Trial of Intentions (71 page)

—The sound of a boot on the floor near his bed ripped Sutter from the dream. He gasped from the sense of vertigo, his eyes darting around the pitch-black room, finding nothing. That same moment, the sound of stretching fabric left him with the impression of one raising up their arms.

To attack!

Sutter rolled to his right as something struck the bed where he'd lain a moment before. The sound and impact left him thinking not of a sword, but of a heavy mace that might have crushed his skull. His mind went to his blade, but he'd rolled in the opposite direction. And he still couldn't see.

He dropped to the floor on the other side of the bed.

Can it see me?

He assumed whatever or whomever had come into his room could navigate the dark better than he could. He needed help, but he'd have to pass whatever it was to get to the door.

As he reached the end of the bed, he heard something coiling again in the darkness. He crouched to avoid the blow. But the heavy, spiked weapon had been aimed at his legs, and took him hard in the right shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Warm blood flowed immediately from a gash in his flesh. Sutter rolled back, holding his wound, desperately trying to focus his eyes in the darkness.

“Mira!” he screamed.

A low chuckle rumbled from a human voice. Then more deliberate steps, coming for him.

Sutter leapt back toward the bed, thinking to bound across it and grab his sword. In mid-jump, he was struck by the other's weapon again, catching him in the hip. Shards of pain fired brightly through the bones around his waist. The blow knocked him into the heavy wooden side of the bed, his left shoulder jouncing off the bed frame.

Sutter tried to stand, but his hip wouldn't allow it, his right leg tingling with numbness.

Over his own labored breath, he thought he heard fabric stretching again. He dropped to his back just as a hard blow hit the bedside. He rolled on his injured shoulders to get under the bed, and forced himself to keep rolling until he'd reached the far side.

Hurried steps skirted the bed, rushing to meet him. Sutter raised his hands, feeling for the far edge of the frame, and pulled himself out and up, his shoulder burning with the strain. He then swept out blindly with his hands, grasping for his weapon. Behind him the attacker had given up all attempts at stealth.

But when the indistinct form drew close, it didn't pounce on him. Instead, it bounded onto the bed, riffling through the covers.

The Draethmorte's pendant!

Sutter's hand finally found his sword. He locked his left hand on the grip and tried to raise the heavy length of steel. Pain flared in his shoulder, and he nearly dropped the blade.

A moment later, he heard a guttural cry of glee, and knew the intruder had gotten hold of the sigil-glyph. Just as it did, the door slammed open.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Civilization

It's remarkable to consider that, by some accounts, the purpose of Mal aggression is reform. And remember, this is a people whose path to enlightenment is paved by ritualized torture of their own.

—
Reformist or Expansionist, a Correlation of Motives,
a text broadly deemed apocryphal

T
he front door of the Sheason house crashed in and heavy footsteps rushed down the hall. There were shouts and the clang of steel and cries of distress. Braethen shot up from the endfast table and drew his sword. He could see none of the fight from the kitchen at the back of the Sheason home, where several of the order lived. They'd met this morning to discuss what should be done about Vendanj's incarceration and about Convocation.

Several Sheason joined him, racing toward the hall that led to the front of the house. Almost immediately, they were pushed back into the large kitchen, where smells of fried pork and potatoes still lingered in the air.

A large man suited in League attire drove a dagger into the belly of the closest Sheason, a good man named Uuliah. The leagueman twisted the steel inside Uuliah's body, dropping him to the floor.

Shock paralyzed Braethen as another Sheason fell to a savage thrust from a long sword wielded by a second leagueman. In other rooms, and from the floor above, more cries and shouts erupted, filling the home with chaos and terror. Surprise seemed to have immobilized them all, before Sheason Marrot, standing beside Braethen, broke through the panic, and shouted, “Stop this! Or by every absent god, I will—”

The leaguemen didn't yield and came on fast, hewing down two more Sheason—Thera and Felinal, two women who had befriended Braethen over the morning's meal.

“Please, we can discuss—” The words ended when a sword pierced Dulan's throat. From the room above came the words “We've done nothing—” followed by a ghastly scream. The sounds of death and dying washed over him. And all of it come so fast that Sheason were lost before they could defend themselves.

He flung aside the table between himself and a murderous leagueman. “I am I!” he cried, invoking the darkness of the blade.

But no darkness came. No doubt. No fear. No memory of loss. Only indignation. He trembled with it. He launched himself at the closest attacker, who was pulling his sword back from the chest of a woman. In a vicious, elegant stroke, he opened the man's belly and left him to bleed out.

Another browncloak turned on him, but Braethen continued his momentum, carrying the blade around and tearing open the throat of this second murderer. The man fell to his knees, surprise in his face, blood filling his mouth and pouring out over his chin.

Braethen kicked the man in the side of the head and moved quickly to the third leagueman. This man had had time to set his feet, and brought a heavy mace around into Braethen's side. Though a weak strike, pain shot through his torso. But it only made him angrier, and he focused all his strength into another sweeping blow. The other raised a shield in defense, but too late. Braethen's attack hit home across the crown of the man's head, burying deep and dropping him instantly to the floor.

“Get to the others!” he cried, and dashed toward the front of the house, where moans and the shuffling of feet could still be heard.

He and the others from the kitchen arrived too late to save any of the Sheason who'd been on the first floor of the house. Bodies lay ravaged and bloody. Hovering over each of them were leaguemen, confirming their kill and just starting to come in search of more.

Braethen met them head on, anger flowing through him. His side burned each time he used his arm, but in the midst of the fray, it seemed a distant thing. He took a cut to the shoulder, but hewed down another browncloak. Behind him one of the Sheason drew the Will and hit two leaguemen with a pulse of energy. The men struck the far wall and slumped to the floor, their necks at impossible angles.

Braethen paused, listening. The only movement they heard was on the upper level. He sprinted for the stairs, leaping three at a time, his sword seesawing the air with the pumping of his arms. At the second story, he shot left, the Sheason behind him moving to the right. He jumped over the bodies of two more Sheason lying dead in pools of their own blood. Only one leagueman lay on the floor.

Ahead, in the library at the end of the hall, he heard commotion. He ran harder, taking hold of his sword with both hands. He burst into the room to find four more dead members of the order. Only one intruder had gone down, though he still breathed where he lay. Three leaguemen turned, startled at his entrance.

Braethen realized he'd be overwhelmed. And he had too many steps to close on the first man.

In that instant, without thinking, he raised his sword—impossibly early to hit anyone—and felt a strange, almost imperceptible shiver. In the blink of an eye, and with the sound of rushing wind in his ears, he was five strides closer. Right in their midst!

He'd not run or jumped, and had no idea how he'd traveled the distance in an instant.
The Blade of Seasons.
He stumbled, out of balance from the strange leap, and nearly fell. But he managed to keep his feet, and swung his sword at the first leagueman, catching the man in the belly.

Then as Mira had taught him, he spun, keeping his momentum, and pulled the sword through the man's flesh, out again, and around into a second enemy.

The man's eyes showed surprise and fear, as though he were seeing a ghost, or maybe Quietgiven, his own action stalled as Braethen drove his sword into the man's chest.

A third leagueman raised his own blade, a similar shock in his face. Braethen didn't hesitate, taking advantage of whatever had just happened, and kicked the man hard in the groin. The other doubled over, and Braethen brought his knee up into the man's chin.

Blood and teeth exploded from the leagueman's mouth, and he went down, unconscious. Braethen quickly finished him.

As the last of the leaguemen fell, a Sheason ran into the room. Braethen quickly surveyed the carnage. All were dead—Sheason and leaguemen alike—save one. The chestnut-hued cloak lay spread out beneath one exigent who had fallen back; his lips quavered as he lay too hurt to assist himself. Braethen lowered his sword, its quiet authority ebbing. He stepped close to the downed leagueman.

His anger nearly got the better of him. “What madness is this?” he asked through gritted teeth.

The man looked up, fear for his life plain on his face. “The Civilization Order—”

“The Civilization Order is enforceable against Sheason who
render
. You came here unprovoked. Why?” Braethen asked with forced calm.

“A v-vote,” the man stuttered. “The High Council voted to amend and expand Civilization. All Sheason are now criminals, they don't have to render.…”

Braethen dropped to one knee, took hold of the man's collar, and shook him. “Without a right to dissent, or even imprisonment first? This law grants the right to immediate execution?”

The leagueman nodded, blood issuing from his mouth and nose as he did so. “The Ascendant commanded us to go into the city and purge it of all Sheason. Locations were given. Orders say not to return until all are dead.”

Two more surviving Sheason came into the room and limped to the other side of the leagueman. Looking down in disgust, one asked, “How many have you killed this morning.…”

“Our dispatch was to this house first. Others were sent elsewhere,” the leagueman said.

Braethen dropped the man's head back to the floor, where it struck hard, causing more blood to gush up and out of his mouth. “And what of your own conscience? Did you think to ask why peaceful men were being sentenced to execution? You're nothing but a murderer.”

A look of defiance settled into the man's face. “Not all Sheason use the Will to serve others—”

Before the leagueman could finish, one of the Sheason pointed a hand at the man's throat. A moment later bones snapped, and the leagueman's head lolled to the side.

Braethen hadn't time to wonder what the man's words might mean. His mind raced, considering the implications of the expanded Civilization Order, what it meant for the Sheason, for the Sodality. Citywide, perhaps nations-wide, death for all Sheason. War between the League and the order. How many would die before ever getting to defend themselves? Even now, all across Recityv, Braethen imagined rooms like this one: unprovoked, secretive attacks at dawn that would leave most dead before the sun was up.

They mean to annihilate them.

The Sodality would stand against it, but they were hopelessly outnumbered by the League, and the attacks were happening
now
.

Then Braethen remembered Vendanj, locked beneath Solath Mahnus. He got moving that instant, flying down the stairs and out into the street. The few others who'd survived fell in behind him. As he rushed toward Solath Mahnus, only one other thought plagued him: How had he crossed the distance to the leaguemen so quickly? One moment he'd been in one place, in the next … another.

*   *   *

Helaina and Artixan reached the Recityv gate. Her joints were on fire. Several leaguemen had been left to watch for them.

“Seize them!” she yelled to the gate captain—one of Van Steward's men. The man returned a puzzled look, but immediately called to several footmen to arrest the Ascendant's men.

Before the city guard could move, the leaguemen were ripped from their feet and sent crashing into the stone wall. They crumpled to the ground in a series of painful, crunching sounds. None stood back up as Helaina and Artixan ran through the gate and into the city.

Without needing to confer, they angled left to a small horse stable where the gate guard kept their mounts. The guard captain shouted no protest as they scrambled atop two of the horses.

“No leagueman leaves this city!” Helaina shouted. “And seize any that you come across.”

She and Artixan kicked their mounts into a full gallop and made for Van Steward. The ride jounced her hard, but she held on tightly, watching for signs that the bloodbath had begun. She saw nothing, and could hear nothing save the pounding of hooves and wind in her ears. Twice she looked over at Artixan, whose face had drawn itself into hard lines of worry and anger.

Faster than she might have imagined, they arrived at the center house of Recityv's main garrison. They hadn't yet dismounted when Van Steward shot out onto the steps. “The attacks started ten minutes ago. My men are moving into the city now. Come.”

Her general jumped onto his own horse, and together they raced back into the main streets, followed by several of Van Steward's men. Artixan took the lead, directing them to the home of the closest Sheason—he knew them all personally.

Helaina struggled off her horse, her old body not accustomed to the exertion. Artixan seemed buoyed by his anger, moving like a man half his age—
perhaps an infusion of Will?
Van Steward drew his weapon and they went quickly into the first house.