Destructions ascent, p.1
Destruction's Ascent, page 1
part #3 of Dragon Ridden Chronicles Series
Destruction’s Ascent
T.A. White
Copyright © 2018 by T.A. White. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Newsletter
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
TATE ITCHED, HER fingers tingling with a mad desire. It was a struggle to ignore the irritant that had been plaguing her for the last hour, one she'd resisted valiantly. She knew she was doomed to fall to its temptation eventually. It wasn't a little itch. One that she could ignore. No. This itch had started as a small annoyance, easily brushed off, before it had grown, multiplying until her scalp practically twitched with the need for relief—the irritant consuming her thoughts.
She blamed the wig. Ever since she had put it on, it had been driving her crazy. The disguise was heavy and cumbersome—a maid's outfit she’d been forced into because her friends thought she was too recognizable in the underground.
Don't think she hadn't noticed how the other two had escaped the same fate, despite having faces even more recognizable than hers. She had a sneaking suspicion her maid's uniform was more about providing her friends with a good laugh than keeping her identity hidden.
Meanwhile, she was stuck trying to think about anything but the fact that she wanted to rip this blond monstrosity off and bury her fingers in her hair. She might end up dead afterward, but she was almost convinced it would be worth it.
The blouse wasn't too bad, but the skirt would definitely be a problem if there was any fighting—its weight and length keeping her from an effective fighting stance. Not that this little jaunt was supposed to involve fighting, but one never knew. Stranger things had happened.
It was the Night Market. Anything was possible, and she'd learned to be prepared. The preferred destination of smugglers, thieves and murderers, the market did business in an underground cavern large enough to fit the Emperor's palace and a few other government buildings, with room to spare. Its maze of stalls with their brightly colored banners bustled with as much busyness as any market topside—if not more. Illegal goods were a booming business.
The biggest difference between here and topside was the air of furtive desperation and violence. Merchant and customer alike moved with a wary suspicion missing in the markets aboveground—eyes constantly on the lookout for their next mark, or conversely, those looking to take advantage of them. It was eat or be eaten, and there was always a bigger fish in these rough seas.
It wasn't the type of place where you went unarmed, and Tate fought the urge to check for her blade as a big fellow with a face not even a mother could love gave her a sideways glance.
She looked around with a barely concealed grimace, asking herself how she'd let herself be talked into this.
Tate stepped closer to the stall she'd stopped at and pretended to be absorbed in the array of jewelry on display. No doubt most of it had been taken from the home of a wealthy merchant or noble. The shiny baubles failed to hold her attention for long, and she glanced at the stall to her right, focusing on the youth in front of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the owner's face flushed, and he shook his head at a boy no more than sixteen or seventeen, with a face as fresh as dew on a crisp spring morning.
Dewdrop's jaw tightened—the only sign that negotiations weren't preceding according to plan. Tate moved to the end of her stall. His contact—a man Dewdrop swore he'd had many dealings with in the past—wasn't supposed to be the type prone to violence, but this was the Night Market. It wouldn't be much of a stronghold for thieves if it wasn't as unpredictable as it was dangerous.
Tension threaded through Tate. It was harder to let him take point than she thought it would be. She waited, even as impatience niggled at her. Not yet. It wasn’t time. Dewdrop hadn't given her the signal they'd agreed upon—the one he was supposed to use if he got the slightest inkling something was off.
She lifted a necklace up to the small globe lights lining the stall's frame before putting it back down. Her attention veered back to the other stall for a moment before she glanced at the shadowed ceiling of the cavern, barely visible through the shadows clinging to it.
"Buy something or move along, dearie," said a frail-looking woman with skin as fragile as tissue paper and hair a snarled gray mess around her head. She shuffled forward, hunched from a spine twisted by time. "Got no time for gawkers."
"I haven't found what I'm looking for yet," Tate told her. Not that she was really looking.
The old woman seemed to know it too. A dry laugh rattled her chest, and she spit a glob of mucous right next to Tate's foot. Her eyes held a sly twinkle. "Wasn't born yesterday, girl. You're no more interested in this junk than I am in a well-endowed man."
Tate opened her mouth to protest again, then closed it as a familiar figure caught her attention. She turned to watch as a tall man—dark hair brushing shoulders she'd recognize anywhere, their muscled, rigid definition impossible to miss—moved through the crowd. She knew if he turned toward her he'd have blue eyes, the type you could get lost in if you weren't careful, and a face rugged and fierce, the outward manifestation of the warrior inside.
He wasn't alone. A man, just as big and dangerous looking, stalked by his side.
"Damn and blast. What's he doing here?" Tate muttered. She glanced back at Dewdrop and then up at the ceiling cavern where Night, their other friend, hid. He wasn't visible, the waist-high bearcat a master of sneaking around undetected. He was their ace in the hole if things went sideways, but he was only supposed to reveal himself if they were in imminent danger.
She turned her attention back to Ryu and his companion. He had no business here that Tate knew of. Granted, he'd had dealings with the Night Lords in the past, but he usually kept such connections under the veil of secrecy. Striding as nice as you please through the middle of the market where anyone could see wasn't secret.
She ducked her head and avoided his eyes when he glanced in her direction. While she wasn't technically doing anything that could be termed illegal—except for the fact that getting caught visiting the market was considered an admission of guilt—she didn't want her presence advertised. Not when he'd told her to drop her obsession with finding a certain brown-eyed murderer who’d indicated more than a passing knowledge of Tate’s origins.
Tate glanced back once she’d deemed it safe, her eyes drawn to movement behind him as the market heaved with disturbance. Black coats marched into view. Anybody in Aurelia would recognize that particular style. They were only worn by the Black Order—a sect that stylized itself as another branch of law but were little better than extortionists and bullies.
She looked back at the old woman, telling her, "If I were you, I'd pack up and get out of here."
The woman peered in the direction Tate indicated and let out a long string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. "Not another one," she muttered. She raised her voice as Tate turned away. "Get to packing. We’re being raided."
The other vendors scurried into motion, their wares flying off tables and into bags or boxes. Within moments, the market was a seething cauldron of activity.
She stalked toward Dewdrop, not bothering to hide her intent. Any need for subterfuge was gone now that the Order had decided to make their presence known. She didn't want her friends getting caught in whatever was going down. From past experience, she doubted the men wearing the black coats would be merciful. If they apprehended them, they'd treat them to the same hospitality they showed the rest of the riffraff they rounded up—or worse, given the history she had with that group.
"Time to go," she told Dewdrop.
"I'm not done," he argued.
She jerked her head toward where men from the Black Order were kicking over tables and riffling through the contents. "You're done. I don't plan on sticking around until they notice us."
Dewdrop's eyes went over her shoulder. Frustration flitted across his face.
His companion cursed and turned to Dewdrop. "This is your fault. You brought them down on us."
"I did no such thing," Dewdrop spat back. He stepped forward and poked the other man in the chest. "And you know it, Scotty."
Scotty sniffed. "I know nothing of the sort. Not with you swanning about with your noble lady and her dragon thinking you’re too good for us regular folk."
Tate lifted one eyebrow even as a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, amused despite the fact the Order was closing in on their little corner of the market. She'd never been referred to as noble before. Obstinate, yes. Stubborn, definitely. Low-class and a host of other things, but never noble.
Dewdrop exchanged a look with her. Scotty snorted, interpreting that look correctly and said, "Yeah, I've heard about you two. We all have. You're not going to convince anyone here to deal with you now that you've been blacklisted."
Dewdrop watched the other man with a cocky jaunt to his mouth. To someone who didn't know him, they would assume he couldn't care less about the revelation. To Tate, who now considered him the little brother she'd never had, she could see the information dismayed him.
His mouth firmed, and he stepped close and shoved Scotty back a step. "Good to know. I'll make sure the right people learn about that little problem you had two years back."
"Why you little—"
Tate grabbed Dewdrop by the arm and jerked him sideways out of Scotty’s reach. "As amusing as this is, I think it's past time we take our leave."
Dewdrop’s posture turned alert at the sight of the Black Order's men now only four stalls away. A man looked over at them and pointed, shouting, "Halt."
"You've got a point," Dewdrop said.
Tate so often did.
She kicked Scotty's stall over, blocking the way, as she and Dewdrop ducked between it and another stall. They threaded through the market—not an easy task given the writhing mass of chaos it had turned into. The merchants here didn't take kindly to business being interrupted even when the Order shouted that they had the Emperor's authority.
Tate felt a small amount of amusement when one of the merchants unsheathed a sword and advanced on the interlopers, crying, "You can stuff your Emperor up your duff. The only authority we recognize down here is that of the Night Court!”
He wasn't the only one to grab a weapon. Now that the Order had lost the element of surprise, more and more of the merchants were turning violent, unwilling to let their stalls be destroyed. It was clear the Order was outnumbered.
There was a loud clacking, the sound reverberating through the cavern.
"Creators curse it," Dewdrop snarled, sounding aggrieved. "They're calling in the Night Lords."
Tate followed her friend's slim back as he leaped across overturned tables and swerved around wrestling bodies. She echoed his sentiment. They didn't have long before the Night Market turned into a full battle. The personal guards of the individual Lords weren't like the merchants here, whose fighting experience was the sort picked up in back-alley brawls.
No, the men and women being summoned made up the inner circles of the Night Lords' courts. Highly trained, incredibly deadly, and not the sort to spare a man just because he had a writ of arrest signed by the Emperor's Lord Marshall. These were the people who committed dark deeds in the dead of night. Assassins, soldiers and the like. Dewdrop had told Tate many had, in fact, been part of the Emperor's armies before realizing they could make a much better living on the other side of the fence.
Even as they dodged around another set of wrestling bodies, Tate could see men and women spilling in from holes above, using ropes or ladders to descend rapidly.
A flash of movement caught her eye as Night leapt over a ledge, sailing through the air to land on a banner, then gracefully sliding down to bound across the cavern floor toward the two of them.
"So glad you could make it," Dewdrop shouted.
The Order's men have blocked off the entrance we used. We'll have to find another way. Night's mental voice was light as he ran next to them. He was having a good time—the threat of imminent danger not fazing him.
"This way," Dewdrop shouted.
Tate and Night followed, trusting he knew where he was going. Of the three of them, he had spent the most time down here, having been part of a court. He'd been a pickpocket when Tate met him. Since then, he'd parted ways with his former court—some of that may have been due to Tate's interference. She liked to think he was happier now, even if his life was a lot more dangerous.
Dewdrop swerved to the left, running down a narrow space between the back of the stalls and leaping over spilled wares. Tate followed, Night bringing up the rear. They were on the edge of the market—opposite of where they had come in. The stalls were tightly packed together here, slowing their momentum.
"Here," Dewdrop hissed, lifting a tablecloth up and gesturing under it.
Tate eyed it with dismay. He really wanted them to crawl under there?
He made a face at her. "Hurry!"
Fine. She slid under the table, making room as Night crowded in behind her, followed quickly by Dewdrop. He crawled past them, making sure to stay under the row of tables, which had conveniently been placed in a long line. Night made a chirping sound of appreciation and padded after him. Tate was left with no choice but to crawl in their wake.
The table's skirt caved in as the people outside crashed into it. Tate slid over, barely managing to avoid getting a foot to the face. She grumbled to herself as she moved faster. Just in time for the table behind her to crash to the ground under the weight of two men.
Dewdrop came to the end of the line and paused, lifting the table's skirt to peer from under it. He turned back to them. "Coast is clear."
He didn't wait for a response, ducking out. Night followed without hesitation. Tate crawled out from under the table into a scene fit for a madhouse. ‘Coast is clear’ her ass. There were at least a dozen battling bodies around them. She flung herself forward as a pair fell into the space she was occupying.
She scrambled after Dewdrop and Night as they darted across the space toward a small ledge above them. Dewdrop levered himself up, pausing to wait as Night cleared the ledge in a single bound. Dewdrop held his hand out to Tate, pulling her up after him.
"Now what?" she asked. They were above the fray, but that wouldn't stop some enterprising man from the Order looking to make a name for himself from crawling up after them. Nor would it stop any of the Night Lords’ men from shoving them off if they were noticed.
"This leads to one of the upper levels. There's a path that will take us to the surface from there."
"Isn't that Night Lord territory?" Tate asked. The cavern was constructed in tiers with several platforms and wide ledges overlooking the market. They were the domain of the individual Night Lords, none of whom welcomed trespassers.
"I don't have a better idea, do you?" Dewdrop asked.
Not really.
"At least their attention is focused on the market," Tate said.
Night yowled next to them, calling their attention. We have company.
Tate turned to look, then cursed as several men wearing black coats leveraged themselves up.
"Upper levels it is," Tate said.
Dewdrop grinned and took the lead, sure-footed and light on his feet on the narrow ledge. Night was just as at home on the uncertain path. Tate struggled more than usual, the skirts she'd been forced to wear making her balance a little more precarious. When she almost tripped off the side for the second time, she let out a stinging curse, grabbing her skirt in one hand and her blade in the other. There was a ripping sound as she stabbed the blade into the material and yanked, cutting a long slit in the skirt's front.
There. That should do. Maybe now she wouldn't break her neck during this getaway. She darted after Night and Dewdrop. Catching up was simple when her stride wasn't constricted.
They raced up one narrow track after another, climbing when necessary, and leaping over wide spaces where the ledge had crumbled. The men from the Black Order quickly fell behind, not as at home on these type of pathways as the three of them.
They came to a wide platform overlooking the market. An archway marked an entrance to the tunnels and relative safety—from the market and its interlopers at least.
"We're nearly there," Dewdrop called over his shoulder.
A man stepped out from the shadows. Tall and lithe, with the grace of movement suited to an assassin, Blade considered them with eyes of pure black, marred only by the faintest trace of blue around his iris. He tilted his head and looked them over. His hair, so black that it appeared a deep blue in the right light, was cut so close to his skull that it looked like a shadow.
Though only half Kairi, Blade possessed their same lethal grace—the kind that said killing you would be easier done than said. Tate had seen him fight and had no wish to be on the opposite side of any battle from him. However, it looked like she might not have a choice at the moment.
