Brian McCLELLAN - Promise of Blood

Taniel, his back still against the door, snorted a pinch of powder. His senses grasped at any light – pinpricks, high above – to let him see. They were in a vast, open space. A dark container that seemed more like a mine than a building. He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “This doesn’t look like a palace,” he said.

“Taniel!”

The voice echoed around them.

“Del?” Taniel said.

“Over here, Taniel. Quickly!”

“Bo’s hurt,” he said.

“No time. You must come.”

Another thump against the door. A cave lion outside whined.

“Can you hold it?” Taniel asked.

“Go on,” Fesnik answered. “We’ve got it. Go take the shot.”

“Stay here,” Taniel said to Ka-poel. “Help them keep the door shut.”

He ignored her gesture of defiance and turned to run. The floor was polished, perfectly level. It might have been marble beneath the ash. He distanced himself from the light of the burning match behind him and tried to follow Del’s voice. He gave up, keeping his eyes on the footprints in the ash instead. Pinpricks of light from far above gave him just enough light to see in his powder trance.

He found Del standing near an enormous staircase of the type built inside the ballrooms of kings. It had no railings, and must have been made of the same rock as the walls of the palace in order to have survived whatever fire had gutted the building long ago.

“This doesn’t look like a palace,” Taniel said.

Del was quaking terribly. He barely seemed able to stand. He held out both hands to Taniel as if to plead. “It was once a mighty place,” he said. “Thousands upon thousands of rooms filled with gold and the finest woods and carpets. If you had light, you’d see the ashes. Only the husk was created from hardened rock. Kresimir did that. The inside was built by men, with wood and tools. All burned now. All gone.” His voice echoed eerily.

“No windows?”

“Come,” Del said. He pointed to the staircase. “We’ve got to get high enough to see the coliseum. The solstice is very soon.”

Olem helped Tamas to his feet and out of the ditch. Tamas straightened his jacket, brushed off his knees, adjusted his belt. “My sword,” he said. They hobbled to the carriage, where Tamas turned his back on the villa and bent next to Sabon’s body. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “My arrogance walked us into this trap. It’s about to walk me into another one. Forgive me.”

“Sir.” Olem handed him his sword and slipped him a sack of powder charges. Enough to kill a whole company.

“Bullets?” Tamas said.

Olem patted the breast pocket of his uniform.

Tamas buckled on his sword and turned toward the villa. He took it one step at a time with one hand on his cane and another on Olem’s shoulder. Let them think him weak. He was, but they’d think him less than he even was. With each step, Tamas expected to hear the pop of an air rifle or to see the rainbow flash of sorcery. He reached the front door.

“Not dead yet,” he said.

Olem gave him a long look. “I’m not reassured.”

One of the double doors of the villa opened. A Warden, an air rifle under one arm, stood in the doorway. Olem helped Tamas up the steps and inside. He paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He counted four Wardens and three Church guardsmen, air rifles leveled at him.

The foyer was a simple place, white marble covered every inch with built-in benches on the walls to either side. A single marble bust of Charlemund stood on a half column in the center of the room, a testament to his ego. The minimalism of the foyer couldn’t be taken at face value. Tamas could see off into well-lit rooms full of vibrant color and art, with gold and velvet trim.

“Leave the door open so that my men can see me safe,” Tamas said to the nearest Warden. The Warden sneered.

Charlemund entered the foyer from a side room. “Take him,” he said.

Someone shut the door behind Tamas. Tamas reached for his sword, but a Warden grabbed his wrist. Another Warden slammed Olem in the stomach with the butt of his air rifle. Olem grunted, dropping to his knees. Tamas sagged without Olem’s support, the pain of his leg flaring through his powder trance.

“You call this good faith?” Tamas snarled.

“I call you a fool,” Charlemund said. “Besides, I didn’t lie. No harm will come to you in my care. I can’t promise the same when you reach South Pike.”

“South Pike?”

Charlemund flattened a crease on the front of his duelist’s uniform with one hand. “Yes.”

“What do you mean, South Pike?” Olem said. He began to climb to his knees.

“Silence that dog,” Charlemund said.

A Warden whipped Olem across the face with his air rifle. Olem fell to the floor, blood spilling from his brow.

Tamas clenched his fists and stopped himself from igniting powder. He needed Nikslaus in the room, too. “You had better hope he’s all right.”

“I’d like to know what you mean, Your Grace.” Nikslaus came into the room, patting sweat from his brow. His Kez uniform was dirty and wrinkled from the sorcerer’s box. “Tamas isn’t going to South Pike. He’s going with me, to Kez.”

Charlemund turned to Nikslaus. “Not anymore. Kresimir will arrive today. The only hope we have of preventing Adro’s complete destruction is to take this low-born swine.”

Nikslaus tugged at his Privileged’s gloves. “I don’t follow your superstitions, Your Excellency, nor do I report to the Church. I report to my king, and he wants Tamas’s head on a block.”

“There will be no Adro left for us to divide if we don’t appease Kresimir,” Charlemund said.

Nikslaus squeezed his hands into fists. “You won’t get out of this country without me,” he said.

“Nor you without me.”

Olem stirred beside Tamas’s foot. Tamas leaned on his cane and bent over, giving Olem a shoulder to pull himself up by. “Can you stand?”

Olem’s brow had been split. He wiped some blood from his eyes and felt his temple tenderly. “Send them to the pit, sir.”

Tamas stood up straight and rested both hands on his cane. Nikslaus turned toward him, sensing danger. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes.

Tamas felt Nikslaus open his third eye. “He can use his sorcery!” Nikslaus’s hands flashed up, fingers working through the air.

Tamas lit powder. Olem tossed the bag of bullets into the air, and Tamas concentrated on that. The bag ripped apart, shredded pieces falling to the floor. Bodies dropped, air rifles clattering to the pristine marble, blood spraying the walls. Light flashed in front of Nikslaus where bullets hit a hastily erected barrier of air.

“Flee!” Nikslaus screamed. His fingers worked frantically.

Charlemund stared at Tamas for one moment before he turned and ran.

“Don’t let him get away,” Tamas said. He couldn’t take his eyes off Nikslaus. One mistake and Tamas would be dead. He had to keep Nikslaus’s hands busy. Tamas lit powder, feeding off it in the smallest amounts, keeping a dozen bullets in the air and spinning. He threw them at Nikslaus. Nikslaus’s fingers danced nimbly. Tamas’s third eye revealed flashes of color as his bullets struck invisible shields. Tamas lit more powder, throwing the bullets harder.

Olem scrambled to his feet. He raced past Nikslaus, sword in hand, only to stop as five Church guards rushed into the room. They looked toward Nikslaus and Tamas, regarded their silent battle, and turned on Olem.

Tamas gripped the head of his cane. His advances were getting closer to Nikslaus as the sorcerer’s defense weakened. He could only deflect the bullets so fast, and Tamas wouldn’t give him the time to erect a better barrier with his sorcery. Tamas flicked his gaze toward Olem. The soldier had taken down one enemy, but there were too many. He was being pushed back, almost even with Nikslaus.