Kuu
The inside of Yelto’s compound was utter chaos, and the men who were supposed to be guarding it were trying to get a look at the battle outside. And, as much as he hated to admit it, his brother had been right: none of them so much as batted an eye at the diminutive gray fox, whose padded feet sped through the stony halls. He was likely to make it a good way in without having to change back and fight his way through.
At least that’s what he thought.
He didn’t count on being recognized, though.
“Hey,” said a guard who looked a lot dumber than he apparently was, “you’re that wolfwalker.” The man was already drawing his sword when Kuu ran toward him.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kuu said as he leapt into the air and began to change back. He had the advantage of being quicker—much quicker—than the guard was, and intended to use it. By the time he collided with the guard, he had changed back almost completely, striking the man in the chest with his feet. His weight and momentum brought them both tumbling down, and the tenuous grip that the guard had on his sword caused it to clatter to the ground when they hit.
Kuu saw his chance and took it. Reaching for the sword and grabbing it by the hilt, he brought it up, igniting terror in the man’s eyes. He hesitated, then drove it down into the man’s throat.
He didn’t enjoy killing; in fact, he would have preferred not to have to do it at all, but he was left with little time and even less choice. He had to get to the Ghost if they had any hope of surviving.
As the man’s body went limp, Kuu heard the familiar sound of metallic keys falling onto a stone floor, and he realized that the man he’d just killed was also a jailer. Those keys would get him where he needed to go, but it was not going to be easy; he couldn’t just walk in.
Or could he?
He looked at the armor of the man in front of him. It was a little large for him, but the only one who would pay attention to that was the one wearing it.
Kuu looked around to make sure no one was watching and started unhooking the guard’s armor.
***
Swinging the key ring around on his finger and whistling, Kuu tried to act as nonchalant as possible. If he looked like he belonged, he reasoned, he could get deeper inside the jail with minimal resistance. And, for the most part, he was right.
The only problem he ran into was when he came to a huge, metallic door guarded by five men. They all had their eyes on Kuu as he approached.
“Password,” said the biggest one.
Kuu kept walking but didn’t answer.
“Password,” the guard repeated.
Kuu had to think. He was unlikely to guess the right word, and there was no way he was going to be able to take on these five men; they were enormous and well armed. Even with his three brothers there with him, he would have had trouble taking them on.
Brothers.
That gave him an idea.
“Djozen Yelto has awakened the Holder,” he said. “He requires the Ghost of the Morning as a tribute.”
The men stood there as if digesting the information. They looked at each other uncertainly.
“Well?” Kuu said, doing his best to look impatient.
“Where is the Djozen?” asked the big guard, with a mixture of skepticism and confusion.
“He was overseeing the ceremony,” Kuu answered.
“In the temple?” another guard asked helpfully.
“Yes,” Kuu said with a nod of assurance. “The temple.”
The biggest guard didn’t look convinced. “We aren’t supposed to let her out. The Djozen said so himself.”
“Well,” Kuu countered, “the Holder told the Djozen to bring her. I was there; I heard him say it myself.”
There were acceding murmurs from the guards, and the big one seemed to be leaning toward opening the door. His hand moved to the silver key on his belt. Then he stopped.
It’s been a good run, Kuu thought. If he couldn’t talk himself out of this, he knew there was no way he was getting past them—and he had to get past them.
He could feel his palms begin to sweat as he thought about which man he should try to kill first. Maybe if he moved quickly enough, the others wouldn’t realize what was happening.
Kuu inched his hand closer to the hilt of his sword.
“What did he sound like?” the big guard asked in hushed reverence.
Kuu stopped. He wasn’t prepared for that question. “The Holder?” he asked, regaining his mental balance.
“Yes. What . . . what was his voice like?”
Kuu’s face darkened. The answer to this question, unfortunately, he knew.
“It was like hearing a dream. A dream where you are being chased. Where you are falling and your whole body is hurtling toward the ground,” he said. “He sounded like terror, like fear . . . like death.”
If the big man wasn’t convinced before, he certainly was now. He took the key off his belt and placed it in the lock, turning it with a thud as the bolt opened. A tug on a circular metal ring was all it took to open the door where, inside, sat their only hope of salvation.
“You are too late,” came a voice from inside.
And Kuu’s heart sank.
Dailus
Ahmaan Ka flexed his fingers.
It was the little things, now, that brought him joy. He had been without a body for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to have one. This one was full of sensations and an energy that hummed inside of it, but it was also full of dull aches and unwelcome pain. He was mortal again—mortal, with the power of a god.
To his right was one of his priests—the one who had performed the ritual to let him enter his new Vessel—and the fat one who called himself Djozen. He turned to them and said, “Well done, my servants.”
The priest fell to his knees before him. “I hope that this body pleases you, O Holder.”
Noting that the fat one stayed standing, Ka replied, “It does.”
He could feel the power inside himself, and he knew it was the power of the Shaper—the same power that had purged him from the Otherworld and forced him into Khel-hârad. He smiled to himself, knowing that he now wielded a part of it. Yes, this body did please him.
“However,” said the priest, looking up at him from his knees, “we are still under siege.”
“Not for long,” the Holder said, gesturing for him to rise. “Where is the Ghost?”
“She remains in her prison,” the priest replied.
“Then I shall see her myself. I want to see the look on her face when she knows that she has lost.”
The priest nodded and smiled a skeletal smile.
Asha Imha-khet.
It would be good to see her again after all these years—and even better to see her in pain.