The Blood Gift, page 15
“If she’s hurt . . .”
Ajani waves me off. “Calm yourself. Her, I didn’t need to take such forceful measures with. She was easily neutralized by compulsion.” Two legionnaires—one of them the female that tackled her—march a stiff, vacant-eyed Dannica by me.
Ajani, towering over me by a foot, stares down at me appraisingly. “I tried the same compulsion on you when I exited the transport to make your retrieval less messy. I could not take your mind. But it worked easily enough in Khanai. You’ve learned how to block my attempts.” He says it as if in commendation.
Again, if the situation weren’t so fucked up and twisted at the moment, I’d laugh. I haven’t actively attempted to do anything, and I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. The flux. It’s the only thing I can think of. It has to be the cause.
“I’ve learned a lot of things,” I bluster.
Ajani’s eyes rove over me covetously. “Your power . . . it’s more robust than in Khanai. I didn’t detect that when I first cornered you.” He brushes a hand down my right arm, and I stiffen.
Behind the reflexive response, I give my best fuck you smile and plant a lie that might be useful later if he believes it. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. And you never will—until I’m ready to carve out your entrails and feed them to you.”
He scoffs, but his eyes narrow, clearly trying to discern if that’s true. The heady lust lingers, too, for whatever level of power he can sense in me. “So you evolved? That must be the reason you’re different from before. When?” he demands eagerly.
I give him another polite fuck you smile. And again, his urbane mask slips. The pitiless monster he really is peeks through, and it almost makes me freeze up. But sheer stubborn refusal and pettiness keep me full of bravado, and from giving the motherfucker the satisfaction of glimpsing the bowel-loosening fear he really induces.
I return Ajani not the smile of a sly sabine, but the smile of a cunning, ruthless she-wolf. “I did. Like I warned, watch your flank and your front.”
He says nothing. Simply grips my elbow and forces me, his blood spike still lodged in my chest, to the transport that his men marched a mindless Dannica to.
As he deposits me beside her, my mind is already spinning through possible ways to get us out of his clutches.
13
The transport takes us to the same small, inconspicuous, private aerodrome that my squad and I used to fly into Ska’kesh. A pair of Ajani’s soldiers lead Dannica out of the transport and walk her into an idling jet nearby. Ajani and his liege, the arrogant fuckers, don’t even bother with the mode of transport being inconspicuous. It’s as flashy and ostentatious as you can get, the same blinding, menacing crimson that colors the high neck of Ajani’s Red Order uniform and those of his legionnaires.
Ajani grips my bicep, pulls me off the transport, and leads me to the jet.
“How nice to have my own personal escort,” I say, words dripping with venom.
“To keep watch over you, I’m trusting nobody else,” he croons back. “At least not until you come to heel.” He jerks his head toward his unit of soldiers filing onto the jet. “Your power levels are above theirs. But not mine. Yet.” I startle at the knowledge, and it seems ludicrous that he’d let such vital information slip. There’s no way it’s not intentional. So why hand me the hope that I can get out of his capture since he’s the only person who might be able to stop me if I use my blood-gift?
His chuckle is low, dark, and menacing. “It’s foolish. Don’t try it,” he says as if he knows what I was thinking. “My legionnaires were never who you needed to worry about. Only me.”
An intense wave that feels like a battering gust of wind slams into me from the side. It knocks the breath from my lungs, damn near cutting off my oxygen supply completely. Then it lights up my entire skin, like a live wire rippling over my body. I grit my teeth against the new shock of pain, my eyes watering from its intensity. “What the fuck did you do?” I can only groan as he pulls me along.
“Let my power slip its leash. So you know the full extent of what you’re facing if you try to run or squirm out of the blood oath you swore to me . . . again.”
The battering gust and the feeling of electric currents lighting me up head to toe vanish as quickly as they began. I can’t help it. This time, I visibly shudder and stare at him with all-out terror. The undiluted fear is mostly for the warlord walking beside me, but also for his emperor . . . because if Ajani is this strong, what kind of power does the man he calls liege possess? What the fuck can the Blood Emperor do? Moreover, how will I ever get near Nkosi if Ajani is an obstacle to go through?
As we reach the jet, my legs turn boneless. I wobble on my feet from realizing the sheer enormity, the stark impossibility, and the true peril of my task.
I’m suddenly glad that some external force did cut me off from the rest of my squad before Ajani’s ambush. I actually thank the Pantheon that he’s captured me. Because at least he’s taking me away from them. At least they’re no longer chained to my mad mission. Ajani has cut them loose of it, and for that, I am grateful. Because when I prayed to Amaka and she answered, I asked her for power to get my team out of Khanai. I didn’t ask the goddess for power enough to face down a Red Order warlord, then the Blood Emperor himself. And Ajani just made it blisteringly apparent that even when I flux, he’s right. I’m operating at infant levels compared to him—and the Emperor.
I was so, so fucked from the beginning.
But they’re out, and that’s what . . .
Ajani leads me onto the jet, and though I didn’t think I could experience any more horror, I do. The blood in my veins plunges to glacial. Every single droplet, every particle of plasma, every cell, ices over. Because Dannica isn’t the only one from my squad that’s perched vacant-eyed and corpse-stiff in a seat. Reed is there, looking the same way. So is Haynes, Caiman, Greysen, Liim, and Dane. They all occupy the same row near the middle of the passenger cabin.
“Why the godsdamn are they here?” I shout to Ajani, panic choking me. “Let them go!”
Ajani gives me an incredulous look. “Why do you think they’re here?” He pulls me to a row at the front of the jet that’s unoccupied. It’s situated directly behind the cockpit. “Call them insurance that you behave well and submit to anything and everything I ask of you.” He points to a seat. “Buckle up.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s all I can think.
Shit!
If I were alone, things would go different from here. I’d lash out, evoking my normal, reckless default mode. I’d tell Ajani to go fuck himself—thrice. Then, seeing as how I’ve had an (infuriatingly) hard time maiming him, I could crash the plane once we’re in the air. It’s damn difficult to keep control over a captive while completing a rushed HALO jump. I mean, I could do it; any Praetorian could accomplish it. A decent number of upper-class cadets could too. However, Accacia isn’t Mareen—the Empire’s military training mainly focuses on honing magic to its deadliest capacity. Therefore, when Ajani tried to execute a jump with me in tow, I would likely be the one to control how the descent would go, slip him somehow during the landing . . .
I’m not alone, though. I went into this mission with a squad. With a team whose help I stupidly accepted on a fool’s op. And because I’m not alone, I obediently plop into the seat Ajani points to, doing precisely as he commands. For now.
All the while, my mind screeches, It’s no longer only Dannica I need to extract from danger—it’s everybody.
We’re in the sky for only about half an hour’s time. The jet lands in front of a polygonal fortress complete with drum towers, bastions projecting outward from each of the front-facing corners, triangular ravelins, a portcullis built into the outer stone wall, parapets, and numerous watchtowers. Compared to the sleek look of Krashen and the rest of Mareen, it’s positively archaic. Yet, I know the power behind those walls is enough to make this place virtually impenetrable even with all the tech at the Praetorians’ disposal. That power is surely why the Accacian flag, a swath of obsidian black, inky as the night sky and with three crimson Blood Moons blazing in its center, disturbingly flies above each of the watchtowers.
And they aren’t the only flags present. Beside the Empire’s banner are flags sporting the same lightless black with a powerfully built, three-horned mahogany bull in the middle. I stare at the bull and pull its meaning from my academy studies: it’s the symbol of Accacia’s Apis, the Red Order warlord who sits above the other six by might of blood-gift and serves as second-in-command for the Empire.
Alarm bells ring shrill in my head. Those bull flags beside the Empire’s flag mean this stronghold is under the control of the Apis . . .
And to add to the hellishness of the situation is the very fact of where we are. I’ve seen this fortress’s old-world architecture in academy history texts. It was built near the very beginning of civilization. A Wonder of Iludu, it’s drenched in Pantheon magic that’s keeping it in such pristine condition, able to weather time and the elements and natural catastrophes without requiring restoration. Krashna reigned from here, the god of war’s old citadel, which he wedged between ancient Mareen’s northern border and the stubborn nomadic lands, now the Free Microstates, which were once inhabited by Iludians who did not wish to belong under rule of any of the Pantheon and fled to the wilds of the uninhabited far north.
Even from inside the jet, the same sinister, preternatural feelings that skirted over me in Onei’s Expanse and on Hasani’s Wrath in the Ice Wastes wash over me again. I can’t suppress the shudder when thinking about the nightmarish Pantheon-cursed places and their visited horrors. I don’t care to begin to guess at what might be producing the malevolence wafting off the god of war’s citadel and what that means is prowling inside.
Why would the Accacians, or anybody with an iota of self-preservation instincts, select this place as a stronghold? I spin it over, trying to see what I’m missing, the advantage it adds that they’ve decided trumps the danger. I can’t arrive at one logical answer for the strategic necessity if they’re currently winning, and have collected the rest of the Minor Continent as their tribute states. Their Apis could’ve and should’ve established his stronghold literally anywhere else. Especially when, as a people who prize Pantheon Blessings, Accacians have retained vast stores of knowledge of the gods, their blessings, and their curses. Even much more ignorant Mareenians, the Tribunal included, stay far, far, far away from Krashna’s citadel. It’s why the fortress and the land surrounding it have been vacant since Krashna’s ousting thousands of years ago. Everyone and everything that attempted to tear it down or blow it to hell met heinous deaths before they could succeed.
And we’re about to go inside the place.
I look at Ajani, who’s seated beside me, like he’s mad. He, and whoever Accacia’s Apis is, has got to be insane to outfit this as one of their war camps. The sheer evil, the sheer violence, the sheer malignant glee sloughing off the citadel whispers promises of a torturous death.
I realize maybe that’s the point. They didn’t invite us here—under compulsion—for a picnic.
I twist in my seat to check on my team, dread and presage chaining me in a vise grip. The seven of them remain vacant-eyed and still as if their bodies are mere hollow shells, no life present inside them. Seeing them like that with the insidiousness of the citadel so cloying inside the jet rattles me. Before I can prevent my mind from going there, I think of Zayne and how I couldn’t save him in the last death trap we got thrown into. I think of the twins, Dex and Bex, and how I failed them too. My pulse whooshes in my ears, the tide of panic swiftly overwhelming me with the portent that things will turn out the same once we’re marched into the citadel, either at the hands of the oily magic I feel or the Accacians.
“When will you give them their minds back?” I snarl at Ajani. They need to be lucid. They need to be aware of their surroundings. They need to be able to think and see and brace for and fight whatever comes at us next.
The bastard shrugs. “When it suits me. It certainly will not be until after you and I have a chat. We must come to some understandings about the blood oath you swore, what I expect of you, and what you will submit to. If I’m happy with your response, I’ll consider your request.”
My hands curl into fists. I envision hacking away at his neck, severing his head from his shoulders like I did with the Accursed. He’s as abominable and as sickening as one—perhaps more monstrous than one of those horrors. Which is saying a lot since they skin, roast, and eat people.
As his soldiers march my squad off the jet, Ajani sweeps to his feet. “Come,” he bids in a tone that brooks no argument. “Let’s go have that talk.”
For a moment I sit, stubborn and prideful, planted where I am because I’m not his fucking dog he’s bringing to heel. If I were alone in capture, I wouldn’t budge a godsdamn inch. In fact, one—if not both of us—would already be dead. But I’m not, and he still has the others. So staring a hole in the center of Ajani’s skull, which I vow to the Pantheon to place there soon, I rise and do as commanded.
14
Inside the citadel, Ajani leads me to a dining room with a table set for two. The table itself is big enough to seat a small company and as lavish as the food laid atop it. The wood it’s fashioned from is the wretched ash white of the trees found in Onei’s Expanse. I shiver not just at this reminder of the Pantheon-cursed forest, but also at being inside this rumored horror raised by a god. The table is what has my attention, though; its unsettling nature is exacerbated by the fact that instead of standing on four legs, it’s propped up in the center by an intricate tree trunk with roots that travel the length of the floor, brushing against each wall, as if they’re embedded in the sleet-gray marble itself. The trunk stretches up to meet the tabletop in a twisting fashion, all of it that sickly white.
All along the trunk and roots are detailed carvings of fauna indigenous to both halves of Iludu: scarabs, crocodiles, cobras, desert worms, jackals, and winged bulls that roam the Principal Continent alongside water owls, sabines, night bears, redcap deer, and she-wolves of the Minor Continent. She-gorgons and serpent drakes, terrifying creatures that live among the depths of the Tumultuous Sea, are present too. I think the trunk is meant to depict a tree of life because it includes a naked tribe of humans encircling its base. But this is life engraved in a place of death, and so I feel unbalanced taking in all the pictographs.
Trying to shift my eyes’ focus, I find myself staring at the ten thick branches that sprout from the trunk and connect with the flat tabletop. Embedded into the bark of the branches are each of the ten gods and goddesses that once walked Iludu and claimed dominion over our planet. My eyes land on Krashna’s ivory figurine, which grips his signature shield and his sword that always struck true—both the indigo blue of Khanaian steel and gifted to him by his twin, Kissa. A thing Kissa, Khanai’s patron goddess, later regretted after he used the weapons to slaughter millions. The goddess of arts, riches, and wisdom’s figurine rests on a branch beside that of the brother she once adored; she’s carved from solid gold and holds the jade horn myth says that she, the only truly benevolent one among the Pantheon, played to gift light, love, and song to the planet. I also see Onei, the bloodthirsty huntress, fashioned from stone and pulling taut her sacred bow.
Amaka, created from a crimson substance that glistens as bright as fresh-spilled blood, ensnares me next. I’ve seen that exact shade of red before. It’s the color of Amaka’s Crown, her constellation that blazes in the sky; it’s the hue Blood Moons shine; it’s the lush scarlet I’ve beheld of her actual crown the times I’ve communed with her. So I know for certain that Amaka’s haunting, miniature form is a blood ruby—the name given to the “gems” she liked to forge through a ritual involving the spilled lifeblood and lifted souls of her enemies.
The queasiness that settled in my stomach upon entering the citadel intensifies.
Chills ripple endlessly across my skin as I gaze upon the remaining Pantheon, who were just as heinous as Amaka and Krashna. Va’ia, the supposed goddess of beauty and love, rests on a branch, chiseled from smooth obsidian with fine shimmers of gold; she was a being who used the most ardent desires of humans against them, trapping them into an eternal, hellish servitude she demanded as payment for any blessings she bequeathed. Nanwi’s copper features are concealed behind an apt jackal mask; the god of trickery and illusions had a penchant for cruel games and crueler jokes. Beside him is Imu, a pearlescent goddess of chaos and crossroads, who’d litter plagues across the world for amusement. Hasani, the god of the After, is cast in bronze, his voracious hellserpents twined around his body. Daja, the sea god who raised Iludu’s ocean, flooded it with the ghastly creatures that call it home, and then lured countless humans to their deaths in his waters, is made from a lapis lazuli that matches the exact color of the Tumultuous Sea. Maliya is cast from an amalgamation of golds and reds. The fire goddess’s figurine glows and glimmers like living flame, and she rounds out the line that the Pantheon stand in as a punctuated reminder of the devastation the ten of them wrought; she herself was notorious for swallowing entire cities in flame when a people pissed her off.
I’m not surprised that the awful table is a furnishing of the citadel. All of the gods were vain, with Krashna being among the most narcissistic of his brethren. Of course an arrogant jackass would decorate his stronghold with odes to godly might over mere humans.
Speaking of egotistical pricks . . . I pull my stare away from the terrifying Pantheon because there are more immediate threats I need to focus on. For one, Ajani stands far too near, watching me like a predator while I look at the tree of life.
He motions to it. “Impressive, weren’t they?”
He can’t be talking about anything except the gods. I snort. “You would think that. Shitty begets shitty. No. They were not impressive. They were murderous and reprehensible and monsters that terrorized the planet.”
