11. Archer
Archer
The slums of Hanniel lies beyond a pair of grand gates, or more accurately—gates that were once grand but have fallen into disrepair. Paint flakes from rusted iron, and strangler vines attempt to swallow the spiked embellishments, reaching out from the crumbling stone walls.
“I take it you haven’t been here before?” Grayson asks, brushing the loose hair from her eyes, noting the surprise on my face before she tugs her boots back on.
“Not that I can recall.” But that’s not saying much. “Why?”
Grayson hesitates, her gaze scrutinizing me from head to toe as I lace up my own boots.
“What?” I ask at last.
“This place we’re going… It’s notorious for its hatred of the Azkari, and I’m not sure you can pass as a mortal.”
“I can veil myself,” I offer, though it’s been a while since I have. It’s hard to hide who you are when you don’t completely know yourself. “Azkari can spin threads from the Weave to create an illusion. I can change my appearance.”
Grayson makes an undignified noise in response. “It’s not just how you look.”
“Oh?”
“It’s how you act.” She gestures up and down my body.
“Which is?”
“Like an insufferable immortal ass?”
“I don’t see a problem.”
Grayson shakes her head and smiles, “Problems are all I see when I look at you.”
“So don’t look.”
“You’re hard to miss.”
“You flatter me.”
“I assure you, I don’t.” For a moment, she winces, her hand twitching at her side, but then the expression is gone and she’s looking at me expectantly. “Go on then, work your magical deceptions.”
This woman is the bane of my existence. What was I thinking? Making a bargain with a mortal? She seems to have forgotten the harsh words we exchanged in the woods and is intent on striking up some sort of witty rapport between us. Triad save me.
Without comment, I mentally reach for the threads of the Weave that hold the fabric of the realm together.
Not every Azkari can see them so clearly, but besides my time in Gravereach, the tapestry has always been within my grasp.
I take the threads, entwining them, passing a hand over my face, bending the visual illusion to my will—cloaking the metallic flecks in my eyes, the shimmering lines where flesh has knitted itself back together.
With nothing more than my mind, I coax the veil over the rest of my body, dulling the predatory nature that humans sense when they’re around my kind.
As for the black fire coursing through my veins, I shorten its leash, tethering it tight to myself, lest it wish to break free again.
I turn to Grayson expectantly.
But she stares at me blankly, unimpressed. “Is that it?”
“It’s effective.”
The woman has the audacity to roll her eyes. “No one’s believing you’re a humble human merchant for a second.”
“The strength of the veil is linked to the power of its caster. Do I need to remind you of my power, Grayson? Do I need to demonstrate the intensity of my will or the potency of my magic?” I challenge.
“I can alter my appearance with little more than half a thought, and fool the senses of any poor man, woman or child who crosses my path.”
Not convinced, she huffs in frustration. “Just try not to burn anyone to death. Or insult anyone. Or—you know what? Best you don’t do or say anything at all.”
“So you like the strong and silent type then?” The quip it leaves my lips before I can think the better of it. Gods, I’m encouraging her.
Grayson looks delighted. “Right now, I like the shut-up-and-get-moving type.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I tell her flatly.
She lets out a laugh and pushes the gate open. “Are you sure you have one?”
“All evidence points to the contrary.”
The horse of a dog snarls at me again before it lopes forward, his beard wet with the mist that clings to fallen autumn leaves as he half-heartedly goes sniffing.
The mutt’s personality matches his name—he seems to be as keen as I am to be here, which isn’t saying much.
He looks like a tired old man and is similarly prone to releasing heavy, exasperated sighs.
As the sun sets, we enter the city with no fanfare.
There are no guards, no watchmen… Instead, I see a place stricken with contradictions.
The streets are so narrow that a single horse can barely fit through, and yet they are crammed with people.
The dusk air is filled with smoke, from pipes in people’s mouths and open braziers illuminating the elaborate entrances to pantheons that stand beyond their gates.
Offerings to the Eternal Triad are nailed to doors—little baskets that hold tea leaves, sweets and nuts.
Barefoot children and animals dart across the busy roads, weaving between travelers and traders like it’s second nature, like they’ve known nothing else but this chaos for their entire lives.
I don’t remember the last mortal city I roamed willingly.
There are fragments… Wagons making deep ruts in the mud.
A warm hearth and a cold mug of mead. Flogging posts.
A blur of banners dancing in the wind. I comb my memories, which slip between my fingers like I’m trying to grasp a handful of ash.
I follow Grayson as she leads down one of the many alleys, and we pass a shop front lined with compact metal cages.
Ravens. Dozens of ravens squawk and flap against the unforgiving bars.
Despite my veil, my magic rises to the surface, heating the tips of my fingers, begging to be let loose.
I hate seeing anything in a cage after being trapped in one of my own for so long.
I reach for something—anything that will ground me.
What is the color of desire? Is it the red I see behind my eyes when I think of killing Malevron?
Or the gray of the iron manacles I wished so desperately to shatter?
Is it black like the flames that sprout from my fingertips, threatening to consume the world?
“You good, General?”
I turn away from the shop to find the mortal staring at me, her brows furrowed with worry. I don’t need her damn concern. “Fine,” I mutter, brushing off the unfamiliar sensation of someone inquiring after my wellbeing.
If my gruff attitude fazes Grayson, she doesn’t show it. With a shrug, she continues, delving deeper into the dark underbelly of the city.
Until I stop her.
Or more accurately, I grab the strap of her satchel, hauling her off the street and into a laneway.
I must use more force than I intend to because suddenly she’s flush against my front—the curve of her backside pressed to my groin, her softness against the hard planes of me, her golden hair tickling my nose, the scent of lilac wrapping around my senses.
A different kind of heat surges through me at the contact, all the blood in my body shooting south.
Shit. My traitorous mind launches me straight back to the kiss with Grayson in my cell, and the way she melted into me, the way she tasted…
This is what becomes of someone who hasn’t been touched in centuries.
One kiss, one hold of a hand and they become a trembling mess.
“You’re shaking,” Grayson whispers.
“So are you,” I counter, though it sounds more like a rasp.
She tries to twist in my hold, the movement causing more delicious friction that I shouldn’t remotely enjoy. “Why did you hide us—”
“Magic,” I cut her off, angling my hips away and carefully extracting myself from her warmth. You think I would ever want an Azkari? Let alone one that bears that brand? I bring her words to the front of my mind, dousing the fire within. “There’s Azkari magic on these streets…”
Grayson’s eyes grow wide. “Is it Malevron?”
“No. The magical signature is faint.” I murmur, scanning our surroundings, looking for any trace of power lingering in the air. “Malevron isn’t the only immortal who will seek me out now that I have a fully corporeal form. There are whispers everywhere.”
“Ominous,” she replies.
“No doubt.”
“You never know,” she says with a shrug. “Might be someone who wants to help you. You need a fair bit of that after all. Especially since you’re insisting we’re not friends.”
For a moment I simply stare at her.
But then she grins.
“You’re something else,” I mutter, shaking my head as we start walking again. Some sick part of me wants to test that smile on her face, and the rest of me… Well, the rest of me wants to be responsible for putting it there.
Grayson falls into step with me. “Well, Thorne did sell me out to your comrades, perhaps they made their own deal here?”
“They’re not my comrades.”
“Right. That would mean you have friends. My mistake.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Do you?” she throws back at me and I ignore her.
Night has truly fallen by the time we reach the northern side of town and Grayson points out the compound on the opposite side of the street.
The nightlife of Hanniel’s slums hum around us; horses and carts rumbling along the streets, stray dogs howling, peddlers hawking their illicit powders in the dark, but I keep my eyes on the main gates.
They’re illuminated by torchlight, revealing a quartet of armed guards—Thorne’s henchmen.
Grayson is restless at my side. “How’s this… Grim and I will create a distraction, and you go in and break Yev and Raven loose with all your mighty Azkari strength?”
The mutt tilts his head in my direction, as though assessing me and finding that I come up short.
Squaring my shoulders, I pointedly ignore the judgmental beast. “I won’t need a diversion.”
“No?”
I answer by unsheathing my sword, and setting it alight, black flames singing over the steel.
It’s been a long while since I cut down one of Malevron’s hidden forces and I find myself missing the slice of a blade.
Wielding fire is all well and good, but there’s nothing quite like watching a man bleed before he burns.
With me in the lead now, we cross the dirt road and flatten ourselves against the damp wall. I note Grayson’s fingers digging into the stone, her chest rising and falling quickly as her suspicions about the courtyard are confirmed.
“That’s them.” Saige stammers, eyes bulging at the sight of the two women within, cataloging every visible wound, flinching as though she can feel their pain herself. But she chokes a sigh of relief all the same. “Thank the Triad, they’re still here. They’re in one piece.”
One is about her age; the other is much older—for a mortal—with silver-white hair. Both of them are chained up and gagged, looking ragged and bloodied, positioned just as Grayson predicted: in the center of the open space for all to see.
Beside me, I feel her body lock up further as another figure comes into view, pacing a path through the dirt in front of her friends. With strong features and thick brown hair, he carries a sword sheathed in his belt, moving with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to authority.
“Another friend of yours?” I thrust my chin towards the man.
“That’s Reid… He’s below even you on my list, General.”
There’s a note in her voice that makes me meet her eyes, and there’s something lingering between her words that makes me think that this Reid has done more than take her friends hostage…
Heat flares as I lift my sword, unsure where my next words come from, “Then I’ll save him for last.”