Chapter 17 Lord Imas
LORD IMAS
The sword in my hand is dead weight. It does not sing to me like the chaos once did. It is a crude bar of steel, indifferent to my will, demanding muscle and sweat where once a thought would have sufficed.
I swing it anyway.
The blade bites into the gap between a traitor's helm and pauldron, severing the leather strap. Blood sprays, hot and startlingly bright against the gray stone of the corridor. The guard crumples, choking on his own life.
I step over the body, my breath sawing in my lungs. My shoulder burns where the falling debris sliced me, a steady, throbbing reminder of my own mortality. Every parry jars my bones. Every block sends a shockwave of pain up my arm.
"Move," I rasp, grabbing Leora’s wrist with my free hand.
She stumbles after me, her face pale beneath the grime of the explosion. Asema brings up the rear, limping but lethal, her sword a blur of steel as she dispatches a guard who tries to flank us.
We are fighting our way up from the belly of the estate, climbing toward the surface like sinners clawing their way out of hell.
The air is choked with dust and the sounds of slaughter—the clash of metal, the screams of dying men, and the low, guttural roar of the war beasts tearing through the upper levels.
I do not have time to think. I do not have time to mourn the loss of my god. I have only the immediate, brutal necessity of keeping the woman beside me alive.
We reach the landing of the second level. The corridor ahead is narrow, lined with tapestries that are now burning, the flames licking at the ceiling. Smoke billows toward us, thick and acrid.
Through the haze, three figures emerge.
They are House Guard. My dark elves. Men I paid, men I fed, men who swore oaths on their own blood. Now, they wear armbands of yellow cloth—Malek’s color.
"Lord Imas," the leader sneers, raising a heavy mace. "Or should I say, Dfam Imas?"
Rage flares in my chest, but it is a cold, impotent thing without magic to fuel it. I tighten my grip on the sword. I am faster than them. I am more skilled. But I am tired, and I am bleeding, and there are three of them.
"Traitor," I spit.
I lunge.
The leader swings the mace. I duck under the arc, slashing at his knee. He howls, stumbling, but the second guard is already moving, thrusting a spear toward my chest.
I twist, parrying the blow, but the force of it knocks me off balance. I stagger back, my boot slipping on a patch of blood.
The third guard sees the opening. He steps forward, raising a short sword, aiming for my exposed neck.
“My Lord!” The chorus of yells tells my body to move, but I cannot.
I cannot block it. My sword is out of position. My weight is wrong.
I see the steel descending. I see the grim satisfaction in the guard’s eyes.
So this is how it ends. Not with a spell, but with a piece of sharpened iron in a burning hallway.
Then, the guard stops.
He does not freeze in fear. He does not hesitate. He simply… halts. His arm locks in mid-swing. His eyes glaze over, the pupils dilating until they are black voids.
He turns.
Not toward me. Toward his comrade.
With a fluid, mechanical motion, the guard drives his short sword into the chest of the spearman.
The spearman gasps, looking down at the blade protruding from his ribs. The leader, still clutching his ruined knee, stares in horror.
"What are you doing?" the leader screams.
The third guard does not answer. He pulls his blade free and swings again, this time taking the leader’s head from his shoulders in a spray of crimson.
Then, he drops to one knee. He bows his head, presenting his neck to me.
"Master," he drones, his voice flat and devoid of inflection.
I stare at him. The silence in the corridor is sudden and absolute.
I look at Leora.
She is standing behind Asema, her hand outstretched, fingers splayed. Her eyes are pitch black, the sapphire swallowed whole. Sweat beads on her forehead, and a trickle of blood runs from her nose. She is trembling, her whole body vibrating with the strain of an invisible weight.
"Leora," I breathe.
She blinks. The blackness recedes, leaving her eyes wide and terrified. She staggers, and I catch her before she hits the floor.
"How?" I demand, gripping her shoulders. "How did you do that?"
"I... I just wanted him to stop," she whispers, her voice shaking. "I pushed. Not calm. I pushed... obedience. I remembered how the guards look at you. How they fear you. And I put that fear inside him."
She looks at her hands, as if they are covered in blood.
"I didn't know I could make them kill," she says, a tear tracking through the dust on her cheek.
I look at the kneeling guard, then back at her. She is not just an empath. She is a puppet master. She reached into a man’s mind and rewrote his loyalty in a heartbeat.
It should terrify me. A woman who can turn an enemy into a slave with a thought is a threat greater than any Sorcerer Lord. She could do it to me. She could make me kneel.
But instead of fear, I feel a fierce, wild pride bloom in my chest.
"Good," I say. I wipe the blood from under her nose with my thumb. "Do not fear it. Use it. We are at war, Leora. And you are a weapon."
"I don't want to be a weapon," she cries softly. "I just want to keep you alive."
"Then be a weapon for me."
I pull her up. Asema is staring at us, her good eye wide. She says nothing, but she shifts her grip on her sword, moving closer to Leora, placing herself as a secondary shield.
"The stables," I command. "We move."
We run. The estate is a labyrinth of violence.
We fight our way through the servants' quarters, then the kitchens.
Leora does not use her power again—she is too drained, leaning heavily on me as we move—but her presence is enough.
The air around us feels charged, heavy with the potential of her will.
We burst into the main hall.
The massive double doors that lead to the courtyard and the stables beyond are closed.
Standing in front of them is Lord Malek.
He is not alone. Twenty archers line the upper balcony, their bows drawn, arrows nocked and aimed at our hearts. They are not house guards. They are Malek’s personal elite, wearing the crimson and gold of House Warrior.
Malek smiles. He is unhurt, untouched by the chaos he has unleashed. He holds a goblet of my wine in one hand and a heavy battle-axe in the other.
"Leaving so soon, Imas?" he calls out, his voice booming in the cavernous space. "And without saying goodbye? I am hurt."
I stop. Asema halts beside me, raising her shield, though it will do little against twenty arrows.
I push Leora behind me. I grip my sword, though I know it is useless. I have no magic. I have no army. I have only a piece of steel and a woman who is too exhausted to stand.
"Get out of my house, Malek," I say, my voice steady despite the hopelessness of the odds.
"Your house?" Malek laughs. "This is a tomb, Imas. And you are the corpse."
He raises his axe.
"Loose!” he commands.