He heaved in a huge breath of air, ignoring the rawness in his throat, the pain in his chest, and did the only thing he could. He let go of the rock, flung himself into the current, and let it sweep him away.
The river seized him in cold claws, unrelenting as the maenad-girl’s nails, dragged him under, tumbled him half-senseless, spat him out onto its foam-plumed surface. He was helpless in it, able to do no more than drag air into his burning chest whenever he hit the surface, clamp his mouth over what little air he’d managed to gulp in whenever the water dragged him back under. His vision blurred, his mind blinking—lit then unlit, like a guttering candle. It was too much. He was going to drown here, rolled over and over like a piece of rubbish until his body could no longer hold on to enough air or warmth to keep him alive. But it was better than the maenads.
And I took her with me. One of their maenads, killed by a fugitive blasphemer. That was worth it. That was worth a lot.
With no warning the world went black. After a moment when he thought, insanely, that he’d died, he realised it was real darkness, not the black of unconsciousness. The water was still a roar in his ears, he still struggled to breathe, his half-numb body still banged over and over into underwater rocks. But the daylight had gone out like a snuffed candle, and darkness—a cold blanket of total darkness, implacable and impenetrable—dropped over him.
The caves. All around here, the subterranean rock was tunnelled through with caves—a maze of them, like the tunnels in an anthill. And some of them, open to the water, became rivers themselves, cold, dark and underground, sweeping you through the bowels of the rock, on and on to the gods knew where. Some found their way to the sea, poured themselves out in glittering waterfalls from openings high on the cliff face. Others found routes back to the surface, bubbling out as springs, founding oases out in the desert. But others…he didn’t know where each one went. To end in underwater lakes, as dark as they were deep? To flow forever, down and down through the earth to where the demons waited? He didn’t know, and he could do nothing. Blind, completely disoriented, he might have been travelling up, down, being swept towards the city or out into the desert or into a river that flowed straight into the home of the volcano-god himself, straight into the heart of the volcano.
Throat tightening, lungs aching, he heaved in more air—and found it was easier. The current was slackening, gentling around him. The side of his body hit something almost soft, then his groping hands touched something they couldn’t hold on to, shifting and gritty under his fingers.
Sand.
He’d hit a sandbank, or the edge of an underground beach. He tried to reach for it. His numb hands were useless, he couldn’t make them obey him, but it didn’t matter. The flow of water rolled him onto it, dragged him over its skin-scouring surface, and abandoned him. In the dark. In utter silence that felt like the safest thing he’d ever experienced.
He crawled out of the reach of the water, found drier sand and collapsed face-down, ignoring for the moment the throbbing on his chest and right through his arm, breathing huge, unimpeded gasps of air. Air. And silence. And the emptiness of a place with no one in it but him.
But after some minutes, as his lungs eased into a normal rhythm, as his heart stopped drumming in his ears, he heard the breathing. Coming from his left, not too far away. Coming from someone else who’d been swept away by the current, dragged bodily into the underground river and deposited on the beach. Someone like the maenad-girl.
Battered with exhaustion though he was, the realisation spiked fear through him. He pushed himself slowly to a crouching position, careful not to make any sudden movement that could cause a flurry of sand, a clue that he was there. The sheath at his belt was empty—he knew it as soon as he moved. I have no weapon. The dark…but will that help me or her? Can their eyes see in the dark?
Then, as his brain started working enough to piece one thing to another— She’s not awake. The rhythm of that breathing—she’s unconscious.
He forced himself to stand, his legs mostly numb under him, his torn skin and wounded arm beginning to protest the movement. It hurt his hand even to grip a ragged edge of his short toga-tunic and tear it off in a long strip. The soaking fibres resisted. He struggled, fingers smarting, hand throbbing, before they tore, shockingly loud in the quiet of the cave.
His throat closed so fast it felt as if one of the boulders from the river had lodged in it, but her breathing didn’t alter. She was out cold—half-drowned or knocked senseless by his fist, he didn’t care which. Once she woke he’d be fighting for his life again, fighting blind in the darkness, already torn and exhausted, every minute knowing the maenad pack could be following them both.
He’d never killed before. Plenty of the refugees had, either during their escape or afterwards, in their journey to the mountains. But he, with his power of camouflage and suggestion—he’d never needed to. But now…
He wound the strip of cloth around one hand, tightening it against his skin, pulling it taut. If she’d died when he hit her, or if she’d drowned, he would not have felt at fault, he would not have looked at himself and seen a murderer. But here, with her unconscious and unaware…
But if I don’t, and if she wakes… There was no decision, not really. He dragged in a painful, scorching breath, jerked the strip tight between his hands and, listening for her breathing, trod cautiously over the sand to where she lay.
He knew she was there a second before he touched her; the heat of her body seeped out a little way into the air around her, a telltale aura of warmth. Her breathing remained regular—she wasn’t stirring. She could die anyway, without him laying a finger on her—a head wound could do that, tip someone into a sleep from which they never woke. I could leave her, give her to the mercy of the god she serves.
And if she wakes? If she follows me? I could end up dying in these caves myself, her nails the last thing I feel, my blood pouring out over these dark stones.
He bent, fumbled as fast as he could to find out which part of her he touched. Hip, shoulder, neck… She was lying mostly on her front, one arm trapped beneath her body, the other crooked so her hand lay under her chin. He jerked the cloth around her throat, twisting it at the back of her neck so if she reached for it she’d not be able to get a grip, she’d not be able to fight him off.
His heart was racing, beating so high in his throat that he thought he’d vomit. She wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t awake at all. She doesn’t even know.
And that’s more merciful than what she offered me. I cannot afford to hesitate. He gritted his teeth, turned his wrist to twist the cloth tighter—and stopped dead, his breathing catching so his heartbeat, too, seemed to stutter.
As he’d moved his hand to twist the cloth, his fingers had brushed hers. Her fingers were thin, rough with dry skin and tiny ridges that could be the marks of old scars. And the nails…the nails were stubby, bitten short. Not maenad talons. Not a maenad at all.
But she must be. How else could someone be here? And how likely was it for it to be another girl, another young woman? The curve of her body, that brief brush of her face, were enough to confirm that she was female, and young—and here. She must be the maenad-girl. And yet she… How could the claws have disappeared? Had they broken, in that terrifying struggle in the river, in the helpless journey into the dark? But—he fumbled for her other hand and found it the same—that couldn’t have happened to all of them, not all at once.
Keeping one hand clamped on the cloth—not twisting it anymore, not letting it cut off her breath, just keeping it steady—he reached out with his other hand and ran his fingers along the wet fabric covering her. A short tunic, like the maenad-girl. Bare legs. Their feet are clawed too. Retractable claws, maybe? I didn’t notice…
He reached down and touched cold metal. The anklets he’d first seen gleaming red-gold in the shadows of the canyon. One—he checked—yes, one on each ankle, engraved, so he’d heard, with the words the god whispered to them when they became his.
I run with the madness of the god.
It was the maenad-girl. But the maenad-girl changed and helpless, unconscious in his hands. No longer a monster, but a woman.
But I thought… The change was absolute. He’d always known that, always been told it. The god took them over, made them his, filled them with his madness. That was why, once accepted, they never left the temple compound. They were holy, sacred—but dangerous, not to be let loose, ever, except in the god’s hunt.
It’s not true. They weren’t monsters, they were just shifters.
And he’d been going to— Ah, gods. He found himself shivering, sickened, his hands slippery on the cloth strip. He’d been going to kill her as if she were nothing but an animal. All that time outside the world of the priests, learning to see the most horrific-looking power as something separate from the person who wielded it, something that lent neither holiness nor evil to its bearer, and yet, faced with the maenads, he’d not questioned that they were essentially non-human, not-people, evil through and through.
She lay, quietly breathing, body limp, her throat vulnerable beneath his shaking hands. He loosened the strip, dragged it off her, fumbling, clumsy, for a moment forgetting the need to protect himself from her.
If she was like the other shifters, it made sense that she’d have slipped out of her shifted form when she lost consciousness. And when she resurfaced, when she realised that she was alone with him in the dark, how long would it take before she summoned her gift, took on that same terrifying form as before?
And if he was to survive…
He pulled her wrists together, tied them—tight, although not as tight as he knew he should—behind her back. Her bones felt small under his hands, fragile as bird bones. Here he was, twice her size, tying up this—this girl, while she lay defenceless and unresisting. What am I doing?
Memory flashed through his body rather than his mind, a physical memory like a stab of phantom pain. Her nails, sinking into skin and flesh, anchoring him to her. Her legs like a steel vise locked around his waist. Her eyes, so savage he’d struggled to be free of her gaze as much as from her nails in his skin.
She’s human, but she’s monster too. And if I’m to survive…
He undid the cloth to pull the knot tighter and ripped off another piece to tie her ankles together as well. A third piece would make a muzzle—he hadn’t forgotten that gleam of teeth as she’d snarled at him—but if she vomited as she came back to consciousness she could choke before he could get her mouth free. He couldn’t do it, no matter how much safer it might make him.
Automatically, out of habit born from long necessity, he paused to check himself. But no, unconscious as she was, he was safe, for the moment, from the dangerous pull of unwanted empathy. This time it was simple fellow-feeling. He’d been treated like an animal, hunted out across the desert. He couldn’t do that to her.
And I want to talk to her. Everything he’d thought about the maenads—everything the priests said—it was wrong, they’d lied. So what was she? Not just a shifter. No matter the weaknesses and dangers of becoming, say, a dragon-thing, a wildcat—a creature that would normally be a carnivore—those gifts didn’t force their owners to kill. At least, not in the way the maenads did. Again the memory came, her eyes, her face, their shrieks of rage when they thought he’d escaped them. They want to kill, they enjoy it. That’s not anything like any of the other gifts.
It took him a while, fumbling in the dark, to find the narrow ledge that ran from the beach alongside the fierce rush of water. He went a little way, enough to work out that it didn’t lead immediately off into the bowels of the earth, then he came back, picked up the unconscious maenad-girl, and turned to follow it into the darkness.
The river must lead somewhere. It might not be the ocean, but what else could he try? If it takes me to some underground lake or somewhere I can’t follow… He caught his thoughts back. If he worried too much about where it might lead he’d end up not being able to set off at all, and what good would that do him?
It took a long time. A long time of walking in the dark, feeling his way with one hand along the side of the cave, listening to the echoing tumble of the water, refusing to let himself listen to the panic that edged into his brain. At least he did not have to go thirsty—the water was fresh and very cold—and the maenad-girl stayed limp and sleeping, not even stirring when he put her down so he could rest.
And eventually, as he fought down another surge of panic, far ahead of him the darkness lightened. He’d done it. Stupid mistakes notwithstanding, he’d escaped from the city, the maenads and the caves.
They came out into evening, the dimness and hush just before everything that chirrups and croaks creeps out under the cloak of darkness. Only a few stars showed as yet. Disoriented by the caves, Philos couldn’t yet get his bearings from them.
Then his eyes—or his mind—adjusted, and he saw the wide dark sweep of flat sand stretching out before them. And far, far away, at what seemed the very rim of the world, a faint shining white line that was the surf breaking at the edge of the ocean.
But how far from the city? He clamped down on the fear—we could have come in a circle, we could be within scent of the maenads—and lowered the maenad-girl to the soft dry sand at his feet.
It was no good. He’d lost all sense of direction in the river and the caves. The ravine river would have taken them southwest, nearer the city, but the sideways current that had swept them away through the darkness under the desert…that could have brought them out anywhere.
He looked back. The cliff towered behind them. In the daylight he’d be able to find a way up. But even if this cove was as near as could be to the city, he could not get them both out of it now, in the dark, his strength wrecked by exhaustion and his head fuzzy from lack of food.
That thought sparked another, and he fumbled at his belt pouch. The bread had turned to mush and he dropped the slimy stuff onto the ground with a grimace, but the dried fruit, although its wrappings hadn’t protected it from the water and it was clumped together in an unpleasant wet lump, was edible. He managed to chew and swallow a couple of pieces, though he didn’t much feel like eating, and after a moment felt the rush of energy help clear his brain.
He rolled the remainder back into the cloth and stowed it in his belt pouch against future need, then looked at the maenad-girl—and was met by a dark blazing stare that he felt in the pit of his stomach. She was awake.
He swallowed, the taste of the dried fruit suddenly sour in his mouth. “Are you—all right?”
She didn’t speak. She could speak, couldn’t she? They were not like animals—and then he remembered the bird-cry voices from the ravine. Don’t be stupid, boy, you know they speak.
He looked at her and she gazed back, her eyes so hostile that when they met his, the impact was like a blow. Even like this, she’ll kill you if she can.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tried, but still she said nothing. Only her upper lip curled a little, in a movement that could have been a sign of contempt—or the beginning of a snarl. Faint bruises darkened the bridge of her nose, the skin under her eyes, showing where he’d hit her. Not as much as he would have expected, but then he’d heard that maenads healed fast.
So now what? He was as stuck as ever. He couldn’t untie her, nor could he leave her here to be found—or to die. Nor can I kill her—if I was going to, the time was in the caves, in the dark, when I could not look into her eyes. Even if he could justify it to himself, the moment he got close enough, her fear would transport to him and he didn’t think he’d be able to force his hands to do it. If, that is, she feels fear…?
An additional darkness swam across his vision. He didn’t know what time it was—the day had gone on forever. He was as weak as a newborn sandcat. He shouldn’t sleep, but if he didn’t he’d never be able to make it across the desert.
“I’m going to tie you up,” he said to her, and the dark stare hardened, if that was possible, grazing down his face
from his eyes to where the pulse beat in his throat, down to the marks she’d left on his chest and arm, down to the soft parts of his body, places where her nails could tear.
He broke out in goose bumps. It was as if she were touching him, skimming those razor-sharp nails down the path her gaze travelled.
Really, he shouldn’t sleep.
But I have to. Just half an hour. Tie her up, shut my eyes for a few minutes…
This time, fear had no need to battle with mercy. He dragged the knots as tight as he could and gagged her too, avoiding looking in her face, using all his hard-won control to hold any creeping empathy at bay, then used a triple-twisted strip to tether her to the trunk of a palm tree. His tunic was a mess, frayed edges and trailing threads. A refugee again, coming to the mountains looking as if I’d crawled through gauntlet-bushes to get there.
She stared at him, caught, every muscle straining as she pulled against the bonds. But all that happened was that the knots worked themselves tighter. He’d have to cut them to let her go.
But not yet. He moved far enough away so she couldn’t reach him and lay down.
A short rest. Then I take her into my world. Let the others of my people think what to do with a maenad who is not a maenad—
Sleep took him before he finished the thought.
He woke into the thin darkness of just before dawn, jerking upright as if he’d been pulled by strings, his heart galloping. He was standing before he knew it, dizzy from the blood rushing to his head.
She’s gone. Got free and gone to tell them—
As he turned, panic making his thoughts nonsense, muscles quivering with the compulsion to take flight, he saw her—a dark shape curled at the far side of the tree he’d tied her to.
Blood of the Volcano: Sequal to Heart of the Volcano Page 3
