Chain of Shadows (Blood Skies, Book 6) Page 18

  As it should be.

  “She’s unique,” Cross said.

  “Damn straight she is. She’s my daughter.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” Cross said. “She’s proved that she’s powerful. Hell, she saved me and Dani, and she practically stopped the Maloj from coming through all by herself…and she’s eleven!” They heard footsteps in the hall, growing loud and then fading. Cross lowered his voice. “Flint, for all I know, she’s why we were brought here in the first place.”

  Flint looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Wait…to this city?”

  “To this city, to Nezzek’duul…hell, Flint, I don’t know. I could be totally off my rocker here, but I don’t want to leave anything to chance. We’re in a strange environment, thousands of miles from home, with no clue what’s going on. I’ve got Dani out there in the desert, wolf sorcerers on the loose, and a pair of magic swords with an agenda they won’t share. There’s very, very little I have control over right now, but keeping Shiv safe is something you and I can try to do.” He breathed deep, and tried to steady himself. He sat down on the bed. Get a hold of yourself. Just calm down. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” Flint said. He sat down on the small chair in the corner, opposite the bed. “I hadn’t realized how overwhelming this all was for you.”

  “You were in the service,” Cross said. “I’m sure you saw your fair share of shit.”

  “I did,” Flint said. “I was in Bosnia. Sarajevo.” His eyes glossed over, locked on some distant memory. “A lot of lives wasted. Hell on earth, really. God, that was a long time ago…” He snapped to. “Nothing like now.” He looked at Cross. “And I was fresh meat when I went over there. I just followed orders. Hard as it was, I was never the man in charge. I don’t know how you do it, Eric.”

  Cross laughed bitterly. “Me, neither. “

  Flint nodded. “I’ll keep her safe,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Cross stood up and put out his hand. Flint smiled, stood and shook it. “Thank you,” Cross said. “You and Shiv saved me. In more ways than one.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and they both jumped. It had come sudden, with no warning of footsteps in the hall.

  “You’re popular tonight,” Flint said. “Would that be Reza?”

  Cross looked at his watch. “No, it shouldn’t be. I’m meeting her downstairs.” He checked the HK, and slid it behind his back. He motioned Flint to move around the corner; Flint had his SIG Sauer drawn, and he positioned himself just out of sight.

  Hakim stood outside. The Magister of Raijin was a remarkably tall man, easily towering five or six inches over Cross’s six-foot-one. His dark skin was patterned with runes, his thick black hair was cropped short, and his eyes and teeth gleamed brightly in the dim light.

  In spite of his stature and commanding voice Hakim was soft-spoken and came across as very kind, much like Jaffe. Geniality and a gentle social nature seemed to be the norm for the people of Nezzek’duul, and in spite of his suspicions Cross thought the Southern Claw could take lessons from these people of the southern lands.

  “Eric,” Hakim smiled. Cross had insisted Hakim call him by his first name, since that seemed to be the custom. He bowed his head slightly. Hakim’s deep crimson robes were set with black and purple embroidery detailing ravens and crescent moons. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” Cross said. “Flint, it’s all good.”

  Flint stepped out. Like Cross he’d had the good sense to conceal his weapon.

  “Evening,” Flint said.

  “Good evening,” Hakim said. “Is all well?” he asked. “Are your quarters adequate?”

  “We couldn’t ask for more,” Cross said. It felt strange to be speaking so formally – not the words but the cadence, the tone. Unlike Jaffe, Hakim actually spoke the language of the Southern Claw, though Cross wasn’t entirely sure how that was possible. His accent was nearly flawless, with just a slight hint of the exotic and almost musical Nezzek’duulian accent Ankharra had started to let slip ever since they’d arrived.

  “Good,” he said. “Then I’m afraid I must make a request of you.”

  Cross hesitated. He’d had a feeling something like this was coming.

  “What sort of request?” he asked.

  “We must ask you not to go looking for your friends.”

  Cross stiffened, but tried not to show his surprise. He looked at Flint, who unfolded his arms and took on something of a defensive stance.

  “How did you know?” Cross asked. “And how can you ask me not to go?”

  “The how…is not important,” Hakim said. His evasion only confirmed what Cross had already suspected: their hosts were spying on the exiles, though he wasn’t sure how. “And the why should be clear,” Hakim continued. “It is very dangerous in the desert, especially at night. You yourself know this.”

  “Which is exactly why we need to go find my people,” Cross said. He hoped his tone didn’t betray his anger. “Two of my dear friends are out there, along with a man I respect very much. I’m not leaving them hanging out to dry.”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow it,” Hakim insisted. “Please. You don’t understand…”

  “You’re right,” Flint said gruffly. “We don’t understand.”

  Cross watched Hakim’s face. He was a hard man to read. Despite his pleasant tone and words his face was utterly without emotion, a dark and rune-covered mask.

  “Maybe you could explain it to us,” Cross said. “We’re your guests, but please understand that keeping my people safe is my biggest concern. And it’s going to be very difficult for me to accept the idea that I’m supposed to sit by and do nothing.”

  “And we would not ask you to, if it were not of the utmost importance that you remain in the city,” Hakim said. “Please. It is an ill omen to enter the desert on this night.”

  “What’s so special about this night?” Cross asked.

  “It is a holy festival,” Hakim answered. “It is the day when The Masters were brought to us, when they were cast out of the burning heavens and shielded Nezzek’duul from the horrors of the wastelands. This day is called The Fading, for it is when the walls of heaven faded away and its messengers came down to protect us.”

  Cross looked at Flint. They were both at a loss. “Okay,” Cross said.

  “It is sacrilege to leave the city at this time,” Hakim said plainly. “We cannot allow you to leave. Not tonight.”

  “But they’re already out there,” Cross said. “And they should have been back by now. If it’s sacrilege to be outside…”

  “Not to be outside,” Hakim interrupted. “To leave. And I cannot allow it. I am sorry.” He bowed again, and without another word opened the door and stepped back into the hall.

  “Hakim,” Cross called out. “What about tomorrow?”

  Hakim stiffened and hesitated but didn’t turn around. “Tomorrow is also a holy day. Deliverance – the day we celebrate the beginning of our new era.”

  “I can’t leave my people out there,” Cross said. “You have to understand that.”

  Hakim turned. “I do. I will speak with The Masters. Perhaps they can make an exception.” He set off down the hall.

  Cross closed the door. “Shit.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Flint asked.

  Cross tapped his fingers against the wall.

  How the hell did they know?

  “Could you do me a favor?” he asked. “Do you know where Reza’s room is?”

  “Yeah, it’s just down the hall from ours,” Flint said.

  “Go tell her we’re delaying our little trip,” Cross said. “At least for now.”

  Flint looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t.

  How did they know?

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Cross said. “I need to find Ankharra.”

  Ankharra’s room was located just down the hall, so after Flint had gone Cross went and knocked on the witch’s door
.

  She wasn’t expecting him, which was clear from the fact that she answered the door in a bathrobe. The first thing he noticed was that her smooth legs had just as many tattoos as her arms, spirals of serpentine scroll-work and elaborate arcane script. Even with her normally tightly-pulled hair disheveled and down around her shoulders she was still stunning, a naturally exotic and beautiful woman he imagined other women envied, even though she seldom seemed to even notice the attention men gave her.

  “Cross,” she said. “Why are you in uniform?”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Ankharra invited him in while she tied up her robe and offered him a drink. Cross stopped right near the kitchen area – their rooms were effectively identical – and turned to face her.

  “Listen,” he said, “something strange is going on here.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I wanted to go look for the others,” he said. “Hakim said no.”

  Ankharra watched him for a moment, considering. “Did he say why?” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “He said it’s a holy night. Celebrating the arrival of The Masters. And tomorrow’s no good, either. Another holy day.”

  “This is what he said when you asked him?”

  “That’s the thing…I didn’t ask. He just showed up at my room and told me not to go through with it.” He waited a moment for that to sink in. “Only Reza and I knew, but he showed up out of the blue to put a stop to our plans before we’d even done anything.”

  “That must mean…”

  “They’re spying on us somehow.”

  Ankharra considered. “Is that so unusual?” she said. “I mean, think about it, Cross…they’re not exactly used to visitors.”

  Cross couldn’t argue with that. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “And I sure as hell don’t intend to just leave Dani and Ronan out there.”

  “I understand,” Ankharra said. “But we have to be cautious here. Like you said, we’re not entirely sure of what we’re dealing with, and I don’t think it would be wise to anger our hosts, especially when they have us at such a disadvantage.”

  “I can’t just do nothing,” he said.

  “You might have to,” Ankharra said.

  He paced back and forth. He didn’t want to let his emotions get the best of him, but he damned well didn’t want to hang his friends out to dry. His earlier misgivings about Ankharra still weighed in the back of his mind, as well, but he’d convinced himself he could trust her.

  “Cross,” she said. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

  He hesitated. “I can’t do that,” he said. “And I think you know why. I’m sorry.”

  Ankharra smiled. “You really love her, don’t you?”

  That took him off guard. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious,” he said. “But yeah, I do. And even if I didn’t, she’s still one of my own. I’ve lost too many of them, Ankharra. I don’t want to lose any more.”

  Ankharra watched him carefully. She seemed to be concentrating.

  He felt her spirit in the air around him, intangible lines of ethereal force subtly shifting across his skin. Ankharra’s eyes grew wide. He saw her draw a deep breath.

  When she spoke again her words were slow and measured. “You should probably try not to think about it so much,” she said. “And yes, it is obvious. You don’t have to be a mind reader to be able to determine that.”

  “Can you talk to Hakim?” he asked her. “Or maybe the Masters? Hakim said he’d speak to them about maybe going tomorrow, but I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

  “What if I ordered you to?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure it would matter,” Cross said matter-of-factly. “I know this trip was under military supervision and that you’re in charge now…but the playing field has changed. I have to watch out for my team.”

  “And I have to watch out for everyone else,” Ankharra said sternly. “You do realize that if you do something rash you might be jeopardizing the rest of the people from the ship, right?”

  Cross nodded. “I do,” he said. “And that’s why I came to you first. I…”

  “…think you’ve said enough, don’t you?” she said, in a tone that made clear she didn’t want him to say anything else. “I appreciate your visit, Eric. But like I said…you shouldn’t think about this so much.” She looked up, as if something was hovering over them, and then she glanced at the hilt of Soulrazor/Avenger where it was strapped to Cross’s back. Her eyes lingered on it for a moment before she stood up, walked past him and opened the door for him to leave. “Have a good….productive night, Eric.” She gave him a nod, and closed the door behind him as he left.

  Cross stood in the hall for a moment, confused.

  What the hell was that?

  He slowly returned to his room, trying to determine how exactly their hosts were watching them. It wasn’t through magic: Cross had been a warlock long enough to recognize when he was being scried, and he hadn’t sensed any trace of the subtle fluctuations caused by probing spirits or thaumaturgy. Granted, there in Nezzek’duul they could have been using some different methods, something that didn’t make use of magic at all, but for some reason he doubted that. This was something else.

  Maybe you shouldn’t think too hard about it. Ankharra had said that at least twice. Have a productive night. She’d looked at his blade. You don’t have to be a mind reader…

  “Shit,” he said aloud. He ducked back into his room – Flint hadn’t come back yet – and closed the door. Acting on a hunch, he drew Soulrazor/Avenger and held the pommel tight.

  He didn’t sense anything different, not at first, but after a moment he felt it – a slight buzzing in the back of his mind vanished. He hadn’t even noticed it before, but its absence was notable, and he couldn’t fathom now how he hadn’t heard it, a dull and constant hum that had been undetectable in the background noise.

  They’re reading our minds.

  It seemed that his blade shielded him from the effect. He wasn’t sure how they did it – maybe the Nezzek’duulians were telepathic, or perhaps they’d found some way to modify their technology so the hex patterns and arcane fluctuations were untraceable. Either way, Cross kept his blade in hand, and wondered what he should do next.

  Ankharra did have a point: it wasn’t at all unreasonable that their hosts would want to keep an eye on them. If Cross understood correctly, they were the first people from the Southern Claw – maybe the first outsiders, period – to have ever successfully made it to Nezzek’duul. Why that was the case was still unclear, but judging from the warm reception they’d received the Masters of the city and their emissaries seemed pleased to have received visitors…or were they?

  Hakim’s rapid response to Cross’s desire to leave had left him unsettled, and the excuses about the holy night and holy day to follow just rang false.

  Cross had the acute sense they were being coerced into staying, but why? A chill of fear ran down his spine. He wanted to trust these people, but he couldn’t. Too much was at stake.

  He steeled himself. He knew what he had to do. As usual, he didn’t seem to have any other choice.

  Cross waited until full night. Flint returned a while later, but Cross told him he was going to wait it out until morning, when he’d see if Hakim could help them. Flint wasn’t happy with that at all, and said so, but he didn’t press the issue, and after a short time he returned to his and Shiv’s quarters to try and get some rest.

  Before Cross left he tested to see if Soulrazor/Avenger would protect him even if he didn’t grip the hilt, and he was relieved to find the buzzing presence in his head was still absent – now that he’d “activated” the protection it seemed to maintain itself, though he had no idea why.

  I swear, this Goddamn sword needs a manual.

  Cross threw his dark cloak on over his tattered uniform, checked his weapons, and left just before midnight. The halls were dark and quiet as he slip
ped into the maze of corridors, his boots stamping softly on the stone floors. Candles set in high recesses provided scant light. He moved by touch, and swore he could hear the furious pounding of his own heart.

  He knew the elevators were manned at all times, but in their exploration of the residence floors he and the others had come across a number of stairwells, and Cross quickly made his way to the nearest one. The door swung open and he descended the narrow steps in near darkness, with just an occasional window offering scant light from the industrial fires outside. Odd dirigibles like bladed eggplants with wings cruised through the air, their hooded spotlights flashing across the network of Raijin’s towers and city streets. It occurred to him that acquiring one of those vehicles might prove useful, if only he could figure out how to fly one, but for now he was content to take a more practical approach and just try to steal a horse or a camel to get him across the wastes.

  Cross moved down the stairs, quiet and afraid, circling the tower’s core as he made his descent. The harsh wind battered the windows. He glimpsed outside and saw distant dust storms and flat stars. The air rang with the sound of metal on metal, a low and threatening percussion beyond the tower walls.

  He made it to the ground floor without any issues, save that his chest was tight with exhaustion and his body was bathed in sweat. Cross peered out into an open courtyard filled with carved fountains covered in frescoes of moons and stars. Everything had been cast from dark stone and steel that had faded beneath the rays of the merciless sun. The doorways leading off the courtyard were angular and steeply curved and the staircases were rounded and opulent.

  Nothing moved. The silence was interrupted only by gusts of hard wind blasting in from out of the desert. Cross saw out to the wide steps leading down to the plaza, which was lit by twin pillars of furnace-driven flames that never stopped burning, even during the day. If his recollection of the city’s geography was accurate he needed to go east, towards the rear of the ziggurat – the temple of the Masters – and from there it would be a simple matter of reaching the city gates. Raijin was a labyrinth of alleys and shadowed roads, but so long as he stayed out of sight he thought he’d be fine.