Neversfall (29 page)

Adeenya’s blade sliced into the archer with all her anger, strength and weight, burying itself into his hipbone. The Chondathan man screamed for only a moment before Adeenya whirled about, sinking the blade into the top of his skull. She yanked the weapon free with a splash of sanguine fluid. The orir ran along the wall toward the corner, seeking her next target.

The bowman’s scream had brought a temporary quiet to the courtyard, which she took advantage of, yelling to her comrades. “Do not leave the crowd! Hold your places! Let the crowd be your shield. Archers are on the walls! They will shoot down any who run!”

Though they could not see her in the dark, the rebels in the courtyard knew her voice and accepted the truth of her words. No more evidence than their fallen fellow and the arrows protruding from his corpse was needed. The Durpari cheered to hear her voice and tightened their formation, batting away anyone who attempted to get too close. The Maquar seemed to take heart as well, sending up cheers of their own. The tense, celebratory sounds were short-lived, cut off by a Durpari soldier’s shout of pain as he slumped to the ground, his blood dripping from the blades of one of the Chondathans.

“No!” Jhoqo shouted in vain. The jumble of people in the courtyard roiled out of control into a chorus of steel on steel as every man and woman fought for their lives.

Adeenya’s steps froze for a moment when the fighting began, but she quickly recovered and hurried along the

outer wall. The bulk of the Maquar and Durpari forces were squaring off against the Chondathans and a few of their former comrades in the courtyard. Other Maquar and Durpari stood doing nothing, not sure which side to choose.

Already at least four dead lay on the ground, never to rise again. Crossbow bolts winged their way into the battle from unseen sources in the dark. If as many crossbowmen lay in wait along the northern and western wall as there had been on the eastern, the soldiers in the courtyard would not last long. For the sake of her comrades, Adeenya pressed on.

Jhoqo waded into the clashing soldiers, launching the pommel of his sword into the head of a nearby rebel Maquar. The soldier fell in a slump as consciousness fled him.

“Please!” he shouted. “Stop this now. We can still recover,” he said.

The Maquar commander swung again, stealing the breath from another confrontational Maquar when the pommel of his blade connected with the man’s gut.

Adeenya ran the entire length of the northern wall without finding any crossbowmen, but her luck did not hold as she turned onto the the western wall. In the darkness she could barely see him, but her eye caught a deadly shaft soaring into the back of a soldier in the courtyard.

Adeenya launched herself into the man who was already standing and ready for her. Their swords met, and both fighters gave way, steel grating on steel. Her opponent was Chondathan, an older man with wrinkles and scars covering his face and neck. She drove the falchion toward his chest with a blow he easily parried. She prepared herself for a counterattack that never came. The Chondathan paced side to side, awaiting her next strike. She feinted right at waist level before whipping her blade around high from his

left. Again, the man deflected the blow and resumed his defensive posture. She lunged again, leading with her blade and attempted a punch with her off hand, leaving herself exposed for an attack.

Her foe made no move for her exposed belly, and she knew she had been fooled. She figured out his ploy a heartbeat too late as four Chondathans ran toward them from the south, grim-faced, with weapons drawn. Her lack of stealth on the northern wall had cost her, but she had no regrets. Her people in the courtyard needed her, and for them she had to do what she could, as long as she could. At least the Chondathans coming toward her were not firing into the crowd any longer.

Below, the resistance was not faring well. Three more had dropped to Chondathan blades while only two of the northerners had fallen.

Adeenya’s opponent smiled as his comrades came closer. He still refused to attack her. She glanced between the on-rushers and the gate and back again. The choice was easy. Striking out with a feint, Adeenya withdrew her attack. She turned to run back to the northwest corner of the citadel, to the stairs. Her opponent shouted to his approaching fellows to give chase, and he did the same.

Adeenya reached the stairs and vaulted down them in five leaping steps. She sprinted across the courtyard toward the fray, bearing Jhoqo’s sword poised to strike. She charged for the Maquar urir, whose back was facing her.

The guilt of running through an unprepared man from behind tried to tangle her legs, to squeeze her lungs, but failed. She pushed past her emotions and charged ahead. If Jhoqo were dead, the insanity before her would end, the Chondathans would crumble without their wrangler. Pity struck her next—pity for Taennen for the father he was

about to lose, and even pity for Jhoqo, who was only doing what he thought right. She batted aside the feelings and focused on her strike. Six steps away, Adeenya gripped the hilt of the falchion with both hands and steadied the blade before her, aiming for the small of Jhoqo’s back.

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The dank tunnel air was thick, like water in his lungs, as Taennen ran. His feet threatened to slip with every step. The many wounds on Taennen’s body throbbed and ached, but his hands hurt the most. Those hands had taken the life of a fellow officer, even if that officer were from another nation and a traitor besides. He knew Bascou was a criminal, but what did it mean that he had orders from higher up? Were his actions still a crime, if those in charge had ordered him to do so? Taennen had killed a man who followed orders, just as he himself always had.

His hands ached with each thought, but the pleasure, the thrill he took in ending Bascou’s life made him want to howl in distress. He had wanted to do it, had enjoyed it. What concerned him was the thrill he got from it. He had seen bloodlust in the eyes of foes before but never thought he would feel it himself.

But in the end Bascou had needed to die. Taennen found comfort in that thought and found himself comfortable with it. There was nothing evil in understanding that an enemy was too dangerous to live. For the greater good of all southerners, Bascou’s part in this scheme had needed to end. The shiver of freedom he felt from it, the itch of happiness—that bothered him. That was not fine and well. Maybe it never would be.

As the thrill settled, he hoped he never would feel such

bloodlust again. The scraping of boots on stone drew closer and he decided he would have to reconcile those feelings later, if he survived.

He had turned left at two different intersections of the tunnels and hoped he was headed south again. There had to be an alternate route back to the spot where he had entered the passages. The dark walls rushed by as he ran, his ears marking the distance better than his eyes in the darkness. He might have smashed face-first into a wall at any moment, but still he moved as fast as his legs would carry him. Taennen felt more than saw the tunnel curve left ahead and changed course without falling.

Not more than thirty strides after the turn, the light from a magical torch glowed dimly at the next intersection. The direction the light came from was indistinct, keeping its origin a secret amid the dark rock. Taennen went right, his left foot pushing off the opposite wall as he made the sharp turn. The darkness soon swallowed him up, evidence that the light had been to the left. The hunters still behind him, he continued south with no time to lament his choice. His only hope was that the tunnel would let out somewhere outside the citadel.

Though his stride was longer than the dwarves’, Taennen’s lungs and legs were burning with effort, and he slipped occasionally. His pursuers were accustomed to the tunnel, and the dwarves could see where they were going in the dark. The ground sloped up suddenly before him, promising entry to the surface world. Taennen scrambled the slanted wall of stone, his hands finding purchase at its top. He nearly sang out in joy as his fingers felt the the cool grass of the world above. Taennen pulled himself from the hole in the ground, emerging in the woods.

Trickles of light from Lucha filtered down through the

dense canopy, but compared to the tunnels, Taennen felt as though he stood next to a campfire merrily lighting the whole woods. The muscles in his legs felt refreshed as his jog became a sprint in the open, more familiar terrain. Though he dodged trees and the grasping tendrils of plants with every step, Taennen raced through the Aerilpar, confident he could outpace his pursuers. His mind turned to his next task, returning to Neversfall.

Jhoqo needed to be warned—or did he? The thought troubled Taennen. Bascou had made it clear that others above him had ordered the illegal operation. Jhoqo had kept many things from Taennen in their time at Neversfall: the magic of the tower and Khatib’s part in the plan, the location of Adeenya’s holding cell, the call for the Chondathans, and who knew what else. Taennen’s mind drifted to Jhoqo’s speeches about free trade and loyalty to the Southern ways. Jhoqo’s ideals were furthered by all of this. But killing his own men? Taennen wanted to deny it, to bury the thought and never see it again. But it stayed in his mind, outshining any other thoughts.

Jhoqo was involved. There was little room for doubt. Those thoughts were obliterated as screams of terror from behind him drifted to his ears on the night wind.

Taennen stood on the edge of a patch of Lucha’s pale light as it caressed the forest floor. He remained still, listening for the direction of the wailing in the dark. The monsters of Veldorn, maybe? He could not waste time wondering. Neversfall would not be far, and he needed to get back there.

To find what? he wondered. Adeenya would still be imprisoned. Jhoqo would still treat Taennen like a child, hiding away secrets he thought his son couldn’t handle. Bascou would not be there, at least. The thought gave

Taennen pause, and he quickly wiped away the tiny smile that came unbidden to his lips.

The wailing had stopped, but the rustling of underbrush could be heard. Aerilpar came alive with sound at night, hunters stalking their prey, foragers gathering their stores, and close by, something killing something else whose screams caused gooseflesh to rise. The coppery smell of blood was detectable in the air. It was not an unfamiliar smell and not always an unwelcome one.

Taennen ducked under a low branch and peered around the trunk of a massive, ancient tree. Twenty strides ahead, a clearing on the forest floor was a jumbled mess of sticks, leaves, and blood. Even in Lucha’s pale light, the vivid red stood out against the green background of leaves and grasses. A night bird flapped its wings and departed from a nearby tree, but Taennen did not move, did not make a sound. Something or someone—likely several someones judging from the amount of blood—had died in that place not more than a few heartbeats earlier, yet there was no sign of anyone.

Taennen skirted the clearing, sticking to the dense foliage where Lucha could not wrap him in so tight an embrace. The scene showed no trace of the victim or perpetrator of the incident, as though the forest had dined, and chewed before swallowing, leaving its slop everywhere. A black patch, no larger than a fist, marked a spot on the ground toward the center of the clearing showing that a torch had been dropped. Taennen slipped into the open area and knelt to examine the scorched dirt. He leaped to his feet as a familiar voice warbled into the night.

“They are no longer a threat,” Guk said, emerging from the darkness. Lucha’s light shone on his carapace causing it to gleam unlike the torchlight ever had, shining points instead of waves.

Weapon in hand, Taennen asked, “Who?”

“Those who chased you,” the formian replied.

“You killed them? How many were there?”

“Four dead, two escaped, one lives,” Guk said, his mandibles chattering.

“Why?” Taennen asked, returning his khopesh to his hip.

“You would be dead otherwise.” “But why save me?”

“For your help,” Guk said. “This is how you do things, we have seen.”

Taennen spoke, already guessing the forthcoming response, “I helped you, so you helped me. That was your payment. We were even.”

“Yes, we were,” Guk said. “Now we are not.”

Guk stood unmoving, awaiting Taennen’s response, statuesque as was his custom. The thought of further obligation to the formians caused a roiling ripple to pass through Taennen’s stomach. Before Taennen could speak, the other formians slinked out of the dark woods, one of the larger ones was carrying the unconscious victim of their attack. Guk motioned to the prisoner, and Taennen held his tongue, stepping over to inspect the man. His face was bloodied, but he was alive.

“I have to get back to the citadel,” Taennen said, stepping around Guk as he turned north. “I can’t deal with him right now.”

“He will give you answers,” Guk said. “He will tell you how to save your people in the stone building.”

Taennen took four steps and stopped. The Chondathans in the caverns would have notified their compatriots in the citadel that Taennen had discovered their plans. Walking into Neversfall would bring his death or imprisonment. The

enemy held all the advantages. They occupied Neversfall, they had superior numbers, and, Taennen admitted again, it seemed as though they had Jhoqo on their side.

Taennen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Feelings about his father’s betrayal from many years prior bubbled up inside him, but he did his best to put them aside.

A groan stirred Taennen from his thoughts. The Chondathan man wriggled in the arms of the formian, who set him on the ground. Taennen approached the man and knelt. The injured soldier lifted his head and blinked before bringing his hand to his eyes to wipe away the drying blood there. He groaned again and hissed as sweat from his hand found its way into the open wounds. He squinted, his focus finding Taennen, but said nothing.

“Rhalov. That’s your name, isn’t it?” Taennen said, bending low to look the man in the eyes.

The Chondathan nodded. Gashes lined his left cheek and he bled from several wounds on his back and legs. He was a sturdy man, but the many cuts and scratches had taken their toll and he was weak.