The night was black, the incense as heavy as his lids. The angel had lifted a flask of bitter tasting liquid to his lips and when he had tried to struggle, had pushed him back down with long strong hands. Fire had burned through his body then, and the sound of his heart roared in his ears, the sound of the blood rushing through his veins drowned out all thoughts. Ice next, as needles glinted in the moonlight, causing his flesh to twitch and shiver. He wished for death now, cursed that damned spirit who would not leave things well enough alone, but soon after, once the fire and the ice had done their work, and he lay on the bloody rock somewhere in between life and death and the stars, he rolled his head in her direction to ask.
“Am I dead?” His voice was barely there. He hoped she heard.
“Not quite,” the angel answered.
“Are you an angel, then?”
“Of course.”
“Do you… answer prayers?”
There was a heartbeat of hesitation. “I can hear them.”
Sleep was calling. Sleep or death or stars or something, and he was very, very tired. But there was one last thing he needed to do, one last thing.
“Please angel, spirit, whatever you are, can you help… my brother?”
The angel touched his face, stroked his cheek, kissed his forehead, and as he slipped away again, he could have sworn he saw the angel weeping.
***
The sun had fled this new and dangerous land and the laughing moon came out to play.
And it is well known how the dogs so love their moon.
Candles, lanterns and firepits dotted the encampment, with soldiers patrolling the perimeter in pairs. Three gars held three prisoners and the smell of blood was thick in the air. Blood and smoke, incense and fear, but from only one tent had come sounds of battle, of screeching and snarling and thrashing and fighting and that was the tent that held the woman. She had killed or maimed more of them than any other creature in living memory, but they would not kill her for she was a beautiful thing, small and slim and silver and soft, and they were soldiers, not often given to the company of women. They had used her repeatedly and compared scars afterwards. The Leader could have his lion, the Alchemists their Seer, but the Legion had their woman and they were satisfied.
Finally, even that tent had grown quiet and they moved on to dinner.
They had roasted and eaten three horses that night, and for most of them, life had never been so good. They were about to instate a new Khan, their own Leader, Gansuhk Rush of the 112th Legion of Khan Baitsuhkhan. He would become Khan Gansuhkhan, Fourth Khan of the Lower Kingdom, and they would be elevated to his First Legion. Their ranks would improve. They would be paid more. They could take more wives. Everything would be so much better for them. Once the Leader killed that damned lion.
And once the Leader killed that damned lion, they would be free to kill the rest of them, namely those dressed in black. There would be no need for Alchemy anymore. It would be good practice, and they could kill and eat their black horses as well.
Yes, for the 112th Legion, life had never been so good.
***
The fire went on forever.
There had been no beginning and there would be no end, only flames and burning, fire and blood, and the little kachkah house had trapped him forever within its walls of red. He could hear their screams in his head, and forever would, his wife and beloved daughter, and they echoed even now, an underscore to the music of the fire. And his brother too, as he was held fast by his younger brother’s mind, screaming as he burned in the same way he had burned others, now dying in his brother’s arms.
The fire went on forever.
They would not come for him this time. There would be no soldiers or civil guards, no magistrates or trials, no death sentence or prison or executioner’s blade. No, this time, there would be fire and fire only and he would live here and never die, in the little kachkah house two days walk from Shathkira.
there was no moonlight
there was no silver
He knew what the dogs had done, what they would continue to do until she died of it, but he was trapped in the little kachkah house, with the fire and the screaming. He could not help her. He had failed.
And so, he abandoned himself to the flame, willing them to burn him even more, to scald the pelt from his frame, turn him to ash like his wife, blow him away on the first breeze of evening.
Someone was burning incense.
He could smell it, faintly at first under the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, and he knew it was not Shakuri, for she hated incense, preferring the scents of the jungle and the wild grass. It was not Soladad, for she smelled of sugar, bananas and earth. Nor was it Nemeth. His smell was oil, steel, and firepowder. No, this was different, and try as he would to ignore it, it kept coming back.
You do not live here, came a voice.
Petrus??
You trap yourself here. That is a power they do not have.
Petrus? Is that you?
You must go to the third tent. The gar with the red door.
Who are you?
I owe you, Seer. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.
But who are you?
Come out and I will tell you.
I cannot.
You can and you will. You must.
It was a fight. The fire roared all the louder, the flames burned all the hotter, but bit by bit, Sireth benAramis, the Last Seer of Sha’Hadin, pulled himself from the floor of the little kachkah house and to his feet, and step by step, to the door now of the little kachkah house. The door was aflame, raging with fire and smoke, but this time, it did not burn his hands. He took one last look.
And closed the door behind him.
He opened his eyes.
He was on the ground. His arms were free, the bindings cut, so he pushed himself to his knees to look around the tent. The scent of fire was still strong in his nostrils, the roar in his ears, but the tent itself was silent, still. A single wick burned before him. No candle, just wick and suddenly he knew.
Silently, he thanked her.
Beside the wick was a bolt of rough fabric and a dagger. He snatched both, pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door.
***
It is midnight, and they have built an elaborate fire in the center of the compound. They are all gathered around it, waiting. They have been waiting for hours. One has started a chant, which is quickly picked up by the others, and soon the entire Legion is chanting and stomping, swords raised high into the air.
Tonight they will celebrate.
Finally, a cheer goes up from the pack as the Leader steps out of the gar and into the firelight. He raises his arms wide as he walks, turning in slow circles so all can see the symbols of this new Khan – the headpiece fashioned from a lion’s mane. It is long and golden, brushed to shining and braided with golden threads, the tuft of a golden tail woven into the locks on one side. There is a bloody necklace made of long golden claws, still attached to bones at the first joint. He spins again, a smile finally spreading across his face and shakes his fists to his pack and to the cats in black robes who have joined him.
His lieutenant brings him a flask of votchkah, the strong, biting drink of dogs and he drinks it down in one go. Others do likewise, and the preliminary celebrations have begun. Soon, he will call for the lion. They will all watch that.
For some reason, the cats in black are not celebrating.
***
He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t willed it.
The accursed angel had given him his life back.
And somehow he was here, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a forested plain, and on the back of his mountain pony no less. She had also given him a new tunic, dark grey silk embroidered with suns, moons and stars, sea shells and monkeys.
Now if that wasn’t divine intervention, he couldn’t possibly guess what might be.
It was his good fortune, for he had always been lucky, that the dogs were celebratin
g something, and were gathered in the distance at the center of the camp near a roaring bonfire. They were singing, they were drinking, and under normal circumstances, Kerris would have taken his chances and joined them, trusting his amiable nature and his incorrigible streak of good luck to make new friends, forge new ties and perhaps bring a bit more stability to his proud, proud Empire. But he had a task, an agenda. The angel had promised. Celebrating could wait for later.
Clutching the long sword, he urged Quiz forward and together, they leapt the fire that encircled the camp and disappeared into the shadows therein.
***
He could have sworn it was firepowder.
The dream, he told himself. It had to have been the dream. Everything now was tainted with fire, with smoke. He could not tell what was real and what was memory.He had touched the woolen side of a tent, and there was something on his gloves. The night air was cool, although he could see from the shadows a bonfire raging in the center of the compound.
You must go to the third tent. The gar with the red door.
There were two other tents, one to the right, one to the left. He could see no dogs in the space between them – they seemed to be occupied at the bonfire. He clutched the cloth between his hands, slipped the dagger into his obi, and very quietly, moved around the circular walls of the right tent, hoping against hope not to be seen, and somehow find a red door.
***
He could have sworn it was firepowder.
It flaked off in his hand as he approached the white door. He could smell it too, but then again, he had been not quite dead only hours ago. Perhaps some things remained a little off.
So, with a deep breath, he pushed open the flap.
It was very dark inside, a central hearth glowing with embers only, and he could see a figure outstretched between two severed trees, head bowed, unmoving. His heart thudded in his throat.
There was a sound as a red dog lunged at him from the shadows and Kerris barely had time to duck the swing of his curved blade. The katanah came up in parry, and as they stepped back, the dog paused to study his new opponent. Kerris swallowed, but set his jaw and, with both hands, brought the sword up to his face. The blade shone in the dim light of the hearth.
The dog grinned and swung.
***
She was asleep and his heart broke at the sight of her, unclothed, bound by hand and foot to four separate stumps, dark stains from knee to ribcage and beyond. He was glad it was so dark in this tent, for he did not wish to see more. Quickly, he knelt, dagger sawing at the first of the leathers binding one wrist. It snapped free, her eyes snapped open and she grabbed him by the throat, tossing him across her slip of a body and rolling on top of him, claws poised in a killing grip.
“Major, no!“
Her face was a fierce mask, fury and violence uncontained, almost unrecognizable as her long marbled hair swung across, hiding her from view. Her breathing was sharp but she did not kill him and he prayed she remembered him, could control herself long enough to remember him.
Beneath her wild hair, her brow furrowed as she struggled to do just that, and suddenly, her violence seemed to melt away. She leaned her forehead down upon his chest, rested her whole body down upon him. A shudder went through her, like a distant rumble of thunder. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she fought her breathing, fought her fighting, fought to allow him to help her, as raw and vulnerable as she was.
He smoothed the hair from her face.
“Can you walk?”
She nodded and rolled off him so he could cut the other leathers before helping her to stand. Unfortunately, it had been her will talking, and she could no more stand than a newborn kitten, and she sank to the ground, covering herself with bloodied hands.
He remembered the fabric, pulled it out from within the folds of his robes. It was a shift, a simple woolen shift, so he held it out for her, watched as she slid herself inside its straight-cut frame. He reached down and picked her up and she his her face in his hair as he lifted her like a child (for she was as light as one) and carried her toward the door.
There was a black mare waiting.
***
“Bring the lion,” roared Khan Gansuhkhan and a shout went up from the pack. The Alchemists behind him shifted nervously. It had been a marvelous plan and killing the Captain an absolute necessity, but now, as the reality of it drew near, it felt very wrong. A betrayal of all things good and strong and pure and true about the Kingdom and its people. As if they had let something slip out of their fingers and were the lesser for it. Jet barraDunne especially, for he was the orchestrator of it all, and as he stood, dressed in his robes of silver and black, he wondered at the cost. There was no Ancestor to be had, little chance of finding him now, and he would be returning home with nothing to show for it but a new king in a rival kingdom. It tasted bad in his mouth.
He stepped forward.
“No,” he said firmly to the new Khan, placing a hand on the man’s arm. “Do not bring the lion.”
The dog once named Rush turned his gold-clad head, his long profile silhouetted against the fire. “We are bringing the lion.”
“You are Khan now. There is no need to kill him.”
“I am not Khan until I kill him.”
barraDunne was smooth. He always had been. His tongue was as silver as his pelt. “And who there is to enforce that rule, oh great Khan?”
Rush narrowed his eyes.
“I am Khan.”
“Yes, Lord, you are.”
“I do not need to kill any cat to prove myself.”
“Spoken like a king, Lord.”
The Khan turned now, head cocked as if studying his face, reached out a stub-clawed hand to touch his hair, the long silken braid that ran down the length of barraDunne’s back. And suddenly, the tiger realized what he had just done and cursed his bad, bad Kharma.
“I do not need to kill any cat,” said the Khan. “But I can.”
The curved blade flashed before embedding itself in black and silver, and the white eyes grew round. Cheers rose up from the pack at this, and the Khan drew the Alchemist in very close, twisting the blade as he did so. barraDunne gasped, trying to draw a breath but his own heart betrayed him, as did his lungs. The Khan stepped away, allowing the man to sink to his knees. The blade reappeared, dark with blood, and flashed yet again, and the silver braid came off in his hand.
He held it high to wild cheering now.
“Bring me the lion!”
***
The dog was good. He was a soldier, used to fighting all manner of creatures, from rats, to leviathans to bears, even other dogs, but in his short life, he had never once fought a cat. Certainly never a lion, and most certainly, never a lion with a katanah.
Kerris, for his part, was rather motivated.
The blades sang and sang again, as steel met steel in the dance of warriors. First one pelt then the other let blood, but a katanah is very long and doubly sharp, and the lion had an angel on his side and when the blade swung first low then high, the dog sailed in different directions.
It had been so easy.
Kerris forgot about it immediately and turned to the figure out-stretched in the center of the gar.
The sword which had just saved his life had suddenly become heavy.
It was wrong. It was all wrong. He wanted his death back, if it meant he wouldn’t have to see this.
A wild shout rose from outside the tent and set his heart racing, so he snatched up the sword one last time, cut the leathers that bound the bloodied wrists, hoisted the body over his shoulder and rushed out the white door, where a mountain pony was waiting.
***
Kerris owed his life to Alchemists. Many times over.
For if those four cats standing behind the Khan had not bolted at the death of the First Mage, the dogs would not have pursued, as each member of the Legion now wanted a taste of feline blood. Even the beta sent to fetch the lion paused to watch the show, as black-clad runne
rs were chased down and slaughtered several dogs apiece. The screams rose and fell as the curved swords flashed in the firelight, down and down and down again. They went after the horses as well.
For the 112th Legion – now the First – this night simply could not have gotten better.
The beta smiled, shook his head and turned back to the tent. Odd, he thought to himself. There was a small horse standing by the white door. It was not black, it wore no saddle, and he wondered if it were wild. He pulled his own sword and moved toward it, fascinated at how its large eyes rolled at him. He wondered what they felt like, alive. Whether or not a dog could ride one as a cat did. He took another step but was interrupted as a figure emerged from the gar, carrying a body.
Another lion.
This one gasped, stepped back, its light eyes wide, and it made a sound that seemed to translate quite clearly in both languages.
“Shite.”
It was too rich. The beta turned to face him, anxious for his own curved blade to taste feline flesh tonight. Neither it, nor he, ever got the chance, as the beta was struck off his feet and to the ground by the little horse and it pummeled him with its tiny hooves. The new cat threw the body across its back and swung himself up behind, before galloping off into the shadows of the camp.
“Breach!” he howled, his voice barely heard over the roaring from the pack. As if an echo, another cry of “Breach!” rose out from the third tent, but both were lost in the sounds of celebration and slaughter.
It was only the sharp eyes of the Khan who spotted the chaos, for he had the best vantage point in all the camp. He swung his stub-clawed hand toward the tents, ears flattened against his head.
“Breach!” he cried, and this time, everyone heard, and the whistling arrows began to fly.
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 65
