The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  The hole where his stomach had been was filled with dread.

  Suppose Kataria knocked her head before she fell, he thought. Suppose she’s unconscious, with those things in the water. And just as easily, something small and spiteful slid into that thought’s place. Suppose she deserves it. She didn’t fire back. She stopped you from firing on them. She betrayed you. She—

  No.

  He bit his thoughts down as he bit back the pain in his body.

  Get to high ground. Take stock. See what you can do.

  He was about to head back out to the beach when he noticed a glimmer of light behind him. He turned and saw daylight spilling through a gap in the cliff, up and beyond. It shed light into the passage and there, carved into the cliff, he beheld a small staircase leading up, big enough only for one man to climb.

  His mind too full of fear to ask questions about how or why, he shook as much water as he could from his clothing and started to climb.

  Simpler men, he supposed—men less accustomed to looking over their shoulders—might have simply counted their blessings when stairs such as these appeared. Lenk, though, could only wonder at who had built them.

  And he could but ponder, with mounting discomfort, what Mocca intended him to find by being shown them.

  The air grew warmer as he ascended the stairs. The sunlight grew brighter. Flecks of sand covered the topmost stairs as he emerged into a blast of searing air. Yet just as quickly, a warm blanket of humidity settled over him.

  He emerged somewhere caught in a battle between worlds. To the west the land sloped downward in dunes leading back toward the desert. The east, however, saw a march of forest, the same vivid flowers and greenery as had grown out of the cliffs.

  The cliffs.

  The thought sent him running to the edge, looking out over the river.

  How high had he climbed? he wondered. It hadn’t seemed such a trek, yet from up here the Old Man’s wail sounded so distant. The colossus’s pain had dimmed to a dull discomfort. It shook its massive back, shedding the last remnants of its deck and canopy to send them sprawling into the water. Now that it was free from its burden, Lenk could see a mass of bright-yellow, -red, and -blue pinpricks, unfurling and blossoming into stars upon the greenery of its hide.

  Flowers, he noted. The damn thing’s blooming.

  The Old Man let loose one final trumpet. Apparently calmed of its fear and rid of its pain, it groaned and resumed its march down the river toward the east, as though nothing had changed and its passengers didn’t lie dead in its wake.

  The Lyre, once pristine and blue, now bore an ugly wound. Amid shattered timbers, bobbing crates, and scraps of leather, Lenk could see stains of red upon the water, bits of bodies that the river bulls had not yet gotten to. The beasts themselves now basked upon the beaches, apparently sated by the feast of carnage that even the Lyre seemed to choke on.

  I guess, Lenk thought, that’s why they call it the Gullet.

  On the northern cliffs, the remnants of the tulwar war band looked over the devastation with passing disinterest before spurring their gaambols about and departing. In the foliage upon the southern cliffs, there was no sign of the shicts. In the waters… the waters…

  There was no sign of golden hair. No flash of pale skin. Nothing.

  She was not down there.

  She was not—

  Wait. He caught a stir of movement, there upon the southern cliff face. Like a beetle, he saw a black-clad figure making its way up the vines.

  Shuro. She survived. And if she did, then—

  Then what?

  Then had none of it happened? Then was all of what Man-Khoo Yun had said not true? Had she had a single arrow fired at her? Had she not tackled him when he tried to fire back?

  He shut his eyes. He clutched his head. They hurt. Everything hurt. Worse than his aching body, than the scratches and cuts, the thinking hurt. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

  “Lenk.”

  His eyes snapped open. Mocca stood before him and forced his voice through gritted teeth.

  “Behind you.”

  Sand shifting, steel on leather, a breath held. He heard them. He whirled.

  He saw the dagger before he saw anything else, a long blade clenched in a dark hand as it came down toward his head. His hand snapped up and caught a wrist, felt the tremble of muscle, the fury behind the blow as he struggled to keep the blade aloft. A sharp pain exploded inside him as a knee found his side and dug in. With a snarl he lashed out a fist. Only through blind luck did it catch a jaw, send his foe reeling back.

  He tore his sword free from its sheath, brought it up before him. His opponent responded in kind, pulling a short-handled hatchet from her belt with her left hand to join the knife in her right.

  A khoshict, only a hair shorter than he. The rigid muscle of her body was left recklessly exposed by her half shirt and kilt, and all of it trembled with restrained anger. Yet her eyes, wild and dark and framed by a riot of black braids, bore no such discipline. The murder in her scowl was reflected in the sharpness of her canines, the twitching of her ears.

  The steel of her blades as she came at him.

  She made as though to stab with the knife, turned suddenly to bring the hatchet down in a vicious chop. He caught it on his blade, twisted to avoid her knife as it lashed out at him. His boot shot up, caught her in the belly, knocking her back.

  Despair was forgotten. Anger was shed, pain left behind, all that remained was an emptiness too small for thought to enter, a quiet where instinct spoke in between echoes of clashing metal.

  She came at him again and again, from the front, the sides, leaping and lunging and seeking. Her hatchet hacked, sought to tangle up his blade to give her blade an opening. His sword found each blow, his eyes never far from that wicked steel, never letting it get close enough to cut. No thought to it, nothing but recognition of where the blows would land and where the blade would seek.

  And when he recognized his opening, he took it without thinking. Her hatchet came up low, angling for his kidney. He caught it on its sword, stepped into the blow before her knife could lash out, and brought his forehead against the bridge of her nose. He hoped to hear a snapping sound, but was forced to settle for a pop and the trickle of blood down his brow.

  The khoshict sprang back. Blood from her nose spattered her face like war paint, exaggerating the mounting fury in her snarl. The blow stalled her for only a moment, though; she leapt forward, hatchet drawn and hungry.

  Lenk fell back, ready to meet her, only to realize his mistake once she drew up short. Quick as a breath, she flipped the dagger in her hand, caught it by the blade, and hucked it overhand. He blinked; the blade disappeared from her hand and found itself in his thigh in a burst of pain.

  No room for thought, for protest, even for instinct. His leg was working one moment, and then it was not.

  He fell to a knee, felt the heat of the sand on his wound. His blade came up just in time to catch the hatchet coming down. But he couldn’t find another hand to keep her fist from smashing against his jaw.

  He took the blow, took her wrist, jerked her forward. His blade might have still been tangled with her hatchet, but there was length enough to deliver a sharp cut across her exposed abdomen. Not enough to do the right kind of damage—she was too slippery for that, jamming her foot into his chest and kicking off him before he could do more than cut a red line across her dark skin.

  His grip on the sword tightened, tearing the hatchet away from her as she retreated. He staggered to his feet, biting back the pain as he tore the knife from his leg and tossed it aside. Weaponless, painted scarlet, she showed no fear in her stance as she spread her arms out wide and spit red at his feet.

  “The fuck are you waiting for, kou’ru?” she grunted.

  Pain gave him pause, instinct made him listen to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another shape approaching. Another khoshict: male, thick with m
uscle, and bearing a hatchet in each hand.

  “Kwar!” he cried out.

  She whirled and, with only the slightest of glances, caught the hatchet he tossed her way. Side by side, they began to advance toward him. Slowly; they had both seen too much of him to think they could do this quickly. Yet he saw the anger in the female’s stare, felt her desire to rip him apart as she bore her scowl down upon him, never taking her eyes off him.

  Pity. If she had, she might have noticed the black-clad woman rushing toward her from behind.

  The male must have caught wind of Shuro. He whirled just in time to avoid being cut in twain as she rushed between the two shicts, silver and red flashing as her blade bit at his flesh.

  She spun, narrowly ducked beneath the female’s hatchet. The blade caught the brim of her hat, tore it free from her head. And from her scalp poured a mane the color of an old man’s. Short, dull, silver.

  Like mine, Lenk thought. Eyes, too.

  She shot him an urgent look. They spoke to each other in the same language. He saw her plan in the tension of her body and the poise of her blade.

  They launched together, Shuro rushing at the male and driving him back in a flurry of blows from her thin-bladed sword.

  But Lenk’s wound aggravated his stride, slowed him. It was the female khoshict who rushed faster, harder, lunging at him and getting inside the reach of his sword before he could even take a swing. The weapon fell from his grasp as she tackled him and bore him to the sand. He could barely find the purchase to grab the hatchet in her wrist and pull it away.

  If she noticed, she didn’t care. If she heard her male companion crying out for help, she didn’t react. If she thought of anything but the human under her and her hands wrapped around his throat, she sure as shit didn’t show it.

  Air left him as she tightened her grip. Instinct gave way to blind animal panic. His hands shot out, trying to catch her with a fist, trying to dislodge her. Futile. Even as his vision darkened, her eyes burned bright with hatred.

  She was like him. There was no room in her for mercy, no room for anything but the desperate need to kill.

  “Your fault,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Your fault she’s gone.”

  Her grip tightened, crushing his throat.

  “She’s gone.”

  Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

  “I’ll kill you.”

  Her voice was as short and hard as her knife, words that were meant to be uttered to someone moments before all lights went out.

  “I loved her.”

  He struck her. Again. Bruised her cheek. She wouldn’t relent. He could fight no more. No more air. No more thought. No more light.

  And he still felt it.

  The rush of air. The shriek of metal. The feeling of something striking the earth just a hair away from his ear.

  There was a moment of darkness, and suddenly breath returned to him. The khoshict was gone, the bruise from her fingers on his throat still felt. Vision returned. He saw first the khoshict, stepping away from him, her eyes turned south. He saw next the arrow, quivering in the sand.

  And then he saw her.

  Kataria stood upon a dune, the sun at her back. Her bow was drawn, an arrow nocked and leveled in his direction. And he could not tell whom she intended to hit.

  “This goes in the eye of the next one to move.”

  The battle fell still as she came down the dune. Shuro edged away from the male, just as he did from her. All eyes were upon Kataria and almost none more intently than the female khoshict’s.

  “You’re alive,” she gasped. Her smile was tremendous; it was almost impossible to believe her face had just been contorted in such hatred. “Kataria, you… I was going to…”

  “You were going to kill him, Kwar,” she said. “I can’t let you.”

  The female, Kwar, looked from her to Lenk, mouth dropping open, eyes going wide. He saw the fury drain from her face, and in the emptiness left behind, a warm, ugly realization dawned.

  “No,” Kwar said. “No, no, no, no.” Her head fell into her hands, and she was shaking. “No, you can’t… we were so…” When she looked up, her face was wild and pale. Tears poured down her cheeks. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t!” She thrust a finger at Lenk. “He’s human. He’s one of them! And I…”

  Words left her. She hurled herself at Kataria, as if to strike her. She was stopped as the male khoshict rushed forward and caught her. Kwar snarled, beating on him with her fists.

  “Let me go, Thua! Let go!”

  Thua would not let go. He took each blow without a word. Flinching, wincing, but never protesting. Only after cuts started to form on his face did he release her. She stalked back and forth, but made no further advance.

  She merely looked at Kataria, eyes glistening, ears drooping, face trembling as she tried to hold something tender between her teeth.

  “I hate you,” she said, “you know.”

  And she was running. The woman who had just nearly killed Lenk, so soundly thrashed him, was off running and crying into the dunes like a little girl. And he was left dumbfounded, staring at Kataria and asking for an answer to a question he didn’t have the breath to speak.

  Thua cast a baleful look at Kataria. “I asked you to leave her,” he said. “Should I have begged?”

  And he, too, went into the sands.

  Lenk lay there for a long moment, trying to find the breath to ask what had just happened. But it was unnecessary.

  When Kataria turned to him and he looked into her eyes, he realized he already knew.

  SEVENTEEN

  SERMONS TO THE DIRT

  One wouldn’t guess it by their name, but being a gutter-priest was a respectable calling.

  Or at least it had been.

  Relatively.

  In some instances, anyway.

  Everyone in Cier’Djaal had an agenda that began and ended with a payout, including the healers. They just happened to be more careful about concealing it, owing to the various oaths of selflessness and charitableness they had taken. Talanas might frown on a greedy man, but there was no scripture that said the Healer ever had to know how much of a tithe he left.

  No sensible thug trusted a healer. Presenting oneself in a state of wounded vulnerability gave a healer power. They could call the guards or a rival gang, gouge one for money, whatever they thought wouldn’t violate their oaths. It offended a rogue’s sensibilities, however hypocritical they might be.

  Gutter-priests, by contrast, were honest. They charged a single fee for a single commodity: silence. The fee might not cover knowledgeable procedures, sanitized equipment, or treatment that precluded messy scars and infections, but anyone who had reason to know a gutter-priest would risk malpractice over trusting a holy man.

  Once the Jackals carved up their rivals and assumed control of Cier’Djaal, things had changed. They had healers on the payroll now. With no rival gangs to sell to and the promise of a slow death for traitors, the healers’ loyalties could be guaranteed, within reason.

  But Cier’Djaal hadn’t been a reasonable place for a while now. And whoever the healers were loyal to were the kind of people Denaos didn’t want knowing where he was.

  You can’t trust their gods, but you can trust a gutter-priest.

  It was a truth Denaos had learned long ago in Cier’Djaal, a truth he couldn’t afford to deny right now. The same truth that had driven him to find a half-rotted, run-down apartment and rent it with no one else to know. Trust was something rare and exotic in Cier’Djaal at the best of times.

  “Here, drink this.”

  And these were not the best of times.

  He looked down at the cup presented to him. The mixture inside could, if he was feeling particularly kind, be described as sludge. It was thick, gray, almost like porridge in its consistency. Only the way it rippled as he took it suggested it was a liquid instead of, say, a boiled-down rat.

  “What does it do?” he asked.

  �
�It fixes things, probably.”

  “Probably?” Denaos cringed at the mixture. “That’s not reassuring.”

  “You didn’t pay me for ‘reassuring.’ My mother treated snakebites with this tea for years.”

  “Tea? This is tea?”

  “What the fuck did you think it was?”

  “A war crime?”

  “Look, you came to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hold on.”

  It always struck Denaos as somewhat rude to pray to another god when in the presence of a priest. But gutter-priests being what they were, he suspected the one he’d hired didn’t take too much offense when he muttered a few words to Silf before tilting the cup back and downing the mixture.

  It didn’t so much slide down his throat as crawl down it like a living thing. It settled in his belly like a hard lump and, for a moment, he felt a clammy sensation come over him. It was instantly burned out of him as his sinuses went ablaze and his skin began to tingle wildly. The tea churned in his gut for a moment, but he bit back the nausea long enough to reach for another cup—this one filled with a stiff whiskey—and down it.

  “Huh. You’re not dead.”

  “I paid you specifically to avoid that,” Denaos muttered. “So if I do die, I expect to be buried with my refund.”

  He looked up at the man standing before him. A little paler than the average Djaalic, Heverish Slythe could only claim half blood, likely one of the many circumstances that had led to his becoming a gutter-priest to begin with. His clothes were clean, but hung well-worn upon a skinny frame. The polished Phoenix of Talanas that hung around his neck looked awkward on his shabby self, as if he had stolen it from a more respectable priest.

  Slythe’s thin face crinkled as he smiled a smile that Denaos hadn’t seen in years. The kind of thin, vaguely creepy smile that confirmed this man was not the sort of person anyone decent would trust.

  Which is likely why he had trusted Slythe for years, ever since he had first come to Cier’Djaal so long ago.