undying legion 01 - unbound man (64 page)

In return, Clade said, she would be given her freedom. But there had been a look in his eyes and an edge to his words that suggested something more. Perhaps, if she was able to demonstrate her value, they might be able to reach an understanding, maybe even a partnership against the being he named Azador.

The prospect of killing twice more had filled her with an unexpected reluctance. The beast had crowed to the sound of Clade’s words, gleeful in its lust, leaving her shaken and dismayed.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
She’d hoped that a discipline imposed from without might provide the strength she needed to corral the beast’s mad hunger; yet her very first assignment had it tugging on its chains, eager to gorge itself yet again.
This is not who I am. I am Eilwen Nasareen, and I am a soldier, and the beast serves me.

The cavern turned, bringing the entryway into view, and Eilwen paused. Meline stood to one side, silhouetted against the daylight, a pan of water on the ground beside her. Even from this distance, Eilwen could sense the heavy, brooding presence of Azador hanging over the sorcerer, causing the egg to buzz at her side and the beast to growl within her like two halves of a strange, conjoined being.

There’s the spot,
she thought, fixing her gaze on a point just left of centre in Meline’s slender back.
Put the dagger there, and then it’s done.
She took a long slow breath, shutting out the beast’s slavering anticipation, and stepped silently into the invisible cloud.

She was three paces away when a pang shot through her knee, causing her to scrape the ground with her boot. Meline whirled about with a yelp, then yelped again at the sight of the naked dagger in Eilwen’s hand. Eilwen leapt forward, and the sorcerer stumbled back and across, her foot groping toward the pan. Lunging desperately, Eilwen kicked the pan away, then spun and shoved Meline against the side of the entryway, her dagger at the other woman’s throat.

Meline’s wide eyes rolled down toward the dagger, then up again at Eilwen. “Please don’t,” she said, her voice soft and tremulous. “Please don’t kill me.”

Something rose inside Eilwen, savage and exultant; the beast, roaring its delight, revelling in its victim’s pleas. It stared at Meline through Eilwen’s eyes, lapping up her terrified dismay, sucking it down like a ravenous blood-eel. Sickened, Eilwen slashed the woman’s throat and turned away, falling to her knees as her stomach began to heave. She doubled over, retching as Meline slumped to the ground behind her.
No more. Gods, please, no more.

She grit her teeth, swallowing hard, and forced herself to her feet. She was a soldier, and there was still work to do.
But please, gods, no more killing.

Meline’s corpse lay across the threshold, a puddle of blood at her neck. Grasping her ankles, Eilwen dragged her into the cavern and out of sight. She wiped her dagger clean, then emptied the pan of water over the stained stones, washing the blood away into the shadows of the passage. When it was gone, she tossed the empty pan inside, its crash echoing within the cavern, and took up position in the entryway.

Somewhere inside her the beast nestled down, suckling on the remnants of Meline’s fear. Eilwen shied away, desperate to avoid it while the appalling taste still lingered in its mouth, and cast about for some other course on which to direct her thoughts.
Clade.
Her employer, her commanding officer, at least for the moment. The man would be commencing his sorcery around now. A binding to rid himself of his god. She still had only a vague idea what that meant — Clade’s explanation had been brief, hastened by his apparently sudden decision to complete the final stage without delay. She’d have to ask him about it later, tease out the snarled implications she sensed beneath the surface.

Perhaps Azador was to him what the beast was to her.
What would I do to rid myself of it?
It laughed, baring bloody fangs in mockery. Shame and despair filled her, and she fought the urge to turn and look at Meline’s supine form.
Gods help me, it’s getting stronger. No matter what I do, it just gets stronger.

Please, gods, let me not have to kill again today.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gorge, obscuring the shore and the lake. When the first flicker of motion caught the edge of Eilwen’s eye she blinked, squinting into the glare, unsure whether she had imagined it. Then a man came into view, picking his way over the rocks, raising his head at intervals to glance in the direction of the cavern. Groaning inwardly, Eilwen straightened her back and watched his slow, inexorable approach.

He halted a few paces away and stared vacantly into the passage, then shrugged. “All right. You win. Tell Clade I’m prepared to offer an exchange.”

I win.
The thought made her want to laugh, but she knew that if she started she might not stop. She nodded instead.

The gesture seemed to displease him. “Did you hear me? I said I’m ready to make a deal. That’s what he wants, right?”

She glanced at him, taking in his wild hair and dishevelled clothes. “You’ll have to wait. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

“No, that’s not —” The man paused, evidently trying to bring his emotions under control. “The note said I had until sunset. I need to see him before then.”

He’s worried about his friends.
The realisation came from a distant part of her, a place that had somehow gone untouched by the beast. She reached for it, filled with a sudden, desperate longing, but it vanished before she could grasp it.

“Relax,” she said. “Nobody’s killing anyone.”
Not at the moment, anyway.
Laughter threatened to break out once more, and she hurried on. “There’s been a change of plan, that’s all. He’ll come when he’s ready.”

“All right,” the man said. “Good. Can you tell me how my friends are?”

She shrugged. “Alive,” she said, though she wasn’t even sure of that. But she had killed everyone besides Clade, and he seemed too preoccupied with his sorcery to have found time to kill the prisoners. In truth, a cell was probably the safest place to be right now.
Maybe I should have stayed there, too. If this is freedom, maybe I’m better off in chains.

The man stepped toward her, uncertain, perhaps sensing the doubt in her reply. Then his expression shifted and the beast surged within her. She pushed it away, staring at him with helpless dread.
Gods, please, no. Not another one.

He took another step and she drew her dagger, holding it before her as though to ward him away. A red smear on her hand caught her eye. She glanced up to see if he’d noticed.
See, I have already killed twice today. Believe it, and save me from making you my third.
“No closer,” she said, extending the dagger fractionally. “Not even a step.”

The man gave a slight smile. “I’m going into the cavern now,” he said. “Like it or not, I’m going in. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.”

He stepped forward and she stepped back, maintaining the distance between them. “You really don’t want to do that.”

The smile widened and he stepped again. “I think I do.”

“No.” She nodded sideways to where Meline lay just inside the threshold. “Like I said, there’s been a change of plan.”

He followed her gesture, the smile falling away as he took in the huddled corpse. Then he scowled, rounding on her as though the weapon in her hand were nothing more than a toy. “Look at you,” he hissed, the words filled with loathing. “You’re dead already, aren’t you? You and all the others. Weeper’s tears, there’s more life in one of those golems down there than there is in the lot of you.”

Eilwen gaped, struck speechless by the twinned forces of revulsion and revelation.
Gods have mercy. Is it true?
The beast within her howled its affirmation and she sank to her knees, overcome.

The dream. I already knew it.
This was why the beast had defied all her attempts at control. Eilwen, the old Eilwen, was dead. She had died with the
Orenda,
torn in two like the ship itself and left to drown in the icy waters. What lurked within was not a beast at all; it was her, the new Eilwen, ready now to assume her rightful place.

The dagger slipped from her grasp and clattered to the ground. She fell to her knees, her arms wrapped around her body, rocking and weeping as the man’s footsteps receded into the depths of the cavern.

•

Clade crouched before the golem, his face a hand’s breadth from its shackled leg, and made fast the foundation of his binding. Azador raged about him like his own personal storm, its endless, seething assault battering his defences with the force of a whirlwind, pressing him to the ground. He resisted its attack as best he could, hunkering down before the onslaught and focusing his attention on the unfinished sorcery before him.

The golem’s binding was unlike anything he had ever seen. For the first time in his life, Clade found the language of touch utterly inadequate to describe a piece of sorcery. The lines and whorls sang before his questing mind, bursting with indescribable vitality. A deep, rich light seemed to emanate from the heart of the spell, and the scent of it was smooth and sweet like honey, yet as evanescent as smoke.

But for the weight of Azador pressing upon him, Clade could have happily spent days, even weeks, tracing the lines of sorcery through the great ceramic-stone construct, slowly piecing together its design.
Weeks? Say rather years.
To study the golems and draw out their secrets would be the work of a lifetime.
But not mine. Not yet, anyway.

Not today.

Clade pushed outward, feeling with his mind for the foundation of his own spell. The base of the binding clung to the golem’s thigh, its core a wide, open column surrounded by a dozen smaller conduits, each serving to strengthen and support the main structure. His brief survey of the golem’s form had identified no single point that seemed most suited to receive the transfer. As far as he could tell, the spirit animating the golem was not concentrated in any one location; rather, it seemed equally present in every part of its body, darting through the complex weave of sorcery like a crimson thread. In the absence of arcane considerations, he had fallen back on pragmatism to select the spell’s focal point: a spot just above the knee, which offered both space enough to fix the binding in place and a convenient height for its construction.

The process was slow, intense, and utterly exhausting. Clade had gone over the binding so often in his mind that every step was dully familiar, tempting him to inattention. Conscious of the danger, he forced himself to vigilance, reviewing each piece as he fitted it in place, pausing regularly to look again at the whole and ensure that no flaws or imbalances crept into the structure. Piece by piece the binding grew, narrowing near the middle then widening again as it arched outward. Sweat sprang up on his brow and back, chilling his skin in the cool underground air. Azador’s mad fury roared in his ears; yet he pressed on, deliberately forming each link and setting it in place, until at last the binding was done, all but the final piece that would join the unfinished spell to the sorcery lodged in his heart.

Drained, he sat back and considered his work. Somewhere deep within he felt something skitter and leap, like a tiny inner counterpart to the storm of Azador without. He bore down on the flicker of agitation with a frown, penning it between walls of stone and cutting it loose, reforming his being around the empty space where the tremor had been.
You are no part of me,
he thought, and it seemed he was speaking not only to his fear but also to the suffocating rage of the god.
You do not trouble me. I, Clade, reject you.

A boot scraped on the stone behind him. Clade shook his head, noting and rejecting the invitation to annoyance. “Not now, Eilwen,” he said. “Maintain your post and do not interrupt me again. Understood?”

“Yeah,” a male voice said. “About that…”

Clade whirled to his feet. Arandras stood in the doorless portal, his bearded face contorted in a triumphant, lupine snarl. A grinding noise sounded just behind Clade’s head, and he glanced back to find the golem turned in his direction, its pinprick yellow eyes staring directly at him.

“Your name is Clade Alsere,” Arandras said. The words were both a statement and a question.

“Yes,” Clade said. A strange calm flooded through him. “It is.”

Arandras gazed at him from beneath lowered brows. “You killed my wife.”

“Yes,” Clade said again. There was nothing else to say.

Arandras bared his teeth. “
Why?
”

Clade flicked his gaze over the other man. Arandras was at least a head shorter than Clade himself, and was already breathing hard. But the man’s stance was poised, balanced. Ready.

“I had to,” Clade said. Behind him, the unfinished binding tugged at his thoughts like a load on a pulley. He paused, wrapping a piece of his mind around its form, and moistened his lips. Without his support, the incomplete structure risked a potentially destructive collapse. “I had no choice.”

“No,” Arandras snapped. “Not true. There’s always a choice.”

“Not for me,” Clade said. “I was bound.”

Arandras flinched, his expression shifting to something unreadable. “Meaning what?”

“Bound,” Clade repeated, watching for any reaction. “By sorcery.”

Arandras growled, shaking his head. “No, you weren’t.”

“I was. That’s why I’m here.”

The man’s laugh was scornful. “Don’t give me that. You’re here for the golems.” He grinned, the confident cast returning to his shoulders. “And you’re here because
I led you.
”

Clade raised his eyebrows. “Bannard —”

“No. Bannard left.” The grin remained, but there was something beneath it, something Clade still couldn’t identify. “I made the sign at the bridge. I showed you where we left the path.”

Clade opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t noticed Bannard among the fallen; but then, he hadn’t looked very hard. Perhaps it was true. “Why did you do that?”