Blade breaker, p.19
Blade Breaker, page 19
Return and I’ll pick your bones clean.
Lord Mercury’s threat echoed, a promise as much as a warning. Those were the last words he ever spoke to her, before she was cast out of the citadel and the Amhara Guild.
I am Forsaken, Sorasa knew, hating the word. Ibal is not safe for me, and never will be again. She blew out a breath and urged her mare onward, taking up the rear of their number. Every second in Ibal was a second deep in fear. But no longer.
Deep in her hood, Sorasa could not help but grin. She had defied the old snake again, and it felt like victory.
Inch by inch, mile by mile, day by day, the landscape changed. The woods grew thicker as the hills rose, and they left the farmlands of the coast behind. There were no more cities, and towns were few, little more than clusters along the Cor road. The Companions took no chances in their journey north. Sigil ranged ahead, directing them around villages and half-forgotten castles. They avoided every danger they could, from farmers and traders to old watchmen along the way.
The Mountains of the Ward loomed, their great peaks lost in the clouds. A warm wind blew from the southwest, bringing up moisture from the lush lands of Ghera and Rhashir. It was a balm after long weeks in the desert, especially to Charlie. His sunburn finally began to fade, and he dared to travel without the shadow of his hood again.
Dom took care to ride between Corayne and Andry, as if that were of any use to anyone. Sorasa doubted the clueless Elder even knew what attraction felt like, let alone how to thwart it. At least his bumbling antics were amusing enough to watch and a good way to pass the time.
Valtik always swayed in her saddle, singing her Jydi chants. Most days Sorasa wanted to knock her right off her horse, but refrained.
When they reached the Dahlian Gates, the great gap in the mountains, Sorasa urged them off the road and into the foothills. It was easier than chancing bandits or patrols along the various borders. The small kingdoms in this part of the world held a shaky truce, allied together lest the Temurijon and its emperor decide to break the peace of the last few decades.
As they crossed the Gates, the Companions stayed within a mile of the ancient Cor road, with Dom keeping watch for any traffic. There was little—traders mostly, a few pilgrim priests, and a sheep farmer driving his flock. The air thinned and the temperature dropped as they rode forward, gaining elevation through the great mountain range that cut Allward in two.
“This land is quiet,” Corayne remarked, her breath clouding in the early morning chill.
“It wasn’t always like this,” Andry said from the horse next to her. “Old Cor ruled here in ancient times, when Ahmsare and the surrounding kingdoms were provinces beneath their empire. It was the last land to fall before the Corblood conquerors, and the Dahlian Gates controlled the way into their northern provinces. But that was long ago.”
Sorasa’s lips quirked into a half smile. “You have a talent for history, Squire.”
He only shrugged. “We all learned it, growing up,” he said. “The old empire. What used to be. And what Galland might become again.”
Despite the sunlight dappling his brown skin, Andry’s eyes seemed to darken.
He set his jaw, a muscle feathering in his cheek. “Erida learned that lesson a bit too well.”
To that there was no reply. Sorasa settled back in the saddle, a chill running over her. She glanced at the landscape again. Only ruins of the old empire existed here, the decrepit towers sticking out of the woods.
Sorasa wondered if Corayne felt a pull to them, the remains of her father’s people. She did not want to ask, and risk another avalanche of questions from the intrepid, insufferable pirate’s daughter.
In the week of traveling since they left the coast, the Companions fell into a rhythm. Camp, ride, camp, ride. Training Corayne when they stopped to rest the horses or sent Sigil ahead to scout. It rankled Sorasa. Rhythm meant comfort, and comfort bred carelessness, something none of them could afford. She did her best to remain vigilant, but even she felt her instincts dull.
The Dahlian Gates were behind them before she even knew it, and they began their slow march down into Ledor, a land of sheep and green-gold plains. The forests clung to the foothills, and the flat land below opened up like a book, stretching in all directions. The city of Izera was a dark spot to the west, smaller than Trisad, little more than an overgrown paddock for the many thousands of sheep and cattle grazing over the landscape. Luckily, their provisions were more than enough, and the Companions had no reason to approach the city.
Sorasa whispered a grateful prayer to Lasreen, thanking her for keeping them out of the cow-shit streets of Izera.
Their road continued northeast, through the foothill wilderness. There were no Cor roads this side of the mountains, only the Wolf’s Way. Halfway between path and road, it ran northeast from Izera, winding all the way into the steel jaws of Trec. Sorasa knew less of these lands. Her work with the Amhara had rarely brought her north of the mountains. Sigil took the lead, a wide smile never leaving her face.
We follow the Wolf’s Way for a month at least, Sorasa knew, grinding her teeth. Even longer if Charlie and Corayne have anything to say about it.
But even she had to admit that both the fugitive priest and the pirate’s daughter were improving. Not just in the saddle either. Corayne could finally hold a blade properly. The Spindleblade would always be too big for her, but the long dagger bought in Adira all those weeks ago suited her. Charlie did his best too, occasionally joining Corayne as a sparring partner. He was also a tremendous cook, foraging along the journey, collecting herbs and plants whenever he could.
To her own chagrin, Sorasa found herself ready for dinner now. She laid a hand on her stomach, trying to quell her hunger with will alone. It did not work.
“We’ll need to hunt tonight,” she said aloud, calling over the trailing line of Companions. They bent their heads against the slanting sun, now beginning its descent into the west. “There’s deer and rabbit in these hills. Perhaps a boar if we’re lucky.”
“I’ve still got some rosemary,” Charlie answered, patting his saddlebags. “Boar would do nicely.”
In the Amhara Guild, acolytes were fed bland food, and only enough to stay strong. Exactly what their bodies needed and no more. The practice served Sorasa well for many years. Until Charlon Armont, she thought, her mouth watering.
She reined her horse, turning the mare out of formation.
“Sigil, make camp on that rise,” she said, pointing to a flat bluff ahead. It stuck out a little higher than the foothills around it, with a copse of trees providing shelter from the wind and prying eyes. “The Elder and I will return in an hour or so.”
It was earlier than usual for them to make camp, but no one protested. After many long days riding, they were grateful for rest.
With a thump, Sorasa slid to the ground. She took her bow but left her whip and sword, its sheath tied in with her saddlebags. Andry took her reins, tying her sand mare to his with quick fingers.
Dom did the same, giving his horse over to Sigil. The Elder wore his cloak, his sword, and his scowl.
As much as Sorasa hated to admit it, hunting was much quicker and more successful with the Elder at her side. He could hear and see for miles and smell nearly as far. They almost never returned empty-handed from a hunt.
She followed him dutifully through the woods, keeping pace a few yards behind, moving as quietly as she could. The Elder moved more silently than any Amhara, even Lord Mercury himself, and Sorasa cursed her own mortal feet every time they rustled a blade of grass.
They walked for some minutes over hilly terrain. A cool air crept down from the mountain heights, bringing mist with it. The sun broke gold, its rays like arrows through the tree branches. They had another hour or so of daylight, Sorasa knew, though she did not fear darkness in these hills. The Mountains of the Ward were at their back, stretching for hundreds of miles in an impenetrable wall. The Gallish armies could not follow them here. Even Queen Erida would not dare send her hunters so close to the Temurijon, and risk the emperor’s peace.
She kept a tight grip on her bow, a quiver at her hip, ready to take aim whenever Dom pointed. Sometimes he did it too quickly, indicating a deer already sprinting away or a bird far out of range. Sorasa suspected it was his way of insulting her without speaking.
When he suddenly dropped to a knee, she did the same, crouching to the ground. Without a word, he raised a hand and pointed a long finger through the trees, toward a clearing.
Sorasa needed little more than that. She saw the doe, fat with the bounty of autumn, her belly round as she dipped her head to graze. She was alone, thankfully, without a fawn. Sorasa had never relished the idea of killing a mother in front of her child.
Her arrow met the bowstring quietly and she drew, taking aim. She timed her heartbeat, feeling the pulse of blood through her body, letting the rhythm steady. She blew out a long, slow breath and the arrow flew through the trees, finding home below the doe’s shoulder, directly through her heart. The deer let out a wet grunt of pain and slumped over, her legs flailing once against the grass. Then she lay still, eyes glassy in the dying light.
“Venison tonight,” Sorasa muttered, standing back up.
Dom said nothing and strode toward the clearing.
Silence fell over the foothills again. The hem of his cloak dragged over the undergrowth, the only noise besides the sigh of wind in the branches. His hair blended with the autumn trees, the leaves yellow and fading green. For a moment he seemed a creature of the forest, as wild as anything in the foothills. Dom held the shape of any man, broad-shouldered and tall. But he was set apart somehow, in a way Sorasa could not explain.
She slung the bow back into place. He wouldn’t need help carrying the deer, and she hung back to wait at the clearing’s edge.
Wind and birdsong filled the air. Sorasa leaned against the trunk of a pine and tilted her head, looking up through the needles. She filled her lungs with the clean, fresh scent. In spite of all her training, her mind wandered to dinner.
“It feels different, this side of the mountains,” she said, if only to herself. “Wilder somehow.”
Dom bent to the doe’s body, working an arm under her neck to lift her onto his shoulders. He spared Sorasa a withering glance.
Then he froze, half kneeling, his face turned to the woods. Slowly, his eyes scanned the tree line.
Sorasa straightened. She saw nothing, heard nothing. The forest seemed peaceful.
But the birds stopped singing, the woods falling silent.
“What is it—”
A twig snapped across the way, from the undergrowth. It echoed sharply, deliberate. Dom whirled to the noise.
Another crack of wood answered, this one on the other side of the clearing. Sorasa’s stomach twisted, a hand straying to her bronze dagger. She prayed to Lasreen, to every god.
For the first time in her life, Sorasa Sarn wanted to be wrong.
“You are a long way from home, Osara.”
The voice turned her blood to ice.
Fallen. Forsaken. Broken. Everything that cursed word meant boiled up inside Sorasa, too many emotions rising with it. The strongest of all—fear.
In the center of the clearing, Dom made to get to his feet. Sorasa lunged, a hand outstretched, a shout in her teeth, her eyes wide with terror as she leapt into the clearing.
“Don’t,” she snarled, a tiger.
A tiger surrounded by hunters.
A dozen arrows waited. Their points gleamed around the tree line, glittering like the eyes of a hungry wolf pack. All aimed at Sorasa and Dom. She braced for the cold bite of familiar steel in her flesh.
Shadows took form around the clearing, bodies melting out of the woods. Sorasa named each one. She did not need to see faces to know exactly which Amhara surrounded them. Their figures were enough.
Agile, tiny Agathe, with her dancer’s grace. Hulking, mountainous Kojji, bigger even than Dom. One-eyed Selka, with her twin brother, Jem, never far away. There was Ambrose. There was Margida. On and on, all children of the Guild, acolytes who had survived as she had, to become ruthless and lethal killers, the loyal hunters of Lord Mercury. Only Garion was missing. Perhaps he is still wandering Byllskos, waiting for another contract to land in his lap.
Sorasa raised her chin and her empty hands. The arrows moved with her. On the ground, Dom tried to stand again, and an arrow twanged, digging into the earth half an inch from his boot. The Elder froze in step, one knee still in the dirt.
A warning. The only one we’ll ever get.
“I have no home,” Sorasa said to the clearing.
“Is that so?” the voice answered, and her eyes found Luc.
The assassin leered out of the trees, stepping into the light. He was as she remembered, always moving, shifting to some song no one else could hear. He wore leathers like the rest, black and brown, patterned to blend into the terrain. In the citadel, Luc excelled at all his lessons, especially persuasion. He grew up beautiful, with milky skin, raven hair, and pale green eyes ringed with thick black lashes. The Guild found many uses for him once he came of age. And now they think they can use him on me.
“Lord Mercury is a forgiving man,” he said, splaying his hands wide. Both were tattooed as hers were, the sun and moon on either palm.
“Not in my experience,” she answered, counting weapons. Sword and two daggers on Luc. Six daggers on Agathe. Margida’s whip. An ax on Kojji . . .
Luc donned an easy, winning smile. He tossed a lock of dark hair out of his sea-foam eyes. “You’ll find he can be persuaded,” he said, taking a loping step toward her.
She felt the air shift, and Dom’s gaze moved, spotting something over her shoulder. He caught her eyes and blinked forcefully. Once. Twice.
Two more behind me.
Her body moved as it had been taught, her muscles sliding into place. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, bending her knees and squaring her shoulders. All her lessons in the Guild boiled under the surface of her skin. She dared not reach for her daggers lest the clearing erupt in a tornado of blood and steel.
She kept her composure, still facing Luc. He was a dangerous man, equally skilled with blade and poison. They had blooded together, their first kills only a week apart.
“I remember when you used to cry yourself to sleep,” Sorasa said, reaching for the only weapon Luc duCain wasn’t trained to fend off.
Memory.
His razor smile faltered.
“The Amhara took you from a village in Madrence, somewhere on the coast.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, as if savoring a delicious taste. “You used to whimper its name.”
“We may have different pasts, but our future is the same,” Luc answered stiffly, reciting the old Amhara teaching like a prayer. “We serve the Guild, and its lord.”
The others echoed his sentiment. “We serve” sounded among them. Sorasa even felt the words on her own lips, begging to be spoken. She snatched them back.
In the center of the clearing, Dom shifted toward his sword, his movements so slow and silent, near imperceptible.
“I used to envy you, Luc,” Sorasa breathed, taking a step toward him.
Luc did not move, unbothered by her closeness. He knew her measure, and she knew his.
“You envy me still,” he said, shaking his head.
“You were so lucky. You remembered your family, your home. Something outside the citadel walls.” Sorasa feigned a smile of her own, riling him. “I never could.”
“We have only one family, you and I,” Luc growled, his black eyebrows drawn together. Then, to her surprise, he put out a hand, the sun on his palm facing her. “Let us bring you home.”
He’s mocking me, she thought, her cheeks going red as anger flared in her chest. Her ribs itched and she snarled.
“Oh, Luc, I carry your home with me wherever I go.”
She violently pulled her tunic aside, showing the long design inked into her skin. It ran the side of her body from ribs to hip, oil black tattooed on bronze skin. Most of it was beautiful, her name and her deeds, her great glories and achievements laid out in a trophy no one could ever take away. The script was Ibalet, the tongue she’d chosen, and something more ancient, the tongue of the Amhara long dead. She felt a dozen eyes run along the tattoo, tracing each letter. The assassins all had ones just like it, their own ribs marked and inked.
On the ground, Dom stared too, his emerald gaze roving over her exposed ribs and stomach. It wasn’t difficult to guess at the Elder’s thoughts. Here is a lifetime of death written in my skin, impossible to ignore or forget. Here is everything he hates in me made flesh.
The wind picked up, chilling her skin, but Sorasa refused to shiver. She wanted them to see it all. She wanted them to remember the last time they’d seen her, pinned to the floor of the citadel atrium.
Luc’s eye snagged on the place where her abdomen met her hip, muscles flowing taut and coiled. The last piece of her tattoo was not beautiful, nor intricate. The final lines were half carved, made of ink and scar.
Osara. The word was a brand in her flesh and her mind. Osara. Osara. It burned still, naked to the world and a dozen eyes, her shame and failure laid bare. Sorasa wanted to scream.
It was Kojji who held me down, his knee between my shoulder blades. Pain flared in Sorasa’s memory. And Agathe kept her dagger to my throat, a breath away from slicing me open.
“You all watched while this was made,” she breathed, her voice going ragged.
Luc nodded, slowly pulling his eyes up her ribs, over the ink, through her history, until he reached her face. “I remember,” he said. “We remember.”
Sorasa Sarn did not expect an apology from any Amhara. She knew them, and herself, too well for that. They would never show regret and never speak against the Guild. Neither would she. She ached for it still, even now, when every Amhara blade in the world was set against her.
The wind stirred the trees again, shaking the branches. The Amhara stood out more sharply, unmoving against the wind, their dark forms anchored in place. Sorasa’s grip loosened on her tunic, and the soft, worn fabric fell back into place. She took a steadying breath, tasting death in the air. She glanced at Dom again. His chest rose and fell as he heaved a breath of his own. His sword remained at his side, the massive blade all but begging to be drawn.
