Diamond Stained

by J M D Reid

  “Still,” Dualayn said and then grunted as he stepped down, steadied by Grey.

  The Brotherhood’s leader glanced at the Recorder. “Things have grown more . . . urgent. Come, come, you have to meet the others.” Grey turned to Ōbhin. “Stable the wagon in the barn. I’ll see if she’ll look at your friend.”

  Ōbhin nodded. He was about to ask who “she” was when a striking woman stepped out of the farmhouse. He hardly noticed the man in the woman’s wake because of the beatific glow that seemed to radiate from the serene figure. Pure-white hair spilled like a silk waterfall past her shoulders and down the back of the dark-gray dress she wore. Though her hair held the snow of years, her cheeks were as smooth and fair as Avena’s, contrasting with the brightness of the lady’s ruby lips. Her eyes flicked to him; his back straightened.

  “Oh, my,” Avena said, her voice strangled.

  “Yeah,” said Ōbhin.

  “What happened to his head? Are those . . . tattoos?”

  Ōbhin wrenched his attention from the woman to the man standing behind her, half-blocked by her presence. He had the dusky-brown skin of an easterner. He had five tattoos, like black lightning bolts that wrapped around his bald head, points reaching for his face. They were asymmetrically placed with three on the right side. It was almost like a jagged hand gripped his head. He looked out of place in his dark waistcoat and pants. His eyes flicked over to Ōbhin.

  A shiver ran through him at the scrutiny. He felt a bug before the sparrow.

  Are you the watcher?

  “There is a wounded man?” asked the white-haired lady, her voice fair and melodic.

  “One of Ust’s men was harmed in a slight misunderstanding over the nature of Dualayn’s invitation to meet with us.”

  “Ah,” the woman said.

  The bald man’s hand slipped into his pants pocket, eyes staring with intensity at the wagon.

  The tension mounting in Ōbhin’s shoulders, he guided the horses to the barn. Its roof still looked intact, though its large doors had broken from their hinges and lay rotting to the side, half-buried by sprouting grass and weeds.

  “Who are they?” Avena asked.

  Ōbhin shook his head, feeling the strange man’s eyes on him. A shudder rippled down his spine.

  “I will look at him once we finish our conversation with Master Dualayn,” the lady said. “I am a great admirer of your work, sir.”

  “You are most kind.”

  The woman smiled and vanished inside, followed a moment later by her shadow. Ōbhin rolled his shoulders, glad to be free of the scrutiny. Avena let out an explosive breath. She rubbed her hands together, bare fingers wiggling.

  “Have you ever seen someone tattooed like that?” she asked.

  Ōbhin shook his head. The horses plodded into the open barn. The scent of moldering hay, dust, and old dung filled his nose. Light filtered through holes in the wall, spilling across the ruined floor. Stables for livestock lay to the right, a loft above with bales of hay still waiting to be spread.

  What happened to the owners? wondered Ōbhin.

  He dismounted and busied himself unhitching the horses and leading them into the stalls. He found hay that looked fresh, giving the draft horses both fodder to munch on. Avena busied herself in the back of the wagon, attending to Carstin.

  Soon, she slipped to the barn’s floor. She stared at the open doors, her right hand rubbing at her left arm. He came up beside her, the sun lowering. The feeling of eyes watching grew. He glanced at the overgrown fields, thick with spring growth.

  “So you work for the Brotherhood,” Avena said with an acerbic bite to her words.

  He shrugged. “I was lost. They gave me a path.”

  “Not a great one.”

  His cheeks burned at her accusations. “No. I was resonating with Niszeh.”

  *

  Avena studied Ōbhin out of the corner of her eye as he stared out at the overgrown field. That itch in the back of her mind grew. The way he talked with Grey held a familiarity about it, and yet Ōbhin was subordinate to Ust.

  Why do you follow that Black-stained braggart?

  She sighed and turned to the field. The thick grass appeared to be wheat growing wild while several vegetable plots had the start of squash sprouting. A chill washed down her back. It was so similar to her father’s farm despite here being days from the village of Upper Kash. Scarecrows dotted around the edges, weathered, half-rotten, probably to keep back red-beaked filchers. She’d spotted a few in the forest. They loved grain.

  The well before the farmhouse overflowed with rocks. Someone had filled it in. Had it gone dry? Is that why it’s abandoned?

  The chill intensified. Ōbhin shifted beside her, his attention drawn to the fields. She glanced where he looked, frowning. Could she slip away through it, get away from these men with Dualayn? Perhaps tonight, under darkness. This white-haired lady promised to help Carstin. All Avena could do was watch him fade away bit by bit. If he survived the night, she’d be surprised.

  Grass rustled in the field. Ōbhin’s hand fell on his sword handle.

  “What?” she asked, peering at the bush. “Is it an animal?”

  His brow furrowed. “Probably, it’s just . . .”

  The farmhouse’s door squeaked open. Grey marched out, his back straight, a jovial look on his features. He didn’t appear to be the sort of man who ran one of the largest criminal empires in Lothon, maybe all of the Arngelsh Isles. He had his thumbs hooked through his belt as he strolled forward, a casual ease about him.

  “Ōbhin, may we talk some more about future prospects?” Grey said.

  “As you want,” the foreigner said, the tension melting out of him.

  “If you excuse us, my lady,” the Boss said as he stopped before them. He gave a courtly bow, right hand on his stomach as he bent at the waist. Then he took her left hand and brought it to his lips, giving her knuckles a kiss.

  Warmth suffused her cheeks. The heat transformed into a different emotion. She yanked her hand back. “I don’t think I have many choices, do I? Prisoners don’t get much say.”

  “Prisoners?” He arched an eyebrow. “Why, I assume you and Master Dualayn will be on the road come morning. My business partner is quite compelling.”

  “Yes,” Avena said, remembering the tattooed man. His dark skin, the black, jagged claws that seemed to be gripping his head. “I imagine he is.”

  A visible shudder ran through the Boss, his cheeks above his whiskers paling. “No, not Dje’awsa. He’s . . .” He gave a tight smile. “No, the White Lady. She’s the one negotiating with your employer. Dje’awsa is merely her . . . Well, I am not quite sure of their relationship. Associate, perhaps.”

  “And who is she to you?” Avena asked.

  “Beneficial.” He then clapped a hand on Ōbhin’s shoulder. “Come, I think it’s clear your time with Ust is over and . . .”

  Their voices faded away as she returned her gaze to the field. She still couldn’t believe Dualayn worked with the Brotherhood. They and the Rangers fought a petty war to control illicit activities across Kash and the rest of Lothon. Her hands felt dirty just being here. And the idea that Dualayn would return to work for these men who’d send Ust to “escort” them here . . .

  She wished the well wasn’t filled so she could wash her hands.

  She went to turn back to the wagon when she heard plants rustling. Her head whipped around, searching for the source of the sound in the overgrown field. Fearful ice formed about her, capping her flesh like the glistening peaks of the Border Fangs. Her skin crawled as her right hand rubbed her left arm.

  She felt a wolf’s eyes upon her.

  *

  Avena’s accusation rang in his head as he walked with Grey along the field. Gravel crunched beneath their boots, Grey’s polished to a brown gleam, Ōbhin’s scuffed, the leather rough along the toes, wearing thin.

  “How have you been?” Grey asked. He pulled out a blackroot cigar, thin and wrapped in yellow
ed paper instead of dried leaf like Carstin preferred. He put it to his lips and produced an igniter, a small ruby jewelchine wrapped in cheap tin wire. The quality of wire affected the strength of the jewelchine. He touched the end and it flared while Grey inhaled.

  Cherry red flared at the end of the rolled tube. The man held the smoke in before letting it out as a long, slow sigh. The herbal fume swirled through the air.

  “Still as gregarious as ever,” Grey said, smiling.

  “I’m done being a bandit,” said Ōbhin.

  “I was surprised Ust wanted to help one of his men. More survivors, more ways the pay is split.” Grey’s eyes flicked down to Ōbhin’s gloves. “You persuaded him?”

  Ōbhin brought his hands to his back, clasping them as he stared out at the field. “Carstin’s my friend.”

  Grey nodded, a cloud of smoke drifting from him. He flicked the end of his narrow cigar, ash falling to the farm lane. “I hope the White Lady can help him. She has resources I expect only Dualayn can understand.”

  Ōbhin merely nodded, his eyes flicking through the overgrown field. The eyes were watching them again.

  “There are better uses for you than as a bandit.” Grey inhaled. “I always saw promise in you, but the last time we met . . .” He shook his head. “I see Colour in your eyes again. That’s good. You have dedication. Strength of character.” The man laughed. “Beat Ust in front of his entire band. Did any of them try to help?”

  “Hook tried.”

  Grey nodded. He puffed on his cigar again. A haze grew around them. “You just channeled that passion badly before.”

  “That I did.” Ōbhin’s gloved hands clenched tight, leather creaking.

  “Help your friend. Care for him. Once he’s recovered, or . . .” Grey drew in a deep breath and let out a long, smoky exhale. “Well, either way, I’m sure better work can be found for you.”

  Ōbhin glanced at Avena watching them, feeling the weight of her gaze. “You had us kidnap a healer and his . . . daughter.”

  Grey winced. “Fair enough. My benefactor wished to retain his skills.”

  “Your benefactor. You run the Brotherhood.”

  “We all bend the knee to someone or something greater than us. To achieve greatness, you have to surrender something of yourself. To a cause. To a passion. To a person.” Grey’s eyes narrowed. “This someone can change things in Lothon. Even Qoth.”

  “I’m not banished from Qoth.” Darkness roiled in him. Memories swelled. He relived the ease at which he’d plunged the dagger into Taim’s chest. No hesitation, complete confidence in his dedication to her. “I won my trial on the Sands of Justice. I killed my accuser.”

  “And yet you’re here.” Grey took a final puff on his blackroot cigar before dropping it on the ground and stamping it out with his foot. “Think on it.”

  “I will,” Ōbhin answered even as his eyes found Avena again.

  What sort of path will the Brotherhood have me walk next? One that could let me return to the mountains? His eyes flicked to the Border Fangs. Not his mountains. Not his land. Can any road lead me to Qoth?

  Chapter Six

  The sun sank lower as Ōbhin dwelled on Grey’s offer counterbalanced with the disgust of Avena’s words. When he’d met Grey in a low tavern in Guirreu, Ondere’s capital, drunk on cheap brandy, he’d latched onto anything that would help him escape the deep, foul rut he’d fallen into. Half a world from home, the one thing he cared about lost to another man’s bed, he’d found the prospect of being useful appealing.

  What did he care about such a dirty path? He couldn’t be stained worse.

  I fled from killing one man only to kill more. The bloodfire was only the most recent. The last two years had become a hazy blur. There were times he felt divorced from his body. A specter haunting a stumbling automaton, one of those jewelchine toys of the rich that could stumble around the room poorly mimicking a man. He ate because he had to. Killed because he had to. Only Carstin had cared. Only Carstin had pried. He’d coaxed a smile here, a chuckle there.

  A reminder of what it meant to live.

  There’s no returning to Qoth. Here I stay, but . . . Carstin lay butchered because Ōbhin hadn’t cared. When the bandits attacked, Ōbhin hadn’t bothered to rush in at full speed. Why try? Now he felt awakened. Alive.

  While his friend lay dying.

  His gaze drifted to Avena. She no longer looked at him but studied the field, the setting sun glinting through the sprouting grass. She had a furrowed brow. The memory of the watching eyes stirred in him. It was probably just some beast, a fox, perhaps, or a capybara slinking through the grass. Did they have wolverines here?

  He drifted to her as she raised a hand to shield herself against the setting sun’s glare. “What are you looking at?”

  “Not sure,” she murmured, concentrating. “It’s just . . . something. It’s probably just my present circumstances.” She flicked him a distasteful glance, golden-orange painting across her pale-beige features.

  Ōbhin accepted the rebuke. Before he’d stepped onto the Sands of Truth and faced Taim, he would never have done any of this. Even after he’d . . . won and thought he’d gained all he craved, he could never imagine the swamp through which his life’s road would lead.

  Instead, he faced the field and raised a hand against the sun, shadows falling over his eyes. The grass sharpened. Green stalks were rising towards the first fuzz of seeds. A patch rustled almost dead ahead, not the ripple of wind, but the movement of something slinking through it.

  He’d made his first real choice in a long time when he chose to save Carstin’s life. He’d forgotten how good it felt to take control of circumstances. Even a decision as small as uncovering what low creature slinked through an overgrown field felt good.

  He marched out with confidence, boots crunching on gravel before it turned into the soft whisk of grass. Stalks brushed his knee-high boots and grazed his hips. As he approached the rustling patch, the grass shook faster. Something dark and lean darted away with a canine lope.

  One of the farm dogs gone feral? he wondered as the shape rushed deeper into the field. He jogged after, grass rustling around him. He reached where it lurked.

  A foul scent, rotten and putrid, brushed his nose. He froze as a chill swept through him. His nose twitched. Bile burned in the back of his throat. The assaulting stench watered his eyes. His confidence wavered. The temperature plummeted. He almost expected his breath to frost as the hairs on his arms raised, his skin puckering.

  “What was that?” Avena asked as she rushed up, skirts rustling through the grass. “Elohm’s Colours, that stench.”

  He nodded, feeling the eyes on him. The dog had turned around. It lurked in the brush, watching them with cold eyes. Ōbhin had stalked through mountain snows hunting spotted leopards and didn’t feel this tension crawling across the back of his neck. His booted feet shifted his stance, assuming the footing drilled into his head on the training ground by the weapon master his father had hired.

  “Did you get a good look at it?” Avena asked. She stepped up beside him, her neck craning. She rubbed her right hand against her left arm, her skin prickling like his.

  “A dog,” Ōbhin muttered. “I think. Black. Lean. Short fur.”

  “Was it feasting on carrion?” she asked, peering around. “It smells worse than an abattoir left foul in the summer’s heat.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Should we . . .” She swallowed. “Should we go back? It’s just a dog. It’s probably not dangerous.”

  “You first,” he said. “Slowly.”

  “You think it’s going to attack us?”

  “Animals react to fear. To prey.”

  “Right,” she said.

  She withdrew as his eyes flicked around. He searched for where it had retreated. A breeze swept across the field, rustling the wild grass likes waves lapping up on the shores of Lake Shong near his childhood home.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead to t
he scar on his cheek. His hand slowly drifted to the handle of his sword. Avena gasped behind him. His sword whipped from the scabbard, thumb activating the jewelchine.

  Green light flared. The deadly buzz hummed. “What did you see?”

  “That dark man just went into the barn.”

  Something was not right here at all. That man, this creature . . .

  Ōbhin whirled and ran for the barn. Avena hiked up her skirts and raced with him.

  *

  Avena’s hands clenched about her skirts as she raced with Ōbhin across the farmyard. She felt the uncouth bandits watching them from where they lounged across the yard. She didn’t care. Nothing had felt normal since arriving at the derelict farm. A pall covered the place. A thick malaise that coated her skin like a film of pond scum.

  The dog stalking through the field.

  The menacing man with the white-haired lady.

  This meeting.

  Dualayn’s revelation.

  Her world felt cantilevered, bent at odd angles. The only thing familiar she could latch onto was caring for Carstin. He may have meant ill towards her, had been injured trying to slay poor Ni’mod, but that mattered little. He was someone whose life needed tending. Someone she had helped save.

  He was alone in that barn.

  Ōbhin’s stride forced her to run with every ounce of speed. They ate the distance across the farmyard for the open barn doors. She couldn’t see into the darkness beyond, the contrast between the orange light splashed across the graying boards of the exterior and the yawning opening into black was too great.

  Why has that man gone in there? rippled across her thoughts. She’d never met a person who so unnerved her. Not Ust nor any of his rabble. Not any thief roaming the slums of Kash. He almost had that unnatural aura that had possessed her mother on that terrible day.

  Guilt and fear whipped her to race faster, to keep up with Ōbhin and his humming sword.

  From the open barn nickered one of the horses. Another whinnied in nervous fright. The watching eyes from the field followed her. She felt a cold malevolence lurking behind her while before her something sinister slunk through the world, tilting it to these bizarre angles.