Shkai’ra is having a marvelous time doing what she does best, bashing heads. The command that given her was, at first, exactly how she described it, but has since improved. She has been awarded a Nephrite Flame, the decoration for “conspicuous presence of mind,” which is high enough that she had it presented by the Yeoli king in front of the whole army. I’m glad; this might be her last chance for true glory. You know how she measures herself by kills made and battles won. Any other acknowledgements of merit seem rather hollow and toy-like, to her.
I have been having a wonderful time causing Arkans grief, usually losing sleep doing it but, as one says, “No party without the risk of headache.” Rest assured, Shyll, that I am taking all the care I can, so I am not likely to get hurt.
All my love to you and to little Ness. I won’t get started on business or this letter will be far too long. I hope that the assorted creatures aren’t making an unreefable mess of the house. I pray for you, and think of you often, which is a great comfort. Stay well, please, till we get home safe with Lixand.
Love, Meg
To: Same
From: Sova called Learned Scribe
Dear Zhymata Rilla and Zhypatr Shyll:
I guess Zhymata has said everything about the war and the army and all that. I’m learning so much I never dreamed of before. People are strange. But they’re nice. Except for the Arkans that is. I’ve fought in a couple of battles and I don’t think I did too badly, though khyd-hird had me flogged once, for insubordination (what else). I like it here.
Oh, the biggest news: I’M IN LOVE I’M IN LOVE I’M IN LOVE!!!!! His name (I hope I’m spelling it right) is Echerry Lemana, he’s sixteen and he used to be with his hometown infantry until he got himself transferred to khyd-hird’s unit (wonder why that happened, hmmmm). He’s Yeoli and SOOOOO handsome, Rilla, you wouldn’t believe it. His accent is so romantic.
I’ve met Chevenga the semanakraseye (that’s Yeoli for king, and I know that’s how you spell it). He is very different from Ranion. He lets you come up to him without wiping your face along the floor, for instance, and he’ll talk to you just as if he were a normal person. He’s fantastically handsome too, but much too old for me (ha ha).
Love to the animals, Ness, and you.
Sova
From: Shkai’ra called Mek Kermak’s Kin
To: Rilla called Shadow’s Shade and Shyll called Dog Lord
Scribed in entire and unerring accuracy as per the Oath of the Scrivener by: Sova called Far-Traveller.
Spelling corrected by: Megan called Whitlock
Dear Rilla and Shyll:
Greetings. The usual nice stuff, Sova, you know, how-de-do’s and all that, but less formal, you know, more familiar, since we’re dealing with family here and not some tight-assed woolly-haired mucky-muck, got that? All right, uhhhhhh ... Everyone’s fine so far, healthy, no wounds or ills. So far. Emmmm ... We’re kicking Arko’s asshole all the way up into its heart ... wait, girl, maybe I shouldn’t say it that way, Rilla might think I’m being crude again. Uuuu-uhnhhnn, all right, write this: we’re scoring massive victories against Arko, and that should continue. Can’t wait for the sack. Ummmm ... We miss you. Urp belch. Errrr ... Shit, I’m no good at this personal letter-writing thing, kh’eeredo, I’ve said everything already. Help?
At this juncture, an interjection from aforementioned Megan: “I’ve written my letter, love. You’re doing fine; just relax!”
Well, what else is there to say? I mean—hey! I’ve stopped dictating and you’re still writing, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING, GLITCH-TAKEN BRAT!? YOU’D BETTER WRITE WHAT I DICTATE, NO MORE, NO LESS, OR I’LL SKIN YOUR HIDE, YOU NO GOOD INSUBORDINATE LITTLE SHIT-KICKER! GOT THAT, OR DO YOU WANT TO BE PEELED FROM HOLE TO HOLE!? Zoweitzum, I’ve said enough anyway, they’ll get the idea and there’s the letters from you two, just say I love them and all that mushy spouse crap and fuck the rest.
As always, my heart brimming with tenderness,
SHKAI’RA
(her mark)
“You’re telling me,” said Manajas, studying the crystal wine cup he turned delicately in one gloved hand, “that a four-foot witch is sneaking into our camp and causing us to have visions?”
Matthas tried to keep from clutching his chair, strained not to seem tense. I had to tell someone. I had to try. “Could be, could be, that’s all I said,” he answered hastily. “I can’t know for sure. I’ve just heard what strange things have been going on in our camp, and I know what this wo ... person’s capable of.”
“Oh, just could be, I see.” The foot-commander took a heavy slug from his goblet. “Mm-hmm. You know, friend Nerasas, I see visions too, sometimes. Gods, demons, ghosties, ghoulies, myself getting promoted to Grand Ultimate General of the Empire’s Divine Forces ... Drink some more, I’ve always found, and they eventually go away.” Matthas tried to keep from biting the inside of his cheek.
“Be careful, heart of mine,” Shkai’ra brushed her knuckle on Megan’s cheek in the familiar gesture of affection. “I’m sending Hotblood to be your backup. Told him I’d skin him alive if you didn’t come back.”
That was not in the plan—when Chevenga had called her up to plot it that day, she’d found forcing all thoughts of what the Arkan was demanding she do out of her mind easier than she had feared it would be—but Hot-blood was a good enough darkworker that no one would ever know. Probably. Megan chuckled a little tiredly. “Such precautions.” She started pulling on a tight dusty grayish black tunic. Clear black cloth was too visible, even in the dark. They kissed for luck.
The moon was down; it was black under the forest with only the soft brilliance of the summer stars for light. The dry dust-smell of summer and the intense green odor of the forest mixed in the night air. Megan sat easily in the crook of an oak, looking out over the Arkan camp, ignoring the damp chill of dew soaking into her clothes. It was a big camp; even now the Empire did things in style. Fifty or sixty thousand men, half that many horses. It smelled worse than the Alliance camp, she found, when the breeze turned for a moment. There was a severely regular ditch and mound with a tree trunk palisade on top, this time; the Alliance had taught the Arkans something about night attacks.
The campfires had been many and bright, the men reluctant to turn in until the officers ordered it. Megan waited until the Arkans were as quiet as they would get, then dropped and ghosted over the cleared ground toward the palisade; pause, crawl, pause, pause, becoming a shadow every sentry round. No matter how thoroughly the troops scoured the perimeter there was always a little brush overlooked, left because it wouldn’t hide a normal-sized person.
The wooden wall was unbarked logs, still studded with lopped-off stubs of branches, formidable to an armored soldier and easy as stairs for her. There was a rattle of armor above, bored Arkan voices with the solas accent exchanging the password.
Far too loudly, she thought. They don’t imagine anyone would dare come this close. Arrogant.
She rolled over the sharpened points of the logs and dropped down in a soft crouch on the inside; there was a roadway around the interior of the wall, then regular rows of tents graded by rank, like every other Arkan camp. Megan was next to the officer’s row of an infantry rejin; there were fires, one in front of every third tent, burned down to grey red pits of ash and embers. An hour before there had still been soldiers up, cleaning their armor, talking, singing; she had heard two younger solas working out the harmonies to “Under the Lamplight,” same melody as in the Alliance camp, the Arkan words fitting just as well. Some things get shared, across the field, somehow. Strange, war.
In the still air now she could hear someone snoring, the sound echoing as if his head were still in his helmet. His tent-mates and neighbors must love him, she thought. I’ll fix that soon enough.
She could almost walk through with her eyes closed, the pattern was so regular. The high commanders’ tents were near the center, the pickets off that way, upwind so the horses wouldn’t smell her, the supply carts over there. On the
other side of the neatly laid out section, past the privy trenches and facing toward the Yeolis, was the clump of camp followers and hangers-on, sleeping where they could.
No mercenaries attached to this camp, especially since that general, Abatzas Kallen, had tried to doublecross the Schvait and make them fight their own kin at Michere, back in Yeola-e. The story was well known. Three companies of blackshirts had deserted, coming out straight through the sleeping Arkan army—through, in every sense of the term. Arko was having trouble hiring anybody but scum nowadays; using them as sword-fodder in a losing campaign, they didn’t have many left.
She froze again as the sentry paced by, torch half-burned. Her nose wrinkled at the strong odor of someone who ate beef more than three times a week, and was tense. Waiting for something frightening to happen ... she cackled inwardly. Hotblood waited outside the palisade, wanting to come and eat a few more blondprey, as he had started calling them.
She stopped by the infirmary tent, near an ash tree. In this forest country it was too much trouble to clear a camp entirely by logging it. Megan reached inside for the manrauq, the pool of blue/violet behind her eyes. As she found it, she caught her breath, as if making a dive into cool water that tasted blue and sounded of vinegar. The more she practiced it the clearer and sharper it became, as addictive in its way as Dreamdust. Using it kills you—the more power you use, the younger you die, she reminded herself, riding the sensation of power like the swells of the sea, the voice of her mind the thin lost mew of a gull.
In the woods on the next hill a screech owl called. She reached for the sound, imagined it echoing through the rows of tents. Quiet at first. Play them. Then across the camp she imagined the sounds of armor, like pots being beaten on with sticks. Men shouting.
Men shouted, rousted out of bed as the alarm was given, torches flaring. Stop. She melted back further into the shadow of the infirmary tent, hearing the groan as someone inside, wounded, woke up to a pain he’d escaped in sleep; the smell of medical alcohol and the sweet stench of thai, poppy derived.
It took a good half-bead for the camp to settle down again. “Fikken kaina, we can’t sleep. Yeoli bastard has the gods on his side ...” someone snarled, unbuckling by the sound. “Shut up, Jas, that’s flogging if heard.”—“Fik you.”—“... and your mother, asshole.”
It was quiet when Megan acted next, quiet enough that the chhee-rup of swifts in the night sky could be heard again, though there were many more men awake. She could almost teel them trying to sleep, their breathing refusing to even out, ears unconsciously straining for the next wrong sound.
She settled herself in such a way that she couldn’t fall over. This was going to take all the power she had. Night wind raised gooseflesh on suddenly sweating skin.
Faintly. Softly. The sound of distant bells out of the sky. Flutes, metal flutes and the clashing of metal on metal, like swords dancing to the flute-notes, swelling louder and louder ... Sound was easier than images, even only affecting a handful of men. Her mind filled with manrauq-sound, she heard the questions and shouts and sounds of running feet like the buzzing of meadow flies.
Louder. A choir of men, hundreds, singing praises to the God of Solas, The Steel Armed One, chanting ARAS, ARAS, ARAS! Directionless sound from the sky. Stars falling into the Arkan camp, falling to shape the figure of their God, taller than the trees. Sapphire stare pitiless under the edge of the helm, sword in gleaming steel fingers, and the other hand a clenched fist over their heads, outlined in the yellow glow of my power ... No more shouting; silence around her as those who saw the image froze.
“YOU SIN.” The voice was like the sound of a sword-blade breaking, the shriek of metal being sheared through, though soft, the rumble of a volcano about to erupt. “YOU SIN.” Megan knew the solas accent in her bones, the images and words taken from books seized out of the libraries. A scream, then others, deep and unaccustomed from male throats. “The God! The God is here!” They threw themselves to their faces, cupping hands at their temples, even those who had not seen, believing those who had. The image faded but the voice from the sky went on. “YOU FIGHT FOR A FALSE SON. I DISOWN HE WHO YOU CALL SON OF THE SUN AND RAISE A NEW SON. AND FOR YOUR SINS HE SHALL BE SEEN AS DARK WOE UNTO YOU MISGUIDED, WOE—”
Then Megan tumbled, the image in her head snapping, the mighty voice gone like a snuffed candle, as a man running blindly in the dark fell over the guy-rope and landed on her.
His panting breath cut off. “Yai!” Here was something he understood; he leaped for the vague shape on the ground, shouting. “Itzen!” Their word for “alarm.” Assassins in the camp! Itzen!”
Megan flailed blindly at his face, the headache of being jolted out of the spell slamming her so hard she almost couldn’t lift herself from the ground, retching. Her claws caught in something; he flinched back. “Yaaaiiiigh! Demon!” And ran, thank Koru ... She set her teeth, staggered to her feet and back behind the tent just as someone with a lit torch ran around the corner.
Shit, I’m leaving a blood-trail—his, thank Koru. She wrapped her hands around her head, trying to control the pain as she ran, dived behind a log that someone had thoughtfully left by a fire-pit. The alarm was spreading out, fighting with the panic left by her spell. More torches flared alight. They’ll cover this ground like starving pigs rooting for truffles. They catch me, I’m raped and smothered as a demon before their army ... She held down her gorge through sheer will. An officer, properly armored, pulled to a halt near her, with squires and bowmen. Shit, more light. Her strength was too spent to hide using manrauq.
“Namas, call your men to order!” The Aitzas spoke calmly. “Infiltrators in the camp will be apprehended. Demons, too; we have the Gods with us. Spread out and overlap with Laranas’s and Simalanas’s men on either side, jump!”
As they re-lit one torch doused by the wind, Megan used the shadow to crawl back to the edge of the infirmary tent. Her head was pounding as if her brain had turned into a giant heart, and she kept having to fight not to throw up. She eased one of the pegs out of the ground. Floor was sewn to the walls and enough slack ... she crept underneath, the weight of the musty canvas pressing her into the dirt like a hand covering her whole body, cutting off most of the noise of the search. The smell of moist dirt filled her nose. She lifted the canvas just a hair-thin crack to peek out.
The corridors between the tents were crawling with searching Arkans, combing the ground, kicking barrels, driving spears through bushes. No trouble. They aren’t going to think anyone could fit under here. All she had to do was wait them out. And at least I’m lying down. She pressed her eyes shut, forced relaxation, wished this was an Alliance infirmary.
A dog barking. Koru, no. It got closer and more distressed, half whining, paws scratched the earth a hand-span from her face. Just a camp hound, finding something its senses knew was wrong. Only a matter of time, she thought dully, before someone hears, wonders, and checks ... I’m so tired I can’t even hear the son-of-a-bitch’s thoughts ... “Go lie down!” she hissed in Arkan, hoping that would send it away, but though it stopped barking it stayed. It sat down, still pawing at the dirt.
She inched along, worming her way through hoping nothing heavy was ... shit. It was either a folding table or a patient. At the motion of the floor he—a patient, fish-guts—shifted and groaned. She scanned, squirmed out into a too-small patch of shadow.
There was an Arkan at one corner with a light. The dog came at her, growling. She mustered all her strength, thought at it. Skunk! It fled yipping.
The Arkan turned, at a sound like something with claws scrambling up the ash-tree. He saw the dog running with its tail between its legs. He called without leaving his post. One of the commander’s bowmen answered. “What?”
“Something climbing, sir. Might have been a racoon ... but it sounded too big.”
“Raise the light a bit.”
“Begging forgiveness, sir, I’m at full stretch now.”
“Fikket.” The torchlight illuminated
only the lower part of the trunk, sending flickering shadows up into the branches. “Did it sound like a man climbing?”
“If it were a man it ... he had claws, sir.”
A good body-length above the first spread of branches, five of her height above the ground, Megan clung to the trunk, frozen, barely breathing, hoping in the dark she looked like a burl. She didn’t dare turn her head; in the gap between her armpit and the wood she could just see the edge of the torchlight below.
“Well, just on the chance ...” The bowman. Oh, shit. She held tighter to the trunk, wood digging into her cheek. A spider scuttered over her ear. A creak of leather, the rattle of shafts, a pause. Koru have mercy ... The snap of the bowstring and the blow came as one, through the back of her right thigh.
It didn’t immediately hurt, just seemed to stun the muscle, and made her hands almost loosen; then the skin stung, and the full pain washed through her like a wave over a deck. Her hands spasmed tighter, claws digging into wood hard enough to make her fingerbones hurt. In her mind she screamed.
Hold on. Hold on. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound, don’t breathe, you’ll moan. Sweet Koru, Great Bear, don’t take me now before I save my son ... Involuntary tears squeezed out of her eyes. She tasted blood: she’d bitten the insides of her cheeks. I’m not going to die yet. In her head somewhere she could hear Hotblood, a mosquito buzz question that she ignored. Don’t pass out.
“Must have been a racoon,” said the bowman. “Well, better safe than sorry ... Keep a good watch.” The light went away.
Megan let her whole world narrow to holding on in silence, not letting her head tip back; she’d pass out and fall if she did. She heard a slow patter on the leaves below her, thought vaguely, “It’s starting to rain, my face is wet, too.” Hang on. Hang on. Hang on. Hotblood. In another half-bead that to her seemed like forever, the camp was quiet again.
Sneaksneak. The mindvoice was below her. Blondprey/stupid/blind/nonose. A mild curiosity. Smallsharpsnippy-disagreeable leaking? Dying?
Shadow’s Son Page 22
