House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (39 page)

The fireball exploded with a scream of agony, and the flare of light and heat was so intense that Simon threw up a hand to protect his face. The second he could see again, he ran as fast as he could. With the strength and speed of Valinhall in him, he should be able to out-pace any reaction of the Overlord’s. He hoped.

But he didn’t run at Malachi. On an instinct, he ran at Petrus.

The old, fat Traveler looked startled, but he had obviously prepared a defense. A swarm of glowing orange wasps, each the size of Simon’s two fists together, raced from the air before Petrus’ red-marked hand. Behind him, Simon heard the cries of another one of those spectral orange fireballs.

Simon drew on the Nye essence to its limits, so that the fiery wasps seemed to crawl toward him. Azura sliced one of the insects in half, but even that strike seemed slow to him.

“Si...mon...” the Overlord called from his throne. His voice sounded odd, not only slowed like everything else, but also for some reason slightly deeper.

Simon flicked another pair of wasps from the air and kept moving forward. Alarm spread across Petrus’ face, but so slowly that it was almost comical.
 

“Face...me!” Malachi demanded. Was that just the strange effect on his voice, or did he actually sound afraid? “Come...here!”

Azura slashed again, taking the rest of the glowing wasps from the air. But Simon hadn’t realized how close he had come, or else he wasn’t quite used to Azura’s length yet. The blade’s tip drew a ragged slice diagonally down across Petrus’ broad chest, then dug into the Traveler’s left hand at the wrist. With the speed of the Nye, Simon was forced to watch every detail as Azura parted skin, flesh, and bone, as Petrus’ face bunched up in horror. His left hand tumbled to the tiles.

Then the essence flooded out, his lungs warmed, and time resumed its normal flow. Petrus collapsed, staring at his bleeding stump, too shocked to even scream.

But he had left the door unguarded.

Malachi yelled something again, panic evident in his voice this time, and Simon knew he had been right. Malachi had had some special reason to guard this door instead of the other, though he had tried to distract attention from that fact. Was it Leah, perhaps? Did this door lead up to her tower?

He pulled open the door and jumped inside, ducking to avoid the fireball he was sure would be coming.

Nothing happened. No fire. Malachi wasn’t even yelling, though Simon thought he heard running footsteps coming this direction. Simon looked up, intending to take a look around...

...and found himself almost nose-to-nose with a woman in a long purple dress. She was perhaps five years older than Simon, crouched on the floor, wearing a purple silk dress and dangling gold earrings. She held a dark-haired little girl in each hand, pressed against her shoulders. The woman was pretty, maybe beautiful, but her black eyes pressed against Simon like daggers.

“Do it, murderer,” she spat. “If you are that low.”

Simon wondered what she was talking about until he thought to glance down at Azura. The blade was so long that it took up most of the little room—a bedroom, now that he had the chance to look around—and he had barely paid attention when he threw himself in here. Azura’s edge pressed against the woman’s neck, hard enough that blood trickled down the front of her dress.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
:

B
AD
H
ABITS

Simon jerked himself back as though burned, letting his sword vanish. He almost stumbled as he stepped back, his foot catching the edge of his cloak. It was a miracle he had not killed the woman. Or one of the children, even. His hands trembled at the thought.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Simon said, because he could not think of anything else to say. The woman’s glare faltered a little.

The footsteps caught up, and Simon turned to face the door. Malachi stood there, fear on his face, clothes rumpled. “Out here, Simon. Let’s finish it out here.” His voice held a strange, trembling mixture of fear, anger, and that tone people used to calm dangerous animals and madmen.

“Your wife and children?” Simon asked.
 

“No,” the Overlord said, but his face said he was lying. “Servants. They are nothing to us. Just leave them be.”

Simon didn’t know much about life in Bel Calem, but he doubted the Overlord’s servants wore silk dresses and gold jewelry.
 

“I won’t hurt them,” Simon said. “But I should.” He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it wasn’t calm. The steel faded as well, leaving him aching inside and out. “The Traveler you sent killed my mother.”

Fear flashed on Malachi’s face again, and he held his empty palms out. Simon kept an eye on the one with the red brand. If Malachi so much as twitched it suspiciously, he would attack, never mind that the man’s wife and children were watching. Then Malachi’s face clouded over with confusion.

“Wait. Your village. What are you talking about?”

“Myria village,” Simon said angrily. “Where I’m from. And Leah. Your men came into my home and killed my people.”

“
That?
This is all over
that?
” Malachi passed his un-branded hand through his hair. “Seven stones, I have had more trouble over that village...Simon, believe me, I am sorry about your mother. I truly am. But this was just the sacrifice. Everybody pays the sacrifice! It’s only nine people a year, out of the whole kingdom. Every village pays at least once. There won’t be a sacrifice from that village again in your lifetime or mine.”
 

“As if that makes it better,” Simon said. He forced his hand to stop trembling.

Malachi licked his lips. “Please, Simon. Let them go.”

Simon held the Overlord’s gaze for a moment, but he was the one to look away first. “I’m not going to hurt them,” he said again.
 

“Then come out of there. We’ll talk, I promise. And I can get some help for Petrus before he bleeds to death.”

Simon winced. “I just want Leah. Just tell me how to get to Leah, and you’ll never see me again.”

The Overlord kept one eye on Simon, but he had pulled off his belt and was cinching it tight around a semi-conscious Petrus’ bleeding hand. A tourniquet, Simon guessed. “Simon...the door to the tower is behind my seat, just to the right of the window you broke. You passed within five feet of it when you came in.”

Simon nodded and walked out the door of the bedroom, never taking his eyes from the Overlord. He did not trust Malachi’s given word, not really, but he at least hoped to stall the man until his Nye essence had refilled.

“I never wanted this,” Malachi said. He kept tightening the belt around Petrus’ wrist. “This whole thing. It’s a mess. I just wanted them to leave us alone—Enosh, the King, that girl, everyone.”

“You mean Leah?” Simon asked. Shadowy chains slid, slow and icy, down toward his wrists. “She did leave you alone. You kidnapped her!”

“She’s...” Malachi’s mouth twisted. “I can’t say anything else. Just take her. Take her out of my home, don’t look back, and good riddance. But don’t set your hopes too high on her, Simon. She will let you down.”

“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded. But he didn’t get an answer. Behind him, the door blew open on an explosion that rocked the entire house, and the room filled with golden light.

“Overlord Malachi!” Alin yelled, and his voice belonged to a king pronouncing judgment. He looked years older than he had only hours before. His blue suit, already torn, was now shredded as though he had rolled around on a bed of knives. A patch of black ash rested over his heart, and smoke billowed from him as though he had just stepped from an oven. And he glowed. He actually radiated angelic light, making his golden hair gleam like a crown.

In spite of himself, Simon was impressed.

Malachi rose to his feet at Alin’s words, standing over Petrus. He opened his mouth to respond, but apparently his action was the only answer Alin needed.

“Simon, move!” Alin shouted, and thrust his hand forward.

The shadow-chains pressed like ice against Simon’s arms, and the place in his mind where the Nye essence usually rested felt empty. So he did the only thing he could do: he staggered away from Malachi as fast as his wounded legs would carry him.

Not too soon. A stream of gold light, pure as lightning, blasted from Alin’s palm toward the Overlord in an eruption of violent energy. There wasn’t as much heat as Simon would have expected, but even standing five feet away from the actual strike, Simon felt the force of it catch him in the side and send him tumbling to the tiles.

A Gate to some red cavern hung in the air in front of Malachi; through it, Simon saw the gold light streak into the distance and blast a crimson stalactite from a far-distant ceiling. But the Gate hadn’t stopped the strike entirely. Only half had passed through into Malachi’s Territory, and the rest had struck the wall above and behind the Overlord’s head.

A huge snapping sound echoed through the chamber, like an enormous tree breaking under its own weight, and the ceiling of the bedroom behind Malachi collapsed.

With his wife and children still inside.

Malachi screamed and took one half-step toward the bedroom, letting his Gate close. But with a pained look on his face, he visibly forced himself to stop and turn toward Alin, trembling with emotion.

“I won’t let you get away with—” Alin began, but Malachi’s voice cut him off.

“Shut up,” Malachi said quietly. He began stalking toward Alin, reaching into his purple jacket with one hand as he did. “I’ve tried everything to settle this in a civilized manner. But you just won’t let me go, will you? Fine, then.” And he removed something from his jacket pocket.

Simon wasn’t at the best position to see what Malachi held in his hand, but it looked like one half of a shallow red bowl that had been shattered down the middle. No, not a bowl. A mask?

Simon,
Otoku warned.
That thing is dangerous.
No trace of her usual sarcasm remained, which did more to convince Simon of the danger than any whispered warning.

Malachi pressed the red half-mask against the right side of his face, where it stuck without anything visibly tying it on. The Overlord took a deep breath, and the wind whispered as though the entire room breathed with him.

“I’ll deal with this as an Overlord should,” Malachi said. His voice was granite.

Alin didn’t respond, but hurled a blast of golden light. Malachi didn’t shield himself this time; he reached up a hand and snatched the ball of golden light out of the air. Just grabbed it in one bare hand, as though catching a thrown apple. Then he squeezed, and the light popped like a pricked bubble.
 

There was a silent explosion of light when he did so, and Simon struggled to stay on his feet, but Malachi barely seemed to notice. “My turn,” he said, and waved his hand in a small circle, palm down. That was all it took.
 

A thousand orbs of screaming orange flame, all as big as the one that had chased Simon earlier, rushed down from the ceiling and flowed toward Alin in a burning, howling gale. Even across the room, Simon felt the air slap at him like a hot desert wind.

And that settled it: it was past time for Simon to be gone.

Simon turned and glanced behind him. The door behind the throne was unguarded. He could slip away now, and maybe he and Leah could make it down into the city while the other two Travelers fought. But then again...

In the other direction, he could barely see into the broken bedroom through a half-collapsed doorway and a cloud of dust. The room was silent. Malachi’s family could be dead, or they could be trapped under a thousand pounds of rubble, unable to cry out. Simon had a vision of one of the girls he had seen earlier trying to push a chunk of wood off of her, to move it just enough that she could get a full breath. She had looked only about seven years old.
 

I’m an idiot
, he sent to his doll, and crept forward to the bedroom. Malachi, standing ten feet away, flicked his eyes toward Simon. For a moment Simon tensed, prepared to summon strength and Azura both. But the Overlord said nothing, turning back to face Alin. Either Malachi trusted Simon, which was a ridiculous thought, or he didn’t consider Simon any threat. Either way, Simon was glad of it.

The doorway was partially collapsed and half-filled with wood and plaster. Simon knelt and shoved one beam aside; the whole pile creaked dangerously.

He stood back and considered his options, shooting glances from time to time back at the battle behind him. A gold-skinned man in armor stood over Alin, swatting fireballs out of the air with a spinning staff of pure gold. Malachi waved his hand, and ants the size of wolfhounds crawled out of nowhere and skittered towards Alin, blazing with all the colors of flame.

If Simon had needed another reason to hurry, he had one now. He pulled his hood up and tightened the cloak around him. The cloak would be no help against anything that either Traveler would summon, but somehow it made him feel more secure. He slipped underneath the cracked doorway.

Half of the bed had fallen in, leaving it standing on only two feet, but Simon had last seen Malachi’s family huddling at the end of it. He decided to make his way toward the bed, as carefully as possible.

Can you help?
he asked.

Of course I can,
Otoku responded.
Run as fast as you can and never look back. You’re welcome.

A voice like a devil from the blackest pits of Naraka boomed out behind Simon: “YOUR DEATH WILL BE SWEET ON MY TONGUE.” Simon refused to turn around.
 

The quicker I find them...
Simon said.

Fine. They’re under the bed.

Alive?

They’re not moving. Perhaps they’re simply asleep
.
 

The wail of the orange fireballs sounded like a chorus of tormented souls.
Nobody in the city could sleep through that
, Simon said.