The fog was thicker, too thick, and Tull played with the helmet, tried to push it snug to his face, but it was little use. The helmet had not been fitted to him.
With six dead men on the ground so near the doorway, Tull was running out of room to maneuver.
From up the trail by the house someone shouted, “Halt!”
Out of the darkness came a man taller than the others, a man whose legs and arms were not naked like those of a simple Blade Kin. He wore gleaming red armor that covered his body—not the cured leather of other Blade Kin, but something that shone like dull metal. He wore a black mask of the same metal, a long red cape.
A Crimson Knight, Tull realized. One of the twelve who wore the ancient armor and guarded Bashevgo.
Tull’s legs went weak, for it was said that even a bullet could not penetrate that armor.
“Surrender,” the knight hissed. His voice was not human. Instead it seemed as if a thought sprang into Tull’s head, and Tull felt compelled to drop his weapon, to set it on the ground.
The compulsion was so strong that many Blade Kin leaned forward, dropped their weapons, as if to surrender to their leader.
This man was more than a warrior, more than just a sorcerer.
Tull felt his head spin, held his sword to prop himself up, then stepped back. “No,” he growled.
I am a wall. Tull repeated to himself. I am a wall. Fava and Wayan may not have escaped yet. They may only be just behind the door.
The Crimson Knight strode forward. “You are tired, Friend, you’ve run so far.” A great weariness rushed over Tull, a profound wave of fatigue. “You’re weary of fighting, so weary it avails you nothing. In your heart you know I am your friend.”
“Go back to Bashevgo!” Tull shouted, swinging his sword in defiance. His mind blanked in a stupor, and he almost tripped over a dead body.
The flaming lights of the city danced on the hillside, bathing everything in red, and the Crimson Knight moved closer. “I wish you peace. You must come back to Bashevgo with me—” and Tull knew he could stand no longer, he was about to fall. “You will train under my tutelage,” the knight promised. “All that you desire will be yours—women to mate with, treasures to enjoy, fame and honor.…”
The poison air was sapping Tull’s strength more than the sorcery. He couldn’t stand another minute.
Tull lunged forward, swung with all his might.
The Crimson Knight pulled his sword swifter than the eye could see, parried Tull’s blow in one incredible move, pushed Tull back with one hand.
The man was unbelievably quick. Tull found himself jarred awake, his senses screaming that he was in jeopardy.
Tull feinted a clumsy blow, and the Crimson Knight moved to block. Tull came alive, twisted his sword over the parry, and slashed the man’s neck.
Even with all the force he could muster, the blow seemed barely to pierce the armor, slicing an inch in depth, but blood gushed from the wound.
Tull’s head reeled.
The Crimson Knight reached up, touched his neck, in surprise, and then staggered. He dropped to his knees, panting, and Tull leapt forward and smashed his sword into the knight’s head, slicing the helmet open.
The Blade Kin fell back, as if staggered in shock.
Tull planted his sword in the ground, tried to hold himself upright, but then felt himself falling.
When Tull hit the dirt his mask jarred loose, but in the blackness he no longer cared. They could beat him, they could kill him. He only hoped that Fava and Wayan would escape.
***
Chapter 19: A Trophy
General Mahkawn came to Tull’s cabin at daybreak, escorted by four of his leaders, and asked. “Are you certain this is the same Tull who escaped from Denai last fall?”
Atherkula the sorcerer said, “I’m quite certain that this is the one. I have felt him ever since we passed Storm Hold. The Beast confirmed this to me.”
General Mahkawn found this news to be incredible. He had come to Smilodon Bay thinking only to clean out the Rough, capture a few Thralls to work the mines. But if this were true, he’d found a rare find.
A man can be far more valuable than a fine weapon, far rarer than gems.
“I require tangible proof,” Mahkawn said, and the sorcerer ducked into the house a moment. The sorcerer disturbed Mahkawn. People said that Atherkula lived more in the Land of Shapes than in the present world, and he had earned a reputation for cruelty.
Mahkawn looked across the gray water. Smilodon Bay had burned to the ground overnight. On the main street the Brotherhood of the Black Cyclops had gathered their captives.
Mahkawn heard screams as his men went through the slaves, preparing to cull the oldest and most infirm, those not worth transporting back to Bashevgo. Other than that, small boats were already porting the youngest and strongest of the newly captured slaves to the ship.
The smell of burning buildings, the bodies of his warriors here at Tull’s doorstep—all were a grim reminder that taking this small town had cost more than it was worth. Over a hundred Blade Kin lost to exploding gases, fierce Resistance. He had succeeded in taking fewer than a thousand slaves. A poor trade.
And this man Tull Genet, had killed a Crimson Knight. Unbelievable!
Mahkawn studied the squat little hut that served as Tull’s home. “Amazing, amazing …” he clucked.
“That a warrior of such talent could live like this,” one of his men finished the thought.
Atherkula came from inside, threw a blood-red cape to the ground. It bore the insignia of the city guard of Denai, the cape of a Dragon Captain. “This Tull is the one who escaped Denai. He killed my sorcerer, and your Blade Kin. I can feel his power. He is very dangerous.”
Sorcerer, warrior, barbarian?
Mahkawn nodded, then walked into the hovel where Tull had lived. A bed stood against a wall. On the floor were some woman’s dresses and robes, a carved sabertooth toy, a gun. All of Tull’s life, his loves, were all collected within these walls. Mahkawn felt like a voyeur.
“Did we catch the woman and child?” Mahkawn asked.
“Many women and children were captured,” Atherkula said. “We haven’t cataloged all their names and relations yet.”
Mahkawn grunted. The chances were, the two had been caught. His Blade Kin were very thorough.
He kicked at the bed, went to the kitchen, and poured a drink from a pitcher. In a small back room he found tools and dozens of little watches that had been torn apart and reassembled, all in various stages of completion.
Sketches on the table showed how to the watches worked. Mahkawn bent near the watches. They were intricate, amazing things that only a human would be able to assemble, full of tiny gears and clasps.
Silver watches with gold petals opening from them so that when you folded the petals out, you saw the faces of the clocks as if they were daisies. Marvelous things no larger than a Pwi’s thumbnail.
Yet Tull had clamped their pieces onto boards, and with the aid of strange pliers, he was taking them apart and learning to reassemble them.
A man with an eye for detail and appreciation for intricacies, Mahkawn thought. A warrior who does not fear our sorcerers. A man who has killed fourteen Blade Kin, including a Crimson Knight. A worthy foe.
As a Blade Kin, Mahkawn valued such aggressiveness.
On the bench, between two leather-bound books, sat a ball made of brass. Mahkawn recognized it as an artifact, some strange creation of the ancient Starfarers. It was a likeness of the planet Anee.
He gingerly lifted it, put it in a sack wondering where Tull had come by such a valuable piece.
Mahkawn walked back into the living quarters, surveyed the room, amazed. Here was a man who lived in a tiny house, poor man, yet Mahkawn felt something odd stirring in him.
Envy. Here was food, warmth, sex, a mind alive with interests. Here was a Pwi who read and worked. Mahkawn envied this barbarian’s simple life, his hobbies, the fact that he could openly breed with
the same woman throughout his lifetime without worrying that some competitor would slay her.
Mahkawn lifted one of Fava’s dresses, smelled it. Vanilla water, the musky scent of a woman.
“Clean out the contents of the hut,” Mahkawn ordered. “I want to study them more closely on the ship.”
Atherkula looked up. “What are you thinking?”
“I’d like to learn more about this Tull Genet.”
“There is nothing more you need to know, Omnipotent,” Atherkula said. “Tull is a murderer, sentenced to death. We’ve sought him for months. That is all you need to know.”
I must fence gingerly, Mahkawn thought.
As an Omnipotent of the Brotherhood of the Carnadine Sorcerers, Atherkula was Mahkawn’s equal in rank, even if he was not the favorite of Lord Tantos.
“As I understand it, Tull was unjustly convicted back in Denai. Since he was not a slave, his ‘crimes’ were only the actions of a warrior in battle.”
“I doubt Lord Tantos will see it that way,” Atherkula warned. “This Pwi slew a Crimson Knight. Tantos will demand retribution.”
“I obey all my lord’s commands,” Mahkawn whispered. “But I see here only a man who defended himself, as is a warrior’s right. Even if he is sentenced to death, he must be given the opportunity to choose the arena.”
Atherkula studied Mahkawn. “So he can win entrance into the Blade Kin? I will not stand for it! He has slain members of my order!”
“And he has slain a dozen of my brothers, too. I have an equal claim to vengeance, if not a greater claim.” Mahkawn stood tall, moved in close to old Atherkula.
Mahkawn’s size, the grim cast of his face, cowed most men. But Atherkula was a Neanderthal of the old blood. Mahkawn said at last, “I will civilize him.”
Atherkula closed his eyes. A cold wind whipped through the room, picked up a blanket, and tossed it against the wall.
The wind turned bitterly cold, more frigid than any wind Mahkawn could remember, and he realized it blew from the Land of Shapes.
“Yes,” Atherkula agreed at last. “Civilize this creature. The Beast approves of your plan. We approve.”
Mahkawn shuddered, turned, and down down the path as his men began packing Tull’s things, his life, into any handy sack.
Mahkawn wondered, Why am I doing this? Certainly Tull will never need any of this again. Even if he were to become Blade Kin, what use would it be?
Yet something in the back of Mahkawn’s mind whispered guiltily, You are stealing a man’s life. Perhaps you hope that someday he will steal it back.
***
Chapter 20: Tears of Blood
In Tull’s dream, the lightning of his soul swept through the forests like a wind, rushing over icy mountains, skipping across clear blue lakes. The beast came behind, a nebulous darkness, swallowing all light.
At last he found Fava in a mountain glen where the tapping of woodpeckers as they probed trees for grubs was the only sound.
She sat on the ground, on her knees, studying paintings of Bashevgo. Yet somehow Fava had changed. Her skin was as soft and tender as that of a Dryad, and she had small blue-white teeth like those of a fox.
Fava knelt close to the paintings and watched Uknai suffering in his cage. Only it was more than a painting, it was a window into Uknai’s world, and Tull could hear the old Thrall shrieking in agony.
Fava touched the painting, reached her hand deep inside it, and her pale finger came away stained with blood. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, “I don’t think he caught what it really feels like, the cruelty of the cage.”
Then Tull heard the spirit beast behind, and darkness overtook them.
Tull woke with a dark cotton bag over his head. He lay face-down in the street, hands and feet shackled behind his back. All around him people coughed and wretched and wept. Some cried out, and the smell and minute shuffling sounds told him that he was surrounded by many, many townsfolk, and many, many guards.
The air carried the cool scent of dawn beneath the dry reek of ashes. He could hear water lapping nearby, and he guessed that he was at the docks.
He lay for a long moment, numbed, and realized dumbly that he should try to escape. He tested his irons, pulling at the feet and legs. They clanked softly, but didn’t give. He tried letting his hands go limp so that he could pull them through the irons. He jerked his left hand softly and steadily until his wrists bled, as he’d done with his ankles as a child, then used the blood as a lubricant.
All to no avail. His huge Neanderthal hands would not squeeze through the manacles.
He could see, barely, through the cotton bag. He twisted his head in the dirt, trying to look for an escape route. Warehouses were still smoldering, and he could discern shapes of people around him, some sitting up, gazing in fright. They didn’t seem to be hooded, like him. He rolled onto his back, sat up and looked around.
“Tull,” Jenks grunted nearby, “is that you?”
“Here,” Tull answered, and he turned his head. His father sat only a few feet away, chained.
“What are you doing with that bag over your head?” Jenks asked.
“I don’t know,” Tull answered, but he feared that he might know.
Once, long ago, a neighbor had told a story of a young man named Soren who was caught by slavers and set on the beach with his friends, and the slavers had placed a bag on Soren’s head. When the slavers took the young men away, they took the bag—with only Soren’s head inside.
Tull swallowed hard, and his heart began to pound. “Have you seen Fava or Wayan?”
“No,” Jenks whispered. “Maybe they got away.” He waited a long moment and added, “But don’t get your hopes up. The Blade Kin are searching the woods, even as we speak, bringing in more every minute. They got your mother, too. She’s already on the ship. The bastards burned our house.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t in it,” Tull said.
“Ayaah,” Jenks said. “Uh, I’m a fat old man. You don’t think they’d cull me, do you?”
Tull had no idea. His mind raced. “No,” he said at last. “If they were going to cull you, why bring you down to the docks?”
“Right,” Jenks said. “I’m a big man. Why, I can work harder than any five men, and I’ve got plenty of years left in me. If they have sense, they’ll see that, put me to work in one of the Lord’s estates. You’ll tell them, won’t you, who I am? You’ll stick up for me?”
“Ayaah,” Tull said, though he doubted that the Blade Kin would come asking him for references. “Is there any way to make a run for it, that you can see?”
“No,” Jenks hissed. “We’re surrounded, guarded tight.”
“Is there any cover to hide under?”
Jenks peered about for a moment, “No. Nothing. They’ve already taken some folks from the hills to the ship—all the people from Finger Mountain and Harvest, and I’d say they’ve taken half the folks from town. They’ve got a circle of guards down by the water, all the way up the hill. You can’t get out.”
Tull listened for awhile. His stomach began to growl. In the distance, his mother-in-law, Zhopila, wept as the Blade Kin dragged her to the boat, and Tull sat amazed, wondering how Chaa could have let this happen, let his wife and children be captured by slavers.
The sun was rising, and Tull could make out only the thinnest of human outlines through the cloth.
Several times over the next hour, Tull heard boats come to the docks, and one by one the people of town were led away, Jenks included.
With each departing boatload, Tull knew his chances of living would be less and less. Few people sat around him. Old Caree Tech lay weeping a dozen yards from his feet. Byron Saman was behind him. A few others. The old and infirm. Culls.
Just before sunrise, several men came and stood above him.
“This is the one who killed a Crimson Knight?” a man asked.
“Yes, Omnipotent,” the men answered, and Tull cringed. The title Omnipotent was saved only for a
man with the rank of Cyclops, the generals among the Blade Kin.
Someone stepped forward, pulled the bag from Tull’s face, taking a handful of Tull’s hair with it.
A man dressed in immaculate black leather armor stood before Tull, a bullish Neanderthal with threads of gray running through his rusty beard, a black patch over his right eye.
The Omnipotent had a weathered face, blank, emotionless, yet when he stared at Tull, it was as if he more than gazed. Tull felt consumed. The Cyclops wore a gold scourge in his belt—ancient symbol of the Slave Lords—signifying that he was favored and would someday become a Lord himself. Tull felt amazed that a Neanderthal could hold such rank.
Behind his captors, Tull could see the great iron ship in the harbor, dark brown with a huge smokestack. The ship was taller than any building Tull had ever seen—at least four stories.
“What is your name?” the man in black asked. He stepped back, rested his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword.
“Tull Genet.”
“The same Tull Genet who killed my Blade Kin at Denai?”
“No,” Tull answered.
The Blade Kin looked closely at Tull, chuckled. “You lie? That is forgivable, I suppose. I would hope for as much from any of my men.
“It does not matter. You see, I know all about you. You gave your name to a slave in Denai, and he told it to many people.
“I am Mahkawn, commander of the Brotherhood of the Black Cyclops. The Blade Kin you’ve had the pleasure of killing belong to my Lord Tantos, the Minister of Retribution. Do you know what penalty he has set for your crimes?”
“By your law, I have committed no crimes,” Tull said. “I fought in my own defense, as a free man of the Rough. I have heard that even Lord Tantos does not exact revenge from warriors who kill in battle.”
Mahkawn said, “You argue with me? I think I will kill you anyway, Thrall.”
He looked down at Tull’s feet, at the black leather moccasins with a crow sewn into them. He paused for a moment, tugged off the moccasins, held them up for inspection.
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