The quaggas squealed and bucked.
There was the barest of hesitation as Dost surveyed the remains. Then he walked over to the carnage and methodically began to deal with each creature. One hand on the neck, one hand on the body – in a grim display of force, he tore head from body. Ichor and blood sprayed forth. Smoke drifted on the breeze. He tossed away the pieces and went on to the next.
She grimaced. What were these things?
It was as if her eyes at last focused correctly. These were...dogs, cats, a collar-wearing leopard and even a ferret. Their skin in tatters, muscle and bone raw – whether from the force of the fire-tube or something else. Among them was even a tiny Feronese cat, and the broad, eyeless head still anchored to Dayna’s horse’s was that of a sarcophilus devil – a stocky, dog-like animal prized as a pet for its loyalty.
“Stop! Dost!”
“Why?” He said this without turning, continuing his grisly work.
She ran a few steps closer. “Don’t you see? They’re pets – cats, dogs. Gods! Leave them some dignity.” She gagged.
“They’re undead. I know that. Like me.” He spat the words.
“You’re an animal! At least use your sword.”
Now he looked at her with those icy blue eyes. “I have none.” He touched the hilt at his hip. “This is a fake. No one quite trusts me enough. If I stop, these will heal, and get up again and they will try to kill again.”
She faltered. “I could...perhaps I could...”
“What?” Comprehension dawned. “Heal them? Like you did to – ” He stopped himself in time, somehow both hopeful and angry at the same time. His shoulders slumped. He shook his head, staring at his feet a moment, as if he regretted his words. “Here!” He bent, picked up one of the bodies and brought it to her, gently placing it on the grass. “Try.”
A cat, it already stirred. The gaping wounds were not sufficient to destroy whatever force animated it.
If she succeeded the others would know. She inhaled sharply through her nose then swiftly knelt and placed her palm on the cat and closed her eyes. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Her heart slowed. The distant threads of its healthy body were there – faint, unraveling, but tangible. Slowly she found the ends and reeled them in. She could knit them into what they were and should be again.
Pain speared through her head. Red-hot pain that burst from her temples, sending trails of agony down every limb. She gasped and stumbled backward.
Immediately Dost was there. “Are you hurt?” Her throat closed. She couldn’t speak but shook her head. He scooped up the writhing body and strode away.
The pain burned down her arms to her right hand. When most of it had thankfully gone away, the joints of that hand still throbbed. They remained swollen and a blotchy red and brown. No, she couldn’t do it. There were too many bludvoik, she was messing around with a dangerous talent, and, worst of all, she didn’t think she could stand the pain. Yet she wanted to help them so much.
How had she changed Dost? What was different?
Something warm nudged her arm then licked vigorously at the back of her hand. “Gangar!” She gently placed a hand on his muzzle. “No. No, licking. Where have you been?” Tears pricked at her eyes.
He heaved out a long sigh as if in reply, pawed at her once then lay down by her side, his head resting on her thigh, his big liquid eyes fixed on her face. Sunlight yellow washed the edges of his body. Something that Dost had said...
This was when the first of the ghosts appeared. Over the lip of the river embankment paced the sharp-eared, graceful ghost of the Feronese cat slinking along as cunningly as it might have when alive. When it saw that it had her attention, it sat on its haunches and waited while the others caught up. There was the husky and the lolloping ferret, then came the cross-bred mongrel, a devil, and the ghosts of the rest of the animals.
So many animal ghosts. Never had she heard of so many being seen in one place.
The cat began cleaning herself. The husky lay down, front legs crossed, as if it waited for her decision. Dignity they had in plenty. They were at peace and they wanted her to know it. Their bodies meant nothing to them.
She wiped her eyes, settling cross-legged on the ground. Her legs shook as she did so. The solidness of the earth under her was reassuring, calming. So. This was what they wanted – true death.
Ellinca couldn’t look at what Dost did. Necessary, yes, but why did he not show some anguish? She suspected he extracted pleasure from it. Who knew what a bludvoik felt?
She tried looking elsewhere.
Dayna was having great trouble prying loose the head of the sarcophilus. Her mare kept her rear end as far from Dayna as possible. With her rubbery lips fluttering, eyes wide with fright, her ears pricked back, the horse clearly aimed to go round in circles forever.
Dost’s mount had done the predictable, sensible thing for a horse. It had disappeared completely after the explosion from the tube. They would have to round it up. Dayna’s arm should be looked at. She cradled her elbow.
Having calmed the squealing quaggas, Haddrash was reloading his fire-tube. The back of it unclamped, he deftly removed a metal circlet of small red-hot tubes that hissed when they hit the ground, fitted another circlet and refastened the back.
Such awful deaths. One by one the ghosts of the animals rose and walked away, fading, shrinking until they became nothing. They left her with the odd feeling that she had promised them something. Last of all, a taller, blurred presence rose above them, unfolding as if a human had rested there, keeping watch. The figure quickly faded. Pascolli? She frowned, studying the embankment. Nothing reappeared.
The world had ceased to sway. She clambered to her feet and there was the staccato sound of hoof beats. Krueger at last?
Half-turning, she almost missed the flash of movement. Some dark animal leaped across and bounced off Haddrash’s skullcap and landed sprawling upon the road, with legs scrambling for purchase. Haddrash staggered and tripped. The fire-tube flipped in the air toward her and Haddrash landed a bare yard from the creature – another devil.
To save herself from being clubbed on the head by the tube, Ellinca caught it in her arms, staggering at the weight. It listed to the left, slid, and thumped into her shin. Frantically, hopping on one foot, hissing at the new pain, she grabbed, fumbled and hefted it, wobbling madly, skyward.
The devil was at Haddrash’s throat. Arms bulging with effort, he gasped and held the thing a few shuddering inches away. Its jaws rhythmically snapped at the air. Bloody froth went flying, legs clawed, shredded and ripped at his body. It strained to reach his jugular.
No time for screaming. Do something! The tube? Recognition and horror flared. The blue flame, the small tubes...they were ghosts. It was a gheist weapon. The knife then? No, useless, she’d done needlework with larger blades.
The world slowed. No blinking. If she blinked things could happen. A lunge and it would take out his throat. Had to be done. He was alive. They were already dead.
She aimed. Careful but fast. Open end that way.
Right.
And...pull the trigger.
The world screamed into white silence...and black spots...and went away altogether.
Chapter 18
Unexpected Travelers
It was a while before Ellinca understood she was looking up at the sky. A trio of pelicans flew by. Her head ached. With one hand she felt beneath the veil to a lump on her forehead. No stickiness, she wasn’t bleeding.
Dayna’s face blocked out the sky. “How feeling? Good? You have bad knock to head.”
Swaying a little, Ellinca pulled herself into a seated position with Dayna’s help. She sat on the seat of the carriage.
“Big breaths.” Demonstrating, Dayna took in several lungfuls.
The dizziness went away. There was something she had to do... Krueger rode past, with Dost’s horse and the two quaggas following in his wake, towed by their reins and the remains of their traces. The fire tube would have sent the
m running.
She stiffened. “Haddrash!” She couldn’t see him. There was blood on the ground where the struggle had happened. She turned to Dayna. “Is he...okay?”
“Course I am!” The rasping voice was unmistakable. He walked into view from somewhere behind them. Blood had leaked down his neck and darkened his green tunic. Five or six thick brass staples ran down the side of his face, holding together a tear in his skin. She frowned, something was different. His right ear was missing.
“You blew me ear off,” he said. “So, I’m a bit deaf...but I’m still here...thanks to you. When everyone’s ready to go on I’ll do my job. Hope my darling didn’t injure you, miss?”
She closed her mouth. The man was unflappable. “I’m uninjured. Your ear...Um. Who is...your darling?”
He reached out and patted the bundle that again lay in the driver’s foot tray. “Her. With all these bludvoiks about I brought her out of retirement. My da had her made twenty years ago by the great trinketologist Samuel Xeujung.” Quietly he wiped away a tear. “Only second time she’s been used. A pity for ’twas my old auntie and three great great ancestors in that last shot.”
She knew she had gone pale. “I am so so sorry. I had to! It was going to...bite you.” That sounded almost trivial in the face of sending four ghosts of his ancestors to oblivion, or wherever it was they had gone to.
“Nah. Not your fault, miss. I got their permission and all. I wouldn’t ’ave defied my beliefs, you understand...but still...it hurts here.” He thumped over his heart. “I’ll get the quaggas, have to mend the harness.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked away, head bowed.
“I shot off his ear...and those were his people? But... How could he?” It seemed grotesque, and left a bad taste in her mouth, to use one’s ancestral ghosts for ammunition in a gheist weapon.
Dayna shrugged. “Some think is right. It is allowed. He from old, secret Grakk family. Ways change. His ghosts are happy, I suppose. And Haddrash rich. Very rich.” She rubbed her fingers together in the universal gesture meaning money. “He see good herbologist, many others. Expensive, but one, two week and new ear.”
“Oh. He will? He can? A new ear?” A whole world of possibilities existed that she had never imagined. Money could buy anything but she couldn’t escape the thought that kept repeating inside her mind: the Grakks used gheist weapons, but first they asked their ghosts if they could use them for ammunition. How did they ask them? How could they know they were happy?
It was clear Dayna disapproved. For the Grakks to do this was bewildering. What was the word? Hypocrite?
Dayna slid a velvet bag from a satchel, and untied the drawstring. From inside she drew a hand-sized enameled frog. Its golden eyes blinked lazily at the light.
“Here.” She flipped up a hatch on its back, carefully inserting three or four strips of brass before resealing the device. There was a series of solid whirrs and clicks.
“Und now, little one.”
She addressed the frog, Ellinca saw, with some bewilderment. It was doubtless a trinketton, an automata. Every item a trinketologist made was unique to them. Even though the purpose of each thing might be common, and some things could be copied to some extent, their appearance was never the same. What did this frog do?
With that, Dayna firmly pressed Ellinca’s right wrist flat to the leather of the seat. Surprisingly there was a ragged tear on her palm at the base of her index finger. The frog hopped closer, swiveling its eyes once, twice. It opened its mouth, brass glinting inside.
“Does this actually have to be done?” Ellinca’s voice rose to a squeak. She did not really expect an answer.
“Don’t move.”
Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. It bit down in quick succession. “Ow!” The cut was neatly drawn together by three tiny brass staples. The joints of her fingers were still swollen and blotched with brown.
“There! You good!” declared Dayna.
After that, in a matter-of-fact way and despite their injuries, everyone began to clear the site of the little battle. Dayna had a bruised arm and Dost had a small but significant hole clear through his breastplate he disguised with two weapon belts crossed over his chest.
Krueger, pale, sweaty and sheepish, was dismayed at their situation. The meal the night before had upset him and this, with the complexity of undoing his armor arrangements, had caused his lengthy absence. His stomach made gurgling noises. At one point he knelt as to pray and she saw him take out a small knife and she wondered what god he prayed to.
It gave her pause, to think that battles might be lost or warriors lose their lives because of a poorly timed stomach disorder or a sneeze, blink or cough.
She helped Haddrash re-rig the traces on the quaggas, dying to ask him the questions wrestling in her mind. He remained silent mostly, save for the odd curt instruction.
While they worked, a cart loaded with pumpkins passed them on the way to the city – the driver pushing his quaggas faster than seemed good for them. As a precaution they lowered the snouts of the helms and Ellinca adjusted her veil. Three well-armed shepherds came past next, caution stamped on their faces. They guided their flock around in a wide arc.
Last of all was a party of horsemen. Their leader, stern and shiny in his white chainmail and sitting rigidly on his horse, as if he had a broomstick instead of a spine...was Hilas Frope.
Ellinca watched them from across the dusty gray back of the quagga she was strapping into place. She wrenched the buckle a notch tighter and glared.
She rattled off a prayer. Keep going! Don’t stop!
Level with Frope’s horse was another regal stallion, its rider expensively attired in emerald and black with gold buttons, gold cufflinks and brocade on his frock coat, cloak and hose – rich enough to be a noble. Among the seven mounted soldiers trailing behind Frope and the other noble was the lieutenant, the man of casual cruelty, who had promised never to forget her, who had somehow sensed what she was before anyone else. Her arm throbbed in remembrance.
The despair that had haunted her since Pascolli died evaporated, lifting like a fog at the rising of the sun, burnt away by her anger. It was as if her sorrow had never been. Why had she blamed herself when clearly here was the man himself? Should she carry on endlessly smothering herself in guilt? She was not the one who had whipped Pascolli.
Despite her wishes the soldiers did not pass by.
Upon reaching the dark, bloody patch where the undead animals had been destroyed, Hilas Frope reined to a stop. A thin thread of light shone through the hole in his head. His blue spectacles were as cold as the eyes of a lizard.
The horses whickered and snorted, stamping their hooves. One of the riders drew up near her. Unsure of the reason for the halt, he eyed Ellinca suspiciously. Others half-drew their swords or laid the blades bare across their saddle pommels. The quagga, bad-tempered as always, made to nip at the nearest horses.
“What happened here?” Frope drawled the question.
The bodies had been disposed of. Was he wondering if they were the victims of brigands or was he still in the business of chasing the undead? With dismay she noticed no one readying to answer him.
“Who speaks for you all?”
Nine alert pairs of eyes regarded them. Her thoughts raced. Dayna and Krueger were Grakks. Haddrash must have his own need for anonymity. Dost was the worst – an undead with a hole through his chest no genuine human could survive. If anyone noticed this minor detail...
“Come! Answer me! I am Hilas Frope, Finder to the Imperator and a member of the Burgla’le nobility.
Ellinca firmed her mouth. Keep your back straight and your toes pointed. She’d seen actors at work often enough. She stepped up onto the carriage. Up here, she’d look more commanding. It did draw their attention. She cleared her throat.
What to say? Would the veil hide her enough? The dread of being dragged away to prison, or worse, returned to her. Cold fear trickled through her veins.
“Yes?” Frope turned his horse toward h
er. “You?” He smiled that superior smile then bowed in the saddle, graceful somehow. The gray-haired noble behind him arched his eyebrows and sniffed.
She made herself look Frope straight on, eye to eye. Well, eye to spectacle. This is just like one of the plays. There’s nothing special about acting. Breathe slowly. Speak your lines clearly. He won’t remember you. What lines?
The spoilt princess act was easy. She’d heard this said often enough. The words swam up to her, from the Quest of the Forlorn Knight, scene fifteen, where the judge’s daughter was beset by wolves.
“We encountered a pack of w – creatures, sir. Thankfully my men-at-arms have disposed of them. We suffered some slight wounds. The bodies lie hence.”
Did his eyes grow wide? Did he remember her voice? Was hence too silly? Dayna strolled over to the carriage, her hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword.
“Well, my pardon, young lady. Might I ask what they disposed of?”
“Aaah. We know not...what. Being Barskolian.” She paused, searching for disbelief in his face. “My men do not speak La’le as I do.”
“They don’t?” His gaze traveled to the blood-soaked ground.
His voice hardened. “Show me the carcasses. Please.”
She bent down to Dayna and pretended to mutter a question to her ear. Or about where she judged her ear to be – there was a cluster of small holes in the helm. Dayna leaned away and jerked the snout toward a small copse of trees jutting from the main forest.
“There.” Ellinca pointed to the trees.
At Frope’s command two men rode over, weapons ready, and disappeared into the trees.
For a while Frope gazed quietly about, settling on each of them – Haddrash, the blood-spattered Dost and the others, one by one, until he returned to Ellinca. The blue-tinted spectacles gave nothing away. He tapped out a rhythm on the saddle horn with his fingers.
“You seem oddly...familiar.”
Tiny beads of sweat rose on her forehead.
If he asked her to unveil he would recognize her. It was difficult meeting his gaze without fidgeting or swallowing the lump in her throat, or running away as fast as she could.
Magience: second edition Page 18
