Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (21 page)

They reached the forest’s edge a few days later. Outside the tree line, there seemed to be little more than scrubland. There were no villages, nor any houses, visible in the distance.

“What a desolate place this is,” said Amandila after a time. “No flowers, scarcely a tree, no animals in sight. The only birds I’ve seen are blackbirds and crows.”

“It’s barren here,” said Mugla, “and it just gets worse.”

They started passing isolated villages. They moved quickly and kept their distance away from the homes. The sun was rising when they reached a stony valley with a massive city in its center.

The mountains around the city had been dirtied by mining, and a polluted river, filled with debris snaked through the center of the valley. The surrounding fields weren’t cultivated. The main temple rose dramatically on a hill in the center of the city, clearly visible from afar. The cathedral itself was a massive structure with an enormous dome.

“We’ve arrived. That’s the capital,” said Mugla quietly, pointing into the distance. Stone walls rose up in a solid block.

              “What a foul city,” said Fëanor. “It’s even uglier than the last time I was here. I thought it was impossible for this place to get any uglier, but I was wrong.”

“What’s the name of this place?” asked Amandila.

Mugla shrugged. “Who knows? The high priest gets to name the city, and he changes the name as often as he desires.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Amandila.

“I’m sure it seems logical to them,” Mugla said. “It’s no use traveling at night anymore. From now on, we’ll need to disguise ourselves. All of us must look like slaves and behave like slaves. No one looks twice at them in this city.”

The elves shimmered, and their appearance altered. They looked shorter and scruffier, with scars on their faces. Their clothing turned shabby and faded. Their faces looked more human. They all rubbed dirt on their faces and scraped dirt into their fingernails so they looked like common laborers.

“Should we speak a certain way?” asked Tallin.

“Just use the common language. Don’t worry about trying to hide your manner of speech. The majority of slaves come from the north, but the Balborites steal slaves from everywhere, so you won’t draw attention simply by talking. It’s
what
you say that’s important. And whatever you do, don’t speak to any mageborns! They’re heavily warded and they’ll see through your disguise. Don’t speak directly to the freeborns, either, unless they speak to you first. That’s especially true for the women. A freeborn citizen is allowed to kill a slave for any reason; all they have to do is compensate the owner.”

“What a bunch of savages,” said Amandila.

“You have no idea how right you are,” said Mugla.  “Just be cautious, speak quietly, and keep your eyes down.”

“How are we going to destroy the temple?” Carnesîr asked. “Have any of you actually thought of that?”

Tallin ignored his sarcasm. “Mugla described the temple to me in detail. We’ll have the best chance of success by collapsing the main chamber. The dome is vulnerable. If we can find a way to collapse that, the structure will be rendered unusable.”

“How are we going to do that?” asked the elf. “The temple is made of stone, so it’s impossible to burn.”

“We aren’t going to burn it down,” said Tallin, “but we
are
going to create a fire. A large dome, even one made of stone, is vulnerable to collapse during a fire. The dome is a natural funnel for the fire and heat. If we can get the fire hot enough, the metalwork in the upper part of the dome will fail.”

              “Could the dome collapse on us?” asked Amandila. “I’d rather not get squashed during this mission.”

“I’ll take primary responsibility for starting and maintaining the fire inside,” said Tallin. “I can do it—I just need the rest of you to cover me. Mugla said that their religious services always happen at night, so if we’re going to do this, we have to do it during the day, when the main temple is empty.”

“This is a sensitive operation, but your plan is good… dwarf,” said Fëanor, unusually supportive.

They said nothing more, and slowly, cautiously, they made their way toward the city at the bottom of the valley. They didn’t approach together; instead, they broke into smaller groups. The elves went off, mixing with the crowd, talking briefly to other travelers coming into the city.

There was a short line of people waiting at the gate, including two freeborn citizens, a man and a woman. The freeborns pushed forward to the front of the line, and everyone stepped aside to let them pass.

The front gate was guarded by two armed men, but they scarcely gave Tallin a second glance. The guards were too busy staring at the noblewoman on horseback at front of the line. The woman was freeborn, wearing a bright yellow blouse.

She sat on a magnificent horse and was surrounded by at least a dozen servants. “Good day, Lady Eggert! What brings you to our fine city so early in the morning?”

The noblewoman gave him a thin smile. “I’m going to the slave market. I need a new seamstress. The last one was caught stealing, and unfortunately, I had to get rid of her. It’s a shame, really. She was an excellent worker.”

The woman looked back and noticed Tallin standing behind her. “Don’t touch my horse, slave, or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life,” she warned in a vicious tone.

“Pardon, my lady,” Tallin said through clenched teeth. He stepped back and walked away, resisting the urge to slap the sneer from the woman’s face.

The woman sniffed loudly and glared at him.

The city gates opened and they went through, beginning their perilous walk toward the main temple. Other slaves shuffled by, their eyes clouded by fear and hunger.

They passed a busy street market selling all kinds of fruit and vegetables. The vendors stood inside the stalls, wearing conspicuous yellow shirts, while workers in drab clothing ran the stores. There were plenty of buyers and sellers, but no haggling for prices like a normal marketplace. Buyers simply chose their goods and made their purchases, paying with handfuls of wooden coins.

The main temple came into view, and they walked toward the colossal structure. Nothing prepared Tallin for how massive the cathedral really was. The walls rose up in opulent black marble; they looked like cliffs in a gorge.

Tallin was shaken.
What was I thinking? How are we ever going to destroy this monstrosity?

“By Golka, the temple is enormous,” whispered Tallin. “The cathedral of Parthos is tiny in comparison.”

Mugla nodded. “It’s even bigger than that. That’s only the part ye can see. There’s a network of dungeons underneath, with enough space to hold hundreds of prisoners. The priests send their unruly slaves there for torture. Ye don’t want to get stuck down there, believe me. They’re the worst dungeons I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few.”

Outside the temple, Mugla instructed them to pick up rags and buckets, so it looked like they were there to clean the temple. Amandila found rags, several brooms, and a lantern in a lower alcove.

They walked into the cathedral undisturbed and started to clean. There were dozens of servants already inside, cleaning the labyrinth of prayer rooms, winding hallways, and stairwells.

Tallin found a passageway that led to a huge main chamber. Tallin walked inside and found that it was much like all the rest, except that it was significantly larger than any of the other spaces, with a massive domed ceiling and buttresses trimmed in gold.

The chamber was dark and imposing in its own way. The stained glass was too dense to allow much light through, so the interior was lit with hundreds of red candles. Everything was morbidly decorated. Ornate tapestries hung on the walls, depicting horrific scenes of execution and bloodshed. There wasn’t a happy image anywhere. It was all fire, brimstone, and death.

Tallin observed four tired-looking guards in one corner, playing cards. Several priests of lower rank milled about, bringing in offerings and lighting incense. Tallin looked around him carefully and saw Mugla and the elves positioned strategically at different corners of the room.

It was time for them to strike.

In the blink of an eye, Tallin drew his sword, rushing forward to plunge it into a guard’s chest. The other guard jumped up in shock, scattering cards everywhere on the ground. The guard drew his dagger. Tallin blocked the knife with his sword and swung at the guard with his fist, connecting with the man’s chin. The guard dropped to the ground, and Tallin jumped on him, hitting him until he was unconscious.

The priests screamed and tried to run, but the elves descended on them. The priests were poor fighters, and the elves made short work of them.

“Stop, slaves!” shouted another guard. Mugla silenced him with a well-placed lightning bolt to the chest. The guard crumpled to the floor.

The remaining guard shouted for help. Fëanor formed a ball of energy in the air, which flew forward with great speed and struck the guard, throwing them backwards and down the altar. The elf jumped on top of the man and slammed his head into the stone floor until he was unconscious.

“Start the fire!” yelled Mugla, “We don’t have much time before they sound the alarm!”

Tallin nodded and lit the tapestries on fire.
“Incêndio!”
he cried out. Amandila and Carnesîr ran through the temple, collecting anything that would burn, throwing it into the center of the blaze. Tallin stayed near the fire, right below the dome. His body was shaking; sweat poured down his brow. The heat was so intense it put a gaping crack in the floor.

“Incêndio!”
Tallin cried again, and the fire surged even higher. More guards tried to enter the chamber, but were quickly dispatched by Mugla and the elves. Eventually it was too hot inside for any guards to enter, and only the spellcasters remained.

The dome was filled with smoke. More fuel was added to the blaze, as Fëanor threw a heavy table onto the fire. They piled more and more into the flames, making a mountain of burning wood and paper in the center of the room.

But then… they came.

The Blood Masters. Three mageborn assassins, stripped down to simple loincloths, their warding tattoos gleaming in the firelight. One stepped out from behind a pillar and pointed a gleaming blue knife toward Mugla, whose back was turned.

Kudu oil
, Tallin thought—the blue knives were always laced with poison. If the knife hit Mugla, she would be dead within seconds. “No!” he shouted, too late.

Tallin watched the blade fly through the air in a deadly arc, only to be deflected by Carnesîr’s magical shield, just before it touched Mugla’s neck. The elf saved her.

Fëanor and Amandila engaged the other two assassins in hand-to-hand combat. By then, all of the elves had dropped their glamour and were fighting ferociously using both physical and magical techniques.

One assassin stepped forward and leveled a sword at Tallin’s head. Tallin ducked, evading the attack easily. But with his concentration broken, the fire began to dissipate downwards instead of up toward the dome.

Tallin kicked the assassin in the stomach, and the man rolled backwards expertly, rising back up in an instant. With a malicious grin, the assassin charged again, this time holding a poisoned knife in his hand.

Tallin nimbly sidestepped and then threw off his cloak. He swiped at the assassin’s throat, but missed. He was able to strike the hilt of the assassin’s sword with the flat of his blade. The assassin howled as his sword was wrenched out of his grip.

Enraged, the assassin struck out with his knife, which sliced cleanly through Tallin’s sleeve but didn’t break the skin. The assassin kicked Tallin’s sword-bearing hand. Tallin swore as his sword went clattering to the floor.

The assassin chuckled. “You’ve lost your sword,
mainlander,
but I’ve still got my knife. This blade is like an extension of my hand. I’ve just got to figure out how best to kill you.” He let out a bark of laughter. The assassin’s knife was smeared with so much kudu oil that the blade gleamed blue in the firelight.

I can’t let him touch me with that poisoned blade!
Tallin thought. In a single fluid motion, Tallin reached out and struck the assassin’s face with his scabbard. The assassin stood stunned, his arm reaching up to where he’d been hit. That was all the time Tallin needed to whip his belt around the man’s arm and yank it hard against his other hand that held the dagger.

The assassin’s wrist scraped across the poisoned blade, opening a gash at the vein. A crimson line of blood appeared, and the man’s face went white. 

The assassin screamed, and the poisoned knife clanked to the ground while he grabbed his bleeding wrist. The man screamed again, his black eyes locking on Tallin’s face. The poison shot through his veins faster than snake venom, and he collapsed. His body seized up into uncontrollable spasms, and thick foam began pouring from his mouth. A minute later, the convulsing stopped, and the man lay dead.

The elves were still fighting with the other two assassins, holding them at bay. Tallin turned his attention back to the fire, coaxing the flame back up to the ceiling, where the heat and smoke had become so intense that the metal sconces on the walls were melting. There was a horrible grating sound, and the walls started to crack. Parts of the roof crumbled down upon them.

“It’s working!” cried one of the elves, still fighting the remaining assassins. Eventually, the other attackers fell. But their victory was short-lived. More shadowy figures solidified in the shadows, and they were under attack again. This time, they were outnumbered two to one. Tallin joined the others trying to defend against the growing number of assailants.

“We’re outnumbered,” Mugla panted. “Oh, by the gods…
look!”
Tallin followed her pointing finger.

Dread swept over him. She was there… in the darkness, hiding in the shadows. Skera-Kina stepped into the firelight, holding two gleaming daggers, one in each hand. She addressed Tallin in a growling voice. The assassins had quietly surrounded them, closing off the exit.