He had never expected it to be his brother.
That pained him more than the wound itself, bled him drier of life than that which was soaking anew the remains of his tunic. He wanted that death now, would not stop until he found it.
Quiz slowed to a halt, and Kerris opened his eyes. He had been dozing yet again. It was late afternoon, the sun high in this new land’s sky, and he was on a ridge overlooking a forest. He rubbed his eyes but could see nothing of interest. He gave Quiz a nudge, but the pony stepped backwards and snorted.
“Oh please, Quiz. Just move.” And he nudged him again, with his heels this time. The pony snorted again, began backing up in the jerking way of four-legged animals, and Kerris grit his teeth and kicked hard.
Quiz reared and Kerris was hard-pressed to stay on. When the pony regained his footing, the grey lion slid from his back, long sword still tucked under one arm and he swung around to face his shaggy companion.
“Are you a coward too, then? There is nothing here! Nothing!” And to prove it, he marched towards the ridge, where a dog pulled himself up from the rocks.
***
The wind was blowing toward them, keeping their scent from alerting their enemies, and they could see the tents from where they stood, on a low mountain overlooking a forested plain. There were only three tents but they were large, within several circles of flame, and they could see many dogs milling about. There was even a flash of black, as cat moved amongst dog in a most unnatural fashion.
Two against more than thirty. The odds were not good. The Major was working on a plan.
“They must be keeping him in one of those tents,” she was saying. “I will lure them out, while you slip in and find him, get him out as quickly as you can…”
“Major, there is a problem…”
“And that is?”
He sighed. “The Alchemists know I’m here.”
She scowled. “How?”
“These are versed in the Gifts as well as the Arts, remember? They have been searching for my thoughts and they have found them.”
“And so? Where are they, then?”
He turned his head, as many dogs rose up behind them.
“Idiot,” she hissed, and leapt from the back of her horse, both swords singing from their scabbards. Likewise, the Seer pulled the staff from across his back, but chose to stay in the saddle, hoping that the speed and force of his mount would increase his odds.
Together, they charged, and blood sprayed across the rocks.
***
The dog was smiling as he approached, swinging his curved sword in savage arcs and Kerris took a step back, trying to pry the long sword from the stickiness of his tunic. His right arm was almost useless, so he caught the hilt in his left and was surprised as the dog hesitated on his approach.
In that moment, Kerris realized three things. That the dog was alone, that he, Kerris, had a katanah – the fabled sword of the Shah’tyriah, and that he himself was a lion.
“Come on,” he growled, lashing his tail and knowing full well the dog could not understand. “Come on. You want me to make you a Khan? Well, let’s do this, my friend. I am dead anyway. Try to kill me.”
The dog was alone. His opponent was a lion, one with a fabled long sword. The lion was covered in blood. Under any other circumstances, Kerris would have been dead within three strokes, but these circumstances shifted things slightly and the seasoned soldier was thrown off balance at the sight of this cat. He hiked his curved blade, ran in too quickly, engaged too carelessly. It was ultimately his undoing.
The swords struck and Kerris almost lost it from his hand at the impact. In fact, as he struggled to regain it, the dog lunged at him and bodily took him to the ground. All weapons or skill were moot now, as the dog’s hands reached for Kerris’ grey throat. Kerris tried to roll out from under the man, tried to kick him off but it was proving hard enough to keep breathing and only his left hand made it up to ward off the strangle hold. It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. This dog would quickly be the end of him.
Kerris was not a good fighter. He had never paid attention to his lessons of the Martial Arts, nor sword, staff or bow. He had never yearned as a boy to do the things other boys had done, had never fought others for the prize of a bruised eye, had never snuck into his father’s armory to gaze at the weapons. He had never felt that particular thrill. But right here, right now, he was angry, he was tired, and he was dying. In short, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey was not himself.
Perhaps it was the betrayals - the finding of oneself in the arms of a woman only to be rejected in the end in favor of a lecture hall, or the finding of oneself at the wrong end of a brother’s sword and to finally be silenced in one sudden flash of steel. Perhaps he was just tired of being a grey-coated lion, or an insignificant excuse for a lion, or a lion who preferred the company of tigers and monkeys. Perhaps it was a combination of all these, plus the fact that yes, he was indeed dying.
No, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey was not himself.
But he was a lion.
So with a great snarl of rage and frustration and will, he pulled his right hand up and together with the left, he shoved his fingertips into the throat of the laughing dog, whose brown eyes grew wide for one brief moment as Kerris Wynegarde-Grey unsheathed the claws of a lion and held on for his life.
Blood sprayed across his face.
But he was a lion.
And so he held. The dog thrashed, tried to pull away but its throat had been pierced and the struggles were in vain. After several long moments, Kerris pushed the dead soldier off him, reached with bloody fingers for the katanah, held it high above his head. With another snarl, he brought it down, and the dog’s head rolled away from its body and down the hill.
The long sword trembled before slipping from his hand and Kerris sank back onto the rocks, finished.
But he was, at the end of it all, a lion.
And so he lay there against the rocks, watching the sun turn her eyes away and the moon come out to play. He watched he sky grow red then purple then dark. He watched he first of the stars came out to dance for him as his life ebbed like a low tide. The last thing he remembered was the smell of incense, descending on him like the night.
***
He opened his eyes to darkness and the first fear was that they had blinded him for good. Gradually, the very dim and distant glow of candles appeared from somewhere outside. Then, he could make out shapes moving about, silhouetted by lanterns, fires and the accursed moon, but here in this tent, there was nothing. No firepit, no torch, not even a stick of incense glowing on one end. He could hear laughter however, but it did not sound like the laughter of cats and he realized immediately what had happened and the memory of it flooded back in a sudden, sickening rush.
Thoughts of the Major, how she had fought and killed so many. She moved like poetry, she moved like lightning. He tried to move now, for he needed to find her, but his arms were behind his back, bound together at the elbows, pulling his chest and ribs backwards at an unnatural angle, making it difficult to breathe. He struggled to stand, but he was literally wrapped around a pole – no, not a pole. It was too rough. It felt like a tree, but inside the tent. He did not understand how this could be, but it was too dark to see anything at all.
He closed his eyes again and tried to find her, but was immediately assaulted by thoughts of Alchemy, as five of them swept into the gar.
Five long black cloaks sweeping the ground, taking up positions all around him, like the five points of a star. One began walking a circle around them, pouring dark powder onto the ground, and with a motion of his fingers, the circle erupted in flame. Sireth pressed his back into the tree, wishing he could quiet the thudding of his heart, wishing he could become steel one last time.
The dark figure stepped toward him. He held out his hand – white, naturally – and a flame suddenly erupted within his palm. The flame flickered and danced, and it illuminated part of the tiger’s face, and his light, light eyes.
“I felt you, you know,” purred Jet barraDunne. “It was twenty years or so, wasn’t it, when you announced yourself rather abruptly onto the world of civilized men?”
He tried to look away from the flame but it had him bound as tightly as these leathers. Steel, you have forgotten…
“They all felt it at Sha’Hadin, but then again, you know that. Poor old Petrus wouldn’t rest until he found you. But did you know that I felt you as well?”
The flame rose a little higher, burned a little brighter. In fact, it pulsed and throbbed like a beating heart.
“I was in training in Agara’tha, an acolyte of only twenty-one summers. As far as we knew, there were none skilled in the Arts who were equally blessed by the Gifts. It was simply unheard of. Not until that afternoon, so long ago, and the cry that tore all our souls in two.”
The flame was beating stronger and now, he could hear it. He could hear all of their hearts, beating, beating, beating. He closed his eyes tighter still. He knew where they wanted to take him. He dared not let himself go.
Jet barraDunne leaned forward. “You do realize that it is because of you that the dream of Unification came upon me. Now tell me that isn’t poetry, benAramis? It is poetry of the finest sort.”
He could hear their hearts beating.
…I don’t want him here, Sireth. He frightens me…
“That was the afternoon your wife died…”
He could hear all their hearts beating.
…just a few days love, he is my brother…
“A lion killed your wife, so you killed the lion. It felt it like it was my own wife.”
the heartbeats were everywhere.
…dropping the canes, running as fast as his legs would take him…
“You started a fire. You burned the lion and your wife and your little girl… Now that is sad, benAramis. I do feel for you…”
the heartbeats are growing very loud he cannot think
…Shakuri dead, blood everywhere, on the bed, on the walls, on the floor, Soladad on the bed, on the walls, on the floor…
“…but you don’t belong with us, do you? You didn’t belong with Petrus and those others in the esteemed halls of Sha’Hadin. You - mongrel, lion-killer - belong in a prison cell.”
the heartbeats are deafening they all step forward
…the last thing his left eyes sees before a dagger slices his face open and pushes him into the wall…
“Why are you so afraid of fire, sidi?”
the heartbeat is becoming histhey step even closer
… Nemeth the firestarter, Nemeth the murderer, Nemeth’s face sprayed with his daughter’s blood…
“What is it that terrifies you so very much?”
it is his own heart that is beating as one they raise their hands
“You know what it is…”
…he reaches in, in to his brother’s heart, into his very soul, finds the fire, catches it, makes a fist…
“You see? You have discovered that the Arts are strong in you too. Perhaps, Sireth benAramis, you were the very first…Unificationist?”
the heart beat peels like thunder as one they touch him
the room erupts in flames
***
They had come for him just as the sun had set.
The Leader was large, his pelt thick and equally grey and black. His hair was long, it rippled and he wore it loose and pushed thickly off his face. The points of his ears could be seen underneath. He stared at the knives for a long time before turning his gaze on the Captain and there was no mistaking the thrill that flashed before purpose settled in. With hands firmly clasped behind his back, he walked very slowly around the bound lion, as if deciding which parts to take first.
For his part, the Captain did his best to remain unmoved. Jet barraDunne had not returned as promised. In fact, Kirin had thought he had heard the man arguing in the foreign tongue of the dogs earlier, but his senses were so raw that they could not be trusted. Instead, he had slipped deep into the heart of Bushido, where pain and death were simply duties to be embraced, and the prospect of a noble legacy still whispered vain promises into his soul.
Kerris.
The Leader finally stopped in front of him, reached an odd stub-clawed hand out to touch his hair. The man was muttering to his companion, a lieutenant of sorts, all the while running lengths of the golden mane through his fingers. The lieutenant was nodding. It was an odd thing, very similar to the action of the First Mage and suddenly, strange and disturbing thoughts entered the Captain’s mind. But then, the fingers began to curl, twisting the mane into knots, and the hand began to wrap, tugging the hair at the very base. Kirin winced, for it was most uncomfortable, and suddenly he understood all the interest in his hair.
He was a lion.
The man stood up tall, made a fist with the hair bound around it, and with amazing force, ripped it from Kirin’s scalp. He could not believe the cry that escaped his lips. He could not believe the pain that seared his body at such a thing. But he knew it was only the beginning.
A thin river of blood ran past his left eye. He knew what they wanted.
Only the beginning.
They moved now to the trees where his hands were bound, pressed the palms, causing the great claws to extrude against his will.
Only the beginning.
Kirin steeled himself as they reached for a blade.
Blood, Death and Alchemy
Death is a strange thing.
Some meet it with grace, some meet it with fear, some with fury and some try to bargain, but eventually, everyone meets death in their own way. It may in fact have something to do with how one has lived one’s life, whether with grace or fear, fury or lack of acceptance. It might also have something to do with how that death is dealt, whether it is inherited after a lifetime of living, or whether it comes too soon in a life not yet lived. Death in old age is a splendid thing, a crowning achievement, a thing to be honored and desired. In the young, however, it is most often sad, heartbreaking even. It is known of many who have never recovered from the death of their young.
But for those of middling years, death is indeed a strange thing. For warriors, soldiers and civil guards, death is expected, and it is the manner of death that determines whether or not it is a good thing. For civilians, however, it is something to be avoided, as is the case for most civilians, life is the thing that holds the prize. Each day a blessing to be celebrated and embraced.
One thing that Kerris was not expecting as he wrestled with the nature and timing of his own death, was angels.
He could vaguely remember some of the old beliefs about them, those ministering spirits who came and went, doing the bidding of the gods, but he had never paid much attention to such tales. Never when there was water and earth, sticks and sky. But now, he wished he had paid attention, for he was beginning to believe that his death, insignificant though it may have been, was being interrupted by an angel.
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.
To Walk in the Way of Lions Page 26
