The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (29 page)

Lei rolled her eyes. “Sergeant. You don’t like Cyrans. That’s fine. But you’re an officer of the law. Am I actually supposed to believe that you’re going to push me off of a lift? Arrah’s blade, if that’s part of your job, what do you do to get a promotion?”

If Lorrak was affected by the speech, he hid it well. We need Jode, Daine thought. If Jode were here, he’d already have convinced the sergeant to buy us a meal.

“My duty is to protect the people of Sharn,” Lorrak said. “The oath doesn’t say anything about Mourner scum. There’s
too many of you here already, and it’s common knowledge that half of you are mad. If I told people you jumped off the edge, they’d probably believe me. Now, you hurt me …? That’s another story. Killing a guardsman is bad enough, but a Mourner killing an officer? If you were lucky, you’d be brought in by the guards before the mobs got to you.”

Lorrak nodded to his men, and the halberdiers at the sides of the lift began to move forward.

Daine studied the dwarf. This was no idle threat. If the two guards at the gate didn’t join in the fight immediately, he and Lei might have a chance. Daine had held his own against Lorrak the day before, but the sergeant was right. Even if they defeated the guards, things would only get worse. There was only one solution.

As the guards closed in, he turned to Lei and charged. He slammed into her, wrapping his arms around her. She was staggered by the blow and knocked off balance. He lifted her up and threw himself at the railing. His hip stung as his leg scraped against the top of the rail, and then they were falling, plummeting down the half-mile drop between the lift and the lowest streets of Sharn.

Lei struggled as they fell. She was shouting, but the roaring of the wind drowned out the words. As the ground rushed up at them, Daine wondered if he’d made a mistake.

And then they stopped falling.

For a moment, they seemed to be standing still, then Daine realized they were still drifting down, slowly as a leaf falling from a tree.

Lei stopped struggling, taken aback by the change in velocity. “Daine?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t we dead now?”

“Feather token. Something Captain Grazen gave me. It’s a charm they sell in the markets. Easy to see why people buy them. Only one use, though.”

“And he just
gave
it to you?”

“Yes. When he was explaining how Lorrak survived the fall.”

They were almost to the streets. No one seemed to be paying them any attention. Apparently, the citizens of Sharn were used to having people fall from the sky.

“And when you were jumping off the lift, did it ever occur to you that he might have actually given you the charm Lorrak used with its magic drained?”

“No.”

“Next time, I think I’d rather take my chances with the dwarf.”

They drifted the rest of the way in silence.

P
ierce stalked the streets of High Walls. He had lost Jode at the lift. He had hoped to pick up the halfling’s trail in the lower districts, but his gift for tracking in the wild was proving to be of little use in the city. Following the captain’s orders, he was returning to the Manticore, and after last night’s fight, he was treating the district as hostile territory. Every shadow was a potential ambush, every passerby a possible enemy. In a way, he found this a relaxing exercise. The battle they’d fought last evening had been a release, a chance to serve his true purpose. But at the same time, it had been deeply disturbing. The people they had fought were Cyrans, the people he had spent his life defending. Old allies were now enemies, old friends had betrayed them … nothing made sense anymore. He missed the war, when life had been clear—defend your friends, kill the enemy, and do your best not to die. Questions easy. Answers clear. Not anymore.

So far he had stood by the captain. For all that his purpose was to defend Cyre, Pierce did not have the same sense of nationalism he had seen in many of his fellow soldiers. Most of his old comrades came from families that had lived in Cyre for generations. Many had lost loved ones or relatives in the centuries of war. They fought out of a burning desire for vengeance against Breland or Karrnath, seeking to repay their losses with blood. But Pierce had no family history. For that
matter, he had no blood. Borders on a map, the concept of a nation … these things were meaningless to him. What mattered was the shape of a face, the distinctive sound of a Cyran accent. And what mattered most were his fellow soldiers, those few who had survived. Cyre might be destroyed, but Daine, Lei, Jode … they were his nation, his country. But what use was he to them, if the war was truly over?

Although these inner issues troubled his spirit, Pierce never let his concentration falter. A cloaked figure had been following Pierce for some distance. The stranger was making an effort to remain unseen, slipping into doorways and shadows. With his peripheral glances, Pierce had seen no weapons, but he could take no chances. A sense of calm settled over him, and the doubts of a moment ago evaporated. Issues of war and peace were no longer relevant. The lines of battle were drawn, and it was time for action.

Pierce was holding his bow, and he nocked an arrow as he walked, calculating that he could loose approximately four shots before the pursuer could close. But this was a city street, not a war zone, the events of last night not withstanding. There were bystanders about—Cyran refugees mostly. He couldn’t risk the chance of a stray arrow. Pierce released the tension on his bowstring and slipped into the next alley, disappearing in a pool of shadows.

A moment later the stranger appeared, features hidden beneath a ragged oilskin cloak. The hooded figure slid into the alley, looking cautiously from side to side. It moved with the grace of a predator, but even a predator can fall prey to a superior hunter.

Pierce melted out of the shadows behind the stalker. He had dropped his bow and drawn his flail, and with one smooth motion he wrapped the chain around the stranger’s neck. One hand was on the ironshod haft of the weapon; the other gripped the chain, just below the spiked steel ball.

“If you present any sort of threat, I will snap your neck,” Pierce said. “Is that understood?”

“I have no need of breath, brother,” The voice was low and feminine … and distinctly warforged. “And if it had been
my intention to present a threat, we would not be having this conversation.”

After a moment’s consideration, Pierce let the stalker go. He loosened the flail and pulled the weapon away from her neck but kept the chain loose and ready to strike. She turned to face him, keeping her hands in sight.

Feminine warforged were an oddity. The ’forged were fundamentally inorganic, and while body designs varied slightly based on the duties of the warforged, functionality was the first concern. Pierce had never met a warforged that had a feminine appearance, but he had met one other ’forged with a female voice and personality. Perhaps the magewrights who built the warforged thought it was a better match for her military specialty—or perhaps it was just a quirk of an isolated female artificer who wanted to put her mark on the warforged she created. This ’forged was smaller than Pierce and lightly built. In some ways, she reminded Pierce of Lei. She’d done a remarkable job of hiding her armored body beneath loose clothing and her cloak. A cowl and woolen scarf hid her face, and even Pierce had taken her for a refugee bundled up against the frequent rain. But there was no mistaking the feeling of the metal and wood that had scraped against the chain of his flail when he’d circled her throat.

“What do you want?” he said, setting the chain of his flail spinning slowly. “And why do you call me brother?”

Her voice was as cool and impassive as his own. If she felt threatened by the flail, she didn’t show it. “We share the same parents. We were born in the same womb. Does that not make us siblings?”

“We are not creatures of flesh and blood. Two swords made by the same smith are not brother and sister.”

“If they could speak, they might say differently.”

She pulled the scarf down from her face, revealing mithral features coated in dark blue enamel. Her faceplate was the standard model used for the Cyran warforged, scaled to her slight frame. Aside from the color, it was a perfect match to Pierce’s own face.

“Believe as you will,” he said. “My weapon has never spoken to me. What is it you want?”

“The question is
what you
want, why you remain among these creatures of flesh?”

“I was built to defend Cyrans, and I continue to do so.” Something about the stranger made Pierce uncomfortable. The female voice was odd enough, and in spite of her empty hands he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dangerous.

“You were built to serve. You are a sword, bought and paid for. But unlike a sword, you have a voice. You can choose your destiny, and now is the time to choose. Even now, the war comes to a close. Ambassadors and princes hammer out treaties. Once they settle their differences, what do you think they will do with us? Who wants to look at a sword while trying to celebrate peace?”

Pierce remembered the words of the sphinx, the mention of his family. Was this what she’d meant? “Do you know who created me?” he asked.

“One human or another. Does it matter? Which does a sword have more in common with—another blade or the smith who forged it?”

“Perhaps it’s not the metal, but the motive,” he said. “A smith may not pass his blood to his creations, but he shapes them with his dreams.”

“And have you ever had a dream?” She stepped forward, and Pierce moved back to maintain the distance between them. “For a creature of flesh, a dream is a trivial thing, an idle fantasy that comes in the night. We never sleep. But there are those of use who share a dream, one forged from courage and desire. Join us. Help us forge a new future, a place for our people.”

“I have a place,” Pierce said. He slid his flail across his back and reached down for his long bow.

The warforged inclined her head. “Very well. But consider my words—and I suggest you keep them to yourself. When peace finally falls, is the sword anyone’s friend?” She drew her scarf up across her features. “We’ll meet again.”

She stepped back into the street, and in a moment she was gone. Her skills were impressive. Clearly she’d wanted Pierce to spot her when she’d been following him, and he wondered if she’d been spying on him at other times.

As he walked on to the Manticore, he thought about what she’d said. Was she right? Was this the family Flamewind had spoken of? Or did the sphinx have something more specific in mind—the purpose of two swords forged by the same hand, and not merely made at the same forge?

But these thoughts did not trouble him for long. He was warforged. His companions had need of him. Studying the crowds for any signs of Jode, he continued down the streets of High Walls.

W
hat did he want?

She could hear the sounds coming from his mouth, but she couldn’t understand them. The sounds were distorted fragments, robbed of context or meaning. Even his face … she found it difficult to look at him, to study him long enough to read his expressions. Last night she’d dreamed of the skinless man and his master, that they had taken her down below and changed her again. But maybe it wasn’t a dream. Had she been back in the pit? And if so, what had he done? Had he eaten her memories of language? Could she relearn the meaning of these words if she kept tried hard enough? Or was it her ears? Were her ears still her own, or had they been taken away? What could he want with her ears? How much more would he take before he finally let her die?