Whisper of Blade | ✓ (Crimson #1)

Chapter 9: One Woman Army

The crypt beneath the fortress reeked of death from the bodies of the fallen.

Minerva waded through them, trying to reach the lone ray of light streaming through the fracture in the ceiling above. Screams came from there, but at least they were the cries of the living. Spider web cracks crept outward from the fissure as the ground shuddered and shook. Dust rained down, sticking to the layer of blood that slicked every exposed inch of her body.

If she didn't hurry, they'd bury her alive.

She tried to ignore the squish of still warm limbs beneath her as she crawled. Her hands sank into the decay and dripped with blood when she pulled them out. Unseeing eyes stared up at her. Mouths twisted in wordless agony.

So close.

A bony hand reached up from the heap and grabbed her by the throat, dragging her under.

The familiar nightmare didn't end when Minerva startled awake and she choked on a silent scream. It never played out in the same way and didn't always stick to reality—she'd never set foot in one of the Terron tombs. But the ghosts of the dead always haunted her. She took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed a hand against Mala's wing to sit up, leaving the warmth of the manticore's side.

A couple sniffs of the air confirmed her fears. Burnt metal.

When she grimaced, the scabs that had formed on the right side of her face cracked open beneath the poultice she'd applied and tied with a cloth. After cleaning the slashes the day before, she'd raided Nola's medicine cabinet for the ointment her nurse applied as a catch-all cure.

Nola herself had been strangely absent, a circumstance Minerva couldn't help but view with a measure of relief. Her last words to the elderly woman hadn't been kind. Though—she thought with regret—Nola knew healing better than any battlefield medic. If someone hurt was placed in her hands, any gruffness melted away and she became as tender as a mother dragon with her egg.

Minerva waited while her eyes adjusted to the early morning darkness. In the meantime, she threw a robe on over her thin clothes and eased her two swords out from underneath the carpet—long sword in her right hand and short sword in her left. Matsudo had been skeptical about teaching her to dual wield, but had given in when he'd seen how heart-set she'd been on learning to use Edina's old blades.

There was a saying among the Pyros: The spirit lives on in the sword. Only when both are laid to rest, will there be forgetful peace.

The double meaning had especial relevance tonight. If you let your ancestor's sword collect dust for too long, chances were the enemy would catch you sleeping.

Minerva hoped not many had been caught unawares.

Mala rose, her eyes glowing like two flickering lamps. The manticore's scales gave a soft rasp as they opened to expose the stinger of her tail.

"Quiet now," Minerva murmured. Someone should have rung the alarm by now—the palace's system of bells connected by the ropes strung in the spaces between floors. Unless you've reached the point where your nightmares leech into waking. She'd heard of such cases, but after testing the air again, Minerva couldn't convince herself she was still dreaming.

The chamber she slept in connected to Nola's before leading out into the main corridor. Minerva dove headfirst into the hollow place within, its echo chamber of emptiness welcoming her. She eased the door open.

The other door out into the main hall opened at the same moment. From this chamber, Minerva could hear the deep timbre of battle cries.

The palace had been compromised.