The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,177

matter. He could see differences in heat, as well as the most subtle play of smoke on the turbulent air currents.

Already he could feel the pull of the Entropic Sumps lessen. Shar and Hayden had no doubt cut the sumps free and found a way out of the cellars to put distance between themselves and Indris. Without the sumps, and so close to the man, the urge to go after Corajidin was overwhelming. Indris felt the compulsion of the Jahirojin, the need to execute Rosha’s vengeance. Even with his scholar’s training, with all his will, the call was difficult to ignore. It was an itch he could not scratch, the annoying melody in his head, the ache of old wounds in winter. It was present and real and flexed itself in his blood.

Voices whispered in his head, demanded his compliance, his capitulation to their immortal will. He drew Changeling. She sang to him, soothed his mind, wrapped it in a choral symphony that drowned out the voices of the Jahirojin.

Indris looked about, surprised to find he stood in the open doorway of the courtyard, where he had walked on unwilling feet. He looked up to see the wind-skiff where it hovered uncertainly, the Tempest Wheels growling angrily in protest.

Belamandris jumped lithely over the rail. He walked toward Indris, his hand on the hilt of his amenesqa. Indris circled to the side, and the two men spiraled toward each other, inexorably drawn.

It was not Belamandris Indris wanted to face. Corajidin was the one the Jahirojin demanded. Yet how could he face either, then Mari? The two warriors stopped meters from each other, feet set shoulder width apart, bodies oblique.

“I underestimated you last time,” Belamandris said with an easy smile. “I tend not to make the same mistake twice.”

“You already have, by coming out to meet me.” Indris nodded to the wind-skiff. He spared a glance to where Corajidin had dragged himself to the rail. The old man looked wretched, his expression slack. “You should’ve run the moment you set eyes on me.”

“Do we dance then, you and I?”

“What about Mari?” Indris asked. “One of us will die, and the other will lose her. I don’t now have, nor have I ever had, a quarrel with you, Widowmaker.”

“You’d allow me to take my father to safety?” Belamandris’s voice was colored with his surprise.

“On any other day, no,” Indris said honestly. He looked around at the courtyard. Flames licked from most windows, and smoke obscured almost everything. In the time it would take to fight Belamandris, the fire might well spread to other buildings. There were more lives at stake here. The force of the Jahirojin threatened to assume control of him. “But if I have to kill a man, I want it to be my choice. Besides, you know as well as I your father’s not long for the world. A good son would see to it his father found peace.”

“You’re unexpected, Näsarat fa Amonindris.” The Widowmaker almost smiled. “Though we’ll never be friends, I’ll remember your kindness.”

Belamandris turned toward the wind-skiff. There came a sound, muffled by the inferno. Belamandris paused. Stepped. Turned back toward Indris, his expression puzzled. Indris saw the fletching of the light crossbow bolt that pierced Belamandris’s throat. The Widowmaker reached up as he fell, a gurgle in this throat.

“A son for a son, Corajidin!” came Thufan’s graveled cry, the pistol-crossbow held tightly in his fist as he leaned over the rail of the wind-skiff. “If Dragon-Eye won’t do it, I will!”

Mari reeled from the force of the armored fist across her jaw. It felt as if her teeth had come loose. She collided with the wall, the pain of the impact barely registering. Her body had been so overcome by agony she barely noticed the new insults against her flesh.

The wall by her head exploded with shards of stone as a kucheti smashed into it. She threw herself back. Already she had broken two swords, though the ancient relic of her namesake remained whole. The blade in her right hand was sheared off almost halfway.

Mari stabbed the jagged half sword into the nearby Iphyri’s face. Broken or not, the blade could still kill.

Corpses of a score and more Iphyri lay below her on the stairs. With each kill she retreated up the stairs. There seemed to be no end to the brutish horse-men. Though her ears were filled with the roar of blood in her head and the rasp of her breath, still she could hear