Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(181)

“Kaden! Help me!”

He stared as Phirum Prumm hauled his bulk up over the rise. The monk was sweating and shaking, his robe ripped away from one shoulder, blood from a gash on his forehead running down over his quivering jowls. His chest heaved with the effort of running up the path. How he, of all people, had escaped the carnage below, Kaden had no idea. All he could think was that Phirum was in danger because of him, because of the soldiers he had somehow brought down on them all, and he had to find some way to help.

“Can you keep running?” Kaden asked.

Phirum’s eyes widened still further, as though the question terrified him, but then he looked behind him to where the ruddy flames from the burning monastery flickered against the clouds, the roar of the fire punctuated by curses and screams. He turned back to Kaden and nodded.

“All right,” Kaden said, taking a deep breath. “Keep a hand on the belt to my robe. You’re still going to have to run, but I can help pull you some, especially on the uphills.”

“Thank you, Kaden,” the youth replied.

Kaden just nodded.

“Let’s go,” Tan said. The older monk started to double back, but Kaden waved him on.

“We’re coming,” he replied.

Without another word, the four of them turned from the ghosts of the dead and the cries of the living to race into the emptiness of the night.





44





Dawn will come.

All night Kaden had repeated the mantra to himself as they fled through the darkness beneath a moon pale as the belly of a fish. Tan led the small party up treacherous streambeds, through narrow defiles, and along ledges a pace wide where the cliff face threatened to shoulder them into the abyss. Pyrre appeared a few miles from the monastery, as promised, at the base of the towering granite spire known as the Talon. The entire side of her once-fashionable coat had burned away, and splattered gore, black and glistening in the moonlight, coated her left arm to the elbow.

“You monks really know how to move,” she gasped, falling in beside them.

Kaden wondered how the woman could still walk, let alone run, until he realized that much of the blood belonged to soldiers dead on the slopes below. When three Aedolians burst from the shadow, threatening to block their path, Pyrre killed two without breaking stride while Tan knocked the third screaming from the ledge with his naczal. The old monk seemed strong as a bull, and the merchant—she’s not really a merchant, Kaden reminded himself—moved smoothly and silently as a shadow cast by the moon.

Dawn will come, Kaden told himself as he labored up the steep grade, Phirum tugging at his belt and wheezing with exhaustion and terror the entire time. The monk was slowing him down, there was no question about it, but leaving him behind was unthinkable. Too many people had already died. Ruthlessly, Kaden thrust the visions of Pater from his mind, forced down the thoughts of the Shin lying slaughtered in their cells, of Akiil hiding somewhere or bleeding slowly to death, shoved away everything until there was only the steady heave of his chest, the burn in his legs, and the gray blur of the rock beneath his feet.

Dawn will come.

And yet, when the sun did finally rise, wan fingers of rose and russet coloring the sky, the nightmare persisted.

Tan led them east, always east and upward, stabbing deep into the heart of the peaks. The decision made sense—without the burden of weapons and armor, Kaden’s group would move more quickly than the Aedolians. The problem was, Phirum was having trouble keeping up, just hauling his own bulk along the broken path. Tan and Kaden had taken turns towing him through the night. (Triste was too small to help, and Pyrre just laughed at the suggestion.) The fat acolyte had stumbled countless times already, twice dragging Kaden down with him. The whole situation was untenable, but there was no other choice, and so Kaden gritted his teeth and ran on.

The sun climbed and the air warmed. He started to sweat beneath his robes. All at once, the defile opened out in a small bowl, where Pyrre pulled up short. Kaden thought briefly that the Aedolians had somehow managed to get ahead of them, to cut them off, and he craned his neck, steeling himself for the sight of helmed men with drawn swords. Only there were no soldiers—just a sparkling mountain lake, small enough that he could throw a stone across it, and a few patches of crag grass. The trail, if it could be called a trail, circled the lake, then knifed up a horribly steep ravine.

“Up again?” Kaden asked wearily.

“Just a second,” Pyrre replied. “They left most of the soldiers to mop up at the monastery, but I want to know just how many are following. I think from here I can see part of our backtrail.”