Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  She touched the Lady’s talisman at her neck. These men were rabid. They reveled in torture. They were depraved, vicious monsters, and they couldn’t be allowed to continue on.

  Saljane warned her of the ambush. The riders from Honor were riding along the thinly wooded river bottom. To the east, the hills rose in long, easy swells. To the west, the river glinted. The ground was dry and the grasses were brown. A stiff breeze blew from behind them, blowing up clouds of choking dust.

  ~They wait.

  Reisil slid into Saljane’s mind, seeing what the goshawk saw. There was a small army of them. They had taken position where the river made a sharp turning to the east, its banks becoming steep and narrow as the ground beside it rose in several thickly forested hummocks. It was a good trap. The river was impossible to cross there, and its crook provided two sides of the box. The trees gave cover ahead and to the east. The travelers would cross a large meadow in between as they approached the timberline, and the ambushers would erupt from hiding and seal the box.

  “They are ready for us,” Reisil said, describing the trap for their companions, who pulled up in dismay. “There must be a hundred of them.”

  Soka swore, and Clano, one of the soldiers assigned to escort Soka home, signaled the two men riding point to return.

  “Our only chance is to go up into the hills and try to outrun them,” said Temles, another of Soka’s escort. He did not sound hopeful.

  The others nodded agreement, already turning their horses.

  “No,” said Reisil. “They must be dealt with. They cannot be permitted to continue terrorizing the valley.”

  “But we can’t—” Soka broke off as understanding glinted in his eye. “Of course. We can’t. You can.”

  Reisil nodded, her face feeling like it had been chiseled from obsidian.

  “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings any to see them get paid for what they’ve done,” Soka said with a sharp grin.

  “Me either,” Temles said feelingly, then blushed when Reisil looked at him. He was young, not yet twenty, with a boy’s slenderness and grace. Nevertheless, he was deadly with a bow and quick with his blade.

  Yohuac said nothing. Reisil searched his face. He answered her unspoken question by touching his fingers to his heart, and then dropped his hand to his sword.

  “What do you need?” he asked.

  Reisil let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. He thought of her as a kind of nahualli—but he feared the nahuallis as much as he respected them. Reisil most definitely did not want him afraid of her. Not the way so many had feared her after she killed the wizards at Vorshtar. Their fear had quickly turned to hate. But then, Sodur had had a hand in stirring that frenzy up, she reminded herself. But it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t any time to worry about Yohuac’s reaction. She’d know soon enough.

  She nudged her horse into a walk, taking the lead. The horses’ hooves made a loud clopping sound on the parched dirt. “It’s just over that hill,” she said, pointing. “They’ll let us get into the flats and close off the escape before we’re supposed to know they’re there.”

  At the top of the hill, just below the crown, she dismounted. She told the others to do the same, handing her reins to Yohuac. “With what I’m going to do, the horses might bolt. Don’t go far from me. It won’t be safe.”

  She caught each man’s eye, and one by one they nodded. Clano’s throat jerked as he swallowed, his eyes fixed on her cheek. Reisil lifted her fingers to touch the glowing ivy pattern there and smiled. It was a cold, menacing smile.

  They walked down the slope toward the meadow. Reisil was aware of the hundreds of eyes watching them. She could smell their sweat, feel their lust. For blood, for gold, for flesh. Her fingers curled into her palms. For a moment, her footsteps faltered. Then she shook herself. This was necessary. She remembered the Lady’s words that fateful day when Reisil had healed Ceriba. You have shown yourself to have judgment, to be capable of making the right choices for Kodu Riik and all her people. She thought of all the dead, tortured bodies littering their journey. This was the right choice.

  Almost leisurely she reached for her magic. It came to her in a long, whirling trail of sparks and fire. It thrust upward, hot and prickly and hard. Suddenly she felt six inches taller. Her bones felt anchored in the soil, deep, down to the fiery core of all life.

  She turned her head, scanning the landscape to the sides. Through the trees and rocks and dirt, Reisil could sense each soul’s flame. Wind, she thought. Wind to blow them all out. Or fire. She remembered. She could be lightning. She could strike them all to a cinder. Yes.

  She turned her head up, searching the sky. She caught sight of a black speck circling above.

  ~Come to me, my Saljane!

  And then her ahalad-kaaslane was plummeting out of the sky. Ten feet above Reisil’s head, Saljane’s slate wings popped wide, sending a puff of hot air across Reisil’s cheeks. Her talons clamped around Reisil’s upraised fist. The goshawk’s eyes glowed garnet, the ivy pattern on her beak shining like the first sliver of sun at dawn.

  ~Are you ready?

  Kek-kek-kek-kek!

  ~Then let us weed our garden.

  The words were lava in her mind. She smiled. Weeds, yes. Just so.

  Reisil lifted Saljane to her shoulder, their minds locked together. The power continued to flow up through Reisil, but seemed tame beneath their shared strength. Reisil shoved deeper into the flow of magic, and deeper still. She began walking again, down to the level ground of the meadow.

  A hand caught her arm. She turned ponderously. It was . . . Soka. He yanked his hand back, a look of uncertainty and fear rippling across his face. He hunched his shoulders resolutely forward, firming his jaw.

  “We will want their weapons,” he said.

  She nodded and smiled. He blanched, faltering. Reisil swung back around.

  Wind, then.

  The attackers waited until their prey crossed through the center of the meadow. Then they swarmed out of hiding. Most were mounted. They all wore a garish hodgepodge of clothing and jewelry—all clearly stolen. They wore helms and armor, and each carried a sword.

  Yohuac, Soka, and his four escorts drew their weapons, turning nervously in a circle.

  The attackers halted as their commander raised his sword high over his head. Theatrics, Reisil realized. To create panic. So that their victims might know how well and truly trapped they were, and how hopeless their plight. But not today.

  “Ye are trespassing on our lands! Put down yer swords and leggo yer horses, and ye may plead yer case to the Master of the Rum Bluffers,” shouted a stout fellow who rode a squat, mutton-withered palomino to the left of the commander. There was a swell of cackling laughter from the raider ranks. “If’n he decides ye have crossed us innocent-like, ye will be free to leave, tendering only a small token for our trouble.”

  Reisil snorted.

  “There is no innocence here,” she whispered so that only Saljane could hear, her fingers knotting around the talisman at her neck. “Hold tight to the horses,” she said more loudly over her shoulder. “If they bolt, let them go. It won’t be safe.”

  A ragged cry went up from the besieging riders as the men standing behind Reisil swiftly sheathed their swords and took a tight hold of their mounts.

  Reisil did not bother talking, either to ask questions or accuse. She’d already passed judgment. Nothing they could say could change her mind. There was only carrying out the execution.

  The force of magic within her had built to such a peak that it felt as if her skin would split. Abruptly she grappled with it, pushing it down, under the ground, and sending it streaking away in a half-wagon-wheel pattern. The lines of power burrowed outward with breathtaking speed, tunneling beneath the enemy ambushers and beyond. With a mental jerk, she halted it, bending the spokes upward into the air. They were the color of water, the color of sky. No one noticed them. She pushed against them, flattening them. Columns became walls and the walls c
onnected seamlessly. Nobody was escaping today.

  “Did ye not hear? Be ye deaf? If’n ye don’t do as yer told, ye’ll be jiggered!” Another cackle of laughter spread its way around the line of ambushers.

  “I’d like to jigger a few of them,” Clano muttered.

  The power flowed up and out of Reisil in a thick current. It wasn’t enough. Not for what she wanted. She reached for more. It rose up faster, stronger.

  “Hold tight,” Reisil warned.

  The ambushers had lost patience and began to advance. Their ragged lines pushed inward, slowly at first. Then faster.

  Reisil slipped again into spellsight. Every body had a hint of magic inside, the magic of a beating heart. The flame of the soul. All around her, Reisil could see the flames burning. The beauty of it was enough to make her throat ache. But not enough to stop what she was about to do.

  Rashanis. The soul-shattered. Spirits trapped between death and life, without physical form, without hope. Most were tortured by a need for vengeance. They rode the winds and haunted the dark nights, shrieking their fury, their hunger for retribution against those who’d harmed them so dreadfully that their souls had shattered. Reisil wondered how many rashanis these Rum Bluffers had created.

  However many, they were about to get their justice, their freedom.

  “Hold tight,” she repeated, her voice sounding hollow and distant. “Don’t move.”

  Around her companions, she built another wall of magic, thin as glass, reaching up into the cerulean-blue sky. The horses snorted, pulling and rearing. They felt the crack and bite of the invisible walls. Reisil’s own hair rose in response to the crackling energy swirling in the walls. The men hung onto the animals, speaking softly, urgently.

  The Rum Bluffers had crossed half of the parched meadow. They were shouting, the sounds muted. Reisil waited for them to come closer. She had to see their faces. Her fingers clenched, sweat dampening her brow and trickling beneath her breasts. The magic sang through her, swelling, demanding. She held it in check. Not . . . quite . . . yet.

  The faces began to resolve. A redhead with freckles and a wide, mobile mouth. He was perhaps seventeen. A grizzled grandfather, missing his arm below the elbow, his green eyes squinting against the brilliant sun. Their leader, a well-built man, tall, with white scars hashing his face in a chicken-scratch pattern, and teeth that were snaggled and gray inside wet, smiling lips.

  Reisil shifted away from him and scanned the enemy line up and down, looking at each man, remembering each face. She was about to do something truly awful. She would not do it carelessly, from a distance. She would see the results of her handiwork. Otherwise she would be no better than they.

  Wind.

  She reached out spectral hands, grasping the air and tugging on it. It came easily. She stirred it faster. Outside the core wall, dust rose. The sharpening breeze caught clothing and hair. Faster. The line of attackers fumbled to a confused halt, the riders looking at one another in surprise.

  Reisil shoved hard, and the gust blew several men to the ground. Horses coughed and fought their riders, pawing and rearing, sawing their heads up and down. Reisil shoved again, and once more. Each gust sent more men sprawling on the ground. One mare panicked and began to buck. Suddenly she bolted, dragging her rider after her, the man’s foot caught in the stirrup. The flame inside him vanished as his skull bounced over a rock. Lucky.

  The wind swelled until the dirt stung and the men were forced to hide their faces in the crook of an elbow. It was a steady blow, relentlessly pushing. Reisil lowered her head, concentrating. The wind divided into strands. They wriggled, becoming long, probing fingers.

  Wind!

  Each lash of Reisil’s wind-whip struck. In through a mouth, an ear, a nostril, an eye. They squirmed inside, invisible, weightless. Each length of air spread, filling every hollow space, spinning in a tiny cyclone, down and down, tighter and tighter.

  One by one the flames inside each man flickered. But Reisil wasn’t content simply to snuff them out. There was no justice in that. All around she could feel a new pressure building, a gathering of hunger, rage, pain and fear. And hate. The sounds of the whirling wind had disappeared, replaced by the banshee calls of congregating rashanis.

  “Soft, now,” she whispered. “You will have peace soon.”

  Then she reached out and shoved.

  The cyclones burst outward.

  Flesh shredded. Bones splintered. Blood sprayed.

  Reisil tightened her grip on the flow of magic and hauled back on it.

  Between one breath and the next, the winds halted. Fleshy detritus pelted down in sodden thumps. Reisil ignored it. The men’s bodies were gone, but their souls yet remained intact. She held them in her net of magic. She began to twist the net like a wet dish towel. The soul-flames inside exploded in little pops, like harvest-corn over a winter fire. The fragments of flame did not snuff out, but drifted like dried petals on a sullen breeze. Slowly they collected into discreet clusters. And then . . . faded.

  Gone but not gone. Soul-shattered. Rashanis.

  They would slowly gather the remnants of themselves and begin haunting the land. They were helpless and harmless. In time, as their fury or pain diminished, the lucky would dwindle until their voices could no longer be heard. Some would scream forever.

  Reisil lowered her magic walls. Equally slowly, she retracted the long lines of energy, pulling them back inside her interior reservoir, and then letting it drain back down into the current of the earth. The roiling magic resisted, spurting back up. Reisil snatched at it and shoved it down.

  The warm breeze twirled the dirt. Gobbets of blood, flesh, bone, and brains littered the field. It was a gruesome sight. Already the smell was thick with decay. Magpies and crows hopped across the ground, screeching and squabbling over the banquet. The horses snorted and leaped to the ends of their reins, crow-hopping.

  Reisil closed her eyes. There was a drift of current, more than air, not quite magic. Like phantom fingers.

  A thank-you. A farewell. A benediction.

  Reisil drew a breath. Justice served. She knew that, even if her stomach didn’t.

  She opened her eyes, turning to her companions, keeping her voice steady. “It’s messy, but gather the weapons and arms. Make a pile. I’ll ward them for when you return. No one will find them. Be quick. I doubt any of us want to sleep here.”

  They nodded, saying nothing. Reisil avoided their eyes, not wanting to see what might be there. She left them to their grisly business, wandering down toward the river. She stood above it, the bank dropping away in a sheer drop. She knuckled her eyes, pressing her forehead to Saljane, feeling sick.

  ~What have I done?

  ~Balance. It is right.

  ~How come it feels so . . . horrible?

  ~It should not be easy to kill, even those who deserve it. It should always be a struggle.

  Reisil nodded. She would never want it to be easy. She would never want to enjoy it. She would never want to feel nothing after. What she regretted was having to do it at all.

  ~Maybe I won’t have to do it again.

  But, somehow, she knew she would.

  Chapter 18

  “This is for you,” Reisil said, handing a Lady’s-head coin to Soka. Its silver surface was scuffed and dented. There was a hole in the middle with a leather string knotted through it. She lifted it over his head so that it rested against his chest.

  Soka lifted it, turning it around, and then quirked his brow at Reisil.

  “Jewelry for me? I’m flattered, though I should have thought you’d be more discreet.” He leered and glanced meaningfully at Yohuac, who only shook his head and made a show of ignoring the other man.

  “It’s a ward,” said Reisil. She grimaced. “Maybe. I mixed rinda and ordinary words, as you suggested. Hopefully whoever wears it will be protected, even as they move. But it might not work. And if it does, it may be good for only one attack. It could also explode in flames and boil your brain in yo
ur skull.”

  Soka twirled the coin on its cord and then wrapped his hand around it and tucked it inside his tunic. He grinned. “I’ll be sure to stand close to my father then.” He opened his arms. “If I may thank you and wish you luck?”

  “I’m sure your father will wonder at your show of affection,” Reisil said sardonically as she stepped into his embrace. Yohuac made a growling noise in his throat. Soka laughed, his chest rumbling against Reisil’s cheek as he tightened his arms.

  “Don’t raise a breeze, now. You will have her to yourself for weeks. But be warned, I will be waiting to assert my claim, and then, my friend, you will have a hard battle on your hands. I am known for my way with the ladies, don’t you know.” He chuckled at Yohuac, who did not answer.

  A knot rose hard in Reisil’s throat as she pulled away. Yohuac was going to stay in Cemanahuatl. He was never coming back. Now was all the time they had. All they were ever going to have. But Soka didn’t know that.

  She schooled her expression, painting on a mask of cheerfulness and wagging her finger at him like a child.

  “Keep your pants tied up tight in Bro-heyek. You don’t want to be gutted by some cuckolded husband before you get the metal for Honor,” she said. “And do try not to chomp too hard on that.” She tapped the bulge in his lip where he held the poison bead ready against need. “The ward won’t work against stupidities you commit against yourself, and I won’t be around to heal you.”

  “The ward may boil my brain in my skull—did you not say so?”

  “And it may not,” Reisil returned, wondering if she should have given it to him. He was right. It was more dangerous than not. But Soka was grinning rakishly, the gold threads of his eye patch gleaming against the crimson silk.

  “Not to worry. The Blessed Lady will not let me die such a dull death as this would cause,” he said, clicking the bead against his teeth.