Two columns stood sentry at the door, joined by another iron gate. The great door behind it, arched and ominous, was chained and padlocked shut. Overhead, stained-glass windows ran intact along the walls. Jordin couldn’t make out the scenes but they were always the same: the horrors of the Zealot Wars…. the philosopher Sirin cradling a dove of peace…. and always, just above the altar, Megas holding the bound Book of Orders, canonized under his rule.
Jordin considered the wrought-iron fence. Five feet tall, it ran fifty yards in either direction from the outermost gate and apparently around the whole complex.
“The grounds behind are our best bet. There’s a rear entrance.”
“Where is the entrance?”
“In the cellar.”
“And from there?”
“We follow the tunnel that leads to the Citadel.” That was putting it simply; the maze itself might trap the unwitting pursuer for hours—even days. Longer, if they never found their way out.
“You remember the way?”
“I hope so.”
He cast her a glance. Her memory was clearly a sore spot with him.
Roland turned his mount to face the fence and took it straight toward the iron gate. With a powerful leap, the stallion cleared the rail and landed deftly beyond.
Before Jordin could turn her horse, the others were following, horses’ hooves clearing the pointed iron balustrades without so much as a nick. With the muted thunder of a drum, they landed in the darkness of the yard and disappeared after their leader. Jordin held her breath and spurred her mount into the short takeoff. For the second time that night she sailed high and landed with the grace of a superbly trained horse and rider.
She might not be Immortal, but as a Nomad she’d ridden with the best.
When she rounded the corner, half the Rippers were already dismounting, slinging reins around the overgrown hedge along the back wall. Roland watched from horseback as Michael examined the industrial door.
She turned with her report. “The windows.”
Roland dropped from his horse, and jabbed his forefingers at two mid-height windows on either side of the door. Cain put his boot through one, another Ripper slammed his elbow through the other. Glass shattered and crashed into the building.
All of this happened before Jordin thought to dismount. Watching the precision and speed with which Roland’s Immortals worked, the way they executed commands seamlessly and without question, garnered respect—regardless of the circumstances.
“Jordin.”
She glanced at Roland and dropped from her horse. Quickly tied it off.
With a nod, she strode to the window cleared by Cain and slung first one, then two legs in, and ducked into the darkened basilica.
Before Jordin had time to collect herself, Michael entered through the other window, gracefully pivoting on one palm with both knees bent to clear the windowsill, like a dancer sailing through the air.
Others flew in in rapid succession behind her.
“Move.”
The order came from one of the Rippers behind her. She stepped to one side and glanced down the hall, attempting to gain her bearings as the rest of the Rippers entered, filling the dark space.
“Follow me,” Roland said in a low voice, taking her arm.
Despite her years of training under Roland, her former status as a champion, Jordin felt like a child among them as Roland pulled her forward.
For a moment, blinded by darkness and at Roland’s mercy, she
despised her Sovereign state. A part of her wondered if it would be better to die as an Immortal if only to feel—really
feel
—full life once again before entering whatever fate awaited her beyond the grave. To go down fighting but vibrantly alive to the last.
She could see only dim outlines, lit by the streetlamps beyond the pale windows. Down one hall. A soft report from the far side of the basilica: one of them had already found the way down. It would have taken her many minutes, groping in darkness.
All the while Roland’s hand was curled around her bicep.
“Where in the cellar?” he asked.
“In the back, there should be a storage room,” she said.
Roland passed the information on, led her into a stairwell. Here, darkness faded to pitch black, and while she managed to navigate the first three steps, she stumbled on the fourth, remaining upright only by Roland’s steadying hand.
“Cain, find a torch,” he ordered. Then to her: “Forgive me, I forget how limited your sight is. If we can’t find a torch, I’ll have to carry you. It would be better for you to tell me the way and remain behind.”
“No.” The thought of being left alone terrified her. “No, I have to guide you.”
The way through the tunnels was dependent on precise turns at only three of nine intersections—the second, the seventh, and the ninth—but she wasn’t about to give Roland this knowledge. She didn’t trust Roland to bring Rom back alive.
“Just find a torch.”
He hesitated, then guided her quickly down the stairs. Gravel slid underfoot. Flame flared before Cain’s face—a small lighter in his right hand three paces away. His eyes were on her as he touched the fire to a makeshift torch. Orange light flooded a large cellar lined with racks of barrels. Incense? Lantern oil?
Half of the Rippers stood ready, watching Roland for command—the others spilled down the stairs behind Jordin. Roland released
her arm and strode toward wooden barrels stacked neatly on their sides against the far wall.
He kicked a wood block wedged at the base of the barrel on one end, placed the heel of his boot on the barrel, and shoved it hard. The container rolled away and the small mountain of kegs collapsed with a pounding roll.
Jordin’s pulse surged as the telltale outline of old grayed slats appeared on the wall. An entrance, hastily sealed long ago.
“Take it down,” Roland said.
Cain handed the torch to one of his men, stepped up to the wall, and slammed his boot into one of the slats. It cracked. Another hard kick and the ancient wood shattered. Five more hard thrusts of his boot and the entrance was cleared of all but one slat on the right, two paces wide and just high enough for a tall man to pass under without restriction.
Cain stepped in and peered down the dark passage. He turned to Roland.
“Clear.”
“Take the lead with the flame. At your back. Michael, rear.” Roland eyed Jordin. “We stay close to Cain’s torch. Be certain of your turns. When we get to the final passage, I lead.”
His words were direct and calm, but she knew he was seething behind his dark stare. What was it like for a man so possessed by Immortality to learn he was infected with a lethal virus for which there was no cure—no cure short of becoming what he’d lived to annihilate?
The silent ride through the city had apparently only strengthened his resolve. There was no search for salvation in those glittering eyes. This was a mission of vengeance.
She followed Cain, who’d taken the torch and headed into the passage ahead of her.
Roland kept stride without a word. The sound of the others’ boots
on the stone floor echoed softly around her—a company of guards, ushering her to her execution, she thought.
No. It was
they
who were sentenced to death.
It occurred to her then that in the face of his own demise, Roland would not only be hard pressed to take Sovereign blood but to allow any Sovereign blood to survive him.
That he would not afford her mercy.
By killing her, he would effectively end the day of Keepers, Nomads, Mortals, Immortals, and Sovereigns alike. Only the Corpses would survive them, dead as they had been for nearly five hundred years.
The ancient tunnel smelled like earth, must, and mold. The limestone walls overhead were rough-hewn; the passage had been hastily cut, purely utilitarian. It ran straight without so much as a single alcove or marking. A mile, at least, she imagined. They were likely passing directly beneath the fortifications of Dark Bloods immediately outside the Citadel wall itself.
It took them ten minutes to reach the first intersection, smaller tunnels branching to the right and left.
“Farther,” Jordin said.
They continued, still without speaking.
Only twenty paces later they found a second junction.
“To the right,” she said.
Roland exchanged a glance with her and nodded at his man.
They turned into the passage, which took them a hundred paces before intersecting a third and then a fourth, fifth, and sixth. At the seventh, she directed them to the left.
Another long, straight tunnel, past an eighth intersection. Only at the ninth did she indicate a right turn, which led them into a passage that ran at an angle rather than perpendicular to the way they had come.
“How many more turns?” Roland asked softly.
There was no reason to lie.
“None.”
He pulled up, as did Cain and those behind.
“To the rear.”
“No.”
“Do as I say.” His tone, though quiet, could not have been more demanding. “They’ll smell you coming.”
“I’ll go to the rear at the exit, not before.”
“You’ll do as I say.” It was a dangerous growl.
“What are you going to do? Hog-tie me and drag me behind?”
“If necessary. You’re a liability.”
“I won’t be able to see.”
“To the rear!”
She tried to think of another reason why she should hold her ground but failed. Her hesitation took the matter out of her hands. Roland glanced at the men behind her, and strong fingers wrapped around her arm. She tried to pull away, but the effort was completely wasted.
“Take your hands off me!”
“Bring her, Michael.” Without a backward look, Roland and Cain headed deeper into the passage, their pace quickening with the length of their strides.
“Rom’s blood may contain the only antidote for the virus!” Her voice echoed down the tunnel. “His death could seal your own!”
The Rippers filed past her as if she were nothing more than a stone in a riverbed. And then they were moving at a jog, picking up speed like a pack of hounds that had scented prey, until they were rushing down the tunnel at a full-out run.
“Stay close!” Michael snapped, taking her arm firmly and pulling her along with her. “Keep your feet!”
“Our blood may offer a deterrent to the virus, Michael,” she panted. “At least Rom’s might. You can’t kill him.”
“Keep silent or I will silence you!”
Jordin had no reason to doubt the warrior. The woman she once called a friend had hardened in the years since they had fought and ridden together, and she had been hard then. Jordin let her mind settle, keeping close the thought that Michael had nothing to gain by her stumbling or running into a wall. Roland had ordered her to bring Jordin, and so she would, despite the fact that they no longer needed her to breach the Citadel.
It took another few minutes to reach the end of the passage. The file bunched close at what at first appeared to be a dead end. By the light of the torch, burned nearly to a nub, Jordin could see the outline of brick limestone blocking the way.
“Dark Bloods,” Michael muttered.
Michael kept her gaze ahead, focus intense.
“Too many.”
How many? Turning back would not be an option for Roland. He was committed, consumed with one mission: killing Feyn.
Darkness suddenly swallowed the passage, the flame extinguished. She heard grating and crashing stone blocks. Michael tugged on her arm, dragging her forward. They were moving. And quickly.
After no more than twenty strides, Jordin was at the jagged outline of an opening framing a dull yellow glow beyond.
Michael released her, leaping over toppled blocks, knives in hand already. She rushed after the Rippers, suddenly eager for protection regardless of what awaited them. She barely sidestepped a two-foot boulder and spilled out of the passage.
The assembly grounds lay at the center of an open-air arena carved from the limestone, with thirty or forty rows of tiered bench seating around the circumference. But it was the scene that greeted her, lit by a hundred torches, that pushed her heart into her throat.
No fewer than five hundred Dark Bloods lined the tiers, their black-and-gold eyes fixed on the Rippers spread out to Jordin’s left, ready for their prince’s order, hands poised to snatch at weapons.
Jordin’s lungs were devoid of breath. How had they known?
The grounds lay in perfect silence. She scanned the tiers. She was wrong—the Bloods numbered closer to a thousand. They were utterly still, waiting for some command, showing not a hint of concern for the elusive Rippers trapped before them at last.
They had to turn back!
The thought screamed through Jordin’s mind and then was gone, replaced by the certainty that Roland would never show such weakness. And neither would she. A Nomad would have run once, but they were no longer Nomads; they were Mortal, however divided by blood type now. Defiance lived in their blood. In the face of death, it sprang to fiery life.
Five Dark Bloods stood abreast on a platform that served as a stage, hands folded and at ease. She couldn’t see their faces—only by the red markings on their breastplates did she note that they were commanders. On either side of the stage, dark banners—the ancient compass of Sirin without its markings, a single golden circle on a black background—lifted silently with the gusting air.
No sign of Feyn.
Roland stood, feet planted at the ready and arms loosely at his sides, hood thrown back from his face. His warriors appeared no more concerned than their prince, though their minds were surely sifting through options unapparent to Jordin. Angles of attack, splitting the enemy, a means through the sea of Bloods.
One last, deadly stand.
Deadly, because they had nothing to lose.
“Too many,” Michael muttered in a hushed tone. Roland’s keen hearing would have easily picked up the words.
“Hold.” Roland responded, barely above a whisper, his voice calm.
“There’s a better way,” Michael said.
Roland ignored her and began to walk forward, hand on the sword at his waist, eyes on the five commanders on the stage. He
walked thirty paces before stopping and turning to slowly scan the horde.