Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (29 page)

The guards watched the silent night, oblivious to Zane who stood in the shadows. Ignoring them, he moved around the building, looking for another way in. He paused, seeing a high window. If he could reach it… it was perfect, but there was nothing near it. There were no boxes to prop himself up on, and as he touched the sheer wall, he felt that it was almost slick like metal with no good handholds. He eyed the nearby adobe building, calculating its distance and the height of the roofs. It was his best chance.

Scaling the earthen building was easy, with its series of wood poles, gaping windows, and rutted handholds. He glanced to the street beyond, hoping no one saw the dark-cloaked figure clinging to the tan building. Zane scooted into the vestige of shade as he climbed to the summit. Crouching low upon the rooftop, he looked back down.
Thirty paces
—a fall might not kill him, but it would surely break bones. Before him, maybe ten paces away, the Citadel’s warehouse was a black box. He had misjudged. The roof was taller. That was going to be difficult, but not impossible.

Sure enough, in the dirt streets below, a cart appeared, surrounded by twelve Farbian guards. It rattled its way to the warehouse’s main door, but just before it passed out of view, Zane caught sight of a man at their head wearing two crossed swords on his cloak.

A Devari.

What was a Devari doing here?
Had Trev simply not known or was it something else? Either way, Zane couldn’t handle a Devari. Immediately, he looked for a way down, to abandon the whole thing. Just then, hooves sounded on dirt as all twelve guards rode back the way they came, including the Devari. When the last cart passed out of sight, Zane fixed his gaze upon the warehouse’s ledge. Upon his third breath he bolted, legs and arms pumping. His foot pressed against the lip of the building and he flew, air whistling in his ears, until he slammed against the black wall. His hand gripped the stone’s ledge, but then slid on the smooth surface. Scrambling nervously, he felt a sudden crevice and he dug his nails in, holding on and stopping his descent. With an angry breath, he looked down.

The window was just below him.

Suddenly, his swinging legs felt purchase. There must have been a score in the smooth, stone wall, allotting him a foothold. He tested it. It was firm. He used it, and then he felt another. His anger wavered, curiosity replacing it. The three lucky finds got him to the window’s ledge, just barely.

Only Zane didn’t believe in luck.

Silently, he slipped through the open window and into the warehouse. The window led onto a wood platform that overlooked the huge building’s insides. He was in the rafters he realized, a landing not much more than a series of crisscrossed wood planks hanging above the storeroom below. Zane took in the sight like a blademaster assessing the quality of a sword. The room was empty of life, only boxes and barrels stacked haphazardly, looking like a gutted carcass with only the inedible bits left behind. And then he saw it… In the center sat a chest, bigger than all the rest. It gleamed strangely.
Too open,
he thought, grimacing. He didn’t trust it, but he’d have to get closer to find out. He found a coil of rope. He gripped it, moving to fasten it to something when—

It was already tied down. He examined the knot.
Sturdy.
Something about the type of knot unnerved him too. He peered down to where the rope would land, but saw only darkness. Impassively, he noticed his hand holding the rope. It was shaking slightly.
Three oddities are enough,
his streetwise voice told him.
Leave this place.

Paranoia
, he thought gruffly, shoving it down. It was easy to have it in a job like this, and the bigger the job, the greater the mistrust. Still, he ignored the rope, went around to the far end of the rafters, found another cord and made his way down. As he landed, he saw the box in full.

Dull, hoary light from an unseen source lit the lower warehouse.

The shipment sat ahead. Now he saw it in full—not a box but a plain white Silveroot chest with rusted metal rivets. The Silveroot glowed faintly. Others might have been discouraged by the plainness, but Zane knew differently. What was often most valuable was rarely gilded in gold, for only a fool would hide their jewels with more jewels. No, the way it sat all by itself
was
special. He had a gut feeling that whatever was inside was no mere meal ticket. It was much more… perhaps even a new life for the Lost Ones—all of them. His heart hammered in his chest, harder than it ever had. At last, he could save them.

He stalked forward when his arm suddenly trembled.
Fear?
Zane was in his element, why was he afraid? Another step and his blood grew cold and hot simultaneously. Something wasn’t right, like a sour smell hanging in the air. But time was running out. Ignoring it, he pushed forward. He took another step, his foot entering the light, and sweat beaded upon his brow.

Against all instincts, he took another step when he heard voices. He had to close his eyes and concentrate just to make out the hushed tones.

“That little snitch was supposed to have him here hours ago.”

“I don’t trust one of those weaklings,”
said another.
“Turning in one of their own, no less.”
He laughed softly.
“Imagine the look on Shade’s face once he sees the truth of it.”

“Well, I just ’ope the raid on that rat’s den is going better than this.”

The first chimed in again.
“That is only half the pain he’ll feel, watching his beloved wretches die before his eyes!”

A third hissed.
“Shut your mouth. I think I heard somethin’.”

Zane’s hot blood chilled to ice. Horror sunk beneath his flesh in realization… He backed away, mind reeling in anger, confusion, and fear. He tripped over a lump. His hand touched something wet, and soft. Raising his palms to his eyes, he saw blood, and then took in the body of a guard. Gritting his teeth, Zane staggered to his feet, ignoring his terror.

As he moved, retracing his steps as fast as he possibly could, shoving down his fear and foolishness, he had one single thought, one burning realization—this wasn’t just a trap for him.

Sanctuary was under attack, and Hannah was in danger.

Wrath filled him, and he only prayed he wasn’t too late.

* * *

Zane reached the last rung of the Underbelly. Beyond the next bend was the fork between his hideout and Sanctuary. His tired legs didn’t slow, and he kept on running. A sinking feeling in his gut hit him as he rounded the corner.

Two bodies lay at the base of the wide ramp, unmoving. As he neared, he saw it was the lifeless corpses of those same two young men. Their faces were twisted in horror, as if they had looked upon a nightmare…

Words flashed through his mind.

Any man that causes an Arbiter to fear must truly be death itself.

Zane pushed down the words, grabbing a long cudgel from the youth’s body and moving on, anger flowing through his veins. As he ran, his thoughts churned. He felt fear and terror for Hannah, and for the Lost Ones. But coating it all was ire for Trev and his treachery. The fury tugged at him, threatening to suck him in, but he wouldn’t let it. Nor would he let it subside. Instead he channeled it, using it to fuel his tired limbs and sharpen his panicked mind. His anger was a blade, and he unsheathed that weapon in full. Trev was right in the end—now he would see the truth of it.

Sprinting hard, he reached their hideout quickly. At the corner he pressed against the wall, withdrawing a small mirror from the folds of his clothes. Angling it, he peered around the bend. A man stood to the right of the arched entryway, rusty sword in hand. He was big—much bigger than Zane. Upon the shoulder of his soiled, dark rags, Zane spotted Darkeye’s crest. The thug watched the shadows uneasily. Zane’s fist loosened, letting his hand slide down to the heavy cudgel. With his other hand, he put away the mirror and snatched a nearby pebble, lobbing it into the slow moving stream. It plopped. The thug spun, looking away, and Zane charged, racing like a shadow across the distance. Just before the man twisted, Zane cried out in fury. His muscles flexed and the cudgel snapped with the power of his fury, breaking upon the man’s back. The man buckled, falling like a heavy sack. Indifferently, Zane dropped the weapon and walked through the entry, anger and fear roiling off him in waves.

Immediately, he took in his surroundings. Empty.

The boxes were shattered, and Hannah’s little enclave was in pieces, awning and bed overturned.
A struggle,
he assessed with a clenched jaw. His own bed was a mess as well—his few rare belongings scattered or missing. Nearby, he saw a note tacked to the wall. Hannah’s favorite necklace hung from it. He ripped it off the wall and read.

Come to The Lair of the Beast or the girl dies.

—Darkeye

Darkeye.
Could it really be? Ezrah’s words echoed in his head once again: “You will be pulled towards Darkeye like a string drawn by a loom.”
Come to The Lair of the Beast.

The Lair was Darkeye’s hideout. It was essentially a deathtrap, regardless of Ezrah’s prophetic warning. It was a place all thieves avoided like a plague. To enter was death. He crumbled the note, eyeing Hannah’s heart-shaped necklace as memories flashed through him…

He found Hannah by the river. He heard soft sobs. As he moved to her side and sat, she stifled her tears. Still, her gaze was distant. They sat in silence, and he tried to issue comfort by his presence alone.

“Why did she have to die, brother?” she whispered at last.

Zane tried to find his words. He was never very good at these things, but the silence weighed on him. She looked to him, waiting. “Sometimes…” he began, “sometimes things just happen, Hannah, and no matter how hard we try, we can’t change it.”

“But she was just a little girl…” Her voice shook with emotion.

Zane felt his anger nearly succumb to sorrow, but he held onto it. It gave him strength. “There was nothing you could do. Perhaps… Perhaps it was her time.”

“I refuse to believe that,” she said, fist shaking as she watched the river. Her delicate features twisted in pain. “It was this city’s fault. These people!”

“No,” he answered. “It was Darkeye’s. He starves the people and makes them think only of greed.”

“I suppose, but how could no one see her starving in the corner? How could no one help?” Her voice broke, and she shook her head. “Is this all life is? Just meaningless death and destruction? Those that live and those that die, simple pieces on a board? And those that live… Are we truly the lucky ones?”

Zane felt the fire inside him churn as he thought. Life was simple—that was the way he lived. Living or dying, fighting or running. It was how he thought, but he knew it was not who he was. Long ago, he’d purposefully made the choice to think this way. With too many hard choices, keeping everything simple, when he knew it wasn’t really the case, was the only way. It allowed him to make choices quickly and be strong when others would falter. If he thought in shades of gray, he doubted he would still be alive now, or at least he would be a hollow creature—filled with the misery of all he had seen. But Hannah was different.

He spoke in a whisper. “Do you see the river?”

Hannah looked up, curious, and wiped her tears. “Yes, why?”

“It moves forward. If it sees a rock, it splits, moving around it. It may dry up one day, or flow over another, but it continues. Death does happen, but life continues, Hannah. The river continues and so must we. And as for that little girl? I’m not so certain death has the final say, for where does the river go when it passes around the bend?” he asked quietly.

Hannah sniffled. “You know, you’re kinda good at this.”

Slowly, he grabbed her fist and unfurled it, placing the heart-shaped necklace in her palm then folding her fingers around it. “She wanted you to have it. It was hers. Cherish it, and cherish life, sister—there is still much left to see around the bend.”

Zane returned to the moment, hearing the river babble, just as it had done then.

He tossed the note but pocketed the necklace, focusing his rage. He examined the struggle. He saw blood on her blanket. Fear rose, but he fed it to his torrid anger. “She is alive,” he whispered fiercely, reminding himself of the note. They would not kill their leverage.
Not yet at least
, he prayed.

“For now,” a voice answered.

Zane twisted.

Salamander stood in the arched entry, a smile on his pockmarked face. Long, midnight black hair hung in strands around his features. His grin spread. “Are you ready to die, rat?” In his hands, a ball of fire swirled, growing and eating at the air. Without a second thought, the fire hurled towards his head.