The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (80 page)

He also saw something else. His only hope. He ran as quickly as he could, struggling past a hissing serpent and kicking at another of the reptiles.

There! They stood just as he recalled them. Lengthy golden spears. Uldyssian had barely seized one before another raptor dove down at him. He rewarded the creature for its efforts with a thrust of the spear that skewered the avian in descent. The bird let out a squawk, then died.

Shaking the carcass free, Uldyssian spun around to face the next nearest animal. The cat about to attack suddenly pulled back, spitting. The armored beast behind it did not slow, though. Undaunted by the spear, it tried to trample the human.

But Uldyssian used the spear to help him vault onto the creature. As it raised its head toward him, he plunged the weapon into its unprotected head.

Snorting, the behemoth dropped like a rock. But in doing so, it ripped the spear from Uldyssian’s grip.

He had no choice but to throw himself toward the other, which still hung at an angle where he had left it.

A thick hand grabbed his arm just before the son of Diomedes could reach his goal. A hirsute countenance that was a parody of a man’s filled his view.

The giant primate wrapped his huge limbs around Uldyssian and squeezed. He gasped as the air was crushed out of him.

This is not real!
Uldyssian insisted.
I’m not trapped in the tapestry!

Yet how could he be certain that he was not? Everything around him indicated that he was.

But whether or not that was the case, Uldyssian was positive that his powers should have remained his. There was no conceivable reason they should be of so little use.

He tried to think of something simple but effective. As earlier, fire was the first thing that came to him. Yet the last time, he had failed to create so much as a spark.

What other choice did he have, though? Uldyssian concentrated harder than ever. Fire. He wanted fire….

And suddenly, the nearby jungle burst into flames.

It was not a fire like Uldyssian would have expected. Its flames did not blacken the trees and undergrowth—it burned
holes
in them the way it might fabrics.

The creatures attacking him reacted as animals would by fleeing in panic. However, those caught in the immediate conflagration perished in the same odd manner as the jungle itself. Holes burned into them, and perhaps the most disquieting thing about that was that the animals continued to run until they had no more legs or body. Only then were they truly “dead.”

Although serving to frighten off Uldyssian’s bestial foes, the flames created a new threat. They were rapidly eating away at the surreal jungle, leaving little avenue for him to escape…if escape was at all possible.

Uldyssian did not give up hope, though. Satisfied that his powers were indeed his own once more, he focused on his room. Somehow he was certain that he was still in the room, that this jungle was all illusion. If there was a threat, it lay there, not here. The only threat here was the fire, and that was his creation, his to control.

And as he thought this, the flames held back. At the same time, the tapestry jungle lost substance and receded. Although pleased by his successs, Uldyssian focused harder, certain that he was in danger in the true world.

Without warning, Uldyssian found himself standing at the window, one hand still on the curtain that he had been moving to block the piercing light. He realized that his eyes gazed without blinking directly into that light.

He also knew that he was not alone in the chamber.

Uldyssian threw himself to the side as a shadow coalesced into a man as tall as him and more powerfully built. Of the face, he could make out nothing, for although the figure moved past the illumination, shadow remained over his features.

Then Uldyssian saw the two curved knives, each almost a foot long. They glinted quite well in the light from outside, and their use was obvious. Uldyssian’s mysterious attacker slashed over and over, each blade taking its turn.

Raising a fist, Uldyssian imagined a ball of energy. It materialized, then flew without hesitation at his adversary.

A moment later, it scattered in all directions, becoming a rain of sparkling lights that evaporated without any effect.

His failure received a harsh laugh from the assassin. He thrust down with one knife. Uldyssian, startled by the protections surrounding the other, failed to stop the blade.

The knife’s edge cut through his garment, then drew a horrific red line down his torso. Uldyssian grunted. He managed to stagger out of reach, but when he sought to heal the wound, it resisted.

“Heretic!” rumbled the shadowed figure. “Your demon-spawned magic is nothing to his glorious power!”

Those words were more than enough to tell Uldyssian just who guided this astounding attack. Inarius had planned well.

Uldyssian knew that he could use his abilities to bring down the palace without harming himself, but he could scarcely protect anyone else, including Prince Ehmad. He had no doubt that Inarius had concluded that same thing; the angel had tied his rival’s hands. His assassin was well protected, and the Prophet had already proven to Uldyssian that his power far outshone the mortal’s.

Or did it? As the assassin sought to corner the son of Diomedes, Uldyssian wondered why, then, had Inarius sent this servant rather than return himself? Did he consider Uldyssian so beneath him that he need not bother with the human personally? That seemed doubtful, for what shielded the faceless man surely had to be the angel. Inarius was staying far away from the struggle yet guiding it.

Why? Why not simply crush Uldyssian to a pulp?

Was it…could it be because the angel could not so easily do that?

His back collided with a wall. While he had been considering the possibilities, his well-trained foe had managed finally to steer him to where he wanted him.

The blades came from both directions, each arcing in such a manner as to make it impossible to keep an eye on both. Uldyssian thrust out an arm to block the one he thought more deadly—and the assassin plunged the second into his stomach.

He let out a moan as the knife sank deep. A triumphant chuckle escaped the shadowed man.

“Blessed Prophet!” the figure gloated. “The heretic is dead!”

His attacker spoke true. Uldyssian felt the unmistakable cold spreading through him. He had sorely underestimated the angel.

But despite the bitter certainty of his death, Uldyssian fought back the horrific cold, fought against it…and
won
. It receded from his body into his hands, where it stayed. Life rushed through Uldyssian once more, but he continued to hunch over, letting the assassin think that his target was about to collapse.

The shadowed man leaned close, the knives held ready for what would merely be excessive butchery on his part. With the blow he had struck, there was no reason to attack again. Yet still the assassin looked eager to bury the blades in his victim. He raised them high—

Uldyssian took the coldness of death, Inarius’s gift to him, and, planting both hands against the chest of the startled slayer, sent that eternal chill into his foe.

The assassin let out a garbled cry as his victim’s death instead flowed through him. The knives dropped from his hands, clattering onto the floor. He clutched his torso exactly where he had stabbed Uldyssian.

The son of Diomedes felt the last of the cold leave his fingertips. He pulled away from the shadowed man. Letting one of his hands graze his wound, Uldyssian discovered that it had finally healed.

Weaving, the assassin stumbled against the curtain. He turned toward the light.

“Great Prophet, G-Gamuel has f-failed you! F-forgive me, please!”

It occurred to Uldyssian only then that there might be something about Inarius that he could learn from this special servant. He reached for the one who called himself Gamuel, but at that moment, the same light again caught his eye.

This time, though, it blinded Uldyssian so much that he faltered. His gaze turned from Gamuel and the window.

There was a sudden, harsh wind. The curtain shifted, and the light no longer blinded him. He reached again for the assassin—

No one was there.

Rushing to the window, Uldyssian looked out. His eyes immediately went to the area below his room. However, there was no hint whatsoever that the zealous Gamuel had chosen to finish his fading life by flinging himself to his death. The guards down at the palace steps stood at attention as if nothing had disturbed them for hours.

Uldyssian’s legs wavered. He returned to the bed, where he thoroughly inspected the canopy. As he suspected, it was not in the least burned. There was, in fact, nothing in the room at all to indicate that there had even been an attack, much less that Uldyssian had slain the would-be assassin. Part of the carpet surrounding the bed had been kicked up, and there was the cut in his garment, but neither was sufficient proof of what had just happened.

But though there was not even a scar on his body to attest to events, he knew he had not imagined the struggle. He just could not prove it to the mage clans. He could not prove it even to Prince Ehmad, who might have actually believed his story.

His attention returned to the window. The light that had so harried him earlier was still there, albeit much dimmer. He now knew exactly what it was and where it was located. Uldyssian’s room did face north, after all.

North…the direction to the Cathedral of Light.

The body lay before the Prophet just as it had come to him through his spell. Gamuel had died before he could even utter an apology to his master’s face. Oddly, the mercenary-turned-priest-turned-assassin had not been killed. What he had suffered was actually not only far more complex than that but something that even Inarius could not recall ever seeing in all his centuries.

Gamuel had not suffered his own death…but rather Uldyssian’s.

Impossible as it seemed even to an angel, Uldyssian, who should have died from the wound he had taken, had instead passed that death on to his killer. He had thrust his
dying
into Gamuel, who, unable to do anything else, had been forced to accept it.

Inarius frowned. The reason for his frown had as much to do with the cause of Gamuel’s doom as the servant’s inadequacy. Lilith’s pawn had done the unthinkable. That meant that Inarius would have to alter his entire strategy. The danger he had always believed the nephalem—or edyrem, as these called themselves—to be had come to pass.

THEN…IF I MUST RAZE SANCTUARY TO PUT AN END TO THIS ABOMINATION…SO BE IT.

In an unaccustomed display of anger, the angel waved his hand at the body.

Gamuel’s corpse turned as white as marble, then crumbled to ash that blew away despite there being no wind.

Inarius turned from the spot, his failed assassin already forgotten.

SO BE IT,
he repeated coldly.
SO BE IT.

They would reach the walls of Kehjan come the next day, and yet neither Serenthia nor the other edyrem could sense, much less contact, Uldyssian. Mendeln, who shared a different sort of link with his brother, thought that he could vaguely note Uldyssian’s presence in the city, but that was the extent of it.

He had a theory on that troublesome point, and it focused on the mage clans. They considered the capital their domain, and the closer Mendeln got to it, the more he felt the saturation of magical energies that had built up over generations. There were spells upon spells, and many of them had likely been designed not only to shield the work of the mages from one another but also to keep the prying eyes of the Cathedral and the Triune from learning too much. How successful the spellcasters had been in doing that last was debatable, but they were certainly causing consternation among the edyrem. Many feared that their leader was either captured or dead, and neither he nor Serenthia could prove otherwise.

More and more, it appeared likely that Uldyssian’s army would attack the capital if they reached the gates without learning anything contrary about his fate.

Mendeln did not even want to imagine the bloodshed should that happen. Caught between the edyrem and the mages, the innocents would surely die by the hundreds.

But there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

The nearby villages had again emptied out in advance of their coming. The shells that had once been homes seemed more eerie to Mendeln than a graveyard, for they were supposed to be inhabited with life. This was all wrong….

There were soldiers farther ahead, most of them hiding in preparation for the assault that they thought would come tomorrow. As many as Mendeln sensed there were ahead, they were not nearly enough even to
slow
the edyrem. What magic he could sense among the city’s protectors was minimal.

Serenthia sought to maintain order over the edyrem, but even with the aid of Saron and Jonas, it was becoming more and more difficult. Aware that his own presence would be more detrimental than helpful, Mendeln had finally slipped away from the throngs and entered the nearest village. He knew that he should not have separated from the others, but it was always easier for him to think in solitude. It was not as if he were alone, either, for there were always a few shades trailing him, in this case random deaths from the vicinity of the capital. He had already questioned them and learned nothing of value. They were all simple people who had worked hard just to stay alive for as long as they had.

Undisturbed by the night, Mendeln wandered from one empty house to another. He did little more than peer through the occasional window. It was not that he was interested in the lives the locals had led, but he missed his own past.

That made him smirk at himself. There had been many times in Seram when Mendeln had dreamed of becoming more than a farmer, many times when he had wished to travel to the exotic places on the maps and charts Master Cyrus had often let him peruse.

His boot kicked up something. It rolled a few yards from him. Mildly curious, Mendeln retrieved it. A girl’s doll. It had dark hair and was dyed a deep brown, no doubt so that it would resemble its owner. He thought of his youngest sister, dead these many years from plague. There had been times since Mendeln had learned his skills that he wondered if it was possible to summon her spirit. Each time the notion had occurred to him, though, revulsion had immediately followed. She was dead. His parents were dead. He wished them to remain at peace.

He did not wish them to know what he and Uldyssian had become.

Mendeln put the doll back where he had found it, in the hopes that, should violence somehow be avoided, the child who had lost the toy would someday be reunited with it. However, as he straightened, Mendeln sensed that he was not alone. He glanced among the empty homes…and saw Achilios, notched bow in his hands, stare back at him.

Uldyssian’s brother reacted instinctively. The ivory dagger came out with a swiftness that apparently caught even the undead hunter unaware. Mendeln muttered some of the words Rathma had taught him.

Achilios leapt into the shadows just before a series of toothy missiles struck where he had been standing. Mendeln cursed, then barreled his way into the nearest house. He sent the ghosts flanking him out into the village to locate Achilios’s position.

But as they left, the archer saved him part of that trouble.

“I mean…no…harm…Mendeln,” rasped Achilios from what seemed the other side of the wall against which Uldyssian’s brother leaned. “Come out…and we’ll…talk.”

Inverting the dagger, Mendeln whispered another spell.

Before he could complete it, something shot just past his ear. It struck a wooden beam in another wall with a resounding
thunk.

The arrow had come through a window only a few feet from Mendeln. Uldyssian’s brother dropped to the dirt floor, then moved toward the back of the building. As he did, he began a different spell.

The front wall—including the window through which Achilios had fired—exploded outward.

From beyond the explosion came a growl and a curse. At the same time, Mendeln burst through the back door and out into the nearby jungle. Two ghosts, a young man stricken with pox and an older woman who had perished of a weak heart, needlessly informed him that Achilios had not been brought down by the explosion.

As he caught his breath, Mendeln cursed his own hesitation. There were spells he knew that were far more effective in permanently dealing with something like his former friend. Yet the black-robed figure could not bring himself to speak them. This was
Achilios,
after all, and even though the archer hunted him with the obvious intention of slaying Uldyssian’s brother, Mendeln held out some vague hope of freeing the undead.

A noble thought…and one that was certain to get the younger son of Diomedes killed.

Another ghost, a comely noblewoman who had taken poison rather than continue her arranged marriage to a much older and somewhat violent man, materialized just in time to point out the direction from which Achilios was coming. Mendeln tumbled into the thick underbrush behind the wooden house, and although he did not hear the hunter’s pursuit, he knew that his former friend was not far behind.

Indeed, not a breath later came the familiar gasping voice. “Mendeln…I come to…talk…there is no…no need for this! Let us both step out—”

In response, Mendeln drew a pattern in the air, then directed it toward Achilios’s voice.

“By the…stars!” grated the archer from where he hid. At the same time, there was a rumbling sound, as if a small quake had begun.

Although unable to see the results of his spell, Uldyssian’s brother could imagine them. The ground around the undead Achilios should have risen up, seeking to engulf him and thus return him to the grave. It was a spell that Mendeln himself had created based on something Trag’Oul had shown him. Mendeln was sickened by the notion of doing such a thing to his old friend, but he dared not give Achilios the opportunity to fire a second time.

As the churning of dirt continued, Mendeln ran toward the distant encampment. He did not like taking the chance of drawing Achilios back to Serenthia, but the hunter was less likely to try that attack again…or so he hoped. In truth, Mendeln was at a loss for exactly the best option. He only knew that he had to keep moving.

That point was made particularly well a moment later, as a second bolt cut past his arm. Not only did it sink into the trunk of a nearby tree, but when Mendeln felt his arm, he discovered that the arrow had ripped open the fabric. Another half inch, and the head would have been buried in his arm.

That made him think of Serenthia again and what might happen should Achilios decide that he had to try to slay her once more. That the archer had escaped so readily Mendeln’s last spell spoke of the powerful force behind him.

Against an angel, Mendeln very much doubted his chances, but he decided that he was willing to take the risk rather than put the merchant’s daughter in more danger. Gritting his teeth, the son of Diomedes veered off into the thicker areas of the jungle. The wild might be Achilios’s domain, but the dark was Mendeln’s.

He went several yards farther away from both the village and the encampment, then pressed himself against a wide tree. Clutching the dagger against his breast, he started molding a spell to his specifications. Despite his care for Achilios, Mendeln forced himself to see the hunter as what he was: a walking corpse. There were spells that could animate such; Mendeln had used them against Inarius’s innocent dupes. To stop animating those, he had merely ceased his incantation. For a thing like Achilios, though, Uldyssian’s brother hoped that by actually
reversing
the animation spell, he would send the archer back to the afterdeath.

In theory, it should work. In reality…

He sensed rather than heard Achilios approach. Mendeln was struck by the utter silence with which his friend moved. Even as good as he had been in life, surely then Achilios had made some slight noise, especially the intake of breath.

Mendeln finished assembling his spell. He would have one chance, and one chance only, to use it. It would require him stepping out to face the hunter, but Mendeln was willing to chance that. This had to end. Achilios had twice missed slaying his targets, but it was doubtful that he would keep missing. His master would not permit that.

For Serenthia and Uldyssian—assuming that his brother still lived—to survive, Achilios had to die…again.

I raised you from the ground, and to the ground I will send you again…and may you forgive me for both!

There was something to his right. He noticed only now that none of the ghosts was nearby to help warn him. Achilios’s master wanted no failure this time.

A shadow broke from the darkness.

Mendeln stepped away from the tree, thrusting the downturned dagger toward that shadow. In its pale light, he saw Achilios’s grit-covered face. The archer’s expression was passive…lifeless.

And much to Mendeln’s dismay, Achilios had just finished firing at him.

Mendeln knew he was dead. This close, even a fair archer could not fail to hit him directly in the heart. Despite that, the black-clad figure tried to call out what he could of his spell. It was for his brother’s and Serenthia’s sake, for it was already too late for him.

The bolt cut past his throat, scarring the neck and continuing on. Mendeln faltered in mid-word as he grasped at the stinging but shallow wound.

Behind him, the arrow hit the tree he had just abandoned.

Achilios lowered his bow. “You should be…slain…you know that.”

His declaration caused Mendeln to hesitate. What the hunter said was true. Uldyssian’s insistence that Achilios had meant to miss came back to the younger brother. Mendeln had wanted to believe then, but the near killing of Serenthia, with its more questionable intentions, had made him think twice. And when Achilios had come for
him,
then surely it meant that there would be no third reprieve.

Yet there had been, and Achilios himself was able to point that out.

“I find it hard to believe,” he dared at last reply, “that you would spend so much time not quite slaying your targets.”

This earned him a dry chuckle from the undead figure. “It was by sheer will…and not a little…luck the first time. Even more so…with…with her.” If the blond archer could have shed a tear when speaking of Serenthia, he surely would have now. “And you…you only required three…three shots because you’re…so damned
obstinate,
Mendeln.”

“What do you mean?” It was proving harder and harder for Mendeln to bring himself to start over his dark spell. If not for the raspy voice, the hints of dirt that he could see on the face, and the knowledge that under the collar that covered Achilios’s throat was a gaping hole, the son of Diomedes would have felt as if he and the archer were just having one of the many talks they had had as youths.

“I came…to talk. You made that…very difficult. I finally fired…fired the one shot…to show you that if I wanted…to kill you…I could. You didn’t pay it…any…mind at all.”

“There were circumstances, as you might recall. The last two times you appeared, you tried to put arrows into Uldyssian and her. I remained unconvinced that anything had changed.”

The archer shook his head, unveiling part of his gaping throat wound in the process. “And so…I fired a second…a second time…to prove again…that…I could’ve killed you…or at least wounded…wounded you…if I’d wanted to.”

Mendeln lowered the dagger. “Not yet convincing enough, I would have to say.”

“No…apparently not.” Achilios’s expression suddenly tightened. “You…you tried to…to
bury
me…Mendeln. There was…was a moment then…that I wanted to…kill you.”

The dagger came back up. “And now?”

“It was…it was only…for a moment…and I still…I still wouldn’t have…done it.”

There was something so believable in his voice that Mendeln finally put away the dagger. “Did you escape? Is that why you are back now?”

“No…I didn’t…escape. He…he changed his…mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was…I was to kill you all…especially Uldyssian and…and Serenthia…because of what…what you were becoming.”