Ageless Fury Page 9

  She cut her thought short. Ava sensed Elhora’s frustration and refused to add to it. She shook her head in disagreement, then settled on something they could both agree.

  “He was the best man I ever knew.”

  Elhora nodded. “Aye. He was. Would have done it for any of them,” she added, waving a hand across the crowded tavern.

  Ava snorted in disbelief. “Them? Half of them will be on the next ship to the east. The other half will only take what they can from you. They have nothing to give anyone. Why would he…”

  “No!” Elhora objected. The word was becoming all too familiar, and Ava hated that she continued to provoke her grief-stricken friend. “You know nothing, my child.”

  Elhora waved a finger toward Dari. “The little one. What his story?”

  Dari turned his head to sneak a peek at Ava, then tucked his head against her waist. Ava responded only with a shrug. “I—I don’t know, actually. He bumped into me this morning. Just about knocked me over.”

  Ava motioned to the corner, behind the stairs. “He huddled in the shadow, but I couldn’t get him to talk.” She pulled Dari’s hair back, leaning over to see his face. “Something happened, though. Something terrible.”

  “And what do you expect from him?” Elhora asked, her words short and firm. “You want him to protect you?”

  Ava drew a faint smile, knowing the question wasn’t meant to be a joke. “Of course not.” Ava ran her fingers through his hair once more. “He’s terrified. I want to protect him.”

  “Now you see,” Elhora interjected, pointing to the side of her head. “Now, you know my Dijor.” She motioned to the market, beyond the shattered windows. “This town has fallen, my child. These people, they cannot stop it any more than they can stop the rain. They cannot protect themselves. So, they flee.”

  Elhora pointed once again to Dari. “He could not protect himself. So, he flee. Yet here you are, to protect him.” She turned to the crowded inn, speaking in a hushed tone. “These people have lost everything, my child. Who protects them?”

  Ava’s shoulders slumped, and her eyes fell to the floor. Her gaze turned to the cautious onlookers; their attention still locked onto her. They wore a blend of horror, surprise, and contempt, yet Ava could explain neither.

  “I best be going to Dijor, my child,” Elhora stated, rising to her feet. “I trust Viktor is no longer in a sour mood?”

  Ava stared back, but could not answer the question. She remembered the morning vividly. Was it a dream?

  “Child?” Elhora repeated, her eyebrow curling upward. “Viktor, he’s…”

  “Dead,” Ava whispered, not realizing the word had slipped from her lips.

  Elhora’s mouth continued to move, but words had stopped coming. Her face was cloaked in disbelief while Ava stared into nothingness, her eyes unfocused.

  “She’ll kill us all. That’s what Thibold said.” Ava looked to her friend, mouth wide open, unable to say what she was thinking. “Dijor is dead. Mr. Aerent is dead. Viktor—is dead.”

  Elhora continued to stare wordlessly as Ava lifted her hands to examine her palms, dried blood still caked within their lines.

  “I was dead.”

  A subtle murmur rippled nearby, growing louder as it passed throughout the crowd.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Viktor’s Gone?”

  The murmur grew to a rumble, and the familiar curses returned.

  “She killed him!”

  “I told you she’s a monster!”

  Several armed men sprinted to the stairwell, the sound of their boots echoing a hollow chorus throughout the inn. They raced upstairs and around the corner, disappearing down the hallway.

  Elhora quickly stood, offering a glance to Ava. “I must tend to Dijor.” She picked up the loose ends of her dress and hurried up the stairwell, disappearing around the same corner. Floorboards ushered in the rhythmic creak of boots, growing louder while two of Viktor’s men approached, weapons drawn.

  “You murdered the king?” one of them said, raising his sword to Ava’s face.

  Ava pulled Dari from her waist, turning his eyes away from the weapon. She placed a hand on his back and motioned toward Lazarus with the other. “Can you sit here for a moment? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  She rose to her feet, focused on the young boy as he slid along the bench. When Dari reached Lazarus, Ava narrowed her gaze and turned to the mercenary. She steadied her feet and approached, pressing her chest against the tip of his outstretched blade.

  “You will not keep me here,” Ava snarled, clenching her teeth.

  The mercenaries chuckled, “that’s not for you to decide now, is it, whore?” He leaned in, tapping the tip of the sword against her breast. “The king can decide what to do with you.”

  “Cambria has a king,” she said, taking another step forward. She felt the blade’s cool tip press through her silken tunic. “Cyrea has a king.” Ava pressed further, feeling the sword pinch against her chest.

  “Ventera—HAS NO KING!” She screamed. Ava grabbed the edge of the blade and flung it to the side, stepping to within inches of the mercenary’s face, her words dipped in venom. “Just spineless puppets and the inbred pipers to lead them.”.

  The mercenary’s eyes grew wide, glancing to his comrade. Together, they regained their resolve and stood tall. The men snarled and raised their weapons as an enormous shadow stepped behind them.

  Dain lifted one mercenary by the neck, spun, and flung him through the air. His limp body tumbled as he screamed, then crashed through splintered ballisters. His helpless form broke through the wall before collapsing onto the landing. Dain reached for the other, clutching the man’s vest. He lifted the mercenary high into the air, then drove his body straight through the floorboards. Splintered pieces of wood shot to the ceiling as the lifeless form disappeared, replaced by a gaping hole in the center of the inn.

  The Huntsmen snarled, eyeing what remained of the mercenaries. A calm returned to his face as he extended his hand, to which Ava accepted. She stepped forward, her head coming no higher than his massive chest.

  Dain nodded to Ava, glancing to the set of doors that marked the entrance to the inn. “Go.”

  Ava cupped her hand over Dain’s wrist.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “And I’m not a monster.”

  Dain leaned in and lowered his voice, offering a mischievous wink. “Neither am I.” And with that, he was gone, returning to his table of fellow Hunstmen.

  A cool breeze blew across Ava’s chest. She glanced down, studying the slit across her tunic. “Dammit,” she whispered, pulling the thin fabric over her shoulder, only to have it fall to her elbow a moment later. Ava looked to her hand, sliced open by the mercenary’s blade. Blood pooled between her fingertips. Infuriated, she squeezed her fist, recalling her mother’s fateful words.

  “Calm the storm, Ava.”

  Yet anger coursed through her veins, at the mercenaries, and the stares of those that would judge her. She loosened her fingers; the flow of blood persisted. She cursed under her breath before stepping to Dari. Ava extended her other hand, pulling him from the bench. She mustered a genuine smile and asked if he was ready to go.

  Ava took one last glance to the balcony and darted for the entrance, pulling Dari behind her. She stepped upon the landing and stared into the streets. A chill shot up her spine. This was the closest she had ever been. She was finally free.

  Shrill cries echoed in the distance, deep within Wyvern’s Rest. Dari gasped. He yanked free of Ava’s hand and leapt for the darkened corner of the stairwell. She lunged, grasping the collar of his tunic. Ava knelt before him as tears streamed down his terrified expression.

  “What is that?” Ava asked, wrapping her arms around the petrified child.

  The cries rang out again, closer and more intense. Panicked civilians rushed into the inn, some dusty and worn, others soaking wet and shivering. They all wore the same, terrified expression as they scrambled pas
t her, desperate for the farthest corners of the inn.

  Ava fought to keep her balance, but the mob continued to press against her. She stumbled over the landing and fell to her back as the frenzied crowd pushed through.

  Ava rose to her feet, pulling Dari against the flow of the crowd. She leaned toward the tavern entrance and stopped. Standing before her was a pair of men, both soaked, both looking equally disfavored. An older man, dressed as a merchant, tugged against his pointed beard, purposefully groomed to the style of the courts of Cambridge. His robes had been blue, at one point, but were now stained by the blackened sand of the Abyssal Sea. He had the look of someone hiding something, yet searching for something else.

  A Cambrian Officer leaned against the old merchant. His cobalt blue, regal uniform had been sliced head to toe, and one leg appeared useless, twisted, and broken. He bore a mask of pain, yet not for the obvious reasons. His pain was born somewhere deeper. It was a look she had known all too well in Wyvern’s Rest. Dari wore the mask when he ran to the darkened corner, and Taryn wore it when she left him at the base of the stairs. This soldier had lost someone, someone very close to him.

  A half dozen blue-cloaked soldiers filed in behind the officer. All had been gravely wounded, and each, to the man, wreaked of pain and defeat. Their armor had been slashed, their shields pierced. They looked as though spawned from a nightmare, or at least, very recently survived one.

  Ava grabbed Dari’s wrist and stepped back onto the landing, only to meet the extended hand of the Cambrian Officer. “Apologies, my lady. There’s something you should know.”

  The older gentleman raised his hands and stepped around Ava, pleading to the crowd. “Ladies, gentleman. Please, you must listen.” He motioned to the Cambrian soldiers, who formed a line before the tavern exit. He returned to the crowd, “You are all in grave danger. An army will be upon us. We have but precious moments to prepare.”

  Ava gasped; her pulse raced. Her gaze returned to the wounded Cambrian officer, the gashes in his armor, and the solemn expression he continued to bear. “An army?” Ava pulled Dari before them, nodding to the small boy as she motioned toward the tavern entrance. “But we must leave. We need to find his…”

  “My Lady,” the merchant interrupted. His gaze wandered down her arms and toward her feet. It wasn’t where most men stared, but a good man always looked her in the eye. “Davilla. Amoran, I mean.” He took a deep breath and straightened his robes. “My name is Amoran. This is Lieutenant Anduin Celaera. My lady, we were on the road and we were…attacked.”

  Amoran looked briefly at the lieutenant’s leg, then up to the man himself. They shared a glance of understanding before his gaze returned to Ava. Fighting back his emotions, he continued. “We’ve all lost someone this day, my Lady. We would like nothing more than to return to the streets and continue our search. But…”

  “They’re coming,” Lieutenant Celaera interrupted. He hobbled on one leg, using a shattered sword to support the other. He lowered his voice while his eyes glanced to the rest of the inn. “They will be upon us like a wave. They will stop at nothing, and there will be no survivors unless we leave—now.”

  Ava turned to Amoran, who met her with a shrug and a reluctant nod. Her gaze bounced between the men and the street behind them, her portal to freedom so close.

  Anduin stepped forward, lowering his gaze to meet Ava. “We could use your assistance…” He paused, tilting his head as though he had forgotten something.

  “Ava,” she obliged, with a sigh and a glance to the tavern goers lining the walls. A knot formed in her stomach, glancing between the streets and the huddled bodies within the inn.

  A smile etched into the soldier’s expression. It was warm, inviting, not at all what Ava expected. “Very good, Ava. Would you be able to help us escort…”

  Anduin’s words continued, but Ava’s attention strayed. A vile scent invaded her world, as if someone had poured honey all over the ass end of a dead hog. Her fists tightened while rage raced through her heart. Her hair bristled. Her teeth clenched. There was only one smell that could produce that level of anger, fear, hatred, and disgust—one smell in all of Kel Doran.

  “He’s here,” Ava said, her anger seething.

  Anduin lifted his gaze, glancing toward the heart of the inn. “My lady?”

  Ava scanned the sea of faces, praying she wouldn’t find the source of the stench. Her horrified gaze leapt to the stairs before landing on the balcony high overhead. Overlooking the crowd stood a man. His auburn skin had turned a milky white. His deviled eyes were bloodshot. His hair and clothes were a disheveled mess, and his menacing shadow loomed over the belly of the inn.

  “Viktor.”

  | Chapter XII

  Die Trying

  The expedition wound eastward through rolling hills and winding valleys, to the heart of the Valshyr Forest. Hour by hour, the mist thickened to a dense fog that could be cut with a blade. Visibility in the hills became challenging. Visibility in the valleys became nothing.

  The expedition broke for camp a few times a day, always on the highest point of the tallest hill. Most of the journey, however, was spent in the obscured darkness of the mist. Celien and her family traveled blindly while the sun peaked beyond the northern horizon, their trust lying within the slender silhouette at the head of the caravan.

  Aside from the blistering winds in some valleys, the trek from the port of Sal’Kirathi had been animated. Expedition members had kept their conversations lively, their banter light and hearty. Archeologists and scholars exchanged verbal jousts while Cyrean and Saracian guards took idle jabs at one another. Marina and the other children were wide-eyed and excited about discovering new lands while Celien and Eramus set high expectations on unlocking the secrets of the mist.

  As the expedition traversed the foggy forest valley, however, all was silent. Scholars had nothing left to argue about, guards set aside their differences, and the hopes of the Caro Expedition had all but vanished.

  Cass and the other injured Cyrean guards had grown restless, all attempts to sleep rendered useless. Meanwhile, Syndra kept a vigilant watch over the dead. For two nights, she forfeited sleep, intent on watching over them while a bonfire of pale blue flame flickered nearby.

  On the second night, Celien laid awake, staring at the stars as they peeked through the mist. Syndra’s words, and their meaning, haunted her dreams and left her wondering what was in store for the expedition—and her family. Hopes of making the archeological discovery of the ages became a distant dream, replaced by nightmares of the mist and creatures risen from the ash.

  She rolled onto her side, soaking in the faces of Eramus and Marina, sleeping peacefully in the brisk night air. Behind them, Celien glimpsed Syndra. Pale blue shadows danced through feathered braids, bone armor, and countless scars. The sentinel stood watch, kneeling over the fallen Saracian warriors.

  A cool breeze blew across the camp, sending a shiver up Celien’s spine, yet as she stared at the Kurodai warrior, Syndra never flinched. Her back, waist, arms, and legs were exposed to the elements, yet she never moved a muscle. Celien withdrew from her blanket, propping herself on an elbow. The night air bit at her arm, sending it hurtling back under the covers, yet the warrior stayed vigilant, watching over the dead.

  Celien eased out of her bedroll, carefully rolling away from Marina. She wrapped herself in her blanket while the bitter air nipped at her wrists and ankles. She tiptoed across the camp, testing to see if she could walk on top of the ash. She could not. Each step propelled her foot downward, resting on small rocks, gravel, and loose dirt.

  She paused for a moment, her foot settling into the—is this really dirt?

  “You should be sleeping, Professor Caro,” came the familiar, fluid tone of Syndra Caitori. Her head never moved, and her posture never wavered. As though speaking to the dead, she continued, “We have one more day to reach Feathermoon.”

  Celien paused once again, confident she had not made any noise. She sig
hed, slumped her shoulders, and trudged on until she reached the fire. She knelt alongside the warrior, trying to mimic her posture, but sank to her waist in a dune of ash. Frustrated, Celien tried once more to stand, cover her marks, and kneel again, with similar results. “Dammit! I don’t see how you do that!”

  Syndra diverted her gaze, eying Celien’s legs as they settled into the dune. “You and your family—you’re from the coast, yes?”

  Celien looked up, rolling her eyes. “How…never mind. I’m not going to ask how you knew that.” She adjusted, crouching to be eye level with the sentinel. “What does that have to do with sinking into piles of ash?”

  A smile cracked from the corner of Syndra’s lips. “Nothing.”

  Celien waited in silence, expecting there to be more to the statement. After a moment, Syndra graciously expanded.

  “You can move across the water. Yes? Even under?”

  Celien furrowed her brow, drawing her blanket tight around her shoulders. “You can’t swim?” For the slightest moment, she felt a little better about herself.

  Syndra continued to gaze at the fallen, adding, “You learned to move through your environment.” She then angled her head, her silver eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I have learned to move through mine.”

  Celien pursed her lips, satisfied with the explanation—for now. “How did you hear me anyway?”

  A subtle curl etched into Syndra’s lips. “Why do you assume I heard you?”

  Celien’s mouth fell open. “Well, I just. I mean, you had to have…”

  “I hear the wind,” Syndra interrupted. “I hear your words, and I hear the voices of the forest.” Her eyes drifted away from the bodies, staring out over the forest valley and the swirling clouds of mist.

  “But, you should not assume I heard you approaching.”

  Celien chuckled, certain Syndra was playing some sort of mind game. She rubbed her hands together, fighting off the bitter cold, then placed her palms out against the warmth of the blue flame. Or, she expected there to be warmth. She withdrew her hands and examined them. Yet as she inched closer, there was no heat—no warmth from the fire. She extended a hand to the side, drawing it closer to the flame. Her fingers inched forward while the flames whipped in the breeze, casting the entire camp in shades of blue.