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  “No, annis, that is where you are wrong. Hadeon is a fool to send such a young, beautiful woman from the guild.” The surface of her skin rippled in disgust when Bale ran his black fingernail across her cheek. “Such a flawless complexion. Reminds me of the tree nuts at my villa after they’ve been roasted to perfection. Delicious and…illegal. You’re a halfling. No wonder you keep to the shadows.” Isa jerked her head away. The stains on his teeth added a viciousness to his grin as he scanned her body once more. “How does Hadeon keep the guild from taking you, unless the master claims you for himself. Of course, either way, we’ll send him a message. Perhaps with each one of your fingertips laced for him to wear around his neck.”

  The clan roared into the empty night again, as Bale rose to his feet and opened his thick arms wide to welcome the jeers. Bale dressed as though he were a fine gentleman from one of the four empires’ noble courts. The barbarian assumed the mask of a noble from a house with too many heirs ensuring no investigation would be made on his pedigree. All it would take was a second glance to notice his threadbare jerkin and weathered belt to know he was a fraud. Isa saw, and she knew the truth of his scoundrel existence without the second glance.

  “You wish to cut off my fingertips?”

  Bale nodded, his cracked tongue wetting his lips. “Not yet. We don’t waste opportunities.”

  This game ended now before even one of those rank hands laid hold on her body. Her heart pumped at an even pace. The dark clouds hiding the stars smoothed until a few glimmering specks broke through. “I won’t leave until I take back what does not rightfully belong to you.”

  “Now, I’ve seen everything. A thief who judges thievery. What has happened to the great Tyv? Please, annis, tell us what you’ve come for. Perhaps, you shall find me in a generous mood, and I shall sell it to you for a price.” Bale tipped her chin up with his oily thumb. “Although, getting caught trying to take my man’s gold was a fatal mistake. Perhaps you should consider joining us as our harlot, you will live longer. If Hadeon values his guild’s reputation as I understand, you will not be welcomed with open arms for your grievous folly.”

  “I have come for the family ring from House Johab,” Isa said.

  Bale’s chuckle faded like a sea storm stealing a voice in the wind. “How would you know if we had such a thing?”

  Isa dared curl the corner of her mouth as she tugged against the two barbarians holding tight to her arms. Their grips bruised her skin as they shoved her face toward putrid standing water. Isa spoke toward the swamp mist. “There are many things Hadeon knows. I warn you once more, Bale, if you harm me, Hadeon will consider it a debt between you.” The scent of mold, rot, and mud coated her tongue, but she couldn’t rid her face of her grin.

  Light was lost in Bale’s eyes. His fingers curled around the tarnished snake filigree of the blade tethered to his belt. “On second thought, I think this one would be better suited without a tongue.” A single nod was the only signal needed to begin the bloody chain of events.

  Isa released a breath. Throughout the boorish conversation, friction built between her thin, ever-moving wrists and the twine had created enough leeway she slipped one hand free. Her heart raced, her fury ignited, her blood burned. Rain broke through a cloudless sky—as if the stars wept—when both men at her sides lunged.

  Lifting to one knee, Isa thrust her hands beneath her tunic and clasped the twin blades tethered to her hidden sheath. Murky water splashed in the faces of the two men at her sides as she found her footing. The storm worsened.

  Through sheets of rain one man cursed her in a foreign tongue, but the other struck her hip with the pommel of his sword. The joint burned, but she wouldn’t back away. Isa aligned her daggers, so the black steel edges shielded her heart. In a swift thrust, one blade slashed the chest of the barbarian on her left. Blood soaked his tunic as he fell to the swamp. Her second dagger blocked a downward strike from the right. Isa winced when the slice of metals slid out of the blade lock. Every plunge, jab, and clash of blades sounded shrill like a pig during slaughter. He drew a sharp swing toward her throat, but Isa parried, and her dagger lodged in his ribs.

  She spun over her shoulder as he sputtered on his own blood and checked a second strike from a serrated knife and third opponent. The bruise on her hip shot fiery sparks down one leg. Isa clenched her teeth through the ache and stepped out on the defensive. She checked three more strikes from two final men before one man lurched too slowly. Isa’s blade cut through heavy leather guarders strapped across his innards. The man’s cry tore through the hum of the swamp. He lost his footing and stumbled into the steamy water, and soon the black moss soaked red with blood.

  As rain lightened and the swamp calmed, a final man with shaved teeth circled the water. Isa’s skin shuddered against an icy breeze. What the man lacked in muscle, he made up for by the murder in his gaze.

  Isa dragged a scorching breath through her nostrils to calm the race of her pulse. Her cloak was damp, and she brushed her fingers across her ribs. Her palm came up coated in hot blood. Somewhere through the chaos she’d been struck, but only now felt the pain. The last man standing, pointed his weapon toward Isa’s heart, marking her as his prey. Black tattoos inked the surface of his pale skin. The marks named the man as a Phantom, a guild of thieves she despised and feared. Murderers. Destroyers. Devils. Some whispered the Phantom Guild was created after a demon and brute mated. A brute was like an ogre—but with more brawn and less humanity.

  Tension raked down her spine as his heavy steps sloshed in the mud. The man’s shorn head was inked in vines littered in black thorns. One spike for every life taken. There wouldn’t be another tonight.

  “You should have kept your place on your knees,” he muttered and gnashed his teeth. “Now, for what you have done I will enjoy every moment we spend together. I will make you beg for death, girl.”

  Isa furrowed her brow to hide the flush in her cheeks. She tucked her chin, but her eyes lifted, catching the shine of the moon in the whites more than the unique blue. This is my moment.

  “We’ll see,” she whispered.

  His roar vibrated through her core as he broke across the swampy muck. Splashes of filth speckled her face as Isa held her position. Weapons wailed when she blocked the first blow overhead. The ring from the clash echoed across the lower wetlands as the ice in the air ceased.

  Years of training prepared Isa for deadly moments such as this when survival depended on the perfect strike. Turning her blade downward, she peeled back. Isa eyed her enemy and he studied her. After too many heartbeats, the phantom swiped his weapon. Isa parried swiftly and he stumbled. When he steadied, his knee came into position and Isa kicked against the bones. The phantom roared and clutched his leg. Hot air burned in her lungs from remaining pent too long. The flesh of his neck was exposed as the phantom glanced down to inspect his injury.

  A perfect strike hung in the balance. Isa understood enough about the heart to know blood pumped through the neck, and fast. Calculations whirled through her subconscious commanding her movements to run on instinct. Before the phantom could hide his throbbing pulse from view, the edge of Isa’s dagger slashed across the side of his neck. Isa backed away to meet the man’s widened, gray eyes that seemed to flicker like a small candle flame. His palm covered the gushing wound and his chin slunk.

  “What have you done?” he gasped as each eye glazed. Even in the dark night, she could see the dangerous sheen of blood coating his hand where he stuffed his own fingers into the wound.

  Though her expression remained cold and unfeeling, inside her heart bruised her chest in torrential thumping she could sense even in her head. “The blood won’t stop. I made certain of it,” she whispered. “Make peace in your soul. You don’t have long. May the Mount take you.”

  He attempted to lunge with his blade, but instead plodded face down in the swamp. Tension corded around her airway again as the phantom gagged clots from his mouth. The cut was deliberate and the flow from his
neck too explosive. Beastly. Monstrous. Terrible—all words Isa knew were deserving of the barbarians of Bale, but the phantom was a man—a living soul—nonetheless. And she’d butchered him. But feeble emotions wouldn’t serve her now.

  She glimpsed over her shoulder until her lips twisted up in a sneer as the sky brightened and the stars shone again. Bale stammered nonsense as shock took hold of his ugly, pockmarked face. Isa knew he would run like a coward so when the leader of the barbarians darted into the thorny brush she was prepared. Bale’s lungs seemed ready to combust with every gasping, shuddering breath as he pummeled ahead. The thrill of the chase erased all concern for the lives she’d maimed in the swamp; the final opponent proved to be the most exhilarating.

  Isa stumbled for a moment as she reached below the cuff of her leather boot and gripped her sleek, crystal knife. Reeling her arm behind her head, she released the blade. Even the wetland beasts ceased all hissing sounds so only the sharp whistle of wind was heard caressing the blade as it sailed toward its target.

  Bale cried when the point stabbed his shoulder. He stumbled and collapsed on the bank of the serpent riddled swamp. Isa dashed through the water and the churning caused her stomach to pitch with the scent of decay.

  Bale held up his trembling hands once he rolled to his back. “Y-y-you are trained. No thief of Hadeon could withstand my men. You…you’ve studied under the Shen.”

  Isa tried her best to cackle fiercely like her fellow thieves might and forced the edge of her blade beneath Bale’s throat. “A lesson in never underestimating your opponent, even a halfling. You only thought you had control of this night, Bale. Everything from the meeting, the stolen gold, was planned.”

  “You…are a noble…”

  The tip of Isa’s tongue turned to ash and her petty grin faded into the harrowing snarl that appeared only when the past reared its ugly head. Isa pressed her smooth forehead against Bale’s rough, scabbed skin. “I made the Creed of Tyv; I am apprentice and proud thief of the great Master Hadeon. There are no nobles here.”

  Isa wrested with Bale’s hand. Bale writhed and squirmed as he tried to shirk her off without success. With effort, Isa straddled his larger figure and struck his forehead with the pommel of her dagger. Bale groaned in a haze when Isa splayed the fingers on his ringed hand flat against the mud.

  “We were assured safe travel through the Noble Passage. We fight for…the fallen Elysium…we want to restore her glory,” he rasped.

  Isa leveled her blade over his center finger with the ring. It seemed such a trivial thing to retrieve. The stone was dull and unimpressive in the center of the gold band. But the Tyv asked no questions, if payment was made the guild would deliver what they were hired to deliver. Her place was not to judge the items, her job was to retrieve them, and Isa was not going to prove her doubters right by botching her first solo run.

  Pausing to meet Bale’s eye once more, Isa smiled darkly. “The Empire of Elysium fell long ago, Bale. There’s no need to lie. There isn’t a soul alive that would ever believe you have honorable intentions. You know as well as I there is no guaranteed safe passage, sir, so this falls as your mistake.” Isa whipped her eyes to the finger with the ring. Her blade in position, she made quick work of taking the ring in accordance to the given directions. Isa closed her eyes through the sensation of cutting flesh and bone. Bale sobbed in the quiet of the night in mourning for his now four-fingered hand. With a haughty scoff, Isa shoved off his body and stood. Holding the bloodied stub between her thumb and forefinger she met his terrified eye. “Elysium may be dead, Bale, but let me be the first to welcome you back to the Bloodlands.”

  Chapter 2

  Forgotten Scrolls

  Kawal was an ambitious man. He’d furthered those ambitions over the years with blood and war. Each sacrifice, death, and lie brought him to this moment. Tonight, there would be no turning back.

  Two guards, with skin so dark they absorbed into the night, patted down the tightly woven chainmail draped over his broad body. Kawal never blinked at the Mulekian soldiers and held their tentative gazes as they dug through his belt, even down the front, sides, and back of his russet pants. Kawal would be their general at night’s end; he wouldn’t show weakness to these footmen.

  “Your Imperial Highness, he’s clean,” one solider spoke in broken Jershonian, Kawal could only assume it was for his own benefit. He could speak Mulekian and made it known when he squared off toward the gleaming emperor and spoke the enemy language flawlessly.

  “Emperor Baz,” Kawal said as he sheathed his emerald-crusted sword again. “The Empire of Jerson is waiting for you.”

  Baz wasn’t impressive in size, but his cruelty and cunning made up for stature. The emperor stepped off a blue dais propping a portable throne in the center of the military camp. Heavy leather boots broke across the fallen leaves, brambles, and twigs of the forest floor. His piercing eyes were dark like the deepest shade of night, and his tight lips were ever shaped in a grin that chilled the summer heat of the forest.

  Baz gripped Kawal’s arms, his fingertips squeezed so the chainmail dug into the flesh. “You’ve served me well, General,” Baz said as his gaze flashed toward the white granite wall peering over the treetops. “You’re going to betray your people tonight, Kawal. Women, children, your soldiers, all their deaths will be on your hands.”

  Kawal tightened his jaw. He forced the hard nodule down his throat and didn’t flinch under Baz’s watch. “I may be Jershonian by my skin, but Emperor Abram’s lack of heart has driven this land into a docile, irrelevant wash of dirt. Within two years’ time I wouldn’t be surprised if the Blood Knights raid Jershon and destroy the land if our people do not find a true leader. The strength of Mulek has inspired me these long five years since our first acquaintance. I’m prepared to do what is asked to provide my land with the leadership it deserves.”

  “My peoples’ strength comes from my wisdom in having powerful friends and the stamina to act. That fool you call an emperor has no foresight. Several of my wealthy benefactors, known and anonymous, are pleased with this move, Kawal. If you continue to stand with me, you shall have a piece of those connections in time.”

  “I am at your disposal, my lord.”

  Baz grinned with a hint of wickedness. “Then we attack the wall. I find it amusing the story of the nobleman that cried of Jershon’s destruction. Pity for your people no one listened.”

  Kawal nodded curtly though he doubted this night was what the dead councilman, Amos, meant by Jershon’s destruction. This night was the rebirth of Jershon. Baz shouldered a forest green robe with a gilded chain buckling the edges together. The emperor lifted a black blade and the Mulekian army, buried throughout the trees, marched in time toward the white fortress.

  Kawal drew in a scorching breath. Screams, agony, anything that would happen tonight didn’t matter. Everyone had but one life, and Kawal wouldn’t waste his serving an emperor who grew fat on his throne with galas, banquets, and wine. Kawal remained, and always would remain, a warrior. By tomorrow he would rise from Jershon’s ashes the second in command of two empires. And with enough time of earning deeper trust from Baz, a hired Banesman would see to it that eventually Baz’s head never lifted from his silk pillow. Ambitious? Kawal would not rest until he rose as emperor.

  “After we are victorious, you know what I want, Kawal. Are you certain the scribes were correct with their findings?” Baz muttered without looking at Kawal.

  “I’ve seen the writings and each word is clearer than anything found before.”

  “You’ll see to it that no one ever discovers a scroll from the Mount is found?”

  “Rest assured, I will personally see to it the scrolls found by the scribes is never known by anyone but us. You shall have the writings by noonday. I’m certain these benefactors you speak of will be pleased.”

  Baz scoffed, but there was an arrogant grin formed at the side of his mouth. Kawal cared little for whatever wealthy benefactor had funded Baz’s o
verthrow campaign. Benefactors meant tarnished rule. Baz would make decisions to please the wealthy. And in truth, Kawal never planned to provide Emperor Baz with any true scrolls from the scribes. The general’s personal scribe would forge a new parchment to hand the emperor.

  The scrolls the Varonis scribes had shown him two nights earlier changed everything, and Kawal regretted ever mentioning the writings to the Mulekian emperor. A drunken slip of the tongue had caused the overthrow of Jershon to alter course. Baz was abandoning their original battle strategy and attacking sooner simply to gain control of the ancient scripture pages. The emperor was cunning, but intelligent he was not. Kawal had seen the scrolls and knew what both said, and such knowledge was an advantage over the emperor he planned to keep sacred.

  The deaths that would come in the scribe square, and especially to House Varonis, were unfortunate. The scribes had done their duty, and now would die for transcribing a small forgotten text. If only the Varonis scribes weren’t loyal to Abram, Kawal might have allowed them to live.

  Baz grinned, scrubbed his hands together so his silver rings clinked, and laughed at a pitch that caused Kawal’s skin to curl. “Then let this night begin.”

  ***

  Every thud of Roark’s heart singed in anguish. The muscles of his legs begged for mercy, for rest. Roark forced his haggard body to press on. In the distance, walls of billowing cinders and smoke filled the night sky. At his flank, hounds with teeth so jagged they must have been bred in the fiery pits below barked and howled in their search. Cries in the ruin of his city shredded his heart

  A madman’s curse. The single thought blazed in his mind as he darted along the shadowy edge of the city. Perhaps the ravings of the councilman were not so insane now. Roark was still a boy when Amos took to the streets of the Jershon Empire. He’d known nothing of the man, knew nothing of his family, only that he’d once been a wealthy man at the seats of judges, nobles, and emperors. All Roark could recall was his father and mother speaking of the tragic end to Amos brought on by his talk of the destruction of Jershon. It seemed the elite didn’t take kindly to warnings and whisperings that their beloved city of gold would fall to scum like the southern empire of Mulek.