Monster of the Dagger Mountains (Killers of the Towers)

1. Kira

Chapter 1

Kira

THE MISSION

“ W e found him.”

The room falls silent, all of the small side conversations swept away. Even I lean forward from my place along the back wall, although I know this has nothing to do with me. Nothing interesting ever does.

Fyrris, the Exemplar in the front of the room, allows himself a moment to bask in the sudden silence. His white robes gleam under the torchlight, and the expression on his face suggests he never had any doubt the fugitive Godkiller would be located. He probably looks like that when he’s correcting an inferior, but I wouldn’t know. I haven’t yet had the privilege of receiving instruction from him.

Honestly, I haven’t had any privileges. Because, despite all the promises those white-robed Exemplars made when they met me at the orphanage three years ago, I still have yet to show any spark of magical potential whatsoever. I grind my teeth together as the white-clad Exemplar clears his throat.

“Our ravens located him in the northern Knife’s Edge Mountains,” Fyrris continues. “In a remote range known as the Daggers.”

“Has that been confirmed?” Tholious asks.

If anyone but Tholious dared interrupt Fyrris, they’d be yanked out of the room before they could draw their next breath. But Fyrris just gives his shining star an indulgent smile.

“No,” Fyrris replies. “That’s why I’m here.”

Just like I thought. No one can stay mad at Tholious. A murmur sweeps through the room, and I take advantage of the commotion to run my eyes across him. He’s standing, along with the other three gray-robed Disciples who are expected to earn their white robes any day now, with his arms crossed over his massive chest and a stern expression that could be carved onto a marble god. His thick blond hair is swept back, all but one tiny strand that’s just begging to be tucked behind his ear.

Fyrris clears his throat. I drag my attention back to something that will in no way affect my life. I’ll be peeling potatoes and whacking straw dummies with wooden swords for all eternity at the rate I’m progressing through my apprenticeship in the Towers.

But I am getting closer to what I really want in this place. As long as I bite my tongue, smile, and nod, I can go anywhere I want in the Towers. No one questions a Guard’s presence, after all.

“No doubt the Godkiller has placed wards,” Fyrris continues. “With the magic he’s stolen, he’ll be able to detect the presence of an Exemplar in those mountains. However. Perhaps someone with less magical capacity could pass through his wards. He’ll be aware of you, certainly, but it’s unlikely he’ll kill you.”

Another murmur riffles through the room. I shift against the far wall. Seats at the tables are earned, of course, and I haven’t even passed the most basic of tests. After three damned years. I watch the men and women sitting in front of me and wonder which ones Fyrris is going to pick to go after the Godkiller. It sounds like a suicide mission.

“Does he have the amulet?” Tholious asks.

His voice is soft, but it still carries through the room, dragging a ripple of conversation behind it. I glance down at my feet; they’re starting to ache, standing against the wall like this. Normally I’d be eating with the Guards right now, a position that suits me just fine. For now, at least.

But Benja, my friend and fellow Guard, told me I needed to be here tonight, in the room with all the apprentices and their colored robes signifying the levels of mastery they’ve achieved over the magic of the Towers. My own faded brown pants hang low over my boots, the cuffs coated with mud from the courtyard, their color advertising to anyone who knows anything about the Towers that I’m not even an apprentice.

“We don’t know,” Fyrris says. He shakes his head as he speaks, and the blinding white cloth of his robe shivers. I swear, he must use magic to get it that clean. “The ravens could only verify his presence. But we suspect that, yes, he does still have the amulet.”

I run my fingers along the back of my arm, interested despite myself. If the Godkiller still has the amulet with him, he’s an idiot. You don’t run from a crime carrying the weapon that murdered the last old god. Especially if that weapon was stolen from the Towers of Silver City.

“That’s why we need you,” Fyrris announces.

His sharp eyes run across the tables, and the crowd of yellow, blue, green, and gray robes sway under his gaze. For a heartbeat, Fyrris looks like he’s staring right at me. A chill runs up the back of my neck.

But he can’t be looking at me. No one ever looks at me, now that the novelty of my arrival’s worn off and I’m no longer the woman scooped up from the orphanage to fulfill her glorious destiny. No, now I’m just another idiot without a spark of magic being trained to swing a sword. No one ever looks twice at me, and thank the gods for that.

“We’re sending a team,” Fyrris continues, as his gaze mercifully moves back to the apprentices. “A very small team, the best of you, will travel to the Daggers, locate the Godkiller’s encampment, and determine whether or not he still has the amulet. If he does have the amulet, you will retrieve it.”

The room erupts with voices. Tholious shifts, his stern expression melting into something that looks almost resigned. The best of you clearly means Tholious, and everyone in this room knows it. But who’s going with him?

“You have, at most, two months,” Fyrris announces, once the voices subside. “Once the snow settles, the Daggers become impassable. Before that happens, the amulet and its magic must be returned to its rightful home. Here, in our Towers.”

The voices rise once more, a furious storm of whispers following the word magic. It’s the greatest injustice the gods ever served, humanity’s lack of magic. Elves and dragons play with magical powers all damn day, but humans go without.

A few rare individuals are born with the ability to manipulate the magic the Towers collect and store. The amulet the Godkiller stole must hold the magic of the old god he slaughtered, which would make it more precious than all the gems in Silver City.

Not for the first time, I wonder which one of the four Elites stole the damn thing. They were supposed to be the next Exemplars, those four. They were the best at manipulating the magic the universe keeps away from humans. Until one of them snapped.

Tholious clears his throat.

“Will we kill him?” Tholious asks.

Another shiver runs up the back of my neck. Of course, the Godkiller deserves to die for what he did. Instead of embracing his glorious destiny, becoming an Exemplar, and using his gifts to benefit humanity, he stole the Towers’s amulet and destroyed the last creature of pure magic left in this world. Asshole doesn’t begin to cover it.

Still, Tholious’s question surprises me. The Exemplars are the ones who make life-and-death decisions, not the Disciples. Maybe Tholious is close enough to becoming an Exemplar that it doesn’t matter.

Fyrris nods to Tholious. “That will be at your discretion,” he says, all but confirming what everyone in the room already knew.

Tholious is going to hunt the Godkiller. And, knowing Tholious, he’ll catch the bastard too. That should be enough to vault Tholious into the ranks of the Exemplars. He’ll be wearing white after he returns, I’d bet my own nonexistent magical spark on it.

I run my eyes across the room, wondering which of the other brilliant and beautiful apprentices will be joining him. Probably Veloria. She’s also a Disciple, and she’s almost as gorgeous as Tholious, with her full cheeks and thick, golden braid. Plus, the Guards’ rumors claim she had relations with one of those mysterious four Elites who were supposed to become the next leaders of the Towers. Maybe it was even the Godkiller. Maybe he was great in bed.

Well, Veloria looks like she’s doing fine now. She’s sitting at attention, her gaze fixed on Fyrris with a look of concentration so intense it’s almost aggressive.

Great. Veloria and Tholious, the two new heroes of the Towers. According to the rumors, Tholious is as pure as those damn white robes he so clearly wants to wear, but I bet Veloria could tempt him. Just wait until they’re alone in the Dagger Mountains sharing all their secrets around a fire or some bullshit, and we’ll see how well the Towers’s celibacy pledge holds up.

And then they’ll murder the Godkiller and recover the amulet so they can return to the Towers as heroes. I yawn.

No one stops me as I slip past Daoug, the Guard stationed at the door, and blink in the sudden gloom outside the apprentice’s dining hall. After the heat and chatter inside, the cool of the autumn evening comes as a surprise.

No one even notices me as I walk across the courtyard and slip into a small, narrow hallway. The latch at the end lifts when I press on the handle; the Exemplar who works here isn’t good at locking the door on her way out. Still, I press my ear to the door, hold my breath, and count to twenty before opening it.

Nothing. My heart flutters in my throat as I slip inside the darkened staircase, closing the door behind me. I take a deep breath and press my fingers against my vest, tracing the hard outline of my lockpick kit. There’s another door at the top of the stairs with a lock I’ve picked so many times I could probably do it with my eyes closed. Beyond that is a room filled with dusty stacks of parchment. The Archives.

And somewhere in those scattered records is the truth about my heritage.