Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (29 page)

Cook’s fluid blows connected only twice before Hazeroth’s serpentine strikes battered him to his knees. Unscathed, the demon moved behind his beaten foe.

Xander bent his will on crushing Hazeroth, but his power met a wall of resistance much like the
Kerioth’s
ward. He glared at the Night Gen, one of whom was surely blocking him.

Cook’s sudden scream faded to a wet gurgle. He lay on sand muddied by his own blood with Hazeroth’s right hand buried in his back.

Xander’s pulse raced even as his heart sank. He didn’t notice that the greycloaks had reached the peak until one of them seized Tefler’s limp body.

“Get your hands off him unless you want to lose them,” Xander said.

The second greycloak spoke matter-of-factly. “You’ve no room to make threats, boy.” He drew a dark curved blade. “We have, but there’s no need if you come peaceably.”

Xander glanced down at the Night Gen keeping their stern vigil, denying him his gift and his vengeance. In his desperation he looked to Zan, who sat cowering against the wreck.

Sand rustled as Hazeroth stalked up the slope. Shaking gore from his hand, he spoke to the Lawbringers. “You presume to know my mind?”

The greycloak who’d drawn his sword lowered his eyes and stammered, “The lord’s Will ordered them taken unharmed.”

“So he did, before they defied him.” Hazeroth leered at Xander like a snake entrancing a mouse. “Alive will do for now. Conduct Shaiel’s kin to the ship. I’ll bring the boy once he’s learned proper deference.”

“Would you defy your god’s will?” Xander shouted at the greycloaks.

“Never,” said Hazeroth, “were he present. Yet he is not. And I am.”

The priests exchanged a look in which Xander saw doubt; even shame. But the first started dragging Tefler away, and the second trudged toward Zan.

Xander stood in the greycloak’s path. “I’ll go to my fathers before I go with you!”

The greycloak stopped.

Puzzled, Xander looked from one of Hazeroth’s men to the next. None of them moved. Their eyes stared straight ahead; open yet unseeing.

The wall holding back Xander’s power fell, admitting awareness of a towering will that dandled the four men like puppets. As one they descended on Hazeroth with blades curved and straight.

Downslope to Xander’s left, a crimped section of hull blew outward in a flaming torrent that lit the narrow valley like a premature sunrise. The fire died, but two points of azure light shone from the breach, their advance accompanied by the steady ringing of metal.

Xander nearly fell as he rushed into the trough between dunes. “Serieigna!”

Astlin stepped from the wreckage, the ashes of her cloak falling away in glowing sheets. She seemed untouched but for her soot-streaked face and disarrayed hair. Joy brightened her eyes when she saw Xander.

“Thank God,” she said softly.

Xander threw his arms around the souldancer, heedless of the hot embers that still clung to her. She answered in kind, nearly squeezing the wind from his lungs.

The sight of Astlin’s face held back Xander’s fear, but only for a moment. “You must hide,” he said. “Hazeroth is—”

“I know. His men should keep him busy till we get away with Tefler, Cook, and Zan.”

Cries sounded in the dark sky above. Warm mist fell on Xander’s head. At first he thought it rain. He also thought that Astlin was bleeding until he realized that she couldn’t, and that the blood running down her face must be someone else’s. He touched his scalp. His hand came away red.

Xander heard a soft impact behind Astlin. Looking over her head he saw Hazeroth rising from a crouch, his lank form glistening wet.

“Thus do we reach an impasse,” the demon said. “Shaiel forbids me to slay his kin. Yet if none remain to bear witness against me…”

Xander looked all about. The Night Gen and greycloaks were gone. The stench of blood filled the valley.

Astlin shielded him with her body as she faced Hazeroth. “Get the others out of here.”

Cook lay halfway up the dune in a widening patch of dark sand. Above him, Tefler sat slumped against the wreckage like a castoff ragdoll.

Conflicting urges roiled in Xander’s soul. “Why should I seek safety while you face a demon of hell?”

Astlin’s face radiated calm as she looked back over her shoulder. “Because I love you.”

Xander meant to object until a staggering truth dawned. Hours at the
Kerioth’s
wheel, the crash, and the fruitless battle with Hazeroth’s men had drained him. Astlin alone held back the Fire, yet she remained as steady and sober as an oak.

Feeling as if his legs were made of lead, Xander backed up the slope.

Hazeroth drew the curved monstrosity from his back, which was indeed a pair of stone wings joined end to end. “Only vermin meet my blade on this wretched sphere.” He gazed hungrily at Astlin. “Further disappointment will rouse my displeasure.”

“So you’re from hell,” she said. “Let’s see if you can burn.”

Hazeroth’s form dissolved in a dark blur that reached Astlin just as she loosed her Fire.

Sulaiman decided that the only condition worse than traveling a desert was traveling an ethereal desert. He soon revised his opinion to add the graver defect of his companion.

The imp’s company was a necessary evil. Traversing the Strata was not in Sulaiman’s power, and the fear that drove Nakvin to isolate her realm forced him to seek her aid. That her aid came in the form of Th’ix betrayed her contempt.

At least the time passed quickly. In the ether they traveled faster than in Strata or Snare; even on foot. The imp led the way over glittering, rose-tinted sands, occasionally lifting his brown hood to peer skyward. Sulaiman was blind to the omens Th’ix claimed to see in the hazy sky, yet he had no choice but to follow.

Th’ix stood atop a high dune and raised a faintly scaled hand to his brow as if in salute. His slitted grey eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

Sulaiman climbed up beside him. “Taking the omens again?”

“Threads of silver and scarlet intertwine,” the imp said in his harsh nasal voice, “binding diamond and pyramid.”

“Where?”

“Near.”

“Show me,” Sulaiman said.

Th’ix studied his portents a moment longer before he slid down the dune. Sulaiman followed at a more dignified pace.

Night filled the small valley, but Astlin could see the demon by his heat. She held hers ready and released it the instant she saw him move. The blaze erased all sight of him.

The flames died. Shocked, Astlin dropped her guard. Something hit her with tremendous force, knocking her backward into the dust.

Astlin propped herself up and tried to make sense of the shadow looming over her. Only when her eyes switched back to light did she see the demon, surrounded by a sickly golden glow. He raised her chin with the jagged point of one stone blade.

“You can’t kill me.” Astlin’s breath misted in the sudden chill. “Nothing can.”

“You may beg,” Hazeroth said. “This will please me, but not enough to spare the boy.”

Those words woke a fear that Astlin hadn’t known since her father had flown away, never to return. Her mind raced. She’d tried seizing the demon’s mind along with those of his men, but he was more resistant than Irallel or Zan.

Astlin snapped at the saw-edged blade. Her teeth bit down on bitterly cold stone. The blade twisted free, pitching her sideways with a burst of pain. She rose and pressed a hand to her face. Through her glove she felt a ragged tear splitting her cheek. Liquid metal flowed freely.

The high, grating sound Hazeroth made might have been laughter. “I have chased game far nimbler than you on this sphere, but none so rash! Kelgrun did well to choose brass.”

Astlin loosed her Fire again, but the sallow light consumed the flames. She managed one backward step before Hazeroth closed with her. His whirling blades transitioned from mocking flourish to vicious attack faster than she could follow. A cold line cut across her stomach, shearing through Worked leather and transessed brass.

Astlin was so distracted by the strange feeling of lightness spreading from her midsection that she didn’t immediately notice the second chilling jolt to her left arm.

Something landed by her feet, compelling her to look down at the gloved hand lying on the ground. She sank to her knees and grasped her arm below the stump in a vain attempt to stop the molten brass weeping from the wound. Though aware of pain on a base level, numbness crept over her mind.

Hazeroth struck again, but not as fast as the lightning that struck him. A deafening roar followed the blinding flash. A strong blast buffeted Astlin and left the demon looking stunned. A second blue-white bolt lanced into the sand behind him, lifting him into the air. He landed on his back but leapt up to stand scowling at the dark sky.

Astlin looked up. The sight of Zan hovering overhead penetrated her mental haze. Then Xander was kneeling beside her; holding her hand and saying words she couldn’t make out, though they gave her comfort.

Zan aimed another volley near Hazeroth; not at him. It blasted the demon around the valley, but the last bolt threw him back to Astlin and Xander.

Hazeroth stood. He glared up at Zan, which proved a mistake when Xander took up Astlin’s severed limb, charged, and drove the molten end into the demon’s back. The sizzle and reek of burned rotten meat made Astlin thankful she no longer had a stomach.

With an earsplitting screech, Hazeroth wrenched the brazen hand from his flesh. His expression when he rounded on Xander was terrible enough to make Astlin forget her agony. She tried to stand; to rush to his defense, but her strength was gone.

A clear baritone cry rang out as an unknown figure leapt from the dune’s crest. He held an arc of red fire that hammered down upon the demon, aided by the force of his fall. Hazeroth parried one-handed. Stone sparks rained from his double sword.

Xander disengaged from the melee and rushed to Astlin’s side. They huddled together, watching the savage spectacle.

Feeling her mind clouding, Astlin clung to Xander’s thoughts like a rock in angry seas. She wondered how a mere man—if that’s what the stranger was—could match the demon’s speed.

Xander’s Nesshin spear training gave the answer.
Hazeroth is swift, but his movements are overwrought; meant to intimidate. The other is precise, moving only his wrist and elbow unless more is needed.

The two combatants locked blades, struggling in a bitter stalemate.

“The baals taught me many new torments,” the stranger said. “Shall I show you?”

The demon scoffed. “The baals were but trespassers in my kingdom.”

“Yet the housebreakers bound the master.”

“Gibeah’s curse bound me only to curse you in turn,” Hazeroth said. “I will gladly exceed its terms.” Twisting like an eel, he broke free, throwing his foe off-balance. Hazeroth readied a riposte, but the stranger released a burst of pure white brilliance that made the lightning seem dim.

Hazeroth fled. The stranger gave chase.

Something about the stranger broke through the gathering clouds in Astlin’s mind.
He looks familiar.
The last thing she saw was his green cloak flapping behind him.

“Serieigna,” Xander said softly.

Astlin stirred but made no sound. She lay on her side, bleeding from wounds that fed a growing pool of liquid brass. Her eyes were so dark they almost looked normal.

“It’s my fault,” Zan said as he hunched over Cook’s prone form. His brawny trunk still rose and fell, but his ragged breaths were getting shallower.

“You fought bravely,” said Xander. “We would all be dead otherwise.” He looked as long as he could at Tefler’s vacant eyes, which still held a strange aversion for him. Though not truly death, the priest’s strange state was just as permanent for all he knew.

The crunch of soft boots on sand made Xander’s muscles tense. He looked uphill and saw two figures approaching from the
Kerioth’s
wreck. One wore a Night Gen uniform, looking out of place with his long silver hair. Black robes shrouded the other.

“It seems you’ve had an accident,” said Damus.

“Traitors,” Xander cursed through clenched teeth.

“Spare us your venom, Master Sykes,” Thurif said. “The lady’s wounds are grave.”

“And you offer us help?” Xander mocked. “Hasn’t anyone warned you against bargaining with a Nesshin?”

Thurif gestured to his right and left. “My help is all you can expect.”

Xander squeezed Astlin’s remaining hand. “She would rather die.”

“Which she will not do,” Thurif said. “Do you think this fair form the souldancer’s true shape? It is but a shell containing the raw elemental forces bound to her soul. If the container fails, the transessed soul is laid bare—a ragged wound in the Strata forever.”

Damus nodded. “Listen to him. He’s the only one who can mend her.”

“How?” Xander asked warily.

Thurif pointed to running lights framing a blocky shape overhead. “Gather your friends aboard the
Exarch
. They will die without my aid.”

“Hazeroth does not share your charity.”

“Shaiel’s Blade is otherwise occupied. I am sure he would have me continue our great work in his absence.”

“What work is that?” asked Xander.

“I will show you,” Thurif said, “as I promised from the outset.”

Waking up without her armor in a cold grey room surprised Astlin less than the fact that the padded table under her wasn’t burning. The memory of her fight with Hazeroth burst into her groggy mind, and when her right hand reflexively moved to her left arm, she was even more surprised to find that the missing limb was back.

Astlin sat up and surveyed the room. Sallow light covered every surface. The walls to her left and right each held a tinted screen behind which a greycloak sat in meditation.

The heavy steel door retracted with a series of muffled clacks. Tefler stood in the entrance, a shiny black bundle in his hands.

“You’re up. Good. Help me get this on you.”

Astlin covered herself with her arms.

“Who do you think undressed you?” The door closed behind Tefler as he approached.