"Report!" the prince ordered as they rode up to the steps of the prison.
A dozen archers stood atop the walls with bows at the ready, facing the inner complex. Forty members of the town watch stood in small groups outside the prison’s entrance, carrying steel maces and wooden shields.
The keeper, a tall, bulky man of military bearing, snapped into a salute, fists together in front of his chest as he bowed in respect. His chipped but oiled weaponry and chainmail armor spoke of his experience on the battlefield.
I only hope the years behind a desk haven’t left you soft, Kaltor thought.
"Prince Tyran!" the keeper replied. "We have locked each prisoner in his cell, posted archers on every wall, and barricaded every doorway leading out of the main cell blocks."
They dismounted, leaving their horses tied to posts outside the prison. Its architecture suggested that it was once a small castle for a lower nobleman, with a few adjustments added over the years to better suit its newfound function.
"Are the prisoners in revolt?" the prince asked, hurrying through the prison’s thick oak doors. Kaltor let a few guards pass him as he glanced at the city streets, newly lit in the rising sun. That’s odd— there aren’t many people out today. It’s still early, but half the shops aren’t even open.
His Varadour senses couldn’t detect anyone using that power, and through the windows no Sight Seeker eyes glowed. Perhaps they’re all still asleep? The Keeper continued his report, forcing Kaltor to leave his worries, along with the sun’s warmth, and enter the dark, torch-lit fortress.
"I, too, thought Prince Melshek was not himself," the keeper admitted, leading them down the hallway to his left. A small, wiry messenger boy followed them, awaiting orders. "But I doubt we’ll be seeing any revolts today."
"Why is that?" the prince asked.
"All the convicts are sick, Your Majesty," the keeper said. "Every last one is still lying in bed, curled up under their blankets and asking for a healer. I was about to have one of the blockades removed and send one in, with your permission."
"May we see?" Kaltor asked. "I fought Melshek earlier—" He paused for a moment, debating how much to tell them. How much would they believe? All eyes turned to him, expectant and impatient.
"It could be a ruse to trick you into lowering your defenses," he said at last. The guards and even Selene nodded their agreement at the caution, but the keeper snorted in derision.
"These are thieves, murderers, and pick-pockets," he said. "Not a trained syndicate of criminals. They could never work together. Every escape attempt has failed because they’ve turned on each other when things got tough."
Turning right, the keeper pushed open another thick pair of wooden doors, walking behind his desk and pulling out a stack of papers. Coals glowed warmly in the fireplace. The messenger boy stood next to the open door, waiting.
Hurrying to the window, Kaltor took in the scene. Each prisoner was indeed hidden beneath a blanket in a locked cell. They could be hiding their transformation, he decided. The guards might lower the barricade to an epidemic, but not to black-blooded, berserking mad-men. Melshek is getting smarter, keeping his minions under control.
The prince walked to the keeper’s desk and started flipping through the various reports. He bit his lip and looked Kaltor’s way. He tapped a finger against the papers, looking through the window at the prisoners. "Order a healer down over the wall," he ordered. "Send two guards with him, in case the prisoner he examines gets violent."
"It’s no trouble to lower a barricade, sir," the keeper said, his tone irritated as if struck by a small child he was not allowed to discipline. "The prisoners are contained in their cells," He sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. "We can examine them one at a time without danger to anyone else."
"Melshek single-handedly destroyed his excavation site," the prince said, knocking the keeper’s feet off the table. He leaned forward, punching the wood emphatically. "Three quarters of the population died overnight! I am not giving this man even the slightest chance to do the same thing in my city! Send a doctor over the side and be ready to have him pulled up in a hurry."
The keeper almost fell out of his chair as he scrambled from his desk. "Do it!" he barked, sending the messenger boy scampering around the corner and down the hallway. As his footsteps echoed ominously in the distance, Kaltor turned to examine the cells and courtyard.
What’s his plan? he thought desperately. What was he doing yesterday? The scene at the vault was too violent for this to be his next step. What’s really going on?
With a groan of frustration he turned to Selene. "If you wanted to destroy a city from the inside," he began, then paused and started over. "If you wanted to throw the city into chaos, how would you do it?"
She glanced out the window. A few of the guards next to her followed her gaze, considering his point, but the rest waved his worries aside with inconsequential gestures. "A city in chaos is one without leadership," she said, stroking her chin worriedly. In the distance Kaltor felt a large number of Varadours drawing on their power, more than the citizens would use for simple morning chores.
"If you can wipe out the town watch and the military leaders quickly," one guard said, "the city falls into chaos, especially if they are about to be invaded," The Varadours among them grunted to each other, pointing southward toward the disturbance. The town watchmen, Kaltor realized. Most will be Varadours.
"Like, if most of the city leaders and half the town watch were wrapped around a prison built to keep people in, not out," the prince finished, drawing his sword and sprinting toward the door.
As if on cue, a horn sounded outside the prison, and to Kaltor’s enhanced senses came the chaotic rumble of an oncoming riot, like a large beast thundering ever closer. Above them along the walls the archers let fly a volley of arrows, hissing like a dozen angry wasps.
What in the Abyss has he done?! Kaltor thought, glancing toward the convicts before following the others out the door. The criminals stayed where they lay, feigning illness.
They reached the end of the hallway just as the mob tore open the doors of the prison. Men and women alike swarmed into the room, their black veins bulging in unison as if from one single heartbeat. The remains of their previous victims dripped from their weapons and teeth. The prince, his guards, and some of the town watch in the room paused in shock. The attackers paused for a moment as well, squinting in the dim light.
"Watch for children," Kaltor advised, drawing his bow. Selene followed his example. They both loosed arrows into the two largest attackers, causing a minor collision among their enemies as the leaders dropped to the ground, tripping those behind him.
"Stop them here!" the prince cried, drawing his Sage-forged weapon and leading his guards into the fray.
"The prince!" the attackers hissed gleefully, charging forward.
Through the open door Kaltor could see smaller groups surrounding members of the town watch, trying to use them as cover from the archers above. Tyran’s weapon cut through steel and bone alike, holding his opponents at bay while his guards prevented the Perversions from surrounding him. The hallway was so thin that only half of the guards could fight at one time. They rotated their positions with practiced ease, keeping their freshest men in front.
The assassins stood side by side. Their bows sang in unison as another volley followed, then another. High pitched cries filled the chamber and six children leapt over the crowd. Kaltor and Selene managed to neutralize two in mid-flight, but four of them knocked two guards to the ground.
The fighting was vicious, some of the attackers embracing their enemies weapons with their bodies to make way for their friends’ next attack. In moments, many of the guards were disarmed and giving way to the suicidal mob.
Something rumbled repeatedly within the prison like distant thunder, again and again. Behind him he noticed a dozen soldiers running down the hallway toward the noise. Looks like Melshek’s convicts are hard at work as well, Ka
ltor thought grimly. We have to finish off these before he breaks those barricades, or we’ll be surrounded.
In the distance, a Varadour drew on his power in a short-short pattern. Kaltor smiled. He glanced at Selene, nodding toward the thunder. "We have to finish this," he said.
"How good are you with walls?" she asked.
"Time to find out," Kaltor moved, tossing his bow and quiver aside as he pulled out the cane-sword.
Twenty black-blooded men and women still pushed through the hallway only wide enough for four men walking abreast. He and Selene sprinted forward, Varadour energy surging through their legs. They leapt above their allies, sprang off the walls, and landed behind their attackers. Kaltor fell a little too quickly, smashing into a large thug and drawing the attention of three others.
In a sweeping motion, Kaltor unsheathed his sword, simultaneously smashing its hilt into the first opponent’s head with all his strength, forcing the body to go limp. The other three leapt after him ravenously, forcing him to bolt out the door and to the left. Crowd fighting— what was it Master Taneth always said?
Through his skin vision he could see his opponents clawing at the walls and floor for additional speed, drool spraying from their lips as they pitted their enhanced abilities against his physical conditioning. Kaltor dove around a column, envisioned their approach, and leapt back around the corner.
His blade caught the leader in the throat, spraying the other two in his blood and slowing their pace just enough for him to resume his escape. That’s it, Kaltor recalled. Take them one at a time, especially when outnumbered. Arrows sliced through the air to his left, and he heard his pursuers hit the stone floor hard, groaning in pain.
"I see you’ve been busy," a familiar voice called.
Across the street, Honmour and four other Stunts worked with the archers on the opposite rooftop, dropping the attackers in the street from both sides. The surviving town watchmen headed for the front entrance, where Selene rolled through the open door and bolted into the street. Two women and a particularly savage-looking man scrambled after her, but were perforated once they left the safety of the prison.
"Save the prince!" Kaltor called, running back toward the door. A handful of watchmen and Selene met him at the doorway. Three other bodies lay convulsing on the floor, foam oozing from their mouths. Guess she can handle herself in a fight, he thought, glancing toward Selene’s bloody daggers. Got to remember to avoid the red-handled ones.
From both sides they assailed the last of the frenzied attackers. The last woman, veins thickest in a spider web shape around her mouth, shrieked angrily and bolted toward Kaltor. Her eyes were fixed on the door behind him, the rest of her comrades following like a flock of birds, turning at once at some hidden signal.
Drawing his throwing blade reflexively, Kaltor threw six inches of steel into her face at point blank range, sending her corpse sliding to a stop at his feet. Finally managed to get that attack to work! he thought in satisfaction.
The other attackers froze, eyes glued to her corpse, grasping their throats. Their howls for blood turned to ones of agony as they crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Before his eyes he watched their blood stop pulsing through their veins, turning hard and jelly-like.
Wait, he thought. They died the moment I killed the web-mouthed one? That’s odd.
They entered the main hall and surveyed the carnage. Three of the prince’s bodyguards lay dead, four wounded beyond combat capability. The prince himself limped badly on one bleeding leg, but he smiled with relief, wiping his sword clean on the tunic of his shirt.
"I didn’t expect you two to work that quickly," the prince commented. "We should have you assassins work together more often."
"We weren’t alone," Kaltor huffed defensively, gesturing over his shoulder as Honmour and a few Stunts entered the prison. Some of the new recruits looked rather nauseated, but Honmour simply soaked in the scene with the same grim determination he’d acquired after Jensai’s death. In the distance, shouts of battle rang deeper in the prison from the east entrance, and the west still resonated with the sounds of thunder.
"One of the barricades is down," the prince observed. "Gather your friends and the town watch. Head for the west entrance," He nodded toward his surviving guards and Selene. "We will head for the eastern door," Without another word they hobbled down the hallway.
Honmour patted Kaltor on the shoulder. "We have much to discuss, my friend, but I suggest we save it for the battle’s end," He called the Stunts over. "Keep your bows," he ordered. "With the barricade still up you might be able to pick them off before they get through."
"Good idea," Kaltor agreed, waving for a few of the town watchmen still holding intact shields. "You there!" he called. "You’re coming with us, just in case."
Having heard the prince’s orders, the men nodded, following them down the other hallway toward the barricade. One jumped at every small noise, while the others gazed down the hallway with no expression at all.
Great, Kaltor thought sarcastically. More Stunts.
As they hurried down the hall, Kaltor and Honmour leading the way, he leaned over to his friend and whispered, "I don’t think we should let the town watchmen fight, if possible. Some of them look like they’re about to break."
"I agree," Honmour said. "Can’t say I blame them, though. A few of them mentioned they knew their attackers. Having the woman who nursed you as a child try to rip your throat out can mess with a man’s mind," The other Stunts gulped, looking around nervously, bows drawn.
Suddenly I wish I hadn’t toyed with them so much, Kaltor thought. Never realized my life might depend on them someday.
Across the prison they felt more Varadours draw on their power. "The prince has engaged the other group," Honmour said, knowing a few of the town watch were Sight Seekers, devoid of that sixth sense. They let their eyes shine with sky-blue power, regardless, and Kaltor did not stop them. A clear-minded Sight Seeker could easily turn a fight in your favor against untrained opponents.
"Think the prince will be alright?" one of the Stunts whispered.
"His sword is Sage-forged," Kaltor said offhandedly. "I’m sure he’s fine," Even the town watchmen seemed to take comfort from that statement. Honmour glanced toward him grimly. No words were necessary. He knew that look.
Unless Melshek has another power up his sleeve we’re not aware of.
They rounded the corner and faced a partially open door blocked by tables and chairs in a thick, makeshift barricade. Two black-veined faces peered through the crack, eyes red and swollen, re-doubling their efforts as they saw fresh prey waiting on the other side.
With each push, the barricade shifted an inch or two. Honmour and Kaltor each stood against a wall, their weapons drawn and turned to the Stunts.
"Take them out," Kaltor ordered.
Their first wave hit wood, stone, and open air. The Stunts’ trembling fingers could barely notch their next arrows, and the door was half open by the time their second volley took flight.
The fattest attacker took arrows to the side and the chest, falling to the ground, trying to pull the arrows out without success. I see Honmour got those hooked arrows as well, Kaltor noticed.
As the door widened further, Kaltor and Honmour gasped in surprise. The last frenzied man made it through the door, dropping a body he’d carried over his back, full of arrows. He managed to climb over a table and two chairs before one of the Stunts made a clean shot through his throat.
Abyss take them! Kaltor swore. Only two—
"The prince is taking on all of the remaining convicts right now," Honmour realized aloud. "These two were a decoy to split our forces," Stunts and watchmen alike paled in shock at the realization. Jensai’s face flashed in Kaltor’s mind, along with the little girl Perversion he’d fought and broken at the excavation site.
Not the prince too! he vowed.
"Move!" he ordered. "Take down that barricade! We’ll flank Melshek’s men and te
ar them apart!" In the space of a few heartbeats a dozen hands hurled furniture aside, prying the door open in moments.
A small pile of bodies lay at their feet, having been used to protect the others from the archers on the wall. Glancing out the door tentatively at first, in case of ambush, Kaltor led the charge around the corner and onto the second-story balcony connected to the prisoners’ cells.
Just as they reached the entrance to the second hallway, the air heaved with a familiar blast. Black mist burst through the hallway, windows, and even into the sky through a few chimneys, blinding the archers on the roof.
Fighting the familiar disorientation and nausea, Kaltor struck blindly into the dark, holding onto the door frame to steady and orient his strike. Something crashed into his chest, hard. The force of the blow threw him upward, over the balcony, and into the clear air.
Even as he fell he heard the claws climbing a wall deep in the mist. Skin vision warned him of the approaching rocky courtyard, and despite the mist’s affects he managed to tuck his body into a roll and dispel the majority of the force of his decent.
Despite his training, the air rushed from his lungs and his back and his arms ached from the impact. Even as he rolled to his feet he heard someone cry out from the rooftop and saw a body burst through the dark cloud, blood streaming from her wounds, bow cast aside. He had to roll away to avoid the corpse as it landed with a sickening crunch.
"Kaltor!" Honmour called, he and a few other Stunts lining the balcony of the second level. "You’re slowing us down. Jump!"
Easy for you to say, Kaltor thought. You didn’t just fall fifteen feet! Among the howls and clash of steel in the corridor within the fading mist a woman screamed. Selene! he thought, an odd, unexpected panic filling his chest.
"Go help her!" he ordered, stumbling toward the column. Honmour nodded, calling to the Stunts and rushing down the corridor.
With a burst of restorative power Kaltor hobbled to the column supporting the second-story balcony. Grimacing against the wounds in his arms and back he leapt up, caught hold of a cold fence rail in each hand, and shifted his weight from one hand to the other, swinging his body up a few inches at a time as if the rails were two ropes.
The sounds of battle in the hallway quieted suddenly. Then a mournful silence took shape within those stone walls. No cries of victory or calls for relief. The black mist dissipated, leaving a blood trail where Melshek had climbed the wall and escaped moments before. What’s just happened? His paranoid mind displayed thoughts of a Stunt torn in two, or Honmour with his throat ripped out. His body trembled so violently he nearly fell to the ground again.
Please tell me they’re still alive! Once he was high enough for his feet to hit the floor, he jumped onto the second story’s cold stone surface and bolted down the hallway.
Black blood and broken arrow shafts lined the corridor for the first dozen feet. Bodies of prison guards and their attackers littered the floor, some torn and cut beyond recognition. He passed a pile of broken furniture, table legs, and bench boards reduced to kindling after more offensive uses.
Melshek was more resourceful this time, he observed. He even used the guard’s own barricade against them as a shield so his men could get close enough for the killing blow. "Battleborn?" he called.
"Here," Honmour called from around the corner. Kaltor followed the hallway’s curve and saw the rest of the carnage where the prince and his guards had met with the rest of Melshek’s troops. The last of his black-blooded men lay writhing on the ground as their veins solidified.
Nearly two dozen other prisoners had been thrown against the wall on either side, tossed away once their bodies were too damaged to even use as a shield. A number of them lacked arms or legs, and some still held makeshift weapons, sliced apart cleanly at the hilt.
That would be the prince’s handiwork, he thought jealously. What I could do with a Sage-forged sword! But where is he? Or the other half of his guards, for that matter?
Selene sat among the Stunts, a wooden table leg in her mouth while one of the prince’s guards stitched up a nasty wound in her side. A few of her daggers still protruded from their enemies. Her bow lay next to her snapped in two, though arrow shafts protruded from the hearts and heads of two corpses nearby.
She is well trained, Kaltor conceded, reading the tracks and occasional blood spatter. It looks like she fought them off with arrows alone after they broke her bow. I’ll have to remember that tactic for later.
"Is there anything we can do for you, my lady?" the youngest one asked.
"Help heal her!" another one cried, jumping forward. He and the other three Varadours grabbed onto her arms, head, and even legs, trying to contribute to the healing process. Her jaw clenched in pain, immobilized by the guard stitching her wound closed.
All she could do was grunt angrily at the extra attention. Honmour stood aside, sword in one hand with a bemused grin on his face. They seemed a little too concerned for her wellbeing. Wow, Kaltor thought. They’ve forgotten their training that quickly.
"Will the Battlescorned survive?" Kaltor asked.
The Stunts froze, staring back at him in shock. Their eyes danced from Kaltor, to Honmour’s shaking head, and finally to her dagger handles of various colors.
Lucky she was too wounded to start charming them right off, he thought. She would have turned them on each other in a heartbeat. Realization struck, and they scrambled to get out of reach of those daggers, some even tripping over bodies as they fled.
"Where are the rest of the soldiers?" Kaltor asked.
"Tending the wounded," a soldier said, his voice hollow and eyes vacant. Kaltor did a quick count of the corpses. All the convicts were accounted for, strewn against the stones alongside three of the prince’s guards.
They held out well against so many, he thought. Something glistened on the ground at the soldier’s feet, and he finally noticed the blood oozing from the man’s armor. He met Honmour’s eyes and nodded toward the wound.
"How many are well enough to be healing others?" Honmour asked, putting his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. Kaltor’s skin tingled as his friend drew on Varadour energy so close by, stopping the bleeding in the soldier’s chest.
The guard bit off the thread as he finished sowing Selene’s wound shut. His breathing slowed but remained deep during the treatment. "Just two."
Honmour nodded to the Stunts. "Help the wounded with the healing. Focus on those near death first," The Varadours nodded and headed down the hallway, the Sight Seeker among them pulling out a set of pins similar to Gereth’s.
Selene glanced the guard’s way, expression thankful as she spit out the table leg, her tooth marks cut deeply into the material. She and the guard lay their heads back against the wall, gasping for air as all their power went into tending their internal injuries.
"Take it easy," Kaltor said in a comforting tone, patting the soldier on the shoulder. "The prince is a powerful Varadour. He’ll heal your men well."
The guard looked up at him in surprise, bit his lower lip with a quiet moan, and stared at the floor. Kaltor gasped and glanced at Honmour, recalling Jensai’s wounds the day they fought Melshek. "Let’s go!" he said. They rushed down the hallway, listening for the whispering of healers hard at work.
"You remember the poison, right?" Honmour asked. "From when we tried to heal Jensai?" Shouts of frustration echoed from the keeper’s quarters on their left, where a large amount of Varadour energy surged.
"Healing will be useless if they don’t clean the wounds first!" Kaltor agreed, sprinting forward to push open the door. "He’ll bleed to death while they’re trying to use their power to heal him! The Sight Seeker needs to bind his wounds tight and let his body–" The sight awaiting them silenced his words before they could escape from his lips.
The prince lay pinned down against the keeper’s table. A guard on either side held his arm and shoulder against the top of the table, shouting at the Stunts. Two of them stood on either s
ide of the table, with the Sight Seeker standing in between them with his back to Kaltor.
From over the man’s shoulder he saw the prince’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. Then the Sight Seeker shifted his stance and he saw what remained of their patient’s throat and chest. Honmour pushed past him, shouting instructions.
We’re too late, Kaltor thought. I know those eyes. Those wounds— It’s exactly how he killed Jensai. That was his plan all along. Kill Prince Tyran— his own brother— and now to take the city.
The realization hit him in a wave of mind-numbing despair as a second pair of lifeless eyes joined Jensai’s. Kaltor shut the door behind himself and walked numbly toward the entrance. His pace was slow, empty. From his belt he drew out a whetstone, spat on it, and started sharpening his daggers. The shriek of stone on metal seemed oddly appropriate.
He stepped into the entry hall, looking from the corpses to the front doors, which were partially ripped from their hinges. Reviewing the battle in his mind, he retraced his steps, retrieving his arrows and throwing blades. Turning back toward the prison’s interior, he recalled the dual thundering upon the barricades.
He used a decoy to split our forces, Kaltor thought, then swarmed the prince’s guards with his men and turned into that creature for the final blow against his own brother. A few archers, led by a member of the town watch, entered the hall and started sorting through the bodies. The keeper’s lay among them.
Outside, the sound of hundreds of horse hooves captured his attention. Kaltor left the building, walking down the stairs to face the regiment the prince had ordered mobilized earlier. The officer in charge of that detachment rode toward him, flanked by his banner holder and a bugle man. "You there!" he called. "Tell the prince we have arrived. What happened here?"
"Call together your generals and advisors," Kaltor said simply, his tone lifeless and defeated. "The prince is dead."
Chapter 15