The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (57 page)

She sagged. Ylisa screamed and was gone.

Yells filled the air around her. Iskra tried to raise her head, but she couldn't. Darkness swirled around her gaze, pulling her down.

Rodrick
, she thought.
Kethe.

Then there was silence. Her heart slowed, and she thought she could feel it stop. The sensation of blood pooling in her stomach and flooding her lungs faded. The agony dimmed to a smolder, replaced by an odd heaviness, numbness.

She sank.

My soul to the White Gate
, she thought, and then let go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Tiron hacked at the man, sword held in both hands, swinging from the waist, burying his blade down through the man's neck and shattering his clavicle. He didn't try to recover his sword; instead, he booted the man in the chest and strode over him, wanting to scream, wanting to tear this palace down stone by stone.

A group of guards came running out through the cell door, blades glittering in the torchlight. Tiron spread his arms wide and strode toward them, not caring, feeling invincible in his rage, his soul-consuming fury.

The Sin Casters had fallen as they led the attack on the prison. Their magic had taken its toll, and one by one they'd sunk to the ground spewing blood and bile as they rotted from the inside out. For a while Captain Patash had fought beside Tiron, the round-shouldered and unassuming man fighting with surprising skill and passion, but Tiron had left him behind. He'd left everybody behind.

Iskra
. It was the one thought in his head.

He strode toward the six guards and screamed at them, shrieking a cry that in all his years, across half the battlefields of Ennoia, he'd never given voice to. It was stark and annihilating pain and fury, and in it the guards heard their deaths. Their eyes widened at the sight of him, all of them edging back, looking like children as he descended upon them.

The first ran forward and stabbed, there not being enough room in the hall to swing. Tiron deflected the attack with the back of his wrist, batted it aside and slammed his other fist into the man's head. The guard's nose shattered and he reeled back, and Tiron reached into his mouth, grabbed him by the lower jaw and swung his head around and into the wall. Bone broke. Tiron took the man's blade as he sank, ducked down under another stab as two more men ran forward, and with a roar he charged into the ribs of the man who had attacked, coming up from a crouch with so much power that he lifted the man off his feet, into the second, and shoved both against the wall.

They went down tangled up in each other, and Tiron nearly went down with them. Black cracks of pain and exhaustion assailed his mind, but he screamed and stomped his heel into the face of one, reversed his blade and stabbed it down into the face of the other. It skittered off the architecture of the man's bone and then sank into a hole. An eye. Tiron swiveled the blade, both edges catching and then shattering the bone socket – and then a sword buried itself in his side, plunging deep.

Tiron dropped his sword and twisted, pulled the sword out of the man's hand and lunged forward, grabbing the fourth soldier by the throat. The man's eyes widened in terror as Tiron curled his fingers around his windpipe, punctured skin, tore through flesh and rode the man down to the ground, falling on top of him before rearing back and tearing out his throat with a guttural scream. Blood geysered up into his face.

He looked up. The remaining two guards were staring at him in horror, frozen, crouched against the door as if it could give them shelter. They watched him as he climbed to his feet, grabbed the blade impaled in his side by the blade and pulled it free, not caring for the way it cut his palm. He reversed it, never taking his eyes from them, then hurled it like a spear at the first. The man had the wits to raise his sword and deflect it, but then Tiron was upon them, his throat so hoarse from screaming that he could barely hear himself.

The three of them went down. Tiron buried his elbow in the face of one, bit down and tore the cheek out of another. Decades of chivalry had been undone in that pit that Lord Kyferin had cast him down into, and now the last of his humanity was burning away as he sought nothing more than to kill those who had killed his lady.

He smashed his forehead into the face of a guard who was trying to rise up.
Iskra
. He pried a dagger from the hand of the second and leaned in, pushing it up under the man's jaw.
Iskra
. The guard grabbed Tiron's wrist with both hands and begged in Agerastian, but Tiron stared into his eyes, seeing not a person, not a human, but a thing to be destroyed.
Iskra.
The tip of the dagger sank into the soft flesh and the man moaned deeply, then it slid all the way in and the guard shook and went limp.

A hand grasped Tiron's shoulder. He tried to shrug it off, reaching for a blade of any kind, then saw that it was Patash. Blood was splattered across the man's face. One eye was closed by a cut that had gone from brow to chin. Tiron shrugged off his hand and rose, his legs almost giving out. The door opened again, and a second group of guards ran out. They stared at the bodies, looked up at Tiron and Patash, and their leader gave a cold command and they formed orderly ranks of two.

Tiron leaned back, weight on his heels. The fire that had driven him on was still burning brightly, but his body was giving out. He was too old. Too wounded. Too exhausted. He took a deep, ragged breath, reached out and took Patash's blade from his hands. He took a step forward, and black fire blasted past him from behind in a blinding sheet, engulfing the squad of men and ruining them where they stood, burning and melting their flesh in one terrible flash.

Their screams were horrendous. Only one of them managed to stumble back, open the door and disappear through it. Tiron didn't look back to see which Sin Caster was still standing with him. He rushed forward, nearly tripping over the corpses, into a broad chamber, where torches illuminated a woman who was hacking at Iskra's throat.

Tiron felt his whole body swell with outrage. The pain disappeared, the fatigue melted away, and with one bound he crossed the room and swung with everything he had, every ounce of strength, his whole body behind the blow so that the woman's head was cut clean from her shoulders. Tiron released the blade and shoved the body aside before it had a chance to fall.

Iskra's front was drenched in blood. Her eyes were rolling up in her head. "No," gasped Tiron. He stood there helpless, not knowing what to do, anguish lancing through his soul. "No, no, no. No!"

Then Patash was by his side. They worked feverishly at the silk ropes that bound Iskra to the wall till Tiron let out a cry of fury, picked up a blade and hacked them apart.

Iskra fell into his arms. He laid her on the floor, tears running down his face, wanting to clamp his hand down over her throat, but he knew that she was dying, that there was no hope for her. He'd seen too many similar wounds to lie to himself. Gently, he took her hand in his own.

"Iskra." His voice was a ruined whisper. He coughed, fought for control, to be for a moment the man he had once been, to hold back the animal he had become. "Iskra. It's me. I'm here. I've come for you."

Her eyelids were fluttering. The blood was no longer pumping strongly from the wound. Her face beneath the crimson was alabaster pale.

His whole chest shook with sobs he could not release. "Iskra." His vision clouded with tears that brimmed and then ran down his cheeks.

Vothak Ilina knelt heavily by his side, one hand on his shoulder. Her face was sunken, her eyes yellowed, and a rivulet of blood was running down from the corner of her mouth. She reached out with a claw of a hand and placed it over Iskra's throat. She closed her eyes, muttered gutturally, and then black fire flashed between her fingers. The stench of burned flesh filled the room as Ilina let out a croak and toppled onto her side.

The wound on Iskra's throat had sealed over. The flesh was raw and slurried like riverbank mud, but closed and whole. Iskra lay still, and Tiron waited, unable to breathe, to think as he watched her, waiting for some sign of life. The seconds passed. Still she didn't breathe, didn't move.

"Iskra," he said. "Come back to me, Iskra."

Nothing.

"Iskra!" He took her by the shoulders. "Iskra!"

Ilina reached out with a shaking hand, but Tiron could tell she lacked the strength to keep her arm aloft. It sank to the ground, so Tiron grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her closer so that her hand could rest on Iskra's chest. Nodding, Ilina breathed a few words, and a flash of black fire sank into Iskra's body.

The result was immediate. Iskra's entire body arched up so that only her head and heels were touching the ground. She made a horrific gargling sound, then collapsed onto her side and spewed up blood all over the floor. Tiron watched, frozen, unable to move, to believe what he was seeing.

Patash reached down and pulled her hair away from her face, then looked up as more shouts came from the hallway. He cursed and rose, moving to deal with it, but Tiron couldn't tear his eyes from Iskra. She was panting, her eyes still closed, spitting out more blood, curling up into a knot on the floor.

"Iskra," he whispered, hands hovering over her, unsure what to do, whether he should touch her. Then he leaned down and enveloped her and pulled her up into a tight embrace, burying his face against her neck. "You came back. You came back."

The snarling animal that had been raging at his core retreated by slow degrees. Iskra breathed in deep, raw gasps, then her arms moved around him and she hugged him back, deep sobs wracking her frame, sounds of outrage and horror.

"Tiron," she whispered, her voice a rasp like his own. "Tiron."

"Shh," he said. "It's over. I'm here. I won't leave your side again." He held her close. To think that he had almost lost her. That in his pride and fear he had wasted their time together, held back, tried to push her away. Never again.

He leaned back and gazed at her blood-smeared face. Her eyes were haunted, over-bright, but could he blame her? What had she seen? Had her soul risen to the Ascendant for the briefest of moments, or had Ilina healed her before she truly died?

"I love you," he whispered, the words sharp edged in his throat. "I love you."

Iskra took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes, and he saw her gathering herself, marshalling her strength. He could only marvel. She pushed away from him gently, and with her eyes still closed touched at her raw throat before dropping her hands.

Her eyes opened, and her gaze was cold and hard. "Ylisa?"

"Dead."

Iskra nodded and rose to her feet. Her strength seemed to be flowing back to her, her vitality building up by the second. She turned to stare at Ylisa's corpse, and Tiron half-expected her to lash out at it, but instead Iskra merely shook her head and turned to stare at the chamber door.

Tiron rose to his feet. He hadn't thought he'd be able to rise, but the sight of Iskra gave him strength. The door stood open, a knot of guards and officials standing just outside yelling and arguing with each other, some with swords in hand, all of them on the verge of panic.

Iskra strode forward, making no attempt to wipe the blood from her face or the wound at her throat. The crowd outside fell silent at the sight of her. She pushed into their midst, and the awful potency of her presence caused them to give way.

She raked them with her gaze. "Who here speaks Ennoian?"

One man raised his hand. "I do, my lady."

"Then tell all those gathered here to move aside, and that I am to be taken to see the emperor. Now."

The man paled. He couldn't take his eyes from her ruined throat. "The... emperor sleeps."

Tiron stepped up beside Iskra. Blood was dripping from his fingertips to the ground and caked his close-shorn beard. He didn't even raise his voice. "Then wake him up."

"Yes - yes. Come."

The man spat out a string of Agerastian, and Tiron sensed the horror and fear that rippled through the crowd, but nobody spoke against it. Nobody could meet Iskra's eyes. Captain Patash snapped a command to several guards, who rushed into the room and emerged a moment later gingerly carrying Ilina. More were posted at the door, then Patash gestured to the translator to proceed.

They ascended and moved through the palace, gathering a growing crowd of servants and officials as they went, leaving bloody footprints on marble and carpets and horrified whispers in their wake.