‘What are you doing?’ Myrrhini repeated.
‘Look at this,’ Slave said, indicating the images on the wall.
‘Why?’
The look on Myrrhini’s face, the way she was totally ignoring the eerie light, her refusal to look at the menacing figure suddenly made sense to Slave.
‘You can’t see it, can you?’
‘See what?’
‘That.’ He pointed at the figure. ‘Or that.’ He gestured at the misty light swirling about them.
‘I can see the history of the world being acted out by the pictograms on the floor. What can you see?’
‘The light, and that.’
‘What?’
‘The large man there, dark, shadowy, pointing at me.’
‘I can’t see anything like that.’
‘And the stench of power. This whole room reeks of it.’
‘You can smell power?’
Slave shook his head slowly. ‘Sense, more than simply smell. It’s like the whole room is steeped in ancient magic — something very powerful is here, and has been for a long time.’
‘When I was with the Acolytes, they had an exact copy of this room: they called it the Chamber of Kalev. It was where I started the ritual that prepared me for having a Seeing.’
‘I wonder which one is the copy,’ Slave mused.
‘They both are,’ a voice said from the doorway.
Slave and Myrrhini spun around to regard Yalotqui. He was leaning heavily on his staff as if weary beyond his strength.
‘You both see different things in here, I guess.’
Myrrhini sighed. ‘Yes, we can.’
He pointed at Slave. ‘You are probably more interested in what’s hidden behind the drapes, aren’t you?’
Slave stared impassively at the old man. When no answer was forthcoming, Yalotqui shifted his gaze to Myrrhini.
‘Are the pictograms moving?’
When Myrrhini gave a short nod of her head, Yalotqui sighed deeply and lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘It has happened, then, as I feared.’
‘What has happened?’ Myrrhini demanded.
‘The Beq and the Eye have come to shake the world.’
‘I am no Beq,’ Slave snapped.
‘Whether you chose to lead them or not, they will follow. You are the Beq and they will come to you. The madness of the Revenant will consume us all until the light at the end of the world is fulfilled.’
Slave had no patience for riddles or mystical pronouncements. He had read of the light at the end of the world and, like all similar foretellings of disaster, it could only be understood in retrospect. With a grunt, he wrenched his Claw from the wall before ripping the heavy black drapes from the walls to reveal more and more of the intricate mural that lay behind them. He snatched the curtains down, oblivious to the shadowy figure that still watched him, the stares of the others in the room and his own growing disquiet. The mural was starting to make sense to him on a subliminal level. There was a story unfolding, a story in which he was intimately involved. Were he to be asked, he could not have explained it, but this complex series of figures and patterns was somehow about him, or at least what he was.
When he was nearly halfway around the room, he stopped dead. Utterly unable to move, he stared at the blacker-than-black representation of the thing he had met beneath Vogel.
It was little more than a vaguely humanoid shape, but the eyes glowed with the inhuman malice, the ancient power that he remembered. As he stared, unable to move, the image started to shift, to reshape itself, to take on life. It reached out an arm to drag a man towards itself. The man was dark skinned with oddly yellow hair and armed with a Warrior’s Claw. The shudder that ran through Slave’s whole being had nothing to do with the coolness of the night. The creature raked glinting claws across the face of Slave’s image, leaving it irreparably scarred.
‘My Beq,’ the creature boomed. ‘You will lead my army into my chaos. All will burn before us.’
Released from his trance, Slave staggered back, gripping his Claw. With a strangled cry, he sent the weapon spinning through the air at the image of the beast. It slammed into the wall, driving deeply into the stone where it remained, quivering. The beast opened its maw as if in anguish, allowing the image of Slave to fall to the ground.
Myrrhini stepped forward to rest her hand on Slave’s arm.
‘What did you see?’ she asked.
Slave did not answer. Instead he stared at his own image lying on the ground at the beast’s feet. Slowly, it stirred then rose to its feet. A silver eye, not there before, glinted as the figure turned to regard Myrrhini. Slave watched as it mouthed words at her. He found he could understand what the image was saying. When it finished speaking, it reached out and pulled the Claw from the beast’s chest before tossing it to Slave. Instinctively, he caught it.
It felt warm to his touch, but it looked the same. By the time he returned his gaze to the mural, the scene had returned to how it was before, with an army of Scaren warriors knelt in homage to the beast.
No, not exactly as it was.
The beast seemed smaller, weakened, as if it had somehow given up or lost some of its power. A trickle of silver dripped from the talons on its right arm. Slave watched as the trickle formed a pool that grew until it was large enough to overwhelm the beast itself. Slowly, the silver trickle became a flood that swept across the whole wall, cleansing, washing away all trace of the beast that had dominated it, leaving behind only three figures.
4
Keshik crouched in the grass, watching the guards walk their posts. It had been a long time since he had seen a Tulugma camp. He was somewhat disappointed. These guards were confident in their supreme skills, as they should be, but lazy in their application. They were relying too heavily on their ability to defeat any enemy, and not paying enough attention to their post. As swordmaster, Keshik could easily defeat any three of these guards at one time. Their inattention this night might just end up being costly.
Their routine, too, was facile, with not enough variation to fool one such as Keshik, crouched, hidden nearby. It would too easily be penetrated. Perhaps later, he would come back and teach these lazy youths a thing or two about life in the real world. Living in the Kuriltai had made them soft.
Keshik slipped like a shadow in the night through their lines and into the camp. He moved quickly between two guards, neither of whom was concentrating, neither of whom heard or saw a thing.
The camp was quieter than he expected. He skirted tents that lay dark, silent except for the sounds of sleep coming from within. The camp was laid out in a regular pattern, as he had expected, which made negotiating it much easier. He moved quickly along an apparently deserted path between two lines of tents. Despite the regulation in the structure of the camp, it seemed that every tent was different, reflecting the origin and character of its owner. Keshik padded softly past tents from Rilamo, Tusemo, Apros, even Siecenta. They only had one thing in common: they seemed to be unguarded. For the most skilled fighting force in the world, their grasp of personal safety was very weak.
Just arrogant, Keshik thought.
A sound intruded. Keshik stopped, holding his breath.
Footsteps. Stealthy. Close. Approaching. Keshik concentrated as he had seen Slave do. A man, long strides, unwashed; Lac’un probably, given the smell of spice. Keshik took a pace forward, pleased to hear the man approaching him from behind increase his speed slightly, probably assuming Keshik had not heard him.
The steps changed in weight as well as pace. He was coming for an attack. When he judged his attacker was about to strike, Keshik dropped into a fighting crouch and spun around, slashing upward with his swords. They both found flesh, sending blood spraying as the man fell without a sound. Keshik rose, wiped his blades and continued, thanking Slave’s skills.
His every sense seemed to come suddenly alive as he resumed his creep through the camp. He could smell the remnants of evening meals, hear the muffled sounds of di
stant conversations, even feel the waft of air on his face from the gentle flapping of the various tents and flags. His feet made no sound on the dusty ground, now cleared of the ubiquitous tall grass by the hundreds of booted feet that had set this camp.
Keshik paused, dropping to his haunches as another quiet guard walked past him. This one was a woman carrying the barbed spear of the Jugkarat discipline. It was a weapon that Keshik had never mastered, nor really tried to. Its heavy, bladed head with its wicked barbs was notoriously hard to balance and slow in defence. He had never liked a weapon that was weighted in one way — attack or defence. The night guard padded her way along between two rows of tents towards the body Keshik had left behind. In the dark of the shadows, Keshik winced, realising his time was now limited. As soon as the body was found, the alert would be fast and furious. In this garb, he would not be able to blend in. With a whispered curse, he half rose from his crouch and ran.
He made it to the end of the row of tents before the body was discovered. The high-pitched, ululating cry of the night guard rose from the silence. Within heartbeats, answering cries started as feet ran. Keshik threw himself flat beside a Rilaman tent as its occupant blearily stumbled out, paying no attention to the slightly darker portion of black as he shrugged on his tunic and tightened his sword belt. Keshik watched him go, an idea forming in his mind.
When the Rilaman was out of sight, Keshik slipped soundlessly into his tent. The moment he set foot inside, he froze. The Rilaman had not been alone. Another body lay, half asleep in the tumbled blankets. She gave a soft grunt as she rolled over. Keshik waited, barely breathing as she drifted back into sleep.
On silent feet, Keshik stepped forward to where the Rilaman’s gear lay neatly laid out beside the bed. The woman stirred again, making soft sounds in her sleep. The air was close and warm inside the tent, redolent with the scents of sleep and intimacy. On the opposite side of the bed were the woman’s clothes, also neatly laid out, atop which rested two daggers, a small throwing axe, a hand crossbow and a short sword in a leather scabbard. Keshik felt a chill run through him as he stared down at the weapons. She was Habigga, one of the Silent Ones, trained to bring what the Tulugma called ‘an unknowing death’. The woman was an assassin. Unbidden, his hands gripped his sword hilts and drew his blades. He tore his eyes from the weapons to look back at her sleeping form — only to find her looking back at him, yet another blade in her hand.
‘I heard you outside, Kabutat,’ she whispered. ‘You’re good. Had I not known you were there, I would have gone with Cleeve.’
Without shifting her gaze from Keshik, she slipped out from under the blankets to stand, her naked body pale in the darkness. The tip of her knife was steady, pointed at Keshik’s eyes.
‘What do I do with you?’ she whispered.
‘You let me go.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Had I wanted you dead, I would have killed you where you lay, before giving you a chance,’ Keshik lied.
The Habigga shook her head. ‘You did not know I was here, I saw your reaction when you entered. You could not have struck me before I raised the alarm.’
‘Why haven’t you raised the alarm?’ Keshik asked.
‘I am naked, with one knife, you are Ild Keshik, armed with two swords, wearing the hidden armour of the kabutat. I do not wish to die.’
‘As Habigga, that is your destiny: to die.’
‘To die for the Ogedei, following his command for the good of the Tulugma, yes. To die naked in my own tent at the hand of a kabutat Ild, no.’
‘I am no longer Ild,’ Keshik said. ‘My title was stripped from me on my exile.’
‘The title has gone, true, but the skills are still there. You are still Master of the Blade; I will call you whatever I wish.’ The Habigga crouched, laying her dagger on the ground before straightening up to face Keshik, unarmed. ‘What will you do with me?’ she asked.
‘I should kill you to prevent you exposing my presence here,’ Keshik said.
‘You should, but you won’t.’
‘I won’t?’
‘No. You are an honourable disciple of Tulugma. A naked, unarmed woman who has yielded to you? You can’t kill me.’
‘I have not been a disciple for a very long time.’
‘I think you have always been a disciple, whether you are in the Kuriltai or not.’
Keshik was torn. The Habigga woman was disturbingly accurate in her observations. He could no more strike her down than fly, yet she would undoubtedly raise the alarm the moment he moved.
Or would she?
Keshik regarded her, taking in her stance, his mind unsure. There was nothing in the way she held herself that suggested a readying to act. She was at rest.
How good was her training? Could she act that fast?
Keshik sheathed his swords. The Habigga woman visibly relaxed. In the dark, with only the soft light of Grada filtering in, Keshik could not discern enough of her musculature to tell where she might be tensed, but she seemed unprepared for action.
‘What is your name?’ Keshik asked, more to gauge her reaction than out of any curiosity.
‘Edelmira.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why are you here, Keshik?’
It never crossed Keshik’s mind to tell her the truth. Habigga were not known for their honesty or integrity. They held information for their masters only. Anything he told her would be for the ears of the Ogedei.
‘The Tulugma have been infiltrated,’ Keshik said, ‘by the agents of what destroyed Vogel. That is why I have come back: to root them out and kill them.’
Edelmira nodded slowly. ‘I was wondering why we had all been dragged out into this hateful wilderness.’
‘I am going to leave now,’ Keshik said.
Edelmira held up her hand. ‘If you wait a moment for me to get dressed, I will come with you.’
Keshik shook his head. ‘No, you will not.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘No.’
In the faint light, Keshik saw Edelmira give a small smile. He felt himself respond, which was all the distraction the assassin needed. She dropped to the ground, landing on her hands so that she could swing her legs around in a fast sweep designed to bring Keshik down. In the heartbeat before her legs took him down, Keshik saw her plan. He did not have time to evade the move, but he was able to keep his feet by bracing for the blow. The pain shot up his leg as her foot connected hard with his calf. He grunted involuntarily but the effect on her was much worse. Her foot was rigid and strong, the result of long training, but the bones were never designed to take such a blow against an equally rigid leg. There was an audible crackle as several of the little bones in her foot broke. The pain must have been excruciating, yet she barely gasped. Keshik knew what the cracking meant, so he took advantage quickly.
Ignoring his own pain, he dropped his knee down hard on her knee. His weight was enough to damage the joint, eliciting a shrill cry, quickly cut off by his follow-up fist to her jaw. Her eyes widened briefly then closed as she lost consciousness.
‘I should kill you,’ he muttered, ‘but not this time.’ He rose quickly, took her weapons and slipped her man’s jerkin over his own clothes. As a disguise it was minimal, but it would allow him to be glimpsed briefly and not be immediately recognised as an intruder. It was all he had time for, as the sounds of voices raised in anger, running feet, shouted orders shattered the quiet of the camp. Keshik left the tent and continued his way towards the Ogedei.
He slipped quickly through the now lively camp, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the noisy melee of pointless activity, all the time wondering at how inefficient it all was. There was one dead body, not a wholesale massacre. Surely they must know that stealth would serve better than this?
It was as this thought crossed his mind that he remembered the presence of the Habigga in the camp. Could this all be a cover for their actions? Certainly this noise would give them perfect camouflage for doing exactly what he was
doing. A chill ran through him. Was he already under observation? Did someone in a shadow beside one of the tents have him lined up along a crossbow bolt?
He heard a slight creak, somewhere behind him.
Instinct sent him diving forward onto the ground, even as the bolt sliced through the air where he had been standing. Keshik rolled and sprang back up to his feet, sprinting the way the bolt had come, swords already out. Subtlety was no value now. His only chance was to catch the Habigga before reloading.
The woman was almost done when Keshik crashed into her. They both went sprawling in a tangle of limbs. In the moment before her knee crashed into his groin, Keshik realised she was still naked. How had she moved so …
The thought was cut off by the white shock of agony as her knee slammed home. He rolled off her and tried to rise to his feet, but Edelmira was too fast. She followed up her knee with two quick punches to his face, then she was sitting on his chest, raining furious blows down on his body. It was as much as Keshik could do to ward off some through the haze of pain. All idea of this being a defenceless naked woman fled as Keshik sensed a momentary gap in her attack. He shot out a fist, slamming hard into her unprotected right breast. She bit off a cry of pain, but her rhythm was broken. Keshik grabbed her left wrist and wrenched it sideways as he used every bit of strength he had to surge upward, throwing her off him. She lost balance as he threw her down onto the ground. He hit her again on the jaw. She stopped moving.
He knelt beside her, breathing heavily. His gaze took in the already swollen foot, the damaged knee. How had she moved silently with such injuries? By rights, she should not have been able to walk, let alone follow him at speed with such stealth.
He could not risk her coming after him again — his luck would not hold for a second attack — so he dragged her deeper into the shadows of the nearest tent. A moment’s examination showed that this one was empty, so he cut one of the support ropes and lashed her hands and feet firmly before slipping away again into the shadows.
Revenant Page 4
