‘Thank you.’
The boy was staring blankly at the carnage around them: ten corpses lay scattered about a room being consumed by fire; Janak’s possessions were destroyed, and the merchant himself was slumped in a heap beside Fyn. Annev cast aside the chains and iron manacles – one of which still held the dead guard’s severed limb. Then he grabbed Sraon’s axe and jogged over to Fyn.
Annev winced when he saw Janak’s crumpled face, disgusted he could still see the man’s former humanity amidst the mass of twisted metal.
‘He’s dead,’ Annev said, stating the obvious.
Fyn shook his head, staring blankly at the man he’d been tasked to kill. Annev thought to question his denial, but then the merchant’s ruined face creaked, turning until the dull grey eyes locked on Annev.
‘Keos …’ Annev swore.
Janak raised a shaking metal arm, his steely fist pointing at Annev. ‘Orcle … crimple?’ The words were forced out through mangled lips, raspy and grinding.
Annev stared, not understanding, then saw the brass lamp clutched in the man’s hand. He prised it from Janak’s stiff metallic grip, and when the incense lamp finally fell from Lord Harth’s grasp, the man sighed in painful resignation, a wheezing groan pushed from iron lungs.
‘He should be dead,’ Fyn said, his voice ragged. ‘I don’t see how he’s not.’
‘Cruithear cursed him,’ Annev said, his fingers brushing the tiny runes that covered the brass artifact. ‘He probably convinced Janak that, in exchange for his servitude, he could reclaim his old life and have his revenge on the Academy.’
Fyn looked down at the gold rod in his hand, at the burning study, and at the mangled merchant’s body. ‘I don’t know who Cruithear is,’ he said, shaking his dreadlocks loose, ‘and I don’t really care. We’ve got the artifact, and it looks like Duvarek’s dead.’ He peered over at Kenton, who had knelt beside the corpse of his former mentor. ‘But how can I make this man deader than he already is? If I thought these flames would kill him, I’d leave him here to burn.’
Janak groaned as if in reply, his wrecked body squeaking and creaking as he twisted his broken neck. ‘Plss … kl meee,’ he cried, his high-pitched keening like grinding metal.
The man was clearly in pain – there was no doubt death would be a mercy to him. The scene reminded Annev of the withered wood-witch screaming for mercy, mercy, mercy.
Mercy.
Annev stepped forward and called upon the magic of his sword – a sword that had once cut through stone like a sickle parting stalks of grain – and plunged it straight into the wretched man’s chest.
Janak blinked, his shrieking silenced. He gazed down at the sword sprouting from his sternum, then locked eyes with Annev.
Relief. Gratitude.
Janak reached down and patted Annev’s wrist, laying his grey palm atop the crimson phoenix glove. He gripped Annev’s hand and twisted the blade.
He slumped forward with a gasp, the life gone from his eyes.
Annev withdrew the blade and stepped back as Janak’s ruined body toppled over, collapsing against his desk and scattering pieces of flaming parchment. Their tasks complete, all three boys breathed a little easier.
A slow clapping came from the back of the room. Kenton sprang to his feet, and the three avatars turned to face a shadowy, grey-cloaked stranger standing in the doorway.
‘Bravo,’ the woman said, stepping over a broken painting, the merchant’s trinkets crunching beneath her feet. She glanced about at the fires spreading around the room, consuming its once-beautiful panelling. ‘You three certainly know how to throw a party.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The woman was almost as tall as Fyn, with a black scarf wrapped around her head and a slim rapier and dirk hanging at her belt. Next to these hung a coiled chain of steel rods joined by small metal rings with a hooked dart swinging lazily from its tip.
She stepped over a broken crystal vase, and sidled farther into the burning room where the flames were now becoming a genuine hazard, engulfing furniture and dead guardsmen alike. She drew closer to Kenton and the scarred boy backed away, lacking any weapon to defend himself. When the grey-garbed woman reached Duvarek, she knelt down to inspect the bronze suit, iron collar and rusty manacles.
‘Stop right there!’ Fyn commanded, pointing the gold artifact at the woman.
Who is she? Annev wondered. What does she want? Then he remembered the cryptic words Janak had received from the Oracle. Four horsemen, each with a bird on their shoulder – a heron, a kestrel, a rook and a magpie. The merchant had given them each a title: the faithless warrior, the doomed cripple, the cursed leader.
And the shadow’s shadow.
The woman rose to her feet, barely glancing at Fyn. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, brushing her tattered cloak behind her. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. Very rude, I know.’ She bowed low, sliding her right foot backward, her cape sweeping across the ground. ‘I am Sodja, of the noble House of Rocas.’ She rose, eyeing the three avatars, and casually approached them. ‘And you, if I am not mistaken, are dullards and thieves from that backwater academy in the wood.’
Quick as a blink, Sodja grabbed the chain-whip from her belt and snapped it outward. The three avatars jumped back, narrowly escaping the weapon’s range, then realised too late that the barbed end had been aimed at the Rod of Compulsion. The hooked tip wrapped tight around the gold sceptre, whipping it from Fyn’s surprised hand and flinging it in Sodja’s direction. As it sailed overhead, she cartwheeled after it, snatching the artifact before it hit the ground. The woman landed a dozen feet away from Duvarek’s armoured corpse then turned to wink at the avatars – and was promptly bowled over by Annev.
They hit the ground, crunching innumerable treasures as they rolled across the bloody floor, each trying to secure a hold while avoiding the fires that burned around them. At last, Annev pinned the stranger against Duvarek’s body, holding her until Fyn and Kenton could lend their support. Yet even as they ran to assist him, Sodja eeled from Annev’s grasp and was back on her feet, darting for the door. The two avatars dashed past Annev in pursuit and he rose to follow them, only to be jerked back down after a few paces.
His forearm and shoulder hurt, and as he rose once more to his feet, Annev saw the cause of his pain: an iron manacle had been clamped over his left arm, chaining him to Duvarek’s collar. He clawed at the metal cuff circling his wrist but saw no way to unlock the artifact. He reached for Mercy, intending to cut himself free, then realised he had dropped both his weapons in his tussle with Sodja Rocas. He turned to look at the thief and saw she’d stopped at Janak’s door, slipping the rod into her pocket and lashing the whip around her slender waist.