Shattering the Ley (49 page)

The older Dog laughed, the sound hollow in the cavernous warehouse. “Good to see you, too, old partner,” he said, but his voice was dark and promised blood. “I never expected you to return to Erenthrall. I was shocked when you fled—all of the Dogs were—but none more so than me. I sent a Hound after you, after your betrayal, but he claimed you weren’t part of the Kormanley. And the Baron was too busy destroying them to worry about a deserter Dog. After the Purge, no one cared anymore about a traitor who’d already fled the city. No one except me. And now here you are.” His voice hardened. “Didn’t I warn you that no one—
no one
—ever leaves the Dogs?”

Allan tensed as ten other Dogs stepped into the lantern light. Behind Hagger, Vanter grimaced. He shot a glance toward his men, who began shifting out of the Dogs’ way.

The black market dealer’s face settled into distaste as he caught Allan’s eyes. “He came to me,” he said apologetically. “And I have a business to run.”

Then he turned and motioned his own men into the shadows of the warehouse.

Allan spat a curse, searching frantically for a way out. The main doors were clear . . . but he knew that Hagger would never have left them uncovered. The movements in the alley must have been Dogs waiting to close the trap, not the gutterscum he’d assumed. Which meant Hagger wanted him to run, wanted him to try to escape. The street outside must be packed with Dogs.

He turned away from the doors and gripped his blade tighter. He’d trained hard while in the Hollow, but not enough to best this many men. Yet he couldn’t lose; he had to get back to Morrell.

Some of the other Dogs had edged forward. The two horses sensed the tension in the room and snorted, shying away from those closest, their feet pawing the rough stone floor. Allan ignored them and the Dogs, focusing on Hagger.

“What’s wrong, Hagger? Your pack seems hesitant.”

Hagger scowled and gestured with one hand.

Three of the Dogs moved in instantly, the youngest of the group, their faces only minimally scarred, but their eyes dark with hatred. Allan’s stomach roiled sickeningly—Hagger wanted to play, otherwise he’d send them all in at once—but then the one on the right struck.

Allan moved, stepping forward into the swing, catching the Dog’s blade with his own even as he twisted inside the youth’s guard and slammed his elbow into his gut, then rotated his clenched fist up into his face. The Dog gasped and staggered back, but Allan had already turned to the other two, coming in hard. He parried the first’s blade, kicked his knee out from beneath him, and barely managed to turn the second’s sword. He wrapped his free arm around the second attacker’s throat, slipping in behind him and leaning him backward, then spun both of them around to face the rest of the Dogs.

None of them had moved. Of the three who’d attacked, one lay on the floor moaning. The other climbed to his feet, favoring one leg, his grimace vicious.

Allan tightened his hold, the Dog flailing, back bent into an awkward stance. His face began turning red and his breath escaped in harsh, desperate exhalations.

A moment later, his struggles increased and his eyes began to flutter. Then his body went limp, his sword clattering to the floor from his loosened grip. Allan eased his body to the ground and stepped to one side, the wagon again at his back.

“You aren’t training them as good as you used to, Hagger,” he said.

Hagger glowered. “You’ve had more practice.”

The remaining seven moved in suddenly, joined by the one remaining, limping Pup. Allan met them head on, swords clashing, men grunting as blows were landed, blades slicing into skin. He’d tried not to harm the Pups, but he released himself on the Dogs, taking every advantage presented. He cut clean through one Dog’s guard, his blade sinking into the man’s chest, but as he roared in pain and reared back, someone cut in along Allan’s thigh. The sting of the blade made Allan hiss, but he turned, flashed his blade across the Dog’s face, and punched hard with his left hand. Pain flared in his lower back—another cut, another slash of blood—followed by one to his upper arm. A glancing blow numbed his sword arm. He felt his blade tumble from his fingers, closed them into a fist and began to brawl, punching hard left and right, aiming for faces, for kidneys. He heard Hagger bellow something, felt the Dogs shift patterns, swords giving way to fists. He sucked air through his clenched teeth as blows landed hard, coming from all sides. A punch caught him on the jaw, another driving into his lower back, and as he bent into the pain, someone hit him with a sharp upper cut.

His head snapped back and he fell, dazed, the world tilting around him, the lantern light blurred. Stone slammed into his face and he tasted blood as he bit the inside of his mouth. Fists shifted to kicks, boots slamming into his gut, and he unconsciously curled to protect his stomach. His ears rang, the sounds of the beating muffled, and as the taste of copper and salt filled his mouth he thought of Morrell. What would she do when he didn’t return? Would she flee back to the Hollow? He wasn’t even certain she could find it on her own.

At least he hadn’t brought her with him.

Then, dimly, he realized the Dogs had stopped.

He opened his eyes—didn’t remember closing them—and blinked through the haze of pain. He heard heavy footfalls, rolled his head back and rocked half onto his back to see Hagger approaching, his old partner halting to stare down at him. He grinned, then knelt, reaching out to seize Allan’s jaw with one hand, pinching hard to keep Allan focused.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Hagger said.

“What if he doesn’t cooperate?”

“Oh, he’ll cooperate.” Hagger released his jaw and motioned to one side. “Won’t you, Allan?”

Allan concentrated, blinking the haze from his eyes—

And then his chest seized, his body going still, his eyes wide.

From the depths of the warehouse, two Dogs appeared, shoving Morrell before them.

Hagger stood. “Take them to the Amber Tower.”

Dalton read the orders from Baron Leethe one more time, controlling the tremors in his hands with effort, then set the single sheet of thick paper onto the table before him. The Baron’s representative stood on the other side, watching him through narrowed eyes. He wore street clothes, nothing that would make him stand out in West Forks, but he’d recited the correct code words, and the paper the orders from Leethe were written on was of the same coarse stock Dalton had given the Baron for use in communications. But still Dalton hesitated. There was tension in the air. He could feel it pressing against his skin, against the inside of his head, like the approach of a storm. He sensed it in his visions.

“Are the orders clear?” Leethe’s messenger asked.

“The orders are clear.”

“Then your Benefactor expects you to carry them out.” The messenger turned to leave, reaching for the door.

“How much longer will he need our services?” Dalton asked.

The messenger halted, half turned back. “I do not know his wishes. I am simply a courier.” But there was a hint of warning in the man’s voice, that perhaps Dalton had overstepped his bounds. It said that the Baron’s wishes were his own and none of Dalton’s concern.

But Dalton thought the Baron was nearly finished with them. The courier had been too abrupt. And then there was the tension and his dreams.

He realized the courier was waiting for a response. “Tell the Benefactor I await his next message.”

The messenger nodded and ducked out through the door into the hallway beyond. He had been escorted to the room by Dierdre, the woman closing the door behind him without entering herself. But Dalton knew that Dierdre would have wound her way through the building’s halls to listen at the door behind him. When he heard it creak open, he was not startled.

“What does the Benefactor want?” Dierdre asked as soon as they heard the outer door close behind the courier.

“What he always wants,” Dalton answered, handing the sheet of paper to Dierdre. “Tell Marcus to implement these changes in the ley as soon as possible.”

“All of these changes? What about our own plans? Isn’t it time to begin bringing down the Nexus? Marcus says he thinks he sees how it could be done. His experiences manipulating the Nexus have given him some insight into how it works. You said yourself it feels as if everything is coming to a head now. Perhaps this is our opportunity to interrupt the Benefactor’s plans and take out the Nexus.”

Dalton nodded, his eyes still on the empty hallway before him. “The culmination is near. The visions proclaim it, and I feel it in every sinew in my body.”

“But?”

He raised his trembling hands before him, willed them to stillness, but the doubts that plagued him and the terror of the visions wouldn’t allow for calmness and they continued to shake. He let them drop to the table again. Was this their opportunity? If he didn’t act now, would the Baron succeed in whatever it was he intended? Or was it too early?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell.

“It is not yet time. Tell Marcus to make the indicated changes, as written.”

Dierdre hesitated. Dalton could taste her doubt on the air, acrid and bitter, but she turned and left, the coarse paper rustling as the door closed behind her.

Dalton bowed his head, a wave of regret sweeping through him. For a single moment, the fires of his vision consumed him to his core, seared him with the certainty that he had made a mistake, that he had let his chance pass by.

But then the fires faded and he was left only with his fears.

Baron Arent cut through a section of lamb, the meat tender and perfectly cooked. Captain Daedallen sat to his left, looking uncomfortable at the formal setting, as if he wasn’t certain which fork to use, or what the shallow bowl of lavender-scented water to one side was for, although he had attended formal dinners before. The rest of the lengthy table was empty, although a seat awaited the arrival of Prime Augustus to Arent’s right.

The two ate in silence, Daedallen having already delivered his report. Arent hid his own rage in the meticulous slicing of meat. He could not quite control the tic near his temple.

Twenty eternal minutes later, the door on the far end of the room opened and Prime Augustus entered, pausing as he noticed Daedallen, then moving down the length of the room toward them.

Arent’s rage faltered only a moment when he saw how exhausted Augustus looked, his eyes sunken in their sockets, his face drawn and haggard. He motioned toward the empty seat.

“Join us. Eat. Daedallen has heard back from the Hound sent to Tumbor. You need to hear his report.”

With a small nod from Arent, Daedallen set down his fork and focused on Augustus. “The Hound believes Baron Leethe has been behind our recent troubles with the ley network. He has discovered that Leethe, with the cooperation of the Primes in Tumbor, has created his own secondary Nexus, one to rival that of Erenthrall.”

Arent watched Augustus closely. The Prime Wielder stared at Daedallen in incomprehension, back hunched over.

“He has created a new Nexus,” Arent said, barely controlling his anger. “He has forsaken the contract with Erenthrall, with you, with
me
!”

Augustus gaped, as if Arent’s rage had finally pierced through the weariness that lay over him like a shroud. He straightened, glanced toward Daedallen, who remained silent, his expression clouded, then back toward Arent. “A new Nexus? Leethe?”

“Is it possible?” Arent snapped. “Is it possible that the Primes in Tumbor have turned traitor? Is it possible they could construct a Nexus equivalent to that here in Erenthrall? Could Leethe seize control of the ley?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

Arent slammed his palm down on the table, glassware and silverware jumping, the sharp sound startling in the elegant silence of the room. “Gods damn it, Augustus! Wake up! Is it possible for Leethe to take control of the ley?”

Anger flared through Augustus’ eyes and he clamped his mouth shut, teeth grinding. Arent didn’t care, as long as it brought the Prime out of his lethargy. He needed answers. He needed confirmation.

He needed to take back control.

“I don’t think so,” Augustus snarled, his back rigid now, but doubt marred his expression. “But . . .”