Alexandria (57 page)

Three men, led by Denit, arc through the cluster of cottages and launch a volley of arrows at the Temple’s east tower, then shirk back into the forest, drawing fire.

The voice is telling Jack not to move. The voice tells him death awaits. He tries to block it out and it speaks back louder, without form or syntax. He thinks about precious Lia, her silly laugh and her crooked smile, and the voice presses deeper and threatens to unwind him. A quiver spasms his hand and he tightens it to a fist. He turns to his left—Sajiress is looking at him, full of concern. Back to the door, wishing both for it to open and stay closed, his mind a cyclone of conflicting thoughts.

It opens.

Thirty men slip through, hastily cloaked with soot, and break for the line of cottages. They meld into the smoky shadows and vanish.

There is a clash down below and Jack doesn’t know if they lost one of their own or scored a kill. He stares into the shadows and sees something move. He waits for the form to emerge, sees the banded strap of weapons slung over its shoulder, and fires down upon it. The arrow strikes high on his left shoulder and the warrior falls. He draws back slickly and finishes him.

An arrow flies wild into the trees. They are shooting back. Jack slides down to another limb and looks behind him and spots two more, harboring around a cottage wall. He lines up a shot and lets it go as the forward warrior creeps out. It misses and thunks firmly into the redwood siding. They shoot back toward Jack’s location and he flattens himself on the limb, nearly dropping his bow, arrows splitting into the bark below him. From the next tree over, Sajiress checks one of the warriors in the neck with a near-perfect shot and his partner withdraws.

Sounds of violence fill the woods. Jack clutches onto the limb and slides down, hanging with his fingers laced, then drops to the ground and presses his back against the trunk of the tree. Sajiress pads to the ground beside him, and soon the rest of his men.

Sajiress nods up the wooded hillside and they jog toward the sound of painful cries. They find one of their tribesmen twisting on the ground with an arrow in his spine. Sajiress places his hand on the back of his neck and whispers something to him, then lights off deeper into the woods. An arrow hisses by Jack’s head and he dives to the ground—the others scatter for cover.

Jack elbows forward into the underbrush and situates a fresh arrow, one of his last. A dry sprig snaps behind him and as he pivots, he sees a flash of metal catch the dim light. The warrior barrels toward him. Jack fires and the shadowy form swerves, then pounces and chops his blade down. In a furious blur Jack drops the bow and sweeps his own blade out of its sheath and they clash into the scrub, the warrior’s momentum throwing him back. Jack pushes with all his might, locked up in a stalemate.

“Jack…”
the man whispers hoarsely, and bears down with newfound vigor to kill him.

His arms strain to fend him off. He brings his knee up and glances it off the man’s side to little effect—the warrior throws his leg over Jack’s midsection to pin him, and Jack lets out a ragged choke as the air is squeezed out of him, their blades crisscrossed between their coal black faces.

He shoulders his elbow forward, edging their blades off to the side, and tries to gain leverage. One of Sajiress’s men runs to help him and is shot down mid-sprint. Jack bucks on the ground to shake the warrior loose, and affords himself a narrow gap to slip through. Their blades screech edge to edge as Jack rolls to the side, and he springs to his feet and swings, cutting into his arm. The warrior rebounds and raises his machete and Jack slices across his face, and again into the back of his neck as he falls.

Across the way, Sajiress spies out the shooter’s roost and circles around behind. With quiet grace, Sajiress runs his sword into the archer’s back and lets the body fall limply off his blade.

They hear behind them tentative footsteps and whirl around to see their own tribesmen step into the smoldering moonlight. Together, they perform a rough sweep of the surrounding woods, then drag the bodies of the fallen warriors back to the clearing and commence removing their weapons, boots, belts, and the cloths from around their waists, leaving them naked and dead on the dry brush floor.

They rush out of their own breeches and outfit themselves in their newly acquired apparel, fastening the cloths and draping the belts over their shoulders, and in a quick instant they stand decorated as the men they just killed.

Cold fear edges back into Jack’s mind as he stands circled around with the tribesmen, their white eyes wide and boring deep into each other. They abscond down to the cluster of cottages and wait in the darkness, surveying the grounds. The rear door of the Temple is boarded and shut. Jack fixates on it, frozen.

Sajiress places a hand on his back.
“Jack
…
Go.”

There is no more voice and no more fear. Only the ground and his feet. Each step carries their small coalition closer to the amphitheatre, closer to the Temple door

“Is it them?”

“I can’t tell from here,” says Hargrove, his voice sick with worry.

He sits mounted on his horse, far back from the Temple, with his scope held out long before him. Through the eyepiece he watches the ink-black figures sprint across the grounds, cutting through the thick smokescreen that now blankets everything, the orange glow dying low as the fire burns itself out through the spent valley.

As the band of men draws near the amphitheatre, a crack opens along the heavy door by the stage.

A sentry steps through the narrow opening, waving them in. Sajiress lowers his head and charges. The sentry beckons them once more, oblivious, and Sajiress clutches his machete and jabs it into his stomach and rips the blade out roughly. He grabs the sentry’s arm and flings him out onto the sandstone walk, then rushes through the door with Jack and his men close behind.

The men inside flinch, stupefied by the shock of it. Sajiress and his brood descend upon them, drawing out their primitive blades with cold precision and ripping into their flesh before they have a chance to fire back. The old sentries scatter from their post, retreating down the corridor, and the black-sooted tribesmen give vicious pursuit. One hard old warrior reaches the bend in the corridor and shouts out for reinforcements. Jack sights him and lodges an arrow in his side and he screams out in agony.

Panicked voices ring through the Temple, emanating from the masses huddled in the foyer and echoing through the varied corridors. Above the frenzy, Jack can hear Nisaq’s deep voice thundering over the crowd, urging them to hold still and keep calm.

Sajiress strikes a final blow to the man he’s locked with and the melee is over in a flash. The rear corridor is strewn with the bodies of the door watch, some still alive and clutching themselves while the sandstone under their twisting forms darkens with broadening pools of red. The repercussions of terrified sobs from the foyer fill the sconcelit hall.

Sajiress helps one of his men to his feet then hustles over to Jack, an expectant light in his eyes.

“This way
,” says Jack.

He runs toward the corner stairs, a tight formation of shadowy figures crouched behind him. A solitary warrior rounds the bend ahead of them, a young man of Jack’s age. They said their pledge together on the Temple apex while Arana gazed at them proudly. His eyes fly wide when he sees the counterfeit Sons barreling toward him, and he tensely withdraws his machete to strike. Jack hacks his blade down into the crook of his neck, carving a bloody
V
in his flesh.

They mount the stairs—curve after curve, up the winding spiral, past landings with empty corridors that recede away toward the darkened chambers where the Temple’s archers have stationed themselves. Thin shouts ring off the walls. They ascend further and hear footsteps clicking down the stairs ahead of them.

“Danaak
,” hisses Sajiress, and throws his arms across the pass.

They flatten themselves against the walls of the landing, waiting for the source of the footsteps to appear. A bevy of the old and retired, drawn to the commotion. They look sad and almost comical in their warriors attire, and when they see Jack and the tribesmen they make no move to raise their weapons, mistaking them as their own. Sajiress moves on them and they backpedal, confusion spreading on their faces.

“What—”

He cuts one and their predicament dawns on them. Two of the eldest turn and bolt immediately back up the stairs, the rest stiffen up and bear their arms, severely outnumbered by the tribesmen.

“Run,” Jack tells them. “Lock yourselves in a room and don’t come out.”

“Jack?”

“Get out now or we’ll kill you. Run.”

The proud men wait for someone to break, and when one finally does the others follow suit, hightailing back up the way they came, then veering off the next landing and running toward safer confines.

They charge upwards.

Around the next corner, an ambush is awaiting them.

Sajiress falls, struck through the ribs with a shivering arrow. Jack loops an arm across his torso and drags him up the stairs.

“Enah
,” he says, and pulls himself to his feet.

They scramble up the next flight and divert from the stairs, breaking off down a side hall, one level below the highest floor, underneath the kitchen. They kneel in an arc, facing the entry to the landing, their bows drawn, waiting for the warriors to show themselves. Raji drops his satchel to the ground and removes a tightly packed bundle with a powdered stem protruding from its side. He touches the stem to one of the torches mounted along the wall and crooks his arm back.

Six warriors tear up the stairs and emerge in the dark corridor. Jack and the others fire off quick shots, dropping the first two and stinging a third. Raji lofts his bundle and it bounces off the sandstone wall and rebounds into the staircase. The blast is deafening against the stone walls, and thick black smoke pours from the entrance.

They race away, several tribesmen running backwards with their bows still leveled at the stairway entrance. Sajiress reaches to his side and extracts the bloody arrow and pitches it to the floor, glossy wetness spreading over his charcoal skin. They slink past open doors where the archers are firing out the narrow windows onto the grounds, bundles of arrows stacked next to them.

Jack peers around the corner. Empty. They pad softly across the stone floor. Cool night air filters in from the open bridgeway, leading to his old dormitory. Jack is ready with a shot and he picks off the bridge sentry as they glide past. Up ahead, they are met with another staircase, leading to the entrance of the King’s rooms. An enormous portrait hangs at the top of the landing, and the tribesmen look quizzically at the bright sapphire eyes that twinkle down at them.

“Wait
,” says Jack, and he kneels down on the stairs.

Distressed voices shout orders at the top of the rise. Jack creeps up like a spider and peers over the top step. Five warriors move slickly down one side of the L-shaped corridor, and an entire detachment stands guard outside Arana’s parlor.

“This is it
,” he says.
“The King.”

Sajiress nods and fixes his eyes on his men, ready to lead the charge.