Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

He understood now that an enemy who could be so calm and focused when being shot at, was not someone to be taken lightly. He frantically wriggled and pushed with his knees and elbows out of sight of the vent and away down the shaft. He comforted himself that once beyond that, the Shin would not be able to locate him—though there was a sharp knot in his stomach that insisted he was perhaps being a little optimistic.

The Rossin’s growl felt as though it was rumbling in his own chest.

I cannot help you here. Get free of these narrow places. Let me run free!

“Doing my best,” Raed hissed. His muscles were protesting at this unwelcome and unnatural form of locomotion, and it was damnably hot in here. Sweat ran down his back and along his neck. The worst of it was he couldn’t easily wipe it from his face. It stung his eyes and obscured his vision.

However he also soon realized that the Shin were not done with him—not by a very long mark. Something was behind him in the ventilation system of this mad fortress. It didn’t sound like whoever his pursuer might be was having nearly as tough a time of it as he was. It sounded instead as though they were running, like animals in hot pursuit.

Raed turned himself around in the confined space and managed with more than a little swearing to work his pistol once more out from his side. Primitive fears of being chased and trapped were beginning to rise, and he could hear his own heartbeat in his head—louder, even, than the Rossin’s thoughts.

Holding the pistol trained between his thighs in the direction of the ominous sounds, Raed pushed with his legs, sliding on his back farther away from the pursuit. It was slow going, and he was wondering what exactly he was going to do with the pistol. If he fired it in this position, he ran a good chance of shooting himself in the thigh, as well as blowing his own ears out.

Either, however, seemed preferable to facing whatever was closing rapidly on his position.

“By the Blood, I’m not dying like this,” he hissed, all the time working his way in some unknown direction. The Rossin, impotent in this particular, unexpected turn of events, was silent.

He smiled grimly, though his legs ached, and he could barely see with his sweat-blinded vision. “Not exactly what you planned is it, my old friend? I think you’ve become just a little cocky after gobbling up that Hatipai.”

If the beast made a reply, Raed was too occupied to notice, because his pursuer was actually visible, only feet away, and coming at him through the gloom of the shaft.

She must have once been human. The face was a wreck of former beauty twisted in rage. Lips, that could have been full and lovely, were held back from sharpened teeth, and eyes under perfect brows were now bloodred and bulging. Beyond that however, the creature had no resemblance to anything human. Long, jointed legs braced it in the tight space, and carried it forward much faster than Raed could manage. He could not get a good look at the rest, but had the impression of a thorax and segmented body similar to a scorpion. The odor of it, this close up, was almost choking. It smelled like it had bathed in blood and guts—and perhaps it had done that very thing.

It was a transformation, but only halfway—so unlike the one he had to endure on a regular basis. Raed was abruptly glad that he had never had to experience a terrible in-between state like that.

Apparently however, his sympathy to it meant nothing. The creature surged forward, hissing like a snake. The Young Pretender didn’t want to find out if the creature bore poisoned fangs. He fired his pistol between his knees and directly into the onrushing thing’s face.

The scream it let out was most likely terrifying, but Raed couldn’t hear any of it because the retort of the gun in such a tight space set his head buzzing. Everything developed a murky strangeness to it after that. Through the smoke he could make out the shape of the Shin monstrosity, twisting and flailing around. So it seemed a gunshot to the face was at least painful.

Not planning to linger and find out, Raed dropped the pistol onto his chest, and kicked out with his feet and hands even more furiously in a scramble to get away. He passed a junction where three shafts met the one he’d been traveling in. Craning his neck from side to side, Raed determined two things: the passage to his left was the only one that tickled his face with the possibility of fresh air, and the others brought him only the sound of more skittering pursuit.

It wasn’t a decision he had to think long on. His pants were wearing through on the stone, and his fingertips were bleeding where they grasped at the unforgiving edges of the shaft. He was leaving plenty of scarlet drips behind for the Shin to follow, but he didn’t care. They already knew he was here, and they already had tasted the blood of his family.

The hisses and growls behind him said that the other monstrosities were catching up just as their companion had. Raed had to decide if he was going to stop and make a stand, or scramble on. He had only four regular bullets left, and he couldn’t be sure he’d even injured the halfling beast. The terrible truth was, he didn’t know exactly how many more of these things were after him.

The breeze on the top of Raed’s head was like a siren song now, and he wriggled harder, bracing his elbows, hands, knees and feet. He blocked out the pain as best he could and tried to also ignore the sweat mingling with his blood on the surface of the pipeline he was trapped in. If he could get out, then he would give those Shin peons a decent fight. He’d have a chance to unleash the Rossin—then they would pay.

So determined was he, that Raed shoved and thrust himself out of the horizontal shaft and half into the abrupt drop of the vertical one without even realizing it. With a lurch he discovered his sudden predicament, but much too late. He couldn’t brace himself with his legs alone as his chest and arms flailed.

To the sound of gleeful laughter and chattering, Raed Syndar Rossin tumbled into the unknown depths of the Shin fortress.

Zofiya’s fingers tightened on Merrick’s as she drew him with her down the corridors. Most of the folk, both high and low were busy celebrating, yet her heart was pounding harder than any of theirs.

Her head was full of concerns for her brother—for the Empire itself—but she was also exhilarated by the nearness of the Deacon. Still, she told herself, she had good reason to bring him to her chambers. Good reason, yes indeed.

Her few maids had been dismissed to enjoy the evening, and as usual there were no sentries on her door. She was the head of the Imperial Guard and, as was her habit, had no one watching her apartments. If danger was coming to an Imperial sibling, she would rather it came to her than her brother. Now this worked to her advantage.

“Quick,” she said, tugging Merrick into her privy chamber. “This is the only place where I am sure it is safe to speak.” She pressed shut the redwood doors behind them. The room was quiet and lit only by two flickering sandalwood-scented candles in the sconces. None of her ladies had really been expecting her to return so soon. They were alone.

The doors on the other side of the rather sparse privy chamber were ajar, providing a glimpse of the far more opulent bedroom. Pride of place was a vast and silk-shrouded bed carved to resemble a ship. It was a ridiculous indulgence, but it was one of the few Zofiya allowed herself.

The young Deacon glanced around, his eyes slightly wider than usual, a sure sign he was using his Sight. “We do indeed appear to be alone.”

Zofiya shivered. When the Order used their powers so flippantly she was reminded how little she understood what they did. Certainly, they were invaluable in maintaining the integrity of the Empire, and giving the ordinary folk some reassurance that their grandmother was not going to vomit acid, but they were also a dangerous power.