Eyes were enough. Those smoky, sunken lights glowed like irons in a fire, as hot and dry as the creature's native land. Whatever kind of view they gave it - and he couldn't believe that it saw the world as he did, in bright and varied colour; more like Marron's Daughter-tainted sight, perhaps, sharp-drawn but all in red, all hues of blood - that view still showed it everything that stood around, and what there was to kill.
Bent at the neck like a swan, like a hook, like a column of water forever falling and forever failing to fall, it turned its head towards the bridge and couldn't fail to see Marron sitting there like a victim, like a sacrifice, like a boy rapt by the prospect of his own death coming.
Marron wouldn't scream, any more than he would fight. Jemel would do both on his behalf — and had the blade to do the fighting with, ready blessed for the occasion, more use than Marron's precious Dard - but lacked the time to get there. And the mount: his stolen warhorse stood fixed beneath him, all four legs braced and trembling now that it had seen what stirred in the river.
The horses picketed beneath the bridge were in worse case, lathered with terror, rearing and plunging in their lines until they wrenched pegs from the ground or snapped the ropes that held them and went galloping blindly off into the haze.
The one horse above them, on the bridge was the only one that Jemel cared about. He saw it scream again, its ears flattened to its skull, its head flung high and lips drawn back as though it were half stripped of flesh already, displaying all the bones beneath the skin.
Then, blessedly, its terror restored its wits. It bucked once, while Marron clung frantically to mane and saddle-horn and barely kept his seat; the sharp whipcrack sound of its own hind hooves striking the planking acted as a spur, to send it plummeting pell-mell down the bridge.
As the horse skidded headlong from wooden arch onto stone footing, the 'ifrit struck, above and behind.
It coiled back the immense length of this body it had made, and then hurtled forward: like a wilful hammer, like a snake balanced on its tail and using its head to batter at its chosen prey.
It didn't swoop on Marron nor his horse, nor any of the caught or fleeing horses; neither did it bring the crushing weight of its glistening water-made-flesh down upon the men who had been fighting, who fought nothing now but their own horses' need to run, Ransomers and Surayonnaise and a single rapt Sharai.
Instead it rammed its dull and jawless head against the timbers of the bridge, just at the height of the arch, and just the once.
Nothing made by man could have withstood the force of such a blow. The walls of the Roq were perhaps the strongest thing built, certainly the strongest that he had ever seen, and he thought the walls of the Roq would have cracked and crumbled under that assault. Not all at once, though, and not flying apart as though the stones had been just crudely stacked and never sealed together. To be sure, this was - no, this had been — a wooden bridge, almost a thing of paper next to the Roq; but none the less, he thought it should have offered more resistance. He thought the beams should have held until they splintered, not simply scattered themselves like blades of dry grass lifted on the first breath of an encroaching wind.
The 'ifrit drew back, reared up, for a moment was terribly still; Jemel saw how its hot eyes surveyed the river's banks, and he drove his heels so hard into his mount's ribs that the startled warhorse had leaped into a gallop before it truly knew that it was moving.
Back towards the stone footing, a smooth rise that stopped abruptly in a sudden fall now that the bridge was fallen: like a man-made miniature cliff, it was a roads end and nothing more, except that it had been the saving of Marron and was still his refuge. He had, of course, fallen from his horse; the only surprise was that he had clung so long, long enough to fall on cobbles rather than planks, and so save himself the long and lethal fall from the bridges height.
He stood on the bridge s remnant like a man abandoned, alone on an island of rock in a grassy sea; but that was only seeming. Like every man there — every man but Jemel — he was staring up at the 'ifrit as it stared down.
'Marron! Here, to me ...'
Blooded scimitar into his left hand, the hand that held the reins; his right stretched out and down, reaching to seize Marron's wrist as the horse thundered past, drag him up without pausing. Boys among the Saren played these games for fun, only realised later that they were battlefield training.
Patric boys, perhaps, never played these games at all. This boy never had, for sure; he was late in holding his hand out for the grip, slow to jump, a dead weight that almost over-toppled them both before Jemel could haul him up and leave him belly-down and kicking across the horse's crupper.
A slow, steady draw on the near rein to bring the horse wheeling around, not to let it run away with them both into the mists and smoke of the river and the day, as it so clearly yearned to do. As soon as he was sure of it, Jemel swivelled in the saddle to help Marron, to hold him as he swung one leg across the barrel width of the horses hindquarters and pushed himself upright, pale and distraught but somehow almost laughing.
‘I forgot,' he gasped, working his way over the cande so that both boys were squashed into the big Patric saddle, wrapping his arms tight around Jemel's waist for more support than he should stricdy need, 'the Daughter would have made the jump easy, but...'
'But you don't have that any more. Besides, the horse would never have come near you, if you had still carried it.'
'That's what I forgot. One of those, both maybe,' and he really was laughing, sinking his face into Jemel's neck and his teeth into Jemel's robe to silence it. His own robe was sodden, Jemel realised as the damp began to soak through where their bodies were pressed close together; even his hair was wet and chill, saturated with the water thrown off by the rearing 'ifrit, so close he had been to it. ‘I almost forgot it was a horse I was sitting on, until it threw me off. Then I forgot everything except - well, that, there - and then I saw you coming and I was going to leap up swift and easy, just as I could have done any day since we met, and the God's truth, Jemel, I miss it so .. .'
Jemel shook his head. Later, we can discuss your idiocies later. If we have the chance, we may all be missing it soon. And dying for the lack of it, and one more reason to curse these meddlesome Patrics. ..
Some men had died already in their own brute squabble; others would die soon, that much was clear, for lack of any way to fight an 'ifrit of any size, let alone this one that stood higher than any tree Jemel had ever seen or imagined, almost as high as the highest tower he knew of in this world, which was the Pillar of Lives that the Dancers had built, and he had climbed that.
This unclimbable, unkillable thing stood high and then fell, dropping its head like a rock driven by a terrible weight of water, all the weight of its neck and body, and that only as much of the body as they had seen so far, rising from the riverbed.
The head dropped, not to savage nor to consume, simply to crush. Like a rock with eyes and with intent, it picked out a still-tethered horse and came down upon it with force enough to drive its own broad snout an arm's length into the ground. Jemel didn't look, didn't want to see what remained of the horse in the bottom of the pit left by the 'ifrit as it withdrew, as it reared up and cast about. Its skin had the slickness of water, nothing clung for long; it scattered earth and grass with the slow swing of its head, a great worm seeking fodder.
It reared up and cast about, and this time found a man unhorsed, afoot. Jemel would have given much to have had his bow and a few arrows to hand still, even unblessed; he would at least have had the vulnerable eyes to aim at, small hope perhaps but hope enough to justify standing off and shooting. Distance spelled safety, of a sort. He could crave safety, when Marron sat at his back and would not be unseated.
His bow was gone, though, and his arrows with it, slung on the saddle of the horse that bolted. He might almost have wished to be Patric in that instant, to be the kind of man who carried bow and quiver at his back; but he was Jemel, he was Sharai. H
e carried Marron at his back and a scimitar in his hand, and that scimitar at least was blessed.
The man on the ground was running, but his legs were far too short for the work, or else the serpent-spirit was too long in its body, far too long. It stretched, it seem to hang a little in the air and then it struck the man just as it had the horse, so violently that a ripple flowed back all along its length. It couldn't really be made of water, surely, but it did seem so.
Then its head arose, and there was no man now, other than whatever mess lay compacted in the hollow that marked what had been his dying-place.
One of his confreres, though, one of the Ransomers was charging the beast. He might have started his ride as Jemel had, riding to rescue; he must have seen his companion on foot, dazed perhaps and straying too close to the killing-ground.
Unlike Jemel he'd been too slow, come too late. The man had caught the monster's eye, and it needed no more. Now all the Ransomer could do was die bravely or try to flee before he caught the monster's eye himself; but these big horses were slow to halt and slow to turn and slow to speed again.
He had made his choice in any case, determined or despairing. He rode forward at the gallop, driving his horse so hard that it had no chance to bolt or break. It looked half mad already, eyes rolling white and its skin shining sickly, stretched tight to show muscle and tendon wherever it wasn't coated with foam; but it ran obedient to rein and spur, directly towards the 'ifrit.
Jemel spared a glance to find the other Ransomers, and saw one riding frantically back up the road to the north while the others massed uncertainly around their officer. He thought they would charge all together, once they saw another man down. With a messenger sent already to their commander, none of them had any excuse to run. They must rescue or revenge, if they had any honour. Or die trying, of course, which they would do.
Not his land and not his people, this was emphatically not his fight. He was just looking about for the Surayonnaise when he felt one of Marron's arms uncurl from around his waist, and heard the sound of steel scraping from scabbard.
He twisted in the saddle to stare in bewilderment at the glittering purity of Dard drawn and deadly, except that nothing in Marron's hands was deadly now, and nothing on this river-bank could ever be deadly to that monster. Jemel could hurt it, if he were close enough, but surely not to death; and if he were close enough to hurt it, then he would be dose enough to die.
'Marron, what—?'
'Will you sit here and watch them be slaughtered?'
‘I was slaying them myself, five minutes since. And you were watching.'
'Jemel, that's an 'ifrit, and they don't know how to fight it. And they are men, brothers. Ride, damn you!'
'Whose brothers? Not mine, I am Sharai. And you are renegade, they'd burn us both.'
'They would, aye. And if they were Saren, Jemel, would you still not ride?'
He opened his mouth to say so, and could not. If they were Saren or Beni Rus or any of the tribes — yes, he'd ride.
Even so, 'Not you, Marron. You won't kill it; you can't kill it, with that sword. You can't even hurt it. What are you thinking?'
'I can batter at it,' grimly smiling. 'Poke and prod.'
'Poke and prod? That? Marron, look at it...!'
Plenty to look at suddenly, as the charging Ransomer closed with the 'ifirit. He stood in his stirrups, his straight arm extending his sword-point beyond his manic horse's head. For a moment, as the 'ifrit seemed simply to lie waiting for his strike, Jemel wondered if the man might not carry the luck of the ignorant with him. One good strike to the eye would kill this or any 'ifrit, regardless of size. The Ransomer might not know that, but any warrior charging such a beast must surely aim for the eye...
The 'ifrit lay like a snake along the ground, with its unseen tail still in the river if its tail weren't all of the river as it ran all the way to the sea; and just when it seemed as though it was unaccountably dead already, it proved itself viciously, lethally alive. It lashed its body like a whip across the grass, knocking the sword-point aside as though it were a blade of straw and striking the heavy warhorse hard enough to smash every bone in its legs, so hard that the impact hurled it high into the air. Its rider flew from the saddle, fell as it fell, and must have broken bones himself in his falling. Perhaps too many bones, perhaps a fatal number; he lay still after, while the 'ifrit rose up to loom large above his body. It swayed its massive head from side to side, very like a serpent watchfully possessive of its prey.
'Well?' Marron hissed, in Jemel’s ear. 'Now will you ride?'
'For what? He is dead.'
'Not yet, not necessarily.'
'White bones, not even walking.'
'Then ride for a glorious death of your own. Why not? When were you ever so shy of it?'
When I found you at my back, but it was hopeless to say so. Jemel sighed and kicked the horse forward, thinking that this was not after all such a terrible place to die, nor such terrible company. He could go to Paradise hand in hand with Marron, leaving their bodies under the shadow of the 'ifrit; Jazra would be forgiving.
The 'ifrit's skin glistened and ran. Its head had stopped its swaying, and the gaze of both unblinking eyes was focused direcdy on Jemel or else on Marron behind him, on this horse that carried both in under its shadow. Literally so: that towering head blocked the sunlight now, and Jemel was holding his breath, he realised, waiting for it to fall.
In the moment before it did - in the delicacy of that point where the world is toppling beyond fate's measure, where destiny can be fixed by a breath this way or that, where what will be irrevocable, irrecoverable, irreconcilable is still waiting to occur - he ducked and twisted in the saddle, slipped free of Marron's one arm and under the other, gave him a hard shove and watched him fall to ground.
Flinched as he hit; dragged on the horse's rein to check its speed and bring it circling back into that deadly shadow, fighting against its sudden shuddering terror; realised that the monster had not struck after all despite the tempting, dancing target that he made; and still looked first to find Marron, to see him getting slowly to his feet.
'Watch over the Ransomer!' Jemel shouted. That man was lying still, hadn't moved, needed little watching. Jemel's abruptness had simply freed him to tackle the 'ifrit in his own way, without argument and without that draining, distracting urge to keep Marron safe at all costs.
He wasn't safe now, of course, there was nothing safe about being on foot beneath the brute power of an 'ifrit in its strength, but Jemel was hoping to keep its attention diverted towards himself and his scimitars edge. He looked up at last to find that poised and perilous head—
—And found it turned away from him, saw the savage eye fixed on Marron as he ran towards the sprawled black body of the Ransomer.
Didn't have time or breath enough to curse. He wheeled the horse with a brutal wrench and forced it forward to the river’s edge, where the vast mass of the 'ifrit's body emerged from the water and rested its weight on the bank.
Perhaps one day he would learn to leave the thinking to others, leave his wild ideas to blow away on the wind. For now the wind of his own wild speed was in his hair and he feared that it was not enough even as he crouched low beside the horse's neck and screamed encouragement into its ear, as he beat it on with the flat of his scimitar, as the dank darkness that was the 'ifrit's shadow above and below them gave into the damp darkness of the living wall that was its body directly ahead.
Now, at last, Jemel let the reins slacken in his hand, he gave the horse its head just in time. Its body veered heavily, its hooves bit deep into the turf, it managed - just - to keep its balance and its speed; it swerved past the rising column of the 'ifrit's body, close enough that Jemel could have kicked the thing without taking his foot from the stirrup.
Instead he swung his scimitar, putting all his strength into a single backhand slash as he passed. This close, he could see that the 'ifrit was clad in scales, rather than the inflexible chitinous casing
he was used to: a myriad scales, small as his fingernail and overlapping, each one seeming to gleam wetly even in the shadow, each one doubtless as impervious as chitin to any common blade.
His blade was nothing extraordinary, though it was well-made and he kept it wickedly sharp. It was, however, uncommon in the one thing, the blessing that overlaid its edge. So Jemel hewed at the 'ifrit, and there was nothing more extraordinary in the stroke than there was in the weapon, only a young man's determined and desperate strength, his last hope to save his friend. He hewed and felt the blade cut something, cut into something as though through hide and into belly-fat, resistance followed by soft sucking matter that tried to seize the blade. The mad speed of the horse beneath him tugged it free with a jerk that almost snatched the hilt from his hand, that wrenched his weary arm from wrist to shoulder.
It took him just a moment to recover, while the horse tried to outrace the eager river; it took a little longer to steel himself to what must come next. Then he was hauling on the reins again, hauling its head around, turning his own head to see.
A slim straight figure standing above the fallen, the glitter of a sword raised high to poke and prod, the dark swaying shadow over all: relief blurred his vision, so that he had to dash the back of his hand across his eyes and look again.
Marron stood like a symbol of defiance, and should not have lived so long; should not be living now except that the 'ifrit was ignoring him suddenly. Its head wasn't swaying, it was turning: turning to gaze down at its own body where Jemel had slashed it and then turning further, turning to find whatever small thing had committed this outrage.
Jemel could be defiant too, standing in the stirrups and waving his scimitar; but that was gesture only, his eyes and thoughts were furiously busy at other work. Marron had held off the 'ifrit somehow, for too long to be easily explained. He himself had hurt it but not badly, enough to distract if not enough to harm; when he glanced back he saw water gushing from the darkness of the creature's body, like a spring discharging from a basalt pillar.
Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 38
