Chapter 24 | Sephania
Sephania
Trithea Plaza is a mass of sparse land comprising the southeastern edge of the Military Ward.
Large, open plots of wide roads—the primary thoroughfare for soldiers to march across—lead through the heart of the plaza.
Lampposts emanating yellow magicked light dot every corner and cross-street of the roads, giving the place a patchwork of murky golden globes to guide the way.
There are shopfronts and squat buildings lining the broad streets, though not as many as we would like.
A few taller structures use bridges to connect the second and third stories.
A canal runs beside one of the main roads, with a series of small crescent-shaped bridges spanning over the waterway, leading from one wide road to the next.
At night, moonlight glints sharply against the bright stone of the handrails running across the bridges.
Just north of Trithea, less than two miles away, sits one of three garrisons operated by Overlord Barnabac Craxon.
Over the past fortnight, Skartovius has painstakingly spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the plaza and found the squat, box-shaped garrison to be our biggest threat. The other two garrisons in the Military Ward are far enough away not to be a concern.
A guardtower sits about three-hundred yards north of the vast plaza, as well as another one to the south.
These towers punch the sky, reaching far higher than any other buildings in the ward, flecking the entire yellow-hued district with what looks like numerous spearheads a hundred feet in height.
The guardtowers are situated in perfect locales so every square inch of Overlord Barnabac’s terrain is subject to constant supervision.
It might make the Red Butcher seem overly suspicious or paranoid of his Five Ministries neighbors, however it’s prudent from a tactical point of view. Theoretically, nothing and no one can get in or out of the Military Ward without Barnabac knowing about it.
Which is why our contingent of killers has to move like phantoms, phasing in and out of existence with every step.
Skar helps in that regard. He has honed his shadowwalking skill over the previous months to a frightening level. At first, he was only able to control my shadows or shadows near me. Now, he can throttle a man with his own shadow a hundred paces away, with the flick of his wrist.
Still, shadow-manipulation and shadowwalking—the two primary uses of his ability since drinking my Loreblood—takes a lot out of him. He is not impervious, and his ability does not come without considerable risks.
So far, we have not pushed Skar to his limits regarding his capabilities. At least that’s what he tells me, Vall, and Garro, likely to keep us from worrying.
The evening is a cold one, with a stiff mountain breeze blowing my hair about.
It makes pulling my hood up all the more logical, and our entourage does the same.
We’ve worn leather around our weapons to keep them from rattling.
Black tar and spackle hide pale faces and skin.
Armor rests beneath dark tunics and cloaks as our group briskly ventures from Manor Marquin, south around the Faith Ward’s peripheries, and cuts up and into the Military Ward after a few hours of travel.
As we inch closer to Trithea Plaza, staying immutably silent, Skar stops us with a raised fist. Our company numbers eighteen souls—a small group designed to suit our purposes.
We hide in the mouth of an alley, surrounded by pitch blackness.
Only the reds of my vampiric comrades’ glowing eyes show in the dark.
Skartovius Ashfen is nothing if not ostentatious, so it doesn’t surprise me when he riles his eighteen soldiers with harshly whispered words in the alley.
“All goes well, my court, tonight will mark the first strike of our revolution. It will not get easier from here. Many of us may find an end to our eternity this evening. Die knowing you contributed to the cause—to a world of Olhav led by the noblebloods more deserving of leadership than the lax, iron fist of the Five Ministries. For too long they have boxed us in and kept us out. That ends tonight.”
There are no cheers. We would be foolish to smile and show our teeth in the night, unless we want the watchtower to spot us. I get the sense every apparition around me—every cloaked silhouette—appreciates our lord’s candor and motivating words.
“You all know your duties,” he continues.
“Perform them well, and then get out when the order is given.” Skar’s voice and stature are trapped in the majestic gait of Lord Ashfen of Manor Marquin.
His shoulder-length auburn mane is hidden in his hood, and even his silver saber is muddied by tar to lessen its gleam.
Concentrating, Skar wrestles with the shadows around us.
The air becomes charged, blackness shifting and flitting, making every soul nervous save for our leader.
His eyes close, he raises both arms, and abruptly throws his palms to the alley wall.
As one, the shadows of our company leap from the ground and splash against the wall, brightened slightly by moonlight high above us—creating the shadows with which we’ll use.
The shadows from our bodies merge into an inky circle of moving blackness, like dark waves of a sea undulating on the stone wall.
Skar’s eyes open and he nods to us, clenching his teeth. He turns to me, close to him, and hisses, “Stay near Vallan and Garroway, temptress.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. There are no quick words from me or bobbed eyebrows or smirks. I simply give him a firm nod of understanding. I put my hands to my hips, feeling the worn handles of my longsword and shortsword—the weapons I trained all my life to master.
Master? Among humans, maybe. But these won’t be humans.
I swallow hard, glancing around at the stern, blackened faces of our troop. I hardly know most of these vampires.
A huge hand falls on my shoulder. The stiffness in my body relaxes at the sight of Vallan, giving me an encouraging nod.
His bushy beard is tied in a single long braid down his broad chest. Garroway, on the other side of me, wears his hood tight to keep the glow of the moon from his shiny bald head.
Not even the affable dhampir has any witty words for his master.
He grabs his sword, ready to draw it, knowing that timing is everything here.
“Go, my kin,” Skar spits out. Sweat lines his brow, spilling down his forehead and cheeks as he keeps the shadow circle on the wall.
Without another thought, before I can scare myself out of acting, I step into the shadow with Vallan and Garroway behind me, and the world vanishes.
I emerge on the outside balcony of a three-story skyrise, within the shadow of a gray-cloaked vampire four feet in front of me.
My hands flash out with my blades in an X, the rasp of the muddied weapons dulled but still loud enough in the silent night to alert the vampire.
He spins, slashing a dagger—
Catching my longsword in his chest.
Growling, the vampire opens his mouth to yell—
As I duck, a presence materializing from my shadow behind me, Garroway lunging a dagger over my shoulder and spearing through the vampire’s open mouth.
A croak comes out of the vampire as he stumbles back against the railing of the high balcony, leaving Garro’s dagger lodged in his gaping mouth, fangs closing around it.
Somehow, he stays upright, despite the dark, coagulated blood spilling out of his mouth. Garro’s blade missed his spine at the back of his neck.
He jerks forward, dagger flashing—
Vallan’s axe head comes down to block the blow from scarring my face. With a quick twist of Vall’s wrist, the backhanded swipe of his axe cleaves the vampire’s lower jaw, sending it flying and dropping Garro’s dagger out of his mouth.
Garro ducks, catches the dagger in midair before it can clang on the ground, and plunges it into the bloodsucker’s foot, nailing him in place—
Just as the vampire backpedals to tip over the railing—
I inhale, lunge, and clasp the vampire’s tunic, pulling him into me so he can’t fall. We embrace and my shortsword stabs in quick, short jabs into his chest, finally piercing his heart after the third strike.
The vampire stills, collapsing wordlessly at our feet.
The event took ten seconds. Skar’s shadowwalking spit us out in a chain reaction: I emerged from the enemy’s shadow, Garro came from mine, and Vallan from his.
Garro crouches to inspect the vampire’s gray cloak, finding a telltale emblem across its shoulder. He lifts his head and nods to us, confirming this is one of Alacine Mortis’ scouts.
We rise as one to peer over the balcony. Look down into a wide expanse of Trithea Plaza, across the road lined by uniform lampposts. The streets are empty below and we’ve taken the spy’s position.
We’ve gotten the jump on the would-be ambushers.
Soft sounds of conflict erupt from various other sections of the plaza—a steel parry as swords collide on the balcony across from us; hissing and rustling from bushes below us on the street level; an arrow thudding home and sending a body catapulting off the roof of a two-story building, crashing down onto the street below.
The falling corpse begins the mayhem in earnest. Anyone hidden in the shadows in Trithea Plaza—which is everyone, currently—doesn’t have to look far to see arms and legs flailing in the wind before crashing onto the road.
Vallan curses under his breath.
Our necks snap left at the sound of a bowstring being applied pressure—
An assassin on an identical balcony ten feet away fires off his shot at our mass of flesh.
Vallan steps in the way and takes the arrow in the shoulder, turning at the last second with a customary grunt as the arrowhead drives home.
“Vall!” I hiss.
The assassin loads a second arrow. From this distance he can’t miss.