The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  "I must see this through," he told her. "I must find a way. I must hold firm."

  He opened his hand, and Maur fell to her knees, gasping for breath and choking. Tharok stared down at her, seeing his path: the fire that lined it, the skulls on which he had to tread, the thousands upon thousands who had to die. "Ogri failed. It used him. Golden Crow told me. It devoured his spirit. At the last, he was just a beast, a monster. They cast a spell to bring his spirit back, and he fled with Jaemungdr to die."

  Tharok looked at his black palms. He turned them slowly, watching the fire shimmer just beneath the skin. "I'm burning, but I'm not gone yet. I won't be defeated like Ogri."

  Maur rose shakily to her feet and backed away from him. "You're mad."

  "Perhaps. But I have no choice. I must see this through."

  Maur shook her head. "No. That's what it wants you to think. Ogri must have thought the same right up till the end. You're not dying, Tharok. You're dead."

  "No." His voice was little more than a whisper. "Not yet. Soon, but not yet. A fragment remains."

  Maur let out a laugh that was part sob and stepped back to the window. "I want to believe you, but I can't. We can't."

  "Trust me." He couldn't look at her, but that one slip caused understanding to flash through his mind. "You came here on behalf of the others. Red River. Maybe more. Shamans? You came to test me, and now that I have failed, you are going to flee Gold." At that, he did look up. "Am I right?"

  Maur was standing before the window. "Yes. I came to ask you a final favor. Don't give Kyrra the last of the shamans. Release them."

  "Release them," he said, and smiled. "They're needed. But – all right. This hurts my plans. But go. I'll – I'll let you take them if you leave tonight. I'll not hunt you down. And – and in my doing so, you'll know I'm not gone yet. That I'm not dead."

  Maur stared at him, her neck already bruising, terror and hope and despair warring in her eyes. He held her gaze, and after she had climbed out the window and dropped from sight, he remained standing there, staring, not moving.

  "I'm not dead," he whispered. "Not yet."

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Despite the imminence of the kragh invasion, it still took a week for the Temple to organize its forces and coordinate with the bulk of the Ennoian army. Kethe excused herself from the laborious meetings where logistics were discussed and spent each morning and afternoon with her Consecrated.

  She burned with an urgency to do all that she could to prepare them for war. She felt the responsibility keenly, worried incessantly about each of their shortcomings, and spent nights tossing in her bed, trying to find innovations in her training regimen that would allow her to break through their reserves and shore up their weaknesses.

  Each dawn, she met them on the training ground and immediately launched them into mind-numbing drills, forcing them to swing and defend, to work on their stances, to flow back and forth, over and over again till they were dripping with sweat and cursing her behind her back.

  She pushed them, sparred with them individually and then arranged for skirmishes, three against four, often pitting the weakest against the strongest, urging them to not hold back, to strike hard, to leave bruises, to wound egos.

  It was hopeless. She could only condition them so much in a week. Reflexes and instincts had to be formed over the course of years of hard training.

  Something akin to panic began to ride her, its claws digging deep into her mind. There had to be an answer here, a solution, something practical she could bestow upon them, though she was hardly a seasoned veteran herself.

  Around midday, she dismissed them to a brief lunch with orders that they meet her at the White Gate immediately thereafter. Her Consecrated trailed away, not talking, dispirited, aware of her fear, polluted by it. Kethe watched them depart and cursed herself as she reviewed her comments, becoming painfully aware each time that she was undercutting their confidence without giving them anything in return.

  Each of them drove her to distraction in their own way, but Khoussan was the worst. He had the might, the innate physical talent, the speed and strength with which to be a formidable warrior. But he only mimed the strokes, put barely any effort into the sparring, and sat out when he had been defeated with obvious relief. He never reached for the White Gate's power. When she berated him, he simply listened, his expression closed, and then agreed easily with whatever she demanded.

  On the third morning, her temper near snapping, she dismissed the group to practice and called Khoussan over to one side. She drew her blade and fell into a combat stance, and he actually rolled his eyes before doing the same.

  Kethe grinned at him and began to circle. He pivoted in place, unconcerned, waiting for his inevitable defeat. Kethe tested his defenses. Adequate, but unhurried. She tried a simple combination: high, low, a feint and then a lunge, and poked Khoussan high in the stomach with enough force to cause him to cough and step back.

  "So," she asked, her voice light, almost cheerful. "Do you think your wife's found a new man yet?"

  Khoussan froze. His gaze snapped over to her, coming alive for the first time, a glint of warning appearing in the dark depths of his eyes. "I try not to think about it."

  "I mean, she must be an attractive woman. Beautiful, even. Surely there must have been a dozen men waiting for you to disappear before they tried to seduce her."

  He'd begun walking toward her, but stopped. Shock flickered across his face and then his expression locked down, becoming neutral again. "If you say so." But she heard the warning there.

  "How long do you think she'd wait before spreading her legs for another man? A month? Maybe two?"

  "Makaria," Khoussan said in a low voice filled with menace. "Stop talking about my wife."

  "Why?" She began to circle once more. "It's all you think about, isn't it? How unfair it is that you're here and she's there. Do you wonder if she's rutting with another man? Moaning his name? Clawing his back as they make love for endless hours each night?"

  Khoussan marched toward her. He swung savagely, a horizontal cut, and followed it with an overhand blow to the head. Kethe swayed away from the first, blocked the second, then ducked to one side and smacked Khoussan in the rear with the flat of her blade, causing him to stumble away.

  "And your son. How long till he calls the new man 'father'? That would take a little longer, don't you think? Perhaps six months? A year? Still, it's inevitable. Unless your wife is enjoying her newfound freedom and taking too many partners for him to keep track of."

  Khoussan ground to a halt, hunching his massive shoulders. She heard his knuckles pop as he clenched the hilt of his sword.

  Kethe stepped in close. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I upsetting your delicate emotions?"

  Khoussan roared and launched himself at her. Veins writhed along his muscled arms as he swung two-handed, huge blows that would have taken off her head if they'd hit. Kethe found herself hard-pressed, giving ground, blocking blows that hit so hard, they sent shivers up her arms. He was fighting blindly, completely disregarding his own defenses, and she saw numerous moments where she could have counterattacked.

  But she didn't.

  Khoussan's stamina seemed inexhaustible. He kept coming, hewing at her, grunting with each blow, murder in his eyes.

  Kethe chose not to block a lateral swing and took the flat of his blade full on her shoulder. It sent her stumbling to one side, and only her connection to the White Gate stopped the bone from breaking. "There, good. More! Come on, Khoussan! Is that all you have?"

  He stepped in again, his breathing so ragged it sounded almost like sobs, and thrust his wooden blade right at her gut. Kethe staggered back; the pain was fierce, but again she drew on the White Gate, and the worst of it faded away.

  She grinned up at him. "You think she's with a man right now? This very second? Covered in sweat? Crying out his name?"

  Khoussan roared and threw aside his blade. He threw a massive haymaker at the side of her head and she duc
ked under it, then allowed the backhand to crack across her jaw. While Khoussan was merely good with a blade, he was lethal with his fists. Blows rained down upon her from all sides. She raised her arms, blocking most of them but taking punch after punch. They knocked her about, sent her staggering, but she always came back, blood smeared across her chin, nose throbbing, head ringing.

  Khoussan's eyes were wide, the sclera visible all the way around his irises, and there was froth in the corners of his mouth. A wild frenzy had him; his deep and melancholic reservoir of pain had finally cracked open and swept all his self-control away.

  "Yes, Khoussan! Again!" Her head snapped back as he struck her full in the face. "Good! Harder! Harder, you Zoeian bastard!"

  Khoussan buried his fist in her stomach, then elbowed her in the side of the head. The world spun, and she went down. The ground was pressed against her cheek. She spat blood, tongued a cut inside her cheek, then pushed herself back up.

  Khoussan stood there swaying, fists raised, heaving for breath. His broad chest was working powerfully, and he watched in obvious disbelief as Kethe walked back up to him.

  Khoussan threw a punch at her, but it was weak, and she swayed away from it easily.

  "You feel that?" She blocked a second punch. "What you're feeling right now? That anger? The fury?" She stepped inside his guard and shoved him full in the chest. He stumbled back and nearly fell. "That's what I want. Because this world isn't fair. There's nothing fair about it, and your sulking like a child isn't going to change anything."

  Her own anger began to rise up. "Understand? You're not special. None of us are. We're all stepped on. But we don't have the luxury to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. Yes, your life was ruined. But so was mine!" She punched him square in the chest. It was like hitting a castle wall, but still he gave ground. "So was Akkara's! And Dalitha's! All of us have been fucked over, but we're doing something about it! We're fighting back! Do you hear me?"

  Khoussan's face contorted with pain, a deep agony that was awful to see, and he screamed and came back at her swinging. This time, Kethe ducked and blocked for all she was worth, till finally he staggered past her and stopped, hands on his knees, moaning, head hanging down.

  Kethe spat blood again. Her head was still ringing. She stared at Khoussan, then lowered her fists. Everybody on the training grounds was staring at them, but she ignored them and walked up to him. He didn't turn, didn't look up. Tears were running down his face, and his pants were turning into a deep and wounded weeping.

  "Sighart. Walk Khoussan back to his room."

  Self-doubt and revulsion filled her. Had she done the right thing? Had she helped him or broken him down further? She watched as Sighart touched Khoussan on the shoulder, then guided him off the training ground, the massive Zoeian covering his face with both hands, shoulders hitching as he sobbed. When he stumbled, Sighart caught him by the arm, and together they stepped out of sight.

  "By the Black Gate," whispered Kethe. With a sigh, she looked at the others. "All right. Enough staring. Wolfker, Gray Wind, head on to the White Gate. Akkara, Dalitha, follow me."

  She led both women up to her quarters. They followed in wary silence, twin ghosts at her heels. Her Honor Guard all gaped at the sight of Kethe's battered face, but she waved impatiently at them and passed through her reception room, ignoring the growing crowd, and led the two Consecrated through her rooms to a small balcony. There, she collapsed into one of the chairs placed around a circular table, and gestured for the two Consecrated to do the same.

  She brooded for a while, staring out over the clouds, waiting as her body healed. She drummed her fingers on the white tablecloth until she realized she was leaving bright smears of blood, and then dropped her hand into her lap.

  Drinks were poured by alarmed servants, but she ignored them.

  Finally, she sighed and turned to Dalitha. "All right. We'll start with you."

  "Me, Makaria?" Dalitha squirmed in her seat, shooting Akkara a panicked look. "What do you mean?"

  "We don't have time to dance around. We've days, not years. So, what's your story?"

  "My story?" Dalitha had gone pale.

  "Yes, your story." Kethe stared flatly at the Consecrated. "What happened to you? Why do you freeze up each time you're in a fight?"

  Dalitha ducked her head. "I don't. I'm practicing as well as any of the others."

  "Enough. You know what I mean. And if I were a better person, I'd find a kinder way to ask, but I'm not, so tell me. Are you afraid of getting cut?"

  "Getting cut?" Dalitha laughed nervously. "Oh, no! In fact, you could say I'm no stranger to getting cut." She yanked down her sleeve and showed Kethe and Akkara a patchwork of angry red lines interlaced over a tapestry of thin scars down her forearm. She stared defiantly at Kethe, her whole body tensed like that of a bird about to take flight.

  Kethe fought to hide her shock. "Why do you do that?"

  "You wouldn't understand." Dalitha covered her arm and sat back, something akin to smug disdain radiating from her. "I only showed that to you because it's laughable to think I'm afraid of getting cut."

  Kethe felt seriously out of her depth, but she had no choice. She had to persist. Forcing aside her reservations, she fought to keep her tone steady. "Then, what is it? Why do you freeze up?"

  Dalitha's smile was artificially bright. Her eyes filled with tears, and then she shifted about in the chair, brought one foot up onto the seat and wrapped her arms around it, and turned to look out at the cloudscape.

  "I'm not cut out for this," said Kethe. "You deserve better. Somebody wiser, more mature, with greater patience and experience. But you've got me instead, and we're all going to war in a few days, and you're going to see more kragh trying to kill you then you can even imagine. So, I'm going to ask you again. What is your problem?"

  It was Akkara who spoke. "Her mother was touched by the White Gate. Dalitha was the first to find her when she died."

  Dalitha hissed and uncoiled, looking ready to pounce on Akkara, who stared at her flatly. "How dare you?" Dalitha demanded. "I told you that in confidence!"

  Akkara shrugged. "This is Makaria. We're all going to die. Who cares? Tell her. Get it off your chest."

  Dalitha shook her head furiously, and then darted a look at Kethe.

  She cares too much what people think, Kethe realized.

  "Fine. Yes. My mother died of her gift before she could be Consecrated." She said that carelessly, tossing it at Kethe's face. "And poor little me was the first to find her. I was too little to understand then, but now I do, and it's twisted me up inside." She pushed her shoulders back, glaring at Kethe. "There. Are you happy?"

  "No, I'm not happy." Kethe took a breath. "So, you freeze up because of your dead mother?"

  Dalitha laughed scornfully. "No. Haven't you figured it out yet? I freeze up when I hear the White Gate. To me, it sounds like my mother screaming."

  Kethe's mind was completely blank. How the hell could she deal with this? Perhaps Audsley could untangle Dalitha's trauma, but it was far too complex for her. "What about you, Akkara?"

  Akkara stared at Kethe, looking as if she were peering up from the bottom of a well. "You want to know what my problem is?"

  Kethe fought the urge to rub her eyes again. "Yes. I want to help. If I can." Dalitha scoffed and looked away. Kethe glared at her. "I'm not done with you. But I want to hear both stories first."

  Akkara nodded. "All right. When I turned twelve, I was sent to my Choosing. Do you know what that is?"

  "That's where Bythians are examined to see if they're fit to be sent to serve in other cities," said Dalitha.

  Kethe bit back the urge to tell Dalitha that she knew that. Instead, she simply nodded.

  "I was sent to Nous and given to a man. He was a merchant. He oversaw the packaging of salted fish. I worked in his warehouse." Akkara's voice was eerie, her cadence without inflection. "The man had lost his daughter when she was fifteen. As I grew older, he started talking to me a
s if I were her. He would treat me nicely, and then grow furious and beat me. He said I was tricking him. I think he killed his daughter after doing something horrible to her. Out of guilt, he took me out of the warehouse to work in his home. But I didn't work. He became obsessed with me. Had me wear his daughter's clothing. He would brush my hair."

  Akkara's mouth worked silently for a moment, and then she clamped it shut. Kethe couldn't hold her gaze. A sick dread filled her, pity mixed with horror.

  Akkara forced herself to swallow. The skin around her face seemed to have grown tighter. "I spent four years waiting for him to do something horrible to me and then kill me. He never did, but he came close many times. I would hear him crying as he whipped himself. It got so I wanted him to kill me. I couldn't take it anymore, so I ran away, but I was caught and returned to him. He started torturing me. I – I killed him, and was taken to be hung."

  Again, Akkara stopped, trying to speak but unable to form the words. Kethe watched her, frozen. Had she thought she could help? Had she thought she could make a difference? Even Dalitha was silent.

  "I heard the White Gate while I was in my cell. No one believed me. I tried to kill myself but couldn't. When they saw how I had cut myself but hadn't died, they believed me and brought me to Aletheia. I've been here ever since." Akkara tried to smile, but the expression was ghastly.

  "By the Ascendant," whispered Kethe. "Akkara –"

  Akkara forestalled her with a raised hand. "Please. I don't want your apologies."

  "Well, I'm going to apologize anyway, to both of you. I can't help you. I don't know how. I'm sorry about that, because I should know how. I should be better. But I'm just me."

  A memory came unbidden to her, one she hadn't thought of in some time.

  "When I was fifteen, my father raped and killed the wife of one of his most loyal knights, and killed his son too. He left them for that knight to find. When Ser Tiron did, he went mad with grief and tried to kill me for revenge." Kethe spoke down to her hands at first, then forced herself to look up. "He pulled me out of my carriage and almost cut off my head. Luckily, my guards tackled him before he could do so. I was terrified, and it took me months to recover. After I did, I swore nobody would ever make me feel that helpless again."