Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Forty-Two: A Dream to Realize

"Kill every last one of them, but bring him to me alive!" Saracen yelled at the men behind his back as he ran through the gate, feeling a strange new wave of energy coursing through him. He could see his life turning, could taste his new legacy being formed the moment that blue fire lit up the sky and the eastern gate of the Barai opened. The men could feel it too, judging from the cheers that erupted as they rushed into the most secure prison in Samarra. They were going to make a name for themselves tonight, as a part of an army that finally took down Salar Muradi of Rasharwi.

It was just as di Amarra had said. An army was, in fact, waiting for him when they reached the location of the signal fire, one that matched the size he'd been given. The men, hungry and long-deprived of a proper fight since they'd relocated to Samarra, needed no instructions. They crashed into the black-garbed men like beasts, snarling and hacking off heads with mouths still open from the surprise, creating piles of dead bodies wherever they went.

Saracen stayed behind, chest pumped full of pride as he watched the slaughter. He wasn't going to join them––he hadn't come here for that. His energy was reserved for one thing only, and after quick sweep of the area, he found what he was looking for.

Up on the roof of a building where the signal fire had been lit, a figure of one man cut a sharp, majestic silhouette against the backdrop of roaring blue flame. It needed no confirmation. A man like Muradi was someone you only had to meet once to spot him from five hundred paces away.

He looked up at the sky then, feeling the cold rain on his face, imagining it washing away the mud that had concealed his true potential, preparing him for a new destiny. His body felt light as a feather, his mind as clear as a blank parchment, that same energy he'd felt as they entered the Barai had increased tenfold the moment that figure came into view.

He had no qualms with Salar Muradi, perhaps even admired him as a leader, but a man chosen by god must do god's will. Muradi's corpse would make history for the Rishis, and he was destined to be the man who killed a legend. It was all writ––

Saracen hadn't finished that thought when he saw the lone arrow, loosed from somewhere down below, heading straight for his target.

***

Leandras was already heading up the stairs when noticed the raised crossbow. He'd picked up speed before it was nocked with an arrow, scaling those steps two at a time without the slightest idea what he was going to do or why when he got there. Ranveer didn't seem to notice the threat, even when he was certain the man was looking straight in that direction. Perhaps the smoke or the rain had made it difficult to see. Perhaps it was the angle from where he was standing. Perhaps everything was working against him tonight, and he was, in fact, destined to die here.

It wasn't an outcome he was willing to accept without doing something about it. It didn't even require thinking twice to interfere. The need came to him like reflex, like instinct.

But by the time he reached the roof, it was already too late.

***

Akshay's arrow was well calculated, meticulously timed, and precisely aimed. It would hit him on the left shoulder, miss his major organs, and at that range the head would likely penetrate through his back, making it easier to remove. It was obvious to Ranveer from the moment the man had raised the crossbow that the shot wasn't aiming to kill. Akshay was aiming to wound, to disarm, to capture alive. He could see that intent before the man pulled the trigger, just as he could see the arrow's path before it reached him.

By the time Akshay took the shot, he knew his calculations had been right. The arrow followed the path he'd forecasted in his head, flew at the speed he'd bet on, and reached him exactly where he'd anticipated. Out of reflex, instinct, and intuition hoarded from having survived too many battles, his left foot lifted off the ground just before the arrow blasted through his chest, placed itself a step behind as he turned sideways, and cleared him from its path. The arrow grazed him on the chest as it went by, left a cut on his tunic and a long line of minor flesh wound under his collarbone. He smiled, and waited for the expected clank of that arrowhead as it hit the ground.