To Whatever End (Echoes of Imara Book 1) (29 page)

He pushed emotion aside and opened his eyes to focus on his task. He couldn’t let distractions in. A small curl of fear unraveled itself in his belly as he thought about what would happen if he failed his mission. Sindre would certainly punish him, but he worried more about what Nihil would do.

He got a higher foothold and pulled himself up so he could see over the ledge. The tower culminated in a round chamber with a lookout balcony running around the circumference. The chamber had a few chairs and a small fireplace, allowing the guard on duty to keep warm. The beacon stood on a pedestal in the center of the chamber, right where Number One had said it would be. Made of curved mirrors, the beacon would reflect light and shine it over a great distance. The guards at each guard post on the borders of the kingdom were trained in a code, using flashes of light to communicate messages across great distances.

One of the chairs was occupied by a guard, who dozed in his seat. He sat with his legs stretched out in front, his sword leaning against the wall next to him. A small fire crackled in the fireplace and the remains of what appeared to be his dinner sat on a stool next to the fire.

Daro hoisted himself over the ledge and landed with soft feet on the balcony. He paused, keeping his hands on the ledge behind him, and waited to see if the guard would stir. The guard took a shuddering breath and let out a low snore as his chin fell to his chest.

A measure of relief trickled into Daro’s mind. He would be able to get the beacon and steal back down the wall without any confrontation, as long as the guard slept. With a quick glance around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he crept toward the beacon. It was secured to the pedestal with iron bolts, but Daro easily lifted it, snapping the bolts with a quick pop. He cringed and looked back to the guard, who slept on. Daro let out a breath and turned, wondering how he was going to disable the beacon without waking the guard.

He crept back to the balcony and peered toward the barracks. He could smell a faint wisp of smoke beginning to taint the air. It wouldn’t be long before the barracks were in full blaze. That should keep the guards busy for a while as they made repairs to their buildings.

A sound behind him made his back and shoulders clench. Although he felt as if he could see for miles, he realized his ears were muffled, as if stuffed with cotton. He turned to find a second guard, staring at him wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. It only took a second for Daro to react. He tossed the beacon off the ledge and drew his sword.

The first guard scrambled to his feet and struggled to get his sword from its resting place against the wall. The other guard said something, but Daro couldn’t make out his words. His lips seemed to say, “Stop,” and “Who are you?” but Daro couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he couldn’t get down the wall fast enough to avoid their blades, so there was nothing left to do but engage his enemy.

With the raging torrent of energy welling up inside him, he felt as if his former skills as a swordsman had been nothing but a child pretending. He swung his sword, feeling the recoil of contact with his enemy, and relished the vibrations reverberating through his arms. He was vaguely aware of the guards yelling, and in the back of his mind he realized more would be coming. He swung right and checked the blow of the second guard before turning to strike at the other. Their swords clashed, the metallic ring singing out into the night.

His arms felt loose as he swung, his muscles tightening for impact. He flowed with his sword as the energy surged through him. He closed with the guards, driving them back, and his sword cut the air in an arc between them. They slashed at him, one strike after another, but he was faster. He blocked each one and pressed them backward, away from the protected chamber and out into the wind. Their cloaks whipped at their backs and Daro pushed them until they were wedged against the ledge of the balcony.

One of the guard’s eyes flicked past Daro, and he heard the footfalls of more guards rushing up the stairs behind him. He turned, holding his sword with both hands, and pointed it at his enemies. The first guard stopped, and his eyes widened. Daro advanced, striking at his new opponent, then swung his sword back over his shoulder to deflect a blow from behind. The guard behind stepped closer and Daro kicked, hitting him in the gut and sending him staggering backward.

Three more guards emerged from the stairs, swords drawn. Daro circled, keeping his sword out in front, and stared at each guardsman as his gaze swept past. Two rushed in toward him, the confined space forcing the others to stay back. Daro switched back and forth between them, his sword clashing with theirs as they both attacked. He kept his foes at bay, but with six men surrounding him, he couldn’t take the offensive. He fought to keep the well of power inside from bursting forth, like a man pushing against a dam to hold back the water.

He struck, pushing one of the guards backward, and sent him stumbling into a chair. Two more guards pressed him from behind as he moved into the center of the chamber. He blocked their strikes. His sword sliced through the air and hit with a satisfying clang. His arms tightened with each strike, the force reverberating through his body.

The guards shouted to one another, trying to coordinate their attacks. Daro’s sword flew between them and stopped their attempts to hit him. They pressed him harder but he moved faster, ducking, spinning, blocking, striking. His strength felt endless and a strange sort of ecstasy overtook him. His mind felt clear, the voices quiet for the first time in months. The energy he fought so hard to contain felt like liquid silver running through his veins, hot and seductive.

The guards pressed in, attacking from all sides. Daro let go and allowed the well of energy to explode inside him. The dam broke and power rushed through him, white hot and terrifying. His mind soared with euphoria as he beat back his attackers. Blood splattered across the wall as he sliced through one of the guards. The body hit the floor and he kicked it aside, as he reached back with his sword to deflect the next attack. He turned, his body a whirl of motion, and plunged his sword through the man’s neck. A spray of hot blood splashed his face.

He spun again and sliced through the man behind him, sending another spray of blood across the stones. His arms pulsed with blazing power. It saturated his limbs, making him astonishingly fast and stronger than he thought possible. A heady exhilaration spread through him as he cut down another guard, his sword turning in a wide arc to cut deep into the man’s neck. More guards poured up the stairs, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to come.

He drew in more energy, feeling as if it were coming from the stones themselves. It was endless, feeding him with fury and elation. He cut through the guard in front of him, his sword an extension of his rage.

The guards rushed him, their swords slashing at him from all directions. He parried and spun to slice through one man’s chest. The next guard thrust toward him, but he blocked, then kicked another guard next to him. They pushed their attack, driving at him from all sides.

He pulled more energy, and it flooded through his body. He let it flow, no longer attempting to curb its advance. His hands and feet were almost numb with the strength and heat coursing through him. He deflected two more strikes but the guards kept coming, surrounding him. Someone scored a hit on his arm. The slice hardly registered as pain through the torrent of energy pulsing inside.

The sound of his heart pounding echoed in his head, drowning the clash of metal. The rush of power felt as if it might burn him from the inside out. He killed another guard, but they kept coming, his sword flying to keep their blows at bay. Using his sword to protect his head, he felt himself beat down, and he crouched toward the floor as the guards tried to end him.

His breathing quickened as another sword sliced down his back. His anger boiled, hot and dangerous, and he drew in more energy, as much as he could hold. He heaved upward, unleashing all his fury, all his hatred, and let his power erupt.

The top of the tower burst open as if something exploded. The blast erupted outward, launching Daro, and he soared through the air. His vision began to go dark, and a hazy realization that he was going to hit the ground flickered through his mind. The wind buffeted him as he arched downward, and the ground raced toward him. He hit with a heavy crack as rock and dust flew up around him. Something told him he should feel pain, but darkness flowed through his mind and he let it envelop him like a warm blanket.

A sound crowded into his solace, a voice calling him from the depths of relief. “Fourteen.” It was muffled and hazy, as if heard through a thick wall. “Fourteen, can you hear me?”

He blinked and reached up to rub his eyes. The darkness was interrupted by an orange glow in the distance. The smell of smoke and the feel of the rocky ground beneath reminded him of where he was.

“Fourteen,” the voice said again. It was Number One. Of course it was. Who else would it be?

Daro eased himself up to a sitting position. His arm stung and his back was a tight mass of agony. He reached up to check his mask and found it torn, hanging off his face.

Number One was looking at him with wide eyes. Daro glanced behind him and saw the tower, or what remained of it. The roof was on the opposite side of the pass, turned upside down as if it had been blown off and landed there. The rest of the tower tilted wildly, threatening to crumble and fall down completely. The barracks nearby burned in a blaze of orange and yellow flame, throwing billows of black smoke up into the night sky.

“What happened?” he asked.

Number One stared at him a moment longer. “That’s what I was going to ask you,” he said, his eyes still wide. “You nearly destroyed the whole tower.”

Daro’s limbs felt heavy and he wondered if he’d be able to walk. The darkness of exhaustion intruded upon the margins of his vision, calling to him, trying to pull him under. He furrowed his brow and looked from Number One to the teetering tower behind. He could see guards running around the barracks, trying to contain the blaze.

Images flashed through his mind: his sword slicing and cutting through men, blood splattering on the stones. He remembered the feeling of ecstasy as he’d let the power swell through him, opening himself and giving in to the white-hot energy. His sword had run through their bodies as if they offered no resistance, his mind glorying in the rush of the fight. He looked down at his hands, stained with blood and spattered with dirt. He had killed those men. And it had felt good.

He stared at his hands and wondered who they belonged to. Were they Daro’s, or Number Fourteen’s? He looked up at Number One, his voice a hoarse whisper. “What have I done?”

29. XIV

Daro sat with his hands on the table, his mind heavy with dread. He stared at the Arcstone, the veins of green snaking up through the cream stone, tiny spots glinting in the lamplight. Nihil usually seated him on one side of the table across from a person with their head covered, what Nihil referred to as a source. Nihil seemed to have an endless supply of them, men and women dressed in rags, their hands bound. Every time he subjected Daro to the stone, another source would be brought in and Daro would be forced to absorb their energy. With each session, his soul felt as if it would fracture into shards like glass breaking on the ground. His strength increased and he was able to do things he’d never thought possible, but the echoes of the men he absorbed threatened to drive him mad.

Since the watchtower, he lived in constant fear of losing control. The sensation of power rushing through him had been hypnotic, burying the realities of his captivity and silencing the voices, but only for a time. He feared his grip on himself was faltering. Only Number One seemed able to help him, Absorbing enough of his wild energy to keep him at least partially sane.

Today another man occupied Daro’s usual chair. Number One sat rigid, his back straight, his eyes down. His hands were spread wide on the table before him, the tendons straining. Sindre stood behind him, holding her hands behind her back. A source sat across from Number One, a tall man with bony arms. Anxiety fluttered in Daro’s stomach. This was new, and the novelty was worrisome.

Nihil wore his customary black robe and gloves as he gathered a few supplies. He set down a small leather-bound notebook, a pot of ink, and a large feathered quill. The source swayed in his seat. Nihil looked up, flicking his hand to the side, and a man scurried over. He tied the source around the chest, securing him to his chair.

“Number Fourteen, you have been a most interesting test subject,” Nihil began as he dipped his quill into the ink and scratched a few notes in his book. He flipped back through the pages, tilting his head as he read over his notes. “Your Imaran heritage makes you as fascinating as I had hoped. More so, as a matter of fact.”

Daro glanced at Number One. He held still, as if he were made of the same stone that sat on the table, the only movement the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed.