“Tothian.” She grunted as she rubbed the garments between her hands to loosen the worst of the stiffness in a flurry of red motes.
“What?” Zoria asked and watched the drifting crimson cloud in morbid fascination.
“Tothian Sisters,” Ax-Wed said and held the shirt up for inspection. “Not Thulian.”
“Oh.” The girl sniffed, unperturbed by the correction. “I remember they were great warriors, so I simply assumed—”
“Do you remember how their story goes?” the warrior woman asked.
The youth paused for a moment and her face scrunched as she tried to recall the few nights of peace when they did not entertain clients and weren’t drugged into a stupor. These were a few bright points in a long litany of darkness but their light was ephemeral and almost dreamlike and as such, of little use for historical recollection.
“No.” She sighed and shook her head.
“Dead to the last brazen hussy,” Ax-Wed said with a snort that was almost a laugh. “It turns out armor helps.”
Zoria, for reasons she didn’t understand, scowled in indignation.
“They fought bravely,” she protested and although she wracked her brain, she found nothing of use in her impromptu defense.
“And they died bravely, too,” the Thulian said as she slid the red-stained shirt on. “Not for me.”
“Don’t you plan on dying bravely?” Zoria smirked.
“Not yet,” she muttered as she lifted the bottom of her shirt and looked at her garroted polyp. “Not today.”
Before the girl could respond, the warrior woman grasped the blackening lump and gave it a sharp twist. With a sound like tearing parchment, the bulb of decaying meat came free. She swore fiercely but held the trophy of her conquest up triumphantly. Thickening fluid too dark to be blood dribbled weakly from the lump in her hand, while her side revealed pink-toned new skin where the tumor had been.
“That’s disgusting.” Zoria gagged, unable to shift her gaze from the gory chunk. “Couldn’t you have warned me?”
Ax-Wed smiled at her prize and tossed it over her shoulder.
“Hey!” the girl cried. “You can’t throw your…your…whatever those are around here. I have to live here, you know.”
She chuckled and heaved her armor into place.
“If we are a we…” The warrior woman sighed as the comforting weight settled over her. “Then you won’t live here much longer.”
The words struck Zoria like a lightning bolt and her entire body went rigid as she turned wide eyes on her.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We’ll make a way out of here,” she stated as she rose and buckled her belt on, the settled one hand on the sylver head of her weapon. “Or die bravely.”
The girl stared but didn’t dare to foster that most dangerous of fires—hope.
“But first, we see about provisions,” Ax-Wed said as her stomach rumbled. “Even an army of two marches on its stomach.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
One butcher staggered back with a bubbling shriek and raised his hands to the riven remains of his face.
“Stay together!” Vahrem bellowed a moment before the whip cracked again and the braided length peeled skin and meat from a bare arm.
One of the flesh mongers ducked and rushed under the retreating whip, his cleaver raised for a hewing stroke. Iyshan’s scimitar cut air and flesh with equal ease and the man crumpled without even a scream.
“Come on!” the manservant snarled and scattered blood with a liquid flourish of his blade. “The Serpent’s Coils always have more room. Who else wants to go?”
The assembly of masked thugs wavered for a moment and studied their dead and maimed members. The merchant sensed their weakness and rose from his fighting crouch enough that he could meet the eyes of several men before him.
“I don’t know who is paying you,” he said, his voice firm but without anger. “But you can’t spend silver when you’re dead and even gold loses its luster without a hand to hold it or eyes to see it.” He nodded to the dead man and the two who shuffled and moaned over their wounds. “Leave now,” the caravan master said with absolute authority. “Leave now and we all go about our ways.”
The air trembled with the tension.
After an uncomfortable silence, the man with the maimed arm turned to flee and left his flensing blade on the street. His fellows watched his retreat and appeared to be on the edge of fleeing alongside him. As he passed the last man, however—a huge brute with a wiry black beard jutting from under his hood—the tension ruptured. The colossus, with a meat hook in one hand and a hatchet in the other, snared the fleeing man with the hook and threw him down. Still cradling his whip-flayed arm, the injured man tried to shield himself but the hatchet swung in a rush. He begged, then he shrieked, and finally, he was silent.
The bearded giant rose from his work spattered with blood and glared at the men around him. Dark eyes blazed within his hood. He lifted the bloody hatchet and pointed at Vahrem.
“Kill them all!” he commanded in a guttural bellow.
The battle in the street began in earnest.
With the numbers still to their advantage, the flesh mongers attacked in a rush and swung their chopping and slicing implements in wide and heavy arcs. The company from the caravan beat them back. The few injuries among them were only superficial but in avoiding the hewing, tearing strokes, the defensive ring was broken. The defenders were forced back-to-back with the man or dwarf beside them.
“I told you I had a bad feeling about this,” Iyshan shouted over his shoulder as his scimitar drove back three of the enemy. The wiry man’s curved blade licked across a butcher’s knee when he tried to race inside the longer weapon’s guard. He collapsed with a cry and his hand clutched his bloodied leg.
His fellows seemed less inclined to follow in their comrades' footsteps.
“Thank you for reminding me.” Vahrem grunted as he reversed his grasp on the stout whip handle to catch a meat hook that plunged toward his face. “I’d almost forgotten.”
The man who’d attacked him snarled, his teeth bared like a wild beast as he fought to drive the hook into him. The merchant pivoted on his heel and let the man tumble forward before the sword in his other hand—a thrusting blade that might have almost been an enlarged knife—drove through his foe’s ribs.
With no further resistance, the butcher fell free of the blade and painted the street with a series of gasping coughs.
To the left, Asa and Durra warded attackers away with both point and bill of their Wain lances. The former seemed in his element and bellowed wild, braying taunts as the iron tip of his weapon menaced any who came near. Although the younger dwarf was less confident, his grip was firm and his face set as he forced their adversaries to scuttle back from the sweep and thrust of his lance.
When he glanced to the right, the caravan master noticed that the two men he’d brought besides Iyshan were not faring so well. The younger of the two, a fit and handsome man named Siava, had sustained a cut across his brow in the initial attack and he struggled to keep his attackers at bay as blood ran freely over one eye. The elder, a gnarled old scrapper called Heydr, fought like a lion at bay to make up for his flagging comrade, but with each stroke of his red-streaming ax, he gave a little more ground. The blood on him was not only from his enemies, and an injury across one shoulder bled freely.
Striding toward them like an executioner toward the block was the black-bearded giant.
“We need to go right,” Vahrem called as he snapped the whip to dissuade another two attackers from their efforts.
“When?” Iyshan shouted and parried a swing before he riposted through the throat of another encroacher.
“Now!” the caravan master roared.
Like a sirocco of steel and braided hide, they spun across the street and scattered foes in their wake like plumes of desert sand. Despite this, he knew they were not moving fast enough and he worked whip and blade furiou
sly while one eye watched his beleaguered men.
The blood-spattered colossus loomed over Siava and the blood-blinded man swung with his horseman’s ax raised overhead. That fact alone saved his life when the hatchet descended through his hand and bit into the ax haft. The young man fell to his knees and clutched his hand, now short two fingers and the better part of his thumb, which lay in his blood next to his ax. He choked back a scream as he looked into the face of the cruelly chuckling giant, his eyes wet with pain but not fear as he faced his end with his head raised.
“I am the Shepherd’s,” he declared and struggled to rise to his feet. “I know his voice.”
The giant kicked him squarely in the chest and he fell heavily.
“Hold still, liʼl sheep.” His adversary laughed and lifted his hatchet. It gleamed in the moonlight. “I have mutton to make.”
Haydr, his ax abandoned in the skull of another flesh monger, launched himself onto the hulk like a rabid dog. Biting, raking, kicking, and punching, he drove the colossus back, first by one step then another. He screamed a primal challenge, his veins bulging and sinews straining under his weathered skin, and drove his larger opponent hard. Such was his fury that he seemed to strike everywhere at once.
The meat hook swung upward and caught the old scrapper in the belly.
He screamed pain and rage that made the air tremble and one hand clutched the cruel metal that bit into his flesh while the other continued to swing at his foe. With a savage twist, the colossus buried the hook deeper and both the scrapper’s hands grasped the arm holding the hook. With a vicious roar, the giant pulled upward and Haydr’s feet rose off the ground and kicked ineffectually as he was hoisted by the hook in his stomach.
The hatchet rose again but this time, began its plunge without taunt or jeer.
A whip-crack gave answer all the same.
A gory welt bloomed across the giant’s hand and the hatchet fell from his grasp.
“Watch over Siava!” Vahrem shouted to Iyshan as he closed on the colossus, who still held Heydr squirming on the meat hook.
His manservant spun to meet another two oncoming butchers and his scimitar lashed out in hungry flashes.
The huge man on whom the merchant was now focused seemed confused as to how suddenly the situation had changed, but the dull bewilderment beneath his mask turned to bestial rage when another snap of braided leather drove the meat hook from his hand. Heydr landed with a scream and the blood-dowsed handle of the hook still jutted from his belly.
“I’ll pull you apart!” the colossus roared and ignored his previous victim to advance on this new aggressor, his huge hands curled into claws. “Piece by piece.”
The whip answered for its wielder as his foe rushed forward, but the brute took the stinging blow across his shoulder when he lunged at the merchant. Vahrem ducked beneath the wide, grasping sweeps and cracked the pommel across the brute’s face as he tried to bring his sword to bear.
A roar like that of an enraged bull issued from the butcher and a massive fist knocked the blade from Vahrem’s grasp while the other arm snaked around his neck when he tried to dive away. A limb thick with huge blocks of muscle clamped on the merchant’s throat and the pressure made him think his head might burst. The titanic crushing force was such that when the bloodied fist arced into his face, he barely noticed. His eyes watered and his nose gave a series of gristly pops, but it all seemed distant.
“I’ll stove your head in, runt!” the giant bellowed although, if the truth be told, this latest threat was wasted on the caravan master, who could hear nothing over the grind of his spine and his gagging breath.
Years of hard-earned experience and numerous times in this kind of situation served him well. He tensed his wide shoulders and drove his weight into the throttling headlock. Sweat and blood slicked his head and face but these aided him to slide free and his adversary staggered forward. Before the giant could turn, he leapt onto his back and with an expert flourish, wound the whip coils around his neck.
His enemy roared and one hand clawed at the braided leather that cut into his bullish neck while the other swatted and swung vainly to try to catch hold of his tormentor. Vahrem swung on the man’s back with each attempt and strained to retain his hold on both ends of the whip and to keep it taut.
Close to despair and desperation, the butcher threw himself on the ground, hoping to dislodge his strangler on the hard stone. The merchant felt as much as heard his bones pop as he was crushed between the huge man and the unyielding street and for a moment, the world seemed all soft sounds and bright lights.
Still, his grip held firm and when the big man rolled, he rode his back as though breaking in a new stallion.
The giant’s attempts grew weaker and while his thrashing flagged, Vahrem had time to locate his short sword, which fortuitously lay within reach. He took both ends of the braid in one raw hand, leaned back, and tried to snatch his weapon. His adversary, sensing the end was nigh, summoned the last of his strength against him but the caravan master’s fingers found the sword hilt.
After a single thrust through the side of the huge man’s head, he tumbled onto the street with a pained groan.
Ignoring his injured hands and the taste of so much blood pouring from his nose, Vahrem staggered to his feet, yanked his sword from the man’s skull, and looked around. The fight was over and the bloodied street had suddenly fallen silent.
In the eerie stillness, he swept his gaze over the dead and dying scattered like broken dolls across the street. Most were the butchers but not all.
Siava knelt beside Heydr, a dripping rag pressed to his injured hand. The old scrapper lay motionless. He was still breathing but each labored breath saw a fresh rush of blood join the pool around him. In the moonlight, so much blood looked almost black, a pool of liquid shadow that spread beneath the man.
Iyshan wiped the blood from his scimitar and scowled at his surroundings as though he expected the dead to rise and begin another attack.
“The dwarves?” The merchant choked and spat a gobbet of blood that he hadn’t noticed had filled his mouth. That punch must have hit him harder than he thought.
The other man pointed with his chin and he followed the gesture to where Asa limped toward them while Durra braced him under one arm.
“The whoreson dove for my leg.” The dwarf chuckled and nodded at his stained trouser leg. “I spitted him but he put one of those hooks through my foot all the same.”
“We’ll be fine,” Durra assured the merchant, his bright eyes practically aflame. “See to your man.”
Vahrem nodded and staggered uneasily to where Heydr lay.
The old scrapper’s flesh looked almost translucent under the silvery light from on high. One ghostly pale hand rested on Siava’s arm and squeezed it with what meager strength he had.
“You did good, boy,” the older man said and managed a weak smile. “I saw you defeat more than a few of them.”
Tears flowed freely down the young man’s face and mingled with the blood that still seeped from his slashed brow.
“I’m s-so sorry,” Siava replied, his voice choked as he fought back sobs, but Heydr chided him with a cluck of his tongue.
“None of that now,” the old man said and shook his head, the motion uncomfortably limp. When he noticed Vahrem, a new smile crept across the scrapper’s weathered features.
“Did you kill the giant, boss?” he asked and his eyes brightened for a second.
“Aye.” He nodded as he sank down next to the man. “Although I had some help.”
“I was only keepin’ him warm for you, boss.” Heydr chuckled, then winced and his body went rigid with pain.
“Maybe…” Siava began and his gaze darted frantically from the merchant to the dying man. “We can get him to the barracks still. It’s not far and they must have a surgeon or something or even some healing tinctures. We could buy them if…if…”
The young man’s voice failed him as he met the sad eyes of both men in
turn.
“I’m past that, boy.” Heydr nodded and squeezed Siava’s arm weakly again. “This hook has torn me up inside and the fall burst something deep…ugh, deep in me.”
“Rejoice,” Vahrem said as he put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes although his voice held firm. “Tonight, our brother goes to feast with the Shepherd.”
“No!” Siava sobbed and twisted out from under the comforting hand. “No, there has to be something we can do!”
“There is,” the old man said and his voice hardened as he locked gazes with his young friend. “There is something.”
“W-what?” Siava asked and almost quailed before the fierce light in the dying man’s eyes.
“Pray the Shepherd’s Way over me,” Heydr replied and his gaze refused to let the younger man go. “Let me go to his tent hearing a friend speak the Truth over me.”
Siava sobbed again, but the old man's hand tightened around his arm.
“Come on,” the old scrapper urged with a touch of a smile on his graying face. “Be a man for me only a little longer.”
Vahrem rested one bloody hand on Siava’s shoulder and the other on Heydr’s head. With a low hum, he began the accompanying tune for the prayer. Iyshan came to stand behind his master and added his wordless drone to the chorus. The young man sniffed and shook his head but when the caravan master nodded, he began to speak. His eyes were closed and his voice trembled but he spoke each word without fail.
“The Shepherd knows his flock and fetches them from field and fen
Although they are blind and walk into the lair of wolf and lion’s den.
The Shepherd guards his flock from jackal without and snake within.
His watchful eye is keen, seeing all from beginning to end.
The Shepherd knew what must be done for those he loved and chose
So he walked the valley so black to the House of Seven Woes.
Circle In The Deep (The Outcast Royal Book 1) Page 19
