Shattering the Ley (54 page)

She licked her lips and worked spit back into her mouth. “Because I recognize that high-pitched whine now. It’s a distortion. Somewhere nearby, a distortion is forming.”

“Close enough to harm us?”

“I don’t know. The ley . . . it’s in turmoil. It’s hard to tell. But close.”

The man considered this. Then his face hardened.

When it did, Kara recognized him.

“Get me out of here,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Kara stepped forward. “I know you,” she said. “You were the one caught in the distortion earlier. But it didn’t affect you, or the girl. You were immune to it. How?”

Fear flickered across the man’s face, replaced a moment later by determination. “Get me out of here. I have to find my daughter. We have to get out of Erenthrall.”

Kara’s hand tightened on the knife she held, the other still raised toward the ley globe. She stared at the man, long and hard, uncertain—

And then she pushed the ley globe closer to the table and knelt, letting it hover above them. It flickered and dimmed as it drew closer, but she ignored it. Her hands fumbled toward the rope that had cut into his wrists as he struggled, slicing through it with the knife. It was easier than she expected, the blade sharp. His hands broke free with a snap and he cried out in triumph, Kara stepping back as he writhed on the table. But he couldn’t move far; the rope around his legs still held him. She moved to cut him free as he flailed, his arms obviously numbed. He gasped as the last of the ropes fell away and she helped him roll onto his back. He lay there twitching, moaning whenever he moved his legs or arms, but Kara could see his coordination returning. She stood, back against one wall, watching him warily.

When he sat up, massaging his thighs with his hands, grimacing in pain, she tensed.

“I think I know where your daughter is,” she offered.

He stilled. “Where?”

“In one of the cells. But the door’s locked.”

He eased off of the table, stumbling toward the interrogator’s tools and retrieving a few before turning toward her. The intensity in his gaze, the raw hatred and focus, made her draw back.

“Show me.”

Allan followed the Wielder through the hall, the ley globe held out in front of her. Shouts came from the direction of the Dogs’ training pit, and he kept his eye on the darkness behind them. When the Wielder halted at a door, someone sobbing on the far side, he shook his head and said, “My daughter first.” He wasn’t certain he believed her, his hope nearly choking him, and he didn’t trust the sounds from the training pit. He didn’t think Hagger would have had time to hurt her yet—he’d been too focused on Allan—but he needed to know for certain. The fear that Morrell was dead, that the Dogs had turned on her—

He sucked in a half-choked breath and calmed himself, his body throbbing with the bruises and lacerations that riddled it. His legs still tingled with the returning blood flow, meaty and heavy, his arms not faring much better. But he could grip the blade he’d taken from the table, even though his fingers were caked with dried blood, and the hammer and second, thinner knife were clutched in his other hand.

They passed a few bodies, mostly Dogs, Allan paying attention only long enough to note that none of them were Hagger. At one of the bodies, the Wielder knelt, then looked up at him. “He was alive when I passed here earlier.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say, and after a moment she moved on with an irritated frown.

Finally, Allan’s attention still fixed on the corridor behind them, she said, “Here.”

He stepped forward, hand against the door. “Morrell? Is that you?”

“Da!”

Allan’s legs grew suddenly weak, his entire body trembling in relief. He leaned his forehead against the wood of the door.

“Da, the Dogs came to the room,” Morrell said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t let them in, but they broke down the door. I couldn’t get away. They grabbed me—my arm still hurts—and then they took me to that warehouse and made me wait, and I tried to warn you, but one of them put his hand over my mouth and I couldn’t breathe—”

“It’s all right,” he said, and his voice shook. “It’s all right, Morrell. I’m not angry with you. We’ll get you out of there in a moment. Hang on.”

He knelt, setting his blade on the debris-strewn ground and bringing up the thin knife and the hammer. He placed the end of the knife into the keyhole, felt it strike metal inside, then used the hammer to pound the blade into the locking mechanism with two sharp blows. Metal snapped and he pulled the blade out and shoved at the door.

It swung open and Morrell spilled out, suddenly clutching at him, her face caked with dust, tears trailing down through the dirt. He hissed at the pain in his back as her arms latched around his chest, but he didn’t care, savoring it as he pulled her in close. His eyes blurred and phlegm clogged his throat and chest as he murmured, “It’s all right, Poppet, it’s all right.”

And then the Wielder barked, “Dog!”

He spun on her, ready to snarl, thinking she was talking about him—

But she wasn’t.

One of the Dogs stood near the edge of the rock fall farther down the corridor. He glared at Allan, his sword raised, a sheet of blood coating one side of his face from a wound near his temple. “You.” He spat to one side. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Allan pried Morrell’s arms from around his chest, picked up the knife he’d set on the floor, stood, and eased his daughter behind him. “I had nothing to do with . . . whatever happened.”

The Dog’s eyes narrowed, shot toward the Wielder and Morrell, then returned. “Get back into your cells. All of you.” He waved his sword, but kept his eyes fixed on Allan.

“No.”

Allan was surprised at the defiance in the Wielder’s voice. The other Dog was as well, shifting uncomfortably, his sword wavering.

“The Baron—”

“I don’t think the Baron’s in control right now,” Allan growled, shifting forward, “if he’s even alive.”

The man started as Allan moved, raising his blade. “Don’t—”

Allan didn’t let him finish. With only a minor twinge from his muscles, he grabbed the hesitant Dog’s forearm and punched him hard in the face. The man’s head rocked back and he crumpled to the floor. Allan took his sword and motioned Morrell and the Wielder forward. “Be careful. He was dazed. If we run into others, they might not be easily distracted.”

“I’m not leaving until we free the others.”

He turned toward the Wielder in disgust. “We don’t even know who they are.”

“The Dogs were collecting Wielders before the blackout. That’s why I’m here. I’m betting that a good portion of those here are Wielders as well.” Her mouth firmed up. “Besides, I control the light.”

Allan huffed with impatience. “Morrell, grab that hammer and knife. Be careful with the blade. It’s sharp.” His daughter scrambled for the implements. “Now let’s move.”

The Wielder insisted on checking the back of the corridor, opening every locked door. They found two dead, managed to bring one Wielder, a man about twenty-five years old, around after finding him unconscious on the floor. One room was filled with stone. They heard another Wielder pounding desperately before they reached the door, her hands bloody and her voice raw from shouting. On the way back out, they released four more, including the one who’d been sobbing.

As a group, a few holding each other up for support, they emerged into what had once been the Dogs’ training pit, the Wielder’s ley globe revealing a room ravaged by the collapse of the ceiling. The entire central pit was covered with chunks of granite, splinters of amber scattered on top.

A group of Dogs turned, weapons raised, as they arrived. “Halt where you are!” one of them shouted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” one of the rescued Wielders snapped. She was older than Allan, than any of the rest, at least fifty. Her gray-streaked hair was disheveled and floated around her head in wisps. “We’re getting the hells out of here, before the entire tower comes down on us.”

They moved toward the tower’s entrance, Allan keeping himself between the group and the Dogs. All five of them gripped their swords tightly, the leader stepping forward, jaw muscles clenching, but he didn’t attack. Those behind him shifted uncertainly, until he motioned them to follow the Wielders at a discreet distance.

They worked their way up the cracked stairs, the Wielder who’d cut him free in the lead with Morrell, Allan at the back, trying to keep his eyes on the Dogs behind and whatever they’d encounter ahead at the same time. The urge to snatch Morrell and vanish, head back to the Hollow, was strong, skating along his skin and prickling the back of his neck, but he didn’t know what had happened yet, and from what he’d seen, he thought there might be safety in numbers.

As they ascended the stairs, the high-pitched whine grew, piercing into Allan’s skull. The others winced as they picked their way over chunks of the stone ceiling. A moment later, they emerged into the open foyer of the Amber Tower, granite giving way to the gold-toned amber that gave the building its name. Cracks ran through the lustrous walls, like the cracks in ice, and splinters and slivers of the amber littered the main floor. One of the curved staircases had collapsed, along with a portion of the ceiling, a gaping hole leading up to the upper floor. Allan caught the Wielder turning Morrell’s head away, shielding her from the bodies strewn around the room. As the group moved across the floor toward the open doorway and the sunlight streaming through it, Allan caught furtive movement in the upper rooms, a figure ducking into shadows. His grip tightened on the handle of his sword, but he followed the Wielders out onto the tower’s landing.

As soon as they stumbled into the sunlight, the Wielders halted. The older woman gasped, raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. A few of the others whispered prayers. One woman’s legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled into a seated position, one arm holding her upright.

“What’s happened?” one of the men murmured. “What—?” He couldn’t finish.

When Allan stepped out of the shade of the tower after them, he saw why.

His heart constricted in his chest and he suddenly felt weak. Morrell snatched his free arm, clutching tight with a muttered, “Da.” But Allan could not tear his eyes away from the destruction before him.

Grass was gone, the towers that had risen into the sky on all sides shattered, sheared off near their bases, a few only a couple of stories high, others a little higher. Boulders that had once been part of those towers covered the street, carriages crushed beneath them, other carriages flung up against the base of the tower. Allan recognized the distinctive leaf pattern of the Flyers’ Tower on one chunk of green stone the size of a house. Dust covered everything, swirling through the street and the remains of the park beyond in the breeze. None of the trees remained, none of the brush or decorative plants, the ground of the park scoured clean. Even the huge urns to either side of the tower’s entrance were empty, the ornamental shrubs gone.

And then Allan noticed a sword on the wide step to one side, one edge of its blade bared and glaring in the later afternoon sunlight. The dust was so thick it had drifted and covered the hilt . . . and the armor to one side. His eyes scanned the steps and found more signs of the Dogs and servants who had stood on this spot when whatever had happened occurred. But there were no bodies, just as there were no trees.

He pulled Morrell closer to him.

“Where is everyone?”

Allan turned toward the leader of the Dogs who’d been following them, raising his sword, but the Dogs stood in loose formation, gazing out over the destruction in shock, none of them paying any attention to Allan or the Wielders.

The Dogs’ leader licked his lips and dropped his gaze toward Allan. “Where is everyone?”

“Dead,” Allan said, then used the point of his sword to nudge the blade he’d seen into view. Dust skirled away as he motioned toward the remains of the armor. “I think they died right here.”

But not all of them, he thought, as he caught more furtive movement in the shadows of the tower behind them.

“What do we do?” the elder Wielder asked. Beside her, the Wielder half her age who had been sobbing before had switched to a low moan, the sound somehow desolate. The older woman searched the Dogs’ faces, then settled on Allan. “What do we do?” she demanded.

Allan didn’t know. He couldn’t think, his mind numb, his body exhausted. He wanted to sink down onto the steps and simply rest, let the wind press against him, let the dust settle over him. He ached from head to toe, his back on fire from the lacerations Hagger had made; he knew he should get them treated. And now this. He couldn’t comprehend it, his mind insisting it must all be a dream, perhaps fever-induced. Perhaps he was still strapped to the table in the cell beneath the Amber Tower, his mind destroyed. Perhaps Hagger had finally broken him.

And then his roaming eye caught sight of the Wielder who had rescued him. She wasn’t staring out over the destruction of Grass, over the crumbled towers and the rubble they’d left behind. She wasn’t even looking beyond, to where he could see the rest of the city in shambles, buildings collapsed, even a few columns of smoke from fires rising against the horizon.