had a chance of controlling the Beast. So she dashed through the palace, hearing screams echo softly in her wake, and the rune she dared not release drained her strength. She was running blind without Merrick’s power to help her and would have to take a gamble.
And with that final thought, Sorcha passed through the thick mud walls of the palace and out into the chaos of the city itself.
TWENTY-THREE
Freedom and Fight
The Rossin was running, and for once it had nothing to do with his need for the taste of blood. The women in the harem had given him his fill, and he was strong on it. Instead he was running toward something just as tasty: revenge.
His wide paws struck the sturdy mud roofs of the Hive City precisely and loudly. Flocks of shrieking birds fled from their nests as he thundered past them. Citizens below caught glimpses of the lion as he leapt between buildings, and their screams, which would have once satisfied him, now were as meaningless as the squawks of the birds.
For the first time in a very, very long time, the geistlord known as the Rossin had a mission, and his golden- flecked eyes were narrowed on the target.
Ahead, close to the curve of the river, was the Temple of Hatipai. Even thinking that name brought a snarl of hatred from the massive chest of the Beast.
In the thick jungles to the east of Chioma there were snakes that preyed upon other snakes; they were the most feared of the poisonous creatures that crawled in Arkaym. And now, one of those creatures, or at least the geist equivalent, had come home to her lair.
The Rossin stopped on a wide rooftop at the edge of the city and rested for a moment. In a body of flesh, the geistlord enjoyed the heady rush of blood in his veins and the joy of a heart pounding in his chest. His tongue ran over the curve of white canine teeth and licked over his muzzle, drawing in the last few drops of blood that stained his fur. The Rossin contemplated the last small distance between him and his goal.
Ahead the palace complex fihed and the long, wellguarded road to the port and markets of the city began. No more rooftops remained to provide him access.
He was not out of breath or frightened at the prospect of going down among the humans, but he was worried about alerting her that he was coming. The proud head of the Rossin turned to glare once more at the Temple. No Deacon of the Order could have scanned the horizon as well as he did—but if they had been able, they would have trembled.
Through unearthly eyes that saw better than any human and pierced deep into the reality of this world, he watched a great storm drawing in on the kingdom of Chioma and its Prince. The patterned fur on the Rossin’s head rippled, and he raised his head and sniffed. The odor was of the tomb and lost hopes—the smell of the long dead— something that the Rossin despised but she loved. Hatipai’s adoring followers had no rest, even when they were dead. The self-styled goddess had that much of a hold on them.
Nearly a thousand years before, it had been the family that bore his name that had, with his assistance, trapped her beneath Vermillion. His lip pulled back from his fangs at the memory of that bright and terrible battle. Now the tables had turned. She was in the ascendant, while the bloodline that had protected him was whittled down to two fragile twigs.
The great cat felt his ire rise and perhaps a little fear. Hatipai had destroyed many geists and geistlords, and the Rossin had only survived because he had not done as many of his kind had done—relied on faith and worship. It had not been easy to become part of a human bloodline, yet it had proved to be the smartest choice.
He looked east, feeling a tug in that direction and knowing full well what it meant. Only one other possible home for him remained—the sister of this body, the young one, Fraine.
The Rossin knew very well that it was no coincidence that both Raed and Fraine were here now, so close and in the domain of Hatipai. She might not yet have a usable body, but his enemy had allies, human and otherwise. She always had.
His huge head swung back toward the distant yet looming Temple. If they found what was hidden there—
That thought decided the Rossin. Flinging back his head, he let out a thundering roar that bounced off the red mud buildings. It was his defiance and his warning to Hatipai. Her star had not yet risen so far that he could not knock it back down.
The Rossin sprang down from the building and landed right among a train of camels heading in the opposite direction. They brayed and danced and kicked to get away. Chaos as always followed in the Rossin’s wake.
Men and beasts in the pack train panicked. Loads strapped to the camels’ backs were flung loose as the animals bucked and spat and tried to get out of the lion’s way.
For his part, the geistlord hissed, snarled and struck out. The smell of animal sweat and panic mingled with that of heady, iron-rich blood, and for a second he went mad with it. The Rossin bit down and ripped out the throat of a beast that got in his way. The spurt of life into his mouth was a brief joy, but he remembered his goal, whirled on his back paws and sprang up the road toward the Temple.
The road was busy, packed with merchants, guards and every kind of humanity in between. The Rossin plowed through them, scattering the travelers like chaff. He snapped and bit while he went but did not stop to enjoy the sensation of destruction. His concentration was focused on the road and the Temple ahead. He had to get there and make sure the unholy device of the Ehtia was secure.
At the gates to the town a squadron of Chiomese guards were able to throw together a defense. They could not have missed the rising screams and roars that marked his coming, and so the portcullis was being lowered behind them and riflemen were ranged on the battlements above.
These recent inventions were not to the Rossin’s liking, and he bellowed his rage. They responded with a volley of rifle fire that filled the air with buzzing lead. When they struck the great lion’s patterned hide they
As swordsmen rushed out bravely to confront him, the Beast leapt in among them, streaks of his own blood drying in his fur. The guards didn’t stand a chance, but the Rossin appreciated their bravery even as he ripped and shredded them. He tore shields away and clawed through armor, yet many survived. Those who got knocked down or broke and ran, he left.
The Temple was not getting any closer. The Rossin charged the portcullis, hearing more guards running down from inside the tower. For creatures with such short life spans, they were in an awful hurry to waste themselves under his claws. However, he could not tarry to aid them in their destruction. The portcullis rattled and shook in its casing but was made of stern iron. The outraged guards were yelling and shooting. The noise drove the frustrated Rossin to the breaking point.
With a heave of his muscular shoulders the Beast flung his whole weight and might against the gate. The metal did not give at first, but his sharp ears heard the sound of the mud brick walls groaning under his assault. Again and again under the rattle of rifle fire the Rossin threw himself against the portcullis, roaring and snarling as he had not since the Break. Eventually the walls could take no more, and around the gate the bricks cracked like dropped eggs. Huge pieces of red earth fractured and flew away in thick shards.
And then with a massive shrieking groan, the gate toppled. The Rossin came with it as it slammed into the ground. The iron hadn’t stopped ringing and the dust had not even settled before the lion was off and running. Soon he had left the rifle shots and the shouting guards behind.
The streets in the city were mercifully clear—so the great lion knew that alerts must have been sounded. He took the chance and bunched his muscular haunches under him and bounded through the streets, heading straight for the Temple.
