Then with a sharp jerk, he sheared the weapon of its blade, leaving an impotent stick in its wielder’s hand. The man fell back, half-drenched and shaking in fear. His uniform was nearly as bloodstained as Poe’s and even his jet-black hair had been marred with the viscera of his allies.
I am not unkillable, Poe reminded himself. If I fight as though I were, I shall be defenseless before the Living God.
Yet despite how that lone survivor trembled, there was a courage in his eyes that was trying to will his body to rise and fight again. Poe considered taking his life, but saw no purpose in doing so. He was only one, and one person could not stop him.
* * *
Over the course of several exhausting hours, Flynn, Jean, Zaja, and Shea advanced steadily toward the outer rim of Yeribelt. It was like no war Shea had ever fought—grossly outnumbered at every turn, yet seemingly unnoticed by the very enemy they were supposed to be engaging.
With every step they progressed, Shea feared she was leaving some piece of her humanity behind. While the bulk of the enemy forces overlooked them in the mad pursuit to capture Guardian Poe, they had not been without their skirmishes. The first encounter came as a surprise, and while Flynn and Jean had fought like a matched set, Shea had scrambled to draw her pistol, and had to stop herself upon realizing the noise might draw others to their location.
Fear hounded them, with every conflict that followed becoming more intense, more desperate. They were vulnerable now, enemies all around and no sign of Chari to mend their wounds or Poe to overwhelm the opposition. Flynn fought more desperately to keep his comrades safe, Jean struck more brutally at any who dared fight her, and Zaja lashed at her foes as though they were wild animals who’d dared come too close.
Shea paused at the end of a battle to press the flat side of the Searing Truth to her forehead. As a soldier in the Trynan-Bheln conflict, she had taken eight lives. However many she’d slain now numbered well into the double digits.
She wanted to feel sick for it.
Miles passed underfoot, and time seemed to erode into a blur, with only the movement and fading of the blue sun to remind her of their progress. But Yeribelt, once an insignificant band on the horizon, steadily grew larger as they neared. So with it did Borudust Castle, and the cascading light that fell upon it like a gathering storm.
“Almost there,” Zaja said, her voice dry and cracking.
“Thank fuckin’ god,” Jean gasped. “My dogs are killin’ me.”
Shea was half-hunched from exhaustion. She needed to sit and rest. She needed a damned cigarette. She picked up her pace and tried to advance, when a hand grabbed her by the coattails, and wrenched her to the ground.
“Down, now!” Flynn hissed.
Shea didn’t waste energy arguing. A small band of Reahv’li emerged just around the hill and rushed onward. The four remained hidden for several minutes, waiting until it seemed certain the patrol was gone.
“Think we’re clear?” Zaja asked in a whisper.
“You can come out now.” It was not a voice that Shea recognized, but her comrades appeared to know it instantly.
Perched on the hill, one leg resting on a boulder, was a man with three vestigial horns in a triangle pattern on his forehead. He made an unwelcome impression, and when Flynn said, “Arronel,” Shea knew by reputation the man looking down on them.
“Such fuss over the Guardian,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval. “A timely ambush would have seen him cowed. Owing to your manner of infiltration, that opportunity is all but dashed. Well played.” He sneered, his contempt masquerading as praise. “He may be challenging to predict, but I know you, Flynn. You’re thorough. No job half-done. Certainly wouldn’t make a god out of a man and leave him to his own affairs.”
“He’s going to kill Taryl Renivar,” Flynn warned.
“Oh, he’ll certainly try. But I believe in my god, and he can certainly handle one lesser than he.”
“So we got you all to ourselves, then?” Jean retorted. “Up for a rematch, fucker?”
“Oh, I took special account for you, shrew,” Arronel retorted. “Touch the ground.”
Shea hadn’t been paying much mind to the terrain, but while Jean cautiously knelt, Shea ground her boots into it. The soil beneath them was soft, and when Jean initiated a tremor, it had a weak effect and limited carry.
“I recalled our first encounter when I went hunting for you,” he continued. “The terrain was not to your advantage. Only the numbers—” He paused to hold out his arms, prompting a number of Reahv’li to reveal themselves. Between the slopes of the terrain and their assailants, they were effectively surrounded. “—which I’ve since seen fit to amend,” Arronel finished.
“Well, fu—”
“Attack,” he ordered, and the Reahv’li swarmed them, all lunging forward with spears outstretched. Shea tensed momentarily before finding her sword hilt with both hands and clumsily pulling it free. Not a moment too soon, she swatted a spear aside; it still slipped past her core defenses and sliced her on the bicep. They’re actually trying to kill us! she thought.
The Reahv’li they’d fought before never put their hearts in the battle; it was always as if following through with that killing stroke might cause them to lose something precious.
As if in answer, Arronel, who was walking down the slope twirling his spear, proudly proclaimed, “These soldiers are among my finest! Every wretch here has taken a life, and so my august lord’s paradise is forever denied them! They fight more fiercely than any other, to ensure none shall ever have to kill again!”
Shea scrambled to avoid one strike, then another, stumbling on her tail before scrambling back up. One of the Reahv’li was about to impale Flynn from behind, and Shea, without thinking, ran her sword through his side, killing him instantly.
“You are new,” Arronel declared, approaching Shea through the chaos. She backed up nervously, not knowing what she faced, and her hand faltered as she drew a pistol. Before she could level it on Arronel, another attacker came into her line of sight and she instinctively fired, dropping the pistol as the soldier touched the earth.
“Don’t get you,” she stammered. “Any of you. Say you’re not to kill, but do it anyway.”
He didn’t deign to respond, and swung his spear at her face. She intercepted it with her blade, and was grateful then to be wielding the Searing Truth. Arronel’s spear seemed dangerously sharp, and would likely have split her old cutlass in twain.
“Lieutenant of some sort, right?” she asked him. “Poor sods here won’t see the new world, but you? Exception, I ’magine.”
He advanced on Shea. “Horsemen of the End Days won’t enter the new world, and I am Lord Renivar’s third.” Arronel raised his spear with one arm, ready to hurl it at her. At such range, he would not miss, and she could neither close in to attack nor deflect his weapon with hers; she hadn’t the skill.
When Shea was unable to formulate a coherent plan of defense, panic and instinct took over. She snatched up her second pistol and, just as Arronel was about to release his throw, fired a shot in his abdomen.
“Unh?!” Arronel grunted and doubled just enough from the pain that his spear wobbled as it flew. It seemed to clear Shea’s space, but when she heard a scream, she had to touch her throat to ensure it wasn’t her own.
“ZAJA!”
Shea turned stark white as she spun around to see Zaja dropping to her knees, green blood draining from her back. Flynn had been first to notice, but Shea was certain she was closest. Without thinking, she advanced toward Zaja, hacking the opposition away like a machete to foliage.
When she reached Zaja, she cut the spear at its base and left the blade inside her. “Hold still, don’t fight it,” Shea begged as she shed her coat and split it with her sword, stabbed another attacker, and then began tightly binding it around Zaja’s midsection. As Zaja shook in her arm
s, she took great pains to fasten the spear blade in place so it wouldn’t shift or allow more blood to seep through. She couldn’t remove it here; Zaja would bleed to death.
“Break for it!” she barked to her comrades.
Their Reahv’li combatants had suffered agonizing losses, worsened after Zaja’s injury.
“I can … walk,” Zaja murmured weakly as she tugged at Shea’s shirt.
“Hush,” she ordered, and charged ahead, cradling Zaja in her arms. She hadn’t looked back, but was soon certain she was being followed. If it wasn’t Flynn and Jean, her pursuers would have hell to pay.
* * *
As the life left her, Zaja DeSarah faded in and out. The arid valley was patched with dying grass, then a blur of weathered tents, and finally a cold stone wall and a messy bed of hay.
Everything was hazy as she was laid roughly on her side, propped up by pairs of rotating hands to keep her from driving the spear-blade further into her back. Delirium was drowning the pain, which surfaced only when the embedded blade shifted. There was a faint sensation of her bloodied clothes sticking to her skin, beyond where the wound had gone numb.
A cluster of questions, hushed and panicked, carried to Zaja’s ears. Were we followed? Are we safe? Is Chari coming? Everything felt like a dream. She tried to roll back, to look, but was firmly held in place.
“Stay awake,” someone begged.
Everything felt distant. Zaja wanted to sleep for just a little while.
“Do something,” another demanded.
The dream was becoming more faded.
“I … cannot,” a helpless voice replied.
Chari? Zaja wondered.
“Even had I the power, I’ve not the knowledge to implement it.”
No. Poe.
“Where is Chari?” seemed to be the question on everyone’s lips.
All was gray, then black, and with it the uncertain fear her eyes were still open. If this was the end, what was the last thing Zaja would see? Would she wake up in the Beyond, the place after life, as though rousing from a nap? Or would there be some transition, her soul being ripped from her body? She vaguely wanted to know, but the last distant thought she had before blacking out was that it could not be worth the price.
And then nothing.
“…say we should just leave her here…”
Zaja saw the stars, vast and infinite and tinged by the blue light of cosmic energy, swirling overhead. There were distant voices, too muted to make out everything, but they were talking about her.
“…still regrouping, won’t be long before they look here…”
“…she’d want to see this through…”
She wasn’t moving. At first, Zaja thought she was drifting, but nothing around her had changed.
“…ooh, right there. Little lower…”
The stars and cosmic energy were all there, but something surrounded them, like a picture frame. Zaja stared into the heavens intently, trying to figure it out. Is that … the ceiling? She fluttered her eyes, and realized her body was still indoors, and she was still in it.
Shea was sitting over her, sighing in relief. “Thought you’d gone.”
“You doubt my talents?” Chari was sitting nearby, eying Shea with mild offense. Her robes were loosened, and Flynn was massaging the bare skin of her back. It took Zaja a moment to realize it was in the same place she’d been stabbed.
Zaja sat up, like waking from an afternoon slumber. There was no pain, only a strange sensation she’d been here before. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Déjà vu, Zaj?” Jean teased.
And then she began to recognize her surroundings. She hadn’t been in this specific house before, but the construction was familiar. There were no signs it had been occupied, which came as a relief; the inhabitants might not have fared well otherwise.
“How long has it been?” Zaja asked.
“Not very,” Flynn glanced back at her. “A few hours. The Reahv’li are in shambles and there’s miscommunication across the board. Half of them think we’ve retreated or that we’re still zigzagging through the valley.”
“And how much of that was your doing?” she asked.
“Less than you’d think.” He’d already returned his attentions to Chari when he added, “You should be resting.”
Zaja was weak, but couldn’t dare show it. Her wound felt long healed, but she’d lost blood and energy. It had grown cold outside, and on any other day, she’d have taken his advice.
“How soon do we move?”
“Zaja,” Poe spoke up. “It may be better if you remain—”
“How. Soon?” she repeated.
They sat in silence for several minutes before any response was given. Zaja understood why. They were all exhausted, mentally if not physically. Dozens had died already, and Renivar’s sanctum loomed like gallows.
“In a few minutes,” Flynn said at last, as he finished with Chari and slid her wraps back into place.
“Don’t fancy moving,” Shea confessed with an abashed smile. “Can’t stay either.”
There were no encouraging words or call to action. They only checked that the Reahv’li hadn’t come near, then stepped out into the night.
Yeribelt appeared like a ghost town, its roads gently dusted by the wind. Through the fragile tents, Zaja could hear the denizens hushing each other in fear, keeping the lights and their voices low, hoping the monsters would pass. Intense guilt washed over her, and she’d have begged then for the ignorance to forget why they were so afraid.
They walked the familiar streets, past the intersection where Airia Rousow had stood defiant half a year before, scorned by a mob too cowardly to suppress her. Airia had incited fear through notoriety alone, and Zaja’s company possessed considerably more. Perhaps they would find her, when this was all over.
The moons were aglow in the sky when they reached the outer wall encompassing Borudust Castle. There was a crowd waiting, but it was not the Reahv’li soldiers they’d expected.
These were Renivar’s humble worshippers, those brave few who had not joined his guard but were still prepared to stand and fight. Most were unknown to her, but one she was certain she’d helped with a broken wagon, another with laying fresh pipes for Yeribelt’s shoddy irrigation system. And another was of her own people; he’d run a noodle shack, last time she was here.
“Vestus,” she said with some surprise.
He looked at Zaja, his face a canvas of hurt and betrayal. She wanted to apologize, but they were on opposite sides, and it was unthinkable for her to switch. Renivar’s disciples believed themselves more righteous, more deserving of life and prosperity. It was a position Zaja could never empathize with.
“You have fought through better, braver people than us,” their ringleader said. “And if need be, you shall fight through us. But we cannot allow you to meet the Living God, knowing what you intend to do.”
They were poorly armed—a shovel here, a hammer there. Vestus clutched his kitchen knife, its blade stained from recent use. Zaja’s allies stood at the ready, waiting for the slightest provocation.
“Stand aside, mortals,” Poe commanded. “You place yourselves in a fool’s position, opposing your betters.”
There was no doubt he possessed the gravitas to be a god, and had they not already met one, this crowd might have been moved.
“Please, stand down,” the ringleader requested. “Too much blood has been spilt today.”
Her side would not—could not—give any ground. When the first shot rang out, the frenzy that erupted ended within moments. Zaja had stepped back, watching everything, doing nothing. Before this, it had been justified, self-defense. Soldier against soldier, after a fashion.
It wasn’t a fair fight, but their opposition was brave. When the last body fell, Shea dragging her sword from her victim’s h
eart, Zaja ran into the slaughter to Vestus and cradled him in her arms.
“Vestus! Vestus!” she cried, seeing he was still lucid.
“Quinan…” was the last coherent thing he said. He murmured distantly as the life slipped out of him.
Jean approached, looking down on them. “I remember that kid,” she said with only a hint of sorrow. “Made good soup.”
Zaja flashed her an angry look, for reducing the weight of Vestus’s life down to a single thing.
“Chari,” Zaja begged. “Chari! Please heal him.”
Chari, who’d been attending her rifle, looked at Zaja crossly. “I won’t,” she replied.
“But why?!” Zaja cried. “You’re a healer! Heal him!”
She dropped what she was doing with obvious irritation and approached Zaja, looking down at Vestus, then back at her. “He is of the enemy. What makes this one more valued than any other of the dying surrounding us?” Zaja was at a loss for words, opening her mouth but unable to speak. “Think you he would welcome us if he were to survive? Forgive what must now be done?” A fleeting expression crossed Chari’s face that Zaja almost swore was relief. “Come what may, he has expired. There is no purpose in mending him now.”
Vestus’s head slid from her lap and Zaja began to sob for him, even as she fought to keep the tears at bay. She withdrew her hands, and found them covered in blood, the same color as her own. She tried to slide out from under him without disturbing his body, that he might rest peacefully.
The others had pushed open the gate, revealing the final distance between Yeribelt and the entrance to Borudust Castle, and Taryl Renivar within.
As she stood there, trying to gather her thoughts, Flynn’s voice shocked her back to reality. “You’re still coming?” It may not have been a question—she wasn’t sure, but she nodded just the same.
She’d crossed the courtyard before. It hadn’t changed, but it felt like the longest walk of her life.
* * *
It was all as Poe remembered from before. The vast chamber, the looming ceiling, and the pedestal upon which Taryl Renivar knelt in perpetual strain, unable to leave without sacrificing the divinity he’d been clutching for centuries.
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways Page 43
