Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(57)

“Lord Darian’s stone,” the voice replied out of the darkness. “Ground fine.”

The same as the assassins had used in Oden’s Ford. The stuff that snuffed out magic. That meant this man must be another of the Darian blade men. Ash shuffled backward as he desperately tried to think of a plan.

“I’m going to cut your throat, mage,” the Darian said softly, conversationally, in case Ash had any doubt as to his intent. “I’m going to cleanse you of the taint and take the sacrament.”

Ash gripped his amulet, extended his other hand, and attempted to send flame roaring down the hallway toward his attacker. He had no idea if it worked or not.

“Is that the best you can do, demon?” The voice was even closer now.

Ash drew his knife.

When Ash could no longer feel the walls on either side, he knew he was in the large storeroom beyond the corridor. He turned and ran, hands stretched out before him, bruising his knees and hips on casks and barrels as he cut a crooked path through the obstacle course that had been laid for him. He moved as quickly as he could, hoping to outdistance the man stalking him, at least temporarily. He knew his only chance was to find his way back to the first floor, but there were not many staircases, and if he took the time to find one, the Darian would get to him first. If the brother followed him onto the main floor, Ash’s identity would be discovered for sure.

He turned a corner and slid between what felt like two large barrels, and sank to the floor, hoping he was out of sight.

“Do you think you can hide from me, demon? I can track you by your stench. I caught your scent a few times in the yard, but I could never find you.” The owner of the voice was coming closer. “You murdered five of my brothers at Oden’s Ford. Now you will feel the blade of Holy Darius.”

Keep talking, Ash thought. That way I’ll know where you are. But then the assassin fell silent, as if he could read Ash’s thoughts.

Ash put his fingers in front of his face and could see nothing. His mouth, his nose, his sinuses were still burning, and he had a raging headache. Every breath he took was like a flame inside his chest. There was no way he could use his power when he couldn’t even see his attacker. He would be dead before he knew the man was there. And given the effect of the Darian stone at Oden’s Ford, he might not have any power left to use beyond what was already stored in his amulet. He couldn’t afford to waste it.

He could hear and see nothing, though he knew the man must be coming closer. He was aware of a rising panic, the smothering onslaught of the dark. His entire body tingled, every nerve screaming, awaiting the cold, intimate touch of the knife. He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, to think.

Then Ash remembered how he had detected the assassins at Oden’s Ford. He couldn’t see them in the dark, but he could feel their hunger. He let out a breath and tried to relax. Taking hold of his amulet, he pushed his power outward, seeking the man and his bloodlust. An image appeared in his mind, a bright figure against darkness. The priest was about fifteen feet away, and moving slowly in his direction, turning his head this way and that, as if to sniff the air. Ash couldn’t see anything else in the room, but he could roughly place the assassin.

Ash palmed his blade, though he knew he’d fare poorly as a blind man in a knife fight. He would have to hope he could muster enough power to bring the man down. As long as the brother lived, Ash could be identified.

He waited until the bright shape of the man was just opposite him. The assassin would turn in a moment and see him. Gripping his amulet, Ash swept out his arm, flinging out what he hoped was a spray of flames toward the priest. The gloom before his eyes brightened briefly. There was a scream of pain, and then the sound of something heavy falling. Ash didn’t wait. He scrambled to his feet again, circling to avoid treading on the man, and staggered across the storeroom. If he were indeed under the kitchen, there should be a staircase off the hallway at the far end.

He heard movement again behind him, and the brother’s voice returned, thick with pain and menace. “For that, I’ll kill you slowly, mage, and drink your blood many times before you die. This will be our temple for an extended ceremony.” The man was still coming after him, but moving more slowly now, as if he were injured. Ash shoved over barrels, rolling them into the path of the hunter behind. He staggered to his left, as far as he could, until he found the wall. Then he followed along it, hoping to find the way to the stairway. In his mind, he could see the shape behind him, mad with rage and need. His groping hand found a small cask, stacked atop a barrel, and he lifted it and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. It smashed on the stone floor, and something splashed against his ankles. He caught the pungent scent of kerosene.

Finally there was vacancy under his questing hand, and he knew he’d found the doorway. He launched himself through it. The stairway should be somewhere along the corridor to the left-hand side. Unless he was completely lost. Then he was a dead man.

At least there were not so many obstacles in the corridor, and he moved along more quickly, trailing his hand along the wall to keep himself oriented. And then, once again, there was an opening. As he turned into it, something sang past his ear and clattered on the stone floor ahead of him. He flinched ineffectively, unsure which way to jump. His questing foot found a step. It was the staircase.

He flung himself upward, half-stumbling, half-crawling up the stairs, afraid a misstep would send him tumbling backward. The blade man was close on his heels, his breath rasping in and out. Something slashed across his ankle and he felt a searing pain. The Darian was trying to cut his tendon to disable him, perhaps still hoping to prolong the kill. Ash kicked wildly, felt his foot crunch into bone, then turned and threw his knife. The priest shrieked, but Ash kept climbing, sucking down painful breaths until he crested the stairs. The darkness before his eyes seemed a little brighter, and he could feel the dry heat from the ovens. He must be in the kitchen.