Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  The first rider drew level with Nicco, shouting at him in Varnian to stop, and Nicco yanked the groak’s reins to the other side, hoping his mount would understand what he wanted it to do.

  It didn’t. The beast kept running in a straight line, crashing through the undergrowth and sidestepping only to avoid trees.

  The Kurrethi rider laughed and pulled his own animal over toward Nicco, with a pull on the reins and a low-to-high pitched humming sound. Nicco frantically tried to copy him, but the groak was having none of it. Desperate, Nicco leant forward and hummed low, hoping the groak was at least consistent. It slowed almost instantly, skidding to a halt and splashing black, boggy mud into the air.

  The Kurrethi had expected Nicco to try and outrun him, not come to a stop. He shot past Nicco, the groak beneath him oblivious to his shouts of anger.

  What happened next took even Nicco by surprise, but in hindsight he guessed it was why his groak hadn’t wanted to turn when he asked it. The Kurrethi’s mount continued forward, splintering vines and twigs as it blundered through the jungle. The Kurrethi leaned forward to give the stop signal, but it was too late.

  Nicco saw a flash of something in the jungle night, something small and orange that struck the rebel rider as he shifted position in the saddle. Suddenly the vegetation itself came alive, billowing and flexing giant leaves around the Kurrethi and his mount. The flesh-flower’s petals struck the beast’s hide and rippled over it, and the rider barely had time to register what had happened before he, too, was struck, the blaster tumbling from his hand. Both man and beast were now stuck fast to the millions of hairs on the flesh-flower’s petals, and immediately the plant began to contract again, pulling the unfortunate Kurrethi and groak with it.

  Their screams and shrieks merged into one sound, a gurgling duet of death as the flesh-flower’s largest spines ripped into them. The rebel was dead in a moment; his groak wasn’t so lucky.

  Nicco averted his eyes. There were still two other Kurrethi on his trail, drawing closer with every second.

  The dead Kurrethi’s weapon had landed in a thicket of leafy vines near the flesh-flower. Nicco moved his groak forward, hoping the plant would be preoccupied enough with its latest catch that it wouldn’t care for another meal so soon. He ducked under the orange bug bait anyway, just to be sure, and allowed himself to slip sideways off the saddle. Holding on to the harness to make sure he didn’t lose his mount, he reached out as the beast lumbered past the thicket and caught the blaster by its barrel. He hauled himself back up into the saddle and adjusted his grip on the weapon.

  Nicco had always hated guns. A gun was the last resort of a man without wit: if you needed one, it meant your plan had failed. But right now he was guilty of that himself. If someone else had outlined what Nicco intended to do, he would have dismissed it as barely more than a sketch of a plan. At least half of it relied on sheer luck and chutzpah, a fool’s game at the best of times.

  Being chased down the side of a mountain on the back of a vicious, carnivorous beast, for example, was definitely not part of his scheme. But it was only the latest in a long line of miscalculations and errors he’d made.

  He took the gun and raised it at the riders following him. One of the Kurrethi shouted when he saw the blaster, and Nicco almost laughed. He’d never taken a single shooting lesson in his entire life. The chances of him actually hitting anything besides trees were slim to none. Luckily, that was just what he intended to do.

  Nicco squeezed the trigger and held it down, aiming ahead of the rider and sweeping it from side to side like a child playing at soldiers. It was a poor and inefficient way to hit your target, but Nicco’s target was the entire ground. Even he couldn’t miss that.

  A volley of slugs ripped into the undergrowth and ground. Black mud and water flew into the air, splashing the Kurrethi and his mount. The beast faltered, startled by the sudden eruption of the jungle floor, and tried to take evasive action.

  The groak’s back legs tripped over its middle set. It reared up in an attempt to regain its footing and stay upright, but its own weight brought it crashing to the ground. The Kurrethi rider was catapulted from the animal’s back; he flew over the undergrowth and struck a tree, then fell to the ground and was still.

  The jungle was beginning to thin out, becoming less dense by the minute, and moonlight began to break through the canopy overhead.

  Suddenly, the third Kurrethi rider burst through a bank of tall plants dead ahead. He must have spurred his groak on while Nicco was mucking about learning to control his own mount and circled round to cut Nicco off.

  The rebel raised his blaster and prepared to fire.

  Nicco ducked, bringing his body down close to the groak’s neck, but remained silent. Even a moving target riding straight at the shooter would be a more difficult shot than if he came to a stop.

  The Kurrethi fired. Nicco’s whole body shook with a jolt from the impact, but he was unhurt. Then his groak roared and slowed, and Nicco cautiously looked up to see that a piece of the animal’s brow, the outcropping of bone that protected its eyes, was missing. The beast roared again and shook violently, almost dislodging Nicco from the saddle.

  Meanwhile, the Kurrethi rode past and turned like a jousting knight, preparing for another shot.

  Nicco yanked the reins of his groak and hummed low-to-high; this time the beast turned. Now the groaks faced one another, their heads bowed low in what Nicco felt safe to assume was a hostile position. Before the rebel could fire a second shot, Nicco pulled back on his reins and hummed with the highest pitch he could make. Then he jumped off.

  He landed in the thick, black mud of the jungle floor just as the Kurrethi took his shot. The bullet flew overhead and struck a tree trunk far behind Nicco. The rebel had no time to fire again. The groaks charged at full speed, emitting an urgent low hum as they prepared to lock horns and head plates.

  The Kurrethi, caught in the middle of a bestial brawl, didn’t stand a chance.

  Nicco retrieved his shoulder bag from the mud and crawled through a patch of nearby undergrowth. He heard the groaks fighting from his hiding place, roaring and snapping at one another. The sound of splintering bone drowned out the rebel’s cries.

  He waited until the beasts fell silent. Then he waited a further five minutes, holding his breath every time a groak thundered past, not knowing if they were wild or bearing Kurrethi riders.

  Finally he decided it was safe as it would ever be, and began making his way downhill through the jungle.

  Dawn broke as he reached the edge of the city.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  FAZIKK’S LOOKED EXACTLY the same as when Nicco had left the day before. It was almost ten, and he’d been in here for an hour. Three men were already installed at various points along the bar when he entered, their faces buried in their glasses, and he was certain he’d seen the same patrons in the same positions last night. Truth be told, he couldn’t swear that they weren’t wearing the same clothes.

  A vidscreen in a corner of the room was showing some mindless soap opera. It appeared to focus on the daily lives of a bunch of ugly people who never actually went to work and spent all day in the local bar, which struck Nicco as both the same focus as every other soap Tabby had made him watch, and a particularly ironic choice for Fazikk’s.

  Fazikk himself, who looked as downtrodden and weary as his bar and its patrons, stepped out from behind the bar carrying a large platter of roast vegetables, fried tallus, broth and bread. Nicco ordered it the minute he stumbled into the bar, over an hour ago now, and if his stomach hadn’t been growling at him the entire time he might have forgotten he ever ordered it. But as the food’s aroma drifted to his nostrils—Nicco realised with a certain amount of embarrassment that he was salivating—the long wait was forgotten. He licked his lips and thanked the landlord, who grunted in acknowledgement and turned back to the bar.

  It was ten o’clock exactly.

  Later, Nicco would be amazed at the reaction to t
he news. Everyone in the bar, like the place itself, seemed so disconnected from the world at large that he expected them to shrug, maybe make a sarcastic comment, then return to their drinks. Far from it.

  The vidscreen broadcast was suddenly interrupted. A harassed-looking news anchor appeared on the screen, seeming flustered and uncertain. The sound was off, so Nicco couldn’t hear what the anchor was saying; but the headline across the bottom of the screen said it all for him.

  GOVERNOR WERRDUN DIES IN TURITH

  Nicco watched Fazikk. At first the landlord didn’t notice. Then, perhaps noticing the urgent flickering from the vidscreen, he glanced at it from the corner of his eye and did a swift double-take. A barely audible croaking sound escaped from his lips, then he dashed back to the bar, leapt behind it—knocking over several glasses in the process—and hit a button to restore the sound to the vidscreen. The other patrons looked up at him in mild surprise. Nicco guessed Fazikk didn’t normally engage in such blatant exercise. Then, as one, they followed Fazikk’s gaze to the vidscreen.

  “...was found dead this morning at his suite in Azbatha, where he had been staying since falling ill just a few days ago during a state visit to negotiate trade agreements with the Turithian city. A brief official statement announced that the governor passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night.”

  Nicco didn’t understand all of the anchor’s announcement himself, but it was a by-the-book obituary. With the governor out of town—for the first time in years, according to Nicco’s research—this was new, unfamiliar territory for the news streams. They’d probably practised and run through their ‘Werrdun dead’ scenario a hundred times, with cameras in place at his Hurrundan home and anchors standing by. It was standard procedure at any decent-sized stream station to do rehearsals of obituary broadcasts for prominent public figures. But none of those dry runs would have included overseas broadcasts, and it showed. The pictures they were showing now were standard stock shots of the Azbathan mayor’s home, of Azbatha itself, and some re-run footage of Werrdun’s appointments during his visit last week. Conspicuous in its absence was any footage or mention of his voyage on the Azbathaero Astra.

  The next ten minutes were a condensed recap of everything Werrdun had done for the city of Hurrunda: the education programs, the social welfare initiatives, the technology and infrastructure improvements. Talking head after talking head appeared on screen, many of them looking like they’d just been woken up with the news themselves, and lamented the loss of their great leader. Some of them cried openly on screen, and in Fazikk’s the reaction wasn’t much different. The regulars were loudly grieving the loss, wondering how this could happen, if the son-of-a-squid Turithians were to blame, whether or not it was an assassination and what this would mean to the Kurrethi.

  Nicco ate his breakfast and did his best to remain unnoticed. Even if his Varnian had been better, his accent—and his skin colour—immediately gave him away as non-local. It wouldn’t take much of a leap for the regulars to place him as Turithian. The only saving grace was how filthy he was. He’d stopped off at a public restroom after entering the city and before making his way back to the bar, but it would take more than a quick strip wash to rid his skin of the filth and dirt he’d accumulated over the last two days.

  And Nicco knew full well what Werrdun’s death would mean to the Kurrethi. They would no doubt march into the city as soon as possible, led by a smugly triumphant Ven Dazarus. Nicco wasn’t sure he wanted to be around to see that.

  The main door opened and an overweight man stepped into the bar. He wore scruffy, threadbare trousers, a long overcoat that was a size too big and a shirt with food stains down the front. Under a floppy hat with ragged edges, his face was red and sweating from the morning heat, and he walked with a cane. But his pale complexion and expensive shoes gave him away. Fully shined and immaculate, they were worth at least a thousand lire—not rakki.

  Wallus Bazhanka hobbled over to Nicco’s table and sat down.

  “Good morning, dear boy.”

  “Morning. Is this your idea of incognito, then?”

  “It suffices. Have you seen the news?”

  “Yeah. It’s funny, since arriving here I’ve seen a few different sides to all this. There’s no question there’s a power struggle going on over here, but it’s difficult to tell who’s got the most support. Given the choice, I’m honestly not sure whether most of the people here would back Werrdun or Ven Dazarus.”

  Bazhanka shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. “Well, that point is now somewhat moot. And I would like to know exactly why you demanded I come here in person. I gave you a long leash in this business, Nicco, and now I have nothing but regrets. I demand an explanation.”

  “Relax. Everything’s going to... Ah, here he is.”

  Nicco looked over Bazhanka’s shoulder as the main door opened again and another man entered. Bazhanka turned to see what Nicco was looking at.

  “Who in the fifty-nine hells is that?” asked the mob boss.

  Nicco smiled as the man walked over to their table and introduced them. “Wallus Bazhanka, meet Sothus Lubburon. He’s in armaments.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  VEN DAZARUS SMILED.

  Behind him stood three hundred loyal Kurrethi, forty of them mounted on groaks. It wasn’t as many as he would have liked, but during the stampede Gorrd’s control over the animals was broken and the wizard had only regained a quarter of their original herd. But it would be enough. The groaks were more an intimidation tactic than a military asset—to strike fear and awe into the heart of any Hurrundan who stood against them—although the beasts’ size and strength would be useful if they encountered heavy resistance from any police still loyal to Werrdun.

  If anyone had seen Ven Dazarus in his tent that morning as he listened to the news stream announcing the governor’s death, they would have seen a man uncharacteristically delirious with joy. He laughed out loud, punched the air and thanked Kurreth for at last delivering the blow that he needed to return power to the hands of Hurrunda’s rightful rulers.

  But no-one saw him. Part of Ven Dazarus’ appeal to the Kurrethi was his hardline stance on the Law of Kurreth, that was beyond doubt; there was also his enigma, his air of military knowledge and tactical planning that saw him secluded away from his followers for hours on end. It made him appear aloof, and that was no bad thing. In the days of sea power, before the Archmages came along with their airships and destroyed the natural barriers that kept races and countries apart, it had been standard protocol that the captain of a ship ate alone, or if he had companions they would be only his most senior officers. It drew a distinct line of separation between leaders and followers, a necessary aspect of military life. Any crewman who saw his captain with his guard down—eating, cracking jokes, even drunk—was more likely to question orders from the man. In a military situation, that could be disastrous. It was imperative that the crew did not think of their captain as a man, just like them, because he was nothing of the sort. He must be an unquestionable leader, whose authority and wisdom were so untarnished, so inspiring of loyalty, as to be almost inhuman. That was what it took to lead a crew into war.

  The only people who understood that necessity outside the military were wizards. Civilians—like the original Kurrethi exiles—simply didn’t get it.

  For years, the Kurrethi lacked a leader who understood that essential facet of command. They had been too full of camaraderie, companionship and even—Ekklorn’s hooves, what were they thinking?—democracy. And the rebels floundered.

  Ven Dazarus had no time for such things. He was a military man, from a military family. Authority was not to be questioned, orders were to be followed without hesitation. When he first joined the rebels five years ago it was an attitude he espoused loudly, dividing the Kurrethi into two distinct camps. It had cost them at least a hundred members, men and women whose ego would not permit obedience. They abandoned their principles and returned to the city in disgra
ce. Ven Dazarus didn’t mourn their loss, and over time the other rebels came round to his way of thinking.

  The Kurrethi struggle was not as a fight by the downtrodden against an oppressor, but simply as a war between the good and the corrupt. Dazarus’ unwavering devotion, his military precision and tactical mind had honed the Kurrethi into a guerrilla force to be reckoned with, more feared now than they had ever been since they were usurped by Werrdun and his heathen cronies. He had swelled their ranks with men he knew to be good soldiers, men from his own units during the war. They in turn recruited colleagues of their own whom they knew would remain loyal. Together, they had trained the civilian Kurrethi as best they could. The battle training had been difficult and slow without significant resources, but the rebels had no problems learning guerrilla tactics. Their bombing and sabotage campaign over the past few months had proven that.

  And then came Ven Dazarus’ masterstroke, the theft of Werrdun’s necklace. It had been a risk, he knew, but in this new age of so-called ‘peace on earth’ it seemed that wizards and their like could get away with anything. When he learned that the governor’s first foreign visit after Year Zero was to a society as ignorant of magic as Turith, the idea was born.

  Salarum had almost ruined it, of course. Ven Dazarus didn’t know how the thief had discovered the location of his hideout in Azbatha, but he’d left the thinmen there as a precaution against that. Kurreth only knew how Salarum had escaped their clutches and traced him back here. But Ven Dazarus didn’t believe the thief had any solid proof. If he did he would have been working with Werrdun’s own men, and the Hurrun Peaks would have been firebombed days ago to try and smoke out the Kurrethi once and for all. No, Salarum must have simply guessed his way to the truth. But that business with the thinman... Ven Dazarus should have seen that immediately. He was no wizard, but recognising a thinman imposter should have been child’s play. But it was the last thing he’d expected from a man like Salarum, and he’d almost paid the price. He thanked Kurreth the thief had somehow gained a following gem since Ven Dazarus had last seen him, and so alerted Gorrd to his presence in the camp.