The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Piking Ticuo. Piking Shadows. Piking alliance.

  He hurt everywhere, and there was a nauseating pressure at the roof of his mouth, but he'd felt worse. Someone had stripped off half his gear, leaving him bare to the waist but still greaves-clad and booted. When he tried to toe the latter off, small spikes went up his spine and through the right side of his face.

  “Don't do that,” Shuralla tutted. “You had a concussion, and if not for your helmet you'd have skull-fractures too. I take it this has happened before?”

  He frowned and felt dull pain spread around his cheek and jaw. The whiting-out strike was a dim memory, but he guessed it had been a truncheon across the ear; that side of his head still buzzed a low baseline. At least the wasp-horde had fled. “What, getting knocked out? Couple times. Had a big branch fall on my head when I was nine. How could you tell?”

  Shuralla's face tightened, lips pursing in disapproval. “Then?”

  “Uh. Knee to the skull in kickball. Clonked off my horse in Jernizan—didn't really pass out, but it took me a while to get up. Almost got trampled. Horse protected me though, Vada...” He looked down, a twinge of pain and regret passing through his heart. His poor Vada, killed at Old Crown. But the medic was still eyeing him, so he continued, “Um, twice in training; Border Corps sparring could get rough. Oh, and one of my cousins ran me head-first into a tree once, said we'd been fighting but I don't remember shit about it.”

  She stared, then released a heavy sigh. “Well, that explains why you were out so long.”

  “Yeah?”

  “About a quarter-mark.”

  That worried him. Most other times, he'd only been out for moments. “I feel all right...”

  “Soldier standard of all right, or human?”

  He scowled painfully, and somehow that made her smile. She turned to a side-table to pour a cup of water, then held it out and let him take it, watching like a round-faced hawk as he raised it to his lips. “Not shaking, that's good. Eyes focused, haven't been slurring, no sign of confusion… Tell me if that tastes different.”

  He sipped cautiously, but it was just tepid water. “S'fine. Normal.”

  “Try your other hand?”

  Obligingly he swapped the cup to his left and finished it off.

  “Good. Do you think you can stand up?”

  Remembering the spikes, he said, “Maybe. Got kicked in the back too.”

  “I know. I've healed you all I can for now, and I'm not satisfied with it in consideration of your history. I'll want you to stay here for a while, under observation. But at the moment I'd also like to see your capabilities.”

  That made sense, so with caution, he handed the cup back then slung his legs off the side of the bed. They felt abnormally heavy, though maybe that was just the armor; as he slid further, he felt like they were pulling him down. A line of pain lanced up his back as he put his weight on them, but after a moment it dulled—more like a pulled muscle than something dangerous. His neck and scalp ached, but that was understandable.

  Straightening slowly, he felt the world reel and stabilize.

  “Dizzy,” he commented. “I wouldn't try to run. This's better than that time with the tree though; I was in bed for a week, kept puking. Better than the horse time.”

  “The others?”

  “Not sure. Hard to remember.” He made a slow circuit of the bed, one hand out to catch himself on it, but his legs stayed steady. Once, his vision wobbled, but he just closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to stop.

  When he opened them again, he found himself face-to-face with Captain Sarovy and the lead Enforcer. He blinked, startled; he hadn't heard them come up.

  Then their expressions registered. Both hard, both tight-lipped, though the Enforcer's scar turned her flat non-smile into a snarl. Both as stiff-spined as he'd ever seen them, and not looking at each other. Frankly he was surprised to see them together—not that he'd wanted anyone going to war over him—but he could guess that either the storm had already blown over or it was waiting to rage in private.

  Captain Sarovy took one look at him and said, “Rest. One week. No argument.”

  “It's not—“ The narrowing of those iron eyes stopped him. “Yessir.”

  “Anything permanent?” the Enforcer asked past him, to the medic.

  “I don't think so. As long as he doesn't hurt himself again before this heals.”

  “Wasn't my doing,” he muttered. Shuralla patted his arm soothingly.

  The captain shook his head. “The rest of your team came back unharmed. I'm told the incident has been dealt with.”

  Linciard shot a look at the Enforcer, but her expression wasn't any more enlightening than the captain's. He wanted to ask how the perpetrators had been punished—if at all—but knew better than to press. “All right. I've got no grudge,” he said, truthfully if not happily. Not like he hadn't deserved it. “What's done is done.”

  Medic Shuralla made a displeased sound, but the captain nodded slowly. “They brought you straight here, so the rest of the company hasn't heard. I trust you'll use your best judgment about what you tell them.”

  “Yessir.”

  “We'll let you rest. The Enforcer and I have much to discuss.”

  She made a sound of agreement, and they turned away. He watched their receding backs, wondering how much trouble this would cause; he hated to be tangled in yet another problem. At least he could control how he reacted to it. He would be calm, adult, and—

  They turned the corner and passed from view, and he realized that the cells on the far wall were empty.

  Fear struck his heart. He wheeled on Shuralla too quickly and his body went leaden, black spots swarming up before his eyes. Her hands caught him at the same time he braced himself on the bed, and between them they managed to keep him upright.

  “Rallant...where?” he rasped.

  “Your...friend, they moved him earlier, along with the other prisoners. While you were on your mission.”

  “But we don't have another holding-spot.”

  “Not your men. The Shadows.”

  He opened his mouth, questions cluttering his tongue, only to realize he could answer them all. Why? Because Rallant was a threat, no matter that he had cooperated. No consultation? Sarovy had no reason to consult—not when Linciard was still compromised. Don't you know how I feel? Too well. He'd been spilling his heartblood all over this place; he had to pull himself together.

  Where is he?

  The Enforcer knew. Probably the other Shadow Folk would too. Getting bashed in the head a few times should give him some leverage—

  No, he told himself. Mako warned me against that kind of thinking. Need to stay calm, go to her, and make sure the visitation schedule is still good. No need to panic or go running off in search of him. Everything's fine. This is all for the company's sake.

  Somehow the mantra didn't have the same kick as when he sat in session with Mako. Still, when Shuralla tugged his arm and recommended that he lay back down, he managed to submit.

  *****

  After having it out with Enforcer Ardent, the last thing Sarovy wanted to do was talk to Scryer Mako, but it was better than stewing over the Linciard situation. He'd assigned Lieutenant Arlin to a soft interrogation of the newest prisoners until he could get his nerves and his temper back under control.

  It wasn't that he didn't trust Ardent's handling of her own people. He didn't like that she'd kept the instigator around, but as the high-ranking Illanite in her entourage, Ticuo had some continuing value—and with his two accomplices assigned elsewhere and his reputation reportedly tarnished, he was less capable of causing trouble.

  It was that this brought home how little control he had over the Shadows, or what happened to his men in their care. It also brought to mind his shaky grip on himself, highlighted painfully by yet another greyout moment he'd had in the Enforcer's office. He'd excused himself mid-argument because of it, leaving the Enforcer to stare after him with those inscrutable black-in
k eyes.

  If he couldn't fix one problem, he had to work on the other.

  He was in his own office now, not that it comforted him. Mako had insisted that they sit practically knee-to-knee, her chair planted next to his behind his desk. He didn't like the proximity or the hand-holding, but she'd said it was either that or she stand over him with her hands on his face. He couldn't be sure she wasn't teasing him, but considering the mood, he doubted she'd try.

  Now he tolerated it silently as the itch of mental intrusion washed over him. Unlike before, when it had concentrated at the base of his skull, he felt it throughout his head and face and somewhat in his hands as well. The pendant seemed to hum against his chest, its wings warm against his skin.

  “Well,” said Mako after a while, “it's definitely leaking. The template, I mean. I'm not sure what I can do about it; there's mentalism and artificing involved but it seems to be mostly something else. Necromancy? Voorkei and I can try to shore up the magic, but since we can't see it all, we might damage it by accident. Still, since you're having issues...”

  “No,” he said. “I will not chance it. Not while our situation is so fragile.”

  She gave him an annoyed look. “Did you call me in here just to refuse my help again? I could've figured out your nature long ago if you'd let me investigate, and I could've helped you squelch these voices earlier too. You survived by force of will, yes, but that can't fix you. Stop being so stubborn and let me try some tweaks.”

  “Not on the pendant.”

  “No, just on your mind. Close your eyes and concentrate on your sense of self.”

  Reluctantly he did so, tapping into the template briefly to reaffirm his physical boundaries before turning his thoughts inward. He had rarely ruminated on himself before this sarisigi business—had just focused on his role within the hierarchy, whether with his family or in the armies. He was the bearer of the Sarovingian blade, though broken; the captain of Blaze Company, though renegade; a lost son, an estranged husband…

  “Don't think about the negatives,” Mako scolded.

  Captain, then. It was the whole of his life now: his charge and his impetus. As long as he could safeguard his men, he was content.

  “Ugh, you're so one-sided,” she murmured. “You know, I considered seducing you back when we first met, but I think I'd've strangled you within a week.”

  “Not that you would have succeeded in either.”

  “Probably right. You didn't even notice, did you? I got the feeling I'd have to fling myself into your lap, and even then you'd just shove me off.”

  He snorted.

  “Well, it's for the best. I have my gestalt now, and you have your self-assigned duties. That's what keeps you together, I think. You create structure from chaos, but you're not so rigid that you'll snap under any unforeseen pressures. I'm not pleased with how you've handled this, but I admit it has been handled; you're still yourself. Just hold onto that framework, and maybe someday you won't even need the template. You'll be at home with what you are.”

  For a moment, he let himself imagine that. Embracing the clay-monster that had so horrified him and using it to his advantage…

  No voices rose—or if they did, they were too quiet to hear through the incessant itch. The sensation of it had left his hands but was now concentrated in a line from his brow to the base of his skull, like one of the crossbow bolts Ardent had shot him with.

  Strangely, that memory no longer sickened him.

  “All right, that looks decent,” said Mako, releasing his hands. He opened his eyes cautiously to see her giving him a wry smile, her expression at once concerned and grudgingly fond. “I shored up some of the mental leakage, but without anchoring it in the pendant, it will only stay for a few days. We'll have to do this regularly—no argument.”

  He held up his hands, amused at the echo of his orders to Linciard. “Yes, Scryer.”

  “I'm glad you finally came over. Ardent's a good influence on you.”

  If by 'good influence' you mean she keeps dragging out my monstrous side. But that was uncharitable. The Enforcer could frustrate and confuse him but he respected her; it was his own uncertain grip on himself that caused his episodes. “You two talk occasionally, I hear.”

  “Oh yes.”

  He wasn't sure he liked her tone or the glint in her eye, but it was beyond his ability to say why. “Well. Good,” he stated. “I won't have grudges breaking this alliance apart.”

  “No worries on my end. We get along quite well. But we should go rescue Arlin before he picks a fight with our prisoners.”

  Sarovy nodded and rose to follow Mako as she led the way out. In their wake, the time-candle burned through another mark: another day gone.

  Chapter 14 – Volcano Dance

  By the time the portal stakes finally chimed, Enkhaelen was back in bed. Cob blinked blearily, half-asleep himself, then slid off his chair to kneel down and peer at them. The lines of runes etched into their surfaces roiled with faint light; after a moment came another faint chime.

  He touched them cautiously and felt a zing of energy move through his nerves—not painful, just enough to make his arm-hairs stand upright. Behind him, Arik made a concerned noise.

  “I'm fine,” he said, then got up to wake Enkhaelen.

  The necromancer took his time, crabby as always. An effigy peeked in during the process, then vanished; not long after, Acting Matriarch Varya showed up with a small entourage to bid final farewells.

  Enkhaelen wasn't having it. “Go back to your god-business,” he told Varya. “We all know you're happy to be rid of us, and we need our concentration.”

  Cob saw the priestess's pleasant expression slide, and tried to intervene. “Thanks, really, for everythin' y'did and all the supplies y'gave. I'm sorry about—“

  “Don't excuse me!” Enkhaelen snapped. “I mean what I say. We've had some lovely little moments of mending fences, but it's time for you to go away and stop bothering me.”

  “Well!” said the Matriarch, clearly affronted, but just as clearly not keen to cause conflict. Neither did she move from the doorway, though. Cob stood tense between her and Enkhaelen, waiting for the inevitable fight to break out.

  Instead, Enkhaelen ignored her and triggered the portal-stakes.

  A door opened in thin air, letting through a gust of bitter wind. Darkness pervaded the other side, broken by torchlight and floored in a pallid crust of snow. The figures holding the torches blended too well into the night for Cob to make out details.

  “Sword first,” said Enkhaelen. Cob tossed the weapon in its special sheath through obediently and was pleased to see the portal stay pristine.

  “Tell your Forgers they have done well,” the necromancer added, then gestured for Cob and Arik to go through. Hefting his fully-stocked pack and hauling Enkhaelen's, Cob obeyed, and grimaced as the shudder of disjunction roiled his stomach.

  Trodden-down snow crunched under his boots, his breath frosting in the night. He stooped to pick up the sword and slung it across his free shoulder by the carry-strap. The light from the temple chamber fell past him, stretching his shadow toward the figures that awaited them. Arik's form obscured it briefly, then moved aside, the wolfman groaning his displeasure at the portal's effect.

  They were outside, the sky star-strewn and patchily clouded, the land sloping beneath their feet. To either side, trees hunched beneath white cloaks; behind them Cob glimpsed some sort of large stone structure, darkened. Ahead, past the welcoming party, lights descended the hill: stationary lanterns attached to other structures.

  “Hopefully we won't meet again,” he heard Enkhaelen say. The priestess's answering words were too quiet to catch. Then another set of steps compressed the snow, and the warm light vanished.

  As his eyes adjusted, Cob squinted past the welcomers' front-facing lanterns to see that they were tall. Very tall. And very broad. And tusky.

  “Haraha dol daravenat,” said Enkhaelen, hobbling forward. The words rang familiar in C
ob's head—Gheshvan—but he couldn't decipher them. With the Guardian gone, he no longer knew the language. He looked to Arik for help but the wolfman stood poised, ears cocked toward the strangers.

  The foremost figure answered in such a thick, phlegmy accent that Cob couldn't catch a word. A huge hand beckoned to them, greenish in the flickering light. Enkhaelen answered with another Gheshvan ramble, then gestured for Cob and Arik to follow as he joined the looming crowd.

  Cob pursued with some trepidation. The shortest of them was a few fingers taller than him, the tallest a towering behemoth. Ogres, clearly, or heavily ogre-blooded—something he should have expected, given that this was Gejara. He just hadn't thought of it at the time.

  Everything north of the Khaeleokiels and the Thundercloaks was either Gejara or Krovichanka: the rugged foothills and broad flat taiga to which the ogres had been driven after the end of the Ogre Dominion. Humans lived in those places too, but had interbred heavily with the interlopers; Cob had been told he must have some ogre blood, for how tall he was compared to most Kerrindrixi. Standing next to actual ogre-bloods, though, he couldn't fathom how anyone could have made that mistake.

  Enkhaelen and the ogrish leader kept talking, the latter's voice a basso rumble over which the necromancer's fluttered like a bird-call. Occasionally another ogre commented, the timbre a shade thinner than the leader's; for some reason it struck Cob as female though it was just as low as the first. He had no clue what any of them were saying.

  As if aware of that, Arik leaned in and murmured, “Talking about the trip. Enkhaelen is annoyed at being outside. The ogres say the Winter Graces are around, so they can't chance portals indoors.”

  Cob furrowed his brows. He'd heard of the Winter Graces from his comrades in the slave camps. Evil spirits, supposedly, which took the shape of a girl, a woman and an old crone and sought to destroy homes, food-stores and lives during the cold months. They'd never plagued High Country Kerrindryr, but slaves from the Low Country and from Averogne, Gejara and Krovichanka attested to their malicious deeds.