the shoulders. Once again she was back in Palana. Blood gushed over the ground, and the Iron Axe crackled in her ears. All the strength drained from her body and her muscles went limp as wax while the slaver glared steel down at her.

No!
she told herself.
You are strong!

Aisa reached into herself and found more power. Her shape shifted, and she exploded into a one-ton walrus. The
slaver flew backward and skidded into a wall. The others fled. Aisa roared. More shouts of fear arose from the slave pens, but others cried out in admiration. So this was how Danr felt all the time. Why would he want to give it up? This was strength!

The slaves in front of her cowered in their fetters, unable to run. Aisa pulled herself together. She had no time. Ranadar was close to drowning, and the slavers would find their courage soon. She reimagined her true shape and changed back. The effort made her a little dizzy.

“She’s a sorceress!” one of the slaves gasped to Danr.

“You might have the same power.” Danr held out a bloody hand to her.

The woman took his blood, but nothing happened. Danr moved on to the next, and the next. Some people accepted the blood, others refused it. Three others changed shape. One died, and Aisa averted her eyes. Four others tried to change shape and glowed faintly, but failed. Talfi was growing more and more agitated, so Danr handed the knife to a slave.

“Whoever’s shared blood with me can share it with others,” he said. “We have to go.”

“Now,” said Talfi.

Aisa tried to change into a horse again, but the power wasn’t there. She tried again, and failed. The magic would not come. Oh, what a weak fool she had been. The slave market had drawn her, and now she had—

A wisp of power threaded through her. Eagerly, she followed it back to its source. Danr! He turned and gave her a white, handsome smile that thrilled right through her. Even though he was not touching her, his strength was there. She drank, and power came easily from him. Magic gushed into Aisa, stiffening her spine and firming her bare feet on the cobbles. Danr staggered a little, then righted
himself with a nod. With a laugh, Aisa spread her arms wide and flowed back into her horse shape. She galloped away with Danr and Talfi on her back while the slaves passed the knife around behind them.

Moments later, she halted at the gate to the Obsidia house. The gate still gaped where Danr had bent it open a few days ago. Had it only been days? Danr and Talfi dismounted, and Aisa squeezed through the opening. The golem standing guard shouted an alert, but Aisa planted a double-hooved kick with her back legs square in its chest, and it flew backward.

“Come on!” Talfi, who had regained his tunic, leaped back aboard and hauled Danr up. As more golems rattled toward them, Aisa cantered around the house, weaving and dodging and nearly throwing her passengers off her back. They arrived in the garden where Ranadar now stood in the tank with water up to his chin. He had to raise his head to keep his mouth and nose above the waterline. A human would have died of exposure long ago, but elves were not bothered by such things. Thank Olar. Kalessa was chained by one ankle to a tree not far away. She bolted to her feet.

“Who—?” she said.

The golem climbed up the ladder with another cupful of water. Golems, crying alerts, poured around the corner of the house. Aisa whirled, dumping Danr and Talfi unceremoniously off her back, and gave the glass a full kick with both rear feet just as she had done to the first golem. The glass cracked. Aisa kicked twice more, and the glass shattered. Struts broke. Water cascaded across the grass, drenching Aisa from the hocks down. Talfi ran into the tank and helped Ranadar sink gratefully to the floor. His wrists were raw and bleeding from the iron shackles. The
golem reached the top of the ladder and emptied its cup into the puddle.

Thin applause drifted across the garden. “You did it!” Hector called from a safe distance. “And two of you have managed to change shape. I’m impressed. Let’s have the power of the shape. Please.”

Aisa reared up on her hind legs and screamed a neigh at them.

“Defiance?” Sharlee put in next to him. “We had a deal. What makes you think you can back out now?”

“Willem,” Hector spat. “He must have betrayed us.”

Aisa stamped. She didn’t want to move away from Ranadar, but she couldn’t speak, either. Not in this form. Many golems, at least a dozen of them, were now scattered about the yard. Where was Danr? She couldn’t see him.

“Aisa, is that you?” Kalessa called from beneath her tree. She was wrestling in vain with her fetters.

“You will still give us the power of the shape.” Hector’s voice was hungry. “I will have it.”

Aisa pulled herself back into her human shape, and Kalessa gave a shout of glee. “You have it! My sister!”

“I will give you nothing,” Aisa said. “You have sacrificed nothing, and you deserve nothing.”

“We sent dozens of other servants and hirelings off to find the power,” Sharlee objected. “We sacrificed every one of them.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aisa said. “You have given nothing of yourselves, overcome no hardships, acquired no scars. The power of the shape will suck the life from your body and spit out your bones. It will leave nothing but an evil shadow. I will not give it to you.”

“I didn’t give you a choice,” Hector said. “I never do.” He snapped his fingers, and a golem dragged Danr into view with his arms wrenched behind him. One golem was
more than strong enough. His chest and arm still oozed blood.

“Aisa,” Danr gasped. His face was white with pain. Aisa froze.

“Don’t move,” Sharlee said pleasantly. “And don’t change shape. Tell us how to share this power, or your half-blood lover will pay the price. And to show we aren’t joking . . .”

The golem twisted Danr’s arm. The wet snap stopped Aisa’s heart. Danr cried out and went to his knees.

“We don’t give second warnings,” Hector said. “Its next move will be to tear his arm completely off.”

“Don’t give it to them, Aisa!” Danr said. “Don’t tell them how it works!”

“Oh, but she will,” Sharlee said. “She loves you, and can’t bear to watch you suffer. It’s been enough that she had to watch her sister mermaid die.”

“How did you know about that?” Aisa demanded.

Scorn invaded Sharlee’s tone. “Pay attention, dear—you were still sitting on the golem when you told Danr all about it. We’re swimming in irony. You worked hard to free the fish girl, only to watch her perish. Did her people forgive you, Aisa? What was it like to hear a mermaid scream?”

The words pierced Aisa with a cold knife. Sorrow and exhaustion shook her like a wolf shaking a broken rabbit. Ynara was dead because of her, because of her blood.

But Sharlee wasn’t done. “Tell us, Aisa. Or should I tell your Danr the truth first?”

“Truth?” Aisa said. There was a clanking behind her as Talfi struggled with Ranadar’s shackles.

“So you haven’t told him! Danr, darling, would you like to know what Aisa has been keeping from you?”

“No!” Aisa begged, not sure if she was speaking to Sharlee or to Danr. “Be silent!”

But Danr had to answer. “That’s a truly stupid question for someone who’s supposed to be smart. I have no idea if I want to know because I don’t know what you’re offering. You’re—ow!” He groaned as the golem twisted his broken arm.

“Be polite to my wife, half-blood,” Hector said with calm menace.

And Aisa saw Danr close his right eye. He looked straight at Hector and then at Sharlee. He looked for a long, long moment.

What do you see?
she wanted to ask, but she kept back the words.

Sharlee took a step forward, her dark eyes drilling into Danr’s handsome face. She was enjoying herself, drinking in his physical and emotional pain.

“Let me give
you
some truth, Danr,” Sharlee said, and Aisa’s knees weakened. “Aisa never cared that you’re a half-blood. She adores you for who you are, and would marry you no matter how many people stormed the castle to come get you.”

“Thanks,” he gasped. “So nice of you to say.”

Sharlee’s face was twisted into a cruel rictus, and her breath was coming in short bursts. Every moment of pain gave her a thrill of pleasure, and that fact frightened Aisa more than even Grandfather Wyrm.

“Sharlee, don’t,” Aisa said, and hated herself for the pleading tone that crept into her voice.

Sharlee was relentless. “But Aisa also remembers how you slaughtered the Fae with the Iron Axe. She remembers every drop of blood you spilled because she still sees it on your hands. She relives every scream, and smells the
delightful scent of Fae flesh cooking in the fires you set. And you, half troll, were too stupid to notice.”