‘Don’t you die,’ Maya said without emotion.
The Gunsmith gasped in sudden pain. ‘Yes . . . something . . . if you ever get Adri back . . . tell him . . . tell him I said . . . I said . . . DRAKABESHTH!’ he screamed out the final word, his eyes suddenly wide and then collapsed backwards on the ground. He did not move.
‘No!’ Gray whispered, on his knees.
Maya got up, wiping dots of blood off her face. ‘Damn it,’ she breathed, storming off.
‘He’s gone,’ Gray said, slowly. ‘We couldn’t save him.’
The Gunsmith’s eyes shone like dark stars. Fayne watched from a distance. He was still panting.
12
Gray had difficulty with one arm and no spade, but finally, the three of them removed enough soil and large rocks to bury the man. Maya did not pitch in. She stood distant, physically and otherwise.
Gray hoped he had gotten Smith’s religion right; Smith did not sound like a name requiring cremation. After the burial, they covered the grave with several large stones and rocks, with a particularly large one on the head. There, with burnt wood, Gray scribbled—
Here lies the Gunsmith, a brave, gentle man, maker of weapons
and a Defender of Old Kolkata. He died betrayed by a friend.
They had to move off soon, down another side of the hill. They were heading for the Winter Gate now, and onwards to Frozen Bombay.
Maya did not feel any burden—she had steeled herself to find the Gunsmith dead. His dying moments were a luxury but she had gained nothing. Nothing. Smith had been right. A bad investment. She did not want to talk to Gray, he was weak right now, he was still in shock, he would not understand. Zabrielle was comforting him anyway. She looked at Fayne, trudging by her side.
‘You’re slowing down, Fayne,’ she said.
The assassin did not reply.
‘I can see your muscles strain as you walk,’ Maya continued. ‘It is taking effort, too much effort. You have not drank since you lost your flask.’
‘I’m not hungry yet,’ Fayne said.
‘Listen to me,’ Maya said seriously. ‘The next time we make camp, I want you to hunt in the night. Drink from whoever you have to, drink them dry—but I need you up and running.’
Fayne looked at Maya. ‘Raw blood is not good for me, fatiya. I might lose—control.’
‘I don’t care as long as you don’t turn on us.’
‘It’s not just the lack of blood,’ Fayne said. ‘It’s something else.’
‘You’re making me worry, Fayne. I don’t like it.’
Maya did not care what was wrong with Fayne; she wanted him fight-ready. Rejecting Victor’s offer, even if by accident, had not been a wise move. He would not be as gracious the next time. She hated the lack of a plan, and now she hated the journey. Me and Adri are so different, more than Ba’al could ever suspect. She wondered what Frozen Bombay would be like, briefly, if only to allow herself to dwell on something else.
When Maya wasn’t feeling angry, there was a sullen resentment, boiling up over everything, from the lack of any kind of progress to the wasted time. She tried to track its birth, and all she could picture was a severed arm roasting over a fire.
They crossed a forest, a dry riverbed, then another dry, rocky plain. They rested at night. More forests. More rocks. They did not talk amongst themselves, each of them had separate worlds to retreat to.
Gray looked at his slung violin case, thinking about how it sang only to the dead. There was something in him, a gentle melancholia for the Gunsmith—it was unfair, unfair that he could not give this feeling shape. He tried to open the violin case as he walked, suddenly realising he would not play it either way. How could he have forgotten?
They rested for the night, and Fayne crouched over the campfire they had built, soaking up the heat, rubbing his palms together. The weather had gotten significantly colder as they neared the Winter Gate, but seeing Fayne grappling for warmth was disturbing. Gray stared at him.
‘Feeling cold?’ he asked the assassin. ‘I’ve got a shawl.’
Fayne took it wordlessly and sat next to the flames. Zabrielle began singing a song in a voice so fleeting and low no one could make out the words. They sat in silence after she was done, having eaten from their ration of food. There was nothing to say until the wolf howl sounded. It was far and in the distance, but Maya saw Gray’s hand grip his shotgun.
‘Gray,’ she asked, as plainly as possible. ‘Is there something I should know?’
Gray took his own time to reply. ‘The three signs of the Lich,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve been seeing them.’
Maya paused to process the information. Things locked away, almost forgotten, difficult to bring back. ‘On the same night?’
Gray nodded. ‘He’s coming.’ A tremble in his voice.
‘MYTH locked him away,’ Maya found herself saying. ‘We paid them to do that, to keep him locked up.’
‘Technically, it was Mom,’ Gray said, not looking at Maya. ‘She must have stopped.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Maya cursed. There was a silence then. Zabrielle broke it. ‘The Lich. He’s after us?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid one shall need to know why.’
‘Well, he happens to be our father,’ Gray said with a touch of theatrics. ‘Ba’al didn’t know, I suppose,’ he added after seeing the Demon’s reaction.
‘I won’t be a part of this,’ Maya said, and walked off into the darkness. Gray looked after her but made no move to stop her.
‘I did not know he had children,’ Zabrielle said.
Gray sighed. ‘It was strange, growing up. We had friends who pulled us through, friends from a very early age.’ Friends who don’t matter to Maya anymore. ‘We had each other, me and Maya. And we had Mom. We know little of her. She left us when the Lich did. There was money though, enough for us.’
‘You live without parents?’
‘There was Dada. Abriti. He would mostly be away, but when he was there he would take care of us. He made all the arrangements with the lawyers, with the inheritance. He-he made us go through therapy to forget what we had seen.’ Gray looked into the fire. ‘But it never goes away, I suppose. You just . . . you just learn not to see.’
‘Who taught you the three signs?’
‘Mom. Call it her parting gift,’ Gray chuckled darkly, a laugh that did not suit him. ‘How do you know about the three signs?’
‘Walk you a path, know where it leads
The forbidden emptiness the moonless night bleeds
The coldest winter the wolf howl precedes
The burning flame the white moth feeds
Walk you a path, know where it leads.’
‘There’s a poem about him?’
‘A warning. This is popularly known as the Song of the Hunted. It has eighteen segments in all, each a warning about a different creature that might stalk you on lonely roads. This part belongs to your father, or to be more correct, the present alpha lobo.’
‘I had heard stories of lobos from my grandmother,’ Gray said, poking at the fire with a twig. ‘I thought them fairy tales, of course, up until I saw the Lich transform for the first time. He . . . wasn’t a good father, Zabrielle. He got—violent. He tried to kill my mother, he tried to kill my brother. I was a child when MYTH took him away and told us how dangerous he was, that he had simply been hiding in New Kolkata, raising a family to lie low.’
Gray’s face was a grimace. ‘Our entire existence had been an excuse, a passing fancy. Mom left us then. I tried hating her for it, but I know she had cared for us. The lawyers kept running into more inheritances for us. I don’t think it was by accident.’
‘Why does he come after you? And your sister?’
‘The night they took him away,’ Gray said, ‘was a night of terror. I stabbed him with a kitchen knife. I stabbed him again and again. I was a little boy, terrified, as he held my mother by the throat, threatening her, asking her the same question again and aga
in—I don’t quite know how I found the strength to bury the knife in him and pull it out and bury it again. He came at me, leaving mother, but Maya blocked his path. He paused momentarily—he had not transformed, he was still human—but he noticed what Maya held, something our mother had hidden from him. A small silver knife. The lobos hated silver, same as in the stories. He drew back, mocking her, threatening her, promising to drown both of us, promising that we would never get to grow up. MYTH came in then.’ Gray took a deep breath. ‘He’s probably coming to keep his promise. It’s the last thing we needed, an unresolved family issue with a maniac.’
‘His coming is not simply coincidence, Gray,’ Zabrielle said. ‘One can tell you that.’
Gray stirred from his stupor. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Lich is feared for two reasons. One is that he is the current alpha lobo, and all lobos, wherever they are, are bound to follow him. The second is that he is an infamous bounty hunter, known for tracking his prey, maiming them, and bringing them kicking and screaming, back to the client. What I’m suggesting is that the Lich has a new client.’
Gray looked at her. ‘I can only think of one name.’
‘It would make sense. The Lich, being your father, would not be bound to Victor Sen’s deal even if we had agreed to Victor’s terms. The Lich’s revenge would be a family matter, and Victor would still see the two of you dead.’
‘This is the first time I’ve talked so much about the Lich, you know?’ Gray said, a half smile on his face. ‘It’s usually a sort of taboo topic between me and Maya.’
‘It takes courage,’ Zabrielle said respectfully. ‘One needed to know. If the Lich is on his way, he is an added threat.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Gray said. ‘I don’t know if I can shoot to kill him. I haven’t seen any family for a long, long time. It is difficult. Perhaps he might not be coming to kill us. He might just want to talk.’
‘It is good to have the hope,’ Zabrielle said. ‘But all the same, we must find a silver weapon.’
There was no more talk after that. If Fayne had overheard them, he gave no sign. Night deepened and he returned the shawl to Gray, leaving the circle of light. Maya came back later, just as Gray was preparing to sleep. He saw her talking to Zabrielle before he slept.
If there was anything that worried Gray over the course of the next day, it was Fayne. When they started again, it was clear that the assassin was in no shape to walk. He was stumbling, each step laboured, his heavy breathing uncomfortably audible. Maya looked at him disapprovingly, but did not say anything. Gray tried to ask him what was wrong, his concern genuine, but Fayne would not answer any questions. By noon, they had covered almost no ground. Their urgency, as if in response, seemed to grow.
Maya desperately wanted for Fayne to say something, to tell them to leave him behind, to tell them he would catch up later. But somehow she could not say anything, despite her little bursts of anger every time Fayne tripped or had to hold on to a tree to catch his breath. This was the same man who had carried her on his shoulder for days on end.
Despite their slow speed, they noticed, after a while, the first fine lines of grass beneath their feet, a mere promise that the Shadowlands were leaving them. It renewed their energies, and even a sweat-drenched Fayne carried on with a burst of vigour. Slowly, bit by bit, they saw leaves appear on the trees, a little more brown in the soil itself. The distant chirping of birds came into hearing, and the vast, flat nature of the Shadowlands changed with more upheaval in the terrain. Green was a colour they welcomed. Their goatskins had run out, and it was late into the evening that they found the first pond, small and hidden amidst a cloister of rocks. A watering hole, a welcome sight.
‘We’re stepping out of this godforsaken place,’ Gray announced in relief, washing his face and hair with his only hand. ‘Can’t believe it, thought I was in some old black and white film.’
Fayne did not come near the water, and they carried onwards soon. They found a trail a little later, a rather wide one, charting through the increasingly lush terrain before them. Inspection revealed it to be one of the trade routes. It would lead them to the Winter Gate, and on towards Frozen Bombay as well. They followed it with an alert eye.
Their encounter with the first caravan came soon enough, and they hid behind shrubbery when they heard it coming. The caravan passed, six wagons drawn by two horses each, armed guards at the ready. They carried on after it was gone, but more would come and go and they would hide each time one came along.
‘Can’t we hitch a ride on one of these?’ Gray asked Zabrielle. ‘Fayne could certainly use it.’ The truth was that even Gray was tiring, and terribly so. Long days of walking kilometres were taking their toll.
‘Might get lucky, might get shot,’ was all Zabrielle had to say on the matter.
The days seemed to blur with the foliage. Their rations were low—they needed to find more food soon. Fayne had still not eaten or drank, and he walked slower than ever. They had become used to hearing him pant, something which still annoyed Maya and saddened Gray.
Their road was now dotted with frequent caravans and riders. They needed to hide, so they left the trail, moving instead through the forests. It was here that they ran into the other camp.
It was night, and in their hunt for a clearing to camp in, they parted a particularly stubborn bit of underbrush and found themselves facing four men around a fire. Zabrielle stared at them for a second in puzzlement—she had not heard any noise before, not even the crackling of the fire. Gray, following behind Zabrielle, gaped similarly, while Maya observed their movements. The four men looked at them in turn, surprise on their faces.
There was a quiet. Gray had never seen these men before—their skin seemed a light blue in the fire, their features northern, weathered. They wore travelling clothes that looked well worn, with thick, beautiful cloaks draped around their shoulders. They had long hair, but no facial hair. They looked on with caution fast turning into curiosity.
‘Ho!’ one of them said, the one sitting closest to the fire. ‘We mean no harm.’
‘Soul Hunters,’ Zabrielle whispered. It was a strange situation. They were too tired to carry on, yet their presence being compromised meant they could not camp nearby, even with someone keeping watch.
‘Yes, we’re Soul Hunters,’ the man said. ‘And you’re learned. But it is not you we hunt. Not unless you’re a fifty-year-old convict escaped from Bellahah.’
One of the other Soul Hunters laughed.
‘Four of you to bring down one man?’ Maya asked.
‘He’s not as harmless as my description might suggest,’ the Soul Hunter replied with a smile.
No one had moved yet. Maya, Gray, and Zabrielle were taut, waiting for the slightest of sudden motions. But they could see, despite their tiredness, that the four men were relaxed. One was tending to a pot hanging over the fire.
‘We’ll just back away and be gone,’ Gray said, glancing at Zabrielle.
‘If you please,’ the man said, nodding. ‘Otherwise, you’re welcome to share our meal and fire.’
‘Yep, no problems there,’ the Soul Hunter stirring the pot added. ‘Cooking good duck here.’
‘Thank you for your offer,’ Gray said offhandedly. ‘But I think we should leave.’
‘No,’ a wounded voice spoke from behind them. ‘No, I think we should take him up on his generous offer. Are you a generous man, Arinth Copperhead?’
Arinth stood up as Fayne staggered into view. ‘By the dark gods,’ the Soul Hunter swore. ‘Fayne of Ahzad?’
‘In need of a warm fire,’ Fayne said. He turned to the others and gestured at the Soul Hunters. ‘Friends,’ he grunted. ‘Safe.’
The tension broke with an inaudible crack. Gray’s shoulders slumped and Zabrielle passed a sigh. Maya contented herself with stowing her bag near the fire and finding an isolated place to sit. Gray did the same, washing his face in a corner first. Zabrielle sat around the fire with the others, her
large eyes taking in the exchange between the Soul Hunters and the assassin.
Fayne was clearly making an effort to talk, saying more in minutes than he had in the last week. After a while he turned to the others and made introductions. Gray noticed that the men’s skin was really a light shade of blue, and that, along with the long hair gave them a touch of feminine, something their voices and bodies betrayed. ‘. . . Arinth here has already been introduced,’ Fayne was saying with great effort. ‘That over there is Ferion,’ he pointed at the man cooking, ‘and that is Lakain. I do not know your newest companion over there.’
The soul hunters nodded in turn. Ferion was the largest of all of them, while Lakain was clearly the oldest, a reserved man reading a book. He nodded as his name was mentioned and went back to his read. The last man stood smirking against a tree, his hair a little lopsided. He gave off an easy aura in the very way he stood—light and effortless.
‘That is Dahk,’ Arinth said. ‘Fresh off the Academy, bit of an idiot.’
‘A wonderful introduction, Master Arinth,’ Dahk said, unaffected.
‘Also my pupil,’ Arinth added regretfully.
‘You’re training them now?’ Fayne asked.
‘The things the Academy wants. I am but a lifelong slave.’ He looked away, then back at Fayne. ‘But tell me of you! Are you nursing a wound? I cannot remember the last time I saw you so—weak.’
‘And if I might add something,’ Ferion said, looking up from the pot, ‘you did not complete the introductions, Fayne.’
Fayne simply looked at Gray. Gray introduced himself and the others.
‘And where are you headed? Frozen Bombay, I presume,’ Arinth said.
Gray looked back at Fayne. ‘You are correct in your guess,’ Fayne said.
‘Ah, it is quite the city, the hometown of Dahk here. Exquisite food, exotic women and wares!’ He laughed and saw Maya glare at him. ‘Did I offend you, Maya? I meant the kind of women who, well, you know . . .’ He laughed again but more awkwardly. Fayne changed the topic with a grunt, and led a general conversation with Arinth about how he had been and how the days were passing. Ferion cut in from time to time, to comment and poke. Lakain did not talk. Dahk slipped into a seat next to Maya.
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