Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 121
Kenton noticed Refkin quickly backing up toward the hallway, and Kenton guessed the man had decided that he was in way over his head. As much as Kenton would have liked to detain him, he couldn’t spare the effort when they had Tehlran to deal with. Refkin knew about the godstone now, but that couldn’t be helped. Hopefully the resistance would be too distracted with the battle to do anything about it before Kenton and the others were long gone.
Sayvil looked to Kenton. He nodded and she shoved the sliding door—or fake wall, he supposed—away from the alcove. As soon as it cleared, Kenton kicked the decorative wooden screen down in front of them. It hit a second thick oak table—and the arm of the dead boy lying upon it—with a loud crack, and Kenton used the screen as a ramp, charging up and onto the table. Across the table, he locked eyes with the Lord Governor, an older man with dark hair mostly turned steel gray.
Tehlran let out an undignified shriek and fumbled with the bowl of blood he’d been holding.
“What is it?” Diamis said through the boy. “What’s happened?”
The words were barely out when Kenton planted a foot on the chest of the boy and raised his dagger to plunge it into Tehlran’s neck at a downward angle.
Too late. Tehlran turned the bowl of blood over in his hands, drenching his skin in it. The blood soaked into his skin, and as Kenton’s knife came down, Tehlran’s body rose up to meet it, adding three or four feet to his height, tearing apart the seams of his red velvet tunic. The dagger broke skin, but Tehlran didn’t even flinch as his neck bulged to the size of Kenton’s waist.
The man had already been broad-shouldered, and while he had a bit of a paunch slumping over his gold-stitched belt—a belt which was now straining at the increase in body mass—he also had the muscled arms of a man who was familiar with wielding a blade.
Which would make his turning into a blood-magicked giant that much more inconvenient.
At the end of the table near the boy’s feet, Kenton heard a crashing noise, but he didn’t dare turn to look. He leapt over Tehlran’s shoulder and swung himself around, dangling with his entire weight from Tehlran’s neck, digging his serrated dagger into the flesh of the man’s throat.
Even with Kenton’s entire weight digging it deeper, the dagger didn’t penetrate more than an inch. He’d hoped—though not expected—that Tehlran’s blood magic abilities might be more limited than Lukos’, but apparently that hope had been in vain. Tehlran threw himself backward, pressing Kenton against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. Kenton let himself fall rather than hang on. Pain flared like a burning poker through his ribs, even bandaged as they were from his previous injury, and black spots swam before his eyes.
He tried to pull his thoughts together through the pain. The dagger to the neck wasn’t going to work—better to let Tehlran think he was stunned and then come at him another way. There couldn’t have been that much blood in that dish. Tehlran was going to run out eventually.
Tehlran spun on him, and out of the corner of his eye, Kenton saw Sayvil slitting the throat of the dead boy as it shouted Tehlran’s name.
Kenton smiled. That was one means of communication Diamis wouldn’t be using again. Now they just had to take care of Tehlran, and Diamis would be down a third lieutenant.
Tehlran stood before him, staring down, and one of his meaty fists dug into his pocket. When he pulled it out, Kenton’s smile faded.
On one of his large fingers, he held a bloodletter, and in his palm, a small, clear vial.
“Got it!” Jaeme shouted. Under Tehlran’s raised arm, Kenton caught sight of Jaeme with a wooden chest flung open in front of him, triumphantly holding Kotali.
“Run,” Kenton said. He sliced toward Tehlran’s wrist, trying to knock the bloodletter away, but it hardly faltered. He moved to dodge under Tehlran’s arm, to skirt away from the man who now more closely resembled a wall, but he was too late. Tehlran grabbed him by the forearm, twisting and lifting him up by it. Kenton screamed, both in pain and in anger, as Tehlran’s bloodletter sunk into his shoulder.
“Run,” Kenton shouted again, before Tehlran dropped him on the ground. He kept his feet under him and managed to more or less land on them as Tehlran flattened himself back against the side of the alcove, opening the space between Kenton and the others.
Oh, gods. Tehlran had Kenton’s blood.
Kenton belonged to him now.
Jaeme gripped Kotali in his hand, reveling in the feeling of rightness of being reunited with the godstone. They had what they’d come for, but Jaeme wasn’t sure why Kenton was yelling at them to run. They needed to get back to Daniella, but Perchaya had taken down Lukos when he was in this state with the help of one of the godstones, and Jaeme thought they could spare a few minutes to finish off Tehlran, rather than leave him to send his troops after them. Whatever the disturbance in the city, Jaeme was sure that Tehlran would find some soldiers to spare for the bearers and the last of the Drim.
Quinn shot a stone at Tehlran with his sling from the other side of the room, hitting Tehlran in the forehead, but he hardly seemed to notice. Gods, these blood giants were tough. Jaeme gripped Kotali, wondering what would happen if the stone touched Tehlran’s flesh. He hadn’t had occasion to test that yet, but he certainly meant to if he could get an opening on Tehlran. Tehlran had released his hold on Kenton. Jaeme held Kotali in one hand and brought his sword up between him and Tehlran, hoping to give Kenton an opening to strike.
Kenton stepped up on the stone table again and paused.
But instead of launching himself at Tehlran again—or running, for that matter, if he was so keen to do so—he leapt at Jaeme, knocking him backward to the ground.
What in all hells? Jaeme’s whole body ached, the wind knocked out of him. Kenton knelt above him, raising his dagger over his head, ready to plunge it into Jaeme’s throat.
Oh, gods. That was why Kenton had told them to run. Jaeme had been so preoccupied with Kotali, he hadn’t seen Tehlran procure Kenton’s blood.
Another stone flew from Quinn’s direction and hit Tehlran in the head. Tehlran must have been more stunned by this one—hopefully the blood he’d used to strengthen himself was starting to wane—because Kenton didn’t immediately strike with the dagger. The real Kenton was gone; the puppet could only do what the master commanded.
But Jaeme wasn’t going to wait around for Tehlran to come back to his wits. Jaeme threw Kenton off and swung at him with the hilt of his sword.
Kenton dodged, moving back out toward Tehlran’s study. Both Sayvil and Quinn circled around, flanking him. Refkin appeared to have fled entirely, so no help was coming from him. By the gods, Jaeme was tired of fighting blood puppets. This was all so much easier when he was comfortable throwing mortal blows.
Kenton regarded Jaeme with a look of pure malice. Kenton might be their friend, but he was under Tehlran’s control now, and he was going to kill them all. Jaeme turned to his side so as not to put his back directly to either Kenton or Tehlran, and noticed that Tehlran had used the moment of distraction to ingest some more blood; he now stood even taller than he had before, one sleeve of his velvet tunic now completely detached.
Kenton lunged at Jaeme, spinning past his sword and grabbing him in his bad shoulder. Jaeme grimaced and lifted his sword hilt again, this time hitting Kenton with it across the face. A welt appeared on his cheek, but Kenton didn’t appear to register the pain. Kenton sliced at Jaeme again with his dagger, and this time Jaeme could only dodge by responding with the blade, leaving a nasty gash in Kenton’s shoulder.
Gods damn it. Jaeme was hurting Kenton and wasting time. Tehlran was the real target, and hurting him was the only way to keep Kenton from relentlessly attacking. Jaeme didn’t understand the inner workings of blood magic, but from what he’d heard, blood used to form a link to a puppet didn’t soak into the body and wasn’t consumed like the blood Tehlran used to make himself stronger. He’d keep Kenton’s blood in that vial, and if Jaeme didn’t get it away from him, continue to use it long after they were dead.
Even if they could get away, Jaeme wasn’t going to leave his friend to that fate.
“Keep him busy,” Jaeme said to Sayvil and Quinn. Sayvil was prepared for this, apparently, because she clapped a hand over Kenton’s nose and mouth that contained some concoction of her herbs. Quinn moved to sweep Kenton’s legs out from under him, and Jaeme turned to face Tehlran, hoping Sayvil and Quinn would occupy Kenton or at least warn Jaeme before Kenton broke free and launched another attack.
Jaeme gripped Kotali in one hand and his sword in the other and advanced on Tehlran, who appeared to be unarmed except for the bloodletter glinting on his finger and the glass vial nearly enclosed in his fist. Jaeme raised his sword and sliced across Tehlran’s body. Tehlran blocked the blade with his forearm, his flesh splitting open and then knitting itself back together with alarming speed. The red of his blood darkened the red of his velvet sleeve.
It was the blood in the vial in Tehlran’s fist that most concerned Jaeme. He slashed again with the sword, this time concentrating on Tehlran’s hand. The blade sliced at his knuckles, but it didn’t sever the fingers, and the flesh grew back together before Tehlran lost his grip.
A dagger skittered across the floor near Jaeme’s feet. Quinn or Sayvil had gotten that away from Kenton, at least. He was coughing behind them—whatever Sayvil had made him inhale might not completely incapacitate him, but even as a puppet, he still apparently needed to be able to breathe.
Jaeme raised Kotali, but Tehlran lunged forward with his fist, which now might as well have been a club. Jaeme dodged back and raised his sword.
But Tehlran grabbed the blade, enclosing it entirely in his fist, and ripped the sword away. Jaeme took the small opening in Tehlran’s stance to punch forward with the hand that held Kotali, connecting the godstone with Tehlran’s fist.
At first, it seemed as if nothing happened. Nerendal burned flesh, and Mirilina turned flesh to water, but Jaeme had no idea what Kotali did. Tehlran tossed Jaeme’s sword in the air, catching it in his other meaty fist, and Jaeme took rapid steps back.
And then Tehlran looked down at the hand holding the vial.
One finger appeared stiff and vaguely gray. He loosened his fist around the vial, but the finger appeared frozen, as if it could no longer bend.
Gods. Kotali had turned it to stone.
Jaeme ducked beneath the oncoming sword and caught Tehlran by the hand holding the vial, twisting his arm behind him and pressing Kotali to the back of Tehlran’s hand.
His hand turned to stone up to the wrist, though several fingers remained flesh. Jaeme wrenched his arm back, digging the vial out of Tehlran’s palm. Jaeme twisted Tehlran’s arm and leveraged him onto his knees. Kenton groaned, and Jaeme watched over Tehlran’s shoulder as Sayvil kicked Kenton squarely in the gut while Quinn pinned him prone on the floor. Kenton snapped his head back, catching Quinn directly in the face with the back of his skull. Quinn rocked back, and Kenton rolled beneath him and wrapped his hands around his throat, his fingers digging deep enough to crush his windpipe.
Finally gripping the vial in his fingers, Jaeme pulled it away, just as Tehlran lunged forward and out of his grip. Jaeme held the vial with his finger over the top as a stopper—if any of the blood dripped onto the white marble floor, Tehlran might be able to retrieve it and take Kenton over again.
Tehlran fell forward onto his hands and knees as Jaeme released him. His blood-infused strength was waning, or Jaeme wouldn’t have been able to toss him onto the floor that way. Tehlran’s body was almost back to normal size, and he’d lost control over Kenton. He seemed to know he was beaten.
And with a cry like a mewling kitten, Tehlran climbed to his knees and ran out the door, cradling his stone hand as he went.
Kenton found himself lying on the floor with his hands locked around Quinn’s neck. He had no memory of how they’d gotten there. No memory of what Quinn had done to him, only the powerful knowledge that he’d had to put his hands there, that he was supposed to squeeze and squeeze and—
Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Kenton let go of Quinn’s throat and scrambled back across the floor, looking up at Sayvil with wide eyes. “Sayvil,” he said. “What did I, I didn’t mean it—”
“Of course you didn’t mean it,” Sayvil snapped. “Glad you’re back.”
Jaeme stepped over, slipping Kotali back into his belt pouch, and offering Kenton a hand up.
Kenton stumbled to his feet, as did Quinn, who gave him a wary look. Kenton’s head ached, and blood dripped down his arm from a deep gash in his shoulder, and he was sure any moment now the shock was going to wear off and the pain of that was going to pounce on him. His mouth tasted like ash, and his lungs burned like he’d smoked a bad bit of parchweed, which he imagined must have been Sayvil’s doing. None of that was anything compared to the pain stabbing through his chest—he’d likely broken a rib fighting Lukos, and this fight hadn’t done it any favors.
“I don’t remember anything,” Kenton said. “What did I—”
“You tried to kill me,” Jaeme said. “But it wasn’t really you, so I won’t hold it against you.”
Kenton had never taken the time to consider what it might feel like to be a blood puppet taken under total control. To have time lost in which you did terrible things, things you couldn’t remember, because even your mind had no longer been your own. It was akin to returning home to find that your house had been ransacked, your possessions used as weapons against everyone you loved.
“Tehlran,” he said. He had only a vague memory of Tehlran running out the door.
“Let him go,” Jaeme said. “I have the vial with your blood.” Jaeme held it up, stoppering the end of it with his finger. “It’s his castle, and we don’t know where he might have blood, or more puppets. We need to get out of here before he comes back with reinforcements. We have to find Daniella.” Jaeme grabbed him by his arm, and Kenton winced as it jostled his twisted wrist.
“You all right?” Jaeme asked.
“Fine,” Kenton said. Of course he was. There wasn’t time to be otherwise. He handed the sword to Jaeme and retrieved his own daggers before leading them all back to the stairs that would lead to the tunnel, then the boat house, then the canal and finally into the city.
They had Kotali back.
And what was more important to Kenton at the moment, he was once again master of his own mind. They’d dispose of the blood as quickly as they could.
That was an experience Kenton didn’t care to repeat.
Thirty-five
When Daniella realized exactly what horror the resistance had brought on Drepaine—mere heartbeats before the gate shattered and the stone rained down around the woltrecht—the first thing that came to her mind was her former lady-in-waiting, Adiante. Or, more specifically, a memory of the two of them as girls, twelve or thirteen years old. Sitting by the pond in Castle Peldenar’s inner courtyard, Daniella reading a book—of course—and Adiante sitting on a book to keep her skirts off the grass.
“I’d go to Mortiche,” Adiante had said, her voice lowered conspiratorially, though Mortiche wasn’t officially an enemy yet. “Perhaps the great ballroom of Yelden Var. They say the chandeliers drip with rubies and walls are papered in gold leaf! Can you see us as great ladies of Mortiche?”
Daniella frowned. Great ladies? Still, she did love speaking Mortichean.
She was just about to admit that, when Adiante sniffed in that way of hers that mirrored the other women in the castle when speaking to Daniella. The sniff Daniella had recognized long ago as contempt.
“If you had a choice to go anywhere in the world, you’d close yourself up in some dusty library,” Adiante said, as if that would be a bad thing. “Lady Daniella of the Moldy Scrolls.”
She wasn’t wrong, necessarily, but she wasn’t right either. Daniella loved her books, loved the things they taught her about the world, but she also wanted to see the world itself, in all its strangeness and wonder.
“I’d go north,” Daniella said. “Far north, past the borders of civilization, into the wilds. To a place with no castle walls for hundreds of miles. And I’d become a great huntress and wear cloaks of wolf hide.”
Adiante snorted—a very unladylike habit her mother longed to cure her of. “And while I’m dancing in my palace, you’d become a meal for a Great Northbeast. You’re so stupid, Daniella.”
Daniella flushed. Normally she would have just kept her mouth closed, but something in her—a rare flicker of defiance that became even rarer as the years went on—made her continue. “I wouldn’t be a meal for a woltrecht. I’d find their alpha and defeat her. And then I’d become leader of the pack.” She’d stood then, letting her lips twist into a small, dark smile. “And I’d sit astride the back of the largest of them, and I would lead my pack down to your palace in Yelden Var.”
Adiante shrunk back, her skin paling, and Daniella took another step closer, so she loomed over her. “And my pack of Northbeasts would break down the walls with their mighty tails and they would shatter the windows with their sharp claws and they would eat all the dancers, one by one, until your chandeliers dripped with more than just rubies.”
Adiante had stumbled back off the book, tangling her skirts in her legs as she tried to flee. “You’re awful, Daniella! You’re wicked and awful, just like they all say!” She’d burst into tears as she ran away.
Daniella remembered feeling slightly guilty. And even more satisfied.
Now, seeing the woltrecht—just one, let alone a whole pack—take down a building near the gate with ease, seeing it devour soldiers with its acid saliva and fearsome, sharp fangs, hearing the screams and the cries from the crowd surging around her, she knew Adiante had been right about one thing. Daniella had been awful for ever wishing such a thing, even in jest.
