The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  He glanced down to the city and he immediately saw her.

  Shuro’s dark form was rushing down a street, her blade flashing and bloodied. Behind her followed several more shapes. Great, misshapen creatures with bulging limbs, lolling heads, gaping jaws. Their howls carried through the air, he could hear their hunger for her blood from here.

  And once again he was running.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  WOODEN SMILE, HOLLOW EYES

  Do you have yijis in the Silesrian?” the rider asked.

  She gave no answer.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t. They probably don’t like the cold. Do you ride anything out there?”

  She gave no answer.

  “I guess that’s also a silly question. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard the trees grow so close together that only squirrels and shicts can get through them. I guess you can’t use a squirrel as a mount, huh?”

  There was a nervous laugh. But not from her.

  “My mother saw its borders once. She went there to meet the tribes of the north. She told me about the trees. Did yours ever tell you any stories of our desert?”

  She gave no answer.

  “My mother taught me many things. She taught me how to ride a yiji. They have a weird gait to them, see? Their backs are crested, like a wave, so each step they take makes them snap like one. They’re like to throw you right off if you don’t have something to hold on to.”

  A long moment of silence passed.

  “The backs make them hard to find saddles for, too.”

  Another long moment.

  “Would you just hold on to me already?”

  And finally she gave an answer.

  “Do you remember what I said?”

  “When?”

  “Nights ago. At the Kho Khun. Do you remember what I said?”

  “… Yes. I do.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You told me not to touch you.”

  “Do you think I didn’t mean it?”

  And now the rider gave no answer.

  Kataria did not dream often, of late.

  Her body was always too weary from riding day and night. Her mind was always too taxed with desperation to reach Cier’Djaal in time.

  When she did dream, she dreamed only in noises, in wordless howls and formless snarls. She did not dream of freedom, or of home, or of her mother. Or even of Lenk.

  She dreamed of her.

  Which, she reasoned as her eyelids began to flutter open, was likely why she continually woke up angry.

  Then again, that might also just be the pain.

  Her mind awoke before her body did, recognizing the orange glow of sunset through half-lidded eyes. Once she opened them just a hair wider, her muscles began to protest. She was aching and sore from too much riding and not enough food, and every sunset was heralded first by heat and next by agony. Her wounds had yet to heal properly and her ankle and wrists were still raw.

  It was not healthy, she knew. She could not afford to ride like this much longer. But she could afford even less to wait to recover.

  Shekune could have already covered half the desert by now. She had to keep going. In her mind she knew this.

  In her body, though?

  She tried to rise. Her muscles groaned at first. Then screamed outright when it was clear she was not going to be deterred. She pushed herself all the way up to her rear before giving up and collapsing down onto her back. Breathing heavily, she shut her eyes.

  Traveling through the desert by day was not as efficient as doing so by night. It was only just now sunset. Surely, they would not start riding until later. Surely, she could spend just a little more time lying here.

  This all seemed like a fine idea until she felt something prickle across her skin.

  Something soft, fleeting, and sensual crept across her belly, like fingers sliding up her stomach and toward her chest.

  Instantly pain was replaced by anger. Instantly her teeth were clenched in a snarl.

  “What the fuck did I tell you?”

  Her hand shot down to seize the offending fingers. Instead of dark skin, though, she found something hairy and writhing in her grip. She sat up, squinted through the sun’s glare at the hairy tarantula that wriggled about in her hand.

  “Ah,” she said. “Sorry about that.” She glanced around the small clearing where they had made camp until she found a small, bulging pouch right where she had left it. “Sorry about this, too.”

  She loosened the pouch’s drawstrings. Within, the dozen or so other tarantulas made a futile break for freedom before she tossed this newest one in and cinched it tight again. She had felt bad about it, at first—but the damn things got everywhere. And if they didn’t want to end up in a pouch, they shouldn’t keep crawling over her.

  This seemed a reasonable penance to her.

  Despite her protesting body, she rose to her feet and looked around. Nestled between two dunes that provided adequate shade, the little oasis—scarcely more than a stubborn tree and some scrubgrass surrounding a resilient pond—provided some semblance of solitude. All that remained here besides her and her few supplies was the pack of six yijis lounging by the waterside.

  As she stirred they looked up at her, but quickly lost interest and returned to lapping at the water.

  They were what she had been told were referred to as “tama’shi” or “painted.” Only half-domesticated, these yijis were turned loose in the desert to roam in packs. While they hadn’t lost their instinct to hunt and wander, the khoshicts had trained them to accept riders who approached them correctly. In this way the tama’shi—so named for the painted bands around their forelegs—could serve as mounts that simply wandered the desert and waited for riders, usually congregating at oases like this.

  The humans of the Vhehanna, she had been told, spoke in hushed whispers of khoshict hunters who could pursue their prey day and night without their mounts ever tiring. In truth they simply changed mounts frequently, just as she had done to cross the desert so swiftly.

  There was much, she admitted, to be admired about the khoshicts.

  “Hey!”

  And much more to be loathed.

  She looked up the southern dune and saw Kwar there, standing atop the ledge. She was painted dark against the setting sun, so the intensity in her eyes was all the more apparent. Kataria’s ears twitched, hearing the faintest sounds of her Howling and the urgency it carried.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Kwar said.

  “Shekune?”

  The khoshict shook her head.

  “Round-eared trouble.”

  Silence.

  For a long time, silence. So deep that it hurt when words were spoken.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Words like those—not true words, not strong words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Those were weak words. Words that needed breath and tongue and lips to speak. Words that had been uttered so many times in so many days.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She had not responded to those.

  She had tired of hearing them.

  Why she had responded to these, she didn’t know.

  “I know.”

  The words had felt weak, flimsy in her mouth.

  “If you know, then why won’t you talk to me?”

  “Because you don’t get that.”

  “Get what?”

  “You think sorry is an arrow. You think you can shoot it and then it lands and that’s that. But it’s just a word.”

  “I came with you, didn’t I? I took you through the desert. I’m going against Shekune, my own people, for you.”

  “Our people. Do it for them, not me.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing. I don’t want anything.”

  “But I—”

  “Except silence.”

  And for a time, it had seemed as if she might get it.

  But time was something she never had enough of.
>
  “I was scared.”

  She had made no reply.

  “I was scared that you would leave me. I was scared that I would be alone.”

  “I don’t care that—”

  “I’m not saying this for you. Not all for you, anyway. I just… I need someone to know. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want you to go off with him. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

  A longer silence.

  “Do you expect me to forgive you?”

  “No.”

  A colder silence.

  “Funny,” Kwar muttered, “from up here, they look kind of like us, don’t they?” She cast a sidelong look at Kataria, eyes drifting over her pale flesh. “Well, like me, anyway.”

  Kataria spared a glare for that before glancing down the slope of the dune to the road below. Night had fallen quickly, and by the time they had arrived at the well-worn road that wended its way to Cier’Djaal, it was too dark to see except by the torches below.

  From here, Kataria thought, they did not look much like shicts. Their skin might have been dark, they might have walked on two legs, but that was where the similarities ended. They walked too stiffly, their movements uneasy and rehearsed, and they stumbled over any terrain that hadn’t been worn flat by all the feet that had come before theirs.

  Humans did not remind her much of shicts.

  And Karnerians did not remind her much of humans.

  Clad in black armor, their dark skin glistening by the light of the tall torches they’d staked into the ground, they looked less like humans and more like suits of armor that had spontaneously begun to move. They clenched spears and shields tightly. They patrolled up and down the road in precisely timed movements. They swept their eyes over the horizon, searching for enemies.

  What they expected to see, Kataria did not know. But she could guess.

  A long train of wagons made its way along the road, drawn by oxen and mules. Though for now it had ground to a halt and soldiers tended to the beasts and cargo. She saw crates of supplies: weapons, oil, food, and other matériel. Every fourth wagon was a wheeled platform carrying an enormous barrel from which the soldiers drew water from a spigot.

  Reinforcements. Headed for Cier’Djaal. By the rate at which the soldiers were drinking from their mobile reservoirs, she suspected that they had been marching all day, keen to get to the city. Perhaps their war with the Sainites was not going well. Or perhaps they were on the verge of crushing them.

  Either scenario did not bode well for the shicts. Shekune would meet far more resistance than she was anticipating, no matter what her plan was. All the more reason to hasten to Cier’Djaal.

  “We should move before they see us,” Kataria said, voice low. “They’ll eventually come up here.”

  “Can’t,” Kwar replied. “They’re blocking our route.”

  “What do you mean?” She pointed down. “That road leads to Cier’Djaal, doesn’t it? We can just follow it to the city.”

  “If we were humans, sure,” Kwar replied. “And if we wanted to arrive too late to do anything. This road winds its way through the dunes. Good for merchants who have heavy things to carry. Yijis don’t care about dunes. Good for shicts who want merchants’ heavy things.”

  Kwar pointed over the road, toward a distant dune.

  “There’s another oasis beyond the road, just an hour by foot through the sands. We keep another pack of tama’shi there. They know the way to Cier’Djaal quicker than any road could take them. We want to reach the city in time, we need to go through, not around.”

  Kataria sighed, staring down at the Karnerian convoy below.

  Those soldiers not patrolling were unfurling bedrolls, stripping off only what armor they needed to divest to be comfortable and bedding down right beside the enormous wheels of their wagons. No tents pitched, no latrines dug. Clearly they intended to be moving again before too long.

  But before too long was still too long. Kwar’s father, Sai-Thuwan, would need time to make his case. Which meant they needed to get there quickly.

  “All right,” Kataria whispered. “See that one, there?”

  Kwar followed her finger to one of the Karnerians. This one stood more armored than the others, but with his helmet off that they might see his face. He didn’t carry spears and shields like them, but a large, ornate sword at his hip. The soldiers offered salutes as he passed, and he paused every so often to say something to them.

  “The leader,” Kwar said.

  “The others are all focused on him,” Kataria said. “Put an arrow in him, the others will all move to defend him and give us an opportunity to pass. It’ll be close, but it can be done if we hurry.”

  “That won’t work,” the khoshict replied. “There’s not enough cover down there. They’ll see you.”

  “It’ll be dark.”

  “Close enough to hit him, they’ll see you.”

  “I don’t have to hit him. I just need to make sure that they see someone try to hit him. We’ll have a few moments while they try to protect him, then they’ll start searching. Be ready to run.”

  Kwar shook her head. “No. I don’t like this.”

  Kataria looked flatly at Kwar. “Look into my quiver.”

  Kwar glanced down at her hip. “Ten arrows.”

  “Did you happen to see any fucks I could give for what you think?” Kataria rose to her feet. “Follow me, twenty paces behind. Be ready to—”

  A hand shot out, caught her by the wrist. Anger surged up inside her. She whirled on Kwar, shoving her off, face screwed up in fury. She barely remembered not to scream.

  Barely.

  “What did I tell you?” she snarled. “What did I fucking tell you about touching—”

  Kwar was not looking at her. The khoshict’s eyes were on the convoy below. She held up a finger for silence—which Kataria quietly praised herself for not biting off. Her ears rose in quivering attentiveness.

  “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

  In another moment Kataria would not be able to hear anything over the curses she would be spitting. But for that particular moment, she paused and listened.

  Wind.

  Yijis growling.

  Soldiers muttering.

  “What, the soldiers?” she asked. “I can’t hear what they’re—”

  “Not that.” Kwar gestured to her trembling ears. “That.”

  Kataria closed her eyes, let her ears rise up. Nothing. Nothing but wind and ghosts and the sound of her anger and…

  No. Not anger.

  Not her anger.

  A distant cry, restrained and muffled, but unable to silence itself. It was not spoken to her, so she heard it only faintly. But she heard it, she recognized it. The Howling.

  “There’s a shict nearby,” she whispered.

  “Three of them,” Kwar said. She gestured with her chin. “Down there.”

  Kataria strained her ears, following the sound down to the road. Her eyes settled upon a Karnerian walking past some wagons. He paused near some other soldiers, saluted, began to make small talk. He looked like any other Karnerian: rigid, ungainly, clenched.

  She would never have guessed he was a shict if she couldn’t hear his Howling from here.

  Fuck, she thought. I guess they do look like us.

  He was tall for a shict, only slightly less burly than the Karnerians. With his ears and face mostly hidden beneath the helmet he wore, he wouldn’t look like anything more than a slender soldier. And the other Karnerians seemed content to treat him as one.

  She searched the camp, located the others in short order: another one patrolling on the opposite end of the convoy, a third one making a show of checking over supplies. No other Karnerian seemed to look twice at them, or even once in most cases.

  “Did you know about this?” Kataria asked, looking to Kwar.

  Even if Kwar had had a sense of subtlety stronger than a wolf in heat, there would have been no mistaking the shock on her face.

  “No,” Kwar whi
spered. “I… I had no idea. What are they doing down there?”

  “It changes nothing,” Kataria growled. “We still need to get across. One arrow, just a few moments to run.” She drew an arrow, nocked it. “You ready?”

  Kwar looked to her pale companion, opened her mouth to speak. The nod she offered, while shaky, was stronger than any words she could have offered.

  Kataria returned the nod as Kwar rose to her feet. Together they began to stalk down the dune’s slope.

  “It’s more than just Shekune, you know.”

  She had been listening for some time, but did not reply.

  “A lot have answered her call. Hunters from the Eighth Tribe, assassins from the Ninth, and her Seventh has the fiercest warriors in the desert. Thousands of them. She didn’t threaten them. They came willingly. All shicts love war.”

  “Not all shicts,” she had said, finally.

  “Enough do.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to wonder what you’re going to do after.”

  “After I stop her?”

  “If you can. What happens next? What happens when they want war again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happens when the humans attack us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A long silence. And then soft words.

  “Are you going to leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “To find him? The human?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “No.” Hesitation. “Yes.” Desperation. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Find another shict to be with.”

  “It’s not that easy. The tribes all want me to breed when my time comes. But I don’t… you know, with males…”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “What do you think? That you can come in, save the shicts, have a say in how we do things, then walk away? We’re people, not bones you can gnaw on and toss aside. If you leave—”

  “If I leave, that’s my decision.”

  “And if you make it, what right do you have to decide for anyone else?”